Chapter Text
A raindrop, fat and cold, plops across your forehead- splattering into your eye and across your cheeks. And then another.
You crane your neck upwards, squinting at the darkened sky where the stars and moon have been blotted out. Lightning arcs, born leaping from behind billowing clouds just to fade in the bowels of another. Thunder cracks as another bolt illuminates the gnarled and reaching tree branches, flashing across the grass where you sit before shaking the earth with the angry rumble.
And then the dam breaks.
Swollen raindrops hammer across the forest canopy, a sheet of water rolling towards where you sit by the fire. The flames hiss and crack with the downpour, black smoke billowing in protest, and you curse loudly. Your hair is already dampening once more- as are your remaining clothes.
“Oh, for fucks-” You yell before biting your tongue, remembering your sleeping companions, and you shove your arms over your head in an attempt to shield yourself from some of the rain. You glance at the pitiful shape of your tent in the quickly dying firelight, and then look to Astarion’s- your mind already made up. You groan, slogging through the rivulets of rainwater already forming on the forest floor, your feet carrying you closer to his tent with every regrettable step.
You’re soaked again, rain streaming through your hair and down your face and neck, your trousers sticking to your legs, but you still hesitate a moment under the small awning over the entrance. A part of you does not want to give him this, the satisfaction of being right. Another part of you doesn’t care, already resigned to your choice, knowing that it was made hours ago in that room as you were pressed against a stone table.
This means nothing. Absolutely nothing.
The flap rustles and a pale arm emerges, the hand wrapping around your upper arm and dragging you- yelping- from the chill of the storm into the warm yellow glow of the inside of Astarion’s tent. Somewhere- you realize- you have never actually been before.
It smells like him. Vaguely herbal, masculine and sweet, wrapped tight around a note of something that might be decay. Earthen but inoffensive. You breathe in and for a second you forget that you are trying to be mad at him.
He’s watching you, one eyebrow raised, his lip caught on a fang. Looking tired and hunched and utterly devastating.
You look past him, peering around the small space. There’s a stack of leatherbound books in the corner, two candles sitting atop and dripping yellowed beeswax onto the worn covers. A small woven mat is laid out on the other side of the tent, furs and pillows strewn near the head and a ratty blanket heaped nearby. His pack and several other bags are propped against the tent wall, along with a small mirror and the drow’s pilfered armor. A soft looking white cotton blouse is folding neatly and draped over the pauldron. His space is less…lavish than you had expected. Surprisingly sparse, simple, humble even.
He clears his throat and you turn your attention back to him, the candlelight flickering over his features. He still looks so ashen, almost sickly. You wonder how long he can go without feeding, but you know you don’t want to truly find out. You feel guilt even now for allowing him to let his condition worsen to this point.
“I- um…hello,” You stutter, blinking up at him, “You…you left your tent open.”
“I did,” he replies, voice low, his arms coming up once more to cross over his chest, the gauzy fabric of his sleeves rustling where they’ve been rolled up around his forearms. Forearms you have to try very hard not to linger on.
Rain hammers relentlessly off of the sloped roof of his tent, forcing you to to lean in to hear him. You frown, nose mere inches away from his unmoving chest.
Your own heaves with anxiety, your skin bare and chilled, glistening with cold rainwater. Your hair sticks to your cheeks and shoulders, and you shiver a bit, embarrassed.
What are you even doing here?
You didn’t have a plan for after you got into the tent…you hadn't actually thought you would make it that far.
“You’re angry with me,” You state dumbly, immediately wincing. A childish accusation.
You frown harder, raising your arms over your breasts and clasping your hands beneath your chin- an attempt to cover yourself and conserve some warmth, though you’re sure the move only succeeded in exaggerating how whiny you sound.
“You’re always angry with me,” Astarion counters, taking a half step back and turning to the back of the tent where the armor and bags are stacked, “Am I not allowed this instance?”
“I just…don’t like it,” You grumble, your face crumpling, “And I am not!” You lower your hands a bit, tilting your head to follow him as he bends down to scoop up the folded blouse, groaning slightly as he straightens.
“No? You’re angry with me right now,” He spins, a white curl fluttering handsomely across his forehead, eyes narrowed down at you, “You can’t lie to save your life.”
You open your mouth to argue but snap it shut again almost immediately, words refusing to conjure forth. He’s right, why is he always right? You’ve been angry since the nautiloid zapped you up out of the outskirts of Rivington and plopped you into the middle of nowhere Faerun with a little hitchhiking monster in your head. In all fairness, you were angry even before that, ever since the incident with your grove. You just hadn’t really…realized it. Astarion just happened to be the perfect storm of annoying and enticing to make him the target of all your long-repressed emotional fallout.
He pushes all the wrong buttons in just the right ways, and you can’t make sense of it.
And so confusion gives way to anger. Teeth grinding, confounding, irresistible, horny anger.
Astarion holds out the shirt, a weary expression settling over his features as you continue to flounder for a response, “Here. Put this on before you catch your death.”
You tent your eyebrows, eyeing the blouse suspiciously before reaching out to lift the garment from his hands, accepting it with a resigned huff. The fabric is cotton, soft and well-worn and smelling distinctly of him. You swallow hard, the sound of the rain filling the silence between you.
“You’re giving me a shirt?” You finally ask, raising an eyebrow at the soft, creamy fabric and then up at him.
“You can’t very well run around in that ,” He counters, gesturing to your bra, still soaked through- the thin fabric doing little to conceal you, “And I assume you will get cold without proper attire…”
You frown again, hung up on his first sentence, “Why not? Lae’zel does.”
“Lae’zel doesn’t have a wizard, a druid, and the Blade of Frontiers ogling after her every move,” He sneers, the corner of his mouth raising in an irritated snarl.
“They don’t ogle!” You gasp, raising your chin, a blush creeping down your neck, “And what does it matter if they are?”
“It-ugh,“ Astarion stutters, eyes going wide and a flash of frustration crossing his face as he stumbles over his speech, “For fucks sake just put on the bloody shirt, Fieldmouse.”
Confused at his reaction you wrinkle your nose and face away from the vampire, your fingers loosening the lacing of the shirt to slip it over your head. You prepare to throw it over yourself as you fiddle with the fabric a bit, your hands slowing as you bite your cheek and stare unfocused at the tent wall in front of you. You feel him watching you- his gaze scanning over the smooth skin of your back and shoulders. You exhale, your breath shaking, and then it’s there- however faint it may be. A hollow aching in your gut, a shredding of claws against the empty cavern of your belly. Astarion has not fed in days- the hunger so potent it leeches through the seams of his iron-clad mind. You have to look for it, but it is there. It’s why you stand here, why you crossed the threshold into his territory in the first place.
You wet your lips, your mouth suddenly feeling very dry, and curl your fingers into fists to conceal the shake.
“Astarion?” You turn your head slightly until he is in your peripheral, his gaze raking over you- eyes dark. He doesn’t respond, instead taking a step closer, his chest almost touching your shoulder.
You breathe out, your neck stretching more to look up into his face as you prepare what you’re going to say next. You don’t so much look at him as you do past him, your embarrassment not allowing you to witness his reaction.
“It would be a shame to get blood on this the first time I wear it.” Your voice is quiet, timid.
“You don’t seem to be bleeding,” His head dips slightly.
“No…” you pause to take a shaky breath, “Not yet…”
He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t breathe- just continues to drill into you with narrowed eyes and a stony expression.
“I meant what I said earlier, about wanting you to feed. I do want you to. Um… now. If you want to,” Your voice wavers and you feel discomfort flood through you- though you aren’t exactly sure why. Perhaps preparation for the sting of rejection. Or the realization that you need this just as much as he does. You feel pitiful, begging for proximity under the excuse of aid. Your hands squeeze the shirt in front of you, twisting the wad of fabric nervously.
“Hm,” He makes a noise deep in his throat and a cool finger traces a featherlight line over the small pink scars already dotting your neck. Goosebumps raise in response, this time having nothing to do with the cold.
“I was told not to leave another mark on that throat of yours.”
The finger trails down, over your shoulder blade.
“Last I checked, it was my neck- and I can do with it as I damn well please,” You grumble, remembering the way Wyll had warned Astarion off of you. But you remembered the vampire's response just as clearly. It had sent shivers through you just the same then as the memory of it did now.
“Oh, I’m certain of that,” You have to strain to hear his voice over the rumble of thunder, even as his mouth hovers by your ear, “Is that the only reason why you came to my tent tonight? To offer me dinner yet again?”
He pushes a couple damp strands of hair behind your ear, leaving your neck fully exposed, “Or are you here so that I can make good on my promise?”
His nose brushes against the sensitive pointed shell of your ear and your breath hitches, a shiver wracking through you and pleasure squirming in your belly. Your knees buckle a bit against your will. You cover the squeak you accidentally let out with a hasty cough.
“Hadn’t given that much thought,” You grit out, inwardly cursing at the way your body reacts so quickly to his words- his touch, “Just need you to eat. You’re not much use to us starving.”
He doesn’t react to the jab, instead allowing the points of his teeth to scrape gently over the tip of your ear, following the curve down to the skin under your jaw. Your eyes flutter closed and your knuckles crack with how tight you are gripping the shirt.
“You’re a bad liar,” He whispers.
You open your mouth to snark something right back but the words die on your tongue as he moves, his right hand coming up to cradle your jaw, the left landing on your left hip before sliding around your waist to anchor you in place against him. You lean into his chest, the coolness of his body pressing into your bare skin, your damp hair and bra leeching into his shirt. You don’t even try to conceal your sigh, the huff of relief as his lips settle over your pulse and you melt in his hands. You’ve been craving this, yearning for it. The very first time was like a hit of silkroot to your system and you want to chase that high again. The intoxication of his proximity and his hands on your skin, the melding of your blood into his and the euphoria that follows.
How wildly the pendulum swings from hate to lust. Anger and irritation to soft sighs and shy glances.
Time seems to slow, the beating of rain against the canvas tent the only indication otherwise. Neither of you move- you for fear that he may decide to end this before it starts. Your blood pulses beneath his lips and you are hyper-aware of your heartbeat…three, seven, twelve go by and still he makes no move to bite. His fingers twitch against the soft skin of your stomach, his thumb slowly swiping across the curve of your jawline.
“Astari-” you breathe, cracking open your eyes, the candlelight sending gold halos across your vision.
His nose brushes across your skin as he inhales softly, seemingly in no rush- a different being entirely from the bloodstarved vampire in the temple.
“What happened to you?” His lips move against you, “Before?”
“I…can’t wildsh-”
“No.”
You stare a the tent wall, unsure how to respond.
“Loviatar does not manifest herself to just anyone.”
You squirm, restless and uncomfortable with where the line of questioning seems to be going, “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You do,” His tone is almost gentle, “And the drow-”
“Are you going to drink or not?” You hiss, jerking your head to the side slightly. You don’t want to talk about this now, regardless of what he thinks he saw or knows.
“Hm. Don’t be a brat. You’ll tell me eventually. You can tell me.”
A flash of irritation and you bare your teeth, “I thought you wanted my blood. I guess I was wrong.”
“Oh, I do want it. But, patience is a virtue, darling.”
You feel a flare of heat, both from his teasing and your growing frustration.
“Patience? That’s rich coming from you. Since when have you ever been patient?” You snap, cutting your eyes at him.
He leans closer somehow, filling the remaining gaps between you, “Since meeting you, actually. You like to play hard to get,” He murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips, “But you’re bound to break eventually.”
He seems to have forgotten his inquiry about the drow and the temple. Mercifully.
Instead, choosing to torture you with whatever this ploy is.
“I said I wasn’t interested, remember?” You snap again at his presumptuousness, “I told you, a leech is the last thing I need betw-”
“I remember,” he purrs, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin and you have to press your lips together to stifle the sigh that tries to escape, “I remember everything . Your little shakes of excitement… the way your cheeks flushed and your scent changed.You betray yourself, no matter how hard you may try to deny it.”
And you do deny it. You want to deny it , you want to laugh in his pretty face and stomp on all of those assumptions he keeps throwing at you, prove that you hate him and nothing more.
It would be a lie.
And, as he said before, you are a terrible liar.
The truth is you enjoyed it, what happened in the temple. You replayed it over and over again in your head the last few hours, your body tingling at the memory of his hips pressed tight against yours. You want him to do it again. You want him to make good on his promise and show you exactly what he thinks you need.
Fuck him. Good and bad.
“Ask me nicely,” he whispers, nipping at your jawline.
Before you can respond you’re being lifted off your feet and heaved backwards, the arm around your middle holding you tight as Astarion turns to deposit you onto the woven mat in the corner- plush pillows cushioning your head and upper body, the shirt in your hands dropped and forgotten. He hovers over you, one knee planted between your legs, his left hand gripping your hip and his right splayed across your ribcage just beneath the edge of your bra.
You gasp, surprised at the sudden change in position, your breath coming in short bursts. Your body is nothing more than a giant knot, every muscle tensed, waiting for the vampire's next move. You stretch your torso a bit, trying to release some of the tension and feeling much too hot as he sinks down over you, nosing once more at your neck. Your chest grazes his and his lips drag across your throat.
You groan, your eyes closing as his fingers squeeze your side and his scent envelops you, herbal and spicy and lovely.
“Stop fucking around and just bite me already, asshole,” you hiss, knowing you sound desperate but not really caring at this point.
He lifts his head a bit, eyes darkening, his hand sliding up the bare skin of your stomach to slip beneath the hem of your bra. Cold fingers brush against the underside of your breast and you gasp at the sensation, the sound morphing into a whine.
“Ah, ah,” he tuts, gently pulling at the thin fabric, “What did I say about being a brat?”
He tugs at your bra, slowly at first as if giving you a moment to protest, before lifting it- the thin fabric yielding easily and the swell of your chest exposed in the golden glow of the candles, “There are other things that interest me at the moment.”
His eyes stay trained on your own, flicking back and forth, and you feel your skin prickle with your vulnerability. The way he’s looking at you makes you feel far too overexposed, like he sees everything you’ve ever tried to hide.
His hand brushes against your nipple, cool and firm, and you feel the skin there tighten at his touch. He cups your breast in his hand, leaning forward to pepper light kisses under your jaw and then he slowly, agonizingly, makes his way down- his mouth exploring your throat, your neck, the sharp angle of your collarbone. You don’t dare to move, to make a sound, to let any emotion cross your face.
His head lifts, his gaze finding you once more.
You can’t help but to feel anything but conflicted.
You want this. You want him. This is what you have silently been pining for since you met him. And still some part of you pulls back. How can it be real? How can he truly see you the same way you see him? You have never been touched like this before, looked at like this before. Loviatar’s words whisper back to you.
“ You are worthless. What would someone like him want with someone like you?”
What does he want?
He doesn’t have to do this.
He pauses. His claret eyes are clouded, soft and unfocused, and he flickers over your face a moment before shaking his head and finally settling on your breasts.
An appreciative noise comes from somewhere low in his thoat, his hand coming up to knead gently at the soft flesh, and then his head dips and his mouth follows the curve of your breast, his lips parted and cool against you. You suck in a breath when he closes over the peak of your nipple. Goosebumps raise across your chest and you shiver inadvertently, your hands digging into the pillows behind you.
Your mind goes blank.
Pleasure arcs through you, fluttering and ticklish as his tongue flicks the pink bud. His body slides further down, relaxing and pressing against your own- his weight anchoring you in place as he runs his left hand down your side to grasp your thigh, the right still roaming over the planes of your ribcage and chest. He gently pulls at your leg, wordlessly asking you to relax and widen your stance so that he can fully sink between your spread thighs. You relent, feeling the weight of him on your stomach and pelvis, the cool pressure of his fingers on your upper thigh.
His teeth graze your skin and you nearly keen at the drag of his fang against you, so soft and intentional in contrast to the relentless blaze between your legs- but you somehow manage to swallow it down and remain quiet.
He smiles up at you, his eyelids low, and hooks a finger under your bra- now bunched up under your arms, “Raise your arms, darling.”
You wordlessly obey, your mind feeling slow and muddled, unable to think straight. If you were thinking straight you would have put an end to this ages ago. You would have stomped out of his tent the minute his mouth touched your skin, throwing some scathing insult behind you as you went…right?
He pulls your bra over your head, tossing it to the side before returning to press cool kisses across your chest once more. Pleasure ripples through your core as he trails lower and lower, his mouth burning cold against the heat of your skin.
No. You are thinking straight- and the only thing you are certain of is how fucking good this feels.
You want more.
You arch your back, rolling your pelvis into him in an attempt to relieve the pressure- the painful tensing and coiling of muscles as you clench in on yourself- but he’s too tight against you, too heavy to provide any movement or relief. His head drops to mouth softly at the bottom of your sternum between your breasts, and you hold your breath in anticipation of his inevitable descent downward. But he makes no such move.
He licks a long wet stripe up the length of your chest before surging upward to hover again over you, sitting up on his knees until he’s looking down at you- half naked, pink cheeked, and panting. You find yourself wiggling impatiently. He’s got you wound tighter than a lute string, practically putty in his hands, and he’s taking his sweet time teasing you. He could have you right here, right now if he wished- use you and leave you sore the next day, the way that he said. But he’s got you right where he wants you and he’s just… looking at you. Dragging it out and making you squirm.
You frown, feeling sweat beading on your already damp hairline, and glare up at the vampire.
Oh, that was a mistake. Stupid, stupid mistake.
He's gazing down at you, his eyes dark and sultry, a half smile quirking at his lips. Those full, perfect, pink lips. The tips of his fangs peek out and you part your own lips at the sight, the sudden urge to kiss him overwhelming. His usually perfect silver waves are slightly messy, flopping over his forehead and glowing in the candle light, making him look younger, less burdened, maybe. Beautiful. His hands slide down your thighs to your knees before coming up again to rest at your hips, his thumbs swiping idly at your waistband.
“Mm. There’s that look,” He tilts his head, his voice quiet and rumbling in his chest, his usual pomp and bravado nowhere to be found, “The one that makes it seem like you want to bite off my head. You look at me like that quite often you know.”
“You piss me off quite ofte- ahh ,” You clip off the end of your sentence with a sharp intake of breath as his thumb expertly pops the ties of your pants, loosening them in one motion- the other hand sliding the waistband down over the curves of your hips. He guides your legs together, resting your calves against his shoulder, effectively raising your butt off the ground and giving him the space to peel off the damp pants.
You don’t protest, to your surprise. You just watch, allowing him to maneuver you how he needs, letting your eyes wash over his face as he purses his lips in concentration, tugging the fabric over the heels of your feet. Your breath is uneven with the swirling thoughts of what may come next, fingers mindlessly curling in the fabrics of his bedroll. You are almost fully exposed now, goosebumps permanently raised despite the pleasant air in the tent, the wind and rain unable to cut through the canvas.
Astarion tosses your pants behind him and they hit the side of the tent with a thump , and then he’s gripping your thighs again, fingertips warmer with the prolonged contact. Your legs are parted and eased around him once more, and he's grinning- crooked and smug and one fang peeking out at you. Your leg twitches in anticipation, your entire body shaking slightly with your anxiety.
You’ve never been in… this particular situation before. You don’t know what you are expected to do, to say, where to put your hands. Your time in the grove was not spent pining over crushes or handsome classmates, nor did they ever seem to show interest in you. You had been gawky and awkward, and far too wrapped up in other things for romance. You had not been beautiful in your youth, never the object of anyone’s desires.
It had never upset you, at the time. You felt no need for such things, felt no loss from affections never given. Besides, you had her . Why worry about sex or lust when you are content without?
You had heard stories from her and your other classmates, about the things they did under the moonlight. Your grove did not shame these things but rather celebrated them. Still, you had just never… found the chance to engage. Or the want.
So this… this is new. All of it.
These feelings.
The elf in front of you had awoken something in you that you did not know was there.
Desire.
Should you close your eyes?
You squeeze them shut, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth, and Astarion’s hand slides up, settling his fingers in the crook of your thigh between your hip bones and the hinge of your leg, and his thumb slips just barely under the seam of your panties.
Your entire body jolts, numb tension pulsing in your core, so close to where his thumb just breaches the borders of your underwear, and you clamp your mouth together. Astarion moves forward, slowly, angling his body over yours again- his right hand remaining firmly planted while his left arm holds his weight by your side. You can feel him, hovering over you.
A small chuckle hums from above, his self-assured voice blanketing you in velvet, “It takes so little to draw a reaction from you, little mouse. I hardly have to try at all.”
He punctuates this by swiping his thumb, light as a feather, over the front of your underwear, earning a sharp hiss of air from you as you jump at the touch. The sensation dances over your nerve endings, hot and cold and far too good.
You open your eyes slowly and almost moan from the sight of him alone. He’s watching you intently, eyes flickering over your skin as he savors the way your body reacts to him. His smirk grows as he lingers over you, and you feel the heat of his gaze, intense enough to make the skin on the back of your neck prickle.
You struggle with your remaining composure but it’s a losing battle and you scold yourself for stepping foot over the threshold of his tent- despite the rain and the wind and how sinful it feels to finally have him pressed against you again. Your already sore muscles are drawn so tight you fear they may snap and the worst part of it is that he is doing it on purpose. Drawing this out and making you squirm simply because it amuses him.
“I could make you beg for it, you know,” He drawls, his voice a teasing lilt, confirming your suspicions. His fingers trace the base of your abdomen and hips, not quite touching where you need him to, just close enough to drive you mad. “But then again, I think maybe you enjoy being kept on edge.”
You glare at him, wiggling your hips a bit to press closer to his own, trying to grasp for any kind of pressure you can to quiet the ache between your legs.
“You’re infuria-”
“Infuriating. Yes, you have told me that many times and yet here you are. In my tent, at my mercy. How curious.” His grin widens, his flangs glinting deliciously in the dim light.
“You flatter yourself too much,” you narrow your eyes, trying to regain some semblance of control even as it slips through your fingers like sand, “Maybe, I’m just letting you think you are in control.” Your voice comes out hard, sharper than you intended- a defence mechanism to hide the way he’s unraveling you.
“I’m not the one naked on the floor of my tent, darling,” He cocks an eyebrow, his grin deepening and highlighting the smile lines that only serve to make you swoon, “But what makes you think you could resist me if I really tried?”
Your resolve crumbles a little more, whatever was left in the first place dissolving bit by bit, “I think you may be overestimating yourself,” Your voice trembles, betraying the lie.
“Oh, no I am certainly not. I think you rather like this little game we play. Don’t you?”
You pout, eyebrows drawn together, voice raspy “In your dreams. I’m not one of your doe-eyed conquests.”
“But that’s where you are wrong,” his fingernail scrapes against the skin of your tummy, sending a shiver down your spine, “You see, the more you so obviously try to resist, the more I’m convinced that you are just waiting for me to break throught that deliciously defiant exterior.”
“You’re so fucking full of yourself, Fangs,” You scoff, rolling your eyes.
Though… not entirely incorrect.
He draws back slightly to look at you fully, his expression shifting a bit with something like…annoyance? Amusement? You cannot be sure with him. Your gaze travels from a stray curl of moonlight hair to the strong angle of his jaw, the muscle working there rhythmically.
“You know,” he begins slowly, his voice quiet- almost as if he’s talking to himself, “I could just take what I need. You’ve practically begged me to already. I am…starving. And yet… I find myself wanting something else.”
He shakes his head slightly, the corner of his lip quirking as air huffs faintly through his nose. Some kind of disbelief tickles at you.
His words send a jolt through you, and you gape, at a loss for how to respond. He’s moving again, the hand tracing torturous circles traveling lower until a finger is dragging at the top of your underwear, pressing a little harder against you and drawing an involuntary gasp from your lips.
You try to stifle it at the last minute, morphing it into a strangled breath. His eyes catch yours, following every flicker of emotion that passes over your face as his fingers work ever lower, dropping to expertly- finally - roll across your clit and send arcs of pleasure buzzing through you. Your legs clench around him and he grunts, his left hand sliding up your stomach and torso to cup your breast. You cannot help the way your head falls to the side, the way your mouth opens in shock at the gentle swell of sensation that travels down your legs and up your torso in response to his touch.
His fingers stay on you, rubbing in small, light circles, and then slipping beneath the thin fabric to slide, cool and soft, through the blazing heat of your center. You fail to hide your moan as he lingers there a moment against the wetness of your core before dragging his hand up, grazing your clit again and- gods , it’s almost too much.
“You’re already soaked for me and I’ve barely touched you,” his voice is quiet but dripping in satisfaction- as if he’s won a bet against you that you weren’t aware had been placed. You whimper weakly, trying to clench your legs shut, but only managing to press into Astarion even harder. Your hand shoots out to grasp his wrist, fingers stiff and trembling and he pauses, eyes dark and locking onto yours. His arm feels solid in your sweaty palm, all hard muscle and smooth, pleasantly cold skin.
“Do you want me to stop?” He asks, voice quieter still, almost tender. There’s a sincerity in his tone that catches you off guard.
Your heart skips a beat, and you realize with a start that he is giving you a choice- a real choice. You could say the word and he would stop, immediately. You could end this, right here, right now, walk away with your pride intact and never look back. You could save yourself from the heartache of getting what you want.
Exactly what you want.
“No,” You whisper too quickly, the word slipping out before you can think to stop it. Your voice is barely audible, but you can see the way his eyes narrow in response, feel how his grip on you tightens subtly.
His smile returns, cocky and arrogant.
“Good,” He purrs, sliding backwards and lowering himself slightly to nip at your bent knee, “Because I wasn’t planning on stopping.”
A thrill skitters through you and Astarion extracts his wrist from your grip, moving to quickly remove your underwear and drop between your legs. His touch is gentle as he shifts your legs wider apart to accommodate the width of his torso, his left arm hooking under your right thigh to anchor you in place. You shift uncomfortably at being so exposed, so… naked.
Another whimper escapes your lips and you squirm, feeling severely out of your depth. A slow, wicked smile splits across his face at the sound and he dips his head lower, curls bouncing as he presses soft, lingering kisses along the inside of your thigh- his nose tickling your skin. Each kiss sends a jolt of electricity up your spine and you feel your toes curl in response.
Every nerve ending in your body is on high alert, your limbs shaking and your chest heaving. An almost painful knot is forming within your pelvis, each heartbeat tightening it more and each touch sending an ache through your tensed muscles. Astarion’s arm snakes around your hip and he presses his right hand lightly on your lower tummy, the weight resting right on that twisting knot of arousal and anxiety- intensifying the sensation spreading through you.
The anticipation alone is maddening. You’re not sure how much more of this slow, methodical build-up you can take. You clutch at the bedroll beneath you, your knuckles white as you search desperately for something to anchor yourself to. Every brush of his lips, every twitch of his fingers, makes you feel as if you are about to float away- untethered and completely at his mercy.
When the weight of his hand is lifted from your abdomen you feel a sudden, agonizing emptiness. Before you can even think to protest, his fingertips once again brush against the sensitive skin at the apex of your thighs. The touch is featherlight, maddeningly gentle, and even so you groan, biting into the flesh of your hand to muffle yourself. But your body betrays you, your hips lifting slightly in a desperate plea for more friction. Your left leg wraps around the vampires body, instinctively trying to bring him closer- to pull him back to where you need him most.
You can barely focus, the sensations he is drawing from you are so overwhelming. But through the haze you catch glimpses of him in the dim light- pale skin glowing faintly. His curls, perfectly tousled and framing a face that is almost too perfect. Eyes, crimson and intense, fixed on you with a practiced hunger. He looks like something out of a dream- or a nightmare- lovely, and handsome, and dangerous.
You clutch feebly at the pillows under you, digging in to the fabric as you struggle to ground yourself. You don’t know what to do with your hands, whether you should reach out for him, pull him closer, or push him away. You long to rake your fingers through his hair, draw him to you and melt into the contact. You want to touch him, to make him feel even a fraction of the way he’s making you feel now, to banish that sadness you know he hides behind those perfectly crafted smiles. The need is overwhelming, but you are too unsure, too caught up in your inexperience and hesitation to act on it. So you just lie there, trembling, aching, and completely at his mercy, your foot digging into the muscle of his spine as if to say “ more, more, more” in the absence of your voice.
Astarion’s breath fans over your heated skin, lips hovering just above your thigh, “Eager little thing,” he murmurs, amused. His fingers zero in on your clit with maddening precision, and you nearly sob at the sudden rush of pleasure. There is no hesitation in his touch, only that irritating self-confidence that makes your pulse race.
“Tell me what it is you want,” he purrs, his voice dropping back down to that seductive murmur as his fingers continue their deliberate torment. The command is clear but you don’t hear it.
Because, well, to put it simply- he knows what he’s doing .
Maybe you don’t have experience in this particular subject, but the vampire is clearly well-versed- it doesn’t take a genius to realize that. Your mouth opens perfectly in a little “O”, words refusing to come. He gazes down at your swollen pussy through heavily lidded eyes, his lashes dipping as he watches every twitch, every reaction to his touch.
Your mind is too fogged to form a coherent thought, let alone a response. His fingers slide through your blazing heat, massaging neglected nerves that you didn’t even know you had- an obscenely slick sound filling the tent with just how wet he has gotten you in only the past few minutes. You feel yourself crawling steadily toward the edge of some elusive precipice, his touch drawing you closer and closer and all you can do is bite your lip and endure, your hips moving of their own accord to meet his easy pace.
“Come now, darling,” he presses, lips moving against your skin, tone both teasing and insistent, “I want to hear you say it. What is it that you need?”
…You. Just you.
Astarion’s fingers falter in their pace for the briefest moment before returning to the same slow rhythm, “No words?” he taunts, smile sharp and eyes flicking to your flushed and sweaty face, “You’re so gorgeous like this darling, unraveling for me. It’s almost too easy.”
His voice is rich with satisfaction, smugness, each word a gentle stroke to your already fraying nerves.
You’re so gorgeous like this.
His words echo through you. The praise sends a fresh wave of heat through your already blazing body, and you can't help the way your thighs clench around him- the pressure of his fingers coupled with the admittance sending sparks of pleasure dancing through your veins. You don’t care if it is some manipulation tactic to further entice you to sleep with him, or if he has said it to hundreds of other girls on hundreds of other nights just like this one.
You’re so gorgeous like this.
“I–” You start, the sentence dying on your lips before it even begins and another rush of sensation overwhelms you when he picks up the pace. You pant, chest heaving.
Astarion’s eyes gleam and his left hand releases your hip to plant a light smack on the side of your ass, fingertips digging into the soft flesh.
“Pretty little thing,” he whispers, voice like velvet and cold breath puffing over your blazing center, “Can’t even speak when my hands are on her like this. I want to hear you, little mouse. Tell me what you want.”
Your chest tightens with a mix of frustration and desperation, the knot in your pelvis coiling tighter and tighter until it feels like it might snap. “I…” The words are stuck in your throat, strangled by the intensity of what he’s doing to you. But deep down, you know what you want, what he needs. It comes in a rush, and without thinking, you breathe out the only thing that makes sense in this moment.
“Drink from me.”
His smile drops, fingers slowing their diligent work until they stop completely.
You wiggle a bit, your body clenching painfully at the absence of friction. You let your cheek drop to your shoulder as you catch your breath, blinking up at him innocently and panting, “I know what Wyll said bu–”
“ Don’t ,” Astarion interrupts, his tone dark, “say his name while I’m between your legs.”
His brow tightens as he frowns and confusion winds around you, but you clear your throat, decidedly ignoring the lightning bolt of arousal that shoots through every nerve ending in your body at his words.
“What I mean is…there are other places you could leave scars. Places not so easily seen.”
A heartbeat passes. Two.
His lashes flutter.
“You are…certain?”
“Yes,” your answer is immediate, verging on over-enthusiastic. You swallow, trying to ease some sense of composure back into your voice, but it comes out too high-pitched.
“It’s been days…you need to. Please.”
There’s hesitation as his eyes search yours as if to be certain. You hold his gaze, shifting your right leg as much as you can against his iron grip and opening your thigh to him in invitation. It’s as bold a move as you can muster.
Slowly, he breathes in, nostrils flaring as his head dips to the soft skin of your inner thigh and his eyelids close. The tip of his nose tickles you lightly and then it’s his lips, dragging across the heat of pulsing arteries and pebbled skin. His eyes open to reveal pupils so blown out the iris is nothing more than a thin ring and a low, almost guttural groan rumbles in his throat.
“I’ll be fast then, mouse,” His voice is shaky, losing restraint, “Try to make it painless.”
I want to feel it all.
You nod tightly and lift up slightly on your elbows, unable to do anything but watch and press your lips together as he fully lowers himself completely to the ground between your legs.
His lips caress the flesh of your thigh gently at first, tender- almost reverent- before you feel his mouth fall open and begin to apply pressure. You feel your skin give, the puncture, the immediate sting of his fangs cutting through skin and the gush of thick warmth as blood begins to flow. Pain blooms through your leg and you cry out, body lurching at the sudden injury. Astarion’s hands clamp down on you, holding your leg in a vice-like grip, splayed open and held to the ground. The other is thrown over his right shoulder, his arm hooked underneath to further position you where he wants and his right hand wrapped around to rest atop your lower stomach.
And then he drinks.
Deep, hungry mouthful after mouthful he pulls from you, and you sigh as that quiet numbness comes to blanket your senses. Your arms collapse beneath you and your upper body flops back down onto the pillows. The rain beating on the tent seems so hushed now, the candle in the corner miles away. Your world narrows and constricts to the burning mouth on your thigh and the muffled satisfaction vibrating in his chest with each swallow and groan.
Dizziness overtakes you and your head buzzes as swells of euphoria wash over you, your breath coming quick and shallow. The hand on your stomach inches lower and two fingers drop, lazily sliding through your center and sending arcs of electricity jolting through you as he continues a lazy rhythm. Your entire body lurches with the sudden touch and the combination of sensations– the pleasure, the pain, his mouth warming on your skin– sends you spiraling. Your back arches and your arms shoot forward and down, afraid to touch him but desperate for something to hold onto, finding his wrist and hanging on. Any part of him to ground you, to keep you from floating away. Your left leg tightens on him, pulling him closer as he pulls you further under.
You don’t know how long he drinks. Just as before, time loses meaning, but you know it isn’t nearly long enough.
All too soon Astarion gingerly extracts his fangs with a dull scrape, licking the weeping punctures with the flat of his tongue and breathing heavily against you, eyes closed and lips stained with your blood. You almost want to cry at the absence of his mouth and you whimper pitifully, blood loss and dizziness making you lose whatever scrap of composure you had been hanging on to. The muscles of his arm jump under your palm as he continues to work you, slowly and methodically. He pulls his head back slightly, eyes opening to stare up at you.
There is an immediate difference in him. Where his skin was before ashen and gray, it is now creamy and tinged with a slight flush. Gaunt angles of his cheekbones are now filled, his eyes brighter and younger– though his pupils remain blown and hungry. He looks healthy.
Pride swells in you at the sight, at the knowledge that you did that. You were useful.
Astarion’s tongue darts out, licking your blood from his lips, and his head dips again to plant a gentle kiss over the wounds he left. His mouth roams, exploring your skin and sucking and nipping lightly at you.
“You taste…amazing,” his voice sounds thick and hoarse, the words falling from his mouth like a confession. His lips drag over your thigh again, the scrape of his fangs over your skin making you shiver. He places another kiss to your leg, right above the bite, and you feel the heat of his breath against your damp flesh.
“So good for me,” He murmurs, his voice a sinful purr.
Your heart stutters in your chest, the words sinking into your mind like a brand.
I want to be good for you.
The thought slips through your haze of pleasure, unbidden.
His fingers continue sliding through your slick heat with a slowness that leaves you squirming beneath him.
“Look at you,” he breathes, smiling slightly, “You’re so desperate for it, aren’t you? So eager to be touched, to be taken care of.” His fingers press down just enough to make you see stars, and you cry out, hips lifting to meet his hand. “Does it feel good, little mouse? Knowing you’ve made me strong again?”
He’s so handsome… so perfect… I want him to never stop touching me.
Astarion chuckles softly, his breath hot against your skin. “I can feel it, you know,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your thigh. “How much you want me. How much you need me.” His voice drops to a low, dangerous whisper. “I quite like it when you are like this.” The admission sends a thrill through you, your heart pounding in your ears as his words wrap around you like a vice. His fingers continue to tease, sending jolts of electricity through you with every touch. Pleasure mingles with the remnants of pain in a way that has you teetering on insanity and gasping for air against it.
He groans, voice breaking slightly as he takes in the sight of you, pliant and willing beneath him. “So wet and ready for me.”
Your back arches off the bedroll, a moan tearing from your throat as he continues to tease you, never quite giving you the friction or consistency you need. The sensations are overwhelming, pleasure building in you like a storm, only intensified by your lightheadedness. Endorphins flood your system, and you almost feel high. Your mind races with nonsense and adoration, anxiety and comfort. It’s like the time in your grove when you and your classmates tried pipeweed, but infinitely better. You want to keep chasing the feeling he’s giving you, to let it swallow you whole and burn you from the inside out.
“P-please,” you gasp, voice trembling, “Please, Astarion, don’t stop.”
The smirk that plays on his lips is so self-satisfied that in any other situation you would have half the mind to smack it off. But now with your body at his mercy it only makes you want him more.
“I won't, darling,” he promises, tone thick, “Not until you’re completely undone for me.” He presses down again, just above your clit, the pressure sending you reeling. His thumb brushes down, the touch light, drawing teasing circles over the neglected bundle of nerves and sending you spiraling.
“You’re so gorgeous,” His voice is strained as he watches you react to his touch, “So beautiful when you let me take you apart. Do you know how much I love seeing you like this? So desperate, letting me have all the control?”
You manage to shake your head, your hair sticking to your sweaty face, unable to form coherent words. But he knows. He must. He knows just how much power he has over you, and he’s absolutely reveling in it. Power he has had from the beginning, from the moment his knife edge touched your neck.
“That’s right,” he purrs, fangs catching the light as his lips pull upward. You blink at his mouth, at the glimmer of his pink tongue, some wicked, immoral part of you wishing he would use it on you again. Leave bites and bruises and no doubt of who left them. His fingers move faster now and press with more insistence. “Give in to it. Let me have you.”
You pant, your breath stuttering and every muscle in your body tensing and locking up as you clench in on yourself. Astarion’s face goes watery and blurred as your eyes unfocus, the pleasure rising and building to an unbearable peak, one you feel yourself sprinting toward at full speed. You’re close– so close to that edge and whatever happens when you fling yourself off.
“Ask me nicely.”
Before you can process the command the sensation is ripped away from you, his hand stilling and fingers slipping from your skin, leaving you aching. The loss is so sudden, so jarring, that your body tries to curl in on itself, letting out a frustrated whine.
“As-Astarion?” you grit your teeth around the cramping of your muscles begging for release. Your voice is a mix of desperation and annoyance, a pitiful cry for more.
“Ask. Me. Nicely.”
His head tilts to rest against your bent leg as he considers you, eyes wide and ears relaxed, and his perfect mouth splits in a practiced grin. He reminds you of a cat with a new toy. In this case, the toy being you.
You know exactly what he wants you to say. You aren’t sure you want to give him the gratification of hearing it spill from your lips.
“Astarion,” you grit out. Your fingers feel frozen into a claw around his wrist as you try to chase the receding high, “Stop fucking around .”
You hate the way your voice sounds, so breathless and girly and pitiful even when boiling over with irritation.
His smirk falters, annoyance flashing in his eyes as he lifts his head, his grip on your thigh tightening just slightly.
“Temper, temper,” He chides, voice silky but edged with a warning, “You should watch that bratty little mouth of yours. Or I’ll make sure you can’t use it.”
Can’t use-?...oh.
Arousal burns bright through you and you try to imagine just what he could possibly mean by that.
You glare at him, frustration pulsing through you like the throb between your legs, and he lets out a low, humorless chuckle, “Getting impatient?”
You roll your eyes, choosing to lash out with the hope that he gives you more of that fire you love, “Maybe if you actually did something worth the wait.”
Silence.
You wince a bit at your own words, face going a deeper shade of red as he sets his jaw, eyes dark.
“Careful, Fieldmouse. Keep up that attitude and one day I might just have to fuck it right out of you.”
Your body clenches in sharply, pain shooting through you and his words spearing right to your core.
Shit.
His smirk returns, somehow wider now, as he takes in the way your hips shift restlessly beneath him. His hands curl under your knees, pressing your legs back and over his shoulders until you're completely exposed to him, his mouth hovering just over you but not close enough to satisfy.
“Now. Tell me what you need.”
You hesitate for a moment, pride and desire warring within you, but ultimately the ache in your core wins out. You screw up your eyebrows and shut your eyes, grimacing against the absence of sensation. Your voice comes in a ragged whisper.
“Your mouth. I need your mouth.”
Shit. He’s never going to let me hear the end of this.
Astarion’s grin turns feral, triumph rolling off of him in thick, suffocating waves.
“Good girl,” He praises softly, tone dripping with approval.
Oh, gods.
“That wasn't so hard was it?”
You open your mouth to snap back with a weak protest but his fingers are sliding through you and spreading your lower lips, expertly working you back to that ledge.
His mouth opens. You see the flash of a sharp tooth, the wet glimmer of his tongue…and then his jaw drops, just slightly, before his mouth is sealing over you– hot and wet and just as impossibly good as he said it would be.
You cannot suppress the moan that burst from your throat as his tongue glides over your clit, the way your face crumples at the sensation and your eyes squeeze shut. It’s unlike anything you have ever felt before. A mixture of pleasure and disbelief rinse your mind blank and your hips lift of their own accord even as Astarion pulls back, seeking more delicious contact.
How can it be so good?
He chuckles, a puff of warm air hitting you as he adjusts his position, both arms under your thighs to pull you as close as possible and root you firmly to the bedroll. His head dips again, that heat fluttering against you once more and pulling soft gasps from your lungs. He works with an almost lazy confidence, his tongue flicking in a way that makes your toes curl painfully, your hips buck fruitlessly against his hold. You gasp when once of his fangs catches against you, scraping over the sensitive skin as he latches over your clit and gently sucks – and bolts of pleasure buzz through you and numb your body, flinging you back to that ledge almost instantly.
His tongue swirls before dipping back down to taste you again and your entire body tenses and tightens with the need for release. The roar of the rain outside swells in your ears, not entirely drowned out by your panicked and desperate gasps, and you tilt your head to steal a glance at the vampire. His eyes are closed, brow knit together in concentration as his lips press to your skin, and his soft curls are in disarray. The candle glow has deepened, casting dying orange light throughout the tent and tinging his white hair gold. Your body lurches as a wave of pleasure spears through you and Astarion grunts as he tightens his grip, not allowing you the precious space to wiggle against the almost overstimulating sensations.
His face tightens even more with the effort and you feel yourself soften. Your hands shoot out, fingers tangling in his hair and fingernails raking lightly across his scalp as you try to pull him closer, needing more– more contact, more touch, more him . He lets out a quiet grunt, the sound vibrating against you as he redoubles his efforts, mouth moving faster and becoming more insistent.
You’re close, so close, the pleasure building like a tidal wave ready to crash. A cliff waiting for you to jump off. Your heels press into his back, your hands squeeze the hair at his temples. You feel hot tears prick at the corner of your eyes, suddenly overwhelmed. His ear flicks slightly as your hand slides down, ghosting over the pointed tip and clasping at the nape of his neck. He feels so warm, such a stark difference to his usual temperature, and you can feel the faint pulse of blood pumping through the veins in his neck. Your blood.
You want to give him more. You want to give him everything. You want to rub the tension from his shoulders, let him drink his fill whenever he pleases, and make him feel all the pleasure he’s giving you now and more. You let the fingers of your right hand lightly trace over his left ear as you keep your left hand on the back of his neck, fingers twisted into his curls. A shudder wracks down his spine and he dips lower, his mouth angling to lick hungrily at your entrance, where you’re wettest. You feel yourself contract, painfully empty, suddenly nervous at the proximity and anxious from the sudden loss of sensation. You seek out his mouth, your traitorous hips dropping until the tip of his velvet tongue hits your clit once more, and then gently grinding into it.
He detaches himself for a second, tilting to look up at you, eyes dark and cheeks faintly flushed pink.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice sounding deep and gravely and absolutely wrecked, “You’re doing so well. Shit, you taste…”
You can’t audibly reply– you don’t even hear the end of his sentence. It feels too fucking good. Your muscles begin to lock down and freeze, your damp hands clenching in the hair that you pushed back from his perfect face. You grasp for whatever shred of anger you have left for him, because he can’t have been right, but you can’t find it. Because he was. He was so right.
You needed this.
His eyes bore into you as everything clamps down tight and his mouth drops to envelop your clit again, his hand sliding up and around to put delicious pressure on your lower stomach. Your feet plant firmly into the ground at his sides and you watch him latch onto you, everything burning and swelling and searing all at once as he finally flings you over that edge. Everything blurs, your body going completely numb, weightless. There’s a moment suspended, where you’ve made the jump and you're just waiting to hit the ground. Your back arches, your eyes squeeze shut and your head falls back against the pillows, mouth open but no sound coming out. All sensation ceases, the waves of pleasure fizzle, even the bedroll beneath you loses substance. You’re floating, void of all senses, for a moment that seems to go on forever… and then there is nothing but scorching heat.
It wracks through you, your muscles clenching and frozen with the force of your orgasm, your hips wrenching upward and fingers pulling blindly. Astarion puts as much weight as possible into his hold, pinning you once more and forcing you to ride out the almost painful contractions the way that he wants, his mouth still on you and pulling cries of relief from yours. You pray to the gods that the storm outside is loud enough to drown them out, all hope of muffling them gone. His name rips from you, broken and half formed, your throat constricting the word and cutting it short into a silent scream.
You’re finally cumming. Hard and slow and brought on by the man you love to hate. And it feels amazing. Each agonizing second pouring over you and taking you apart piece by piece until you’re nothing but a pile of sweaty limbs on a fur-lined bedroll, half buried in the pillows and panting at the ceiling– your thighs trembling around the vampire and your brain refusing to work. His tongue still moves, slowly, lightly tracing over your skin and nudging you through the aftershocks. You feel floaty. Exhausted. Strangely happy. Your eyes close and you breathe in deeply, trying to recover from whatever the hells he just did to you .
You feel him shift, his mouth moving off of you and extracting his limbs from yours, the muscles of his arms twisting and tightening, and then his torso lifting as he stands. Warm hands gently guide your legs together and down to the floor, and you grimace at just how sweaty you are, how wet you feel. A soft, ratty feeling blanket is tossed over you, and you roll to your side slightly, lifting your arms and stretching the cramped muscles. Your entire body feels like jelly, muscles refusing to work and bones gone soft. You think you should be embarrassed, should throw your clothes back on and leave the tent without a word. But something makes you stay.
Maybe you are simply too tired to care.
Something is placed next to you and you crack an eye open, your vision adjusting from the darkness behind your eyelids to the dying candlelight.
The shirt he offered you earlier, refolded and pristinely white.
For some reason, the sight of it almost brings you to tears.
Astarion kneels beside you, not quite looking at you, his face trained on the blanket. He clears his throat, reaching to pull the worn fabric up and tucking it under your chin. He looks strange, his face almost flushed, something like a thin sheen of sweat making his skin glisten— can vampires sweat? His other hand pushes roughly at his trousers, attempting to adjust. You watch his face through heavily lidded eyes, wanting to reach out and let him teach you how to return the favor, but exhaustion and blood loss tug you toward some kind of strange sleep yet again.
He doesn’t say anything. Just smoothes a lock of damp hair off of your face and furrows his brow as if deep in thought. His fingers brush across your forehead, and you mumble, half to yourself.
“Why?”
There's silence as he looks at you. You aren’t even sure yourself what you are asking. Wind whistles against the tent as sleep pulls you under and still Astarion says nothing. Your eyes close heavily and your breathing slows. His hand doesn’t move. The rain and thunder beckon you to slumber and you almost miss his whispered reply. Almost.
“You had a shit day.”
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You have another dream.
This one is different than usual, no screams or flashing teeth, no scent of blood- sharp and heavy.
Instead, you dream of the river. The scent of bergamot and brandy envelop you and there are hands in your hair, lathering soap into your scalp. The sun warms you and arms wrap around your shoulders, pulling you close. A kiss is planted on your cheek, and laughter peels through the air, the chest behind you heaving against your bare skin.
You turn, staring up at the man and he smiles at you- a real smile, the kind that makes the corner of the eyes crinkle and the face shine.
“I love you.”
Astarion’s voice is so soft. But something about the way he says it makes you unbearably sad. His hands trace up and down your arms, and you wish he would stop. Tears wet your face and you wonder why.
You hear rain in the distance.
A dream.
A pretty dream.