simplysinning

[simplysinning]

so I got into grad school today with my shitty 2.8 gpa and the moral of the story is reblog those good luck posts for the love of god

[simplysinning]

𝐔𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫

A night of pleasure where Astarion is the only focus for once.

Astarion X Reader (18+ themes) cw: Astarion with afab anatomy, Cazador mentions, sexual content MDNI, oral (astar!receiving), use of 'cunt', fingering, hungry yearning even though you’re already together, and slight religious imagery? (I want to worship him, respectfully.) No other description other than you being taller and a drow.

7.2k words

Drows aren't particularly known for being the nicest of races, especially those sworn to the spider goddess with an odd sense of humor, yet the vampire spawn can use himself to prove that people can change, if not for the better. Of course, that's to insinuate this drow in particular was never anything but agreeable since the moment they met each other, even after the rogue pointed a knife at you for some answers fresh from the naultaloid.

That's not to say astarion liked you from the start, no there was an underlying bitterness on the spawn's part from your weirdly infuriating need to play savior wherever you went. The needy didn't stay the needy for long, and something so simple as retrieving a stolen pouch turned into a full-on family rescue mission. The whole heroic, spring-into-action type was someone that tended to get on Astarion's nerves, though he used to see himself the type to once marry someone like that.

Well, when he was about…13.

Regardless, you can only imagine how stupid Astarion felt when he realized that he liked your inherently nice nature, a major contradictory personality to his, and eventually came to terms that those feelings were a given.

Naturally, there were some chaotic times courtesy of Astarion's occasional goading to make a decision for the group's entertainment betterment, but you always took the change of plans in stride. Never angry, perhaps disappointed (expectedly), but forever the friendly hunk of underdark you were.

So, Astarion had to catch his neck from whipping off its swivel the moment your voice dipped off into a low growl at the woman in front of them, your eyes narrowed in irritation.

It would have been easy for Astarion, with the woman's (slightly creepy) persistence even after his third refusal, to simply allow you to give the alright to bite her should you ask. After all, what was one little bite in comparison to a rare, powerful potion? It would have been fine.

…Right?

'Just a small moment of disgust to get myself through,' but, surprisingly, you just stopped the spawn's half step forward and snapped, "he said no."

The tick in your jaw, the way your voice held no room for the usual patience and kindness, and lastly, the way your eyes darted to Astarion's in a flash of concern. You spoke with the authority of someone seasoned, as if your little group of lost souls have always been together, every one of your words carrying a stern weight and finality.

"Where are you?" You murmur, your words gentle and cutting through his mind like a knife through butter. There’s a small, nearly chaste kiss to his bare shoulder, and it nearly startles him.

The hands which were once gripping the spawn's supple backside above the fabric of his pants are now resting against the small of his back, gentle and not pressing, just below his ritual scars.

Astarion, coming back to his mind with you in your shared inn room, relishes in how the arms encircling him hold kindly, unburdened by the tension of restraint should he not want to continue, and he eases a quiet sigh.

'You'll never be like the others…'

"I'm right here, my love," he responds, his voice light and airy, bare from the false seduction dripping from the tips of his fangs.

You plant a kiss to the other's neck, careful to avoid the jagged skin that had healed two centuries ago, and Astarion closes his eyes when he notices that too.

"Are you sure? Because we can stop. I'm fine with just talking, or something."

The spawn slides his hand up your back and it comes to a stop on the back of your head, his slender fingers toying with the shorter hairs. You pull your head back in response to look at the vampire, and Astarion uses the leverage to pull you down toward him. If the awkward angle for your taller frame is uncomfortable, you don't say and only allow Astarion to do as he pleases.

"Or," Astarion exhales, his red eyes darting to your lips, "something," and then he's pulling them to his. Your lips slot together, moving a little out of sync only because of the temporarily different level of desire.

Astarion has always been hungry and hasty when kissing, all tongue and teeth and starving of the safety and affection he so desperately craved for the last two hundred years, like it would be snatched away from him. And, with Cazador around the corner, it could all very well be. The mere idea of it, never being able to see you again, seeing your smile as you walk the familiar path to his tent in the morning to ask him how slept, is detrimental to Astarion's psyche that had only just begun to snap its scattered pieces back into place.

You like to take your time, give slow and tender pecks that gradually press firmer and open wider when you pick up on the vampire's need for more, but there's always a subtle hesitation; a looming question you're unable to truly verbalize.

'Is this really what you want?'

Astarion is aware of this, of your innate sense of overprotection for him, of his trauma from being an alluring plaything for Cazador. He would never forget the look on your face the moment he told you a fraction of the hell he had to endure, all flared nostrils and pupils constricted in anger, and he would never forget the way he felt a subtle throb in between his legs. That called a different problem into question, however.

There was a conversation you had before about Astarion's reluctance for sexual intimacy, and you made sure he knew that you understood and was indeed obeying Astarion's request of going as slow as he needed you to.

The spawn remembers how nervous he was when he told you that he didn't think he was ready to be intimate yet, bated breath between his teeth though the vampire had no need to breathe. Being used for his body for so many centuries essentially defiled Astarion's views on sex, and he severely hoped you would understand his hesitance.

He couldn't deny that everything stirred at certain things you did, the ways in which you looked at him, how quick you moved to protect him whether physically or other, but he (with your steady guidance) grew self-aware. Realizing that, after discovering his decimated self-respect and self-worth, he wasn't ready, and he had the option to say...no.

And he wanted you to know that he came to that conclusion, deciding it would only be fair since you bestowed him the grace for self-discovery.

"Even though I know things between us are different," Astarion provided a forced giggle, his lips wobbling in the corners, the facade beginning to melt away into something unfamiliarly vulnerable, "being with someone still feels…tainted. Still brings up those feelings of disgust and loathing. I don't know how else to be with someone. No matter how I'd like to." You hadn't said anything for a minute or so, and Astarion still mildly adherent to his ways of self-deprecation had assumed you began to doubt whether or not to continue pursuing...whatever you were moving towards, especially being so soon after your previous conversation of Astarion's 'affection' being self-serving and under a completely false pretense at first, but before he could voice, 'It's fine if you think twice about us', you spoke.

"Astarion," your cadence was deliberate and measured, choosing your words carefully, "I'm not going after you for sex, and if I gave you that impression, I'm sorry. I'm ready when you're ready, I mean it. We can be together without having sex at all, if that would make you happy."

Astarion breathed a laugh, astonished yet still a bit half-hearted. "Now, now," he chided playfully, his voice smooth, effortlessly persuasive, "that almost sounds like a challenge."

But he wanted to believe that. He did.

He does.

But, even Astarion has a breaking point.

It took a while, fuck, there was no doubt about it. Several nights of seduction falling away to mentally drifting off at the beginning and apologizing profusely afterwards when Astarion began to feel uncomfortable and backtracked, but those moments of retraction didn't matter. You never showed signs of annoyance or frustration, as if you knew that was his way of pacing himself-his starting and stopping-and it would ease the tension weighing the vampire's shoulders when he saw you were only ever concerned. Your face would always be calm, sometimes peaceful, but your hands would hover in the space between your bodies, indecisive and unsure if the man wanted your touch in those moments or not. At times he welcomed it, releasing a little sigh when your warm palms caressed his undead skin, and other times, he needed a bit of space. You never showed disapproval, if you harbored some, whenever he would push away and leave a gap between you. You only waited for him. You always moved to the rhythm he set; stopping when he told you to stop, going when he told you to go, and Astarion was sure if he asked you to give him your heart, you would carve it out with your bare hands and hold it out to him with a smile on your face. It would surely keep beating in his hands, the love you so clearly shelter for him taking root within your arteries and replacing your frivolous need for blood.

It was an odd thing, foreign, being in control of a situation after centuries of enslavement.

However, Astarion feels a shiver travel up his spine as he drinks in the groan you release into his mouth, not unwelcome.

Without breaking your kiss, the vampire walks forward, pushing you back with a hand on your chest, and you simply follow, allowing Astarion to push and push until your back collides with the cushions of the room's bed. The plain brown blankets ruffle softly, a pillow falls to the ground with a gentle thud, the mattress sinks underneath your weight as your elbows move behind you to prop your upper body, and then there's a moment of pause. Astarion's lips leave yours with a wet smack, a thin string of saliva curving in the very, very small space created by the separation, but Astarion watches you take one, two, two-and-a-half breaths before he reconnects them with a muffled moan. It's not necessary for him to breathe and he hasn't for the past two centuries, but he tries to be considerate of you.

You, content, take whatever the vampire gives you, filling and all-consuming and your lungs burning in your chest from the lack of oxygen, but you easily conclude that you would happily die here before moving away from him.

Your mind momentarily calls to the revive scroll resting in your pack, and there's a fleeting thought it might certainly come in handy tonight. Hands fumble for clothing, and when it all comes off, Astarion isn't sure where his body heat ends and where yours begin.

Everything is burning, throbbing, aching, and there's a steady pulse between the vampire's legs he can no longer ignore.

His head almost fights the motion to pull away, as if the mere notion is blasphemous, but nevertheless, Astarion pulls back and slowly opens his eyes. Your face beneath him is mildly obscured by a stray, silver curl, illuminated a pale yellow from the candlelight, but Astarion's vision clears the moment your hand delicately pins it behind his ear. Your fingers barely brush the elongated skin, but the vampire figures if his heart was still working, the action would have sent a considerable amount of blood to his cheeks.

"…You're so beautiful," your lips twitch upwards in the corners.

Astarion can't fight the urge to smile back, fangs and all, and his eyes, reminiscent of polished rubies and piercing, sparkle in adoration unbeknownst to him, darting back and forth from one of your eyes to the other. Though there's evident lust present, it becomes overshadowed by an unsure tenderness, your desires restrained in the taut of your neck, and the tips of your splayed fingers flex along the back of Astarion's knees. It's clear you're holding back, anxious to go any further despite Astarion's clear want, and the man knows that if he wanted to stop here even after going so far to be completely bare, you would let him and do so without complaint.

The vampire's thumb strokes your cheek absentmindedly, and your hands are on his chest, tenderly caressing the small indentations as if second nature.

"…So are you, darling,” the vampire kisses the tip of your nose.

The air is soft, your touches kind, and your breaths fan across the other's mouth acting as a heated, wine-scented aphrodisiac. But, as much as you soothe and woo him with cordial romanticism, you seriously need to get on with it.

So, leaning into the shell of your ear, Astarion gives you a nudge to do so. The pulsating is beginning to hurt at this point.

"Touch me," he sighs, and is able to feel the surprisingly violent shudder that racks through your body beneath him. "Please, my love," he adds. You hum. "…I am," you respond before pressing a wet, open-mouth kiss to the vampire's shoulder. "I will, fuck," you exhale, "I will."

The kisses start to travel the expanse of his skin, hot and occasionally pausing to suck and bite, up and down and wherever they can touch, trying to gauge his egregious zones, trying to see what's a yes or a no for him.

Pleasure blooms just below his stomach even though you had barely touched him yet, your fingers lightly tracing along the milky skin of his thighs spread across your lap. The pressure of your fingers gradually presses further but never restricting, never painful, only using Astarion's body as a grounding measure against your own raging urge to simply ravish the man on top of you.

'Not too fast,' you remind yourself, tilting your head backwards to reattach your lips to your lover's in a sloppy kiss Astarion happily accepts. 'Not too fast. Slow down, slow...'

You know Astarion can feel your arousal against the back of his thighs, but you stop yourself from grinding up into him, because this is all about him.

Astarion was sure he had never been this wet in his life, the nearly foreign sensation of tackiness between his thighs a bit of a sensational nightmare, and the need for release is essentially screeching in his brain, bouncing around his skull with unrestrained vigor, "touch me, touch me, fucking touch me!"

It's bordering on overwhelming and somehow feels under-stimulating at the same time. Foreplay was never a grace bestowed to Astarion while he entertained Cazador's newest sacrificial rat, them usually opting to put their own pleasure first above all else, so he wasn't entirely sure if the new experience is something he likes or hates. It feels like teasing, in a way, he supposes. Touching everywhere but where he so desperately needs, the pure torture of it all, yet it somehow makes everything better, more.

The buildup isn't bad, it's the waiting after that messes with his head.

You pull back, your half-lidded eyes staring up at Astarion, intense and almost predatory, and tug the spawn's hips forward an inch in a way that causes Astarion's heat to graze the warm skin of your lower stomach. The slight friction calls for a small gasp, a bout of pleasure flashing down the base of his spine, but things still.

"Can I...?" The question hangs off in the air, your hand, palm facing the ceiling, rests below Astarion's belly button and stops.

"Please," the spawn's eyebrows come together, now unafraid to display his frustration, and he begs, his voice tilting into a feral grumble. "Do something."

Astarion, even in the state he's in, doesn't miss the look that settles over your face the longer you stare up at him, your eyes narrow. It's shadowed, dark and hungry and wanting and in over two hundred years of being him, he finds himself unafraid to be at the receiving end of that familiar gaze. So many others sneered at him, licked their lips at the thought of mounting him as if he were nothing but this curly-haired elven beauty to be conquered, and he would let them, for Cazador. Some he would sleep with to possibly gain a sense of satisfaction, a small act of defiance to show that he could still enjoy sex on his own, but it usually ended up with this crushing ton of self-loathing on his sore back.

But, this time, it's different.

The look you're giving him sets him on fire, more scorching than the blistering flare of the goddamn sun, and his bottom lip slots between the front of his teeth in a last dash attempt to smother this pitiful thing of a choke gurgling atop the base of his tongue. He needs you; your touch, your fingers, your mouth, anything and everything he's been deprived of throughout all of this time. He's ready. Gods, he's ready.

And he commends you for your self-control, because Astarion is sure that he can't stop himself from having you now, not when you look at him like that-like you just want to fucking devour him down to the last strand of silver curl.

So, when your hand finally slips between his thighs and presses against his sweltering mound, your fingers gliding along his cunt with careful but firm precision, Astarion’s eyes nearly live up to his namesake. His back arches, his torso pressing into you so much your hand is almost squashed between the both of you, but you manage to keep the pace. There’s a silent determination ruminating from you, your motions; a promise to let him experience every gratification you have to offer and it’s clear that you’re not disappointing him. Your lover’s face falls slack, his mouth parting into a sharp ‘o’, and you resist the urge to lick at the tip of his fangs that peak under the edge of his kiss-bruised lips.

You concede, your eyes fervently follow a bead of sweat floating down the line of Astarion’s pallid neck, that no painting, nor sculpture, nor Gods can compare to your lover’s beauty. It could be a harrowing notion to others, some devout worshipers would probably sputter in indignation if you were to say that outloud, (Gale certainly would be up in arms to defend Mystra) but it remains an undeniable fact to you. His moans, uninhibited by rehearsed parade and uncomfortable deceit, spread across your face reminiscent of a sweetened vineyard swaying in the breeze that you can taste on your back molars. 

You decide, right here and now, that you worship only one man, and his name is brighter than any cosmic piece of heaven.

“I,” Astarion suddenly stutters, cutting through your glorifying thoughts, and you only now notice he’s begun to roll his hips against your hand, creating a quicker friction. “Oh, plea...” His plea dies.

“Tell me,” your head lolls to the side to catch Astarion’s eyes, but he’s too lost in chasing whatever he needs to feel, “tell me what you need so I can give it to you.” 

Unintentionally, your tone dips off as you get dragged further into the growing rigidity of your lover’s spine, the last part of your sentence dripping with desperate authority, and Astarion whines at the command in your voice that’s always so recognizable, but has him clenching around nothing in this context. This is better than he could have ever imagined, and his past sexual encounters, he gathers, don’t hold a fireball to you. There’s a volcanic simmer beneath his skin, a faint buzzing behind his eyes and the tips of his toes that leaves him both wanting to pull away and longing for more, and it's delicious.  

“What do you want, my love? You want me to go faster?”

You gauge his face, searching for any signs of discomfort or dissociation since you both hadn’t truly gotten this far without some form of regression, but you realize, with a swell of pride warming your chest, Astarion is completely enjoying himself. 

The vampire’s hips stall for a beat, the candlelight catching the jut of his hip, before he’s nodding, frantically, a few curls falling into his face from their usual sweep. They’re too pretty and frame his angular cheeks too well to brush away, so you leave them be, and instead choose to absorb this rare picture; an unpoised Astarion. 

Your wrist pangs, a cramp begins to form along your flexing tendons, but you’ll be damned if you don’t listen to his request and you speed up your fingers, the sound of sloshing wetness ringing beautifully in the middle of your ear like church bells.

You noticed when first getting to know the spawn that he carried this innate air of grace, from his years as an elven magistrate, you assumed, and even when he found himself flustered, there was always something graceful about it. So seeing him like this, keening for your touch and working himself along your fingers to clumsily chase a high he rarely got acquainted to, uncaring about how disheveled he looks…

“Yes,” he whines, “yes, I can,” he moans, “I can feel it..”

You let him do what he wants, what he needs, only keeping the pace of your fingers in their same, quick succession, lest Astarion say otherwise. The buildup is evident in the slow tremble of his thighs, in the hand he uses to instinctively reach out for you as he feels his orgasm steadily approaching, seeking a sense of ground amongst the unfamiliarity, and you promptly lean forward to allow it to snake around the line of your shoulders. Astarion’s head falls to your collarbone and his straight nose is tucking into the junction of skin beneath your earlobe, his other hand settling by his thigh and curling into a fist around the blanket.

Your eyes almost roll into your skull when his pants of ecstasy float into your ear; they’re so much closer, much more clear, and now you can hear a faint crackle, his voice rasping the longer he moans out into the dim room. 

“Gods, yes,” your lover whimpers, the sound going straight to your own arousal, “yes, yes!”

Astarion stills and it takes no magic tower mage to know the vampire’s orgasm crashed down unto him, if the sudden creamy texture pearling the tips of your fingers wasn’t indicative enough. His head tosses back, his back curving into a perfect concave ‘c’, and you lean forward to pepper the expanse of his neck with light pecks, your fingers slowing down to a lazy roll as an aid in helping the spawn on the come down. The sides of your thighs pick up the motion of curling toes and twitching kneecaps that are forced to keep themselves open on your naked hips, and a small smile stretches across your face.

Astarion’s chest is still, his vampiric attributes unable to provide him the need to take deep breaths, but his eyes are hazed, trained onto a piece of random ceiling tile. You sit against each other silently, holding him by the waist when his hips eventually stop twitching, and slowly pull your hand back, your wrist screaming in relief from being released of its awkward position. Your lover’s arm spasms, a false release of air hitching when you graze his sensitive clit.

“You okay?” You murmur, keeping your voice low to help Astarion pleasantly adjust. 

It seems to help, and your smile widens a bit when the man’s head lowers and his eyes meet yours, red irises little by little clearing from their orgasmic fog to focus on your face. It takes a minute, perhaps two-it could have been an hour for all he knows-but he eventually gets there, and his tongue darts from his mouth to salivate his lips before he simpers, knowing he probably looks extremely satisfied. You certainly notice it.

It’s an expression you’ve seldom seen on Astarion’s face save for when he finishes feeding from a particularly big bear, or you when you eventually gave him permission for your blood.

“I’m,” he pauses, “I’m wonderful, my love. That was…”

Your gaze falls to your hand, Astarion’s juices coating your fingers in a shine bordering hypnotic, and you nod. 

Astarion, now able to think in coherent lines of consciousness, is able to get a good look at you. He watches you, notices how your eyelids droop, your facial expression mirroring what he can only describe as melted adoration when your gaze languidly trails over his body before they flick up to his face. He’s seen that look so many times; admiration, but it’s never felt genuine before. There’s a warmth he receives from yours, one that washes over him and melts into his bones, forming his skin and shaping the very flutter of his lashes when you call him beautiful. The gentle touch on his waist pulls him back.

Your lips brush his, “my love,” and then they’re slotting back together. 

The kisses start lazy, relaxed and unhurried to simply have his mouth on yours, tongues dancing along each other in an easy rhythm even without music, but then Astarion feels your legs shift beneath him. He’s hiked further in your lap, but he simply lets it happen, assuming you need to adjust to get comfortable. Though, he comes to find that he’s sorely mistaken when you suddenly lean back, subsequently taking him with you. You both fall onto the bed, Astarion letting out an adorable, “umph.”

Neither one of you says anything, but you do lean forward to place a kiss to Astarion’s cheek, just below his faint beauty mark before you pepper his entire face. Your lips touch the bridge of his nose, his chin, above his smoothing eyebrows, essentially anywhere you could reach, and the domesticity of it leaves him speechless for once.

“My sweet,” you whisper, pausing in between every few pecks to speak, “can you do something for me?”

Astarion hums, his eyes closing when your lips find his neck, and you take that as a sign to continue.

"Can you get on top?" 

"I already am, my dear-"

"-I mean," you lick your lips, "on top…of my face."

"…Oh."

There's a high-pitched giggle that bubbles in the base Astarion’s  throat, involuntary but fleeting.

'Well,' Astarion thinks, his eyes widening, 'this is…also new.'

You, seeing how he pauses at the suggestion, move your finger in small circles on his hip in reassurance, and your eyes soften. "You don't have to, I just thought you might enjoy it."

"I," Astarion clicks his tongue, "I've just…never done that before."

A beat. "…No one has asked you to sit on their face before?" It's your turn to appear so incredulous, finding something like that so…so disrespectful. "Never?"

Astarion shakes his head, now beginning to shrink a little under your sudden bemused stare. He knows you aren’t mad at him, you’re never mad at him (which is why he tends to get away with minimal consequence), but he sees that your upset is genuine. And you are upset, because how can anyone deny this epitome of stunning, masculine monarchy, his ivory throne, adorned with anything less than the most lustrous jewels? What absolute madman, blind and deaf, surely, would give Astarion anything but which he truly deserves? Gold, silver, should fall between his slender fingers, molten and only his, the rarest silks and velvets hanging from his pallid limbs not unlike the knots lining a hangman tree; gorgeously morbid as he.

It makes you mad all over again, picturing those rabid animals all over Astarion, taking and mindlessly ravaging with no incentive to offer a modicum of benevolence. Hounds, the lot of them, soulless and only living to harshly breed the unwilling. How, your chest tightens as your anger makes way for a pang of sorrow, how much Astarion has suffered. You don’t want his torment to loom over him any longer, so you’ll just have to remind him; you are his, in his control. His to love, to break, to leave if he wishes it so. If he is to love you for the remainder of your long lifespans together, or if he is to simply use you to remember that he is more than the body that’s grown so foreign to him, so be it.

Your very soul clutches his, fist trembling, taut, and knuckles deathly white like a frightened babe clinging to their mother’s skirt; craving, clenching to prevent the scattered pieces of Astarion from slipping through your fingers. You’ll hold him forever, if he’ll have you. 

You will provide all you can, and accept all he’s willing to give in return, if anything. You can only hope that he receives you well and chooses you like you chose him.

Pushing those feelings down, you kiss your teeth before pulling the vampire's hips forward even more until he is basically sitting on your chest, the unexpected drag shooting a shudder of pleasure up his spine, and you smirk. Your strength often comes in handy at times. "We need to fix that. Now."

Astarion tries to hover at first, a bit too hesitant to allow his full weight to rest on your face even if his fear was a bit irrational; he’s seen you fight for Gods’ sake. And you aren’t having it. The grip on his hips grows unyielding as if they leave no room for further argument, and his puffy, flushed cunt is slowly lowering, taking its rightful place, against your open mouth. A stolen heir reunited with his true birthright, you surmise.

The pleasure that consumes you is almost too powerful, his taste flooding your senses and clouding your mind in an impenetrable smog of bliss, and you instinctively curse, your lips curling around the letters into his slick folds. Astarion releases a low whine, his head already falling towards the ceiling as if the fictional crown upon his head is too substantial, and he bucks his hips, relishing how your nose drags along his swelling bud. Your tongue explores at first, adagio to measure just where he might need you to be, but you find yourself indulging your thirst too quickly. It’s necessary, requisite, to feel his juices bead the tip of your tongue, his orgasm pooling down your throat essential for you to feel any sense of satisfaction for yourself, slurping and drinking and gulping like a man deprived for too long. Astarion’s body responds in kind; his hands reaching for you in the fray and tangling within your roots unceremoniously. It produces a moan from beneath him, the vibration against him causing a sound so ruined, it reminds you of a wounded sprite, but Astarion has never felt so safe. Even if your jaw practically aches as you attempt to inhale him (you’ll unhinge the damn thing if you have to), the man’s growing sounds spur you further, and Astarion briefly wonders if you’re truly trying to fucking eat him.

“Fuck,” he gasps, one of his hands releasing your hair to hold your forearm as it loops behind him to grip his waist.

Your hold is grounding, scalding, keeping him from getting too lost in himself, and he’s all the more thankful for it the moment your tongue slips further down his wetness to breach his hole, your nose nudging and grinding against his clit. He almost flinches away from the unexpectedness of it, but he gathers, that is what your arm around him is for.

“Fuck!”

Perhaps, Astarion’s eyes roll into his skull, this is the profound ascension Cazador is looking for; this feeling of your tongue splitting him open, lapping him along your tastebuds akin to a thirsting sinner kneeling in front of heaven’s locked gates. To him, this certainly feels no different than ascending to a higher power, and he swears he’s died-again-the moment your hand shifts to use the pad of your thumb to encircle his clit. His hips move on their own, burning from the strain but it feels so good, and rock back and forth, grinding.

You weren’t sure if you'd taken a single breath since he sat down, his thighs tightening on the sides of your face in a vice-like grip, non-verbally screeching at you to move ‘not a goddamn muscle’, not that it matters. Your view from between your lover’s legs, where you conclude your life was always meant to lead you, makes it easy to ignore the still of your chest, a dull scorch fixing around your stuttering heart as it struggles to handle the lack of oxygen. Astarion’s body glistens delectably, shiny from his sweat and arousal, and your eyes study the muscles in his stomach as they tense and twist and jump along with his keens and hisses of pleasure. Your lover’s movements titter the edge of desperate and feral, his hips rocketing along your face as if you were nothing more than an object to bring him to orgasm at this point.  ‘I’m not complaining,’ your eyes flutter closed. ‘Gods, I’m not.’

Astarion chases, following the catalytic pressure building in his stomach, tears forming behind his closed eyelids, and it goes up and up and up and-

His eyes fly open at a finger slipping past his entrance, nimble and thrusting and loudly coated in the slick of him. It’s deafening, how wet he is; it’s rich, nasty, and utterly debauched, but neither of you care. The air around you smells like sex and love and animalistic necessity, and the bed frame meets the wall in response to all of the movement.  “My darling,” Astarion cries, his voice wholly spent, raspy and sobbing. “My love, my sweet,” and he’s babbling. “Don’t stop, don’t-”

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’

“Don’t-”

Astarion, with his vast vocabulary and overall knowledge from both his time as a spawn and original profession as a magistrate, finds himself unable to describe the sensations running through him. Everything is burning, his hips sting from their motions, his stomach feels tight, but there’s also something else; something deeper. It’s ardent, starting from the bottom of his feet and ending in his chest, and it makes him feel like something is going to happen, something powerful. It buzzes, pulsates, makes his body feel heavy, the pleasure coiling in the pit of his stomach like a spring ready to snap. It’s new and a bit scary, but he knows you’ll be here, knows you’ll protect him, so he lets himself fall.

Your lover goes rigid, silent, a moment passing where every muscle and flex of his limbs comes to a complete halt, before he’s moaning, drawn out and in higher pitch. Your eyebrows draw together in concentration, eyes crossing behind your lids as your own pleasure rains down on you, and the lower half of your face is drenched in your lover’s gushing climax. He’s squirting, and by the grace of the Gods is it succulent. It comes in waves, Astarion’s hips thrusting in time with each flood of his orgasm, and your mouth remains wide open to catch it all, guzzling, taking to him like a kitten to milk.

Astarion convulses atop of your face while you work him through, globs of tears sliding down his cheek, glowing under the slowly dying candlelight, and there’s a ringing in his elongated ears. He can feel his mouth moving, words rolling his tongue and testing syllables on his teeth, but his brain can’t quite register what he’s saying.  

You certainly don’t understand him.

It takes a while for him to settle, the swirls and drags of your tongue now pulling the spawn into painful territory, and when Astarion full-on dry sobs at the feeling of your mouth, you pull away from him.

Your inhales are hefty, gasping and panting beneath him to regulate the breathing you so kindly cut off for him, your heart working overtime to accommodate, and your eyes open. Astarion’s body rises and falls with your deep lungfuls of air, his head angled down toward you in the perfect picture of ecstasy; a transcendental creature of delight and satisfaction. His eyes are misty, his waterline flushed a pretty pink beneath a new surge of unshed tears, but there’s a watery smile hanging from his lips; dopey and pointed. For a while, you don’t move, only massaging Astarion’s waist to ease his occasional spasm, and he’s thankful for it. Astarion has never felt anything so intense, so vigorous and…good.

He didn’t understand you at first, couldn't deduce why on earth you wanted to get to know him beyond the scope of bodily exploration, but at least then you could grant him the protection he needed, however confusing on his part. His mind, still deep within Cazador’s deeply inflicted hell of torture and transactional sex, had made him approach you in the first place, recognizing you as the impromptu leader of your ragtag group of weirdos, with all of his true weaknesses hidden behind a steel wall of falsehoods perfected after two centuries.  

“It was natural. Instinctive.”

But, in this moment with you, as you sit up to carefully lay his body down beside you like he’ll splinter and burst, his arousal gleaming on the lower portion of your face, he infers that he, perhaps, wasn’t meant to understand you. He was only meant to feel, let you chip through his walls with your patience, let you blanket him with your understanding serenity, to separate him from Cazador’s self flagellating sack of exhausted bones, and merely be. 

Be with you.

“Are you alright, Astarion?” You hum, observing his face, watching him for any signs of being off in any way.

Finally, the heavy weight on his tongue lifts, and he releases a low scoff, free of malice, “Simply amazing.” 

His voice is on par with stone gravel, scratchy and sore, and it makes you reach across him, heedful of jostling him too much, to grab a cup of water off the nightstand. It’s lukewarm when you tilt it against Astarion’s lips, but it helps soothe him immensely, and he clears his throat. 

“Do you,” he begins, but there’s something nervous, timidly resigned, about his tone that you instantly pick up on, “do you…want me to-”

Your lips find his, and his question trails off into the roof of your mouth, Astarion moaning softly at the taste of himself on your tongue. His shoulders ease, unaware they drew forward in rigidity to begin with. The air around you starts to clear, calm affection radiating from your heated skin and seeping into Astarion’s dead heart, and he swears upon every God he had no luxury to believe that your love may have the power to revive it. 

“No,” your lips part with a wet, muted smack. “No, I don’t want you to.”

“But,” Astarion’s words stumble, finding it hard to gather himself when your lips find his jawline, “you didn’t get to-”

“I did,” you cut him off again, smooching the side of his neck and tucking a damp curl behind his ear, “because you did.” And it’s true, “You feeling good makes me feel good, my love. Don’t worry about me.”

The vampire makes a face.

How can Astarion not when you always put him first?

His safety, his hunger, and now his pleasure, you always make sure he’s attended to first, placing yourself on the backburner more often than not, and while it’s beyond sweet, he’s starting to feel a bit guilty; guilty that he’s not giving you more than you deserve. Admittedly, he doesn’t know what he’s doing, how to have a real relationship far beyond sexual exchange, and it shows. 

But, he’s learning, and you never rush him. 

Astarion holds one of your hands in his, fingers intertwining around the other’s like straw woven through a basket, a perfect interlace of devotion and comfort; destined.

“I want,” the man’s eyes find yours, his words catching the base of his throat at the warm sentiment on your face whenever you look at him, “you to be happy…with me, with us.” 

Your palm raises to cup his cheek, the vampire nuzzling into it almost instantly with a quiet sigh, and brings your forehead to press against his, the smile on your lips wobbling in affection. The man in front of you, scarlet eyes exhausted and abused but so in love and willing to trust you, allowing you to douse the flames of his own personal hell and pull him up and out means more to you than Astarion will ever understand. 

Or, Astarion’s lips curl into a sheepish grin, his eyes wrinkling in the corners, maybe he does understand you. In his own way.

He’ll never forget the moment he first felt the sun after escaping the naultaloid, the feeling forgotten after having spent so many decades in the dark, traversing the shadows and hugging close to walls like diseased vermin, and how warm it was, almost as if the beams burned brighter just for him to ease the undead chill rooted within his bones; a reunion gift.

He supposes that being with you feels the same way; the sun embracing his skin to drive away the cold, constant and unfaltering. Just…you, your love that leaves him comfortable and unsuspecting, and Astarion half expects to wake up; to find himself still stuck in Cazador’s dungeon so broken he resorted to hallucinations for some semblance of comfort. But the pair of eyes in front of him, twinkling in passion as they surveyed him, are too expressive to be an illusion. Everything feels too real, too raw, to be a dream.

“You have no idea how happy you make me, Astarion,” and your declaration is conclusive, spoken as if the only truth you know.  

For once, he completely believes you. 

His psych doesn’t wrestle with his irrational belief that you’re being untrue, that he isn’t enough for you, because you choose him. Even after he deceived you, even after all of the emotional back and forth because he is so fearful, so damaged, you still choose him despite his faults and imperfections. He sees you when he closes his eyes, you worry his days when you’re away from him, and sometimes he just wants to crack open his ribcage to make space for you. There’s no need for his heart; it doesn't fucking work, blood no longer flows through his veins yet it’s the very thing he depends on to satiate this damned bestial hunger, so it has no place inside of him where you should be.

But, you’re here. Holding him, loving him and offering your devotion as it thrums between your fingers, sculpting the shape of your lungs around the phonetics of his name like you need him to live, and it makes Astarion want to cry.

So, he does.

Your face doesn’t show panic, but you do bring him closer, cradling the back of his head as he snuggles into your neck and allows his tears to fall. His back is being rubbed in soothing circles, your touch gentle but solid, and Astarion thinks that right here and right now…

Everything will be okay.