#ascended astarion x female oc | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

brain-rot-central · 10 months ago

Text

Sonnet of the Lone Cardinal, Ch. 5

A/N: Holy hell, this chapter got hands. I sincerely apologize for it taking me almost two months to update. Buckle up -- we got some unsettling bullshit brewing within this one. As always, thank you all for your continued support, and please mind the tags. Happy reading!

Rating: Explicit Word count: ~8.2k (I'm rounding up) Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Female Tav (DU, named) Warnings: 18+, minor character deaths, depictions of murder, dark romance, pregnancy mention (of course), manipulative behaviors, toxic relationship, jealousy, abuse mention, minor references to suicidal ideation and overall mental health struggles Summary: Tav awakes after the events of the prior evening alone, confused. Having overheard a discussion between the servants, she makes her way down into the depths of the manor and uncovers a shocking secret.

♥ Previous Chapter ♥ Next Chapter ♥ Link to Ao3

She awakens; startled.

Her eyes snap open and Tav springs up from the plush cocoon of linens she's wrapped in – white sheets and a cream colored duvet envelop her. She looks around, frantically searching a room that is unfamiliar. There’s a crick in her neck as she turns her head too fast. She winces then raises a hand to rub over the spot. Raised scabs cover the two signature pinpoints in her neck as she continues to soothe the aching muscle.

There's a heaviness to her head as the events of the prior night swim to the surface of her mind, panic starting anew.

‘He bit me,’ Tav remembers, urgently. She extends both arms in front of herself for inspection, flipping them over again and again. At this moment, Tav cannot recall what her usual skin tone is – her chest heaves with labored breath as she looks hurriedly around the room for a mirror. In the corner, alongside the wall, sits a vanity. She bolts from the bed, rushing urgently to the mirror.

Grasping the edges of the vanity, Tav snaps her head up to meet the glass.

Her reflection…stares back at her.

Astarion had kept his word – he did not turn her.

She sighs, collapsing into the seat stationed at the vanity. Autonomic tremors wrack her body, adrenaline beginning to take effect. Closing her eyes, Tav focuses on her breathing. She takes a deep breath in through her nose, blowing it out through her mouth. Again. And again. As she rides the choppy waves of her anxiety, a sharp twist in her stomach has her laying a hand over her lower abdomen. With the palm of her hand, Tav rubs soothing circles over the plush softness of her growing belly.

“Glad to see you're okay,” she says affectionately to her stomach, lips curling up into a smile.

How did she end up here? Where is here? Peeling open her eyes, Tav gives the room an honest gander. It's not large, but not necessarily small, either. The room hosts hunter green walls with natural pine wood flooring. There’s a glass door to the front of the room, adjacent to the bed, with two smaller windows on either side; Tav can only assume it leads to a balcony. Beige drapes hang over the windows, parted gently down the middle and tied to the wall by golden holdbacks. There are plants – so many plants – throughout the room. Marbled pothos in hanging pots, a small belladonna on a stand; various other flora and fauna act as decor for the quaint bedroom.

She rises and walks back to the bed, noting that her belongings have been placed neatly along the bottom edge. Tav pokes through them, revealing each layer; her satchel, scarf, and hat are all present. Personal items are all accounted for as she rummages through her bag. It isn't until she notices her dress folded under her bag that she’s aware of her current attire. Somehow, she's now wearing a beige silk slip gown, the hem stopping just above her knees. The top and bottom of the dress are embroidered with white lace; a small bow is positioned right between the beginning of her cleavage.

Tav scans the room again and finds a matching bathrobe hanging on a hook behind the bedroom door. She quickly gathers the robe and throws it over herself, catching from the corner of her eye, what appears to be a note on the nightstand adjacent to the bed as she turns around. A vase of freshly cut red roses also resides atop the table.

Tav picks up the note and inspects it. The handwriting is Astarion's – of that, she's certain. The note is addressed to her. It reads,

‘Tavaria,

My apologies that you will wake alone with only this letter – I'm in rather high demand, today. I am hopeful this note will provide much needed clarification.

It seems as though we’ve had a repeat of our first encounter, yester eve. For that, I owe you an apology. I was overzealous. Truly, I'd forgotten how much I savor your blood, and just how easy it is to lose myself to it.

Rest assured, as soon as I'd realized you'd lost consciousness, I stopped. Everything. Nothing further occurred during your incapacitation. I gathered us both and brought you here, to your bedroom, to rest. I hope you don't mind my giving you a change of clothing; not sure how you'd feel about falling asleep in your day clothes. You did always make it a point to change before retiring for the evening.’

Tav smiles as she reads over the letter. He was right; she never fell asleep without dressing down for the evening. When he had asked her why, she'd told him that it would invite horrid dreams, were she not comfortable during sleep.

She continues reading,

‘I've tasked Magdalena with helping you around the manor. You need only ask that of which you desire, and she will assist. I suggest taking your morning tea out on the balcony overlooking the courtyard garden. The roses I've left were cut fresh from one of our many bushes this morning.

Tav looks to the glass door leading out to the patio. She catches a glimpse of the small courtyard beyond the ledge of the balcony. Various shades of pink and red roses line the courtyard walls; they're no doubt the source of his gift.

Although the urge to sequester you all to myself is an incredibly formidable one, our time is sadly not yet. You are free to leave whenever you desire. Simply inform Magdalena of your wish to leave, and she will escort you.

I do hope you make a habit of coming to visit. It would be lovely to have you at future events.

I ever so miss having you near, my dearest spitfire.

A. A.

Spitfire – his old moniker for her.

The first time he saw her charge headfirst into a group of Gnolls, he bestowed that name upon her. She'd yelled orders from her frontal position to the back line, the pack dropping quickly from their combined onslaught. All piss and raw vinegar as she cut them down, screaming with each swing of her great sword. For Astarion, it was exhilarating to watch the woman he was newly involved with take the initiative. He would later tell her it was a deciding factor in how he inevitably fell for her.

Tav places the note back on the table, raising her head toward the windows. She approaches the door to the balcony, placing a hand upon the handle. It turns with relative ease and Tav pushes open the door, stepping out onto the patio. The sun bathes her skin in a comforting warmth and she takes a moment to enjoy the sensation. Despite it being morning, she can already tell the weather will be unbearably warm by midday. Yet, for now, this is fine. This will do nicely to help soothe her worrisome heart. At least, for a short while.

Looking out beyond the balcony, Tav is greeted with a full view of the courtyard garden. She sees the rose bushes from before clearer, now. Various colored tulips outline the brick path cut down its middle, along with lavender and catmint, creating a dazzling display of color. Tav closes her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. A sweet floral scent meets her nose and she instantly relaxes, shoulders falling into a more comfortable position.

She recalls Astarion's surprise when they reached Baldur's Gate. “You forget just how much color there is in the world,” he told her. Seeing first hand how much vibrancy the garden possesses, it's no wonder he speaks so highly of it.

As she looks down at the grounds below, Tav sees gardeners trimming hedges. A couple look up and wave, having caught her in their periphery. She waves back as a kind gesture, and returns back to the bedroom. There's knocking on the bedroom door – three short taps with the back of a knuckle, just as she closes the door to the balcony.

“Lady Tavaria? Are you awake?” comes a light voice from the other side of the door.

‘Magdalena.’

“Y-yes! I'm up,” Tav answers. She walks to the bedroom door but doesn't open it. Instead, she chooses to stand in front, awaiting a response from the servant.

“Ah, wonderful!” Magdalena exclaims jovially. May I come in, my lady?”

Tav worries the inside of her cheek, hesitantly raising a hand to the doorknob. The woman is harmless, she knows, yet her heart still wavers. With a brief shuttering of her eyes, Tav draws in a deep breath again and opens the door.

Magdalena stands just outside the door, a tray of tea and finger sandwiches in her hands. “Brightest of mornings, Lady Tavaria,” she greets with a short curtsey. Her signature smile is widely on display. “I've brought tea and some breakfast, at the behest of Lord Ancunín.”

Tav nods and steps out of the way, welcoming Magdalena into the bedroom. The older woman places the tray on top of a wooden dresser along the wall. “Thank you,” Tav says, walking over to the tray.

Her stomach growls as she looks over the sandwiches. It dawns on her that she hasn't eaten since lunch the day before. As she reaches for a piece of sandwich, Tav notices a small scroll rolled up on the tray next to the tea pot. Choosing to forego food at the moment, she picks up the scroll and starts cautiously untying the binding. “What is this?” Tav asks, glancing up toward Magdalena.

“A scroll of Lesser Restoration,” Magdalena explains. “The young Master insisted you’d have need of it.”

Tav opens the scroll and reads over the incantation. During their travels, it wasn't uncommon for Tav to ask this of Shadowheart, especially after nights with Astarion. Shadowheart would scold her for taking things too far yet again with their vampiric companion, but would heal her, nonetheless.

“That's very thoughtful of him,” Tav answers, flatly. She recites the spell laid out within the scroll, a faint blue aura enveloping her. The scroll disintegrates within her hands as the aura clears. Her head suddenly feels clearer, her body stronger. Tav never quite understood how the spell works, but she chooses never to question it further. For now, she'll enjoy her breakfast, pouring herself a cup of tea before choosing a piece of sandwich.

Magdalena smiles again as Tav begins eating. “May I run you a bath?” she offers. “It will be done by the time you finish.”

“Ah, no,” Tav answers while chewing, raising a hand to cover her mouth, “that's quite alright. I think I'll just slowly get myself together.”

Their eyes meet as Tav lifts her head toward the older woman once more. For a moment, the servant's eyes glow. Tav furrows her brow as she studies Magdalena’s face. She's seen this look before, but not since Cazador was still master of the palace.

Suddenly, it clicks.

She's actively conferring with Astarion.

Magdalena's eyes return to their usual hue almost as quickly as they changed. Tav resumes her breakfast, feigning innocence of her discovery.

“Of course, Lady Tavaria. That would be no problem at all,” says Magdalena. The servant makes toward the bedroom door, but turns around before exiting. “Please feel free to call for me, if you have need.”

Tav nods again while taking a sip of tea. “Of course, Magdalena. Thank you, though there's one question I have.” She motions toward the note lying on the nightstand next to the bed, seeking to prove her prior theory correct. “Astarion said in his note that I may leave whenever I please.” She places her tea back down on the tray, locking eyes once more with Magdalena. “Is that true?”

A brief moment passes without a response. Faint glowing rings appear around Magdalena’s irises once again, then fade within seconds. “Absolutely!” the woman exclaims, positively. “You’re free to come and go as you please. Master Astarion would never keep you here against your will.” The smirk on her face is not her own but that of Astarion’s, a blatant display of his compulsion over the older woman.

Tav draws in a shallow breath, deeply unsettled. “Thank you, Magdalena,” Tav says quietly, placing her cup of tea down. Magdalena bows before taking her leave of the bedroom, the door shutting with a soft ‘click’ behind her. Tav stares at the back of the door, mind beginning to race.

Why spy on her if she's free to leave? Why offer her accommodations if Astarion has zero intent to keep her here? She winces as a sharp throb shoots through her neck. The scroll may have cleared her mind, though his mark is still very much present.

“He's hiding something,” Tav says aloud, raising a hand to rub the side of her neck. The scabs brush along her palm as she smoothes over the skin. She begins to ponder the night prior. The look on his face… His liar's smile. Tav knows the look well. He's used it on her and countless others across the duration of their journey together.

But why? It's her, after all. He can trust her, can't he? He can confide in her.

“You left me, remember?”

The words echo in her mind. She hates to admit it, but Tav broke his trust just as much as he broke hers. The exact moment of Astarion’s triumph is when she pulled away. When he finally achieved all he lusted after, she left. Rejected entirely the man he became, truly, for her. Sold the very essence of his conscience in a diabolical contract to achieve the confidence, power, and strength to protect her, to protect them, for the rest of eternity.

She drops her hand to her stomach, rubbing over the small bump of her lower belly. That same circumstance is the exact reason she's in her current position. It surprises her, though Tav believes Astarion is still somehow unaware of her condition. If he were, he would have half the manor waiting on her hand and foot. The best clerics and healers would be brought in from all around Faerûn. But above all, he would demand that she stay here. Tav has little doubt he would be an attentive and caring partner. Yet, it would mark the end of her freedom. There is no doubt in her mind about that.

Tav inevitably makes her way to the bath, stripping herself of the silken nightgown. She cleanses her skin thoroughly with care, looking delightfully at the array of soaps and oils provided to her. When she steps back out, she assembles her outfit from the day before.

With one more small bite of a sandwich and a sip of tea, Tav heads out of the bedroom and into the large hallway. She's unfamiliar with this wing of the palace – not somewhere that was accessible to during their initial visit. It's entirely possible Astarion had this built during the renovations, though the marble carvings within the walls state otherwise. Plush red carpeting lines the hallway, leading to a grand wooden staircase.

Looking around, Tav notes that there is barely a presence on this floor. She begins making her way toward the staircase, noting that even the floor below looks just as deserted. The gears in her head begin turning; where could everyone be? It's barely mid-morning – certainly the servants have chores?

Upon reaching the bottom of the steps, Tav hears soft echoes of voices coming from around the corner. She believes this to be the main floor of the manor. Is he having a meeting in the foyer? The ballroom? She travels down the hall and hugs the corner wall. Slowly she peaks her head over the corner. No one is present in the manor foyer, yet when she turns her head toward the ballroom, Tav quickly pulls herself close to the wall in an effort to avoid being spotted.

Cautiously, Tav again looks around the corner, staying as flush with the wall as possible. There's a gathering of sorts within the ballroom. Maids and servants are arranging table sets, ornaments are being strung from the walls. One servant is up on a ladder hand-wiping each crystal of the delicate chandelier that hangs from the ceiling.

Ah, this explains why the manor is so deserted. They're all here, seemingly preparing for an event. Tav looks around and quickly notes Astarion’s absence, yet catches Magdalena fussing with another servant.

“Why’s it we who have to do all this?” complains the young man. He's tall, thin, with shortly cropped ears. A half-elf, perhaps? Maybe even less. “Why's the Master get to sit all pretty while we're here working?” He's holding a silver teapot, polishing it with a soft, white cloth.

“Oh, Thaddeus,” Tav overhears Magdalena sigh, “Lord Ancunín trusts that everything will be up to his expectations, so long as it is us who do this.” The basket she holds comes to rest on a nearby table top as she turns to her companion. “You can hire just about anyone to do anything. But those finer details that have people talking for weeks?” She raises a hand, wagging a finger toward the young man. “Those can only be found by knowing your clientele. And we do.” She nods her head. “He knows that.”

Tav begins to pull back along the wall but stops once she hears the young man speak again, “You know him a long time, don't you?”

“I do,” Magdalena answers confidently.

“Was he always this arrogant?”

The pensive look in the woman's eyes gives Tav pause once again. “He wasn't always in a position to be otherwise,” Magdalena replies quietly.

Tav finally pulls herself back along the wall, looking down to the floor. It's how he survived Cazador. The slavery. The whoring. The hunger. All of it. “Spite made me who I am!” She remembers the venom laced within those words, having pushed him too far. Her heart skips in her chest as it floods with unsettling heat.

“Do I really have to go down there?” the boy from earlier says from around the corner. “It's cold down there. And smells awful.”

Tav listens closely as Magdalena responds, “Oh fine, you don't have to go right now. But someone must go down before tomorrow night’s banquet.”

‘Down?’ Tav ponders. The only thing she remembers being under the manor is the crypts. Those were left empty after the ritual, having sacrificed all those lives in the Rite. Nothing remained but the stench of death and stale air. What could possibly be down there that they need to check on?

In a split decision, Tav peers quickly over the edge of the wall again. The path is clear; every servant is occupied with their tasks at hand. She then dashes to the opposite wall, hugging it close as she listens to the activity within the ballroom.

Nothing. Just the same chatter as before.

If she has any hope of making it to the crypts, Tav remembers she needs the ring. That accursed fucking ring, engraved with the Szarr family sigil. She doubts Astarion has changed the enchantment, as evidenced by the heavy metal doors of the ballroom. ‘But where to find the ring?’ she ponders. Tav recalls a matching set – one within Cazador's possession, and the other…

Godey.

Astarion returned the duplicate back to fucking Godey. Or, really, what was left of him. Once obtaining Cazador's ring, he returned the prior to the skeleton before departing the palace.

“I very much deserve the real thing. Not some cheap imitation,” he says. As Tav watches him kneel before the corpse of his tormentor, he gives pause. They’re the only two occupants of the room, the others choosing to stay above in the foyer. The room smells horrid; fetid. Nothing but the stench of death and decay permeates the air. Astarion sits with his head bowed low, hands balled into tight fists on his thighs. Tav refrains from speaking, letting Astarion have his moment. Eventually, the newly ascended vampire lord reaches into his pocket and produces the duplicate ring, dropping it within the pile of bones that was once animated. As he rises, Astarion turns to Tav and says, “I’m done here.”

She quirks her brow. “Are you sure?” Tav asks in concern. “We should really talk–”

“I’m done here,” Astarion repeats again, more sternly. He walks past Tav without making eye contact and heads for the stairs. Tav looks back at the room briefly before exiting, then follows Astarion up the stairs.

Looking around, Tav realizes the layout of the manor has changed. “But has he changed the structure underneath?” she whispers to herself. Out of the corner of her eye, she finds it – a small stairway at the end of the hall leading down and–

‘Aha; there it is.’

Tav quickly scans the hall and upon realizing the way is clear, dashes toward the staircase. She hurries down the stairs, halting momentarily at the bottom to perform another quick surveillance of her surroundings.

Having Astarion as a teacher certainly helped improve her stealth. His two-hundred years of experience shined brightest as he glided about the night, lifting coin purses and trinkets with finesse so smooth they'd all be right out of earshot when the shrills of the victims finally rang out. Tav would stand in awe as he'd then pawn the hot items, using every smooth edge of his perfectly sculpted face to its full advantage. It was often that he'd come away with more gold in hand than the others during these exchanges, leading to the group agreeing unanimously that Astarion barter with all merchants.

The way looks clear once more and Tav ventures into the hall. This floor looks little changed; the…entertainment…quarters are off to the left, which means the kennels are still to the right. Tav turns her head as she approaches the threshold of the kennels. The blood-stained mattresses from months prior are still strewn about the floor of the room, coupled with the shackles welded into the stone. What makes her breath catch is Godey’s skeleton, lifeless on the ground. It's laying in the exact same position it was left in when he was slain.

Astarion hasn't touched it.

No one has touched anything in this room, let alone on this floor, from the looks of it.

With a heavy sigh, Tav steps through the doorway and enters the torture chamber. The air still carries the horrid scent of decay, but not nearly as strongly as the months’ prior. She kneels before the pile of bones on the floor that once was Godey, and without much hesitation, begins rummaging around for the ring. She finds it under his ribcage, nestled between his pelvis, and quickly stashes it in her satchel. Tav tries rearranging Godey’s remains as respectfully as she can, then rises from the floor.

She's quick to leave the room, not affording herself a glance back, and slinks back up the stairs. A servant passes as she reaches the top of the stairs and Tav halts, watching them intently. Thankfully, they fail to notice her presence, and she continues up into the hallway. Her next challenge is to somehow sneak into the ballroom, to the doorway off to the left that houses the elevator shaft. Astarion taught her an invisibility spell during their lessons, though her grasp on the spell is crude at best, only being able to hold the veil for half its usual time.

She'll have to be quick, is all.

Tav hugs the wall once more as she makes her way back to the ballroom. Silently she prays no changes have been made to that wing of the manor. She whispers the incantation for the invisibility spell to herself; her form blinks out of view and she dashes into the room. Holding her concentration as best she can, Tav nearly collides with a maid as she turns the corner. The spell flickers for a soft moment, threatening to collapse entirely, before she inevitably regains focus. She looks around briefly – no one within the ballroom seems to have noticed her mishap, and she quickly slips behind the door leading to the elevator, closing it promptly behind her.

Exhaling in relief, Tav releases the spell, retrieving the ring from her satchel as she walks toward the elevator. The gate opens as she approaches and she steps in. As she raises the ring to the corresponding sigil etched within the metal wall, Tav winces, hoping that the activation of the elevator doesn’t trigger an alarm. Ancient gears begin to wind, feeling the vibrations under her feet, and the gate closes. The elevator begins to draw down, and Tav sighs in relief.

The air shifts as she further descends down the shaft. An uneasiness takes root deep within her chest as the temperature shifts; she shivers, and suddenly, the elevator stops with a jump. The gate swings open and Tav steps off. She's assaulted by the scent of rotting organic matter and stale blood. Her stomach churns, half in nausea but also hunger. Curse the child growing within – already having such a twisted moral compass. Most befitting of the union between a vampire and a Bhaalspawn.

Her footsteps reverberate loudly against the tall stone walls of the dungeon. As she looks around, Tav realizes that this, too, has been left untouched during the renovations. Making her way to the main hall, she ponders where Astarion would keep his secret hidden, were there one. She turns off to the left and heads to where the remains of Vellioth lay; where most accounts from all prior lords of the manor reside.

Entering the stone room, Tav immediately notices the two sarcophaguses off to the right. They, too, are made of stone, their lids decorated with intricate carvings. She quirks her brow, drawing closer to the structures. These look new; a fine dust has settled on the ground surrounding each, most likely shaken off the while being placed.

A quick memory flits across her mind, of the two men mentioned within the Gazette. Evidence of fangs marks marring their necks, vanishing from the crime scene without a trace. Again Tav's stomach churns, queasily this time.

Perhaps these are Astarion's new sleeping chambers? Her brain is trying to form a positive explanation. Maybe he's grown tired of satin and feathered beds, craving the comforts of solitude.

She winces, seemingly staring out into nothing, and pulls her head to one side. ‘No,’ Tav thinks, ‘not after that particular event…’

She approaches the first of the tombs, cautiously extending her hands to the lid. With a breath, she pushes, the bellowing sound of stone grinding against stone cutting through the heavy silence of the crypt. Finally, the cover drops to the floor with a loud ‘thud’, the ground shaking briefly beneath her feet.

Closing her eyes, Tav leans forward over the lip of the stone coffin. She wills her eyes to then open observing the contents inside.

Her mouth drops open, breath arresting in her chest by what she finds.

Within the stone coffin lay a man in hooded black garb. Of elven lineage, most likely – not much older than a hundred. As she scans his form, Tav notes a discolored bruise on one side of the man’s neck. A trail of blood leads down his chest, obscured by the collar of his garb. Reaching into the coffin, she gently pushes the hood to the side, allowing her a better view of his neck.

Her pupils grow wide.

Within the blossomed bruise, two pin marks decorate the man’s skin. Tav raises a hand to her neck and traces the distance between each of her scars. She extends her hand over the man's neck, keeping her fingers aligned.

She gasps – the marks line up near perfectly with her fingers.

‘No…’

A surge of heat crawls throughout her body, her heart drumming loudly within her ears. Tav darts her eyes to the second stone coffin and sets to work on shoving off the lid. With one final groan from Tav, the lid hits the floor, ground shaking again from the impact. Quickly, Tav peers over the ledge.

Another young man in hooded black garb – a dragonborn. Tav reaches down to push the hood over, revealing the man's neck to her eyes. He, too, possesses the same pin marks as the first.

“Somehow I knew I'd find you here,” comes a smooth voice from beyond the corridor.

Tav halts, a shiver running down her spine. She knows that baritone voice, all too well.

Him.

Footsteps echo off stone flooring, the sound increasing in intensity as he walks down the hall. He emerges from the shadows and into full view; he's chosen his red and black doublet today, with a simple pair of black slacks. His loafers are the same as the day's prior. Not a single strand of hair atop his head is out of place. Perfectly poised, per usual.

“Shouldn't’ve taught me your entire repertoire, then,” Tav retorts with slight annoyance, swiveling her head to address him over her shoulder.

He smirks as he closes the distance. “Half, little love,” Astarion chides with a wag of a finger. “I taught you half of what I know.” He stands just within the doorway’s arch, crossing his arms over his chest. Astarion then tilts his head to one side, pulling his face into a questioning scowl. “Why exactly are you here?”

Silence hangs heavy in the air while Tav conjures a response. She narrows her eyes, shooting Astarion a searing glance.

“You lied to me, Astarion,” she accuses, raising a finger at him. “And I knew you did.” Looking to the twin coffins lining the walls of the room, Tav shakes her head. “I overheard the servants talking about something here within the crypts, and I–”

Astarion drops his brow. “Who did you overhear?” comes his stern response, laced within a deep growl.

Tav shrugs her shoulders. “Does it matter?” she suggests. “The damage is already done, Astarion. I know the truth.”

He's quiet as she walks toward him; stoic. He stops breathing, having no true need of it, and he’s a living statue before her eyes. Ivory skin with just the faintest hint of life. Piercing red eyes. A strong, sharp nose. Hardened jaw clenched tight…

Tav is quick to rid her mind of the creeping lust that threatens to bloom within.

“But what I don't understand is why lie to me, Astarion?” She continues to argue her point, pounding a fist over her chest. “What do you gain? What do you preserve?”

Astarion doesn't answer immediately, likely trying to piece together a sound reply. He shifts his weight onto one hip and sighs. “Has our dearest friend Wyllyam not told you of our arrangement?”

Tav shifts back a step, turning her face toward the side only minimally, eyes still fixated upon him. “What are you implying?”

Astarion’s resulting smile oozes malice. “Oh dear, you really don't know.” He drops his arms from his chest and closes the distance. Tav flinches as he leans toward her, dropping his voice to a purr, “And here I thought you were just playing the part.”

“Know what, Astarion? Speak plainly,” demands Tav.

Again, a momentary lapse in response. He stares blankly, expressionless as he says, “Awfully surprised this hasn't come up during pillow talk.”

Tav blinks in genuine shock. ‘Pillow talk? What in the hells–’

Suddenly, her brain mulls over the thought and she scowls. “Astarion, are you asking if I've ever slept with Wyll?”

He leans back, shifting his head again to one side. “I'm not quite sure, love,” he says, feigning innocence. “Perhaps you could tell me?”

Flabbergasted, Tav shouts, “He's the Duke, Astarion! I report directly to him!” She shakes her head in disagreement. “No, our interactions are strictly professional.”

“Of course, but old habits die hard, my dear. Surely you know that,” Astarion retorts.

The sentence churns within her brain. Tav recalls the events of their journey against the Absolute. Every dinner, every laugh, every intimate moment shared.

‘He can't possibly be referring to…’

Her attention snaps back to Astarion, who waits patiently as she unravels his meaning.

“We shared a kiss, Astarion,” Tav explains, mildly annoyed. “You and I pledged ourselves to one another soon after. You know this.”

“You both shared a rather intimate dance, as well.” He begins to circle her; Tav keeps her head on a swivel as she tracks his movement. “What else, I wonder, did you share in our time away from one another?”

“I already told you, our relationship is strictly professional. I harbor no additional feelings for Wyll.”

Astarion's raises his hands in defeat, bowing slightly at the waist. “I'll accept what you say as truth.”

Somberly, Tav looks toward the two stone coffins holding the unfortunate victims. “How does Wyll have anything to do with this?” she questions. “I doubt he'd take murder lightly.”

Astarion huffs a laugh. “Oh, my darling, how wrong you are. They aren’t dead.” Astarion moves toward the first sarcophagus, stopping just next to it. “And they're not innocent. I can assure you of that.”

She whips her head toward Astarion, bewilderment painted clear up on her face. “Not dead?” reiterates Tav. “Astarion, I'm sure of what I saw. Those two men are dead; gone of this world.”

“Did you touch them?” he inquires, lifting a brow.

“No,” she admits, shaking her head, “why would I?”

Astarion lifts his chin, nodding toward the coffins. “Touch them,” he dares. “Go on.”

Tav holds his challenging gaze for a moment before bowing her head. Cautiously, she walks toward the coffins again, choosing the one that holds the elven man. Quickly she looks to Astarion, who nods his head again in encouragement. Tav raises a shaky hand over the lip of the coffin, reaching for the young man inside.

The hand connects and her eyes grow wide.

‘His skin…it's…’

“Cool, but not chilled, yes?” Astarion comments smugly, crossing his arms over his chest.

Tav quickly retracts her hand, shooting a heated glance at Astarion. “What the hells is this, Astarion?” she yells. “What kind of enchantment is this?!”

Knitting his brow, Astarion says, “Tell me, darling – does this satisfy your desire to paint me as some type of devil?” Slowly he stalks toward her, like a predator encircling their prey. Instinctively, Tav backs away, desperate to create more distance. “Does this prove your preconceived notions correct?”

“Astarion…” Tav says in a small voice, but she halts her retreat – a wave of rebellion overtaking her. She stands steady, watching his every movement.

He stops before her, heavy breaths rippling through his nostrils. “Will you fly from me again?” he asks, jaw tight. He leans forward, adding in a growl, “Do you fear me, now?”

He’s spiraling.

Backed into a corner, he's poised to strike. As she studies his face, Tav notes the tension set deep within his features. “...Not unless I have reason to,” she challenges. Tav narrows her eyes in question. “Do I?”

The tension eases somewhat, Astarion's face softening. He straightens his posture, placing a hand on the lip of the coffin for support. “Of course not,” he admits, looking off to the side. Astarion worries at his bottom lip. “I would see this entire city burn, if you willed.”

A cold shutter runs down the length of her spine. “I would never ask that of you, Astarion,” Tav states, cocking her head to one side.

“I know,” he smiles, lips pulling into a smirk, “but my offer still stands.”

Despite offering to raze an entire city in her stead, Tav realizes he still cannot call this what it truly is.

Love.

How much he loves her. Loves the idea of them. His worst fear realized, Tav comes to understand, is her turning her back on him again. Walking out the door, never to return. Astarion still cannot admit to himself that he longs, desperately, for nothing more than them being together, for as long as the accursed Gods above allow.

But, she knows. She sees it – sees him.

Her eyes wander back to the elven man in the stone coffin. Tav turns to face the coffin and dips her hand once more, placing the flat of her hand against the man’s cheek. “How is it possible that they still live?” she asks, curious. “You bit them, didn't you? Drained them?”

“I did,” agrees Astarion with a slight nod of his head, “however, that's only the first part. They haven't yet reached the final act.” His chest rises as he draws in a breath, exhaling with audible force. He meets her eye as he says, “Currently, they lay between.”

Tav's jaw drops in silent question. “How do you mean between, Astarion?” she asks, mortified. “Are you implying they're in a sort of stasis?”

“Somewhat, yes,” confirms Astarion. “To create a vampire spawn, the victim must be buried under six feet of dirt. After which,” he continues, gesturing with a light twirl of his wrist, “they awaken the following night. Beckoned, by their new master.” A hollow look sets on his face, eyes dropping to the floor. “Bound to them. Forever.”

“This happened weeks ago,” Tav is quick to argue, the soft burn of panic igniting within her chest. “You've kept them here this entire time? In this state?”

Astarion shrugs his shoulders in nonchalance, adopting a sort of apathy as he says, “Not much else to do, unfortunately. Not until I decide otherwise.”

A heavy sense of dread looms overhead. Tav can hardly believe how seemingly detached he is from the severity of the situation – willfully keeping these men in limbo, until he, essentially, gets around to settling the matter.

Completely at his mercy.

“This is hardly fair, Astarion,” says Tav, voice quivering.

“And what makes you think they're deserving of such a gesture?” he asks with a quirk of his brow.

“Everyone is,” she states in an urgent breath, “especially in death.”

“You’ve no idea who your heart bleeds for,” Astarion counters in a low growl, teeth clenched.

In a display of confidence, albeit foolishly, Tav approaches the vampire. “Did these men give themselves to you willingly?” she asks, pushing forward. Taken aback, Astarion steps away. “Did they pledge fealty to you? Or did you take it?”

Still stepping back, Astarion says quietly, “That hardly matters.”

“No, that's precisely what matters,” Tav insists, forcefully. She halts her frontal assault, choosing to meet his gaze. “Answer me, Astarion – did these men give you permission to turn them?”

They stand, eyes locked in a heated silent exchange, before Astarion finally admits, “No.” it's a one word response, yet it holds the weight of an entire mountain within its meaning.

The fire within her chest threatens to burst into an inferno, and Tav can tell Astarion is feeling the pressure, as well. There's a sheen to his eyes that only appears before the fall. Before a breakthrough.

“Is that the sort of master you want to be?” she pushes. The consequences of such an accusation can leave her in the same position as the men in the coffins, though this is another test of their bond. “One who takes without consideration?” Tav continues.

Can he withstand moral objectivity? Criticism? ‘Comparison,’ she thinks to herself, ‘to Cazador?’

“I would not wish to create spawn of those unaware of this life,” Astarion states mournfully.

“But if you complete the process, they become your spawn, correct?” infers Tav, continuing to lay on the pressure. “You would have the ability to compel them.”

Astarion shoots her a side glance. “I would never do that to them,” he snarls defensively, his limit quickly approaching.

“No, but you would still have the option. Just as he did. And they would know that.” Astarion's nostrils begin to flare as Tav encircles him, his face screwing up into a tightly disapproving scowl. “Just as you did.”

“Tav,” Astarion growls out in warning, fists clenching with fevor. He follows her path around him, eyes glued to her form.

“That at any moment,” she continues, “you could bend them to your will. Just as he did.” Astarion's chest is heaving by this point. Strong, ragged breaths tear through his chest.

Yet, Tav goes on. “How long do you think you'll have before they rebel? Before they seek to reclaim the life you unjustly stole from them?” Tav stops just before him, craning her neck to one side as she says, “Does that sound like a familiar story to you?”

“I am not him!” Astarion shouts, hunching over. His fangs are bared, his palms splayed wide. His eyes flicker a bright gold for all but a second, but it's a second too long for Tav to not take notice. Astarion drops to his knees and Tav backs away, startled by the display before her.

Astarion's nails dig deeply at the stone floor below. He's snarling – saliva now drips from his mouth as his body gives over to a fit. Panic settles within Tav’s chest, though her feet refuse to carry her any further away. Astarion whips back his head – pupils blown wide – and their eyes meet; a thin ring of ruby red encircles them.

“Astarion…” Tav sighs. She eases herself to the floor, but doesn't reach for him. Instead, she sits attentively – an unspoken display of trust that he will not take advantage of her vulnerability. Hoping that somewhere, deep within, he's still the man she came to love.

A low rumble rises from Astarion's chest as he studies her face. His eyes roll into his skull and he sits back, blinking rapidly. Raising a hand, he swipes it down the front of his face, then shakes his head.

“...Are you back?” Tav asks, timidly.

Astarion gives a knowing glance, nodding his head in silent agreement.

“What was that?” she asks.

Settling his gaze on the floor, hanging his head, Astarion confesses, “I…I don't know,” His chest rises and falls with labored breaths. “Forgive me; I meant you no harm.”

Somehow, she knows. Trusts in the one impenetrable fact that he will always protect her. That no harm will ever come to her, either by his own doing or by others. Tav doesn't fear him, nor what he is capable of.

“I know,” Tav says, confidently. She holds out her hands, palms turned upward, in offer to Astarion. They don't have to talk about what happened just yet. For right now, they must move forward.

He gives pause at her gesture, but then readily accepts, enclosing his hands over hers. They aid one another in rising off the floor and stand, keeping their hands interlocked just a moment too long.

Tav speaks first, saying, “You have to do something with them, Astarion. You can't just leave them here and pray they'll go away.”

His hand finds one of hers again, entwining their fingers once more. “...What would you suggest I do?” he asks, unsure. Astarion looks to her from under his lashes, brow knit tightly in a concerned scowl.

Tav squeezes his hand encouragingly. “Show them the mercy you wish was afforded to you.”

Astarion lifts his head, eyes widening as he looks to her. “...You would allow such a thing?” he asks with a hint of desperation in his voice.

Tav brings their interlocked hands to her lips, placing a gentle kiss to the top of his. “I support you doing what's right, Astarion.”

His eyes flutter momentarily, somewhat surprised by the intimate gesture, before he dips his head in a short nod. “Fine,” he says, “I'll do it.”

Releasing his grip on her hand, Astarion moves to the coffin holding the young elven man. He reaches for his side, under his doublet, and Tav hears him unsheath his dagger from its hilt. Seconds later, Astarion pulls it free from his hip with a skilled jerk.

With a shaky breath, Astarion takes the opposite hand and begins tracing down along the breast bone of the unconscious man beneath. He feels, under the pads of his fingers, for each intercostal space, stopping once he reaches the fourth. Now moving his hand slightly to the left of the sternum, he dips his fingers again to confirm proper placement. The man's heart beats slowly under his touch; Astarion releases his breath, and looks again to Tav.

Tav sees the trepidation in his eyes. He's asking silently, again, for her permission to continue. If what he’s about to do is tolerable. Will she turn and run if he goes through with this? Would it be too much for her to witness him at his worst?

She nods almost instinctively, taking notice of her own heightened state. There once was a time when the call of blood and sinew thrilled her; though now, the adrenaline coursing through her veins exists for a different reason entirely. Her heart beats strong against its cage, flooding her ears.

Astarion means to kill these men. Mercifully, yes, but kill them, all the same. And she's allowing it. Encouraging it. Guiding his hand toward a path of resolution. A chance at redemption for his soured soul, all but forgotten by every God.

It's no matter to her, really – she longs to be his sanctuary. The savior of his damned existence. She wasn't strong enough then, during the ritual, but by the Gods she will never make that mistake again. Stop at nothing now to save him. To give him a new chance at life.

One where they all can exist together. Him, her, and the blossoming love that grows within.

Receiving the answer he sought, Astarion turns his attention again to the man’s chest. He raises the dagger, replacing his fingers with the tip of the blade. He pauses for a second, then begins pushing the knife forward.

A deep, agonal groan rings loudly against the crypt walls the moment Astarion's blade pierces heart. A shiver passes over Tav as she traces the movements of Astarion's arm. He twists the dagger within the elf’s chest, another garbled sound slipping past the young man's pale lips as Astarion carves through myocardium.

Astarion stands, near perfectly still, in the same position until the sound dies down. Only then does he pull the dagger free. He wipes the flat of the blade against his thigh, moving toward the dragonborn in a seamless transition.

A final groan spills from the older man. It reverberates within the crypt, drifting off into a dull dum. Astarion carefully removes the blade from the man’s chest, dropping it unceremoniously onto the floor with a loud ‘clang’. Astarion drags a hand down the length of his face and begins stalking backwards. “It's done,” he comments, turning on his heels and heading toward the exit. His head hangs low as he passes Tav.

She hardly acknowledges his passing – she’s too transfixed on the scene before her.

Finally, the two men lay dead. Her nose picks up the faint scent of their blood as it slowly trickles from their wounds, though the smell is not as fragrant as that of a fresh kill. The scent envelops her once more and her stomach lurches in disgust.

‘It's rancid!’ she cries to herself. Tav places a hand over her abdomen, rubbing soothing circles over her belly, hoping to calm this sudden wave of nausea.

The crushing reality of the situation begins to set in. Tav had encouraged Astarion to show these men mercy. Mercy that wasn’t shown to him. She knew he'd likely choose this option, but the why escaped her.

Until now.

“Astarion,” she calls out in a shaky breath, beginning to understand, “does this mean you…?”

Astarion halts just before stepping beyond the room's threshold. He turns slowly, looking at Tav as he says, “I'm holding a charity ball tomorrow evening. In Wyll's honor.” His voice is flat – devoid of its usual flair. “You should come. Speak with him. He can explain this better than I could ever hope to try.”

He's already rebuilding his walls.

Tav shifts to meet his gaze. A single tear tracks down Astarion's face and he quickly wipes it away, but she sees. Sees the bob of his neck as he swallows. Finds the hollow look in his eyes as he meets hers. “You did the right thing, Astarion,” she states, trying to provide reassurance. Give him an encouraging hand.

Yet, he's quick to refuse it.

“Then why doesn't it feel that way?” Astarion confesses, sternly. He promptly turns again and heads once more to the doorway, disappearing beyond the threshold.

Tav stands alone within the crypt. Her knees suddenly grow weak as the evening's events finally catch up to her. She guides herself softly to the floor, supporting her weight on a single arm as she leans to one side. Tav brings her other hand to rest over her chest and feels the crazed beating of her heart. The crushing weight of the evening settles deep in her bones.

Part of Astarion…wishes that were him.

#ascended astarion #astarion #fanfiction #bg3 astarion #sotlc #astarion fanfic #dark romance #astarion x female tav #astarion x female dark urge #astarion x female oc #character death #death mention tw #tw sucidal ideation #please let me know if i should tag anything else #i believe i got the big ones #i will be uploading shortly to ao3

147 notes · View notes

moramaisis · 10 months ago

Text

Characters: Ascended Astarion x Tav (Arsenia) Pairing: M/F Status: Happily evil together. Arsenia is a vampire bride. Keywords and warnings: Villain couple, dark humor, dark romance, dommy tav, heavy smut, biting, oral sex (m and f), penetrative sex, rough/gentle, humping, voyeurism (kinda but not secretly), threesome, unhinged horniness, gothic vibes, campiness? Summary: The vampire couple plans to rent a creepy old castle and meets the owner, who is a wealthy elf widow. The lady is acting very friendly to them and might have some ulterior motives. Their spawn is spotted by a vampire hunter and the couple must act fast to save him. Total word count: 21,057 I would happily post this fic here but i keep getting a warning from tumblr that i exceeded a character limit and nothing i do seems to let me post this. So, you have to go to my Ao3 to read it. Really sorry! No clue what to do. It's divided into two chapters and is part of a series. This story on Ao3 Previous story Ao3 This series on Ao3

#ascended astarion smut #ascended astarion x tav #ascended astarion fic #astarion x tav #astarion smut #astarion x female tav #ascended astarion x female tav #ascended astarion fanfiction #ascended astarion x female oc #astarion x female oc #ascended astarion #astarion x tiefling #astarion ancunin #astarion brainrot

8 notes · View notes

astarionancuntnin · 8 months ago

Text

here's my masterlist with everything i've written! note that:

all fics are explicit and astarion x fem!reader unless specified

series and multichapter fics have their masterlist linked with all chapters and ao3 links

one-shots/requests will have their main theme mentioned in parentheses next to the title, and the full lists of content warnings are available on their linked post/ao3 page

Requests: OPEN!

Current pending requests: 4

- i am more comfortable writing astarion (spawn or ascended) and halsin, but im open to get out of my comfort zone and write other characters! - i write in third or second POV (more experienced with x reader/tav) - comfortable with most types of writing (fluff, smut, angst, hurt/comfort) - i am willing to go extremely dark and kinky (basically ask and if its above my limit ill tell you, but if ive already written about it, im cool with it) - send an ask and ill get started on it! (i am quite busy recently, but i promise to get around to your request sooner rather than later)

fics are posted in chronological order of creation

this list will keep getting updated as i upload more

full list below the cut!

she was a wildfire that couldn't be tamed; he was the night star admiring her ruthless dance

Undisclosed Desires (Denial of feelings, rivals to lovers) (part 1)

Masterlist

astarion and you, along with your other companions, have been traveling together for a few weeks now. he gets on your nerves at least once a day. but as much as you hate to admit it, your late night activites are plagued by him. little do you know, hes aware of the effect he has on you and intends to use that to his advantage.

Bad Blood (Mature, Angst, follow up fic to Undisclosed Desires, Astarion POV) (part 2)

Masterlist (not posted yet)

it was meant to be a nice, simple plan. get the sorceress to fall in love with him to assure his safety. what he didn't plan was to fall for her as well, and all the complications that came along with it.

A Lesson in Taming Your Dark Consort

(all fics in this series are one-shots that surround the dynamic between Ascended Astarion and his consort Malva (my oc evil tav), heavily BDSM driven)

Taming a Tempest (spanking, semi-public sex)

oh, to be the Vampire Ascendant's dark consort. to have eternity and enhanced powers right at her finger tips - only to be denied. but two could play this game, and Malva would make Astarion regret witholding anything from her.

read on ao3

read on tumblr

Dancing on the Edge of a Knife (knife play, orgasm denial)

ever since his ascension, Malva was convinced that Astarion was the only person who could understand her every twisted desire. well, almost. there are some things she still keeps to herself, he simply wouldn't understand this part of her, the one who dances on the very edge of her knife.

read on ao3

read on tumblr

Contributions to Angels of The Night Collection

Blood Sisters (MalvaxMerelind)

Die For You (Lovers to Enemies to Lovers, Ascended Astarion) Completed work!

contains some Shadowheart x fem!reader

Masterlist

the ascension changed the person Astarion was, or so you believed. you broke up and parted ways after defeating the netherbrain, thinking it was for the best, but when you see him again 6 months later at the reunion, you realize you never truly moved on. and neither did he.

Meet Me In The Woods (predator/prey)

read on ao3

read on tumblr

it's astarion's turn to keep watch for the night. everyone's off to bed and he's still gone hunting and nowhere to be seen. you refuse to be the one to fill in for him again, so you venture into the woods looking for where he was last seen.

Midnight's Embrace (weed, polyamory)

astarion x female!reader x halsin

read on ao3

read on tumblr

you can’t recall the last time you had a real, good night of sleep. your fight with the nether brain is approaching fast and your anxiety is only increasing. halsin proposes to try a special brand of herbs to alleviate your mind. turns out this herb also awoke something else in you.

Nothing But A Dream (somnophilia)

read on ao3

read on tumblr

you've agreed to take things slow with astarion, only partaking in nighttime activities when he specifically desires them, and this morning, he wants you. but he would hate to intrude on your precious beauty sleep.

Run, Little Fox (predator/prey, hate sex, mildly dubious consent)

read on ao3

read on tumblr

this brat of a rogue questioned your leadership one time too many, it is time he learns his place, and youll do it the only way he'll listen to you: with a challenge. if you win, he will be held accountable for his actions, but if he wins, he gets to use you every night. it doesn't matter anyway, you'll win... won't you?

Public Display of Affection (A!A, jealousy, semi-public/loud sex, hints of voyeurism feat. Gale)

read on ao3

read on tumblr

his consort - his beautiful, too kind for her own good - forever young lover. she was his, and his only, and he believed it was long overdue to make that statement clear among the rest of their group. after tonight, the only name spiling from her luscious lips would be his.

Death is Not an Escape (Mature, Dead By Daylight AU, heavy angst)

read on ao3

read on tumblr

it wasn't supposed to end like this, they were supposed to get out and defeat the absolute - together. but as a dark fog swallowed them whole, their fates changed drastically.

The Ways of Worship (Priest/Modern AU, Corruption)

read on ao3

read on tumblr

this faith was all you've ever known. so when you wake up a morning with the dreadful feeling that you've lost it, you do the one thing that makes sense - confess to your local priest. when he offers his guidance with the promise of making you whole again, you accept without a second thought. your first lesson begins tonight.

Remember Me (Angst, Audio adaptation)

read on ao3

read on tumblr

you can't make sense of where you are or even how you ended up in this cell - hells, you're not even sure of who you are at this point; any memories of your past are a blur. it's all the more confusing when a group of adventurers come to rescue you, and a particularly worried pale elf takes it upon himself to help you remember who you are.

Silent Night (Somnophilia, Heavy Non-Con, Breeding)

gale x tav

read on ao3

read on tumblr

gale's one dream with Tav is to have a family - something she's been teasing for too long now. something gale is done denying himself. tonight, whether she wants it or not, he'll make her the mother of his children.

sleeping next to astarion

A!A's children

your short future with astarion

A!A being possessive of his consort

reflection on revenge with astarion

147 notes · View notes

libbybee · 4 months ago

Text

FEEDING THE HUNGER — AA

◜pairing: astarion ⨯ fem!reader ◜rating: MDNI 18+ ┊ wc: 2.2K ◜cw: vampire ascendant, predator/prey, piv, bite kink, blood, bodily fluids, masochism, dirty talk, cock riding, overstimulation, creampie.

▹ summary. a guttural groan vibrated against your neck just as his cock drove into you with wild intensity. the cruel rhythm of his thrusts mirrored the raw hunger in his feeding, but you weren’t his lamb—you were his equal, and you were to remind him of that.

A/N. english isn't my native language, sorry if there are grammar mistakes.

AO3 ┊ MASTERLIST ┊ PLAYLIST ┊ IMG

‎

You straddled him with abandon, making the sound of skin meeting skin resonate through the bedroom. Astarion’s cock was filling your cunt completely; each thick vein pulsed against your tight walls, and every thrust felt so deep it made you see stars. You gripped his waist, and your nails left red trails across the pale beauty of his skin, while his crimson eyes devoured every inch of you.

“Just look at you, riding me like this,” he growled harshly, sliding his hands down your thighs to grip your ass and squeeze it as he directed you more rigidly onto him. “Gods, your cunt feels like heaven. So tight, so fucking perfect for me.”

The hunger in his stare was matched by the soft groans that escaped from his lips—low and rough, like a melody only meant for you. But you? You couldn’t match his restraint. Your moans were utterly shameless, as every thrust forced your core to accommodate his full length. It stirred a deeper fire in your lower belly as you rubbed your folds against him, making the coarse white hair at the base of his cock grind against your clit, hitching your breath.

His lips twisted into a wicked smirk at your reaction. “Ah, there it is,” he purred. “That delicious moan from those lips. Don’t stop, beautiful; give me more.”

You undulated your hips faster and more fervently at his request, and your head went back as the pleasure coiled tighter within you. And Astarion didn't waste a single second; he surged forward to brush his lips against the column of your neck, yanking your hips down and thrusting his up into you, drawing a gasp from you.

“You’re irresistible,” he rasped, scraping his teeth along your neck to tease you before biting down on your pulse vein and stealing a quiet, tortured moan from your lips.

The sharp point of his fangs gave way almost instantly to a burning ecstasy as his lips sealed over your skin. The bite made you shiver and warmed every nerve with pleasure as he drank your blood. Each pull of his lips was like fire, an intoxicating blend of pain and rapture that left you trembling.

A guttural groan vibrated against your neck just as his cock drove into you with wild intensity. The cruel rhythm of his thrusts mirrored the raw hunger in his feeding, but you weren’t his lamb—you were his equal, and you were to remind him of that.

You tangled your fingers in his silvery hair to tug hard enough to pull his head back and expose the line of his throat. His eyes blazed with desire and surprise as you leaned in, brushing his skin with your lips before your tongue traced the pulse of his vein. Then you sank your fangs into him.

Astarion’s reaction was instant and feral—a delicious growl ripped from him and made your walls clench involuntarily around him. His hands intensified their grip on your hips, digging into your flesh as he drove you down onto his cock, still grinding your sensitive cunt against the rough hair at his base.

“Fuck,” he muttered, the word rolling off his tongue like sin. “Savour it, darling. Sink your teeth deeper. I'm yours.”

The taste of his blood was rich and stimulating, like the finest wines. Each drop seemed to emanate an otherworldly vitality, seeping into you and making your pulse race. Every touch of his hands and every thrust of his hips became sharper and more electric, as if his scarlet magnified all sensations.

You took more of his addictive elixir, relishing the way it warmed you. He groaned low and guttural while he kept driving into you; each piston-like thrust made you tremble in his grasp, overtaken by the dual ecstasy of feeding from him and being well fucked.

A need to share this intimacy and give as much as you were taking surged from you. And without pulling back, you lifted your wrist to his lips to silently invite him to feed, too.

His eyes now flashed with a feral hunger, and he took up your offer, grasping your wrist gently at first to caress with his lips the delicate veins under your skin. “You spoil me with such a precious gift,” he uttered. “My perfect consort...” He purred before sinking his fangs into it without hesitation, drawing a sharp exhale from you as the bite provoked a new layer of pleasure.

Astarion’s groans became rougher and more primal, gripping your ass to guide you down harder and grinding your swollen clit against his pelvis. The combination of pain, stimulation, and intoxicating feeding sent you rushing towards ecstasy.

When you pulled back, his blood left a trail down your chin from your lips, and he released your wrist, immediately darting his fingers to your chin to grip it firmly. Crimson smeared his lips as well, and his lustful gaze locked onto you with a yearning that bordered on vicious, pulling you into a kiss so passionate and lascivious it stole the breath from you.

His tongue plunged into your mouth, eager to seek the precious elixir you had just shared. The taste of mingled blood was nothing short of intoxicating—sweetened but complex, with notes reminiscent of a full-bodied red wine aged to perfection. It carried the richness of a smoky undertone that lingered on the palate and a metallic sharpness that cut like the icy texture of iron. The flavour was vibrant and lush, like a symphony of death and lust that coursed through your senses, leaving you light-headed and irresistibly eager for more.

Astarion groaned against your lips, his pleasure raw with each drag of his tongue against yours, delving his tongue deeper to draw out every trace of the nectar. It was as if the mingled blood fed not just his hunger but his soul, and each flick of his tongue, every fervent press of his lips, was a testament to his insatiable thirst.

His reddish irises burnt when he pulled back for the barest moment, with a faint hint of the mixed blood on his lips. Then he surged forward again to kiss you, leaving no doubt that he was utterly lost in the taste of you—utterly lost in you.

His lips curled against yours as he slid one of his hands between your bodies to find your puffy clit and rub circles against it that matched his pace. And your cunt tightened around him, causing you to break the kiss when your moans turned into desperate, broken sounds just when your climax was about to collapse within you.

“There is nothing sweeter than this,” he said, a filthy growl against your lips. “And you’re mine—completely, eternally mine.” He dragged his sharp fangs along your bottom lip to draw out more of your blood and soothe the fresh cut with his tongue.

“I’m yours,” you whispered between desperate gasps against his lips, gripping his hair with one of your hands and his nape with the other as you rocked yourself against him. “Every part of me belongs to you.”

His eyes darkened as he looked at you, a wicked smile spreading across his lips. “My beautiful treasure,” he purred, delighted. “I never tire of hearing you say it.” He groaned against your neck as he trailed hungry kisses along it.

“Keep riding me like the good girl you are,” he said, his tone thick with lust. “Let me feel that sweet, tight cunt soaking me while you milk my cock, darling.”

You planted your hands against his chest, feeling his body tense beneath your palms while you rocked your hips against his. Rolling them in a way that allowed you to feel every thick vein pulsing along his shaft as it dragged against every sensitive spot within you, his hips snapping up to match your pace. Seizing your waist with his hands to guide you rougher and stretching your cunt with his cock, being almost too much while it fed the fire in your belly until you thought you might combust.

The pace ripped a deep, primal groan from him, and you heard it as if it were a spark that started a wildfire inside you, raising your desire to fuck him faster and harder. The slick and obscene slaps of your bodies colliding through the room created a symphony of passion that made you flush and your core clench with each thrust.

“Astarion,” you moaned as if his name were a last-ditch appeal on your tongue while your fingernails swept across his chest in a fruitless effort to anchor yourself. All he could do was smirk maliciously in enjoyment as you streaked his skin with bright red.

As his fiery gaze ate up your quivering body, a savage snarl escaped his lips. “So fucking tight,” he grunted. “Taking me so beautifully.” The head of his cock hammered your cervix as he drove up violently, his hands tightening on your hips. “I can feel how badly you need this, how desperate you are to be filled by me.”

His words sent you out of control, making your thighs shake and the knot of pleasure in your core growing more and more intolerable. Your body acted on its own, grinding against him with impulsive abandon, stoking the inferno within you.

Astarion's grasp became bruising as he sensed your unwinding, his sharp fangs grazing the tender column of your throat. “Drench my cock, my treasure,” he growled against you. “Don’t hold back, love. Let me feel you.”

You came completely undone by the tidal wave of ecstasy that erupted from the tone of his voice, feeling a dazzling explosion of pleasure as your walls clenched around him with an intensity that seemed to pull him even deeper within you. The heat of your release surged through you, carrying you higher until you felt as if you might dissolve in the sheer force of it. Your moans were a sound of unadulterated bliss, uninhibited and pure.

Astarion's climax followed yours due to your pussy's intense, frantic hold on his cock. His growls became savage as he used a bruising grip to pull you down onto him and settle himself completely inside of you. As his cock reached its maximum hardness, you could feel the distinctive throbs of it. Then it happened—spurts as he came into you.

The sensation was intense, your already sensitive body responding to the warmth of his climax as it spread deep inside your walls. It was electrifying—an intimate bond shared between you that left you trembling. You could feel every pulse of his tip against your cervix and each involuntary twitch of his hips as he grounded himself deeper, ensuring no drop was spared.

His abrupt groan was your name falling from his lips, a sound raw with satisfaction and lust. You shivered against him, slumping forward to rest against his chest, both of your breaths mingling as you fought to steady yourselves.

His hands softened their hold, sliding up your sides in a tender caress as his eyes bore into yours, dark with lust. “My perfect little consort,” he rasped. “Milking me dry like you’re starving for it.”

Your bodies remained intertwined, his cock still nestled deep inside you, as if the mere thought of separation were cruel in your bond. He roamed your body with his hands lazily, tracing the swell of your hips as if cherishing your body anew. His lips sought yours, capturing them in a kiss that was no longer driven by hunger but by a slower, more profound need. Something achingly sensuous.

The press of his mouth against yours deepened, sliding his tongue against yours in a longing dance. When he finally pulled away, a thin trail of saliva connected your lips.

Then his pelvis surged upward to drive himself deeper into you once more, and his lips twisted into a smirk as he felt the aftershocks of your climax on your cunt. His eyes, half-lidded, locked onto yours, their intensity softened by adoration.“Oh, you’re not done yet, are you, darling?”

His hands slid from your hips to your waist and your breasts to graze your sensitive nipples with his thumbs, drawing a soft sigh from your lips. A low hum of satisfaction escaped him. “You’ve been so good for me,” he praised. “And yet... you keep me wanting.”

A flush spread across your cheeks, and you cupped his face with both hands. “And I’ll always give you more,” you whispered sweetly against his lips.

His smirk altered into something softer as he leaned in to brush his lips against your jaw and trail kisses down your neck. His hips shifted slightly to press more deeply into you, making you both gasp softly at the overstimulation. But this time, there was no rush, just his slow thrusts that spoke of his need to prolong your pleasure.

Your hands slid down to rest on his chest, feeling the faint thrum of his pulse beneath one of your palms. “You’ve ruined me, Astarion,” you claimed. “No one else could ever—”

“Good,” he interjected smoothly, curling his lips into a pleased smile against your skin. “I’d hate to think of anyone else touching what’s mine.”

‎

277 notes · View notes

fangsandfracturedhearts · 9 days ago

Text

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 35: Writ in Flame

Summary: After embracing eternity as a vampire spawn under Astarion's wing, the Crimson Palace becomes a haunting symbol of the man he once was. As his personality unravels into a dark abyss, you flee. A year of hardship unveils the harsh reality of existence as a vampire spawn.

Just as all hope seems lost, a twist of fate reunites you with Astarion, revealing a glimmer of hope amidst the shadows. As you navigate the complexities of your relationship, you must confront the unsettling truth behind the Rite of Profane Ascension and the devilish secrets it holds.

In a race against time, you embark on a daring quest to save Astarion from his descent into darkness. With each choice you make, the stakes grow higher, testing the limits of your courage and determination.

Will Astarion find redemption, or is he destined to succumb to his own inner turmoil?

Word Count: 4k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

Warnings: [Will try to continue to add more, but in general expect explicit content for mature audiences]

Possible spoilers. Eventual Explicit Content. Slow Burn. Thoughts of Suicide. Violence. Blood. Injury. Mature Content. Self-Harm. Mentions of in-game content. Completely fabricated camp events. Mentions of Astarion's Trauma.

If you notice a very critical tag missing, please don't hesitate to let me know

Rating: Explicit 18+ [Meant For Mature Audience]

Astarion’s weight pins you to the mattress, his body still moulded to yours, a perfect echo of the passion that had consumed you. His skin had been warm beneath your hands, slick with sweat, his mouth a ghost upon your lips. Even now, the phantom of his kiss lingers, a whisper-soft thing that does not comfort.

The song is quiet now, no longer a screaming, writhing thing—it hums low in your skull, toothless, harmless. For one beautiful, trembling moment, you believe it is gone.

Your limbs are leaden, steeped in the afterglow of indulgence, of surrender, of something warm instead of cold. You could lie here forever, tangled in him, in this, in the fragile illusion of peace. But then a voice, quiet and insidious, curls through the cracks of your mind like creeping frost.

You burned him.

Your breath stutters and your stomach turns to ice. You burned him.

Your eyes snap open.

He is still there, still pressed against you—but wrong. Blackened. Charred. A brittle husk that clings to the shape of him, delicate as scorched paper. The slithering tendrils of hellfire still linger, pale and whisper-thin, curling over his ribs, his throat, the curve of his cheek where your hand had just been. You know if you move—if you even breathe—he will crumble to dust in your arms.

A strangled sound claws its way up your throat, but you choke it back. Even a sigh could take him from you. You clutch him tighter as if you could will him whole again as if you could force his body to hold together beneath your hands. But his skin—no, not his skin, not anymore—flakes beneath your touch, the first soft embers of him drifting down onto your face.

It does not feel like ash. It feels like perverted dew, like the soft mist of a ruined morning.

His eyes—gods, his eyes.

Once, you had seen them alight with fury, amusement, and love. Crimson so bright it burned. But now, they are dead. Grey. Empty.

Gone.

A broken sob tears from your throat the sound is a death knell, and his body—his body—begins to fall apart in your arms. You do not dare move. You do not dare breathe. But the wind does not need your permission to carry him away, and you, helpless beneath the weight of what you have done, can do nothing but watch.

The moment your mouth opens, his name caught in the raw ache of your throat, he begins to fall apart. The first flakes of him drift down like the remains of burnt parchment, soft and slow, clinging to your lips, lashes, and trembling fingers as if trying to leave some final trace of him behind. There is no warmth in it, no tenderness, no part of him left to hold onto.

You try anyway.

Your hands press against his hollowed ribs, cradling what remains of him, but your touch is ruinous. The moment your fingers tighten, his bones collapse into dust, his form unravelling and slipping through your arms.

Astarion—your Astarion—who had grinned against your skin, who had laughed, loved and lived—is nothing but ash now, his body streaking your skin in shades of grey and loss.

Your breath is shallow, trembling, and you want desperately to believe—need to believe—that this is not real, that he will stir, press his mouth to your temple, and whisper in that lilting voice that could build poems out of syllables that you are being ridiculous.

But the weight of him is gone. The bed is empty.

You are alone.

You do not feel yourself tip forward, do not feel the way your body folds over the pile of ruin left behind. All you know is the taste of ash on your tongue and the unrelenting silence that settles over the space where his voice used to play.

“No.”

Your voice startles you—high, broken, pleading. Your hands claw at the remnants of him, trying to gather him up, trying to pull him back together.

“Please, no.”

The words cry from your lips in a desperate, frantic chant, a prayer with no god to answer. A soul-crushing wail rends through your chest, and your arms shake as you gather what is left of the man you love, trying to hold him in your tremulous hands once more. You cannot feel him in the dust, cannot find him in the blackened remnants that paint your palms. He is slipping from you, scattering into nothing, and there is nothing you can do.

Your vision blurs, throat burning, lungs heaving as you pull in a ragged breath and fucking scream. "Please! Please, stay!”

The words are frantic, the plea wild with grief. You do not care if it is foolish: do not care if it will change nothing.

“I am sorry! I did not mean to—I did not—please, come back!”

The wind does not heed your cries. It only stirs the ashes, sweeping them away from you and, with them, him.

You reach for him anyway; hands outstretched, fingers closing around the empty air where he once was.

But he is gone.

He is gone.

And it is your fault.

It is your last hope, your last card to play, so you play it without regret. “Asmodeus!"

And you are—

—shaken.

Firm, unrelenting hands clutch your shoulders, dragging you from the abyss, pulling you from the darkness that clings to the edges of your mind like oil.

“Illyria.”

The voice is a distant thing at first, muffled beneath the weight of your sobbing cries for the only being that might be able to undo what you’ve done, but then it is there again—clearer, sharper, and urgent.

“Illyria!”

Your eyes jerk open, breath stuttering. The world seems to careen, shifting and tilting. You expect to find yourself in ruin, to find your skin streaked in his ashes remains, but instead, molten ruby eyes, wide and worried, inches from your face.

You are still screaming his name over and over, like you cannot stop. He takes your hand, pressing your palm to his chest. Once you feel the steady thrum and hear the familiar beat, the sound collapses in your throat, unravelling into a sob. You lurch forward and cling to him, to the weight of him, to the unshaken solidity of his body beneath your fingers.

He does not turn to ash. He does not break.

Astarion is alive.

You did not burn him.

Something or someone cackles in your mind. It does not sound like your voice, and it is not the insidious whisper of the song.

There is a cost, sorceress. It reminds you with a menacing bellow of laughter.

You may not have burned Astarion, but you did burn someone, didn’t you? Yes. A creature of this place, some pitiful fool who had dared to raise a hand, to sneer, to think he had any power over you. You barely recall his face, his voice—only the way he screamed so exquisitely as your flames devoured him.

And the way it felt.

Your fingers twitch. A spark dances along the nerves in your hands, but it is not fire. It is something else. A static hum, a phantom pulse, a pressure building in your chest where a heart should beat.

Did you do this? Did you bring the song into yourself, or did it sink its teeth into you the moment you burned that creature to cinders? The memory is fragmented, shattered—pieces out of order, details melting through the cracks. You don’t remember coming back to the inn. You don’t remember walking, speaking, or stripping yourself bare. You don’t remember touching him, pulling him close, or needing him with a desperation that feels foreign now.

All you remember is the fire. It still lingers in your veins, simmering across your nerves, begging to be used. Your fingers dig into Astarion just a little tighter, and in turn, he tightens his hold around you.

It had felt…. Good.

A slow shudder rolls down your spine, shame’s cold fingers curling around your throat. You should not have liked it as much as you do. You should not want to feel it again.

You can still taste it—that intoxicating surge of power. Not just magic slipping free from your grasp in a desperate bid for survival, but a force that felt more like a birthright than a burden. It had filled the hollow places inside you, chasing away the lingering tendrils of fear that have clung to you for so long.

You had not been weak. You had not been running, clawing for survival, waiting for the next cruel twist of fate to crush you beneath its weight.

You had burned.

And you had won.

The thought should disgust you. It does. But it does not stop the ache beneath your ribs, the quiet, insidious longing that tangles itself in the deepest parts of you, whispering its promises.

If you reached for that power again, would you feel it once more? That freedom? That terrible, wonderful strength?

You do not want to be weak anymore, and you do not want to be afraid.

You want—

Astarion shifts in your arms, his fingers tightening in your hair, and the tremor of his touch shatters the thought before it can fully form. “Sweetheart, you are here. I am here.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. You do not want to look at him, do not want him to see whatever war is written across your face.

Because you do not know what frightens you more.

That you burned someone.

Or that a part of you is desperate to do it again.

Astarion's head jerks up so fast that you barely register the movement before his arms tighten around you, his entire body going rigid. His stillness is unnatural, the kind that only comes with something predatory—listening, feeling, knowing. Then, in a flurry of motion, he drags you up with him. The moment your feet hit the floor, his hands leave you, reaching instead for the dagger at his belt, the one he slides between his teeth as he frantically starts to dress.

You do not need to ask what is wrong. The answer is already pressing against your mind, bleeding in through the bond—hunting, footsteps, the slow, inevitable closing of a net. You cannot hear them yet, not like he can, but you feel it through him.

The pursuit. The shapes are moving in the dark—the weight of unseen eyes.

You dress quickly, shoving your arms into your robe and yanking your boots on. Your fingers move fast, almost too fast, as you scoop up everything you have gathered, everything you might need, and shove it into your pack.

Astarion is moving just as swiftly, though there is something wild about him—his motions are sharp, nigh on frantic. His hands shake once as he fastens his belt, a flicker of something barely restrained beneath the urgency.

"We need to move," he hisses, his voice commanding and low. "Now. Before they have us cornered.”

You nod, glancing toward the exit. The streets of Abriymoch are a danger of their own—flooded with devils and infernal creatures, all bound by contracts you cannot predict. But you know what is behind you and would rather take your chances with the unknown.

"We need to get to the Styx," you remark, voice steadier than you feel. "If we can reach Charon, he can get us to Cania."

Astarion is already two steps ahead, pulling the hood of his cloak up and slinging his pack over one shoulder. "We go unseen. If they catch us, we do not fight unless we must. We cannot waste our strength—not here.”

You nod, shifting your hood up. With both of you succumbing to the song’s embrace, an alteration could spell disaster. If you both fall into its arms, will you ever be able to pry yourself from its clutches? Would you even want to?

The space between now and escape is filled with uncertainty, but one thing is clear—if you hesitate, you die. Astarion turns toward the door, fingers hovering over the handle, his breath a quiet, measured thing in the dark. Without a word, he opens it, and you slip into the night.

Astarion guides you through the darkened alleys. The city is alive with the distant sounds of shifting stone and the guttural growls of unseen fiends. You can feel the pursuit in the tautness of his muscles, in the way his head tilts slightly, tracking movements you cannot yet perceive. He halts in a small alcove, pressing you against the jagged obsidian of a ruined wall.

"Hold onto me," he commands, arms outstretched, his voice low but sharp.

You blink at him. "Astarion, I can—"

His frustration ripples through the bond before he cuts you off with a quiet hiss. "Oh, my dear, we truly do not have time for one of our little debates. I am faster, I am quieter, and your stealth is abysmal. Do not look at me like that; you know it is true." His smirk is fleeting, meant to ease the tension even as his crimson eyes remain alert. "Now, unless you wish to be swarmed by devils, do as I say.”

You swallow any further protest, knowing he is right. Reluctantly, you move closer, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as he lifts you effortlessly, holding you against him with one arm as the other remains free to keep his balance. The moment he begins to move, you understand why he insisted. His footfalls are silent, his movements fluid, slipping through the city like a shadow-given form.

The streets are eerily empty. You tighten your hold on him, burying your face against his shoulder as he darts between ruined structures and through half-collapsed corridors, his unnatural grace keeping you just ahead of the unseen hunters. Occasionally, you reach out with your magic, cloaking you both in invisibility when needed, though the strain begins to creep in the longer you hold the spell.

A loose piece of rubble shifts beneath Astarion’s boot, clattering loudly in the oppressive silence.

“Shit,” Astarion curses.

A roar sounds in the distance and the air crackles with infernal energy.

Without hesitation, he moves in a blur, ducking into the remains of a ruined temple and pressing you both into the shadows as guttering torches approach. He angles his body over yours, shielding you as armoured figures pass mere feet from your hiding place. The scent of brimstone fills the air, the temperature rising as they linger, speaking in guttural Infernal.

One of them turns, and Astarion’s grip tightens, a dagger already poised in his free hand. For a moment, you are certain they have found you, and the Weave glows steadily on your fingertips, just concealed inside the sleeve of your robe.

A distant clatter from another alley draws their attention, and with a snarl, they move away, vanishing down the winding streets. Astarion exhales a breath you did not realize he was holding.

He waits a beat longer before shifting, his lips brushing against your temple as he whispers, "We need to keep moving."

The docks stretch before you, the Styx a churning mass of dark, lifeless water lapping at the shore. You think, for the briefest moment, that you have made it, that you have outrun them.

Astarion is already looking at you, his breath shallow from the exertion of the escape. "How do you call Charon?"

"Summon a werewolf and toss it in.”

Astarion's brows knit together in something close to exasperation before he closes his eyes, fingers twitching as if preparing to weave the familiar dark magic. A moment stretches. Then another.

Nothing happens.

He opens his eyes, frowning. "I... I do not remember how to do that."

A hollow sensation spreads through your chest. "What about a bat? A ghoul? Anything?"

He shakes his head once. His lips part as though to protest, to insist he must know, but you can already see it in his face. The struggle, disbelief turned grim.

You stare at him, and for a fleeting moment, there is a quiet sadness that cuts deeper than panic ever could. He has lost something—another piece of himself to the Ascension.

Casting a glance at the crimson tide, you remark, "We need to disturb the water. It will bring him."

You both know the cost. Neither of you can risk touching the Styx, not even a drop. One mistake, and you could forget everything. Your name. His name. Your purpose. Your love. Your mind races, but for a terrible moment, all you find is silence. No solution. No way out. Just the weight of the past hunting you down and the river at your back, uncaring and waiting.

The momentary silence by the river is deceptive. The water of the Styx ripples sluggishly, heavy with ancient memory and oblivion, but behind you, the city still haunts. You hear it in the distant thunder of hooves and the whisper of wings against smoke-thick skies.

And then—movement.

Astarion reacts a second before you do, twisting with inhuman grace as the barbed devil lunges from the shadows. Spines like serrated daggers gleam in the infernal light, its snarling maw split wide in a grotesque, fanged grin. A spined tail whips toward Astarion’s throat, but he’s already moving, daggers flashing as he sidesteps the attack and rakes steel across the devil’s exposed side.

You don’t have time to think. Another shape is descending from above, talons outstretched. You fling a hand up, raw instinct and magic surging together, and the air shimmers as Mirror Image takes hold. Three spectral illusions of Astarion flicker into existence around him, darting in sync with his movements—just in time. The airborne barbed devil crashes down with a snarl, striking through one of the false images, which dissipates in a swirl of mist.

“Web,” Astarion’s voice hums in your mind.

A sweeping gesture, a twist of fingers, and thick, glistening strands erupt from the air around the devils, ensnaring them. One shrieks as its limbs are pinned, struggling against the bindings, but the other tears at the webbing, snarling.

You don’t have long.

Astarion moves in a blur, twin daggers slashing across the throat of the struggling devil. Black ichor spills hot over the docks, and the creature gurgles, falling to its knees before toppling lifelessly. But the second devil has already torn itself free, barbs bristling, and it whips its tail toward you.

You pivot, but not fast enough.

Pain lances through your side, sharp and burning, as the tail rakes across your ribs. Astarion’s fury flashes through your bond—blistering, dangerous. You feel the song in him rise—a discordant, shrieking pitch. His eyes flicker between their usual vivid crimson and then darker, duller, as though the very essence of him is being swallowed.

“Stay with me,” you snap through the bond, forcing clarity into your voice despite the pain. “Do not lose yourself now.”

For a moment, you don’t know if he hears you. His grip on his daggers tightens, his fangs bared in something close to a snarl. Then, just as suddenly, his breath hitches—and the crimson of his eyes brightens again, the song quieting to a controlled hum.

You don’t let the relief slow you down. With a sweep of your arm, you hurl a scorching ray straight at the remaining devil, catching it in the chest. It screeches, blackened flesh splitting as fire sears through it. Astarion takes the opening, lunging forward, daggers flashing in an intricate, deadly dance. He slams one deep into the devil’s throat, wrenching it free with a sickening tear. The creature gurgles, staggers—and finally collapses. For a second, the docks are quiet save for your ragged breaths. Then you hear it.

More hooves. More wings.

They’re coming.

The bodies at your feet reek of sulphur and blood, their barbed flesh still twitching in the aftershocks of death. The fight has left its mark—your arms throb with fresh wounds, and Astarion stands rigid beside you, his daggers slick with black ichor. The bond between you hums, frantic and electric, his tension feeding yours in an endless loop. You are both braced, waiting for more because there will be more.

“We do not have time to linger, darling,” he urges.

You have always known that, but there is only one way forward. You extend a hand, fingers curling in the air, and with a pull of your will, one of the devils’ corpses lifts from the ground. Its limbs dangle, grotesque and useless, its barbed tail swaying like a broken whip.

With a flick of your wrist, you hurl the corpse into the Styx. The moment it touches the water, the surface reacts. The black currents do not simply part; they convulse, surging in unnatural waves. Bubbles rise to the surface, thick and tar-like, bursting with the scent of decay. Something shifts beneath, vast and unseen. The river stirs as though disturbed from a deep, dreamless sleep, but nothing comes.

Astarion steps closer, his fingers twitching like he wants to grab you and pull you away from the edge. His voice brushes against your mind, tense and sharp. "Why is it taking so long?"

You do not know.

The hoofbeats are growing closer, galloping toward you in perfect unison. More than one. More than many. The shadows stretch long as they crest over the ruined buildings. Silhouettes in the gloom—taller, broader than the barbed devils you fought before—hellknights, perhaps, or something worse.

Still, the Styx does not yield.

A low growl of frustration rises in Astarion’s throat. “We cannot fight all of them,” he sends through the bond, his mind a taut wire. “Not like this.”

The sky above darkens with the approaching wings cutting out the dim light of this cursed plane. You feel Astarion shift beside you, his grip adjusting on his daggers, and you know what he is thinking. If they do not stop coming, he will not stop fighting. If he does not stop fighting, he will lose himself. The song in his blood flares, a discordant, keening wail. You clench your jaw and prepare to move, to fight to do anything but stand there waiting for—

A deep, grating sound rumbles through the air, stopping you cold. It is not a roar. Not a growl. Not any sound that should exist in this world or the next. The Styx churns violently, sending a spray of dark water up the dock. The shadows deepen, blacker than black, swallowing the faint light of the plane whole. Then, at last, he emerges.

Charon.

The ferryman stands at the bow of his vessel, a towering, skeletal figure draped in tattered robes blacker than the void. His form is indistinct, as though he does not fully exist in this reality. His scythe gleams at his side, its edge slick with something darker than the Styx itself.

And all at once, the devils halt.

The hooves stop. The wings cease their endless beating. The approaching figures linger at the edges of the dock, wary and uncertain. Even the lesser ones, those who would have thrown themselves at you moments ago, shrink back, their instincts screaming at them to flee.

You swallow hard. The weight of Charon’s presence is unbearable, pressing down on you like the inevitability of death itself.

He does not speak. He does not have to.

You step forward, voice steady despite the way your hands tremble. “We need passage to Cania.”

The ferryman does not move, but you know he is listening. The air grows colder. The devils do not dare come closer. And you wait, praying that the Styx has not already claimed your fate.

“There is a cost.”

Of course there is.

“What do you want?”

He tilts his head, empty sockets peering into you. “A name.”

Astarion stiffens beside you. “You are not seriously considering—”

You ignore him. “Whose?”

The Ferryman does not blink, does not breathe. “Yours to offer.”

Astarion growls, but you speak before he can stop you. “Done.”

The Ferryman extends a bony hand, and you step forward, pressing your palm to his. The cold is immediate, deep, sinking into your bones. Something is taken from you—a tether to someone, somewhere, unravelling. You do not know who it was, only that they are lost to you now.

The Ferryman gestures to the boat. “Board.”

You do not hesitate.

Astarion is tense as he helps you onto the vessel. The moment you are both aboard, Charon pushes away from the dock. The devils do not follow. They merely watch as you drift into the darkness, their eyes smouldering with unspent wrath.

The journey is quiet, save for the creak of the old boat as it wades through the waters of the Styx. Sometimes, bubbles rise to the surface, forming shapes—skeletal heads, reaching hands. The wind carries mournful wails and whispers of the lost. You sit beside Astarion, exhaling shakily. His hands find yours, and for a moment, you simply exist in the fragile silence, feeling the weight of what you have done, of what is to come.

“Are you alright?” he asks, his voice softer than expected.

You nod, but he is not convinced. He scans you for wounds, fingers ghosting over torn fabric and bruised skin. You do the same for him, but he brushes your hands away, eyes narrowed at a cut on your arm that still seeps crimson.

“You are hurt.”

“So are you.”

He huffs. “Mine are inconsequential.”

You let him fuss, knowing it soothes him in a way. Then, when the silence stretches too long, you murmur, “Thank you.”

“For?”

“For not losing yourself.”

Astarion’s expression darkens. He looks away, staring into the abyss that surrounds you. “It was close.”

If he had lost control, if he had become that other version of himself, you would not be sitting here now. When you face the archdevil—

You shove the thought aside—problems for another day. The Styx stirs, and your gaze drifts across the shifting waters, the way they swallow all they touch, and unease curls in your gut.

Astarion speaks again; voice edged with something sharper than before. “Why were you screaming Asmodeus’s name?”

Your breath stills and your fingers twitch. You hadn’t realized you had been saying it out loud.

You try to deflect. “It was nothing.”

His eyes narrow. “No, it was not nothing.”

You turn your gaze away, but he leans in, refusing to let it go. “What are you not telling me?”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things.

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

If you're interested I write another fic with Spawn Astarion x Tav called - Shadows of the Past

My A03 where you can find more of my works, including this one.

Small Notes:

Special thank you to @alyssac9 for proofreading!

Sorry for the wait! Life has been lifing.

32 notes · View notes