[Shadows trace across sharp features, cascading underneath the map of Vakares' fingers, their outline almost lost in a sea of moonstone curls. Between them, light plays where it catches glossy traces of saliva pooled across pale lips— or across the occasional little flick of a pink tongue as it darts outwards, its anticipatory habits making Astarion look that much more serpentine in nature— which, given the metaphorical and mythological aspects of all scalebound, covetous beasts, is something of a feat all its own.

And the thing is, it's not an act.

Tomorrow's going to come no matter what he wants; he's done his railing and rattling and vicious ranting, and in the end it brought him this (the sight of spread legs clothed in dark silk, a pair of coalfire eyes glancing down across abyssal distance— as if a dark room is the same thing as an oceanic chasm, endless by design). Fingers pushing along the borders of those open legs while his teeth and tongue do the bulk of cruel unraveling, making a show out of each knot undone without the aid of either hand. The past compared to this is papered faff— even at its most beautiful, there's no comparing dusty recollection to molten ardor. To the electric scrape of friction scratching fiendishly against bare skin, sparking up the start of something grander.

They've had better nights, the two of them; they've certainly had better futures laid out at their feet, too.

So why not here? Why not now? Why choose anything else but the present, when it's always the present that gives so very much.]

Maybe I will....

[Purrs the thing already doing just that: freeing a thickened cock with just enough pressure to let it spring from tighter confines— knocked back against his lips.

There's a soft click when his tongue leaves the roof of his mouth in the next few beats beyond that (effort made to unfurl while he opens wide around the tip of that sweet length, glazing the very crown of it— and forcing those legs wider as he rocks forwards onto his knees), flirting with the idea of claiming what invites him in.]

You do have to admit, if I was ever going to sabotage your hopes of sleeping for an eternity, I'd do it by making sure you couldn't rest—

[Consonant barely kissed before he plunges over rigidity itself, forcing tense heat to the very hilt until it slams against the back of his waiting throat. Muscles working in a coaxing pull akin to the sensation of swallowing—groping at his sire's ensnared prick using only the deftness of his tongue.

And since he doesn't need to breathe....

Well.

Staying there is the only logical choice, isn't it? (How better than to make his maker pant.)]