Desert Fever

— desert fever

› cowboy astarion x f!reader

› wc: 8k+

› a/n: I FINISHED IT!! (dies) :3 also I made it more weird and unsettling than like sexy cowboy aesthetic sorry I can't help but make him a creature in a fucked up western ghost town (if there's mistakes pretend you do not see) ilysm @dhampling for being the only reason this got done <3

warnings : death themes, loneliness, physical injuries, blood drinking multiple times, sorta yandere?, cockwarming, orgasm denial, lil clit play

Midwinter - 200 Years Prior

Wind rips through the canyon a thousand feet overhead, nothing moving in the godsforsaken town and the mule packer knows something is wrong.

Two miles south stands the mine, the proverbial godsend, that sound which should be filling the canyon with the sound of machinery smashing ore is starkly missing.

He dismounts the tar black steed, the horses nose pinked by the icy chill and it’s nostrils flaring, its mane filthy with a dirty crust of ice. The single rig saddle is ice crusted as well, the leather components frozen stiff as board. He rubs the horses neck, speaking in soft, low tones about how he did good work today and a nice, warm stable awaits with plenty of feed.

The man wades through thigh deep snow towards the mercantile, baging his fist against the doorframe. Inside, the lamps are extinguished and the big iron stove squats dormant and forlorn in the corner, unattended by the usual smattering of miners jawing over burnt coffee and tobacco.

“Hello, anybody in the back?”

As he steps back out he notices theres not even the sound of animals braying or snorting in the cold.

“What in hells?” he whispers.

When he delivered supplies a few months ago the humble mining town had been teeming with its usual bustle, now Dreads Hand looms lifeless before him in the late evening gloom, its streets empty with unshoveled snow in high banks against the planked sidewalks. No tracks as far as the eye can see, save for his own coming in.

The cabins along the lower slopes bordering the tiny town are buried up to their chimneys, not a single one of them smoking.

He makes his way up the street to the sloon, expecting perhaps for a handful of locals to be sheltering from the storm inside, greeting him with some glorious profanity about being unprepared for the weather.

Not one’s inside.

Not a single customer, no one at the piano, and again every kerosene lamp is extinguished.

Only a forlorn half pint of beer sits on the pinewood bar, frozen through.

The path to the closest cabin is unplowed and takes roughly ten minutes to wade towards without webs on his shoes.

He pounds his fist against the door once more, counts to one hundred in his head. The latch hasn’t been hooked, but even so he feels like a trespasser as he swings the solid wood door open to step inside.

Food languishes untouched on a table, coffee long since gone frozen just like the beer in the bar. He removed his gloves to touch the roast in the middle of the table, cold and hard as the ore in the mines. Wine had at some point frozen and shattered the cups that held it.

Outside again, back with his steed for some small comfort he shouts, turning around and around in the hopes his voice will carry further.

“Is anyone here?”

It’s twenty seven miles back to the closest outpost, and the horse needs rest. Having ridden the last sixteen hours he needs it too, though the idea of spending the night in Dreads Hand has suddenly become much more sinister. The horrible silence is unnerving.

He decides to chance it, something tells him its safer on the trail back, even in the threatening dark and icy terrain with exhaustion creeping into his vision.

Something just ain’t right here.

—

30th of Eleasis - Present

From early childhood it was all you could remember, just you and your father acting in your childlike mind as fanciful explorers, wanderers. Always somewhere new to plant your feet, always some other sunrise to chase.

Once you had grown curious enough to ask, after many, many years of this endless chasing and his words echo inside your skull to this day.

“It’s just in our blood.”

What, exactly, was in the blood had yet to reveal itself. As you grew older and more alert to the realities of your life you believed he had been speaking about your occupation as monster hunters. Perhaps being the blade that sings in the night before ichor spills across the ground was what thrummed in your veins.

Although you believe differently now.

It was bad luck. Nothing but.

—

Dreads Hand was aptly named.

A husk frozen in time, the curiosity of every would be adventurer although it’s long been picked clean of anything of value. The wind whipped through the crags above your head, the trail leading towards the often whispered about ghost town like it was a reward after navigating treacherous and tight terrain.

Someones idea of a joke.

Even in it’s heyday the town had hardly been prosperous, only one twenty-stamp mill that had filled the canyon with the sound of rock crushers pulverizing ore was the only thing of note in the otherwise one horse stop off. That sound used to be the sound of money being made, and only two things ever stopped it: holidays and tragedy.

That sound hadn’t echoed through this place in two hundred years, and it was assumed when a mule packer had found the entire town deserted one fateful day in Nightal that tragedy had befallen them, though of what nature that tragedy was had yet to be accurately discovered.

Still, ever since then this place had long been whispered about. Perhaps those whispers gave it some sort of new life, perhaps not. It may very well be that some manner of beast had made its way into the derelict town, drawn in by the solitude of it, growing fat off the easy meals from snatching unsuspecting people from the town farther in the opposite direction on the trail but you were prepared to dispatch whatever run of the mill creature people in the neighboring town had complained was screaming its head off in the night.

Something nagged at the back of your mind as the hollowed out bones of the town came into view from the trail. There had never been a single body discovered in Dreads Hand or the surrounding area, which had been combed thoroughly on the off chance there had been some survivors that could explain what exactly had befallen them. Not even a hint of blood in the dirt.

It was as if one day everyone had gotten up from their tables and simply marched out into the setting sun, the wind erasing any evidence of footsteps in the sandy red soil and snow.

Another unique feature of the town was the perpetual night that fell once a year on the eve of the last day of Eleasis and lasted until the end of Nightal, it bewildered anyone well versed in magic and didn’t fit with the knowledge of environmental curses that even the best scholars had poured over. It was believed this had something to do with the long missing townspeople, but again at the time it was discovered there was no sign that anything was amiss. No blood, no bodies, no damage of any kind.

Just the wind whistling through homes and the small smattering of stores, and an inky darkness blanketing it all, like a babe tucked into bed.

As your feet kick up red dust you grimace, wishing for the first time that you hadn’t agreed to this.

The thought strikes you abrubtly, making you freeze.

You’d done all manner of hunts alone since your father had passed, why was this any different?

The hair on the back of your neck stood on end, sweat sliding down the column of your spine in a suddenly icy trail as the feeling of eyes boring into your back mounted the closer you came to Dread.

—

31st of Eleasis

Being alone is worse than the loneliness you felt growing up. Alwasy bouncing from place to place, only ever the two of you. At least it was the two of you.

But it’s different now. Now, you have to figure everything out on your own and it’s exhausting coupled with the constant injury and death. Sometimes you’re afraid if you start thinking too hard about this way of life you may just collapse on the spot, slumped in the dirt to cry and cry and cry. Weep until you dissolve and mix with the earth.

It all has to be for something. It’s in the blood.

You can only tell yourself that so many times before you start tasting bile on you tongue.

—

Luckily setting up in town wasn’t difficult, what with your pick of any number of decrepit, modest prairie homes to choose from. You had expected the feeling from the previous day to cling to you like a second skin, unease brewing hot in the pit of your stomach. Whether fortunate or not it hadn’t, but you also felt an odd sense of regret to not feel even a hint of disquiet inside a home that was possibly haunted by the dead and lost.

All you felt while settling in to prepare for the hunt was a strange melancholy. Never had you stayed in an actual home, not once in your life. The longest you had ever been in one place was during a particularly difficult hunt for a hag close to Neverwinter. That had been three months of careful stalking and planning, but even then you hadn’t stayed anywhere but in the forests closeby your target.

Doomed to a life of transience, of always existing in a state of maybe. Maybe you live, maybe you die. Maybe you’re successful maybe you are not.

Sleep had been empirical and unsatisfying, but you did your best to chalk your restlessness up to the nerves that always accompany a hunt.

This one was unique in that you truly had no idea what you were tracking, if anything.

It’s just as likely people simply heard the wind tearing at the sheer rock faces around them and assigned a boogeyman to the sound.

You shake your head as you finish readying your supplies for the day. Nothing too intensive at the start, a brief exploration of the abandoned buildings to see if theres any obvious clues: tracks, nesting behaviors, perhaps even the remnants of meals. What those meals may be you didn’t care to know in detail.

The old, once solid wood creaked underfoot as you strapped shortswords to your back, feeling relieved at the familiar weight of them. It was reassuring, going through the motions of an age old routine. It was easy to put aside the little pangs of grief as you stepped out past the rotting wood of the threshold.

Back in Edgewater, some twenty seven miles to the south, you had met with a scholar by the name of Hallowleaf who was inarguably the most knowledgeable about the accursed settlement. The last ten years she’d devoted her life to researching the place, everything from its founding to its eerie end.

She'd had some… interesting information for you before you had set off and as you walk down the now mostly rotted through plank sidewalk you're reminded of the conversation.

“It is curious, apparently the church at the far side of the town had fallen into disrepair sometime before the mass disappearance.” She said, pointing on a well worn map.

You scrutinized the marker denoting the old church before speaking.

“Was it abandoned by that point?”

“That's contested, officially yes after the local priest of Lethander passed it went into decline. But, there were some odd writings recovered during the search.”

Hastily, as if too excited to show you the copies, her hands fumbled in the bag set against the legs of the chair she sat in.

“There were some fragments referencing one of the horse hands and the church but since it's all piecemeal it's hard to make sense of. It could be that this person rode off to try and secure a new priest, but that feels unlikely given no one has ever come forward as being from Dreads Hand.”

“Maybe they died trying to?” You mused, still staring at the map and trying to commit the landmarks to memory.

Main Street ran for two hundred yards down the middle of the canyon, and you walked between the false faced buildings. Many had long since collapsed, but you stopped at a structure with five little balconies.

This must've been the brothel, and as your eyes lingered on the crumbled, jagged toothed facade you could almost hear the whistles from long gone men and women drifting down from the windows.

It was funny that this place had originally been named Hope, back when it was all of a handful of buildings and the mine was being constructed. The people who moved here really had felt that way, apparently enough to stay. And then to stay even after it took on the moniker of Dreads Hand.

The place was no stranger to unfortunate occurrences, sickness had swept through many times. The loss of their priest and subsequently the loss of any religious presence. The decline of the mine as less and less ore could be found inside the red rock.

Maybe everyone just had gotten utterly sick of the place.

Maybe hope had died first, before any of her believers.

Midway through town you stopped again at what was once the saloon. Apparently the bartender was quite notorious, having been recognized during that summer as a fugitive who'd fled from Elturel and dodged execution.

She still would've, if not for the fact that the woman had been the sole proprietor of the only lively business in the whole town so instead she spent her days chained to the bartop. They'd been loath to part with her, but she disappeared with all the rest.

By midday you had yet to see any fruits of your labor, each broken down pile of wood and brick held precious little in general but resoundingly no signs of any activity. The only thing alive here seemed to be yourself, and with each passing moment the unease of your initial entry to Dread ebbed as the wild, harsh sun beat down. If anything it felt oddly relaxing to explore the place, and it was at least a tiny bit exciting to see all the places that had only been abstract map markers to you previously.

If nothing happened tonight you were considering starting the trip back to Edgewater tomorrow, although you’d be lying if you said the prospect of witnessing the permanent night set in over Dreads Hand didn’t make you a little nervous. The other reason you would stay at least until nightfall passed was to see if the darkness brought with it any kind of beast. You’d be remiss to not at least make sure that what the people to the south reported wasn’t tied to the curse, but it was looking more and more likely that this was a case of simple rumor running too freely with peoples tongues, crafting phantoms and terrifying themselves.

—

1st of Eleint

Its been known that people can create false memories, our minds are simply weak and suggestable. It looks more and more likely that the vast majority of reports of strange happenings here are similar in nature to false memories.

There is no evidence of anything, malignant or malicious, making a home here.

—

The darkness was bewildering in its unnatural presence. Although you knew it was morning there was no way to tell, it was black as pitch both inside and outside the half destroyed little cabin you’d taken shelter in. It was no wonder why this was referred to as some curse, only some sort of unnerving magic could create a bubble of false night that could last for four months.

That darkness provided good cover to make your way towards the old mercantile at the very least, that spot provided a decently unobstructed view of the surrounding area and would be your perch for most of the day, waiting as soundlessly as possible for any signs of fresh activity before heading off around midday.

As unique as this place was, you’d be glad to have it facing your back. Something about creeping around in a town that felt more like one giant mausoleum felt lecherous, even the presumed dead shouldn’t have their rest disturbed.

Before you could step towards the threshold your nerves lit up, freezing you in place as you became all too aware of your own breathing. The doorway seemed more akin to a yawning maw, the splintered wood like rotted teeth waiting with bated breath to see if it’s prey would walk willingly into its gullet.

You couldn’t be sure, given the dark and your own rising anxiety, but it seemed as though something were moving in the shadowy depths of the place.

You need to leave.

The thought brought with it panic that gripped you hot and tight, making your heart start hammering so hard inside your chest it was a wonder your ribs don’t crack from the force.

“Do you want a head start?”

A voice drawls from inside, nearly making you yelp but you remain rooted to the spot as you catch a brief flash of reflective red breaking through the haze.

“Who- who is that?” you ask shakily, hating how you feel more like a frightened child.

Some primal instinct recognized the danger as you remained frozen, and it didn’t help that when the voice next spoke it seemed to be bouncing all around you, omnipotent and completely disguising the speakers location.

“If you want to be caught just keep standing still."

The inappropriate singsong of it tore you out of the quicksand pit that held you fast and without conscious thought you tore off in the opposite direction, feet pounding against the hardened red dirt and nearly choking on your own spit as your breathing came in erratic, harsh bursts.

It didn’t really matter where you were going, it didn't matter if you were belong followed, all you could think was to get to the one building that was blessedly still intact: the church. The half collapsed spire was your only guidepost as your pulse thundered in your ears and the feeling of bile sliding up your throat became nearly too much to bear.

As you flung the solid oak door open, before you could give a ragged exhale of relief, the floor gave a hideous groan and suddenly the world was off kilter, sideways as you met the solid rock bottom of a basement with a sick thud.

Although you instinctively tried to fall in a somewhat upright position, the momentum instead dragged you into an awkward roll, your body curling in a last ditch effort to protect your head. For a tiny eternity there was no air, there was no thought in your head, there was no light save for the blinding internal radiance as the impact blazed white hot agony through your body and behind your eyelids. Gasping, writhing on the cold, hard floor, you blinked teary eyes, staring at the hole that had just eaten you with the detached thought that this was just a hideously cruel nightmare. It was unreal, and it was painful.

For a moment you wanted nothing more than to give into self pity, to despair, the thought of no way out quickly grew from a frantic whisper to a screeching cacophony in your head as you took in the sight before you. There were no doors down here, in what could only be assumed to have been a basement, and as a chill crept up your legs you looked down to realize the floor was covered in about five inches of stagnant, stinking water.

Standing, you held in a ferocious gag, holding your hand over your dust coated mouth.

Stealth was out the window now, the sloshing of the water would give away your every movement. You focused on your breathing as you try gathering your bearings, choke down the urge to give up and the urge to start sobbing as you debate how best to get out of the current predicament.

All you could do was hope you made the right choice, that walking forward blindly would lead to a set of stairs.

The fear never left you, growing tangible with every sloshing footfall, afraid to even blink on the off chance you would open your eyes to a face leering at you from the dark.

It was difficult to even consider theories about what has happening as you trudged through the water in the darkness.

The voice had been human enough, maybe the dark had simply messed with your head more than you thought initially and all you'd really done was made yourself look insane to another hunter or adventurer. Worse, maybe it was someone who thought playing jokes in this place was funny and in a moment someone would help you find your way out of here, laughing at your expense all the while.

—

After sloughing through the mildew thick air of the basement eventually you did manage to find stairs leading upwards, but the small victory was quickly soured by indecision. A fresh hallway of doors stretched before you, its length exaggerated by the psychological pressure and possibly from the effects of hitting solid stone like a sack of vegetables.

Your indecision acted as a paralytic, leaving you like a small prey animal hoping if it stays frozen the great beast close by wouldn’t catch it by the scruff.

After a moment you were able to push through the feeling, squeezing your eyes shut for just a moment before taking determined steps through the hall, ignoring the taunting doors as your momentum built.

If that person was present in the main chapel they would be lucky to find one of your shortswords buried in between their shoulder blades for all the trouble they’ve caused you.

Anger was better than fear, it was emboldening but it also made you sloppy, made you stop considering the environment or the present threat as a threat.

A mistake that would cost you.

Through the shattered stained glass windows weak light filtered through, what managed to not be stamped out by the unnatural darkness outside. The chapel was beautiful, somehow surviving against the weathering of time that ravaged every other building in Dreads Hand. As you scanned the isles your jaw clenched tight, hoping to spot the irresponsible lout.

“Most people just hide, you know. I have to commend you for making it back up here, that basement is truly nasty.”

Shaking hard you spun around in a circle, desperate to clap eyes on the speaker after all this time.

Framed by the faint illumination was a man that hadn’t been there only seconds before, and he didn’t shy away from your gaze. Slow, deliberate footsteps against the creaky planks filled the space, and he struck you as uncommonly graceful given he was dressed in the leathers of a ranch hand.

The closer he came the more the gaping pit inside your stomach grew.

His grin was easy, full of genuine joy seeing you covered in dust and half soaked in old, disgusting water. Those eyes you’d seen in the mercantile nearly took your breath away now seeing them in detail, a deep red the color or coagulated blood and you noticed the glint of slight points peeking from his smile.

“It’s a shame for you that you gave me a massive advantage. Being in that water meant I could hear you all the way up here, stomping around like an ox.” He said.

You couldn’t believe the truly, monumentally terrible luck you had.

The people in Edgewater were afraid of phantoms, but not the smoke and mirrors kind. The kind that beckoned from the dark, all waxy pale flesh and flashing teeth.

Hallowleafs words teased at your mind, the fragment about the horse hand. Was that the man standing in front of you now? If so he was significantly older than he appeared, though that was always common among vampires.

A vampire.

Is that what befell all the people who lived here? Had this man gone into a feeding frenzy? No, there would have been bodies.

A shiver quakes down your spine at a sobering realization: it's likely the people of Dreads Hand had never disappeared at all. This may have been a town solely occupied by vampires.

“Stay away from me.” You finally find your voice, and your nerve as you pull both shortswords from their holsters on your back.

He waves his hand flippantly. “Yes, yes, the hunter with her fearsome weapons. What a tease you are, filling the place up with the scent of you then denying the hungry wolf at the door.”

Your grip on the hilts tightened, your right foot sliding forward ever so slightly as you ready yourself to go on the offensive.

“Not going to run, hm? I think you’re the liveliest thing to pass through in ages.” His grin widened, and you were given a taste of just how outclassed you truly were.

V. Die he or justice must, unless for him some other able, and as willing, to pay the rigid satisfaction, death for death

You didn’t think of the mirthful smile he wore, the much too excited tenor of his voice. All you could think of was keeping his mouth away from your flesh as he knocked you off balance, movements much faster than your eyes could track and blood trickled into your mouth as your back hit the floor with a choked groan.

But there was no time for your pain. If you could not get out of this situation you would die, that was simple fact.

It was too bad the victor had already been decided the moment you set foot here, and as your weapons were knocked from your proximity to skitter across the floor you heard your fathers voice once more.

“It’s in the blood.”

Rotten, horrendous luck.

What shocked you the most was not the weight of him as he pinned you to the floor, not the icy chill of his skin on yours. It was the kiss he placed against the side of your sweaty neck, making your muscles go so rigid your back lifted from the floor ever so slightly.

A wholly pathetic sob bubbled in your chest but given your current position there was no room for pride. In an instant you were reduced to nothing but a crying child, a child crushed by overwhelming loneliness and naked fear.

“There’s no need for tears, come on now.” You could hear the sweetness in his voice and it was such a sharp contrast with the overall situation that it made dizziness swell and pound in your head.

You didn’t respond, not even as you felt his tongue slide over the skin covering your jugular. All you could do was remain locked in on the stained glass window. The visage of the morning lord totally indifferent to your suffering.

The touch of his lips on your neck was shockingly cold, you wouldn’t have believed it was a mouth until you felt the needle-like puncture of fangs and the secure grip of his molars. That made you jump, squealing, but he held you in place which was probably a good thing because jostling knife sharp fangs leads to wider rips in the skin. The pain sharply worked down through the rest of your body, the unnatural intrusion of something beneath the skin sending you right back into high alert. And when his lips closed around the created wound to suck it was as if he also sucked all the air from your lungs.

A little whimper left your mouth, almost confused because even with the unambiguous pain of being bitten, there was something more. The wet release that followed the bite bloomed out from the point where his fangs pierced your neck in a numbing wave.

You stilled, rational thought kicking in and forcing you to not slam your hands into his chest, dislodging him could potentially rip a much more fatal wound in your neck.

As lightheadedness crept in on you, you wondered if every victim of a bite felt the same euphoria that was seeping through the layers of your muscles and bones now. Maybe that was part of it, something like venom that could relax someone and keep a feeding mess free.

Or maybe it was a small act of mercy afforded to the victim, a few final moments not full of pain and insanity.

Fading took no effort at all, and you gave no resistance as the world slid away.

You woke to sickness clawing its way up your throat, churning violently in your stomach as your various aches returned to you full force. The pain in your limbs and the throbbing sharp pain in your neck was particularly horrific. Nothing made sense, coming back to you in bits and pieces.

You were sure he’d killed you, had felt it. Terror at the unfamiliar was worse than the terror of knowing your life would end. The confusion made for an even cloudier disposition as you tore the threadbare sheet from your body and made a clumsy attempt at getting up out of the rotting pew you had been placed in.

Very quickly it was obvious that your injuries were worse than you thought, adrenaline had blocked the worst of the awareness of them and you nearly went tumbling headfirst into the floor once again.

“Easy,” he said, moving to catch you before the wood could kiss your jaw.

His grip reignited a fresh round of fear as you thrashed against him, desperate to push him away.

“You- you’re,” the words were like thick paste in your mouth, as if someone stuffed cotton between your teeth. You decided perhaps you were concussed.

“I normally go by Astarion.” That smile was back, and it made something else ache inside you.

When has anyone looked at you in such a…happy way?

Quickly you bristled. “What are you doing to me?”

He raised his hands up before speaking. “Whatever happened to you during that fall had nothing to do with me, you know. Although I’d guess whatever blow to the head you took isn’t doing you any favors.”

“If someone hadn’t decided to play tricks on me maybe I wouldn’t have run head first into a collapsing church.” You spit back at him, Astarion, as your eyes roam his face.

He was handsome you realized, it had been obscured before by all the heightened emotion and pain. Even if he was a vampire, his eyes were like old rubies and his hair fell in beautiful short curls that framed his ears just enough to be called artful. It was particularly cruel, how he seemed perfectly crafted to put those thoughts in your head and then tear at your flesh in the same second.

“I have to be dead. This is some death hallucination.” You weren’t speaking to him specifically but he answered all the same.

“Would it make you feel better if I agreed?”

You shot him a petulant glare as you curled in on yourself a bit, on the part of the pew farthest from him.

“What are you playing at? You’re a vampire, you kill things. I should be dead.”

“I’ve never been in the presence of such a knowledgeable slayer, do you have any more snippets of wisdom?”

Your expression soured further, incredulous that he was poking fun at you in all this. Ignoring him your eyes drifted to the room around you two, and part of you sagged in relief to see your supply packs had been slung on the floor.

He followed your line of sight, spotting what had caught your attention.

“You’re welcome for lugging all that down here. I hope you don’t mind that I took a peek at your journal for the trouble. Plus I needed to occupy myself while you snored.”

Your first instinct was to vehemently deny snoring, which struck you as so absurd you could almost laugh if not for the cut of knowing a stranger, a monster, had been nosing through your innermost thoughts.

He stood then, grabbing the tattered book from its pocket before tossing it to you with mirth dancing in his eyes,

“Also, it’s slightly disappointing that no one has figured out the obvious out there yet. It’s a good thing you decided to come here, but a little stupid as well. What sort of monster hunter just walks right into the den?” he barked out a quick laugh, making you cringe as tears pricked in the corners of your eyes.

Bastard. It’s not enough to bite you, leave you a mass of tender bruises and torn flesh, but he has to insult you on top of it.

Not for the first time you cursed your woeful luck, wished you hadn’t had to do any of this alone. Nothing would’ve gone so wrong if your father were still around.

“Come on now, there’s no need to cry.” he sat back down along the edge of the pew as you eyed him warily. “I know you’re afraid but really, I’m not going to hurt you. Well, not anymore but that honestly was your own fault.”

“I want to leave.” You blurt out, feeling your hands start to shake from the effort of holding in your tears, holding on to the shred of pride you had left. The words made you feel like once more like a little child, demanding to go home.

“Well, that’s not going to happen, sorry.” He said, not as a threat but as casually as if you were chatting about the weather. He was just telling you what was, an irrefutable fact.

You decide to bluff. “Someone will come for me.”

“According to that journal you’re all alone out here, and I think it would be highly unusual for someone to lie to themselves in one of those.” He pointed at the book where it landed on the bed. “Besides, you’re far too interesting and delicious to just let go.”

Your breathing was starting to go from just unsteady to too fast and ragged as he kept speaking. Being called delicious, reducing you to a meal, it all was too much. You began spiraling about the possibility that you were doomed to be a vampires personal replenishing snack until the day he let you die.

“You’re insane.” You whisper, hand coming up to cover the now scabbed puncture wounds, wincing as even the slight pressure made them start throbbing with renewed vigor.

“Maybe a little, but look at it my way. Stuck here for over a century with nothing but my mysterious and tragic past, wandering and picking off unfortunate travelers. We’re... alike, you know.”

His words were far away as your mind clung to that last sentence. We’re alike.

“How could that be? What about the other people that were here?” Your brows furrowed, assuming already he was lying to you.

He sighed, looking away. “Well, you can only keep about two hundred vampires rooted in one place for so long before we all get a little strange. It didn’t help the Lord died, what were we to do? Most killed each other or tried to take off but charred after leaving.”

Thats why there’d never been a body, and it wasn’t a priest that died. Or maybe he’d been one once, but the picture was forming crystal clear in your mind.

Dreads Hand had been a haven of vampires possibly from its inception, and perhaps the semi permanent night had been a final gift of protection from their Lord.

“I am sorry about your father by the way.”

You stiffened. “Stop.”

The anger you could muster was a weak thing, fleeting as the last rays of sunlight before dark, eroded by the seed he’d planted of your similarity. Compassion and sameness through loss.

Silence hung so heavily in the air you figured you could slice in with one of your swords if you had them. Picking at the skin around your nails you tried coming to terms with all this new information crowding you.

Maybe he was right. What was waiting for you back out there, anywhere? A continuation of this life of solitude so crushing it felt like Tyrs own hand pressing down against your chest?

“I told you, I don’t want to hurt you. Really I just… may have been overeager in my effort to speak with you.” That made you snort, half in agreement.

The way you tossed your head to the side dismissively was a mistake, a hissing inhale sucked through your teeth feeling the delicate scabs from his teeth rip open. Clapping your hand over the wound once again you can't help the surprised noise that escapes you upon seeing your own blood smeared across your palm when you pull it back, and it's not lost on you the way his eyes zero in on the scarlet mess immediately.

Time seems to stand still as you watch him, every miniscule detail of how his pupils dilated so heavily there was only a thin ruby ring framing them, how his tongue ran across his teeth and his breathing pattern became ever so slightly erratic.

A part of you felt truly sad for him then, shackled to this base instinct to feed and from everything you know about their kind the hunger is ever present, it's own constant torture. How miserable it must have been being stuck in a place with precious little sustenance, and even fewer ways to anchor oneself to sanity.

Hesitantly you stretched out your hand, as one might with a handful of food for an apprehensive animal. All at once the attitude of the space shifted along with something inside your chest.

Your breath caught in your throat at the first touch of his tongue against your palm, an experimental stripe he licked across the center before sucking on your index in a way that made you avert your eyes. The action was lewd enough, but the sounds coming from deep within his throat were absolutely obscene, gravelly groans vibrating against your hand as he moved from one finger to the next.

It was mesmerizing, and embarrassingly it made you feel dampness growing between your legs.

His movements were animalistic as his lips moved from your hand up your wrist, lavishing your skin in a trail of sloppy kisses but the chill his spit left behind wasn't wholly unpleasant.

It shocked you even more when he pulled away to speak.

“It may not be wise to, but if you're able-”

“Yes.” The word came from your lips before you could stop it, feeling overwhelmed by the bizarre passion his movements displayed and the way his voice had become so small as he asked.

What was more shocking was that he asked, nobody had ever asked after your comfort a day in your life.

He pulled you closer against himself, supporting the back of your head with one hand as the other supported his weight behind your back, and you shook in his grasp feeling his spit mingling with the blood coagulated against the side of your neck and down your shirt collar.

He was inhumanly cold but the leather and fabric covering him compensated for it, all well worn softness as your hands used his frame to steady yourself in anticipation of a fresh wave of pain.

You yelped as he moved you to straddle his lap, nearly choking as you felt his erection through the leather and your hips moved on their own, lightly grinding down before he stopped you, hands gripping your hips firmly.

“I wouldn't blame you if that's not something you wanted, we did only just meet after all.” His voice was gentle, like a balm to the cracks that had been forming inside you for longer than you cared to admit.

“Is it something you want?” You ask breathlessly, lips moving against his cheek as he kept his face close to the weeping wound at your neck.

Your hand finds the hair at the base of his neck, fingers toying with the soft white curls and pulling a small shiver from up his spine.

“Adrenaline sours blood, but pleasure gives it a much better profile…” he spoke absentmindedly in between licking at your skin.

You could feel his hand spider crawling against the waistband of your pants, making you groan softly against the side of his head, fingers tightening ever so slightly into his hair. That only seemed to urge him on, one hand undoing the garment just enough to slip his hand in to press against your clit through the fabric of your underwear.

You whimper, thighs pressing close together around his hand and forcing it to grind against you with more force which made your hips jerk like you were struck with electricity.

It felt like you were on fire, boiling from the inside out as you rutted against his hand, whimpering in open mouthed exhales against his hair. Each of your movements were sloppy and frantic as you raised yourself up slightly, desperate to be rid of the restrictive garments and your hands pawed at the leathers around his hips.

In a fumbling blur you were back on his lap, naked from the waist down and soon pulling his straining erection from its confines. You run your tongue across your teeth as your hand pumps him up and down, smearing precum with your thumb and relishing in the cracked moans that fall from his lips. His tip was so flushed, a pretty throbbing pink that made you body ache to feel him inside of yourself.

And he was quick to catch the edge of your need, digging his fingers into your hips in encouragement for you to rise slightly, just enough to slide his head through the mess of arousal before lining up. The stretch around him was bliss, a feeling of fullness that made your mouth drop open as you let out a low keen.

As you sunk down fully, ass meeting the tops of his thighs his fingers were quick to make deft little circles against your clit and pulling more of those little sounds from you as a seamstress pulls spools of thread. Through your half open eyes you can see the grin crossing his features and it makes adoration fizz in your chest.

But as your hips began moving his grip became firm, halting you and holding you in place, full of throbbing desire as his lips caught yours in a searing kiss only parting from you with the slightest of bites to your bottom lip.

Before you could pout his lips were moving from your jaw down your throat, making you tip your head back slightly to give him better access.

"Is this a condition of release?" You rasp, fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck again.

You could feel the vibration from his voice as he spoke against your flesh, "Every second you're squirming only makes you sweeter."

You bite your own lip at that, trying to hold in a groan feeling his fingers moving at a snails pace in circles around your clit anew, keeping your body on edge but providing no relief.

Cruel.

There is no opening for complaint though, not as his tongue swipes thick, wet stripes against your skin before you feel the pinprick that leads to a sharp bloom of pain. It takes your breath away, helpless in his grasp and filled to the brim with him. It's all you can do to control the wild urges to buck your hips as he sucks against the fresh wound, coaxing you towards lightheadedness with every mouthful of your lifeblood.

After an agonizing wait he guides your twitching hips into movement, it's jerky at first since your body is simply craving orgasm but soon enough you fall into a rhythm and the soft sounds of leather creasing mingle with the wet squelches of your cunt clamping around him with every rise and fall of your hips.

Every sensation goes to your head in a rush, like a tirade of bubbles furiously rising to disturb a placid surface of water but before you can come undone he stops you, slows the frantic motion of your hips until you're a teary eyed mess, a puddle held precariously in his hands.

Reflected in his eyes you can just barely make yourself out: your own eyes blown wide and glossy, twin puncture wounds you're sure are set against deep reds and purples.

Has anyone ever even desired to touch you before?

The answer is no, and there's no room for rational thought when the man whose lap you're sat on and whose cock sits heavy inside you has made you feel more seen than you've felt in a lifetime. It feels like rapture, ecstasy and the longer you linger in his gaze the deeper you fall.

Your eyes roll back as he latches onto the fresh wound once more, widening it ever so slightly with the points of his incisors to reignite the flow of blood. You flutter and pulse around him as he drinks from you yet again, the world taking on a dreamlike quality.

As you glance up you see the shattered, half shaped visage of the morning lord once more.

It doesn't matter if his eyes nor anyone elses can reach you here.

This man, Astarion, gives you something more that you feel a sudden zealous need to protect, curl yourself around it and give yourself over when it calls.

As you lose track of yourself, time, and the space around you with every pass of his fingers against your sticky clit you aren't sure why you had been so resistant to the idea of staying.

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◦ about me : ̗̀➛ rita ☆ 18 yrs old ☆ they/them ☆ multi-fandom blog ☆ fandoms I write for: bdg3, jjk, deathnote, dbd, mgsV

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ivory tower 18+ ASCENDED!ASTARION X AFAB!READER, 4.6K

Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city; but you want this.

woah boy! my first ascended astarion piece, so please be kind! dal is back babey! woooo! thank you to @bhaalism and @lipstickghoulie for dealing with me while writing this i love you both endlessly. wc: 4.6k cw: afab reader, female language used. breeding, mind-control, p in v, ascended astarion, public fingering, private banging, great times all round, as always if there are errors no there aren't, creampies, yippee

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep. Not really.

She sometimes slows just enough to find some purchase amongst the muddle, though - tiptoes lazy through highsun in soft linens, the burgeoning swell of soap suds and sunny rosemary through wide open wooden shutters. Lingering - sweat-soaking worn leathers, the sore of the flex in the arch of your foot splayed over cobble. As if to grasp at the memory, your fingers stretch out from your side and on to the dark oak of the armrest, in a moment of sheer jubilance. Summer. The sun. Wide bright mornings. Hopeful and hot as a bated breath. 

The city ambles onward this evening, no different despite the inclement weather and the din of an early darkness. Half-lidded through dark streets as rain smatters the roofs with wet, glistening something dozy under the tall oil street lamps and swirls of ever-present heavy fog. Gurgling whilst each drain fills with water and swallows deep into the sewers. 

Scatters the hay, bears the slip; sings a slow drunken stutter of thunder-wind whiling at the windows into the small hours. There’s a comfort to be found in it. 

The harbour bell will go on to toll for every sail weary ship coming in from the fog; the crescent caress of the Gate’s waiting arms lit low with oily dots of amber. That even this late into the night the bands of trawlers on the dock work crates and barrels into cargo holds with worn hands and ruddy cheeks. The gulls and their scattering squawks. The flapping of their fat feathered wings up into the clouds. 

From where you sit in the Ivory Tower you can hardly see anything at all. Fog obscures the streets to a point, other than the light patches under the oil lanterns out on the ramparts. The window runs dripping wet with condensation. Pools under the pane. 

A hideaway of sorts within the manor. Newly reclaimed by Astarion in some deal with the quivering council in order to keep him sweet. Not that he has any armies of undead in his retainer to command as yet, but they don’t need to know that. There’s time. You’re still blessedly mortal and able.

Astarion. 

He should be skulking the halls somewhere below with that unnerving silent step he’s taken to using. Your cheeks grow warm, the blanket over your shoulders pulled closer into your chest as you allow your mind to run wild; the scald of bliss to your brain like that of some ironmonger’s poker, split straight to the core. 

Your love. Your lover. 

Amongst his many newfound desires and passions seemingly includes the impetus to redesign a centuries-old palace from scratch, and while you doubt he has the want nor willpower to take the project anywhere near to completion you’re more than happy to indulge him during this burst of creativity. A designer’s eye. Lavish yet not ostentatious, he tells you. Your own private wing of the palace, and one you’ll share together. He has no need for his own private chambers. You’re the only one he wants to be beside. You understand that at its essence, it isn’t even necessarily a want to design for creativity’s sake, it’s important to you both to have every memory of the residence’s former owner gone. Every threadbare tread of carpet, every scuff on the wall; every painting being demounted by workers downstairs and shipped to the auction house first thing in the morning. You can hear them if you still enough, heart still beating in your chest and the low chunter of layman gossip.

The version of him you knew before his ascension was so very scared. Beautiful, but wavering. You loved him of course; and you always will  - it was that version of him, the one lost in the wilderness that you fell for, and gods; you fell hard - frenetic and whiny, fleeting as light snow never to settle on the forest floor. Wild-eyed. 

But this Astarion - the real Astarion, as far as he is concerned - has you completely and utterly enraptured each day you wake together, the same as ever, from the second your eyes open. Wrapped in those Daerlunian-import plush linens atop your gargantuan newly-installed four poster bed. Face of marble with those cattish dark lashes and eyes of carnelian crush. Enchants every room he walks into, as he always has. 

You don’t know he’s with you until a hand ghosts your shoulder, sinewy; with those deft pale fingers deep encroaching on your collarbone in his grasp. 

“I didn’t hear you, lover.”

“But I heard you.’

He circles round the velvet armchair, resplendent in his home finery. Not a crease to be seen. Voice soft, yet laced with a bristling concern.

‘Why do you insist on sitting up here?”

You err for a brief moment. 

“I can hear the rain on the roof, here. See some bustle when the fog clears. The city goes on.” You shake your head with a smile as he crouches beside you, nestling his head in the crook of your arm.

“But it’s cold. Dark. Come down - I can light the fire in our sitting room if you like?” 

“We have so many centuries yet to see together! What sense is there in not observing the world as it is now? Keeping record of the city as we saved it?”

His head lifts and his eyes meet yours, some churlish quirk of a brow in the low light.

“An archivist, now? Is that to be your profession alongside me? Whilst you raise our young?”

“If I wish it to be, yes.”

He laughs, a gentle low hum.

“Then an archivist you’ll be - the most renowned in all the lands. We’ll make it so.’ He stands once more and takes your hands from your lap, bringing them clasped to his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. 

‘I’ll begin planning on your archives - I presume you’ll want a library? Or something similar in your wing, maybe even an office. Who knows?”

Astarion looks to the room around you, the shapes covered with old canvas and the rickety floorboards underfoot. Cobwebs in the corner. There’s no grimace nor displeasure. He simply surveys as cool as still water. Objective.

“I’ll have some of the merchants relay their contacts come morning too. If you insist on expanding your territory up here then it must befit you.”

“Befit me?” You grin now. His hold on your hands remains secure.

“If you want me to say it, then I suppose I will. As many times as it takes to get it through that heavy skull of yours.’

His smile reaches his eyes as he circles back behind your chair, fingers splayed over your shoulders once more in a deep round kneading pattern.

‘There’s nothing you won’t have if you want for it. Nothing too good for you to covet, my solace; Saviour to the whole Sword Coast and every plain mite within its bounds.’

There’s a small pause as he bows to kiss the top of your head.

‘And I thank the stars every day that I can provide for you. That you saw the potential in me and lifted me higher, to such profane glory amongst the swill of common man. That my gold, my influence, and terror, and each lift of my blade is at your command and yours alone. That you stayed at my side.” 

He doesn’t like to mention the gods, hence the stars. Pointedly brings the grimace back into play, occasionally even furrows with the slightest twinge of anger brewing at his brow. The gods had no role to play in your shared victories. No divine intervention saved him from two hundred years of torment, from certain death after the crash of the nautiloid along that sun-soaked span of rocky beach;-

You did. You with your strange inclination toward the weak man he once was. The shell he lived in like a hermit crab on the shore, nothing more.

-

On bright days, you thank him for giving you time.

Time to live, time to breathe with full lungs. Time to allow you to burn your eyes in the beating sun with a silver pot of fresh coffee and whatever ridiculous spew the papers hold between the pages today. 

You know as you sit in comfortable silence that your time dwindles, and that your turning is inevitable. Your eternal wedded bliss is to be alongside him and will be as vivid in nature as all the colours of the astral plane, if he’s to be believed - and there’s no reason not to see his word as gospel. You can see each moment as crystalline as sea glass on sand. Forever with the man you love more than you’ve ever felt inclined to love anything. The bridal ceremony is but a drop in the vast ocean of your lives together. 

He thanks you too. Often alongside you with eyes closed in some dozy recline, forearm hanging lazily whilst he takes the sun on his skin like a blessing. A loose linen shirt akin to the one he wore back at camp at the start of your journey together, strings wide open, a blaze of blinding flesh at the corner of your eye each time he shifts.

The veranda on a clear day. Astarion has assured you he’ll never take this from you. He’ll never take anything that you don’t willingly give him with a clear heart - and why would you give him your ability to bask in the sun, like a street cat in days-warm dust? What purpose does that serve either of you, beyond making you a less useful weapon in his prized arsenal?

At one point, all you wanted was to talk to him - and it rings true even now. The want to be the bearer of all his tales. To learn about him, to be close to him; to hear him tear the world apart with that dulcet snarl, walking alongside each other on the barren dirt trails out in the wilderness. Hop-skipping to keep up with his quiet gait. Giving him back as good as you got. The glimmer of his hair in the sunlight, the way he’d sometimes just stop.

Close his eyes. Feel the heat. The gentle burn of highsun on tender flesh. A soft inhale.

That morning out in the clearing after your first night together. Arms outstretched in a welcome to the light. It had taken a few minutes for it to click as you’d silently watched on, why his sun salutation was so fond. So open.

It’s to be a long engagement with regard to your transformation whilst the manor undergoes renovations. Reason after reason as to why now isn’t the ideal time to commit you to eternity. You know why he wants to keep a hold on your precious mortality for the time being, of course; and that keeps you from the forever embrace of his Dark Kiss. It never changes. 

You’ll allow him to sire your children. You want him to. Crave it. Him.

Your very own lineage together, he whispers; frenzied by your ear as his fingers crawl the bare span of your thigh. He can breed you full like fate intended and you’ll have something - besides him - that’ll also last forever. Something of your own surpassing the death of all of your contemporaries. The Vampire Ascendant and The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate, flesh-on-flesh, skin smacking skin; his debauched groans and lewd whimpers as he buries himself inside you, your cooing breaths;-

You’ll wed normally too, for the interested eyes of the city. Some dull ceremony with the elites adorning all tables as gilded pieces might some decorative chess board, deceptive vows. Legally it makes things easier should anything befall either of you but the hassle almost makes the whole thing undesirable - gods, especially because he already treats you as some smitten newlywed might. Adores you. Follows you around the manor, stalking; like some wolf cub after its mother. Carries you to bed each evening and ploughs you senseless, until spit gathers in the corners of your wet, wanting mouth and you can’t see straight through grey-blear eyes.

He likes the idea of you taking his name by law. Melds with your own like it were meant to be, from the starter threads of whatever cosmic tapestry pulled you together, the marriage of your first name to his last, interwoven by a scholar’s hand in gold-shining delicate point.  

Ancunín. The House of.

Tapestries. Large, spanning the halls. The Sarsantyr's over in Waterdeep - they’ll be able to create what you’re picturing. 

A familiar gaze meets yours. It’s then that you realise you aren’t alone in your mind once more

“If you want tapestries, you only have to ask.” 

“In fairness - you didn’t give me a chance to.”

He hums, tilting his head a little in the sun’s glare.

“I’ll send for them. The Sarsantyr's, yes? Have them pack up all their little-’

He pulls a face and lifts his hands in some kind of puzzled shake.

‘Sewing bits? Textiles? I’ll send carriages. They can come and stay in the lower rooms. Create the masterpiece you envision.” Astarion sniggers a little at the thought of putting them in the old dormitory while you remain lost in thought.

“Okay. Check them through first though, yes? 

The real event - the wedding - will give you total ecstasy beyond your wildest preconception, you know this. Unfettered and euphoric. Books and books on the topic stacked clumsily beside your bed, reds and greens; the turning of a vampire bride in leather bound prose. You know what to expect in florid detail. You know to trust your lover, that the rabid creature you’ll become is only a temporary mental state precursing an eternity alongside him. 

And yet, you wonder about the children. They’ll be here by then. However many he decides is enough, naturally; assumedly under the care of some hired help whilst you engage in your thoroughly bastardised pastiche of a wedding ceremony. You laugh now. He’s still in your head, mulling over your thoughts as soon as you can think them. 

Will you miss them? Will they be your last thought before you pass away; Astarion unable to complete this ritual alone as he was unable to before? Will your death lead to his, leaving your dhampir offspring to ravage Baldur’s Gate unsupported by the windfall of knowing parents? There’s still no hesitation, though. You will bear his young. You want to. The consequences either way are vast and long-lasting, and you’d rather be at his side than facing his ire- 

“Love, what are these thoughts? What on earth is going on in that very pretty head of yours today?” His voice is a low drawl, pitying yet laced with affection. He sits straight in his chair whilst a hand lazily searches for yours atop the sun-warmed table; beyond the scope of the ramparts wall the low meander of city life continues on.

“Mulling things over.”

“You don’t need to do that, pet. Come now.’ He beckons you onto his lap and wraps his arms around your middle, hand searching for the soft pillow of your chest as your ass backs up to his abdomen.

‘You want me to make it better?” 

You nod gently, the sun catching your eye in a particularly bright beam and making you squint. 

“Please.”

“Poor thing. It’s okay.” As he coos; one hand finds the curve of soft flesh at your chest, holding the weight of your breast firmly as he starts lightly thumbing at the nipple through your nightshirt.

“There, now. Good girl.” Your head falls back onto his shoulder, a deep sigh as he lulls you into a new state of calm astride him. Birds sing overhead whilst you nuzzle his neck.

“I will miss this warm flesh of yours, you know. Terribly so.’ His other hand moves to your nightskirt, gently hitching the material bit-by-bit up your thighs until you sit exposed to the air. Nobody can see you from here - the faceless crowd little but colourful dots below; Astarion giving a small tense laugh as he feels your pulse quicken against him. 

He toys with your skirt, edging ever nearer your exposed cunt; and your eyes flutter closed. 

‘But the greater purpose… I just can’t let it go. Us. Our lives together. I sincerely doubt you want to wither away to age; to lose your extraordinary beauty-’

A gentle groan as he feels your warmth.

‘Do you, my most precious flower?” 

“Of- Of course I don’t. I want to be with you, as we are; forever.”

“Then we’re going to need to make a concerted start on the only thing setting us back, are we not?” His fingers gently tap on the crux of your pubic bone, threateningly close to your clit. You feel the familiar seep of your slit leaking onto the bunched skirt fabric and you think of honey. Some kind of sweet glaze.

“Yes.”

As you sink further into him his fingers move down just a little to meet your clit; and in response to your delighted sighs he very lightly begins to stroke either side of the engorged flesh. There’s no urgency to his movement nor his demeanour; just a treacle-thick teasing grin as he turns his head to kiss your blazing cheek.

“Good.”

There’s something borderline celestial about the gentle way he touches you, coaxing more of your slick from you with every gentle jerk. He deftly motions ‘come hither’ with a soaking middle finger dipping lightly at your hole then brings your arousal up to wetten your clit once more.

“You want this, don’t you?” A finger slips down to your cunt, this time slipping and nestling deep inside as you feel yourself writhe on him. One arm scrambles around the back of his neck to support yourself while he begins to curl at your spongy spot, and the anchor of your arousal shifts free.

“I’ve been rifling through that glorious mind of yours these past few days and I see you now. You want comfort. To comfort. To seek shelter in those warm lights on the horizon, to know you aren’t alone in the late hours.”

You nod furiously, wincing, desperate to feel him deeper. Thicker. You need more, your fox-eyed paramour giving only the barest minimum he can do to watch you squirm.

“You, with my babe in arm;- oh the image alone does things to you, doesn’t it?”

It’s as if he’s creating the visions in your head as he speaks them, bringing them to the forefront of your mind in hushed coos and silent gasps. As if by magic, the only thing on your mind is a primal need for him to fuck you full. Nothing else, no mind for coffee nor completed manor renovations. 

You will be round. You will brim with life before he turns you, and you’ll take to his seed the minute he offers it to you. You’ll accommodate him like no other across Toril could hope to. You wonder if he has the power to decide how many, as he adds another finger to your unbridled torment. If he could choose to speed the process up with a celebration of twins, triplets. An heir and two spares. Maybe he’d wait instead until the first was born, just to ensure the viability of his bloodline. A test.

He’s doing this; you become starkly aware as he withdraws his fingers, spiderwebs of glistening drool clinging to your inner thigh as he brings them between his lips and suckles. He’s giving you these ideas of grandeur because he can. Because you are his. Because you wouldn’t want to belong to anyone else, to be tied to any other notion of whatever a fulfilling life is, if it weren’t one shared wholly by him. With him.

“Let me take you inside, sweet one. Let’s take care of you properly, shall we? Curb this fever, hm?”

Please, you think. Please take this burning hole in my womb and make it full with you. Extinguish the flame with your unholy spend and give me children. Give me oud and orchids and a life of warmth, however long we both may live.

“Use your words, my love. Tell me you want this.”

“I want this. Please.”

-

On the bed you now lie, the room cool and dark; balcony doors open wide with light-billowing curtains. Sweat consumes you as your thoughts run wild, the smell of your arousal, clammy hands and deep breaths in the low light. Astarion approaches like something from a dream, shirtless now; smirk plastered cheek-to-cheek as he leans over your trembling form with confidence - your lust-addled fingers reaching for his steady form like a ship to harbour. 

“You want to feel it, little dove? Feel how you set me alight?”

He pries your wrist from him with gentle urgency, taking your hand under his and skating both downwards; down the plane of his tight torso, slowing to a stop just above his pelvis.

“Tell me - do you want to feel it?”

A small smirk plays at the corner of your lips, but he doesn’t seem to notice - watching the way your hand twitches under his.

“Hm?”

His groan is guttural. Thick. He doesn’t even try to mask it, eyes wide as his hand shifts yours just a little further down and over the blistering burn of his heavy cock through loose linen trousers. A hazy sigh as he moans a small whimper at your touch.

“Please, Astarion. I beg you.”

It’s like his fingers are enchanted, the way they reduce you to this sodden mess. Unable to think unless guided delicately by his superior whim. 

“I need to bury myself inside you fully for this to take. I need your full attention, submission; your devotion to our lives together. Do I make myself clear?”

He’s giving you one final chance to withdraw. Your head clears for one sweet moment and you can do little else but stare at his bulge with heavy lids and your mouth agape.

“Crystal. I ache for you. Please, give this to me.”

You lift to meet him in a soft kiss, jaw slackened and cunt ablaze. Nothing else matters, no complications, nor possibilities of horribly mangled spawn from your womb as a result of your copulation. This scalding stupor that sends you insane won’t go away until he quenches it with his seed. 

Your response has satisfied him, if the way he stands sharpish and unties his trouser laces is anything to go by. The glassy head of his cock stands purple at his stomach, leaking wild at the slit and red-hot as your hand reaches blindly for him in your hunger.

He gently taps you away and back down onto the sheets. 

“Magic?” You hear yourself mumble, still amazed at how surely swollen he must feel with how sore he looks. Has to be. 

“Just me.”

There’s a tenderness in his eyes as he crawls back over you, legs instinctively parting and lifting at the knee to accommodate him. Something that compels him to hold your face in the hand that isn’t supporting his weight and just look at you, fondly; for what feels like an age.

Then he shifts once more to angle himself, decidedly spending no more time on preparation. The heat of his cock against your slit is unlike anything you’ve ever known, dizzying yet pleasurable; hard and yet still yielding, and as he thrusts a shallow dip into your core you swear you see angels overhead. Yes, you’re ready. You’ve never been more ready for anything than you are for the sheer ecstasy you know he’s about to give you, and he’s going to give you it in droves. Seismic tremors as he shifts a little and you adjust to him once again.

He nods. He hears you. 

Then, he snaps once more; and he’s lost.

Each glub of his cock meeting your spill as he ruts into you; the way you feel it running downward in long dribbles, with each and every mindless hump of his hips eking more honey from your cunt in spades. 

You hear the sounds of your shared carnal pleasure and it makes you clench around him in some kind of self-perpetuating cycle. Groans and whimpers and moans and hisses and the frequent egregious slaps to your thighs whilst he chases his high. 

He’s perfect like this. Halo of curls above you, voice silken as he calls you every pet name under the sun, his, always. Your legs ache already from being wound so tightly, interlocked around him, and you think of the prespill inside you already. How each fangy showman’s smile means he’s twitching at your cervix and leaking molten gold inside you with every thrust. 

It’s not until he nuzzles down to your neck that you remember to offer it, potentially for the last time on this mortal coil. 

“Are you asking?”

“Well, you didn’t offer.”

The immediate pang is one of violent nausea, subsiding quickly into a wooze coating the bottom of your stomach in black tar as he fucks upward. Unease. There’s something in his spit, you assume. Something that makes the gaping wounds a little more bearable, a little less raw as he kitten-licks the flesh between swallows. Ice courses your veins with adrenaline as it always does.

Astarion chokes down his first sip with an eager cough. The burgeoning panic wracking your limbs turns into a numbed haze as your lover feasts, big neat gulps whilst he clutches at your ribcage with fingers splayed deep and cock buried to the hilt, like a man starved. His hair tickles  at your jaw, the smell of something herbal. Slightly lemony. 

He splutters that he’s close and you feel yourself nearing your peak too.

There’s a profane desecration in what he’s doing, painting your walls in an attempt to get you pregnant. Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city. No villages to raise them, no cards nor flowers from friends or family; but you want this. 

You want him to taint you in his particular shade of crimson, visibly; so the realms know who made The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate come to heel. The man who compelled her through sheer love alone and to whom she gave everything. The indomitable force for whom you’ll die, only to resurrect forever as his.

Visions of your turning don’t scare you - all lightning and thunder, the cries of your dhamplings in some nursery down the towering halls of your palatial wing; and yet you’ll be safe in his caress. He wouldn’t let a single thing happen to you. He won’t. 

And as he cums; he calls your name.

Some rhythmic prayer over and over again; and with each kick of his cock he loses some of his bedroom charm and hurtles back to earth, humbly enraptured. More candid. His weary muscles tighten as yours threaten your own release around him.

“Cum for me, now. Milk me.” in a heavy whisper whilst he strokes the soft flesh of your cheek; and you do. You cum harder than you can remember ever before. Each wave of sheer pleasure some blackout tidal wave as you writhe, staccato in his arms. 

If you die during the ceremony, you’ll die happy. Should the younglings bite their way through your womb, it won’t matter.

You’re loved. He loves you, in soft kisses and gentle arms carried all the way to the waiting washtub. In the way he sponges your aching shoulders and brings a washcloth to your dazed face.

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep, not really.

But tonight it will, in the patient, visceral bliss of calm before a summer storm.

“Put me in a movie” - SATORU GOJO

Gojo is a bad teacher but it doesn't matter when you're his favorite girl; c'mon you know you like little girls... you can be my daddy...

TW: MDNI (18+), teacher-student relationship, porn with a plot, mention of grooming, pussy drunk Gojo and lowkey a creep, minors exploitation, angst/smut, dark content, power play

WC: 5k, art by @_3aem on twitter

From day one, Satoru knew you’d bring him trouble. You were, by no means, a saint, but with a skill good enough to fool others, you might as well have looked like one.

In a way, you did remind him all too much of his own younger self, perhaps what made him adore you so much. Too much.

He could only try and deny it for so long, but the more he did, the harder it weighted on him. Besides, was it really so bad that he craved you, now that you were all grown up? From all your stages of maturing, this one surely has become his personal preference.

You were, what he’d call an epitome of a woman. To him, you were everything a woman should be.

You were fucking perfect.

He never lacked self awareness on how fucked up it truly was, considering not even months ago you were barely legal, still technically are.

But nothing could help this madness, especially not when you’d be just so damn sweet. Asking about his well being, you care for your old man this much, right?

Leaving behind those adorable colorful scribbles - little drawings of him, each of them staying safely secured in his drawer, although they weren’t exactly meant for him, but it still counts, doesn’t it?

It was bad enough that he wanted you. Hard enough to pretend like he didn’t have all those lingering thoughts about you, hard enough to keep up the facade around everyone else.

Satoru Gojo is the strongest, but not invincible. He’s still just a man.

And he knew, he knew you made everything even more aggravating for him, all deliberately. Because as much as he wanted to keep telling himself you were oblivious to the turmoil you created in his life, he knew better than that.

Above all, you were a cunning girl. One that wanted a piece of him for her own.

Capable of understanding the meaning of his lingering gaze, of those subtle touches. Satoru secretly hoped you’d make him stop, tell him he’s the bad guy, feel repulsed by the idea of a grown man doting for you.

Tell me I’m a monster, please. Hit me, yell at me, push me away and don’t let me get close.

You didn’t. It was already bad enough he wanted you, but even worse now that he could actually have you.

Still, he never actually wished to be away, not when you were a literal dream come true, a perfect, sweet dream.

A dream he keeps on coming back to, a truth he wouldn’t deny. It was too late for him to keep all that hidden, but hey, maybe he didn’t want to? No, he wanted you, he craved you, he imagined you every night. Every single night.

Whispering your name as if it’d save him, in the dead of the night, it was you, only you.

And you made it so fucking easy to get you. You were too willing.

He didn’t expect that from a third year student. He didn’t expect it from anyone, for that matter, but there you were, daring him to make a move.

Take me, and I’ll let you. I’ll be good, promise.

The temptation was enough to pull him down the moment he gave into it. He knew it was wrong, taboo, forbidden.

Everyway there was, it was a mistake. But who was he kidding?

Satoru was a fool. A fool for you. For that pretty face, that body, perfect in each of it's imperfections. You were the most priceless thing he had ever set his eyes on, and he knew it, he felt it inside his core. His heart swelled whenever he looked at you.

He knew; every time he touched you in a way only lover could, every kiss he’d press against your soft flesh. You were his crave and need, a delusion he’d never wake up from. A dream he’d never want to part with.

Despite the taboos and the wrongs, he didn't feel it that way. You were the epitome of gratification, and he got to taste you, to hold you, to make sweet love to you.

In the beginning it was all forbidden, but forbidden always tastes sweeter. You knew it too, didn't you?

Each glance and each stolen kiss was done carefully, carefully yet passionately, Satoru wanted you so bad. He knew your body, your mindset, your weaknesses and strengths.

It was more than just lust, Satoru cared for you, adored you. He wanted to be there for you, love you.

He loved the idea of having you.

A sweet stolen kiss in an empty classroom, then another during practise while your peers fell too distracted to notice the lingering hand of the older man on the small of your back, those stolen moments became a routine.

Kissing you there, his hips teasing against your behind, rubbing rhythmically, before once again pulling himself a respectable distance away.

He was a deviant, a pervert, but you were worth it all.

Satoru was apologetic towards you, but at the same time greedy. He wanted to take all of you, he desired you so much.

Every now and then, he couldn’t help it. He was getting careless too quickly.

Satoru could feel himself getting hard, it was almost painful. He had a reason to be scared, it was madness he was taking part in.

He never wanted to stop, he wanted more. More of you, more of your lips, more of your touch, more of every inch of your body.

He started going out of his way to see you, always finding those opportunities. Even if it was only for a cup of tea together. He found a reason, an excuse, just to touch you. He loved how you’d laugh, your infectious laughter was something he hoped to never forget.

It was worse that the thought of getting caught drove him deeper into his desire, although it wouldn’t take a genius to figure it out anyway. Everyone thought you two were too close for it not to come out, sooner or later. He’d have to atone for every moment he had with you in the past, in front of the dean, if it ever came to that.

He couldn’t resist you, though, he was and would always be a selfish man.

In love with a fuckin’ student.

Satoru was the one who taught you the meaning of pleasure. Each touch deliberated purely to satisfy you, the man was nothing less than a god in bed. He’d make you scream out his name, over and over, every single time, wanting only him. Pushing you towards ecstasy, each touch more intimate than the last.

Nobody could hold a candle to him, no one.

As if that wasn't enough, he'd wrap you up in his arms, a man who was 1.5 times your size, and you loved it. Basking in his smell, skin, everything.

There was no way to deny the thrill of forbidden, as you'd sneak out every chance given, only to find yourself in a mess of heat behind the closed door in crannies of building.

Places where anyone could walk in to, really, and reveal the dirty secret you took pride in keeping, the thought almost making you sink in guilt. Almost.

Because the guilt would always downsize as he’d capture your lips in a heated kiss, pressing his warmth against you flush, keeping all those sane thoughts far away from your worries.

“Sir,” your breathed ragged in your chest, teeth sinking into your lower lip in futile attempt to keep quiet, feeling a wave of giddiness wash over you. Your breath only hitched more as his palm slowly brushed over your neck, teasing the skin of your jawline, demanding more out of the open mouthed kiss that tangled both your tongues.

“I really-“ taking a sharp breath in as his grip switched to your hair, palming the back of your head, swallowing down each word with generous flickers of his warm muscle, slowly washing away all the resistance you had in your mind.

Because even if you knew it was wrong, you could not dismiss the fact that the man in front of you had to be the most breathtaking one you ever got to be in presence of, and now having his whole attention, made it nearly impossible to think normally. “should get going” your words felt half-assed as you whimpered into his passion, a blunt lie in the light of you gripping his jacket on both sides, doing a poor job at pulling him away, instead welcoming his touch with undeniable eagerness.

You could hear him click his tongue at your hesitance, rolling his eyes playfully beneath the blindfold he wore, as if you could see it.

Even if you couldn’t, his eyes never left your face anyway.

The glossy lips of your own throbbed, but you didn't want him to leave, only letting him inch you further into an empty classroom, away from prying eyes.

"Hush now," using his finger to trace along your jawline, following the curve of your cheekbone down to your chin where he rested his thumb against your plump lips, Satoru had no problem shushing you down. "you can skip one period, no biggie"

His voice carried just the right amount of gentleness mixed with command that always managed to calm any storm brewing inside you whenever it targeted you specifically.

You sighed deeply, closing your eyes, letting him guide you back towards normalcy—or at least attempting to regain control over yourself. "and i told you to call me by my name," his words made it sound as if you were insulting him, that childish man.

But in his defence, it did struck as weird having you call him with formalities in privacy, especially considering he had you bend over his desk more times than you'd like to admit - or was appropriate, if it was at all.

Despite knowing better than to enjoy these moments, there was something comforting about being close to him like this, feeling his warmth radiating through the thin fabric separating you. His touch alone had the power to quieten the chaos raging within you, replacing it with a strange sense of peacefulness and acceptance.

Seeing you lean into him, unable to resist anymore, brought out another side of him; the perverted one. His fingers traced downwards along your shoulders, slipping beneath your uniform to cup one of your breasts lightly through the bra.

His voice lowered further, almost a whisper now. "Look at you though... so innocent, yet so fucking tempting." His words sent shivers down your spine, making you squirm slightly beneath his hold as he continued to knee your chest with his palm, deliberately working his way through the buttons of your shirt, letting it fall to the floor with little to no care.

Sighing in delight as his eyes drew to the plump of your chest, his hand gripping tentatively around the dip of your waist, forcing your belly to come in contact with his. "And to think, I thought I had seen it all.'' With practised ease, he tugged gently on one strap of your bra, revealing your perky breast, thumb circling over the nipple, watching as it hardened beneath his ministrations, begging for his attention.

He leaned closer once more, lips brushing against yours, demanding entrance even though you tried to protest him verbally. This kiss felt different from their usual ones.

More possessive, more hungry.

His hand moved lower, sliding up your thigh, stopping just short of reaching the hem of your skirt, brushing it upwards the curve of your hip, getting himself a good view of pink laced panties that only added up to the sweetness of it all.

You said you loved pink on me, so I’ll wear it always, for you.

His eyes, they always seemed to be drunk on you. The constant flutter never left them, even covered. And as you tried to resist, as you tried to push him away, he effortlessly pulled you back closer each time.

"Shhh," he shushed again, pressing the pad of his thumb on your lips, silencing any further attempts to speak, “you’re making me crazy, don’t do that, I know we are meant to leave, but damn, I can’t...I can’t stop myself, how can you?”

His hands explored your back, leaving not a single part of your skin untouched.

“Now let’s just have an hour, okay?" he intimated. His lips found yours, his tongue bringing you to life, "Let me love you."

Grabbing a handful of your ass, Satoru savored in the feeling of his fingers digging into it's fat, a smirk growing on his face, eyes flickering with lust before locking onto the lingerie piece that barely contained your pussy hidden from his view.

His thumb teased over the edge of it intentionally, the wetness soaking through slowly. "Ugh, you're so damp already."

Your lips gradually found its way towards his adam’s apple, sucking a patter against his throat with intensity Satoru could greatly appreciate.

The greed of this man knew no limits, and with his eagerness to be pleased and show you how needy he is to be bashed in your attention, his whimpers slipped out shamelessly.

"You're killing me," There was nothing better than hearing his whines grow needier, grasping onto your hips more firmly, tugging you closer as if hoping for more of you in order to alleviate the unbearable ache rapidly spreading throughout his body.

Yet, he refrained, knowing better than to take what he wanted, it was about the chase; it was about the buildup, until finally you'd explode in his hands, like a candy bomb.

His jeans were becoming uncomfortably tight, his cock was desperate for release. The need was getting to him, and he could no longer conceal his groan when another wave of lust traveled through his body. "Gonna cum in my pants if you keep doing that," Satoru chuckled sheepishly, feeling your warm breath against his skin as you suckled at the sensitive spot under his jaw.

The heat from your mouth added to his already rising arousal, causing his pants to feel tighter than before, aching in it's awkward confinement. With a last peck on his throat, you reached a steady hand to pull off his blindfold, instantly met with those baby blue orbs already looking at you.

Grinding into your pelvis, corded veins at his neck stood out in relief to the passion shared between you. The sound of his heart pounding directly against your ear coordinating with your lungs visibly surging in and out, attempting to keep up with the new rhythm your bodies had established.

His other hand traced down your spine, rubbing little circles on the side of your knee until he found the back of it, then pushed up gently but firmly, spreading you open for him.

Dipping down for another heated kiss, his tongue pressed against your bottom lip, groaning at the contact, the vibration of it making it's way to the tips of your toes.

He looked like he was in pain and his breathing was harsh and unsteady.

His free hand reached around your waist, pulling you closer until you were half on his lap, half leaning back against the table, all while placing soft kisses along his jawline, sucking gently at the skin where it was most tender.

Fishing underneath your legs, he placed you on his desk with a hard thud, roughed up palms massaging over your quadriceps, preying your thighs open for his eager eyes.

His other hand continued its journey northward, lifting one of your legs over his hip, making sure both feet were firmly planted on the wooden surface.

Your skirt rode up higher, exposing more flesh then you should feel comfortable with, hands grasping in a futile attempt at his uniform jacket, as if begging for reconsideration.

But there was none, at least not while his fingers slid the edge of your panties aside, groaning in delight at the sight of your swollen pussy lips.

Stunned silence filled the empty classroom as he stepped away, admiring the vision in front of him: You, completely exposed and ready for him to devour.

He knew how much you hated being exposed in broad daylight, but there was something about it that drove him insane with lust. The way you squirmed beneath his hand, begging for him and yet so unwilling to give yourself completely was a sight that almost made him cum then and there.

Ignoring any lingering doubts or morals, he slid his thumb over your labia, spreading it slightly to find you already hotter than he expected. Wetter too, slick with anticipation as you moaned his name.

His eyes widened in surprise at the sight of your dripping entrance; he couldn't help but groan deeply, tongue running across his lips in anticipation.

"Look at this pretty pussy, pretty leaking all over my hand," he teased, leaning closer again, his face mere inches away from yours as he spoke. His breath tickled across your neck, sending shivers coursing through your veins.

“Gojo” you huffed, squirming in your seat from embarrassment, your cheeks glowing red while you tried to title your head away.

Seeing your uneasiness made him shudder, a wide grin spreading over his features, dimples appearing along with a short snicker from his side. “I know.”

With infinite care, his thumb brushed against the small entrance, feeling it pulse and tighten at his touch.

As if in a response to your words, he started to rub up and down, paying extra attention to your pearl, rubbing it gently, causing you to whimper, when his middle finger slipped inside, dipping deeper in with a slight twist, feeling the wet walls around his digit, holding onto him like they were never going to part.

Unable to handle it anymore, you pushed weakly against his chest, trying to force him off, only for your hips to rise to meet his finger, betraying your own self-control, as his thumb started to circle your clit, increasing the pressure with each circle until you were shuddering slightly beneath him.

His fingers dipped into you, feeling how slick you were from your arousal, watching how you succumbed to his touch, even as he squeezed your hip, occasionally pinching the fat, letting his gaze venture up to your eyes that were half-lidded from pleasure.

His lips grazed your neck, nibbling softly and leaving a trail of goosebumps on your skin, rubbing your thigh slightly rougher than intended as his eyes greedily examined the treasure laid out for his viewing pleasure.

His finger poked at the entrance of your pussy again, observing your wetness, in awe of the tiny pearls of slickness lining it. His cock throbbed with an intensity he could barely contain, knowing full well what lies ahead of him.

But patience won over, spreading your folds with great interest, examining the size and insides as he traced each one of them. Satoru loved the way you were, and his eyes rewarded in the rare sight of seeing all those goodies.

Every single twitch of your muscles around his digit, every whimper from you egging him on further, made him harder each second.

Pressing a firm hand against his desk, Satoru leaned his body weight impossibly closer to you, thriving in the sight of his fingers sliding in and out of you which was more than enough to douse his cock in pre-cum. His balls drew up tightly against his body, a strange combination of relief and frustration washing over him.

Parting your mouth in a breathless gasp, your thighs spread further, encouraged by the guilty pleasure the man had you going through. You were enjoying it too much, feeling him thumbing at that sensitive spot inside of you, making you gasp into his mouth. Surely it was obvious how much this was all getting to you?

He added another finger inside you then, causing another spike of pleasure-turned that lodged deep in your core.

"I’m never getting tired of this," purring into your ear, he moved his fingers faster, thrusting deeper each time until he felt your walls wrap around each digit - an indication of approval from this tight pussy of yours.

Yelping against his lips at the sudden change of pace, your head fell back, your eyes wide with surprise.

Another wave of desire gnawed at him as he thrusted again; this time rougher than before. You cried out against his mouth, your hands digging into his uniform jacket, gripping his shoulders in attempt to ground yourself, begging for mercy on one hand and more on the other.

Biting down on his own lower lip, his free hand travelled up to your neck, pulling you close once again as he started kissing along your throat again, each touch sending another wave of pleasure cascading through your body.

Managing to choke out quiet pleads, you tried to keep your voice steady yet failing as it cracked, your fingers coming to hold onto his forearm, slightly dragging your nails over it.

"Sir please” your words had him let out a dry laugh, amused in the way you’d still call him by formalities, even in the state he got you in- breathing out laboured sighs, arching your hips with a low mewl, looking at him through wet lashes.

“Just a moment,,” he cooed, feeling your walls milk each of his long digits, wanting to prop you so you’d be able to accommodate him later on without much trouble. "I'm considerate of your pussy, see, you should be glad.” he mumbled into your hair, gradually stopping the movement of his digits.

“Now, you were so eager before,” Gripping the curves of your ass firmly, adjusting position so that you were sitting right on edge with thighs wide open for him, Satoru murmured, taking pleasure in shaking you up “undress me?”

Maintaining eye contact with you, he rummaged around his pants, retrieving a condom, all while letting your trembling hands unclasp his belt, getting through the layers of clothes, pants and underwear, letting him relax for a moment while observing the sight of your need before him.

Satoru took his time tearing open the foil package carefully, rolling protection onto his throbbing member, watching your eyes follow it's path.

You took deep breaths whilst attempting to maintain eye contact - always important when having eyes closed could mean the end.

You could tell how much he was holding back; it was clear as day on his face, clenching those jaw muscles and grinding his teeth together while trying not to let out too much noise.

His eyes met yours for what felt like an eternity, slapping his angry red tip against your pussy lips teasingly before pushing into you slowly in clean motion.

You could melt then and there; he matched pace with each thrust, making sure not to hurt you, lightly kissing across collarbone and shoulder blades while he anchored himself with one hand firmly on your hip, the other adjusted his length once more at your entrance.

Your walls were tight, but his size was insistent-pushing its way deep inside you without any hesitation.

"There we go, nice and slow," he leaned down between thrusts, his lips catching yours in a bruising kiss-half demanding half apologetic.

His own pants echoed around the empty classroom, until both of you found a comfortable rhythm, just like he liked best- deep and sensual.

"Clamping around my dick like it's yours, huh," he huffed out a groan after several thrusts, voice cracking under the pressure. "your pussy was made for me, fucking perfect."

His hands moved upwards tracing the scar on your back while kissing parts of your neck intensely.

You were overwhelmed- savoring every touch and thrust while still feeling guilty about it all which drove him further into insanity, making him thrust deeper, filling every inch inside out until only his balls slapped against the base of your ass.

With each brush of his hips, you felt equal parts violation and ecstasy intertwining within. A small voice told you he had lost control henceforth, but it was drowned out by lust and need - needs he seemed eager to fulfil in every possible way, grunting between heavy breaths, pulling back slightly before plunging into you once more.

“Do your best to take it all baby," he groaned before burying himself deeper within you; your body felt like it was consumed by him entirely for an instance.

His free hand moved to your hair again, tugging slightly so your head titled back, giving him a perfect view of the way your neck arched elegantly. A simple show of submission that only made his cock twitch in need.

His growl was a mix of pleasure and dominance as he thrust hard enough against the table beneath him, making you both gasp slightly.

"Feel good?" He asked hoarsely, watching your pupils dilate and your mouth slightly parted - a sure sign of being on the edge.

You nodded blissfully, reaching between your legs to spread your labia with both pointing and middle finger, letting him create a more fluid tempo. "y-yeah, its, fuck-"

Your brain felt too high on pleasure to actually think of an answer, reduced to short and mindless blabbers, not that he cared anyway.

Your back arched into his touch, looking at those baby blue's all love sick, and if Satoru didn't know any better, he'd assume its only you being cock drunk, which still was the case. "hah, s'feels good yeah"

But there was time yet; he didn't want this to end too soon... he wanted you screaming his name in sheer bliss before he could let go himself - he needed it more than anything.

Clasping down on your hips again, his kisses traveled lower on your neck, sucking gently before moving up once more, his tongue exploring exposed skin between each thrust.

With each thrust he watched how inflamed yet sensitive smile remained plastered upon your face from sheer delight, not leaving any part untouched until every last ounce had been taken.

Even the strongest has his weaknesses. Especially if one of them is persistent on getting him deeper into madness. The thing is, Satoru really doesn’t mind letting you ruin him in the process of it.

He’s after all, a simple man, and if reduced to his primal needs, well, there’s only one thing he really craves.

And he'd count down each pass by second, waiting for the next small opportunity to come. He may not be the most patient, but never enough not to wait for you. Even if he wasn’t aware of what you were up to most days, that wasn't an issue, he knew you'd always come back regardless. You were never gone for too long. He didn’t really want you to, either.

Standing near the training field, he busied himself with supervising the first year students, arms crossed over his chest, stripped out of his usual uniform attire to a simple dress shirt, your favorite, he knew, perhaps why he chose to take off his jacket in the first place. Not because of the heat. Just so you’d see him and maybe, maybe-

“Wasn't expecting to run into you here, sir,” There it was, and although he knew it was coming long before he even felt your familiar presence, he still acted surprised, because why wouldn’t he?

“Something on your mind?” your question made him bark out a laugh, as if you didn’t know what was on his mind already. It always surprised him how natural you could act in public, it was nothing but a beautiful act on display. Your words were all sugarcoated lies, and he knew that very well. Still, he’d entertain you by going along, and would let you have fun as long as you wanted.

He’d never been able to get enough of your presence anyway, breathing the same air as him, sometimes it's all it too to forget the heavy stuff and just enjoy it, or you.

"Hm?" Letting out a soft chuckle, his gaze never strayed from you, giving you his undivided attention.

Turning on his heel, Satoru made sure to block his students' view, facing you while his back provided a shield from others who might have witnessed the exchange between him and you. “No, not really,” A teasing glint was now going through his eyes, leaning his face closer to yours, just a small breath away from yours. “nothing you'd need to know of, anyway.”

A grin spread over his features involuntarily as he teased you, hands coming to rest on both sides of his hips, as you pouted at him, frustrated with his dismiss.

You were bold enough to engage him even with others nearby. He’d fuck the shit out of you later for it.

“You going back to others, or do you need something more?” He asked, reaching a hand to squeeze you by your waist, his thumb gliding down to your lower back, wiggling his eyebrows, daringness now evident.

Satoru couldn’t deny you your silly little games, but who was to say he wouldn’t indulge in one of his own? That's what made it fun, after all. Playing coy yet unapologetic, and crossing boundaries neither of you should.

“Satoru,” nibbling on your lower lip, you creased your brows, almost warningly, more than so, provocatively. The one day he can’t have you to the side, you decide to use his name. Cliché.

His laugh was low, sultry and newfound as he looked at you. “You're not trying to get me in trouble, are you?” Satoru asked, his voice filled with dark amusement. Cadence and tone telling you everything you needed to know.

“No sir. I wouldn’t think such way.” you puffed out your cheeks, attempting to look more innocent than you were. Liar, you and him were both aware of that.

His eyes slowly drifted downwards, taking in every inch of your body—your chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the thin fabric, the slight curve of your stomach, and those enticing thighs that seemed to call out to him. His free hand reached out, tracing lightly over your abdomen before stopping at your waist like the other.

“I swear, I can’t keep my eyes off from you,” he whispered, his voice smoky, not as loud as he usually speaks. "It’s almost a problem. Pity I can’t think about anything else but you, right?"

The man had audacity, but so did you.

Glancing over his shoulder to reassure no one was looking, you let your fingers trace a slow path down his chest, stopping just above his belt buckle. "You're the one who's always flaunting yourself around here like a goddamn peacock. Why should I be the only one suffering?"

And it did things to him, you know it did because the man was a whore for attention, especially one you were able to grant him.

Groaning softly, his eyes drifted shut momentarily as he relished the feeling of your touch on his skin. "Because I'm your teacher, and it's my job to torment you, silly girl," he muttered, and it was your turn to laugh now.

“Oh, really?” Reaching out, he brushed a loose strand of hair away from your forehead, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. "Well, aren't you lucky?" You retorted back, arching your eyebrows in mock surprise, flaunting your chest, as if to provoke him further.

A slow, seductive smile spread across his lips as he stepped closer, his imposing presence looming over you, making you feel small yet desired. His erection made a visible tent in his pants, straining against the fabric.

"Oh, I'm lucky alright," he humored, reaching up to cup your cheek, brushing his thumb over your lower lip.

As he spoke, he continued massaging your scalp, his fingers moving from your hairline downwards, tracing slow circles near the base of your skull where nerves concentrated heavily.

He’s already trespassing by even standing so close to you, but lately, you had him be reckless more than ever.

Heat crept up his face as you cupped his cock, the tip of it straining against his pants. He hissed as you stroked it through the material, head throwing back in frustration.

"T-the luckiest" a scoff left his mouth in attempt cover up the pleasure seeping through his veins, the corner of his mouth twitch nervously with each breaths he took, hand cupping your waist in the same manner your own wrapped around his crotch, giving it a good squeeze as you grinned into his face.

He knew it was wrong. He couldn't deny it, nor did he want to. It was already established long ago he was a monster of his own. You both knew it. But how could he resist such temptation? He wasn’t even trying anyway. "Not here, not now, but baby...fuck, I want you so much."

"Come on, after I see you off to your dorm, I promise, baby, I'll make sure you come so hard you'll be crying from it," He winked, peering down at you from under his expensive black shades, capturing your gaze with intensity.

"You know I don’t disappoint.” fanning his breath over the shell of your ear, a devious idea already formed in his mind, knowing full well what he was about to put himself through.

Satoru Gojo is a bad teacher, but with you being his favorite student, he really doesn't care.

a/n: my first and faremost beloved piece! please do consider not reading it if you don't enjoy age gap thing... lol jk, if you're here u obviously do, love u!

photo study !

Salt Lake City, 1991.