But, like, can I introduce everyone to The Emotion Thesaurus? Like literally every writer should know about it. Ever writer should own it. Please: https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0999296345/ref=as_li_qf_asin_il_tl?ie=UTF8&tag=sep00-20&creative=9325&linkCode=as2&creativeASIN=0999296345&linkId=7b20ddaae3ac7dd3ce901f9f6c1b6439
Summary: You helped Astarion complete the Rite of Profane Ascension and become the Vampire Ascendent. You agreed to become his spawn soon after. Once the Netherbrain was defeated, Astarion claimed the Szarr Palace, renaming it the Crimson Palace, for himself and set about his plans of domination.
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.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience}
“I want… more,” Astarion concludes, confident and sure. “I want to be us again.”
Us. I do like the sound of that.
“I don’t know, Astarion…” You pull your knees to your chest. You want nothing more than to be his as you should have been this entire time, but what does more even mean to him?
“Why? What’s stopping us?” His expression is closed and hardened. His intonation is steady but otherwise void of emotion, “You love me, yes?”
You sigh, drop your head to your knees and try to dispose of the urge to cry. You’re scared that if you deny him while you’re here, and it upsets him…. Well, that spells the end for you. There is nowhere to hide from the sun here except perhaps the bottom of the lake. You stare blankly at the serene rayless deep and miss the consoling palliation of nothingness, hushed as the grave.
“Yes, I love you.” Your eyes don’t leave the water, reflecting the glimmer of the sky like a mirror, unable to look into his eyes for fear of losing your rational thought and jumping into his arms. “That’s not the problem.”
“Tell me the problem, and I will remedy it.” Astarion appeals insistently. His fingers brush down your arm as softly as a summer evening breeze. “Whatever you desire, I will make it yours.”
Good Gods, you need to breathe. Your chest is tight. It expands with a whistle as you inhale a sizeable breath, defying the rigour that has set into your lungs. The sun heats your skin, as pale as a pearl, yet your body trembles as if cold. You’re on the verge of falling to pieces, but you cannot allow yourself such weakness. You must be as emotionless as a stone and twice as hard.
You meet his gaze and reach out to the connection you share with him. You cannot read his emotions. He is too poised and practiced, but you can feel them if only he will allow it.
Astarion’s eyes widen slightly at the request, “No,” he shakes his head. “Not right now.”
“Why is that?” You cock your head at him with a frown, “What are you hiding?”
“No, darling. It is for you that I will not do this here. I can hear your thoughts, remember? Last time you called me the devil,” he chuckles with a smug smirk. “That would hardly upset me, but if you do think something untoward, I do not want to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere with no place to hide should you need to. Just tell me what is troubling you.”
It sounds like a very convenient excuse for him to keep things from me.
“Can we not just wait and have this conversation at the manor then? Will you open the bond there?”
Astarion sighs, combing fingers through his damp hair, “Yes, I suppose we could. Is it because of my- “
“No, it has nothing to do with your condition.” You cut him off, “It’s... I will be plain. I have accepted that you cannot love me, but that is what I desire. I will not be your dutiful consort, Astarion. I want something real.”
“What you’re looking to hear,” he glances away, almost sheepish. It would be winsome and nostalgic, this glimpse of his past self, if you were not worried that it’s a clever ruse, a tactical manipulation to appease your doubts. “I have said it before, you know.”
“And therein lies the problem,” you wince at the memory - “I love you. That’s what you want to hear. Isn’t it? That’s what you’ve been waiting for.” You brush your expression with bedrock, “You say it because you think it’s what I want to hear.”
“No,” he protests with a twisted mouth. “I meant every word.”
“Then say it, Astarion,” you urge, praying he will. Gods, it’s what you’ve longed to hear. There’s a desolate part of you that would savour it, even if it is just a beautiful lie, and you hate yourself for being so broken, “Open the bond and say it.”
“I…I-” he trails off with a rasp and grimaces. His lips smack together, but no sound emerges from his mouth. It’s as if the words are lodged in this throat. He shakes his head with a low, pained groan. “Perhaps you are right. This is a conversation better had at home.”
He won’t say it.
Pieces fall from your heart like petals off a dead flower.
The sun is dipping below the horizon as the mare moves under you in a fluid canter with Astarion’s black gelding leading. Your hips roll steadily with the pace, and you barely perceive when Astarion pushes his gelding into a gallop. Your mind spins with questions, concerns, doubts and desires you dare not act on. His words still ricochet around your mind as quickly as the booming of the horses’ hoofs pounding the earth.
“I want to be us again.”
“I have said it before.”
“I meant every word.”
A tear rolls down your cheek as you watch him from behind. Nothing is more torturous than having everything you want laid at your feet, only to force yourself to walk away. You wipe the tear off your cheek and push away the others welled in your eyes, fluttering on your lashes like dew on blades of grass.
Astarion reels his gelding around on its haunches, shifts into mist and crashes into you abruptly, throwing you out of the saddle and to the ground harshly on your stomach. The horses scatter with bucks and rears, squealing and frightened. You try to push yourself up to your feet, but Astarion presses his chest down hard on your back, sinking you into the tall grass.
Reacting instinctively, you rival his dominance as dread mauls you, “Astari-“
“Shut up,” his hand covers your mouth, muffling you.
You crane your neck, trying to get a view of his eyes. If he’s gone, that’s a surefire way to tell. Astarion studies the trees around you with an acute glare. His heart thuds so hard in his chest that you can feel it against your spine. He looks like a hunter stalking its prey, but otherwise, his eyes are the vivid crimson of his and not the matte frost you expected.
He looks down, removes his hand from your mouth and leans low, bringing his lips beside your ear, “When I give the order, you run back to the manor. You do not stop for anything or anyone. Do I make myself clear?”
“I don’t understand,” you keep your voice as low as his. “What’s wrong?”
“Do as I ask, and do not challenge me on this,” he commands assertively.
His expression is grim and severe as he brandishes his blade, snapping his wrist and twirling the hilt into his grip. Something is wrong, and you follow his glare to the trees, trying to figure out what danger he’s detected looming in the shadows.
Astarion leaps to his feet and hauls you up with him by the back of your shirt so fast you’re dizzy by the time he pushes you and commands, “Run!”
You hesitate. Does he really expect you to leave him here when there’s a threat nearby? Is he out of his mind? Has he forgotten who you are and the power you possess?
“No,” you shake your head, gripping the Weave. “Whatever is coming, we can fight it together like we always did!”
“I said RUN!” Astarion shouts gruffly.
“I’m not leaving you here!”
Astarion sighs, “You leave me no choice. I’m sorry.”
Suddenly, you feel that presence in your head, but not in the way as if he were opening the bond. No, this time, it takes your control, wicking it out of your muscles, tendons, and bones and bequeathing it to him. Your eyes widen as all your muscles go stiff and await the incoming command.
Compulsion.
Hells, you can barely blink without his godsdamned permission. You’re trying to shake your head, to speak, to fucking scream, to get him to stop, but your body pays no heed to your instructions. The only command that matters is his, and you await it like an obedient hound.
Astarion speaks precise commands, “Run to the manor as fast as you can and stay there until I return. You will stop for no one and nothing.”
“Run to the manor as fast as I can and stay there,” the words are pulled out of your lungs without your consent. “I will stop for no one and nothing.”
Your body pivots without your approval, and you break into a full sprint, streaking through the forest like a meteor. You hurtle over fallen trees and boulders while ducking under long-limbed branches and zigzagging between trees at a break-neck pace you can’t control. Your mind chants your command in a hypnotic chorus.
Run. Run. Run. Run.
The repeating instruction is nearly all you can focus on. It drowns all other thoughts out. There’s a quiver outside that melody, the beating drum of footsteps and heartbeats. You can’t turn your head. You do not have the authority to do so, but your eyes scan your surroundings. Catching movement between the trees, you finally comprehend what’s going on.
The Gur.
It’s hard for you to focus on anything besides your mad dash, but you vaguely make out that they are stalking in the forest all around you. You strain to focus on the sounds outside of the tittering in your head, and you finally hear the sound of howling, enraged warriors and clashing steel.
No. No. Why did he send me away? I can fight!
Good Gods. It’s hard to think. Hands catch you, stopping you in your tracks, but your body is not yours. You’ve been told to run and stop for nothing, and it’s agonizing to disobey, like a million sharp nails being hammered into every atom of your being, making you cry out. You would do anything, fucking anything, to make this suffering end.
You cast Thunderwave, throwing anyone in the vicinity backward and then Fireball in quick succession almost unconsciously. You can barely focus on anything but the order to run and the pain of not doing so. You whirl to continue running, but another hunter grabs you, snarling with yellow teeth and spittle flying from his lips.
By the Gods, it hurts. You can’t think through the white-hot pain.
Clawed, furry paws grab the hunter from behind before a snout full of razor-tipped, serrated fangs sink into the Gur’s throat and rip it out. Your mind is so singularly focused you can’t even be bothered to be tempted by the blood. Hells. You don’t even have permission to smell it, so you don’t. It takes you a moment to recognize the werewolf standing before you as part of Astarion’s powers.
Will his hellspawn mutt attack you as well? It drops the hunter with a howl that would make your blood run cold if it was not already and stares at you, waiting and watching, flexing its claws and growling. Its fangs are dipped in crimson, and blood drips from its snout. Astarion must have sent it to protect you. That’s the only reason it would be here with you and not helping him.
No! Go back. Help him.
You want to scream at it, but you’re already running again with the werewolf as your shadow.
It sprints ahead and kills any hunters that aim to thwart you, but if it misses, you do not hesitate to kill. You will take a million lives if it means you don’t have to feel that pain again, you will do anything to continue obeying, and you cast subconsciously with deadly power and finesse. Even the thought of turning around and going back, of defying your orders, causes pain to slice into your psyche like hot steel. An arrow plunges through your shoulder, swords and axes slice into your skin, painting your body vivid red, yet you feel nothing but the undeniable need to comply. Your nerves have not been given the authorization to feel pain. Could you even die, or are you not allowed?
When you finally break the treeline, the werewolf trailing you sinks back into the gloom as you bolt toward the manor with a resounding, echoing bay as if it’s signalling to Astarion that its job has been completed.
Run. Run. Run. Run.
You sprint full speed through Rivington, Wyrm's Crossing, and the Lower City without slowing your brutal pace. You blow past citizens who stare at you with wild eyes and angry shouts as you push past them with desperation so intense it eclipses everything else. Is this how Astarion felt when Cazador compelled him? Was he as helpless to refuse as you are in this moment?
Astarion has never compelled you before, at least that you know about. How long will this last? How far does his reach extend? If he told you to run forever, would your body run until the ground gnawed your legs into bloody stumps? What would happen if you could no longer run? Would the pain from disobeying eventually kill you, or would you be stuck in a purgatory of white-hot agony for eternity?
When you finally get to the manor and slam the door behind you. You stand stiff as a statue in the foyer. Sweat runs down your face and chest, but you can’t get your arms to move to wipe it from your eyes, and blood splashes, dripping onto the floor from your fingertips like a leaky faucet. Your head won’t swivel to look around, and your eyes will not move in their sockets, so you're stuck staring straight ahead. At least the chanting in your head has gone silent, and you can think freely, or perhaps that’s worse. Now, you can’t think of anything but Astarion, alone in battle with however many Gur. If they knew who they were hunting, which they must, they would come in vast numbers.
What was that idiot thinking? You could have helped him! He may be the Vampire Ascendant, but he’s not indestructible. Unless he is? Truly, you have no idea what he is capable of. Astarion is a force to be reckoned with, but will he lose himself in this? When he gets back to the manor which him will he be? Will you still be stuck like an effigy and unable to defend yourself? What if he doesn’t come back? Will you forever be a statue in this foyer?
Gods. You need to get back there and help him, but as soon as you have any intention of trying to move, trying to break this authority over your body, your mind warbles the enchanting tune of compliance.
Stay. Stay. Stay. Stay.
Fuck! You try your magic. It glows on your fingers and even heats in your palms, but without being able to move your arms, it’s useless. There’s nothing you can do. You’re immovable until either his compulsion wanes or he gives you new orders.
With nothing else to do, your mind wanders.
You prowl the halls of the Crimson Palace looking for Astarion after escaping from the prison of your room. The air in this place is musty, and you can still smell what remains of Cazador in the rooms and halls. This place is oppressive and cold, and he’s changed nothing.
“Astarion!” You scream in a blind rage that sweeps over you like wildfire.
You round the corner and see him sitting at his desk, glaring at you with a bland, expressionless stare. You fill yourself with the Weave until you’re awash with it, and your palms are so blisteringly hot that the skin boils and blisters. Whoever this man staring at you is, not the Astarion you knew.
You should try and kill him, but you cannot bring yourself to do it. Is that a consequence of being his spawn? Is your loyalty to him poisoned, or is it love that refrains you?
Astarion leans back, “What in the Hells,” he growls, his brows pinching together in a fearsome scowl, “do you think you’re doing out of your room?”
“Astarion. Listen to me, please,” you plead. “Something isn’t right. This is not you. Why are you doing this? Why do I have to stay in my room? What happened to Aeterna Amantes?”
“Oh, love,” he scoffs with a sneer. “Come now. Did you truly believe I would ever be beholden to one person? For eternity? HA! I told you before. I am a man of enormous appetites. Don’t worry,” he purrs. “You will always be my favourite.”
Angry tears roll down your cheeks at his taunts, and you can see in his face that he takes satisfaction in your pain. Fire bursts from your palm, licking up your forearms, “The Rite changed you. This isn’t you. You were never cruel before.”
“Are you positive you truly knew me?” Astarion stands slowly, “Yes, the Rite did change me. I am a veritable God! All thanks to you. You will forever have my undying gratitude. If you’re a good little pet, I will take excellent care of you. You will want for nothing.”
A good little pet...
“What I want is the old you back!” You shout at the top of your lungs.
“You want cute, cuddly Astarion?” He laughs mockingly and then hisses with venomous contempt, “That pathetic wretch is dead. He was a miserable, weak little pest. Grieve him, for he is gone, and he is never coming back.”
"Fuck! You don’t have to be cute, cuddly Astarion, but there isn’t even a hint of Astarion left in you, whoever you are!”
Astarion is advancing on you with slow steps, and you reflexively take steps back. Good Gods. He’s herding you like an animal.
“I am the Vampire Ascendant and your creator, and you will give me the respect I am due.” His hands come to his chin, “I think you will call me Master from now on.”
“I will never call you Master!” You retort in a voice dripping with defiance. Flames twirl around your forearms like a tornado.
“I could make you,” He rebukes with an impassive inflection, “All it would take is a thought, and you will do anything I say.”
“Then do it, you fuck!” You conclude, baring your teeth. You’re sick of his threats. If he’s going to make you a puppet, you would rather he get it over with. “Go ahead, Ascendant! Show me your power.”
Astarion laughs lightheartedly, but his face is as expressive as a white wall, “Don’t be such a fucking bitch.”
Oh. No.
You cast Scorching Rays against him, buffeting him repeatedly with a sorrowful, hopeless scream. It burns him, some of his pallid skin ruddy and his clothes hang off him in tatters. Astarion lunges at you, a streak of silver lightning, and throws you to the ground, breaking the floorboards beneath you. He snarls in your face with his fangs bared and pestilent abhorrence in his numb eyes.
“Do you feel like a man, Astarion?” You spit with a wheeze, “Does throwing me around make you feel good?”
It’s barely perceptible, but there’s a meagre flash in his eyes. The pressure with which he pins you to the floor recedes slightly. He shakes his head, and it’s gone. Astarion drags you through the halls by your ankle, down the stairs, uncaring as your head smashes against each step. You grimace, refusing to give him the satisfaction of crying out. You don’t bother to cast again as grief smothers your anger, and the flames die out along with your will to live.
Astarion tosses you into your room, your body skipping across the floor like a flat stone across the surface of a lake.
“Stay, pet.” He commands with an aloof chuckle, whirls around and leaves.
The lock clicks, and the metal bolt slides into place. Knock does not work on locks like that. It seems he’s learned your tricks.
“No!” You scream, rattling the door, “No! Please! Astarion, don’t do this.”
He does not answer.
It’s hard to tell how much time goes by. Days? Weeks? Who knows, but you’re so hungry that you’re sitting on the floor, sobbing against the door, clawing at it as if you might be able to dig your way out. Your fingers are bloodied, and you’ve ripped off your fingernails in your desperation.
“Astarion!” You wail, sobbing as your muscles jerk and spasm painfully.
He does not answer.
He never answers.
Your knees give way, and you crash to the ground, breaking you out of the memory. Astarion’s compulsion has broken, and your body is finally your own to control. You yank the arrow from your shoulder and burn it to ash.
Astarion…
Peering around and listening closely, you surmise that he still has not returned. Pushing yourself to your feet, your muscles cramp severely and twitch, a tune of overexertion from your retreat. With the compulsion gone, sensation returns, and you feel the wounds you received with a biting ferocity. The only thing on your mind is finding Astarion, and you lunge for the door hastily. Golden rays of sunlight flood the foyer as soon as you fling it open, and you're washed in the agony of the Hells. Every nerve melts as you're immersed in rivers of liquid fire in Phlegethos. Your skin sizzles, snapping into fissures and greying rapidly.
It’s the kind of pain that makes you want to scratch your skin off to escape your body. You throw yourself back with a screech, and the pain ebbs as your skin slowly stops smouldering. Dropping to the ground, you cast Telekinesis and throw the door closed with a frustrated roar. If you cannot go into the sun, Astarion is not nearby or… Gods, you don’t even want to think about it. You don’t even want the thought to run through your mind, but it does, regardless of your restraint.
Astarion could be dead.
The only solace you have is that feeling in the back of your mind that still lingers. If he was dead, would that also disappear? You’re unsure. You tell yourself it would because you desperately need the lie to keep you sane. Reaching out to it, you try to force it open, but it does not budge, and Astarion does not respond to the request, increasing your panic further.
What can you do? You need to do something, anything, but what? You’re stuck in this fucking manor until the sun goes down. You get up and pace back and forth, rage building inside you. Why did he send you away? You’re a godsdamned terror in battle. You could have helped him, and now you’re stuck here, unable to do anything.
Fuck!
You scream as tears streak down your burnt face, grabbing a mirror from the wall and throwing it against the floor, shattering it to bits. He made you stand here like a foolish statue all night while he… you don’t finish the thought.
You can’t.
Come back to me. Please.
Things are falling apart quicker than you can piece them back together. Astarion told you he wanted you to be his, and you balked. All the reasons you felt so resolute about suddenly seem so trivial. For a year, you would have done anything to have him back, and now you do, and you’re too scared to put your already dead and broken heart on the table.
This love might kill you, but it’s not over. It was never over. It could never be over.
You chuck a vase against the wall and snarl like a wild animal. It bursts, showering the floor in a spray of glass. You cannot control your rabid emotions. You punch a hole through the wood panelling, tear paintings off it and snap them into pieces as you fall into a tailspin of misery.
You pace the hallways in a rage. At him. At yourself. At the world.
You will not lose him to whatever that thing is inside of him.
You will not lose him.
You cannot lose him.
The jagged pieces of your frenzy are strewn haphazardly throughout the manor and resemble a portrayal of what remains of your life. Everything is broken, fragmented and sharp enough to cut down to bone.
Desperate to feel close to him in some form, you run up to his room. It smells like bergamot and rosemary with a hint of aged brandy - it smells like him, and he smells like home. You inhale deeply. Grim thoughts race through your mind like a whirling flood that creeps out of your eyes in the form of tears. Without Astarion’s heartbeat, the silence in this place is heavy and dark, like a passing cloud.
You lay on the bed, and your hand skims over where he was this morning when you woke with your head on his chest. Astarion held you all night and long into the morning. When your eyes opened, Astarion was already gazing at you with scarlet eyes as gorgeous as the heavens and as deep as the hells. His expression was warm-hearted, loving even. He looked at you like he used to.
“Well, hello, beautiful.”
He smiled, sweeping your hair out of your sleepy eyes. All the things he’s said to you start echoing through your mind.
“I missed you, you know. When you left.”
“You make me feel.”
“I could never get you out of my head.”
“I told you I can be romantic.”
“Yes, little love, true feelings.”
“My feelings for you, of course.”
Good Gods. Has he been trying to tell you he loves you through his actions this entire time? You’ve been so caught up in not letting yourself fall into another trap that you didn’t see it. You were reading random pages and not the entire book.
It ends today. You don’t know where this will end, but you know where it must start.
Curling up on the bed, you cry until you manage to push yourself into your trance because that’s all you can do.
Your hand slams into the wooden door with a force that causes it to whine. Night has finally consumed the sun, and Astarion still has not returned. When you woke, the manor was still deathly silent.
Shadowheart opens the door a crack, and her eyes widen when she sees you. She scowls fiercely, “Did Astarion do this to you!?” She growls with a clenched fist.
Did he do what to me? Oh....
“No,” you assure quickly. Your skin is still creviced and grey with red, scabbed lacerations marring your flesh. You push yourself into the house. “This was not him. He’s missing. I need your help to find him.”
Shadowheart’s magic washes over you, healing your wounds, and she takes a quick step back. She knows better than to get too close to you, but right now, your hysteria is overriding any bloodlust you might feel.
Even though she does smell delicious.
Gale frowns, “What do you mean missing?”
“We were attacked by Gur in the forest last night,” you blurt out rapidly. “He hasn’t come home.”
Gale smiles. He fucking smiles, and it takes everything in you not to slap that grin off his face. He shrugs, “Good riddance, I say.”
“I’m sorry, but I agree with Gale,” Shadowheart crosses her arms. “He told me what happened. Is it true Astarion was going to kill him?”
“Gale attacked him!” You roar with a hiss, narrowing your eyes at Gale who noticeably jolts at your rough inflection. You sigh and try to calm your rampaging temper, “You don’t understand, and I do not have time to explain it right now. Without Astarion, I cannot be out in the sun. I only have until dawn to find him. We must hurry.”
Gale scoffs, “I’m sorry, but there is no “we,” in this, my friend. If the Gur took care of that monster for us, we should be thanking them.”
You knew Gale would be a longshot, especially after what happened at the manor, but Shadowheart might still be swayed but your pleas.
“Shadowheart, please,” you beg, tears kissing your cheeks once again. “I need help.”
“I don’t know...” She sighs, rubbing her face. “He’s dangerous. Why not just leave him to his fate? If he is dead, you’re free. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Not if his death is the price of that freedom,” you rasp. You clutch your chest, wishing to feel his heart beating behind your breast, to feel complete, because, without him, you are so vastly empty. “Dangerous as he is, he is my safe, Shadowheart.”
“How did you get away?” Shadowheart asks.
“He compelled me,” your voice breaks. “The idiot compelled me to leave.”
Shadowheart arches a brow and purses her lips, “Does he compel you often?”
“He’s never compelled me before,” you groan at the memory of your body betraying you. “Astarion told me to leave, and I refused. It’s the first time he’s compelled me, and it was to get me away from danger. Stupid, foolish imbecile!”
Well, it’s the first time he’s compelled you that you know about, but alas, she doesn’t need to know that.
Shadowheart looks you over and you’re not exactly sure what she’s looking for, but she finally nods, “Okay. Give me a moment to get ready. I will help you look for him.”
“You cannot be serious, Shadowheart!” Gale says hoarsely.
Shadowheart sniffs and waves dismissively, “We have all had our demons, Gale. Astarion is no exception.”
“He killed her!” Gale shouts. “He turned her into,” Gale cringes with a gesture toward you. “This.”
Gods, you’ve had just about enough of everyone blaming him for your choices, and you step forward, “I wanted to be turned into this,” you hiss in contempt. “Astarion did not force me. I’ve told you this time and time again.”
Shadowheart gives your arm a light tug, pulling you back, “I will help you look. Perhaps it would be best for you to wait outside, and Gale,” she scolds with a sniff, “I expected better of you. Gods know you reached for unfathomable power, and you would have taken it in a heartbeat.”
The air is crisp in your lungs. Shadowheart was right to send you outside. There is no time to participate in an argument right now, but you will have to return and speak to Gale and Shadowheart eventually to sort this out - if it can be sorted out.
Shadowheart joins quickly, dressed in her armour with her spear slung across her back and a pack around her shoulders, “Let’s go,” she nods. “How much ground do we have to cover?”
“We were on the outskirts of the forest when they attacked. It’s not a substantial distance, but it’s not close either. We will have to hurry.”
You can run endlessly since you don’t require air, and you bolt ahead of Shadowheart to scout the way. Your body is sticky with sweat. It rolls down your temples like a stream from your pores. The adrenaline coursing through your veins is a welcome distraction from the woe warping your heart.
How had the Gur known where you were? Someone must have tipped them off, but who?
It doesn’t take long until the air smells of sweat, death and old, congealed blood, and you can at least follow the scent. The forest is eerily soundless, with only small streaks of moonlight as pale as ghosts streaking through the dense canopy. No animals scurry. No wind blows. No insects chirp. Only the sound of your feet crunching over the forest floor.
Mutilated bodies of Gur, werewolves, and hundreds of bats litter the earth in a carpet of flesh and gore. The ground is a blood-stained dark maroon and squelches under your feet as you slow your pace. Your mouth drops open as you look around, astonished at the number of bodies. Terror sinks into you, and you start pulling on bodies only to uncover more underneath. Heaps of dead in unfathomable numbers. Hells. You listen for a heartbeat but hear none. You choke back sobs. There’s no way he could have survived this, and you hate him for making you leave.
Your ears twitch as they catch the sound of twigs breaking behind you. If it were Shadowheart, she would surely make her presence known. You whirl just in time for snapping fangs to miss your throat as a werewolf lunges. You cast Gust of Wind and send it reeling off its feet. It stands snarling, but it’s gravely wounded, with a sickeningly large festering gash in its belly. You don’t know if this thing will listen or if it can even understand you, but you must try.
“I’m a friend.” You put your hands up but are ready to cast should this prove to be a futile attempt. “Your master’s friend.”
Its ears flick and twitch around as it listens. It sniffs the air and makes no further move to attack.
“Take me to him,” you instruct as commanding as you can. “Now.”
Its lips pull back to reveal rows of sharp teeth and growls, but it turns and plods away unsteadily. You don’t know if it’s just decided you’re not a threat or if it will take you to Astarion, but you pursue it.
The number of bodies dwindles the further you follow, with only a few scattered here and there like dead leaves shed from the trees. Sliding down a steep incline, it finally turns to you, ears flattening against its head, drooping at the tips, and points its disfigured paw with a melancholy whine.
You scramble forward, eyes skimming the ground, and finally see Astarion lying motionless on the rust-coloured earth, painted with blood and gore. His ivory skin only peeks through between the cracks in the drying crimson veil sheeting his body. Countless wounds mar his flesh, some superficial and others that make your stomach twist in your belly, threatening to spill its contents.
You flop to your knees and shake him vigorously, “Astarion!” Your voice is a screeching pitch that could shatter glass, “Astarion! Wake up! Please.”
He does not wake or rouse. He’s cold, deathly cold like he used to be. Leaning down, you put your ear to his chest and try to stifle your loud sobbing so you can listen. You hear nothing. His chest is as silent as yours, seized by the dominion of death. Touching his cheek, you scream shrilly into the night, lamenting your pain to the heavens.
Shadowheart.
You don’t want to leave his side, but you pull yourself away and charge with renewed vigour until you catch Shadowheart’s scent and the hammering thud, thud, thud of her heart. You nearly crash into her in your haste.
“Hells,” She jumps, grabs your shoulders to steady you, and sees the inconsolable look on your face, “What’s wrong?”
“I found him,” your knees are rickety. The only thing keeping you upright and from hurtling off the edge of collapse is the need to return to his side. He can’t be dead. He can’t be! “I think… Gods, I think he’s dead, Shadowheart.”
Shadowheart’s mouth drops open in a gasp, “Show me.”
Sliding down the slope, you dive to Astarion’s side, hands coming to his face, sweeping your thumb across his frigid cheek. Shadowheart drops to her knees with magic already glowing on her fingers. The colour drains from her face, leaving her as pale as you, awash with horror at the grotesque sight.
“Hells below,” she mumbles. “Is his heart beating? Does it usually beat?”
She knows your hearing is sharper than hers, “It usually does,” you falter and place a splayed hand on your chest. You glance at her and shake your head, “It’s as still as mine.”
Shadowheart casts and her magic sinks into Astarion, but he does not stir. She tries again, and again, and again, increasing the strength with every successive round with no result. Astarion does not so much as twitch a finger or muscle.
You shake him again, screaming into his face as your tears fall like raindrops splashing on his cheeks, “Don’t you dare think about leaving me! Please... please, don’t leave me alone. I need you, Astarion.”
Shadowheart’s cheeks are red, and her eyes brim with shiny tears. She gives you a look of regret, and you know what she’s thinking without her even saying it because you’re thinking it, too.
“He can’t be...” you choke as you fall to pieces.
“I’m sorry,” Shadowheart shakes her head. Her face contorted in sorrow, “I’m so sorry.”
You fall forward onto Astarion’s lifeless chest, blanketing him with your body, and you scream, guttural and ear-splitting as continuous as the stream of time.
Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!
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:
I'm releasing this chapter earlier than I usually do because I've finally had some time to sit and do nothing but write (my favourite), but that means it may push back the release of the next chapter. It will depend on how work and life go this week.
Literally some of the best writing I've read in AGES! So incredibly captivating! If you've slept on this AA fic, do yourself a favor and start reading!! I promise you this will not disappoint!
So many things I could recommend but here are a few for OP and my followers!
Any of @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate’s work — it’s so poetic I want to cry. My personal fav is this one that perfectly capture’s Astarion’s thoughts and feelings realization over time. It’s on her old blog so be sure to follow her new one. But tbh it’s a damn shame that doesn’t have more notes.
@azukiel has a long fic, Nightfall Heir, that I adore and has just recently been updated. I was waiting patiently/impatiently for their return and I’m so glad they picked up the proverbial pen again! Very well done Astarion/Halsin/Tav dynamic.
@tallymonster’s Memories of Us AU — I’m not normally an AU lover but this one got me hooked. She also recently wrote an AU piece based on webcam sex and that was honestly so unique!
@vixstarria can’t do anything wrong tbh. Her Night at the Inn pieces are top tier smut but my personal fav of hers is this fluff one about Astarion feelings realization and his nice simple plan falling apart. Her pieces contain so many humorous bits and are a delight to read.
The entire Whither series by @brabblesblog — redemption AA is a weakness of mine and she does this well. She characterizes AA and his motivations perfectly. I also love muscle mommy Ban with my whole heart.
Any of @tragedybunny’s work — she’s an OG. You might recognize her moonblood fic because it’s basically a cult classic now. I haven’t read it yet but I know her AA fic is going to slap. I’ve seen enough teasers to be certain. And it’s second on my to be read long fic list!
First on my TBR long fic list is @leomonae’s one featuring illithid. I have to say I’m intrigued by the dynamic and I plan to start the fic tonight/tomorrow! Her writing style is wonderful, she explores interesting dynamics, and her lore is on point. Plus her OneShot Shalt Be Thrust Down to Hell rewired my brain and sent me on a Astarion/Raphael rabbit hole.
Which lead me to Palmarosa by the spectaclesofthor, a long fic with an Astarion/Raphael pairing. Heavy stuff but honestly so fascinating.
Mindlessly running your hand through his hair, the tips of your fingertips unknowingly brush against the tip of his ear, and it makes him groan.
Thinking it had been out of pain, you tear your hands away from his head, eyes blinking wide. "What happened? Are you okay?"
And instead of a scowl, you find that his cheeks are multiple shades darker than usual--almost pink. He mumbles something under his breath, then shifts his entire body around so that his face is buried into your stomach, arms locked around your waist. He says something, this time so muffled you can barely hear the words they're supposed to form.
"I can't hear if you're talking into my stomach."
He says it louder this time. "...good."
"What?"
Then, finally, he whips his head just enough to meet your gaze. "It feels good."
Your brows lift, and you slowly slip your hands back into his hair. "This?"
"No--I mean, that too, but--" he's flushing brighter now, and your eyes practically sparkle at how flustered he sounds. It's a rare occurrence, but Astarion at a loss for words is something you hold dear to your heart. "--my ears."
"Your ears," you repeat, hands slowly inching to the sides of his head. You carefully trace the shape of his pointy ears, watching as he practically shudders, melting into your touch. Even your own cheeks seem to heat. "Like that?"
He wordlessly nods, opting to bury his face into your stomach again to avoid facing the power he's just given you. And you use it well, gently massaging his skin with your finger pads, drinking in the way his body reacts to your touch. "Oh my god."
Hours later, when your head lays on top of his arm and he has you close to his chest, you smile up at him cheekily.
He notices the way you're struggling to keep in your laughter. "What?"
"What does it feel like when I touch your ears?"
He nearly chokes on his own words, horrified by how upfront the question is. "It--I don't know, it just feels nice."
"Nice is an understatement."
He groans. "Please, darling, this is humiliating."
And despite the way you continue to poke fun at him and the way he feigns annoyance, whenever the two of you are alone, he always opts to put his head in your lap, and you choose to knead your fingers through his curls.
“Possessing:” jealous, possessive Astarion in a double smut update for “Our Blood is Thicker,” featuring a first-time flashback 💞
Astarion x Cordehlia (F!OC) | E | 8.7 K possessive and first time smut
Summary: the Shadow-Cursed lands resurrect more for Cordehlia than an old enemy— more memories and griefs that Astarion can’t recall. If only there was some way to show Astarion their past… memories that kindle the same possessive desires of the past and new professions of… love in the present.
CW: angst, longing, jealousy, possessive Astarion, Kind Uncle Vibes Halsin, arrogant young Astarion, first time hand job, first time fingering, teenage sneaking for sex, inappropriate tadpole use if you squint, absolute feral rutting once the memory is done.
Previous Chapter | AO3 | Masterlist
Chapter 10: Possessing
🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️💞🗡️
Astarion could feel the rage building in his love, shuddering with tension off their leader. They all could. Waves of scarlet temper fluctuating as the Drow inside Moonrise Towers insisted on talking despite Cordehlia’s death stare… insisting on talking with Astarion. This Araj… as she introduced herself with the overconfidence of youth and privilege.
Cordehlia hated her already for both. And more.
Her companions held their breath, watching for those quick and deadly fingers of hers to reach for that shining dagger. And they all wanted to close their eyes the moment they heard the Drow, some expert in blood magic and potions, slather her attentions on The Spawn who pressed at Cordehlia’s side. “I’ve always dreamed of being bitten…”
“Uh oh,” Wyll bemoaned under his breath, taking the opportunity to grab at the she-elf’s elbow and whisper in her pointed ear while the Drow was busy making all her intentions known to Astarion. “Have care, for as much as you would like to run the monster throgh, it would not make things easy for us. Unless you wish to face Ketheric from the inside of a cell…”
“Or dead,” Gale added in her other ear.
Cordehlia gave a single, unwilling nod, rolling her shoulders and crossing her arms. Just as the expert in all things sanguine returned her dark eyes on the rest of them. “Can’t you talk some sense into your charge?”
Cordehlia’s fiery eyebrows raised slowly at that. “My charge?” she spoke between pressed lips. A wave of rebuke held back barely by their need to remain inconspicuous. “My vampire is his own being, he can choose who he bites, who he fucks, whom he loves, who he kills…”
“I’m sure he truly believes that,” the Drow laughed. Disparaging.
“Want a demonstration?” Cordehlia added quickly, a single corner of her mouth turning towards a smile.
“It’s alright, darling,” Astarion turned to meet her stare, caught somewhere between aroused and intimidated himself as it turned to lock those narrowed, hungry, enraged eyes on him.
“Oh, oh I see,” Araj gave a disparaging laugh. “You think he’s yours. All yours. I promise, I’ll leave your lover’s lower regions untouched, I only want a bite. In exchange, I’ll give you a potion so great, you’ll never find another like it in the realms…”
“I’ll thank you to never mention my lower regions again,” Astarion hissed.
“And he said no to you,” Cordehlia snapped, closing one step between her enemy and her beloved. “You can keep clear of us, Drow, of me, my companions, and my vampire. What need do we have of watered down power like blood potions when we have the blessing of the Absolute. I wonder why they keep you here at all.”
That made everyone behind her stiffen, every set of eyes scanning for enemies. Just in case.
But Araj laughed. “Fine, linger in your ignorance with your lover. Savor it while your bodies still haven’t burst into a mess of tentacles. See how romantic your nights of coupling are then… True Soul…”
Three sets of hands pressed against Cordehlia’s back then, but only one pulled her into his arm, tugging her along and back into the halls of Moonrise Towers. “Gods,” Astarion scolded her gently right into her ear as they paused on the outer walls of the tower, “your jealousy nearly got us all killed.”
Was he… angry?
She snapped her neck, turning to scowl right into his face. But that raging expression melted the moment she looked into his. He was so soft, so adoring, head tilted slightly as those crimson eyes widened and brushed over her face.
Until they rested on her lips, pursed tightly.
“That pleases you?” she managed to rasp as her tempers cooled.
“To hear you might just risk bringing the whole army of the Absolute down on us because some other female is pining for me to take a bite?” he smirked wickedly, completely possessive and naughty as his eyes looked to her neck. “And they say romance is dead, darling…”
Just as his palm cupped her cheek, tilting her face so close to his, her warm breath filled his undead lungs and coated his tongue with her taste… Gale cleared his throat.
Loudly. Distracting. Intentionally.
“Need I remind everyone that we stand literally on the precipice of the Absolute’s power? That Ketheric Thorm and his army are literally everywhere…”
“And all you two want to do is fuck,” Karlach burst in with a laugh. “I mean, it’s not a bad plan, it’s just not a plan to take down our enemies, soldier.”
Cordehlia rolled her eyes, gripping the back of his neck in her gauntleted hands. Unable to deny herself just a quick kiss, even at the heart of their enemy’s domain. “Fine,” she sighed. “We find the secret to bringing down this… General, but if anyone comes to try to take any of you from me,” she tapped a finger on Astarion’s perfect, aquiline nose, “especially you… they will find it very hard to think with a dagger buried in their skull.”
“Again, such poetry, such romance,” her vampire purred, his arms struggling to release her. Not that he wanted to either.
They made their way back inside the Tower, and thoughts swirled in Cordehlia’s head, the haze of memories beginning to pierce through that constant blanket of lust Astarion seemed to draw about her at all times.
“Right,” she huffed under her breath. “Let’s go find this imposter who calls himself the General….”
“Imposter?” a deep voice rumbled quietly as Halsin turned around. “How do you mean?”
Cordehlia stopped, the others continuing a few paces ahead. “Ketheric is dead, weren’t you there? Did you not fight in vain glory for his defeat alongside Harpers and Druids and Elves? Did you not see the countless souls sacrificed to put that monster in a tomb?”
“I did,” his pale green eyes scanned her face with all the wisdom and insight three-hundred years lends. “You speak as one who knows of such things yourself, young one.”
Cordehlia’s mouth shut tight. Locking her lips in silence, keeping whatever it was that simmered behind her silver eyes within her.
“I may have joined your band to help break this curse that darkens the land, but make no mistake,” he paused before turning to follow, “I will help do whatever is necessary. But to do so, I need to know more than I can read on your own wizened face.”
She shrugged, pushing past the enormous Druid to rejoin the others. “In good time, perhaps…”
But her words dried up the second she stood on the edge of the gathering in the throne room.
He was there. In flesh. Ancient, grey, undead flesh.
Ketheric Thorm, half-elf, great general, and dead no longer.
Cordehlia heard nothing as she watched with frozen horror the scene before her unblinking eyes. An ax, launched from the hand of some goblin about to be punished for their failure, sliced right into the General’s armor. His great, gauntleted hand pulled it free, as if it were no more than a dull knife in butter.
Immortal. Just as they all had said… back from the dead…
And as she tried to steel over her face and steady her nerves, she forced more of those shadows from her past deep down inside her. They would have to be ignored. For now.
It wasn’t until they were back on the shadow-cursed trails, sent to find the mysterious relic that granted the immortal Ketheric Thorm his power, that Cordehlia finally felt her tenuous hold on reality and on her past begin to slip.
It was a century ago… a lifetime ago, a time when she wandered between losing the love of her life and falling under the spell of bloodlust the Bone Picker loved. Before she found herself totally alone. Not-quite widowed, but decidedly orphaned.
And now, her feet traced the same paths and vaulting roots from dying trees he must have…
Her father.
She kept herself busy, hurrying at the front of the group as they moved headlong into the dark and cursed forest.
“We really should make camp,” Shadowheart commented, “there are many dangers ahead, and we wouldn’t wait to face those exhausted.”
“A wise idea,” Halsin affirmed. “We can get a new start with the dawn… or,” he grinned a bit sheepishly, looking at the lands cursed to eternal darkness, “…if not dawn, at least when we are all rested.”
A few laughs sounded from the group as they headed for safer ground. But not Astarion. And not Cordehlia. She gave that smile that didn’t meet her eyes, holding her shoulders slumped down as if she carried that massive, invisible weight. He could almost feel it himself, just by looking at her. Slowly, he drew nearer, falling within earshot. Within arms reach, should she need him.
But she kept her attention on the Druid, locked in as they headed up the path. “Halsin…” she added, voice shaking just a bit, “you… fought to bring Ketheric down… the first time I mean?”
“Giving up your claim of being an imposter?” the Druid teased, instantly regretting the jovial tone as he saw the lines of her face. As he read her pain. “What troubles you?”
Cordehlia glanced beside her, face easing to find Astarion at her side. First in her heart. Always at her side. “These… ruined battlefields, where so many lives were lost, you’ve been here, Halsin. Tell me, did you fight beside the elven hosts?”
Halsin stopped short. That weight in her voice flooded with knowledge. He froze, nearly mid-step. “I thought you looked familiar…” he commented, almost to himself, eyes scanning the she-elf.
“Why?” Astarion interjected, curious if not a tad bit defensive at the familiarity.
“Of course, Star Elf, red hair that shock of brightness. A temper to defy the gods. You’re the daughter of General Aquilae, aren’t you? You’re just as ferocious in battle, just as passionate and hot-tempered.” The Druid tilted his head, starting to walk again. “I am… sorry for your loss. Sorry his sacrifice must feel like it's in vain with Ketheric back from the dead…”
“Don’t assume to know how I feel,” Cordehlia snapped, chin jutting up, barely meeting the large male’s chest-height. But fierce in demeanor. “Sorry,” she relinquished, that defiance instantly retreating back inside her carefully crafted shell.
“Quite alright. You’re in pain, grieving. But even grief heals, all things heal. Nature will heal, as hearts will too,” Halsin grinned gently, “but it takes time and… many ways of seeking solace…”
Astarion couldn’t fight the way his eyes tweaked in suspicion, hackles raising at the informality. As long as it was his tent that her solace was sought for…
“Aquilae…” Astarion let the name roll off his tongue. Something inside his mind thawing, something creeping into the light. “Is that… your name?”
What normally would have made a tender smile come to her full, pink lips made them scowl instead. “For once… for once, it would be a boon to have you either remember your past, or not ask such obvious questions.” She bit at every word. Her shoulders squared at him, armored and taught.
Those crimson eyes narrowed at her, his mouth hardened into a flat line. An exterior of equal adamant to resist her anger. And to hide his hurt.
“Well, darling,” he shook his head quickly, derisively. “I apologize for my shortcomings,” his gaze darted to the Druid who still lumbered beside her. “And I’ll leave you two to… reminisce correctly, then.” The vampire pushed his way between them, heading for the bustling group as they hurriedly and anxious made a small camp, setting magic wards and torches against the Shadows.
Cordehlia’s heart sank, her stomach knotted, making her want to puke right there and then on cursed grounds, watching him stride from her so quickly.
That exterior of injured pride, that mask of indifference hiding his own pain. Pain she caused. Pain flowed from her own.
Halsin cleared his throat softly. “He means a great deal to you, the Elf. The others gossip about your past constantly. Your Wizard, in particular, seems rather… put out that Astarion has meant so much to you,” the Druid sat himself down on a log, the wood creaking beneath his sheer mass.
But Cordehlia was too uncomfortable to do anything more than sway in place as her eyes darted between her Druid and the rest of her party. Not as if she were watching for every pissed-off dart of her silver-haired vampire in the mix.
“I… believe I know your history, or at least as much of it as the rest do…”
She scoffed, fingers beginning to unbuckle her armor methodically, absentmindedly. “More than he probably recalls,” she huffed under her breath. “If only… things were easier. Not just the tadpole and the Absolute… but with him.”
“Nature does not have regrets, young elf, only growth,” he smiled slightly, his scarred face turning with that wise happiness. “Besides, for as much as you resemble your father, the General…”
“He still seems like the pampered, arrogant, devastatingly handsome son of our High Lord and Lady?” she sniffed, suddenly feeling the warm pull of those years, however ancient they may be.
“I suspected as much. Your father only ever spoke to us briefly, to the point, not unlike his formidable daughter when she feels the need…”
That made Cordehlia grin softly once more.
“He had said once, on the eve of battle, he regretted risking his daughter to lose another… that you had already lost so much of your heart, an engagement to the next High Lord ending in tragedy.”
Halsin paused, turning to follow her own sharp, unerring gaze into the mess of companions. Watching as her eyes followed her lover through the crowd, her whole being growing heavier with grief each second that passed.
He let her breathe in silence a moment, waiting for her to speak. At last, something seemed to ease within her. “He was my everything, Halsin. My childhood playmate, my first kiss, my… first of many things…” Her voice was steady, aching with grief and joy mixed into one weighty tone. “He defied his parents to ask for my hand, well… his weakness for planning ahead worked that once, for as much… shame as it could have brought on us both. But I didn’t care. I had him.”
“The son of the High Lord and the daughter of the General must not have been such a match to frown upon,” Halsin sounded.. wistful. Cordehlia wasn’t sure. But she turned to look anyway. “At least now, for whatever darkness you both have endured, you share in one another’s burdens. But you can’t fault him for how he has… survived his pain by pushing down his memories. They will return, in time, as all things…”
“In nature heal,” Cordehlia finished with a laugh. “You’re rather predictable, Druid.”
“Three-hundred and fifty years, and you learn the value of consistency, young one,” he laughed, standing from the log. “Now, we better return before your vampire’s jealousy turns its hungry attention on me as a threat.”
Cordelia gathered the plates of her armor she had removed, walking them towards camp. And then she paused. Cursing.
Of course… as it had been of late, since that night in the Emerald Grove, all her things were in… his tent. Her stomach sank. She… wasn’t ready to face him yet. Wasn’t ready for his chilled anger or his glare of simmering rage, or his little frown of hurt.
But she swallowed her dread and headed towards that stretched structure of red and rose fabric.
It was already so dark, just the flickers of torchlight dancing to show her the way. Pausing, her hand hesitated before it pulled back the flap so she could enter. Cordehlia swallowed, why was she so nervous, he night not even be inside. Might be out hunting… or helping… or…
Before any other thought could make her hesitate longer, a pale hand shot out at her from within, wrapping its cold, undead touch around her wrist, and dragged her inside his darkened domain.
His tent was blacker than pitch. Even for her elf-eyes, it took her a moment to adjust her sights. But she could feel him around her, grabbing her from behind, hand around her chin, arm clutched around her waist, as he pulled her within.
“I didn’t think you’d come, darling…” his voice chilled her marrow, all the jealousy she had imagined inside him biting his words. “Thought you’d be too busy strolling down memory lane with someone who could walk with you…” his lips pushed against the edge of her ear, nipping it with his fangs, “just as you’ve always wanted…”
“You know what I want…” she murmured, arching against the confines of his body.
“Hmmm,” he taunted, and she could feel his breath trailing down her neck. “I thought I did… I’m surprised that you’re here, not indulging in some time with your warm-blooded companion who knows you… and most likely wants to… know you.” His mouth sucked on her ear, “carnally, to be clear.”
“Tch, tch,” she forced her body to twist in his hold, landing the point of her elbow in his gut to make his grip ease. Savoring the little grunted “oof” he made. “Don’t think so low of yourself, my love,” she breathed, scanning the way his face twitched between suspicion and arousal. “As if I could take anyone else, now that I have you back with me at last…”
She meant it, every word. Those eyes soft with sincerity, those lips already slightly puckered to invite him closer.
But he still had too much jealousy gripping his undead heart, too much ice flowing in his veins yet. “You’d rather have someone remember, I know, someone who knew your name, your father, someone who recognizes the family resemblance of your temper to match your hair… someone who can match the… intimacy you seek with your memories in the same way they might with your delicious body.” He pouted, those full lips of his frowning in taunting disapproval. “If only there was some way for us to share thoughts and memories, mind to mind…” he turned to give her the full power of his gaze then, and it made her lose her breath with his beauty, his intensity. That rakish cant of his brows and the haze of hunger in his eyes.
Her brows raised slowly, her smile spreading. “What are you suggesting, Astarion?”
He let his fangs show, his hands gripped into the soft flesh of her upper arms. “Show me, show me everything. Use the parasite, link your mind to mine, for I’ll be damned if anyone…” he growled with a snap of his jaw, “anyone lays a claim to you more than me.”
“Why, Master Ancunìn,” she smirked, running the pads of her fingers down that sharp cut of his jaw, “jealousy does rather become you.”
He stiffened beneath his touch, the muscles of his jaw tweaking as he clenched.
“You’re… not just jealous, are you?”
His eyes cast to the side. Just enough hint of remorse, of regret and longing softened his face.
“I… can’t explain it,” he whispered, almost sounding frightened to let the words out. “All I have known for so long is to manipulate, to do as I was commanded, to use my body and bury my mind, my feelings so far down, I… forgot what it was to think or feel for myself.”
His hands began to wander, to stroke her smooth skin and taught muscles beneath her shirt.
“And then, I found you, or rather, you found me. You forced me to confront those parts of me I neglected in order to survive. You made me rediscover what it meant to want a person…to want anything for myself. Like how you almost tore the throat of that vile Drow today, just for assuming you could compel me to bite her fetid flesh.”
He breathed, that jealousy still crept close by, his fingers insistent on her flesh, even with all the vulnerability that flooded his voice.
“I… should say thank you, my darling, but I would rather show you my gratitude. Rather stand at your side as equals, knowing everything that makes you… you.”
“That makes us… us,” she added, a smile soft on her lips. Her hand held his, pulling him down along with her, sitting on the mess of his blankets and pillows he called a bed. Before he could even settle completely, she crawled in his lap, wrapping her legs around his waist, cradling his cheek in her palm. His eyes bore into hers, the intensity, the possessiveness, the curiosity burning bright in the deep red of his eyes. “What would you wish to see?” she asked softly.
“Show me your father, show me you… show me our first moments, our sweetest moments, our most sensual, our most painful,” he rasped, brows furrowed with his ardor. “I want to recall… everything…”
She paused for a breath, eyes closing as if she searched those memories. Finally, her silver eyes opened, her gaze was languid, distant, and desirous. “Open yourself to me,” she whispered so close to his own parted lips.
A single brow arched in humor, “That's my line, darling…”
Before she could tease him or roll her eyes, their minds smashed into one another, their tadpoles humming as the world around them instantly disappeared….
———
“What do you have to say for yourself, lordling?” General Aquilae stared at him with those piercing dark eyes. Sharp like the eagle, the bird of prey after which he was named. “Son of the High Lord, caught watching our daughter bathing, you know there will be repercussions even your parents can’t pull enough strings to free you from…” The warrior’s voice rumbled like thunder, towering over where the young elf male stood in his study.
But Astarion gave no ground, arms crossed over the pale green of his tunic, the golden threads of its intricate embroidery catching the firelight as night began to fall. His sharp features smiled slightly, his deep violet eyes dancing as he watched the warrior pacing back and forth, that silver shock of hair barely tamed, same as he was as a youth, barely more tamed than the willful elfing that ran about with his daughter.
And now… now they would be inseparable. They had to be.
“You know what you have done has sealed Cordehlia’s fate as much as your own, little lord?” the general added. His voice sharp, direct.
“I would hope so, Commander,” Astarion purred in reply, “I thought my affections for your daughter were on… full display this afternoon.”
General Aquilae pressed his thick fingers into his temples, rubbing them as if to ease a headache. “You know, Astarion, most young males court their intendeds with letters or poems or art or song… not their cock in their hand as they watch them bathing.”
Astarion shrugged, coolly and casually. “I have never been like most young males, Commander. You have always known that, as loyal friend of my parents, their faithful General…”
“You can leave your parents out of this, boy,” the general straightened. “What will you do to make this right by Cordehlia? Leave her to the shame you’ve inflicted? To the gossip and the ostracization of her peers?”
“I intend to make her mine, General,” he replied. Steadily, those hard, smirking lines of his face easing as his smile dropped.
The commander turned to round one more time across his study, his boots falling harshly against the wooden planks of the floor. Until he drew up short. “It’s close, but you need to be clear, Ancunìn. You’ll make her your what? Mistress, whore…”
“Bride.”
It was a simple word. Uttered so clearly, so matter-of-factly, all ears that heard it frozen.
Her father. And Cordehlia. The sneaky she-elf who peered through the smallest chink in the wall, who held her breath to hear two men discussing her future. But at that word, her heart soared, scared, excited, terrified and… something else she didn’t know. Something that stabbed her like a hot poker in the gut and flooded her abdomen with heat. She could see Astarion’s face perfectly from here; he looked so regal, so confident. So happy. Especially at making her father draw up short and stop, at a loss for words.
“Well, General?” Astarion grinned, smiling so self-assured, so cocky, “do you need me to repeat, sir?”
“No,” the older elf cleared his throat loudly and repeatedly. “Thank you.”
Astarion bowed his silver-tousled head. “If that is set arights, then perhaps I can break the happy news to my intended myself?”
“Firstly,” General Aquilae raised a single thick digit at the boy, “I will set you straight on this point, lordling. You are both far too young by the rights of our people to marry. Prepare yourselves for a long engagement, one where you had better show her nothing but the respect and devotion befitting a female of our status…” he narrowed his large silver eyes down at the boy, “even if it is still beneath your own, Master Acunìn.”
Astarion flashed a bright smile, a deferential bow of his head and shoulders, hand placed graciously over his heart. “On my honor,” he crooned, magnanimous in tone. Just like his parents. “The lady and I will wait for years, for decades, if that is your sage guidance.”
“Not decades, no,” he sniffed in rejoinder. “Don’t be so grandiose, boy. Five years hence at most until you may wed, unless any unexpected, little… surprises… come up in the meantime…”
Violet eyes wide, Astarion remained still at the implication. He swallowed hard, much to her father’s satisfaction. “Yes, General,” he murmured in reply. The meaning was clear enough.
General Aquilae almost laughed at the submission, the immediate effect of discomfort that smacked the boy across his pristine, handsome, and youthful face. It would be enough to scare the boy into caution for the time being. And that would be enough for now. “Allow me to fetch your intended, then.” He crossed towards the door, but paused when the boy gave that signature boisterous giggle.
“No need,” he giggled again. “Cordehlia already has her ear pressed to the wall, eyes peering through keyholes, I shouldn’t wonder…”
That violet, glinting gaze looked right at her… where she had one eye locked through the crack in the wall. A smile dancing on his thick, parted lips.
Quickly, she moved and held her breath, flouncing her gown and making her way as if she were simply strolling by the study door, a little book in hand as if she were lost in reading. Her father threw open the dark wooden door. “Daughter,” he ordered. No other words needed. His lined brow furrowed to see her, in fact, so close to his study.
“Yes, Father?” she lilted, tucking the book neatly against her chest as she folded her arms. “Is… is there something the matter?”
“I’ll let you find out for yourself,” he replied, walking out the door, “but no, nothing the matter.” His rough hand caught his daughter’s fingers from her book, giving them a tender squeeze before he left them to it.
Her heart raced, slowly turning to face that smirking youth in her father’s study. The one who went toe to toe with her father, and lived to tell the tale.
“Astarion,” she beamed, open and exuberant to see him against her better judgment to be coy. “It is late, you know.”
“No better time for a man to call upon his beloved, his intended…” he grinned, all feline and subtle, striding to shut the door behind her. “I don’t need to regale you with all the negotiations do I? You were listening ever so intently from your little hiding spot, weren’t you?”
“Of course,” she smiled, taking a few steps away from where he felt so close to her. Crossing, she sat on the little couch near the fire. And she regretted it the instant he sat immediately beside her. “I… I suppose I should thank…”
“Don’t,” he interjected. “Tch,” he sucked his teeth, a habit of his when teasing her lately, “I told you I would get what I wanted, Cordehlia.”
“And, what was that?” she forced her face into a blank, innocent expression. Wide-eyed and pouting, hiding the laughter that bubbled inside.
“You,” he slowly seemed to lean in. “Despite my parents’ plans for a marriage alliance… despite your father’s hesitations…” his eyes cast down the front of her down, scanning the intricate weave of laces and ribbons that held her in, even as her chest heaved with panting and her bosoms threatened to spill out the top. “Despite even your own thoughts of self-inadequacy…”
“Oh, I do not doubt my own measure, Astarion,” she chided in reply, “I doubt that I will be enough to satisfy you and your… ambitions.”
“Wanting great things out of life means nothing if I can’t share it with you, my…” he whispered, that edge of pretend leaving his silken voice. A single finger pressed under her chin, feeling her throat swallowing and her jaw bobbing as she nervously met his gaze. “Hmmm, what shall I call you now?” he grinned. “My friend seems too unromantic. My intended, my betrothed… those seem so cumbersome.”
“Something simple, sweet and flirtatious,” she smiled, leaning into the heat of his touch, more of his fingers beginning to sweep over her cheek. “Nothing too saccharine… just a little something… darling…”
“Oh,” he gave that secretive half smile of his, “aren’t you just darling? So sweet and yet deceptively strong… that hint of irony behind it.. yes. Yes, it’ll do nicely, darling…”
Her eyes darted away, feeling so hot, cheeks flushed and burning, his hand still holding her face. But that heat swirled in her gut, her mind still reeling over the events of that day, and while her skin was clean from bathing, her mind had turned to only images and questions that were so, very dirty. “So…” she paused, feeling his face drawing nearer, his breath washing over her. “What was it you were caught doing exactly?”
Astarion’s eyes flashed, wide and dilating as he stared at that impertinent grin. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean… I wish to know… what… you were doing while you watched me,” her voice grew quieter, deeper in her throat the more she spoke.
“I was… pleasuring myself,” he managed to say, watching her cheeks growing pinker and pinker.
“Show me,” she whispered. Her chin jutted out in that over-confident way of hers.
Astarion cocked his head, a single corner of his lip curving slightly. “What?” he drolled.
“Show me… what you were doing…” she whispered, eyeing the door shut beside them, pure mischief in her silver eyes. “Show me, please…”
“I do so like it when you ask so sweetly,” he raised his brow, grinning widely as he leaned towards her breathtaking face. “So refined and smoothed over your edges, and yet…” His fingers pressed on her chin, tilting her upwards and drawing her close to his lips, “I still see that willful, feral playmate of mine who never once treated me like the son of the High Lord…”
“Quit your stalling, Acunìn,” she snapped, smiling all the while. Her body was pulsing, hotter than the fire before them should have made her. Her skin grew tighter the more he touched her.
“I can show you,” he whispered, smirking as his eyes darted towards the door. “But I’ll not do it in your father’s domain. Not when I’ve just garnered his dissenting approval.”
Her breath grew heavy, her dress suddenly too tight. “Where… when…?”
“It’s your home, darling. Can’t you think of someplace quiet… someplace intimate…”
“The gardens,” she couldn’t reply quickly enough. “I can slip from my terrace, if you meet me.”
“Then I shall be there,” his voice was thick, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. It made her stomach knotted and fluttery. Made her skin burning and her blood pounding. Whatever it was she was about to learn, she could barely wait the few moments it would be to sneak away.
Then he kissed her, more than just the little pecks as children. More than the courtly press of his mouth on her gentle fingers. He spared her nothing, for she knew full well already the twist of his tongue around her own, the sucking of his lips and the clack of his teeth against hers. But this kiss, this devoured her. Sucked her breath and filled her tastebuds with him alone. Until she forgot to so much as breathe.
A loud footstep outside the door made them suddenly draw apart, the turn of the handle making Astarion shoot right up from the couch to stand coolly at the mantle, a chilled, contented smile on his lips as her father returned.
As if those lips weren’t just consuming his daughter.
“It’s late, Master Acunìn,” the General commented, always direct, always commanding.
“Yes, well, there will be many years ahead of us for goodnight and goodbyes, isn’t that right, my darling?” the young elf nodded his head to his future bride. Who, very wisely, kept her flushing face away from the sight of her father.
“Yes, Astarion,” she replied, all joy and music in those two words. “Goodnight to you both,” she stood to dip a curtsy. “I am ever so pleased with our arrangement,” she added, smiling as she made her way from the room.
“As am I,” Astarion replied, locking eyes with the General. “Goodnight, my future bride and father. I can see myself out.”
“So long as you don’t see yourself back in, boy,” her father laughed under his breath. A cold sort of laugh, wisened by experience past the machinations of youth. “You have years for that. The blink of an eye for our kind.”
Astarion nodded his head, eyes still fixed on his exit. Careful not to give away the racing of his heart in anticipation. Gratified that his instincts were sharper than the General, the aging elf whose eyes he could feel until the moment he shut the door to their home behind him.
It would be an easy deception, to head down the path towards the road and double back to the little garden. The moon was bright, and the stars even brighter. Hanging arbors of bright purple and rosy blooms covered the walls and trellises.
She had chosen well, a secluded spot, hidden and muffled. He watched her room, a little cutaway on the ground floor, as he had before. Her shadow moving in the light, the flicker of candles gutting out as he heard the door to her terrace open.
He peered out from behind the arbor, her eyes instantly setting on him, her mouth parting in a smile. Hoisting her skirt, she ran over the little tiled terrace, scrambling, almost vaulting over the balustrade to land in his arms.
“I can’t believe you did that, Astarion,” she panted, instantly pressing her lips against his. “You’re so much trouble…”
“Yes,” he breathed in between her moving lips, “but aren’t I just worth it?”
“Show me what you were doing and we will see,” she growled into his mouth, his hands already skating over the silks of her gown, pawing beneath the edges of her robe. His fingers traced down her arm, weaving into her hand. Pulling her, they reached the little bench, nestled among the hanging vines of sleeping flowers. All was quiet and shadow. The air was cool against their burning skin, the stone of the bench even colder as they slammed into it, tumbling down to sit side by side. Pressed so tightly together, her leg draped between his. His arms pulled tightly around her waist.
“First day giving me your word you’ll be mine,” he panted, “and already all you want to know is how to pleasure me?”
“Well,” she shoved him away, hand planted firmly on his chest. “I already know how to tease you, to best you, to anger you and calm you…” she tilted her head with a sultry, knowing smile. “I’m sure there is much I have yet to learn… and I am eager for you to teach me.”
“You’ve come a long way from flinging mud in my face and threatening to tattle on my father, darling,” his words tickled her cheek as he hovered over her ear. “If you wish to learn, this lesson will be completely… hands on.”
“Save your wit, Astarion,” she hissed, a smile on her face, her hands already straying over the soft fabric of his tunic. “Need I remind you, after today, you had the advantage of knowing the sight of me… all of me. I have yet to have the same pleasure.”
“All in good time, after all…” he pulled away to stare into her eager eyes, so bright as they caught the starlight, “we have years ahead of us now.”
His hand covered hers, sliding it lower, letting her fingers brush over his belly that clenched as he struggled for air. Astarion said nothing, just giving her that half a smile that made her blush. His eyes watched her face blanch as he moved her hand even lower, to press it against where he was hard yet again that day. Slowly, he moved her fingers up and down it, her mouth hanging open slightly to feel its length from where it met his pelvis to the tip that pressed somewhere down the leg of his breeches.
She swallowed hard. Her breath was harsher than ever. Than even after sprinting.
“Well,” he finally purred as he kept their hands working over him slowly. “I only saw the parts of you that glittered in the water above its surface, and I have never been more jealous of some dewy drops on your skin before.”
Cordehlia smirked, beginning to move her hand more freely, fingers tracing the rounded edges of whatever it was beneath. “Now poetry? I prefer you razor wit…”
“How about nothing more than the sounds we make all on our own?” he breathed, his hands pulling the laces from his breeches free. She felt it shift as the fabric released. That hard thing twitching as he reached inside. She couldn’t look away, the sight of him making her mouth water.
And her body even hotter than she had ever been in his presence, in his arms before.
She shut her jaw, clenching it as she watched his hand wrap around its width, watched as it jerked and twitched as he beat over it back and forth. “It’s not like you to hesitate or to balk when something is… hard.”
One hand shoved his shoulder, the other wrapped to join his grip around that… thing. She exhaled as she squeezed, the skin so smooth, the whole shaft so hot and pulsing with the beat of his heart. And so hard as he had joked. Rigid and silken, hard and smooth. Her touch straying towards its tip, she saw it dripping, little white, almost clear drops as she touched it. She swept it in her fingers, tacky and slick over that fleshy tip.
He groaned as she did so, and instantly she pulled away. “Sorry,” she hissed, her cheeks growing even redder in shame to hurt him.
“No,” he panted, grabbing her hand back to encircle that tip again. “The opposite, it felt amazing, the way you touch my cock…”
“Oh,” she smiled, reapplying the same sort of stroke over that little slit, feeling it seeping again as she touched him. “So…” she tilted her head, meeting those dilated, violet eyes, “…you like this?”
“Mmm, very much, even better than when I touch myself and think of you. The real thing is so much better,” he groaned again as she stroked harder, faster, like he had before. Head thrown back, he closed his eyes, savoring that no-longer-timid touch.
“What happens next?” she asked, somehow breathless herself.
“The best part,” he replied through clenching teeth. “Whatever you do, don’t dare stop…” he was growling, his hips raising as she kept that beat. He rocked on the stone bench, hands gripping into the edge. She watched as he contorted, seeming to be in agony, that cock in her hand growing harder and hotter, but she didn’t dare stop. Like he asked.
She felt it shudder in her fingers, his body clenching as he groaned. Collapsing forward, he kept shaking as noise after pained and panting noise came from his mouth. More of that sticky white drips shot from him, and Cordehlia held her breath, so certain she had hurt him.
A fear that was dispelled the moment she looked at his face now. His slack-mouthed smile, his eyes wide and glowing in the moonlight, he wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her against him. Lashing his mouth to hers, he muttered such sweet things into her lips. “That was…” he paused to breathe, “amazing. You were perfect. Better than I had dreamed…”
“It looked painful,” she replied, breaking away with a push on his chest again. Turning her head, she looked where the stones of the terrace were discolored and wet, where his cock still dripped a little more of that gleaming whiteness. “And you call that pleasuring yourself?”
“I assure you, he grinned, brows raising, lips quirking, “it is quite the opposite of painful.”
“Hmm,” she hemmed, skeptical as she turned to look back into that face.
“You look like you need some.. convincing…”
His hands wrapped around her waist, slowly starting to gather up the thin silks that covered her perfect, pale skin.
“I think I can show you, if you let me,” he crooned, mouth smiling wider.
“You’re going to teach me how to… pleasure myself?” Oh, she was so haughty, so confident and daring. Even when she was wrong, it was stimulating.
“Really?” She kept that hand firmly on his chest, even as her body gave her away, her hips sliding slightly closer as his hands pulled her skirts to her knees. “I take it this knowledge was not garnered from first… hand… experience…” she tested him.
“No, no,” he shook his head, smiling with reassurance, “I read it in a book, a most fascinating book…”
“So fascinating that it made you pursue release in… pleasuring yourself after?”
“Seems like you know more than an elegant, righteous she-elf should…” he touched her skin then, sliding two fingers higher from her knee. “You weren’t watching me, were you?” he taunted, fingers tracing back down only to dare higher beneath her skirts.
“No, that seemed to be your duty, my darling,” she laughed as she spoke, low and slick. Her breath came heavier. Her skin flamed hotter the higher he touched.
Then, she looked right into his eyes, all that taunting evaporated, her smile softened, her eyes wide and pleading as she could do nothing more than breathe and lean back even more.
And he kept touching, awed by that look of trust and… love. And then, he slunk those fingers beneath the thin line of her undergarments.
She was… wet. Hot. Those folds he had read about, observed in drawings… it was so much better now. But he needed more.
His other hand gripped her knee, pulling those strong legs of hers apart. A gasp tore from her throat as she let him. Her fingers clutched at the back of his head, locked into his hair as if she was about to collapse.
And then, his touch slid inside. Her eyes shot wide, her face contorting like his had, now she knew why.
He slid those fingertips back and forth, dragging that hot slick more and more through that seam. At last, he circled through that point at the apex, drawing his touch over that hard little spot. Just as he had read. But the way it made her clench and groan was even… more magnificent.
Her cheeks were so pink, her forehead beading with sweat. “What… is that…” she managed to speak, breathless and deep in her throat.
“Give me you hand, sweet Cordehlia, and you can tend to your own needs when I can’t be with you in the shadows.”
She obeyed, keeping that one grip tight around his neck. But the other slipped in to join his so quickly. Pushing harder, sweeping faster, his fingers tried to keep up with the way she was… touching herself.
“Gods,” he groaned, “how does it feel?”
“I… can’t…” she panted, eyes shutting hard as she groaned.
So he slid his fingers in deeper in… in her quivering walls.
“Ah!” she mewled, forgetting they were still in danger, forgetting anyone could hear them.
But Astarion didn’t care, not when she clenched hard and tight around his fingers, not when his cock was pulsing again, aching for another round of his own release.
She shook so hard, she almost pulled him down, her arm releasing instead to hold herself up. Her eyes looked at his body again, settling on where his cock still stood hard and twitching in his lap. “I want to watch you… watch you touch yourself while I…”
“Yes,” he growled, hand slipping from her skirts, rubbing that slick that coated his whole hand over himself. “Gods, Cordehlia,” he couldn’t keep his eyes open, not needing much more than a few more pumps on his cock to set him nearly off again. One last glance of her face wracked with ecstacy, the sound of her orgasm as she beat her own fingers into that hot slick he could smell… it was enough.
It was more than enough.
He watched as she bit her lips and screamed through them, hearing that wet squelch of her fingers beneath her skirt grow somehow wetter sounding.
She was divine. Worthy. Beyond compare. Worth all the wagging tongues of the nobles and disapproving scowls of his parents to make her his.
His.
And with that, he groaned and came again. Harder and more intensely than ever before. Spurting streams of his cum covered the tiles and dripped from his hand.
He looked at her then, her eyes glazed with lust, with sated desire and yet burning up for more.
He was hers as much as she was his…
And he would never be the same.
————
She released his mind. His mouth hung open, his breath ragged.
His heart warmed over, despite being dead, all fluttering and hot. Maybe a fragment of his soul returned to him, he wasn’t sure. The way her silver eyes beat open, that ember of desire in them from the memory of so long ago… it made him realize just how achingly hard he had become.
More than her blood in his stomach, more than the sight of her bathing… it was an ache in his groin and his chest that only one thing could satisfy.
And he could smell the same need between her legs, could hear it in the way her heart raced and rapped in her chest.
Swift and sure, her hands clutched into his shirt, grabbing him hard and pulling him. To make him climb on her body, to cover herself in the only remedy to quell her burning. She pushed his clothes off his skin, his voice reduced to a growl in his throat. Those eager, dexterous fingers ripped his own clothes off, relieved only once he was freed. Once they both were freed, nothing but their skin and desire to share.
“I was your first,” he rasped, crushing her with his body, consuming her with his mouth. “The first to know you, to touch you…”
“To taste me and pleasure me and have me…” she purred, “and I you.”
“And none shall have you like I have… like I do…” Astarion groaned, slipping his fingers into her, just as he had perhaps a million times before. Her arousal was so hot and plentiful, all resistance was gone.
As if her body was made for him. The same way a key can slip so perfectly into its lock.
After those memories, he wouldn’t be surprised if it were so. “You enjoyed learning from me,” he grunted into her mouth, the visions of their memories still flaring in his head. “Didn’t you?”
“Yes,” she sighed back. Her hips bucking hard, riding each crooking touch he made deep inside her.
“Your little shakes of excitement, your wide, innocent eyes and pink little lips wet for me…”
“Yes,” she sighed again, arching and clinging hard around his neck.
“Your lips, your breasts, your honey-dripping cunt… Gods, I want to fuck them all, make every inch of you mine, make them swollen and marked by my bite…” he looked down at her then, teeth glinting as he gave a wide-mouthed grin. “Not the Druid, not the Wizard, not a single one that looks at you would doubt you are mine…”
“Astarion, I’ve been yours,” Cordehlia said, hands gripping hard as she shuddered, feeling her own juices beginning to gush around his fingers, his thumb commanding her with all the dexterity he plied, all the knowledge of her body he now recalled from centuries.
He crooked his fingers even harder through her orgasm, working and fighting against every time she bore down in ecstacy. Panting, she softened around him, beneath him. Yielding to every part of him, body and soul. “Your turn,” she rasped, face nestled against his shoulder. Her hand gripped around his cock, slick already from the drips that already leaked from its tip.
Hips bucking into her fist, his lips peeled back to bare his teeth. “May I?”
“Bite me a dozen times so everyone sees your markings? Yes,” she snickered, rubbing over his shaft just a little faster until he groaned. From her touch or her words, she wasn’t sure. But she loved it either way.
The base of her neck, the throbbing of her jugular, the crest of her collarbone… one after another he nipped and drank. Each bite making her fist clench so tightly around his cock, he had no choice but to let his body rut into her grip. His tongue lapped all over her own ivory skin, her crimson blood thick in his throat as she pleasured him.
That age-old touch that commanded him, pleasuring him as only she could. Thousands of forced lovers over hundreds of years, and for once, he reclaimed that feeling of intimacy, that near-first-time thrill he thought long dead. Making love to one he wanted. One he…
“I love you,” he whispered between her blood-dripping breasts.
“I have always loved you,” the reply couldn’t leave her lips fast enough. Her fingers gripping into the locks behind his pointed ears, pulling his dripping copper-tanged mouth to hers. Furious. Crazed. Matching that possessiveness stroke for stroke with her tongue, nip for nip with her teeth on his lips. Her hand dragged through the pooling blood on her body, running that warm, thick liquid over his cock.
Making him shudder as she ran her touch up and down it again. He groaned with that hot slick gliding over his length. The scent of her blood was too delicious to resist. “As fun as it was to cum all over you when we were young, I’d much rather be invited inside, my love.” He tried to sweeten his voice, but that play on his cock already had him undone.
She only chuckled, guiding him inside her so quickly, he barely could tell what was her fist and what was her folds until her thighs clenched tight around his waist, her hips bucking hard against his own. Riding him with every little bit of passion she had stored inside for him alone.
Possessing her for centuries. Making certain he never forgot now that he was hers to possess as well.
Something I love about confronting Cazador is how he obviously never processes that Astarion has friends until it's too late.
Petras and Dalyria must have mentioned that Astarion wasn't alone when they met him, but when you read Cazador's journal? He's 100% fixated on Astarion. How Astarion stood in the sun, how Astarion was willing and able to disobey him. And when Astarion shows up, Cazador barely acknowledges the party at all - and sure, that's partly because this is Astarion's moment in the narrative, but Cazador doesn't so much as ask why these random strangers are there! They're not part of his plans, so they don't exist.
And then they immediately save his errant spawn from the ritual and start beating his ass.
Just. What must have been going through Cazador's head when that fight starting turning against him? 'Is that... the Blade of Frontiers? Why is a monster hunter - and is that a cleric? - helping a vampire spawn? An undead? Ah, but they must be treating it as a necessary evil to have a chance to slay me, of course - hold on, why is the cleric healing Astarion? Why does that wizard keep Counterspelling everything I'm casting at Astarion, why waste the spells when I'm not even targeting him? Did... did that druid just cast Daylight on Astarion's weapons? And that brute of a tiefling - that's not just disgust in her eye when she looks at me, it's fury - and she keeps putting herself in front of Astarion, why in the hells would she - she's running right at me- '
I hope that one of the last things Cazador ever knew was the choking realisation that Astarion didn't just come back strong, or free. Astarion came back loved.
Summary: You helped Astarion complete the Rite of Profane Ascension and become the Vampire Ascendent. You agreed to become his spawn soon after. Once the Netherbrain was defeated, Astarion claimed the Szarr Palace, renaming it the Crimson Palace, for himself and set about his plans of domination.
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.
If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know
Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience}
Run?
Your stilled heart may not be able to beat any longer, but all-consuming fear still afflicts your battered body. You feel the familiar prickling sensation of adrenaline expanding outward from your constricting chest like a glassy lake disturbed by a thrown stone. All your hair stands on end as you think about the approaching dawn.
Staring into the icebound pools of Astarion’s scarlet eyes, you think about everything he has stolen from you - your life, your body, your soul, your love, your loyalty, your freedom.
He has taken everything from me.
Your voice shakes, “The sun can’t harm me if you’re near.”
“How certain are you that I don’t control that lovely little benefit?”
“Do you?”
One of his eyebrows pulls down hauntingly, “Perhaps I do. Perhaps I don’t. Are you willing to risk your life on it, pet?”
“Yes.”
“What about dear Shadowheart’s life? I would give her a very warm bloody welcome when she comes looking for you.”
Shadowheart.
“I won’t let you touch her.”
“If you’re a pile of ash on my front step, I don’t see you having much choice in the matter, darling, but you’re welcome to loiter out here all you like.”
Astarion turns his back on you. You seethe with a noxious loathing - for yourself, him, and the mess you’ve dragged your friends into. A deep rage you have kept caged for too long finally breaks free of its prison.
With a bellowing roar, you lash out at him, casting Telekinesis and hauling him off his feet, throwing him across the courtyard.
His body impacts a stone statue with a thud, shattering it into rubble. The ground greets his body with such force that he bounces off it.
What have I done?
His muscles tense, and he shifts his body, using the momentum to easily roll back onto his feet. A weeping gash on his forehead causes blood to stream down his face, streaking it with vicious red to match his eyes.
“You’ll pay for that.”
I know.
His reflexes might be like liquid lightning, but you’re not some feeble halfwit. Even though you’re not sure it will hold him, you cast Hold Person on him, catching him off guard. You see his frame flicker slightly as he tries to turn himself into mist, but your magic is strong, fuelled by your rage.
Shadowheart.
You have a choice - you can hold your ground against him as long as possible and allow either the sun or him to end you, or you can try to make it home before sunrise. He may follow and hunt you down like a rabid animal that needs exterminating, but either way, your fate remains the same.
Gale. Shadowheart. I have to try.
You pivot and force your body to move forward as fast as you can. Feeding off your rage, hatred, and all the devastated pieces of your broken heart, you run.
You dash over fences, skip across roofs, pull on every ounce of magic your body can contain and Misty Step until you’re not sure whether you’re mist or corporeal from one moment to the next. You push forward erratically, skittering towards home.
You don’t look back. If Astarion follows, you don’t want to know. You already know the fate that awaits should he choose it.
Your muscles twitch and cramp woefully with over-exertion as you draw closer. The stars no longer shine in the sky as they are snuffed out by the quickly rising light of dawn, but you can see the little house just up ahead.
I’m so close.
As the first light starts to break over the horizon, you throw the old wooden door open, throwing yourself to safety inside, slamming it shut.
Backing away from the door, you wait pensively, wondering if Astarion will burst through at any moment to make you pay for what you’ve done. You watch that door with a fixed, heated glower for hours, but nothing happens.
You go up to your bedroom and sink to your knees on the ground. Without the swarming fervour of hatred to dull the aching of your heart, you fall to pieces.
He really is gone, isn’t he?
The spasming pain in your stomach cleaves at you, awakening you from the troubled trance you slipped into. Your arms curl around your midsection, trying to stifle the recurrent waves of convulsing pain rocketing through you.
I need to eat. Badly.
You have to force your starving body to move forward. Your muscles cramp and jerk out of your control. Each step has to be taken with purpose and effort as you try to control your writhing body.
The journey is agonizing and takes you longer than it should. When you finally reach the forest, you’re already exhausted. You fill your useless lungs with air they don’t need in an instinctive sharp inhale.
Another spasm in your unruly limbs causes you to stumble. You catch yourself on a tree and rest your forehead against the rough bark, squeezing your eyes shut so tightly that the muscles of your face ache.
“There you are, little love. I’ve been waiting.”
You groan at the velvety smooth voice and force your eyes to open, casting them toward it. Astarion is standing on the other side of the small clearing.
Dressed in black, he melts into the shadows like an apparition. His clothing is reminiscent of what he wore the first night at camp after the crash, and you curse at him inwardly for wearing something that reminds you of old times.
You push yourself away from the tree and try to stand tall, but the cramping in your stomach persists, and you lurch over awkwardly.
“What the fuck do you want.”
“To talk.”
You scoff, “I have nothing to say to you.”
Astarion starts to walk towards you, and you grasp at the weave. Using Telekinesis, you throw him backwards, off his feet. He skids harshly across the moss-covered ground.
Once again, using the momentum, he tucks and rolls onto his feet, righting himself, “I’m not here to hurt you.”
Yeah, right.
“If you come anywhere near me, I will burn you with every ounce of magic I have!”
Will I?
He starts towards you again, but before you can cast anything, he shifts into mist and rapidly reappears behind you. Terrified, you turn, ready to defend yourself against whatever horror he is going to inflict.
You might be fast, but he will always be faster. He effortlessly grabs your hands and forces them together, rendering you unable to cast. You struggle against him furiously, but he easily overpowers you, barely wavering.
He snarls, “Why do you insist on making me treat you in this manner? Why do you fight me at every turn?!”
Make him?
You break into venomous, hysterical laughter, and his eyes widen in shock.
“No one can make you do anything anymore, Astarion. What you do and who you are - those are your choices to make. You have no one but yourself to blame for any atrocities you commit and your shitty behaviour.”
His eyes soften, “You’re right, which is why I need to speak with you.”
Wait...
I’m right?
No.
Don’t fall for this again.
“Did you not hear me? I want nothing to do with you!”
He sighs, “I understand. If you wish, I will leave Baldur’s Gate and never return. You will never have to see me again, but you must hear me out first.”
… What?
“I’m going to let your hands go now. Are you planning on attacking me some more, or will you listen?”
“Let go and find out.”
He chuckles, “Fiery as ever, my dear.”
Astarion releases his hold on you and puts his hands up in an innocent gesture, backing away from you slowly.
You watch him through narrowed eyes as he retreats. You position yourself in a defensive stance. A fireball blooming in your palm, and your fangs bared.
“What is this, Astarion? What kind of sick trick are you playing now?”
“No tricks. No games. Please, hear me out, but allow me to get you some food first.”
“You want to feed me?”
He nods, “It will allow you to think clearer. I can see you’re in pain…”
He pities me, but Gods, I am so hungry.
“No, thank you. The last time I accepted your help, it nearly got me turned into a pile of ash.”
His crimson eyes look at you sadly, downturned at the corners, “Let me help you. Please.”
Starving.
“Fine.”
“Excellent. Perhaps you should stay put. You are likely to scare everything away. Do you have a preference? Deer, boar, bear… Kobold?”
What the fuck is happening right now.
You wave a hand at him in dismissal, “It doesn’t matter. Blood is blood.”
Astarion vanishes somewhere into the thickly treed forest, leaving you with your thoughts. Your mind is reeling, confused, and unsettled. Your nerves buzz, your skin feels like it’s crawling, and you have no doubt that if your stilled heart could beat, it would be throwing itself around your chest, trying to break your ribs.
What part of the nine Hells have I fallen into?
Astarion returns quickly, and you consider for a moment if he may have poisoned the animal, but what do you have to lose at this point?
Once you finish your four-legged feast, you stare at him, observing his behaviour. He stands with his arms crossed, leaning against a tree, looking exceptionally pensive. His cardinal red eyes dart rapidly, never focusing on anything in particular.
He looks… anxious, scared even.
“Are you going to tell me what this is all about now?”
He jolts out of his thoughts, “Yes, of course. Do you feel better?”
Gods, yes.
You could almost moan at how relieved you feel - clear-headed, strong, no more gut-wrenching pain, turning your insides to mincemeat. Your muscles have stopped their relentless, painful spasming and are finally under your control again.
You might hug him simply for this feeling alone, but you lock your knees and keep your feet firmly planted.
“I feel fine. Tell me what you want.”
Astarion shifts away from the tree he’s been leaning against and steps toward you. You take several steps back, instantly lowering your centre of gravity protectively, and fire sparks to life in your hands.
He stops, a dismal expression on his face, “You’re afraid of me.”
“Observant, as always.”
Afraid doesn’t begin to cover it.
“What I did to you… What I’ve done to you… I… I abhor myself for it.”
You scoff, “Which part?”
“All of it.”
You stand there clinging to your fire for comfort. Your mouth is dropped open in astonishment. You observe his features keenly. His crimson eyes are downcast and glassed over, melancholic remorse shining brightly in the waxy moonlight.
His shoulders are slumped. His demeanour reminds you of the night he tried to bite you in your sleep, and you awoke to him hovering over you, fangs bared.
What can I even say to this?
He drags his fingers through the highlighted silver curls of his hair, “I feel different after the ritual. Something in me is… broken. I am not myself.”
No shit.
He looks at you with frightened, round eyes, “I don’t want to be this way, this person, but the power…” He looks at his hands as they ball into fists and clenches his bared teeth, “It corrupts, and I lose myself in it.”
“Why are you telling me all of this?”
“I need your help.”
“You want my help? After you threatened to kill me?” You shake your head, “What kind of morbid trick is this, Astarion? What games are you trying to amuse yourself with now?”
“No games, my love.”
My love?
Am I actually considering this?
Have I gone completely mad?
Tightness coils like a spring constricting your chest, and you let the fire burning in your palm retreat, “How can I ever trust you again? How can I know if this is real?”
Astarion comes closer with slow, deliberate steps, “You can cast Detect Thoughts, no?”
“Yes, you know that. You’ve seen me use it countless times. Why?”
“Cast it.”
“What?”
“You need to know this is not a trick, and I can hardly blame you. Cast, darling. Tell me what you see.”
Astarion continues his slow advance toward you. The one good thing about being dead and having no heartbeat is that he can’t tell how scared you are. You hold your ground with a rigid stance, muscles tight and ready to react at a moment's notice.
He searches your face, looking deeply into your eyes, “They never did completely change colour, did they? Your eyes, I mean.”
All of your friends had remarked that although your eyes did take on the red hue of his, your irises held splotches and slivers where your original eye colour was still visible. You wonder what it must look like, but your face will forever be just a memory until one day it too fades.
“I wouldn’t know. I have no reflection anymore.”
“I’ve taken much from you.”
My love. My passion. My life.
Astarion hand trails down your arm to your wrist before turning your palm up and kissing it softly, “Cast, love.”
Do I want to do this?
You shouldn’t even be humouring him; you should be asking him to leave the city as he said he would, but there’s something in his voice, in the way he moves, and in his eyes that you recognize, and it tugs at your inherent intuition. You grit your teeth and cast.
My Astarion… If there’s even a small chance, I have to take it.
“What do you see?”
“Nothing. I haven’t used it.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid of what I might see, hear.”
He chuckles, “Me too.”
You delve into his mind. There is so much noise in his head that it makes it hard to focus on any one thought, and you struggle with isolating them. The cacophonous commotion maims your conscious mind and makes you want to yelp.
Shaking your head, you try to stifle the throbbing pain between your ears, “You need to settle your mind, Astarion.”
“How?”
“Focus on something that calms you.”
“Okay,” Astarion anchors his eyes on you, “try again.”
The chaotic mess of his mind batters yours as you try to focus yourself from one thought to the next. You manage to catch snippets here and there, but nothing concrete, nothing that can tell you if this is a trick, game or some other form of callous manipulation.
“Not calm enough, Astarion.”
“Is everyone's mind like that?”
“No one’s mind is like that. At least no one I’ve done this to. Thoughts are usually coherent and fluid like a slow stream slipping into a bigger river, but yours are chaotic, loud, like a raging storm.”
Although this certainly sheds some light on his erratic behaviour.
“What now?”
This might not be my brightest idea.
“I have an idea, but you might not like it.”
He narrows his eyes at you, “Well, what is it?”
You take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying to calm the fear curdling in your stomach. Closing the distance between you, your lips meet his tenderly.
He’s shocked for a moment, and you wonder if you overstepped, but his arm comes around you, pulling your body flush against his. He deepens the kiss with a low moan.
Now, the hard part is trying to keep enough of your mind off this moment to be able to read his thoughts accurately.
You once again focus your spell. The blaring white noise that had obstructed and retaliated against your intrusion slowly drops to a low murmur in the background.
His thoughts start to form coherently, and you follow the meandering stream. You can hear them now, as long as you don’t allow yourself to get too lost in him.
A challenge all on its own.
There’s something different about his thoughts compared to others’ minds you’ve read. He’s in there, but there’s something else, something sinister that chants malice, hatred, and corruption. It grasps at and infects his thoughts as they flow, polluting them.
You can hear his thoughts as they drift.
“What have I become?”
“Who am I?”
“Help me.”
He’s not lying.
Having heard enough to get answers, you allow the spell to wane. You intend to break the kiss, but his mouth on yours feels divine. He hasn’t kissed you with this much passion since the night he turned you, and you soak into it and immerse yourself in him.
I have to stop this, but Gods, I don’t want to.
His tongue trails along your lower lip, sending spiralling shivers running down your spine, and you gasp, parting your lips for him. He explores your mouth skillfully, tasting you, and a growl reverberates in his chest. Feverish need washes through you in a deluge and pools hot in your stomach.
You push yourself further into him, trailing your hands greedily up the smooth contours of his body. His thumb sweeps affectionately across your cheek. He is the center of your universe, and you can’t help but be pulled into him. Your yearning desire swells between your thighs, and you sigh against him at the throbbing ache, begging for him to relieve it.
You can feel your rationality start to slip away from you as you gravitate towards him helplessly.
Reluctantly, you push him away, with a panting breath, “Stop.”
He groans but releases you immediately, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to-”
Shaking your head, you hold your hand up to stop him. This wasn’t his fault. You had initiated it in the first place and allowed it to go on far longer than you should have. Your lips still tingle with the phantom feeling of his urging mouth, and you crave more.
His sultry gaze penetrates you, “I did very much enjoy that idea.”
Me too.
“You’re not lying, as far as I can tell, but I still don’t know what you think I can do for you.”
“You’re the only one that will stand up to me. Well, that I know I won’t kill anyway.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
His eyebrows round, and his mouth drops open, “You think I will kill you?”
“Yes. I think you might. You’re certainly more than capable of it.”
“I…” Surprise dances across his features, “I would never.”
You scowl at him, “You almost did.”
“Darling, I was right behind you the entire time, just out of sight. I would never have let you burn.”
Was he?
“Oh, I see. So, you just, what? Enjoy seeing me running for my life, terrified? I hope you enjoyed the show.”
“I don’t enjoy it, but I feel… compelled to do it like something takes over, and I’m out of control…” he sighs, “again.”
“I don’t know if I can save you from yourself, Astarion.”
His eyes fall to the ground, full of sorrow and fear, and your heart breaks for him.
“I… I understand.”
“But I will try.”
I have to.
“You will?”
What do I have to lose?
Reflexively, you take a deep breath and nod, “Yes.”
Astarion takes your hand in his, “Thank you.” He smiles, “Will you move back into the palace?”
You pull away from him, “I have to think about it, Astarion. I need time to process…. Whatever this is.”
“Yes, of course. That’s eminently reasonable. Shall we discuss your terms tomorrow night?”
Another transaction for my help. Lovely.
“Fine. Until tomorrow, then. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, my treasure.”
You sit in the stark chair by the fireplace in the empty house you share with Shadowheart and Gale. Anxiety prickles your skin and ripples through your thoughts.
Am I falling for another trap?
Agreeing to help him may prove to be your undoing, but when have you ever been able to resist him when he’s pleading for your help? It’s what got you into this mess in the first place - isn’t it? If the ritual did cause this change in him, you can’t help but feel it’s your fault.
It sounded like he was still in there. If he is, how do you save someone from their own corrupted thoughts?
Tears slip down your cheeks, and you bring your knees to your chest. The fire wanes in the fireplace as it runs out of fuel, and you allow it to die like you allowed Astarion to take your life. As the fire burns out, it washes you in darkness. You wish Shadowheart were here to try and talk you out of the stupidity you’ve just agreed to.
Can I even be talked out of it?
You have always been headstrong, likely to your own detriment at times. You preserve where others balk. That resilience had carried you through after escaping the Nautiloid, but could it carry you through this?
The hectic cacophony of Astarion’s mind makes you shudder. You’ve listened in on the thoughts of countless people and never encountered anything similar. It had been like watching a crystal-clear stream slip through a contaminated bog, turning it into a gelatinous, toxic soup.
Could the ritual have caused that?
There was no way to know for sure. You had never listened to his thoughts before. Even when you had the tadpole, you never forced your way into any of your friends’ heads out of respect for them and their privacy. The only times you had crossed those boundaries was when the tadpole resonated with his out of your control.
Going to your room, you crawl into your bed. The wooden walls creak and groan eerily around you as if the ghosts of the 7000 souls you condemned were haunting you. You let your consciousness glide into the meditative tranquillity of your trance.
You awake when the shadows have devoured the light again. Slipping into a tightly fitting robe, you bolster yourself for what’s to come. You run a comb through your hair and adorn your favourite circlet. The metal is delicately shaped in prancing dragons, and a shining red gem hangs low on your forehead.
A knock on the door makes you twitch slightly, though you already know who it is. Astarion is waiting when you open it, leaning against the doorframe, handsomely bathed in the small beams of pale light that slip through the parting clouds covering the inky sky.
He’s dressed in a fancy red and black jacket with silver and gold piping and finely embroidered. His scarlet eyes are vibrant, dazzling you.
“Hello, little love. Are you ready to discuss?”
Am I?
“Yes. We can talk.”
“Where are Shadowheart and Gale?”
“Not here.” You leer a warning at him, “Stay away from them.”
His eyes cast down, “Do you truly think I am such a monster that I would hurt them?”
“I don’t know who or what you are anymore.”
He shakes his head with a sigh, “Neither do I sometimes, my dear. Shall we get you something to eat before we talk?”
“You’re not dressed for hunting.”
He chuckles, “I may be a tad overdressed. I came from a business meeting.”
Business meeting?
“Come, let’s go get you some food.”
You and Astarion walk to the forest in uneasy silence. A low fog covers the ground in an eerie, chalky mist. You keep a tight grasp on your magic, ready to cast at a moment's notice.
Astarion may seem different, but you’re not entirely sure if you can trust him. Part of you thinks this is all just another manipulation, and you’re walking straight into it.
The lovesick hero… Gods, he couldn’t have been more right.
“Do you always stomp so loudly when you’re hunting?”
You scoff, “I am not a hunter, Astarion.”
“Yes, that’s evident. How did you keep yourself fed?”
You shake your head, abject, “I didn’t. Not well, at least.”
Astarion strips himself of his jacket and shirt once he’s surmised you’re deeply enough into the forest. His pallid skin makes him appear almost ghost-like in the washed-out glow of the diffuse beams of light that flicker, cast from the full moon glowing brightly behind the clouds. His muscles appear as though they have been etched from stone by a master mason.
Fuck.
He looks ethereal in this moment, and you can’t pry your eyes away from him.
“Enjoying the view, precious thing?”
“Yes, the forest is beautiful tonight.” You cast your eyes upward before meeting his with a taunting glare, “I could take or leave your body.”
“Oh,” he giggles, “feeling bold tonight, I see.”
This feels too much like before he usurped the Rite of Profane Ascension, making you restless. You fidget with your hands and shift uncomfortably on your feet. Your palms are still warm, prepared to cast, just in case he turns on you like he has so many times.
“We can talk about what’s bothering you if you wish.”
You didn’t even notice him walk over. Astarion stands in front of you. His eyebrow is cocked, and he eyes you acutely with a probing gaze.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Stay put, and do try not to move about too much. You scare away the animals.”
You roll your eyes at him, “I’m well aware of my inadequacies, thank you.”
Just like the night before, Astarion returns promptly with your dinner. He redresses himself while you eat, and you mourn the loss of that mouthwatering sight.
Get ahold of yourself.
“Where would you like to talk? I presume you have… demands.”
“The palace is fine as long as you don’t currently have any… guests. ”
“Guests?” He cocks a brow at you, confused.
“Your new lover. Whatever her name is.”
“Oh…” He shakes his head, “It’s not what you think, my dear. We will discuss it.”
Not what I think? She basically told me as much.
Once you hit the city streets leading to the palace, you are overwhelmed by all the people outside, even at this late hour. They smell like prey, and even though you just ate, that hunger is insatiable. You could likely eat every person in this city and still not quench that sanguine thirst.
Their hearts beat lazily in their chests as they mull about, and it’s the only thing you can hear. You grimace and grit your teeth, trying to stay in control of the bloodlust that consumes you.
Astarion notices your unease. He had spent two centuries with it, after all.
“Hold my hand, little love. I’ll keep you safe and them.”
He holds his hand out to you, and you look at it tentatively, unsure if you should take it. A child runs past you, chasing his friends, laughing hysterically, and you grab Astarion’s hand in a death grip. You clamber and hug tightly to his side as you fight the urge to chase the gleefully playing children.
Gods, what have I become?
“Eyes on me, darling. You’re alright.”
“Astarion, I can’t.” Your voice is panicked, pleading, “I need to get out of here before I kill someone.”
He nods and looks around, “Do you see that rooftop?”
“Yes.”
“Can you make it up there?”
You nod, “Yes.”
“Go.”
You cast Misty Step and disperse into a fog, reappearing on the rooftop. Astarion is already there waiting for you, no doubt turning himself into mist as he had done in the forest to subdue you. He holds out his hand again, and this time, you take it gratefully. Despite the fear he has instilled in you, there is solace in his touch as there always was.
Astarion leads you over rooftops, jumping from section to section and catching you when you inevitably nearly fall. The breeze up here is unhindered by obstacles and remains fresh and mostly void of the smell of the living, allowing you to calm your raving mind.
Walking into the palace courtyard, you eye the statue you had thrown him through in your rage just a few nights prior.
So much can change so quickly.
The square base of the statue remains largely intact, but the rest of the marbled-grey figure lies in large, jagged pieces strewn haphazardly on the ground.
Astarion follows your gaze and smirks, “I didn’t like it much anyway.”
You follow him into a large, lavish sitting room, obviously meant to occupy the spawns’ guests before Cazador came for them. Looking around the dim, dreary palace, you shudder.
I hate this place.
“Darling, do you mind?”
“What?”
He points at the fireplace, “Would you be so kind?”
With the flick of your wrist, fire springs to life, igniting the kindling and logs, crackling and popping. A soft, tawny glow casts across the room. The tacky paintings and art he hated still embellish the walls, and the furniture remains the same.
Why has he not changed any of this?
He sits down and watches as you glide through the room, inspecting it. You finally shake your head and bring yourself back to the matter at hand.
Let’s get this over with.
“I have stipulations.”
He chuckles, “I would not have expected any less.”
“I don’t want to live in this horrid place.”
He waves his hand dismissively, “This is my home.”
“It’s not mine. Let me be perfectly clear - I will not live here.”
He sighs, “Alright, but please tell me you are not asking me to move back in with Shadowheart and Gale?”
“Absolutely not. I don’t want you anywhere near them.”
“I will purchase another then.”
“I don’t want to see your lover. If you must be with her, you can go elsewhere. Return to this palace for all I care as long as I don’t have to see her and you together.”
“It upsets you.”
Your anger flares, the fire in the fireplace pulses and sputters along with it, “Yes, it fucking upsets me. Does that make you happy?”
He stands and walks over to you. You cross your arms over your body and keep your eyes off him, not wanting him to see just how much it breaks you.
Astarion uses his fingers to gently bring your eyes up to his, “Why does it upset you so?”
You scoff at him, “That’s a stupid question.”
“Be a dear and humour my stupidity then.”
“You wouldn’t even touch me after you turned me into… this. You barely laid a finger on me.”
His eyebrows knit together, “Did you want me to?”
“… Yes.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
I wanted you to want me...
“It hardly matters now. Let’s move on.”
“I’d rather like to know why you care so much about the, what did you call her?” He cocks his head, eyes upcast, “Ah yes, my “purple-haired hussy.” You left me, remember?”
“You didn’t give me a choice. It was either run or be ruined by you, but I don’t wish to drudge this up. Let’s move on.”
He grabs your robe aggressively, tugging you close to him with a threatening sneer, “I said tell me.”
Well, that didn’t last long, did it?
Here goes nothing.
Reaching up, you grab one of his fists holding you, and you burn him. He winces, recoils and throws you to the floor.
“You little shit!”
“Stop listening to whatever is whispering to you in your head, Astarion.”
I need to snap him out of this, but how?
Your words in the forest float through your head, “Focus on something that calms you.”
Me… He anchored himself with me…
In a swift motion, you throw yourself up and wrap your arms around him in a tight embrace, “Don’t let it win.”
He growls menacingly, and you squeeze him tighter. Your whole body is trembling, terror-stricken, and you clench your jaw hard and wait for whatever comes next.
He’s either going to throw me off, kill me, or….
Astarion stills. His muscles flex and relax chaotically. You look up at him, and his eyes are tightly shut with his teeth grit together so harshly they rasp sickeningly. The tendons in his neck jut out unnaturally. His hands are balled into fists at his side. You reach up and cradle his face, and he snarls threateningly, but you sweep your thumb across his cheek.
“Hey, eyes on me, Astarion.” You echo his words from earlier when he had saved you from your own morbid, intrusive thoughts.
His eyes open slowly and meet yours, “Easy now. You’ve got this.”
Quiet minutes tick by without a word from either of you. You watch the war raging inside him through his eyes. They flash from cold and dead to the crimson warmth you recognize and back again while he battles with himself.
With a slight shake of his head, his whole body relaxes instantly, and his eyes warm again.
“I… I apologize. I…”
“Lost yourself, I know.”
He pushes you back and looks you up and down, “Are you hurt?”
“No, you didn’t hurt me, but I burnt you. Apologies.”
He looks at the reddened marking on his pale hand, “Think nothing of it. I heal quickly.”
“Yes, I’m well aware.”
Astarion’s eyes look at the floor, ashamed of himself, “Are you going to leave? I’ll take you home if you wish.”
“No. I believe we still have terms to discuss.”
“You’re still going to help me?”
You smile, “Always.”
“You truly are full of surprises, aren’t you?”
His confession at Moonrise rings through your mind. The memory is overlayed in sorrow, and your chest clenches tightly, remembering his words, “I want us to be something real.”
You thrust the thought away as quickly as it reared up, “Are you okay now, or do you need a moment?”
“No. I’m fine. We can continue with your demands. You will not live here, no lovers, what else?” He smirks, “You are a particularly demanding little thing tonight.”
“You need to teach me how to hunt so I can feed myself.”
“We’ve swayed to this particular song already, love. Don’t you remember?”
“Yes, I remember. I will endeavour to be a better pupil this time.”
He chuckles, “You may get the hang of it in a century or two or three. Fine. I will do my best to educate you. Anything else?”
“When this is over, I want my freedom. I know you won’t turn me into a True Vampire, but I want to be free to decide my fate.”
“Why do you think I won’t?”
“You told me as much. “Trust me, it doesn’t happen.” After you turned me, I was too blinded to realize you were saying what I wanted to hear in honeyed lies. I am not so naive anymore."
He scowls but takes a deep breath, “Then you will have it, my dear.”
Big thank you to everyone who takes the time to read/follow/like/reblog/comment/etc. I'm honoured to know you're enjoying reading my fics!
I'm sorry this chapter took awhile to come out - I've rewritten it so many times I've lost count, so I hope you like it!
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: A stranger approaches Astarion in your favorite tavern
Genre: slice of life, little bit of angst, mostly fluff
The tavern is cozy. Loud and lively and warm. There’s a fire in the fireplace. The bartender keeps the alcohol flowing plentifully. And you’re seated at your favorite table–in the corner, against the wall but still close enough to the action to enjoy the tavern atmosphere–with your favorite cold-blooded company.
Astarion has dragged his chair around to your side of the table, and he’s sitting close enough that you can feel the chill from his skin.
You’re comfortable, a drink in-hand as you both watch the tavern’s small stage. There’s a musical group clustered together–a fiddle player, a flutist, a man with a hand drum, and a woman playing a horn–and there are people dancing just in front.
Overall it’s joyous and raucous and fun, and though you’d originally had to practically bribe Astarion to come with you tonight, you can tell he’s enjoying himself all the same.
You both cheer when the band ends a song, and when they take a small break to chat with the crowd around the stage, Astarion leans back to say something to you.
But you never get to hear what he has to say, because at that exact moment, a man appears in front of you both. He’s handsome–strong jaw, piercing eyes, youthful energy–and his smile, though enticing, is predatory. A cat who has sighted a dove.
The man sizes you up briefly before turning his attention to Astarion. You can tell that the vampire knows what’s coming based on the way he tenses up. The stranger either doesn’t notice, or he doesn’t care, because he continues on without a care.
His opening line makes you roll your eyes. It’s cheesy and basic (“I saw you from across the room and I just had to come over and say hello.”) and he looks proud of himself when Astarion laughs and says “Oh, how positively quaint.” Poor sod can’t even tell when he’s being made fun of.
He’s shockingly persistent, asking questions, asking if he can buy Astarion a drink. For the most part, you’re sitting there, both offended because hello you’re right there and amused by Astarion’s polite but increasingly snarky responses.
Around the third time the man asks to buy Astarion a drink, things start to get significantly less polite. And when the band starts up again and the man asks Astarion to dance, the vampire practically growls out “No. Thank you, darling, but I’m much more comfortable here.”
As he’s saying it, Astarion shifts slightly closer to you, as if he’s trying to get physically away from the stranger. You can tell he’s annoyed from how tense his jaw is.
“Oh, come on. Have a little fun.” The stranger’s persistence has finally pushed you to your limit and you snap “Gods above, he said no. Take a hint and fuck off.”
The stranger scowls, but ultimately, he does leave, and you follow him with his eyes as he weaves through the crowd and out the door of the tavern.
After a moment, Astarion stands, moving his chair back to the other side of the table. “I can handle myself, you know.” His voice is soft, but you can hear the hurt in it. “I know you think I’m just some pitiable creature that can’t set his own boundaries, but I assure you, I can manage on my own.”
You frown. Of course, you don’t think that. And of course, you know he can handle himself. You were trying to help. But when you go to say that, he shoots you a firm glare, and your words die in your throat. Instead, you simply say “It won’t happen again.”
You leave shortly after, the band no longer holds your attention, and you want to give Astarion some space. So you head out into the night.
Bloomridge is the nicest neighborhood in the Lower City. The City had gifted you the house after everything, and while at first, you’d chafed at the idea of living in the quiet, sweet, more affluent part of the city. But you’d both grown to love it. The view over Grey Harbor is unparalleled, and it’s shockingly nice to have somewhere quiet to settle down between adventures.
Your feet have carried you home, but you don’t really want to go in yet–the night is covered in a beautiful, light fog, and there’s a lovely breeze coming in off the harbor–so you sit on the front steps and lean your back against the door.
It’s only a few minutes later that you see Astarion picking his way back up the stairs along the side of the city wall. He pauses in front of you, and you can see the pain in his crimson eyes before he sighs and sits beside you.
“I’m sorry,” you say softly.
Beside you, Astarion stiffens and inhales sharply. “Why are you sorry?”
“You’re right. I should have let you handle it. You’re more than capable.”
“I…” He deflates a little, and a confused frown creases his forehead. “I appreciate that you stepped in. Sometimes… sometimes it’s still hard to…”
He trails off, but you know what he means. Sometimes it’s still hard for him to enforce his boundaries. He tries, but 200 years of Cazador’s reign of terror don’t go away in a year. It can be difficult to walk the line between being firm and being outright rude (and as snarky as Astarion can be, he doesn’t always want to be rude).
These things take time.
You reach out and squeeze his hand, wordlessly telling him that it’s okay, that you get it, that he’s done nothing wrong. You’ll work on his boundary enforcement together. You have a lifetime together to do it.
