The Line About Now Matter How Times You Lay With Him You Can Never Lay By His Side - Tumblr Posts

pre vampirism stereotypical rich man astarion drabble with a fem reader in mind. power imbalance, fingering, secret hookups, literally master of the house and you're a servant, he's an asshole but I love him your honor.

"Sex in the drawing room is hardly proper." You seeth as he gives you a faux pout, rocking his hips to make his clothes erection press with aching firmness against the apex of your thighs. It's difficult to focus on the argument when your muscles are flexing like a tautly pulled string at the feeling of him.

"Don't be difficult, darling." The pout twists deeper but it doesn't escape you how his eyes are full of amusement as he lets out a groan, gripping your hips even tighter. Dizziness and wanting nearly knocks your mind off balance.

You wish you could say you despise him. You wish you could say this flippant behavior makes you hate him, but there's no winning against the Magistrate. It's even more insulting that he regularly lets you think you've got him right where you want him, only to find yourself both metaphorically and literally flat on your back in front of him.

It's part of what makes him so alluring, though. That and just how out of your reach he really is, showcased by these hidden trysts that make up the bulk of your relationship. If it could even be called that. It's also where the little seed of resentment inside you comes from, because it's a simple fact you two belong to completely different worlds and someone like you could never dream of belonging in the same room as him without a silver serving tray in your hands.

No matter how many times he lays with you that spot beside him will never belong to you.

Not for nothing you think faintly that someone should tell him no once in a while, it would be good for him. But that person certainly isn't you, not with his fingers prodding at your slick entrance and his other hand at the back of your neck sending wave after wave of goosebumps down your arms.

Not while his lips trace down from your jaw to the popped open and askew collar of your uniform, his teeth brushing against the tender flesh of your chest. Not while his fingers scissor and curl inside you and the heel of his palm grinds against your throbbing clit.

"Astarion-"

"Sir," He's quick to correct you with authority shot through his tone. It makes a sour taste curl over your tongue, sharp and vile. The division would always exist whether you're on his lap or fetching at his beck and call and what a blunder it is to forget yourself even in the midst of all this.

"Sir," you bite back, the word drenched in mockery but he's quick to cut you off with a firmer press of his palm against your clit making you moan obscenely, practically bouncing off the decorations in the drawing room.

All is forgotten as you chase your own high shamelessly in his lap, grinding your hips and nearly panting from how his lithe fingers coax you to the edge of orgasm so quickly. After all this time there's no one who could hope to play the instrument of your body even half as well as he does.

As you clench around his fingers you can feel the smug satisfaction rolling off of him in waves that coat your skin like a sheen of sweat actively forming. The air feels hot and dry, catching in your throat as you whimper shamelessly, too caught up in the way you feel pressure in your abdomen immediately releasing and rushing straight to your head.

As your body takes on a boneless feel the awareness of station and propriety slips out of your mind and you slump against his chest, nuzzling against the side of his neck while you try to get control of your harsh breathing.

If not for the afterglow you find yourself preening in perhaps you'd feel a twinge of sadness at the way his hands fall away from your back too fast, the way he quickly maneuvers you off himself to stand and straighten his clothes. The way he doesn't look at you as he speaks.

"Get yourself cleaned up, quickly. We're expecting guests during today's luncheon."

That earlier sourness returns with a vengeance, flooding your mouth as you feel embarrassment run hot beneath your skin, all too conscious of the way your chest is spilling out of your uniform, the way your hair is mussed in wild chunks, the sweat making your clothes stick to your back.

You don't say a word, biting your tongue as you watch him slip out of the door and presumably back down the hall to his office.

As you rise, fixing the buttons at your chest, you do your best to swallow down the venom you wish you could spit.