someone who's spent two hundred years belonging to somebody cruel, still flinching at the softest touch, waiting for the price to come due. matched him to "I Know You Know" by Esperanza Spalding, patient love offered to someone whose trauma makes them brace against it.
free 5-song pulls like this + commissions for your own comfort character/oc/situationship open, link: storymixtape.etsy.com
So.... Here is part 1 of the Astarion Hurt/Comfort!AU I was talking about! Half elves cook for about 18 months so Kyrevae would be about 6 months in this. And he is such a cutie! I'm going to make a part 2 but I wanted this part out first!
Enjoy!
Masterlist
He had been cruel. He knew he had been. Said words he didn't mean, vitriol and rage wrapped in words he could never take back.
He didn't mean it…
But did that really matter? Did it matter that he regretted it almost immediately after leaving them? They we're alone he told himself. They would be fine. They were smart, strong, and resourceful.
They didn't need him.
But that didn't stop the guilt that gnawed at him within his chest in the dead of night as he walked the cold streets of Baldur's Gate. Didn't stop the urge to go find you. To kneel at your feet and beg for your forgiveness. Say he didn't mean it. That he was a fool. That he would do anything to take it back.
But he didn't.
It was almost two years that he lived as ghost. A whisper of the elf he used to be. And he couldn't help but think about how you were right. How if he had ascended he would have become a monster… the monster he had always told you he never wanted to be. And once again, his wounded pride whimpered in his mind as it battled with the guilt he bore like a stone on his shoulders.
Two years, two years of not even a rumor of you within the walls of Baldur's Gate reached his years. He couldn't blame you. You were the hero of the city but he had poisoned the well. Poisoned the streets and the walls, the smiling faces must be bittersweet to your kind heart. To look at a city who sang your praises but think he must have hated you.
It wasn't true.
But, he finally heard it. The rumor of the hero within the city walls once again. It made his undead heart race. Race with the idea that maybe, just maybe, he could talk to you. He would have the chance to fix this.
But would you forgive him?
He rushed through the streets, the accursed busy streets bustling with people unaware of his quest to find you. He had to find you. He had to. He would settle for nothing else, even if he had to overturn every single stone in this city. And that is when he caught it, your scent on the wind — a scent of honeysuckle and sweetness that was completely and uniquely you. There was no mistaking it. His head swiveled, looking left and right, for you. And there you were. Standing, smiling, and laughing with a merchant. As beautiful as the day he left you. But then he saw something that made his chest seize. Tied to your chest with a brightly colored piece of cloth wrapped securely around you… was a child. A little child fast asleep with silver hair.
Hands and legs shaking, taking a step forward with his words dying in his throat, he moved like a ghost through the crowd towards you. You were within arm's reach. He had to say something. Tell you he was there. Something.
"Darling...?"
That voice…
That voice that once made your heart race was making your heart race for a different reason now. Instead of the overwhelming love and affection you had once felt, you now felt a cold dread creep down your spine.
This wasn't how you had wanted him to find out.
Your grip subconsciously tightened around your son as he slept on your chest, slowly turning to face where you heard Astarion's voice. Your eyes meeting those breathtaking red eyes for the first time in two years. Two years of tears, heartache, and wondering if he was, at the very least, safe.
Astarion couldn't help it as he stood in front of you, his eyes darting from yours to the little bundle on your chest. Now that he was closer he could see the child clearly, a round cerub face with their hand curled in a tiny fist resting on your chest and their mouth slightly parted as they slept in the midday sun.
They looked like him…
Curls of silver hair that rested like a crown upon their head, but they had your nose. He could see it, the perfect mix of you and him. How much had he missed? How much had his foolish pride damaged? It took everything in his power not to fall to his knees here on the cobble stones and plead — beg — for your forgiveness. He didn't deserve it. Seeing this little child curled up on your chest, he knew he didn't deserve it.
"You have a child…" He saw it, the slight tense of your muscles as your arms wrapped protectively around the little thing. Saw the way your jaw clenched, the apprehension in your eyes. He deserved it. Deserved your caution.
"Yes." The word hung between the two of you like the sword of damocles, waiting to fall and see what would happen. Astarion opened and closed his mouth several times, trying to find words that failed him. In the end he could only hang his head, unable to meet your eyes.
"I…" The sound of your soft exhale reached his ears, the sound that you always made when you were making a decision. He just hoped he ended on the right side of this one.
"Would… would you like to talk?" Your voice was soft, gentle, kind. Everything he didn't deserve. But the idea that you would give him this chance? It made him hope — hope that he could fix things. His eyes slowly rose from the rocks underneath both of your feet, meeting yours once again.
astarion with a chronically ill significant other and the angst of him watching his partner slowly deteriorate during a flare up, terrified of loosing the only person he’s ever truly cared for, and partner desperately trying to explain that while it does appear they are dying this is just their normal.
Chapter 12 - The Un-Sexiest Hickey of Your Nonexistent Sex Life
< Ch 11 | Ch 13 >
>Ch 1<
Masterlist
Ao3 Mirror
It's the moment you've all been waiting for: The bite scene except I've removed all the sexual tension from it!
...what do you mean that's not what you wanted?
(I played around with formatting, so there are some intentional large gaps of empty space. Written text was supposed to be underlined, but I learned the hard way that tumblr don't like that. So instead, written text is blue.)
Your life flashes before your eyes, ending with a dark souls “YOU DIED” banner fading into existence, obscuring the eyes hovering inches away.
How did we get ourselves here again?
Oh, that’s right. After an exhausting experience known as psychological torture-slash-horror, you were so exhausted you had fallen asleep as soon as you hit the bedroll, only to be unpleasantly awoken by nightmares not long after. To the surprise of nobody except yourself, they were murder-related nightmares, not ERP ones. Maybe those unforgettable sounds of the night before were haunting you more than you thought. Now everytime you close your eyes it’s like you can hear it all over again. You were so tired. You needed to sleep. You wanted to sleep, but every time you closed your eyes, that…awful imagery your mind conjured would haunt you. Those noises were unending. Just how mutilated was that body? What did they do to it?
You needed something else to cover up those scenes playing in your mind that made you gag.
So you try to recount the other things that had happened earlier. Like the swamp skiing. Sure, there was no actual skiing involved, but now that you can think of it in retrospect, it was quite funny. And so you keep going backwards through your memories… and end up at the ERP. You had almost forgotten. ‘Fuck, man, why did I think this was a good idea? It’s wholly unpleasant for sure, but…I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think I prefer the ERP.’
Minutes pass like that, perhaps even hours, you can’t really tell, time doesn’t exist– it is a mortal construct made by man to differentiate past from present from future and is altogether meaningless– but your eyes feel like they’re sinking deeper and deeper into your skull with each exhausted blink. You want to sleep, but the sounds that aren’t there won’t. let. You.
You’ve been staring up at the ceiling of your tent without ever truly seeing it. Your head turns and you see your pack, slumped over on itself and unassuming. An idea forms.
You’re tired.
You want to sleep.
You want to sleep, and dream, and forget everything for a while.
You act on your idea.
You roll over and reach for your bag, pulling it just close enough so you can reach inside and pull out the small pouch you had stowed away your earbuds in. Bounty in hand, you take out your earbuds and detangle the few knots that had formed and fish out your phone before rolling back to your starting position. Jack plugged in, earbuds in your ears, and your phone turned on, you get yourself comfortable as your fingers follow the familiar pattern of a common nightly routine you had: navigating to your sleep aids. Tonight you needed noise, constant changing noise to keep out the sounds that clung to your ears despite them having occurred in the past, where they should have stayed. But they did not stay there. They care not for the passage of time, for time does not exist. Music and rain. That’s what you need, what your soul craves. And so that is what you hear once you press play, drowning out everything else as the tones flow from the wires to your ears. Your phone is slid under the edge of your pillow and your eyes close as your head fully sinks into the soft comfort that has still not molded to the shape of you, relaxed as best as you can force yourself to be.
Sleep does not come.
You can still hear things.
Your mind is unkind.
So you must be rid of your mind.
You exit from the sleep aid and switch to your music app, navigating to your dissociation playlist. That music plays flawlessly in your ears as you stare up at that same canvas ceiling you’ve been forced to get used to. Your thoughts begin to dull, as if a gray film was draped over them, their strength beginning to wane as they’re forcefully muted by the music taking grasp of your senses and gently coaxing them away. The water stained beige that stays where it is above you while projecting itself closer towards you at the same time, always there, always haunting, always reminding you of where you are and what has happened to you is more lax in its tormenting. The starts and ends of songs blur together. More hands with fingers in sets of two and three and four reach for you, slipping through your ears and into your mind, their bulbous ends pushing down on your thoughts, ink-filled ones quick to strike at any new ones, empty ones lingering to hold down the persistent ones until they dissipate into the thickening haze.
You’ve never turned your gaze, but now all you perceive is a vast nothingness as all thought struggles to remain coherent.
Your limbs tingle.
Or do they .ʔ
They’re al l so mu t e d . .. ca n y ou e ven te l l i fy ou hav el i mb s ʔ .
The nonsensical words made of steel banish the questions.
Let it be.
There’s no need to worry about that.
There’s no need to think anymore.
Just let go.
I f \ … I .. .
Let.
go.
Bu t.. . .
ʖ’ ’’ ’ ’ I dluohs
W hy… .. …ye s..
.s ey… .. … ʖ+ou
O B L I V I O N
P U L L P U L L P U L L P U L L
Tu ggg in. thr gh mur. K.
Wh y a r e y ou movi. N. G ?
W hyc a n
Yo u f ee l a Bo d y th atm u st b e yo urs?
S ou nd s a re the re a nd not . .. .
Som th ing isi n
th ehaz e
It isnota st u bb o rn t hou g ht
It tr ies to bre a k t he not hin g ne ssthe qu e it t he pe ace
I t is . O f….. .
F o r m
For m st amps an d cl aws & t ears
St r ips of fi lm tu rn pour o us ,,,, rib bons sl ippin g
thro ugh fi nger s .. .
Hands impossibly grasp on limbs that are not there for they do not exist yet they are held all the same, clawed fingers digging into arms through clothes that are not there but wrinkle beneath desperate swirling patterns of fingertips that are equally not there— « WAKE UP ALREADY, DAMN YOU! »
Your eyes open.
Your body jolts at the sudden shock of being awoken from your state of peace—
When did they close?
—Feeling and thought are knocked back into you—
Did they ever close?
—Your limbs are no longer not there—
Perhaps it was not that your eyes had opened but that you were able to see again.
—And your thoughts no longer mist and lulling tones slither into your ears—
Had you fallen asleep or were you simply gone?
—And you are decidedly very here.
A W A R E
Driven by autopilot, you come to the same conclusion you always do when woken up so suddenly: you’re running late. You don’t see what’s in front of you save for that pair of nocturnal eyes looking at you straight on, eyes on the front, eyes of a predator, eyes of your very hungry cat who’s upset that their breakfast is late. Your brain is still groggy and too slow to remember that you do not have a cat here, so your body doesn’t change its habitual course of action of trying to get you to leap out of bed. Your arm snaps to the covers to throw them off of you as your torso shoots up— THUNK! Your body is bounced back to the bed roll and you bring your hands to your forehead, groaning in pain.
”Gods!!!” You hear another call out in pain from across from you.
You recognize that voice, and it is definitely not a cat. “Astarion?! What the actual fuck?!” One hand rubbing your forehead, you squint as your eyes adjust and you see him, Astarion, on his knees, straddling your legs, similarly rubbing his own forehead.
‘We must have bonked foreheads like some cliche romcom… wait, if that’s the case, then that means he must’ve been practically on top… of… me…’
Your eyes widen as your mind jumps to the worst possible conclusion. Having a person you were not expecting to see on top of you in the middle of the night usually means they were planning to do something unspeakable to you, you know, like murder and other equally awful things. You pull your legs out from under him, scrambling backwards, over your pillow, as far away from him as you can. The blanket feels like it has a mind of its own, wrapping around your legs and fighting to keep you in place, but it is no match for your fright. Your long-silent earbuds–were they silent or could you simply not hear anything over the pounding in your ears?– put up no resistance during the self-imposed struggle and are yanked out of your ears in your clambering, the wires falling and jostling about, most likely about to get re-tangled under the covers.
No doubt seeing your reaction with his elven night vision, he quickly puts his hands up in a placating gesture, something you can just barely make out in the dark of the night since you have human night vision, which is not that good, according to most sources, “No, no–” he’s backpedaling, moving away from you. “It’s not what it looks like, I swear!”
You stare at him, chest starting to heave, still wide-eyed in adrenaline-fueled panic, hand reaching for your Gandalf stick-turned-bedside-baseball-bat.
“I wasn’t going to hurt you!” he exclaims, starting to sound as panicked as you no doubt looked. “I just needed–” he cuts himself off, looking off to the side– “Well… blood.” He looks up, making eye-contact with you once more, almost looking a bit sheepish.
“...What!?” You stare at him, head bobbing exaggeratedly as your body expresses your disbelief, confusion seeping into your panic as you shakily force yourself to take deeper breaths, trying to not hyperventilate. “Dude. What–” you raise your hands up, palms pressing against your forehead before dropping to be half-raised in front of you and slightly outstretched as you paused, open hands trembling and gesturing towards him, “what the fuck is wrong with you? Are you really,” you clench your hands and jaw, speaking through your teeth “so into your vampire roleplay that you had to,” your fingers press against your chest, tapping multiple times to emphasize your words, “sneak up on me in the middle of the,” you look up, hands gesturing towards the sky, or really the roof of your tent, before looking back down to meet his gaze, “goddamn night,” your fingers are placed back on your chest, “to pretend to drink my blood?” You duck your head, eyes closed and hands flung above your head to further express your exasperation, “Like, I knew it was bad but,” your arms drop and you look at him again with the kind of concern you would have for someone who was clearly mentally unwell, “I didn’t think it was ‘on all levels except physical, I am a wolf’ bad.” You stare at him in disbelief, slack jawed. ‘This motherfucker really woke me up in the middle of the night and gave me the scare of a lifetime for this?! I was imagining so much worse, so this much is a relief, but now I’m just pissed.’
Astarion still has his hands up, looking both confused and worried as his eyes keep darting towards the flap of your tent, as if afraid your dialogue had woken the others.
« …Young one, are you so sleepy that you’ve forgotten that he’s an actual vampire? »
‘Haha… what?’ You then remember that this is Faerûn and that vampires exist here. ‘Holy shit, he’s a real fucking vampire.’ Your mouth closes and brows furrow as you come to your newfound realization.
« Yes, vampires are quite real here. »
‘Wait a sec, from how you’re speaking, you already knew he was a vampire! Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?!’
« I thought you already knew! The first time you saw him, you literally called him a vampire in your thoughts! »
‘Yeah, because he dresses like one! I didn’t think he was actually a vampire! I just thought he was a goth!’
« What is a “goth?” »
‘Now’s not the time for that!’
“Um, hello? Anyone still in there? It’d be a shame if the tadpole ate away at your brain now of all times.” Astarion asks, trying to light the mood a bit. Seeing your attention suddenly snap back to him, he continues. “Have you calmed down now?”
[Hold on a minute, I’m processing.] {Performance = 14, success}.
‘So… vampires are real here.’
« Yes, they’re very real land just as dangerous. »
‘But, I thought that D&D vampires were classic vampires and couldn’t be in direct sunlight?’
« You are correct; they cannot. It is quite odd that he has the ability to do so. »
‘Right? The only vampires I really know of that are daywalkers are Twilight vampires, but he doesn’t sparkle, so that’s out of the question, and the other one is…’ Fear washes over you in a cold blanket as you settle on an awful conclusion. Could he be…? You jump to your feet and summon your violin, bow hovering over the strings, backing up until you reach the edge of your tent. Astarion, mirroring your retreat, holds his hands back up in surrender as he reaches the opposite wall.
“Let’s not be hasty here,” he says, right as you gently, quietly, bow a single note in pianissimo and see him flinch out of the corner of your eye as you light the candle in your tent with a simple cantrip.
Your eyes dart from his whole to his mouth. Did it move when he spoke? Your eyes were too drawn to his flinch to notice– a foolish mistake. Your mind runs through all your past interaction with him. Did his mouth ever move when he spoke? You can’t remember; you never paid attention. Your gaze is intense, waiting for him to open his mouth again so you can confirm your suspicions, but his lips remain shut. With narrowed eyes you removed your bow from the strings and his shoulders relaxed slightly.
He obeys, hands still up. You crouch, balancing your bow on your lap but keep your violin tucked under your chin, pinky finger hovering over your E-string, ready to pluck at a moment's notice. With your free hand you reach for your pack and pull out your journal and charcoal pencil, eyes only briefly darting away from Astarion every few seconds. Opening to a blank page, you rest your palm on it as you quietly pluck your E-string, casting Illusory Script on the page. Astarion flinches again at the sound, but relaxes back to his previous posture when nothing happens. You place your violin and bow fully down on the ground as you take a seat, fingers still on the strings, ready to cast a firebolt at him as you pick up your pencil with the other hand and write a single word: “Explain.” You have to keep the wording simple; you can’t give him even the slightest inkling that you suspect he might be a Magnus vampire–if you were pulled from another world into this one, there’s a chance he was too. You lift the book, showing the word to Astarion. He furrows his brow, but obeys. Your eyes stay trained on his face, his mouth, his tongue.
“While I may be a vampire, It’s not what you think– I’m not some monster! I feed on animals! Boars, deer, kobolds–whatever I can get.” He lowers his arms. “I’m just too slow right now, too weak.”
You know you can hear things right now; you heard the sound of your violin just moments ago. You can hear his voice, but do you really? It’s possible it’s an illusion, an effect of the hypnotism Magnus vampires can use that’s only making you think you heard him, but… you can see his mouth move. They don’t have visual illusory talents, at least not that you know of. You watch as his tongue moves– flat and curling as he talks. The auto-translation module within your brain makes it feel strange, like you’re watching a foreign live-action show that was dubbed over, but it’s enough. His tongue isn’t a fat, fleshy straw. He has just one set of teeth, with only the canines sharpened to elongated points. He seems to be just… a normal vampire… albeit one who can walk in the sun, but other than that, completely normal. He’s not a Magnus vampire. You inadvertently find yourself relaxing, the adrenaline wearing off.
“You know, you’re taking this surprisingly well,” he says after seeing the tenseness leave you.
You write in your journal, letting it be your voice. “Well, considering our current situation, a vampire isn’t exactly at the top of my list of worries.” You pass him the book.
“I suppose I can’t fault you for that.”
[Hand it back,] you gesture. He does so without much thought. You write some more, feeling quite talkative now that you can finally communicate effectively with one of your party members. You never really realized before this just how much you craved speaking with them. And by speaking, you mean complaining, arguing, bantering, etc. etc.
“That, and the fact that you pretty much look like a generic vampire made it so it didn’t really come as much of a surprise that you actually were one, save for the fact that sunlight doesn’t make you look like my childhood attempts at roasting marshmallows.”
« Well, that’s a bit of a lie, isn’t it? »
‘Shut up.’
“What do you mean I look like one?”
“You look like one.”
“What does that mean?”
“Means you look like a vampire.”
“What– I don’t look like a vampire!”
“Well that sucks because you sure look like one to me. How else can I explain it?”
“By explaining it?!”
“It’s not like you make it hard to guess, I mean, have you seen yourself? I’m pretty sure most people would come to the same conclusion after taking one look at you.”
“Firstly, uncalled for: you know I can’t see my own reflection. Secondly, If that was all there was to telling if someone is a vampire then I would have been found out years ago, but seeing as I’m not a pile of ash, nor do I currently have a stake through my heart, I think we can safely agree that being able to tell if someone’s a vampire just because they look like one isn’t normal common sense.
“Firstly, I think it was perfectly called for what with how you so rudely woke me up. Secondly, guess I’m just built different.”
“That’s certainly one way of putting it.”
‘Man, it feels good to not have to wildly gesture and hope they can guess what I’m trying to communicate.’
And back and forth the journal goes, trading hands– one writing, one reading.
“Speaking of vampirism, how are you just fine in sunlight?”
“I’m not entirely sure how, but I suspect it’s the tadpole. I believe it’s somehow made me immune to sunlight, amongst other things. You know, I hadn’t seen the sun for two hundred years before we crashed here,” he said, sounding melancholic. “Someone–or something– wants me alive. They’ve changed the rules.”
You almost laugh a bit at the irony of that statement. If only things were as simple as a dungeon master making an exception for a player.
“Standing in the sun, wading through a river, wandering into homes without an invitation; they’re all perfectly mundane activities now.”
“Makes sense, I guess. For a moment I thought you might’ve been a Magnus vampire, what with you being a day walker and all.”
“Magnus vampire?” He scoots a bit closer, intrigued.
You grin. It’s been a while since you’ve had the chance to info dump on someone. “Ah, allow me to explain. Where I’m from, the term “vampire” can be used a bit more… broadly. Basically, if on the outside it’s humanoid and doesn’t really look different from other humanoids of the same species, but feeds solely off of the lifeforce of others, like blood or energy(and sometimes time itself), it could be considered a vampire.”
“So, these “Magnus vampires” as you called them, can I safely assume that they can also walk in the sunlight? Without any risk of harm? That’s what you meant by “daywalker,” yes?” His eyes practically sparkled in the dim candlelight of the tent.
“Yes, that is correct.”
“There wouldn’t happen to be any way for a vampire spawn or lord to become one of these Magnus vampires, would there?”
“No, and thank goodness for that.”
Astarion narrows his eyes, giving you a slightly mean look.
“Those things are not something to be trifled with, but trust me when I say you do not want to become a Magnus vampire. Disregarding the fact that it’s inherently not possible to become one, they’re also much different from traditional vampires like yourself in a biological way as well.”
“Oh? How so?”
”For starters, we’re not entirely sure if they’re actually undead or not, but they probably aren’t. They’re moreso just a different species altogether, living their entire existence as a vampire rather than having been turned. They’re”, you pause, gathering your thoughts before putting pencil to paper again. “Much more horrifying, in a physical sense. Multiple rows of sharp, needle-like teeth, like a lamprey, and a fat fleshy tube for a tongue. They can’t speak with such an inarticulate tongue. Probably don’t even have enough room in their chest for a voice box. Instead, they rely on hypnotism. We believe it’s done through eye-contact, but we can’t be sure. Their skin is dry, like months-dead leaves; might even crunch if they’ve spent too long without blood.” You show him what you’ve written so far. His expression remains neutral through it all, not giving anything away.
”Doesn’t sound like any vampire I’ve ever heard of.”
You don’t respond, just take the book back from him and continue to write. ”In truth, we don’t know too much about them. But if you come across one, you have no choice but to kill them, and the best way to do so is to burn them. If you’re lucky and it’s been awhile since they’ve fed, they’ll go up in flames like kindling. We’re unsure if they’re able to be reasoned with or if they even understand speech in the first place since the only account we have are from people who barely survived being hunted, and, as you can probably guess, supposed prey don’t really think of their hunters as good conversation partners. Their intelligence is a mystery to us, but they know how to lure victims, and that’s what matters. Though I’m not surprised you haven’t heard of them. There shouldn’t be any in Faerûn, but I had to be sure. For all intents and purposes, I am very glad you’re not a Magnus vampire.”
“Can’t say I expected this conversation to lead to you being glad I’m a ‘traditional vampire,’ as you put it, but I’m not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. And while I am a bit envious of their innate ability to walk in the sun, I can’t say I find your descriptions of them very appealing.”
“Dry skin and not being able to hear yourself talk? A true travesty for one such as yourself, I’m sure.”
“Oh, absolutely! Can you imagine a world deprived of my voice and my perfect skin? Hardly a world worth living in, I assure you.”
A puff of air escapes your nose in amusement.
“You know,” he continues, “I didn’t expect you to have this much playful bite in you, but I suppose you haven’t really been able to truly express yourself before this, have you? Speaking of, how long were you planning on keeping this a secret?”
“Well, firstly, I only recently gained the ability to use this spell, and most of the time, my spell slots are better off being used on other things like fighting the enemy. Secondly, what’s that supposed to mean? I can joke whenever I want. It’s not like any of you really know me, so how would you know?”
“Forgive me for being blunt, but you’re like a frightened, soaked cat and you look like you’ll cry at the slightest provocation.”
“...” You sit and stare at him in silence… ‘I mean… he’s not wrong. I would describe myself as having “wet cat rizz,” yeah.’ “You know, most people have the decency to at least not say that to my face.”
“Oh, so you’re aware of it? Good. That saves me from having to list the copious amount of examples you’ve already provided us with.”
“Heeeeey, ruuuuuude!” You whine. Just seeing the unapologetic look on Astarion’s face told you even though he didn’t know your words, he understood you perfectly.
“Also, what is a spell slot?”
You think for a moment, putting your thoughts together on how to best explain it. ”Spell slots are how my people measure how many times someone is able to use magic before requiring rest. For me, I can only use this kind of spell twice before I need to rest for at least half an hour."
”How…unique. You know, in my two hundred-odd years of non-life, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that term.
”Maybe it’s just a translation thing.”
”Hmm, perhaps.”
The conversation stagnated after that. He looked like he had more questions to ask, but didn’t voice them. The silence didn’t linger for too long as soon enough, he sighed and pushed himself up to his feet. ”Well, as delightful as this has been, dinner isn’t about to catch itself.”
[Huh? Where are you going?] {Performance = natural 20, critical success}.
“What do you mean? If I’m going to think clearer and fight better, I’m going to need to get myself some blood. It’s not the most ideal conditions, but I’m sure I’ll be able to find something out in the woods.”
You quickly scribble out your words and stretch to hand him the book, not bothering to get up from your cross-legged position. “But I thought the whole point of you scaring the living shit out of me was because you needed me to donate some blood?”
« What? »
“I–what?” He asks, unknowingly syncing with Astaroth, chuckling in disbelief as he looks between you and your handwriting.
You make grabby hands at him until he snaps out of it and hands you back your journal. “I mean, you do need some, right? Or not? Sorry, I just assumed that this was probably your last resort and were desperate enough to risk this whole interaction in the first place since you seemed to want to keep this whole vampire thing a secret (regardless of how poor of a job you were doing).”
“Well of course I wanted to keep it a secret. Any of you would most likely have rammed a stake through my ribs as soon as you knew, but that’s besides the point. Are you… offering me your blood? So easily?”
“Yeah. I am. Why else would I write this all down?”
“I–hmm…Apologies, I just–I assumed you wouldn’t even give it a passing thought with everything you’ve said about ‘Magnus vampires’ and your distaste for them.”
“Magnus vampires are an entirely different subject matter than classic vampires besides them sharing a thirst for blood. And you know what they say about assuming.”
He raises an eyebrow at you. “No, I’m afraid I don’t know.”
‘Ah. That’s right.’ “Nevermind, that’s a phrase that’s lost in translation, so forget about it. Now come on. You want some blood or not?”
“I… yes. Thank you, truly.” He half-smirks, half-smiles as he takes a few steps towards you. “Now, let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”
“Ahtahtatatata–no,” You hold up a hand, cueing him to stop and wait for you to write.
“What’s the matter?” He acquiesces, if a slight bit annoyed at you agreeing then suddenly not.
“If we’re going to do this, I have a couple of rules first that you’re gonna have to abide by if you want any of my blood.”
“I suppose it’s only fair. By all means.”
“1) Brush your teeth first. And rinse your mouth out with some kind of alcohol. 2) You drink from my arm, not my neck, and I must be upright during it. 3) You can drink no more than–” You think for a bit, trying to find a good way of converting earth’s measurement system to whatever they have here “ –a teacup’s worth of blood. 4) When I say “stop,” you stop immediately. (Once you get to this part, look up and I’ll say the word aloud so you know what to listen for), and finally 5) Heal and treat me afterwards using your own stock of supplies. If you’re getting my blood, then I’m getting one of your healing potions.”
You hand the journal to Astarion and watch him silently read, vocalizing the word “stop” for him once he looks up at you before turning back to read the final rule. He scowls a bit, but doesn’t fight you on the rules you’ve set.
“Reasonable enough. Well then,” he snaps the book shut and hands it back to you. “I suppose I’ll be seeing you again in a bit.” His eyes don’t leave you right up until he leaves the tent, still not quite believing that you’ve agreed to this.
Now, you have your own preparations to do.You grab your soap and water, then move to the edge of your tent, away from your bedroll; you weren’t about to deal with trying to clean blood out of it. You settle in, sitting down and getting yourself ready for the bite. You lather up a bit of the soap, washing the area of your non-dominant forearm near your elbow where a phlebotomist would typically draw blood from. Because that’s all this was. You were just donating blood. Nothing to be nervous about. You’ll be fine. You rinse off the suds.
« Young one, you cannot be serious. »
’What?’
« You are willingly giving your blood to a vampire! »
’Yeah, and? He’s hungry.’
« I think you are failing to see just how dangerous and ridiculous of an idea this is. »
’As long as we follow the rules I’ve set, everything will be okay… probably.’
« Probably?! You will probably wind up dead! »
’Listen, in my world, donating blood is a perfectly mundane and normal occurrence. Sure, it’s not going towards vampires back home, but it’s practically the same thing.’
« I cannot believe this. Though knowing you, I really shouldn’t be surprised. »
’Hey, what’s that supposed to mean?’
« It means you have a bleeding heart. »
’…Well… there’s worse things to be called.’
« You’re really going to trust that he’s going to follow those rules? He’s a crafty one; I wouldn’t put it past him to try and twist things in his favor somehow and make things worse for you. »
A thought crosses your head of something you hadn’t considered before. ‘...You know you’re right. These rules aren’t complete. It needs one more.’ You quickly write down one more and you hear Astaroth sigh.
« Just… be careful. Please. »
‘Don’t worry. I will be. Promise.’
Another minute passes in silence before you see Astarion cross the liminal space that is your tent’s entrance. Unlike you, he doesn’t seem to forget what he was doing every time he crosses one, if the healing potion in hand is anything to go by. “Alright, I’ve got your potion,” he lightly shakes the small flask of red liquid held in his hand, “and my teeth are clean. Is this sufficient enough for us to begin?”
[One more thing,] You pass him the book. “Rule #6) don’t read that awful ERP journal to me ever again.”
He looks up from the book, unimpressed. “Really? This is your final condition?”
You nod and pat the ground, gesturing for him to sit beside you.
He shrugs and strides over, stepping over your bedroll and mussed sheets. He places the healing potion down to the side, then takes a seat next to you.
You place your book on the ground in front of you and begin to write. “Okay, so you’re going to bite into the vein right over here—” You let him read, then point to the area where the vein should be once he looks up. “And remember, when I say stop, you stop.” You point to the word stop. “Stop.” You reiterate how you pronounce it.
“Of course, not one drop more.” He grabs your arm, then pauses, giving you a confused look. “…Why is your arm wet?”
“I disinfected it, obviously.”
”…Right. Well, let’s not delay this any further.”
He lifts your arm, nosing into the crook of your elbow. He takes a deep breath, and you’re not sure why. Is he trying to make it look like he’s breathing, seeing as vampires don’t actually breathe? You almost giggle as your mind brings forth that one post about scuba vampires, but you banish the thought. His hands grip your arm firmly, yet somehow gently at the same time, keeping you in place. His lips drag against your skin until he finds what he’s looking for. You find yourself having to look away. You were never good with this sort of thing; whenever you watched, you would always grow too tense in the nervous anticipation of getting vaccines or your blood drawn that the doctors wouldn’t be able to do it. His mouth opens wide, fangs glinting in the dim light.
He bites, fangs quickly and easily sinking into your flesh.
At first, it’s not too bad; it just feels like being pricked by two needles… But then they go deeper, and the needles grow thicker as they go, widening the wound. The pain is sharp as your skin is forcibly stretched around the circumference of his fangs. His lips seal themselves against your skin, but his fangs do not leave you. He begins to suck, and you feel your skin getting pulled into his mouth at the same time the blood travels past his fangs into his waiting mouth. ‘How does that work? Do his fangs have grooves in the back, like some sort of blood-ducts?’ Your mind wanders a bit, despite the pain, ever-so-curious and trying to distract yourself because you very much do not like this! It’s not like getting your blood drawn, contrary to what you first thought. It’s the pulsing pain of a sting coming and going, but it is cold, if you were to find something in common. You snap back into focus as you feel his tongue, cold and wet, lick at your skin, brushing against the bases of his fangs and pushing against your plugged wounds. You wince as the action causes your rent skin to slide against his sharp fangs, irritating it further.
This… this was all a lot more intimate than you were expecting and you find your eyes screwing shut not just from the pain, but also from how uncomfortable you were feeling. You had known this man for not even a week and yet here you both were, his lips making the most unsexy hickies known to man.
‘Hooo… it’s okay, me. You’re okay. You are totally O.K. This is purely clinical, just a blood donor donating blood… except the needle is his fangs and the pump is his mouth… agh, just... Think of something else!’
‘You don’t think I’m already trying that?!’
‘Then think faster, me! It’s like he’s making out with my arm at this point and I don’t think we vibe with this!’
‘We know we don’t vibe with this! We’re not one of those “sex-havers” so of course we’re uncomfy, me!’
‘You think the “sex-havers” would vibe with this?!’
‘Some of them, probably!’
‘Well I don't know what to do about this! We can– fuck I don’t know– pretend it’s something else???? Like, somebody smushing an amphibian against our wound because its mucus has magical healing properties?’
‘That’s– I don’t know if that's better or worse, but it is pretty gross.’
You pressed your lips between your teeth subconsciously, trying to desperately think of something else.
‘He is quite cold though, but I don’t know why I’d expect anything different. Since vampire hearts don’t beat, that means they don’t carry warm blood through their bodies anymore, essentially making it so their body temperature would be whatever their surroundings were, like a cold blood creature… are vampires just dry amphibians?’
« Alright, that does it. Young one, I believe this has gone on long enough and you are clearly uncomfortable. You’re even beginning to sound–how do I put this…–loopy. I think you should reassess just how much blood you’ve already given him and come to the conclusion that he’s taken more than his fair share and you should cut him off now. »
Astaroth’s echoing voice brings you out of your spiraling thoughts and aware of your situation, and with that the realization that you no longer felt that sharp pain in your arm. It was more of a tingly pain now, like when your limbs fall asleep, and you were feeling colder than normal.
‘Hmm, yes, it does feel pretty cold and I got the annoying tinglies in my arm… it’s like a brain freeze, but in my arm.’
« …Stop this now before I step in myself. »
‘Oh yeah! Right, gotta do that.’
You open your eyes and look at Astarion who was completely absorbed with gnawing at said brain-frozen arm. Kinda like a dog with an oversized bone.
“Astarion, stop.”
He doesn’t stop. In fact, it seems like he didn’t even hear you at all. You poke at his shoulder, trying to get his attention. No response.
“Hey, Astarion,” You speak louder this time. “Time’s up. You gotta stop.”
Still no response. You’re starting to feel light-headed. And you’re beginning to panic. ‘Fuck, he’s got tunnel vision–can’t hear or see me at all. I can’t just wrench him away, what if that makes him bite down reflexively and make the wound even worse?’ You place a hand on his shoulder and try to gently push him away, but he practically growls in response, jaw tightening around you just the slightest bit more. ‘Woah-kay, predator mode on, got it. Well then, if you’re going to act like an animal, you’re gonna be treated like an animal.’ You reach over and grab your canteen of water, holding it between your thighs as you unscrew the cap with your hand. ‘Don’t say I didn’t give you a chance.’ You then jerk the canteen towards him, splashing the water onto his face. The sudden shock of cool water in his face and eyes seems to snap him out of his trance. He unhooks his fangs from your arm and backs up, sputtering and rubbing at his eyes.
“Was that really necessary?”
“Be glad it wasn’t alcohol.” Upset, you angrily write in your notebook, “Yes. It was. You broke rule number four.”
“Oh… My apologies, I must not have heard you.”
“Yeah, no shit.” You cross your arms and huff before reaching over to grab the healing potion. You uncork it and quickly spill some on the wound, letting it work its magic.
“That was… amazing,” he practically sighs in contentment as he licks the little dribble of blood off his lips.
‘That makes one of us.’
“My mind is finally clear. I feel strong. I feel… happy!” He almost looked surprised at how giddy he was, his full smile unable to be contained.
“Uh-huh. Good for you. If you need anything else, forget about it. I’m too tired and would like to sleep.” You look over to your arm and grimace at the telltale sight of the blooming red from a newly formed hickey stained with smears of blood. ‘Guess bruising only heal when you drink the potion.’ You look over at the 90% full potion. ‘...nah, this ain’t enough to waste the rest of the potion on. Papercuts, however… yeah, that’ll be my papercut reserve potion.’
“Right… Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’re invigorating, but I need something more… filling.” He turns and saunters off, intent to leave your tent.
‘Heh… I’m so good at puns.’
He pauses at the exit, turning his head just enough to look at you out of the corner of his eye. “This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.” And then he leaves, footsteps silent as always.
Movements slow and lethargic, you quickly wash your arm once more before practically collapsing into your bedroll, body becoming tangled in the blankets and wires of your headphones, but you can’t bring yourself to muster enough energy to care.
‘Can’t believe I was bitten by a vampire and all I got out of it was this lousy hickey.’
