Datasets:
mickume
/
dnd_drow

Dataset card Data Studio Files
xet
Community
text
stringlengths
0
41.4k
Astarion pauses. "Oh?"
He looks up, poised over them. Basquiat is looking at him with intent, with a smirk. "Unless you just like looking at my tattoo," they say, before they bare their throat to him. It’s the most confident they’ve looked all night.
"Go on, lover," they tell him. "Have a drink of me."
He teases them with the press of his body against theirs, the tip of him dragged across their sex. For some incomprehensible reason they laugh, flinging their arms around his neck and pulling him in for another kiss.
Why not? If that’s what they want.
So on that whim, Astarion sinks his fangs into their throat, and takes his first drink at the same time he slides his cock home into their body.
It’s a mistake.
For the first time in the night, real heat, real fire sparks in Astarion’s mouth like a lit match. When he swallows it courses like liquid sunlight through his every muscle, from his ear tips to his toes. Their desire has a taste. Something almost familiar, tangy and sharp, so sharp it numbs his throat. Like he’s cracked a peppercorn beneath his molars.
It’s infectious. His head swims with it. His control spins out with it.
Just one drink, and all the carefully cultivated detachment between his brain and his body, his intent and his actions, is wrenched apart. Hunger drags him, no better than a dog on a leash, into being present. Being made to feel.
He’s too still, too shuddering. He needs to move. Basquiat is waiting on him to move, must be. Except beneath his mouth they aren’t, not like that. They’re arching and curling around him, a cage of hips and thighs and even tail, arms around his neck, hands in his hair. Drawing him close, drawing him deep. Golden voice moaning all the while, so much louder. Their heart is racing, wild, even paradoxically as their pulse slows; there’s more blood being pushed down his throat and he takes it.
Oh, he wants to take it.
Sensation like a flood of gore. An automatic, greedy swallow. He takes. When did he start? His hips have been moving, because he feels it. An agonizingly slow drag of his entire length inside their fluttering cunt. Warm and wet and just a little pleasantly tight all up and down his cock which is suddenly so aching.
Basquiat keeps pulling him close, down, even as he pulls on them. Deeper without ever fully leaving their body. Approaching something like claiming, like they want to hold him here forever. And he could let himself be held this way, couldn’t he. Be claimed. The warmest grave he’d ever know.
He’s never felt craving like this, never felt so alive and so dead, and it is absolutely fucking terrifying.
Dull, detached alarm. Another reflexive drink. He’s gripping their waist too tightly. He’ll leave bruises. He can’t, he’s not allowed to leave marks. But he can’t let go. Every part already buried as deep as he knows how to go. Nails too deep, teeth too deep. The way he clutches rats to feed, desperate. Isn’t that all they are? Isn’t that just what he is, a creature of habit?
There was a line between where Basquiat ended and Astarion started, and for a long, treacherous moment neither of them can find it, nor try to. Wrecked groans, sounds like dying, perhaps from the throat of the creature that was at some point called Astarion.
He’s drowning. Burning. Almost utterly lost.
Then, a golden lure: a long, drawn-out moan in a voice that is distinctly, unmistakably Basquiat’s. "Astarion, ah-haah..."
The border of hunger crystallizes. The chance to regain control. If he stays he will be lost. Imperative: choose, now.
Astarion groans and rears his head back, pulls his whole body as far as he can from this embrace, away—
It’s only Basquiat beneath him, but it’s only them. Scarred chest heaving, dark hair splayed against the grass. Scarlet spattered across their neck. A sheen of sweat on their upper lip that glints in the moonlight with their scales, their nose-ring, their eyes. Their solar-flare gaze gone pleasure-glassy, but still seeking to know him. Animal vaguely recognizing animal.
Beautiful, he thinks dimly, just before another frisson of dangerous fire lances up from the pit of his groin.
He gasps for breath he doesn’t need, bites his lip until he can taste fresh iron. There’s still too much of Basquiat in there, but the pain drives the necessary wedge into his brain so he can make words again.
"Sweet love, precious thing," he manages, and oh, he sounds ruined. He prays it’s excusable. "So good for me, so close for me, aren’t you?"
At the sound of his voice Basquiat is already nodding, keening wordless assent, and their eyes flutter shut. It’s a relief, to not be seen, another wedge like pain.
Astarion can adjust now, and does, back onto his haunches. Trembling, he slides all the way out and then all the way back home. He’s mindful of the angle, knows he’s calculated correctly when Basquiat cries out in ecstasy and their heat pulses around him again.
Good. If he’s salvaged his control, he can salvage this.
The script is beyond lost, so he skips all the way to the end. His movements are swift, deliberate, mercilessly accurate. Ever the perfect tool, body no better than a blade sheathing in so much flesh.
He’s distantly aware of his own voice saying, "Come for me, love, that’s it," somewhere under the song of Basquiat coming undone.
They break beneath and around him. Messily, wetly, loudly. Quaking, arching, baring their ruined throat to him. The scent of their blood is as overwhelming as the rhythm of their cunt still trying to draw him close.
Astarion pulls out before he can be pulled down again and strokes himself. Fist tight, utilitarian, once, twice. He licks their blood from his bottom lip and that’s enough—that thread inside him snaps—he’s too blind to see stars.
His release sears hot through his fingers, streaks across Basquiat’s belly in spasms. He holds breath he doesn’t have through each stuttering wave until he falls, as gracefully he can manage, onto the grass beside them.
The afterglow has always been the weakest part of Astarion’s repertoire. In fairness, he doesn’t normally stick around for the curtain call.
He compensates, propped up on one elbow, by watching Basquiat while the tiefling recovers. Funny, at the moment he thinks he wants to reach out and touch them—that a consummate lover should—they reach for him first. He lets himself be drawn back in.
Their hand lands first on his back, on his scars, and both of them pause. Astarion braces for the inevitable. But then, without comment, the hand travels up, comes to rest in his hair.
Stalled until morning, it would seem. Small favors again. He rather doesn’t want to ruin the moment, either.
He lays his head against their chest and revels in the fever of their skin. The drum of their heartbeat near his ear slows, steadily, to something approaching rest. He tries not to think about how good this part is, how simple it could be to stay here, just like this.
Helpful, then, that this close he can smell the dry-down of their blood. Like fermentation, a hint of too-sweet rot, the usual signal that his quarry is spoiling. He kicks himself mentally for not thinking to include healing potions in his kit. Next time, perhaps.
Basquiat catches their breath eventually. "Wow," they say, on an exhale. "That was—wow. Not all talk after all, then."
Astarion can hear their sappy grin and fights the impulse to sneer. Instead he goes for sultry. "I’d ask what happened to that talented tongue, love, if I wasn’t so directly involved in its undoing."
That earns a good-natured, albeit tired groan. "Careful, or you’ll make me greedy."
The spawn looks up quizzically. In response, Basquiat reaches down, draws a fingertip through the puddle of his spend on their stomach. And then they bring that finger lazily to their own mouth and lick it clean. They have the cheek to wink at him when they do it, too.
"Oh, you are dangerous," he growls, playful, nipping their clavicle. And he means it.
Temptation doesn’t begin to describe them.
But still, he lets them pull him closer, lets them kiss him again and gently scritch his scalp like some domesticated thing. He lets himself stay until the tiefling drifts off, too spent to make bad on their own words. Once he hears the first little snore pass their lips, he extricates himself, quietly, and settles just at the length of plausible deniability away from them, for his own short reverie.
It’s harder to come down than usual, at the start. There’s still a...tingle, an itch behind his back teeth that Basquiat—no, that their blood put there. Astarion swallows the impending indigestion, burying it beneath icy certainty that tastes almost like success.
Because he has won something. He has to have. Let their question come in the morning; he’s learned what a fine, sad heartstring his answer will pull.
Mere temptation has nothing on two hundred years’ worth of habit.
"So I was able to talk you out of selling your body to a demon today. You’d have done it were I not there, wouldn’t you?" Astarion says, accusingly, almost as soon as he and Tav enter the Elfsong main area together.
"You were there, you know what happened," she says, annoyed by the hypothetical question. Instead of heading toward the stairs and to their room, she turns around and heads toward the patio and hails a waitress on the way for a pint. This will be a fun conversation and she doesn’t want to have it inside or without a stiff drink.
"And good thing I was there. Who knows what kind of dark curse he could have put on you. Or what he might have done to our child. What were you thinking!" He follows her, his voice sharp. He is not trying to keep his volume down and although she chooses a table removed from other people by at least one empty table, some curious heads turn toward them.
"To be completely honest," Tav says slowly, spreading her hands in front of her on the table, "my first thought was ooh sex with an incubus sounds really hot."
He sighs heavily, but then says, "Thank you for being honest with me. I’m not sure whether to be happy you didn’t try to lie to me or upset that you thought that even with your lover standing beside you---"
"I don’t know what to say, I wasn’t thinking clearly. Maybe this is what happens when I am forced to make all the decisions."
"You didn’t make this one! Don’t turn this around."
The waitress comes up behind Astarion with the pint and sets it on the table between them. She looks at the two of them awkwardly for a moment as if considering asking Astarion if he wants anything, but he shakes his head toward her. As Tav pays, he leans back in his seat and waits, his anger clear on his face. At least he isn’t going to berate her in front of the stranger, though.
When the waitress leaves, Tav takes a sip of the bitter pint and then goes silent, looking at the patio floor. She supposes she does deserve this, but she already feels ashamed and this is only rubbing it in more. As far as she is concerned she has already learned her lesson. She doesn’t need this.
"I am sorry. I didn’t consider your feelings---"
"Or the baby," he interrupts her.
This stings, doubly so because he is completely correct and there is no defense for her. The pregnancy is so new that it is still mostly a concept to her. Absent feeling the baby’s movement or even a visible belly, she finds it hard to remember that in a bit over a half a year there will be a living, breathing child who she will be responsible for. It is not as if she has done this sort of thing before.
"Yes, you are right. And all I can say is that I am sorry." Picking up the drink, she takes another few swallows. At a loss for words, she waits for him to speak again.
"Listen, you have dark appetites, I understand that. You would hardly be with me if you did not. But I need you to consider your own safety more than you do now. I don’t want to see you hurt."
Ordinarily she would find these words touching, but at the moment she can’t help but feel a little indignant over the slightly patronizing tone he is taking.
"This lecture is coming because I am not behaving responsibly as befits a mother?" Tav says, only letting a tiny bit of an edge creep into her voice. This is really not where she should be focusing her attention in the conversation but she is finding it difficult not to be riled.
"No, Darling, it’s coming because you’re young and you make brash decisions. And more than anything I don’t want you to get hurt," he repeats. "But there is something else..."
"What?" she says, crossing her arms in front of herself. What else is there to lecture her about just now?
"If you want a taste of darker things there is a way for us to do that in a safe environment," he raises his eyebrows ever so slightly at her, his eyes gleaming.
This pique’s Tav’s interest. What an interesting turn in the conversation. She looks up at him again. The past week or two has seen her sexual appetites increase, a fact which she blames on the pregnancy.
"If you want sex to be dangerous, to taste pain, to be hurt, but not too badly, we can do those things together. I can offer you that."
"But you don’t...You wouldn’t feel like you were being fetishized? With all you have said about how people desire vampires? I’ve never... I don’t care about that. I adore you. And I’d hate to ever make you feel like---"
"What you make me feel is desired, but for the actual me and not the idea of me. It is and will always be different with you because you are you, my love. And I see this as playing a role for you. It will be a scene which we will act out together. A scene that could hopefully let you satiate these desires of yours and also keep you alive and from doing stupid things like trying to fuck a literal demon."
He says that word so infrequently that hearing it from his mouth now commands her attention. It sends a tingle down to her toes.
"I don’t want this to be all of the time, I love gentle and cuddly Astarion, too," she says cautiously. Just last night he had made love to her sweetly while she attempted to be quiet. The lack of privacy in the Elfsong rooms was somewhat of a difficulty.
"It wouldn’t be, my dear. Just every now and then I can be your dark vampire lord."
The words have an immediate effect on her as her mouth goes dry despite the drink. Heat rises to her cheeks and her stomach flips. She closes her eyes and tries to collect herself.
When she opens them again Astarion is staring through her and he inhales through his nose, smelling her, she knows. He smiles deviously.
"It is amusing how easily that can turn you on. Just a few simple words about how I would use you is all it takes. One day I want to find out just how worked up I can get you just by talking about what I’m going to do to you. Would you enjoy that?"
"Yes," she says, the word coming out as a husky whisper.
"But that's for another time. Shall we do this now?"
Before she is able to answer he has stood up and is by her side. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he leans down and whispers in her ear, "Does your Lord Astarion need to administer some discipline to whip you into shape? Are you acting out because it has been too long since you’ve had me inside of you? What? Not even a full day has passed but yet you need your dose of my cock so that you don’t lose your head?"
Every word is dripping with honey. The way that he says the word "cock" alone could possibly make her orgasm. Tav can barely answer as her breath starts to come faster and she can feel her arousal building. It’s quite unfair, the hold he has over her.
"I will take that as an emphatic yes. Here is what we’ll do," he says. "The extra room is ours tonight. I will go downstairs and get a bottle of wine for us to share and by the time I come back you had better be in that room, naked, waiting for me."
"What happens if I’m not?" She asks, her impulse control completely gone this day, apparently.
He raises an eyebrow at her and says in a hard voice, his entire demeanor changed, "You really don’t want to find out."
"And what if I do want to find out?"
"Well, you will learn otherwise quickly."
Then he turns around and makes his way into the tavern and Tav is left sitting there alone and a bit frazzled. Astarion aside from biting her of course, has never purposely hurt her during sex. He hasn’t so much as slapped her ass or pinched her to the point of pain. She can only wonder what he has in store for her. But whatever it is, she has no doubt that she will love it.
As she makes her way into the building and past the bar, she sees him leaning on the counter, obviously flirting with the bartender. He is so handsome, her lover. As he makes a quip his eyes dance and he runs his fingers through his curls. She has no doubt that he is brokering some kind of deal. Either that, or he is about to pilfer the money he pays right back from the man. His flirting with others has never bothered her. It is enough for her that it is her bed he always returns to.
Although there is no set rotation to who gets the extra room, there is no negotiation over it. When she announces that she and Astarion would like to take it for the night no one objects. In fact, Wyll and Karlach exchange glances and Karlach coughs but there is no discussion. Does everyone know how horny Tav is?
Once in the room, Tav decides her best course of action is to start off obedient. So she first undresses and folds her clothes neatly to place them on a chair in the corner. Then she lights all of the candles since the sun is about to set. All of the windows have been left open for some reason and Tav doesn’t bother to close them. She assumes that even though she is currently chilled from being nude, she will heat up quickly once Astarion appears. So for now, she climbs into the bed and pulls the covers up over her chin and waits.
Within minutes, the door knob turns and Astarion walks into the room carrying a wine bottle and two glasses. It’s surprising he has brought two since he doesn’t exactly like the taste of it. Although he can’t eat any food he can for some reason stomach alcohol.
"Breaking the rules already? That is not a great sign," he scolds mildly.
"What do you mean?"
"If you recall, I said you would be naked."
"I am," she protests.
"And yet I cannot see you. Get up, then. And don't attempt to cover yourself."
She does and comes to stand in front of him. Unsure what to do with her hands, she awkwardly holds them at her side after first attempting to hold them in front.
"We need to set some boundaries," he says as he sits the bottle and glasses down on the desk by the wall. "We will use what’s called a "safe word". If you ever want to stop what is happening you can say the word and I will do so immediately. You will feel uncomfortable normally because that is precisely the point of what we’re doing, but if it is too much, use the word. Don’t be afraid and don’t hesitate to do it. And especially don’t worry that you will upset me with it; it is important to me that you’re well. I will never blame you for it. And, there might be times when I will use the word."
"If I think I have gone too far and you haven’t stopped me for whatever reason, probably a stupid one like you’re trying too hard to please me. Now, what word is easy for you to remember and say and is also one that won’t normally come up while we’re at it?"