Split (1)

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Dripped alongside Zephyr; that river of pleasure dribbled out his hole. Juices splashing onto the ground. They coated his thighs, every coerced spasm pushing them together in wet smacks.
"uHHHn, ohhh~ Oohhf," in the shaking, his teeth would lightly touch his bottom lip for but an instant.
But they bit down hard on the edge of the vampire’s hand, and he reared back in a startle. His mouth agape, the silver light illuminating the painting of Astarion’s treasure in maddening splendor, and he beheld it the same as he did the quiet rest that had abandoned Zephyr.
It occurred to him that it would be wrong for him to touch him in this state, as much as he’d love to. A considerate nature he wished would’ve waited until any later night to arrive. It was like being strapped down and forced to watch an erotic display of his fantasies, starved for a piece but unable to participate.
"Zephyranthes," he whispered.
Zephyr’s eyes shimmered and dilated in attempts to perceive anything while his body was slave to this euphoric chaos. Vision started to focus, only enough for him to see the Emperor again. Just as he could make out the purple of the mindflayer’s soul his vision flashed to black. He came again, though the count had stopped mattering who knows how many times ago.
"I’m happy to give you this, now that we’re together," the Emperor searched for eye contact, but forgave him for being too distracted. "I can tell you appreciate it."
A shiver escaped from behind the tentacles, from the mindflayer’s mouth, when they finally made fresh contact with his skin; when they traced the shape of his collarbone, around to his shoulder blades, with their wet.
"It’s fair then. You want me to be happy too," he glanced away to say it. "It’s okay that what comes next is... For me . "
"Truly, thank you." Feelers mixed in with his white fringe, playing with it. Vision unblurred, Zephyr saw the slithering visage envelope his whole field of view, dominating it.
"Thank you for loving me. "
It started with the neck. The first wrapped around his throat and squeezed, turning an uneasy mouth into one open and pliable. The Emperor stared at it with ominous purpose and intent.
The second and third, thinnest at their ends, had snuck behind him and brushed the edges of his ears and gave a slight but ticklish sensation. Like liquid, in easy, circular motions, they poured into them. Zephyr understood that. He couldn’t believe it, but it was the unmistakable feeling of the Emperor pressing into and caressing the insides of his head, the surfaces of his skull.
He reeled back, found resistance somewhere hidden within, but the fourth, fifth, sixth, more intermingled with his scalp, nestled snugly in the nest of his white locks, and demanded he be still. Hallucination and truth were the same in this place, and an illithid’s body could change as readily as a captive drow’s mind.
The Emperor leaned further in, and pressed his head to Zephyr’s. A serene gesture, his thoughts assured him, this was love. "Haaaa-- aa--," he whimpered, sensitive in spots that weren’t made to be touched. His eyes lolled at odd angles, unable to conceive of anything but the long illithid hands of his lover.
Vigilant pupils, triangular fangs, necks and blood, tears and promises. He could almost picture him before the forces weighing his mind took precedence; alabaster rings in pale hair turning to twisting, lilac, tendrils.
Thus instead his arms hiked up at odd angles, ends of tentacles squirming out his nostrils, anxious for more of him to touch, corners of Zephyr to fill. His mouth remained open and willing, his top lip glistening above, tongue out low and inviting.
Soon. the Emperor insisted, dangling what he craved so helplessly for, conserving it. Sooooon. he self-assured. In consolation, he helped himself to Zephyr’s tits, lifting them with his actual hands, quick moving coils hanging down from his mug to lap at the nipples.
They were so close now, and through the Emperor’s will they intertwined with one another much the same as their heads had. The tingles and heat the Emperor stroked from Zephyr’s holes, his chest; the pleasure and joy that excited each inch of his long, invading appendages, the drow comprehended in their fullness.
Yes. Yes. More. pleaded the mindflayer’s voice, in tones lavish and shameless and new to Zephyr. Ecstasitic empathy ruled him, inventing compassion and vicarious appreciation for the way his mind and body were used and fucked by the Emperor. He was good for this; good as in useful, good as in pure, good as in good. He said it back, mimicking the very inflection, "Yes. Yes. More."
Zephyr was enough. Pleasing the Emperor was enough. Nothing could surpass it, nothing could compare. He’d smile, he’d laugh, he’d sigh in contentment if his mouth wasn’t busied with being wide and available.
The body atop Astarion had no such occupations. His eyes weren’t clenched, but softly closed; his grin slight, just at the edges of his lips. As though to a harpy’s lullaby, his hips rocked left to right, while he held his left tit in hand, thumbing at his nipple. Two fingers danced lightly on his clit, teasing himself, aroused by his ability to love someone so deserving.
Having sat a captive audience to Zephyr’s spell, Astarion had dug a hand between the both of their bodies, under his briefs. Two digits hooked around into his cunt. A catch in his breath behind a guilty smirk.
Upright, moonlight still danced off the breasts he toyed with, reflecting off the pink of his iris. Some feywild fancy had enthralled him in his reverie, the vampire tried to rationalize, memories of the two of them revived from the past and brought crashing into the present. It convinced him well enough to enjoy himself in tandem, for now.
Regardless of any explanation or lack thereof, the view was lovely, he was sure, and Astarion didn’t feign composure for long. "Oh," he hummed, "Oh my goodness."
A dainty touch Astarion kept on his own clit, careful as to use the fingers and not the nails. A measured rotation in measured rhythm with his other hand's business inside.
It was so far from enough. Astarion could not climb to the heights his partner flew in. Not by himself. He lurched up, as though rising from his grave again. The momentum carried him just short of the bite , halting over the twin puncture scars he’d proudly given Zephyr’s neck. It disturbed Astarion to see his thirst so obvious, unused to the old craving.
"Zephyr..." he murmured, a touch urgent, needy even, to try and rouse him. Of course, the drow’s hips merely swung back and forth, pleasuring himself regardless of present company.
It took no time at all for the frustration to mount. He wanted in, he wanted to partake of him and the highs of his enchantment. He locked his fingers onto Zephyr’s wrist, pulling him off his cunt. The mesmerized elf didn’t miss a beat, and laced his fingers with Astarion’s, damp and eager, rubbing the vampire’s knuckles and digits as though they too were illithid coils.
"Please, darling..." he beckoned for him, pleaded for him, trying to catch recognition in Zephyr’s wild, dissociative eyes. "Would you mind...?"
He cursed his whining little sounds, nearing the edge of restraint so hard won.
"Forgive me, love," he prayed, and sunk his teeth in.
It pierced through to Zephyr’s veins, and cut through.
On top of Astarion, and in the clutches of the Emperor, Zephyr gasped loud and clear, shoulders rolling back and forth, toes and fingers extended under his own power. His mouth shut, teeth biting and grinding against each other in struggle. The first time that the dream slipped from the mindflayer’s grip.
The Emperor regarded it with contempt, and retaliated.
That quaking, mind splitting headache. The tadpole squirming, Astarion and Zephyr’s minds meeting and glimpsing through each other’s eyes. In that moment, Astarion saw the Emperor, so utterly entangled around Zephyr; and the Emperor looked back.
NO. the Emperor commanded, tightening his grasp on Zephyr’s neck. His hover raised higher, he forced his victim’s gaze up to him, pulling back on the nape of the neck. This isn’t for him, this is... he stopped, a tingling quivered under his skin and exhaled out, his sex catching him off guard.
This is for me. he told Zephyr, regaining dominion over his composure but for a solitary second. I saved you. You were supposed to be for me.
His patience was spent. From behind the cluster of flesh curls big and small, emerged a final tentacle. All the rest kept clasped around the skull, his humanoid arms hugging him, holding him in place for what’s to come. Zephyr’s teeth chattered, equally scared to close or fully open. It came up from under his chin and slid easily inside him, his jaw giving way, his resistance without real strength. The taste was like warm coffee and the scent of flowers fluttered behind his nose, his senses divorced wholly from reality. His tongue cradled it, guiding it all the way down the hatch.
His chest shuddered, then heaved. He made not a cry, or a moan, or a sigh; merely the stifled sound held in his throat with no place to go, no pathway to escape his body through.
The arm of the Emperor’s face was crawling into his mouth, becoming as impossibly long as its siblings were impossibly many. Those that squeezed him from the outside; the tendril compressing his neck against the tendril within, which reached further down into his guts.
Dissimilar to the pumping, in-out penetration of a more normal fuck, the mindflayer’s piece pressed forward and forward and never retreated. On occasion, it’d stop to twist, turn against the walls of Zephyr; when the Emperor would shut his eyes and steady his hastened panting.
I don’t love him, he promised himself, the echo of this thought bouncing back to his mind in Zephyr’s voice. He’s the monster , you’re the one who’s special, he coaxed again, puppeteering sweet nothings volleyed into and out of his prisoner’s brain.
Zephyr gagged silently, a doll up for display on the Emperor’s hangers. His half lidded vision observing the creature entering him smoothly and uninterrupted; his ears treated to the sticky, wet sound of its advance.
Finish with me, urged Zephyr’s vacant tones. Together, the Emperor’s two minds decided in unison.
A cage of illithid flesh around his head, a growing stem of it stretched deeper.
A claustrophobic tightness that Zephyr could comprehend only as the Emperor gripping tight his still beating heart. When Zephyr’s arm stuttered upwards, like a zombie, to push against the mindflayer’s chest. That’s when it, the thing that owned him, pulled back at last.
Every withdrawal took long seconds to pull the head of it back to Zephyr’s throat, before it raced back down to the dead end of his insides, to repeat itself.
"aAAhh," grunted the Emperor, so loud and so nearly there. "Emperor. Please-- fuck!" he called back to himself, the drow’s thoughts an instrument in his hands.
Like a pumping wet machine made out of Zephyr’s body; silent except for the gushing wet of limitless inches sinking in and lurching out, over and over. Any sense, pleasure or pain or fear or otherwise, had become so big as to be meaningless to him now. Overstimulation synonymous with numbness.
But not for the Emperor, whose claws held Zephyr by either side of his abs, no tingle or outburst taken for granted. The mindflayer arched his back up, reared his neck back to heave his extremity out of the drow’s gullet; before hunching back over him, swaying left and right to find best angles, as though this were a deep, giving kiss.
One that couldn’t silence him either, thanks to telepathy. "Ohhf, Zephyr. You feel--" a squelching sound as saliva escaped the drow, spat out in the narrow space between his lips and the tentacle, "mmMn, perfect."
"Just," he sighed.
"Like," he forced Zephyr’s lips to his maw.
"That--" he trembled.
A speck of hot liquid, born in Zephyr’s center, and then more. The blossoms, the heat he’d been hypnotized to feel, even more real and incoming, spurting into his depths. The floods, filling him like a bottle and pushing past the boundaries inside, rushing towards the gate--
"nghAAAH!" the Emperor cried in final, orgasmic thrums of power, rattling his bones, his muscles, his flesh.
Conclusively, the creature left him, propelled out by thick curtains of pink liquid erupting out of Zephyr like a broken dam. He had half a mind to shield his mouth, but only got so far as to cup his hands ahead of his torso, and in his lethargic, used up state he saw it pool in his palms and overflow into the space beneath them.
Its color was brilliant and resplendent, starlight from eons away reflecting off of it. He steadied his breathing for the first time in a lifetime while he beheld it, before coughing up a second round. All of it burst out from him and cast over his chest, over his tits; lustrous pink lines on dark purple skin.
The psychic power keeping them aloft faded. They dropped together to their knees, Zephyr slumped against the Emperor in his mess. The silence of space replacing the energy, the ecstasy, and in a blur the cirri vanished, leaving only the normal four tentacles behind.
"Stay , " the Emperor spoke again, picking Zephyr’s bangs out of his face, the final coil receding from the drow’s ear, leaving him finally unintruded. His thin nostrils flared under mourning eyes.
Zephyr’s expression remained vacant, half-lidded. There weren’t real words for what had happened. Nothing to think of it, to convey. What remained of the mindflayer in him, he swallowed, taking a final, unaltered taste of his alien flavor. His chest was painted in it, gleaming with it. He thought it was bittersweet.
Ever persistent, the mindflayer continued. "Say yes to me. Say you’ll come back to this." He sounded remorseful, miserable even, and he needed this and he needed it to come from the genuine Zephyr.
Breathless and done , the both of them. The Emperor had given him miraculous and impossible bliss; The Emperor had reached inside and hollowed him out. Zephyr only wanted to go home.
The moon had moved on from their bedroom window. It was over. No more thrumming, no more dream, no more invasion, no more sex. All that remained was the sweat clinging to Zephyr’s skin, sticking to him, and darkness outside the tavern window.
Astarion lay straddled beneath him, leaning forward on his elbows. Suspicion twinkled in his eye, his lips flat.
Zephyr shifted off of him slowly, as though he were an animal poised to pounce on any quick movement. How obviously scared he was seemed to further rouse Astarion’s scrutiny.
"Why are you...?" he squinted. He’d been force fed the whole night, straight to his brain, but stewed in the shallows of denial. "Wasn’t it just a dream? Wasn’t it? "
The drow could neither meet his eye nor turn himself away. He knew that he knew, the tadpole had made sure of that. He forced himself to turn towards him, slowly and terribly as though grinding his bones against hard stone, and shook his head.
Astarion grimaced. A look of revulsion, of confusion and betrayal slathered over him, he recoiled from Zephyr like something rotten.
Everything that had happened came crashing down in thunderous, irreconcilable guilt. All he could remember between him and the Emperor, the pleasure he forced him to feel, the love he invented in him, the sweat. The sticky, gross, sweat. Zephyr’s nails dug into his palms, his sweaty palms, disgusting palms-- he was disgusting.
His instincts begged for Astarion, for the comfort of a soulmate who understood and loved him, but when he found the vampire’s face he saw a distorted hell. Twisting like the torment of the Emperor, into the giant, eternal black holes and the teeth and the tendrils as real to him as the choices he’d made.
To pieces. Zephyr fell to pieces. His stomach was sick, his chest in overdrive, hyperventilating, and terrible sadness tugged on his features and creases to form a tragic mask of despair. The Emperor had filled him up with explosive, illusory sex then left him deserted to a mind rendered naked and unprotected, and he sobbed.
Astarion’s instincts rushed to the other extreme. "Hold on," he barked, "Did you... Or, he..." Astarion’s fangs were nearly bared, and he refused to reach for him, afraid it would deepen the indignity. "Tch." His silence was the only grace he’d managed for him so far.
Typical of this to happen to me. thought Astarion. Humiliated in our bed, giving up myself for some monster’s jollies? He couldn’t ignore Zephyr’s whimpering, so he hated it instead. Simmering in the dark. Hundreds of years held under heel and now, of course, of course-- you’re crying after you’ve thrown yourself into someone else’s...
His lips parted to speak, to speak it. He couldn’t do it.
A second try. "You--", he stammered, useless syllables tumbling out of him.
His tone tasted so bitter on his tongue. The way he was thinking felt so old. Not that old, not too long ago, did he think like this, hardly a week ago it was his daily cadence. Indignant, righteous fury over the life of pain and solely pain he’d been so graciously gifted. No, rather than old it was tired.
It tasted better when it was true. It tasted better when Astarion could recount the full record of his existence and find nothing ever to be grateful for. But the master was dead, and he was grateful. Zephyr had fought his demon by his side, at every step, and he was grateful. And consequently, Astarion had freedom; and with it the burden of having to choose what to actually do with his feelings, and with the man he’d chosen to keep in his heart.
Astarion clicked his tongue. "Come here," he told him. It didn’t stop Zephyr’s shaking. "Come back to me, please."
"No," Zephyr said. He tried to exhume himself. He tried to build tall and sturdy his lost drow pride, but it was hopeless, embarrassing even, as trying to stack books on the surface of water. "No. I. Oh gods, I’m sorry."
"That’s all very good, pet," he faked a smile, "But unfortunately for me, I can’t stand to see you like this so you’re going to have to play along at least."
The vampire brought his arms around him, an awkward, near mechanical motion. Zephyr had never been smaller to him, more vulnerable. Then he lumbered them both further onto the bed, an excruciating and slow process of getting back to laying down together, until Astarion held Zephyr’s head on his chest once more.
"He-" Zephyr choked down phlegm and self-hatred to speak in a monosyllabic tremble, "I. Don’t. Know. If... If I decided--"
"Please, love," he sighed, shushing him with a single finger, "Don’t you lay there chewing on glass. It’s unbearable."
To be robbed of even the option of prostrating himself, surrendering the feelings to silence, could be worse. Though maybe that was the just punishment for what he’d committed, and he should accept it.
Astarion chewed on the nausea and pressed on. "We can pick all the right things to say tomorrow," his sardonic affect, though bewildering now of all times, couldn’t help but settle Zephyr. Then he added, "... When we’re ready to handle it."
He meant it. It stunned Zephyr, who tried to puzzle together the precious comforts he hadn’t yet lost, the words that refused to condemn him, and the raging fear of his body. To be so unveiled could mean to be destroyed, his own past told him; but Astarion had stayed his hand.
Sleep did not return easy, but between sudden weeping and spikes in despair, encased in Astarion’s unwavering arms, it came for Zephyr with the blue light of the morning. The vampire remained, the same position at the night’s beginning as at its end, though he bore new weight in bowls beneath his eyes, raw from his own tears.
"Zephyranthes," he said aloud, as if to turn it in his hands and examine it from every angle.
As far as he could remember, the first person he’d trusted, whatever that meant in this light. The first person he’d bitten of course, however that could come into play. Their sex was anything but yet also clearly should be the first to count . Confusion at every corner. That he’d let him feed without fear of dying, and now, that his lover would curl up against him when he’s seen him gut people for so much less. That was a first.
He combed his nails against his cheek, to retrace the adoration he’d started the evening with. A twitch of the eyelash again, and Astarion nearly burst into laughter at himself. Oh, gods, what have you done to me?
A gulp. He swallowed something, it sat rough and sharp in his chest. Taking in the first light of the day’s sun, he placed a kiss on his darling’s forehead.
After everything he’d been through, Astarion had never forgiven anyone for their crimes against him. After everything, Zephyranthes would be, forever, the first.
✼✼
It’s not the first time that Astarion’s thoughts linger too long on Gale. But it is the first time that the temptation to feed on him is truly born.
They’re at the goblin camp finishing off the last of their enemies when he notices the mage clutching his stomach. Stains mar Gale's usually pristine robe: vivid crimson mingling with golden embroidery and velvety plum fabric. Gale has never been injured to this extent before – and the smell of his blood is so insane that it takes Astarion a minute to actually register it as blood; it’s an unapologetic, scorching assault that stings his nostrils. It burns to breathe it in, like inhaling the acrid, heavy bite of smoke after lightning strikes the soil of the earth in a fury.
His curious gaze is clearly too obvious because Gale huffs at him. "Careful, Astarion. I'd exercise some self control if I were you. I'm fairly certain that indulging in my blood would lead to some rather disagreeable consequences for you."
"Don’t flatter yourself," he sniffs, scrunching his nose up. "What the hells is wrong with your blood? The stench of it – it’s utterly disturbing."
A wry smile crosses Gale’s lips even as he winces over his wounded abdomen.

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