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1000punks · 9 months ago

Text

bonding. ¹¹//melting

bonding. //masterlist

pairing: spawn!Astarion x named!Tav (non-binary OC)

warnings: 18+. nsft. mdni. self-harm, graphic violence, canon-typical manipulation, gaslighting, bondage, non-con, dub-con, r-pe, (past) abusive relationship.

word count: 7,693

summary: two gays remodel a house domestic fluff and some character background building, set in post-game baldur's gate. two people who are weird and traumatized work on their relationship and reclaim their sexuality through a shared kink. lots of gooey romantic smut while these two slowly figure out their future together.

named!Tav is my non-binary tiefling ranger, Festé. i was seeing far too few fics with tiefling!Tav and i thought it was crucial, nay, critical to include them in the headcanons. i hope you all enjoy! ♡

header credit: in-game capture by me, uwu

They had always preferred sharpening their weapons by hand. The act was mundane to them, more focused and relaxing than using a whetstone wheel. Lae'zel had always chastised them in her unsubtle way about it during their travels together. Festé had always smiled, heard her out, and politely declined, opting to sit in front of the fire some nights after dinner, sharpening their swords painstakingly. Eventually, Lae'zel had studied them enough to comment positively on their commitment to their craft; and sometimes, she had even joined them at the campfire, making small talk. Most of those times, though, a comfortable silence settled between the two colleagues.

They had always preferred it, and beyond that, they preferred having beautiful scenery all around them. In this case, they had set a small stool under the eaves near the back door of the townhouse; and looked out into the bay every so often. The rain and mist swirling above the surface of the water was every bit as calming as their work. It allowed them to sit and think while their hands were occupied. Astarion was sleeping indoors, or resting. He had been more prone to fatigue as the weather changed, and cited a "Feline nature, darling." The tiefling had smiled warmly, tucking him into bed with a slow kiss, a hot water bottle, and a crackling fire in the hearth, in their own absence. It was still hours before dawn, so they had set out their stool again and began to work by lamplight.

When their thoughts strayed to their elf, their grip on the whetstone block became suddenly loose. As if on cue, they slipped, opening a shallow slice in their palm. "Damn it," the imp muttered, setting the block down for the moment on their thigh and raising their hand above their head in front of them, at least attempting to stem the trickle of blood. It flowed effortlessly down their forearm, and they looked up at their hand, judging the depth with practiced accuracy. They hummed and wiggled their fingers. Definitely not deep enough to be serious. A chuckle came from deep in their chest, relishing the soothing temperature of the wind and the spray of the mist against their face. Finally, they let out a full-bodied laugh into the wind when it blew their unruly hair back. Always, now, they were able to see the brighter side, and they took in the small moments like this one as easily as their lungs took in air.

Their laughter tapered off as they leaned forward, letting the rain rinse their hand. Pain like this was so secondary; and life hadn't always been this good. Their eyes closed, and they could smell the smoke of the crashed nautiloid ship, feel the scorching sun on the back of their neck. The tiefling had just turned their back on the pale elf. Before they could react, he had them on the ground with a dagger pressed to their throat. Internally, they had scoffed -- it wasn't the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last time, they had imagined. Easily, they pushed him away, getting to their feet and calmly dusting off. Astarion, once he introduced himself, had looked affronted at their nonplussed attitude. Well, at least they had his name. Now they knew what subject it was they were given to study. He agreed to join them, and the tiefling kept a close watch on him afterwards.

Festé had wondered if Astarion knew how obvious he had been at the time. They observed him quietly sneaking out of camp nearly every night of that first week, even when he had checked to make sure that all of his companions were asleep. The night before the party had come across the bloodless, dead boar, they had sat up fully in their bedroll, watching the elf's back while he stalked into the treeline. The next day, they shot him a sidelong glance of consternation when he loudly explained away the boar's corpse. Did he not realize that he camped next to a ranger every night? They had not only seen vampires before, but were often in league with them, having hunted one as part of their very first mercenary gig. Of course, they had thought, laying their gaze back on the boar, he didn't know that. At the very least, however, any ranger worth their salt could recognize two clean puncture wounds at the throat and a bloodless corpse. Festé decided he was a very strange man, indeed; but also a fascinating subject to study.

Festé's gaze turned to the bay, watching the crests of waves that the wind was starting to whip up. They had never understood exactly why Astarion had picked them to try to feed from that first time. They had theories, of course: he was starving. He saw them as the leader, and maybe he wanted to assert his dominance. He saw them as a threat. He saw them as an easy target, because of their more or less established kindness to everyone on their travels thus far. In the present, they thought that the most likely explanation had been that he was seeking to establish some control where he felt he had none; and they decided that they couldn't fault him for that.

His panic and confusion that night had been palatable, regardless. They had never admitted it to him, but they had been tracking his movements from the moment they heard him stir from across the span of the firepit. When they felt him bend at their side, Festé decided it was time to open their eyes; and they watched his widen significantly. They kept their silence as he backed away from them, starting to stammer out an explanation. The tiefling's gaze had been steady, and they crossed their arms. They knew they had the upper hand, as they had taken up the habit long ago of sleeping with a knife in their boot, and one under their pillow.

"I'm just too slow right now. Too weak," he had murmured, trying to keep his tone even, presumably to not wake the others. "If I just had a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please." Festé had considered it for less than a heartbeat, and their reply was confident, but cool.

"Why didn't you tell me?" It had been a question that puzzled them for days, mostly because the situation was obvious to anyone who cared to look.

"At best, I was sure you'd say no." They cocked their head to the side. Was that the impression they had left on him after seeing them agree to help their kin at the Grove? "More likely, you'd ram a stake through my ribs." Wrong again, nobody had paid them to hunt a vampire, after all. And, up until now, he hadn't done anything outwardly alarming. They watched his brow furrow slightly, mirroring the expression but dropping their hands to their sides. One sudden move, they thought, and it was going to end badly. He clearly wasn't telling them everything, at best, and they were intimately familiar with his brand of manipulation. The next thing he said piqued their curiosity, all the same; deciding in the moment that they would test him.

"No, I needed you to trust me. And you can trust me." Astarion's tone had shifted to something more sultry, as he slipped back into his façade. Doubtful, they wanted to scoff, but held their tongue, thinking of their companions. Festé couldn't knowingly leave him to feed on one of them, could they?

"I do. I believe you." Their voice was as unwavering as their gaze, and they suppressed a grin at the surprise in the elf's eyes.

"Thank you," he sounded unsure again. "Do you think you could trust me just a little further? I only need a taste, I swear." Right into the palm of their hand. It was never wise to give someone leverage over you, if you could help it. They couldn't hide the barest hint of a smile at figuring out Astarion's game, and decided they were comfortable to push just a little more.

"Fine. But not a drop more than you need." The tiefling had felt smug when he invited them to lay back, but they hadn't - and they suspected the elf hadn't, either - expected what happened next. Astarion's fangs pierced their neck, and even the initial pain had been pleasurable. Even more so as Festé felt Astarion's body tense up as it brushed against their own. They were vaguely aware of his breathing, and theirs hitched in a near-silent response. Then in their peripherals, framed by the firelight, they saw his fingers dig into the soft earth. Oh, this… was altogether more amusing than the last time a man had dared to stab them. They shamelessly adjusted their body beneath his, finding the comfort where they could in the somewhat forced intimacy. Still… they raised their hand, finding the front of his shirt deftly.

"That's… enough," they sighed deeply. Moments later, when they had sat back down on their bedroll and watched him walk away into the night, was when they finally considered the thought that nagged at the back of their mind. He had still gotten exactly what he wanted. Festé had lain awake for a long time that night, thinking it over as they watched the fire. Even when Astarion had eventually made his way back into camp, they had simply closed their eyes until they knew he was stretched out and resting. They took a deep breath, and reached out; grabbing one of the burning logs and letting the sizzling pain ground them into their own restful state.

They had probably overcompensated: over the next weeks, Festé repressed their emotions in favour of studying Astarion's. Every morning after they braided and tied their hair up, and after everyone had eaten breakfast together, they had calmly made their way over to the elf's tent. Every morning, they offered their neck to him again; and every evening, he made his way to them, partaking in the offer. They studied his reaction every time, cataloguing each. Slowly, they made note of his tells. His smirk was practiced, but the way his gaze fell away from their own betrayed his confusion and hinted at something more complex brewing beneath the surface. Days went by, but the ranger caught each movement, expression, breath, vocal pattern, and gesture that was uncharacteristic to Astarion's façade. In return, he opened up, albeit gradually, about the Gur, Cazador, and his life before he was kidnapped; and Festé had taken each piece of the puzzle in stride. They were still wary when he propositioned them, though, given the history that he had shared.

Festé had taken him up on his offer, and while the first encounter had been amicable enough overall, they couldn't help but think about the hushed whispers they had heard as they entered the clearing. As Astarion emerged from the trees, the pieces fell into place. His smirk was carefully practiced, and his bare shoulders were set in a way that revealed decades of precise composure. Beyond that, Festé observed the way that his forehead creased, as if the pale elf were fighting some physical reaction. Their scent? No - they looked deeper. His eyes looked blank and glassy, distant. He had mentioned briefly that Cazador would send him into the city to hunt, so they had to assume that he was as familiar with the art of seduction as they were. What a pitiable fate the two had shared, to have gone through such a similar chain of events. The tiefling supposed that, whatever the elf's reasoning for choosing to sleep with them now, they would do their best to not be judgemental. As well, they would try to make it a somewhat pleasant experience.

When he mentioned that he had been waiting to have them, they narrowed their eyes. His smile was slightly pinched, and a line formed between his eyebrows. Astarion didn't really want to do this, did he? Not this way. They smiled though, relenting. He could make his own choices, and he was making this one for a reason. Festé couldn't help but be interested in what reason it was, especially when the elf spoke up once again.

"That's what you want, isn't it? To lose yourself in me?" The line had sent them reeling, especially paired with the defeated look on his face. Festé was struck dumb for the briefest moment, remembering the occasions when they had said something eerily similar. It only bolstered their resolve, and they nodded firmly to Astarion's question. "I thought so," he had whispered, and smiled sadly.

The tiefling had been abnormally shy about undressing in front of him, even given the fact that most of the companions had already seen each other in various states of indecency. They had all bathed in the same river, after all. When his lips touched theirs, they were surprised to find how cold they were. They found themself leaning against him when his arms circled their waist, and enjoying the chills that went up their abdomen and chest. When he unceremoniously pushed them to their back on the forest floor, Festé felt their stomach turn over in an oddly comforting way. Astarion's eyes met their own briefly, and they lifted their chin in a half-nod before his lips sought their neck. This was it, surely? One hand found his shoulder, while the other was splayed among the leaves. This was it, they closed their eyes and sighed out as he fed. It had truly been a power-play. To what end, though? He pulled back from their neck, sighing harshly and shaking his head a bit.

Festé had leaned up on their elbows slightly, looking up into his eyes, which had once again gone glassy. Nevertheless, Astarion seemed to persist with the encounter; though, his movements were decidedly stiffer and more disciplined as the night went on. After they had spoken, somewhat awkwardly, the next morning, he didn't seek out their company for several days. Festé felt cold, oddly enough. They weren't usually emotional when it came to sex, but this had been an especially perplexing encounter. The air seemed to have changed between themself and the elf, yet they still offered him their neck every night without fail. Just as a kicked dog went back to their master. It was simply transactional, there was no deeper meaning than that. At least, that's what they told themself at the time. Festé was always perfectly polite about their silent deal, and made light conversation with Astarion at the mouth of his tent each morning and night. Over time, they found themself wanting to linger near him a little longer. They caught him, more than once, shooting them confused glances, and would smile to themself. He didn't want them, but they would content themself with being his friend.

Festé thought that they had him figured out, but he caught their sleeve one night in his fingertips, pulling them away from camp. The elf's tone was almost too airy, until the point where he confessed his feelings for them. They hid their reaction to the barb fairly easily, since it was clear that Astarion had never been in a situation like this before. They flinched imperceptibly when he called them a 'complication,' but supposed that he didn't have any other language to describe his feelings. The tiefling infringed on his personal space cautiously, weighing each step while they looked into the proverbial lion's mouth; and they threw their arms around him with a hoarse sigh. When he stiffened, the tiefling imagined that he would violently shove them away. He didn't. Slowly, his arms curled around them in return, and he lay his forehead on their shoulder. They pulled away slowly after a moment, and he eventually offered his hand to hold. They stood together for a long moment, and Festé felt, for the first time, that Astarion was studying them as intently as they were studying him. He spoke up after a moment, and told them that he didn't want to sleep with one another for the time being.

"I don't, either," they admitted calmly. Truth be told, they were probably as uncomfortable with the prospect as he seemed to be. The tiefling had never had a storybook romance - not that they craved that narrative, specifically - they had only ale-soaked memories and one-night-stands that they would rather forget. It had been a long time since someone afforded them the basic respect of wanting something 'real.' If Astarion wanted to give it an honest try, they would do it with him. Together. They judged his reaction, one of quiet surprise, and he had nodded. The first genuine smile they had seen from him slowly crept over his features, and they returned it.

It wasn't until later, when Festé rose from their bedroll fitfully and walked off out of camp, that the gravity of the situation hit them. The others were asleep, and they dared not stray too far out of the light of the lanterns, so they planted themself on one of the jutting roots. The tiefling curled around themself and began to cry, silently. How could they dream of being vulnerable with someone after what happened last time? The entire night, they were tormented by the spectres of their own past.

Once upon a time, they told themself as they set down the dagger they were sharpening and took up another, there was a talented young thief. A talented young thief that should have never been in the business in the first place. A talented young thief, they smiled grimly into the darkness, hearing a different voice in their head than their own; and feeling it nauseate their stomach. Even after all these years, and several layers of earth between them and his memory.

Not long after their parents' passing, Festé was looking for work. They travelled south from Baldur's Gate for a time, and found what they were looking for in a small Guild in Amn. They hadn't been lying when they told Astarion about the interrogation. The tiefling had all but waltzed into the headquarters, green and only seventeen summers old, and the Guildmaster had his underlings tie them up while he chastised them. Festé was cocky, and said they could slip the knots in under two minutes. They had shifted in their seat, spreading their legs subtly, and the Guildmaster had leered at them openly with a scoff of annoyance.

"Fine. Slip them before I lose my patience, and I'll consider letting you run a job," he laughed. The imp joined in, holding their hands up as he opened his mouth to continue. Then three of the other Guild members jumped on him when he drew the longest dagger that Festé had ever seen and started towards them. They were in, that much was sure.

The man, a tall half-elf, had later introduced himself as Caeusan. He told Festé in no uncertain terms that because they stuck out like a sore thumb in a city full of humans, they would be doing grunt work. "And you can expect," he sneered, "To be treated like the hellspawn that you are." The tiefling was unfazed, and grinned at him. He had a temper, presumably because he was just as bottom-of-the-barrel as they were. They wondered off-hand how many times he had been reminded of that very thing when he threw a simple set of leather armour at them over his desk. In a matter of months, he would be the one bending them over that desk and taking them roughly.

They had lost count, over the years, of how many times it had been, but they had memorized the pattern of the rough wood grain, and could still smell the oiled surface. Caeusan decided that their innate talent needed to be rewarded when they brought him home bags of gold; and punished them when they returned empty-handed. As such, they made him, and the Guild, a lot of money those first few years. Sometimes nights with the half-elf had been genuinely good. He trained them to be a better thief, and they spent a lot of time in his office learning dagger tricks. He took them under their wing as a teacher would with a young acolyte, and he could be tender and caring when he tried.

One night, shortly before their twentieth summer began, he had taken them to his bed. Festé had gotten into a scrap that evening with a mark and had escaped, only narrowly fulfilling the contract. However, it was not before the mark had sunk a morningstar into their upper chest. The tiefling's collarbone was broken cleanly in two, and their shoulder had been dislocated. The latter had been an easy fix, Caeusan had popped it back in himself, then forced them to suck laudanum off his fingers. They watched his eyes the entire time, shifting their arm in its sling when the pain subsided gradually and letting out a sigh of relief. The half-elf caressed their cheek before undressing them, then himself. He made love to them that night, slowly and rather tenderly. The two fell asleep, side by side, and he had held them until morning. The behaviour repeated for weeks on end as the tiefling healed, not only sex, but sharing a bed. It had gotten to the point where Caeusan could simply lay his palm against their back, and they would be wanting for more. The iciness that had initially characterized their relationship was slowly melting away.

"I want you to remember, Festé," he would breathe into their ear in the darkness, "That you are a special one. You are a talented young thief, and you'll have the realm on its back if you stay by my side." Slowly, he would roll his hips to theirs, chuckling deeply when it would force breathless moans from their chest. One night, they finally had the courage to answer him. It hadn't been unlike others; he was chasing his pleasure between their thighs, and caging him on the bed with his body.

"Why… do you always say those things, Caeusan? Do you want me by your side, truly?" They rested a hand on his chest when he kneeled above them. His dark hair was tousled, and his forehead was slick with sweat. He had glanced down at their hand, considering their gentle touch with a devious smirk.

"Because you're my secret weapon, lover. And I intend to make use of you." It was the closest thing to a compliment that Festé had heard from him. At the time, they hadn't realized just how true his words would become.

The next time that Caeusan had given them a job, they were stunned, and had expressed as much, in their way. "You cannot be serious," they murmured to him, leaning back in the chair with their hand over their eyes. The half-elf leaned across the desk, his bark of a laugh ringing out in the small room.

"Oh, but I am. This is the way to get the target to talk. He needs a… soft touch, if you will." He stood, walking around the desk and pulling their hand down by their wrist. "And you have two choices, as always. Do the job, or…"

"Or get out," Festé sighed, and it earned them a soft caress on their cheek.

"That's right, my beloved pet. Run along, and don't come home if you can't bring yourself to spread your legs. We do have our coffers to think of."

It went on for so long that it became their specialty, and they eventually gained a reputation not unlike that of a black widow. Caeusan paraded them happily, because it was the most gold that the Guild had seen in years. Festé came to see it as second nature, as a simple routine to follow; and they kept their mouth shut. They had the sense to recognize when they were well-fed.

There was one night that stuck out to them in particular from those days, not because the target was especially memorable, but because of what happened when they reached Caeusan's quarters afterwards. The target had been a rather dashing middle-aged human, and Festé had found that when he touched them, it was more out of care than a need to quell his own physical desire. He had even taken a long foray between their legs; licking over them sweetly instead of fucking them raw and unprepared, as many of their marks had been wont to do. The tiefling had found real moans escaping from their throat alongside the carefully rehearsed ones. A sudden tug behind their navel had pulled them under a wave of ecstasy, and they felt the man chuckle against their thigh before sitting up and wiping his lips slowly with the back of his hand.

"First time?" he had murmured. "You darling little thing, I'll make sure to be gentle." And he was. For the first time in four years, Festé knew pleasure as would befit a lover, not simply a plaything. He had kissed them slowly as he had slipped inside them, and been notably delicate when pulling their legs around his waist and resting his weight on top of them. The feelings of warmth, though foreign, had stuck with them until the moment they entered Caeusan's office at the end of that week. He had asked them about the job, not even looking up from the letter he was penning, and Festé had blurted out the truth.

"It was… pleasant. He seemed to be a very tender man. He made me��" they dropped the bag of gold on the desk absently, and the half-elf looked up, his eyebrows drawn together.

"He made you what, pet?" Caeusan murmured, laying down his quill.

"He… He finished me off, I suppose is the term. I didn't realize that things could feel… that way." They remembered tilting their head at him, how confused they had been when they continued. "When you and I fuck, it doesn't feel like that. Why not?" There was a beat of silence between the two, and, well… Caeusan had lost his temper. He hadn't even bothered with the desk that time, instead favouring a position where he could grind the tiefling's cheek against the rough stone floor, their wrists pinned behind their back in his other hand. Initially, they had struggled, but found it was less painful to submit. The half-elf was stronger than he appeared, and had more weight on them. He withdrew when he was finished, leaving Festé on the ground, their chest heaving with muffled sobs.

"Come now, pet. Don't you want your question answered? Sit up." Caeusan hissed, and they gingerly did as they were told. He reached down and grabbed the front of their shirt, wrenching them halfway off the ground to face him. "It's because you don't deserve it. You're a weapon. A means to an end. No more important to me than a common tavern whore." He let them go, and they fell hard against the cobbles, catching themself on their elbows and looking up at him. "You've only ever been worth the gold you bring me; and the somewhat satisfying heat of your cunt. I am not here," he paused, pressing the toe of his boot firmly between their thighs. A threat. "To coddle you. Clean up, and get out of my sight." With that, he had stormed from the room, leaving Festé frozen for several moments before they blinked, their gaze catching on the hearth in the corner. They all but crawled across the room, kneeling there and hesitantly raising a hand, before bringing it down on top of one of the flame-licked logs and stifling a scream of agony. They held it for several moments, focusing on the way their palm crackled and started to blister from the heat. It had an almost sedative effect on them. Panting, they dropped the log and left the room in silence.

Over the next month, they had tried to push the encounter from their mind. One night, while out in the city, they paused in the street as people hurried all around them, looking up at the moon. Festé sighed, taking in the simple beauty, smiling at the fullness, and how the light drowned out the stars. They sighed out and continued along the street, finding a tavern room for the night. Caeusan's temper hadn't gotten any better recently, especially since they avoided sharing his bed. They had decided they would rather use their cut from a job to pay for a room than have to deal with him for the time being.

The morning brought a wave of nausea so strong it had wrenched them from sleep and the inn's threadbare blankets alike. After emptying the contents of their stomach into the room's single chamber pot, they sat splay-legged on the floor. The tiefling was lost, they didn't tend to have a weak stomach, and had only ever thrown up when they were very ill. Maybe something they ate had been poisoned? They closed their eyes, retracing their steps the previous night. They had finished a short job, mainly entertaining a low-ranking noble, and he had fallen asleep before they could make it to bed together. Festé had left, taking supper in the form of stew at the inn… Wait. They had left, and stopped to look up at the moon before reaching the inn. Their eyes snapped open. The full moon, their blood had always come by the full moon. "Shit," they hissed, resting their hand on their roiling stomach. The nausea was beginning to ebb away as they looked down. Their thoughts strayed to their mother for a moment, and her insistent warnings to always consume nararoot before joining with a man. Festé had always done so, often brewing a tea or chewing the root itself before departing for a job. The only time they had been caught off-guard was very recently.

"Why now?" The tiefling sighed, resting their head back against the edge of the bed; and sat for a long time, closing their eyes. Caeusan wouldn't want to keep it, for Hells' sake. Maybe he could tell them where to find a healer, at least. They got up gingerly, considering the alternative briefly before pushing the idea from their mind altogether. They made their way back to the Guild, feeling as if they were floating above their own body the entire time. Once there, they knocked at Caeusan's door, entering when they heard him grunt from within.

"So, the prodigal thief returns, hmm?" he murmured, rising from his chair and crossing the room to take their face in his hands. They flinched as he raised his arms, and he tutted at them, giving them a condescending smirk. "Oh, calm now, little pet. You know that your mentor would never dream of harming you." Festé's skin prickled as he spoke, and their breath seemed to die in their throat, choking them.

"I… Caeusan," they rasped, "I need your help, I'm…"

"What is it?" he purred.

"I need to find a healer. I need something… taken care of." The tiefling squirmed in his grip.

"Why is it my concern, then?" the half-elf arched one eyebrow at them.

"Caeusan, I'm… I'm with child. It's yours." They closed their eyes, bracing for impact, but it didn't come. Instead, the half-elf hummed, before laughing out loud. He pet their cheek, and when his eyes met theirs, they were steely and cold.

"You don't want to carry my child, Festé?" he mock-pouted. "Why not? You would look simply precious with a swollen belly."

"I don't want a child at all," they whispered, and he turned them around in his arms, pulling them so that their back met his chest. He began to kiss slowly over their neck, locking one arm over their chest. His touch was almost comforting, and the tiefling relaxed minutely.

"Very well. I'll grant your wish, pet." His tone was velvet against their neck, and distracting. So much so, that they only noticed the dagger when the firelight glinted off the blade in the corner of their eye. There was only searing pain after that, and the tiefling collapsed forwards on their hands and knees, gasping and heaving. They were too surprised to even scream, dazedly bringing one hand to the hilt of the weapon. "I hope you meant exactly what you said, though. Do you understand how much of a liability you've just become for me? I ought to…"

The rest of Caeusan's words were drowned out by the blood rushing in Festé's ears, and the pain momentarily drained away. Something in their mind snapped, then. They straightened up slightly, resting on their knees. Their movements were mechanical, working the dagger free, ready to apply pressure with their free hand once it was. Something feral entered them, and they were on their feet in a split second, boots sure on the rough stone as they turned. Time seemed to stand still as they let out a bloodcurdling scream of fury, thrusting the dagger upward. They only needed one good shot, they thought; and to their satisfaction, their aim was true between Caeusan's jawbones. Festé's eyes were wide, a snarl ripping from their chest as they watched the blade peek up through his tongue, sinking through his hard palate with a crunch. They bared their teeth, continuing to scream in his face unintelligibly as he started to choke on his own blood. They pushed the hilt up firmly, drawing on strength they didn't know they had, until the dagger was fully buried in the half-elf's head. His hands came up, closing weakly around their neck. They screamed until their ears began to ring and their throat ran hoarse. Panting, Festé pulled the dagger out of its new sheath, and Caeusan's body went down, twitching. He was drawing breath in short, gurgling gasps. They stood over him, silencing him with one strike of their boot.

Their own hysterical laughter filled their ears when they began to dart around the room, slipping all of the bags of gold and valuables they lay eyes on into their empty shoulder bag. A small penance for the abuse they had been put through at his hands. After that, they ran. Festé ran out of the Guild, surprised by the energy coursing through their limbs. Their hand was still tight against their abdomen, and their breath was coming ragged. Hadn't there been a temple nearby? Their mind gradually became foggy, and they groaned, feeling blood leak from between their fingers. The imp stopped, revolving slowly on the spot in the city's square, and hummed through their teeth when they found their mark. They began to stagger in the direction of the modestly-sized building, collapsing against the door after a matter of moments and sinking down, losing their footing in the process. The final reserve of their strength went to their right hand, lifting it shakily and pounding on the wood with the butt of the dagger. It opened after a moment, and they collapsed again into the front room.

"Help… me…" the tiefling gritted out, before the darkness closed in on them.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Festé didn't know how long they were under, but each time they came to, they were only aware of their right hand clutching the dagger tightly.

"…lost so much blood already!" one voice hissed out of the darkness.

"Their insides are mangled, Ilmater save them…" Festé drew a wracking breath, vaguely aware of their armour being cut open and removed, along with their shirt. Their vision was double, and they sank under again when the pain peaked.

They blinked their eyes open again, this time a spoon was at their lips, and they felt an arm curled around their back, holding them upright. The air felt chilly on their bare chest as they sipped. The liquid tasted like warm mead, and the tiefling began to drink greedily. Their head lolled back as they passed out again, and the arm lay them back down. Somewhere in the dark, gentle hands were beckoning to them. When two familiar faces swam into view, Festé shrank back from them, crying out. It couldn't be real, they had to be having a fever dream.

"Hold on." An assertive voice. Festé's mother.

"Wake up, my child." A soothing, rich voice. Festé's father. Then they were alone in the darkness again. Their breathing evened out to something deep and calm, and they slept.

An indeterminate amount of time later, they awoke, stirring gingerly and looking around. They were resting on a stone dais, and their stomach was bandaged with clean linen, they could tell by the way it caught on their fingertips. The dagger was still clenched in their right hand, covered in dried blood. Festé tried to sit up, and groaned.

"I wouldn't move, child." They turned their head to the left, laying eyes on a wizened human woman, presumably a cleric, who smiled warmly at them. "You're quite the fighter, aren't you, little imp? You lashed out when we tried to take that from you." She inclined her chin toward the dagger. "I like having both of my eyes, so I ordered the acolytes to leave it be. Now," she got up from her seat, an unassuming wooden chair, "Tell me your name, and I will ask my god to lay a blessing on you so that you may leave."

"Festé…" they coughed. Their throat felt as if it were coated with sand.

"Festé. What a beautiful name, child." She started forward, resting her hand on the linen, and her eyes glowed. The woman never broke eye contact, and the tiefling was momentarily transfixed. A dry heat seemed to melt down their body from the crown of their head, and they began to weep in relief. The woman helped them sit up and held them, and Festé dropped the dagger at their side, clinging to her by her robes.

"Thank you, gods. Thank you for helping me…" they trailed off, they hadn't been given her name.

"Sarius. You'll need my name if you're to come visit again, dear. As for thanking me, I need you to know that…" Sarius drew them away, looking into their eyes once more. "As you have healed, there has been a significant amount of damage. It is unlikely that you will ever have children."

Festé nodded slowly. "How unlikely?" they whispered.

"You're barren, child. My colleagues and I did what we could, but…"

They cut her off, laying a hand on her shoulder. "It's okay. I understand, and I appreciate everything you've done for me."

It was still several days before Festé had bid Sarius goodbye. While resting, they had a long time to think. They had stayed at the temple for three weeks, and their twenty-second summer was nearing. Their things were packed neatly in a large backpack, and Sarius had given them a tent and a bedroll. The valuables and gold they had taken from Caeusan were stowed for travel. Their plan was to make the journey back north to Baldur's Gate after resupplying in Athkatla. Beyond that, Festé had no idea what was supposed to come next. They had grown tired of the ways in which people were cruel to one another. Sarius had talked with them about it, and suggested living off the land for a while, Maybe, they thought. Something was missing, though.

They crossed the room - a room that Sarius had put them up in, with a simple bed - to take in their reflection in the mirror. Suddenly, the tiefling laughed, drawing their long hair into a bunch with one hand, and drawing the dagger - their dagger, now - with the other. One slick of the blade, and they brought their fist down, smiling fondly at it. A fresh start.

They had done the same, the night after Astarion had confessed. He had smiled at the change, and told them that they looked dashing while winding his fingers into their hair. Thus began a new kind of intimacy for the both of them, one that was relatively innocent.

Festé remembered the conversations the two had about boundaries adoringly. They had felt as anxious as Astarion had looked, but eventually the two worked it out.

"Are you still comfortable with me feeding on you, darling?" His voice was quiet against their shoulder, playing with their fingers as the two lay in his tent. It was their final night in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Festé opened their eyes, chuckling a bit and pressing their fingers between his gently.

"Of course I am. But you don't have to do it while I'm unconscious anymore. I'm not some sleeping princess." There was silence for a moment, then the elf had burst into laughter. It was genuine, and had warmed the tiefling's heart. "What?" they chuckled. "You're a hunter too, I'm sure you appreciate live prey." He only laughed harder at that, pressing his face into their neck to muffle the sound.

"That's a relief," Astarion murmured when he caught his breath. Festé glanced down, only to see a single red eye peeking up at them.

"Good. Are you okay with me sleeping with you in your tent, or would you prefer if I didn't?" The elf had lifted his head slowly, chewing his lip as he considered it. He opened his mouth, closing it again and tilting his head.

"I think… that I would like to try that. I've… I've never done that before, I'll confess." He looked sheepish, smirking at them.

"I haven't done much of it either, to be honest." Festé smiled reassuringly.

"Am I supposed to…" he shook his head a bit. "Am I allowed to, rather. Am I allowed to hold you?" he whispered. They had noted the concern in his tone, and chose their words carefully.

"You're allowed to, yes. But you're not required to. Does that sound fair, Star?" They had no time to react before the elf threw his arm and leg over them.

"Giving me pet names already, darling?" Astarion had tutted at them. "You must really be smitten, mustn't you?" They watched him hesitate for a moment, and wondered what he was thinking. He leaned over, planting a soft kiss to their cheek. "May I… Hmm." He pulled away from them. "Do you trust me, darling?"

"I do," Festé said simply. They wanted to; if he had wanted to hurt them, he would have already. The elf nodded, and gently guided the tiefling to lay on their stomach before he straddled their hips. They felt his weight shift as he leaned forward. What was he doing? Their heart started to pound when one of his hands pushed into their hair, brushing it aside. He paused, resting his hand above their shoulder on the bedroll. Festé shivered when his lips brushed over their skin, and they felt him inhale slowly.

"You smell…" Gingerly, he rested most of his weight on top of them. "Intoxicating, love. I must say it's rather distracting, especially in such close quarters."

"Pinned on my stomach in your one-man tent does count as close quarters, I suppose," Festé sighed out, relaxing under his touch.

"Indeed, and I suppose you wouldn't mind it if I…" he trailed off, his voice husky against their shoulder. That was all it took, Festé thought. Each of their interactions was to be a trust fall from now on. When they nodded and rested their head on their crossed arms, Astarion held them as a lover would, pressing his fangs into their neck. Somehow, the objectively violent act melted all of the tension and confusion away.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

To any outside observer, Festé mused, their relationship with Astarion might look the same as their relationship with Caeusan had been. A relationship in which one party gave all they had; and the other took, greedily and relentlessly. Festé didn't see it that way, they intimately knew the difference between danger and safety now. Blood had been shed, of course, but never without their consent. Both of them had chosen this, and each other. Not for survival, not for fear of disobedience, and certainly not because either of them were obligated.

Festé watched the tides change, a smile growing on their face when they saw the first rays of sun stretch over the horizon. The imp rose from their stool slowly, stretching along with it. They so desperately wanted to greet a future sunrise with Astarion. Together. With a deep sigh, they crouched to gather the weapons they had finished sharpening, and stole into the house to put them away. They were halfway to the bathroom to clean their palm wound when Astarion called out to them softly.

"Darling, did you stay out all night? Honestly…" they laughed, soaping up their hand and ignoring the twinge of pain it brought. There was a moment of silence, and they assumed he was sniffing the air. "You cut yourself again? Gods below, You…" he fell silent when they came through the doorway, if only for a moment. "You're hopeless."

"You love me regardless," the imp smiled warmly at him. They glanced down at the hearth for a moment, the happy flames dancing around the last of the logs. Once, they would have been drawn to the pain those flames offered.

"I do, my dear. Come here," he whispered, "I missed you."

They turned back to him, tears welling in their eyes, though they still smiled. Things were different now. They didn't want to hurt anymore. The tiefling lay down with their elf, soaking in his cool embrace.

"My love… What's the matter?" His fingers found their cheek, and his eyes were wide with concern.

"It's nothing that can hurt me anymore, Star. However, I do have a very long story to tell you. Will you indulge me?" Festé whispered.

He smiled at that. "Until the end of time, my dear."

notes/extras:

Caeusan is pronounced "Sey-uh-san" ♡ and he is neutral evil ♡

i looked into the lore of Amn (including population distribution) and humans are the most common race in the province(?), with half-elves making up very little of the demographics; and assumably, tieflings make up less than a blip being that it's roughly 1481 DR at the time Festé arrives in the area

from what i could glean: laudanum is a general anaesthetic in FR lore (so, he kind of gave them drugs but they were for pain-relief); and nararoot is an "infertility treatment" type birth control- like the Pill; and! apparently in FR canon, healing potions taste like spicy honey (hence the mead)

i know, festé committed the cardinal sin of removing the object one is stabbed with when they get stabbed, but consider: it would be so satisfying to kill the person that abused you with their own weapon

this chapter has been the easiest to write out of all of them so far- which is surprising considering the themes, good golly :'D

i actually didn't start crying until typing up the last part in the tent while i was listening to First Light. LMAO i'm ovulating give me a fucking break hahah

i really wanted to include the graveyard scene but it wasn't tenable with the sheer length of this chapter- it will be linked here (and in the masterlist) later as a oneshot

last thing: go back and listen to the playlist again (or, if you haven't already) i can guarantee that some of the songs take on a bit of a new meaning after this journey into festé's backstory

if you read this chapter, just stumbled on this fic, have supported it from the beginning, or are just here for fun, i appreciate you! you rock! if it intrigues you, check out the masterlist at the top of this post! thank you!!