Chapter Text
Stolen glances, lingering touches on the small of your back, a brush of his hand against yours - all promises of what is to come, whispered between almost-lovers.
Travelling lush verdant landscapes on your search for the Druid, Halsin, your eyes are drawn to Astarion at each opportunity, your mind wandering to thoughts of your night prior. You had bared yourself to him, and him to you in an evening of bliss and exploration which you, even in all your overthinking, had not anticipated. Yet, it was nothing compared to what's to come tonight - at least, according to him.
And so you find yourself sneaking glances at his lips, which spilled forth such delicious sounds for you at your touch; at his silver hair which you envision your hands running through in a moment of passion; at his eyes, which gazed into yours with the intensity of a winter storm as his pleasure spilled from him.
Gods, is it distracting.
You're meant to be leading this merry band of tadpolled companions you have founded, not indulging these dirty little fantasies of yours. You need to keep your wits about you. Lives depend on it.
He, meanwhile, is the picture of easy grace and sardonic smiles, sauntering ahead of you with all the casual arrogance of a man who knows how good he looks from behind.
Every so often, he pauses to check his nails or adjust his perfectly coiffed hair, as if the finer details of his appearance are the most pressing concern in this current life-or-death situation.
And then there's that smirk. That knowing, mischievous quirk of his lips whenever he catches you staring. It's a look that says, “I know what you're thinking, darling. And you have to work for it.”
You're torn between wanting to wipe that damn smug expression off his face and wanting to… well, the evermore debauched side of your mind helpfully supplies several colourful suggestions, none of which are appropriate for your current company or circumstances.
So when you find yourself tripping over a fallen beam and nearly falling face-first into a pile of mouldy straw as your companions attempt to loot the blighted village you’ve stumbled into, you decide, for your sake and the sake of your increasingly concerned friends, to seek a moment of reprieve.
“You all go on ahead,” you shout to them. “I'll catch up.”
When they nod their understanding and continue on, you're relieved to have a moment to yourself. A moment to rein your wandering thoughts back under control and return to the wizard you were - one with a mind of sound, scientific thought and resolve, not of such lewd desires. For now, at least.
It seems only a taste of the once unknown was enough to drive you to madness.
But that isn’t all that plagues you.
As you stand alone in the dilapidated building you’ve resigned yourself to in your moment of madness, your mind wanders to the night ahead. Excitement bubbles in your chest, but it’s tempered by a gnawing anxiety that threatens to overwhelm you. You’ve faced down monsters, handled the horror of a mindflayer parasite lurking in your brain with a surprising grace. And yet, the prospect of fully giving yourself to Astarion shakes you in a way that you have never experienced.
It’s a natural biological response , you tell yourself. The release of hormones in response to a new, potentially stressful situation.
But there is a sense of finality to the coming night that intimidates you - a threshold that once crossed, cannot be uncrossed.
You pace the worn floorboards, your footsteps echoing in the empty room. Your mind, ever the analyst, begins to dissect your fears with scientific precision. Perhaps it’s not the physical act itself that fears you, but what it represents: a change. For so long, you’ve defined yourself by your rationality - your dedication to your craft - even if it meant keeping intimacy at arm’s length. But Astarion - he's awakened something within you. Something primal, something that can't be contained by logic or reason.
Astarion is a master in getting your heart racing - a dangerous cocktail of excitement, fear, and desire that leaves you breathless, in more ways than one as of late. He’s like the night itself - dark, mysterious, full of hidden dangers and untold pleasures. And just like the night, he calls to you, urging you to explore, to experience, to lose yourself in the shadows. It’s intoxicating.
There’s a part of you that fears this - that desire to cling to what is familiar. Yet you also yearn for the connection, the raw intimacy, the chance to experience life with your whole being, not just your mind.
And really, what does it matter if you lean into this yearning? You could all be dead tomorrow, or worse, transformed into mind flayers. If you're going to die or become a monster, at least you could do so knowing what it feels like to–
No, no . Stop that.
You groan and run a hand through your hair. All this anticipation is maddening.
Your eyes scan the room - what was once a bedroom - for a distraction, and locate a suitably perfect one placed conveniently on a bedside table: a small coffer, liable to be filled with the valuables of its owner, now long dead to the goblins which had infested this area before you and your companions had cleaned it up.
You sit down on the edge of the bed, the old, torn frame creaking as you lower yourself. The coffer is ornate, its lock intricate - complex enough to keep out the finest of goblin thieves, seemingly. Probably not enough to keep out particularly dextrous vampires though, your traitorous mind supplies.
Nevertheless, it will make a suitable distraction. You can figure out an old lock without Astarion’s expertise. You’re a wizard for gods’ sake.
You pull spare lockpicking tools from your pack, tongue poking out slightly in concentration as you set to work, trying to remember the vague instructions you’d once overheard in a tavern. Hells, what was it again? “Insert and wiggle?” Or “poke and hope?” Undeterred, you begin your fumbling.
… And the pick slips as you attempt to insert it into the lock, jabbing under your fingernail.
You yelp, nearly dropping the entire set, swearing profanities under your breath.
“Now this is just pitiful.”
“Shit!” You shout, the coffer clattering to the floor as you scramble to get up to address the velvety voice that manifests behind you.
You look up to see Astarion gazing down at you, eyebrow raised, amused at your lack of grace. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, the picture of casual elegance.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he coos.
“No, I just…” You fight to catch your breath. “It looked valuable. I couldn't just leave it here without taking a peek.”
“All by yourself? I do hope you were planning to share,” he teases in mock pouting.
“As if you wouldn't keep it all to yourself.”
He brings a hand to his heart, with all the theatrics of a wandering bard recounting his most exaggerated conquests after too many tankards of ale.
“How you wound me! I think you'll find I'm very generous.” He looks you up and down as you reclaim your fallen items and your space on the bed to resume your attempts at this gods-damned impossible lock. Astarion, however, seems to have other ideas.
He saunters into the room, circling you like a predator sizing up its prey.
“You know,” he continues, a smirk on his lips, “if you need me to teach you, you only have to say so. If I recall, you're an exceptionally fast learner…”
He leans over you, lips hovering closely to your ear. You pulse quickens, but you don't look him in the eye.
“... Darling. ”
Nope . Still not looking him in the eye.
“I’m perfectly capable of picking a lock, Astarion.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt. But perhaps you’d like a lesson from the master of larceny himself? I promise to be a thorough teacher. All you have to do,” he teases, “is say please.”
Bastard.
“And I suppose you’re offering this lesson out of the kindness of your heart?”
Astarion’s laugh is rich and warm, and your heart flutters for just a moment. “Let’s just say I enjoy watching you learn.”
The double entendre isn’t lost on you. Heat pools in your belly as you recall his “lessons” from the night prior.
“Fine,” you sigh in mock exasperation, turning to look directly into his ruby eyes. If it’s a cat-and-mouse game he wants, a cat-and-mouse game he shall have. “ Please, ” you purr in your best attempt to embody the sultriness that Astarion so easily exudes, holding his gaze with eyes hooded. You can only hope you don’t look and sound as silly as you feel.
You get more than you bargained for.
“Oh, my.” He positions himself behind you on the bed, pressing his chest against your back, his legs either side of you. “Since you asked so nicely.”
Your breath hitches. Your pulse quickens, pounding so loudly that you have no doubt he can hear it. But worst of all, the proximity, his breath on your neck, and the feeling of his hard body against yours ignite that familiar ache in your core.
So much for a distraction.
He tuts. “Ah, I see the problem.” His voice is low, lips now hovering beside your ear. “The pick you’re using - it’s not quite up to the task.”
You frown, examining the delicate tool. “What do you mean? It seems fine to me.”
“Oh no, my dear. Size matters when it comes to these things. It’s simply not big enough for a lock like this. Luckily for you, I have a pick that is very large. ”
You bite back a laugh and decide to play along. “Is that so? And how exactly do you manage to fit such a large pick in these small locks?”
He chuckles, the sound low and rich in your ear. “It’s all about technique, darling. With the right approach, you’d be amazed at what can fit where.”
You half expect to find yourself suddenly transported into the pages of one of those tawdry “romance” novels hidden in the darkest corners of Candlekeep’s library.
“I see,” you reply. “And I suppose you’ve had plenty of practice…”
Gods, you can’t quite believe you’re indulging this.
“... inserting your pick into various locks over the years?” You continue, heat flushing your cheeks at your own brazenness.
“Oh, indeed,” he replies. “I’ve encountered all sorts of locks in my time. Each one unique, requiring a… personal touch to open properly.”
“And have you ever met a lock you couldn’t pick?”
Astarion’s voice is downright wicked. “Not yet, darling. Though I must say, I’m quite looking forward to trying my luck with yours.”
There’s that ache of excitement again, pooling at your core at the implications which race through your mind. The air hangs heavy between you, charged with promise and anticipation. “Well then, master lockpick, perhaps you’d better show me how it’s done.”
“With pleasure,” Astarion coos, reaching behind him to retrieve an, indeed, much larger lockpick from his pack, alongside an additional curved tool: a tension wrench - how very advanced. He hands them to you, keeping a hold of your hands as you hold onto the implements.
“First,” he murmurs, his cool, long fingers guiding you to bring the tension wrench to the lock, “we need to slide this into the keyway, here. Apply constant, gentle pressure. Too much, and you’ll bind the pins. Too little, and they won’t set.”
Next, he raises your other hand, holding the pick. “Now for the delicate part,” he purrs. “We’ll use this to probe deeply, searching for those sensitive spots that, when touched just right, will yield to you.”
You swallow hard, but persevere.
As you work, you feel the subtle vibrations of pins through the pick; the minute clicks as they each settle into place. Astarion’s hands never leave yours, his touch both instructive and maddeningly distracting.
“Feel that resistance?” he asks as you encounter a stubborn pin. “Sometimes, darling, you have to apply a little more pressure. ” He emphasises the word by pressing his body closer to yours, and you have to bite your lip to keep from making a sound. “Maintain tension while you lift the pin with the pick.”
“That’s it,” he encourages as you successfully work your way through the lock, guided by his expert hands. “I knew those clever fingers of yours were good for more than just spellcasting.”
“And just what other uses did you have in mind for my fingers?”
His chuckle is low and rich. “My dear, I have so many ideas, we might need another night to explore them all.”
The promise in his words sends a thrill through you, equal parts excitement and trepidation.
“Almost there,” he murmurs, voice husky with concentration - or perhaps something else entirely. “Just a little more pressure…”
With a satisfying click, the lock finally gives way. You let out a triumphant laugh, turning to face Astarion with a grin.
“Well done,” he says, with something resembling pride flickering across his features for a moment. Or hunger. It’s hard to tell sometimes.
As the excitement of your victory over that bastard lock fades, you become acutely aware of Astarion’s proximity. You realise with a start just how close you are. His face is mere inches from yours, eyes boring into you with an intensity that steals your breath. The cool solidity of his chest against your back, his breath ghosting over your neck - it’s intoxicating and terrifying all at once. The reality of what is to come tonight crashes over you like a wave, bringing forth those familiar pangs of anxiety deep within your chest.
“Astarion,” you begin, turning your face away from him. “About tonight…”
“Not having second thoughts, are we?” He says as he shifts to sit alongside you. You find yourself equal parts relieved and disappointed at the loss of him pressed so firmly against you.
“No,” you say quickly, then pause. “I want to. It’s just… I don’t know. I’m just–”
“Nervous? Darling, I assure you, I won’t bite.” He pauses, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Unless you ask nicely, of course.”
Your face flushes at his brazen comment.
“Besides, after your… performance last night, I thought we were well past this bashfulness. You don’t need more ‘experimentation,’ surely?”
“That was different,” you mutter, avoiding his gaze.
“Oh?” Astarion leans in. You feel his breath on your skin, cool and gentle. “Do tell. What makes tonight so special that it has our dear leader in such a state?”
You take a breath, deciding to be honest. “It just feels like… once we do this, there’s no going back. I’ll be… I don't know. Different.”
It’s a foolish notion by all logic, but one that gnaws at your mind nonetheless. You feel almost ludicrous as you voice your feelings aloud. It’s difficult, this “being honest with yourself” business.
Astarion’s eyebrow arches, a mix of curiosity and amusement. “Ever the overthinker.” He pauses, seemingly considering his words. “Darling, you’ll still be you. Just… more experienced. And significantly more satisfied, I might add.”
You roll your eyes. “You know what I mean, Astarion.”
His expression shifts to something altogether softer. "I do. But tell me, darling - didn't you feel it last night? That thrill of breaking free from your own chains? The prim scholar I met would have baulked at such unseemly behaviour. And yet, there you were, eager and willing . Why cling to those old restraints when you could shed them entirely? There's so much more to experience, so many delicious freedoms to taste."
You blink. Loathe as you are to admit, he’s right about one thing: abandoning your own self-imposed constraints last night was… liberating.
“You know, you can be surprisingly insightful at times.”
He feigns offence, placing a hand dramatically over his heart. “Surprisingly? My dear, I’ve had centuries to perfect the art of observation. How do you think I’ve survived this long? It’s a crucial skill for any vampire. Or any lover.”
You laugh, and some of the tension eases from your shoulders at his usual bantering. “And there’s the Astarion I know.”
“Would you prefer I return to being mysterious and dangerous? That can certainly be arranged.”
“No,” you say softly, meeting his gaze. “I think I prefer you as you are.”
Shit , you think. Did I really just say that?
He makes an odd expression. That same indecipherable expression from the night prior, flickering across his features, barely visible, impossible for you to categorise. Is it disappointment? Annoyance? A deeper emotion that you cannot name? Gods, you wish you could see into that mind of his.
Well… you could, but that would be impolite.
But before either of you can speak again, a voice cuts through the air.
“Oi! Are you two coming back or do we need to leave you to the goblins?”
It’s Shadowheart, her tone impatient and slightly suspicious.
Astarion's usual smirk slides back into place, the elusive expression gone as quickly as it appeared. "Well, we'd better not keep them waiting. Wouldn't want them to start any unsavoury rumours, would we?"
As you gather your things, your mind whirls with thoughts of what almost was and what's still to come. Astarion brushes past you as he heads for the door, his hand ghosting over the small of your back.
"Until tonight, darling," he murmurs, just for you to hear.
-
The day crawls by with agonising slowness, each moment stretching like treacle in the sun; thoughts of the unknown looming over you like a curse - albeit one that promises especially satisfying outcomes.
When evening approached and you and your companions returned to the sanctuary of your camp, Astarion had caught you alone, his voice low and rich with promise.
“Meet me tonight,” he murmured. “When the others are asleep. In the clearing we found yesterday. Follow the path, and head east at the fork. I'll be waiting,” he finished with a smile - that same teasing, rakish smile which lingers in your fantasies at night.
Now, as you make your way through the darkening woods, your heart pounds a staccato rhythm against your ribs.
What if I do something embarrassing? What if I accidentally cast Fire Bolt in a moment of madness?
You snort at your own ridiculous thoughts. You can almost hear Astarion's voice in your head, calling you out for being the terrible overthinker that you are.
As you approach the clearing, you take a deep breath, trying to centre yourself. You're a bundle of contradictions - nervous yet eager, apprehensive yet excited. Your mind might be a chaotic whirl of thoughts and doubts, but your body moves forward with purpose, drawn to Astarion like a moth to flame.
Well, you think wryly, at least if I embarrass myself horribly, I can always hope for a sudden mindflayer attack to put me out of my misery.
With that comforting thought, you step into the moonlit clearing, your eyes searching for Astarion's familiar silhouette.
And then you see him.
Astarion emerges from behind a tree, shirtless, moonlight casting shadows that accentuate the lean contours of his form.
"There you are," he purrs, his voice low and rich. "I've been waiting. Waiting since the moment I laid eyes on you. Waiting... to have you."
You can't help but chuckle, a mixture of nervousness and amusement. "Since the moment you laid eyes on me? You mean when you held a knife to my throat?"
"Gods, you just can't let me woo you, can you?” he teases. He steps closer to you, his presence electric.
Your eyes trace the elegant lines of his face, the sharp angle of his jaw, the mesmerising depth of his ruby eyes. He is beautiful in the way that wild things are beautiful - captivating and perilous in equal measure.
“You don’t need to ‘woo’ me, Astarion. I’m already here.”
His smile widens. "Indeed you are. But where's the fun in rushing? I intend to savour every moment of this."
As he approaches, he snakes a hand around your waist, lingering at the small of your back, before pulling you flush against him. Before you have a chance to acknowledge his brazen actions, his lips meet yours and his kiss is as hungry as you remember; as intoxicating as you’d dreamed. His tongue plays with yours, cool and skilled, a stark contrast to the warmth blooming in your core. For but a moment, you find your body taking the lead once more - your fingers glide up the bare skin of his chest, up his jaw, finally tangling themselves in the silken strands of his hair.
As your arms wrap themselves behind his neck, you suddenly feel your feet lift the ground. Your stomach drops, a fleeting sensation of weightlessness before Astarion secures you in his arms, twirling to press you against the tree he emerged from. The rough bark presses into your back, only accentuating the feeling of his hard, smooth body as it envelops your own.
But then the rush of sensation begins to ebb. In its wake, your mind reasserts itself, a tidal surge of thoughts and fears flooding back in. The bark digging into your back, once a thrilling counterpoint to Astarion's touch, now feels uncomfortably real. The weight of the moment settles on you, heavy and undeniable.
This is happening. This is real.
Your body, so responsive moments ago, now feels stiff and awkward. Your hands suddenly feel clumsy and unsure. You're acutely aware of every point of contact between you, hyper-conscious of each touch.
Astarion, ever perceptive, seems to sense the change. His movements slow, and he pulls back slightly, ruby eyes searching your face. A furrow appears between his brows, concern replacing the hunger that had darkened his gaze.
"You've gone rigid as a statue, darling.”
You open your mouth to respond, but the words stick in your throat. How can you explain this? The desire that still smoulders beneath the surface, at war with the fear that threatens to extinguish it?
Astarion's head tilts, a predator scenting uncertainty. But when he speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically gentle. "You're overthinking this again, aren't you? I can practically hear the gears grinding."
He doesn't wait for your response, instead lowering you gently to the ground into the grass below and settling on his knees alongside you.
"Perhaps," he says, a thoughtful look replacing his usual smirk, "we need a different approach. One that will keep that brilliant mind of yours occupied .
“I want you to close your eyes,” Astarion instructs, his voice soft but commanding. “And then I want you to focus entirely on sensation. No thinking, no more analysing. Just feeling. Can you do that for me?”
You nod, both nervous and intrigued, as your eyes flutter closed.
“Excellent,” he purrs. “Now, I’m going to touch you, and I want you to tell me everything you feel. Everything . Alright?”
“I think so.”
With your eyes shut, every other sense seems to heighten as anticipation washes over you. Moments pass like centuries, almost agonisingly so.
As if to break the spell, you feel him trace a line, gentle and deliberate, along your jawline, all the way to your neck, resting his fingers above your pulse.
“What do you feel?”
“I… I feel your fingers,” you venture. You can't hide the uncertainty in your voice.
“What about them?”
“They're… cool? But not cold. Your fingertips are slightly rough; they have a texture to them.”
“Excellent,” he encourages. “What else?”
You pause as you feel him shift above you, straddling you at your hips, and he brings his head down to nuzzle into the crook of your neck. You shiver slightly as you feel the coolness of his breath, and his lips, which graze your skin, leaving a trail of kisses in their wake.
“I feel your lips. They're soft. I can smell your cologne… It's fresh, herby almost. And something else… something earthy. Something ‘you.’”
“You're more observant than I gave you credit for,” he teases, though his praise causes your heart to swell for a moment.
His touch becomes bolder, a hand trailing down from your neck to reach the swell of your breast, massaging it gently. You inhale sharply, the sensation both thrilling and unexpected as he brushes a thumb across your nipple over the barrier of your clothes.
“And now?” he asks into the crook of your neck, punctuated by slow, delicate kisses, planted along the line where he would sink his fangs.
“It's… intense,” you manage. It's as if your skin has become hypersensitive, every nerve ending alive and receptive to his touch. “I can feel everything so clearly, even through my clothes. It's almost overwhelming, but in a good way.”
You hear a low chuckle from Astarion. “Good,” he murmurs. “That's exactly what I want you to feel.”
As he sits up, his fingers travel to the hem of your shirt, a whisper of a touch that sends shivers across your skin. He pulls at the fabric with deliberate slowness, exposing your midriff inch by inch. His fingers occasionally brush against your skin, leaving the most wonderful tingles in their wake. When he reaches your chest, he pauses, hands hovering just below your breasts.
“May I?”
You nod, unable to find your voice. With a gentleness that surprises you, he slides your shirt, bra along with it, up and over your head as you raise yourself momentarily to help him. The cool night air hits your exposed skin and you shiver, though not entirely from the cold.
“Beautiful,” Astarion breathes.
His fingertips trace patterns on your skin, starting from your collarbone and working their way down. Each touch feels electric, sending little sparks of sensation through your body. He traces the curve of your breast, the dip of your waist, the plane of your stomach, as if memorising the feel of your skin beneath his hands.
When he reaches the waistband of your skirt, you feel his knuckles brushing against your hip bones as he works at the fastenings, and the muscles in your abdomen tighten of their own accord. You hear every sound, every breath he makes, every rustle of fabric.
As your skirt falls away, pulled with deliberate slowness, you become aware of new sensations. The blades of grass tickle your legs. The night air caresses your skin.
You feel exposed, vulnerable. But… safe.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. The night seems to hold its breath, the world narrowing down to just the two of you in this moonlit clearing. You're acutely aware of your nakedness, and you need not see it to feel Astarion's eyes roaming over you.
“You're exquisite,” he says, and for once, there's no trace of his usual sarcasm or teasing.
Astarion’s hands and fingers continue their exploration of your body, alternating between feather-light touches and firmer caresses. He seems to delight in discovering places that make you gasp or shiver - the shell of your ear, the dip of your waist, the inside of your wrist.
The sensation is incredible - like tingles radiating out from his touch, spreading across your skin in waves. It reminds you of the pleasant shivers you feel when someone whispers close to your ear. But gods, this is so much more intense; more all-encompassing.
“It… it feels like…” You try to describe the feeling aloud, but words catch in your throat, coming out as a soft moan instead, causing you to clasp your hands to your mouth to stifle yourself.
“Don't hold back, love,” he encourages. “Let me hear you.”
As his fingers trail along your inner thigh, a soft gasp escapes your lips.
Astarion’s touch is feather-light, teasing, as he moves higher. When his fingers brush against your entrance, arousal and anticipation leaving you more sensitive than you have ever known, a low moan rises unbidden from your throat.
And then his fingers enter you. One finger, then two. He moves slowly, almost agonisingly so, in and out and in and out of you, curling his fingers ever so slightly upwards. Little whimpers and sighs escape you, a wanton symphony of pleasure that you never knew you were capable of. Each sound seems to spur him on, his touches becoming faster, more purposeful, more focused.
You find yourself arching into his touch, your body seeking more of the exquisite sensation he's drawing from you, only for him to bring a thumb to your clit, playing you with virtuoso expertise in rhythm with his fingers. You cry out and, for a moment, you're embarrassed by the volume, but Astarion's hum of approval vanishes any self-consciousness.
“That's it, darling,” he whispers, his voice dark, husky. “Let go. Let me hear how good you feel.”
His words push you closer to the edge. Your sounds become more frequent, more urgent. You're dimly aware that you're babbling, a stream of “please” and “Astarion” and “oh gods” spilling forth from your lips.
As the pleasure builds to a crescendo, you feel the last of your inhibitions slipping away. It's as if the invisible chains which have bound you for so long are finally breaking, link by link. Each wave of pleasure weakens their hold, and Astarion’s touch is the key that unlocks every shackle.
When you finally reach your peak, it's like a dam bursting within you, sending all the pent-up fears and self-imposed constraints out along with it. Astarion’s name leaves your lips in a cry that's part plea, part praise, as you soar on wings of newfound freedom.
“Open your eyes, darling,” Astarion says softly, a grounding force in the wake of your climax.
You do, blinking in the moonlight. It takes a moment for your vision to adjust, but the world comes into focus slowly, like awakening from a dream.
Astarion’s face is the first thing you see, illuminated by the soft moonlight filtering through the trees as he sits up on his knees alongside you. And as your gaze travels down…
… He's also naked.
Heat rises to your cheeks as you take in the sight of him - all of him - all lean muscle and pale skin. You don't think you'll ever get used to the sight of his cock. Somehow, in this light, it's even more perfect than you remember: glistening, with a slight upward curve, and a girth that makes you ache in anticipation.
Astarion's smile widens, a hint of his usual mischief returning to his eyes. “See something you like, darling?”
You laugh, your voice raw. “You know I do,” you admit, surprising yourself with your own boldness.
“Hmm, yes,” he purrs. “But I do so enjoy hearing you say it.”
He shifts, positioning himself above you, aligning between your thighs.
For the first time, even at the final threshold, your mind is… quiet. You find yourself relaxed, languid. You feel that pang of nervousness, yes. But you don't find yourself restrained by it.
You want to revel in this feeling. In him. In the sensations he brings you. In this freedom he has granted you; this freedom that you have never before granted yourself.
A moment passes, and tension crackles in the air between you.
“Ready, love?” He asks, breaking the silence.
You nod. You are certain.
He positions himself, his hand guiding his cock, ready to bring it to your entrance.
“Breathe in for me, darling.”
You do as he says, drawing in a deep breath. And as you do…
His cock enters you.
You squeeze your eyes shut at the sensation. There's a moment of discomfort, your body stretching more to accommodate him as he slowly inserts inch after inch, giving you time to adjust. You have never felt so full before. You have never felt anything quite like this before.
“How does it feel?” He asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.
“It's a little sore,” you exhale, and your voice slightly shaky at the rush of sensation.
“Then let's start slowly, shall we?”
When he leans down to kiss you, you become aware of every point of contact; the coolness of his bare skin pressed so closely against the warmth of yours, yet it never quite feels close enough. You wrap your arms behind his neck, pulling him closer, deepening the kiss between you and, in turn, he wraps an arm under the small of your neck, lifting you to him. His weight on you is grounding as you adjust to the foreign sensations.
That is until, oh so slowly, he moves inside you.
His movements are controlled, restrained, yet you can feel the barely leashed power in his lithe form, in the ripple of his muscles. He's a predator, dangerous and deadly, yet in this moment, he handles you with a gentleness that gives you goosebumps.
Pain meets pleasure with each deliberate motion, merging into one muddle of intense sensation. But then the discomfort begins to fade, replaced by a building warmth that spreads throughout your body. Each slow thrust of his hips brings a new wave of feeling overwhelming yet exquisite.
Astarion brings a hand to your leg, coaxing you to lift it. You understand the message, wrapping your legs around his waist as he thrusts into you and gods . He's even deeper within you, the sounds wet and lewd with each undulation of his hips. You gasp loudly at the sensation, breaking free momentarily of his kiss.
You suddenly find yourself in need of more. More closeness, more contact, more of him .
Your legs, encircling his waist, involuntarily pull his hips into you, urging him on, faster and deeper into you. You hadn't meant to be so bold. But this feeling of fullness, of connection, is overwhelming, igniting every primitive urge within your body, now unconstrained by the shackles of your mind. He responds in kind, thrusting in time with each pull of your legs. Your voice is not your own, the most wanton of cries spilling forth from your lips, high pitched and needy. Your eyes search for his, eager to see them hungry, dark, brimming with pleasure just as you remember from the night prior.
But something’s different.
His eyes are glazed, ever so slightly, looking more through you than at you. It's as though he's focusing intently on something you can't see.
Concentrating, perhaps? Trying to maintain control? Gods, it's hard to think straight when each thrust hits deep inside you so deliciously. Each movement is methodical, perfect - skill clearly derived from centuries of experience.
But amidst the haze, you reach up and gently brush your fingers along his jawline. “Astarion?” you breathe, soft and inquisitive between each gasp of pleasure.
He blinks rapidly, his rhythm faltering. He pauses, still inside you. For a split second, what looks to be confusion flickers across his features, before his usual charming smirk, practised and perfect, returns.
“Ah, darling,” he starts, his voice hoarse. “Just got a little… lost in the moment.”
Before you can respond, Astarion suddenly shifts, changing your positions with a grace that takes your breath away. In one fluid motion, he scoops you into his arms and sits up, bringing you with him so that you're straddling his lap.
“Now then,” he says, “where were we?”
His renewed enthusiasm is almost overwhelming. His touch is more purposeful, his movements more intense as tangles a hand in the strands of your hair, pulling you in to kiss him. You find yourself swept up in his redoubled efforts.
Astarion’s spare hand settles firmly on your hip, pulling you to him, coaxing you to rock back and forth on his cock and–
Stars burst behind your eyes. A new, intense pleasure, richer than the last as the head of his cock brushes the uppermost wall of you.
He guides your movements, bringing you to a rhythm that has you gasping. You chase that elusive feeling eagerly. When you falter, uncertain and unbalanced from inexperience, he whispers his encouragement.
“That's it,” he murmurs as you find your stride, “keep going.”
He rocks his hips to meet your own, and gods, there's that beautiful voice of his, punctuated by the rhythmic slaps of skin against slickened skin. His low groans reverberate through your body, mingling with your own breathless gasps and whimpers.
Finally, seemingly sensing your fast approaching limit, he brings a hand between your bodies, and you feel the familiar sensation of his thumb rubbing delicate circles on your clit.
The added stimulation is too much to bear. You cry out, overwhelmed by the sensations coursing through your body as you close your eyes, giving yourself over to the feeling. Your breath quickens, your pulse a drumbeat in your ears, and you feel yourself shuddering, spiralling. You’re falling, flying, lost in sensation, and Astarion is both the cause of your descent and your only lifeline. He holds you steady, an anchor, as your senses return to you.
But this steadiness does not remain for long.
With a start, you find yourself lowered to the ground, Astarion holding you firmly by the hips, burying himself in you once more, his purposeful rhythm replaced with an erratic, senseless pounding in the final throes of his pleasure.
You feel the tension in him before it fully takes hold, a low steady hum beneath his skin. His breath grows shallow, his muscles tightening as if holding back a flood. You watch it build, each buck of his hips pulling him closer, like a thread winding tighter and tighter. His body starts to tremble and then, suddenly, it breaks - his breath catches, his body jerks, and you feel him give in, a surge of release that ripples through him like a passing storm. You find yourself moaning in response to the intensity, lost in the tension heavy in the air. Somewhere in the midst of his climax, you realise, he had pulled out of you, as you feel the coolness of his release on your abdomen.
He exhales, spent, the fire that had burned so hot now just a quiet warmth.
In the aftermath, silence falls over the clearing, bar your shared panting. The night air, cool against your heated skin, brings you gently back to reality.
“That… was amazing,” you breathe, still somewhat dazed.
Astarion chuckles, leaning his forehead delicately against yours. “You sound surprised,” he teases.
“Not surprised. I just had no idea I could even feel like that.”
Astarion's lips curl into a smug smile. “You just needed an expert’s touch.”
You laugh, giddy and carefree from the lingering euphoria. “Gods, all this talk of your touch might just make me want to go again.”
“Tempting,” he purrs. “But even I need a moment to recover, love.”
With that, he rolls off of you, settling beside you on the grass. You turn to look at him, taking in the sight of his profile in the moonlight, smiling as you notice the charmingly dishevelled state of his hair, a few errant strands falling across his forehead.
He seemingly feels your gaze, turning to meet it. The moonlight catches in his crimson eyes, causing them to glitter with his usual mischief, and something darker, more complex.
You recall his eyes in the throes of passion… a glazing over; a distance that you couldn't quite understand. The look had vanished as quickly as it appeared, just like all the others. The vigour with which he renewed his efforts to pleasure you was almost enough to make you forget the moment.
Almost.
Alas, you are ever the overthinker.
You find yourself spurred on by thoughts and feelings you don't quite understand. A need to experiment.
Acting on impulse, you shift closer to Astarion. You hesitate for a moment, then slowly, carefully, you rest your head on his chest. You feel him tense for a moment.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice a mixture of confusion and wariness.
“I'm not sure,” you admit. “I just wanted to be close to you. Is that okay?”
There's a long pause. Astarion doesn't push you away, but he doesn't relax either.
“I suppose,” he finally says, his tone carefully neutral. “Though I must say, this is… different.”
You lift your head slightly to look at him. His expression is guarded, as you've come to expect.
“We don't have to if you're uncomfortable,” you offer softly.
Astarion’s laugh is short and sharp. “Uncomfortable? Darling, I've done things that would make a succubus blush. This is hardly–”
He cuts himself off abruptly, seeming to realise he's saying more than he intended. There's a moment of silence, heavy with unspoken words.
Then, slowly, hesitantly, his arm comes around you. It's not quite an embrace - more like he's unsure where to put his arm and this is the most logical place. But it's a start.
You settle back against his chest, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes - unnecessary for a vampire; a relic of his past which he retains.
“This isn't… unpleasant,” Astarion finally says.
You smile against his skin.
Astarion truly felt like a puzzle box of a man at times. Certain reactions of his, certain words, dance on the edge of your understanding, always just out of reach. For a person of science, not being able to understand him in moments like this was… infuriating. Exhilarating. A conundrum that both frustrates you and drives your curiosity. Each time you think you've figured him out, he reveals another layer, another facet that sends you back to the drawing board. It's like trying to map the stars only to find they've rearranged themselves overnight. Thrilling, yes, but also unsettling. You're used to being the one with answers, the one who can make sense of the chaos. But with Astarion, you're adrift in uncharted waters, your usual compass rendered useless.
And yet, isn't this what drew you to the arcane in the first place? The allure of the unknown, the thrill of discovery? Astarion is a mystery more complex than any spell you've unravelled, a puzzle more intricate than any magical or alchemical theory you've studied. He challenges you, pushes you beyond the boundaries of your understanding in ways both terrifying and exhilarating.
You find yourself wondering if perhaps this is true alchemy - not the transformation of base metals into gold, but the transmutation of the self through connection with another. Each interaction with Astarion feels like it's changing you, reshaping your perceptions, your desires, your very understanding of the world.
But these are hypotheses to be considered in the daytime. For now, you rest, as a curious yet comfortable silence settles over you in the night air.