After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Ascended Astarion x Fem!Reader
Named Tav
Baldur’s Gate 3 | Explicit 18+
Eventual Smut
By PallidMoon
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Pairing: Softish Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Note: It is/will be mentioned Tav is a draconic sorcerer
Rating: Explicit 18+ [Slow Burn]
Setting: Post End-Game
Please note: Written before epilogues were added, so may not be congruent with that content
Warnings [more will be added] - expect mature content/read at your own risk.
I am not well-versed in DnD 5e and it's rules as it pertains to this world, so although I'm going to try and keep it as accurate as possible, some aspects may not align or may be completely made up for story reasons.
Mentioned of in-game content that I've made resolve a certain way for this Tav.
Fabricated camp events.
Tav is named in later chapters (15 +), will have her own backstory, which we may explore eventually.
Details of Tav's appearance have been made up, but I've tried to keep details to a minimum so you can imagine your own Tav.
Otherwise, I hope you all enjoy!
Big thank you to everyone who reads and/or comments/follows/likes/reblogs - it truly does make my day to know you're finding some enjoyment in my story :)
Chapter 1: Lost Between Night and Dawn
Chapter 2: Reunion
Chapter 3: One Step Forward, Two Steps Back
Chapter 4: Little Lamb
Chapter 5: Rebellion
Chapter 6: Dancing with Darkness
Chapter 7: Rogue Desire
Chapter 8: Free Fall
Chapter 9: Beneath the Veil
Chapter 10: Soulbound
Chapter 11: 'Till Death Do Us Part
Chapter 12: Catharsis
Chapter 13: The Fallacy of Power
Chapter 14: Devil's Ploy
Chapter 15: Reclamation
Chapter 16: Riddles
Chapter 17: Unearthed
Chapter 18: Unleashed
Chapter 19: Hark Thy Plea
Chapter 20: I Forgive You
Chapter 21: Preparations
Chapter 22: This is Our Sanctuary
Chapter 23: Way Down We Go
Chapter 24: His Hands Hold My Heart & He Won't Let Go Until It's Scarred
Chapter 25: Darkside
Chapter 26: The Edge of Erasure
Chapter 27: Sin and Shadow
Chapter 28: Blurred Lines
Chapter 29: A Lonely Kind of Love
Chapter 30: A Brand, A Tether
Chapter 31: Ice Meets Fire
Chapter 32: Adrift
Chapter 33: A Breath Between Worlds
Chapter 34: If We Are to Be Lost
Chapter 35: Writ in Flame
AO3 [cross-posted]
If you're interested, I also write a spawn Astarion x Tav fic - Shadows of the Past
I also write a much darker fic for named Durge and AA that I post to A03 exclusively. It's dark, gory, and not about fixing AA but about them becoming an evil power couple if you're interested - Lie to Me
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 4k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ [Meant For Mature Audience]
Astarion’s weight pins you to the mattress, his body still moulded to yours, a perfect echo of the passion that had consumed you. His skin had been warm beneath your hands, slick with sweat, his mouth a ghost upon your lips. Even now, the phantom of his kiss lingers, a whisper-soft thing that does not comfort.
The song is quiet now, no longer a screaming, writhing thing—it hums low in your skull, toothless, harmless. For one beautiful, trembling moment, you believe it is gone.
Your limbs are leaden, steeped in the afterglow of indulgence, of surrender, of something warm instead of cold. You could lie here forever, tangled in him, in this, in the fragile illusion of peace. But then a voice, quiet and insidious, curls through the cracks of your mind like creeping frost.
You burned him.
Your breath stutters and your stomach turns to ice. You burned him.
Your eyes snap open.
He is still there, still pressed against you—but wrong. Blackened. Charred. A brittle husk that clings to the shape of him, delicate as scorched paper. The slithering tendrils of hellfire still linger, pale and whisper-thin, curling over his ribs, his throat, the curve of his cheek where your hand had just been. You know if you move—if you even breathe—he will crumble to dust in your arms.
A strangled sound claws its way up your throat, but you choke it back. Even a sigh could take him from you. You clutch him tighter as if you could will him whole again as if you could force his body to hold together beneath your hands. But his skin—no, not his skin, not anymore—flakes beneath your touch, the first soft embers of him drifting down onto your face.
It does not feel like ash. It feels like perverted dew, like the soft mist of a ruined morning.
His eyes—gods, his eyes.
Once, you had seen them alight with fury, amusement, and love. Crimson so bright it burned. But now, they are dead. Grey. Empty.
Gone.
A broken sob tears from your throat the sound is a death knell, and his body—his body—begins to fall apart in your arms. You do not dare move. You do not dare breathe. But the wind does not need your permission to carry him away, and you, helpless beneath the weight of what you have done, can do nothing but watch.
The moment your mouth opens, his name caught in the raw ache of your throat, he begins to fall apart. The first flakes of him drift down like the remains of burnt parchment, soft and slow, clinging to your lips, lashes, and trembling fingers as if trying to leave some final trace of him behind. There is no warmth in it, no tenderness, no part of him left to hold onto.
You try anyway.
Your hands press against his hollowed ribs, cradling what remains of him, but your touch is ruinous. The moment your fingers tighten, his bones collapse into dust, his form unravelling and slipping through your arms.
Astarion—your Astarion—who had grinned against your skin, who had laughed, loved and lived—is nothing but ash now, his body streaking your skin in shades of grey and loss.
Your breath is shallow, trembling, and you want desperately to believe—need to believe—that this is not real, that he will stir, press his mouth to your temple, and whisper in that lilting voice that could build poems out of syllables that you are being ridiculous.
But the weight of him is gone. The bed is empty.
You are alone.
You do not feel yourself tip forward, do not feel the way your body folds over the pile of ruin left behind. All you know is the taste of ash on your tongue and the unrelenting silence that settles over the space where his voice used to play.
“No.”
Your voice startles you—high, broken, pleading. Your hands claw at the remnants of him, trying to gather him up, trying to pull him back together.
“Please, no.”
The words cry from your lips in a desperate, frantic chant, a prayer with no god to answer. A soul-crushing wail rends through your chest, and your arms shake as you gather what is left of the man you love, trying to hold him in your tremulous hands once more. You cannot feel him in the dust, cannot find him in the blackened remnants that paint your palms. He is slipping from you, scattering into nothing, and there is nothing you can do.
Your vision blurs, throat burning, lungs heaving as you pull in a ragged breath and fucking scream. "Please! Please, stay!”
The words are frantic, the plea wild with grief. You do not care if it is foolish: do not care if it will change nothing.
“I am sorry! I did not mean to—I did not—please, come back!”
The wind does not heed your cries. It only stirs the ashes, sweeping them away from you and, with them, him.
You reach for him anyway; hands outstretched, fingers closing around the empty air where he once was.
But he is gone.
He is gone.
And it is your fault.
It is your last hope, your last card to play, so you play it without regret. “Asmodeus!"
And you are—
—shaken.
Firm, unrelenting hands clutch your shoulders, dragging you from the abyss, pulling you from the darkness that clings to the edges of your mind like oil.
“Illyria.”
The voice is a distant thing at first, muffled beneath the weight of your sobbing cries for the only being that might be able to undo what you’ve done, but then it is there again—clearer, sharper, and urgent.
“Illyria!”
Your eyes jerk open, breath stuttering. The world seems to careen, shifting and tilting. You expect to find yourself in ruin, to find your skin streaked in his ashes remains, but instead, molten ruby eyes, wide and worried, inches from your face.
You are still screaming his name over and over, like you cannot stop. He takes your hand, pressing your palm to his chest. Once you feel the steady thrum and hear the familiar beat, the sound collapses in your throat, unravelling into a sob. You lurch forward and cling to him, to the weight of him, to the unshaken solidity of his body beneath your fingers.
He does not turn to ash. He does not break.
Astarion is alive.
You did not burn him.
Something or someone cackles in your mind. It does not sound like your voice, and it is not the insidious whisper of the song.
There is a cost, sorceress. It reminds you with a menacing bellow of laughter.
You may not have burned Astarion, but you did burn someone, didn’t you? Yes. A creature of this place, some pitiful fool who had dared to raise a hand, to sneer, to think he had any power over you. You barely recall his face, his voice—only the way he screamed so exquisitely as your flames devoured him.
And the way it felt.
Your fingers twitch. A spark dances along the nerves in your hands, but it is not fire. It is something else. A static hum, a phantom pulse, a pressure building in your chest where a heart should beat.
Did you do this? Did you bring the song into yourself, or did it sink its teeth into you the moment you burned that creature to cinders? The memory is fragmented, shattered—pieces out of order, details melting through the cracks. You don’t remember coming back to the inn. You don’t remember walking, speaking, or stripping yourself bare. You don’t remember touching him, pulling him close, or needing him with a desperation that feels foreign now.
All you remember is the fire. It still lingers in your veins, simmering across your nerves, begging to be used. Your fingers dig into Astarion just a little tighter, and in turn, he tightens his hold around you.
It had felt…. Good.
A slow shudder rolls down your spine, shame’s cold fingers curling around your throat. You should not have liked it as much as you do. You should not want to feel it again.
You can still taste it—that intoxicating surge of power. Not just magic slipping free from your grasp in a desperate bid for survival, but a force that felt more like a birthright than a burden. It had filled the hollow places inside you, chasing away the lingering tendrils of fear that have clung to you for so long.
You had not been weak. You had not been running, clawing for survival, waiting for the next cruel twist of fate to crush you beneath its weight.
You had burned.
And you had won.
The thought should disgust you. It does. But it does not stop the ache beneath your ribs, the quiet, insidious longing that tangles itself in the deepest parts of you, whispering its promises.
If you reached for that power again, would you feel it once more? That freedom? That terrible, wonderful strength?
You do not want to be weak anymore, and you do not want to be afraid.
You want—
You want—
Astarion shifts in your arms, his fingers tightening in your hair, and the tremor of his touch shatters the thought before it can fully form. “Sweetheart, you are here. I am here.”
You squeeze your eyes shut. You do not want to look at him, do not want him to see whatever war is written across your face.
Because you do not know what frightens you more.
That you burned someone.
Or that a part of you is desperate to do it again.
Astarion's head jerks up so fast that you barely register the movement before his arms tighten around you, his entire body going rigid. His stillness is unnatural, the kind that only comes with something predatory—listening, feeling, knowing. Then, in a flurry of motion, he drags you up with him. The moment your feet hit the floor, his hands leave you, reaching instead for the dagger at his belt, the one he slides between his teeth as he frantically starts to dress.
You do not need to ask what is wrong. The answer is already pressing against your mind, bleeding in through the bond—hunting, footsteps, the slow, inevitable closing of a net. You cannot hear them yet, not like he can, but you feel it through him.
The pursuit. The shapes are moving in the dark—the weight of unseen eyes.
You dress quickly, shoving your arms into your robe and yanking your boots on. Your fingers move fast, almost too fast, as you scoop up everything you have gathered, everything you might need, and shove it into your pack.
Astarion is moving just as swiftly, though there is something wild about him—his motions are sharp, nigh on frantic. His hands shake once as he fastens his belt, a flicker of something barely restrained beneath the urgency.
"We need to move," he hisses, his voice commanding and low. "Now. Before they have us cornered.”
You nod, glancing toward the exit. The streets of Abriymoch are a danger of their own—flooded with devils and infernal creatures, all bound by contracts you cannot predict. But you know what is behind you and would rather take your chances with the unknown.
"We need to get to the Styx," you remark, voice steadier than you feel. "If we can reach Charon, he can get us to Cania."
Astarion is already two steps ahead, pulling the hood of his cloak up and slinging his pack over one shoulder. "We go unseen. If they catch us, we do not fight unless we must. We cannot waste our strength—not here.”
You nod, shifting your hood up. With both of you succumbing to the song’s embrace, an alteration could spell disaster. If you both fall into its arms, will you ever be able to pry yourself from its clutches? Would you even want to?
The space between now and escape is filled with uncertainty, but one thing is clear—if you hesitate, you die. Astarion turns toward the door, fingers hovering over the handle, his breath a quiet, measured thing in the dark. Without a word, he opens it, and you slip into the night.
Astarion guides you through the darkened alleys. The city is alive with the distant sounds of shifting stone and the guttural growls of unseen fiends. You can feel the pursuit in the tautness of his muscles, in the way his head tilts slightly, tracking movements you cannot yet perceive. He halts in a small alcove, pressing you against the jagged obsidian of a ruined wall.
"Hold onto me," he commands, arms outstretched, his voice low but sharp.
You blink at him. "Astarion, I can—"
His frustration ripples through the bond before he cuts you off with a quiet hiss. "Oh, my dear, we truly do not have time for one of our little debates. I am faster, I am quieter, and your stealth is abysmal. Do not look at me like that; you know it is true." His smirk is fleeting, meant to ease the tension even as his crimson eyes remain alert. "Now, unless you wish to be swarmed by devils, do as I say.”
You swallow any further protest, knowing he is right. Reluctantly, you move closer, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as he lifts you effortlessly, holding you against him with one arm as the other remains free to keep his balance. The moment he begins to move, you understand why he insisted. His footfalls are silent, his movements fluid, slipping through the city like a shadow-given form.
The streets are eerily empty. You tighten your hold on him, burying your face against his shoulder as he darts between ruined structures and through half-collapsed corridors, his unnatural grace keeping you just ahead of the unseen hunters. Occasionally, you reach out with your magic, cloaking you both in invisibility when needed, though the strain begins to creep in the longer you hold the spell.
A loose piece of rubble shifts beneath Astarion’s boot, clattering loudly in the oppressive silence.
“Shit,” Astarion curses.
A roar sounds in the distance and the air crackles with infernal energy.
Without hesitation, he moves in a blur, ducking into the remains of a ruined temple and pressing you both into the shadows as guttering torches approach. He angles his body over yours, shielding you as armoured figures pass mere feet from your hiding place. The scent of brimstone fills the air, the temperature rising as they linger, speaking in guttural Infernal.
One of them turns, and Astarion’s grip tightens, a dagger already poised in his free hand. For a moment, you are certain they have found you, and the Weave glows steadily on your fingertips, just concealed inside the sleeve of your robe.
A distant clatter from another alley draws their attention, and with a snarl, they move away, vanishing down the winding streets. Astarion exhales a breath you did not realize he was holding.
He waits a beat longer before shifting, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispers, "We need to keep moving."
The docks stretch before you, the Styx a churning mass of dark, lifeless water lapping at the shore. You think, for the briefest moment, that you have made it, that you have outrun them.
Astarion is already looking at you, his breath shallow from the exertion of the escape. "How do you call Charon?"
"Summon a werewolf and toss it in.”
Astarion's brows knit together in something close to exasperation before he closes his eyes, fingers twitching as if preparing to weave the familiar dark magic. A moment stretches. Then another.
Nothing happens.
He opens his eyes, frowning. "I... I do not remember how to do that."
A hollow sensation spreads through your chest. "What about a bat? A ghoul? Anything?"
He shakes his head once. His lips part as though to protest, to insist he must know, but you can already see it in his face. The struggle, disbelief turned grim.
You stare at him, and for a fleeting moment, there is a quiet sadness that cuts deeper than panic ever could. He has lost something—another piece of himself to the Ascension.
Casting a glance at the crimson tide, you remark, "We need to disturb the water. It will bring him."
You both know the cost. Neither of you can risk touching the Styx, not even a drop. One mistake, and you could forget everything. Your name. His name. Your purpose. Your love. Your mind races, but for a terrible moment, all you find is silence. No solution. No way out. Just the weight of the past hunting you down and the river at your back, uncaring and waiting.
The momentary silence by the river is deceptive. The water of the Styx ripples sluggishly, heavy with ancient memory and oblivion, but behind you, the city still haunts. You hear it in the distant thunder of hooves and the whisper of wings against smoke-thick skies.
And then—movement.
Astarion reacts a second before you do, twisting with inhuman grace as the barbed devil lunges from the shadows. Spines like serrated daggers gleam in the infernal light, its snarling maw split wide in a grotesque, fanged grin. A spined tail whips toward Astarion’s throat, but he’s already moving, daggers flashing as he sidesteps the attack and rakes steel across the devil’s exposed side.
You don’t have time to think. Another shape is descending from above, talons outstretched. You fling a hand up, raw instinct and magic surging together, and the air shimmers as Mirror Image takes hold. Three spectral illusions of Astarion flicker into existence around him, darting in sync with his movements—just in time. The airborne barbed devil crashes down with a snarl, striking through one of the false images, which dissipates in a swirl of mist.
“Web,” Astarion’s voice hums in your mind.
A sweeping gesture, a twist of fingers, and thick, glistening strands erupt from the air around the devils, ensnaring them. One shrieks as its limbs are pinned, struggling against the bindings, but the other tears at the webbing, snarling.
You don’t have long.
Astarion moves in a blur, twin daggers slashing across the throat of the struggling devil. Black ichor spills hot over the docks, and the creature gurgles, falling to its knees before toppling lifelessly. But the second devil has already torn itself free, barbs bristling, and it whips its tail toward you.
You pivot, but not fast enough.
Pain lances through your side, sharp and burning, as the tail rakes across your ribs. Astarion’s fury flashes through your bond—blistering, dangerous. You feel the song in him rise—a discordant, shrieking pitch. His eyes flicker between their usual vivid crimson and then darker, duller, as though the very essence of him is being swallowed.
“Stay with me,” you snap through the bond, forcing clarity into your voice despite the pain. “Do not lose yourself now.”
For a moment, you don’t know if he hears you. His grip on his daggers tightens, his fangs bared in something close to a snarl. Then, just as suddenly, his breath hitches—and the crimson of his eyes brightens again, the song quieting to a controlled hum.
You don’t let the relief slow you down. With a sweep of your arm, you hurl a scorching ray straight at the remaining devil, catching it in the chest. It screeches, blackened flesh splitting as fire sears through it. Astarion takes the opening, lunging forward, daggers flashing in an intricate, deadly dance. He slams one deep into the devil’s throat, wrenching it free with a sickening tear. The creature gurgles, staggers—and finally collapses. For a second, the docks are quiet save for your ragged breaths. Then you hear it.
More hooves. More wings.
They’re coming.
The bodies at your feet reek of sulphur and blood, their barbed flesh still twitching in the aftershocks of death. The fight has left its mark—your arms throb with fresh wounds, and Astarion stands rigid beside you, his daggers slick with black ichor. The bond between you hums, frantic and electric, his tension feeding yours in an endless loop. You are both braced, waiting for more because there will be more.
“We do not have time to linger, darling,” he urges.
You have always known that, but there is only one way forward. You extend a hand, fingers curling in the air, and with a pull of your will, one of the devils’ corpses lifts from the ground. Its limbs dangle, grotesque and useless, its barbed tail swaying like a broken whip.
With a flick of your wrist, you hurl the corpse into the Styx. The moment it touches the water, the surface reacts. The black currents do not simply part; they convulse, surging in unnatural waves. Bubbles rise to the surface, thick and tar-like, bursting with the scent of decay. Something shifts beneath, vast and unseen. The river stirs as though disturbed from a deep, dreamless sleep, but nothing comes.
Astarion steps closer, his fingers twitching like he wants to grab you and pull you away from the edge. His voice brushes against your mind, tense and sharp. "Why is it taking so long?"
You do not know.
The hoofbeats are growing closer, galloping toward you in perfect unison. More than one. More than many. The shadows stretch long as they crest over the ruined buildings. Silhouettes in the gloom—taller, broader than the barbed devils you fought before—hellknights, perhaps, or something worse.
Still, the Styx does not yield.
A low growl of frustration rises in Astarion’s throat. “We cannot fight all of them,” he sends through the bond, his mind a taut wire. “Not like this.”
The sky above darkens with the approaching wings cutting out the dim light of this cursed plane. You feel Astarion shift beside you, his grip adjusting on his daggers, and you know what he is thinking. If they do not stop coming, he will not stop fighting. If he does not stop fighting, he will lose himself. The song in his blood flares, a discordant, keening wail. You clench your jaw and prepare to move, to fight to do anything but stand there waiting for—
A deep, grating sound rumbles through the air, stopping you cold. It is not a roar. Not a growl. Not any sound that should exist in this world or the next. The Styx churns violently, sending a spray of dark water up the dock. The shadows deepen, blacker than black, swallowing the faint light of the plane whole. Then, at last, he emerges.
Charon.
The ferryman stands at the bow of his vessel, a towering, skeletal figure draped in tattered robes blacker than the void. His form is indistinct, as though he does not fully exist in this reality. His scythe gleams at his side, its edge slick with something darker than the Styx itself.
And all at once, the devils halt.
The hooves stop. The wings cease their endless beating. The approaching figures linger at the edges of the dock, wary and uncertain. Even the lesser ones, those who would have thrown themselves at you moments ago, shrink back, their instincts screaming at them to flee.
You swallow hard. The weight of Charon’s presence is unbearable, pressing down on you like the inevitability of death itself.
He does not speak. He does not have to.
You step forward, voice steady despite the way your hands tremble. “We need passage to Cania.”
The ferryman does not move, but you know he is listening. The air grows colder. The devils do not dare come closer. And you wait, praying that the Styx has not already claimed your fate.
“There is a cost.”
Of course there is.
“What do you want?”
He tilts his head, empty sockets peering into you. “A name.”
Astarion stiffens beside you. “You are not seriously considering—”
You ignore him. “Whose?”
The Ferryman does not blink, does not breathe. “Yours to offer.”
Astarion growls, but you speak before he can stop you. “Done.”
The Ferryman extends a bony hand, and you step forward, pressing your palm to his. The cold is immediate, deep, sinking into your bones. Something is taken from you—a tether to someone, somewhere, unravelling. You do not know who it was, only that they are lost to you now.
The Ferryman gestures to the boat. “Board.”
You do not hesitate.
Astarion is tense as he helps you onto the vessel. The moment you are both aboard, Charon pushes away from the dock. The devils do not follow. They merely watch as you drift into the darkness, their eyes smouldering with unspent wrath.
The journey is quiet, save for the creak of the old boat as it wades through the waters of the Styx. Sometimes, bubbles rise to the surface, forming shapes—skeletal heads, reaching hands. The wind carries mournful wails and whispers of the lost. You sit beside Astarion, exhaling shakily. His hands find yours, and for a moment, you simply exist in the fragile silence, feeling the weight of what you have done, of what is to come.
“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice softer than expected.
You nod, but he is not convinced. He scans you for wounds, fingers ghosting over torn fabric and bruised skin. You do the same for him, but he brushes your hands away, eyes narrowed at a cut on your arm that still seeps crimson.
“You are hurt.”
“So are you.”
He huffs. “Mine are inconsequential.”
You let him fuss, knowing it soothes him in a way. Then, when the silence stretches too long, you murmur, “Thank you.”
“For?”
“For not losing yourself.”
Astarion’s expression darkens. He looks away, staring into the abyss that surrounds you. “It was close.”
If he had lost control, if he had become that other version of himself, you would not be sitting here now. When you face the archdevil—
You shove the thought aside—problems for another day. The Styx stirs, and your gaze drifts across the shifting waters, the way they swallow all they touch, and unease curls in your gut.
Astarion speaks again; voice edged with something sharper than before. “Why were you screaming Asmodeus’s name?”
Your breath stills and your fingers twitch. You hadn’t realized you had been saying it out loud.
You try to deflect. “It was nothing.”
His eyes narrow. “No, it was not nothing.”
You turn your gaze away, but he leans in, refusing to let it go. “What are you not telling me?”
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
My A03 where you can find more of my works, including this one.
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 6.1k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ [Meant For Mature Audience]
There was a time when you would have enjoyed the opportunity to sit with Karlach and Wyll again, but there is little joy to be had at the small table. The tavern is alive with the guttural hollering of infernal creatures, but somehow, the silence at the table seems to drown out the cacophony. Karlach leers at Astarion with an unconcealed sneer, and Wyll watches him judiciously as if he might sprout horns and leap across the table.
Astarion shuffles food around his plate apathetically, seeming oblivious to their scrutiny. When his fingers brush against yours beneath the table, they tremble with an ever-present jitter that won’t seem to relent.
“This plan is batshit; you know that, yeah?” Karlach’s eyes barely shift to you when she speaks. “Cania is the Nine Hells nastiest icebox. This isn’t some heroic jaunt into the unknown. This is a death wish. You don’t come back from places like that. Not in one piece, anyway.”
Your fingers drum against the table. “I’m aware of the risks,” you counter quietly, barely able to keep your voice from showcasing your increasing frustration.
Neither of them knows what’s at stake or what you stand to lose, and Gods, are you ever sick of fucking losing.
That perverted hum plays in the recesses of your mind, winding through your thoughts like a serpent. The notes are hollow, a fractured echo that ricochets off your skull and warps into a dissonant song that doesn’t belong to you yet has refused to abate since you opened your mind to Astarion.
The voices are the worst of it. They come in unrelenting waves, each more venomous than the last. Some are frantic whispers, warning of the time slipping away like the shadow of someone you love fading into nothingness. Others are scornful, mocking you with cruel laughter and urging you to surrender to despair. Then, there are the ones that foretell your doom—calm and detached, as though your demise is a foregone conclusion, a story already written in blood.
“Are you though?” Karlach leans closer, her broad frame impinging on the distance you wish to keep between you. “From where I am sitting, it looks like you’re charging in blind, starved, and abysmally undersupplied. Cania’s not just cold; it’s... soul-crushing. The air freezes in your lungs, and your blood slows to a crawl. Even devils tread lightly there, Illyria. Fucking devils!”
“I said I know,” you repeat, your voice coming out as a hiss between clenched teeth. “I can handle it.”
Karlach’s eyes narrow, and her full attention finally settles on you. “Mephistopheles is not just some run-of-the-mill devil. He’s a manipulator, a puppet master. He’ll twist your words, your thoughts—everything you are. And that’s before you even set foot on his icy doorstep. He’ll know every weakness, every doubt you’ve ever had, and he’ll use them against you. You think you’re ready for that?”
“Illyria, we’re not trying to undermine you,” Wyll adds gently. “You’ve been through more than most could ever endure, but Cania is not just another battlefield. Even if you survive, you might not come back the same.”
The hymn stirs, a creeping vine of frost that scrapes like metallic talons raking across every nerve. Your bones ache as if under duress, and your fingers dig into your thighs as you refocus on the conversation.
“I appreciate your concern, both of you, but this is not your decision to make.” You assert as calmly as you can manage, but there is a sharpening of syllables that you can’t quite hide.
Karlach straightens, her cadence sharp with frustration. “We’re not saying this to piss you off—we’re trying to keep you alive! If you think you’re going to march into Cania and come out unscathed, you’re dreaming. What about Astarion?” She gestures toward him. “He’s not… Bloody hells, look at him, Illyria. He’s not exactly in top form right now, is he?”
Astarion’s head lifts at the mention of his name, with his brows pinched in a scowl. His anger drums across the bond like the beat of war drums, and with it, the song swells into a grotesque chorus that makes both of you wince. Before you can move to calm him, he thrusts himself upward with an awkward, jerky motion that does not match his usual elegance.
“Excuse me. It seems I need a moment before I do something... regrettable,” he snaps and strides away, disappearing between the hulking bodies of infernal creatures.
The control you’ve been trying to cling to splinters. “Do you think I haven’t thought of that? That I don’t know the risks? You act as though I’m some naive child who doesn’t understand the danger, but you don’t have the slightest idea of what I’ve faced—of what I’m capable of.”
The chant crescendos into a chilling racket of strident riffs that scrape against the edges of your sanity. It’s an anthem of ice and corruption, of something ancient and hungry. You steady the breath you don’t need, forcing the rage back down.
“This isn’t about doubting you,” Wyll says firmly, his eyes still glued to where Astarion disappeared. “We care about you. You’re right—we don’t know everything you’ve faced, but that doesn’t mean we’re going to stand by and watch you throw yourself at death’s door. If you’re going to Cania, we’re going with you.”
“Damn right, we are!” Karlach nods, crossing her arms as if daring you to argue. “If you’re hellbent on walking into a frozen deathtrap, then you’re stuck with us.”
The searing heat seems to slam into you all at once, boring through your skin and boiling the blood in your veins. Every nerve feels like it’s on fire and frozen simultaneously. You close your eyes and bite your tongue in a vain attempt to silence the maddening song, but it will not be quelled.
“Do whatever you want, but stay out of my way,” you say with an icy finality.
Karlach and Wyll exchange uneasy glances, but neither pushes the matter further. You rise to find Astarion as the scratching warble perches at the brim of your rationality. It feels like ice is forming in the marrow of your bones, and the only saving grace is the lingering warmth of Astarion’s presence permeating the bond.
When you manage to zigzag your way through the rowdy crowd, the tavern door slams behind you, cutting off the buzz of conversation. The shift is stark—one moment, the chaotic noise surrounds you; the next, you’re plunged into the subdued murmur of the streets.
You cast your eyes around quickly, but where you expected to see Astarion, there is no trace of him. A pit forms in your stomach. It’s not like him to leave you alone, especially not here. A dozen thoughts crowd your mind at once. Did Karlach’s confrontation push him too far? Is he spiralling again? Or worse, has something happened to him?
The very notion of it sparks a fear so sharp it takes you by surprise. Your bond, the crooning murmur always at the back of your mind, feels oddly muted. You can sense him—somewhere—but it’s distant and vague, as though he’s withdrawn into himself.
You break into a trot, winding down the labyrinthine streets of molten rock and jagged stone. Shadows dance and twist in the wavering red light. You mutter a curse under your breath, hands curling into fists as tension knots your shoulders. The strike of your boots on the uneven stone is devoured quickly by the heat-hazed air, and you wipe the sweat from your brow as you round a sharp corner.
As if the Hells themselves are conspiring to test you, a figure steps into your path.
The creature is humanoid, though only in the loosest sense of the word. Its skin is an unsettling shade of mottled purple, veins of orange flickering beneath the surface like cracks in volcanic rock. A long, barbed tail sways idly behind it while it smiles with too many teeth that seem to glint like polished steel.
“Well, well,” it purrs, voice a slick, oily drawl. “What’s this? A wayward vampire wandering Abriymoch alone? You’re far from home.”
You stride forward without bothering to pause, with your focus fixed ahead. “Out of my way,” you order flatly.
It chuckles with a grating cadence. “Feisty. I like that. Surely, you can spare a moment for conversation. Or are you in such a rush to sink those little fangs of yours into some poor fool?”
Your shoulders stiffen as the being blocks your path once more, and your lips press into a thin, bloodless line. “I said, move.”
“What’s the rush, pretty thing? Stay a while, why don’t you? Do you taste as sharp as your tongue, little vampire?”
You growl low in your throat as your restraint begins to slip. “I am not interested in whatever foul proposition you think you’re making.”
“Don’t be like that.” It steps closer, claws tapping lightly against the metal plate of a cuirass. “You’ve got the look of someone who could use… company.”
The hymn rises, sharp and discordant, like shattering glass twisted into music, layered with whispers that writhe and wriggle beneath your skin. You shove past the creature, not sparing it a second glance. A clawed hand clamps down on your arm, hard enough to bruise, and yanks you back a step.
“You think you can dismiss me?” It snarls with spittle flying from its lips, and its molten eyes flare with a dangerous light. “You dare turn your back on me?”
A crescendo of glacial whispers and obscene laughter surges. It twists through your thoughts, feeding on your fury and the primal instinct that screams for blood. It claws at you with promises of violence and satisfaction, and you find yourself tempted to listen.
You yank your arm free. “If you touch me again, you will regret it,” you warn.
The infernal being snorts, its grotesque lips curling into a mockery of a grin. “Threats won’t get you far in a place like this.”
Usually, you might measure your words and keep your composure, but everything inside feels taut, stretched too thin, and ready to snap.
“Is that so?” you say, your voice frigidly venomous. “Then, perhaps, I’ve underestimated how eager you are to lose your hand—or worse.”
The creature’s grin vanishes in an instant, replaced by a sneer. It straightens to its full height, towering over you. “You dare threaten me? In my domain?”
You don’t flinch. “You mistake my warning for a threat,” you say, stepping forward, closing the gap between you. The firelight flickers across your face, your eyes gleaming crimson. “But if you touch me again, I’ll be more than happy to show you the difference.”
“You’re out of your depth here, bloodsucker,” it hisses like water hitting heated metal.
It lunges, clawed hands swiping in a blur. Before they can find purchase, your fingers close around its wrist, and you hurl it backward with a strength you didn’t realize was bubbling beneath the surface. Your vision darkens at the edges, shadows devouring light as they creep inwards like the ripple of water. The pull at your mind grows stronger—not gentle like Astarion’s, but vicious and demanding. Your body feels detached, moving of its own accord.
Sink deeper, it whispers, grating and perverse. The song warps through your mind, not just of ice now, but something primal—like the crack of breaking bones and the wet slap of flesh.
You want this fight. You want to feel powerful, to shed the feeling of frailty that clings to you like cobwebs. Fear, doubt, being at the mercy of others—it all feels insignificant compared to the crescendo swelling in your chest.
The creature snarls and lunges again, its claws swiping for your throat. Your reaction is immediate, instinctual, and far from restrained. You raise your hand, the air around you shimmering with heat as your anestral blood ignites.
“Enough,” you bark, your timbre laced with a deep, draconic resonance.
A torrent of fire unleashes from your outstretched hand, the flames spiralling into the shape of a serpent as they roar toward your assailant. The creature cries out as the fire strikes, wrapping around its torso and sinking in like living, burning chains. It writhes and howls, but you don’t stop. You can’t. The pull grows stronger, and the flames grow brighter and hungrier.
The creature claws at the burning serpents constricting it, but its eyes meet yours, and what little confidence it had left crumbles. You feel the power flooding through you, demanding more—the song zeniths urging you to burn, to destroy, to take your place as something unstoppable.
Astarion’s voice cuts through the haze. “Illyria, stop!”
You barely register the sound of his boots skidding to a stop as he rounds the corner, his eyes darting between you and the creature writhing in your grasp. His gaze lingers on your face, his crimson eyes narrowing at the unsettling curve of your lips—a smile that doesn’t belong to you, one that reeks of something sinister.
The serpents of fire coil tighter, searing through flesh and bone, the scent of burning sulphur and ash thick in the air.
“Stop this,” Astarion commands, though there’s a waver in his voice. “You’ve made your point.”
His words barely graze the edges of your awareness. The voices in your head are deafening now, their hymn harmonizing with the creature’s screams. Each note fuels the tempest of power, roaring like an inferno desperate to consume everything in its path.
Astarion steps closer, his tone softer now. “This isn’t you. Whatever this... thing is, fight it. Come back to me.”
You hear him, but it feels like you’re underwater, drowning in the siren call of destruction. There’s a sharp tug at your psyche, a voice cutting through the chaos like a jagged blade.
Use it.
Your gaze flickers to Astarion at last, but he falters at what he sees in your eyes. He takes a tentative step forward, reaching for you, his hand trembling ever so slightly.
“Please,” he whispers, his voice taut.
For a fleeting moment, the words burrow past the storm in your head. The weight of his presence—the bond that tethers the two of you—tries to pull you back, to ground you in something other than this spiralling madness.
But the power begs to be unleashed, and a crooked smile curls your lips. “No,” you state with finality.
The decision is made before you even realize it, a visceral impulse overriding all reason. The fire in your hand shifts, flickering violently before erupting into a searing white blaze. The serpents of flame twist into a single, raging inferno of Hellfire.
The howl reaches a piercing peak as the Hellfire engulfs it, the flames hungrily devouring flesh, bone, and soul. It burns so brightly that the edges of your vision blacken further. The air is filled with the crackling roar of the infernal blaze and the acrid scent of annihilation.
When you release your hold, only ash swirls in the air where the creature once stood, carried by an unnatural wind that chills you to your core despite the heat.
Your hand trembles, still outstretched, as the last ember of Hellfire fizzles out. For a moment, all that remains is an oppressive silence, broken only by the faint whisper of that twisted hymn, still lingering in the recesses of your mind.
“We have to leave. Now."
Astarion's voice cuts through the silence of their room. He doesn't wait for Illyria to respond—he's already moving, shoving whatever belongings he can grab into a bag, tossing clothes toward her with a hurried, desperate motion.
"Change. Quickly."
She doesn't move.
Instead, she stands in the middle of the room, staring—at the floor, at her hands, at something unseen. There’s a strange quality to her stillness, as though she exists in another place entirely, just barely tethered to the present. Her hair slips over one shoulder as she tilts her head slightly, a slow, languid movement, her lips parting in the beginnings of some absentminded thought.
Astarion stills. His heart hammers against his ribs. He knows this look. Knows it intimately.
"Illyria?"
No response.
Fear slams into him. Not the fear of pursuit, not the fear of devils or retribution, but the deeper, more insidious terror of losing her—to this. To the song that has haunted him, that calls and claws and whispers in his mind, and now it’s inside her.
"What in the bloody Hells were you thinking?" His voice is tight, bordering on frantic. He steps closer, uncertain if he should touch her. "You burned someone with Hellfire, Illyria. Do you have any idea what you have just done? Everything down here would have felt that. Every infernal creature within a mile will be sniffing after you like hounds."
She almost laughs—a soft, breathy thing—wrong. "Doesn't it just feel so inevitable?" she murmurs.
His stomach twists. No, no, no, no.
He takes another step forward, carefully, like approaching a wounded animal. "Inevitable?" he echoes, trying to reach her, pull her back. "Illyria, this isn’t you. You need to fight it. Do you hear me?"
Her gaze flickers like a candle sputtering in the wind. Her lips press together, and for a moment, he thinks she might return to herself—but then her eyes go distant again. She exhales in something almost like a death sigh, her fingers trailing absently over the sleeve of her coat as if fascinated by the texture.
Astarion clenches his jaw. "Darling, please," he tries again, softer now, barely above a whisper. "Come back to me."
She hums—an eerie, thoughtful sound—and finally looks at him, really looks at him. A flicker of recognition flashes across her face, fleeting but real, and he seizes on it.
"There you are," he breathes, relief curling around his words. "Now, we need to go. Get changed."
Her hands tighten into fists, shaking slightly at her sides. Astarion watches as she battles it, as she fights to surface from whatever dark abyss she’s slipping into. Just as quickly as it appeared, the flicker of recognition is gone. Her shoulders sag, her body swaying as though the weight of reality is simply too much.
Panic crashes over him. He cannot let her slip. He will not lose her to this.
Astarion crosses the final distance between them in one swift, decisive motion, his hands coming up to grasp her shoulders—not hard but firm enough to ground her.
"Illyria, look at me." His voice is low and steady, but there's urgency in it. “You are not lost. You are still you, and I need you to fight—do you understand? You must fight."
Her breath hitches, and she trembles beneath his touch, the warring conflict inside her. She is teetering on the edge, and he doesn’t know if she can pull herself back. He doesn’t know if he can pull her back.
But he has to try.
Because he cannot do this without her.
And he refuses—absolutely refuses—to lose her like this.
Panic coils tight in his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs as he watches Illyria drift further from him, lost in something he cannot see but knows all too well. The song. That godsdamned song. He clenches his fists, resisting the urge to shake her again, to demand she look at him, really look at him, but she only sways in place, staring through him like he is nothing at all.
"My love," he begs, voice hoarse. "Please."
Nothing. Only a small, distant smile that does not belong to her. His thoughts race for a solution—for anything that will tether her back to reality. The realization strikes him—her touch.
When he had been drowning in the song’s call, when he had teetered on the edge of losing himself entirely, she had been the one to bring him back. Her hands, her kiss, and her presence had cut through the madness and reminded him who he was.
But will it work for her?
He hesitates, his hands twitching at his sides, but desperation quickly strangles doubt.
His hands capture her face, tilting it toward him. Her skin is cold beneath his fingers, her pupils wide, unfocused, lost. He does not give himself time to think or second-guess. He presses his lips to hers, pouring every ounce of fear, of love, of raw devotion into the kiss. It is not gentle, not careful. It is desperate, aching. A plea wrapped in the only thing he has left to offer her.
At first, she is motionless, as if he is kissing a statue. She exhales a hitching, startled rattle of breath, and for a moment, she tries to pull away. Her hands press weakly against his chest, but then her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, clinging. Her lips move against his, hesitant, but there. Present. Hers.
Astarion feels her return to herself piece by piece, the tension in her body shifting. He deepens the kiss in turn, unable to help himself, his relief bleeding into something else—something heady and frantic and entirely consuming.
A small gasp escapes her, and it undoes him. His hands slide from her face, one tangling into her hair, the other pulling her flush against him. She is here; she is his, and he will not let her slip away again.
Illyria answers his fervour with her own, her hands grasping at him now, desperate and wanting. She pulls at his shirt, yanking the fabric aside as if it is the only thing keeping her from him. He groans into her mouth, his fingers already working to strip her down just as frantically.
There is no patience, no slow undressing. It is a raw, all-consuming need—a hunger not just for touch but for reassurance that they are still here, still them.
Her name is a breath on his lips, a prayer, a plea. He lifts her with ease, guiding her back toward the bed, never breaking contact, never letting go. As she pulls him down with her, fingers fisting in his hair, he knows that tonight, at least, they will hold onto each other as if it is the only thing keeping them tethered to this world.
In a way, it is.
Astarion's hands roam over Illyria's body with a fierce possessiveness, mapping every curve, every hollow, as if to reassure himself that she is truly here, truly his. His touch is reverent, worshipful, but there is an edge of desperation to it, a wildness born of the terror of almost losing her.
She is slipping.
And so is he.
Astarion can feel it in the way her breath moves like a ghost between them, in the way her eyes see something distant—something, not him. It is a sensation he knows too well, this slow unmooring, this drowning in something vast and unknowable.
Drifting. Forgetting. Losing pieces of himself, of time, of her. The edges of his memories fray like old parchment, curling, blackening, and vanishing in the heat of the power that devours him from within. He does not know what he does when he is lost. He does not know how much of him will remain when the song is finished with him.
And now she is backsliding, too.
Her hands are just as frantic, tugging at his hair, raking down his back, urging him closer, always closer. He trails open-mouthed kisses down the column of her throat, his teeth grazing her pulse point, eliciting a gasp that sends fire racing through his veins.
He complies with a growl, pressing her into the mattress with the weight of his body, the heat of his skin searing against hers. There is no space between them, no room for anything but the slide of flesh against flesh and the mingling of breath.
His mouth finds hers again, the kiss deep and demanding, his tongue delving past her lips to tangle with hers. A groan tears from his throat as he feels her grind against his aching hardness.
The scent of her arousal is heady and intoxicating, driving him to the brink of madness. With a snarl, he reaches between their bodies, his fingers delving into her dripping folds, stroking and teasing until she is writhing beneath him, mewling with need.
"Please, Astarion," she gasps, her hips bucking shamelessly into his touch. "I need you.”
They don’t have time for this. The city will be hunting them. Devils will be tearing apart the streets, sniffing for the scent of Hellfire. The only sane thing to do is to run, to gather their things, to move. But sanity is a fragile thing in the face of certainty. They are walking into death, into ice, into the unknown, and if this is the last moment he will have with her, then he will not let it pass.
His hips rock forward, gliding his engorged length between her folds. He wants nothing more than to drag this precious moment out, to wallow in it, to lose himself in her for hours, but time… time is something the fates have not gifted them with.
“Look at me,” he instructs gently as he guides himself to her entrance and stills momentarily.
Before he can go any further, he must know it is her. Her eyes open slowly, and vivid, cracked crimson meets his, pupils blown wide. Her legs wrap around him, urging him forward, and he finally pushes in, sinking to the hilt inside her molten core. Her walls flutter and grip him like a velvet vice, impossibly tight, and he fears for a second that he might spend himself then and there.
His jaw clenches with effort to hold back, determined to make this last, feeling her pleasure before seeking his release. The pace he sets is frantic, wild, and desperate, pistoning into her with deep, powerful strokes that have her whimpering a litany of praises.
Astarion loses himself in the slick slide of their joining, in the exquisite friction of her tight, wet heat engulfing his throbbing cock. The world falls away until there is only this—the two of them, bodies and souls entwined, reaching for that shining peak together.
The urgency between them is more than desire—it is survival, it is worship, it is the frantic prayer of two souls who know they are already damned but cannot bear to face damnation alone. He moves as though he can brand himself into her, as though he can sink into her body deep enough to leave something indelible, something that even time and blood and ruin cannot take from him.
"Illyria," he groans, his voice gravelly with lust and emotion. "My heart, my love…"
The words pour out of him—endearments and promises—as he drives into her relentlessly. His mouth maps every inch of her skin he can reach, licking, nipping, and sucking, paying homage to her with lips, tongue, and teeth. He wants to devour her, to crawl inside her, and never leave.
Sliding a hand between their sweat-slicked bodies, he finds the swollen pearl at the apex of her thighs. He circles it with his thumb, timing the movement with his thrusts, and is rewarded with a keening cry as Illyria writhes, her body bowing off the bed.
"That's it, my love," he coaxes in a husky, dark purr. "Let go for me. Come undone on my cock.”
She reaches up, tangling her fingers in his hair and bringing his lips to hers. Desperation makes the kiss fierce, reckless, a battle all on its own. He doesn’t know if he is dragging her back or simply following her down, but either way, he clings to her like she is the last tether to something real.
He drinks her in, tastes her, not softly but hungrily, because he needs to memorize this—to sear this moment into his mind so that, if he forgets everything else, if he loses himself, at least some part of him will remember this.
Her slick walls flutter and clench around him as she climbs higher and higher. Illyria breaks the kiss, head thrashing on the pillow, her breasts heaving with each panting breath, the pert peaks begging for his mouth. He leans down to take one into his mouth, grazing the sensitive bud with his fangs, and she shatters with a ragged scream.
Her sex clamps down on him as rapture overtakes her, milking his cock with rhythmic pulses. The sensation is exquisite, almost too much to bear, and Astarion has to grit his teeth against the urge to let go and join her in bliss. He rides out her climax, continuing to thrust through the rippling aftershocks, prolonging her pleasure for as long as possible.
A swell of emotion tightens his throat—fierce love and aching tenderness, shot through with feral possessiveness. This incredible woman chose him, loves him despite the monster he fears lurks beneath his skin. He would slay armies, burn cities, and shatter worlds to keep her safe.
But the fear lingers, curling at the edges of every touch. If he forgets himself too much, will he find his way back? Will she?
His fingers trace the curve of her throat, feeling the absence of a heartbeat beneath her pale skin, and something in him twists. You are already dead, something cruel whispers in his mind. So what does it matter?
But he knows why it matters.
Because right now, she is gasping his name like it is the only one she remembers. Right now, she is tangled around him, grounding him, chasing away the song in his mind with the sound of her voice.
Right now, she is his.
And he is hers.
He does not know if he will live to see another night.
But this, at least—this, he will take with him into oblivion.
As she slowly descends from her peak, he gentles his movements; his strokes become long and languid, savouring the feel of her walls still quivering around his thick girth. Her eyes blink open, gleaming with a sated afterglow. Her lips curve in a soft, dreamy smile as she reaches up to caress his face, fingertips tracing his sharp cheekbones.
"I love you," she murmurs.
Astarion turns his head to press fervent kisses into Illyria's palm, his crimson eyes burning with adoration and hunger. "I love you too, my darling.”
There is no future.
Not for them. Not really.
He knows it in the way the air around them crackles with inevitability, in the way blood and ash and ruin have always been their bedfellows. They are walking corpses, dead before the final blow is ever struck, and yet—gods, yet—when she looks at him, it is the only time he feels alive.
He kisses her again—fierce, aching, desperate. Like she is the last ember in the dark, and if he does not hold her tight enough, she will go out.
Astarion groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his chest. His hips start to move again, slowly withdrawing until just the tip remains in her before sliding back in with a long, deep thrust. He sets a steady, powerful tempo, the thick ridge of his cockhead stroking that secret spot inside her.
She moans into his mouth, and it is not enough.
It will never be enough. His hands roam over her, grasping and pulling as if he can make a home for himself inside her. She is so tight, velvety soft, and dripping around him. Her breath hitches, her body arcing beneath him, and Astarion feels something like a sob rise in his throat. He presses his lips to her shoulder, the shell of her ear, anywhere he can reach, as if he can chase away the ghosts that linger in the spaces between them.
But the ghosts are always there.
He has lost so much already. Too many years. Too many selves. He is slipping through his fingers, dissolving into something he cannot control, and the only thing keeping him tethered to this world is her.
Astarion rises on his knees, gripping Illyria's hips as he drives into her slick, grasping sex with relentless purpose. His eyes blaze scarlet, lit with an inner inferno as he stares down at where their bodies are joined, transfixed by the erotic sight of his shaft disappearing into her.
She mewls, lost to the exquisite sensations radiating from her core as Astarion drives in and out, his heavy balls slapping against her ass with each powerful thrust. He can feel every ridge and vein of his engorged length dragging along her fluttering walls. It’s almost too much, too good, and he lets his eyes fall shut against the pleasure radiating up his spine.
He shifts the angle of his hips, and she whines as he hits that perfect spot. Her toes curl, and her thighs start to tremble uncontrollably as her orgasm builds, cresting higher and higher until she comes with a breathless cry.
Astarion is not sure when he lost control—only that it is long, long gone.
He is usually measured, composed even at the height of indulgence. He has spent centuries perfecting the art of seduction, wielding pleasure like a blade, keeping himself just a breath removed from the edge.
But this—her—shatters him. Every gasp, every arch of her body, every delicious, aching sound she makes unspools him thread by thread until he is nothing but sensation, nothing but need.
He does not try to hold it back.
He cannot.
With a low growl, he hooks Illyria's legs over his shoulders, changing the angle of his thrusts to plunge even deeper.
"Illyria," he pants. ”My Illyria.”
A devastating thrust punctuates each word, and he loses himself in the divine ecstasy. Sweat mists his skin as his muscles flex and strain, pouring all his desire, all his desperation into this.
Gods, he is starving for her. It is not the hunger of his kind—not blood, not sustenance—but something deeper, something that gnaws at him from the inside out. He needs her hands on him, her body pressed close, the proof that she is still here, still his, still Illyria.
Every moment, every movement, every breath she gives him sends him spiralling higher, stripping away whatever remains of his restraint. He does not care. If he drowns, let it be in the sound of her voice, in the way she gasps his name like a prayer, in the way she clings to him as if she needs him just as desperately.
Astarion's climax barrels towards him like an unstoppable force, building with each slick glide into Illyria's exquisite heat. Her walls ripple around his aching cock, drawing him deeper, gripping him tighter. The coil of pleasure at the base of his spine winds tighter and tighter until it feels like his entire being is focused on where they are joined, on the sheer ecstasy of moving inside her.
There is no thought now, no past, no future.
Only this.
His head falls forward, lips parting around a moan he does not try to stifle. Gods, her.
The pleasure is unbearable, devastating, tearing through him like a live wire. He is losing himself in her, in this moment, in the sheer ecstasy of it.
And he wants to be lost.
Because if he must slip away into oblivion, then let it be like this.
With her.
Always her.
"Astarion!" she whimpers, nails digging into his thigh. "I'm so close. Come with me, please!”
He can feel himself breaking. Every inch of her, every desperate sound from her lips, every slow, burning drag of her body against his is too much—and yet, not enough.
It will never be enough.
He grips her tighter, as if he can hold onto this moment, hold onto her—as if she might slip through his fingers like everything else. She is fire beneath his hands, consuming him whole, and he welcomes it. If he must burn, let it be in her.
She rolls her hips, and his head tips back with a moan he cannot stop, cannot even think to stop. There is nothing in the world but her, and he is utterly, helplessly lost.
She gasps, kiss-bruised lips part around keening cries of bliss, and he shatters.
Because it is not just pleasure that rushes through him, not just the unbearable ecstasy of it—
It is relief.
"Illyria!" he shouts.
With a roar of ecstasy, Astarion surrenders to the tidal wave of rapture crashing over him. His cock throbs and pulses as he spills himself deep inside her. Jet after jet of his seed coats her quivering walls as her climax detonates, her velvet heat clenching around him rhythmically, milking every last drop.
He collapses onto her, their sweat-slicked bodies still intimately joined. He buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing in her intoxicating scent as aftershocks of pleasure course through him. His hands tremble as they move over her skin as if his body remembers what his mind refuses to acknowledge—how many times he has reached for her like this, how many times he has needed her like this.
She is the only thing that has ever felt certain.
For a man who has lived centuries, he has never known time to move so fast. Each second slips away too quickly, and he is greedy for them—wants to stretch them out, savour them, hold them between his teeth, and devour them.
She is a prayer he does not deserve to speak. A salvation he cannot believe in, and yet when she gasps beneath him, when her fingers tighten against his skin when she whispers his name like it is something holy.
He almost believes.
He presses his forehead against hers, breathless, trembling, breaking. The world is waiting for them, hungry and merciless.
But for now—for just this moment—he lets himself have her.
Because tomorrow, he does not know if he will still exist to love her.
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
My A03 where you can find more of my works, including this one.
Small Notes:
- This chapter was so difficult to write. My heart breaks for both of them.
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 5.6k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ [Meant For Mature Audience]
Crimson light filters through the smoky haze above, painting the bustling market in hues of blood and ash. Merchants shout over the cacophony, their voices rising above the hiss of steam vents and the distant, echoing roar of molten rivers.
Illyria moves through the crowd, small and unassuming against the chaotic backdrop of the market. Her shoulders hunch slightly, trying to make herself smaller.
She is cautious and watchful, as though the chaos around her might devour her. Yet, there is something steadfast in her movements, a quiet resolve that keeps her pressing forward even as the crowd swirls and shoves.
She doesn’t look at him. Her steps quicken whenever he draws too close, when his shadow falls too near, and her gaze flickers to him and then away like the sight of him is too much to bear.
His mind drifts, sliding between fragments of memories—some sharp and vivid, others pale and distant. He tries to latch onto something—a moment of clarity, a mooring in the chaos of his thoughts—but the harder he grasps, the more they crumble.
Who am I?
The question pulses in his mind. There are gaps in his life—vast, yawning chasms where there should be continuity. He can’t remember what it felt like to be whole. The darkness. The cruelty. The twisted power. It’s still there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting to take hold again.
He tracks Illyria as she moves through the stalls. The bond thrums faintly, and her emotions are there—slightly muted but unmistakable.
Avoidance. Unease. Fear.
She’s afraid of him.
The realization cuts through him like a haunting piano chord striking in an empty cathedral. He should have known. He should have seen it in her eyes before—but she won’t look at me.
He can’t stand it. The reticence between them, the distance, the not knowing. His steps fall unbidden, closing the space between them.
Illyria stiffens, her hand tightening around the strap of her pack. “Do you need something?”
He hesitates, the words snarled in his throat. Yes, he wants to say. I need to understand. I need to know what I have done. I need you to look at me like you used to. But he says none of that. Instead, he forces a smile, though it feels hollow. “I thought I would join you.”
The tension remains knotted in her shoulders, her regard devoid of warmth, holding only an unyielding distance. A subtle nod is all she offers before she pivots back toward the merchant.
Don’t do this, he thinks, feeling the panic creeping in, but his body is frozen, stuck in place.
She’s his only anchor in this fractured existence that feels solid, but even she is vanishing like a shadow at sunrise. Astarion’s legs move mechanically, though his heart is somewhere far behind, somewhere he can’t reach. He’s trying so hard to understand, to piece himself together.
What if I never know? What if it’s lost forever, buried in his fractured mind, unreachable? What if this is all there is now? Fragments.
He is scared of what she knows, of what he’s done, of what he might become again. And most of all, he’s worried that whatever exists between them is already broken beyond repair.
Does she still love me?
He pulls Illyria to the side, his fingers gripping her arm with a sense of urgency. “I need you to tell me what’s wrong,” he implores, his voice a quiet plea, but the frustration builds beneath the surface. “Why are you so distant? Why are you afraid of me?” His hands tighten around her, an involuntary reaction to the pain gnawing at his chest. “Why won’t you look at me?”
She blinks at him, her expression unreadable. “It’s nothing, Astarion. Everything is fine.”
Her voice wraps itself in a silken calm, designed to pacify, but it frays at the edges, unable to disguise the truth he already knows.
His jaw clenches, and the tension in his chest intensifies. He hates it. He hates that she’s lying to him, hates the way she’s trying to soothe him as though he’s as fragile as a brittle leaf.
“No,” he snaps, more insistently. “That is not good enough. I need to know. I will not be coddled; I won’t be treated like I’m some... broken thing. I do not care if you’re pretending everything’s fine.” His breath comes faster, and the heat of the market and the surrounding crowd seems to fade into the background. It’s just her, him, and the darkness within him that has been clawing its way to the surface. “What did I do? What did I do to make you look at me like that?”
The voices in his mind are louder now, their discordant murmurs rising to match his anger. The sweet, twisted melody that never quite leaves him, that lures him into madness. It shifts and warbles, rising in volume with each passing moment, urging him to lose control.
She’s lying to you. She doesn’t trust you. Force her. You have the power. Force the truth from her lungs.
The melody. It’s sharper than before, an off-key lullaby that plagues his every thought. He tries to drown it out and focus, but it only grows more persistent. His breath comes in shallow gasps, the voices whispering rapidly now.
She’s lying; you know it. She doesn’t care about you; she wants to be rid of you.
His hands tremble slightly as his control starts to slip. The heat in his chest—no longer the burning from the marketplace—warms him with the fire of his frustration. He wants to shout, to demand answers, but the sound of the song surrounds him.
“Tell me the truth!” His voice cracks, raw and furious, the melody in his head twisting the words into something darker.
His eyes narrow, and he steps closer, looming over her, desperation coiling in his chest. He’s not sure what’s real anymore—what’s him, and what’s that other him. What’s his, and what’s been ripped away, lost to some distant version of himself.
The words don’t make sense anymore, yet they spill from him as if they are the only thing he has left. “Why can't you trust me?”
The song builds, and with it, the fury rises, twisting his mind. The voices are no longer just whispers—they are shouting now, egging him on, twisting his thoughts towards cruelty.
For the briefest spell, the version of him that is forged in violence and steeped in control brushes against his thoughts like a wraith, and his breath catches on the edge of the unseen.
“Stop.” Illyria’s voice is as fragile as a snowflake dissolving on warm skin, a plea that stills the howling snowstorm in his mind, leaving a cold, crystalline clarity.
It’s like the sudden bite of winter air against a smouldering flame, the words sinking into him like the slow, jagged ache of a wound. The tremble in her voice, the quiver of her lips, the raw fear in her eyes—it all hits him like the first frost stealing the breath of a dying flower.
The melody in his mind—the song that has been twisting and warping everything he feels, everything he is—diminishes, the notes falling away like fading whispers until it’s almost silent. The anger, the fury that had been building, is smothered, leaving only the raw ache of confusion and guilt behind.
“I... I’m sorry.” His voice is strained, almost choking on the words as they leave him. He reaches out to her, his hand trembling as he tries to bridge the distance between them, to touch her, to make it right, to make her feel safe.
But she flinches away from him.
The movement is so small, so subtle, but it hits him like a blow to the chest, leaving him winded and gasping for air. His hand lingers in the air for a moment before it slowly drops to his side. She retreats a step, her shoulders drawn tight, her vacant stare fixed somewhere over his shoulder as if looking at him would unravel her.
“Illyria,” he manages to whisper, the sound of her name so faint it barely exists. His voice cracks on the syllables, betraying the emotions he cannot contain.
She shakes her head just once, the motion almost imperceptible. “I... I need a moment,” she murmurs.
Without waiting for a response, she turns and steps into the crowd. He stays rooted in place, his hands trembling at his sides. The noise of the market washes over him, distant and muted, as though he’s underwater. The infernal light, the acrid air, the press of bodies around him—it all feels intangible.
Astarion presses a hand to his chest, his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt as though he can physically brace his collapsing pieces. The presence still lingers at the edges of his mind, a dark shadow whispering promises of power and control. He shudders, forcing the thoughts away.
For all his power, he feels utterly and completely powerless.
Your focus lingers on Astarion’s every movement as he glides through the room with a haunting elegance, like a ship caught in the throes of a cyclone. His steps are slow and uncertain, as though he’s searching for a shore that no longer exists. Sweat beads on his forehead, trailing down the angle of his jaw.
He pauses near the window framing an endless, searing void of red and black. There’s a hollowness to him as if he’s been untethered from himself, drifting aimlessly through a realm that gorges itself on hope and regurgitates despair.
You busy yourself with trivial tasks, adjusting the straps of your pack and sorting through the supplies you bartered for at the market. It keeps your hands moving, your mind focused on anything other than the way his voice lingers in your thoughts: Why are you so afraid of me?
How do you answer that? How do you look him in the eye and speak the truth—the truth of what he's done, the coldness in his voice when he demanded your obedience, the cruelty that stained every moment until it became a part of you, too?
You steal a sidelong look at him. He looks… different. Softer, though you know that isn’t quite right. He's still Astarion—still dangerous, but this version of him is so far removed from the one you've been running from that it feels like the universe’s idea of a repulsive punchline.
He clears his throat. “You seem lost in thought.”
Your hands freeze with a potion clutched tightly in your fingers. “I’m just taking inventory.”
“Are you sure that’s all it is?” he asks cautiously in a honeyed timbre you’re not used to from him any longer. “What is it about me that frightens you?”
You inhale sharply, arms tightening around yourself, fighting the sudden tremor that laces your body. “I’m not frightened of you.”
“That is another lie,” he states gently but unwaveringly.
You open your mouth to argue, to deny it, but the denial disintegrates in the space between your lips. He's right. You are frightened of him, of what he was, of what he could become again. You turn away, hands trembling as you grip the edge of the table.
“I never meant to make you feel this way,” he says, his voice quieter than before. “If I have hurt you—whatever I’ve done—please, just tell me how I can make it right.”
You whirl around, the sudden movement startling both of you. “It’s not that simple,” you snap, tinged with desperation.
He remains silent, waiting for you to continue. Still, you find yourself unwilling to speak again—petrified of what the truth might reveal, of the cracks in the carefully constructed walls you’ve built to keep him from seeing the terror he still evokes in you.
Astarion watches you, his crimson eyes searching, yearning for reassurance—a thread to grasp, a sign that you haven’t slipped away into the silence that stretches between you. Yet, he does not press.
It’s that quiet understanding, that unspoken gift of space—his willingness to let you breathe, to gather yourself without pressure—that unravels you. Tears rise unbidden, and you try to swallow them down, force them back, but they well just beneath the surface, waiting to spill.
“I know it’s not simple,” he murmurs, a sad smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
He reaches out slowly, his fingers brushing your cheek before gently tilting your head upward. His touch is tentative like he’s waiting for you to reject him.
For a brief, intoxicating second, you think he might kiss you.
Gods, you want him to. It’s a desperate, reckless yearning that swells in your chest, one that you don’t know how to hold. You yearn for him to crack open the fragile shell you've encased yourself in, defy the cold vice of terror that twists in the pit of your stomach, and take what you’re too terrified to offer freely.
The thought terrifies you as much as it excites you.
There’s a part of you—a darker, needier part—that wants him to abandon this gentle hesitation, pull you against him, and claim you. You can almost feel it: his hands on your waist, his lips brushing yours with the kind of urgency that leaves no room for doubt.
You crave the absolution of it, the obliteration of thought and fear. You want him to silence the chaos in your mind, to replace it with the singular sensation of him—his touch, his taste, his presence consuming you whole.
But you’re afraid of what it would mean, what it would take, and what it could give. You’re a mess of contradictions, caught between the need to protect yourself and the raw, aching desire to give in.
Can he see it? Can he sense the way your resolve falters under the weight of his gaze, the way your body leans just slightly closer to his despite the trembling protest in your mind?
You don’t pull away, don’t close the distance, don’t speak. You just stand there, caught in the liminal space between fear and want, between restraint and surrender.
Astarion’s fingers linger on your cheek for a moment longer before trailing down to your jaw, and the sensation sends a shiver down your spine.
You think he might close the distance, lean in, and give you what you’re too spineless to ask for. The thought alone sends a pulse of heat through you, pooling low in your stomach.
But before you can make sense of it, before you can act on the impulse, he’s pulling his hand away.
His voice is almost hesitant as he speaks. “You should get some rest.” He gestures toward the bed. “You can have it. I will… sit somewhere else.”
He’s trying to give you space, trying to respect whatever distance you've placed between the two of you, but it feels more like he’s retreating into himself than offering you a reprieve.
It’s almost like he’s stepping away, unsure of how to approach you, unsure of whether he’s wanted. You open your mouth to say something, but the words retreat before you can utter them.
Astarion walks away with a sigh, his footsteps inaudible against the worn floor. The sound lingers in the air long after he's reached the far end of the room, where a simple chair sits, solitary and stark.
He unclasps his jacket, stripping it away. The gesture is almost automatic, the same casual action he once carried with effortless confidence. But you can see the subtle sag of his shoulders, the way his eyes lose their usual sharp gleam as he quickly averts them. He sits, his body stiff, hands resting on his knees, fingers curling restlessly.
A long, shuddering breath rattles through him, and you feel his pain unfold within you. He doesn’t know how to be here, how to reach you, or how to repair whatever it is between you or himself. He fidgets like he’s trying to escape the cage of his own skin, and part of you wishes you could take that discomfort away, unburden him from his confusion and fear, but how?
You move toward the bed, your feet dragging, and a glance at the floor beside it brings a rush of unwelcome memories. You hear his voice again, the sneering words his other self used to remind you of your place. “Your place is the floor.”
The thought leaves a bitter taste lingering in your mouth while you slip onto the bed. It is far too big, far too vast. The space between you and Astarion feels endless, and yet there’s something suffocating about it.
You close your eyes, willing the familiar pull of your trance to offer you some kind of escape, but the exhaustion that settles over you feels different.
It’s deeper—emotional, spiritual, a barren tiredness that no amount of rest can fix. You clench your fists beneath the covers, your body trembling as you fight to hold it together.
The panic swells, a relentless current of doubt and fear that refuses to subside. You draw inwards, small and trembling, and are left with your thoughts, with him sitting across the room, too far away, both of you suspended in this limbo.
You sit up, and your arms wrap around your legs tightly as you press your forehead against your knees. The room feels too small and too vast all at once, every inch pressing down on you like a cage, yet it feels like you might disappear into the emptiness if you move too suddenly.
“Astarion,” you whisper, the name barely more than a breath.
The rustle of fabric and the creak of the chair are immediate. You steal a look at him, finding his attention already on you. His posture is alert but hesitant, as though caught between the pull of closeness and the weight of hesitation, unable to choose which way to go.
“Yes?”
“Do you remember if you compelled me?” His brows draw together in confusion, but you continue, unable to stop now that the floodgates have opened. “Did you compel my loyalty? Compel me to love you? To… marry you?”
The hush that follows is unbearable. His lips part slightly, but no answer comes immediately. Instead, his crimson eyes dart back and forth, unfocused, as though he’s trying to piece something together, to find the filament of a memory that’s just out of reach.
“Gale…” The name falls from his lips, hoarse and broken, like a gasp. “He accused me of doing so. Didn’t he? At our wedding.” His hand lifts to his temple, rubbing it as if the motion might jog loose the memories. His voice grows quieter, tinged with disbelief. “Gods… How could I forget that?”
You remain still, letting the seconds bleed together. Astarion rises from the chair, the wood groaning as he pushes himself up, and your chest tightens with dread. He crosses the room slowly, his movements careful and measured, like he’s walking toward the last ember of a dying fire, frightened to extinguish what little warmth remains.
When he sits beside you on the bed, the mattress dips under his weight, and you brace yourself for the worst. For confirmation that all of this—the bond, the love, the life you’ve built together—has been a lie.
He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with trembling fingers. The backs of them graze your cheek, the faintest touch, like he’s nervous you’ll shatter under his hand. Despite the ambient heat, the warmth of his skin against yours sending a shiver down your spine, you fight the yearning to lean into it.
“Look at me,” he murmurs, delicate but imploring—his thumb ghosts along your jaw.
It takes everything in you to lift your head, but you glance up at him and see the naked fear etched into his features.
“I do not know why Gale thinks that,” he begins, the words careful, deliberate. “Or what proof he believes he has. But this…” He hesitates, the pause weighted, his brow furrowing as if searching for the right words. “This is not something I have done. I did not compel you to marry me. I would never force you to love me.”
Astarion shifts closer, his hand hovering over yours, as though he wants to take it but doesn’t know if he should. “Do you believe me?”
You let your mind slip into his, and the cold emptiness of his thoughts presses against you like ice. There are breaches—colossal, boundless holes where memories should be, where clarity should reside. You feel the ghost of his pain, a sharp, searing blade that runs through every fragment of his fractured consciousness.
He’s broken, pieces of himself scattered across time, torn between the versions of him that exist like separate entities within his skin, but amidst the chaos, you find no deception.
A strange sense of guilt washes over you as you realize that you’ve pushed past a boundary, taking advantage of him while he doesn’t know how to resist you.
Before you can retreat completely, feeling the cold sting of your actions, Astarion’s voice pulls you back. A giggle, light and playful, brushes against the air, and then his fingers delicately tap your temple. “You are in there, aren’t you? In my head. I can feel it, love.”’
You recoil, a sharp, instinctive movement. The fear claws at you before you can even think, the familiar dread of the other version of him surfacing. You brace yourself for the anger, the inevitable punishment for daring to intrude.
Your mouth turns to dust, the words coming out in a disjointed and desperate rush. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just wanted—”
His hand hovers near you, his fingers brushing the edge of your hair with a tenderness that seems alien. There’s no bite in his touch, no sharpness, no mocking flick of irritation that you’ve grown accustomed to.
“It’s alright. I’m not angry,” he intones softer than before, gentler, patient. “You do not need to apologize.”
It doesn’t quite remedy the coldness that’s settled in your chest. With things so fragile between you, the last thing you should be doing is taking advantage of him. You’ve taken something so fragile—his unguarded vulnerability—and twisted it to your doubt, your needs, your questions.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” you confess. “I… I know you don’t know how to shut me out right now, and I used that. I overstepped. You didn’t deserve that.”
Astarion leans forward, brushing a gentle kiss against the back of your hand. The gesture is tender, but it only deepens the ache in your chest. His lips linger there, a small touch that feels like an unspoken reassurance.
“You didn’t take advantage of me, Illyria,” he says quietly.
You watch him carefully as he shifts his posture, and then, just as quickly, he smiles—faintly, but enough to break the tension. “Besides,” he adds, lips curling into that familiar, teasing smirk. “I might not have the same control I did before but do not fool yourself, darling. I can still resist you when I want to.”
The slight bump against the bond sends a charge of surprise through your senses, and you feel a subtle closing of the door inside his mind. It’s just a gesture, a reminder that he still has autonomy.
All this time, all those moments when you thought you were forcing your way in—when you believed that it was all one-sided, that you were taking advantage of his perceived inability to guard himself.
Without resistance, he’d laid bare his innermost self, granting you entry into the depths of his mind, his heart, and his every secret.
He had chosen to let you in.
A choking sob catches in your throat, but you fight it back, blinking rapidly to clear the sting in your eyes. You feel foolish, overwhelmed by a rush of conflicting emotions and a strange, aching warmth for the depth of his choice, for what it meant that he had trusted you so completely, so willingly, even when he barely knows himself.
Astarion notices the shift in you immediately, his hand coming up to brush against your cheek. His expression eases with no hint of teasing or humour left in it. “What’s wrong, my love?”
You shake your head, the words caught somewhere in your throat. How could you possibly explain? How could you put into words the enormity of what you’ve just realized? Your lip trembles, and you bite down on it hard, willing yourself to hold it together.
His thumb brushes just beneath your eye as though to chase away the tears you’re too stubborn to shed. “Illyria. Tell me. Please.”
The sob you’ve been holding back escapes, ragged and broken, and you clutch at his wrist as though it’s the only thing anchoring you to the world.
“You chose to let me in,” you manage to choke out, the words fractured and uneven.
A furrow creases his brow, his lips parting just enough to betray his confusion. The union stirs in response—a gentle, coaxing touch that brushes against the edges of your mind, not pushing but offering something like comfort. A silent question, a promise that he's still here, still tethered to you.
“Of course I did. How could I not?”
You can’t stop yourself. You lurch forward, and your arms wrap around him, pulling him closer as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek is a balm, a quiet assurance that he is here, that he’s no longer the ghost you feared he had become.
His scent—dark, familiar, comforting—fills your senses, and you inhale it desperately as if trying to absorb every last piece of him into your very being. You’ve kept yourself at arm’s length, fearful of being hurt, that he will slip through your fingers again. You’ve built walls and kept your distance in case the fragile string that holds him here snaps, and you’re left alone with a stranger again.
You can’t speak for a moment, your words choked by the rawness of your tears. When they finally come, they are nothing more than stuttered breaths between your sobs, your voice trembling with the weight of everything you’ve feared.
"You're back," you whisper, barely able to get the words out. "You're really back.”
His arms come around you, hesitant at first, as though he’s uncertain if he’s allowed to hold you like this or if he even knows how.
The relief floods over you like a river breaking through a dam, sweeping away the debris of doubt and leaving only the stark truth in its wake. Tremors rack your body, and as they do, his hold tightens—not too much, just enough to steady you, enough to say he’s not going anywhere.
As you tremble in his arms the world feels still. You let go, allowing the weight of your tears to come. All the walls you've put up around your heart begin to crumble as you allow yourself to believe again, to hope again, to feel again.
You stay in his arms for a moment longer, letting the quiet settle between you. His fingers trace small, tentative circles on your back, grounding you as your trembling begins to subside.
When you finally pull back, Astarion’s hands are gentle as he brushes your hair back, his knuckles grazing your temple.
You hesitate before speaking, your voice timid, almost shy. “Will you... lay with me?”
His brows lift, surprise flashing across his features. Panic flutters in your chest, and you quickly stumble over your words to clarify. “If you’re comfortable, I mean. I—I don’t want to push or—”
Astarion interrupts you by grabbing your hand, his focus dropping to the ring on your finger. He tilts it slightly, the faint light in the room catching the metal, making it gleam.
A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips as he speaks, his voice laced with dry humour. “Lying in bed with my own wife? My, what a scandalous request,” he drawls, his tone mockingly aghast. “Should I be clutching at my pearls?”
The laugh that escapes you is soft but real. You shake your head at him, your lips curving into a small, grateful smile.
“Well?” He gestures to the bed with a casual wave of his hand. “Are you going to slide over and give me room, or am I to assume you expect me to crawl over you?”
The lightness in his tone makes you laugh again, this time a little more easily. You shift on the mattress, sliding over to make space for him, and for the first time in what feels like an eternity, the tension in your muscles seeps away.
As Astarion climbs onto the bed, settling beside you, and lifts his arm, the gesture is inviting but unassuming, giving you the choice. The offer makes you hesitate. The last time you allowed yourself to get this close, it was different—his hands clutched like he wanted to brand you, own you.
He notices, and his arm sways slightly in the air. “You do not have to. I will not take it personally.”
You shake your head quickly, dismissing the thought. Gathering your resolve, you sidle up to his side, your cheek brushing against the fabric of his shirt as you settle against him. He adjusts his position only slightly, shifting just enough to ensure your comfort without making you feel trapped.
When his arm folds around you, his embrace is loose. He buries his nose in your hair, inhaling deeply with an exhalation of relief. “You’re cold,” he remarks, his cheek pressing lightly against the top of your head. “It’s... soothing. Like you’re giving me a reprieve from this blasted heat.”
With a small smile, you snake your arm under his shirt, sliding your cold hand across the expanse of his warm stomach. His skin is taut beneath your fingers, his body heat a crisp contrast to your touch.
He hisses sharply, his muscles contracting under your palm as he flinches. Embarrassment creeps in, and you immediately start to pull your hand back, muttering an apology. But before you can withdraw fully, his hand covers yours, pressing it back into place against his skin.
“No,” he urges. “Leave it. This is nice.”
His words lack the teasing edge you would expect. You relax against him, your head tucked beneath his chin as your hand stays where he’s guided it. The heat of him radiates against your palm, and you can feel the faint rise and fall of his chest.
For the first time in what feels like forever, the stillness between you isn’t strained. It’s comfortable, a small oasis in the middle of the turmoil that has defined so much of your time together lately. Astarion lets out another contented sigh, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you feel the faintest hint of peace.
“I must admit,” he begins, his breath stirring your hair, “this is not how I imagined this would go.”
You tilt your head just enough to glance up at him. “Oh? And what exactly did you imagine?”
He smirks, though the expression is less sharp around the edges than usual. “I thought perhaps we would argue. Then, of course, I would dramatically storm out in a fit of indignation.”
You let out a quiet laugh; the sound muffled against his chest. “So you’re saying I’ve ruined your plans for a dramatic exit?”
“Utterly,” he replies, his timbre mock serious. “You have completely denied me the opportunity to sulk and glare at walls.”
“Poor you,” you murmur with a hint of teasing, closing your eyes briefly as you relax further into him.
He chuckles airily, the vibration of it rumbling through his chest. “I suppose I will survive the disappointment. This is… far better than glaring at walls, anyway.” His hand resumes gently tracing down your arm, and his voice drops to a more serious tone. “Far better than I deserve.”
A ripple of confusion crosses your face as his words strike you, completely unanticipated. “Astarion—”
“Shh,” he interrupts, shaking his head slightly. “I do not say it to invite an argument. Only because it is true. I am grateful for moments like this. For you.”
The sincerity in his voice makes your throat tighten, and for a moment, you’re not sure what to say. You settle for pressing your face against his chest again, letting the sound of his heartbeat fill the silence. It’s steady and soothing, the kind of rhythm you think you could lose yourself in.
“I’m glad you’re here,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.
“And I’m glad you’re here,” he replies. There’s a pause, and mischievously, he adds, “Though if you keep pressing that cold hand of yours into me, I may reconsider.”
You huff out a small laugh, pulling your hand back, only for him to catch it and place it right back where it was. His grip is gentle but deliberate, his long fingers curling around yours. His thumb brushes over the back of your hand in slow, thoughtful strokes.
“Do not mistake me,” he says with a smirk you can feel more than see. “I will endure.”
“Such a martyr,” you tease sleepily.
“As always,” he quips, but his voice softens as he leans down to press a lingering kiss to the top of your head. “Rest, my love. I will keep watch over you.”
With his warmth surrounding you and his heart echoing in your ears, you finally feel yourself drift.
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
My A03 where you can find more of my works, including this one.
Small Notes:
I don't know whether to be happy for Illyria or scared for her.
Is she doing the right thing by keeping the truth from Astarion, or is she only making things worse for him? Would you want to be told what you did?
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 6.6k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ [Meant For Mature Audience]
Astarion’s tremulous body finally falls still as he slips into the semblance of his trance. His breathing begins to slow, though it remains uneven. Your fingers brush the edge of the bed absently while you linger there for minutes longer than necessary. The squall of voices is quieter, but they still persist, chanting an aria of fear and unrest amongst the residual confusion.
The faint creak of the door closing behind you feels deafening in the perturbing silence. You wish to be alone to allow your thoughts to settle, but the clink and clank of metal gears remind you that hope has no place in your existence anymore.
Karlach sits in a chair by an unlit hearth with her head bowed. She doesn’t turn to look at you, and you consider retreating, melting back into the dark like a coward. She will demand answers, which she deserves, but you’re unsure you have satisfactory ones to offer.
Her voice stampedes over the quiet before you can make your mind up. “You gonna stand there all night, or are you gonna face me like the Illyria I know?”
Your fingers curl into the hem of the oversized shirt she gave you to change into and nervously tug before you coerce your body to appear calm. You take the chair next to her and wait for the inevitable barrage.
The voices that haunt Astarion’s mind have found their way into yours, no longer distant echoes but fully present and suffocating. Every time you blink, the world blurs, but the cacophony never stops. They chant in a language that does not sound familiar, but somehow, you can comprehend some of the fragments of words.
It is beautiful, angelic even, a lullaby of corruption. Dissonant harmonies bleed into your mind like toxins that infect everything they touch. It insinuates itself into the corners of your thoughts until you cannot tell what’s yours and what isn’t.
You catch some of the whispers—let him fall, let them all fall, and then fall with them.
Whether foolish or noble, you push yourself into the kinship and draw the voices away from Astarion. The effort leaves you trembling, every part of you stretched thin, but you grit your teeth and hold the line.
Astarion needs rest, and if the price of his rest is your unrest, so be it.
“Alright, soldier,” Karlach shatters what little focus you had left. “I think it’s high time you tell me what in the fuck is going on here.”
“Astarion is sick,” you begin, trying to find the right words. “The Rite had consequences we weren’t apprised of.”
Her brows furrow, and her tail lashes. “What kind of consequences?”
Your lips press into a firm line while you ponder exactly how much to tell her. “Mephistopheles,” you say, the name tasting like poison on your tongue. “He tainted the Rite, and when it was completed, his madness bled into Astarion.”
Karlach leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “Mephistopheles was always a paranoid lunatic. Heard enough stories about him in the Hells to know he didn’t trust his shadow half the time. Why would he infect Astarion? What’s the point?”
You let out a hollow laugh, shaking your head. “Freedom.”
“He used the Rite to dump all the rot he couldn’t stand into Astarion.” Karlach murmurs, the realization dawning on her like a hammer striking steel.
You nod, your throat tight. “The Rite made Astarion the vessel for everything Mephistopheles wanted to leave behind. All the instability, the anger, everything that was too much for even him to hold.”
“Bloody Hells,” Karlach breathes with fury braided into her intonation.
“Astarion’s soul is fractured. One side of him is trying to hold on to who he was and who he is. The other side…” You trail off, your throat constricting.
“The other side is what Mephistopheles left behind,” Karlach finishes grimly.
You nod. “It’s spreading. If we can’t stop it—if Astarion can’t hold on—then…”
“Then the Astarion we know will be gone.”
Karlach leans back in her chair, exhaling slowly. “So what happened today…”
“Wasn’t Astarion’s fault,” you cut in, sharper than you intended.
An unusual rage prickles over your skin, like millions of needle points. You grind your teeth together so hard you’re positive you’ll crack them in an effort not to shout at Karlach.
If she had just left well enough alone, if she and Wyll had listened to you, if she could have taken a fucking hint…
You shake your head to redirect the stream of rage. You remind yourself that she was just trying to help, but it does little to quell the roiling inferno.
She doesn’t understand. None of them do. They wouldn’t even begin to comprehend.
Karlach leans forward, brows furrowed with a mixture of worry and confusion. “Hey, I’m just trying to—”
“What? Help?” you snap, the word laced with venom before you can stop yourself.
You immediately regret it but cannot find it in yourself to apologize, not with how your blood feels like it’s boiling beneath your skin. Her expression softens despite your outburst, which only makes the fire in your chest burn hotter.
The voices press in, their whispers like a deafening roar in your mind. They think you’re weak. Pathetic. They do not trust you.
You clench your fists, nails digging into your palms as you try to quiet them, but the rage refuses to subside. Every attempt to reason with yourself falls apart as the voices twist and churn.
Karlach doesn’t back down. “Look, all I’m saying is—”
“I know what you’re saying,” you interrupt, standing so abruptly that your chair screeches against the floor.
Your voice rises before you can stop it, cracking under the weight of your frustration. “I do not need your concern or pity or whatever this is! What happened today is none of your business.”
“It’s not pity,” Karlach says firmly, standing now, too, her broad shoulders squaring as she looks you in the eye. She’s calm, even steady, which only makes your rage feel all the more erratic and untamed. “It’s care.”
Care. The word feels like ash in your mouth. You want to scream, lash out, and tell her that care doesn’t fix anything.
But instead, your chest tightens painfully, and your teeth grind together again as the voices take on a mocking edge. She is lying. She does not care. None of them do. They will turn on you the moment you show weakness.
You shake your head, trying to drown them out, but they only grow louder, more insistent. The heat beneath your skin threatens to boil over, and your voice comes out low and trembling with restrained fury. “Just… drop it, Karlach. Please. It’s been a long day.”
She doesn’t respond immediately, and her voice is gentler when she does. “What are you going to do?”
“Astarion and I need to go to Cania,” you say, keeping your voice steady as if the words don’t carry the weight of an impossible task.
“Cania? The frozen layer of the Hells? Why in the bloody abyss would you go there?”
You hesitate, running your fingers through your hair as you search for a way to say this without giving too much away. “There’s… something there that might help Astarion,” you say finally.
Karlach’s fiery eyebrows rise. “You’re being awfully vague for something that sounds insane.”
You shrug, trying to appear casual. “It’s complicated.”
Karlach’s voice rises slightly, and she shakes her head. “Do you know what you’re walking into? Cania isn’t just snowstorms and ice—it’s crawling with devils who would sooner rip your head off than let you breathe there.”
“I know,” you reply softly. “There is no other way, and I don’t think he has much more time.”
You don’t think either of you do.
The door presses into your back, and you rake your nails over the skin of your arm as if you could claw this peculiar anger out. It’s not your anger, but it also is, intensified like someone is looking at it under a magnifying glass. The voices speak in truths and half-truths, making them hard to ignore, but when your eyes land on Astarion, the seething hisses subside.
You watch him with guarded tenderness, stopping a few steps away. The memory of earlier is still fresh—how his eyes had burned with panic, how he’d flinched away from you like you were the thing he needed to protect himself from.
The confusion, his fear, and the way he looked at you as though you were a stranger. The sting of it is sharp, and your jaw tightens. It wasn’t his fault, but it doesn’t make it easier to stomach.
You hover near the edge of the bed, and the urge to crawl into it with him flares briefly in your mind. Typically, you would do so without hesitation, but not now. He needs space more than he needs you crowding him, and maybe, though you hate to admit it, you need the distance, too.
For now.
Folding your legs under yourself, you curl up in the chair at his side. The room is still, save for the faint sound of Astarion’s breathing and steady heartbeat. You focus on it, letting its rhythm lull you into a degree of calm.
Your eyes flutter shut, but rest does not come easily. The silence of the room only amplifies the thoughts and voices. You shift slightly in the chair, curling up as tight as possible as if it might hold your crumbling pieces together.
Astarion does not stir even as the chair creaks. He looks peaceful, his face free of the torment that inhabits him, and you cling to that like a lifeline. You tell yourself it’s enough, that he is here, resting, and that he’ll wake and things will be better, but it’s a transparent lie.
You close your eyes and let your mind drift. It isn’t sleep, but it’s a half-trance, where your thoughts blur and bend, bleeding into each other until they’re shapeless. You focus on the sound of his breathing again, on the faint pull of the bond, and let yourself be carried by it.
You aren’t sure how long you stay in that liminal state between rest and wakefulness, but your eyes flutter open when you hear the soft sound of hesitant footsteps. When things come into focus, Astarion stands near the bedroom window, his shirt discarded on the floor, trousers hanging loosely at his hips.
Beads of sweat glide down his body, tracing the contours of his muscles like droplets of liquid glass catching the light filtering through the curtains. Your mind shifts into the link, and you realize the disorientation has not abated.
His thoughts start and stop, his memories incoherent and unsettlingly incongruent, like the timeline of his life had been torn apart, and he’s trying to reassemble it, but he can’t find where the pieces fit together.
You open your mouth, unsure of what exactly to say, but you need to say something. His presence is off in a way you can’t fully describe, so you say his name softly, careful not to startle him.
“Astarion?”
He whirls with wide eyes, locking onto yours with an edge of surprise and panic, as if he’s just now realized that he isn’t alone. He stands there, frozen, as though he’s trying to place you in his reality, but you’re not something he’s quite sure belongs.
You swallow thickly and try again. “Astarion?”
His lips part, but words don’t seem to come easily. His eyes dart between you, the window, and the surrounding space with such chaotic jerks that you have a hard time tracking what he’s looking at from one moment to the next.
“I… I did not mean to wake you,” he mutters, hoarse and apologetic, like he’s trying to smooth over a misunderstanding that isn’t there.
Pushing yourself upright, you do your best to keep your movements predictable and controlled, but the way he watches you sets your nerves on edge.
“Illyria,” he says, eyes surveying you but still distant.
Your name sounds like a question more than a statement, and it strikes you like ice forming over the nerves of your spine. Does he not remember me? The thought flashes through your mind, and with it, dread.
“Yes,” you nod, keeping your voice steady despite the wrenching fear settling in your gut.
“My…” he trails off, splaying his fingers in front of him and looking at the ring like he needs confirmation before he concludes the rest of his sentence. “Wife, yes?”
You try to keep your panic hidden, burying it deep where he cannot see, but it churns. Astarion should know you. But the man standing before you seems lost, piecing fragments of memories together as though he’s trying to form a picture of his life, but the edges won’t align.
How much of him is still here? How much of the Astarion you loved has survived, buried beneath the weight of his own mind?
“Yes, I’m your wife,” you confirm while rising from the chair.
His body seems to relax slightly at your confirmation, though there’s still a fog in his eyes, a distant confusion that makes him seem far away.
You clear your throat, trying to steady yourself. “What do you remember?”
Astarion stares at you for a long moment, his gaze searching, like he’s trying to find something within the recesses of his mind. Finally, he speaks, though his words are slow. “I remember you, but... you look different. Thin. Sickly.”
His eyes are wide with concern, though there’s a hesitation there, like he’s unsure whether he’s allowed to care. The words sickly hang in the air between you two, like an accusation you can’t escape.
You can’t quite make heads or tails of this. Yesterday, his confusion had been evident—his panic a raw, trembling thing that had threatened to consume him. But at least then, it felt like he still knew you, still saw you in some way. Today, his panic has been mitigated, but what lingers is something different—an unsettling calmness.
Does he even see me? Does he even remember us?
You take a step forward, hesitating before you speak again. “You remember me, don’t you?”
His shoulders stiffen, just slightly, and then he turns to look at you. “I remember... fragments,” he says, his voice low as if testing the words before letting them escape. “But it’s all... hazy. I remember... us, somehow, but the details slip through my fingers whenever I try to grasp them.”
The pain in his voice is subtle, but it cuts through you anyway. There’s no anger, no bitterness. Just... loss. A loss you cannot fully understand, and yet it echoes in your chest.
“I do not know what’s real,” he adds quietly, his eyes locking with yours for just a moment before he turns away again. “But you’re real. That’s something.”
You don’t know what to say. Part of you wants to reach out and touch him, but another part of you is frozen, unsure of where to begin when nothing feels the same.
Astarion’s gaze is fixed on the window, his eyes scanning the view outside with a distant, disinterested look. “Definitely not in Baldur’s Gate, are we?”
“No, we’re in the Hells. Abriymoch, to be precise.”
He doesn’t respond immediately, but you hear him slick his damp hair back with a quick swipe of his hand. The motion is instinctive like it’s something he’s done a thousand times, though there’s something so vulnerable about the way he does it now as if he’s still trying to find some semblance of control in a place that offers none.
“I suppose that explains the heat,” he comments dryly, his voice dripping with frustration.
“Control your body temperature.”
Astarion freezes, his hand stilling midair as he looks at you, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Can I do that?” he asks, the question genuine but laced with an edge of disbelief.
His tone cracks slightly, revealing just how much he doesn’t know, how much he’s lost. Your heart sinks a little more, your chest tightening at the realization.
You swallow the lump in your throat, trying to keep your voice steady. “You can.”
But the silence that follows only serves to remind you how far he’s fallen from that version of himself. Astarion looks at you like he’s waiting for a deeper explanation, his mind still trying to piece together what’s real and possible.
“Why am I here? Why are we here?” He asks with an edge of helplessness.
You want to ease that confusion, but instead, you find yourself paralyzed by it. This isn’t the Astarion you know—the one who had answers to everything, the one who was always so certain.
This Astarion is... adrift.
He steps closer to you, his eyes searching your face as if looking for some answer he can’t quite find.
"Why can't I remember?" he asks hesitantly as though he’s afraid of the answer. "What happened to me? The memories are all... broken. I should know this. I should know you, but it's like... like I’m seeing you for the first time. Or am I? Is it real? Hells, am I real?”
His words trail off, and you can see how much it’s tearing at him, the uncertainty, the ache in his chest that mirrors the one in yours. He knows something is wrong, but he can’t quite figure out what it is, who he is—who you are.
You need to gauge the extent of his memory loss—his safety, and your own, depend on it.
“Astarion,” you venture, gentle but probing, “you do remember that you’re a vampire, right?”
He freezes momentarily, his brow furrowing before his lips curl into a smirk. “Am I?” he gasps, pressing a hand to his chest with mock horror. “A vampire, you say? How utterly shocking! What gave me away—the fangs, the complexion, or my irresistible charm?”
The exaggerated theatrics coax a quiet laugh from you, a sound that feels foreign amidst the tension. It’s a slight relief—a glimpse of your husband peeking through the cracks of his confusion. For a moment, the man you love is right there, clever and insufferable in equal measure.
But the smile fades as quickly as it came, and his expression sobers. “Yes,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands as though seeing them for the first time. “I know what I am. That much is... hard to forget. Some things never change, it seems.”
You nod slowly, watching him carefully. “Do you remember how it happened? How you... got here?”
He hesitates, his brow creasing as he struggles to reach into the tangled mess of his mind. “I remember Cazador. The chains. The slavery. The... cruelty.” He shudders, his hand absently brushing over the faint scars on his neck that remain etched into his skin. “I remember killing him.”
He pauses, glancing at you. “You were there. Weren’t you?” His gaze searches yours, uncertain but hopeful. “I think you were. You helped me... I couldn’t have done it without you.”
You nod again, though your chest tightens. “I was there. We killed him together.”
His lips part slightly, relief wavering across his features. “Good. Good. That feels... right. You were with me. You’ve always been with me.” His expression clouds, and he rubs his temples, frustration creeping into his tone. “After that, though... it’s all so hazy. I remember the Rite, the ascension, but it’s like I’m trying to grasp shadows. I remember power—so much power—and then...” His hand falls to his side, and he shakes his head. “Nothing. Everything after is... fragments.”
Your heart sinks further. The gaps in his memory are significant, yet he’s pieced together enough to know that something is very, very wrong.
He lets out a frustrated sigh, gripping his hair. “Why is everything so tangled? Why can’t I remember?”
You reach out instinctively but stop yourself short, unsure if touching him would ground him or overwhelm him further. “It’s alright. Whatever’s happened, whatever’s missing—we’ll piece it back together.”
He glances at you, his crimson eyes softening as they meet yours. “You sound so sure,” he murmurs, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose I’ll have to trust you, won’t I? You seem to know me better than I know myself.”
“You can trust me,” you conclude with conviction, though the weight of his words makes your throat tighten.
He tilts his head, studying you for a moment before letting out a quiet laugh. “Well, it’s not as though I have many other options, do I? If you’re lying to me, darling, you’re doing a very convincing job of it.”
He shakes his head, his amusement fading as he glances back at the window. “Still, it’s troubling. If I can remember killing Cazador, if I can remember the ascension... why does everything else feel so... scattered? What happened to me, Illyria?”
He says your name so tentatively that, for some reason, it makes your static heart clench. You can’t bear to tell him. Could he handle the truth in his state? What do you say to someone who is clinging to scraps?
“We will figure it out,” you repeat.
Scarlet eyes swish from side to side as if he’s reading an invisible book before him. The kinship in your head flares as he plucks its chords.
His brows furrow, and he tilts his head when he looks at you. “I can feel you in my head. It feels so… intimate. I do not understand it. Why are you in there?”
The question makes your knees shake with the urge to sink to the floor and weep, but you force the feeling aside. “We share a… mental connection that was formed when you turned me. It lets us feel each other's thoughts and emotions, among other things.”
He nods slowly as if the explanation makes sense but doesn’t quite settle. “What if I do not want this… connection, as you say?” He asks with a slight cant to his head; eyes cast upwards as if he’s mulling it over. “Could it be severed? Can I sever it? If I did, would you… go away?”
You falter, physically taking a step back like the words themselves pushed you. The last thing you want is for him to break that connection, to lose the fragile thread that continues to be together, no matter how precarious.
“If it’s too much, I can close it,” you offer, swallowing hard. “I can shut it off for a while.”
The raw panic in his reaction is immediate. He jerks forward without thinking in a burst of desperation, his hands outstretched. A sharp trill of adrenaline circulates through you, and your body locks into a defensive stance. It’s not precisely fear you feel but a shadow of mistrust rooted into your mind as a reminder that his affection usually turns to cruelty.
Astarion stops short, freezing in place. His fingers tremble in the air as he second-guesses himself. His face falls when he notices your reaction, hands still hovering helplessly.
“Apologies,” he stammers. “I did not want to frighten you. That was not my intention.”
With a deep breath, you force your muscles to relax. “I know,” you sigh but do not venture to provide any further explanation.
You reach your hand out to him, palm up, in the same way he did to you all that time ago. He glances at it curiously but seems to recognize the gesture as his hand finds yours with the same uncertain smile you remember from that night. He takes a step closer, then another, until he’s so close you can feel his breath ghosting over your face.
His voice is a whisper when he finally asks, “May I?”
There’s no need for an explanation of his intentions, and you nod. The moment his arms wrap around you, the chasm that's grown between you seems to crack open and close all at once. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this—needed this. His embrace is firm but carefully hesitant, as though he’s still testing the waters, but there is genuine affection in the way he holds you.
Burying your face in his shoulder, you melt into him and swallow the balled sob that builds in your throat. The tension you’ve been carrying for what feels like an eternity begins to ease, bit by bit.
“Please,” he murmurs against your hair, voice thickly suffused with emotion. “Do not close the bond. I… I could not bear it. It is the only thing keeping me grounded.” He pulls you closer, his fingers flexing into you firmly but not painfully, as if he’s afraid you might slip away like the rest of his memories do when he tries to clutch them. “I believe it might be the only thing keeping me present.”
“I won’t,” you promise. “I’m here, and I’ve always been here.”
Astarion exhales in a shaky burst of relief and rests his chin against your head. “Thank you.”
You don’t respond, afraid your voice might crack if you try. Instead, you hold him as he holds you, letting your bond hum with reassurance and love. For now, it’s enough to simply be in his arms, to feel that even in the haze of broken memories, some part of him still knows how to love you.
Astarion steps out of the room and into the main area with Illyria close by his side. The moment they cross the threshold, he can feel eyes on him before he sees them. His eyes flick upward, catching Karlach’s fiery glare and Wyll’s stern, furrowed expression. Karlach angles her body so that it’s between him and the chair Wyll is sitting on, like a sentry on duty. They fall silent, their conversation clearly interrupted by his presence.
He remembers them. Karlach, with her broad shoulders and the faint orange glow that radiates over her skin, who used to laugh too loudly and slap him on the back with far too much enthusiasm. Wyll, poised as always, a man of principle and loyalty.
They do not look at him with familiarity now. There is no laughter in Karlach’s eyes nor quiet camaraderie in Wyll’s posture. Their gazes drip with hatred so intense it’s a tangible scent in the air. He does not understand why, and it twists in his chest sourly.
What could he have done to earn such loathing? He cannot recall, and that absence of knowledge gnaws at him. He shifts on his feet awkwardly, one hand brushing against the seam of his trousers in a nervous fidget.
He forces a small, tentative smile and clears his throat. “It is such a pleasure to see you both again. Though, judging by the looks on your faces, I might as well have crawled out of the Nine Hells itself. Truly, what a warm welcome.”
Karlach’s expression hardens while her tail flicks behind her in barely restrained agitation. Wyll folds his arms across his chest with a scoff, his jaw tightening. The tension in the room grows thicker, and Astarion’s smile falters.
“Well,” he tries again, his voice wavering slightly. “Perhaps not a warm welcome, then. Tepid, at best? Lukewarm? Oh, do not all speak at once—I might be overwhelmed by the sheer enthusiasm.”
Karlach’s voice finally breaks through, low and simmering with anger. “You’ve got some nerve.”
Astarion blinks, taken aback by the venom in her tone. “I beg your pardon?” he replies, his attempt at charm faltering under her glare.
Wyll shakes his head, eyes darting to Illyria. “He doesn’t remember?”
Astarion frowns, his gaze darting between them. “Remember what, exactly? Is there some grand offence I have committed that has left you both so utterly... displeased with me?”
Karlach steps forward, her movements deliberate and controlled. “Offence?” she echoes, her voice dripping with incredulity. “You don’t even know—”
“Stop,” Illyria cuts in, her tone firm as she steps in front of him like a shield. “This isn’t helping.”
The incessant song in his head grows a little louder, warring with his ability to think and comprehend the situation at hand. The link with Illyria also hums, though at least he finds it oddly comforting, even when it’s trembling under her annoyance. Is it annoyance with him? Annoyance with them? He cannot tell.
He looks down at her with mounting confusion. “Illyria, what—?”
“Later,” she says sharply, her eyes flicking back to Karlach and Wyll. “Now isn’t the time for this.”
The tension remains, but Karlach steps back, her fists clenched at her sides. Wyll lets out a slow breath, though his gaze doesn’t soften. Astarion swallows hard, his smile now fully gone.
Whatever this is—whatever he has done—it is worse than he imagined.
Astarion watches Illyria as she swings a bag over her shoulder and approaches Karlach with an air of casual familiarity.
“Could you lend me some coin?” Illyria asks as though this is a perfectly normal request to make of someone glaring daggers at them moments earlier.
Astarion’s brows pinch. Borrow coin? From Karlach? He is almost certain they do not need to borrow coin from anyone. He is wealthy, is he not? Gold enough to burn, treasures beyond counting, that sort of thing. Why would they need to stoop to such a thing?
He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it just as quickly. No, better not. The thought of asking why is too humiliating. He bites his tongue and decides to let it pass, pretending the whole exchange isn’t happening.
Karlach hesitates for a moment as though reluctant to fulfill Illyria’s request. Finally, she sighs and tosses a coin pouch to Illyria. “Fine.”
Wyll’s muffled groan pulls his attention away from that horror show. Wyll shifts weakly in his chair, rubbing his forehead with his eyes closed. Karlach gives him a concerned look and gently rubs his back.
“You alright?” She murmurs, retrieving a glass of water from a small table and offering it to him.
“Fine,” Wyll reassures with a small smile as he takes the glass, his fingers brushing Karlach’s in what appears to Astarion to be too intimate a touch for them. “This damnable headache won’t let up. Illyria, how did you stand it?”
A sharp spike of shame transits into his mind from Illyria, and her fluid movement becomes stiff. She glances at Wyll, though it appears forced. “It will pass,” she remarks.
Astarion’s eyes drift from the exchange to Wyll’s neck, catching the sight of two red puncture marks. A jolt of ice radiates through Astarion’s skipping heart, and he swallows hard, unable to look away from the evidence of a bite.
Did I do that?
His stomach churns as the thought takes root. Is this why they are so furious with him? Did he lose control, forget himself, and feed on Wyll? No. Surely not. He learned to manage his hunger centuries ago when he was a young spawn. Cazador saw to that—years of rotting in the kennels until he learned the discipline required to be around the living.
He wouldn’t have done something so reckless, would he? There is a sudden urge to defend himself, explain, even though no one has accused him of anything, but he bites it back. Even if he wanted to explain, he doesn’t know what he would say because he cannot remember doing it or why.
Illyria speaks again before he can settle on what exactly to do about this, tucking the borrowed coin away. “We’ll return later, and thank you. I’ll pay you back.”
“The absolute least of my worries right now is coin,” Karlach grunts in response while she stares at him with contempt, perhaps disappointment, maybe both.
The strident symphony that is always strumming in the background of his thoughts spikes again, but something siphons it away as quickly as it rises. Illyria winces almost imperceptibly, but he notices how her withered muscles flex.
She beckons him with a nod, and the tension eases as he follows her out of that suffocating room. They descend a set of stairs and into an inn crowded with infernal beings, a kaleidoscope of grotesque and elegant forms. Demons lounge at polished tables, devils haggle over contracts, and imps dart about carrying trays of drinks.
Illyria weaves through the crowd, appearing unbothered as if this infernal realm is merely another market in Baldur’s Gate. She approaches the bar, where the innkeeper—a hulking, grotesque thing with leathery skin—leans lazily against the counter.
“Excuse me,” Illyria begins, her voice steady and polite.
The creature does not so much as glance at her, earning only a scoff and a dismissive wave of his clawed hand.
She repeats herself louder, and the innkeeper finally deigns to speak. His guttural tongue grinds against Astarion’s ears like stones dragged across metal. Whatever he says is sharp and sneering, followed by a cruel laugh that ripples through the beings nearby.
Astarion’s lips press into a thin line. The audacity of this wretch to scoff at her so brazenly ignites a sudden strike of anger.
He steps forward before he even realizes he has done so. “That,” he begins coldly, “is no way to speak to a lady.”
The innkeeper snorts, his glowing yellow eyes narrowing as he towers over Astarion. “And who are you, pale thing?” he growls, his Common thick with his infernal accent. “Another mortal begging for scraps?”
Astarion’s smile is slow and dangerous as he tilts his head and lets his fangs flash in the dim light. “Hardly,” he replies, his tone light, almost playful. “But I do wonder if you speak to all your patrons with such disregard or if you have saved this particular brand of rudeness just for us.”
The creature straightens, head tilting slightly as though reconsidering. Illyria places a hand on his arm, a subtle pressure meant to calm him, but he does not budge. His red eyes remain fixed on the innkeeper, glinting with cold fury.
“Now,” Astarion continues, his voice soft but laced with warning. “My wife asked you a question. Perhaps you would like to try answering it this time.”
The innkeeper bristles, but something in Astarion’s gaze—or perhaps the underlying threat in his tone—makes him falter. He mutters something under his breath before finally responding, this time with strained civility.
Astarion’s smirk widens. “That is much better,” he says smoothly, stepping back to let Illyria resume her questioning. He glances down at her, his annoyance tempered by satisfaction. “Do let me know if he steps out of line again, my dear,” he murmurs, just loud enough for the innkeeper to hear. “I would be happy to deal with him properly.”
Whatever questions Illyria asks are lost on him as he glances around the bar, trying to elucidate hints of just how in the Hells he got here. He remembers being in Baldur’s Gate and remembers bits and pieces of their wedding, but everything else disintegrates before he can glimpse it. Even the timeline of events is a tangled web that sticks to his fingers like spider silk whenever he tries to unknot it.
Illyria taps his hand, and he follows her out into the oppressive atmosphere. The air is an acrid blend of sulphur and scorched stone, loud with raspy caterwauling, and far, far too hot. She glances up at him with an expression he cannot quite decipher.
She is quiet when she speaks, her intonation measured and smooth, calculating her words before they even leave her lips. “Did the voices in your head make you do that?”
He halts midstep and turns to look at her fully. What an odd question. The prattle in his mind—the endless, maddening whispers he has tried and failed to block out since waking—stands in the forefront of his awareness. They are an ever-present, disjointed hum that creeps along the edges of his sanity, but they had no bearing on what happened.
“I—no,” he confirms, shaking his head. “The voices did not make me do anything. I simply... did not like the way he was speaking to you.”
His gaze flicks to her, waiting for some kind of reaction, but she only nods with a wash of relief that confounds him further.
“That was kind of you,” she says gently, too gently. It’s equal parts warm and unsettling. “But you must watch your temper carefully.”
The words are spoken delicately, as though she is treading on fragile ground. Her tone makes him feel fragile, too, and he despises it. She knows something, and she is keeping the information clutched close and guarded.
His jaw tightens, the warmth evaporating as unease takes its place. “Is that what happened to Wyll?” he blurts out. He searches her face for answers, for some clue that might fill the gaps in his fractured memory. “Did I lose my temper and... bite him?”
The thought makes him recoil, and he grips his arms tightly as if to hold himself together. That does not seem like him, not the him he knows—or thinks he knows.
“That does not sound like me,” he presses, the words firmer this time. “I would not have—” He stops, unsure if he should finish the thought.
Illyria reaches up and tenderly swipes aside pieces of hair that stick to his sweat-veiled forehead. Her fingers are cool, and they linger idly, brushing back and forth as if she might be able to smooth away the swirling chaos. It stirs an ache he cannot place, though he finds the gesture impossibly soothing.
The coolness of her palm cups his cheek, drawing his scattered thoughts into sharp focus. He blinks, eyes locking onto the cracked crimson of hers. Exhaustion is etched across her face; dark bags extend under her eyes with gaunt, hollow cheeks.
How in the Hells did she get like this? How could he let her get like this? Did he? Why?
She shakes her head slowly, firmly. “No,” she sighs as her hand drops back to her side. “You did not bite Wyll.”
The reassurance brings a brief, fleeting sense of relief, but it wanes as quickly as it came. Illyria turns and strides towards wherever their destination is.
“If not me, then who bit Wyll?”
She stops but keeps her back toward him, and her shoulders stiffen slightly. Illyria does not turn to face him, refusing to meet his eyes. Her head dips, the strands of her hair falling forward as though she could use them as a curtain to hide behind.
“I did,” she whispers, almost too quiet for even his sharp hearing to catch.
Astarion’s mind reels with a thousand questions clashing for dominance, but none are coherent. She stands with her head bowed in shame, and he opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out at first.
“Why?” He finally manages to force his voice into compliance, but his confusion leaks into the word.
Her hands curl into fists at her sides. “Because he let me.”
The answer doesn’t help. It only raises more questions, doubts, and pieces of a puzzle that do not seem to fit together.
“No, no,” he mumbles, mostly to himself. “That does not seem right. You feed on me, yes? I cannot recall everything, but I recall that much.”
Her shoulders tense, and her head snaps up to meet his gaze, her eyes glittering with a storm of emotions he cannot parse. Anger? Shame? Defiance? Perhaps all of them at once. The idea of someone else’s blood on her lips—someone else’s pulse beneath her fangs—ignites a strange and unfamiliar sting.
Jealousy? Hurt? He does not want to examine it too closely.
Her shoulders rise and fall in a shallow breath, and her expression is inscrutable. “You were gone,” she says simply, as though that explains everything and nothing at once.
Gone.
The word settles like a stone, and for the first time, he feels the enormity of it—the gaps in his memory, the pieces of his life that seem to have slipped through his fingers.
He was gone, but where? For how long?
And what did he do?
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 5.8k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ [Meant For Mature Audience]
Your fangs sink into Wyll's neck with a loathsome, satisfying snap, and the taste hits you instantly—hot, succulent, and metallic. Each mouthful is a tide of warmth you’ve been deprived of for too long and wakes the insatiable beats of your hunger with a ravenous growl.
You try to take small, calculated sips, but with each gulp, your body demands more. Astarion’s compulsion presses against your mind like a net thrown over a wild animal, pinning it down while it struggles. Even without it, the bloodlust roars louder than reason.
Slow down.
The words parrot futilely. No matter how hard you try or how tightly you close your eyes and will yourself to stop, the blood flows endlessly. You’re a starved animal finally sinking its teeth into prey, and restraint is a concept that crumbles under desperation.
It’s too much. It’s never enough. Every sip is like a promise and a cruel joke. Your hands tremble as they grip his shoulders, your nails cutting into his skin as if you could tear him open and swallow him whole.
Wyll doesn’t resist. His steady breathing brushes against your neck, an unbearable reminder of his trust. You hate it. You hate how calm and utterly unafraid he remains, even as you drain him dry.
Your jaw tightens, a feeble attempt to break the rhythm, but the compulsion won’t allow it. More, it whispers. Take it all.
Stop.
You scream it in your mind, but it’s a plea lost in the void. There’s no way out, no way to stop the frantic rhythm of your own undoing. You drink and drink, each pull dragging you closer to the point of no return.
You claw at the edges of Astarion’s compulsion, trying to wrench yourself free even as your mouth greedily draws more and more. Wyll trembles in your grasp. His skin grows clammy under your fingers, his pulse weakening with every passing second. A feeble push against your shoulder does nothing but fuel your shame. He’s trying to stop you; you’re too far gone to heed him.
“Alright, Illyria, that’s enough now,” Karlach interrupts, her tone light but strained. “You’ve had your fill, yeah? Let him go.”
Her words barely register. You feel Wyll’s body growing weaker, but you can’t stop. Astarion’s will is absolute, and even as you try to cleave it out of your mind, white-hot pain sears through your skull, a punishment for daring to resist. When Wyll sags against you, Karlach’s tone sharpens.
“Oi! Illyria! Enough!”
When you still don’t respond, she growls low in her throat and snaps her attention to Astarion. “Astarion,” she barks, “stop her. She’s gonna kill him!”
His laughter rings out, a cold, melodic sound that chills the air. “Oh, Karlach,” he drawls, amused and unbothered. “Why would I? She’s simply indulging her nature. Isn’t it beautiful to watch her embrace what she truly is?”
Karlach’s voice rises, anger threading through her words. “She’s not some bloody animal! If you won’t stop her, I will.”
“I wouldn’t,” he purrs, low and dangerous. “Let her finish. It’s been so long since she’s truly fed.”
“Damn you, Astarion!” Karlach snarls, her fists clenching as she glares down at him.
Your mind screams, your body obeys, and you drink, helpless to do anything else.
You hear Karlach’s heavy footfalls as she charges. There’s a sharp thud, a muffled grunt of pain, and then a scuffle. Karlach curses, her voice raw with fury, but the sounds shift too quickly for you to follow.
Please, you beg silently. Tear me away from him. End this. Kill me if you have to.
She doesn’t reach you. Instead, Astarion drags her into view. His iron grip clamps around her chin, forcing her to face the gruesome scene. She thrashes, teeth bared, her powerful muscles straining against his unyielding hold, but it’s useless. His strength is far beyond anything mortal.
“Ah, ah,” Astarion chides with icy amusement, tilting her head to ensure she can’t look away. “None of that now, my dear Karlach. This is a lesson—one I think you’ll find invaluable. Watch closely.”
Karlach’s fury trembles in every word. “You twisted bastard. Let her go. Let him go!”
“Oh, Karlach, such righteous indignation! It is positively delightful, but you misunderstand.” His crimson eyes flick to you with a devious gleam dancing in their depths. “She doesn’t want to stop. Do you, pet?”
Your stomach lurches at his words, but your body betrays you, still locked in the monstrous act.
“You can fight,” he says, addressing Karlach now, “but it’s pointless. She’s mine, body and soul. And you—” He leans in closer to Karlach, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “—you get to watch your dear Wyll slip away, all because she is weak.”
He wrenches her head back, forcing her eyes to lock on you. Then his gaze meets yours, piercing and cold, devoid of mercy. “Look at her, darling,” he sneers. “Isn’t it poetic? The mighty Karlach brought to her knees, helpless as her lover dies in your arms. Does it not just… sing to you?”
Karlach’s voice breaks through the haze, trembling and raw. “Please,” she sobs, her gravelly tone cracking under the weight of her despair. “Please stop. Don’t do this. Don’t let him do this to you.”
Her pleas carve into your chest. You want to scream, tell her you’re sorry, and beg her to understand that you can’t stop. But no sound escapes you—only the low, guttural growl of a predator feeding.
The tears come, hot and shameful, clinging to your lashes as you try to blink them away. They blur your vision, turning Wyll’s ashen skin into a smear of pale grey, and still, you drink.
“Illyria,” Karlach chokes out your name, her voice softening, cracking under the weight of her grief. “I know you’re in there. Please, fight him. You’re stronger than this!”
But you’re not. You’re weak. Weak like Astarion said, bound by his will and the unrelenting pull of the hunger that consumes you.
Behind Karlach, Astarion’s laugh snakes through the room. “Stronger?” he echoes, mocking her with a slow, deliberate drawl. “Oh, darling Karlach, how naive you are. She isn’t strong. She’s exactly what I made her to be. A creature of hunger and obedience.”
Wyll slumps in your grasp, his life slipping away with every pull, and the sob that builds in your chest dies unvoiced.
Karlach’s tears fall freely now, glinting in the dim light as they streak down her face. She struggles against Astarion’s grip, desperate and futile. “You bastard,” she snarls with anguish. “You’ve done this to her. You’ve taken everything she is!”
Astarion leans down to her ear, his voice a silken blade. “No, my dear, she’s given herself to me. Isn’t that right, my sweet?”
Your mind screams no, but the compulsion twists your silence into agreement, and you feel the weight of his words like chains tightening around your throat. Karlach’s gaze shifts to you, her eyes red and brimming with pain.
And still, you drink.
The decision crystallizes in the pit of your stomach like a stone dropped into a frozen lake. You’ve avoided this, hidden it away in the recesses of your mind, locked tight and buried deep. The bond between you, that last shred of connection untouched by Astarion’s cruelty, preserved out of fear—fear of what he’d do if he found it, fear of what it would mean if it failed.
But now, with Wyll’s life bleeding away in your arms and Karlach sobbing in a mixture of rage and despair, you see no other choice. This is your only chance to reach him and find the man you married buried somewhere beneath the monster.
You hesitate. Opening the bond is more than a risk; it’s a surrender. Once the door is flung open, there will be no taking it back. He will know everything. Every thought, every emotion, every fleeting whisper of rebellion or resentment.
Your lies, your hopes, your hatred, your love—laid bare.
If this doesn’t work, you’ll have handed him the keys to your soul.
Wyll’s pulse is faint now, fluttering like the wings of a dying moth. The moment stretches, endless and excruciating, and you realize you’re out of time. You take a shuddering breath, an act so unnatural it feels like a mockery of the life you no longer have, and then you let go.
As soon as the bond snaps open, raw pain floods you. It’s a cold pain, sharp and creeping, like frostbite gnawing its way through your skin, burrowing deep until it reaches the marrow of your bones. You feel it settle there, an ache so profound it almost suffocates you, but the worst part is the sound.
A symphony of voices—no, not a symphony, a cacophony—erupts in your mind. It’s endless and discordant, every note wrong and sharp, scraping against the edges of your sanity. The voices chant in a perverse harmony, a song of paranoia and malice.
You’re nothing. Weak. Disposable.
The words sting, but their tone is beguiling. They are contemptible yet tempting, each syllable laced with a sweetness that beckons you to listen, lean in, and believe. They promise power, freedom from doubt, and freedom from pain—if only you would give in.
It’s maddeningly seductive, and you wonder how he hears himself think over the constant noise, but then you realize he doesn’t.
The voices swarm, and suddenly, you feel them notice you. They latch on to your thoughts, slick and insidious, winding through your mind like vines coated in thorns. They twist and tighten, infecting you with a venomous corrosion that eats away at the very essence of who you are.
Why fight? One voice coos, silk-soft and dripping with disdain. It’s easier this way.
You’re not strong enough, hisses another, low and venomous, its words slithering into the cracks of your defences. You’ll never be strong enough.
Your thoughts start to warp under their influence, each one pulled apart and rearranged until you can barely recognize them. You try to push back, to reclaim control, but the voices are relentless. Their chant grows louder, a deafening orchestra. The pain intensifies, but underneath it all is a coaxing warmth, a vile comfort that urges you to let go.
You wrench yourself free from the glacial pull, gasping as if emerging from freezing water. The pain lingers, an ache in every nerve, but you focus on what you must do. With everything you have, you flood Astarion with the only weapon you possess against this: your love, your light, the memories of the man he was.
You pour it all into the bond, a torrent of warmth and brightness against the cold, oppressive dark. You push in the sound of his laughter when it was soft and unguarded, the gentle brush of his fingertips against your skin when he thought no one else was watching. You show him his own humanity—the pieces of himself he would scoff at but that you know still exist.
Your eyes snap open, and they lock onto him. Astarion stands frozen like a marble statue come to life, his body rigid and trembling under the weight of your assault. His crimson eyes are round and unblinking, as if he’s seeing something he cannot comprehend.
You plunge deeper, shoving aside the frost-choked whispers of madness that try to devour you, wading through the virulent mire of his mind. It’s a labyrinth of jagged edges and venomous traps, each thought a barbed snare waiting to close around you, but you press on.
You sift through every shadowed nook and cranny, tearing through the layers of rot and cruelty, ferreting out anything—anything—that resembles your husband. You dig through memories warped by his ascension, memories drenched in blood and ash. The twisted delight he takes in control and domination rears up like a predator, snapping its jaws, but you shove it away.
“Come back to me,” you whisper through the bond, your voice trembling but firm. “You’re still in there. I know you are.”
The deeper you go, the more the cold bites, as though his darkness fights back. The voices return, screaming now, a cacophony of rage and hatred, but you don’t relent. For a brief, flickering second, something surfaces—a glimmer in the murk, faint and fleeting. It’s small, fragile, but unmistakable.
Him.
The ropes of compulsion shatter, and your body is finally yours again. You throw yourself away from Wyll with such force that you skid across the ground.
Karlach, trembling with fury, tears herself from Astarion’s slackened grip. Her teeth are bared, her face flushed with a rage that could rival the Nine Hells. She hurls him into the nearest wall, the sickening crunch of stone meeting flesh ringing in your ears.
Before you can react, she’s already moving, stalking toward where her axe rests against the far wall. Her movements are swift and purposeful as she bellows, “That’s enough! You’ve gone too far this time, fanged bastard!”
Astarion collapses in a heap where she threw him, his body still as death. He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, his eyes wide and vacant, staring into nothingness.
“Karlach, wait!” you shout, scrambling to your feet. Your voice cracks under the weight of urgency, but she doesn’t hear you—or doesn’t care.
Her massive hand grips the haft of her axe, and you see her muscles tense, preparing to swing it down on him.
No. No. No!
You don’t think; you don’t plan. You hurl yourself forward with every ounce of vampiric speed and strength you possess, slamming into her waist just as she lifts the axe. The two of you crash to the floor, a tangle of flailing limbs.
“Karlach, stop! Please!” You cry, your voice raw.
She struggles against you, her strength an inferno, each movement sending tremors through your bones. Her skin burns where it touches yours, the sizzling of flesh like acid to your ears. The smell of charred meat fills the air as your hands blister and blacken, but you hold on. You can’t let go.
“Get off me!” She roars, her voice filled with grief and rage, both directed at you and the monster you’re protecting.
Her elbow slams into your side, and you feel the snap of ribs. Your vision wavers from the pain, but you cling to her, ignoring the agony, ignoring the smell, ignoring the searing heat.
“Just a moment!” you plead, your voice breaking, your desperation bleeding through.
Even as you grapple with Karlach, wrestling her arms away from the axe, you push your focus back into the bond, back into the void of Astarion’s mind. The dying star you glimpsed is faint, but you rocket toward it.
Please, gods, please.
Karlach fights you with everything she has, but you hold on, your body burning, your concentration stretched thin. You press into the cold darkness, reaching for that light buried deep within the abyss. The moment your mind touches it, it’s as if the fabric of reality buckles and tears apart.
Astarion’s thoughts unravel like threads pulled too tightly, snapping one by one in a chaotic cascade. Time feels loose; space dissolves. Your stomach churns as you’re plunged into a vortex of fragmented memories, cruel desires, and the frosted whispers of lunacy. You cling to the light, gripping it desperately, even as it threatens to slip away.
Then, a hand of molten fury seizes you.
You barely register the movement before you’re airborne, her throw sending you careening through a table. Splinters bite into your back as you crash through the wooden frame, landing in a heap amid shattered debris. Pain flares in thorny bursts, but you barely notice it over the chaotic pounding in your head.
The clang of metal echoes in your ears as Karlach hefts her axe. The heat of her wrath radiates through the room, and you can hear her steps storming closer, shaking the ground beneath her.
And then you hear it.
A voice. Quiet, like a long-forgotten melody. “Illyria?”
Your dead heart clenches with the phantom pain of longing. Astarion’s voice is no more than a whisper, but it’s warm, familiar.
Real.
Your head snaps toward him. He’s still crumpled where Karlach left him, his pale face slack, but his lips move faintly, shaping your name like a prayer.
“Illyria?” he repeats even softer, the first raindrop landing on thirsty earth.
Karlach doesn’t see or hear it. Her axe arcs high, the blade gleaming an angry red with the light of the fire. The edge looks sharper than death itself.
You barely think. The Weave rushes to your grasp, the familiar pull and snap of magic coursing through your veins. You cast Misty Step, the incantation escaping your lips as you vanish from your place among the broken table and reappear in a swirl beside Astarion.
There’s no time to check if what you heard was real. You throw yourself over him, draping your body across his in a desperate shield. Karlach’s rage fills your ears, a feral roar that shakes the walls. You feel the whistle of the blade through the air above you, its keen edge cutting a deadly arc.
Your fingers twist into Astarion’s clothing, clutching him tightly as you close your eyes. You don’t pray; you don’t plead. You brace yourself for the end, for the strike that will come—and hope it will be quick.
Astarion shakes violently, the tremors running through him like cold fire as if he’s been trapped in a block of ice for centuries, yet his skin burns with an intensity he can’t comprehend. His fingers claw at the ground, trying to anchor himself in something solid. Everything around him is nothing but a blur, a haze, his mind a tangled mess of thoughts that ricochet off each other.
He breathes in, trying to steady himself, but the air feels too thick in his lungs. His chest aches with the effort like he’s been holding his breath for far too long. Confusion—raw, brutal confusion—fogs everything else. His thoughts are disjointed, starting and stopping abruptly, tumbling over one another with no real direction.
Thunk.
The sound breaks through the pandemonium, and his eyes snap open. Everything swims in his vision, a sea of wind-whipped black spots dancing like a storm. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear the fuzziness that clouds his senses. It doesn’t work. The world still feels distant, out of reach.
Where am I? Why is everything so wrong?
He shifts slightly, disoriented, and his gaze lands on the floor where a blade is buried deep in the ground, the metal glinting ominously. It’s too close.
A spike of panic digs into his gut, and he forces himself to sit up, but his head spins as if the very act of thinking is too much. He swallows hard, pushing the blackness away from his vision, but everything feels… foreign.
Voices.
He hears voices. They sound distant, muffled, as though they’re underwater, but he can’t make sense of them. His fists ball, and his body is trembling harder now as if his very being is being torn between two worlds. He needs to focus. He needs to remember. The last thing… what was the last thing he remembers?
His mind reels, but it slips away before he can grasp anything. It’s like trying to hold water in his hands. His memories dissolve before they fully form, slipping through his fingers, and his chest tightens as the pain in his head intensifies.
Nothing is making sense.
He tries to move, but his limbs feel heavy and unresponsive, like his body isn’t entirely his own. Every motion feels like wading through mud. His thoughts scatter, and all he can do is sit there, confused and trembling, searching for something—anything—to hold onto.
Astarion’s head throbs, each pulse of pain rebounding off his skull. The voices grow louder, each syllable incomprehensible, a maddening murmur that rakes at his sanity. It’s as though they speak in a language he can’t begin to decipher.
The wall finally presses into his back, but there’s no escape from the flood of confusion, or the warping, spiralling chaos.
A song begins to play in the back of his consciousness—an earsplitting, strident melody that cuts through the confusion like a blade. It’s painful yet strangely alluring as if it’s coaxing him into somewhere deeper and darker. The sound twists around him like vines, burrowing into his thoughts. It feels like sinking into a hot bath, too inviting yet far too dangerous.
His vision starts to dim, as though his very life is draining out. He shakes his head violently to dislodge the sensation.
No. He can’t lose himself in this. He won’t lose himself.
The world shifts, and in the firelight, something catches his eye—a gleam of something metallic. He turns his head, his vision clearing just enough to make out the sight before him. There, through the gauze of confusion and pain, he sees her.
Illyria.
His spawn.
No… No, that’s not right.
His bride. His wife.
Yes. The memory is there, blossoming like a delicate flower in his fractured mind. He sees her walking down the aisle, her beauty illuminated by the setting sun. He remembers their vows, the promises made beneath that golden light. The memory is so vivid that it nearly takes his breath away.
But something is wrong.
Illyria looks… different. She’s thinner, almost gaunt, her skin stretched tight over bone as though the life has been drained from her. Her once radiant form is now emaciated, bordering on sickly.
Why?
The soft ache in his heart is foreign to him, unsettling. He doesn’t like it.
She grapples with Karlach. Illyria’s movements are sharp and frantic, her voice a mixture of hissing, growling, and pleading—wild, untamed, desperate. The sound of it grates on his senses, twisting something deep inside of him, but it’s when he sees her eyes—wide with fear, with rage, with something he can’t quite place—that it really hits him.
Astarion’s mind stutters. He doesn’t understand. None of this makes sense. What is happening? Karlach. Why is she here? He wants to call out to Illyria, but the words stick in his throat, trapped between disorientation and horror.
Gods, he just does not understand.
Illyria stands between him and Karlach, her presence like a beacon, something he’s lost but desperately needs to hold onto. The Weave dances around her, a radiant glow that hums with raw power. It is both beautiful and terrifying, crackling in the air like a storm about to break.
Why are they fighting?
The question circles in his mind like a whirlpool. These people, these faces that once felt like friends—why are they at odds now? Karlach, with her rage barely contained. Illyria, his wife, standing in front of him, protective and fierce, as if she's trying to shield him from some terrible truth he can't yet grasp.
Illyria’s blood drips from her forehead, but she doesn’t seem to care. She wipes it away quickly, her gaze fixed on Karlach, unwavering and unyielding. The tension between them is palpable, as though the air itself could snap at any moment.
Karlach's hatred burns into him, cold and furious. It makes Astarion shrink inside, though he fights it, his body rigid, trying to hold onto some semblance of control. He opens his mouth to speak, to demand answers, but no words come.
“Enough, Karlach!” Illyria snarls, but then her intonation softens. “Give me a chance to explain, please.”
“It better be one Hells of an explanation, soldier,” Karlach spits, relenting though her anger simmers just beneath the surface.
Illyria’s stance softens, the dangerous crackling at her fingertips fading, but the tension in the air lingers. She doesn't fully relax, but she moves towards him. The weight of her steps feels like a relief, a return to something familiar and steady.
“Astarion?” Her voice is soft, uncertain, as though the question itself is a plea. She reaches out to him, and his heart, or whatever remains of it, skips a beat.
Her touch—he's afraid of it. Afraid of her. Afraid of everything right now.
He recoils, a reflex so strong it feels instinctive. The touch, the closeness—his mind cannot reconcile it within the turmoil. The pain, the confusion, the disjointed memories, and now this, her reaching for him, her fingers outstretched like she’s reaching for the last thread of his humanity.
Illyria stops short, her hand wavering in the air before dropping. The silence between them grows thick, oppressive and filled with unspoken questions. He can feel her hesitation, the way she’s pulling back, trying to read him, trying to understand the distance he’s put between them.
But Astarion can’t breathe. He can’t think. His mind is a mess of shattered thoughts, fragments of who he was and who he is now.
“I…” His voice cracks, hoarse and weak. He tries again, but the words die in his throat.
Why does she look so different? The soft ache in his chest tightens, a strange, wrenching sensation that doesn’t belong.
Illyria watches him, her eyes searching as if looking for something in him that she knows is there but can’t reach. He feels like a stranger in his own body like a piece of himself is locked away.
Everything about this moment feels wrong. But she’s here. She’s real. She’s his, even if he doesn’t know what that means right now.
"Astarion," she repeats, her voice quieter now, the question lingering between them like a breath held too long.
Astarion’s head spins, the world blurring as he stares at Illyria, her face so close, yet somehow so far away. Everything feels distant—her eyes, her voice, even the air around him seems hollow. His chest tightens, his breath coming in short bursts that make his ribs ache.
What’s happening to me?
"Illyria," he whispers, though the word feels foreign on his tongue. He opens his mouth to say something more, but it’s as if the words are stuck.
His fingers twitch, reaching out toward her, but he hesitates, the distance between them like an invisible wall. He doesn’t understand why he’s afraid of her—why it feels so wrong, so unsafe. His mind is a storm, a mess of jagged thoughts, and his body seems to betray him at every turn.
“Illyria…” he repeats, a bit louder this time, but it comes out choked, like a plea. “Where are we? What happened?” He doesn't even know what he's asking or if he really wants to know the answers. He shakes his head, the effort making his skull feel like it’s cracking. “I don’t—Gods, I don’t understand. You—You’re not real, are you?”
Her voice comes soft and coaxing. “Astarion, look at me. You’re okay. You’re here with me.”
His eyes snap toward her, but it's like trying to focus on a dream that keeps slipping away. “No, no, no—I’m not okay,” he mutters to himself, more than to her—his head throbs, a pulsing rhythm that drowns out everything else. “I’m broken… I’m—what happened to me? Why can’t I remember? Why can’t I—think?”
Illyria’s voice softens, though he doesn’t know if it’s from pity or care. “You’re not broken, Astarion. You’ve just been through a lot. Please, just tell me what you're feeling."
His breathing hitches as he forces himself to meet her eyes, but it’s like looking into the abyss. She’s there, yes, but she’s not. How can she be here when everything feels like it’s slipping away?
“I—feel... cold.” His voice cracks again, and he feels foolish. “Cold, and… so godsdamned hot, all at once. My thoughts are so loud, but they make no sense. They are screaming at me. All of them—every single one. I—” He stops himself, chest heaving. The words do not come out the way he wants them to.
Illyria shifts closer, her eyes searching his face with such intensity that it almost burns. “It’s okay. We’ll work through it. What are they saying?”
He flinches at the question, the voices in his head rising again like a tide.
Lies! Betrayal! They’re lying to you, Astarion. She’s not really here. She’s just a dream. Don’t trust her.
Astarion clutches his temples, trying to block out the noise. “They—they will not fucking stop.” His voice is strained, shaky. “It’s all just... jumbled, endless screaming inside my skull. They keep saying things I do not want to hear, things I cannot—do not—understand.”
Tears prickle at the corners of his eyes, but he quickly blinks them away. No, he refuses to let her see him break. Not like this. Not when he can barely keep himself together.
“I’m not… I don’t know what is real anymore. I do not know who I am.”
His vision pales again, and he can feel himself slipping under like quicksand. The warmth of her presence and her voice beckons him, but it’s like a distant lighthouse through a fog, flickering and fading just as he reaches for it.
“I don’t know who I am anymore," he repeats, the words coming out in a broken whisper. ”I don’t know who we are. Why can’t I just— Why can’t I remember?”
Astarion trembles in front of you. His eyes flicker, the depths of his gaze growing darker and more unfocused with each passing moment. His lips part, but the words he speaks are disconnected, like fragments of shattered glass struggling to find coherence.
“Illyria... you... you look...” He swallows hard, his hands trembling as they press to his temples. “You look... thin. Like you’ve been... starving, but I don’t—I don’t understand.” His voice cracks. “How did this happen? Why does it hurt to look at you? You're so... different. So faint.”
He stares at you as though he doesn’t recognize you, his words more of a question than anything else. His chest heaves in desperate gasps, but the air seems to cling to him in suffocating waves like it’s both too hot and too heavy for him to breathe properly.
“Gods, this air... it is too thick. It’s... burning, but not—why can’t I breathe? It feels like the weight of everything is pressing on me, inside me. I can’t—I cannot breathe, Illyria. It’s too much. Too hot. Too—” He coughs a strange, choked sound that only adds to the disarray in his voice.
You instinctively reach for him but hesitate, knowing better than to crowd him too soon. You can’t force him to calm down; it has to come from him. Your fingers itch to soothe him, but instead, you will yourself to hold steady, to be the quiet within his storm.
You let your voice be the anchor, soft and steady, something to tether him to reality. “Astarion... I’m here. Breathe with me. Just breathe, okay? It’s alright.”
His eyes flash with an almost frantic energy as he seems to latch onto your words, but there’s a haunted look behind his gaze.
“I don’t know how... They... they won’t let me think. Every little thing just keeps... spinning. Illyria, make it stop. Make it stop... please.”
You steady your breath, forcing everything else to quiet inside you. There’s no room for your worries or fears right now. Not when he needs you more than ever. You push away the anxiety that rises like a tide in your chest, the unease that it could take so little for him to slip away from you.
“Astarion,” you murmur again, your voice a whisper but strong. “You’re safe. You’re with me, and I’ve got you. You’re strong. You just need to find your way back.”
He shakes his head frantically as if he can’t hear you; his hands clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles are white. "I don’t—I don’t want this. I do not want to feel like this. I don’t want to be lost." His words crack as if he’s breaking apart at the seams. “I don’t know how to fix it.”
You reach for him slowly, your fingers brushing his arm with the gentlest of touches, just enough to remind him of your presence but not so much that you swarm him. “You’re not broken, Astarion,” you whisper, the words almost a mantra, though you’re not sure if you’re trying to convince him or yourself. “You’re not broken.”
His gaze snaps to your hand, and for a moment, his eyes soften—just barely, but it’s there. The tiniest spark of recognition. He opens his mouth as if to speak again, but the words die on his lips as his body shudders gruellingly, like even that tiny piece of clarity frightens him.
“I just need... a moment,” he mutters, his voice raw and strained. “Just a moment... to breathe. To think. To remember...”
You stay on your knees by Astarion, watching him as he breathes deeply, his chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate motions. You don’t touch him, though the urge to do so burns at the edges of your mind. He needs space, space to breathe, to think, and to untangle the mess of his thoughts.
Behind you, Karlach calls to Wyll, shaking him, her desperate pleas cutting through the tension in the room. You don’t want to look or face what you've done, even if it wasn’t by your own choice, but the scene is too loud, and you can’t avoid it forever.
You glance over your shoulder. Wyll’s slumped form in the chair twists something deep in your gut. You close your eyes momentarily, trying to drown out the noise in your head and focusing on the sound of beating hearts in the room.
Karlach’s pulse is loud, strong—like the whirring of metal gears. Astarion’s... it’s fast. Erratic. Thunderous in your ears, pounding with the chaos inside him. Then, there’s Wyll’s. It’s weak, distant, but still there—the steady thump of a life that refuses to fade.
It should be a relief. He’s alive, after all. But the feeling is sour, like something rancid eating away at your insides. The thought of the betrayal in his eyes, the shock that will surface when he wakes, makes your stomach tighten.
Astarion shifts slightly, but his focus is still on the shadows behind his eyes, caught in whatever has a hold of him.
“Wyll’s alive,” you offer apologetically.
"How do you know?" Karlach asks in a timbre strained between hatred and relief.
You hesitate for only a second before gesturing vaguely to your ear. "Vampiric hearing.”
Her eyes flicker toward you, searching for any glimmer of hope, any shred of reassurance you can give. “Will he live?” she presses, her voice low, fragile.
You nod, though doubt lingers. “He needs rest,” you say, and the words come out sounding more confident than you feel. “He’s strong. He will pull through.”
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 6.1k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]
The marketplace of Abriymoch is a sprawling bazaar carved from the very heart of a volcanic city. Its jagged pathways twist and writhe like molten rivers frozen mid-flow. Gouts of steam hiss from the vents scattered throughout the market, shimmering in the ashen air and leaving a film of sweat across your brow. You stumble, your legs still trembling beneath your weight. Astarion, ever the picture of poise, watches your clumsy movement with disdain.
“Honestly, pet,” he scoffs with a liberal amount of disdain. “If you are trying to garner sympathy from the locals with this pathetic display, you’re going about it all wrong. You look less ‘helpless waif’ and more ‘drunken oaf.’”
You grit your teeth, refusing to rise to the bait. The crowd swirls around you, a sea of exotic traders and infernal beings bartering wares in harsh, guttural tongues.
Astarion pauses at a vendor peddling enchanted garments. The merchant is a stern-looking fire Genasi with skin the colour of burning coals and hair that flickers like a living flame.
“Do you have anything with resistance to cold?” Astarion inquires, his tone polite but distant, like someone humouring a rather dull child.
“Resistance to cold? In a place like Abriymoch?” The merchant’s laughter is like crackling, dry tinder-catching fire. “Strange request.”
Astarion quirks an eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, we all have our peculiarities,” he remarks, glancing at you. “For instance, I travel with a half-dead liability that could use some thawing.”
The merchant doesn’t catch the barb, but you do, and it tightens something bitter in your stomach. Astarion leaves the stall and continues to a nearby weapons stall, where an array of daggers gleam under the angry light of the sky.
The weaponsmith watches Astarion with wary respect as he plucks a dagger from the display, testing the balance, twirling it between his fingers with practiced elegance.
“The balance is off,” he accuses the merchant while balancing the dagger on his finger, where the blade meets the hilt.
The weaponsmith stiffens, his soot-streaked hands twitching as if to snatch the dagger back, but Astarion's casual demeanour and the faint, predatory edge in his smirk keep him rooted in place. "Off? Impossible. My blades are unmatched in all of Abriymoch!"
Astarion tilts his head, the motion serpentine. “Unmatched? How charmingly ambitious. But look here—” He flips the dagger, the blade catching the fiery gleam of the volcanic light, and presses the hilt toward the merchant's chest. “Feel the weight shift. It pulls just enough to ruin a throw. Not much, but enough to cost someone their life if they miscalculated.”
The merchant reluctantly takes the dagger, testing it as Astarion instructed. His scowl deepens, a reluctant recognition in his eyes. “Perhaps, but most wouldn’t notice.”
“I’m not most,” Astarion purrs, folding his arms with infuriating elegance. “I make a point to demand perfection in all things. Now, if you have a blade worthy of someone of my calibre, perhaps we can do business. If not, I’ll take my coin elsewhere.”
The merchant hesitates and then begrudgingly reaches beneath the stall’s counter, pulling out a sheathed blade. Its scabbard is simple and unassuming, but the moment the merchant unsheathes the dagger, a low hum fills the air. The blade gleams unnaturally, the surface etched with infernal runes that flicker faintly as though alive.
“Is this... adequate for your ‘particular talents’?” the merchant asks, his tone edged with irritation.
Astarion takes the dagger delicately, his movements reverent, as if handling an artifact rather than a weapon. He tests it with the same methodical precision. “Now this,” he murmurs, his voice almost too soft to hear over the din of the market, “is more like it.”
He tosses a handful of gold onto the stall, far less than the weapon is likely worth, and the merchant opens his mouth to protest. Before he can utter a word, Astarion's crimson gaze flickers to him, silencing any objection with a look.
“That was dangerous. You didn’t need to humiliate him,” you say quietly, your voice strained but firm.
He glances at you, an eyebrow raised in mock surprise. “Humiliate? I was doing him a service. If anything, he should thank me for pointing out his incompetence.”
There’s no use arguing; he thrives on it, feeding off your frustration. His dismissive, detached tone sets your teeth on edge.
“You don’t have to make everyone feel small, Astarion,” you manage, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
He stops abruptly, turning to face you, and the smirk vanishes. His expression is cold and empty, sending shiver through you despite the ambient heat. “What would you have me do? Be kind? Generous? Spare the feelings of a man who wouldn’t hesitate to cheat us if given the chance?”
His leer sharpens, pinning you in place. “This world—my world—does not reward kindness, pet. It eats it alive. You would do well to remember that.”
Astarion straightens, his composure snapping back into place. The smirk returns but feels hollow now, an echo of something long dead. “Now, shall we move along? I believe there’s a merchant selling potions just ahead. Unless, of course, you would like to chastise me further?”
You swallow hard, the sting of his words cutting deeper than you’d like to admit. You trail behind, struggling to keep up, the exhaustion in your limbs making every step feel like wading through molten slag. Your vision swims, the heat, and fatigue conspiring to make the world tilt and warp.
Your muscles feel like melting wax, quivering under the strain of merely standing. Every step you take seems to echo inside your skull, each footfall a sluggish, off-kilter drumbeat.
Astarion glides through the marketplace like a shark through dark waters, all grace and cunning wrapped in a veneer of aristocratic disdain. His pale hand darts out to grab your wrist, his grip firm yet cold, yanking you back when you nearly trip over a mound of smouldering obsidian gravel.
“If you insist on stumbling about like a drunk kobold, I’m going to have to put a leash on you,” he drawls without even sparing you a glance.
You can’t muster the energy to fire back while your head spins, and your legs feel like they've been hollowed out, filled with something weightless and unreliable. Astarion, for all his cruel mockery, never lets you truly fall. His fingers linger too long on your waist, and when you falter near a pack of bickering devils, he hooks an arm around you with a grip that’s almost protective.
There is no way to know if it's genuine concern or some twisted way to ensure his possession—his property—remains unharmed.
“Illyria!”
Your name echoes through the haze of exhaustion. At first, it barely registers—just another sound slipping through your muddled mind, something distant and unreal, like the fading remnants of a dream that refuses to settle into memory. Your thoughts stumble, sluggish, struggling to bridge the gap between the voice and the face it belongs to.
Karlach.
The realization lands with all the grace of an avalanche. Then, like a knife driven straight through your chest, comes the dread. Your breath catches, not that your lungs require it, but the reflex remains—like the ghost of something you used to need.
Karlach. Here. Now. Calling out to you, her voice undeniably real, slicing through the crowd. You feel the bloodless chill seep through your body. If she’s here, if they are here, then everything becomes infinitely more complicated.
More dangerous.
Your muscles lock, heartless chest tightening as you desperately wish to disappear, to blend into this infernal marketplace. But there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and as the dread coils tighter, you know there’s no avoiding the collision that’s about to unfold.
Karlach barrels towards you, a smile that could light up the Hells themselves, breaking across her face. Her hand claps down on your shoulder, and you feel a pang of guilt mixed with relief. It’s like being washed in sunlight you can’t feel—a distant echo of what should be joy but isn’t.
Wyll comes up beside her, his stance refined but alert, one hand resting easily on the pommel of his sword. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says with a grin that holds more than a hint of worry, his eyes flicking from you to Astarion and back. “What in the Nine Hells are you doing down here?”
Astarion’s reaction is immediate, turning smoothly to face them. His smile spreads, practiced and gleaming, like a snake basking in the warmth of its next meal. “Ah, our delightful companions,” he purrs, and you hate how convincing he sounds. He wraps an arm around your waist, his touch both possessive and delicate, like the petal of a rose lined with thorns. “We are on our honeymoon if you can believe it. Such a romantic locale, don’t you think?”
Karlach’s eyebrows shoot up; her confusion is blatant and genuine. “You’re married? Since when?”
You feel like you’re shrinking under her gaze, your words caught in a tangle somewhere in your throat. It’s too much effort to speak, too much to force a smile and make it look natural. Astarion, of course, has no such trouble. He lets out a silken laugh, pressing a kiss to your temple that makes your insides warp.
“Since not too long ago,” he says, his lips curving in that infuriating, perfect way.
His fingers trace little patterns on your hip—a touch that feels like a brand and a tether, keeping you locked in place.
Wyll’s eyes narrow slightly. “A honeymoon. In Avernus,” he repeats as if tasting the words for poison. “I’m not one to judge unconventional choices, but surely you’ve had your fill of danger?”
“Exactly!” Karlach interjects, folding her arms over her chest, her usual buoyant demeanour dimmed by suspicion. “I mean, come on, there’s more romantic places out there. Waterdeep? The Moonshae Isles? Literally, anywhere that’s not a giant inferno filled with devils?”
Astarion only grins wider, his charm like a net tightening around them, every word carefully spun. “Well, Illyria and I do so love a bit of adventure.”
You force yourself to nod, the movement small and tense. Your silence is stretching on too long, and you can feel Karlach and Wyll trying to read between the lines, searching your face for the real story. Panic claws at you, whispering that they’ll see through it, try to intervene, and then everything will unravel.
Karlach’s hand squeezes your shoulder. “You alright, soldier?” she asks, her deep voice tempered with a gentleness she usually reserves for friends in pain.
The familiarity nearly unravels you, but you muster every scrap of energy left in your drained body. You paint on a smile, one bright enough to rival the lava streams cutting through the landscape, and infuse your voice with a sickly sweetness.
“I’m more than alright. We’re on our honeymoon!” You gesture broadly to the fiery expanse around you as if the hellish panorama could ever be described as a lover’s paradise. “What could be more romantic than the Hells? Endless warmth, scenic infernos… truly the stuff of fairy tales.”
Astarion chuckles, though it never reaches his eyes. “Yes, darling, the stuff of fairy tales, indeed. It’s been an unforgettable trip so far.”
Karlach exchanges a glance with Wyll, her worry far less concealed. "Well, why don’t we celebrate your... unforgettable trip with a drink?”
Her intonation is casual, but the invitation is a thinly veiled attempt to feel out the truth. An interrogation masquerading as a reunion, with your freedom—or lack thereof—dangling in the balance. Panic coils in your gut. This is a game of survival, and one wrong move could end in disaster. If they push too hard, if they try to take you from Astarion, he won’t hesitate to make an example of them.
“Oh, that sounds splendid. We would love to celebrate!” Astarion exclaims, in full performance mode, before you can think of a way to get out of it.
Your knees feel as weak as a sapling in a storm, but you must stay strong. You might be caught in Astarion’s web, but their lives are still salvageable. You’ll have to put on the performance of a lifetime.
Their lives depend on it, even if yours is already forfeit.
The tavern they lead you to is a significant step up from the dingy inn Astarion chose to stay in. Here, the walls are decorated with tapestries and Baatorian green steel beams that look like they’ve stood through centuries. The clientele is far more refined—devils in resplendent armour, tieflings with elaborate jewellery, and the occasional cambion squaring you up to decide if you’re worth the trouble.
Karlach slaps a handful of gold onto the polished bar and orders rounds for everyone, her exuberance filling the room like a bonfire. You can’t help but watch her, a spark of warmth flickering in your chest despite your exhaustion. She seems more at ease than when you last saw her, the embers of her soul burning brightly. Wyll stands at her side, poised as ever, but his smile softens when he catches Karlach laughing.
“So,” you say, leaning forward and propping your chin on your hand, determined to steer the conversation away from the sword of Damocles hanging over your neck. “What’s the story this time? Have you managed to fix Karlach’s heart yet, or did you take a few too many scenic detours?”
Karlach laughs, warm and infectious, her eyes crinkling. “Oh, you wouldn’t believe the things we’ve had to do,” she starts, taking a swig of her drink. “There was this one devil, right? Called himself Zarum the Unyielding. We had to barter with him for an infernal gear needed for my engine, and let me tell you, that bastard has a sense of humour as twisted as a corkscrew. He tried to make me arm wrestle his pet hellhound while fire rained down from above. Not my finest moment.”
You can’t help but grin, picturing Karlach in the thick of that chaos, muscles straining against the weight of a monstrous hound. “Please, tell me you won.”
“Damn right, I did!” She slams her fist on the table, making the mugs jump. “Sent that mangy mutt flying across the room! Of course, Wyll had to play the diplomat afterward because, apparently, smashing a hellhound into a pillar doesn’t exactly warm people up to you.”
Wyll leans in, lips quirking. “Someone has to clean up after her,” he says teasingly. “I managed to talk our way out of Zarum, turning us into charred statues, but only after a harrowing game of infernal chess. He was relentless, but I had a few tricks up my sleeve.” His expression grows momentarily serious. “It’s been... taxing. Every step forward seems to come at a cost, but we’ve made progress. We’ll get there.”
You nod, swallowing back the lump forming in your throat. Despite the weight of the hellish environment, it’s easy to get swept up in their tales and forget the shadow looming over your table. Astarion’s hand finds your knee and your entire body tenses. His touch is deceptively gentle, fingers tracing circles in a mockery of tenderness.
He smiles, the picture of a devoted husband, his crimson eyes warm and full of fake adoration. “My love,” he murmurs, leaning in to nuzzle your temple, “aren’t our friends the most charming of heroes? It’s a shame we don’t have such riveting stories of our own to share, hm?”
You hate how your body betrays you, leaning into his touch because it’s familiar and easier to pretend. For a heartbeat—or the lack of one—you let yourself imagine this is real. That he’s yours and not the cold, calculating monster he’s become.
Karlach’s concern etches lines into her brow. She doesn’t seem to buy your act entirely but hasn’t pressed the issue. Not yet, at least. You sip your drink, willing your trembling hands to still, and nod along as they continue to share their misadventures.
Wyll leans forward, elbows on the table, his posture deceptively relaxed, though his eyes are as sharp as a blade unsheathed. “You know, Astarion, I’ve always been told a good husband keeps his wife’s strength up. Ensures she’s well-fed, happy, not wasting away.” His words slip from his mouth with the elegance of a courtly challenge, smooth but barbed.
The jab lands with precision. You can see how it pierces Astarion’s pride, even if his expression remains nonchalant. He offers a slow smile, polished and perfect as if nothing could ruffle his aristocratic feathers. “Yes, well, culinary delights are dreadfully hard to come by in this charming inferno. We make do, don’t we, my love?” His fingers brush your shoulder, trailing down your arm in a caress that looks adoring but feels as cold as the grave.
Karlach’s eyes narrow. They flick between the two of you like she’s searching for cracks in a beautifully painted vase. Wyll tilts his head, suspicion stamped into his usually warm features, and you feel the suffocating weight of their concern.
As Wyll’s question burrows into your mind, the realization snaps into place. Your fatigue, your stumbling, the fog in your thoughts—it all clicks. Bloodlust. Your hunger, suppressed and strangled by compulsion, has seeped into every corner of your being, leeching your strength away.
You’ve been wilting in slow motion.
A curse slips from your lips, too quiet for anyone but Astarion to hear. He tenses beside you, his hand still tracing lazy patterns along your arm, and you’re suddenly aware of the precarious dance you’re both performing. The thin veneer of civility, the fragile mask of wedded bliss—it’s all dangerously close to shattering.
“Astarion, perhaps you would accompany me to gather the next round?” Wyll suggests. “I’d rather have you there with me to ensure the drinks are properly measured. The barkeep seems to think she knows how to pour, but I’ll be honest—there’s not a chance I’ll trust her judgment when it comes to spirits.”
“As if your taste is any better,” Astarion retorts. “The last time you picked something, I had to spit it out. We are lucky I did not turn into a puddle of regret.”
Wyll chuckles, brushing off the jab. “You wound me, my friend,” he says, but his tone holds an undercurrent of genuine camaraderie. “But seriously, I’m not going to let you keep Illyria locked away in this hellhole without a proper drink.”
There’s a flicker of something cold in Astarion’s gaze, but it vanishes, replaced by his polished demeanour. He stands, smoothing his clothes, the movements exaggeratedly elegant. “Fine, I’ll humour you.” He looks over at you, his gaze too sharp for comfort, as if he’s measuring your every reaction. “Don’t expect me to enjoy this.”
Wyll grins, a knowing, friendly grin that only makes Astarion’s disinterest seem even more feigned. “Oh, I don’t expect much from you at all.”
Karlach watches Astarion and Wyll walk away, the tension visible in the set of her jaw and the furrow of her dark brows. As soon as she’s sure they’re out of earshot, she leans in, dropping to a whisper, rough with worry.
“Hey, are you sure you’re alright? You look like you’ve been dragged backward through the Nine Hells and then asked to do it again, and don’t even try to tell me it’s all rainbows and roses with your vampire beau. I know him.” Her eyes search your face, wide with hope and fear. “If something’s wrong, we can get you out; you know that, right?”
You force a light and dismissive laugh, even as her earnestness threatens to crack the fragile mask you’re wearing. “Karlach, it’s fine,” you insist, waving your hand as if brushing away her worries like cobwebs.
You sip from your drink, savouring the way the alcohol dulls your senses and lets the edges of your reality blur just a bit more.
Karlach isn’t convinced. Her mouth pulls into a grim line, and she glances over her shoulder to where Wyll and Astarion have disappeared. “You’re sure? Because I swear on my hammer if he’s hurting you—” She stops herself. Her hands clench into fists, and she looks ready to fight the entire Hells.
You reach out, touching her arm in what you hope is a reassuring gesture. “I’m okay,” you lie, the words tasting bitter even as you say them. “Promise. Besides, you’ve got your own battles to fight, right? Focus on your heart. Let me handle this.”
She’s still not convinced, and you wade through your muddled thoughts to grasp at something to redirect her attention. You lean forward and wiggle your shoulders. “Speaking of things on your plate, you and Wyll seem pretty... close these days.”
Karlach’s crimson cheeks deepen in hue, but it’s nearly impossible to see the blush against her naturally red skin. Still, there’s no mistaking how her eyes dart away or how she fiddles with a loose thread on her armour. “Oi, you cheeky little thing.”
You shrug, the movement loose and playful in your half-drunken state. “What can I say? I live for the drama. Spill it.”
“Alright, alright, but if you breathe a word of this to Wyll, I’ll throw you in the Styx myself, got it?” She gives you a mock-threatening glare, but there’s no heat behind it, only fondness.
You make a show of zipping your lips. It’s an easy way to shift the focus, but more than that, you want to know. You crave a story that doesn’t end in blood and tears, a narrative where hope isn’t a lie. “Locked up tight. Now, out with it!”
She groans, covering her face with one giant hand. “Okay, fine. It’s just—gah, he’s so good, y’know? And not just in that heroic, ‘I’m here to save the day’ way. He’s got this soft side that, ugh, I never thought I’d get to experience.” Her voice drops, a little more vulnerable. “He looks at me like I’m not a monster, like... like I’m someone worth caring about.”
Your chest tightens as her words pull at the threads of your fragile memories. You can almost see it: Astarion’s gaze, soft with adoration, as if you were the only thing that mattered.
It feels distant now, like a reflection from another lifetime.
Try as you might; the images slip through your grasp like sand sifting through your fingers. The warmth you once clung to overshadowed by the weight of indifference. That cold, detached stare has taken its place in your mind, freezing over the fragile remnants of tenderness like frost devouring the last blooms of spring.
You nod mechanically, forcing a wry smile you hope passes for composure. Inside, though, something within you keens, low and mournful, like the call of an animal that knows it’s been abandoned. You want to brush it aside, blame it on exhaustion, the chaotic haze of your current state, but the ache lingers, carving itself into the hollow places you’d rather not examine.
“Has he, you know, made a move?” You press the conversation onward.
“Okay, okay, don’t get your hopes up too much. There’s still this whole ‘heart of infernal iron’ thing, yeah? We’ve had moments. Close ones.” She bites her lip, and for a second, she looks almost bashful. “He held my hand the other night. Just sat there with me, thumb brushing over my knuckles, telling me stories about his dad. He’s so damn gentle. It’s driving me wild.”
You clutch your chest dramatically as if you have a heart that could swoon. “Oh, gods, that’s adorable! The Blade of Frontiers, bringing you to your knees with hand-holding and sweet words.”
Karlach snorts, smacking you lightly on the shoulder. “Shut up, you hopeless romantic. You’re the one who dragged me into this mushy mess.” Her smile softens, though, and she sighs. “It’s just... nice, you know? To feel like someone sees past all the rage and the fire and thinks there’s something good in here.” She taps her chest, where her broken heart lies.
You nod, suppressing the urge to clutch at your own empty cavity. “Yeah,” you murmur, more to yourself than to her. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Enough about my love life. What about you, huh? You and that broody bastard of yours. How’s the ‘honeymoon’ really treating you?” She wiggles her eyebrows, mimicking your earlier playfulness, but there’s an edge to her question.
You force a laugh; the sound a little too high. “Oh, you know us. It’s all passion and drama.”
When Astarion and Wyll return, you snatch up the shots before anyone can say a word, downing them quickly. The moment Astarion's gaze lands on you, you feel the need to perform, to throw on the mask you’ve fashioned from necessity. Your mood shifts like a chameleon in self-defence, all smiles and sparkles, like a mirror reflecting a happier, more foolish version of yourself.
Astarion tuts you with a blend of reprimand and mock concern, lips twisting into an almost-believable smile, the edges too sharp to be truly soft. “Darling, if you keep drinking like that, I will have to carry you back.”
You match his grin with a lopsided one, tilting your head as you lean into his side. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” You tease with a pitch of flirtation, every syllable a painted-on lie. “It’d give you an excuse to put those strong arms to use.”
The words taste bitter, but you let them roll off your tongue with ease. He plays along, slipping an arm around your waist. You arch into it, craving more—more closeness, more gentleness, more love. You crave it so desperately that you almost forget this is all a game, a farce to keep Wyll and Karlach from guessing the truth.
“Anything for my beautiful bride,” he purrs in a timbre that’s melted chocolate peppered with razor blades.
He leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple, and it’s so convincing you almost believe it yourself. Karlach watches with suspicion lingering in her eyes, but she forces a smile for your sake. Wyll tries to lighten the mood, but you can’t focus on his words. All you feel is Astarion's touch; all you see is the dance you’re trapped in. You keep pushing for more affection, pressing yourself against him, willing him to pretend just a little longer.
Even if only for a moment, you want the illusion to consume you and drown out the truth.
Astarion obliges because his facade must hold, but you know it’s as fragile as spun sugar, ready to shatter the instant your friends catch a glimpse of the cracks, and good Gods, they are looking.
The room spins, like a carousel teetering off its axis, and the drinks keep flowing. Words blend, barely more than sounds strung together by tenuous coherence, but the performance must go on.
“You must have stories from the Hells. Some daring escapes, I’d imagine, and plenty of danger,” Wyll remarks skeptically.
You laugh a bit too loudly, feeling the strain in your throat as it mimics mirth. “Oh, the danger. Demons and devils at every turn. Barely had time to catch our breath between all the romance and life-or-death scrapes.”
The word romance tumbles out like something bitter wrapped in sweetness. You hiccup, and Astarion squeezes your hip in warning.
Karlach folds her arms, leaning back in her chair with a scrutinizing look that could pierce steel. “Come on, though,” she presses. “It doesn’t make sense. You don’t look like you’ve been getting enough to eat. And those shadows under your eyes... ”
You force a grin, the corners of your lips pulling tight. “Food’s not so easy to come by when you’re constantly running for your life,” you offer, slurring just a fraction too much. You swat Astarion’s chest. “But he takes care of me, doesn’t he?”
You giggle, the sound cracks and lean into him more, hoping the pressure will keep your unravelling self together.
Astarion’s fingers brush along your collarbone, leaving warmth in their wake like hot coals dragged over your skin. “My poor love,” he croons in a perfect blend of affection and concern. “I’d drag the moon down from the sky if it meant you’d have a proper meal, but alas, our resources are... limited.”
Karlach’s expression tightens, suspicion flaring, but she forces her tone to remain light. “Limited, sure, but you’ve always found ways to keep each other safe, right?”
You nearly choke on another sip of ale, but Astarion saves you, his grip tightening. “Indeed,” he says smoothly in a timbre of honeyed poison. “I would never let anything happen to her.”
“You know,” Wyll ventures, tilting his head with that princely charm, “if it’s getting a bit too noisy down here, we’ve got a room upstairs. It might be better to catch up in private, where we don’t have to shout over the music and the chaos.”
Karlach’s eyes flick between you and Astarion, and she nods, her heavy hand clinking against her ale mug. “Yeah. It might be good to just... unwind away from all this racket. We could keep things nice and cozy, just the four of us. What do you think?”
The pressure wraps around you like a clamp, your half-drunken haze scattering for a moment of sharp clarity. Alone. No public eyes. Just you, Astarion, and two well-meaning friends who have no idea of the danger they’re inviting.
Your smile wavers, the effort of keeping up your carefree facade corroding. Your tongue feels thick, each word sticking like tar as you stumble for an excuse that could keep this from spiralling out of control.
“Astarion and I have... other plans. Isn’t that right, darling?” Your voice lowers, taking on a coy, suggestive edge. "Something... a little more private.”
Astarion’s crimson gaze gleams, and you can see the moment he seizes the opportunity to torment you. “Oh?” He purrs, leaning in so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your neck. “Do tell them exactly what you want, little love.”
Your face burns, and not from the alcohol. You swallow, your mind spinning, but your mouth, traitorous and loose from drink, follows his demand without pause. “I want... you,” you stammer, and the mortification crashes over you, but you can’t stop. “Right now. Alone.”
Karlach coughs, shifting uncomfortably, and Wyll hides a grimace behind his hand. You almost feel relief, thinking your performance might have been scandalous enough to dissuade them, but Astarion, ever the master manipulator, sees your hope and twists it into something cruel.
He chuckles, the sound deep and rich, then he pulls back, leaving a cold void where his warmth had pressed against you. “Patience, my darling. You can have me... after our little gathering.” His smile widens, more predatory than affectionate. “We wouldn’t want to deny our friends a chance to reconnect.”
Your stomach drops, dread pooling like lead. You’ve played right into his hands and made a fool of yourself for his amusement. The game isn’t over, and you realize, with a heavy sense of resignation, that Astarion won this round.
You stumble up the stairs, each step a monumental effort, your limbs weakened by a mix of drunkenness and something more sinister. The room spins at odd angles, like a stage poorly set, but Astarion keeps you upright with a firm grip. It's not a comfort, though—more like a leash made of flesh binding you to his side.
The room is a world away from the dingy quarters you and Astarion are stuck with. Real soap sits in a wooden dish by the washbasin, its lavender scent wafting through the air. The bath gleams, free from the murky stain of questionable water, its brass fixtures polished to a golden shine.
Wyll and Karlach sit in chairs and order food from the tavern below—platters of steaming meats, freshly baked bread, and odd fruits. They urge you to eat, gentle but insistent.
“Come on,” Karlach coaxes. “It’ll do you good to get some real food in you. No sense in wasting away.”
You shake your head, refusing. The food, though beautifully prepared, isn’t your kind of sustenance. Astarion, on the other hand, puts on a theatrical display. He picks up a roasted chicken leg and bites into it with almost exaggerated enthusiasm, chewing slowly, eyes closed as if savouring every morsel. It’s a performance, of course. He doesn’t need it, but he does it anyway, wordlessly taunting you.
He’s showing off, reminding you of everything you’ve lost, and the unspoken challenge: Can you keep up your facade as well as he does, or will the cracks finally show?
Wyll, ever the noble and well-meaning soul, sits forward. “You know, if food is hard to come by… perhaps I can help. It’s no trouble, really.”
His meaning is clear, his eyes shining with a kindness so genuine it’s almost blinding. He’s offering himself to you, his blood, in an act of compassion you don’t deserve. Your mind flashes back to the horrifying moment you sank your fangs into Shadowheart, driven by the ravenous hunger that makes you more monster than person.
Panic strikes like a lightning bolt, and you leap backward so violently that your chair crashes to the floor with a deafening clatter. Before you know it, you’re at the far end of the room, back pressed against the wall as though you could force yourself to disappear. The room feels smaller, your breath coming in shallow, unnecessary gasps. Even Astarion’s eyes round with surprise.
“No,” you croak.
Wyll stands, hands raised in a calming gesture. “Hey, hey, it’s alright. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just an offer, nothing more.”
His good intentions should comfort you, but they don’t. The kindness in his eyes burn like holy water.
Karlach looks between you and Wyll, her concern evident. “It’s alright, Illyria. We’re just worried about you, is all. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
Before you can respond, Astarion steps forward, a gleam of wicked delight dancing in his crimson eyes. “Actually, darling, that’s not a half-bad idea. Wyll here has such a noble, rich flavour, I imagine. You should indulge.”
You turn to him, horror rising in your chest. He’s serious—deadly serious. He knows exactly what he’s suggesting and knows that once you sink your fangs in, you won’t be able to stop. He’s baiting you, trying to push you over the edge, and there’s a twisted pleasure in his smile.
“Astarion, no,” you breathe, but the words barely leave your lips.
Your body trembles, dread crawling up your spine like a colony of spiders. He inches closer, each step slow and deliberate, as if savouring your fear.
“Oh, come now, love,” he coos. “Think of it as a… bonding experience. You wouldn’t want to refuse such a generous offer, would you?”
Astarion’s hands slide to your waist, fingers pressing in with an iron grip that looks deceptively tender. He pulls you away from the wall as if he’s steadying you, but you feel the force behind it, the quiet menace woven through his touch. You meet his gaze, and all you see is darkness—an abyss where warmth and humanity should be replaced by something cruel, twisted beyond the realm of mercy.
“Please,” you whisper, a plea you barely dare to voice, but he’s relentless, his smile widening.
Compulsion begins to weave through your limbs and the insidious command slides under your skin like a parasite. Feed, it whispers, a wordless insistence from Astarion that overrides your will, bending you to his desire.
Your legs move without your consent, carrying you forward in stilted, jerky steps. Each movement feels like your bones are being puppeteered, and you struggle to regain control. Wyll watches you approach with open trust, his eyes full of that infuriating, radiant kindness.
You glance at Astarion, your eyes wide with desperation, mouth opening to beg, to plead with every ounce of strength you have left, but the words that spill out aren’t yours.
“Thank you, Wyll,” you hear yourself lilt, sweet, and sincere, even though it should be shaking with fear.
You hate how calm you sound and how Astarion’s compulsion makes you sound grateful for the monstrous thing you’re about to do. You want to scream and beg Wyll to run, but the compulsion forces you to press your lips to his neck.
You try. Gods, you try. Your mind thrashes against the invisible chains binding you, but Astarion’s compulsion is absolute. The more you resist, the more the pain sears through you—white-hot, blistering agony that tears at every nerve.
Astarion’s presence looms a cold, unyielding shadow. He’s everywhere—in your thoughts, in the twisting agony, in the way your hand rises to steady Wyll’s shoulder without your consent. Tears sting your eyes, but they’re useless; they can’t stop what’s coming. The compulsion tightens like a noose, cutting off any hope of escape.
There will be no coming back from this.
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Small Notes:
Well, fuck. How in the Hells is she going to get out of this?
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 6k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]
A heat like the heart of a forge hits you the moment you and Astarion step into Abriymoch. You have only just left the damp, winding path from the docks, and the sheer force of the air feels as if it's peeling skin from your bones. Lava channels flow through the city like rivers, casting the whole scene in hues of molten orange and blood-red, illuminating spiked towers and looming stone buildings that twist into the sky, defying the usual laws of architecture.
The infernal city's streets aren’t paved in any mortal sense; rather, they are formed from slabs of obsidian glass that seem to pool and swirl with trapped embers. Buildings jut upwards in chaotic patterns, each tower sharper and more foreboding than the last, resembling the jagged ridges of a dragon's spine. Some structures even seem to change form as you pass, shifting with an unsettling, organic movement.
“Gods, I thought the stench back there was bad,” Astarion mutters, nose wrinkling as he studies the surrounding city.
You cast a sidelong glance at him, suppressing a smirk. “Don’t breathe, idiot.”
“Oh, ha-ha,” he snorts, lips curling into a thin sneer. “Keep it up, and I might just compel you to keep breathing.”
Despite his ability to control his body temperature, he’s faring no better in the blistering heat, though he tries to disguise it with a flick of his hair. Abriymoch’s infernal heat respects no living or unliving boundary.
Wretched souls in ragged garb dot the streets—infernal traders, chained demons, fiendish guards with iron-tipped spears—all eyeing you with a mixture of envy, greed, and unconcealed disgust. It’s a treacherous place to show weakness, and Astarion must realize this too, standing straighter, the faintest smirk in place as he glances around, daring any nearby demon to come closer.
Overhead, shadows flit between the towers—winged devils, their leathery wings casting distorted shapes across the ground, watching for those who wander without the protection of an archdevil’s favour. You know without question: a lone vampire and a defiant spawn mean nothing to them.
This is a realm of dominance, power, of owed debts, and endless torment. Your own step grows more deliberate, calculating, each movement a message that you, too, will bite back.
Somewhere in the distance, you hear the clang of metal—an infernal forge where armour and cursed weapons are crafted, honed to wicked edges. The air smells of sulphur and scorched iron, searing your throat with each breath, and there’s a lingering undercurrent of burnt flesh, nauseating in its familiarity.
Astarion’s fingers dig into your chin, his grip like iron, holding you still as his gaze bores into yours. There’s no warmth in his eyes, no hint of his usual smug amusement or lazy disdain; they’re as unyielding as the glassy obsidian streets underfoot.
“You will stay beside me. At all times. And you will do exactly as I say. No wandering, no disappearing acts, no ridiculous attempts to prove yourself clever,” he hisses venomously. “If you decide otherwise, I won’t hesitate to compel you to crawl after me like a mindless, obedient dog.” He leans in closer, and his lips screw in a mocking smile. “Perhaps I’ll even put a collar around that pretty neck of yours. Might suit you, don’t you think?”
The urge to spit right in his smug, pale face is almost overpowering—to tear yourself from his grip and tell him he can take his collar and shove it right up his unholy ass. Your hands clench at your sides, muscles taut as you weigh the risks of indulging in defiance here and now.
The rage in your gut revolves, but when you meet his eyes—those red, deadly eyes that glitter with a hard, humourless glint—it plummets. You know this look. He’s not bluffing. He’s dropped the pretence of play, the little game of back-and-forth he so often delights in. His words aren’t taunts, and the threat in his tone isn’t empty. The Hells themselves could quake, and he’d still enforce this command.
The weight of his seriousness settles over you like a second skin. A second ago, this felt like another of his games, another attempt to goad or humiliate, but under his searing grip, the illusion shatters. This isn’t a suggestion, a tease, or even a warning; this is a promise. Worse yet, you believe it. From all his coldness, his cruelty, you know he’s absolutely ruthless when he wants something—and what he wants now is obedience.
You swallow your retort, forcing your expression into something neutral. There’s no point in snapping back now, no sense in testing him here, not in this place where every flicker of power is weighed and measured. As infuriating as it is, he’s right about one thing: this isn’t a city where foolish risks go unpunished. It’s a place where even devils tread carefully, where a single misstep can mean the difference between life and eternity in chains. There will be time enough later for defiance, but for now, you force your spine to soften, if only slightly.
Sensing your shift, Astarion’s lips curl, and his fingers loosen just a fraction. Satisfaction is written in every line of his posture, like that of a predator who’s just secured his prey.
“That’s my very good girl,” he hums indulgently, as though savouring the words. “Do try to keep it up.”
For a moment, he lets his gaze linger on you, a silent reminder of who holds the leash here, who holds the power, before turning his attention back to the city. A surge of bitterness rises in you, mingling with the heat of Abriymoch, and it takes everything in you not to let it show on your face. As he turns to lead the way, you fall in line behind him, the roiling fury inside you tempered, for now, by the glimmer of an idea—a reminder that even a tethered dog can bite back when the time is right.
Astarion casts a dry look over the cityscape. ”First things first, we need an inn.”
You fold your arms, arching a brow at him. “How exactly do you plan to pay for that with the pocket change we have?”
He laughs mockingly, his eyes glinting with dark humour. "Oh, I’m sure we can scrounge up something. This place thrives on desperate souls and eager appetites—there must be someone willing to trade a bed for... services.”
You roll your eyes, exasperated. “That’s your brilliant plan? Offer yourself up as some devil’s plaything?”
“Please.” He scoffs, though the smirk never leaves his face. “Why would I do that when I have you? I'm sure there’s more than one fiend here who would pay handsomely for the privilege.”
Astarion’s words land like a lash. His cavalier tone slicing through any illusion of protection or affection. The callousness in his expression is cripplingly haunting, underlined by a strange, calculating amusement that sets your teeth on edge.
"Come now, pet. You must admit it’s practical. A handful of devils with deep enough pockets and a taste for something... exotic.” He pauses, giving you a long, appraising look as though he’s already stripping you down to what’s saleable. “I bet they would pay dearly for a night with you.”
You force yourself to laugh, but it feels threadbare. The kind of laugh that frays at the edges concealing unease you’re sure he’s perceptive enough to catch. “Oh, is that the great plan, then?” you retort, keeping your tone light. “Auction me off to the highest bidder and let them chew on whatever’s left?”
Astarion’s grin widens, and for a terrifying moment, you’re not entirely sure if he’s joking. His hand lifts to brush an imaginary speck of dirt from your shoulder; the touch is proprietary and unsettlingly gentle. “We all have to make sacrifices, love,” he purrs, as though he’s offering you a slice of cake rather than dangling you in front of infernal beasts with ravenous desires. “Think of it as a little... philanthropic effort. We could even call it a charitable contribution to my own comfort.”
His amusement only deepens as he reads the flash of defiance in your eyes. You want to tell him he can go to the deepest, bleakest pits of the Hells and fucking burn, that you’d rather die than become some devil’s toy, but that retort dies as you catch the glint in his glare—a challenge, maybe, but more likely an examination of how far you’re willing to bend.
Would he go through with it? You swallow, the idea lodging like a thorn in your throat. Once, his possessive streak over you would have offered some twisted assurance that he wouldn’t want anyone else touching you, let alone parading you as some high-priced harlot, but with this version of him, certainty is a slippery concept.
“You really are an insufferable bastard,” you growl, pushing away the tendrils of dread. Forcing your voice to stay steady, you add, “But I don’t come cheap, Astarion. If you want me whored out to the nearest devil, you’d better set the price high.”
His laugh is deep and indulgent. “Is that so? My, aren’t we ambitious?" He raises a brow, his smirk twisting into something more predatory, more satisfied. “Well, my dear, rest assured—if I were to rent you out, I would expect a small fortune. You are, after all, mine.”
The simple declaration curls around you, both a shield and a shackle, a reminder that he sees you as something that belongs to him. A tool, a weapon, perhaps an amusement, but ultimately his to do with as he pleases. It’s as comforting as it is constricting, and the ambivalence only adds weight to the silence that follows.
Finally, Astarion releases you from his scrutiny. “Now, let’s find an inn. Somewhere discreet, where we’re less likely to draw the wrong kind of attention.”
He starts down the street, and you fall in step beside him, your mind swirling with the ramifications of his taunts. You almost laugh at its absurdity. Profit? In the Hells, where trust is currency and souls are bartered like shiny baubles? He’s not even joking anymore, just striding forward with that unsettling confidence as if he’s already solved the mystery, cracked the riddle, and found a way to make even this damnable place work to his advantage.
As you follow him through the winding streets of Abriymoch, your eyes dart to the twisted architecture, all slick stone and towers that seem to lean inwards as if hungry for the souls wandering below.
Astarion, however, is the picture of composure, his posture almost regal despite the grime and blood spattering his clothes. It’s as if he belongs here in some twisted way, a dark prince waltzing through his own personal hellscape. You almost envy him for his ease, though a part of you suspects it is more façade than fact.
Finally, he pauses, casting his attention to what could only loosely be described as an inn—a dilapidated structure with crooked walls and a half-burnt sign. The sounds of drunken brawls drift through its walls, punctuated by caustic laughter and the occasional scream.
“Charming,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose as a gust of foul-smelling air drifts out from the doorway.
“Oh, don’t be so picky,” he scolds. “It has everything we need: walls, a roof, and, I suspect, a clientele with equally low standards. You’ll fit right in.”
You give him a withering look, but he only shoots you a fanged grin. With a grand, sarcastic flourish, he gestures toward the entrance. “After you, my dear,” he ushers as his hand lingers at the small of your back, guiding you forward. “Try not to be too shocked if they’re not quite up to your high standards.”
Swallowing your irritation, you step inside, trying to ignore the way the floor squelches beneath your steps, the stares from sallow-skinned demons and skeletal fiends who evaluate you both with unsettling intensity. Astarion sweeps past you, greeting the hostile stares with an arrogant smirk, his hand still firmly and possessively on your back.
As expected, the innkeeper of this forsaken place is more fiend than humanoid, with infernal red skin stretched taut over an angular frame. His eyes are sunk deep into his skull, giving him a permanent look of disapproval, while cracked horns rise from his temples and curve back like those of a ram. He watches your arrival with a leer that drips disdain as though the mere sight of you both taints the already miserable atmosphere of his establishment.
Astarion spares you a warning glance, subtle but firm, that says all you need to know: keep your mouth shut and let him handle this. You almost snort, half tempted to put his so-called charm to the test, but you catch yourself, rolling your eyes instead. You know he’s clever enough, but you’d be lying if you didn’t think your own persuasion might do better.
With an ease born of arrogance, Astarion approaches the innkeeper, his posture equal parts relaxed and commanding. He lets his leer linger on the fiend, sizing him up with an amused sort of contempt, before giving a small, charming smile that does nothing to soften his sharp expression.
“We need a room, and we’re in no mood to haggle with some... lesser devil.” He lets the insult sit in the air just long enough, and the innkeeper’s lips curl back to reveal rows of wickedly pointed teeth. “What’s the rate for a night?” Astarion asks, voice deceptively polite but with an edge that warns against any attempt to upcharge him.
The innkeeper sneers, all teeth and malice, clearly unimpressed by Astarion’s bravado. “It depends. You paying in gold? Or… other methods?”
Astarion raises a brow, unfazed. “Gold, for now. Though I’m sure someone here must appreciate... finer pleasures.”
His gaze flicks over to you in a way that’s both casual and pointed, a calculated gesture that sells whatever story he’s trying to spin. It’s maddening to let him take control like this, but the innkeeper’s reaction is one of grudging interest, so you play along, keeping your expression aloof and unbothered.
“A week’s stay,” Astarion continues, “and I expect it to be free of... disruptions. I doubt you want a scene if anyone happens to disturb us.”
The innkeeper’s stare wavers momentarily, recognizing the thinly veiled threat, but he gives a shallow nod, his grin returning with something akin to reluctant respect. “Very well, if you can pay what’s owed by the end of the week.”
“Agreed,” Astarion says smoothly, not missing a beat.
The room is up a set of broken stairs with makeshift ramps between missing sections where lava flows after a drop that would be just long enough for you to be able to contemplate your impending doom. It makes you shudder and twist your fingers into the back of Astarion's coat. If you fall, you're godsdamned taking him with you. Astarion twists at the waist, glancing down with a chuckle and an eye roll, but doesn't comment further. The hallway to your room is deceptively long, with stone doors that line the corridor.
You step into the room and immediately appraise its condition, or rather, the lack of it. The bed is laughably small, sagging in the middle like it’s been trampled under the weight of more than just tired bodies. The sheets are a questionable shade somewhere between grey and despair, and the mattress itself looks like it could disintegrate under a strong glare. The pillow is barely thicker than a folded shirt, the kind you’d toss aside rather than sleep on.
Your eyes flit to the narrow tub against the far wall, and relief washes over you. It’s chipped around the edges, rust creeping up in spots like rot on an apple, but it’s still serviceable. Water, no matter how murky, will be a mercy. You’re caked in dried blood and dust, skin itching with every move; the idea of soaking even for a few minutes seems like salvation.
Then there’s the floor: rough-hewn stone scattered with something that might once have been straw or possibly hay—more likely mould. You scoff, casting a final glance around the room that’s hardly fit to host the vermin you’re sure are lurking somewhere nearby.
Astarion sprawls across the bed, taking up every possible inch with an exaggerated sense of importance. His limbs drape in lazy elegance; his expression painted with a derision so rich you can practically taste it. He looks at you, eyes flicking down and back up, with disdain so theatrical it’s almost funny. “Well,” he drawls, smirking, “this bed is a marvel of economy, isn’t it? Such a pity—it will never fit both of us. A tragic oversight, really.”
You narrow your eyes, already predicting his angle, and snap, “If you think for a second I’m sleeping on the godsdamned floor, you’re madder than I thought.”
His eyebrow arches, and he points a slender, careless finger toward the floor as if addressing a particularly insolent child. “That is precisely what I think, darling. You should be grateful I’m even allowing you to sleep beside me. Only the very best pets earn that privilege.”
“In fact, it’s practically saintly of me, really. I could easily relegate you to the door, left to keep watch over the, ah, bustling nightlife of Abriymoch. Imagine it: you, all on your own in the streets, fending off devils, dodging stray blasts of molten rock—though perhaps you’d enjoy the excitement.” He lets the last words linger as if actually entertaining the idea.
His words bristle against you like a thousand needles, each one prickling with annoyance, but beneath that irritation, you can feel the unspoken threat. The menace isn’t even veiled; it’s deliberate, a raw reminder of just how thin the line is that keeps him from following through on each one of his threats.
You don’t dignify his taunts with a response. Instead, you stride straight for the bath, ignoring the quiet amusement. The water waiting in the tub can barely be called that—murky, thick, and hot enough to peel paint. You dip a cautious hand in, the scalding liquid nearly unbearable, and grumble under your breath as you cast Ray of Frost into it, hoping to temper the heat even slightly. The spell sizzles against the water’s surface, a faint wisp of steam curling up. You have no idea if it makes any difference, but you figure if the water eats your skin off, at least he won’t be able to whore you out.
A small, grim comfort.
Bracing yourself, you slip into the scalding water with a hiss and sink deeper, grateful to finally be rid of the grime, even if the filth just seems to swirl around you in the bathwater.
With a deep breath, you dunk your head, letting the water seep through the tangled mess that’s become your hair. When you resurface, you spot something on the ledge beside you—a strange, twisted comb or perhaps a large fork with broken prongs, clearly fashioned from bone. The craftsmanship is shoddy at best, the edges rough and likely painful, but it's all you’ve got. You set to work, trying to tease out the matted knots, each pull tugging uncomfortably as you wrestle with the dried blood and dust that cling to your scalp.
Astarion watches you from across the room, gaze drifting over your shoulders, pausing on the familiar rune patterns he himself etched into your back. You can feel his eyes tracing them, his fingers curling thoughtfully against the bed frame as he takes in his work.
The silence fills the room like stale smoke until Astarion breaks it with a serpent’s hiss in the dim light. “If I did not know better, I’d say you were enjoying yourself. I suppose that’s what desperation does to a person—makes even the foulest bathwater seem... luxurious."
You would rather focus on the knots in your hair than his relentless provocations, but he’s not content to leave it there. “Tell me,” he continues, a note of casual curiosity laced with cruelty in his voice, “do you ever regret it? Being here, I mean. With me. I wonder if the thought ever crosses your mind that a short, miserable life might have been preferable.”
He observes you closely, as though the question holds weight, though you’re sure he’s only toying with you. You scoff and continue your work on your hair, pulling another knot free with a grimace.
“Oh, come now. Do not pretend you haven’t thought about it.” His timbre lilts, dangerously light. “What else would you be thinking about in that grimy little tub, scrubbing yourself like you are trying to wash off every last shred of dignity? Do you even remember what you looked like before this? Before I had my…way with you?” His tone softens just enough to throw you off balance. “I sometimes wonder what kind of creature I have made, if there’s anything of your ‘former self’ left. Does that thought haunt you, my sweet?”
You don’t answer, pressing the bone comb harder into a particularly stubborn tangle as if it’ll help block him out.
He sighs, feigning boredom. “What a shame, though. There was something charming about your innocence. Or maybe it was just naivety... hard to tell the difference sometimes.” He leans back, propped up on his elbows like he’s reclining on a throne instead of a filthy bed. “But here we are. Together, for better or worse. I wonder if you would have chosen it, knowing what you know now.”
There’s a pause, just a beat too long; then he quirks a brow at you. “Do you ever dream of anything different, love?” His tone is sharper than the question itself, as if he expects no answer but wouldn’t mind prying one loose. He leans forward, his expression sharpening, a shadow pooling in the hollows of his eyes. “And to think, I once thought you were beautiful. But now? Well, all that grime and despair... Hardly the rare prize I thought I would be keeping, wouldn’t you agree?”
The words lance through you, hitting with the precision of a blade to a bruise. You yank on the comb harder than you should until it snaps, another splintered prong catching in the tangled mess of your hair. The broken edge bites into your hand, and for a breath, you consider what he would do if you found something sharp enough just to hack it all away. You’re not sure if he’d even care.
If anything, he’d probably laugh at your desperation, maybe call it an improvement.
A bitter response simmers up from the ache in your chest, sharp and pointed as glass, and before you can stop yourself, the words come out. “Would you?” you snap. “Would you still have done it, knowing everything now? Bound yourself to me, offered me eternity if you knew what it would look like—what I would look like? Since you seem to hate me so much, or maybe it’s some twisted version of love? I can’t tell anymore.”
An unreadable darkness crosses his expression. He’s silent for a beat too long, enough to make you wonder if he’ll punish you for the insolence of throwing his own taunts back at him, but then he laughs—a quiet, shallow sound that scrapes against the walls like an echo off a tombstone.
“Would I still have done it?” he repeats, the question lingering in his mouth as if tasting the bitterness of it. He looks away for a fraction of a second, his mask slipping just long enough to reveal something more pained than hatred, more conflicted than love. “Let’s say, for a moment, that I did know. That I saw all of this,” he gestures vaguely around. “Maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn’t.”
You growl, unable to mask the rising fury as his casual dismissal grates against your every nerve. “Is that the best answer you’ve got? What is it, exactly? The regret? The loathing? You wanted to bring this up and drag all of this to the surface just to torment me. So talk. Tell me something real for once.”
Astarion’s smirk fades, a spark of irritation flaring in his eyes. For a moment, he almost looks... cornered, but he quickly recovers, crossing his arms with a careless air. “Oh, darling, if you are expecting confessions of undying devotion, then clearly, you still do not know me at all. Or perhaps you're deluded enough to think there’s anything left worth confessing?”
You bite back a snarl. “Then why bind me to you in the first place, Astarion? Was it just for this? To have a plaything, someone to bend and break as you please?”
His mouth opens, then closes, as though he’s tasting the words before letting them free. “I bound you to me because… because I could,” he spits with frustration. “Because, for once, I had the power to choose, and I thought perhaps...” He stops, his gaze hardening as if daring you to push him further. “What does it matter now? What we have is hardly a bond of warmth and affection.”
Your hands scrub at your arms with such ferocity that your death-hued skin begins to blush a dark, angry red. The rag in your grip comes away bloody, though you’re not sure when exactly you crossed the line from clean to raw. Yet, you can’t stop. It’s as if you’re trying to scour something off that lies deeper than skin. Your mind, usually so sharp and focused, feels splintered, thoughts tangling, slipping through like sand in a sieve.
You glare down at your trembling hands, the faint tremor a silent accusation. Normally, there’s a strength there, but tonight, you’re left with the unsettling weight of weakness, a fragility you don’t recognize. It’s as if the cavern inside your chest is spilling over, devouring your last shreds of patience and strength. Your vision blurs at the edges, and you feel a strange, simmering delirium—an unrestrained urge to tear, claw, do something reckless and feral.
Astarion observes with that cool, detached bemusment. Perhaps he’s even enjoying this. You can feel his gaze, prying and calculating, and it fuels something dark within you—a need to snap, to break something or someone—preferably him.
Your hand drags over your arm, knuckles white and fingers numb from the relentless scrubbing. You’ve gone beyond dirt and blood now, past the point of reason. The sound, the scrape of nails against skin, has become all you hear—an abrasive lull that pulls you deeper and deeper until Astarion’s voice fades into white noise.
“Enough,” he orders, but the word is barely a ripple in the white-capped waves of your focus.
You’re tunnelling forward, vision narrowing to your torn, red skin, as if somewhere beneath it lies some elusive answer or cure. He’s saying something again, his tone sharper, louder. You hear the irritation like an echo but can’t make out the shape of the words. You’re on the verge of falling, slipping down into this quiet hell of your own making when something solid snaps around your wrist.
His hand.
Your breath catches as he clamps down, forcing you to stop. In that bruising grip, the distortion retreats just enough for you to hear him.
“Are you deaf? Stop. Now.” There’s nothing gentle in the way he yanks your hand away from your raw skin, the scorn like a blade pressing against an open wound. “Pathetic spawn,” he hisses, the word dripping with contempt as he stares at the damage you've done to yourself.
It’s a single, bitter syllable, spat like venom, a reminder of what you are in his eyes. It would sting if it didn’t feel so small against the vast ache pulsing through your veins.
The words slip out, barbed and bitter. "Why do you care if I scratch myself raw?"
He steps closer, his frame casting a shadow, a reminder of his looming presence, a monolith blocking out any semblance of light. “You think I care? Let me make one thing clear," he sneers and grabs your chin. “The only reason I bother stopping you, pet, is because I have use for you. A mindless, self-destructive little spawn doesn’t serve me. If you fall apart, you are worthless.”
His fingers dig in just enough to send a sharp jolt of pain through your jaw, and for a moment, the twisted affection that had once wrapped itself around your heart shatters into cold shards, piercing deeper with every word he spits. He releases you with a disgusted sigh, stepping back as though the very act of touching you has tainted him somehow.
A dark chuckle slips from your lips, the sound like broken glass in the quiet of the room. “I wonder,” you growl, “if that’s truly why you stopped me or if you’re afraid, even now, of losing the only person who knows you for what you are.” You let the words sink in, enjoying the way they land like poisoned darts. "You’re scared, Astarion. Of being alone.”
His mouth tightens, a shadow passing behind his eyes, and for a heartbeat, you wonder if you’ve cut too deep. Still, that worry is fleeting, replaced by a rush of satisfaction in finally giving him a taste of his own venom.
“You know nothing of fear,” he says, softer but laced with a glacial edge. He takes a slow, deliberate breath. “And certainly not the kind I tasted for centuries. You think your petty suffering could ever measure up?”
He moves away, turning his back to you with a dismissive wave of his hand, as if that will erase the tension still vibrating between you.
“Keep pretending, then,” you murmur, a whisper just loud enough for him to hear. “But we both know the truth, don’t we? You’re still that frightened creature in a cage, baring your fangs at anyone who dares to look too closely.”
You crawl out of the tub, and the damp rag sticks to your skin as you try to dry yourself, the cloth frayed and stained. Your legs tremble, muscles weak. You lean against the wall, your fingers splayed out, trying to steady yourself, but it feels like the world is tilting. An insistent, droning ache gnaws at you from the inside, though you can’t pinpoint the cause.
Astarion’s presence looms in the room. You feel his scrutiny crawl over you, tracing every inch of your form. He undresses, slow and deliberate, as if making a performance out of it, each piece of clothing falling away with exaggerated care. His movements are fluid, too graceful, like a predator preening before its meal.
The water in the bath is murky, but he dips in any way, grimacing as his fingers brush through the discoloured liquid. His discomfort is palpable; the slightest tension in his posture makes it clear he’s not enjoying the luxury he’s accustomed to. Yet, even as he grimaces, his gaze darts back to you, scanning, examining. There's something in his eyes—a strange mixture of curiosity and distaste, as if he's watching something delicate and damaged that doesn’t belong with him, but he's forced to keep it in his line of sight. You move toward the bed with it's threadbare blankets.
Before you can even settle, Astarion clicks his tongue, sharp and condescending. "Your place is the floor."
You don’t bother arguing. He’s not asking; he’s telling. His words strike like a whip, and you push yourself up off the bed and sink down to the floor. If you don’t do it of your own volition, he will compel it out of you, so what’s the point? You sit with your arms wrapped around your knees, and you can’t shake the feeling that it’s all pointless—that nothing will ever change. Astarion’s eyes are on you again, following every shift you make even as he washes, almost like he’s trying to memorize you.
It’s unsettling, like you’re some fragile thing he can’t quite figure out, waiting for something to break. You want to scream at him, but instead, you sit there in silence. In the end, that’s all you are to him, isn’t it?
A toy. A thing to be used and discarded when the fun runs out.
For a moment, you forget the weight of your existence, curling into a tight, trembling ball. Your body aches, every muscle singing with a strange, molten exhaustion, as though the very air is pushing against you, keeping you down. You try to lose yourself in the discomfort, in the sensation of the floor's roughness, but your thoughts are louder, spilling over each other like a river overflowing its banks. You think of everything that’s led you here—every loss, every sharp edge of truth, every betrayal, all swirling together, threatening to drown you.
But it’s not the weight of your memories that keeps you trapped in this moment. It’s the way your body feels so… wrong, so utterly drained that you can’t tell if you’re feverish, sick, or just wilting from the inside. Why do you feel like you’re sinking, being swallowed whole by something you can't escape?
"How fitting. Crawling on the floor like a pathetic animal. Is this truly all you are? This is what I made?" His voice slides over you like slick, suffocating oil, but you don’t have the energy to fight it.
You don’t have the strength to argue. What’s the point? You’ve already lost. Everything feels wrong—too wrong to process, too wrong to fight. The heat, the exhaustion, and then there’s him, always watching, always waiting.
Astarion crawls onto the bed and leans over the side, fingers reaching out to gently pat your head as if you were a pet—obedient, small, something to be managed. His fingers trail down and brush along your ribs. They graze over the sharp ridges of bone, feeling them jut from your skin like the spines of some skeletal creature, and for a moment, he pauses, breath hitching in his chest.
It’s not pleasure, not lust. It’s more like... evaluation. His hand trembles slightly, his knuckles brushing over you as if he’s unsure whether he should pull away or dig deeper. Before you can make sense of it, he jerks back. His eyes are locked on you, but it’s hard to say whether they’re seeing you—or just… seeing.
The room is quiet, save for the sound of his heartbeat—a steady thrum that seems impossibly loud in the stillness. Your own heart, of course, has long since stopped. You wonder, idly, what’s left inside your chest now. What’s become of it? Maybe a shrivelled raisin, withered and dry, clinging to a stem that no longer knows how to grow.
You should be used to this by now. You are used to it. The cruel words he throws at you, the way he makes you feel so small, so impossibly unimportant. He threatened to whore you out for coin as if you were nothing more than a thing for sale, a price tag hanging from your neck. And the worst part? You wonder if he might actually do it.
He's making you sleep on the floor like an animal, a thing beneath him, and it stings now in a way it didn’t before.
But still, you love him. Gods, you love him. It’s suffocating, drowning, a poison so deep in your veins you can’t pull it out. The hatred you want to feel for him—the rage, the disgust—are buried beneath the weight of that love, buried beneath a mountain of hurt that you can’t climb.
Tears start to gather at the edges of your eyes, the wetness sudden and shocking, like a dam finally giving way. You don’t know why they come now, of all times. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, the weight of everything crashing in, or maybe it’s the realization that your husband might truly be gone, and this fight is for naught.
The tears come in hot, bitter waves, each one a reminder of how far you’ve fallen and how much of yourself has been lost. You try to hold them back, to keep them silent, but they slip past your defences, a torrent that you can’t control or contain.
You curl tighter into yourself, wrapping your arms around your knees, trying to shield whatever’s left of you, feeling every ridge of the stone beneath you as if it’s trying to carve you apart, bit by bit. You tremble, every bone in your body rattling. Loving him has broken you a thousand times over, but you’ll keep standing. Maybe there’s poetry in the cycle—the rise and fall, the way you scrape rock bottom and still drag yourself back up, bloodied but never beaten.
Self-destruction, you think bitterly, has never been so devastatingly beautiful.
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Small Notes:
- Our girl be tired 😢
- Astarion was particularly cunty in this chapter.
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 6.3k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]
The world tilts as Astarion’s grip slackens, and you’re weightless, teetering at the edge of oblivion. Your heart—a dead, useless thing—manages to throb with phantom desperation as you realize he might actually do it.
He might actually let you fall.
The Styx churns below like a living wound. The current writhes, eager to claim another victim, and the sound it makes—a low, insidious hiss—finds its way beneath your skin. An acrid smell rises from the waters, promising agony, devoting to strip you of every piece of yourself that you’ve managed to hold onto.
Even if you wanted to fight, even if you had some clever plan tucked behind your teeth, there’s nothing you can do against the inevitability of gravity.
Against the inevitability of him.
Your mind scrambles through memories, trying to find some hint, a sign that you missed. You think of your time together, the fire that burns between you—sometimes love, sometimes hatred—always a dalliance with danger. You think of the quiet moments, the words unsaid between touches. They meant something, right?
What if it never meant anything at all? Maybe it really was all just a game to him, as he has claimed innumerable times. Now, here you are, the fool pensile on the precipice of obliteration, thinking you could somehow reach him again and pry out the remnants of the man you love from the hollow, heartless shell that’s taken his place.
What will it take? Astarion's grip loosens further, and you can almost feel the moment you slip through his fingers—the moment where everything ends, where everything is erased. Will you forget him, forget all of this, if the waters take you? Would that be a mercy? Would that be the release you’ve been chasing?
No. A primal terror flares in your chest, burning hotter than the infernal winds that scorch Avernus. You don't want to forget. You don't want to lose everything that makes you... you. The memories, the pain, the love—they're all I have left. A broken, twisted part of you still clings to hope and believes there’s a way out of this. There has to be. You didn’t survive the mind-flayer tadpoles, the Absolute, the Netherbrain, and everything in between just to lose everything now.
Did you?
And yet... there’s that other voice whispering insidiously in the back of your mind. What if this is all that’s left? What if you’re just clinging to a ghost, a delusion that died long before you had the courage to admit it?
The panic wraps around your thoughts like a clamp, and your hands claw at Astarion's wrist and arm, but his strength is unwavering. Your vision blurs as you look up at him, seeing that dangerous glint in his eyes—a hunger, a power, a cruelty that you thought you understood, but maybe you never really did.
It’s funny, in the bleakest way, that after all you’ve endured, it’s this that undoes you. Not a battle or a blade, but his indifference. A choice he could make without a second thought, or maybe he’s thought of nothing else. You can’t even tell anymore.
Astarion's grip loosens an unbearable fraction. Every inch of you rebels against the plunge into nothingness below, and you pull your legs up, toes curling with the instinctive, useless urge to find purchase, but there’s no ledge, no handhold, nothing except the awaiting maw of the river.
You look around wildly, your gaze snagging on mirages that aren’t there, desperate to conjure someone—anyone—who might wrench you away from this declivity. There’s no rescue waiting, no ally in the depths, or salvation in the heights. It’s just you and Astarion, and the narrow bridge of his fingers wrapped around your neck.
“Just... just do it, Astarion.” It’s a ragged demand, desperate and raw, slipping through clenched teeth.
You’re not even sure what you’re asking for. To end this? To make it quick? To make him prove that he truly doesn’t care?
He says nothing, his expression a mask of cruel delight, revelling in your surrender. The silence stretches until his grip shifts again—just barely, just enough to make your stomach lurch, to send you one heartbeat closer to that waiting crimson maw.
And you swear you’re actually falling.
Astarion’s grip disappears as he pulls you back with a violent jerk, sending you tumbling like a discarded plaything. You skid across the jagged terrain of Avernus, rocks biting into your skin as the impact jars your bones. You scramble to right yourself, only to find him standing there, staring down at his own hands as if they belong to someone else entirely.
“What the fuck was that?” he mutters, turning his arms over as though searching for answers hidden in his flesh. “You think this is some kind of game?” he snaps icily. “You provoke me, push me, and then expect what? Mercy? Compassion? A bloody saviour?”
You try to interject, but his words drown you out. “You’re utterly foolish, you know that? Like a moth flitting towards a flame, completely unaware you’ll get burned. It’s astonishing, really. How many times do you need to learn this lesson?”
“You’re making this far too easy for me,” he continues, more to himself than you. “Do you want to be erased? Is that what you crave? I can certainly oblige, darling. You toy with my emotions, and cling to this pathetic hope that I still love you.” His voice falters, falling over the words with none of his typical eloquence.
Astarion’s rage swells, turning him into a whirlwind of motion as he paces back and forth. His elegant frame moves with a predatory grace. “You truly are insufferable!” he growls, gesturing wildly as if the very air around him is to blame for your audacity. “Do you ever stop to think, even for a moment? Or is your brain too muddled with delusions of grandeur?”
He whirls to face you, eyes flashing with a treacherous light. “What do you expect from me? Do you honestly believe I care enough to save you from your own stupidity? You’re acting like a child, and it’s frankly exhausting. Yet, here I am,” he continues, a hint of self-loathing creeping into his tone.
His pacing quickens, and he runs a hand through his tousled hair, frustration spilling from him like water from a cracked vessel. “You’re so godsdamned desperate for affection, clawing at me with all the grace of a rabid animal. If I were any less inclined to humour your whims, I’d have dropped you into the Styx ages ago. It’s a bloody miracle I haven’t.” He pauses, and the anger temporarily melts away. “But I cannot quite bring myself to do it, can I?”
The silence that follows is rife with tension, fury, and an odd kind of tenderness coalescing that neither of you can quite grasp.
Astarion’s harsh, mocking laughter rings out. “I thought I was finally making progress with you, my lovely little plaything. I had you right where I wanted, didn’t I? Seducing you into betraying your precious husband.”
You can’t help but bristle at his taunts. “You are my husband, Astarion. A part of him anyway.”
Astarion’s response is immediate—a laugh that drips with disdain. “Oh, please. I would never marry my spawn. The very thought is laughable.”
“Was it all a manipulation?” You press, eyes narrowing as you meet his gaze head-on.
He answers with a whetted, unapologetic, “Yes. That’s what I do, isn’t it? Seduce, manipulate, use sex as a noose to pull the unsuspecting closer, and you, my dear, are no exception. I’ve spent centuries honing this talent. You’re just another pawn on my elaborate little chessboard.”
The satisfaction in his voice sends a chill racing down your spine, but you refuse to let him see how much his admission wounds you. “I don’t believe you,” you challenge.
“The lines blur, don’t they?” he concedes. “Between manipulation and desire, between power and something resembling care.”
It’s an admission, raw and unexpected, and it leaves you disarmed. “Then why push me away? Why not let yourself feel?”
He looks at you with an inscrutable expression, and you can’t quite decipher what it means. “I’m not built for softness, love. It’s easier to break things than to mend them.”
“Maybe that’s your choice,” you retort, emboldened. “But it doesn’t have to be mine.”
The compulsion slams into you like a wall—undeniable, unforgiving. His voice is cold and commanding, barely glancing your way as he snaps, “Follow. Don’t talk—I need to think.”
The order thrums through you, forcing you to fall into step behind him, trailing at his heels like an obedient pet. Every inch of you aches to resist, but your limbs obey without question, each step landing in sync with his own. Each one sends a pleasurable trill through you as if he’s put his hand directly in your brain and is caressing the pleasure center.
He paces along the Styx’s edge, his eyes fixed ahead, occasionally darting down to the murky depths. He mutters, a haphazard string of paranoia, sometimes biting, sometimes distant. You catch fragments, but you cannot make any sense of them.
Eventually, he stops, and you nearly bump into him, managing to halt just before your nose collides with his back. A rickety structure of warped wood and iron-bound posts juts into the dark, viscous river. An old dock, but in such a state of disrepair that it’s hardly recognizable as one any longer.
“Do you know how to call on the Ferryman?” He demands, sounding like he’s barely holding onto his temper.
You know exactly who he’s talking about—the knowledge picked up during those long, restless nights studying the twisted ways of the Hells, but you find your lips glued shut, your body rigid and unyielding. Your glare is the only answer you can muster, a withering look you hope conveys all the words he’s barred you from speaking.
Astarion's brows pinch, and then he lets out a huff, rolling his eyes. “Oh, giving me the silent treatment now, are we? How very mature.” He scoffs, seemingly unaware that he’s the one who’s forced this quiet upon you. “Honestly, it’s a little childish, even for you.”
He resumes his pace along the river’s edge, clearly irked by your lack of response. “I mean, do you even grasp what we’re up against here? Or are you too busy brooding to be of any use?” You try to will your mouth open, to force your voice past the invisible restraints he’s placed, but the compulsion holds you fast.
“Honestly, sometimes I wonder if I’m the only one doing any real thinking here,” he mumbles, half to himself, half to you. “It’s all theatrics with you, isn’t it? Little games and… glares.” He narrows his eyes, shooting you an annoyed glance. “But, at least, I can always rely on that death stare of yours. Really, it’s about all you contribute some days.”
“This insufferable silence of yours—do you think it’s clever?” He lets out a scathingly sour laugh. “Honestly, it’s nigh on impressive how you manage to contribute less and less every day.”
You might roll your eyes if you had control of them. It’s both supremely irritating and oddly amusing. He’s the one who’s bound you to silence, and yet here he is, working himself into an absolutely fine rage, about your lack of response. He’s so self-absorbed, so utterly unaware that it would be laughable if you could invoke even the smallest hiss.
Finally, Astarion turns on you, and his patience fully snaps. He storms over, grabbing you by the shoulders, his fingers digging into your arms with a bruising intensity. “Enough of this!” he barks, shaking you slightly as if he might dislodge an answer from you by force.
You remain as stiff as stone by the very compulsion he’s forgotten he imposed. His eyes narrow as he studies you, his anger gradually morphing into confusion as you remain stubbornly, infuriatingly unresponsive. The realization dawns on him, and he spouts a series of low, irritated curses under his breath. The invisible bindings are cleaved, and you stumble slightly, blinking against the sudden freedom.
A laugh bursts from your lips. “You absolute idiot,” you taunt.
He crosses his arms, his brows pinching together as he glowers at you. “Careful,” he warns menacingly, though the confidence in his tone is maddeningly firm. “I could toss you back over the Styx anytime I like, and this time, I would not hesitate.” He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with a cruel glint. “Though, perhaps, you enjoy tempting fate?”
“Oh, do go on,” you reply, lifting your chin to meet his gaze, feigning a sweet innocence you know he loathes. “For all your bluster, here I am—perfectly unscathed.” You take a single, daring step closer, crossing your own arms in mockery. “What’s stopping you?”
He snorts, shaking his head with a sneer. “Absolutely, nothing. You would do well to remember that, pet. Do you know how to summon the Ferryman or not?”
You grin, savouring the upper hand, if only briefly. “I do, actually. Be warned, there’s a cost. Nothing’s free in the Hells.”
Astarion rolls his eyes, exuding the kind of casual arrogance that makes you itch to wipe the smirk right off his face. “Do I look like someone concerned with petty tolls?”
“Fine then.” You gesture at him with a dismissive wave. “If you’re so unconcerned, use those fancy ascended powers and summon a werewolf. We’ll need to give the Styx something… lively.”
His eyes blaze, igniting in that baleful scarlet glow. He takes a step toward you, as if to see if you’ll flinch, but you don’t give him the satisfaction. Shadows converge, pooling on the ground, twisting together until a werewolf emerges from the inky pit.
Before the beast can even fully realize its predicament, Astarion shoves it with a careless hand, sending it tumbling headfirst into the river. The werewolf’s struggles cease within an eye blink; the waters swallow it whole with a miserable howl.
Charon heeds your call. His boat materializes out of the mist, the vessel itself a thing of twisted, shadowed wood, seeming both ancient and unbreakable. Lanterns hang from the prow, casting a sickly green light, illuminating the hooded figure standing on the deck, his skeletal face hidden beneath layers of ragged cloth. Hollow eyes stare back at you, empty yet somehow penetrating, as though he’s peeling back your flesh to see what’s left of your soul.
Charon’s ancient voice scrapes against the air like a dare for the foolish to press their luck. “Who disturbs my waters?”
Astarion straightens, stepping forward with a grin that borders on insolent. “We need to travel to Abriymoch.”
You start to nod but pause, frowning as you turn to Astarion. “Abriymoch? Why Abriymoch, when the goal is Cania?”
Astarion’s gaze threshes with annoyance, as if the answer should be painfully obvious. “Cania is cold, dearest,” he snaps with a seemingly endless supply of condescension. “I doubt you would survive more than a second, or have you forgotten what bitter cold does to fragile, little creatures like yourself?”
“Payment,” Charon intones while outstretching his hand.
Charon’s long, skeletal finger points expectantly at the coin purse on Astarion's belt. When Astarion upends it, the coins that fall into Charon’s palm are woefully insufficient. The ferryman’s hollow gaze shifts from Astarion’s hopeful grin to the pathetic stack of coin. You’re not quite sure how he does it, given that his face is hidden, set deep into the hood of his robes, but somehow he still manages to convey that he’s clearly unimpressed.
Astarion’s face twists in vexation for a second before he pastes on a charming, winning smile, speaking in that too-smooth tone that he’s perfected over centuries. “Now, now,” he begins in a timbre of molten caramel, “Surely we could arrange a little... discount?" Think of the potential business lost.”
You snort, earning a glare. He clearly has no clue who he’s dealing with. Charm, to Charon, is about as useful as a torch in broad daylight, and your smile only widens as the silence drags. Until Charon’s skull shifts, the hollow sockets locking onto you with that unreadable yet thoroughly unsettling stare.
Without hesitation, Astarion sidesteps in front of you, arms crossed, his voice suddenly much sharper. “She’s off limits.” His tone is clipped, ice sliding into his words as his stance shifts, protective in a way you’re sure he’d deny if questioned.
Charon’s hand turns to you, bony fingers stretching forward. “The quarterstaff,” he rasps. “Your only weapon.”
The weight of his demand settles on you. The staff may not be essential to your magic, but it is far from useless. Crafted with centuries-old enchantments, it heightens your power, steadies your aim, and forms a formidable buffer against hostile spells and attacks. Without it, you’ll face Mephistopheles with only raw magic—far less than what you'd need against a devil of his calibre.
You reach behind your head, fingers curling around the polished wood. You hesitate, running your thumb along its smooth surface, feeling the faint pulse of the magic woven through it. The thought of surrendering it here on this cursed voyage makes you feel more vulnerable somehow, but the price has been set.
With a sigh, you lock eyes with Charon as you make your request. “For both our tolls. It should cover the both of us.”
Charon tilts his head, an eerie slowness to the movement, as though he’s testing the limits of his joints. “Your toll,” he grates, “has been paid. The quarterstaff is for him.” He gestures to Astarion, his fleshless hand clenching over your staff as you release it, and the very bones in his fingers seem to absorb it whole, leaving nothing in his palm.
A shiver of dread slithers down your spine. Someone has paid your toll already, but who? For what purpose? You feel the cold press of a debt that hasn’t yet been named, lurking in the shadows of the future, waiting to demand payment at the worst possible occasion. Whoever or whatever wants you to descend further into the Hells is watching, and the motives they harbour are anything but benign.
“Well, lovely,” you mutter, shaking off the creeping unease. “You owe me a bloody quarterstaff when we get back.”
Astarion gives you a sidelong glance. “Oh, I’m sure I’ll manage to 'repay’ you somehow. Really, though, such a fuss over a stick.” He smirks, gesturing for you to board with smug self-assurance. “Don’t fret, pet. If anything happens, I’ll protect you,” he taunts with that annoyingly, adorable shimmy of his shoulders.
Stepping onto Charon’s boat, you try to shake off the lingering foreboding. The journey ahead feels heavier now, as if the very air knows there’s more to come—more than Astarion’s schemes, more than the unforgiving path before you. As the boat begins to drift away, you find yourself wondering, once more, just how many prices are yet to be paid before this journey’s end.
The boat sways gently, a sickening lilt over the Styx, far too quiet, save for the occasional slosh and the sighing rasp of Charon’s oar cutting through the murk. The vessel itself is small, built only for the ferryman and the unfortunate souls he transports. Despite the lack of space, you do your best to keep away from Astarion, tucking yourself into a corner like a shadow clinging to the edges. Thinking is hard enough without him leeching the air from your lungs with his presence.
You press your forehead to your knees, squeezing your eyes shut and trying to block out the Styx’s ghastly presence—the stench of decaying flesh wafting up from the water, the whispering howl that rushes past your ears, sounding far too much like tortured souls crying out from the depths. You concentrate to stop the insistent, absurd habit of breathing, one left over from life that your body clings to out of muscle memory.
Your fingers drift to the cold, metal band circling your finger, tracing the familiar shape of your wedding ring. It’s oddly grounding here in this place of perpetual suffering and loss. Astarion still doesn’t know that you agreed to kill Mephistopheles. No, he wouldn’t understand, or he’d laugh, or worse, he’d start plotting ways to use it against you. What in the Nine Hells were you thinking? Killing an archdevil? The very notion teeters on the fringes of madness, a suicide mission that all but guarantees your annihilation.
But what choice do you have? You need your husband back, the real Astarion, not this corrupt echo, who looms at the edge of his memories, seemingly more intent on tearing down what little is left of who he once was.
Would this version help you, or would he truly try to sell you for a taste of power or some useless, momentary prestige? Or is his aim far worse, perhaps, to entirely erase the part of himself that loves you? It’s an exhausting riddle, one that seems pointless to try and solve, yet you can’t help but turn it over, sifting through the fragments for a clue. You bite back a scoff directed at yourself. How many times will you wager your life for the slim hope of bringing him back?
A soft scrape pulls you from your thoughts; Astarion shifts, his gaze flitting your way, cool and calculating. It’s a look that would have cut you once—a knife glinting with contempt—but now it barely scratches the surface.
You meet his gaze, unflinching, letting whatever spark of defiance you have left answer him in silence, and then you look away, back into the ichor waters swirling beneath the boat, wondering if the Styx itself has answers for impossible questions.
The thump of a hovering heartbeat cuts through your thoughts. Before you have a chance to shore up your defences, Astarion drops down beside you, his assessing gaze surveying your expression. Typical. He never seems to tire of prodding at your vulnerabilities, but godsdamn him if it’s not infuriatingly familiar.
“Looking a bit peaky, aren’t we?” He leers, almost playfully. “Must be absolutely famished for blood by now. I’m impressed, really. When I was a fledgling spawn, I couldn’t go more than a day before I was tearing at anything that moved.”
It’s rare and unsettling to hear him talk about his past like that—the spawn he was. He usually keeps that part buried under layers of sneers and silences, as if even acknowledging it gives it some hold over him. You’re tempted to dig deeper, to pry a little more of his history loose, but you fear it would only serve to provoke him.
You meet his gaze. “Are you volunteering, then? Because I can assure you, I’d be delighted to take you up on that.”
His lip curls instantly. “Don’t flatter yourself.” A breathy scoff escapes him, his gaze returning to the Styx’s grim horizon. “As if I’d willingly offer you a single drop of my precious blood. I've got better things to do than play juice box to the likes of you.”
A nagging unease tugs at you, a quiet dissonance that’s hard to ignore. You should be hungry, ravenous even. By now, your muscles should be cramping, your stomach an insatiable pit of bloodlust clawing for relief. But instead? Nothing. No gnawing hunger, no pain, no pulsing ache for sustenance.
The realization hits like a frozen blade slipping between your ribs. Shit. It had been him, your Astarion, who’d woven the compulsion to dampen your hunger on the day you married. You’d asked him, pleaded even, for a reprieve, so you wouldn’t use Shadowheart as a chew toy… again.
He’d agreed hesitantly, binding the compulsion tightly, giving you peace. This version wouldn’t know. He couldn’t. You pray to whatever gods may still listen that it stays that way.
A blessing, yes, but a curse all the same. If that compulsion is lifted—should he ever discover it and decide to sever it—there’s no question in your mind what will happen. You’ll become little more than a wild, unhinged beast.
This Astarion can’t know about it, not if you want even a hope of holding onto whatever tattered fragments of control you have left. His suspicious eyes rake over you, probing for answers. He’s too close already, picking up on the smallest tremor of unease. There’s no choice but to bury it, shoving the truth into a corner and throwing up a veil of sardonic humour.
“Oh, please,” you say with a feigned, dramatic sigh, “is it so hard for you to believe that I simply have an iron will? Not all of us lose our minds after a day without blood, you know. Some of us have restraint.”
He scoffs, one elegant brow arching. “Restraint? You? How delightfully unbelievable, but I suppose even delusions can be entertaining in moderation.”
You shrug. “Believe what you like, darling.”
His eyes narrow, lips twisting in a wicked smirk as he leans in closer. “I know you are hiding something,” he murmurs dangerously. “And, just like any little secret, it’ll reveal itself sooner or later. They always do.”
Your heart clenches, but you force a laugh, flicking him a dismissive gesture of your hand as if it might distract him. “Please. As if there’s anything left that you don’t know already. I’m not that interesting.”
“Not that interesting?” He clicks his tongue in feigned disappointment. “Pity. I thought I’d married a woman with more… substance.”
The barb slides off your skin easily, his attempts to dig through your defensesces meeting only laughter and barbed retorts. He leans in closer, his gaze drilling into yours with a relentless edge. You keep his focus on the banter, his questions pinging off you like arrows against steel. He tries again, baiting you with sly insinuations, but each time, you deflect to keep the true answer buried.
After a while, he sighs with frustration, muttering something, and you—you just keep smiling, hoping he’ll grow tired of the game before he sees through the cracks.
“When we reach Abriymoch, you will stay at my side at every moment. You will not wander off. You will not do anything that could get you—or more importantly, me—killed.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but it’s that lack of compulsion that tempts you to prod, just a little, testing his limits.
“Is that an order or a plea?” you ask, with feigned sweetness, watching his eyes narrow. “Or are you just that desperate to keep me close?”
He sneers, his patience peeling away. “Desperate? If anything, I would relish some peace and quiet. The only reason I’m keeping you tethered to my side is to prevent you from running off and making an absolute mess of things.” He leans closer, his gaze gleaming like a blade in the dark. “I will not have you ruining my plans with your foolish bravado.”
“Good to know I’m just the sidekick in this little venture.”
He scoffs, the sound colder than any rejection. “That is giving yourself too much credit. Sidekick? More like a leashed pet. A liability. Don’t fool yourself—you are not here because I need you. You’re here because I allow it.”
“Is that so?” You lift an eyebrow, refusing to look away, fingers tapping your lips as if contemplating. “Does it help you sleep at night, reassuring yourself you’ve got me on a leash?”
He laughs humorlessly. “If you so much as think of straying too far in Abriymoch, I’ll find you and drag you back like the disobedient creature you are, and believe me,” his gaze dips, cruel pleasure filling his eyes, “you will regret testing me.”
The words hang between you like a drawn blade, and yet you refuse to drop your grin. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Keep up the attitude, my sweet, sweet spawn, and you might get exactly what you’re asking for.”
You bask in the strange exhilaration that comes with losing your fear of him. There was a time when you would have trembled at the thought of Astarion's wrath, certain he would seize any opportunity to end you, but he hasn’t acted on his never-ending festivity of threats. Not once.
It’s intoxicatingly liberating, this absence of dread. Is it bravery or mere folly? Is this newfound audacity a testament to your strength, or simply the product of your own stupidity? Love or compulsion?
As you mull it over, Astarion’s laughter pierces your reverie. “Oh, do tell. I’d love to know what grand notions are swirling about in that lovely head of yours.” He leans in closer, crimson eyes bleeding malice and amusement. “Or are you merely concocting yet another excuse for your impending doom?”
You narrow your gaze at him. “I’m sure you’d love that, wouldn’t you? A tragic ending to the tale of us. Such a deliciously dark story.”
He smirks, tilting his head with mock innocence. “I live for tragic endings, my treasure, but I’d prefer you to survive a little longer—if only to entertain me.” His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper, as though sharing a secret meant for your ears alone. “After all, it would be terribly dull without your delightful, little insights. I must admit, your attempts at defiance are more amusing than I anticipated.”
You roll your eyes, both flattered and frustrated. “Awe, Astarion! You think I’m entertaining? Or just a distraction?”
“Can it not be both?” He straightens, feigning a serious demeanorur, but the mischief is palpable. “Your company has its charms, more than you think, though I do wish you would stop moping about your fate like a sullen child. It’s rather unbecoming.”
“Funny coming from you, of all people,” you retort. “You seem to enjoy playing the tragic villain, parading about with your dramatic flair.”
Astarion chuckles richly with sardonic undertones. “Ah, but that’s the beauty of it! I am both the villain and the narrative’s most charming rogue. Quite the duality, wouldn’t you say?”
You can’t help but wonder if the thrill is merely an illusion, a temporary reprieve before the inevitable plunge. You glance at the swirling waters of the Styx, feeling a strange sense of kinship with the murky depths. After all, you are both trapped in this twisted narrative.
“What is it, love? You seem awfully lost in thought.”
“I’m trying to decide how best to navigate this mess,” you say, forcing a lightness into your tone.
“Oh, come now,” he coaxes, his voice silky smooth. “You can’t tell me you’re not at least a little excited. The peril, the uncertainty—how could that not pique your interest?”
“It’s hard to be excited when I’m not sure whether you’ll save me or throw me to the wolves.”
Astarion leans closer, his breath ghosting against your skin. “Perhaps a little of both, depending on my mood.”
You’re not sure if you should feel exhilarated or terrified by that, but a wicked resolve blooms. Fuck this. Fuck fear. Fuck his threats and, most importantly, fuck him. Maybe you’ll turn this chaotic situation into a thrill ride before he sells you off, or you end up dead trying to save him. With a playful determination, you crawl into his lap, relishing the surprised expression on his face.
Astarion’s eyes widen, an amalgamation of bewilderment and indignation. “What in the Hells do you think you’re doing?” he protests, an incredulous edge to his voice. Yet, despite his protests, he doesn’t push you away. Instead, he shifts to accommodate your unexpected move.
“Just getting comfortable,” you say, settling into his lap with exaggerated drama, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Astarion’s protests continue, his voice rising with a mock outrage. “This is ridiculous! You cannot just—” He stops, a flicker that looks suspiciously like mirth crossing his face. “What makes you think you can crawl into my lap like some—some pet?” He narrows his eyes, but you can see the way his lips twitch upward despite himself. “You do realize you’re playing with fire, don’t you? I could toss you into the Styx without a second thought.”
You nod. “I’m well aware, but isn’t that the best part?”
“No, it’s not,” he retorts, but even as he says it, his arms wrap around you, drawing you closer as if to shield you. “You think this is a game, don’t you? This reckless behaviorur—”
“Hush now,” you coo, your fingers playfully clamping over his lips, silencing him mid-rant. “Let’s not ruin this with your whingeing. We should rest while we can before we reach Abriymoch.”
You let your eyes fall shut, perhaps idiotically placing trust in him that he hasn’t earned or deserves.
He tips his head, and you shudder involuntarily as his lips brush over your ear, a tantalizing whisper carried on his breath. “I’m far too excited for that,” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing, a deep chuckle vibrating against your skin.
Astarion bucks his hips into you boldly, pressing his growing arousal into your backside. You tut him, shaking your head playfully. “You can keep your excitement to yourself. You stink.”
He feigns indignation, drawing back as if you’ve slapped him. “What in the Hells do you mean by that?”
You goad him further. “Oh, I forgot! There haven’t been any mirrors for you to admire yourself in lately. But honestly, you’re terribly dirty and smelly. It’s quite a shame, really.”
A chuckle escapes him in a huff, almost as if he were trying to hold it back. “And you, my dear, aren’t in much better shape yourself. One could hardly mistake you for an ethereal beauty right now.”
You lift your chin defiantly, the corner of your mouth twitching upward. “I did not hear any complaints when you were putting your mouth all over me.”
His eyes round with surprise, intrigue frolicking around in his irises. “Ah, but you see, that’s where you’re mistaken. My tastes are quite refined, but I assure you, I can overlook a certain... foulness for the right incentives.”
“Oh, really?” You challenge, your intonation teasing. “What exactly qualifies as the right incentive, Astarion?”
He raises an eyebrow, a sly smile curling on his lips. “Why, the allure of your blood, for one. It’s a shame I can’t indulge in that right now, but rest assured, the moment I can, I won’t be distracted by such trifles as your unfortunate aroma.”
You laugh lightly, the sound mingling with the ominous whispers of the Styx, creating a strange harmony. “How positively noble of you. I’ll be sure to clean up for you the next time you wish to drain me dry then.”
Astarion rolls his eyes dramatically. “Oh, please. I wouldn’t want you to exhaust yourself with such trivialities. Besides, there’s something delightfully raw about you right now.”
“Raw? That’s one way to put it,” you snort. “More like I’ve just crawled out of a hellish pit.”
Astarion arches an eyebrow, his lips curling into that infuriatingly charming simper. “So, tell me,” he asks suggestively, “what would you award me with should I locate the hellish version of an inn in Abriymoch? One with a bathtub and a real bed, perhaps?”
You tilt your head teasingly. “Maybe nothing, maybe everything. You’ll just have to find one and find out.”
He slides an elegant finger beneath your chin, tilting your gaze upward to meet his. An electric current crackles between you as his eyes bore into yours, searching. You can’t remember a time he has looked at you quite like this.
“Perhaps you’ll make it worth my while,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to a velvet whisper, laced with a sweetness that feels almost foreign.
Then, before you can fully process what’s happening, he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a tentative kiss. It’s soft, hesitant at first, a whispered caress of silk against your skin as if he’s trying to learn how to be gentle. The wind’s mournful howl quiets into the background as the warmth of his mouth envelops you. The taste of him is faintly sweet, albeit tinged with a perilous promise.
As his kiss deepens, it transforms into urgency yet undeniably delicate, a frisk of warmth and hunger that sends a shiver cascading down your spine. His hands cradle your face, thumbs brushing gently against your cheeks. It’s a contrast to the jagged edge of his usual countenance, revealing a tenderness that leaves you breathless and confused. When he finally pulls away, his eyes flutter open, and you catch a glimpse of the shifting within them—flickering like the last embers of a dying fire. It dims quickly as he seems to wince, squeezing his eyes shut with a sharp intake of breath.
You think you even hear a faint whimper, or perhaps a whine, but the wind whips it away before you can grasp it fully. The raw vulnerability in that sends a rush of concern through you, an instinct to reach out and soothe whatever pain he’s hiding.
As if propelled by some force beyond your understanding, you whisper the words before you can stop yourself. “I love you.”
Astarion’s eyes anchor to you. He doesn’t reply—not that you expected him to, but he doesn’t rebuke you either. He shifts slightly, pulling you closer, so your head rests comfortably beneath his chin. His breaths heave and shutter, fingers digging into your arms with a grip that feels protective, possessive, perhaps a blend of both.
The chaos of the Hells continues to unfurl around you, grotesque and magnificent, swirling shades of crimson and obsidian merging like an artist's palette gone awry. Astarion's hold on you is firm, and the rhythmic beating of his heart—so wonderfully alive—thumps against your ear. It’s a reassuring reminder of the life that flows within him, the life you helped return to him, and you find yourself momentarily lost in the sound.
In this surreal blend of desolation and intimacy, you finally allow yourself to relax, surrendering to the strange safety of his embrace. As the boat drifts further toward Abriymoch, fate—whether toward doom or salvation—awaits you.
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Small Notes:
- Oh, thank fuck he didn't drop her.
- So, how is everybody enjoying the Hells thus far?
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 6.8k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]
Your laughter resounds through the rotten ruins, sharp and brittle. Astarion’s smug expression falters, taken aback by the sound. You can see his confusion in the way his brow furrows and his mouth pulls into a tight line, unsure of what to make of your reaction. It’s amusing how he expects fear or despair, but rather, you shower him with decisive derision.
“Of course, you would do something like this.” There’s a venomous lilt to your tone, a challenge that burns with each word. “It’s so predictable, really.”
You take a step closer, circling him with measured movements, like a prowling predator. It’s a risky game, but the rabid acrimony gives you strength. Astarion’s scarlet eyes track your every move, his stance rigid.
“Go on then,” you taunt in a deadly whisper. “Do it. Erase me. Free yourself. Take everything I am, everything I could ever be, and twist it into whatever sick fantasy you have. You’ve already taken everything else—my trust, my love, my life. It all belongs to you, doesn’t it? So why haven’t you done it?”
“You think I haven’t done it because I can’t? I could unravel you in a heartbeat if I wished. It’s just—” He sputters, searching for the right words. “It’s more... satisfying to let you cling to that desperate hope, to dangle the possibility of your freedom just out of reach.”
But the way he says it, the way his words tumble out with a rushed sharpness—it doesn’t add up. He’s grasping at straws, trying to convince himself as much as you, and you see it for what it is.
A lie. A thin, flimsy excuse swaddled in cruelty.
“Is that what you’re telling yourself? That it’s about satisfaction? That it’s about keeping me on the edge, trapped in your little game?” You shake your head, your eyes narrowing as you take a step closer. “No, I don’t think so. I think, despite all this—despite your cruelty, your desperate yearning for power—you loathe yourself. Because you know you could do it. You have the power to erase me completely, to make me nothing. But you can’t, can you?”
He flinches, the reaction so quick it’s nearly imperceptible, but you catch it. His expression hardens into a snarl, but the anger doesn’t mask the underlying turmoil in his eyes. “You know nothing about what I want!” he spits, but there’s no conviction behind it, no real strength.
You press on, each word a blade dipped in poison. “I know enough. You hate that you can’t bring yourself to do it. That somewhere, buried beneath all this darkness, is the man who would rather sever his own limb than harm me. That’s why you keep making excuses, why you haven’t turned me into the hollow, broken thing you threaten. Part of you, no matter how small, still cares.”
Astarion’s jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists at his sides, but he doesn’t strike. He stands there, trembling with rage—or perhaps something deeper, something he doesn’t want to face. His eyes flicker again, that scarlet brightening for a heartbeat, revealing a flash of something pained, something lost.
“Shut up. You think you understand me? You think you can pick me apart like some... some puzzle? You are nothing, and I—” He cuts himself off, biting back whatever admission threatens to spill out.
You take another step closer, your voice softening, but not with pity—no, it’s still a razor-sharp rebellion. “If I’m nothing, then why not finish it? Prove that I’m wrong, Astarion. Prove that you’re really as heartless as you claim to be.”
He stares at you, caught between outrage and confusion, and in that silence, you see it—the fissures, the war he’s waging with himself, the struggle that he so stubbornly refuses to pay any credence to. A war he’s losing, bit by bit.
Astarion’s face twists as he struggles for words, his lips curling back in a snarl. “You think I would hesitate for a moment if I thought you were truly a threat to me? You are my spawn! I own you!”
You laugh again, the sound caustic. “You keep telling yourself that you’re doing all of this to be strong, to be untouchable, but it’s a lie. You can’t even fool yourself, can you?”
He glares at you, stepping closer. “You think you can read me so well, do you? You think you can waltz in, make assumptions about what I am, what I want?”
“Why not?” You meet his eyes with a defiant fire of your own. “I’ve been by your side long enough to know when you’re lying—to yourself, and to me. If you truly wanted to erase me, to take everything that makes me me and twist it into your perfectly obedient puppet, you would have done it by now. But you haven’t. Why is that, Astarion?”
He bares his fangs at you, taking a deep, shuddering breath as he struggles to maintain his composure. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. Maybe I enjoy watching you suffer—knowing that I could take everything from you at any moment.”
You scoff, refusing to flinch under his intense gaze. “Oh, please. Drop the act. The truth is much simpler, isn’t it? You don’t want to admit that there’s still a part of you that cares, clinging to some shred of what we had.”
He steps back as if struck, his expression ripping little a disturbed pond. For a moment, he looks like he’s been laid bare, stripped of his defences. Then his face hardens again, but there’s wild desperation in his eyes. “You think I need you?” he growls with a ragged edge to his voice, a strain that betrays the struggle within him. “I do not need anyone. Least of all, you. You’re the one who can’t let go.”
“You’re right. I haven’t let go, and maybe that makes me a fool. But it’s because I see something in you worth saving, even if you’ve forgotten how to see it yourself.”
His breath catches, just barely, but you see it, a moment of hesitation. He turns away, his shoulders trembling. “You think you’re so godsdamned noble,” he murmurs, his voice barely more than a rasp. “But if you knew... if you understood what it means to hold this power, you would see why I won’t let go of it. Even for you.”
You take a step closer, closing the distance between you, your voice an urging whisper. “Then prove it, Astarion. Prove that you can let go. Or keep lying to yourself and let it consume you until there’s nothing left. But know this—I’m not afraid of you. Not anymore.”
He whirls back around, his face contorted with a mix of choler and something more fragile—anguish, maybe. “You should be,” he snarls, his voice breaking on the last word, as though the admission costs him something precious.
For a moment, you think he might strike you, compel you, or something far more insidious, but then he just stands there trembling, breathing hard.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, his voice rough and unsteady, each word a struggle to get out. “To have everything you ever wanted, everything you thought would make you invincible, and realize it’s not enough. It’s never enough. There’s a hunger in me now—a darkness that won’t be sated. It’s... it’s eating me from the inside out, and it’s telling me that if I just hold on a little longer, if I just take a little more...”
He trails off, his voice breaking, and his shoulders slump. For a heartbeat, he looks like the man you remember—the man who used to smile, who used to hold you close, who whispered soft promises in the dark. The man who fought so hard to survive, who dreamed of freedom, who loved fiercely and deeply, even when he didn’t know how to show it.
But then the moment passes, and the cruel visage slips back into place, his expression hardening with renewed bitterness. He steps away from you, as if trying to rebuild the distance between you, to put up the walls that have kept you apart.
You follow his movement, refusing to let him retreat into his self-imposed isolation. “You think I don’t understand? I understand more than you realize,” you say firmly, even as your shrivelled heart aches. “I know what it’s like to feel that hunger, that darkness that whispers lies in your ear, telling you that you need more, that you’re nothing without it. But you’re wrong, Astarion. You are something without it. You always have been.”
He glares at you, his eyes flashing with fury, but there’s a wetness in his gaze that he can’t quite hide. “That’s rich coming from you. My favourite little toy who still clings to your precious hope, who thinks there’s some happy ending waiting for us if we just try hard enough? You’re deluded.”
“Maybe I am,” you admit, a bitter smile tugging at your lips. “But at least I still feel something. At least I’m still fighting for something more than power. And you hate that, don’t you? You hate that I still care, that I still believe in you, because it means you have to face the part of yourself that you’ve buried so deep you’re scared to dig it back up.”
He lets out a strangled, humourless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. “Gods, you’re insufferable,” he mutters, but the words lack the venom they held before. He looks askance, as if he can’t bear to meet your glare. “You always did know how to get under my skin.”
“And I always will, because I know you, Astarion. I know the man beneath all of this,” you gesture toward him, “and I refuse to give up on him. Even if you already have.”
For a moment, he just stares at you, as if he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing, as if the possibility of redemption is something he’s forgotten how to hope for.
“You think it’s that simple?” He says, his intonation harsh but fraying at the edges.
You shake your head, sadness twisting in your chest. “No. I know it’s not simple. But I also know that the man I love is worth fighting for, even if he’s forgotten how to fight for himself.”
Astarion’s expression twists, anger and longing blending into a storm. For a moment, you think he might lash out again, that the fight is still burning too hot inside him to let anything else through. But then, with a rough, unsteady breath, he steps closer, closing the space between you with a suddenness that steals the air from your lungs.
He seizes you by the shoulders, his grip firm, fingers digging into your skin just enough to blur the line between a caress and something that might bruise. His breath ghosts over your lips, his proximity heady and dangerous. Astarion’s eyes are still sharp, still filled with the darkness that’s taken root in him, but there’s something else there now too—a hunger, raw and unfiltered, that pulses through him like a beating heart.
He dips his head closer, his mouth less than a breath away from yours. “You think your love is enough to bring me back from this?” he whispers harshly, his voice trembling with unrestrained intensity.
His mouth crashes against yours before you can respond—a kiss that’s all teeth and desperation. It’s wild—nigh on punishing. His hands slide down your back, pulling you flush against him, as if he can fuse your bodies together and somehow make himself whole again through the sheer force of contact.
You gasp into the kiss, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you match his intensity, meeting every bite and graze of his lips with your own fierce resolve. There’s pain in it, yes, but there’s also a heat that ignites your blood, a need that burns just as bright as his. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer even as his hands roam over you with a possessiveness that borders on frantic.
Astarion’s breath comes in ragged gasps as he tears himself away from your lips, his mouth skimming down the curve of your jaw, leaving bruising kisses along the line of your neck. He nips at the delicate skin there, the sharp edge of his fangs a perilous promise, but he doesn’t sink them in, and he groans against your skin.
His voice is rough, barely more than a growl. “You think this is what I want? To let myself be vulnerable, to let you get close enough to tear me apart again?”
“You want to be seen,” you reply, your voice steady. “You want someone to know the real you, the one buried beneath all that power and pain. And I see you, Astarion. All of you.”
Astarion’s grip tightens on your waist, and for a moment, you think he might break again, retreat behind the walls he’s so carefully constructed.
“I hate you for that,” he mutters, but the words sound broken, almost pleading, as if he’s confessing a truth he can’t bear to face. He cups the back of your head, his fingers threading through your hair with a gentleness that belies the desperation in his touch. “You make me feel... gods, I can’t stand how much you make me feel.”
The admission sends a shiver through you, a flash of hope and desire mingling in your chest. You lean into his touch, your own hands softening their grip, sliding down to rest over the frantic thud of his heartbeat. “Then let yourself feel it,” you murmur against his lips. “Let yourself feel me.”
Astarion's breath hitches, and for a moment, he holds you so tightly it’s as though he’s afraid you might dissolve into nothing. He kisses you again, fiercer this time, but there's a thread of something else woven into it—a hint of surrender, of a desperation that has nothing to do with dominance and everything to do with the way he clings to you.
It’s messy, it’s frantic, and it’s far from gentle, but there’s a need there that neither of you can deny—a mutual hunger that pulls you closer even as it threatens to tear you apart.
Astarion’s fingers are rough as they tug at the clasps and fastenings of your clothes, the fabric falling away beneath his touch with haste. There’s a rawness to his movements, a barely restrained violence that makes your breath catch as you let him strip away the layers between you, both literal and otherwise.
You don’t bother being gentle either as you yank at the hem of his torn shirt, fingers skimming over the bloodied skin underneath. He snarls against your mouth, a low, dangerous sound. He catches your wrist, twisting it behind you as he pushes you against the cold stone, the roughness of it scraping against your bare skin.
His breath comes out in harsh gasps as he presses against you, pinning you with his hips, his need for you hot and hard straining against the fabric of his trousers. “You think you can save him?” he whispers, his voice ragged and raw. “You think this means anything more than a distraction?”
You bite back a sharp retort, tilting your head to meet his lustily hooded eyes. You can see the anger there, the frustration, but also something else—something like a plea. It’s ridiculous, this twisted game you play, this dance between hatred and desire.
You roll your hips and press your body closer to his, relishing the way he shudders against you. “Maybe I just want to forget for a little while. Maybe you do too.”
Astarion’s grip tightens on your wrist, his breath hot against your neck as he bites down, not hard enough to break the skin but enough to send a jolt of pleasurable pain through you. He trails his lips down your throat, sharp teeth grazing your skin, and you shudder at the sensation, a gasp slipping past your lips despite yourself. His hands move over you with a kind of frantic need, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
It’s a messy, brutal dance, each of you trying to gain the upper hand even as you both know there’s no real victory to be had here. You twist out of his grip and catch his shirt, yanking it open with enough force to send buttons scattering across the dusty floor. He laughs, a dark, bitter sound that rumbles through his chest as he allows you to push him back against the wall, his hands tangling in your hair as he pulls you in for another kiss.
For a moment, it’s almost tender, the way he cradles the back of your head, the way his lips brush yours with something like reverence. But then his nails dig into your scalp, and you return the favour, biting down on his bottom lip, hard. He growls low in his throat, a sound that sends a thrill down your spine.
And yet, beneath the frantic hunger, you can feel the tension simmering between you, the sense that this is more than just bodies colliding. It’s the only way either of you knows how to touch each other, through fire and force, through pain that twists into pleasure until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
Astarion’s hands skim down your sides. Your clothes have been discarded completely now, like so much meaningless debris, and his hands map every inch of you, tracing old scars and new bruises, as if trying to memorize you in this moment.
You let yourself lean into it, let yourself give in to the heat that flares between you, if only because it’s better than the haunting loneliness. His mouth crashes against yours again, rough and demanding, and you respond with equal fervour, your hands roaming over the hard planes of his chest, digging your nails into his skin.
Astarion’s touch is electric, each brush of his fingers sending jolts of sensation through you that blur the lines between pleasure and pain. He’s always known exactly how to wield desire like a weapon, but this time, you refuse to let yourself be shattered by it. You grip his shoulders, tearing off his shirt and throwing it off to the side.
It’s impossible to ignore how your body responds to him—how the ache that’s settled deep in your bones is temporarily numbed by his closeness. For a moment, you let yourself forget the lies and the betrayals, the shadow of your true husband trapped somewhere behind the darkness in his eyes.
A part of you knows that this is wrong—that you are grasping at a ghost. It feels like betrayal, a twisted mockery of the love you once shared, but you can’t stop yourself from leaning into it, from taking the solace his body offers, no matter how fleeting it might be.
His gaze is filled with a dark satisfaction. His fingers press harder, his grip possessive, as if he can hold onto your body even as he keeps you at arm’s length in every other way. It’s raw and violent, more a clash of wills than anything else, and you’re both losing.
He pivots, pushing you harder against the crumbling wall, the stone biting into your back, and you let him, drinking in the way his breath hitches, the way his hands shake against your skin with rage or lust or something else entirely. You do not care at this point.
I should stop this, pull away, and refuse to let him turn this into just another power struggle. But you don’t. You cling to him as if he is the last solid thing in a world that’s falling apart because if you let him go, you’re afraid there will be nothing left of the man you love.
So you let yourself burn, knowing that you’re playing with fire. And even if it leaves you scalded and scarred, even if it’s a mistake, for this moment, you’ll take the heat over the cold emptiness that waits beyond.
Astarion's fingers intertwine with yours as he pins your hands above your head. His body presses flush against yours. His hips roll in a tantalizing rhythm. The friction sends sparks of pleasure coursing through you. Your hips jerk involuntarily, desperate for more contact, more of him.
"Tell me you want this," he barks.
"I want this," you breathe, your voice husky with need. "All of you."
A wicked grin spreads across Astarion's face, his crimson eyes blazing with unholy hunger. "Then allow me to indulge you, my treasure."
Astarion's lips lavish attention to your neck, your collarbone, proceeding lower. He takes one of your nipples into his mouth, suckling and teasing until you're gasping his name. Astarion chuckles, clearly relishing the effect he has on you. His fingers slide between your thighs, finding you already slick with arousal.
Astarion groans appreciatively as he strokes your sensitive flesh, his skilled touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. "So wet for me already," he murmurs against your skin.
He works your clit, circling and sweeping in the practice, precise pace that left you addicted to him in the first place. He builds your pleasure higher and higher, increasing the pressure, his touch more insistent as your shuddering moans fill the space. He slips two long fingers inside you, curling them to hit that perfect spot. You cry out, clutching at his shoulders as he works you expertly. His thumb continues to tease your clit as his fingers thrust in and out at an ever-increasing pace.
"That's it, darling," Astarion croons. "Let me hear those beautiful sounds."
Your climax builds rapidly under his ministrations. Just as you're about to tumble over the edge, he withdraws. You cannot stifle the whimper resounding at the back of your throat at the loss.
”Eager little thing, aren’t you?“ he tuts, nipping at your lower lip. "Patience, my dear. I intend to savour every... last... drop.”
Breathing heavily, he lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He slams you into the wall, hard enough to make your vision splinter, as if to remind you who your creator is, who you belong to, and bucks his hips into you with a growl, his cock straining against his trousers.
“Fuck,” he hisses through clenched teeth.
Astarion eases you down to the floor with feline grace, and slides down your body, leaving a trail of burning kisses in his wake. His breath ghosts over your flesh, making you tremor with anticipation.
When his mouth finally reaches your aching center, you cry out, overwhelmed by the velvety sensation. He licks a long, slow stripe up your folds, making you gasp. Your fingers tangle in his hair as he sucks gently on your clit. The dual stimulation of his tongue and the slight graze of fangs against your sensitive flesh leave you trembling. Astarion grips your hips, holding you steady as he devours you with single-minded focus.
Astarion's ministrations intensify. His fingers curl inside you, stroking that perfect spot with relentless precision. He applies steady pressure, matching the rhythm of his tongue, and you feel yourself climbing higher and higher towards your peak.
With his free hand, he grips your thigh, holding you open and exposed to his ravenous appetite. His tongue dances in intricate patterns, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks that leave you gasping, creating a delicious tension that coils tighter with each passing moment. Your thighs begin to tremble, and Astarion responds by tightening his grip, holding you firmly in place as he redoubles his efforts.
Your fingers tangle tighter in his hair as he works you relentlessly with lips and tongue. Astarion's skilled ministrations build the pressure inside you to a fever pitch. Just when you think you can't take any more, he sucks hard on your swollen bud. Pure, raw ecstasy floods your body, and you cry out his name as a swell of bliss crashes into you.
But Astarion doesn't relent. He laps up your release greedily, prolonging your climax until you're trembling and oversensitive. Only then does he raise his head, lips, and chin, glistening. His crimson eyes burn with hunger as he crawls up your body.
"Delicious," he purrs, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You taste yourself on his tongue as he ravishes your mouth.
The kiss deepens, his fingers desperately working at the buttons of his trousers, and freeing his cock. The kiss grows more urgent as Astarion positions himself between your thighs, muscles rippling under his skin. You feel him pressing against your entrance, teasing you, hot and insistent. He breaks the kiss to gaze into your eyes, a wicked smirk playing on his lips. Slowly, torturously, he rubs the head of his cock along your slick folds.
With a low growl, he sheaths himself inside you in one powerful thrust. You cry out at the exquisite stretch. Astarion sets a relentless pace, his hips snapping against yours with vampiric strength and speed. Each thrust sends soul-crushing pleasure spiderwebbing through your body, making you pant and whine. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him even deeper into you. The feel of him dragging against your walls is almost overwhelming, filling you completely, and every nerve in your body hums.
Astarion's mouth moves from your lips down to your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. You arch into him, your hands running over his back as he marks you with his bites.
He moves one hand to cup your breast, squeezing and teasing the hardened nipple between his fingers. The other hand trails down between your bodies, finding that sweet spot between your thighs once again. His fingers dance over it expertly, adding to the pleasure building inside you. You can feel yourself getting closer to another release, but Astarion seems determined to draw it out.
He pulls back slightly, changing the angle of his thrusts and hitting a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. He smirks down at you before picking up his pace even more. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes through the room as Astarion drives into you with a fierce hunger.
“Come for me, pet,” he barks, raspy and breathless.
His words send you over the edge, your body convulsing in ecstasy, pleasure crashing over you with an intensity that narrows your world down to only him. Your body arcs against Astarion as unadulterated ecstasy ripples through you, each one more powerful than the last. You cry out his name, clinging to him desperately as your inner walls clench around him.
Astarion growls, a primal sound of satisfaction as he feels your release. He doesn't slow his pace, plunging into you relentlessly as he chases his own climax. His lips find yours, swallowing your moans as the overstimulation borders on painful rapture.
"You're mine," he snarls, but his words carry less bite than usual, said more as if he's trying to convince himself.
"Yes," you sigh.
"You're going to take all of me, aren't you?" He growls in your ear. "My very good girl."
You moan in response, unable to form any coherent words as pleasure consumes you once again. As if sensing this change in you, Astarion starts moving faster and harder than before. His fingers dig into your hips as he sets a brutal pace, his own need driving him to push you to your limits until your body convulses once again.
You feel the shift in him, the way his muscles tense and his thrusts become erratic. With a final thrust, he buries himself deep inside you and lets out a guttural groan. You feel his release, his cock pulsing and spilling his seed into you, hot and intense. As the pleasure begins to ebb, Astarion's movements slow to a gentle rocking. He peppers your neck and collarbone with feather-light kisses, a stark contrast to the fierce passion of moments before. His body covers yours completely, pinning you beneath him. You can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against yours as he catches his breath.
For a few minutes, you’re granted a blissful reprieve of thought. Astarion pulls out slowly, and the sensation makes your whimper because you once again feel so very empty. He rolls onto his back on the floor, his cock still glistening with the evidence of your betrayal.
In a movement you don’t quite perceive, he gathers you up, and places you atop his chest. His skin cools within moments, reminding you of a time long ago, and cutting through the searing heat of Avernus like a winter breeze.
Your eyes begin to drift shut, but you force them open when Astarion shifts, bending his arm, and slipping his hand behind his head. He opens one eye lazily to glance at you.
“Rest,” he murmurs, his voice husky with the aftermath of your passion.
You shake your head slightly, stubbornness still flaring despite the exhaustion that tugs at your bones. “I can’t... if anything sneaks up on us.”
He cuts you off with a sharp, exasperated huff. “For once in your life, will you stop being so bloody insufferable? Rest. Nothing’s going to sneak up on us, not with me here.” The words are edged, but there’s a faint echo of something less venomous, less cruel.
His eyes slide shut, and eventually, you feel the pull of your trance calling to you. Just a few minutes. Just enough to regain some strength. You let yourself slip into that familiar meditative state, your breathing evening out, your mind beginning to drift.
But just before you fall completely into the quiet embrace, a sharp realization hits you like a dagger to the chest. This didn’t bring him back. The Astarion you love, your husband—the one who has always softened under your touch, who has always let you anchor him—remains locked away. This time, the intimacy didn’t break through. It didn’t bring him home.
A cold dread curls through your gut as your mind slips deeper into the trance, a single, terrible question echoing in the recesses of your thoughts: What if he’s truly lost to you now?
You rise slowly, pushing back the soreness in your muscles as you reach for your scattered clothes. The air is stifling, thick with the mingled scents of sweat, blood and the charred remnants of this crumbling ruin that serves as your shelter. Astarion’s presence looms behind you, a shadow that refuses to recede.
He leans casually against the fractured wall, arms crossed, watching you with unsettling glee. “You know, darling, I could still taste you on my tongue when I woke up,” he mocks. “You were... surprisingly sweet for someone who likes to play so very hard to get.”
You stiffen, but refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning around. You keep your hands steady, forcing yourself to finish each button as if his words don’t touch you.
“And do not try to tell me you didn’t enjoy it,” he continues, his tone slipping into a near purr. He steps closer until you can feel the whisper of his breath against the back of your neck. “I could taste your enjoyment on your lips, in your cries.” He leans in even closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he speaks. “Tell me, did you enjoy it as much as I did?”
“You’re delusional if you think I’m going to stroke your ego about this,” you snap.
He chuckles, a sound that reverberates through you. “Oh, come now. No need to lie to yourself. We both know there was something deliciously twisted about it, wasn’t there? The way you writhed under me, the way our bodies fit together.” His fingers trail along your shoulder, down the line of your spine, light but maddeningly possessive. “I wonder... how long will it take before you crave it again? Before you beg me to make you feel like that again?”
You jerk away from his touch, turning to face him with a glare that’s meant to cut through his bravado, but all he does is tilt his head, a wicked glint in his eyes. He’s studying you, drinking in your reactions like the desert drinks a mirage, savouring every hint of anger, every sign of defiance.
“You’re trying too hard, Astarion,” you bite out, hating the way your voice sounds—hoarse, shaken.
His smirk softens at the edges, but it doesn’t lose its sharpness. He reaches out, tracing a knuckle along your jaw, his touch deceptively gentle. “I think you’re afraid... afraid that you enjoyed it too much. Afraid that you might find yourself wanting me again, even knowing that I am not him.”
You step closer, closing the distance between you until you’re nearly nose to nose, and you let a small, defiant smile curl at your lips. “Enjoy this while you can, Ascendant,” you whisper, your voice like a blade. “Because this power trip of yours won’t last forever.”
He laughs softly, but it’s a brittle sound, like the crackle of a fire on the verge of dying. “Maybe it won’t,” he concedes, his expression darkening. “But I think we both know that you and I? We’re far from done.”
You hold his gaze a moment longer before turning away, grabbing what’s left of your belongings, and walking out into the harsh light of Avernus. Astarion’s silhouette leads the way across the blistered ground. He moves with the confidence of someone who expects to be obeyed, and you follow, your mind restless even as you try to keep your senses sharp, wary of any lurking dangers. It’s not easy—your attention keeps snagging on the memory of the man he used to be, the one you long to bring back from the recesses of his fractured soul.
But that man is not the one in front of you now. This version of Astarion walks as if he owns the Hells themselves, his chin lifted, crimson eyes sweeping the broken landscape with a predator’s calm. He glances back at you occasionally, his gaze cool and assessing, as though measuring how far he can push before you break.
“You’re awfully quiet, darling,” he remarks, his voice carrying over the infernal wind, mocking and sharp. “What’s on your mind? Plotting another romantic gesture, perhaps? Or are you already planning your next betrayal?”
“Some of us prefer to focus on survival rather than listening to our own voices,” you reply, tone as dry as the scorched earth beneath your feet.
He chuckles, a low, indulgent sound. “Yes, yes. Survival. But you’re not exactly thriving, are you? No sun to warm your skin, no prey to hunt, no adoring husband to cling to. I imagine it’s rather dismal, even for you.”
Despite the barbs, you can’t help but notice that he’s talking more. The silence that used to stretch between you has given way to a stream of biting commentary. It’s a small thing, but you cling to it, wondering if it means that some part of him is still trying to reach out.
The path leads you towards the river Styx, its crimson waters churning sluggishly, a scarlet serpent winding its way through the hellish terrain. You duck beneath a twisted tree, its gnarled branches clawing at the sky, just as a fireball streaks overhead, sizzling as it hits the river’s surface.
Your mind wanders. Time hasn’t brought your Astarion back. Blood nor intimacy have, either. You’ve tried every approach you can think of, every small act that might stir a glimmer. But there is one option left, a last-ditch effort that could either save him or doom you both—the psychic bond that ties you to your husband, the thread that you’ve kept hidden, shut tight like a vault.
It’s your last secret, and one that you’ve guarded fiercely. What will happen if it fails? If you open yourself to him, let him see everything you’ve kept hidden—your desperation, your love, your belief that there’s still something left to save—and he remains unchanged, you’ll have nothing left. No hope. No leverage. Just a door flung open to darkness.
“Careful,” he croons, gesturing toward the crimson river that slithers alongside your path, its surface rippling like molten blood. “You know, the Styx has quite the reputation. One touch of its lovely ichor, and you might find yourself... forgetful. Sometimes it’s temporary, a few memories lost like leaves on the wind. Other times... well, let’s just say it can wipe a mind clean, leave you a blank slate.”
“I must admit, the thought is rather entertaining. Just imagine—me, throwing you into those waters, watching as every piece of who you are slips away, until there’s nothing left but a frightened, lost little girl.”
He leans closer, the mockery clear in every syllable. “You would have to rely on me for everything. I could be anything I wanted to you—a hero, a protector, the only one you could trust. You would hang on my every word, wouldn’t you? And would never know just how much danger you’re truly in.”
You keep your expression neutral, refusing to let the threat find purchase in your mind. It’s true, the Styx’s waters are a danger—one that could very easily strip away everything you’ve fought to hold on to. But Astarion’s taunts ring hollow, a game to try and get under your skin. You know, deep down, that if he truly wanted to reduce you to nothing, he wouldn’t need the river to do it.
You tilt your head, letting a faint smirk tug at your lips. “Oh, how thoughtful of you, but perhaps you should consider going for a swim yourself. After all, isn’t forgetting me your deepest, darkest desire? Didn’t the hag say as much?”
The change in him is slight—an almost imperceptible pause, the faintest twitch of irritation behind his eyes—but it’s enough. For a heartbeat, the mask slips, just a crack, and you seize the opportunity to press further.
“Why, Astarion, you almost seem bothered by the idea. Is it because it’s true? Is that what you really want?” You prod, your voice taking on a mocking lilt.
“You think you’re so clever,” he says, his timbre low and dangerous. “I needn't explain myself to you.”
“You’re so quick to dismiss it all, aren’t you?” you press. “So eager to pretend that none of this matters. But you’re lying—to me, to yourself. Maybe if you drown out the truth with enough threats, you’ll start to believe it.”
The shift is instantaneous. His eyes flash with a wild light, and before you can draw your next breath, he’s on you, one hand clamping around your throat. He moves faster than you can process, lifting you off your feet as if you weigh nothing at all.
Your nails scrabble against his wrist, but he doesn’t even flinch, his grip iron and unyielding. He holds you there, suspended in the air above the roiling edge of the Styx, the river’s crimson waters churning just inches below your dangling feet.
His laughter rings out—maniacal, jagged. “You think you can provoke me, that your little words matter?” he sneers, his lips pulling back to reveal a gleaming edge of fangs. “Look at you, dangling here like a broken doll. So fragile. So pathetic.”
He loosens his grip a fraction, just enough for you to suck in a ragged breath, and for a moment, your body drops, slipping toward the writhing red of the river below. Panic claws at you as you feel the heat of the Styx’s surface, the promise of obliteration in its depths. But just before your feet touch the water, his fingers tighten again, hauling you back from the brink with effortless strength. He holds you there, hovering over the edge of oblivion, letting you feel the danger, the power he wields over you.
“Go on then,” you manage to rasp out, voice hoarse with the strain of his grip on your windpipe. “Do it. Drop me. Erase me. Kill me. Just fucking do something.”
It’s a gamble—one that might cost you everything. But you can’t stand the game, the way he toys with you like a cat with a wounded bird, drawing out the agony with every mocking word.
“You think I won’t do it?” He hisses, and for a moment, you feel the tension in his grip shift, as if he’s testing your weight, deciding whether to let you fall. “You really are a fool. You’re so eager for death, aren’t you?”
“You don’t have the spine for it, do you?” you hiss out, fighting to keep your voice steady even as his fingers tighten and loosen again.
His grip slackens further, his expression shifting, something cold and vicious overtaking that momentary uncertainty. You feel the weightlessness beneath your feet, the rush of air as his grip slips—
And you realize, with a jolt of terror, that this time, he might truly mean it.
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Small Notes:
- Did she push him too far?
- I cannot tell if I feel like this is a betrayal. It's still technically him... right?
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 5.8k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]
Blood splatters across the ground in a grotesque arc as the creature’s claws sink deep into Astarion’s side. His crimson eyes widen for a split second before narrowing into a deadly glare, lips curling back in a snarl of fury. His body jerks under the force of the blow, but he doesn’t falter. A guttural hiss escapes him as he digs his dagger into the creature’s arm, twisting it with brutal precision.
The beast howls in pain, rearing back as Astarion pulls free of its grasp, but he’s staggering. Blood pours from the gash in his side, staining his pale skin even paler. He meets your eyes for a fleeting moment, and there’s a flash of something—rage, perhaps, or maybe something more elusive.
Your heart—or at least the hollow space where it should be—contracts painfully. The sight of his blood, his body trembling from the injury.
Astarion glances down at his wound, grimacing before turning back to the creature, defiant even as blood drips from his torn flesh. He moves with a limp now but still manages to stand between you and the beast, his dagger raised. It charges again, its massive body shaking the earth beneath its feet.
This time, you don’t freeze.
With a surge of desperation, you channel the Weave, your hands sparking with magic as you unleash a blast of energy, casting Shatter, toward the monster. The spell hits its mark, striking the creature’s side and causing it to stumble, but only briefly. It shakes off the blow, growling in fury.
Astarion’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Is that really all you’ve got? Try not to embarrass yourself.”
The creature lunges toward you with impossible speed, jaws wide, but you’re ready. With a snap of your fingers, an arcane shield flares to life just as the creature’s teeth come dangerously close to tearing into your flesh. The impact rattles you to your bones, but the shield holds.
“Ah, so you do have a spine,” he mutters sardonically.
You don’t have time to respond. The creature recovers from the blow, its tendrils writhing like snakes around its body, and it charges again. But this time, you’re moving with it. You duck low, dodging its massive claws with more agility than you thought possible, your pulse racing even though there’s no heartbeat to guide it.
You spin around, gathering a blast of magical energy in your hands, and unleash it with a sharp, controlled strike. The bolt of force slams into the creature’s side, a burst of light and power that sends it skidding back, its roar of rage echoing through the maze.
Astarion laughs darkly beside you, his blade gleaming as he darts forward. “Not bad. But try not to get in my way.”
He moves like liquid shadow, slipping under the creature’s swiping claws and driving his dagger deep into its hide. The beast lets out a strangled howl, whipping its massive head around in a blind attempt to catch him, but Astarion is too fast. He leaps back just as its jaws snap shut on empty air, his eyes glinting with the thrill of the fight.
For a moment, the two of you seem to have the upper hand. The creature is bleeding now, thick black ichor dripping from its wounds, its movements slower, more erratic. But you know better than to let your guard down.
The monster lets out a guttural snarl and suddenly slams its tendrils into the ground. The earth beneath your feet shakes violently, cracks spiderwebbing through the bedrock. You lose your footing for a moment, but quickly catch yourself, already summoning another spell to your fingertips.
Astarion is not so lucky. The ground splits beneath him, sending him stumbling, and in that split second, the creature strikes. One of its tendrils snaps out like a whip, wrapping around his waist and yanking him off his feet.
“Astarion!” you shout, but he doesn’t respond. He’s already slashing at the tendrils with his blade, but the beast’s grip is too strong. Its massive jaws open wide, preparing to tear him apart.
You don’t think. You just act.
With a shout, you thrust your hand forward, channelling every ounce of your power into a single, concentrated blast. The spell shoots from your palm in a brilliant arc of light, striking the creature’s tendrils with a crackle of electricity. The monster howls, its grip loosening just enough for Astarion to free himself and tumble to the ground.
He lands hard, blood staining his torn shirt, but he’s already moving, his eyes blazing with fury. “I told you to run,” he snaps. “Or are you just hoping to watch me bleed out for your entertainment?”
“I’m not leaving you,” you fire back, your breath ragged as you prepare for the creature’s next attack.
Astarion’s eyes narrow, but before he can retort, the beast lunges at both of you. You dodge to the left, narrowly avoiding its claws, and retaliate with another blast of arcane energy. It hits, sending a shockwave through the air, but the creature is relentless. It charges again, faster this time; its gaping maw aimed right at you.
You’re ready.
With a flick of your wrist, the ground quakes as Hold Monster paints bright ruins underneath the massive beast, tendrils of arcane energy wrapping around the monster’s legs.
But it’s stronger than you anticipated. It tears free from the magical bonds, its glowing eyes locked on you with murderous intent. It lunges, jaws snapping, and this time you’re too slow.
Just as the creature’s claws are about to tear into you, Astarion appears in a blur of motion, slamming into you with enough force to knock you both to the ground. You gasp as the wind is knocked from your lungs, the sharp sting of pain radiating through your body as you hit the jagged terrain.
“Pay attention!” Astarion hisses, his voice harsh in your ear as he pulls you up by your arm. His face is close—too close. “I’m not dying because you can’t keep up.”
You push him away, breathless but defiant. “I don’t need your protection.”
He smirks, that cruel, mocking smile twisting his lips. “Oh, please. You need someone’s protection. I’m just the unlucky bastard stuck with you.”
The words sting, but you don’t have time to dwell on them. The creature is regrouping, its massive form towering over you once again, and charging at you with renewed fury.
You and Astarion move in sync this time, ducking and weaving through the onslaught of claws, tendrils, and teeth. You cast spell after spell, each one landing with more precision and power than before.
Suddenly, the beast slams its massive body into the ground, sending a shockwave that knocks you both off your feet. You roll, your vision spinning as you try to regain your bearings, but when you look up, the creature’s tendrils are already wrapping around Astarion again, pulling him toward its gaping maw.
“No!” The word rips from your throat as you struggle to stand, but your legs buckle beneath you.
Panic surges through your veins like ice. You’ve thrown everything at this creature—arcane blasts, protective wards, fire, lighting, thunder, force, desperate attempts to slow it—and still, it persists.
Astarion’s struggling, slashing futilely at the tendrils with his dagger, but his movements are weakening, the strength ebbing out of him as blood drips down his torn shirt. His crimson eyes meet yours for a fleeting second, filled with rage but also something far more dangerous—fear.
You feel it too. That icy spike of terror, realizing you’re out of time. A voice, low and malevolent, whispers in the back of your mind, its cold whispers wrapping around your thoughts like chains.
"Use it."
Asmodeus's warning flashes across your memory. Do not wield Hellfire lightly. It is destruction incarnate. But the vision of Astarion—broken, his body torn to shreds by this creature—overrides the caution in your mind. The Weave flickers in your grasp, faltering, fading. You’re running on fumes. You know it. Astarion knows it.
But there is one last power left to you.
The voice presses harder, darker, as if sensing your resolve. Turn it to ash. Save him, but at what cost?
Your hands tremble, your magic slipping out of control, but you force your fingers to steady. "I’m sorry," you whisper to yourself. To him. To whatever remains of your soul.
Then you reach for the flames of Hell itself.
The air around you ignites, blazing white hot, banishing the shadows, as Hellfire surges through your veins, overwhelming, terrifying in its potency. It burns hotter than anything you’ve ever felt, searing through your blood like molten iron, your body screaming in protest as you channel it. But you don’t stop. You can’t.
It erupts from you in a violent torrent, engulfing the entire clearing in a scorching inferno, white-hot flames so intense they seem to burn even the air itself. The creature screeches as the fire consumes it, its body crumbling to ash before your eyes, leaving behind nothing but charred earth and the echo of its agony.
But the flames don’t stop there. Now that they’ve tasted the world, they surge forth with a ravenous hunger, twisting through the calcified trees of the maze. The heat sears your skin, but the raw power feels like a symphony inside you, a rhythm that refuses to be silenced.
The flames whip through the maze like serpents, leaving trails of burning white light in their wake. Even the shadows ignite and dissolve into plumes of smoke as the Hellfire carves a molten path through the darkness.
For a moment, you let it run wild, watching the trees turn to cinders and the air shimmer with heat. A pathway opens ahead of you, lit with the fire's eerie, otherworldly glow, promising an escape from the labyrinth's twisted clutches.
And somewhere in the inferno’s roar, you wonder—if you let this power consume everything, would it also burn away the pain? The loss? The truth that lingers, a wound that even Hellfire can’t sear shut?
Astarion falls free, tumbling to the ground. When it’s over, silence descends, thick and suffocating. The Hellfire dies down, leaving nothing but scorched earth. You stand there, shaking, your hands still glowing faintly with residual flame. The power lingers, even after the fire’s gone, curling in your chest like a coiled serpent waiting to strike again.
As the last embers of Hellfire flicker out, you feel something—shift—inside you.
It’s subtle at first—just a faint tug deep in your chest, like a thread being pulled loose. But then the sensation grows sharper, more insistent, until it feels like something vital is unraveling. You gasp, clutching at your chest, but there’s no wound, no visible scar. Just this terrible, gnawing absence.
Something is gone.
You don’t know what it is—can’t quite grasp the shape of it—but you feel the loss like a cold void settling in your bones. Your soul? No, it’s something deeper, something you can't name.
But you do know. Hellfire doesn’t come without a price.
In the distance, that familiar dark voice chuckles, smug and satisfied. You shudder, the weight of Asmodeus's warning hanging heavy over you.
Astarion is crouched nearby, his hand pressed to his side, but he’s already trying to straighten up as if nothing happened.
You move toward him, taking in the deep slashes across his body, the dark crimson of his blood soaking through his clothes. He’s hurt—badly—but his expression remains cold, distant, like it always does when he’s trying to hide something.
“You saved me,” you say, your voice quiet but laced with the weight of the truth. His body took the brunt of the attack, shielding you, and for a moment, you saw him—your Astarion—the one who would have done anything to protect you. Not this cruel shadow he’s become.
He scoffs, a dismissive sound that cuts through the tension. “I need you alive. You’re worth far more when you’re breathing, even if you don’t actually need air.”
His words are keen, but you can hear the slight tremor in his voice. He’s brushing it off, deflecting—again—but you’re not fooled. You can smell the blood on him, thick in the air. His clothes cling to him, soaked in crimson, the red pooling beneath him like ink bleeding into paper.
“Astarion,” you say, stepping closer, “you’re hurt. We need to—”
“I’m fine,” he snaps, cutting you off before you can finish. He’s already moving, or at least trying to, his steps faltering slightly as he pushes past you. His hand is still gripping his side, blood seeping between his fingers. “We don’t have time for this. If we don’t keep moving, we’ll end up as something else’s midnight snack.”
You reach out, grabbing his arm. He feels strangely cold, but the warmth of his blood smears across your skin. “You’re not fine.” You don’t back down, not this time.
He glances down at your hand on his arm, and his crimson eyes narrow. “And what do you suggest? You patch me up? Last time I checked, you weren’t exactly a cleric.”
“No,” you reply, not missing the bitterness in his voice. “But I can still help.”
Astarion wrenches his arm free with a sharp tug, though the effort costs him. His face tightens, and he bites back a groan, the pain finally slipping through his mask of indifference. “I said, I’m fine,” he hisses, taking a step back. “I’ve had worse. This?” He waves vaguely at his wounds. “Just a scratch.”
You cross your arms, unconvinced. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”
He rolls his eyes, attempting to keep his facade intact. “I heal, remember?”
“Right,” you say dryly, “you seem to be leaking quite heavily for someone who heals.”
Astarion’s lip curls, a flash of fangs appearing, though there’s less menace in the gesture than usual. “I appreciate the concern, darling, really,” he says, voice laced with sarcasm. “But if I stop to rest every time I get a little bruised, I’ll never get out of this godsforsaken place. Now, shall we?”
He tries to step forward again, but his legs falter, and he stumbles. You dart forward, catching him before he falls completely. His weight presses into you, cold and heavy, and for a moment, he doesn’t push you away. His breath is ragged, more laboured than it should be for someone who doesn’t technically need to breathe.
You both stand there, his blood soaking into your clothes, the air laden with silence. You think back to the way he shielded you from the creature’s attack, how instinctively he moved to protect you despite everything. It’s confusing, this twisted version of him, the cruel barbs that mask something deeper. The Astarion you loved, the one you married, your Astarion is still trapped somewhere inside him.
But for now, this is all you have.
“Let me help you,” you say again, quieter this time, trying to reach through the walls he’s built around himself. “You can barely stand.”
He looks down at you, his eyes still cold but... softer, for just a fraction of a second. Then, with a bitter smile, he finally relents. “Fine. But if you try anything funny, I’ll have your head.”
His threat is hollow, more out of habit than genuine malice, and you can’t help but smile slightly. “Deal.”
With Astarion’s arm slung heavily over your shoulders, you guide him through the path you’ve carved with Hellfire. The maze is no longer a labyrinth of dark, calcified trees but a charred, smoking ruin. The flames have burned a path straight through.
Astarion leans against you more than he’d probably like to admit, his steps uneven and laboured. Every now and then, a pained grunt slips past his lips despite the sharp set of his jaw, and his weight grows heavier, dragging at you with each faltering step.
Ahead, the skeletal remains of a ruined building loom, half-collapsed and broken, but offering some semblance of shelter. It might’ve been a home for someone or something once, but now it’s little more than a hollow shell with crumbling walls and a sagging roof. But it’s better than being out in the open.
You guide Astarion toward it, your own legs trembling under his weight, but you force yourself onward. When you reach the remnants of a doorway, you manoeuvre him inside, easing him down against the wall, careful not to jar his wounds. He slumps against the rough stone, breath ragged, his face twisted in pain.
His eyes are locked onto you, watching your every move like a predator waiting to strike. Even when he's weak, the tension between you both never seems to fade.
You kneel beside him, your fingers brushing the torn fabric of his shirt aside to assess the damage. His skin is pale beneath the blood, the wounds jagged and deep. For someone who claimed it was “just a scratch,” he looks dangerously close to falling apart.
The wounds are too deep, and he’s bleeding far too much. You glance at the gaping lacerations and know what you have to do. “We need to cauterize them,” you say, your voice firm, but uncertainty creeps in as you assess his injuries.
Astarion balks at your suggestion, his brows knitting together in distrust. “Cauterize? You think I’ll let you work your magic on me?” He scoffs, a bitter edge to his tone. “You’ll just use that trick of yours to turn me to ash and free yourself from this delightful little nightmare.”
“Are you serious?” You snap, your patience wearing thin. “You think I want you dead? I saved you! I didn’t let that thing take you! You should be grateful instead of throwing accusations my way!”
“Grateful? For what? Putting me in the hands of a creature who would’ve devoured us both? The only thing you’re good at is running headfirst into trouble, and I’m not keen on being your next victim.”
“You think I enjoy this?” You counter, your voice rising. “Every time I save your life, I’m the one risking everything! Maybe if you weren’t so consumed by your own arrogance, you’d see that!”
He stares at you, amusement dancing in his eyes despite the pain etched across his face. “Arrogance? No, no, no. Here’s a thought: perhaps I don’t trust you because you’ve proven time and again that you’re as unpredictable as the night.”
“Unpredictable?” you hiss, anger boiling over. “You’ve been the one pulling my strings, Astarion! Your need for control blinds you to the fact that I’m trying to help you!”
He scoffs again, dismissing your words. “Help me? Spare me the theatrics. I’ll take my chances with the bleeding over whatever you concoct.”
“You’re insufferable,” you growl. “Fine, but do alert me when you get your head out of your ass, Ascendant.”
Astarion finally relents, the weight of his stubbornness crashing down around him. “Fine,” he concedes, his voice low and taut. “Just get on with it, then.”
You take a deep breath. The air crackles with the energy you channel. You don’t have much left, your reserves running low, but you have enough for this task. “Just try to hold still,” you murmur, feeling the tension thrumming between you like a taut wire.
“Easy for you to say,” he shoots back, but there’s a slight tremor in his voice that gives away his apprehension. You can see the way he braces himself, every muscle coiling like a spring, ready for the pain.
You splay your hands over the wounds, the blood leaching between your fingers. You carefully let the burning heat culminate over the gaping wounds on his abdomen, hoping to seal the torn flesh without causing further damage.
Astarion hisses out a sharp breath as the flames make contact, his body jerking slightly. The sharp smell of singed flesh fills the air, but you keep your focus, pouring your will into the magic. “Just a bit longer,” you urge, your voice steadier than you feel.
“Do you always take such pleasure in torturing your friends?” He snaps, though the bite in his tone is tempered by a hint of something softer—almost like a challenge.
“Friends, are we? Presumptuous, even for you,” you reply, a touch of defiance creeping into your voice.
As the last of the flames dies down, you sit back on your heels. The wounds are cauterized, the edges charred but sealed. Astarion’s breathing is ragged, but he’s still upright, and you allow yourself a brief moment of relief.
“Not as bad as I thought it would be,” he says, his sarcasm thick. “But don’t get used to it. I’d rather not have you playing nurse again anytime soon.”
You lock eyes with him, and for a moment, the world around you fades. “Astarion…” you start, but the words falter on your lips. The man before you is an enigma—a cruel imitation of the husband you miss, yet somehow still capable of stirring something inside you.
He seems to sense the shift, his gaze narrowing slightly, an unreadable expression flickering across his face. “What? You’re not going to wax poetic about our predicament, are you?”
You shake your head, forcing yourself to push aside the tangled emotions. “No. Just… stay alive, okay?”
A smirk dances on his lips. “Oh, darling, you’ll have to do better than that to win my heart. But I’ll consider your request, for now.”
His wounds, although cauterized, are still severe, and you know from past encounters that he needs blood to heal quickly. It’s a fact you cannot ignore, yet it weighs heavily on your conscience. The idea of being at his mercy, even for a moment, sends a shiver down your spine.
“Astarion,” you begin, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye. “You need to feed.”
“Are you really willing to offer yourself to me?” he asks, the edge of his mouth curling into a cruel smirk. “How delightful. But what makes you think I won’t enjoy it a bit too much? You know I have a taste for... taking what I want.”
You swallow hard, your resolve trembling. “I don’t think we have a better option.”
His expression shifts slightly, a flicker of something almost resembling appreciation glimmering in his cold eyes. “Oh, darling, how sweet. How very... naive,” he taunts, but there’s a hint of something softer lurking beneath his sarcasm. “You do realize that you’re playing a dangerous game, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you sigh.
With that, you position yourself closer, tilting your neck slightly to expose your skin. A wave of vulnerability washes over you, but you steel yourself against it. You have to trust him—at least for this moment.
“Oh, no, my dear.” Astarion surprises you by pulling you into his lap with an unexpected tenderness. “Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”
As he leans in closer, his breath is warm against your skin. When his fangs pierce your neck, the initial pain quickly morphs into something entirely different—a pleasurable warmth that ignites a fire in your belly. You gasp, feeling a rush of sensation that dances along your nerves.
Astarion groans softly against your neck, the sound reverberating through you as he tugs you closer, almost possessively. You can’t help but lean into him, surrendering to the moment as your blood begins to flow into him. There’s an intoxicating intimacy in the exchange, and as you feel yourself slipping into him, your blood coursing through his veins, intertwining your very essence with his.
The world around you fades away, leaving just the two of you suspended in this charged moment. You’re lost in the sensation, teetering on the edge of danger and desire, caught between the man you want him to be and the monster he sometimes is.
He drinks deeply, and your fingertips begin to tingle, body trembling against him. Just when you think he might drain you completely, Astarion stops, much to your surprise.
He pulls away slightly, his fangs still glistening with your blood. “I must admit, you taste quite delectable,” he quips, a teasing smirk playing on his lips. “Almost as if you were meant to be mine.”
You roll your eyes. “Flattery won’t save you from being a monster, you know.”
He laughs softly, the sound low and rich. “Ah, but I’m a handsome monster, aren’t I? It’s all about the presentation, darling.” He leans closer, and you can’t help but feel the heat radiating from him. His gaze is intense, searching your face for any signs of hesitation. “You know, I could have drained you completely. But where would the fun be in that?”
You arch an eyebrow, trying to regain some composure. “Fun? Is that what this is for you? A game?”
“I told you, everything with me is a game,” he replies, his tone mock-serious. “And right now, you’re losing.”
You scoff. “And if I refuse to play?”
“Then I’ll have to make this a very short game,” he replies, his eyes glinting with mischief. “And that would be a tragedy. Your blood has quite the... kick to it, and I do so love spicy food.”
His words hang in the air, and you feel the heat rising between you. A strange tenderness lingers, a contrast to the cruelty you’ve come to expect.
Slowly, cautiously, he leans forward. “Just one more taste, then,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost reverent.
When his lips meet yours, it’s electric. The kiss is fierce, passionate, igniting a fire deep within you. You can taste the metallic tang of your own blood on his lips, an intoxicating reminder of your shared connection. His mouth moves against yours with an urgency that sends your heart racing—even if it doesn't beat, it feels as if it should.
You find yourself melting into him, responding instinctively to the warmth of his body and the heat of his desire. Despite the danger, the betrayal it might symbolize, you let him in, surrendering to the moment as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
In this fleeting exchange, all the pain, the darkness, and the uncertainty fade away, leaving only the sensation of his lips against yours, the warmth of his body, and the undeniable pull of the bond that ties you together.
Astarion's eyes flicker between listless and vivid scarlet, a telltale sign that this twisted version of him is losing its grip on his body. For a fleeting moment, hope blooms in your chest, a desperate wish that you might finally reclaim the Astarion you once knew. The man who loves you, you think, cherishes you, who feels joy in your presence. But that hope shatters as he suddenly thrusts you off him, his expression contorting with rage.
“Don’t you dare manipulate me!” he snarls, voice dripping with venom. He springs to his feet, though the movement causes him to grimace, and paces like a caged predator. “You think this pathetic display of emotion will ensnare me? That you can just worm your way into my heart and destroy me from the inside out?”
You catch yourself, tumbling back, but you hold his wild gaze. “Is that what you think this is?” you ask, forcing your voice to remain steady, though the tension coils in your chest like a vice. “Some kind of trick?”
“Yes!” he snaps, his lips pulling back into a sneer. “You think I don’t see it? You want to make me weak again, turn me into that simpering fool who fawned over you. But I’m not that man anymore. This is who I am now, darling. Get used to it.”
He spits out the word like a curse, mocking and bitter, and you flinch, but you don’t look away. Instead, you steel yourself against the onslaught, taking in the tremors of pain he’s trying so hard to hide. “I’m not looking for a fool, Astarion,” you say quietly, your voice threading through the jagged edges of his anger. “I’m looking for you. The real you. Not whatever this... this twisted version is.”
Astarion steps closer, looming over you with a menace that should make you shrink away, but instead, you stand your ground, meeting his glare head-on. “You think you can play saviour, don’t you?” he snarls. “That you can swoop in and ‘fix’ me like some broken toy? It’s laughable.”
“It’s not about fixing you,” you shoot back, your voice rising, matching his fury. “It’s about not letting you drown in this—this darkness that’s devouring you. I know you’re still in there, Astarion. I can see it.”
A bitter laugh bursts from him, harsh and cutting. “Oh, how romantic,” he drawls, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “Spare me your delusions, love. You’re not some tragic heroine rescuing her lost lover. You’re just a fool clinging to the past.”
The words are like knives, stabbing into every raw, vulnerable part of you. You almost snap, almost give in to the urge to fight back with all the hurt and rage he’s digging up. But then you see it—the brief flicker in his eyes, a shadow of uncertainty, of fear. It’s buried deep beneath the anger, but it’s there, and it stops you cold.
You take a breath, forcing yourself to stay calm, even as he glares down at you, waiting for you to lash out. “Maybe I am a fool,” you say softly, each word carefully measured. “But I’d rather be a fool than give up on you.”
Astarion’s expression twists, his sneer faltering for just a heartbeat. “You’re lying,” he hisses, though there’s a note of desperation behind it, like he’s trying to convince himself more than you. He grabs your arm, his grip bruising, but you don’t flinch.
“I’m not lying. I just want to help you, Astarion. Even if it means facing this... monster you’ve become.”
He stares at you, breath coming in ragged bursts, his grip tightening painfully on your arm. For a moment, you think he might hit you, might lash out with more than words. But then he just shoves you away again, turning his back to you as if he can’t bear to look at you any longer. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he mutters, and his voice is a low, broken rasp. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
“Maybe not,” you admit, your voice carrying through the cold, ruined space between you. “But I’m still here, aren’t I? I’m still fighting for you.”
Astarion keeps pacing, a restless, erratic energy to his movements, like a cornered beast unsure whether to flee or attack. His eyes burn, seething, unable to settle on anything for long. He’s relentless, hurling words at you with the precision of a blade, each one meant to cut deeper than the last. He accuses you of everything he can think of—of deceit, of using him, of never really loving him, and it seems to unsettle him more when you don’t react.
“You can try to hurt me all you want, Astarion, but I know you’re in there somewhere,” you say, your voice low but unwavering. “And I know you don’t mean any of this.”
He lets out a harsh, mocking laugh. “You think I don’t mean it? Oh, I assure you, I do.” His voice drops to a dangerous whisper, every word laced with venom. “And you know what? I could end you right now. Just... snap your pretty little neck. Or better yet—let you rot away under the weight of your own delusions.”
You hold his gaze, letting him see that you’re not afraid. “Then do it,” you challenge softly. “If you really think I’m your enemy, then do it. But I don’t think you can. Because I think some part of you knows that I’m not your enemy.”
Astarion’s smirk widens into something truly unsettling. He takes a deliberate step closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, as if sharing some dark secret that only the two of you could ever understand. “Do you want to know what those runes are for?” he asks, his tone dripping with false sweetness. “It’s quite the masterpiece, if I do say so myself.”
You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to hold steady even as dread claws its way up your spine. “What did you do, Astarion?”
His smile sharpens, and he leans in so close that you can feel his breath against your ear, each word like a serrated blade. “They’re a conduit. An open channel that links us. And through that channel, I can bleed you dry. Not just your strength, your power... but your very essence. Your mind, your memories—every little piece that makes you who you are, if and when I chose to do so. All it would take it a snap of my fingers.”
You feel the world tilt beneath you as his words sink in. The ground seems to drop away, leaving only the cold reality of his cruelty hanging in the air between you. “You’re... feeding on me?” you whisper, the horror twisting in your chest. “You’re stealing me?”
“Oh, not just feeding, darling. Consuming. You see, it’s not enough for me to break you physically. No, that would be too simple, too quick. This is something... more intimate. A slow unravelling, thread by thread, until there’s nothing left of you but a hollow, empty thing that knows only me.”
A chill creeps through your veins, turning your blood to ice. But even as terror coils around your heart, you force yourself to meet his eyes, to push back against the darkness that radiates from him. “You think that makes you powerful?” you snap, trying to keep the tremor from your voice. “You think that turning me into a thing will bring you any closer to being whole?”
Astarion’s smile fades, and for a moment, a flash of something almost like frustration cuts through his expression, but it’s buried quickly under that same, twisted arrogance. “I think it makes me free. Free from your endless meddling, your desperate attempts to'save’ me. Free to take whatever I want, without any of the messy strings attached.”
The weight of what he’s done, of what he’s trying to do, settles into your bones, a sickening realization that claws at your insides. He’s not just trying to control you. He’s trying to erase you. To strip you down until there’s nothing left but a vessel for him to twist and fill with his own darkness.
But even as that fear gnaws at you, you refuse to let it claim you. You hold your head high, forcing steel into your voice. “You’re wrong, Astarion. You can’t take everything from me. No matter how much you try to consume, there will always be something left that you can’t touch.”
He tilts his head, considering you with a look of mocking curiosity. “Is that so? And what might that be, my love? Your unyielding spirit? Your infuriating hope?” His smile turns vicious. “Let’s see how long that lasts when there’s nothing left of you but a whisper in the dark.”
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 6k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]
The Night Hag slinks out from the fog, her twisted form more monstrous than human. She grins, her jagged, yellow teeth razor-like as she slowly approaches.
“Lost, are we?” She croons, her voice raspy and vile; the sound of something decayed. “Such pretty little souls, caught in such a dreadful place. But I can help you, sweetling. Oh yes, I can show you the way out... for a small price, of course.”
Her grin widens, eyes sparkling with the promise of trickery. You hesitate, unsure; the pull of her words tempting, but a cold voice interrupts the moment.
"Oh, how original," Astarion sneers. “Let me guess, a ‘small price to pay for freedom’ or some other such nonsense?” He rolls his eyes, stepping forward slightly. For most, the movement would barely have been registered, seen as nothing but an idle manoeuvre, but as his body slides between you and the hag, you cannot help but wonder if it’s meant to shield you. Or simply protect his property. “Do yourself a favour, and save your pathetic little offers for someone who might actually be stupid enough to take them.”
The hag chuckles, amused by his contempt, and her eyes gleam as she turns her attention to him. “Ah, but what do you want, vampire?” Her voice is sweetly sinister, her long fingers gesturing toward him. “I can see the longing in your eyes.”
His scoff is venomous. “Oh, I can’t wait to hear this. Please indulge me.”
“What is it you crave, hmm? Power? Control? No. I think not.” Her gaze polished with cruel delight. “Perhaps... freedom from your past. I could make you forget... her.”
The air freezes. Forget me?
You glance at Astarion, your breath catching in your throat. The hag’s words settle like a cold weight in your chest. Is that really what he wants? To forget you?
Astarion's face twitches—just for a second. But then his grin returns, sharper than a dagger. “Forget her?” he repeats with a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and heckling. “Oh, darling, you overestimate her importance to me. As if I’d waste my deepest desires on something so... trivial.”
Your chest tightens at his words, the venom in them striking deep. But there’s something else there, buried beneath the sarcasm—an atom of something more.
The hag seems to sense it too. Her smile doesn’t falter. “So proud,” she murmurs. “Deny it all you like, but we both know what’s holding you hostage, and it’s not that pesky, tattered soul of yours.”
Astarion’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, he doesn’t respond. The mercilessness returns in a flash, his voice laced with mockery. “Oh, spare me the psychoanalysis. If I wanted to erase her from existence, well, I wouldn’t need your filthy little hands involved. I am quite capable of doing that myself.”
Does he really want to forget me?
The hag’s milky eyes are still somehow predatory, and they narrow in on you now. She steps closer, her crooked fingers beckoning you forward, as if she can see right through the thin veneer of defiance you’ve managed to hold.
“You’re stuck, aren’t you? Trapped in a nightmare of his making.” Her gaze flickers toward Astarion, her smile growing wider. “Wouldn’t you like a way out of this?”
You stiffen, a cold sweat prickling the back of your neck. A way out? The thought, even fleeting, lances through your mind like a tempting whisper. It would be so easy, wouldn’t it?
“Don’t listen to her,” Astarion growls from beside you, his voice dripping with disdain. His crimson eyes press in on you, cold and cutting. “She’s trying to manipulate you. You’re not that gullible, are you?”
Of course you’re not. You know better than to make deals with these creatures. You didn’t do it even when the offer was to remove the tadpole from your brain, and you’re well aware you shouldn’t be entertaining the offer now. But you are so tired, so alone, and there’s no end in sight.
You swallow hard, his words stinging more than they should. But the hag’s voice wraps around you, smooth as silk, chipping through the fog of doubt. “I can break his hold over you,” she purrs. “You’ll never have to answer to him again. No more compulsion, no more being bent to his will.”
Your chest tightens, and for a moment, the idea of being free from his control claws at your thoughts. No more being bound to his whims, no more fear that his influence could pull you under again. No more being used like a puppet.
But Astarion’s voice cuts through your temptation like a scalpel, his tone filled with caustic derision. “Oh, yes, of course, by all means, let the hag break my hold over you.” His lips curl into a smirk, but his eyes flash with something sinister. “Because that’ll surely end well for you, won’t it? I’m sure she’ll just hand you back your freedom out of the goodness of her heart.”
You falter, your mind racing. You know he’s right—there’s no way a creature like this hag would offer something without a catch. But the temptation gnaws at you. What if… what if she could break his ability to control me? What if she could free me?
“Don’t you want to know?” The hag’s voice snakes closer, teasing the edge of your resolve. “Those runes he carved into your back… I know what they’re for. Wouldn’t you like to know, too? I could tell you… all it would take is a little deal.”
Your breath hitches, a chill sweeping through your body. The runes? The thought of them—burning into your skin, etched with wicked precision—sends a shiver down your spine. You’ve wondered, feared, what they mean. What they could do. Could she really tell you?
Astarion steps closer, his hand brushing your arm, and the gentleness of his touch jolts you back to reality. His voice is razor sharp, but there’s something beneath it, something simmering—anger, yes, but perhaps something more. “Don’t be stupid,” he snaps. “You think she’s going to help you? She’s playing you like a fiddle, and you’re letting her.”
Your thoughts spiral, torn between the two forces pressing in on you. Do I really want to know? But what if Astarion’s hold on you grows stronger, more unbearable? What if he’s truly gone and you’re left with this imitation of him for eternity? What if those runes mean something far worse than you can imagine?
Your chest tightens again, though there’s no heartbeat to quicken with the stress, no pulse to remind you that you're alive—just the suffocating weight of the choice crushing you.
The hag’s voice grows softer, more tempting as she senses your hesitation. “I could free you,” she whispers. “No more games, no more strings attached. You could finally be your own master again.”
Your fingers twitch, the offer hanging in the air between you like a curse. Astarion’s grip on your arm tightens ever so slightly, and his words are a low snarl in your ear. “You really are a fool if you take this deal.”
But you can’t help it. The thought lingers at the edges of your mind. Freedom. Control. Knowledge.
But at what cost?
“I—” You open your mouth, unsure of what will come out.
But before you can say anything, Astarion cuts in, his voice venomous. “If you take her deal, don’t expect me to come crawling to save you when it all falls apart. You’ll be on your own, little orphan.”
You stare at him, your mind a swirl of confusion and anger. Does he even care? Or am I just another tool to him, a possession he refuses to let go of? The idea that he would wipe you from his memory stings deeper than you want to admit.
But you also know what’s at stake. The hag’s smile grows wider, her eyes gleaming with victory as she watches you waver.
“No,” you say finally, your voice shaky but firm. “I won’t take your deal.”
The hag’s smile drops, her face furling into something far more sinister. “You’ll regret this,” she hisses. “Both of you.”
You meet her gaze, your resolve hardening. Maybe I will, you think. But I’ll regret it even more if I give in to her now.
Astarion watches the hag retreat into obscurity, his expression unreadable. But there’s a tension in his posture, something unsettled beneath the bluster. You want to ask him—do you really want to forget me?—but the words die in your throat.
“Let’s keep going,” you conclude. “We need to get the fuck out of here.”
“Obviously,” Astarion drawls.
The maze twists around you, a suffocating labyrinth that pins down your mind with its dark, oppressive presence. Every path looks the same. There’s no way to tell which way is forward or back, each step dragging you deeper into this hellish nightmare.
Astarion strides ahead of you. The silence between you stretches on until it’s unbearable. You try to shake the sensation of being watched, hunted by unseen eyes.
“You’re slowing down,” Astarion’s voice slices through the silence, impatient and cold. “I know you’re slow, but honestly, do try to keep up. Or don’t—makes no difference to me if you get swallowed by this place.”
“I’m…trying,” you manage, though your legs feel like lead, your mind swimming with uncertainty. The weight of the atmosphere is pulling your thoughts in a hundred directions. Why did you refuse the hag? The offer to break his control over you…to finally know what the runes on your back mean. You had a choice, and yet…
"Trying? How sweet," he drawls, his voice saturated with sarcasm. “Not like we’re on a time crunch or anything. Really, take your time. I’m sure this maze will get bored of us eventually.”
The darkness cavorts at the edge of your vision, bringing with it images, half-formed nightmares. You see yourself in a mirror—pale, hollow, eyes sunken in a way that reminds you of what you’ve become. A vampire spawn, cold and lifeless. You are his, and yet… not fully.
You stop for a moment, staring at the shadows that swirl at your feet. “Do you…ever think about what would’ve happened if things had been different?” you ask quietly, unable to keep the question at bay. “If we hadn’t ended up like this?”
Astarion’s laughter echoes, harsh and bitter. “What’s this now? Existential dread? It’s not really your style.” His words are malefic, belittling, but then there’s a softening in his tone, so subtle you almost miss it. "Though, if you must know, I don’t waste time on ‘what ifs.’ Useless, really.”
His words confuse you. The thorny barbs, the endless brutality—it’s what you’ve come to expect from this version of your husband. But there are fleeting moments where his words hint at something else, and you don’t know what to make of it.
The shadows around you shift again, growing thicker, descending into your lungs with every breath. You can barely breathe as you stumble, catching yourself before you can actually fall.
"You’re pathetic," Astarion mutters, but there’s no bite in his voice this time. “Honestly, I don’t know why I keep you around.”
You blink, surprised at the lack of bane in his words. “You say that…but you haven’t left me behind yet.”
His eyes float toward you, a glint of something unreadable in those listless crimson depths. “Well, maybe I’m just waiting for the right moment.”
“Or maybe…” you start, unsure where the courage is coming from, “maybe you still need me.”
Astarion scoffs, rolling his eyes, but the usual coldness is absent. “Need? You? Don't flatter yourself, darling.” He turns away, his expression hidden from you. “Just…keep moving. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner I can sell off your sorry soul and return to my palace without the weight of you dragging me down.”
You press on, but the environment continues to erode your mind, twisting every step into a fresh hell. Every path seems to lead to more confusion, every turn bringing up memories of pain, of control. His control. Your skin prickles at the thought of the runes carved into your back.
What if you had taken her deal?
What if you had freed yourself from him?
A part of you wants to ask him about the runes, to demand answers, but the fear of what he might say—or worse, what he won’t—holds your tongue.
The gloom twists endlessly, a vicious mockery of freedom. Your legs grow heavier with each passing moment, the weight of fatigue settling into your bones. Every time you blink, you see flashes of the hag's grin, her sickening offer to break the hold Astarion has over you. The temptation lingers like a poison, winding through your mind.
Astarion strides ahead, his posture as relaxed and arrogant as ever, as though the maze is nothing but a mild inconvenience to him.
“You look like you’re about to collapse,” he says casually, not even glancing back at you.
“I’m fine,” you mutter.
“Fine?” Astarion stops, turning to face you, his eyebrow raised in mock amusement. “My dearest pet, if this is what ‘fine’ looks like, I’d hate to see you at your worst.”
You want to snap back to tell him to go to hell, but the words die in your throat as your knees buckle. You catch yourself against a tree, your fingers catching on what you think is a knot, until you glance at it and realize you’re holding onto somebody’s lower jaw, opened and screaming perpetually. You do not have the energy to pull away in horror, panting from the exertion of simply standing.
“Oh, for the love of—" Astarion’s voice cuts off, and for a moment, there’s something close to exasperation in his expression. Not cruelty. Not malice. Just...irritation. “You’re about to keel over, aren’t you?”
“I told you, I’m fine.”
“And I told you to stop lying,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, vitriolic hiss. “Honestly, do you ever stop being so stubborn? Must I drag every last ounce of truth out of you?”
You glare at him, but the heat in your gaze is weak, overshadowed by the fatigue. "I don’t...need you to take care of me."
Astarion smirks, though there’s a darkness to it. “No, of course not. Because you’re so terribly independent, aren’t you?” His words cut, but then, with a frustrated sigh, he steps closer, his eyes narrowing as they take in your trembling form. "Fine. Have it your way. But you’re no use to me if you collapse. We’re making camp here."
“You don’t have to do this,” you mutter, sinking to the ground despite yourself, your body sagging with exhaustion.
Astarion chuckles grimly. “Oh, believe me, I do not want to.” He drops down beside you, his presence unnervingly close. You find yourself tempted to wrap your arms around his neck, press yourself close, and beg him pathetically to pretend, just for a second, that he cares about you. “But watching you stumble around like a half-dead thing is getting tiresome.”
“I’m already a fully dead thing,” you snap weakly, your words a bitter reminder of the truth. No heartbeat. No life. A glorified corpse.
Astarion glances at you, something unreadable lambent behind his crimson eyes. “Yes, I suppose you are.”
There’s silence for a moment, thick and uncomfortable, but Astarion’s presence is the only thing grounding you. Despite everything—his savagery, his ridicule, the way he toys with you—he’s still here. He hasn’t abandoned or killed you.
“What do you want from me, Astarion?” The question slips out before you can stop it, your tongue loose from exhaustion, and your voice barely above a whisper. “Why keep me around?”
He’s quiet for a beat, his eyes fixed on the Stygian path ahead, as if he’s contemplating something far beyond the situation you find yourself embroiled in. When he finally speaks, his voice is braided with satire, but there’s an undertone of something else your ears can’t pick up. “I suppose I just enjoy your company so much, darling. Your incessant whining, your stubbornness—it’s all very endearing.”
You laugh softly, though it’s bitter. “Liar.”
Astarion turns his gaze to you, his smirk fading. For a moment, you think he might say something real, something true. “You’re right,” he says coldly, his eyes hardening. “I’m lying. I don’t care about you, not really. You’re just...useful. For now.”
You force yourself to nod, trying to ignore the strange ache in your chest where a heartbeat should be. “Useful to sell, you mean.”
Astarion’s expression flickers, but his voice remains shrewd. “Precisely. Rest,” he commands, not looking at you. “We’ll move again soon.”
He gets to his feet and walks a few paces away, his back to you, his silhouette stark against the umbra. Your mind races, but exhaustion finally wins out. The last thing you see before your meditation claims you is Astarion, standing alone in the dark, watching over you despite everything.
You wake slowly, the sensation of warmth beneath your head pulling you from the fog of your trance. For a brief, blissful moment, you forget where you are—no maze, no shadows, no twisted labyrinth of horrors in the Hells. But reality crashes down when you feel something solid beneath your cheek, soft fabric against your skin, and the unmistakable scent of him.
Your eyes snap open, and there it is—Astarion’s lap, your head cradled against his thigh. The realization sends a jolt of alarm through you, and you immediately recoil, scrambling back, the motion unsteady as your body hasn’t quite caught up with your mind. Panic twists through you, the memories of pain too fresh, too constant to forget.
His eyes are on you, watching, his crimson gaze edgier than usual. There’s something unreadable in his expression. He doesn’t say anything as you pull away, just lets out a long-suffering sigh.
“Good morning or night to you too,” he drawls, his voice thick with a scornful jab. “By all means, don’t be too grateful. It’s not as if I’ve been sitting here for hours, keeping you safe while you slept like the dead.”
You blink, your mind still groggy. “What...why was I...?”
“Ah, yes,” Astarion interrupts, leaning back with a mocking grin. “The big question: why was your head in my lap? I’m sure it’s baffling, truly. Perhaps you just wanted to be close to me. Can’t say I blame you.” His smirk widens.
You rub your temples, trying to make sense of the situation. “You... let me sleep on you?”
Astarion’s expression tightens ever so slightly, but the mordancy doesn’t falter. “Oh, don’t be ridiculous. As if I’d willingly let you drool all over me. As soon as I sat down, you pitifully crawled over. I was benevolent enough to begrudgingly allow it. Wouldn’t want you rolling off into some thorny nightmare now, would we?”
His words drill more holes into your heart, but there’s something in the way he says them—something that doesn’t match the venom. “You didn’t shove me off,” you mumble, still trying to process everything. Your mind is beyond sluggish, more so than it should be. “Why?”
Astarion’s smile falters for a split second, and there’s that flicker again. “Oh, spare me the sentimental drivel,” he snaps, though his tone isn’t as keen as usual. “I didn’t shove you off because I didn’t feel like it. Does there need to be more to it than that?”
You narrow your eyes at him, sensing there’s more. "Usually, when you touch me, it's to hurt me.”
For a brief moment, he looks away, his jaw tight. “Yes, well. Consider it an anomaly.” He meets your gaze again, his expression twisting into something that’s half-snarl, half-grin. “But don’t get used to it. If you start expecting kindness from me, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
Despite his harsh words, there’s a tension in the air that wasn’t there before—something unspoken between you. You search his face, looking for answers, but Astarion’s walls are as fortified as ever.
“You confuse me,” you admit softly, though there’s a tremor in your voice.
His lips curl into an edged, humourless smile. “Confusion is a powerful tool. Keeps you guessing, doesn’t it? But if you’re expecting me to confess some deep, hidden affection, you’ll not find that here.”
“I’m not expecting anything,” you reply, a little pricklier than you intended. “But it would be nice to know why.”
“Why?” he echoes, his tone biting. “Why, indeed. Maybe it’s because you’re useful. Maybe it’s because it amuses me to keep you around. Or maybe,” his voice drops, the causticity momentarily fading, “I just don’t like watching you suffer as much as I pretend to.”
Your heart would be pounding if it were still capable of such things. You search his eyes for any trace of truth, but he’s already deflecting again, his gaze sliding away from yours.
“Don’t get any ideas,” Astarion says, voice cold once more. “Whatever you think this is—whatever delusions you’re spinning in that head of yours—it doesn’t matter. I’ll do what I must to keep you alive. But don’t think for a second that you mean anything to me.”
You pull back further, his words settling like lead in your gut. He’s always like this—twisting the knife just enough to make you doubt everything, to make you question every shred of care he’s shown—but there’s little point in pressing him further, especially not when you can’t think straight.
The muscles in your body vacillate under your skin, coiling themselves in kinks and cramping. You swallow hard, trying to stymie the pain, disconnect yourself from it, and push it into the recesses of your brain. There is no time for weakness, not here and not with this version of Astarion looming like a threat.
“So what now?”
Astarion’s eyes snap back to yours, his smirk returning, though it’s more subdued. “Now, you get up, and we keep moving. Unless, of course, you’d like to go back to sleep on my lap awhile longer. I’m sure you’d find it so comfortable.”
You stand slowly, shaking off the lingering fatigue. “Not in this lifetime.”
“Pity,” he sneers, rising gracefully to his feet. But before he turns away, you catch the briefest glimpse of something warmer in his gaze—just for a moment, just enough to keep you questioning. Then it’s gone, and he’s back to his usual self. “Come along, then. We’ve got a lovely little maze to conquer, haven’t we?”
As you prepare to leave, your mind still hazy from the strange interaction, Astarion’s eyes drift downward. You don’t realize what he’s staring at until you follow his gaze and see your feet—bare, torn up, and bloodied from the relentless web of networks. The sight is familiar to you now—the constant pain, a dull throb in the background. But something about it seems to snag his attention.
For a moment, Astarion stands perfectly still, his expression unreadable. His keen, crimson eyes narrow as if calculating, and his lips press together in a thin line. It’s not concern—that much, you know—but there’s something unsettling in the intensity of his gaze.
Then, suddenly, his eyes dart around the area. His gaze lands on Shadowheart’s leather pack strapped to your side.
“Give me that,” he demands.
You blink, confused by the abruptness of his tone. “Why?” you ask, tightening your grip on the strap. That pack holds what little supplies you have—a healing potion, some scrolls, and anything else you’ve managed to scavenge along the way. You’re not exactly in a position to be handing over what little you have.
“Now, pet. I’m not in the mood for questions.”
You hesitate. There’s something odd about his request. He’s never cared about your supplies before—hell, he’s barely cared if you lived or died on most occasions, watching with disinterest as you struggled. Why now?
“Astarion, I need—”
Before you can finish your sentence, you feel it. The familiar cold grip of his compulsion wraps around you, sliding under your skin like an invisible chain. You stiffen, the sense of your autonomy slipping away. Your body is no longer your own.
Your hands move before your mind can catch up, fingers unclasping the strap of the pack from your side, offering it up to him like a puppet on strings.
No matter how hard you try to resist, your body won’t listen. It betrays you, forcing the bag into Astarion’s waiting hands, your muscles completely out of your control. Your mind screams in frustration, but it’s drowned out by the overpowering force of his will.
“There’s a good girl,” Astarion purrs mockingly, a savage smile twisting his lips as he takes the pack from your rigid hands. The compulsion lingers for a moment longer, making you feel like a prisoner in your own body, and then it releases you, leaving you breathless and shaken.
You recoil, stumbling back a step as you regain control of yourself, your hands trembling from the aftershock of his power.
“What are you doing with that?” you ask, trying to suppress the bitterness in your voice.
Astarion dumps the contents of the pack onto the ground with a clatter, items scattering across the cold earth. He shoves the one potion and scrolls to the side, but otherwise ignores whatever else fell out. Instead, he draws his dagger, the blade gleaming ominously in the dim light, and begins cutting the leather into strips with practiced precision.
You stare, confusion swirling in your mind. “What are you doing?” you ask, your voice laced with uncertainty.
“Making you something more suitable for this lovely little excursion,” he replies. “Now, sit.”
Your instinct kicks in at the sight of the dagger, and you hesitate, grounding yourself in the Weave. You prepare to summon your magic, the familiar warmth thrumming just beneath your skin.
Astarion scoffs, his amusement evident. “Oh, don’t be silly.” He steps closer, eyes narrowing. “You’re not going to try that nonsense again, are you?”
Before you can retort, the cold grip of his compulsion washes over you, wrapping around your limbs like iron shackles. The force is undeniable, and despite your resistance, you feel yourself sink back onto the ground, compelled to obey.
“When are you going to learn better?” He mocks, amusement dancing in his red, glowing eyes.
Something ignites in you—less fear this time, a streak of defiance. “Maybe when you stop being so insufferably callous,” you bite back, your voice steady despite the turmoil churning in your gut.
His expression wavers, caught between amusement and irritation. “Oh, how delightful. A little rebellion,” he replies, the words dripping with condescension as he steps toward you, his posture predatory.
You brace yourself, heartless and defiant, ready for whatever bite he might deliver. But instead of pain, he gently takes your feet in his hands, his grip surprisingly careful, the contrast jarring. He starts wrapping the leather strips around your battered feet, crafting a makeshift shoe with a surprisingly delicate touch.
“Why are you doing this?” you ask, confusion deepening as you watch him work, the sight of his concentrated expression momentarily disarming.
“I need you to keep up with me,” he replies, his voice a low, scornful drawl, but there’s a hint of something buried beneath the layers of facetiousness. “I’m not about to carry you if your feet give out, and I’m certainly not in the mood to deal with any more unnecessary delays.”
The leather fits snugly, giving you a modicum of comfort, yet the entire interaction leaves you unsettled. You want to scream at him, to push back against the conflicting emotions that swirl between you, but all you can manage is a shaky breath as he ties off the strips and releases your feet.
Astarion rises, brushing the dust from his trousers. “There,” he grunts, his tone flat. “Now, stop whining and keep up.”
There’s something unsettling about this version of Astarion—the one who can be cruel and yet oddly considerate.
“Thanks, I guess,” you say, still trying to reconcile his behaviour in your mind as you collect the potion and scrolls, stuffing what you can into your pockets.
“Don’t mention it,” he replies, his tone clipped and dismissive, but a vestige of something softer flits across his face before he masks it with irritation once more. “Now let’s get moving.”
You nod, resolve hardening as you prepare to follow him into the void, your heartless state allowing you to push aside the lingering confusion. You still have to find your way out, and whatever emotions this twisted vampire stirs within you, they will not distract you from your goal.
The forest is seemingly never-ending, each turn a repetition of the last. Twisted trees and jagged rocks loom like spectres. Every step grates against your raw nerves, the tension between you and Astarion building with every passing moment. His footsteps are unnervingly quiet, while your makeshift leather shoes, for lack of a better word, scrape faintly against the earth.
You catch glimpses of him from the corner of your eye, his expression impassive, his gaze focused ahead as if none of this tortures him as much as it does you.
“How long do you think this will go on?” You ask, your voice low, not wanting to admit how much this is already starting to fray your mind.
Astarion glances at you, a mocking smile curling on his lips. “What’s the matter, pet? Already tired of our little adventure?” His tone is intense, biting—yet there’s a sliver of something almost... concerned? But the moment you think you catch it, he swats it away with a laugh.
Your mind drifts back to the Astarion—the one this hollow version has imprisoned somewhere deep within himself. The one who held you close after the nightmares, whose soft laugh felt like home even in the devastating moments. Your Astarion, the husband you barely got to spend any time with.
You ache for him—the real him—the one that still exists somewhere beneath this imitation. You miss the warmth in his gaze, the gentle way his fingers brushed against your skin when no one else was watching. The Astarion who could still care, still feel, still love you. The one who is gone now, locked away beneath layers of malice and apathy.
Where are you, Astarion? You wonder, hating that the person standing before you is a grotesque reflection of the man you once knew. And yet... a part of you can't help but search for him, even in this version.
“I’m tired of you,” you mutter under your breath, feeling the weight of his eyes on you as you walk.
“Ah, and yet you’re still here. Curious, isn’t it?” he drawls, a glint of amusement in his crimson gaze. “Tell me, does the constant struggle against your better judgment wear you out? Knowing that part of you—perhaps the smarter part—wants to trust me?”
You snort, your steps faltering as you glare at him. “Trust you? I wouldn’t trust you with a cup of water, let alone my life.”
He smirks, fangs flashing briefly in the dim light. “Wise, perhaps. But deep down, you must wonder. Why am I still watching over you? Why haven’t I left you to rot?”
You stiffen, unsure how to respond. The truth is, you’ve been asking yourself the same question. His savagery is undeniable, but every so often, there’s some small gesture that doesn’t make sense for someone who should want you dead—or worse, sell you like livestock to an archdevil.
“Maybe you just enjoy torturing me,” you shoot back, keeping your eyes on the serpentine path ahead. “Maybe it amuses you.”
“You’re a nuisance at best, but I do have a certain... fondness for keeping nuisances close.”
Your fists clench, the rising tension between you nearing its boiling point. “Is that what this is? Just another game to you?”
He stops abruptly, turning to face you. His gaze is intense, unreadable. “What else could it be? You, of all people, should know by now that everything is a game to me. One that I always win.”
The way he says it, the absolute certainty in his voice, makes your blood solidify in your veins. There’s no room for doubt in him. No room for compassion or care—at least, not this version of him.
Before you can respond, the forest seems to shift around you, closing in tighter, the air growing heavier. You glance around, disoriented. The path ahead twists, writhing like a serpent. The world tilts slightly, and suddenly you’re not sure which direction is forward anymore.
Astarion notices your hesitation and steps closer, his presence like a cold shadow creeping up your spine. “Losing your nerve already?” he mocks, his voice low and taunting.
The labyrinth distorts again, and this time, the ground beneath your feet trembles, sending a shockwave through the air. You stumble, and Astarion’s arm shoots out, steadying you. You look up at him, confused.
He’s frowning, brows pulled down low. “Stay close,” he barks, voice tense. The shift in his demeanour is jarring, and it only deepens the unease settling in your gut.
The trembling intensifies, the trees groaning and shifting like they’re alive. You take a step back, your heart—well, the place where your heart should be—thrums in anticipation.
Astarion suddenly jerks his head, eyes narrowing as he scans the darkening path ahead. “Did you hear that?” His voice is no longer taunting but honed, focused. It’s as if he’s slipped into a mode of pure survival.
Your breath catches as you halt your breathing, and you strain your ears, focusing. At first, it’s just the faint rustle of leaves and the hum of the shifting terrain. But then you hear it—low, guttural whispers, as if the shadows themselves are speaking. They echo from every direction, surrounding you both, growing louder with each passing second.
“Astarion…” you whisper, your voice betraying the fear creeping up your spine.
“I know,” he snaps, his eyes darting around, calculating. “Stay behind me.”
The words are barely out of his mouth when the ground splits open beneath your feet with a violent crack, sending a gust of scalding wind surging through the air. You stumble back, your legs buckling as the earth shakes and the trees twist into grotesque shapes.
A massive creature bursts from the ground in front of you, its skin slick and writhing with tendrils, eyes glowing with malevolent hunger. Its mouth opens wide, revealing rows upon rows of jagged teeth, dripping with venomous ichor. It towers over both of you, casting a long, terrifying shadow.
Astarion’s face hardens, and his dagger is in his hand in an instant. “Run,” he commands, his voice deep and dangerous.
The beast lets out a deafening roar, and before you can react, it lunges toward you with impossible speed.
Everything seems to move in slow motion. The creature’s massive jaws open, and you can almost feel the sharp teeth ready to tear into you. You try to move, but it’s like your body is locked in place. Your mind screams for you to fight, to run, to do anything—
Suddenly, Astarion is in front of you, pushing you out of the way with a strength that leaves you breathless. You hit the ground hard, pain shooting up your side as you skid across the dirt. When you look up, the creature’s massive claws are descending on Astarion.
You scream his name, but it’s too late. The claws tear into him, the sound of ripping flesh filling the air as the creature lets out a triumphant roar.
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Small Notes:
If anyone is interested, I rewrote and edited the first 4 (I think) chapters because when I started this I was pretty new and not entirely sure of myself. Nothing in them has changed story wise or anything, just tried to improve on some scenes and pacing, so there's no need to reread them if you don't want to, but for those who might, I wanted to mention it.
This Astarion is giving me emotional whiplash to write.
Chapter 24: His Hands Hold My Heart & He Won't Let Go Until It's Scarred
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 6k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]
“You’re going to sell me to Mephistopheles?”
“Well,” he glances at his nails, eyes half-lidded in bored disdain. “I doubt he’ll take you in the flesh. Look at you—pitiful. But your soul? That, I imagine, might interest him. Perhaps he’ll melt you down and turn you into something more useful. A coin, maybe. A miserable, worthless coin.”
You know you should feel fear, maybe even anger, but all you feel is amusement—dark, hollow, and bitter. It claws its way out of you in a dry, rasping laugh. He thinks he’ll gain something from the sale of your sorry soul? What a joke. You’ve already promised it to someone far worse than Mephistopheles could ever dream of being.
It is a long way to Cania from Avernus. At the very least, it gives you time to bring Astarion home to himself, and you will be inching toward your target in the meantime. What you will do if you arrive at Mephistar still bound and tethered by the leash of compulsion is something you can consider later.
“Think I’d make a fetching coin?” You quip, a sardonic smile playing on your lips.
“Don’t flatter yourself, darling.” Astarion taunts darkly. The malignant red of his eyes swim with an amalgamation of cruelty and malevolence. “You will at the very least be worth something.”
“At least slot me into Karlach, will you? It would tickle me to assist her in killing you.”
Your words are reckless, but instead of backing away, something within you shifts—a gut-wrenching desire to protect him flares up. It’s poisonous, invasive, and you feel disgusted by it. Is this the compulsion Gale warned you about? Twisting you inside out until you can't even tell friend from foe?
Astarion’s laugh is sharp and jagged, like glass shattering in your ears. “You’ve always been amusingly deluded. I could snap your neck right now, and it wouldn’t make a difference to me. Mouthy little spawn like you? There’s no shortage of your kind. If you don’t shut up, I’ll tear that tongue out of your skull.”
You groan with an exasperated roll of your eyes and lay your head down on Shadowheart’s pack like a makeshift pillow. It does little to cushion your head from the stone that somehow retains the sweltering heat, like the fires of Avernus are burning just below it, despite the fact that you’re in a cave.
“Fine, kill me. Or don’t. I’m tired.” You roll your eyes and turn your back on him, though the tense atmosphere and the heat baking the air in the cave make rest seem impossible.
You close your eyes and try to get yourself to drift into some semblance of a trance.
“You cannot be seriously thinking of resting now.” His sharp, derisive scoff cuts through the silence like a whip. “It’s still daylight out.”
You open one eye and glare at him. “There is no day and night cycle here, master.” You mock him openly and marvel at how little fear you possess, even though the grim reaper stares at you with dark eyes and ashen skin as pale as death. "If you want to stay awake and brood, go ahead. I’ll be here, meditating.”
For a moment, Astarion’s gaze lingers on you with something between loathing and interest. His lips curl as if he’s mulling over the quickest way to silence you for good. You flop over dramatically, turning your back to him, and you can feel him behind you, feel his cold eyes boring into your back, but nothing happens.
Keeping your eyes firmly closed is difficult, and you have to make a conscious effort not to open them and check to see if he’s prowling behind you with a dagger in hand. Instead, you focus on his beating heart, offering you the ability to estimate proximity, which has neither increased nor decreased for some time.
Minutes stretch out into an awkward, oppressive silence. And then—without warning—he lays down beside you and presses his back against yours. For a moment you stiffen and wonder if you should pull away, but the steady rise and fall of his breathing are known, soothing even, and you quickly find yourself slowly fading from your weary mind into your trance.
Unfortunately, Astarion’s body heat only adds to the blistering heat, and sweat drips down your face, stomach, arms, and everywhere else you can possibly sweat from. It makes Shadowheart’s clothes, which do not fit you quite right, stick to you and you shift uncomfortably.
“Are you awake?” Astarion murmurs, the words brushing over you like a chill.
You hesitate, not knowing if you truly want to answer. “Yes.”
“It’s hot,” he states, almost accusatory, as if it’s your fault.
“Well, we are in the Hells. This place feels like Grymforge all over again,” you state truthfully in a mumble. Despite your draconic blood, this constant inferno is unbearable.
Your psyche dances closer and closer toward the peaceful oblivion beckoning you as your breath slows and eventually ceases, and you push yourself further into him. You tell yourself that you’re doing it for safety, but the truth is, you’re just wishing for comfort.
He speaks again when you’ve already sunken so low into your trance that your limbs are starting to feel weightless and your head feels like it might be floating above your body.
“I could keep us cool, you know. Just say the word.” He offers, and you recognize the heft of weighty weariness in the lowness of his voice. At first, you’re perplexed, but then you vaguely remember that he can control his body temperature.
In your state of near unconsciousness, you forget which Astarion you are talking to, and your tongue numbed by fatigue answers as if this is your Astarion. “Yes, my love,” you sigh.
Astarion doesn’t answer, but the change in temperature is immediate. His body cools to an almost unnaturally low temperature, relieving you from the relentless heat. Despite your better judgment, you find yourself turning toward him, seeking that comfort. His arms wrap around you, but there’s no warmth in the gesture—just cold hands that grip a little too tight, holding you like a possession. His fingers dig into your back with casual cruelty.
“You are positively pathetic,” he murmurs, his voice soft but dripping with malice. “Clinging to me for comfort like I’m still the man you used to know. Foolish little thing. I could crush you.”
Even in the haze of exhaustion, his words twist into you like a knife in your gut. But your body is too heavy, too numb to react. You’re trapped in this toxic push-and-pull between him—the monster—and the shadow of the man you loved. For now, you let the coolness lull you into a fitful trance, knowing full well you’re lying in the embrace of something dangerous.
When your eyes flutter open again, you can’t even begin to estimate the time you were asleep. Minutes? Hours? Enough time for your body to stiffen. The muscles in your legs burn, and your feet scream with pain as soon as you try to move. You blink through the grogginess and find yourself still entangled with him, his icy presence anchoring you to the sweltering cave floor.
You catch a short glimpse of Astarion more or less in his trance and tilt your head slightly. It never ceases to surprise you when you see that he still looks like himself. In your mind’s eye, you’ve conjured up a monster, but it’s not a monster that lays holding you.
It’s still just Astarion.
He shifts slightly, his brows pinching when your fingers curl into him a little too hard, and his eyes slowly open. Cold eyes meet yours only for a moment before they dart to the cave mouth. The land is pebbled with cooling, molten balls, some still in their spherical shapes, others merely shrapnel spread chaotically, but no more rain down.
Astarion glances back at you with heavily lidded eyes that fall to your lips and hover there. You think he might kiss you, and you think you might let him until he tosses you off him roughly as if you were simply a convenient blanket or maybe a fleshly, undead shield.
“Get up,” he commands. “You’ve wasted enough time lying there like a corpse. We move now.”
Astarion stands abruptly in a way that makes him almost appear frightened, but of what, you cannot say. He tugs his shirt on with hasty movements as if you’re making him uncomfortable, and you reflexively turn around to give him privacy.
Now that shock and adrenaline have abandoned you, the agony that radiates up your legs is nigh-on unbearable when you try to put weight on your feet. You screw your eyes shut, half stooped over, palms braced on your thighs, and pray that you can keep the tears at bay.
Pushing through the pain, you crouch down and stuff what you have back into Shadowheart’s bag, positioning it across your body and standing. You don’t realize your body has betrayed you and tears are clinging to your lashes and vining down your dirty cheeks until you see Astarion’s ugly smirk twisting his lips as he takes in your struggle.
“You look like hell,” he taunts, crossing his arms. “I could compel you, you know. Force your body to ignore the pain. But why would I? Watching you suffer is much more entertaining.” He leans forward slightly, in the way he used to do when he was trying to seduce you in those early days and months. “I will enjoy watching you toil in the consequences of your choice, as I did for centuries. You should count yourself lucky that I haven’t skinned you alive and forced you to walk on the raw, exposed nerves.”
You grit your teeth and stand, barely able to meet his gaze without wanting to snap at him. But snapping at him would only give him more fuel, more satisfaction, so you swallow the pain. "I'm fine. Lead on.”
He chuckles darkly as he strides ahead, not even bothering to slow his pace for you. It turns out you were right about the silk. It didn’t stand a chance against the sawtoothed terrain and is chewed up as easily as your feet were. Every step is agony as you limp after him, the rocks and jagged ground tearing at your flayed feet. You bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out, but Astarion notices.
Of course he does. He always notices when you’re hurting.
“Don’t fall behind, little lamb,” he calls over his shoulder, voice dripping with mockery.
He keeps walking, the distance between you growing as you struggle to keep up. The silence that falls between you is heavy and burdensome, filled only with the sound of your laboured breathing and the distant crackle of molten lava.
As the journey stretches on, Astarion’s cruelty does not wane. When you stumble, he laughs. When you try to rest, he sneers. He takes every opportunity to remind you of your weakness, of your insignificance.
No matter how hard you try to shake it, that feeling of twisted loyalty remains, poisoning your thoughts. And Astarion, ever the predator, revels in your torment, savouring every moment of your slow, painful descent.
You walk for what feels like hours, but in this heat, it could have only been minutes. It’s just you, Astarion, and this landscape of ruin and death as far as the eye can see. The bones of the fallen crunch beneath your feet, and soon, the towering skeleton of a dragon looms ahead, its massive ribs arcing over the desolate ground like the decaying remnants of an ancient titan.
“An ancestor of yours, perhaps?” He arches a brow, his lips twisting in a cruel grin as he watches you squeeze through the dragon’s ribcage.
You shrug, keeping your tone flat. “I’m an orphan. I don’t know my family.”
Astarion stops abruptly, his eyes narrowing in exaggerated surprise. “Oh, an orphan, are we?” His voice is laced with venom. “Well, that does explain a few things.” He lets out a cold, hollow laugh, loud enough to startle you, and you can’t help but wince.
Shit. You forgot that this version of him didn’t know.
“What’s so funny?” you ask, even though you already know you’re walking right into his trap.
He smirks, baring his fangs just enough to be menacing. “It’s just so perfectly tragic, isn’t it? A lonely little orphan, so desperate for affection that she couldn't even recognize the poison behind a pretty face. Easy prey, really. You never stood a chance against me.”
The truth of his words stings more than it should, but you press on, determined not to let him see the hurt it causes. “What’s your point, Astarion?”
“My point?” He steps closer, his tone now gleefully mocking. “That you’re a fool. Did you really believe for even a second that I—he—had feelings for you? A naive little orphan, finally tasting affection for the first time, only to be used like a pawn in a game you were never equipped to play.”
Yes.
You try not to answer and just keep walking forward, between bones, ruins of great weapons, and craters, with your eyes firmly anchored to the ground. If you can keep your mind focused, maybe you will not cry.
“When he held you,” Astarion continues, his voice taking on a cruel, sing-song quality, “when you fell asleep in his arms... did you really believe that meant something?”
“Yes!” You snarl, but keep yourself turned away. He’s opened an old wound that never quite fully heals, and it bleeds through your eyes in the form of tears. “I thought I had finally found someone who cared about me. I was naive, and I didn’t recognize it as a trick at the time. You got me good. Are you happy now, Astarion? Is that what you want to hear?”
He sneers, his expression a twisted mask of disgust. “Pitiful wretch,” he mutters, though there’s a flicker of something—almost imperceptible—beneath the scorn in his eyes.
You squeeze through the ossified jaws of the dragon and wonder what the beast would have looked like alive, which brings you to a more concerning question: what in the Hells could have killed it? The only consolation that allays any true unease is that the beast has been dead for countless years. Whatever took it down is hopefully long gone.
Astarion takes the lead once more, and you realize he has not used his compulsion to force you to follow. You consider running, but where would you run to? He’s already taking you where you need to go, or trying to, at least. If you can make this version of him trust you, it might give you a chance to bring back your husband in time for a honeymoon in the hells.
How delightful.
The soles of your feet are little more than flaps of hanging skin. Your legs are wobbly as a newborn colt, and you stumble more frequently now, the heat, blood loss, and fatigue all merging into one sickening blur. You’re barely holding on.
You eventually come upon something that resembles a forest, but the trees are gruesomely twisted with orange leaves that seem to be constantly searing around the edges. When you peer between the trees, the gloom that clings between the trees feels unnatural, like a living thing, waiting to devour anything that strays too close.
Astarion looks around for a moment. “It will take us much longer to go around at your plodding pace. We will have to go through it.”
“No.” You grab his arm, voice high and desperate, and shake your head. “This isn’t a good idea. We have no idea what lives in there. We should just go around.”
He grins, a dark gleam in his eyes. “Oh, are we frightened, my little pet? Don’t worry. With me by your side, what could possibly harm you? Besides, of course, me.” He winks, and then without another word, he strides in, disappearing almost instantly.
You consider going around. If Astarion wants to die in there, that’s his business, but once again, that feeling squirms in your gut, leaving you rooted to the ground and unable to move unless it’s towards him.
A moment later, glowing red eyes pierce the gloom, and Astarion emerges with an irritated scowl. “Are you coming, or shall I make you?” His voice is laced with the threat of compulsion.
That is enough to coerce you to reluctantly step forward and into the gloom. You conjure a flame in your hand to light the way, but the shadows swallow the light almost instantly. It’s not long before you start to see the calcified corpses and strange-looking fungal pods that this place is made of. There is an eerie breeze, though it does not cause the trees to ruffle, that sounds like the wailing of tortured souls.
Without warning, Astarion grabs the back of your neck, his fingers like iron. You try to pull away, but his grip tightens, dragging you forward as if you weigh nothing. You sigh in resignation. It’s pointless to fight him.
Looking at the ground, you allow him to lead you around by the neck. “Why do you even bother with this?” you ask quietly. “I’m not going to run.”
“It would not go well for you if you did.” Astarion sneers. “I’d rather not take any chances with my little pawn.”
You trudge through the dark, each step heavier than the last. You’re exhausted, and the pain in your feet is becoming unbearable. You can feel the skin hanging loosely, blood trickling down with every step.
“We should leave, Astarion. We can’t even see where we are going. It will take us longer to get through this than to just go around it.”
Astarion chuckles, but there’s no warmth in it. “Scared, pet?”
“Yes,” you admit, the word coming out as a shaky whisper.
The pompous arrogance of Astarion’s expression is made of slips momentarily, and you swear his eyes flicker. He grabs his head, shaking it furiously from side to side. When his eyes come back up, the flickering has ceased, and your heart feels like it drops from whatever decaying stem it hangs from and into your stomach.
“Fine. We’ll go around.” Astarion finally says, but his words are slowed, almost slurred, like he’s trying not to say them. “But don’t think I’m doing it for you.”
The two of you attempt to retrace your steps, but the landscape seems to have shifted. The trees, the bones, the shadows—they all look the same.
“Can you follow the trail of my blood?” You ask him.
Astarion scents the air, his brows furrowed. “There isn’t a trace of it anywhere.”
You walk around aimlessly for some time before Astarion stops for a moment in another attempt to get his bearings. You lean up against one of the calcified trees, trying to get some weight off your feet, and a twisted face juts out of the bark. It’s mouth wide open in a perpetual scream, and you jolt away from the tree and stifle a scream of your own.
Astarion is beside you in an instant, his dagger gleaming. “What is it?”
You point, your voice shaking. “There are… people stuck in the trees.”
You grab his wrist and find your way back to the white-barked tree, bringing the flame to it.
Astarion swallows. “Well, that’s not unsettling at all.”
Instead of your neck, Astarion grabs your hand, trying to pull you as quickly as possible through the bends and twists that often end up in completely dead ends. The pace is brutal, and the pain in your feet makes you bite your lip to keep from crying out.
You do not know what this version of him will do if you tell him you cannot walk any longer. Will he leave you in his place? Will he laugh and simply compel you to do it until your feet are chewed to the point that only bone remains? He may also just revel in your pain and ignore your pleas. It seems likely given his mood today.
You want out of here; this place feels wrong, and every instinct you have tells you to run as far from here as possible. When you run up to another dead end, it suddenly dawns on you.
“It’s a maze,” you caution with a shudder.
“Shit.” Astarion sighs, wracking his fingers through his dirty hair. His eyes drop to your feet, and he grimaces, cocking his head. “We’ll rest here,” he declares, his voice tinged with annoyance.
“Here?” You glance around uneasily. At the very least, you are backed up to a dead end, but there’s no telling what horrors are roaming this place.
“If you have a better idea,” he snaps, “I’m all pointy ears.”
The only better idea you have is that you could use Hellfire to burn this place to the ground, but the warning Asmodeus cautioned with still sits heavily on your consciousness. That, and you would rather Astarion not know about that particular power you possess.
“No,” you say, defeated, sitting down on the still remarkably hard ground. “I don’t have a better idea.”
“I thought not.”
Astarion sits while you keep several orbs of fire that form a ring around you. Another one of those tense silences seems to thicken the air between you. You’re tired, but you don’t think rest will come in a place such as this where the wind echos with pained voices and the shadows appear to twist and undulate as if something is moving through it, just out of sight. Beyond that, you can feel there is magic at work here — old magic — which is only used by a handful of creatures, and none of them are good.
Reluctantly, you grab your ankle to get a look at the bottom of your foot, only to realize it’s been flayed by the land. Your skin hangs in gruesome flaps, and you’re pretty sure you can see the bones. You sigh, picking out shards of obsidian and slivers of crystal and quartz.
You don’t need to look up to know that Astarion is once again watching you with a strange intensity. When you bring your eyes up to look at him, you realize that he’s not exactly staring at you but also through you, leagues away from here. It’s not a look you’ve seen on the Ascendant much before, and it concerns you. Is he listening to the call of Cania? Is the song still howling in his skull, icing over his soul, and infecting his thoughts?
Trying to fit the pieces of your skin together like a grisly jigsaw puzzle is beyond horrific, but you eventually get it as good as it’s going to get, and you press your palm up against the skin and let fire burst forth to cauterize it. You whimper under the pain of it, but bite your tongue to keep it as small and muffled as possible.
“You need blood,” Astarion muses while pointing at your feet, “to heal.”
“Are you offering?”
Astarion chuckles. “The answer will be no until the end of time.”
“Ah, so just making another genius observation then,” you retort. “Where am I going to find blood around here?”
“That’s very much a you problem.” Astarion counters with a smirk. “Take the healing potion.”
You’ve considered it, but it’s the only one you have, and you’re not keen on wasting it. So far, you’ve been lucky not to run into any of the denizens that inhabit this plane. You’re very sure that luck will run out sooner or later.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugs nonchalantly. “I quite enjoy watching you suffer. Now, get some rest. I’ll take first watch.”
For once, you do not want to argue with him, and you once again fold Shadowheart’s pack and lay your head on it. It’s hard to find enough peace to rest. You toss and turn for what feels like hours before Astarion groans.
“Will you stop flopping around like a dying fish?”
“I’m trying.” You sigh and gesture to your surroundings. “It’s a little difficult to get comfortable. Maybe you should rest, and I’ll take first watch.”
“Fine by me.” Astarion says, balling his coat up and putting it under his head.
His heartbeat slows and his breathing becomes shallow while he seems to easily slip into his trance despite the disturbing scene around him. Although you wonder if two centuries of being under Cazador’s yolk was worse than some unnatural darkness.
Despite the bawling wind, there is a surreal silence that is as bottomless as the shadows. Your knees come to your chest, and you wrap your arms around yourself while a shiver runs down your spine. It feels like the faces in the trees are watching you through their calcified eyes.
You almost reach out to Astarion to wake him, if only for company, but find yourself enraptured in watching him rest deeply in his trance. The vulnerability of it on this version of him appears almost alien, and for some reason, it seems improper to watch him that way you are.
His eyes move under his closed lids, his brows twitch randomly, and soft sighs sidle from his slightly parted lips. What does this version of him meditate on during his repose? Does he dream of blotting the sun from the sky for his children? Does he hear the whispers of Cania and all the lowly creatures begging to serve?
Like you, because that’s what he sees when he looks at you, isn’t it? Just another lowly creature who awaits his commands with bated breath. Is he wrong though? Even when he isn’t using his compulsion, you still follow him around like a good pup. It doesn’t matter what he’s done to you in the past or the threat he possesses now; you still continue to follow on his heels.
Time slips away from you in the maze, consumed by the crushing darkness and the twisted, calcified trees that seem to shift behind you when you’re not looking. As lost in your thoughts as you are, you don’t realize that Astarion is staring at you until you catch the sharp, predatory eyes that are so listless they almost appear black, glaring at you with unsettling intensity.
“That was quick.”
“I do not require much in the way of sleep any longer,” he says blatantly. “Would you like to get some rest or can you walk?”
You flex your foot experimentally, wincing as you rise to your feet. The ground, even here in this hellish maze, still feels like knives underfoot, but at least you can walk again—albeit clumsily and slowly.
Astarion watches you with a curious mix of contempt and something that almost resembles concern. Almost.
“Don’t overdo it, little spawn,” he mutters. “I won’t carry you if you collapse.”
You shoot him a glare, unwilling to show just how close you are to faltering. The ground beneath you feels like it's slipping away with every step, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you weak.
“I don’t need your help,” you snap, the words coming out sharper than intended. “Let’s just try to get out of here.”
As the maze tightens its grip, the world twists in unnatural ways. You fight to keep pace, the domineering pall wrapping around you like a second skin, while the gnarled trees loom overhead, their branches curling toward you as if eager to pull you in. Every misstep feels heavier, like the earth itself is conspiring to drag you down, but Astarion presses on without a flicker of concern for your struggle. You stumble, and for a split second, his eyes flash back to you—less in worry, more in cold amusement.
Your legs ache and the whispers in the air grow louder, more insistent. They slither through the trees like venomous words, some in voices you almost recognize, others purely monstrous.
Astarion, ever vigilant, leads with the confidence of someone who pretends to know where they’re going. Yet the truth is clear: you’re both lost. But he’ll never admit it. Not to you.
“Stay close,” he commands sharply, his tone leaving no room for defiance. He halts suddenly, his form taut, listening to something you can’t hear.
“What is it?” You whisper.
He throws you a withering glance. “Quiet.” His hand rises in a gesture that isn’t so much protective as it is condescending, as if you’re some child who needs constant supervision. “Something’s coming.”
The flickering orbs of fire you summoned seem to ebb, flickering as if they wish to go out no matter how much power you use, as though whatever approaches has the ability to snuff out even the smallest light. You strain to listen, but the silence of the maze is thick, like it clogs your ears. Then, from deep within the shadows, a whisper reaches you—soft, insidious, and eerily familiar.
“Turn back…”
You freeze. The voice… It sounds like someone you know, though the tone is distorted, twisted by the magic of this place.“
“Turn back…” The whisper repeats, this time louder, clearer. And now, unmistakably, it is your voice.
You glance at Astarion, who remains rigid and alert, though you can tell by his expression that he has heard it too. But he does not acknowledge the voice. Instead, his eyes narrow, and his lips curl into a snarl.
“Do not heed it,” he commands, stepping closer to you. “It’s this place—an illusion meant to draw you in, to confuse you.”
But even as he speaks, the whisper persists. “Turn back… before it’s too late...”
The words slither around you like serpents, and when you look ahead, you see a shadowy figure emerge from between the twisted trees. It’s you—or some twisted version of you. Astarion’s gaze hardens, but there’s no sympathy in it. He steps forward, his fingers curling around your arm, yanking you harshly toward him.
“Do not let it fool you,” he snarls, his grip firm, too firm. “It’s just another trick. This place preys on weakness.”
You try to shake free, but his hold tightens. The figure between the trees steps closer, her hollow eyes locked on yours, pale skin almost glowing in the gloom, clothes tattered and burnt.
“Don’t look at it,” he hisses. “It’s not real.”
“I know,” you say, your voice wavering despite your efforts to stay calm. But the apparition doesn’t disappear. Instead, it steps closer, its movements slow and deliberate, as though it’s stalking you.
“He’s lying to you,” the figure whispers. “He always has.”
You feel a chill run down your spine. The words are not unexpected—Astarion’s lies have always been part of your story—but hearing them from this twisted version of yourself is somehow far more unsettling.
Astarion’s eyes flicker, but his expression remains stony. “Ignore it. You’re stronger than this.”
But the figure steps closer still, her gaze unrelenting. “He’ll betray you. Just like before.”
A knot tightens in your chest. The figure’s words sting because they echo thoughts you’ve tried to bury. You’ve known all along what Astarion is capable of, yet here you are, following him deeper.
He watches you closely now, his eyes narrowing. “You’re not seriously considering this drivel, are you?” His tone is razor-sharp, almost mocking, as if daring you to believe the apparition over him.
The figure shifts, flickering like a candle about to go out, then speaks again, but this time in his voice: “I never cared.”
Your breath catches, and for a moment, the maze itself seems to hold its breath too. Astarion’s eyes narrow to slits, and he steps in front of you, blocking the figure from your sight.
“I’ve had enough of this,” he growls, dagger in hand, as he slashes at the illusion. But the figure only fades into mist, reforming just a few steps away, untouched and unbothered by his fury.
Astarion’s frustration is palpable, but before he can attack again, the figure speaks once more—again in his voice: “I never loved you.”
You wince, the words striking deeper than any blade could. It’s not just the sound of his voice, but the way the words reverberate in your chest, reminding you of every moment you doubted.
He turns back to you, his expression a mask of cold disdain. “This is pointless. If you’re going to fall apart every time this place plays with your mind, perhaps I should leave you here.”
The maze may twist reality, but you won’t give it the satisfaction of breaking you. Not now. Not here.
But as you step forward, the apparition lingers just out of sight, whispering truths you’d rather not face, all the while Astarion’s impatience grows sharper, like a knife pressed against your throat, daring you to falter.
Straightening your shoulders, you push past him. “Let’s keep moving,” you say, voice firm despite the tremor beneath it. “We’re getting out of here.”
Astarion watches you for a long moment, and for the first time, there’s something almost resembling respect in his eyes, but it vanishes as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual mask of ice.
The path ahead narrows as the shadows seem to close in tighter, wrapping themselves around the air like suffocating tendrils. Every step is a struggle, your legs heavy, your mind foggy with doubt. But still, you press on, unwilling to let the maze swallow you whole. Astarion, ever graceful and composed, moves beside you, though you can feel his growing impatience.
“This place reeks of desperation,” he mutters, his voice barely more than a hiss. “Everything here is clinging to life, yet everything is dead. It’s enough to drive even the most sane souls to madness.”
“It’s a good thing neither of us are sane then,” you say idly.
There is a strange pull in the air that you cannot quite place. It feels wrong somehow, abhorrent, like its presence corrupts anything that dares near. It calls to you like a harpy’s song, though whether it promotes salvation or doom, you cannot say.
Probably doom.
“Something is up ahead,” you whisper as low as possible, grabbing Astarion’s shirt to pull his ear closer to your mouth. “Something powerful.”
“I can feel it too,” he murmurs with a foreboding, flicking his dagger until it rests in his palm comfortably.
As you round a bend in the path, the path shifts and becomes laden with the smell of old blood and decay. You retch, pulling off the side of the path, with your body wracked with heaves. There is nothing in your stomach but bile to vomit.
“Stop breathing, idiot.” Astarion grunts.
With the burnout settling into every crack in your being, there is a brief moment where you want to get on your knees and beg him for mercy. You wonder, if you get on your knees and beg him to pretend, if only for a little bit, that he is your husband, would he?
The answer only sends you further into despair. He would laugh and not hesitate to remind you of how fucking pathetic you are.
You say nothing back, not trusting your mouth not to plead with him for just a moment of peace.
A couple of steps, and the trees part just enough to reveal a clearing bathed in sickly green light, and in the center, hunched over a cauldron, is a figure. Her form is grotesque—long, spindly limbs draped in tattered robes, her skin a mottled shade of green, stretched tight over her bones. Two milky, blind eyes jerk toward you at the sound of your footsteps and seem to see straight through you. Her mouth, lined with broken, yellowed teeth, curls into a wicked smile.
A night hag.
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 6k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]
Gale’s words shower over you like acidic rain. Could he really be speaking the truth? Could Astarion’s compulsion have been driving you down this path all this time? Even though you don’t need to breathe, it feels like the air has been sucked from your lungs, and you clutch at your chest as if it might help you feel a little less off-kilter.
You glance at your husband, who has stumbled away from the altercation and is pressing his forearm against the wall, taking deep breaths to try and keep himself present.
That icy chill of the sensuous song howls through the bond and regresses into your bones, making them feel like your skeleton is splintering. The ambrosial chords of the melody beseech you to sink into it, let yourself be overtaken, and it swears an oath that it will provide you with unlimited serenity.
You know it lies—that it parades false hopes and delusions—but the promises are tempting nonetheless. There is a part of you that begs to give in, if only so you can be swept away from this dream turned nightmare.
There is a choice you have to make quickly, and you glance between Gale and Astarion. Who do you believe? Who do you put your faith in?
Do you pick Gale, who has never directly lied or tried to manipulate you and who still harbours some sincere feelings for you? Gale, who has been trying to save you from the consequences of your foolish decisions since he and Shadowheart took you in knowing the danger you posed. Gale, who has been working tirelessly to find ways to pluck you from the suspension of this deathless death and restore you to life once more?
Or do you pick your newlywed husband, who you know has manipulated you, compelled you, and could easily be doing so again without your knowledge? Your husband, who played your love like a lyre to secure himself a spot in your good graces. Your husband, who kept you locked away when you did not turn out to be as obedient as he hoped. Your husband, who carved into your flesh without a hint of remorse.
You’ve spent months connected to Astarion’s mind. You’ve felt his feelings, heard his unfiltered thoughts, and haven’t detected any indications of deceit, but that does not mean Astarion could not force your mind to forget or bypass anything that was there.
He made you forget your name, after all.
You try to reach out to Astarion’s mind, but he cannot hear you over the bellow of Cania clamouring in his skulls.
Do you love him? Or is that another trick of the Ascendant? Has his compulsion rooted him into your mind and grown from a sapling to a mighty tree? Shadowheart’s warning twists in the storm of your chaotic thoughts — He will always do what it takes to survive.
The fates have not bestowed the time to deliberate. The choice must be made. You must pick one or the other, and the consequences of choosing wrong are dire.
A dangerous game, indeed.
“No, Gale,” you condemn resolutely. “Whatever proof you think you have, I have no need to hear it. I know in my heart that what I feel is real and not a compulsion.”
A small voice, deep within you, whispers. Is it?
There is no need to hear the objections forming on Gale’s lips. Your choice has been made, and you choose your husband, for better or worse. You turn away, ruck up your dress, and hurry over to Astarion. When you place your hand on his shoulder, he jerks away and snarls at you like a cornered animal. Your hand wavers for a moment, but you place it back on him defiantly.
“Astarion.” You try to get a look at his eyes, but they are squeezed shut with a terribly pained grimace that contorts his face. “I can be your light. Let me in.”
His eyes crack open, and you’re barely able to make out the scarlet that peeks through the narrow slits. You grasp onto him, and he fumbles to try and push you away with rigid, ungainly movement that is so unlike his usual easy grace.
“You don’t understand!” Gale shouts. “You will always choose him. It’s exactly what he’s compelled you to do. If you will only give me a moment, I can show you.”
“No!” You scream at the top of your lungs, the shrillness of your voice ripping your vocal chords. “I don’t care what you think you know, Gale. Leave. GET. OUT.”
Shadowheart grabs Gale’s robes, desperately trying to tug him away, but Gale shakes her off. “I’m sorry, my friend. You leave me no choice.”
Your brow quirks for only a moment before Gale shoots Dancing Lights high into the darkening sky, and you recognize the signal for aid from your adventures.
The high-pitched whistle of loosed arrows and the rush of marching boots are soon to follow. You quickly cast Wall of Stone and grab Astarion to drag him down behind the barrier. Numerous arrows hit the wall with a thunk. When the barrage finally ends, you peek around the wall to get a view of Gale’s apparent backup.
You’re stunned to see Gur filing into the space, bursting through all the doors, breaking windows, and lumbering over the fence of the terrace. Has it been Gale feeding the Gur information all this time? Did he nearly get Astarion killed?
Shadowheart stands in the midst of the chaos, mouth agape and completely unprepared, but you can see the golden light of her radiant magic illuminated on her fingertips. Whose side will she take? Gales or yours?
Astarion still pants beside you, his body practically vacillating the air with every one of his muscles quivering as he tries to fight the urge to sink into the song and languish in the abyssal prison of his own mind. You toe off your heels and unholster the spare dagger you know Astarion always keeps concealed under the leg of his pants. The sharp blade smoothly splits through the fine silk of your gown, and you tear away the bottom half of the skirt hastily.
The Weave fills you at your behest, and it coruscates around you in a roseate corona. You crouch, ready to pounce as the hoard of shuffling feet inch closer.
“Run, my love.” You hear Astarion’s strangled gasp as you take the first step out from behind the wall. “Run, and never look back.”
Though you understand the warning, you refuse to leave Astarion behind to be absorbed by the deceit of a devil. You once pledged to spill no more innocent blood, but it seems you cannot escape death. Rage burbles inside you, boiling over the edges. How many times have you tried to be good, do good, and where has it gotten you?
Perhaps it’s time to rise up like a lightning-ignited wildfire and fucking burn.
The first hunter rounds the corner of the stone shield with their crossbow aimed. You lash out, casting Fear, and the hunter cowers. Lunging forward, you grab their face, digging your fingers into their fleshy cheeks, and fire detonates from your palms. Flames liquify skin and burst from every orifice as they let out a strident shriek.
You hate that it feels good.
A battle axe swings in your peripheral vision. You duck, cast Magic Missile, pelleting the man with spiny bolts like a fleshly pincushion until he drops. Your grabbed from behind by a rough pair of hands and dragged backward away from Astarion. You growl, struggling against the constraint on your body. To your surprise, the hunters run straight past you, only meaning to subdue you.
You are not their target.
Sweat begins to drip down your forehead as you watch hunters barrel toward the wall protecting Astarion. You throw your head back, smashing your skull into the Gur’s nose, causing his grip to weaken, and wriggle out of his arms. You reel forward, fingers dancing, and a cloud of daggers bursts into existence, catching some of the hunters in their approach and cutting the rest off.
It’s all you can do before you’re thrust down and slammed into the boards of the terrace. Despite your attempts to fight it, the hunter manages to pin your arms with your palms flat against the rough wood. A knee digs into your back to cement you in place, and you’re helpless to watch as the hunters begin to descend on Astarion.
“Morere!”
You barely catch the flash of sickly green magic, feel the sudden jerk and shudder of the hands holding you down, and you’re released as the body slumps to the side. Shadowheart helps you to your feet, hauling you up with a surprising amount of strength.
There is no time to talk, and you nod in thanks as you sprint forward and rain Fireball down on the group nearing Astarion. Shadowheart tries to stick close to you, but in the chaos, you’re both bounced between bodies and separated once more.
The whiz of a blade slicing through the air makes your ears twitch, and you pivot just in time to catch the blade in your palm before it splits your skull in half. The sharp edge slices deeply into your hand as you strain against the sheer strength of a Fighter, and you must use both arms to block the attack.
Blood oozes down your forearms, coating your ashen skin in vivid red as you grapple, feeling yourself slowly fold under the brute force. Your eyes dart around for Shadowheart, but she’s locked in her own struggle across the terrace. Fire spits from your palms, heating the blade until it burns red-hot, and you can hear the sizzle of your skin and your opponents, but he does not let up or even falter.
“Not her!” You hear Gale shouting from somewhere in the disorder. “We had a deal!”
Your knees eventually begin to fold in on themselves under the pressure, and your arms shake as the tension mounts. The rigid boards creak as your knees are ground into them. You squeeze your eyes closed and let out a strangled cry as your arms begin to giveaway.
The stress is released suddenly. Your eyes jerk up, and your stomach sinks when you realize it’s not your husband’s brilliantly red eyes staring back at you, but the blunted maroon of his shadow.
He smiles hauntingly. “Shall we put our differences aside for a moment and deal with the more pressing matter at hand, or would you prefer I kill you now?”
You nod your grim acceptance of the offered temporary truce. He flourishes his dagger, grabbing your arm and yanking you forward into his chest. For a moment, you think the truce was another ruse, and he’s about to sink his blade into you, but it lodges deep into the temple of a hunter who is holding a stake that was meant for your back.
Thrusting yourself away from him, you turn and press your back against his in a reflexive habit formed during your adventure. It is a tactic you and Astarion used on many occasions when you were fighting hoards of enemies. He seems to remember it and holds his position while you cast Thunderwave to throw the incoming attackers backward.
“Can you slow them down?” He asks.
“Do you really need me to, Ascendant?”
Astarion chuckles darkly. “Hardly. I was thinking of you, darling. It would be such a pity if one of these dogs had the pleasure of putting you down before I do.”
“Then I guess you’re going to have to keep me alive.” You cast Web to slow the Gur down. It will allow you to cast at range, and Astarion should have the dexterity to negate the effects. “Right or left?”
“Left.”
Astarion bursts into mist, reappears behind one of the Gur, and his blade runs across their throat, slicing through skin and sinews like softened butter while he laughs maniacally. You go right, keeping yourself skirting around the borders where you are most proficient at casting at range. Spells skip across your lips, and the Weave flows between your fingers in a kaleidoscope of colours. Chain Lightening ropes between enemies in close proximity, turning them to little more than steaming husks. Scorching Rays buffets the chest of a hunter to your left, and Magic Missile skewers another.
You cast carefully, trying to keep track of Astarion from one minute to the next, but his speed makes his movements nearly incalculable. He blinks in and out of existence, often appearing out of thin air, running his blade from belly to neck like gutting a fish, and phasing out once more.
It would be impressive if it were not so incredibly daunting.
The click of a crossbow surprises you, and you hear the bolt whistling through the air as you turn toward the sound. It streaks toward you, only visible by the faint chromatic flash of the metallic arrow point, and your stomach sinks as you brace for the impact. Astarion appears in a flurry of red mist. He snatches the arrow out of the air, whirling to keep the momentum, and launches it back. The bolt imbeds itself into the eye of the woman with so much force that her head snaps back, and she’s reeled off her feet.
He smirks smugly with a wink and disperses again. You continue your death march, your eyes skipping through the crowd until you spot Shadowheart grappling with a hunter. If you don’t get her out of here, Astarion will target her when he’s done massacring the remaining Gur.
You run up behind the hunter, cast Disintegrate, and grab her arm, dragging her toward the door. “You need to leave. Now.”
“I didn’t do this, Illyria!” She shouts, pulling back. “I swear.”
“I know.” You cast Telekinesis and launch a hunter blocking your path to the door off the terrace. “Astarion’s gone. You must go.”
“I won’t leave you!” She growls obstinately.
A hand wraps around your arm. You snarl and turn with your teeth bared, ready to rip out the throat of whoever dares try and stop you, and see Gale’s rounded, solemn eyes. There is a part of you that wants to make him pay for this, but you know that his intentions are pure. In his eyes, he’s trying to protect you, and you cannot damn him for that.
You grab his sleeve roughly and shove them both into the foyer with all the force you can muster. “Leave. Both of you. Now.”
“Illyria.” Gale pleads, trying to grab your shoulder, and you smack his hand away. “Don’t you understand? It’s all been a compulsion. All of this, everything you think you feel, is a lie. If you would only give me a moment—”
“No!” You trample over him, and the truth sneaks out of your mouth. You look at him sombrely, tears pricking your eyes. “Don’t you understand?! I don’t care. I don’t want to know.”
“What?” He stares at you slack-jawed. “My friend, you cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? The unfiltered truth is that you would rather sink into this fantasy than sink into despair. If it has all been a compulsion, a beautifully polished lie, you don’t want to know.
“Leave.” You thrust Shadowheart’s bag into her hands. “Both of you before Astarion—“
“Before Astarion, what?” Astarion appears, blocking the doorway, blood-drenched, and looking beyond crazed. “Going somewhere?” He pouts. “And here I thought we were all such good friends.”
You’re launched backward, sliding across the floor, and back out onto the terrace until you hit a mushy mass of flesh. You scramble to your feet, stumbling, and Shadowheart and Gale are likewise pitched out of the villa, their bodies thumping into the boards and skipping across them.
Your brain works to try and formulate a plan—any plan—but falls flat. Astarion is too quick to try and run from and too strong to try and fight head-on. Even if you could fight him, would you? Could you? Is this the poisoned loyalty that Gale is talking about or love?
Astarion glances around the ruined villa with a furrowed brow. “This is lovely. What party did I crash?”
“Our wedding,” you answer honestly.
“Gods,” he spits in limitless contempt. “He married his spawn? Idiot.”
Spawn…
It dawns on you that this version of Astarion has no idea that you’re not merely a spawn but a bride, which means he does not know you share a mental connection. There must be a way to use his ignorance to your advantage, but you don’t have very much time to figure it out.
“Well, all the more reason to rid myself of you,” he shrugs irritatedly as if his counterpart has left him a chore to do. “The wizard might make a fun spawn though, no? I wager he would be splendidly obedient. Unlike you, pet.”
Shadowheart gasps, bringing his attention to her, tucked away behind your legs. “The Cleric, too. She knows how to faithfully worship a God. Don’t you, flower? You wouldn’t even need much training. You already know how to get on your knees.”
You growl low and shout. “You won’t touch her or Gale for that matter, boy!”
Boy. What Cazador used to call him, and you know he despises. If you can enrage him, you might be able to get his attention completely on you. It’s a bad plan, a terrible one, but it’s the best you have right now.
“Pardon?” He hisses. “You best rethink that, pet, or I will make you suffer!”
You hate what you’re doing, but you try your best to reuse things you heard Cazador taunt him with. “I’ve known you for years. Have I not suffered enough?”
“Silence!” He orders, a tic working in his jaw, and his eye twitching.
“You are weak,” you snarl, pressing on even though it makes your stomach twist in upset. “You’re a small, pathetic little boy who never amounted to anything. Even with all this power, you are still nothing.”
You see the quick flash of Astarion’s hand going for his dagger; see him lunge toward you as if in slow motion. The Weave glows in your eyes. You will fight to your last. If you’re lucky, it might give Shadowheart enough time to get herself and Gale out of here.
Astarion flashes across the terrace, disappearing into mist and reappearing only a step ahead of you. A flash of fire suddenly brightens the area, blinding you temporarily. The smell of brimstone and sulphur fills your nostrils, and your eyes snap open to see Astarion’s dagger millimetres away from your chest, but he’s held fast in a spell you recognize well.
Hold Monster.
You look to Shadowheart and Gale, but it’s clear neither of them are behind this because they look as bewildered as you.
“Quite the show this has been. A pity I had to step in and ruin the grand finale.” Mizora’s voice comes from behind you. She waves her hand, and a swirling, fiery portal opens up just behind you. “I can only get you to Avernus. You will have to find your way to Cania from there.”
When you don’t move, she rolls her eyes. “It’s now or never, pet. I cannot hold him forever.”
You can’t leave Astarion here, not like this. There is no telling what horrors this version of him will reap on Baldur's Gate. More importantly, he will no doubt target your friends. What good would saving him do if he cannot live with the guilt of his actions?
“He needs to come with me,” you murmur.
“That’s a very stupid thing to do.” Mizora snaps. “He will kill you as soon as you set foot in Avernus.”
“Maybe, but maybe not. It doesn’t matter. He cannot be left here.”
Her eyes narrow, and her brow creases with tension as the spell shimmers, wavering slightly. “You’re running out of time.”
“Let him go when I give the signal, Mizora.”
She huffs but nods. “Tick-Tock.”
“Illyria! Don’t do this!” Shadowheart grabs your ankle, but there is no time to debate.
“I have to.”
You position yourself several feet behind him and get ready. Before you can nod, Shadowheart scrambles to her feet, takes Gale’s quarterstaff from his hands, and tosses it and her bag to you. You catch them, secure it across your body, and grip the quarterstaff in both hands. Whatever the bag holds, it will be your only supplies. There is no time to fetch clothes or weapons. Even you can see that Mizora is struggling to hold him, and the cage has started to fissure and crack like stressed glass.
Nodding to give the signal, Mizora instantly lifts the spell, and Astarion reels forward. You sprint with all the speed you possess, slam into him, and use the momentum to propel you both through the swirling, burning maw of the portal.
Jagged, obsidian crystals slice gashes into your arms and legs when you crash into the treacherous terrain. The air is sweltering, acrid, and tastes heavily of ash. You push yourself up onto your wobbly legs. Before you have time to recover, Astarion’s hand wraps around your neck, lifting you into the air with no visible effort.
“What have you done!?”
Your words are cut off, and only strangled noises are able to escape your throat, but you cannot help the faint smile that quirks your lips up. Those dull eyes are filled with an unease and the slightest hint of fear.
He seems to notice and quickly steels his countenance back to that of a confident arrogance. His hand tightens a fraction, fingernails cutting into your bruising skin. His dagger flashes in his hand, twirling into his grip, and he presses the tip of the blade firmly into your abdomen. You’re surprised when the progression halts before it can do so much as cut you. He falters, the dagger wavering almost imperceptibly, and he scoffs, dropping you unceremoniously.
He glares at his hand with a puzzled twist to his lips and stows his blade. “I have half a mind to decorate the ground with your innards.”
His threats sound empty, or you have abandoned your fear of this version of him. He once told you that he would never kill you, and so far, that has proved true despite the ample opportunities he’s had.
“Why didn’t you then? Performance issues?”
“No!” He huffs in indignation. “I have a better idea.”
Astarion’s eyes glow, and the tendrils of compulsion take your muscles hostage. “Follow me, pet.”
You obey, getting to your feet, and hate that it feels glorious to assent. Astarion looks around, apparently settling on a direction, although you think it’s simply a random choice. There is nothing but hills and low, rocky mountains as far as the eye can see. He starts walking, and you quickly fall into place at his heels.
The land is covered in rubble and sharp stones of quartz and other crystalline-looking structures that gnaw at your bare feet, but you’re helpless to stop even as the pain mounts. Each step leaves a bloody footprint, dotting the charred wasteland. The side effects of the blood war can be seen spreading across the environment. Skulls and bones of creatures big and small litter your path, and it’s not long before you begin to see the crumbling remains of buildings, their walls blackened and caved in, stone strewn about, and large craters in the terrain from the impacts of the fireballs.
Clouds of red and black roil in the reddened sky, flickering with orange flames and fireballs that frequently race across the darkened heights. You stay quiet, staring at the back of Astarion’s head while you try to figure out how exactly you’re going to get your husband back. His ignorance of your mental connection could prove useful, but he will know if you attempt to go digging around in his head. That will have to remain a last resort.
Astarion only gave the order to follow, but he did not specify how closely, and you begin to fall behind. At first, it’s merely a small length, but the distance increases as your feet are chewed up by the ground.
“You’re quiet.” You hear him utter from ahead of you. “There was a time when I couldn’t get you to shut up.”
“I have nothing to say to you.”
Astarion glances over his shoulder, alerted to the fact that you’re lagging behind him by the quietness of your voice. “Quit dawdling.”
It’s not a command, and you don’t bother to quicken your pace but only roll your eyes at him with an exasperated scoff.
“You’re bleeding.” He states simply, scenting the air.
“Wow.” You transform your expression into one of mock awe. “Your powers of observation are truly a marvel to behold. Seven thousand souls have given you the great power of stating the obvious.”
“Cheeky. Be careful with that smart mouth, darling, or I’ll cut your tongue out. Now, hurry the Hells up.”
“I have no fucking shoes, Astarion!” You gesture toward your feet. “It’s like walking across hot shards of glass.”
He arches a high brow at you, looking rather amused or astonished at the insolence in your tone. “And whose fault is that exactly?”
“Yours.”
“I do not believe I was the one who pushed us into the fucking hells!” He snorts, crossing his arms. “Come on, pup. Walk faster. We haven’t got all day.”
“We’re immortal, Astarion. We literally have eternity.”
But you do, in fact, hurry up because you cannot fight his compulsion. The sharp rocks and stones rend the flesh of your feet, often jutting from the ground and piercing so deep you’re sure they glance off your bone. It doesn’t matter how carefully you try to place your steps; the ground is uneven and cluttered, and every step serves as another painful reminder of where you are and who you are with. The only reprieve afforded to you is when he stops to look around, where he once again appears to choose a direction at random. He leads you deeper into what appears to be a ruined fortress of some kind. Skeletons, big, small, and gargantuan alike hang limply, strewn everywhere the eye can see. Others look so old they’ve petrified, and you have to crawl between teeth that are twice your size.
It is beyond still in this fiendish graveyard, and the silence is so deep that you wonder if you might be able to suffocate in it. Whenever you trip over a rock or fall, it gives you the distinct impression that you’re disturbing the peaceful rest of the dead simply by existing.
When you once again finally step out into the ruined street, you can vaguely see the river Styx, slithering over the landscape like a scarlet snake with glinting scales. You don’t make it far when you notice a slowly moving shadow that seems to be increasing in size as if a dark cloud were drifting over you.
Your eyes flick upward and spot a mammoth fire-spewing boulder careening with the speed of a meteor. It takes you a moment to recall what you read when you were doing research about the layers of the Hells.
“The fireballs that race across the darkened sky of Avernus appear random at first glance, but be warned, they actively target motion.”
Shit.
Instinct kicks in, and you bolt toward Astarion, who is just beginning to notice the increasing darkness. For a moment, you’re blessedly free of the pain in your feet with the spike of adrenaline. Your arms encircle his waist, and you launch your body weight into him. He tries to catch himself before falling, but his heel catches on a rock, and he falls backward.
“You little shit!” He shouts.
The fireball hits with enough force that you can feel it vibrate the ground as red silt is blown outward like a wave. You close your eyes, feeling as it settles on your skin. When you’re able to open them again, dust falls off your lashes, and the earth is charred and smoking around the crater that lays just a little ways off where Astarion’s feet are.
You don’t realize that you’ve fallen on top of him until you glance back and see his wide eyes looking at the hole where he had been standing and back to you. For a moment, you think you see affection in those cold eyes, perhaps gratitude, but he chucks you off of him roughly.
“You did that!” He hisses.
The stones feel like needles against your palms as you push yourself up and give him an incredulous look. “Why the fuck would I do that and then save you?”
“You’re trying to toy with me, with my emotions, but it won’t work!” He growls, gesturing wildly. “I have been manipulating people for longer than you have been alive. Your games will not work on me, you wretched bit—”
His shouting is cut off when another shadow descends, the boulder whistling through the air, and Astarion has to phase into mist and back to avoid the strike. Both of you look to the sky, and your brows downturn, mouth slack-jawed, when you notice the swarm of them catapulting toward you.
“Shelter! We have to find shelter!” You scream.
You barely get the words out before they start thundering into the earth, each seemingly having a mind of their own. They force you to throw yourself to the side, back, forward, repeatedly to avoid being squished.
“The cave!” Astarion bellows, pointing toward a rocky cliff face.
Between the smoke and dust in the air, you can’t see a cave, but you attempt to start flinging your body in that direction. You can’t see where Astarion went, but you do feel the tug of his compulsion forcing your feet to move in a certain direction, which is interfering with your ability to evade the oncoming onslaught. That, coupled with the current state of your feet, your movement is dreadfully hindered.
A fireball slams into the ground behind you. The heat radiating off it sears your flesh before it explodes on impact, and you get caught by the shrapnel and thrown from your feet. Black dots march in your vision. You try to blink them away and get up, but the hellscape around you swells and dips like rough waves.
You can barely make out of vague darkening of the area surrounding you, and you try to drag yourself out of its path. Will it hurt, or will you be brought peace long before your brain can receive the signals for pain? You laugh softly at the prospect of being killed by a fireball after you’ve cast them countless times to do the same to your enemies.
Your stomach lurches as if you’ve fallen suddenly, and your world becomes a shapeless blur. A comfortable pressure encircles your waist, and before you know it, you’re enveloped in a deep dimness. When your eyes finally clear, you’re looking out the mouth of a cave, watching fireballs fall like hail from the sky.
Astarion stands with his back pressed hard against the stone, his eyes closed, and his chest heaving with heavy breaths. He’s covered in soot and rusty-coloured dust. He saved you? Hope blooms in your chest that when he opens his eyes, they will be the fiery sunset warmth of your husbands.
“Astarion?” Your voice is rough and hoarse from having inhaled the dirt in the air.
“Master to you, pet,” he purrs, his eyes opening slowly to reveal the lifeless maroon like a ruby covered by layers of dust.
Astarion watches you almost curiously for several minutes while you observe the chaos happening just outside the opening of the cave before he takes a seat. His forearms rest on his knees, and he twirls his dagger between his fingers, feeling the edge of it to judge the sharpness.
It’s nostalgic watching the way he assesses the blade and checks the weight and balance of it. How many times did you watch him perform the same inspections of his weapons in camp? You shouldn’t be surprised, you guess. This Astarion is still Astarion, but this Astarion is composed of two centuries of darkness and Cazador’s tortures.
Opening Shadowheart’s bag, you dig through the contents. There are a couple of random scrolls, a potion of healing, and the sharp, glass scraps of whatever potion didn’t make it through. There is a small pouch of coin, though you think it will do little good here. Your heart swells when you see her trousers and shirt, apparently stashed after she changed into your dress. The masterpiece that was your wedding dress is ruined beyond recognition, and you slip out of it.
“That’s some positively scandalous negligee,” Astarion taunts. “I assume that was for him?”
You glance down at the strappy, lace nightwear you had meant to surprise your husband with. “Well, it certainly wasn’t meant for you,” you retort.
“And yet, here I am enjoying the view and not him,” he says sinisterly.
Astarion turns, grabbing your ankle and giving it a quick tug toward him. He crawls up your body with that sensual smile you know too well and dips his head to kiss your hipbone, below your belly button, and continuing upwards. Though your brain knows the difference between your husband and this imposter, your body does not, and a shiver runs down your spine.
You push hard on his shoulders, trying to push him away, and he brings his eyes up with a lazy, crooked smile. He rests his chin on your stomach, his hot breath fans your cold skin.
“I know you want me,” he purrs, his fingers playing with the straps of your nightwear. “You cannot hide it from me, little lamb, and it seems we have some time to spare.”
“I want him,” you correct. “I have no interest in you. Get off me.”
“Him. Me. What’s the difference?” He shrugs and places another lingering kiss in the soft spot between your ribs. “We are one and the same. I’ll even be generous. I’ll whisper the sweet little lies I’m positive he feeds you, and you can pretend I am him.”
“I said no,” you growl, letting your palms heat against his shoulders in a warning.
Astarion sighs, rolls his eyes, and pushes himself to his knees. “Gods above. Why are you such a drip? Honestly, it’s like you hate having a good time.”
Pulling on Shadowheart’s shirt and tugging on the trousers without acknowledging his goading, you grab your raw feet and cringe. The blood is starting to dry, your healing abilities kicking in, but there are still crystal slivers and shards sticking out of your toes and heels, nestled deeply in your skin and muscle. You grasp at them, managing to pull some out, but your fingers aren’t quite nimble enough or adroit enough at getting purchase on the smaller, thinner pieces.
Astarion watches you again, with an odd intensity that you find puzzling. He reaches for you, but you recoil and pull away.
“Let me help.” It borders between an order and an offer, as if he couldn’t decide which and never made a choice either way.
It’s either this or walking with crystal shards impaling your feet, so you reluctantly slide your foot toward him. Astarion’s hand wraps around your ankle, and he lifts your leg and places it on his thigh. His eyes scrutinize the wounds carefully, and though his face remains cold and impassive, when they flick to you briefly, you swear you see concern in them.
Astarion plucks out the remaining pieces one by one, easing them from your flesh with more care than you would have thought this version of him possessed. When he’s done, he scoops up the remains of your dress and cuts long pieces from the silk, wrapping them around each foot in some sort of makeshift shoe. It’s unlikely to do much in the way of protection from the elements and will likely get chewed to shreds as quickly as your skin did, but the gesture still leaves you dumbstruck.
You cannot help yourself. “Why are you doing this?”
“I need you to be able to walk.” He states simply.
“Where are you taking me?”
He smiles ominously, predator-like, and it makes you such in a sharp breath. “We are going to bargain with Mephistopheles, of course. What do you think he will bestow upon me when I hand deliver the little snake who aims to reverse his arrangement?”
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 7.8k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]
A soft kiss on your forehead and the feeling of the bond reopening, unfurling like the petals of a flower in your head is what rouses you from your trance. Astarion does not typically close the bond any longer, even when you trance, but he wanted to be sure that you would not be sucked into any of his nightmares so close to your wedding day.
“Get up, lazy girl,” he taunts, brushing your hair back and tucking the wayward strands behind your ear. He lets his finger trail down the ridge, which earns him something between a groan and a moan.
Your eyes open lazily to see Astarion in all his splendour. His hair is mussed from sleep, not yet combed and coiffed to perfection, and his waves tumble about heedlessly. He yawns, the early morning sun glinting along the edges of his fangs, and his eyes are still heavily lidded.
“It’s hardly even sun-up, Astarion,” you whine, curling into his chest and hiding your face away from the ever-brightening early morning light. “The ceremony isn’t until this evening. We can sleep for a few more hours. You cannot possibly need all fucking day to get ready.”
“You deserve perfection,” he purrs, twisting his fingers into your hair and massaging your scalp. “And perfection takes time.”
“You are perfect,” you coo, placing a soft kiss on his chest with a sigh. “And it has nothing to do with your physical appearance.”
With the beating of his heart under your palm and the heat from his skin sinking into the cool of your own, your trance beckons on the borders of your consciousness.
Astarion clears his throat awkwardly. “I’m… uh… I may be a trifle too nervous to trance.”
The sleepiness recedes like a swiftly moving tide, and you sit up and take his face between your hands. “Are you having second thoughts? If it’s not what you want, we don’t have to do this, Astarion.”
He leans into your touch, closing his eyes, and you feel the wash of comfort he feels through the bond. The tension melts away from him, his shoulders relax, and the pinch in his brow eases. He nuzzles your palm and places a kiss on it before reopening his strikingly ruby-red eyes.
“Don’t be so foolish.” Astarion scoffs while his arms encircle your waist, and he pulls you into his lap. “Of course I am not having second thoughts. Good Gods, Illyria.”
“I just want you to know you have the option,” you assert, keeping your intonation tender.
“As much as I do appreciate the sentiment, I want this more than I have ever wanted anything in my very long life,” he insists. Astarion gently picks stray strands of hair out of your eyelashes, brushing them away. “So little in my life has actually been my own, and even less of that has ever meant anything, but this... Gods. This means everything to me. You mean everything to me.”
He looks askance, his eyes falling away from yours. “For so long, I never had anything to lose, and now I stand to lose so much.” Astarion lets out a long exhale. His brows downturn at the ends in a sombre expression. “I am... frightened.” He finally forces the word out in a rush. “I am scared that one of these times I will lose myself and I will be lost. For good.”
“Astarion,” you start, bringing your palm up to cup his cheek, but he catches your wrist and cuts you off.
“Listen to me. If that should happen, if I am truly gone, I need you to promise you will run, get as far from me as you possibly can, and never look back.”
It’s not a promise you’re willing to make, even with his eyes that plead, and you shake your head. “I can’t promise you that, Astarion. What I can promise is that I will do everything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen. I would not lose you to Cazador, and I will not lose you to this.”
You still haven’t told him about the deal you made. Every time you mean to bring it up, the confession will not unlatch from your tongue. The words stick in the back of your throat, like being caught in a spider’s web.
“Gods, you always were unbearably mulish.” Astarion laments with a sigh.
“I prefer to think of myself as adorably willful,” you quip, trying to lighten the mood. You rack your fingers through his hair and let the tips gently ghost down the edge of his tapered ear.
It earns you a delightful shudder, and he readjusts you on his lap with a highly arched brow. “Trying to distract me, are you? Naughty girl.”
“Is it working?”
Astarion shifts you once more, bucking his hips up and grinding his hardening desire against you. “Indeed it is, my love,” he purrs erotically. “We should get you fed, yes?”
Before you can answer, Astarion cants his head to the side, offering his neck with a smile that seems to be all heart. The offer of blood and the sight of the vein pulsing nearly make your strike like an angry viper, but you’re getting better with restraint. Instead, you curb that desire, lean forward, place a chaste kiss on his warm lips along the angular plane of his jaw, and rain them slowly down his neck.
His hands come to your hips, strong fingers firmly pressing into your skin. Your fangs pop through Astarion’s flesh with as quick of a pinch as your unskilled self is capable of. The groan that hums from Astarion is not one of pain but of need.
Blood quickly fills your mouth, breathing vitality into you with every swallow of the rich, salty sanguine poem. It is a call to prayer, the heavens chanting against your tastebuds, and good Gods, you worship on the alter of his neck in moans.
“Just like that,” he breathes. “I will tell you when to stop.”
Astarion’s guides your hips in a slow rock, back and forth, dragging your increasingly wet folds leisurely up and down his pulsing erection. He angles his hips so the head of his cock runs across the spot you need it most with every swipe. You can barely focus on both sensations at once, and blood starts to glide a trail down his chest.
He whines, a sound you do not often hear from the Ascendant, and his fingers slip between your folds to start teasing the border of your pining clit. You whimper, your eyes fluttering closed momentarily at the staggering sensation, and your hips buck, trying to persuade his finger to quicken their gentle circles and swipes.
With every shift of your hips, you feel the velvet of his length, throbbing and so very hard, nestled between your lips. His hips buck, rutting against you, seeking the friction that his cock is begging for.
You realize, perhaps a little belatedly, that he hasn’t requested you stop, but his heart rate is beginning to sound slightly irregular. You withdraw your fangs, sitting back on his legs with your brow creased in worry.
Astarion gives you a droll, half-smile, his eyes appearing slightly glassy and dazed.
“Shit,” you murmur, pressing your hand against the wound even though the skin is already beginning to knit itself back together. “You should have told me to stop. This isn’t a good day to have you laid up in bed because I drained you dry.”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “What would you have me say? You’re as distracting as you are wet. You’ve made a positively delicious mess of my lap.” Astarion glances down at the trail of blood that’s made it to his mid chest. “And my chest, it seems. Messy thing,” he tuts.
Astarion’s fingers wrap behind your neck. He pulls you to his lips, shuddering excitedly when his tongue slips in and he tastes himself on you. His free arm wraps around your waist, guiding you to your back. Hooking your knee with his, he pushes your legs apart further before sitting back on his heels and taking a moment to look down at you sprawled out and panting for him.
He fists his erection, giving himself a slow stroke from root to tip, and then taps the head of his cock on your swollen bud. A sudden jolt of intense pleasure sparks through you with every strike, making you squirm. His eyes lock with yours, and he slides lower, grinding himself against your entrance but never sinking in.
“I would do it all again, you know,” he leans over you, lining up. “Those two centuries of darkness and torment, if I knew that you were on the other side of it.”
“Astarion,” you wheeze as he slides himself inside you inch by inch, rocking his hips to work you open. You gather enough presence of mind to shake your head. “No. Don’t say that.”
“Not saying it doesn’t make it any less true.” He presses your legs apart, sinking himself deeper with every stroke. His forehead presses against yours, his hips moving quicker with every pass. “I love you, and I have loved you for far longer than I cared to admit, even to myself, but I cannot love you gently.” As if to make his point, he pulls out most of the way, delighting in the way you whine at the loss of fullness, and sinks back in to the hilt with a fierce snap of his hips that makes both of you gasp. “I will love you totally and completely, and perhaps a little madly, for eternity.”
He angles himself, and once your breathy moan and a tight clench around him confirm that he’s succeeded in hitting that perfect spot inside you, his pace shifts from a slow grind to a more vigorous tempo that leaves you seeing nothing but white hot pleasure and his intensely red eyes that bleed into you.
You want to tell him you love him and that it’s okay if his love is a little mad, a little possessive, a little dark, because your love for him is not for the feint of heart. There is no limit to the lengths you would go for him, and that in itself is a frightening prospect. But your words are lost in pants and moans, the sound of skin smacking skin, and tangled limbs.
So you reach out and touch his mind, requesting him to open himself to you further, and let snaps of memories flow freely, allowing the emotions behind them to be fully felt. You give him glimpses of how his laughter infects you with feelings of warmth and how you would do anything to hear it. How his smile makes you melt into a puddle of pure affection. How his voice is your favourite sound. How your devotion is unlimited, transcending the bounds of time and space.
Astarion quietly whines as the memories embrace him, his hips stuttering and faltering in their pace. He kisses your forehead, your cheeks, along your jaw, your collarbone, and every place he possibly can, as if his lips cannot stand not to be on your skin. Your legs wind around him, tugging him close, and your hips rock to meet his every thrust.
The drag of him against your sensitive walls, the decadent fullness, and the heat of his panting breath in your mouth are too much to bear. Your pleasure builds, your core clenching around his every pump.
But your pleasure is not the only thing you can feel. You can feel his as well. The tightness and overwhelming ache of pleasure in his belly, the urge to release, building rapidly to a delicious acuteness as he tiptoes toward the precipice.
Hells below. It’s intoxicating to know just how intensely he desires you, how you fill him full of pleasure so profound that he cannot think straight, the waves of euphoria that bleed through the bond as your bodies move as one, connected as one, feel as one.
“Illyria,” he pants with urgency. “F—fuck. I’m—“
The words are lost, but you don’t need them anyway. “Come for me,” you whisper against his ear.
His lips crash against yours, his tongue sliding in, and he lets go, his cock pulsing and releasing streams of hot seed deep within you. His pleasure tips you over the edge of your own climax, and your walls spasm and massage his length, drawing every last drop out of him that he will give you.
Astarion collapses on top of you, nestling his head in the crook of your neck while you stroke his back. You’re careful touching his scars, paying close attention to both the bond and his body language, but Astarion only relaxes further into your touch.
Neither of you move for a long while after the throes of your orgasms subside, content to remain enveloped in each other’s embrace.
He nips your collarbone lightly. “There, now we are both a mess.”
You scoff, but kiss his forehead and tousle his hair. “I would not have made such a mess if you had just kept your hands to yourself.”
“Oh, darling,” he giggles with a disapproving click of his tongue. “Wherever is the fun in that?”
The mirror of the vanity gleams back at you empty — always and forevermore, empty. You glance outside at the descending sun. The ceremony is mere hours away, and you still haven’t begun to get ready. Various implements have been laid out on the shiny mahogany table before you: hairbrushes, combs, ties, and hairpins, some regular and others with small diamonds glinting on the ends. On the other side, lip sticks, eyeshadows, liners, and every other cosmetic you could ever ask for in every imaginable hue.
Your fingers grasp a comb and run it through your long hair, but you have no idea how you’re going to do anything with it. You can put it up or leave it down, but any intricate style is beyond your capabilities since you cannot even see what you’re doing.
You want to look beautiful. Of course you do. It’s your wedding day. Gods know Astarion will look perfect with not a strand of his silvery hair out of place or a wrinkle in his suit, and then there will be you, standing beside him, looking like you do not belong with someone so captivatingly handsome.
You wonder if he will be embarrassed and are suddenly extremely thankful that at least you won’t embarrass him in front of all your friends. Were you pretty? You used to be, you think, but what about now? Your skin has lost its once sun-kissed golden hue, and your eyes are no longer the bright colours they used to be.
You glance back up at the mirror once more, hoping against hope that, for at least today, you might be given the reprieve of its scorn, but you are not that fortunate. Its reflective surface continues to dismiss you.
Tears prick your eyes in frustration, and they sail to the villa’s ceiling while you wrack your fingers through your hair. How in the Hells are you going to manage this?
“Little love?” Astarion taps on the door before letting himself in. He had been adamant that he wanted to get ready in separate rooms, if only to give some normalcy to the event. “What’s wrong, Illyria? I can feel your distress. Do you… Do you not want to do this? We can still cancel.”
“No!” You bark in a cracked cry. “It’s not that.”
Astarion crouches down, turning the little vanity stool toward him with ease. Black velvet trousers hang loosely around his waist, but he is otherwise undressed. He places his elegant fingers underneath your chin, gently guiding your gaze up, and thumbs away the tears crawling down your cheeks from the corners of your eyes.
“Tell me what’s troubling you.”
You think about deflecting, lying even, but he will know if you do, so you settle on the truth. “I don’t want to embarrass you, but I don’t know how I will do my hair or makeup since...” You gesture toward the mirror. “I cannot see myself.”
Astarion glances at the mirror, and a forlorn look makes his eyes downturn as he sees his own reflection, but not yours. “Listen carefully, love. You could never embarrass me. If you walked out in a paper bag with your hair a mess, you would still be the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. But I do have a surprise for you.”
Astarion beams, his fangs on full display, and opens the door. “You’re late.”
Your brows furrow, and you try to incline your head to look around the doorframe to see who in the Hells he is talking to when you hear Shadowheart’s voice. “Could you put some clothing on, please? Gods, Astarion. This is not how you should walk around when you’re expecting guests. Where is your decorum?”
He grins roguishly and lopsided, slightly canting his head with a shrug. “My, my. Selûne has turned you into quite the little prude, hasn’t she?”
Shadowheart scoffs, pushing past Astarion while giving him a pointed look. “Get out,” she orders.
Astarion’s brows rise at the direct order, a small spike of anger raising his hackles. You can hear his thoughts. How dare she order him around. He does not take orders from anyone any longer. There is a melody in the background. It sounds like iced rain pelleting through wind-whipped trees.
You nearly jump out of your chair to calm him, but he takes a deep breath, and the twisting thoughts and song fade away into barely a hum. He collects himself almost instantly, adopting his typical easy confidence.
You reach out to him in your head. “Are you okay?”
He doesn’t even glance at you, turning away as Shadowheart closes the door, but answers immediately. “I’m fine, my treasure. I will see you soon.”
“Thank you for this.”
“You are most welcome.”
Shadowheart smiles ear to ear, taking quick steps toward you, and you almost recoil. You cannot remember a time where you’ve seen her look so excited. “A certain vampire told me you might need help getting ready.”
“That certain vampire has been incredibly thoughtful lately,” you muse.
“Oddly so,” Shadowheart agrees. “Can I come close? It will be a little hard to do your hair and makeup if you cannot stand to have me near.”
You laugh. “He fed me. You should be safe unless you accidentally cut yourself.”
“Don’t cut myself, or my best friend might eat me… again.” Shadowheart nods with a wry grin. “Noted.”
Shadowheart’s hands hover over the implements, quickly glancing at the mirror that only recognizes her presence. She frowns, runs over and tears the sheets off the bed, and shrouds the traitorous mirror.
She grabs a brush and begins to gently drag it through your hair, working out the knots. “So, how do you want your hair done?”
Your forehead wrinkles as your brows pull down. “Honestly, I didn’t give it much thought. I… just never thought I would be here.”
“You never thought you would get married?” Shadowheart’s brow arches. “Truly?”
“I didn’t think about it much when I was mortal, and then there was the Netherbrain, I became a vampire, and...” You sigh, shutting your eyes against the memories that claw at your limbs and beg you to join them in a basin of despair. “Well, you know what happened then.”
Shadowheart rubs your arm and gives your shoulder a squeeze. “I have an idea. Do you trust me?”
“I trust you, Shadowheart,” you grin, and the tips of your fangs peek out of your lips just slightly. “Do your worst.”
Shadowheart sets to work, using all the brushes, combs, pins, and ties at her disposal. She twists locks of hair around her finger, pinning them into place.
“I have an odd question.” She breaks the silence. “About your vampirism.”
“Oh? Intriguing. Ask away.”
“How exactly do you feed? Is it like a bite holes and suck on them sort of thing, or are your fangs similar to straws?”
You burst out laughing, and you can hear Astarion howling from the room next to you. Clutching your aching abdomen, partly due to having her so close but mostly due to the blistering laughter that’s making your eyes water, you turn toward her. Shadowheart looks stunned and glances at the wall where Astarion’s laughter can still be heard.
“I mean,” you try to speak between breathy laughs. It’s a blessing you don’t really need air because you would surely be suffocating. “You are welcome to examine my fangs if you would like to check, but it’s a bite and suck thing.”
Shadowheart crosses her arms, a hairbrush still clutched in her hand with her nose sticking up. “It’s not that funny, you two.”
“It’s a little funny,” you tease her.
She huffs but chuckles softly, shaking her head. “That’s the last time I ask you anything about your vampirism,” she taunts with a crooked grin.
Shadowheart grabs a cloth and hands it to you so you can wipe the tears off your cheeks and dry your eyes. She gently tilts your head up and begins to swipe eyeshadow on, but having her so close in front of you, her wrist right under your nose, is starting to eat away at your restraint. You can smell her blood in her veins and hear it gush with each beat of her heart. It sounds like an orchestra to your sharp hearing, and you begin to grimace, digging your fingernails into the stool.
“What is it?” She asks.
With your vampiric speed, you swiftly move to the other end of the room and plaster yourself against the wall. Your lungs thirst for air they don’t require, but you hold your breath.
“I just need a minute,” you say tightly with a thick swallow.
Astarion’s voice drifts into your head. “I can compel you if you wish, but this will be the last time I entertain this.”
There is a keen edge to his timbre. You know it makes him uncomfortable. Even now you can feel his previously calm emotions metamorphose into a tumultuous blitz where you can hardly tell one from the other as they flicker through your mind too quickly to comprehend. You might not feel them or even know what they are, but Astarion feels them all with an intensity you can’t begin to comprehend.
You hate that you don’t possess the self-control and are once again forcing Astarion to do things he’s uncomfortable with, but what choice do you have? No amount of blood will fill the empty hole in your stomach, and you have already slipped and nearly killed Shadowheart.
“I’m sorry, Astarion. Do it. Please.”
His reply is only the command. “You will not feed on thinking creatures. You do not feel hunger.”
“What just happened?” Shadowheart asks.
“Sorry?”
“Your eyes.” She frowns. “They glowed for a moment.”
“Astarion compelled me, and before you worry, I asked him to.”
You take a deep breath of pure relief, ease away from the wall, and back to the stool. She starts doing your makeup again, but you note the lines of worry that crease her forehead and thin her lips.
Shadowheart lowers her voice. “That’s a dangerous game to play, Illyria.”
Though she is whispering, it’s not nearly quiet enough. Astarion will be able to hear her loud and clear. You point to your ear and then to the wall to indicate that he can, in fact, still hear her. Her eyes round, but she nods her understanding. Shadowheart isn’t wrong. You’re playing a dangerous game, but that’s what your life has become, hasn’t it?
Just one dangerous game after another.
“I trust him,” you conclude with conviction.
Shadowheart gives you a quick side look that you know means she’s not quite done talking to you about this, but she will let it go until you find yourselves in a more private setting.
“Look up,” she instructs, and your eyes sail to the ceiling.
You barely feel Shadowheart run the liner along your waterline or use her pinky to smudge it slightly. She holds lipstick after lipstick up to your face before deciding on a colour and handing it to you. At least this, you don’t really need much help with. The colour is a reddish coral that you’re not entirely sure about, but you put it on anyway.
Shadowheart peeks outside, closing the blinds quickly when the sun hits you. She looks horrified for a moment.
“I’m safe, Shadowheart. Astarion is near. The sun won’t hurt me,” you remind her.
“Sorry. I guess I got used to you.” She halts her speech immediately.
“Being allergic to the sun?” You finish her train of thought for her with a reassuring smile.
“Yes.” Shadowheart quickly goes to the wardrobe where your dress is hanging. “We better get you into this. I think it’s nearly time.”
Pulling the curtains back, you glance outside. The sun is low, spitting fiery reds, burnt oranges, and halcyon pinks into the sky like watercolours across a painters canvas. It is indeed almost time.
You will be married to Astarion within the hour.
You slip out the satin robe, and Shadowheart helps you into your gown. Her breath hitches when she sees the scars on your back, as it does every time, and you have to clench your jaw and shut your eyes against the sensation of her hands rubbing over them while she does up the various buttons and laces.
“Do you know what they mean yet?” She asks softly.
“No.” You shake your head. “Astarion has scoured every book he owns, making several trips to the palace, but he’s not found anything that resembles them yet.”
“They must have some sort of meaning.”
“Yes, but they are unfinished. We can only hope that makes whatever they were meant to do useless.” You shrug. “We can’t know for sure.”
Shadowheart turns you around, steps back, and gives you a once-over. “You look beautiful, Illyria. Truly. You clean up rather well.”
You half laugh, half snort at her comment, but smirk at her jeering. “Really?”
“Really,” she confirms. “Astarion is a lucky man.”
You glance down and look at the dress. The bodice hugs your curves flawlessly; each diamond is pristinely polished and catches the sunlight, filtering it into prismatic hues. For some reason, the seamstress added moonstones to border the swirling pattern of the lace, and the silvery light they emanate gives the appearance of silver-spun stars.
“I should probably get going,” Shadowheart says, picking up her bag.
“No,” you object, reaching out and grabbing her forearm before you have time to think. “I think you should stay if you want to.”
She looks around a little unsure. “Will Astarion be okay with that?”
You don’t doubt he heard your offer, but you ask him anyway. “Can Shadowheart stay?”
“Of course, my love. She’s most welcome to join us.”
“He doesn’t mind.” You assure her and offer an easy smile.
Shadowheart beams, putting down her bag, but then she looks at her clothes with a ruffled brow. “I have nothing to wear. I didn’t bring anything else.”
“You can wear what you’re wearing, but if you would rather wear something else.” You walk over to another wardrobe and open it. It’s filled with various fine silk dresses and opulent gowns to modest trousers and shirts, and even some robes. “You can take your pick.”
She shifts through the dresses until she pulls out a light blue silk dress and looks to you for permission.
“It will look beautiful on you.”
You watch Shadowheart hurry around, slipping into the dress, running a brush through her hair, fixing her makeup, and you cannot help but find entertainment in the hurried scattering. You’ve hardly ever seen Shadowheart act like this. She’s usually composed, calm, and a little bit stolid.
You’ve never felt closer to her than in this moment, and your heart swells with affection but also guilt, because even though you’ve been compelled, there is a small part of your brain that continues to see her as prey.
Did Astarion ever watch you running through the battlefield and be tempted to give chase just like you are now? Is this a vampire thing or something more sinister? You would like to believe that it’s a vampiric instinct. After all, the living are technically the typical fare for your kind.
The other possibility is much more sinister.
“I’ll see you out there?” Shadowheart suddenly asks from the doorway, breaking you from your thoughts.
“Yes. I’ll be right out.”
The quartet has started playing the soft music, signalling that it’s just about time. You shake out your arms, take several deep breaths, and pace for good measure to expel some of your nervous energy.
You hear a groan, the slight moan of hinges on the door, and then a light rapping on yours before Astarion walks in.
“Apologies.” His eyes are downcast, and his fingers curl and uncurl. “I know I said we should not see each other until you walk down the aisle, but...”
“Astarion.” You approach and slip your fingers under his chin. When he will not allow you to guide his eyes upward, you instead lean down and catch his eyes anyway. “It’s fine. Look at me. Tell me what’s wrong. Are you…? Do you need to go?”
“No,” he’s quick to spit out, his eyes finally coming up. “I just… Bloody Hells.”
He fidgets with the cuff of his suit, huffs exasperatedly, and you see the problem. You take his hand carefully, pop the buttons he was struggling with through, and then take the teardrop ruby cufflink from his trembling fingers and secure it.
“Thank you.” He takes a deep breath. “I missed you.”
Your brows pinch. “You were in the next room.”
“I hardly see why that matters.” Astarion leans in, buries his nose in your hair, and inhales deeply, pulling you close. “Every second away from you is agonizing.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
“I may embellish a little here and there, but I am no liar.” Astarion leans away slightly to look deeply into your eyes. “I really did miss you.”
You kiss his cheek and cup his face with your palm. His hand comes up to cover yours, and he leans into your touch. “You look positively exquisite.”
He takes your hand, forcing you into a small twirl, and you giggle. “I’ll have to take your word for it.”
“I have an idea,” he taps his temple. “I believe you can see through my eyes using the bond we share.”
The sensation of Astarion removing barriers he’s erected feels much like a dam when it opens its doors to allow water through, and you are hit with everything all at once. It’s overwhelming at first, painful even, but the pain fades as you adjust. He’s not let you into his mind quite like this before. It’s almost unfettered access to every thought, every feeling, and even memories, if you were so inclined.
But this is a sign of trust, and you will not betray it by rifling through his most intimate thoughts, so you focus on seeing through his eyes. If it’s like anything else that has to do with the kinship, your intent should simply translate into being.
You blink, and all of a sudden you’re looking down at yourself. You’re taken aback for a moment. Your body jerks slightly away, and you have to reorient yourself. It’s the first time you’ve been able to actually see yourself since you were turned.
By the Gods. I am terribly pale!
Taking your time, you scour every detail of your face and commit it to memory. How long will it take me to forget again? You look at your cracked scarlet eyes and the colours they were before peeking through in splotches and slivers. You take in your dress, your hair, and your makeup, and tears threaten to spill, but you swallow them back down.
You release his sight back to him, blink, and you’re once again staring at your husband.
“Well?” He asks expectantly.
You lean into his chest, your palms flat against him. “Thank you.”
His arms encircle you once more. “You’re welcome. I suppose I should get out there. I will see you soon, yes?”
You nod, releasing him. “I’ll be right behind you.”
You stand in the inner foyer, waiting for your music to start. There are roses everywhere, of every shade, and they fill the air with a sweet scent. You’d peeked earlier and seen the arch being set up. Well, it’s less of an arch and more of a circle, which you decided was more appropriate — circles are never-ending, eternal.
Shadowheart scampers in to see you pacing around in a circle, and she grabs your arms. “Deep breaths, Illyria.”
You snort. “I am dead. I don’t need to breathe.”
She snorts in reply. “Don’t be sassy. Deep breathes, and stand still! You’ve made a mess of your train.”
She crouches down, quickly spreading the delicate lace back out so that it flows as it should instead of being all twisted up. You take the deep breaths, though they do little to calm your nerves.
Shadowheart clasps her hands around your arms. “Don’t pace, or you’ll wreck it. Your music is about to start.”
You don’t know why you feel the need to make sure, but you ask anyway. “Is he?”
Shadowheart nods. “He’s out there waiting for you.”
You can only muster enough presence of mind to nod, and Shadowheart dashes back out to take her place wherever that is. The music starts to pick up, and you stand there for a few nerve-wracking minutes until it shifts into your song.
It’s time.
Steeling your nerves, you take one last deep, useless breath and walk toward the open doorway.
The sun strikes your eyes first and leaves you blinded until your eyes adjust. As your vision clears, the aisle comes into view. Rose petals are scattered across the terrace, the circular archway has been hung with sheer drapery that sways in the slight breeze, and the quartet plays beautifully off to the side as well as an artist sketching away that you were not expecting.
Astarion stands with his hands clasped together behind his back, his face warmly neutral until he sees you, and it transforms into a tender, nervous smile. Your eyes link with familiar, vividly crimson pools that invite you to get lost in them. Time seems to halt its perpetual march forward, the gears grinding to a stop just for you.
All your uncertainty, worries, and problems seem to just slip away from you. None of them matter. Not that the Hells await. Not that you still have yet to tell Astarion about the deal you made. Not that time is running out. It’s like all of that ceases to exist, and you are left with the only thing that does matter.
Him.
Your mind barely registered the drag of your dress, or the breeze in your hair, or the way the sun warms your skin. You take one step, and then another, and then another, carefully so as not to trip. Walking in heels isn’t exactly something you’re accustomed to, and it’s been brought to your attention that you’re a “clumsy thing,” as Astarion so lovingly puts it.
With each step, Astarion’s smile widens, and you’re brought closer to him. His eyes are wide and shiny, unshed tears catching the dying light of the sun. Memories play out in your mind’s eye — strong arms around you and a shoulder to lean on when you were so tired after battle you could barely walk back to camp. Nights spent laughing in the shelter of your tent. Cuddling by a roaring campfire. The soft press of lips to your forehead as you faded into your trance. The aroma of bergamot, rosemary, and brandy — the scent of home. You can hear the gravelly sound of his voice when you sought him out, always first to hear his thoughts, quips, witty remarks, and even those godsdamned roguish insults.
You blink, and the tears begin to fall, gliding down your cheeks. A few more steps and you’re in front of him — your fate, your destiny, your thiramin.
The only thing that has ever truly mattered to you and likely the only thing that ever will.
Yours. Once lost, but brought back together by the threads of fate.
His smile fades, replaced by a gaze that is equal parts affection and limitless devotion. Astarion takes a step closer, swallowing hard, and holds his hands out to you. You place your hands in his.
You stand side by side as the priest of one god or another recites the rites. The words are mostly lost on you, just a garbled sound in the background of the drumming beat of Astarion’s heart.
You try to keep your eyes ahead, but you cannot help but sneak little glances his way. His silver hair, perfectly styled with not a strand out of place, is cast in a golden glow that makes him look otherworldly. His raven-black ensemble with dragons up the breast is perfectly smoothed—not a crease or crimp to be seen.
Perfection. Exactly like you had envisioned.
Keeping your eyes ahead, you reach out, and Astarion responds, slipping his trembling hand into yours. You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. His lips quirk up slightly, crinkling the corners of his eyes, but he keeps his gaze trained ahead.
“Lord Astarion Ancunín, do you take this woman to be your wedded wife?”
He turns toward you. His eyes are round, wet, and painfully striking in their vivid warmth. He grins, his eyes falling to your clasped hands, and then back to you. “I do.”
Shadowheart approaches with a velvet-wrapped box, opening the lid and offering it to Astarion. He thanks her, to your great surprise, and takes the ring out. The band is delicately twisted silver and black. You faintly see an inscription running around the underside of the band, but your eyes are too misty to read it.
“I didn’t prepare a fancy speech or elaborate vows. I thought it better to speak from the heart. I am admittedly not good at this, feelings, or public declarations of love.” He fidgets with the ring. “I had long had any faith in people, in Gods, in life purposefully carved out of me when you came along. Truthfully, I wasn’t very fond of you at first. I’d lost the ability to care for anyone, and I certainly never expected anyone could care for me. You met my ice with your fire at every turn. When I tried to push you away, you were still there waiting for me to come to my senses.
“You treated me like a person right from the very start, trusted me, which honestly was an objectively stupid thing to do, darling. I grew to love you frighteningly quickly. You melted the ice in my heart and taught me how to love again. I cherished every second we spent together, even when it was curling up and sleeping in the dirt.
You see me. Really, truly see me even through my darkness. I am safe with you. Whatever the future holds for us, I do not intend to lose that. I vow to love you with a depth that not even the stars can fathom. When it gets cold, I will be your warmth. When life is too loud, you can bury yourself in my silence. When you are hungry, I will be your sustenance.” You exhale a small laugh, and he smirks and winks. “I will love you long after the last stars have faded from the sky and the world is bathed in darkness once more. I will always love you.”
Astarion takes your hand, slipping the ring onto your finger easily. His voice cracks with emotion. “Ai armiel telere maenen hir.”
He clears his throat and straightens up, discreetly wiping a tear from his cheek with the back of his hand.
The same question is levelled at you next, and Astarion seems to be tense as he awaits your response.
“I do.”
As soon as he hears you utter the words, he exhales in a lengthy, drawn-out release like he’d been holding his breath the entire time, and his shoulders relax.
Shadowheart seems to pop up at your side, nearly enough to make you jump, bringing your focus back. You take the ring, and your fingers glide over the smooth metal, feeling the etching inside of it. Astarion’s eyes jump down to the ring, and he looks at it hungrily.
“I never had a family. There was never anyone to tuck me in or kiss me goodnight. I was alone for most of my life, and at some point, I guess I started to believe that’s how it would always be. I accepted it. I wasn’t supposed to be in Baldur's Gate the day the nautiloid took us. I had only stopped there to get supplies and had planned to leave the same day, but then something made me stay. I cannot even recall what it was anymore. It scares me to think that if I had left like I planned to, I would never have found you. Despite the threat of turning into a tentacled monster, I’m glad we were taken that day, as strange as it sounds. It brought us together.”
Your brows pinch. “I’ve never been one who put much faith or thought into Gods and fates. I never gave any credence to destiny. To be perfectly honest, I thought it was all bullshit. But now I stand here with you, and I can’t help but feel this was meant to be — that our meeting wasn’t mere chance. When I met you on that beach, before our shared plight connected us, it felt like my soul recognized yours. I saw a home that I had been homesick for all my life in your eyes, even with your dagger pressed against my throat.”
Astarion chuckles lightly, and you look up at him. He gives you an encouraging nod. “There are no words that adequately express how much I love you. I could say the cliche things like I love you more than life itself, which I think is rather obvious at this point. The truth is, my love for you is unfathomable, unquantifiable. There are no lengths I would not go for you. I vow to love you eternally. Know you are cherished, cared for, safe, and seen, always. I will be your sanctuary. Allow me to be the place your heart finds shelter and peace. I vow to be your light in the darkness, and I will always bring you home. For as long as we exist, I am yours.”
You grab Astarion’s hand, and he holds it up for you, trying to keep his quivering fingers still enough so you can slip the ring on. He smiles, though it looks a little odd, warring between nervousness and excitement, with neither side winning. Tears sway on his lashes, and wet trails glisten down his cheeks.
The ring slides on his finger with no resistance, sitting perfectly as if it were always meant to be there.
Astarion doesn’t wait for the priest to acknowledge it. You vaguely hear being pronounced husband and wife, but the rest is lost when Astarion instantly wraps you in his arms, tugging you close and catching your lips. You lean into the kiss, into him, desperately trying to press your bodies closer together. His tongue teases your bottom lip, and you open for him. The approving groan rumbles deep in his chest, and you visibly shiver as electricity seems to run down your spine.
You very nearly whine out loud when he pulls away, but catch yourself quickly. He keeps his arms wrapped safely around you while he thanks the priest for his services and dismisses him.
Shadowheart runs up. Her makeup is smudged down her face. “I never thought I would say this, but Gods, I am so happy for the both of you.”
Astarion shoots her a pointed look with an arched brow.
“Yes, even you, Astarion,” Shadowheart half teases, half reassures him. “Thank you for letting me stay. It was beautiful.”
He still does not know exactly how to take Shadowheart’s genuine gratitude. “You’re, uh, welcome?” It sounds like a question. “We are planning to stay here for the night. If my wife has no objections, you’re welcome to stay and join us for some wine—”
The thought is abruptly cut off when you and Astarion hear a commotion, a clattering of boots running up stairs. Both of your heads swivel towards the sound.
Shadowheart cannot hear it and arches a brow, but follows your gaze. “What is it?”
“We’re not sure,” you answer, and go to move forward, but Astarion pulls you back.
“It’s the wizard,” he snarls, teeth bared.
There is no time to react to what he’s said before the villa door bursts open, and Gale comes running in red-faced and huffing. He’s wearing his robe, with his quarterstaff slung across his back, and you instantly tense.
How in the hells did he find you?
“Illyria!” Gale shouts, sprinting onto the terrace. “Don’t do this! You can’t marry him!”
“Gods, Gale,” you growl, but your panic is increasing. If something is going to set Astarion off, it will be this. “Give it a rest. There will never be anything between us. I love him. I want to marry him. I did marry him. It’s done.”
You know it’s harsh, but it needs to be said. Whatever ideas Gale has gotten into his head need to be ceased.
“You don’t understand!” Gale points accusingly at Astarion. “He’s compelled you. He’s poisoned your loyalty. None of this has been your choice.”
“You did this!” Astarion grabs Shadowheart’s dress, heaving her forward roughly. “You led him here!”
“No!” Shadowheart tugs at Astarion’s wrist, but you know she has no hope against his strength. “I would not do this, Astarion. I swear on Selûne. This is not my doing!”
“Astarion.” You grab his wrist, squeezing with enough force that if he were mortal, you could have broken it. “Shadowheart wouldn’t do this. Let her go. Please.”
He shakes violently as his grasp on Shadowheart loosens and tightens until he finally manages to pry his hand away. His eyes flash so quickly you cannot make out which is which from one second to the next. Astarion notices the rising panic in your expression.
“I’m trying,” he grits out with a pained desperation in his voice.
You turn toward Gale with your brows pinched, magic swelling. “He has not compelled me, Gale! I’m here because I want to be here. I am with him because I love him. Why can’t you accept that?”
Gale straightens. “I can prove it.”
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Small Notes:
This is the longest chapter yet in this series! You can consider it my apology for the last chapter, which was short 🤣
Oh, Gale.... But, could he really be speaking the truth? Has everything been a lie?
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 4k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]
Astarion weaves Illyria through the streets with her hand in his. He keeps a close eye on her but is rather proud to see his beloved is starting to become a tad more comfortable around the living. She does not squeeze his hand with quite the same ferocity or tug on his clothes at the sound of beating hearts nearby.
He leads her to the Wide, an area in the upper city where merchants set up their stalls to peddle their wares to the patriars and nobles that call the Upper City home. The first stop is a jeweller’s stall, the same one from which he commissioned her ring. She eyes the selection while he chats with the jeweller, who shows him various pieces. He holds up a pair of earrings with large sapphires.
“You know your ears are not pierced, right?” She teases him with an arched brow.
“Perhaps I will get them pierced just so I can wear them. They are quite fetching,” he taunts her back with a wry grin. “Not for me, little love. Do you like them?”
She lets her fingers run over the stones, which are perfectly polished and sparkling. “They are pretty, but they look… expensive.”
“We’ll take them,” Astarion says, handing them back to the jeweller to place in a box. He returns his attention back to Illyria, who looks rather uncomfortable, though he cannot fathom why. “Love? Is something troubling you?”
“Oh, no. Not really.” She looks askance, her splintered, crimson eyes darting away from him. “I’m—” she trails off, shaking her head, and corrects herself. “You don’t have to buy me things. You know that, right?”
“Have to?” Astarion’s brow arches.
He reaches for their bond, and she lets him access most of her mind freely, but there is something she keeps blocked and hidden, like running into an invisible barrier. It rankles him slightly. He should be granted full access to her mind, no? They are to be married, after all, and now she decides to hide things from him? Astarion takes a deep breath and tries to let it go. It shouldn’t come as a surprise that she’s keeping some things under lock and key after his most recent episode.
Astarion worries that she’s not as okay as she says. There have been times when he’s reached out to her, and she’s reflexively jumped back or grimaced as if she expects pain to follow. Every time is like a barb to his heart. He deserves it; he knows this, but it does not stop it from hurting him nonetheless. She refuses to discuss it, preferring instead to continue reaffirming that she is fine.
But how could she be? He, her husband, her lover, who is supposed to protect her, held her down and carved something into her flesh, and he’s not even sure what. The other version of him might know, but all he can work out is that the symbols are not random and they are not infernal. Astarion is glad he cannot remember it, but he feels guilty for that gladness. If he had to live with the memory of hurting her like that… Gods. He does not know if he would be capable of it.
It makes him feel weak.
“Illyria,” he says, lowering his timbre to something meant to reassure and soothe. “I want to. I want to give you everything.”
She smiles at him, closed-lipped so as not to show her fangs. She places a hand on his chest, patting him gently. “As long as I have you, I already have everything. You are enough.”
Astarion’s heart swells. He is enough. These are not words he ever thought he would hear. “Thank you. But you will indulge your husband in his wishes to buy you gifts, won’t you?”
She sighs with a small chuckle. “I will indulge my husband in whatever makes him happy.”
“Splendid. Nothing would make me happier.” Astarion smiles, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Now, get over here and pick out my ring, will you?”
He’s already commissioned her wedding band. Wedding. Married. Gods. A notion that once filled him with dread. He cannot remember if the mortal man he was ever had any aspirations of marriage, but he is certain that in the last two centuries, he’d never pictured it would happen to him. He dismissed the idea as another dream stolen by Cazador and undeath.
So many years spent in the boudoir, an endless parade of warm bodies, and the resignation that he would spend eternity alone. Until she came long and breathed new life into his inert heart. She made it remember how to feel, taught it how to love, and then restored its beat.
“You want me to pick it out?” Illyria glances at the display. “Are you sure? You can be very fussy.”
“Fussy, am I?” He crosses his arms and feigns irritation, although he cannot wipe the smug smirk off his lips. “Darling, I can make anything look good. I’m positive whatever you pick will be perfect.”
She nods and starts pursuing the various styles of rings staged and offered. He steps behind her, watching over her shoulder as she pursues. He lets his body press into her back slightly, carefully, to see if she will jolt away from him like she does sometimes, but instead she presses her ass into him further and undulates her hips against him.
He’s pleasantly surprised, allowing her to continue until he can feel himself hardening, and then his hands slip down to halt her. He would love to bend her over this stall, vendors and patriars be damned. She catches his thoughts and shoots him a heated look over her shoulder that almost looks like a challenge.
“If you keep looking at me like that, I might just do it,” he projects into her mind. “To Hells with them all.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, asking the jeweller to show her something more unique and answering him back at the same time. “You want all these people to see me come?”
He snorts, answering back with an immediate. “No!”
“I didn’t think so.”
Illyria turns around. “Try this one on, will you?”
Astarion is pleasantly surprised when she holds him an obsidian-coloured band with a fire-opal inlay that glitters underneath an intricate pattern etched into the center of the ring. He slips it on, eyeing the ring now wrapped around his finger. The cool metal feels strange between his fingers, but also right, as most things do when it comes to her.
“I like that one. What do you think?”
“I… I love it,” he glances back at her with soft eyes to let her know that his sentiment is genuine.
Illyria smiles carefully and returns to speaking to the jeweller about alterations, with her main focus on engravings. Astarion loses himself in thought while she speaks, and his fingers smooth over the metal. What will he do if they cannot complete their objective in the Hells? Is marrying her truly fair to her? Is he dooming her by tying her to him in this way? If he cannot be saved, he will have to force her to get away from him before he loses his sanity entirely.
“Ai armiel telere maenen hir, Syolkiir, salen thiramin,” Illyria recites what she wishes be engraved into the inside of the band.
His mind translates his mother tongue into common. “You hold my heart forever, Wild Star, my soulmate.”
Thiramin. Not even merely a soulmate. Not for Elves, at least. A thiramin is someone you are intertwined spiritually with. It’s a love that’s prewritten into the stars and promises eternal devotion. Though it’s not often unrequited, when it is, it’s disastrous. Elves often go mad, ending their lives if they lose their thiramin.
Astarion is too stunned to speak as he takes the wrapped earring box, and they walk away from the little stall. He did not even hear when the jeweller estimated the ring would be done and ready to pick up.
“You don’t have to say it back, Astarion,” Illyria whispers, interlocking her fingers with his. “You don’t even have to feel it back. It won’t change anything.”
He swallows hard. “When did you know?”
“Before the tadpole linked our brains together,” she admits casually.
“I felt it too,” he confesses. “… I feel it too.”
She gives his hand a squeeze, looking at him with concerned eyes, and he shakes his head to dispel his whorling thoughts. Thiramin. Gods. He stands to lose so much; they stand to lose so much. It’s a terrifying prospect.
“There’s one more stop we have to make,” he says, finally coming back to himself. Shoving the panic and fear somewhere deep. He can worry later. Right now should be a happy time for them. “Are you alright, or would you like to go home and have a snack?”
“You’re a very generous juice box, Astarion,” she taunts, trying to lighten his mood.
“I am feeling rather gracious today, thiramin,” he teases back, watching her eyes light up at the word, and the affection she feels spreads through him like sunshine through his veins. “Is that a yes?”
She smirks. “How could I say no?”
Astarion removes his chemise as soon as they enter the manor and ascend the stairs to their room. His consort, no, wife, he reminds himself, is typically good at not spilling as long as she’s not ravenous, but blood hardly ever comes out of white, so it's better to be safe. He throws the shift over the back of the lounge in their room and sits on the bed with his back pressed against the headboard.
He grabs her hips as she crawls up on him and settles in his lap. She places her hands on his shoulders, and a shiver runs down his spine. “Gods. You’re cold.”
“I’m dead, genius,” she laughs lightheartedly.
It makes him smile, but it also sends a shock of remorse through him in equal measure. Where this used to be a sore topic for her, she seems content with the fact that he killed her. Astarion cannot say he regrets doing it, because that would be a heinous untruth, but it does not stop him from feeling a little bad. Even if she did give him permission to do it, he hadn’t exactly given her much of a choice in the matter. It was either be turned or end the relationship, and he was pretty sure she loved him too much to do that.
Which means he really didn’t give her much of a choice at all.
“I’m sorry I did not give you much of a choice,” he says, though it pains him to do so. Sorry is not something he is particularly good at saying. “I look back on it, and I am ashamed of the way I acted.”
She cups his face tenderly with a small smile. “I wanted this, Astarion. We talked about this when you were a spawn, and we had no idea what would come of the Rite.”
“I could have at least given you the choice to wait until you were sure you were ready,” he laments. “As it stands, I did not."
She sighs. “You could have, but my choice would have been the same regardless. I’ve only ever regretted becoming a spawn—“
“Bride,” he corrects quickly. “Spawn is an ugly word.”
“Fine. Bride,” she acquiesces. “I only ever regretted it when you weren’t you. If the Rite had no consequences, I would never have looked back, and I don’t look back on it now. I am fine with what I am. Plus, it’s a little amusing to be the one making you cold now.”
“Cheeky,” he tuts, clicking his tongue. “You do not make me cold. I can just cool my body temperature down on a whim.”
“Bragging, are we? Confidence looks good on you,” Illyria giggles, running her fingers through his hair. “You are magnificent, Ascendant. I will concede that much.”
“Feed, little love,” Astarion instructs, offering his neck. “Or we will be late.”
Illyria rains kisses down his neck, earning her a whine from him. The tingle runs straight to his cock, and he grinds into her involuntarily. Her fangs find their mark, popping through his skin with an icy pinch that dulls quickly into a rather arousing ache. He glances at the window, trying to judge if he has enough time to take her before they must go. To his great disappointment, there is not enough time to make love to her properly.
Even though they’ve decided on having a small affair, there is still some planning that needs to be done, and Astarion does not have a lot of experience in this sort of thing. Where does she want to get married? Certainly not a church. Perhaps the villa where he proposed to her? He purchased the property some time ago on a whim. Who can they get to marry them? Should he invite her friends? He knows she said just them, but is that truly what she wants? Elven marriage ceremonies typically go on for weeks with poetry recitations, musical performances, and a host of other theatrical events.
Is she embarrassed by him? Scared he will lose himself and hurt or kill them at their wedding? If this is what being nervous feels like, he fucking hates it.
She unlatches from him rather abruptly. “Hells, Astarion. You know you can simply ask me these questions, yes? The villa would be perfect. As for who, we can just hire someone. It matters not who officiates as long as, by the end of it, we are married, and not in this weird vampiric way. Our friends, not mine, ours,” she accentuates. “Can come to the great soiree I am sure you will throw as soon as we return. It is not because I am embarrassed or I think you might kill them.”
She pauses for a second, contemplating how to word whatever is coming next. “I want it to be you and me, because that’s how we are going to spend the majority of our lives. Our friends will grow old and die. It is just a fact. Once they are all gone, it’s just us. There might be other friends along the way, and they too will die. In the end, it will always be us for eternity. That is the reason I want it this way.”
Astarion smiles, thumbing some blood away from the corner of her lips and popping it in his mouth before kissing her with an ardent passion. He coaxes her lips to part and tastes himself on her tongue. “As you wish, little love, so shall it be,” he breathes. “What about your parents? Would you like them there or to at least let them know you’re getting married to a very handsome, powerful, and influential lord?”
She giggles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “We’ve never discussed my parents, have we?”
It's true. Despite spending all this time together, they’ve rarely spoken of her past. When he was attempting to seduce her, he did ask her the typical insipid questions one would ask to appear genuinely interested in a person. They were always met with an offhanded comment or her using her silver tongue to cleverly switch topics so seamlessly he did not realize she was avoiding the questions.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “We have not discussed much of your past before the nautiloid.”
“I’m an orphan,” she finally says, her gaze dropping to her hands pressed against his stomach as if using him to bolster herself. “I don’t have any parents to invite or inform.”
“I’m sorry,” Astarion coos, taking her hands in his. “I did not know.”
“You couldn't have known,” she shrugs. “I didn’t tell you. My childhood was not… good. It’s not something I like to think or talk about. Truthfully, if I thought you would, I might request you compel me to forget it entirely.”
Alarm bells go off in Astarion's head. She would request that he compel her to forget large parts of her life? He could. He could do that for her, but it would be to her detriment. He sincerely hopes she never asks him for this, because he would find it difficult to say no. If only because he would do anything for her.
“I would not do it even if you asked,” he lies. He would do it if she begged him to, because he can deny her nothing. “Your past made you who you are, and I love who you are. I will not pry, but I do hope you will tell me more someday.”
“Thank you for not prying.” She leans down and licks the last bits of blood off his neck. Astarion’s wounds are already healed over to pristine ivory skin.
“Now that you have had your snack, we really must be going.”
“Where are we going that you’re in such a rush to get to?” She arches a brow at him.
“You’ll see, little love. Indulge me once more for today.”
The Lower City is much busier than the Upper City, and it makes sense to you now why Astarion offered to stop and give you a snack before heading down this way. He seems to know exactly where he’s going, pushing through the crowds with purposeful steps, but you decidedly don’t. You allow him to drag you along through the torrent of bodies that are brimming with blood.
Astarion opens the door of a shop for you, bows shallowly with a sly grin, and ushers you inside. “After you, my love.”
You arch an inquisitive brow at him, but enter the shop as instructed. The outside appeared rather nondescript. A small, worn sign was all that indicated it was a shop at all. It didn’t strike you as somewhere Astarion would frequent. Once you get inside, the space opens up to an opulent foyer that is empty except for the two of you and, to your great surprise, Shadowheart.
She comes up to you slowly with a guileful grin. “Fancy seeing you here.”
When you look at her, all you see is her blanched, chalky complexion, the only colour afforded to her by her own blood smeared and leaking from her neck. You can hear her pleas gurgling in her throat, feel her hands raking across your skin, and feel her tugging on your clothes. You grimace, remembering the sweet succour of her blood circulating through your veins, easing the coils in your stomach and the webs of confusion in your brain. Without realizing it, you start taking steps backward, away from her as she nears, and jolt when your back bumps into Astarion. His arm wraps around your chest in an almost protective gesture, while his other hand gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
“Shadowheart,” he says formally. “I see you got my summons. Thank you for meeting with us on such short notice.”
“Summons?” She snorts, crossing her arms. “Am I even able to counter that haughty attitude anymore, Astarion? Or will you go lose your mind and kill us all?”
Astarion doesn’t show it, but there is a sting that prickles through the bond as her barbed words settle. You nearly scold her, but he’s quick to riposte her cheek. “Darling, don’t be silly. I would be more than happy to kill you. I needn’t lose my mind for that.”
Shadowheart laughs jovially, and Astarion’s grin is crooked and boyish.
“It’s good to see you, Astarion.” Shadowheart says warmly.
“And you,” he replies coolly.
Your brows pinch as you look between them. Have you slipped into some alternate dimension where they actually seem like friends, or is it you who’s losing your fucking mind?
“And it’s good to see you, Illyria.” Shadowheart smiles. “You look much cleaner than when I saw you last,” she teases.
“Shadowheart,” your voice comes out in an uneven croak. “I… Gods. I don’t know what to say. I…”
She waves her hand flippantly, as if almost draining her dry is so minor that it’s not even worth your apologies. “I did offer to help, though next time, could you perhaps waste a little less?”
Hells below. You don’t know if your body wants to pale or flush. Thankfully, it’s incapable of both.
Astarion waves over a woman, who you didn’t even realize was waiting in the wings of the establishment. “Expense my account for whatever she decides on, Lorne, and do not tell her the cost,” he instructs while giving you a small shake. You grumble under your breath at him in a slurry of elven curses that makes him chuckle.
“As you wish, Lord Ancunín.” Lorne replies tonelessly, shrinking back to wait for you.
He presses a kiss on the top of your head. “Have fun, my sweet. You know how to reach me when you’ve finished up.”
You whirl quickly, grabbing his arm before he can leave, panicked. “You’re not staying?”
“No, but I will remain close by. You need not worry.” The rest of his message is in your head. “About the sun. You’re safe. I will keep you safe. Always.”
It’s not the threat of your sun protection that has you terror-stricken. It’s being in the presence of two living people without him around to stop you should your restraint fail again.
“Compel me,” you say, but make sure it’s loud enough that Shadowheart hears it. You want her to know that you’ve asked for this before she gets any bright ideas about scolding him. “Compel me not to drink the blood of thinking creatures.”
Astarion’s eyes widen, his smile failing as he processes your request. His discomfort is noticeable in the tense set of his shoulders. “I would really rather not.”
“Astarion,” you grab his coat, tugging on it slightly. “You know I can’t be trusted with them, but I trust you. Please.”
He sighs, shaking his head slightly, but you feel the order come through in your head as clear as day, but he adds another in. “You do not feel hungry. You will not feed on the blood of thinking creatures.”
Relief.
Relief from that unrelenting itch in your throat and the ache in your stomach as soon as the order is passed. It’s been so long since you haven’t felt hungry that it feels strange. Why haven’t you been asking him to do this the whole time? Because it makes him uncomfortable, you remind yourself, and you quickly feel sick for making him do something he told you he didn’t want to do.
Astarion nods, though the look on his face is rather grim, and he kisses your forehead and walks out without another word.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Shadowheart says. “Gods. Why didn’t you tell me he asked you to marry him? I’m so happy for you!”
Her genuine mirth is a surprise. A welcome one, but a surprise nonetheless. “I… You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” Shadowheart smirks. “I do wholeheartedly believe you could do better, but alas, you were always sickeningly in love with him. The way you two used to eye-fuck each other in camp. Gods.” She makes a dramatic expression of disgust, pretending to shudder. “You could have been more subtle about it.”
It’s the first time you’ve been able to be around her without wanting to eat her in a long while, and you rush up to her quickly, but stop short when you realize she might not want to get this close to you. She scoffs and closes the gap, wrapping her arms around you.
“Gods. You’re as cold as you are pale,” she laments mockingly. “Come on. Let’s find you an atrociously expensive dress, shall we?”
The woman fitting your dress seems unconcerned that you have no reflection. Did Astarion compel her to completely miss that? Likely. The woman brings in dress after dress, which Shadowheart helps you into because you don’t want Lorne to see the scars on your back. Every dress is beautiful, you suppose, but nothing you would actually wear.
As Shadowheart undoes claps and places pins in yet another one, she asks, “Why didn’t you tell me, Illyria?”
You sigh. “I should have. It just seemed like a bad time to say something. At best, I was worried you might try to talk me out of it. At worst, I thought you might go down there and try to stake him.”
“That’s surprisingly accurate, actually,” she laughs, standing and turning you around.
You’re letting Shadowheart be your eyes for this. Her brows pinch, and she rotates a finger to make you spin, but it only makes her nose wrinkle up worse.
“I take that expression as a no.”
“Definitely not,” Shadowheart snorts. “That woman is bringing up the worst of the worst. I am sure of it. I’m going to go back there and pick some for you, okay?”
“I don’t think you’re allowed to do that, Shadowheart.”
Shadowheart winks. “I have my ways.”
She disappears while you snicker and ease out of the bulky fabric. You stare into the empty mirrors, letting your fingers crawl over the surface. If there was one time you wanted to be able to see yourself, it’s now, but you will never see your reflection again. You couldn’t possibly have understood it at the time — the sorrow and anger he felt, the mourning of his reflection — but you understand it now.
You understand him now.
Shadowheart steps in with an armful of dresses she’s procured. Lorne squalls in the background, scolding Shadowheart, saying that this is extremely unorthodox.
Shadowheart waves her out of the room with a grin, and she giggles hysterically. “I hope she complains to Astarion.”
Shadowheart helps you slip into a few more dresses, which are vastly better than the ones Lorne was bringing, but it’s not until you slip into the last dress that you think you feel something other than a desperate need to get back to Astarion.
The gown defies the boundaries between clothing and art. The champagne-coloured bodice shimmers with a constellation of the finest diamonds. Each stone sparkles like a thousand stars, casting your form in an ethereal light. The neckline plunges temptingly low, giving you a generous allure.
As the bodice meets the hip-hugging skirt, a cascade of lace descends in a mesmerizing train, as if a waterfall of gossamer had been captured in time. The pattern of the lace is reminiscent of swirling firestorms, and the edges are adorned with a delicate trim of moonstones that appear to glow as if imbued with silvery moonlight.
“I think I like this one,” you say, but glance up at Shadowheart.
Shadowheart helps you out of the dress, and Lorne comes to collect it, her face still screwing up into a scowl when she looks at Shadowheart, who smiles politely at her.
Before you can leave the dressing room, Shadowheart stops you and asks tentatively. “Do you think marrying him is a good idea?”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s a good idea or not. I’ve dreamt of it since I met him. Even in his darkest hours, I could never bring myself to stop loving him, and I tried, Shadowheart. I tried to let him go, begged for love to turn into hate, but he’s far too tangled in my soul. For better or worse, I love him, and this is what I want.”
Shadowheart squeezes your shoulder. “As long as you’re happy, I support you. Always. But I think you need to be careful. Astarion will always do what it takes to survive.”
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As with most fic writers, I am a WHORE for comments. We appreciate even just an emoji. Please feed your fic writers the sustenance of comments 🥰
AO3 [Crossposted]
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Small Notes:
Sorry I've been MIA guys. Life has gotten in the way, and my writing time has been significantly cut down recently. I'm hoping that it will recover, but it might be another month or so of spotty and shorter updates. Also, when patch 7 releases, you know I am DIVING head first into it
Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.
Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.
In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.
Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?
Word Count: 6.1k
Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn
Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]
Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]
You drink, drink, drink.
Deeply. Greedily. Exuberantly.
The spluttering sounds vaguely tickle your ears. They push you closer to the edge of feral hysteria, where logic and reason cease to exist, and all that’s left is an impulsive drive to kill and consume. If the prey can sputter, it has more lifeblood to give. You bite down harder. Legs thrash, thudding against the ground and echoing off the walls. Hands and fingers claw at your skin and tug at your clothes, but you are too far gone to care or register the increasingly weakening calls of your name.
You are an animal.
A creature.
A monster.
You will drink until there is not a drop left, then perhaps you will find something else to drink because you are so tired of the maddening pain of being hollow and hungry. The thirst is unquenchable and relentless. If you could get it to stop, even just for a little while, maybe you could think clearly.
There is so much relief that comes as the creamy, coppery tide spills into your stomach. The aching kinks in your muscles that made your toes curl and your fingers rheumatic unsnarl, the vicelike grip of raw hunger relinquishes its agonizing hold on your stomach, and the gauzy film that has been muddling your thoughts starts to lift.
It feels resplendent.
As the blood lights up every neural pathway in your brain, you revel in the sensation of being reunited with your long-lost life. It’s all too easy to tune out the battering against your chest, the fingernails that gouge at your skin, and the pleas that fall mute in your ears.
You want to live, and nothing fills you with vitality like the radiant syrup that’s pulsing within the veins and vessels of living creatures.
The resistance is failing now; fingers fumble at your clothes with less and less vigour. The blood that once spurted into your mouth like a fountain with every heartbeat is coming slower, only seeping like a babbling brook instead of a raging river.
It irritates you because you’re still not satisfied. Is there enough blood in the whole of the world to quell your appetite?
No.
Nothing will ever be enough.
“Stop.”
The directive slices through your body like an axe through flesh, poaching your control and handing it away without a fight. You cannot even swallow the blood in your mouth, and it drools out from between your lips and down your chin.
“Stand and back away.”
You stand as if there are strings attached to your limbs, pulling you up and forcing you to take stiff steps backward like a puppet.
“Kneel.”
This time the command is not silent but in Astarion’s voice, making your ears quiver. Your knees fold in on themselves and hit the stone hard beside the cage door. The red miasma begins to clear from your mind, and your vision pulses back into focus as your bloodlust fades. In an instant, you’re all too aware of the gore dripping from your chin and the red slickness coating your hands and forearms.
You’re dragged back into a harsh reality. Your clothes are sodden, sticky, and clinging to your body. Your arms are in shreds, full of valley-like gouges, and your mind clears enough to fully comprehend what you’ve done. Tears sting the back of your eyes like hot knives, but you do not have the authorization to shed them.
Shadowheart lies motionless on the floor, her skin ghostly, and her eyes glassy and corpse-like. Her chest jumps erratically, and her heartbeat is barely audible.
“Illyria,” Astarion says in a voice like warm honey. “Look at me.”
Your neck twists without your consent, the binds of compulsion holding fast. When your eyes fall on Astarion, he’s as close to the door as he can possibly get while restrained. In the dimness of the enclosed cell, you cannot work out which version of him you’re looking at.
“Is it you?” You ask, though it is a terribly stupid question. He will say anything to be set free.
“It’s me, sweetheart,” he nods, and you feel the connection invite you once again. You yearn to allow it to open and flood you, but you refuse, afraid that this is a trick. Astarion’s mouth downturns slightly at the rejection. “If I let you go, will you be able to control yourself? Shadowheart needs help quickly.”
“No!” You shout. If you get close to her, you know you will not be able to resist the crimson that still seeps from the wounds in her neck. “No. Don’t.”
“Then I need you to let me out of here so I can help her.”
It’s a risk, but Shadowheart is fading quickly. If you let him out, and it’s the wrong him, you both die, but if you don’t let him out at all, she dies regardless. There’s only one way you can know for sure.
You reach out to the kinship, and it emanates through you like a sunbeam spreading warmth through a crystal prism, illuminating every facet of your being. You are sculpted from the same celestial clay, falling into each other with an unspoken harmony that only the two of you know.
After so long without it, the rush of the coalescence of your two beings becoming one borders on overwhelming. It takes your body and mind a moment to assimilate the new sensations, like an agitated lake that ever-so-slowly returns to its placid state.
He’s finally back.
You whisper the password to dispel the Arcane Lock, and the light blue barrier shimmers and fades.
“Get the keys for the locks and unlock my restraints,” he commands.
Your body complies, getting up stiffly, moving out into the hallway past Shadowheart's unconscious body, and into the desk where you stashed the keys. You move robotically as you unlock the cell and then the padlocks. When the silver manacles pop open, Astarion winces and rubs his wrists.
“Get out of the cell, and don’t move,” Astarion instructs.
He’s long gone, moving faster than your eyes can perceive, before you can even take the three steps it takes to vacate the cell. You stand, still as a statue, staring at the rough grey bricks that make up the walls of the kennels. Shadowheart’s increasingly slowing heartbeat and ragged breaths are barely discernible under the whir of her blood running through your veins.
“I’m so sorry. Gods. I’m so fucking sorry, Shadowheart.”
Astarion returns faster than you thought possible. He drops to his knees by Shadowheart, pulls her into his lap, and uncorks what you recognize as a Supreme Potion of Healing, pouring it into her mouth a little at a time so she can swallow.
The colour starts to return to Shadowheart’s skin slowly, and her heart beats stronger with every concurrent pulse. She coughs, sputtering wetly, and groans in Astarion’s arms. When her eyes crack open, she jerks away from him and falls limply to the floor with wide, scared eyes.
“It’s me.” Astarion holds up his hands innocently and backs away from her sharp glower. He uses his foot to nudge another Potion of Healing her way.
Shadowheart grabs it with frail fingers, trying to uncork it with her teeth, but her muscles are still too weak. She scoffs when she has to hand the bottle to Astarion to open for her.
Her whole body shakes with the shock of blood loss as she pushes herself up, using the wall at her back as a brace. “Is it him?”
“Yes,” you confirm. “If it wasn’t, we would both likely be dead already.”
Astarion looks around the kennels dismally with glances that dart in all directions, as if he thinks Cazador might saunter in at any moment. A tic works in his jaw, and his forehead puckers. You can feel the fear in him as it emanates through the bond.
“What have you done to her?” Shadowheart mumbles weakly, nodding toward you.
“I compelled her.” Astarion stares at the cage with ruby-red eyes, a monument to suffering and woe.
“Well, stop,” Shadowheart snaps in your defence.
“No. It’s okay, Shadowheart. I’ve asked him to do this.” You say, hauntingly calm. “Can you walk her home, Astarion?”
“Huh?” His eyes finally focus on you, but he looks a million miles away. “Yes, but what about you?”
He offers Shadowheart a hand. She takes it tentatively, and he pulls her to her feet and steadies her. She bats his hands away defiantly with a scowl, and he rolls his eyes at her obstinacy.
You’re covered head to toe in dried blood and can’t go walking through the city in such a state, but there is a fix for that. “Compel me to cast invisibility and return to the manor. I want to go home.”
“I—” Astarion closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “Cast invisibility on yourself and go to the manor. Once you are there, tell me, and I will rescind the compulsion.”
“Astarion, wait.” He turns, and you nod toward the navy shroud. “I want to take that, but I need you to tell me to.”
Astarion glances at it and looks almost embarrassed. Your orders change without him needing to even say anything. You bend down, pick up the threadbare fabric, and start your invisible march toward home.
Astarion rescinds the compulsion over you instantly when you enter the manor. It’s dark inside, and the air harbours an unpleasant stagnancy, as if it stopped circulating the moment no one was here. You stare at your hands in horror, dried blood and skin under your fingernails.
You rush to the bedroom. Water gushes out of the tap into the basin, and you scrub your hands vigorously until they are red, bleeding, and you’re sloughing off your own skin, trying to replace her blood with your own. Your hands shake when you look at them. It’s not enough; you can still feel the warmth and slickness of her blood like a stain.
You scream in sheer loathing, a jarring, crestfallen sound that penetrates the cumbersome silence of the manor. If only you could cease existing like this stupid mirror declares with your lack of reflection.
You peel your soiled clothing off as quickly as you can, throwing it into the fireplace and incinerating the evidence of your sin, but nothing will erase what you’ve done.
If you cut yourself open and let her blood drain out of you, would you feel better then?
Climbing into the bath, you turn on the water until it’s scalding, curl up into a ball in the corner, your legs hugging tightly to your chest, and sob. The stinging of the water lapping at your maimed back hits like an avalanche and brings more tears to your eyes. You grit your teeth and focus on feeling the pain because you deserve this, don’t you?
Maybe Astarion was right when he said you deserved everything he did to you. It was you who led him down this path — you who lent him your eyes so he could carve up Cazador and usurp the Rite. The only reason you ever regretted it was because you lost him. You tell yourself that you should feel guilty over the thousands of souls you damned for love, but truthfully, they would not even cross your mind if not for the consequences.
Who were they to you?
Nobodies, and they remain faceless nobodies.
The weight of what you’ve agreed to descends on your shoulders like the burden of a planet now that your mind isn’t addled with hunger and exhaustion. How are you going to tell Astarion?
Oh, it’s nothing, my love. I just put my soul on the line, agreed to kill an archdevil, and now have control of hellfire that could kill me if I actually put it to use. But good news! If we can pull it off, you can keep your power and your sanity.
Good Gods.
The only illumination in the room when Astarion enters is the orbs of fire circling your head in the shape of soaring dragons. They swoop and arc in an ever-changing formation. Your eyes snap to him, and you send the orbs soaring back to relight the candles and fire.
Astarion looks more bone-weary than you ever remember seeing him, with dark circles under his eyes and ruddy, blistered wrists. He strips his dirty shirt off, tossing it to the floor with unusual carelessness.
“How long this time?” Astarion asks, standing near the fire with his hand braced on the wall.
“A week, give or take a day or two.”
“Gods.” Astarion rubs his bloodshot, tired eyes and glances at his wrists. “Silver is still effective, hm? Good to know, I suppose,” he muses. He points at the bath. “May I?”
You gesture toward the water flippantly, and he undresses and wades in. A quiet, awkward silence hangs over the two of you for some time.
“What happened?” He finally asks, his eyes bleeding with sorrow and shame. He smooths his wet hair back. “I mean, I know what happened, but after I lost.”
“I led you to the palace, the kennels... I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Don’t be. You did what you had to do. That cage… I put that in there, didn’t I? I saw it when I came back, but... Why did I do it?”
“I think you can probably guess why he did that,” you sigh, combing your fingers through your hair. “Can we not do this tonight?”
“Yes. Of course.” Astarion nods. “Can you pass me the soap?”
You turn to grab the soap bar, but his pained, breathy gasp makes your eyes jerk toward him. Shit. You turned your back to him, and now his eyes are moored to whatever it was he sliced into you. You suppose he was going to see it one way or another, but you meant to save him this pain until it was at least a little further healed.
“Fuck.” He sobs, tears spilling from his eyes, and his hand is poised at his mouth. “By the Gods, Illyria. I don’t know what to say. I— Gods. What have I fucking done? What is wrong with me? I do not want to be that person. I do not want to hurt you.”
“I know,” you murmur, too tired to even cry at this point.
“Do you hate me?” He asks, his voice so small and so pained that it’s like a vice around your heart. “I—I’m a monster.”
If nothing else, the stark contrast between the two sides of him makes it relatively easy to separate and compartmentalize the two. In your perspective, they remain too separate people. You would be lying if you said you were not a little frightened of those hands that held that dagger like a chisel; the hands that scored your flesh with Gods knows what.
But when you look into his eyes, you remember that this man has spent centuries having his body taken over and used as a pawn, just as it is now. You never blamed him for the atrocities he committed under Cazador’s rule, and you cannot bring yourself to blame him for the actions of another wearing his skin.
“I don’t hate you, Astarion.” You take slow steps toward him. He looks confused for a moment, his eyes wide as saucers. “I just want to save what’s left of you while we still can. May I?” You nod your head toward his lap.
He nearly lurches forward to grab you, but you’ve been feeling that longing in him the whole time — the desperate need to hold and be held. Astarion catches himself, sits back down, and outstretches his arms. Crawling into his lap, he’s cautious not to touch your wounds, and you lean into him with your head pressed under his chin, safe at last.
“I didn’t think you would want to be close to me after what happened.” Astarion’s voice is as knotted with emotion as you’ve ever heard it. He takes your hand, bringing it up from the water, and his fingers trace the band of the ring. “I didn’t think you would want to be with me at all.”
“Does everyone think me so exceptionally fragile?” You bring your head up to look at him. He still has tears welling in his swollen eyes, falling occasionally down his cheeks. You wipe them away with the back of your index finger. “I never once judged you or was scared of you because of the things Cazador forced you to do. This is much the same for me. It may have been your hands, but it wasn’t you.”
“I don’t deserve your forgiveness,” he murmurs. “I do not deserve you.”
“That’s enough, Astarion. You deserve it all. Happiness, comfort, to live, and love. We both deserve all those things,” you remind him. You take his face in your hands. “I love you because I just fucking love you. The moment you tossed me into the dirt and looked into my eyes, I loved you, and every moment since, even when it was painful to love you, I loved you still. I love you so much that it’s terrifying, because I know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I love you, only you, now and forevermore, and you deserve to be loved like that. Alright?”
A small smile breaks through his beautiful lips, and he takes your hand, kissing your palm and interlocking your fingers. “Thank you. Y— You still want to marry me, yes?”
You huff in exasperation. “I just finished telling you that I will love you forever, and that’s your question? Obviously. You promised me eternity, Astarion, and I’ve never known you to be a liar.”
“Well, in that case,” Astarion swallows and takes a big breath. “If you’ll indulge me, I would like to marry you before we descend into the Hells and likely get ourselves killed.”
“You’re agreeing to go to the Hells with me?” Your mouth drops open. “Truly?”
“Mhm.” Astarion nods. “I will go along with your insane little plan on the condition that you marry me before we leave. If we are to die down there, I would at least like to die as husband and wife.”
Do you tell him? He’s agreeing to go to the Hells, but he doesn’t have the whole story any longer. If you’re going to tell him, now is your chance, but you just got him back, and it didn’t go well for you last time. No. You’ll have to tell him eventually, but right now, you just can’t bring yourself to utter the words. You lock all thoughts, all memories, and everything else away behind the guard that will keep Astarion from seeing it through your connection, as long as you’re careful.
“Can it just be you and I?”
Astarion’s brows furrow. “You don’t want all our friends there? Drinks? Dancing? A grand soiree?”
You've never been the kind of woman who fantasized about a big, extravagant wedding and a white ballgown—let alone one at all. In fact, the idea of having all those beating hearts and insincere congratulatory smiles sounds awful.
“If you want that, I understand, and we can, but we could have all of that when we get back from the Hells alive with you safe.”
Astarion glances away, looking blankly at the water. “Are you embarrassed of me?”
“Astarion. No. Don’t be foolish. If anything, I don’t want all those people to see you looking so positively mouthwatering. You might have to compel me not to eat everyone in attendance.”
“I do look rather dashing in a suit, do I not?” He chuckles. “I think I would rather enjoy an intimate affair.”
You comb his wet hair back and out of his eyes. “Me too.”
“Your wounds need to be cleaned.” Astarion murmurs, making you twist slightly so he can get a look at them. Every time he sees them, the emotional link between you is inundated so heavily with regret and despair that it actually feels like it weighs your mind down. “They aren’t healing well.”
“Is that an offer to help, or are you just stating the obvious?” You tease, trying to get him to lighten up.
“How can you be so casual about this?” Astarion snaps, unable to conceal his own outrage. His anger is not so much at the flippant ease with which you have shrugged this off; it’s at himself for doing it in the first place. “How can you so easily just forgive me and move on after I did this to you? You should hate me. You should be terrified of me.
“Why?” You retort coldly. Patience is wearing thin here. You do not have time, nor do you care to lament on your skin. It will heal, and what’s done is done. Where will being angry or sad over it get you? Nowhere, so what’s the point? If you want to grieve it, you have an eternity to do it later, so why is he being so insistent on this? “Would it make you feel better about it if I punished you for it? Is that what you’re looking for, Astarion?”
“Yes.” His voice is full of desperation. He takes your arms, almost shaking you, but it’s just his entire body that’s trembling violently. “Punish me. Hit me. Burn me. Stab me. I don’t fucking care, but do something.”
Straddling him, you take your face in his hands, sweeping your thumb over his cheek, dip your head, and kiss him tenderly. “I forgive you.”
Moonlight courses through the windows of their bedroom, casting a spectral-like glow across the floors and furniture. Though he is exhausted physically and mentally, he cannot seem to fall into his trance. He fears that if he lets his mind rest, it will not be him who she wakes up to.
Illyria trances peacefully beside him, though in an awkward position on her side so as not to touch the half-healed portrait of his cruelty that will be etched into her skin for eternity. Even now, those wounds still seep, dotting her shirt with little pinpoints of blood.
How could he do that to her? How could any version of him want to do that to her?
Astarion doesn’t want to wake her. She is more exhausted than even him, so he moves stealthily out of bed to go pace the halls of the manor, where he can hopefully work out some of this restlessness.
Coming back to himself in that cage had been a chilling experience, with the sting of silver wrapped around his wrists and sapping his strength. He’d recognized the smell of the room right away, even under the smell of Shadowheart and Illyria’s blood. For a moment, he was sure Cazador was going to enter and make him pay for usurping the Rite. He almost didn’t pull himself together quickly enough to save the Cleric.
The horror that he would take Cazador’s torments and mimic them makes his stomach churn, and he stymies the dry heaving. Is what’s left of his soul really all that stands between him and that vile version of him? Could he be worse than Cazador? Would he be?
He hates that the answer to that is yes.
Astarion leans his forearm on the wall, looking out the window absently, while his mind revolves in a spiral of unsettling thoughts. He’s agreed to go to the Hells with her. Truthfully, he feels he has little choice. It’s either this or become what he spent centuries loathing and killing or enslaving the one person he’s ever truly cared for.
If she were not at risk, he might just let himself go and accept the consequences of his actions. Two centuries of fighting to survive, only to gain his freedom and have to fight to survive again.
He is tired of fighting for his life.
If it comes down to it, will he renounce the powers the Rite has gifted him? Could he say goodbye to the sun and hello again to the pain of hunger and darkness?
If it means never hurting her like that again, he has no choice.
“Astarion?” Her voice makes him jump and whirl. She’s gotten good at sneaking up on him, and he finds himself proud of his little bride. Half of her face is hidden by shadows, and the other half is illuminated by moonlight. She yawns adorably. “Are you okay?”
“But of course, my love.” He declares and offers her a quick, easy smile that he hopes will appease her worries.
She cants her head at him with a lopsided grin. “Come on, Astarion. What’s troubling you?”
“Am I truly that easy to read, sweetheart?” She would see through any disguise he tried to decorate himself with.
She pads over to him, her nightdress swaying about her upper thighs, and taps on his temple. “You can’t exactly hide it from me, Astarion.”
“Ah,” he says, smiling slightly. “I suppose not.”
Illyria leans into him with her hand splayed across his bare chest, peeking up at him through thick lashes. “What’s bothering you?”
He wraps his arm around her shoulders, being careful with her back, and kisses the top of her head. “I’m just restless. Sitting in a cage for a week will do that to a man.”
“Restless, are you?” She raises an eyebrow, the beautiful cracked crimson of her eyes shimmering like polished gems. Her hand starts to wander around his body. Gentle, tentative touches to see how he will react. “I could think of a few things that might help relieve that restlessness.”
His body responds to her proximity, the way she leans her soothing weight into him, and those tender touches. The blood rushes to his cock.
Astarion’s shock is evident in the way his brows try to climb his forehead. “Surely, you’re not suggesting?”
“Sex, Astarion.” She laughs, shaking her head. “I’m suggesting sex, but if you’re not feeling up for it, you only have to say the word. You know that, right?”
“I know.” He leans down, hooking her chin with his index finger and guiding her eyes up. He needs to make sure she actually wants this, because he cannot fathom how she could after what he did to her. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”
She grins mischievously, pushing him, forcing him to take steps backward until the back of his legs hit the settee, and then she shoves him hard. He could easily have stayed on his feet, but he lets her push him around. Illyria climbs atop him, straddling him.
He grasps her hips as her weight settles on him. Astarion’s hips hitch up involuntary, pressing his length into her with a grunt. She grinds against him, eliciting a gravelly moan from him.
Gods. She really still does love him, doesn't she? Even after everything he’s done to her, including all the things he did that he cannot even remember, she still wants him.
Illyria rolls her hips slowly over his cock, spreading her slick desire along his length and seeking out her own pleasure. It doesn’t bother him. In fact, he quite enjoys watching her like this; her eyes are heavily lidded and sensual, moaning when her clit drags across his cock.
She runs her fingers through his hair and down the ridge of his ear, which never fails to drive him fucking mad. A breathy hiss is expelled from his lungs, and he grabs her hips and forces them to sink further with a growl.
“You’re truly okay?” He asks breathily, the yearning starting to overtake his self-control. “With me? With us?”
“I’m really okay,” she smiles, leaning down to kiss him with such sweet devouring that he’s not sure what to do with his hands or where to touch because he wants all of her.
He can’t resist anymore, and his fingers curl into her hair, and he kisses her back with the same fervour. His heart begins to pound, and the sensation of the slick of her folds still stroking him sends another thrill down his spine. He helps her carefully take off the nightdress and throws it aside before their lips crash together again.
Illyria reaches down, stroking his soaked length, lifting her hips, and slipping the swollen, pink head of his cock in and out shallowly. She keeps him at the cusp of her entrance, teasing him until he’s whimpering, trying to grab her hips and shove them down.
“Ah-ah,” she tuts. “Eager, aren’t you?”
He can feel her wetness dripping down his shaft, further driving him mad. “Love,” he hisses. “Sit on my cock, or I swear-"
Astarion feels himself sink to the hilt in one rapid move, the sudden tightness around him bringing forth a surge of pleasure, making his head fall back and blanking his brain. “Gods. You’re so fucking perfect.”
His hips begin to roll, fucking her gently in a rocking motion. She squeezes him as he increases the pace of his thrusts, hands on her hips, making sure the angle is perfect to drag himself against her ridges and hit her spot.
She meets his thrusts, grinding to match his pace with her hand pressed against his chest over his heart. His eyes rake over every inch of her, the scars on her neck that mark her as his, the curve of her waist, and the lines of muscles that ripple beneath her skin as they flex with every move. She is the most breathtaking thing to ever walk this earth, and she’s all his, and he’s all hers. Now and forevermore.
“Fuck, Astarion,” she whimpers, and she looks at him open-mouthed and adoring.
Astarion’s hand drifts down her chest, running down her belly, and moves between her legs, finding her clit. He rubs slow circles around the border of the sensitive flesh, which instantly rewards him with a whimper, and her cunt tightens around him to the point it’s borderline painful.
“Do you love me?” He murmurs uncertainly and is desperate for reassurance. She is the only thing that burns in the darkness he gets lost in. She completes parts of him that are raw and sharp, her softness and fluidity rooted inside him, and she soothes that latent beast.
Her eyes open abruptly, likely feeling his unease in their bond. He doesn’t try to hide it anymore. She takes his face in her hands. “I’ve loved you since I met you, and nothing will ever change that. I will love you for eternity and well beyond,” she says in breathy pants.
His cock throbs inside her the moment she says those words, his breath catching in his throat. Astarion will never tire of hearing that beautiful hymn in his ears. A whimper leaves his lips.
She smiles — one of those smiles she only saves for him — unashamed of her fangs and kisses his cheek. Her hips increase their pace, and his thoughts scatter completely. He moans loudly, his hips jittering here and there as the tension starts to coil in his belly.
The rhythm at which she lifts and slides back down around him grows increasingly intense, and with it comes his own desire to chase his climax and empty himself into her. At this rate, he will not make it.
“I’d like to try something. I’ll need to take us back upstairs to bed.”
She slows, cocking her head at him. “I’m intrigued. Lead on.”
Astarion moves slowly, grabbing under her thighs and letting her wrap her arms around his neck. He effortlessly carries her back to their room.
He lays down on the bed, patting his chest. “Lay down on me and allow me to please you, yes? I will be cautious of your back.”
Illyria leans forward with no hesitation, kissing his chest and brushing her soft lips against him. He manages to find a way to hold her in a one-armed embrace that avoids what he’s done to her.
“If it gets too much, tell me,” he purrs.
With his feet firmly planted flat on the bed, Astarion begins to pulse his hips up into her, intensifying his pace incrementally until he’s snapping his hips hard and fast. His pulse races from the effort. His fingers work in harmony, sweeping and gliding in the way that makes her see stars.
“ Shit. Astarion,” she gasps, her body limp in his arms, engulfed totally in his ministrations. “Y-You. H-Hells. S-so good.”
Gods. He can feel her pleasure through the bond, and it only amplifies his. “I—I love you,” he whispers to her.
Astarion continues his upward pistoning until his own climax threatens to overpower him, and he has to bite his lower lip to keep his composure. It doesn’t work. He stills for a moment, taking deep breaths and trying to focus on anything else. His cock is throbbing, begging for him to resume. When he opens his eyes, they meet Illyria’s, her breathing shattered, her knowing smile understanding why he needed a break.
She bites her wrist and brings it to his lips. “We wouldn’t want it to go to waste, would we?”
He laps at her with a low growl and then begins sucking, resuming his thrusting, hammering into her mercilessly. Astarion feels her orgasm near. Her fingers curl into his chest, her body tenses and trembling in his arms, her breathing uneven.
Hells below. Her blood in his mouth is an ambrosial divinity he will cherish until the end of time. The sensation of his cock stretching her, the ridges of his head dragging over her walls, and her sex increasingly tightening around him is going to throw him over the edge before her.
With a quick twerk of his hips, he changes the angle just slightly so that he’s more in line with the sensitive bundle of nerves inside her. The way she cries out with each strike lets him know he’s aligned himself just right.
A couple more powerful pumps, and Illyria comes, crying out loudly. Her body shudders, her back arching, and she slows his pace to drag out the remaining aftershocks of ecstasy. He revels in the feeling of her walls squeezing and clenching him, almost too much.
He relinquishes her wrist and rains small kisses on the top of her head and forehead. He rubs her arm until she quiets. She looks up at him, confused. “You didn’t come. Why?”
His cock is still buried in her, throbbing and switching insistently. He smiles down at her softly. “I’m right behind you, little love. I wanted to make sure you were done. Kiss me, will you?”
She shifts, moulding her lips to his. His hand cups her cheek, and he once again begins pounding into her dripping cunt, driving himself into her fast and deep. It’s not long before his own climax consumes him, and he comes with a series of low growls and grunts. His eyes shut, his hips stuttering out of tempo as he spills inside her in an intense wave of pleasure.
When his brain starts to function again, he finds her stroking his sweat-damp hair back with tired but adoring eyes. He glances at her back to make sure he didn’t harm her further, but it looks, well, terrible, but no worse than before.
“I’m glad you’re back,” she says softly with a yawn. “I missed you quite terribly.” She taps his temple. “Missed this. I feel... incomplete somehow without you now.”
“Did you miss me or the sex?” He teases lightheartedly.
She shrugs and taunts him back. “Both, I suppose. The sex is fantastic, after all.”
“So you enjoyed that?” Astarion asks.
There are wisps of doubt niggling his mind. Was I too rough with her after what I did? Would it remind her of being held down? What if I frightened her?
“I did, very much. You weren’t too rough, and you do not scare me.” She smirks at his wide-eyed stare. “And you? Was it okay? You are okay?”
Shit. He sometimes forgets to shield his thoughts.
“Okay?” He scoffs at her capriciously. “Yes, darling. I had to take a break in the middle simply because it was feeling far too okay.”
She thumps him on the chest, and he covers her hand with this. “I missed you, too. I do not know where I go, but wherever I am, I am always trying to get back to you.”
Illyria brushes his cheek with the backs of her fingers. “Are you still restless? You need to sleep, Astarion. I can feel how tired you are. Do not be afraid. I’ve got you.”
He smirks. “If I were, do you think you could be convinced to go another round?”
“I could be persuaded.”
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As with most fic writers, I am a WHORE for comments. We appreciate even just an emoji. Please feed your fic writers the sustenance of comments 🥰
AO3 [Crossposted]
Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts
If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past
Small Notes:
Do you think she should have told him right away?
What will his reaction be when she does eventually tell me?
