#astarion ancunín smut | 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; 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. “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. “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 has now come into 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, only to pull away again, lowering 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

342 notes · View notes

charmandabear · 8 months ago

Text

Office Hours (Legacy Edition) Masterlist

Summary

You're a professor of Classical Theatre and you find yourself inexplicably drawn to the infuriating arrogance of Dr. Ancunín in the English department.

Pairing: Astarion/F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Major Tags/Warnings: university au, modern with magic, enemies to lovers, angst with a happy ending, just like, so much smut, emotional manipulation, blood/vampire bites. full list on ao3.

You're always welcome to DM with specific questions about content!

Read it on AO3

Read it on Tumblr:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Additional context for something that happens in chapter 4 (spoilers)

"Office Hours" tag on my page

Fanart

352 notes · View notes

bardic-inspo · 9 months ago

Text

Blood in the Mortar

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

Rating: Explicit (Smut!!)

Key Tags: Vampire/Blood Bride Lore, Service Dom Astarion, Sexy Use of Telepathic Bond, Evil Power Couple, Torturing a Captive, Choking, Biting/Blood, Masquerade, PIV, Cunnilingus

Summary:

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” Astarion whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.” It started on Naomi’s knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Astarion didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of his ascended blood.

Cross-posting from my AO3 account. This is my first BG3 smut fic. If you like it, I'd love to know! Click here if you'd prefer to read on AO3.

“To whom can a vampire bare its soul and admit its fears? From whom can it receive consolation for the past, comfort for the present, and hope for the future?...The vampire is drawn emotionally to a mortal and decides, because of the strength of this emotion, to make her his bride…The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers.”

-Van Richten’s Monster Hunter’s Compendium, Vol 1

Astarion twists the stem of his wine glass, idly tilting the contents within. His assorted guests warp in the bulb of it, swaying between rosy red and clear crystal.

A gravelly voice interrupts his game. “Quite the menagerie you’ve gathered here, Lord Ancunín.”

Astarion doesn’t bother to stifle his sigh. There’s no mistaking him as the lord of the house, even masked as he is. Astarion’s ensemble this evening is pitch dark velvet swirled in crimson thread and snaking silver. His mask glimmers in the same shade of scaled metal, set to complement the curve of his cheekbones, with only miniscule, twinkling rubies encrusting the edges. Nothing meant to outshine the searing color of his eyes. The mask might be silver, but it’s a red dragon Astarion embodies for this particular masquerade.

This party’s for more monstrous company, after all.

No expense was spared for the ‘menagerie’. A grand piano, polished to an opalescent white, plays under spectral hands at the heart of the ballroom alongside a string quartet. A starlit Baldur’s Gate glistens outside the windowed east wall, framed in gold drapery to match the shimmering flecks in the white marble floor. Lavish wine and better blood pour freely; his guests have only to lift their empty glasses to have them brimming again.

Even with all the ornate masks, in the shapes of creatures exotic or fierce, none of the fangs in the room are fake. All the titles are, save for his and his consort’s. Astarion’s lip curls with distaste.

This masquerade was meant for nobility of a supernatural stature. Vampires, warlocks, lycanthropes. Those who lead them. But what his doors received were lowly spawn. Servants sent in their masters’ stead to get just a glimpse of the one and only vampire ascendant, and then to scurry back and tell tale of him. Cowards.

There’s only one human here who’s just human.

Astarion offers him a well-practiced shrug of a laugh. “I do hope you don’t feel out of place among us more…colorful sorts. Lord…? Forgive me, what was it again?”

“Isn’t the point of a masquerade not to bother with such trivialities?” The stranger chuckles hastily. “In any case, I am not lord. Only a humble apprentice to the most renowned wizard Waterdeep has to offer.”

Ah, yes. The invitation was sent for the newly named archmage, filling the god-shaped hole Gale left behind in the wake of his own ascension. Astarion’s eyes flit over the lanky, unkempt apprentice who addresses him instead.

His hair hangs in honey blonde waves past his shoulders, like the mane of the beast he seeks to imitate. It’s a lion’s mask the apprentice wears. Perhaps a poor attempt at humor. The effort would’ve been better paid towards penance, and a sheep’s head would’ve suited him far better than the guise of a predator. Anything would’ve been more fitting than the baggy business he calls a shirt.

Astarion clicks his tongue. “That still doesn’t give me a thing to call you.”

“I am Enrik, if it pleases you.”

“No surname?” Astarion asks with an arched brow.

“None of consequence, my lord,” he replies with the uneasy edge Astarion’s entitled to.

“Well, Enrik, I hope you find our masquerade pleasing.”

“It has certainly been enlightening thus far.”

“And how’s that?” Astarion asks brusquely. He never did like wizards.

He doesn’t like the look on this one’s face, either. The lion that should be a sheep surveys the room with a pitying expression, like he’s watching some petty amusement. A zoo. Gods, or a circus. And what would that make him, Astarion the Ascended, if not a clown? Astarion’s fingers tighten on the stem of his glass, an imperceptible change to any eyes not keen enough to catch it.

“Why, it’s been only a year since your ascension,” Enrik says. “You’ve accomplished much in short order. It’s quite remarkable.”

Astarion’s nose twitches. Praise. From cattle. How quaint, and ill-fitting.

His expression abruptly eases. A refined, familiar scent carries to him from across the crowd. A note of lavender, twined with his favored bergamot.

“And you’ve already enthralled some truly magnificent specimens,” Enrik carries on, oblivious. “Take this fine creature, for example. What a pretty thing to have strung along on your leash.”

Astarion feels her before he sees her. She wipes a palm down the sheath of her skirt, smoothing out some infinitesimal wrinkle. The music smooths, too. With that one simple motion, it bends and blends into something deeper, fuller. All of the lesser spawn of Astarion’s making straighten their slouched shoulders.

He feels the tug of her in his head, and then the cool stroke of her hand to his back, the soothing feel of her fingers combing through his hair, and the gentle scrape of her nails against his scalp. It takes a concerted effort to suppress the pleased groan that bubbles in the back of his throat. All this from across the room, without so much as a glance, let alone a touch.

Hello, darling, he thinks, and she hears it just as if he’d spoken aloud. Aren’t you ravishing?

Her skirt is snow-white crepe that clings taut to her shapely hips before fanning out at her feet. It’s the same lovely shade of ivory as her hair, twisted in a braid like a crown around her head, with the rest falling sleek down her back. A black lace bodice sets just off her lilac shoulders, with gloves to match. Floral stitching vees down from her waistline. The same embellishments decorate the skirt’s edges.

His dark consort, his Naomi once-Tavriel-now-Ancunín, weaves leisurely through the partygoers. The thorny prickle of Astarion’s irritation inspires a little lift at the corner of her mouth.

I’ve been called so much worse, she thinks. It sounds suspiciously like a laugh. I think you called me ‘creature’ just yesterday. Should I not have taken it as a compliment?

Astarion’s scowls. He should be grateful to have your name in his mouth. To even set foot in our home. Let alone speak to me like that. Or at all.

But think of how much fun he’s started, she answers, chipper. You were so bored before.

She’s not wrong.

If they’re not the guests you wanted, Naomi continues, cool and calm, then they’re intruders, aren’t they? Whatever should we do with them?

A slow smile steals its way onto his lips. Just when I thought I couldn’t love you more. Miracles never cease.

“Do you know what they call her?” Astarion says aloud, to worse company. “Other than mine, of course.”

“She was the hero of Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion waves a manicured hand irritably, as if swatting away a stray fly. “One of them, true, but isn’t there another name that comes to mind?”

The man swallows thickly. “The Siren of the Sword Coast.”

"And yet here you are," Astarion sneers, "ready to dash yourself upon the rocks like a little ship blown astray. I can hardly blame you."

His eyes soften, just past the shoulder of Enrik’s gaudy doublet. In the low flutter of candlelight, he spies the sheen of amethysts set among delicate feathers wrought from silver. He'd had the mask made for Naomi with the likeness of a swan in mind.

Still, as pretty as it is, his favorite gleam is those eyes. She still kept the kiss of violet in them, even in death. It mingles with the red in her irises, like a rich, dark wine.

"She is captivating, isn’t she?" Astarion sighs, a faint smile grazing his lips. "My beautiful bride."

“Forgive me my lord, I meant no offense,” Enrik says, eyes down with deference. “I’m merely an admirer of fine things. And a messenger for my fine master.”

“Do your duty, then,” Astarion says tersely, his smile evaporating.

“My master understands that power is the only currency that holds any weight for men of your making. He has much of it to share, if you're likewise inclined.”

Astarion laughs coldly. “And what does your master wish for me to share with him, exactly? I don’t bite just anyone, after all.”

A swallow bobs in Enrik’s throat. “He only means to make mutual use of your shared arsenal. Like you mean to make of his, my lord. He could work wonders with even just one scream. He could bottle it--”

Astarion clenches the wine glass in a chokehold. He could kill this wretched cretin here, now, bare-handed. Or have him drawn and quartered. Or--

No one knows their manners these days, Naomi sighs inside his head. But if you want to play along and see what this archmage would pay, I’ll--

Astarion’s jaw clenches. You won’t be screaming for him, little love.

It earns him an eyeroll. It wouldn’t be like that--

It won’t be at all. Astarions sends his answer with the weight of a stone.

He sips his wine, boring into Enrik with a hard stare. “Don’t you know swans make the most achingly beautiful music?”

Enrik’s eyes dart anxiously over Astarion’s burning ones. “Only just before they die, so the stories go.”

“Before someone does,” Astarion drawls, as the vintage seeps sweetly down his throat. “You see, my beloved, oh, she’s a monster, too. She so does love the taste of blood in her mouth, now that she’s supped of mine.”

Enrik edges back, shoulders hunched small like the prey he is. “I-I’m just a messenger my lord. Killing me after you’ve so graciously offered your hospitality would be the same as breaking a mirror. It would only cast ill luck on you and your house.”

A gloved hand wraps Enrik’s shoulder. He shirks from that delicate grip like it's scalding. At long last, he finds the decency to shut up.

Naomi’s fangs gleam like the bottle in her hand. “More wine?”

The white marble of the ballroom shimmers like freshly fallen snow. All the curtains are drawn back, cinched aside for good measure. Shadow and sunlight slice the floor in slanted strips. Gritty ash piles where the light lies, coils of rope strewn among the gray dust of guests gone for good.

Only one remains.

Sprawled motionless across the floor, Enrik lies nose-to-nose with the knife edge of day and darkness. It’s only a silhouette that keeps him from being swallowed by the glow. Only Astarion’s grace shades him.

The vampire ascendant cuts a sharp shadow before the arched windowpane. Brightness clings, soft as clouds, to his curls, his lean edges, and his jaw. His velvet coat crumples at his heels as if it were nothing more precious than the ash heaped around him. He’s blessedly bare from the waist-up, resplendent in the sunlight while he surveys his domain awash with it.

It calls to mind the man who took Naomi out into the woods all those months and nights ago. What he looked like when she woke and found his back arched, chin tilted skyward. What she’d do, and what little she wouldn’t, to see Astarion slip into bliss every day as easily as slipping out of a coat.

It’s Naomi’s grace that finally rouses their disheveled company. A rolling melody, played on piano, pours from her fingertips and crests with the morning birdsong drifting in. Enrik groans against the grain of it.

At once, the music cuts to quiet. Naomi’s hands hover over the keys, knuckles twitching in faint longing. Then, she turns on the bench and turns her attention towards her restless audience.

“Good morning,” she says brightly.

Enrik squints up at her. His brown eyes leak with the light, even though he’s sheltered from it. They dart across the room, skimming like stones over water, before they sear into Naomi.

“You.”

“Who else were you expecting? You’re in my home.”

Rope binds Enrik’s hands and heels. He tugs at the ties, or tries to. He hasn’t yet figured out it’s all for not.

Naomi stands, her heels clicking staccato to the tile. As she goes, she paints a palm over the piano keys, stroking each octave from root to rise. Music flows freely again all on its own, even when her hand falls away.

She comes to loom over her captive, lips pursed. “I hear you said some very rude things to my husband.”

Enrik folds against the floor, panting for breath.

“You should be so grateful for our hospitality,” she says. “Should have been. That’s all behind us now, isn’t it?”

Feral noise rips from his throat. Like a dog, he lunges, snapping for her ankles. She side-steps into the light, not bothering to flee any farther than an inch. He freezes, ogling the shiny toe of her shoe now parallel to his nose.

“You don’t fear the sun?” he gasps, quivering.

“I need not fear anything.”

Naomi lifts her head, meeting a scarlet stare brimming in equal measures affection and amusement. Sunlights melts over the bare of Astarion’s chest, spurring her tongue to wet her lips. He leans against the glass, head angled back, eyes slitted in satisfaction. A slow smile unfurls on his face.

“You should be grateful, too,” Naomi says with a sneer, “to lay here and not just a little to the left.”

“W-What do you mean? What did you do to me?!” Enrik’s eyes bulge. He squirms in a sudden panic, to no avail.

Naomi tilts her neck to the side and taps at the scar Astarion’s teeth marked her with. Her fingers fan down on her own throat, savoring the shape of that succulent memory. Of the last bite he gave her in life. Of his lips swirling comfort into her skin before sucking her down to the last drop. Of the look on his face, the awe he had, when she next woke.

The faintest leak of breath, soft as down, passes from Astarion’s mouth.

“You--you--! You turned me!” Her hostage sputters. Naomi frowns darkly.

“Oh not me,” Naomi snaps, incredulous. “I’m only a weak little spawn puppet, according to you. According to you, the only good thing I can do is scream. How could I manage to turn you without choking on my own leash?”

She gags for good measure. He doesn’t get the joke. He hasn’t caught on to the other joke yet. Which means she’s safe as can be, even this close. So long as she stands on the other edge of Astarion’s shadow.

Astarion turns. His silhouette twists with his movement. Enrik shrieks like a swine.

“Oh, that wasn’t good at all. You can do better.” Naomi presses out a strained sigh, crouching down to fist a hand in his hair and yank his head upright.

Enrik bares his teeth as if they aren’t dull and flat. “Filthy bitch!”

The insult doesn’t so much as chip Naomi’s serene composure, but it puts a twang in her head, along the invisible string that links her and Astarion. His anger lashes in her mind like a restless tail.

“What a vile little ingrate,” Astarion snarls.

She lets her hostage’s head roll from her palm, cheek smacking the tile. Enrik writhes against his restraints. Naomi clicks her tongue in reproach. I’ve barely even touched you yet.

Green magic threads between her gloved fingers, glittering. She snaps them and says, “Scream.”

And he does. Loud enough to drown out the crescendo coursing from the grand piano. Inside of Enrik’s skull, the song isn’t nearly so sweet. His back jerks up and away from the floor, head bent back, eyes torn wide in terror.

His cries pitch with the slink of Astarion’s shadow stretching nearer. Sunlight clings close behind his heels. Naomi’s fingers flex and the spell recedes.

Her magic leaves Enrik sniveling, inching like a worm away from the slice of light between Astarion’s legs. Astarion huffs softly. With a wave of his hand, a ghostly one apparates behind him and snags the curtains closed.

Astarion’s scent sweeps with his sleeve -- the sweetness of brandy, mingled with the woodsy smell of rosemary. His knuckles gently brush the side of Naomi’s cheek. Instinctively, she leans towards the touch.

“Precious thing,” Astarion chides with a pout. “You’re being far too sweet to him. Here I thought you only had room in your heart for me.”

Naomi inclines her head, eyes narrowing by a hair. “My sire would see me be crueler?”

Astarion’s thumb grazes her lips. At once, she parts for him, teasing the pad of it with her tongue while he toys with the tip of a fang. He presses in, watching his skin bend to near-breaking, as if to test her sharpness. Before any blood’s drawn, he draws his hand down to cradle her chin. His voice is smooth as satin, though his stare is a hardened one.

“Your sire would see you spoken to with the respect you’re owed. And he needs you to kneel, dear one.”

The words are a weight to her shoulder, easing her down. But the heft is a comfort, not a compulsion. He could compel her, if he wanted to.

He hasn’t yet.

One day, she thinks, he will. And he’ll feel the weight of whatever chains he’d wrap her in through the bond that binds them tighter than the tadpole did. He won’t do it without good reason. Naomi doesn’t need a reason to kneel for her lover. That he wishes it is enough.

When her knees meet the ground, she feels the shape of Astarion’s smile pressed against their bond like it’s pressed, wet and wanting, against her mouth. She feels the dainty tug of his teeth coax her lips apart. Tastes the coppery tang of her own blood and the velvet undercurrent of his within her veins. The heat of him, still such a novel thing in his ascended body, bleeds from his skin to hers, fanning the newfound ache between her thighs.

In her mind, and his, his lips pour down her bare shoulders. His fingers fist in the fine fabric of her dress, ripping it to ruin. He leaves none of her untouched. To anyone else’s eye, they’re not even touching.

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. She downs a hard swallow. Good girl, he says, just for her.

To their captive audience, he spares no such kindness. Astarion raises his foot above Enrik’s ankles, letting it dangle for a moment. It drops like a hammer to an anvil. Enrik bucks with a fresh scream and a sickening crack.

“I’d never give a miserable little wretch like you the gift of immortality,” Astarion spits. “You wouldn’t know how to appreciate it.”

Confusion flits between the pain and panic in Enrik’s eyes.

“That’s right,” Astarion seethes. “You’re not a vampire. You aren’t worth my consort’s teeth. Or mine.”

Crunch. Another ankle shatters. Another shriek claws the air. Astarion strolls, leisurely, to Enrik's hands next. He grounds his heel into the pop of fingers breaking beneath his boots. Their hostage heaves a broken sob.

“Sh, sh, sh, oh, it’s all right,” Astarion croons. “I happen to have just the knife for you.”

Astarion crosses back to his coat piled near the window and draws a dagger from its folds. Rhapsody. Cazador’s blade. Naomi hasn’t seen it since they claimed the Crimson Palace for themselves.

Brightness glints off the twined edge, a match for the harsh and singular focus gleaming in Astarion’s gaze.

So that’s what Astarion was smiling about, as he basked by the window. What had him so peacefully quiet and content. Murder was on his mind, even then.

Not the only thing on my mind, little love. She feels the slant of his smirk in her head, as if it ghosted past the hinge of her jaw. There’s no trace of it on Astarion’s stony exterior.

He plucks the crystal wine glass from the sill while he’s there, rotating the stem as he saunters back over. Blood flecks the fine leather of Astarion’s shoes. He plants them on either side of Enrik’s torso. He seizes Enrik’s collar, yanking harshly until he’s kneeling, too.

“Fuck you,” Enrik spits. “Fuck you both! My master will--”

“Darling,” Astarion trills, grip unwavering, “Would you..?”

Magic swirls sticky across Naomi’s tongue. “Ad Lapidē.”

Violet runes blaze to life beneath their captive’s knees, capturing him in perfect stillness. His mouth hangs agape with unspent vitriol. Astarion’s hands recoil, twisting the dagger in one, and the glass in the other.

“Your master,” Astarion sneers with a dark laugh. “Too much of a coward to show his face, so he sends you. His sacrificial lamb, sent to speak to me about sharing my dearest treasure, like he isn’t the scum beneath her shoes. He had to know I wouldn’t hear of it. But he didn’t care enough about you to even taint your blood. That’s right. My lesser spawn sampled you just like they would any cattle. But my beautiful bride hasn’t had one bite, not yet. Not until I was sure you were sweet enough for her palate.”

Astarion strokes Rhapsody down the man’s outstretched neck. The barest streak of blood leaks from the scrape. Astarion’s eyes skate over the ash piles around the room, wistful.

“All it took was a sleeping potion,” he muses. “Just a few drops. Now all of the spawnlings sent by all of my lessers are dust. You’ll wish to join them, before this is done. And you will. When I decide we’re done.”

Naomi’s eyes fasten to the blood beading down Enrik’s pallid throat. Astarion digs in ever-so-gently with Rhapsody’s tip, just enough to start a stream running. He presses the cup beneath it. Slowly, the crystal fills red to the brim. Her mouth waters.

Astarion looks up abruptly, eyes wide and soft as his malice dissolves to fondness. “Darling, you do look famished. Open up for me, dear.”

Naomi’s chin lifts, lips parted. Astarion tilts the glass to meet her with the utmost care.

“I won’t have your grime and sweat on her lips,” Astarion hisses in Enrik’s ear. “Only your blood. You don’t deserve that…” He sucks a sharp breath in. Naomi watches with rapt attention as it stutters through his chest. “...pretty little mouth.”

Blood, rich and smooth as cream, slips across her tongue. Her eyes slip shut with it. With each swallow, syrupy warmth spreads slowly through her chest, down her legs, through arms, to her every inch. Too soon, it’s taken from her. Naomi’s eyes flutter open. She’s taken all of it, already.

“More, my love?” Astarion hums happily. “You only have to ask.”

“More,” she says at once, lips still wet.

Astarion carves. The insolent apprentice bleeds without a sound. Again and again, the cup fills. He tips it to her lips, and Naomi drinks until her eyelids grow heavy.

Her body thrums like it remembers the pulse that used to play through her veins. She’s warmer than a dead woman should be. Even the air itself feels like the kiss of steam tingling against her skin.

It’s then that Naomi feels Astarion’s lips in her head again, sucking little marks down her throat that match the rosy flush heating her cheeks. She pants out of habit, out of instinct, and not of need. Out of want for him to watch what he does to her. As if he doesn’t already know.

One twist of Astarion’s wrist turns the little leak of blood from Enrik’s throat into a fountain. Naomi’s spell dissipates in violet sparks. His body slumps over, lifeless. Blood runs from him in little rivers, rushing to fill the grout lines between the tiles.

Astarion cradles one last glassful in a delicate grip. His face clears of any clouded rage as he gives the glass an experimental swirl. Wordlessly, he tilts the cup to her mouth once more.

Naomi gasps. Wetness paints her chin. It streams down her neck, drips down her sternum and between her breasts, still bound in lace. Astarion drips with it, down to his knees in fluid motion. Somewhere behind him, the wine glass shatters. In her periphery, she sees the shards glitter like frost.

“Oops,” he says, low and shameless.

Barely any blood made it to Naomi’s mouth this time, but she doesn’t mind one bit. Astarion crawls to her, catlike. She’s only spared a moment to admire the lithe muscle flexing through his naked chest before he leans into the hollow of her throat. Silver curls brush soft beneath her chin. And then, she feels the tip of that devilish tongue take a tentative lick of the mess he’s made.

And gods, what a mess she must be. Blood smears from her neck to her navel, near-black on her blue-gray skin. Dark like Astarion’s eyes, with pupils blown wide and hungry. A flare of heat twists low in Naomi’s stomach. Her thighs shift, wet with it.

Thread rips in her ears. Rhapsody drags delicately down her side, scratching faint like a quill. The lace of her gown splits without resistance. There's none to be had against that mouth of his, just as busy as his nimble hands.

Astarion laps, dainty, down the path of her swallow. His coy smile curves with a petal-soft laugh against her collar bone. Naomi laughs, too, breathless as his tongue chases lazily after the spill. Breathless as the day he took the last breath she needed.

Ever since, Astarion’s given her everything she could want, without leaving her wanting for more than a moment. Now, her knees will never grow numb, no matter how long they bend against the marble. The chill of it can’t phase her, either. Even if it could, Astarion’s drawn the curtains wide. When she kneels for him, it’s only ever on sun-soaked stone.

Astarion treasures her. Cherishes her. Lavishes her with love and pleasure and wealth and power. Preserves her like prized silver, polished with such devotion so she’ll never know the tarnish of time. She’s his spawn. His wife.

But above all else, she’s his pride. The very thing that rules him. The only thing that still does.

Naomi wants to be in ruins with him. To be the last pillars of a broken world already so far beyond repair before they were dragged through it. Aeterna amantes. Until the fall of everything.

Until then, this, the low groan he gives her while her fingers stroke red through the plush white of his hair, the heady hum in her blood, the bloom of someone else’s waking color in her cheeks, the way Astarion looks at her like there’s nothing else at all, the way he tears into a dress he paid a fortune for, the hand he knots through her braids to wreck them -- this is everything.

Astarion tosses Rhapsody over his shoulder to join the broken wine glass, just like any other worthless trinket. His deft hands curl into the tears in her bodice and tug. At once, it gives way to his grip. She would, too, were it not so binding. Naomi grounds out a gasp. Her skirt pools at her knees, leaving her bare but for the warmth of Astarion’s roaming hands and the daylight pouring over them both.

“Do you know why I wanted you down here, pet?” He asks softly.

Astarion’s eyes latch to hers while his teeth toy at the curve of her breast. His tongue slicks over to soothe where his fangs grazed her, and then it melts against a pert nipple, taking it in with a lewd suck.

Naomi paws for a coherent thought, but all she finds is a pleading hum. He nips her again, just enough to see her tit tremble from the pull when he draws away. He leaves her nipple glistening and the underside of her breast peppered in pink before moving on to the other.

“To torture me, clearly,” Naomi pants. Her hands still tangle in his hair. Amusement glimmers in his gaze as he plants a chaste kiss to the inside of one of her wrists and sets them both back at her sides.

“Oh no, my sweet. I would never,” he says, chin resting flat against her navel. He looks up at her with wide, doey eyes, full of faux innocence.

He slinks lower, laying a line with his tongue that ends in a kiss just above where her skirts still shield her. He shifts them aside, ripping where he needs, until it’s only one little piece of black lace covering her cunt. Astarion growls against it, nosing at its edges, his back bowed, stomach brushing the floor. His teeth find the waistband and tear that, too.

Hot breath fans across the other mess he made. Naomi wavers on her knees. From that minute motion alone, she can hear how he’s soaked her.

But Astarion doesn’t disprove her theory; he leans back abruptly, straightening up to his knees again. An arm loops slack around her waist as he circles around to her bare back. Naomi’s lips twitch. If this is the game he wants, it’s too soon to beg. The thought inspires another needy flex through her cunt. His other hand slides to cup the heat of it, and Naomi whines. Reflexively, her back arches. Astarion pulls her still.

He catches the side of her jaw, angling her back into a biting kiss. It’s over before she wants it to be, his lips red and glistening with what he stole from her. Without him, her mouth burns from the cut.

“I wanted to see you right where you belong,” he whispers, the sound as sheer as the lace he wrecked. “So beautiful on your throne.”

For a brief moment, he draws away entirely, leaving her with nothing but a lonely chill. And then, his back comes flush to the floor beneath her. His body splays behind her. The heat of his mouth crests against the heat of her cunt, his face fitted between her thighs, his lips hovering so close, but not close enough. His breath alone snags the one halfway through her throat.

“Oh,” her realization comes out quivering.

The tip of his nose nudges, just barely, against her clit, spurring her hips to roll. But all she gets from that mouth is mischief and a quiet snicker. He shifts his cheek, laving a long stroke of his tongue to the tender crux of her inner thigh before sealing it over with a tight suck. When he bites down, he draws out her blood with a rough moan.

Astarion pulls back, his smirk glazed in her, his eyes aflame. “Oh, darling, I’ve barely even touched you yet. And you’re so very wet for me.”

“Touch me, then,” she hisses between her teeth, raking her hands through his perfect curls and fisting them there.

His eyes spear into hers, hard like the way he clenches her ass and pulls her hips down. Even as it sets her on fire, his mouth gives her mercy. Astarion’s tongue melts hot across her cunt, swiping slow and dexterous. Not for the first time, Naomi thinks she might like to die like this.

It’s not so different from how she died. It started on her knees, this new life of passion and pleasure unbridled. Even then, Astarion already knew the shape of her body like he knew his own hands. Every curve, every intimate bend, how to make her speak in noise instead of words. The hidden language behind every whimper she makes, every shiver.

So he knows exactly what he’s doing while his tongue teases gentle circles around her clit. He knows, by the time his timid little laps blend into a needy suck, that she’s so, so sensitive. Astarion’s hungry groan seeps into her slickness. She feels him like a current and clenches again, just as hungry.

Every feeling he gives her gives him an echo back just as strong. Every thought in her head is in his head, too. He eats her cunt and feels fed by her pleasure curling in the tips of his toes. He didn’t know he’d be hers, just as much as she’d be his, when he bit her thrice, bled her dry, and gave her just one drop of blood back.

But Astarion knew her body before she was his bride. Now, he knows her mind. A part of him lives there, as she does in his. As he drags his pale, elegant fingers between her folds, he drags her head through a dozen depravities. Filling her with nothing but thoughts of how he’ll fill her properly.

He could have her against the arched windows lining the east wall, body pressed so pretty to the glass so he can see the imprint of it even after she peels away. She could feel the heat brimming off the sun outside, washing over their empire. He could taste her sunbathed shoulder while he fucks her senseless. His little love, dipped in honey. So what if someone else sees. Later, he’ll see to them not seeing anything ever again.

He could take her here, on the ballroom floor. Pull her down just as she surfaces from the pleasure he’s paid her, and roll her beneath him to bury her in it all over again. Make love on the marble streaked with the blood of their enemies, where hundreds of dignitaries have danced and dined on countless evenings before. But none of them were ever blessed with such a fine feast as he. The stone would be hard and unyielding against her back, and he would be just the same, driving into her, relentless. At least it’s far prettier than the dirt they used to fuck in.

Or--

A new picture snaps from Naomi’s mind to his, with the dip of his tongue to her entrance, a staggering spike of pleasure, and an unbidden whimper.

The piano. Pearly white with jet black keys, so pristine, so gorgeous with blood spilt red down the sides. Naomi poured over the side, ivory hair tinged with crimson, cascading over her bare, bent back. Astarion’s fingers buried in her hips, planting the promise of bruises, his body bucking wildly into her as he finally--

Naomi’s moan hits the high pitch of the ceiling. She grinds, needy, against the pair of fingers he crooks inside of her. His thumb spreads her slickness back and presses to the pucker of her ass.

So eager for me to fill you up. His voice in her head is a caress. Her hips roll with the sound. His thumb dips inside her ass with the motion, and Naomi gasps as she eases into that delicious stretch.

But darling, I haven’t fed all night, Astarion pouts, mouth moving with agonizing slowness as his eyes flutter shut beneath long black lashes. Naomi’s eyelids grow heavy, too, as she’s lost to that lovely, slick click of his lips. A meal like you is meant to be savored.

He fucks her holes leisurely, with the air of someone who knows he’ll be back for more before long. It brings to mind those long, lithe fingers, folded between the pages of a book to mark his place. All it takes is an effortless flex of them to keep her coaxed open like this. Her body draws taut as he leans her over the precipice of her own pleasure.

If you need more, my dear, by all means. Take it.

He growls into their bond like he’s the one devoured. Like he can plead ignorance to how he’s taking her apart with his hands, his mouth. Naomi catches a whine between her teeth. Astarion’s free hand cups her ass, urging her into the thrust her body bends towards. She parts a hand from his hair to brace flat to the floor beside his face, the other knotting anew in his silver curls.

Desperately, she rides against the flat of his tongue, against that long, refined nose, fucking herself back into the curve of his fingers. Every pull of them pulls her under, deeper into her own ecstasy. Her body grips him back like she means to drown him, too. The tip of his tongue flicks her clit in relentless rhythm, starting off a shudder she can’t stop.

“Don’t stop,” she begs within and without, the jerk of her hips growing frantic.

His mouth is mercy. When she comes for him, she’s wreathed in heat, slick with sweat, every nerve in her body alight with the most blissful burn. A strangled cry breaks in her chest. It buries the song now trembling from the piano. Naomi shivers out a sigh, and the keys shiver with her.

Astarion wraps his arms tight to her thighs, anchoring her through the aftershocks. When she stills again, her body throbs with a heady rush of blood, pleasure, want. Every part of her is limp with it, save the pulsing, rigid press in her mind and in his trousers. She’s putty in his hands even as his fingers leave her. Naomi twitches back towards the touch he takes away, body aching with his absence.

Naomi’s knuckles unfurl, stroking soft through the tangles she wrought. What a sight he is, his hair in utter disarray, his mouth a mess of blood and lust and her. An ease settles into his graceful features, not so different from that quiet contentment he wore while leaning into the light by the window. His eyes simmer with it, lips drawn in a soft smile.

Without warning, his grip tightens. Naomi stifles a huff of surprise as she’s taken down, marble kissing smooth to her spine. A pale hand cradles her head, cushioning her fall. In a blink, he’s hovering over her bare body and dipping down to catch her in a fever of a kiss. It’s a needy, sweltering latch of lips, tangy with her own sweetness as much as his.

“Here?” She purrs to the seal of his mouth.

She lets him feel the way the word alone makes her body tense. Waiting. Wanting. Their bond curls with it, crooked and beckoning in his head. The way his fingers bent a few moments before, buried in the heat of her.

A long breath passes out through his nose, his eyes sliding half shut. A smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth. But his cheek turns by just the barest hair, and Naomi’s attention follows after his.

Music flutters, breathy, off the black and white keys. The piano stays a pretty picture of perfection, among the deaths little and large they’ve littered throughout the ballroom.

His teeth trace the angled edge of her ear. Naomi keens with the sting of it as she’s swept from the floor.

“There.”

She’s caught in his kiss again as he carries her. One swipe of his tongue to where he bit her lip before has her quivering. Has her a world away from the one still around them. Vaguely, she’s aware he’s somehow rid her of her gloves and shoes. She hears a dull, wooden clatter, and then a resounding thud. The piano plays on, but it's muted.

Astarion doesn’t bend her over the way she mused. Instead, he seats her on the polished wood of the piano’s closed lid. His hands leave her back to push her knees apart, scoop beneath them, and pull her spread legs to the strain trapped in his trousers.

Naomi grins, her fangs snagging his lower lip as he tries to part from her. Astarion’s answering groan is rough like a scrape of sandpaper. It leaves her mouth raw, tingling, alive with a pulse that plays to the tune of his pleasure. She wants more of that noise. More of the happy purr it pours into her head from his. One drink of that sloppy, slap happy look on his face sates her more than blood ever could.

You’ve given me everything, he told her, once. But now, all she can think is more. Take more. Take everything.

Astarion grinds his hard length against her in answer. The sweet friction makes sweeter music in their mouths as Naomi moans with the motion, too. Still, there’s far too much fabric for her liking.

Astarion’s fingers make fast work of it. He unlaces his pants only enough to free his cock, parts from her only enough to push her back and clamber up after her. Then, he’s on her again like a second skin. Her cunt throbs with the press of his cock, the tip of it wet and seeping against her thigh. She tries to fit a hand between them, to wrap her palm around his girth and feel with her hands, not just her head, how badly he has to have her. Astarion doesn’t leave her space for it.

It’s not his hands that put her flat on her back, against the body of the piano. It’s the sudden swell of his adoration ballooning from his brain to hers. The weight of his affection pins her there beneath him, utterly paralyzed, as the music flows on under both of them. He’s brimming with it, and it washes over her in a wave, a cup overflowing.

His curls hang down in his eyes, wild with the look of a man starved. “You’re going to scream for me, little love,” he says with the slightest slur. The thought smears from him to her, burning in the back of her mind like a pull of liquor. He brushes her snarled hair back until it tumbles over the piano’s edge, white over white. “I’m going to make you. And I want to see that beautiful face when I do.”

“Please,” she starts to say.

But barely any of it makes it past her lips. Astarion never leaves her wanting for more than a moment.

“O-Oh,” she stammers instead, as her soaked cunt splays to his cock sliding home. Astarion pushes out a moan as he pushes into her. He hooks her legs with his arms, folding them up and back.

“That’s my girl,” he pants, forehead heavy against her own. His thumb circles her cheek, a feather-light counterweight to the thickness he seats inside her. He watches her intently, fixated. Hypnotized. “My good, good girl.”

Kisses and praise tumble from between his teeth, down her cheek, to her throat. Naomi’s head rolls back while she relishes the wet, smacking mantra that’s the mess of them. He’s not tender with his tempo. He doesn’t have to be. You could ruin me. I’d let you ruin me, she thinks again.

And how beautiful he is, in ruins with her. No more composure. No more restraint. Sweat streaks his brow as it bends beneath his focus. All there is is the blend of them, the slow rock of the piano underneath them, and the scattered, stranded pieces of a melody left in their wake.

It could break. The thought cracks through her, through them, with the wooden whine of the piano legs taking the shift of their weight. Astarion crushes her worry beneath the thrust of his hips, any notion of it lost to the head of his cock pressing just where it needs to make her see stars.

Naomi bites down on her own lip, grounding herself in fleeting pain and the tang of blood. He’s not even touching her clit; he doesn’t have to. He floods her with how it felt when he did, when his tongue rolled against the swell of it, just the tip of it teasing that sensitive little bud. How she felt to him, so silky and slick in his mouth. How amazing it feels to finally fuck her, to take what’s his and have her take him so, so tightly.

He could ruin her. Snap her like the creaking legs of this instrument, not long for this world. It would be almost as effortless as the way she spreads for him. But instead, Astarion fills her. Every shift prods the crown of his cock against the sweetest spot inside her cunt.

Naomi’s fingers claw into Astarion’s back as he bucks wildly. Tears sear in her eyes. The tell-tale pressure in her pelvis builds near-blinding.

“Scream for me, darling,” he growls against her neck, out loud this time.

Her cunt throbs with his command. But she doesn’t heed it. Astarion lets out a low, steaming hiss.

“I said scream, dear,” Astarion says, his velvet voice edged in warning. The sparks of his indignation spit flinty in her head alongside a flicker of excitement at her defiance.

He wants to feel the rush of her own power with the spasm of her cunt as she comes undone. He wants her magic to spill into him as he spills his seed inside of her. Wants to taste it with the rest of her. If Naomi was nothing to him, she’d still be the siren; it’s not a power Astarion gifted to her. It was hers without him. It is her. And she’s his.

“I might break the glass,” she whispers, wary of anything louder.

“Oh, my love,” Astarion says tenderly, a husk in his throat as his hand wraps loose around her neck. “You can break everything.”

Astarion kills her hesitation. She’s never felt more whole. She feels holy, feeling her own perfect squeeze around his cock, feeling herself fucked in his body and her own. Feeling what she does to the man who already has everything, but will never have enough of her.

When Naomi screams Astarion's name, it’s everything else in the room that shatters.

Glass crashes from the windows. They burst one after another in quick-fire succession. Astarion buckles against her body with the sudden, decisive snap beneath them. His hips jerk, rutting erratically. Warmth spurts into her with every shudder down his spine, every pulse of his cock.

He cuts her cry with his teeth buried in the crook of her neck. Naomi clings to him as her cunt convulses. It’s the bite that takes her apart, knowing he tastes his own name in her throat and thinks--

Mine, mine, mine.

Naomi’s head drops limp. Astarion’s grip on her neck gives way to soft circles stroked against her cheek again. Mine, she thinks, as his ruby eyes watch her keenly, awash in the soft glow only she knows.

Even after Astarion stills, the room spins dizzy from her upside-down view. She blinks it all back into place, but some pieces won’t fit together again so easily. They’re far closer to the floor than when he slipped inside of her. The piano legs splay at odd, splintered angles. The floor glitters with glass like crystalline teeth, ready to bite the heels of any who dare tread their hall.

Astarion slides out, and she shivers with the fade of his warmth. He sits up, his gaze sweeping the shattered windows, his smirk smug and wet with her. “Perhaps all of the Gate heard you. The gardener did for certain.”

Naomi sits up, too, leaning forward and letting his shoulder take her weight. Her forehead comes to rest against his collarbone. She finds an easy smile while relishing the way his heart still hammers his chest. She did that, in multiple senses. Absently, he tucks the hair sticking to her cheeks back behind her ears.

“I guess I’ll have to kill her,” he adds, chipper. “I suppose, for now, we can spare all the others.”

“She’s already dead enough, dear,” Naomi sighs.

A tiny, discordant note of sadness plucks in her chest, among the pleasant haze settling over her. Astarion stiffens against it, as if she reached out and pinched him. She doubts he’d be so eager to slay one of his spawn for the same crime of hearing her come for him.

The gardener is hers, of a sort. Not a vampire -- Naomi can’t make those. Before Naomi sang her awake again, the gardener was just a sad stack of bones collecting dust in a closet. Now, she rattles along to Naomi’s tune, keeping the flowers trimmed to her liking.

“I suppose you’re right,” Astarion murmurs. His expression softens with fondness, the sort that’s rare to surface unless they’re alone, but never fails to make her chest light and fluttery. “Are you tired now, pet?”

“We stayed up all night,” Naomi laughs faintly.

“Hm,” he nods with a pitying frown. “Let me see to you, my treasure. Don’t you move.” His lips curve, coy, as his eyes flicker back to the wrecked windows. “I wouldn’t want you to strain yourself.”

He saunters back to where his coat lays, now tattered. He returns to settle it around her shoulders, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

“You’re such a staunch defender of my honor,” Naomi says dryly, even as the leftovers of their lovemaking start to seep down her thigh.

“Ha,” Astarion shakes with a rolling laugh. “I rather think I’m the thief of it. You were quite the heist. It wouldn’t do to have some debaucherous upstart happen by and think they can make off with what’s mine.”

“I wouldn’t let them live through it.”

“Aw,” he clicks his tongue, “you’re such a romantic.”

Astarion leaves her with her legs strewn over the broken piano, relacing his trousers as he goes. Glass crunches beneath his heels. He stops to ring the bell near the door. A few seconds later, it creaks open a hair. She catches his curt commands to the servant she can’t see on the other side.

“...yes, here, in the ballroom. My consort and I wish to take in the view, and see none of you.”

His lesser spawn are quick to make good on their orders. The door swings open once more a short time later, and in floats a claw-foot tub without another soul to be seen. Magic clings, cloudy, beneath the porcelain belly of it. A pleasant, floral scent curls with the steam from the water within. The tub drifts to the heart of the ballroom and settles with a soft thud before the yawning window panes.

Astarion returns to her as her toes touch the ground again. He frowns tightly, eyes narrowing.

“There’s debris scattered everywhere, my sweet,” he says, saccharine even in reproach. “I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

Naomi sniffs a laugh, picking her path carefully. “If I can’t handle a little sharpness here and there, it’s a wonder how I’ve managed to handle you.”

“Oh, it’s simple,” Astarion says, catching her wrist with an effortless flourish. “We were made for each other. By each other, really.”

And Astarion’s made up his stubborn mind that she’s not to take another step, it seems. With a soft huff, he sweeps her off her feet all over again, strides to the tub with her legs dangling over his arm, and delicately deposits her there.

Water laps at the tub’s edges, splashing as she situates herself. She shrugs from Astarion’s coat, shucking it away to join all the other debris they don’t have use for. Heat tingles across her skin, like little, loving nips of Astarion’s teeth. Naomi eases back into the burn of it as the sting settles sweetly.

Astarion rids himself of his shoes and trousers. He dips a foot into the tub, bidding her to make way for him with a gentle nudge. The water ripples as he settles in behind her. With a satisfied sigh, she sinks back against his chest and deeper into the furling warmth.

The ballroom overlooks the well-kept gardens behind the estate. The hedges are high enough, only a spyglass might have hope of spotting them both bare. Under Cazador’s reign, the garden was little more than a sprawl of weeds and webbed ivy. Now, fountains babble between the blooms of pink and blue and violet. If she strains, she can catch the weave of music in the trickling flow, like tinkling wind chimes.

A soft breeze tickles her ears, sending gritty glass and ash scattering over their floor. Astarion clenches a soft sponge in his grip, wrings it out, and starts to scrub her skin in slow, deliberate strokes. Naomi’s head tilts back beneath his tender care, every rub taking the tension from shoulders.

She turns after a time, and he starts to wash blood from her front, while she wets her hands and works the redness from the white of his hair. Her fingers linger along the slants of his ears, rubbing delicately, until she catches that satisfied hum in his throat that leaves her lifted, floating on the buoy of his happiness.

The water never cools or clouds; magic still swirls in the steam, even long after they’re free of blood and grime. Astarion rakes hand through her hair, his fingernails digging pleasantly against her scalp.

“You are divine as ever,” he rumbles. “Rest now, pet.”

And she does, slipping soundly into a trance, soaked in sunlight and lavender oil with her lover wrapped around her. Only Astarion sends her to the sort of rest that reaches her soul. His presence is sanctuary.

It’s his disquiet that wakes her suddenly. He still strokes her hair just as gently, but he levels a hard-cut stare out over the garden, his lips set with the same stoniness.

“No one will ever take you from me,” he murmurs, as if to himself.

“As if they ever could,” Naomi whispers back, reaching up to graze the edge of his jaw.

Heavens help the fool who tries. Any who dare to hatch such plots, to harbor such ill will in their Crimson Palace, will find themselves laid to rest with all the others. Their enemies’ gravestones are just bricks in their empire, every one of them laid with blood in the mortar.

Astarion dips his head down, the hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “I suppose it might be fun to see them try. In the meantime, my love, I’m of a mind to keep you spread for me for the next tenday.”

Naomi laughs. The sound echoes around the otherwise vacant room.

Astarion’s grin only grows, the tips of his fangs sharpening his smile. “Did I say something funny, dear?”

His lips crush down against hers in a kiss consuming.

#ascended astarion #astarion #astarion ancunin #tav x astarion #astarion x tav #tavstarion #vampire ascendant #vampire lord astarion #bg3 #astarion smut #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfic #my writing #naomi tavriel

272 notes · View notes

iamjucie · 9 months ago

Text

Pet (18+) pt. 1 of 4

photo credit: @yabishrihere

Ascended Astarion x f!reader

Chapter One: Thinking

Summary: You have been the Vampire Lord Astarion Ancunín's Dark Consort for as long as you can remember. You don't remember much of your life before this undead life you live, but you do know you have a purpose. Obey.

WARNINGS: Smut, Extremely dubious consent, Mind control/manipulation, Orgasm control, Abusive relationship, Stockholm Syndrome, Physical Abuse

I do not say this lightly- Astarion is evil in this. This is an extremely toxic relationship. You have been warned!

(AO3 Link)

You are sitting in the lavish master chamber of the ornate palace you call home. Gazing into your reflection in the vanity mirror combing your unnaturally long black hair, getting lost in thought. It’s really all there is to do when Master Astarion is away on extended business trips like this.

It does help, too, that before he left he told you to think of him while he was gone. It was a command. So you obey. And you think.

You’ve been the Dark Consort of the Crimson Palace for you don't know how long. Time started to blend together around the first century of your undead life. Around that time, you had suspicions that Astarion may be dulling your mind with his power over you.

Yes- that’s right. You began questioning him about when he would grant you a drop of his blood like he said. That’s when-

Suddenly, your mind falls blank.

Wait…What were you thinking about again?

Right. Astarion. Your beloved Master who has taken care of you in all ways. You have everything you can ever imagine. You are so happy here.

You know somewhere in your mind that you were once a very powerful, talented Cleric reigning from Nimbral. Before you were the hero of Baldur’s Gate, you spent your time traveling The Forgotten Realms tending to the sick and needy. A mere blimp in your immortal lifetime. And feigns in comparison to what you do now as the consort to the Vampire Ascendant.

“Hero of Baldur’s Gate” rings in your mind for a moment. A title that hasn’t been used in reference to you in lifetimes. You almost forgot you had a life before the Crimson Palace. Before Cazador saw that Astarion was a far more suitable candidate for the rite of Profane Ascension than he. A life before you and Astarion took down the all powerful Netherbrain, saving Baldur’s Gate from impending doom.

You believe there were others there with you, but the memory of their faces is dull. You used to write letters to them behind Astarion’s back, you recall. Once he caught you doing it, they dissipated from your thoughts. He began limiting you from contacting those outside the palace walls after that. He said he was protecting you from yourself. That they no one cared for you like he does.

And he is right. He is the only one who knows what is best for you. Damn, you lost your train of thought again.

You were reminiscing…

Yes that’s right- when you and Astarion single handedly took down the Netherbrain, you were a very independent person. Did everything alone and didn’t answer to anyone. What a fool you were, to think you can exist without someone to serve. Without him. To think you can survive alone. You’re happy you’ve learned your lesson. Master is a wonderful teacher, after all.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of the multitude of locks on the chamber door being undone and jump to your feet. You brush your hands down your sheer red nightgown, smoothing out any imperfections before you're finally where you belong. In the gaze of your beloved master. You tremble at the thought of being in his vicinity again.

The door swings open revealing the magnificent form of a man that you have the honor of belonging to. He’s well kept with the most extravagant of garb, ornately decorated with the finest of gold beading and elaborate designs positioned in a way that compliments his flawless physique perfectly.

Your master begins to saunter into the bedroom where you are awaiting his arrival.

“There’s my perfect pet.” Astarion says as he approaches you with a predatory intent visible on his face.

He is expectant. And right to be. Your connection as master and spawn grants him full, unadulterated access to you. Your mind and body, his to command and compel at all times. And compel he did. During the entirety of his business trip he planted the seeds of lust into your mind. What he wants to do to you, what positions he will have you in, what he will have you do to him. All engraved in your mind like a mantra. A prayer to your dark God.

All along with the command to not pleasure yourself and not to orgasm until he commands it. You had no choice but to obey. But it was fine, this is all the routine at this point.

The first few times he had done this dance to you, you had been angry. You had been furious at him for putting you through such agonizing pain. You saw it as torture then. How adorably ignorant you once were.

No, this is no torture. He is doing it for you. He is but preparing you for him-the way in which you belong.

His slender hands graze your hips and his touch sends an electric bolt through your undead frame so strong that it draws a moan from your mouth.

“Tsk..” Astarion looks down onto you with an exaggerated face of pity “Seems I may have left you basking in my absence for a touch too long. If a brush through fabric is enough to have you scream for me, that is.”

You feel a wave of shame rush over you. Gods, how stupid could you be. You're pathetic for such a shameless display of your desperation. The feeling that you may have disappointed your master has made you feel like you deserve to be in the lesson room for at least a tenday.

Astarion places his hand under your chin, gently directing your gaze into his eyes. “That's exactly the way I want you. You are perfect. So very eager. And…” he moves his grip from your hips to graze the outside of your folds, “...oh so ready for me.”

He was right. You were drenched beyond comprehension, your fluids one more touch away from dripping down your legs. Having your master’s approval sends a wave of euphoria through you. One that no potion, no charm spell, no mushroom spore from the darkest of the underdark, could grant. How lucky are you. Your master is so kind to allow you such a feeling. You almost feel satiated. Almost.

“Oh Master, how I’ve missed you so.” you cry out, almost sobbing.

He moves his hand from your heat to the small of your back and the other to the back of your head, pulling you into a tight embrace. “Shh…” he coos, gently scratching your scalp. You start to sob into his shoulder. So overwhelmed with emotion that the only way to express it is to cry.

“Pet if you keep this up I might start to feel bad for you.” he scoffs while still holding you. “I love to hear you cry for me, but this seems a bit pathetic. Don’t you think so, dearest?”

“I-I know I’m-” you pull back and put your hands on your face. Partially to wipe your tears and partially to hide your embarrassment from him. “I’m sorry, Master.”

Astarion lets out a hearty laugh that makes you feel meek for a moment. “Darling, it’s okay! It’s not like you can help it.” he says as he makes his way to the bed.

You are confused but ultimately so overjoyed by the presence of your beloved that you don’t pay mind to it. Instead you focus on following him to the bed you share.

You watch in awe as he unbuttons and removes his coat to lay lazily on the mattress. He pats the unoccupied side of the sheets granting you permission to join him and your feet make their way to the bed. You lay on your side next to him, admiring his beautiful features. Thinking how lucky you are to belong to such a glorious creature as him.

He settles himself in, propped up into a seated position by the lushest, plushest pillows gold could grant.

“Okay darling, are you ready to show me how good you were in my absence?”

Your eyes light up and the underlying heat in your core grows exponentially. You nod with the enthusiasm of someone starved being offered a feast. You jump off the bed and begin to take off your nightgown.

“Not so fast,” your body freezes in place, limbs unable to move. “I don’t recall saying you could strip for me, little one. I thought you would have learned to behave by now…”

He’s right. You would have learned to behave, if that was what he wanted of you. You tried that once, toward the beginning of your undead life. Obeyed and did not do anything without permission. You did what he says he expects from you. You learned quickly that he doesn’t always mean the things he says. He began to grow bored of you. His business trips were far longer during the time of your complete obedience. You’ve fine tuned your behavior to be just the way he wants. Even if that entails enduring punishments. It’s worth it for his attention.

“Get back on the bed, pet. I decide what pace we move at, not you”

You hesitate, testing the waters of how he wants you to be. What kind of mood is he in tonight? Does he want you to be playful and a tease? Does he want you obedient?

His gaze remains on you, as you stay halted in your tracks.

“Now.” his eyes glow slightly with the increase of power over you. He entered your mind and you feel a sense of warmth over your thoughts, compelling you back to your previous position.

Obedient it is.

Next chapter: Boots

163 notes · View notes

brain-rot-central · 4 months ago

Text

Sonnet of the Lone Cardinal, Ch. 8

A/N: *Dead Dove: Do Not Eat* I probably should have added that tag a while ago. I apologize for not having done so up until this point. Major tw: depictions/references of alcoholism, trauma, abuse, PTSD, panic attacks. This chapter is a mess. I'm so sorry. It's like I bet myself how much darker can I get with each chapter, lmao. Proceed with caution.

Rating: Explicit (due to the themes, really. No smut this chapter.) Word count: 6k Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Female Tav (DU, named) Warnings: 18+, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, implied alcohol abuse, trauma, past abuse, PTSD, depictions of physical abuse, unhealthy relationship Summary: Astarion readies himself for the ball, then heads to retrieve Tav. A tumultuous heart-to-heart ensues.

♥ Previous Chapter ♥ Next Chapter ♥ Link to Ao3 ♥ Playlist

‘She’s voicing doubts, my lord. How shall I proceed?’

He impatiently taps his nails against the wood of the dresser. With his other hand, Astarion brings a glass of wine to his lips. He’s chosen a mellow red for this evening; smooth going down with just the slightest bite at the back of the tongue.

‘Push forward and ignore them,’ he responds through the telepathic bond. ‘Continue getting her ready.’

There’s a brief pause before Magdalena’s response comes through.

‘As you wish, Lord Ancunín.’

Astarion severs the connection abruptly.

Taking a quick sip of wine, he places the glass on top of the dresser and sighs. Warmth blooms within his chest as crimson liquid travels down his esophagus. It's almost reminiscent of blood he's supped upon:

Her blood. The sweetest substance to have ever graced his poisoned tongue.

Astarion lifts the sleeves of his shirt and picks up a bottle of cologne on the dresser, uncorking its stopper. He tilts the bottle and dabs it gently on his left wrist. Placing the bottle back down on the bureau, Astarion rubs his wrists one over the other, spreading the scent evenly. It's his signature blend for over two centuries, the recipe little changed. He taps the mouth of the bottle lightly with the pads of his fingers, then brings them to the delicate skin behind his ears.

There's one thing that’s undeniable, even to him. He's nervous. Terribly, terribly nervous. He hasn't felt this out of control in months. Tav’s proximity is impacting him in ways he hadn't anticipated. It's intoxicating, suffocating. She's all he can think about.

How to keep her happy, wanting. To stay within her good graces.

She’s seen too much far too soon. Perhaps Astarion would have revealed everything to her in time, but certainly not at this point. Not when everything is still so fresh between them. And now that she's voicing doubts, he wants nothing more than to perform as much damage control as possible.

Her departure is simply not an option. Unless it's on agreeable terms.

Astarion is a horrid planner. It's a miracle he's stuck to this current one, though having to adjust his plan so early is distressing. It feels as though he's grasping at straws. Barely keeping his head above water. That isn't a place he enjoys being.

Tav will speak with Wyll tonight, and he's nervous. So terribly nervous of how Wyll will try souring his name. Slip a slow, creeping venom into Tav's mind, poisoning her thoughts. Astarion is nervous that all he's put into repairing the frayed bond he and Tav share will be undone by this single conversation.

He pulls down his sleeves and shrugs his shoulders, giving himself a look in the mirror. He's chosen a loose maroon dress shirt for the evening, a few buttons undone at the top and the hem tucked in. A pair of black dress slacks held fast by a black belt with a silver buckle, and brown leather shoes complete his ensemble. He draws a deep breath in, exhaling with a slight shake of his head.

It dawns on him that he isn't exactly sure what his end goal is. To charm Tav back into his arms, yes. But what else? Does he wish for more, or to keep this casual?

No.

The nonchalance of this affair stopped after the third night.

When she held his face to hers–their foreheads pressed together as they shared the same air–Astarion knew. The shopkeeper below Tav's loft banged viciously on the ceiling, shouting muffled expletives through the floor. But Astarion was beyond caring. He sang as loud as Tav did, greedily drinking her moans as though the centuries-long hunger still consumed him.

This is very much a thing. A very real thing.

Feelings he'd hoped to have lost are involved, left over from before the ascension. He’s not happy to admit it, but it would be foolish to deny their existence.

The remnants of him.

The sad, pitiful spawn. Groveling in the dirt, forced onto his back by the whim of another. How truly misguided his trust had been at the hour of his death. Astarion shakes his head free of the thought before it can warp further.

Yet, a sinking reality sets in.

That's who she wants, though… isn't it?

The man he was? There's little chance Tav feels for him now. She may never again, not after all she's seen.

This provokes another thought to come forward.

Did she ever want him beyond what his body could offer? He's almost sure of it, but most importantly…

Why does he care now?

There are times when he looks into her eyes that Astarion almost sees it. The classic look she gives only to him. The one that makes his knees falter and his heart race. The longing laced within her gaze. It makes him wish he could sequester her back to his chamber and have her sing his name, his praises, until the sun comes up.

Astarion would willingly be her protector. The fulfiller of all her wishes. He would make it abundantly clear how none of what he has could have been possible without her. How he wishes to share all of this with her. He will do anything, everything, to prove that to her.

Everything, aside from admitting one small thing. And as he gazes into the mirror, Astarion rolls his eyes and scoffs.

Love.

What a foolish concept.

He picks up a silver chain necklace from the bureau and fastens it around his neck. Rubies adorn the solid silver pendant of the necklace and Astarion adjusts it to hang between the open lapels of his shirt, against his bare chest. The metal is cool as it lays against his skin. It's only then that he realizes how flushed he is.

How his heart jumps in his throat.

Astarion reaches for the glass of wine once more, stealing another sip. The sting on the back of his tongue soothes the ache. For now.

His dagger, Rhapsody, is the last item to prepare. Originally owned by a corrupt master, but taken as a spoil of war. It's dull now and essentially for show, but he cares not. Astarion stows a separate sharpened blade on his outer ankle at all times, hidden by the length of his trousers; a habit left over from his past life. He secures the dagger's holster around his left thigh, attaching it to his belt, then slips the blade within.

Tav will be on his right arm when they make their entrance. That's at least what he has planned.

Brushing a few stray hairs into place, Astarion gives himself a final look in the mirror. Satisfied, he chokes back the remainder of the wine he's been nursing all evening, slamming the glass down hard onto the dresser.

A glimmer of light jumps in his periphery as his fist connects with the wood and Astarion looks. A golden ring with a turquoise gemstone sits within a clear case, nestled within a bed of velvet.

True Love’s Caress.

The ring Tav gave to him, so long ago.

Astarion quickly opens the case, slipping the ring onto the fourth finger of his left hand, and heads out into the hall. As he walks down the long corridor toward Tav’s room, he nods absently at those he sees along the way.

His chest begins to burn, his mind growing clouded.

Why does he care if she stays? Does he really need her? Ultimately, no. But…

Astarion has unlimited wealth and resources. A plethora of lords and ladies would all but collapse at his feet for an opportunity to become his betrothed. Throw in the chance of eternal life, and that list is bound to grow exponentially.

He doesn't notice the speed in which he's barreling down the hall until he almost walks face first into a silver tray holding freshly cut fruit, carried by an unsuspecting servant. “M-my apologies, my lord!” the young woman gasps, clamoring for control over the tray as it sways in her hands.

Astarion doesn't recall ever seeing this one before. Magdalena is responsible for the staffing of the palace. Regardless, he raises a hand and gives the young woman a short bow in apology, continuing on his way.

His vision sways as the wine finally takes hold.

No, he doesn't necessarily need Tavaria. He’d go about his time just fine without her. But… would he enjoy it? Would he be satisfied?

Astarion stops dead in his tracks, clenching his fists hard enough for his nails to bite into the skin of his palms.

…Does he want for this?

No, he couldn't possibly. He's the vampire ascendant! The most powerful vampire lord to have ever lived. The waking dream of all his kind. He wants for nothing. Has no need of groveling in the dirt. The world is his playground, and he will take whatever it is he desires. It's what he's owed after two hundred years of shit.

Pure shit.

The gods turned their backs on him during his most desperate hour of need. They'll have little choice but to acknowledge him now.

No, Tav should be thanking him for being so generous as to give her a second chance. Another opportunity of having every decadence life has to offer handed to her. Wealth, power, pleasure. So much pleasure that she needn’t ask for it ever again. Astarion would see to that personally.

If she chooses wisely.

He straightens his posture and gives his head a quick shake, strengthening his resolve.

She will. One way or another, she will fall back into his arms.

Astarion knows she's afflicted with the same sickness he has. Tav’s heart gallops when he draws near. Her blood sings, her breath halts. He can almost hear the way her skin calls for the icy pierce of his fangs. Smell the desire that burns deep within her to be well and truly his.

She will succumb to his song.

She will be his consort.

They will spend eternity in each other's arms.

Though his resolve fades quickly as his feet finally bring him before Tav’s door. Nervous energy surges through him again. It fights for dominance against the sedating alcohol coursing through his body. And for a passing moment, he feels faint.

Astarion clears his throat and rolls his shoulders, giving a quick surveillance of his surroundings.

No one else is within this end of the manor. It’s only them.

With some trepidation, Astarion lifts a hand, placing three soft raps against the wooden door with the back of his knuckle, the ring around his finger catching his eye.

And he waits.

His elven ears then pick up the faint sound of shuffling from behind the door. “Is that you, Magdalena?” comes Tav’s muffled voice.

“No, it's only me, darling,” Astarion replies with as much composure as he can muster. When he hears rustling within the bedroom, he quickly adds, “Take your time. There's no rush.”

As he awaits for her to open the door, thoughts from earlier begin to resurface.

Should she refuse his offer still, despite all he's done… What, then? What more is there to do? Not much, he feels.

And at that point, when all other options have been exhausted…

Well… she’d be forcing his hand, then.

Wouldn't she?

The door suddenly opens, and the sight of her makes his breath grow cold within his chest. Tav is wearing the emerald dress he'd commissioned for her and the pair of golden shoes he'd sent. Her long, auburn hair cascades down her sun-freckled shoulders in loose, wavy ringlets. But what makes Astarion’s breath cease lay across her forehead.

Her soft, sweeping bangs have transported him back to the crash site of the Nautiloid, to when they first met. And every night thereafter, when she'd inevitably slink her way over to his tent to steal a word. Or several.

How she'd style them differently day after day. Play with them if they were to broach an uncomfortable subject. The way she'd dip her head to hide behind them in an effort to play coy.

Astarion remembers how they'd cling to her sweat-soaked brow as she called his name over and over again from below him, rendering him completely and utterly helpless to resist her. How he'd brush them to the side to rest his head directly against hers. Placed gentle kisses to the top of her brow after they finished.

“Rather bold to cut your hair the night of an event, eh?” he remarks with a chuckle.

Tav shrugs in response. “Just felt like something I needed to do.” Her expression is flat as she steps out of the doorway, ushering him in.

As he steps into the bedroom, Astarion gives her a small smile, nervous energy peaking once more. He notices the tennis necklace he sent her clutched in her hand, and he winces. “Have you found everything to your liking?” he asks, curiously.

Tav shuts the bedroom door behind them, then walks to the vanity. Her back is to him as she says, “Oh, yes, everything is absolutely beautiful.” There's a small crack in her voice.

Something is troubling her.

Astarion sighs, anticipating the turn the conversation is taking. “I get the feeling there's a ‘but’ coming, here,” he states exasperatedly.

Tav shakes her head, now turning toward him. “No, it's not that.” She looks at her hands, running the necklace between her fingers. “I… I wanted to talk candidly about what happened in the crypts.”

“I don't understand what more of a discussion could be had,” Astarion spits, defensively. He did what she asked. What more is there to say?

Her bottom lip trembles as she pulls it between her teeth. Tav places the bracelet down on the counter and draws in a deep breath. She then lifts her head to face him.

Astarion does not like where this is going.

“When I encouraged you to show those men mercy…” her voice trails off. She's seemingly lost in thought for moment before she continues, “...you killed them.” Tav shakes her head in disbelief, eyes blinking rapidly. “You killed them, Astarion.”

He furrows his brow in question. “Were you hoping for a different outcome?”

“No,” Tav says with another shake of her head. “No, I knew that's what you'd do.” Tav meets his eyes again with an intense gaze. “But I didn't quite understand why until after.”

…Oh.

She caught that, did she?

He shouldn't be so surprised. Tav always pieces together everything he doesn't wish to say. It's maddening, how he can never hide from her. Though, in a way… It's comforting. To have someone see him.

The real him.

“Do you…” her voice fades again, but she takes a deep breath and pushes forward. “Do you still feel that way?” Tav asks, voice small. “About yourself?”

Astarion draws a large breath through his nose and crosses his arms over his chest. For a moment, he doesn't speak. His mind scrambles for the appropriate words, alongside a fitting delivery.

Once he finds it, Astarion says, “Not anymore, no. That feeling died when Cazador did.” The name feels like a shard of ice through his chest as it tumbles forward, but it's a momentary pain that fades as quickly as it comes.

An awkward silence hangs like thick fog about the air. They're still looking at one another, and Astarion notices a glossy sheen to Tav’s eyes.

“...What replaced it?” Tav asks in a voice still barely above a whisper.

He knows what replaced that feeling, but it's not something she needs to know right now.

Bitterness.

Bitterness is what replaced the feeling of hopelessness Astarion carried for two centuries. All of his anger. Spite. Unrest, for the poor card life had given him for so many years. How he screamed, and screamed, and screamed for someone, anyone to hear him. To pull him from his waking nightmare.

No one ever did.

Until her.

Tavaria was the only one who extended a hand to him. The only one who found him worth saving. Who listened to him. Gave even a sliver of a shit to see him.

And it dawns on him then that she truly did care for him. Found more worth to him beyond what his body could give her.

But it terrifies him to know that she sees everything. Astarion will never be able to hide for long, if they're together. She knows him too well–understands things about him that he doesn't quite get himself. He will never have full control of their dynamic. She will always be a step ahead of him, and he'll be dashing behind her to catch up.

It will be a nightmare for him.

But, gods… How his heart still aches for her. Longs for her to hold him within her embrace.

“I'm not quite sure, my dear,” is Astarion's crafted reply. He speaks with ease, shifting his weight to the opposite hip. “I tend not to dwell on it much, these days.”

It's a lie, but one small enough to hopefully get her off his back. And it seems to work, at least for now. Tav grows quiet, dropping her eyes to the floor. Her hands work quickly again, fingers rubbing over one another.

Gesturing to the necklace on the vanity with a wave of his hand, Astarion says, “May I help you with that?” He outstretches a hand in her direction–an invitation for her to place the tennis necklace within his palm.

Tav blinks up at him. With a nod, she picks up the necklace and hands it to Astarion. She turns around to face the mirror, clasping her hands together over her abdomen.

He unhooks the necklace and steps behind her swiftly. Astarion gently sweeps her hair free off her shoulder, Tav reaching up to hold it out of the way for him. As her hair lifts, the smell of lavender and pine wafts about the air: two of the scents he had crafted just for her. Reminiscent of their first night together in the clearing within the forest.

Astarion's arms come up above her head, falling feather-light to lay the jewelry across her chest. He steals a glance of them both in the mirror. Light from a candle reflects off the diamond studded earrings he's given her.

And then, it suddenly hits him.

He does want this. Yearns for more. There's a twist deep within his chest as he fastens the jewelry around the column of her throat, reaching up to move her hair back in place. The backs of his hands glide smoothly against her shoulders as he drops his hands. Astarion moves his face to the softness of her hair and plants a kiss, sucking in a sharp breath through his nose. The scent of her overwhelms his senses. His head spins as he closes his eyes, finding solace in the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“...Astarion...”

He opens his eyes and finds Tav’s face again within the mirror, full with worry. With one hand she plays with the necklace, twisting it between her fingertips. “...Did you ever love me?” she asks, voice quivering.

The sound of her heart pounds in his ears. The rush of her blood is a quartet cascading toward a triumphant crescendo. It's so quick it can almost be mistaken for two distinct heartbeats as he beats against his eardrums. Astarion's heart then pounds in tandem with hers, head growing light. Heat creeps under his skin and his vision narrows.

Love.

He positively loathes the word. The feeling. The sentiment.

It makes his skin crawl. Hands claw at his neck. A knife carving deep into his back. The room grows silent and then he's slipping, far back into the recesses of his mind.

‘I write this poem of love for you, my son. For all my children.’

A high pitched scream rings loudly against the stone walls of the kennels. Godey stands watch, bones rattling as he comes forward to reinforce the shackles around Astarion's arms and legs.

Rhapsody drags across his back, slicing into delicate porcelain skin. Astarion feels rivulets of cool liquid running down his back, and when the scent of iron reaches his nose, he realizes it's his blood pouring onto the mattress below.

Cazador raises the blood-soaked blade to his face, swiping his tongue against the flat edge. He groans in satisfaction as the crimson essence fills his mouth, then sets the dagger to work once more.

Astarion screams as his flesh parts again, a new rune being carved.

‘With this, we will forever be connected,’ Cazador explains. ‘You will always be mine.’

Astarion steps back, dragging a hand across his face. He feels the ever-present demon that sleeps within threatening to surface. An overwhelming sense of dread grips him tight. “...You know how I feel about that word,” he insists, hoping desperately that she'll drop this conversation before it's too late.

Tav meets his gaze through the mirror. Astarion watches the movement of her throat as she swallows. “But did you?” She then turns her whole body to meet him directly. “Did he?”

He. Him. The man he used to be. Not the man who stands before her, now.

Astarion's lips curl into a dangerous smile, a snicker rumbling through his chest. “There it is,” he remarks with sarcasm. He raises a hand and points a single finger into the air, wagging it back and forth. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to bring him up again.” He's beginning to feel more like himself again; further from tipping over the edge.

Tav’s expression sours and she shrugs her shoulders. “Can you blame me, Astarion? At least I knew where I stood with him.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “You feel akin to a stranger, now.”

Pain grips him as her words split wide through his chest, plunging him back down the path of what seems to be an inevitable crash. “I certainly am not, my dear, ” Astarion says. His voice is even despite the storm raging within. “I haven't been for quite some time.”

Then, he sees them: the tears welling up at the corners of her eyes.

Shit, he curses to himself. This is not what he wants–not what he needs. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry, please don't cry–

“Then why do you seem so different?” Tav squeaks, trying to stave off her sobs. “Why can I no longer feel the warmth of your heart?”

Then, they fall. Hard. And the walls he's fought so hard to keep up collapse inward.

…Fuck.

Astarion can hardly stomach the thought of having hurt her, let alone see physical proof. Her makeup is ruined. Mascara runs down her cheeks. Tears cut streaks through her foundation. Tav covers her face with her hands and briskly turns away, choosing to stand near the door leading out onto the balcony.

Each choked sob from Tav sends a jolt of electric shooting across his chest. “Tavaria…” Astarion whispers. He approaches gently from behind, maintaining distance. “Come now, darling; you know that's not true. I’m right here, as I've always been.”

Control. He must regain control of this situation.

She plants her palms flat against the glass door and she sucks in a gasp. Her head hangs down between her shoulders. “You're not,” Tav argues. “This is not the man I know.” Astarion observes as she shakes her head. Turning to him, she dabs her eyes with the back of her hand. “This is not the man I fell in love with. Who loved me.”

“Tav–”

“This is a man who fears love. Operates off of obsession. Who is jealous,” she remarks angrily, voice rising. “You give me the illusion of freedom, Astarion, but this is hardly freedom.” Tav raises a hand and sweeps it across the room. “You've given me nothing but a gilded cage to fly about in!”

The sharp edge of her tongue cuts deep once more. But this time, a sudden flare of rage rises within and he rushes forward. “Do you think I would do this for anyone else?” Astarion stands face to face with her, nostrils flaring with heavy breath. “Share all of this with a common fool off the street?!”

“Then say it!” Tav roars back, entire body shaking. Tears still fall from her eyes, but Astarion can tell they're more from frustration than pain. “Fucking hells, Astarion. Just fucking say it already!”

Drawing in a breath, Astarion blinks, stepping back slightly. He's suddenly warm. Very, very warm. But a chil thenl shoots up his spine.

He… does love her. Loves this.

Wants to hold her forever in this room, suspended in this moment for the rest of eternity. She's beautiful–so godsdamned beautiful–as she stares at him, bewildered.

But he can't touch her. Not more than he already has. Anything more is sacrilege, tainted. He'll ruin it. Ruin her. Ruin everything.

Though… this is what she's asking of him…

Right?

And truth be told, Astarion wants to delve deeper. He longs to dig through her chest and curl alongside her heart, forever. Tav made her home so long ago within his.

He wants her to come home–come back to him.

Astarion swallows thickly as he asks, “...What do you think we are?” He's doing his best to keep his voice even, despite feeling like his heart is in his mouth. If this is his chance to win her back, he'll take it. He'll finally show her his heart.

“Gods, Astarion; I don't know,” Tav answers, flustered. She throws her hands up. “Lovers, perhaps?”

A sharp pain grips his chest accompanied by a head rush. Astarion becomes acutely aware of just how fast his heart is beating. “And what do you want us to be?” he asks in a hushed tone.

Tav holds his gaze for a moment, then drops her focus to the floor. “Astarion…” She rests a hand over the emerald fabric of the dress, rubbing circular patterns into her stomach. “I… Gods, this is pointless,” Tav states abruptly, dashing toward the washroom door.

But as Tav passes, Astarion reaches swiftly to clasp a hand around her upper arm. The grip isn't tight enough to leave an impression, though it prevents her from continuing forward.

“What do you want us to be, Tavaria?” Astarion reiterates, sternly. “I'm not letting go without an answer.”

The adrenaline is setting in and his vision begins to narrow. Sound slowly fades from his ears, replaced by thunderous clashes of his heart against his ribcage. Tav lifts her face to address him. Astarion meets her gaze and his breath runs cold.

“...I want him,” Tav confesses. Her green eyes are glossy with tears threatening to spill over again, and there's a flush to her entire face. “Gods, I miss us, Astarion.”

Finally, the dam gives way again, alongside the last shreds of his resolve.

Astarion laughs haughtily, throwing his head back with a howl. She sheds tears for the sniveling coward he once was, and none for the man who stands beside her.

How silly of him to think he could bare anything to her.

“Tch,” Astarion scoffs, releasing his hold on her arm, “Of course you'd prefer the version of me that had no choice but to lay on his back should his master command it.”

Tav narrows her gaze and takes a few steps away from Astarion, wiping her tears once more with the back of a hand. “I don’t want to control you, Astarion,” she sniffles. “What have I done that proves I mean you harm?”

He then laughs again.

Enraged, Astarion surges forward. “Oh, my dear, you're guilty of the ultimate betrayal!” he chides. “You left me,” The words are gruff as they fall from his mouth, spoken through clenched teeth. He watches as Tav recoils further from him.

“You wanted to kill me,” argues Tav with a tilt of her head. “We’ve already had his discussion, Astarion.”

Astarion scowls. “No, darling. I told you I only wished to deliver you unto undeath.” The storm begins to quell and he reaches out, holding her hands within his own. “And as I've stated before, I was only trying to give you what you wanted,” he says, voice dropping an octave.

‘Isn’t that what you want?’ Astarion recalls telling her. ‘To be mine? Forever?’

Turning her is the only way he can guarantee that they’ll be together forever. Make good on his promise to protect her. That he’ll never have to suffer the crushing loss of her.

Astarion's breath comes in quick, short pants as they exchange heated glances between the silence stretched before them.

Tav shakes her head, pulling her hands free from his grasp. “He would have never asked me to do that,” she infers.

A heavy weight sits on Astarion’s chest and he sighs in disappointment. “You're wrong.”

He would have.

Then, and now still, he would. The moment he realized his skin smelled of her soaps more often than not is when this hunger took root. But he was too weak. Too fearful of what his attachment meant for her.

She became all Astarion thought about: how his proximity to her made her a target, should Cazador come for him. How useless he would be without the tadpole if attacked in broad daylight. Her smile, her hair, the feeling of her pulse thrumming under his tongue while seated in his lap. He remembers how his chest ached when considering a path without her, as if his heart still beat.

Keeping her close to him, forever, is all he's ever longed for…

“He just lacked the ability to do so,” Astarion explains. “Lucky for us, he's no longer here.”

“He loved me,” Tav blurts out. “And that's more than I can say of you now.”

…but she still doesn't see it.

“Are you even capable of that now?” she asks in a contemptuous tone. “Or is this all I’ll ever get?”

“You are worth so much,” sneers Astarion. His face hovers above hers as he searches her eyes. “You’ve no idea.”

“Then tell me, Astarion.” Tav moves forward; Astarion instinctively backs away. “Tell me how much I mean to you.” His back hits the bedroom door and she pauses, leaving barely an inch of space between them. “Tell me how much you love me, Astarion. Please,” she pleads, voice breaking.

Astarion's chest heaves, and the demon creeps forward. The word is tainted, so heavily defiled. It's a strong poison that Astarion will never be able to suck out. It will leech into every part of what they have and slowly, surely, kill everything.

“I… I–” he stammers. Astarion wants to say it. It's right on the tip of his tongue, but it catches in his throat. His mind is loud, thoughts racing so quickly he can barely keep up with what they're saying. She's staring at him expectantly, and he has nothing to deliver.

He feels lost, as though his body is no longer his own. The scars on his back sting like they're freshly carved. There are shackles around his ankles and a hand around his neck.

He's back in the kennels, oh gods he's back in the kennels, Godey maniacal laughter rings in his ears, he's trapped, he's trapped, he's trapped–

‘I do this out of love…’

Astarion can't breathe.

He's being flayed, he's being impaled. He feels his control slipping as his thoughts become louder, shouting at him full-forced. The demon creeps forward and he can see its face. Astarion feels himself beginning to slip away.

He can't say it. She can never know. But he has to fix this. He can fix this. How can he fix this?

…Oh.

Then suddenly, it comes to him: the urge to fuck it into her instead.

Pick her up and whisk her onto the bed, because that's the language he knows. A language he trusts. He can thrust, and thrust and thrust until she cries his name, his praises into the night.

Yes, everything would be better if he did just that.

He can show her how he feels. He won't have to say it. He can still stay safe, she'll never have to know. She doesn't need to know. He could just fuck her, over and over, as long as she wants. Forever, and ever, and ever–

But not right now.

Later.

Later he'll give himself to her, after he's had more to drink. That always makes this easier.

“The party is about to begin,” he manages to say. Astarion reaches behind himself to find the handle of the door. He clears his throat, then says, “We really should get going.”

Tav blinks, her expression falling flat. “Alright,” she says, soberly. She gazes a moment too long at him before eventually moving away to the mirror, taking a quick glance at herself. She wipes a finger under each eye, ridding herself of the smeared mascara. “Give me a few moments and I'll be right out.”

There's a soft tremor in her voice and Astarion knows she's unhappy with him, but at this moment, all he cares about is avoiding this topic. They will eventually have this discussion again–he knows it’s inevitable. Yet for now, he can breathe again.

Astarion nods, giving a quick dip of his head in acknowledgement toward Tav. He twists the handle of the bedroom door just as she enters the washroom and steps outside, the door closing behind him with a soft ‘click.’

A muffled sob can then be heard from the opposite end of the door, and a pang of guilt grips his chest.

Tavaria is crying. Again. All because he couldn't say three bloody words to her.

Astarion raises a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He's said them before in jest–way before she meant anything significant to him. It isn't like he's incapable… nor would he be lying, should he say them again.

His head throbs behind his eyes–the drink from before beginning to fade–and he digs his fingers harder into his skin.

Even if he is upset over it, Astarion knows why she left him. He doesn't even truly disagree with it, because had he been told the reality of what being a vampire spawn was like, he may have just chosen actual death itself. But he would never subject her to even a fraction of what he endured. He would make the experience so pleasant for her, so very enjoyable.

And she's here now, isn't she? She hasn't run yet, despite all she's seen. Has invited him into her bed countless times over these last few months. She's never told him to leave.

Right now, Astarion hates himself. Hates the chokehold just thinking about love has over him. She deserves to be told how he feels. To hear him say it. She isn't Cazador. No, she's quite the opposite of him, actually.

The opening of the bedroom door pulls Astarion from his thoughts, and he steps away from the doorway. Tav appears as the door swings fully open, her makeup redone and her eyes somewhat puffy, but she puts on her best smile and she steps through the threshold.

Astarion's chest aches as he looks at her face. It's all for show, and he knows it. Returning her smile, Astarion then holds a folded arm out toward Tav. She graciously accepts his offering by slipping her arm within his, and they head toward the ballroom.

They look every bit like the perfect couple as they walk through the hall, but his chest feels hollow. They reach the top of the stairs and Astarion steps down first, offering his hand to Tav. He sees the trepidation in her eyes, but eventually she smiles and accepts his offer.

And when her hand slots perfectly into his, light gleaming off the turquoise gemstone of True Love’s Caress, the knife twists so deeply within his chest that it knocks the air clean from his lungs.

He truly is a godsdamned fool.

#ascended astarion #dead dove do not eat #sotlc #bg3 fanfiction #tavstarion #astarion x female tav #astarion x female oc #goodnight i'm so sorry for this #AA isn't ok guys lmao

103 notes · View notes

pursuitseternal · 4 months ago

Text

𝒮𝓅𝒶𝓌𝓃 𝒜𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒫𝓇𝑜𝓂𝓅𝓉𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒟𝓇𝒶𝒷𝒷𝓁𝑒𝓈

🗡️ “You Make Me Want to Live:” one year later, Anniversary smut, back where you met Astarion 🗡️Ao3 link🗡️

🗡️ “Magical:” Act 3 au romance, after a break up, your Rogue admits his feelings

🗡️ “Virgin Blood:” losing your virginity to Astarion, retelling Act 1 Romance 🗡️Ao3 link🗡️

🗡️”Filthy:” prompt fill— Astarion makes sure you’re completely cleaned after battle

🗡️”I can be quick:” prompt fill— Astarion x Curvy female reader, body worship, NSFW

🗡️Mistrial: Modern Faerûn AU: Justice Ancunín find Tav again after centuries, right in his own courtroom

🗡️Yuletide in Faerûn : A Yultide Miracle🗡️

Smut Ask Prompts

From my Smut Ask Prompts

✨ “I’m all yours…” Act 3 Sunbathing smut [x f!Reader]

✨ “I want to please you:” Post-confession angst smut [ x f!Reader]

✨ “Helpful” [x Reader, pregnancy]

✨ “Cat’s got your tongue?” [Gale x Reader x Astarion]

✨ “Can you tell me what you did wrong?” [Shadowheart x F!Tav x Astarion]

✨ “We don’t even have to take our clothes off/I told you, you would start begging…” [ x f!Reader]

✨ “Wait to start begging/ Use my thigh…” [UA Spawn x f!Reader]

✨ “Please no more, I can’t” [Astarion x f!Durge] part 1

✨ “If we weren’t in public right now…” [Astarion x f!Durge] part 2

✨ “Music to my ears…” [ Astarion x Bard!Tav]

✨ “I prefer the real thing” [ x Reader, portrait painting]

✨ “The Silent Library” [ x Reader, brat taming]

✨ “As long as you both shall live” [angst, nightmare]

✨ “Oh for a skeleton key” [general menace Astarion]

81 notes · View notes

faerievampling · 9 months ago

Text

Killing Time

Chapter 5: Pink

Word Count: 5.2k

Pairing: Soft Ascended!Astarion x female Tav/Reader

Link to AO3!

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 6.

Masterlist

Warnings: 18+. Explicit. PiV. Anal Sex. Oral Sex. Cunnilingus. Blowjob. Handjob. Creampie. Body worship. Overstimulation. Possessive behavior. Soft Ascended Astarion.

A/N: Lots of smut in this chapter and A!Astarion being horny and soft for his vampire wife. Next chapter will be lots of fun. Hope you guys enjoy <3 im either sorry for the word count bc it got out of hand orrrr you love a healthy word count and you're welcome :)

Pic by: @cheekylittlepupp<3

When Kith’rak Elan assigned Astarion’s group to a new training room, you were almost certain Astarion wouldn’t allow it: but he hadn’t fought the decision, thank the gods, because he was starting to embarrass you, and you don’t think you could have handled another blunder.

You hadn’t realized how annoying a doting husband could be until you arrived at the Crystalline Spire. You were used to spending a lot of time with Astarion and being adored by him, but it had been long since anyone treated you the way the gith did; it had brought out a different side of your vampire, seeing his darling with so much responsibility again.

Astarion, his anxieties steadily increasing, had become insistent on having some part of his body touching you whenever possible: this wasn’t unusual for the two of you, but he had gotten rather forceful about it.

Back home, you and Astarion subjugated all that surrounded you; Astarion handled most things, leaving you with little interaction with the ‘outside world’. Your world was your life and marriage with Astarion, and you had been happy with that arrangement for many centuries.

In turn, Astarion had relatively little experience handling his own emotions when it came to seeing you outside the safety of your home. You could sense his discomfort when you weren’t in his line of view; his anxieties would only grow into frustration from there: if you were so far Astarion couldn’t detect your scent, you were to expect his constant presence in your mind, especially after what happened on the hunt.

There was one day Astarion had interrupted your training session because he wanted to be with you. Chae and several of the others giggled when you had obeyed, earning them a wretched glare from Astarion.

“Who were they laughing at?” Astarion asked as you sat in his lap, your back pressed to his muscular form; he smoothed your hair with his free hand as his other arm was wrapped around you, wrist in your mouth as you fed on his delicious essence. He had to ask you twice to get you to answer.

“Me, mostly. Chae and Quinel laugh because they think I’m a pleasure slave to you. Marg’o giggles only because she finds you dashing.Many of them don’t realize I can read their thoughts and hear their whispers.”

Astarion had only hummed in reply before flawlessly maneuvering your weight in his hands, putting his sweet little consort whenever he needed her to be.

****

It takes Astarion far longer than you’d anticipated to explain the death of the spawn to you. After he told you not to fret over it, you decided to listen, leaving it in the back of your busy mind for another day.

But when Astarion finally tells you the dead spawn is Marwa, you understand what has happened.

“You’ve been spying back on Moth.” Your tone is accusatory, but you knew there was no other reason why Marwa could have been killed in such a way: she must have been caught, and was left out in the sun to burn.

You had already decided not to chide Astarion about refusing to grant the other spawn his gifts. You already knew that was a generally ‘off-limits’ topic for the Ancuníns.

You and Astarion sit cross legged on your bed facing each other, knee to knee. Ever since Astarion had somehow managed to have the gith find the two of you your own room, separate from your underlings, it had allowed for more open and intimate contact.

It had been good for you, because there wasn’t anything you wanted more than to be in Astarion’s arms after a long day. But it had been…not so good for Astarion, who was beginning to only crave you more, his resentment for this entire journey only increasing as the days went on. Especially when his sending stone never stopped pinging; at some point, Astarion would have to tuck it away, ignoring the messages of the empire and likely whatever communication the spawn would have with him telepathically.

You knew there was far more at play than you realized. You had just never really cared before; not for a very long time, anyways.

Astarion massages your fingers and palms. Although your vampiric regeneration would ensure no lasting injuries, it didn’t exclude you from feeling stiff: you were undead, after all, and being stiff just came with the territory.

But your use of so many unpracticed muscles in such a short amount of time had you aching in ways you had forgotten.

“You need to stretch more,” Astarion says as he stews over the Marwa discussion. He began to inspect your nails, his fingers gently tugging on your joints. “It’s a shame that you prefer to use your gorgeous hands in battle. It makes you smell more gith than I’d like.”

You roll your eyes. “Everywhere smells like gith. We're at a crèche, darling.”

Astarion narrows his eyes at you, suddenly looking focused. “What else am I to do? How else am I to gather information?” You were back to Marwa. “Maybe you don’t realize, my darling, that Marwa has been a spy for me for half a millenia. I’ve sent her on countless missions. She’s been to Moth’s estate many times.”

“And now she’s dead.” A part of you thinks about Marwa, and you realize you didn’t know anything about her beyond what her capabilities and usefulness to Astarion was. Hmm.

Astarion laughs. “You’re not wrong, but by the gods are you adorable when you worry about our little family.”

Astarion brings his head towards your palm, planting a kiss in its center before moving his way up your wrist, motioning you underneath him as his pretty lips trail their way to your neck, leaving you feeling tingly at the sensation.

You pull away, narrowing your eyes at him. “You don’t take me seriously, do you?”

“Come now, pet, why do you say that? Do you really mean to criticize how I choose to protect our family? To protect what’s mine?” Astarion playfully plants kisses on your cheek—you feel the flutter of his lashes on your temple, making you shiver from the closeness.

“No, I just…I don’t want the situation to become worse. What if he finds us here?” Your eyes are wide as he moves to meet your gaze. Astarion is scowling.

“Why are you even thinking about these things, Tav? Do you not trust me to protect you?” But Astarion stops there, because he recognizes your apprehension: a feeling similar to the unease you felt before Lae’zel’s arrival.

That unease that was connected to your psychic foresight, the one you were born with that seemingly amplified once you turned into a vampire—the very one that Astarion was now silently cursing for its uselessness.

“A spawn has never died before.” You emphasize this, that in the two millennia of your vampiric lives, firsts don’t often occur.

“Yes, and?” Astarion’s thinking he’s already handled everything and doesn’t understand your upset.

“I’m a spawn. If Moth can kill Marwa—“

Astarion places two fingers atop the plump of your lip, preventing you from speaking further. He’s shushing you, but you grab his wrist and pull his hand away, your eyes burning with frustration as you bring yourself back up to a seat, Astarion allowing you to maneuver freely.

“Don’t hush me like that, I-I don’t like that.” You think about how the other day, Joss kept interrupting you during your tracking lesson. It annoyed you to no end, and it particularly penetrated your cool exterior when Astarion did it.

Astarion blinks at you, surprised that you corrected his behavior. You often told him what you wanted, but that was about material things, like servants and dresses and invitations (once, long ago, you had to tell Astarion to stop inviting Lord Renald to your parties. That man stank to the high heavens despite all the gaudy perfume he wore.) but not often (if ever) about intimate things, such as how Astarion touched you.

Astarion was the one who decided that: by whom and how you were touched. There wasn’t any part of your body unexplored or off-limits to him.

Astarion’s eyes are dark as he rests his hand on your chest, index finger gently caressing your collarbone. “And I didn’t like the way you were speaking.”

“I am your spawn, though. You call me that often enough, you remind me often.”

Astarion brings his hand to cup your jaw, urging you to meet his gaze. “We’ve discussed this before, do we really need to go over it again? You’re my consort. My wife. You are the only one who has supped my blood.”

“But you were created for me,” Astarion directs at you as his lips find yours once again, his tongue seemingly desperate to be inside your mouth. You think maybe he just wants you to stop talking, but his hardened cock does make you realize his intentions aren’t all that calculated.

But Astarion, no stranger to understanding the value in communicating with his consort, reluctantly brings his lips away from the only object he truly desires. “You are mine, Tav. It doesn’t matter what you are, only that I’ve given everything I possibly could to you, since the very moment we became beholden to one another back at Moonrise Towers.”

This was entirely true, and it softens you a bit. Astarion, seeing the way your eyes open and your mouth parts, those cute little fangs he gave you peeking out from the plush pads of your pretty lips; he can no longer help himself, and decides he needs to be inside of you, because it had been far too long for the living vampire to have been without his wife in his arms.

Astarion’s lips find purchase on yours once more: they are sloppy, uncontrolled, his desire for you running to his very core. It was like it was in his very nature to love you.

“You’re far stronger than the spawn are. And you're always under my especially watchful eye, as you know. How lucky you are, I made you my bride.” Astarion is nearly lost in the bliss of your body as he pushes you on your back, bringing the hem of your nightgown up to accommodate himself between your legs.

You’re cursing yourself for being panty-less, because the moment Astarion has access to your holes, he’s searching, his fingers desperate to be inside your body.

“Then why do you call me that?” Your voice comes between your fervent, fractured kisses, which halts to a pause once you’ve asked your question. It doesn’t stop Astarion from sinking a finger between your folds, his eyes watching you as you take him.

Astarion lifts your dress above your breasts, a sight he particularly loved. He removes his finger to drink in the sight of you.

There was something about seeing his darling girl, eyes wide and cheeks flushed from his blood, with something so innocent as a modest nightgown pushed away without a care in the world, exposing you to him as if he was in a hurry. As if he was taking you like a thief in the night, desperate not to be caught.

Like you were a sweet little secret of his.

Astarion tugs at your hardening nipple, but you ease yourself up on your elbows, eyebrows knitted together in a frustrated, reluctant pleasure.

“I’m trying to say something serious, Astarion…” You say as he moves himself to your dripping cunt, his head resting on your thigh as he gently tugs the folds of your labia, spreading them, exposing your swollen clit and tight entrance; only breaking eye contact to take in the sight of your open sex.

“And we’ll work it out, my love,” Astarion mewls, his racing heartbeat and dilated pupils making it apparent that this was a man, who, although his enthusiastic passion for fucking his wife was admirable, had no real intention of addressing the problem anymore.

Lost in the sauce. An odd phrase you had heard from Zii’ro and Joss. This must be an iteration of the meaning of that phrase.

He begins to crawl up to you, but you place your foot on his chest, pushing him away as your enchanted anklets clank together, creating a little chime at your movement. This stopped him in his tracks, but he only looks even more turned on from your denial.

You realize the little foot move might’ve been a mistake. This man would likely find a way to fuck it: if it was attached to you, he’d find a way.

Astarion swiftly frees his cock with one hand, the other gripping your ankle as he brings your foot down to his shaft, rubbing his length on your arch.

“You are such a freak,” you say, shaking your head, having nearly forgotten your plight as you try pulling your ankle away from him. “This is hardly ‘working it out’.”

“What is it that you want, then?” Astarion says as he grabs your other ankle, dragging your hips to him before pressing his body between your legs, both hands tangling in your hair as his hard cock rests on your lower belly, balls on your soaked center. “You know you need only ask, my sweet consort.”

You felt the wet lips of your cunt nearly suckling on his skin, the friction of its increasing slickness due to the mess you were making on him sending a shiver throughout your body.

His ruby eyes glittered with lust, his curls falling down the sides of his face; his breath on you smelled so good, evident of the life inside of him, making your stomach growl at the mere thought of his crimson essence.

Fuck and feed, you think. Focus, you animal!

Lae’zel had told you to be direct with your warriors. To tell them of the expectations and goals. Why couldn’t this extend to your relationship?

“I don’t want you to call me spawn anymore,” You say as you do your best to keep your voice from wavering under his intense glare.

“You’ve a lot of interesting demands today, don’t you, my love?” Astarion speaks evenly, considering your words. “You act as though I say that anywhere but in private. As I’ve said, you aren’t just some spawn. But you are a spawn of mine: my offspring. It’s one of the countless things I adore about you. It’s what makes you so perfect to me, so perfect for me.”

You take an involuntary breath, gasping as he comes to plant his lips on yours, nipping at your skin just enough to draw blood, to taste your essence before he languidly plunges his tongue in your mouth.

You moan into him, his words inspiring something deep within you, but you still aren’t satisfied.

“Besides, you know why. It gets my cock hard to hear you call me ‘Master’, and you don’t seem to mind it,” He teases, his tone still playful, but his words rooted in a painful truth. “Especially when you want something. So why should I not be able to call you ‘spawn’ in turn?”

You were guilty of using the term to butter him up, that much was true. “I just don’t like it. Do I need a reason other than It hurts my feelings? That should be enough for you.”

Astarion sighs. “You know I will give you what you desire. But why now? What’s changed?”

“I’ve never liked it, as you very well know.” You darken with these words, and it reflects in Astarion, who is feeling a pang of guilt that he doesn’t hide. “Lae’zel taunts me with it, countless of the gith categorize me as such, as if it’s a weakened state, that I’m a pitiful thing for being your spawn. And now, with Marwa dead…” Tears threaten your eyes, but you and Astarion don’t break eye contact: the two of you're locked into a state so deep, you couldn’t pull away if you tried. But you’re choked up now, and you can’t really speak.

Being able to telepathically communicate with your lover at any given time was a blessing. “I feel weak, Astarion. I know I can trust you to protect me. I just wish I commanded the same respect I once did: the same respect you have.”

Astarion props himself up, curls falling out of place as he gazes down at you, handsome as ever. His ruby eyes are wide, open and receptive, but disturbed by what you’d told him.

“If that’s truly how you feel, my love, then we can surely command their respect by slaughtering every last one of them and ending this silly war ourselves. We’d be doing Vlaakith a favor.” Astarion’s nose crinkles and twists in anger. “They surely wouldn’t be disrespecting my wife with their last breaths. Maybe contemplating your neverending beauty. But honestly, that might not be palatable to me either.”

“No—that’s certainly not what I meant!” You exclaim, your hand flying to Astarion’s chest, pausing over the strong beat of his heart.

“I know, Tav,” Astarion says, his tone playful and knowing as his hand wraps around his cock, bringing it back from its half-hardened state. “I’ll give you what you want.”

Astarion rolls onto his back, signaling you between his legs, where you begin to kiss his taut abdomen, worshiping his sculpted form with your lips and tongue. “But only if you make love to me with your mouth, my darling girl.”

****

“The celebration begins tomorrow, Ancunín,” Kith’rak Elan chides at your beloved. “Where is your wife this morning, I wonder?”

You chose not to squeak at him, despite Astarion daring you.

”Safely nestled inside my pocket, Kith’rak. Laundry day; you know how it is.” You imagine the smirk Astarion must have on his face as he pets the top of your head with the tip of his finger. You were nestled against his chest inside his pocket, not wanting to be disturbed today.

You had become mentally exhausted over the course of the two tenday you had been at the crèche; between the rigorous training, the meetings, all the interaction—it had burnt you out.

Dealing with your battalion had been a chore—no, a nightmare. There was one night where you and Astarion held each other while you scanned his memories of the gith you had met two thousand years ago. You both agreed that the gith raised under Orpehus’s banner were only slightly more tolerant of outsiders than Vlaakith’s gith, and seemingly more ignorant.

Zii’ro’s questions had been incessant, and the others had started to join in. You enjoyed answering them and telling them stories, but after a while, it was difficult for you to handle this.

You could always hear their heartbeats, and mortals have a tendency to get rather close to you when they speak, so their scent also becomes known to you. But you swallowed your darker thoughts away, focusing on the sound of their voice and their facial animations. Astarion had taught you to do this, to help you fit in, to make you look a little less feral: he had learned it so long ago, so much earlier on in his life than you, that he had long been a natural.

Watching them was the best way to learn and (one of) the best way(s) to distract yourself. The more time you spent with your warriors, the more they accepted you, even for your strange quirks: the things you couldn’t quite imitate.

“Is it hard for you to keep up with the facade of life, Tav?” Quinel had asked you one day after a long day of training; Lae’zel and Elan had helped your warriors adapt to your fighting style, and it had greatly improved how you interacted with each other in sparring. You hoped it would translate well to the battlefield.

Quinel certainly had a way with words. Not an elegant one, that’s for sure.

”You see me struggle, do you not?” You ask, a bit annoyed at the question. It was obviously difficult for you, and you didn’t understand exactly what they were asking.

”I suppose. But I want to know more about it.” Quinel had hardly spoken, so you wanted to encourage this communication, but damn were they direct.

You didn’t think there was much to tell. “If you are more comfortable around me, then I am more comfortable around you.” The less your heart races, the less I want to eat you.

“I am relieved your blinking has improved,” Chae mused as she sharpened one of her many daggers.

”Good. That’s the point.” You had given her a curt nod, signaling that the conversation was over: but that hadn’t prevented Zii’ro and Joss from asking more questions not even ten minutes later.

To no-one’s surprise, Astarion treated his group much like he treated his spawn: detached, firm, direct. They seemed to accept him well enough, and they certainly respected him. The Kith’rak was pleased with you and Astarion’s performance, despite your little hiccup during the hunt.

The Kith’rak merely hums at Astarion’s reply before continuing with whatever he would go on about. Pressing up against Astarion’s warmth, the thump of his beating heart fills your sensitive ears. You fight the urge to tear through the fabric of his clothing and plunge your little fangs in his soft skin.

****

The night before the banquet, Astarion buries his cock in you just because he felt he needed to be there. He was moving only every once in a while, your juices accumulating from the sensation, until you were ravenous and dripping around his wide cock.

You lie on top of him, straddling him, chest flush against his. He’s holding you so desperately close, you were lucky you didn’t need to breathe.

He rubs his cheek on you, leaving kisses in their wake wherever his lips could place them, hands keeping your squirming body in place to prevent your hips from rocking into him.

You were so desperate to come, you felt the lower rumble in your belly as your orgasm grew to a precipice, only for it to retreat from lack of stimulation. You groan in frustration, causing Astarion to chuckle before he captures your lips.

His tongue is soft, hot, his touches gentle with you on this night; the two of you had been pulled away from each other more and more, assigned to various duties, seminars, and training exercises: the gith were busy people.

“It’s so good to be with you again,” Astarion expertly titillated your mind with your link, causing you to clench around him. “Spending all day with these gith is becoming increasingly insufferable. After this is all over, we’ll be spending another decade in the boudoir, I think.”

Something depraved inside of you wants this: to be kept as his little toy for a while, having no responsibilities, no pain or stress, just pure enjoyment of your choosing (reading, writing, drinking blood: all of your favorite things, of course) and the most delicious orgasms you could imagine given to you by the most beautiful man in all the realms.

To go back to the way things were, really.

But you were starting to like this taste of freedom: it made these intimate moments with your husband even sweeter, even more precious, but you weren’t sure Astarion agreed.

Astarion’s hand reaches for your ass, squeezing as his other hand finds the root of your hair, bringing you into an unbreakable kiss.

“Please,” You moan, unable to return Astarion’s casuality. “I want to come, my love, please…”

He’s been selfish with you: your time, your body.

“Focus, I’m trying to be serious, here.” He’s mocking you a bit, merely in jest, and you think it would hamper your desperation, but you only clench around his cock as you bring your hand to his jaw, your grip firm as you bear down on him. Testing your limits, you push yourself away from him, bringing yourself up right.

Hand still gripping Astarion’s chin, you give him the most salacious, most abhorrently whorish look you can muster as you move to rock into him, and to your surprise, he lets you. He’s practically drooling at the sight of you: full lips parted, his ruby eyes bright but lowered with passion, silver curls slicked back behind his pointed ears.

You don’t last long before you’re contracting and creaming around Astarion’s cock, your muscles squeezing his member with fervency. You and Astarion had had every type of sex, all sorts of ways: eternity sure gives you time to explore and expand your sexual interests.

But rarely did you take control and find your own pleasure in him, and gods did he think you looked perfect writhing atop him, cunt clenching as you whimpered his name.

“So beautiful. I adore you. I fucking adore you Tav. Forever.” There is an intensity in his eyes, and he feels the words in his chest as he communicates them to you. It makes your heart flutter and bloom within you, and your soon cunt follows suit, convulsing around his wide cock.

“I love you too,” You mewl as you’re nearing the end of your climax, his eyes softening at the words he so desperately wants to hear.

You stop fucking him after a while, exhausted from your intense orgasm. Astarion picks up where you left off, in your poor little cummed-out state, grabbing you by the hips before continuing to rut into you.

You’ve collapsed on his chest at this point, but Astarion doesn’t stop. He cradles you into him, encouraging you to bring your knees up as far as they’d go, resting at either side of his torso. The tip of his cock is pushing at your depths, making you tremble in your beloved’s arms.

“Oh—my love,” Astarion whispers into your ear: you hardly register it, your brain fuzzy from both your recovering and impending orgasm.

When Astarion finally comes inside you, the warmth of his seed filling your tight hole to the brim nearly makes you crave more, but you don’t think you could if you tried.

But your husband still seemed to have some energy left in him. He lays you on your back, his hands going underneath your knees to pull your thighs up and apart, so he could see his spend inside your fucked out hole.

Astarion’s lips parted at the sight of his thick, creamy come spilling out of you as the smell of musk, sex, and sweat lingered the room.

To you, Astarion’s natural body odor was the most exquisite perfume, other than his crimson bouquet, of course.

“You aren’t going to let me fuck it again, are you?” Astarion asked, eyebrow raised, the corner of his lips tilted in a hint of a smile.

You shake your head, still recovering from the thorough fucking he’d given you. Your eyes widened at the thought that Astarion wasn’t done with you.

“And lucky for me, my beautiful darling has two other serviceable holes for me,” Astarion says as he presses a finger to your ringed entrance, your cunt contracting at the pressure.

“Oh you are so cute,” He dotes at your reaction to his prodding, preparing you for his cock; it isn’t long before he’s filled you once more.

Astarion cleans the both of you up before turning his back to you, grabbing your arm to pull around himself. He wants you to hold him tonight. You rest your forehead on his back, placing gentle kisses on his flesh as you wrap your body around him, one leg between his as he interlocks his fingers with your own.

You breathe in his scent, that musky, earthy smell of sex and sweat filling your nose. You lick your lips, tasting his salty fluids on your tongue. The warmth of his skin was like a sanctuary to you, and you squeezed him, holding him to you preciously.

You still had an inkling of fear tucked away; you pushed it further back to the recesses of your mind as you began drifting off into a dreamless, peaceful slumber. The sound of Astarion’s beating heart thrums in your ears like the soothing sound of the ocean, or rain on pavement, and it carries you off into the twilight dark.

Astarion wakes the both of you up early to prepare for the banquet: the Ancunín’s were to always look their best, and who better than to help you look gorgeous if not for your beloved? And your lady servant, of course.

“I think the pink is too gaudy.” Astarion says with a finger and thumb rest on his chin: he was deeply focused, on what you couldn't be sure, but it certainly wasn’t the color of the dress. He remained fairly present, so you left him to his thoughts. “Washes you out too much, dear. It’s offensive that a color is able to do that to you, my beautiful darling, but alas.”

You survey yourself in the mirror once more: you think Astarion is right, and it makes you wonder why you ever bought the dress at all.

“A themed party, love. You remember Lady Danet? Fear not, her ‘pink’ parties can’t hurt you anymore,” Astarion is smirking, thinking how funny he is. He’s remembering you, dressed in all pink, a little frown on your face as you adjust to the tight corset Lady Danet required her female guests to wear. You simply didn’t think you looked good in pink, and to no surprise, you and every other woman in the world hated wearing a fucking corset. Except for Lady Danet, you think, the odd woman that she was. That had been some fifty years ago, and Lady Danet was long in the grave, now.

“Cynthia?” She was a servant, but you chose her for her gentle personality, obedience and competence, and her eye and honesty for styling you. She was almost as good as Bethild.

“I agree with our Lord. I think a red or a green would suit you better, my lady.” Cynthia says, pondering for a moment. “Pink is very in, which is why I chose it milady, but I hadn’t really thought about what would be fashionable for gith.”

It was still lost on you why the pink dress was even thrown into the fray: but no matter. After trying on several others, you realize Astarion is a million miles away, no longer focused on you at all.

The look on his face gradually became dire. Just as you felt like you had found ‘the one’ (a beautiful emerald silken gown that showed off your shoulders and cinched at the waist) Astarion looked at you, his eyes wide and his brows furrowed.

You realize he’s leaving the crèche before he says a word. His eyes suddenly become misty, glassy, but he doesn’t hide it from you. Cynthia immediately feels the shift in mood and swiftly makes her exit.

Astarion’s sending stone is pinging off in the distance. The two of you stay like this, words hanging between you, listening to the sending stone ping over and over and over…

Masterlist

Chapter 1. Chapter 2. Chapter 3. Chapter 4. Chapter 6.

#ascended astarion x you #ascended astarion #ascended!astarion #spawn tav #soft ascended astarion #ascended astarion x tav #astarion smut #ascended astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x female tav #astarion fanfic #Killing Time

119 notes · View notes

aevallare · 11 months ago

Text

vow

light plot. heavy smut. mind the warnings. you can read on ao3 here

pairing: ascended astarion/f!tav

word count: 5220

warnings: menstruation kink, throne sex, oral sex, obsession, jealousy, kidnapping, power dynamics, dubious consent, light bondage, inappropriate use of mage hand

preview:

Astarion asks, “Won’t I hurt you?”

His voice. She hadn’t forgotten, really, but melancholy floods her nonetheless. “I don’t know. But I had to make him think that.”

“Devious.” He claps in a mockery of applause. “You’ve made me look a downright fool, darling. Imagine my disappointment when I showed up to that godsforsaken pity party Withers threw and you weren’t even there.”

“I was busy.” She has to keep her answers short. If she gives him an opening, she’ll be lost forever. It’s that simple.

enjoy!!

-------

Auri’s cycle has always been a fickle thing. It’s stabilized some in the months following their defeat of the Elder Brain and as her stress and anxiety have leveled out, but her cycle is still far from predictable.

The twisting pains in her stomach are far from the worst they’ve ever been, but they’re uncomfortable nonetheless, and when she wakes to them and a sealed letter in her pack, she knows today will be strange.

Auri recognizes the author of the letter instantly, though. She’d know Withers’ hand anywhere. Her lips part as she reads.

It’s an invitation. Withers has invited everyone who liberated Baldur’s Gate and, apparently, a few others besides. He’s arranged for Karlach and Wyll to come up out of Avernus and transport for Halsin and Shadowheart from their respective homes. Lae’zel, too, will be in attendance, and Gale is on holiday anyway.

And Astarion, of course, though Withers leaves his name for last. Auri imagines that he’d rankled at the slight of not being asked to host.

When her stomach twists, it isn’t just menstrual pains. She tries not to think about Astarion if she can help it, though it’s much harder when her troupe is in Baldur’s Gate and the Szarr-turned-Ancunín estate looms over her at every turn.

The invitation’s for tomorrow, and Deadwinter is one of the biggest performances of the year. No one would ask any questions if she begged off for the night, but–

“Auri, can I get your help out here?” Amar calls, and Auri blinks.

She stares for a moment longer at the invitation, and then she says, “Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

Auri throws the invitation into the fireplace. The flames lick away at it until Auri could almost forget she ever received it in the first place.

She steps towards Amar’s voice, and as she walks, the burden bears down on her.

When she’d helped Astarion ascend, it had seemed like the right choice for a multitude of reasons.

It would make him stronger, for one, in the fight against the Elder Brain. The odds were already so stacked against them; it made sense to make him the Vampire Ascendant.

He would never fear anything again. That mattered to Auri, and it mattered a lot. She’d known it would change him. She’d known it would ruin whatever love they had. She simply wanted him to feel safe.

And before every other consideration, it was what he wanted. If there was anything that she’d tried to impress on him in the weeks leading up to that moment, it was that what he wanted was important.

But she hadn’t understood. Neither had he. The Astarion she was in love with wouldn’t have wanted to become what he is now, a caricature of a vampire.

Auri doesn’t think that’s what he would have wanted, at least, but it’s been more than a year since she’s spoken to him. It’s been more than a year since she was in Baldur’s Gate at all.

She exhales. They’re here for three days. If Withers somehow comes knocking when she doesn’t attend the party, she’ll say she never saw the invitation at all.

Auri always feels silly at the Deadwinter performance. The outfits show far too much skin for what the weather should allow, but the venue is always artificially warm, so she can’t complain.

She just can’t leave the tent without nearly freezing to death. Auri pulls at the skirt, thankful that she’s at least allowed a semblance of short leggings underneath. If Amar’s to be believed, the outfit is supposed to evoke the idea of a snowflake, though her hair seems at odds with the concept.

Before she steps out on stage to take her usual place at Amar’s side, she exhales.

The others are all together by now. Karlach and Wyll have stepped out of the hells. Gale and Lae’zel have teleported in. Shadowheart and Halsin have no doubt arrived. Did Astarion arrive as a bat? They’ve surely realized that she isn’t coming.

It doesn’t matter. There’s a show to put on.

The smile Auri wears is radiant. It would glint off snow if the tent allowed it entry. When she steps into the light, the crowd is raucous.

They know her, of course. How couldn’t they? She’s the Hero of Baldur’s Gate. There’s a statue of her in the middle of the city.

Auri waves, smile never faltering, and Amar, voice magnified by a spell, says, “And you all know Aurora, I’d imagine! After all, without her, this crowd would look much different!”

He lets out a bellowing guffaw that almost turns the smile on Auri’s face real. Amar’s good at his job. He loves it and it shows.

When he gestures for Auri to take her lyre in hand, she does. This is like breathing. Her head tilts to the side and again, she exhales. Her fingers brush against the strings lightly, and she manages to play precisely one note before she sees the mist.

The lyre falls to the ground. In any other situation, she’d wince at dropping it, but there’s no time.

“You need to get out of here,” she says to Amar. “You need to get everyone out of here.”

But that’s futile. How wouldn’t it be?

Astarion’s the Vampire Ascendant, after all.

When Astarion manifests before her, all air leaves the room. He’s as stunning as ever with his marble skin and ruby eyes, perfectly manicured hair and nails.

And he doesn’t slaughter everyone in attendance, which is thoughtful of him.

Amar hasn’t moved from her side. He knows exactly who Astarion is, and he’s unwilling to leave Auri alone.

“Go,” Auri repeats. “He won’t hurt me.”

Amar swallows hard behind her. Auri herself doesn’t know if she believes that’s true. Regardless, he finally leaves, and the spectators continue filing out as Astarion asks, “Won’t I hurt you?”

His voice. She hadn’t forgotten, really, but melancholy floods her nonetheless. “I don’t know. But I had to make him think that.”

“I was busy.” She has to keep her answers short. If she gives him an opening, she’ll be lost forever. It’s that simple.

Astarion sets his mouth in a line. “Is that so?”

“Yes. Deadwinter is our biggest performance of the year.”

He casts a sarcastic glance around the now-empty room. “You wouldn’t know it from the crowd.”

Auri scowls. “Yes. I wonder why.”

“Embarrassing, really, this turnout.” Astarion sighs, shaking his head. “You’d think more people would have shown up for the Hero of Baldur’s Gate.”

“You know I never wanted that title.”

“I personally always thought that Consort of the Vampire Ascendant was much more prestigious, but what do I know?”

Auri has a million things to say to that, chief amongst them that she misses him more than words can say, but instead she stays quiet.

When she doesn’t rise to the passive aggression, Astarion exhales through his nose, unimpressed. “Well, in any event, your evening seems to have been freed up.”

Auri’s eyes narrow. “What?”

“Relax,” Astarion says, every inch of him a predator, and Auri’s always felt like prey. “I have nothing but the best intentions.”

Anxiety bubbles in her throat, but it’s not like it matters. When he steps forward and his mist swallows her, she can only be thankful that he hadn’t leveled the troupe entirely.

It’s fast, traveling this way. Auri expects to arrive at the party, where she’ll have to field a hundred questions about why she hadn’t come in the first place and why Astarion had fetched her.

But it isn't the party at all. When her eyes open, she’s standing in the halls of Cazador Szarr.

Or they used to be his halls. They’re Astarion’s, now, Auri supposes, and the decor’s changed drastically.

Auri’s breath catches. There’s finery as far as the eye can see, yes, but more than that, this isn’t the lair of a singularly self-obsessed vampire.

It’s the colors. There’s Astarion’s red and black, yes, and the Ancunín crest is present everywhere, but there’s another color threaded through the hall.

There are accents of seafoam everywhere.

Auri’s lips part. He’s laced his lair with her. It wouldn’t matter where he looked. Astarion’s designed this room so that her favorite color is intertwined with his.

“This–” Auri swallows and steels herself. “What trick is this?”

“Trick?” Astarion asks, unimpressed.

It has to be a trick. It must be.

But it’s not. The seafoam alone could have been a trick, but there’s something else.

Auri walks down the hall with Astarion as her shadow. The room is conspicuously empty; it takes an army of servants to run this estate, no doubt, but Astarion has clearly arranged for them to be nowhere near here.

And at the end of the hall, there are two thrones.

One, clearly, is his. It’s better-worn, and every throw and cushion is in his colors. The other looks almost untouched.

When they met, Auri had been wearing seafoam and gold. The throne that isn’t Astarion’s looks like a concentrated vial of ocean and sunshine. It would be altogether out of place but for the way the same blue-green color weaves through the rest of the decor.

“I have made reminders of you to never forget how the thing I crave more than anything else walked away.” Astarion stands next to her as if he’s considering the throne himself. “And then you step into my city bleeding freely and expect to simply avoid me by not attending a function I only deemed worth my time because you would be there.”

“You could not smell my cycle from here–”

“I could smell you from the moment you set foot in Baldur’s Gate. I could certainly smell you this morning when you woke.”

Auri blushes despite herself. “That’s none of your business. You have your pick of meals these days anyway. I have no doubt about that.”

Her pulse pounds in her throat. Astarion can probably see it.

“If I have my pick,” he drawls, circling behind her, “Then surely it won’t be a problem if I choose you to feast on.”

Still, his voice holds this much power over her. When Astarion speaks, Auri bites her lip. He continues, “I have craved you every moment since we parted ways. No taste has compared, and believe me when I say that I’ve searched.”

Auri doesn't know if they're talking about sex or blood. She doesn't think it matters. Still, she doesn't speak. Astarion says, “Don't you find it funny how your traveling band of misfits never meets trouble on the road? Do you think that that’s a coincidence?”

Auri swallows hard. “What are you saying?”

His voice is at her ear. “I became this for you, little love. I kill and I maim and I slaughter, and I do it all for you.”

Astarion’s right, in his way, though Auri doesn’t want to admit it. He’d made it clear that he wanted to ascend to protect himself and her, too.

“Then stop all of it for me,” she says.

He chuckles, smirking. “It doesn’t work that way, darling. We made me into this. You’re the one who decided that she didn’t like the result." He pauses. "What say you that we make a deal?” Astarion asks. His hand is cool on her cheek and Auri leans into his touch reflexively. “Whether you admit it or not, you’ve missed me. I’ve been honest about how I’ve hungered for you.”

And he’s right, of course. Here, alone with him, the year without him falls away and Auri is as weak as she ever was.

“What do you propose?” she asks. His touch is feather-light along her collarbone.

Auri tries to steel herself, but it's futile. He's already won and he knows it.

“You're attached to your pathetic excuse for freedom, I know.” His fingers inch closer to her breast. “But let's put your willpower to the test.”

This is a mistake. She knows it.

Astarion is in front of her again. His hand switches course and finds purchase on her chin, tilting her head to the side to expose Auri's neck.

“For every climax that I bring you to, you give me a month.”

His words snap Auri from her lust-drunk haze. “A month? What do you mean a month?”

“I mean a month.” The hand that had exposed her neck falls between her legs, palming her clit through her leggings. Auri exhales a shuddering gasp as he continues, “For each time you come, you'll spend a month on the throne that I've built for you. My bed will be yours. This estate will be yours. And for that month, you'll be mine properly.”

This is a mistake. She’d known it already, and the fact becomes clearer by the moment.

“I stay mortal,” she says, her voice trembling. Astarion applies pressure again between her legs, and Auri whimpers.

When her hips buck into his hand, a wicked smile spreads across Astarion’s face. “Why you're so attached to your mortality is beyond my comprehension, but yes. If that's what it takes for you to agree, then mortal is what you'll remain.”

His words are annoyed but his tone is far from it.

“You won't touch Amar. You'll leave the circus alone.”

Her resolve was never going to last. She'd given in before they'd even begun.

Astarion rolls his eyes and his hand leaves the spot between her legs. Auri gasps with loss, but it doesn't last long. He scoops her into his arms and turns, depositing her onto the throne next to his.

Her throne.

“I would make you royalty, and your concern is with that ragtag group of nobodies.”

Just as she's adjusted to sit properly, Astarion falls to one knee, pulling her legs forward so that he's between them.

“They aren't nobodies–” Auri protests, but it's futile. This was over long ago.

His knife sits at the hem of her leggings. “If they aren't nobodies, then why did you spend the entire time that that pretty little fire dancer was between your legs wishing it was my mouth on your cunt instead?”

A blush burns through her as hot as the lust she can't deny in her core. “That's not true–”

“Oh?” He tilts his head to the side. “Then tell me to stop.”

The fling with Evana had been short-lived and mediocre. This will no doubt be anything but.

When Auri doesn't protest, Astarion pushes her skirt upward and runs his knife down the seam of her leggings with ease.

“Do you accept my terms, then? Or are we going to let all this blood go to waste?”

Need throbs in Auri's stomach.

“You won't touch them,” she repeats.

Astarion stares at her with twisted devotion.

“For you, my treasure, anything.”

She can regret this tomorrow. For now, she fists a hand in his immaculately coiffed hair to help his mouth find the place it belongs.

The first swipe of his tongue is like coming home. Astarion licks her clean without shame, and Auri doesn't know how she ever thought she could replace him with another. When the flat of his tongue presses against her entrance, she squirms impatiently. Astarion looks up at her, left hand gripping her thigh–

And with his right hand, he snaps.

His eyes dance with dark delight, and something spectral pulls at her fingers.

A mage hand.

“What–” she starts, but that’s all that she manages before the apparition gathers both her wrists in its grasp and pins them behind her.

His mouth pulls away to answer her unasked question. Auri's hips try to follow, but Astarion only smirks.

“It's your throne, darling, but I'm the one who built it.”

Blood adorns his face. He seems entirely uninterested in wiping himself clean. His tongue runs along his lips, and he sighs, eyes fluttering shut.

The Vampire Ascendant kneels before her, but it's a mockery of control that the position gives her.

“You'll get what you seek, and you'll get it many times over. In fact, I plan to give it to you as many times as there are months in the year.”

Twelve times– there's not a universe where she can orgasm twelve times–

She doesn't get to finish the thought. Astarion's mouth continues what it started, and Auri can do nothing but fall prey to his expertise.

There's no learning curve for him. He knew her body perfectly before he ascended and she became the Hero of Baldur's Gate, and he hasn’t forgotten in the year that they’ve spent apart. Astarion nips at the soft flesh of her inner thigh and all Auri can do is cry out, the pain intermingling with pleasure.

When he devours her, Auri can’t remember why she ever let him leave. She can’t remember why she left him.

Since she was named the big damn hero, everything has been an exercise in trying to be good. It’s exactly like it was before the tadpole but with the pressure of everyone’s expectations piled on top.

When Astarion’s lips pull at her clit, two fingers slip inside her.

Hasn’t she earned it? Hasn’t she earned this instance of selfishness, of desire?

The mage hand is unrelenting. She wants to thrash; she wants to ride his fingers, wants to fuck herself on them to orgasm. The pace he builds instead is infuriatingly slow, the suction torturous. When his fingers curl to press at the spot that only he has ever been able to hit perfectly, she gasps out, “Please–”

His mouth leaves her clit with a pop that Auri will never forget for as long as she lives. “What’s the rush, darling? We’ve got, well, as much time as I decide we have.” When he pushes the third finger inside of her, Auri’s eyes roll back into her head. His smirk is infuriating, but all it accomplishes is making Auri even slicker. Astarion continues, “On the other hand, there’s no reason not to start all of this with a bang.”

His thumb presses into her clit, and just when Auri thinks that release is imminent, he replaces his thumb again with his mouth.

Auri shatters.

Still, the mage hand doesn’t release her. When she tries to free her hands, its grip tightens if anything. Her wrists will be purple with bruises tomorrow, but Auri doesn’t care. Her hips cant upward into Astarion’s face, but he’s gracious toward her climax. As he works her through it, his mouth slows, careful not to overstimulate her as he goes.

She’s still in love with him. He’s not the same man that he was, but as the lightning bolt of an orgasm rips through her body, it’s the only thought in her mind.

When she comes back down, he’s staring at her as if she’s some marvel of the universe.

“A month, then, that you’re mine.”

He withdraws from her cunt, and Auri exhales at the loss. Astarion never stops watching her as he stands, the mage hand dissipating. He licks at each of the fingers that were inside of her in turn.

“I’ll claim this month, I think,” he says, almost absently.

Auri’s still breathless. “This month?”

He raises an eyebrow as if she’s asked a stupid question. He should look disheveled, untethered in some way, but he doesn’t.

He just looks hungry.

“What better way to ring in every new year than by tasting your blood and cum?”

And Auri can’t really argue with that, especially not when desire makes her face flush again. She deflects instead.

“Are you going to stand there or are you going to make good on those twelve climaxes?”

Auri recognizes that the challenge is a mistake the moment that the words leave her lips.

Astarion's grin is devilish. “I was erring on the side of hyperbole when I implied twelve.”

There's blood underneath her. It stains the pillows and throws that he's taken care to decorate the throne with.

Astarion's always been fast, but now, he's supernaturally so. When Auri blinks, he's on top of her.

“How many can you handle, I wonder? How many times will your body let me unravel it?”

A lifetime ago, when they were both other people, Auri was gentle with him.

But that was a lifetime ago.

She fists her hands in the front of his shirt and pulls him to her. Her teeth clatter into his fangs when she kisses him. Auri’s never had the grace that he does.

“Let's find out,” she hisses into his mouth.

When he grins, it’s bloody. “How shall I give you my cock, then, sweet treat?”

It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters as long as it’s him.

“The Vampire Ascendant, asking my opinion–”

Auri gets the feeling that he might be annoyed were he not drunk on the vitality he’s just lapped from between her legs. Instead, he says, “A privilege, to be sure,” and when Auri throws her head back and laughs, it’s real. Astarion blinks at her, almost surprised, but it lasts only a moment. He exhales, nodding at the shirt she’s somehow still wearing as he begins to unlace his breeches. “Off.”

She complies gladly, slipping out of what little clothing remains on her body and expecting him to do the same, but he doesn’t. Auri swallows hard as Astarion’s cock slips free, but he makes no motion to further undress.

Instead, he once more lifts her into his arms effortlessly, taking the seat she’d occupied just before. He’s flush with the back of the throne, and Auri’s exposed entirely on his lap.

And again, any illusion of power that Auri had slips away. She has a knee on either side of his hips, and she grasps for equal ground when she says, “You always did like me on top,” but she’s already panting. “My cycle is going to ruin your lovely outfit.”

His cock teases her entrance. Auri’s mouth is dry.

“What better fitting metaphor for the way I’m about to ruin you?” he asks.

Fine things tainted by taboo. They’re the same that way. They always have been.

When he sheathes himself inside her, Auri thinks she might black out. Her head lolls backward as she takes him, and to any god that might be listening, she whispers, “Fuck.”

His hands are on her waist as he guides her downward, soaked as she is with blood and cum, and Auri moans as he fills her. He thrusts up into her once, softly, and one of his hands drifts to her breast. His nail flits along her nipple, a tease of a thing, and Auri’s hips roll instinctively.

Astarion exhales through his nose, his eyes half-lidded. For all his posturing, he wants her as badly as Auri wants him. She raises her hips to take him again, to fuck him until she can’t breathe, but even as she rides, he sets the pace. The hand on her waist helps her up and down as his cock turns slick with her, and with the other, he kneads the soft flesh of her breast.

When she tries to lean back and take him as deeply as her body will allow, the hand on her waist stops her.

“What–” she starts, dizzy with lust. His cock throbs inside her. When she tries to move, again, he stops her. “Let me–”

“How many were there?” he asks, voice cold.

“What?”

Obsession wars with lust in Astarion’s eyes.

“Who else tasted you, fucked you, loved you while I pined after you?”

“Are you seriously asking this right now?”

Astarion grips her face with the hand that had been preoccupied with her breast. “Yes.”

Auri’s racing heart stems from fear, adrenaline, and the cock still buried inside her.

“There were only two. You know about Evana.”

“And the other?”

Auri barely remembers the other one. She was blackout drunk in a bar in some backwater dive, looking for any way to bury the fact that she’d let Astarion slip out of her grasp.

“I don’t even know his name.”

Astarion’s eyes narrow as if he doesn’t believe her. She’d be happy to play his cock sleeve another day, but this wasn’t the deal they struck.

“Read my thoughts if you think I’m lying,” she challenges, but the intrusion of his mind into hers never comes. The intrusion between her legs, though, fucks upward, and Auri cries out.

“Did they fuck you as well as I do, darling?”

He knows the answer. Auri knows that he does. He just wants to hear her say it.

“No one fucks me like you do,” she says, and at last (at last) he gives her what she wants. Her body’s so sensitive; Astarion thrusts into her hard enough that it almost hurts, but it doesn’t matter. Every move he makes electrifies her, and again, her own pleasure’s outside her control. She’d meant to ride him, an at least symbolic display of power, but he’s stolen it from her.

And she’d let him do it forever.

The realization coincides with the hand on her waist drifting down her body. Auri doesn’t notice. She’s too busy losing herself in the heat that’s building in the pit of her stomach.

When his fingers find her clit, Auri falls forward at the stimulation, catching herself on the back of the throne. Her face is nearly touching his, and the movement has the side effect of grinding her clit into his hand.

“You’ll come for me, won’t you?” he asks, voice low.

He doesn’t have to ask. She would anyway. But when he speaks, it pushes her over the edge. Pleasure rips through her body for a second time, and Auri isn’t sure, but she thinks she actually screams. She collapses into his chest, every muscle in her body contracting as he thrusts slowly into her twice more before coming to a stop.

“A second month, then.”

He sounds so self-satisfied, as if he isn’t waiting to spend himself inside her, too.

She loves him.

Gods, but she loves him, still.

Auri can’t give him what he wants. But maybe she can meet him halfway. Her mind’s not working. She’s been fucked so thoroughly that she barely knows up from down, but she can’t afford that.

When he slides out from inside her, Auri’s confused. Surely he’s not done after all his talk of ‘an orgasm for every month of the year.’

“Since you like deals,” Auri says, undercut by the fact that she can’t catch her breath, “I have a proposition for you.”

Astarion’s tongue runs along his teeth and he raises an eyebrow.

“I won’t give up my life with the troupe, but–”

Astarion clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Disappointing, but unsurprising,” he says, and without a modicum of decorum, he turns her so that her back is flush with his chest. Auri rests comfortably in his lap, and momentarily, she thinks that this is surprisingly tender.

His hand spreads her legs.

“If you’re going to offer me some sort of consolation prize, I’d like you to see just how lovely you look with my cock stuffed inside you while you try to negotiate.”

How is it possible for her to still crave him after she’s come in his mouth and on his cock? It looks obscene between her legs, rubbing up against her clit, covered in her blood and cum both.

“Just think about how much easier it would be to keep an eye on me if you were here,” Astarion says, a hand under each of her thighs. His mouth is at her ear; he’s closer to coming apart than he wants her to think. His voice is ragged with it. Auri reaches a hand behind her to catch in his hair.

“Why can’t I have both?”

He answers by sinking himself inside her. Auri watches as his cock disappears into her, and again, there’s that inimitable feeling of fullness. This position–

She’ll never last.

“I’ll give you everything.” Astarion’s cock slams into the spot that makes her vision go white. “Gold, jewels, instruments you’ve never even heard of.” Auri can’t think. She can’t breathe. He’s the only thing there is and the only thing that matters.

Except that’s not true, no matter how much she wishes that it were.

“Three months. I’ll give you three months a year, whichever ones you want.”

Astarion nips at her neck, just enough to draw blood. “You’re going to give me that anyway, precious thing. Those were the terms.”

She’s going to break. She’s going to cry. He thrusts into her mercilessly, and the pleasure is relentless. Again, his hand finds her clit, and Auri briefly thinks that this might actually kill her.

“Three months,” she repeats, though not without scraping her nails against the back of his head.

“I think not.”

Auri cries out but steels herself. Ecstasy is just within reach, but Astarion’s close, too. She can feel it in the way his fingers dig into the flesh of her thigh. “Six, then.”

“Twelve, then, if you’re going to be stubborn.” A veritable growl bubbles from his throat, his thrusts lose their rhythm, and his fingers on his clit lose their discipline as finally, finally his unaffected veneer slips.

“Six,” Auri gasps. “Six months each year, but you can come to me and feed as often as you like.”

It’s the first time that Auri feels the balance of power shift in her favor.

“Come for me, you confounding thing,” he says, and he isn’t asking this time. The pressure on her clit is rough and she spirals into a third climax. Astarion chases her into it as her muscles spasm around his cock and in the same moment, his fangs pierce her skin.

She writhes, coming around him as he spends himself inside her. Her own blood trickles down her neck, but she has no doubt that he won’t let it go to waste. His cock pulses as he rides out his own end, and Auri doesn’t think she has ever been this deliciously full.

“Six months I'll be with you, but year round I'll be yours to feast on.” Auri’s vision swims as she speaks, the cumulative effect of three orgasms and Astarion feeding. When he finally pulls his mouth from her flesh, he’s silent.

He’s still hard inside her. When he shifts to a more comfortable sitting position, Auri’s eyes flutter shut.

“I’m not convinced,” Astarion says, and Auri bites the inside of her cheek. “But perhaps you could try to sway me in the bedroom, instead.”

He kisses the wounds he’s just inflicted on her throat. Auri smiles.

She’ll get her way. She always does. And she loves him.

Maybe that’s enough.

“You don’t want to make an appearance at the party?” Auri asks.

Astarion smirks. “I’ll drop you off there naked after I’ve had my way with you if you’re still being stubborn about letting me give you the life you deserve.”

Auri snorts. No matter what path her life takes, it always seems to lead her back to Astarion.

Auri likes Deadwinter.

thanks for reading love u bye

#astarion x tav #astarion #tavstarion #tav x astarion #bg3 fic #bg3 tav #bg3 smut #astarion ancunin #astarion smut

114 notes · View notes

baldurs-writers-3 · 1 month ago

Text

Horror: A Baldur's Gate 3 Fanfiction Rec List

This week, we have Horror! Check under the cut for seven fics that explore some of the darker and more frightening elements of Faerun, and as always, comment and kudos if you like them!

Hand, Hearth, and Home by ElleKhen (393,131, Explicit) Content Notes: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Body Horror Pairings: Astarion/Male Tav

This fic covers the backstory and in-game story of a warlock who was raised by a shadow-fey-possessed church. After being infected by the mind flayer tadpole, he meets a dream guardian who appears to him as a childhood friend and first love who he thought dead. As his party goes on with their quest, he is also forced to face the consequences of his shadow-cursed existence, and what that means for the people he loves.

Reccer says: I love that this fic is full of visceral, angsty smut and exciting action. But the author always follows up the hurt with comfort. They especially approach the Astarion romance with so much care, and do a great job of writing his voice. Due to the nature of Church’s magic, there are body horror elements especially when the story covers the events of Act 2. This fic expands upon the Shadowlands, Shadowfell, the Raven Queen, and shadow magic as a whole to depict terrifying sequences Church must face with his companions (and lover) beside him. I learned a lot about that particular D&D lore that way, and it made Act 2 feel a lot bigger and scarier than it originally felt.

A Dream of Silence by AbigailMoment (2,683, Mature) Content Notes: possible main char death Pairings: astarion/tav

An interactive story, where you have to save Astarion from a horrible nightmare of worst thing that Cazador ever did to him

Reccer says: Very well written with tons of replayability. Also you get to pet his hair

What Could Have Been by Bella1433! (119,228, Explicit) Content Notes: Dark themes, there are archive warnings Pairings: Tav (named) X Astarion

The maze scene, the race through the city. Astarion is a terrifying vampire lord in this fic!

Reccer says: Vampire lord acting like a vampire lord and being terrifying! Using his powers

The Tyrant, the Assassin, and the Corpse by aqeldroma (3,241, Explicit) Content Notes: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Murder Pairings: The Dark Urge/Enver Gortash

After the Hall of Wonders, the Dark Urge visits Gortash to test him in another way. When she finds someone already in his bed, the night turns predictably violent.

Reccer says: Pre-canon Dark Urge and Gortash pairing, set back when they are testing each other's limits. The horrific things happen to everyone in their orbit, naturally.

Hunger is Satisfaction by CountTavula (25,904, Explicit) Content Notes: Very dark content Pairings: Tav X Astarion

The psychological horror in this is extremely high and surprisingly so.

Reccer says: Its a thriller, psychological horror, not even a dark fantasy most times, just...dread

The Vanishing of Astarion Ancunín: The beginning by Gally (3,526, Mature) Content Notes: None Pairings: None

A glimpse at his last few days of life and the first terrifying minutes of his new unlife.

Reccer says: He wasn't an evil man, he wasn't a great man... he was just a man.

Bathed in Sound by Nikolai_237 (1,005, General) Content Notes: None Pairings: Karlach/Tav

In the Feyweird, not all is dangerous but most is unsettling. For instance, sometimes you find your partner just sitting in the middle of a bunch of floating whale skeletons.

Reccer says: This is my first concept fic for the Feyweird, my psychological horror playground, and for some reason people seem to like it. I enjoy writing creepy stuff and I love weaving horror into my work.

The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ!

Next week, we’ll be returning with a character rec list, this time for Lae’zel!

#bw3 rec list #bw3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfic #fanfic rec list #horror fanfiction

26 notes · View notes

wickedholl0w · 1 year ago

Text

An eternal bond pt3

Fandom: Baldurs Gate 3

Pairing: Astarion/F!Reader

Rating: 18+

Summary: After Astarion find you and your son, he sees the boy for te first time after 10 years, and you two have a moment alone, with nostalgia and passion.

Notes: Just some romance and smut hehehe

Warnings: smut!, bittersweet, oral sex male and female receiving, possession, unprotected sex, vaginal sex.

Part 1 👇

Part 2 👇

Astarion's red eyes shine in the darkness, his beautiful face is gradually illuminated as the clouds uncover the partially full moon. He dresses with luxury and refinement, dark clothes with details in silver and red, his white hair always well combed. The vampire analyzes you carefully, as if he were formulating a sentence, he then looks at the charred body of the spawn lying on the floor and gives a smile.

"Apparently you don't like visitors" he says.

"When the visitor wants to kill me and kidnap my son, no" you answering, your son still behind you and spying on the vampire.

Astarion clicks his tongue and takes a more casual pose and looks at you.

"So you helped my work in killing her, my dear," he says and you raise your eyebrow. "But I would have been a little longer... Slower..." his eyes went directly to the boy who was spying on him behind you. "If you understand me."

The Vampire Lord clears his throat and looks at you again, you frown.

"So you mean you have nothing to do with this attack?" you ask.

"No, I didn't know" he says.

You let out a low sneer and put your arm around your son's shoulders, pulling him closer to you, the boy rests his face against your chest and looks at his father.

"And you want me to believe it?" you say in disbelief.

"Yes, after all, what would I gain from it?" he says. "If there's something I don't want, it's your death and I want the good of my heir."

"He's not your heir" you growl, squeezing the boy against you.

"Do you want to deny his blood?" Astarion says, his eyes shining. "He is an Ancunín, he is my son, my blood, my heir, and you cannot deny that."

You swallow hard and look at your son who is looking at you, his eyes confused, an expression on his face that you never wanted to see, anguish. You look at the vampire.

"What do you want?" you ask.

"Your safety," he replies. "I'll commit to this, I'll send more spawns, I'll give you a fortress, whatever you want..." His gaze becomes soft, anguished. "But please don't go."

You take a deep breath, look again at your son who is staring at his father.

"We don't need a fortress," you say. "We don't need any more of your spawns surrounding our house. All I want is for you to keep our location and Astarion's existence a secret."

"Done" he says without hesitation.

"We're gonna stay?" your son asks and you look at him, giving him a small smile.

"Yes."

The boy breathes a sigh of relief.

"Now, go inside, take Scratch with you" you say and the boy obeys, taking Scrath by the collar.

Before heading towards the house, he looks towards his father who looks at him and you can see and feel that your son is not receptive, he looks at him with a frown and turns his back to go home being followed by the owl bear who always sleeps below his bedroom window.

When you see him enter the house and the owl bear walks around it, you look back at Astarion and are startled to see him less than a step away from you, which makes you look up so you can see his face. The ascended vampire gives a mischievous smile.

"Hello, my dear" he says and you make an unhappy face.

"How did she know about my son?" you ask and he raises his eyebrows.

"Who?" he asks, tilting his head to the side and then looking back over his shoulder and letting out a laugh. "Ah, the piece of burned coal?"

You stare at him sternly.

"I have no idea how the obsessed little bitch found out about you and the boy."

"If she knew, more might know" you say and Astarion becomes thoughtful.

"The only one who would know would be Alec," he says. "But he wouldn't tell..."

"And do you trust?" you cross your arms over your chest. "He is your spawn, he can be as fake and sneaky as you."

"Hmm" Astarion grumbles, closing his fingers on his chin, thoughtfully. "You have an interesting view. But, Alec is a great dog and... He's lived here since I ordered him to find you, he's never been to my palace again. Maybe this little dog was too nosy."

You roll your eyes and try to move away, but soon Astarion's cold hand closes, gently, around yours. You look at the touch and then at his face.

"Please "he says. "Just tonight."

You know what he wants, you know he wants to get closer to your son, to you, at least once. Of course you could refuse, but... Maybe it was the opportunity for the boy to meet his father.

"Right, but I don't want you to say what you are, what you have done in Baldurs Gate. Try to be kind..."

He laughs.

"Honey, you know very well that I can be kind" he says.

You hold back your smile and release your hand from his and walk forward with the pale elf following you, you reach the porch of the house and you open the door. There is only darkness, but with a snap of his fingers Astarion makes all the candles light and you see your son sitting on the first step of the stairs that lead to the upper floor, he hugs his knees and keeps his chin against the top of them.

The boy looks at you and Astarion who is right behind.

"Asta," you call the boy who raises his head. "Come here."

He looks at Astarion and you once again and gets up, walks to you go and you place yourself behind the boy who is now looking at his father closely.

"Honey, this is..."

"I know who he is, mother," the boy replies. "Is obvious."

Astarion raises his eyebrows and wrinkles his forehead, he looks at the boy in surprise.

"It's... Yes" you say, sinking your fingers into the white curls of your son's hair. "But you were never properly presented..."

"We are now, then," Asta says, turning away from you and walking away towards Scrath. "I'm going back to sleep."

The boy takes the dog's collar and leads him up the stairs, leaving his parents behind, completely unresponsive.

"That was..." you were saying until Astarion started laughing, literally.

You look at him until he's breathless, hands on his stomach as he go to a chair at the table and sit there. The Vampire Lord continues to laugh nonstop.

The man catches his breath and looks at you with eyes full of tears of laughter.

"What a detestable little brat," he says, still laughing and you frown. "It was amazing!" Astarion says getting up again. "Did you see the way he looked at me? How did he speak to me? It was perfect!"

"What?..." you look at him confused.

"Darling, he might hate me" he says, leaving you even more confused.

"And how good would that be?"

"I will not be a disappointment to him," Astarion replies. "I prefer him to hate me instead of seeing me in a fantasy way where I would be his hero... He won't suffer."

You think about it and it really makes sense, Asta not having expectations with Astarion it's really a positive point, after all, he won't be disappointed because his father is a cruel tyrant addicted to power.

"Yeah, you're right," you say, touching the back of your head. "Well, I believe that's it. You can go."

The vampire squints his red eyes as he stares at you, a viperine smile forming on his beautiful lips.

"Whatever is going through that head of yours, the answer is no," you say and point to the door. "Out."

"Oh, you're being so hostile to me," he says, getting closer and you turn your face away, intending not to look at him. "It's like you don't love me anymore...'

"I don't love you," you say looking into his eyes. "One day I loved, yes, but today..."

Astarion swallows, red eyes looking at you with softness, pain.

You nod, lowering your head.

"Go away and don't come back" you say, your heart compressing in your chest, fighting against the words you had just said.

The Vampire Lord slowly brings his fingers to your face and slides their tips there, he holds your chin between his index finger and thumb making you lift your face to look at him.

"Don't lie to me and don't lie to yourself," he says. "You know what you feel... "he brings his face closer to yours and brings your foreheads together. "You know what I feel..."

"You don't feel anything..."

"I feel for you, and that's enough," he says and you look him in the eyes. "I miss you, I miss the touch of your skin, your kisses... I miss tasting you."

His nose brushes against yours and you feel your entire skin crawl, your cheekbones getting hot and your body trembles slightly .

"Stop..." you say, taking your hands to the jacket embroidered in silver thread.

"I want you," he says with his mouth close to your ear. "I need you."

"We can't..."

"Why?" he asks, taking his hands to the buttons of your tunic, opening them one by one in the area of your chest.

"It's wrong" you say, sliding your hands over the embroidery of your son's father's chic clothes.

Astarion laughs, placing his mouth on your neck, he lightly touches his cold lips to your skin and you feel your insides throb with the familiar touch. He slides his mouth down your neck and presses a light kiss to the spot next to your jaw.

"Seeing you wearing these clothes makes me nostalgic," he says. "I remember the first time I took something similar from you... The first night you were totally mine."

"Astarion" you whisper, turning your face to him and he looks at you, your noses almost touching.

"You want me as much as I want you," he says, taking his hand to the back of your neck and holding your hair between his cold fingers. "One last night, one last time" he bring your bodies together and you can feel his rigidity against your belly, which makes you pant and part your lips, looking at his mouth so close to yours.

"Asta is up there..."

"He went to sleep..."

"No, he wasn't," you lightly touched your lips to Astarion's who tried to stick his tongue in your mouth, failing, but licked your lips. "I know our son, I know he's awake and won't sleep until you leave."

The vampire smiles broadly.

"So, he'll stay awake until dawn" he says.

You try to say something, but you are stopped by the Vampire Lord's thirsty and cold kiss, you moan and try to push him away from you, but the feeling of his tongue against yours, the way he takes your mouth, thirsty, full of desire. You feel a feeling of pure nostalgia, you feel your skin crawling, your heart pumping your blood even harder and you know that you won't be able to resist the urge and the need to be his, at least one more time.

You hug Astarion's neck, deepening the kiss, he lets out a hoarse moan from the back of his throat and holds you tighter against him. The vampire wastes no time in placing his hands on upur thighs and pull ypu onto his lap, making your mouths separate.

"Over there" you say, panting and pointing towards the door of your room, which is on the ground floor.

Astarion kisses you again and promptly starts walking towards the door, he knocks you against the door and opens it, entering your simple, dimly lit room. The vampire kicks the door closing it and walks to the bed, throwing you there.

You support the weight of your body on your elbows as you watch Astarion slowly undress his torso, you almost don't know how to breathe anymore as his gaze burns your skin like lava, almost melting your bones and when you see his beautiful and eternal body you sigh .

He hasn't changed anything in years, but you... You've changed, you've aged, even if not much, but you weren't the same as when you met.

"What?" he questions while taking off his boots.

"You're still identical," you say, sitting down. "Nothing has changed, absolutely nothing, while me..." you look at the ground and bring your fingertips to your face. "I'm getting older, more and more every day..."

"My love," he says, leaning towards you, placing his closed fists on the mattress and placing his face in front of yours. "You're still as beautiful as the first time I saw you."

You let out a nasal laugh in disbelief.

"You tried to kill me when we first met" you say and he raises his eyebrows, wrinkling his forehead.

"And you were going to abandon me with a bunch of brain creatures" he says and you laugh, placing your hands on his shoulders.

"There weren't any."

He laughs and kisses you again, a calmer kiss, still deep and sensual. The man then takes his hands to the rest of the closed buttons on your tunic, opening it completely and removing it from you, leaving you with your torso completely naked.

Astarion's kisses disdain for your chin where he nibbles with his teeth and goes down your neck, wet and lingering kisses on your skin causing slight chills down your spine, good and pleasant chills.

Astarion arrived with kisses on the area of your breasts, he slowly takes the right nipple between his teeth and gently pulls it, making you startle, but soon gives in to total pleasure when he begins to suck, his tongue playing with the nipple, the nibbles. The man then goes to the other breast and before continuing with the caresses he stops, you notice that he is now looking closely at your breasts,.

"What?" you ask and Astarion takes his hand to his left breast, holding it and runs his thumb around the nipple.

"Fang marks," he says. "Small..." he raises his eyes to yours.

You give a small smile.

"When Asta's fangs grew, he started to drink milk and blood" you say.

Astarion swallowed and looked again at your breast marked by the many scars of his son's tiny fangs. The Vampire Lord gives a warm and long kiss there, then several more on each breast.

You smile and then push him lightly making him move away and the vampire looks at you seeing that you sit more on the edge of the bed. You take your hands to the waistband of his pants and bring your face closer to the vampire's defined abdomen, kissing there, causing the vampire to let out a kind of purr of approval.

"Ah... Your lips are so warm," he says, taking his hands to your hair, which was tied up in a high ponytail. "The feeling of them against my skin is like fire..."

He lets go of you hair, making it fall over your shoulders and back, you look at him from under your eyelashes while still kissing Astarion's stomach and smiling without taking your lips off his skin, your hands working together begin to unbutton his pants, opening the piece.

You pull down his pants, making Astarion's hard cock jump out, hitting your chin, you look at it and take in your hand, starting to slowly masturbate him, making the vampire breathe deeply.

"Gods..." he says between low and hoarse moans as you place a kiss on the head of his member and look at him again from under your eyelashes.

You put his length in your mouth, making him take it completely and Astarion lifts his face, leaving the spine of his neck in evidence. You begin to suck him eagerly, all the way to the back of your throat, making the most pleasurable moans come from your partner's lips, who grabs your hair and begins to move his hips following the movement of your hand and mouth.

"Yes, yes, yes" he moans softly as you increase the pace of your mouth around his stiff, engorged cock.

You take it out of your mouth to breathe and lick it from the base to the head, several times, from different angles and put it back in your mouth.

"Fuck..." he says in a hoarse moan and you feel your core pulsing, getting hot and your moisture is so much that it becomes uncomfortable between your legs.

"Enough," Astarion says pulling your hair making you move away from him.

You can't say anything, you just look at him with eyes filled with lust.

The vampire leans towards you and kisses you fiercely, your tongues fighting an arduous battle in your mouths as you take off your boots and he rips off your pants quickly, desperately.

Astarion stops kissing you and quickly gets down on his knees on the floor, spreads your legs further apart and puts his index and middle fingers in his own mouth, moistening them while he looks at your dripping wet intimacy.

He takes his fingers out of his mouth and slowly penetrates them in you, making you breathe hard and deeply, and when he takes your clit between his lips, you moan, feeling your whole body shake. He sucks you and plays with his tongue, his sharp fangs need the sensitive and soft flesh of the region, but they don't hurt you and his fingers work together with his mouth, entering and exiting you in a torturous way, caressing the exact point of pleasure.

You grip his hair between your fingers and arch your body forward, your breasts heavy and nipples hard and erect, you are just one step away from the precipice of pleasure, his tongue swirls around your clit, his lips open and close there and the obscene sounds take over the small room.

"Astarion..." you moan softly and he grunted without responding, focused on giving you pleasure and making you cum in his mouth.

You cry out the name of the gods as you feel the pleasure washing over you, your insides clenching tightly around his fingers. Your body can no longer stand sitting when the peak hits you, you throw your back against the bed arching your whole body forward as you scream with pleasure as you cum in Astarion's mouth who continues to lick and suck you, taking every last drop of your orgasm.

Only when you stop shaking does he remove his fingers from you, he sucks them and you look at him weakly, drunk with pleasure, as he finishes taking off his pants.

You gather the little strength you have and adjust yourself on the bed, your head now close to the wooden headboard, opening your legs, leaving space for your partner to place himself between them and take you.

Astarion comes to you, placing himself on top of you and between your legs, you bring your hand to his face and the vampire kisses your palm, he lowers himself to you and kisses you slowly and not so slowly he penetrates his dick into you to the hilt causing you to warm the kiss in a gasp of surprise and pain. It had been many years since you slept with someone, so the pain was normal. And, he noted, which made him smile proudly.

You give him another quick kiss and look into his eyes, into his half-open mouth... his fangs. You remember perfectly the feeling of them embedded in your neck and how you liked the sensation, the different and unique pleasure it caused.

You then offer your neck to Astarion, his eyes shine like liquid fire and then he puts his mouth there, at first he licks it in a slow and torturous way, but then he sinks his fangs into your skin, starting to thrust inside you, slowly and deep as he sucks your blood. Your eyes roll back in pleasure and you dig your nails into his back, away from the scars.

Astarion removes his mouth from your neck.

"Gods, you're delicious" he says with his lips covered in blood and rubbing his nose against your face as he continues thrusting into you.

You kiss him desperately feeling the iron taste of your own blood on his tongue. Astarion increases the pace of his thrusts and grabs your neck with his hand, closing his fingers with a little force, making you gasp out a moan, he turns your face to the side and licks the two wounds of his fangs. You then intertwine his hips with your legs, a way of making you more united, as if it were physically possible.

He puts his arms under you holding you, kisses your face while moaning, the sound of your sweaty skin hitting each other echoes loudly, the smells of your bodies intertwined. Nothing else matters around, just him and the unique and perfect feeling of him filling you.

Your body begins to show signs of orgasm, your inner walls tighten around Astarion's cock making him grunt against your mouth and he looks into your watering eyes.

"Come for me, my love" he says licking your mouth and you moan loudly, sinking your nails into the skin of his back, from the smell you know you made him bleed and he moans. He doesn't stop the thrusts, he continues with the deep and fast step.

The pleasure hits you like a sharp and powerful blow, all you can see are stars and your body shakes desperately, you almost can't breathe, it's something like a feeling of despair, but delicious.

You hold his face between your shaking hands and kiss him.

"My love, my love, my love..." you say with tears of pleasure running down your face as you kiss him and Astarion grinds his teeth tightly and moans loudly between his teeth as he comes inside you, thrusting deeply one last time.

His body trembles over yours and he kisses you deeply, his tongue slowly sliding over yours, his lips making a loud, obscene noise amidst your moans.

You take his bottom lip between your teeth and tug gently, making him smile widely. He holds your hair at the back of your neck and gives you kisses on your face and neck, the vampire nibbles your earlobe between his teeth and then licks it.

"You're mine," he says softly and you roll your eyes in pleasure. "You will always be mine."

You could deny it, you could push him off of you and tell him to go away, but... You can't, all you can do is smile wide as he kisses your neck and nod your head.

Astarion was right, you were his and would always be his.

***

The boy thought that his mother would send away that stranger who was his father as soon as he turned his back on both of them. But, unfortunately for Astarion, it wasn't the front door that knocked, but his mother's bedroom.

Just the mere thought made him feel disgusted and repulsed, not by his mother, but by the damn stranger.

Asta always pretended he slept well at night so his mother wouldn't worry, but his sleep was as light as a feather, so he had an escape route.

The white-haired boy covers Scratch who is lying on his bed sleeping with the blanket and goes to the window. Asta whistles imitating a bird's song and soon the owl bear is waiting for him under his window. The boy climbs up to the window and deftly jumps onto the animal's back, holding on to its soft feathers.

"Let's go, Bear" the boy says and calmly the animal starts walking towards the forest.

Because he always hunted in the surrounding areas, Asta knew many places that his mother had no idea about, one of these places was the ruins of a temple covered in vegetation and on top of a high rock that gave a complete view of the surroundings, of the village that was a few milles away from your home, and from your own home.

When he arrives at the place, Astarion leaves the owl bear and begins to climb the ruins until he reaches the top where he made a small secret corner, a refuge on days when he needed to be alone.

He sits on the edge of an opening in the wall, his legs dangling as he looks at the mountainous, dimly lit landscape of villages in the distance, the rivers that cut through the land and the moon in the sky.

The boy sighs and hugs his knees, he was always curious about his father, what he was like, his appearance, his personality and his mother had always been honest with him: he was identical to him and that his father was a cruel vampire master... It wasn't really his mother who told him that last part.

"You know that when she finds out that you are running away at night she will ground you" says Alec, approaching through the shadows and Astarion shrugs.

"She won't" he says and the vampire sits down next to him.

Astarion looks at Alec, he is an elf, he appears to be no more than 30 years old, with long black hair, pale skin, bright red eyes and wears dark, unrefined clothes, very different from his father.

"So, how it was?" Alec asks him and the boy clicks his tongue awkwardly.

"I didn't like him."

Alec lets out a low laugh.

"I knew I wouldn't like him," the spawn says. "Maybe it would be better."

"Yeah," Asta responds with a pout. "Mom could hate him."

The vampire laughs and puts his hand on the top of the boy's head.

"I think that's very unlikely," he says. "Is that why you ran away today?"

"I know she..." the boy's cheeks blush. "She was going to sleep with him."

"So it was a wise choice," said Alec, laughing. "Don't worry, it's just for tonight."

Asta nods and Alec looks at him, analyzes him. The spawn who became a great friend of the boy takes a deep breath and gets closer to him, puts his arms around the boy's shoulders and strokes his hair.

"You're not condemned like me, you can be in peace, Asta," he says and the boy looks at him. "You're not stuck with him."

Asta nods, he knew that Alec was a spawn, he had explained well what it was like, how lucky he was to be living near the boy and his mother's house and not in Astarion's palace, but that he was still trapped by his will and orders from the Vampire Lord, and how lucky the boy was to only have Astarion's blood in his veins, to be only a half-breed and free.

***

You wake up with sunlight hitting your eyes, you feel a sharp pain in your neck and a weakness that you know is from lack of blood. You open your eyes and look down seeing that you are only covered with the sheet, there are stains of blood, probably yours after last night with Astarion... You look at the empty side of the bed, he is gone... At least they didn't have to say goodbye.

You sit down on the mattress, you're a little dizzy, but nothing worrying. You put your feet on the floor and taking courage you get up and go to the closet, you put on your underwear and a simple dress. You find the courage to walk and know you have to go up the stairs to wake your child.

You open the bedroom door and walk towards the stairs, but as soon as you get there you are startled to see Astarion sitting at the kitchen table with upur son on the other side of it. The boy's face is serious, closed, his gaze is at least deadly at his father who looks at him with amusement.

"What are you doing?" you ask, getting closer and Astarion looks at you, his son doesn't take his eyes off him.

"Ah, good morning to you too, dear," the vampire says, getting up and walking towards you. "You are radiant."

He puts his hands on your waist and kisses you on the cheek. You put your hands on his shoulders and look at Asta who looks at you with visible disgust.

"Astarion," you say, pulling him away from you and looking at his face, seeing his mischievous smile. "Why are you still here?"

"Ah..." he says and looks at Asta over his shoulder and then at you. "I decided to spend some time with my wife and son. You know, a vacation from Baldurs Gate."

You swallow hard and look at your son.

"Asta, can you go outside for a bit?" you ask the boy who, without saying a word, gets up and leaves the house.

Astarion laughs briefly and you push him away.

"Have you lost your mind?" you say. "Stay here?!"

"What's the problem?" the Vampire Lord says.

"You know..."

"I won't do anything to the boy," he says. "I won't manipulate you or him, if that's what you're afraid of, nor show my cruelest face," he approaches again and caresses your face with the back of his cold fingers. "And I won't try to get closer to him."

"He doesn't want you here..."

"He doesn't have to want to, love," he says seriously, holding your face in his hands. "He's a child, we're his parents and we want to spend some time together, not too long since I can't let the rats run wild."

You close your eyes and take a deep breath.

"Let me have the pleasure of having you by my side, having you as my wife..."

"No consort?" you ask suspiciously and Astarion opens a wide smile.

"Regardless of the word used, love, my consort, woman, wife... In all of them, you are mine and will be..."

"Until I'm covered in wrinkles" you say, taking his hands and removing them from his face.

Astarion's jaw muscle twitches, his gaze sinks into shadows.

"There is a way to make sure you never grow old," he says and you shake your head.

"I will not become your spawn" you say.

"You won't be a simple spawn" he says and you look at him reprimandingly.

"We already had this conversation" you say and he nods.

"Well, whatever," he says. "So I have to make it counts now", he gives you a long kiss on the cheek. "And put another child inside you"

"What?" you laugh nervously and look at him, to your surprise he isn't laughing. "Really?"

"How many do you think we can make?" he asks, wrapping his arms around your waist.

"No... I don't think we should..."

"Why not? Look at our beautiful Astarion II," he says. "Some brothers or sisters would be great for him."

"Astarion" you say laughing and he hugs you, hiding his face in your neck.

"You are the only one in my cold heart" he says. "The one I chose to have my prole... The only one I can have the privilege of saying I love."

You close your eyes, giving in to the hug, you know that he could be manipulating, using your feelings against you, but something deep down tells you that it's not the ascended vampire speaking, but rather the one you love deeply.

"We can play house for a while" you say and he nods. "Now, regarding another child... We have to talk."

He laughs and looks at you, your noses touching.

"Okay," he says. "Wife."

You laugh and kiss him, both of you with a smile on your face. You know that this moment, that the days to come would just be a fantasy, a dream, with an expiration date, but you could dive into that dream and live an imagined life with the one you love and would always love.

#astarion x tav #astarion #baldurs gate #baldur's gate 3 #astarion bg3 #smut #oneshot #fanfic #astarion ancunin #astarion art #bg3 #bg3 astarion

106 notes · View notes

lendeah · 11 months ago

Text

After the Weave 3.

series masterlist

Summary: Elara and Astarion go to the ball with the aim of securing support, but navigating high society comes with its own set of perils.

Pairing: Astarion x OFC!Tav, past Gale x OFC!Tav

Tags: Angst, Drinking to Cope, References to Depression, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Smut, Emotional Baggage, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Post-Break Up, Tav finds herself again with Astarion, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD.

Word count: 4.3k

Also on AO3

"Godlike power, perhaps I can live without, but you?

You're everything"

The memory tugs at my mind, that moment beneath the rich purple sky, when everything felt within my grasp beside him. I can still see it clearly - the way his eyes gazed at me, filled with adoration and vows of forever. But now, as I finish tightening the corset with a sharp pull, the long red ball gown hugging my curves perfectly, I realize that those were just empty promises. Lies upon lies.

The crimson silk hugs my curves beautifully, though as I walk the long halls, each step becomes a battle against the uncomfortable fabric that makes me trip repeatedly. A beautiful dress indeed, but one that brings discomfort and pain with every move. Just like Gale's love.

Astarion is waiting by the entrance, looking as disinterested as ever, his face a mask of boredom. He is dressed in a crimson and black suit that hugs his form in all the right places. I can't help but admire how the fabric accentuates his lithe frame, the way it compliments his pale skin and emphasizes the white of his curls.

As his eyes finally land on me, something changes in them. There's a flicker of surprise and admiration before he quickly masks it with his usual sneer.

"That is a nice dress, I wonder who made it. They sure are talented, for making you of all people look regal."

I roll my eyes, "I don't even know how they got all my measures right. I mean, I don't think anyone has ever measured me, to begin with."

Astarion smirks, his eyes roaming over my form with a hint of amusement."Ah, well, I do recall taking your measurements once. However, that was quite some time ago, my dear, so you may have forgotten it."

I frown, and then a flicker of a memory flashes through my mind, and I can see Astarion's skilled fingers and his concentrated expression as he took my measurements with meticulous precision.

"You shared my measurements with a seamstress to make this dress?" I ask, surprised that he went to such great lengths for our work at the grand ball.

Astarion's eyes become unreadable for a second, and then he nods. "Yes, of course. It wouldn't do for you to arrive at the ball looking anything less than perfect." His tone is laced with sarcasm, but I can sense a hint of sincerity behind his words.

I let out a small laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. "You never cease to surprise me, bloodsucker." I say, approaching him slowly. "Thank you for your help."

His smirk softens into a small smile and he bows slightly in response. "It was my pleasure, Lady Elara."

His voice is dripping with mock formality, and I can't help but chuckle at his antics. I gesture towards the door. "Shall we, Sir. Ancunín?"

Astarion extends his arm to me like a gentleman, and I take it gratefully, feeling strangely comforted by his touch.

Just as we are about to step into the grand carriage, he stops and turns to face me once again. "Are you absolutely certain about this? We can stay here if you'd like, especially after... the missive."

I wince to myself. I knew he would want to talk about the letter sooner or later, but I thought I had done a pretty good job avoiding the subject for the past few days. Aparently, it hadn't been enough.

"Yes, I'm sure. The sooner we get this over with, the better." I say dismissively.

He looks at me intently, his eyes searching for any signs of hesitation or doubt. Then, his expression softens as he nods in understanding. "Very well then, shall we go?"

We climb into the grand carriage, and make our way towards the palace where the ball is being held. The ride is a quiet one, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I steal subtle glances at the man in front of me. He looks mesmerizing, as always, with his white, tousled hair falling just so over his forehead, accentuating the sharp angles of his face. His crimson eyes, usually filled with mischief, now hold a hint of worry that he's trying to conceal, and I have to fight the urge to smooth the lines that have formed in his forehead.

I catch myself staring and quickly avert my gaze, focusing on the passing scenery outside the carriage window. The moon hangs low in the sky, casting a silvery glow on the city. Lately I feel like I'm constantly living in the night, between the walls of the Palace. I guess that is how Astarion's life has felt in the last few months, back in the shadows without the tadpole giving him immunity to the sunlight. I can't help but pity him, as the memories of his pale body basking in the morning light flash through my mind.

As we near the palace, Astarion finally breaks the silence between us. His voice is softer than before, almost hesitant.

"When was the last time you practiced the art of sorcery?" he asks, with his eyes still fixed on the window.

I feel myself freeze up at the question. It's been months since Gale left, and with him went my motivation to even touch a spellbook or scroll. Every hint of magic reminded me of him, and I couldn't bring myself to face that pain again.

"It's been a while," I admit reluctantly. "Since Gale left."

Astarion nods in understanding, but there is a hint of dissatisfaction in his expression. "That's a shame. You were good," he says firmly, finally looking at me.

I meet his gaze, feeling a mixture of gratitude and irritation. Astarion always had a way of cutting through the chaos in my mind and speaking truths that I didn't want to confront. He was right, of course. I had allowed Gale's departure to shatter not only my heart but also my connection to magic. A wave of regret washes over me as I realize how easily I had let go of something I loved so much, how easily I had forgotten myself.

"I know," I reply, my tone softer than I anticipated. "It's just... difficult. Every time I try to conjure a spell or tap into that part of myself, I can't help but think of him."

"Ah, I understand the pain of reminders all too well," he murmurs with a wry smile. "But Elara, you cannot let him, or anyone for that matter, define who you are or what you're capable of. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for."

His words stir something within me, an ember of determination that has been smoldering beneath the ashes of heartbreak. Perhaps he's right. Perhaps it's time to reclaim my magic. But not now, I tell myself, there would be time for that after we finish doing what we came here to do.

As we step out of the carriage and into the entrance of the castle, my mouth falls open. I didn't even know such extensive grounds could fit in Baldur's Gate's narrow streets. The palace, lit up by hundreds of lanterns and torches, looks like something out of a fairytale. The gardens are filled with colorful flowers and fountains, and the marble steps leading to the entrance are lined with statues of ancient gods.

Astarion catches me staring in awe and smirks. "Remarkable, isn't it? A chance to join the illustrious Duke at his grand ball is a rare privilege indeed."

"Wait, Duke? As in Duke Ravengaard? As in, Wyll's dad?"

Astarion nods, "Yes, the very same. I'm surprised you didn't know, it must've slipped my mind to tell you." But the mischief in his eyes tells me he most definitely didn't.

As we make our way into the grand ballroom, I find out the grand hall is just as breathtaking as the exterior. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a warm golden glow on everything below. People dressed in extravagant gowns and suits dance to music played by musicians in one corner of the room. As Astarion and I enter the room, all eyes turn towards us with a flurry of emotion. Some gaze at us with curious intrigue, while others openly display their desire. But the dominant reaction is one of pure fear, evident in the way they shrink back and avoid eye contact.

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves that have resurfaced at the sight of so many eyes on us. Astarion must sense this, because he takes my hand on his cold one and squeezes it reassuringly.

"Relax," he whispers with a smile. "Just be your usual 'Savior of Baldur's Gate' self and you will be more than fine."

As we reach the ballroom, I can see it is filled with high-ranking officials, nobles and other powerful figures, all dressed in their finest attire. I try to remember the individuals Astarion had taught me about, but there are too many and the names and occupations are mixing in my brain. In a sea of unfamiliar faces, one stands out amongst the rest. Duke Ravengard approaches us, with a welcoming smile dancing on his lips. He reminds me so much of Wyll that a wave of emotions hit me like a punch to the gut.

Before I can even say anything, Astarion steps forward and greets the man with a respectful bow. "Your Grace," he says smoothly, "allow me to introduce the Savior of Baldur's Gate. Rumor has it, she once saved you from certain death in the not-so-distant past."

I feel my cheeks heat up at the remark. The Duke's eyes widen in recognition before a warm smile forms on his lips.

"Ah, Elara. What an honor to see you again," he says, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "I've heard tales of your brave deeds for our city, and we are all in your debt."

I manage to give him a small smile and a nod.

"It was a pleasure, sir."

He chuckles softly, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Modesty becomes you, my dear." He says with a smile. A flicker of sadness appeared in his eyes as he asked "Have you happened upon any news of my son? I recall that the two of you were once close friends."

My heart sinks at the mention of Wyll. I haven't heard from him since he left for the Avernus with Karlac, but seeing how important Duke Ravengard is to him, I decide to be honest.

"I'm afraid I haven't heard from Wyll in quite some time."

The Duke's expression falls slightly but he nods understandingly. "I see. Well, if you do happen to come across him in your travels, please let him know that his father misses him dearly."

"I will," I promise solemnly.

He pauses for a second, and then adds "But let us not dwell on the past tonight. This is a night of celebration and joy!"

As the Duke leads us further into the ballroom, Astarion walks beside me, his eyes flickering with a mix of amusement and mischief. "Well, well, Lady Elara," he whispers. "How greedy you are, relishing in all the glory"

I roll my eyes at his teasing remark but can't help but feel a sense of pride bubbling within me. Standing in the midst of power and privilege, I can't help but feel that maybe I do deserve this recognition.

As we continue to mingle among the crowd, a smooth voice catches my attention. I turn to see a blonde elf woman approaching us, drink in hand.

"Ah, Astarion, dearest," she says with a charming smile as she reaches us. "What a pleasure to meet you again."

Astarion smiles back at her and gives her a slight bow. "The pleasure is all mine, Lady Shaphyra."

I remember now. Her name is Lady Shaphyra Boldsong, daughter of one of the most influential elven families in Baldur's Gate. And she and Astarion seem to know each other quite well, by the looks of it.

"I see you have brought a lovely companion with you," she says, turning her gaze towards me. "The Savior of Baldur's Gate, no less. And she is a half-elf! What a delightful surprise."

I feel my cheeks flush once again as I am introduced for the second time tonight. But Lady Saphyra doesn't seem to mind as she bows towards me.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," she says warmly.

I bow back. "Likewise, Lady Saphyra."

She turns back to Astarion, with a sly smile on her lips. "I couldn't have imagined you keeping such remarkable company. Is she also lending a hand in funding the hospital?"

I tilt my head and raise a questioning eyebrow in Astarion's direction, but he remains unfazed. As if sensing that it's now my turn to take the lead, I clear my throat and confidently interject into the conversation, "Actually, Lady Saphyra, I have been heavily involved in the fundraising efforts for the hospital. It's a cause close to my heart, after the catastrophe we lived."

Lady Saphyra's expression changes, her eyes widening in surprise. "How wonderful! I must say, you are quite the impressive lady, Elara."

Astarion gives me a small nod of approval before turning back to Lady Saphyra. "Indubitably, my dear, she is a remarkable creature indeed. I daresay, any assistance we can offer in tending to these unfortunate young ones is most welcome. Even more if the help comes from someone as bewitching as yourself."

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes at Astarion's practiced flattery, his smooth words and charming smile all too familiar to me by now. However, Lady Saphyra appears taken with his act, as she giggles and sips her drink before responding, "You are quite the charmer, Astarion. But I am glad to hear that you both are involved in such a noble cause. I may consider helping myself, if you treat me to a dance."

He takes her delicate hand in his and guides her gracefully towards the dance floor, their movements fluid and elegant as they join the other couples swaying to the music.

I watch them go with a mixture of amusement and relief that everything is going as intended. The rest of the night unfolds with a whirlwind of introductions and conversations. Astarion seems to know every person in the place, with most of them regarding Astarion with respect. I find myself seamlessly switching between engaging in political discussions with influential figures and gracefully gliding across the ballroom floor in elegant dances, all of this while convincing the nobles to join our very worthy cause. Just as Astarion had predicted, my presence was enough to sway many into following through with his plans.

At some point during the evening, we are approached by a group of people. Among them is who I recognize as Sir. Paddock, a human man in his sixties with silver hair and piercing green eyes. He is one of the most influential magistrates in the city, and also someone Astarion explicitly told me to beware of.

"Sir. Ancunín," he greets us with a bow before turning to me with a charming smile. "And Lady Ella, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

I give him a polite smile despite him getting my name wrong.

"You know, I didn't imagine the Savior of Baldur's Gate to be so appealing to the eye," he says with a raised eyebrow and lowers his eyes down my chest just enough to make me uncomfortable.

"Thank you for your compliment, Sir Paddock," I say stiffly.

He chuckles as if he's amused by my reaction before turning back to Astarion.

"So tell me," he says in a lowered voice, "what brings such extraordinary person here tonight in the arm of a man of the night, of all people?"

My jaw tightens at his words and I feel Astarion tense beside me. I take a deep breath, trying to compose myself.

Astarion flashes his signature smirk, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "Ah, Sir Paddock, always the observant one," he says with a playful tone.

"Actually, Mr. Ancunín is doing a lot of important work for the betterment of this city," I say firmly.

The man just raises an eyebrow skeptically. "And do these 'important' labors involve the draining of a certain vital liquid?" he asks with a sly smile.

The people around us shift uncomfortably at his words, although I can hear some chuckles.

I stand my ground, not allowing his insinuation to rattle me. "No, they do not".

Astarion leans in, his smile never wavering."Ah, Sir Paddock, you wound me with your choice of words," he replies smoothly. "But as for Lady Elara's presence here tonight, she graces us with her company as both a hero and a benefactor to the hospital fund. We are fortunate to have her support."

Sir Paddock's smile falters, but he quickly regains his composure."A hero and a benefactor? Impressive indeed." He glances between us, a glint of suspicion in his eyes."Well then, I apologize for my bluntness. It's just that Astarion here has quite a reputation in the city."

"I assure you, Sir Paddock, that Astarion is a changed man now," I say confidently, placing a hand on Astarion's arm for emphasis.

Sir Paddock studies us for a moment.

"You seem like an accomplished and respectable young woman," the man continues, ignoring my previous statement. "You don't need to waste your potential with... this thing."

His words strike a nerve within me and before I know it, I am speaking without thinking. "Mr. Ancunín may have a past that some frown upon, but he has proven himself time and time again as a valuable asset to this city," I retort "he is the most caring, ambitious, hard working and loyal person I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. And none of you would be here if it wasn't for his labors." I finish, my voice quivering with rage.

The surrounding crowd falls into a heavy silence, their eyes darting between the three of us. Astarion himself wears a stunned expression, his typically composed demeanor momentarily cracked.

But the man just chuckles condescendingly. "Oh dear, it seems like you have quite the temper on you," he says with amusement. "But mark my words, Miss Ella. Associating yourself with someone like that will only bring you down in the eyes of this society."

My fists clench at my sides as fury courses through me. How dare he speak about him like this? Despite all of Astarion's faults and past mistakes, he has been nothing but good to me and the city. Hells, he is keeping 7000 spawn alive as we are talking!

Before I can respond, Astarion steps forward "Ah, Sir Paddock, always one to jump to the most scandalous conclusions. I assure you, Lady Elara and I are engaged in far more noble pursuits than you could ever dream of."

I shoot Astarion a grateful smile. Sir Paddock's eyes narrow as he studies Astarion. "Well, well, the rogue with a heart of gold. You've certainly managed to charm your way into the hearts of Baldur's Gate's elite, haven't you?"

Astarion smirks and bows slightly. "Charm is my specialty, dear sir. It seems even the most discerning individuals can recognize true talent when they see it."

Suppressing a laugh, I instead give his arm a tight squeeze in appreciation for his backhanded compliment.

"And now, as lovely as it has been talking with you, I believe I owe this beautiful woman a dance, so if you'll excuse us" Astarion says smoothly, extending his hand towards me.

Sir Paddock studies us for a moment "Oh, of course," he says with a forced grin. "I wouldn't want to keep you from your dance."

I glance at Sir Paddock, a smug smile gracing my lips, before placing my hand in Astarion's. With a bow, the vampire leads me away from the group, towards the dance floor. As we glide across the dance floor, the tension from our encounter with Sir Paddock slowly dissipates. The music envelops us, its melodic notes weaving through the air as if casting a spell of tranquility upon the room. I can feel his eyes on me while we dance, his hand resting gently on the small of my back, guiding me with effortless grace. I try to push the earlier confrontation out of my mind and focus on our mission, but I can't help but feel guilty for losing my temper.

"I'm sorry," I say sincerely, breaking the silence between us. "I overstepped and almost blew our plan."

"You handled Sir Paddock admirably," Astarion whispers in my ear, his voice filled with a mixture of pride and mischief. "You have quite the fiery spirit, my lady."

I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks at his words, my heart swelling with a warmth that I hadn't anticipated, "Thank you, Sir Ancunín."

For a moment, I forget about the tensions of the evening and lose myself in the rhythm of the dance.

As we sway together amidst the sea of elegant couples, Astarion leans in closer, his voice barely audible over the music. My back shivers at the closeness to his body, the feeling of his cold fingers grazing my open back.

"My dear Elara," he begins, his breath tickling my ear, "Your strength and resilience have always been a source of envy for me. But there is something I find ever more admirable from you."

"And what is it that you find so admirable?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

Astarion pulls back slightly, his gaze fixed on mine. "It is your unwavering belief in the goodness of others, even in the face of their doubts and prejudices."

A small smile tugs at my lips as I listen to Astarion's words. His observation warms my heart.

"I'm not sure if that is entirely true," I say. "I have made plenty of mistakes believing others in my life."

A faint smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he tightens his grip on my waist."Don't we all?" Astarion replies. "But I've seen you in action, Elara. You have a way of bringing out the best in people, even when they don't see it themselves."

I swallow hard, his words resonating deeply within me. Astarion's observations of my character always manage to surprise me, as if he can see into the depths of my soul. For so long after Gale left, I had felt lost and disconnected from the world, but his presence back in my life had brought about a newfound clarity, a sense of purpose.

"Thank you," I say softly.

As the music begins to fade into another song, Astarion pulls me closer, his grip on my waist firm yet gentle. The room around us seems to blur into insignificance as our eyes lock, a silent understanding passing between us.

"Can I ask what Gale's letter said?" He says, breaking the comfortable silence between us.

I tense visibly at the mention of the piece of parchment, tripping on my own feet. But Astarion quickly catches me before I fall.

"I-I don't know," I stutter, trying to regain my composure.

Astarion's eyes narrow slightly. "You don't know? Did you not read it?"

I take a deep breath and try to calm my racing heart. How much should I tell him? In the short time we've been living together, Astarion has already opened himself to me in more ways than one. Yet, I can't shake the feeling of shame that washes over me at the reminder of the words written in ink.

"He said that he has started crafting Karsus' Crown" I blurt out.

Astarion raises an eyebrow, clearly picking up on my discomfort. "And that's it?"

I give a slow, resigned shake of my head. "He also said that it's over, that I should forget him and move on with my life." I say, my voice heavy with disappointment, "Oh, and of course, he made sure to mention that he's not coming back, which I guess was to be expected at this point." I laugh bitterly.

Astarion's expression turns serious at my words. "I'm sorry, Elara," he says quietly. "I know how much Gale meant to you."

"It's fine," I say with a shrug, trying to brush off the sadness that threatens to consume me. "I've had plenty of time to come to terms with it."

Astarion studies me for a moment before speaking again. "How do you feel about it?"

His question lingered in my mind. How did I feel about it?

"I...I don't know," I finally answer truthfully. "Part of me is sad, of course. But another part of me is relieved."

Astarion looks at me curiously, and I can tell he wants me to elaborate. So I take a deep breath and continue.

"I've been holding onto this hope that maybe one day we would get back together. For so many months, I really hoped he would give up his power for me," I say, feeling slightly embarrassed at my admission. "But now I can finally let go of that hope and move on with my life."

A small smile appears on Astarion's face and he nods in understanding. "I think that's for the best," he says softly.

I nod in agreement, grateful for his support and understanding. We continue dancing in silence for a few moments before Astarion speaks up again.

"You know, dear," he begins hesitantly. "He on no account ever deserved you."

I glance up at Astarion, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. I'm about to ask him what he means by that, but before I can even part my lips, a blood-curdling scream shatters the stillness of the room. In an instant, Astarion's hand is clasped around mine and he is pulling me towards the source of the cry. The corner is filled with a sea of nobles, their faces contorted with fear and shock. We push our way through the crowd, struggling against the tide until we finally reach the head of the gathering. And there, lying on the floor in a pool of crimson, is Duke Ravengard. And his lifeless body bears two deep puncture wounds decorating his neck.

#astarion ancunin #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 #bg3 fanfic prompt #bg3 tav #astarion x tav #astarion fanfic #baldurs gate fanfiction #baldurs gate 3 #astarion baldurs gate #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #fanfic

58 notes · View notes