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"Listen," you whisper. "Listen, my love." |
He pants and cries and bucks up into you as much as his restraints will allow. The walls of your pussy flutter around him, and you are so pleased with how he fills you that hardly two minutes of this has you pulling toward the edge. |
"I will never hurt you like this again," you promise. The slapping of skin against skin and the wet sounds of your weeping cunt protect you from the queen's ears. "I need you to act broken– play the slave. Then I will take you far away and she will not be able to hurt you." |
You draw back to look at him, and you can't tell if he believes you, or even understands you. His eyes are wide and desperate and full of tears, and that is all you know. |
"Make me cum," you snarl, and grind yourself down on his thick cock. |
The vulgar sounds he's making are more than enough for you. You do cum, crying out and shaking on such a substantial cock, and the tight squeeze of your pussy quickly has him pumping a large hot load of cum into you so hard that you can feel the pressure of each surge against your walls. |
You wonder if he was a virgin in that way, too. You wonder if everything has been stolen from him in one night, in a haze of pain and aphrodisiacs, by a woman whose name he doesn’t even know, while his cruel queen watches. |
What a horrid nightmare of a first time. If he evers consents to let you touch him again, you will be so, so gentle. |
For now, you take this opportunity to pet his pretty hair and place a few quick kisses on his collarbone. This shouldn't seem out of place, post-orgasm. Even the queen herself is more affectionate after being brought to completion. |
When you find the strength to lift yourself off of him, cum drips thickly from your cunt in a mix of green venom. The drow's cock has dropped to half-mast, still oozing green-tainted cream onto his thigh. |
Your orgasm was powerful and you feel worn out and ready for sleep, but so is your male, and that is what motivates you to move. He's in enough pain that he won’t stay relaxed for long, so you need to take advantage while you can and get the rose quartz plug up his ass so that this can end. |
"Get his legs up," you tell the slave who has been helping you, and he maneuvers your male's legs up into the air, exposing his ass. |
It is a humiliating position that the drow doesn’t seem to be aware enough to be embarrassed about, but it fully exposes him to the room. His ass is radiating heat, and welts have risen in a criss crossing pattern wherever the strap struck more than once, which is to say, everywhere. The dark blue-grey skin has bloomed a sort of purple-pink color, warm and rosy and shining. It's so very pretty, and if he had asked for it, you would have been happy to give it to him. |
You quickly pull the current plug out. He barely twitches, still panting tiredly with his head hanging back. You admire the rise and fall of his handsome chest for just a moment, eyes caught by his slightly swollen nipples, before hurriedly pouring the last of the oil onto the rose quartz plug and pressing it to his ass. |
He is as relaxed and as loose as he can be. It only takes a second for him to be stretched to his limit around the toy, which is so heavy in your hands that you struggle to keep it steady. He begins to cry yet again, weakly and without much punch to it, but you know why. His ass is being stretched too far, and you don’t want to tear him, but you're not sure if he can take this. You try to massage his tight, oil-slick rim, and that seems to help a little, but this plug is a monstrosity. It is too wide for even a trained slave to take without pain, and the length alone is intimidating, even to you. |
You push. He cries, but does not tear. The plug inches in, unbearably long and wide from beginning to end. Eventually, after what feels like an eternity under the queen's watch, the last and widest inch of the plug slips all the way in, pulling one ragged scream from your male. |
His legs tremble violently as they're let down to rest. He sobs tiredly. You can clearly see the bulge of the quartz plug resting low in his belly. |
You smile triumphantly at the queen, tears hidden among sweat, cum and venom still oozing down your thighs, and there is hate in your heart for everything that has happened here. |
"I think that should do it," you say, grinning with all your teeth, "and if not, I can always pin him down again, can't I?" |
"Of course," the queen sighs softly, high and pleased, with a lazy smile that multiple orgasms have allowed her. "Although, you return to the Above soon. You'll take him with you like I asked, won't you?" |
It's not a request and it never was, but you will tear the woman's throat out with your teeth before you leave this man in her kingdom. He is coming with you. |
"Yes, yes." You rub your male's firm thigh like you would a horse's flank, careful of the strap-marks reaching around it. "I'm very pleased. He's so well-made." |
"Yes, he is," the queen agrees. "I thought to put him in the breeding pit, so they could milk him, but it would be such a waste of such a beautiful slave, and the ladies down there have enough work to do as it is. You'll enjoy him far more, I trust." |
"I can't wait to show him off back home." |
Your father and brothers will be horrified. Everyone will be horrified. There will be no showing off. This man, your slave, will have to be kept away from prying eyes and allowed to recover before you figure out how to take someone who was born into slavery and teach him how to function with freedom. It will be hard enough to teach him how to function with clothes. Male drow are never dressed unless it's for show. Their chastity cages are very often the most they ever wear. Those, and collars. |
Your male is released from his restraints, and he struggles to stand, his legs canting inward at an awkward angle. You think he's taller than average, but his tired, bent posture makes it impossible to tell. All you can really see is that he is beautiful, muscular, dripping with sweat, and in pain. |
It's the plug, you realize. It is too big to come out on its own, even with the help of gravity, but is made of stone the weight of it must be pulling mercilessly at his tender rim, and as a natural reaction that he can't possibly help, he is clenching, furthering his own pain and making the plug feel even bigger. In your whole life, you've never taken anything as big as that plug, and today, this virgin had it forced in. |
He makes pained sounds with each step, but he walks where he is told with a bowed head. You do not know if it is because you told him to act broken, or because you have broken him. |
The queen, uninterested in whatever comes after torture, kisses your cheek and retires to her lavish rooms for the night with her slaves. Or, you think that it is night, but there is no way to tell, down here. There is simply "the time when everyone sleeps or meditates if they need to." |
You look at your male, now that you are alone with him, and cry openly. You dare not approach him, ashamed of the marks you have put on his body. You have taken this beautiful, strong creature and violated him. |
At least, you think, remembering the spider symbol burnt into the thighs and buttocks of many other slaves, she didn't expect me to brand him. The fire is still going. There are brands down here somewhere. She could have told you to do it. |
"What's your name?" you ask, knowing it is a dangerous question. He is not supposed to have any name other than the one his current mistress gives him, his identity meaningless. |
Your male stares at you with his quicksilver eyes, hurt and confused and overwhelmed, and takes three painful steps toward you. He is bigger than you and probably strong enough to break your neck, but you meet him halfway, not wanting him to walk any further than he can bear. |
To your surprise, he leans against you, breathing heavily and resting his head against the crook of your neck. You embrace his naked body as gently as you can, rewarding his willingness to trust you like this. He puts more than a little of his weight on you, tired and hurting, and you hold him up as well as you can. |
When you're about ready to tell him he can sit down if he needs to, he pulls his head back enough so that you can see his face. Those shining eyes seem to have a touch of fire in them, or you hope as much. |
Hesitantly, he offers you a weak smile. It delights you. |
"I am Mazaudyn." |
There’s not enough wine in the material plane or the astral to be worth this shit. |
The tiefling refugees and druids had invaded the little forest camp like rats in a flophouse. A celebration, on the occasion of the sudden dissolution of the goblin army, courtesy of a band of tadpoled misadventurers, plus one brawny bear-druid. Astarion wishes he’d had the good sense to stay in his tent from the start, but no, he came out in the open for a drink, and now there’s nowhere to hide without drawing more attention to himself. No, he has to be stuck listening to the laughter, the chatter, the twee singing. And he has to grit his teeth and smile every time some horned simpleton interrupts his attempts at reading to tell him thank you. It’s enough to make him regret being so directly involved in the do-goodery. |
The only consolation he has—because table wine certainly isn’t it—is that he’s not the real focus of it all. That dubious honor belongs to Basquiat, consequence of being the one who’d done the most talking and plotting. And because, as Astarion had made certain to note directly to their face, they were the one stupid enough to promise their help to their miserable kinsmen in the first place. |
He has to keep reminding himself, as he watches them flit and chatter about the party, that they’re quite free with their blood for him, too. Another consolation. It should hardly be a secret that if that blazing stupidity hadn’t also been extended to him directly, well, he certainly wouldn’t be here. |
Two hours in, and the voice of that consummate host comes floating back across his consciousness. It marks the umpteenth time he’s lost his place in his book. |
"Alfira, honestly, I can’t—" |
"Just once, please." |
He looks up from the pages to find that annoying little tiefling bard and her girlfriend are frog-marching Basquiat toward the central bonfire, maybe ten metres off from his current seat. There’s a cup in the sorcerer’s hand, wine sloshing off the rim as they’re pulled along. Good that they’ve already been in the drink; the spawn can’t imagine they’d be so easily dragged otherwise. |
But they are protesting, albeit poorly: "I haven’t performed in years, we’ve never practiced together—" |
"Something easy, then!" The blue one keeps persisting and Basquiat keeps failing to pull away, and Astarion takes great enjoyment at the miserable look on that normally composed face. "Something fun. D’you know "Go Away Home’? It’s great for fiddle." |
"Yes-of-course I know it, but again, I haven’t played that in months." |
"Oh, only months now." That comment from the girlfriend, the brunette with the long ponytail. "So you could take second harmony and violin, I can take first harmony and drum, and Alfira can have melody and lute. Easy." |
"Lakrissa, don’t—" |
"Besides," the brunette continues, and the mischief in her eyes is visible even from this distance, "I think "Go Away Home’ might be the only song Zevlor knows. Caught him humming it once. Bet you could get him to dance to it." |
Half a beat. Basquiat is already putting their cup down. "Fine. Just one. But it’s not going to be good." |
Miss Ponytail suddenly produces a violin and bow—an instrument Astarion recognizes from their party stash, and he makes a mental note to check through their camp supplies later for anything else potentially misplaced—and, with a grimace, Basquiat takes both. |
The stupid little bells on the bard’s collar are jingling with her anticipation as she picks up her lute. "It’ll be great," she hiccups. |
Basquiat barely manages to bring their instrument up under their chin before the song kicks off. |
Whatever Astarion was expecting from all that resistance, it’s not what he gets, because Basquiat is, unfortunately, quite good. Particularly in comparison to their skill at the lute—which isn’t bad either, otherwise he would’ve had no qualms about draining them dry at the first opportunity to stop their practicing—but even he can tell this is where their musical experience really lies. |
How their bow flies across the strings, how their fingers flutter up and down the instrument’s neck. It actually makes him wonder why they’d bothered to lie about it in the first place. |
And when they start singing, in a lower register with the other two, Astarion thinks that it might be actually criminal that something so rich, like melted gold bullion, is so content to play mere accompaniment. After the day they’ve all had, he supposes, perhaps it counts as taking a break, though he can’t imagine how. |
Especially not once Basquiat starts moving. |
First it’s a step or two, a well-placed heel in time with the beat. Then a shift of the hips and tail. And then their entire body is swaying, spinning, weaving in and away from the other tieflings, playing and singing all the while. And they don’t appear to miss a single step, nor a single note. He recalls Basquiat mentioning they’d once owned a pub; what a crowd they might have drawn with an act like this. They’re using their music as a lure, their body like thread to draw all and sundry along for the ride—or, the spawn thinks, a little cynically, the other way around. |
Astarion only realizes he’s been hooked as well after Basquiat catches him. One moment, just one, where their eyes lock across the impromptu stage. |
Nothing so trite as the entire world falling away, no. Everything feels too loud around him, all of a sudden; too close, chaotic, fraught. Those twin suns of Basquiat’s eyes are little lifelines for him. Little gifts. |
And then he thinks of all their other gifts. The fine Drow armor, the Gur hunter, their own blood. And suddenly he’s remembered he’s only half unwrapped the whole package. |
Control is a need like hunger. Base. Compulsory. |
By the time Basquiat smiles at him, by the time they close their eyes and wheel back into a chorus about reels and jigs and dancing until dawn, Astarion’s only watching them out of habit, as a prelude. He’s running over scripts like a last-string understudy called in on opening night. |
What a fine night for a debut. |
One song becomes two. Then three. Then the fourth becomes a sea shanty and Astarion stops bothering to count. The spawn can’t physically watch the entire time—the other two start spinning about while they perform too and it’s legitimately dizzying—but he can still comprehend that they just keep going, even when he attempts to stay up to his pointy ears in his book, or in his cup. Cool, casual, not at all screaming internally about how he’ll never catch a godsdamned break. |
He does, finally, process the moment that Basquiat stops singing—a sudden, distinct lack of warmth in the air, like a fire being doused. When he looks back up they’re already almost on him, wine-flush spread across their pierced nose all the way up to their gold-capped, mahogany horns. And they’re smiling at him again, so brightly it’s nearly blinding. |
"Lakrissa is going to eat me alive," Basquiat play-whispers at him conspiratorially, barely containing their laughter, "and if she does then Alfira will kill me stone dead, I think. Hide me?" |
Astarion knows an open window when he sees one. |
"I suppose I could be a little charitable," he says. His mouth curls into a grin. He makes sure his fangs show a little. |
Mutually they draw each other back toward his tent and away from the main fray. The sorcerer almost literally skips ahead of him, violin and bow still in hand. They don’t ask his permission when they drop their instrument down on his settee, or pick up what had been his cup. |
He doesn’t comment on their presumptuousness. Instead he just reaches for his bottle, tops the sorcerer off, and eases his way in. "I will say, if you’re looking for a savior, you would be far better served relocating the Blade, no?" |
How absurd that their laugh actually qualifies as musical; he’s always thought that sentiment was mere poetic drek. "Gods, no," Basquiat tells him. "He’s in no shape, last I saw him. He’s...how to put this gently, he’s a bit deep in his cups at the moment." They almost sound sad about it. |
Astarion sniffs. "If only I could say the same for myself, what with this tedious little affair your kinsfolk are putting us through." |
Their hellfire eyes twinkle at him in the gloom even as they roll at his quip. "You’re too posh for your own good," they say. "As though you’re not already slumming it with the rest of us, a little bit. In fact—" They put their arms behind their back and weave closer to him. The way their tail moves with the rest of their body makes Astarion think of a certain circus attraction involving snakes. "Isn’t that a Tethyrian red that I spy in your hand?" |
"Doubtful. But I have to drink something during all these terrible toasts, don’t I?" He takes a long draft from the bottle, and doesn’t bother hiding his distaste when he releases it. "Even if it barely constitutes wine. Fitting, since this whole evening barely constitutes a party. I hate it. This is awful." |
"Don’t be so sour," Basquiat chides him. "Just think of all the goblins you got to kill to get here." |
"True," Astarion concedes. "That was fun." |
Admittedly it had been, and not just from the mere violence. Equally enjoyable had been watching the scheming gears of Basquiat’s brain, over the course of the week, luring each commander of that fetid camp to their own separate, unique, beautifully precise demise. His favorite had been the last, that brutish hobgoblin. The unhinged glee he’d felt, watching while the sorcerer hypnotized every cultist in that throne room with ease, before splattering them all in grease and setting the whole mess ablaze like a cheap firework display—he’d practically skipped across the rafters picking off the last of the little beasts with his bow. |
But reminiscing isn’t the point now, not now—the point is to play sulk, to push on the part of their ego that smiled at him as they sang. The part that ends every night near his tent flap to offer him a drink from their neck. The part that, as he’s noted to them, shivers so blissfully beneath his teeth as he feeds. |
The part of them he knows, or is resigned to know, should be craving to know him. Carnally. |
So he slides a little closer to them and sighs, "Still, I would’ve liked more for my trouble than a pat on the head and vinegar for wine." |
Basquiat puts the cup down and reaches, instead, directly for the bottle in his hand, to steal a slow, lingering sip. Astarion watches them carefully all the while, the touch of devilry in their eyes as they watch him over the glass. And then the liquid hits their tongue and their attractive face pinches in disgust. |
At least this one at least has taste, or this would really be unbearable. |
"See what I mean?" Astarion says. "Awful." |
Another eyeroll, but this one is more good-natured. The sorcerer takes another game sip and wags a finger at his nose. "You can be right, once." |
Astarion huffs melodramatically. "All I want is a little fun. Is that so much to ask?" |
"Then I suppose I’m not entertaining enough for you, then?" Gods, he thinks Basquiat might be pouting at him. |
"Darling, you’re the only real entertainment I’ve had all night." |
Meager praise, but it sets them practically preening. It’s almost too easy. |
He prowls even closer to them, puts a little smoke in his voice when he speaks. "You’re such a wonderful, devoted host, you know," he tells them. "Spending all day taking care of all these people. But surely someone has to take care of you, don’t they? And I, for one, would be more than happy to indulge you." |
They’re handing him the bottle back and he touches their wrist. A little thing, but it stills them. |
Yes, he’s laying it on thick, he knows it. If he hadn’t already propositioned them once on a whim before he might be worried that they know it too. Instead it should just the natural continuum, a night promised that neither of them have been able to make good on for various, mostly legitimate reasons. |
Basquiat studies him. Smolders at him, even. Their gaze flickers from his eyes to his lips. "You’re not the only one eager to indulge tonight," they murmur. "And you should know you’re not the only...eager volunteer." |
"I’m hardly surprised." He circles the pad of his thumb around their pulse point. "Something so attractive about the hero of the hour." |
"Sure," they say. Their voice is light, distracted. "I must look terribly good covered in blood." |
Astarion hums something like assent. He’s so focused on faking his own distraction, keeping his eyes trained on that broken sword tattooed on their throat, and a little higher. Like he’s thinking about leaning in just a little more, like he’s this-close to kissing bad sense into that plush, pretty mouth— |
The sorcerer straightens up suddenly, pulls their hand away from him and crosses their arms over their chest. There’s a flash of near-panic, that he’s somehow actually overdone it, before he catches their eye. |
Oh yes, there’s still hunger there. Textbook, necessary hunger. And next to it, challenge. |
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