Vampires are quickened things, even unto themselves; expending precious effort on even registering the scope of their own reflexive movements would be as pointless as it is a total waste— not including the inherent blindness attached to all present depravity (the distraction that'd only drag him away from just how good it feels to be held aloft in his master's claws over the drooling pinion of his prick: sensation melted into immoral weightlessness. Senselessness. Panting like an animal at bay for all the good it does him); loss of control one more ritual steeped in utter trust. Antithetical to sightlessness, the only leap of faith they've ever shared was in the narrow band of seconds just before sharp fangs pierced his living throat.
Well—
That, and whatever comes tomorrow.
But all that matters right now is that awareness is a passing footnote.
One more glimmering little afterthought devoid of reason. Purpose. Power. That it exists as something infinitely more primordial than its clever origins— good only for tracking the differences between cold plaster and kindled skin. The scuffing divide between their bodies once they hit the wall, harsher than before and coarser than the scrape of flint across steel. His own prick pushed against hard borders (like the rest of him), pressure nothing but a vulgar denouement for subsequent violence—
(Insobrietous violence. Decadent lust fed raucous little scraps for so long behind decorum's measured bars that when they give way at last, they snap.
Even behind Vakares' stunning eyes.
His shackled mind. His fettered heart. His soul so damp with discipline that he shines in a room full of fallow wretchings, lesser as they are— even then— he proves what Astarion has always known: no beast is ever tamed. No amount of filing could ever dull sharp fangs or claws. Paperwork does not a mortal make, and whenever he finally wakes, he ruts like the wanton thing he is.)
Oh.
Oh—
There's no time to brace. Before Astarion can stutter out even an acclimating bark, his vision blots with stardust. His lungs are empty. His throat— his mouth— that savaging tempo at his hips having pumped every last drop of air from him before he's fully readied, and he can't tell if he's baying like a beast in heat or silent as the grave for how deaf he is to everything beyond the rapid sound of every thrust— fuck, the dizzying vibration of it, a rhythm so inhuman it might as well be buzzing in ways mortal things could only dream of, shattering like brittle glass beneath his skin. So damned wet with slakeless lechery the floor has to be drenched already while his own claws scrabble wildly for purchase (at the wall. At the borders of his sire. At the barely-caught fringes of dark hair, wrapped in a snapping frenzy against the back of Vakares' neck as he whines or whimpers or wheezes or screams or groans or begs or— or or or)—
No one could fuck him like this.
No one could mount him like this, bruisingly untamed and brutally untempered: a lion mastering his herd or a wolf pinning down its pack until it bows with fierce obedience would whimper just to be caught beneath his gaze. Astarion's body raw and his voice hoarse and still it doesn't stop— faster. Harder. Deeper—
Until his eyes roll back and his belly feels damp, blank slate struck across his mind.
In (blinking against the blurred lines of the ceiling); Out (gasping as he lulls against his sire's shoulders, wracked with split sensation), his lips flecked with gloss and his limbs too limp to bother twitching where they hang. Hips bouncing still atop their wicked transgressor. Cock still jerking harsh against the wall. Neck slung back, profile nosing at— a cheek? A neck? He doesn't know.
He hardly cares. Scent alone tells him who it is he's nuzzling against.
That, and the fullness of his hips.]
Hnn— ngh— [Ah. Ah, catch your breath, Astarion. Inhale before you try to speak, Astarion. Teetering on the panting edge of molten ardor won't make you any more coherent unless you try, licking at your lips first.]
no subject
Vampires are quickened things, even unto themselves; expending precious effort on even registering the scope of their own reflexive movements would be as pointless as it is a total waste— not including the inherent blindness attached to all present depravity (the distraction that'd only drag him away from just how good it feels to be held aloft in his master's claws over the drooling pinion of his prick: sensation melted into immoral weightlessness. Senselessness. Panting like an animal at bay for all the good it does him); loss of control one more ritual steeped in utter trust. Antithetical to sightlessness, the only leap of faith they've ever shared was in the narrow band of seconds just before sharp fangs pierced his living throat.
Well—
That, and whatever comes tomorrow.
But all that matters right now is that awareness is a passing footnote.
One more glimmering little afterthought devoid of reason. Purpose. Power. That it exists as something infinitely more primordial than its clever origins— good only for tracking the differences between cold plaster and kindled skin. The scuffing divide between their bodies once they hit the wall, harsher than before and coarser than the scrape of flint across steel. His own prick pushed against hard borders (like the rest of him), pressure nothing but a vulgar denouement for subsequent violence—
(Insobrietous violence. Decadent lust fed raucous little scraps for so long behind decorum's measured bars that when they give way at last, they snap.
Even behind Vakares' stunning eyes.
His shackled mind. His fettered heart. His soul so damp with discipline that he shines in a room full of fallow wretchings, lesser as they are— even then— he proves what Astarion has always known: no beast is ever tamed. No amount of filing could ever dull sharp fangs or claws. Paperwork does not a mortal make, and whenever he finally wakes, he ruts like the wanton thing he is.)
Oh.
Oh—
There's no time to brace. Before Astarion can stutter out even an acclimating bark, his vision blots with stardust. His lungs are empty. His throat— his mouth— that savaging tempo at his hips having pumped every last drop of air from him before he's fully readied, and he can't tell if he's baying like a beast in heat or silent as the grave for how deaf he is to everything beyond the rapid sound of every thrust— fuck, the dizzying vibration of it, a rhythm so inhuman it might as well be buzzing in ways mortal things could only dream of, shattering like brittle glass beneath his skin. So damned wet with slakeless lechery the floor has to be drenched already while his own claws scrabble wildly for purchase (at the wall. At the borders of his sire. At the barely-caught fringes of dark hair, wrapped in a snapping frenzy against the back of Vakares' neck as he whines or whimpers or wheezes or screams or groans or begs or— or or or)—
No one could fuck him like this.
No one could mount him like this, bruisingly untamed and brutally untempered: a lion mastering his herd or a wolf pinning down its pack until it bows with fierce obedience would whimper just to be caught beneath his gaze. Astarion's body raw and his voice hoarse and still it doesn't stop— faster. Harder. Deeper—
Until his eyes roll back and his belly feels damp, blank slate struck across his mind.
In (blinking against the blurred lines of the ceiling); Out (gasping as he lulls against his sire's shoulders, wracked with split sensation), his lips flecked with gloss and his limbs too limp to bother twitching where they hang. Hips bouncing still atop their wicked transgressor. Cock still jerking harsh against the wall. Neck slung back, profile nosing at— a cheek? A neck? He doesn't know.
He hardly cares. Scent alone tells him who it is he's nuzzling against.
That, and the fullness of his hips.]
Hnn— ngh— [Ah. Ah, catch your breath, Astarion. Inhale before you try to speak, Astarion. Teetering on the panting edge of molten ardor won't make you any more coherent unless you try, licking at your lips first.]
....so you do still....know how to charm....