Just a fun little One Shot involving Deadpool and a poor Retail worker. (Self insert probably)
Rating: Teen
Words: 1.5k
Warnings: None really, Sarcasm, Mild implications (winking, a comment or two but nothing line crossing), I guess Retail has it's own warning lol
Summary:
Working returns means dealing with frustrated customers, missing receipts, and impossible requests. But nothing prepares you for a masked customer insisting on returning a toaster that doesn’t even exist in the store’s inventory.
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Long time no see I suppose. So what happened was, I watched Deadpool again, all three movies. And as one could already imagine, it made me deepdive into the amazing stories Tumblr has to offer. To add to that, I worked in retail for a long time and a guy once came in that created a very similar and confusing situation, just thought about it at 2AM randomly a few days ago, even after quitting a while back lol. Hope you enjoy, I probably will write a few more about other job experinces I had.
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The worst part about working returns isn’t the policies. It’s not the mess of receipts either. It’s not even the people who say “I know it’s not your fault, but—” and then still proceed to ruin your entire shift.
It’s the confidence. The kind of confidence that makes someone slam a broken toaster on the counter and expect you to fix their problem.
The line was too long. Not “a little inconvenient” long. It curved into the aisle like a passive-aggressive parade of poor decisions. A baby cried in uneven intervals like a broken alarm system. Someone behind the third person in line kept sighing like they were auditioning for “Most Oppressed Customer of the Year.”
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Because of course they do.
And you smiled. Because you always smiled.
“Next, please!” you called out for what felt like the one hundredths time today.
Blender Lady. Refund. Gone.
Shirt Guy. Store credit. Gone.
You were efficient, professional and very dead inside.
“Next, please!” you called out again.
And then came the cherry on the fucking top. Literally, figuratively speaking. Some dude in a red suit looking like a rejected Powerranger. A heavily armed rejected Powerranger at that.
He walked up like he owned the place—or like the concept of ownership didn’t apply to him. Which, honestly, felt more accurate. He dropped something onto the counter.
Thunk.
You looked down.
A toaster.
Not just a toaster. A suspicious toaster.
The kind of toaster that looked like it had seen things. Burnt edges. Slight dent. Possibly a past.
“…Is that a toaster?” you asked.
“Yes,” he said cheerfully. “I’d like to return it.”
You blinked slowly, eyeing the suspicious toaster again.
“Do you have the receipt?” You asked anyway.
“Nope.” He confidently said.
“Proof of purchase?” You tried.
“Absolutely not.” He shot back like it’s the most hideous question he ever heard.
You pause, looking at the Toaster again.
“Did you buy this here?”
He tilted his head, like you’d just asked him something philosophical.
“Define ‘here.’”
You pointed at the floor.
“This store.” You said flatly.
He followed your gesture and looked at the ground then looked back at you, leaning in slightly.
“Okay, but before I answer,” he said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “are you asking as an employee… or as the main character of this situation?”
You stared at him.
“…Employee.”
“Boring answer,” he sighed dramatically. “Then no.”
Behind him, someone groaned: “Is this gonna take long?”
Another voice: “Some of us have places to be!”
He turned his head just enough to address them without fully looking.
“Yeah, yeah, we’re building tension,” he said. “It’s called pacing. Look it up.” Then back to you: “Where were we, my favorite underpaid protagonist?”
“I cannot accept this return.” You said, pointing at the toaster again.
“Not even a little?” He tried.
“No.”
“Not even for character development?”
“No?” You scoff, not even knowing what he’s talking about at this point.
“Wow,” he said softly. “Cold. I like it.”
He tapped the toaster.
“So what you’re saying is,” he continued, “you won’t take back this clearly defective product.”
“What’s wrong with it?” You asked, raising a brow. This better be good, you thought.
“It caught on fire.” He said as a matter of fact.
“How?”
“I put bread in it.” He shrugged and you paused, just to look at the toaster again and then back at him.
“…That’s literally what it’s for.” You eventually said.
“Yeah, but the bread didn’t survive.” He shot back.
“That’s… how toasting works.” You tried again.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “This was personal.”
You took a breath, exhaling it sharply through your nose.
“Sir, we do not sell this brand. We cannot process this return.” You tried again politely.
He leaned on the counter, completely unbothered.
“Okay, but consider this,” he said.
“I won’t.” You answered again. This isn’t going anywhere, is it? You thought, feeling how your patience is thinning.
“You didn’t even hear it.” He reasoned. Fair, but I’m persistent. So is he.
“I don’t need to.” You shrugged slightly.
“Rude,” he said. “I was gonna say something compelling.”
“You weren’t.” You shook your head.
“I was gonna say you could do it.”
“I won’t.” You firmly insisted.
“Counterpoint,” he said, pointing at you with two fingers, “the audience wants you to.”
You stared at him again.
“…What?”
He gestured vaguely past you.
“Don’t pretend you don’t feel it. The pressure. The expectation. They didn’t come here for ‘policy compliance.’ They came for chaos. And me.” He winked at nobody.
“…Who is ‘they.’” You asked, totally confused at this point.
He leaned in slightly.
“You know.”
You did not, in fact, know. And yet something about the way he said it made your stomach drop just a little.
“Just scan it,” he said casually.
“No.”
“Just once.” He insisted.
“I can’t.” You tried now.
“For science.”
“What? No.”
“For content.”
“…No?”
“For me?” His voice went up as if talking to a puppy.
“Absolutely not.” You scoffed and he sighed dramatically “Wow. And here I thought we had something. A connection. A shared understanding that rules are more like… suggestions.”
“You walked in five minutes ago.” You flatly reply.
“And yet,” he said, placing a hand over his chest, “I’ve never felt more seen.”
Behind him: “Oh my god, can we move this along?” Another said: “I’ve been waiting twenty minutes!” And: “This is ridiculous!”
He turned again slightly.
“Hey,” he said. “You’re all part of this now. Try to enjoy it.”
Then back to you:
“Okay, final offer,” he said. “You scan the toaster, we see what happens, and if it doesn’t work, I’ll leave.”
You narrowed your eyes.
“…You’ll leave.”
“Scout’s honor.” He placed a hand over his heart again.
“You don’t look like you were ever a scout.” You told him with a raised brow.
“Roleplay is a thing, babe. Close enough.” He winked at you.
You stared at him. Then at the toaster. Then at the line. Then back at him.
You were tired.
“…Fine.” You sighed and he lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.
“Oh, this is gonna be good.” He said, rubbing his hands together like a Housefly.
You grabbed the scanner and pressed it against the toaster.
Beep.
You froze and something in your eye twitched.
No. You scanned it again.
Beep.
Something appeared on the screen, and you stared at it.
“…That’s not possible.” You grumbled.
He leaned over the counter, peeking.
“Oh hey,” he said. “We’re in.”
“This item isn’t even in our inventory.” You tried to explain.
“And yet,” he said, spreading his hands, “we persist.”
You clicked through the options slowly. Like maybe if you went slow enough, reality would correct itself. Spoiler: It didn’t.
“…It’s offering store credit,” you said.
He gasped.
“See? The system believes in me. Why don’t you?”
“The system is wrong.” You shrugged.
“Or,” he said, pointing at the screen, “the system is evolving.”
You hesitated. This was wrong. So, so wrong and you could feel it.
“…You’re gonna think about this later,” he said suddenly.
You looked up.
“At like 2AM,” he continued. “‘Did I just commit retail fraud?’ And the answer will be yes. But also? Growth.”
“…Please stop talking.” You said, pressing two fingers to your forehead.
“You can’t stop me,” he said. “I’m essential to the narrative.”
Behind him:
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”
“I WANT A MANAGER!”
“THIS IS UNBELIEVABLE!”
He didn’t even turn around this time.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Background noise. Adds texture.”
You closed your eyes for half a second. I don’t get paid enough for this to be a big deal later, you thought.
“…Fine.” You huffed out a breath.
You processed it. Fast.
Receipt printed.
Store credit loaded.
You handed it to him slightly aggressively.
“Here.” You said.
He took it, then looked at it, then back at you.
“…Wow.” He said.
“What?” You asked, harshly.
“You actually did it.”
“I regret it.”
“You should,” he nodded. “This is gonna haunt you.”
“I know.” You sighed.
“You’re gonna be lying in bed like—” he tilted his head back slightly, mock-thinking, “‘what if the toaster comes back?’”
“…Get out.” You said, pointing toward the exit.
He grinned.
“Oh, I will,” he said. “But not before I say this—”
He leaned in slightly.
“You’re my favorite kind of problem,” he said wiggling what seemed to be his eyebrows.
You stared at him.
“Don’t come back.”
“No promises, Return Desk Babe.” He shot you another wink and turned, starting to walk away.
Then paused, turning back one last time.
“Oh, and for the record?” he added.
You sighed.
“What.” You harshly said.
“This?” he gestured between you, the counter, the toaster.
“Five stars.”
“…Get out.” You grumbled again, pinching the bridge of your nose.
And just like that, he was gone. Who would’ve thought.
“…What just happened?” the next customer asked, staring after him, voice somewhere between horrified and deeply invested.
You looked at the counter, the scanner, the copy of his receipt. Maybe even your life choices if that were possible.
“…I don’t know,” you said, shaking your head slightly.
Then you looked up, smile plastered back in place.
“What can I help you with?”
You just knew this was really going to haunt you forever. Or at least at 2AM tonight.
Warnings: Explicit Content, emotional intensity, dark tone, intercourse
Summary: Working late on a complex case, you find yourself alone at Miami Metro long after everyone’s gone, except Dexter Morgan. The quiet tension between you has always lingered under the surface, neither of you quite willing to name it. But when the night stretches long and the air grows still, that line between caution and desire begins to blur. A game of observation becomes something more. Something darker. Something inevitable.
Its been a while. I got into this fandom, searched desperately for content but to no avail. I did however notice the yearns for content by other people, so i hope that i can please you with whatever this is. I rarely put the stuff i write online, so please dont expect this to be a consistent thing. I also spend most of my time working or studying, please be patient. Until then, enjoy!
The office was quiet.
Not "end of shift" quiet. It was dead quiet.
You sat hunched over a case file in the break room, the bitter taste of vending machine coffee clinging to your tongue. The florescent light above you flickered like it couldn’t make up its mind. Somewhere behind you, the air conditioner let out a soft groan.
You were the only one left. Or so you thought.
“Working late?”
The voice was smooth. Controlled. You didn’t startle but your muscles did that subtle, instinctive thing. You looked up slowly, and there he was.
Dexter Morgan.
Blood spatter analyst.
And the only person in this building whose silence could fill a room.
You raised a brow, hiding your tension beneath a casual tone. “I could say the same about you.”
He tilted his head slightly, hands in his pockets. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. Neat, as always. Too neat for someone just "passing by." He walked a little closer, but not too close.
His eyes scanned the open file on the table. A photo. A knife wound. Blood trails.
“That’s not your case,” he said.
You met his gaze. Steady. “No. But it’s… interesting.”
A beat of silence passed between you.
“You’re not usually here this late,” you said.
“I could say the same about you,” he repeated, and his lips twitched. Something like a smile, but not quite. There was something else behind it. Calculation? Admiration? Curiosity?
You close the folder slowly. “So, what brings you back, Dexter?”
He took a moment to answer.
Then:
“I forgot something. Came to get it. But I didn’t expect anyone else here.”
You let the silence stretch between you for a moment. He didn’t move. You didn’t either.
The tension wasn’t dangerous. But it wasn’t safe, either.
“You always this vague, or is that just for me?” you asked lightly, eyes narrowed in faint amusement.
His expression shifted. Barely. “Only when someone notices.”
You stood, gathering the file. “Well. I’m noticing.”
He took a step forward. Just one.
“You’re… different,” he said, voice low. Thoughtful. “Most people talk too much. Make noise to hide something. You don’t.”
You swallowed. Just once. That was all you allowed.
“And what do you think I’m hiding?”
He smiled.
It wasn’t warm.
“That’s the thing,” he said. “I don’t know yet.”
You walked past him, and his gaze followed.
You could feel it.
It wasn’t threatening. It wasn’t inviting.
It was… focused.
You turned in the doorway. “Maybe I’m not the only one hiding something.”
That smile flickered again. Real this time, but brief.
“I know.”
The lights buzzed faintly overhead.
Dexter moved closer, not directly towards you but towards the door you were standing in. Without saying anything else, he left.
You thought he was gone.
But you heard it. The elevator had never moved. You go investigate, as usual.
And when you double-check the evidence locker, there he was again.
Searching quietly through one of the lockers like he belonged there. Like he owned the silence.
“Forget something else?” you asked, eyes flicking up from your File.
Dexter didn’t answer right away. His gaze was... fixed. Too long. Too still.
“No,” he said softly. “Didn’t forget anything.”
You raised an eyebrow. “So you stayed.”
“I did.”
The fluorescent light above you buzzed like a warning.
Your heart thudded once. Loud, just for you.
Not fear. Something else.
You turned back to the metal shelves, trying to focus.
Trying to pretend you didn’t feel him behind you now.
Close.
Not touching, but the space between you felt occupied. Heavy.
“You’re still looking at that case,” he said. His voice was right by your shoulder now, lower than before.
“I’m thorough,” you replied. “Unlike some people.”
“Some people,” he repeated, almost amused. “Is that what I am to you?”
You turned slowly.
His face was close.
Too close for comfort.
Too close for reason.
You searched his expression, but it gave you nothing. No tells. No giveaway. Just that quiet, sharpened interest behind his eyes. The one you’d never seen aimed this directly at you before.
You didn’t move away.
“I think you’re someone,” you said, “who only pretends not to be curious.”
He blinked slowly.
And then, in a tone so calm it almost felt clinical:
“I don’t pretend with you.”
Your breath caught.
The locker door clicked shut behind you.
You hadn’t touched it.
You weren’t sure who moved first.
It wasn’t dramatic. There were no sudden kisses, no clumsy hands.
Just… stillness. Charged.
Your back against the cold steel.
His hand beside your head.
His breath even. Yours, not.
“People don’t usually stay late,” you murmured.
“I’m not ‘people’,” he said.
And then he leaned in.
But not to kiss.
To whisper.
“Tell me if you want me to go.”
His eyes locked with yours. Unblinking.
But you didn’t say anything.
You couldn’t.
Because you didn’t want him to go.
The silence didn’t ask questions.
It dared you.
Dexter’s presence hovered like gravity, never touching, but pulling you in. Your body was pressed against the evidence locker, breath hitching, pulse betraying you. And his eyes?
Still.
Calculating.
Not in a way that made you afraid.
Not really.
But in a way that made you aware. Of yourself. Of him.
Your voice came out quieter than intended.
“I should get back to work.”
“You should,” he agreed. But he didn’t move.
And you didn’t either.
“I don’t usually…” you began.
But you stopped, unsure what you were about to admit.
That you didn’t let people stand this close?
That you didn’t feel like prey around a predator?
That something about him made you want to lean closer, not run?
Dexter’s head tilted just a fraction. “No. You don’t.”
A pause.
You felt the air shift between you. He wasn’t guessing.
He knew.
“Then why are you still here?” you asked, heart thudding hard now.
He smiled faintly. Not charming. Not warm.
Something else.
Something true.
“I told myself I came back for something I left behind,” he murmured. “But maybe… I came back for what I didn’t know I needed.”
Your breath caught.
You weren’t sure if it was the words, or the way he said them.
As if this wasn’t about lust.
As if this was about recognition.
His hand lifted slowly, fingertips brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Not rough. Not gentle. Measured. Like he was learning the texture of something unexpected.
“I notice everything,” he said. “You hide well. But not from me.”
You didn’t dare blink.
“Is that a threat?” you asked quietly.
He leaned in, lips brushing just above your jaw.
Close enough to taste skin but not touch it.
“It’s a confession.”
A silence bloomed.
Thick. Intimate. Heavy with all the things neither of you had the language for.
Then he pulled back, just enough to meet your eyes.
“I don’t do this,” he said.
“Me neither.”
Another beat.
And then, like a string snapped,
You kissed him.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t careful.
It was like breath after suffocation.
Like fire meeting gasoline.
He caught you fast, hands gripping your hips, back against metal, your mouth pressed against the one man in Miami Metro you shouldn’t be wanting. But the rules didn’t apply here, not now, not in the quiet hours after midnight when masks came off and instincts surged.
He kissed like he thought too much about it.
Like control was muscle memory.
But you were the variable he hadn’t calculated.
Your hands curled in his shirt, pulling him closer, anchoring him to this moment.
“Dexter,” you whispered, against his mouth, “what are we doing?”
His voice was ragged now. Raw.
“Something… dangerous.”
And still.
Neither of you stopped.
You didn’t know when it had shifted.
when the line between tension and action had dissolved.
But now, here you were.
Pinned not by force, but by choice.
The cool metal at your back, the low hum of failing fluorescent lights, the late-night silence of the station pressing in. You could still hear the distant buzz of the city outside but here, time moved differently. Slower. Heavier. Hungrier.
Dexter’s breath ghosted along your jaw.
“I should stop,” he said.
But his hand traced the line of your hip like a habit he hadn’t known he had. Deliberate. Careful.
Wanting.
Your voice was barely audible. “But you won’t.”
He smiled, close-lipped, dark, fascinated.
“You’re not afraid of me.”
“I should be.”
He leaned in, his nose brushing yours, the space between you evaporating like morning mist.
“But you’re not.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.
You were still here.
His fingers slid beneath your shirt and up your spine, anchoring at the base of your neck, holding you steady. You weren’t sure if the electricity in your chest came from fear, arousal, or something stranger.
Dexter’s lips met yours again. This time slower, deeper, a study in restraint on the edge of breaking. He kissed like a man who only ever let himself feel in fragments.
And now those fragments were catching fire.
You pulled back just an inch, your forehead against his. You both gasping for air.
“If someone walks in…”
“They won’t.”
“And if they do?”
“Then they’ll see something they shouldn’t.”
You gave a soft, dangerous smile.
“Like you?”
His hand tightened at the back of your neck.
“Exactly like me.”
Silence again.
But now it was brimming. Tension taut like a violin string drawn to its limit.
You could end this.
You should end this.
Instead, you whispered:
“Lock the door.”
And he did.
Without a word.
The click of the deadbolt echoed through the empty office like a gunshot.
Now there was no turning back.
His hands found yours, guiding you toward the desk behind you. The one where you’d been poring over case files not even twenty minutes ago. Unsolved victims, brutal patterns, endless hours.
Now it was something else.
A surface between want and need.
“You’re not like the others,” he murmured.
“You don’t know me.”
He paused, gaze steady.
“I don’t have to. I see you.”
You swallowed. Hard.
“Then look.”
You reached for his shirt, fingers slipping under the fabric, dragging it upward, revealing skin marked by muscle and shadows, soft under the pale glow of the overhead lights. He let you, silent, focused, like you were a specimen on the table. A puzzle he didn’t want to solve but feel.
His hands found your waist again, then your thighs, pulling you up and back onto the desk with ease. Like he’d done it before. Like this wasn’t new. But you were.
You were the variable.
And he was adapting.
You tugged him closer, bodies colliding now with real weight, with real heat.
No gloves.
No plastic.
Just flesh.
And need.
The kind that makes you forget where one person ends and the other begins.
There was a sharpness to the air now.
Not cold.
Charged.
You sat on the edge of the desk, breath shallow, legs parted just enough to welcome him. But your body was already humming, every nerve drawn to where his hands hovered, undecided. Tempted. Testing.
Dexter looked at you like he was solving a case.
Every movement of his eyes was clinical, almost detached. But you saw through it.
He wanted to feel.
And you were giving him permission.
“I’ve never…” he began, voice low, gravel-slicked, “...let someone in this far.”
You didn’t speak.
You reached for him again, slowly pulling his hips toward yours until there was no more space.
And when your mouth found his, it wasn’t gentle this time.
It was hungry.
And he matched you. Hand at the back of your head, the other anchoring your thigh, pulling you closer. Pressing his heat against you. Not demanding but claiming. It was like he was drinking you in, trying to memorize the heat of your mouth, the pulse at your throat, the shape of your gasp. His hands moving to tug at the base of your shirt, suggesting.
You both move to strip each other’s clothes. Not torn, not rushed. Removed like evidence. Carefully. Quietly. Every layer revealing more, until only skin remained. Warm against cooler skin. Flesh against hardened muscle. The kind of contact that burns into memory.
His mouth traced down your collarbone, down further, lingering where your breath caught, where your fingers curled at his shoulders. You slightly arched into him, not to provoke but to meet him.
There was no doubt anymore.
No fear.
Your eyes locked tightly to one another, breathing heavily and taking in the sight. You slowly shift forward, inviting him.
You roll your eyes back as you feel him guiding himself in. A low groan filled the silence, keeping up a slow and steady pace, sending sparks down your spine. You let your head fall back but suddenly feel his hand gripping the back of your head, making you look at him. Actions speaking louder than words, he grips your hip with his other hand, pushing himself in fully. You let out a soft moan, keeping your eyes locked to his own.
You see the hunger in his eyes. Like a Wolf, hunting his last meal.
Dexters thrusts grow harder, clouding your mind with sensation and ready to reach the edge. He releases your head and tightly grabs onto the other side of your hip.
Just the sound of skin against skin.
Breath against breath.
And him, finally letting go.
Not entirely.
But enough.
Enough for you to feel the shift.
From control to surrender.
From mask to man.
You pulled him closer. He moved with precision, watching your eyes for any reaction.
And when he saw your lips part and your head tip back,
He understood.
The rhythm changed further. Grew.
Deliberate, firm, intimate.
No games, no tricks.
Just raw contact. Real and unfiltered.
And when the edge came, it wasn’t sudden.
It built. Gradual. Deep.
Until it swept you both under like a wave.
You clenched at his shoulders as your body arched, the world narrowing to sensation, to breath, to him.
And he, silent, grounded, focused, followed you.
A final thrust.
A stifled gasp.
Then stillness.
The hum of the lights returned.
The city buzz crept back in.
But in the room, there was only your breath. And his.
Dexter leaned forward, forehead to yours again.
“I shouldn’t have.”
You smiled. Tired. Satisfied.
“But you did.”
His hand slipped down your spine again. Slower now. Almost tender.
“Will you tell anyone?”
You raised a brow. “Would you?”
That earned the slightest smirk.
“No,” he said, voice soft, barely above a whisper. “I’ll just remember.”
Your colleague Dr. Ancunin is a smug condescending bastard and you can't stand him. But you also can't get him out of your head.
Pairing: Astarion/F!Reader
Rating: E
Word Count: 5.2k
Tags/Warnings: unprotected p in v sex, creampie, no breeding kink, masturbation, vaginal fingering, vampire bites, modern au, college/university au, urban fantasy, enemies to lovers, like the briefest mention of suicide while talking about Hamlet
This would not exist without @zipzoomzaria's gorgeous glasses screenshots because PROFESSOR, PLS. Go follow her bc her edits are out of this world. The masturbation scene is also heavily inspired by @astarionfreak's "Are You Satisfied, Darling?" If you haven't read it what are you doing???
Read on AO3.
There’s something about him that rubs you the wrong way. It could be his arrogance, or the condescending way he peers over his glasses at you and your other colleagues. It might be the overpriced cashmere turtlenecks that hug his figure perfectly or the stupid silver earrings adorning his stupid elf ears. But every time he opens his pretty little mouth you feel a snarl growing deep in your throat.
This is the first university you’ve worked at where the theatre and English departments shared an office. Theatre and music, sure, even theatre and dance. But theatre and English? It feels insulting, honestly. English PhDs are some of the snobbiest people you’ve ever met, and they always speak to you like a child. Is it because they’re unimpressed by your MFA, like it made you less deserving of your position? Who knows. But Astarion Ancunin is no different.
“Grace, would you mind making twelve copies of pages 219-254 when you get a chance?” You hand the administrative assistant the heavy book. “You can leave them in my mailbox, I’ll pick them up later.” Grace opens the book to the instructed page.
“Oh, Much Ado About Nothing! I love that one!” she squeals with delight. “That Beatrice and Benedick,” she sighs, stroking the Complete Works lovingly. You smile at her cordially.
“They’re great, they’re basically the non-problematic version of Kate and Petruchio,” you respond in agreement.
“How tragic that Taming’s writing is better.”
You whirl around to see Ancunin walking in looking at something on his phone. He doesn’t even look up as he inserts himself into your conversation. You glare at his interruption. He looks up at Grace, bypassing you completely.
“Good morning, Grace darling, how are you today?” He sweeps over to her and takes her hand in his, planting a kiss on her knuckles. Gods he’s fucking insufferable. Not to mention unprofessional. Grace, however, blushes and giggles like a schoolgirl.
“I’m doing well, Dr. Ancunin, and yourself?” The tiefling’s voice jumps up about three pitches and her tail starts swishing excitedly.
“Leagues better now that I’ve been blessed with your presence,” he coos at her, voice positively saccharine. It takes every ounce of your patience to keep from rolling your eyes. He casts his gaze to you, and even you need to turn away from those piercing red eyes.
“Good morning, professor. Starting Much Ado with your students, I take it?” he asks with a light smile that makes you bristle.
“Yes, it’s a great way for them to practice switching between verse and prose,” you respond coolly, more than a little defensive.
“Of course, one of his best.” He glances down at the volume still in Grace’s hands and his eyebrows raise, peering over the top of his round glasses. “Going with the Bevington, hmm? Interesting. I’m more of a Norton man, myself.” He runs a slender finger along the binding as you grit your teeth. Is he really patronizing you over your choice of edition of Shakespeare’s Complete Works? Of course, he’s an English scholar.
“The Norton is a great tool dramaturgically, but the Bevington is a much better resource for actors, so, yes.” Your voice is steady but there’s an undeniable venom in it. Can he tell how much he’s bothering you? Probably, he’s almost certainly getting enjoyment out of riling you up. His little smirk would seem to suggest it, at least.
“Well certainly, and who knows acting resources better than our resident classical acting expert?” he intones, voice still dripping with honey. You narrow your eyes at him, unsure if he’s taking another jab at your degree.
“Well, as much as I enjoy standing around and debating the merit of various editions of the Complete Works, I’m about to be late for a meeting. Grace, thank you so much, I’ll be back later to pick up those copies. Dr. Ancunin,” you turn to his smug face and he looks back at you innocently. “A pleasure, as always.” You grab your papers and leave the office, feeling the heat of his gaze boring into the back of your head as you leave.
***
“Yes, Thaniel, come on in, have a seat,” you call out to the freshman loitering in the hallway outside your office. He comes in and drops his overfull backpack next to the teal club chair across from your desk. You close your laptop and smile at him warmly.
“So, Hamlet, that’s ambitious! I think it’s a good choice for you, but it’ll be a lot of work,” you say, glancing at your own copy of the monologue.
“Yeah, that’s why I’m here,” Thaniel says nervously. “I’m fine with the scansion and stuff, that I get, but I still don’t get the actual words. And I know you said how important that is.”
“For sure, I can guarantee all of the bad Shakespeare you’ve seen has been because the actors had no idea what they were saying. Have you used the Lexicon?” Thaniel looks off to the side, embarrassed.
“No, I don’t really get how that works either,” he says, an air of chagrin creeping into his voice.
“No worries, it takes practice. Here, we’ll do a few lines together. So first off, to be or not to be, that’s fairly obvious, right?”
“Yeah, he’s talking about suicide, right?”
“Sure, but what is he actually saying about it? To take arms against a sea of troubles/And by opposing, end them. What’s ‘them’ referring to?”
“The sea of troubles?”
“Right, the aforementioned slings and arrows. So even though you might know what those words mean individually, look them up in the Lexicon to see if they have a different context here. But you’re right, he’s trying to figure out if it’s better to suffer through the shittiness of existence or to take your fate into your own hands and, well, end them.” You highlight the line and lean over your desk to show Thaniel. A voice pipes up from the doorway.
“That’s not exactly what he’s saying, you know.”
The paper crumples in your hand slightly as your fist instinctively tightens. You plaster a strained smile on your face and look up at him.
“Dr. Ancunin, thank you for gracing us with your presence. Care to elaborate?”
He’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, face in shadows. Your office is unusually dark because of the storm outside, and so the bright fluorescents in the hallway give him an almost ethereal halo effect
“It’s a common misconception that Hamlet is contemplating suicide here. Life and death, sure, but ‘to take arms’ isn’t metaphorical, it’s literal. He’s contemplating dying as a result of killing Claudius, not taking his own life,” he says, almost sounding bored. You stand abruptly, your office chair skidding backwards.
“How can that possibly be true? He says ‘to take arms against a sea of troubles.’ He’s using the active voice, deciding whether or not to continue his life or end it. To be or not to be. It’s the first line in the monologue. He’s not talking about the consequences of killing Claudius.” You try to keep your voice from shaking. You know that you don't sound nearly as eloquent as him, and it’s pissing you off. He shrugs nonchalantly.
“You’re oversimplifying it, it’s exceedingly more complicated than that. The whole soliloquy is filled with war imagery. He’s at war with himself, the part of him that wants to kill Claudius and the part of him that is afraid to die.” He pushes himself off the door frame and steps back into the hallway. “But apologies, please don’t let me interrupt your instruction.” And like that he was off, leaving you to stew in silence. Thaniel looks up at you and looks back at the doorway where he stood.
“Should I…” he starts, but you cut him off with a wave of your hand.
“Dr. Ancunin comes at this from a very different angle as an English academic. He’s more interested in the words on the page, rather than how they translate to the stage. But,” you sigh, loathe to give him any credit, “it’s a valid interpretation. We can go down that route, if you want, or we can look at it through this lens.” Thaniel chews his lip while he considers his options.
“I think what you said makes more sense, the suicide bit,” he finally decides. You nod and pull out your copies of the Shakespeare Lexicon.
“Great, let’s go over how to use the Lexicon again,” you say as you flip through the book, looking for the entry for ‘slings.’
***
You drop off your bag and toss your keys into a bowl on the counter. Fucking exhausting day. You unzip your boots and kick them vaguely in the direction of the shoe rack, stretching and curling your toes for relief. You hang up your wet coat and shake rain from your hair. Your eyes dart between the refrigerator, wherein resides a bottle of white wine, and the bathroom door, contemplating how good a hot bath would feel. Both? Both is good.
You pour yourself a generous glass of Riesling and strip your clothes on your way to the bathroom. One of the perks of living alone. Sitting naked on the edge of the tub, you sip your wine as the bath fills.
Fucking Ancunin.
You’re a little shocked at how much he got under your skin today. Normally you don’t think twice about him, excepting the few times you have the misfortune of passing him in the hallway. But today the fates decided to throw you together and your schedules aligned. Well, in your defense, you didn’t seek him out that second time, he was the one who decided to crash your office hours.
You don’t even like Hamlet that much. You certainly don’t care about alternative interpretations of “To be or not to be.” But you’re mostly annoyed because he had a fair point. His read makes Hamlet a more interesting character rather than a cowardly incel romanticizing suicide.
You slide into the bath, hissing slightly as the hot water flows over your chilled skin. Without prompting, Ancunin worms his way back into your thoughts. Hmmph. You take a gulp of wine to try to wash away the taste of the unpleasant image.
Well… not entirely unpleasant. He’s a good looking man, you’d be a fool to deny it. But gods he’s so smug. And interrupting your meeting with Thaniel was wildly inappropriate. Leaning your head against the edge of the tub, you try to focus your thoughts elsewhere. You’re not about to let him interrupt you again, and when he’s not even present, no less.
But there he is, in your mind, crimson eyes looking over the top of those metal frame glasses that you’re, like, 99% sure he doesn’t actually need to see. You take another swig of wine to drown his stupid face. With his stupid cheekbones. And his dumb fucking earrings that you want to bite.
Nine hells, what is happening? You’ve been drinking your wine quickly and aren’t thinking straight. You grab your phone and open Spotify, letting your daily mix play through the bluetooth speaker on the counter.
Now Playing: Hatefuck by The Bravery.
If I put my hands around your wrists, would you fight them?
If I put my fingers in your mouth, would you bite them?
By Mystra’s fucking grace, seriously? You growl at the growing heat between your legs. Between putting off dinner and chugging your wine, your head is swimming. You might be better off getting it out of your system.
The wine glass hits the tub edge with a clank as you angrily put it down and sink into the water up to your chin. You are satiating a purely physical need, nothing else.
You still shiver as you slip your hand between your legs, lightly running your finger up your slit. You can see his face, looking down on you through those glasses - those infuriating glasses - and your lips flutter. What does he look like under those sweaters? He’s so thin, but his clothes fit incredibly well. It’s not hard to imagine a sculpted body beneath. You spread your legs further and let the warm water tickle your folds.
His silvery curls would look so good between your legs, slender fingers wrapped around your thighs while he laps you up. At least then he’d shut up. A gentle moan escapes your lips as you run your finger along your inner lips, pretending it’s him. You could grab hold of those perfect locks, yanking on them to control where he can go, fucking his face.
You move your other hand up to your breast and start teasing your nipple, feeling his lips around it. You give it a little tug and groan, just like if he nipped at it.
You imagine sitting on his pretty face, pointed ears flushed and hair a mess. Your hips buck into your hand as they might on top of him and your toes curl. You make gentle circles around your clit, thinking of all the other uses for his silver tongue. You whine and squirm at the sensations of heat radiating through your body. You slip a finger inside and hiss as you can see his pale digits entering you in your mind’s eye. You curl it upwards and gasp, his imaginary eyes looking up at you through those long lashes and a smirk playing across his imaginary lips.
“Are you ready for more of me, darling?” You can hear him murmur into your ear.
“Yes, gods yes,” you reply breathlessly into the cold bathroom air. You slide another finger in and feel that delicious stretch. The ghost of him moans, coming undone at the sight of you. You could leave him speechless, for once.
You reach over the edge of the tub and grab the box of waterproof toys. You frantically sift through your collection of dildos, trying to find the right one. Here. It’s long and svelte like the rest of him, but bright shimmery purple. You suction it to the bottom of the tub and hover above it on your knees. It sways lightly in the water, tip of it teasing your pussy just like you’d love to do to him.
Gods, to see him beg for your cunt. To see him reduced to a babbling mess, pleading to let him inside you. Your breath quickens at the mental image of him pulling on his own hair waiting for you to satisfy him. You sink down onto the dildo and your groan of pleasure mirrors what you’d like to hear from him.
You start sliding yourself on the purple dick, feeling its ridges glide against the walls of your cunt as you continue to finger your clit. You imagine your hand splayed across his chest, your black nails standing in contrast against his pale skin. You claw at the bottom of the tub as you increase your pace, desperate to see the pink raised skin that your nails leave behind. The fingers on your clit speed up as well, and you can feel yourself getting close.
“Oh gods, Astarion, don’t stop,” the words tumble from your mouth unbidden. You will absolutely hate yourself for that later, but right now all that matters is your ecstasy. You bounce atop the dildo, disregarding the water that splashes over the side of the tub as you chase your finish. Your moans increase in pitch and fervor as the various images of him in all sorts of positions flash through your mind. Between your thighs, sitting on his face, riding his dick, even fucking pegging him from behind because why the hell not?
“Astarion!” You cry out his name as you crash over the edge, legs shaking and pussy pulsing. Your orgasm reverberates throughout your whole body as you ride it out. Eventually, your movement slows and the water gently sways around you. You look down at your hand, milky juices swirling in the now tepid tub water.
Shit.
***
The next day at work, you avoid him like the plague. You keep your office door closed, usually an unthinkable act but entirely necessary right now. You double check the hallway before leaving to go teach, and then after class you immediately duck back into your office and close the door again. You even avoid the main office for fear of running into him there.
You can’t look at his face right now. You can’t possibly look him in the eye.
When 5:00 rolls around, you glance out into the hallway. Most of the other professors are leaving. To play it safe, you decide to work until 6 so that you can be sure that he’s gone when you leave. You absentmindedly grade performance responses. After you’ve read one paragraph about Miss Julie maybe a half dozen times, you realize that it’s probably time to go.
You slowly open the door and glance out into the hallway. You can’t tell from this angle if his door is open or not. You grab your bag and coat, take a deep breath, and make a beeline for the stairs. As you approach his office you realize it’s open.
Fuck.
It’s fine. You’ll just walk past it and get to the parking lot and then you won’t need to worry about it. He might not even be in there. Or if he is, he probably has his head down and won’t notice you walk by. It’s fine. You’ve got this.
“Oh, professor, a word?” His voice floats into the hallway right as you’re passing his door. Are you fucking kidding? You turn to see him sitting at his desk, head down, writing something. He doesn’t even look up at you. Prick.
“Yes?” you ask, not budging from your spot in the hall. He glances up at you over his glasses. Those fucking glasses. You want to rip them off his face and throw them out the window.
“Do you have a moment? I think we need to talk.” His voice is low and cool. Does he fucking know? There’s no way he can know.
Right?
You tentatively take a step into his office. It’s surprisingly cluttered for a man who always looks so put together, but it’s still warm and inviting. You can barely see the walls for being covered corner to corner in bookshelves full to bursting. He’s got a big mahogany desk in the middle of the room - significantly nicer than the university-issued one. It’s covered in stacks of papers, books, weird little knick knacks; it’s amazing how he’s able to get anything done on it. There are two chairs facing his desk, much like yours, but a rich plush velvet instead of a scratchy cotton weave. He’s got a scent diffuser somewhere, giving the room an aroma like an earthy spiced tea.
“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the cushy red chairs across from him. You stand there, clutching your bag, staring at him like a deer in the headlights. When he realizes you’re not going to sit, he gets up and crosses over to the door.
“Do you mind if I close this? It’s… a bit embarrassing,” he asks with a crooked smile. You can feel the heat in your cheeks rising. Your mouth goes dry and you try to swallow the lump forming in your throat.
There’s no way he knows.
Right?
But something compels you to nod, so he closes the door and walks back to his desk, but rather than sitting behind it, he leans back casually on the front of it. He’s taken off the blazer he usually wears and is down to just the turtleneck, sleeves pushed up just below his elbows. He crosses his arms in front of his chest as you stare, waiting.
“I wanted to… apologize. For yesterday.”
You blink at him, the conversation not going in the direction you expected. You had been so focused on yourself, that it took you a moment to realize what he was referring to.
“It was inappropriate to barge in on your meeting with your student. You were mid-instruction, and I needn’t have inserted myself into your conversation.” He leaned back on his hands, stretching out his lean figure to impossible proportions. The grip on your bag slackened and you couldn’t help but drag your gaze over the length of his body. He looks at you quizzically.
“I get the sense that you don’t very much like me,” he muses.
Now it’s his turn to give you the once-over, and you feel practically naked before him the way he looks at you. “Then again,” he adds, and pushes himself off his desk. He slowly advances toward you, though whether like someone approaching a vicious beast or a predator stalking its prey, it’s unclear. You retreat while holding his gaze until your back is flush against the door.
No escape now.
He gets precariously close to you and takes an unsettling whiff. When he speaks again, his voice is a husky growl.
“I think it’s entirely possible you like me… quite a bit.” He’s got at least a half foot on you, and he looks down on you with heavy-lidded eyes. The heat in your face has fully reached the tips of your ears now, and your breath comes out ragged.
“I’m sure I-” you start, but it comes out thick and raspy. You clear your throat and try again. “I’m sure I don't know what you mean,” you finally manage with all of the composure you can muster. He cocks an eyebrow at you, then slowly takes off those infuriating glasses.
“No? Then perhaps I’m mistaken, and your heart rate hasn’t increased by approximately 20 beats per second in the past few minutes.” His eyes continue boring into you. “And maybe that smell between your legs is completely unrelated.”
An undignified splutter comes out of you as you press your thighs closer together. He takes a half step back to let you respond.
“If I am indeed mistaken, then I’ve said my peace and you’re free to go.” The seductive honey is gone from his voice, and in its place is a politely professional tone. You fully feel that he’s giving you an out, that you can both laugh on this as an embarrassing moment and neither will bring it up ever again.
But on the other hand…
“You’re not mistaken,” you choke out in a whisper. The lazy smile is back and he lifts your chin with his index finger.
“What was that? Speak up.” His command weakens your knees and you wither under his gaze.
“You’re not wrong,” you say more boldly, trying to meet his energy. His smile broadens, and for the first time you notice two pointy fangs slip out beneath his upper lip.
Fucking
vampire??
That explains how he could track your heartbeat, and even more his ridiculously keen sense of smell. Doesn’t make it any less humiliating.
“No, I don’t suppose I am,” he snarls and suddenly he’s kissing you roughly, hands twisting in your hair and one knee sliding up between your legs. He pushes you against the door and lifts you off your feet slightly. You’re desperate just to keep up as he devours you, hands weakly grasping at his hips, shoulders, neck. But he’s fully in control of the kiss, and after a moment you let him take you.
He breaks the kiss but doesn’t pull away, and you’re both breathing heavily, air cycling between your lungs. Your head feels full of a thick fog and you can’t fully see straight. His hands are still in your hair, tight but not pulling - yet. You get the sense that might not last long.
He drops to his knees and you nearly double over from the sudden lack of support. He runs his nose and lips across the hem of your black denim skirt, inhaling again. Your fingers lace into his hair, but not even remotely in the dominant way from your fantasy. At this point you’re just trying not to collapse.
He looks up at you, flashing another fang-bearing grin. His hand slips up your skirt and his thumb runs across your pussy, barricaded by your sheer tights and panties.
“Darling, you’re positively soaked,” he hums contentedly. “You’d have a hard time hiding this from anyone.” You bite your lower lip, trying to keep the needy whines at bay. But when he fiercely rips the crotch of your tights and presses the flat of his tongue against the drenched gusset, you can’t stop the cry from escaping your throat. He sucks lasciviously, the debauched slurping noise ringing in your ears. Your knees buckle and he grabs hold of your hips, hiking your skirt up to your waist to get better access to your dripping cunt.
He stands and kisses you again, the taste of you lingering on
his lips. He grabs your ass and digs his fingers into your flesh, spreading them until you gasp into his kiss. In one fluid motion he sweeps up your legs and wraps them around his waist, carrying you over to that incredible mahogany desk.
He plops you down on the hardwood and you hear books and papers tumbling onto the floor behind you. He presses his bulge into your mound, this time the sound of both of your moans mingling pleasingly. He tears at your chiffon button down, trailing hungry kisses down your chest as you throw your head back in pleasure. He makes quick work of fully removing your top, though you’re certain he sacrificed some buttons in the process. You hardly care as you paw wantonly at the back of his neck, desperate for him to get his lips onto every single inch of you. He pulls the lace cup of your bra down with his teeth and starts sucking on your nipple, pressing his hand into the small of your back. You arch into him, his hands working you like a soft clay.
So much for the pleading mess that you pictured last night. Instead, you’re the one who's been reduced to shambles, begging for satisfaction.
“Puh-please,” you stutter, and those devilish eyes lock onto yours again. He snakes his way back up your chest and bites your lower lip.
“Puh-please what?” he mocks your stammering, but makes up for it when he rolls his hips forward, dragging that delicious hardness against you. You squirm, trying to pull him closer but he’s got your arms locked in his grip. His lips leave yours and ghost over the flesh of your neck. He very gently scrapes his fangs across your jugular, eliciting a ghoulish moan from you in return. By all the gods, you hadn’t even considered that as a part of it. His movement made it clear that he won’t bite unless you want him to.
But holy hells do you want him to.
“Gods Astarion,” you gasp, and you swear you can feel his cock twitch at the sound of his own name. “Fuck me then bite me, or the other way around I don’t care, but please get in me!” The string of words almost sounds foreign to your own ears, but you’re well beyond the point of trying to sound clever. In an instant, he’s undone his belt buckle and his erection springs forth, bouncing and already dripping precum. He roughly shoves your panties to the side and sinks his cock and teeth into you simultaneously, drawing out your cry of both pain and pleasure. You wrap your legs and arms around him, trying to pull him in deeper. You can feel his mouth filling up with your hot blood just as your cunt fills up with his dick.
You’re panting as you grow more lightheaded, clinging to his neck. Unthinkingly, your fingers stroke his ears, playing with those tiny silver hoops. He lurches and pulls away from your neck, looking absolutely feral with your blood dripping down his chin, which only sets you off more. You angle your hips toward him, trying to get him to start thrusting into you. He pushes your back down onto the desk and hooks his elbows beneath your knee high boots. Then he starts pounding into you properly, and you feel like you’re close to losing it. You grab onto the edge of the desk as he revs up his pace, his cock stretching you out as he keeps your legs close to your ears. You can feel the heat mounting in your core and you know it won’t be long before you come. But at this point you’re just trying to hold on for dear life.
“Fuck, gods, Astarion, I’m-” You finish before your sentence does. He doesn’t relent as the orgasm wracks your body, if anything, he fucks you harder. Just as you’ve barely come down off your climax, he pulls out and yanks you off the desk, spins you around and pushes your face down into the smooth mahogany, warmed from where you had just been. He enters you again, this time from behind, and already you’re working your way up to a second one. Your bare tits squish against the polished surface and he grabs your hair, pulling your head up and arching your back into him.
For the first time you notice the mirror on the opposite wall across from his desk. But rather than both of you, you only see yourself, disheveled and well-fucked, lips swollen from his abuse. Your hair is pulled up by an invisible force behind you. Another unexpected aspect of vampire fucking.
You desperately wish you could see his face because you can feel his thrusts getting more uneven and erratic. You try to turn to get a glimpse of him, but his grip on your hair remains tight. But even if you can’t see him, you can hear him, his grunts and the low string of incoherent swears pouring out of his mouth. The sound of him getting lost in you is enough, and your own moans start building and mixing with his, an utter symphony of epicurism.
His hips give a few more broken thrusts and you can feel his climax, setting off yours. The throbs of his cock match those wracking your cunt, and you hold onto the edge of the desk as the waves wash over you. Once they’ve come to an end he pulls out, and you can feel his semen dripping out of the sudden emptiness and running down your leg. You quietly say a thankful prayer for your IUD.
You’re both panting as he collapses onto your back, planting a half-hearted kiss on your spine. You weakly push yourself up off the desk and see the devastation of papers, smears and fluids. You turn yourself around and relish in his appearance. Your blood is splattered on his fine cream sweater, his usually perfectly coiffed curls damp and sticking to his forehead. You reach up and wipe the remainder of your blood off his chin. He smirks and kisses you, significantly more gently this time.
“That was good,” you murmur through steadying breaths, “but next time, keep the fucking glasses on.”
Rating: Explicit (18+) Word Count: 2.7k Pairings: Halsin x Astarion x f!Reader
Warnings: Threesome, unprotected P in V, Creampie, Double penetration, praising, blood drinking, rough sex, fingering, anal, polyamory
This is the first thing i wrote because why not. its just pure filth, i let my thoughts run free so i just hope this reaches the right audience. its not proofread either, i just wanted to release this to the community. hope you enjoy :)
You were laying restless on your bed, your mind trailing off to think about the past and what’s to come. Thoughts of battle clouding your mind and keeping you from resting. Although the night was quiet and peaceful, you were unable to drift off to sleep and you let out a heavy sigh as you sat up and looked around the room of the inn for something that could keep you distracted. There was nothing in sight, so you got up and went over to your traveling chest, rummaging around in hopes to find anything somewhat useful but again you were left empty handed. You gave your last book away to Gale and you’re certain that he is already sleeping tightly, just like the rest of your companions so asking them for company is not an option. You could get a drink or two at the bar downstairs but the distraction you seek is not the one that involves a bustling tavern with you drinking your thoughts away. Aside from that you’re already in your sleeping clothes.
You eventually find yourself staring at the ceiling, your thoughts taking over again, and you close your eyes and shake your head in hopes to get them out when suddenly a knock on your door grabs your attention and clears your mind for a second. You get up and walk over, leaning against the door to try and perceive who it might be when all you could hear was familiar giggling.
“Do you think she’s still awake Astarion?” you could hear Halsin muffled voice through the wooden door. Before Astarion answered you already turned the key and quietly opened the door, revealing both Astarion and Halsin looking somewhat surprised.
“See Halsin! I knew I heard something.” Astarion exclaimed looking you up and down and furrowing his brows. “Darling, you look awful! Are you okay?”
Offended by his statement you roll your eyes. “Oh, thank you Astarion, charming as always.” You cross your arms before your chest. “Now, did you actually want something, or did you just come here to insult me?” you ask with a sharp tone.
Astarion theatrically gasped “If I wanted to insult you, I would’ve already done it.” His tone became gentle “We just wanted to check in on you. Halsin and I were sitting at the bar downstairs and decided to call it a night when we came by your door and heard something.” He looked at you concerned, and you start to feel nervous again, clearing your throat.
“Well, if you guys don’t mind, you could keep me company for a while until I fall asleep.” You give them a nervous smile “I just can’t clear my head and I’ve been trying to find something in my Pack that might help but-“ Halsin cuts your quivering words off “We will stay until you feel Better Y/N. I understand that these troubling times are not easy to process but you are not alone in this.” He gently places his hand on your shoulder and gives you a reassuring smile. Astarion nods in approval.
“Thank you, both of you. I-I really appreciate it.” You nervously stutter and guide both into your Room, closing the door behind you. Astarion directly makes way to your bed, sitting against the headrest with crossed legs while Halsin seated himself on a chair. You plop down on the bed visibly frustrated.
“what’s going on in that pretty head of yours Y/N?” Astarion gently asked leaning towards you. You chuckle at his words. Pretty. As if he didn’t just say you looked awful a few minutes prior, but you quickly ignore your thoughts about it and simply answer his question.
“It’s just all too much now. The constant battles, endless days of walking only to finally reach Baldur’s gate where more terror is just lurking right outside our doors. Its frustrating to see how far we’ve come but also knowing what awaits us. To have such great company is my only ray of hope at the moment.” You sigh and look down to the ground. “I know I’m not alone thinking like this, knowing the other might feel the same is even more depressing.” You nervously bite your lip and feel a warm Hand resting on your knee and as you look up you meet Halsins gentle eyes.
“Y/N I can assure you that its all going to be worth it in the end. Just think of all the people we saved, the people you saved. I am so proud of you for coming so far and thankful to be around such great company.” Halsins voice soothing your senses, making you take a deep breath as the tension slowly washes away. “I agree with Halsin. You’ve done amazing so far and I must say, I can’t wait to find out what comes next.” Astarion gently whispers against your ear and tugging a strand of hair behind it, sending pleasant shivers down your spine.
“Thank you, both of you. For your help and everything that happened to us so far, I am grateful.” You give both a smile. You change the subject, resting the case of bad moods. “What have you guys been up to, since you’re still up?” you ask them. Both smirk and Halsin chuckles.
“Well, I haven’t been in the Elfsong for a long time and just had to get a taste of their Wine down at the bar. Halsin just couldn’t sleep because of the Noise so I brought him with me for a couple of drinks.” Astarion explained. “We hoped to find some distraction ourselves but weren’t lucky tonight.” He laughed and gave you another smirk caressing your neck. You knew what they mean by distraction and couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought. “At least we now found some, haven’t we.” Astarion softly whispers in your ear, placing a hand on your hip making your breath hitch. Youre intrigued at his suggestion and let out a sigh.
“And what do you have in mind?” You ask both with a smirk. Halsin leans in keeping his hungry gaze. “Let’s make this a night you’ll never forget.” He gently says pulling you in for a rough kiss, his hands on your waist, slightly squeezing your sides. You give in to him, deepening the kiss and slightly parting your lips to welcome his tongue. Astarion places gentle kisses along your neck, exploring your body with a delicate touch. He finds your hard nipple, stroking his thumb over it making you shiver, a moan escapes your throat, and you pull away to gasp for air, a familiar heat rising from your abdomen making your cheeks blush.
“My-my, if I knew you were in for something like this sooner, I would’ve already done unimaginable things with you my dear.” Astarion whispers with anticipation. He cups your breast, slightly squeezing it making you sqirm. “So eager, aren’t we?” He chuckles, burying his face in your neck. Halsin give you a warm smile, his big, strong hands remaining tightly on your sides. “Do you want me to go further Y/N?” He asks, his eyes locked to yours, genuinely asking for your consent and all you could do it nod.
The druid moves his hands to the hem of your shirt, quickly freeing you of the cloth and revealing your bare chest. He stops for a moment to take in the sight, his eyes trailing up and down as he lets out a low groan. “You are beautiful, just as nature intended.” His Hands move to your trousers, slightly tugging them down. “Stand up for me my love.” He spoke softly but a touch demanding, making your breath hitch and you do as he says. Halsin slowly pulls down your Pants, looking up at you as you stand before him fully exposed, taking in the sight once again in awe. You feel your already drenched cunt ache in lust as Halsin gets up and hovers over you, pushing you onto the bed again and you land in Astarions lap, feeling his hardened bulge on your lower back. The pale elf grips your behind tightly, humming sweet temptations into your ear, making your hair stand on end, you lean your back into his chest, letting yourself go.
Halsin moves forward, spreading your legs open with his knee. “Let’s warm you up first. Open your mouth for me.” He commands you. You open your mouth, and he puts two fingers in, making you suck on them until they were covered in your Spittle. The druid releases them from your lips, lowering himself to your dripping folds and begins stroking them tenderly with his wettened fingers making you shiver at his soft touch. Astarion keeps exploring your body, working his delicate hands up and down your sides, occasionally massaging your breasts and hardened nipples pinching them ever so slightly to make you gasp. “Tell us how good this feels darling.” He moans in your ear. “Or better yet, show us.” He whispers and Halsin starts slipping one finger into you, curling it upwards to hit that sweet spot that sends shivers down your spine. As he works his way in and out of you, he begins to circle his thumb around your sensitive clit, speeding up his motions as he hears your sweet moans. “Louder.” He deeply grunts. “Let me hear you.” He slips another finger into you, stretching you out for him, slipping in and out, his Thumb working magic on the most sensitive spot and making you already see stars as you almost reach climax by his simple actions. You moan loudly into the room, bucking your hips up as you feel reaching the peak.
“Gods, don’t stop-!” You cry out as he speeds up his work, giving you the one final thrust that sends you over the edge. Your legs are shaking as you calm down from your orgasm, the stars that crowded your mind slowly vanishing and you try to catch your breath.
“Well done my love.” The pale elf whispers softly into your ear and placing kisses down your neck. Halsin slips his fingers out and gently taps your dripping folds one last time then began undressing and letting his hardened length spring free. You admire his form, gasping as you see his throbbing member and thinking how is this going to fit? He moves closer, towering over you. You feel Astarion shift away to free himself of his fabrics, getting back in his former position as quickly as possible, eager to have a piece of you himself. “May I?” He asks while caressing your neck with his cool hands. “I only need a taste.” He smirks, feeling your pulse quicken and grazing over your neck with his lips, slightly pricking your skin with his sharp fangs and drawing a tiny bit of blood. You nod in response and offer him your neck, ready for the numbing sensation you know all too well. He takes your invitation and sinks his teeth into you. You hiss at the pain at first but its slowly turning into numbness and pleasure as the Vampire sucks your blood until you feel lightheaded. He releases himself, taking a deep and satisfied breath then proceeds to lick off the remaining blood from the marks he left.
“I will never get enough of you Y/N.” He whispers in your ear. “Now, shall we continue?” He gives Halsin a smirk, who moves closer to your face, leaning down to place a soft kiss on your forehead.
“I want you to take both of us now.” The druid says, locking his hungry gaze with yours. “You took me so well; I think you can do even better than that.” You stare at him in disbelief. Both? At the same time?
“You mean-?” You blurt out, still wondering if he is serious.
Astarion chuckles. “Well, you can take it, I’m sure.” He says in a suggestive tone. “After all, you’ve done so well, so far Y/N so be a good girl and at least try, would you do that for me?” He lightly takes your chin, pulling you into a passionate kiss. You could feel his erect length poking your back, ready to get to work.
He releases, giving you a reaffirming smile and his crimson eyes staring into your own. “I think I’m ready.” You say, unsure about what is going to happen next. “Good girl.” Astarion whispers and your heart skips a beat. He places his hands on your behind, slightly tapping it to signal you to get up as he repositions. “Now take a seat. Ill go slow if you behave.” He lowly growls and you lover your ass to meet his member, slowly but surely, he navigates his way inside your tight opening and making you hiss at the newfound pain and pleasure. He grunts beneath you, admiring your anticipation. “You feel so good my love.” He growls, resisting the urge to slam himself into you, making careful thrusting motions until you’re ready to take all of him. You let out a quiet moan as you feel him slipping in and out your behind, careful enough not to hurt you but enough to give you pleasure. He rests his hands on your hips, guiding you down further onto his length until he is now fully inside of you, letting out a low moan. Your breath hitches and you squeal when he speeds up his thrusts.
Halsin positions himself at your already stretched entrance, you bite your lip as you feel his member, moaning from the pleasure Astarion gives you. “Are you ready Y/N?” Halsin growls and takes your legs to drape them over his strong arms. You nod in response, unable to speak as the sensations of what comes next cloud your mind with lust. “Use your words.” Astarion commands growling while slowing down his pace to make you wish for more. And you do.
“Yes.” You say breathlessly. “Please, I am ready.” You beg, furrowing your brows in frustration. Halsin gives you a quick smile and thrusts into you without warning, eliciting a loud moan from you and you quickly cover your mouth as both fuck you like you’ve never been fucked before. Astarion growls angrily and grabs your wrist, pulling it away from your mouth onto your back. “Don’t hold back Y/N. We want to hear how much you want us.” The vampire deeply groans. Halsin grunts as he thrusts roughly into you, filling you out with him. Both send sparks of pleasure down your spine, making you moan and squirm and filling the room with heat. You feel close to the edge as both pick up the speed of thrusts, the druid squeezes the outsides of your thighs as you feel his pace become inconsistent with each rough push into you, letting out low grunts. With each spark you get closer to climax, releasing whines of pleasure that seem to encourage Both men as they get rougher and more inconsistent with every moan that leaves the back of your throat.
“Gods, I’m close-!” You cry out, whining for sweet release and gripping Halsins shoulder tightly, squeezing your watery eyes shut. “Tell us what you want.” The Vampire orders you with a low grunt, pounding into you even harder making you scream.
“I want to come. Please!” You whimper, moaning loudly as you feel them both picking up speed and sending you into orbit, clenching around both of their members. Halsins inconsistent pumps get sloppier as he slams himself into you one last time before releasing his load inside of you, panting as he rides out his climax with slow motions. “Fuck-“ Astarion loudly grunts as he grips on tightly to your wrist that he kept firmly against your back, growling your name as his pumps get merciless and he finishes with a low moan.
Halsin slips out of you, cum dripping from your cunt and he holds out his hands to steady you as you try to stand on your still shaking legs and Astarion gently releases himself. The Vampire gets up to look for a cloth and Halsin gently places you back on the bed, your body aching. Astarion returns to you, studying the sight and gives you a grin.
“Now look at the mess we created.” He chuckled, cleaning you off. “Im sure we can all rest peacefully tonight, im sure we all need it after… this.” The druid adds with a warm smile.
Leaving all three of you cuddling up exhausted and finally drifting off to sleep. This was really a night you would never forget.
Synopsis: When a mistranslated ancient spell goes wrong, you're forced to suffer the consequences. Astarion takes a keen interest in your... predicament.
Warnings and tags: 18+ (and I cannot stress this enough), aphrodisiac spell, Spawn!Tav, established relationship, possessiveness. Brief referrals to the Rite of Profane Ascension and Cazador. Fingering, oral sex (receiving), blood drinking, multiple orgasms, slightly rough sex. Brief overstimulation, praise, mild degradation, uses of the terms 'pet' and 'consort.'
Word Count: 4.7k
A/N: And here's the second of my parallel aphrodisiac fics for Non-Ascended vs. Ascended Astarion! It was honestly very interesting to write the differences between them. The Non-Ascended one is much softer than this - please mind the tags!
The book must be hundreds of years old, but it feels warm in your hands. You’ve perused it inside and out, practically memorizing the faded runes. Fixation. It’s a weakness of yours.
Still, how often is it that you find an ancient book of spells? Who knows if you might discover some long-lost secret buried within the pages. And, yes: you’re bored.
Your messy translations are not ideal for this sort of thing, which is exactly why you’ve chosen a basic spell to start with. It’s mid-afternoon, quiet and still, the soft glow of candlelight illuminating the room.
The long-forgotten words flow from your mouth like honey - as if they’ve been waiting for centuries just to be said. Light and sweet, they settle into the room and linger for just a moment. Some spells can be felt in the very air, manifesting as an electric haze that tickles the lungs, but not this one. When the sound of your voice fades away, the only sign that the spell has worked is a gentle heat that settles in your skin.
For a long moment, you kneel, studying the small scrape on your finger and waiting for something to happen. If you’d translated correctly, this should have been a basic healing spell with enough capacity to mend small cuts and burns. An increasingly pleasant heat builds in your veins, but the scrape remains untouched.
It should have worked by now. But if it wasn’t a healing spell, then…
Your eyes turn back to the pages, flickering between the references you’d found and the runes. Something connects. A line you hadn’t seen. A word you hadn’t added. The runes on the page - they’re not for healing, like you’d thought. But if they don’t mean health, then…
You stare at it a moment longer.
Lust.
“Oh. Oh, gods.”
You rise to your feet like you’ve been slapped. The heat is bearable for now but growing incessantly, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. No counterspell. No healing potion. Anything you try could just as well make it worse. Which poses the question: what the hells are you going to do?
You suck in a deep breath.
First things first: you need to get out of this room. The air is feeling like it might strangle you.
The chill of the hall greets you sweetly as you pace up and down the walkway, weighing your options. A spell this simple shouldn’t last long. It’ll most likely linger for only a few hours, then dissipate. It doesn’t seem dangerous. It’s not painful. Not yet, at least.
You could lock yourself in the cellar for the night, but that isn’t exactly appealing. The bedroom wouldn’t work, either. It’s Astarion’s room too, after all.
Astarion. Just the thought of him sends sparks flaring through you. It ladles heat into a very pleasant spot in your abdomen, and something flutters deep in your gut. Gods, what you wouldn’t give for him to be touching you.
But he cannot find out about this. By the hells, he can’t ever find out, because if he does, you will never live this down. Which leaves two options: you can either go to dinner and attempt to act like you’re fine, or you can try to hide away in one of the rooms and wait it out.
Neither one is ideal. Being physically near him, he’ll be able to read you like a book - which makes dinner a very dangerous concept. But if you neglect to show up at all? He’ll be even more suspect. He’ll certainly seek you out and find out the truth in the end.
So. Dinner it is.
You’ll just have to keep yourself composed, somehow. If only doing was as easy as thinking. But do you really have a choice?
No, you think.
You don’t.
As soon as he’s through the door, Astarion’s eyes are on you. They always seem to be, these days. Ever since the Ascension. His dark consort, his right hand. His, for whatever he wants. He never seems to see you like he used to, but the sting of that faded long ago. Another thing lost to the ritual.
“Hello, my treasure,” he greets.
You offer him a smile as he takes your hand, pressing a kiss to the skin. You can only hope he doesn’t notice the fear in your eyes or the way you’re trembling.
The gods must be on your side, because he’s distracted. The moment he releases you, he’s talking with a servant about something or other. You can barely keep up with the politics of the city on a normal day, much less on one with flaming lust in your stomach.
So you follow him to the table like a puppet, moving to your usual seat opposite his. It seems much closer together than usual. Everything does. He could be across the room, and you’d still feel like he was at your side, his breath at your neck. You’re almost grateful that the near-only things you can consume are blood and wine, because your trembling fingers are not fit to handle a knife.
After you’ve taken your seat, you have to put all of your attention into holding your glass. You’d try to act natural, but you can’t even remember what that feels like anymore. Does your skin look cold enough? Is your smile convincing? Is the picture you’re painting compelling, or will your imperfections give you away?
For a moment, Astarion’s attentions are focused on his papers. Then, with a sigh, he sets them aside and looks at you. He seems bored, more than anything. Not suspicious yet. “And how was your day, pet?” he asks.
Your grip tightens around your glass. “Good,” you manage to say. “I found a new book in the library.”
He raises a brow. “Did you?”
You nod, attempting to bury yourself in a sip of wine, but it doesn’t work. The more he looks at you, the more the feeling grows. Your hands are slick. Your mind feels clouded over.
“A - ah, book of poetry.” Your voice shakes as you speak, and the betrayal of it is like a dagger in your chest.
He sets down his knife and fork.
Already? you think, lightheaded and humiliated. Gods - you’d known he’d likely catch on sooner or later, but, really? Not even two minutes in? It’s pathetic.
But you aren’t going to give in yet. Astarion may have the winning card in his hand, but you’re determined to play this game for all it’s worth. So you set down the wine, fold your hands in your lap as if you aren’t struggling with keeping still, and give him your prettiest smile.
The glint in his eye grows. “Really?” he purrs, tilting his head. “I didn’t know you liked poetry.”
And as soon as he’s spoken, his voice is in your mind - words you’d thought you’d forgotten, pressing to the front of your thoughts.
It’s a poem. A gift from Cazador.
The first time you’d seen his scars.
“I…” Your voice chokes, and you swallow hard. “I don’t read it often. But I enjoy it, sometimes.”
He hums in response. His eyes are fixed on yours like a predator - watching your every move. Every blink. Every swallow. Every tremble. He’s waiting for you to break.
You don’t. Not yet.
“And you?” you ask. “How was your day?”
“Oh, you know how it is,” he muses, his hand gesturing indifferently. “The usual.”
But you don’t know how it is. He hasn’t told you a word about his work, and you’ve never invited yourself into it. He leans back in his seat, and his expression molds into something complacent as you struggle to find the right thing to say.
You decide that wine on your tongue will be much better than words. It’s rich and dark, mildly bitter, and heady. It lingers for a long moment after you’ve drunk, sloshing around your glass as you swirl it.
The end is coming. Your body is fighting you tooth and nail. Your hands are shaking, your mouth is dry, and your head is foggy. Setting the wine down shouldn’t be a difficult thing, but it feels like trying to thread a rose stem through the eye of a needle - painful and futile.
Your wrist twitches. A tiny, incomprehensible mistake. The goblet nicks the edge of the table, your grip loosens, and the next thing you know, there’s wine everywhere. Bleeding over the top of the table. Dripping into your lap. Splashed over your chest. The taste of it is still in your mouth, bitter on your tongue.
“You’ve gotten clumsy, pet,” Astarion says. He places his hands on the table, pushes to his feet, and approaches with a languid stride, amused and possessive in his gaze. You meet his eyes, determined not to break.
He grabs a clean napkin and half-heartedly dabs the wine off of you, stopping to swipe a droplet off your chest with his finger. Then he lifts it into his mouth, never looking away. “You’re trembling,” he says.
“Am I?” Your voice is breathless. “That’s strange.”
His eyes narrow. “Are you feeling alright, dearest?”
“Me?” you ask, your hands clenching into fists. “Of course I am.”
He stares at you. You stare at him. He raises a brow. You paste on your sweetest smile, just for him.
“You know,” he sighs, circling behind you, “I do hate it when you lie to me.”
The feeling in your gut is ravenous now. You’re nothing short of feverish, buried in a haze of sheer need. You need him more than you have ever needed before. You will not let yourself have him.
You play this game with him because, no matter what he says, you know he wants you to. You slot yourself in as his pawn, settling into your place, competing with him even though the game is rigged from the start; all because he wants it. He wants you to lose, and to beg for him to touch you. And, gods help you, despite this cruel, vicious thing he’s become, you still want him.
He reaches out to a loose strand of your hair, tucking it away behind your ear. “I want the truth,” he says, leaning in close. You’re shivering with desire. Every part of you wants him near. You fight the impulse to make a sound, and he steps away.
“I really am feeling fine,” you insist.
His eyes pass over you. You can feel the way they trail along your features, both analytical and skeptical. His head tilts and he smirks, and you know you’ve lost. Just like he wanted you to.
His hand comes up to cup your cheek. “Little love,” he murmurs, stroking his thumb along your jaw. His touch is warm, skimming against your skin. “You’ve gotten yourself into quite the predicament, haven't you?” The corner of his lips flick into a smile, but his eyes stay cold as ice. “I know lust when I see it.”
Then, he lets you go.
You want to beg him to come back.
“What a shame,” he muses. “I have so much work to do tonight. You’ll wait for me, won’t you, my sweet?”
You will. You don’t have any choice.
A small sound involuntarily chokes from your throat, and his eyes narrow. “Now, now,” he chides. “Be patient.”
He returns to the doorway, studying your appearance with a smug sort of satisfaction. “Oh, and darling?” he says. “Don’t you dare touch yourself.”
He pulls the door shut after him, and you stare blankly ahead.
Gods. He’s going to drag this out. You know he will - he loves to see you squirm. But to tell you that you can’t touch yourself? It’s particularly cruel.
But this is where he wants you. You’d lost the game, and this is how you’re paying for it.
The time ticks by. The feeling in your gut grows. You have to squeeze the armrests of your chair to keep them from straying. Heat flushes through every part of your body.
It’s a strange thing, being warm. It’s been months since you’ve had warm blood in your veins. You’d almost forgotten how it felt. It only makes this sensation so much more overwhelming.
It’s like the sun kissing your skin. It’s like fire, searing through your chest. It’s both pain and pleasure, mingling in your senses. More pleasure, perhaps, if you were allowed to touch yourself. You don’t dare to, not even once. Not even a little. No matter how much you want to.
When the door finally opens again, you let out a rush of air. Relief. Sheer relief. But Astarion doesn’t move toward you. He goes to the papers he’d left on the table, rummaging through them. He finds the one he wants, pauses, then glances at you.
“My, my. Look at you,” he remarks. “Gods below. You’re a mess, darling.”
It’s only then that you realize he’s not coming back yet. He’s not here to touch you.
“Astarion-”
The look he gives you silences your words. Your mouth snaps closed, and you try to resist the urge to sob.
“Patience,” he says. His tone is a warning, low and dark. “Or you’ll get nothing at all.”
The door shuts once more, and this time, a noise breaks free from your throat.
You should have just told him. You’d have lost the game all the same, but he might have taken pity on you. But you’d lied to him. You’d kept it hidden. You hadn’t begged.
His message is as clear as day. This is what you get. This is your punishment.
You’d just had to try out that spell book, hadn’t you? You couldn’t have left it alone? Now look at you. Shaking, clinging onto the chair so tightly that your fingers are beginning to go numb. You feel rabid. Whatever self-control is leashing you is beginning to slip.
Just hold on, you tell yourself. Just until he comes back.
So you wait. Your body feels like it’s on fire, but you wait.
You’ve just begun to consider touching yourself, consequences be damned, when you finally hear the blissfully familiar sound of Astarion’s voice.
“I’m here now, my dear,” he announces. “You can stop terrorizing the poor chair.”
He’s standing in front of you, looking down at you with a mix of desire and possessiveness. You have to stare at him for a good ten seconds before you realize that he’s actually there, not just a vision. That your torment will soon be over.
His words finally connect with your mind and register somewhere within the mess of need. Your hands loosen from their grip, and a soft noise escapes from your lips. From pain or want, you don’t know.
“Kneel,” he says.
Your legs tremble when they stand, as if they might finally give out. You sink to your knees, barely feeling the hard stone beneath you.
Astarion takes two fingers and places them under your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “My pet, do you want me?”
“Yes.” Your voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper.
“Tell me.”
You swallow hard. “I - I want you.”
“Louder.”
“I want you.”
His head tilts. “Good.”
He drops his fingers. You want to scream at the loss of his touch.
“Get up,” he instructs.
You can barely move, but you do it. Your knees shake. You want to grab onto him for support, but you know you shouldn’t. Not yet.
Instead, his hand wraps around your waist. “Just look at you,” he murmurs, echoing his statement from earlier. His other hand comes up to your mouth, his thumb brushing against your lips.
Then his hand on your waist trails up your back, up your neck, fisting into your hair. “And all for me.”
He pulls you close and kisses you hard. Bruising. His hand cups your cheek, his grip tightens in your hair. His lips are warm and soft and demanding, coaxing your mouth open as he walks you into the table. The back of your legs meet the edge and you pull away to sit, panting as he sets himself over you, straddling your hips.
His eyes are dark and hazy, trailing over you in a way that makes you shiver.
“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, trailing a finger along your cheek. His lips move to your jaw, trailing feather light kisses along the bone, and you tilt your head to give him full access to your neck. He hums an approval into your skin.
You barely feel it when his teeth sink in and draw blood. There’s only a faint flash of pain, a muddled sensation beneath your want. You feel his hand rest on your hip. His gentle, wet tongue, darting out to clean the wound.
If he doesn’t touch you soon, you’re sure you’ll combust.
“Astarion,” you breathe, gripping onto the back of his shirt. You know he heard you, but he keeps kissing down your throat, stopping at your collar bones to brush his lips over them. A sharp nip. An apologetic kiss to soothe the sting.
“Astarion, please,” you repeat.
“Hm?” He doesn’t bother to pull away. He simply undoes the lacing of your clothing without looking and tosses the outfit across the room.
“Touch me,” you beg.
At that, he finally stops kissing you and looks up at you, something dark and hungry simmering in his gaze. “Dearest, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he drawls, “but I am touching you.”
You’re in no mood to deal with this - not with the scorching flame inside that will not let up even for an instant. “You know what I mean,” you snap. “Please, gods. Touch me.”
But the more desperate you are, the more he pulls back from you. He gives you a look - half amused, half bored. “But I don’t know what you mean,” he says. “I can’t read your mind anymore, my sweet. Don’t you remember?”
Anger and frustration cloud your vision in a veil of red. A sharp noise chokes through your chest, and you tighten your grip on his shoulders, digging your nails into the skin. “Fuck me, Astarion. Please.”
The corners of his mouth flick into a self-satisfied smile. “You’re lucky I like you, little love,” he murmurs, easing your legs apart with his thigh, and you sigh in relief, relaxing into his touch as he returns to kissing your neck. “But you wouldn’t deny me a taste, surely?” he asks. “I want everyone in the city to hear you screaming my name.”
And then he drops to his knees.
You’re left shivering with need, so desperate that your vision seems to be clouding over. The top layer of your clothing has been removed, but you’re still in your smallclothes, and he of course takes his sweet time with you. The feel of his tongue through the fabric of your smalls, so desperately close to where you need him to be - but not there, not yet there - is all but maddening. You fix your hand into his hair and try to relax, but you’re so tightly-wound that you feel like a rope about to snap.
How the hells are you supposed to relax when the sweet friction of his mouth is pressing against your clit - when he’s on his knees for you, his grip on your thighs bruising and almost, almost perfect? You could come like this, riled up to the point of climax, but that would be too easy. He’d never let it be that easy.
Instead, he brings you to the verge of orgasm, bites at the tender flesh of your thigh, then pulls away.
“Gods,” you mutter, caught between feeling like the tiniest action will send you into waves of pleasure and simultaneously feeling like you’re going to black out. “Astarion-”
“Shh,” he says, still on his knees. “Relax, pet.”
Out of the two of you, he’s in the more vulnerable position, but you’d never know it from the way he’s practically holding you down on the top of the table - from the way his eyes are devouring you, practically daring you to protest.
You know him. The more you rebel, the less he’ll give you. So you don’t. You force yourself silent and suck in a breath or two, trying to remember the way oxygen tastes, trying to keep the dam inside you from bursting open.
A small sob breaks free, but aside from that, you’re a statue. A lustful, slightly relaxed statue. It’s all you can give, and it must be enough, because he finally pulls your smalls off of you.
They’re so wet from his tongue and from your arousal that they stick to you, and you can see the way his gaze darkens. The way he swallows, taking in a deep breath and setting them aside. He could keep you here all night, but he’d be torturing himself, too.
He starts slowly again, and with every graze of his warm fingers, with every brush of his skin against yours, your body bucks into his touch. It doesn’t matter where or how brief; it’s just the silky trailing of his fingertips over your abdomen, your body is still chasing the minimal pleasure his presence gives you. If it’s his thumb against your clit, your body still shudders the way you know he wants you to.
When his tongue finally, finally meets your clit, you let out a sharp gasp and have to physically stop yourself from following that feeling, from grinding against his mouth the way you so desperately want to. Your nails dig into the tablecloth, but you let him keep his own pace. His own agonizing, teasing pace.
One finger, slipping inside of you, finding the electrifying spot inside of you that has you moaning his name, your hand tightening in his hair and your hips bucking of their own accord. Then one becomes two. A slow, even rhythm of thrusting that slowly grows harder, faster, deeper.
He brings you right back to the edge, and this time, he lets you come.
Your body tenses. Your grip tightens even more. He groans against you, and the vibrations of it course out through your skin. The rope of tension pulls and pulls and pulls until it finally snaps, leaving you shuddering and mindlessly crying out, his name leaving your mouth like a mantra.
Just like he’d said it would.
Your consciousness seems to float away from your body - a blinding, sharp pleasure that comes to you in a pulsing, ambrosial wave. When you come down, you’re still burning. The fire wanes a little, but won’t be sated. Not that easily. In many ways, it’s just like Astarion. Running you through, filling you with need, and not letting you go until it’s done with you.
When you come down, you find yourself with wet thighs and covered in sweat, your breath pulling unnaturally from your lungs until you’ve recovered. You’re still shaking, and Astarion is still between your legs - licking at sensitive skin.
You whimper, and he finally pulls away, his pupils blown wide and an impatience to his expression. Possessiveness. Need. He rises to his feet and winds a hand in your hair, pulling your head back with a grip that borders on painful.
He doesn’t say a thing, but his gaze speaks volumes - the glittering, dark ruby of his eyes, the almost removed way he observes you, eyes trailing over your face. Studying how he’s ruined you, no doubt.
He releases his hold on you, and though you can see his erection through his trousers, his movements are slow - methodical, almost. When he speaks, his voice is low and dark.
“Come here, my sweet, little consort.”
And you do. With your still-shaking legs, you slide off the table and take a step closer, unsure how near he wants you.
“Turn around,” he instructs.
And you do.
You only register his hand on the nape of your neck when your cheek connects with something hard. The table. He’s bent you over it and is standing behind you, and the impact barely smarts in comparison to the heat that floods between your legs.
“You like it like this, don’t you?” Astarion muses, dragging a finger along your spine. “You want everyone to know who you belong to. You want me to fuck you into this table and let everyone hear how much you need me.”
And you can’t even argue with him. You can’t argue, because you know he’s right - and he knows it, too.
You swallow hard, back arching toward his hand. “Yes.”
He’s silent for a moment, tracing his hand along your back. Then he presses his thumb to your clit and you mindlessly grind into him, barely resisting the urge to beg him to just fuck you already.
Then you hear fabric shifting, and your whole body tenses in anticipation of him.
He’s not gentle, and he’s not tender. He sheathes himself into you in a single, harsh thrust that has you crying out, your hands scrabbling for something to grasp for support but finding nothing.
“Gods,” he growls, his grip settling on your hips and pressing into the skin as he sets a rough, punishing pace. His voice is breathless when he speaks. “You look so pretty for me, pet. Bent over like this. Say my name for me, won’t you?”
You can barely choke out the sound between his thrusts, but it comes out of you nonetheless. “A… A-star-ion-”
“Good,” he says, and then his pace turns brutal, every thrust sending your cheek scraping against the table. There’s pain, but you barely feel it - not against the burning pleasure of him inside you, filling you up, and not against the fire in your skin that’s building to a boiling point again.
Over and over.
His breathing is getting faster. His grip on you is ever tightening, sure to leave a number of tender bruises for the morning. He’ll kiss them, then, draw his fingers over them in admiration, but for now: he groans and grips at your hair again, and you sit there and take every inch he’s giving to you until you can barely stand it - the sweet, delectable friction of him inside you, the vulgar, wet noises that echo around the room. Evidence of how much you want him. How close you are.
“Tell - tell me you’re mine,” he says through gritted teeth.
“I’m yours.”
He thrusts even harder, and it vaguely occurs to you that you might not be able to walk tomorrow. You can feel the tell-tale signs of him getting closer - the tensing of his thighs, the panting as he approaches climax, the moans he’s letting out. He pauses mid-thrust and trembles for a moment before he slams back into you once, twice - three times.
That’s all it takes to send you over the edge with him, clenching around him, barely conscious of the table under you, barely conscious of the fact that both of you are in the dining room and almost certainly the servants are able to hear what he’s doing to you.
You can feel him seeping out of you, trickling down your thighs, and you go slack against the table, gasping and trying to remember how to breathe.
He finally releases your hair and pulls out of you, paying no mind to the way you wince.
You definitely won’t be able to walk tomorrow.
“What a good little pet you are,” he remarks, smoothing your hair away from your neck and placing a kiss to the nape. When he speaks again, his voice has gone to that pouty, condescending tone that he sometimes uses. “You wouldn’t dream of doing that to me again, would you, my treasure? Lying to me? Hiding your own pleasure from me? And at my table, nonetheless.”
You attempt an answer, but it comes out as nothing but a helpless whimper.
“What was that?” he asks.
“No,” you breathe.
“Good.”
He straightens, running a finger between your legs - no doubt studying the mess he’s made of you.
“Get up,” he says. “We need to get you cleaned up.”
You unstick yourself from the table, legs trembling, and as his gaze travels over you once more, you have a deep, sudden feeling in your gut. It’s too easy. Too easy for you. Even after all the torment you’d faced earlier, stranded and desperate in your chair, it’s not enough. He’s not done with you yet.
And if you know him at all…
It’ll be surprising if he’s finished with you before morning.
SUMMARY: After faking your death years ago, Astarion finally finds you in Waterdeep.
PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader
WORD COUNT: 5,128
WARNINGS: 18+ sexual content, fingering, orgasm denial, sex used as a manipulation tactic, biting, blood sucking, descriptions of past/current abuse, Ascendent Astarion (feel like I need to tag this just in case), a whole lot of angst.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This fic gave me so much grief. I really hope my labour translates into something good because man, if it doesn't I might fucking cry. :') Also, fic title is inspired this bop!
MASTERLIST
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You’ve never been particularly keen on parties. Favouring quite possibly anything above the stuffy insides of a ballroom packed with people, it’s a miracle that you haven’t already left Gale’s side for some air. To take even the shortest of moments to allow yourself some alone time.
Feeling the fabric of your dress uncomfortably stick to your skin, you can’t help but squirm at the thought of having to stay any later. Considering you’ve been here for a good few hours already, you’re tempted to ask Gale if maybe now’s the time to part ways.
At this point you’ve been well and truly shown off to the entire party, gawked at by countless of his old academic friends, so surely he wouldn’t mind if you up and left now, right?
Before you can think to ask, he’s already wrapping his arm around your shoulder, pulling you in for a friendly kiss to the cheek. “I really do appreciate you coming,” he tells you, drunkenly swaying as he speaks, letting out a chuckle as you hold him steady. “I would’ve been terribly embarrassed to show up at such a renowned event without a date.”
“So you’ve mentioned.” You shoot him a smug look, watching him roll his eyes and take a sip of wine, debating whether or not to take the glass from him, knowing just how much he’s had.
“I mean it, you’ve been nothing short of wonderful to me in my time of need, so thank you.”
Despite the urge to play down his thanks, to remind him of all the things he’s done for you as of late, you merely take it, offering him a quick you’re welcome in return, knowing just how persistent a drunken Gale can get. How the man hardly pauses to breathe in the midst of a conversation —his endless string of words seeming to lose you almost instantly every time.
Even now, as he begins to go on some long-winded speech about the importance of your friendship, you’re already miles away, longing to drift towards the balcony that rests just across the room, taunting you with its open air and lack of people.
“Anyways, would you care for another drink? I’m in need of one myself thanks to the hole at the bottom of my glass.” Pulling you back in, Gale lets out a joyous laugh, throwing his head back while you merely shake your head.
“I’m uh, no I’m fine Gale. You go ahead and get that drink. I think I’m going to head outside and get some air.”
All he does is give you a tight hug before he leaves, stumbling across the marble floors, bumping into various bodies that suddenly get caught up in his inebriated storm, allowing you a moment to yourself.
You let out a sigh of relief then, turning your attention to your desired spot, gathering up the skirt of your dress so that you can race to its opening, breathing in the scent of fresh air once you step past the threshold.
Somehow once you’re out there, you notice that there isn’t a body in sight. No couples having late-night trysts in the corner or other lonesome individuals stood painfully reflecting on their night. It’s just you by yourself, walking slowly towards the railing, gripping it tight as you allow your mind to settle. To shut down for just a moment after being on for so long.
It feels like forever since you’ve felt this calm. After years of endless journeys —of fighting and running and, as of late, hiding away— you feel that old sense of ease wash over you. Like the waves of Waterdeep’s coast, they gently lap at your feet, rising and falling with each breath you take, watching from afar the bustling city streets below as they begin to die out for the night.
It reminds you of home, a bit. Of the nights you used to spend wandering around Baldur’s Gate, your belly full of the cheapest ale and your mind empty of anything other than the prospect of fun. Back then, you were always full of reckless abandon, constantly getting into trouble only to talk your way out of it not long after and unfortunately, you can’t help but begin to miss it all. The life before the war. Before you were taken in the dead of night and forced into a life you never wanted to live.
Things were simpler then. You didn’t have the scars of clashing swords or the kind of memories that often shook you awake each night, covered in sweat and gasping for air. Devoid of anything truly awful, all you had was the blissful ignorance of a fool. One hellbent on solitude in a world of constant interaction.
Honestly, if it weren’t for the people you’d met along the way you’d be jealous of that life. The one where you were seemingly untouchable, your mind vacant of regret and resentment and—
Before you can continue, you shake those same feelings from your mind, forcing out a heavy breath as you try to maintain the calm. The ocean of waves of Waterdeep pooling between your toes, knowing it’s the only way you’ll move on. If you focus on the positives —if you refuse to look back even for the slightest of moments you’ll forget all about those other lives you lived. All the chapters you spent haphazardly scribbling down, trying desperately to get to this moment.
It seems impossible sometimes, remembering how much shit you had to go through to get here. Not only did you have to survive countless wars involving mind flayers and cultists, but you also had to die to get it. And not die in the metaphorical sense, either. No, you had to literally die —to off yourself in front of countless people and hope to god the Necromancer that you hired actually turned up.
It was a whole process. One that you refuse to think about as you let out a scoff and raise your hands to your head, pressing two fingers to either temple to relieve yourself of the sudden ache that hits.
“Remember what we said about thinking,” you remind yourself then, allowing your eyes to slowly roll back, savouring the alleviated pressure your fingers provide.
Repeating the mantra in your head, you rub your skin and hum aloud, standing for a few more minutes as you listen to the sounds of the bustling party behind you. How the music swells into a crescendo of excitement, various strings and woodwinds all playing in time with one another.
Alongside it, a calming voice echoes over, rising and falling with each passing note that carries through the air to your ears. At first, it’s soft and silky —comforting in a way that wills you to drop your hands and take a few steps towards the entrance of the building, watching as a beautifully freckled bard strums her lute and smiles at the crowd.
Suddenly intrigued, you move to your previous spot inside the ballroom, spotting a rather awestruck Gale who’s holding onto two glasses of red, staring with widened eyes.
“She’s rather pretty.” You grin wickedly and bump your hip against his, hearing him grunt as he blinks and glances at you.
“I’m sorry?”
Taking the glass nearest to you, you then use that same hand to motion to the bard that’s begun to erupt in an upbeat chorus, her voice lowering to a wild growl as she kicks up her feet, dancing around the stage with some of the other musicians. “The bard. Fancy a taste?”
He narrows his eyes at you, a grin of his own peeling across his face as he shakes his head. “I think a conversation would suffice. Least, for starters.”
Biting your bottom lip, you jokingly wrap your arm around his shoulders and shake, pressing your face against his cheek to make obnoxious kissing sounds that leave him laughing and shoving you off.
“Unhand me, you harlot!”
“What? Afraid she’ll see?”
He opens his mouth, almost offended, staring for a moment as you wiggle your brows and take a sip of the wine. “Excuse you, that was my drink.”
“You got yourself two drinks?” You raise your brow.
He scrunches up his face in response before subtly craning his neck towards the other side of the ballroom. “No, it’s for Astarion.”
Your stomach sinks at the mention of his name, filling you with the kind of dread you’ve only felt one other time in your life. All at once it sends you into a panic. Your chest aching and your throat tightening. Even your hands, once carefully wrapped around the vessel of liquid seemingly shifts to a close, resulting in shattering glass that pokes and prods your skin before it falls to the ground.
Crying out in surprise, Gale’s previously mischievous expression quickly fades. Replacing it, an air of worry envelopes the both of you. As he reaches for your arm, allowing his hand to carefully slide down to view your newfound injury, you try to swallow and scan the room, picking apart face after face to no avail, wondering if somehow he’s already found you. If perhaps, instead of where Gale assumes he is he’s instead directly behind you, lingering like the creature of the night he is, waiting to strike.
A shaky breath escapes you then. Peeling away from Gale’s cautious grasp, you take a minute to blink and look him up and down, noticing the growing fear in his eyes. How his lack of understanding only spurs your head to whip behind you, to find more curious eyes staring back.
“Are you alright?”
The question comes from a voice you’ve never heard before. So, instead of entertaining it you merely turn back to Gale, suddenly catching an unfortunate glimpse of pale skin and ivory hair quite a ways back.
Immediately, it strengthens the dread inside, ripping the breath from your lungs as you press a nervous hand to your neck, realizing that somehow it’s already been years since you’ve last seen him. Months and days and hours all collectively bundled together, only to be completely ruined by this one moment.
As you stand there, staring —watching as he does nothing but the same, you feel your mind yelling for you to run. To discard whatever reservations you may have left to push violently through the crowd because, at this rate, it’s the only option left. Having already tried hiding beneath the freezing hands of Death himself, it’s obvious you’ve exhausted all other options. No matter what you do —what you say— nothing will be deemed feasible enough to grant you the escape you so foolishly desire. You’re too vulnerable now, standing there in your ballroom gown, bleeding from your injured hand, trying not to have a full-blown panic attack as he takes that first stride forward.
Matching his step, you feel your body waver backwards, everything suddenly swirling across your vision as Gale reaches out to grab your arm, asking if you’re okay.
“I’m aware the breakup wasn’t amicable but maybe if you two just talk?” he suggests, his voice bouncing off your ears like a war drum, reminding you that Sufferance is coming. And that he’s dressed in his fanciest suit to mark the occasion, practically gliding through the room with knitted brows and frowning lips, pushing aside everybody who gets in his way.
“Gale, we —I need to go.”
Suddenly your palm, still filled with glass pushes against his robes, staining the fabric as your blood begins to drip, reminding you of his hunger —of the way he used to feed. How he took and took, ignoring your starvation for something other than submission. Refusing to acknowledge the withering of your soul each day you spent wrapped around his pretty little fingers.
As he shoves a woman to the ground, you can feel the emptiness within your stomach start to grow at the memory. The shuddering of your limbs driving Gale to look behind him, noticing the wild look in Astarion’s eyes as the crowd begins to part in fear, watching as he bares his teeth.
It’s a look that makes you instantly flinch. Closing your eyes, your shoulders rise to touch your ears in anticipation. Waiting for the moment to strike, you all but freeze in place, holding your breath as the steps of his boots draw near, reverberating through the air until they suddenly stop.
In fact, everything stops. The sound of him —the sound of the party. All of it falls onto deaf ears, creating a new fear that has you so terrified you merely stand in place until you eventually hear the clapping sound of a hand on someone’s back, followed by the swirling of your head again, forcing your eyes to jolt open.
“Oh, hello darling, didn’t see you there.”
Once again trying to breathe, you glance between the two men in confusion, watching as they share a lengthy embrace before Astarion’s pushing himself onto you. Gentler than expected, his arms slowly wrap around your shoulders as he does it, pulling you to his chest in a way that feels both frightening and familiar. A mix of home and hell encased around your nervous frame as he lowers his head to yours.
In response, you reluctantly raise your hands and place them on his back, applying a bit of pressure at the centre as you mutter out a muddled hi, looking to see that the commotion he so violently caused before seems to have evaporated into thin air.
“You’re awfully far from home, aren’t you?” His voice is barely above a whisper, ghosting against the shell of your ear as you force out a shaky breath.
“So are you.”
“I wonder why that is.”
You hum in response. Using the short moment of silence that’s granted to stare. To watch the way he looks you up and down, the edges of his lips pulling into a smirk of amusement.
It’s obvious then that he’s thinking of playing tricks. Of taunting and teasing —using all the usual charming tactics before he decides it’s worth it to raise a little hell.
Because of this, you merely swallow hard and spare Gale a glance, watching him magic away the bloodstain on his robes before looking back towards the stage.
“How did you find me?”
Astarion reaches for your chin. Taking hold of it with his thumb and forefinger, he then waits patiently for you to share his gaze, looking your face up and down until he can finally see the fear in your eyes. “Does it really matter?”
It does, but you know he won’t tell you so you move on to another question. “Why are you here then?”
Immediately he scoffs, the smirk on his face falling for a split second. “Do you really have to ask?” he says, letting his thumb run across the length of your bottom lip. “Obviously, I’ve come to enjoy a spot of red with old friends.”
“Hm.”
“Among other things, of course.”
“Like?”
“Reclaiming my dead consort, for one.”
“And two?”
He shrugs his shoulders as he taps your chin. “Not sure. Depends on how the night goes.”
You’re not sure what to say then. Growing increasingly lost to the feeling of his hands and voice —remembering all the moments shared when it was just him and you and the power imbalance of ascension hadn’t yet existed— all you can do is pull him in a bit tighter.
Knowing that Gale is probably growing more curious by the second, you suddenly feel a sense of protection. An urge to get rid of him so that he’s no longer at risk.
Well aware of the power Astarion now holds within his grasp, you know it’s hardly worth it to try and get him involved anyway, especially considering how much alcohol he’s consumed. The poor man couldn’t be helpful even if he tried, so instead of asking you merely hold on. Tightening your grip as the other parts of you desperately try to rationalize just how much you’ve missed this. How even after years spent fleeing his hold —years of constant moving and hiding and watching your back for signs of his presence— his touch is still the only thing that makes you feel safe.
Which is a fact that makes you sick to your stomach, discovering that, regardless of being able to name a million reasons why you should be fleeing rather than falling, suddenly you’re able to name just as much for why you’d stay. Why you’d more than willingly follow his footsteps if he asked.
And not because you fear him, no. Despite having just been found out —despite that growing uncertainty of how you’ll inevitably be taken back— it’s as if your mind resets on impact. As he holds you close, speaking in obvious threats to your safety if you don’t listen, you can feel the defiance in you quickly dwindle. Evaporating into thin air as he leans away to give Gale an overly friendly smack to the shoulder.
“Gale, darling, you wouldn’t mind giving us a bit of privacy would you? Seems we have much to discuss.”
The hold he has on you tightens as he speaks, reminding you that such a conversation is anything but optional as Gale almost immediately buggers off, drunkenly mumbling something about drinks and fun before Astarion’s whisking you away.
Leading you through a crowd of bodies, you quickly find your hand gripping his shoulder absentmindedly. All splayed out, your fingers nervously caress the fabric of his doublet, feeling the texture shift beneath your skin, reminding you that he’s here. That’s he’s present and real and not just some illusion conjured up to scare you into coming back.
“Your entrance back there was…”
You’re not sure what to say anymore. Not with the underlying rage you can feel radiating off of him. Given the fact that it’s been so long, you’ve almost forgotten how to please him. To make his mind ease into those old spaces of pity where sometimes he’d grant you reprieve amongst the punishment.
Knowing this, he looks at you with feigned innocence, taunting you with his still raised lip as though he’s having fun despite slowly inching towards the blowout. “Did you like it? I figured, it’s been so long since I’ve last toyed with that little mind of yours, best to give it a proper show.”
He wipes his thumb across your forehead and watches you frown; your head suddenly darting back only to be ripped forward when that same hand tightens around your throat.
All at once the action leaves you gasping for air. As his thumb presses down on the centre of your neck, applying just enough pressure to pull from you a nervous wheeze as the two of you stop, he can’t help but lower his face to yours.
“I’d consider yourself lucky that the temperament I showed back there was merely an illusion,” he tells you, pressing his forehead to yours.
Swallowing to no avail, you feel the lump in your throat become pressurized by the growing frustrations in his hand. Prompting you to panic, another airless sound emits from your lips as your eyes begin to dart around, looking at all the curious eyes that seemingly look away the second you make contact.
You realize then that nobody cares. Whether it’s due to the intimidating presence he exudes or the potential word of mouth of his ascendance circulating the room, you don’t care, knowing it doesn’t really matter anyway. He’s untouchable regardless. A force so unmovable that all you can do is pray that he’s merciless.
As he grips your throat amongst a sea of avoidant faces, unwavering in his efforts to patronize your past behaviours, you know then that this marks the end of your freedom. That from this moment on his control over you has been reenacted without discussion.
“Now, are we going to obey and have a nice evening or are we going to do something we might regret?”
Looking back at him, all you can do is nod, feeling that alleviation slowly come. Granting you the chance to breathe again, you cough quietly and reach for your throat, rubbing the pain away as you watch his previously aggressive demeanour fall into amusement, once again stringing you along.
At which point you effectively zone out. Still feeling his hand flush against the small of your back, it’s as if suddenly your mind becomes null, avoiding all thoughts as he leads you through the main entry of the ballroom, turning down a seemingly endless stream of corridors until you find yourself face to face with an ornate door.
Once there, he peels away from your frame and begins to pick the lock, wickedly grinning at you once that familiar click rings out, reminding you of the old him. Of how he was before the ritual, all doe-eyed and excited to experience the world and all its gifts.
It makes your lip pull between your teeth nervously, seeing him unbend the length of his back to look at you. To smirk in a way that feels so real and him that you almost forget that he’s changed. That, instead of picking the lock to loot the room and make charming little jokes at your expense, he’s doing it so he can get you alone. So that he can do unspeakable things the old Astarion would never think to do.
“Shall we?”
His voice rings out like a request even though you know deep down it’s a command, secretly telling you to hurry up. So, doing just that, you brush past him without so much as a glance, taking in the endless wall of books that greets you as you enter, opening your mouth in slight awe until the door closes behind you.
Turning back, you’re then given all but a second before he’s on you. Grabbing you with such violent desperation, a hand snakes around your waist, claiming you like he used to do when you were still devoted to being his. When this idea of free will was nothing more than a passing thought that barely grazed the surface.
Back when he was still yours.
Immediately, the familiarity of it wreaks havoc on your chest. Your heart, once filled with longing and fear now radiates nothing but need. Demanding that old sensation of flesh brushing against flesh as his other hand takes hold of the base of your neck.
The second you feel it, all thoughts are lost. Every previous reservation you once had melting into nothing against the hot feeling of your mouth pushing against his, prying open both lips to taste his tongue. To remind yourself of what it felt like to be wanted in the simplest sense.
Deepening the kiss, he moans and somehow pulls you closer, forcing your chests together as he maneuvers you backwards, stumbling over a raised edge of a rug before practically tossing you onto the floor.
“Years,” he groans then, pulling away to stare down at you with knitted brows and swollen lips, distracting you with that pretty face as he begins to rip the bodice of your dress. “I’ve spent years without this flesh —without this blood.”
His fingers pry at the fabric, peeling back the only layer you have to hide behind until you’re left exposed from the waist up, anxiously breathing at the sight of his hunger.
A sight that leaves you helpless beneath his grasp as he quickly leans forward, palming one breast while holding your face with the other. Beneath him, all you’re able to do is take each touch as it comes, savouring the uncharacteristic softness as his thumb brushes against your nipple, teasing it with gentle swipes as he goes in for another kiss.
Similar to his hands, there’s a strange feeling that comes along with it. As he nibbles your bottom lip, choosing to give you control, you know that something’s off. That instead of displaying the softest version of him you’ve felt in years, he should be punishing you with reckless brutality. Taking what’s rightfully his without so much as a thought.
Because of this, you reluctantly pull away, gasping for air as he hovers above you, still stroking your chest and face.
“Why are you doing this?”
Normally, such a question would result in some sort of punishment. A night of solitary confinement. Perhaps the silent treatment for up to a week.
Back before you realized just how fucked up everything had gotten he used to isolate you for things as simple as this. Forcing everyone around to ignore your every waking move, he found that loneliness was the key to your obedience. The only way to control whatever reckless thoughts entered your mind.
So, it’s surprising when he answers —when he lowers his mouth to give your lips one final kiss before flashing that smirk. “What do you mean?”
You raise your brow and move to sit up, leaning against your elbows as your face contorts in confusion. “Why are you acting like him?”
“You mean me?”
You open your mouth to respond —to fight against his words, knowing now more than ever that you should. Considering the door’s already open for conversation, you might as well get all your thoughts out while you’re able. Because after this it’s apparent, you’ll be stuck all over again, wasting away at the foot of a God who’s anything but forgiving.
“You aren’t punishing me.”
“I’m not.”
“Why?”
His hand explores your face, swiping across skin that hasn’t felt a single touch since your departure. “There’s always time for punishment —for penance,” he tells you, tracing your features with featherlight strokes that have you begging for more as you push yourself upward. “Now that I have you again, there’s far more important things I want before I subject you to what you deserve.”
“Which is?”
He pauses for a while, continuing his ministrations in a way that has you forgetting why you left in the first place. Why, instead of subjecting yourself to the torment of his hand to feel the grace that often coincides, you decided to give it all up.
“I haven’t quite decided yet.”
It’s a simple statement, yet it holds far too much weight against your ears. As he speaks, your heart flutters in your chest nervously, reminding you that this thing between you is nothing more than an imbalance. A tipping scale so unevenly distributed that you’ve lost all hope for rebalance.
Because of this, you don’t fight him when he inevitably leans forward. Nor when he presses a slightly rougher kiss to your lips, biting down with a newfound vigour that splits your lip in half. Feeling the blood pool out, you hardly react when Astarion’s lips begin to suckle the wound, lapping up whatever spills through as he rips away the rest of your clothes, tossing it all aside.
Suddenly cold, you find your arms rising to hold him all over again. Wanting to feel the fabric of his clothes pressing against your bare skin, you grip him tight and groan, relishing in this moment. Enjoying the familiarity of it as something warm blooms across your aching core, fuelling the need for your hips to slightly buck up, making him laugh.
Light and airy, the sound filters through your mouth like smoke, taking hold of your lungs in a way that leaves you addicted. Wanting to chase that past feeling, your hands swiftly lower to his waist, your fingers tucking themselves under his clothes to touch the texture of his scar —to feel the old him amongst all the new.
Realizing this, his movements become suddenly erratic. Forcing himself up with a grin, he then begins to quickly trail down your body, pressing his mouth to every exposed bit within his sightline, making sure to glance up at your heavy eyes and parted lips along the way.
“Mm, still as desperate as ever, my little consort,” he tuts.
Between the kisses he places to your freshly bruised flesh, he releases another laugh that lingers in your mind, further reminding you of him. Of the man you fell in love with. Of the man who swiftly slips between your thighs with little notice, raising the backs to rest against his shoulders.
A sound of shock escapes your lips at the new position, craning your neck to watch him latch onto your inner thigh, suckling the plush through such a guttural moan that it forces your jaw to drop.
“Fucking hell,” you mumble then, prompting his lips to curl into a grin before he’s biting your thigh, forcing his teeth through the tender flesh before you can even think to object.
It feels better than you remember. Almost like a hot flash of pleasure before that familiar coldness kicks in, numbing the space that he suckles with haste. As his lips hollow out to drink whatever he can get, you feel his hand slip against your entrance, knuckles grazing the outer folds of your sex just right.
Bucking your hips again, you feel his movements become one. Each time his tongue licks up, his fingers raise to the top of your cunt, flowing back down in such delicious unison you’re already ready to submit. To surrender yourself to whatever pleasures might await through the pain of your punishment.
So much so that you’re already begging for it. Through gasps that barely hit his ears, your voice whines for more. For more pressure or movement or frankly, whatever the hell he’s willing to give despite how undeserving you are.
“Please, Astarion.”
The moment he hears that little please he’s pulling away, grinning at you with teeth and tongue all covered in your blood.
“I’m sorry, you want me to please you?”
He gently pushes two fingers into your entrance, curling the ends ever so slightly while keeping them still, watching as you press your lips together, unable to speak.
“To pleasure you?”
Slowly, he angles his head to suck your thigh again, dragging a fresh wave of blood through his hungry lips before shifting towards your cunt and licking a tentative strip directly above his fingers.
“To taste you, perhaps?”
His voice is low, droning on in that teasing way that has you looking down annoyed, taking in the way he goes back and forth, debating whether or not to relent. To give in to the indulgence, watching you squirm beneath him. Forcing you to stir in your own prolonged pleasure until he all but sits back up, digging his fingers into the holes in your thigh, telling you you’ll get what you deserve once you’ve come back home.
