#AND PING ME TOO | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

morgana-ren · 8 months

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On the subject of cheating…. How do you think Astarion would react to a dark urges Tav who doesn’t show any disapproval towards him for infidelity but does try to brutally murder all of his other flings

I can’t reconcile if he would be upset about them having too much agency in this situation and stop it or just into Tav being possessive of him in the way he’s possessive of them

He wakes to the pleasant and unmistakable tang of blood.

It's not uncommon for Astarion to greet the morning steeped in the sweet, saccharine scent of blood. Not at all. In fact, it's most welcome upon first waking, ranking among a deep, rich brandy and defiled silk sheets for his favorites. A metallic bouquet of a lovely, robust breakfast just begging to be supped on, just for him. If you were to ask him, there's truly nothing finer in the world.

An indulgent inhale has him sitting up, slipping a lazy hand through his hair and tongue running over his fangs as his mouth waters. The pit of hunger gnawing at his gut isn't quite so terrible as it used to be when he was but a filthy spawn, but he wouldn't ever deny himself the decadence of breakfast served up to him in bed.

The source of the delectable scent lies flopped over on the opposite side of the mattress, and he glances over with sleepy, hazy eyes to admire the sight. Her long, silky hair splays raggedly over her face, one of her arms limply hanging off the edge in what cannot be a comfortable position. The sheet haphazardly wrapped around her only scantly covers her rear, and by proxy, the sloppy mess he'd made between her thighs a few hours prior.

Clearly, he'd worn her clean out.

He chuckles; he can't help it. He's almost proud of himself-- if it wasn't so commonplace, that is. It's so terribly difficult for these weak and paltry little things to keep up with his kingly stamina, and he cannot begrudge the delicate humans that end up beneath him for losing consciousness.

Still! It's time to wake up, as he's remarkably hungry and he will not go another second without sinking his fangs into her swan-like neck.

"Darling, you sucked me dry and left me ravenous," He reaches for her, tracing a teasing claw up the dotted curve of her spine. "It would be positively unacceptable to leave me in such a state before you go."

She doesn't respond to his sentiment, and so after several seconds of testing his patience, he prods at her upper arm, eventually resorting to jostling her lightly with his hand, pinching her flesh between his clawed fingers--

--and it's only then that he realizes that her skin is ice to the touch, and he cannot feel her chest move with her breath in his palm. While that is entirely normal for him, it's not normal for small human women.

The sharp aroma of blood is far too palpable, even for his palace.

His red eyes truly focus on the girl contorted in his sheets for the first time: Her skin far too pallid, her stench far more enticing than it had been hours ago. His hand goes to brush the hair from her face, and there's a slick, wet feeling between his fingers as he does.

He is hit with the subtle yet bitter scent of freshly dying blood. Something that is usually sequestered only to beings beginning a state of decay. Something that should not be in his bed.

Unsettling, he thinks, but mostly irritating. Dead, hmm? He's almost certain he didn't kill this one on accident. Fairly certain. He callously rolls the woman's dead weight onto her back, frowning as he's met with a scene that he's quite certain he couldn't have done accidentally.

What was her throat is now a gaping maw of blood and bone-shine, scraps of gore clearly ripped out from inside. Her mouth-- or what is barely left of it-- is twisted in an eternal wordless scream, her face eternally contorted in some unseen horror. Her lovely eyes are wide and frozen in terror, unblinking and milky. Upon further inspection of her body, there is a hole where he assumes her still-beating heart had once been, clawed savagely free from her ribs by some brutal, unrelenting force.

He scowls, needling his lower lip with his teeth. It's a shame, he thinks with an exasperated sigh. He's sure was a beauty before all of this.

Another vicious, deadly beauty clearly demands his attention now, and he pushes the dead whore off the bed with an annoyed huff, snatching his long silk robe from the bedpost before affixing it around his body.

"Such a pity," He fastens the tie around his narrow waist, stepping carefully around the bedframe to stand in front of the newly made corpse with a grimace. "You were so vivacious last night, dear girl. But you're making the wrong kind of mess of my sheets, and I cannot abide that."

With a careless tug, he rips the remains of the young woman off his mattress, her mutilated body landing on the floor with an uncomfortable, wet thud. He steps over her, striding towards the door, feeling decidedly irritated. He was planning to spend a lazy afternoon in bed, but it appears something more urgent demands his immediate attention.

"Good morning, my lord--" A servant greets him just outside of his door with a sweeping bow and an expertly balanced tray. Astarion doesn't bother to look at him, instead grabbing a morning glass of wine, taking several deep swigs before finally sneering unpleasantly down at the man.

"Where is my wife?"

Another scraping bow, but Astarion doesn't stay to witness it. Rather, he takes off down the hall in search of someone more important. Someone that, he imagines, was rather busy last night after he fucked-- Hells, what was her name? He doesn't remember. Did he ever know?

"In her garden, sire."

"Right," Astarion carelessly tosses the glass back onto the floor, where it shatters to pieces. "There's a rather putrid corpse on the floor in there. Have it taken care of. I want it spotless before I return."

"Yes, my lord."

He tries to recall as he makes his way through his palace and towards the garden, and ultimately decides he doesn't care.

He finds his lovely wife right where he expects to, taking a leisurely stroll in her strangely fruitful garden. The scent of damp, rich soil permeates the air, mingling with odd, exotic flowers he has brought her and lush, fertile plants that she has coaxed into life with her hands. Blossoming organic life from nothing is not something that he imagined was in the wheelhouse of a favored child of Bhaal-- quite the opposite, really-- and yet, she seems to have nurtured a niche talent for it of late.

It irks him that she's grown somehow cold to his affections. She no longer stares at him with owlish eyes and flushing cheeks and a rapidly beating heart; rather she seems to shrug off even his most endeavored attempts at seduction with an ease that, if he didn't know for a fact that he was the most powerful and attractive man in a country mile, might hurt his pride.

She seems entirely at peace and unbothered, gently cradling a small rose between her fingertips, admiring it as it slowly blooms into a lovely, blood-red bud. The placid expression of someone either entirely unacquainted with the art of murder, or a masterful artist with it, and he knows all too well which one. As he approaches, she doesn't acknowledge him with anything other than a brief turn of her head and flick of her eyes.

"Your garden is looking lovely as always," He saddles up behind her despite her aloof silence, gingerly sliding his arms around her waist and leaning to scent along the side of her neck. "As are you, my sweet girl."

She only hums her acknowledgement, her ever-present sly semi-smile unfaltering as he speaks, still clearly far more taken with her flowers rather than his company and flatteries.

A deadly mistake for everyone other than her.

"Been busy this morning, little love?"

"Oh, only as much as usual," She gives him nothing--no guilt, no anxiety, just the hints of a mischievous, murderous smile-- as she releases the flower from between her fingers, turning instead to continue sauntering through the row. "I try to keep busy."

A quick sniff reveals all he needs to know. He doesn't need to get any closer to the freshly filled hole to smell the rancid stench rising from it. Underneath the sopping wet dirt, mingling with fertilizer and fallen leaves is the unmistakable stench of dead flesh; A muscle steeped in still blood, to be specific. Buried beneath soil alongside the foreign seeds lies what is left of the mangled heart of the woman he'd taken to bed last night, now planted in his wife's garden in some macabre ritual to sustain yet another carnivorous horror she's gotten her hands on and is now coddling into growth.

"I can see that," He croons, eying a fresh mound in the dirt, clearly freshly dug. "Is this one new?"

"Just this morning, dear," She lulls softly, a barely discernible playful edge to her voice. "Newly planted."

Dozens more peculiar vines twist up from the ground in various states of growth in nice, even spaces carefully organized into rows. Under the lively essence of plants and sticky-sweet flowers is the painfully apparent stench of decay and rot; Months and months of the still-lingering scent of blood of all the lovers he'd taken, turning spoiled and foul in putrefaction in her grisly little garden. All of their lives ended preemptively by his wife with the same feral glee that a rabid mongrel must feel upon sinking its fangs into a terrified, defenseless creature.

All for daring to indulge in him.

What a senseless thing. Died so futilely and no doubt miserably at the hands of his wife, alone and panicked only feet from their powerful king, and for what? Finding their way into his bed? How absurd. Who could resist him? Who would dare? He almost pities the funeral procession of poor creatures whose hearts have become fodder for the dirt, no honoring of their lives save his consort's nursery, fed and weaned on their innards. Their final moments belong to his insatiable wife's ruthless bloodlust through no fault of their own, and yet--

--Something about her vicious possessiveness over him smolders in his core, igniting a twisted arousal that coils the length of his spine and constricts like a serpent until he simply cannot stop himself. Deadly, precise, perfect little wife of his, so vicious and yet so precious to him. He swears her bloodlust only serves to stoke the flame, and how he longs to devour her.

(How long has she denied him? How long has she teased and tested him, tantalizing him with memories of burying himself inside of her sweet, tight heat with merciless drive, supping from the delectable blood of her soft body, her voice crying his name like a chant to some dark God until she rips what is left of his soul clean from him to take it into herself. She would yield for no one, a primal and ferocious creature beneath the veneer of illustrious, undead beauty, and yet she would heel to only him, letting him lose himself in her warmth, her fire until he burned--)

He reaches around and whirls her to face him so that she cannot feign indifference under his scrutinizing gaze. She knows better than to fight his manhandling and allows him to spin her towards him, though she refuses to wilt under his sultry glower. Her expression remains entirely passive as his hand reaches up to take her chin between two fingers, squeezing hard enough to have her wincing.

"Another one, darling?"

"You dislike the roses?" She blinks big eyes at him, the perfect picture of innocence. She hasn't been innocent a day in her life, and today certainly isn't a start.

A part of him wishes he could remain angry-- or at least a little indignant-- about the fact that she believes she has some overarching and indisputable claim on him, but deep down, he knows that she's right; she does have a staked claim in his heart in a way no one else ever possibly could. Even as his eyes and body might stray from her, he is forced to admit time and time again that nothing compares to his wrathful little lover. The strays he shepherds into his bed don't fill the gaping hole she leaves within him in her absence, her wretched denial of him. It is only silently that he acknowledges his wayward lust is just his spiteful response to her cruel neglect.

"Don't play the fool for me, my dearest girl, you're a terrible actress. Another concubine. Another corpse in your grim little graveyard. Is calling it a well-tended monument to your jealousy perhaps too romantic?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, my love," She smiles gently, lifting a hand between their chests and up to her face, slipping a finger between her plush lips. He smells the lingering blood on it and yet he cannot take his eyes off her tongue as it curls sensually around the length of her knuckles and how immaculate it might feel on him. He cannot help himself but think just how graciously daddy Bhaal has blessed him with his beautiful daughter; How fiercely alluring it is to watch his undomesticated little monster clean up her homicidal mess.

It started as all things do: With a seed. A bladed joke bloomed into irritation and resentment. His endless libido and her cresting bloodlust come to blows over priorities. The only woman who dared to gainsay him, her lovely little hands covered in blood and the power of Bhaal coursing through her veins keeping her too wild to be truly tamed by his vampiric blessing. His appetite for domination was insatiable, as was hers.

A child of Bhaal would not be tamed-- even by him.

He craved obedience and reticence-- he craved raw reverence and worship. To be viewed with wide eyes and admiration and blind devotion from some poor, pitiful creature too weak and foolish to resist him; To be seen as a God before a miserable little mortal; For his subject to offer willingly for a chance to taste of his splendor.

It is the only thing his beloved would never give him: acknowledgement of his superiority; submitting before him, allowing him to enforce his will upon her willingly. She is a fanged and clawed creature, wild by nature, and she would not purr her praises chained at his feet. She commands respect-- even from him.

She could never play the fool for him, encouraging him to believe that she was helpless against him, or weak, or pitiful, or foolish. It would insult her pride and her lineage. She is a force of nature in her own right, and he could never truly own her without her consent-- consent she has withheld.

And so, he would tell you that he simply retaliated.

She never spared him a sour word when he teased the waters about bringing other people into their marital bed. She only smiled that damn smile of hers and told him that he can do as he wishes as the king. Hells, she hardly seemed to notice when he first took some pathetic creature into their sheets for some harmless fun. The reaction he yearned for from her, some measly sign of her devotion to him, she wickedly denied him, seemingly knowing full well the impact it had upon him.

It drove him to madness, a spiraling misery fueled by his pride. He refused to beg for her, and she would refuse to kneel before him. He came to believe that truly she did not crave him with the same veracity that he longed for her. He no longer sought her out, and she did not come seeking. Surely, if she loved him, she would show some sign, some indication of caring that his fingers caressed a pale pastiche of her rather than where they desperately longed to be: Tracing her lovely mouth, coaxing her clever tongue, circled around her neck, between her warm thighs--

--And then corpses began popping up like flowers, and his beloved suddenly took up gardening.

She grinds his patience to a fine powder, and something about that gets his fires burning hotter than it ought to. Her insouciant dismissal of him, the absurdly casual slaughter of insignificant sex partners and then having the audacity to seem almost bored of his presence. She clearly cares enough to rip the bleeding hearts out of his inconsequential conquests, and yet, here she stands, utterly unfazed by him, having the audacity to feign indifference.

"If you're jealous, my love, you only need say so," He hushes to her, batting her cheek softly as he forces her to look up at him. "You needn't kill everyone who finds their way into my bed. I would cease if you simply said the words."

"Jealous?" Her brow furrows, head cocking, her lips jutting into a little pout. "I don't know what you mean."

What he asks is simple, so dreadfully simple. So easy, so, so easy--

Acquiesce to me.

And yet, she dares to deny him even as there is blood on her hands from strangling and wringing his full attention from his lover's corpses.

The wall of the greenhouse he built for her isn't particularly comfortable, but he couldn't care less as he shoves her against it, bullying his body against hers with brutal force, slamming her head against the glass with a lightning-fast palm encircling her throat.

"Why do you insist on being such an obstinate little brat?"

She opens her mouth to reply, and he squeezes tighter in response, choking the air from her little neck and stoppering the words on her tongue. There is a flash of something in her eyes once they open again, but he isn't entirely certain which sin it's indicative of: wrath or lust, or some degenerate mix of both.

It had to be her.

"I don't know what you mean, my lord," She croaks as he allows it, her hand clasped on his wrist as he clenches the rounds of her neck. He swears he sees her lip twitch in the ghost of a smirk even as he suffocates her. He holds all the power over life and death over her, and yet she is insufferably calm.

"I warned you not to play stupid, darling. You know very well what I mean." He growls against her ear, frustration and arousal building to impossible levels. Of all the women in Toril, it had to be her-- it had to be--

"Admit it," He hisses, sharp fang nipping at her ear. "Just admit it, and ask-- beg me, and I'll stop."

He feels the chuckle bubble in her throat even as he cannot hear it through the pressure he applies to her windpipe. "Beg what, my lord?" Her eyes narrow, her amusement apparent even as she has a practiced expression of apathy, whispering back to him with a strained voice still somehow full of unmitigated audacity. "Do you think I suffer?"

His lip curls downwards, and he realizes that he has no leverage here other than her violent jealousy, which she will happily unleash upon his unfortunate bedfellows rather than swallow her pride and cling to him as she should. She has no qualms with murder, and he might as well hand-deliver her victims. It has become an inevitable truth that whoever finds themselves romping beneath the sheets with their king won't be leaving alive because the queen would rather die than admit she cares that he spends his affections elsewhere.

"You can't hold out forever," He knees her legs apart and wedges himself between them, grinding his lust into the clothed heat of her core. "You will beg for me. You will acquiesce. You know your place is at my side."

He pushes forward again, lips brushing against her cheek, his warm breath on her neck sending shivers spiraling down her spine. The way she rhythmically gyrates her hips deliberately against where he wants her most has his hands flexing, kneading deeper into her flesh. His nails dig into her deceptively soft skin, sliding one hand up her body to grope gratuitously at her curves before crawling up to thread his pale fingers through her hair. With the silky strands weaved between his knuckles, he yanks, exposing her throat to the mercy of his razor-sharp fangs like a wolf perched over carrion. He'd die before admitting the overwhelming, frantic need she inspires within him, but he swears if he doesn't have her now, he will perish.

She exhales ragged and husky, squirming against him in apparent need, but still manages to stand her ground. "I am at your side, my lord. Your front, to be more specific."

"On your knees, on your back, whatever I demand. Give in to me. Heed my command, my love," He releases his fingers from her neck, both his arms snaking behind her to scoop her ass in his palms and hike her up against his waist, bidding her wordlessly to lock her legs around him. She does it instinctively, throwing her arms around his neck, tugging playfully at his silver hair as she does. He keeps her up with easy purchase against the wall, keeping her prisoner between a wiry cage of eager limbs and foggy glass panes. "Submit to me of your own free will. Kneel to me, your husband and king, and submit to me fully."

His voice is low and husky as he exhales against the shell of her ear, doing his best to swallow down the desire to rip her pretty dress to shreds with his bare hands and ravage her on the filthy ground of her greenhouse.

"All you need do is say the words," He mutters, barely audible even to her, the scent of her driving him to the precipice of insanity. "Say you belong to me, body and soul. Submit to me, girl, and I'll never have need of another."

He feels the derisive chuckle in her throat reverberate against his own mouth and pulls away to observe. Her eyes are glassy and low as they meet his, moist lips parted in a little 'o', trying so hard not to do that hateful little smile of hers. His hand tightens in her hair, jerking his hips ruthlessly against her once again. So close now, he can feel it, he's going to destroy her, ruin her, tear her to pieces only to put her back together and do it again--

She dares to deny him, dares to have the raw audacity to mock him-- he's going to hurt her so badly, sink his fangs into her neck and drain her fucking dry, force himself inside of her until she has to beg him through hiccupping sobs to stop, unable to fend him off in his full power. He will show her who is the master--

"No."

She cranes her head forward just a little and gives him a mockingly gentle peck on the mouth. It's deceptively gentle and cruel in its intention, entirely meant to taunt him. In his shock at her gall, he is stalled, almost paralyzed and entirely unresponsive and numb to the tidal wave of rage and lust that collides in a nuclear cocktail deep in his gut. It's but a brief moment before he regains control over his senses, and when he does--

"Maybe," She flicks her tongue out, licking a small, red stripe up his cupid's bow. "But not yours-- and you can try, my love."

He releases his grip on her hair only to grab her cheeks, digging his fingers into her jaw so hard that he can feel her gums scrape against the ivory ridges of her fangs. Her wince of pain doesn't escape him, fueling the inferno inside of him as he snarls, baring teeth down on her as a predator might.

"You dare to play games with me? You are a miserable, stubborn little whore and I'd see you put back in your proper place!"

It's more animalistic growl than spoken sentence, and even as he squeezes her face, he can see the twitches of a smile on her crumpled mouth. He can smell the blood on her tongue, the utter defiance in her expression, and despite his frenzy of anger, he throbs between her thighs.

--and yet it's him on the cusp of inescapable frenzy, the taste of her now blasting away the dull, gray months and the now; this one fiery moment where she is wholly his, reminding him of the untamable bonfire of desire she stokes within. His beloved consort, his wife, until death take them both or not at all--

It should drive him into a blind, red rage, but it just makes him harder, pulsing against her insistently, his body demanding entrance to what is rightfully his--

"You will always belong to me."

He crushes his mouth to hers so hard it pains the both of them, more devouring gnashes and fierce, hungry greed for her than passionate kiss. His fangs break the skin of her lip, his tongue thrusting between her teeth, determined to taste every inch she offers up to him. She mewls weakly into his mouth, trying to break the kiss to breathe, but he won't allow it; she only breathes by his will and he'd see her reminded of that--

A battle he will win.

"Mine-- only mine--"

He pants it sloppily into her open mouth, still desperately trying to swallow her essence into himself. She manages to tug away from his unhinged fervor, though only briefly, just to heave and whoop air into her lungs, desperate to catch her breath before she speaks:

"Not if you're not only mine."

It's a fool's facade, this game they play. Around and around and around once more, each demanding prostration of the other only to burn themselves on their own encompassing greed for the other. A toxic whirlwind of emerald-green jealousy and blood-red rage, enveloped entirely by hazy, punch-drunk lust. Two titans locked in a battle for dominance, chasing the vulnerability of the other one.

He hard-swallows, using every ounce of strained willpower he has in his willowy body to retreat away from her, casting his savage need into an abyssal pit inside of him and sealing it before it swallows him. instead. Slowly, he manages to peel away, slowly setting her feet back on the ground, doing his best to compose himself despite the very blatantly obvious signs of arousal and his apparent state of both mental and physical dishevelment.

"I won't humor you forever, darling," He purrs, giving her one last squeeze before stepping back away from her, distancing himself from her control over his body that he loathes. "I always get what I want. You should know that."

She blinks up at him again, her lips puffy and skin smeared with swatches of blood that he has to bite his tongue to keep from tasting. "Not this time."

His lips quirk in a condescending grin at her adorable little show of defiance, resituating himself within his linen pants without shame. "We'll see, my dear."

With that, he abandons the 'conversation,' turning to walk out of the greenhouse, only sparing one last glance at her garden of flesh-- and then once back at her. It breaks his willpower in a way he is miserable to admit, but his need for her overwhelms his pride.

One last snarl in her direction, and he turns to stalk out, itching to backhand the smugness from her pretty face. If he does, he knows well enough that he will not be able to walk away from her. He will take her here and now in a maelstrom of blood, violence, and ruthless sex, and he will lose this little game of control, and he cannot have that.

Still, that doesn't mean she is allowed to believe she has any choice in the matter.

"It's been long enough. I am expecting you in my bed tonight. Do not make me come searching for you. You won't like what happens if I must seek you out."

She seems surprised and almost pleased with his minor acquiescence. It comes in the form of a demand, but she knows full well that it's the best she's going to get. She offers him a sweet smile, smoothing her skirts back down her legs from where he'd hiked them up around her still-quaking legs. He can still smell her, the wet between her thighs, the rich, royal blood flowing through her veins, her body that sings to him a siren song luring him to his fall. If he doesn't break something in soon, he is going to combust--

"We'll see."

He traipses back into the palace, body shuddering and shivering in its effort to control the raging hormones. He is ravenous, needing to drain someone dry and be drained dry-- and soon. Another well-trained servant greets in the halls, cautiously approaching upon seeing his dour expression, bowing from some distance away in case his master decides to lash out.

"My lord--"

"A concubine. Now. Sent directly to my chambers. We are not to be disturbed, no matter what you hear. Do not keep me waiting."

#morgana and friends #ascended astarion x tav #ascended astarion x reader #astarion x dark urge #nasty boy stuff and there's a body count in this #don't read if sensitive #lots of tension and a ping pong game of idiots trying to get the one-up on each other #just as toxic as you'd imagine #sorry this is not edited or proofread I was far too lazy #im proud of myself for just getting it out #It ain't great but hey it's what I got in me right now

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