Summary: As the dust settles on the first joust of Lord Ashford’s tourney, Prince Aerion sends his squire to fetch him proper entertainment for the evening.
Tags: NSFW (18+), prostitution, dry humping, unprotected sex, mentions of violence, canon-typical sexism, no use of y/n
Word count: 4.9k
available on AO3 as well!
A/N: I've been cooking this up for a couple of months now and I'm so excited to share it! ASOIAF has taken over my life and I'm having so much fun writing in the world of Westeros :) Enjoy!
─────── °.⋆༺⚔️༻⋆.° ───────
For all the glamorous tales you’d heard of knights and grand tournaments, you found yourself disenchanted with the reality as you lounged about the candlelit pavilion, condemned to participate in the festivities from this side of the tent.
The sun had given way to the full moon, glowing bright in the cloudless sky. Such fair weather could be blamed for your empty pockets, as little Lady Ashford had insisted that the first joust be held after evenfall, and rather than indulge their vices, the lords of the realm instead honored the Queen of Love and Beauty’s wishes. Even so, you wagered some would seek your services once the events concluded, their blood still running hot from the games.
With a resigned sigh, you fell back into a worn armchair, busying yourself by counting the gems on your bangles as the sound of thundering hooves and splintering lances bled through the canvas walls. Before departing for Ashford Meadow, you had visited a jeweler—one who frequented the House of Kisses—to procure new accessories, hoping to catch the eye of a worthwhile knight. Though in your line of work, jewels and fine garments were often the last things men were interested in.
After draining a few cups of wine and forfeiting a handful of coppers in a round of cards with your fellow courteseans, the racket outside dwindled to a drone of chatter, and minutes later, the stench of manure and roasted meats wafted in. Your nose crinkled, and you turned in your seat to find a young herald standing at the entrance, allowing the foul air in as he held the drapes open. Sewn into the black leather of his jerkin was a crimson, three-headed dragon; the hue of its pleated scales matching the welt blooming below his right eye.
He shifted his weight between his feet as if debating entering the makeshift establishment before clearing his throat and stammering out, “I-I’ve come on b-behalf of the prince.”
A prince? Earning favor with the royal family was a prospect most whores dreamed of, though few achieved. One such was still employed at the same pleasure house as you, never missing an opportunity to regale anyone who would listen with stories of her time spent with Aegon the Unworthy—or rather, the luxuries she enjoyed with his gold.
You pressed your shoulders back before looking at the others, gauging their reactions. The older of the ladies, Essie—or the “Madame of the Tourney” as she’d dubbed herself for the week—was quick to her feet, the silk dress rippling like water around her ankles as she came to greet the lad.
“And which prince might that be?” she asked, propping her hands on her ample hips.
“Prince Aerion Brightflame, miss,” the boy said, briefly meeting the curious gazes around the pavilion before returning to Essie. “He’s requested that company be sent to his bedchambers.”
Your attention dropped to the rings on your fingers, twisting one idly as a smile tugged at the corners of your lips. It was little wonder why no royals darkened the doors of your pillow house; the rakish ones lived at Summerhall, not atop Aegon’s Hill.
You raised your head to look at the boy once more, batting your lashes in an attempt to be the one chosen to entertain the prince.
Essie could not hide her amusement in her reply. “Oh, I see. And how many does my prince desire? Would he prefer only women, or perhaps he enjoys the company of men as well?”
The lad turned as red as the dragon stitched into his breast. “I—uh—he did not say-”
“Come now, Essie,” you cut in. “Don’t needle the poor boy.”
“I’m not needlin’ him, just having a bit of fun,” she said over her shoulder before turning to the herald once more. “How about I send three of my girls his way and he can have his pick, hm?”
He assented, wringing his hands as Essie walked back to the card table. With a nod, she nominated you, herself, and Marra—the new Lysene girl seated across from you—to visit the princeling.
“You’d better spare us no details when you come back!” Red called from her chaise, the other ladies joining in with snickers and whistles as the three of you set out for the castle.
Despite being a mere guest chamber in Lord Ashford’s keep, Prince Aerion’s accommodations were finer than anything you’d seen before. The moment you stepped inside, you felt as though you had been transported to another walk of life, one where you needn’t spread your legs just to put a roof over your head and food in your belly. For a fleeting moment, you imagined what it would be like to only have to rely on your house name to pay your dues.
The wishful dream of all whores returned to you then, fiercer than ever as you laid eyes on the brooding prince, reclined against the arm of a cushioned divan with his boot propped on his knee and his chin pinched between his forefinger and thumb.
Everything about him spoke of majesty, from the velour doublet embellished with fine leather to the signature silver-gold hair of the Old Valyria. You had only ever seen that hair on the dragonseeds who worked in pillow houses, whose names did not bear so much as a “Waters” behind them.
For a man who had requested whores to warm his bed, he appeared displeased at the sight of you three. His gaze swept over each of you as he stood, crossing the room in a few long strides to reach his errand boy.
“What is this?” he asked, inspecting you as though you were chattel at an auction.
“The company you asked for, my prince.”
At that, he stepped aside and grabbed a fistful of the boy’s collar, leaning closer as he scolded him. “I did not ask for a bloody village to be brought to me. Did I not make myself clear when I said I’ve had my fill of crowds for the day?”
You resisted the urge to flinch at his abrupt movement, and again when he snapped at his steward. Being subject to the whims of temperamental men was not a novel experience for you, albeit not something you relished. But for a fair price, you found you could endure such behavior.
“Forgive me, my prince. I-I did not realize-”
“Rid me of your presence, lest I take it upon myself to do so,” the prince grumbled, releasing his grip on the boy’s tunic and glancing back to the three of you. “You, in the middle, you stay. The rest of you—out.”
Your heart all but fell to your stomach, and your courage failed you as Marra and Essie heeded his command, leaving you feeling like freshly flayed skin under his gaze. His violet eyes scrutinized you a moment longer, and as the door closed behind you, he turned and stalked towards the bed, unlacing his boots when he reached the edge.
You remained rooted in place, keeping your head bowed in deference. swiping your damp palms on the silk of your dress.
“Do you mean to stand there all night like a frightened foal?” he asked, beckoning you closer with a curled finger, and you had no choice but to obey.
Willing your feet forward, the scuff of your slippers on the stone floors was all that filled the chamber until you came to a stop before him, standing in the space he’d left for you between his knees. He looked up at you with an unreadable expression as his hand came to rest on your shoulder, fingers grazing your skin as he followed the braided tie holding your gown together.
“What’s your name?” he asked in a far more subdued tone, which only served to further bewilder you.
You answered him, willing yourself not to shrink under his intense gaze.
He gave an impassive hum in response, though it came as a relief after such a jarring introduction. He toyed with the flimsy strap for a moment longer before letting out a long sigh.
“You’re by far the prettiest of this lot, and” —he tapped the gold bracelets hanging on your wrist with his free hand— “you clearly have a refined palate. I’ll give you twenty golden dragons for the night.”
The offer rattled around your skull like a loose marble. The last time you had been given gold for your services was when your maidenhead was taken, and now, the single coin you’d received that day seemed paltry in comparison.
“That is very generous of you, my prince,” you finally said, masking the apprehension in your voice with a sultry tone.
His eyes narrowed, yet he did not allow a full smile to form. “It is, isn’t it? Perhaps if you do well, I’ll give you the same sum tomorrow night, and the night after.” His hands came to hold your hips, sliding lower until he reached your buttocks. “Does that sound reasonable?”
A small gasp slipped past your lips as he grabbed a fistful of your arse, squeezing hard enough to leave a mark. You half expected him to strike it as he released pressure, instead being pleasantly surprised when he caressed the curves of your waist before settling on your breasts, his warm fingertips leaving gooseflesh in their wake.
The sensual illusion shattered like a stone thrown through glass as he pinched your nipples through your gown, only relinquishing after he’d earned a pained yelp from you.
“I said, does that sound reasonable?”
“Yes—quite so, my prince,” you said quickly, trying to maintain your wits as the prospect of letting dozens of golden dragons slip through your fingers threatened to make you sick.
He rolled his tongue over his teeth before answering with another hum. “Just as I thought. Women cannot help but be greedy; it’s in your nature, I suppose.”
His jibe stung like the edge of a blade, but any counter you offered would be meaningless. He shifted closer, and you detected the sweet scent of his bathing oils amidst the musk of sweat and iron, finding that the latter could be attributed to the chain mail peeking through his unlaced tunic. You wondered if he always dressed this way for sleep or reserved such measures for bringing whores into his bed.
“Are dragons not greedy as well, my prince?” you asked in earnest.
That earned a huff of amusement from him, excitement flickering to life in his eyes. “Only in the bards’ tales, sweetling. A true dragon is imperious, bloodthirsty.”
Your knowledge of dragons was limited to the tales of mummers and troubadours—neither of which would captivate a Targaryen prince. But if he was like most men, witty banter was the furthest thing from his mind as you stood before him in naught but a sheer, silk gown. The bulge forming in his trousers assured you of such.
“Is blood the only thing a dragon lusts for, my prince?” you asked, placing a tentative hand on his chest, hooking your thumb under the doublet and grazing the steel rings beneath.
His tongue darted out to wet his lips as he raised a hand of his own, and for a moment, you thought you’d overstepped; that his hold on the column of your throat was a riposte of sorts. Whether he meant the gesture as a warning or endearment, you could not say, only that your breaths still came, each heavier than the last as the air grew thick between you.
“Dragons desire much more than what you have to offer,” he huffed, fingers brushing over your pulse before settling on your jaw. His other hand reached for the hem of your dress as he added, “But for now, I will settle for burying myself inside your sweet cunny.”
Heat pooled low in your belly at that, and you helped him hike the layers of silk past your hips, the cool air clinging to the wetness between your legs in an instant. A low groan rumbled in his throat at the sight, watching as you settled onto the bed one knee at a time until you were seated in his lap, straddling his hips. Gripping the flesh of your arse once more, he held you steady as you pulled the loose gown over your head, tossing it beside the slippers you’d stepped out of.
Now entirely bare, he regarded you with the same desire that every man before him had, though the thought of a prince succumbing to his base instincts gave you a sick sense of satisfaction. The violet rings in his eyes were almost eclipsed by black, framed by silver lashes, and you couldn’t help but be mesmerized by his alien beauty.
You wondered how many women before you had felt the same.
“How would you like me, my dragon?” you asked, feeling bold as you tested the endearment on your tongue. Of all the patrons you’d entertained, he seemed by far the most capricious, and you would not dare to assume control.
“You precious thing,” he said with a click of his tongue.
You let out an abashed laugh, and in lieu of an answer, you began just as you would with any other client, omitting the exaggerated sighs and moans from your routine. You couldn’t afford to offend him—not with twenty gold dragons at stake.
The wooly fabric of his trousers made for delicious friction as you slowly dragged your hips over his stiffened cock, earning another groan from him. As you teased, he shrugged the velvet doublet down his arms, revealing toned muscle unobscured by the mail shirt. A knight, indeed.
Before removing the steel layer, his hands slid back to your waist, pulling you flush against him. You gasped as the cool metal hit your skin, your nipples pebbling against the polished rings. Given the smirk that formed on his parted lips, he seemed to relish drawing such a reaction from you.
As delightful as the stimulation was, you’d much rather feel the heat of his skin, to run your hands along the planes of his chest and stomach until you reached the waistband of his trousers. In an effort to do so, you gathered the edge of his hauberk in your grip, the links rattling like chimes in the wind as you did.
Before you could go any further, he leaned into your neck, lips dragging across your racing pulse as he whispered, “Tell me: have you ever stripped a knight of his mail?”
“No,” you sighed, tipping your head back to allow him more space. Though you would never voice it aloud, you wanted him to kiss you there, to show you the care most lords neglected to when fucking you.
A hum ensued, and you could feel him smiling against your skin before he pulled away to take in your appearance once more. He cupped your breasts in his palms, his touch searing compared to the metal, and you couldn’t help the pathetic sound that slipped past your lips as his thumbs skimmed your perked nipples.
“I suppose most men see no need for armor in the privacy of their chambers,” he said, eyes trained on your chest as though he’d never seen a pair of tits in his life. Somehow that made him feel familiar, less like a prince whose family once ruled the same skies as the Seven above.
“Yet you do?” you asked, realizing too late how brazen a question it was.
He lifted his gaze at that, jaw ticking before he said, “A dragon without scales is no dragon at all.”
A grin threatened to form on your lips, stifled quickly enough to seem reverent rather than amused. He spoke of dragons as though he were one of the great beasts himself, and you couldn’t help but wonder if every Targaryen shared this sentiment. Do the lords of Pyke believe themselves to be krakens? Are the westerlands ruled by men who were more lion than man? Regardless, you decided it would not do to bruise his pride by prodding him on the matter.
With a roll of his hips, he dropped your breasts and reached instead for the collar of his chain mail, tucking his chin and pulling the heavy rings over his head with practiced ease. The shirt clattered as it hit the flagstones, and you beheld his lithe strength hidden beneath. Perhaps you were just as enamored as he had been with your bare form, exploring the ridges along his collarbone and chest with careful fingers. Most of the men you entertained were stocky, their bodies bearing the evidence of their work—whether it be sun lines from traveling the kingsroad or scars from snagged fishing hooks.
Not like him. His skin was clean and soft, devoid of sun marks and lines of waxen scar tissue. Such perfection only existed within the walls of castles.
“You’re divine,” you whispered, certain that you had never before uttered those words to a patron and meant them.
He preened at that, and you were glad to see your compliment be well-received. Now I must impress him in a different way.
Reaching for the ties of his trousers, you asked, “May I?”
“One could almost mistake you for a proper lady with manners like those.”
“I can play the part, if you’d like,” you said in a dulcet tone. When he did not readily accept your offer, you were quick to add, “Or perhaps my prince has grown weary of such company?”
He groaned. “More than you could ever know.”
The sting of his earlier insult subsided, and your confidence returned as you eyed him through your lashes. “Then allow me to remind you that I am far from a lady.”
It seemed he needed no further convincing, lifting his hips as you loosened the ties enough to free his cock from the confines of his britches, eager to rid himself of the last article of clothing between you. A thrill ran through you at the sound he made when you wrapped your fingers around his flushed length, something between a moan and a hiss. He felt heavy and hot in your hand, bucking his hips as you slowly dragged your fist over him.
“Seven hells,” he muttered, chest heaving as he supported himself on one hand, using the other to grip your hair and pull you close.
Without warning, his lips crashed into yours, and you felt like a summer child being kissed for the first time. Despite the pretense, the pouch of gold awaiting you after this evening, you relished the sensation, committing every bit of it to memory. How plush his lips were, how his tongue felt against yours, how he tasted of sweet wine and cinnamon puffs from a table above the salt.
He tore away with a breathless noise, his eyes frenzied as he dipped his head and trailed kisses down the column of your neck until he reached your breast, drawing the delicate flesh of your nipple into his mouth. Your grip on him tightened, pace faltering for a moment as his tongue toyed with the sensitive bud, teeth grazing it as he continued to rock his hips.
“My—ah—my prince,” you managed to get out, unsure what you even intended to say. The ache between your legs demanded attention, worsening by the second as he worked his tongue, fingers squeezing both your hip and breast as though you would slip through his fingers like sand. “I…I want to feel you, my dragon.”
As though you’d awoken some great drake within him, he released your nipple with a low groan, his glassy, violet eyes falling to your hand as you stroked him. With his attention fixed between your bodies, you couldn’t help but tease him further, angling your hips to drag the blunt head of his cock through the arousal pooling at your entrance. It was as delightful for you as it was for him, brushing against your clit with every pass, and after an especially wanton moan fell from your lips, the prince flipped you onto your back, pinning you between him and the bed.
“Cheeky little wench. I should bend you over my knee for tormenting me,” he hissed, striking your arse hard enough for heat to bloom beneath the skin as he pulled your legs around his hips. “But I’m feeling rather magnanimous this evening.”
You coiled yourself around him, arms draped behind his neck and thighs locking his hips against yours, enjoying the heat of his skin as though you were a cat lying in the golden sun.
“You must forgive me for being cheeky. It’s not often that I have the privilege of sharing a bed with someone as exquisite as you,” you purred, noting how his cock twitched where it rested between you, pressed against your belly.
A low chuckle rumbled in his throat, and he squeezed your waist so tight you could almost picture the flesh turning purple beneath his fingertips. “I’m sure you don’t.”
His hands slid to the junction of your hips as he spread you open to him, pinning you in place. You resisted the urge to reach down and touch yourself, unsure if a prince would take kindly to such a gesture. Implying that a man’s effort alone wasn’t enough to make you cry out in pleasure had once earned you a strike that sealed your eye shut for a week, and was certainly not something you were eager to repeat.
But your desperation almost prevailed as he ran the calloused pad of his thumb along your cunt, collecting the arousal gathered there.
“Seven above, woman. You’ll take me well like this, won’t you?”
You nodded, rolling your hips in pursuit of a bit of friction. “Yes, my prince. All of you.”
His expression hardened, jaw tense as he pulled his other hand away from your hips and gripped his cock, shifting his focus to align himself with your entrance. You pressed your heels into his back as silent encouragement, and with a groan, he heeded, pushing inside and stretching you around him until he could go no further.
This was much better, you decided, being so full that you couldn’t think of anything but the feeling of him.
“Yes,” you gasped, spine lifting from the velvet bedding. “Gods, yes.”
He let out a strained sound above you, as if the air in his lungs was slowly being punched out with every measured thrust. The pace he set caught you by surprise, but pleasantly so. Where you had expected him to drive into you with abandon, his only goal being to spill his seed inside something tight and warm, he instead maintained a steady rhythm, hips hitting your aching clit with each stroke.
Between your shared breaths and quiet moans, the moment felt more intimate than it had any right to be, and you were grateful when he ducked his head into the crook of your neck, for if you’d held his lilac gaze for a moment longer, you feared your heart would rule over your reason. He remained there for a long moment as he chased his pleasure, each breathless noise he made—paired with the bruising kisses he pressed along your throat—tightened the coil in your stomach.
Sighs and quiet praises fell from your own lips as he fucked you almost sweetly, your cunt clamping down on him as he left a mark that sent a jolt of pain through you, the heady feeling mingling with the bliss already coursing through your veins. You hoped he made good on his offer to have you back the following nights, for no man in his right mind would hire you with evidence of another lingering on your body.
“Fuck,” he gritted out as you clenched around him again, jaw falling slack as he pushed himself onto his palms.
You couldn’t help but giggle between breaths, releasing your lower lip from between your teeth as you moaned. “You’re so deep—gods—you feel incredible…”
A huffed laugh followed, and he slowed his movements just long enough to make you agonize at the feeling of him sliding out of you altogether, leaving you desperate to feel him sink in again. The sight alone was enough to make your head spin; his cock flushed a deep shade of pink and coated with your arousal, still taught with need—though if his heaving chest was any indicator, it likely wouldn’t be for much longer.
“I reckon that you can take even more,” he said, hooking your knees over his shoulders and folding you against his chest.
You gasped—equal parts surprised and delighted—as he prodded your entrance once again, and despite this angle making you much tighter, he buried himself inside you in one swift motion, causing your eyes to flutter shut and head to fall back.
He resumed his pace, resting his cheek on your knee as he lost himself in the feeling. Moments like this never failed to thrill you; the silent pride you fostered while watching a man unravel. Though the thought of what would soon follow reeled you back. Men could be careless—especially with whores—and though tansy tea took a toll on one’s body, there was seldom a doubt in your mind that the prince would insist upon it if he proved himself to be as imprudent as he was mercurial.
A small sacrifice for the sum you’d walk away with.
He turned to look down at you once more, violet eyes burning. “Touch yourself, wench,” he all but demanded. Were he not chasing his breath, he would have almost sounded imposing.
You did as you were told, making a show of squeezing your breast before slipping your hand between your legs. His gaze followed the whole way, groaning at the sight.
With your legs atop his shoulders, you struggled to pleasure yourself as you normally would, but found that you hardly needed to at this angle. His cock brushed the sensitive spot inside you, and after a few tight circles drawn over your clit, the coil in your stomach felt as though it would snap.
His composure was breaking, thrusts becoming erratic as quiet curses fell from his lips onto yours, both of you nearing your climax. The lewd sounds of skin colliding filled the chamber, but his breathy moans were yours alone. Before long, the sensation of him in tandem with your fingers became too much to bear, and you cried out in ecstasy, head thrown back against the downy bedding. You clenched around him as you rode out your high, realizing then that this was perhaps the first time you'd ever reached the peak of pleasure with a patron. Quite an accomplishment, given most nights involved you resorting to imitation to bring men to completion.
As the rosy haze settled over you, his grip on your thighs tightened, blunt fingernails biting into your skin. With another clench, his pace faltered, and he let out a long, low groan as he spilled his seed.
You could hardly bring yourself to care for the consequences as you watched him fall apart, feeling his cock throbbing inside you. He looked ethereal, lids heavy and pale hair glowing like amber in the candlelight.
He grunted softly as he removed your legs from his shoulders, relief flooding your muscles as they fell limp against the bed. He buckled then, chest meeting yours as he buried his face in your neck, warm breath tickling your skin with each steadying breath he took.
“That was wonderful, my prince,” you said into the silence, hazarding to run your fingers through his damp hair. Turning until your lips grazed the shell of his ear, you added in a whisper, “My dragon.”
With an amused hum, he rolled off you, seed trickling out as he did. Though you did not blush easily, the thought of a prince’s spend sticking to your thighs made your head spin. Perhaps Beony can brew me a tea before the week’s end.
Beside you, Prince Aerion reached for the carafe of wine on the bedside table, fixing himself a goblet before relaxing into the pillows stacked against the headboard and slipping under the goose-feather blankets.
With no intention to overstay your welcome in the lord’s castle, you figured it best to collect your clothes and see the transaction through. Like a foal learning to use its legs, you pushed yourself up onto wobbling arms, only getting one leg over the bed before a hand closed around your wrist.
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
“Back to my pavilion,” you said, hoping for the umpteenth time this evening that you hadn’t offended him. “But I can return on the morrow, if you wish.”
He chuckled softly. “I paid for the entire night, did I not?”
The tension in your shoulders gave way at that, and you nodded, curling your legs beneath you and leaning on one hand as you would a chaise in the pleasure house’s parlor.
“Then stay,” he commanded with no venom, releasing your arm and offering you a glass of Lord Ashford’s vintage. You accepted, and with a wolfish smile, he lifted the edge of the blanket, inviting you to join him. “You’ll get your coin come morning. Until then, I may yet have use of you.”
Summary: Half a decade spent acclimating to civilized life had done nothing to quell his loneliness, and as the winter of 1862 gave way to the new year, Adam—as he had taken to styling himself—believed he could accomplish what his creator refused to. A companion, born of the same undead flesh as he, whose heart could beat in tandem with his.
An Eve to brighten the garden of his eternal life.
Tags: graphic descriptions of injuries/corpses, grave robbing, angst
Word count: 3.5k
*available on AO3 as well!
A/N: I hope you guys enjoy reading part one of this! I plan to write a second chapter (maybe more) from the reader's POV, so let me know if that sounds interesting to you :)
─────── °.⋆༺༻⋆.° ───────
Half a decade spent acclimating to civilized life had done nothing to quell his loneliness, and as the winter of 1862 gave way to the new year, Adam—as he had taken to styling himself—believed he could accomplish what his creator refused to. A companion, born of the same undead flesh as he, whose heart could beat in tandem with his.
An Eve to brighten the garden of his eternal life.
Such was the reason he dared to show his face, however little of it, during the waking hours today. He stood amongst the observers in the gallery overlooking London’s finest operating theater, clinging to the eggshell white walls like a shadow. Despite its esteemed reputation, Adam knew the odds did not favor those subjected to the blades and saws of even the most practiced surgeons. He wished it were not so, that all creatures under God could endure as he did instead, however preternatural his existence may be.
With the aid of his creator’s surviving records and a keen knowledge of human anatomy, he hoped to grant another the cursed gift.
The cacophony of medical students and spectators fell quiet as a handful of surgical assistants entered the theater floor, two of the men carrying in the next patient with her arms slung around the backs of their necks, for her left leg was too mangled to bear weight, with split bones and muscle the color of spoiled meat protruding above her ankle.
He closed his eyes, summoning the inked sketches from the pages of Dr. Henry Gray’s work that he had diligently committed to memory. A compound fracture of the tibia and fibula, a condition that would require an amputation of the limb below the knee. The first one he had seen since visiting the hospital these past few days, and despite how gruesome the procedure would be, he felt as though God willed it to be this fair lady’s fate in particular.
Adam could have mistaken the woman for an angel delivered to him from heaven above, and for the first time in nearly six years, his heart stirred for another. Only his late, beloved Elizabeth could rival her beauty, subdued as it was beneath the perspiration-stained hospital gown and the pallor her injury afforded her skin. The only adornment she possessed was a blindfold—meant to help sedate her, though he found it only served to dehumanize—hanging low around her neck, not so dissimilar to a gallows noose, the silent panic in her eyes lending to the image as well.
His knees threatened to buckle as the men hoisted her onto the wooden table with all the care of tossing a sack of grain. She cried out as the force of the movement jolted her limp leg, then again when the assistants extended the table to prop her feet. The uncanny sight his rebirth granted him tunneled around her, reducing the grand room to her trembling form alone.
The surgeon was quick to follow, his presence earning applause from the eager crowd. After a morning of otherwise mundane operations—draining purulent abscesses and mending superficial wounds that would otherwise fester—the gathered men behaved like horses champing at their bits, only cooling when one assistant opened an amber bottle and blotted a cloth mask with the clear fluid.
Merciful chloroform.
Once prepared, one of the smocked men pushed her back onto the wood grain while the other positioned the mask to cover her nose and mouth, her rapid breath drawing the sweet substance into her lungs within seconds.
He, too, felt as though he could breathe with ease as her trembling ceased, her shoulders relaxing against the angled head of the table.
Not a full minute had passed before the surgeon deemed her sufficiently sedated, delegating roles to his assistants as he reached for his toolkit. They nodded and dispersed thereafter, the one tasked with securing her blindfold seeming to take pleasure in it, a sneer tugging at his lips as she stirred just enough from her daze to resist.
Were he far away from civilized society and its laws, Adam would rip the man apart limb by limb, keeping him alive just long enough to witness each be plucked from his torso like feathers from a hen.
The force used to pull the blindfold over her chin and nose urged her eyes open, and in her delirium, she scanned the room one final time. Time seemed to stand still as their gazes met for what was only a fleeting moment, before her sight was blocked by the black fabric.
His chest tightened with a shame he had not felt in years, as though she had seen him as he was in his infancy, feeble as a foal and wearing strips of cloth rather than the suit and frock coat he wore now.
And just as he had felt in those first days of his second life, the world assailed his senses. The waning sun somehow seemed too bright through the glass roof, each swipe of the surgeon’s knives against his bloodied smock scraped like claws against dry wood, the shuffle of boots as spectators gathered closer thundered like a stampede.
His grip tightened around the banister in an attempt to ground himself, though his efforts were in vain, for when the surgeon raised his knife and made the first slice through the bruised skin surrounding her wound, the polished wood nearly splintered beneath his fingers.
He could not stomach it, he decided, and impressed her lovely features into his memory. The curve of her lips, the slope of her nose, the shade of hair that spilled free from her bonnet. But her eyes needed no memorizing; he would never be able to forget them.
As the assistants tightened the tourniquet and rolled the incised skin back to her knee, he made for the exit, sparing no glance over his shoulder as he pulled his collar up and retrieved his hat from the rack by the door, knowing that if he did not leave now, he would doubtless do something foolish.
Come midnight, he planned to return here, or rather, the hospital’s mortuary. If God was as kind as every holy man claimed, she would be there, released from her suffering and his to make whole again.
In the end, an overuse of chloroform had ended her life. The surgeon did not even bother to finish amputating the bloated limb, his time too precious to waste on what was already cradled by death.
Such flippancy enraged Adam, the notion that she was somehow less worthy of treatment because her heart had ceased to beat, as if leaving her leg flayed was not a disservice to her—even in death. As if the responsibility was not that of the surgeon himself, for though the dose had not been poured by his hand, his hubris had allowed the man who did to do so without discretion. A man who would not be able to recall her face come the turn of the moon.
He stood above her, chest tight with emotion as he studied the details of her face in death. One could assume she was asleep, were it not for her unmoving ribcage. His eyes traced the fine creases at the corners of her mouth where her smile would lift, bestowing warmth upon those fortunate enough to earn it. The faded sun kisses that bloomed from the tip of her nose and across the apples of her cheeks. Her decadent lips now darkened by the hue of stagnant blood.
She was perfect in every way; every way that he was not.
The chilled winter air invited a draft into the bowels of the hospital, keeping out the pests that would otherwise be lured here by the smell of rot. Even so, her body was among the freshest in the mortuary’s collection. Three others laid beside her on metal tables of their own, shrouded by the likeness of Jesus upon his crucifix, dutifully guarding their souls in the night.
His Eve was flanked by a stout, older woman whose visage spoke of smallpox, pocked hands sticking out from beneath the cover of the undertaker’s linen, and a girl who could be no older than thirteen, with a mangled right hand lacking three fingers—likely lost to whatever mill gear or farm equipment she tended to.
On the far left laid the final corpse, her exposed hands and feet darker than the others’. What had claimed her was invisible to Adam’s eyes, and though his curiosity was not so insatiable that he would violate her in death by removing the draped sheet, he would seek absolution for what he planned to do to her. For his companion’s leg still needed replacing, and hers measured nearly the same in length.
He worked with the deftness of a marauder, having grown accustomed to such speed when he tended the unsuspecting farmer’s lands in the silence of night. Cleaving the limb required little effort from him, removing it from her knee joint as if he were pruning dead branches from an elm. The sound it made was far worse, akin to gunfire echoing in an empty chamber. He did not relish it, not as a man relished returning from a hunt with a wolf’s pelt.
Had his creator relished this? Deconstructing what was once living and breathing?
With ample burlap, he set about stealing away his prospective companion. His dusky hands trembled as he unrolled the woven fabric and lifted her, careful not to expose her in the process. He intended to cover every inch of her skin twice over, creating a cocoon for her rebirth.
A small voice in the back of his mind chimed in as he wrapped the replacement leg in its own layer, sowing doubt in his plan. What if she is unlike me and wakes with all the memories she parted with? Have I even considered the possibility that she does not enjoy my company, let alone the prospect of eternal life? What manner of monster would that make me, bringing her back to this world against her will?
The distant rumble of voices pulled him from his uncertainties. Sweepers? Undertakers? He was not keen to discover which as he hurried to secure the last wraps of burlap and hauled her into his arms. As much as he loathed it, the sewers were the only feasible way out of the hospital without being seen, and without tarrying another moment, he set off.
Dawn had already broken as Adam climbed out of the tunnels, all but blinding him as his eyes adjusted to the golden light. Behind him, a storm was gathering in the west, still a day or so away from the ruins he called home. An overgrown, forgotten fortress from the days of old kings and their kingdoms, long since reclaimed by nature and inhabited by far less regal creatures.
He shifted the weight in his arms, his muscles giving no strain even after hours of holding her body. They would never tire—his creator had made certain of that—and for her, he would carry her to the ends of the earth if she wished it.
A flock of crows took flight from the crumbling battlements as he scaled the knoll upon which the castle sat, their senses guiding them east. He adored watching the wildlife around his home, whether it be the bats that nested in the eaves, the rodents scurrying about in the cool, damp corners of the storerooms, or the larger game residing in the forest that surrounded the grounds.
He only wished for another to share in his joy.
It was not until he reached the last room in the highest tower that he finally slowed, a suite with no ceiling—save for a few wooden beams—wherein he had established his humble workshop. In a stroke of divine fortune, the fire that had nearly claimed his life spared his creator’s maniacal writings, scraps of parchments that detailed the components used to reanimate the dead. Despite the less grandiose configuration, he felt certain it would suffice.
It must, he told himself as he gingerly set her down on the carved table, the dark grain imbued with handcrafted silver plating and leather restraints.
He let out a steadying breath before setting about his preparations, wanting everything to be arranged before the storm reached them within the next day. First, her body was unwrapped and bathed with fresh water from the well, her mottled skin and tangled hair washed with eucalyptus and tallow soap—though he knew its fragrance would not fend off the smell of rot for long. But with the darkened sky drawing closer, he hoped he would not need to wait long to execute his plan.
Once he had fashioned thick strips of canvas over her chest and hips, he cut away the plain sheet from the mortuary he’d left beneath, uncovering the dimples and marks that littered her skin from her mortal life. He tried not to leer, guilt tightening around his heart as he snipped the last thread of fabric, leaving behind only the modest, haphazard coverings.
Her leg was more troublesome, requiring the rest of the afternoon and better part of the evening to excise both the new bones and the fragmented ones she still possessed. Years of harvesting animal pelts of all sizes prepared him for this, the delicate nature of detaching flesh from bone, and with the aid of Dr. Gray’s detailed anatomical sketches and passages, he replaced the tibia and fibula, finishing by stitching the muscle and skin closed with a careful hand.
The scattered oil lamps and candles burned low as he worked into the night, the first crack of thunder causing him to flinch where he sat cross-legged and hunched over an equipment panel, the storm clouds concealing the stars and moon as they closed around the tower. He had not seen the preceding lightning, but given the roar that followed, he wagered that it had struck close by.
He leapt from his workstation and busied himself with arranging the silver conductors he’d built, poles that once extended would reach far past the height of the tower—as if they meant to touch the heavens themselves.
It was unlike the laboratory his creator had built, without the steam engines and monolithic batteries used to bring him to life. Instead, Adam was left to procure more humble tools for such an undertaking. For it seemed the most crucial component of the equation was not the inventions of man, but the electricity that ripped through the sky. To harness such potent energy and spark life into one’s dead heart was nothing short of blasphemy, akin to the myths of those who dared to steal fire from Olympus.
Even so, he knew no god’s wrath could be as excruciating as the lonesome existence he endured.
With the dual rods now aligned and the drum of thunder growing louder after every flash of lightning, Adam tightened the straps on each of his companion’s limbs and around her waist before hoisting the table to be perpendicular. Encircling her chest was a silver harness with an empty battery cell hovering over her heart; the nexus that would bring forth life.
Trepidation churned in his stomach as he secured the final restraint, a thin piece of leather pulled taut over her forehead, and one that, to his horror, resembled a lifted blindfold. The image of her blinded on the surgical table flashed across his vision, and the thought of covering her eyes just as the fools who had ended her life sickened him. He had taken great care to be unlike them—as well as the man that made him—and he would not fall at the finish line. If she were to wake from this experiment, she would not need to thrash against the table until she was free of her restraints, nor would she be blinded and suffocated by rags drenched in rainwater. No; he would be by her side, ready to embrace her with cold hands.
Gusts of wind stirred his various books and parchments as the storm enveloped them, and before he could chase the strewn papers, a strike of lightning illuminated the room for a fleeting moment. His instinct was to crouch and reach for his head, as if a pair of hands could protect him from such a tremendous force. But the silver poles were far more formidable than him, one of the two catching the strike and redirecting it to the table.
The dull battery flickered to life before being snuffed out once more, and Adam’s chest heaved as he let out a shuddering breath, watching the color drain from the device. He could not lose faith now, not when he was so close to achievement.
The thunder that followed seemed to shake the very foundations of the fortress with its might, as if God himself were mocking his efforts. He was tempted to let out a roar of his own, to indulge in his own inhuman nature and expel the anguish boiling within him, instead slumping against the stone wall and resting his forehead against his knees.
As rain continued to flood his improvised lab, he closed his eyes and retreated to one of the few memories he could still find comfort in. Elizabeth’s gentle touch and sweet voice were lost to time, but her beauty was immortalized behind his eyelids. Water dripped down his nose as he tipped his head back against the wall, and as he gazed into the heavens, he wondered if he had been too ambitious—if he should have been content with visiting her countryside tomb when the long, quiet days burdened him. Perhaps the echo of her spirit was the only companionship this cruel world would offer him.
His uncertainties were quelled when another bolt ripped through the sky, mightier than before, and Adam’s heart all but stopped as the crackling, white tendrils met both of the silver rods. He watched with bated breath as the current traveled through the table itself, chasing the embedded metal until it reached the battery, fearing that it would be too much, that perhaps such a catalyst would burn the wood beneath her, perhaps even damaging her body in the process. But as the lightning poured its energy into the device meant to animate her once more, he understood that such power was necessary to produce the desired results—that he himself had been created in a vortex of elemental fury as well.
When the sky darkened once more and the thunder finally came, the battery over her heart shone like a beacon in the dim room, brilliant and blood red, and for a moment, he believed he had captured divine fire, fearing that Zeus would soon come to punish him. But before anything of the sort could come to pass, he scrambled to retract the rods and lower the table, pressing his trembling fingers against her throat only to find unmoving flesh.
“No,” he uttered, the word lifted off his tongue by a gale. “No, no, no!”
Panicked, he unfastened the restraints and pressed his ear against her sternum, suctioned to the cold, wet skin as he closed his eyes in a desperate attempt to drown out the storm, listening for the thrum of life. His lower lip quivered as he searched for that rhythmic sound, hearing only his own pounding in his ears.
As the silence stretched on, his frustration got the better of him and he struck her breastbone with first his closed fist, then his forehead, bitter tears smearing her skin as he knelt beside her, mourning what was not his. It was a petulant display, but he couldn’t help but lament not only his failure, but her. In his pursuit, he had robbed any potential family of hers of their grief, committing sin after sin as if he were some fabled animancer instead of a profane abomination.
A monster.
He remained there for an indeterminate amount of time, long enough for the storm to pass and the moon to give way to the rising sun, only realizing when his knees began to ache from the weathered flagstones. He reckoned he could have stayed in place for as long as his unnatural life would allow him, content to have their petrified bodies meld together like sculpted marble before returning to the earth.
Until a faint heartbeat pulled him from his morbid fantasy.
It was as though lightning had struck him as his eyes snapped open and he scrambled to his feet, unable to hide his awe as he beheld the sight before him.
Looking up at him were the wide, curious eyes of a woman returned from death, and Adam could not stop himself from taking her hand in his and whispering the first of many greetings against her frigid knuckles.
Your astarion fic was so good!!! I’ve been craving a fresh take on him and you nailed it! I stumbled across your Kyle Ren vamp fic as well and I was droooooling omg. Your writing style is so deep and detailed, and I love how you’ve been exploring the dark fantasy/gothic romance field. I’m excited to see what you come up next! <3
Thank you!! I'm so glad you liked it :) It was a blast to write about my favorite video game character of all time. I'm currently working on a few Frankenstein (2025) and House of the Dragon stories, so definitely staying with dark fantasy!!
Summary: In the wake of defeating the Netherbrain, you found it difficult to accept the accolades bestowed upon you for your role in saving Faerûn. While some aspects of your life had changed for the better, you were still haunted by one that had not. Losing Astarion felt as though your heart had been cleaved in two, despite the fault being yours alone.
So, when the High Harper recruited your aid in the search for her missing daughter, you vowed to help however you could—if only to balance the scales of your follies. And now, as you’re tasked with infiltrating the Vampire Ascendant's grand ball, you ask yourself this: will you be able to follow through with your promise?
Tags: NSFW (18+), vampire bites, blood drinking, emotional manipulation, abuse of power, general angst, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, inappropriate use of blood
*available on AO3 as well!
Word count: 5.5k
A/N: Happy Halloween! I wrote this approximately 300 hours into my 2,200 hours of BG3 (to say that I am addicted is an understatement.) It's the first one-shot I've ever written and I had a blast writing it, so I hope you enjoy! <3
─────── ⛧°.⋆༺🦇༻⋆.°⛧ ───────
“What is it, cub?”
Jaheira’s voice carried to where you stood in the Harper safe house, tugging at the embroidered sleeves of the gown she’d procured for you.
“I refuse to believe that this was the best option in Figaro’s collection,” you said in the mirror, meeting her gaze in the reflection.
“Believe it or not, we cannot spend all our funds on playing dress-up.” She moved to stand behind you, tending to the fastenings at the nape of your neck. “Besides, I thought you didn’t care how you looked tonight.”
“I don’t,” you snapped, swatting her hands away as soon as she’d secured the last button, “but this looks like it’s made from some lord’s old curtains. Perhaps I’ll try to blend in with the tapestries once I’m inside.”
In truth, the dress was fine. An elegant gown designed with high society in mind, midnight blue chiffon with a collar that sat below your jaw and a bodice so snug around your waist it was a miracle you hadn’t imploded. No, the dress was more than acceptable. Unfortunately, it was the closest thing to a training dummy at the moment, thus receiving the brunt of your frustration. By the gods, you wished you hadn’t agreed to help her, but it was too late to back out now, and you owed her a debt.
“Say what you will, it makes no difference to me. All that matters is the mission—and your safety, of course.” She came into view in the mirror, smirking. “But mostly the mission.”
You admired Jaheira’s ability to bury her feelings, considering the wellbeing of her eldest daughter was at stake. Little more than a week had passed since Rion and a handful of her fellow Flaming Fists had disappeared while patrolling the Upper City. With Bhaal’s loyalists lying low after the recent fracture in leadership and every tadpoled Absolutist being liberated with the Netherbrain’s destruction, she was left with but a single lead as to where her daughter could be.
That’s why she had sought your help.
The upcoming Winter Solstice Ball at the Palace was the talk of the city. It seemed everywhere you went, whether a tavern or market, you couldn’t escape this godsforsaken ball.
“What I’d give to be invited to a party at the Palace one day!” a tiefling woman had said to another while you were shopping at Beehive’s. “Rumor has it there’s going to be a feast fit for all the kings in Faerûn!”
“What’s that? A party at the ole Szarr keep? If I were you, I’d count yer blessings that you ain’t there, missy,” an older gentleman chimed in, the mention of the previous occupant grabbing your attention. “Any feast being held there ain’t somethin’ you want any part in.”
He was right, of course. Cazador Szarr’s reputation was less than admirable to the common Baldurian, and his successor was bound to be no different.
While the townsfolk were none the wiser as to how Astarion had claimed the title of Lord Ancunín, your knowledge was far too intimate. In addition to inheriting the gothic palace hosting the masquerade ball, he had damned over seven thousand souls in his quest to shed his status of spawn and become the Vampire Ascendant. It was an ordeal you tried not to dwell on, but found it nearly impossible as of late. A moment of profound weakness, clouded by adrenaline and the fear of losing the man you loved. Against your better judgment, you had agreed to help him, granting him your sight and allowing him to carve the Infernal runes into Cazador’s flesh. With that, those who also bore the profane rites perished, their lives reduced to lumps of viscera splattered across the cold dungeon floors.
Save for Astarion, who suffered a fate far more terrible.
You deluded yourself into believing his rash justification, that killing them would be an act of mercy. And after months of running from foes, his insistent promise to keep the two of you safe compelled you.
When you finally came to your senses, it was far too late. As night came, your lover pulled you aside and trapped you in a troubling ultimatum: join him in immortality or lose him by your side. Panicked, you accepted his offer to turn you into his spawn. But when the time came for him to end your mortal life, you couldn’t follow through.
Betrayal, loneliness, and guilt all flickered across his face for the briefest moment before being replaced by boiling, unadulterated rage. Like a flame snuffed from a candle, the affection he held for you vanished, replaced by venomous words aimed at your heart. He didn’t even bother to stop you when you ran from the private room, feeling beyond humiliated as you returned to the common area with teary eyes and only a robe draped over you. You spent the rest of the night clutching a stake to your chest, unsure if you would even be able to use it if needed.
By morning, he had vanished without a trace, which somehow hurt more than his spiteful comments.
“He’s really gone, then?” You heard Karlach ask Gale quietly.
“It would seem so,” he responded. “A shame really. Who knows what havoc he will wreak without our counsel.”
Six months had passed since that fateful day, and now, as you stood in what was easily the finest dress you’d ever had the fortune of wearing, you were going to right your wrongs—starting with Rion.
“I trust you, Jaheira. I only hope that the feeling is mutual.”
She smiled. “How does the old saying go? Fool me once…”
You turned your head away from the mirror, hiding your shame. “Alright, I get it. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. Not when I’ve invested three thousand gold into this godsforsaken thing.” She tugged on one of the sleeves, earning a reluctant smile from you.
The plan was simple: you needed to find and distract Astarion while Jaheira and a team of Harpers snuck into the palace’s dungeons through the sewers. Easy enough. All you had to do was keep your wits about yourself and buy enough time for them to free any captives, which hopefully included Rion.
You rehearsed the steps in your head, starting with infiltrating such a grand party. To the surprise of none, only the upper echelon of Baldur’s Gate were issued invitations. After all, what use was a commoner to a power-hungry vampire lord? Nobles made for far better political puppets, you wagered, and anticipated the need to charm anyone who questioned your presence.
The second step entailed finding the grand ballroom while sifting through the guests for any sign of Rion. Although Jaheria was quite certain she was being kept in the crypts below, there was still a chance she had been enthralled—as many of Cazador’s attendants had been. If Astarion valued his immortal life, he surely would not dare do such a thing to Jaheira’s daughter.
Finally, you were charged with locating him. With lenient instructions given by the High Harper, you needed to do whatever it took to distract him. Chat, flirt, dance—anything. And while the pressure of this task weighed on your very soul, you couldn’t help the rush of warmth that spread across your cheeks at the possibilities that sprung to mind.
No. You were better than that. You needn’t stoop to using his tactics to manipulate your desired outcome.
Clearing your throat, you stepped away, wiping your damp palms on the pleated fabric. “Well then. I’ll try my best to bring it back to you in one piece. Maybe you can still return it once this is all said and done.”
Jaheira was quiet for a moment, watching you with her nose turned up. “Don’t bother, cub. It suits you.”
The gargoyles and buttresses of the vampire’s palace came alive in the pale moonlight, animated by the flames from sconces carved into the stone walls. If only their warmth was enough to erase the manor’s cold reputation.
You watched from afar as nobles and courtiers funneled through the entryway by the dozen, waiting for an opportune moment to follow them inside. The dagger concealed in the band of your wool stockings seemed to burn against your skin—although, that very well could have been the holy water coating it. Though you were neither a fiend nor undead yourself, you were certainly not without sin. You only hoped you wouldn’t need to use it tonight.
As a young blonde woman dressed in emerald green followed her suitor inside, you found your courage, adjusting the ribbon of the silver mask hiding your face before emerging from your vantage point. A steward stationed outside greeted you as you approached the doors, his glassy eyes meeting yours.
“Evening, miss,” he said, bowing his head. “Lord Ancunín humbly welcomes you to his celebration. If I could just have your name and party size, you’ll be right along to experience a night you’ll never forget.”
You recognized the words, as well as the cadence of their delivery. They were nearly as hollow as when Astarion had first recited them to you. The memory gripped you as you folded your hands together, fingers searching the inside of your billowing sleeve for a charm scroll. Feeling the rough texture of the parchment, you offered him a polite smile before uttering the incantation, watching with bated breath as tones of lilac flashed across his eyes.
“Enjoy the festivities, my lady,” he said, motioning you through the doors.
You obliged, trying to ignore how your heart threatened to jump out of your throat with every step forward. Even after everything you had done to protect the city, this somehow felt like the most daunting quest you’d ever undertaken.
Upon entering, you found that the once dour halls were alive with mingling Baldurians, chatting over glasses of champagne and winking through their masks. An interesting drink to serve for the self-proclaimed wine connoisseur that Astarion was. Perhaps his tastes had changed in the months since you’d traveled with him.
You dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come.
A young, doe-eyed woman approached you with a tray of slender flutes as you descended the staircase. “A glass, my lady?”
You plucked one up by the stem and thanked the girl, equal parts relieved and disappointed to see that it was not Rion. The other servants weaved between pockets of patrons, all but invisible against the backdrop of opulence. Still, none were the fox-faced Flaming Fist.
Before sipping your drink, you lifted it to your nose, trying to discern if it had been tampered with. To your surprise, you detected nothing besides the sweet notes of citrus and spirits. Still, you needed a clear mind tonight. One glass would have to suffice.
After a bit of meandering through the busy corridors and dodging small talk with a handful of partygoers, you finally came upon the ballroom, the space restored to its former glory. Where there had once been pieces of corpses scattered among werewolf and wolf carcasses alike, there were now bards, fools, and dancers filling the space with an enlivening and contagious energy.
But you couldn’t linger on them. Just as soon as you’d assessed the scene, you turned your attention to the padded velour chair across from the entrance—a throne of sorts—surprised to find it unoccupied. Where in the Nine Hells was he?
As the seconds ticked by, you began to feel exposed in the crowd, like a field mouse under a hawk’s gaze. This entire plan was doomed from the beginning. In what world would sneaking into the lion’s den be the sane thing to do?
Panic rose in your chest as you tried to retreat to the hallway, hoping to intercept Jaheira with a sending spell before it was too late, but a hand coiling around your waist prevented you from doing either.
“Leaving so soon, darling?”
Ice flooded your veins at the sound of his voice. You closed your eyes and let out a sharp breath before slowly turning to face him, all too aware of how his touch sent a jolt through you.
To your horror, you’d completed your objective. All you had to do now was hold his attention for as long as possible.
“Parties like this were never quite my cup of tea,” you said with a hum, raising your glass to your lips and tapping your painted nails against the crystal. “But how could I resist this?”
Behind an intricate black mask imbued with rubies, Astarion’s eyes flitted down your figure, lids heavy when they finally met your gaze. His crimson irises were as enchanting as ever, and your traitorous heart couldn’t help but hammer in your chest.
But there was something else in his eyes; he knew you were lying.
“I’ll admit, I’m more than a little surprised to see you here, wearing what I assume is a garment you stole from some poor seamstress.” His hand fell to your hip as he nursed his own glass, filled with what you hoped was wine. “My only question is why? Surely you’re not regretting your decision already, are you?”
The contrast between this encounter and your last was striking. Instead of boyish anger, you sensed genuine curiosity, along with a dash of amusement. Somehow, you maintained a sliver of advantage.
You scoffed against your glass. “Only a bit.”
A partial truth, only your regret stemmed from your weakness in allowing him to become what he was, not from denying him ownership of you.
Astarion hummed in response. “Well, in that case, what kind of lord would I be to deny you a chance at penance?” He set his now-empty chalice down on a passing servant’s tray before outstretching his hand towards you. “Will you join me for a dance?”
Your mind raced as you stared at his open palm, trying to ignore how similar it all felt to that night in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, just moments after he’d confessed the truth of his feelings to you. He’d held your hand and the two of you embraced each other for the first time without it leading to anything more.
How much everything had changed since then.
Discarding your glass as well, you accepted his invitation, following his lead forward. Between the champagne bubbling in your stomach and the music vibrating across your skin, you almost felt relaxed. Were it not for the team of Harpers depending on you, perhaps you would’ve been. But you kept your focus, taking your position in the dance like Wyll had taught you so many months ago.
Cool fingers laced with yours, pulling you dangerously close to his chest as he led you in a slow waltz. Following his footing, you turned your face from him, worried for what might happen if you remained as close as you were. You scanned the sea of patrons surrounding you, their whispers falling short of your ears. It was probably quite a sight—the lord of the palace plucking a stranger from the crowd to share a dance with. If only they knew.
“No need to be shy,” Astarion teased under his breath. “It’s not as if they know who you are behind that mask.” He leaned closer, lips grazing the shell of your ear as he added, “At least, not like I do.”
You shuddered as rosy memories flooded in. How his candied words had captivated you from the beginning, until one day, the stolen moments away from camp became something more, something sincere.
Until you’d helped him complete the ritual.
“I’m surprised you remember at all,” you said, turning to meet his gaze. “How did you phrase it? On our last night together…” You tapped your chin, brows furrowed in thought. “Ah, yes, that it wouldn’t take you until the end of time to find someone like me, correct?”
He clicked his tongue as he spun you to the tune. “Something like that.”
Satisfaction burned in your chest, and before long, silence fell over the two of you. Despite the circumstances, you couldn’t deny the intimacy of the moment. Sharing a dance with a former lover, mere inches away from their lips, feeling as though the two of you were the only people in the room. Everything about it was intoxicating, and against your better judgment, you wished to pretend that it could be like this again—if only for the night.
A crescendo in the music snapped you out of your reverie, as well as Astarion dipping you in his arms, your head falling back to expose more of your neck from beneath your collar.
“There’s that darling neck of yours,” he said with a click of his tongue. “And to think that you’ve been keeping it hidden from me all night…”
Slowly, you straightened your spine, seeing how his darkened eyes lingered on your pulse. “Surely you’ve sampled finer necks than mine.”
“Not at all, dear.” He released your hand, keeping the other firm on the small of your back as he hooked a finger under the lace of your collar. “Certainly none so delicious as yours.”
He grazed the fading scar tissue of his bites beneath the fabric, heat flaring in your stomach as he did. It was an instinctive reaction, and in that moment, you decided you were in fact foolish enough to do this again.
“What do you say? One last bite, for old times’ sake?” he asked, his voice naught but a whisper.
“If it would keep you away from their necks,” you said, eyes flicking towards the crowd of dancing patrons, “then yes.”
His lips curled into a smirk. “You have my word.”
By now, the waltz had come to an end, but you remained pressed close to him. Your lust-addled mind could think of nothing else than leaving the party—and the mission—behind to find somewhere private. And by the way his expression turned, he must have felt the same.
“Come with me.”
You did as you were told, hand in his as you slipped out of the ballroom and into the upper floors of the palace, where you soon found yourself pinned against a wall inside the lord’s chambers, legs wrapped around Astarion’s waist as he supported you.
He kissed you with a feverish intensity, trailing along your jaw as his deft fingers worked to undress you, starting with the ribbon of your mask before moving to the clasps along your spine. With each fastening that gave way, the ache between your legs became more desperate, a sigh escaping when he finally rolled his hips into yours, giving you some relief against his growing arousal.
The silver dagger clattered against the marble tiles as he pushed down your stockings, and you felt as if you were going to vomit. He pulled back to look at you, then down to the knife, then back to you before speaking.
“Not even a stake? Why, I’m almost hurt,” he tutted.
After a long moment, you found your voice. “Would you have preferred that?”
He barked a laugh. “Gods, no. I only thought you would have known better, after all we’ve been through.”
Despite your blunder, there was no malice in his expression, and you couldn’t help but feel as though such a thing would not be forgiven if you were anyone else. You chuckled to yourself in relief as he kicked the blade aside and continued undressing you.
Icy fingers snaked down your spine, sending a chill through you as he ripped apart the remaining buttons and tugged the fabric down your chest, arms, and finally your hips, exposing you to him for what felt like the first time. Gooseflesh broke out across your skin as he leaned in, his lips finding your pulse like a moth drawn to a flame. The steady beat thrummed beneath his kiss, spiking as he slowly pulled the delicate skin through his teeth, poised to pierce.
“Be gentle,” you whispered between breaths, bracing for the pain by snaking your arms around his neck.
You didn’t need to see him to know that he was grinning. “Always, darling,” he said, the words vibrating against your neck. “Though I’m not quite done savoring this.”
With that, he pried you from the wall and carried you towards the bed, capturing your lips in a rough kiss before laying you down onto the velvet blankets. Certainly an upgrade from the bedrolls and cold forest floors you were used to with him.
He crawled over you, discarding his mask and doublet as he did, tossing them aside with your gown at the foot of the bed. A moan rumbled in his throat as you slid your hands under his tunic, relishing the contrast of your searing palms against his cool, sculpted flesh. Before, he had been fond of your body’s warmth, stating as much on multiple occasions during your journey to the city, and with his reaction now, you could almost delude yourself into believing that nothing had changed.
You gasped as he pushed your knees apart with his, amusement flashing across his face as he pinned your hips to the mattress. “Eager, are we?”
“Only ever for you,” you sighed, heat rushing to your cheeks as you realized the honesty in your words. Yet, you were helpless to his touch, just as you’d always been.
He let out a satisfied hum as he resumed kissing down your throat, fangs grazing your soft flesh until he reached your breast, his tongue swirling over a stiffened nipple. A string of moans fell from your lips followed by another gasp as he pulled it between his teeth, sucking gently as you squirmed beneath him.
Your efforts to relieve the ache between your legs were futile with his hands on your hips, and you were moments away from pleading when you felt his fingers drift lower, slipping beneath the thin fabric of your smallclothes. His cold touch felt like a salve for a fever as he drew tight circles over your clit, making your head spin as though you’d overindulged on wine.
With a pop, Astarion released your taut nipple, sucking in a long breath as he left your clit and dipped a finger inside you. “Already so wet for me, darling,” he said, not bothering to hide the smug look on his face. “I’m not surprised.”
There was no argument from you, only sounds of wanton pleasure as he added a second, the stretch equal parts wonderful and disarming. He stroked you with precision, curling his fingertips to brush against the spot that never failed to drive you mad.
“Bloody hells,” was all you could say as your eyes fluttered shut and your head fell back against the plush bedding. You didn’t even realize he had shifted lower until you felt his lips on your inner thigh, withdrawing his fingers to reposition himself between your legs.
The sight of him kneeling before you was enough to turn anyone into a whimpering mess, much less when he sampled the sticky desire coating his fingers, humming to himself once more. Your hips bucked involuntarily, and before you could beg him to stop teasing you, he closed his lips around your clit, his eyes falling shut as he began sucking.
“Astarion!” you gasped, stifling a whimper as your hand found purchase in his hair, ruining his perfect coif.
He groaned in approval at the sound of his name, wrapping his hands around your thighs to hold you steady. He was relentless, creating the most salacious noises as he devoured you, feasting as though he were a man starved.
It didn’t take long for the building pleasure to overwhelm you, all of your senses honed on the electricity that seemed to course through your veins. At this rate, you wouldn’t last much longer.
“Don’t stop,” you begged, barely coherent. “Please…don’t stop…don’t…”
He answered your pleas with steadfast determination, making no change to his rhythm as you squeezed your eyes shut, bliss washing over you like a tidal wave. Your heart pounded as the coil within you snapped, ecstasy flooding your senses as you writhed beneath his lips, his grip tightening around your legs as he worked you through your high.
Once your breath steadied, Astarion pressed one last kiss to your overstimulated clit before crawling up and propping himself up with his elbows, caging you beneath him.
“Delicious as always, my dear,” he said, desire lacing his voice.
The look in his eyes made you shudder, a reminder that he was a far more powerful being than the last time you laid with him. His gaze was never without a vampire’s hunger, but now, he seemed…consumed.
That didn’t stop you from wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling him closer, a silent request for more.
A knowing smile tugged at his lips as he finally rid himself of his tunic and trousers, deft fingers making quick work of them. “Wicked little thing,” he chided as he freed his cock, spreading your desire along his length before prodding at your entrance. “And here I thought I had seen the last of you sprawled out beneath me. It’s nice to be proven wrong.”
“Gods, you talk too much,” you groaned.
“You wound me,” he whispered, lowering his lips to your ear. A fang caught on the skin of your earlobe, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to send heat rushing to your cunt as he continued to tease it.
The ache worsened as he pulled away, a petulant sound rumbling in your throat as you turned your head further into the pillows. Cool lips peppered kisses on your neck again, and without warning, he sank both his teeth and cock into you.
You gasped at the sudden pain, your hands coming to grip his shoulders and back as he began rolling his hips, each stroke more delightful than the last. Soon, the sting of fangs buried in your flesh gave way to numbness, and within seconds, a familiar warmth pooled in your stomach—made worse by Astarion moaning into your neck, his lips vibrating against your skin as he lost himself in sanguine bliss.
Your head spun and heart raced as he lapped at the wounds he’d created, rivulets of warm blood spilling down your neck and onto the bedding, but you didn’t mind. All that mattered was the feeling of his cock sliding in and out of you, pushing you closer to ecstasy once more.
As a cool tingle spread through your fingertips, he pulled away, bloodied fangs peeking out from behind his dripping lips. He dropped his gaze to you, admiration shining in his eyes. “You always taste sweeter after coming for me, darling.”
Another pathetic sound left your lips at that, the heady feeling of his body against yours becoming more intense as he curled his fingers around your throat, the site throbbing as he held light pressure over it. His pace never faltered, hips snapping into yours as he snared your bottom lip between his teeth, breaking open the skin there as well.
As coppery warmth spilled over your tongue, you couldn’t help but moan into his mouth, the fleeting pain of the bite outweighed by the coil tightening in your stomach again. You’d never felt so debauched, hair falling from your updo and streaks of crimson staining your skin as he dragged his fingertips across your neck, chest, and stomach.
“Astarion,” you all but whimpered, your rapid pulse lending to the tingling in your fingers, as though you’d dipped them in a frozen pond. Were you not so lost in pleasure, you’d almost panic, being at the mercy of a vampire lord and his bloodlust. Before, his lovemaking had always ended with a cuddle until sunrise—and a courtesy casting of lesser restoration if he’d overindulged—but now, there was no telling how far he would go. A little death could mean something entirely different.
“That’s it, love,” he cooed, leaning down to lick along the trail of blood he created, hovering over your tinged nipple before closing his lips around it once more. The melody was near perfect, driving you mad as he continued to fuck you, his pace becoming erratic. And as a bloodied hand snaked lower to tease your clit, you knew it would not be long before you reached another high.
You lifted your hips to meet his touch, the new angle filling you even more. “Gods, yes, just like that…”
He let out a chuckle as he swiped over your nipple one last time before shifting to puncture the skin of your breast, earning a sharp gasp from you. Despite the countless battles you’d seen, the sight of blood blooming from your supple flesh still made you squirm—an unfortunate thing considering it was his favorite place to bite, centimeters away from the beating force of your heart.
Between his cock, fingers, and mouth, you were lost in pleasure, the coil within you releasing like a bowstring, and this time Astarion was not far behind. As you basked in your ecstasy, you felt his rhythm falter before he shuddered above you, pressing himself deep inside you as he spilled. A low groan rumbled in his chest, his lips still flush against the wound at your breast as he rode out his pleasure.
Just as the world around you became out of focus and your head felt leaden, he withdrew with bloody lips, swiping his fingers over the two marks with uncanny speed. An unexpected smile stretched across your face as he mended your skin. It had never been so simple before, though given how your other two bites had already stopped bleeding, perhaps the trick came with his new abilities.
It seemed impossible to keep your eyes open as he shifted off of you, turning you onto your side to face him and running his fingers through your mussed hair. “I have missed you,” he said with his customary sultry flair, something between a smirk and a sneer on his stained lips. “In fact, I reckon tonight need not be the end for us, my sweet.”
His words doused you in cold water, and you weren’t sure if the shiver that coursed down your spine was from that or his touch—or both. The only relief was being able to feel such a way in the first place, for it meant he had not enthralled you. Even now, it seemed that was still a bar too low for him.
“That wasn’t the deal, Astarion,” you whispered, your eyes widening as you searched his face. Gone were the days of admiring his beauty during your candlelit pillow talks, where the glow from the flames lent some vitality to his perfect, porcelain skin. Now, there was something harsher in his expression, as though he had truly become more creature than man.
He clicked his tongue. “A pity. It seems I’ll need to collect more wretches for you and your High Harper to save, then.”
Like a doe cornered by a wolf, you froze, unable to even voice a denial.
“Come now, love. Even you must admit that your bleeding heart is terribly predictable,” he said, dragging his thumb to the corner of your lips, where your euphoric smile had long since fallen. “You think I don’t know that a dozen Harpers have been scurrying about in my dungeons this entire time?”
“That’s not-”
He silenced you with the pad of his thumb, the dried remnants of blood on his skin making your stomach churn. “Lying was never your strong suit, darling. Though as tempting as it is to have the legendary Jaheira at my command, I’m not without my mercy. I will let them go, but only for a boon in return.”
No, no, no. He needn’t say another word; you suspected what trade he sought. Unbidden tears welled in your eyes in the silence that followed, burning your cheeks as reality settled over you. There was nary a position more vulnerable than this, lying weak and naked in his arms, and you cursed yourself for stupidly allowing—even wanting—it to happen.
You imagined Jaheira caged below in the depths of the manor, where countless others had awaited their fates before her, her tired, hazel eyes filled with both fear and disappointment. Yet denying Astarion this request would surely sentence your other friends to the same torment until you could take it no more, until your resolve was broken enough for him to bend you to his will.
Guilt threatened to close around your throat as you spoke, trying and failing to keep your voice steady. “You would release her? And the Harpers?”
“On my honor,” he said, sliding his hand to your cheek, smearing your tears under his blood-tinged fingertips. “I won’t touch so much as a hair on their heads.”
You swallowed hard, and with a shaky breath, your decision was made. The chance to save seven thousand lives had slipped through your fingers once before, and now, there was no price you wouldn’t pay to ensure that not one more ever did.
NOTICE: As more and more fanfic writers are using generative AI for their works (you uncreative dweebs), I hereby swear on everything I hold dear that I have not and will NEVER use generative AI in ANY of my written work. Everything I post will be organically and creatively my own.
I’m dyyyying for more ghosts in the snow! Such amazing writing! It scratches an itch I didn’t even know I had! Are you planning on continuing the series?
AHHH thank you so much, you have no idea what that means to me ❤️ I do plan on continuing the series, I’ve been dabbling in writing for other fandoms at the moment but will circle back to my favorite vampire lord eventually 🦇🩸
areudirty
yousharknotpass
janainaart
baratheonpilled
annaxmalina
