[It's been nearly a month since they've been together.
And understand, that was the very last thing on his mind when it came to priorities. He has not spent the past three weeks with his hand between his legs, mewling for a lack of tending. Always it was his heart and head that led the search; always he ached for Astarion not for the heat of his mouth or the thickness of his prick, but because he just missed him. That's important, at least to Leto, at least when it comes to Astarion. They could live for another few centuries (and will they? Is his lifespan extended in this new body? oh, things to think of later), and still Leto will never forget that haunting little summation Astarion had murmured at the start of their relationship. I did better on my back than my feet, and Maker help him, for he never wants to put Astarion through that kind of objectifying hell.
But.
With that said . . . oh, gods, but he's missed this. His head snaps back and it takes everything in him not to moan in overheated delight, melting into Astarion's grip with all the kittenish submissiveness his amatus is so clearly soliciting. Cede to me, for that's how this game goes. Cede to me, little pup, and there are nights where he will. There have been so many nights where he'll happily moan out an agreement, his legs spreading and his back arching, and allow Astarion to conquer as he likes.
But it's been weeks. And gods, but he's missed playing with his amatus.]
Always?
[He doesn't have his lyrium, and that's a disadvantage, it's true. But nor is he helpless without it. One hand braces on Astarion's hip as the other settles on his shoulder; with a low growl Leto surges up, forcing momentum as he throws them both towards the side, spinning them around, throwing Astarion to the mattress and straddling him in one swift movement. And of course nothing is easy, of course they scramble and fight, hands grappling for a surefire grip, Astarion's weight bucking beneath him, but how it ends is this: with Leto hovering above him, his fingers wrapped tight around each of his wrists as he pins him to the bed, his hips rocking back in a maddeningly methodical rhythm, pressing down hard as he grinds himself along the quickly swelling line of Astarion's prick.
And you know, he does thrill in the power. He loves being in charge just as much as he loves submitting, but as he hovers over Astarion, drinking in the sight of muscles tensed beneath pale skin, he finds that what fills him isn't the thrill of domination. He does not want to conquer, not right now. Later, perhaps, but right now . . .
Right now, all he truly wants is to be close to Astarion.]
I missed you beneath me.
[And it's funny, for it was a taunt in his mind, but it comes out far sweeter as it slips past his lips. His body lowers, his head tipping as he catches Astarion's mouth with his own. The kisses they'd shared before were desperate things, far more about relief and reunion than anything approaching sensual— but here, now, in this quiet place that's for them alone, Leto only wants to rediscover his amatus.
Like this, and he savors the soft press of Astarion's lips. The familiar rhythm that they both have memorized, every firm push and hungry pull of their lips growing fiercer by the second. Hello, hello, I missed you, hello, and when his tongue slides forward, tangling eagerly against Astarion's own, it isn't a conquering thing, but a tease. Hello, my love, I've missed your taste, your body, all your little noises and eager movements, and he's panting when he draws back for a breath, his chest heaving and his emerald eyes dark.]
I missed how you tasted. How you sound when you're eager for me and can't take me at the pace you want . . .
[Oh, he lives for those noises, and his mouth twists into a smug smirk.]
it's like pg-13 rn
And understand, that was the very last thing on his mind when it came to priorities. He has not spent the past three weeks with his hand between his legs, mewling for a lack of tending. Always it was his heart and head that led the search; always he ached for Astarion not for the heat of his mouth or the thickness of his prick, but because he just missed him. That's important, at least to Leto, at least when it comes to Astarion. They could live for another few centuries (and will they? Is his lifespan extended in this new body? oh, things to think of later), and still Leto will never forget that haunting little summation Astarion had murmured at the start of their relationship. I did better on my back than my feet, and Maker help him, for he never wants to put Astarion through that kind of objectifying hell.
But.
With that said . . . oh, gods, but he's missed this. His head snaps back and it takes everything in him not to moan in overheated delight, melting into Astarion's grip with all the kittenish submissiveness his amatus is so clearly soliciting. Cede to me, for that's how this game goes. Cede to me, little pup, and there are nights where he will. There have been so many nights where he'll happily moan out an agreement, his legs spreading and his back arching, and allow Astarion to conquer as he likes.
But it's been weeks. And gods, but he's missed playing with his amatus.]
Always?
[He doesn't have his lyrium, and that's a disadvantage, it's true. But nor is he helpless without it. One hand braces on Astarion's hip as the other settles on his shoulder; with a low growl Leto surges up, forcing momentum as he throws them both towards the side, spinning them around, throwing Astarion to the mattress and straddling him in one swift movement. And of course nothing is easy, of course they scramble and fight, hands grappling for a surefire grip, Astarion's weight bucking beneath him, but how it ends is this: with Leto hovering above him, his fingers wrapped tight around each of his wrists as he pins him to the bed, his hips rocking back in a maddeningly methodical rhythm, pressing down hard as he grinds himself along the quickly swelling line of Astarion's prick.
And you know, he does thrill in the power. He loves being in charge just as much as he loves submitting, but as he hovers over Astarion, drinking in the sight of muscles tensed beneath pale skin, he finds that what fills him isn't the thrill of domination. He does not want to conquer, not right now. Later, perhaps, but right now . . .
Right now, all he truly wants is to be close to Astarion.]
I missed you beneath me.
[And it's funny, for it was a taunt in his mind, but it comes out far sweeter as it slips past his lips. His body lowers, his head tipping as he catches Astarion's mouth with his own. The kisses they'd shared before were desperate things, far more about relief and reunion than anything approaching sensual— but here, now, in this quiet place that's for them alone, Leto only wants to rediscover his amatus.
Like this, and he savors the soft press of Astarion's lips. The familiar rhythm that they both have memorized, every firm push and hungry pull of their lips growing fiercer by the second. Hello, hello, I missed you, hello, and when his tongue slides forward, tangling eagerly against Astarion's own, it isn't a conquering thing, but a tease. Hello, my love, I've missed your taste, your body, all your little noises and eager movements, and he's panting when he draws back for a breath, his chest heaving and his emerald eyes dark.]
I missed how you tasted. How you sound when you're eager for me and can't take me at the pace you want . . .
[Oh, he lives for those noises, and his mouth twists into a smug smirk.]
How bratty you get when you're told not yet.