Feast for the Soul
A spawn/radiant Astarion x fem!Tav oneshot | NSFW | ~3.8k words
This piece was inspired by @deadly-diminuendo's Eat You Up, which is a beautiful angsty (and delightfully smutty) work about our favorite Radiant Hopeful and his clueless Tav.
The writing was so evocative that I couldn't help reimagining the scene from Astarion's PoV, and she was kind enough to let me "borrow" her tav and to provide super helpful feedback on this little reflection piece.
Summary: It's been months since Astarion broke Tav's heart, hurting the only person he truly cares for. He knows he should leave her in peace to find her own happiness, but he can't bring himself to quit his nighttime visits; feeding on her is the last link he has to her, though his soul aches for more. One cold winter night, he's given an unexpected opportunity to show her that he never stopped loving her.
Tags/CW: menstruation kink, oral sex, smut and angst (though it ends happily), post-game
"Look, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan— seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you'd never turn on me. It was easy— instinctive. Habits from two hundred years of charming people kicked in. All you had to do was fall for it. And all I had to do was not fall for you...which is where my nice, simple plan fell apart. You— you're incredible. You deserve something real. I want us to be something real."
Light footsteps navigated through the icy slush.
It was a benefit of his vampiric condition, he thought idly, that he didn't feel the cold.
This fact was also one of the many deceptive truths he would tell himself, for while it was true that as an undead he wasn't vulnerable to cold, Astarion loved warmth and gravitated to it whenever possible.
And wasn't that exactly what he was doing right now? This walk through the bitterly cold snow, after all, was his pilgrimage... and she was the sanctuary he sought.
Her warmth. Her kindness, her affection.
Her lov—?
No. Don't think about that. You ruined it anyway.
This is all you get to have.
Stolen moments. Clandestine visits in the night. All because he was a creature of the shadows, imposing his presence on her because he couldn't let go, couldn't keep from reaching for her warmth, orbiting the edges of her life like a lovesick fool.
Well. He was a lovesick fool. Hence the trek through the thickening snow.
He often wondered why she tolerated his little visits. She wasn't his sole source of blood in the city; he had a regular order at the butcher's and hunted wildlife in the nearby woods at least twice monthly. He'd even taken to hunting within the city walls: in an amusing reversal of his prior habits, he now haunted taverns looking not for vulnerable souls to seduce, but for the would-be predators stalking them. He would discreetly observe until his potential meal incriminated themselves— coercion, unwanted touching, a potion slipped into a drink— and then, target chosen, he would follow, thwart their plans for their intended victim, and drain them just enough to ensure a spectacular headache the next morning and a newfound fear of the dark.
He never mentioned these activities to her. She never asked.
Probably for the best. If she thought he didn't need her, she might put a stop to his nighttime visits, and then what? Though the thought of her pitying him stung, worse was the idea of never touching her again.
Her balcony door was a golden glow cutting through the dark, a lodestar guiding him home.
Ha. Home.
His lip curling in a grim smirk, he scaled the wall, quick and quiet. Landing silently on the balcony, he paused, briefly touching his fingertips to the glass, the frost remaining opaque and unmelted against his undead flesh.
You don't have the right to call this place home, no matter how much you wish differently.
He paused for a deep breath, allowing himself a moment to tuck all the pain away before knocking.
Her shadow darkened the curtain before a wary glare squinted out at him from behind the fabric, and he couldn't help the smile that crossed his face. She was adorable when she was annoyed, truly.
The moment she opened the door, he launched into a flowery little speech, finishing with an amusing bit of wordplay just to watch her sigh and roll her eyes as she grumbled at him to come in. As they settled on the couch after he shed his coat and boots, she scolded him over visiting during a snow storm.
I missed you. I needed to see you. My flat was so cold and empty and I'd walk through a thousand storms if it meant I were coming home to you.
"Oh, my darling,” he drawled with a studiously careless shrug, "It would take far more than this measly little storm to keep me away from you."
She thought him joking, which— of course— was his aim. The fear of losing her, scaring her away, warred constantly with the fervent need to tell her what she meant to him; the inevitable result was that he told her the truth of his feelings often, but only ever in the most lighthearted and trivial tones he could manage.
She had tucked herself into the opposite corner of the couch, as far away as possible while she glanced at him warily. Even with her sour mood and tired eyes, she was heartbreakingly beautiful; he was drawn in like a hapless moth, moving closer to her lambent warmth even as he feared the immolation of their odd friendship.
Her heartbeat quickened, and it made him want to give her another truth: "You are rather delicious after all."
Resigned exasperation flashed across her face, expression tightening briefly before sliding away under that blank, composed mask. He knew what she would think; hells, the cowardly part of him wanted her to think it. But he wasn't referring to just her blood.
This was stupid. He was being ridiculous, caught between fear and the growing howl inside of him that insisted against all reason and evidence that she was his and he was hers and all he had to do was tell her, she wanted him, she did, he could hear it in her heartbeat, he could smell it—
You know damn well the body's reaction means nothing. A pounding heart can mean fear just as easily as desire.
He couldn't be sure. So he couldn't act— not directly at any rate— not in any way that might jeopardize their friendship.
Oh, but she smelled so good. He allowed himself to surreptitiously brush his fingers against her neck, drawing just a bit closer...
"I can't help you tonight, Astarion."
The flat rejection dropped him abruptly back to Toril.
"I'm sorry, truly. It's just… now is not a good time." She grimaced as she continued, "My supply is already quite… limited."
Limited? He couldn't see any injuries (granted, she was swathed in an enormous robe). On the road, she'd only ever refused him during....
Oh.
A faint trace of blood in the air, crimson-bright and delectable.
Oh.
Soft panting breaths. Heated moans. Hands stroking through his curls, clutching and releasing, always careful to not yank his hair or shove his face down. She was ambrosia on his tongue, so soft and wet and luscious. He licked deeper, needing more, humming delightedly as her hips bucked in his hands. She tasted so godsdamn good—
"Well," he heard himself say, "I need not bite you to get my fill."
Wait, what?
She looked poleaxed, eyes comically wide, and even though he'd rather startled himself by his impromptu suggestion, he was nevertheless very motivated to pursue the conversation.
"No need to look quite so scandalized, darling," he said, unable to resist leaning into her space. "It's nothing we haven't done before."
She continued to stare, stunned, until her gaze slowly lost focus, turning inward and drifting away. "And what, exactly," she said carefully, "do you want this to be?"
I want to taste you, eat you, until you're sobbing my name and then I want to curl around you and never leave—
"Only as much as you want it to be," he assured her, careful not to sound overeager or unwittingly pressure her.
"I can be a gentleman, you know," he teased gently. "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." Please, please say yes.
She remained silent, studying him. But the fact that she had neither laughed nor thrown him out into the snow was encouraging.
He began mentally listing Reasons Why You Should Let Me Eat Your Cunt: she was in obvious pain and the evening of orgasms he was absolutely going to give her would ease the cramping; she would go through fewer rags, and thus less laundry; it had the added benefit of feeding him without additional blood loss....
Dubious, she frowned down at his collar, avoiding his eyes.
She was timid now, a hesitancy coloring her interactions with him ever since that night at Moonrise.
She used to tease him. She used to flirt and laugh with him. He hadn't seen that side of her since the night when she'd finally understood exactly how he'd used her, and quite correctly ended their late night trysts. He'd watched the playful light in her eyes die, her face going blank as she tried to maintain her composure while he obliterated all her illusions about their relationship.
But not before a half-dozen expressions chased across her face. Confusion, shock, humiliation. Pain. Regret.
Shame.
The only person he truly cared for felt ashamed for touching him. She had wanted him— unsurprising, really, everyone wanted him— and now that desire made her feel guilty, as if she were hurting him simply by wanting him.
When in reality what he'd done was use her to hurt himself.
She'd told him, in a devastatingly gentle, hollow voice, that her friendship and blood were offered freely and didn't need to be bought— and certainly not with his body.
I would never want to hurt you or make you uncomfortable. I am... truly sorry that you felt the need to... that you... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
I said I was your friend and— I should have seen it. I should have seen you. You deserve a friend you can trust. I was... too besotted to notice something was off.
Maybe what you need is a friend, not a lover.
He'd been so relieved that she was still willing to speak to him at all that he didn't challenge her decision. Clearly, any possible tender feelings she may have held for him had succumbed to a deep freeze once he'd confessed his perfidy.
So they were friends. And she was different.
I want us to be something real.
He missed her. So, so much.
He'd allowed himself months to adjust to his new circumstances. Living unbound to anyone, fully in control of his life and his own body for the first time in his memory. And perhaps she was right. He had needed that time to become himself, find the person he was without the pretense, without the seductive wiles, without the constant fear and struggle to survive.
But as time went on, seasons changing, the city rebuilding around them, he became more and more aware of the empty space in his life. The place where the hope of her once lived.
He didn't need her, not really. He knew that. These months alone, navigating life after the fall of the Netherbrain had proven that he didn't need anyone to survive.
But he'd spent two centuries surviving; it was time to start living.
He wanted her. He missed her. His nights were never quite complete unless he saw her, spoke to her, smelled the warmth of her.
He would resist going to her, forcing himself to leave her in peace, but he couldn't make it past half a tenday before he would find himself on her doorstep again, seeking the only intimacy she still permitted him.
At least when his fangs were in her neck, he could hold her. He could relish being close to her. He could take slow, small sips, drawing it out, lingering at her throat and soothing the ache inside himself with her scent.
His life was immeasurably better with her in it, and not simply because she'd helped him escape a life of slavery and squalor. Just being near her, seeing her smile, made him happy; in the early days of their acquaintance, once he'd noticed she found his commentary amusing rather than irritating, he took every opportunity to make her laugh because the sound of her happiness was like the warm glow of the sun in his chest.
She used to let him care for her, in his own inexpert way. It started with keeping an eye on her in battle (to ensure the safety of his meal, of course) then grew into distracting her from the constant fear of ceremorphosis with jokes or flirtation, and later, sex. It turned into gently bullying her into accepting the occasional massage for her sore muscles, holding her as she slept, and carrying extra health potions because she would insist on the others being healed first and he could not tolerate seeing her in pain.
But she no longer allowed him those intimacies. After that night, everything that made them more than friends— flirting with him, touching him, letting him take care of her— all of it stopped. He wanted it back. He wanted the chance to devote himself to making her happy every day for the rest of her life.
But though she trembled in his arms, even as he could scent her need, she would pull away, gaze lowered, avoiding his. So determined to allow him space, to avoid making him uncomfortable.
So painfully distant.
This was an opportunity to convince her to give him another chance. To treat her as he should have done from the beginning.
"Astarion," she sighed, "you don't have to do anything you don't want to—"
"I know," he announced firmly.
"If you're sure—"
"I'm sure." Please.
She paused, slightly taken aback and eyeing him curiously. He could see her wavering as she considered his proposal, her busy thoughts chasing each other to exhaustion. She'd been like this on the road as well, considering all variables, fretting over possible consequences, reviewing contingencies and running herself ragged with worry.
He'd loved distracting her from her burdens, leaving her flushed and drowsy in her bedroll.
He would love to distract her now, if she would let him. She wouldn't consider it if she didn't still feel something for him, surely?
Her pinched expression betrayed the pain she was in, and he knew from their previous experience that his assistance was very effective for this particular ailment… but he also knew how strong she was; she had tolerated pain without complaint before, and she would again, if she so chose.
She had taught him that he could say no as a complete sentence, no apology or justification required; he would never deny her the same respect.
That said, he was offering to spend the night with his face in her cunt; hardly platonic. There was no avoiding the carnality of the act, no distancing herself from it— so if she agreed, perhaps that meant that she still craved his touch as he did hers.
"Maybe just a little taste," she offered tentatively.
He grinned, letting her see his elation.
His relief, he kept to himself.
As she left the room for towels, his thoughts were a flurry while he considered and discarded various options: where to place himself? Shirt on, or off? No, he had no wish to rattle her, much as he wanted to make his hopes clear. He would have to ease her nerves, so the shirt would stay on.
But, he reasoned, it wouldn't seem out of place to lie on the bed. They couldn't very well do this on the couch— not comfortably, at any rate.
And he wanted her as comfortable as possible, because if his hopes were realized, he intended to keep her there for hours making up for lost time.
He surreptitiously chafed his hands in front of the fire, hoping to take away the undead chill. He'd barely begun to warm up from the frigid walk over, and couldn't very well seduce her with his icy touch ruining the mood. As soon as he heard her approach, he quickly positioned himself on her bed, affecting a relaxed pose, patting the mattress where her body heat lingered.
She arranged the towel before laying down, limbs stiff with tension, heartbeat racing with anxiety. Her gaze she kept fixed on the ceiling, her expression so haunted with worry it gave him pause.
Had he misjudged?
Perhaps he'd been mistaken, and the blushes and nerves he'd attributed to attraction were really just discomfort with the.... forced intimacy of allowing him to feed from her.
Why should she want you, after all? She's had you already, and she wasn't impressed enough to invite you back into her bed. Now that she knows you, REALLY knows you, she pities you. Pathetic, wretched—
Stop.
You're a used-up, disgusting who—
STOP. Focus!
Astarion positioned himself above her, interrupting her one-sided staring contest with the ceiling. He studied her expression for any hint of resistance or disgust, subtly breathing deeply though his nose.
No fear. Arousal. Faint, but unmistakably present and... blooming.
Still, she looked so worried. He wanted to kiss that little crease between her brows, then keep kissing her until she was warm and sighing under him.
You will. Soon. Best not to overwhelm her just yet.
But just in case... "Say the word and I'll stop, all right, love?" Much as he wanted her, if she were to allow him this only to then regret it come dawn, he'd never forgive himself.
She nodded, and he couldn't help but smile at her.
He sat back on his heels and placed his hands on her knees, gently drawing them apart and watching the lower panels of her robe splay open, revealing her thighs and, between them, paradise hidden by plain cotton. Removing her underwear was both a delight and a self-imposed exercise in patience as he leisurely dragged the fabric down her legs. The bright note of copper in the air was growing stronger, along with the sweet edge of her desire. Once he pulled the underwear off her ankles, he finally allowed himself to look at the apex of her thighs as he slowly spread them open, revealing her to his hungry gaze.
Pink flesh peeked shyly up at him, the folds slick and a touch swollen. His mouth watered. Beautiful.
"There you are," he murmured. "I could just eat you right up."
He happily ensconced himself between her thighs and finally, finally tasted her, dragging his tongue against her core. The tension in her body abruptly melted away, the taste of her desire almost eclipsing that of her blood as she went boneless beneath him. Another lap at her, light, teasing, earned him a quiet gasp as fine tremors swept up her legs. He continued, licking deeply, indulgently, savoring her as her hips began to arch against him in tiny, subtle nudges, silently begging for more. He moaned into her cunt, nuzzling deeper, her eagerness spurring him on as he lost himself in the sensations of her. The scent of her skin, so smooth and warm... the exquisite taste of her blood spiced with her desire.... the quickening beat of her heart and the faint throbbing pulse he could feel under his tongue as he played. Glorious.
Her pleasure built steadily, going from soft sighs to muffled humming to the most delicious moans. Her shaking hands fisted in the bedsheets, leverage she used to try to roll her hips up into him.
It wasn't enough. He wanted her to touch him, wanted her hands in his hair, needed to hear her scream his name. Abruptly done with teasing her, he gave up all pretense of this being about her blood and focused on the lubricious little pearl crowning her slit, sucking it between his lips, playing with it, flicking and rubbing his tongue on it as she panted and whined and finally yes, there it was, Astarion please, oh gods Astarion yes it's so good please please please...
He drew it out, bringing her back to the world gently, licking ever-more lightly as her heaving breaths evened out.
For a moment, she lay still, eyes closed. Then the tiny crease appeared between her brows as her eyes opened, meeting his.
He stared, trying to decipher her expression. Pity? Disgust, shame?
Regret?
...No.
No, instead he saw a piercing melancholy and mute, hopeless yearning. An echo of his own emotional state, as her eyes pleaded with him to give her something she couldn't bring herself to ask for.
He wanted to give her everything.
He returned to nuzzle into her, soothing her swollen pussy with slow, gentle licks. Her soft sighs and pleased hums revealed her deeply relaxed state, a state he was responsible for.
He couldn't even try to pretend anymore that he wasn't making love to her. He slid his hands up her body, finding the robe tie and tugging, then continuing upward, parting the fabric entirely. He petted her everywhere he could reach, adoring the softness of her breasts and the smoothness of her skin under his palms.
Still, she hadn't touched him, and he needed her to. He was overwhelmed by her, by the feelings raised now they'd crossed that unspoken gulf he'd dug between them with his idiot "plan" and manipulations. She was back in his arms, moaning under him, and he needed... he needed...
Her fingertips brushed his. Yes. He took her hand, entwining their fingers, his agitation settling.
Now all he needed was to make her come for him again.
So he did.
Radiant in her ecstasy, her hand tightened on his as he curled his fingers inside her, beckoning her over the edge into bliss until, breath punctuated by soft moans and faint whimpers, her body was utterly limp and her grip finally loosened. For the first time that evening, her expression was serene and untroubled by pain or worry.
Sweeping his thumb across the heel of her hand to her palm, he rubbed a soothing circle there before reluctantly easing away. He sat up so he could trace her curves with a reverent gaze, sucking her off his fingers absentmindedly, savoring the taste before wiping at his face with the towel. Thoughts tumbled in his head, a thousand words competing for space on his tongue, but he was having trouble focusing on speech when her skin was flushed and her warm scent still so heavy in the air, curling around him.
He gave up searching for words in favor of admiring her resplendence in afterglow. Her cheeks were adorably pink, a dawning hope in her eyes as she regarded him, trembling lips beginning to curve in a faint smile. She sat up, leaning toward him, swallowing nervously as she studied his expression.
She was too close to not be kissing him. It was both too much and not enough, and he had been scraped raw from having to hold back earlier. He knew what she wanted, and why she hesitated. In the gulf between them, he would have to take the first step towards her.
He would walk through a thousand storms if it meant he could come home to her.
He leaned in and kissed her, soothing the ache inside them both.
"Please," came her choked whisper, "please stay."
"Oh, my sweet love," he answered, "I'll stay for as long as you'll have me."
🌌 🌌 🌠 🌌 🌌
Thank you for reading!
