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dnd_drow

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"No collar," Tav agrees, his breath quickening. "Unless you want to put one on me."
"Gods below, stop using your mouth and start using your fingers. Or else we’ll see how long you can hold your breath underwater."
Pleasure surges through Tav’s loins. His cock liked that sentence very much. It’s all he can do not to grind himself against Astarion, and arousal has his brain in a chokehold now; he thinks Astarion might have just admitted to a genuine desire, but he’s not totally sure.
Is that good enough? He hopes it’s good enough. For one night’s progress, at least.
Because fucking hells, he wants to make Astarion come. It’s difficult to remember that he had anything else on his to-do list.
Tav slides his hand up and over the head of Astarion’s cock, then back down again. Firm, constant pressure, the way he knows Astarion likes. He’s rewarded with a quiet moan and the flicker of Astarion’s tongue against his neck, over the day-old holes where he bit Tav last.
"Good boy," Astarion breathes. "Do that again."
Tav does. He watches his fist break the bathwater’s surface and slip back under, exposing Astarion’s glistening cock-head to the air. Astarion flexes his hips, sighing as Tav finds his rhythm. The little shifts of his body against Tav’s cock drive Tav out of his skin with unanswered need, but he’s not opposed to this kind of torture. Far from it.
Astarion might not realize it, but he’s given Tav yet another gift. It’s vanishingly rare for Tav to get to touch Astarion like this without a distraction: usually Astarion sucking him dry, in one sense or another.
He’s making the most of this opportunity. He’s paying close attention.
Even like this, with Astarion panting in his arms as he thrusts into Tav’s hand, it’s so difficult to tell. The smoke and mirrors are in full effect, always. 
Astarion’s vocal about what he likes, but what if he’s just sticking to his lines? Tav wants... no, he needs to know he isn’t hurting him.
He needs to give, not take. He needs to repay Astarion for everything he’s done. He needs to be close to him, to be with him, and hells, this is the only way Astarion will have him. He’s made that abundantly clear.
Tav splays his free hand over Astarion’s taut stomach, pressing him close, restraining those impatient hips. Astarion snarls his approval and throws his head back, over Tav’s shoulder. The pale column of his throat heaves in Tav’s peripheral vision.
Tav can’t resist. He turns his head and kisses Astarion’s neck with a hungry moan. His hand keeps working up and down Astarion’s length, operating on muscle memory now that Tav’s distracted.
"Oh, that’s adorable." Astarion laughs, low and smoky. "Do you want a taste, my sweet? I don’t mind."
"Not fair," Tav groans. "You know I can’t."
But fuck, does he want to. He thinks he could find it in him to bite, to drink, if Astarion got as much pleasure out of it as Tav does when he’s helpless in Astarion’s grip. It’s a damn good thing his teeth are blunt and he has no idea how to find a vein. Tav doesn’t have Astarion’s self-control.
"Don’t sulk, love. This kind of thing is best left to the professionals." 
Astarion’s hand finds Tav’s jaw, pushes him off his neck. Then his lips are at Tav’s throat.
Tav’s hand stutters. He won’t beg. He won’t beg. Tonight is for Astarion, not for him.
"So fast." Astarion mouths at his fluttering pulse. "So eager."
He’s talking about Tav’s heartbeat, but his hips strain against Tav's grip. His cock is pulsing steel in Tav's hand. He'll come the moment he tastes Tav's blood, Tav knows that. Gods, it's his favorite thing to do, to step seamlessly from giving Astarion one kind of pleasure to another. It’s thrilling beyond compare that his blood is Astarion’s undoing.
But... Tav’s brain whirls. That’s power he has over Astarion. Coercion. And there’s something wrong with that. Something...
Not this time, he’s about to say. Don’t.
But Astarion hears a different plea in his voice. And that’s Tav’s fault, too. That’s the scene they’ve spent the last month rehearsing; Astarion can’t know that Tav wants to throw out the script and rewrite his lines.
Astarion sinks into his neck with a deep growl of pleasure. And then it’s too late, in every sense.
"Ah," Tav cries out, convulsing. He’s not coming—at least he doesn’t think he is—but this is always a kind of peak, a kind of death, all the sweeter for how long he’s waited and how fruitlessly he tried to prevent it.
Astarion answers him with a desperate sound of his own. His hand clenches Tav’s jaw and one of his fingers slips between Tav’s lips. Before he can help himself or even figure out why he’s doing it, Tav’s suckling him like a newborn kitten, all tongue and teeth.
And apparently that has a power he never expected.
Astarion’s back arches, lifting off Tav. His cock swells to impossible hardness in Tav’s hand and Tav doesn’t feel his release, he can’t, not when everything’s already so warm and wet, but he feels the rapid throbs and the whole-body shivers and Astarion’s muscles snapping taut, his feet bracing against the rim of the tub—
Then there’s a sound. The earsplitting crack of splintering wood.
Tav can’t worry about that now. In thirty seconds, yes. But not now.
He strokes Astarion through his release as filthy water rushes around them, draining through the cracks. Astarion moans on every swallow, riding the waves of Tav’s blood and his own peak. From the sounds he’s making, Tav doesn’t think he’s noticed.
Tav’s getting dizzy. But he’s okay. He’s got his head above water and both eyes on Astarion—figuratively speaking. He won’t let him go until Astarion’s okay, too.
His hand slows, but he keeps Astarion pressed close against him. Until Astarion breaks away from his vein of his own accord, pushing to get free, and Tav relinquishes him at once.
"What in the hells happened to all the—oh. What a mess."
Released from his duty, Tav slumps bonelessly against the bathtub’s rim and gasps for breath. Goosebumps race across his skin. He’s wet and cold and he didn’t even get the chance to scrub. But he’s satisfied, all the same.
He feels Astarion’s hand on his face. "Still with me, love?"
"Let me see your eyes."
That’s an odd request. But Tav’s feeling amiable again. He’ll do whatever Astarion asks.
Astarion’s face swims into focus before him. Gods, he’s beautiful. Water clings to his lashes and sodden curls, trickling down his cheekbones. There’s a crease between his brows, but it smooths after a moment. And there’s something in his eyes, a glowing, velvet-soft warmth like the embers after a fire, something...
Tav squeezes his eyes shut. It’s automatic, like he’s just come out of a dark room and looked directly into the midday sun. Pure survival instinct.
"Hmm." Is it Tav’s imagination, or is that a note of disappointment in Astarion’s voice? "I suppose you’ll live."
Definitely disappointment. And a cold sort of distance, too.
Whatever Tav thought he saw in Astarion’s eyes just now... That was his duplicitous brain conjuring what he wanted to see. Hurting himself, like always.
"Shame about the tub," Astarion says calmly. "Ah, I have a plan. You can tell Gale to wiggle his fingers and fix it. If he makes a fuss, just tell him Mystra asked."
"No need," Tav mutters without opening his eyes. "Find me a hammer. I can do it."
"Can you? My, my. You're full of surprises. But I think you're forgetting something, darling."
Tav jerks upright as Astarion's hand finds his cock. He’s grown used to the burning ache between his legs, let it fade into the meaningless periphery, but Astarion’s touch is a bolt of lightning. It reawakens him in an instant. He’s a flick of Astarion’s wrist away from coming undone.
But no, hells, this is wrong.
He’s gone to all this trouble trying to make Astarion understand that what Tav wants isn’t important in the slightest. He doesn’t give a single fuck about making himself feel good and Astarion shouldn’t, either.
Tav doesn’t deserve that. Not after last time.
"Don’t," Tav says, and winces at the sharp edge to his voice.
Astarion draws back his hand like he’s just noticed a trap. "What’s this, then?" His eyes flicker between Tav’s face and his twitching, needy cock. "Something else you’re looking for?"
"No. Nothing. Let’s clean this up."
Tav braces his hands on the rim of the tub, dreading another splintering crack, but it holds as he hoists himself out. Astarion rises too, dripping water on the stone floor and staring at Tav with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
"If this is a new game," Astarion says, "it’s only polite to explain the rules."
Tav picks up the sponge, sodden and forgotten on the bottom of the tub. He’s well aware of how ridiculous he looks right now. Naked, hard, and discombobulated, like a brothel patron thrown out mid-services. But it’s too late to change his mind. All he can do is pray that whatever he’s bought with the scraps of his dignity is worth the cost.
"There’s no game. Don’t worry about it, okay?" Tav’s trying to sound soothing, he really is, but Astarion’s growing visibly tenser with every word out of his mouth. "I think we’re going to need a mop."
Astarion snatches his clothes from a nearby barrel and whirls on Tav, his nostrils flared and his jaw set.
"No, no, darling, you’ve got it all wrong. You’re out of your mind if you think I’m cleaning this up. Get one of your useless Harpers to do it. It’s all they’re good for besides dying."
Tav’s throat clenches. "Astarion—"
It’s no use. Astarion’s still dripping wet, but he laces himself into his clothes anyway at blinding speed and storms out of the basement. Tav hears the door slam.
Tav sits down hard on the stool. Gods. What a mess.
Stupid. He’s so fucking stupid.
Of all the people to make it through the front door, to catch even a fleeting glimpse of that seething tangle behind Astarion’s stone facade, Tav is the least deserving. The least prepared. The most unworthy.
He’d swap himself for someone else in an instant.
Maybe that’s why Astarion chose him—because he knew Tav wouldn’t last long. Tav’s the kind of man to crumble at the first sign of resistance, to tip over the board and let all the pieces fall on the floor. Always with one eye on the door. Ready to leave it all behind.
And yet he’s still here. Still pawing after Astarion, whining for his attention, wagging his tail at his approval. Even now, acting like a kicked dog.
Tav wishes he could storm out of this basement and leave himself behind, too. He glances at his clothes and groans, burying his face in his hands. They’re on the floor, of course. Sitting in about an inch of fetid water.
And for some bizarre reason, that makes him feel a little better.
It’s the universe kicking back. Proof that someone up there, even if it’s a god almost as cruel as Astarion, sees what he’s trying to do.
Tav reaches down and rescues the Blood of Lathander from the floodwater. The mace glows, unbothered by the wet grime.
He’s sitting in a dark, empty basement, talking to a weapon. He’s truly at his wits’ end.
"You chose wrong." Tav sets his thumb against one of the spikes and presses down. "Are you paying attention? You chose wrong."
A sharp sting, not unlike Astarion’s fangs in his neck. Blood wells from the pad of his thumb. Tav shivers, seized with sudden hunger. He’s growing more like Astarion every day, in the worst ways possible. None of Astarion’s beauty or strength or force of will, but all of his sharpest, cruelest edges.
Tav’s a good student. He’ll learn every method Astarion knows to hurt him. He’ll outshine the master in time.
And maybe, just maybe, by stealing away Astarion’s darkness and hoarding it for himself, he’ll give Astarion back the light. The sun.
You give me what I need. I give you what you want.
This is how Tav does both.
"Tav, I was hoping we could—" Wyll’s face falls for some reason Tav can’t discern. "Not a good time?"
"What? No, now’s fine."
Tav moves aside to let an eager-looking Flaming Fist descend the stairs to the basement. He did his best to patch up the tub with some ancient tools he found lying around, and he did wind up asking Gale for help—but only to conjure enough water to refill it. Hopefully the wood holds long enough for someone else to break it. Then Tav won’t take the blame.
Wyll looks him up and down, brow creased. "If you’re sure."
"It’s important, isn’t it? Whatever it is."
Tav has no idea what people see when they look at him. Astarion might be the one without a reflection, but at least he has two centuries of confidence that his mask works. Tav feels so raw and exposed all the time, like a throbbing nerve. Sometimes that ineffable unhinged quality comes in handy; people never seem too sure what he’s about to do next. Most of the time, Tav isn’t sure, either.
"It is," Wyll admits. "It’s the prisoners in Moonrise. My father, yes, but not just him. Some of the tieflings might still be alive, as well. And Mol, and the others who were taken. I’ve been racking my brains trying to come up with a plan. Are you sure you’re all right? Your hand is bleeding."
Tav’s too weary to come up with an excuse. "Looks like it. So what have you got?"
But to his irritation, Wyll isn’t like Shadowheart; he doesn’t know when to let it go. "I—er. I saw Astarion a little while ago. Coming up the stairs. Hell’s teeth, Tav, I don’t know how to bring this up, so I’ll just say it. He’s hurting you. Isn’t he?"
Tav wants to laugh. But that would be cruel, he thinks. There’s genuine concern on Wyll’s face, in his good eye. Clearly the Blade of Frontiers’s protective streak doesn’t end at goblins and hellspawn.
There was a time when Tav worried about Wyll and Astarion. It didn’t last long; Wyll’s not that stupid, and neither is Astarion. In fact, Tav thought he caught a few glimpses of camaraderie, here and there. An almost-genuine offer of blood; a drawled, half-sarcastic word of advice on how to slip a blade under a minotaur’s guard. They’ve come a long way from (justified) accusations of hoarded loot.
The last thing Tav wants is to spoil that. Astarion deserves their friends’ trust. If Tav’s done damage to Astarion’s reputation with his own penchant for careless self-destruction, then that’s one more sin added to the list. He needs to fix this.
"He’s never done anything to me that I didn’t ask for," Tav says quietly. "It’s hard to explain. Do you trust me?"
"Without a doubt," Wyll says at once, and Tav feels a rush of warmth. "It’s him I don’t—"
"If you trust me, you have to trust him. I wouldn’t be here without him." Tav swallows. "He gives me what I need."
Wyll raises a hand to rub distractedly along the curve of his right horn. Tav’s noticed that new gesture from him lately; it’s endearing, the way he’s getting used to the changes.
"I don’t understand it at all," Wyll admits with a sigh. "But I suppose I can tell Karlach to put away the stakes. She’s worried, too."
Gods, Tav’s been a fool. He’s spent all this time cringing whenever his weakness comes to light: the scars on his chest, the ruined shirts, all of Astarion’s little possessive gestures. He couldn’t bear the thought that his friends would look at him and see a coward. Someone they couldn’t depend on.
He never stopped to think about what they’d see when they looked at Astarion. Astarion may have his own list of sins to atone for—not that he’s shown much interest in doing so—but hurting Tav isn’t one of them.