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dnd_drow

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Astarion ties the last bit of rope around her mouth, gagging her. She does her best to spew more obscenities at him, but they come out as miserable, muffled noises that satisfy him in his work.
He pushes her over onto her back and lifts her tied legs up to his face to place soft pecks along her ankle and calf. Her body fights it, kicking her feet as if it tickles so much it’s worth killing over. He spreads her legs to fit his head between them and rest her thighs over his shoulders. The heels of her feet beating at his back are weak and sad, not fazing him at all. It’s cute, really.
"My sweet, sweet love with the dark heart," he muses, stroking her hair. "What else would it take to get you to behave for me?"
She strikes when he pulls his hand back from her hair—her tied hands claw at him and she manages to swipe his arm just right with a pointy nail, splitting the skin.  A decent injury; a cut between his elbow and wrist deep enough to bleed. And she cackles hysterically, even with her voice buried under rope.
"Gods damn it." Astarion looks it over before lifting his arm and showing it off to her, like it’s a prize she’s won. "Look what you did."
She loves it. She watches the red run down his arm attentively, hypnotized by it.
He holds her hands firm against her stomach and frees her of the gag. It’s a surprise that she’s too preoccupied by the sight to speak, and her body’s violent spasms have calmed. Perhaps he should wrap his arm, but the cut isn’t that bad, so why not have a bit of fun with it first?
Astarion holds his arm over her head and she opens her mouth in anticipation. He’s watching her as intensely as she watched him, with his eyebrows furrowed and mouth parted. Blood drips slowly down his arm, beading at his elbow before dripping into her waiting mouth, around her lips, over her face.
She sloshes it on her tongue and truly tastes it before swallowing; she opens her mouth wider and pushes her head forward, trying to collect as much of it as she can. 
Is this how he looked when Cazador made him beg for dead vermin?
"You’re sick," he says, delightfully scandalized, but he can’t take his eyes off her and he doesn’t stop feeding it to her. "Vile. A true degenerate."
His insults make no difference to her, she’s lost to the literal bloodlust. 
She’s nauseatingly hot like this. The messy streaks of red around her mouth and dripping down the sides of her face, the way she drinks his blood how she tastes his cock, the fact that he can feel her getting wetter and wetter—it’s so fucking good. He can hardly hold back from tasting hers again, his body tense and mind tempted by the view and the aroma wafting in the air.
If only he hadn’t already drank from her twice.
"You’ve had more than enough fun, dear." Astarion pulls aways as the bleeding slows to a trickle and fits the rope back into her mouth, knowing she’ll refuse to keep her quiet as soon as he’s done indulging her. "I can’t let you go unpunished. I’m sure you understand."
He moves and turns her until she’s on her knees, face down, his palm pushing on her upper back to hold her there. She looks lovely, he thinks; her head shoved into the pillow, angry eyes staring back at him, sweat running down her face and unable to speak. 
With his other hand, Astarion trails his fingertips down the dip in her back and over the curve of her ass. He extends his palm, and with a swift movement, strikes her. She jumps, but tolerates it well—and he can’t have that. Again he hits her, harder and less disciplined, and still she endures in silence, though her hateful glare talks on her behalf: she’s livid. He’s gotten under her skin.
"You’re resilient," he notes, "but even you can be broken."
He strikes her more—harsh and with purpose, drawing out dulled wails from her at last, determined to beat the fiend that possesses his love.
Astarion knows very well how it feels to lose your body. To be owned by another. It’s a memory that haunts him and resurfaces old anger—how dare this thing tread upon his lover’s will, rob her of her body and him of her affection? 
His next strike lands harder, with an audible slap against supple flesh. 
Her skin turns pink and tender as he continues, then red; she’s chewing at the rope in her mouth and her bound hands clench into fists, nails scratching at her own skin–desperate, but her efforts are all in vain. Astarion pauses for a short moment before landing one final, unrestrained smack on her ass that draws out a far louder, far more satisfying cry from her mouth.
A single tear runs from her eye to her nose and into the pillow.
She’s not unfamiliar with pain, far from it; she’d been taken apart and put back together many times. She has no memory of it, but they learned she tried to strangle Kressa with her own intestines, and showed no pain or weakness doing it. Why shed a tear now? Was it wept by his little love inside, gnawing at her brain for escape?
"Don’t cry, my love," he says, almost mocking her. "I hate to see your pretty face weep."
Astarion takes the dagger he’d left bedside and waves it in front of her. It may as well be a treat dangling from a stick for his rabid pet with the way her eyes light up and follow it.
"Fuck," is all he can muster as he penetrates her, pushing in until there’s no room left, struggling to hold his composure. 
He holds the blade to her neck, making shallow, trivial cuts as he thrusts into her and she thrashes against him, her will too strong to let a little blood stand in her way. She’d bled rivers over the years, and finds her own just as sweet as her enemies’.
"Watch yourself, love," he warns. "You can’t soothe your need to kill if I’ve killed you first."
He wields the blade well, careful to not let it cut too deep, but when her convulsions are too wild for him to keep up with, he’s forced to withdraw the dagger. He wouldn’t forgive himself if he permanently scarred her, even if she is trying to send him to his final death. But he wonders—how animalistic is the urge when it consumes her this way? How far would he have to go to bring her under control?
Would she allow herself to bleed out before she’d beckon to his will?
Astarion brushes his fingers across her neck, collecting the paltry amount of blood weeping from where she’d been cut and licks them clean. It’s delicious and sweet like her, but it’s not enough; it only leaves his taste buds dreaming of more and missing his kinder-hearted lover.
The frustration and anger spreads through his body like a parasite, crawling through his veins and bones until it’s all that’s left. He grips her hips for leverage, pulling her towards him with all he has for every thrust and burying himself in her so deeply, she whines under him. He doesn’t let up; he moves his hands further along her back and up to her shoulders, leaning over her and pulling her in. 
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!"
Astarion’s angry, or furious, rather; he’s fuming that she’s not here with him.
And then—something changes. Her cries become quieter, her eyes stare back at him differently. It’s unsettling. All but exhausted from using her body like that, he wipes sweat collecting on his forehead and stops, watching her intently.
He pulls the gag from her mouth.
"Astarion," she says, hardly a whisper as she finds her voice again. "Shit."
He’s practically starstruck, frozen, like he can’t believe this. He didn’t expect it. He pulls out, silent, and she looks right at him. He sees her. He recognizes that face.
"Gods."  He turns her and picks her up, arms around her waist, and brings her into his lap. "I missed you."
Astarion pushes his lips to hers, holding her face in his hands; he slips his tongue in her parted mouth, finding hers and tasting every piece of her he can until she’s forced to pull away and breathe. He runs one hand through her hair and lingers there, massaging circles into her scalp while she returns to her body, their foreheads pressed together and their eyes half-open. 
"I missed you," he says again, all he can think of, though these three little words pale in comparison to the relief he feels.
She smiles and holds her hands up for him. "Can you untie me?"
He nods and laughs as he cuts through the rope—so distracted by her returning to him, he didn’t think to free her. If she hadn’t already rubbed her skin raw on the restraints, he might’ve told her no. 
With her limbs free, she supports herself on his shoulders and spreads her legs to straddle him properly, his cock nudging against her wet cunt.
"More, give me more," he demands, drawing her closer for him to kiss along her collarbones and down between her breasts, teasing her nipples with the tip of his tongue. "I want all of you, until I can’t see straight."
She adjusts and lowers herself onto his length, forcing a low groan out of him. He doesn’t avert his gaze from her for even a moment, eyes feasting on the faces she makes when she starts to ride him. Her body aches, sore from the bloodthirsty beast’s unforgiving temper, but every noise she coerces from his mouth encourages her; she fucks herself on him until her legs shake and she loses her stamina, showering him in apologetic kisses.
"Good girl," Astarion praises her, kissing along her jawline, her neck, anywhere he can reach. "Beautiful, my love." 
He grips her waist by the sides and arches his hips up into her, moving her body for her. She can’t keep quiet, moans escaping her mouth every time he thrusts back up into her, her warm exhalations pooling against his skin. Astarion’s sure the sound travels past their walls now, but at least no one would dare interrupt.
"You’re going to come for me, pet?" he asks, daring her to. "Close your eyes."
She obeys, giving up sight and focusing all her senses on him. He pauses and she’s tempted to look again, but before she can, she’s being lifted and pushed into the bed, onto her back. She feels Astarion position himself between her legs before entering her wet heat once more, his thrusts impatient and just as relentless as he was before. 
Astarion presses two fingers to her mouth and she welcomes them, coating them in her spit; he lingers on her tongue for a moment, admiring how perfect she looks with her mouth open, her disheveled hair, her body splayed and swallowing his cock so eagerly. He rubs her clit with his wetted fingers, his motions frantic and messy as he gets closer and closer to climax.
He leans forward and kisses her, drinking in her every moan and cry as hungrily as he does her blood—like he’s parched, fucking dying of thirst and her ecstasy is the only thing that can quench it. And when she tears into his skin with her nails, her cunt contracting around him and his name leaves her mouth as she comes, it’s divine, sweeter than any heavenly nectar.
She wraps her legs around his back and tugs him towards her until it feels like they’re melted together and there’s no space left. Astarion shuts his eyes and succumbs to the pleasure drowning him, riding the high and spilling inside her; she holds his face as he shudders and curses, praising him with the thoughtful gestures of her hands and her nose grazing his. 
He collapses on top of her after her body’s extracted all he can give, spent; exhausted after spending all night fucking the cruelty from her body. 
She embraces him, fingertips gently tracing up and down his back, writing signs of her devotion. Her lips kiss his cheek and whisper words of adoration in his ear, so sweet it almost makes him sick. The darling little love he missed so much. 
It’s like night and day.
Gale understood why he’d been left at the camp that day, he did. Their quest had required stealth and he had more than made his opinions clear on that matter, numerous times, and Halsin’s involvement with the boy - Thaniel - meant his inclusion was obvious, while clearly Shadowheart and her divine magic were needed on any trip into the lands where the undead roamed freely.
That didn’t mean he enjoyed it. The hurry up and wait of it all preyed on his mind, especially after last night.
Gods, last night. He hadn’t dared to hope too hard that he might get what he had longed for, and then... then it was like a dream found in the middle of a nightmare. It had been so much more than he had anticipated. Even in the darkest of times, it seemed that Alyria gifted him a chance to see something more for himself.
She’d seemed to enjoy herself, too, which was all he had wanted, really. Their conversation this morning had been brief, but positive. And she’d kissed him before explaining the plan for the day. He should be pleased that they weren’t venturing any further into the Moonrise Towers itself, a reprieve of another day before he had to turn his mind to the end of things.
Another day to enjoy breakfast and kisses and the other trappings of mortality he had spent far too long ignoring.
"You’re the magic man, aren’t you?" a voice said from beside him and he turned to see Arabella standing near him. Karlach, sitting across from him, chuckled.
"I am a wizard, yes," he responded. "How may I be of assistance?" Children were... an enigma to him. He liked them, certainly, but he found himself foundering for how to talk to them. Of course, from what he knew of Arabella’s circumstances, she was hardly an ordinary child any longer. Touched by the power of a god... he could, perhaps, relate.
"Look, I could work it out for myself," Arabella said, crossing her arms. "I mean, I have worked it out for myself. I took care of those shadow things, didn’t I?"
"You did indeed," Gale agreed.
"But I don’t... There’s more to it, and I don’t get... how ," she said. "Can you... can you help?"
Gale blinked at her.
"I can certainly try, though I must warn you that my power and yours come to us through different routes. I study the arcane arts, the weave itself, pure magic, while your gifts appear more primal in nature, much like a druids or a rangers, or the magic that some barbarians can access. Similar results, but different perspectives."
"So you can’t help," Arabella said. He winced.
"The basic principles are much the same, though we come at them from different angles, I may be able to give you some understanding of the theory, though for a more nuanced lesson, I would suggest you approach Halsin or Jaheira, their gifts are more akin to your own."
"So can you help or can’t you?" Arabella asks. "The bone man’s tried, but even though he’s nice he talks all around in circles. Worse than you do."
Gale closed the book he’d been reading with a clap of pages. This might well have been the distraction he was looking for.
"Never let it be said that I turned away a curious mind," he said. "Let us start with the fundamental laws of magic."
It... did not go well.
But it did provide Karlach and Lae’zel with amusement as Arabella wrapped him up in vines and stamped her feet in frustration. They were good enough to help him down and Gale breathed a deep sigh. It turned out that his knowledge of the more primal areas of magic was far rustier than he had thought.
"Well," he said, brushing down his robes. "Education should always be an invigorating experience."
"I found it especially invigorating when she dangled you upside down and screamed that you made no sense. She has a bright future ahead of her," Lae’zel commented. Karlach let out a laugh.
"I liked the bit where she told you to shut up and let her concentrate - sounded exactly like you in the middle of a fight, Gale. Though maybe calling you a pompous old windbag was a bit much."
"Do you think she learnt anything?"
Karlach and Lae’zel shared a glance and he sighed, deflated. Children, eternal mysteries and uncannily able to cut anyone down to size with a few words.
"So... you and Al, hey?" Karlach asked, elbowing him. Since Dammon had managed to upgrade her engine again, she had become far more tactile. Or maybe she had always been tactile and just holding herself back. His ribs protested her enthusiasm, but Gale could hardly bring himself to comment. No one in the camp was happy when Karlach was sad. As he rubbed his side surreptitiously, his brain caught up with what she was saying.
"What exactly about Alyria and myself are you inquiring after?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light.
"Ch’k," Lae’zel said. "Your mutual absence last night was not subtle, nor was the glowing messenger you sent to summon her for your night of passion."
"Yeah, and let’s be real, you two have been one look away from jumping each other’s bones since you met," Karlach added. "We’re glad for you, mate. You deserve some happiness. You really do."
"Thank you," Gale said. "But I could not possibly comment on the matter."
Karlach grinned, nudging him again. His ribs were going to be bruised after this.
Lae’zel ignored him and continued. "We must all be grateful that your sighing and time-wasting has ended. Perhaps now that the pair of you do not have such a distraction, we can be more direct in our mission. And maybe you will abandon your foolish plan to blow yourself up when such a sacrifice is unnecessary; you are more than capable of achieving your goals without making such an idiotic move. Death is to be embraced as a possibility, but never taken as a certainty, for that way lies defeat."
"Yeah," Karlach agreed. "It’s good to have a reason to live. You’ve got to hold onto that, right?" She wrapped an arm around his shoulders, pulling him into a sideways hug that he couldn’t possibly resist. He sometimes forgot how strong she was.
Gale swallowed. He had been... trying not to think about that. Arabella and her antics had helped to push it from his mind. Somewhere at the back of his mind part of him was screaming and telling him that he couldn’t follow through on what he needed to do. Not now. Not when he’d finally found someone who wanted him, just him. It was the cruellest of ironies: to find the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with and to know that life would end in but a few short days. He railed against the idea, and he understood what Alyria had been talking about when she had talked about her anger.
He was angry. He knew that what Mystra asked of him was the least he could do to beg forgiveness for his folly, but at the same time, it felt like far more than anyone should have to pay. Bitter anger ran through him at the thought of everything he had lost, and everything he had gained just in time to lose it more thoroughly than before. He knew it was his own fault, but it rankled.
A year ago he would have done as Mystra wished in a heartbeat, without question or hesitation. He would have marched into the hells themselves had Mystra asked it of him, if there had been a sliver of a chance of her forgiveness.
Now the price seemed insurmountable. So much had changed in just these brief weeks. He was not the same person he had been back then. He was so much more.
But what was the worth of a sacrifice if there was nothing to sacrifice?
Karlach released him and he managed a tight smile for her.
"Her ease of walking today is disappointing though," Lae’zel continued, ignorant of the conflict in his mind. "Your performance must not have been of a high standard, if it left you both so unaffected."
Gale actually flushed, drawing in a deep breath. He certainly wasn’t unaffected. He still felt the bruises where Alyria’s fingers had dug into his thighs as she came, they brushed against the fabric of his trousers as he walked, every step a faint reminder of that moment. He hoped, from the slight colour to her cheeks as she had spoken to him earlier, that she was not unaffected either. He had not, perhaps, performed to the best of his abilities. He had felt a fumbling school boy as he had touched her, and there had definitely been moments when he could have heightened the experience. A mage hand, perhaps, or some little magic to add more stimulation. Even a detect thoughts spell might have–
"I don’t know, she seemed pretty happy when I saw her earlier," Karlach said.
"You istik are so strange. In some ways, so weak, in others strong. I do not understand you," Lae’zel muttered. "Your softness is a weakness, and yet you refuse to abandon it."
"Softness is no weakness, Lae’zel," Wyll said, coming up to them with a now empty box of supplies that he had carried to the inn for the Harpers there. Extra torches were a godsend in the shadows, and they found enough of them lying around. "It can leave you open to pain, but to harden yourself to everything, that is true weakness."