[Asking a question like that, what had he expected?
Fool Astarion, for it assuredly wasn't this— not this. Not the mouthwatering agony of overstimulated bliss spreading outwards from that first rumbling flicker of rapine contact; wet and soft and somehow warm in defiance of everything he'd anticipated (thick rigidity; fixed, hungry subsumption) as it sinks in fully against near-nonexistent twitches of barely withheld resistance— all of his senses falling to coiling tatters with it. Not an ounce of thought— not a splinter-thin shard of it left behind rolled eyes that isn't already— ( fuck— oh, fuck— ) he groans for one heady second, the world spinning and everything in him thrashing under the softest picturable onslaught. Little swipes of a pretty pink tongue that don't dare leave him room (he's brought this on himself, hasn't he? A full night of incensed fervor, and now, he's earned his just reward): teasing routine bringing him a different sort of high than what he's used to beneath his sire's grip. Sweeter and sweeter and— falsely suffocating gasps running breathier and breathier and—
Shattering to pieces on a single, dawning tempo change.
Palling licks slipping deeper and deeper before he knows how to brace enough to stop its harrowing descent into pit of his arousal, tight grip keeping him fully splayed for every chasing dive without reprieve.
Drilling him. Coaxing him. One Flick. Two. It's a bloody miracle that Astarion even has it in him to hold fast without witlessly whimpering aloud while he drools across his fangs— with only his shoulders breaking rank to openly shudder as they rise: his fingertips busy tearing into sheetcloth and bedding by almost silent degrees— a shameless breed of tension carved from scattered linen lines between white knuckles— too busy. Too lost. Too maddened with the urge to rock back atop a mouth he hates (and adores— gods— ) to think of acting out at all. Much less take to wondering if that heat— that torturous, constant curling heat that laps at him like cream— is borne of friction (how their tongues had been lathing, coursing wildly across one another), or solely from the savage sear of their sire's lingering come, shared between them now once more....in a vulgarly corruptive sense.
Oh, like that, it's not his fault he rocks against the mattress, knees and hips first, elbows and palms second: his engorged prick dangling in the shadow of a body that won't stop screaming for more— please, more—
To be touched. Fondled. Milked to meager orgasm, at least— anything more than the electified pangs of biting need that find him each time his cock barely taps against his leg. The covers. Everything. Anything. Mercy find him, that he can't even feel the trails of precome left behind each time.
Oh he does cede.
Eventually. (Immediately.)
Vakares' Crown Prince. That crowing heir apparent. Reduced to a shuddering thing with spread legs and a lolled tongue; no sense of dignity maintained. Not a second spared for pretense of notoriety in the souls beyond a locked door or an eager mouth. So little exists outside the aches, the shudders, the keening whines and needy gasps. Between the only two souls that watch him now he doesn't languish for attention, only focus. Only his usual vindictiveness, enough to bite or growl or snarl or return fire through whorish beseechment or— or—
(Or or or—
Another set of seconds lost. Maybe even a minute, while his vision starts to blur across its borders.)
—anything other than this sense of depraved limbo that gives so little (and yet pushes him towards the precipice all the same): one more lick, and then the next, and then the next, his hole wringing at its own aggressor, inviting agile subjugation to come sate itself on him. On all of him. Oh please, oh please, oh please— wretched, despised perfect (perfect perfect perfect) little beast that he loves right now and will turn his teeth on for it come eventual scaletip backwards into sanity— please—
1/2
Fool Astarion, for it assuredly wasn't this— not this. Not the mouthwatering agony of overstimulated bliss spreading outwards from that first rumbling flicker of rapine contact; wet and soft and somehow warm in defiance of everything he'd anticipated (thick rigidity; fixed, hungry subsumption) as it sinks in fully against near-nonexistent twitches of barely withheld resistance— all of his senses falling to coiling tatters with it. Not an ounce of thought— not a splinter-thin shard of it left behind rolled eyes that isn't already— ( fuck— oh, fuck— ) he groans for one heady second, the world spinning and everything in him thrashing under the softest picturable onslaught. Little swipes of a pretty pink tongue that don't dare leave him room (he's brought this on himself, hasn't he? A full night of incensed fervor, and now, he's earned his just reward): teasing routine bringing him a different sort of high than what he's used to beneath his sire's grip. Sweeter and sweeter and— falsely suffocating gasps running breathier and breathier and—
Shattering to pieces on a single, dawning tempo change.
Palling licks slipping deeper and deeper before he knows how to brace enough to stop its harrowing descent into pit of his arousal, tight grip keeping him fully splayed for every chasing dive without reprieve.
Drilling him. Coaxing him. One Flick. Two. It's a bloody miracle that Astarion even has it in him to hold fast without witlessly whimpering aloud while he drools across his fangs— with only his shoulders breaking rank to openly shudder as they rise: his fingertips busy tearing into sheetcloth and bedding by almost silent degrees— a shameless breed of tension carved from scattered linen lines between white knuckles— too busy. Too lost. Too maddened with the urge to rock back atop a mouth he hates (and adores— gods— ) to think of acting out at all. Much less take to wondering if that heat— that torturous, constant curling heat that laps at him like cream— is borne of friction (how their tongues had been lathing, coursing wildly across one another), or solely from the savage sear of their sire's lingering come, shared between them now once more....in a vulgarly corruptive sense.
Oh, like that, it's not his fault he rocks against the mattress, knees and hips first, elbows and palms second: his engorged prick dangling in the shadow of a body that won't stop screaming for more— please, more—
To be touched. Fondled. Milked to meager orgasm, at least— anything more than the electified pangs of biting need that find him each time his cock barely taps against his leg. The covers. Everything. Anything. Mercy find him, that he can't even feel the trails of precome left behind each time.
Oh he does cede.
Eventually. (Immediately.)
Vakares' Crown Prince. That crowing heir apparent. Reduced to a shuddering thing with spread legs and a lolled tongue; no sense of dignity maintained. Not a second spared for pretense of notoriety in the souls beyond a locked door or an eager mouth. So little exists outside the aches, the shudders, the keening whines and needy gasps. Between the only two souls that watch him now he doesn't languish for attention, only focus. Only his usual vindictiveness, enough to bite or growl or snarl or return fire through whorish beseechment or— or—
(Or or or—
Another set of seconds lost. Maybe even a minute, while his vision starts to blur across its borders.)
—anything other than this sense of depraved limbo that gives so little (and yet pushes him towards the precipice all the same): one more lick, and then the next, and then the next, his hole wringing at its own aggressor, inviting agile subjugation to come sate itself on him. On all of him. Oh please, oh please, oh please— wretched, despised perfect (perfect perfect perfect) little beast that he loves right now and will turn his teeth on for it come eventual scaletip backwards into sanity— please—
More—]