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dnd_drow

Dataset card Data Studio Files
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"Say please," they say. It’s barely a request.
Astarion flutters his lashes, cocks his head, as though he hadn’t heard exactly right. "What?"
Basquiat repeats, slowly, their voice syrupy and low. "Say please."
Cheeky little pup.
Let them think he has to beg. That he wants to beg for it. He almost does, just to see their reaction. And it’s far from the worst debasement he’s endured, to be thought of like a displacer beast being tamed.
So he purrs. "Please."
And there, the scar across Basquiat’s mouth lifts in a satisfied little smile. Astarion sees that window again, wide, wide open, and knows he’s cleared the sill.
There’s a shout from center camp, some other horned idiot calling on Basquiat to socialize. They look up and away to reply and Astarion indulges himself with his own little smirk. It stays on his face even when the sorcerer turns back, looking a touch apologetic as they start pulling away.
"Hero of the hour," the spawn says. He tries to sound regretful about it. "Best go on making your rounds."
Basquiat’s eyes are still twinkling at him. "And I’ll see you later?"
Astarion can almost hear a little nervous stutter in their heartbeat.
He winks at them as they go. "Indeed you will, my love. Indeed you will."
If Astarion still believed in the gods, he might have been inclined to thank them for providing such a magnificent stage. Instead he thanks only himself, as always, for remembering this spot from his first post-crash hunt. The grass in this clearing is soft, there’s just enough trees around for privacy, and the full moon will make a perfect spotlight. The one thing he can’t take direct credit for, the lighting; at least nature knows how best to accentuate the marble sculpture he’s become.
All he really had to do was bring props, and he’d had these ready since his first come-on. A blanket, a bottle of decent wine and some pilfered silver cups, a flask of oil. None of which he’s guaranteed to use, but a consummate lover always comes prepared.
When you’re made to be everything to anyone, you do collect certain habits.
Astarion tries to remember that this night is a little different. Or, at least, it could be. At least this stage, this plot, he’s gotten to choose, and it’s so fine he thinks he might have outdone himself for this little performance. His own opening night—he could almost laugh. And there’s no threat of having it all ripped away from him immediately afterward.
Maybe he’ll get to actually enjoy it this time.
He’s behind the treeline, stripping down to just his breeches—and purposefully leaving off his smallclothes—when he hears footsteps, and Basquiat’s unmistakable voice.
"Astarion?" They sound almost unsure.
He throws his shirt next to his boots. "Here, darling," he calls back.
He rounds the trunk of a massive oak tree and there they are, barefoot and hair loose, still in their camp clothes. The moonlight is perhaps a little less kind to them than firelight, stealing some warmth from their brass-gold skin, but that’s all it changes. They’re still blessedly, hellishly gorgeous—horns, scales, tail and all.
And they’re even better looking when they flush, the way they do as soon as they set eyes on him in the witching light. Basquiat’s lips part around a single silent oh as they take him in. That he’s reduced that talented mouth to speechlessness already is more than enough to tug at his own vanity.
But his own indulgence for this is, at best, a side objective.
Astarion pads toward them into the clearing, lithe and stalking, only a little of the creature he thinks they want to see in him. His opening line is perfectly practiced, perfectly delivered: "There you are. I’ve been waiting."
"Not long, I hope," they reply softly. They’re slower than he is, but still moving ever-closer to him.
"Darling," he tells them, "I’ve been waiting since the moment I set eyes on you. Just...to have you."
They’re an arm’s length apart now. Astarion can hear their heartbeat from here easily; it sounds like a desperate bird in a cage. That wine-flush has receded just barely behind the line of dragonscale on their cheekbones.
"You don’t have me yet," Basquiat says. Coy, but it’s nearly a whisper. A barely-concealed lie.
"Don’t I?" he teases back. "You’re here. And I don’t think you want to talk."
Closer now. The way their throat works around a swallow is terribly distracting. Almost as much as the heat radiating from their body; it makes the prospect so tantalizing. He draws from that feverishness a little, pours it into his well-studied movements, into his gaze as he roves across their body.
His first touch, as always, is on their wrists, so light it’s spectral. "I think," Astarion murmurs, "you want to be known. To be tasted."
"And what do you want?" they ask him. Evasive. Perhaps on purpose.
He shrugs it off easily. "What do any of us want?" he says. "Pleasure. Yours. Mine. Our collective ecstasy."
A gentleman extends an out as a courtesy. Astarion knows he’s not gentle, and he’s barely a man. Instead he looks for confirmation that the lure is about to be bitten, the sound of the trap snapping shut.
Not that he plays fair. He’s moving his fingertips up Basquiat’s arm, so close now he could close the distance between their mouths in an instant, could kiss their cheek with his lashes.
"That’s what you want, isn’t it?" he hears himself ask. "To lose yourself in me."
He’s watching the bob of their throat, the shape of their mouth forming a silent yes, the incline of their head when they nod. Assent.
"I thought so," he breathes. He brings one hand up to Basquiat’s jaw and tilts their face to meet his.
It’s a slow kiss, a deep kiss, well-practiced on his part, but he really does enjoy it. This was always the part of the show he’s most enjoyed. He takes care with his teeth when he sucks the swell of their lower lip, and when they open their mouth for him, he sweeps his tongue languidly throughout, as though seeking out the last taste of their evening’s wine.
It’s the kind of kiss made to steal breath. And Astarion only breathes for performance now.
When he pulls away his new lover follows after him with heavy-lidded eyes. Good, he thinks, as they wind their arms around his neck, drawing him back wordlessly. He indulges another kiss, indulges himself when he doesn’t shorten it.
Basquiat isn’t quite trained—and he tries so hard not to think of all the other fools who hadn’t been either—but they’re a fast learner. This time they put work into it, suckling his tongue when offered, licking into his mouth when allowed. They’re even bold enough to lick behind his fangs; it actually makes Astarion chuckle.
Their clawed hands land in his hair, but, small favors, they don’t tug. Instead there’s just the absent soft scratch of nails against his scalp. It’s pleasant enough, when coupled with the warm slide of their mouth, even if it briefly makes Astarion feel like a housecat.
If only it could just be this, all night.
When they part again, Astarion moves to kiss their cheek. Then their jaw. Then the shell of their ear, their neck. As he moves further down, he brings his hands from their arms to the hem of their shirt.
He can feel their heart stampeding beneath his lips. "Ah, already?" Basquiat says by his ear. They’re unusually breathy.
"I thought that was rather the point, love," he quips. He pulls their collar to the side so he can mouth along that juncture between neck and shoulder. One hand slips beneath their shirt, near the edge of their hip.
Every little thing he does seems to make them shudder. It’s almost charming, but it does give him pause. "That sensitive, are we?" he says aloud. "Don’t say I’m your first, or I’ll feel terribly obligated."
"Not my first, no," is their answer. It sounds honest enough.
Small favors, Astarion thinks, before resuming his ministrations. He’s kissing their shoulder, the exposed edge of their collarbone, and now he has both hands beneath their shirt, sliding them up the soft of their abdomen—
"Ah." Basquiat shivers again. "Just, want to make sure you don’t have—reservations."
He’s only a little annoyed, but not enough to stop. "None whatsoever, darling."
"No, I mean—"
And then their hands are on his, pulling them further up from over the fabric, until his hands are splayed across their chest. Beneath the pads of his middle fingers he can feel divots in that soft skin, and a texture like twisted velvet cord.
Basquiat’s swallow is audible. "Just so you know what to expect from me."
Astarion puts his cheek on their shoulder to look at them. There’s still the ghost of a smile on their mouth, yes, but their eyes are wary, and that birdcage heart of theirs is thrashing.
His first flash reaction, which he keeps entirely to himself, is to be irritated. Why do they think anyone would care? He’s never been particular. But they, clearly, care quite a lot, or think he should. And the potential in that thought is obsequiously gratifying.
His second reaction is to slow down, because he can’t afford to stumble here. He peels away from Basquiat just enough to pull their shirt off, up and over their head. A glance at their chest confirms that yes, those are scars, twinned and very deliberately made. Their body really is gorgeous, just enough a balance of softness and definition. But then, Astarion’s always had a knack for beautiful things.
He throws the shirt aside and kisses them again on the mouth, gentle and swift. Then he kisses the base of their throat, the point of their tattooed sword. Then, their sternum, the center of a floral tattoo blooming there. He puts his hands on each pretty pectoral, beads each nipple gently under his thumbs before gracing them with kisses. Basquiat gasps each time.
In this way Astarion makes his way down their body, a string of kisses and caressing fingertips, so many promises he may not keep. Down their sides, their waist, the little trickle of dragonscale down their navel in place of hair.
Then he kneels between their legs.
"Oh," Basquiat croaks.
It’s effortless for him to unlace their trousers and smallclothes both, effortless when he assists Basquiat in stepping out of them. He trails his hands down from the curve of their arse to their thighs as he assesses, for a moment, their objectively very handsome cunt. The scent of their arousal is not so different from that of their blood; less driving, perhaps, but still warm and inviting.
Desire drips as expected down his belly. It’s not entirely an act for him to lick his lips.
When he looks up at Basquiat from here it’s like staring into a solar eclipse. There’s still nervousness, yes, but it’s far closer to anticipation now, and importantly, to trust. He’s rather smug about that.
"My love, you’re a revelation," he purrs. Then he bows his head and introduces his mouth to their sex.
And that makes them whimper, makes them tremble in his hands. With barely a touch he holds their thighs apart and eats them out—not like he’s starving, but like he’s relishing an exotic meal he’s never tried before. Slowly, deliberately. Not an incorrect comparison, in fairness.
When he laves the flat of his tongue across their clit, Basquiat shudders audibly; their hips rock down to chase him. He can feel the heat of those clawed hands by his ears and he wonders if they’re fighting an urge to hold him there. "Rude," he hears them wheeze overhead.
Astarion breaks away from them to chuckle. "I could be so much worse, darling," he says, pressing a kiss to the inside of their thigh. "Watch."
And he demonstrates again, spreading them open on his tongue, as though that muscle is one of his daggers and he’s trying to carve them apart. He can hear them moaning above him, a sound almost as musical as their laugh, but it’s half-muffled, bitten back behind their lips.
That certainly won’t do. He skips ahead in his script. Minding his teeth, he suckles the bud of their clit, gently at first, then harder. His reward is a loud whine, buckling knees, and a little flood on his tongue.
"Can’t—" Oh, they’re breathless now. "S-standing, I can’t—"
Oh, fine. With one last kiss Astarion comes back up to meet them, discarding his breeches as he goes. He makes sure Basquiat can see when he licks the tang of them from his bottom lip. They practically fall into his arms to kiss him again, clinging to his bare chest.
"That’s it, little love," he tells them, between their open-mouthed, sloppy kisses, "you can touch."
He means it as general encouragement, but apparently all they needed was an invitation. Basquiat surges into him, throwing their arms around his neck, and their body collides with his in heat like high sun and it nearly knocks him over. It’s overwhelming. It’s good. They don’t even balk tasting themselves on his tongue—they seem to chase it, as much as chase him.
Suddenly Astarion’s back bumps against something—that oak tree, ah—and Basquiat is still kissing him, but less aiming for his mouth now than his jaw, his neck; and their hands are wild all over his body, grasping his face, his biceps, his waist—
Too much. "Ah-ah-ah." He spins them around easily before they can paw any lower, presses their body down with his against that tree trunk instead. Their expression is utterly elated when he hitches one of their legs up around his waist—and maybe if they weren’t nearly his height he could’ve picked them all the way up, but no—and pins their wrist over their head with his other hand.
He growls at them playfully, "Don’t get too far ahead of me, darling." He pushes a little of his weight into them, content when they shiver again. How hot they feel against him, how cool he must feel to them by comparison.
Astarion drags his hand along their thigh and slides it up, beneath the curve of their arse, until can use his fingers to map out the folds of their sex, as best he can. He’s confident in his movements, slow as they might be, knowing that it’s not merely his tongue that’s made them this wet, this wanting. And if he crooks his wrist just right, like so, he can sink his first two fingers inside them, into their waiting heat.
Basquiat whines beneath him. They lace their fingers with his in the hand he’s still holding over their head, and their horned head falls forward a little, almost temple to temple. And then Astarion feels their tongue, and the slightest hint of their teeth, against the shell of his ear. A gasping breath near the tapered tip, hot and wet.
Well, that’s a fairly new sensation, one he legitimately enjoys. But he won’t give them the opportunity to exploit it.
Astarion presses his mouth to their neck and sets to work.
He doesn’t have to have his brain on for this: spreading them out and fucking into them methodically with his fingers, murmuring two hundred year’s worth of memorized filth into their sweat-damp skin. He’s fairly sure not all of it is lies. That they’re beautiful, that they take him so well, that he can’t wait to see how well they’ll take his cock. Anything so that they keep up their litany of gasps and moans, the insistent squeeze of their hand in his.
Amidst all the heavy breathing and whimpering, he hears the dull thud-thud of their tail whacking against the tree behind them. Cute.
In every respect his body’s response is automatic. Which is good, he supposes, that he doesn’t have to have his brain on for that, either. He only registers that he’s hardening against their hip when they start trying to rut against his hand. Something about how they shift their angle to take him, how his length presses inside the soft join between their thigh and hip. Like they’re trying to give him better access to their body in all respects.
All the while, Astarion can feel their juddering pulse beneath his lips, and he’s struck with the temptation—maybe the most tempting idea he’s had all night—to bite Basquiat here, to drink from them in the throes of sex. Perhaps they’d let him, would welcome him to gorge himself on their heat in every sense. He feels the mirage of it coiling in his stomach, stirring his cock.
Deliciously perverse. He doesn’t now, obviously. But even the dream of it makes him ache. He worries his teeth absently at the crook of their neck, teasing himself far more, he thinks, than he’s teasing them.
He twists of his fingers inside them, a well-trod come-hither motion. Predictably, Basquiat’s head thumps back against the tree. They practically sing his name: "Astarion."
And he likes that, actually, quite a lot. "Again, love," he croons. He presses the heel of his hand further into them and his fingers thrust again in perfect repetition.
"Ah—" Basquiat starts but never finishes; instead the sound becomes a protracted moan in back of their throat. It’s thrilling to hear. They grind against him, chasing after his touch, and for these results Astarion is happy to provide. Another thrust, another twist, another broken syllable of his name from their pretty, pretty mouth.
He thinks they might break for him like this. Selfishly, he almost wants them to. Not the end of the world for him if the whole affair takes less time than he anticipated. He can feel how slick they are around his fingers, can feel those first tell-tale flutters, the increasing tension in their thigh.
So when the next thing he processes is both of Basquiat’s hands on his chest pushing him back and down, he is a little surprised. But he takes the fall gracefully. The spawn lets himself be laid out in the grass like it was his idea all along.
Basquiat lands on him with a soft oof. Blessedly, they don’t go for his hands; both of theirs splay on his chest. "Not yet, please," they say breathlessly, shaking their head. "Want you to enjoy yourself too."
Cute. "Oh, but I am, love. Can’t you tell?" He teases them with a shift of his body, pressing his erection into them for evidence.
"Mmm," is their elegant answer. Basquiat squirms for better purchase, aligning their slick, hot core with his shaft before sliding up along it. The tip of him nudges the hood of their clit when they reverse the movement.
Astarion’s laugh is short and smoky. Not bad at all, that. "Now who’s being rude," he purrs.
He lets Basquiat grind on like this a little longer, watching appreciatively as they preen for him atop his lap. Their eyes never leave his, not when they bite their lip, or when they touch their chest and throat, moves that feel almost deliberate on their part.
"Tell me how you want me," they say to him.
So the spawn flips them onto their back, descending to kiss their chest. Automatic, this next part. "Just like this, love."
There’s a musical, appreciative little hum from above. And then, in a honeyed tone: "You can bite, if you like."