spawn.

Well... if you must know - I'm actually a princess of House Nightstar, and I'm married to a tarrasque named Johnathan. Anything else you'd like to know?

[unascended]

#unascended independent, selective & mutuals only roleplay blog for ASTARION ANCUNÍN from baldur's gate iii. sensitive content will be present & tagged. 21+ only. est jan 2025. ⋆｡°✩ as loved by crow.

𓂏 ⋆｡°✩ . . . a study in - hedonistic tendencies, in-authenticity for the sake of survival, an incredible amount of sass, being deprived of choice, sexual & emotional trauma, healing, & the defeat of a terrible abuser & the emptiness & new life that follows.

-> carrd. -> memes.

[feyrevelry]

𐙚 🧁 ₊ ⊹ LATE HATCHDAY GIFT FOR @unascended !! <3

This is just a tiny little something, but I hope you'll like it (even if it's 2 weeks fashionably late asdfsdf) <3 Crow, I can't say enough how much I appreciate you! I love chatting with you, I love writing with you, and damn, you never fail to impress me with your talent. 💖

@unascended

[orchidsrot-arch]

OH, A COMPANY SHE COULD use , anything would be better than the void pulling her away from the surface and weighing her down to the bottom, threatening to drown in self doubt .. Anything. But anyone? She was mulling her choices over .

The priestess still liked the high elf rogue. They seemed to be sharing the same passion for wine, gossiping and loathing the rest of the companions , maybe a shared bedroll could be added to the list. Surely Shar wouldn't mind, her wound didn't throb yet , like it did before when the dream pulled some of her memories to the surface , but they were immediately swept away when Shadowheart's wound flared.

Curious forest shaded eyes flickered over Astarion fully as he propped himself on his palms. She had been so absorbed in her own thoughts previously, before his sudden approach, until his words caught on the cleric's ears. His skillful selection of wording, paired with his bright reds taking her in, made her pale cheeks flush, it was evident their shared affliction obliged him to figure her thoughts. And it was a generous offer on his part , to help cure her loneliness.. Nonetheless, she wondered what could he possibly want with her , on his turn.

Well, there was just one way to find out, wasn't it?

" Is that right ? Then , perhaps we can engage in a little frivolous recreation together ," The Sharran replied softly , her emerald hues hiding under dark lashes , coquettishly. The sleep-thick voice of the cleric, an octave or so lower than usual, as she shifted position to get closer to him and murmured out close to his pointed ear , his scent citric bergamot, intoxicating and heady .

Only then did she shift her gaze to him completely, as that little smirk played on her lips. A bite present with her tongue for him intruding her mind like that,but there was no taking it back now.

" Well, I truly hope there's a fine bottle of red in that messy tent of yours, Astarion, " The cleric taunted , a slight creak to her tone that came with a dry throat - a sign of parched mouth from the salacious slumber.

She could deal with her own shame later, after all.

[unascended]

THANK THE GODS FOR HIS INSTINCTS. Centuries of toying with creatures so thoroughly undone by their bodily desires as to be considered hardly thinking by him had made reeling Shadowheart in so easy. The heat in her cheeks and the warmth of her breath against the shell of his ear were hardly impressive. He'd seen and felt that and so much worse with thousands of writhing horny cretins. Comparatively this was almost pleasant in its mundanity, made all the sweeter because he'd chosen her - and he'd be getting so much more than a glass of wine and sex. More than she might ever comprehend.

Astarion's lips curled in a mockery of genuine pleasure, his legs curling under himself so he could push himself to stand over Shadowheart's stretched out form spilling from her bedroll toward his feet. Bending at the waist with a cool hand held out for her to take, a gentlemanly offer to drag her away from prying eyes and into his own hungry jaws for once, he quirked a brow.

"Oh, frivolous recreation and a good bottle of red are very much on the menu for tonight." Astarion purred, sweeping his tongue over the points of his fangs behind carefully pursed lips. "A fun little distraction from the threat of coming down with an unsightly case of tentacles."

Pale fingers curled toward his palm, one finger twitching in a tantalizing come hither motion. "As delicious as you look down there, you'd be even more breathtaking in my tent with your lips wrapped around..." Pausing for effect, he tipped his head up and back so he could bare his teeth in a salacious grin that kept his fangs just out of sight. "The bottle of Amnian dessert wine I have waiting for us."

[unascended]

go to pinterest and type in "your muses name core aesthetic" and create a moodboard using nine images.

TAGGED BY: @lordancunin TAGGING: UHHH WHOEVER WANTS TO DO IT

[feyrevelry]

Astarion had barely settled onto the bedroll when Sylverian stirred, drawn instinctively to the presence beside him. His body moved on its own, arms winding around Astarion as soon as he felt him — his touch, his scent, the energy that belonged to Astarion alone. Even half-lost to sleep, he knew him.

Was he dreaming? Suspended in that delicate limbo between waking and sleep, Sylverian dared not move, afraid that the slightest shift might shatter the illusion. The thought was unbearable, but the uncertainty even worse. Slowly, hesitantly, Sylverian’s lashes fluttered open, and his gaze lifted.

It was real. He was real.

Relief crashed over Sylverian like a wave, so overwhelming it nearly stole his breath. He buried his face in the crook of Astarion’s neck, breathing him in fully now, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, holding tight as if he feared that without his grip, Astarion might still dissolve into thin air. Then, he noticed his warmth and the trace of iron woven beneath his familiar scent Sylverian so loved... Astarion had fed. But he couldn’t bring himself to care.

He had chosen to return to him. He hadn’t kicked Sylverian out.

HOPE surged in his chest, not as something fragile and delicate, but as something full and untamed. Any hesitation that might have warned him to be careful, any caution that might have urged him to keep his distance, was silenced as though it had never existed. How could doubt remain when Astarion had written such a letter? When he held him this way?

Lips barely brushed against Astarion’s skin as Sylverian whispered, ❝I missed you too...❞

[unascended]

HIS UNDEAD HEART STUMBLED IN HIS CHEST. Truly it hadn't taken long at all to rouse Sylverian from sleep. Nor to have his warm body wrapping around him and pulling him even further into the comfort of being freshly fed. It was much like being submerged in a hot spring, so much so that a flush climbed high into his cheeks bones and burned in the tips of his ears. Feeding had given him a pulse - slow and weak, but there and picking up speed at the tender feeling of plush lips brushing over his jaw.

After so many days of aching and so many more of guilt, this made the suffering worth it. Not all of it. This one embrace could never wipe away two hundred years of misery, but it was a start toward mending things between them at least. As much conviction as he'd felt writing that letter (admittedly sparingly little, for how he saw himself), Astarion felt more of it rise from the depths of him, constricting in his throat and strangling away his words for several moments.

Those pretty icy blues were hazy, sleep-drunk in the same manner that he was blood drunk. Perhaps there were more words he could offer, more explanations, but... they could wait. They would wait, Astarion decided, dipping down to kiss the corner of those lips quirked in dreamy joy in front of him.

"Well... good morning to you too." A high giggle bubbled free from him, genuine as it was affectionate (and drunken). Pushing mussed golden strands away from Sylverian's face, Astarion sighed and settled into him even further. More relaxed than he'd been in...

... Ever?

"I had a whole minotaur." He announced triumphantly, releasing Sylverian's hair to dance his fingertips along that stunning jawline. "I think that'll save us an enemy sometime soon. It certainly saved me. I was horribly famished without you, you know."

Perhaps not the most tactful thing to say. He cleared his throat, ruby gaze sweeping over the cozy bundle in his arms. He corrected himself, "Ah... For your company, mostly."

[unascended]

@silvertiefling cont. from here.

LIQUOR LADEN BREATH FANNED AGAINST HIS CHEEK IN RAPID BURSTS. Katya was sniffing him incessantly, and Astarion's entire body went rigid. Of course he'd expected her to smell him, to see the state of him and react. He'd even wanted her to. Yet panic lanced through him like lightning in a sudden storm the instant she was invading his space, her sharp wolfish inhales causing his lips to curl in a snarl. Yes, of course he'd expected this - but to what end?

Astarion had come to her for comfort fully knowing it was a trap. Whether it was for her or for himself, the reality of it choked him like a dog jerking on a chain in a vain hope for escape. He'd crawled his way to her side, pathetic and reeking of sex, death, and things unmentionable in polite company. For what? So she'd save him? His lungs collapsed in on themselves, humorless chuckles spilling past his lips at the look on her face.

Yes, he looked like shit. Sounded it too. In an instant the mask dropped, as his master's influence on him released if only temporarily. Let him hope. Let her come. While Astarion may have never taken comfort in her body or her lips, Katya's presence represented a life he would never be allowed to have. Cazador allowed no one to be his spawn's equal - not even another spawn.

"Of course he did." He hissed between clenched fangs, grasping at one of Katya's arms to drag her back toward the stool beside him. "And I'm about to do worse to you and your pack if you don't sit down before you do something monumentally stupid."

It wasn't a threat from him he was warning her of. No, with his free hand drawn down the blood crusted side of his face, flakes of it shivering their way down to the ruined neck of his shirt, he was worried about something else. The panic in him was blooming into terror, twisted and icy in his undead veins. Crushing his eyes closed as his hands fell away, Astarion gestured for the stool again.

"He wants you to run in, Katya. He knows." There was no other explanation, although he... owed her another one. Head dipping between defensively raised shoulders, he bit back another sour laugh. "My master allowed me to leave the palace like this knowing exactly where I'd go and who I'd be going to. At least, I think. I never told him or my siblings about this place because if he knew... if they knew... you would be in danger. Everyone here is in danger right now. No doubt he's been planning this longer than anything you could have come up with in that lovely head of yours."

When his eyes reopened, falling on her beautiful face once more, they were hazy. Far away and flooded with guilt and a thousand other overly emotional daggers. "I shouldn't have come. You're too precious to -" A choked sound left him, fingers grasping blindly for his glass of brandy. It was lifted shakily to his lips, his next words barely audible over the rim. "For whatever happens next, darling, I'm sorry. You are the only thing I care about."

[swordsbardkat]

"A well-presented face can open a lot of doors. Not that I've seen this face. Not since it grew fangs and its eyes turned red."

[infernalapparatus-deactivated20]

BEING GOOD NEVER CAME WITH A REWARD IN AVERNUS . Devils sought to exploit you, and to ruin you. To take any hash of weakness, any give, any falter, and they would use that - take, and take, and take, until there was nothing left. All devils were unapologetically like that - no matter what kind of pretty face they'd put up or feign of innocence. There was always something more going on behind the scenes, because those skeevy little fuckers were sly. In the beginning, Karlach really wanted to be good, and she did all she could to help those that really needed it. A passing ration here, a slip of a refugee there - but it didn't last long. That good heart of hers was sullied the moment Zariel honed in on her potential, and tore it free of her chest. That good heart of hers was sullied when Zariel cast it away, and perverted her body. Shoved something dripping with malice into a place it didn't belong. It had no home in a body like Karlach's - and every other little pet project died from this procedure.

WHERE DID THEY DIE , SHE WONDERED ?

Was it from breaking all of their ribs? Rending their flesh from the very bone, tear through arteries and shoving long metal tubes in through their limbs? Was it from bloodloss, or just sheer fucking pain? Was it fast, or did it take days to die? Perhaps it was when Zariel ripped out the still-beating heart from their chest, pulling it before their very gaze, with a wicked gleam in those soulless eyes. Or when their heart was severed, nodes being forced into a machine on the table next, infernal metal tubes attached to it next. Was it when the engine roared to life - did it scorch them from the inside, out? Did they survive the process, then? No. None of them did. Every creature who was forcibly perverted by Zariel's disgusting machinery that was not some denizen of this plane died from the procedure. It was too much stress for their bodies to handle, too much trauma. Too much pain. NO ONE WAS MEANT TO SURVIVE THIS PROCESS . That's why it was called experimentation, why the engine was a prototype. It wasn't meant to inhabit bodies - just cold steel. It wasn't meant for someone living.

BUT BY SOME FUCKING MIRACLE , KARLACH DID .

She was the only one. Every other subject died on the table, bloodless, scorched, debauched, and aberrant. Countless pounds of flesh and bone, thoroughly strung out like macabre feast suited only for the utterly deviant and twisted monsters with their own special places among the Styx. The ones who willingly serve Zariel, and beg for all of her attention like touch-starved mutts. It was most deplorable - and yet, when her body recovered, she yearned for that same attention. Malice loves malice, and that thing shoved into her achy-breaky body loved nothing more than it did Zariel. THUS BEGAN THAT VICIOUS CYCLE OF OBSESSION , OF ADDICTION , AND IT WAS FUCKING RUINOUS . Karlach tried her best to keep her wits about her, but it was impossible to think when she was fighting for her life one moment, and high off of Soul Coins the next. Her moral compass, with time, began to skew. Help was few and far between now, and after only six years in Avernus, did that hope start to dwindle and die. She never stopped looking for a way out- but sacrifices were made, and they were no longer on her plate. It was about controlling what she could - and too many innocent victims of the Blood Wars were spared by her axe. She never wanted to kill them - but she could hear the murmurs. The hopes. That another tiefling would come, like herself, and they could become another fleshy experiment.

In that, a line was drawn. Morality fighting with her skewed compass, battling like her consciousness did her addiction, and she felt wholly unworthy to be the judge, or the jury. BUT SHE WOULD BE THE EXECUTIONER . Even if that did nothing more than shorten what fate they were destined to have - she could save them the agony. It wasn't something she was proud of. It wasn't something she would even mention, not ever. Speaking it into existence would only solidify Wyll's statements, calling her a devil, a monster. She would stick to her guns, she was a victim of the Blood War - but her hands were not clean. They never would be, and not enough water in the planes would wash away the atrocities she had to commit.

That level of self-loathing from Astarion was quiet. Too quiet. But Karlach was one who could pick out that thousand-yard stare - she saw that, too, in the mirror, if she spaced out enough. Keeping it covered was the real trick - and her blind optimism would have to do. It wasn't fabricated, not really. BECAUSE SHE WAS A FREE WOMAN . Just not as free as she wanted to be. That, and the sins of her past would drag her down like a ball and chain. Even still, she had to march on. This time, it's not just about her, anymore. They all need to survive this, and they all need a big, strong rock to lean on. Her eyes flicker up to meet his again - and he looks utterly deprived of care. Care for the things about him, or care for himself? Outward, inward? It would take a bit to suss out, she suspected. He said he doesn't care - but it felt like a cover. He cared about something - and maybe that was freedom. She latched onto this.

" Nay, let's say you don't care. " Karlach amuses this thought, hands kneading together with contemplation, and her vented shoulders deflate a touch. " Still better than hate. There's not a lot of things I hate, Astarion. List is quite stubby, if I'm honest with you - but I'll let you in on a secret. " She didn't get closer, for fear of making her companion who had gotten closer to her heart in the past decade than even she had been into a crispy little critter. But, she did lean in a touch, ensuring her gaze met his own with blazing intensity. " You want something more. And it's freedom. " She pauses, to survey any change in expression, any hint of admission, before she leans back slowly, allowing the weight of her words to settle in. Then, crimson hues shift to the stars above, and she watches him - the movement of his head, of those little peeping scars on his throat. A certainty. MAYBE RIGHT NOW , HE WAS A FREE MAN . Good things weren't meant to last. All the more reason to treasure them most.

" It's always a gamble, y'know. Saving others. Acting selfless. " She continues on, after that brief pause, shoulder shrinking in at how her engine revs. Bathing in blood made her oily blood pump - and indulging sex made a low heat brew in her belly. Two things she desperately needed, like him, but she had some atonements to make. THAT , AND SHE COULDN ' T INDULGE IN MUCH OF ANYTHING WHEN SHE BURNED LIKE HELLFIRE . " But it's not an expectation. " Karlach continues after that beat, lips tugged into a pointed frown. It was hitting a little too close to a proverbial home, and that ragged laugh that left him was forced. Too devoid of humor for her to entertain. When she swallows, it's thick. Her tongue feels thick.

" Sometimes we gotta do things 'cause they're right. 'Cause maybe, you and I wouldn't be in the places we're in now, if someone had done it for us. I'm not gonna sit here and ponder on all the what-ifs, since that's just shite, but-- " And she sighs again. This wasn't just for him, after all. But his words made her engine stir - and it wasn't with innocence. " All I've done is gone berserk. I don't know what it was like in your shiny palace, but don't think it was any better or any worse than what it was like, in Avernus. I had to do a lot of shit to survive, 'n... A lot more than that. It's war - and there are no winners in war. No one comes out the way they went in. If I'm honest with you, if I let myself go berserk again? I . . . I don't rightly know what you'll see. That being said- " And she leans up, shoving a hand into one of her pockets - where she squeezes what's inside. There's a beat of hesitation, but she intends to make a promise. She produces something strange - soaked in the stench of brimstone, and utterly haunting in the palm of a hand. A strange, infernal coin, that she was desperately holding onto. She almost flinches, holding it out - but forces her arm to steady. Offering HER Soul Coin to the rogue. " Can't risk it. PLEASE , TAKE IT . "

[unascended]

THE WEIGHT IN THE PALM OF HIS HAND WAS AS CUMBERSOME AS THE ONE IN HIS CHEST. Astarion took her soul coin, clutching at it like the desperate thing that he was. How was he to say no when she held out something to him - something of value both personal and literal? After everything Karlach had said, he felt as if his tongue (or perhaps his very being) had been scalded. It was as if he'd pressed against her bare flaming skin only to come away charred and cracking. There was no balm to soothe how wretched her goodness made him feel by comparison.

Even still Astarion felt she misunderstood him. Karlach was looking for something in him that no longer existed. Perhaps it never did. Or worse: if it did how did he justify, well, ALL OF IT? There was so little left of himself to make sense of because of Cazador, and so little that made sense in the world at all. (He made sense of it by believing it was all bad, even himself.) Was he responsible for the children? For every beautiful corpse he'd thrown in a muddy pit while Godey or some beady eyed werewolf kept watch? For the sex and the deceit and the way he hated it, hated his body, hated how it'd been used, hated -

Slender fingers unclenched from around Karlach's soul coin, his swimming ruby stare flickering over it in a silent battle against the urge to shed tears. No, he wouldn't cry. A single hard swallow, a deep breath, and Astarion turned his gaze on her with sharp intensity.

"Of course I want freedom," he began, tone icy and distant. "So does everything kept in a cage."

Despite the fight bubbling to the surface in him to spill past his lips, his fingers curled around the coin one final time. This time he pulled his hand back, pushing it up between his middle and index fingers to begin rolling it over his knuckles. Flippant treatment for something so priceless offered to him, maybe, but he had no intention of giving it back now that it was his. Maybe it'd make a good bargaining chip when they reached the Shadow Cursed lands in a couple of days. If he were lucky enough to meet Raphael again. (If he could bring himself to truly part with it.)

"The difference between you and I, darling..." His tone was more biting than his expression - no, his eyes denoted fear. Fear of himself. Perhaps of her getting close to him for real and hating what she saw. "The difference is you had the free will to run. If you were corrupted you didn't stay that way, but I don't think you were. Zariel might have cut out your heart, Karlach, but a part of you still held onto it even when it was hopeless. Even when it was stupid to."

There was a soft metallic clink as Astarion's thumb caught the edge of the soul coin and flipped it into the air. Snatching it up, he finally pocketed it and leaned forward with folded hands resting between his spread thighs. With his head bowed he could see all manner of tiny critters scuttling through the dirt at his feet. He grimaced, plagued by memories of the bugs he'd eaten when he was starved and rats were off the menu.

"Mine stopped beating two hundred years ago. You clung to your love for this plane and the people in it to get you by. I learned to hate it. Faerûn has its mildly redeeming qualities, sure, but... I had to hate it. Because if I didn't..." The fingers of his left hand squeezed his right so hard he felt his bones ache with it. "Maybe I would have died. Maybe someone else would be in my place. I would be forced to face the idea that there might have been people who loved me once, and I had to accept that there never will be again. Not really."

Desperation crept into his voice again, like a starved beast prowling in the night. Cazador had carved him hollow of all hope. He'd lived two centuries stripped of even the most basic agency over himself, and she expected him to play hero? "Why should I save anyone but myself? Oh, I'm sure you think your reasons are so compelling. So no one else has to feel what we did. That's so sweet, Karlach, really, but since when did anyone look at ME and think that?"

Burning red eyes caught the firelight when he finally looked up at her again. In his gaze there was a well of rage and misery so bottomless that it put the Abyss to shame. Even if he knew she was right, he had to argue. He couldn't just not - he had to make sense of it. He couldn't.

"For two hundred years I've had to live with knowing that the objectively right thing for anyone who came across me to do would be to put a stake through my heart. The right thing to do would never be to save me. To help me. To take pity on me for being tormented every moment of my miserable existence. No one looks at THIS -" His fangs flashed at her, left hand dropping the right to jerkily point at his own gaping maw. "- and thinks I'm suffering. They see a monster and they leave it to rot. Or hunt it. Even the Gods wouldn't help me. So why should I help anyone?"

With his vitriol drained like a pus-filled wound, Astarion deflated. Any anger in his expression melted into sadness because he knew she was right. Even so, he had no idea how to go about righting whatever was so wrong with him that he'd ended up here to begin with.

"I don't know how to be better. I hardly think I know what better is to begin with. But if it helps you be better - I'll keep the coin. I'll make sure we fix your engine. I'll see to it you never have to go back there." A tear carved a wet valley down his cheek, setting his teeth on edge and his shoulders stiff. He looked, maybe, like he might want to say: But I want to try. Instead he said, "That is at least some good I can do. You would do it for me."

[phantasmalatelier]

How Intimidating Am I?

Send 🐹 for “You? Intimidating? Hell no.”

Send 🐰 for barely intimidating

Send 🐭 for slightly intimidating

Send 🐱 for moderately intimidating

Send 🦊 for fairly intimidating

Send 🐯 for very intimidating

Send 🐻 for “MOTHER OF GOD PLEASE DON’T EAT ME–”

[unascended]

nari, staring at a wanted poster of azzy: well I think it looks just like you ( deadpan )

@rotdame is hilarious. no, really.

"How dare you say that I look like -" Wait a minute. Wait just a damned minute. Astarion shot Nari a withering glare, one hand shoving him away from the poster so he could rip the offending parchment from the wall. "You think you're funny for this don't you? Gods, I'm going to fucking kill you."

[unascended]

@spellsniper cont. from here.

THEIR LITTLE DANCE WENT LIKE THIS. Around and around, so dizzying that the eye couldn't catch the true subject of either of their interests. This was not a vulnerable woman sat by herself in a tavern whose loneliness called to Astarion's need to find a warm body to be made cold and bloodless by the realm's most vile fangs. Galatea was an impenetrable fortress, a table he'd pass for fear of tangled bodies snaring him with a wooden spike through the breast.

Yet of everyone in their band of misfits and weirdos, she was the least forthcoming about her past. None of them had trusted one another with intimate details in the first weeks, but they'd reached a point where every one of their companions had exposed the myriad of messy reasons they were on this journey beyond the things writhing away in their skulls. Astarion, naturally, had taken her lack of openness as an indication that he ought to keep his own more pressing issues close to the chest.

Yet somehow, bedded down by the campfire for the night to sap its warmth like a cat basking in a sunbeam, the topic of intimacy arose. What was it like to sleep with people as a vampire? Astarion could only provide the most apt description, yet even still that lacked the substance of the experience.

It had been horrid. What else could it have been?

There was a queue of early bodies piled up that had once held him more gently than all the rest. Sweet things Astarion sought like an answer to an unknowable question, only for the answer to come from Cazador. He could not have this. If he dozed he would wake with his face bruised and the body wrapped around his own ripped away to be drained.

Then there was punishment.

Did he lead or follow in that dance? Astarion, settled on his belly with his chin resting on folded arms, winced. Tilting his head downward to crush his cheek into his forearm in an attempt to mask that reaction, he considered. Which was it?

"It was more complicated than leading or following," he began with a dark edge fogging his breath. "There was another suitor I was obligated to pass those I escorted to when our dance was done. What came next was carnage, well and truly out of my hands. If I was lucky I was fed something putrid for my efforts."

[prodigyofelturel]

When the party first gathered, Astarion had done everything he could to keep Rolan, and their other companions, from knowing exactly what sort of creature he was. The charade worked rather well...to begin with. Had any of them witnessed the same naked, eager hunger that Rolan saw now, nobody would have dismissed the vampire spawn as merely a pale elf.

The wizard did what he did best and studied Astarion's face as he stood with his eyes closed and hissing as he sniffed. He seemed entranced by an ineffable wonder that Rolan's senses failed to capture. Interesting. The wizard leaned back, weight shifting to rest on his hands braced on bed behind him. Perhaps Astarion had been far worse off than Rolan believed. Foolish stubbornness. Had he starved to death, Astarion might have gotten exactly what he deserved. Rolan could not begin to imagine turning his nose up at generosity simply because the meal would not be to his lofty standard. He was well aware of what it took to survive.

Astarion probably got by on the merit of that fine-boned face before. Begrudgingly, Rolan accepted that the annoying vampire was handsome. That was hardly the issue. It was that Astarion was so smug about his attractiveness, even though he lacked the ability to see it anymore. What a thing to be vain over, it was not as if any of it was Astarion's own hard work. How insufferable would he have been before his transformation, when he could gaze adoringly at himself all day long? Maybe Rolan could have endured it better had he not had to listen to Astarion talk all the time. Though, it was not the timbre of his voice that Rolan loathed as much as the words he chose to pollute the air with. His voice was actually agreeable.

All of the wizard's vexations vanished when Astarion's eyes opened. His blood colored irises were nearly fully eclipsed by black. A startling image, but even more so was the sheer, unfiltered desire directed at, of all people, Rolan himself. Astarion lowered to the wizard's seated level and Rolan swallowed hard. The nerves from being fed on drowned in the swell of something else crashing over him. Nobody in his life looked at Rolan with this intensity, not a single lover....admittedly there were few but that was neither here nor there. Neither was this about sex, but it was still a kind of intimacy wasn't it? He was needed.

Rolan's heartbeat picked up then, something Astarion may have picked up on based on his breathing. It didn't truly matter that the eyes were fixated on his neck rather than the rest of his body- it was still a heady feeling to be wanted so desperately.

Astarion spoke and Rolan nearly missed it, but the words registered a few heart beats later. He nodded and lay back on the bedroll. "Go ahead." If he sounded breathless, that was merely bracing for certain pain.

[unascended]

VAMPIRES DID NOT DIE OF STARVATION... THEY ROTTED. Of this, Astarion was intimately aware. When once he'd had a conscience powerful enough to compel him into running, Cazador had placed him in a locked tomb for an entire year. By the second tenday his lips were cracked and peeling. By the third, fingertips that had spent countless hours scrabbling at the stone sealing him in had stopped healing, leaving the bone agonizingly exposed. At three months Astarion could smell naught but his own decomposing body - no more could he pick up his distant siblings and master continuing on without him. There was only death, disintegration, and quiet madness.

At the end of that terrible year, Astarion looked like something unearthed. His clothing had been soiled by the filth he'd been laying in, enduring the endless silence. His skin hung dry and wrinkled from his bones, body too weak to move, and he smelled every bit as undead as he truly was. It must have taken six months to get his own stench out of his nostrils.

Needless to say he'd developed a bit of an obsession with perfumes after that. With the considerable time between putrid rats and bugs oh so benevolently tossed his way, Astarion had a constant scent of rot clinging to him. Therefore he practically bathed in the strongest, most pleasing scents he could concoct. In the wilderness this hadn't changed, and Astarion's natural rotten musk was deftly cloaked in rosemary, bergamot, and brandy.

This would be the smell that wafted toward Rolan's nose when Astarion was beckoned into his space. Thinly veiled death (the kind that had been getting progressively worse) cloaked in citrusy sweetness brushed past a sharp nose and even sharper jawline. The vampire's bony frame arched toward that delicate neck singing so sweetly all for him and inhaled again. When did his mouth get so... wet?

Of course he hadn't missed the raise in heart rate. The excitement and fear Rolan may have thought he could hide with carefully schooled features roared in Astarion's ears. A siren compelling a creature of the night to dive into a sea of blood.

It could almost be called tender, the way thin, pale fingers scratched around the base of Rolan's horns only to burrow into his hair and tilt his head to the side. There was a certain reverence in his touch that exposed a gratefulness for the offer that Astarion simply refused to put into words. He would swallow what he'd been trained for - thanking someone for scraps. Even if this was something far more than scraps and more than he'd ever been allowed.

Cool (spit-slick) lips brushed over the tiefling's hummingbird pulse, light and testing. The smell of his blood beneath the skin had a certain spice to it. Cinnamon? It didn't matter. His jaws split open wide and clamped down, skin breaking with no resistance as his mouth flooded with blood so sweet and delicious that a whimper shoved its way up his throat and caught against his pound of flesh.

If he had to brace himself with a trembling hand over Rolan's heart, and his eyes were rolling behind his eyelids, another moan ripping its way through him when the thunder of that pulse felt as if it were vibrating through him just as powerfully as it filled his ears - no he didn't.

[greelin]

“he has your blood all over his mouth” well we are in love. If you must know

[greelin]

how did it get there? well. use your imagination. You nosy bitch

[debtorsfolly]

#debtorsfolly independent, selective & mutuals only roleplay blog for RAPHAEL from baldur's gate iii. sensitive content will be present & tagged. 21+ only. est feb 2025. ⛧as loved by crow. ⛧

⛧ . . . a study in - faustian bargains, exceptional cunning, quick wit, theatrical performances, and premeditated patricide.

-> carrd. | memes. | promo cred.

[unascended]

"I see we're getting saucy... lovely." He thinks you're all delightful freaks.

[gaynfl-moved]

he needs enrichment

[unascended]