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truerhearts · 10 days ago

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˗ˏˋ ★ ― MASK part 3!

𖤝 astarion x fem!reader

𖤝 3rd person, 10.4k words

𖤝 summary: You and Astarion have reached the epicenter of the cult. You'll have to work together to take it down. will you survive? will he??

𖤝 warnings (for this chapter) : vulgar language, blood, guts, gore, super graphic violence!!!! like graphic!!! please!!! a warning!!!!

𖤝 rating: 18+ mature subject matter, coarse language, gore, reader discretion is advised ~

𖤝 previous chapter

𖤝 masterlist | ao3 | requests

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

As they turned the corner, they saw it.

A vast cavern yawned beneath the keep, its rocky walls stretching so far in every direction it was impossible to tell where the stone ended, and shadow began. Jagged formations jutted from the ceiling and floor, and the air was thick with the iron sting of blood and the reek of old decay.

In the center of the chasm, a massive ritual circle had been scrawled across the stone floor in thick, dark streaks. Dozens of corpses were piled within it - limbs tangled, lifeless eyes wide, their blood still pooling in the grooves of glyphs that pulsed faintly with unnatural light.

Just beyond the fluttering edge of the torch’s glow, a rusted cage stood half-swallowed in shadow. Inside, the missing villagers were crammed shoulder to shoulder - gaunt, terrified, their fingers curled white-knuckled around the iron bars.

They had come to the right place.

One of the cultists wrenched the cage open and hauled a man out by the collar. He hit the floor hard, his breath knocked out of him in a grunt. The door slammed shut with a hollow clang behind him.

The man yelped and scrambled on all fours, knees and palms scraping on the cold stone as he tried to flee. But the cultist was too fast. He caught the villager by the arm and began dragging him across the floor, back toward the circle of chanters and the lifeless heap of bodies, as the ritual’s chorus swelled louder and more distorted with every step.

The chanting was constant, gnawing at the psyche. She needed to do something. She needed to act fast, but she’d never be able to do it alone. As they crept down the stairs with the boy, who was muttering something about seeing his father again, though it didn’t feel like his words, (y/n) caught Astarion’s eye.

For a heartbeat, all the earlier anger dissolved. In a shared glance was everything they’d been through together – every battle they fought side by side, every moment of trust earned: in blood, in those nights around the fire, in that first night in the forest clearing…

Whatever was broken between them from that night in the tavern, it would have to wait.

The villager’s scream pierced the air as the cultist raised a jagged obsidian blade.

Then, they moved as one.

(Y/N) launched herself from the shadows, tackling the cultist mid-strike. The blade went skittering across stone as they crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs. The cultist's hood fell back, revealing a face that had once been human — now twisted with black veins spreading like spider webs beneath pale, almost translucent skin.

Astarion was already among the chanters, his daggers finding throats with surgical precision. Blood sprayed in arterial arcs across the ritual circle, disrupting the geometric perfection of the summoning array. But there were too many of them, and for every one that fell, two more seemed to materialize from the chamber's depths.

The rescued villager stumbled toward the cage, fumbling with trembling hands at the crude iron lock. (Y/N) rolled away from her attacker's clawing fingers - fingers that ended in blackened nails sharp as razors—and drew her sword just as the thing lunged again.

She drove her blade deep into the cultist's chest, feeling it scrape against ribs before finding the heart. Black ichor welled up around the steel - thick, tar-like, and wrong.

The cultist grinned through it. Not with pain. With purpose.

Then it spoke, voice no longer human. It gurgled from its ruined lungs, wet and gleeful, echoing with something ancient and foul:

“Tam… it is time. Our father, your father, calls for you.”

(Y/N)’s breath caught. The boy.

She yanked the blade free in one fluid motion and slashed across the cultist’s throat before it could say anything else. The ichor sprayed in a wide arc, hitting the stones with a hiss like acid.

Still, the body twitched. Smiling, even in death.

“The circle!” Astarion shouted over the chaos, blood spattered across his pale features.

She could see it now - the corpses in the center weren't just sacrifices. They were conduits, their dead flesh pulsing with unnatural light as the surviving cultists continued their infernal chant. The air above the pile began to shimmer and tear, reality bending like heated glass.

The boy—Tam—scrambled over the heap of corpses, his small frame lit by the pulsing glow beneath the bodies. He reached the summit and began to chant, his voice low and trembling at first, then rising into a sharp, unnatural cadence. The words were foreign, harsh, not meant for mortal tongues.

Then the circle screamed.

The pile erupted in a geyser of flesh and shattered bone, a fountain of decay that sprayed upward like some obscene birth. And from the carnage stepped something that should never have existed.

The creature loomed eight feet tall, a grotesque blend of human anatomy and cosmic horror. Flesh hung in ragged ribbons from bones that twisted at impossible angles, its form shifting constantly between solid and shadow. Its smile split its face like a wound — far too wide, jagged and wrong, exposing rows of needle-thin teeth slick with some dark, viscous fluid.

Its skin on its head was stretched tight, waxy and pale, as if it had been poured over its skull and pulled too far — a mask that threatened to tear but never did.

And its eyes were just like Tam’s. Black voids, each pierced by a single tiny ring of glowing orange.

(Y/N) took an instinctive step back, bile rising in her throat. “No,” she whispered. “Tam—”. Her voice broke, the boy’s name catching on the air like a fragile thing.

The remaining cultists dropped to their knees in rapture. Their voices rose into wordless shrieks of joy as their flesh began to peel from their bones, sloughing off in sheets like old paint. They didn’t scream in pain. They welcomed it.

And at the creature’s center, suspended like an insect in amber, was Tam.

Shock consumed her body, paralysing her as she took in the hellish abomination. His body floated in the core of the horror, limbs slack, eyes wide and unseeing. Essence poured from him in thin threads of light, drawn into the beast’s heart like breath into lungs — feeding it. Keeping it alive.

“We have to get him out.” Astarion’s voice cut through the horror. His pale fingers, covered in blood, ichor, and whatever else had spilled from the cultists, were wrapped around his glistening daggers. His muscles coiled with predatory tension. “The boy – we can still save him.”

The words snapped (y/n) from her paralysis. She tore her gaze from Tam’s suspended form and looked at Astarion.

For the first time in a long time, the gaze was familiar to her.

She nodded. They could do this. They would do this. Together.

She turned back to the cultist she had just slain, the keys glinting on his belt. She tore them off without hesitation and threw them towards the villager still trying to pry the cage open. “Here!” The keys landed at his feet. “Free the others – find somewhere to hide, or better yet, find a way out!” She shouted.

The man scrambled and grasped them quickly, his hands trembling as he began trying different keys to open the lock. The rest of the trapped villagers pressed against the bars, their faces pale with terror.

The creature turned its attention to them then, that grotesque smile widening until it seemed to split its entire head. When it spoke, the voice was layered—Tam's innocent tones threading through something ancient and malevolent.

"The boy's pain is exquisite—we can feel his soul tearing with every breath we take."

It turned its head and its void-like eyes bore directly into (y/n), and she felt its presence grip her soul.

“He screams with every breath, but his flesh – the sigil - remembers the chant.”

Its voice cracked like splitting bone, thick with glee.

“We carved the hymn into his bones. Even dead, he would keep calling us.”

It moved with sickening fluidity, its form rippling between flesh and shadow like oil on water. One moment it stood eight feet away, the next its claws were slashing through the air where (Y/N)'s head had been a heartbeat before—close enough that she felt the whisper of death brush her cheek.

She rolled aside, her blade singing as she drew it, but the creature was already pivoting toward Astarion with inhuman grace. He danced backward, daggers flashing silver arcs in the dim light as he scored shallow cuts across its shifting flesh. Dark ichor wept from the wounds like tears from a wound that refused to heal, but they sealed themselves almost instantly, the skin knitting together with wet, obscene sounds.

(Y/n) conjured another fireball, hurling it with precision—but the creature twisted before it even struck, its torso splitting open like molten wax parting around the heat. The flames passed harmlessly through the sudden gap.

Then the two halves rippled, slithered, and flowed back together with a nauseating slurp, as though its flesh were no more solid than bloodied syrup.

"It's regenerating!" (Y/N) shouted, diving in to slash at its exposed flank. Her sword bit deep, parting flesh that felt too warm, too alive. The creature shrieked—a sound like tearing metal married to dying children, a harmony of agony that made the stone itself seem to recoil.

The battle became a nightmare of motion and blood, a dance macabre played out on ancient stones. The creature struck like a living tempest—its limbs warping mid-swing, bones spearing outward in bursts of jagged horror that defied anatomy. Every blow they landed was a mockery; the creature's wounds vanished in seconds, sealing shut as threads of light continued to pour from Tam's suspended body, feeding it like a grotesque umbilical cord.

They were losing ground, and death was patient.

(Y/N) saw it then—a brief opening in the creature's guard, a flash of exposed flesh near the core where Tam was embedded like a pearl in rotting oyster. She didn't think. Just moved, driven by desperate hope.

"Wait—!" Astarion's voice cracked like a whip, but she was already sprinting past him, ducking low beneath one of the monster's sweeping limbs. She drove her blade upward, aiming for that pulsing core, determined to sever the tether that bound this nightmare to life—

—but she got too close to the heart of horror.

The creature's claws raked across (Y/N)'s chest, tearing through leather and flesh in one vicious swipe that painted the air crimson. She staggered back, eyes wide with shock and the sudden, bright pain of torn arteries. Before she could even register the full scope of her wounds, its massive hand wrapped around her throat like a collar of bone and hurled her across the chamber.

She was a broken doll thrown by a petulant child.

She slammed into the stone wall with a sound like thunder made of breaking bones, her spine compressing against the unforgiving surface with a wet crunch that echoed through the chamber. She crumpled to the floor, and the silence that followed was more terrible than any scream. Blood began to pool beneath her, spreading in a dark crimson lake that reflected the chamber's eldritch light, her breathing shallow and ragged as life leaked from her with each passing second.

For Astarion, time became a cruel artist, stretching each moment into an eternity of anguish. As she lay there on the chamber floor—too still, something vital at his core snapped inside of him like a lute string pulled beyond its limits.

He didn't think. Didn't scream. Didn't breathe.

In that moment, his mind fractured into a thousand fragments, each one sharp and cutting: (y/n) crumpled on the cold stone across the chasm, the creature feeding off the boy trapped within its writhing mass, growing stronger with each passing second—but then it was (y/n) in the tavern, lingering in the shadows, watching as he'd leaned close to that woman, whispered honeyed words, let his fingers trace her arm with practiced ease. The mission briefing echoed in his skull, missing villagers, maybe cultists, nothing more, but they'd walked into a nightmare and now (y/n) was too far away, her blood pooling around her in dark rivulets while her breath came in shallow, shaking gasps he could barely hear over the chasm's distance. Two hundred years of Cazador's lessons screamed that this was what he deserved—that he'd ruined the only good thing he'd touched, just like he always did. The metallic scent of blood, the creature's power swelling as it drained the boy, her body so terrifyingly still across the impossible distance—then that first kiss, so casual, so meaningless, just another manipulation in his endless game of survival, except it had cracked something inside him he hadn't known was there. He'd seen her watching from the shadows, the way her face had gone carefully blank, but it wasn't until he'd approached her later that the hurt had spilled out—quiet, devastating, the kind of pain that cut deeper than anger ever could. Then that night when she'd asked him to stay—not for sex, not for blood, just to hold her while she slept because nightmares had been plaguing her—and he'd lain there in the darkness, listening to her breathing even out against his chest, feeling something crack open inside him as her fingers curled trustingly into his shirt. That kiss, months later, different from all the others—softer, slower, and when she'd pulled away he'd realized with bone-deep terror that somewhere between her trusting smiles and the way she'd never questioned his motives, he'd fallen—completely, helplessly, in a way that made him want to run because he didn't know how to love without destroying, didn't know how to be anything but the broken thing Cazador had made him.

The thoughts crashed together, a cacophony of past and present, love and terror, until he couldn't tell which memories were real and which were the desperate fabrications of a mind refusing to accept what lay before him. Everything blurred—duty, desire, death—a storm of emotion and memory that left him paralyzed, drowning in the chaos of his own heart.

Then clarity cut through like a blade. The string snapped, a high-pitched twang. Then silence. Nothing but the sound of his ragged breathing as he tried to process what was happening and what needed to be done.

The monster turned toward him, that grotesque smile widening like a wound carved in flesh.

But Astarion was already moving, and he was no longer pretending to be anything other than what Cazador had made him.

The first blow was silent—clean—surgical in its precision, but no strike had ever felt so pitifully insufficient. Not enough. Not deep enough. Not cruel enough. His blade buried to the hilt in its chest, yet the thing only twitched, laughing with that skin-splitting grin that wasn't real, wasn't human, wasn't deserving of the mercy of a quick death.

His other dagger materialized in his hand like an extension of his rage. He flipped it with practiced ease, reversing his grip with the fluid motion of a predator born to kill, and drove it into the creature's side with centuries of pent-up fury—again—again—teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached, eyes wild with something that went beyond anger into the realm of divine wrath, breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts through fangs that ached to taste something other than his own restraint.

The creature warped, attempting to phase between dimensions like smoke trying to escape a burning building. Its claws raked across his ribs as it twisted, fabric tearing and flesh parting in parallel lines of fire, but the pain only fed his fury.

But he moved with it, his own supernatural grace matching its otherworldly abilities. He landed on it mid-teleport with predatory precision, slamming it down into the stone floor with the full weight of his rage and two centuries of carefully buried violence. Its limbs bent at angles that would make an anatomist weep.

The abomination’s talons found his shoulder as they grappled, digging deep furrows through muscle and sinew, but he barely registered the sensation beyond a distant acknowledgment that he was bleeding.

Still, impossibly, it grinned up at him—calm despite the symphony of destruction being played upon its flesh.

He drove his elbow into its jaw with bone-crushing force that sent shockwaves up his arm.

Once. The sound was like breaking pottery.

Twice. Cartilage crunched and split with wet finality.

The smile didn't fade—if anything, it seemed to grow wider, more pleased, as if this violence was exactly what it had been hoping for.

That broke something in him, something that had been holding back the tide.

Astarion pulled one of his daggers from the body with a sound like ripping silk and began stabbing—anywhere, everywhere, with the methodical precision of a butcher and the fury of a lover scorned. Chest, throat, the soft hollow where its collarbone should have been. His arms shook not with weakness but with barely controlled fury that threatened to consume him entirely. A wild swipe from the creature's dying throes caught him across the cheek, a shallow cut that wept crimson down his jaw, but he didn't even notice. Black ichor sprayed across his face in hot arterial bursts, slicked down his neck like the blood rights of Bhaal reborn, soaked through his shirt until the fabric clung to his skin like a second skin made of violence.

Still he didn't stop. Couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop until this thing was nothing left.

Muscle tore beneath his blades like wet parchment. Bone split with sounds like winter branches breaking under the weight of ice. The air pulsed with psychic backlash that should have driven him to his knees, but he couldn't feel it anymore—couldn't feel anything but the blood roaring in his ears like an ocean of rage and the sickening, beautiful sound of steel parting flesh.

Tendons snapped beneath his relentless grip like harp strings tuned too tight. Ribs cracked beneath his knees as he pinned the writhing horror down, each break a percussion note in his symphony of destruction. His breath came ragged and brutal, each exhalation a prayer to gods who had long since stopped listening. His hands were so slick with gore—black ichor mixed with crimson blood—that he could barely maintain his grip on the hilts anymore, but muscle memory and centuries of practice kept the blades moving.

The creature twitched beneath him like a broken marionette, tried to raise one shaking arm in a gesture that might have been defense or surrender.

He snapped it at the elbow.

The thing screamed—not with any voice that belonged to throat or lung, but with a sound that bled through the stone itself and clawed at the mind like fingernails on the inside of a coffin. The very air seemed to recoil from the noise, and somewhere in the distance, dust fell from the ceiling like ash from a crematorium.

Still Astarion didn't falter, didn't pause, didn't show the mercy that had never been shown to him.

He retracted both daggers with movements that were almost ritualistic in their precision, tossing one aside where it clattered against stone like a discarded prayer. The remaining blade he took in both hands—one on the hilt, the other pressed against the pommel like anointed hands offering the blade to death itself. With a force he didn't know he possessed, born from love and loss and two centuries of swallowed screams, he rammed it straight down.

The blade sank hilt-deep into the creature's chest with the sound of punctured earth, steel meeting the wet resistance of organs that had never been meant to exist. Then he twisted—slowly, deliberately, grinding the metal against bone and cartilage with the methodical patience of someone who had learned that suffering was an art form. He clenched his teeth so hard it was a miracle they didn't shatter under the pressure, his jaw muscles standing out like cords as he put every ounce of his supernatural strength behind the motion.

Steel scraped against bone in a symphony of destruction that would have made Cazador proud, a sound like a blade being sharpened on a whetstone made of screams.

The creature convulsed once—a full-body spasm that nearly threw him off. The unholy substance that served as its blood came gushing out from the wound in thick, ropy streams, spraying across Astarion's face like bloodwine offered by a corrupted cleric. He drove the dagger deeper, deeper, until the cross-guard bit into flesh and there was nowhere left for the blade to go.

It twitched again—a single, final flutter.

Then fell still, and in that stillness, the chamber held its breath.

The only sound was his own ragged breathing and the soft drip, drip, drip of blood finding its way to the floor, marking time like a broken clock.

With moments to spare before the body could regenerate, he began carving through the flesh around Tam's suspended form. His movements were frantic now, desperate, cutting through the writhing tissue with the efficiency of a master butcher. Once enough of the corrupt flesh was carved away, he tore the boy free from the wound, bringing with him strings of sinew, clots of blood, and fragments of the creature's essence.

The boy's skin was cold as marble when Astarion pulled him free, the threads of light that had been feeding the creature snapping like severed puppet strings, sparkling in an oddly beautiful way before they disappeared. Tam's eyes fluttered, the void-black pupils slowly contracting to reveal frightened brown irises beneath.

Astarion sighed with relief as the boy came to.

"I... I couldn't stop it," the boy whispered, his voice raw and broken. "It made me... made me call it..."

“It’s okay. It’s over now.” Astarion murmured, but his eyes were already searching the chamber, finding (Y/N) still crumpled on the floor where she'd fallen. The pool of blood beneath her had grown larger, and she hadn't moved.

He laid Tam down carefully—too carefully for someone who always claimed not to care—then rose and staggered to her.

She lay on the floor like something discarded, blood soaking through her clothes, pooling beneath her ribs. Too much blood. Her head lolled slightly, her lips parted around shallow, ragged breaths. She was alive—but only just.

Astarion dropped to his knees beside her.

“Darling—” The word tore from his throat raw and desperate. He reached for her and his hands—gods, his hands were shaking, hovering inches above her chest, her bloodied cheek, her torn side—terrified that one wrong touch would shatter what little was left of her. “No. No, no, no, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to go quiet on me now.”

Her chest barely rose, a shallow flutter that made his vision blur. Blood soaked through her leathers, seeping warm and thick between his fingers as he pressed his palms against the worst of the wounds, trying to hold her together through sheer force of will.

"Fuck— No, no, no—" The curse ripped from his chest like a prayer, like a plea to gods who had never listened to him before but might, might listen now if he begged hard enough.

He tore a potion from his belt with blood-slick fingers that wouldn't stop trembling. The cork stuck. He bit down, tore it free with his fangs, and spat it aside, the taste of copper and cork bitter on his tongue. His hand slipped under her head, fingers tangling in hair matted with blood and dirt, and he poured the liquid between her lips.

"Come on," he whispered, and his voice was breaking, cracking open like something vital inside him. "Come on, drink, you beautiful, stubborn, impossible—"

She swallowed. Once. Barely. A weak flutter against his palm.

It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough.

He grabbed another vial, hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped it. Ripped it free, popped the cork, and tipped the entire contents down her throat without waiting, watching half of it spill uselessly onto her chin, mixing with the blood there.

"Say something," he begged, voice raw and desperate and stripped of every pretense he'd ever worn.

"Scream at me. Call me a bastard—call me a coward for walking away from you. Please. Just don't leave me here with all the things I should have said."

His voice shattered completely. The empty vial fell from nerveless fingers. His hands found hers—growing cold, losing the warmth he'd always stolen from her touch—and he pressed them between his palms, knowing he had nothing to give her, no heat to share, only the desperate need to hold on.

"You couldn't just let me hate myself in peace, could you?" The words came out broken, a laugh that was all sharp edges and tears he couldn't shed. "Had to make me fall in love with you. Had to ask me to stay. Had to trust me when I didn't deserve it, when I was using you, when I—" His voice dropped to barely a whisper, raw with fury and grief. "And then you had to go and throw yourself at that thing. Couldn't wait for me to catch up, couldn't let me take the hit instead." He let out a quiet, bitter laugh. "I would have watched that boy burn, would have let every last one of them scream and die, if it meant you'd walk out of here breathing. And you know what the truly twisted part is?" His voice cracked, something fragile and desperate bleeding through. "Your life has become worth more to me than my own. More than anyone's. Two hundred years of clawing my way through survival, and now I'd throw it all away—throw myself into the fire—just to keep you safe. What does that make me?"

Her breath hitched—shallow, rattling, the sound of someone drowning in their own blood.

He let out a strangled sound that was almost a laugh, almost a sob. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against hers, breathing in the scent of her hair beneath the copper tang of blood.

"If you die," he whispered against her skin, voice like shattered glass, "if you think you can just slip away and leave me to deal with this mess you've made of me—I'll never forgive you. Do you hear me? I'll drag you back from whatever hell you're heading to just so I can tell you every day for eternity that I love you, that I'm sorry, that you deserved so much better than a broken thing like me."

Behind him, the surviving villagers staggered in, their eyes wild, limbs trembling from shock and exhaustion.

One of them glanced toward Tam, still collapsed where Astarion had left him. “The boy—he’s breathing. We should move him—”

Another stepped forward, uncertain. "What about her? We can help, if you just tell us—"

"Can we get some water? Bandages?" someone else called out desperately.

"Maybe if we—"

"Should we try to lift her?"

The voices overlapped, growing louder, more frantic. Each suggestion felt like another needle in his skull. The air grew thick, suffocating. Too many people, too many voices, too much noise when all he could hear was the irregular rasp of her breathing.

“I don’t know!” he snapped, finally whirling around. His eyes were bloodshot, lips drawn tight over his teeth. “If I knew how to fix this, don’t you think I’d be doing it instead of kneeling in her godsdamned blood?!”

The room went still at his outburst. The villagers froze mid-step, cowed by the fury in his voice—but also by the grief threaded through it, brittle and bare.

Astarion turned back to her, jaw clenched. His fingers trembled where they brushed her cheek. “Just—go. Do something useful. Help the boy. Find a healer. Anything.”

And then—

A deep rumble rolled through the earth, low and growing, like thunder boiling up from the chasm below.

Dust rained from the ceiling.

Then: an explosion of stone from the far wall, near the top of the chasm.

Rock shattered outward. Smoke and rubble flew. One of the villagers cried out, stumbling back, bracing for another attack.

And through the dust storm stomped a familiar silhouette, armor scorched, axe glowing red-hot.

“Told you I’d find you!” Karlach bellowed.

She stepped through the hole like a war goddess, bloodied and beaming, eyes burning with purpose.

Behind her, Gale poked his head through the crumbling gap in the stone, blinking like a startled cat. “And I’m here as well,” he announced, voice echoing faintly. “Just—slightly less like a goddess.”

Her gaze swept the chamber once—took in the corpses, the ruined creature, the boy, and finally Astarion crouched beside (Y/N)’s broken body.

The smile vanished.

“Oh gods…” She murmured. Gale poked his head out a little further, assessing the situation as well. His eyes widened. He reached out to Karlach, grasping her forearm while muttering the words to dimension door, teleporting them down to the bottom of the chasm.

They landed hard beside him—Karlach with a thud of metal and muscle, Gale with a stumble and a curse.

Astarion didn’t look up.

Gale immediately moved toward (Y/N), kneeling beside her still form with urgency. His hands hovered over her injuries, assessing the damage with a wizard's clinical eye even as worry creased his features.

Karlach dropped to her knees opposite him, her hands hovering inches from (Y/N)'s face before she pulled back, fingers curling helplessly. "Is she—?"

"She's alive... just..." His voice caught, and he looked up at Gale with desperate, wild eyes. "Gale, please! Do something—I... I gave her potions but the bleeding, I can't… It won’t stop…” He gestured frantically at her wounds, his hands shaking. "I know a hundred ways to kill someone, I know where to cut to make it quick or slow or silent, but I don't know how to fix this. I don't know restoration spells or divine magic or whatever the hells you wizards do with your books and components and—"

His companions had never seen him so utterly shattered.

He continued, “You have scrolls, don't you? Something, anything that can stop this bleeding because I can't watch her die, Gale. I can't sit here and watch the life drain out of her when you might be able to—please, just do something!"

"Astarion." Karlach's voice cut through his spiraling panic, firm but gentle. She reached out slowly, her large hand settling on his shoulder with surprising tenderness. "Breathe. Gale's got this—look at me." When his wild eyes met hers, she squeezed gently. "She's not going anywhere. We found you, we found her, and we're going to get her through this. But I need you to hold it together for her, yeah? She needs you steady."

Gale's expression tightened with concern. "Healing magic isn't my forte, but I have been studying a few scrolls..." He pulled a worn parchment from his robes, hands steady despite the urgency. "This should at least stabilize her."

The incantation flowed from his lips in practiced syllables, weaving threads of restorative magic around (Y/N)'s broken form. A soft blue light emanated from his palms, seeping into her wounds. The worst of the bleeding began to slow, her breathing becoming less laboured.

But her eyes still stayed closed.

Only then did Gale turn toward where the villagers were already tending to Tam, checking the boy's pulse with a furrowed brow. "He's stable, I think. But what in the nine hells happened down here?"

Astarion didn’t answer. He was watching (Y/N)’s throat, willing it to move, to swallow, to breathe. When her chest finally rose on a trembling inhale, he let out a ragged breath that sounded far too much like relief.

“Bloody reckless,” he whispered, voice cracking again. “Running in like that, thinking you could handle it all alone. Always playing the hero, aren’t you?”

Karlach reached out again, this time resting a steadying hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “Hey. We’ll get her out of here, and she’ll make it. She’s tough.”

He turned, eyes red-rimmed and furious. “Do you have any idea how close—” But the words broke, and he turned away sharply, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. “Just—don’t talk to me like she’ll be okay. Not until she opens her damned eyes.”

Karlach reached out again, this time resting a steadying hand on Astarion’s shoulder. “Do you want me to carry her?” she asked quietly, her voice low—not out of fear, but respect. She didn’t want to take the weight from him if he needed to hold it.

He didn’t look at her. Just tightened his grip around (Y/N)’s broken form, holding her close to his chest like she might vanish if he let go. “No,” he said, barely more than a breath. “I’ve got her.”

Karlach didn’t argue.

She shifted around and crouched beside him, one gauntlet resting lightly on his arm. Her voice was steady now, all fire banked into resolve. "Then let's get her out of here. Gods..." She cast a grim glance at the creature's remains, now steaming and bubbling as it dissolved into putrid liquid. " "Part of me doesn't even want to know what happened down here.”

Behind her, Gale gently lifted Tam into his arms with a grunt. “I vote we do talk about it later. Preferably somewhere that isn’t covered in blood and nightmares.”

Astarion said nothing. Just shifted (Y/N)’s weight in his arms, rising slowly, careful not to jostle her. For a heartbeat, he swayed on his feet—exhaustion, grief, fury all weighing him down.

Then he straightened.

Thankfully, the villagers remembered the way the cultists brought them in – the same passage Lydia showed them.

Astarion grimaced when he remembered the state of the tunnel. The narrow passage stretched ahead of them, barely wide enough for one person—a cruel joke considering his burden. He turned sideways, pressing his back against the rough stone wall, shielding (Y/N) from the jagged edges as they navigated the tight space. Every scrape of his shoulder against rock, every careful sidestep felt monumental.

Behind them, Karlach's muttered curses echoed off the stone as she squeezed her broad frame through the passage, while in front, Gale's soft magical light danced ahead, illuminating their path through the suffocating darkness.

Once they finally made it out of the caves, there was yet another hurdle. The stars danced overhead – whether it was late at night, or very early in the morning, no one could tell. The walk stretched endlessly before them, each step a careful negotiation between haste and caution.

Astarion found himself memorizing the weight of her in his arms, the way her breath ghosted against his neck, the flutter of her pulse beneath his fingertips. Details to cling to. Proof of life when everything else felt like it was slipping away. By the time the inn's warm glow flickered through the trees, his jaw ached from clenching it so tightly.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The inn was old, creaky in places, but clean and warm. Someone had lit a fire in the hearth, and the smell of smoke and spiced cider hung in the air, a comforting balm over the scent of blood and ruin. The villagers had insisted on giving them the best rooms—what few they had—as thanks. Food had been offered too, but Karlach was the only one that ate.

Word had been sent to camp immediately, and Shadowheart had arrived within the hour, her healing supplies already in hand before she'd even dismounted. The others had followed—Wyll, Lae'zel, even Minthara—but it was Shadowheart who'd taken charge, disappearing upstairs with barely a word to anyone. They noticed, though, and all followed her up the stairs.

(Y/N) lay unconscious against a mound of pillows in her bed. They gave her a room on the top floor, a lovely view overlooking the forest. In the distance, cutting through the fog, the spire of the ruins could be seen.

Astarion had carried her here and hadn't left her side since, sitting vigil in the chair beside her bed for the full hour it took Shadowheart to arrive. He couldn't bring himself to leave—some irrational part of him was convinced that if he stepped away, if he stopped watching the shallow rise and fall of her chest, she'd simply stop breathing altogether. His hands had trembled as he'd adjusted her blankets, smoothed her hair, anything to keep himself occupied while they waited for help.

When Shadowheart finally burst through the door, the others had filtered in behind her shortly after—Karlach hovering anxiously, Jaheira taking position by the window, Halsin offering his own healing magic, Gale conjuring soft lights, Wyll pacing until Lae'zel ordered him to sit. The small room filled with concerned murmurs and the rustle of activity.

But when Shadowheart began her assessment, her hands glowing with healing light, and her face grew grave. When she started murmuring about internal bleeding and fever and clinical discussions of whether (Y/N) would make it through the night, Astarion couldn't take it anymore. He'd quietly stepped back, then slipped away entirely. The others barely noticed him retreat to the shadows—they were too focused on saving her to see that he couldn't bear to witness what came next.

Her bandages were fresh now. Karlach had hovered while they were applied, whispering jokes that never quite landed, hoping that even though she wasn't awake, (Y/N) was still listening and laughing anyways. Shadowheart had done the stitching, her touch gentler than usual. Jaheira had quietly taken watch by the window, her maternal instincts surfacing as she monitored every rise and fall of (Y/N)'s chest. Halsin had offered his own healing magic, his large hands surprisingly delicate as he'd helped tend to the worst of her wounds. Gale had conjured soft mage lights to help the others work, murmuring incantations under his breath—small magics meant for comfort rather than grand displays. Wyll had paced the small room until Lae'zel had finally ordered him to sit, though she herself had remained standing guard by the door, as if she could protect (Y/N) from death itself through sheer force of will.

Now, the room was quiet except for her shallow breathing. The color had returned to her cheeks, and her breathing had steadied.

She was going to make it.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Shadowheart found him in the corner of the common room, tucked into the shadows near the cold hearth. He'd been there for hours— ever since he'd slipped away from (Y/N)'s room, ever since he'd retreated downstairs rather than watch them fight for her life. He couldn't bear the thought of being there if she... if the worst happened. Better to wait in the shadows, where he wouldn't have to watch her take her final breath.

He hadn't rested. Just sat on the windowsill, one leg drawn up, one hanging carelessly off the side. The sun was rising over the trees beyond the glass, casting ribbons of golden light across his still form. Even bloodied and exhausted from battle, there was something ethereal about him in that moment.

Blood and whatever else that creature had expelled had dried dark against his torn shirt. The gash along his ribs had stopped bleeding, but barely. Claw marks raked across his shoulder, and the cut on his cheek that would scar if left untended much longer. Crimson streaks had turned rust-brown along his pale skin, painting him in the aftermath of violence. His hair was matted with gore in places, and flecks of dried blood dotted his jaw where he'd likely wiped his mouth with a bloodied hand. Yet the warm morning light seemed to soften it all, turning the evidence of brutality into something almost beautiful—a warrior's canvas painted in sacrifice and devotion.

"Still holding your vigil, I see," Shadowheart said dryly, settling into the chair close to the window, just across from him. "You know, brooding is significantly less dramatic when you're covered in several hours worth of dried blood." She looked him over.

He didn't respond. Just kept staring at some fixed point in the middle distance, jaw tight with whatever thoughts had been circling in his head since they returned.

"She's going to be alright, you know. The bleeding has stopped, and her breathing is steady. Whatever you're torturing yourself with down here, you don't need to worry anymore."

He remained silent, but there was a change in his expression—the sharp edge of panic that had been carved into his features since they'd arrived finally beginning to soften. The tension in his jaw eased, and his white-knuckled fist slowly uncurled, fingers relaxing against his thigh as if he'd been holding his breath for hours and could finally exhale.

She waited for a moment for a reply, but he kept his gaze out the window.

"So," She began, leaning back in the chair. "Are we going to sit here in companionable silence while you slowly bleed out, or are you planning to tell me what's on your mind?"

"I've been thinking," he said finally, looking at her with something raw and unguarded in his expression. "About what I would say to her. When she wakes up."

Shadowheart leaned forward slightly. This was different from their last conversation—no bottle in his hand, no bitter laughter or cutting remarks. Just exhaustion and something that looked almost like resolve.

"All night," he continued, "I've been sitting here, rehearsing words. Apologies. Confessions. Promises I'm not sure I can even keep." He ran a hand through his silver hair, wincing as the movement pulled at his wounds. "And I realized... I've spent so long being terrified of the wrong things."

"What do you mean?"

"I was afraid of what loving her would cost me. Afraid of being vulnerable, of giving her the power to destroy me." His laugh was quiet, rueful. "But today, seeing her like that, nearly losing her... I realized the only thing that would actually destroy me is losing her without ever telling her the truth."

Shadowheart pulled her healing supplies from her pack, setting them on the small table between them. "And what is the truth?"

He was quiet for a long moment, watching her prepare the needle and thread. When he spoke, his voice was steadier than she'd ever heard it.

"That I love her. Not the careful, calculated way I thought I had to love someone to keep them interested. Not as a means to an end or a game to win." He looked up, meeting Shadowheart's eyes. "I love her in a way that terrifies me because it's real. Because it makes me want to be better—not for some grand redemption, but because she deserves someone who chooses her every day."

"Let me see those wounds," Shadowheart said gently.

Astarion shifted forward slightly.

She paused. “You’ll have to remove your shirt.” She said flatly.

He raised an eyebrow. “How forward of you.”

"Consider this strictly professional - (Y/N) can have you back when you're not bleeding everywhere."

He smiled slightly, a faint blush creeping across his pale cheeks as he looked away and carefully removed his shirt, not realizing how much pain he was truly in until he started moving.

Shadowheart pulled her chair forward, gentle fingers examining the gash along his ribs, the cuts on his shoulder and face. There was something different about the way he sat—still, present, letting her close without all the usual walls and deflections.

"This is going to hurt," she warned, beginning to clean the deepest wound.

"Everything hurts," he said simply, but without the bitter edge she might have expected. Just acknowledgment.

She worked in careful silence for a while, needle and thread moving in practiced motions. He didn't flinch, didn't make a sound. Just sat there, letting her tend to him. Once she'd closed the worst of the wounds, she placed her hands over the stitched flesh and began to murmur an incantation.

A warm, golden light emanated from her palms, seeping into his skin. The torn tissue began to knit together more completely, the angry red inflammation fading as divine magic accelerated the healing process. She moved methodically—ribs, shoulder, the cut on his cheek—each wound receiving both her physical care and her healing touch.

He kept speaking, a completely open book. "That night… outside the tavern. I told you I didn't know what to do with what I felt for her. That I'd ruin it because that's what I do." He paused as she tied off a stitch. "I was so convinced that love had to be a trap, a weapon, something to survive rather than something to... cherish."

"And now?" she asked, moving to the cut on his cheek with both gentle fingers and healing light.

"Now I think..." He watched her work, his voice growing quieter. "I think maybe the reason I kept trying to turn it into something else is because I was afraid of how simple it actually is. How uncomplicated loving her could be if I just... let it."

The divine magic flowed through her touch, and she watched as the cut on his cheek sealed itself, leaving only the faintest line that would fade completely in time. "What changed?"

"Watching her nearly die today. Realizing that all my careful self-preservation, all my fears about not being enough—none of it would matter if she was gone." He looked toward the stairs, toward where (Y/N) lay recovering. "I spent so long being afraid of what loving her would cost me. But I finally understand what it would cost me to lose her. And it's everything. Everything that matters."

She finished the last healing spell, the golden light fading as she set her supplies aside. The combination of her careful stitching and divine magic had left him looking almost unmarked, save for the faint pink lines that would disappear entirely within days. The intimacy of the moment wasn't lost on either of them—him sitting still, accepting both physical and magical care, speaking truth without performance or pretense.

"She's going to be alright," Shadowheart said softly. "And when she wakes up, you can tell her all of this."

Astarion was quiet, his expression unguarded in a way she'd never seen before. Without his usual masks and deflections, something raw and achingly vulnerable shone across his features—hope warring with fear, love stripped of all pretenses. It was the face of someone who had finally stopped running from what terrified him most.

Shadowheart smiled—genuine and warm. "Look at you. Finally ready to fight for something instead of fighting against it."

"Don't get too sentimental," he said, but there was no bite in it. Almost fondness. "I'm still devastatingly charming and completely insufferable."

"Of course you are." She gathered her supplies, stood to leave. "But you're also in love. And finally brave enough to do something about it."

After she left, Astarion remained on the windowsill for a while longer, no longer rehearsing words or spiraling through fears. Just sitting quietly, feeling the pull of his freshly tended wounds, the weight of his decision.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

(Y/N) had woken sometime in the early evening, when the light filtering through the small window had turned golden and soft. The healing magic had done its work—slowly, but surely. She was still weak, still aching, but conscious enough to move from the bed to the rug in front of the fireplace.

She sat there now, staring into the flames, her thoughts somewhere distant. The warmth helped more than the scratchy blankets had. She wasn't sure how long she'd been alone like this, how long it had been since the fight underneath the ruins—time didn't feel real anymore—but when the door creaked open behind her, she needn’t look to know who it was.

The air shifted.

Bootsteps hesitated just past the threshold.

Astarion said nothing at first. Just stood there, looking like something half-forgotten and newly resolved, his wounds freshly tended, his curls no longer wild but still a touch damp from washing away the blood and grime of their battle.

His eyes found her.

“Hi,” she murmured, trying to smile. It was crooked. Tired.

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he shut the door behind him and crossed the room in silence. Slowly. Like a man walking into something he couldn’t undo.

She sat up a little more as he approached, her ribs protesting the motion. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

Still, no reply.

He knelt in front of her.

Not beside her. Not standing above. He knelt—level with her gaze, hands resting lightly on his thighs like they didn’t know where else to go.

“I thought you were dead,” he said finally, his voice raw enough to scrape bone. “I thought you’d gone. And all I could think was—how absolutely furious I was going to be.”

A breath caught in her throat. “Furious?” She asked.

He laughed softly. Bitterly.

“At you. At myself. At the gods. At that wretched child.” He lifted his head. His eyes shone, not with tears, but something worse—an ache old as time, clawing up from where it had been buried. “I’ve seen death before. I’ve done it. Survived it. But watching you fade—it was different.”

He sat down now, leaving a little bit of space between them.

She reached for his hand.

He let her.

Her fingers were cold, as were his.

“You were right,” she said softly. “About the mission. About me being reckless. I did kind of throw myself in there-”

That's not what this is about." His voice dropped to that familiar velvet timbre but underneath lay something achingly real—vulnerability wrapped in silk that made her heart skip against her ribs. He had a different air about him, and it made her hairs stand up with anticipation.

She blinked. “Then what is it about?”

He looked at her then—really looked. “It’s about the fact that I was ready to let the whole bloody world burn if it meant you’d open your eyes.”

He exhaled shakily, like he’d been holding his breath all day.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” he said, voice low and uneven, eyes darting around everywhere. He was not his usual self. “Every second since you fell. Since I thought—since I thought you were going to leave… me.” He lingered on the last word, looking at her then. His eyes sparkled like rubies in the firelight.

Her throat tightened, but she said nothing.

“I spent the whole damned day trying to find the right words. Rehearsing them like some… lovesick schoolboy.” He laughed bitterly, eyes darting to the firelight. “And none of them are good enough. None of them even come close.”

She tilted her head, waiting. His gaze returned to her like a tide.

“I keep going back to that night in the tavern,” he said softly. “What I said to you. What I didn’t say. How I walked out, thinking I didn’t care. Thinking I only ever used you.”

Her heart twisted.

His voice broke.

“And gods, I did use you, didn’t I? At first. I told myself it was survival. That I was just playing the game. That your softness was a weakness, and I couldn’t afford to care. I just needed your trust, so we could protect each other out there.”

He reached for her hand then—slowly, gently—fingers curling over hers like he was afraid she might pull away. She didn’t.

His voice lowered, the raw edges of it fraying with each word. “The more time I spent with you, the harder it got to pretend. You’d smile at me in the mornings like I hadn’t bared my fangs the night before. You’d sit next to me by the fire like you wanted nothing more. You looked at me like I was real.”

A pause. A breath.

“And it scared me.”

He looked at her now, eyes gleaming in the low light—no glamour, no seductive tilt to his grin.

“I told myself you were convenient. That I was in control. But I wasn’t. Not when you dragged me out to stargaze on the cliff above Moonrise not when you leaned into me without a word, warm and trusting against my chest like I was something worth sheltering against instead of something to flee from… Not when you whispered my name like it meant something.”

His voice caught again, a half-laugh pushed through a tight throat.

“You were the only one who ever looked at me like I was more than what was done to me. More than what I am.”

She shook her head. “You don’t have to—”

“I do.” He reached out, his fingers brushing her wrist. “Because I remember your face in the tavern. I remember the way your voice cracked, and how you looked at me like I’d torn something out of you.”

Her breath hitched.

“I want to go back,” he whispered. “To that night. To the moment I opened my mouth. I want to take it all back. Every cruel word. Every awful silence. I want to stop being a coward.”

She blinked hard. “You weren’t—”

“I was,” he cut in, but his voice was soft now. “I was terrified. Because I’d spent two centuries being nothing more than a tool, a puppet with a knife and a pretty smile. I didn’t know how to love someone without bleeding all over them.”

He swallowed.

“But you—” His thumb brushed her knuckles. “You made me want to try. And instead of choosing you, I punished you for it. I didn’t know how to be honest with you. So I hurt you. Because pushing you away felt safer than asking if you could ever truly want me.”

His voice cracked as he pushed on, voice rougher now. “Then I got angry when I saw someone else courting you. That was unfair. Worse—I retaliated by hurting you. Not with my claws or my fangs, but with my words... with my silence. Putting on that… absolutely pathetic performance, hoping you would watch and get angry.” He paused, reflecting. Brows furrowing as if he came to a realization. “I…I didn’t deserve you. I don’t deserve you.”

She was silent for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she whispered, “I did - want you.”

Astarion’s breath stilled.

“And I still do,” she added, voice barely audible.

He stared at her, stunned. Stripped bare.

He swallowed thickly, the heat of his gaze never wavering. “You don’t know how many times I told myself you’d never want me. That I was cursed to be alone, to be this monster nobody could love.”

Her fingers curled around her wrist, a silent anchor.

“I’ve built walls so high around my heart that even I got lost inside them.” He let out a shaky breath, a faint, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “But you... you chipped away at them. You found the cracks I buried deep.”

He shook his head lightly, as if still trying to wrap his mind around it. “I never thought anyone could. Not really. Not for someone like me.”

His eyes softened, the weight of centuries pressing on him, yet somehow lightened by the truth in front of him. “You made me want to be more than the mask I wear... more than the lies I tell myself. More than what I was told to be.”

A pause, his smile fading into something more raw, honest. “And here I am, standing in front of you, more frightened than I’ve ever been, and hoping you might still take a chance loving me, even with all of it.”

She blinked back tears. "You're not a monster, Astarion. You're the furthest thing from it." She cupped his face gently, her thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "You are worthy of love. You always have been." Her voice dropped to a whisper, fierce and certain. "Even before you were free. Even when you couldn't choose. Even at your worst moments—you were still worthy of love."

He went absolutely still, and she watched every practiced expression, every calculated charm, every beautiful lie he'd ever told himself simply... disappear. The transformation was breathtaking—like watching marble crack to reveal beating flesh beneath. Without the mask, he looked younger somehow, and infinitely more fragile. His eyes filled with wonder and terror in equal measure, as if he couldn't quite believe this moment was real.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words tumbling out like a dam had burst. "Gods, I'm so sorry. For everything. For being cruel, for being a coward, for hurting you when all you ever did was—"

He ran his hands through his hair, the words spilling faster now, desperate. "I'm sorry for that night at the tavern. For walking away. For making you think you meant nothing when you meant everything. I'm sorry for watching that knight court you and doing nothing but seething like some jealous child. I'm sorry for that pathetic display with that girl— gods, what was I thinking? I wanted to make you jealous, wanted you to feel even a fraction of what I was feeling, and instead I just—"

His voice cracked. "I hurt you. Again. Just like I always do. I'm sorry for being too much of a coward to tell you how I felt. I'm sorry for making you doubt yourself, for making you think you weren't good enough when the truth is I never deserved you in the first place. I'm sorry for two centuries of damage that I keep bleeding all over you. I'm sorry for—"

She silenced him with her lips, soft and sudden against his. He froze for a heartbeat before melting into her, his apology continuing between kisses. It was new, like they had never kissed each other before—no performance, no practiced seduction, just raw honesty made tender. This wasn't the vampire spawn who had whispered honeyed lies in her ear; this was Astarion, unguarded and achingly present, letting her kiss him like she was salvation, and he was finally ready to be saved.

"I'm sorry," he breathed against her mouth, his voice breaking on the words. "For pushing you away when all I wanted was to pull you closer—"

Another kiss, deeper this time, desperate and hungry. She responded with equal fervor, her lips parting under his.

"For making you think you weren't enough—" He kissed her again, slower now, reverent. "When you're everything. You're everything I never knew I needed—"

Her hands tangled in his hair, fingers threading through the silver strands as she pulled him closer, eliminating any space between them.

"For being too afraid to tell you—" His words were muffled against her lips, each apology punctuated by another kiss. "That I love you. That I've loved you for so long it terrifies me—"

She made a soft sound against his mouth, half-sob, half-sigh, and he deepened the kiss, pouring every unsaid word, every moment of longing into the connection between them.

"I'm sorry for wasting so much time—" Kiss. "For hurting you when I should have been loving you—" Kiss. "For being such a fool—"

The words dissolved as passion overtook restraint. He pressed her back onto the rug, caught up in the intensity of finally having her, of being forgiven—until she winced, her injured body protesting the sudden movement.

"Shit—sorry, I'm sorry," he gasped, immediately pulling back, his hands hovering uncertainly over her. "I forgot, you're hurt, I shouldn't have—"

But she was already reaching for him, fingers curling into his shirt. "Don't you dare apologize for that," she whispered, pulling him down to her with a fierce tenderness that set his world ablaze.

He let her pull him down, careful this time, mindful of her injuries but unable to resist the magnetism between them. When their lips met again, it was softer, slower. His hand cradled her face like she was the only thing keeping him there, his thumb brushing away the tears that still clung to her cheeks. The kiss deepened gradually, unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world to memorize this moment. Her fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, then tangled in his hair, and he made a soft sound of contentment against her mouth—a sound she'd never heard from him before, vulnerable and utterly without pretense.

"I love you," he said, barely a whisper. "I love you and I want to stop running from the only good thing I've ever had. Just... let me love you. Please. I need you to be mine."

"You already are," She smiled against his lips, tears still clinging to her lashes. "You're already loving me, and I'm already yours."

In the golden firelight, with her pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips as they traced her cheek and her love wrapped around him like armor he'd never known he needed, Astarion felt the weight of centuries finally lift from his shoulders. Every mask he'd worn, every lie he'd told, every wall he'd built—all of it crumbled away until only the truth remained: he was loved. Not the charming rake or the deadly spawn, but the broken, healing man beneath it all. And that, he realized with a wonder that threatened to overwhelm him entirely, was not only enough—it was everything he'd been searching for without ever daring to hope he'd find it.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

CRYING, SCREAMING, THROWING UP, I WAS GRINNING LIKE AN IDIOT WHEN I WAS WRITING THE END, FEEL FREE TO DISAGREE BUT I FEEL LIKE THE RAMBLING COULD BE SO SPAWN ASTARION WHEN HE’S FLUSTERED ITS PAINFUL

LET ME HAVE MY HC’S

THANK U FOR MAKING IT THIS FAR, I APPRECIATE IT MORE THAN YOU’LL EVER KNOW

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