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xxnashiraxx · 2 days ago

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I Could Be, Be Your Man

pairing: Astarion/f!Tav | Astarion/f!OC 18+ MDNI word count: 5k tags/warnings: Explicit, Smut, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Magic, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ascended Astarion, PEG THE ELF, Pegging, Porn with Feelings, Porn without Plot, Lark x Astarion, mentions of past trauma, Anal Sex, your honor they love each other, Oneshot, Astarion deserves to be loved and pampered summary: Astarion wants Lark to do something they haven't done before.

PEG THE ELF oneshot brought to you by two Christine and the Queens songs: "iT" and "Catching Feelings".

HUGE thank you to @nerdallwritey for reading this through and approving that it's gooning material

Read on AO3

“You want me to fuck you?” Lark asks, looking at Astarion in the mirror. There is no evidence in her voice to suggest that she’s disgusted or weirded out; she just sounds like she’s looking for clarification.

Astarion rolls his eyes. “I truly wish you weren’t so vulgar, darling. But yes. Something to that effect.”

She pulls the hair ties holding her tight braids off and starts to untangle the waves that have formed. “And how am I supposed to fuck you, exactly?” she asks, lips twitching with amusement— but excitement, too. Astarion can hear it in the uptick of her beautiful heartbeat.

The instinct to grin at her with all of his teeth is much stronger than the desire to roll his eyes, at that moment. “With this,” he says, shaking a rolled-up scroll in the air.

Lark finally turns around, faces him. Raises an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look much like a cock to me.”

“You’re such a comedian, truly. Why did you ever choose poetry instead?”

Her composure breaks, and she giggles. Pauses, and then bites her lower lip before saying, “I appreciate the trust you have in me.”

And that’s who Lark is— even when he’s asking her to fuck him (her vocabulary is rubbing off on him, it seems) with a fake-magic-cock she still finds a way to make it sappy.

Not that he’s complaining, of course. He has changed, with her. Knowing that he’s capable of loving, and being loved, is no mere trifle for Astarion. The love he has for her, intense but lightening, pure, unbridled devotion— the love that lives in him and makes him a better person every single day, now blooms anew in his chest and all he can do is to close the gap between them and place a chaste kiss that makes both of them gasp on her soft, plush lips.

“I love you,” he says, fake-magic-cock scroll forgotten for a moment. Lark smiles at him, that glint in her eyes, ever-present, adoring and amused and full of everything Astarion once thought foreign to him at once.

“I love you,” she replies against his lips, and reaches out to take the scroll from him. “Let me show you how much.”

----

Astarion reclines back into the plethora of pillows scattered on their bed and watches Lark as she speaks the words on the scroll, shifting his thigh to accommodate how hard he is already at the sight of her nakedness. The determination that furrows her brows, creasing her forehead. How her lips move, her magic coming alive in front of his very eyes.

As soon as she finishes casting the spell, she yelps, eyes going wide, and quickly turns away from him. He straightens up, and when he speaks, his voice is colored with concern.

“Lark, love?”

“I— I’m okay. Just—”

Her shoulders start shaking, slowly at first. Is she crying? Astarion moves to rise from the bed, panic rising in him. Maybe he shouldn’t have asked this from her so brazenly, should have reassured her more, that this has got nothing to do with him being dissatisfied with their sex life because, Hells, how could he be dissatisfied with her even if the only thing they did was to lay down and stare into each other’s eyes for an eternity? He should have told her that this has everything to do with her, him wanting her, nothing else, and—

Lark turns slightly to the side, and Astarion realizes that she is objectively not crying. She’s laughing.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, eyes narrow with a glee. “It’s just—” She suddenly jumps forward, now facing him straight on, and goes on, “I have a dick.”

Astarion’s eyes follow the curves of her body, starting from her beautiful, flushed throat to her pebbled nipples, dark in contrast to the rest of her skin, to her navel that he desperately wants to dip his tongue into; and then, further down, to the lovely patch of hair he loves burying his nose in, where now a flaccid cock rests, springing up and down with her movement.

“You certainly do,” he says, voice raspier than he intended.

“Ha!” she laughs, jumping once again. “I’m a man now!”

Astarion rolls his eyes but can barely hide the smirk tugging at his lips. “What you are,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, though even he can’t deny the desire that coils tight in his body, “Is a child. Will you come here now?”

“Manchild?” she pouts, mocking.

“Whatever you say, my dear.”

She laughs, and starts walking toward him, but then pauses. “Am I…” she stops. Reassesses. “Is this okay?”

Astarion tilts his head, questioning.

“I mean,” she tries again. “Do you like this? Does it look good?”

He wants to be a better man for her— only her, for the rest of eternity. He’s usually very good at reassuring her, she says— she always compliments him, any chance she gets— but Astarion believes it’s only because she doesn’t shy away from asking him whatever comes to her mind, even if it sounds weird. She is much more in tune with her emotions than he is— his emotions too, for that matter.

“You look good, darling,” he says. There is a dull ache in his groin. Desire always has a way of making itself known. “I like you.”

Lark smiles, and with another step, climbs on top of their bed on all fours, crawling to him like a lioness circling her prey. Once she reaches his knees, she stops.

“Hi,” she says.

From this angle Astarion can see everything— her beautiful face staring at him with a mixture of desire and barely concealed embarrassment reddening her cheeks, making her freckles pop. Her gorgeous tits his fangs ache to bite into. And her newly-acquired, half-hard cock, nestled between her strong but plushy thighs.

His cock twitches at the sight of her. Already rock hard to the point of pain.

“Hi,” he replies, then lunges at her.

He kisses her, hungry and animalistic. His love who is willing to do anything for him, he knows— because he would do anything for her.

She tries to break the kiss, but Astarion doesn’t let her, clutching at her, lapping at anywhere he can get close enough to, as she giggles, and it makes him giggle, too— the sheer joy that radiates from her, the simplicity of it. “How—” she tries, and he kisses the corner of her mouth, that warm, pliant mouth that can bring him to ruin with just the little noises it makes. “What would you like me to do?”

“Don’t you want to see how it feels first?”

Lark tilts her head, thinking. She looks down between them, and another flush colors her cheeks. “Gods,” she says, and laughs. “It looks so real. Feels real.”

“That’s the point, my love. So that you feel good too.”

A surprised expression passes through her face quickly. “So I’m… going to feel everything?”

“Yes,” Astarion drawls, just the thought making his breath hitch.

Lark takes a deep breath, then exhales. “That sounds… good.”

“Go on, then. Touch yourself,” he swallows thickly.

She peels her gaze away from him, and looks away, before finally gazing down. With a gentle hand, she takes herself in her palm, sucking in her cheeks. She frowns, first; then with a sudden spark in her eyes, looks back at Astarion, who is watching her intently.

“Let me see,” she says. “This is how you like it.”

Lark tugs at the skin of her cock, gentle yet firm, eyes locked in with his, in the particular way that he does like— and when the touch elicits a whimper from her throat, her eyes fluttering closed— Astarion shivers.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. Can’t help it. “Always.”

It seems to egg her on— Astarion knows what his voice tends to do to her. She’s told him before— he could just whisper the filthiest things into her ear, without even touching her, and she could unravel for him.

When she opens her eyes again, there’s a glint of mischief in them. The corner of her mouth lifts upwards, ever so slightly, and standing straight up on her knees, holding her new and gorgeous member, now definitely hard— she draws circles on the tip with her thumb. With her other, considerably emptier hand, she crooks a finger at him, and Astarion obliges— of course he does— and leans forward, bent in front of her, his chin resting a few inches above her belly button.

“Tell me how badly you want it,” she says, firm, looking down at him beneath heavy lids, thick lashes fluttering. She’s having fun.

“Very badly,” he says, looking up. Reaches for her, but she pulls back.

“So badly that you would beg for it?” she asks, pumping herself a couple times— slowly, torturously. “For my cock?”

“Please, my love. My Lark,” he says, without hesitation, and her name sounds like the only word that has ever mattered in his mouth.

It does something to her, too; he can tell, judging by the way her eyes close, her head tilts back. A desperate sound stuck at the back of her throat.

“Please,” he says again, and she opens her eyes, pupils blown out, to look at him again.

“Good boy. You can taste me.”

She’s being cheeky, and they both know it, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t send a jolt of pure desire straight through him.

And so— Astarion tastes her.

In the wretched memory of his past, he finds a whole lot of points of comparison— but the thought isn’t as painful as it was before. Before her. The pain isn’t gone, and perhaps never will be— but she understands, and still wants him, all of him; and despite everything, he has found her, his Lark, his soul. Now, the moment he lowers himself to be able to stick his tongue out and lick a long strip from the very base of her cock to the head, the solitary feeling that bubbles up in his chest is desire— red hot fire, burning, burning him from the inside out, mingling with the all-consuming love he has for her. He feels like he could explode— bring about the creation of a new universe.

She tastes like her. All Lark. It’s not all that different from eating her out, and gods, does he love eating her out— feeling the little shakes of her thighs that increase as she gets closer to climax, the sounds that her small frame is capable of: heaven made palpable.

But that’s neither here nor there.

“Astarion,” Lark whimpers. Eyes fixated on him, like he’s the only thing that exists. Or the only thing in existence worth looking at.

He moves her hand that’s still holding herself, interlocking their fingers in an embrace that’s simply necessary.

“I’ve got you,” he says, and repeats his earlier motion, licking her, only to savor her taste and nothing else. It’s more than enough to make him lose all logical thought.

The velvet skin of Lark’s cock— salty, floral, milky, almost aquatic— it’s Lark, it’s her, and he, he—

When he opens his mouth wider to take more of her inside, she moans, and he does, too.

He loves her. Three words flash in his mind, over, over, over and over again.

I love you, I love you, I love you.

She looks at her like she can see it— of course she can.

“I love you,” she says.

Astarion moans. Takes more of her in his mouth. She twitches against his tongue. Leaks a drop of pearliness that is another shock to his senses— unfiltered Lark essence.

One hand still laced with hers, he places both on the sides of her thighs. His claws are coming out. He grazes one sharp nail against her skin, feels her tremble.

Lark lifts the hand that’s holding hers, looking at his claws.

“Pretty,” she says.

With a wet pop, Astarion pulls away from her cock. “And dangerous,” he replies. Presses a bit harder on her hip but doesn’t break skin. He can feel how her blood immediately pools beneath the surface. It makes him salivate.

“Most pretty things are.”

There was a time when he showed restraint and hid them from her— fearing her reaction to what happens when he lets go of control. Part of it is also, of course, the fact that he himself does not like letting go of control. But Lark teaches him every single day that he is deserving of everything good, simply for being himself.

With her, he feels more man than monster. Or— he feels that it doesn’t matter as long as he is Astarion.

“Am I a pretty thing?” he asks, placing a kiss on the top of her thigh, then breaking into an all-fangs grin.

Lark grins back at him, reaches out to play with his hair. They stare at each other for a moment. Then, slowly, Astarion lifts himself up, flush against her body, to capture her lips in a long overdue kiss. Her tongue infiltrates his mouth almost instantaneously and she moans, tasting herself. Her hands find the firm muscles of his ass, giving a quick squeeze before pulling back.

“Shall we take these off?”

He’s still in his pants. Right.

“Please.”

She helps him get out of them, and free of its confines, his cock aches to be touched. Lark doesn’t make him beg— instead, she takes him in her hand, that warm, gentle hand, the protector of his heart, the heart that found itself again thanks to her— and with her thumb, she caresses right below the head, just the way he likes.

“Darling,” he moans.

“Tell me what you want, Astarion,” she says, warm, like the rest of her, loving, caring.

He kisses her again, then— gods, the closeness of their bodies, and his cock brushes against hers, and it makes them both growl, moan, make any sort of sound possible, with how intense the pleasure of it is.

“Let me ride you,” he says between wet, sloppy kisses. Her breath hitches.

Peeling himself away from her with monstrous difficulty, he grabs the bottle he placed on the bedside table, and hands it to Lark.

“Prepared everything, I see,” she says, smiling.

“Oh, you know me,” he says with a smirk.

She just looks at him, for a second, holding the bottle of fragrant oil— with so much adoration in her eyes, it makes the corners of his sting.

He would’ve looked away, once. It would’ve been too much. But now, all he wants is to drown in the depths of her love.

Lark pours some of the oil in her hands, rubs them together. She closes the gap between them, kissing him deeply, feverishly; and with one hand she palms her cock first, then his— spreading enough of the lubricant on both of them— the feeling makes Astarion growl, one corner of his lips lifting in a snarl. With her other hand, she finds his backside, and moans into his mouth.

“Do you want me inside of you?” she asks. He nods, too far gone for words as her finger explores around his hole, gentle, undemanding. Thanks to the oil, her fingers are slippery, reverent, too gentle, Astarion thinks, almost involuntarily bucking his hips into her other hand, the one holding them together. He needs her, in any and every way possible.

“Please,” he whines, the word getting stuck in his mouth as she slowly pushes a finger inside of him. His eyes roll back, but he needs more, more of her—

“Astarion,” she says, and he looks at her, finding a thread of concern on her face— beautiful, soft brows knit together, nose crinkled. He lets her find the right words. “You’ll tell me if I do something wrong, won’t you? If you don’t like something?”

That bleeding heart of hers, those sweet lines that form on her face when she’s worried, worried about him, who has torn his way into her ribcage somehow, made a home for himself in there, right behind the hums and thumps of her chest. Gods, he’s so in love with her.

“Yes, my treasure,” he says breathlessly. “I will.”

“I love you,” she says again, her finger picking up pace, stretching, preparing him deliciously.

“Then please,” he whispers into her ear, taking the lobe in between his lips, letting go, grazing a fang against the flesh just to feel her tremble against him. “Please, fuck me already.”

Lark places chaste kisses on his shoulder, the column of his throat, then back down to his chest— far too innocent for what they’re about to do. But that’s just how she is— everything is pure, with her.

Then, she moves toward the nest of pillows Astarion has prepared, holding his hand to make him follow her— as if he was about to do anything but.

She lays down, the waves of her hair— the lovely aftermath of leaving them braided all day— pooling around her like spilled honey. She looks like the sun itself— the warmth he was deprived of for so long, even after becoming the Ascendant. How was he supposed to know the sunlight he was craving was actually a woman named Lark Promise?

Well, now he knows.

Lark pulls him forward, too, and Astarion straddles her thighs, claws on one hand drawing absent-minded shapes on her flesh.

Looking away from her intense gaze is a monumental task, but he manages— only to let his eyes wander over her body. She notices, and lifts her arms up above her head, pulling her body taut. The movement makes her cock jump, then settle against her groin at an upward angle— hard, a prominent vein bulging on the underside, pink and glistening with his saliva.

“Astarion,” she says, intonating his name like a melody, his siren song. “I’m aching.”

The little poet. She does have a way with words.

“For you,” she continues, to make sure it’s clear.

And damn him if he’s not aching for her, too.

Arms still above her head, she lets him take the lead, but the way her chest rises and falls rapidly tells him how desperate she feels— and he feels it too, her thunderous heartbeat echoing inside his skull as if it’s his own.

Astarion moves forward slightly, grinding against her, and her back immediately arches off of the bed. She chuckles quietly, amused by the intensity of her own reaction. “Ah,” she chimes, “Is this how it feels for you?”

He grinds into her again, harder this time, and her jaw goes slack. “Falling apart already, hm?”

He lifts himself up, taking her in his hand, lining her up with his entrance. He jests, but in truth, he’s just as lost as he is.

She thrusts upward, gently, slowly— just to make it known how much she wants this. Looks at him, wordless, eyes burning.

Astarion starts sinking down— slowly, a different kind of worship. Lark’s face contorts in a way that he recognizes intimately. She’s fighting the pleasure. Not because she doesn’t want it, but because she wants it so much, and it’s hard to handle the weight of that. He knows, because he feels that with her, all the time.

He leans back, bracing himself on one hand as he continues to take more of her, and she feels like heaven, although heaven is not, and will not ever be ready for the kind of love they have for each other.

There is a slight sting of pain as his body resists to accommodate the size of her, but he welcomes it— it turns into a wave of pleasure so intense; he throws his head back with a broken sigh, one fang digging itself into his lower lip.

His claws bury themselves into whatever they find— one hand bunches a fistful of the bed sheets, and he hears the faint give of fabric as it rips, but it hardly matters. His other hand finds purchase beside her hip bone— if he were to tear her apart, Astarion knows she would be more than fine with it, but the thought of causing her pain unless explicitly asked to do so is too close to what he guesses to be blasphemy, so he settles on a bruising grip instead.

And Lark never stops surprising him— he rather thinks she will continue to do so till the end of time, and what is time for a vampire lord, but an endless thread of opportunities?

With her, it’s so much more than that. But no need to dwell on that right now, with her cock filling him to the brim.

She reaches out and places her hand over his, not to move it away, but to make him apply more force. At the realization, he moans, and with great difficulty lifts his head toward her to find an absolutely debauched grin painted on her face, glassy with sweat— she looks perfect. She is perfect.

“How do I feel, my lord?” she asks, thrusting upwards to meet him halfway, making him moan.

“Glorious,” he says, and she laughs, a bright thing, cut off by a wanton moan.

Astarion picks up his pace, now able to take her with less resistance, and Lark desperately tries to keep up with him— poor, sweet, sweet thing, he wants to devour her— but he can tell it’s too much for her, the intensity of the sensations, the sound of skin on skin filling the room as it does so often, but— different.

He flashes a toothy grin at her, and he can see how thickly she swallows. “It is how it feels for me,” he says.

She throws her head back on the pillow, exposing her beautiful neck. “Fuck,” she says, and repeats it over and over again.

At the beginning of their relationship, Lark hadn’t been as vocal as she is now— and a sense of pride blooms deep within Astarion’s chest as he thinks about how much more comfortable she is now. With him. How loud and crass she can be, unrestrained, like a wild animal; without a care, just the way he likes—

“Yes,” he moans. “I know, love.”

And he does. Neither of them will last long, at this rate.

She lifts her head back up, and her gaze shamelessly falls on his cock, moving to the rhythm of their joint thrusts— only then does he realize the precum that has leaked on her navel. Lark pulls her hand off of his, almost in a trance, to wipe the translucent liquid from her skin, carefully bringing her finger to her mouth, sucking on it with reckless abandon, making a guttural sound that turns into impossible desire, spreading in him like wildfire.

“You’re a freak,” he smirks at her, all love and adoration.

Lark removes the finger from her mouth with a wet sound. “Says the vampire lord bouncing on my cock,” she says, intonating the last word with special emphasis.

They laugh together.

Astarion would never have thought sex could be like this— a sentiment shared by Lark. Sex as an act of love— not just seduction, not just lust, not manipulation, but an act of pure love; exploration, joy— he would have laughed at the sheer suggestion.

But here they are.

“Astarion,” she says, a needy, pathetic little sound. No one else deserves to say his name.

“Yes, darling.”

“Can I go on top?”

He slows down until he comes to a full stop, both of them panting. He feels so full, so perfect. Before lifting himself up completely, Astarion rocks his hips back and forth a couple of times, just to torture them both.

But he relents. How can he not, when just the thought of what she’s suggesting sends a shiver straight up his spine? Not to mention the tightness he feels in his abdomen— getting tighter, tighter…

He suddenly feels so empty once he’s off of her, crawling up the length of her body to steal a kiss before they switch positions. She whines into his mouth, pulling him to her, and they stumble between kisses until he’s the one nestled in the pillows with her looking down at him.

“You’re perfect, Astarion,” she says, brushing her nose against his. The truth is, he’s not— perfection is not a thing that exists for a psyche as tormented as his. Neither for hers, for that matter. But to each other they are perfect just the way they are— total acceptance. By accepting even the darkest parts in one another, they continuously shed a light on them, and it’s— well, perfect.

Lost in thoughts, Astarion almost misses as Lark pulls herself back, hands caressing his body along her descent, to position herself. She takes one of the pillows and places it under him, then takes more oil to cover herself in.

The burgundy fire of her eyes fixed on him, she pumps herself a few times, an amused smile tugging at her lips. She lines herself up, and pushes forward, meeting very little resistance. It’s only the tip of her yet, but Astarion runs a hand through his hair at the sensation; the anticipation, the knowledge of how good she will feel inside him.

Lark thrusts forward again, now fully in control— it looks good on her. And it feels good for him— to let go. Let his love take the reins.

“I can be your man,” she says. Quiet. Singsong. Entirely shy.

She’s going to be his godsdamned ruin.

Another thrust and his eyes snap closed, all the air sucked out of him— and she stops moving.

“Ah, please—” he begs, claws digging into the bed, burning, burning, a building pressure—

“Then look at me,” she says.

He does, and she fills him up.

They sound good together, moaning in harmony. Repeating each other’s names again, again, and again. Astarion meets each of her thrusts with increasing fervor, bringing one hand up to his nipple to twist it in the way he likes when Lark does it with her mouth.

The way she looks at him— like he is what holds her together.

“I’m—” he rasps, not quite finding the rest of the sentence. But she understands, his Lark.

She wraps her hand, her soft, warm, petite hand around his cock, and Astarion feels it— the cord pulled tight, about to snap.

“Yesyesyesyes—” is all he can manage, a hand buried in his hair, all of his nerves ablaze— it almost makes him cry.

“I’ve got you, Astarion,” she says, barely above a whisper. She’s not much for pet names, his precious girl— at least not much for using them herself. His name is a title of devotion enough, she says.

The cord snaps.

There’s sunlight on his tongue, taste of her blood still buried between his teeth from an earlier feeding (she’s always, always, always giving) and the transparent glow of her magic right on those fingertips he loves so much to kiss one by one pressed right on his cock, a sensation he never quite gets used to (will always want more, more, more). As Astarion comes, thick ropes spurting on his stomach, he can fainly hear Lark’s voice in the background, beneath the ringing in his ears— telling him how good he is, how good he is, and it’s difficult not to believe her.

The world around him starts to come back into view, as if the balloon he was inside was just popped. He’s panting, sticky— with more than just sweat.

Lark looks at him with one of his favorite smiles— the softest one that makes the corners of her eyes crinkle.

“Have I told you how much I love you before?” she asks.

Slowly catching his breath, Astarion laughs. “You can always tell me more.”

She slowly pulls out from him, the sensitivity making him hiss. With deliberate movements, she climbs up to him, placing a kiss first on his nose. “I love you,” she says. Another kiss between his brows. “I love you.” On his right cheekbone, followed by the left. “I love you.”

He buries a hand in her hair, applying the slightest pressure to pull her closer. Against her lips, he whispers, “My sweet girl.”

“Ah,” she breathes. “Your claws are gone.”

“You almost sound sad.”

“I do like them quite a bit.”

He kisses her, smiling all the while. Then his gaze shifts down. “They’re not the only things gone, it seems.”

“Pity,” she grins. “I did enjoy having a dick.”

“We can always buy more scrolls.”

“I would like that,” Lark says, then pulls away, making Astarion pout. “But first,” she goes on, moving back toward his abdomen and dipping down until her mouth is right next to the mess he just made. She lifts her ass up, putting on a show for him, and his fingertips tingle.

“Let me clean you up, my lord,” she says, lapping at him like a hungry kitten. He runs a hand through her hair repeatedly, and she hums— partly because of the sensation, partly because of his taste.

But she has not unraveled for him yet, and that’s simply unacceptable.

Astarion takes Lark’s chin between his thumb and pointer, squeezing her cheeks just so, and she knows why he does it— he loves seeing him on her tongue. And she shows him, so obedient, so eager to please.

“Good girl,” he growls.

All his. How did he ever get so lucky?

With a firm grip, he pulls her upright while slinking toward her on his knees. She’s the one to kiss him first, and he feels the blossom of new heat in his pelvis. His palm tingles— itching for one thing only. And Astarion has always been known to follow the thread of his desires.

Lark yelps as his hand meets the round flesh of her ass. But he can smell her arousal— insistent, constant, for him, for him, for him, eternal…

“My turn now, darling,” he growls.

Astarion has changed, with Lark. Time means something, now. More, more, more of her— eternally.

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