#(this is not hate towards ascended!astarion fics)

[wolfywolfy]

I need more fics where Astarion is still a spawn but Tav tells him if he wants to, you know, roleplay a little in the bedroom to explore the idea of being a powerful master with a consort all of his own, they could do that and it be healthy and cathartic and also really hot........ 😩 Please

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter one: as it was

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Full Chapter List (Coming Soon) 🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter CW: Blood kink, masturbation, minor character death, Astarion being racist/hateful towards gnomes

A/N: This fic incorporates vampire bride lore and headcanons. Special thanks for the wonderful @locallegume for beta reading.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“Sometimes, however, the emotion may be close to what mortals classify as love. The happiness of the vampire becomes tied up with the prospective bride, and its well-being depends on hers. In these cases, the vampire might actually believe it is bestowing a gift when it turns the mortal into its bride - the gift of freedom from aging and death.”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

Come to me.

Astarion allows their connection to slacken. With each step she takes nearer to him, springy anticipation pulses through their bond. It’s not unlike the wag of a tail.

And the slow dawn of his smile behind the fan of his fingers isn’t so different from the sun peering between the clouds. The sight of his most precious pet stokes that same delectable warmth inside of him.

“My sweet sunlight,” he calls to her, “how was your trance?”

His voice echoes off the vaulted ceiling of the throne room. There’s enough space in the chamber to hold dozens, but there’s only seating for two. The lavish chair at Astarion’s left is vacant as it always is. And this morning, only one needy patriar comes to the Crimson Palace to pay its lord homage. Lord Ventris is stout for a human, with a face lined in age and a dark, well-manicured beard. His attention follows Astarion’s eyeline as the gilded doors at the head of the hall groan apart. 

Finer company comes his way, following the red runner that crosses the checkerboard marble. Naomi’s shift sways just past her knees. The silk robe draped over her shoulders hardly offers any modesty; she didn’t bother to cinch it.

“I was well,” she answers primly, “until I woke without you.”

Astarion adores her in that shade of mauve. It wakes the faint trace of pink in her cheeks, the flush that only blooms after she’s fed. There’s hardly any hint of it now. Astarion’s smile fades.

Lord Ventris balks, scandalized by the sight of those lithe, lilac legs striding past him. “My lady!”  

Naomi matches Astarion’s unflinching stare, a slight lift at the corner of her mouth. His heart skips to the soft sound of her bare feet climbing the dais.

“It’s nearly midday,” Ventris prattles on, “surely some shoes, at least slippers--”

“Are you worried I might step on something sharp?” Her voice is steel as she stops, her cheek only halfway turned.

“I-I’m merely expressing benign concern. Not many drow hold title here, so perhaps you’re uneducated on the typical decorum befitting your husband’s house. But--”

“You shouldn’t worry so much. This is my home. I know exactly where all the sharp things are.”

Astarion pats his thigh expectantly. Like a sword to a sheath, Naomi slides into her customary place in his lap. He lets out a long, satisfied sigh while she settles against him. Her smile curves against his collar. 

To Ventris, he snaps, “Our house is the reason why you still have one. And I understand it’s a further favor you came here to ask. Do get on with it.”

“I-- “ he stammers, “of course, Lord Ancunín. As I was saying, you’ve invested greatly in the city’s revival, in the restoration of so many of our most prized institutions. I know you recognize the value of legacy, and its role in the renewed prosperity of the Gate. The preservation of its eldest, most distinguished lineages…”

Ventris speaks as he’s commanded, but Astarion doesn’t deem to listen. His head dips to the fine edge of Naomi’s ear, nosing past a stray wave of ivory hair hanging free of her bun. His arm winds her waist, clutching her close.

“Are you well now, darling? Now that I’ve remedied my wrongs?” 

Naomi hums contentedly, eyes shut, head tucked into the crook of his neck. And yet, he’s acutely aware of the disquiet lurking at the fringes of her happiness, circling their safe haven like a mangy dog seeking scraps.

“I think not,” Astarion murmurs darkly. “You're hungry, aren’t you, sweet thing?” His fingers stroke beneath her chin and guide her gaze to his. 

Even as the ascendant, he can’t curtail her hunger entirely. He can only see to it that she never feels it for more than a moment.

“Only as much as you allow me to be,” she says, batting her eyes open again. There’s a glimmer of laughter in them, among his favorite shade of cherry. He expected her eyes to change color when she turned, but he hadn’t expected she’d keep a tinge of her former violet. A lovely surprise.

You’re full of surprises, he’d told her once, when they were only just beginning. Aren’t you?

Astarion had known he was making a bride, and not simply a spawn, the night she knelt for him. He’d known they’d be bound for eternity. Aeterna Amantes. As it should be. As it was always meant to be.

As it will be. Forever.

But how was he to know how heady her delight would feel, when it fluttered like a hummingbird from her mind to his? How intoxicating her submission would taste, when he could witness the very moment her thoughts bent for him, feel her mind yield before her body gave way exactly the way he wanted? 

Without compulsion. Without question. Without barriers. With a bond like theirs, nothing between them is secret and all of it is sacred.

Perhaps accounts of other such unions exist. But there’s never been a vampire ascendant before; there’s never been an ascendant bride, either. None of the crusted scrolls he inherited from Cazador could’ve warned him how utterly offensive her slightest discomfort would come to feel.

That he’d feel it exactly as his own discomfort.

“How could I sit idle while my precious treasure starves?” He implores her with a blooming pout. “What manner of husband would I be, hm?”

Ventris, on the other hand, seems to have forgotten his manners entirely. He dares a step towards the dais, volume rising with the red in his cheeks.

“...and so I ask you, Lord Ancunín, what manner of philanthropist makes donations to some Sharran sanctuary? Hasn’t this city seen enough fanatics? They say those cultists have a new compound, thanks to you! And the Upper City has a new, so-called theater in your so-called lady’s name! Well, sir, I see no lady here! And that should tell you what opinion I have of that den of debauchery she’s opened!”

Astarion arches a brow. Ventris’ lower lip quivers as he babbles on.

“And you build all of this while my own house remains half-ruined! It was a proud estate before that business with the brain. Curious how all of my neighbors managed to escape the worst of the debris. Curious how they’ve already rebuilt what was broken!”

Naomi raises her head, surveying Ventris lazily. Astarion hears her effortlessly, as if the words were said aloud. Were you going to kill him with or without me? 

Astarion’s answer is honest, if not innocent at all. You’d be fed either way. It’s simply a happy accident.

“It’s quite simple, Ventris,” Astarion shrugs. “You’re not necessary. Your daughter will marry that sweetheart of hers that you hate so much, what’s remaining of your pride will be inherited by their heirs, and the world will be better for it. Without you and those gaudy pillars in the way of what should be a pretty sea view from the Upper City.  A pity the mindflayers didn’t finish leveling your estate. Though, I suppose they made the job easier.”

“How dare you!” Ventris fumes, spittle flecking his beard. “I’ll have your name dragged through the streets! The city will know you spent coin on the Sharrans-- and that gods forsaken whorehouse--”

“You won’t. Besides, Grand Duke Ravengard already knows. He’ll suppress any slander because he knows every other patriar is in my pocket. After all, their own coffers are so pitifully empty these days. That’s why you’re here, Ventris. To beg.”

Ventris shrivels into his ill-fitted suit coat. Astarion’s free hand curls around the armrest of his throne.

“So I’ll say it a second time,” Astarion sneers, “There won’t be a third. Get on with it.”

“I--” Ventis stammers, cheeks purpled with indignation. “You won’t get away with--”

Naomi snaps her fingers. Violet light sparks between them. “On your knees.”

It’s not the kind of compulsion Astarion can wield, but a spell that works in the same vein. Ventris drops with a shrill cry, kneecaps crunching against the hard stone. 

Naomi slinks from his lap. Astarion catches her hand as she goes, brushing a kiss to her knuckles. The faint, lingering thrum of her magic tingles pleasantly against his lips.

She stalks forward, predatory. As her hands slip from his, her robe slips from her shoulders, pooling like spilled wine at her heels. Ventris quivers, a little leaf buffeted by the wind, but he can’t flee. And he still can’t help himself from staring, ogling at what isn’t his. 

Astarion’s grip on the armrest tightens to a chokehold.

Sunlight slices the room in brilliant rays, as righteous as any flaming sword. And in it, Naomi is scintillating. The sheer fabric of her shift seems more mist than material. His eyes burn across her supple shape, taking in the ripple through her breasts with every step, and the tease of her nipples, pushing pert against her nightgown. 

Astarion wets his lips, letting a fang tug at the tender flesh. Anticipation thrums through him again, only now, it’s hot. Thick. Permeating.

His grip on the armest eases as he leans back in the chair.

Ventris’ mouth hangs open, a great gaping maw for such a middling, waste of a man. His wide eyes bore into the last sight he’ll see. And what a sight she is. Naomi tilts her head one way, then the other, peering down at her meal like a bird choosing a worm.

She’s careful, picking her vein. She’s not, when she claws a hand into his hair, lifts him from the floor by a fist of it, and rips into his throat.

Because she wants it to hurt. 

Screams slap wet against the palace walls. Astarion’s head falls back in his chair, his eyes slitted. The ceiling swims in a blur above him. He can feel the blood flooding warm in Naomi’s mouth, the spray of it coating the back of her throat. The thickness of it, swelling stiff within his trousers. 

He parts his buttons hastily, stroking his hardened length, scarcely feeling his own touch. It’s her tongue he feels instead. Surrounding him. Sucking so greedily. Taking, just as he taught her to. 

Her cheeks hollow as she pulls for more, more. And of course, more is what she gets. Blood leaks sticky sweet down her chin. Astarion’s cock throbs with her every moan. 

It's effortless now, to pretend it's her mouth around his girth and not his own hand. He doesn't even have to picture it. She lets him feel every pleasure that ever paints her pretty lips. Like they were his own.

She is his own. Naomi and all her tenderness belong to him. Every pleasure she takes, Astarion takes, too. And while she’s taking her fill, she feels the familiar fit of his cock in her mouth, pouring fresh heat into the body he made perfect forever. Into the woman he’s unmade an untold number of times.

His hips buck into empty air. A groan splits through his teeth. Naomi peels from her meal with a slick pop of lips, gasping with the raw edge of a growl. Astarion’s release spurts warm across his fingers. He slouches limp and boneless in his seat, relishing in the feel of her soaked within and without. Just as she should be.

He blinks blearily, chasing the breath he takes for pleasure and not for purpose. Slowly, the room steadies. He sits up, wincing as he tucks his sated, sensitive cock back into his trousers.

Naomi eases back, crouched over the corpse that was Ventris. Her chest heaves. She pants in tandem with Astarion. Not because she has to; her body echoes his own, reeling from the feel of his ascended heart thudding within his ribs.

When they’ve both come to their senses, Astarion comes to her. 

“What memory kept you tranced so late, dear?” His voice is soft, even as he scolds. What could ever be sweeter than meeting again in the flesh?

“I missed you, too.”

Astarion raises his hand lazily, and she leans forward, still kneeling. One by one, his fingers slip between her plush lips, her tongue wicking away the spend still left on them. When they’re clean, he grips her chin and turns it aside so he can see the marks on her neck that made her his evermore.

Blood blooms in stains near the neckline of her shift. It reminds him of the flowers found in their courtyard garden. His eyes drip with the leak of her leftovers, roaming over her the fresh flush waking in her skin. What a lovely, murderous, and reverent thing she is. Pride flares like a lively hearth beneath his ribs, fed by the warmth billowing from her head into his. 

She’s hungry no longer. And happy. An easy smile lifts his lips.

“Well?” He prompts, expectant.

“I was remembering our wedding hunt,” she answers dreamily, eyes-half lidded.

Astarion’s smirk widens, his fangs peering out. What a delicious memory to sink into. Savory enough to trance the day away.

There was the night they wed truly. After taking her fill of him, Naomi knelt, and Astarion had his fill of her. He bit her thrice, drained her dry, and bound her as his bride for all of time to follow. The papers that came later put her surname on record as Ancunín. But they didn’t make her his; she belonged to him already.

There was the party. Mostly, they hosted it for the patriars they intended to weave into their web of influence. They spared no expense for the lavish affair. He could think of no finer way to spend Cazador’s fortune than on his and his darling’s debut into Baldurian high society.

And then, there was the hunt.

Wordlessly, it slips into his mind from hers: not the extravagant soiree, but the party of unfortunate souls that stumbled into the palace drunk that very eve. They later woke to white, opalescent stone walls. Pearly bricks laid where Astarion had once shrieked and bled uncounted times beneath Godey’s blades. 

But that night, not a speck of blood or dirt stained the corridors to the old kennels. Astarion still hasn’t settled on the chambers’ future use, but he rather likes them better this way, as a polished blank slate. The sheen is crisp enough, he can see his clear reflection every time he stalks those halls. 

He sees his own stunning visage again in the play of Naomi’s memories. He sees the seven huddled, sniveling figures that awaited them there, and feels their spines shudder again. His mouth waters at the mere recollection of it.

���The last of you alive will live forever,” he told them cheerfully, before cutting them free of their bonds. “Run along now! Go on!” 

And off they scampered, scrabbling over each other in their desperation to reach a destination forever out of reach. There’d be no escape. Not a living one, anyway. 

Astarion had turned to his bride. So beautiful, sheathed in an ivory gown with the finest of shimmers, her long white hair plaited back, a sheer veil draped over it. A teardrop train of lace fanned from the flared edge of her skirts, and her eyes glowed with the promise of violence.

He lifted Naomi’s chin in a delicate grip. “Now, feast, my sweet.”

The memory smears, vivid red. Red, like the dripping trails down the walls. Red, like color she stained his pristine coat when their lips collided, a hungry mess of blood and adoration. Red, like the streaks across her wedding gown as Astarion tore through it. He swore he saw handprints at her skirts, in the brief blur before he ripped her free of them. Perhaps her victims gripped them for mercy. 

Astarion’s grip on her hips was anything but merciful. Binding, perhaps. And liberating, all the same.

It was hours later, his body weak with bliss, Naomi bare and drifting towards trance in his arms, that he lifted her from his throne and brought them both to bed. 

Presently, she muses, “It took me forever to find that fucking Harper. Could’ve been her that you made spawn instead of Zylar.”

Astarion smirks. Naomi drained all but one of their late-night guests that evening. Their final victim was a promising twenty-something human named Zylar with no surname, no family, and nothing but a fervent dedication to his duties as a Flaming Fist. Astarion took that dedication for his own. Now, Zylar will be young forever, live out all his small dreams of climbing the Fists’ ranks, and, most importantly, serve the interests of the Ancuníns above all else.

When Zylar rose as Astarion’s second spawn, gaping in horror at the blood-smeared walls that surrounded him, Astarion told him, “Clean it up. With your mouth, if it pleases you.”  

Within the hour, the old kennels were spotless once more.

Now, he snaps his fingers at the cloaked shadow lurking at the edge of the audience hall. At once, Zylar peels from the perimeter, prowling towards the corpse at the heart of the room. There’s barely blood on the tiles at all, but Astarion’s sure there won’t be a speck of it left by the time they return here.

“Your lessers will see to the scraps, my dear,” he says, offering Naomi his arm. She takes it, rising to his side. “I have something to show you. A present.”

The happy hum in her head is a knowing one. They enter the ballroom, where the white marble tile swirls with gold, and a long, windowed wall overlooks the palace gardens. There waits her latest gift, shining radiant in the sunlight. Her smile is a fitting match for it.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes.

They’ve had three such marvels call this ballroom home in just as many years. She’s said the same of the other two as well. He’s inclined to agree. The grand piano shimmers, resplendent. All but the keys and its insides are coated in gold leaf. The lid is propped, shedding light on landscape painted on its underside: Baldur’s Gate, by view of the sea, vivid in the setting sun.

Astarion allows her to part from his arm and rush to the piano, as if it’s a lover she’s running towards, and not away from. His arm sways, empty at his side, in the wake of her momentum. The delicate stroke of her fingers down the keys plays the most delectable shiver down his own spine. A long, stuttering sigh leaves his lips.

Strange that, only three short years ago, she didn’t know what to do with the first piano he gifted her. He remembers, crystal clear, the timid trepidation that crept across her face, the hesitancy with which she reached and just barely brushed the keys. 

“Little love,” he’d purred in her ear, “whatever could be the matter?”

“I-I don’t know how to play it,” she’d confessed, sheepishly retracting her fingers. He’d seen those same nimble hands curl the neck of a fiddle and flit effortlessly across a flute at least a hundred times over.

Astarion only grinned, letting his teeth graze the slant of her ear. “You’ll learn it. We’ve an eternity now, darling. You can take as much time as you wish and never run out of it.”

He never tires of taking his time with her. Taking her here, in the ballroom, even at the expense of their most expensive furnishings. No, this one won’t last any longer than the others, he decides as she saddles over the cushioned bench, her hands poised. He wets his lips, mulling over at least a dozen ways to put an arch in her back as she straightens tall.

But, in the interest of not breaking her gift so soon after it's been given…

He turns, like the perfect vision of restraint he is, and says, “Why don’t you play me something as pretty as you are?”

The instrument was made for her, and Naomi plays it as if it’s what she was always meant to do. What pours from the piano melts across his ears and leaves a saccharine taste on his tongue. It carries the tang of her magic with it, as all her music does. Tantalizing. Mesmerizing. Numbing, in its own way. Astarion could spend hours soaking in it. He’s spent so many mornings this way, warmed by the sun, staring out over the city he and his consort share, complicit with her in shared contentment.

Siren, some call her in whispers. They’re right to whisper. Astarion’s seen Naomi kill with one.

He stiffens to the sound of a throat clearing. It’s a cutting, and unwelcome intrusion. Claude, the rancid little gnome who tuts at him so expectantly, is eternally an intrusion. 

It’s the carrot of vampirism Claude chases. It’s easy enough to dangle it, just out of reach. He served Cazador with a religious fervor. He serves Astarion with even more zeal. He’s mortal, still, and Astarion can’t think of a single good reason to turn a servant already so eagerly playing their role. The thought alone makes his stomach roil.

“My Lord,” the nasally wretch says, “they’re waiting for you in your office.”

Astarion scowls. For all the patriars they’ve killed, there’s still a bumper crop of them crowding into his office every other week. Wanting the favor of Baldur’s Gate’s best-loved benefactor. Unknowingly begging at the heels of the one and only Vampire Ascendant. 

Such is the ignorant bliss of the cattle. He’s more than they know. But they know well enough to beg while they still can. 

What they do know is that he’s a hero. A savior of the city. The holder of its purse strings, while his heroine lover pulls the strings of the city’s heart. All in service to the web of power and influence that will see him named Grand Duke by summer’s end.

“Shall I tell them you’ll reschedule?” Claude asks.

“No,” he relents with an exasperated groan. “You shall not.”

Naomi plays on as he passes, but he feels a tug in the back of his mind. A flicker of a familiar feeling: her hand leaving his, and his arm left loose with an empty grasp.

I won’t be but an hour, my sweet. And then, I think, it’s back to bed with you. I think you might never leave it.

Her answer floats about his mind like a dandelion buffeted by the wind. I think I died happy.

Happy, Astarion muses, already half a palace away from her. He pauses by the mirror in the corridor, adjusting his high collar before he makes for his office door and the waiting patriars. As you should be.

Astarion drums the richly polished oak with restless fingers, his chin situated in his other palm. From his seat at the table’s head, he has a prime view of today’s entertainment: a pair of bickering magistrates. They hold the table’s attention as they trade barbs, too ablaze in their own irritations to notice their host’s growing disinterest. 

Do try to pay attention, dear, Naomi snickers in his head. We paid a hefty sum to get this little feud off the ground, after all.

Ostensibly, Lady Ancunín isn't interested in politics. Such manners bore her, and would detract from her management of the city’s finest theater. In reality, it's as if his little love never left his lap at all. She should be in this chair. He’s the one who's bored. 

Naomi’s left the piano now, though it plays on without her. Her steps patter in the back of his mind as she takes to the footpath through their gardens, her music still wafting pleasantly with the scent of the roses. With their minds linked, she listens more closely to his meeting than he can bear to.

Astarion’s gaze drifts to the open windows, to the bustling Gate, throbbing with life. Ripe for the taking, all due to his careful tending. A breeze ruffles the curtains, carrying the salt of the sea with it. 

It used to thrill him, to sit here, steeple his hands, and watch his empire be built brick by unwitting brick. He’s amassed enough influence to carry a current, even while sitting entirely still. There’s an inevitability to it all now that should please him. Instead, he feels the restless urge to pluck those bricks from the pile and dash all the heads in this room with them. To hear fresh screams instead of circular whining. But instead, he must endure their peevish--

Silence.

Abruptly, Astarion stiffens. The patriars prattle on unbothered, but beneath their noise, a stagnant quiet furls through his halls like a fast-moving fog, setting his hairs on end. Across the palace, the piano ceases playing. It’s not a remarkable change on its own; the magic expires after some time without Naomi’s touch.

That familiar, slipping sensation comes again: the feel of Naomi’s palm sliding from his and leaving it empty. His head feels empty as an echoing, vacant cathedral, only home to his own thoughts. His own mind. 

Darling? The word reverberates inside his skull, making it no farther than it would if he said it aloud in this room without her. His nails claw the table’s edge.

Naomi? Answer me. He calls again, anger flaring, but it feels futile. Like banging his fists against stone. 

Footsteps race down the corridor. His head turns for the door before the knob even moves. By the time it opens, he’s already standing. Every head in the room turns to Claude stammering frantically in the doorway.

“M-My lord, a visitor--”

Astarion grips his collar, storming from the room with the little wretch in tow.

“Lord Ancunín,” an old crone of a tiefling barks from the other end of the table, “what is the meaning of--”

Astarion slams the door on her inane protest, not even pausing to savor the flinch that passes through his captive audience.

“Where is your mistress?” Astarion growls. 

“The throne room,” Calude answers meekly. “W-we think.”

“You think?!” Astarion releases his grip on Claude’s shirt, wiping his hand on the leg of his pants. 

He doesn’t wait for Claude to elaborate. Astarion sheds his form and flies. Moments later, he materializes again before the great shut doors to his audience hall. A blue veil of magic simmers over them.

With a boiling vitriol, he rounds on the other elf kneeled near the doors. Strictly speaking, Emilia is his favorite of his lesser spawn. It isn’t the highest of praises; her only competition is Zylar, and her knack for magic makes her useful. And yet, he feels a dawning hatred for her as she crouches there, glowing hands outstretched in vain.

“What in the hells is this?” He shouts, the sound bounding like fitful thunder. 

“A magical barrier, my Lord,” Emilia says, strained. “It’s elaborate, but I’ll have it down shortly.”

“Who cast this? Who’s in there with her?”

“We received a visitor at the front door. He said the gatekeep allowed him entry, that he was a scholar from Waterdeep here to inform you of something of great import. He didn’t give a name. We intended to turn him away, but Claude went to Lady Naomi to inform her, and the lady said she would see him in your absence. She awaited him here, but all the doors closed when he entered, and the barriers appeared at once.”

Astarion grits his teeth. “And the guards at the gate simply let him pass?”

“It seems so.”

How could that be?! Astarion snarls, his fist curling with flame. He hurls it at the barrier, but the firebolt only melts harmlessly against its surface, dissipating into useless smoke. 

His bond with his bride can be turned like a faucet on either end, but neither of them can stem the drip of it entirely. Naomi would never wish for such separation. But even if she had, she could never hide from him fully. 

And yet, he hadn’t even an inkling of this stranger’s arrival. The last he felt her, she’d been in the gardens raking her fingers through thorns, savoring the sting of the cuts, and thinking of his fangs. 

“I believe Zylar is in there as well, my Lord.”

Astarion tenses, thoughts racing. Zylar never stays anywhere alone with Naomi if he can help it. Ever since the wedding hunt, he’s stayed terrified of her.

His mind blanks abruptly. The barrier dissipates, flecks of magic raining down from the doorway like sleet. The doors part. Through the narrow split, he sees Naomi as her knees buckle against the marble. 

A cloaked figure looms over her, one hand outstretched, the other clutching a fluttering scroll. Red magic twists just above Naomi’s forehead, coiling on itself like a knotted vine. Astarion surges towards them.

Ascension made him swifter than anything he’s yet to encounter. Sharper. Stronger. But now that he’s  near enough to see the spell reflecting in Naomi’s irises, near enough to see them washed in fear, his bones feel leaden. Slow. 

Weak.

The spell flares into a blinding, burning orb. Bloody light scorches the room. Astarion feels the heat of it spear through his temples. Carving, like the tadpole used to. Cutting. His lips split around the pain, but it’s Naomi’s scream that pierces his ears.

The quiet that comes after lays against the room like a knife to a throat.

Naomi wavers where she kneels. Astarion skids across the floor, catching her before she can collapse. The light vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving the cloaked mage crumpled in a limp heap. 

“Master!” Emilia gasps. “Master wait-- she might--”

“Shh,” Astarion coos, caressing a hand through Naomi’s hair and down her cheek. Blood leaks from the corners of her fluttering eyes, drying in dark trails. The magic burns a ruby outline around her body before it sinks beneath her skin.

“I’m here,” he rasps, pleading. “Come to me, darling. Come back to me.”

He holds a taut breath as her eyes open wider. Naomi blinks dazedly up at him, lips trembling, face glazed in confusion. Her gaze settles to his and sharpens. 

“W-who are you?”

Thank you so much for reading! It would mean the world to me if you let me know you did in box at the end here. It's scary and exciting and invigorating to share a new story!

And HUGE thank you to so many Tumblr moots and discord friends who have supported me along the way in drafting this one. 💜

[elemit]

A Gift, A Curse

A story in which we discover just how damned an ascended vampire can be, and just how far you will go to save the spawn you loved.

Read in full on AO3

dead dove/not beta read

fic warnings: Abuse, Angst, Biting, Blood and Gore, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Food Restriction, Hate Sex, Horror, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Torture, Total Power Exchange, Trauma, Vampire Bites

(chapter warnings highlighted)

Chapter 2: Aftermath

The sound of a seventh and final bloody death has barely left your ears when the glowing red runes begin to fade. The chanting is done, and the magic seems to slowly seep inwards to the ritual’s epicentre. Astarion is still cloaked in otherworldly flames, eyes all aglow, when he finally speaks.

“My hunger… it’s gone. I’m free. I’m finally free.”

You watch as he turns towards you, his every move carrying a newfound confidence. You don’t know what you were expecting - relief, joy, exhaustion, perhaps - but his expression surprises you. He looks hungry. Predatory. A shiver runs down your spine.

“You’re finally free of Cazador. Aren’t you relieved?”

“Never again. I will never think about him again. Everything has changed now. I felt so little for so long… my edges dulled over the numb years of rotting in the boudoir and kennels. But now, at last, I can hear it. I can see it. How all the lowly creatures of this plane are begging to serve.”

You look at him in horror. To serve? This ritual was meant to free him. To grant him the power to walk with you in the sun. Not to give him the power to rule over others.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, my love. In you, too, I can tell… your heartbeat races. You hold your breath while I speak. You await my command.” He tilts his head and smiles a devilish smile. “The world will stir in fear.”

This is not him, you think to yourself. This is just the fear and the blood and the rush of being free. You know the real him. So you say to him, “I’m not afraid of you.”

He laughs. “Yes, you have been very brave, haven’t you? And now everything will be ours. Everything.”

---

You feel numb as you walk back through the dungeon in silence by his side. Behind you, you can hear Gale and Shadowheart muttering in disapproving tones, but neither of them speaks up. You try to keep your eyes fixed firmly in front of you, but a single flicker of your gaze to the cages that you pass tells you everything you didn’t want to know: they are filled with the gore and viscera of those who were destroyed.

Remembering Astarion’s torment at being confronted by his victims earlier, you search his face with a worried glance, but you see no reaction to the visible proof of the damnation of these poor doomed souls. Then again, he has always been a master at masking his feelings.

He comes to a sudden stop, and you think for a moment that the guilt of what you’ve just done has overcome him. He sniffs the air, and his full lips wrinkle in a sneer.

“Gur,” he says, eyes narrowing.

Looking ahead, you can see that there is a group of people blocking the way out of the dungeon. One of them calls out to you, and you recognise her by her voice in the dimness.

“I had hoped to avoid this path, but I was a fool to ever hope a beast like you could be saved.” Ulma’s voice is sombre as it echoes off of the dungeon walls.

“Oh please,” Astarion scoffs, resuming his path towards the Gur, “I promised you Cazador’s death, and he’s dead, isn’t he?”

“This doesn’t need to be a fight, Ulma,” you say, worrying about the monster hunters’ intentions.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Astarion says, as an aside that is nevertheless loud enough to carry, “this might be the perfect place for them to die.”

You give him a sharp look; this is no time for jokes, and you tell him as much.

“I’m not joking. Look at the hate in their eyes. They won’t ever stop hunting me.”

“There’s no hope for him,” calls Ulma. “But to the rest of you, I ask: Will you stand against evil? Will you help us destroy this monster?”

Gale and Shadowheart remain silent behind you, and you know the decision lies solely at your feet. Your throat feels tight, and you swallow, but the decision has already been made. You would never turn on one of your own, least of all him.

“I can’t,” you say, your voice not as strong as you would like. “There has to be another way.”

“There is not,” says Ulma frankly.

Astarion is grinning. “My dear,” he says to you, “I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

With that, Ulma gives the command to fight. Before many of the Gur have even had a chance to draw their weapons, Astarion is on them. You barely even saw him move, he charges at them at such speed. You watch in frozen shock as he falls upon Ulma, draining her in a single bite, flying on to his next victim in a burst of mist and darkness before the old woman’s body has even hit the floor.

Gale lets out a groan of horror from behind you and murmurs, “What have we done?”

You and your companions stand there, awestruck spectators of a bloody battle that is over in moments. When it is over, Astarion returns to your side, panting and ensanguined, eyes all aglow with bloodlust.

“Oh, that was incredibly satisfying,” he says, a wild smile on his crimson-stained lips. “Who better to test my new powers on? And who better to have by my side than you, who helped me get them? Still, I can't believe you let me do that. Killing all those people. A pleasant surprise.”

You don’t know if he means the Gur, or the spawn, but your answer is the same regardless. “I don't feel great about it, honestly.”

“Well, what's done is done. And there's simply no point in dwelling on the past, is there? Not when you have given me a glorious new future.” He pulls you into an embrace, kissing you possessively, completely ignoring the presence of your companions. His mouth tastes like the Gurs’ blood, and the taste makes you gasp in disgust, but he uses his newfound strength to keep you pinned in place until he decides the embrace is done.

[meanbossart]

I've been really enjoying your fic and it got me curious about how your campaign went??? I got the important parts (your Durge denied Bhaal, Shadowheart spared nightsong I think, Astarion obviously didn't ascend) but what else happened? Will we ever see any of the other companions?

Thanks for enjoying the story! I can say with pretty much certainty we won't be seeing any other canonical characters from the game, Jaheira, Minsc and Halsin would have stayed behind in Baldur's Gate, as well as Wyll. My Durge killed Lae'zel early in the game and Karlach also died at the end of my campaign.

Gale's character decided to go after the crown, and while he was the staple fourth member of my party the relationship had always been uh... Tense. This was before they apparently patched out how needy he was, but frankly it made for a really interesting story since i just kind of assumed his character was kind of a creep wearing a nice-guy's face. Also, to be fair, I DID fall for his "wanna see a magic trick" line but that just kindled the fire to my theory that he's actually a fairly manipulative person (and perhaps he's unaware of it). MIND YOU PLEASE that this doesn't mean i don't like his character - honestly i feel like I got a REALLY interesting side of him in my campaign and i wouldnt have it any other way - this was a party composed of the dark urge, Astarion, Shadowheart and GALE and to have us all turn down power and glory only for the goody-two-shoes wizard of the camp to turn kinda evil and power-hungry made for a really satisfying narrative.

... Sorry i ended up rambling about Gale LOL to actually answer the rest of your question, my campaign went like this:

I made a Fighter, champion sub-class, BIG hulking drow because i thought it would be funny. Because i went in blind I started off as a confused homicidal murderer who is a liiiittle weirded out about his urges but he doesnt stress TOO much about it. Is fairly standoffish and distrusting toward all of his companions which made for a weird start. Motivated by gold, killing things, getting this worm out his head and making off-color jokes. Ends up siding with the Tieflings because i also decided that, as a very hedonistic character who thinks we should be lunatics because we want to rather than because a cult is telling us to be, my durge would profoundly hate the absolute. As a male drow he also really hated Minthara so yeah, easy choice there. As mentioned above, I also killed Lae'zel when she tried to murder-suicide everybody.

I wasn't going to fuck anyone, believe it or not, so during the tiefling party i went with Gale because it SEEMED like he just wanted to show me something neat (it ended early because i failed his checks and i guess he can't get hard unless i can cast fireball). Also, at this point even though i made mostly "good" moral choices i *was* still a dick the whole time - despite this, everyone in camp wanted to fuck me BESIDES Astarion, which was so fucking funny and devastating that I decided my Durge would, from that moment on, turn on the charm and the flattery and make it his mission to bang him. So yes, they were manipulating each other. I don't have to explain why that made for a really really fun little dynamic. Also Astarion had to tell me he was a vampire through dialogue instead of biting me and i got to say "yeah duh" which was hysterical.

I finally banged him sometime during the underdark (didn't go to the creche at all) and during Act 2 I followed the same pattern of doing mostly the Good Thing while being arrogant the whole time, I fell into a kind of chaotic-neutral/true-neutral aligment and watched my little homicidal maniac cluelessly stumble his way into a hero's journey. I had also really grown to like Shadowheart at that point after having a really negative first impression of her character and she basically became my durge's best friend. Astarion also grew on me for all the reasons we know and love and he did his confession to me sometime in late act 2. I Never met Araj (though i think i mention her in the fan story only because her interaction is interesting) so I got the dialogue that isn't prompted by her encounter. I also had to "break up" with Gale at this point which boy that sure came as a surprise to me! I also didnt break the shadow curse.

Because I didnt kill isobel (Again, my guy didnt like people telling him what to do or not to do), my little butler guy made me wanna kill Astarion. I SWEAR this happened pretty late in game, maybe even in the first night in baldur's gate which i realize is unusual. Naturally I didnt and I decided that would be the turning point where my Durge decides to not just Go With The Flow of things but actively fight his urge and pursue its root cause. He tried to be more of a good person from that point on which was kind of a clumsy effort lol

He completely antagonized the emperor immediately upon him revealing his true identity, stole the orphic hammer from Raphael's house, betrayed Gortash after setting an "alliance" with him, killed Orin (she kidnapped the orphan and killed her in front of me because i failed the check :| ) stopped Astarion from ascending and helped Shadowheart kill everyone in the house of grief, i let her make her own choice regarding her parents and she decided to kill them. I also encouraged her to not immediately align with the Selunites just because of her past.

I got Astarion the thing that helps him read the necromancy book and i cannot tell you how satifyins it was that, after giving up unspeakable power by killing Cazador, that dude and his little ghoul army basically mauled Orin and her grandad for me practically by themselves while I was down on the floor with 1 health. PROUD OF YOU BUDDY.

Gale spoke to Mystra as well at some point and i swear I NEVER encouraged that guy to take the crown for himself. It was always either "do whatever you want" or "i think thats a shitty idea." At this point my Durge was super sick of him so they had a bit of a crappy relationship which may have something to do with how things turned out.

I betrayed the emperor, released Orpheus and when he asked if any of us wanted to be a mindflayer i went "Fuck No" big time and luckily the guy just did it for me. Chaos ensues, I kill the emperor and the absolute in an epic battle that took me like a whole day. I also killed Orpheus when he asked me to. Karlach died ( :c ) and Gale told me he was gonna fuck off to get the crown. In the final Astarion dialogue I told him we would find a way to get him to walk under the sun again.... AAAAAnd thats it i think? Man this game is huge lmao i swear i wasnt trying to be long-winded.

[1000punks]

wip wednesday

i'm posting this unprompted, as a treat >.>

this is a ficlet/study for an upcoming fic, Profanity.

pairing: ascended!Astarion x named!Durge (non-binary OC)

warnings: 18+. nsft. mdni. minor gore. hurt/no comfort. smut. they hate each other. this is a toxic relationship.

word count: 1,558

summary: It's been ten years since the events of the Netherbrain Crisis, and Roiben's subsequent disappearance. Nobody knows that he prowls the streets of Baldur's Gate once more, besides three very important men. One locked him in purgatory, one has claimed his soul, and one has denounced him altogether. Who's favour will he compete for?

in game captures by me, uwu

"Why are you still touching me?" he hissed. "I don't want you."

"I don't believe that," Roiben retorted against the shell of Astarion's ear. "Your body is reacting just the way it always has." The drow's palm found the front of the elf's trousers. He was stronger, even against the Ascendant. Even with the collar chaining his other self firmly inside.

"I don't. You disgust me. You left me. You…" his voice twisted into an angered groan when Roiben shoved him back against the wall, but he hadn't yielded yet. Astarion snapped forward like a whip, biting into the drow's shoulder. Roiben was unmoved, and pressed into the hurt.

"There you are…" he purred. "My vicious pet. Bite me, just like I deserve, that's it." His free hand slid up Astarion's back, and the elf flinched away from the touch, gnawing. It was blissful, especially after all this time. He writhed in Roiben's arms, fisting the back of his shirt. Roiben drew him closer, palming over his crotch slowly but firmly. "I know you missed this, Astarion. I know you," he murmured, feeling the twitch of the pointy ear back against his lips. "I know you," the drow repeated adamantly.

"No…" he growled into Roiben's shoulder, but he wrapped his arms around his waist all the same. The fangs went deeper, and Roiben could feel the flesh tear when the pale elf pulled at him. He couldn't help but moan at that, pushing his fingernails into Astarion's back.

"Yes. I know you crave to use me again. To bite. To mark. To climb into my lap and have me chase the pain away. And I'm here now. Make me kneel and submit. Use me." He pulled his hand away, and Astarion let his jaw slacken in surprise. Roiben was quick, catching the elf's chin in the same hand and forcing him to meet his gaze. "I'm here, even if you say that you don't want me."

"I don't," Astarion hissed again, reaching up and wrenching the drow's hand away. Roiben laughed out loud, taking a step back.

"Walk away, then. If you can." Astarion scowled at him as the drow crossed his arms. He scowled back, jerking his chin to the side. His eyes narrowed when Astarion hesitated. "Astarion, there's no need to be afraid, I'm - "

"Do not presume to tell me how I feel, you glorified pit fiend," he spat, but Roiben calmly held up a hand.

"I'm not. I said there isn't a reason to be afraid of me. You know me better than anyone," he muttered acidly. After a moment, he added, "Don't presume to put words in my mouth, Astarion."

"It's Lord," he warned, starting toward the drow.

"What?" Roiben wrinkled his nose.

"It's Lord Acunín, now. It's…" he deflated slightly, gripping Roiben's jaw now and looking down his nose at him. "It's…" Roiben watched the apple of his throat bob as he swallowed. Astarion looked up and down the dark alley before he whispered, "Why were you gone so godsdamned long? Why did you leave?"

"I don't have time to explain, not now. Not here. Maybe after I take you to bed." He didn't react when Astarion slapped him, besides sighing. "Hurt me as much as you like. I'm coming home with you." The drow looked directly into his eyes and smiled wryly before sauntering off.

"Tell me, Lord… Does she touch you like this?" He purred against Astarion's ear. The drow's hands were on his pale chest, fingers twitching as he moved them over the elf's nipples. He flinched, if only subtly, and pulled hard at the hank of rope around the drow's neck.

"Nobody is allowed to touch me like this." His words were harsh, contrasted by his velvet tone. Roiben only ever heard him speak like this when they were alone, in the dark. He recalled the moment, all those years ago, when Astarion had breathed his name against the back of his neck. His final night with a beating heart. The twitching was getting harder to control as he thought of all his blood stained on his lover's lips. The Lord straddled his lap, noticing his shaking immediately. "What is wrong with you? Are you that pent-up?" Astarion gave a derisive snort.

Roiben opened his eyes. He could feel the roiling in his stomach, the way his spine was primed to crack and give way. "In a manner of speaking. The collar is… special. It prevents the other taking over." Astarion hummed, intrigued, and slipped a thin finger under it. Roiben tilted his head back, looking up and shuddering. All for him. "You can't take it off. Only one person can do that, and he isn't in the room with us." He reached up, catching the Ascendant's wrist.

"And who is that? Who's made you their little pet?" Roiben laughed softly. The jealousy was glaringly obvious. "Tell me."

"I can't. Interesting that you're so worked up, however. It's a good look for you, Lord Acunín." He choked, moaning out in satisfaction when he saw how tightly the rope was wound in Astarion's fist. He tore at the pale elf's trousers, pushing one hand down the front of them. "That's it…" he gritted out, "Hurt me. Hurt me while I pleasure you, lordling." Roiben reclined slowly in the overstuffed chair, gripping the elf's length. Astarion groaned softly, resting his free hand on the drow's shoulder. He was hesitating again, and the drow glanced down. The pale elf was circling the bite wound he had left earlier with the tip of his thumb.

"You want to be hurt? Won't your new master be angry?" He asked innocently. Roiben only laughed again, mirthlessly.

"Stop teasing, Astarion. You know you're putty in my hands, it's as simple as tha- Aah…" The humour and desire muddled his tone when Astarion pushed his thumb into the wound, up to the knuckle. Roiben let his lips peel back from his teeth in a guttural snarl; and Astarion pushed deeper. "You know you can go harder," he hissed, pushing his face into the elf's neck, taking him in hand and working his length slowly.

"I don't want to, you little freak," the elf snapped back. He almost sounded like his old self; and Roiben jumped at the opportunity to lick slowly over his neck, finishing at his ear and sighing against it. "I don't want…" Astarion started.

"What? What don't you want, lordling? Tell me," he breathed. "Tell me, and I'll do whatever you ask of me." The elf's hand, still wrapped in the rope, came to rest at the back of his neck. The coarseness of it made Roiben shudder, and he longed to have his skin rubbed raw.

"I don't want you to finish in your smallclothes," came Astarion's answer, rocking his hips slowly to the drow's hand. Trying to be subtle, it seemed.

"What do you want?" Roiben slipped his hand from the elf's trousers and gripped his hips tightly instead. He felt the defeated rush of breath against the base of his neck before the elf straightened up, scowling down at him. Roiben slid one hand up his back and stretched up, keeping eye contact when he brushed his lips over Astarion's. He let go when the elf recoiled, eyebrows knitting as he searched the pale man's features.

Astarion's movements were slow, but sure. First, he withdrew his thumb from the now-weeping wound at the drow's shoulder. Then, he leaned down, pushing his thumb into Roiben's mouth. "'Chase the pain away'," he scoffed. "All you've done up to this point is cause me pain. You think being with you now magically put an end to it? You can't that daft. I'm above selling myself so cheaply."

"Are you?" Roiben murmured, pushing the elf backward until both men were standing up. He yanked at the slipknot around his neck and ducked out of it before unbuttoning his shirt. He glanced at Astarion as he shrugged out of it and tossed it aside. "I'm not," he whispered, getting to his knees. The pale elf was staring at him incredulously, and Roiben waited for him to take the bait. The elf stepped forward cautiously, bending down and swallowing thickly as he gripped the drow firmly by the throat. Then he chanced a kiss. Roiben allowed it for a moment before standing and guiding the elf down to his back on the large bed, kissing him back furiously. He felt his other form shiver within, wanting to split, to tear; but fought it down as he bit softly down Astarion's neck. One of his thighs pushed between the elf's, and he held himself up on hand and knees. The moment ended when Astarion bit, deliciously painful, into his bottom lip, leaving it dripping and bloody.

"I hate you," Astarion muttered. "I hate you for leaving. For becoming a pitiful excuse of a spawn. For coming crawling back to me."

"I know you do. You don't have to forgive me." Roiben breathed; and he shuddered as he fought to stay in control. "You don't have to like me. Just tell me what you want." He planted one hand next to the elf's shoulder, gripping the bedclothes tightly.

"I want you to make me remember why I loved you at all," the pale elf smirked dangerously. "Do your worst."

[ofsilentthings]

'The Vampire Ascendant's Wife', a Postmortem

Just some writer thoughts about finishing my longest fanfiction to date!

Thank you for reading and commenting/leaving kudos.

Data and Commentary below~

I started it October 13, 2023 and finished it May 27, 2024.

With 138,915 words it is the longest fic I have ever written.

Each chapter averaged 6945 words. (Though the largest was like 13000 words.) This is unusual for me and I think going forward I'll try to keep each chapter shorter.

Inspiration:

I was inspired mainly by Dracula - mainly by wanting Jonathan Harker and Dracula kiss. Why a two hundred year gap? An arbitrary number but not really - it's how long Astarion was under Cazador's control (give or take a few decades). Besides providing a nice parallel, it was a funny reference to this line from the game:

Astarion: I'll make you pay for everything you've ever done to me! Cazador: I've known you for two hundred years! Haven't I suffered enough?

Planning:

For such a long fic as this, I do a lot of planning. I like to do a vague outline of where I want the fic to go (or even the themes I want to touch upon). When I get to specific chapters I break them down by scenes or even beats. I also did a lot of background planning. I had to know how Rickard could believably raise the performance of three businesses and quickly. I had to know how Astarion was going to become Archduke. And I had to figure out how to make Rickard fall in love with Taviana AND Astarion. Manipulating all these plots was difficult and part of the fun challenge but I think I did okay. Funny enough Henrik's death was not meant to be such a plot point; it was only supposed to be a way to force Rickard into the spotlight. I never intended Henrik to show up himself.

Successes:

I really love Rickard. I love his journey from nervous uncertain man meeting Astarion to the first time, to the last encounter when he tells him the truth and slaps him. I liked my Taviana who balanced over the line of loving and hating Astarion. I liked Astarion, since it was in a slightly different filter than most fics I've seen: one that is not new to power, but complacent. Realities of life (becoming poor) forced him to reach out to new opportunities, mainly Rickard. Whether he was ultimately changed by his time with his chamberlain is dependent upon the ending you prefer.

I think the multiple plots worked for the most part. The financials and social climbing reflected the intimacy of the three main characters, and vice versa. Also I managed to use an auction as a main plot device so that's fun to me.

Failures:

Vaida and her crew did not get a satisfactory ending. I toyed with having Astarion kill her in the final plot chapter but I worried that if Rickard saw that he would be much more antagonistic towards Astarion and not even try to talk to him.

I wish I had given a bit more attention to the businesses towards the end; however the focus on the story had obviously shifted to the three of them so I think its okay. A part of me thinks Astarion's megolomania should have been toned down a little bit, at least to show that he was listening to Rickard, even when he was angry. But I think that's a very minor point that I'd fuss over no matter what.

'Extra features':

Taviana was going to ask Rickard to kill Astarion. But Rickard does not have D&D player levels (A level 0 commoner), so he wouldn't have a chance.

I considered going a power route and having Ilmater himself get involved, making Rickard a Chosen, perhaps a super-powered monk, but again that was a bit more action-oriented than I wanted to go. It also seemed to take away from the personal strength of Rickard. Why should he stand up to Astarion when he can get the power of a god and punch the Ascendant into the sun?

Rickard was going to be kidnapped by undead inside the Ancunin estate during a grand party; that didn't work because I needed Astarion's house to be '''safe''' so that's why it was out in the streets. Part of Rickard's contract was going to include a clause that, at the end of a year (or some other time), Taviana would have the choice to leave Astarion or stay. I decided to omit that simply for simplicity sake. She's a Consort, she never could leave, even if she wanted to.

I had planned on Astarion creating a crisis of undead attacking the undead in waves. He would then 'bring them down' and be seen as a hero. But then I remembered Mystic Carrion probably still would exist and so he had a natural enemy. Taviana Lovers: Loghain, Nicollus, Marius, Elliot, Imogen. Astarion Lovers: Ellyndia, Millicent, Vero, Mathias, Morgan, Andromeda, Irenica, Miriam, Henrik (most of these are video game characters or D&D/original characters) In a similar vein: Absoleth, Sylene, and Lady Murasaki are some of my D&D characters. Jack Jekyllsby Hamstead is one of my husband's characters. Yes, even the boots. Garu is one of my friend's D&D characters.

What's next?

Who knows? I need a mental break. I am busy with a family, a job, and a life and writing so much takes time from that. I want to enjoy the up coming Elden Ring DLC as well as FF14's Dawntrail. I want to read a bunch of books and be inspired. I want to do some painting. I'm even going to start up a Curse of Strahd D&D game (someone has to DM...) But I'll always come back to writing. I love it too much not to. So expect some one-shots, maybe? I am looking at some crossovers as well (Astarion and Micolash WILL BE A THING, there's too much about blood and ascension between them to ignore). Thank you, thank you, thank you lovely readers, each one of you.

[finderedacted]

astarion fic ideas i can't get out of my head

astarion said he hates flowers but wants to try and do something nice for you so he asks shadowheart for advice on what flowers to give to his druid partner. bullying (loving, supportive) ensues.

act 1-ish astarion getting mad at you for being too nice and supportive! why are you like that! especially towards someone like him! he doesn't get it at all and he snaps at you for it because he does not know how to feel his feelings properly at this time

"you know, dear, i think all the while you've been making me a little bit better, i've been making you just a little bit worse" - musings on how astarion and you have influenced each other, for better or for worse (the goody two shoes druid encourages astarion to be nice to kids, astarion encourages you to lie more and try things like illithid powers)

post-brothel conversation (astarion non-ascended after killing cazador version) where you try to check in with him after you realised he was dissociating and astarion brushes you off at first but then he decides to actually talk about it and accept your help/listening ear

astarion figuring out what the fuck he actually wants and enjoys when it comes to sex, and trusting you to help him with that, taking it as slow and sweet as needed

[carooosa]

WIP Wednesday

Ok so I know that i've been tagged in a couple of these and I know that I've been slacking so here's a bunch of my WIPs. Thank you for the tags: @harlequinromancing and @starryjuicebox

WIPs below the cut (the first one is NSFW)

Snippet from an Upcoming Longfic: He rummages through his bag before pulling out what looks to be a ball. When he brings it closer, however, you see that it’s a ball-gag.

“I was going to save this for later, but it seems like it could be useful now,” he says while fastening the gag on you. He pulls it tight, making you gasp.

He makes a slow circle around you, his eyes trailing up and down your body. "Look at you all tied up for me," he coos as he hooks a finger under your chin, forcing your attention on him. "It's a shame we don't have all the time in the world -- I won't be able to savor this as much as I'd like." 

You watch as he undoes the fastenings on his trousers with one hand, his cock flushed pink as it springs forth from the restraint. He gingerly rubs the head, slowly peeling the foreskin back. You've begun to drool from the show, and Astarion takes notice. "My, my, looks like someone is needy. Well, we shouldn't let this go to waste," he says as he swipes away your drool with his head. If it weren't for the gag in your mouth you would have surely taken him whole, but all you can do is whine.

Ascendant Dadstarion Drabble: So much had changed in the last 40 years. The Crimson Palace had been entirely refurbished, Astarion had successfully infiltrated every corner and faction within Baldur’s Gate, and his army of spawn had begun to grow. Albeit not in the way he had originally hoped as you were always quick to bring up the ethicality of creating new vampire spawn whenever he broached the subject. He wouldn’t complain though, at least not whenever you were near, as you gifted him with his first spawn; a daughter.

Fatherhood wasn’t what he had in mind when Astarion had begged you time and time again to let him make an army, and to be honest, he didn’t even know it was possible. But after many talks with some old friends, it was discovered that you could in fact, reproduce.

Corporate AU Fic: Shadowheart turns her body towards Tav at the semi-receptive response. “Tav, huh? Is that a nickname for something?” Tav nods their head before averting their gaze and turning back towards the window. “I won’t pry; everyone is allowed to have their secrets. Look, I hate to ask for a favor from someone I just met, but could you turn towards me again?” The request is weird enough to get Tav to look back at Shadowheart. A relief flashes across her eyes as she puts on a fake smile that doesn’t quite match the words she whispers. “Can you look to the seat across the aisle – without making it obvious – and see if that githyanki woman is still watching me?” She ends her sentence by tilting her head to the side, leaving just enough room for Tav to peek over her shoulder.

Sure enough, a githyanki woman sat across the aisle and is staring directly at them. She didn’t seem to notice Tav stealing a glance in her direction as her eyes were set on searing a hole through Shadowheart’s head.

“Um, yeah she’s looking over here – is she a friend of yours?” Tav asks only to be cut off by a forced laugh from Shadowheart. “A friend? Oh no, I wouldn’t call her that. I’d say she’s more of a disgruntled rival, if anything,” she says with an exasperated sigh.

Only tagging TWO people because we're all in the same circle and I want to make sure everyone has a chance to tag someone: @bloodinwine @dhampling (my gods do I want to tag like 10 of y'all)

[galacticgraffiti]

20 Questions!

thanks for the tag @corvod (i dont know why it won't let me tag you help) (I also have to put this under a readmore I am incapable of short answers)

How many works do you have on AO3?

I have 20 works right now... so many are unfinished I am hiding my face.

What’s your total AO3 word count?

331,532 (gahdamn)

What fandoms do you write for?

I used to write exclusively Star Wars, but I have somewhat lost motivation for that, at least for now. Currently, I write a lot for BG3 and I'm working on some TLT stuff!

What are your top five fics by kudos?

(1) Veman'alor (Boba Fett x reader) (2) October Thots (various SW characters x reader) (3) Ad'ika (Wrecker x reader - my very first fic!) (4) Big Love Ahead (Halsin x reader) (5) Daddy's Home (Boba Fett x reader)

Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I do my best to respond to comments, especially on AO3 because that's all the interaction with the author that people get, so I try to make them feel appreciated for taking the time. I'm horrible at keeping up with comment-reblogs on tumblr, even if I try very hard. My brain gets overwhelmed sometimes.

What’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Hmm I have a Boba Fett x reader somewhere that I remember being pretty angsty but I can not for the life of me remember where I shoved it. The most current one I have is I Am Nothing (Like You Thought I Was) in which I put all my feelings about Ascendant!Astarion and abusive relationships.

What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Nearly all of them - I can't make my characters suffer without making them happy in the end apparently. Also I never finish anything lol

Do you get hate on fics?

I've gotten a couple of comments that were, if not hateful, still unkind towards me. I block very liberally these days :))) If people don't want to understand that you can simply Not Read what you don't like then they can fuck off.

Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Not exclusively (anymore), but a lot, yes. A lot of x reader, though I do enjoy writing about my OC(s) as well. Oddly enough, I really like writing about male characters even if I'm a lesbian.

Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written?

I don't really. I admire people who have the braincells for it, but I settle in a universe and stay where I feel comfortable.

Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I am aware of.

Have you ever had a fic translated?

Someone once messaged me asking about it, but I never heard anything else so... no?

Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

I have not! Collaboration is fun but so much work.

What’s your all-time favourite ship?

I don't really have one. Wait no, that's a lie. It's Gideon Nav and Harrowhark (I would die for them)- and thanks to Leo, it's now also Bloodweave (Gale x Astarion from BG3). I am consumed by them.

What’s a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

So many. Way too many. I really wish I could finish them all, so I'm willing it into existence instead of telling myself I won't lol

What are your writing strengths?

I love dialogue very much, I think I'm decently good at dirty talk specifically lol. But what I like the most is worldbuilding in the sense of making an existing world my own.

What are your writing weaknesses?

Typing things out that seem so clear in my head lmaooo

Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

I love it! I'm a huge language nerd, so I do it whenever possible, it feels more immersive to me that way. I appreciate translations being provided though.

First fandom you wrote for?

I think Star Wars may honestly have been it - I was never really active in a fandom before.

Favourite fic you’ve ever written?

Oh damn a whammy at the end, huh? That's so hard. It's always the fic I'm currently working on the most, I think- so right now, it has to be Big Love Ahead. It feels so warm and comfortable to me.

This was so fun! I apologise to everyone who has tagged me in games and I haven't done them, I get real overwhelmed sometimes. No pressure tags for some mutuals @purgetrooperfox @certified-anakinfucker @baba-fett @ulchabhangorm @atriursa

[wetcatspellcaster]

I deeply apologize for the amount of spam I've just given you. While I'm here I have thoughts:

1. One of my literal writing inspirations doesn't think they're good at writing??????? What type of dark twist of faith is this????????? I literally think about your writing all the time it's so good. I reread it religiously and gain new knowledge. I recent reread the latest chapter of an honest lie and had my eyes opened further to the greatness that was that chapter. I am OFFENDED on your behalf.

Literally you're writing reminded me of my favorite book series of all time, the folk of air, and I was so delighted when I found out you've read it too. (Cardan and pieces!Astarion would think they are the same and shake hands, and then Cardan would be like "anyway so that's why I became a better person" and Astarion would start hissing. Also Jude would break Astarion in half. I'm sorry ik he's like Ascended or whatever but Jude would destroy his ass.)

I say it reminded me of it because you too have such a great upstanding of character, dialogue, and misdirection. Which doesn't mean you lie to the reader, but more that characters make assumptions with the facts given to them, and we as readers have to sort of take ourselves out of their head and view the facts objectively. If you listen blindly to Rose, you will be more blindsided and confused than of you think critically. Like, the idea that beta Astarion actually likes her is Very obvious even from the first chapter but it takes her a good while to really click that in her head because well from her pov it makes more sense that he hates her. GAHH ITS JUST???? UGH. UGH!!!!! ITS SO GOOD

2. I totally plan on book binding Pieces when it's finished. Probably party favors too. Like all of your writing is so good but pieces is so ambitious and it is so rewarding. Stories like this often struggle to reinvent themselves after revelations and the climax (or toward the end of the rising action), but Pieces has managed to keep its identity and change at the same time. While the story is not the same as it was when it started, I'm reading it for the same reasons. And this is doubly hard with dark romance. Dark romance is hard to write because a dynamic like that HAS to have a resolution, whether it be one party giving in or one party acting out. And often dark romances struggle to reach this esolution gracefully, but the direction pieces is going is so good. It's so intentional. I'm insane. YOURE INSANE.

3. I am LIVING for the ACU (astartion cinematic universe) like each story on it's own? Amazing. Lovely. The stories together??? Wretched. Painful. Delicious.

4. I'm happy things went well with your surgery!! Wishing you a speedy recovery.

5. Obligatory take your time with updates, there's no rush. The strong among us shall survive the winter and flourish in the springtime.

Oh God, this got long. Oops! Have a nice day!

hello lovely! thank you for the message, and the extensive tumblr blog peer review 😌😌😌😌 no one is ever going to complain about activity on their blog, we live under the Sway of Statistics :')

unfortunately, either I'm a cesspit of self esteem, or (equally likely) if you were to do a survey of all your favourite fic authors, around 8 out of 10 would express concerns/dissatisfaction with certain parts of their writing. we spend the longest time with our work so that even the things we're proud of become a little taken for gratned, we see all the things we executed different than we planned, and even if we're happy with the final draft the first draft Haunts Our Dreams. I am very happy with a lot of my fic and at this point in this unexpected "oh shit, people like me now" boom I can't exactly pretend it's not successful, but I can and will always see my areas for improvement! I always really love the moment after a project is done where I can go back to the fic and read it again with fresh eyes, and actually appreciate it for what it is! right now, I'm in the trenches lmao.

Though I think the final book fumbled it's execution (I was happy with the 'make each other worse' energy of books 1 and 2, trying to pretend Cardan wasn't a bully wasn't it for me, especially because by that time Jude was on his level), The Cruel Prince is one of my favourite series, so thank you for the comparison!

Book binding is and will always be fine with me, I am very jealous of those with The Skill and still reeling over the idea that anyone wants to do that work with my writing :)

Thank you for the compliment about the development of Pieces and the pacing! I don't read much Dark Romance, but I have noticed some issues in the manga/webtoons I read that seems similar to what you're describing. For me, I'm a big fan of the kind of heroine/villain pairing where everyone's thirsty but no one's moral compasses are budging even an inch, so the people involved have to just glare at each other with lust and hatred, and then go to the privacy of their own home for a morally correct, guilt-free wank lmao. That's the kind of dynamic the story has been serving the whole time, and what it means is that if you ever want them to finally get together, something seismic has to shift - hence the end of Act 2. Luckily for me, I feel like there's room for the kind of interpretation in the Ascendency ending that can give me the artistic license to make that change! It's my genuine hope that people feel sympathy for both Astarion's soul AND the Vampire Ascendent by the end... we'll see soon whether I hit those beats or not lmao.

Idk if I'll do the plot behind Pieces justice yet (I say, hyperventilating in my gdocs) but what I have is an outline I've kept since the beginning, and occasionally elaborated on (I realised a new plot point last night, very exciting times for me) but otherwise stuck to religiously. Some commenters and some wider canon revelations (e.g. the epilogue being released) have not changed it, I've deliberated over doing that in the past but ultimately decided I'd rather have an ending I've planned for from the beginning than swerve and change course halfway through and undermine the delivery! I am hoping, like you say, this will make the conclusion rewarding, because it's foreshadowed from about Chapter 2? It might not be the most perfect or even most original story as a result, but I'm hoping it feels like the groundwork has been laid, and that there's an equal mix of surprises and things people can see coming from the very beginning. It is, indeed, intentional, so that's a nice word to use to describe it, thank you! :)

The curse of concurrent WIPs is a joke I've played on myself. The fact that I had to write a Pieces scene that foreshadows but doesn't ruin the Act 3 conflicts of my canon-playthrough fic is so stupid, I have clowned myself specifically :'))))))

Thank you for the well wishes! Recovery is going well. Idk when updates will happen or with what speed I'll finish the fic, but the good news for readers is I'm autistic, hyperfixated, and an introvert 😌😌 as such, I tend to update things pretty regularly lmao

[elemit]

A Gift, A Curse

A story in which we discover just how damned an ascended vampire can be, and just how far you will go to save the spawn you loved.

Read in full on AO3

dead dove/not beta read

fic warnings: Abuse, Angst, Biting, Blood and Gore, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Food Restriction, Hate Sex, Horror, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Torture, Total Power Exchange, Trauma, Vampire Bites

Chapter 23: Rescue

Death tastes like blood.

Like hot blood that splatters thick and sticky across your face, coating your closed eyelids and hollow cheeks, filling your mouth, hitting the back of your throat with a force that makes you choke.

Your eyes snap open. Fresh blood. Lifeblood. Your greed for it almost drives every other thought from your deadened brain. Through a red mist, you see the flash of a silver blade, a headless body collapsing to its knees at your feet, a dark object that could be a man's head thudding to the floor beside you. Shadowy figures crowd in through the doorway, bringing with them mutterings then shouts then screams. A pale, delicate hand gestures in the air in front of you, and with a rush of magic - my magic, rages a whispered voice inside you - the room lights up, every candle and fireplace dancing to life to illuminate the grisly scene before you.

Marshall Bormul’s beheaded corpse is sprawled at your feet. Astarion stands a step behind where the Marshall had stood, one hand still raised from casting the spell, the other clasping a bloodied silver blade by his side. His handsome face is blood-splattered in a way you haven’t seen since you adventured together all those moons ago, and something about it - the desecration of something so flawless and white with something so dark and inherently violent - makes your newly found breath catch in your throat. Beautiful, rich red blood spills from the Fist’s neck, seeping into the carpet. Wasted. The exquisite scent of it drives you wild, and you let out a voiceless keen, falling to your knees, needing to put your lips to the gaping wounds that continue to pour forth the blood that you so desperately crave.

Astarion's arms are around you before you have a chance to press your lips to the still-warm corpse. You writhe in his hold, feral with hunger, until he whispers a command to you:

“Be still.”

Your body goes limp; your thoughts quieten. You settle in his arms.

“Good gods, man, what have you done?” exclaims a man from the crowd by the door.

Astarion whips around with you clutched to his chest.

"I have rescued my wife," he snaps at the man. "You all saw it. The man was all over her like a rabid dog. I had to put him down."

He speaks with such authority that none dare oppose him. Meek murmurs of "Yes, lord," and "Of course, Lord Ancunín," are the only responses he receives. He turns his attention to the scattering of servants in the crowd.

"Someone tidy this up. You, bring the councillors to my receiving room. I'll meet them there shortly. Everyone else, back to the ballroom. Now. This… unfortunate incident is no reason to ruin a perfectly good party."

Having given his orders, Astarion strides out of the room, pushing past guests dressed to the nines, carrying you with him. Behind him people begin to drift slowly back towards the ballroom, buzzing and humming with uncertainty and shock, while the servants among them spring to act on his commands.

“I warned him,” Astarion mutters, seemingly more to himself than you. “I told him that what is mine to share is still mine.”

You are still frozen by his earlier command, but he doesn't seem to notice until he's carried you all the way to your bedchamber and laid you, lolling, on the bed. Suddenly noticing the state you are in, he sighs.

“You may move.”

At his words, a chaos of feeling and movement floods through you. You are wracked by breathless, wordless sobs, though whether they are caused by fear, relief, or disappointment, you do not know. You curl in on yourself, trying to force your shuddering breathing back into order, and slowly the sobs subside into deep, shaking breaths. Astarion, standing by the bedside with a slight frown on his face, gives a nod at your newfound composure.

“I’ll send servants to tend to you. You need cleaning up.”

With that, he turns to leave. 

As he walks away towards the door you sense the quiet and the darkness gathering, ready to settle over the room the moment he leaves. While earlier in the night the gloom was a place of solace, the thought of being within it alone now fills you with a deep sense of dread. It is no longer an escape; rather, it is an obscurity filled with strange and unknown terrors that are only waiting for your husband to leave before pouncing.

Unable to call out to him, you let out a panicked hum, pausing him in his tracks. He turns around to look at you questioningly, and you beckon him back over to you.

“What is it, my sweet?”

You beckon again, more forcefully this time, ignoring the confusion and dismay in your chest. Dreadful though he may be, you do not want to be alone. He cannot leave you.

“You want me to stay?”

You give a single reluctant nod, blinking away the hotness in your eyes. A smile twitches at the edges of his mouth, and he walks back to the bed, sits on it, and pulls you into his arms. You close your eyes and try to find comfort in his embrace. He brushes the blood-matted hair from your face, hushes you, and whispers soft things into your ear as he rocks you gently.

“You are mine, my treasure. My darling love. You are mine. And I will kill anyone who ever tries to take you from me.”

There is a threat in his comfort, just as there is an edge to all of his kindnesses these days, but you cannot bring yourself to mind it. He is an evil that you chose, not an evil that is being forced upon you, and tonight that somehow feels like it means everything.

[elemit]

A Gift, A Curse

A story in which we discover just how damned an ascended vampire can be, and just how far you will go to save the spawn you loved.

Read in full on AO3

dead dove/not beta read

fic warnings: Abuse, Angst, Biting, Blood and Gore, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Food Restriction, Hate Sex, Horror, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Torture, Total Power Exchange, Trauma, Vampire Bites

Chapter 22: Relief

You freeze. Though the voice is vaguely familiar, its source remains a mystery to you until the speaker steps forward out of the shadows that hide him.

“I asked you a question, monster.”

Your eyes go wide as the moonlight reveals his face to you. Marshall Bormul, the Flaming Fist that Astarion had made you… perform for.

He gives a cruel chuckle. “Those big doe eyes won’t work on me. They’re only further proof of your aberration. I should run you through with a stake right now,” he says, prowling towards you. You back away from him, fearing the manic glint in his eye, desperate to tell him that he’s got it wrong, that you’re not a monster, but the words cannot come.

“How’d you do it, hm? How’d you gain control over a good man like Lord Ancunín? A spell? Some ghoulish charm?” He tuts in disgust. “You might have charmed yourself pretty today, but you didn’t before, did you? I could see there was something wrong with you the moment I set eyes on you. And when you touched me with those cold, dead hands, I knew.”

Your back hits the bookshelf that lines the wall as your eyes grow watery with frustrated tears. It is so desperately unfair that in your tongue-bound state, you cannot even speak up in your own defence. In all your life you don’t think you’ve ever seen so intense a hatred as the one that twists over his face right now.

“Your poor husband doesn’t have a clue, does he? No matter. I’m sure the charm you have over him will break when I kill you. He’ll thank me for it, most likely.”

He licks his lips, eyes bright with anticipation. He knows he has you cornered. 

“But if you’re going to die anyway, why not have a little fun with you first, ey? Your lord said you like it, after all.”

He lunges at you, and you let out a cry, surprising yourself. You cannot remember the last time you made a noise.

I cannot speak, but I can scream.

This unexpected boon gives you a brief flare of optimism. Your cry, however, is quickly cut off by Bormul’s heavy palm as he presses it against your mouth. You struggle, twisting your head until his grip is slightly loosened, and then you bite, hard, with teeth made for ripping flesh, and you taste the intoxicating hot metal rush of blood in your mouth. He lets out a stifled curse and pulls his hand from your mouth, then slams his other hand around your neck, cutting off your next budding scream before it can even reach your bloodied lips.

“Keep quiet, you undead brat,” he spits. Your bite only seems to have spurred him on, as his movements are redoubled in effort. He clumsily pulls off his belt with his still-bleeding hand. The smell of his freshly flowing blood is almost making your eyes roll back in your skull with thirst, even as your vision grows dark around the edges from his choking grip. He laughs as he shifts his trousers down, mistaking your hunger for lust.

“By the nine hells, you really are a salacious little whore, ey?”

You’ve never felt fear like the feeling that churns in your chest now, but your spluttering gasps are growing fainter as his hold on your throat remains. You wonder hysterically if he’ll have killed you before he can have his fun. You hope so. The ostentatious layering of the silk and lace of your skirts seems to be giving him some difficulty. The call of the darkness has never sounded so appealing. You could follow it happily to your own end. Until this moment you never fully understood the appeal of Shar, but now that she holds out her arms you find yourself craving that cold, eternal embrace. True death would be a kindness. You’d sought it out yourself so recently - how strange that your body still tries to fight it when it is delivered by a stranger’s hand. Hadn’t you once told Astarion - the old Astarion, the true Astarion - that if you had to die, you’d want it to be like this? Strangulation? You’d laughed about it back then, bonding over morbid jokes as if your lives weren’t really at risk, and you’d laughed more when he declared beheading would be his method of choice. A perfectly noble choice for your perfect noble love. Your faculties are fading now, but you still feel faintly pleased that your last thoughts will be of a happier time, rather than the horrors of the present. The blackness is complete now. Your mind empties. All but one sensation fades.

Relief.

[elemit]

A Gift, A Curse

A story in which we discover just how damned an ascended vampire can be, and just how far you will go to save the spawn you loved.

Read in full on AO3

dead dove/not beta read

fic warnings: Abuse, Angst, Biting, Blood and Gore, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Food Restriction, Hate Sex, Horror, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Torture, Total Power Exchange, Trauma, Vampire Bites

Chapter 16: Trade III

You crawl.

If you were moving of your own volition you know your legs would be shaking, but the compulsion drives you forward smoothly, slinking across the floor to the Fist that sits before you. He watches you with lustful eyes, licking his lips in anticipation. He could be handsome, you suppose, though he is weathered in that way that humans of a certain age become when they have lived a life of war. When you reach him you pause, unsure, trying to reason your way out of doing anything further. You don’t have much hope; you’ve never beaten your husband’s will before. Seeing your hesitation, Astarion gives you clearer instructions. Clearer, and therefore harder to resist.

“Help our guest with his trousers, my love,” he says from behind you. 

At this command you kneel before the Marshall, your deft fingers unlacing the front of his trousers. Fingers that should be trembling but are instead steady. Fingers that should be scratching and hitting and gouging, but are instead gentle. It feels alien, watching them move before your eyes. It’s as if they’re not yours - not a part of your body. But then again, your body is hardly yours any more, is it? Your body is his.

A flicker of uncertainly seems to cut through the Fist’s lust, but Astarion seems to sense it, and brushes it aside with his silver tongue.

“Please, don’t feel ill at ease. She’s quite the lascivious little pet. She lives for this kind of thing. You love this sort of attention, don’t you, darling?”

You wish you could be certain in your denial of his claims, but even now you find you cannot be sure of your feelings. Have you not willingly stumbled after him from one debasement to the next? Is your reluctance true distress, or are you simply flustered that Astarion has pushed you one step further, and yet again you’re complying, shame-faced but willing?

You’ve barely freed the Fist’s length from his trousers before Astarion gives you your next command.

“Stroke him, darling. And use your mouth.”

Before your mind can react your body is acting on his words. In a desperate attempt to focus on anything but what your body is doing, you fixate on the words being spoken above you. The Fist’s voice stutters sometimes, because of what you are doing between his legs— but no, you’re not thinking about that— you’re listening.

“…a deal, then. You’ll start the move immediately?” Your husband's voice is the centre of your concentration.

“Uh, certainly. Especially as you’ve been so, uh, accommodating.”

Astarion barks out a laugh. “What better way to celebrate the union of our forces?”

“It’s certainly making me look forward to the days that I'll be working from here.”

“Oh,” Astarion gives another short, high laugh, “I wouldn’t get too used to this. We are celebrating, after all, but what’s mine to share is still very much mine.”

“Of course, Lord Ancunín.”

But then you hear Astarion’s steps moving towards you, and then you feel the presence of him behind you, and you cannot ignore him or his touch, no matter how hard you will it.

“Time for your reward, my love,” he murmurs, and you feel him pressing himself against you, the scraps of your outfit easily moved aside to make way for him. His proximity pulls you back into yourself, and you are aware of your body once more - the hardness pressing into you from behind, the jaw-aching fullness of your mouth, the wet warmth against your tongue, and the bruising pressure on your throat. There is a brief moment of resistance, and then he slides inside you, and the pleasure from the thrust empties your mind of all of your anger, fear, disgust. You moan around the Fist’s cock, and the Fist groans in response. A part of you wants to hold on to the rage you felt, but you find you cannot feel anything but the fullness that seems to subsume you, the heat that comes from your husband’s touch.

Astarion sets a rhythm, and you are rocked along with him to a mindless state of bliss. Perhaps the mindlessness is the bliss; you cling to this physical pleasure as an escape from the mental torment. For now, you can indulge in the carnal delight of his touch, and lose yourself in the gratification that he allows you, for a small and scared voice inside you tells you that joy is not something that you have much hope of feeling for long. Take it while you can. Take it when you must. It may only be a temporary diversion, only a brief reprieve, but you will take solace wherever you find it, for it is a rare thing in this house.

The Fist finishes first, spilling his seed into your mouth, making you gag and bringing tears to your eyes. Then Astarion is reaching around to touch that spot between your legs that brings your pleasure to an all-encompassing climax, and for a brief moment in time the world shrinks into nothing beyond the feeling that sweeps through you, and all your thoughts are of him and the profound euphoria of his touch, and you think to yourself that this feeling should last forever, and that maybe this is love, or greater than love, and it is more than enough. His thrusts from behind become faster, filled with fervour, and then you feel him release inside you, hips pressed hard against you as the pleasure of climax twitches through him.

He pulls out, pulls away from you, and the elation fades. The fires of your union are choked out as the cold reality of the world comes flooding back in, roaring in its silence. You feel the men shifting around you, barely hearing the words they exchange over the deafening stillness of your mind, and you sink to your knees where they left you.

A door opens. A door closes. You are alone with your husband once more.

He walks over to you, bends down, cups your jaw in his hand, and angles your face upwards to look at him.

“You did well,” he says, but he doesn’t look pleased. You do not care. You don’t think you will ever care again. Not for him. Not for anything.

He sighs, then bends down further, picking you up off of the floor and holding you in his arms like you weigh nothing. Like you are nothing. You are nothing, you tell yourself. He carries you out of the room, through quiet corridors, into your bed chamber. He puts you on the bed and you lie there awkwardly, limbs tense, wary eyes on him.

He looks at you, and there’s a flash of something in his eyes that you might be able to distinguish if your mind were not so numb. Then it is gone, and the placid stone mask is back in place.

“Sleep,” he commands, and your body collapses into the soft bed, limp, like a puppet with its strings cut.

[elemit]

A Gift, A Curse

A story in which we discover just how damned an ascended vampire can be, and just how far you will go to save the spawn you loved.

Read in full on AO3

dead dove/not beta read

fic warnings: Abuse, Angst, Biting, Blood and Gore, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Food Restriction, Hate Sex, Horror, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Torture, Total Power Exchange, Trauma, Vampire Bites

Chapter 14: Trade I

At some point in the small hours sleep finally agrees to court you, but you feel the fear tightening your chest once more before your eyes even open in the morning. Astarion is sitting in a chair by the curtained window, watching you. He smiles when he sees you wake.

“Oh good, you’re awake. I was starting to worry you might make us late. You’d better dress quickly, my dear.” He tilts his head towards one of the dark wooden dressers.

You look in the direction of his nod, and you see an outfit has been laid out for you: something white with gold metal detailing. It looks outrageously skimpy, like an outfit the wardrobe mistress of Sharess’ Caress might choose if the girls were putting on a show of celestials. It is not a suitable outfit for a lady, but you have resigned yourself to the fact that you are not a lady. You are his doll.

He watches you hungrily as you dress yourself. Your ladies maid disappeared sometime after the wedding, but you didn’t think to ask about it: being dressed by someone else always felt like a strange way to start the day to you, so you didn’t really miss her. As soon as you are dressed, Astarion leaves the room. He doesn’t need to tell you to follow.

As you trail him through the corridors, your mind is whirling with foreboding. Not knowing what horrors he has in store for you is a torture in itself - one that you cannot help but inflict on yourself over and over as the anticipation builds in your chest. He must know it, too, for he sets a slow, almost leisurely pace as he leads you through the house.

You walk past a servant - slave, thrall, victim, they are all one and the same in this house - and an idea flashes in your mind. Maybe the servants will know your fate. You reach for your magic subtly, in the way that only those with sorcerous powers can, to try to detect the thoughts of the passing servant. However, as you pull on the weave that has been flowing in your blood ever since you can remember, you find, much to your dismay, that the magical power is nowhere to be found. The space where magic once roiled, hot and chaotic and almost uncontrollable, is now empty and cold. You turn deeper in on yourself, and though you find the odd flicker and flash of energy, there is nothing close to enough to cast the spell that you have held in your mind. And then you have passed the servant, and your opportunity is missed, and you are left feeling more concerned than ever.

Before long, Astarion leads you into his study. Like the rest of the house, it has undergone a significant transformation in the past months, with all traces of Cazador destroyed. The dark desk has been pushed against a wall, and the room has been set up as more of an audience chamber than an office. One large throne faces a dozen smaller chairs, and Astarion takes his seat on the throne, patting his knee with a hand to indicate that you should take a seat there.

He told you once, long ago, that he would rule the world, issuing commands from his throne while you perched naked on his lap. It seems he is finally making good on his promise. You almost feel grateful for the skimpy scraps of cloth he has allowed you - although you realise you have no reason to believe that he will let you keep them on for long. You think it is a sign of how far you have fallen for him that you don’t feel the indignity of it at all. You only feel relief. Oh, this is shameful, of course; whatever dignity you have left is going to be cut into smaller scraps than the outfit you are sporting. But you had feared a much worse punishment. By contrast, this feels almost like a gift.

When you balance yourself on his lap he pulls you closer to him, his strong arm wrapping around your exposed midriff, his fingers resting lewdly between your bare thighs.  The proximity of his fingertips to your skin makes you shiver in hot anticipation.

“I thought you might help me with my associates today,” he purrs in your ear. “I’m quite sure that your presence will have an enhancing effect on my proposals.”

You squirm at his closeness, but before you can adjust your position a thrall enters the room, announcing your husband’s first guest.