Work Text:
Divarra
Divarra puts on the plain, dark blue livery worn by the servants in the Ancunín household. She frowns as she fumbles the buttons, annoyed with herself for feeling nervous. She looks over to Elsarae, who is dressing herself in similar garb; the spawn looks up and gives her a conspiratorial smile.
Neither of them is wearing any jewellery, besides a plain gold earring to denote their status as one of the lower servants. With her buttons finally done up, Divarra ties her hair back with a plain black band.
She nods at her reflection. The outfit looks good on her, and she makes a believable boy. She grins at Elsarae, a flutter of excitement in her stomach.
Of course, Astarion will recognise them, but what will he do?
Divarra watches as Elsarae fastens the last buttons on her doublet. ‘You know,’ she says, giving voice to her doubts. ‘This might be fun, or it could be very painful.’
‘Or both!’ Elsarae says with a laugh. ‘I expect it’ll be both.’ She puts a hand on Divarra’s arm, her expression suddenly serious. ‘I do agree with you, he could use a distraction today, but you don’t have to do this...’
Divarra pulls her close and kisses her cheek. ‘I know.’
‘I mean it.’ Elsarae says. ‘You don’t... I mean... I know this was your idea, but...’ She snags her bottom lip with a fang as she struggles to find the words. In the end, she just says, ‘Promise you won’t let things go too far.’
It’s a bit late for that.
They make their way to Astarion’s dressing room through the door leading to the private suite; it would not do for any of the servants to see them attired like this.
When they arrive, the dressing room is deserted. Normally, Astarion’s valet, Doran, would be here, but Divarra has sent him out on an errand and ordered him to take the rest of the evening off.
Everything is in order. Astarion’s clothes are neatly displayed on their hanging rails, his shoes and boots lined up beneath. His cosmetics, brushes and jewellery boxes are set out on the dressing table, ready for use. Even the cushions on the chaise have been arranged and plumped.
All they have to do is wait, ready to introduce a little disorder into his life.
Astarion must still be in his meeting. He never enjoys them, and this one has dragged on far beyond the allotted time. Even at a distance, Divarra can sense the impatience smouldering beneath his calm.
She runs her hand lightly over the clothes rails, admiring the vast expanse of silk jacquard and brocade that constitutes the vampire ascendant’s wardrobe. So many beautiful jackets and waistcoats, gleaming like jewels in the candlelight.
There is a large tallboy against one wall, with ten shallow drawers. Divarra pulls one out to reveal half a dozen shirts neatly folded within. They are arranged by colour and fabric, silks and linens, so fine they are almost transparent. She runs her fingers over the lace edgings and marvels at the tiny seams, all painstakingly stitched by hand; every garment is a work of art.
Reluctantly, Divarra closes the drawer. She loves Astarion’s clothes almost as much as he does.
Astarion
Lord Astarion Ancunín is bored, bored and frustrated.
This meeting with the city’s most prominent citizens is essential to his schemes, but he has no wish to be here.
Why did he decide to take over Baldur’s Gate, when he could have spent a decade in his lover’s arms? That is what he should have done, vacuum of power and unmissable opportunities be damned.
If he had known taking control of Baldur’s Gate would be so tedious, he would never have agreed to it.
Only Astarion had not agreed. Fool that he was, he asked for the city, and Divarra, his consort, has worked tirelessly to give it to him, helping to make it somewhere the ‘cattle’ graze peacefully and a steady stream of gold flows into his coffers.
At least the lower classes are grateful for everything he has done, as she said they would be. But the nobles!
Once more, Astarion has been forced to commit an entire afternoon to hearing their trifling, petty complaints. There is nothing he finds more irksome than the pampered upper classes of Baldur’s Gate, insisting that rather than contributing, they should be helped. That their ridiculous levels of wealth and privilege are insufficient to their needs.
Astarion has spent most of this afternoon thinking up inventive ways to kill the most annoying petitioners.
Right now, these happy thoughts are allowing him to maintain a semblance of calm, while Lord... Whoever-he-is of Wherever, whines about the onerous burdens of his station.
It is amusing to watch the man droning on, clearly oblivious to the fact that Astarion, far from paying attention to his grievances, is imagining himself up to his elbows in his lordship’s blood, endeavouring to discover if the man is even a tad more interesting on the inside. That garish shirt and waistcoat shredded, soft skin splitting beneath his claws, softer guts spilling out...
How much force does it take to remove someone’s head from their shoulders? Astarion cannot quite remember. Nothing that would cause him to exert himself, that is for sure.
But which of these noble buffoons should he make an example of? It is hard to choose.
Astarion sighs. Killing any of them will cause more trouble than it is worth. He is playing a long game here, hence the meeting, hence this thin veneer of civility, hence having to pretend he cares.
Reluctantly, he stays his hand.
When the meeting is finally over, Astarion desires nothing more than to go directly to his carriage. But no, his torment is not over. He has to be polite, exchange pleasantries, enquire after the health of wives, daughters, babies. His skin crawls. Pudgy, sweaty hands touching his, foul breath in his face, mindless chatter assaulting his ears.
Duty done at last, he gets into his carriage, frowning impatiently as his footman closes the door.
As Divarra predicted, he is in an absolutely foul mood.
As soon as they arrive, he stalks into the palace, commending himself on his patience, because somehow, not a single noble had suffered so much as a scratch.
Still, restraint has not been without its cost. He feels restless, his lust for violence an itch he longs to scratch.
Astarion prowls through the corridors, looking for someone or something out of place. But everything is perfect.
You, little love, are too good.
No matter. Your presence will soothe him, eventually.
But right now? He feels on edge, his blood runs hot, a vague sense of dissatisfaction making his fingers twitch.
He does not want to hurt something, he needs to.
Astarion puts his hand on the door to his dressing room and stops. He can hear giggling.
Nobody should be in that room besides his valet.
He pauses. Surely, he cannot be about to catch his dour valet in flagrante delicto with one of the chambermaids?
Astarion’s lips curl into a smile at the thought. He is fairly sure Doran does not know how to enjoy himself, and if he did, the idea that he would do it on his master’s time is unthinkable. No, whatever is going on in that room has nothing to do with Doran.
More to the point, it is not something Astarion has sanctioned.
He throws the door wide with a scowl and finds himself greeted by a pair of page-boys standing in Doran’s appointed place. For a second, Astarion does not recognise them.
Then he does.
They bow respectfully.
Astarion frowns. Whatever game these two are playing, he is most decidedly not in the humour for it.
That said, darling, you do make a very attractive boy.
Divarra straightens. ‘Good evening, my lord.’
Elsarae simply smiles, exaggerating her lower city accent when she asks, ‘Had an ’ard day, m’lord?’
Astarion’s mouth falls open. None of the staff would ever address him directly, and certainly not like that.
He scowls. If these cheeky pups want to play at being servants, they are making a terrible job of it. Elsarae even has the audacity to grin.
Despite his annoyance at this unscheduled change to his routine, Astarion decides to play along.
He does not respond to their rudeness beyond raising a brow, hopefully making it clear from his expression that he is far from impressed.
He starts to remove his rings. Divarra is there immediately, holding out a tiny enamelled bowl for him to drop them into.
Astarion deposits all but one of his rings into it. When she takes the bowl away, he lets the last one fall. It lands on the carpet with a soft thud. She freezes.
‘I see competence is too much to ask.’
Divarra hastily picks the ring up, polishing it against her doublet before placing it with the others.
‘Forgive me, m’lord.’
‘No,’ he says. ‘You may be new here, but there are rules. All transgressions will be punished, and that was your second. Can you tell me what your first was?’
She bows her head. ‘Yes, m’lord. I shouldn’t have addressed you directly.’
‘Quite so. At least you were polite.’ He turns to Elsarae, ‘As for you, it looks like I’ll have to teach you some manners.’
Elsarae bows. ‘Yes, m’lord.’
Still, an impertinent smile plays around her lips. Astarion is going to enjoy removing it.
‘Where’s Doran?’ he asks.
Divarra answers. ‘Doran’s on an errand, m’lord. We’re here to attend you in his stead.’
Astarion hums.
Divarra approaches, her hands reaching towards the clasps on his jacket. She pauses, her eyes still respectfully on the ground.
‘Well?’
‘If I may, m’lord?’
Astarion grunts assent, his brows still drawn together. Her fingers tremble slightly as they unfasten the metal clasps.
Their bond is unusually quiet, but her anxiety is palpable.
Astarion looks over her head and watches himself in the mirror, behaving as if she is completely beneath his notice. There are several mirrors in this room, but none of them are enchanted, rendering Elsarae and Divarra invisible. If he decides to let them play in here again, he will have to rectify that.
Divarra exhales shakily as she undoes the last clasp on his jacket. She steps behind Astarion to help him out of it. It is heavy, cut in the new style; with deep cuffs, extravagant pocket welts and a full skirt. The fabric is a rich, black silk brocade, shot with silver and woven in a pattern of thorns and roses. Divarra hangs it carefully on a padded hanger, then returns to unfasten Astarion’s waistcoat. This is made of the same brocade as the jacket but in lilac. She helps him out of it and hangs that up too.
Normally, Astarion undresses himself, shrugging carelessly out of his day clothes and throwing them to Doran, who, despite his advancing years, never misses a catch.
This pampering is totally unnecessary, but he has to admit, it is not entirely unpleasant.
Divarra reaches up and removes the jewelled brooch that holds Astarion’s jabot in place, a large amethyst surrounded by diamonds. She gave it to him on the first anniversary of her turning, and it is one of his favourite pieces. She tucks it into its velvet-lined box, then returns to remove the ebon lace at his throat.
Once his jabot has been put away, Astarion holds out his arm so Divarra can unfasten his shirt cuffs.
She is often here when he changes, but he had not realised how closely she was paying attention to his routine. He is impressed by how thoroughly she remembers it.
As the first ties come undone, her fingers brush against his skin. The contact sends a rush of heat through her body, her arousal so intense he can feel it. Her pupils dilate, her nostrils flaring slightly as she inhales his scent. Almost unconsciously, she reaches out and touches the inside of his wrist again.
Astarion jerks his hand away and tsks.
‘Bold of you.’
She swallows. ‘Forgive me, m’lord.’
Astarion looks over her head, suppressing a smile. ‘I think not.’
Just one touch and she’s undone.
The ties on his other cuff have pulled into a knot, no doubt due to him fiddling with them earlier, while he was trying not to murder someone. Divarra kneels at his feet as she works it loose.
Astarion watches her, a small crease forming between his brows.
He will enjoy administering punishment. Or rather, he would enjoy it, were he sure that is what she wants.
Just thinking about spanking Divarra is enough to get Astarion hard, but on the occasions when he has indulged, her response has been less than enthusiastic—more like amused tolerance.
He enjoys being in control. She does not like relinquishing it.
And why would she?
How often, in her short life, has Divarra had power?
How often did those with power over her abuse it?
When he ascended, she tipped the scales irrevocably in his favour.
And how did he reward her?
Astarion flushes, pushing these uncomfortable memories aside.
What is done is done. No point in dwelling on it.
Yet, here she is, offering herself to him, and after a day that has been particularly frustrating.
Astarion frowns.
Little love, this is a dangerous game.
There is a line here, a line he should not cross, but it feels thin and taut, all too easy to overstep.
Part of him wants to keep her safe, but the darker side of his nature is aroused, aroused and curious.
He wants to know how far she will go, how far she will let him go.
The ties on his cuff finally come loose.
‘So,’ Astarion says, arching a brow. ‘It seems you are half-competent after all.’
Divarra stands up. ‘Thank you, m’lord.’
Astarion starts to roll up his sleeves.
‘However, we still have to address your appalling behaviour.’
A tremor runs through her.
It is almost worrying, how much that excites him.
Chamberlain Foyle uses a cane when the servants misbehave.
For Elsarae, that would do nicely. Astarion knows how much she wants to feel his hand on her ass, and he has no intention of giving her the pleasure.
A cane for his darling? Absolutely not.
He turns to Divarra. ‘Fetch me one of my belts. Do you know where they are kept?’
Divarra swallows and nods. ‘Yes, m’lord.’
Her hands are shaking slightly as he takes it from her, her eyes wide, her tongue darting out to lick her lips.
Such small hands.
Astarion inspects the belt. Divarra has chosen well. It’s an old one from his adventuring days, soft and worn. He had forgotten he still had it. He gives the leather a sharp snap. The sound ignites a spark of excitement in Elsarae, fear and arousal mixed.
Divarra is not aroused at all.
He pauses, waiting for some sign from her, some indication.
Divarra gives him nothing.
Should he?
She does know she can stop this at any time.
Doesn’t she?
Astarion clicks his fingers at Elsarae.
‘You first,’ he says coldly. ‘Disrobe. No need to damage your livery.’
Elsarae starts undressing immediately, undoing the buttons on her doublet and slipping it from her shoulders before she unfastens her breeches.
‘Your small-clothes, too.’
He turns to Divarra and indicates the marble-topped dressing table that holds his perfumes, jewellery and cosmetics.
‘Clear everything to one side,’ he orders. ‘Carefully.’
Divarra moves the various bottles and jars as directed, glancing anxiously at him, to make sure he is satisfied with the arrangement.
Hells! He’s already hard.
Astarion beckons Elsarae, glad that his breeches are loose enough to hide his burgeoning erection.
‘You will take your punishment here,’ he instructs. ‘And you will take it in silence.’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
He turns to Divarra.
‘And you will stand there,’ he points to a spot where he can keep her in his line of sight, ‘and watch.’
He bends Elsarae over the table and snaps the belt again, just to get her attention. His cock twitches when she jumps.
He is definitely going to enjoy this.
They are both young, barely turned two years, so they should not heal too quickly, provided he does not go easy.
Astarion has no intention of going easy.
Divarra
Divarra watches Elsarae take position, trying to ignore the anxious fluttering in her stomach. Waiting is only going to make her more anxious. She would have much preferred to go first.
Elsarae is enjoying herself, that much is obvious, but Divarra is not sure she will. And the more she sees, the stronger her doubts become.
She stands up straight and keeps her expression neutral, but inside, she is wincing at every blow. She watches Elsarae’s flesh redden, her pale skin marred by welts.
If that was not bad enough, the sounds make Divarra feel even worse, the snap of leather against bare flesh, Elsarae’s gasps as each blow lands.
Eventually, Elsarae cries out, and Astarion stops. He grabs her by the hair, winding it around his hand as he leans over to admonish her. Elsarae’s excitement spikes, and he pulls harder, forcing her head back, her neck curving as he makes her look at him.
Divarra takes a step back.
Stop, she tells herself. You are the consort of the Vampire Ascendant. She a mere spawn. You do not flinch. You do not run.
And she will not. She will not.
Memories surface that Divarra thought safely buried; and, just for a moment, she is not watching Elsarae, she is watching herself. Small, helpless...
Furious at her weakness, Divarra shakes herself.
Stop it! She wants this. He would not touch you like that.
Would he?
When Divarra comes back to the present, Astarion has finished administering Elsarae’s punishment. She is standing before him, sniffling, her head bowed.
‘So,’ he asks her, ‘What have you learned?’
‘To be polite and respectful, m’lord. At all times.’
He takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead. ‘Good girl. Now, go and draw me a bath.’
Elsarae leaves, and Astarion turns his attention to Divarra.
‘Remove your livery and turn around.’
Divarra removes her outer clothes, and Astarion circles a finger, indicating that she should stand with her back to him.
She complies, worried and slightly confused, until the breast band she used to flatten her chest falls at her feet, neatly cut through. It is swiftly followed by her small-clothes. By the time she registers the silk being cut, it is already done.
Of course, Astarion had a blade to hand, and she did not even feel it. A flush of pride momentarily cuts through her unease.
But when Astarion turns her back to face him, her fear reasserts itself.
Divarra has seen that smile before, lots of times, but it feels very different to be on the receiving end.
How far is he going to go?
How much can she take?
Astarion indicates she should take her position at the table. He pushes her down until she is bent over, breasts pressed against the cold marble.
‘Here are the rules,’ he says. ‘You don’t move until I tell you, and you take your punishment in silence. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘Then we’ll begin. Three strikes for each transgression. You will keep count.’
The first blow is light, a sharp little kiss against her skin that carries a sting in its tail. The next time, he strikes with more force. The gaps between the blows are uneven, so she never knows when the next one will come, but each one is always harder than the last. It takes some time before Divarra cries out, but eventually she has to.
Astarion stops. He walks over to her. Divarra stays where she is, trying to control the trembling of her limbs.
‘How many was that?’ he asks.
‘Seven m’lord. Seven of nine.’
‘And what were the rules?’ he asks. ‘Do you remember?’
‘Not to move and not to make a sound, m’lord.’
‘And did you make a sound?’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
‘Bad girl!’
He practically purrs the words, and it makes her feel...
Divarra is not sure how she feels, but the sudden rush of heat between her thighs suggests a sharp disconnect between her body and her mind.
‘Now you have earned three more. So, how many was that?’
‘Seven of twelve, m’lord.’
‘Just so.’
Divarra wonders how many Elsarae had. She lost count when Astarion grabbed her hair. Not that it matters.
When the last blow lands, Divarra lets out a sob.
Slowly, she stands up.
Gods above and below! That stings!
She wills her expression back to neutral and blinks away a tear before Astarion can see.
Back straight, chin up.
She expects Astarion to go straight to the bathing pool, but instead, he steps over to her. She gasps and closes her eyes.
‘You did well,’ he says. There is the softest touch against her cheek. ‘And see?’ he whispers. ‘I can be gentle, too.’
Astarion
Elsarae is leaning against the wall in the bathing area.
Astarion glares at her. ‘Stand up!’ he snaps. ‘Or do I need to punish you again? I warn you, next time, I will not be so lenient.’
She immediately jumps to attention.
‘You will attend me,’ he says, as Divarra enters the room behind him. ‘Both of you.’
‘Yes, m’lord.’
They bow together, perfectly obedient, both of them trying not to wince with the movement, and both failing.
Astarion smothers a smile.
Beautiful.
Divarra helps him undress, rolling the sleeves of his shirt back down to his wrists before she unlaces the neck. He pulls the shirt over his head and hands it to her. Then, he unfastens his breeches, steps out of them, and hands them to her as well.
He points to the dressing room. ‘Clean up that mess.’
The bath is a large, square pool sunk into the floor. The water is already perfumed and at the perfect temperature. Astarion sinks into it, sighing in contentment.
Elsarae kneels behind him, ready to wash his hair. Astarion leans back while she tends to him and watches Divarra through the archway.
Despite the fact that she must be in considerable discomfort, her movements are quick and efficient. She hangs up his breeches and puts his shoes by the door to be cleaned. Then, she picks up her and Elsarae’s livery along with their small-clothes, making a neat pile of them on the chair. She folds his shirt and small-clothes and places them on top, even though these last items will be going straight to the laundry.
Finally, she turns her attention to the dressing table, putting everything back in its place.
Doran could learn a thing or two from her.
When he has finished bathing, Astarion steps out of the pool. Divarra and Elsarae are standing ready with warmed towels. They dry him carefully, their faces neutral, eyes respectfully averted. Once this is done, they spread a towel over the marble bench for Astarion to sit on and proceed to rub scented oils into his skin.
Elsarae kneels before him, while Divarra is at his back. Astarion would rather it were the other way around, but Divarra is the only one he permits to touch his scars.
He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back as she massages the knots out of his shoulders. Elsarae works her way up from his feet to his calves. As she starts to work on his inner thighs, his arousal becomes impossible to ignore.
Astarion points to his erection.
‘Attend to that.’
He did not address either of them directly, but he is still surprised, and more than a little disappointed, when Elsarae is the one to place her hand around his cock.
She lowers her head and licks along his length, her thumb drawing tiny circles on the head. The sensation is far from objectionable; but she is not Divarra.
A flicker of annoyance crosses Astarion’s features, but then Divarra leans forward, pressing her breasts against his back. Her hands stroke upwards, from his shoulders to his neck.
She touches his ears.
Hells!
Astarion tenses momentarily, before closing his eyes again and settling back, cushioned against the warm softness of her breast.
Divarra’s touch is light, a moth-wing fluttering against his skin. Astarion shivers when she starts to use her tongue, her fingers on his other ear moving in tandem with her mouth.
She sucks on his lobe, drawing it in between her lips and Astarion lets out a low groan. Slowly, she makes her way towards his ear tips, her touch soft, her kisses light, teasing, warm. When she takes the cartilage near the top between her teeth and gives it a gentle nip, he almost loses control.
He feels her lips tighten for a moment, feels her pleasure in eliciting such obscene noises from him.
She caresses the very tip of his ear, her tongue exploring its folds. Then she pauses, keeping him on the very edge. Astarion is just about to tell her not to stop when she exhales, cold air ghosting across his skin. He gasps, letting his breath out in a hiss.
Warm lips, velvet tongue, cool breath, she plays a symphony of sensations across his skin, each variation more exquisite than the last.
Divarra intensifies her movements, Elsarae following her lead, taking as much of him in her mouth as she can.
If he did not know better, Astarion would think they had rehearsed this. They move in perfect harmony, eliciting ever more wanton sounds from him, as they chase his pleasure. Held between them, surrendering completely to their touch, Astarion does not last long.
When he opens his eyes, Astarion sees that Elsarae has made a wonderful mess of his cock, and of herself too.
He sends her for a clean cloth, while Divarra goes to fetch his robe.
That gives him just long enough to recover his wits.
Divarra brings out a pair of soft black silk trousers and a sumptuous robe in burgundy velvet. She bows as she presents it to him.
‘What’s this?’ Astarion asks, his fingers plucking at the robe. He has never seen it before.
‘If it please you, m’lord. It’s a gift from m’lady.’
He smiles. ‘How thoughtful of her.’
Astarion dons the trousers while Divarra stands behind him and holds out the robe. He slips his arms into the sleeves; the silk lining soft and warm against his skin.
‘You may go,’ he says. ‘Both of you. Send your mistress to me.’
Elsarae departs immediately.
Divarra pauses. ‘My lord?’
Astarion raises his brows.
She swallows audibly. ‘Will you be dining tonight?’ she asks. ‘Should I send word to the kitchens?’
‘No, have blood sent to my rooms. For two.’
She bows. ‘Yes, m’lord. Right away.’
So obedient. She’s perfect. Utterly delightful.
The door closes behind them, but Astarion can still hear Elsarae and Divarra giggling together as they make their way to her chambers.
He walks over to his dressing table. No doubt it is his imagination, but the marble still feels faintly warm where Divarra lay across it. He touches it reverently.
His brave, reckless little love. He had not been kind. He hopes it was not too much.
He stands there, lost in thought, until Divarra enters the room again.
She looks as though she has just risen, fresh make-up, her hair braided and pinned into a crown, sparkling with tiny gems. She is wearing a long dress in midnight blue chiffon, the fabric so fine, it conceals absolutely nothing. As she approaches, the silk swirls and moves around her, like ink in water.
So beautiful, darling.
Astarion pouts. ‘You took Doran,’ he accuses.
Divarra blinks. ‘I needed someone to run an errand.’ she says. ‘I hope you didn’t miss him too much.’
‘I survived. Just.’
Divarra steps closer and Astarion claps a hand on her behind and pulls her close for a kiss. The pain in her eyes sparks something inside him, pride, a fierce, possessive joy.
Sweet thing. You didn’t heal yourself.
‘Something wrong?’ he asks.
‘Your hand is a little cold that’s all.’
He squeezes, causing her to draw her breath in sharply.
‘Are you sure that’s all?’ he asks, his tone teasing.
Divarra huffs. ‘Oh, you want to gloat, do you? Well, in that case, I admit, I’m still a little sore.’
‘Just a little?’ he asks. ‘Dear me. I must be slipping.’ He pulls her in for another kiss, delighting in the way she seems to melt against his chest. ‘And for your information, I was not gloating, merely admiring my handiwork.’
‘And how did you find Doran’s replacements? Divarra asks, when he releases her. ‘I hope we performed to your satisfaction.’
Astarion closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, an affectation he knows she finds irritating. As expected, Divarra smothers a laugh, her cheeks dimpling as she tries to keep a straight face.
‘Ugh!’ he says. ‘Such insolent brats! Darling, you’d make a terrible servant, and Elsarae is even worse. It was most unkind of you to inflict yourselves on me, today of all days. I have half a mind to punish you again.’
Divarra gasps and covers her mouth. ‘You wouldn’t!’
Astarion looks down and brushes a piece of imaginary fluff from his sleeve. ‘I’m not one to shirk my duties.’
Divarra leans in closer. ‘Why, you’re utterly heartless,’ she whispers. ‘So cruel!’
Astarion puts his lips to her ear and whispers, ‘Only when you want me to be.’
And how sweetly she shivers when he says it.
‘And just because I didn’t mention it,’ she says, narrowing her eyes at him, ‘don’t think I didn’t notice you cheating.’
Astarion opens his eyes wide, his face the very picture of wounded innocence. He raises a hand to his breast.
‘Cheating? As if I would.’
Divarra laughs. ‘You would, and we both know it. You dropped that ring on purpose.’
‘What ring?’
She hits the top of his arm lightly and laughs. ‘Oh, stop! You know exactly what I’m talking about.’
Astarion shrugs. ‘Well, you should know me by now, darling. I play to win.’
‘You’re shameless!’
He smiles and leans in to kiss her. ‘Guilty as charged. Tell me, did you enjoy it?’
Divarra hums. ‘I know you did,’ she says.
‘That doesn’t answer the question.’
Divarra shrugs. ‘I’m not sure. Your pleasure is my pleasure, so... It gets... complicated.’
Astarion strokes her hair. ‘That sounds like a ‘no’ to me.’
‘Not exactly...’
‘No? I know you were afraid.’
‘I was. But it’s nice to feel scared sometimes, when deep down you know you’re safe.’
‘Oh,’ Astarion chuckles. ‘You think you’re safe, do you?’
‘Nowhere safer.’
And his dead heart feels a little warmer when he hears that.
Astarion sits on the chaise and pulls Divarra forward to stand between his knees. It never fails to amaze him, just how tiny she is.
‘I want to see you,’ he says. ‘All of you.’
He pulls the dress up, Divarra raising her arms so he can lift it over her head. The thin silk floats slowly down to the ground as he pulls her in for another kiss.
She gasps as his fingers brush lightly across the welts on her buttocks. Her skin is still hot to the touch.
Astarion presses his tongue against her lips, lightly kneading her abused flesh. A shiver of excitement runs through him as Divarra moans into his mouth; it is not desire alone, eliciting those delicious sounds.
Divarra deepens the kiss, groaning softly as she surrenders to his grasp.
What a treasure you are, little love. Perfect. Every time.
After a minute, Astarion breaks away. ‘How are you feeling?’ he asks.
Divarra smiles. ‘I’m fine.’
Astarion observes her carefully, seeking the truth between her words. Her smile is suspiciously tight, her reply a little too quick.
‘You should drink,’ he says, tilting his head back and offering his neck.
Divarra hesitates, her hands resting lightly on his shoulders. ‘I thought we were having blood sent up.’
Astarion shakes his head. ‘Drink,’ he says. ‘I insist.’ He reaches forward and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear, before drawing her closer. ‘Come. Let me take care of you.’
Astarion makes room on the chaise, lying back and encouraging Divarra to lie between his legs. She kicks off her slippers, wincing as she puts her feet up and settles against his chest.
He laughs softly. ‘Oh, my poor darling, even with my blood inside you, you’re going feel that all night.’
Divarra does not answer. She nuzzles into the hollow between his shoulder and neck and starts to feed.
The sensation of his blood being drawn into her mouth, the heat of her skin where she is pressed against his thigh, the memory of her naked and bent across his dressing table, all combine to make Astarion so hard it is almost painful.
He presses a thigh against her reddened skin, feels her muscles tighten in response as she tries to move away. He rubs against her gently, eliciting another soft moan that makes his cock grow even harder.
‘You’re going to feel it,’ he whispers. ‘And you’ll remember. Every time you move. Every time I touch you. You’re going to be thinking about me all night.’
Divarra huffs as she withdraws her fangs, dropping a kiss onto the wounds before she licks them closed.
‘As if I don’t already,’ she says.
He strokes her heated flesh, harder this time, teasing himself as much as he is teasing her. ‘Not like this.’
Astarion loosens her hair, taking out the jewelled pins and laying them aside. He unfastens her braids, letting her hair fall loose around her shoulders. ‘Come,’ he says. ‘Let me look at you.’
Divarra sits astride him. He can feel his cock, hard beneath her, her arousal leaving the silk between them warm and wet.
‘Is that all you want?’ she asks, rubbing herself along his length with a smug little smile. ‘To look?’
‘For now.’
He takes her hand and brings it to his lips.
‘Salen arael. What did I do to deserve you?’ Divarra blushes and starts to turn her face away, but he reaches out and stops her. He looks into her eyes. ‘You didn’t have to do that, you know.’
She smiles. ‘I know.’
He kisses her hand again.
Divarra moves her hips once more, giving him a wicked smile as his cock twitches in response. ‘So, are we going to do something about that?’ she asks. ‘Because it seems cruel to leave you in such a state. And, I believe you’re the only one allowed to be cruel tonight.’
This night and every night.
It’s not that he does not trust her.
It’s just... No... he couldn’t...
Divarra leans down and strokes his face.
‘I wouldn’t ask...’
Sometimes, she is too perceptive.
‘But, about this poor prisoner,’ she strokes his erection through the silk of his trousers, now thoroughly soaked. ‘Are we going to set him free?’
Astarion laughs ‘We are going to do nothing. I am going to carry you to bed, and then, I’m going to worship you. And after I’ve kissed every inch of your body, made you come on my tongue and fucked you until the only word you’re capable of uttering is my name, after that, the evening is yours. So, tell me, how would you like to spend it?’
‘I’d like to spend it with you.’
Astarion smiles. ‘My love, that’s a given. But, there must be something you’d enjoy, somewhere you’d like to go. Ask me anything, it’s yours.’
Divarra reaches out to cup his cheek, but she does not answer.
Astarion turns his head and kisses her palm. ‘Salen cor’etriel, is there nothing you want from me? Truly?’
She looks down at him, and shakes her head.
‘I already have everything I want,’ she says. ‘Right here.’