Chapter Text
6 months after the defeat of the Netherbrain
Zhivraelle laid in her bed, legs up against the bedpost where her head should be and her torso and head where normal people placed their legs. Open scrolls and sigils were floating above her, baring all their knowledge to her but said knowledge was utterly useless for what she wanted to do. Trying to understand the arcane formula of the mirror that allowed her to see her own reflection was as frustrating as tearing someone’s hair out one by one. The results were not happening fast enough. Her crimson gaze wandered off, distracted by a random thought about tomorrow’s choice of vintage and for a moment the mirror and its secrets were forgotten. It was such a boring project in the end that losing interest was easy. It was night. A deep, dark, moonless night without as much as stars in the dark sky.
As if a cloak of shadow of silence had wrapped itself like a cloak around the castle high atop the Lower City the usual sounds of a bustling town such as Baldur’s Gate was not to be heard. Instead, Zhivraelle heard a melody. It had appeared out of nowhere and yet the previous silence felt like the castle had just been drawing breath. Her keen sense of hearing allowed her to perceive a music so…haunting and yet full of emotion, tender and yet intense. It sounded almost like a lament. It was a piano. Somewhat dusty maybe as if used for the first time in decades but still she could hear it loud and clear. The music was echoing off the walls now and every fibre of her mind was with Astarion again. If the castle was singing it meant he was the source.
The melody was ebbing and flowing. Her books and scrolls held none of her attention now because whatever they could tell her was insignificant to what the music made her feel. One piano note was chasing another, evolving copulating until they evolved into a crescendo of such big emotional turmoil that Zhivraelle felt it claw itself into her own heart. The pain was so profound, so raw and real that she rolled to the side and curled up, trying to give herself some form of comfort like she always did. When she thought she could not take it anymore and the boiling point was reached the music stopped. She felt herself exhale a breath she did not know she was holding, propped herself up on her palms to – the sudden bloodcurdling scream of a man tore through the silence. Zhivraelle bit her lower lip. The cry of prey. This was the third one in a month. Trembling she stood up and wrapped herself into a flowy black gown. This had to stop. The servants were only a means to an end, the consort of a Vampire Ascendant did not waste her thoughts on them when her priorities were elsewhere. She would not see him suffer anymore.
The corridor outside her royally decorated bedroom was illuminated by lanterns and she heard the hurried footsteps of servants trying to hide away. Her bare feet whispered over the luxurious carpets as she made her way to his wing of the Crimson Palace. Trembling handmaidens behind a massive pillar were holding freshly folded laundry.
“Madam, you mustn’t! The Master is angry. Marcus, he--,” they whispered, the crisp laundry throwing wrinkles. Zhivraelle was about to reprimand them for deciding what she could and couldn’t do but then she saw their terror. Bitten nails, tears, eyes so wide the whites were visible around their pupils.
“Go to your dorms. I will take care of this.” She sighed and with new resolve continued her path. A howl shook the walls. A scream of such terrible rage that anyone would have cursed her a fool of even considering stepping into the maw of the beast, but Zhivraelle would not be swayed. Her love for him was eternal. Complete. Devoted. On her way she passed the large room that housed the piano. The door was blown out of its hinges and in the doorway laid a corpse. Marcus, a servant boy. Barely off age. His throat was torn out, making it was obvious he had not been killed out of hunger.
Two double doors of heavy dark mahogany were now stopping her. Masterfully engraved with the new crest of Ancúnin they were that one barrier no servant, no visitor would dare to even touch. Zhivraelle pushed them open and was hit with a sight that almost made her lose all her composure. The carefully crafted mask she had put on for the servants was cracking but not because of fear but because of sadness and grief. Royal interior was reduced to splinters, claw marks littered the walls, heavy curtains hung off the large windows in tatters.
In the midst he stood. Strands of silver hair he liked to comb back were hanging into his face. His richly decorated clothing was misaligned. Eyes of burning scarlet were wide and would curse any who gazed into them to a fate of eternal damnation. His knuckles would no doubt be bruised were he not an Ascendant. And then there were those teeth. Astarion’s upper lip was curled back in a snarl, revealing two rows of teeth. Blood covered his lips and chin. Zhivraelle could smell the boy on him. He didn’t look at her. Didn’t have to. Her scent would have been carried to him as soon she had stepped into the room.
“Astarion.” she said softly. Tenderly. “Enough.” She was not reprimanding him. Her words were not meant to control. They never were – at least not for him. The Lord spun around, his body tense like a bowstring. Since his ascension he had masterfully crafted a mask of complete control, but she has always been able to see through it. Gaze behind the exterior and see the pain he was still feeling. The very reason why she always put aside her own need. Her own desires meant nothing to her in these moments because her eternal devotion to him was so profound, so true, so real that she would gladly do so. During lonely nights they came in form of tears because she, too, was not infallible but come morning she was by his side once more as if nothing was amiss.
“I can still hear Cazador.” His voice was hoarse, thick with unshed tears. “Taunting me. Mocking me. Enslaving me. I destroyed him. And yet… and yet…”
Zhivraelle closed the door behind her. This was a private moment she would never allow anyone else to witness. The distance between them was soon not existent and her small hand found his cheek. He stilled and blinked; those eyes of red hellfire framed by smeared kohl were staring at her. Zhivraelle remained quiet and let her eyes do the talking. They were so full of grief, full of sadness and sorrow and such pure devotion and something that dwarfed the emotion of love.
Astarion was undone. He pulled her body against his, soft pliant curves against his hard lines and crumbled. His shoulders shook and for the very first time in two centuries he wept. Two centuries worth of abuse, horrors and unimaginable terrors that he had never been able to grief. Zhivraelle remained quiet, the knot in her own throat forming but she pressed her lips together to stop herself from crying. Her fingers combed through the silver gossamer that was his hair, massaged the back of his neck and simply held him in her arms. She would not ask what triggered this. Even before tonight she had never asked, never pushed because she wanted to keep the boundaries he so desperately needed. Boundaries he had never been allowed to have or dream of. Pale manicured fingers caressed his cheek, plush lips whispered away the tears that fell unbidden down his alabaster cheeks stained in red and her tongue tenderly kissed away the blood. Everything else was meaningless, insignificant.
How much time had passed into nothingness Zhivraelle did not know. Eventually his cries had ebbed away, and his marble body had ceased its shaking. His arms a steel, grounding vine around her remained in place but she could already feel him slip away. Astarion cleared his throat. “Now that the dramatics are over, darling, we--,”
She cut him off. “Enough.” Her eyes found his again, peeling away the fresh layer of supposed confidence he was about to apply. He shuddered and the physical strain on him to let go of the performance was visible. She had always been the only one able to so effortlessly whisp away the veil that it infuriated him. Even back then, years ago in that rose garden – the first night he loved her. But love was for children, they both knew that. The bond they shared was so much more than simple love.
Zhivraelle took him by the hand and led him past the ruined furniture. Every step of hers steeped the floor with magic that immediately began recrafting and undoing the leftovers of his mad rage. “Come.” She was leading and Astarion let her. A pale thumb brushed over the back of his hand as they walked. A constant reminder that she was there and would always be there. No matter what nightmare was clawing at his mind.
They reached his bathing chamber. It was made of beige and dark red marble, gold threads woven into every plate. The bathtub was let into the floor and the faucets were made of solid gold. Plush satin pillows were scattered over the floor and shelves above shelves housed a myriad of flasks and bottles. Soaps and oils of every conceivable scent were piled into a basin next to the tub. Large windows of stained glass flanked the room from the left, depicting his ascension. It was a bathroom fit for a king. Astarion rarely used it. Zhivraelle felt him tense up. “Darling--,” But she silenced that too with a soft squeeze of his hand.
With a look out of her loving eyes she disarmed him. “Please trust me.” With words spoken by her goddess-like lips she shattered him. How many times had he asked her to trust him? When he had taken her innocence, all consequences be damned to the hells? When he revealed his nature to her? When she followed him on the path to Cazador’s destruction and his ascension? Astarion exhaled through his nose. Zhivraelle smiled and let go of his hand – for split second his hand jerked forward to hold hers again, but he restrained himself. Her bare feet tapped silently on the marble floor as she busied herself, preparing the tub with warm water, soaps and lit candles.
Astarion stood like a statue and stared, following her movements. The trained reaction of a predator, natural to him. With her back turned to him Astarion watched as her black flowing dress first fell from her shoulders, then her back, her hourglass waist, the ample flare of her hips, the pillowy mounds of her ass and then eventually pooled around her dainty feet. It would have destroyed a lesser man. This was what she wanted, no? To make him so powerless against her charms he had no choice?
“My consort, if you want to seduce me you have to merely ask, and your Lord will provide.” The words were practiced. Studied. Soon she’d be sauntering over with a sway to her naturally tantalizing hips…
Zhivraelle did no such thing. “Don’t be ridiculous. I merely wish to wash you. You built up quite the sweat during your rampage, there is blood in your hair and wood dust clings to you like flies to carrion.”
Astarion’s thoughts came to a screeching halt, and he let out a very uncharacteristic “You… what?”
She turned to him and gave him a full view of her ample cushiony breasts and tucked hairless sex. “You heard me. What scent do you prefer?” The reply was accompanied with a nonchalant shrug of her shoulders.
Astarion was so flabbergasted it was hard to keep control of his face. She wanted to wash him? “Preposterous, I would not let my consort do such basic tasks, darling. Is pampering your desire? I can ask for a servant, I am sure they are done cleaning up the meat and bones of poor Marcus.”
Zhivraelle ignored him again. “What scent?” His nostrils flared. Was she deliberately ignoring him? Infuriating woman but be that as it may, slowly but surely, she worked herself through the cracks left by his outburst. “Patchouli. And jasmine.” Zhivraelle reached for the two flasks but before she poured the scented essences inside, she rose an eyebrow. “Because these are the scents I wear or because you like them?”
“Because they smell like the first night you were mine.” Gods above, her smile. The water vapours were soon heady with the scent of grave flower and night blooming jasmine, creating an atmosphere of calm and relaxation.
Once again tonight she closed the distance between them and put her hands flat on his chest. Eyes of purple ruby searched for eyes of burning blood. Her small hands reached for the buttons of his embroidered jacket, and he tensed up again, trying to find in her eyes anything that would make this familiar. Lust or desire perhaps. An expectation? Astarion was not blind. The walls of the castle had whispered of her loneliness. He knew how she stayed away at night, lonely in the bed that was too vast for her alone. And it always brought him to ruin knowing that this was something he could just not provide without… memories. Whenever he made up his mind, willing to finally go to her and make her writhe in pleasure, his muscles tensed and jerking in action – his mind froze. It remembered the chains of his enslavement. The greedy hands.
But there was nothing in her eyes except for unwavering devotion. And so, he let her undress him, unravel him piece by piece. First his gloves, then his jacket. His shirt. His torso bared, her hands went down to undo his belt. Astarion’s mind screamed and roared at him to seize control of the situation, to stop being a weak pathetic boy but gods he was so tired. She must have noticed his internal struggles because Zhivraelle placed the tenderest of kisses on his abdomen — his breath hitched. It did not feel like a kiss of desire. Of lust. It felt like a kiss of devotion. Of worship. Of reverence. He stilled his breathing then and allowed her to continue.
Once there were no barriers between them anymore Astarion was about to bolt. He did not know how to behave. How to perform. Desperate to find some manner of protection against her devotion that was so utterly selfless. He was fine with ruling over subjects with fear. And adoration born from fear. But her reverent devotion — it was almost too much for his tortured mind. He could feel the man he should be claw at the bars Cazador had caged him in. Each tender caress of her fingers on strong athletic thighs as she removed his leather pants caused the man in the cage to ram his fist against the bars. Each time the silk of her flesh rubbed against his flawless alabaster skin that had been battered and bruised by so much tragedy caused him to choke on his sighs. Astarion wouldn’t dare enjoy this. Always a transaction, never more, never anything else …
Zhivraelle‘s palms cradling his face woke him from his tunnel vision. His eyes refocused. The man in the cage threw himself against the bars. No words fell between them and the only sound that rippled through the room was water sloshing when they disappeared beneath it. Zhivraelle let him adjust to the heat and the vapours, ruby eyes swirling with the intensity of her devotion to him. Her worship, her reverence. His body was tense as a bowstring, but she could see that he was forcing himself to remain such. Every fibre of his being wanted to relax but the raw pain in his eyes forbade him. He looked away from her, almost in shame.
„Don’t hide from me.“ her words were soft, tender as the scented vapours that rose in the air, supple as were her curves — at least whatever was visible of them now.
“I don’t know how.“ His voice was barely a whisper. His usually so strong melodic voice that commanded hearts.
She took his confession and cradled it to her loving heart. „Let me show you.“
Astarion‘s head snapped up and he stared at her, looking, searching for how she could use this to her advantage, how this would give her power over him… only to crumble under the weight of her affection. He didn’t know how to be naked for the sake of being naked with someone else. Nudity was always a transaction. Always a weapon, always for performance … suddenly there were hands in his hair and the scent of rich sandalwood in his nose.
Astarion blinked and looked at her face. Some of her raven hair had escaped the messy bun she oh so loved to wear and her eyes the colour of purplish red rubies were warm like blood seeping reform the vein. Her lips wore a smile. Not a smirk. Not a grin. A genuine smile. Like a lesser vampire burning in the sun, his traumatized battered and beaten self was burning under her eyes and touch. The man in the cage tore as his chains. He couldn’t allow this, had to hide —
Astarion’s thoughts came to a screeching halt when he felt those nails in his scalp. Scratching like they would a cat. The most pleasurable shiver formed at the base of his spine and crawled up, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge. A sigh he could not catch like a moth between his palms fell from his lips. Zhivraelle’s nails moved with deliberation, drawing patterns and circles on his scalp, his hair like liquid silver dripping from her digits. She even scratched and washed behind his pointed ears, massaging the delicate skin there. Too weak to stop himself Astarion’s eyes rolled back, and his eyelids fluttered shut, a guttural moan vibrating through his chest. If it affected Zhivraelle she did not show it …
…but that was only because she had to take all her willpower in her fist and hold tightly. She could not risk reacting in any way that would chase him further into the spiral of self-loathing. Not when he had just made the tiniest, smallest step forward. Taking a cup, she filled it with water and bent forward to place the softest of kisses on his eyelids. When his sole reaction was to stare, she showed him the basin of water. “Close your eyes or it will sting. I need to rinse.”
The small flicker of distrust in his eyes flared up like a candle flame, quick, sharp and extinguished just as quickly. Astarion exhaled through his nose but did as she asked. Warm flowed through his hair, over his face, his neck, his shoulders. Rinsing, washing away, erasing just like her affection for him scrubbed away at terrors and pain.
Zhivraelle combed his wet hair back and tenderly told him to open his eyes. When he did and those thick black lashes framed red rubies forged in the hells, she met his gaze with hers. There was none of their usual sharpness in them. “What are you doing?” Astarion’s voice was a raw whisper as if someone had stuffed his throat with cotton. At least that’s how he felt right now.
“Taking care of you.” Zhivraelle’s answer sounded like she was speaking of something so self-explanatory like the sun rising in the morning.
“Why?” Pale fingers spread soapy suds over his shoulders, kneading the tensed-up muscles under alabaster skin.
„Because no one ever did.“
Astarion choked on his breath and was unmade. Her hands slowly but surely took him apart piece as she washed and scrubbed away the last vestiges of his mental tremors. There was no desire in the way her palms and fingers slid over his wet flesh, no lust. It almost felt like she was exploring.
Hard lean muscles went pliant under her ministrations. Zhivraelle mapped his broad chest, slid her fingertips over the hardness of his six pack and massaged his muscular flank. Her eyes flicked up at him and her smile reassured him while she washed his hairless groin without any sign of the fire that was twisting and turning in her lower abdomen. As quickly as her hands arrived there they left just as quickly to wash and knead his strong thighs and along the considerable length of his legs. With her knuckles she massaged his feet, stretched each of his toes until he willingly held out his other foot. Astarion was working splendidly with her and that brought her such joy that she began humming.
„Done. You’re all clean. How do you feel?“ she asked, undoing her own hair to wash it. Like wet silk her strands swam on the water surface, moving in ethereal waves each time she adjusted her position. Astarion watched her like a hawk as if his sole desire was to burn this very memory into the surface of his brain. The tension had evaporated from his form like the scented vapor raising from the bathtub.
„Like I could make the entire world kneel with nothing but a single look.“ The bars on the cage began to bend.
Zhivraelle was glowing, pleased with herself. „As it justly deserves, no?” He leaned against the wall of the tub and spread his arms, utterly content as if the answer she gave was the only correct one. His muscles moved smoothly under his alabaster skin. The clicking of glass vials interrupted their silence and Astarion opened one eye to survey the situation. He saw Zhivraelle pour something scented into her palm before she moved closer to him, her natural scent of jasmine hitting him with full force.
His fingers twitched. He just had to reach out, blast it all. It would be so easy to just wrap his arm around her and bury his face in her hair, her neck, her everything. But when Astarion’s muscles coiled, ready to move the mental vise clamped shut and immobilized him. A soft barely audible snarl moved the air in the room and Zhivraelle reacted immediately.
“Shhh…” she whispered, moving behind him. The expanse of his back opened to her gaze, pulled her in like a month to a burning lantern. The jagged lines of his ritual scars stood out against his otherwise smooth skin, telling a story of tragedy, cruelty and eventual rebirth.
“An eyesore, I know.” He said, voice low.
Zhivraelle shook her head. “Nonsense.”
What happened next was enough to shatter the last vestiges of Astarion’s grasp on who she was, who he was, who they were. Fate had brought them together, that he knew. He also knew she was his. But the true depths of it came to him in a wave of horrifying realization when he felt her lips tracing his scars. The scars he loved and hated in equal parts. Loved because they gave him unimaginable power and hated because they had been a source of unimaginable cruelty. And yet she kissed them. Worshipped them.
Astarion shuddered but his hands remained unclenched. Zhivraelle moved to hold him from behind then, her chin resting on his shoulder as they gazed out of the window built into the bath chamber. Silence fell and was only interrupted by the soft sound of water when his hand moved to rest on her knee. A fully innocent gesture that held no other intent than to just be close to her. Soft cautious steps…
“Astarion?” she asked softly.
“Yes, my treasure?” The burning coals of his eyes slid to the side to look at her. Zhivraelle’s hair was still damp and in this lighting her eyes had the colour of purple and ruby; eyes he had never seen before on a vampire. His fingers longed to touch her tender cheeks, her lips looked perfect to be kissed and bitten. Astarion could almost see a scarlet drop bead on them, the rest coating his fang, he only had to reach out… “I want to give you something.”
He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “If it’s going to be more advice on self-care I’m afraid I will have to decline.” Zhivraelle exhaled through her nose and shook her head. “No, not that.” Vampires, as natural stalkers, could be patient. Astarion, at this moment, was not. Zhivraelle didn’t elaborate further, kept the information close to her chest like a precious gemstone cradled in silken pillows. Then she offered the treasure to him. Tender, loving kisses lined the side of his neck. A silent question that Astarion answered with a sigh. This didn’t feel like greed. It did not feel like someone fetishizing his skin, taking pleasure by raking their disgusting mouths over his pale flesh. This felt … good.
Zhivraelle’s heart sang when she felt his fingers on the back of her head. A cautious gesture that became bolder when his fingers began massaging her scalp as her lips delved deeper to his shoulder, teeth nibbling on the meat of his hard muscle. She felt him shudder and sigh. “Why?” The question almost made her choke on a sob. “Because I want to worship you as you deserve to be worshipped. Without anything in return. This is just for you alone, my lord.”
Zhivraelle’s whispered devotion elicited the softest moans from his lips. She smiled and went back up, the flat of her tongue caressing the edge of his pointed ear. Astarion let out an uncharacteristic gasp, his mind fighting a war with his body. A fight he was rapidly losing as flesh began to pull his mind over to its side. He responded to her so naturally that it almost felt as if she had been born for this very moment. To caress and worship him, love him with such devotion that it burned.
“Sit up on the edge for me?” Her breath was soft like silk against his ear and her fingers danced over the scars on his back, taking the pain and purifying it with devotion. Astarion felt something in him crack like an eggshell. The chained man stared at the empty shackle that used to be around his ankle. With fevered desperation he began undoing it on his other foot.
In one fluid motion he pushed himself out of the water, his large form breaking through the surface with a large ripple. Zhivraelle never let go of him, her hand supportive and guiding on his hips. Sat on the edge of the tub that was carved into the marble floor, Astarion was illuminated by the kaleidoscope of colors erupting from the stained-glass windows and Zhivraelle gazed at him with warmth and awe. “The gods should be ashamed to stand in the presence of such a beauty like yours. Such might. Such power. Such focus and ferocity when you have set your eyes on a goal.”
Every word she said was like she was wielding a leather whip, striking at Cazador’s ghost with wild abandon, like a demoness protecting the one she loved most. Astarion almost fell back into a practiced pose, trying to look as tempting to his partner as possible but Zhivraelle disarmed that as well. Standing between his legs in the tub, her mouth was leaning a wet trail on his neck, palms pushing against the vast sinewy muscled expanse of his chest.
“Relax … sit comfortably.” She coaxed him, smiling when he leaned down some, pressing his palms on the smooth marble behind him. He even spread his thighs a touch more. Her wandering hands traveled down his chest, massaging the muscles of his abdomens explored lower and lower until they reached the already hardening base of his cock. Her violet eyes flew up to meet his and the intensity she found there, burning blood rubies looking at her as if she was the single most desirable thing in the world for him.
It almost took her breath away but she controlled herself, hiding her own needs in a box with a large iron lock. Tonight was for him and for him only. He needed this. They needed this. Before she could do anything more she felt him roll his hips into her hand. Cautiously at first as if he was dipping his toes into the territory but soon his hips rolled in earnest, her fingers that she did not move were sliding over the now rock-hard length of his manhood. The skin was like the most luxurious silk and the shape and size of him made her mouth water.
Zhivraelle’s eyes never left him. “Take your pleasure, my lord.” she murmured, her voice like velvet. All this time her hand did not move at all — she needed him to ease into it.
His shapely lips parted ever so slightly and a groan, half stifled half swallowed fell between them. “More.”
Cazador was screaming under the lashes of the whip as flesh was being torn from bone. Zhivraelle smiled, satisfied. Her free hand stroked over the inside of his thigh, closer and closer to his groin where her other hand had begun to pump him slow and intense. She massaged and stroked his heavy balls to which he responded with a deep moan that reverberated through the room.
Her teeth nipped at his jaw. The pillowy mounds of her breasts pressed against his broad chest as Zhivraelle stood there in the tub, pumping him and massaging his balls while Astarion was beginning to be more and more vocal. One moan after the other chased their way from his lips, some more high pitched, some more deep and guttural.
“If I had to choose to listen to one thing for the rest of my immortal life it would be this.” She whispered into his ear, kissing the lobe. The memory of Cazador telling Astarion that his voice sounded sweetest when he screamed dared to intrude into this intimate moment between lovers but the man in the cage, now free of both door shackles, stood and grabbed the memory by the throat, slamming it against the bars of the cage. Cazador’s skull split.
Astarion has never felt such pleasure. 200 years of prostituting himself, serving others in their base desires, learning the pleasures of the flesh in all its details… and nothing had ever felt like this. No, that was not true. The three times Zhivraelle had been in his arms he had felt something.
Her teeth nipped at his bejewelled ear and like an enchantress from some fairytale she moved down, the curves and dips of her body a marvel Astarion never got tired of looking at. Her velvet breath ghosted over his throbbing cock, a drop of precum glistening at its tip and Astarion could nothing but stare down at her. Any more and he’d dig his fingers into the marble.
Her lips, glistening from the condensed water vapor, parted and oh, she took him into the velvety sheath of her mouth.
„Gods—, “ Astarion abandoned all restraint. The cage was blown wide open. Her silken tongue lavished and lapped at the head of his cock, tasting him in the most intimate way and her soft moan, her eyes closed in rapture as she wrapped her lips around him was a work of art itself. Astarion’s fingers wound themselves into the richness of her hair and as soon as she began to move her head he guided her motions, his hips rolling in the same rhythm.
„Your mouth shall be my cradle.“ he groaned, hips moving in slow languid motions. Deeper and deeper she took him until he felt the barrier of her throat. It constricted as she choked and there were tears forming at the corners of her lips, shimmering like the most exquisite diamonds. Astarion held her head there, his voice a darkened rasp as he spoke. „And here I thought you could not look more beautiful but here we are, my consort.“ Elegant alabaster fingers caressed the supple line of her cheek, thumb brushing over her lips that were stretched around his girth as she took him in time and time again with fervor. Was there a thing more bewitching than a devoted woman?
Heavy, thick and hard on her tongue he filled her so completely, so perfectly as if her mouth had been made to suck his cock. Each time she moved she felt every line, every vein, every ridge of him pass her lips and it drove Zhivraelle to such a meditative state that she closed her eyes and focused on nothing else than keeping a rhythm. She used her tongue to tell their story, worshiping every inch of his cock with licks, kisses and lavish attention until the clear precum was leaking with her saliva, dripping down her chin in a lewd display.
Through it all Astarion rolled his hips, the movements calling for her hands like the most exquisite drug would call to an addict. This time she could not help herself and moaned, palms and fingers gripping his hips to feel him move. Gods above, he had such physical discipline that even something as thrusting hips into her mouth was completely fluent. Muscles were moving, constricting and relaxing with perfect precision under that alabaster skin, wrapped around structured hip bones. Narrow, strong, masculine.
Zhivraelle moaned again, adjusted herself and took him deeper, further into her throat until he was buried to the very hilt. She heard Astarion shudder, his previously oh so perfect movements now stuttering, the fingers in her hair tightening their grip to the point of almost pain but oh she did not mind that at all. If anything, it encouraged her.
To work through her gag reflex Zhivraelle focused on breathing through her nose. Eventually he resumed guiding her head and she let him. Soft steps, small steps… but those steps were becoming steadier with each moment passing. Cazador was a quivering pile of flesh on the floor of the cage, brain matter splattered everywhere, ribs and bones jutting out from between torn flesh. The man inside the bars was looking at the opened cage, inspecting the doorframe cautiously. He was still hesitant to step out fully.
Astarion felt pleasure building, higher and higher he went, riding the wave and urged on by the winds she was putting into his sails. His lips were parted ever so slightly and when he knew his climax was not far away his head fell back, an almost wanton moan vibrating through him. Eyes half lidded and burning like subdued embers Astarion could focus on solely one thing – chasing his orgasm that was teasing him, coaxing him, mocking him. Again and again he thrust into her mouth, his cock throbbing and angry for release while the silk of Zhivraelle’s mouth and tight throat vibrated around him each time she let out one of those delicious little moans she had been trying to hide from him so desperately. Wet slurping sounds echoed off the walls, a melody of lewd worship Astarion was getting entirely lost in.
She felt so wet, so tight, so perfect – there it was, there, almost, one thrust, two, three; his orgasm made him see stars. It started the tip of his cock still buried in her throat and then spread into every corner of his body, igniting every nerve. The sound that tore through Astarion was something between a moan and a snarl followed by a gasp. His body was shaking, quaking with the intensity of pleasure that was washing over him again and again in the same rhythm as Zhivraelle swallowed the ultimate essence of his arousal. Eventually she released him in one sensual motion of her lips and placed a kiss on the area between his navel and his groin. Her eyes, the colour of that unusual purplish red, looked up at him with such affection, such devotion that the man in the cage, finally, put one foot forward. Then the next. Then another and eventually he left the cage that had held him for centuries. The cage crumbled, metal bending with a screech, falling apart. Astarion did not look back.
Zhivraelle pulled away from him then. There was no need for gratitude, she would never expect him to mention it. She could see enough in that smouldering gaze of his. “Your bedroom should be fixed.” She murmured, committing his taste to memory. “I’m going to leave you to your pondering and--,” What happened next, she did not expect. Hoped for maybe in the darkest, most secluded selfish corner of her heart. But expect? Oh no.
A strong hand with those long fingers cupped her jaw, Astarion’s touch tender and yet hard as steel. “My foolish, naïve little love.” he whispered, his voice laced with such desire it took her breath away. Her eyes widened, perfectly curved lips parted, and she knelt in the water in front of him, between his legs. It was almost like her body responded by itself, as if some base, natural part of hers had been made for this. “You seem to be under the presumption that you can walk yourself out of here just like that.”
For a split second she did not know how to react, did not know what to say. What could she even say? Astarion took that choice from her. He crashed back into the water, wrapped his arms around her and flipped them around, positioning her in front of him like a doll. His hands moved slowly, fingers ghosting over her neck, the pads of his middle finger pressed onto her pulse point.
Like a fish she gaped at him. “Astarion, what--,” He silenced her with a finger to her soft lower lip and she shut up. Astarion’s eyes twitched as if he was listening to something and he tilted his head to catch an invisible frequence. “Your blood sings, my treasure. I can hear it. It sings of…desire. Devotion.” His eyes held so much intensity, so much burning hunger that she was about to be incinerated by it then and there. At least Zhivraelle felt like that and would not be surprised if she ended up a small smoking pile of ash then and there. Still unable to form words she allowed him to pull her closer and spread her legs in her seating position to accommodate him.
With his fingers now under her chin he forced her to look at him, meet his fiery gaze and endure: Gods, she was ready to burn. For the first time since the night he ascended, the last time they had been together, there was desire in his eyes. Desire, and for the first time combined with something else. Triumph. A dark sense of satisfaction.
“Astarion, you don’t have to--,” she started breathlessly, ignoring the empty void between her legs that cried out or sustenance. Again, he silenced her, this time with a squeezing hand on her throat. Zhivraelle’s eyes fluttered shut at the sensation his dominance provoked in her; a warm feeling that ran down her spine like syrup and coiled in her abdomen.
“I don’t have to do anything.” He whispered, so close to her lips that his breath ghosted over them. “I want to.” Astarion refused to be afraid. He refused to sit back and not act. Refused to let this moment float by him like carrion in a river. Without him realizing it, Zhivraelle had been filing at the bars of his mental cage ever since they loved each other the first time, years ago. Now… now the cage was broken at his feet. Gone. Never to shackle him again.
Astarion’s kiss felt searing, despite his cool vampiric body temperature. Domineering as if he tried to coax her submission with a kiss alone. His lips were soft and he knew exactly how to move them to make her moan. From a simple kiss… Moonmaiden, Zhivraelle could only shiver in anticipation. They had kissed countless times. Especially after kissing had become their only language as a couple after Astarion had confessed his feelings and opened up about his…past.
That was before Cazador’s death. Before Ascension. Before tonight. This was nothing like previous times. Astarion suckled on the cupid’s bow of her upper lip, causing soft pleasure to throb between her legs.
“Touch me.” he whispered sinfully into the kiss, fangs tugging on her lower lip until she felt her flesh pierced. The beading drop of scarlet was lapped up by the flat of his tongue and mixed with their saliva. “Touch me like only you do.” His tongue, dexterous and strong pressed past her lips without resistance and greedily explored the honeyed cavern of her mouth, circling around her tongue and worshipping her in her submission. Encouraged by his earlier words Zhivraelle dug her fingers into his hips again, her legs following and wrapping themselves around him like pincers. Devoted touches mapped the hard muscular planes of his athletic torso, massaged his pectorals and made their way to his neck – beneath her touch she could feel it. His blood. His essence hiding under alabaster skin. How it surged, how it stormed, how it burned.
“More.” he rumbled into their messy hungry kiss but if she listened in, really listened in she heard the faintest high pitch in his tone. Zhivraelle would be a dirty liar if she denied that hearing that didn’t touch some part of her. She did not get to do what she wanted next because her touch starved body betrayed her. Astarion’s hand had palmed her right breast, kneading her pliant flesh and she felt herself tumble over the edge … one more step, one more – he rolled her perfect little rosebud nipple between thumb and forefinger. That was it. One little touch on her starved body was enough to push her over into the abyss. Zhivraelle felt the climax form and shuddered, tearing herself away from his scorching kiss, tried to push his unyielding body away from hers. Her lips were parted in a breathless moan, her cunt clenching and unclenching around emptiness as her orgasm washed over her and ebbed. Her chest heaved, soft pillowy mounds pressed against his chest, felt the size and girth of his length press against her abdomen--
--and suddenly she stilled. Terrified. She had failed. Tonight was supposed to be only about him and his pleasure. And yet, she had allowed herself to get lost in the throes of passion, her own desires. Zhivraelle shivered, suddenly cold, and pressed her forehead into his chest. She wouldn’t even dare to look at him, afraid of what she might see. Had he slipped back into the recesses of his mind? Had he become a living breathing statue once more? Hot tears stung in her eyes, salty tears of shame. Surely, he was disappointed. Surely, he must feel the same as with all the others who had taken from him. Her mind went into overdrive, small fists clenching against his chest.
“Look at me.” His voice cut through the silence like a dagger through entrails. It had the same edge to it but there was a warmth, an anchoring melody to ground her. Zhivraelle’s lower lip quivered and slowly she gazed up at him. Her red-purplish eyes glittered with tears, shining with deep, bottomless affection for him. The knot in her throat made it impossible to breathe, impossible to speak and her mess of emotions got even more chaotic when she felt those burning eyes.
Astarion’s gaze was intense, deep and soul branding. Open. He was as beautiful as ever, the laugh lines around his nose somehow making him look even more refined. But it was not one of his usual masks, that much she could tell. Dread clutched her heart, digging its claws into her pliant little soul. “Why do you cry, my foolish woman?”
Zhivraelle felt so incredibly pathetic. Any attempts of getting away from him were futile because his arm, wrapped around her waist like a steel vice pressed them together. “I failed you.” she swallowed thickly, barely holding it together. “Tonight was for you alone. But then my body betrayed me.” The last time in her life she had felt such shame was when the nuns of the Selûnite cloister slammed the door in her face. Called her impure for spreading her legs for a man out of wedlock. She could not bear the brand of his look anymore and curled in on herself but he Astarion did not allow her to retreat from this.
His fingers, alabaster marble, gripped her chin hard and forced her to look at him. “I have neglected you, haven’t I.”
Astarion never admitted his faults. Zhivraelle stared at him, eyes wide. Terror had mixed into their usual blend of loyalty and devotion. “No, no, you didn’t! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I will do better, I--,” she was rambling and her thoughts completely spiralled out of control like a runaway carriage.
He silenced her with that expert grip on her throat, applying just enough pressure. “Be quiet.” Zhivraelle’s bitten lips clamped shut and she spoke with her eyes alone. I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry please do not cast me away I will do better I promise I – “You will cease this foolishness at once.” Astarion’s grip on her throat hardened, cutting off the flow of air. “When I let go and tell you to breathe you will breathe. Slowly. Am I understood?”
She shuddered and nodded, feeling the never ceasing storm of thoughts in her head quieten down. Astarion regarded her with another look that was strictness wrapped in velvet. Then he let go, his hand sliding down her wet skin and resting just beneath her collarbone, his fingers flared like a giant spider. “Breathe.” Zhivraelle took a shuddering breath, her chest heaving. But at least her head was clear. “Are you afraid of me, pet?”
She inhaled once more and exhaled through her nose, her small had covering his. “Never. But I am afraid of hurting you.”
The look in his eye was a wordless command for her to continue. “I’m afraid I did something to make you think of… them… him when I touched you.” His burning ruby gaze widened in surprise but for naught more than a moment. Then he chuckled, a sound that vibrated through his chest. She felt his breath ghost over her face and almost closed her eyes in reverence.
“My foolish, loyal, utterly devoted consort.” Astarion’s forehead fell on hers then and he pulled them impossibly closer. Zhivraelle clung to him like a lifeline, shivering with the intensity of her emotions for him. “Do you really think I could ever think that? That I could ever see you reaching completion by my touch alone and see it as anything else as the most addicting image in the world?” Dextrous fingers rubbed the line of her spine, resting on the inviting dip of the small of her back. “Cazador is dead. His soul torn apart by Mephistopheles. The echoes of a memory that clung to my mind – gone. The shackles—torn apart.”
Zhivraelle blinked and pulled away, her eyes wide as she looked at him. Really looked. The shadow that had always been present behind those scorching gaze of his was, dare she think it, gone. “Your devotion was his undoing, my darling little love. The stake that pierced his rotting heart. And the rest, all of his little friends, will follow.” His hand danced over her thigh and wrapped itself around her wrist that he pulled to his lips. “I will hunt them all down.” His tongue, strong and long, lavished the pallid flesh on the back of her wrist. Zhivraelle bit her tongue to suppress a moan that threatened to tumble from her lips. “All of his dirty little sycophants that he gave me to for… entertainment.” His teeth, the teeth she loved and adored so much, those terrifying two rows of fangs grazed over the exact points where her veins were pumping blood through her flesh. “I will tear out every single throat, savour each scream… and feed you their hearts.”
Zhivraelle’s thighs quivered, and her plush lips parted ever so slightly, arousal pulling in her lower abdomen before she could even process. Astarion’s fangs pierced her wrist and scarlet bubbled froth. It stained his lips, ran down his chin, his neck and she watched his throat move as he drank from her. “Ah…Astarion…” His smouldering gaze, heavy under smeared kohl, never left her. He bit deeper and she gasped, the sensation a delicious addicting mixture of pleasure and pain. A low, slow growl vibrated through his chest, possessive in its nature. He was staking his claim and by the gods, Zhivraelle was so aroused it hurt. Desperate for friction, desperate to feel him on every inch of her skin, she rolled her hips forward. She could feel his cock in the snug embrace between their bodies throb and its size and girth made her own core clench around nothing, hungry to be filled. Astarion released her wrist and licked away the blood, the wound closing fast, his eyes not once leaving hers.
“Are you aroused, pet?” he smirked, leaning in to suckle on her earlobe. Zhivraelle’s breath hitched, her need for him growing and growing. “Does my power over others excite you?” What kind of question was that? A merciless one. The apex predator that he was Astarion knew his prey’s weak spot and struck with the precision of a well-aimed stab straight between the ribs to reach her heart. “Or is it the blood, my sweet?” His voice fell to a lower octave, teeth tugging on her earlobe.
Zhivraelle was so shamelessly turned on that she wanted to sob. She wanted him, she wanted him with everything that she was, wanted to drown in him and have him drown in her but it was so evident Astarion was talking his sweet time. Despite his manhood throbbing and aching, squeezed between their bodies he somehow managed to maintain composure. His hands, those perfect, sculpted hands stroked her thighs that were wrapped around his narrow waist, coming closer and closer to the apex, delved into her soft pliant flesh but never too close, never truly giving Zhivraelle what she craved.
“Does your bloodthirst sing when you think of my fangs effortlessly tearing through flesh, fountains of sanguine sin gushing out?” Astarion did not wait for her answer because he already knew. Of course, the possibility of him grinding bones to dust with his mere hands only to touch her with the very same hands, caressing every dip and curve of her body excited her. The idea of his mouth, that perfect lethal mouth crushing a spine and then kissing her like he had just done excited her because with him she felt… safe. He was so utterly, devastatingly, terrifyingly magnificent that Zhivraelle began to realize deep in her very soul that the Moonmaiden had put her on his path to worship everything that he was.
“Astarion, please, I can’t …I-,” she pleased, her body shivering, mouth dry.
“Hm?” Oh his tone was playful. But it was the kind of playfulness a cat displayed when it played with its food. He pulled away slightly to look at her, knuckles stroking her cheek. His touch was liquid fire and she would drink every last drop even if it meant to burn her insides.
“I can’t seem to have given you permission to use my name.” Again that strictness, that dominating tone wrapped in silk. His hands dug into the pillowy flesh of her ass, harsh enough to bruise and yanked her even closer even if that should no longer be possible. The hardness of his length pressed into her stomach almost painfully. Zhivralle stared at him but then her eyes glazed over with devotion and unabashed desire. “No, my Lord.” she whispered. He smirked, showing her a glint of fang. Using her ass as a handle Astarion grinded them together, his head tilted as if he was curious about what she would say next. “Good girl. Now…what is it that you can’t?”
Astarion had never felt so alive. At first he thought it was just the high, the exhilarating feeling of finally having broken through the last blockade on his way towards the very top, to finally, truly ascend to his throne of blood and gold. But then when he looked into her eyes, gemstones of red and purple glazed with desire and such pure devotion Astarion had to come to a realization no matter how much it terrified him. She was his, that need not to be said again. But in that very moment, that one fateful moment, he knew he’d incinerate the world for her. His cruel, beautiful hands, stained with the blood of countless people, held her entire happiness in them and despite his skin burning and bubbling under the heat of its weight he wanted to break open his chest, rib by rib and hide her happiness next to his unbeating heart where it would always be safe.
“It’s too much.” she whispered, her chest heaving against his. “Too much, my Lord, I can’t…” Gods, her voice, that soft pleading voice – his blood burned with such desire, its heights new to him. Last time during their rut he must have had cotton stuffed in his ears and it was as if only now he could truly hear. See her. Feel her. Taste her.
“Can’t want, sweet girl? Use your words.” he purred, his thumb stroking over her plump lower lip. That soft, feather-light touch was enough to make her tremble with a barely contained shiver. So responsive.
“I need you to touch me, my Lord, please…” Those words wrecked him. Even when her voice was drenched in desire it was pure, spoken with such need.
„Where do you want me to touch you, sweet morsel?“ Gods, he wanted to map every inch of her with every sense he had. The swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the utterly scandalous flare of her hips … but he had to be patient. Prolong their torture to reap the sweetest of rewards. So many ideas, so many images painted themselves in Astarion’s hungry mind, one more delicious and debauched than the other. But perhaps not tonight … no, tonight was for discovery. Reclaiming. Triumph. His thumb pressed past her lips and onto her velvet tongue that had lapped at his cock earlier. Immediately she closed her lips around the invading digit, suckling on it with a breathy moan.
“Such a good girl for me. Worshipping only me. Devoted to me alone.” Groaning softly, he watched her cheeks hollow ever so slightly as she took in his thumb. “What do you see in front of your mind’s pretty eye, I wonder?” Astarion hummed and leaned in until his lips touched hers. He tasted his own thumb mixed with her saliva and breath and by the gods, he wanted to stitch them both together with a bejewelled needle until threads of blood-stained silver pierced their flesh.
“Do you me on the throne with you kneeling between my legs, revering me with your clever little tongue?” Astarion knew he could not keep this up forever, eventually his own desire would become unbearable. That moment was approaching fast but he refused to give in yet. “Or perhaps would you rather I bend you over it and bury myself in that tight cunt of yours until you scream? Because, sweet one, now that I have ascended…” His free exploring hand squeezed itself between their bodies, palming those plump soft hairless folds. Zhivraelle moaned around his thumb, eyes rolling back. The scent of her blood had become so irresistible that Astarion could barely control the hunger that was no longer his tormentor. Only when he let. And right now, oh right now he wanted to be tormented by it. He rubbed along her womanhood, feeling his long fingers slide past velvet flesh that nearly spilled from between his grasp. She was so wet he was just gliding through.
„…now that I’ve left behind the lesser of my kind my… bond to you has become so much deeper.“ Astarion plunged his middle and forefinger into her tight cunt, swallowing Zhivraelle‘s cry with a hungry kiss. She tasted of femininity, of devotion, of loyalty, of her and Astarion felt himself fall further into his lust. His cock was hard, leaking, aching to feel what his fingers were currently plundering. She was like a silken vise, smooth, wet and gripping his fingers as if she’d never let him go. Astarion’s palm pressed against her clit, causing her to whimper into his mouth. With every thrust and curl of his fingers his palm moved against the sweet wet pearl and he devoured each of her delectable moans. His pace had started slow and deep but was quickly becoming fast, hard and almost punishing. Zhivraelle wasn’t even moaning anymore. Her parted lips were less than an inch away from his, he felt her breath on his very tongue as it came in barely audible gasps as her muscles tightened around his finger more and more until he heard those telltale squelching sounds.
“Come on, my treasure… let go for me.” Gods, to feel her come apart around his fingers, see how that body made of silken skin, valleys and curves arched against him tore apart the last vestiges of Astarion’s control. He did not wait for her to come from her high, did not give her a grace period for her mind to realize what was happening. Instead, with one powerful surge of his long legs he climbed out of the tub like a lurking displacer beast broke through the surface of a lake. Zhivraelle’s body, limp with post-orgasmic bliss, was scooped up into his arms and he strode out of the bathing chamber.
Zhivraelle did not even bother to ask where he was going or what he was doing – her sole instinct was to rest her face against the crook of his neck and inhale the scent of sandalwood soap and something that was so uniquely him. Her core was still throbbing faintly, her recent climax had been so deep, so profound that she was still somewhat out of it. Astarion’s private chambers, royally decorated and with a four-poster bed as its crown piece had been restored to pristine condition by Zhivraelle’s magic. Every book was placed back on its shelf, every little crystal returned to the large luxurious candelabra hanging from the ceiling, every little detail was fixed.
But all of that did not matter in the slightest when Astarion threw her on the softness of his silk bedding and immediately crawled on top of her. His body, a masterpiece of lean muscle and hard lines caged her soft pliant curves, and she nearly disappeared under him — prey beneath an apex hunter with two burning infernos for eyes.
Zhivraelle would not have it any other way. In that single short moment of suspense in which time stood still as he hovered above her, his eyes full of something she could not quite make out. She looked up at him with such adoration, such devotion, such worship that it became almost unbearable. “My Lord…” she hummed softly, her legs parting so he could nestle his hips between them. When he did, the moment of stillness shattered because as soon the length of his manhood, silk wrapped steel and throbbing to the point of pain, rubbed across her wet silken cunt there was no holding back anymore.
Groaning, his face buried itself in the crook of her neck to inhale the scent of arousal in her blood – the sound making the heady aroma even more potent. His hands, that usually wielded a dagger in the most expert of ways, were now wielding her. With the greed of a thief who had broken into a royal treasury Astarion touched and squeezed, dug his fingers into the softness of her flared hips hard enough to leave a bruise, a mark she would carry with pride.
Zhivraelle would feel his fangs on the tender skin over her jugular, felt the possessive growl vibrating through his chest – Astarion had never done this in their nights together. Even during the night of his ascension when he had joined with her upon the precipice of her mortal life his moves and touches had felt more calculated than whatever this was.
Her black manicured nails pushed into the muscle of his shoulders, too blunt to break through his skin but enough to make him purr. “It is as if for the first time I can feel you.” Any and all words completely, utterly failed her next because what could she have answered? What other choice did she have but sob in pleasure when Astarion finally, finally, hooked his hand under her right knee to push it further away to open her up for him and slid all the way in in one brutal thrust. In morbid symbolism his fangs pierced her jugular, and he picked up a rhythm of drawing from her and undulating his hips at the same time.
At first the telltale pain bloomed around the bite – his teeth had become so much more powerful since the ritual. But the pleasure soon came, along with the numbness but the process of giving to him, nurturing him with everything she could give felt so natural to her that the pain felt nothing but delicious. Zhivraelle’s breathless moans, the wet melody of his cock driving in and out of her to the hilt and back and the sounds of him sucking out the sanguine essence of her life created a song of hypnotic sin. More, she wanted so much more… but she was ready and willing to give even more in return.
This wasn’t just sex. This wasn’t a man laying claim on a woman in the most profound way he could think of, no. Astarion was branding his name, his existence into her soul. Was he aware of it? That was a question both would deal with later. Each thrust of his hips was like a nail in her coffin, each of his raspy growls a siren’s song she followed willingly and always would. Zhivraelle’s body arched beneath him, his weight and size giving her a sense of safety and belonging so pure there was not quite anything she could compare it to.
Astarion picked up the pace and Zhivraelle angled her hips up to meet his thrusts, her soft thighs framing his hips once more. Like this he reached an even deeper spot somewhere next to her cervix, making it impossible for her to form coherent thoughts other than what she felt for him. When Zhivraelle took him deeper into her wet silken depths, her walls holding him like a fitted glove tailored for him alone Astarion let out an uncharacteristic gasp and tore himself away from her neck to find her purple-red gaze.
His thrusts had stopped but he remained buried inside her welcoming body as deeply as possible. Zhivraelle blinked up at him, confused. Her walls clenched around his cock involuntarily making his breath hitch softly every now and then, but Astarion never blinked. It was as if those glowing red storms he called eyes were looking for something. He never let her go and she did not once attempt to move.
„You are mine, Zhivraelle.” Those words were spoken with primal desire, his hand in her hair that pulled to angle her face up to him, his invading tongue that parted her lips – this was transcendent. An experience she could not even begin to understand but when the hard, deep rolling of his hips against hers resumed Zhivraelle knew she did not want to understand. All she wanted was to feel. She wanted to feel him inside her, stretching and filling her to the brim in such an intimate way that it was no longer clear where her body ended and where his began.
“Yours. Always.” she managed to promise into his mouth before he devoured her again.
“Forever.” he demanded.
“Forever, Astarion.” she echoed, her thumbs tenderly caressing his pointed ears. A gust of wind blew away the heavy crimson curtains of the balcony, snuffed out every candle. A full moon hung in the starry sky and illuminated them in a beam of velvet silver light, Selûne’s blessing catching in Astarion’s hair like spun liquid silver. Zhivraelle, aware of the significance of the symbolism, gasped and somehow pulled together enough willpower to tear her attention away from him.
“Moonmaiden…” she whispered.
Astarion stilled again, the strength of his body coiled like a bowstring ready to snap. “Eyes on me.” he growled, clearly not amused that Zhivraelle paid attention to something other than their rut. Red-purple eyes with barely a fully formed thought behind them flickered away from the glowing orb in the sky and refocused.
“Wh-what did you say?” The intensity of his stare made her shudder.
“My my, it seems I am out of shape.” he whispered dangerously, his fingers digging almost painfully into her supple thighs, rubbing up and down, squeezing, claiming. “Or are you just bored, my treasure?” Gods, his voice made her shiver. A blanket of pleasure washed over her and she reached for his hands, guiding them across her thighs. She counted every finger, every knuckle, felt where his touch got lighter, where it hardened.
“Gods, never, I--,” He didn’t let her finish. The bowstring snapped. Adjusting their position, Astarion knelt on his powerful legs and yanked her towards him as if she weighed nothing. The possessiveness of it, the sheer male desire coating his hands as they held onto the tender flesh of her thighs seemed to compliment the very base of her femininity. Her natural response to him manhandling her was to throw one leg over his shoulder only to gasp when his hand flew up and wrapped itself around her knee, anchoring her there. Once he started to move, the power of his sharp thrusts made the dark wood of the bed ache beneath them.
Zhivraelle moaned in the same rhythm as his undulating hips, air pressed out of her lungs each time she felt the head of his cock press against that one delicious spot in her depths. Jolts of pure pleasure washed over her nerves each time, her mind awash with desire and an unfathomable need for him and him alone.
Selûne’s light illuminated Astrion from behind, her silver light a halo around his crown of white hair that had returned to its original state of dampened curls. Zhivraelle was wrecked by emotion, her chest heaving not only with the force of their coupling. He was so indescribably beautiful in that moment, leaning against her knee that he pressed to his cheek, his half-lidded gaze heated with dark molten lust as it flickered between her face and her swaying breasts. His lips that usually swung words with lethal accuracy were parted in guttural moans. Zhivraelle reached for him, fingers tracing the lines of his hard abdominal muscles that rippled and moved under smooth as silk skin as he thrust his hips against hers. The slick, sinful echo of flesh slapping against flesh became a staccato.
Astarion no longer knew where his body ended and where Zhivraelle’s began. He was rocking them forward and back in a deep, fast rhythm, chasing pleasures upon pleasures. He felt every inch of her silken cunt holding on to him, pulling him in greedily like she could not get enough and never would. Well, she never would need anyone again. He would not allow it.
Zhivraelle was spread out in front of him like a feast for a god, her pale amethyst-tinged skin shimmering with a layer of sweat, the tell-tale bruises of his hands painting an image of desire on her flesh. Her face with those gemstone eyes that struggled to stay open, contorted with the pleasure he provided while taking his own pleasure from her … Snarling, Astarion followed instinct. His fangs broke the tender flesh of her thigh beneath her knee, liquid rubies spilling over his lips and chin.
Zhivraelle let out a cry and oh, didn’t her voice sound the sweetest when she writhed and took everything he had to give her. Her walls squeezed him harder, urging him on. The surge of blood became more potent each time he fucked into her, her taste intensifying. As an Ascendant he no longer required blood to survive. The Hunger no longer plagued him. But her blood? Her blood he needed like mortals needed air to breathe. In any other moment this realization would have terrified him but right now, with his cock buried so deep in the blissful wetness of her most intimate depths… Astarion would not have it any other way.
“Mine.” His voice rumbled against her bleeding flesh, his upper lip pulled back in a dangerous growl as if he dared anyone to take away what was his. To oppose his claim. The taste of her blood running down his gullet seemed to further fuel his maddened desire for her, lit his nerves on fire and sharpened his senses. Astarion felt her blunt nails digging at the flesh of his hips as she desperately tried to hold on through the screams and sobs of her pleasure. Heard each little dip and rise of her voice. Tasted her blood on his tongue. Touched her supple meat beneath his hands. Saw the magnificence that she was with those unique purple-red eyes, perfectly curved full lips, the elegant line of her neck he longed to bury his teeth into, her ample breasts with those perfect little nipples that taunted him with each move and sway, the dip of her waist, the wide flare of her hips, her perfect smooth cunt that looked so perfect the way it spread and swallowed his cock again and again. Smelled the heady mixture of their scents and the unmistakable aroma of mind-blowing sex … Each of his five senses was ensnared by Zhivraelle. He felt everything and the sensations were his alone.
“Astarion – oh gods, don’t stop—” Her wanton plea made him shudder, a sharp jolt of pleasure spreading through his entire form. He was close, so very close and so was she, the telltale wetness was already spilling forth from her core, marking him and the silk beneath them.
“Let go.” he snarled, his lips, chin and neck painted with her blood. One hand pushed her leg of his shoulder to spread her further and his thumb found her neglected clit, rubbing circles to give her such merciless pleasure she wouldn’t have a choice but to shatter for him. And oh, when she did, when the silken glove around his throbbing cock began to flutter rhythmically, Astarion, too, felt his climax approaching. It was like a torrent of heat that spread through the entirety of his body, a storm of such unadulterated lust and desire for her that he caged her with his body once more, hands brutally keeping her wrists over her head, his lips drawing a ragged picture over her pulse point. His name fell from her lips again and again and again in an ode that sung him praises.
When his climax joined hers, the sound he made was a primal moan of utter completion. Still furiously fucking her through their orgasms, Astarion simply could not stop. One spurt of his seed followed the other, coating her insides white and painting her in his image from the inside out, mixing with the essence of her orgasm. The sheer intensity of the experience was wrecking him completely and he let it.
He allowed it because Zhivraelle was the reason for it. She had been the one to undo him so completely and by the Gods, she was the only one who had ever been able to. During that first night he had ever touched her. Then the second when they did not know who they had once been to one another. Then the third when he was atop of the world and she had given him everything. And tonight, where her devotion had rid him of the shackles in his mind. Astarion felt her shaking hands attempt to pull him away from her neck to make him look at her and when he allowed it, he was almost undone all over again. She was sobbing with such raw emotion, her body trembling with wave after wave of pleasure and lust that he wanted to devour her whole once more. Like an insatiable beast Astarion claimed her trembling lips, swallowing her sobs and cries as his hips continued to move in a slow, undulating rhythm to guide them both through their bliss.
Zhivraelle’s legs had found his hips once again to hold him close – as if he would ever let her go. Such a preposterous thought.
The air was still pregnant with the lingering scent of desire, their flesh flushed with dimming embers of post-coital afterglow. The distant hum and buzz of the city below, sounds none of them had even registered before seemed so far away. The candles remained unlit. They were still pressed together, skin to skin, his weight a very deliberate cage as Astarion laid between her spread thighs. His breath, slow and steady, was fanning her throat, his breath soft against her pulse point.
Zhivraelle was cradling him with her body, his semi-hardened manhood snug and softly wrapped within her as he laid there, resting. Her fingers were tracing the lines of his scars and combing through his silken hair, curling and uncurling strands of silver. Every now and then she pressed a kiss on his crown, inhaling him.
Astarion was completely quiet and if it wasn’t for his palm lazily mapping every inch, every pliant curve of her one might have thought he had fallen into a deep slumber. She was alive beneath him. Breathing. Physical. His. He did not want to get up. His weight on her was a lingering claim. It was a reminder, together with the twisted bedsheets, of how he had taken and how Zhivraelle had given without hesitation. A slow smirk curled on his lips and he lifted just enough to press a lingering kiss on her throat.
“You look exquisite like this, little love. Thoroughly ruined for me.” Bruises and bitemarks were already blooming on her pale purple tinged skin. She hummed and tilted her head to give him more access to her throat. Yet another thing she was so freely giving him. Her eyes found his.
“I was always yours.” Zhivraelle agreed as if it was the simplest of truths.
His chuckle was low and pleased and the sound vibrated through her. “Correct. But now there is no turning back. Not that there ever was. I will not allow it.” His glowing eyes were narrowed, the possessive glint in them intensifying. Zhivraelle met his gaze unafraid, unflinching. If anything, her feelings for him shone even brighter.
“Do you think me a fool, Astarion? Do you think I pack my bags tomorrow and leave?” Astarion exhaled sharply through the nose and snarled as if the idea itself annoyed him.
“Of course not. You are mine.”
Zhivraelle smiled and pressed a kiss on his forehead. The gesture softened his features. “Yes, I am. Until the world falls down and beyond.”