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charles-leclerizz · 7 months

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🏎️ ๋࣭ ⭑blue views

🏁 Pairings : Carlos Sainz X fem! Reader

🏁 Warnings : smut [nothing major, listed at the end of the writing], fluff, stress [which is aliviated by the smut]

🏁 Word Count : 3.6k words (3612 words)

🏁 Summary : It’s time to celebrate! For everyone else that is. You, on the other hand, will be planning your’s and your fiance’s “engagement week” festivities, until you die. That is, until an impromptu intervention is planned.

🏁 translations via radio comm below

🏁 credits : word dividers by @heavenlayt

🏁 Music player : Good to be by Mark Ambor

“Carlos!” You shouted out, leaning back against the heel of your soft wedges as you reached behind you for more cocktail glasses. The sound of your fiancé’s loafers against the terracotta staircase echoed throughout the ground level as he made his way to the kitchen, where you were working alongside half a dozen cooks.

“Si, Mariposa?” He came up behind you, plucking the crystal margarita glass from your fingers and taking a sip of the peachy, carbonated concoction that you had masterfully created. You giggled when he hummed happily and kissed your neck, “It’s delicious.”

“Ay, Ay, Señor. Tienes que esperar a la luna de miel” An elderly voice scolded from your left followed with a hollow bonk. Carlos hissed, rubbing the back of his head where a thick wooden rolling pin had struck him playfully, “You wound me, Maria.”

He followed with a pained “Literally.” When Maria had merely shot him a fond look over her shoulder as she went back to washing the tomatoes in the deep-set ceramic sink.

“You’re absolutely sure that everyone got the invites?” You leaned down to inspect the dozen drinks that you had made, “Because we invited at least 60 people, and if I make 60 drinks and there are not exactly 60 throats present to ingest them. You are going to remain abstinent until we’re married.”

Carlos stared at you open mouthed, a betrayed expression overtook his face, “So you would choose Maria’s wishes over mine? muy cruel.” He then bought his hands up from your waist to brush your hair from your shoulder, dragging his fingers up your arm-he slipped off the thin spaghetti strap of your white, cotton summer dress to press short, sweet kisses on your skin, “I mean can you really resist this?” He reasoned.

“It would be very easy Mi Amour.” You harrumphed, ignoring the tingling shocks that fluttered beneath your skin at the drag of his lips against your shoulder. You jolted forward when you felt his other hand travel from your waist, down to the front of your dress, “Carlos- I have so much to do. I mean I promised Alex and Lily I would make trifle for dessert, but then your parents have this one friend who hates custard! I mean did you hear the story, he literally puked, and I will not have him puke in my engagement party, nope. Not on my watch.”

You wagged your finger in the air before grabbing another five glasses from their upside-down position on the kitchen island where you were working. Taking the washcloth that sat comofortably in the front pocket of your plaid apron, you began wiping away the droplets of water from the crystal before continuing to babble about your long list of duties for the upcoming week of festivities.

“So, I need to also make these cute fruit tarts that I made that one time. But then I realised that Charles and Max hate kiwi, and the whole dessert is basically that, so for them I’m making this great chocolate gateau, the one at the restaurant? Since they really fucking liked that one.”

You grumbled out the last part, crushing up your freshly picked strawberries that had previously been resting in a metal strainer along with a cream, cotton cover up to keep them moist. The marble mortar grinded against the matching pestle as the sweet fruits reduced to a thick paste.

“On top of that the other like, 40 guests have very specific wants, so I have 20 different things to make along with this signature drink that Jenni designed for us! You know her, right? the bar tender at the other restaurant in Monaco, I learnt how to make it, and you said its good. It’s good right?”

You add a few cups of carbonated water to the pinkish paste in front of you, before turning back to Carlos, who had been patiently listening to you rant- mainly due to the fear that if he were to stop, you would give his ear the same treatment as the berries that remain crushed beneath you, “Si, mi mariposa. Very good.”

You sighed before fully spinning around to face him, resting your back on the dark wood counter, looping your hands around his neck, “I’m sorry Carlito.” You brush a singular strand of hair that fell from its carefully crafted style onto his forehead, “This isn’t very fun for you, is it?” You move onto your tiptoes to reach his cheek.

“Nonsense, I have Papa and Guillermo coming to help with the decorations outside, I think Blanca and Mama are also coming- to help.” He chuckles when you groan happily and bring his head down to kiss his lips graciously.

“Thank you, Mi Amour.” You murmur against his mouth, running your fingers through his hair as his arms came to circle your waist, pulling you against his chest. You sigh against him, melting in his embrace as you barely manage to hold yourself up and anchor yourself on his broad shoulders that strain against the baby blue polo top, he chose to wear.

“AY, SEÑOR,” Maria bumped Carlos slightly as she came rushing through the walkway, trotting determinedly through the low, exposed brick archway and outside to the patio area that was protected from the morning sunrays by the lattice structure that stood tall whilst being overtaken by winding ivy.

Beneath this, Maria sat down at least 3 trays full of freshly sliced vegetables, sun drying them as preparation for the multiple dishes that would be served that evening, “Si no estás aquí para aportar nada útil, sal de la cocina.” She screeched whilst heading to the other side of your estate, towards the large garden that housed many seasoned plants, ready with multiple fruits and vegetables for plucking.

“I think she will cook me next.” He shuddered before laying his forehead on yours, “Do not worry, Mariposa. Everything will turn out fine.”

“Why did I suggest an engagement week.” You pouted, nuzzling your head into his chest, to hide away from all the responsibilities you had brought onto yourself. You shake your head wildly, causing flurries of hair to escape from the bun you had messily done up, “All I know is that it must go well. Maria will for sure have a heart attack if it doesn’t,”

“I still think it’s a good idea” He comforts you, until the melodic sound of the doorbell resounds throughout the house, and he detaches from you, “That must be the back-up.” He winks at you as he jogs off to open the large, rustic door. You watch from the kitchen as Carlos laughs boisterously whilst embracing his family.

His mother and sister quickly wave him off, ushering the men out to the acres of back garden they have yet to decorate to approach you.

Blanca dances up to you, wiggling her arms and hands excitedly as she beams at your exhausted face, “There she is! Beautiful bride-to-be, our mariposa.” The knee length dress she chose skims her legs as the burgundy silk falls from her shoulders delicately, she hugs your neck tightly, swinging you both side to side whilst you flail around.

“Hola, diabla.” You chuckle, catching your mother-in-law’s eyes, you wait until Blanca removes herself from you for Reyes to do the same, but instead of violently rotating you like a ragdoll, she rubs your back and coos sympathetically.

“Ay mi muñeca, you look too tired to be a blushing bride.” She moves her arms from being drawn around your neck to rub your shoulders.

“What can I say? There’s too much to be done for me to be blushing.” You shrug, already going back to pouring out 10 more drinks, adding to the sea of glasses in front of you.

Blanca tuts disapprovingly, “This is not what being engaged is meant to be, it’s meant to be fun! And new! And sexy!” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively, ignoring her mother who had picked up your to-do list and hid her face in the paper.

“Blanca, please.” Reyes rolled her eyes, “But she’s not wrong.” She reaches for a spare apron that hung rejected on the back of the pantry door.

“No, mamá please,” You attempt to snatch the apron away from Reyes, who tuts disapprovingly and had already begun to collect multiple utensils from your spacious kitchen whilst talking quickly with the cooks who had been diligently making progress on the rest of the menu, “I can’t possibly allow you to do my work.”

Blanca plucked the neatly tied bow around your waist, undoing the stained, pale blue cotton that protected your dress, “No, your job is to relax, and let my culo brother treat you nicely. Champagne, strawberries, chocolate.” She listed off the aphrodisiacs one by one, pushing you through the living room and up the stairs. You braced yourself on the railing as you let her guide you through the landing.

“I have all of that in the food that I should be making,” You whined, stomping your foot, and swivelling to level her with your eyes, “There is just too much to do before tonight. And the boys don’t even know what to do for decorations.”

Blanca swatted her hand through the air, as if physically plummeting away your doubts, “You’ve had the entire family added on your Pinterest board.” You snorted at that, but pressed your lips together when she shot you a look, “If I can’t whip them into shape, consider me a bad sister from day 1.” She planted her hands on her waist before pointing at your bedroom door, “Now either you can start yourself a bath, or I will.”

You harrumph and dig your feet into their spot on the newly waxed, wooden floors beneath you, “I see how it is.” Blanca squints her eyes at you, “Fine, I see how it is.”

You half expect her to push you into the room, but instead she leans over the banister and shouts, “CARLOS !!”

“Blanca!” You gasp, grabbing her dress and tugging her back from the beam, “W-Why would you?” You splutter.

“AY CARLOS !!” She continues to screech until you slap a palm over her mouth, careful of the nude brown lipstick she had worn.

“Si diabla?” Your fiancé shouts back up, already at the base of the staircase. Blanca licks your hand, causing you to yelp and jump back, giving her the perfect opportunity to answer, “Your fiancé is anxious as fuck.”

“What else is new?” He chuckles, hand braced on the railing as he emerges from the winding staircase. Carlos takes in the new scene, you are tackling Blanca onto the floor, she’s squealing whilst attempting to wrangle free from you, tummy first on the floor, “Mi amour, if you are going to leave me for my sister...” He starts, crossing his arms and tilting his head at you.

“You both are insufferable.” You grit out, twisting the knob to your bedroom, wating for Carlos to step inside. He stops momentarily when Blanca darts an arm out and begins to ramble to him in Spanish, Carlos answers just as quickly before his sister reaches up to smack the underside of his head.

“Blanca!” He shouts out after her, but she ignores him and sprints downstairs to assist with the preparations. Carlos turns back to you, slumping forward to rest his head against the door frame that you were currently leaning on, arms folded amusedly as you looked at him from under your eyelashes. He pivots his neck, gazing fondly into your eyes, “You’re pretty.” He mumbles, bringing a limp hand up to rest on your cheek, thumb moving soothingly against your face. You lean into his touch, “So are you” You breathe out, leaning upwards to ghost your lips over his.

This moment was merely poetic, the two of you, finding respite in the chaos within each other. His soft touch as he leaned forward for more, you grant it, because you craved him as deeply as he did for you. The astringent sweetness of his lips against yours and the heavenly feeling of his fingers cradling your hips made you moan out as he caught you weight when your knees gave out from beneath you.

The door creaked shut behind the two of you, your palms digging into the waistline of his shorts to tug his shirt out, his fingers dance down from your neck to the large cut-out of your dress that showed off the curve of your spine. Carlos broke away from you momentarily, his eyes still shut as he chuckled when you whined, chasing his lips desperately, “Jump,” He murmured, bracing himself by tugging you close and digging his fingers into the back of your thighs.

You complied, hopping into his secure hold before attaching your mouth to his once again, nipping at his full bottom lip. Carlos passed through the bedroom with ease, his muscle memory allowing him to walk underneath the long archway that led to your shared bathroom. He released you gently, his fingers pinching the hem of your dress on your way down, he bunched up the flowy linen, dragging it up to your waist and tugging it over your head- leaving you in just a pair of white, lacy underwear.

You laughed slightly, your hair mussed at taking over half of your face, “Carlos” you huff out. He laughs at your annoyance, gently moving the strands out of your eyes before tracing the dips and curves of your chest and stomach with feather-light touches.

Sighing, you tilt your head back, allowing him to press his lips against the column of your neck. You loop your hands around his neck, stumbling backwards towards the sink whilst bringing him with you. Carlos hoists you up and onto the counter, finally stepping back to gaze at your naked body, his eyes ravish you, the stiff peaks of your breasts and curve of your stomach, you watch him intently when he finally makes his way down to your panties, a damp patch already forming.

Carlos approaches you once again, his breath fresh and minty against your skin, “Tan bonita.” He compliments, trailing warm, open mouth kisses on your collar bone, starting from your shoulder until he reaches your sternum, “Tan deliciosa.” He moves to your breast, decorating it with his own purple-ish love marks, he littered them across until he enveloped your nipple into his mouth, his tongue licking against the pebble until it hardened beneath his attention.

Carlos turned his attention to the other whilst his other hand slipped beneath the elastic of your underwear, his middle finger teasing your wet slit, “all for me?” he moaned against your breast.

“of course.” You bury your hand in his hair, arching into his touch before he lowered to his knees in front of you.

“F-fuck” you whine, biting your lip harshly as he settles between your legs, he shucks you closer, harshly tugging you to the edge of the counter as he inches his mouth closer, hot breathe settling on the front of your underwear. You arch your back at the feeling, fingers teasing your peaked nipple, “please,” you whisper, eyes darting down to where Carlos had begun to lave lazily at your newly soaked panties.

“Please what? Huh?” He whispers, tongue darting out to push further into your throbbing hole. You whine, thighs threatening to clamp shut around his head, your hand inches down to shyly tug at his hair and guide him closer to your leaking cunt, “can’t even talk now? ‘s okay mariposa. I’ll take care of you.” He promises, laying one of your legs over his shoulder.

You breathe hitches slightly when you feel him drag his lips up your hip, only for his teeth to sink into your underwear band, trailing it off you.

You scrunch your eyes with a gasp when his kisses trail up from your ankle, to your calf and towards the inside of your thigh- you growl playfully when you hear him chuckle and coo up at you, “you were just stressed...” he pressed an open mouthed kiss to your skin, “being so diligent..” he continued, tongue ghosting over your leaking folds, “so perfect.”

“Carlos,” You moan, scratching your nails against his scalp, “you’re being mean. Hah. It’s not good to be mean to your future wi-“you cut yourself off with a scream, well, a muffled one, you managed to cover your agape mouth with your hand. He dove into your sex, tongue searing through you as he fucked the muscle steadily into you, curling it to poke gently at the sensitive, spongy part within you.

Carlos let his eyes flutter shut, the sweet taste of you staining itself onto his tongue, how he could stay like this forever, fuck the dinner, he only ever wanted to taste you. Only you.

“taste so good,” he panted against you, his tongue nudging your clit, in an oh-so delicious way that made you bite down on your fingers to stop your needy moans leaking down from the open, semi-circle window towards your in-laws, who were dedicatedly preparing your back garden to host a multitude of people.

“uh uh mariposa, quiero oír tu voz.” He reached up with one hand, tugging your palm away from your still open mouth.

“I-“you gulp heavily, trying to unscramble your mind from its mush state, “I- wan’ want more, need you to- do something please.” You bring your other leg to his shoulder, locking him between your limbs.

Carlos huffs out a laugh, biting playfully at your tender skin, he brings up one hand laying his fingers gently against your pussy lips, creating a ‘V’ to spread them wide, exposing the sensitive area to the midday warmth. And then, he spat, a fat string slowly drips from his mouth to land directly on your hole, he gawks at it with interest, his large puppy-dog eyes shining with lust.

You blush and cover your face, “come on- please? I’ve been soo good, did ever’thin you wanted.” You babbled, gyrating your hips against his face, baiting him into pleasuring you again until the delicious wave reached the crown of your skull until the tips of your toes.

“have you? You been my good girl? Hm?” He arches a brow at you, but stops you from answering when he lays his tongue flat against your clit, gently shaking his head side to side until you begin to shake and whine, “yeah, I know mi amor, se siente bien, ¿sí?” he whispers, prodding you cunt with his index finger, “you want it, don’t you?”

You hummed, eyes widening as though he had proposed all over again, “yeah, come on, please, pretty please with a- ahh,” once again, he wouldn’t let you finish your pleading, instead, he answered you with your prize, him pushing his fingers into you, your wetness dripping down into his palm and along his wrist.

Obscene squelches echoed through the bathroom, along with explicit sounds of his knuckles slapping against your skin and your high-pitched moans.

“yes- oh, don’t stop.” You sobbed, tears pricking at your eyes when he thrusted in a second finger, stretching you out whilst he crooked his digits to continue stimulating your g-spot mercilessly.

“don’t plan on it,” he promised, delving back in for another sacred taste, he tongue worked wonders against you, drinking in your nectar as though from the gods- letting in slip down his throat graciously. You groaned and bit your lip harshly, arching your back at angles that chiropractors would wince at until you could feel that euphoric feeling begin to bloom within your stomach.

Your walls fluttered around Carlos’ fingers, making him smirk against you and continue his movements, hungrily licking and slurping at you until your toes curled and eyes crossed over, “fuck,” you grit out, gasping laboriously as the tight knot finally snapped and torrential pleasure rained over you.

“te entendí my love,” He crawled over you, bracing himself above with his hands planted on the thick, white marble countertop you were currently blissed out on.

You brought your shaky hands up to his face, kissing him gently, “what about-hah, what about you,” you panted, wrapping your arms around him, continuing to softly brush your lips against his face. His temple, stubbled cheek, and muscled neck.

“We still have-“ He looked down at the heavy, silver Rolex on his wrist, “40 minutes, until Blanca comes hunting for us.” Carlos looked over to the floating bath that sat in front of the Juliet balcony, “and we have a bath.”

“That is just by a huge ass window,” You reminded him, glancing over to the open doors, revealing the intricate black grill of the balcony along with the pristine view of your tall trees that lined the well-kept entertaining space of your garden.

“Well, I doubt they don’t know what’s going on, I mean, my sister probably told them to leave a box of condoms outside.” He shrugged.

“In that case,” You started, your low whisper a mere breath of warm air between the two of you. Marinating hard and heady eye contact with him, you reached down to take his hand in yours, then slipped the two fingers that still dripped with your wetness, into your mouth.

Carlos stared at the sight, a short, strangled noise leaving him when you popped out his digits with an all too innocent noise, “Better make the most of it,” You leaned back against the mirror, hand open for him to carry you.

He groaned, shaking his head slightly before hoisting you in his arms, “best 40 minutes of my life.”

[Smut warnings : alot of kissing, fingering, sucking, love-bites, fem! oral recieving, fem! fingering recieving.]

📻 Kcccchh.... come in.... come in...translatiion available...over

📻 Kchh...Spnish..to engli..sh....over

Ay, Ay, Señor. Tienes que esperar a la luna de miel - Oh, Oh, Lord. You have to wait for the honeymoon

muy cruel - very cruel

AY, SEÑOR - OH, SIR

Si no estás aquí para aportar nada útil, sal de la cocina - If you're not here to contribute anything useful, get out of the kitchen.

mariposa - butterfly

Hola, diabla - Hello, devil

Ay mi muñeca - Oh, my doll

Si, diabla? - Yes, devil?

Mi amour - My love

Tan deliciosa - So delicious

Tan bonita - So beautifull

quiero oír tu voz - I want to hear your voice

te entendí, mi amor, se siente bien, ¿sí? - I understood you, my love, it feels good, yeah

📻 Kchhhhh.loosing sign....al.....kcchh....over and out...

433 notes · View notes

brailsthesmolgurl · 5 months

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CHASTENED

The Foreseer was only tasked with one job, to be the guardian of the Creation Protocore under Astra's rule. Men of all walks of life, all kinds of statuses tried to get close to the Creatio Protocore only to deeply regret their decisions. But how about a young lass at the verge of death with a motive to steal the eminent gem takes on the impossible challenge?

Warnings: Angst, Extreme Pain, Character Death, Blood and Gore, consideration of a part two soon. Spoiler towards Zayne's lore.

Y/N pulled her coat tighter over herself, the huge bundle of animal fur still not effective against the harsh gales of the region. Her lips were severely chapped, if she were to lick them at any point, she might either end up with her tongue stuck to her lips for the remainder of the journey, or else she would have a bleeding issue. None of the options on the table present a feasible method.

The tower sprouted from below the hills, the achromatic slates of the gray towers stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the span of white snows. The sight of the towers a reminder to her that she just needs to hang on a bit longer to get to her destination. The closer she reaches the towers, the smaller she felt as compared to the towering structure.

She stood at the doors that could easily fit a snow giant and looked at the scriptures carved onto the heavy doors. '𝕿𝖔 𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖘𝖊 𝖉𝖔𝖔𝖗𝖘, 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖕𝖑𝖎𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖆 𝖈𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖈𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖆 𝖈𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖓𝖆𝖗𝖞. 𝕿𝖔 𝖌𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝖆𝖈𝖈𝖊𝖊𝖘 𝖙𝖔 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖊𝖗, 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖔𝖋 𝖕𝖚𝖗𝖊 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖊, 𝖙𝖔 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖊𝖞𝖊𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝕱𝖔𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖊𝖊𝖗. 𝕿𝖔 𝖗𝖊𝖈𝖊𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖆 𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖞, 𝖔𝖓𝖊 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖇𝖊 𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖆𝖈𝖈𝖊𝖕𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖎𝖗 𝖔𝖜𝖓 𝖋𝖆𝖙𝖊 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖓 𝖎𝖋 𝖎𝖙𝖘 𝖋𝖆𝖙𝖆𝖑.'

Pulling off layers and layers of animal fur, she revealed her uniform underneath, a chain mail clad to her small stature, with a layer of thick yet fine leather draped above a gown of woven silk. The emblem of the castle she hailed from sewn onto the front and back of her leather armour. You see, this trick of hers would cost her kingdom a great fortune as every century, the King would send his troops out to the Towers of Thorns to receive a prophecy for the next coming century.

It has been a tradition since the first formation of the kingdom. However, y/n had travelled regions beyond one's imagination, to get an answer for her cure. However, all answers lead back to the towers she is currently entering into. There was a small door which is of the size of a mundane. She pushed the door and it creaked open, heavy iron scraped against the snow covered grounds. The snow becoming a good lubricant for the cracks that grew deeper into the floors.

She managed to squeeze into the small opening and was met with a huge hall, tall ceilings held up by pillars made of solid mortar. A highly sought after material for her nation, to build their own castles and for the symbol of wealth. Mortars were shipped in by boats from lands afar but coming across it is entirely rare. Chandeliers made of soft rime hung from the high ceilings, with the purpose to capture the moonlight at night and to provide what little lighting the hall already has.

The hall would have easily been mistaken to be a ballroom hall, if it was not so dead and cold. Literally dead and cold. Y/n figured if there were a bit more decorations; such as extravagant paintings, sculptures and better lighting, this place could easily surpass all of the other ballroom halls she had ever attended. She walked towards the end of the ballroom hall, a huge and wide flight of stairs welcomed within her sight.

Up to the second floor, the floor had transitioned from tiled marble to stone made out of the hands of a very talented stonemason, given its adjacent patterns. The halls presented on both side were long and seemingly endless, with only four doors occupying on each of the sides. She will have to figure out eventually which room leads to the Foreseer.

She came to the last door, disappointment slowly etched onto her face as she have only been greeted with nothing but empty rooms. She actually wondered for a moment if she had ended up in an abandoned castle. The last door opened with a slight creak to its hinges and she saw a spiral staircase leading upwards. Off she went, feet stepping onto the steps carefully as they are quite steep.

She came across another room, a larger one this time, but not as big as the ballroom hall she had first entered. Windows aligned the room, a sight she has been missing out for a bit when she was exploring downstairs. The middle sat a man, eyes closed as if he was resting, with a large sceptre in his hand and the Creatio Protocore floating within it.

That is the Foreseer. Her mind spoke out as she slowly approached the man in slumber. She had only heard of stories of the Foreseer, but she had never known that he was this handsome? This could explain why troops that were dispatched to this tower refused to reveal the looks of Foreseer. It was clear jealousy brewed within those men, if they were to describe the Foreseer as how y/n is admiring his features, the troops would not be scoring any women anytime soon and this castle could and would be swarmed by females.

The Foreseer's skin was pale, akin to the snow that surrounds the tower, but his raven hair a contrast to his complexion. He adorned a dark blue outfit, that carries an iridescence of silver, a subtle match to his silver accessories that were embroidered onto the ends of his long coat and sleeves. His hands were hidden under a pair of gloves just as black as his hair and he was sat in his throne. Or more like chained down to it.

Eyeing the Creatio Protocore, y/n thinks it would be the best timing to grab the protocore now while he was still sound asleep. She reached her hand out to inch closer to the sceptre, but when she is close enough, the Foreseer's eyes opened and he turned his head to look at her. She clumsily fell, startled by his sudden wake. "What do you think you are doing mortal?" The Foreseer's voice was surprisingly low, no hints of grogginess despite him just waking up.

"I represent the troops from the land nearby to receive the prophecy for the next centenary. I would wish to know it so that I may bring the destiny back to my people." She lied, pushing herself off of the cold floor. The back of her gown now stained wet but she could care less.

"The tradition has been banished I see." The Foreseer slowly blinked his eyes, to wake himself up better and took in a deep breath. "You are not here for your people. But it is for your own." His eyes snapped towards her, deep forest greens darkened.

"I...I..." She hesitated, eyes darting everywhere when she tried to come up with a valid explanation for what she was trying to do earlier. "I need the Creatio Protocore, in order to cure my heart that is dying of a reason that nobody could elucidate."

The chains wrapped around the Foreseer emitted a faint glow and she watched them disappeared off of his body, except for his thorax. The chains on his torso were pointy but it rested comfortably on him, with every breath it takes, the chains expanded and contracted accordingly. "It is very assumptive of you to think I would give it to you, just because you asked nicely. What a fool you could be." He remained seated on his throne. "Many men who stepped foot in here with reasons and excuses similar to yours ends up getting deprived of their existence. Should you wish for the same ending as them?"

"No. Please no." She begged, getting onto her knees this time. "Please do not kill me. I will do anything. But please do not kill me."

"Even if I do not, your heart shall anyways." He acknowledged, beckoning her to her feet. "As punishment, you shall remain in this tower to serve me through the end of your days." His voice and facial expressions are alike, stoic. "Should you try to leave, I shall not show you any mercy as how I have dealt with the previous trespassers."

"Where are we going?" Y/n asked, speeding up her footsteps behind the raven haired man. The man had woken her up, provided her with a few pieces of rye bread and here they are, walking up a stair well that goes up in a spiral. The rye bread she had yet to finish still in her hands. She was worried she might get motion sickness and waste what had already went down her throat. The Foreseer remained silent, footsteps steady on every step. A candlestick within his grasp, illuminating the steps ahead.

A thud followed by a creak was heard and sunlight poured in. Both of them had arrived to a roof top. Not being a lover for low temperatures, the warmth of the sunlight made her sighed in enjoyment. "Come here." The Foreseer called out to her and she went towards him, towards the stone barrier. Her eyes widened when she took in the view of the snowy mountains in the far distance, the snow had came to a halt, leaving white traces over the whole span of land ahead, with occasional barren stalks of trees reminding her the consequences of the harsh winter. She never knew she could find beauty within a sea of pristine white.

"This shall be your punishment." He pointed towards a small pot on top of the stone barrier, a single bud remained unbloomed. "Bloom this plant and your punishment shall be voided and you shall regain freedom." Y/N raise her head to meet his gaze, blinking in confusion.

"The weather is so cold here, I don't think it will be able to bloom under such harsh conditions." His never-changing expressions made her gulped. "Nevertheless, I would give it my all." Her surrendering stance made him huffed in approval. "So do you come up here often?"

"Making small talk I see." He turned to face the view. "Casual notes will not lessen your punishment."

"I know for sure it would make our accompaniment more pleasant." Her bravery got commended when the man eyed her for a second. "I certainly do not wish to spend the last of my days talking to a wall or a flower when I acknowledge the existence of another person within the same confinement as me."

"I come up here whenever I want to see the view, or to be under the sun." He replied.

She pointed towards the bud in the pot. "How and where did you obtained that because it will practically be impossible for you to find that out in the cold here."

"Someone gifted this to me and this is not an ordinary flower." His gloved hand traced the clay pot that holds the bud in place. "I was told it could bloom even in the harshest of winters. So, ensuring the flower to bloom shall be your expertise."

A series of shrill chirps pierced through the silence and both of them looked up in sync. The man looked relaxed while poor y/n looked like she was about to witness god herself, although she is already in the vicinity of one. "What is that sound?" Her hands were halfway lifted up, next to her ears, getting ready to cover either her head or ears, depending on what happens next and whether it would involve her head or ears. "I have never heard of such sounds!"

The chirps are continuous, leading her to cover her ears with her small hands. A gust of wind hit her head and down came a bird-like creature, about the size of a hawk. The bird-like creature is almost-crystal like, coated in a silverish blue from head to toe, body texture a close resemblance to crystal glass on chandeliers. It's raptorial claws beats the impression of it being a fragile bird. "This is an Arcticyon, they pass by here whenever they migrate. Alas, that was eons ago." His look resembled a quaint longingness, staring at the bird.

"I suppose being in the cold, all the way out here, away from civilisation, things get pretty lonesome." His cold gaze returning and the bird rejoiced with it's flock in the skies, a moving blue cloud then proceeds towards the opposite direction it came from.

"You are not here to study my behaviour. Your curiosity almost led to your own demise." His cruel reminder made her wished she never said anything earlier on.

After a couple of days, the daily routine of caring for the bud got emblazoned into her head. She was assigned to a room which has all of the amenities she needed to keep herself alive and entertained. That includes having her own clothes, food sources and bathroom. She assumed all of which are a part of gifts from the royals who came to visit.

She got out of bed at the crack of dawn, the sun peeking over the horizon of one of the mountains in the far distance provided a normal circadian rhythm for her. Time is not a limitation here for her, she is free to explore within the towers. Visiting the Foreseer is out of the question for her. She lit up a candle and started climbing her way up to the top of the tower, speeding up her footsteps just so she could catch sight of the early sunrise. It is an unspoken competition now.

When she arrived to the top, the Foreseer had already beaten her to it. Not that he had ever been a part of this 'competition' of hers but she did not expected him to be up here this early. "Good morning---" Her right arm violently jerked and she gasped in surprise, the candle falling from her hand and onto the snowy ground, instantly getting extinguished. Hands were tightly pressed to her chest, screams muffled with her biting down harshly onto her lips. Tears welled up in her eye sockets almost instantly.

The Foreseer approached her, watching her closely as she faltered to the snowy grounds. He said nothing, but stood next to her figure within reaching distance, awaiting for her next move. Her gloved arm make it hard for him to assess where is her actual pain spot. Her twitching slowed and he took a step back, to give her some personal space till he noticed something falling from her face, wetting the grounds beneath. She is crying.

He was about to take a step closer but she pushed herself off of the floor, head remained facing downwards and muttered under her breath, fleeting misty clouds formed when she spoke. "Good morning, I will go ahead to water the bud now." She took her time to walk over towards the edge of the rooftop and there sat the pot, with the bud already at the verge of blooming. She surely have a good pair of green fingers, just like what the Foreseer had suspected.

The Foreseer could see why she needed the Creatio Protocore now. Her weakness hails from her once in a lifetime disease, Cryotasis. This disease only occurs to people whom are born to be Astra's nemesis. The God inflicting this upon the chosen one a sign of a cruel punishment, and nothing could heal them other than the Creatio Protocore. Throughout centurions, the Foreseer had witnessed only a handful of Cryotasis victims, mostly wanting to get the protocore so that they could heal themselves, but of course, the Foreseer would never succumb to the greed of a mundane. But now, she is the tainted individual, cursed with the touch of a God.

"Are you alright?" He could not stop those words from rolling off of the tip of his tongue. It was certainly very rare for him to ask someone about their condition, not that he ever thought about caring either. He is incapable of sensing emotions or resonating with them but with her, she makes him feel things that he had never felt before. It is a new sensation for him, so maybe that is why he thought it was only right for him to ask if she was okay.

"Yeah I am used to it by now." And he saw a reflection of him, a fraction of him in her. How she holds back her pain and diverts her attention to something else to suppress her mind. Whenever he felt lonely, he too, would divert himself from having to feel the loneliness creeping in. Her words of dismissal made the man leave her to her own desolation. When the Foreseer had went down the steps, she lifted her sleeve up, the blue veins stuck out like a sore thumb against her pale skintone, imprints of webbed and black snowflakes emblazoned on her skin, cold to the touch, even colder than the winter she is currently in if that makes any sense at all.

She ran her fingers over it, but it did not hurt, she only felt the scars raked across the pads of her fingers, but her affected arm did felt numb and stiff. The young maiden stood up, leaving the watering can by the side of the potted plant and she proceeded to head downstairs so she could layer on an extra coat. Upon arriving at her room, her wooden door was slightly ajar and she saw the man sat on the plush chair inside of her room, a book held up to his face and his legs crossed comfortably. "Come in."

"I never thought I would be able to see you read." She commented, slotting herself into the adequately sized room. The Foreseer paused momentarily, book lowered and his icy stare pierced through her, just like his following sentence.

"First, you asked me about being on the roof and now you are mocking me about my habits." Although she never had that intention to mock him but she could tell he does not like sharing anything about himself. He is a lone man locked in a tower afterall, the act of sharing would practically be impossible. "I may be a deity who has responsibilities, but this does not defer me from my hobbies." Tapping the hard cover of the book, she took a seat on the edge of her bed, trying to initiate more conversations and the day went by, with them both exchanging conversations. More like her asking him questions and him replying in impermanent statements.

But two weeks had passed, with her being reluctant to leave now. Be it her wounds are getting more and more severe, the cryotasis on her arms had gotten so severe that she had limited movement for her thumbs, sometimes not being able to bend it to pick things up or to hold things. The nights she had spent rolled up in bed, enduring the excruciating pain littered all over her arm. Stygian veins now a replacement of her previous symptom and she strongly believe that she is rotting from the inside out.

The knock on her door woke her up, eyes snapped open. “May I let myself in?” The voice of the only man she had been acquainted with for the past two weeks came through the other side of the wooden obstacle at the entrance.

“Yes you may.” She could not hide the weakness in her voice. The door then opened up, revealing The Foreseer in his usual outfit but without the blue coat this time around. He claimed that his coat resembles nothing more than an accessory and she remembered teasing him about accessorising himself even though he does not even have any visitors on a daily basis. His retort was witty, turning the table she had set against herself, emphasising that if it was not for him, she would have been stuck in the clothes she had originally worn and the amount of methane gas buildup on her would have made the Foreseer kicked her out of the tower.

He stood still at the entryway, lips slightly parted as his eyes traced the maiden in front of him, from top to bottom. Her cheeks flushed at the way she was being stared at. This is the very first time the deity had looked at her so tediously. “We need to get you to the hall downstairs.” His feet hurried across the floor and he scooped her up into his arms, her squeaking in response to his sudden actions. Till she realised that she no longer felt like she had a pair of legs. Her thoughts of the Foreseer wanting to make a move on her immediately got diminished. She is now in her late stages and there is nothing she could do. Nor would she want to do anything about it. She realised throughout these past weeks, she had fell for the man, the deity himself who showed her no signs of interest other than entertaining her questions with one-worded sentences.

She was pretty certain that she has a one-sided affection towards the man holding her now. His footsteps are hurried, the sound of his shoes thumping against the tiled floors echoed through the long hallways. As she was about to say something, another series of pain struck her and she arched her back involuntarily, wailing in pain. The man laid her down onto the floor instantaneously and he held her torso up to keep her from breaking her back. She did not know that this man, the deity himself reciprocates the same feeling towards her. This only took him a week to finally come to a conclusion to the ache in his heart. He ached for her belongingness, her company, her smile, her curiosity; he is in love with her.

The eyes of the deity burnished into flames of gold and the sceptre that houses the Creatio Protocore formed in mid air and landed into the hands of the Foreseer. She had regained her breathing, still panting heavily with tears slowly forming icicles on her pale stricken face. The linings of black veins now climbing upwards like vile vines towards her neckline, peeking out from the collars of her night gown. The parasitic nature of the curse now taking its full course on her. “The Creatio Protocore will heal you.” The deity looked at her and for the first time, she could notice emotions within his gaze. “For that, I shall give it to you.”

“No you can’t, you can’t do it.” She used every last bit of strength she had left in her body to push herself up, watching the deity kneeling on one of his knees, statued right in front of her. “You will lose your life.” He had explained to her the sole purpose of his being and presence within this world. He is only here, as his name suggests, as a tool of Astra, as a Foreseer of men. His duty held him back from having to step out of the premises of the towers and that he is strictly forbidden to foresee his own future. She called it an irony, but he called it his responsibility. “Don’t do this for me. You know how important you are to us, to everyone who looks up to you.”

The maiden staggered and he caught her by her waist, pulling her closer to him effortlessly. “What a fool of you to come up with that, through my own will, I shall be losing my sole purpose of living to someone of significant importance to me.” He ran his fingers through her hair, his touch warm and gentle, unlike what she had expected, including this intimate moment between the both of them. His willingness to kill himself just to save her received an immediate rejection from her but it fell upon deaf ears as the deity remained stubborn with his decision. “With this, I bequeath my Protocore to you. So you are to be set free from Astra’s curse.”

The sceptre emitted a blinding light, a high pitched screech came along with it and the both of them closed their eyes together. She hung onto his coat as blustery winds engulfed them, a pathetic attempt to try and separate the both of them. The Foreseer’s grip tightened on her waist, pulling her closer to him till her face caved into his neck. Once the gale had stopped, she pulled back from his embrace and she sat up hurriedly, eyes bearing concern as her sobs jerked her back to reality. The physical pain of hers disappeared but not applied to her faint heart as she watched his skin take on the shade of cement, grey and tough-looking. He is solidifying, a common telltale sign of deities dying before they fade into dust. “No. No. NO!” Her screams elevated with every word, hands coming up to cup his face, his eyes meeting hers directly. Orbs of hazel brown and deep green held emotions that meant the world to her at this moment. “Please no.”

The man pulled one side of his lips upwards, a crooked smile landed its way on his face and he spoke what was seemingly his last sentence. “I hope in the next life, we shall never cross paths again as I shall always pick you over anything else.” He let out a soft chuckle, already accepting the fate of him dying. “I love you.” He then leaned in, sealing their lips together for the first and last kiss before his body fully solidified and she was kissing nothing more than a statue. She did not even got a chance to tell him about how she felt.

She was caught up in an emotional turmoil, losing him after a confession was the worst ending she could hope for. But the blinding light behind her lover made her covered her eyes. Uncovering her vision, she noticed a lady had appeared from the source of light, adorned in gold that could build a whole empire, her olive skin a compliment to her outfit. She matched the description of Astra, with aura that immediately establishes tension within the whole hall and with eyes the shade of the iridescence of the sun, sometimes yellow and sometimes orange. Tutting both in disappointment and strong indignation, the deity stood in front of the couple, her height towered over the late deity whom kneeled in front of her. “Betrayal is what I caught on I suppose.” Her voice booming, reverberating through the hall. “A mere sign of affection towards a mundane cost him his life. What a blot on one’s escutcheon.” Although she was talking to herself, her statement indirectly suggested towards the maiden bawling on the floor.

“Now.” The deity continued, proceeding towards the mundane. “A tool I shall make of you. I hope you shall not be a replica of such a failure.” Snapping her finger, the maiden cried out as she too, experience the same fate of solidifying, just like the deity she had fell in love with. The both of them then sat as a centrepiece in the grand hall. One wore the expression of acceptance while another the opposite of it. Astra smirked, determined to make them suffer as the jasmine on the rooftop bloomed exuberantly, marking the memory of the man coming to an end and soon to be renewed in his next life.

Another deity series started and ofc, this shall take course just like how the Rafayel series did, so stay tuned for more angst my loves <3

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #zayne love and deepspace #lnds #rafayel love and deepspace #xavier love and deepspace #zayne angst #zayne lnds #zayne x reader

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bardic-inspo · 7 months

Text

Blood in the Mortar

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

Rating: Explicit (Smut!!)

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

Summary:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am Enrik, if it pleases you.”

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

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

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

“It has certainly been enlightening thus far.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She’s not wrong.

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

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

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

“She was the hero of Baldur’s Gate.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only one remains.

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning,” she says brightly.

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

“You.”

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

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

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

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

Enrik folds against the floor, panting for breath.

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

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

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

“I need not fear anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What a vile little ingrate,” Astarion snarls.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hasn’t yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oops,” he says, low and shameless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” her realization comes out quivering.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” she starts to say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mine, mine, mine.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His lips crush down against hers in a kiss consuming.

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