Theres A Better Connection Im Sure But Im Just Too Enraptured To Fully Explain It - Tumblr Posts

thulsun 18+, 3.7k

There’s little harm in immortalising him on paper to recall in your most wistful of midsummer evenings - you haven’t seen him before, and there’s a good chance you won’t again. - astarion appears at your parlour one evening in a cloud of smoked bergamot and the briefest hint of spunk, and it becomes oh-so difficult to watch him leave. a/n: this is the first bit of a new non-tav reader piece i'm writing, so bear with me! ao3 link here. cw: Non-Tav AFAB Reader, Voyeurism, Mutual Masturbation, Angst, Mentions of Prostitution, No use of y/n, Vampire Sex, Pre-Canon, Trauma, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Masturbation, Strangers to Lovers, Eventual Smut

After an evening under your contemplative - yet wholly unforgiving - glare, you come to the conclusion that he is, indeed, as ridiculously beautiful as you thought from the moment he walked in.

It’s not often you pay much attention to the patrons. A sea of flaxen blonde and brunette marred by a flash of white. Pillowy coiffed curls, a playful snarl; the young thing on his arm clinging to him as if a lifeline. Gregarious yet sly. She hasn’t taken her eyes off him the entire night. 

You guess that they’ve only met for the first time this evening. There was a small stumble when they moved to sit at the booth by the window, overlooking the street. A nervous laugh on her part. The clockwork rhythm of a relationship not yet properly established in any sense. 

This wasn’t something she’d anticipated as she’d planned her day this morning, you’re pretty sure of that. Maybe waking somewhere in the Lower City - she looks fresh. Excited. Whipped something wild off her feet by this stranger but a few hours ago and now they have a room in your inn. She’s indulging in something salacious. A rendezvous.

Coffee with cream. Maybe one sugar, but her complexion suggests no more indulgences. 

In your head the picture starts to form of the market girl, not long trading. A few freckles are beginning to bloom across her nose and forehead where the sun has sat directly overhead but they’re wholly new. Nothing lingering from prior sun seasons. You imagine her little wooden perch to the side of her stall - not flowers, maybe neck scarves? Hankies? - embroidering with a little hoop as she waits for customers to approach her. Custom initials for an extra few gold. Gifts for lovers, for family. A smile so milky in its lax, it’d be at home among calves.

As he lies back on his elbows, head back, she whispers in his ear with heavy lids. 

He nods with a decadent low laugh, and she moves to sit on her haunches at his feet on the bed; legs spread under her.

Oh. 

She wants to watch him.

Maybe not embroidery, then. 

You’ve taken to the crack in your floorboards a few times before. Be it from sheer curiosity or late night lascivision, it’s rare but not unheard of. You’ve seen far, far worse in the chamber below you and tonight feels like a rare treat, a veritable feast of pretty faces and parts. 

A noble daughter, surely. She can’t have seen manual labour with hands so wholly unblemished. You remember them at the bar; how soapy smooth they seemed in contrast to the slightly battered chalice and pocket-worn gold chips. 

He is also something radiant as he rests atop the sheets. White as chalk even in candlelight and sculpted lean, a little on the lithe side but nothing to be too haughty over. As the laces of his shirt come undone, the look he gives is verging on coquettish in its little sexually frustrated furrow. A tilt of his head, eyes of red honey; the mewl of a moan as his nimble fingers toy with the loosened flaxen strings. 

The shirt comes over his head and his pale fingers splay down his chest with an achingly slow tug.

You hug the floor a little tighter. Pressure builds behind the crux of your pubic bone, the nerves warm underneath catching like a lit match, a light pulse, a tense blooming.

Fingertips dancing over collarbones blooming with bites in maroon, plum tones. Vicious little conjunctures where the teeth of unseen others have met flesh and suckled. She hasn’t seen this skin before. She’s just as entranced as you are.

A courtesan? She doesn’t seem the type you don’t think, but he certainly does. 

You don’t typically allow them on the premises, but for him you’ll turn a blind eye. There’s no way you’d know if you weren’t watching him on the verge of ecstasy yourself. 

His companion watches on with her mouth slightly agape, lifting a hand to her still-clothed tit and tweaking at her nipple in a fixated haze. You note the slight shuffle of her heel so it sits - presumably - under her cunt. The way she pushes down ever-so-slightly to gain some friction and he exhales a low groan. 

Moans airily. Shifts his hips in a wanton rut.

It’s like he’s performing. An actor with a captive audience. His hand snakes down to his breeches and works the lacing effortlessly, eyes rolling into his skull as he does so. You imagine the friction of his palm on his crotch. The relief. How he’d feel, hard to the point of spilling under your fingers and whining.

She takes off her blouse to roll her nipples. Perky, red and stiff in contrast to the pale velvet flesh, the desire palpable on her face as she watches him work himself free; your own hand working under your hips as you lie flat on your belly in order to get the best view. Lifting the waistband of your underclothes as if you’re a participant. In some ways you are - one they’re unaware of, but burning nonetheless. Glazed over. Watching as he performs for you, for her. 

As your fingers slip between the folds of your molten slit you take a moment to look over him properly. His cock now freed, pale and glazed in prespill as he jerks the shaft between his thumb and forefinger for a moment.  

Completely hairless. Elven. You’d noticed the ears earlier, of course; but the eyes were a little unusual in colour for even sun elves. 

You remember him in the low light of the booth, scintillating with a light and airy laughter befitting the season even in the wee hour. He had her completely and wholly enraptured with the way he held her in his gaze - even chiding her at one point for elbows resting on the table, as if she was trying to get even closer - pressing brief kisses to her forehead, speaking with animated gestures; recommending the finest wines and the best of the breads as if he were a regular.

He paid for nothing. With the assumption that she paid for his time you can overlook a lack of chivalry. 

As he begins to fuck his hand with a well-practised roll of his wrist, you shift to fuck yours with newly-wettened fingers sliding deep with ease.

His teeth grit in teetering lust. She’s borderline humping the heel of her foot with each jerk of her engorged nipples, and he whispers some form of salacious encouragement. You can’t discern it too clearly but it’s thoroughly naughty. She’s groaning, eyes rolling into her skull.

You don’t know if you’re pleased when she indicates she wants to ride him. 

With any other patron you’d be ready to sit back with a glass of wine and enjoy the ridiculous noises, write about it in your journal and call it a night. 

This time round it’s as if you ache to feel him too. 

He gives a low-flutter of his lashes as she spits on her hand and reaches for his shaft, wincing as if ice on a burn and keening into her touch. You watch her jerk him, peeling the skin back softly and running a painted thumb over his slit to which he makes the most angelic whimpering noise you’ve ever heard.

By the time she’s on her knees over him, sinking onto him inch-by-inch with his hand over her mouth to mask her giddy ecstasy; you’re nearing your peak. She rolls her hips once he’s buried to the hilt and his groan is sin incarnate in timbre. A quick wriggle back up the bed and she’s on his lap, him pistoning up into her with care to curl his hips as he moves. 

A part of you is taken a little aback from your peak by the realisation you’re going to have to make sure the sheets are thoroughly scrubbed tomorrow. He’s aiming to make her gush in the way he angles. 

It’s a chore you can pass off onto Miri. 

Right now you’re chasing the white heat, the fire poker; the wet lust below you absolutely lurid in sound, and in some hilarious twist of fate, you cum almost exactly as she does. You hear him calling her his pretty thing, his good girl ; begging to spill inside her as he pumps and pumps and pumps up into her sopping cunt, a sequence of leaking glub-glub-glubs, a laboured groan as he sinks deep into her. 

The noises keep you reeling for a good few seconds longer than usual. 

A sad part of yourself pictures him calling you that.

The rest of you immediately regains composure. You don’t allow yourself to regain your silent breaths, nor do you listen too closely to the string of filthy expletives tumbling from his lips as he spills into her waiting hole. 

Your footsteps above cause him to whisper at her to hush. She giggles in sheer bliss and you roll your eyes into the thick of your skull, reaching for your pail and opening the side door exclusive to your rooms to run for water.

-

You feel a sense of familiar post-orgasm clarity on returning, unwrapping the bar of soap from waxpaper stowed on a shelf above your desk; rinsing your hands, face, and cunt of all traces of lust in the lukewarm water. A fresh towel to wipe yourself dry. Soap returned to its proper place. 

You change into your bedclothes and tend the candles you’d neglected to light on finishing work for the evening, fishing for your journal amongst the tomes stacked by your bed and reaching for the half-empty bottle of Firewine on your dresser when it catches your eye.

Chalice plucked from your ramshackle bureau. You’re freshly flopped on your bed when you hear it.

A knock. 

Nobody knocks on your door. Ever.

It’s a pain in the arse to get to and there’s usually very little to be gained by doing so, except potentially a glass to the face if you’re in a particularly dour mood.

You tilt your head and listen, heartbeat thudding in your chest. Another knock. 

“I know you’re there! Hello?”

You pause for a moment. A surprised blink. You lift to your feet as if carried and unlock the door and it’s him.

He looks at you with little regard.

“We’re checking out, now.’

You tilt your head once more, puzzled.

‘Are you deaf? Hello?”

You don’t take kindly to incredulous patrons at the best of times, no matter how pretty they are. He snaps his lithe fingers in front of your face and your eyes narrow. 

Despite your own activities there’s a little part of your brain that wants to shun him like an old matron for bringing those hands anywhere near you, knowing where they’ve just been.

“Okay?” You speak slowly. He clicks his tongue.

“I’m here to return my key?” 

“Right. Did you miss the two key-boxes on your way up here, then? Too inconvenient?’

He’s stumped now. White hair glimmers in the moonlight, eyes reflecting yours.

‘Or had you simply gathered too much momentum, perchance? Didn’t want to stop in your stride?”

“I-’ You can hear the cogs in his brain turning as he pauses. 

Gods, he’s beautiful; but you can tell already from your brief exchange he’s one card short of a full deck.

“I simply wanted to thank you for your hospitality in person! Thank you.” He exaggerates the last two words of thanks in a mocking bow. 

You’re of a mind to shout for the Fist.

“In the middle of the night?”

“Well - I’ll be gone by morning.’

His eyes meet yours for the first time, properly. Glowering carnelian. Dark, thick lashes. He smells of smoked bergamot and the briefest hint of spunk and yet it works on him in a way it would no other.  

‘I’ll be gone now, actually. So yes. Now. The middle of the night.”

Your glare doesn’t shift as he places the key delicately in your open palm and lingers a moment longer than necessary. 

You hope you convey effectively just how displeased you are at the extra scrubbing you - well, Miri - will have to do in the morning. Just how irritated you are that they’ve kept you awake. 

And with that, he turns on his heel. Skips down the iron-wrought stairs in a blur and disappears back inside. 

Strange creature.

As you settle back in with your chalice, the words in your journal are an attempt to capture him whilst he’s still fresh. There’s little harm in immortalising him on paper to recall in your most wistful midsummer evenings - you haven’t seen him before, and there’s a good chance you won’t again. 

The rest of your evening passes uneventfully. No more knocks, no more banging. 

A cattish manner. That’s how you’d describe it. The speed with which his attitude toward you on the doorstep changed once you had the upper hand didn’t go unnoticed. You picture him lazing under a sunny window on some plush chaise lounge, being fed plump grapes by some wealthy patron; a thick-bristle brush on a silver platter for maintaining his whitish waves. Practically purring. 

Just under six foot. Smarmy yet charming with it. You imagine the way someone could feel special if he turned his affection to them solely, like a stray picking a favourite leg to rub on. 

The Firewine is particularly heady having had time to aerate, thick and rich as you swill it around your teeth in the stillness of the warm night. 

Beyond the rotting pane of your window lies the Chionthar. The vast horizon of little lights on the opposite bank, the occasional ship traversing calm water; a lull to sleep as you reach to close the shutters.

-

You wake with no real urgency.

Rolling your wrists in a lazy stretch, early afternoon - multiple trips down to the water pump and back up in the blazing heat to collect enough to fill your washtub. The street below is full of shouting kids skipping the hot cobble and playing with water no doubt syphoned from the inn’s own supply.

Bertrand isn’t about, which gives you precious time to bask in the glow atop your stairs without him running to replace a barrel and spotting you lazing. Your damp undergarments from last night dunked and scrubbed unceremoniously in used bathwater before being hung to dry till crisp on the railing. Toes splayed, eyes closed; the beating light and the scalding iron rods that support your back as you lie against them. A deep breath. Sun.

One of Bert’s boys is milling outside the front with a cigar no doubt stolen from his father’s bureau, a decent indication he won’t be in at all. A sigh of relief as you exhale, tipping your head in acknowledgement at his small wave before he stubs it and ambles inside.

Not that you’re not fond of the older man. 

He tends to leave you to get along with whatever you need to, charges minimal rent for your rooms and gives generous bonuses on days of cultural significance. You do reckon he’s plying you into marrying one of his many sons though, as they haven’t had much luck elsewhere.

You struggle to remember their names. B’s. Bertrand and Brenna, you think his wife is called. A gaggle of bumbling men filling their house still at their big old ages, mother dearest still making their lunches.

Whatever. 

A ‘treat’, as Miri called it the night of her trial shift. If cigars are being slighted from Bert you can maybe use it as leverage to pinch one for her.

The corrugated iron burns your ass, your bare feet. You wince into the light. It’s bliss. 

You think back to the man from last night. Bergamot and spunk. The most delicious face. The fact he was at your door. If you hadn’t just humped your own hand to completion you think you could’ve been tempted to steal him away from his patron. You probably could have paid more, despite the fact it’d have probably wiped you clean out of gold and you’re not one for hiring prostitutes regardless.

You might have, though.

You wonder if they spent the night together elsewhere. If this morning they’re rising to breakfast and fresh-squeezed apple juice; her with her coffee. If he dropped her back home after their rendezvous with a kiss to the back of her perfect hand and thanked her for her patronage. 

The quirk of your lip. A scrunch of your nose. You could do apple juice, if that’s what he wanted. 

You picture him lazing around the bar as you clean, nesting in one of the booth pews; maybe with a book. Sunlight catching all the angles of his pretty face. Throwing quips your way with a natural irreverence, catching them and tearing them to ribbons with a mouth you’ve been told is devastatingly quick under the right conditions. 

He could be the right conditions at another time. Another life perhaps. You allow yourself an overly pitiful sigh as you mourn the entirely fabricated love that will absolutely be gone by tomorrow, when he’s all but forgotten and more faces enter the fold.

Miri snaps her fingers, waving to you from the bottom of the steps with a holler ridiculously eager for this heat; and you head inside to dress for the afternoon ahead. 

Hopefully she’s not down there piddling about with the silverware again but you potentially may just be past the point of caring if she is. 

She’s nice. Homely, in a way. Sun-ruddied cheeks smattered with freckles, eyes a warm honey colour; doesn’t do your absolute head in talking about her home life. She’s from farm stock so she potentially could have been the most grating person you’ve ever met - land girls with their steady loves and fresh butter and heaving bosoms in linen dresses - but she isn’t. Her humour is nice. She’s dry. Sharp.

You’re definitely a little jealous of the farm girls too, but you won’t admit it. 

Your room feels remarkably cool now as you step through the door and from the heat. 

Shutters open, broken slat wobbling as you see the full expanse of the horizon in the new light and a knowledge in the fact it never fails to bring you joy. All those people living lives you could never comprehend. You wouldn’t want to. Little mystery people doing little mysterious things. 

By the time you head down to the bar Miri has set the floor up. You sidle up with your sweetest smile and ask her to thoroughly scrub the sheets in the room below yours - a sorry grimace conveying all she needs to know - and she slaps your arm playfully. 

She already has. Of course she has. 

Sheets hanging limp on the terrace. Not a stain to be seen and for some reason, you feel cleaner for it. 

The evening passes quickly. She and you move in sync at the bar like a well oiled machine, and by the time you’re able to take a break for some food the worst of it is over. No more rambunctious voices, no spills or impromptu ‘singing’ from anyone having imbibed too heavily. Just a quiet lull of regulars and newcomers alike enjoying the river view and relatively well priced accommodation. 

You sneak down and poke through the stores downstairs, settling on a plate of potato scones when a tap on the shoulder startles them almost straight from the dish.

One of Bert’s lot. 

You both laugh as he chides you weakly for picking at the wares. You shrug with a mouth full. Gesture as if you’re willing to spit it back onto the plate as he shakes his head with laughter.

You confer for a moment on the business between floors and sensing the moment feels jovial enough, you bring up the cigar you mean to take for Miri with an exaggerated bat of your lashes. He nods and tilts his head to the bureau.

Just as you take your leave he stops you, his own mouth full of pilfered food. You wait as he chews for a moment.

“Oh. Tell Miri we’ll take her home with the horses tonight, if she likes.’

Your brow lifts, arms folding over your chest in a mock scrutiny. He rushes to swallow. 

‘Nothing like that! Saw something in the Mouth is all. Better safe and that.”

You nod, though your scrutiny doesn’t relent. He gives you a thumbs up.

There’s surely a tactful way to learn this one’s name. It’s definitely too late to ask.

-

The evening ends and you wave Miri off with Bael - she knows him from her interview for the position here, as it turns out - as you take to wiping the tables and tapping off the kegs. From what you managed to catch of the visitor logs there’s nobody interesting in the room below yours, nor in any of the others. Business as usual.

Your elven paramour didn’t show. Of course he didn’t. 

It doesn’t stop the fact there’s a little snag in your chest where you’d hoped for a little excitement. It didn’t even have to be him, you think. Just someone new. Someone to watch with the interest of a hawk in a mouse. Someone to exchange words with that felt like a bit of a challenge.

You pluck a bottle of sweet barleywine from the stocks and write it off as smashed by some unseen patron having clambered over the bar, corking the red nectar and pouring a large glass before taking both onto the terrace. 

The same horizon view as that from your window. 

New boats, glimmering lights in different windows. Residual heat lingers in the iron of the chair and the air smells sweet. Warmth seeping from old stone.

You think of nothing. Absolutely nothing. Chest still so you can listen to the ripe sound of insects and bumbling voices from streets over. The moon is high; the stars are so very bright, and the sky is clearer than you’ve seen in a long, long while.