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pursuitseternal · 6 months

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“Surprise me,” an update to “The Rogue You Were” for more NSFW Ascended Astarion romance…

Ascended Astarion x F!Reader | E | 5.5K Spice

Summary: A party, a massive affair and feast for all the powerful of Baldur’s Gate. But you crave only one thing on which to feed… your love and maker. With so many around you, you will have to be creative… find ways to… surprise him…

CW: Semi-public sex (twice), oral sex, vampiric sex on the ceiling, dom/sub undertones (the usual with Astarion), praise kink… oh and Astarion like it loud… even in semi-public.

Read on AO3 if you prefer

Continue for a scene that is full of surprises…

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Your palace was full. Brimming with dignitaries, the wealthy, the powerful. Every single being with money or military might was in your palace. Guests of every race and class, as long as they had something that would be… beneficial… to your rule.

To that of your maker. He glides through the masses, his silken voice and frequent laughter piercing through the din intermittently. You have kept your distance, however, watching from your seat on the dais. Your padded, gilded chair beside an empty one, matching but more grand and opulent.

Thrones. Though no one calls them that quite yet.

“They will. In due time,” he had said, practically salivating into your mouth as he had held you on his lap, the first time he rested on that gold and crimson seat.

Now, you rest in your throne, elegant black gown draping around you, cut just revealing enough to enhance your curves, but not so much as to tempt anyone. For that would end in only one way, as Astarion had laughed darkly, mentioning it as you had slipped it on. It would end…murderously.

You can almost imagine him giggling to say, “And that does so spoil a dinner party…”

You grin, raising the edge of your golden goblet to your painted lips. The red liquid sloshes a bit. Wine, wine that is supposed to be heady and fragrant. The best Faerûn has to offer. But it meets your tongue with bitterness, filling your stomach with sour bile.

You hunger.

It’s clear, as time passes, you are not some spawn, there is more to your powers than even Astarion had thought possible. For the more power he gains, the more you seem to, too. Strength, agility, scent. You do not hunger blindly for the blood of thinking animals. Not some vague predator.

But each day, your hunger does gnaw at you. Hungry for only one being, one creature. Astarion, your lover, your master, your everything.

You can’t resist it, the need for him inside you, be it his blood coating your throat or his cock buried to his balls between your thighs. You keep trying to make pleasant conversation when you are approached, but it turns to a dismissive wave the moment you see him cutting through the crowds. Silver hair, flawless and unruly, eyes bright and crimson.

This gathering is most important, he had said… a sign that he was better than Cazador ever was. More fun. More powerful. More charming.

He certainly is. All that and more. But tonight, it seems he needs to convince himself as much as all of Baldur’s Gate. His smile is shallow, demure. His giggle is a bit too sharp, too shrill. Meant to call attention and prove how happy he is.

Not that any remained that would have known him as a slave, a spawn. Those were all dead.

Now, Astarion, Ascendant Vampire Lord mingles as if he is running for office or brokering deals at the docks. In many ways, both are true. Only now, if he wills it, he can scramble up the walls, burst into black mist… but for now, you can see the traces of the 200 year old magistrate, manipulating and flattering everyone around him. A bending to his will, subtle but distinctive. Charming, and entirely… roguish.

You struggle to take another small sip of your wine, only to stick your tongue out in total disgust.

“Not to your liking, darling?” his voice whispers in your ear, even as you see him a hundred paces away. “The best wine money can buy this side of the sea, and you look like you swallowed sea water itself.”

“Astarion?” you whisper, eyes wide for any sign of a trick.

“No tricks, my treasure. Simply power,” he purrs in your ear. You stare at him, his head nodding as some tall Drow blathers on and on. His full attention bores into the speaker before. Until his eyes flicker at you, making you catch your breath. So intense, so wicked in his delight. “Well?” he pushes again. “The wine is… unsatisfactory? Ugh. I’ll have to have a word with the merchant… a word or a murder…”

“No,” you raise the cup to your lips, hiding the fact from prying eyes that you speak to the air as if you were insane. “It’s just that… I do not wish to feed on… wine, my love.”

“Darling…” he coos, attentive, placating, concerned, “my poor, thirsty, little consort, longing to feed from her master…”

“Yes,” you sigh, squirming on your chair ever so slightly. That catches his eyes again. “And…”

“Oh, my queen, one day I will fuck you on that throne for all to see,” his voice seems to caress beneath your chin, circling to your other ear. “But perhaps it is a bit soon for these ignorant fools.”

“Then when?” you moan into your goblet again, the thought of riding his cock, your bodies pressed against the gilt and crimson finery. Your mouth waters and your fangs itch. “When can I have you, my love?”

“When it is convenient for me… for us…” he hisses in your ear. “Not too long, I promise you.”

“Do not make me wait, Astarion, or maybe it’ll be more than your neck I’ll bite…”

“Promises, promises,” he bursts in a giggle. You can see his mouth smirking even as his eyes focus on others. “Don’t make any you don’t intend to keep, darling…”

“Oh, I won’t.” And just to prove your point, you down the rest of the foul tasting wine in two gulps, tossing the metal chalice to the floor beneath you. It clatters, but you can barely hear in the chaotic chorus of voices.

But he hears it. His head snaps up. Crimson eyes stare at you, disapproving.

His mouth opens, as if he is going to chastise you. His feet begin to weave his way through the masses, eyes locked on you. His goal. His prize. His destination.

He doesn’t even need to touch a soul to part the crowds around him. You can see the blaze in his eyes, the power throbbing between you, the need for him to show you that you must toe the line, to be wonderfully obedient, especially in front of all these people.

The bright clang of a gong reverberates loudly. The call for dinner. The banquet about to begin. You see Astarion draw himself straight, forcing that composure of refinement as he slides up the lower step of the dais. Pale fingers unfurl, reaching for your hand— your escort to the dinner, with a subtle smirk flitting around his lips. You extend your hand, feeling all eyes watching you as he bends his head to kiss you in greeting, his lips gently lingering on the back of your hand. His eyes flutter shut. As if, he too, savors the slight contact of your bodies. As if, he too, craves more.

He tugs you from your seat, your black gown flowing its train behind you as you make your way to the next room. You feel conspicuous, those observant eyes watching the way Astarion’s hand holds you close, the sweep of his thumb over the inside of your wrist.

You give him a devoted smile, one that flashes your own fangs at him. He stops you both at the entryway of the banquet hall, “Pucker up, my sweet. Make it look convincing.” His voice caresses your mind. “Even if your eyes tell me you’d like nothing better than to pin me down and make me bleed…”

You place a hand on the rich brocade of his jackets, fingers lacing into the collar to press into the soft silk of his shirt. His palm cups your cheek, cold to the touch, but on fire with his possessiveness. He claims your lips, and you feel it, taste his own hunger. His pride at having you, his consort, his queen, on display for all of Baldur’s Gate to see.

It lasts a minute, but in that moment, your eyes shut tight, leaving you with nothing but the pressure of his touch on your face and the working of his lips with yours. The intoxicating, heady dance you do each and every night, the one that always begins with this. The stealing of your breath and the tangle of your tongues.

He pulls away far quicker than you would have liked, careful not to let you nip or draw blood. Oh no. That would not do with so many people here. That smirk on his lips tells you he will keep you dangling for more, not forever. But enough to let you burn for him a little while. The veil of his power clearly tinting his view. That pulse of his presence covers your mind, sending you a vision… Thousands stand before him, where he is seated and crowned. Magnificent and powerful, eyes glowing in his triumph. All of Baldur’s Gate, Faerûn, the world. kneels at his throne, and he wants you kneeling too… between his thighs, his cock freed and pulsing in your hand as your head bobs and sucks over his length.

You snap out of it, watching as his brow raises slowly, his smirk deepening as he leads you into the now crowded and spinning banquet. The high table faces everyone from its perch at the end of the hall, covered in decadent red cloth and set with pieces of purest gold for dozens. Your nose fills with the heavy scents of wine and roasted meat, all manner of dishes slathered in spices and butter.

Your stomach turns but not in hunger. Not for that anyway.

Astarion stops short, the end of the high table before you, his hand resting on the back of a gilded chair. You frown, hurt and enraged. His seat, and yours by rights, are always to the center, presiding over the festivities. But now, he denies you even that. Seating you so far from him.

He tuts his tongue, scolding you even as his eyes skate down the dip if your cleavage. “Don’t give me that, pet, not in front of all these people. I need you to take this place, I need you to submit yourself tonight, to free up those seats near me that I might… continue our very important work.” His eyes glow, his hunger obvious only to you, his consort, his mate.

“And should I refuse?” you sling the dare, a look of pure demure adoration masking your face.

“Don’t make me bend you over my knee to reprimand you, darling… not in front of all… these… people…” he growls so quietly.

Your stomach is on fire with need, your mouth watering at the image and the desire it conjures. You can sense it does the same in Astarion, the growing bulge of his cock clear to your eye in those black velvet trousers of his.

You smile sweetly, lifting on your toes to whisper in his ear, a message for him alone, “I’ll make you pay for this, Astarion.”

“In what way, darling? Or are you going to… surprise me?” his voice is a caress, his hand lingering on yours as you center yourself before the chair.

Your folds ache, engorged and slick and so painful. It hurts your body to obey, to make yourself sit on that chair at the edge of the long table. You want to whine and whimper as you watch him walk away. To watch that magnificent profile cut through the crowd at such a distance. Smirk plastered on his lips. Eyes scanning the crowd, reveling in his court. Looking everywhere except for you.

Servants laden your plate with food, meats and sauces, the scent is rich enough to make anyone drool. Except for you. No. Your desired feast sits in the middle of the table, a dozen dignitaries between you. Other ladies try to make idle gossip around you, they giggle as they speak of handsome merchants, valiant warriors, speculating on the sizes of their weapons.

You fight the growl in your throat. Keeping one ear open, just in case they decide to speculate about your master. But from the way you clutch at the gold knife in your hand as you attempt to saw into the pieces of mutton on your plate, they undoubtedly know better.

No, you can only poke at the food on your plate, eyes devouring every movement of that silver haired head, every reach of his elegant, dramatic arm.

He’s hungry, you narrow your eyes to focus. Another reach of his arm as he spoons another serving on his plate. Enjoying the benefits of his ascendant abilities to taste and savor foods once more.

Must be nice, you sneer to yourself grabbing your goblet for more wine. Nice he can ignore the hunger he has for her to indulge in mortal foods, dismissing the raging erection you know is most certainly still straining in his breeches…

You smile. An idea… a little delicious revenge. One where you could serve it so easily, and savor it to sate your hunger.

You wait for the entertainment to begin, bards singing, the hall echoing with lutes and drums and dancing. Half the ladies near you leave to find themselves some dancing partners.

But even as the company at the high table thins a bit, you keep your gaze fixed on Astarion, on how he lounges back in his chair now, idlily chit-chatting and sipping his own wine.

Quickly, you slip to the ground, letting the cloth of the table drape to cover you, tucking the train of your gown around your hips. Your vampiric stealth comes in handy now, scuttling your way beneath as you avoid feet and legs, barely making out muffled conversations though the thick skirt and rhythmic beating of music.

You can smell him, his scent of bergamot barely covering the musk of his arousal. You stop at those bent knees and manly spread legs, clad in crushed black velvet breeches. You breathe in that fragrance of your lover, the bond of your powers grows taught as you nestle yourself between his thighs, careful not to touch him yet. Slowly, you take the pads of your fingers, tracing up the inside of his thighs.

Surpsied, he stiffens, the muscles of his legs clenching at the contact. One hand darts at you under the table, finding your face in his lap as he cradles your cheek.

He knows you. Invites you in. “You’re… still… full of surprises aren’t you, my love? Is this your idea of catching me off guard with revenge?” His voice caresses your mind as his thumb presses along your lower lip. “I’m positively delighted…” his hips cant forward, sliding those lower regions completely under the table. Always so thoughtful when it comes to his pleasure. And yours.

Your fingers trace over the rise of his arousal, feeling it twitch and pulse even beneath the soft velvet that encases him. You reach for the laces of his breeches, quickly, quietly freeing that engorged length. His hand still strokes into your hair, beckoning you to pay him the homage of your revenge.

But it is not for his cock alone you hunger. You take a single nail, scoring it into the crease of his thigh. You feel the rush of his blood, thick with his power, coating your fingers. You raise it quickly to your mouth and lick it clean. His hand clutches in your hair painfully hard. A warning, but one you ignore.

Your hands pull down the fabric of his trousers, your face burying in his lap. Tongue licking at the blood, letting even that little trickle coat your tongue and send an immediate bloom of need between your own thighs.

His hand tugs at your hair, trying to pry you off, but not so hard. Just a little resistance. A little fun. “Clumsy me and my nails, my love,” you whisper against his lap, letting your tongue lap at the blood one more time.

“You’ve had your revenge, darling, now give me what I’m owed for my troubles,” he purrs into your mind. His hand shifts the back of your head, centering you over his straining, twitching cock. You take him, slowly, teasing that blunt head with little laps of your tongue. You wish you had swallowed more, making all his blood fill you. But this will have to do.

You run your tongue up that seam on the underside of his length, working from base to silken tip, making him jut against your face. His other hand slides to join your worship, holding his cock, wrapping his fingers around himself as his grip on the back of your head works your insolent mouth towards that seeping head.

You take him, sucking as you bob forward and back, thankful that music is pounding and loud enough to cover the pops and slurps you make. You close your eyes, picturing all the times you have pleasured him, meeting that glassy, enamored stare of his crimson eyes down at you.

His own hand works to pleasure himself into the wet workings of your mouth, the clenching of his thighs on either side of your head goads you on, making you suck harder, faster. It is your own dance to the evocative music of the party. And you would have your partner no other way.

You feel the rumble of his voice through his belly, his words muffled, but the pattern of speech starts to falter. His hand around his shaft stills and grips harder, the only sign you get before he fills your throat with his seed. The bitter fluid sating your hunger, mingling with the sweet tingle of his powerful blood that still coats your tongue. You lap it, greedily, cleaning him so that not a drop will offend the pristine black of his trousers. He would never accuse you of being inconsiderate. Lustful? Perhaps. Willful? Most definitely. But you wouldn’t want your mate and master to traipse around with any offending stains to speak of your… vengeful indiscretion.

And he knows it. The way his fingers knot gently into the curls of your hair is gratitude enough.

For now.

There is still the matter of your own arousal and its required tending.

You slink your way back to your seat, letting his hands slip himself back into the band of his breeches. With perfect stealth, you slide yourself back into your chair. And all of that just as the drums beat their last and the music crescendos to its own climax. You grin, seeing him lean in his chair to watch you, eyes a glowing vermilion, his own tongue licking his mouth as you take your napkin to clean your sticky lips.

You see his fist clench on the table top, the only hint he is burning with need. His perfectly charming smile returns, he nods his head at those dignitaries around him, clapping his ivory hands slowly with the rest of the applause. You can almost hear him, his silken voice bidding for those around him to excuse him.

Then he raises from the table, still smiling. A smile that shows his teeth, but doesn’t reach his eyes, a smile that looks perfect but filled with sharpened ice. He extends his hand, gentlemanly, polite, all except that burning in his gaze. “Stand,” he orders to your mind. “My obedient love, it’s time to return the favor.”

You raise a brow, face bright with his attentions at last. “My love,” you purr, mimicking the way he speaks to perfection, as every lady near you looks with envy at the male from whose arm you now hang. They covet you, and you simper at them, still licking the bitter tang of his cum from your lips.

A wave of his hand, a merry order to continue to the bards, and Astarion begins to lead you down the edge of the great hall. Candles flicker, smoke and fragrant dishes still fill the air. To the casual eye, the host is but taking a moment in privacy with his love.

But to you, you know better. The way his hand grips at your waist, the way his eyes dip into that subtle cut of your neckline. You’ve made it impossible for him to keep that veneer of restrained refinement. And now, you will pay the price to the vampiric monster that lurks beneath.

Your belly clenches with excitement, your thighs so wet, they slip and squelch beneath yards of black fabric as you walk. Drenched from your own festering need. Soaked from your sucking.

“Proud of yourself, my love?” he taunts, as he grips harder on your body, tugging you into a servants corridor. The party still goes on just beyond the door frame, the music and voices just as boisterous as if you were in the room. “Delighted that I am at your mercy as all of Baldur’s Gate is now at mine?” His hands are everywhere on you, skating down your back, clawing at your throat, tussling in your hair. “Because… I am…” he breathes as he presses you against the stone wall behind you.

“You’re what?” You taunt, a toss of your head, jutting your chin up to meet the intensity behind his eyes.

“Proud of you,” his voice is no more than gravel in his throat. “And you shall be rewarded for your surprises.” His tongue runs over your neck, the pounding of your heart deafening your ears.

“Anything to please you, my love,” you breathe, barely more than a moan. “Now, I’ll take my reward…”

“In good time,” he speaks, his voice reverberating into the crook of your neck. “It is my turn to grant you your own surprise, darling…”

“Fucking me against the wall in sight of the servants would hardly be a surpise for any…”

Your words cease, the rush of his power overcoming you and stealing your breath. You gasp, wind rushing around you, your feet lifting off the ground as you fly. You look down, the tiles of the floor so far away, his body heavy on you, magic tingling around you, pressing you into the ceiling.

“Surprise, darling,” he whispers between your lips before taking them with his own. “I’ve been saving this trick just for you… for the right moment.”

Your world spins, the languorous rhythm of his caress grounds you, as does the little thrusts of his hips between your thighs. His hands ruck up your skirt, his magic floating to keep you pinned to perfectly. “Now…” he purrs, fingers grazing up against your bared thigh, straying over the curve of your mound, “for as quiet as you were pleasuring me, I expect you to turn the tables, darling. Let those mindless pions know how much pleasure I give you…”

Quicker than breath, his teeth sink into your neck, the rush of your blood coating his tongue sends you into bliss already. The bond between you thrums, your blood in his veins, and his in yours. His hand slithers into your folds, stroking you, relief finally flooding down your nerves as he touches you with such command, such knowledge. The carnal kind he has been most diligent to study.

Your hips buck, a strange surge of gravity fighting your body, his magic still pinning you all the harder to keep you in place. He laughs as he presses up from you, those eyes shining bright, observing as he licks his lips ever tweak of your face. His fingers still diligently slip into your cunt, widening it. Preparing you for him. You buck again, catching his nail on your clit, releasing a strangled cry from your throat you try to swallow.

“Tch,” he sucks his teeth with a rakish tilt of his head. “I told you to make some noise, darling…” Then he scratches at you again, the delicious edge of his nails scoring into your folds, clawing at your clit. And scream you do.

“Better,” he praises in his silken voice. “But you know better than to hold back from me, my treasure,” his voice rumbles into your own chest. His hand slips from your legs, wet fingers pressing in between your lips. You suck them clean of your own slick before he even can command you. The groan from his grinning mouth is reward and encouragement enough to continue. “You tortured me, you know, your mouth offering me worship as the riff raff prattled on. I never dreamed to be so worthy of a consort, a queen, as ravishing as you.”

His words alone make you come, let alone the way his hand now slinks into the cut of your dress, your breasts freed as he works them. Lips descend upon them the instant he sees their pale fullness, their straining nipples. And you give him a low throated groan of pleasure.

You are at his mercy, nowhere to go, only to lose yourself in the punishing reward he has in store for you. Pressed by his cold, unyielding body and pinned by his ever-increasing power. He begins to slink down your belly, you breath catching as the safety of his chest, his arms, his whole self leaves you splayed upside down on the ceiling to nestle between your legs.

“One greedy turn deserves another, my love,” he croons, fingers already returning to your folds to slicken them and spread them. “I have feasted already, but not on anything half as divine as you…”

Oh, that tongue, so silken and honeyed in his words, so incessant and demanding in your own honeyed cunt. Your hands reach for his head, those silver curls soft and stubborn as you grip him tight. Just like him.

You ride his licks, bucking on his fingers as they stoke deeper and deeper still. But it won’t satisfy. Not yet.

“Please,” you beg, reduced to a whimper. Words catching inaudible in your throat.

“What was that, darling? I can’t hear you….” He glances up for the smallest second. Enough to flash his crimson eyes at you with all the mischief and lust that drives you wild.

“Please, Astarion,” you whine louder. “Please, take me.”

But he only laughs into your mound, fangs scraping against your folds as he grins wide. “Come now, I expect better, my love,” he ends his silken chastisement with a run of his tongue up your whole seam.

“Argh,” you cry, “Astarion, please… I can’t anymore… pretty please….” Your begging pours from your lips, trying to pull his head over you, to bring him back, to satisfy the craving that rages to have him on you. And in you. “Fuck me, please….”

Instantly, he covers you, his hand pressing into your belly, the snap of leather laces unwinding.

“Better,” he purrs into your mouth, “keep up the good work, darling, and you’ll drip with my seed for the rest of this godsforsaken party.”

Then, he fills you to bursting, burying that long shaft of his deep into you with one stroke.

You mewl, hips rising to take him all. Your hands grip into his shoulders, pulling him tightly to you, as if you can’t get enough of him inside your body. His hunger burns as brightly, his mouth devouring you again, snapping shut on your lips and cutting his fangs into your kiss. Your blood tingles the tip of your tongue as it dances with his. His thrusts are deep, deliberately, ensuring you feel every inch of him dragging and pulling through your walls. Every thrust, every clench of his ass and every dip of his tongue is meant to drive you into oblivion with him. But it’s not enough. Not yet. Not after he left you burning for him for so long.

You clutch him in your thighs, digging the heels of your slippers into the backs of his legs. You feel him smiling wickedly, his thrusts picking up the pace until it is punishing, the loud slap of his flesh into yours is deafened only by the constant keening that comes from your throat. You writhe, you flutter. Back arching and thighs shaking for more. Always more.

He slows his pace, lifting from your body, eyes drinking in the glorious sight splayed beneath his body and wrapped around his cock. “Such beautiful sounds, better than the dribble the bards churn out,” he preens, eyes half veiled, his tongue licking the rest of your blood that trickles from the corner of your mouth. “But I think you can do better than that yet, my treasure…”

“You want them to know…” you growl, it is not a question. “Want them to…”

“Of course, darling. I want everyone to look at your beauty and know only I will ever bury myself up to my balls in you.” He flashes his teeth, taking you all the deeper until you feel him slam against the end of your channel. “And I want them to know that you, my dark…” he thrusts agonizingly slowly, “beautiful…” again, deeper this time, “treasured consort, are the only one I will ever take for my own.”

He pants, his silken praises weaving that web of bliss, riding you past the edge of your senses for that wall of climax. It tears through you, splitting you in two, into a million shattered, moaning pieces as you come.

You feel his body grow rigid in time with yours, his hips gyrating with irregular rhythm. His own voice a deafening growl above you, his lips sneering back, his eyes half-lidded as he watches your own waves of orgasm rend you apart.

He stills above you, your body weightless, limp. You groan to feel him pull that intoxicating fullness from your folds. Your world tilts on its axis, held by nothing but the iron embrace of his arms, your body floating back to the ground.

Feet resting on the floor. His cum dripping down your thighs. You steady yourself against him, and you feel his breath in your hair, a kiss on your temple. You shake, unable to move… to speak… to think straight. His hands fix you, slipping your breasts back inside the black of your dress, tugging your skits and flouncing them. His eyes scrutinize without mercy. Ensuring you look every bit his perfect, desirable consort before he tends to his own vanity.

“Very… good,” he comments, his praise warmed by the rasping honey of his voice. “No more surprises, then, my love. Not until I can bed you properly once this is all through.”

“May I?” You smirk, raising on your toes, as if to place a kiss on his smirking cheek.

He eyes you, looking down in lustful approval, cocking his head with that mischievous smirk twitching his lips. “You’re… not asking for a kiss, are you?”

“Close your eyes and find out…” you whisper, craning your neck closer as you lick your lips.

He laughs low and slowly, clutching you against him, the slight angle of his head brings that strong, pale column of his neck to brush your lips. And you bite, just enough to bring a mouthful of his blood to coat your tongue.

You moan as you drink, the slight pressure of his hand woven into your hair, cradling you as you feed, it makes your body arch with need again. You can taste his pleasure, a rich bouquet of sated and unsated desire, a hint of obsession and love mingling with the rich blossom of his power. You feel it filling your body, tingling through the pit of your stomach and wetting your thighs again. Licking his wounds one more time, you hum, a sound of pleasure as his mouth descends on yours. His tongue caresses over every crevice of your mouth, consuming the drops of his blood, stealing them back with unquenchable hunger.

“You are delicious, every time,” he rasps into your mouth, “especially when your tongue tastes of… us.” His fingers grip your chin, tilting your face to look into his, the fog of your ecstacy beginning to clear as you stare into those pleasured, crimson eyes. “Hold your head high, my beautiful queen,” he purrs into your mouth. “Try not to smile too much as you struggle to walk from the sound fucking I just granted you…”

“Of course,” you dip a small curtesy, reaching for his proffered hand, “my king.”

His smile of approval, his whisper of “my love,” warms your belly more than his blood, more than his cum seeping down your thighs.

Music crescendos as you reenter, the crowd’s eyes flit away, the festivities still going strong, as he leads you towards the dancing.

He wants them all to see you, your mouth bloodied, his neck still wounded from your own feeding. He wants you to walk, unsteady and swaying your hips, hips he fucked, loudly and mercilessly for them all to hear.

His arms sweep around you as you move in patterned steps, lilting to the music. And even as all eyes gaze upon you, you don’t care. Can’t care. Not as long as that rakish smile and roguish stare is only on you.

🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸🩸

Part 1: Welcome me…

Part 2: Cleanse me…

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