I Just Want To Give A Hug ;-; - Tumblr Posts

— I think we could live forever in each other's faces (and if we don't live forever maybe one day we'll trade places)

› astarion x f!reader

› wc: 1k+

› a/n: hello im here to inflict emotional damage on you at 11 am

warnings: angst, reader death, grief, wet dream, jerking him off, mention of hickies, ball fondling, grief manifests in strange ways, lmk if I missed anything!

It didn’t rain the day of your funeral. 

He thinks perhapse it’s fitting, in some twisted way, that the sun beats down hot and wild, streaks of shining gold raging across the sky as the first shovelful of dirt covers you. He bites down on his tongue hard enough for spots to briefly cloud his vision, for the sour tang of his own blood to fill his mouth like tar. The sweat coating his flesh makes the fabric of his clothing stick far too uncomfortably to his skin.

He’d thought briefly about what this would be like but always shoved the thoughts to the very far corners of his mind to languish, gathering dust as he much preferred to think of you vibrant and alive. Delectably sweet. 

Days turn to weeks, to months, to years. 

That detestably hot day feels like yesterday despite now being decades ago, and he knows in some tiny piece of himself he has to let go, has to get up. If only because you would absolutely detest the state of him. How your eyes would glint with love as you pull him up, fingers threaded through his own. Chiding him in the softest of ways for leaving himself so abandoned for so long. 

“You know I adore your bedhead, but brushes have been invented for longer than a tenday. Use one.” 

He swears he can hear your voice and it tugs the tiniest of smiles across his lips automatically. 

What a supreme kind of love, to cut so deeply yet still leave him with the ability of smile over you with tears drowning his eyes. 

He remembers the flowers you said specifically grow in your hometown. They’re dutifully left for you before sunrise each day. He’s also found himself to be much more fussy regarding the state of your resting place, never minding kneeling through dirt or mud to make sure every inch is unmarred. As pristine as the day it was erected. 

There was a even a scultpor he commissioned to recreate your likeness, with your hands held in such a way that in the day the sun shone brightest and longest of all a perfect heart was cast against the ground, directly over you. It had cost a fortune but it’s quite funny how little financials matter when you’re appeasing a ghost. 

Truthfully he’ll only drag himself up and around if it’s for you. Otherwise he remains shut inside, paralyzed by loss each day anew as he remains surrounded by your every article of clothing or ridiculous little knicknacks, the books still full of annotations and markers as if you’ll be right back to them. As if you’ll be right back to him. 

Delusional hope. A thing he would’ve happily mocked incessantly many moons before, jeering at the hapless fool who allowed themselves to be so shackled to another that the absence drives them mad. Oh how rich in irony he is. 

~

It’s black as pitch when he wakes, tip toeing the edge of consciousness when he feels a familiar warmth beside him. A lazy grin curls his lips as his arm tightens around you, fingers kneading the soft flesh of your side, your back. Feeling the muscle moving beneath your skin as you stretch against him, burning your face against his chest as he presses whisper light kisses to your hairline. 

The slide of well worn, much used sheets against your bodies as his hips grind against you in slow drags, enjoying the soft hum you let out feeling his erection press against your thigh. How easily you wind him up, just your presence is often enough to have him ready to get on his knees, unashamed to plead for just a taste of you. And you’re ever the gracious, benevolent lover. 

The smell of your skin overwhelms him, wraps around you both far more effectively that the blankets you’re buried in as the motion of his hips become firmer, more focused. He gasps reflexively felling your gentle hand grasp him, your thumb rubbing against his tip and dragging precum across. His breathing becomes harsh, even taking on a whining edge as your hand begins it’s lackadaisical strokes, guiding him towards his end with feather light fingers an dthe smile he can feel emanating from you. 

But unfairly your hand abandons his weeping cock, his teeth catching hard against his bottom lip as you caress his balls, holding him with heartbreaking softness in the palm of your hand while your fingers massage an ever so slight rhythm. If he had a beating heart it would sound like the pounding of horses hooves, thunderous and so strong it could crack his ribs from sheer force. 

His hips buck again, begging shamelessly for your focus to reshift back to this almost painfully throbbing cock. 

Graciously, blessedly, you answer that plea in earnest as your hand wraps around him with renewed firmness. Your strokes are no longer lazy, now you move purposefully as your lips find his collarbone, nipping and sucking at the skin before moving to decorate a new patch in a shade of pink only you could produce against him. 

Admissions pour from his lips, strained and cracked as he feels himself tightening before release, a wild spill of barely legible declarations of love, whispers of your name, promises of affection everlasting. Every single word is seared on his heart as if you yourself took up a branding iron against him. 

His hips stutter, thigh muscles flexing and trembling as the force of his orgasm nearly moves him to tears. Warm, thick seed coats your hand and your fingers, over and over as he moans shamelessly against your hair. 

The heat around him is slow to dissipate but hes acutely aware of his own face buried against the pillow and strangling his slowly evening breaths. 

Consciousness cracks over him like the booming echo of thunder before an almighty storm. 

It may not have rained on the day of your funeral but that day, so many years later, the sky inside himself opens like the heavens and it’s not the bitter taste of blood in his mouth but the twinge of salt and the bitterness of loss.