#thanks so much again to secretbraintwin for the ko-fi request!!!

[imagineitdearies]

~ A Flawed Eternity ~

(AKA drabbles set in the Perfect Slaughter universe. 🩵 Special thanks to @secretbraintwin for the ko-fi request! 🩵)

~

✨ Also, taking this opportunity to shout out the fact I have a brand-spanking-new author discord! Come be among the first to say hi, make friends, get exclusive story updates, and much more 😉✨

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In which Tyrus and Astarion try something new in the bedroom. Explicit/18+.

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It took time, drawing out from Astarion what else he thought about alone. After their first few successful ventures back into sexual intimacy, Tyrus expected him to be excited about trying whatever else he’d been imagining—but Astarion seemed firm on sticking with what worked, when they did occasionally indulge.

That was, until one occasion after they’d already unclothed, when Astarion held Tyrus’s hands with both of his as his lips traveled down Tyrus’s neck. At first they just interlaced fingers, palms pressed together the same way the rest of their limbs and torsos were. But then the pressure increased. 

Astarion was pinning his wrists into the mattress, Tyrus realized.

Before he had time to process the feeling, Astarion’s lips paused. “Does this feel alright?” he whispered in a low, rough voice against Tyrus’s skin, before raising his head. “Holding you . . . down, like this?” His eyes were wide and dilated with arousal, and yet half-hidden by a concerned, furrowed brow.

Tyrus didn’t answer right away—though neither did he pull from Astarion’s grip. He squeezed Astarion’s hands in reassurance while he tried to assess his body, this position, and what, if anything, was happening in his head.

“It feels impractical, I suppose, if you still want to be using your hand for the rest of it,” he nodded down in the direction of Astarion’s erection.

Astarion’s worry faded into amused exasperation. “I’m restraining you, Tyrus. Please be serious.”

“I am,” Tyrus protested, even if he understood what Astarion was truly asking. He wiggled his wrists in Astarion’s grip—then shrugged. “I seem to be fine. Though, I don’t understand: why do it?” 

Even in the midst of asking, Tyrus watched how Astarion’s eyes slid away, his shoulders hunching up and his hands pulling out of Tyrus’s. Embarrassed about the answer—no, ashamed, Tyrus quickly gauged.

He managed to catch one of Astarion’s hands before it went far, at least. Then gave it a quick squeeze, pulling Astarion’s arm forward while he propped himself up on one elbow. 

“I don’t have to understand,” Tyrus corrected himself, before pressing a small kiss against the other man’s knuckles and then moving their hands back to the previous position. “If it’s something you wanted to try, I don’t think I’ll mind.”

Astarion blew out a breath. “You’re right that it’s a bit impractical to do for long, love, especially with just my hands,” he sighed around a small half-smile.

Tyrus did feel something then—a small swoop in his belly. Uncertainty, at the thought of something besides Astarion’s hands.

He was a mage of great power, well capable of defending himself, free of a master’s influence, and currently alone with the person he trusted most in this entire world. Still, the thought of allowing rope or worse, cuffs around his wrists, in a sexual context no less, after the experiences of his first winter ball . . .

If he did ever try such a thing willingly, Tyrus already knew he would feel more vulnerable than he ever could with a thousand Dark Justiciars at his back.

He blinked, realizing Astarion was watching his reaction with sharp, inquisitive eyes. Tyrus had no idea what expression had taken over his face, but tried now to give a reassuring smile. “You could . . . hold them with one hand?” he offered, moving Astarion’s hand then to meet both of his own in between them. 

Astarion’s pale face colored, ever-so-slightly, and Tyrus felt some satisfaction knowing it was thanks to him twice over. “Well. Perhaps the delicate shape of those wrists are good for something besides fancy spellcasting,” Astarion said—very careful in starting to wrap his forefinger and thumb around Tyrus’s wrists, despite the flippancy of his tone.

It didn’t mean much to Tyrus, at first, as Astarion used his free hand to spread more oil on his erection and then in the intimate crease of Tyrus’s inner legs. It was the same as what they’d done the last two times before, save he was left to watch and stay pliant while Astarion slung Tyrus’s legs over his free arm, then slot his cock into the tight seam of Tyrus’s thighs.

Then Astarion moved Tyrus’s captured wrists up, past his chest and face—holding them down into the pillow just above Tyrus’s head.

Tyrus felt another swoop in his belly as Astarion went back to kissing at his neck and nipping his earlobe, holding him so securely and confined while his hips moved. This time the feeling was harder to define: still uncertainty, but something more complicated, too.

Strangely, it was easier to just focus on tactile sensation instead—Tyrus was only half-hard at the moment, but whenever the head of Astarion’s cock rubbed just so against the slippery oiled skin behind his balls, he could feel arousal tightening in his groin. This time even more so, considering Tyrus could do nothing with himself at the moment but lie there and feel.

Astarion’s words were his only distraction, though they fueled Tyrus’s arousal in a different way; murmuring things like, “I have all of you now, don’t I?” and “Taking it so beautifully, darling,” and “All mine,” as he began moving faster.

Tyrus hadn’t bothered having an orgasm since their last night before Cazador’s death. Now he could feel his body building up to something like one, with the combination of feeling Astarion so enthusiastic and aroused above him, the perineum massage from Astarion’s cock spreading a deep, pulsing pleasure within him, and the inability to do anything but take it with his hands pinned above him.

“Astarion,” Tyrus gasped after a few minutes, though he was too overwhelmed to say more. To even translate what he was feeling into words and needs, even as he felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

Astarion quickly came to a stop. “Too much?” he murmured in Tyrus’s ear, the ring of his fingers loosening around Tyrus’s wrists.

Tyrus shook his head. “Just . . . just, so much,” he sighed, before instinctively making what little movement he still could: undulating his hips against Astarion’s cock snug between them. 

Astarion sucked in a hitched breath at the feeling. “Gods, you’ll be the death of me,” he half-groaned, half-laughed, before holding Tyrus tight and moving his hips again.

It was a deeper, slower build up than Tyrus was used to, his cock leaking over and over despite the fact it hadn't grown full mast. All of this felt so contradictory—being so helpless, yet so entirely taken care of. And when the pleasure did come to a peak, it was all-consuming and yet left him just as aroused as before.

“Astarion, please,” Tyrus begged after that point in a high, breathless voice, still unsure what he was asking for. “Please, please.”

Clarification apparently wasn’t needed. A dark fire lit up in Astarion’s eyes at Tyrus’s words—he thrust sharp and fast, eased further by the mess Tyrus had made, then let out a desperate moan as he found his own release.

He barely had to do more than touch Tyrus’s leaking erection, afterward, before Tyrus joined for an uncanny second time.

This time, Tyrus did feel his body come down from it, though his mind was left both a bit floaty and confused. Nowhere close to the overwhelm and devastation of his first few experiences with sex—though maybe it would have descended into that, if not for how carefully Astarion treated him once it was over. 

After cleaning their bodies quickly with Prestidigitation, he slowly released Tyrus’s wrists, bringing them up to massage and kiss one by one. “You did so well, love,” he murmured while smoothing Tyrus’s hair, pressing his lips to the corners of Tyrus's drying eyes, positioning Tyrus's legs more comfortably when Tyrus didn’t have the frame of mind to do it for himself.

Next, Astarion used the same spell to warm the huge, knitted blanket Cynda had given them and cocooned it around the both of them, pulling Tyrus at last into his arms. Stroking a hand up and down Tyrus’s spine, kissing the crown of his head, before whispering, “Thank you.”

Tyrus’s thoughts had slowly, gently cleared through the process—and though his mind still felt a bit tender after such a strangely intense experience, he also felt a wonderful, blossoming warmth in his chest, more lovely than any of the previous sensations combined.

“I trust you,” he said back in a soft voice, smiling when Astarion’s arms squeezed around him just a bit tighter in response.

-

Later, he leaned back and said, “So . . . you like hearing me say, ‘Please,’ hm?” 

He couldn’t help but giggle when Astarion only huffed, buried his face abashedly in Tyrus’s hair, and made no answer.

[imagineitdearies]

~ A Flawed Eternity ~

(AKA drabbles set in the Perfect Slaughter universe. 🩵 Special thanks to @secretbraintwin for the ko-fi request! 🩵)

In which Chatterteeth considers Tyrus and Astarion’s relationship.

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“I never want to see these wretched little pieces of misery again.”

The undead woman, now called Chatterteeth, froze where she stood. She’d thought long and hard for the past year on how best to ensure her goal. She returned to the material plane for a very specific purpose after all—the Szarr reign’s end. And now it was so close.

Sentiment for these boys standing in front of her couldn’t color her judgment.

As much as she saw good in him still, thought of him nearly like a wayward son, she had been prepared to let Tyrus die. He showed enough signs to warrant concern, if not certainty, of continuing the monstrous Szarr legacy whether he became a true vampire or not. His sweet beloved, on the other hand, only seemed to want Cazador dead. 

Only after hearing these words from Astarion’s lips, however, did Chatterteeth realize she may just have spent less time around him.

A very long time ago, Donnela had promised at first to set the other spawn free under Gathwycke’s reign. She’d sworn, in the shadowed, intimate moments they stole away together, that she would only do what was necessary. And before she drank the vampire lord’s hideous blood, she likely meant it. 

But necessities quickly changed once power was gained. “Aenore,” she’d said over and over again after killing the others only a few weeks later. Sounding so justified in her explanation, “Aenore, they questioned me at every turn; they already whispered plans of my demise. They couldn’t be trusted like you. It was necessary. I only do what is necessary.” 

It must have been Chatterteeth’s first given name. Spoken so soft and entreating in the memory that a shudder traveled down her old bones even now.

Perhaps Astarion’s words lacked the coldness of Tyrus’s orders, but the justification and sheer loathing in them was much more extreme—and he hadn’t even reached true vampirism yet. He could well turn out worse than Donnela.

One of these two boys had to defeat Cazador, however. Chatterteeth glanced between them as they began to follow the group ahead, suddenly at a complete loss as to which.

Her mother had served Gathwycke all her life, raising “Aenore” in the Tumbledown estate. The young girl witnessed from an early age that any person was capable of doing horrible things. But often there were signs to indicate those most inclined. Which made it all the more disgraceful, how blinded she became once Gathwycke brought his beautiful young cousin to the estate for the family rites.

At the age of 142, Aenore had rarely left the estate except for her studies, too quiet in her classes to make a single friend. She’d never left the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate. Donnela brought novelty, beauty, and passion into Aenore’s life, sharing all her tales of traveling across Faerun, uncovering lost items and secrets of the past. And in her, Donnela seemed to have found a confidante, a support, an enthusiast to plan the next adventure with.

They fell in love rather quickly—meeting outside the estate on quiet nights to explore the city in ways Aenore never had before, kissing and then making love under the false protection of darkness.

But Gathwycke threatened that bond over the years. As he grew more controlling, he exercised cruel punishments on Donnela and forbade her to ever leave the estate. As he became more covetous and paranoid, he stunted Aenore’s arcane studies and even burned her spellbook. Eventually he forbade them ever speaking on pain of death.

With her beloved threatened, Aenore had been more than ready to kill him for it.

She saw some similarities in Tyrus and Astarion now. They fought for love and liberation; they trusted no one but each other. They were ready to make sacrifices, no matter how great, to ensure the other’s happiness.

But she’d seen how such sentiments could sour. How what was sacrificed in the “name” of love fell far from the actual thing, and could end up tainting such feelings forever. How trust could falter as priorities twisted to center around power and control. How liberation could turn into a new kind of enslavement.

Aenore helped Donnela kill Gathwycke. But she’d only given her master a new name.

Astarion helped Tyrus so willingly now, supporting his weakened form as they braved the first few stairs down into the grand chamber. And Tyrus kept moving, even knowing he was walking towards his own death, so that he might save Astarion’s life. The sight alone nearly cracked the fortitude of her reasoning.

But she and Donnela had once held each other just as gently. How long would either of their touches continue as caresses, their gazes keep soft, their love stay true, should she reveal another path? One that would not only help them survive together, but seize power?

Aenore, young and foolish as she’d still been, supported Donnela’s decision to drink from Gathwycke’s neck. It seemed like the only way to ensure they kept control of the Tumbledown Estate, and not fear when the other vampiric Szarr family members came to call. Even after the death of the other four spawn, even once Donnela started to Turn her own unwilling fledgelings, Aenore had refused to see what was happening. She only tried to steer her beloved towards other projects, like the Tourmaline Depths excavation and new palace construction.

She tried to control Donnela in return. And that is where she failed her. 

“They are only fodder now,” Astarion had just said of the victims around them. And if he ascended, how soon until Tyrus was as well?

“You were a step on my path to eminence,” Donnela had said with some measure of melancholy, right at the end of it all. Straddling a defeated Aenore on the crypt floor beneath the new palace they had built together, stroking a blade up and down her sternum. “An important one, my dearest. But I left you unruled, indulged your quiet rebellions too long. Even the bite would not tame the hissing, venemous little thing you've become. Would it?”

Aenore hadn’t fought, not once her own necromantic ability to command undead failed her against Donnela. “I did . . . only what was necessary,” she whispered, thinking of the much more quiet defiance she’d enacted against the woman she loved: creating one last soul cage, enchanted onto a simple folded parchment in the library along with instructions for whoever found it. A way to turn the enchantment against the vampire lady one day, and entrap her own soul within it for a long, cruel eternity.

With that last measure in place, she didn’t resist the soft kiss Donnela pressed against her lips with those same soft, petaled lips she knew so well, just before the blade pierced her heart.

Yet neither had she resisted the chance to return and ensure, this time, that the Szarr legacy was fully destroyed, the cycle of violence and bloodshed finished. That another Donnela wouldn’t walk into these halls and suffer the same fate as her own beloved.

Or so she’d thought.

Now the skeleton called Chatterteeth was at an impasse. If Tyrus killed so many, he would fall into darkness. Even if he didn’t kill them, giving him the mere knowledge on how to control Astarion could prove disastrous. But if Tyrus died—clearly Astarion would be lost all the same.

Donnela and Aenore’s fight for freedom turned into a quest for power that destroyed them both.

Was there any surety that these two could be different?

No, Chatterteeth realized as she hurried her old bones into motion and caught up with the boys’ descent down the stairwell. Her jaw clicked uncontrollably as she steeled herself for what she was about to do—for all she was about to risk.

“Tyrus,” she hissed as she caught up with them. “Tyrus.”

There was no surety they would make better decisions than she and her beloved. But perhaps there was a hope.