⚡️Astarion’s Little Sorceress⚡️ @nyx-knox - Tumblr Blog

Eat You Up

a spawn astarion x fem!tav reader oneshot | nsfw | ~3.8k words

(dividers by @saradika-graphics)

Summary: Though you and Astarion are no longer lovers, you still love him with your whole heart. And so, though it makes your heart ache, you've never stopped letting him feed upon you. On one cold winter night, your monthly cycle prevents him from feeding upon you in the usual way. Astarion suggests an alternative you simply cannot resist—one that you know will test the boundaries of your relationship once again.

Tags/CW: menstruation kink, oral sex, smut and angst (though it ends happily), post-game

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The dead of the night is when he haunts you.

You are back where it all began. You celebrate, you reminisce, you dance, you laugh like you have never been apart. What a pity, you think it, that your cup overflows and your plate is full while he is left hungry. And so you let him pull you back into those woods, press you against that tree, plunge his fangs into your willing neck. Your body falls limp, and his grows rigid, and you whimper and you whine and you wish he would take more of you, take all of you. He doesn't, of course, for you are not lovers. Not anymore.

You are at the Elfsong. You meet, every so often, chatting and joking in the way old friends do. You are old friends, you suppose, and yet the phrase fails to capture what he means to you. No words ever can. One night, he looks dreadfully tired and eerily pale, and so you find yourself slipping coins into the innkeep's hands in exchange for a key and a wink. You wink back to hide your wince. True that you will follow your companion up the stairs, share his bed, lie beneath him writhing and wanting—but you are not lovers. Whatever you are, you are not lovers.

You are in your own bed. He comes to you those nights when he needs you most, and so you invite him in, into your home, into your body, into your heart. He drinks, and drinks, and drinks until he is full. Until he does not need you anymore. When he leaves you lonely again, you lie awake and aching, singing his name to fill the silence, pressing fingers everywhere his kisses once were, oh, so long ago. You love him still.

But you are not lovers.

You wake.

Pain wracks you the moment your eyes flicker open. Not only your endless heartache, not only that unfortunate throb between your legs (clearly you miss him in more ways than one), but irritating, agonizing, excruciating pain.

The cramps. You knew they were coming. The time was right and the signs were all there. Still you resent how they always seem to hit you hardest when you are trying to sleep. As if that weren't a difficult enough task already these days.

You briefly debate whether it is better to remain in the warmth of your bed or to endure the cold long enough to heat a hot water bottle. As much as you want to stay all swaddled up in your blankets, the urgent need to soothe the ache is what wins in the end.

It hurts so much you could cry.

And then you think back to your dreams, his smile, his laughter, his absence.

Maybe a good cry is what you need.

But, for now, you will yourself not to fall apart as you lift yourself out from under the sheets. No one else can stoke the fire or ease your pain. The only one here is you.

The cold is ruthless. Even your favourite robe, thick and fluffy though it is, does little to shield you from its teeth-chattering, body-shivering, bone-chilling effects. Of course you slip it over your bare shoulders anyway. You would take even the paltriest comfort over nothing.

You walk towards the fireplace where flames have long faded to embers, their dull glow a meagre memory of warmth. At least this is something you can fix. You add another log to the fire, poking and prodding at it until, eventually, it roars back to life.

Just as you are ready to walk away, you hear it—

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You freeze.

Really, it could be any manner of monster or miscreant lurking at your balcony door. But, if this night is like so many that have come before, you suspect your nocturnal visitor is the vampiric type.

You step carefully to the door, poker held high in hand (just in case of course), peering around the curtain—and, through the glass pane, you spy a familiar toothy grin.

Astarion. His hair is wind-swept, and he is covered in snow, and yet somehow you feel like you are the one who is outside looking in on him.

Sighing, you push the curtain aside and unlock the door, pulling it open.

"Please, my fair maiden," he begins, pouring all his charm into this ridiculous little act of his. "Would a pure, kind soul such as yourself take pity on a poor, starving man and let me in? The night is bitingly cold."

Normally you would tease him first for his foolishness, but the bitter chill and the eerie howling of the wind have you inviting him in immediately. "Gods, just come inside. You could catch your death out there."

"I'm afraid it's a little late for that one, darling," he says as he passes through the threshold, shaking away the snow and shedding off his coat and boots. "I'm already quite dead."

"You know what I mean," you say, your eyes rolling before they land upon the mess of salt and snow he has made upon your floor. Really, though, that should be the least of your worries. The mess he makes of you is always much worse.

You know why he came here, and it isn't for your company, is it?

Still you usher him over to the couch, preparing yourself for the usual preamble that feels more and more like pretense. He sits and stretches, all while you try not to think about how much you'd rather settle into the crook of his arm or the seat of his lap. Instead you take your place in the corner opposite to him.

It is somehow both too close and too far away.

"What in the hells are you doing out on a night like this anyway?" you ask. Your words come out sharp and strained, not light and lilting like you had hoped—no chance hiding your sour mood then, though you soldier on with the small talk anyway. "This must be the worst weather we've had all winter."

He shrugs, wholly unbothered. "Oh, my darling. It would take far more than this measly little storm to keep me away from you."

And then he scooches closer.

And then your heart flutters.

Even though you know it shouldn't.

Even though you know he doesn't love you.

He is, oh, so very near now. Near enough to touch you, to take you, to break you. And, for one sweet moment, the graze of his fingertips against your neck feels like the caress you wish it was.

"You are rather delicious after all."

And there it is.

No, he doesn't love you at all. Only what you have to give.

And still you give and you give and you give.

But maybe this time you don't.

"I can't help you tonight, Astarion."

He pulls away, startled. Hurt. Curse that man and those big, sad puppy eyes of his for making you feel guilty. For making you willing to sacrifice yourself at his altar just to see his smile again.

But you shouldn't. You can't. You won't.

Your neck is off limits tonight.

Although, set in stone as your decision is, you feel you should at least soften the blow. "I'm sorry, truly. It's just… now is not a good time. My supply is already quite… limited."

For a moment he says nothing. Then, with a twitch of his nose, confusion becomes understanding. "Ah."

Again silence. At least you can breathe easier now. You have a legitimate excuse tonight. You learned during your travels together that you can only handle one kind of blood loss at a time. You could barely function otherwise. He may be disappointed, but he will understand.

"Well, I need not bite you to get my fill."

His words hit you like an eldritch blast.

He cannot possibly be suggesting what you think he is suggesting.

Because it sounds like he is suggesting he spend the night with his face buried between your legs.

And that sounds an awful lot like sex.

"No need to look quite so scandalized, darling." Astarion leans forward in the way that lovers do, in the way that he used to, back when you revelled in the anticipation of his every word and every kiss. "It's nothing we haven't done before."

You stare in silence, wanting more, but knowing better. Either you are lovers, or you are not, and blurring the lines now will surely only hurt you in the end.

But, when you think about it, you already have been hurting. There is an undeniable intimacy in letting him feast upon you—even if you have tried to deny it. To be held so frequently, so tightly, so ardently in his embrace hasn't made your life any easier. Hasn't made you love him any less.

If anything—fool that you are—you love him more.

And, gods, it has been eating you up inside.

Your heart is his either way. Would it really be so awful to let yourself give in? To let pleasure ease your pain for a while? To let him eat you up like he once used to do?

"And what, exactly, do you want this to be?" you ask.

As if his tongue delving inside you could be anything less than sinfully carnal.

"Only as much as you want it to be," he assures you, though you are hardly assured. Too often have you attempted asking him what he wants and too often has he answered only by turning the question back on you.

"I can be a gentleman, you know," he continues. "This need not be anything more than a taste. Need not happen at all if you don't want it to. The choice is yours."

But it is also his.

You have not forgotten that his relationship with touch is a complicated one. A fact that played a key role in the decision you made to continue only as friends.

A decision that you are dangerously close to disregarding entirely.

"Astarion, you don't have to do anything you don't want to—"

"I know."

"If you're sure—"

"I'm sure."

Oh. Well. There is an honesty and a confidence to his short, unwavering answers, to his fixed and fiery gaze that you cannot deny.

But are you sure about this?

You debate. You deliberate. You decide.

"Maybe just a little taste."

"A taste it is then, my dear," he says, though the wicked grin now spreading across his face has you doubting whether this will stay anything close to innocent for long.

How could it when, deep down, you can't help but crave him? Can't help but imagine seeing stars over and over and over again as he licks you into a frenzy?

You know he knows how.

"Then," you say, rising abruptly from your seat, "I suppose we'll need some towels."

"Of course," he agrees, nodding his approval. "We wouldn't want to defile those pristine white sheets, now would we?"

Too flushed and too flustered to face him any longer, you give him a brief shake of your head and make your escape to the linen closet.

Here, you have a moment alone. A moment to recover. Or, maybe to second guess. Or, as it turns out, to outright panic.

Why? Why is he willing to go through with this? Well, the obvious reason is your blood, as always, but surely you both know where this will lead no matter how much you pretend otherwise. What will happen when it is done? When he has well and truly had you? When the midnight chimes call him away?

Is it too much to hope that he might stay?

Hells, here you are wondering and worrying about how he will act and what he will think, when really, you should be asking yourself: why are you willing to go through with this?

You sigh. You know why. You're too romantic for your own good; you're a little horny—well, maybe a lot horny; and you're deeply, profoundly, heart-achingly lonely.

But what if the loneliness of him leaving you again is more than you can bear?

You know your heart is on the line. But you are too far gone to change your mind. Too long lived without affection. Too starved of him not to beg for any scrap you can get.

So you drape two towels over your arm and you make your way to bed.

There he lies in wait for you, luxuriating like he belongs there, luring you in with inviting eyes and a hand patting the empty space beside him.

"Well?" he purrs. "Let's make ourselves comfortable, shall we?"

Not an easy task when your muscles are this tense and your pulse is this high, but you try anyway. This is a familiar ritual, really, and so you follow its motions: setting one towel down on the nightstand, spreading out the other across the bed (though this time at the level of your thighs), praying to any god you can name that you won't lose your mind completely when he climbs over you.

Like always you lay yourself before him—an offering so much more than blood, always given but never taken—and like always he positions himself above you.

But tonight is different, isn't it? Something new. Or rather something old. A return to a past when you believed you could be more than friends. You are all too aware now of the way his knees sink into the mattress, the way his eyes bore into yours.

You almost feel like he'll kiss you—hells, you hope he'll kiss you—but he doesn't.

He never does.

Instead you stare up at him with uncertain eyes, and sensing your unease, he speaks softly: "Say the word and I'll stop, all right, love?"

Such a sweet and soothing illusion of safety his words are. You trust what he says is true; but that will not save you from the danger you know you're in.

Because you already know you won't want him to stop.

You nod, and he smiles, and you resign yourself to your rapturous doom.

Astarion coaxes apart your knees with gentle hands, splaying open the lower panels of your robe, exposing the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs and the soft cotton of your underclothes. He moves slowly, sensually, pulling the fabric away from your hips, over your knees, off of your feet. Your cheeks burn hot, knowing just how soaked your protective padding is with blood and arousal.

You wonder if he'll be able to taste how desperately you desire him.

"There you are," he remarks, eyeing you with an eagerness that sends sparks tingling throughout your body. "I could just eat you right up."

Gods, you want him badly.

Though you must not mistake his hunger for lust, much less love.

But, as he settles between your thighs, and as he licks a lascivious stripe along your entrance, all rational sense is lost to you.

So you surrender yourself to sensation.

He tests the waters again with a tease. A flick of the tongue, feather-light and quick, but, oh, is it ever enough to make you gasp. Almost embarrassing how wet, how open, how vocal you are for him already, but you don't have it in you to care.

All that matters right now is that you are here and you are his.

The next swipe of his tongue is pure indulgence: starting slow, but delving deep, submerging you in sweet agony as he savours your taste. Again and again, he laps at your centre; again and again, your body begs without words, arching, shaking, trembling, aching for more, more, more.

Astarion moans, and you echo him, delighting in the way each sound he makes vibrates through your core. He matches your responses with equal enthusiasm: growing bolder, moving faster, getting greedier and needier with every drag through your folds. When at last the tip of his nose brushes against your neglected clit, a truly wanton cry escapes your lips. You couldn't have muffled it if you tried.

And why bother trying?

Why fight it when, even without sex, your moonlit feedings have never met any conceivable definition of quiet?

And this, all of this—every lewd noise; every blistering touch; every moment of pleasure divine—this is definitely sex.

Oh, there can be no doubt of it now.

Certainly not when, finally, he gives you all the attention you crave.

He devours you like he needs you, acting every bit a creature sustained not by the richness of your blood but the intensity of your pleasure, slick tongue swiping over your clit with every slide through your cunt. And in no way do you hide the bliss his mouth makes you feel, all inhibitions lost as you moan with utter abandon.

You remember well how much he liked to make you scream his name.

And, when his lips enclose around that little bundle of nerves, you do.

In seconds you succumb to his gentle sucking and light tongue-flicking, careening over over the edge of ecstasy. You let the feeling swallow you whole, erasing everything but the euphoria of orgasm.

But it's only a fleeting fantasy. A precious moment over all too soon.

You are not yet ready to return to reality—not when your body thrums this pleasantly and your heart feels this full—but your eyes flutter open anyway. You brave a look at him; there is a flush to his cheeks and a question in his eyes.

And it seems he finds his answer in yours.

He tastes you again, and you are grateful for the mercy; glad to let pleasure soothe your pain; eager to live and breathe this beautiful lie. Would it be too much to play with his soft curls? Too much to sing his praises with sweet words? Too much to hold his hand as you fall apart for him all over again?

It would be, wouldn't it?

And yet he doesn't think it too much to take more of you. Doesn't think it too much to let his hands wander there they like, venturing to places they hadn't dared before. Doesn't think it too much to pull loose the belt tied around your waist, letting your robe fall open to expose your breasts.

The night no longer feels quite so cold, its chill banished by the fire burning in the hearth and by the fire burning between you. A warmth spreads through him as he indulges in your body and in your blood, as he teases your nipples and devours your cunt, and it has you longing to melt beneath his heat. To meld together and never be parted from him again.

If only you could hug him and kiss him and hold him close him forever.

But if this is all you have—one more night to enshrine in your memories—then that will have to do.

And, oh, you could never forget this night if you tried. His touch is nothing short of sublime—full of such tenderness and want that it is easy to play pretend, easy to imagine he still adores you the way you do him. You lean into him, luxuriating in the feel of his hands exploring your body, his tongue licking stripe after stripe.

Still it is not enough. Still you yearn for something more. Something real.

You reach for his hand—your fingertips barely grazing his—and, to your surprise, to your delight, he grants you your wish. Interlocks his fingers with yours. And, with his free hand, he pushes two fingers inside of you, curling in just the way you like.

You shiver and you shudder, building and building to your inevitable crescendo as Astarion fucks you with both fingers and tongue—but it is his lips encircling your clit that has your cunt clenching. You keen as orgasm tears through your body, your lover never ceasing to please you until he has wrung out every last sigh of your bliss.

Only then, when you are lying limp and breathless, do you loosen your grip.

Only then, when you want him more than anything, do you feel him slip away.

Is this it, then? The bittersweet end? Will he disappear into the distance? Vanish into the void like the ghost he has always been before?

You are worn and you are weary, no more than wreckage left in his wake. And yet his eyes admire you like you're a work of art. A masterpiece of his making, the picture of perfection in the afterglow of your pleasure.

But whatever beauty you possess surely pales in comparison to his. You can't help but return his stare; can't help but watch as he licks his lips and sucks the fingers that had been inside of you, sliding them out with a wet pop.

"Delectable," he says. Your cheeks burn hotter as he dabs his with the extra towel.

Your eyes linger on his lips, lush and kissable, curling into a sultry smile.

You almost fail to notice he is equally transfixed by yours.

And that tiny sparkle of hope inside you is enough to lift you from where you lie and seat you face to face with the man you love so much. You need only lean in.

But it is Astarion who closes the gap.

His kiss is everything you remember it to be and more. The answer to all of your wants and all of your wishes. A stirring of your senses. A soothing of your very soul.

You move your lips against his, not caring that you're a mess, not caring that he tastes of iron, not caring about anything other than giving in to what you both need: a comfort and a closeness you have only ever found in each other. He is perfectly soft, and perfectly sweet, and when his lips part from yours, you fall into his embrace.

With him your heart is home.

Without him—

Without him is a thought you can no longer bear.

"Please"—a desperate whisper in his ear, a tear welling in your eye—"please stay."

"Oh, my sweet love," he says, "I'll stay for as long as you'll have me."

And, when all is set right; when you have washed up and readied yourselves for bed; when the fire has been stoked and you settle under the covers together—somehow you know he is here for good.

Tag List: @preciouslittlebhaalbae, @roguishcat, @goodgirlgonebard, @amoremagnificentbastard, @hellethil, @xxnashiraxx, @vividiana, @dramatiquechipmunk, @wishiwaswritingrn, @spiritcatcherxo

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Thank you so much for reading!

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