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ancuninfiles · 2 months

Text

Lithium Pt. 4

Screenshot by @lavendarr00

9.3k words - F/M - Astarion x F! Durge - 18+

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence.

Summary: Astarion nearly walks in on Ronnie during a very private moment. Mortified, Ronnie throws her toy under a pillow, pulling up her pants and… letting him into her apartment, as he's found a better way to restrain her this time.

Oh... and Ronnie makes Astarion watch Twilight: New Moon

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

Tags: smut, AU modern setting in London UK, mental illness, p in v sex, creampie, cunnilingus, shibari, bondage, TW domestic violence (not with Astarion and Ronnie), roleplay, dirty-talk

MASTERLIST (Other works and chapters)

Read on AO3 for full tag list and proper formatting (recommended)

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

Beginning notes: CONTENT WARNING for this chapter, but Astarion will always be a softie :3 I promise.

9.3k words. Like Comfort™, This one has been sitting in my files—over 90% done—for a long time. I guess sometimes I just agonize over how to finish a chapter... it's like... my motif or something LOL.

I really got my Gonzo on with the beginning of this chapter. I was ✧*̥˚𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯' 𝘪𝘵˚*̥✧...

Anyways, to the few people who like to read fucked up shit like this, enjoy <3.

꒦꒷♡꒷꒦

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒: 𝐀 𝐆𝐢𝐟𝐭

꧁꧂

The dildo: an object shaped like an erect penis used for sexual stimulation—according to the Oxford Dictionary.

—Boring, basically useless phallus. Does nothing.

—Good for nothing.

—Takes thirty minutes to get me off; If I do at all.

—Fucking sucks.

—Waste of my Godsdamned time.

...

Jen had taken Ronnie to a sex shop when she first got together with Alfira, suggesting it would "spice things up". However, the extra "spiciness" became unnecessary once Alfira’s trachea nearly collapsed in Ronnie’s grip.

It happened in Jen's bed, the morning after one of her parties. While Jen was making breakfast, Alfira and Ronnie had taken over her bed. They'd been intimate before—always at Jen’s place. Although they weren't exclusive, their relationship was certainly developing. At that time, Ronnie had only ever been a danger to herself—her violent outbursts occurring solely in the privacy of her own flat. She didn't yet know what she was capable of.

From what Ronnie could recall of the incident, one moment she was giving head, and the next, she was on the floor of Jen's bedroom while Jen tried to calm Alfira down.

Apparently, Ronnie had straddled Alfira and was attempting to strangle her to death—her hands like a vice on her lover's neck. Alfira had been screaming, calling for help until her throat was seized. Jen barged in at the perfect time, put Ronnie in a headlock, and dragged her off Alfira.

Jen did the damage control—she let Alfira know that nobody would ever believe her and that if she told anyone, she would never be allowed at her house again. Shortly after that, Alfira was completely excommunicated from their “friend group"—if you could even call it that.

And it was true that nobody would've believed her. Ronnie was known to be a pacifist, even standing back, unable to form words and frozen in place as she watched Jen get into fights. Jen always said it was better that way so that Ronnie wouldn't get hurt.

Since that day, she hadn’t seen Alfira— hadn’t been able to apologise, get closure, or make amends. Nothing . She knew Jen was only trying to protect her, but the rot in Ronnie's stomach grew tenfold that day; not only from discovering the boundlessness of her violent ailment but also from the guilt of what she’d just done.

Remembering such things didn't aid in Ronnie's climax—or lack thereof.

—Distractions

—So many distractions.

So she pulled the phallus from her top drawer, eyeing it with scepticism, knowing it would bring back bad memories.

However, in it went.

It was a wretched pink silicone thing—a “rabbit” or something of that nature. Press a button, and it tickled the outside and undulated on the inside; both futile operations if you're too anxious to get off

—Fuck.

Trying to cum was a regular occurrence for Ronnie—at least once a week. She didn't care for porn—it was all made for men, so she relied on her own broken imagination.

Lately, her imagination brought her to Astarion; but with the thoughts of Astarion came the shame of wanting him, and, subsequently, the knowing that she'd never have him.

The cycle would repeat in circuits of two minutes or so, on and on for thirty minutes until she gave up or fruitlessly orgasmed on the wretched, pink, silicone phallus.

—Useless.

Not like sex is important, anyway. Sure, it felt good.

Well...

It felt great; but was it necessary? Certainly not.

Especially in regards to friendship—and she and Astarion were just friends… Barely friends.

—Just met.

—Wretched friends.

—Just kill me, already.

—Anyways...

Resisting the nymph would prove challenging; thankfully, it's extremely responsive to “no” and “stop”.

But, likely, also very responsive to “fuck me” and “kiss me” and “spank me” and—

—Kill me... Maybe not that one...

Of course, Ronnie knew she was attractive, but her naked form was disfigured with jagged, protruding scars all over. She felt like a monster—her beleaguered skin only matching the sickness within.

Nothing a long-sleeved shirt and leggings couldn't hide—that is until you're spread open. Maybe then, the darkness would help, but eyes adjust eventually, and Ronnie would only be lying to herself if she thought otherwise.

She felt ill, her stomach lurching at times by simply staring at her own reflection. Other people surely would feel the same. The only reason she’d felt so comfortable being nude around Alfira was because Alfira has similar scars.

Yet, Astarion had seen her nude form and...

reverence, every time. Washing her like an expensive car, stitching her like a cherished doll, and touching her as if—

... as if she mattered to him, God knows why.

Well... maybe it was because he wanted her to kill his boss—however that would go down, she wasn’t sure.

She got the impression that he wanted to teach her how to win—how to cheat at poker in exchange for her assistance… as if she could control it. As if she wanted to “bask in gore” as he did.

—Gods... what a freak.

There are limitations to what a friend would do. Ronnie might kill for Jen if she asked—if she needed her to...

Jen would kill for Ronnie—without a doubt, or a second thought. That's what friends do—that's what Jen says.

But to build a friendship based on murder? Well... that was—

... different, to say the least. She'd come close before—to murder—but never succeeded. She never wanted to succeed.

She wanted a break: a drink.

꧁꧂

Movie night at Jen's place was the day after Friday afterparties, where Jen would invite some close friends to watch cheesy classics, horror, and comedy—but mostly horror.

Nocturne would sit on the couch with Jen and Wyll. Sometimes, others would join—the flatmates—but Ronnie sat in her own seat, away from the fray of intimacy, not speaking to anyone.

The movie night-goers were accustomed to this. They let her watch quietly in the corner because they were nice people —respectful adults. Jen wouldn't have it any other way, of course, lest they wish to be tossed in the teeming rain on their arses.

And so they sat with the TV as the only light source, eating popcorn and drinking vodka straight or mixed with anything.

A proper Saturday night—in recovery from Friday night. Jen's hand-me-down velvet chair more than sufficed as a routine seat. Nag champa incense burned on the coffee table, and tarot cards might be read later, as Jen was an avid believer in their prophecy.

This night’s movie was Twilight: a supposed romance about a vampire and a teenage girl who fall hopelessly in love with one another.

Bella, the main character, moved from Arizona to Washington to live with her dad in a small town called Forks. Shortly after, she met Edward, the aforementioned vampire who happens to sparkle in the sunlight.

Bella's eyes lit up upon seeing his glittering form, but Edward recoiled in shame at her admiration. “This is the skin of a killer, Bella,” he said.

Everyone in the room giggled when he said that, and Ronnie joined in the joviality, realising that it was indeed a very silly interaction between the two characters, considering the inoffensiveness of sparkles.

At one point, Edward seemingly teleported into Bella’s room where he watched her sleep, to which Wyll said, “That's just not right.”

It was discomforting to watch the choked-up vampire talk about how he wanted to kill Bella... just because he thought she was hot? And because he couldn't read her mind like he could with everyone else?

Perhaps he confused lust with hunger somewhere down the line. To Ronnie, craving chips felt quite different from horniness. However, they allegedly abstained from sex until marriage in the penultimate movie because Edward was too afraid of hurting Bella while shagging.

—Relatable. But as if marriage would make him less dangerous.

It could have made more sense, and the story could have been better, but Ronnie actually enjoyed it overall.

How wonderful it would be to be lifted from your mundane reality by a romance with a supernatural creature. Also, she related to Edward in the way that she, too, felt like a monster—always on edge, worried about being a danger to others.

That night, she slept in the spandrel as usual, only to be woken by the sound of plates smashing in the kitchen. Lae'zel—Jen's girlfriend—had stayed over, and their relationship was tumultuous, to say the least.

At times, they would almost seem like the perfect couple. Other times, however, they were at dire odds, and Lae'zel would hurt Jen in a myriad of ways.

“You think you're such a princess because Vic takes care of you. Some of us have experienced real hardship,” Lae'zel would say, but it was untrue.

Jen had been kicked out plenty of times, and she'd had to fuck for a place to rest her head at night. Vic was anything but merciful when it came to Jen, and it didn't help that she was her landlord, her boss, and a huge philanthropist to the hospital where her dad stayed.

Vic had kicked Jen out for a slew of unjust reasons, those being:

Not paying rent on time, but Vic hadn't sent Jen's pay that month.

Not cleaning up after her disgusting flatmates.

Jen struggling with addiction.

The list goes on, truly. Unfortunately, it was after these bouts of verbal and physical violence perpetrated by Vic and Lae'zel that Jen would spiral further into substance abuse. Ronnie had seen it many times—where Vic would leave after letting Jen know how “worthless” she was, or Lae'zel would slam the door after claiming that it was “over”; though she would always be back within a week with a box of cheap chocolates, apologising and claiming that she'd change.

“I love you to death,” Lae'zel would ominously exclaim, as if she'd be the one to end Jen.

Ronnie knew the look on Jen's face too well by this point—the pursed lips and wet eyes. Surely, her stoicism was crushing her throat. But there was no stopping her in her ascent to her bedroom, where she'd lock the door behind Ronnie, unwilling to accept any comforts—the type that she'd consistently given Ronnie. No , she'd dig her stash from under her bed and get to work, meaning: get as fucked up as needed to numb herself.

It often ended in Nox having to knock the door down, lest Jen drown in her own vomit or overdose on ketamine or whathaveyou. Vic and Lae'zel weren't aware of Jen's fragile disposition—or, at least it didn't seem that way, considering their unrelenting cruelty towards her. Jen would never tell them about what she'd done after they’d stormed out—it'd probably not make a difference, anyway.

Ronnie would wait outside Jen’s door, leaning her back on it as she sat on the ground. “Jen,” Ronnie would say, not knowing what to offer other than her presence. “Please, Jen.”

Jen would not respond. All Ronnie could hear were the rustling of bags, sounds of nasal insufflation, or the sharp exhales after swigs of liquor.

Narcan was kept in the "House of Grief” and it'd been used on Jen before. She always acted resentful when the ambulance showed, metaphorically pushing everyone away because she thought herself deceitful enough to make her friends believe that she was a cunt, after all. To which they would retort with a “nice try” sort of attitude.

— As if losing Jen: my cunt friend would be easier than losing Jen: my friend.

When she'd get out of the hospital, she'd essentially pretend that nothing ever happened—life went on like normal, and “I'm fine” became her two favourite words in the English language.

Cliché.

꧁꧂

Ronnie sat on her shabby couch, scrolling and scrolling. It was a Monday night, and she'd had the day off work. She'd prepped her meals, stretched, exercised, and cleaned her flat—it always becomes a wreck after a few days, but she usually manages to tidy once a week.

Behind the couch was the chipping-white-paint-covered beam and stool, then a blank space, then the kitchen where the ceiling light dimly illuminated almost the entirety of her basement flat, except for her bedroom and bathroom.

The leak dripped, and the mould on it grew every day. Ronnie wanted to get it fixed, but then she'd be alone with the handyman in her flat: a terrible idea, considering her history of violence.

It had been almost two weeks since the tavern and, of course, no sign of Astarion. Maybe he'd changed his mind about her, or maybe he simply got bored.

Ronnie… missed him. They never exchanged numbers, as neither Astarion nor Ronnie brought it up. She would have thought that he'd leave a piece of paper with it written down for her to see when she woke up at the tavern, at least, but no. Nothing . She thought it might be better that way because if she hadn’t scared him away yet with her problems, she'd surely scare him away with her eagerness. She'd have to make a constant effort to text him no more than once a day—at most.

Since the events at the tavern, Astarion had been on her mind more than was justifiable. It bordered on entirely obsessive—obsessed with countering the lustful thoughts, contemplating the meanings behind his words. What was the deal with his boss—was he some sort of mobster? And Astarion—what part did he really play in all of this?

Over the past two weeks, she had likely spent hours staring in her bathroom mirror, admiring her wound, pulled tight like a corset—although not too tight, of course. She would examine it up and down and run her fingers along the sides, feeling the slight burn of her swollen tissue. It felt almost as if the dissolving thread was Astarion himself, diving through her laceration and holding it together. She imagined herself tearing it open and reaching for her heart through her ribcage, handing it to him like a cat with a dead bird at his doorstep.

And then there was the fourteen hundred pounds he'd given her—she hadn’t spent it yet. She didn't know what to do with it.

—Maybe something for Jen.

Jen needed a new laptop—she was always complaining about hers glitching out, freezing, and crashing. So Ronnie browsed the web in search of just that.

It was amazing—the type of laptops one could buy with fourteen hundred pounds; but what brand would she want? Would she want a large screen or something more compact?

— Hmm... I'm bored.

But, out of her periphery starred the wretched, pink phallus—the torturous, useless thing.

Though; useless as it was, Ronnie sought to give it another go—not accepting total defeat just yet.

So she sat up, pulled down her flannelette pyjama trousers, grabbed the thing off the coffee table, hoisted her knees up, and got to work. Facing the black TV screen, she closed her eyes to avoid visual distractions, mainly her scars.

She tried thinking—imagining ideas of what ought to get her off.

A beautiful woman above her, glistening all over with dexterous fingers. Or maybe a man with a skilled tongue, or maybe—

—Alfira.

...

No. She would stay focused.

The man with the skilled tongue is... doing things with his tongue and he is hot...

— No.

— I need to get groceries. I hate the grocery shop. Maybe I can just use some of Astarion's money to have them delivered.

—Astarion is hot.

— No. I can't think of him while I'm doing this.

—But he...

Ronnie remembered vividly their first night together, when he'd been inside and teased her so. What if he'd continued? What if things went further? They both could have finished—finished with each other. On each other, in—

She was so close. She allowed herself to imagine that maybe he was right there—inside her. She tried picturing his body, and the way his muscles would ripple with the smallest movements—with each thrust, perhaps.

How his hair would be damp with sweat and his expression— oh, his expression would be sinfully picturesque. It would be a face one would never catch him making except for in the moments before rapture.

And his sounds—his little grunts of pleasure.

“You take me so well, Ronnie,” he'd say. “Such a good girl, all for me.”

It was the closest she’d been in weeks—right on the precipice—

*Knock-knock-knock*

…

She panicked, throwing the thing under a pillow on her couch and hastily pulling on her trousers.

—Who would be knocking on my door at eleven at night?

She tiptoed to the spyhole in her door, making sure not to be too noisy in case she didn't want to answer.

But it was Astarion, standing and waiting patiently with a bag on his wrist and his hands in his pockets. His hard chest was evident under his buttoned-up shirt.

Her face reddened; it couldn't have been worse timing for him to show up—or better timing, depending on how she looked at it. Maybe he could cuff her to the pole and take her on the floor— NO.

She couldn't. What if she lost her wits amid a shag? It would be humiliating for her.

—But he said he would wait there for me—wait for it to be over.

Even still, was that enough insurance? No. She thought she'd better be safe than sorry.

Elated, Ronnie opened the door to look at him through the chain lock, but she suddenly became very aware of how plain and makeupless she was, so she bit the inside of her cheek to ground herself.

“Astarion!” she started, sounding much more eager than she'd meant to. “Hi. What are you doing here?” She smiled, lowering her pitch.

He wore a dress suit again, but this time, with an unbuttoned raincoat. Dressed nicely, as always.

His pocketed hands drew Ronnie's eyes lower to where his narrow hips were, but her gaze didn't linger there for more than a moment.

He looked relieved. “ Ah —finally. I've been coming here almost every night looking for you,” he said. “ Er —may I come in?”

—He's been looking for me? Oh my Gods, yes. I missed you, I missed you, I missed you so much.

Ronnie cleared her throat. “ Ahem —do you have handcuffs?”

Astarion held up his bag. “Yes, I have all the fixings.” He grinned roguishly.

Ronnie wanted to scream into her pillow and punch her mattress a hundred times or more. She had an unignorable rising feeling in her chest that reverberated through her arms—a feeling she knew was bound to make her stupid. What could he possibly mean by “ all the fixings”? Had he brought treats? Games? Gifts? She had to know.

Reeling herself in, she responded coolly, “Right. So the protocol is you have to cuff me to the beam immediately as soon as you come in. That always has to be our number one priority. Yeah?”

Astarion gave a curt bow. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Are you ready?”

“Very.”

—I hate you, you stupid freak.

—I hate how you make me feel.

—Why do you make me feel like this?

Ronnie gritted her teeth. “Set.”

Astarion huffed a laugh, throwing his head back—which exposed his perfect smile—but ultimately, he bent his knees in a playful battle stance.

“Go.”

Ronnie slammed her door shut and unhooked her chain lock. Astarion opened the door before she could open it for him herself, and she giddily ran to the stool that was always at her pole. He closed the door and laughed mirthfully, approaching her already. She tried to suppress a grin as he ran up and hooked her cuffs on behind her in one swift movement.

Ronnie tugged to test her restraints, and she sighed happily, feeling the stability they provided as Astarion hung his coat on her coat hooks and rolled up his sleeves.

Astarion stood in front of her, arms crossed with his bag on the ground beside him, looking awfully satisfied and smelling delicious. She wanted to bite him, only softly to steal a salty taste... or to immobilise him. She scrunched her features, shooing away the intrusive fantasy.

“Have I ever told you how good you look when you're helpless?” Astarion joked.

Ronnie blushed, averting her gaze from the handsome man. “Whatever. You can quit the evil act. I know you're not going to hurt me,” she spat; although, she wanted him to hurt her—only a little. And she knew he would if she asked.

“ Oh? But why would I do that when you clearly respond to it so well,” he teased with a devious and toothy grin. She wondered how much of her bullshit he could see straight through.

Ronnie chuckled, craning her head back. “What did you come here for, anyway?” He'd been looking for her. It had to be important. Or maybe she was important. Or... what she was capable of. Nevertheless, he was there—right where she wanted him, or close. She preferred him to be closer. But she wouldn't—she wouldn't cave.

He held his chin in thought for a few moments. “To see you,” he started, “and I suppose to teach you a few little tricks—using sleight of hand with card games.” His voice was smooth but raspy, almost like the sound of a bowling ball rolling towards its pins.

“Oh... that’s calm. Okay.” She nodded, looking at his feet.

She should have guessed that he'd only come to continue their “business”—not to simply hang out. It might make it easier to keep it in her pants, but his flirtatious remarks were tugging at her strings already. She was thankful that he'd shown up with a purpose, after all. And she was thankful that he hadn't abandoned her—that he'd been looking for her, even.

She never thought someone could want her after knowing what she was capable of, or what her body looked like—save for Alfira, but it was hard to come by someone with morals as pure as hers.

He'd called her visage “ominous.” Shouldn't that have meant that he was repulsed? But he still made advances on her after sharing his derogatory and unwanted opinion—maybe he liked “ominous.”

“Also, I've thought of some solutions to the mobility issues that would arise given our use of handcuffs.” He put one hand on his hip, and all of his weight on one leg as he feigned disinterest, looking at his nails. “Although the cuffs are the most convenient, they didn't seem like the most... practical, nor the most comfortable idea.”

Ronnie's lips parted, her eyes sparkling with intrigue, or perhaps enamourment at his thoughtful consideration.

“Do you want to see what I've come up with?” he asked, pulling his phone from his pocket.

She bit her inner lip. “Yeah, sure,” she drawled, unsure of exactly how much gratitude to display, as she had to avoid leading him on.

He fussed with his phone for a moment and then showed Ronnie an image of a mannequin that had been intricately tied around its torso and waist. It looked beautiful, but it also looked quite lewd, somehow.

“This is called ‘shibari’. It's an ancient Japanese roping technique that has been historically used on prisoners. Now, however, people primarily use it for art and— er ... sex, to be quite honest,” he said, briefly chuckling after his statement.

Cheeks flushing, Ronnie kept her gaze on the screen as he swiped to another picture of a mannequin tied similarly, but this time the rope extended through the groin.

“Of course, some of these are a bit more... salacious than others, but I thought I'd give you options. Given your circumstance, it only seemed fair.”

He swiped to the next image, this time showing the back of a mannequin with its arms fastened straight vertically, adorned with knots along their length. It looked much more comfortable than the handcuffs.

“Um... is this okay?” Ronnie asked, rubbing her knees together nervously. She couldn't quell the dirty images in her mind of her tied up—naked and displayed—free for him to touch in whatever way he pleased.

“What, tying you up? Sure! It's perfectly fine— er ... that is, if you want to, of course.” He tilted his head, smiling awkwardly.

—This doesn't have to be sexual. He said it was originally used with prisoners. I am just being tied like a prisoner, she justified to herself.

“ Um ... we—we can try,” Ronnie stammered.

—Fuck. Now I'm stuttering? Stupid.

“Just don't make it weird, please,” she added, only partially confident that she would be able to rein herself in. She would have to count on him.

“ Me? ‘Make it weird’?” He scoffed. “Why, I would never,” he said, frowning disingenuously.

“Astarion... I need your help with this,” she tried her best to sound serious. She knew that shagging him would be wholly reckless—unfair to both of them, given her condition.

“Relax! I'm only joking. Ugh —you’re no fun,” he teased. “ So ... which one would you like?” Astarion asked.

Ronnie squinted at his screen as he flipped through the carousel of pictures, looking for the one that looked the least perverted.

One, in particular, caught her eye: a harness that only hugged the torso and shoulders without riding between the breasts or groin. It was perfect and safer than the handcuffs for both parties involved. She doubted that she'd be able to free herself of the binding, and she wouldn't be able to dislocate her wrists in it either. Additionally, it looked like a comfortable setup, and she'd even be able to traverse a portion of her flat—as much as the rope connecting her to the pole would allow.

“Can we do that one?” she asked.

Astarion looked at his phone. “Of course. This one should be quite easy, actually,” he exclaimed, squatting to grab a red rope from his bag. “Could you stand, please?”

“ Oh —yes, of course,” Ronnie said, standing and moving around the pole—away from her stool.

He unravelled the rope and then folded it in half to find the middle. Then he began his wrapping and knotting. He wrapped above her shoulders and around her ribs, honed into his work as he was when he'd stitched her.

His brows knitted together and he bit his bottom lip while he focused, pulling the rope through the loops made around her shoulders as it brushed against the fabric of her loose cropped t-shirt. Ronnie held her breath almost the entire time, as each brush of his tender digits made her internally recoil in shame.

Next, he moved to her back, fastening her arms to the harness and immobilising them. The binding felt more secure than the cuffs, but without the discomfort.

As he was finishing up, Ronnie had a fleeting recollection of what she’d been doing just before he came in—what she'd been thinking about. But she gritted her teeth and attempted to relinquish the thoughts.

It was a consistent effort, in the silence, though. She thought she might have more luck once he began his lesson.

To be fair, Ronnie didn't really care about learning how to cheat at poker, but he seemed like he wanted to show her, and she was simply happy to spend time with him at this point—she wasn't going to be picky when genuine friendships were so difficult for her to come by.

Once he bound from her shoulders to her elbows, he unlocked the handcuffs and then proceeded to tie his last knots along her upper limbs. Then, he pulled a separate rope from his bag and stuck his fingers under one of the loops in the middle of her back, inadvertently jostling Ronnie and consequently gripping her arm to steady her. She must have been hot because his hand was cool against her skin, and she wondered if she was red like the ogre at the tavern.

He fed the second rope through her harness and knotted it to her before doing the same with the other end on the pole.

At last, she was free of his touch, grateful for the chance to create some distance between them.

Astarion stood in front of Ronnie with his hands on his hips. “All done, safe and secure. You’re free to walk about, but the second rope is only about three metres long. It’s safest to keep it that way.”

Ronnie tugged at her restraints as hard as she could, but they didn’t budge. She walked until the rope connecting her to the pole was taut, then leaned her entire body weight on it, giggling as she balanced on her toes at a forty-five-degree angle.

She felt a slight tug and looked back to find Astarion pulling at the rope towards the beam, also testing its strength.

“As I thought, it won’t come undone easily,” he said, letting go of the rope.

“How’d you learn how to do this?” Ronnie asked as she straightened up.

Astarion paused for a moment, walking around to the sofa with his bag in hand. “Let’s not exhume the past tonight, eh?” He plopped onto the sofa, awfully close to the pillow under which the thing was hidden, causing Ronnie to gasp sharply through her nose.

When it came to exhuming the past, she could do without revisiting what she’d been doing immediately before Astarion arrived. She really ought to have put away the thing before letting Astarion in, but she’d been too distracted by his presence, and she could all but hope she wouldn’t have to pay for that mistake.

She climbed over the back of her sofa in her bare feet and settled on the opposite end from Astarion, feeling the plush cushion beneath her.

He pulled out a deck of cards and began to shuffle, the cards snapping crisply between his fingers. “The first thing is that, of course, you’ll need to know where the cards are in the deck.” He set the deck on the table and flicked the corner up with his thumb, exposing each card for a split second. “That’s how much time you have to take in the contents of the deck. Now—if I’m looking for the Jack of Spades, I can find it right here.” He lifted a portion of the deck and showed Ronnie the card at the bottom of his chosen section—it was the Jack of Spades. “You’ll need to learn the weight of the cards—how ten cards feel versus... twenty-two cards, and so on.”

Ronnie watched him put the deck back together and riffle the cards, her eyes drawn to the way his fingers moved deftly, the muscles in his forearms flexing with each gesture. There was something hypnotic about his movements—a grace that made everything he did look effortless. She imagined those hands on her skin, the same dexterity applied to tracing lines along her body.

He continued shuffling in a myriad of ways, his voice a low murmur. “The most important part, when you’re first starting, is to wait for an opening—wait until your opponent’s eyes are busy. That’s why you’ll begin with Heads-up—one-on-one poker—”

Ronnie could hear the cadence of his words, but her focus was on his lithe fingers, the way they worked through the cards with such precision. His fingernails, perfectly manicured, danced across the deck, and she wondered what those fingers would feel like in her mouth.

“Ronnie?” His voice snapped her from her trance, and she realized he’d stopped talking and she’d been staring at his hands.

She shook her head, trying to clear the haze. “Sorry. I’m just—distracted. Do you think we could maybe watch a movie instead, tonight?” she asked, giving him a tense smile and hoping he didn’t notice the flush creeping up her neck. Though; the mischievous glint in his eye and his roguish grin informed Ronnie that he knew exactly what he was doing to her, and that caused her to stir slightly in her spot.

“If that's what you'd prefer.” He shuffled the cards one last time before placing them in the box and away in his bag. He retrieved the remote from the coffee table and switched on the TV, navigating to the built-in streaming service.

Ronnie hung her head in relief before looking at the list of recommended shows and movies. He flipped through them, witnessing her embarrassing stack of dating shows under the “Continue watching” section. Tensing, she held her breath, but he didn’t seem phased by her taste in media. She could've been sure that he’d tease her about it, but he didn’t say a word.

One movie in particular caught her eye: New Moon, the sequel to Twilight. Her eyes widened with excitement. “ Oh! Can we watch New Moon?” she asked.

“I remember hearing about this one a decade ago. It’s about werewolves and vampires, correct? Infamous for its mawkishness?” Astarion asked.

“Yes! Exactly!” She bounced excitedly. “I just watched the first one at Jen’s not that long ago.”

“ Hm— I’ll entertain this, sure. We have to change it if it's boring, though,” he said, clicking on the movie and then getting up to flick her kitchen light off before returning to his spot on the couch.

“Yes! Okay, I'm so excited. I've never seen it before.” She shimmied, bringing her knees to her chest.

Ronnie watched raptly as the opening scene began with Bella in a forest clearing with Edward. They approached an elderly woman, only to find out she was Bella’s reflection. Glancing at Astarion, she saw his brows knit together in a frown, clearly already entranced by the film.

He was… cute —the way he seemed utterly intrigued.

“He can go in the sun? He's sparkling,” Astarion asked.

“Yeah. He's all bitter about it, as well—haha,” Ronnie giggled.

“Bitter? Gods . You think he would be grateful that he doesn't burn to ash.��

Bella and Edward were standing together in the school parking lot when Edward said: “Jacob's here,” before Jacob was within eyesight.

“How did he know that Jacob was there?” Astarion asked.

“He can read minds.”

“Terrifying.”

“Except for Bella's, but Alice can tell the future, and Jasper is always hungry and constipated-looking,” Ronnie exclaimed.

Bella was sitting at the back of the class watching Romeo and Juliette with Edward. They were casually talking about the movie when Edward—out of the blue—exclaimed that he envies Romeo because he committed suicide.

“He envies Romeo because he killed himself? Edward is a fool,” Astarion said, frowning.

“You're granted immortality, and you can walk in the sun, but you spend your days in high school around a bunch of teenagers? Their master must be some sort of eccentric. Though, it beats rotting away in a kennel.” Astarion seemed personally offended by this premise, causing Ronnie to stifle a giggle.

“Those ‘Volturi’ seem like awful creatures. Quite ugly, as well,” Astarion said, and Ronnie enjoyed his commentary on the movie—keeping her entertained.

Jasper—the constipated one—became feral over Bella's papercut. In response, Edward pushed Bella away from him to protect her, but she flew into a table, injuring herself further. Alice had to escort Jasper away.

“ Oh —I like this movie,” Astarion exclaimed, smirking.

—Of course he would say that during the most chaotic scene, Ronnie thought.

Carlisle—the “father”—stitched Bella's wounds, and he mentioned to Bella that he believed he was “damned” due to his vampiric condition.

“‘Damned’? These vampires are free of a master, they live in a comfortable abode, they can walk in the sun, and they think they are ‘damned’? Ridiculous,” Astarion said.

“I know. It's a little silly, but I guess I understand if they're depressed,” Ronnie added.

“Edward is in love with this beautiful young lady, and he refuses to change her? The stupidity,” Astarion spat.

A scene played where Edward breaks up with Bella in the woods because he's moving away. Bella said: “I'm coming,” to which Edward responded: “I don't want you to come.”

Astarion huffed a chuckle. “I would never not let you come, Ronnie.”

“Sod off.”

As a result of Edward's abandonment, Bella fell into a deep depression, and a scene played where she was staring out of her bedroom window as the months passed by.

“Is this what you do when I'm not around?” Astarion asked, grinning.

“No.”

“I'm hurt,” he said, grabbing his chest in mock offence.

Bella began spending more time with Jacob after experiencing a hallucination of Edward’s presence while riding on the back of a stranger's motorcycle. She realised there might be a link between the hallucination and engaging in life-risking behaviour, so she decided to take advantage of Jacob’s skills as a mechanic. Bella brought him two dirt bikes from the scrapyard, and Jacob helped her fix them. She rode one of the bikes intending to induce the same “Edward hallucination.” While it worked, the distraction caused her to crash the bike and smash her head against a rock.

“He's clearly reinforcing Bella's dangerous behaviour. How does he not see this?” Astarion protested.

The movie continued, showing Bella spending even more time with Jacob, their friendship nearly approaching romantic territory.

“This Jacob boy isn't half-bad,” Astarion said. But when Jacob started lashing out towards Bella and her friends, Astarion changed his mind. “Nevermind. I take back what I said about him earlier.”

Eventually, the plot dragged on and Astarion became frustrated. “There are no vampires in this movie!” he complained, shifting his position on the couch and sitting on the pillow.

The moment he descended on the pillow, it began to vibrate—or rather, the thing began to vibrate under it.

Mortified, Ronnie's eyes widened and she held her breath as Astarion half-stood to search for the source of the buzzing beneath him.

“Wait!” she raised her voice in a panic.

He stood, crouching in front of the couch. “Sorry, I'm just trying to figure out where that sound is coming from. I can rewind in a second, don't you worry. I—” He froze, lifting the pillow to find her toy undulating beneath it. “Oh—I see.” His face of confusion quickly warped into one of mischief at his discovery.

Grinning, he lifted the phallus and inspected it before switching it off. “We've been very naughty, today—haven't we?” His head was unmoving but his conniving stare landed on Ronnie's face. He smiled, almost strategically so—or that's how it felt.

He looked away only to pause the movie—a freeze frame of Bella.

Ronnie sat back in horror, watching him examine it . If it wasn't for her restraints, she would've snatched it from him already. Blushing, she frowned, gritting her teeth as her heart raced with embarrassment.

There was no going back now—not since he'd seen it . If she could've erased it from his mind like her amnesia, she would've.

She hadn’t spent all that much time with Astarion yet, but she already surmised a few of his consistent character traits.

One: he was an instigator.

Two: he was cunning.

And three: he was opportunistic.

“No,” she denied his allegation, as it was all she could manage in her fragile state of shame—feeling stupid for letting him in; for not putting away her toy properly beforehand.

Her desire crept up on her, its languid grasp much like a boa constrictor. Attempting to ground herself, she shook her head. She knew what was coming next—he wouldn't drop this… wouldn't let her live this down.

“ Hm ... Good girls don't lie,” he purred, hovering over Ronnie as his shadow cast on her.

Checkmate.

He had her.

And she felt small under his stare.

“Now—I'm going to give this a little wash, I think, and then I'll be right back.”

Ronnie watched as he waltzed away, past the couch, out of her field of vision, and into the darkness of her kitchen.

Visions of Astarion played in her mind as a needle on vinyl—visions of him “torturing” her with the thing. Her womb throbbed at the idea.

She heard the ominous sound of running water emanating from the kitchen, and then—even more ominously—the footsteps towards her after it stopped.

Astarion—phallus in hand—climbed onto the sofa, facing her. “You must've been in an awful hurry to hide this, considering its location and the remnants that adorned it,” he cooed. “Pray tell—it was within you when I arrived at your door, was it not?”

— How did he...?

Cunning

Opportunistic

Perceptive

Instigator.

Ronnie bit her inner cheek, her brows tensing as she shook her head. Her breath was caught in her chest as her head became weighty on her neck. Instinctively, she laid back, her nape resting on the arm of the couch as she watched him crawl closer, like a feline.

“ Tut tut, Ronnie. You truly are too easy to read, you know,” he teased. “I’ve always wondered: do you think of me when you touch yourself?”

—Yes, you bastard.

She looked up at him—framed by her thighs—eyes pleading, and excuses stuck on her tongue.

Her eyes pleaded for mercy—mercy of any breed. All or nothing. But—at this point—she'd prefer the former.

Her thoughts became muddied, snuffing the enervated flames of coherence and obligation.

“Your lips look so pretty when you bite them like that—so... kissable,” he rasped, climbing atop her.

The sudden taste of iron invaded her mouth. She hadn’t realised she was biting her lip—but she’d been biting it hard enough to break skin.

Ronnie released her lower lip from its toothy restraint, and she saw a flit of something restrained in him when her lip bounced back into place.

The way his palms sunk into the sofa on either side of her made her arch her back expectantly.

He leaned in, and she gasped, feeling his cheekbone fleetingly make contact with hers.

His breath brushed her ear. “You know, Ronnie,” he started, “I wish for you to confide in me—your desires,” he whispered.

Ronnie's knees neared her shoulders—his hips, hovering inches from hers.

“If it helps, I'll share mine first. Would you like that?” he purred, playing with a lock of her hair.

He rose from her torso, humming low and soft as he watched her, tilting his head condescendingly and sitting on his heels.

And Ronnie felt like something precious was torn from her.

Her skin tingled, yearning for his touch. Astarion's cadence was soothing and his demeanour, benevolent. She let her eyelids fall closed, remembering the safety of his embrace after their first coupling. She'd never felt so cherished before; or at least… not that she could remember.

She wanted it again.

“Tell me,” Ronnie said, her voice trembling with nerves.

“ Hmm... ” He snaked his hand down her shin, leaving sparks in its wake. “I want to roam your body with my touch,” he began. “I want to make you whimper and squirm as I fill you,” he cooed, teasing under her waistband with his fingers. “I want to hear you breathless while I make you come undone.” He splayed his fingers under the hem of her shirt. “Your turn,” he instructed.

Ronnie arched her back, finally finding her breath again as the nerves melted into solace. “I want... your touch,” she whispered. “I want to kiss you again… please ,” she pleaded, rolling her pelvis into his, and—to her delight—finding his hardened length; though, it was imprisoned by his trousers.

Dropping the phallus, he grabbed at her hips and pulled her core to his hardness. “ Mm —there we are. You'll find that I'll reward you for honesty,” he hummed, slotting his fingers under her waistband and pulling her pants off, leaving her fully exposed, scars and all. He leaned into her, caging her in with his elbows. “How innocent of you—to want a kiss; though I'm sure you want more than that,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers as they shared breath.

Ronnie let her lashes flutter shut as she basked in the feeling of his skin—so close to hers. He pressed his forehead into hers—their noses, staggered.

“I'm right, aren't I?” He smooched her experimentally. “You wish to be ravished, don't you?” Teasing, he pecked beside her lips.

Ronnie felt as if her shabby couch had transformed into a cloud as she wrapped her legs around him. Even her disorder felt like a distant axiom, with the way he enveloped her.

“Tell me,” he said, pecking her cheek. “What is it that you truly want?”

Ronnie craned her head forward, capturing his lips, to which he promptly reciprocated. Astarion groaned into her mouth, and she could feel his smile as they kissed. His cunningness was troublesome and inescapable.

She was at a threshold she hadn’t planned to cross with him again, but the safety of her bindings began to feel much like the safety provided by her lithium on the day they’d met—safety that would give consequence to the morrow.

Capitulating, Ronnie pulled from his kiss. “I want…” she breathed, “I want to have sex with you.” She found his lips again, pecking him roughly.

Astarion growled his assent, their lips colliding once more as Ronnie could hear him unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers—music to her ears.

Their mouths disconnected with a pop, and Astarion stood to unbutton his shirt. As she'd expected, his body was impeccably toned, and his muscles rippled as he discarded his top on the coffee table.

He slotted his thumbs under his waistband. “What a sight, you are—now that you've given yourself to me, at last,” he teased, relinquishing himself of both his formal trousers and his briefs.

His length sprang free—it was much larger than her meagre toy and it glistened with precum in the television's dim light. She had no recollection of shagging someone with a penis, and, of course, her sexual relationship with Alfira was painfully short-lived. And so, excitation became her, as she laid with her thighs resting on her tummy which bounced ever so slightly as Astarion sat on the couch to pull off his socks.

“You're such a princess, you know?” he teased.

—Princess?

Ronnie tilted her head away, huffing. “ Hmph —I’d be doing more if I wasn't tied up like a... rabid animal.” She scowled.

Astarion threw his head back, chuckling darkly. “That’s not what I meant—and you're tied up like a gift, not a ‘rabid animal’,” he mocked, crawling atop her form. “I'd quite like to unwrap you, my dear.” He tugged at her shirt, easing it through her bindings to crumple just above her breasts. “ Oh —your wound healed beautifully, I see.” He traced his finger beside it, languidly.

“Yeah.” She blushed. “Thanks, again, by the way.”

Astarion quirked up the corner of his mouth as his hands slotted beneath her—one under her back and the other, carding through her hair. He eased her towards him so that her head rested comfortably against the pillow. Consequently, she felt his length brush against her folds.

“Better?” he asked, peering into her eyes as he caressed her cheek with his thumb.

“Yeah... Thank you,” she said, her eyes, heavy-lidded with desire.

— So courteous.

His face seemed relaxed, except for a barely perceptible intensity in his brow. At last, he descended to her breast with his open maw, flicking her hardened pebble with his tongue. Thumbing her other nipple, he gave her nip a playful bite, causing Ronnie to squeak as he rocked his heavy length between her folds.

He created a trail of small hickies from one breast to the other, thumbing her now-wet nipple.

Ronnie twirled her pelvis, trying to urge him inwards, but her efforts proved futile.

Groaning, he disconnected from her mound—a string of saliva between them. He kissed her, hungrily sucking on her lower lip and grabbing her waist rough enough to bruise her marred flesh.

Breathless, he pulled away, and Ronnie’s lip bounced back into place.

“I’m sorry. I seem to be... getting lost in you. Are you okay?” he asked, frantic.

Ronnie welcomed a reasonable level of pain—their first tryst being evidence of that—and his ungentle treatment hadn’t phased her. “I’m good,” she said, attempting a smile to stifle his woes. “Do you want to stop?”

“No,” he said loudly before catching himself. “No. I just... need to keep my teeth to myself, that's all,” he scolded himself, looking away.

“ Hm —I don't mind. Don't worry,” she hummed. “I like it.”

He sighed, closing his eyes as he held her waist. He snaked his hands under her bottom, and crouched, lifting her core to his mouth. He relaxed in his position as he began lapping at her clit, sticking a thumb inside her as he licked and held her up with his forearm.

Sucking on her bud, he removed his thumb, only to replace it with two digits which he pumped into her at a consistent pace. Astarion closed his eyes, his brows furrowing as he feasted on her like a starved man—lewd, wet sounds emanating from his tongue and lips.

Ronnie's thighs tensed as she approached her climax—breathing heavily, pliable in his grasp.

He placed the flat of his tongue on her, working her similarly to her toy, but—of course—better, as it was Astarion. Astarion, who she'd been restraining herself from since after their first coupling—denying herself the pleasure out of trepidation... because she didn't want to hurt him. But, with her wrapped up, he could more than handle her— devour her.

One last raucous emission—deep from within Astarion's chest—was enough to break the bough, splintering Ronnie into broken cries of release.

She went limp entirely, his fingers still working inside her, and his tongue relenting before he removed his face. "That's it," he murmured, " good girl." He spread his digits apart inside her. "You're going to take my cock so well, Ronnie. You're doing so well," he said, kissing her clit ravenously and making her hips lurch as she panted, overstimulated from her orgasm.

Chuckling darkly, he let up, grabbing her thighs and parting them as he aligned himself with her weeping nethers. He sunk into her slowly, allowing her to stretch and adjust to his size as his tip hugged her cervix. “See? You were made for me,” he purred, setting a dilatory pace. “ Really. I should have kept you tied up for me to fuck whenever I pleased the day we met—kept you hidden away for my own personal use—my little prisoner,” he rasped, snapping into her. “You would like that, wouldn’t you—to be my cherished fuck slave?” His rutting quickened.

“Yeah,” she whined, picturing herself, his bound and subservient personal whore. Astarion truly had a way of plucking the right strings, as if he knew exactly what would make her sing for him.

Nobody had ever done that before.

He used her hips as leverage, rotating them forward so that her back arched and he could thrust into her at the right angle. “You wish to be mine to fill whenever I want, I know it. You want me to spill inside you and coat your womb with my seed—to be fucked until you’re swollen and sore from my cock,” he rasped.

Eyes wet, Ronnie nodded, messy with perspiration as she cried her assent.

“ Good girl. See what happens when you’re honest?” he praised, sucking his fingers and then dutifully reaching them to rub her clit.

Ronnie moaned through gritted teeth as she watched him work her, feeling awfully stuffed by his member—so long and wide and pressing up into where she felt it most.

With a snap of his hips, he sheathed himself fully, stilling as he worshipped her bud with a rapidly moving hand. “I want to feel you cum on me, darling. Cum on me, and you’ll get your reward,” he said, warming his pulsing girth in her channel.

Tears flowed from Ronnie’s eyes, and her muscles flexed as she felt him twitching inside of her. She let go, weeping, watching him choke out an undignified moan as she quivered around him, violently clutching him with her climax.

Astarion squeezed his eyes shut as he finished with her clit, allowing himself to move again. Grabbing the backs of her thighs, he pushed her knees towards her chest, forcing her to fold in half. Watching himself stretch her folds, he would languidly pull out—almost completely, leaving only his tip sheathed—before thrusting back in with punishing snaps of his hips. Ronnie's bound body was no match, as it was forced up with each sloppy pound of his pelvis.

His lips pulled into a satisfied smirk, watching her bounce haplessly. All she could do was take it; it was everything she wanted since she began to crave him. Her body and mind's reaction to his ruthless sexual treatment came as a surprise to her, as she'd only ever been with the kind and gentle or selfish types; or at least, that's all she could recall.

His grip on her thighs was pressuresome and wild—sure to mark her skin. Her back rubbed against the rough polymer texture of the cheap couch as he slammed into her, his smirk faltered as his breathing became more erratic.

Again, he slowed. “Does the princess want to be filled with my cum?” he asked, condescendingly. Entering her fully, he began twirling his hips teasingly so that his girth would compress against every bit of her inner walls in a venerated circle. “Honesty, my dear. What have we learned?”

Ronnie felt entirely debauched with her damp, limp body and her humiliating whines. She wanted to get him back for his incessant teasing, but the euphoria was overwhelming. He must’ve been close, she could tell by the way he kept stopping. So she clenched her lower muscles, squeezing him inside her—babbling out a broken cry of agreement as she took her revenge by bestowing pleasure.

As she'd expected, his composure shattered momentarily at that. He began slurring curses, and leaning in—resting his elbows at her sides. Kissing a line from her lips to her neck, he sucked her skin into his mouth. His rhythm picked up—hard and fast as he chased his climax.

Ronnie closed her eyes, tilting her head, and allowing him to ravish. Although he was glistening with sweat, his cologne still whelmed her, relaxing her as he speared her over and over. She flinched when she felt a sharp and sudden pain on her throat, where he was creating hickeys, but it quickly faded. Unbothered, she let him continue, as she loved the feel of his lips and tongue anywhere on her body.

She wished she could wrap her arms around him, embrace him how he’d embraced her, and she mused about doing so the next time they were somewhere less secluded.

For now, she pressed her legs into his sides as he slammed into her, emptying himself at last. But he was unrelenting with his latch on her throat. Pity, she wanted to see his o-face, but she revelled in the feeling of his churning tongue on her neck.

Fully within her, he muffled a whine on her skin before tearing his maw from her and licking her where he had placed the bruising kiss. “Shit,” he whispered, pumping into her before lifting his torso from hers and admiring their entanglement, frowning and grunting.

He thrust into her once more before pulling out, covered in their combined fluids. Sitting back, he stared at his mess for a moment, leaning his side on the back of the sofa and quirking a brow.

“Are you okay, my dear?” he checked in.

And he massaged her knee…

The reverence…

The tenderness…

It felt like… like nothing she’d ever felt before.

And she wanted it to last forever.

“I’m good, yeah.” She swallowed, nodding with the smallest smile as if she didn’t just experience a drug-like euphoria because of what they’d just done.

She had to be cool…

She had to be calm…

He hung his sweaty head, shaking it as he laughed. “Do you remember how I told you that there were things I couldn't disclose to you yet?” he said, his voice quiet and benevolent; although you could hear his smile when he spoke. “I seem to have created a situation that requires my transparency.”

꧁꧂