#appetites

[dearorpheus]

“It never really goes away, the longing for the life not lived, because isn’t that part of how we come to know ourselves too? Through what we lack as much as what we have, all we dream but do not hold. Some desires have no resolution.”

— Madelaine Lucas, Thirst for Salt

[heavenlyyshecomes]

On the crest of a hill, the third voice enters: a voice that demonstrates, with elegant precision, the primacy of speech over writing. Johann Drake is trying to swallow a Bible. Take it, and eat it up. Eating a book is a nonliterate response to text. Ingested and digested, the words become part of the speaker, who is then endowed with the spirit of prophecy. The image echoes the sacrament of communion, in which participants ingest the body of Christ, the Word made flesh. The vision of eating a book evokes a transcendent relationship with language, in which one is not a speaker but an instrument. The words of the Book flow from one’s mouth. Pure praise, pure expression, like lark song. As the old hymn puts it, “How can I keep from singing?”

—Sofia Samatar, The White Mosque: A Memoir

[filmnoirsbian]

[spacemonkeysalsa]

Appetites

It's been five years since the Vampire Ascendant Astarion helped save Baldur's Gate. He has everything he ever wanted, and he's miserable.

Isolde is nobody, and has nothing. When given the option to become a vampire spawn, her response gives Astarion a moment of pause; “No. Thank you. I think I’ll just die.”

Read Chapter One on Ao3

or below the cut (this will be multichapter)

“Can I watch?” the Baron wet his lips, his eyes fixed on Astarion’s mouth. Isolated enough, in their little corner of the ballroom, that no one could overhear them. Especially not over the collection of minstrels gathering all the attention for themselves.

The question seemed to come from absolutely nowhere. One minute they were winding their way from one end of the ballroom to the other, discussing almost suspiciously mundane tedium; court gossip, not even the kind that could enable business. Cravats, last month’s parties, next month’s parties, the quality of lace. 

Then “can I watch?” just like that.

“No, you fucking can’t,” was what Astarion wanted to say. In control, he let out a slow exhale. The deal they negotiated was important. Not just to both of them, but to the city. He ought to at least fane respect. He briefly let himself become distracted by the sight of someone across the ballroom. 

The Sharran Mother Superior had decided to take advantage of her standing invitation, though few people knew that’s who she was. Apparently, his gatherings were a convenient place to find new acolytes for the Lady of Loss. Or, that’s what she told him. Their eyes met and he raised his glass in greeting, but had no intention of approaching her tonight. They hadn’t spoken in a while. The last thing he remembered her saying to him was; “you used to be funny.”

Still, the distant interaction gave Astarion a moment to seem disinterested in the Baron’s question, which suited him just fine. He finally floated back to his companion and lazily countered the hanging question with his own, “Watch? Whatever do you mean?” He took a sip of champagne, wondering if it was any good. He used to know those things. Used to have an opinion, always. Maybe opinions were part of being funny. He tried not to think about the implications, but it was getting to the point where every unsatisfying taste of life was a reminder; something was wrong.

No. No it wasn’t. Everything was fine. If it wasn’t, he could make it be fine.

“When you take her,” the Baron opened the clasp on his ring, surreptitiously taking a sniff of something inside. “I’d like to be there. I’d like to see it.”

Astarion did not shatter the champagne glass in his hand and drive the jagged glass steam into the man’s eye, because he was in control, and because he still had plans to fuck the Baron to exhaustion later. If the night took them there. But he did take a moment to feel the annoyance, hot and sickening in his throat.

Was he just too old and too tired for this new, hungry elite crowd? Was that the problem? Had he outgrown ‘the great and the good’ of Baldur’s Gate? He took a moment to really see the Baron. Human, like most of the patriar remnants who’d survived the culling and ‘new organization’ of titles in the last few years. He’d always be young, in a way, but the Baron one was well into his adult years. He had children of his own, a household he ran like second nature and a series of trade routes that he’d made quite successful on the trackless sea. He was handsome, in that way that everyone of a certain privileged class could be. He dressed well, held himself with dignity. Not a single scar on his face. Ferdinand Joerg, the Baron De Cloyo, just a Baron, but savvy. He’d be useful, if Astarion let the relationship develop. But, like everyone, he’d die, and his stupid children would take over, and then they would die… 

It didn’t matter. Not really. His takeaway should just be that cultivating a relationship with this particular Baron could be beneficial in the long run. He could afford to be slightly uncomfortable, if it meant securely their alliance.

And it wasn’t as though Astarion had never killed someone for an audience before. Should he indulge the man? “No, you fucking can’t,” he muttered into his glass.

“What was that?” De Cloyo chuckled, like maybe he had keen ears, for an aging human male.

“Who is she?” Astarion raised his voice and fixed a smile. He didn’t usually ask those kinds of questions, directly, preferring to do his own clandestine investigation. But, he was impatient tonight, and it had been several months since someone just boldly came to one of his parties with a captive for Astarion to drain dry.

If he was going to acquiesce and entertain De Cloyo’s desires, he’d like to know the whole story. Was the patriar outsourcing his personal revenge to Astarion?

“Scullery maid. My wife dislikes her, told me to dismiss her.” De Cloyo fought a grin. 

So, De Cloyo was just a pervert then? “You’re not even going to say the maid stole your wife’s jewels or something?”

“She might’ve done. Would that make a difference to you if she had?”

“It’s just that people are usually so intent on letting me know that they’ve brought me a meal of poor moral character. It doesn’t make a difference to me, but I was starting to think you were all intent on making yourselves feel better.” Astarion slid back into a playful tone with ease. “You want to watch the light leave her eyes and hear her plead for her mother?”

“Do you enjoy that part? Or is it just about the blood?”

Astarion’s vampirism had become an open secret in the past five years that he’d been gaining and maintaining his influence in Baldur’s Gate. It wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t the plan. Then again, what scraps of a plan he’d ever had seemed foolish now. There was only ever one plan that worked; maintain the status quo. Gradually, he’d slipped, he’d shown off a little too much. He did like to dazzle. 

It didn’t help that his neighbors were so nosy.

Maybe he was reckless, but he could always just hold up a mirror, display his perfect reflection, walk out into the sunlight, and take advantage of the benefit of the doubt. Only a small handful of people knew the explanation behind those little tricks. He could even turn into animals in public without raising suspicion, thanks to a convenient rumor that he’d spent some time amongst the druids and unlocked latent wildshape abilities. Not even false, in a way.

But. His closest allies knew the truth. His very closest had been there to see it. And, unfortunately, they did not keep his secrets.

It wasn’t common, but it also wasn’t unheard of, for someone who was looking to ingratiate themselves to Astarion to bring him a gift: someone to kill. 

Most of the time, when he investigated, it turned out to be an enemy of theirs, or an unwanted mistress, or lovechild, or a witness. Astarion somewhat resented being a guilt-free means of disposal for pariahs and poor wretches who crossed the wrong Baldurians. 

Did he enjoy it though? 

It definitely wasn’t about the blood. Not anymore.

He hadn’t felt hungry in years.

“I’d like to see what you’re like,” De Cloyo’s eyes comb over Astarion, perceiving every perfect piece of him “when you kill.” His amber eyes flooded with black, desire apparent in his ragged breaths. Absolutely a pervert, which wasn’t necessarily a problem, but Astarion knew to take him at his word. He meant what he said. It got more difficult to lie as lust took over.

“You want to see me lose control?” he murmured, wondering if De Cloyo would hear the patronizing edge that he couldn’t quite curb.

“Yes,” De Cloyo breathed. If he heard it, he didn’t care.

Astarion threw his gaze around the ballroom, suddenly more crowded and livelier than when he’d last explored their surroundings. Another group must have arrived while he was distracted. Did they have enough wine? He caught the eye of a serving girl, Allie, or Halie, whatever she was called. He beckoned her over.

Helly was quick, ready to refill their glasses. It was a port. Perfect. Astarion took the bottle from her and shooed her away. “You first,” he told De Cloyo as he held the bottle to his lips, encouraging him to take a deep, long drink.

An hour later, De Cloyo was being poured into a carriage by his manservant, and Astarion was ready to have an early night.

Nothing had been accomplished, really. A waste of good wine. They were supposed to discuss real estate, but De Cloyo was too eager for debauchery to focus, which in times past, might’ve simply taken the evening in a new and much more fun direction, but Astarion didn’t have the appetite for any of it tonight.

It felt bleak in a way that weighed on him. Burnout, already? Gods. Barely five years into his glorious reign as the vampire ascendant, power still growing, network spreading out over the city, routine in a state of self maintenance. There was no reason he should be this bored of it already. And there was eternity to go.

He hoped.

Or, he hoped?

Maybe his nightly meditation would bring some clarity. It had been so much better, for a long time, after the city and his own life were no longer in immediate danger, but then… He entered his chambers and halted. They were occupied.

Oh. Right. The girl. The scullery maid that De Cloyo brought him to eat. He’d managed to forget about her completely.

She was a depressing sight, totally out of place amongst the sumptuous red and black decor. The room wasn’t really for entertaining, or for killing, for that matter. He had other chambers for those activities. But, it had been a moment since the palace hosted a doomed captive. Maybe Hilda or whatever her name was didn’t know what to do with her? And here she was.

The scullery maid cowered on the very edge of the chaise lounge pillowed with velvet and golden trim. It was one of the most comfortable pieces of furniture he owned, and she was perched on it like it was a jagged stone she had to cling to or else she’d fall to her death. The large silver-backed mirror against the wall showed her fists twisted behind her back, red and swollen where she’d pulled against her bindings. Her hair was matted and mussed, her cheeks wet, tears cutting through tracks of dust and dirt. Her clothing was ripped, falling off of her. She’d almost escaped, by the amount of mud on her skirts, suggested being wrestled to the ground—not to mention the red marks on her throat.

She didn’t react right away, when he entered the room, except perhaps to tense up, and then release with a tremble that threatened to turn into more exhausted tears.

The bite would be quick, as close to painless as death ever was. He wasn’t deluded enough to call it mercy, but it was as close to mercy as he was capable. Make it quick.

“I’m not going to beg for my life, if that’s what you’re waiting for,” she looked down at her stocking feet, filthy and bloodied.

Waiting? Had he been standing there long? “Apologies,” he fought a sigh, “I’m not myself tonight. I don’t usually allow enough time for begging.”

She shuddered, finally breaking into a sob. He might have ended her misery before she could say another word, but she swallowed, trying to turn away as her shredded dress fell off her shoulders, exposing her ample chest up to the stiff underbust, the bones of the cheap corset poking out. “Could I—would you permit me a little dignity? I’ll beg for that.”

She couldn’t very well do much damage, even with her hands free, so he obliged, retrieving Rhapsody from the sheath at his hip, under his waistcoat. She started, eyed the blade, but when he only cut the bindings on her hands, she relaxed.

He half expected her to lunge for the knife. That would have made for a fun few seconds, he thought idly, but she only flexed her freed hands and then righted her torn dress, still looking at him expectantly.

Still, he hesitated to do what he knew he was going to do. He stripped his waistcoat all the way off, removed the sheath and the dagger, tossed his things on the bed, some part of him still morbidly curious to see if she’d try to grab the weapon when he least expected. The chair across from the lounge wasn’t quite so comfortable—back too straight—but they were a matching set, and he figured if she was going to die, she could take the more comfortable seat for the moment. If she was going to die. He supposed… she didn't have to. De Cloyo would be upset, but that was assuming he ever knew.

Every breath that the girl took, she seemed to grow more nervous, like she knew each one was borrowed. So much so, he felt some strange, dark reassurance. He was right to kill them quickly. It was, in a way, something like mercy. At the same time, watching hope spark inside of her was intoxicating. Hope? Or was it dread?

Was this boredom cultivating some new sadistic fascination in him? It didn’t feel good, watching her work herself up like this. Actually, it felt awful. He wanted it to stop.

“Can you at least tell me why?”

Past victims had occasionally had the chance to pose this question, or a similar one. He wasn’t disposed to answer, because it had never occurred to him that there was a reason. Maybe it was something about the way she prioritized dignity over her very life. As though she knew one was already forfeit, so prized the other more. Maybe it was De Cloyo’s admittance that she hadn’t really done anything to wind up here. It was just bad luck. But, he didn’t want to tell her that. Was it bad luck that had condemned him? Sure, it was. But. It was more than that. It would be more than that for the scullery maid too. She’d found herself here because of cruel gods and a cruel master and… because he was who he was.

“Why what?” He heard his own voice, but for a moment didn’t recognize it. He’d spent a long time perfecting that voice, strange not to know it, even for two syllables.

“I suppose—why did he bring me to you? I know who you are. He talked about you.” She was rubbing her raw wrists, periodically checking her dress to make sure it was staying more or less intact and covering her, but for the first time, he caught a flash of something calculating in her face.

Perhaps she wouldn’t go for the knife, but she did have some plan. She had an idea of what to do, probably something desperate and stupid—but it ensnared his attention, as it was meant to, he suspected. “You think I’ll keep you alive if you tell me a bit about De Cloyo’s private conversations?” a paltry offer.

She shook her head, “I don’t think he said anything you wouldn’t already know,” she admitted, voice low, defeated for a moment before she took a sharp intake of breath, “you’re Lord Astarion. You’re a vampire, who can walk in the sun.”

“Yes, I do know all about that, in fact,” Astarion smirked at her. “But who did he tell?”

“Baron Horrold.”

“De Cloyo had Horrold in his parlor?” that was intriguing actually, “and no duel at dawn? How disappointing. I thought they despised one another.”

“That figured into the context of your mention,” said the girl, she paused to rub at her face, frowning at the dirt that came away on her fingers. “The master said you were his friend, that you’d kill for him. He threatened him.”

Astarion laughed shortly. Friend was a stretch, and killing a Baron was a little conspicuous. He’d hardly lay low that way. Astarion hadn’t killed anyone more important than a flaming fist or two since… He couldn’t force another laugh.

“As long as you’ll listen to me, you might as well know my name. It’s Isolde. I imagine you won’t remember it long, but if you’re going to kill me, I’ll permit myself to be petty and condemn you with its knowledge.” She still hadn’t managed to meet his eyes, but all things considered, she was steady, almost calm. Her voice didn’t give away her distress, and the tremble that had gripped her seemed to have confined itself to her hands, which she was now folding in her lap to try and steady.

He worried a question in his mind, briefly sure it was a mistake to even entertain the idea, but entertain it he did, and then he was captivated by it. Maybe his life had become so boring precisely because he hadn’t made a mistake in a while. “Isolde. The pleasure is all mine.”

“Truly?” she let the word slip, light and airy, and there was that strange, painful hope again. “I don’t want to die, in truth,” her tone stayed steady, she wasn’t breaking. “But, if it must. I would ask to understand. Something to ponder as I wander the Fugue Plane.”

“You master is something of a coward, I gather,” Astarion shrugged, his back stiff against the too rigid back of the chair. “His wife merely asked that you be dismissed, but he didn’t relish the confrontation, didn’t want the other servants speaking ill of him.”

She nodded, though Astarion had only guessed that about him, it seemed she agreed with his insight.

“And, he’s rather perverse. I think he was quite excited by the idea of your tragic disappearance, everyone wondering what happened to you, while only he knows. He has the image in his head, of your lifeless, bloodless body, prone, consumed, forgotten.”

A little moisture shone in his eyes, but still, she didn’t look up to face him or endure his gaze. “I really will be. He may well be the only one to think of me ever again, after the gossip settles.”

“He likes his little secrets.”

“Alright. Him, I understand,” Isolde sounded heavy when she said it, but the tears that had threatened to fall were gone. She’d bitten them back. “Why would you aid him? What do you get out of it? Besides a few quarts of low blood to sate your unimaginable hunger, I suppose.”

He wasn’t hungry. “That’s plenty.”

Her cheeks burned, but if it was rage she felt, she didn’t express it. Shame, maybe? Why?

He promised himself he wouldn’t feel shame again, but then he spent a few years living, building up a steady shimmering anger at every instance when he broke a promise to himself. Should he feel ashamed now? For what? Because he had no reason? He didn’t need one.

Isolde cleared her throat, swept her tangled hair aside and gestured to her neck. “Alright.”

“You’re really not going to plead?”

She didn’t say anything. She still hadn’t met his eyes, but her own sparkled again.

“Did that little ashen-haired servant girl bring you in here? She had other duties tonight, but she’s so tenacious. Seems she’s everywhere.” Astarion’s heart beat, and he hated noticing it. There was something of the lie in the way his body so perfectly mimicked a mortal’s after the triumphant return of the ‘arousals and appetites of man.’

“Alice?” Isolde furrowed her brow. “Yes. She told me it wouldn’t hurt much.”

Was that her name? “Do you know why she serves me?”

Isolde shook her head.

“She hopes I’ll turn her into a vampire spawn. And then, a true vampire. She’d been here a few months and I’ve done neither of those things. Maybe I never will.”

“But maybe you will?”

“That’s what she tells herself.”

“Spawn are under compulsion, aren’t they? They would have to do whatever you say?”

“Alice does whatever I say anyway. But yes, that’s one appeal of having them.”

“Do you have a lot of spawn?”

“Currently, no,” Astarion almost interrupted himself to demand she look at him, but then noticed her eyes listing towards the decanter on the nightstand. He scoffed and gestured, “have a drink, why not?” he rolled his eyes. It wasn’t like he’d be in any position to enjoy it.

Isolde hesitated, but not long enough to annoy him. She passed his discarded jacket lying on the bed, Rhapsody shimmering on top. Again, she didn’t try it. Pouring herself a heavy glass, she downed the entire thing, then poured again. Nearly escaping, crying her eyes out and waiting for death in this overwarm bedroom had probably dehydrated her. 

“Currently?” she swallowed, voice already clearer as a result of the wine. “You’ve had spawn before?”

“A few. All gone now.”

“Why?”

“I killed them.” Or they killed themselves, or got themselves killed. It was all the same really. His fault. “I killed them all.”

She didn’t seem surprised by that. She finished off another full glass of wine and said, “Poor Alice.”

“Yes. She is truly the victim here.”

But Isolde ignored him. “You didn’t make any of them into true vampires?”

“No. That would be a terrible idea. As I said, one appeal of spawn is that they have to obey me. A true vampire could do what they liked, and create spawn of their own that have to obey them, and it gets untenable before long. There are natural rivals aplenty, without designing my own demise.”

“What are the other appeals?”

“Hmm?”

“You said one appeal. You said it twice, actually. Why do you keep making spawn, just to kill them?”

“I like it when people do as I say.” He thought that much would be obvious.

The look on Isolde’s face could only be described as doubt. She frowned into the glass in her hand, half-empty with the last of wine from the decanter, now empty and discarded on his bed, next to his coat. Not much of a maid, then. “Even if they don’t have a choice?”

“Wouldn’t that just make it very simple?”

“Not if the point is for them to want to do what you say,” she finished her glass.

She might have something there, but he didn’t want to dwell on it, and in any case, Isolde wouldn’t let him.

“Maybe that’s why you keep killing them? Or is it the other appeal, the one you won’t say? You remain unsatisfied?” 

“Well, yes.”

“But you keep trying. Maybe Alice will be different?”

She wouldn’t be, but Astarion wasn’t sure why he felt that way so immediately. “What about you, Isolde? Would you be any different?”

Her eyes widened, and she finally looked up at him, just a glance, then she turned away again. That same look of doubt, almost a pout, and her lip trembled. “Don’t tease me,” she said.

“I’m not,” and he realized he wasn’t. That sort of cruelty wasn’t exactly above him, but he was considering her. There was something resilient about Isolde. Clever. He’d turned someone for less than that.

“Before you were a true vampire… you were a spawn?” Isolde also knew how to ask the right questions. Maybe that was dangerous. Maybe dangerous would be a welcome change.

“I was never a true vampire,” Astarion corrected her. “I was a spawn. Then, I became a new kind of monster. My—I was never true.”

“What was it like to be a spawn? You had to do whatever… you had to obey?”

She was quick too. He hadn’t spoken that name, hadn’t even alluded to it in years, and in the moment he almost slipped, she caught it and then caught herself. She might not be the worst company, all things considered. “Yes,” Astarion conceded. “I had to obey.”

“Did you have to do things that you didn’t want to do?”

“Every day. Horrible things. I’m rather kind, in comparison.”

“Kind to the spawn you keep killing?” Isolde’s selective sharpness wasn’t off-putting, he found. Oh yes. He’d turn her. De Cloyo wouldn’t like it, but again, why did he have to know? She could stay here, tucked away. He could teach her, lead her. It would be different this time. Everything that had gone wrong with the others, it was because he’d been too permissive with them. He hadn’t controlled them the way that he should. 

The hunger, the isolation, it was difficult to manage. If he didn't command them in all things, they hurt themselves, hurt others, and made themselves a nuisance. He knew all too well that the longevity of a vampire lord came down to their ability to amass power without attracting the ire or vengeance of any righteous heroes.

His erstwhile spawns had been allowed far too much freedom, too quickly. They weren’t ready. That was his failure. He’d be careful this time. He’d keep her close.

“I can be kind,” Astarion knew he wasn’t lying, but she didn’t, from that look on her face. “It’s a modest operation. Maybe I had larger designs at one time, but—the thing about grand designs is that they tend to… go horribly wrong and get you sacrificed in your own ritual. Well deserved. You wouldn’t be inducted into some cabal of ancient diabolical nonsense—you’d just live on. Forever. As one of mine.”

“Forever?” Isolde’s doubt was almost comical, she shook her head, but didn’t say what he could tell she wanted to say—some variation of the caveat that he could always just kill her once he was sick of her. Like he had all the others.

It would be different this time.

But, she wanted to live. He knew that for certain the moment she finally looked him in the eye. Maybe she’d resisted for so long because she suspected him capable of some passive hypnotism. 

Her eyes were a lovely hazel. But, they would look good red. She did seem a little hypnotized, he thought, or maybe it was the three glasses of wine she’d downed on an empty stomach, or whatever De Cloyo’s people had given her to sedate her before bringing her here. Her shoulders relaxed. Her hands absentmindedly rose to fix her ruined dress again, she searched him with that gaze. She wasn’t a stunning beauty per se, especially not in her present, distressed state, but she had an appeal that was only enhanced by a bit of blood, sweat and anxiety.

He didn’t think he had to sell it much further. The choice was turn or die, and he’d made that choice himself a long time ago. One of the oldest memories he still had, thinking that it was really no choice at all. Of course she’d say yes.

“No.”

What? 

He tried not to betray his surprise, sure this was some gambit. He just stared at her, waiting for her to reveal the twist.

“No. Thank you. I think I’ll just die.”

He wanted to laugh, but nothing came out. 

Isolde crossed the room, the tremble visibly returning to her whole body as she approached.

Astarion stood, frowning down at her. He was wrong, then? That hadn’t been a will to survive that he’d seen in her? Or, if it was, it was the last flare before it went out. Outrage, disbelief. He couldn't settle on a reaction to perform. I think I’ll just die? Absurd. She was mad. 

“I might try to run,” she confessed, and then added, “or, when I feel it happening—I might say I’ve changed my mind. Please don’t heed me. Just keep going until I’m gone. Truly gone. And don’t let me come back.”

He breathed in deep, and she mirrored him. For an instant he savored the taste of her in the air, even sullied and stressed, there was something fresh and savory and sweet in her scent all the same, like the berry bushes that stubbornly grew near saltwater waves. It almost made him feel hungry again, but not enough to look forward to killing her.

She shook worse than ever, crumbling a little. She leaned into him, holding him at the waist and he felt her waiver, like her knees were giving out beneath her. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and tightened into fists. “Would you do one thing for me, first?”

He wasn’t in the habit of granting last requests, but in spite of himself, was curious to know what she’d ask for. Surely, she was hiding the knife behind her back, or something, wasn’t she? No, both her hands were digging into him, he could feel her desperately anchoring herself to him. And Rhapsody lay where he left it on the bed.

Isolde held his eyes as they came back to find her, “Kiss me.”

There was nothing fey, or arcane about her. Nothing remotely threatening, or hinting of subterfuge. She was just frightened and… very sad. He pitied her, almost refused her on principle. 

He didn’t realize he still had those.

Astarion let her hold onto him, her heart racing like warren prey, her chest flush. He thought she’d probably fall if he stepped away. He lifted both hands to her face, ghosting along her jawline and pressing the blade of his thumb against her full mouth. She held her breath, and he waited until she had to release it before he leaned in and slowly stroked her mouth with his own, catching her lip on his fang and relishing the small moan that escaped her. When he pulled back, she wasn’t fighting not to look at him any longer, her wide, stunning eyes rested on his, she seemed strangely at peace, in spite of her frantic pulse.

Do something. He wanted to shout at her. Was she really giving up, just like that?

She embraced him, tight, hiding her face in his chest, spilling tears on his flesh, and bearing her throat at the same time.

All he had to do was lean in and let his teeth sink, the rest was second nature. His fangs traced their way to the throbbing vein, hardly protected by the thinnest softest skin he’d tasted. He sighed into her, kissed her neck softly, and pulled away.

Isolde stumbled. He’d been right to think she was relying on him to stay upright, because she was on her knees on the ground the moment he moved out from under her embrace. She blinked her eyes open, staring, questioning.

“I didn’t lock the door behind me when I came in,” his voice sounded toneless and lifeless. “Run.”

He’d been starting to think she was truly suicidal, and like so many others, was using him as a quick means to take inconvenient life. A life she didn’t have the energy to fight for, or end, any longer. But the moment he made it clear he wasn’t going to stop her from trying to leave, and wasn’t going to kill her, Isolde bolted.

It was a strange kind of feeling, watching her sprint from the room in a blur of torn fabric and wild hair. He wasn’t sure how he’d won, but the feeling was something like victory. Somehow, for both of them.

The only dark spot was the quiet moments that followed, as he embraced the sinking realization that he was alone and always would be.

[liefst]

Caroline Knapp, Appetites: Why Women Want

[saintmaudes]

[…] what if I were to devour them? Bone and brain and bezoar, the last swallowed whole and unbroken. Would their cells, once edited into nutrients, then parasitize mine? Colonize and civilize the crenellations of my brain, develop into a ghost, a disparate consciousness. If I could answer this with any certainty, I’d consume them in a heartbeat, preserve them in every chapter of my body. I’d do anything but watch them die. Even if payment for their longevity isn’t shared tenancy of this body, but complete monopoly. Better I be reduced to miscreant daydreams of the ocean than be alive without them. Whatever it takes. Anything. Anything, so long as they stay with me.

—Cassandra Khaw, The Salt Grows Heavy

[sharpmouth]

Duma Key, Stephen King

[blackswaneuroparedux]

In society just as in the soul, when hierarchies abdicate, the appetites rule.

- Nicolas Gomez Davila

[cor-ardens-archive]

When disgust or revulsion is confronted and overcome, what was at first disgusting can become delicious.

Carolyn Korsmeyer, ‘Delightful, Delicious, Disgusting’, The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism, vol. 60, no. 3 (2002)

[philosophybitmaps]

[dearorpheus]

"...as far as possible I only read what I am hungry for, at the moment when I have an appetite for it, and then I do not read, I eat."

— Simone Weil, Waiting for God

[heavenlyyshecomes]

女 (woman, feminine): I see a curved standstill / a breath being held in /

It is tiring to be a woman who loves to eat in a society where hunger is something not to be satisfied but controlled. Where a long history of female hunger is associated with shame and madness. The body must be punished for every misstep; for every “indulgence” the balance of control must be restored. To enjoy food as a young woman, to opt out every day from the guilt expected of me, is a radical act, of love. My body often feels like it’s neither here nor there. Too much like this, not enough like that. But however it looks, my body allows me to feel hunger.

—Nina Mingya Powles, Tiny Moons: A Year of Eating in Shanghai

[filmnoirsbian]

november 2023

the devil had a hold on me covered by gregory paul / de selby part 1 by hozier

[spacemonkeysalsa]

Appetites

(Angst and fluff and smut)

It's been five years since the Vampire Ascendant Astarion helped save Baldur's Gate. He has everything he ever wanted, and he's miserable.

Isolde is nobody, and has nothing. When given the option to become a vampire spawn, her response gives Astarion a moment of pause; “No. Thank you. I think I’ll just die.”

Read Chapter One on Ao3

Read Chapter Two on Ao3

Read Chapter Three on Ao3

Read Chapter Four on Ao3

or read Chapter Four below the cut

He spied the bride to be and her groom, and wondered if he could get away with neglecting to pay his respects to the host. Surely, the only people who would really mark his entrance were those who wanted to fuck him, or make a deal with him, or do him harm. As far as he knew, the Eltans didn’t number among any of them.

Some of their guests, however... He saw Baron De Cloyo—who had been all three at one point or another. The last time they spoke was when the Baron interrupted his solitude in the middle of the night to complain about Astarion not having murdered Isolde. As though he’d disobeyed a direct order. 

Astarion had actually been fascinated by how his investment in the relationship utterly vanished in that moment. 

“You know what they say about thine enemy’s enemy,” someone murmured to him, Astarion resisted the urge to tilt his head around and see who it was, waiting instead for the speaker to step around, bow, introduce himself like a civilized person. “Well met,” Baron Horrold eventually fell in line with public decorum and Astarion inclined his head in return.

“You’ll have to remind me,” Astarion knew it would be rude to immediately excuse himself, but Astarion and Horrold had never been officially introduced, so it would also be the kind of thing that could ensure they never did have any productive interaction.

“My take away was always that they present a fine opportunity—something I believe you know how to recognize?”

“Oh, I’ve some experience on the matter, but I do rather enjoy when it’s explained to me,” Astarion lied, but did so smoothly, inviting. Let Horrold show his hand first. There was nothing in particular that Astarion wanted from him, but like any powerful elite in the city, there were always things he could get from him, if he could make the relationship work.

Perhaps Horrold realized his approach had been too eager already, because his cheeks went a little pink. “I just wonder what you did to De Cloyo; seems he dislikes you even more than he dislikes me. Impressive.”

“Oh, I hurt him,” confessed Astarion. “Inadvertently, but there it is,” He caught a waiter and snatched up a glass, draining it more to have something to do than to quench an imaginary thirst. “It wasn’t even about him—but then again, would that make you feel better?”

“No,” Horrold raised an eyebrow at Astarion, expression pensive for a moment, “I’ve never known it to not be about me.”

He sounded so sincere that Astarion had to refrain from releasing a bark of genuine laughter. 

Obviously, he wasn’t depressed. If he was, he couldn’t possibly take so much amusement in the Baron’s complete lack of self-awareness.

“Is it still Baron then, or are we back to calling everyone by their family names only and referring to them as patriars? I rather fell asleep during the missive,” Astarion confessed.

“I like Baron,” Horrold smirked, “even if the Duke did want us to go back to the old ways, I think it would stick as a nickname, if nothing else.”

“Yes, true enough. Policies like that can lead some prick to calling himself ‘The Emperor’ and everyone following suit.”

“I suppose,” Horrold seemed rightly baffled by the comment, but recovered quickly by getting back to his own point, “And nothing can displace my family from the pedestal I’ve carved for them in the city elite. Baldur’s Gate needs us.”

“I’m sure,” Astarion was not sure.

“Your place is curious to me. I’d like to know more. I’d like to be involved.” Horrold kept his voice low, which in their present setting actually made him seem more conspicuous.

But Astarion wasn’t entirely put off. He could be a valuable ally. But he needed to be trained. Better to begin things in a more controlled setting. “Why don’t we arrange something later in the week? I don’t believe I’ve had you in my home before, seems a dreadful social oversight on my part.”

“You’re forgiven, and your invitation accepted,” the Baron gave a curt nod. “I’ll see what my man has on the schedule and arrange something with yours.”

“Excellent.” A bit of an exaggeration, but at least the evening was shaping up to be a productive one. Astarion released the Baron back to the party and forced himself to seek out a few others. Menotuous, tedious conversation followed in much the same vein as what had proceeded, and by the time midnight rolled around, he was drained by it all.

This kind of thing used to be relaxing for him. Social gatherings of the more banal type didn’t give him energy the way a more raucous event might, but it hadn’t felt like work since… 

Since it hadn’t been his choice.

Was that the problem? Was that what had robbed him of his passion, his appetites?

He could do whatever he wanted now, so why did it feel like he was following directions from some unseen master? Someone very boring who he none-the-less had to take direction from?

The simplest answer was that it was because he was doing quite a lot, and none of it felt like his idea anymore. Maybe it never had been.

At one time, the prospect of finally having the freedom to find out what he wanted had kept him from total, intentional self-destruction. But, at some point, he’d taken it for granted. No one was telling him what to do any longer. He could do whatever he wanted.

And he still didn’t know what that was.

He was just doing what… he used to do, minus a few atrocities and diabolical schemes.

Old habits had him slipping into the seams of the party, finding the quiet, intimate places purposefully structured into the Eltan house to allow for tucking away with someone. Not even to make love just out of sight in a public place—though that had its appeal—but just to have them all to himself for a moment, to hold them and watch them watch him and savor every little interaction. All his.

Even when it was meaningless. Just a bit of fun, or even something more tragic. It was the part when he felt the pain and the pleasure heightened.

Assuming he felt anything.

The Eltans had opened their home to the great and the good of Baldur’s Gate, but that was apparently a broad category of persons because the manor house was overburdened with bodies. It took a hike into the next wing to find any isolation. Someone had clearly planned for and enabled the possibility that some of the guests might wander to find some privacy, because the candelabra were still lit, all the way into the more deserted halls.

The library seemed like a quiet place to find a comfortable lounge. He needed a moment to clear his head before he went back to that place that didn’t feel like home, though he’d lived there for centuries.

What did he want? 

When was the last time he was sure he’d done something he really wanted to do? It could be something small, he just needed to think.

Astarion wasn’t the only person who had been looking for a little privacy in the crowded party, however. He entered the softly lit library, only to find it occupied. The couple didn’t notice him come in, right away.

They were propped up on a writing desk that was a little too dainty for their purposes. The woman had her legs dangling on either side of her partner as he seemed to struggle with her bodice between them. They clearly hadn’t quite gotten to the act yet, but at this rate Astarion doubted that they would, and couldn’t help but evaluate the whole scene and find it wanting on a few levels. 

Gods, the man was doing it all wrong and the woman did nothing to help. Absolutely no support to any part of her body, she was just sitting there, trapped against the wall behind the desk, pinned in such a way so she couldn’t even use her hands. Then he saw the woman’s eyes over the man’s shoulders.

It was Isolde.

And, she wasn’t exactly fighting her partner off, but it was obvious in the stiff way she held her limbs that she didn’t want to be there.

He waited until she saw him, her gaze widened but she didn’t say anything, just stayed frozen and trapped where she was.

Astarion spared the immediate area a glance and noticed a crystal glass vase on display on its own shelf on the wall. Something to divide the otherwise relentless rows of dusty books. With an undisguised shove, he toppled it to the ground, expecting it to shatter on the polished wood floors.

To his disappointment, the vase bounced, ringing loudly from the impact, but it was fully intact still.

The man pawing at Isolde broke away from her with a yelp and whirled around.

“Gods, how embarrassing,” Astarion swanned along the nearest bookshelf, “had no idea anyone was in here.”

The man was quite good at buttoning up his own trousers quickly, even if his other movements could use some polish. He righted his waistcoat with a tug, but didn’t spare Isolde a look. His face was quite red, but aside from that, didn’t betray the slightest reaction. He eyed Astarion, but whatever judgment he passed on him didn’t reach his lips, instead he simply said, “No one is,” and quit the room.

Melodramatic, even for a patriar.

Astarion watched the man’s back as he slunk into the hallway, then turned to face Isolde, unsure if he’d be met with gratitude or wrath or relief or—

She looked distraught. So much so that it actually stopped him mid stride as he approached her. Isolde righted her skirts, and put her feet back on the ground, but was facing her shoes even as his shade fell on her. He was just about to ask her whatever was the matter, when she recovered. 

He blinked and the shame on her face was replaced entirely.

In its place she wore a placid mask. “You’ve saved me again, My Lord.”

“You didn’t appear to be enjoying yourself,” he remarked with what he hoped was a particularly casual version of his most elegant shrug. “I do hope the manner in which I interfered was the right choice for the situation. I suppose I could have offered to educate the poor fool  on his technique.”

“It didn’t break,” Isolde indicated the vase, still on the ground where Astarion left it.

“Ah, so it would seem,” Astarion returned to the discarded vase and picked it up, “no harm done, but then again—” he dropped it a second time, this time putting a little force into it. The Vase shattered in a satisfying rain of sparkling crystals that sprinkled across his fine boots. “There. A little wedding present for the Eltans. Nothing better than curiosity, is there? I wonder who they’ll blame?”

Isolde regarded him with eyebrows slightly raised. He thought it looked a little like she was resisting the urge to laugh. Why resist? He found he rather liked making her laugh. “Wicked of you,” she indulged in only a smirk, her attention briefly flitting back to the front of her bodice. She appeared to be wearing the same gray silk gown that she’d had on when he saw her at Wyrm’s rock. It was one of those items designed to be appropriate for day or night, and probably the nicest thing she owned, but all the same, suggested a certain level of neglect that her Lady let Isolde be seen in it twice in such quick succession.

“You seem a touch dour, or is it just the disappointment left by an inadequate lover?”

“I’m elated, honestly,” she said in a voice so unconvincing he half expected her to burst into tears the moment after she said it. “My Lady will be the one disappointed. But I think I can endure it better than I could endure him.”

“Your Lady? What’s it to do with her?”

“She was quite set on rewarding his aid to the family with whatever he wanted, and he wanted me,” she revealed simply.

Astarion felt an old pain, deep in his empty gut. 

Her expression changed when she looked at him, like she’d seen something unexpected. She checked her hair with her fingers, trying to tame where he’d kneaded at her carefully coiffed hair, bringing it down in messy curls where it was meant to be pinned back.

“Allow me?” Astarion motioned to her hair, waiting for her to allow him to touch her.

For a moment Isolde looked like she didn’t understand, but then she lowered her hands and nodded, straightening out her neck and leaning in so he could work with what she had left.

Isolde wore a thin band just above her hairline and tucked under the nap of her neck, mostly hidden as she’d braided and pinned the curls into it to create an elegant, gradually elongating fall of dark hair that flowed down the back of her neck. It was loose, which didn’t seem to be the original intent in the work. Astarion tried to find where it was fixed to her scalp, perhaps it simply needed to be tightened.

Being this close to her again caused him to reflect on the night they met, and how she’d clung to him. Her pulse was speeding up again, and he hoped she wasn’t thinking about that. Reflecting on the night one almost died couldn't be much better than reflecting on the night one did die. She didn’t seem upset though, and the way her heart raced didn’t suggest that she was thinking about running for her life, it was the familiar, nearly dancing rhythm of increasing body heat and arousal.

Her face was serene, her breathing even. He liked being close to her, liked feeling how she liked it too, but he didn’t want to find himself mistaken. He shouldn’t assume. Even if she did want him, which he was fairly certain she did, he was too well versed in these matters to dismiss the reality that surely, some part of her was waiting to be rescued from him.

 “Hywel won’t bother me again,” she exhaled slowly, but still he didn’t think her nerves were those of someone who wanted him to get as far away from her as possible. “You probably didn’t get a good look at his face when he realized we weren’t alone. He was furious. Like he suddenly remembered how worthless I am and—he’ll deny he ever wanted me. As I said. I��m saved.”

“Worthless?” That gave him a little pause and Astarion sighed. “Oh dear. This probably isn’t the kind of thing I can offer much of a counterpoint for, sweet one.” The band pulling her hair together wasn’t just loose, it was broken. The brute must have snapped it. Astarion realized if he tried to return even one more lock of hair back to its place, the whole thing would probably fall out, so he took a moment to assess the task.

“I’d ask for none,” but she said it with such a heavy sigh that it was clear she had been hoping for some soothing word. 

From Astarion, of all possible monsters.

“To be perfectly honest, I don’t have the highest regard for the sanctity of any life, nor for the individual.”

“I suppose you couldn’t,” Isolde observed, “that would interfere with…”

“Sustaining my existence by consuming others? Somewhat, yes,” Astarion straightened up and walked around the side of the writing desk, trying to get a better look at the back of her head. “We may need to rethink strategy on this, I’m sorry to say.”

“Oh no, is it hopeless?” Isolde started to reach for her hair again, but the smart girl stopped before she made it worse, looking at Astarion out of the corner of her eye. “Help. Please.”

“All is not lost. Give me a moment.” Astarion rested his chin on his hand, taking in the whole image of her. The goal needed to be to find a way to style her hair that looked effortlessly elegant and not like she had just haphazardly attempted to restyle it without a mirror after being amorously groped in a dark library. “Permission to start anew?”

“I knew it. I’m hideous. Do what you must.”

“Oh, yes. Repulsive,” Astarion gave her a lecherous glance that he was quite pleased to see caused her face, neck and chest to all turn bright red. He slipped the tie from her hair and let the last of the curls fall. “Turn your neck. Good girl.”

Half-up would suit her, he just needed to decide on the height and the type of braid and how to plait it. 

Surely, Isolde didn’t really hold herself in such poor regard. She was just hoping to inspire some sympathy in him so he would pay her compliments. But then he thought back to that night again, and how she hadn’t fought for herself. 

It would have been so easy to despise her for such despair and cowardice. Maybe he ought to. 

Giving all the way up on herself like that, what could one expect? If she didn’t care about herself, why should anyone else?

“Worth is often measured in comparisons,” he mused, loosening the braid with deft fingers as he decided it was too tight, better to look soft with the rest of her curly mane. “But. I have seen gods, celestials, inscrutable fey, and devils fall as ignominiously as any poor mortal wretch. In the end, we’re all equally worthwhile, and all equally worthless.”

Isolde already looked better. He was quite good at this. 

“Take that for what comfort you can. You have just as much a right to live, and be a nuisance, and take others for your prey as anyone.”

She snorted, and he couldn’t tell for a moment if she was once again denying him the pleasure of hearing her laugh, or trying to hold something else back. 

“Apologies,” he smoothed out the fall of her hair, tucked the frame back behind her cute stubby human ears and admired the results. “Not for the hair, that looks incredible. I’m very good. But, I do apologize that nothing I have to say can be of particular comfort. Especially given the fact that I’m a reminder of the worst night of your life.”

She did laugh, finally. A sharp, nearly bitter sound. “My Lord, I testify, that night was not even the tenth worst of my life.” All humor gone, but she did look lovely.

“I’m genuinely distressed to hear it. But you're in good company, at least.”

“For the moment,” he wasn’t sure what sparked the feeling, it might have been the soft smile and evasive blush when she faced him and the way her entire body seemed to relax when their eyes met again. For the first time in a long while, he felt the stirring of hunger. It wasn’t so strong as to compel him to lean in and bite down, but warmth spread up from the pit of him into his jaws and he felt his mouth salivate. It was a pleasant feeling, actually. He used to agonize over the constant hum of hunger. He used to personify it as a second tormentor, but removed from his old fears and weaknesses, it transformed into something different, though no less dangerous.

He didn’t need to feed. His elevated state kept him strong even after long fasts, and spare feasts, but the sweet savor of strong blood was an intoxicating memory that he’d managed to connect with after a few dull years of dissatisfaction. He knew in that moment that if he did bite her, he would finally feel that rush that had eluded him. But, if he went too far, he’d regret it.

For a moment, Isolde regarded him with bemusement, but he saw understanding starting to light her face, and tension returned to her neck and shoulders. “You’re… thinking about killing me again, aren’t you?”

“No,” he insisted, partly honest—he’d only thought about it long enough to confirm that he wouldn’t. “No,” he put a hand on her forearm, letting his thumb caress the inside of her wrist. “No, but I was thinking of asking something rather impertinent.”

“Oh, I adore impertinence.” Isolde pressed into his touch, fingertips finding purchase on one of the fine silver buttons on the front of his waistcoat. Her knees began to part, shuffling the fabric of her dress and making space for him to wade into her touch.

She would have made such a fun spawn. Perhaps she still could.

He grabbed her jaw, more firmly than intended, but she didn’t flinch and he lightened his touch to ghost his fingers down her throat. That throbbing quickened, and he felt it glide to keep pace with his own rhythm. “You entice me. May I?” It wasn’t fair, probably, to wait until his lips were brushing the soft skin just beneath her eyes to ask. 

What chance did she have? Indeed, he felt her breath already coming in ragged. 

“Just a taste,” he punctuated with a light kiss over her racing artery. “And you can say no. Forget pertinence. the titles, the traditions of the Gate, the fine rooms in old houses. Some day, our Duke, your masters,  will be dead as any rat that drowns in the Chionthar and all with burn, and maybe while wandering the fugue plane they’ll realize they made it all up and it was pointless. What matters right now, is what you want, and what I want. So, tell me yes, or tell me no. Do you want to be tasted?”

“Astarion,” she said in a soft gasp, “please.”

“Say that again,” he purred into her throat, letting his teeth brush her flesh.

“Yes. Astarion, please.” Isolde pulled at him, encouraging him to press in more firmly against her, though it already felt like he was falling on top of her.

Astarion pinched the soft skin of her neck between his teeth, but didn’t break through just yet, he could smell the blood, but wouldn't drink yet. He enjoyed the sensation of her shivering anticipation under his breath. He cupped her head, to keep her from collapsing away from him, his other hand finding purchase at the very center of her neckline, gently brushing her flushed and heaving chest.

“Oh, God,” she whispered when he finally bit down. Her grip on him tightened, and he could feel blood and breath coursing through her, into him. The warmth of her spilled into his mouth. She tasted better than he’d imagined, but the yearning lust for her couldn’t be satisfied with a mouthful. He wanted more of her. Her blood, her body, and more of that voice crying his name.

If you take more, you could lose her. Just like you lost everything else. Astarion stopped, but kept his mouth pressed against the seeping marks as she rocked her hips against his, her legs straining to embrace him. The rush of warm blood seemed to flow straight to his cock. A sharper, more desperate gasp ripped from her throat. “Astarion, I—” she covered her mouth, falling to pieces in his arms as thousands had before. He held her close, hands pressing into her back and sliding downwards to her hips, encouraging her to grind into him, a titillating whine escaped her lips.

He forced himself to release her and leaned back. All things considered, the bite was clean and she barely seemed woozy. Instead, Isolde’s eyes were wide, sparkling, she shook her head in disbelief, “I can’t believe—tell me that’s normal, please?” The heat in her face had caused her to break out in glistening sweat in her hairline. “I’m mortified,” she confessed.

“Can’t say I’ve ever made anyone come just from biting them before,” Astarion wiped his mouth, with the blade of his thumb, not wanting to waste a drop. “At least not so enthusiastically. You’re delicious, my dear.”

Mortified accurately described how she looked. He tried not to betray a level of amusement that would embarrass her further, but Gods, it was funny. If she wouldn’t laugh, then he could make her cry out again. The moment of ebb had actually made him harder, and he started to gather her skirt up in his fists, but the look on her face gave him pause.

“Isolde. What’s the matter?” He heard the way concern sounded so sharp in his voice, and took a small breath, trying to tame it, trying to soften the words. “You’re all right.” He let go of her dress, letting it fall, and laid his hands over hers, cautious, and she managed a steady exhale that seemed to calm her. Though she still looked a little lost through her pretty face. 

“You’ve done nothing wrong. There’s no need to feel…” what Astarion wanted to say twisted in his throat. He realized he didn’t actually know how she felt. He knew how he used to feel. He knew why he used to feel that way. It was tempting to project onto her, but then he’d probably just end up being wrong. He hated being wrong. “Are you still afraid of me?” 

Was that all? Some conflict in her soul? Some distant voice of self preservation telling her to run from the predator?

Gradually she nodded, but then said, “It’s not what you think.”

“Tell me what I think,” he challenged.

“I don’t believe you’ll hurt me,” Isolde started, and the tender way her sparkling black eyes rested on him tugged at some buried moment. “Or, I don’t believe you want to hurt me. Rather… this is all just fun for you, isn’t it? It doesn’t mean anything.”

Well. Fuck. This again. He’d hoped she wasn’t so tender-hearted. It was easy enough to fane a little sincerity to preserve her feelings. He’d done it hundreds of times and had perfected the smile, the gentle delivery of exactly what she wanted to hear; “of course it means something. Of course I care for you. In my way.” But he couldn’t bring himself to say it, to wear the mask again, even if it was in an attempt to make her feel better.

“No, Isolde. It doesn’t mean anything.” Astarion didn’t know if he was being cruel or kind. He’d always struggled to evaluate such things in the first place. He’d simply landed on the understanding that he didn’t have to lie to her, and he didn’t want to. “At least, it doesn’t mean what you want it to.” 

She was looking down at their hands, folded over one another in her lap. Was she more disappointed in him or in herself?

“Precious few people have ever let me feed off them. Most of the time, my diet of strong blood comes from the very unwilling. When I do get the rare chance to share in a moment like that one… I realize it’s a gift, and I am grateful. But. I cannot give you what you want in return. No matter how much I might want to. I’m not sure I’m capable.”

“I know that,” Isolde sounded steady enough but still wouldn’t break her intense study of her own lap and their hands clasped together there. “I do. And, I didn’t expect otherwise. It’s not really a gift otherwise,” she shrugged. “I just… I also didn’t expect to like it so much,” her voice sharpened to a whisper, “and I think for a moment I got a little carried away. Forgive me.”

“You got rather carried away is what happened,” Astarion corrected her with one raised eyebrow, “And I too, liked it much more than I expected.” He didn’t want to let go of her hands just yet, but he did want her to look up at him. He leaned it to tease a kiss, letting the tip of his nose touch her cheek. It worked, and her head shot up, mouth listing for his own, eyes fluttering.

He pulled back, “As I said, you did nothing wrong. There’s nothing to forgive.” In this one way, he didn’t have to be measured, didn’t have to hold onto some part of himself for control. He captured her mouth with his own. His coaxing was effective, in that she seemed to forget her sadness, or maybe she was using it. She reciprocated, eager, sloppy even, she slipped her hands free from his, and her fingers found their way to the back of his neck, working into the hair at the nap of his neck.

She delved deeper with her tongue, her legs tightening around him again. If he let her take control, what would she do? Although there was something decidedly inexperienced about some of her smaller, flailing little movements, he was tempted for a moment to let her guide him, and see where she took them. She broke away with a gasp, short of breath already. 

Breath was something he didn’t actually need, which made certain acts so much easier for him. Her eyes were glassy, but alight, the rush of red through her face and chest intensified as she looked at him, seemingly unable to articulate her desire, or her question, or maybe any words at all as she swallowed and took another steadying breath.

He’d have to spare her again, it seemed. She was simply in no condition to be coherent.

Astarion slid to his knees between her spread legs, gathering the silk skirts up to her hips again with her latent, but eventually frantic help. In the low light, he couldn’t see much, but he slid one hand up the inside of her thigh, just ghosting the trembling flesh until his fingers pressed into her. Her underwear was soaked, her cunt throbbing just on the other side. He hooked his fingers through the fabric. She let out a small gasp, her legs instinctively coming together a moment as he pressed into her wet, sensitive clit before beginning to pull the underwear off.

She gasped again, but this one was different—Isolde shot up from the table, pushing her skirts back down, and Astarion released his grip on the underwear he’d managed to work down to the middle of her fat thighs. She was looking past him, eyes wide at the doorway.

This library must be cursed.

Astarion swiveled his head around, and wasn’t terribly surprised to see a pair of young ladies—he didn’t recognize them, but they were dressed fashionably enough that they could easily be the daughters of some patriar families. They looked surprised to see him in a way that suggested, that they did, in fact, know him.

He stole a sideways glance at Isolde, still as red in the face as ever, though the context was suddenly sheepish. Mortified. He remembered her saying just minutes ago.

Their encounter wouldn’t recover from this. He could probably carry on, but Isolde? She’d been caught in a compromising position for the second time in a single night. Maybe she’d had too much to drink. Maybe she was the source of the curse. Maybe, now was a good moment to rethink everything. 

He sighed internally and then released it, and approached the women at an angle, blocking his would-be partner from sight, to give Isolde another moment to pull herself together. “My apologies,” he gave a small bow. “Alas, you have indeed thwarted a terrible rake. The poor woman’s virtue remains intact, thanks to your timing.”

He thought he heard something like a laugh coming from Isolde, but he could have been imagining it.

“How scandalous,” one of the girls giggled behind her hand.

“Oh, quite,” Astarion agreed with another drawn out sigh. “But, they’ll be other days and other unoccupied libraries. This one is all yours,” and he gathered up every inch of both of them in a searching look, “For. Whatever it is you need it for. The two of you.”

The two young women gawked up at him, mouths open. “Oh—ah, no,” one of them finally protested, “I was just going to show her a book—”

“Yes. Charming books in here! I assume,” Astarion let out a chuckle. Isolde appeared by his shoulder. Her hair still looked excellent, and she’d gotten cinched up tight rather quickly. He wondered if she’d abandoned her underwear, somehow situated it back into position that quickly—or if the garment was still constricting her thighs right where he’d left it, just a few soft inches below that delicious little wet cunt.

“Excuse us,” he shooed the ladies aside and ushered Isolde through the doorway without a backward glance, though he heard a scoff from one of them. He didn’t bother to wait until they were out of earshot before he said to Isolde, “well, if they weren’t going to fuck before, they should now.”

“You think so?” Isolde cleared her throat. She was still flushed, still obviously quite overwarm and underworked, but he knew better than to think they would get another chance now.

“In my experience, most people just need an opportunity and a suggestion.”

“Oh,” was all Isolde had to say to that.

He checked his buttons with the tips of his fingers but everything was still perfectly in place; Figaro had such an admirable understanding of the need for a waistcoat that hid one’s erection.

It had felt like such a long, wandering path through the Eltan estate’s dark hallways to get here, but as the two of them marched back, it seemed like they were woefully close to the rest of the merriment and the crowd after all. He stopped her, taking her by the arm and bringing them both to a halt before they could come back into the glow of the party, just at the mouth of the last deserted turn of the hall.

Isolde melted into the pressure of his touch, turning back to face him, eyes trailing along his lips back up to his eyes. He wondered if some part of her hoped to be stolen away into another deserted room to finish what they started—or perhaps she’d even submit to him right here.

“I want to take you home, and tie you to the bed, and keep you there to do with as I like,” he traced the backs of his fingers down the side of her face, watching his words shiver through her. “I am not certain Horrold would approve. But there’s easy ways around that. I can be patient. If I send for you, will you come to me?”

“I want to,” Isolde swallowed, something bubbling up in her breathless words. A similar reluctance to what he’d seen in her before. Was she sure she wanted this? Was she frightened? Yes. That was probably it.

“What are you afraid of?” It was something besides what she’d said before, he could tell. The fact that he was just looking for a good time and she was in danger of getting hurt was a risk she was clearly willing to assume, when it came down to it.

“I do not want to be a spawn,” Isolde said firmly.

Astarion let out a single note of a laugh; dismissive and cruel his voice sounded, he felt a slight twisting in his gut. “I know. I remember. You’d rather die. No worries, my dear. I have no intention of trying to change your mind.” A lie. Perhaps, the kind that was so obvious it would barely be called a lie, but still. “And how could I? I saw for myself that your desire to be free outweighed even your desire to live.” Her full, swollen mouth was so close and still so warm and soft from their encounter. He stole one more kiss, brief and teasing under the conditions. “What other desire could possibly be stronger than that?”

Isolde responded with a sharpening stare, and finally a shrug.

Astarion could have laughed at her again, but resisted the urge. “I’ll see you later darling, I’m sure.”

[liefst]

Caroline Knapp, Appetites: Why Women Want

Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

[deinnos]

“I want you to love me and eat me, bones and all.”

— Bones and All (2022) dir. Luca Guadagnino