Drinking in the sensation of panic, the one he reads in the human's expression, the only thing he takes from it is the desire to do more. To fuck harder. His motions are vicious; short, sharp snaps of his hips that never pull his cock out much further than the back of Gortash's mouth. The wet, tight heat of his throat beyond provides too much pleasure and delight in how forceful it is.

He feels fingers against his hips, almost wishes that they would clutch at him hard enough to hurt, so he can feel just part of what the other man may be feeling. Silenced like this, he has to take what feedback the man's body is giving him outside of verbal.

In the end he gives the man all of two opportunities to get a proper lungful of air, pulling his cock out enough to create the space for it. For some time, all that can be heard in the Chosen's chambers is the way the Dark Urge fucks his toy's throat, commentary only used to needle at the man on his knees more. And then, without warning, his hips slow, one last thrust forward before he's spilling over, a grunt drawn from his poison lips and his fingers twisting in dark locks so tightly, to keep the human still, there's little chance it doesn't hurt. He empties himself until he has no more, pulling out and gripping at Gortash's chin to yank his gaze upwards.

Expectation, even through the slight haze of his orgasm, is brimming at his features.

What do you say, toy?