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Astarion wakes, and there's two fingers in his cunt—sliding in deep, insistent, dragging him from his trance. His eyes snap open in the dim dormitory light, a gasp escaping his lips as he registers the slick heat, the intrusion, both unwelcome and familiar. He twists his head, looks, and there she is: Dalyria, their latest sibling.
The moon elf is pale, eyes wide and feverish, pupils blown with that raw hunger that grips all new spawn in those first wretched weeks. She's perched beside him on the cold stone bed, her free hand digging into her own thigh.
"Help, brother," she whispers, a shaky plea, though her fingers don't stop, thrusting harder, seeking something she can't name. "I need... I can't... it burns."
She's flushed unnaturally at her cheeks and throat, a remnant of the blood from fresh seduction and a kill. It is a torment Astarion knows all too well; the body, still remembering the grave, doesn't yet know how to process the crimson vitae. It twists into this insatiable fire, a craving that no feeding can sate—only release, over and over, until the colors dull.
He grabs her wrist, his own fangs bared. "Dalyria, darling, this isn't how we—" But his words cut off as the others begin to stir. The spawn move as one, drawn by her arousal and her need.
"What's the racket?" Petras mutters first, but as the sleep is rubbed from his eyes, his gaze sharpens on Dalyria's writhing form.
Violet follows, a sly grin curving her lips. "Oh, the new one's got the itch bad."
Yousen hops down from his perch, not bothering to hide the glint in his eyes. Quiet Aurelia brings up the rear, tail flicking with unvoiced concern.
They converge, a condensing storm, without words. It's a scramble, a jockeying for position, as each spawn vies for some prime spot. The winter chill does not soothe the rising heat, and Astarion feels the pull, the instinctive drive, to claim his share in this twisted family rite.
Dalyria's fingers slip from him as Petras hauls her up by the arms, pinning her against the stone with his weight. She's slight and easy to maneuver, but she thrashes with that feral need, hair whipping as she arches. "Please," she begs.
Violet laughs, a harsh sound of delight, and grabs Dalyria's legs, spreading them wide while Yousen secures her hips. Aurelia kneels at her side, horns swallowing the light, stroking Dalyria's cheek with the back of her hand.
She's the only one who's gentle. The rest of them are not. They can't be—won't—Astarion knows, because gentleness does nothing to quench this fire. It's raw and overwhelming force it demands, to break one open and rebuild you numb.
He slides down between her thighs, his shoulders wedging her further apart. Blows a cruel breath, first, on her exposed cunt, and she moans. She's dripping, slick, folds swollen and pink. Astarion flicks his tongue to taste her then, sharp and teasing at first. Dalyria bucks, a cry muffled as Yousen positions himself above her face, wedges her head between his legs.
His cock, hard, presses insistent to her lips, and she opens for him, sucking him in as he thrusts down her throat. As the gnome groans, bending forward with ease, his size lets him perfectly reach her breasts—those full, sensitive mounds that heave with each breath. He latches on, sucking one nipple hard, pinching the other, discovering quickly how she arches into the stimulation, the pleasure-pain.
Even then, the spawn continue to jostle and shift. Petras growls as he tries to shove Yousen from his perch: "Move, runt, let me at those tits—you can't have everything."
Yousen snarls back, unyielding, holding fast and being held.
Fucking his new sister's mouth with brutal, urgent strokes, his tongue laving her tits in messy wet circles.
"Look at that," purrs Violet from above. "She likes it rough. Don't you, sister? You'll fit right in."
The only response is a moan around Yousen's cock, Dalyria's throat too full for more.
Frustrated, unamused, denied his spot, Petras turns his attention to Astarion instead. He drops down, behind, rough hands gripping Astarion's hips, and without preamble, slides his cock in. Astarion gasps against Dalyria's folds.
"If I can't have her mouth, I'll take your pretty hole," Petras grunts, really rather unnecessarily, starting a steady pound that presses Astarion's face harder into Dalyria. Astarion feels his own arousal spike, and channels the emotion into fingers, tongue, lips.
Above, Aurelia continues to whisper softly into Dalyria's ear. "Shh, it's alright, sister. The need won't always burn like this. You'll get used to it, learn to tame the fire yourself one day. We're here now, let it out, let us help."
Her tail coils around Dalyria's arm, a gentle restraint amid the pins and pulls. As she speaks, Aurelia's hand slips between her own thighs too, her siblings' debauchery fueling her own rise and crest.
Astarion dives deeper, his mouth sealing over Dalyria's clit, licking, sucking, grazing fang points. She comes almost immediately, this new spawn, convulsing, juices flooding his tongue. He laps her through it, even as Petras' thrusts pound from behind—but it's not nearly enough; he knows it won't be. He presses on, fingers finding her rear hole too, stretching and curling and pulling her apart. Her walls clench around him, but the hunger doesn't fade, only builds again, her hips grinding up against his face as if she could devour him in return.
The jockeying continues: Violet, grown impatient, shoves at Astarion's shoulder. "Move over, I want a taste."
Astarion resists at first, but Violet pulls him up by his curls, guiding his mouth to her own hard, straining cock. "Suck on this, brother," she commands, ringlets framing wicked smile as she maneuvers between Dalyria's thighs, her tongue delving where Astarion's had been. Astarion complies, lips wrapping around her, sucking with the same fervor he'd given Dalyria. Violet moans into Dalyria's cunt, the vibrations drawing another orgasm from her, her pale body sensitive and electric.
Yousen spills down Dalyria's throat with a grunt, hands working her breasts, sucking, biting till she keens. Petras groans behind Astarion, pace quickening, but soon he pulls out, unsatisfied with the angle, and moves to climb higher, stepping on Astarion, pressing against Dalyria as he seeks a new position in which to pleasure or be pleasured.
He finds Aurelia and doesn't bother with words; simply pushes her forward until she's half-draped over Dalyria's ribs. Aurelia doesn't even gasp as she steadies herself, still murmuring comfort to the trembling elf beneath her. Petras grips the base of her tail for leverage and sinks into her with rough thrusts, groaning loud enough to echo off the walls. The motion rocks Aurelia forward, her breasts pressing against Dalyria's arm, her whispered reassurances fracturing into breathy moans as Petras sets a punishing rhythm on her.
But it's Dalyria whom Astarion's attention is on: wave after crashing wave, each one counted in his mind. He eats her out again when Violet tires, his own jaw aching, face slick, but he presses on, drawing out the tenth, the twentieth, till her cries turn hoarse, her thrashes become only weak tremors.
The siblings move as a pack, communicating without words, knowing this is the only balm for the curse they've all endured. Positions change again, again: Petras ends up atop Dalyria, his cock sliding into her alongside Violet's fingers, but Violet shoves him and mounts him instead. Her boobs bounce as she rides him hard, their bodies fully fucking on top of Dalyria, who's turned into the foundation of their pleasure.
By the end, as Dalyria's fire finally banks, body limp and sated after an eternity of peaks, the configuration shifts to something almost tender in the space. Dalyria and Astarion lie tangled together, her pale hand between his thighs, fingers stroking him. His own hand mirrors the motion on her, mutual stimulation drawing out the last dregs they have left. Aurelia, narration fully fading into soft sighs, pulls Yousen into her lap, wraps a hand around his spent cock, pleasuring him gently as he nuzzles her neck. Petras and Violet collapse in a heap atop Dalyria, their fucking slowing to grinding rolls, sucking unneeded at the stale air.
The night stretches on, but for a moment satiation reigns, the spawn a sweaty mess of intertwined limbs and fangs.
So when Wyll, only child, asks him what it's like to have siblings, all Astarion can offer is "It's complicated."