Tʜᴇ Pᴀʟᴇ Eʟғ | Asᴛᴀʀɪᴏɴ Aɴᴄᴜɴíɴ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
illithidnapped) wrote2022-02-03 01:54 am
INBOX II
VOICE | ACTION | TEXT
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He sinks one fang into his lip so deeply that he tastes copper as he watches, sinking back onto his heels. The floor gnawing at his knees, but gods, the view down here is better: all sleek limbs and pistoning fingertips and little else. So uniquely pornographic that it fits the scenery when it reduces Leto to a hot wet hole just begging for its mate.
And it'd be better if that toy was thicker. Wider. Made of glass or better yet— magic. A tool to let him study what he ruts into the hinges of their bed almost each and every night. Better if he could get in close and fit his tongue to those slight movements. Play the compliment to its rhythmic score without ever needing once to come back up for air.
Instead he's wiping blood from his own lips with the pad of his pale thumb, slipped forwards in approach and yet pressed back by Leto's smooth rebuff.
Hm.
Astarion's head cocks sideways towards his shoulder. His mouth follows suit, slanting hard into a grin.]
....Someone's been studying.
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[Teasingly said, albeit breathlessly so. This little toy is nothing compared to Astarion's prick, but that's just the point: it's meant to be an apéritif. A way to whet his appetite while ensuring he doesn't spoil himself for the main course, for there's nothing quite like the thigh-trembling, eye-rolling heat that comes from that first heavy impalement: every slow half-thrust forcing him to spread wider and wider in desperate accommodation, demanding he take every searing inch until he's speared so thoroughly he forgets what it ever is to feel empty . . .
Soon. Poor consolation when every slick slide of the toy falls laughably short. His wrist moves faster now, each snapping thrust hungrier than the last and yet barely better than his own fingers. He's panting now, a bead of precome swelling at the crown of his cock as he fights not to let his fluttering eyes close. Astarion looks downright sinful right now: brought down to his knees and yet radiating predatory intent: a wolf leashed only because it suits him more right now. Crimson droplets of blood are stark against pale skin; red eyes glint and glow white in the low light as he focuses every bit of rapacious attention on his consort.
And that sight— thrilling, terrifying, each emotion mounting in greater beats with every passing second— is why he puts off the moment of consummation. He can never get enough of that dueling sight: Astarion all but drooling in hunger and yet kept. Caught at the end of a verbal leash forged from love and lust both until Leto either says the word . . .
Or his grip on that lead slips.
But he can do better.
In one swift movement he rolls onto his stomach and braces himself on his knees, hips sloping upward as his ass is pushed up into the air. Languidly he thrusts a few more times before dropping the oil-slicked toy, letting it bounce between his spread thighs. For a breathless moment he lingers there, and then, his voice rough and low:]
Good boy, waiting for my permission so patiently . . .
[The words equal parts genuine and taunting. And unlike their previous discussions of switching, this isn't meant as a bid for power— rather, as tempting invitation. A seductive purr to go along with the way his tail sways once or twice— and then lifts in eager, slick-mouthed invitation.
Come take me, little wolf. Little vampire, so bound and determined to abide by my rules.]
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If he could gorge himself on them he would. To the point of sickness. To the point of mindless repetition, his lips wetted with the sweetest kiss of vulgar aberration worn like oil. Worn like diamonds. Worn like pearl. Fangs to supple skin, threatening to taste rather than rend (though the two are nearly identical on the precipice of open jaws)— begging again and again with every thrust. Good boy. Say it again for me, when you can't feel anything but raw pleasure and your burning lungs, your quaking legs. Ask for more as it undoes you, the beast ravaging your throat. Your savaged entry. Your cunt each time you drink a potion just to feel that heavy cock claim more of you than you ever had to give to start with. Another pretty plaything in a whorehouse slick with heat and upended by the endless need, tail raised—
—and caught.
The way only a vampire can.
That every bit of wanton fantasy till the second Leto opens up his sly solicitation is openly set on him before he has the chance to blink (or— for all his battle-honed reflexes— perhaps even comprehend): tail yanked into an opened palm, toy plucked up and pressed back into his tight hole— alongside something larger. Thicker. Blunt-tipped around the swell of its engorged crown and damp with frigid precome as it claims that first initial stretch through drilling, insistent thrusts.
And make no mistake: love is part of it. The charming prince about his windowsill is still the same thing forcing Leto to sit back against his own impalement as it drives down ever deeper, but the two are intermingled in this form. They have been for two centuries.
(Thirst the same as pure devotion on the precipice of open jaws.)]
Say it again.... [Rasps his voice at Leto's nape. His flattened ears. The ghost of all his thoughts, rhythmically knocking to be let in.
This is Leto's doing, after all. The clever pup that summoned him to bracket slender thighs.]
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And even when thought returns to him, it's only scraps of things: an awareness that he's drooling into the sheets, his mouth slack and his eyes unfocused. A sharp burst of pleasure as he realizes just what a wicked ploy Astarion had enacted. The way every demanding pull on his tail makes another heady wave of pleasure ripple throughout his body, so like and unlike any he's ever known— and the way he's fucking his hips back in unconscious, ravenous desire for more.]
G-good— fuck— good boy—
[He reaches behind him, wrapping his fingers tight around the back of Astarion's neck: don't you dare leave. Not when he loves the feeling of being kept like this, pinned down and impaled and helplessly, hopelessly intimate. Astarion's infrequent exhales are cool against his neck, his low moans ringing in his pinned-back ears; the scent of sweat and oil and sex fills his senses, and oh, this, this is what he'd missed. The intimacy of being so eagerly intertwined; the vulgar hedonism of being so shamelessly indulgent. Not worrying about who might overhear or what they might say— just them, simply them, consuming one another with ravenous adoration.]
My good boy—
[It's so hard to think, but he has to try, for he wants to praise him. He wants to shower him in worshipful adoration, letting him know just how good he's doing. In Tevene, then (because it's easier when he's mindless; because this belongs to only them right now):]
S-so good at taking me, claiming me, filling me with your come and drowning me in your scent so that everyone knows I'm yours— I want that. I want you: breeding me with every drop of what you have to offer, until you cannot add more without overwhelming me— fuck my mouth, my hands, use me as y-you will, for none is as good as you, as perfect as you, there is no one else I would h-have fuck me, mesmerize me, use me the way I allow you to.
Fight me for this, amatus, [as his nails dig in against cold skin and he tips his head to bare his throat.] Do every obscene thing we cannot at home and I promise I'll mewl for you as you—
[Oh, but there's only so long he can speak without moaning.]
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Pulled high across his lap where he's knelt across the mattress, fingers splayed over that throat— tail still captive in his other hand, locking Fenris' bouncing hips low over thick pumps of driving movement. Against the sudden shudder of that meager toy, buzzing out pulsating electricity as if it's sprung to life where it's embedded. As if it's snaking in each time Astarion draws out, thrusting on its own designs (and though it's not as if Fenris can glance down, despite the occasional brush of what feels like knuckles against his thighs, his straining prick, his chest— there's nothing there).]
As I....? [A graven rumble before his teeth sink in, plunged sweetly into sinew and soft skin for but a moment. Chased by a lap. The velvety tang of flowing blood. All timed to the pressure of his crown wedged in against shuddering walls, his next cold exhale buried against a houndish nape.] You didn't finish, darling.
[It is a fight, now. Let that wash of crimson— that wicked shiver wedged between their open thighs— christen its beginning. Drunk beyond all sense or reason on each other, there won't ever be enough no matter how many times they trade off tipping their open throats higher for another senseless gulp.
The wet-drenched sounds of slapping counting out each hungry thrust as punctuation in the silence.]
What other sorts of imaginings did you have in mind while you're locked in here playing the prettiest little whore?
Shall I mark you again to commemorate this moment....? Have you roll onto your back and call me daddy when you're aching to be fucked into the floorboards? I could lead you crawling on a gilded chain for lick after lick of foreplay alone, or suspend you like a treasured toy in swaths of magic....
[If Astarion sounds put together, it's only practice.]
....or are you too far gone already to keep directing your good boy?
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Yes silently moaned in time with every thigh-trembling swell of a heavy cock thrust deep into him, forcing him to spread open wider than he dreamed possible with every bouncing impalement. Yes, he's too far gone (ghostly fingers riling him with every careless caress, urging his thighs to spread wider, his fretful cock to thicken and swell, drops of precome already wetting the tip as he helplessly bucks his hips to chase after it); yes, he can't possibly think right now (that toy jumping and shivering and grinding so deep within him that he barks out a jagged cry each time, straining mindlessly against an iron grip in vain attempt at seeking relief from pleasure that refuses to abate). A mewling whine bubbles to his lips as Astarion's voice curls against his ear, and yet—]
Not— not hardly . . . [A trembling inhale, a silent whimper vibrating against Astarion's fingers, before he adds with a reckless grin:] . . . daddy.
[Things he'd never be able to say normally, but it helps so much to be mindless. It helps that his eyes roll back in the next second, his hips snapping back to meet the next merciless yank with force of his own. It helps that every sadistic tug of his tail sends electricity pulsing through his veins and white spots flashing in front of his eyes; that there isn't a single second spent where he isn't fighting to speak, to think, to breathe for how good he feels.
Gods. His ears redden, some part of him caught between embarrassment and hesitation— but let this body (lithe in spite of all the months of training, still so damnably young no matter how much muscle he puts on) do the work for him. Let them both pretend he's as young as he never feels, a sweet-mouthed little whore ready to seduce his favorite client. He inhales another ragged breath and shudders to feel those glancing little touches: so faint he might think he was imagining them if it wasn't for the way his cock twitches in fretful, desperate response.]
Is that what you've imagined all these weeks? Fitting your hands around my waist and setting your prick against my belly, thrilling in how much you'll make me take . . . locking a collar around my throat, keeping me captive and suspended so that when the virginal thing finally realizes what it is to court a vampire's lust, it will be far too late to escape . . .?
[Oh, he knows what gets Astarion off (he knows what he, himself, gets off to, for four years is such a long time to discover a whole host of kinks he'd never known were possible). He knows how to thrill his husband— and how to squeeze himself tight in merciless rhythm as he's bounced, milking Astarion's cock in demanding answer to every perfect bounce. Blood drips hot down the line of his shoulder, precious droplets chased after and lapped up by a cool tongue; he tips his head, straining at the wound, making it bleed a little faster.]
You wish for an order? Show me why you said such a thing. [His fingers tighten around the back of Astarion's neck, his voice pitching low as he commands rather than begs. Craning his head back, he catches him in a kiss, slow and hungry and molten: lingering until his lungs are aching for air, and only then does he release them both.] Tie me up or put a collar on my throat, but show me just what you fantasized when you pictured me moaning that out.
[A beat, and then, with another deliberate, pulsing squeeze:]
Now.