Welcome to the Black Parade

halsin has ALWAYS been a service dom. like he doesnt even THINK about cumming until you've already finished all over his fingers or his tongue, maybe even multiple times! he just loves the sweet little noise you make when you're overstimulated. he loves the squeals and whines that leave your lips, how you mutter his name under your breath? nothing sounds better to him.

"keep singing like that and you'll make the birds jealous, my heart" but how can he expect you to be quiet when he wont even let you hide your face?? insisting he needs to see that look in your eye when you cum AGAIN, swatting your quivering hands away when you tug a pillow up to your mouth, the man is so mean sometimes! cant he see how flustered you are?

god he loves the taste of you too. he's perfectly happy to eat you out until the sun comes out again, until you're crying so loudly that the entire camp can hear just how beautiful you sound with his lips flush against your cunt, nose nudging your puffy little clit every time you squirm!

and when i say facesitting i mean faceSITTING. you barely even have the chance to hear his throaty chuckle when you hover over his face until his hands snake around your thighs, pushing you down with such force youre worried that he cant breathe! i mean, the way his eyes glaze over and you can notice them cross doesnt really help soothe your worries either, but its not like you can get out of his tight grip, can you?

“Don’t worry about it darling,” he answered blithely, strangely satisfied to make her feel bad for no reason. Another shining example why he had no claim to sadness. “I’m here now. All’s well.”

“Are you sure?”

“Naturally.”

Feeling a bit of his old, indifferent self return, he strode into her room, shutting the door and perched himself over her shoulder, hovering as close as a moth to lamplight.

“So…Halsin, I take it you two have patched things up?” He could smell the warmth of the druid on her. But try as he might to muster disgust, all he felt was contentment to be so near her again.

“He asked if he could join us, actually,” she said.

“Oh?” He feigned interest. “And what did you say?”

“I told him no at first.”

Astarion almost choked but recovered, smothering the gurgling sound with a giggle. “Why would you ever do that? Every group needs a strong back and a pretty face. It’s good for morale.”

Tav turned to glare at the vampire. “Really? I figured you’d be pleased. You two seem to always pick at each other.”

“Oh darling, that was only sport. Besides, that man would walk through the hells for you at the asking.”

He watched her nose, excited to see it wrinkle in blushing embarrassment but Tav looked almost pained to hear what anyone would want to hear about a lover.

Maybe…

“When did you last eat?” Tav asked, hoping to distract the vampire with food.

Astarion, sensing weakness, pounced. “Oh no you don’t missy, don’t change the subject. Besides, I’m not hungry.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Darling, I’ll have you know I spent a year locked in a coffin and turned out fine more or less,” he answered casually. “Now, just what did happen between you and that bear? Dish girl. Dish.”

“A year?” She asked quietly.

Astarion rolled his eyes, irritated both by the question and the fact he had no one to blame for its asking but himself.

“Yes. Sealed me starving inside a dusty tomb all on my own for an entire year.” He waved his hand to wave away the memory as if it were no great thing. “So half a tenday here or there really isn’t gonna do me in. Besides, I’ve barely noticed.”

“You’re lying. Your eyes are a duller red when you’re hungry.”

In 200 years, Astarion had never seen himself in a mirror –  one of the perks of being a member of the hungering undead. But he knew he possessed certain features. On more than one occasion bards had sang him sonnets of how beautiful he was in excruciating detail. So he knew about his silver hair, pouty lips, and sharp, hawkish features. One singer, apparently not one for exaggeration or self-preservation, had once put his crow’s feet in a verse.

But his eyes as a gauge for how full his belly was? That was new. He laughed genuinely, giddy with the knowledge.

“Are they now?” he said, voice still bubbling with laughter. After 200 years, someone had taught him something new. “Well, I suppose I shall have a drink then. After all, I can’t be seen with such dull red eyes. That won’t do. They must be glittering rubies at all times!”

He sang the last words, imitating those terrible, fawning bards. 

Tav shook her head, a small smile cracking on her face. “Glittering rubies?”

“But of course. The bards used to sing of them all the time. Why? What would you call them?”

Tav thought on this as she rolled up her sleeve offering him her wrist. “I don’t see a gemstone. Too cliche. I’d call them something of real value.”

Astarion casually inspected her wrist for a good place to bite, finding every bit of skin close to the vein littered with poorly or unhealed bite marks. He thumbed the wounds, suddenly ashamed.

“Let’s give your wrist a rest. Besides, I haven’t taken a draught from that delicious neck of yours in a while. Indulge me?”

Tav nodded and began fiddling with her stiff and fussy leather overshirt with a collar that stopped under her chin. She took her time, annoying him. The prospect of drinking from her neck made Astarion impatient.

“Let me,” He pushed her fingers aside to undo the laces himself. “Now go on, what could be more valuable than jewels?”

“Food. You can’t eat rubies. Your eyes are something cool and bitter but tasty. I dunno cranberries maybe? Though, I guess that wouldn’t sound so good in a song, huh?”

“It sounds beautiful to me,” he answered and said no more.

“I’d like to meet this Cazador of yours someday,” Tav said after a few moments of silence.

“Why in great gurgling Chionthar would you want to do that?”

“So I can kill him.”

Astarion’s fingers stilled, the last two laces still done up. “Really?”

“I think he’s more than earned it, don’t you?”

“Oh, very much so,” he croaked, forcing words out of his emotion-thickened throat. Whether or not he was “too late” didn’t matter anymore. She offered him the one thing he wanted. Freely. Without promise or payment. 

It was that easy.

Her gasp from the first moment he slides the tip in, drowned out by his growl of pleasure at the tightness and warmth. The way he’d instantly send up a prayer to Silvanus under his breath because, gods above, though he’s been with many lovers, this feels like no paradise he’s ever known before.

He hardly makes it halfway inside her before the tightness is overwhelming.

“Breathe, my heart,” he murmurs, pressing a soothing kiss to your forehead. “You must relax if you’re to take all of me.” He presses a gentle hand across your abdomen, encouraging you to relax your muscles, affording him another couple inches.

When he finally bottoms out, it takes three centuries worth of strength to maintain control. He feels like a young adolescent again—ready to finish at the first pump.

He gives you all the time you need to stretch, to adjust, but when he feels your hips start to buck up beneath him and hears your pleas for him to take you, he feels his control start to give way.

Halsin feels drunk on the pleasure and the power: feeling how drenched you are for him, watching your body writhe beneath his, hearing you scream out his name as he wrings every last ounce of pleasure from your body. It’s more than he can bear.

For as tame and controlled as he started, towards the end, once your last orgasm has been wholly and utterly claimed by him and your body has given in completely, all sense of control is lost. His thrusts are completely untamed; his large hands have a death grip on your hips as he holds you steady and ruts up into you, his hard thrusts making you see stars. He comes with a literal roar of pleasure, flooding your walls with his seed. He pins you down with his cock as he pumps you full, each twitch of his cock sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine. Moments pass and the part of you that’s barely clinging to consciousness marvels at how he’s still finishing inside you.

Finally, when the last of his seed has been spent, he withdraws, leaning down to press a kiss to your damp forehead, both of you out of breath and dizzy with pleasure.

Kan's death - his father explained carefully, voice distant beyond the roaring in Halsin’s ears - had been quick and he hadn't suffered too long. Something to say, Halsin thought decades later as the same words slipped through the gaps in his teeth, when there was nothing more to say. When there was no answer as to why. When there was little comfort to be offered. To fill the hollow, empty space carved indelicately from the initial gauged hooks of shock.

He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Someone misheard; someone gave the wrong signal; someone had been too big and too quick for their senses, or too cocky for their patience.   It had been an accident - foolish, a devastating miscalculation, but an accident.

Dozens of thoughts were dripping through the elfling's mind, running indiscernibly together like rainwater in spring as it slipped down the leaves, heavier and heavier until it all spilled over, reaching one, clear, continuous puddle:

Kan wasn't supposed to be there.

Halsin stared at the ground, tugging at the hem of his tunic. Suddenly it itched and burned with how it clung to his neck; too small and Halsin was always too big. Waves of guilt felt like a stabbing pain, deep and relentless, as everything cascaded into a single, discernable ache. His voice sounded so impossibly tiny in the clearing, echoed back by the trees in their whispered inculpation.

“He…he was supposed to be with me.”

Halsin peered up, clamping his jaw to keep his chin from wobbling.  

He remembers the look his father gave him; the soft, mournful noise that followed, forever burned deep into each night it was given purchase in his reverie. Never before had the elfling seen him so distraught, looking all the much like the world was splintering before him. The loss of one son at the blame of another. Halsin felt the tears gathering behind his eyes spill over, a dam bursting, sudden and hot. He is choking, he cannot breathe, nothing is real, but it burns as though it is.

Teushtasa, voeraen. Hiine'hel n'alus tel'erek, his grandfather had snipped down his nose at him once, years ago, as Halsin wept over his mother leaving him for the day, the torn edge of his cloth toy, the crushed and dying moth withering on the hearth.

Cry, elfling. Your tears will not water the soil.

Oh, no, no, no.

His father had taken his face into his calloused hands and he winced like a spooked fawn in the rain, clawing at the grasp like the little wild thing he was. Halsin could not hear what he said to him, only felt as he pressed his thumbs firmly into the dimples of his cheeks, like he did when they had fallen or were frightened. Little buttons, he called them, to make them smile. To make them forget. Halsin has them, like his mother. Kan has…Kan had…