His Treasured Spawn (Astarion x Reader)

A True Spawn

You both lie in bed, your bodies still humming with the afterglow of your passionate union. A blissful smile graces your lips as you reflect on the unique experiences you've shared with your master. The first encounter had been a playful game, the second a raw expression of his primal desires, and this time, it had been a tender and intimate connection. Your hands had caressed his back, leaving faint imprints from your nails as you pulled his body closer to yours. Countless deep kisses had been exchanged, the taste of his lips is still lingering on your own. His bites had been deliberate and pleasurable, adding to the sensual tapestry of your night together. You aren't able to pick a favorite out of the three experiences.

Astarion turns to you, his gaze searching your eyes, and asks, "You did enjoy all of it, didn't you?"

With a genuine smile, you meet his eyes and reply, "Of course."

He chuckles softly, his voice carrying a low, sultry tone. "You are delightfully, unapologetically depraved, my dear," he remarks. "I almost broke you. You had to be nursed back to life for days, and still, here you are, smiling at the memory of it all."

You shrug and reply, "What are a few days, when you are staring at the face of eternity?"

Astarion looks at you, nods, and then his gaze shifts to the pile of books. He reaches for one, examining its cover, and remarks, "I see you've ventured into other topics than smut. Mira has been quite useful, hasn't she?"

You nod in agreement, "Yes, she's been good at following orders and taking care of tasks, and her tongue is...well very effective, but I must admit she is an awfully dull conversation partner."

Astarion's sly smile returns, "But, my dear, that's precisely how she's meant to be—a devout servant, a true spawn. Do you pity her?"

As you ponder his question, a swirl of complex emotions fills your mind. You recognize that, like Mira, you are a spawn created by your master. However, you can't help but feel superior to her, a stark contrast to Mira's devoted and submissive nature.

In that moment, you feel a sense of gratitude towards Astarion. He could have shaped you into a similar mold as Mira, a devout, obedient and fearfull servant. But he didn't. He allowed you a degree of freedom, of self-expression, that sets you apart.

As you prepare to voice your thoughts, you lock eyes with your master, the intensity of his knowing gaze tells you that he's already inside your mind, and there is no need for words.

You suddenly find yourself in a kneeling position next to him on the bed, your body responding to his unspoken command. His hand firmly grasps your hair, and he leans in closer, his voice low and commanding.

"Don't be so awfully sentimental, my dear," he says, his eyes locked onto yours. "If I found more pleasure in you as a true spawn, that's what you'd be. But a typical spawn in your position would be brimming with fear. I, on the other hand, relish the fact that you're overflowing with..." He pauses, his gaze fixated on your lust-filled eyes and the rapid rise and fall of your chest. "desire."

Astarion's grip on your hair tightens slightly as he continues to speak, his words laced with a dark allure.

"All willing spawns desire eternal life, power, or both," he murmurs, his voice a seductive whisper. "But you don't seem to care about that at all, my dear, your desires are refreshingly simple. All you crave is me, and that, my pet, i do enjoy a lot."

Astarion loosens his grip on your hair and body, permitting you to snuggle back into his chest. His arms encircle you, both possessive and reassuring, claiming you as his own. Your heart flutters as you smile, realizing that he's correct—power and eternity don't matter to you. All you desire is to be close to him, to feel his presence, and to bask in his irresistible strength.

"Still," you whisper, your voice barely audible but filled with sincerity. "Thank you, Master."

Astarion's eyes gleam with a mixture of surprise and something deeper as he regards you. His fingers tenderly brush a strand of hair from your face as he leans in closer, his lips dangerously close to yours. "You truly are a strange one, my dear," he murmurs, his voice low and husky.