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the-art-of-ancunin · 3 months

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I'll Be Good [One-Shot]

Summary: As the newest addition to the Vampire Ascendent's twisted little family, you've already proven yourself to be the most vexatious, obstinate, and thankless child he's had the pleasure of breaking. Though he hasn't succeeded quite yet, Astarion is determined to make you bend to his will, to mold you into something useful...though he realizes that perhaps his original intentions may have been a bit off the mark when you manage to pierce through his carefully built walls and awaken something in him that he assumed had perished long ago.

Pairing: Ascended!Astarion x Spawn!Female Reader

Content Warning(s): SMUT, dirty talk, Daddy kink, Creampie, P-in-V, unprotected sex, some overstimulation, etc.

Please let me know if I missed anything.

Also, again... I did not proofread this, no beta-reader, so it might be shit. Let's find out together.

Word Count: 4.9K

The moon hung like a pale specter against the blackened sky, casting a cold, silvery glow over the Crimson Palace as you approached its looming gates. The air was thick with the scent of decay and spices, mingling with the bitter tang of your own despair. Your steps were soundless against the well-worn cobblestones, betraying no hint of your return. Your mind churned with revulsion; you had ventured into Baldur's Gate under the gloom of night, not exactly as a predator but as bait, tasked to ensnare an innocent for your Master’s insatiable appetite.

"Six months," you whispered to yourself, the words a ghostly mist in the chill air. "Six months of this cursed existence." At first, Master Astarion had been lenient, allowing you time to adapt to the thirst that now clawed at your insides, to the newfound strength that coiled in your muscles like a dormant serpent. But his patience had waned and his expectations had risen like the tide.

"Useful" – the word twisted in your gut, a cruel mockery of servitude. You could scrub the castle from top to bottom until your hands bled anew, yet it would never be enough. Fetching trinkets, scrubbing stone, and worse…much worse. This was to be your life, and it all boiled down to control - to Astarion's iron grip on the reins of power, forcing you and everyone else to dance to his whims. You were no stranger to playing the pawn, your life prior stood as testament to the manipulation suffered by those who claimed authority over you. But at least back then, you figured, death would have been the end of it.

"There you are," a voice slithered from the shadows. You immediately stiffened, your undead heart a frozen shard in your chest. Astarion sat, reclined in a beautifully crafted chair situated near the front door - the dim light glinting off his gilded chalice, the crimson liquid within a stark reminder of your grim existence.

"Master," you acknowledged, the title a leaden weight on your tongue.

"Out and about, playing the part of the dutiful daughter?" His smirk cut through the darkness, a blade honed by centuries of cunning. "Yet, you return to me empty-handed. Again."

Your resolve flickered as you met his gaze, those vermillion eyes a tempest of enigmatic desires. "The night was...unkind to me, I admit. My apologies," you lied smoothly, your voice a practiced melody of regret.

"Unkind," he echoed mockingly. "For as pretty as you are, my sweet, it's quite astonishing how you've proven to be such a lousy whore. We all must earn our keep in this family, Y/N. You know this." His tone held the chill of an unspoken threat.

"Of course, Master," you said, your voice betraying none of the turmoil that raged within you. Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms, a small act of defiance against his suffocating rule.

"Words are but wind, my dear," He continued, rising gracefully to stand before you. "Actions are what bind us – or condemn us."

You could feel the weight of his scrutiny, as tangible as the stone walls that encased them. Every instinct screamed to flee, to rail against the chains that bound you to his side, but survival was a lesson hard-learned. Composure was your shield, obedience your sword.

"I'd be more than happy to clean this palace top to bottom every day until the sky falls down," you replied, each word measured and deliberate. "I've told you this a hundred times or more. I'll gladly earn my keep, but I am not going to whore myself just to keep your snack cupboard stocked. I'm not that type of girl and not even you can take that from me. I won't let you."

You let out a strangled yelp as your Master’s iron grip encircled your throat, the cold touch of his fingers a stark contrast to the fire that had been kindling between you moments before. Your feet dangled helplessly above the marble floor, your back collided harshly against the unforgiving stone wall behind you. His eyes, dark as you had ever seen them, burned into yours with an intensity that could sear flesh.

"Displeased, are we?" he sneered, the venom in his voice dripping like acid. "The world outside these walls is a cruel one, darling. You know that...but if you'd rather go waltzing back into your father's open arms...well, that can be arranged. That drunkard who treated you like filth? My...I'm sure he'd be quite surprised to see you."

Your blood pounded in your ears, each thrum a drumroll of panic and resignation. You could feel the oppressive weight of Astarion's power crushing your spirit, but the thought of returning to your father's brutality was a fate worse than any torment your master could devise. In a choked whisper borne of fear and desperation, you managed to utter, "No, no, no - Please..."

"Good," He growled. "So we have an understanding, then?"

Your nod was almost imperceptible, your gaze not leaving his. The silence stretched taut between you until you added softly, with a trace of disdain you couldn't suppress, "Yes, Daddy ."

His vermillion eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint flashing within their depths. "What was that?" he demanded, his voice low and threatening.

Shit.

"Nothing, Master. I just said yes." Your words were barely audible, a mere breath carried on the stagnant air of the corridor.

"No. Say it again. As you did before," he commanded, something primal awakening inside him.

You hesitated. His grip tightened.

"Yes, Daddy." The words slipped from your lips, strained and hesitant. You couldn't decipher the look that painted his beautiful yet terrifying face—a mosaic of power, anger, and something else you dared not name.

He released his hold, allowing you to slide down the wall, your legs quivering as they struggled to support your weight. He didn't step away, though; instead, he caged you within the prison of his arms, his presence enveloping you. His hand, no longer a vise on your neck, traced a path up your trembling form, coming to rest beneath your chin, tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

"Look at me," he whispered, his thumb brushing across your lower lip with a gentleness that belied the ferocity of his earlier actions.

You obeyed, your eyes locking onto his. There was no escaping the raw desire that swirled in those fathomless pools. The tension crackled between you, electric and overwhelming.

"Are you afraid, little one?" he asked, his voice a seductive purr that resonated in the hollows of your chest.

"Of you? Don't flatter yourself," Your reply came out steadier than you felt, the rebellious spark within you flickering to life despite the danger.

Your Master chuckled, the sound rumbling deep within his chest. "You should be. There are so very many things that I could do to you, sweet girl."

His breath brushed against your skin, igniting a shiver that danced along your spine.

"Perhaps it's time we renegotiate the terms of this little arrangement of ours, yes?" He purred, his grip on your chin tightening ever so slightly.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, a cruel mockery of affection. You swallowed hard, your throat dry with fear and anticipation.

"What do you mean?" you squeaked, your voice barely more than a whisper.

"I rule over this palace, this city, and over my... beloved children, with an iron first - it's true," he spoke lowly, his gaze never leaving yours, "But an unreasonable man, I am not. You want to refuse to work - to help provide for yourself and your family? For me, the man who gifted you with life eternal and stole you away from the misery of your previous existence? Who took you in from the slums to live in luxury inside of his palace? Well...so be it, darling. You don't want to whore yourself out on the streets? Fine . Allow me to show you what's to be expected of you now - think of this as a chance to prove your worth, hm? If you do well, you'll never have to set foot in the city ever again ."

You hesitated for a moment too long, the uncertainty in your eyes betraying you. Astarion's hand left your chin, replacing it with a firm grip around your upper arm, leading you down the shadowy corridor.

"Come now," he said, his tone gruff but laced with promise. "Let us test your... endurance , shall we?"

The darkness enveloped you as you journeyed deeper into the palace, each step echoing ominously in the dank corridors. With every passing moment, you felt more and more like you were spiraling into an abyss you could never escape.

Astarion stopped abruptly, pulling you to a halt in front of a heavy wooden door. Your stomach dropped.

The Kennels.

The knob turned with a groan, and the door swung open to reveal a small, windowless room, the air inside heavy with the scent of ancient blood and endless anguish.

You took a deep breath, your undead heart twisting violently in your chest. This was where all the "expendable" assets of the household were kept, the lowest of the low - and you knew it.

"Inside," He commanded coldly.

"No!" You cried as you tried to pull away from his grip, "Please, no! I'll be good - Please! Please, I swear it!" But his hold on you only tightened, his fingertips digging into your arm.

"You're going to learn, my dear," He murmured, his voice low and hungry, "You're going to learn to submit to me, one way or another."

With a harsh shove, you stumbled forward into the room. Air rushed out of your lungs as you hit the cold, unyielding stone beneath you, the room's darkness swallowing you whole. Astarion stood over you, his pale silhouette framed by the doorway.

"Careful now, pet," He cooed, clicking his tongue in faux concern. His voice was a melody that belied the danger it carried. "Are you hurt?"

Your palms stung with abrasions as you shuffled backward, your gaze locked onto the elf who towered above you. You hastily examined yourself, feeling the sting of fresh scrapes on your knees, the evidence of your flesh's betrayal: small droplets of blood blossoming against your skin. "I'm fine," you managed, your voice steadier than you felt, propped up on trembling elbows, the fabric of your dress offering scant protection from the chill of the room.

"Fine," he repeated, a predator's grin carving into his features as his eyes flicked to the wounds on your knees before raking over your form. There was something unsettlingly tender about the way he observed you, as if you were both prey and masterpiece all at once.

Astarion's movements were fluid as he began to unbuckle his belt. The leather slid through the loops with an ominous whisper, and the air grew thick with tension. A strange glint, like the edge of a knife, flashed in his eyes, capturing your every fleeting emotion: surprise morphing into disgust, then a shameful twinge of longing that betrayed your better judgment.

"Do you have any idea how long it has been since I've sought... relief, Y/N?" His voice was silk and steel.

"Hours, I presume?" Your voice dripped with malice, belying the flutter of your pulse at the sight of the discarded belt.

A chuckle escaped him, low and resonant, as he methodically worked the buttons of his shirt. "Decades," he corrected, the word punctuated by the soft pop of fabric yielding to his deft fingers.

"Decades seem but moments for someone with eternity at their disposal," you shot back, wearing your defiance as a thin veil.

He shrugged off the shirt, revealing his chest sculpted from moonlight and marble, his smirk cutting through the darkness. "I have not known another's touch since I was but a spawn myself," he confessed, his voice a hush of raw truth that slithered through the shadows. "A time before your father's seed even thought to take root."

Your laughter rang hollow in the confined space. "And am I to believe you've satiated yourself with nothing but your own hand? A creature as comely as yourself?" You challenged, pushing down the unnerving awareness of his proximity.

"Indeed." His affirmation was simple, yet it held the weight of ages within it. "Desire was a luxury stripped from me, a complication I was content to live without." A pause, and then he stepped closer. "Until a vexatious little brat invaded my sanctuary and ignited a problem I presumed to have been long extinguished."

Your mind whirred, caught between disbelief and the dawning realization of what this meant. Your body reacted more honestly than you cared to admit, a thrum of anticipation weaving through your veins despite the gravity of the situation. You cursed yourself inwardly, your instincts betraying you again—how could you desire this monster, this bastard, this tyrant?

His movements were fluid, a whisper of fabric against skin as he untied the laces that held his trousers. His deliberate hands betrayed no urgency, yet each motion was laden with intent. With a deft flick of his wrist, the garment fell away, followed by the muted sound of his underclothes as they joined the heap of discarded attire.

Your gaze traced the lines of his body, a study in contrasts—his pallid skin almost luminous against the room's shadows. Your breath left you as you noted the prominent veins low on his torso, like pale blue rivulets frozen in time, leading to the cradle of his arousal. Your Master stood unabashed, his bare body exposed to your gaze. His manhood, thick and rigid between his legs, continued to swell as he wrapped his long fingers around it. With each stroke of his hand, his cock throbbed and pulsed in response, the movements hypnotic and undeniably human. You couldn't tear your eyes away as he continued to pleasure himself in front of you. A flush crept up your neck at the sight of him, his nakedness and self-pleasure stirring something inside you. With each pull of his hand, more of his flushed head was revealed, his foreskin sliding back and forth like a dance of concealment and revelation that quickened your pulse.

"Undress," he ordered, his voice a velvet demand that left no room for argument. Clearing his throat, he held your gaze, the crimson of his eyes smoldering with a lifetime's worth of longing, suddenly exhumed from the depths of his being.

"Or do you need assistance?" There was a taunt woven into his words, a challenge that roused both defiance and curiosity within you.

"I'm not a child," you spat back, even as your fingers moved to the fastenings of your dress, a traitorous mix of fear and desire propelling your actions. Each button popped open, an audible punctuation to the silence that stretched between you, thick with anticipation.

As fabric parted to unveil your skin, your thoughts tangled with the implications of what lay ahead. Were you yielding to his will or seizing control of the only thing that you could—the power of your own flesh?

"Good girl," Astarion praised, a sinister satisfaction lining his tone. Yet, for all his composure, there was a glint of something else—a flicker of awe or perhaps admiration—at your defiant display of vulnerability.

"I'm not that, either," you whispered teasingly, lying bare before him on the cold stone in all of your glory, your chin lifted in silent rebellion. But the look in his eye, the way it softened ever so slightly, told you that the game had shifted, that this moment was more than a simple exchange of power. It was a crossing of thresholds, a venture into a realm where the line between captor and captive blurred into nothingness, leaving you simply as man and woman, bound by the weight of your desire.

The air grew heavy with the scent of lust as Astarion stepped closer, his hand a rhythmic presence on his needy cock. The moonlight cast an otherworldly glow upon his pale skin, turning it almost translucent as he moved like a creature of myth. He lowered himself to his knees with an effortless grace, parting your legs with a deliberate touch.

" Ahh , but you will be," He rasped. "You're going to be a very, very good girl for Daddy from now on, aren't you?"

You simply stared for a moment as you processed his words, your body responding involuntarily to the command in his tone—your nipples peaked in anticipation. A mix of fear and arousal churned within you as you met his eyes, so deep and captivating it felt as if he could see into the very depths of your soul.

A small, involuntary cry escaped you as Astarion pressed his cockhead against the slick warmth between your thighs. He drew the length of his hardness along your folds slowly, each stroke a promise of what was to come. When the tip brushed your swollen nub, a jolt of pleasure shot through your body, rendering you momentarily speechless.

"Y-yes," you managed to whisper, your eyes locked onto his with a mixture of trepidation and longing.

"Speak up, dear. I didn't quite catch that." His cheeky wit laced his words, though his expression remained intense, demanding.

Your lips parted, the words coming louder this time, filled with the knowledge of the power exchange between them. "Yes, daddy ."

"Again," he commanded, not because he hadn't heard you, but because he relished in the sound of your submission. Each repetition carved your acquiescence deeper into the fabric of this encounter between you.

"Yes, daddy," you repeated, your voice now steady with acceptance.

This was the game Astarion played best, a dance of dominance and surrender. After years of being subjected to Cazador Szarr's cruel whims, the tables had finally turned. Now he wielded control, and in it, he found a dark solace. No longer a pawn, he was now the master of his own desires, a vampire ascendant, savoring the sweet yield of another's will beneath him.

His hips slid forward with just enough force that it sent shivers coursing through your sensitive core. You arched beneath him, your back pressing against the cold stone, your nails scraping against it as you sought purchase. Your breaths came faster, your eyes widening in a mix of shock and pleasure.

"That's it, darling," He coaxed, his voice low and sultry. "Let me hear you say it. Tell Daddy what you want."

"I want you," you confessed, the words tumbling off of your lips like an admission of defeat. "Please fuck me."

Astarion chuckled deep in his throat, something wicked and wild in his eyes. With a burst of motion, he captured your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue darting into your mouth, tasting your submission.

"Try again."

"I want you," you said again, your voice shaking with anticipation. "Please, Daddy - Please, fuck me."

Your Master’s eyes burned with desire as he pulled back from your lips, the scent of your arousal filling his senses. He positioned himself at your entrance, the tip of his cock already slick with your juices.

"Is this what you want, sweet girl?" he asked, his voice quiet and seductive, gently teasing your entrance with his swollen head as he spoke, "I need you to be certain."

"Yes, Daddy," you moaned, your hips bucking involuntarily, urging him closer.

With a low growl, Astarion pressed into you, letting out a small groan as his tip popped through the tight threshold of your snug channel. You were so small, so tight, and his cock stretched you like nothing you had ever experienced. The simple feat of taking the fat crown of him into your body had knocked the air from your lungs as your body attempted to adjust to the invasion, the pleasure mingling with the pain of being split open. You thanked the Gods that you no longer required air to live, as the intensity of that first shallow stroke paled in comparison to the fullness of feeling him sink another inch of his rigid shaft into you.

"Y/N," he groaned, his hips pulling back just slightly before pushing forward once more, sinking more of his cock into your tight hole every time he slid in and out of you in a gentle, steady rhythm.

You blinked a few times, mouth agape as your inner walls continued to struggle, hesitant to yield to him in spite of the way your arousal drenched your thighs. You could feel every inch, every pulse, every vein that adorned his hardness as he moved within you, opening you up in ways you had never imagined.

“Gods, Astarion," you whispered, your voice thick with desire. In spite of yourself, you found yourself craving that twinge of pain that pierced through your core each time he pressed a little deeper. Gods, it hurt but then…it felt so fucking good, too. You wanted nothing more than to feel him buried deep inside of you, until his heavy balls were pressed tightly against your bottom.

The pale elf snarled, almost as if he could read your mind - his thrusts becoming more forceful, his hips slamming against your delicate form. A sordid scream tore from your throat as your body was forced to accept him fully, the agonizing pleasure coursing through your veins with each thrust.

Your bodies moved in perfect harmony, your moans echoing off the cold stone walls, merging into a symphony of passion and release. Astarion's hands gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into your flesh as he thrust into you with fervor.

He leaned down as he whispered into your ear, his voice a velvety promise. "You're going to come for me, aren't you, little one?"

A small moan escaped you, Astarion’s piercing gaze and the depravity of this intimate act overwhelming both body and mind. You could feel the hot wetness of your sex coating your inner thighs and dripping onto the stone below as your climax began to build.

"Yes," you whimpered, your voice filled with raw need. "Fuck, Daddy - I'm so close...,"

Astarion's hips pounded against you with increasing urgency as he felt you nearing your peak. He knew that once you came, you would be his, submission and surrender so complete that it would bind you together forever.

"That's it, darling," he growled, his voice rough with desire. "Come for me. Scream my name as you take me. Let your brothers and sisters know who Daddy's favorite is."

He pumped into you harder, his cock sliding in and out of you with a wet, slapping sound that permeated the air. Your moans grew louder, your body trembling as the intense pleasure built within you. You could feel your orgasm cresting, your walls tightening around his cock.

"Yes," you cried out, your voice strained. "Please, Daddy, I need you - I need to...ahhh!"

Hearing your plea sent a shockwave of desire through Astarion's body, causing him to press into the soft barrier of your cervix over and over again. His cock was like a branding iron, carving his name into the sacred landscape of your womb, of your very soul.

"Gods, yes," You mewled, your eyes locked onto his as the delicious dragging of his thick shaft moving inside of you became too much to bear. With a shuddering gasp, you came undone, your pussy clenching and spasming around him as wave after wave of pure bliss crashed over you.

Astarion watched your face as you came, the way your lips parted, your eyes rolling back into your head, your body bucking beneath him in unbridled passion. He knew this was only the beginning. As your orgasm subsided, he continued to rut into you, his cock twitching and throbbing with each stroke, eager to find its own release.

With each slap of his hips against yours, a whimper escaped your lips, your nails digging into the cold stone as your body was pushed to its limits. The pleasure was almost too much, but you found yourself craving more, wanting to give him everything you had.

As your orgasm faded into a gentle hum, you found yourself wanting to reciprocate. You wrapped your legs around your Master’s waist, pulling him closer to you, allowing him to fuck himself into you as deeply as he desired as your hips matched his rhythm. Your hands clutched him tightly, your nails softly digging into his skin as you found your own desire beginning to resurface.

"Daddy," you pleaded pathetically, "Fuck me. Make me yours. Please."

Astarion's eyes widened for but a moment at your words, his thrusts wavering only for a second before his flesh once again met yours with a punishing pace, the lewd sound of your squelching sex and skin meeting skin echoed off of the walls.

"That's it, sweet girl," he rasped, his voice breaking for just a moment as a moan escaped his lips. "Take it all. Let me feel you around me."

Your eyes locked onto his, your breaths coming in short gasps as pleasure and pain mingled within you, creating a symphony of sensations that threatened to consume you and suddenly you noticed that familiar tension building within you once again.

"Ahh, fuck...please," You cried, "Fuck, its too much..."

A choked scream tore from your chest before his name spilled from your lips, your body writhing beneath your master as his fangs pierced the skin of your neck.

Astarion drank deeply, the taste of your blood filling him with a sense of completeness he had never known. He pulled away, his lips leaving a faint kiss on the mark he had made on your neck.

"Ssshh - you're taking it so well, darling," he groaned, his hands gripped your hips roughly, pulling you tightly against him. "I'm so close, love. Come with me."

Your body trembled as your climax grew closer with each thrust of his cock into your wet heat. It felt like a wildfire, igniting every nerve and sensitive spot in your body.

"Please, Daddy," you whined, your voice barely audible over the sound of your bodies joining. " Ahhh -"

Astarion pistoned himself into you, his thrusts becoming erratic as once again you approached your peak. Your pussy clenched around him, urging him closer to his own release.

"That's it, pet," he purred, "Let it happen. Let go."

Your eyes fluttered shut, your body trembling as you surrendered to the sensations coursing through you. The agonizing fullness of your master spearing into your core all but consumed you entirely as you came undone once again - you cried his name from your lips, the sound reverberating throughout the palace.

With a deep, guttural growl, Astarion sank into you one final time, burying every last inch of himself inside of your pretty little cunt as his aching balls tightened. Every muscle in his body tensed and quivered as he emptied himself inside you, your bodies coming together in a carnal display of ecstasy and release. Your breathing was heavy and ragged, the sweat on your skin mingled with one another as you laid locked in each other's embrace. The intensity of the moment consumed you both, leaving you both trembling with raw passion and desire.

The quivering shadows on the walls seemed to dance with your lingering tremors, echoes of your pleasure slowly subsiding. Astarion withdrew himself from your tender warmth, leaving a palpable emptiness in his wake.

"Shh," He whispered against your flushed skin, his lips brushing your face and neck with a tenderness that belied his predatory nature, a stark contrast to the fervor you had just shared. With hands both firm and gentle, he turned you onto your stomach, the cool stone pressing against your cheek as you complied wordlessly.

Your hips were lifted by his confident grasp, baring you to him once more. The air caressed your exposed flesh, heightening your awareness of your own vulnerability and the wet that continued to coat and trickle down your thighs—a tribute to your union. Astarion's purr vibrated through the silence, a sound of dark satisfaction as he admired the sight before him.

"Look at you... such a good girl for me, Y/N." His voice was soft yet sinister, a paradox that sent shivers down your spine. As he stroked the swell of your ass with an almost reverent touch, you braced yourself. Expecting a strike that never came.

"Thank... thank you, Master," you managed, your words trembling as much as your body. Your eyes, heavy-lidded with exhaustion, sought out his face. Even now, his attention was fixated on the proof of his possession, the essence of him that marked you as his own.

His fingers traced the intimate path where your bodies had been joined, gathering the evidence of his claim and deliberately pushing it back inside of you with a possessiveness that was both invasive and oddly comforting. You winced, the sensation overwhelming yet incomplete without him filling you entirely.

"Is it too much?" he teased, his tone laced with feigned concern and a pout that only served to mock. You could see the glint of amusement in his eyes, the playful cruelty that he so often enjoyed.

You shook your head, a silent plea for him to continue, to test the boundaries of your resilience. You would endure; you would be good.

You promised.

#astarion #astarion ancunin #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #baldur’s gate astarion #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 astarion #astarion smut #daddy k!nk

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bg-brainrot · 14 days

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Alright, I'm sure people have talked about this Astarion line from here to the nine hells, but I'm going to do it anyway:

"I am so much more than what you made me."

Cw: Astarion's abuse and trauma

Like many who love and appreciate Astarion, my feelings come from a place of understanding, of relating to him, and, maybe somewhere deep down, of wanting for him the catharsis I may never get.

This line is that moment of catharsis for me (disclaimer: moments of catharsis vary from person to person, you may need to look inside to find yours).

Because at this moment, Astarion means what he says.

For 200 years, his entire life, his entire identity, revolved around Cazador-- either around getting him victims, fearing his repercussions, him controlling every element of his life (food, housing, safety). Not only was he made into a spawn, a pawn, a sacrifice, but he was forced to lose all sense of who he was or could have been. Molded to fit Cazador's exact purpose through decades of torment.

But when he says this, when he spits these words right before Cazador's kneeling, pleading body, he's able to shove everything Cazador has done to him right back into the man's face.

Cazador thinks he's still capable of exerting this control over Astarion, that he's broken the man beyond repair, so much so that in this moment he still has the audacity to beg with him. But, with this line, Astarion is taking that power back, he's reclaiming himself forcefully and without question.

No "I could be" or "I am capable of" -- simply "I am." Again, he means it.

Throughout the course of the game, Astarion rediscovers that he's more than his body, he's more than his usefulness. He's allowed to be his own person, find out who he is. And he knows, more than anything, that he's more.

This line is such a beautiful reminder that, no matter where you came from, no matter who tried to mold you or twist you or break you, you are more. No qualifying statements, no hesitations, no doubts.

Anyway, it's my favorite line, thank you for reading my brain thoughts 🫰🏽

#astarion #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion analysis #sort of lol #and yes this was inspired by my last reblog how did you know

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houseofhyde · 1 year

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ii. a game of westerosi chess.

pairing. daemon targaryen x fem!reader

synopsis. the six chess pieces in the king’s game and how your uncle calls checkmate. read the first part here !

warnings. niece!reader, targcest, possessiveness, themes of sexual/romantic ownership, alicent slander (im sorry, i love her, but this is daemon’s pov and we all know that man wakes up every morning and makes the conscious decision to be a hater), daemon being a filthy pervert (affectionate), smut ( masturbation, breeding kink, voyeurism, dacriphilia, virgin kink- if that's even a thing-, implied bi!daemon )

word count. 11.3k

taglist. @nyctophilic0vitnir

hyde’s input. yes, i could have just made them get married after the events in part one. no, that wouldn’t be as fun as watching daemon suffer. i went and fucked myself over a little though because i never realised how much i’d struggle to write from his point of view without the fear of making him too out of character or his behaviour feel, idk, fake? empty? idk what the right word is but yeah. i caught the flu and have had sick-brain the whole time while writing this so who knows if the writing is even comprehensible lmao :)

disclaimer: i’ve never played chess (i'm too dumb for that) so pretend any incorrect comparisons are simply because there’s different rules for chess in westeros <3

when daemon targaryen was five years old, no more than a mischievous little babe who haunted the halls of the red keep, there was no one greater in his eyes than his older brother.

his older brother who bonded with the largest dragon; who snuck wine into his cup when the adults were occupied with their political indiscretions; who stood up for him even in times where he was the culprit.

his older brother who had the longest winning streak in the whole of the red keep when it came to chess.

from maesters to the king, and ladies in waiting down to his own mother, there was not a single person within the castle who could face viserys targaryen in the game of strategic moves and walk away undefeated.

it was an understood fact: viserys targaryen was a master at chess.

one day, after catching his younger brother, moon-eyed and fresh-faced from wondering the dragonpit in search of a dragon to claim, and now spying upon his winnings against a pretty maiden, viserys had called the boy over. with daemon captivated by the sight of the chess board, the older of the two felt the cogs in his brain turning, an idea spawning.

you see, when one becomes the best at something, there is no more challenge. no fun to be found when you’re no longer sat at the edge of your seat wondering if this person will finally be the one to best you. and, so, viserys thought if no one else was good enough to beat him, he’d need to create a worthy opponent.

enter onto the scene, daemon targaryen.

with him being but a child still, viserys began his teaching with what captivated the little boy most: the figures which sat atop the checkered board.

“this, brother, is the pawn. it’s the least worthy piece, but do not let that fool you into thinking it is weak, for anyone may wield power if they work hard enough. a pawn may become a queen, just as a fool may become a lord.”

the rogue prince, now a man of three and thirty, awakes with one thing on his mind: his niece.

he’s always been a restless sleeper, not even in dreams would he escape the havoc of his own head and the inner-workings of it. and, though he’d scarcely recall the images his sleeping mind would conjure, the evidence comes in the state he’d find himself in: sprawled diagonally across the bed, the pillows which had once provided rest for his head now scattered along the floor and the bedsheets- which scratched uncomfortably on his skin, a slick of sweat oozing from his pores and leaving him looking glazed, like a freshly cooked hog at a feast- now a wrinkled tangle around his waist, trapping his legs in the cotton confines.

he spies the familiar lick of sunlight casting through the closed curtains, affirming that dawn has indeed passed and a new day is upon him.

running a hand over his face, a disgruntled sound escapes him, sluggishly moving himself to sit up right, that familiar yet new ache in his back flaring up and begging for release in the form of stretching limbs and extended muscles. age has begun to sneak up on him, grabbing him in it’s clutches and reminding the egotistical man that he is just that: a man, not a god, much to his own displeasure.

the hand departs from his face only to pause midair. a smell, heady and musk infused, reaches his nostrils. it’s dirty and grimey in every way yet enticing him to seek it out again, to sniff out wherever the odour is coming from and bury himself in it till he suffocates.

tentatively, he retraces his movements till his fingers dance over his face once again and realisation kicks him like the hoof of a horse, hard and with a lingering pounding.

only, the pounding comes from his crotch rather than his skull.

the smell is you, in all your dribbling, soaking, honeysuckle glory, stained on his skin like the slaves of volantis are stained with ink.

another inhale floods his senses with the memories from last night, replaying the feel of your bodies pressed together in dance, and your hand squeezing his almost painfully tight as he leads the way to your chambers, and the eager spreading of your legs as he at last satisfies his hunger for you- a hunger which had started sometime after you’d first began to present the figure of a woman, all supple breasts and pouting lips and silhouettes made of dresses that hid from view the naughty parts of you your uncle’s cock ached to see.

the voice in his head, which more often than not drives him to behave erratically, this time is but a whisper, a seduction of craving and curiosity that has him slipping his hand further down, brushing over the fine line of his lips and awaiting entrance as he parts his mouth open, brushing his stained digits over his tongue.

a jolt of heat burns down his spine while the sweet tang of your taste invades his senses. like biting through a lemon, the taste should repel him in every way, flood his soul with shame and leave him disgusted in himself.

instead, he licks his tongue in a silent plea for more.

the thought of never bathing again crosses daemon’s mind, unwilling to wash away the evidence of the peak he’d driven you to with nothing but his fingers. gods help the world when he finally gets his cock in you, for he’s likely to become a deranged, dirty shell of a man too busy getting fill after fill of your pulsing cunny to ever plunder himself into the oil-infused waters of a bath.

you’d be so sweet for him, a little harlet for him to mold and bend and break into every which-way he desires you. and it’s that thought, plus the taste of your dried essence, which has the rogue prince’s cock stirring beneath the tangled sheets.

desire awakens much like a dragon would: slowly and, then, all at once, eyes wide, chest huffing and puffing, and body arising from the ground.

the prince kicks the tangled sheets off, no thought given to whatever corner in the chambers he tosses them towards, eyes and hand and mind too focused on the once flacid organ between his leg growing more solid and red in the tip as the moments pass.

“fuck...” he means to only think it, yet speaks it aloud into the solace of the room as the warmth of his hand makes itself familiar with his cock.

he gives himself a tug, dry hand meeting the movement with resistance yet the layer of skin which conceals his soon-to-be seed soaked slit retracts enough to allow the blushing head of his cock to poke through. while he’d typically prefer to wet it with a whore’s cunt, or slicken it with whatever mindless ointment he could find laying around, daemon finds himself gathering his own saliva and spitting a fat drop of it into the palm of his hand.

the glide of his digits over the organ becomes easier, allowing him to work himself into full-blown hardness, cock taking over the use of his brain and sending him into a state of restless lust, demanding to be fed and satiated with the emptying of his stones, preferably into the warm, pulsating, tight cunt of his little dove.

while the prince does debate his ability to throw on a robe- or, even, roam the halls in his nude glory- and seek out your likely sleeping form, to watch as you startle awake with the breaking of your maidenhead and cry out for your uncle to fill you with his spend till you’re swelling with his bastard, he decides he prefers the thought of making you wait a little longer, see how much he can test the limits of your impatient desires.

after all, a maiden always feels best when her cunt’s as soaked as her crying eyes and her mouth’s spewing plead after plead, begging for his cock.

while one hand works over himself, the other sneaks it’s way back into his mouth, lust bursting into bright colours as he licks over the taste of you, soaking it into his bloodstream and making you part of his genetics- just as he is part of yours.

daemon allows his eyes to slip shut, sinking into sweet fantasies and mental pictures of bouncing tits and blood stained sheets, only to reopen them within an instant at the sound of his chamber door slamming against the solid wall.

“oh my!” a young girl dressed in rags turns her back on him as quickly as she notices his naked form, as if allowing him to compose himself and make himself presentable. “i’m so sorry, my prince! i would have knocked but he said i should simply let myself in!”

daemon makes no attempt to find cover.

“do whatever it is you need to do.” he speaks with a tone far too relaxed for a man who’s still got a grip on his cock. if anything, the raggedness in his breaths comes from his frustrations of losing the flavour of you on his tongue. “don’t stop on my account.”

she hesitates upon facing him again, eyes clearly wandering off from her own commands and glancing down at his exposed crotch more times than he imagines she’s comfortable with. from the look of her, she’s young in age- likely only recently blossomed into a woman- and, at the thought of his being the first cock she’s ever seen, he feels himself grow closer to his peak, a sick and twisted satisfaction buzzing through his veins at the possibility of giving the sweet girl her first sense of visual arousal.

when the shock passes, yet still lingers in her features like a harsh cough irritates the throat, she makes her way fully into the room. in her arms, a tray with a mass of food, enough to feed a lord and his men for several nights. without a word, she lays the assortment out on the large table within his chambers, hands shaking under her own nerves.

meanwhile, daemon slows the flick of his own wrist, teasing his cock with the impending satisfaction. a smile, too faint to be seen yet present enough that he feels the slight stretch of his lips, births itself as he considers who this offering of a feast may be from.

“what’s this about, girl?” he throws the question out into the air, clear amusement in his tone.

“the king, my prince.” just as he expected. “he’s ordered this be sent to you.”

and so it begins, he thinks.

his brother is buttering him up, showing a sign of good-will to have daemon in his good graces when he orders the rogue prince betroths himself to the king’s pretty daughter, her supposed virtue now a pile of crumbled ruins in the eyes of the court. as if he needs convincing to take such a sweet young thing to wife, the perfect little bird made of blonde hair, valyrian blood, sugar-coated cum and the sweetest song of whimpers and pleas.

“then make sure you let my brother know how eager i am to receive his feast.” he can feel himself reaching the edge of his peak, tethering off the edge and seconds away from painting his hand white with wasted seed.

perhaps the serving girl will lick it clean for him.

“of course, my prince.” once finished with the arranging of the feast, the maiden straightens out some wrinkles in her skirt- though it does nothing to clean up her looks- and begins to make her way back toward the entry to his chambers. “the king will be surprised to see you so agreeable, though it will help soothe his unease, my lord.”

“his... unease?” daemon’s movements stop, the air runs dry and the girl visibly stiffens, hand curling around the door handle and clenching it as if it is the only thing giving her support.

clearly, she’s said something she shouldn’t have.

“i must go, my lord.”

“unease over what, girl?”

“you... you don’t know, do you?” she’s beginning to irritate him, speaking in riddles and shaking like a leaf in the winds of winter.

“answer me clearly or i’ll have your tongue.” the girl can not see the way he moves off the bed, nor the way he spies his eyes towards his trusted sword propped against a wall, but she certainly hears the loud thud of his feet meeting the floor, feels the darker shift of energy in the room as the rogue prince makes a threatening advance towards her.

“ser gerold royce, my prince...” he’s near certain she lets out a pathetic whimper, like a wounded doe. “he’s proclaimed himself as lord of runestone.”

the world comes to a stand still as her words flood over him.

while the prince is frozen in his spot, face an empty canvas devoid of emotion, the young girl makes a swift exit, wise enough to not wish to stick around long enough to bare witness to the hot-headed prince’s reaction. the slamming of the door on her way out seems to startle him back into motion, naked limbs striding across the room and grabbing at the door. he twists the handle and gives a harsh tug, strong enough to have the wood smash as it collides against the wall.

the door does not open.

he attempts again, and again, and again, and is met with the same resistance each time. only then does it dawn on him- the feast, the unease- this was never about his brother keeping him in his good graces.

this was about the king keeping him locked away in his chambers.

“next, you’ve got your knight. while still not a very point-worthy piece, this holds power in the way it moves, jumping over pawns like a real knight slices through his enemies with the point of his sword.”

four days pass by slowly within the confines of his chambers.

at first, he rages. pacing the floor till the plush carpeting runs thin, hacking away at hand-crafted furniture his ancestors had sat upon and broken fast at, mouth dropped open in a bellow of impassioned words of all the things he plans to do once he gets his hands on his older brother, most of which start and end with his grip on the king’s neck.

then, he tries rest.

it’s a hopeless attempt, though, as the thoughts are running far too rampant for him to ignore the fact he’s confined within his room, not a clue of what his brother has done in regards to runestone’s rebellion. then come the thoughts of you, his little dove, likely hurt, and confused, and needing your dear uncle’s guidance on how to continue onward, how to outsmart the wretched ladies within your father’s court, how to ensure you do not wind up married off to some boring oaf of a lord, with not a drop of valyrian blood in his veins.

after sleep evades him, and rage consumes him once more, he switches to pleasuring himself, hand squeezed tight around his cock and working over the sex organ till he’s completely spent, his sack drained and nothing but pathetic droplets of seed painting his skin by the eight, ninth, tenth peak he drives himself too, fuelling the fire of his lust with past rendevouz- the pentoshi whore he’d fucked in front of her own husband, the nights he’d spent in the streets of silk in rooms where cups and cunts were shared amongst the crowd, the young knight who’d sought him out after a tourney and cried out as daemon stretched the tight pink hole of his arse- and with future desires- the slapping of his stones against your pearl as he takes you from behind, your pretty eyes struggling back tears the first time he fucks his cock into your silky wet hole, the sick, and nasty, and down-right degenerate want to bend you over the small council table and shoot his seed into your womb for all those wrinkled cunts to bare witness to.

ultimately, it’s the memory of how you taste that sends him spiralling for a tenth time.

the rogue prince is a sexual deviant, that was the very first whisper that had flooded the keep about him. and oh how he’s worn it with pride over the years, a twisted joy found in watching their outrage each time he speaks of crass and acts on sin.

even so, there is only so much he can take until he reaches his limit. and, thus, with his cock feeling like it may fall off if he does not give it some recovery time, the prince returns to raging.

that is how the king finds him, sword in hand and the expensive fabrics that once made up the curtains leading onto a balcony now nothing but tattered rags on the floor.

“i must say, daemon, this takes me back.” viserys’ tone carries amusement, which licks at daemon’s ire and coaxes it back to life, hand gripping the hilt of his sword as the prince reminds himself- despite how infuriating the king may be- that he cares deeply for his older brother. “me entering your chambers and finding you amidst a temper tantrum.”

the prince is quick on his feet, turning on his ankle till he finds himself gazing upon the face of his brother. he’s dressed in his finest robes, a mixture of reds and blacks, yet daemon does not miss the green jewel on one of his fingers. the crown upon viserys’ head reflects the sun, shining offensively in the prince’s face as if to more harshly remind him of the inheritance he’ll never claim, the throne he’ll never sit.

“what is the meaning of this?” daemon bellows and instinctively raises dark sister, the tip of the blade pointed directly at his brother.

the sound of kingsguards drawing their own weapons floods the room yet the raise of viserys’ hand halts them all in their defence, calling his brother’s bluff.

“i had some business to attend to.” the king speaks so casually, as though he’s discussing the recent weather or what he’d eaten for his supper the evening before.

“so you imprison me in my chambers as if i am some ill-behaved child!” daemon means to question him yet his words come out as more of a statement, an acceptance of the matter at hand.

“yes, well, what kind of idiot would i be to let my brother wander free in my castle while i’m grasping at straws to prevent a war?” the room grows more tense with every exchanged word between the two brothers, a feat which doesn’t go unnoticed by the guards who stand by the king nor the maidens who had rushed in after the reopening of daemon’s chambers, scrambling around to tidy the place up. “a war which you started in the first place.”

it irks something in daemon, the way viserys remains level headed whilst he’s pacing the room, and gripping his sword, and releasing his frustrations in bursts of loud voices and disgruntled grunts. condescending in every way, it sends daemon into a headspace where he’s no longer a man-grown and, instead, a tear-stained child being reprimanded by his king and grandsire.

he liked to torture young daemon who, despite his best efforts, was always prone to outbursts of emotion- outbursts the old man liked to meet with calmed expressions and tired words of disappointment, dismissing his grandson to bed.

it seems to be a commonality shared among kings, antagonising daemon.

“a war i started?!” and yet he falls for the trap every time, meeting viserys’ passive with his aggressive, striding those few steps closer till he’s a hair away from touching the king with his blade. still, his brother holds off his guards. “and how do you suppose i done such a thing while being imprisoned!?”

“cool it with the theatrics, brother,” viserys punctuates his exhaustion with an eye roll and gives a single nod of his head, giving the kingsguards the go-ahead to swarm around daemon.

a pair of them, both young in their knighthood and matching in face, grab at the rogue prince’s arms and hold him in a stand-still while another guard plucks the weapon from his hand. daemon shoves against their hold and is met with more resistance.

dark sister is passed among the guards, each hand that touches it being added to a tally of people on daemon’s list of men to disembowel. finally, viserys holds the weapon, examining it like it is the very first time he’s seen it.

“daemon, it brings me no joy to do this,” the king starts up again, eyes meeting the glaring amethysts of his brother. “but with the tensions arising and war creeping over the horizon, i can not afford to risk anything going amiss.”

“get to the point, brother. you’re speaking in rhyme as if you were some bard.”

“very well. from now until i decide you are not a threat to this kingdom, your confinement will be stretched from your chambers to the red keep. you are to carry no weapon and you will step no foot out of this castle.”

“you’re a fool if you think i’ll agree to this.”

“it is an order from your king!” viserys lets the mask slip, intentionally or not, and his irritation shines through like the stars paint themself across the dark sky. “and if that’s not enough to keep you in line, you will also be monitored at all hours of the day, every move you make within these walls will be shadowed by that of a knight of my choosing.”

daemon targaryen considers murdering his brother.

“and i see no man more fit for the job than ser criston cole.”

for the first time in his life, daemon targaryen may just go through with it.

“the bishop may be similar to the knight in it’s point count, yet it moves differently. while a knight can not move three times in the same direction, a bishop must stay within the colour it started in. think of a bishop like a maester: chained to an oath it can never break”

he’d rather be forced to endure a lifetime of self-flagellation than another moment of this conversation.

“it is in your best interest, your grace, to cut this state of anarchy out from it’s roots before any other houses chose to follow in the footsteps of runestone.” the new hand of the king is certainly an improvement from the hightower cunt, daemon can’t deny it. yet a part of him feels the knife of betrayal twist deeper into his back upon realising his brother had not only ignored his own warnings of the green lord till rhaenyra brought them up too, but he’d once again given the role to a random lord in his court rather than his own brother. “we have cause to believe that the dandarrions may be next to follow, given the less than kind words your daughter had for them during her tour for a marriage.”

“then there is the matter with the lannisters and, of course, the never ending tensions with the dornish folk. they’re more weary than ever, since someone,” maester mellos has never been a subtle man, despite all his supposed wits and knowledge, and so it flies over no one’s head when he takes a glance at the rogue prince and his standing guard, the insufferable man who’s made himself daemon’s shadow. “went to war with the triarchy.”

“my apologies for riding you all of that tyrant crabfeeder!” daemon speaks for the first time since he’d been forced to sit at the small council. “i’ll be sure to stand by and allow the next one to rip you all to pieces.”

daemon drowns out the rest of the meeting, uninterested in hearing his brother grovel at ways to keep his subjects at bay, as though they are the ones that rule over him.

gifts of gold for the dandarrion, a knighting for the lannisters’ youngest lords, peace-offerings in the forms of poetic words, and sweetened fruits, and lavish silks for the dornish. each gift more empty than the last.

it’s the mention of your name that brings him back into the room.

“were she here, we could have used her as a bargaining plea for one of these stronger houses,” ser lyman beesbury is the one who speaks and, with each word, the rest of the councilmen grow wider in the eyes and stiffer in their seats.

daemon explains their otherwise odd reactions away with them simply feeling uncomfortable discussing you in his presence, everything changed and nothing the same since sometime between the night he had you pressed against your door and his confinement within the keep.

upon release back into the castle, he’d searched for you first of all, paying no mind to criston cole as the knight struggled to keep up with his rushed footfall, mind too focused on the renewed anger he wished to placate with his cock in your mouth and the further destruction of your purity, all in the name of spiting your father.

when he’d reached your chambers, however, he’d found nothing but a mess of emptied trunks and an unkept bed.

“the princess is not here.” ser criston had spoken between gasps of air, chest heaving beneath the unnecessary layers of chainmail and armor his position forces him to wear.

daemon had demanded an answer for your whereabouts, only to quickly realise the knight was none-the-wiser. it was the new hand, ultimately, that clued him in, over sips of wine and looks of caution from other council-men amid a private feast.

“driftmark, prince daemon.” he’d dabbed at the corners of his mouth with poise and composure, everything about the man seemingly perfected for politics, serving only to irritate the prince further. “the princess has accompanied her older sister and her new husband on their trip to laenor velaryon’s home.”

that was the last daemon had heard of you.

a near moon later and you were still out of reach, likely turning your nose at the smell of salt that coated the walls of the velaryon household and wondering why a certain red-speckled dragon had yet to swoop in on the island, carrying the cause and answer to all your problems upon it’s back.

“dare i say i agree, your grace,” another of the men chimes in, his words barely a whisper at first, glancing nervously toward the king. “perhaps we may write for her return and see to it that a betrothal be made.”

daemon chooses to observe viserys in this moment, eyes trailing over his features and taking note of every wrinkle in his brow, every greyed hair within his unshaven face, every upturn and scorn of his lip. there’s a wave of unease that’s fallen over his brother, and it only grows with every moment that the lords speak of you in the rogue prince’s presence, the air thick with the discussion the two brother’s had yet to have regarding the rumours of your deflowering.

“and, tell me, my lords, what you suggest we tell the princess’ current betrothed?” maester mellos, ever incapable of holding his tongue, barks across the table, deathly unaware of the looks that befall the council nor the tensing of daemon’s shoulders. “the king is trying to avoid war, not further instigate one by implying her current betrothal is not good enough, that house-”

“that’s enough!” the king rises from his chair all at once, slamming his hand down on the table and commanding the attention of everyone in the room, more so when he recoils in pain. all at once, the rumours of his declining health and the effect it’s had on his body feel all too true. “there will be no further discussions of my daughter nor the prospect of a new betrothal. what’s done is done and i will not go back on my word to appease your fear-mongering speculations. we will continue our diplomatic relationship with these houses and ensure they do good to remember who sits the iron throne.”

the men obey like sheep, each bowing their head and mumbling false reconciliations.

one by one, they all take their leave.

first, lyman beesbury, who with pale face and solemn eyes lays apologies at visery’s feet. next, the master of laws and maester mellos, neither of them wasting time with niceties and opting for a mere bow towards their king. when all the chairs lay empty, save for daemon’s and the king, silence runs thick through the room. neither brother moving, each testing their unnamed opponent and awaiting the first blow through the tension to be made.

daemon grows impatient.

“unless corlys velaryon fucked a new son into our lady cousin and had the babe birthed in a matter of days, i do wonder who you’ve betrothed my niece to on driftmark.”

“do you know what your problem is, daemon?” though viserys’ words come out with inquisitory tones, he leaves no space for the prince to answer. “you’re so busy with your own schemes and plans that you fail to see when you’re the one being played.”

daemon feels small.

for a moment, he’s no longer a man grown into a soldier, with a mighty sword and a fearsome dragon. instead, he’s frail and weak, and staring across at his older brother as he beats him once more in the game of knights and checkered spaces, a taunting look on his face as he knocks over the little boy’s king piece and declares himself victor.

when the moment passes, he straightens his posture and rises from his seat, and reminds himself of the words his mother would comfort her crying babe with each time he failed to win, whispers of how there’s always something to be gained in any loss he finds.

he settles with leading his brother further into the trap of rumours him and his niece have conjured up together.

“i hear your new wife is fond of the seven, brother.” the prince reaches to grip the hilt of his sword, only to find an empty space and the reminder that he carries no weapon as of late. “ask her to pray for your daughter, i don’t believe she tasted the bitterness of moon tea after our evening together.”

the king does not call daemon’s bluff.

“this right here? the rook, worth more than the bishop or knight, yet less than the king or queen, it is an allusive piece. play the game wisely and your rook may trap the king, leaving it with nowhere to run.”

with the passing of another moon, daemon plunders deeper into insanity.

he’s always been a man of possession, the kind who owns and conquers and takes. objects, lands, people. they’re all the same in daemon’s chequebook of ownership. and, while living a rather messy and unkept life, he enjoys the pleasantness of having his possessions in his line of sight, like the sword he’s worn at his hip since the old king bestowed it upon him, or the seating he takes at every royal feast, chair angled perfectly to keep his eyes on the brother, nieces, family he possesses.

with dark sister out of reach and his most recent favoured family member out of sight- the pretty niece he’s silently layed his claim on-, destruction is imminent.

no longer does he debate with his own inner-turmoil over if he will go against the king’s orders but, rather, he questions when.

when will he redeem his previous loss against ser criston cole, beat the knight to the ground and steal his weapon as he lays unconscious?

when will he slip through the cracks in the castle walls, making use of the secretive halls built by maegor the cruel himself and slice through any guard who may attempt to get in his way?

when will he take the skies atop his fire-breathing mount, fleeing the city of whispering cunts and chees-playing fools?

the answer to each questions comes back to one thing, one person, one possession he needs to locate first.

you.

the events to follow the council meeting had lead him to several conclusions.

the first, and most obvious one, was that you clearly were not on driftmark, as lord strong had so boldly claimed. the second took him a few sleeps to fully decide upon but, remembering the words spoken of your betrothal among the council men and the apparent greater houses they could have given your hand to, daemon crossed off the possibility of you being in winterfell, the young stark lord likely too prideful to entertain the king’s earlier propositions of marriage after the way you’d left him amid a feast to go and- falsely rumoured- fuck your uncle.

with the dandarrions, the lannisters and the dornish folk already ruled off the list, it left daemon with few options.

his strongest lead is the baratheons, a long-standing connection between the two houses and a recently widowed lord who’s previous wife had gifted nothing but girls from her womb, it took no genius to assume a targaryen bride would serve him well.

daemon will soon find out he's wrong.

there’s an unease that takes over someone’s chambers the moment they notice something has been tampered with, whether it be as silly as a glass moved a few inches across a table or something as significant as a chest of drawers laying open when they’d clearly been left shut.

it tickles the back of the prince’s neck this very evening, skin rising to mimic that of a goose as he trails his eyes over his surroundings.

he’d returned to his chambers later than usual this evening, the day spent cornering council-men and threatening them- daemon had quickly discovered they feared him less with no blade to slice through them and his own personal minder at his back, that ridiculous kingsguard armour reflecting every ray of sun and every burn of candlelight.

daemon had taken to tormenting the poor ser crispin only a matter of days into their forced companionship. he figured that, if he may no longer seek joy in the streets of silk or the bloodshed of his enemies, let him at least take pleasure in the squirming discomfort of a man he loathes entirely.

“my niece,” he’d spoke as the two sat through their usual quiet supper together. “did you enjoy fucking her?”

“i did not fuck princess y/n.”

“well, of course not,” daemon pushed his spoon back and forth, passing time while he thought up his next taunt. “my younger niece has always had the more refined taste out of the two of them. rhaenyra, on the other hand, well she’d fuck a hound if it licked her the right way.”

“all this from a man who preys on his own blood for his sexual deviance. you and i both know what you done to your niece, how you seduced such a-”

“my nieces have always seemed so alike. both pale haired, both sharing the same smile, both wearing the same dresses.” the knight and the prince had long abandoned their food now, discussion heavy with daemon’s accusation of ser criston abandoning his own vows and committing what he can only imagine would be declared treason, deflowering a princess. perhaps soon the two will share something in common. “now i wonder if they feel the same. you must know, so tell me, did rhaenyra’s cunt grip your pathetic cock in a vice that threatened to ruin any other woman for you? or is that a trait only my youngest niece possesses?”

even now, hours into the late night and several more cups of wine drowning in his system, daemon can not bite back a dry laugh as he recalls the astound look upon the knight’s face, a mixture of disgust and discomfort.

he’s seated- more accurately speaking, he’s draped- upon a chaise, muscles tense and mind racing, in need of distraction. most of his nights end like this now, several emptied pitchers of wine along the floor, red staining his mouth and his own figure collapsed over whatever surface he finds first. occasionally, he’d attempt to have his way with a serving girl, ignoring the looks of ser criston as he stands guard outside his chambers and watches the prince enter with his partner for the evening, yet most were dismissed before daemon could satisfy himself, a mixture of his own drunken incontinence and their far too placid natures.

at least the whores of the silk street make him believe they want him.

letting out a groan, he sinks further into the seat, legs bent at the knee and feet planted firmly on the ground as he lets himself lay back fully. he’s contemplating taking rest here for the evening, and weighing the likely-hood of awakening with a new pain in his neck.

it would certainly be a more comfortable sleep than the would he’d taken last night, back slumped against a wall and body sat atop the cool marbled floor.

he makes his choice, limbs too tired to make the few paces to his bed, and resigns himself for the night, twisting once more to find the most comfortable position upon the chaise and closing his eyes.

only to reopen them instantly.

something rustles. that feeling of unease creeps in once again, slow like fog over the horizon, hazy and threatening, and cold in every sense of the word. someone has been in his chambers, is in his chambers, and they’ve left something askew.

his eyes dart over the room, trying to assess every nook and corner and crevice within it in hopes of spotting a pair of spying eyes or unsettled objects. struggling due to all the blind spots his position has created, daemon heaves himself back into the upright position, figure slouched and back curved uncomfortably.

the rustling happens again.

he shoots up from his seat, wondering if his inebriated state has begun to create delusions, or if the psychosis caused by staring at the same red walls of the keep nonstop has finally begun to take over. he must be going mad, he thinks, eyes scanning over the whole of his room as he turns in place, cursing the more he notices nothing out of the ordinary.

until he sees it.

there, placed exactly where his tired limbs had been mere moments ago, lays a note.

it’s folded over and sporting a strange yellow blotch in one of it’s corners while, in the centre, written in the blackest ink so delicately and flowery it near stirs his cock in his breeches, kepus.

he snatches at the paper, near tearing it in two with the speed he unfolds it, eyes racing over every scribble and every swirl of pretty inked words.

the rain is the only thing that brings me comfort these days.

the letter begins and, while the writer has still not identified themselves, the prince is more than certain he knows who is speaking.

i’ve never been a fan of change (i’m sure you recall my horrid tantrums as a child whenever my mother assigned me a new handmaiden), yet never have i faced one so large. where in the capital i spent my days with books and needles and rides upon dragon’s back, here i am told to sit quiet as a mouse, as though i am merely another ornament within the lord’s home. where i once spent nights rolling my eyes and wishing to be excused from public feasts, here i cry and ache for a morsel of socialising outside the lord’s inner circle. where once i slept sound over the small folk screaming and cheering into the late night, here i sit awake by the window and listen to each raindrop.

i am not built for the cold, both in weather and in people. they frighten me here, which is a thing i never thought i’d need admit to. there are no whispers here, only silence. but their eyes, they speak paragraphs of hatred and disdain and ill-intentions with a simple glance. i need not worry if they will eat me alive here, but rather whom will be the one to do so. in the capital i’ve always felt untouchable, first because i was my father’s daughter, a princess of the realm, and, when that began to lose effect, you stepped in and taught me safety can be found in another, with your advice and your combat training and your inability to let me fall asleep without you on my mind.

i’ve developed a sick obsession for you, uncle, and it is entirely your fault.

he’s sunk back onto the chaise, hand gripping the letter tighter as a mixture of worry and anger stirs up in his loins. worry over the tales you tell, anger for the possibility of this being a sick game, a note written by some pathetically bored serving wench aiming to ruffle some feathers.

he decides he must keep reading to uncover the truth.

and so, now, it is with heavy heart that i must admit i’m disappointed. don’t perceive me as foolish, for i am wiser than some maiden who believes the things i feel for you to be love. but i always believed there was understanding between us, two different souls yet so completely immersed and knowing of each other’s drives and needs. even when i was a child, you were always the first to notice once i was too tired to continue with the festivities or when i craved the thrill of sneaking down to the dragonpit to spy upon the great beasts. i thought you’d understand, too, that this is not the life i wishfor: a husband with the personality of a wet piece of parchment and a life of silence and gloom.

i am a dragon, just like my sister, and my father, and our ancestors. and a dragon can not grow in a cage, so why have you let them put me in one? you agreed to help me, to ruin me for any other lord so that my father would have no option to but to wed us, leaving us both to our own devices. you, gaining that valyrian wife you always wanted while not changing your whorish ways, and i, earning the freedom i would not find shackled to some low achieving, overbearing, egotistical man. yet i now have a betrothed who’s hair is brown and who’s house has no dragon.

i will risk writing this only once, for the spiders may not spin their thread here but they still bite, and ask this of you: speak sense into my father. tell him i’m with child, tell him i’m a threat to the realm, tell him i’m plotting my own death. tell him any lie you need to put a stop to this betrothal and bring me home, to where i belong.

or, outsmart him and simply come rescue me yourself, like some knight on his white stallion (caraxes would likely singe my hair off if i ever dared call him such a thing in his presence).

i’ll be awaiting your next move, uncle. be sure you play wisely and don’t lose both your princess and your king.

coldest regards,

your little dove.

p.s. i have cum to learn that, while my fingers are indeed skilled, they are nowhere near as good as yours were, kepus.

the intensity behind the stare he holds the note under may just set it alight.

no longer does he doubt who could have written such a thing, the mentions of your joint ploy to deceive the courtiers and the wording used to describe the connection shared between you both marking the undeniable truth of the letter’s author.

perversion brings him to reread the final sentence, mind fully registering them and flooding him with pink hued paintings of his pretty niece, as nude as the day you were born, now flushed skin and hardened nipples and honey dripping down your thighs as your dainty hands fail to fuck themselves as deeply as his had.

daemon can’t help but wonder what his little dove must think of in moments of self-pleasure, questions of whether you were depraved enough to think of men doing unspeakable things to you or if you merely blush over the memory of your uncle.

reading over the last part two more times, his eyes scatter back up the page- first, in an effort to avoid having to deal with his own impending arousal, and then because he feels compelled to read over the letter once more, eyes scanning over every detail.

it takes an unknown number of reads for him to notice a code among the words, a subtleness of ink layered to appear harsher, darker, more noticeable than the other words upon the parchment.

i’m, where, you, once, were.

i’m where you once were.

an inexplicable sense of pride comes over him, the fact his little dove has found a way to tell him something whilst, simultaneously, telling him nothing. were your worries true of spiders and the risk of one of them reading this letter in the time it took to reach him, he doubts any of them would be wise enough to notice the message, much less decipher it’s meaning.

and, while he applauds your display of wits, he despises his own inability to comprehend it. if you are where he once was, where had he been?

just about everywhere in the seven kingdoms, is the unfortunate truth.

by the time sleep at lasts takes over him, daemon has gained two things: the letter you’ve sent and the unbreakable will to move in on the king at last.

“the objective of chess is to protect your king while attacking your opponent’s. you must back the king into a corner, leave him with no way out, place him in check. only then will you be able to call checkmate and win.”

daemon nudges the knight with his foot.

as they’d sat for supper that evening, the prince had felt doubtful of the contents in the vial. he’d pinched it from the grand maester himself and, though he payed no real coins, the prince would argue he payed a grater price: feigning interest in conversing with old crone. a near three hours he’d sat, listening to the man drone on and on, till at last he’d excused himself to relieve his bladder and left daemon with a window of opportunity, his ointments and medicine all in a neat little display.

having little time, he’d grabbed at what he was sure to be milk of the poppy- a significantly smaller dose remaining within the vial compared to the rest- and tucked it in his trousers, at last excusing himself from the bore of a lifetime.

it wasn’t difficult to slip the liquid into a cup of wine, nor was it particularly hard to convince ser criston to drink from it, inviting the knight to join in on his empty toast towards the hightower queen and yet another pregnancy.

hours later and ser crispin lays slumped over outside his door.

daemon gives one more nudge for safety and, when the man merely slouches even closer to the ground, he grabs at the knight’s weapon and nestles it in his own scabbard, making use of it for the first time in two moons.

the hour is late and most of the keep have given in to the temptations of rest, yet the prince still travels the halls with caution, one eye looking over his shoulder. he half expects every guard he passes to seize him on sight, spewing some nonsense of his wrongful weapon or non-permitted solitude. with luck he reaches his destination, no one to spy upon the way he enters into the emptied library nor to witness as he shoves a bookcase aside and steps into the tunnel.

his memory serves him well, even after all these years, navigating himself through the interconnected secrets of the keep. he passes rooms of lords laid in bed with women they do not call wife, and ladies disrobing for the evening, and the still empty chambers of his little dove, till, at last, he reaches where he wants to be, not bothering with patience before barging his way out of the tunnel and into the regal chambers of the king.

“it took you longer than i expected.” daemon had counted on his brother being the one wearing shock upon his face, yet it is the prince who plays the fool, stepping into the room to find his older brother sat at a table, goblet in hand and a familiar checkered board in front of him.

it irks him to hear the king even imply he’d been expecting his arrival.

“don’t you have a wife to be bedding, brother?” he steps deeper into the chambers with caution, eyes on the empty bed and the lack of sight of his brother’s breeding mare.

“pregnancy, daemon. it works wonders on a woman’s body,” he takes a sip of his drink before reaching to pour a second cup meant for the prince. “it’s just a shame one of those wonders comes in the form of my wife snoring louder than a lion roars.”

it’s strange to hear his brother discuss details of his new bride.

daemon had never sought answers for their marriage, yet he’d forever questioned what had driven his brother to marry such a girl, childhood friend of his eldest daughter and so clearly lacking the backbone needed to stand up for herself against the injustices forced against her by her own father. were the prince a more gentle person at heart, perhaps he’d find it in him to pity her.

instead, he sees her as just another thorn in his brother’s side, waiting for the chance to poison his mind and seat one of her wretched babes upon the throne.

“come, come,” dragging him out of his thoughts is viserys once more, now half-hovering over the table and moving his limbs back and forth, hands carefully placing each piece upon it’s designated checker. “sit down! let us play!”

only as he’s seated across from viserys does he notice he’s been bestowed with playing the blacks on the board. never before was he allowed, the older of the two always insisting black was his lucky colour and refusing to play the whites.

in truth, daemon has always suspected his brother had been to fearful to play white, not knowing how to make a good first move and relying on his opponent to instead kickstart the game and give him places to move his pieces.

“isn’t it a beautiful board?” the elder must confuse his staring as a sign of fascination, gawking at the splendour of it. “it’s the very same one mother gifted me after i bested her for the first time.”

there it is, that familiar lick of envy, a sick and cruel twist in his guts as he stares down at an object viserys gets to remember their parents by, while all daemon ever got was disapproving looks and half-hearted embraces. perhaps the rumours are true and the prince has a complex which forces him to pity himself, to cast a shadow upon his own image and declare that it was a wrong forced upon him by others.

or, more likely, the consequences of watching his parents prop viserys up on a mantelpiece whilst leaving him in a corner to collect dust had lead him down the path to the destructive man he’s become.

even when he’d claimed caraxes, he could only imagine what his father’s reaction would have been, were he still alive to witness it.

impressive, but your brother claimed the greatest dragon to have ever lived, the one who the great conqueror rode upon and forged a throne under the black dread’s flames.

“‘tis exactly the same as any other chess board, brother.” he lets petty feelings spin lies on his tongue, rolling his eyes and disregarding the clear etherealness, the intricate carvings on each piece and the extravagant linings of the board, and each of it’s shimmering onyx and quartz squares.

daemon downs half his cup in one sip, eyes trained on his brother’s first move.

king’s pawn forward two spaces, a strong start and an immediate attack to the centre.

it’s fitting, daemon thinks, for this to be the first move his brother makes while leading a game. while a powerful start, it’s rather obvious, one he’d seen viserys defeat in a manner of mere seconds. perhaps age has taken away his astute mind and skill for the game.

daemon retaliates, moving one of his bishop’s pawns forward two spaces.

with the crease that forms in viserys’ brow, daemon delights. his brother was not expecting him to move in such a way, likely expecting him to do something erratic like bringing his queen’s pawn forward.

the pair continue to move in silence, sips of wine and scratching of pieces echoing around the chambers. it’s deceivingly peaceful, nothing like the confrontation the rogue prince had geared himself up to walk into. while he’d awaited bursts of anger and scathing accusations and marks of betrayal, the two sit like children once more, moving empty objects in an imitation of politics.

the only difference is daemon appears to have the upper hand, a growing collecting of white pieces stored to the right of his long-ago emptied and refilled cup.

as always, it’s daemon who takes the first bite.

“i’m afraid i must pay you your dues, brother.” his words slip through his own smirking lips, satisfaction rolling in by the hundreds as he spies the white king, slowly losing places to hide on the board. “it’s truly applaudable how you managed to not only secure one daughter a marriage amid questions of her virtue, but two! young helaena will follow in her half-sisters’ footsteps, surely.”

viserys’ hand pauses mid-air, his remaining bishop held in his grasp. his grip tightens with each passing second. the older has always been more level-headed, that no one can dispute, but the rogue prince will forever swear up and down, high and low, that it is his brother who carries the more foul temper.

viserys’ anger is just harder to weed out from behind false niceties and calmed breathing.

“if you mean to say that helaena will be so lucky as to marry a noble man, filled with honour,” he lays his bishop down at last, not managing to capture any of daemon’s blacks. “then yes, i should hope so. both the betrothal of my eldest daughter and my middle-born were to good men, faithful lords. my helaena will be lucky to do the same.”

“you never did quite tell me about y/n’s betrothal, brother.” the king chuckles at daemon’s words, empty amusement in the obvious statement the prince makes. still, he makes no attempt to stop him, letting him string the conversation along to the dreaded topic between them: the rumours of what daemon had done to you. “last i spoke with her, she was rather... occupied with something other than the prospect of marriage. when you announced her future union to her, did she drop on her knees and kiss your feet in gratitude? or did she spit at you and-”

“did she drop on her knees for you?” the raise in viserys’ voice is minimal yet enough to have daemon smirking over the rim of his cup, amused to see his brother being led into his trap for once.

he makes his next move on the board fist, plucking his knight and moving it over one of his own pawns. if he plays is cards right, messes with his brother’s head just the right amount, perhaps he won’t notice how he’s moving in on his king.

his only hope is to keep talking about his little dove.

“so that’s what you wish to discuss, brother? how it felt to fuck your young daughter?” for the first time he speaks the lie out loud, no hiding behind innuendos nor insinuations. they need to believe you’ve stolen my virtue, kepus, were the words you’d whispered to him, face still fresh from dried tears and teeth stained purple with the wine he’d let you sip from his glass late into the night as the rest of the world had slept, they need to think that you fucked me. he’d sworn an oath to you, to put on a show and ruin you beneath the judgement of others. he’ll be damned if viserys becomes an exception to this oath. “because i can go into detail, you needn’t beg. i can tell you of how it felt to have her squeeze around my cock, and how she arched that little back like a cat, spine curving deeper each time i pounded into her. i can tell you of how she begged for her uncle, her kepus, to shoot his spend into her aching womb and-”

a screech rings out as viserys’ chair flies backwards, the king rising to a stand and glaring down at his brother, who only sinks deeper into the velvet lined seat and allows himself another sip of his glass, face painted in pure amusement as viserys’ reflects that of an angered dragon.

“enough! i will not have you speak such atrocities about your own niece!”

“oh spear me the lecture of the seven, brother!” the hypocrisy to shun him for lusting after his own kin, it has to be the hightower cunt’s doing. feeding lies into her new husband’s head, any means to have his true-blooded targaryen daughters removed from the line to the throne. daemon at last feels himself begin to irk, a scowl engraving itself into his forehead. “your own beloved, your late wife, shared blood with you and you never once objected to bedding her. it is our family’s birthright to keep the blood of the dragon burning hot, not dampen it with that of lesser folk. i mean our parents, for gods’ sake, they were siblings! are you going to tell me it’s wrong?”

“this is not about you being her uncle, daemon. this is about you being you! and her being my sweet girl, one of the last pieces of aemma-”

daemon can’t help himself, flying out of his own seat with the slam of his hand on the table. the pieces rattle under the impact, the white queen toppling over and sending her pawn flying off the board.

“your sweet girl who you let be slandered by the same lords who break bread at your table and drink from your cups!” the prince stands taller than the king, shoulders straight and head held high as he flips positions, becoming the one staring down upon his older brother, who’s slouched and frailer than he once was, hands searching for the steadying hold of the oak table. “tell me, brother, where were you when she drank herself sick as they spoke on her fertility? what did you do when they mocked her for being scared after an attack on her life, in her own chambers!? did you even ask her what happened between us before you shipped her off like cattle to the slaughter, let her tell you it was she who asked it of me? she detested the thought of marrying some unknown lord so much she’d rather destroy her maidenhood and her honour, but you wouldn’t see that, too blinded by your own downfall into becoming a boot-licker for all these cunts who hold land in your realm.”

viserys can only stare, frozen where he stands and eyes widened in bewilderment at his brother’s own outburst, chest heaving in anger and hands shaking with adrenaline as he points towards the king.

“are you in love with her?”

no more than a whisper, so quiet the rogue prince is almost sure he imagines it.

till the king repeats himself.

"gods, don't be ridiculous!" it’s neither a yes nor a no, and daemon is so painfully aware of this, aware that he gives no real answer to your father nor himself.

the concept of love and all it entails has never appealed to the prince, at least in the way it’s presented in song and written of in history. all his life he’d heard of knights who’s lady love was a gem they sought to hold, to sing songs of faithfulness and dance around with hands entwined by marriage. of men who made themselves better, kinder, more gentle, all in the hopes of pleasing their lover and winning her hand. daemon had never experienced such a feeling.

while love is something most feel in their heart, daemon feels it in his loins.

it’s a hunger that consumes his very being, aching, and growling, and demanding to be fed with bursts of passion and shouts of anger. it’s a possession he needs to take, to mark someone as his, in every sense of the words. his to own, his to touch, his to drown in expensive gifts. his love is not kind, but brutal, and loud, and forceful, never leaving room for the rest of the world to doubt it. it makes him want to march into battle, to burn down cities, to spill the blood of any who dare harm the object of his obsession. his love is a fire that burns him from within, spilling out from his skin and scorching everything in it’s path.

the prince is not sure if he wants you to burn in its flames.

“but i could give her a greater life than any other man in this realm.” what he is certain of is that he will not stand by as your father let’s you be ruined by someone other than him. “a good man means nothing if he can not keep her safe, or even happy. at the very least, wedding her to me would mean her husband is someone familiar. she wouldn’t have to leave her home, or change her ways, or even bare a child if she does not wish to.”

viserys sighs, tired body dropping back into his chair and his mangled hand reaches up to brush over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeeze shut. the prince almost believes he sees a flicker of resignation, winning his brother over at last or exhausting him so deeply he sees no choice but to accept his words as truth, if only to silence him.

instead, the king reaches for the board once more, an airy laugh escaping him as he examines the placement of each piece. leaning over, he sits his queen back up and drums his fingers on the table.

he laughs once more.

"after all these years, daemon, you still struggle to capture my queen."

“but your queen, daemon. the queen is where you hide all your power, look for where your opponent keeps their queen and there you shall find true victory.”

the words of years ago spin round and round in the prince’s head.

his eyes, glued to the board, watch as the king moves his queen out two spaces and captures daemon’s knight, snatching it off the board and tossing it over his shoulder. viserys looks up, awaiting for daemon to continue the match, to put an end to it at last.

but he’s too stuck on the phrasing his brother had used, stubborn in his belief that it’s meaning has little to do with the game upon the table and, rather, the one that’s being played with words and whispers and undisclosed betrothals.

the prince thinks of the queen, the hightower girl who parades around the courts in green silks and upon swollen ankles, face downtrodden each time she foolishly thinks no one is looking. if ever he believed viserys held true affection for her, he’d wonder if she was who the king refers to, if otto hightower had truly been sent back to oldtown empty handed or with a new bride on his arm.

but any fool with a set of eyes can see the king loves his second wife like he loves the iron throne: through duty and obligation.

it is, instead, the late queen aemma who viserys must speak of.

and, while her maiden home, house arryn, where she’d spent her girlhood in the days before she’d been betrothed to her cousin, possesses no lord nor man awaiting a wife, a neighbouring house had just recently named a new wifeless lord.

a house which remembers, especially those who wrong it.

“no…”

i'm where you once where.

“you have to understand, daemon, that the actions you take leave me with consequences to bare. after what happened to lady rhea… after what you done,” his brother, so clearly exhausted with the secrecy and the scheming, folds like a house of cards against a gentle breeze, collapsing further into his seat and shaking his head. he does not notice as daemon moves his own queen along the board. “the vale were at an unease. threatened, was the word they used. so when lord royce staked his claim over his house’s seat, demanding i compensate runestone for the marriage agreement you destroyed and the lady you took from them, i had to give them a show of good faith. i had to reassure them of the longstanding trust between our houses.”

“so you gave her to them, sold her like some slave!”

“i made a political deal!” he attempts to defend himself in both words and on the board. in both, he fails. “one where lord rhoyce gains a bride, i avoid war and my daughter gets to finally take on the duties bestowed upon her at birth.”

“you’re a fucking fool, viserys. you would have been better delivering her to the triarchy. least they would make her death a more swift one. that rhoyce twat’ll have her head on a pike, and her tits and cunt will be hand delivered to you. they’ll slaughter her, as payment for their-” daemon swallows every ill coloured word and expression of his despise that comes to mind at the memory of his bronze bitch, giving no out for his brother to twist this conversation into a matter of his own wrongdoings. “late lady.”

with no more hesitation, the rogue prince moves his queen one last time and delights in watching the white king fall into check.

he knocks the piece over, quietly declaring checkmate.

“brother, please,” the king’s words are as fragile as his health, failing and mute against daemon’s scowling features, which refuse to play nice any longer. “do you think this is what i wanted, for my daughter to be used as a bargaining tool for peace? but there’s no going back, what’s done is done.”

“then undo what is done!”

“how can i when they threaten violence and-”

“you’re the king! who gives a shit what they threaten, they have a dozen men to your thousands. you have dragons! if the threat of fire worked on the men of the vale once, it’ll do so again. so regain your pride and write to that cunt royce. tell him to have your daughter cleaned up and sent back to where she belongs, to find fulfilment in his new lordhood and to drop this notion that he even deserves to gaze upon a targaryen princess, much less stick his shrivelled cock within her. i urge you to send this letter post-haste,” that familiar blade of his sits neatly by the entrance of the chamber, attracting the prince over till he clutches it in his grasp at last, quickly returning dark sister to her rightful spot by his side and discarding the blade he’d stolen from ser criston. he glances back at the king, now risen once more, and twists the doorknob. “and pray, dear brother. pray that it reaches gerold royce before i do.”

with the slam of the door, daemon plunders into the halls of the keep, footsteps heavy and echoing with each one he takes. jaw clenched and hands fisted, he paints the image of a man enraged, sick and fed-up with the games being played.

by the time he reaches his chambers, shoving his way past the sleeping knight at it’s doors, there’s bound to be a flurry of gossiping fools who speak of the prince and his defiling of the king’s commands, but he cares little as he straps himself into leathers and steel, hell-bent on reaching the dragonpit before day breaks and the sun paints the sky alight.

daemon is done sitting idly by, waiting for the king to see reason.

because while at the age of five, naive and easily influenced, daemon targaryen had looked up to his chess-genius of a brother, it was at age five and ten that he realised why his brother kept winning, why pawns and knights and rooks would conveniently move to the places he needed them to be.

he cheated.

#daemon targaryen smut #house of the dragon smut #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen fluff #daemon targaryen fic #daemon targaryen oneshot #daemon targaryen imagine

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uhhhitsgray · 8 months

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Blood for Two Chapter Ⅰ

This was supposed to be a little one shot because the Astarion brain rot is truly hitting me besties. I wanted to write Astarion vampire smut, but then I really like how sad and just depressing his story is. So this first chapter dips into his story a bit, then next chapter is the yummies. ~Astarion storyline spoilers if you haven't gotten here yet ~

Warnings for both chapters: we got some vampire biting, vampire sex and uhhh.. there will be blood, sorry not sorry. probably blood kink. There is one instance where read and Astarion talk about offing themselves, nothing major. astarion needs a hug and head smooches this chapter, he really doesn't think much of himself :c

Chapter Ⅰ

None of this was supposed to happen.

He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you. You weren’t supposed to fall in love with him. When he proposed the absolute deranged plan of allowing him to ascend with you being the sacrifice that he needed, all he had to do was bite you and turn you into a vampire spawn as he once was. You should have told him no. Should have told him to fuck off, that he was being insane because of course he was. It was his shot in the dark for his own desires, something to truly benefit him in a life where he was only used, and played as a pawn for Cazador. It would have made you his little play thing.

But his initial plans turned sour when he whispered ‘I love you’ into your lips under the moonlight. A warmth that Astarion hadn’t felt in over 200 years, a warmth he had long forgotten about spread through his body when he was with you. That warmth would continue with every brush of skin against each other, every cast of the longing stare from across the camp.

Astarion held you close, he had to. He never had anyone care about him like this before. You never asked for anything in return of his company, of him keeping a careful eye out for you. To protect you. Everything he’d known before you was transactional, but not you and he appreciated that more than words could ever explain.

He thought his heart was going to explode when you suggested ascension, that you would become his vampire spawn under the condition that he would still treat you as his equal. You didn’t want to be treated like the dirt under his shoes, how Cazador treated him. He was stunned at your proposition, he asked if you were sure on several occasions and asked to give him a few days to think it over. He never thought he’d be offered this so willingly. You were truly a blessing he never thought he’d ever receive.

It’s been almost two months since you became a vampire. Astarion didn’t think it was possible, but you became even more beautiful. Skin paler, your iris colors mixing together with tints of red. You were powerful like he was, even more than himself when he was a spawn. Drinking off of each other allowed for easy healing after battles, his blood richer and in result you didn’t have to feed off of him as much.

Astarion may have left that little bit of information out. He knew if you drank from him your hunger would be satisfied for much longer, but truth be told he loved when you drank from him. When you drank from each other, it excited him. His heart beat hard against his ribs, it always felt like it was one beat away from breaking his bones. Warmth spread through his body. His chest always felt the hottest, spreading down his limbs and causing the tips of his fingers to be hot to the touch.

Tonight he finds you on top of his lap, hands spread across his chest as the fire from outside his tent dances across your skin. It’s late into the night as the moonlight casts its light blue shade across the ground, covering everything that the fire light hasn’t touched. The soft snoring of your companions drifts into the night air along with the crickets chirping into the night abyss. A noise that could set you into a deep slumber if you weren’t looking down into Astarion’s fire lit eyes, reds so deep you could get swallowed if you weren’t careful.

“I want you.” You whisper into his neck as you place kisses on his soft skin. His hands find perch on the plushness of your hips as his fingers squeeze into your skin.

“You just drank a few days ago darling, are you hungry again?” He breathes in the fragrance of your hair; the same as always, lavender. One of his favorites.

You kiss his cheek, soft and caring as you sit back up. “No, I’m not hungry –”

He tilts his head slightly, the light from the fire accentuating his features. Truly beautiful. “Then what do you need, my sweet?”

Your eyes dart around the tent, your cheeks painted in a faint blush. Astarion sits up, holding his weight with his elbow on the bedroll as he cups your cheek. “Anything you want, it’s yours.” Concern crosses your features as your eyes switch between his, your body stiffens on his lap. He wonders if he said the wrong thing for such a reaction. He would give anything to you, you say the words and he’d do it. He’d bend at your every ask, and command of him. You saved him, it’s the smallest piece he could repay you for.

Your hand wraps around the side of his neck, a soft smile on your face. “What about you Astarion? What do you want?”

He smiles back at you, “Whatever would make you happy, dar –”

“No. What do you, Astarion, want? Not what would make me happy.” Your thumbs brushes across his cheek. “What would make you happy, my love?”

He turns his head, looking out to the fire as the silence fills the tent, only the crackling of the fire to be heard. The silence stretched out between you two for several moments as you patiently waited. Sorrow fills your heart, has he ever heard those words outside of you whispering them to him? You didn’t know all the details of his past, some of the details about Cazador were too painful for Astarion to bring up, some forgotten from the trauma he endured. You were grateful that he shared what he did, that he felt comfortable enough to share some of the darkest moments of his life with you.

Another wave of sorrow washes over your heart, suffocating you at the memory of him telling you that he didn’t remember any of his life before Cazador turned him. How he didn’t remember what color his eyes were, how he could never see how he looked now. He’d never know if he looked similar or if he looked completely different and, fuck, that broke your heart for him.

Your eyes take in his features, eyes scanning over every inch of his face. You take a deep breath before speaking, tears pricking at your eyes. “Astarion.”

He turns his head back to you, his crimson irises search yours as a sadness washes over his features. One side of his mouth quirks up in an attempt to soothe the pain you wear. “I’m so sorry.” You whisper out, fingers carding through his white hair careful of his pointed elf ears as you tucked the strand behind them.

“What for, darling?”

“Everything.” Your hands squeeze into fists at your side. “You were so poorly treated, by everyone who crossed your path –” You pause, sniffling slightly. “I can’t imagine that. Can’t imagine the pain you’ve gone through, the betrayal of everyone who you thought cared about you.”

Astarion’s eyes drift to the floor next to you a somber look washes over his features, anguish covering his words. “It’s alright, it’s in the past, darling. No need to fret over it.”

Your blood boils for him, “It’s not okay! Astarion, it – it’s fucked up!” Your hands raise in exclamation. “Cazador, he – fuck.” The back of your hand wipes tears away from your face. “He took everything from you, everything you were. He dwindled you away to nothing, took away your voice. Your will, your consent. Everything from you –”

Your body slumps down, tears drop off of your cheeks and land on his stomach. Your voice is weak as you look back at him, his expression pained. “You’re beautiful, oh so beautiful, my love.”

“No, darling, I’m not and you know that.” He squeezes your hand. “Everything I’ve done up to this point has been self-serving, not caring for anyone. Barely even caring for myself.”

“You had to be.” You finally wipe the tears with your free hand. “Everyone turned against you, you had no one. But – but now, you have people who care about you. You’re allowed to want.”

Astarion shakes his head at you, chuckling. “I cannot want anymore, I don’t deserve it.”

“And who said that?”

“Me.” Astarion pauses, looking back out onto the fire. “I’ve done unspeakable things because of want, because of desires. Turning you into my spawn for my own benefit, it –” He pauses, taking a deep breathe, “It was fucked up. Just another selfish want of mine.”

“I wanted that. Fuck, I asked for that.” Another tear runs down your cheek.

“You should have slit my throat for that.”

“I could never do that.”

Crimson eyes dart back to your face, “You could have.”

You shake your head, “I’d have slit my own afterwards.”

Astarion laughs at that, “Preposterous.”

Another tear snakes down your face, you can feel a small piece of your heart cracking in two. “Do you think you mean that little to me, Astarion?”

His brows knit, but he stays silent.

“I – fuck – Astarion, I love you. I care about you, so deeply. I want you to want things, to desire things. You are allowed to do that. You are allowed to think for yourself.”

He sits up, and laces his fingers together behind your back. “It’s just… hard.” He sighs, laying his head against your chest. “How do I change, how can I become better?”

You wrap your arms around him, kissing the top of his head as you hold him close. “You’ve already changed so much.”

“Yeah?”

You giggle, carding your fingers through his hair. “Yeah, you literally held a knife to my throat when you met me.”

He laughs, leaving his head against you still. “How did you keep me around after that?”

You bury your face into the top of his head, shy to admit. “I thought you were too pretty to send away.”

He shifts his weight under you, his hands falling down your back a little. “I could have killed you.”

Your shoulders shrug, “But you didn’t.”

He pulls away from you just enough to see your face, hands still wrapped around your back. His eyes reflect the fire outside the tent, showing off the hues of red that painted his irises. You cup your hands around his face, pulling his face closer. Nose to nose, your eyes dart to his lips and back up. “Beautiful.” You whisper into his lips as you kiss him.

He leans into your kiss, arms bringing you closer to him. Your chests touch, skin to skin. It’s warm, he’s warm, you’re warm. Desire flashes through his mind, one that can’t, shouldn’t, ignore. “You’re so beautiful.” He kisses your lips again, pushing you back on his bedroll.

“I love you.” He kisses into your neck, then back to your lips. “I want –” Astarion stops himself, wondering if it’s too selfish of a request.

His eyes above you look as if they’re off in another universe, another dimension as he questions whether he should finish his statement. “Ask for it, Astarion. You know you want to.”

His eyes focus back on you, he kisses your neck again. One of his hands holds onto your hip, as if to ground himself; to keep him from flying away. Astarion drops his body weight onto you, he smirks to you as he feels your legs spread around his waist. Knees bent upwards, squeezing into his sides. He bites down on his lip, trying to keep his mind focused, trying to ignore the heat of you against him.

“I want you –” Is all he managed to croak out. Mind clouded by emotions, desires and the damned way you keep squeezing your thighs around his waist.

“I’ll give myself to you anyway you want.” Your eyes are locked onto his lips, pupils enlarging as he drags his tongue across them, the tips of his fangs exposed.

His hand wraps around the side of your neck as he pulls himself to you. His lips crash into yours, your both panting in between kisses. It’s desperate in the way he kisses you, the ways his mouth chases your lips, and how he groans into your mouth as you back arches into him. “What a dangerous thing to say, darling.”

#baldurs gate astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x you #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #this chapter kind of hurt my soul #he's just a little baby and has never done anything wrong #don't fight me on that

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fangsandfracturedhearts · 7 days

Text

Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Chapter 14: Devil's Ploy

Summary: You helped Astarion complete the Rite of Profane Ascension and become the Vampire Ascendant. You agreed to become his spawn soon after. Once the Netherbrain was defeated, Astarion claimed the Szarr Palace, renaming it the Crimson Palace, for himself and set about his plans of domination.

Word Count: 6k

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x female!Tav Spawn

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

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

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

Rating: Explicit 18+ - [Meant For Mature Audience]

You snort and blink rapidly to clear your nose of the fetid sulphuric odour burning the membranes of your nostrils, throat and eyes. In the cramped, dimly lit sewers, where the air doesn’t stir, the stench of it lingers and never seems to dissipate.

When your vision finally becomes unimpaired by burning tears, the cambion and her fire-red hair, horns bedazzled with chains of gold, is leering at you with a conniving expression that makes your stomach sink. You’ve seen this expression on her plenty of times when she was scheming and plotting.

“Gods above,” you hiss with a rasp to your voice. “What do you want, Mizora? I thought I was good and done with your kind.”

“And here I thought we had all become such good friends,” she titters, feigning cordiality terribly. “You always did have so much… spunk. I’m happy death still hasn’t taken your lovely little spark.”

“You can ask Raphael all about my spark,” you smirk. Vivid blue lightning crackles and buzzes over your fingertips. “Oh, wait. You can’t because I killed him for seeing me as no more than a little mouse, a pawn, and I will do the same with you if you think you can play games with me.”

“Oh-yes,” Mizora giggles, not one iota ruffled by your threats. “All nine Hells were positively astir with the news of his demise. He always was such a pompous and over-confident twat, not unlike your master, I suppose."

Master. Ugh.

“I would be lying if I said it was nice to see you again, Mizora. If you will excuse me, I have my prey to hunt, and you’ve made me lose its trail.”

You can’t hear or smell Elowyn anymore. She will be deep into the ruin by now, or worse yet, in the Crimson Palace itself, but you still don’t understand what use she would have of that place. There is nothing left there but closed cells full of rotting gore that can never be opened again since you made Astarion break Cazador’s quarterstaff - Woe. Insofar as you’re aware, that was the only key to controlling everything.

“A great pity you’re in such a rush, pet,” Mizora snickers. Gods, you hate being called “pet.” You almost growl, but you’re too preoccupied with the rising feeling of foreboding swishing around in your stomach. You know that laugh and dread what’s about to come out of her mouth next. “I was going to offer to assist your Vampire Ascendant with his little… problem, but I suppose if you don’t want help… well, you can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make it drink. Ta-ta!”

“Wait!” You snap, whirling around. You’re going to regret this. “Wait… What do you know of Astarion’s ailment?”

“I thought that might get your attention,” she smirks smugly. “Let’s make ourselves more comfortable, shall we? You may be accustomed to living in such filth, but I am decidedly not.”

Mizora snaps her fingers, fire bursts to life all around you, and then you’re in a grand sitting room with glitzy settees, lounges and chairs. Rugs made of creatures you’ve never seen before litter the floor. Some appear reptile-like with scaly hides, others plush furs, others with feathers and more with something you can only begin to describe as some form of cartilaginous exoskeleton. They look at you with glassy, dead eyes ashine in their long-dead sockets.

It’s stiflingly hot, and you peer out of double doors leading to the terrace and take in the landscape. In the distance, black, jagged mountains pierce the horizon with peaks wreathed in an eerie crimson mist. Brimstone and fire dance in a perpetual inferno bordering a river made entirely of lava or possibly blood. It’s hard to tell from this height. The air is acrid and clouded with volcanic ash, and the sky flickers reds and oranges as fireballs race through clouds of darkest black.

“Avernus,” Mizora gushes. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“I think I preferred the sewers,” you croak, wiping the sweat from your brow and going back inside. It does little to provide any comfort or liberation from the sweltering climate.

“Of course, sewer spawn,” she scoffs indignantly and drops unceremoniously onto a lounge. “It was your home for a little while. Wasn’t it? Until the Cleric and Wizard found you down there.”

“Have you been watching me this entire time?” You cross your arms and quirk a brow at her. “Do you have nothing better to do than derive pleasure from pain and suffering?”

“Oh, darling.” Her head falls back, and she laughs, “Of course! Who wouldn’t want to watch this little tragedy play out? It has been quite amusing thus far.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying the show,” you bow sarcastically with a frown. “If you’re getting such a kick out of it, why are you meddling in my nightmare?”

“Sit. Won’t you?” She gestures toward the chaise. Mizora won’t tell you anything until you do as she asks. This is all part of her little game, after all. So, you sit with a roll of your eyes. “I would have been happy to watch until the vampire killed you, but alas, all good things must come to an end. Zariel and the other archdevils have other plans.”

Fuck. If another archdevil, or several, from the sounds of it, are getting involved, this is unlikely to be good. What got you here was another deal with an archdevil, but if there’s even a chance that something Mizora might tell you can give you somewhere to start, well, you can humour her.

“Which are?”

“Oh,” Mizora shrugs. “I don’t know, little lamb. I am merely a messenger.”

“Okay,” you comb your fingers through your sweat-dampened hair. She’s lying. You can see the hinting glint in her eyes. She knows more than she’s letting on. “Well, what is it you can tell me?”

The toothy, menacing smile that sidles across Mizora’s face should send you running. She sneers, “Tell me. What do you know of Mephistopheles?”

You shrug, “I know he is an archdevil, a rather powerful one. His domain is Cania. The Rite of Profane Ascension was a contract with him. Beyond that, I do not spend much time researching devils.”

“So, nothing then,” she pouts. “Well, allow me to enlighten you.”

Fire leaps to life in a circle, and Mizora’s eyes gleam with the keenness of a wild cat as you jump and get ready to defend yourself. Everything goes black except for the inferno burning around you.

As you watch the writhing blaze, depictions form in the leaping flames, moving against them. A towering devil with bright red skin, curling ram horns and massive bat-like wings jutting out from his back. He has an unnervingly charming smile, but it’s offset by cold, milk-white eyes that stare through you, making you shudder.

The figure paces around, muttering to himself and the empty grand halls around him. His eyes bounce around with feral neuroticism. He twitches, growls, hisses and waves his hand as if shooing away an annoying insect while snarling.

Abruptly, the fiery figure lets out a blood-curdling shriek and starts clawing at his skin, tearing gashes into himself until his skin is hanging in gruesome, dripping flaps from his arms and chest. Fire explodes in his palms, and he flings around bolts of Hellfire, instantly turning everything around him to ash. He pivots quickly and appears to be looking straight at you. He roars so loud you’re sure your eardrums have burst. He charges toward you with the ferocity of a rabid animal and a fireball barrels toward you.

Everything goes black, and you fall onto the floor by Mizora, who is snickering.

“What in the Hells was that?” You snap, getting up and getting in her face. You grab that fur collar in your hands and shake her, “What the fuck did I just witness?”

“Mephistopheles, for all his cunning and brilliance, is a deeply troubled individual. As you saw, he is neurotic and suspicious and often flies into fits of explosive and violent rage. Does that remind you of anyone?”

“… Astarion,” you breathe and stumble back. “Oh Gods…”

“Yes, pet.” Mizora nods with a fiendish cackle. “I can see you putting it all together. The Vampire Ascendant was an experiment of sorts. As you can imagine, these tendencies are not becoming of an archdevil. In an effort to rid himself of his neurotic temper, he needed a willing vessel to imbue with a portion of his nature. What better way to lure a willing participant than to offer unfathomable power?”

You collapse onto the chaise, wracking your fingers through your hair, “The Vampire Ascendant was nothing more than a way for Mephistopheles to offload his psychosis?”

Gods above. It makes so much sense. Astarion’s blind fits of rage. The voices in his head. The alternate version of him that sometimes takes control. You never got to see the whole contract. Did Raphael know about this and neglect to say it?

“But.” You add, looking at Mizora, “Astarion is himself some of the time.”

“Ah-yes,” Mizora snickers, glancing at her nails. “The vessel was never supposed to have an intact soul. It’s much easier to work with an empty cask than one that is already full, so to speak. A spawn was never supposed to usurp the ritual. I would say an oversight on Mephistopheles’ part, but truly, who could have imagined a spawn would get infected with a mind flayer tadpole that broke his master’s chains? Then, he just so happened to come upon a fine hero to help him. It’s all rather ludicrous sounding. Astarion’s soul is fractured but not completely eradicated. Well, not yet at least.”

“What do you mean not yet?”

“Think of it like this,” Mizora speaks to you slowly, as if you might not be smart enough to understand the metaphor slipping past her lips. “The entity is like an infection. It contaminates him, tainting everything from his thoughts, the platelets in his blood, to the marrow in his very bones, faster than his body can heal itself.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” You’re starting to get suspicious. Where is the catch? The line she will hook you with?

“Can’t I just want to help out an old friend?” She pouts.

You glower at her and cross your arms, “No.”

“You were always so clever.” Mizora suddenly becomes serious, “Mephistopheles is a threat. Now that he is no longer burdened by his demons, he’s set his aspirations quite high. Too high for the liking of many of the archdevils. We would like to see him reunited with himself. It’s a very fine little deal. You get what you want to rid Astarion of the entity that’s eating him from the inside out, and we get to cage Mephistopheles back in the prison of his mind. A warning, pet. It will not be an easy road.”

“My life has never been easy. Why would it start now?” You sigh, “Tell me what needs to be done, and I will do it.”

“Such a good little spawn. Aren’t you? He’s killed you, tortured you, starved you, beat you, emotionally ruined you, and stolen your name, and you’re still willing to risk yourself to save him?” Mizora giggles, “I would say it was a true love story in the making were it not so fucking tragic.”

“What do you mean stolen my name?” You growl, cocking your head at her, “I have a name!”

“Oh,” she snickers, “Then tell me, pet. What’s your name?”

“My name…” You trail off, wracking your brain for the word. It’s right there, sitting precariously on the tip of your tongue. “My name… It’s… It’s…”

Mizora’s laughter is a haunting melody, a sinister cackle in a chilling symphony. That sound could freeze the blood of the bravest soul and make the earth tremble, “You can’t remember it. Can you?”

You replay old conversations in your head. You can see Shadowheart’s lips moving, but then there’s a sudden silence where all you hear is white noise even though she’s still talking. It’s the same with conversations with Gale, just white noise in the place where your name should have been.

Astarion stole your name from you… When did that happen, and why can’t you remember? What else has he stolen from you?

“What’s my name,” you swallow the thick odium that’s erected itself into your throat. You shriek, rage sweeping through you in a gust of hatred, “What my name, Mizora! Say it!”

Mizora smiles haughtily and speaks. You focus with every iota of your capacity, watching her lips move, but it is as you feared. Your ears hear nothing but the breathy whisper of silence, and your eyes seem unable to read the phonetics on her lips.

You’re his darling. His sweet girl. His precious treasure. His consort. His nameless spawn.

And yet, you’re still prepared to sacrifice your life.

Yes, a very good little spawn, indeed.

“It doesn’t matter,” you mutter, clenching your chest as a tendril of sadness wraps around your heart and chokes it. “What do I have to do?”

“Before we can do anything about Astarion. We must first unbind him from his contract.” Mizora says, eyes narrowing, fixed on you. “I don’t care how you do it, but you must get Astarion’s contract from Mephistopheles. Steal it. Bargain for it. The choice is yours, but you must do it fast. There’s no way to know how much time before Astarion is lost forever.”

Mizora deposits you back into the sewers, and her voice bounces off the stony passageways, “Tick-tock, tick-tock, pet.”

You consider continuing to try to track Elowyn, but you’re reeling with information and cannot fathom how you would even begin to concentrate on her. She must be dealt with. That is certain, but it must wait until your mind isn’t fraught and unsettled.

How are you supposed to get Astarion’s contract from Mephistopheles? Bargaining for it should be your last resort, but how do you get to Cania, the eighth layer of the Nine Hells, survive it long enough to sneak into Mephistar and somehow sneak through an archdevil citadel? It seems like an impossible task.

Should you tell Astarion? He would usually be the first person you ran to for help with a heist, but he’s unlikely to let you go, even if it is the only means to save him from inevitably losing himself entirely. You can’t risk Astarion forcing you to stay, but you might not be able to risk going to the Hells without him. The Vampire Ascendant will likely be an invaluable asset if you meet resistance. But if he loses himself, you might not survive Astarion’s wrath long enough to get where you’re going. Whether that thing inside him is a separate entity or a version of himself that’s been infected and corrupted, you doubt it will take kindly to you trying to remove it.

Do you approach Shadowheart? You would be putting her in great peril, but she might be able to help with research. This is your mistake to fix, and you don’t relish putting your friend’s lives on the line. Karlach and Wyll are in the Hells. They may be able to help ascertain a way to get to Cania, but you’ll need to figure out how to contact them.

And Good Gods, your name…

The silent corridors echo with the foreboding sound of your heavy footsteps like the ominous rumble of an approaching storm as you work through the maze of gangways and channels. Tears stroll in rivulets down your snowy cheeks, liquid poetry to express all the emotions you can’t.

Dejection. Grief. Fear. Defeat. Loss.

Lost in the spiralling thoughts, you forget to look to the sky as you drag your weary body home. The only thing you want right now is to curl up in the strong arms of Astarion and let him hold your broken pieces and fears together because you’re not sure if you can do it by yourself.

The sun cracks the skyline, the first rays of the soft light of an autumn day embracing the streets, but the sun no longer embraces you. It blinds and broils you. Your skin glows, flakes, and melts. Deep, molten silver-blue channels crack in your arms, legs and face. The pain is so intense you can’t even remember to scream as you stand, waiting for your skin to slough off your bones and cover the street with ash.

You don’t remember reaching out to the bond with Astarion, but his voice fills your head, “Gods above. What in the nine Hells are you doing!? ” Astarion bellows. Panic infects his usual halcyon timbre, “Find shelter! I’m coming!”

The pain is all-consuming. You can’t move, can’t think, can’t speak as your nerves are melted away. Your skin dissolves like water evaporating under the sun’s heat. Every inch of your skin is being flayed in a single moment that lasts forever.

You will die nameless and alone.

“Fuck! Find shelter. Now!”

Astarion’s compulsion overrides everything else, and your body moves stiffly to obey the command even as it smokes and your skin is loosened from your frame, liquifying and dripping off your arms and legs, turning to ash in midair and being carried away by the morning breeze.

Find shelter. Find shelter. Find shelter.

Your instructions resound in your head even louder than the pain that falls to a buzz in the background. You can’t even blink as your fingers curl around the boards of a long-abandoned shack. Gods. Are those your fingers? Is that bone you see? You wrench the board off the window. The pads of your fingers squelch and ooze. When you throw the boards down, your skin sticks to them, peeling away in rangy, fibril bands like gum. Thank the Gods, you lack the capacity to mull it over much as your body throws itself inside without your consent.

With the order completed, there is a brief moment of pure, blissful euphoria - a reward for being so very obedient. The compulsion pales, the vines recede, and you’re pitched back into the residual agony that has yet to abate.

Now that the sun is no longer skinning you alive, the pain has lessened, and you remember how to scream. An inhumane noise rends your throat somewhere between a shriek and a wail. Your head lolls to the side, and your eyes fall to your arms.

You immediately wish they hadn’t.

Your skin is not the smooth pearlescent you’re used to seeing now that the colour it once held has faded to death’s grip. It’s powdery and matte. You’re sure you’re looking at the bones of your forearms in the chasmal rifts.

You hear white noise in your head, murmuring over the bond. It feels like Astarion is trying to contact you, but you hear no words. To get your thoughts off the pain still being recited by your nerves, you shift your focus to the emotions in your head, trying to sift through them. Astarion’s heartbeat in your chest is excruciating. It hammers with the intensity of a blacksmith striking an anvil. He’s petrified, bordering on hysterical.

You reach out in your head, “Astarion?”

“Little love!” He howls. You must remember to request he not attempt to dissolve your brain matter. “Why haven’t you been answering me?”

“Where are you?”

“Close, my treasure.”

You don’t know how much time elapses as you bounce between consciousness and dissociation while focusing on not moving. The less you move, the better for you, but your limbs and muscles seem to jerk and twitch without your consent, and every time, it sends another agonizing swell of suffering to break over you. Teardrops flutter on your lashes, but you can’t move to wipe them away.

Your ears pick up the thudding tempo of Astarion’s beating heart before he bursts through the door, scattering the planks and showering splinters in his haste. Astarion drops to his knees beside you. He visibly shudders as his eyes land on you, slumped against a wall.

“Hells,” he breathes, chest heaving from exertion. You can feel his horror in your head, but you need not. It’s evident in his shaky and rapid speech, “It’s okay. I’m here. I’m here. You’re safe. Look at me, darling.”

Why, after everything he has done to you, is his proximity so remarkably comforting? You let your eyes roam over him and truly appreciate the beauty before you. His scarlet eyes, dazzling like vivid, perfectly polished jewels ashine behind… tears? No. That doesn’t seem right. Your vision is blurred from your eyes being boiled in their sockets. You must be imagining the tears, but his eyes are beautiful nonetheless. His sculpted, full lips, which once held the promise of an eternity of silk kisses, are downturned at the corners. You would give anything to run your fingers along them right now, feel them on your skin, taste them on your tongue. He is breathtaking, quite literally.

“Sweetheart.” Astarion reaches to you. His fingers tremble as they hover below your jaw. He knows it will hurt if he touches you, “Can you hear me?”

You answer in his head because moving the muscles in your face to make you capable of speech will hurt, “Yes. I hear you.”

“I can compel you to not feel the pain, to sleep, but I need your permission.” His eyes bore into you. His voice is a favourite dream you long to slip into, “Please.”

It’s dangerous permission to give. You’ve told him you will leave if he compels you again, but he just did, didn’t he? He compelled you to find shelter when you could not do it yourself. He compelled you from afar. He does not need to be near you to force commands upon you. He can wrap your brain and body around his finger like twine from anywhere, anytime, on a whim. But Gods, you will do anything to make this pain end, to drift away from this fucking nightmare.

“Do it.”

Immediately, you feel your control funnelling away, like sand through an hourglass.

“You feel no pain,” he purrs, and the pain vanishes as your nerve endings deactivate. It’s a blissful respite, and you sigh. “Thank you for trusting me. Sleep now.”

Your brain shuts off. Darkness claims you, and Hells below, you welcome it.

“Wake.”

The directive floats through your comatose mind like a beam of light cuts through the pitch-blackness of nullity. Your faculties burst to life, waking one by one, unfurling like a blooming flower. The first thing you feel is hunger so painful that your body jerks to collapse in on itself as your limbs jolt and tremor insuppressibly. Excruciating cramps make your toes curl and your hands ball into fists. Your mind is raving, mad with hunger. You consider biting your tongue if only for the sweet succour of that crimson elixir.

You cannot think of anything other than the sensation of your insides gnawing on themselves, the paralyzing contracting of every ligament and tendon in your body, the desiccation that’s withered your tongue, and the grave need to feed - on anything and anyone.

Another spasm causes you to lurch and claw at your skin like you could dig yourself out of this ailing body. Warm hands clasp your wrists, and all your mind can think is warm means alive, and alive means blood. Your eyes snap open, but your addled brain simply cannot process the visual input, and you don’t think twice before fire erupts from your palms.

“Shit!”

You hear it, but you do not process it. As soon as the grip on you rescinds, you lunge at this figure before you whose beating heart is thrumming the provocative siren song of life and food. Colliding with it is like being throttled into a brick wall, but you waste no time fumbling and climbing with bared fangs. You’re so close to that beautifully pulsing vein, and it’s the only thing your eyes can focus on.

Stomach bubbling with hunger, you go to bite, jaws snapping and slobbering like a feral beast. As soon as your fangs hover within striking distance, your body arrests, and you’re instantaneously immobilized.

Strong arms wrap around you, lift, and sink you to the floor. A hand cradles your cheek, and the branching blue-purple veins make you swoon. You think about biting them only to have your body freeze up on you further. It guides your eyes to vivid crimson irises that spark recognition and reason back into your dazed lucidity.

“Astarion…”

“Stop thinking about biting me,” he chuckles and shifts you to the side. “You’ll be able to move again.”

“What?” You would quirk a brow at him, but you’re too focused on trying to push your intentions of biting him away. They do not concede to your urges, and you find your eyes wander without your permission to any vein that might be in striking distance. Astarion always gently walks your errant gaze back to his. “You haven’t compelled me?”

“Ah. Apologies. I do forget how new you are to this.” Astarion reaches for something on the dresser to his right, “No. This is not a compulsion. As my…” he trails off.

“Spawn.” You state with a palpable despondency threaded between the fog of hunger that looms over you.

“I do hate that word,” he shakes his head with discontentment as if he does not want to face the reality of what he has turned you into. “You are physically unable to bite me without my permission. Your body simply will not allow you to do it. Which is why you currently cannot move.”

Astarion holds a goblet out to you, and your stomach is set on fire by the iron sharpness that wafts from the syrupy, bright red nectar. It breaks you away from your absorption of sinking your fangs into Astarion’s flesh, and you snatch it out of his hands and drink with mindless gluttony.

The blood is fresh, hot and rich as the liquid rushes into your mouth. It waterfalls through your body, unknotting the snarls in your muscles, dissolving away the relentless twist of your stomach, and replacing the bloodlust hysteria in your mind with a sultry buzzing.

Astarion’s already holding another goblet, and you throw the empty one to the side and close your eyes as you guzzle. The blood is buttery and decadent. It’s hundreds, nay, thousands of exquisite dishes in a single swallow. It’s like a summertime dawn on your tongue. The wet warmth of it sinks between your thighs, settling with a molten throbbing in your core, and you moan at the pure bliss.

Astarion slips the goblet from your fingers once you’ve finished, and you look at him with half-lidded eyes. You rack your brain for memories of the few times you’ve tasted the blood of thinking creatures. You bit a few in the battles between when he turned you and the Netherbrain, but you cannot remember any of them ever tasting that deliciously arousing.

“That wasn’t animal blood,” you state, almost slurring. You feel drunk, or maybe Astarion is just intoxicating to look at while he mesmerizes you with those red eyes and perfect lips that foretoken pleasure. “Who did you just feed me?”

“No, it was decidedly not animal blood,” he grins as you adjust on his lap and straddle him. You’re not entirely sure what you’re doing in your desirous daze, and you trace the perfect bow of his lips as he speaks. “It was my blood.”

“You are delectable,” you giggle as your fingers help themselves and start fiddling with the buttons on his chemise. As your muddled mind starts to make sense of what he just said, you’re tripped up. You stare at him with a slack jaw and round eyes.

“The look on your face is priceless, darling,” he giggles and glances down at your roving hands as they push open his shirt and trace the defined muscles. Astarion’s fingers trace down your neck, sending shivers down your spine and making you squirm on his lap in wanton desperation for even the most minuscule friction to sate the ache, “I told you that you would taste me, and I you. It will not make you a True Vampire, though, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Right now, you could not care less about being a True Vampire. There is very little on your mind except how his skin feels on your fingers and how extraordinary he would feel stretching you.

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling his scent deeply, placing slow kisses up the column. His fingers curl into the silk nightdress he must have changed you into at some point as he groans.

“Whatever are you doing?” He mutters near your ear, pressing his cheek to yours.

“I want you,” you sigh as you curl your fingers into his hair.

“You just attacked me,” he swallows.

“Then, let me apologize,” you grind against his hardening length in a way that makes you both gasp.

“You’ve been asleep for a week,” he mumbles, even as his arms wrap around you, tugging you close. “You have no idea how close you were to dying. Truly dying.”

You should probably be concerned with how long he kept you asleep since your time is limited, but you don’t care. You can’t care. You’ve never been quite so high on blood, on him. He is the light, darkness and blood that runs through your veins, and good Gods, you will give him everything.

“So, wake me up,” you purr as you push his shirt over his shoulders and run the flat of your tongue up his neck, relishing the salt of his skin. “Touch me like only you can. Love me like only you do. Help me feel alive, Astarion.”

Astarion pulls you back, cradling your face with this thumb pressed gently under your chin, drawing your eyes to his, and you stare at him through narrow, seductively hooded eyes like a love-sick pup. He traces your lips with his thumb, and you catch it in your mouth and suck.

“Hells,” he rasps darkly with a sharp inhalation.

You feel the offering call of the bond, and you don’t hesitate to throw it open. That beautifully overwhelming frisson shatters through you as Astarion’s lips catch yours in an eager, bordering on frantic kiss. He snakes his hand into your hair, holding you firmly against his vehement embrace. His tongue darts into your mouth, and a guttural groan thunders in his chest. His kiss is unusually clumsy, lacking the artistry and mastery he typically possesses, and your teeth click together with your greed for each other. You roll your hips, sinking your clit against his length, and your head falls back as white-hot sparks of want rupture behind your eyelids.

As far as you’re concerned, he is the definition of desire. His lips, his hands, and his taste are the only things that can bring you back to life from this deathless death, and you’re sure that you could never get close enough to him. Even with every curve of your body pressed into every contour of his, it still wouldn’t be enough. Nothing is sweeter than the serene sin of the kisses his lips press against your throat.

You peel off your nightdress, and your fingers tug at the opening of his breeches, graceless in your wild hunger to be filled, to be taken, to be his. Astarion quirks his hips up and pulls them down his hips, freeing his cock. The head glistens with evidence of his arousal. With no warning or hesitation, you sink his full length into you. The heavenly stretch makes you cry out and dig your fingers into his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathes, heavy, ragged and uneven. The pads of his fingers find your swollen flesh, sweeping and circling, and you get lost in the divine stimulation.

You set a slow, teasing pace, rising and sinking back down onto him as you delight in feeling the ridges of his head with every languid pump. Astarion pants as he lets out breathy moans. He brings a hand to your hip, trying to urge you to move quicker.

“Good Gods,” he whimpers, his gaze glossed with desire. “Have mercy.”

You are starving for pleasure, famished, and you will take it how you want it. With a warning growl, you grasp his wrist and pin it above his head to the wall. Astarion grins at your dominance and doesn’t fight it. He murmurs something unintelligible as you plunge onto his cock, and stares reverentially through thick lashes, drinking you in as you forfeit all rational thought.

Time runs away with you. You could have been riding him for hours or seconds, but eventually, your savouring pace turns reckless and erratic. Astarion bucks his hips in time to meet yours as the sound of smacking flesh, wanton cries and panting is all that fills your ears and head.

Astarion’s fingers tremble and quake against your sensitive bud, his skin sheens with sweat and his breath hitches. When you finally unpin his wrist, he clutches your hips and guides you to continue the tempo that is driving you perilously close to the edge.

His breath starts to come faster, panting hot and crude, fanning across your sweat-veiled skin. Scarlet eyes devour you as you chase your release in his lap. He penetrates you - Harder. Deeper. Animalistic.

“Oh shit—” His eyes snap open wide, almost in a look of blissful confusion. In your rapture, you barely notice the way his lips move, but you hear nothing but white noise. “I’m going to— Gods. I think I’m going to—“

A shuddering gasp escapes his lips, his body suddenly tensing beneath you. The look of ecstasy that washes over his face is enough to hurl you over the precipice, and you cry out with him. Between your walls clutching and spasming, you feel his cock twitching and pulsing, flooding you with his seed. His arms wrap around you, and you cling to him with a grip that would surely bruise. He crushes you against him as you’re both overwhelmed with pleasure so pure you think maybe it would have killed you were you not already dead.

As the intoxication of your climax fades, you sag into him, pressing your forehead against his neck. You close your eyes, breathing in the fragrance of his sweat, and focus on the rise and fall of his chest. It would be nice to stay in this darkness, snug and safe and home in his embrace, with the bond open so you can remain one pale star against the dusk of reality.

And then you remember the white noise from the moving lips of Shadowheart, Gale, Mizora, and him … You pull back abruptly, breaking out of Astarion’s arms and staring at him, tears teeming in your eyes. Astarion’s confusion is evident on his face and through the connection.

“What’s wrong?” He asks. You can feel him trying to figure it out in his head. It’s such an odd sensation, almost like your emotions are being poked and prodded. “What did I do?”

“Say my name,” you whimper, focusing on his lips.

“What?” His eyes bounce around as his brows pull down.

“My name,” you repeat with a quivering lip. “Say it.”

Astarion’s lips move, and… nothing. All you can hear is the buzzing, fizzing hiss of white noise coming from his mouth.

“Again.”

“I don’t understand —“ He yet again opens and closes his mouth with only a droning hum. Your fingers clamber against his lips, pushing his mouth open as if you might be able to grasp the word as it leaves his tongue. “Whatever is the matter?”

He doesn’t even know, you realize. He has no idea that he’s stolen your name just as he stole your life. You find some comfort in knowing that it wasn’t this version of him that did it, at least. You stare off dejected as everything rushes back to you like a slap across the cheek.

Mizora. The Hells. Mephistopheles. The Contract. The ticking clock. Your name.

“My love,” Astarion’s fingers curl into your hair, and he ushers your eyes to his. “Did I harm you? Please. Tell me what’s troubling you."

“I don’t remember my name,” the tears spill out of your eyes. “You stole it from me.”

Big thank you for everyone who takes the time to read/reblog/comment, and all the other magnificent things. As always, I hope you enjoy this, darlings!

AO3 [Crossposted]

Master List of Chapters: Fangs and Fractured Hearts

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

Small Notes:

So... does she tell him what Mizora revealed?

#ascended astarion #bg3 #astarion fanfic #astarion x you #astarion #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion smut #fangs and fractured hearts

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cringecannon · 8 months

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imagining being caught between the immovable object Enver Gortash and the unstoppable force Astarion

Maybe you managed to get away from Astarion in that sweet spot between his ascension and him turning you. There were more important things to deal with, the tadpoles still wriggling in your heads, the impending doom. Astarion would begrudgingly let you run off, save the day. After all, what was the point in newfound power if he wasn’t alive to savor it? So you leave. You fight. You’re all finally free.

Then what happens when Astarion doesn’t swoop in fast enough?

He’d always intended to bring you back, to sequester you away as he promised, but he was foolish enough to think he had all the time in the world, that he had decades to win you back. So imagine his shock when the dust has settled and you’re nowhere to be found. He’d interrogate your friends, send his new spawn hunting for you every night, turn the entire city upside down to no avail.

He can barely keep up with his duties as a new lord in the city, can barely even think of anything but you. He’s at his wits end, considering another deal with the devil when all of the sudden, in the last place he’d expect, he sees you. At some stuffy patriar party, hanging off of Archduke Gortash’s arm like some lovesick puppy. It would sicken him, enrage him. How dare you move on so quickly. How dare you forget about him, forget all that you had together.

In his jealous rage, he wouldn’t notice how tight your smile is, how it doesn’t reach your eyes. You have no such luxury. You’re intimately aware of how uncomfortable you are, your skin crawling wherever it makes contact with your fiancé. Even thinking the word disgusts you. It was a horrible, crooked deal you’d been forced into. Just days after saving the city, Gortash had cornered you. Threatened the well-being of you, your friends, everyone you held dear. All you had to do was give up one tiny, insignificant thing- your hand, in marriage.

You would have no choice but to acquiesce. Running away would be selfish, he assures you. You’d be dooming everyone you cared about, and he’d hunt you down anyway. It would be so much easier just to give in. So you do. You let him dress you up in high end fashions, you hang off his arm while he schmoozes the upper-crust pawns that line his pockets, and you let him fuck you dumb over his ornate desk, his satin bed, and anywhere else he wants to.

When he sneaks you out of the party and pulls you tight against his chest, you don’t protest as he slips inside you, taking what’s his. Your obedience earns you nothing though. He doesn’t even have the decency to let you cover yourself when Astarion catches you in that dark hallway, your arms held back as he leisurely thrusts inside you. He doesn’t stop when he notices the vampire, merely greets him and asks if he’s enjoying the party.

Astarion would bristle, he’d have to hold himself back from tearing the man apart. It would be suicide to kill him so publicly. He considers it though. He has no such self restraint when Gortash offers to let him join in, pulling out of you and flipping you around so that the Archduke can enjoy your mouth instead. Astarion would be insulted, fuming as the other man speaks of you so vulgarly, offering to share you like some common whore… but at his core, Astarion is a selfish man. He knows he’s debasing himself, debasing you, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not yet. He’ll get you back, eventually. Lock you away where no one will ever find you. For now though, he’s just thrilled to be inside you again.

#astarion x tav #enver gortash x tav #enver gortash x reader #astarion x reader #notsfw #.astarion #.enver gortash #.bg3

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sfehvn · 6 months

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Hi! Let me start by saying that the intruder has me completely hooked, it's such a clever idea and can't wait to see what comes next. Okokok, I'll stop gushing. If your requests are still open (if not, simply disregard the ask or save it for a later day) but I can't get my head out of the idea of Astarion and a selkie reader (Idk why tho). Either ascended or not, I think it would be a interesting concept to explore the folklore around selkies with our dear vampire. Maybe Tav is afraid of her secret being discovered or fearing for her pelt being stolen? How do the dinamics work with Astarion either as an ascended or spawn? Any fic is more than fine for me :D

selkie

A/N: Thank you much for your support! This is just a little drabble but I can always build upon it later if you'd like! xx Word count: 581 Characters: Astarion x selkie!Tav

━─━────༺༻────━─━

Warm water lapped at your toes and you welcomed the feeling of home washing over you. Astarion laid with you, skin to skin, in the sand and while the sensation of a million grains against his bare body was an unwelcome one, it had, at some point, become a forgotten worry as he held you. You smelt of seafoam and sunshine with his nose buried in your hair. Your pelt laid haphazardly across his leg, thick velvet forever reminding him of you. A selkie lover; a notion Astarion would have met with teasing mockery before he met you. Not known for being an accepting character, when he had found your coat, your animalistic instincts had kicked in. You were prepared to stake the vampire through his un-beating heart if that’s what it took to safeguard your lifeline to the sea.

Astarion hadn’t met your apprehension with his typical antagonistic demeanor, much to your surprise. No, instead, he was curious. Intrigued without the scrutinizing conviction you’d predicted. As your relationship bloomed, safety was fostered in his very existence. One that made your body buzz in the midst of him. Finding comfort in a land-dwelling being was the very last thing you’d anticipated when you’d met the silver-haired man.

Unbeknownst to you, Astarion had concocted a scheme to steal that pelt from right under your nose. The power he’d have over you with the simple theft was an intoxicating thought—a power he’d never had over anyone, not even himself. How easy it would be to force you to kill Cazador on his behalf with the promise of restoring your pelt to your possession. Yes, it was a simple and fool-proof plan. One day when he was left to his own devices in camp, he could have done it. His hands held the coat firmly, staring at it with wide eyes. If it was so easy, why couldn’t he bring himself to do it? He could only picture your face telling him excitedly about how everything seemed to make sense when you were in the deep of the sea, how at-one and peaceful it all was.

Astarion couldn’t steal that from you, the only person who had ever shown him kindness. The only person who had ever treated him like he mattered. Someone who had entrusted him with their biggest secret. The very desire to betray you made his stomach turn viscerally. Just as quickly as he found the coat tucked away amongst your belongings, he hastily returned it as he’d found it. A searing pain gnawed at his chest while he lay with you that night under the moonlight atop the sand. He was angry at himself for considering it; he was angry at himself for being unable to go through with it. Such complex feelings had never touched him so deeply. Why did it matter? You were a pawn. That was it. But then, why did shame light such a fire in his chest?

“What’s got you so quiet tonight?” You murmured between gentle kisses to pale flesh.

He considered letting loose lips fly, but the serenity he felt in the moment paralyzed him. He was sure once you knew about his plan, he’d more than likely never see your face again and would be gone with the anger of unforgiving waves. Perhaps you’d understand his fear-driven thoughts; perhaps not. It was a risk Astarion ultimately decided was not worth the risk.

“Just thinking about how enthralling you are, my little selkie.”

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion #bg3 #x reader #ascended astarion #ascended!astarion x reader #reader #tav #ascended!astarion x tav

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carelessflower · 14 days

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Trouble was firing down the Lightwood's door, an old submission turned more bitter than the poison the matriarch and her husband had gladly lapped from Morgenstern's palm.

Common folks and nobles alike shook in fear, as the Mad King was back, devilish spawns sprinting with their father's every step. The combined force of Idris's houses had only managed to push him down, not out, never out. With a daughter whose hands draw golden and spirit was more fiery than her hair, and her terrifyingly blond brother, who would wipe the blood of those Morgenstern cheekbones with a smile.

Valentine was still alive. He called for the throne.

Of course, Valentine's insanity had not faded away, but neither had his wits, The Mad Ruler - always three steps prepared. The political landscape of Idris had shifted over the decades he spent in the dark carving ladder from people's flesh. The Clave never gave back their trust in the Lightwood. Valentine could regain fortune for his victory, and punishment for his betrayal.

Maryse the Unmercy tensed when a letter with familiar signs came down her sparrow, commanding words capable of drawing expressions few had seen her displayed. Though burnt, the sentiment stayed.

Maxell Lightwood could stay, for he posed the perfect future pawn in Valentine's army. Lady Isabelle would become Valentine's dear Clarissa's Lady-in-waiting, her hands in marriage awaiting whatever house Valentine deemed suitable to sway over.

And when the gentle spray of she spring came, along her the first bloom of Moon Magnolia, Sir Jonathan Herondale would sweep on his horse, and renounce his love for Valentine's daughter. A family united, at last.

The firstborn, oh how Valentine looked to meet the Lightwood's grace, his son's soon-to-be bed warmer. The most useful hostage in the family. Breaking him would be the perfect jewel on the Morgenstern's crown.

Time spinned. The wheel went on.

Day of tourney returned. Words spread faster than wind, a foreign blade drawn. Prince Magnus Bane was never known to back down from a challenge.

The commoners laughed and cheered, bets in taverns went one thousand, one million. They all heard the tales, and Sir Herondale had run into his tough match. Magic ran through Edom's veins, and as one of The Eldest Curses, Prince Magnus's power rivaled most of his royal peers.

The competition would be unpredictable, many claimed. But some only cared about who would the winner dedicate his history to. Whether the blessed magnolia crown of love and beauty would rest on Morgenstern's flaming curls or the intricate blonde braid of Bane's newest amour.

To say this year's round was the most anticipated in centuries would not be a stretch by any means.

Everyone at the joust recalled the moment of their bated breath, as the Great Destruction knocked their prideful heron off his horse. Sharp as Bane's laughter when he took off his helmet, not letting anyone get in his way- reaching for where noble houses were posing in observance.

His eyes flitted over to the right, where the lady Isabelle abode with her family.

Oh— of course. Others whispered. The one true jewel of Alicante. Lady of the Roses.

What a quaint couple would they make. Most knew Maryse was anticipating her frosty rage.

It didn't matter.

For blue petals bloomed in between Sir Alexander Lightwood's raven locks.

okay so this malec x GoT inspired idea has been haunting me all night I need to get it out of my system may pick up later when I'm feeling lucky 🤭

tag list: @magnus-the-maqnificent @literallytypogod @ukisteria @hoezier-than-thou @sociallyineptbibliophile @queenlilith43 @khaleesiofalicante @wandererbyheart @raziyekroos @onetimetwotimesthreetimess @alexandergideonslightwood @andrwminward @noah-herondale-lightwood @elettralightwood @dustandducks @deliciousdetectivestranger @delightfullyterrible @letsgofortacos @kita-no @thelightofthebane @secrettryst @pocketoffeels @cityofdownwardspirals @stupidfuckindinosaur @i-have-not-slept @rinadragomir @potato-jem @kasper-tag @cam-ryt @banesapothecary

#malec #alec lightwood #magnus bane #shadowhunters #the mortal instruments #tmi #tsc #the shadowhunter chronicles #anh writes stuff #got au #or better yet #alec helen of troy au #anh and the plot bunny #no title just vibe #truth to be told i only wanna write the last sentence

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glitteryinknotes · 6 months

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This face haunts me.

Sebastian.

This poor sweet soul, no different than the unnamed "darling boy". The only difference between them being that when Astarion got to him - he didn't have it in himself to disobey his master's commands anymore.

Sebastian. His life, his joys, his innocence stolen from him. Who was he? Who did he wish to be? Who could have he become in his time? We will never know. He will never know.

This moment in Astarion's storyline hit me in the face unlike any other. More than the hug and the confession. Not only because this is the moment we truly see the abhorrence of our lover's past deeds, but because Sebastian is presented as someone we - as the Tav romancing Astarion - are supposed to relate to personally.

We may not be exactly the same. Astarion's goals may be different, we may not be as naive, circumstances might be different alltogether. We may be smarter, more powerful, more experienced, more careful, whoever you headcanon your Tav to be and how their relationship with Astarion looks like in detail.

But it doesn't change the bottom truth.

We are the same fools who acted with kindness, benevolence and trust when it made no sense to do so. We are the ones who extended our trust and affection without any solid reason to. It paid off in our case - Astarion eventually trusted us, opened himself to us, allowed the morality and conscience he still had in himself to guide him for once, and showed willingness to be a better person - but we didn't know that he would when we invited him to our neck, followed him into the forest and in the first place - invited someone who just threatened us with a knife to our party.

We are the same fools who came to love and trust someone - objectively - probably undeserving of genuine love and trust, as things were back then.

Sebastian is one of the few true innocents Astarion seduced. Not a street drunk, minor criminal, brother patron. Not a degenerate from the city's underbelly. He is the true face of the horror Cazadorr unleashed through his vampiric pawns. This is what we choose to look past, forgive and take upon ourselves as someone caring for Astarion. This is the responsibility we must bear, the burden on our conscience we must now live with. If we truly care for him - and wish to think about ourselves as a person of any morals or a kind heart (which is the type of person who, storywise, pushes Astarion to be better than he was as we first encountered him, better than he himself ever thought he could be) - this is the "burden" that comes with the man we believe in and choose to be with, who we choose to see as someone better than everyone else sees him).

The seven thousand ritual - bound souls are now our burden as well. Our responsibility.

I personally believe that the choice to seek & aid the spawns in the Underdark is the only right choice for Tav & Astarion's story conclusion. To deal with the consequences of our choices; for Astarion to prove (if only to himself) that he indeed "can be better" than the one who made him and creatures like him; to finish doing the right thing. Cazadorr's end is a pivotal moment for Astarion, but even more for all the other unfortunate enslaved souls. For him is the final, decisive step towards healing and growing, for them... It's entirely up to you.

You and Astarion have all the time you need, in his own words. You can travel the world, engage in every kind of delicious debauchery Faerun has to offer, find a way to reverse vampiric curse, settle down in luxury and enjoy each other, probably all of the above, but I myself have been convinced, since the moment I saw Sebastian that tthe spawns should come first.

Help them the best you can. Make sure they have any joy in their tragic unlife, community, guidance, stability, safety, future, if that's even possible. Find a better place for them to settle down than the Underdark. Possibilities are endless, nothing is impossible in a magic - filled realm like Faerun. If Astarion has been lucky enough - they deserve a chance as well. If Sebastian - and those like him - deserve a chance, so do the other seven thousand.

And then you can go and have every fun awaiting two people happily in love.

#astarion #baldur's gate astarion #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 astarion #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 sebastian #bg3 sebastian

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crisiscutie · 1 year

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Rating How Well Some Yandere Sephiroths Would Take Care of Their Pregnant Darling

Can’t find any gifs of OG Seph I wanted, so have Smash Seph, who’s basically him in HD form, haha.

This had just struck me out of nowhere, so enjoy a scenario of three lovely Sephiroths. Fair warning, this contains dark themes.

Content Warnings: NSFW, Pregnancy, Milk Kink, (Implied) Past Non-Con, Breeding, Emotional Abuse, Sephiroth’s Mommy Issues.

(OG) FF7 Sephiroth/Jenova!Sephiroth: The FAMILY MAN. 9.5/10

He will take time to commune with her, milk her and cuddle her with the main vessel. His mania is much more subdued around his pregnant darling. Despite the, er... Let’s say peculiar and uncomfortable, circumstances of the darling's initial pregnancy, he has been unexpectedly fantastic toward her. His duty to himself Jenova is steadfast, yet he still finds time to nurture his darling and her unborn spawn. He makes liberal use of his clones to make sure his darling isn’t lonely while the main vessel is off to business. He wants her pregnancies to run smoothly and without complications, so he takes every precaution to ensure her health and wellbeing. He is the most proper family-oriented of the three Sephiroths.

Jenova's natural, logical instincts enable him to take care of his pregnant darling's needs in practical terms, while Sephiroth's own love and devotion enables him to provide her with the emotional care she needs. He will keep his pregnant darling and the spawn in her womb close to him. For his darling’s feelings: Most of the time, she is in a state of bliss. She desires the sensation of Sephiroth's true touch, but accepts that she has to wait until his body is reconstructed. This Sephiroth deserves his outstanding rating. Definitley uses Jenova’s tentacles as foreplay.

CC Sephiroth (Nibelheim Incident): A manchild's family charade. 5.5/10

He will be incredibly sweet (most of the time), overly affectionate and extremely protective of his darling, Jenova, and his unborn child. But his temperament is like that of a broken, callous, and desperate child. He would have a near death grip on his darling almost all the time and she is NEVER going out of his sight. If he needed to, he would delicately place her aside, but she was never too far out of his vision. The only food he would accept was his darling's breast milk, the taste of which was like a warm salve to his soul, but the darling had a hard time convincing him to sleep. Sometimes, he would go into a terrifying tantrum, out of fear that she would leave him or be taken away (but he wouldn’t dream of hurting her, of course). Other times, he would tenderly insist on staying alert for any possible threats. He has a tendency to ignore his darling’s words during his deluded ramblings, but he always reacts to any perceived threats to his darling with lightning-quick lethality.

His darling loves him, but she’s deeply fearful for his wellbeing. His intense emotions are so overwhelming for him he can barely provide the basics needs for his darling. He sometimes had difficulty telling his darling apart from Jenova. Honestly, needs the 1 on 1 time in the Lifestream with Jenova like his OG counterpart to become more pragmatic and goal-oriented. His heart is there, but everything else? Not so much. Definitely forces the darling to carry Jenova’s head around.

AC Sephiroth: No... Just No. 2/10.

His tendency to use everyone and everything as pawns in his games of manipulation was clear, and his darling was no exception to his cruel treatment. He holds his darling close while he recites the former soothing words of who he used to be, finding a cruel delight in making her terrified and uncomfortable. His words and actions have a subtle, yet sinister, edge to them. The darling's basic need are always taken care of, but if she did something to make him happy, he would shower her with a little extra love. Much like his Jenova!Sephiroth counterpart, he uses his darling as a breeder but he is more cold and pragmatic about it, having the darling be impregnated almost immediately after her body has recovered.

Fearful of his presence, his darling has a secret yearning in her heart for him to go back to the way he was. Sometimes his deluded lectures make her optimistic and warm inside. Just whenever she felt her heart warming to him again, he’ll cruelly sank back into his most deplorable state yet. There’s just no winning with him. He is calculated and more ambitious than ever, but he is poor at tending to the darling’s emotional needs. Definitely has a plan for his darling to take on the same essence as Jenova.

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blue-rose-soul · 2 months

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i love how the public finds out part of the au inplies that lilith is gonna have to read through lucifers afair the same way eliza found out about hamiltons little sting with mariah reynolds

having said that, under the theory that lilith is the one that owns alastor, wonder how lilith would react to finding out her little pawn on a leash is not only her husbands spawn but the child of his mistres, a manifestation of lucifers own misdeeds

(if she had ever met alastors mom in heaven i wonder how that would go to) (this is probably not in character but the thought of like, lilith basically doing what alistor did in hells greatest dad to nacaisa if theyd ever crossed paths lmao) (meanwhile alastor just has to stand there and smile through it all)

Aahahaha, haha, yes, it's just like... that. I definitely know who and what you're talking about...

I'm not sweating, shut up.

Non-serious answer: Lilith did that on purpose. It was her way of adopting her husband's son. Steal my husband, I steal your son.

Serious answer: I actually decided that in the Devil's Bastard AU, the person who trapped Alastor in a contract did so specifically because he's Lucifer's son. I'm kind-of sort-of cobbling together a story idea in my head about Eve being the one to hold Alastor's soul, BUT since you asked about a scenario in which it's Lilith...

Lilith didn't choose Alastor to punish him for being Lucifer's son, or to punish Lucifer for his infidelity. Unlike that bitch Hera, she has some class. No, she has her own plans, and Alastor's power is useful to her. She probably figured it out either right before gaining Alastor's soul or right after. She decides to keep him in the dark, at least until after she has a word with Lucifer about it. Unfortunately, although Lilith isn't consciously punishing Alastor for his parentage, the knowledge does color their interactions on some levels. Understandably, when Alastor finally learns the truth, he assumes he is being punished for Lucifer's indiscretion and that only adds more fuel to his resentment towards the King of Hell.

#ask #anonymous #Hazbin Hotel #the Devil's Bastard AU #Alastor #Lilith Morningstar #Lucifer Morningstar #honestly I wouldn't be shocked if Lucifer and Lilith had an open marriage #on the grounds that they're both millennia old and existed before the institution of marriage or monogamy #but even in open or polyamorous relationships communication with involved parties is key #and having a kid with a person outside the relationship is REALLY something you should talk to your partner about

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elegantduelliste · 2 months

Text

Epistles of Saints & Sinners

Chapter Summary:

Astarion's plans go awry when confronted with his own past.

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Story Summary:

When Astarion meets the humble bard, Tav, he soon finds out he's the only one between them that knows they are bound as soulmates through their marks. Deciding it's more trouble than its worth, he refuses to tell her along the course of their journey across Faerûn.

But, unbeknownst to him and their companions, Tav is harboring a gruesome secret that she only thought was nothing more than a traumatized period in her life.

As they both come to face to face with their pasts and presents, will they choose to move forward or let it consume them?

Healing isn’t linear—after all.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Chapter 12: Hunt*

Ao3

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Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 5.6k

Pairing: Astarion x female bard Tav

CW: Smut, Vaginal Sex, CPTSD episode during sex, Cazador, Blood & Violence, Act 1 Spoilers

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Vampires are some of the deadliest monsters we may contend with. I do not relish my current mission to seek out the spawn, Astarion. But, he may be the only way we can ever see our children again. I am plagued by visions of them being carried away by these blood hungry creatures. Plagued even more by their screams that fill my mind in the most quiet of hours. Full blooded vampires become consumed with whatever they set their eyes upon. But, spawns—I have to wonder—if they were to escape their masters, would they be able to redeem themselves if they took the road less traveled?

— Gandrel of the Gur Tribe, journal entry 567

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“I suppose I should, yet again, count myself lucky: the bastard is alone,” Astarion smirked, picking a few stray leaves from his clothes. He had just returned from a lengthy scouting trip assessing the hunter they may parley with.

It had been several days of traversing rocky footpaths until they arrived in the Sunlit Wetlands. Several days of anxious nights wondering if Cazador sent more pawns to retrieve him. Several days of nothing more than forlorn glances exchanged with the songstress.

Wyll crossed his arms, concentrating on Astarion’s face. “That at least bodes well. Did he look familiar to you?”

“Not at all. Though I have met a lot of the city’s miscreants over the years, it’s possible he’s a scorned lover of a lover that Cazador convinced to seek vengeance. He had a lot of connections in the city—so it’s hard to say.”

“Let’s fucking goooo,” Karlach roared as her axe split apart a piece of log. She swiped away wood dustings from her brow, turning to the vampire. “What makes you think this is Cazador’s doing, fancy boy?”

“Oh, how could I forget that it must be one of my many adoring fans, come to shake my hand out in the middle of blasted nowhere,” Astarion replied with a sneer. “Tell me: who else could it be?!”

Of course it had to be his former master! Cazador Szarr would do anything to ensure his spawns stayed forever reliant upon him. For them to know that survival without him wasn’t possible. Astarion knew deep down that no matter how he repeatedly longed for freedom, if he showed up, without question the vampire spawn would still feel betrothed as a slave to enact his heinous mandates. Compelled or not, the attachment to him remained.

The fiery tiefling teetered her axe over her shoulder, ready to swing downward again. “Alright. Alright. As much as I’m always raring to go, I just want to be sure we aren’t getting caught in a trap, yea?”

She had a point. Cazador, reclusive as he was, commandeered powers that most were unaware. Their group was mighty, but could they defeat a vampire lord? It would be nearly impossible, but the fraction of a percentage that they could end his life for good, ignited an invaluable resolve inside of the spawn.

Astarion debonairly examined his nails. “Well darlings, I’m sure I can go about this on my own if you’re not up for a bit of potential excitement.”

“I have every bit of faith you can handle this by yourself, but I think it goes without saying that hunters are all too well-versed in regions such as these. There may be something we don’t know from what you’ve investigated,” Wyll interjected.

“Why Wyll, the famed monster hunter is going to help protect a monster?! I could kiss you! Or bite you—if that is your preference,” the vampire giddily responded, clasping his hands together as he flashed the tip of his fang.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves Astarion,” Wyll chuckled, uncrossing his arms to gesture a stop signal with his hand. “Shall we say around morrow’s noon we head down to speak with the stranger?”

“I’d prefer to stab first, but if you insist, who am I to deny such a handsome face?” Astarion flirtatiously bowed his head.

Karlach visibly shrugged her shoulders, breathing out a long sigh. “Ugh, finnnne. Let’s get this good and over with before something awful happens to your pretty face and you break someone’s fucking heart.”

“My dearest Karlach, are you saying you wouldn’t miss me?”

“I’m saying that our leader wouldn’t be all too happy with any of us if we just let you sod off on your own,” she clarified firmly. “By the way, you may want to speak with Tav about our plans.”

The vampire fisted his hand near his mouth, pretending to cough. “Ahem, well, I’m sure she’s been far too busy entertaining our newest druidic hunk we’ve adopted to camp. They’ve been practically braiding each other's hair since the party.”

“Gods, you don’t sound jealous at all,” she teased. “And look who it is! Mornin’ to you soldier!”

And there she was. Trailing into camp on melodies she sang under her breath. Lavender and vanilla invisibly suffocating him with its whorls of scent around his neck.

Wyll waved in her direction. “Tav! Could we trouble you for a moment?”

Tav quietly nodded, giving him a subtle smile out of the corner of her mouth.

“Astarion just returned back from surveying the bog and it would seem that this hunter is currently alone. Few weapons, but I reckon he has the good sense to protect himself with other means.”

“The three of us are heading down to speak with him come highsun tomorrow. But, if shit goes bad, we’ll be armed,” Karlach added, flexing her arm high in the air. “Hey, are you okay? You look awful.”

“There is nothing to worry about, Karlach. Personal matters.” The bard tried to peer behind the tiefling, staring at the elven man that was clearly avoiding her. “Astarion, did you approve of this?”

He raised his head, the state of her startling him. The skin around her eyes was swollen, a glaze of wetness having long filmed over her sclera. It was evident she had been crying on and off since their last encounter. She was lacking her usual demure aura, visibly rundown.

Astarion cocked a bleary eyebrow at her. “I did.”

“Then, I trust you to handle this to the best of your abilities.”

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

In the middle of the night’s air, Astarion stood outside of her tent entrance, overwrought with a queasiness burning the walls in his stomach.

After their argument several days ago, he left in a panicked state to hide under the forest canopy bordering their camp. The illusion of hyperventilation attacked his lungs—a memory of it really—as he held onto the bulwarked trunk of a tree. And then, blood spewed from his mouth. He leaned over, coughing and vomiting up a mouthful of the bear’s crimson he consumed earlier that evening.

He had charmed and manipulated Tav enough times to create the image that would steal her away like a rogue in the night. And she craved it. She wanted him to fill the role of her abductor, appearing from behind the curtains in her bedroom, to entice her with cool lips on her knuckles and sworn covenants of intimacy with his bite. Urging her to just let go.

Yet, his plan kept hitting snags.

Without a doubt, he knew his instinctual techniques were all in order. When there had been a few mishaps, he quickly adapted and switched his tactics. But, what he didn’t account for—what he had little to no proficiency in—was dealing with these people’s bygone histories for this length of time. Try as he might to reluctantly focus on the lamentable surface details of the bard and the kettle of vultures—their companions—that circled the hearth of their campfire, piles of their shit kept unearthing themselves like the carcasses of burying beetles.

And he didn’t fucking care.

Why should he? He didn’t know them. Oh, they were a formidable bunch—each having inherited an adeptness for physical or magical strength. He extended his belief in them about as far as relying on them in battle would allow him. But, what had they truly done for him otherwise? It wasn’t them that offered mercy upon his vampiric existence and allowed him to stay within their group. It wasn’t them that made sure he was properly fed, baptizing him in their blood.

No, the only person he owed a speckle of his acknowledgement was the songbird with the voice of singing jewels. Though she challenged him at every nook and cranny of their time together, she was the only one to judge him in such a way that seemed fairly balanced.

Until now.

Tav with her saintly observations, was becoming aware of his methodical ministries. Perhaps not in the sense that she could pinpoint exactly what his strategy was, but gods, her cursed awareness and the cloistered tale of her former life, filled him with enough discomfort he almost considered forgoing his plan entirely.

She knew something was amiss with him. She knew he had to be embellishing everytime he damn near spoke to her about anything other than his wretched past. So, why didn’t she make more of an effort to single him out and put him on trial? Had she been waiting for him to tell her otherwise? To correct her misgivings she was having about him.

It made him uneasy to not know. He could poke around in her mind with their worms, but that certainly wouldn’t bode well if she was unreceptive to the notion.

What an absolute shitshow, Astarion chastised when a strained laugh cut silently through his teeth.

Not to mention the realization that it was not only the façade of her companionship and intimacy he would have to contend with. This foe was clever—more so than he. It had been in her life years before him. Knew her in ways he had yet to scour. And when she tried to disobey it, it had a way of enticing her back into the comfort of its everlasting punishment.

And the name of such a formidable nemesis? Her past.

He couldn’t afford to lose her—not yet. It was too soon and far too late to humor his whims on another camp occupant. Nay, he would see this through to the end. Tav’s or anyone else’s lives be damned!

“I can smell the bergamot in your oils,” a meek voice breathed out. “You can come in whenever you’re ready.”

Astarion deeply inhaled, preparing himself to face her, knowing he may have to use his body for another nightfall to convince her not to forsake him. His performance hinged on being immaculate tonight—to be everything she wanted.

Another transaction: imitated comfort for the reinstated troth of her loyalty.

He lowered himself to his knees and opened the flap of her tent to enter. Tav sat with the used lute on her lap, twisting and tuning the pegs on her bare thighs. She struck a chord, listening intently as the sounds vibrated off the walls of blue linen, then adjusted further or moved onto the next string.

She lifted her head to acknowledge him. With the candlelight casting a golden glow across her face, Astarion thought this may have been one of the few times she possessed such a delicate lethargy.

“Is something the matter?”

“I—no,” He paused. What would be the right thing to say in this situation? “I thought it would be in my good nature to check in on you. But, if now isn’t a good time, I can come back later.”

Tav blinked at him several times, then gestured for him to come further in with a nod. He scooted closer to her on his knees, allowing the flap of the tent to cascade off his back like a discarded blanket.

“I'm not a fan of this lute, especially the strings on it, but some things can’t be helped right now. I should be grateful Alfira could even find one available for me,” she spoke softly as if he wasn’t there. “Hopefully, when we make it to a different area or even the city, I can buy a new one.”

The vampire cleared his throat, resting his sweating palms on his thighs. “There’s differences between them? I mean, of course the details are not the same, but what of the sound?”

A shallow smile formed at the corner of her mouth as she continued fiddling with the tune. “Lutes, flutes, drums, violins—any musical instrument really—sounds different depending on several factors. The material used. Strings. Weight. Length. It’s all a determining factor for the sound produced.”

“What type of wood do you prefer for your lutes?”

The messy bun pinned on top of her head bobbed as she popped her head up to stare at him. “Spruce. Always spruce. It has the brightest sound—perfect for ballads.” She pushed her bangs to the side as an afterthought, placing the instrument by her side. “I appreciate you coming here tonight, but you don’t need to pretend you’re actually interested in a music lesson.”

“My dear, I have quite the appreciation for the arts of all kinds,” he grinned. “However, since your perception precedes you, I’m here because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And then I realized that the whole thinking part was actually a worry.” He covered his lies by slowly lifting his eyes under a refuge furled lashes to peer at her.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Tav stated, pursing her lips.

“I’ll have you know, that I could be sinking my fangs into a deer al fresco right about now, but instead I choose to be here. Now, let’s forego this game of hopscotch and chat.”

She ran the pads of her fingers along the edging of her nightshirt. “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to revisit parts of our disagreement from a few days ago—if you’re willing to talk about it with me.”

He wasn’t willing, but what choice did he have if he wanted to keep up this charade with her?

Astarion cocked his head to the side to nod, flaring his nostrils with a practiced breath. “If it's truly that bothersome to you, then I suppose I could pencil you in right this very second to listen.”

He could hear the strums of her pulse trembling. She was nervous.

Blood rushed to her lips, coloring them in roses. He saw tears welling up, threatening to spill over her lower lids. She could no longer hold it in. “First of all: I’m so so sorry Astarion. What you said about ‘power’ reminded me so much of…I…I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions like I did. You are your own person—not some reanimated villain of my tragedies.”

Ah, so she wished to focus on her reactions instead of the subject he hastily broached during his blood drunken stupor. How very like her to satisfy her own accountability. This could work in his favor.

Astarion would not press. Should she circle back to his unfavorable comments, well, he could always blame it on the mind flayer tadpole having deceptively influenced his mind after their encounter with other ‘true souls.’ In case he needed to change routes in the moment to suit her thoughts and actions, he made a mental note to be considerably more deliberate in reading her facial expressions.

Finding out just how much power these worms wielded, delighted the vamp. Of course they would be valuable in advancing his fight against Cazador, but directing those around him to do as he pleased? Gods.

The positions he could seat! The material wealth he could own! The liberty to indulge in all manners of debauchery and authority!

A future living side by side with an illithid creation suddenly didn’t sound so horrible.

“May I ask who he is?” He questioned, trying to inflict his tone to a more polite wisp.

She shied away from looking at him directly. Guilt-ridden and hiccuping. Tav’s lips trembled, shaking her head to refuse him while she continued to weep.

It intrigued Astarion to see the normally strong-hearted woman bearing this unknown man’s crown of thorns with the pith of his blackened blood dripping from her eyes like melted candles. Days ago, during their night’s quarrel, the soul mark behind his ear hammered rapidly to the point of searing pain when she mentioned him. This man—this incubus—still choked her with his malignant hands, even though he was probably leagues away.

The hells cracked open, And he was reborn. With evil tongues spoken, Her scrawled promises would not be mourned.

While bewitching the bard had been as ordinary to Astarion as any everyday routine, she was hiding the flotsam of her personal dogmas sundered by this same mortal, making his task all the more difficult. A heretic to her own emotions.

They were both slaves to their pasts and towed the weighted cold night visions where escape seemed nothing more than mere fantasy. And he felt something by this acknowledgment. A blink of connection to her in the form of empathy.

Empathy?

Hells, it had been so long since he knew any emotion except anger, terror, and numbness. But, empathy held dire consequences. One of the last times he felt any ounce of said emotion, cost him a year of starvation inside of that derelict burial place. The memory still seemed so fresh in comparison to the ages he’d lived. If he let himself know empathy once more, it would mean allowing himself to be in a position of the same weakness he had been in for centuries.

“You don’t understand how awful I feel for how I reacted,” Tav managed to squeeze out of her throat.

He moved further within the tent to sit cross-legged in front of her, angling his head downwards to grab her attention. “Silly creature, of course I understand how awful you feel. Your heart is literally an open wound gushing onto everyone it passes. If someone ran into you, YOU would be the one to apologize.”

“We’re still alive, aren’t we? Well, you are at least, but I do have the advantage of being ravishing forever,” he added with a quip.

The bard laughed as her body shook with sobs. Hands flew to her face, catching the falling tears with dabs of her fingertips.

“Darling.” He reached out to her with his palm up. “Come here. I can’t leave you blubbering like some muppet begging for scraps.”

Taking a hesitant breath, Tav placed her hand gingerly into the inviting salve he offered, holding onto it tightly. “A moment longer. I have more to say.”

Astarion’s mind filled with dread. If she terminated their agreement, that would be it; his protection would cease. The possibility of Cazador dragging him off screaming into the shadows, felt more real than it ever had been. Swiftly, his brain sprang into action. He would use whatever methods possible to adapt.

Touch. Comfort. Sex. Promises. Encouragement. Which would she need?

“Don’t keep me in suspense now, my sweet. You know how I hate to wait,” he smirked in his typical silvery tone.

“I’m trying to word this as not to sound like a psychotic lover here,” she laughed anxiously. “But, I have run ’us’ through my mind more times than I can count and I keep wondering if it would be best if we end whatever this is between us. Casual distractions would be much easier if we didn’t see each other everyday, but we don’t have that luxury and—“

“Do you even like me?” Tav questioned wearily. It was apparent such ideas had been consuming her.

No.

“Do I like you? I mean, you definitely have a certain set of allures about you,” he answered slowly. He wasn’t lying about her qualities—if that’s what people choose to call them—but, no, he did not care for her.

A grimace settled on her expression as she removed her hand from his.

“Were you expecting a more defined answer?”

The bard chewed at her lip lightly with her front tooth. “I’m expecting something that doesn’t feel like you’re acting on stage,” she replied stiffly. “You seem so versed in saying all the right things, but there is a pit in my stomach warning me it’s not all true. I don’t want you to force yourself with me.”

Oh, but he would force himself. His survival depended on it.

The spawn ran his hand through his curls, flashing a glib smile she didn’t detect. “Ha! Could that be your own insecurities speaking? Or shall I get down on my knees and recite a sonnet of my undying affections for you? Would you believe me then?”

Turning away, she looked past him towards the ground. “Is it so wrong for me to desire something real, Astarion?”

Hope.

She wanted hope.

He could perform hope.

The vampire enclosed her ruddy cheek with his hand, thumbing a gentle swipe across the roundest point. She shut her eyelids lazily, microscopic tears still adhering on her lashes like diamond dust.

“Don’t turn away from me, Tavelle,” he commanded her gently. “A woman that has as much to offer as you, deserves to hold her head up high and be worshiped.”

As if to confirm her yearning for him, her eyes roamed half-opened to search his face. She fisted the ruffling of his shift tightly, pulling herself taut against his chest to crash her lips fervently against his with a tight gasp.

The kiss was urgent. Delivered as if they’d both turn into smoke in an instant. Like she’ll lose me someday, Astarion thought.

He could hear her heartbeat stepping out of its darkness, begging, begging, begging him to cradle her adorations for him.

Kneading his pale lips on hers instinctually, she tangled a free hand into waves of silvery-white earning her a low hum from the deepest reaches of his voice box. “Star…,” she incanted into his mouth.

Fluidly, he reached up to unpin her hair, allowing her tresses to fall over her shoulders. He decorated his lithe digits with her silken strands, tugging her head gently backwards to drop fervid pecks down her throat. She cried out, sputtering lilting syllables of his name everytime he idly rearranged his hold on her hair.

Tav held onto his arms as he worked his tongue in circles. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me,” she pleaded, clawing at his clothes.

Releasing her hair, he pulled Tav back in to seam their mouths together. She sucked tenderly on his upper lip, grazing her tongue horizontally across it, before she finally nipped at it playfully.

He pushed his nose into her cheek, abruptly stopping them. She was short of breath, heaving in anticipation for him to kiss her again.

Grabbing her chin firmly, Astarion’s eyes flitted down to her lips as he spoke mere centimeters from them. ”You’ve slowly been driving me insane,” he roughly asserted, avoiding her want for affirmations.

She snuck her fingers up the length of him, lacing them behind his neck. Her lips parted, a husky reply threatening to swallow them whole. “What do you mean to do with me then?”

A lukewarm thumb found safety pressed against her lips. The tip of her tongue tunneled through the gap of her mouth and licked a teasing small patch of skin on the inside of it. Debauched images of him drawing blood from her tongue filled his mind. Biting and biting every inch of her supple flesh until he had his fill of her essence settling like a fine wine in his veins. He panted maddeningly at the thought, his shaft hardening immediately.

Then, the minx slinkingly shifted onto his lap, encircling her legs on either side of his hips. She undulated on the length of his bulge compressed in the middle of her soaked smalls and his trousers. Insolently, she yanked a handful of his hair. He hissed at the delicious pain now aching through his cock and the back of his head.

Pallid dexterous hands ripped the front of her shirt open, cutting buttons loose to fly into the air. The strength of his paw found her breast hiding behind the torn fabric and he squeezed it considerably, pinching an erect nipple. She moaned his name, trying to keep her body upright.

Sharp teeth nibbled a sliver of flesh near the corner of her lips. “Is this what you need? For me to take you as I please?”

Tav nodded innocently, her whole body turning flush with desire.

And then something feral snapped inside of Astarion. That spine-tingling rapacious trait that was half vampire and half carnal man. He could have her if he wanted her; whenever he wanted. Fill him with her blood just to sate him. Her life belonged to him, if he so chose to take it.

“You can follow instructions properly, can’t you sweetheart?” Astarion grumbled as he tucked strands of her hair behind her ear. A strangled noise squeaked from her mouth as she shook her head. “Good. Now listen closely: I want you to unlace my pants, push your smalls to the side, and slide my cock inside that very creamy slit of yours.”

The songstress whimpered, whilst she untied the bindings of his fly, “I want to be good for you Astarion.”

Fuck, his name sounded like the filthiest sin coming from her mouth.

He peeled back the material of her shirt from her heaving bosom, exposing her soft milkiness. Humming around one of her pink buds that popped into his mouth, he felt her remove him from his pants with a few precursory strokes. Instinctively, his gaze feasted on the light bluish veins spreading across her breasts. Just a single bite couldn’t hurt—?

“Hells,” he groaned as she sunk the crown of his cock into her clenching heat. “You like being this drenched for me, don’t you?”

“Only you…gods…make me like this,” Tav sang out, holding the back of his head while she adjusted to him inside her.

Her wetness dripped down his length as she stuffed him further into her, trickling down to settle on his testicles. A howling wail started from the middle of Tav’s diaphragm up through her windpipe when she glided up his erect prick once and came back down to his hilt. Astarion chased her mouth with his, muffling her frenzy with open-mouthed kisses.

“Shhh. Shh, songbird,” he hushed in a chuckle. “We are about to wake the lot of this camp soon.”

“I’m sorry. Just love…having you…inside of me,” she giggled lowly, kissing him with blistering ardor between her words.

Surprising the bard by grabbing under her ass, Astarion cajoled her to ride the stiff hardness in his lap. Tav hooked herself onto his shoulders, using them for support while she bounced upon him. Her tits brushed against his shirt with her movements, causing her swollen buds to stay hardened.

My prodigal son, what do we have here?

Master.

Ah, of course. Tonight would belong to the echoes of Cazador. There would be no need for the paralysis that enthralled the spawn’s body to take over, not when his master’s commands needed to be minded.

The vampire busied his fingertips by pressing them further into her flesh, focusing on her slickness encompassing all those nerves at the tip of his cock. He pushed her all the way down to his base, relishing the swaddling of her warmth around him.

A bard, hmm? Bring her to me.

Yes, master.

He reached a hand down in between them to swipe his thumb through her folds, caressing her clit in gentle circles. Tav’s mouth formed into a small “o.”

Look at her—enjoying your flesh like a whore. She’s exactly like all the others. You are only meant to satisfy her needs as a means to fulfill my hunger.

I won’t disobey you master.

“My sweet, turn around and let me fuck you from behind,” he urged mildly, trying to maintain his composure.

Astarion couldn’t let her see. He was steadily losing his grip on their surroundings, disappearing into the quilted stars of the night sky he summoned as he disconnected. If she saw he wasn’t present again, she would send him away.

Tav didn’t respond, continuing to pump his shaft with her tight cunt at a steady pace. She opened and closed her mouth in silent moans, replaced by heady breaths. Did she not hear him? He placed his hands on her waist attempting to settle her motions.

Would you like to hear her sing, Astarion? How do you think she’ll sound with her blood gurgling in her throat as I feed from her?

“Turn around,” he demanded firmly.

Body slowing to a near halt, she cupped his cheeks with a litany of fingers rasping the sharpness of his bones. She pressed a peck to his lips. “Lover, I want to look into your eyes while I’m on top.”

He bucked his hips maneuvering his legs to lift her off of him enough to push her down onto her bedroll. Spreading her legs open, he swiftly settled in between her thighs, and brashly reentered her with a concrete plunge. The bard yelped in surprise, clutching his biceps tightly.

Soulmates? Tsk. Did my beloved spawn forget that he is not allowed to be connected to anything except me? Get rid of her mark.

I wish to please you master. Allow me to show my fealty to you.

His vision rapidly moved from side to side until he arched Tav into him to rest his forehead onto her soulmate mark, hiding, endeavoring it to disappear on its own so he wouldn’t have to hurt her. He thrust up into her hurriedly, trying to chase her to the banks of her climax to end his delusions.

“Wait,” she uttered as he drove into her.

Astarion ignored her, opening his mouth to frame his teeth around her soul mark. He must dispose of it.

“Astarion, no. Don’t bite there,” Tav ordered, snaring his curls at the root. “Look at me. Please.”

He’s everywhere. He knows where I am. He’s already taken everything from me. I’ll never be free, Astarion screamed inwardly in anguish.

His fangs pricked the first layer of her epidermis, pellets of crimson gathering around the invasion. The bard severely yanked his head to detach him, dribbles of her blood coating his lips. “I said no! GET OFF OF ME,” she shrieked, thrashing her body under him.

They became motionless. Her face had morphed into thousands upon thousands of blurry conquests. Voices: high and low, moaning, whispering their pleasures. Luring each of them in the dead of night to their death eternal. And Astarion, bound to the scaffold with a noose around his neck, forever being led back into Cazador’s arms.

And then her eyes were suddenly there in focus. Afraid and sorrowful. Full of tears. For her. For him. Rainy storm clouds floating across the earth. Tav with her inquisitor view, leading him on a pilgrimage away from the haunts of his deadened soul.

She covered her nakedness, pulling her ripped shirt over her breasts. Two pin prick spots of blood seeped through the fabric, reminding him of his violation. He was disgusted with himself.

What had he done?

“Tav, I’m sor—,” Astarion proclaimed hoarsely, loosening his brace on her waist.

Tav reached up to place a hand on his cheek. “Leave,” her voice whispered sternly.

He couldn’t wash this away and escape what he was made into.

⸺⋘✤⋙⸺

Burning iron-vine powder levitated in a cloudy haze around them.

A Gur?! A godsdamned bloody Gur. Cazador’s cruel humor never seemed to fail; he must have sent him.

His mind started to race. Astarion’s safety may be coming to an end. It was a misjudgement to ever presume that he could disappear without facing the repercussions of his former master. Would he ever have somewhere to land from all this falling?

“You’re Astarion?!” The monster hunter loudly said in surprise. “Apologies to your companions, but you’ll need to come with me.”

“Gandrel, was it? I’m not going anywhere.” Astarion removed the blade from his back, pointing it towards the man.

“Fuck! This is bad,” Karlach muttered to Wyll.

“Then, I’m afraid I have no choice but to take you by force,” Gandrel declared, shooting an ‘Ensnaring Strike’ spell at both the vampire and fiery woman.

Thorny vines raised up around their legs, holding them in place. Astarion sliced at them, trying to wriggle free, but the bindings only reinforced their seizure. “Uh, a little help?!”

He was too distracted to fight. Flooded by the memory of how Tav’s tears flowed like blown stars living their final moments. But, he could still feel her hands upon his cheeks. Her hands where flowers bloomed in the dark; flowers that emerged wherever she appeared.

Karlach swung her axe in a criss-cross pattern. “I can’t move! Wyll, you’ll need to repel him!”

Wyll lunged forward casting an Eldritch Blast that narrowly missed the hunter’s cheek. “Damn!”

Gandrel placed another arrow in his crossbow, aiming it at the spawn as he approached. “I’m sorry it had to come to this, but you’re needed else—”

The hunter suddenly collapsed onto one knee, a spray of blood ejecting from his mouth. He looked down at the arrow protruding out of his right side, then looked past the spawn.

Astarion followed his gaze, mouth wide open in shock when he reached his destination. “Songbird? But, why?! I don't—”

Tav threw down her bow, reaching to unsheathe her rapier. “You’re a beacon of trouble, ‘Star.”

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