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atsadi-shenanigans · 4 months ago

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What Shall We Become 26 - Neck Romancers

The rogue has a meal.

On AO3.

The cleric and the gith leave in disgust. Astarion is left with the knowledge that his flesh is being consumed by a not-living entity once again, and that the only hope for his salvation comes from the delicious neck of his dearest leader. And she can’t offer that. A wrist? Yes, fine. Enough distance between them and he only has to handle her arm with his bared palms. But her neck? That brings her close. Warm, soft flesh right there and that’s bad enough even without the maddening scent of her moon blood.

He honestly doesn’t know if he’ll simply open her throat and gorge himself sick.

“Darling?” he says. And…isn’t she losing blood just now? “While I appreciate the thought, more than you know, I’m not sure—”

They’re still barely linked. Not enough to pass whole thoughts or images to each other, but enough he literally feels her come to a conclusion. A reluctant one. Tinged in shyness and a shade of shame he hasn’t felt from her before.

She seats herself in front of him. Her back to him. Taps his hand against the side of her neck again.

Surely her wrist…

Enough of that slips through. She nudges something to him: both of her arms baring faint wounds of his bite already. Healed, from potions, but a worry of tenderness, of lingering pain.

He hasn’t tasted her neck since that first time. And if they’re close (she squirms) it’s less work for him.

Some distant part of himself thinks this incredibly unwise. Her manipulations again. Her game. Whatever price he’s going to pay later. But…but he’s never so much as caught a glimpse of that. Not once. Oh, he’s seen her scheme and plan. Has given her input on said schemes and plans. Has borne witness to her cold and sick and hurting.

He’s been in her head while she’s mindlessly furious.

But that’s never been aimed at him. Not in the way she gets when she’s plotting the downfall of another. When she looked at that mad redcap and detailed in her mind all the ways she might take it apart.

She’s been annoyed at him, certainly. Even angry. But she sits there, and he feels her mentally restraining herself, stopping herself from fidgeting and growing flustered by her own reaction she doesn’t understand. And there’s nothing else behind it. No nefarious thoughts. A little selfishness (he’s quite good with his knives, even blind, it turns out), but even that’s layered within concern for him.

The paralysis spreads as the thing in his skin spreads its tendrils. His legs are useless stumps and a numbness starts to freeze the tips of his fingers on both hands. It’ll snake through his entire body. Fill his lungs, sprout little red caps from his eye sockets and ruffles out his nose—

He reaches for her. Tugs at her, just a little. Gets her to scoot back, between his legs. Her body goes tense; she does it, though. Until she’s close enough he has only to lean forwards.

His bad hand sits useless at his side. His good hand—for now—he moves up to gently nudge her chin, get her to tilt her head to the right.

She shivers.

And even that does something to him, through all the haze of terror and dread. Confounding woman.

Then he presses in. Leans his chest against her back (more than he’d like to but by the hells, that weakness spreads swiftly). Nuzzles his face to the side of her neck to find…there. Her skin thrums with her pulse, fast and strong. Her blood rushes just under his lips. Just as he remembers from that very first night.

He’d been somewhat inexperienced, then. Too overwhelmed by the thought of finally, finally tasking thinking blood to appreciate the small things. Such as the scent of her skin—salt and, yes, sweat, but still that delightfully clean smell that’s simply her. The sheer heat pouring off of her, the smoothness of her skin. The way her breath hitches as his lips find the vein. As the tip of his tongue snakes out just to feel the jump in her pulse.

He barely manages to swallow a groan.

Gods, he can’t believe he’s spent two-hundred years without this. He’ll never go back. Never. Will never again suck half-coagulated blood out of a dead rat and pull maggots from his teeth later. Not now, after he’s tasted this. Tasted her.

She finally breaks and squirms against him. Just a little. But it’s enough for him to once again catch that scent of hers, and the rich, deep moon blood finally overwhelms him.

He bites. Too viciously—clamping onto her like a starving dog. But he catches himself. Eases his jaw even as it tries to lock and she goes rigid.

And, like the times before, he loses himself in her.

Fear and anger and shame. Tasting sour and bitter both. But his next draw is her bone-deep relief at swallowing down hot, flaking fish. Food in her mouth, the fat turned to oil coating her tongue and throat as she swallows. More and more. A whole fish hot down her gullet, filling her belly. A second fish. A third. He’s even gone and drained the blood from the things, so they don’t taste as fishy.

Her blood pours down his own throat. Pools in his belly hot and filling and so deliciously alive. He’d dimly aware he’s clutching at her, pressing her tightly to him.

When she first slept in that upended hall, a faint sour note seeps in. Nothing separated her from his quiet (sulking) presence behind her and the potential mob outside but a tattered, half-rotted curtain. So she’d placed herself between him and that opening—

What?

The choking fear when she’d found him on that table. He grunts against her neck and pulls a face. It makes the corners of his jaw ache.

And there. The bitter, bitter tang of her anger. Must have been when she was seated across form him as he accused her of stupidity and malice.

She was angry, alright. And…hurt. All but curled in over herself as if to protect her vulnerable belly. But that hurt wasn’t simply at his accusations. Wasn’t being reminded of her own shady deeds years ago. It was…it was him. Stemmed from him for some reason. There’s something to him in her blood. He’s never tasted that before. Can’t even describe it except that his good arm comes up to secure her where she is, flush against him.

Gods, that’s…what even is that? It’s divine. Fills him with sunlight.

Against him, her breath hitches again. She makes a tiny, squeaking sound. Shudders in his grip.

She’s so warm. Her body molds to his front. He can nearly visualize the soft brown of her skin. Can imagine burying his nose into her black hair as she squirms in his clutches. Reaching down, down with his fingers until he finds her trousers and slides lower still to slick his fingers in the blood between her legs. Bring his hand up to admire the red shine and then bring those fingers to his tongue.

He’s making noises. The blood from her neck, hot and strong fills him. Heats him up from the inside, hotter and hotter until his body burns with life. Until that heat sears up his shoulder and down his wounded arm. Washes the half-numbed pain from his flesh. Brings tingling back to his fingers. No longer a corpse to be feasted upon, but a living thing. Or near living, and the disgusting thing growing in him begins to retreat.

Her blood pools other places, as well. Slowly, slowly it reaches down, spreads through his groin, begins to fill his cock.

He’s thought of bedding her, of course. Had thought it of all their motley crew of weirdos and idiots. He’d had her halfway to it, even. And he’d be lying to himself (intentionally, this time) if he said he wasn’t intrigued. She’s not a beauty. Neither toned nor classically willowy. That bastard would rather snap her neck and cast her body to the sewers rather than feed on what he would call…

To the hells with what he would call her. Cazador isn’t here. Astarion is, and he wraps himself around his clever, vicious, infuriating leader as his pants grow tight.

It wouldn’t be a chore. Bedding her. She’s made it clear she has no wish to (and does seem to mean it, of all the absurdities). But were she to change her mind, he’s very curious to hear what sounds he could draw from her. What new shivers he could chase down her spine. What her mouth tastes like. What her cunt tastes like. If she would writhe beneath him or cling to him, straddled across his lap as he thrust into her.

He’s angry with her, godsdamnit! She’s impossible. Says the most atrocious things and then goes and offers her blood to him so freely. And this isn’t the first time he’s gotten hard feeding from her—it happened the very first time, and nearly every other after.

But he’s agitated, now. His thoughts are off, and when in the hells did his other arm come up to hold her shoulder? His first hand shifted to trace his thumb along her jaw? She’s close enough that one more fidget, and she’ll grind right onto his arousal.

…he considers that.

“Astarion?” she says and taps his elbow. She slurs.

Shit.

He pulls away. Gasps and pants and wipes his mouth so he can suck those digits clean. His other hand fumbles for his pack. She’ll need a rag, a bandage. Something in his saliva makes her blood thin and hard to scab.

She shifts, and suddenly, cloth in his hand. He folds it neatly and quickly, and then presses it hard against her (wishes he could simply feed her a potion so he could lick the excess off, chase it down her back, over her breast).

But then she sways in his hold. And it’s only practical that he eases her to lean back against him, this time. Wouldn’t do to let her keel over. It’s a mark of how much he took that she only mutters a slight protest before accepting it.

Absolute puzzle of a woman. He hates puzzles. He hates her. Except…he doesn’t. Annoyed with her, yes, sometimes. Suspicious of her, constantly. But also…

Something in her blood tasted different. And for some strange reason, it feels…it feels like it echoes back into him.

Gods, he hates puzzles.

#these two shitheads #what shall we become #tavstarion #astarion fic #astarion pov #slow burn #into the burn part of slow burn #wait feelings?#ruh roh #vampire shenanigans #having fucked around he is beginning to find out #i could have picked a coolsexy gif for this one #but I saw that bat and did the pointing finger meme

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