Astarion sits at the head of the long, mahogany dining table, the sound of his cutlery scraping his plate.
You sit at the other end, which should also be deemed the head of the table, but likely isn't. After all, nobody has two heads. You must be sitting at the feet.
The night is dark through the large windows, and you admire the moonlight as it shimmers on the dishes that lie far away from you.
"How is it tasting, darling?" Astarion's question is a caress, even from a distance.
His mouth closes on a delicate cut of meat as you stare down at your large goblet brimmed with thick, red liquid. Blood, the only thing that soothes your appetite these days.
You lean forward, and take a sip.
Expectedly, Astarion watches you, so you answer carefully, and regally, "It's divine."
You want to ask where the blood came from, but you find that you would rather not know.
"Only the best for you," he says, his eyes distracted by some piece of paper next to his plate. He's always getting these letters now. Summons, updates, decrees. Cazador was an important figure in the city's politics, but Astarion wants to be bigger. Better.
"The best," he repeats, eyes still on the paper, "for my dear little love."
You want to raise your goblet in a toast, but you fear it might be too mocking. You yearn for a bite of a sweet roll, or the thigh of a chicken. But you know it will all turn to ash in your mouth. Vampires—spawn, or not—can't indulge in these delicacies. An Ascended was an exception.
You remember when Astarion had sat before you at a bonfire. All that time ago. You remember how hungrily he watched you as you tore through seasoned venison. It was a time when the marks he left on your neck could heal, and the worst thing the sun could do was bathe you in a radiant glow. Your skin—so soft, and warm, flushed from the glorious daylight.
Astarion once adored that, you remember. Pinkened cheeks, and rosy lips. You were meant for the sun, he would say, his hands on your waist, his lips at your neck. Your silver eyes would search for any signs of his wicked playfulness, or his teasing, but you wouldn't be able to find any. He once looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that warmed him.
Now, his eyes slide up to yours. You don't see that vulnerability in them. You haven't seen anything resembling it since that night he slaughtered his siblings, and took Cazador's place.
He watches you, because he's always watching. Assessing. Up and down your face, your chest. You don't know what you look like anymore, and it makes you self-conscious.
But every pass of his eyes screams satisfaction, and it reassures you. He is your mirror now, as you used to be for him.
"Your lips are stained, my love," he says. When he rises, his steps are assured, and graceful. He pauses before you, and you let him taste your lips, with a sheen of blood on them. You're pulled up to your feet, his grip suddenly hard, and demanding. Faintly, you think he doesn't know his own strength, which is probably true. After all, he is still learning of the gifts the Ascension gave him. You let him guide you out of the dining hall, and then upstairs, to the chambers you share.
You let him undo the braids in your hair, and push your robes from your shoulders. You let his eyes feast on you before he does so himself. When he lays you down on the bed, you watch for his expression as his nails dig into your thighs, and his head bows low between them.
Even now, you are careful with his feelings. You have to be. Sex was a delicate subject for him, and the moment you realized that, you agreed to certain boundaries. But now, you don't sense an ounce of hesitation as he climbs on top of you.
"Look at you," he whispers, a thumb on your lips. "Such a treasure. I wish you could see yourself."
Your eyes wander to the countless mirrors scattered about the chambers, but your attention is pulled back immediately by a firm grip on your chin. You can't look away from his red, insistent eyes as you feel him push into you. It surprises you how easily he can. You're beginning to realize how compliant your body is for him, no matter the thoughts plaguing your mind.
The kisses he plants on your collarbone are nothing like the way he thrusts into you. As he moves, you grip his shoulders, the pillows, the sheets—whatever you can find to steady yourself. His newfound strength and agility are astounding. The Ascension has given him many things. Too many things.
"Astarion," you say, your breaths short, and quick. The question comes out of you in gasps, as it does most nights, "Will I bite you tonight?"
He doesn't answer, and his pace quickens. He doesn't answer, and his teeth sink into your neck. He doesn't answer. He never answers.
But your body does. You're gradually pulled over the edge with him, and your thoughts scatter. The control you think you have over your sense of self is an illusion, but at that moment, you're far too gone to care. His lips are on your temple, and you feel whole.
After his weight lifts from you, he cleans the blood from your neck. He kisses you sweetly, and tenderly, and there's something utterly sated in his gaze. You let him take you into his arms, and you hardly remember the question that burns on your tongue for many hours of the day.
But eventually, his appetite surges again. It's a hunger that takes getting used to, because for so long, he couldn't bear to be touched. Intimacy had been a difficult, and long road. He had needed time, and space, and healing.
But that was before. All that time ago.
He pulls you on top of him, and he has you again. His fist is in your hair, and his nails press into your waist. He pulls you closer, and breathes into your ear, "These sounds you make, love. They're all for me."
"All for you," you affirm through a whisper, your thighs quivering.
With you on his chest, he's able to set his own pace. And you let him.
He bites you again, even though you know he doesn't need to. But you let him.
You let him, you let him, you let him.
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