Overstimulation with Astarion makes w head go burrrrrrr
Astarion is a vampire. And vampires can go on forever—
In more ways than one.
Maybe it's the dead blood that courses through his veins that gives him the extra vigor. Maybe it's the hundreds of years that he's had to learn to move his body in ways that leave you breathless. Maybe it's that he doesn't have to stop and catch his breath— ever.
Either way, you see those pale, pillowy lips crook upward just enough to show a slip of ivory fang in his mouth as you approach your peak. That same mischievous smile that drew you into his bed to begin with.
Again.
And hey, you can't be blamed. It's fun!
At first.
But after the second or third time, it borders on a form of painful that words can scarce describe. Raw edged and red, body spasming and mind pleading— screaming— enough. Suddenly your body isn't big enough for the two of you and he's not leaving any room for you to exist or even breathe. Thighs rubbed to dust and chafing around his hips as he spears in again and again and again, hissing a pointed giggle as he does.
Every languid gyration of his pelvis hits somewhere that has you screaming and clawing at him, leaving red, ragged streaks across his skin that he wears like a tiger would wear its stripes; a badge of honor— of pride. You can't even pant out his complete name into his mouth, stumbling and stuttering across syllables that he greedily swallows down.
His claws are so terribly sharp but he only uses them in the best ways, and as the pale pads of his fingertips find your core, dread mingles with excitement and then the inevitable onset of 'Oh Gods, oh Gods, oh Gods—' because you physically cannot handle it.
Save it doesn't really matter what you can or can't handle. He finds it fun to push you over the edge again, so over it you go.
Maybe it's the ego boost, or perhaps it's the power. Maybe it's the vulnerability of you clinging to him against your own will, quite literally putty in his skillful hands. Maybe it's the way your body squeezes and milks him dry every time he does it, damn near sucking what's left of his eternal soul clean from him and into you. Maybe it's the way your bleary eyes blink little silver tears that fall down the delicate curve of your cheek as you beg him enough.
But it's only over when he says it's over. It's only over when he's had enough, and as he's told you before, he's a man of tremendous appetites. He's had ages beyond ages to understand how to pluck the delicate strings of the human body apart piece by piece and he plays you like a damn fiddle every time you dance with him.
And even as the orgasm subsides as you peer up at him with pleading eyes, he only smiles and hushes you with a devouring kiss, movements only slowing to draw out every whiny breath from between your lips before spurring onward again in ruthless, reckless rhythm. Even as your vision tunnels and you lose any sense of coherency, he's as constant as the winds and the tide, and just as eternal.
He'll leave you wrecked and ruined, dashed on the rocks only to be drawn back out into the hazy pink sea of pleasure once more. And as you feel that pressure spring in the base of your spine start to coil like a serpent once again, all he does is laugh into the crook of your neck, asking if you're tired already.
Perhaps next time you pick a bedfellow, make it one who needs to sleep eventually, because Bane knows he does not, and he is hellbent on making that your problem.
