#I LOVE HARP SEAL | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pinkberrytea · 1 month ago

Text

He is the king, you are his crown; he is the tree, you are its blooms.

Requiem—A ceremony for the dead. The Vampire Ascendant once made her his bride; now he weds her before the gods. Eternal rest grant unto them, and let perpetual light shine upon them. Amen.

The pleasure of your company is requested at the marriage of Lord Astarion Ancunín to his darling consort, Lady Ancunín. Reception to follow.

Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav (F!Reader)

w/c: 7k words . ao3 . spotify playlist . 18+ only . nsfw . dividers

a/n: thank you for reading! this one was inspired by information released by Ed Greenwood about wedding rites in the Forgotten Realms. I thought the blood pact in particular would fit AA and consort perfectly! hopefully it is an enjoyable read. I’d like to thank @bardic-inspo and @starryjuicebox for their support and help with this piece. I appreciate you lovelies!

tags: blood drinking; cunnilingus; orgasm edging; overstimulation; fluff & smut; body worship; light dom/sub; vaginal fingering; creampie; dry humping; frottage; multiple orgasms; possessive behavior; mirror sex; wedding night; piv sex

“Art desirous of union with the man who comes for thee?”

As the Galerian priestess’ words reverberate around the otherwise solemnly quiet venue, you are escorted to the snow-covered aisle by your dapperly dressed handmaidens, clad in beautiful scarlet silks with gemstones sown on the sleeves, and all eyes present turn to gaze upon your quivering form—yet none are more piercing than the pair of crimson irises taking in your image from their place by the altar, ruby red flecks swimming in pools of blood whose glistening surface is now disturbed by the waves of emotion breaking on their sanguine shores. Astarion had not been prepared for this; for how his heart would beat faster, how his stomach would twist and turn at the sight of you in your wedding gown, holding the bouquet of dahlias and asphodels he’d endeavored to choose for you himself close to your chest, pale cheeks glowing a faint pink and snowflakes falling leisurely on the veil covering your hair. Suddenly, the shallow reasons for why he had even come up with the idea of hosting the ceremony are all but forgotten, and his frenzied thoughts reduced to a single word: perfect. You look perfect. A vision in white, a bloodied rose, his darling consort, his sinful bride.

His eternal lover.

The moment you start walking towards him, the attendees all rise from their seats and the processional begins, your timid gait almost in rhythm with each pluck of the harp’s strings. He looks hauntingly beautiful in his elegant white doublet, intrinsically embellished with golden and carmine embroidery, silver curls pristinely arranged and marble skin shining ethereally, reflecting the gentle light of the winter moon. The fresh wound on his hand stands in stark contrast against the otherwise smooth blancheness of his palm, blood trickling down onto the soft snow below, and the enticing scent of it wafts through the air almost like an invitation, a temptation too great for your starved self, as all the endless preparations have left you no time to quench the everlasting thirst he bequeathed to you. How long has it been since you last fed? Days? Weeks? Try as you might, you cannot remember. Yet it matters so little now, as he waits for you with almost jovial expectation, ready to once again seal your undying bond, renew the vows made on the fateful eve of your turning.

“Seven thousand souls have given me the power to carve out my own future, and I want you to be part of it.”

The more you approach him, the thicker the air around him becomes, the louder the buzzing in his ears sounds. Your lashes look so long, your rouged lips so full—and gods, how sweetly you gaze upon him, how bashfully, naught behind the bright gleam in your lachrymose eyes but pure, unconditional adoration. Through all the pain, all the hurt, your devotion to him never once faltered, and though the perpetual guilt haunts you both still, it is not in spite of your shared burden that you are brought closer together, but because of it. As you finally make your way to the altar and take your place by his side, time seems to come to a standstill, and in the minutes that follow, you can see nothing but his face, smell nothing but his blood, hear nothing but his heartbeat. No one else matters, nothing else matters—just you, him, and your immortal love.

“My sole endeavor now is to make this world yours and mine alone.”

The priestess takes your hand in hers, and using an ornamental dagger, cuts a gash across its surface, as she did with Astarion’s before your arrival—yet unlike his, the blood takes a while to bloom from the broken skin, so little of it remaining within your veins. You bite down on your bottom lip to stifle a yelp, her treatment of you clearly rougher than would be otherwise necessary; the eldest heiress of an influential patriar, her father had sponsored the construction of the first Galerian temple of Baldur’s Gate, a venture Astarion had enthusiastically supported to gain his favor, and with it, access to the growing following of the God of Ambition. A young acolyte at the time, her infatuation for your darling was undeniable—it was almost wicked then when he arranged for her to be the one to wed you, a political ploy to cement the bond between the two families. You knew his motives, and his cruelty brought you no joy, yet his darkness was something you had long decided to embrace rather than deny, the weight of your choices a penance you’d not ever dare renounce.

Once the deed is done, she lets go of you and backs away, a hint of contempt muddying her lowered gaze. Neither of you pay it heed—rather, you remain focused on each other, the guests but faceless figures looming in the background, blurred and meaningless. He holds his hand up, eyes locked with yours all the while, pupils blown out and raw emotion blazing like a firestorm in their depths. You do the same, your movements small and uncertain, yet as the tips of your fingers touch, he is the one to close the distance between your bloodstained palms, wound against wound, your crimson flowing into his and his flowing into yours. The connection assails you with almost overwhelming fierceness, your minds blended together and a thread of blood binding your souls to one another, as if you were but a single being. You can feel his heart pounding in your chest, his red coursing through your body, his thoughts seeping inside your head and reassuring you of that which needs not be professed; he loves you, oh, how dearly he loves you, like the moon loves the stars, like the dusk loves the dawn. Yours is the light keeping him from being consumed by the shadows, a flickering flame he is willing to protect, no matter the cost.

“I ask for thy hand as my equal, that our lives run as one, from this day forth,” he says, voice soft like velvet, laced with undeniable warmth despite its measured cadence. You may not truly be his equal, not really, but that is a fact you were always willing to accept. He is the king, you are his crown; he is the tree, you are its blooms. You could not hope to compare to his greatness, he could not hope to live up to yours—yet even if those around you may not understand, even if they may challenge it, your love is no less real, no less precious.

“I accept, before the gods, and before all these good people,” you answer, tears pooling in the corners of your eyes as the words slip from your trembling lips. His feelings become entangled with your own while the blood link lasts, and hidden beneath the yearning, beneath the sheer intensity of his longing for you, you sense anguish, you sense remorse. How many times have you danced to this same tune, played this same game? What a hopeless fool he is—manipulating your affections and toying with them, only to then realize the upper hand was hardly his, not in that pretty clearing during your first night together, not now, as you stand before him so beautifully, so earnestly, laying bare your heart and handing it to him on a silver platter. Your unwavering trust in him is something he was never quite able to come to terms with��why? Why is it that you want him, even after everything? Why give yourself to a selfish villain such as he while asking for nothing in return, nothing but for him to love you back? He knows not the answer to this, but still he would take it; your body, your mind, your soul, he would take it all and make them his, and his alone.

“I shall protect thee and succor thee, until my breath fails and the gods claim me, putting thy needs and comfort before mine own, and keeping no secret from thee, until the end of my days, or until the gods set us apart, though I hereby pray they shall never do so.” The gods have no say in this—you are forever his, and he is forever yours. Astarion is your god, and he shall be the one to claim you; such is the fate you have chosen for yourself. Once he finishes voicing the pledge, your hands come apart and the connection is severed, leaving you empty and vulnerable. Still, you carry on with the rites, bringing your bloodied fingers to his parted lips, and his to yours, staining them with your combined essence; while mimicking your movements, he purposefully refuses to pry his eyes from yours, looking upon you and through you, so fiercely yet so gently, so ardently yet so lovingly. You lose yourself in the urgency of his gaze, giving into its passionate allure, feeling your body lean forward almost as if you were but a flesh puppet, and him the performer pulling your strings.

“You’ve never tasted so sweet, darling.”

He lowers his head to meet you halfway, and the instant your mouth crashes into his, all your thoughts crumble down and dissolve into nothing. The coppery taste of your crimson mixed with his spreads through your tongue, reaching the back of your throat, and the pain of hunger tugs violently at your stomach; yet even in death, as he breathes into you, you feel alive, through him, for him, enraptured by the softness of his lips and the warmth of his skin, protected from the bloodlust, from its all-consuming fury. He cups your cheeks with both of his hands and pulls your face even closer to his, almost as if trying to assimilate you, become one with you, to which you respond just as desperately, standing on your tiptoes and wrapping your arms around his neck. The tears that had been threatening to fall spill from your closed eyes, the surge of emotions bursting your frozen heart open; he dries them with his thumbs, delicately tucking the few hair strands that have slipped from underneath your headdress behind your ear. Blood is his ink, and with it, he shall again carve his name on your soul and claim that which belongs to him—requiem aeternam dona eis, so that tomorrow, you may rise anew.

“We have a beautiful, bloody future to look forward to, my love.”

It’s useless. No matter for how long or how hard you peer into the grand cheval mirror standing before you, it refuses to show you your reflection. Rather, all you see is an empty room, illuminated by naught but the moonshine creeping in from the open balcony, its velvet drapers swaying with the evening breeze. The snowfall has ceased, but the air remains mercilessly gelid; with your veins painfully wanting for blood to keep them warm, you wrap your arms around yourself, which unsurprisingly brings you no comfort. The guests are all gone, the ceremony is over—now you are left alone with the wandering voices echoing in the recesses of your mind, which grow ever so loud as the aftermath dawns upon you and dissipates the dreamy fog that had been cast over your still veiled head up until this very moment.

Alone—yet not for long.

“Stunning.” You hear his voice before you see him approach you from behind, elegant fingers brushing against your bare shoulders and squeezing them gently, the soothing heat emanating from his hands sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. “You look stunning, darling,” Astarion whispers in your ear, his pretty lips grazing the ruby-carved earring hanging off it, which in turn dangles ever so softly, catching the moon beams on its shiny surface; breathing hot air onto your sensitive flesh, he then slides them down your neck and plants a loving kiss at its base, half-lidded eyes staring back at his own lonesome figure on the other side of the glass.

“Do I?” you ask, the hint of disdain in your tone taking even you by surprise. He, however, seems unphased; on the contrary, his handsome face creases into a subtle, cheeky smile, and his hands glide down your arms to then join them around your waist, his chiseled chest pressed flat against your back. As if under a spell, you promptly let down your walls and lean into his embrace, closing your eyes and cocking your head to the side to grant him better access. His smile widens in response, and he kisses your neck again, letting his fangs ghost over the set of bite marks disrupting your otherwise immaculate skin for a moment before pulling back slightly and resting his chin on that same spot.

“Why, shall I be your mirror, my sweet?” Astarion purrs, the silky smoothness of his voice covering your now limp body in goosebumps. “Would that please you? Knowing what the world sees when it looks at you.” He articulates each word with a guttural growl, scarlet irises darkening as his grip on you tightens, yet swirling in their murky depths, you glimpse ruddy hues of worship and desire, fondness and hunger; while it may sound like he is being unserious or trying to egg you on, there is sincerity underlying his offer, an honest wish to make good on it. “What I see.”

No sooner than the question leaves his lips, he spins you around and presses one of his hands to the small of your back, the other brushing your veil away from your face and caressing your cold cheek—once you lock eyes with him, his cheerfulness vanishes and he gazes upon your graceful figure in pensive silence, scanning every inch of your frame, from the opulent headpiece around your forehead to the sequined pumps hugging your tired feet. After what seems like an eternity, he brings his hand on your cheek down to clasp one of your own, fingers intertwined with yours; lifting it up gently, he then gives it a tender kiss, an impish smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“May I have this dance, dearest?” As he waits for your answer, it occurs to you that the chance to waltz with him never really presented itself, politicians and underground overlords alike having kept him plenty busy throughout the night. You nod timidly, and immediately he takes the lead, stepping to the side and bringing you with him. You tumble awkwardly as if about to fall, but his palm splayed across your back holds you firmly, and instead you lean onto his torso, resting your head right above his heart. The instant you do, its loud pounding reverberates against your ear, lulling you, cradling you, and your tangled bodies sway gently to its soothing rhythm. In the mirror, the image reflected is that of a groom dancing with his ghost bride; no music, no ballroom, no elegant footwork, and yet the intensity of his lovestruck stare paints such a vivid picture that one might see shadows of your presence reflected in his eyes.

“Let’s see then—a slender neck, deliciously bare as if inviting me to feast on it, thanks to that lovely hairdo of yours,” Astarion suddenly says, voice quiet but hoarse, tinged with undeniable specks of lust. He guides your hand to his own waist and lets go of it, only to then slide his newly freed digits along the curve of your throat, carefully tracing the bite marks with their soft pads. “Though I must say, beautiful as your gown may be, I would very much like to undo that pesky knot keeping some of it concealed. May I, darling?” he asks, fingers quickly moving to the satin ribbon holding your bodice in place, wrapped fast around your neckline and flowing down your naked back. You nod again, cheek still pressed to his chest, and with a smug simper, he expertly unlaces it with unparalleled adroitness, letting the pure white fabric slip down your now completely nude bosom. You shudder and snuggle closer to him, in response to which he affectionately folds an arm over your shoulder and buries his fingers in your hair, partially unweaving the elaborate braids that had been tugging at your scalp all day, only those held by the crystal flower barrettes on your temples remaining.

“Flawless, supple skin, which flushes so handsomely with my essence blooming under it,” he continues, digits sinking deeper into your ribs before he twirls you around, dipping forward as if going in for a kiss, though instead, he reaches for the hemline of your dress, hiking it up your long legs and in so doing, exposing the sinuous contours of your hips and thighs. Almost absentmindedly, the wandering fingers knead their way to the plushness of your round behind, still hidden beneath your underpants; giving it a firm squeeze, he then brings his other hand down from your head to unbutton the tulle corset attached to your petticoat, and just like that, the sumptuous wedding gown falls to your feet, leaving you covered in nothing but your veil and smallclothes.

“Bright crimson eyes that always stare so very coyly, so very docilely.” With a provocative growl, Astarion pulls you taut against him, and once your navel clashes with his crotch, the obvious erection forming under his pants becomes nested right between your bodies. Holding onto your waist with both of his hands, he then presses his mouth to an artery pulsating slightly above your collarbone, letting his warm tongue graze it teasingly as he speaks. “And oh, those precious little fangs, peeking from under lips most luscious… shall we put them to good use, pretty vampling?” he asks, pitch lowering dangerously, and his meaning is made instantly clear—positioned as he is, his own neck is conveniently exposed to you, too tantalizing an offer to ever be refused, so you accept it graciously, biting down on his ivory flesh just as he bites down on yours. The piercing pain of his teeth puncturing your skin is entirely numbed as the thick blood cascades down your throat, and you lose yourself in the bliss of life being returned to your undead veins, gripping both of his arms in an almost delirious haze; while drinking from each other, you rock back and forth, dancing still, a dark waltz under the fading stars.

“I can’t wait to taste your lips after you’ve tasted me.”

Never unlatching from your bruising artery, Astarion wraps his arms around your rear and picks you up, taking you with him to the canopy bed on the other side of the room. Upon reaching it, he sits down on the edge of the mattress, you in his lap, knees bent on each side of him. He takes a few more swigs of your crimson before pulling away, though you remain feeding—while letting you drink, he carefully removes your headdress and veil, laying them aside to then cradle the back of your scalp with one of his hands and gently run his fingers down your spine with the other. You both moan and groan quietly in each other’s ears, and you can feel him leisurely grinding his hardness against your core; due to the friction, slick starts building between your now puffed-up folds, most of his red going straight to your aching sex rather than swimming around in your stomach.

“That’s enough, pet,” he coos after some time, lightly tapping your shoulder, and you reluctantly obey, prying yourself off him with a needy whimper. He smirks and plants a kiss on your forehead, sliding his hands under your thighs to lift you up slightly and rotate your body so that your back is turned to his chest. Once your buttocks are pushed flush against the swell between his legs, you help him peel off your soaked underpants—pressing his knees to the back of yours, he then spreads you both wide, exposing your pretty cunt to the chilly winter air. You mewl pathetically, casting down your gaze in shame and hiding behind your palms; with an amused snicker, he grabs your wrists and lowers them, holding both together with one hand and using the other to grasp your chin. “Look, darling,” he whispers, tilting up your jaw and brushing his fangs against your earlobe, “see how exquisite you are.”

Raising your head almost hesitantly, you do as told, and it takes you a moment to register what now fills your field of vision: the mirror, albeit more distant, is angled perfectly to reflect your naked form, no longer a ghostly apparition, but flesh and bone, your image returned to you thanks to Astarion’s ascended essence sizzling within your veins. Still holding your wrists, he slides the hand on your chin down your neck, gliding it across the hollows of your sternum and then up the soft curve of your breasts, where he stops to pinch a pebbling nipple, earning a high-pitched yelp from you; looking straight into your eyes through the glass, he lovingly kisses the back of your shoulder and smiles against your skin, obviously pleased with himself. After playing with the puckered nub for a moment, his fingers continue descending, through your navel and crotch—finally reaching their intended destination, they circle the twitching bundle of nerves crowning your mound, and you arch your back in turn, shock waves shooting up your limbs.

“Asta—ah!” you moan, rolling your hips into his hand, but he immobilizes you by tensioning his arm muscles, without ever stopping stroking the engorged knot. You whine impatiently, the tautness in your lower belly growing more agonizing by the second; Astarion, however, is clearly in no rush, his movements mercilessly languid. Pressing down on your clit with a deft digit, he buries two others in the sticky warmth of your folds, parting them gently and hungrily gazing upon your wetness, or rather, its reflection—in the mirror, your slickened entrance glistens wantonly, a honied flower waiting to be pollinated, given a healthy flush by the heat of his crimson. One finger rims it tentatively, coating itself in your juices; with no prior warning, he then plunges it in you up to the knuckle, venturing within the tightness of your walls. You try to stifle a shriek, in vain—emboldened by this, he plunges another, watching mischievously as you writhe and squirm.

“Oh, little love, I do quite like those pretty noises you’re making, I like them very much,” he says, kissing your shoulder again and curling his fingers inside your slit, which flutters desperately in its urge to be stuffed full. Overwhelmed by the lewdness of the scene unfolding before you, not quite used to witnessing yourself in such a vulnerable position, you try turning your head to the side, only for him to quickly let go of your wrists, capturing your face in his now freed hand and pulling it back into its previous position, intent on having you be his audience as he brings about your ruin. “Tut tut, cheeky pup.” Despite clicking his tongue, Astarion’s voice carries a playful lilt, accompanied by the roguish glint in his lust-ridden irises. Bucking his hips forward, he wedges his still clothed bulge deeper within the valley of your ass, and even through the fabric, you can feel it twitching and jerking. “You will be a good girl for me, won’t you?”

You nod vigorously, hot tears of yearning prickling your eyelids and escaping through your long lashes. He dries them with his thumb, the smirk still gracing his lips, yet his gaze softens a little; moving his hand from your jaw to your chest, he then cups one of your breasts, squeezing and kneading it gently before resuming his attentions between your legs, now pumping his elegant digits in and out of your center. Feeling your body edging closer to the precipice of desire, you hold onto both of his arms, clenched abdomen covered in a glossy sheen of salty sweat and cheeks burning bright red—however, just as you are about to climax, he suddenly snatches you up and throws you on the bed, stradling you right after so that you become entrapped beneath him.

“Good girls must earn their spurs, darling,” he growls, grabbing both of your knees and pushing them apart, licking his lips at the sight of your cunt spasming madly in protest, hopelessly slickened and swollen. “So needy… have you no patience, my dear?” Smoldering you with a lascivious stare, he ignores your avid pleas and lowers his head, pressing his mouth to the plushness of one of your thighs. Ever so delicately, he kisses it and lingers for a short while, only to then unceremoniously sink his fangs into the squishy flesh, coaxing a soft cry out of you. Moving his hands to your hips, he holds you in place while voraciously sucking on the throbbing artery, some of the blood leaking and trickling down onto the silk sheets. Your arousal makes your crimson taste delectably sweet, an ambrosial aphrodisiac—with each gulp, his neglected cock jolts angrily, translucent drops of precome running down its length, so hard now that the pink tip peeks out from the hem of his pants.

“It will only hurt a bit—the pleasure will be far greater than the pain.”

“Hnng—Astarion, please…!” you beg, attempting to bring a hand to the tumid bud convulsing atop your dripping core, but Astarion seizes it with one of his own and pins it to the mattress while drinking still. Finally unlatching from your thigh, he laps at the red beads that remain oozing out of the small wounds inflicted on your skin by his teeth, following the trail down to your groin; once there, he lets his tongue wander and graze your folds, tauntingly flicking it as if by accident. You bury the fingers of your other hand in his silvery curls, half expecting him to stop you, but he doesn’t—instead, he brushes the wet appendage against your clit, swirling it around for a moment before making his way downwards, leaving a glistening string of his saliva mixed with your lifeblood in his wake. Upon arriving at your entrance, he traces its outer edges, savoring you with lengthy strokes to then delve inside at last.

“Oh, gods… hah…” No longer capable of keeping the breathy whimpers and erratic pants contained within the confines of your mouth, you throw your head back and let them fall freely from your parted lips, grabbing a fistful of his hair, though carefully so as not to pull at it. Pleased with your reaction, he rewards you by nuzzling his face against your mound, reaching as deeply within you as possible while massaging and tasting your tender walls, the bridge of his nose auspiciously pressed against the hood of your pearl. Heat starts again pooling in your stomach, your every nerve set ablaze, and it doesn’t take long before the tension snaps and you finally come undone on his tongue, creaming and clenching around it. He enthusiastically partakes of your tangy nectar, eating you up still even as you bask in the afterglow, only stopping once you let go of him. With one last lick, he propels his torso back up, drool dribbling down his chin.

“Ah, but that won’t do,” Astarion says, releasing your wrist to wipe his lips, their corners still quirked upwards into a haughty, devilish smile. “No, my sweet… I’m not nearly done with you yet.” Lowering both hands to his pants, he swiftly drags them down, freeing his erection and wrapping his fingers around its base. Your eyes are irresistibly drawn to it, and from under heavy lids you gape at the bulging veins and enlarged crown, his foreskin tautly pulled back to reveal the weeping slit. Leaning on one of your knees and slipping his free hand under the other to keep you spread open, he then guides the swollen cockhead to your fluttering folds, dipping it between them and glazing himself in your essence. With a quiet whine, you wiggle your hips, your sex still sensitive as you recover from your orgasm, but instead of backing out, he doubles down and presses the velvety tip harder against your raw knot, chuckling as your protests grow in volume and you try to slither away from him, straining your thigh muscles in an unsuccessful effort to close your legs.

“Gods, you are too cute.” Staring smugly at your flailing body while rubbing himself up and down your wetness, Astarion fastens his grip on your calf using just about enough force not to hurt you, but simply restrain your movements. “Where’s my good girl? Again. I know you can come again,” he purrs, voice deceptively gentle, although the warmth in his eyes is genuine. You shake your head, unable to muster up an intelligible sentence, your mind wiped clean of coherent thought; bending down to brush his lips against your temple, he kisses away the tears beading your lashes, affectionately pressing his forehead to yours. “You can do it. Come, my love. For me.” The whisper caresses your ears with such tenderness that as if by magic, you feel yourself relax, the pain slowly giving way to rekindled arousal. You try your best to focus on the budding sensation, reveling in the smoothness of his cockhead as it grinds against your sore clit, indulging in the intimacy of having your center of pleasure almost merged with his. Gradually, the waves of lust and hunger rippling through you gain momentum, spreading from your gut to your extremities, every inch of your skin tingling and prickling with primal yearning—taking notice of your rapid ascent to rapture, he hastily aligns his cock with your entrance, stretching its tight borders open, though not yet shafting himself inside.

“That’s it, my darling little bride. Come for your sire.” You can barely hear his words as white noise overtakes all your senses, the world around you reduced to a blurry, chaotic maelstrom. The moment he finally slides his length between your walls, filling you to the brim in a single thrust, your toes curl and your hands ball into fists, your body going limp as you are at last pushed over the edge of ecstasy. Letting go of your knee to take off his doublet, he carelessly tosses it on the floor to then gently cradle both of your cheeks, pulling you into a sensual, passionate kiss. Muffled groans form in the back of his throat with every twitch of his cock, which pulsates longingly as you vibrate and flutter around it; he nips at your bottom lip as if asking for passage, sucking on the bloody droplets drawn from the nicked flesh, and once you comply, without delay his tongue starts massaging your own, eagerly rolling over it while he patiently waits for you to adjust to his size. Wrapping both of your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, you roll your hips upwards, wanting to feel all of him, each bead of sweat, each drop of blood, until it’s impossible to tell where you end and he begins.

“Mhnf—Astarion…” you mewl into his mouth, encouraging him to start moving, his rhythm slow and gentle at first. Despite how wet you are, he works your slit open with a bit of difficulty, his girth abnormally enlarged due to the drawn-out neglect, although even through the discomfort you find yourself relishing the chance to have him so snugly nested within you. Astarion, too, seems to be thoroughly enjoying having you gripping him so deliciously tautly, his usually husky grunts growing louder with every push. His hands leave your face to roam the sides of your body, gliding down your ribs, tracing the curve of your waist and slipping underneath you to grope and fondle your ass, slightly tilting you upwards so he can sink deeper within your cunt. Finally breaking the kiss, lips bruised and plumped, he lovingly gazes upon your just as disheveled self for a moment before leaning back down to give you a chaste, tender peck; pulling away again, he then lowers his head to have his tongue ghost over the skin of your throat, your clavicle, and then up the swell of one of your breasts, stopping to hover above its reddened peak.

“Say it, pet. Tell me who you belong to.” His breath tickles the sensitive nub as he speaks, voice dripping with honey and eyes searching for yours from under thick lashes, darkened with desire. To anyone else the question may sound like just another racy quip, provocative banter to spice up the mood, but you know better—you know him better. Following the Black Mass, on that very eve Astarion would first test his unholy gifts as the Ascendant, not by calling upon the dark forces now at his mercy nor by turning into mist, but by making you his for all eternity. That was always the plan—to become your warden, your guardian, your sire and master. Never before you had he ever felt as wanted, as needed, and he cherished that power; for once in his life he was the protector, not the protectee, not the weak vermin wriggling about to find shelter. You gave him a reason to be, a reason to live, and he would not lose that, not for as long as his thawed heart beats.

“I’m yours, Astarion. All yours,” you say, giving him the reassurance he seeks while at the same time soothing yourself. Yes, you are his, entirely his, and that is of solace to you as much as it is to him. Satisfied with your answer, Astarion smiles softly; refusing to avert his gaze from your face, he then wraps his perfectly-shaped lips around your nipple, circling it with a pointed tongue. His teeth graze the supple surrounding flesh for a moment before unexpectedly sinking into it, and your mouth pops open to let out a soundless gasp in surprise. You propel your torso up slightly by resting your arms on each side of your body and leaning on your bent elbows, firmly gripping the sheets beneath you with both of your hands, panting and whining as he suddenly speeds up the pace, undulating his hips more energetically with every thrust. Through his cock and fangs alike, his presence inside of you is absolute, imperious, overwhelming—yet also comforting and fulfilling, like a crushing, constricting embrace.

“You complete me.”

“Mnhg—ah!” While still latched onto your breast, avidly drinking from it, Astarion moves one hand to your lower back so he may gently raise you with him into a seated position, and you let go of the sheets to hold onto his broad shoulders for support. His other hand continues fondling your ass, fingers widely splayed across one of your cheeks, applying just enough pressure to push your crotch flat against his, securely settling you in his lap as you had been before, except you are now both facing each other. Prying himself off you, he then pulls back to admire his handiwork—the blood seeping from the freshly made puncture marks on your chest trails lazily down your abdomen, the bright crimson accentuated so beautifully by your pale skin, a perfect match with the rubies encrusted in the jewelry that you remain wearing despite being otherwise completely nude. You make for a breathtaking vision, one belonging perpetually and irrevocably to him.

“My darling,” Astarion croons, voice uncharacteristically tender, bringing his hand on your back up to lovingly cup your chin. “My pretty darling,” he whispers before capturing your lips with his bloodstained ones, hips snapping upwards to resume massaging your walls. You bob your body in rhythm with his thrusts, buttocks slapping against his thighs every time you sink down to the base of his length, and his fingers dig deeper into the soft swell of your rear, surely to leave bruises in the morning. Eyes fluttering close, you lean fully against him, the contours of your frame hugging his own almost perfectly, save for your breasts, which are now squished between your rib cage and his pectorals. Releasing your face, he instead grabs your throat, his grip strong, but not binding; giving it a gentle squeeze, he then pulls away, tongue absentmindedly lapping at the strand of saliva connecting you still even as your mouths unweave.

“Astarion…” The way you utter his name sounds almost like a plea, a supplication, yet you can’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. “I love you”—is what you mean to say, but you bite back the words instead. They are empty, meaningless; the depth of your bond is such that “love” is a sentiment which needs not be voiced. You know he can feel it, for you can feel it too—way past just affection, the pure devotion carved on the core of your very being, so raw and so visceral that it may as well be an open wound, never to heal, bleeding thick, warm emotion. As tempting as it may be to proclaim it, the world is not owed any measure of access to your relationship; this is something meant just for the two of you, a silent understanding between an eternal bride and her husband-to-be, sacred and precious. Thus, rather than speaking any further, you look into his eyes with as much earnestness as you can possibly manage, and he looks back at you just as intensely, pupils so dilated that his irises are but thin red discs, barely even visible. He knows; of course he does. He always did.

“Shh. Hush.” He lets go of your throat before softly pressing a finger to your lips, only to then comb all five digits of that same hand through your hair and cradle your head, gently nudging you forward. Following his lead, you rest your chin in the crook of his neck, flushed cheek brushing against his; upon raising your gaze, you notice that you can see the mirror behind him, reflecting his strong back and shapely waist, still encircled by your entangled legs. More than that, you can see him moving—his hips going up and down every time he disappears inside you, balls swinging whenever he lifts up his ass from the mattress. Watching him fuck you might as well be the most erotic thing you have ever laid eyes on, and for a third time arousal coils low in your belly.

“Oh… Astarion…” you whimper in his ear, feeling him bump against the spongy skin of your cervix just as his cock is fully swallowed by your needy cunt in the mirror. Your blunt nails rake down his spine, gliding across the valleys and ridges of his scars, once a reason for shame and pain, now a proud symbol of his victory—and of the ghastly consequences it entailed. The fingers buried in your hair pull at it firmly as he pounds into you, and those on your rear continue their ministrations, wandering to the space between your buttocks to lightly graze the puckered entrance. As he peppers kisses over your nape and shoulders, his own moans grow more desperate and less dignified; sweat drips down his curls, now tousled and sticking to his forehead and temples. You feel so tight, so wet, so warm, so good—always such an obedient little thing, so eager to please, letting yourself be thoroughly ravaged and catering to his every whim, his every desire. There is nothing Astarion values more than his dominance over you; his most beloved treasure, the source of his life, the source of his light, however dim. How terribly he adores you, and how frightfully he yearns for you, to be drunk on you, an addiction so great that the very thought of you leaving his side for even a minute fills him with pure dread. To love you is bliss, but also torturous, for you are at once his greatest strength and his most alarming weakness.

“That’s it, gods, that’s it… you’re taking me so well, darling,” he groans, breath hitching as you push against his thrusts, the lewd sound of smacking flesh reverberating across the room. He is close, so close, and so are you—beyond the glass, his reflection plunges into yours with reckless abandon, and you can’t bring yourself to look away. As you ride him, you can feel the entirety of his length, the velvety skin, the throbbing veins, the tumid girth stretching and rubbing against your slickened walls; and with one last powerful jerk of his hips, you can also feel his thick spend painting them in spurts, flooding you like a broken dam.

“Oh, my love…” Astarion continues rutting into you even through his orgasm, pumping his seed out of your slit. Before long, you too clench violently around him, thighs trembling and gut convulsing, coating his twitching cock in your release. Shoving you back onto the mattress, he keeps leisurely sliding in and out of your sex as you both pant quietly, reveling in the high of your respective climaxes; with his face nuzzled into your cleavage, he affectionately laps at the bite marks on your breast, occasionally intercalating each lick with tender little pecks. You bring one of your hands to his scalp and run your fingers through the silky locks, closing your eyes and emptying your mind, intent on enjoying the moment for what it is, safe and sound in the arms of your lover; he who took you into his sanguineous embrace and imparted on you the gift of absolution, he who set the world on fire while shielding you from the dancing flames, he who placed a crown of roses upon your head after ripping off every thorn. Lux aeterna luceat eis—let perpetual light shine, and from the dark, the two shall reign, betrothed in immortality, wedded in undeath, now and forevermore.

May they rest in peace.

#personal #astarion #astarion x tav #bg3 fic #bg3 #ascended astarion #lord astarion #astarion smut #astarion x female reader #astarion x you #astarion x reader #ascended astarion x reader #tavstarion #fic: death and his maiden #my fics

347 notes · View notes