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From the moment Astarion met you, you’d been all smiles and diplomacy. You stopped to console every sniveling refugee in your path, every lost pet or child. If there was a possibility of talking your way out of a fight, you’d pursue it. Whenever somebody asked for help, you agreed with no asks of compensation.
And he honestly despised that about you. Even when it benefitted him, even when he was the one being granted aid, he saw you as a little more than a pretty fool. You were content to waste the party’s time with bland quests for little pay so long as you felt you were doing the “right thing.”
Ultimately, your methods were boring, and so were you.
It was a shame, too. If not for your dreadfully placid demeanor, you’d make an excellent plaything. You were easy on the eyes, all supple curves and flustered, sidelong glances. He could have a lot of fun with you.
So much wasted potential.
Astarion had recently realized that he wasn’t the only one to pick up on that potential. You drew hopeful gazes and sultry smiles out of people constantly, though he doubted you were perceptive enough to notice. Surely, this clumsy, naive allure of yours was the reason you were so often able to sweet talk your way out of violence.
And, tonight, he was thankful for that personable nature
When Emerald Grove’s tieflings flooded your camp to celebrate victory over the goblins, Astarion grimaced at the idea of entertaining them. They rushed over to him, a cheap gift of wine in hand, and sang their praises, hailing him as a hero. In truth, he’d wanted nothing to do with them from the start.
Fortunately, you called the group over to the campfire, violin in hand, and saved him from the drab pleasantries. The group was all too receptive to you, crowding around with bottles of ale and shouts of triumph. You beamed at the scene before going to work on your instrument, plucking away a pizzicato tune.
Astarion watched from a distance, standing several feet outside the warm glow of the fire. You danced and sang and, after a few verses, passed your violin to some other bard so that you could twirl freely among the party goers. You drank from the bottle of a tall, stocky tiefling soldier and laughed giddily as he wiped a stray drop of liquor from your chin with the pad of his thumb. You did him the honor of licking it off after.
A sharp laugh hissed past Astarion’s fangs. You were playing the role of a jester. It crossed his mind that you might actually be a bit selfish, that you might covet the praise, approval, and attention of others. That your pathological people pleasing was just a symptom of a self-centered want.
It honestly made you a bit more appealing in Astarion’s eyes. But perhaps he was only trying to rationalize the fact that he was beginning to imagine what you’d be willing to do for his attention.
You’d offered your blood to him nights ago. At the time, he’d steeled his resolve and took only what he needed, though the pulse under his lips had urged him to consume more of you. Now, Astarion was tempted to believe you might have let him—that you might have been willing to give not just your blood but your body to him as well.
You must’ve felt his eyes on you in that moment, because you turned your head toward the shadows and met his gaze. He expected you to be embarrassed that he’d borne witness to your flirting, but you only smiled and offered a quick wave.
He fixed a smile onto his own face as he watched you hand the bottle back to your new tiefling friend. The man’s face dropped as you skirted around him and made your way to Astarion, who felt a soft pang of satisfaction at the sight.
“Such a gracious hostess,” Astarion cooed as you neared. “Making our guests feel right at home, I see.”
“It’s a party,” you laughed. “What else am I to do? Lurk in the shadows looking for prey, like you are?”
The drone of the crowd was beginning to fade to a distant hum. He swirled his wine within its bottle. “Do I truly have you feeling like prey, dear?”
Just under the skin, your pulse quickened. You didn’t say anything, eyes dropping to the fangs peeking out of his lips. Warm, delicious blood rushed to your face.
A content chuckle left Astarion. He wondered if your reaction was driven more by fear or arousal. Either one was welcome. “In any case,” he said, “it seemed that you were doing some hunting of your own over there. I half expected you to sink your teeth into that poor tiefling.”
You composed yourself. “Well, I figured it’s a good night to have some fun. We probably won’t see any of these people again, so why not?”
You didn’t outright say that you wanted a one night stand, but he knew what you were hinting at. “How scandalous,” he hummed. “And with a near stranger, no less.”
He glanced past you and saw that the stranger in question was still keeping a watchful, wanting eye on you. Astarion felt a thrill at the idea of leading you off to his tent and fucking you loud enough for the tiefling to hear.
Your voice was cautious, considering. “If not a stranger, then who?” A subtle invitation.
“You know I’m always looking to have some fun. That is what parties like this are for, I hear.” He lifted his bottle toward your lips, much like you had done for the tiefling minutes ago.
After a moment of hesitation, you tilted your chin up and let him pour a splash of the dry, rich wine into your mouth. A red droplet slipped from the corner of your lips and ran down to your jaw.
He offered a sultry smile. “Tastes awful, doesn’t it?”
You nodded. Astarion felt that you didn’t actually think that, but that you simply wanted to offer him your agreement—probably in the hopes that it would make him like you just a bit more.
He enjoyed being the one getting catered to for once.
Making eye contact with your earlier suitor, Astarion took your jaw in his hand, turned your head to the side, and licked the wine off of your face with a single, slow swipe of his tongue. He lingered at your lips for a moment before pulling away.
Then, you were following him to the surrounding woods, not so much as glancing back over your shoulder at the ongoing celebration. Usually, Astarion would’ve had you wait, would’ve let the tension build until the others were asleep. But between his own hunger and the desire for your little admirer to see your preference for men with silver hair and silver tongues, he didn’t have the patience for it.
The two of you didn’t stop until you reached a small clearing near the river. The noise of the camp was dampened this far out, muffled by the sounds of rushing water and crickets. Perhaps he’d make you cry out loud enough for somebody to hear anyway.
Astarion heard your breath catch as he shrugged off his shirt. Your eyes were wide, slipping down the toned ridges of his abdomen until they reached his waistband.
Of course you’d be enamored by his body. It was created—or perhaps, more accurately, recreated—for the act of seduction. To lure people in. It was particularly effective against trusting, pretty little fools like you.
Briefly, his jaw tightened and he had to remind himself that his body was his own now. That any luring done was all on his own accord. That he was in control of what would happen.
He could take what he wanted, just for himself. And he wanted you. He could drink from you, bed you, and do it all over again, and you’d still be alive in the morning to help pack up camp.
You took a tentative step toward him, pulling him out of his thoughts. The doublet you wore shifted off of your shoulders as you unbuttoned it, revealing the base of your neck, your collarbones, and your ample chest. There were still marks against the side of your throat from the last time he fed off of you.
Astarion closed the remaining distance between you. “It really is no wonder that you have everybody wrapped around your finger.” He worked at your remaining buttons with you, leaning in to place his lips next to your ear.
Your top fell into a pile on the ground. “I’m not sure I know what you mean,” you said, your hands ghosting over his waistband in a silent question. Tilting your head to the side, you offered your neck to him as though it was just a piece of you to be bartered with.
He still thought you foolish for trusting a monster. It’d take a single movement for him to suck you dry right this second, and there’d be nobody to stop him. But here, skin to skin in the moonlight, your mortal folly was almost . . . endearing.
“How could I say no?” he purred. With a gentle push, he had your bare back against a nearby tree trunk.
He pierced your soft, warm skin with his fangs and shuddered against you as your blood spilled over his tongue. You went stiff against him, your hands finding purchase on his biceps with a desperate grip. A stifled moan escaped you as he sucked against your throat.
He hadn’t even needed to work for the sound. Just biting you, feeding off of you, had warranted this reaction. The idea that this was all it took to draw out such a salacious sound soon had him rutting his hips against yours, his hands holding you firmly against the tree.
You could feel his arousal straining against his trousers, and he could feel yours straining against your pulse. His hunger—always there, dull and gnawing—waned into a comfortable warmth as he fed, settling into the desire that now filled him.
“Ah, A-Astarion,” you squeaked.
He realized your hold on his arms had begun to loosen. Fleetingly, he considered ignoring your whimpered warning and instead drinking until he was satiated, if such a state of being was even possible for him.
But he resisted, withdrew after a quick swipe of his tongue across the blood beading at your puncture wounds. Maybe somebody would teach you not to trust so lightly, but it wouldn’t be him. Not tonight.
Your gaze was unfocused, your eyes tired and half-lidded. Astarion wasn’t sure if it was due to blood loss or pure, unadulterated lust. Either way, he knew that you needed him, that you had your own carnal desires to indulge.
“Good girl,” he hummed. His thumbs hooked into your pants, easing them down all too slowly. “You make such a delectable little treat.”
You straightened at his words, suddenly more alert. Hips pushing forward ever so slightly, your pleading eyes met his. It seemed he was right to assume that you had a certain proclivity toward praise. How absolutely delightful.
He moved onto his knees and parted your thighs. “And there is still so much left of you for me to taste,” he murmured. He was close enough for his breath to brush against the most vulnerable parts of you. He swallowed the urge to take you then and there, instead bringing his tongue to lap at your folds.
He savored you, the feeling of you on his mouth, the soft cries that escaped you as he worked at getting you undone. “Already so wet for me,” he purred against you. He had a practiced tongue, and he licked at you in long, torturously slow strides before moving onto quick flicks against your clit.
Usually, he had more control of himself, but here he was, unbuckling his belt as he ate at you. Something about the depraved little sounds you were making had him aching for some extra stimulation of his own. Still tracing your clit with his tongue, he took himself in his hand and stroked to the beat of your labored panting.
He ran his other hand up the inside of your thigh, ghosting over the sensitive skin waiting there. He marveled at how soft you were, warm and smooth under his touch, fragile even. He brought his fingers up a bit higher and rested them just outside your core.
“Please,” you managed through the pleasure.
He slipped his slender fingers inside. Matching the pace of his other hand, he pumped them in and out of you, eager to feel that heat and wetness around his length. He couldn’t just yet, though, not before he had you cumming against his lips.
He hooked his fingers and explored until he found the spot that had your knees buckling, your hands grabbing at his hair for balance. His tongue picked up speed and he heeded your desperate pleas for more, more. Every movement deliberate, he let go of his cock and grabbed your hip, holding you steady as you shook with the arrival of your climax.
The first one of the night, anyway. He wanted you to be sexually exhausted by the end of this. He wanted you to come crawling back for more when you finally recovered.
He was quick to stand up, flipping you around so that your breasts pressed against the rough bark of the tree. You quivered around him as he pushed his cock into you. With how slick you were, there was little resistance aside from a breathy cry of pleasure.
He leaned back, taking in how the moonlight illuminated the curves of your body and the sticky remnants of you on his fingers. “Such a pretty sight,” he mused. When you looked back over your shoulder at him, all flushed cheeks and parted lips, he made a show of licking his fingers clean.
You bit your lip. “Wait,” you said.
He went still. Had he done something wrong? Or were you just ready for it to be over since you got your climax out of it?
But neither was true. You shifted, pulling yourself off of him, eyes squeezed shut at the sensation of his length sliding out and the sound of his breath catching in his throat. You gave him a timid grin before dropping to your knees.
Astarion stared down at you, light disbelief drawing his brows together. “What’s this?” he breathed. He was usually the one offering the pleasure, performing a service—not the other way around.
“I want to make you feel good, too,” you told him. As if it was the simplest concept in the world. As if those precious seconds he just spent inside you didn’t already have him ready to fill you up.
He wanted to tell you that, if you had any reservations, you didn’t have to do it. He thought about just thanking you for offering. He almost did. Instead, he said, “Fine, but only because you look so darling on your knees.”
And then he was in your mouth. His cock pushed against the back of your throat. He groaned, one hand flying forward to balance himself against the tree and the other grabbing a fistful of your hair.
You were clumsy without the centuries of experience Astarion had. At points, you gagged and sputtered, your eyes welling up with tears as you caressed his length with the hot, soft insides of your cheeks. It was cute.
He bit down on the inside of his lip, his breathing heavy. You looked up at him through your lashes with a look that was becoming so utterly familiar. You wanted his approval. You wanted him to like you.
He guided your head up and down his cock. “Is that the best you can do?” he teased. He didn’t want to give you the satisfaction quite yet. He wanted you to work for it.
And you did. You sucked at him so eagerly, tongue flattening against the underside of his length. You didn’t pull away as he fucked into your mouth, instead moaning around him so that he could feel how much you enjoyed pleasing him.
If he didn’t exercise some restraint, he’d end up cumming down your throat. He pulled your lips off of him with a satisfying pop. “Much better,” he allowed.
You looked so proud of yourself, drool pooling at the corners of your lust-drunk smile. Your hair was mussed and wild, but your expression was utterly tame, almost domestic.
Astarion worried, momentarily, that he might end up being the one to crawl back to you. You made him feel so in control, so powerful. And so, so good.
He lowered himself to your level, pushing you down softly into the grass. He lined up against your entrance ever-so-gently and watched as you pressed your lips together in anticipation. “Tell me what you want me to do to you,” he said.
So adorably flustered, you whispered, “Fuck me, Astarion.”
“That’s all you have to ask for?” He tutted. “And without any manners?”
You squirmed beneath him, hands running up to his toned chest. “Pretty please,” you whined. “I want you inside of me. I want to feel you.” A brief pause. “And I want you to drink in more of me.”
He felt his lips curl over his fangs in a grin. You were making it all so easy. He bit back into the bloody side of your throat, earning a sharp squeal from you that turned into a perverted moan as he thrust himself inside.
Using the hand that wasn’t supporting his weight, he took your shaking wrists and pinned them above your head. He basked in the feeling of your helpless body trapped underneath him. You were so vulnerable, so dependent on his good graces.
“Agh,” he huffed against your pulse as he angled his hips to reach the deepest, wettest parts of you. Sweat beaded at his brow.
Your cries and pants were growing quieter, more tired. He tore himself away from your neck, licking the sweet taste of your blood off of his lips. He wanted you aware enough to feel him fucking you. Straightening, he grabbed one of your feet and brought it over his shoulder.
The new position had you in knots on the ground, writhing with each thrust of his hips. You were drunk on the feeling of his cock stretching you out. And you were loud.
“You’re making such perfect little noises for me,” he murmured with a lazy smile. It took an effort for him not to match the debaucherous notes escaping you. “And I want to hear what you sound like when you cum.” He left a few bloodstained kisses across your ankle.
You were soon coming undone below him, quaking as you heeded his command. Tumbling out of your quivering lips, his name broke the air as a discordant, overstimulated shout—over and over again. It was so easy to influence you, to have you fully under his thrall.
Astarion reached his climax as you did, burying himself deep inside you with a groan that his clenched jaw did little to hinder. The feeling of you closing around him was divine and the sight of you so worked up left even him lightheaded.
Still twitching at the intensity of it all, you met his gaze with that too-polite smile. “Thank you,” you whispered, voice hoarse.
He tensed at your blatant gratitude. At the fact that you voiced it to him. “We should get you cleaned up,” was his only response. It was light, though, coming from a place of hesitant concern. “If you go back to camp like that, somebody is going to put a stake through my heart before you can explain that I didn’t actually attack you.”
Sex with you had been messy. Twigs and grass tangled in your hair, his cum dripped out of you, sweat gleamed on both of your bodies, and blood was surely marring his mouth as sloppily as it did your throat.
You were the one to unlatch yourself from him, swaying dizzily as you stood. You gestured to the riverbank. “Bathe with me, then?”
An image of you both waist-deep in the water came to mind, with him lapping up any leftover blood sticking to your neck. He nodded. Your lack of discomfort—the uncontested trust in your request—was uncomfortable for him but not entirely unwelcome. “Of course. My pleasure.”