Work Text:
Inspired by @SleeplessCap on Twitter and their Astarion/Mimic art! Click with caution, it is NSFW!
**Additional tasty Astarion/Mimic art also spotted on @weatherbane's page, as an extra treat.
Today is the day that Astarion comes to a conclusion; dungeons are horrible. Just entirely worthless, vile excuses of architecture that should not exist.
Now, he could admire a good crypt any day. But crypts and dungeons are very different, as far as their inner-workings and purposes go. Crypts are macabre, gloomy and haunting in a way that he appreciates. They honor and house the dead, displaying crumbling -yet artful- memorials to the dearly departed. Crypts are sexy.
Dungeons are not. Dungeons, Astarion surmises, are odorous, filthy, trap-ridden monster hovels. Like some ancient, now-forgotten asshole woke up one morning and decided, "Hey! What if I locked up all my valuables in a dingy, smelly room and then made sure that every poor adventurer who tried to get my treasure (that I no longer need, because I am dead) ended up dead as well! What a hoot."
Terrible. Just terrible.
"Any progress on that lock, Fangs?" Karlach yells, her voice bouncing off the walls of the too-small storage room. It rings through his ears, adding to the throbbing headache he has already been nursing that arose from simply being in this dismal place. Gods, he can't wait to see the sun again.
Astarion rolls his eyes, grumbling around the pick between his teeth before delicately sliding it back into his deft fingers.
"Karlach, my dear. There's no need to shout when you are three feet away from me." He grunts as the mechanism clicks. Grinning at her, both smug and victorious, he swings the door open slowly and theatrically.
To reveal a long, dim hall completely covered in tripwires and blast plates.
"...Are you fucking kidding me."
Karlach laughs, manic and high, nearly doubled over from the force of it. He tosses a venomous glare over his shoulder at the tiefling. Rolling his shoulders, he bends back down and gets to work on the first wave of fuck-off tinkering left behind by whatever rube built this place.
"C'mon Tav, let's go find where Gale wandered off to. Fangs is gonna be here all day!" Her cackling diminishes in volume as she escorts herself and their whimsical bard from the room.
The silence makes the passing of time feel even slower to Astarion. Minutes, maybe hours eek by at a snail's pace as he slowly disarms his way down the hall. There better be something so fucking good at the end of this, he thinks. Because if there isn't, well..he'll never hear the end of it from his companions, and that just won't do.
Mockery is only fun if he's the one delivering it, rather than being the poor unfortunate on the receiving end. The vampire has a reputation to uphold, after all. Fueled by the intent to preserve both his dignity and his higher placement in the camp's social hierarchy, he works double-time, nimble fingers picking up speed as they weave between the mess of wires, springs and plates.
The end of the hallway finally comes into view. At his current angle, Astarion can just barely make out the darkened edges of a circular room, illuminated softly by magicked sconces, eternally lit.
But what catches his eye and tickles the little sticky-fingered thief in his brain is the large, ornate chest at the center of the room. The smooth, polished wood shines at him almost hypnotically.
Gods, were those abalone inlays? Hells. They glittered and glinted so beautifully in the light of the magick-fire. He didn't ever think that a treasure chest could potentially be prettier than the treasure undoubtedly held inside.
Astarion shivers with excitement, near-giddy with it. Snip this wire here, take out that screw, carefully lift that piece of metal. Almost there. Almost there.
The last trap is disarmed silently and anticlimactically. He steps into the room, light-footed and confident. Astarion saunters around the chest, examining it for any additional traps. When he finds none, he gracefully crouches in front of his prize.
"You pretty thing, you're not even locked! How delightful." He croons, hands grasping each side of the smooth, intricate lid. As he lifts the top a strange, wet squelching sound greets him. The wood beneath his fingers shifts and loosens to reveal a row of bright, pearlescent teeth. And then a tongue. And then the eyes.
"Fucking mimic!" Astarion throws himself away from the creature, losing his balance slightly as he scrambles back towards the hall.
Before he can create any good distance between himself and the creature, a large, slick tentacle strikes out and coils tightly around his ankle. Astarion topples over, chin slamming hard enough into the rough stone floor to rattle his skull. Black spots dance at the edges of his vision as he fights to regain his bearings.
But by the time he does, the mimic has him thoroughly caught; two tentacles wrap firmly around each one of his legs, just below the knee. A thicker, slimier one grips his waist, trailing wetly against the smooth expanse of his belly and causing his frilled shirt to ride up. And a final tentacle, nearly an arm's width, has coiled itself loosely around his neck, the glistening tip lapping at the curve of Astarion's jaw.
He squirms against the restraints, grunting and panting in frustration as the slick appendages grip him more tightly. His arms, though freed, can do scarcely more than claw uselessly at the floor; the mimic's tentacles are too slippery to properly grab, and any hope of retrieving his knives is lost as his trousers are shoved down just below the swell of his ass in the scuffle.
"Hells! Let me go, you wretch!" He isn't panicking. He isn't. He's just trapped, with no escape in sight, his companions off gallivanting on the other side of the dungeon, out of earshot of his cries and pleas... Ok. Maybe he is panicking a little.
Suddenly, a psychic presence fills his mind, blooming into the expanse of his consciousness. But it isn't the tadpole.
pretty... pale one called us pretty.
Astarion gasps as the voice, a jumbled and cacophonous whisper, rips his attention away from the squirming tentacles. The mimic trills to him telepathically as its various limbs slide across his exposed flesh, leaving warm-slick trails in their wake.
Astarion stammers.
"Y-yes! Very pretty, definitely pretty. And I have friends here who could tell you how lovely you are, too! So, why don't you let me go and I can just bring them here, hmm?"
But the creature seems more than content with just an audience of one.
still...be still, pale one. we will thank.
The vampire has little time to prepare himself before the large, central tongue of the mimic spills over the edge of the chest lid, where it probes a bit before settling comfortably between the cleft of his ass.
"Hhnn!-"
The smaller tentacles wriggle in delight, lapping at his skin, seeking new places where they can draw out those sweet, soft sounds from the elf. They caress him every which way, brushing against the sensitive expanse of his flank, up the peaks of his rosy nipples, and over the semi-hard swell of his cock.
"Stop!- N-no...aaahhn!"
The mimic continues laving its appendages over the vampire's most sensitive spots, and he feels himself fully hardening despite the sharp sense of panic stabbing through his chest. The feeling is exacerbated by the pressure of the mimic's large, bumpy tongue pressing insistently against his hole.
"Aagh! That will never fit, are you insane?!" He cries through the haze of both panic and pleasure combined, hips bucking wildly within their restraints.
The tentacle around his neck prods at the entrance of his slack, drooling mouth before shoving itself in. Astarion's lips stretch obscenely around the intrusion and he moans against the jellied flesh of the tentacle, which begins pumping slowly and rhythmically down his throat.
"Mmhhnm...gghhk- mmnnh!"
His eyes grow glassy as he begins to lose focus on the task of his escape. With his thoughts slow and syrupy, Astarion realizes...the creature isn't actually hurting him, or otherwise trying to. The thought brings him little comfort.
He brings his attention solely to the tongue lapping soothingly at his hole, each pass never quite forceful enough to penetrate, but hard enough to tug at his puckered rim teasingly. Astarion finds himself quivering and moaning around the tentacle between his lips.
Slowly, the tapered tip of the tongue kisses his entrance, which clings and mouths at the intrusion whorishly. Gods above, Gale better be keeping the rest of the group good and entertained, wherever he is. If the team were to walk in on Astarion now...
His cock leaks at the thought of being seen like this. All bundled up in a slick mass of tentacles, skin flushed from his most recent feeding and his cock simultaneously aching and dripping between his milky thighs. His eyes roll up and he moans as the mimic's tongue wiggles into him, inch by torturous inch.
Astarion's body betrays him as his walls cling to it hungrily, the mess of mimic spittle dripping down his taint and pooling on the floor below. He arches his back as much as he can, what with the limited range of movement that the tentacles allow. Tears gather at the corners of his eyes as the massive tongue splits him open.
Oohhh, fuck. He thinks, blearily. Going to die. Going to die with a mimic's tongue speared in my ass.
The mimic shakes with what Astarion can only assume to be...laughter? Well. He didn't know they could do that. Gale, ever the academic, would likely be pleased with how much Astarion is learning today.
will not die, pale one. will live. will call us pretty, again. must not die.
now, be still.
The tears gathered on his lashes finally fall as the tongue seats itself somewhere halfway inside him. He feels it deep in his guts, coiling thick and heavy in his belly.
He comes untouched with a muffled shout at the first full thrust, cock jerking and balls drawing upwards tightly.
"MMMMHHHNNGG!!-"
Astarion wails and drools around the mouth-tentacle as the mimic's tongue fucks him fast and hard. It winds through his silken insides effortlessly, as though it has already mapped out every turn and corner of his guts. And although he cannot see underneath himself past the swell of his pectorals, a prominent bulge disappears and reappears in time with each deep press from inside the paunch of his belly. The mimic stretches him obscenely and Astarion...is far too prideful to admit to any pleasure from it.
But the rough drag of the textured tongue clinging to his walls has his mind blissfully fogging. His thoughts may as well be leaking out his ears, with how good it feels. And Gods, does he hate that it feels good. 200 years worth of bedding every type of creature that Faerûn has to offer, and it's the dusty mimic from the stinking dungeon, rearranging his insides, that has him going wild.
He howls through the gag as one of the smaller tentacles curl around his softening cock, winding up towards the head and grasping his glans tightly. The tendril beings undulating against the length of his shaft, coaxing him back to full hardness with deft, slick strokes. He writhes and shivers and gasps and Gods, it's too much. The tongue pounding inside of him begins to slow its pace, but angles to hit his prostate head-on just so.
Each merciless pound has his vision whiting and, before he can brace himself for it, he comes once more, far too hard and far too quickly. He convulses as the waves of his orgasm shake through him, cock bobbing beneath him and painting the stones with ropes of cum.
The white that assaulted his vision fades to black as his eyes roll up and his exhausted body falls limp in the mimic's hold.
Astarion is not sure how much time has passed when he wakes. Seconds, minutes, hours. Time holds no power in a sunless place such as this.
All he knows is that when he wakes, he is half-nude, coated in a viscous layer of slick-sweat and no longer restrained. He groggily raises his head to peer at the mimic, which appears to be dozing contentedly, still in the same spot as before. Its tentacles and tongue have all retreated to be neatly packed back within the innards of the beast. The creature's numerous eyes shift and twitch from beneath multiple sleeping eyelids.
Adrenaline floods Astarion's chest instantly. Silent as shadow, he re-dresses himself and slinks out of the room, limping slightly as his stretched hole twinges and aches. His movements jostle his insides, and he shudders as copious amounts of mimic-saliva drips from his entrance, soaking the back of his thighs. Astarion scoffs and continues onward, stumbling down the hall. As he re-enters the storage room, which is thankfully empty, he shuts the door behind him, sealing off the passage to the mimic's lair. As an extra precaution to prevent a 'round two' between himself and the beast, he shifts through his pockets to retrieve his tools and re-lock the door.
Astarion's fist closes around a band of unfamiliar metal.
Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he unfurls his fingers to find a ring. It shimmers with enchantment, though of what kind he cannot tell. But what makes him sharpen his gaze at the delicate silver band is a single, oval-shaped inlay placed in the center.
Abalone, polished and gleaming.
"Oh, you little bastard."
Astarion seethes as he pockets the ring.