Work Text:
The Grand Hall of Gortash’s palace was a nauseating spectacle of wealth and power. A sea of silks and velvets swirled under the glittering chandeliers, their wearers’ faces hidden behind elaborate masks of gold and feather, porcelain and paint. A string quartet played a soaring, insipid waltz from a raised dais, the music doing little to drown out the shrill, artificial laughter of the Patriars. It was all dreadfully dull. Ruyn stood by a marble pillar, her own mask—a simple, elegant thing of black lacquer and silver filigree that did little to hide her striking eyes—scanning the crowd. She was a predator in a gilded cage, and her prey was not nearly loose-lipped enough despite the hour.
Astarion, beside her, was the picture of bored aristocracy. He swirled the ruby liquid in his goblet, his crimson eyes, sharp and visible through the eye-holes of his silver wolf mask, glinting with disdain. The music swelled, a pointless crescendo of hollow emotion. This is excruciating, his voice echoed in her mind, a sudden, intimate caress in the midst of the mindless chatter. Not a single useful tidbit of information to be found. Just inebriated fools preening for a tyrant who likely wants them all dead.
Ruyn did not turn her head. Patience, she sent back, her mental voice a calm counterpoint to his irritation. The best secrets are saved for last.
Then, his tone shifted. The public irritation melted away, replaced by a private, honeyed heat. Although…the view from here has its merits.
Before she could ask what he meant, an image bloomed in her mind. It was her, as she was now, but the image was focused on the elegant column of her throat, the way the candlelight caught the silver chain nestled there. She watched, through his eyes, as his gaze traced the delicate line of her collarbone. A phantom sensation, a cool trail like his fingertips, followed the path in her mind. I wonder how you'd look, draped in nothing but the jewels I swiped earlier.
A slow warmth bloomed in her chest. You are terrible, she thought back, a smile touching her lips. And we are working.
All this tedious focus on our work is making you forget how to play, darling, he purred into her thoughts. The image in her mind shifted, zooming out to take in the swell of her breasts, pushed up and displayed by the tight bodice of her gown. His mental gaze was a physical thing, a caress that made her nipples tighten beneath the fabric. Or perhaps…you haven't. He followed the thought with another, a whisper of pure sin. I am thinking of how that silk would feel sliding down your body. How it would pool at your feet before I drop to my knees and bury my face between your thighs.
You are playing a dangerous game, Astarion, she warned, but her own thoughts were already beginning to stir. Someone might see you smirking.
Let them look. Let them wonder why the Lord in the wolf mask looks so utterly consumed. He set his goblet down with a decisive click and held out a gloved hand. "Dance with me, my dear," he said aloud, his voice a smooth, seductive baritone. "Let us give them something to truly stare at." It was not a request. Around them, other masked couples spun and dipped, a kaleidoscope of color and false anonymity, their movements graceful and practiced.
She placed her hand in his, a thrill running up her arm. He led her to the floor, pulling her into a waltz. His other hand came to rest at the small of her back, a point of searing heat even through the fabric of her gown. They would be jealous, he continued in her mind, his thoughts a silken thread woven through the music. They do not know that beneath this gown, your skin is already flushed. They cannot hear how your heart is beating faster, can they? His mental voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. But I can. And I can smell you, my love. I can smell your arousal from here.
That was a challenge she could not refuse. You think you are the only one who can play this game? she sent, her mental voice dropping to a low, husky purr that was all her own. Let us play.
As he spun her in a graceful arc, she pressed closer, her breasts brushing against his chest. The other dancers became a blur of color and motion around them, a meaningless backdrop to the sharp, private war they were waging. Astarion stilled, sensing the shift. She felt his surprise, a flicker in their connection. And then she struck back.
She did not send him an image of herself. She sent him an image of him. It was a memory from weeks ago, of him waking in their bed, the pale sheet pooled around his hips, his chest bare and his hair a wild, silver-white halo around his head. The sun had caught the defined muscles of his abdomen, the sharp vee of his hips leading down to where the sheet just barely concealed his morning arousal. The image was accompanied by a single, clear thought: My turn to look.
Astarion’s steps faltered for a fraction of a second. Ruyn! he gasped in her mind, a mixture of shock and delight.
You started it, she replied, smugly. She decided to raise the stakes. His hand on her back tightened, pulling her impossibly close as they moved. The image in his mind changed again. This time, she was on her knees before him, her mask still in place, her hands tracing the hard lines of his thighs. She looked up at him, her mismatched eyes glowing with lust, and her mental voice was a sinful whisper. I want to taste you. I want to feel you get hard in my mouth until you cannot think of anything but my tongue.
Astarion’s breath hitched. He felt a sudden, insistent pressure against the tight fabric of his breeches as his cock swelled and hardened at the vivid image. He shifted his weight subtly, guiding her into a turn to hide his body with hers, the sudden constriction a sweet agony.
His response was a wave of pure, unadulterated lust that crashed over her. Gods above, Ruyn. The things I would let you do to me. He sent a counter-image, this one of her fantasy playing out. He could feel it, the phantom heat of her mouth, the way her tongue would swirl around the head of his cock. I would hold your hair while you took me deep. I would fuck that pretty mouth until your eyes watered.
Is that a promise? she shot back, her own desire a roaring fire now. She sent him another sensation, the feeling of her nails digging into his thighs, the sting a perfect counterpoint to the pleasure of her mouth. Because I would not be gentle. I would mark you. I would make you beg.
You have no idea what you are asking for, he growled, but she could feel his surrender in the tremor of their connection. He was losing control, and she reveled in it. It was time to deliver the final blow. He was pulling her from the dance floor even as the image bloomed in his mind, a raw and detailed fantasy that made even her own cheeks flush. He saw her, bent over a velvet chaise lounge, her gown bunched up around her waist to expose the pale curve of her ass. He was behind her, his hand fisted in her bone-white hair, pulling her head back as he prepared to take her. Then, his perspective shifted, his gaze forced lower to watch the brutal junction of their bodies. He saw his cock, thick and flushed, disappear into her, stretching her wide around his length. He watched as he withdrew, slow and merciless, seeing how her slick folds clung to him, how her entrance fluttered and clenched, trying to draw him back in. He saw himself emerge glistening with her arousal, only to slam back home, his hips meeting the soft flesh of her ass with a sound that was both obscene and perfect. The image was accompanied by her desperate, needy cries, a symphony of their shared depravity. I want you to fuck me until I forget my own name, Astarion. I want you to take me so completely that all I can feel is you.
That was it. That was the breaking point. Astarion's composure completely shattered. He grabbed Ruyn's arm, his grip firm and possessive. He let out a raw, desperate growl as he searched for somewhere less... exposed.
With a wicked smirk, he found what he was looking for. He began to steer Ruyn through the crowd, his movements fluid but urgent. They navigated the living tapestry of the party, slipping past peacocks in jeweled masks and languid duchesses with fans held before their painted faces. Ruyn continued to push images into his mind, each one more graphic than the last. If you don't stop I will take you right here, he all but growled into her mind.
He did not wait for a reply. He herded her through the crowd, his movements fluid but urgent. They moved like ghosts through the revelry, their masks granting them the anonymity they so desperately needed. He guided her to a secluded alcove behind a heavy velvet tapestry, the space shadowed and blessedly quiet. The moment they were hidden from view, he slammed her back against the cool, stone wall, his body pressing into hers, his mouth crashing down on hers in a punishing, hungry kiss.
It was a battle of tongues and teeth, a desperate attempt to consume one another. His hands were everywhere, tearing at the delicate lacing of her gown, yanking the bodice down to free her breasts. He broke the kiss, his head dipping to capture a nipple in his mouth, his bite just shy of pain. Ruyn cried out, her hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he snarled against her skin, his voice raw. “The things you were thinking… you wicked, glorious creature.”
In response, her hands abandoned his hair and dropped to the front of his breeches, her fingers scrabbling at the laces with a desperate urgency. “Show me,” she gasped.
He did not need to be told twice. With a snarl of impatience, he hooked his fingers into the silk of her gown, yanking the voluminous skirts up to her waist in a single, rough motion. The fabric pooled against her hips, baring her to the cool air and his ravenous gaze. At the same time, his other hand gripped the back of her knee, hoisting her leg up around his waist.
But Ruyn was already moving. She met his ferocity with her own. While his hands were occupied, her own made quick work of the laces on his breeches. She freed his cock, heavy and hard in her grasp, and gave him a firm, possessive stroke before pulling him down for another brutal kiss. She ground herself against his rigid length, using the leverage of her raised leg to rub her slick folds against him. She was not waiting to be taken; she was demanding to be taken.
He growled into her mouth, the sound a primal acknowledgment of her hunger. He shifted his hips, the head of his cock nudging against her drenched entrance, and with one brutal, deep thrust, buried himself to the hilt. Ruyn’s head fell back against the stone with a thud, a sharp, guttural moan torn from her throat. The stretch was exquisite, a perfect, burning pleasure-pain that stole her breath.
He set a punishing rhythm, his hips pistoning into hers, the sound of their coupling wet and loud in the quiet alcove. The thrill of discovery, the risk of being caught at any moment, only heightened the intensity. This was not about love or worship; this was about pure, primal need.
Harder, she sent into his mind, her thoughts a frantic, desperate chant. Do not dare stop.
He growled again, a low, feral sound, and obliged her. He fucked her against the wall, his thrusts deep and powerful, his hand still fisted in her hair, anchoring her to the brutal force of his thrusts. He reached between them, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing her in tight, savage circles that matched the rhythm of his cock.
The pleasure coiled in her, tight and hot and impossibly fast. It was a tidal wave, a violent, shattering crest that broke over her with a silent scream. Her inner walls clamped down on him, a rhythmic, milking pulse that pulled him over the edge with her. He came with a hoarse, muffled groan against her shoulder, his release a hot, powerful flood that filled her completely.
For a long moment, they just stayed there, their bodies trembling, their breaths mingling in the cool air. The distant sounds of the party filtered back in, a reminder of the world they had briefly escaped. Astarion rested his forehead against hers, his eyes closed.
“I am going to kill you,” he whispered, his voice devoid of any real malice. “Or marry you. I have not decided which.”
Ruyn laughed, a breathless, shaky sound. She leaned back, just enough to look him in the eye. “Is that your way of saying I won?”
A slow, wicked smile touched his lips. He helped her adjust her clothing, his touch lingering. “The game is never over, my love,” he murmured, his voice a low, intimate promise. “We’ve simply… advanced to a new board.” He pressed a soft, possessive kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Now, shall we return to the party and pretend we weren’t just defiling Gortash’s decor?”
Ruyn’s own smile was just as wicked. “Or do you plan to continue distracting me?” she countered, a knowing glint in her eye.
The playful challenge hung in the air between them, but instead of a witty retort, Astarion’s expression softened. The smirk faded, replaced by something raw and unguarded. He lifted a hand, gently tracing the line of her jaw, his thumb brushing over her lips. His voice, when he spoke, was stripped of all its theatrical flair, leaving only a husky, profound sincerity.
“You,” he murmured, his crimson eyes searching hers in the dim light, “are the only thing in this entire wretched city that feels real.”