#fiverr

White hair. Pale skin. Blood. 

Astarion sits by the window, a sour expression across his blood-spattered face. Dirt and hells know what else is smeared across his cheeks making him look half feral. No more so than he did with his blade at a vagrant's throat less than an hour ago.

You place the bowl of warm water and herbs down as you approach him, the steam curling over the lip and permeating the air with a medicinal scent. His lip curls as he turns to face you and he hisses in frustration as the movement aggravates a cut.

“You know,” he drawls, “I can take care of myself, don’t you, darling?”

A soft smile stretches across your lips as you continue your approach. “Yes,” you nod, “but you don’t have to.” Your hand brushes his, the whisper of a touch, before you tug him from his seat. Gently, you herd him from the window to sit on the edge of your bed. 

“Sit,” you command, and he does. Your eyes dart across him, scanning for wounds. It’s hard to tell which blood belongs to him and which doesn’t. Teeth worry at your bottom lip as you take stock of the damage. You catch his eyes tracking the movement and suppress a smirk.

With steady hands, you drag a wet rag across his forehead. The grime gives way to his porcelain skin beneath. You are devout in your ministrations. Blood and muck cloud the water as you swipe the cloth across the filth that mars him. Dunking. Rinsing. Repeating. It is a slow and steady process yet you finally reveal the face beneath the dirt.

Astarion’s eyes follow the movement of your hands as you toss the sodden rag away. His nostrils flare slightly as you fetch the medicinal brew you prepared earlier. Gentle fingers guide his face and he juts out his chin, silently offering you better access to the wound on his cheek. The tingle of magic surges through the room for a moment as you hover a fresh cloth over the mixture. Warmth seeps between your fingers as you submerge the cloth and bring it to his face.

A hiss of air through his teeth is the only sound of his displeasure.

“Sorry,” you murmur, holding the cloth against his skin with the barest of touches.

His throat bobs once, “It’s quite alright, my sweet.” Warm breath caresses your cheek and you feel his fingers drift against your side. 

Your breath hitches in your throat and you blink once. Twice. Focus, you scold yourself. His fingertips carry the chill of winter yet where they fall, fire ignites beneath your skin. You clear your throat in a desperate attempt to remain grounded in your task. With a shuddering breath you dip the cloth into the herbal mixture again. 

Drops of moisture run down your arm as you raise the cloth to Astarion’s lip. You hold your breath as you brush the cloth against his wound, waiting for the flicker of pain to rush across his features. But it does not come. His face remains still beneath your careful touch, his entire focus on you and the sympathetic lip you’ve claimed between your teeth. 

“Those men,” you say, if only to fill the silence, “what happened with them, anyway? I was gone for only a moment and then…” Your pointed look at his injuries finishes your thought for you.

You were gone for only a second. Two seconds maybe. But when you had returned, Astarion’s blade was at a throat and blood painted his pale features. No explanation, only a glint in his eyes that promised death. 

“I got carried away,” he replies and the ghost of a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth. 

You raise a brow at him, signalling that is not what you meant.

“I can assure you they deserved every part of it,” he defends with a slight pout. You feel his grip on your side tighten sharply and then fall away. 

“What did they do?” You ask, busying your hands with opening a tin of salve. You brush a little of the ointment over the cut on his cheek, the chill bite of his skin is familiar under your fingertips.

“They thought they could insult my love and that I would abide it,” his voice is soft but steady. His tone forms a hardened edge as he states, “They were mistaken.” Sparks shoot down your spine and a warm yearning pressure pools in your abdomen. 

“Astarion—” you begin, but you don’t really know what to say. You settle on, “Thank you.” He opens his mouth to reply, but before he can speak you’ve raised a thumb to his lip and are gently applying the healing salve. 

You swallow the lump in your throat as you level your eyes with his.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know, my sweet,” he replies simply and his hand brushes against your side again. His fingers trail further down until they find your hip, a possessive hand curling around the edge of the bone. An insistent tug and Astarion pulls you onto his lap. 

You let out a soft huff of surprise as you suddenly find yourself straddling the vampire. 

“You got hurt,” your attention flickers from his eyes to his mouth and back as you speak softly into the space between you. His lips part and you see the barest glimpse of a fang. Obsidian swallows crimson as his pupils dilate instantly. 

“I assure you darling,” he murmurs, “it was my pleasure.” The coppery tang of blood dances with his words. He gives another little tug, bringing you closer until your thighs are pressed against his hips. A shiver runs down your back as he speaks into your neck. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do to protect you.”

You feel your heartbeat quicken as his breath fans across your neck. Heat rises in your cheeks and you can’t find the words to reply. You wrap your arms around him wordlessly. All breath rushes from your lungs as you feel his lips brush against the delicate curve of your throat. His soft lips curl into a smile even as he continues to kiss along your jaw. He slowly drags his gaze from your lips to your eyes. The hunger you see simmering in the depths of his stare is not for blood.

“And I, you, my love,” you breathe against his lips. You see the dip of his throat as he swallows, you see the tip of his tongue dart out between his lips. His hands trace your hips reverently before he curls his fingers around the fabric of your shirt. 

“Please?” he whispers, his voice raw. You dip your chin once and take in a shaky breath as he pulls the fabric free. The soft thump of cotton on wood follows as she throws the shirt away. Immediately, his hands replace the material, they trace your exposed skin as though he is trying to memorise your form. 

You hum in approval as his familiar fingers trace patterns across your back. Your hands get lost in his hair. The white curls are soft and silky as you run your fingers through them. Warmth pools in your core as a deep groan rumbles through Astarion’s chest. 

In an instant, Astarion claims your mouth with his own. His lips crash against yours hungrily. His tongue brushes against you and your lips open for him instinctively. The taste of cheap wine and blood mingle with the sweetness of his lips. His tongue. 

It is at once both tender and fierce. A passionate paradox. You feel the whisper of a fang against your lower lip and groan your enjoyment into his lips.

Astarion’s skilled hands continue their descent of your back until he is cupping your rear. He groans into your mouth as he grasps you tightly and drives your hips against him.

A gasp catches in your throat as you press against the hardened length beneath you. A breathy moan follows as you arch into his touch, your body sings out to his, crying for his touch. 

Layers of clothing are thrown in all directions until not a scrap remains on either of you. Astarion’s hands trace your curves, long loving strokes that worship every inch of your skin. A swift movement, faster than your eyes could catch, and Astarion is leaning over you. Your back is pressed into the plush mattress and his hands on your hips trail tantalisingly lower. 

“You are gorgeous, my love,” he breathes against your skin. Gentle kisses pepper your hip then your thigh. You faintly register the sound of his knees hitting the floor as he settles between your legs. “Delicious,” he purrs. His warm breath dances across your sensitive skin and your breath hitches from the sensation. 

You watch him as he kneels for you. His pale hair hangs in front of his eyes and he lowers his mouth to meet your skin. Soft lips meet the tender flesh of your inner thigh and you struggle to contain a sigh of pleasure.

“That’s it, my sweet,” Astarion chuckles as he creates a trail of kisses climbing toward the apex of your thighs. Time seems to slip away as he looks up at you through heavy lashes. His breath is heavy and warm, it fans out across your centre, each wave sending sparks across your skin. 

“Please,” the word — the plea —  slips from your tongue before you can stop it. Heat rises from your core, flushing your neck and cheeks with rose. The grin he flashes you in response is enough to set your nerves aflame. Wordlessly he lowers his mouth to your pussy. 

“Hells— Astarion.” All of your thoughts are consumed by the sensation of his tongue. With long, lazy strokes, he takes his time in drawing out each of your whimpered moans. 

Your hips buck desperately as you attempt to grind against his mouth, yet his hands hold fast, pinning you down while he feasts. A breathy whimper. A sharp gasp. Words fail you as his tongue encircles your clit. A deep growl reverberates against you as he laps up the taste of your arousal. Your thighs are slick now and the sound of his moans are threatening to send you cascading over the edge. 

The whisper of a fang glances over your soft flesh as he withdraws and a tremor of excitement thrums through you. You glance down and watch as he dips two fingers between your silken folds. He strokes your pussy with a slow reverence, the scent of your arousal thick in the air. 

You feel your mouth turn dry as he takes those fingers and slips them between his lips. His eyes flutter shut as he savours the taste of you, a moan of satisfaction rumbling through him. He stands and your eyes widen as you take in the sight. Your gaze drifts down of its own accord. No matter how many times you’ve seen the vision before you, each time your breath is stolen anew. You drink in every impressive inch of him. 

His stare is intense as he crawls onto the bed, his body hovering mere inches above yours. You shift back into the pillows and mattress, and you feel a traitorous tremor through your legs as he brushes your thigh idly. 

“Every inch of you is divine,” he murmurs, his voice coated in carnal intent. “I want nothing more than to worship you. Here. Forever.” The brush of his fingers against the wetness between your legs punctuates his words and you arch into his hand unconsciously. 

His lips tease the shell of your ear with playful nibbles as he circles your throbbing clit with a finger. With each stroke, he closes in on his goal. His breath is hot and heavy against your neck as he finally releases you from your torment. His fingers are fast, yet steady. Gentle, yet insistent. Each movement of his hand sends a shiver up your spine and down your legs.

“Gods—” It’s amazing. It’s always amazing. A warm pressure builds as you grind against his hand, his fingers skilfully remaining right where you want them most. 

He finds the sensitive spot between your neck and your ear and claims it with his mouth. Gentle scratches are soothed by his tongue immediately as he buries himself in your neck. His name is a prayer on your lips as you close your eyes and lose yourself entirely. Your legs tremble as you cascade over the edge of pleasure. Astarion’s hand does not retreat as you ride out the waves of the orgasm. 

Only when you are left shaking and panting does he relent. Though your vision is starry in the wake of your release, you see him raise his fingers to your lips. 

“Open.”

Your mouth pops open obediently. His fingers are warm and covered in your arousal. His eyes shine with desire as you run your tongue across his fingers, cleaning the mess you left. A long strand of saliva follows his fingers as he withdraws them from your mouth and you lick your lips instinctively. 

“Good girl,” his voice is strained, as if he is doing everything in his power to hold himself back. To refrain from devouring you entirely. You look up at him from the plush embrace of pillows and know you have never seen a more beautiful sight. The moment is fleeting though, as you feel his strong legs nudge your knees further apart.

You swallow your gasp as the motion exposes your dripping pussy to a draught of chill air. The breath remains in your throat as Astarion positions himself above you, his solid cock teasing your entrance as you writhe beneath him. 

He takes himself in his fist and you watch greedily as he guides himself into you. At once, you gulp in a shattering gasp of air. 

“Astarion,” you moan as your eyes flutter shut. You feel the thickness of his length filling you, sending shockwaves through your core. You are sure you must be full, but a glance down corrects you. 

Almost as though he waited until you were watching Astarion slowly — infuriatingly slowly — pushes fully inside of you. Your hips buck against him but his hands pin you down. A warm pressure floods your pussy as he thrusts his cock inside of you. 

A deep groan of pleasure rumbles from his lips and draws your gaze to him. His eyes flutter closed as he buries his entire length inside your sopping-wet cunt. An eternity passes, or maybe seconds. You watch him in stasis, your mind and body full of nothing but him.

Suddenly, he withdraws. His hips pull back until only a fraction of him remains against you, and then he drives them forward again. Into you. Your back arches as he thrusts again and again into you. His hands follow the curves of your body, devout in their worship. 

Eager fingers trace your hips. Your stomach. Your breasts. He cups them gently before taking them firmly in each hand. They anchor him as he fucks you. A shiver dances through you as he brushes his thumb over your nipple. He playfully flicks at the bud and you feel how your pussy gushes at his touch. You feel — and hear — the wetness as he fills you again and again. 

The slap of slick flesh fills the air. Punctuated only by the breathy moans which tumble from your lips with each roll of his hips. His groans of pleasure join your own. A concert of desire and fulfilment. 

His pace quickens and you feel his hands gripping your thighs harder. He pushes your legs towards your head and you lose your breath as his cock reaches a deeper spot. 

His hands on your skin are distant whispers compared to the way he pounds your innermost wall. 

“Hells,” you choke out. 

He looks at you concerned for a moment until you squeeze out another word. 

“Yessss.” It is no more than a murmur. A mewling, desperate moan hissed between your teeth. Yet it is all Astarion needed as confirmation to continue. The pressure in your core builds until it’s almost unbearable. 

“Go on, darling,” Astarion breathes against the shell of your ear. “Let me hear you.”