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tripleyeeet · 5 months

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ONLY FOOLS FALL

SUMMARY: Upon arriving in Baldur's Gate, Zayis decides to pay her old flame a visit... much to Astarion's dismay.

PAIRING: Astarion & Zayis (OFC)

WORD COUNT: 12,356

WARNINGS: 18+ sexual content, penetrative sex, teasing, blood sucking as a form of foreplay (therefore mentions of blood), feelings realized, first confessions, angst with a happy ending.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: It's been months of brainstorming this particular scene and the build up that goes along with it, but I think I finally got it. For context, Vesryn is Zay's sort of ex who she never properly breaks up with due to getting kidnapped.

I know this chapter is a bit of a doozy but please, if you at all like my writing I beg you to give this one a shot. It's probably one of my favourite things I've written and I'm very proud of it. :')

Also shout out to @novarunestone specifically for helping my brain push through. You're the best, dude. <3

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST

She’s at his door before she can even think to leave, rapping her knuckles against the grain —trying her best to swallow down the knot that resides in her throat. Pushing against the walls of her esophagus, she can feel the obstruction blocking her airway.

Forcing a heavy sigh to escape as she reaches up to touch it, she can’t help but wonder if this is her body’s way of enacting guilt. Considering her mind’s already jumbled up enough as it is, she wouldn’t be surprised if it was. She did throw a knife at her partner’s head for Gods’ sake, so the least she could do is feel the events of her shitty behaviour. That and to properly apologize. Which is ultimately why she’s here, standing in front of her old home, running her fingers nervously along the length of her neck.

As it swells with anticipation she can feel her chest tighten and her hands begin to sweat. Each symptom growing the longer she stands there, waiting; wondering whether or not he’ll answer the door.

Deep down, there’s a part of her that hopes he doesn't. A part that screams for her to turn on her heel and dash back to camp without even looking back. A part that thinks the unspoken word between two separating parties is more than enough closure to get her through. It’d certainly be the easier option, right? The one with less baggage. Perhaps if she could just accept that she’s still that same asshole that left all those weeks ago rather than the better person she’s currently trying to be she could just pretend like she never knocked on the door in the first place. Up and leave and never speak of this again.

Biting her bottom lip in annoyance, she knows she can’t. Thanks to Wyll and his stupidly decent advice, she’s too far gone with this whole making amends thing. Having promised the warlock she’d at least try to apologize, the mere thought of failing makes her want to crawl all the way to Avernus and never let another soul see her face again. Either that or hole up in the woods somewhere. Whatever happens first, really.

However, considering the more likely option being Avernus, she continues to stand there, idly scratching the side of her neck, feeling the ends of her claws dig through her dirtied flesh.

Almost immediately, the feeling of it makes her cringe and drop her hand, realizing just how stupid she must look, covered head to toe in dirt. Reeking heavily of sweat and viscera —two scents you definitely don’t want to bring home when you’re about to beg for forgiveness for apparently running away with a vampire.

Which obviously isn’t the case. Or, at least wasn’t. Nowadays she’s not quite sure what to think about that whole situation. So most of the time she just blocks it out entirely. Ignoring the fact that the line that was once drawn between her and Astarion has begun to blur into something new.

Something she has to apologize for otherwise the guilt might eat her alive. So, she bangs on the door again, this time using the edge of her fist to repeatedly slam against the wood, gritting her teeth in frustration. All while praying to whatever God might be listening that for once, instead of fighting, Vesryn just accepts her apology.

Because truthfully, she’s not sure she can take the rejection right now. Not even when she hears him grumbling on the other side of the door, making her realize she’s still pounding against it. Her hand repeatedly colliding until it’s eventually torn from her grasp and the man she once called her partner is standing before her.

“Zay?”

He looks older somehow. Worn out. With eyes that were once large, round orbs of obsidian are now narrowed and soaked in age. A newfound darkness cradling each one with exhaustion.

Pressing her lips together she nods her head at the sound of his voice and continues to stare, taking in all his features. Picking apart the way his face twists from confusion to annoyance, ultimately falling on something unfamiliar that eventually disappears inside the crook of her neck.

“You’re alive.”

He says it as if it’s a question. Whispering it against the shell of her ear, she barely hears it at first. Too shocked to process the position that she’s currently in, all she can do is stand there and try to repeat the phrase in her head. Allowing the individual sounds to fully absorb before she’s nodding her head again. “Hi, uh, yeah.”

He pulls away, still resting his hands on her arms. “You escaped.”

Suddenly confused, she raises a brow, watching his expression change again —this time back to annoyance, prompting her to realize what he means. “Um, not exactly.”

“Not exactly? What do you mean not exactly?”

She opens her mouth to respond before closing it back up again, unsure how to explain the events she’s recently experienced without completely freaking him out.

“Can I maybe come inside? We should probably talk.”

At first, he doesn’t respond. Instead, he just stands there, staring. His mind most likely reeling from the fact that his ex is now standing at his doorstep in the middle of the night, covered in shit, most likely preparing to tell him that the man she left with is still very much in the picture.

None of which bodes well for her ever-growing fear of rejection. Especially considering that if the roles were reversed, she’d already be slamming the door in his face, telling him to piss off. So the fact that he hasn’t done that already feels like a bit of a miracle. One that continues to bless her once he eventually pulls away, motioning towards the inside of the house with a tired sigh.

Awkwardly, she smiles in response and enters, taking in the familiar scenery. Feeling its presence hit her like a ton of bricks as she forces herself further inside, ignoring that knot again. Pushing whatever anxieties that spread through her in order to move to the dining room table and pull up a chair.

“I’m sure you have a ton of questions…”

Trailing off, she lets out a nervous laugh and begins to play with the end of her tail. All the while Vesryn just stands at the other end of the table, looking down at her like with such empty eyes that she can’t help but clear her throat and pivot. Opting to just ramble instead of waiting for an answer, knowing deep down he might not give her one.

“First off, I need you to know I didn’t leave willingly.”

His brow quirks up at that. An air of interest coating his features, urging him to take a seat. “That’s an awfully vague way to start a story.”

“I mean, I’m not trying to be vague,” she replies, suppressing the desire to roll her eyes. “Honestly, I just —I don’t really know how to explain what’s happened.”

“You don’t know how or you just don’t want to?”

“Both, I suppose.”

All he does is snort and raise his hands to his face, dragging them down until they’re resting over his mouth, showcasing his never-ending lack of patience. “You’re aware of how late it is, right?”

This time she does roll her eyes. “My apologies sir, I didn’t realize I was being such a burden. Do you want me to go?”

Out of habit she then goes to stand, prompting Vesryn to angrily grip her wrist. “Oh for fuck’s sake —would you please just sit down and tell me where you’ve been?”

Equally as angry, she swears at him under her breath before crossing her arms over her chest. Using the pressure to subdue the need to panic as she tries to collect her thoughts before ultimately ending up with, “Astarion and I were kidnapped.”

Almost immediately she can see the lack of interest in his eyes begin to develop. How they quickly start to glaze over at the mention of Astarion’s name, reminding her just how unenthusiastic he is to hear about him alongside what he assumes is some sort of excuse.

“Obviously, the details are a bit complicated but the gist of it is that we were taken by mind flayers and now we’re trying to find a cure,” she tells him, but again, all he does is stare, his gaze set directly against her’s —devoid of anything other than disinterest and doubt.

Once again, it makes her want to leave. To repeat time and storm out like she did all those weeks ago. As terrible as it sounds, she knows it’d at least get his attention. Maybe even stir him enough to actually listen to what she has to say without immediately discrediting the truth.

“We met others on the ship. People infected like us. They’re in danger, Ves. I’m in danger.”

“Aren’t you always?”

“Not like this,” she tells him, swallowing hard. “Things are different. Bigger.”

He lets out a sigh. “Define big.”

“The whole city going up in flames big.”

Shifting in his chair, she can tell he’s trying his best not to say what he really wants to. An act that simultaneously fills her with rage and relief as she watches him mull over her words, allowing them to fully sink in before humming in response.

“Alright, I’ll bite. Explain to me how exactly you’re in danger?”

Before she can even stop herself, Zayis is telling him everything. Relaying each point of the plot through nervous thoughts and shaking hands. Trying her best to allow enough time in between the more convoluted sections to really process the severity.

And at first, it’s a struggle. Considering Vesryn’s almost as stubborn as she is, she can tell right off the bat it’s hard for him to accept. After having been convinced of this completely different narrative for so long, she can see it in his eyes he’s struggling to trust what she’s saying. To take all the outlandish things she’s relaying at face value after all the grief she’s put him through.

But then about halfway through she notices the switch. That subtle moment of realization taking over, forcing him to listen. To hear all the stressors of the last few weeks repeatedly piling on top of her. To understand that the night she left without a trace wasn’t just the result of a conscious choice she had made but rather a mistake in location at the worst possible time.

By the end of it, he’s got his arms across his chest, one of them angled up so that he can stroke his chin in bewilderment. “Gods, you’re actually serious, aren’t you?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Fuck.” He shakes his head.

In response, all Zayis does is shoot him a tight-lipped smile. One that feels so misplaced that it ends up falling almost immediately. “I just thought you should know, you know?”

“Know what?”

“That I didn’t walk out on you,” she admits, her throat aching from the explanation. “That I still care about you in some way.”

It’s at that point she can tell that Vesryn knows. Written plain as day across his face, she can feel it in her chest, too. Pounding against her already damaged frame. Echoing through the edges of her organs, causing them to twist in discomfort.

Considering he’s always been a pretty intuitive guy, it shouldn’t come as a surprise to her but still, the second he eventually lets out a huff and awkwardly grins to himself, she can’t help but feel the guilt double in size. Triple even, watching the way he looks around the room, avoiding her pleading eyes.

“Somehow I always knew,” he says, still smiling. Still shaking his head in protest, as if he can’t quite fully accept it.

“I know.”

“You just —you always talked about him, you know? Whether it was about his terrible personality or his disgusting behaviour, it was like his presence was constantly taunting me. Making me feel like the least interesting man in your life.”

“You weren’t—“

“I know,” he cuts her off with a raised hand. Something that would normally make her angry but right now just makes her confused. “It’s just… no matter how negatively you talked about him there was always this passion there. Like everything about him was actually worthy of conversation.”

Letting out a dry laugh, he pauses to rub his face again, this time groaning through the process. “I guess, I just wanted you to talk about me like that. Just once so that I knew you weren’t getting tired of me.”

It’s at that moment Zayis feels her chest begin to break, the cavity of her ribcage splintering out to stab through her flesh. All at once, it hits the tenderest parts of her, ripping away what little composure she once had —filling her up with that same wave of emotion she’s been avoiding all this time.

Leaning back in her chair, it immediately prompts her to blink back the threat of tears. As they begin to sting her eyes, she can’t help but focus on the pressure and how it weighs far more than it did when she first entered. How somehow, despite doing what she came here to do, this newfound information Vesryn provides just feels like another problem. Another issue added to the ongoing pile of things she needs to fix but doesn’t know how to.

Which makes the once subdued panic inside her chest practically explode. Taking the form of shaking hands and shifting eyes, she can feel her breath start to quicken. The sudden lack of air located inside her chest making it difficult for her to breathe.

Almost immediately Vesryn’s kneeling in front of her as it happens, taking her hands in his while looking up with concern. “It’s okay, Zay,” he tells her. “I’m okay.”

She doesn’t understand how it could be —how he could be after all that she’s done to him. Having fucked off without a single goodbye he should be the wreck who sits at the table, looking like a broken vessel with nothing else to give. The one who mourns for a life they could’ve possibly had if not for bad timing or poor communication or—

“I forgive you, yeah?”

His voice is soft. A caress of sound that only further fuels her tears, realizing it’s her who’s crumbling. The one who’s broken and tired, unsure whether or not to let this go in favour of pursuing something new.

“Why?”

“Because I do?” He shrugs. “I don’t know —does there have to be a reason?”

Before coming here she would’ve said no and called it a day. But now that she’s in front of him, debating whether or not she should fight for a second chance, she needs it. More than anything she’s ever needed in her life, she’s willing to demand it if she has to.

Sensing this, all Vesryn does is sigh. Offering her a subtle nod, he then moves to stand while holding her head, allowing his fingers to gently push against the crown of her skull to calm her down.

“Once you left I think I realized we were only together because it was familiar,” he says, and immediately she knows he’s right because, near the end, it was as if they were nothing more than two people sharing a space.

Allowing the convenience of their arrangement to take over, no longer was there that initial spark they once had as kids. The one that drove them to care and want and grow. And because of that, by the time the kidnapping happened, it was obvious that they were well on their way to this same ending.

“I'm sorry, Ves.”

Before she can even think she’s reaching for his torso, pressing her face against the side of his ribs as she wraps herself around. An act he responds to by hugging her shoulder with one arm, once again telling her it’s okay.

“I promise we’ll make it out the other side,” he tells her, and somehow despite the cloud of doubt that seems to always circle her head as of late, she believes him. Feeling the truth of his words remind her that even though they’re not the same as they once were, that doesn’t necessarily mean that they can’t still be there for one another.

“Gods, I hope you’re right because I really don’t think I have the mental capacity to become a mind flayer right now.”

Somehow that comment manages to break the ice, causing both of them to grin as Vesryn rolls his eyes. “What? Not a fan of tentacles?”

All she does is scrunch up her face.

“Oh c’mon! Might be fun!”

“Define fun.”

Peeling himself away, he wanders over to the kitchen and grabs a bottle off the shelf, placing it in front of Zayis before retreating back to his chair with a shrug. “I don’t know. Don’t they control people with their minds?”

Almost immediately she reaches for the vessel in front of her, pulling out the cork with a loud pop!

“Sure, but they also eat brains which I’m not necessarily fond of,” she explains, taking a sip of the undisclosed liquid, feeling it burn the second it hits her tongue.

“I mean, bit of brains never hurt anyone. Especially not you.”

As she finishes sipping, she shoots him an unimpressed look. One that eventually makes the both of them laugh, prompting her chest to tighten. Her body somehow reminding itself of how easy things used to be.

“I swear if I do turn into a mind flayer you’re the first on my list of brains to eat.”

“Really? Not the vampire?”

His voice is unnaturally smug as he says it. So much so that she’s almost a little surprised, watching the way he cocks his brow and reaches across the table to take a quick sip of his own.

“How is he doing anyways?”

“A bit forward, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. Last I heard though, you’re on borrowed time.”

Pressing her lips together, she realizes then that he’s right. Now that they’re back in Baldur’s Gate it’s only a matter of time before they have to face their problem head on. A detail she hadn’t quite grasped yet, having been focused on getting here first.

“He’s fine.”

Without warning Vesryn pushes the bottle across the table, smirking. “Just fine, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Not good? Great? Absolutely per—“

“He’s good,” she practically snaps, taking the few silent beats that pass to down a good portion of their drink.

“That’s good.” Nodding his head, he watches her take a few more sips, forcing back an obviously shit-eating grin. “Treating you well, I hope?”

He waves his hand through the air dramatically and immediately Zayis can’t help but groan and take another sip. Letting the liquid distract her from the roaming thoughts that keep entering her mind —forcing her to remember Astarion’s face and how unimpressed it looked when she left camp.

Somehow it makes her miss him. Despite knowing that she’ll return to his side amongst the others by the time the sun rises, there’s a brief moment where she’s staring at Vesryn that makes her panic. An almost anxious jolt of electricity firing through her nerve endings, causing her to twitch unfortunately in her chair.

“He’s alright, I guess,” she ends up saying. “Still annoying as ever.”

“I’d be surprised if he wasn’t.”

“I’m sure you’d be surprised now, too.”

“What do you mean?”

At first, she isn’t sure what she means. But then she narrows her eyes and thinks really hard for a second, uncovering the truth. “He’s actually, uh, kind of sweet sometimes.”

“Really?”

Almost immediately, the simple confession takes both of them back, prompting Zayis to clear her throat and continue to drink, feeling her head whirl from the volume of liquor she’s managed to consume over the last few minutes; honing in on the sudden interest in Vesryn’s eyes.

“Can you please stop looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re fishing for something.”

Suddenly defensive, he scoffs and motions for her to hand over the bottle. “I’m not fishing for anything.”

“Oh please, don’t think I don’t remember how gossipy of a bitch you are.”

All he does is smile, causing her to pinch the bridge of her nose and breathe, trying her best to remain calm. Because foolishly, now that she’s opened the can of worms that is Astarion, it’s like the man’s completely taken over. Seamlessly appearing in every corner of her exhausted mind, she can’t help but wonder how he’d react to this conversation.

Already she can hear him chastising her for skimping out on the details. Having practically memorized the inflections of his voice after years of endurance, she can clearly envision that cheeky little laugh of his. And how the way his hand might feel pressed against her cheek, taking in the frustrated expression that now coats her face.

The same one Vesryn immediately comments on. Pointing in amusement, he ends up asking her why she looks like that, causing her to cross her arms over her chest and shake her head, too stubborn to reveal the truth.

“I see you're as emotionally distant as ever.”

As he speaks, Vesryn just shoots her a knowing glance and slides their shared drink back to her. Barely batting an eye when she takes a few more angry sips.

“Am not.”

“And childish.”

For a moment she thinks about repeating history and grabbing the knife from her holster. But then she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, forcing herself to calm down just as Vesryn laughs.

“Shut up. You’re just saying that so you can get me to talk.”

“Is it working?”

Whether it’s the challenging way he approaches the topic or the familiarity of his presence, it unfortunately is. More so than she cares to admit as she rolls her eyes, opting to avoid the topic by asking him what he’s been up to. Forcing the conversation to pivot as she continues to drink, listening to all the mundane stories of their old life. All the jobs he’s taken and how he’s kept himself busy while she’s been saving the coast.

And for a while, it’s kind of nice focusing on something else. Something simple and disconnected from the reality that she now finds herself in. So much so that she doesn’t even register the empty bottle now in front of her after Vesryn changes the topic again. This time transitioning to her friends.

“You said that Ravengard kid was with you?”

Nodding her head, she then feels the entire room begin to spin around her. Echoing out in a series of waves, it’s as if everything’s begun to slow down. Her mind working to catch up with the rest of her surroundings. Somehow it makes her laugh despite how uncomfortable it is. The kind that Vesryn immediately clocks as an indication of her inebriation, making him sigh.

“Probably shouldn’t have let you drink all that, huh?”

She hums in response and closes her eyes, feeling the weight of everything slowly drift away as her body starts to melt further into the chair.

“How about I go make you a bed?”

“No.”

“No?”

She blinks and laughs, forcing her eyes to focus on her friend. “I want to go home.”

“You are home?”

She shakes her head almost violently. “No, home.”

He doesn’t know that home means camp. Or, more specifically, that home to her is where Astarion is. Nor does he understand the jumble of words that fall from her mouth immediately after. “Zayis, you are way too drunk to be arguing right now.”

“I’m not. I’m just saying!”

He can’t help but laugh as he stands up, moving towards her to help pull her to her feet. “Saying what?”

“I want to see Fangs,” she whines, and before she knows it she’s being guided towards the door by her old flame’s hands without another word. Tiredly leaning against his shoulder as they walk down the darkened street.

“Where am I taking you?”

Through slurred speech she directs him to her camp, explaining the quickest route with the kind of drunken hand gestures Vesryn can’t help but mock.

“Shut up, I’m drunk.”

“I can tell.”

“And I’m tired.”

“No kidding.”

“I think I might be in love, too.”

At that Vesryn stops walking, causing her to sort of bump into his arm and swear under her breath, grumbling about his lack of coordination before the words she’s uttered circle back to her. Forcing her eyes to widen as her stomach starts to twist, realizing what she’s done. Registering the fact that she just admitted out loud that her feelings are valid and not just ridiculous moments of lust clouding her vision.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Despite the context, Vesryn can’t help but laugh, watching as Zayis begins to breathe with her entire chest. The fabric of her tunic rising and falling in rapid succession as her eyes dart back and forth.

“I think I’m in love with Astarion,” she then says before slamming her lips shut, feeling her face grow hot and her hands begin to sweat. Every part of her body working against her as she suddenly bolts down the street, listening to Vesryn’s footsteps work to keep up.

“Wait a minute, how long has this been going on?”

Unsurprisingly, Zayis ignores him, swearing under her breath when she comes to a street she doesn’t notice, forcing Vesryn to grab her arm and redirect her.

“Do you think he loves you back?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

She repeats the same answer in frustration, throwing her hands up to cover her eyes, knowing now she’s fucked. Completely and totally fucked because despite knowing how foolish it is to fall in love with someone like Astarion she’s managed to do just that.

“Okay, well do you want to know?”

He asks the question like it’s a simply gained answer. As if asking Astarion about his feelings is something Zayis can do without feeling humiliated.

Because truthfully, she knows if asked, not only would she be met with that teasing voice of Astarion telling her I told you so regardless of the answer, but she’d also be forced to live with the fact that Vesryn was right all along.

“Can we please talk about something else?”

Quickening her pace, she can feel her legs begin to ache from the events of the day. All of the hours of travelling and fighting piling onto her weakened knees as she pushes forward.

Watching her struggle, Vesryn follows behind almost cautiously, trying his best not to hover while remaining close. Well aware at any second she might just fall to the ground thanks to the alcohol.

“I think maybe we should just get you home, yeah? I’m sure your boyfriend is worried sick.”

Before he can even laugh at his poorly timed joke she’s turning to swing her fist at his head, causing him to grab her wrist in annoyance.

“C’mon Punchy, let’s not keep your leech waiting.”

Frowning in response she allows him then to guide her the rest of the way. Keeping his arm loosely wrapped around her shoulder for support, she dizzily latches onto his side, resting her head against his chest. Trying her best to ignore the sickness that resides at the base of her stomach as they continue forward, eventually making it to camp.

“You know, this isn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.”

While glaring at Vesryn she can feel her head begin to pound. The space behind her eyes where the tadpole resides ringing out in a painful rhythm of words. All of them loud and irate, saying something she can’t quite understand.

At which point she begins to descend without warning, causing Vesryn to swear and catch her arm, watching anxiously as she moves one hand to her temple.

“Zay?”

When she doesn’t immediately respond he maneuvers her to the ground, kneeling in front of her with nervous hands to hold her face, searching for further signs of distress until she’s completely still again.

“Sorry, that uh, happens sometimes.”

“What?”

“The tadpoles,” she mumbles, brushing his hands away to rub her eyes, feeling the pain still linger behind them but at a much smaller scale. “Sometimes when one of us gets a bit emotional or something they…”

As she trails off with a yawn she attempts to mime the word connection by pressing her index fingers together in front of her. A motion Vesryn thankfully understands, nodding his head in response.

“We don’t—“

The sound of a clearing throat pulls her away from the conversation. Her eyes shifting from Vesryn’s face towards a very pissed-off Astarion now standing in front of them with his hands on his hips.

“Am I interrupting something?”

Instantly, both she and Vesryn jump to speak, their voices fumbling over each other until Zayis eventually turns back and frowns, prompting Vesryn to innocently raise his hands and stand up.

“Ves was just bringing me home.”

“At this hour?” Astarion asks, his voice lower than normal. Angrier even. A rumble of sound emanating from his chest as he crouches down to face her —instantly smelling the drink on her breath. “Wait a minute, you’re drunk.”

“Am not,” she slurs, grinning. Expecting him to grin back or crack some sort of joke. Not shift his jaw and stand as he does, moving towards Vesryn faster than she can think to blink.

“I always knew you were an idiot,” she hears him say, watching him reach for Vesryn’s clothes. Gripping the collar of his shirt with such ferocity that the only sound that Zayis hears after that is the sudden groan her old partner lets out.

Which makes her panic, realizing then that Astarion isn’t just pissed —he’s livid. Red not only in the eyes but also in the face, prompting her to try and stand up only to fall back down thanks to the lightness that travels throughout her head.

“What’d you do to her, huh? Get her drunk and then take advantage of her?”

Trying but ultimately failing to speak over Astarion’s angered assumptions, Zayis eventually opts to reach for the fabric of his pants instead. Pulling at the base of his calf to gain his attention, muttering his name through the mess of sounds until she’s been ushered to her feet by a pair of arms.

“I see the apology’s going well,” Wyll says, and immediately she whips her head to face him in response, taking in the humoured expression across his face before turning back to see the two men being ripped away from each other by Karlach’s brute force. Both of them continuing their attempts at violence.

“This isn’t how we treat our guest, Fangs,” Karlach scolds, but Astarion’s already cursing Vesryn’s name. Using whatever insult he can think of to throw the poor man’s way. Ignoring Karlach’s plea for him to shut up even when she threatens to knock him out cold if he doesn’t behave.

Which only causes more issues when the rest of the camp begins to realize what’s going on. All of them piling out of their tents to watch this ridiculous display of angry men fighting over an issue neither of them really have much control over. Considering Zayis is drunk and now grumbling into the crook of Wyll’s neck trying her best not to cry at the sight of Karlach shoving Astarion towards Lae’zel, it’s obvious that the best thing to do is drop it.

Or at least, put a pin in it until morning. Which is exactly what Gale suggests when he wanders towards Lae’zel’s side, smirking at their not-so-friendly vampire before making some sort of backhanded compliment that has Astarion lunging towards him with a hiss.

“Alright, alright. No need to maim the wizard,” Gale mutters, darting back. “I’m just here for the show not to get roped into any audience participation.”

After that, Zayis hears Wyll sigh in defeat as he runs his palm along the length of his face, trying his best to comfort her as she continues to wrap herself around him, digging her claws into his clothes while her tail grips tightly onto his legs.

“I think we should probably get her some water,” he says, prompting Shadowheart to move towards Vesryn, placing a hand on his shoulder as she asks him if he needs any healing.

While shaking his head he ends up glancing over at Zayis who already looks like she’s dead to the world. Still grumbling incoherently under her breath, it’s as if her mind has been turned to sludge as Wyll drags her over to the fire, placing her gently on the ground. Practically forcing a stream’s worth of water down her throat by the time Shadowheart wanders over, casting whatever restoration magic she’s got left.

“That fool of yours is lucky Karlach showed up when she did,” she mutters, moving to place either hand on Zayis’s face. Allowing the magic to spread through her cheeks like an icy veil, wrapping around heated flesh. Providing the perfect amount of relief for the tadpole behind her eye to settle back into its dormant state.

“Is he okay?”

“He’s fine. Karlach’s taking him home.”

Letting out a sigh of relief, Zayis continues to drink through the process. Feeling the water soothe her aching throat as Shadowheart continues to speak, scolding her for being so stupid.

“Gods, I can’t believe you let him get you drunk.”

“I didn’t let him do anything,” Zayis snaps, her eyes narrowing in annoyance, watching as her two friends share an unimpressed look. “I got nervous.”

“And drank an entire bar?”

For some reason that makes Wyll snort, prompting Zayis to reach out and yank his horn, causing the warlock to groan and swat her away. “Hey! She’s right, you know!”

Regardless of whether or not they are, Zayis opts to go silent after. Sitting angrily between the two of them, she lets Shadowheart finish her spell before muttering out a quiet thanks. The kind that Shadowheart almost immediately reciprocates with an unenthusiastic no problem before retreating to her tent. Leaving just herself and Wyll to stew in the awkward silence of her actions as she continues to sip her water. Paying no mind to the curious eyes that dart between the camp and her face, picking apart the expressions that absentmindedly shift the longer she sits.

“So, uh, do you want to talk about what happened or would you rather wallow?”

Earning no response, Wyll sighs, prompting Zayis to look over with a frown. Both of them staring at each other, wishing that she’d just come out and say whatever needs to be said instead of rotting away, pretending like her actions are something other than self-inflicted wounds.

“I promise no judgement, you know.”

“I know. I’m just —I think I should probably talk to him first.”

“Not sure he’s interested in talking.”

Zayis snorts out of habit, moving a hand to rub her eyes, feeling her head swirl. “Fair. I probably wouldn’t want to talk to me either.”

“I’m sure if you give him time,” Wyll suggests, and even though she knows he’s right all she can feel is the lack of patience beginning to settle in. The undeniable urge to jump to her feet and run to his side almost doubling on impact. The temptation to confess all the thoughts that have plagued her mind over the last few weeks making their presence known.

It forces her to chug a few more glasses of water in silence. Trying her best to remain as rational as possible. Or at least, until she’s able to fully stabilize her thoughts in the form of a pros and cons list that Wyll almost immediately interrupts.

“I know you say you are, but are you truly alright?”

At first, she doesn’t have an answer. Too focused on trying to figure out whether it’s a pro or a con to storm into Astarion’s tent, she hardly registers the words. Instead finding herself at a mental crossroads, debating the level of sobriety needed to confess one’s love before it becomes insulting. But then her mind catches up. Slowly but surely taking in the words. Feeling the genuine curiosity in his voice sound almost paranormal. As if he’s already used the tadpole to burrow into her mind and find the answer for himself.

Not that he’d need to, to know that she’s the opposite of alright.

Even before arriving, she’d been on the absolute edge of sanity. Struggling to choose which battle to tackle first, since entering the walls of Baldur’s Gate it’s felt like she’s been pulled every which way. Slowly becoming stretched to the point of ripping.

Which she wants to admit. But thanks to the guardedness of her brain, all she’s able to say is that she’s tired. That the well within her soul has sufficiently dried up leaving nothing more than a hole in the ground, waiting for its fill once again.

With a sigh, Wyll slides a little closer and nudges her leg, offering support in whatever way he can as she glances at him, silently pleading for advice.

“You need to rest, Zay.”

Genuinely curious, she looks at him with half-lidded eyes. The glassy look of drunkenness still heavily visible. “How?”

“By allowing your problems to run their course rather than trying to direct them yourself.”

Leaning forward, she groans into her hands. The emptiness of her head making it hard for her to understand the riddles Wyll often speaks in. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

Letting out a soft laugh, his hand finds its way to one of her horns to reciprocate that same push from earlier, forcing her to grumble under her breath.

“It means you should go to bed.”

Groaning in response, she debates whether or not to argue, feeling her eyes shift towards Astarion’s tent —feeling that inevitable pull behind her eye, begging for her to curl up against his frame regardless of whatever fight might unfold.

“Okay. But not because you told me too,” she eventually says, and Wyll just smiles and ushers her to her feet, forcing one final glass of water into her hand.

“One more for the road, okay?”

All she does is nod her head and slowly make her way towards the tent. Staring intensely at the ground beneath her, she maneuvers around roots and rocks, trying her best not to let the remnants of leftover inebriation overtake her ability to function.

Which proves easy up until she makes it to the tent. Feeling her vision shift in and out of focus as she attempts to push open the flap, there’s a moment where she sways back and has to catch herself, causing her lips to part into an awkward squeal.

“What the hells are you doing?” Astarion says, and before she can even think to correct her footing she’s somehow pressed against his chest with her glass of water nowhere to be seen. Her body suddenly feeling warm thanks to the way his hands snake around her waist, tightly gripping the flesh beneath her shirt. Reminding her that despite the intimate position she finds herself in, he’s definitely still unimpressed.

“How come you’re mad?”

His eyes narrow, becoming two thin slits of rage that successfully scare her into submission, prompting her to swallow hard and sit up on her knees, feeling his hands tighten even more. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

Following her lead, he forces himself to release her waist in order to lean into her, practically pressing his forehead against hers. “I mean, honestly, do you have any sense of self-preservation or do you just choose to act like an idiot?”

Immediately she blinks, processing his words. Marinating in the meaning until she fully understands. “You know, Vesryn isn’t an enemy —he’s a friend.”

“I’d argue otherwise, but I suppose your choice in friends has always been questionable.”

Feeling the liquor rush through her system, she quickly reaches out to grab his shoulder, steadying herself against the sway that overtakes. Fully pressing her forehead against his despite wanting nothing more than to wrap her hand around his skinny little neck and—

“You didn’t tell me you were going to see him.”

Her mouth opens to respond —to tell him that it doesn’t matter— but then she stops, pulling away to explore the hurt expression across his face. Specifically the focused look within his eyes that fail to falter for even a second.

“I didn’t think I had to.”

“I suppose you don’t but—”

“But what then?”

“But a courtesy would’ve been nice,” he practically snaps. “Or a simple warning at the very least —I think I deserve at least that.”

She looks at him confused then. Unsure what exactly he means, her lips part to ask, watching as his expression slowly matches hers. Both of them staring in anticipation for an answer that never comes.

“You know I just went there to talk, right?” Her voice struggles through the fog that hits her head, causing her to frequently pause between words. “I didn’t go there to do whatever it is you’re…”

Trailing off, she wiggles her fingers, trying her best to insinuate that whatever assumptions he has are wrong. And that he’s being stupid, but she’s too drunk to incorporate that accordingly.

So instead, she just settles for the former, watching the way his nose scrunches up, pulling at his upper lip to reveal the tips of his fangs. An expression that makes her wonder if maybe her words aren’t matching up with her thoughts, prompting her to sigh and move her hands to her face.

“Fuck, I’m too drunk for this.”

“Yeah, that’s becoming apparent.”

For some reason that makes her laugh weakly. “I just… I don’t want to fight anymore. Not for this.”

“Then what do you want to fight for?”

Pushing her hands further into the sockets of her eyes, she feels her head pound in frustration. All of her thoughts piling to the forefront of her mind, screaming at her to settle this once and for all. To tell him that she doesn’t want to fight anymore. To say that, instead of pressing their knives to each other’s throats time and time again, all she wants to do is toss them aside and kiss the scars they’ve inflicted.

But because she’s drunk —because she can’t think without the whole process becoming far more difficult than it should be— all she does is move into him. Allowing her body to speak for itself in the form of a desperate hug, she wraps her arms around his shoulder before he guides her down into the bedroll.

“Alright, easy does it, darling,” Astarion grumbles, his angered tone failing to match the sweetness of his words, prompting Zayis to frown and turn her back to him.

“Don’t call me that. I’m mad at you.”

“Since when?”

“Since you decided to be mad at me for no reason,” she says, causing Astarion to huff as he begins to run his fingers through the roots of her hair —feeling the familiar presence of her tail slowly wrap around his thigh.

“Once again, I’d argue such a statement but clearly you’re too far gone to be able to defend yourself.”

“Fuck you, I can do anything.”

“Agree to disagree.”

“Agree to —shut up, Astarion.”

Releasing a heavy sigh, he reluctantly continues his ministrations despite the abuse. Pressing the pads of his fingers deeply into the base of her skull.

“Go to sleep, Zay. We can fight in the morning.”

In response, she grumbles out in protest. Ultimately failing to convey her disinterest as his fingers lower to the back of her head, following the line of her braid until he hits the end and begins to undo it. Then, with careful hands he works his way back up, feeling her slowly drift beneath his touch.

“Gods, sometimes I wonder if loving you is even worth the headache,” he tells her, unaware of the sliver of consciousness that manages to linger. Even when she nervously stirs at his words, wondering if she heard him correctly.

Because there’s no way he loves her, right? Too focused on what he gains from being around her rather than her herself, there’s not a single chance he cares. That’d be impossible. Unthinkable. An admittance so beyond logic that as she lays there, eyes shut tight, she has to force herself to ignore it. To chalk his strange confession up to the liquor poisoning her mind with outlandish thoughts.

Which thankfully isn’t hard given how drunk she still is. In fact, with very little effort, it only takes a few minutes of Astarion’s fingers moving through her hair to fully render her useless. Her body curling under the blanket, unaware of the restlessness Astarion experiences as the hours pass. Oblivious to the fact that, even before she wakes up, he’s already gone.

Becoming nothing more than a vacant space that leaves her confused when she eventually rolls over hours later, groaning at the pain that rips through her skull, remembering everything that happened. Specifically, the words he may have said to her last night —the ones so far from reality that she can’t help but wonder if it was merely just a figment of her imagination.

Hearing them echo in her mind, she palms the sockets of her eyes and sits up, feeling the aches and pains of the previous hours seep into her bones. Taking refuge in her muscles to the point that not even she can deny how much of a struggle it is to crawl around the sun-kissed tent, searching for the cup of water Wyll gave her last night before downing it in one huge gulp.

Unsurprisingly it feels like a gift from every God combined. A blessing of liquid that provides her with enough energy to shakily crawl through the opening of the tent, squinting at the newfound light that hits her face.

Somehow it’s already sunrise. Even though it felt like she was maybe asleep for a couple of minutes, it’s obvious now that she got at least a few hours in. Something she’s thankful for as she wanders over to the pile of supplies by the put-out fire, rooting through the various bags until she finds a canteen of water.

At which point she begins to drink and aimlessly walk, forcing her tired legs to move through the length of the camp and past the tree line, weaving through the obstacles of nature until she’s standing at the edge of a hill.

Looking up, there’s a moment or two where she debates turning back. But then her body starts to move without warning, pushing her further and further past the threshold of capability she should have after a night of heavy drinking and emotional warfare. Disregarding the burn that envelops practically every fibre of her being until she hits the top.

Then she’s doubling over in pain, on the verge of tears, feeling the desire to give up filter through her determination, making her second guess her actions until she hears someone huff.

“You look like a corpse,” Astarion says. “And not a fresh one either.”

Forcing out a laugh, she squints to see him sitting on a stump a few feet away with a mug of tea in his hand —another at his side like always. “Morning to you, too.”

“Morning.”

His voice is quiet as he turns to look at the rising sun. Ignoring her as she moves toward him, taking the cup that rests beside him into her hands before she sits in its place. “Thanks.”

Surprisingly, he doesn’t respond. Instead, he just sips the tea and continues to soak in the light as he often does. Paying no mind to Zayis as she takes a sip of her own, staring at the side of his face.

“Did you rest at all?”

All he does is shake his head.

“When did you leave?”

“Not long after you fell asleep.”

Humming in response, she turns away to look at the sky herself, allowing her mind to drift to last night. Hearing that single word uttered over and over again in her mind until it doesn’t sound like a word at all.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Depends.”

Releasing an annoyed breath, she takes another sip before she continues. “Always does, doesn’t it?”

“Mhm.”

After that, she sees him sort of smirk against the edge of his cup, prompting her to quietly groan and ditch the idea altogether. Feeling the walls of her heart begin to make their way up again —discarding whatever idea might’ve crossed her mind to even think about letting them down in the first place.

Something Astarion immediately notices. Having failed to ask her question, he quickly turns to face her, exploring her features —noticing the sudden lack of curiosity that immediately befalls her face. “That’s it then?”

“What?”

“No question? No pretty little morning argument?”

She looks at him confused, her jaw dropping slightly open.

“Not even a single threat relating to bodily harm?”

“I—“

“My, my, have you gone soft or something, darling?” he asks; his tone changing. Morphing to have this venomous quality, Zayis immediately scoffs at.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He shrugs his shoulders and turns away, pretending like there’s no reasoning behind his words. Acting as if there's no fight to pick despite there very clearly being one.

“You know, if you have a problem with my behaviour you can just come out and say it instead of waiting for me to figure it out myself.”

In response, he lets out quite possibly the fakest laugh she’s ever heard. “I could. Though, we both know that even if you did figure it out, you wouldn’t talk about it anyway. You don’t do emotions.”

“Neither do you.”

“Actually I—“

Without warning she stands up to chuck the mug over the edge of the hill, groaning from the pain of her muscles —trying her best to ignore the way they pull in strange ways as she turns to glare in his direction. “No, you know what? You don’t get to act like an asshole just because you’re mad that I didn’t tell you I was seeing Vesryn!”

“Oh, please, I’m not mad about that!” Standing up, he discards his mug on the stump and takes a step forward. Inserting himself into her space, watching her follow his lead until they’re practically nose to nose. “What I’m mad at is your lack of attention —for your inability to look around and see what you so clearly deserve!”

“Deserve?” Pressing a rough hand to his chest, she forces him back only to step forward, watching his eyes narrow in annoyance —his hands darting out to grip her wrists once she’s close enough. “You think this mistreatment is what I deserve?”

As she struggles against his hold, both of them bare their teeth in frustration. Neither one of them willing to admit their respective thoughts until Astarion’s eventually the first to cave, growling under his breath.

“No, but sometimes I think you believe that,” he says, his voice lowering. The sound of it reverberating through his chest like an avalanche Zay can’t help but stand at the bottom of, wondering when she’ll inevitably perish beneath it.

Because that’s what it feels like sometimes, being around him. Oftentimes while attempting to navigate all the feelings that erupt each time he picks a fight, she has to hear things she doesn’t want to. To listen to the truth time and time again, despite wanting nothing more than to run from it. Almost every time it makes her breathless, hearing the way he picks her soul apart each time she gives him the chance. Feeling fine one moment and lost the next as he continues to speak.

“Is that why you won’t talk to me? Why, despite all the times I’ve confided in you, you refuse to offer the same in return? Because you’re punishing yourself?”

Taking it all in, her gaze flickers down to his hands, watching them slip up her wrists, slowly moving to turn her palms to the sky so that he can gently rest his own on top. Inhaling deeply, it’s as if the weight of them are suddenly all over her body. Pressing roughly against her chest and arms —grabbing hold of her feet so that they keep her in place despite wanting nothing more than to run. To swallow whatever pride she has left and disappear for good.

To pretend like he isn’t working up to some huge confession despite wanting nothing more.

“Zayis?”

“What?”

She doesn’t mean to snap. But regardless, the word comes out like a bite, latching onto his throat. The tips of them diving into his flesh before he can even think to recoil.

It makes him falter for a second. The entirety of his body twitching against the rise of her voice before he eventually puffs back up again, sighing so hard the only thing she feels afterward is the echo of his breath.

“Gods, for once will you just fucking talk to me?” he then pleads, gripping the base of her fingers so tightly she ends up wincing. “Please.”

“What do you want me to say, Astarion? That I’m punishing myself because I’m scared?”

“If that’s the reason, yes!”

“And what if I don’t know the reason?”

“Then—“

Suddenly, she rips her hands from his to move them to her face, pressing the pads of her fingers roughly against her temples. Shakily circling the flesh as she heavily exhales, trying to collect her thoughts as he takes another step forward, tugging her close by the waist. Forcing his fingers beneath the hem of her untucked shirt.

“Tell me then. Are you punishing yourself because you feel guilty for what you’ve done? Or are you punishing me because the mere thought of either of us deserving each other is too much to bear?”

It’s the kind of question that has her fearing for her life. Regardless of how many enemies she’s fought over the past few weeks. As she stares into Astarion’s eyes, watching the deep red rings nearly disappear behind narrowed lids, she has to force herself to stay. Knowing that if she doesn’t, she’ll just wind up back where she started: all alone, wishing just once she could have something real.

Because with Vesryn, it never was. Despite the adoration that still presents itself each time they’re together, that’s all it ever really grew to become. Two people admiring each other for reasons unrelated to love. Not people who fought tooth and nail just to earn the bare minimum. People who, despite everyone telling them to quit while they’re ahead, continued to choose each other above all else.

Which makes looking at Astarion that much harder. As he bears his soul in his own way, asking her for something in return, it makes her realize that the reason she fears so much isn’t because she feels guilty for abandoning Vesryn but because she fears the judgement of it. Always self-critical of her own actions thanks to the scrutiny of her upbringing, it’s hard to look at what’s in front of her and not assume the worst. Considering they already bring out the worst in each other pretty much constantly, it’s obvious there’s always been some reservations. Despite being fully aware of their similarities and the chemistry that presents itself when needed, at all times there always seems to be a voice at the back of her mind telling her she’s stupid for thinking things might work out.

Because honestly, it probably won’t. Not with the way Astarion’s looking at her with those eyes or the way he’s practically clawing at her hips, begging for her to stay. Coaxing her into this false world where the two of them fall in love and get the happy ending neither of them really deserves.

It isn’t realistic. Or truthful in any way, which is why when she speaks she doesn't lie or even coat the truth in honeyed words.

“I don’t feel guilty,” she starts, dropping her hands to gently hold the crook of his elbows —feeling her tail follow behind and absentmindedly slink around his waist. “Ves and I —we weren’t good together.”

“Why?”

She looks away, pursing her lips as he nudges her closer. Pulling her eyes back in almost immediately. Keeping her there with him no matter what. “We never had this.”

“And what is this?”

“Lust? Love? I don’t...”

Trailing off, she shakes her head and closes her eyes, hearing that voice inside her head telling her this is wrong. That he and her and everything shared over the last few weeks has been nothing but a ploy. A tactic used to get what he needs out of her before he—

He interrupts her thoughts by grabbing her chin. Running his thumb along the space just below her lip, he then cocks his head and sort of smiles. “This isn’t just lust, you know,” he tells her, and suddenly it’s like she’s back at the tiefling party again, catching his gaze between moments of mingling, unable to deny the mutual attraction as he inevitably flirts his way beneath her clothes.

“It isn’t?”

Softly, his finger rises to touch her lower lip. Pulling it down ever so slightly, she sees his lips part into a toothy grin that has her heavily breathing, wondering if this is it. The moment she completely falls apart into his arms with no escape plan. The one where he says those magic little words and she falls headfirst into the palm of his hand.

“Not anymore.”

“Then… what is it now?”

Whether it’s because he doesn’t know or he wasn’t expecting her to ask, Astarion’s rendered speechless. With his mouth partially open in surprise, not a sound comes out once the question is asked, prompting Zayis’s stomach to twist into knots so far beyond untangling that she honestly feels like she might pass out.

Because of the sheer anticipation alone, she’s already struggling to breathe. Feeling her lungs begin to cave under the pressure of his silence, she finds herself acting before thinking. Moving before speaking. Granting herself the chance to take matters into her own hands as they rise to cup his cheeks.

Beneath her fingertips, he feels colder than she remembers. Stinging her digits like slabs of carved-out ice, she lets her thumbs trail over the peaks and valleys of his face —exploring the highest points of his cheekbones down to the hollowness of his under-eyes. Memorizing every part with careful hands. Watching his expression change as she begins to lean in, bumping the tip of her nose against his before letting out the shakiest breath that’s probably ever existed.

“Well, whatever it is, I hope it’s worth the headache,” she then says, feeling his hand slip from her chin to wrap around the back of her head. Both of them moving in to cross the one boundary that’s never been crossed. Neither of them caring that in the process their fangs knock haphazardly together before quickly finding their rhythm.

Which surprises her if she’s honest. After always feeling like they’re on opposing sides, for a moment it doesn’t make much sense to her. As his lips gently shift to slot themselves against hers, it shouldn’t feel this perfect. It should be difficult like everything else. A battle of power and tension. Not easy. Not like she’s breathing or walking or driving a knife into someone’s chest.

No, it should be harder than this. More complicated. A process so painstakingly awful that her mind should be telling her it isn’t worth it and run.

Except she can’t, can she? Not when his hands feel like they’re moulded to her frame —how his palms seem to rest perfectly against her head and hip, still pulling her in. All while slowly devouring her mouth with careful nips and licks that have her practically clawing for more. Her hands exploring his neck and hair, unable to choose which spot to settle into.

It makes him grin against her, prompting her to frown in response, not sure why he finds the act so funny. Or why he ends up pulling away so quickly afterward, brushing away loose hairs that have fallen in front of her face.

“Bit rude of you to throw my own words back in my face like that.”

Almost angrily she reaches down to grip the collar of his shirt, attempting to shut him up with another kiss but failing when he grabs her wrist.

“Greedy little thing.”

“Shut up.”

In response, he hums in amusement and leans in to graze her ear with his lips. “One taste and you’re already begging for more, hm?”

“Gods, you’re insufferable.”

“And you’re just pathetic, aren’t you?”

His lips peel into a smirk that has her angrily maneuvering him back to her mouth, digging her fingers into the roots of his hair as well as his shirt —ignoring the way he laughs through another hum while giving in.

A laugh that has her heart foolishly swelling against her ribcage, threatening to burst as he begins to drag her down towards the ground, neither one of them caring how the dirt instantly clings to their clothes or how itchy the grass feels against their exposed skin, because right now, all they care about is this. These somewhat tender moments spent discarding shirts and pants —both of them awkwardly laughing through the mess of limbs that bump against each other in the process.

Somehow, all of it feels too good to be true. Having waited years to properly feel his hands trailing up the length of her spine and his teeth nipping at her flesh as she rests on top, it feels like a projection of her desires come to life. The way he palms the back of her head, guiding his mouth to a particularly supple part of her neck.

It immediately makes her eyes flutter shut, waiting for the moment he decides to strike. Becoming nothing more than teeth and hands working to take their fill. As she lies on top of him, breathing so hard she’s certain she's probably damaged her lung in the process, she can feel his tongue teasing the area. Poking out to coat her skin in saliva before he presses another opened-mouth kiss and pulls away.

“Can I?” he asks, and before she can even think she’s nodding mindlessly. Allowing whatever he wants to happen because the fight’s died out. Whatever need she once had to hold power over him lost the moment he smiles and kisses her lips, sucking away her air before he does the same with her blood.

At which point she’s almost certain she’s going to pass out. With the lack of oxygen and now that familiar pain plunging into the side of her neck, it’s a miracle that she’s still able to stabilize her body. As he begins to push in, she can’t help but jump from the contact, realizing how different it feels in comparison to something like her wrist.

Because despite having experienced the sharpness of his teeth followed by the languid lapping of his tongue against far less intimate places, this feels completely different. More euphoric and intense —something she has to push through as the pain begins to meld into pleasure as the seconds pass.

Which isn’t all that difficult. Not when they’re holding onto each other for dear life, every so often shifting to get a better angle. Moaning under their breaths for different reasons despite sharing the experience. No longer trying to suppress the feelings that stir when Astarion inevitably pulls away, dripping in blood that she immediately moves to wipe away.

“You eat like a starved boar,” she says, trying not to giggle at the way he chases her blood-stained fingers, somehow still desperate for more.

“And you moan like a banshee.”

“I do not!”

Without warning he begins to mock the sound of her voice, throwing his head back, causing her to press her palm fully over his mouth.

“Do you ever stop?”

His voice doesn’t carry through her hand so she reluctantly drops it, giving him a pointed look only to receive another grin. “Only if you want me to,” he then says, and almost immediately she feels her face begin to heat up, realizing that she doesn’t. That instead of stopping and taking a second to talk or even breathe all she wants is more.

So, she responds with another kiss. Not caring about the taste of her blood on his lips or the desperate way she falls slack against his chest, feeling him twitch against her. As she licks the seam of his mouth right open, hungrily pushing her tongue to meet his own, she doesn’t care that he’s adjusting her hips. Grabbing hold of her flesh to position her over the tip of his cock.

With nothing but the sensations of their bodies hurriedly working to become one, she hardly registers anything other than the head teasing her folds, failing to fully enter since she keeps squirming. Something she doesn’t register until he bites her lip a bit too hard, prompting her to pull away and narrow her eyes, watching him frown.

“Stop moving,” he says, but like always she ignores him, moving whatever way her body decides is right until he’s angrily groaning and turning them over, pinning her against the grass. “Brat.”

“Asshole.”

He leans in to steal another kiss while using his hands to hold down her hips, feeling her grind against him. “Thorn in my side,” he mutters.

His voice vibrates against her mouth in a way that has her absolutely reeling. Forcing her hands to dip down to his chest, tracing the carvings of his muscular structure as her tail wraps tightly around his thigh.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.”

“Pretty?” Somehow he sounds surprised. “Is that a genuine compliment?”

“Maybe.”

He hums and releases one of her hips, moving to grip his cock, giving it a few tentative strokes before lining himself up again. “Care to grace me with another one?”

Once again teasing her entrance, she finds herself shifting upwards, chasing the high of him. Following his sex in absolute misery trying to get him to give in without the need for praise.

“Or perhaps I should give that mouth something else to do?”

Before she can even think of a clever response he’s moving in. Slowly dragging through her, making sure that the process of it all is almost painful due to its lack of speed. Stretching her out, there’s a brief moment where she has to reach for his arms. To tether herself to him in some other way as he moves just shy of the hilt, leaning down to grin.

“I’m not hearing any words coming out of that mouth of yours.”

At first, she breaths, adjusting to the feeling of him slipping inside. Trying her best not to focus on the way she instinctively clenches around as she grits her teeth.

“C’mon now,” he coos. Then ever so slightly he pulls back, dragging the pleasure out of her throat in the form of a moan.

“Fuck, I love you,” she says, and immediately they both freeze. Neither one of them able to fully register the words until she opens her mouth again, stuttering out an apology. Scrambling to sit up and backtrack only to find herself being pinned back down and taken over.

Before she can even think the wicked snap of his hips quickly becomes enough of a distraction to forget what she just said. Thanks to the way he abruptly pushes and pulls only to slow it all down, it’s as if the regret evaporates into thin air. The phrase itself turning nothing more than a memory as she lets her hands roam across his back.

Now pressed against her, she feels his palm circle around to the base of her spine to create an arch. Providing both of them with a more comfortable angle for him to rut inside her, hardly caring that his pace has fallen out of time. No longer thinking about the finer details.

Moving in tandem, their lips part so that she can finally breathe, showcasing the stains of blood that cover the lower half of her face, prompting Astarion to smile.

“You’re perfect,” he tells her. “Better than perfect.”

And in the moment, she’s tempted to ask what that means. Or to poke some sort of fun in return, but there’s too much happening. The overwhelming sensations of his cock and hands and the way her entire stomach jumps at the sound of his words becoming far more important than her habit of gaining the last word.

Which only helps build the tension between her thighs. As he continues to jut forward only to slip back, suddenly there’s an additive of movement against her clit. The presence of trailing knuckles brushing, moving much slower than his hips.

Almost lazily, they glide across her nerves in circles, steadily adding to the collection of pressure. Forcing the pulsing stack of pleasure she feels to become too much as she lets out a pathetic whine.

It’s the kind that has him falling apart. No longer able to keep any sort of pace at all, it’s as if he’s suddenly lost in the dark, struggling to maintain the path set out before him. Forgetting all about past instincts as drops to her chest, kissing her face and neck —licking away remnants of blood before continuing down.

“Don’t stop,” she says, and even though she wouldn’t put it past him for doing so out of spite, she’s thankful he doesn’t. Instead, discarding all semblance of sense to guide her over the edge.

Applying a rough bite to the top of one of her breasts, it’s at that moment that Zayis feels the scales tip in her favour. Manifesting in violent tremors that wreak havoc throughout her body, it’s as if she’s lying against the shore, letting the waves lap at her skin. Allowing their strength to pull her in without protest.

Still above her, she can feel Astarion continuing. Too wrapped up in the feeling of her walls contracting on instinct, he sometimes falters but refuses to quit. Unable to stop even when she’s trying to pull away, the sensation of her orgasm becoming too much.

Because the feeling of that combined with the way he’s touching her —the way he’s pressed against her, practically consuming her skin with his sharp teeth— is hedonistic. An act of pure indulgence that has her joining it, allowing her tail to tangle around his waist as he continues to fuck her through her climax. Forcing her fingers to find a home in his hair, coaxing sweet sounds of pleasure from his pretty little lips.

“Come for me,” she tells him then, pressing a kiss to his head, watching his neck crane upwards to capture her gaze as he heeds her call, quickly spilling out inside her cunt. No longer able to suppress the shakes that rattle against her thighs, she lets out a soft laugh.

Which prompts him to look up at her in confusion after he’s finally settled down. Noticing the warmth of her features just staring at him. “What?”

Almost immediately, she bites back a grin, trying her best not to make some obscene sound when he eventually slips out of her and falls to her side. “Nothing.”

Now on his back against the grass, he narrows his eyes at the sky above before glancing back over, shaking his head at her comment. Reaching out to playfully smack her face to the side before releasing a sigh.

“You’re lucky I love you too,” he says, staring at her face —watching it quickly dart his way with widened eyes and parted lips. An obvious lack of thought gracing her mind until everything comes flooding back.

Then all at once, every reservation disappears. Every hesitation or doubt ceasing to exist the moment she sees the subtle smirk that spreads. How it renders her beyond uselessness, unable to reply let alone breathe.

“Rendered speechless?” he then teases, using what little energy he has left to prop himself up and lean over her, brushing his nose against hers. Letting the skin-on-skin contact further fluster her system. “That’s new.”

Greedily, she raises her head to kiss him. “So is telling me you love me.”

“So is…”

He trails off, unable to come up with a viable answer, prompting her to smirk back.

“Gotcha.”

In response he reaches down to pinch her hip, making her squeal. “Careful now or I might put that mouth to better use.”

“Mm, maybe you should,” she teases, but before he can respond there’s a rustle in the bushes, prompting them both to stop in their tracks as they look down the path, noticing a familiar elf stepping towards them.

Which makes Zayis swear under her breath. Pushing Astarion away, she hears him make a sound of disappointment as she scrambles for her clothes, tossing her tunic over her head before moving to stand —stopping at her knees when she sees Halsin look their way.

“Ah, I see you two have decided to patch things up the old fashioned way,” he comments, smiling between the two of them. Failing to care about the state of their dress before he continues to walk past them with the gentle wave of his hand, causing Astarion to snort.

“You know Halsin doesn’t—“

She tosses her pants at his head before he can finish, grumbling in embarrassment as he throws the fabric aside, once again pinning her against the grass with a rough kiss.

(tags continued in reblogs)

#only fools fall #astarion x tav #astarion x original female characer #astarion x fem oc #zaystarion #knife fight #summer writes

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tripleyeeet · 7 months

Text

CRISIS MODE

SUMMARY: Zayis has a crisis... Astarion definitely doesn't help.

PAIRING: Astarion & Zayis (OFC)

WORD COUNT: 6,681

WARNINGS: Mentions of a toxic relationship, canon typical violence, slight descriptions of gore, stupid sexual tension that you could probably cut with a knife or something.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Takes place four years after they initially meet on the night of the kidnapping. :)

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST

“Where do you think you’re going?”

As she turns away from the door in front of her, smiling as sheepishly as she can muster, Zayis notices the predictably pissed-off look in Vesryn’s eyes. The way his brows draw towards the centre of his face, revealing a deep trench of disappointment, looking her up and down.

It makes her skin crawl seeing the immediate lack of sympathy that she’s offered. The shift of normalcy coming to an abrupt end, only to be replaced with an air of skepticism that coats his features. It’s a look she’s grown familiar with over the last few years. Every time she pops out for a solo job, whether she tells him beforehand or not, she’s always met with this same look, paired with that groggily low and tired voice that needs to scold her for her actions.

She hates it, deeply. Dreads it every time he manages to find her tiptoeing through the house, wearing her darkest cloak. The moment his voice rings out through the silence of the night and she’s forced to look at him, she always feels an impending sense of dread, knowing there’s bound to be an argument.

As he moves towards her now, palming the sockets of his eyes with a groan, she can feel it in her chest that this one’s going to be big. The kind with yelling and words that neither of them will apologize for in the morning because truthfully, they’re grown too stubborn for that. Too petty to admit that anything the opposing person says could be considered a correct assumption of character.

“You know I hate it when you do these jobs.”

Her hand is already on the handle of the door, threatening to push it open without so much as another word, knowing it’s easier this way. Faster. “And you know they pay well, so what’s the issue?”

She already knows it’s them —the people she works for. Amongst the underbelly of Baldur’s Gate, it’s always been common knowledge that such individuals are not to be trusted. Or even really approached if you can help it. Both of which she’s obviously failed to do.

“You know the issue, Zay.” Somehow he manages to groan and sigh at the same time, dropping his hands once he’s merely a foot away, craning his neck forward to meet her gaze. “It’s incredibly dangerous.”

“So’s what you do,” she counters, moving her hand to the table that resides in the kitchen. On it, a messy display of papers sits across it. Stacked haphazardly, she can see a multitude of maps peeking out from one another, showcasing various trade routes and floor plans —all of which he uses to rob Baldurian nobles blind almost daily. “I’m not the only one who’s guilty of a dangerous workplace.”

“I’m not saying you’re guilty. I’m saying that the way you’re earning your coin is foolish!”

Angrily, she lets out a laugh, releasing her hand off the door’s handle to poke his chest. “Ves, you hire criminals who could turn on you at any minute. Cazador’s spawn are loyal to him no matter what!”

“Yes, but is he loyal to you?”

He isn’t. Not even for a second, but Zayis refuses to admit that, knowing he’s right. If her boss ever decided she was no longer needed she’d be dead before she could even think to take her final breath.

Unfortunately, it’s something she thinks of often. Deep within the confines of her mind, she wonders when that moment will come. How it will play out when the vampire lord inevitably decides to discard her from the roster. Most of the time she likes to assume he’ll do it quickly. That despite his violent reputation, he’ll find it in his cold, undead heart to give her the grace of a timely death. Perhaps he’ll chop off her head or strike her deep within the heart. Something painful but fast to act as some sort of fucked up gift after five long years of dedication.

“He sees me as an asset.”

“But for how long?”

She grits her teeth, moving to turn away —to walk right out that door without another word, knowing it’s no use. He’ll never understand the things she does for him. Why she endures these jobs so that they can live as comfortably as they do. Even after all the work she’s put in, he’s never been thankful for her sacrifices and secretly, it hurts. More than the words he throws at her each time they find themselves at this repeating impasse. More than the disappointed looks she’s offered each time she slips away.

Every time they end up here, staring at one another, waiting for the conversation to turn too sour to continue, she often wonders if it’s even worth it to come back home after she’s left. As she’s clutching that heavy bag of gold, letting the weight of it sink into her palm as she departs the manor each night she’s called, she often thinks of what it’d be like to be alone again. To feel the solitude of her own company. To be free of judgement each time she completes a job.

There’s a part of her that craves it sometimes. When she’s wandering home under the moonlight, trying not to think of all the blood that stains her clothes, there’s an inkling of desire to get a room at the Flophouse instead of returning home to him. To start fresh from the ground up without warning. To invent a whole new identity —to pretend that the old her perished in some sort of attack.

It’d be easy, especially with the vampire’s help but as she stands in front of her partner she knows the whole idea is nothing more than a fantasy.

“You and I both know it’s only a matter of time before one of those bloodsucking bastards turns on you.”

His hand has somehow moved to her shoulder. Gripping it tightly, she feels his claws digging through the fabric of her cloak, pushing to find her flesh beneath the many layers she coats herself in.

Almost immediately she brushes him off, opening her mouth in offence as she shakes her head. “Do you know how tired I am of you saying that? I swear to gods I hear it at least once a week!”

“Because it’s true! Because these things can’t be trusted!”

Things?

Before she can even think she’s throwing the door open, swearing under her breath as it hits the stone wall outside, creating a loud bang that makes Vesryn jump.

“You know those things are people right?” She turns on her heel, facing him with a newfound rage that scratches against her bones. “People with thoughts and feelings just like us!”

For a moment he’s speechless. As his jaw hangs low and his hands slowly move to grace his hips, Zayis knows he’s desperately trying to find some way of continuing. Searching the back of his mind for something disrespectful that’ll get enough of a rise out of her to deem himself the winner.

Which makes her even more angry as she takes a step back, shaking her head in disappointment, watching the way his features curl into that familiar grouping of smug success, knowing he’s done it. He’s managed to outperform her. Rendering her speechless amongst the night sky and the passing of curious, late-night eyes, he’s somehow pushed hard enough to make her feel that deep impression of guilt. The one that sits restlessly against her chest as he continues to speak.

“That fact that you consider them human makes it worse,” he says. “Especially with how much you talk about that Astar—“

Her fingers catch the hilt of her knife so quick that, once it’s flying through the air, narrowly missing Vesryn’s horn as he darts out of the way, she’s already frightened herself.

Feeling her digits begin to shake from the impact, every thought of anger is replaced with panic. With fear and regret and an uncontrollable sadness that takes over her face as she glances between him and the knife that sticks out of the wall behind him.

“Ves, I…”

Her voice is just as wavering as her hands. Barely above a whisper, it easily pales in comparison to the slamming of their front door, echoing back in her throat in the form of a disgusting whimper.

It rattles through her chest —the sound of her own fear, followed by the stomping she hears inside along with the flipping of furniture. All of it hits her ears harder than she cares to admit, forcing her body to distance itself from the aftermath of the storm, pushing her toward her intended destination.

And deep down, she knows it’s wrong to leave Vesryn with his own thoughts after blatantly attempting injury. In fact, it’s the complete opposite of what she should be doing. But given the anger that’s been pent up over the last few months —all the back and forth— she can’t bring herself to do anything else. So, instead, she continues. Pushing back the tremors that begin to shake through her throat. Ignoring the threat of tears that sting the corner of her eyes.

Moving forward, Zayis grips the fabric of her hood as she rounds the corner of the street, throwing it over her head in an attempt to hide the emotions that begin to bubble up over her face. To hide the guilt of her actions, remembering that she’s always had a bit of a mean streak. This underlying layer of fire that threatens to lick the flesh of those around her.

Most of the time she can keep it at bay. Often taking a moment to breathe and compose herself before the rage settles in. Up until now, she’s been able to take control and suppress —to avoid the consequences of her reckless actions.

Even as a kid, she could compose herself under the most stressful of circumstances. When her father would refuse her attention, sending the nanny to scold her with snide remarks, she could stare through the fury of her thoughts. Pretend like they were entirely missing from her mind as she endured the abuse.

Nowadays, she can feel it becoming increasingly difficult to do that. With the lack of support from Vesryn along with the overwhelming amount of reliance Cazador’s entrusted in her, she can tell she’s burning out. Often coming home exhausted each night, covered in the blood of someone else’s veins and a splitting headache, it’s become a test of patience each time her partner decides to pick a fight. As if they’ve become this candle burning at both ends, awaiting the moment they’ve been reduced to nothing but wax.

Zayis can feel that moment closing in. As the distance between her and the house grows with each passing step, she can feel it all coming to an end, burning her from the inside out. Reminding her that she’s to blame.

Cursing under her breath, she tries her best not to think too hard about it, quickly realizing it’s all but inevitable. No matter how hard she tries to distract herself with this one, there’s still the memory of the blade. The way it felt in her hand before it whipped through the air. It felt good. Like a release of tension, ripping through her. As if every moment shared between the two of them was meant to lead to this.

It makes her sick to her stomach just thinking about it, knowing how fucked up it all is —how fucked up she is and how, as her footsteps continue to take her towards the Flophouse, she knows the boundary she’s regrettably crossed will always be held over her head. Something she knows should fill her with regret or remorse.

And it does, to some degree. Brushing past a group of drunken elves, leaning against one another for support, can feel her heart break with the realization of what she’s done. In one foul swipe of her knife, she’s shattered the image of her almost perfect life, ruining whatever chance she had to uphold the illusion that she could be a good person.

All it took was one thoughtless moment paired with twitching temptation to truly bring her worst fear to life. The one where she’s deemed anything but perfect thanks to the expectations that were ingrained in her head at an early age. So much so that all she can think about is how Vesryn probably looks at her as if she’s some sort of monster now.

She can’t help but see the irony in it all. As she eventually finds herself at the front step of the Flophouse, there’s this thought that passes by, accepting that his potential feelings might be valid. That perhaps she is a monster after all —just like Cazador and Astarion and any other spawn, she’s encountered over the years.

Honestly, if it weren’t for the fact it was Vesryn, she wouldn’t even bat an eye at such an assumption. Considering she’s become so detached from the concept of morality thanks to the violence she regularly partakes in, the throwing of a mere dagger shouldn’t bother her.

And yet, it does. The annoyance of it all continuing, even when she’s pushing open the door and glancing at Ish, the overnight keeper who motions to the staircase.

Offering him a subtle nod in response, she slowly takes the steps upward, allowing the exhaustion of the evening to overtake her. Feeling as though she’s earned a few more moments of dread before she’s forced to adjust.

Beneath her boots, the wood creaks from the weight, causing her to cringe as a particularly loud step cries out. The sound is high-pitched and awful, grinding against her ears long after she’s stepped onto the second floor and begun glancing around, realizing her partner is nowhere to be seen.

Narrowing her eyes, she looks around the room in confusion, taking a couple of steps towards the beds that line the far wall, seeing that everything looks as it should. Glancing at each mattress, she notices there’s not a cover out of place, meaning Astarion most definitely hasn’t arrived yet. If he had, one of the beds would’ve already been in disarray. The sheets tossed aside and covered in sweat… among other things.

Rolling her eyes at the thought, she takes another step into the room only to suddenly be yanked sideways and twirled around, prompting her chest to tighten with anger.

“Astarion, I swear to—”

Struggling beneath his grasp, she feels the presence of a blade glide across her cheek, threatening to part her skin in one quick swipe as his forearm tightens across his chest.

“Zayis, darling,” he coos, allowing his chin to roughly rest against her shoulder. “What a pleasure.”

Digging her claws into the base of his arm, she grits her teeth and tries to crane her neck away from the blade, feeling the resistance of his shoulder pushing into hers. How it refuses to give despite the pain of her fingers slowly penetrating his flesh.

“I’m not in the mood, Fangs.”

“Course you’re not.” His voice sounds as arrogant as ever —high and mighty against her sensitive ears. “You never are when I’ve got you like this.”

Suggestively, he then pushes his pelvis against her backside, chuckling under his breath when she emits a sound of disgust before inevitably slipping from his grasp, reaching for her knife in the process, only to realize it’s still stuck in the wall at home.

Immediately after, she swears under her breath in frustration, moving her hand from the holster that sits on her belt to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“Missing something?”

“No,” she sighs, long and low before dropping her hand to see him cocking his head with a grin.

“Then what’s that look for?”

She doesn’t know what look he means. Because she’s so focused on the misplaced knife, she can’t imagine the position of her face as she goes to untie her cloak, suddenly feeling her throat begin to tighten. “I’m just tired.”

Unconvinced, Astarion moves toward the edge of the nearest bed and plops down, patting the spot next to him. “You know for someone who’s so undeniably malicious, you’re truly one of the worst liars I’ve encountered.”

Gritting her teeth, she balls up the cloak and tosses it at his head, watching as it opens up around his face at the last minute like some sort of dark fishing net that sends him backwards in surprise. All at once, he grumbles underneath the fabric after it happens, allowing both hands to move backward against the bed to steady himself as he reaches to rip it away, laughing in response. “Wow, you’re really in a mood tonight.”

Instead of arguing she just hums in response, crossing her arms over her chest. Hoping that he’ll understand the presentation of her body language and drop it. Knowing that he won’t when she hears that subtle sound of interest slip through his lips.

“Normally you’d be threatening me where I stand,” he says. “Poking me with that hideous little blade of yours.”

“Yes, well…”

While the statement is in fact true, Zayis can’t help but feel a bit annoyed regardless, watching the way his brows rise with anticipation, waiting for her inevitable explanation as he stares her down, knowing she’ll break. Knowing she’ll spill over, ranting about whatever problems she faces outside these moments they find themselves together.

Because she always does, well aware that whatever’s said is free of judgement. She could speak of killing a man in cold blood for the sake of absolutely nothing and all she’d be met with is nothing more than a smile and a nod. (Perhaps even a bit of praise depending on the situation.)

It’s why she hardly hesitates anymore. When Astarion asks, looking at her with genuine interest, it’s almost as if she’s already dying to tell him. Like a teenage girl gossiping to her best friend, the words often fall out before she can even think, filling the room with whatever experiences she’s endured since they last spoke.

“I left my knife in the wall at home.”

It’s a bold opening. One that has Astarion practically at the edge of his seat, grinning like a madman as he tucks one leg over the other and props his elbow on his knee to steady his chin. “My, my, rough day, dear?”

All she does is nod and release a heavy breath, watching as Astarion opens his mouth to respond only to be interrupted by the creaking of the staircase.

At which point both of them remember that they’re supposed to be working. Not gossiping —much to Astarion’s dismay, he grumbles under his breath, mentioning to Zayis she better tell him everything when this is over.

Instead of resisting, she just smirks and rolls her eyes, allowing the echo of heavy boots to sound throughout the room until the man they’re supposed to be meeting is standing there in front of them, narrowing his eyes in confusion.

“You’re not Szarr,” he says.

Immediately, Astarion stands from the bed with a chuckle. “Yes, well, the lord’s awfully busy tonight. Tending to the manor and all that, so he sent us instead,” he practically purrs, taking a step towards the man who looks oddly sophisticated for someone desperate enough to be doing business with a vampire lord.

“He never mentioned a replacement.”

Dripping in some of the finest leathers Zayis has ever seen, his light armour seems to be clear of filth. Practically glistening beneath the torchlight, the tan skin of his face scrunches up in confusion and darts back and forth, taking in Astarion’s welcoming expression before moving to Zayis’s never-faltering frown.

“Must’ve slipped his mind.” Astarion shrugs.

The man grunts in response as he slips the pack off his back, tossing it onto the floor in front of them. “Here’s the contacts he ordered. All twenty of them.”

Both Astarion and Zayis share a glance. One that screams are you thinking what I’m thinking before they’re already back to staring at the man, watching his fingers begin to fidget at their sides.

“Pretty sure the number was fifty, wasn’t it?” Zayis asks. Then she steps forward to pick up the bag with her tail, raising it so she can open up the top flap with her hand to see several scrolls tucked neatly inside, all lined up for future claim.

Immediately the man stutters out a response, telling them they’re wrong. That perhaps there’s been some sort of miscommunication —that he swears there were only meant to be twenty.

Before he can argue further though, Astarion’s already stepping forward, forcing the man to glance at the steps behind him, wondering if he should just make a break for it or continue whatever sick game they’ve decided to concoct against him.

“No, I’m pretty sure she’s right,” Astarion says then. The polite grin across his face shifting more into a smirk the closer he gets. “Fifty contracts for fifty of Baldur’s finest slaves, right, darling?”

Zayis nods, her eyes still focused on the scrolls as she allows her hand to individually count each one just in case there’s even less than he originally claimed.

In response, the man tries to explain himself, failing to convey whatever words quickly die on his tongue, realizing that he’s already done. That anything he says will mean next to nothing to the two of them, despite him telling the truth.

Realizing this, he immediately tries to make a break for it, scrambling around only to fail against Astarion’s blade. Before he can think the weapon is shoved upward through the back of his shoulder, causing a garbled groan to pull Zayis’s attention from the scrolls to see him stumble forward, forcing Astarion to grab him by the hair.

“You know, it’s not polite to leave meetings early.”

Through gritted teeth, Astarion scolds the man with a grin, pushing the blade further into his back as he maneuvers them away from the steps.

As he does, the man lets out another sound of distress, unable to do much else while the spawn behind him merely laughs. “I mean, honestly, you expect me to believe Cazador only asked for twenty slaves?”

This time the man whimpers through a series of haggard breaths as he reaches for his wound, pressing the blood-soaked skin that surrounds the knife embedded inside of him, trying to figure out a way to get it out.

Watching this, Zayis merely listens to the one-sided conversation as it continues, hearing Astarion chastise the man for being so stupid —for thinking he could pull the wool over Cazador’s eyes before eventually ripping the blade back out himself. When that happens, the man cries out louder than before, crumpling onto the floor in a heap that has Zayis sighing in response, holding out her hand for the knife.

“I didn’t realize your night was this bad,” he says, handing it off, watching with interest as she then saunters over and drives the blade in his back, pushing it deep through the cage of his ribs towards the floor where it inevitably sticks, creating a satisfying thunk.

It’s the kind of sound that makes her want to scream. To cry out just like the dead man that lays beneath her, realizing that whatever impression Vesryn might have of her when she returns home, covered in the blood of a man just trying to survive in a world far crueller than he expected, is probably right. No normal person would ever willingly pretend their deal was wrong for fun —to kill someone so they could let off a little steam from the frustrations of the day. Nor do they throw knives at their partner’s heads when they’re angry.

“So, anyway, going back to the whole knife in the wall situation.”

It feels a bit like whiplash, hearing him speak. But regardless, all she does is laugh, bringing her hands up to rub her temples in slight frustration. “Oh, my gods…”

“What? Clearly something about it is bothering you, otherwise you would’ve let me kill the damned fool like I always do.”

He knows he’s right. He’s always fucking right, so instead of arguing she merely relents, groaning before she begins.

“Ves and I had another fight.”

Almost immediately he scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Oh goodness! What a total surprise!”

“Shut up.”

Laughing, in response, he casually moves towards the edge of the bed again, watching as she fiddles with the fabric of her shirt, searching for more blood to distract herself. “What? It’s not like these little lover’s quarrels between the two of you are anything new.”

“Yes, but—“

“But nothing.” Cutting her off, he plops down on the edge of the bed, waving his hand around for dramatics. “I swear, the two of you are constantly bickering. Over and over and over again. Ugh, it’s exhausting.” He throws his head back with a groan, causing Zayis to frown.

“Is there a point to your complaining or are you just doing it because you’re bored?”

“Of course there’s a point.”

“Go on then.” She wiggles her hand around, motioning him to continue.

“Alright, obviously I understand the appeal. I’ve seen them man —I know he’s worth at least a bit of trouble.” Leaning forward, he offers Zayis a wink that has her closing her eyes in embarrassment, silently begging for him to make his point. “However, regardless of that, when do you draw the line? How much more can you take before the whole attraction’s overshadowed by the constant beratement?”

Opening her eyes again, Zayis looks at Astarion with actual shock, realizing he’s right. How much more can she take? Is it enough to justify their relationship? And if so, can she learn to navigate it all without allowing another blowout?

“I’m sorry, did you just say something completely rational?”

He rolls his eyes and leans back on his elbows. “You know I’m not completely hopeless in the realm of relationships, right? I may be a slave to a vampiric bastard but I know people.”

“Fair.”

“Plus, I’m growing tired of hearing about him. All this Ves said this and Ves did that.”

Despite the obvious insult, Zayis can’t help but snort in response. “You sound like him when I complain about you.”

“See what I mean, even now you’re talking about him, it’s pathetic, really.”

“Ah yes, says the slave.”

He shoots his head up to give her an unimpressed look. One that she reciprocates with a smirk as she then uses her tail to grip the hilt of the blade in front of her, pulling it up. As expected, it sticks a bit but eventually glides through the flesh, causing the man beneath it to topple over onto this side.

“Anyways, we should probably stop talking about my problems and clean this up.”

Still annoyed, Astarion inevitably agrees, holding his hand out for the knife. “Allow me. Wouldn’t want to get those pretty little claws of yours filthy with blood.”

“Course not,” she agrees, smirking as she hands over the knife, watching him drop to his knees and begin to maneuver the body so that it’s lying down face first.

After that, the two of them finish the job like they usually do. As Astarion separates every joint he can physically muster, bagging it all up in the process, Zayis strips and searches the body, splitting up all the valuables on the bed as Astarion explains in very lewd detail about his previous last few nights, failing to skimp out on even the juiciest of details.

“Gods, you’re disgusting.”

Upon finishing up the final joint (as well as the rest of his story about the absolutely depraved elf he managed to bed a good hour before their meeting), Astarion snickers under his breath. “Sorry that I’m not a puritan such as yourself.”

She narrows her eyes in his direction, watching him use the fabric of the man’s tunic to wipe off his blade before placing it back into the holster that sits against his thigh. “We just killed a man for the hell of it and you’re calling me a puritan?”

He stands up, laughing. “Yes, obviously.”

“Seems like a bit of an incorrect statement but—“

“Is it though?”

She opens her mouth to respond but quickly shuts it, knowing where this is going. Remembering that despite displaying a few moments of normal, unsolicited conversation Astarion’s bound to double back to his usual ways of shameless flirting and unwanted advances.

“Is it truly incorrect when the only sex you’re capable of enjoying is that of an old married couple well past the point of love?”

He offers her a falsely sympathetic pout as he bats his eyes, watching her jaw tense up, signalling that he’s overstepped. That his previously appropriate statements no longer apply and have quickly been replaced by the usual offence.

“You know, if I had my knife on me I’d definitely stab you right about now.”

Almost instantly his pout dissipates into nothing. Replacing it, that usual smirk filled with lustful interest emerges, taking over the lower half of his face as he steps toward her. “And you know I’d easily overtake you regardless.”

“Would you though?”

He nods his head, continuing his stride, watching the way she tries to match his steps only backward, subtly smirking until the back of her thighs hit the edge of the bed.

Despite the abruptness of it, she doesn’t fall back though. Instead, she remains perfectly balanced, standing toe to toe as he pulls out his blade again, pressing the edge of it above her hip.

It’s not deep enough to break any sort of skin. Wedging it partially into her leathers, Astarion can feel the lack of fear that she offers in response to his violence. How she barely reacts to the threat of his weapon, slowly dragging up her armour, squealing as he draws a shallow slit along the way.

“Tell me, because I’ve always wondered this, how come you won’t lay with me?”

To anyone else, it would feel like an insane question. Coming completely out of the blue with little context, any sane person would’ve probably gasped or slapped him in the face, but all Zayis does is stare. Watching the way he slightly leans forward, showcasing this newfound curiosity.

Narrowing her eyes, she tries her best to focus on it rather than the knife as it hits the edge of her chest, sinking deeper as he pulls it to the front of her, all while continuing to grin. “You mean, aside from the obvious?”

“The obvious being Vesryn?”

She nods.

“Then, yes, aside from the obvious.”

Swallowing hard, she tries to think for a moment. To gather her thoughts in a way that he’ll accept her answer and get rid of the blade. “It’s not that I won’t lay with you.”

Before she can even continue to explain, she’s lost her train of thought, cursing whatever brainstem decided to crap out in such an awful moment, suddenly realizing the significance of words. How it’s the closest thing to a confession either of them has ever gotten. Something that surprises even Zayis long after she says it out loud, turning away to release a heavy breath while Astarion merely stares with widened eyes.

It surprises both of them in the moment. So much so that Astarion barely notices Zayis’s tail begin to rise and grab his wrist, forcing the blade away with her appendage just as Astarion blinks, finally registering her words.

“Wait, a minute you—“

She clears her throat and pushes him back, moving towards the bag of scrolls and trinkets to pick it up and toss it to him. Somehow through the distracted haze they both find themselves in, Astarion manages to catch it against his chest, quietly grunting at the weight of the armour that’s been meticulously packed inside, trying to figure out what the hells just happened.

“We should go.”

“Go?” He looks at her in annoyance, scowling as he tosses the bag onto the floor. “You can’t just say something like that and go, oh, we have to go now, are you mad?”

Ignoring him to the best of her abilities she moves towards the handful of body bags that sit leaking on the floor —a pooling of blood growing the longer they waste precious time. “I’m going to go see if Ish has a spare pack we can stick these in.”

“I’m sorry, you’re going to—“ He cuts himself off with a disgruntled scoff, reaching out to grip her arm when she inevitably starts walking away. “No, no, no! No —stop that!”

Immediately, she glares at his hand. Then again at him, trying her best not to crumble in on herself from the embarrassment, knowing she shouldn’t have said anything. Instead, she should’ve just lied —made some terrible joke that he could chastise her for before saying something absolutely vile, resulting in a subject change.

It would’ve been easier that way. Less painful. If she had been smart enough to just do what she normally does, they could’ve already been halfway down the boardwalk by now, talking about whatever it was they usually talked about.

But somehow she got in her head. As he stood there, practically pressed up against her, asking the one question she always tries so hard not to think about, she had a lapse in judgement. A moment of weakness where she thought that maybe for a second, revealing the truth was the right thing to do.

Because as much as she hates it, it is the truth. Astarion may be an insufferable bastard. The kind of man she often avoids entirely but at least he accepts her. At least he doesn’t look at her with disdain every time she makes a mistake or does something completely irredeemable.

He may be the bane of her existence a lot of the time, with his constant need to threaten and harm her just for the fun of it, but at least he’s real. Tangible in a way that Vesryn often fails to be. Present in the sense that, despite the lack of trust and respect they have for one another, neither of them can deny they understand one another. That there’s chemistry there when Zayis fully knows that there shouldn’t be. That despite the commitment to her partner, there’s always been this inkling of interest. Perhaps it’s the closeness one feels after slaying a few people or the constant stream-line of advances that he offers. Either way, it’s a weight she’s carried for a while, knowing her relationship’s never been perfect.

Even before Astarion —before Cazador and the job she now finds herself almost living vicariously through, she and Vesryn have never fully understood each other. Even knowing each other for as long as they have, there’s never been a clear comprehension of emotions or needs or anything resembling that of a healthy relationship.

Which is why there’s a part of her that’s begun to accept how he views her. Why suddenly, out of nowhere, her mind has decided to reveal the one truth she’s always hidden deep inside, knowing it could be the end.

It’s because she’s tired of pretending like she’s a good person. That every thought or feeling or action that graces her person is pure and intentional. That living the life she lives late at night when she’s doing unspeakable things is because she has to —not because she wants to. Not because she enjoys the freedom of taking things away from others just like her father did to her. Or because Astarion’s presence stirs something deep within her, tempting her with the little seeds he drops in her hand, hoping one day she’ll catch on.

She’s so tired that when Astarion tells her to stop, she doesn’t argue. Doesn’t move to strike him down or rip his hand away in spite. All she does is stand there and stare, watching his mouth twitch open and closed —watching the thoughts that flow through his head as he tries to think of what to do next.

He never figures out what to do. As they stand there still, with his hand locked firmly against her grey-blue skin, moving to look at her eyes and horns and inevitably her ever-frowning lips, in the end, all he does is pull away.

Accepting their shared fate, he merely narrows his eyes and picks up the bag of scrolls, throwing it over his shoulder while Zayis goes downstairs to talk to Ish. All while swallowing back the regret of both saying the truth and then after, not acting on it.

Because honestly, despite knowing that sleeping with Astarion is the last thing she should be doing, she most definitely would’ve. If he had pulled her in and kissed her like she knows he not-so-secretly wants to do, she would’ve forgotten all about Vesryn for however long it lasted.

A fact she knows is so royally fucked up that as she walks up the steps to see him staring distantly towards the ground while tossing around the knife he so casually threatens her with, she has to force herself to act like nothing ever happened. To move towards the leaking body bags and stow them away, glancing up to catch his gaze.

“We should’ve probably laid a sheet down to catch the blood,” she says, attempting to change the subject. To get them back on track somehow.

All he does is snort and catch the hilt of his knife, stowing it away as he moves to help. “Ah yes, a white sheet would’ve done wonders to the already dingy floor.”

“Shut up.”

Kneeling down, he begins to help her pack everything away, instantly understanding that the awkward moment they just shared has to become nothing more than a memory. A lapse in judgement that will inevitably pass as the two of them finish up and leave the tavern, turning down the alleyway that leads to the docs.

Unsurprisingly, it’s silent as the walk. Aside from the shifting of bags and the stepping of boots, not a sound is spoken between them, making Zayis swallow hard and look down at the ground, wondering if she should say something.

There’s a part of her that wants to. To clear the air perhaps, but what would she even say?

Sorry, I said I wouldn’t hate sleeping with you. That was weird, right?

No.

Hey, I think we should forget about that thing I said.

No.

Wait, you never said you wouldn’t sleep with me back.

Oh, gods no.

“I can hear you thinking from here you know.”

Suddenly panicking, she blinks and looks towards him, noticing that familiar smirk. The one that makes her think that maybe she doesn’t have to say anything. That maybe instead, she can just pretend like it never happened.

“Okay, and?”

“It’s annoying.”

She raises her brow. “Me thinking is annoying?”

“Yes.”

“Me, walking in silence, staring at the ground is annoying?”

This time he rolls his eyes. “You know, I liked you better when you were rendered speechless earlier. It was a nice change —almost tranquil.”

“Yeah, well, same here,” she responds, readjusting the bag on her back with a soft groan. “You didn’t talk for a whole five minutes. I’m pretty sure that's a record.”

“Not in my books. I’ve most definitely gone longer.”

“Silence while giving oral doesn’t count.”

It’s a statement that would’ve been fine every other night. In response, Astarion would’ve laughed and retorted with something equally, if not more lewd, resulting in Zayis cringing at the thought and pushing him aside.

Now though, it’s just another pull at the invisible chord that tethers them together —tightening the tension that much more as they stop and stare, moving half a step closer before they’re both abruptly pulled back, struggling to breathe as they’re knocked unconscious.

@poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo@jjfchk@idiotsatan@bluestuesday@bloopthebat@art-by-greenie@heneralmoon@sukunababe@dreamingaboutyousworld@ranfithegood@haniscrying@liadamerondjarin@the-lake-is-calling@marina-and-the-memes@rookieoftheyear@zraloci-cpr@kaetmo@snickerdoodle-daydream@wowowwild@d1anna@raswiet@conniesbbymama@venus-wrts@demonicthorns@kihten@deadglamsheep@sanscas@spammypasta@leighsartworks216@rose-gold-blue@p1ssmagg0t@hellish-writes@ghostinvenus@otayz@sexysquatch@sleepyeclair@colorful-anxieties@alina-exe@ilana-the-lasagna@lillifer@girlwiththepapatattoo@y2cade@acelin-ginsberg@pinkuranium@catrad0rable@scarletrosesposts@qwnamidala@itsrosebabe@bunnyperi@queenofcarrotflowers-s@tatumadams20@spkyxszn@chlort@f3v3rs@awkwardwookie@joy-the-reader@warm-milk-with-honey-blog@vertigocrime@iyis@wildpiper@pebblethestone@tillywasneverhere@bex-03@kaetmo@revemiya@staticspouse@itzagothamcitysiren@djarinsmixtape@when-the-night-came@epicy0n@bababahannah@sleepyred1703@lotus-99@lofcompass@r4d10h34d5@vampninjaz@itsmekalou@offbrandhand@yikes-buddy@konenichi@rainonarden@oceanbluesixeyes@bodtyworship@maydayitsjay@greasyslimebucket@yeeteth-the-raven@fantasyfairysworld@allexthakatt@flowersaretheshit@morglyne@thespectacularspaceace@cephiss0@use-your-telescope@furblrwurblr@kloverfield@angelofthorr@writervaul-t@starved-kitten@minixluvr@crowley--aziraphale@sapphicwren@alionera-blog@jennithejester@dezedrol@thisisew@saladalpaca@applepiewithbacon@httpbiohazard@aurasyn@nerdoodles@kingpinthedevil@itzkawaiix@domainoflostsouls@silverskylan@uminootome@helpidkwhatimdoingwrong@deadlyinfernos@blackbirdswhispers@sarahskywalker-amadala@writingmysanity@f3v3rs@jayjones03@quietlyebbie@optimisticprime3@eyes-for-daze@sunnytalia3@megoshh@maddiedott@cappsikle@mostbeautifulnightmare@lynnlovesloki@simpytheshrimpy69@astarion-archive@smaranshakthi@autistic-deer@shadowfeart@freckled-petals@candied-lavender@hp-art-studio@ghouligan@satelliteapotheosis@waywardwitch-hel@pandimoostuff@mythoughtsofinsanity@ilovelovelylove@oneandonlyizabelle

TAGLIST NOW CLOSED!

#crisis mode #astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion series #astarion fan fic #astarion x female original character #astarion x female oc #astarion x fem oc #astarion x zayis #zaystarion #summer writes

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tripleyeeet · 7 months

Text

WTF ARE WE TALKING FOR?

SUMMARY: Zayis and Astarion argue their way through the insides of the Nautiloid!

PAIRING: Astarion & Zayis (OFC)

WORD COUNT: 5,400

WARNINGS: Canon typical violence, old married couple style bickering mostly.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Thanks to everyone who's been so kind to Zayis! I love her dearly so I'm very glad there's people out there that are enjoying her too. :') Also big inspo for this chapter goes to Labrinth and this song.

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST

Zayis is upright and locked in place the first time she comes to. Against the mechanism that holds her down, her eyes slowly flutter open, working to focus on the dimly lit area in front of her, noticing it’s all flesh and bone —a structure that looks to be inside of something foreign.

As she blinks, the first thing she sees is the bubbled cover over top of her, shielding her from further movement as her eyes dart back and forth, suddenly focusing on the tissue that covers the walls. Narrowing her eyes at the weblike strands of muscle, she quickly wonders if they’re truly made of flesh or not before spotting a couple of unfamiliar structures.

The first is a series of pod-like containers similar to the one she currently finds herself encased in. All of them are set up in a deliberate circle, facing each other so that she can see the other people trapped inside. For now, all of them are knocked unconscious except for a brown-haired man who doesn’t seem to notice her. Looking around, his eyes are wide as they work to scan the area, stopping every so often to narrow at specifics.

Just like her, his body is tethered to the contraption they both find themselves in, forcing his hands to remain at his sides as he grits his teeth and begins to struggle. Watching him shift, Zayis immediately attempts to do the same, feeling the pull of her shackles restrict her movement as she rolls her shoulders, trying angrily to slither out somehow.

When it doesn’t work she merely huffs and begins to look around again, noticing in the corner of the room there’s a sort of work table occupied by a cloaked body. Standing tall against its edge, Zayis cocks her head and tries to get a better angle somehow, failing quite miserably when she accidentally bonks her head against the glass.

Suddenly startled, she scrunches up her face and pulls back, watching the man from before catch her attention, his eyes growing wider —a newfound desperation filling his features. Aggressively, his mouth moves across her sightline, forcing her to focus on the way it curls beneath his well-groomed beard, attempting to garner further attention. Failing, however, to convey his message thanks to the distance between them.

Unbeknownst to this though, the man continues repeating his words, widening his mouth to the point where Zayis merely shakes her head and scowls, causing him to furrow his brow before repeating the process —this time with actual words.

His voice is faint. A muffled echo that hits the lid of her pod but she still understands. “Mind flayer,” he says, partially clear, causing the words to hit her ears like a stack of tumbling books, sending her mind on a journey of emotions as she looks back at the worktable.

Almost immediately, the body that resides there stiffens at the sound of the stranger’s voice. Stretching its spine to its full extent, there’s only about half a second before it fully turns, revealing the aforementioned creature in all its horror, prompting Zayis to whine.

She’s always had an irrational fear of mind flayers, despite knowing their presence is few and far between inside the walls of Baldur’s Gate. Even as a child she was always teased when the topic was brought up —laughed at whenever she shuddered at the thought of seeing one in person.

Now that she’s face to face with one, all she can think about is her brother. How when she was seven she lay terrified under the covers of her bed, listening to the endless theatrics of Dharmir’s voice describing the way they’d brainwash their victims by sticking tadpoles in their eyes.

Immediately, her own eyes twitch at such a thought, pulsing almost rapidly to match the lack of breath that hits her chest once she realizes that that’s most likely what she’s about to experience. How, as her brother deeply described, she’ll be gifted with her own little wriggler before turning into a mind flayer herself in just a matter of days.

Reluctantly remembering this information, a wave of anxiety hits then. The uneasy feeling quickly blooming out from the depths of her stomach —rushing so quick that she can feel it take over her body in a matter of seconds, pushing her limbs to violently shake against the shackles that hold her, watching as the aforementioned creature turns, making her squeal.

If she wasn’t so terrified by the image of the mind flayer’s violet eyes encased in dark obsidian, she’d be closing her own in embarrassment. Attempting to regain her composure, she watches it begin to move forward, practically slithering beneath its long, dark cloak until it’s face-to-face with the window of her pod.

When it arrives, she all but freezes upon the impact of its icy stare, suddenly hearing the echoing facts of her brother’s twelve-year-old voice telling her of her future. Telling her that it’s only a matter of time before the tadpole burrows into the backing of her eye to nestle up against her nerves.

Trying not to think about it, she swallows hard and stares as it motions outward with the wave of its hand, triggering a click within the hood of her enclosure. Seemingly out of nowhere, it hisses open on command, wafting a heavy breeze across her exposed skin, making her shiver for a moment before she opens her mouth, attempting to speak.

Unsurprisingly, nothing comes out. Not even a nervous squeak like before. Instead, all that happens is her jaw begins to clench. Both sets of teeth tightening together as she imagines the lower half of her face being ripped apart to make room for the same tentacles she now sees before her.

Tentacles that move when she suddenly wines, gliding through the air almost absentmindedly, forcing her stomach to churn, knowing any sort of attempted communication is futile. Because while the creature is upright, sure, moving closer and closer until it’s practically breathing in her face and blinking, she knows it’s not of its own accord. No, something’s commanding it —guiding it to raise one of its appendages to stroke her cheek while another unfurls her greatest fear.

The tadpole is small in its gasp. Wiggling against the cool-toned flesh of the flayer, it skitters loudly and inches towards her face, sending Zayis into another fit of panic that has her throwing herself back in an attempt to increase the distance, despite knowing it’s all for naught. Knowing that —in all her anxiously spurred research over the years— very rarely do people survive a mind flayer attack.

Which makes sense, considering how powerful they’re known to be. Having a seemingly limitless amount of power, it’s no wonder both she and Astarion were caught off guard. How before either of them could even think to retaliate they were already lost to the darkness of their shared unconsciousness.

In less than a couple of seconds they were rendered useless. Knocked into submission and torn from their respective lives; a thought that makes Zayis panic even harder as she cranes her neck to the side, trying to spot the elf.

Despite the obvious excitement of the tadpole as it continues to creep closer, all Zayis can do is focus on the pods. One by one, as each flashes through her vision, she explores the features of each contained person. A dark-skinned man, a Githyanki woman —the bearded man practically shaking himself to death. Most of them lie unresponsive, lost to a sea of blissful unawareness as the man directly across from her starts to yell.

This time she can’t quite hear what he’s saying. Too focused on finding Astarion, her mind blocks out the pleading sounds he emits, giving her eyes more attention as she finally lands on his pale face.

It’s in and out of consciousness. From across the way, she can see his eyes trying to pry themselves open, his head slowly falling back until it hits a certain point and he’s jostled awake.

As soon as that happens Zayis yells his name. Over and over, her voice carries far better than that of the other man thanks to her open pod, hitting his ears after about the fifth go, grabbing his attention just as the tadpole hits her cheek.

Despite wanting to remain calm, she all but lets out a nervous sound and looks down as it happens, watching through her peripherals as it begins to inch up her skin, leaving behind a mucus trail. Once again, attempting to rip herself out of the pod, her body shakes with newfound intensity at the feeling, discarding the sight of Astarion, who follows suit a few pods down, calling her name in response.

“Fuck, fuck fuck…”

Her chest heaves at the unwanted anticipation. Aching in a way she hasn’t felt in quite some time, her lack of composure makes it hard to register the fact that the tadpole is now at her eye, poking the edge with curiosity —testing the waters before it inevitably dives in, prompting her to scream.

It’s more painful than she ever could have imagined. Comparable to that of a stab wound, its teeth rip through the edge of her cornea, laying waste to her nerves as bouts of blooming pain radiate across her face the further it gets.

It makes her wish she was already dead. Instead of enduring this pain she knows will only end in the dying of her own mind, she wishes she could yell for Astarion to chuck his blade at her head. To kill her before she can turn into the same creature that stands before her, staring with empty eyes as she continues to cry and squirm, eventually letting the agony of it all overcome her.

The second time she comes to, her pod is hissing open again.

Stirring awake, the jump from confusion to awareness is much quicker this time, lasting only a couple of seconds before she’s leaping onto the ground, stumbling to her knees. Groaning low, she whips her head up to look around, noticing the open pods that lay strewn about, all of them empty aside from the one Astarion sits in, eyes shut tight in annoyance.

Upon noticing this, Zayis shakily stands and palms the base of her wrists, rubbing rough patterns into the bruises that have formed as she tries her best to move as efficiently as possible.

Still in the pod, Astarion remains unaware of her presence as she does this. Too caught up in whatever thoughts float through his mind, he’s completely still up until the point Zayis slaps a palm to the cover, making him jump.

“You fucking —this isn’t the time for games, you idiot! Get me out of here!”

Immediately, she laughs and steps back, taking in the way he grits his teeth —a newfound expression of annoyance lacing his features.

“An old fashioned please might be nice.”

“Oh, piss off.”

He rolls his shoulders against the shackles, ignoring her as he grunts with every pull, prompting Zayis to look around the room again.

Unlike before the space is completely ruined. Subtle flames lick the edges of the room, threatening to further ignite amongst the rubble that’s been uplifted throughout. Narrowing her eyes further, her gaze eventually wanders to the body of the mind flayer. Partially burnt and no longer breathing, she ignores Astarion’s continued pleading to let him out in favour of looting the creature's pockets, finding a well-worn blade as well as what looks to be some kind of rune.

“Yes! Wonderful idea! Focus on stealing Illithid garbage rather than saving your only chance at survival!”

She turns on her heel, running her finger along the edge of the knife as she wanders back, giving him a smug look. “I’d say my chances are better than yours, Fangs. All things considered.”

“They’d grow greatly with help though, wouldn’t they?”

“Hm, would they?” Her brow quirks up as she shoves the mind flayer’s knife into the holster on her hip, debating the odds. Sure, with Astarion, if they’re ambushed in any way their chances of surviving are nearly doubled. Considering they’re both skilled fighters and have developed a strong compatibility on the battlefield, it’s very rare they ever lose. Often fighting as dirty as possible, their ability to play off one another without much thought has become second nature —an unspoken language of movement after years of practice.

Because of this, Zayis knows she should let him out, that instead of being resentful of his constant poor attitude, she should be happy that he’s willing to work with her instead of against her. Especially because it’s not every day he comes around so willingly.

“If I let you out are you going to be nice?”

Unsurprisingly, Astarion huffs and rolls his eyes. “Yes, fine. I’ll be nice. Whatever you want. Just please get me out of this damned thing I’m starting to lose feeling in my fucking hands.”

His body returns to its previous struggle, knocking about the pod violently while Zayis tries to find a way to get him out.

“Did you see how it opened?”

“No.”

She sighs and turns towards the mind flayer again, trying to remember how it opened hers. In the moment, all she saw was the flick of its finger. A simple motion used to pry the contraption open. Nothing physical in the slightest.

“I think it used its powers to open it.”

“Really? I never would’ve guessed.”

His voice is laced with a sarcasm she doesn’t enjoy. Looking back to glare at him, she narrows her eyes and tries to focus on the pod, glancing at all the etchings that surround the glass. The designs are intricate, looking almost veiny, curling up to wrap around the glass container Astarion still sits in and ultimately, it just makes her shudder to remember how it felt.

“Maybe I could—“

“Could what? Will it open with your mind?” He lets out a single ha, sounding so patronizing that Zayis can’t help but want to leave him right then and there.

“Well, do you have any other ideas?”

“A few. None that you’ll listen to though.”

Proving his point, Zayis closes her eyes and focuses on the pod instead of listening, feeling nothing but the pulsating ache behind her eye that reminds her of the creature that now sits there.

Instantly, a shiver runs up her spine at the thought, her body twitching as it stirs awake, prompting the pain to worsen. Then, all at once, her head begins to feel like it’s splitting open. Raising her hands to her face, she grips her temples tightly and doubles over, feeling a body of hands lay waste to her frame —all of them weighing her down for merely a moment. Grabbing handfuls of her skin, they work together to bring her to the ground as they laugh, their cackles pushing through her head until suddenly everything is normal again. As if nothing ever happened.

“What the hells was that?”

She turns to Astarion who’s breathing rather heavily, his chest rising and falling at such a rapid pace Zayis can’t help but feel a bit worried. It’s not like him to rattle so easily. Having endured enough bullshit in his time, he’s quite possibly the most resilient person she knows. So obviously, whatever it was he saw in that moment must’ve really spooked him.

“The tadpole’s doing, probably.”

Despite not knowing if that’s true, Zayis says it so confidently that all Astarion does is give her a quick nod, watching her spring into action once again, sifting through the room for clues until she eventually finds some sort of control panel. Once there, she gently runs her hand along the face, trying to find her way around until she remembers the rune.

There’s a hole that’s about the same size at the centre of the panel. Taking it from her pocket, she turns the object over and studies the markings, running her fingers along the edge before she ultimately decides to take a chance and shove it in.

As soon as she does, her mind wanders to the image of the pod opening like before. Of the mind flayer standing in front of her with its raised hand, willing her release. In clear detail, she can see the twitch of its index finger —the way its subtle movement previously pushed the whole thing open.

As she does this, that familiar hiss rings out, causing her to see the breath of relief Astarion lets out once the air hits his face.

“Thanks gods, it was absolutely boiling in there,” he says, and immediately she rushes to his side, watching the wobbly way he reaches out to grab her helping hands before realizing what he’s doing and swatting them away.

“Let’s get the fuck out here.”

Neither of them wastes any time. Moving through the wreckage, they quickly find themselves at a door made of flesh. One the peels open with a squelch causing both of them to cringe in response and hurry through. After that, they explore the new room they now find themselves in, Astarion moving towards a pile of fresh bodies while Zayis moves to the second floor, spotting a half-conscious man.

His head is completely cut open, revealing a twitching brain the closer she gets. Scrunching up her nose, she watches as it forces the half-dead body around the chair it occupies, whispering muffled words into her ears until she’s directly in front of it.

Save Us from this husk!

Its voice is an amalgamation of different vocals. Layered on top of each other, the sound immediately piques Zayis’s interest, willing her to take a half step closer in response. “Save you?”

Please! Before they return!

Raising her brow, she quickly glances at Astarion for a second opinion, watching as he continues fishing through pockets before looking back at the creature before her, remembering that she doesn’t need one.

“Wait, who’s they?”

The enemy! So many enemies!

The brain quivers then. Somehow nestling further into the skull it sits in, Zayis stands there a moment, beginning to weigh the options.

Because she could save the brain and risk possible deception. But something at the back of her mind tells her the creature isn’t quite intelligent enough to come up with such a plan. Considering it appears to be brand new, she’s sure the only thoughts it really knows are that of its surroundings and perhaps the memories of the human it currently occupies.

“Zayis! What the hell are you doing up there? Hurry up!”

Even when Astarion calls to her, her eyes never leave the brain as she continues to think. Instead, all they do is focus harder, watching it wiggle inside the cavity it houses, trying to break free as it speaks of needing to be saved again.

“I think I found us a little friend!”

“A what?”

Once again, the brain asks her to let it out. In a soft, echoing chorus of voices, it begs for help until she ultimately relents, placing her hands on either side of the corpse’s skull before yanking it upward. At first, it doesn’t budge, but then she hears Astarion’s footsteps and looks up to see him frowning, causing her hands to twitch and the brain to slip from its hold, sending her tumbling backwards.

Almost immediately, Astarion sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You know, normally I’d laugh at the misfortune of you falling on your ass but considering we’re, oh I don’t know, trying not to die via Illithid I—“

Before he can finish, the brain leaps from Zayis’s hands and begins to sprout a set of legs, causing both of them to look in slight horror before it excitedly speaks of its freedom.

We must get to the helm!

“Gods, that is truly rank.”

Moving to stand back up, Zayis rolls her eyes and moves closer to the creature, holding her hand out to feel it brush against it, tickling her skin in the process. “Oh, it’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad? It’s a bloody brain with legs. It’s hideous!”

She looks up at him with a pout, running her hand along the creature's grooves, feeling it wiggle excitedly beneath her grasp. “Aw, sweetheart he didn’t mean that. You’re a beautiful little brain —the most, in fact.”

After that she pulls it up towards her chest, carrying it as they move back down to the main floor —much to Astarion’s dismay.

“Just so we’re clear you’re not keeping it,” he tells her.

“You say that like you have a choice in the matter.” Smirking, Zayis continues stroking the creature's back, listening to the happy sounds it emits while Astarion scoffs, both of them moving forward.

“You know Vesryn’s going to have a fit when you bring that home.”

She opens her mouth to respond —to tell him that he won’t care— but then she realizes that the possibility of even having that conversation is low. Having thrown a knife at his head before disappearing into the night with the one man he hates most, it’s a rather safe bet he’d want nothing to do with her after all is said and done.

Considering tensions were already high to begin with thanks to the constant bickering and the lack of time spent trying to mend whatever relationship was still there, she wouldn’t be surprised if he’s already moved on.

“Good thing I’m probably not going home after this.”

Frowning at the sudden, unthought choice of words, Zayis moves a little faster, willing her feet to follow the air that begins to violently whip through her lungs, pulling her towards a more open area.

Once there, she discovers the outside world around them —the melting sunset sky suddenly obscured by a large red dragon rushing across their sight lines. As well as an endless sea of green that greets their eyes as they both swallow hard and look down, discovering just how swiftly they’re soaring in the air.

“Shit.”

As she swears, Zayis feels the brain in her arms shuffle in her grasp before it leaps in front of them, reminding them that they need to get to the helm before it’s too late, prompting Astarion to sigh.

“You’re not seriously going to listen to that thing are you?”

“You mean the thing that probably lives here and knows where everything is?”

She shoots him an angry look —one he reciprocates with nothing more than a scoff as he brushes past, knocking his shoulder against her’s in the process, making her groan because even at his most helpful he still manages to be so insufferable it hurts.

Which makes the situation they find themselves in that much more annoying, knowing he’s more than likely just doing it on purpose. That instead of grinning and bearing it like she’s at least trying to, he’s deliberately making things difficult for her. (Something he always does instead of communicating that she’s done something wrong.)

Because of this, she assumes it’s due to the incident in the alleyway. Or rather, the conversation had before the alleyway that almost led them to do something irrevocably stupid. Considering she herself is guiltily pissed off at the interruption herself, she can only imagine how he’s feeling. With all that pent-up anger and frustration he often maintains, he’s probably thinking of a million ways he’d like to kill the flayers that interrupted them as he continues to stomp his way forward, prompting Zayis to reluctantly follow.

“You know, being pissed off at me for something I had no control over isn’t very fair.”

She’s not sure why she’s bringing it up. Especially now. If anything they should be focusing on the task at hand —following their little brain friend to the helm or whatever the hell it’s called so that they can leave and live their final days in peace.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

He shakes his head, refusing to meet her eye.

“Fine. I’ll drop it then. No need to dwell on the past as they say. Better to move forward and—“

He whips around and stares, narrowing his eyes at the way her face breaks out into a smirk. “I’m not annoyed at that,” he says then, waving his hand around nonchalantly, making her raise a brow. “I’m annoyed at you and your inability to focus for the slightest of moments!”

“Excuse you, I focus!”

“No you don’t!”

“Yes—“

“Zayis, right now we are on an Illithid ship with tadpoles for brains and you’re over here playing nice with that thing, acting like it has the authority to tell us where to go!”

She opens her mouth to argue but fails when she watches him shake his head and laugh, mocking her in that familiar tone.

“I mean, honestly, I’m normally all for the submission of chaos and all it’s pleasantries —you know that— but right now I am far more interesting in getting off this bloody ship so I can stop looking at your fucking face for five minutes!”

By the time his outburst is done, Zayis can’t help but hold in a laugh, watching the way his eyes go wide and his hair falls wildly out of place. It’s, unfortunately, more entertaining than effective, prompting her to clear her throat and hold her tongue, allowing Astarion his one moment of peace before they’re interrupted by a sound overhead.

It’s subtle enough that it could just be the wind but regardless both of them look up, freezing in place once a figure dive-bombs from above, landing directly in front of them with their sword. As it happens, they both take half a step back, watching as a Githyanki woman snarls in their face, pointing the weapon just shy of Zayis’s throat as she calls her an abomination.

“Excuse me?”

Snarling in response, the woman parts her teeth slowly before all at once that familiar pain inside Zayis’s head erupts, prompting everyone to groan, feeling it too.

In an instant, her mind aches with newfound visions —ones of dragons flying overhead, their vibrant red scales gleaming off the edge of a silver sword that’s tossed through the air, landing just shy of her face. Breathing hard, she can feel the presence of an unknown threat creeping closer before a white hot flash eventually hits, resulting in the vision’s inevitable passing.

As it leaves, all three of them are left a bit breathless, prompting the Githyanki to cautiously lower her sword and focus on Zayis. “You are no thrall.”

“I beg your pardon?” Astarion asks, shooting her an annoyed look while Zayis merely narrows her eyes, feeling utterly confused.

“I will sooner slit your throat then beg, ska’keth.”

“Wait, what? No, that’s not—”

Before he can explain further, she aggressively mutters something in her own language and then raises her sword, motioning behind her. “We must get to the helm before it’s too late,” she tells him, both her and Zayis watching as Astarion immediately presses his palms into the sockets of his eyes, emitting a low groan that leaves Zayis specifically reeling with joy, trying not to laugh as the brain beneath their feet begins to hop around.

Yes! The helm! We must get to the helm!

It’s almost comedic the way Astarion relents —the way the base of his hands scrubs angrily down his face to reveal a wicked scowl. As it happens, Zayis can’t help but continue to bite back a grin. An air of smugness filling her features as she hears Astarion swear under his breath.

“Oh, for fuck sakes —yes, fine, fine! We’ll go to the bloody helm!”

“Wise choice.”

After the Githyanki speaks, all four of them begin their trek, walking along the outside path until they come up on another opening that leads them back into the depths of the ship. Identical to the other rooms there’s various pods scattered throughout the room they now find themselves in, all of them devoid of life, despite the few bodies still being kept inside.

Moving further inside, they notice that near the far edge, a cluttered desk sits with various runes strewn about, along with a chest that Astarion can’t help but race towards, prompting their new friend to groan.

“We do not have time for this.”

Despite wanting to follow Astarion’s greedy little footsteps, deep down, Zayis knows that she’s right. As much as it pains her to not be able to root around a little herself, she understands they have to hurry. To make up for lost time especially after she’s already wasted so much evicting their little friend from his previous home.

It makes her groan in annoyance just thinking about it, remembering that such actions are why Astarion’s so pissed off in the first place. Why, as she looks over and notices the almost bored look in his eyes as he picks up a couple of runes, quickly sifting through them before tossing them aside, she suddenly feels this newfound resentment rising through her chest.

All at once, it takes over. As she watches him jut out his lip, pouting at the lack of interesting things he’s managed to find, she can’t help but wonder what it feels like to be such a hypocrite. To look into the face of the only person you can currently trust, chastise them for their actions, and then immediately do the same.

It must feel like nothing, Zayis decides. At least to him. Considering he barely bats an eye as the Githyanki passes him, muttering under her breath in anger, she figures his ability to care became lost the moment he was proven wrong —a habit of his she’s experienced once or twice during their time together.

A habit she quickly learned to just avoid altogether. Seeing as they were only ever in each other’s orbit for a few hours at a time, she’s always defaulted to avoidance. To pretend like it didn’t deeply affect her mood each time he chose to shut down or be rude or, in this case, a combination of both.

During those moments, it was frustrating but ultimately easier than the moment she now finds herself, wandering towards him alongside the brain that squeaks out a quiet request to get to the helm again.

“Our friend is leaving, you know,” she says once she’s there, watching as he makes no effort to showcase any interest. Opting instead to procure a lock pick from his belt.

“Friend is a bold term.”

“Oh, shut up. She’s just trying to help us. Besides, you said so yourself that there’s safety in numbers.”

He huffs, pausing the movements of his hands to look up at her with narrowed eyes. “Yes, but I said that so that you’d let me out. Not so we could follow around some Gith we don’t even know."

“A Gith who doesn’t know us either,” she reminds him, causing Astarion to grunt in anger and straighten his back.

“You don’t actually expect her to help us, do you?” Letting out a laugh that seems far too relaxed for the moment, Astarion shakes his head and leans a hand against the desk beside him, allowing his weight to fall to the side casually. “She’s a homicidal maniac —she threatened you with a knife!”

“Astarion, you do that to me all the time!”

“Not to harm you,” he scoffs.

“Oh, really? Why then?”

He opens his mouth, failing to produce an answer, prompting Zayis to scoff back.

“You know, I’m really tired of arguing with you all the time,” she says then, motioning to his frame with an open hand.

“Likewise.”

“So, can we just not?”

It’s a simple question. One that hangs in the air far too long to earn either of them an equally simple answer. Resulting in further frustrations that have both of them stubbornly silent, waiting for the other to speak. To give in for the slightest of moments so that they can both breathe a sigh of relief and move on.

Something that neither of them do, causing the tension to grow as Zayis continues to stare at Astarion’s face, watching the way it all but twitches in response, resulting in her shoving his arm and wandering off with the scuttling brain.

TAGLIST NOW CLOSED!

#wtf are we talking for #curse you!#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion fan fic #astarion series #astarion x zayis #zaystarion #astarion x original female character #astarion x female oc #summer writes

56 notes · View notes

tripleyeeet · 6 months

Text

SHARP TONGUES

SUMMARY: There's a tiefling that keeps showing up at the manor to meet with Cazador. One that Astarion can't help but follow around.

PAIRING: Astarion & Zayis (OFC)

WORD COUNT: 3,508

WARNINGS: Astarion's POV, angst, brief mentions of potential sexual assault, canon typical violence.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I love these emotional deflective fools so much. <3

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST

They often see each other in passing.

For the first few months, as the tiefling works to prove her loyalty to his dear master Cazador, Astarion catches glimpses of her in the manor’s candlelight, rushing through the halls with far too much purpose for that of a glorified slave.

Always coming when summoned, she always appears in his peripherals like some misshapen shadow —a darkened flash of lengthy horns, situated on the forehead of a slender face.

She’s tempting —even he'll admit it— with her hardened features wrapped beneath livid skin and dark hair. And when he finally sees her in full he can’t help but recognize she’s picturesque in a way he’s unable to place. An odd-looking thing by average standards, but ultimately attractive nonetheless, simultaneously igniting his lust for sex and blood. Constantly reminding him of the stipulations of his servitude.

Oftentimes it drives him mad just thinking about it. Frustration filling his features each time she enters the manor, barely sparing him so much as a glance before entering Cazador’s chambers. Deep down he knows he should ignore her. Having been trapped here long enough to know that curiosity doesn’t just kill the cat but torture it too, he’s well aware that he should pay no mind to whatever happens behind those doors. That instead of lingering each time she steps over that threshold, greeting the bastard like he’s some old friend, he should leave and forget all about the tiefling and the way her eyes always seem to dull after their supposed chats.

Unfortunately, though, Astarion’s never been the kind to obey the rules. So, his lingering remains constant despite knowing how dangerous it is. How foolish he is for looming in the shadows, tucking himself behind corners or curtains like some lunatic as he watches her stand.

Before she enters, there’s always a beat or two of breathing. Heavy inhales followed by shaky exhales paired with tired eyes. With her clawed fingers tightened, digging into the flesh of her palms, she always stares forward before she enters. Always looking like she’s about to break, it’s obvious to him that this is the moment she always takes to collect her thoughts. Allowing herself one last moment of reprieve before fully entering the unknown depths of their shared master’s hand.

He’d feel sorry for her if she wasn’t here of her own volition. Most likely tempted by the false offerings Cazador always promises the help, she’s probably only here for a chance at immortality. To further become a victim of his slavery without knowing. It’s why they’re all here, dusting his paintings and washing the floors. They all want to live, unaware that they’ll only outlive instead —ignorant to Cazador’s promises of a life eternal.

None of them realize they’re signing an unwritten contract of perpetual solitude. Which is why whenever he sees her standing there, watching the ebb and flow of her nervous chest shake beneath her armour, all he does is scowl. Cursing whatever curious thoughts rattle throughout his skull when she eventually steps inside.

Because once she’s in there, lost in Cazador’s cold embrace, it’s no longer his problem. Nor in his interest to question, knowing that whatever affair they so obviously have is private. A forbidden fruit of knowledge he’ll just have to watch unfold.

So that’s exactly what he does.

Night after bloody night, he allows the curiosity of it all to overtake him. Always finding himself wandering the halls around the same time, he foolishly begins wishing that she’ll be there. Praying to whatever God might listen that when he turns that final corner she’ll already be standing there, waiting for his prying eyes to watch her fall deeper and deeper into the palm of their master’s hand.

It becomes this sick ritual. A show of pleasure for him, watching someone other than himself become Cazador’s favourite pet. And at the surface he revels in it, grinning to himself at the thought of this girl lightening the load of his abuse. Occupying their master’s time to grant him some reprieve.

Because since she’s come along the afflictions against him have lessened. Too distracted by whatever it is she offers, Cazador’s hardly paid him any mind since her arrival. Favouring their mysterious sessions, the only abuse he’s truly received has been from Godey, and over the years he’s learned to endure that easily. So really, he should be thankful for her if anything for keeping the bastard entertained.

Perhaps if she were a spawn like him, given no other choice but to accept the devil’s hand to avoid death, he could be. If she too, was forced into this life of forcible loyalty, he could see himself considering the prospect of reaching out to thank her. To take her by the hand and offer his appreciation instead of acting like some perverse fool who can’t help but constantly spy.

It’s a shame that instead she’s just as mad as the rest of them. Even worse maybe, considering each time she leaves that room she always reappears seemingly unscathed aside from her eyes. With her head held high and her chest no longer shaking from the anticipation, it’s almost as though the fear in her was never there to begin with, making him wonder just how she does it.

Because obviously, she’s strong-willed. A true force to be reckoned with if she can handle that much private time with the man. Considering most would cower like beaten dogs at the mere prospect of entering his chambers, it’s a mystery as to why she always returns. Never faltering or complaining, only taking moments to prepare before and regroup after.

At first, he assumes that she must be some sort of psychopath. The kind of hellion determined to obtain whatever power she can get her greedy little claws on. Lacking proper common sense, she must be too caught up in the idea of Cazador’s honeyed promises. Either that or she’s past the point of desperation. A woman so far down the end of her rope she must have no other choice.

For a while, he assumes it’s the former. That she has no sense of preservation. But then he continues watching her little routine, over and over and over again, sensing something growing —a build-up of sorts, sitting behind her eyes, waiting for the bomb to go off.

A detail that only furthers Astarion’s curiosity one particular night, watching her make peace with whatever lies behind the doors before entering. Once again sparing him no glance, he remains nothing more than a ghost, waiting as the time unfolds around him. Sitting idle until she’s far too quickly stumbling back over the threshold, hurriedly pressing her back against the door as she lets out wanting gasp, begging for air.

As soon as he hears it he’s staring all over again. Seeing this change of behaviour strikes fear in his heart as her hands rise to her face, palming the sockets of her eyes as she slinks to the floor. When her knees touch the ground he can hear a quiet sob slip through her lips. Pushing out faintly, it starts off slow as she begins to crawl forward, her elbows resting against the marble floor, struggling to keep her up.

Narrowing his eyes, he watches as she curls in on herself, tightly gripping her hair at the roots as she rocks back and forth, forcing Astarion to have to fight back the urge to intervene. To step out and aid this woman who has no idea how much she’s sacrificed for his happiness.

Knowing exactly how she feels, there’s a part of him that just wants to hold her —care for her. Offer her something for her efforts despite knowing how inappropriate it is, because around here that kind of gesture could get you punished. And the last thing he needs is that, so instead he remains hidden, observing this overdue breakdown in full. Surveying the flow of emotions that writhes through her figure.

Surveying further, he notices that fear seems to be the first to control her. Shaking almost uncontrollably, it’s as if the rest of her is missing entirely. Tucked away in the safest crevices of her mind while this monster runs rampant through her skull. Still on the floor, her body is stiff, yet somehow also wavering, jolting beneath the pressures of all that’s collected up to this point, until eventually, he hears her fist hit the floor. Then it’s anger that takes over.

As soon as that happens, Astarion knows it’s probably a good time to leave. Having overstayed his welcome, he quickly pries his eyes to look down the hallway, wondering if he can somehow sneak away undetected. He’s always been good at hiding. Probably the best amongst his siblings, so almost immediately he begins to shift towards his destination, taking a few steps forward before looking back and—

Her eyes are bloodshot. A rose-stained sea of rage riddled with veins. Wide and focused, they clock him before he can even think to dart away, prompting him to stop and shift from his previously crouched position, watching the way she raises her head.

“You alright?” he asks.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, she just keeps staring, watching him with those dead eyes. Picking apart his frame with such calculated looks that even he has to admit how terrified it makes him feel, watching her watch him —as if she’s studying him for later.

Swallowing hard, it eventually makes him take a half step back right as she blinks, causing the gloss of her eyes to dry out ever so slightly. Resulting in just enough of a distraction for him to take another step, prompting her to sniff.

“Have you enjoyed the show?”

Somehow her voice is lower than he anticipated. Smooth and heavy against his ears as he retracts his previous step, moving closer. “I’m sorry?”

“The show,” she repeats, motioning towards him. “Have you been enjoying it?”

At first, he stands there confused, his expressions shifting between a mixture of worry and frustration, seeping into his features in the form of frowning lips and furrowed brows. But then he eventually understands what she’s getting at.

She’s been aware of his presence the whole time.

As soon as he realizes, he peels his gaze away to look around him, wondering what could’ve given him away as she lets out a dry laugh.

“You know your presence is a bit unnerving,” she tells him.

“Is it?” he responds nonchalantly. Even though deep down he’s forcing out the words as he quickly looks back at her. Trying to play the whole thing off like it’s not a big deal despite suddenly feeling a bit overwhelmed by the way her gaze still hasn’t moved away from him.

“Quite, actually.”

Opening his mouth to respond, his mind immediately fails. With his thoughts too focused on the way she never even thought to call him out on his behaviour, all he can do is take a moment to wonder why. Because it seems odd, being followed by a stranger every night you’re summoned. Bizarre even, considering he assumes she knows who he is. Having spent her fair share of time with Cazador, Astarion’s name must’ve come up in some form of conversation. Being their master’s favourite, she must’ve heard all about him and the other spawn, so why didn’t she say anything?

“For what it’s worth, I’d say your presence is equally chilling,” he ends up saying. “If not more considering your… display.”

In response, she hums and begins to stand. Wiping a bit of dust off her knees, she then unfurls herself from the ground far too quickly, offering him a wicked grin as she absentmindedly reaches for her tail. “Apologies then. Wouldn’t want to make my secret admirer uncomfortable, would I?”

For some odd reason, his jaw tenses at her words. “No, I suppose not.”

Once again, there’s a beat. Silence spreading throughout the room as the two of them continue to stare, giving him more time to truly look at her, realizing then he’s never properly seen her head-on.

Having always situated himself on her right side, he often forgets about the markings that take up the left side of her face. Considering she always leaves far quicker than she enters, he’s never had a chance to view that side of her in full. To properly see the dull, alabaster swirls that wrap around her pale eye, trickling down the length of her neck.

Following the pattern, he can’t help but wonder what could’ve possibly happened to produce such a marking. Based on the colouration alone it’s obviously not a tattoo. And considering there’s no scar tissue in sight it’s more than likely not the result of any kind of wound.

So all he can do is continue to look at it, absentmindedly taking another step closer as he narrows his eyes, paying no mind to the annoyed expression that befalls her face.

“Is there a reason for your staring or is this just something you do?”

Scoffing in response, Astarion can’t help but muster up a fake grin. Feeling old habits rise to the surface of his mind, he finds himself continuing his pace. Moving closer and closer until he’s directly in front of her, looking at her with newfound fondness.

“Something I do,” he replies coolly. Taking another moment to look at her in full; eyes trailing down her neck and chest, picking apart the sections of her skin that poke through her armour. “Why? Is it making you uncomfortable?”

“A bit.”

Humming in response, he takes the opportunity to look back up at her face. “Apologies then. Wouldn’t want Cazador’s pet to get the wrong impression of me.”

She raises her brow. “And what impression might that be?”

All he does is shrug, knowing he shouldn’t continue. That, like all the other times he’s given in, in regards to this strange girl, he should just walk away. Pretend like this meeting never happened and hope that his words don’t come back to bite him in the ass later. Even though, it probably will, based on the annoyance that continues to pour from her face.

Because already he can see her plotting his demise. Coming up with surefire ways to punish him for his inappropriate behaviour. As she stands there, narrowing her eyes further and further with each passing second, he can feel her anger increasing. An air of frustration emanating from every pore as he remains in her presence, unable to will himself to leave.

“Remind me again which spawn of his you are?”

As she speaks, her face scrunches up in fake curiosity, her lips twitching upwards at the same time she steps forward, fully inserting herself into his space. Forcing him to remain as still as possible as he feels her tail brush gently against his leg.

“I’m surprised you don’t already know.”

In response, she rolls her eyes, moving around. Pressing a light hand to his shoulder she begins to circle him, surveying his frame. Picking apart every freckle as she curls her fingers around the fabric of his shirt and clicks her tongue, using each passing second to wind him up as she pretends to think.

Almost immediately, it makes him tense up. Watching her flip like a switch, it’s a bit nerve-racking seeing the movement of her body transition from scared to whatever this is. To slowly feel her wrap around his back, allowing her chin to rest against his other shoulder as she continues to grip the first.

“Well, you’re definitely not Petras,” she says, but this time her voice is soft. Barely a whisper that hits his ear, causing a shiver to flow up his spine as he turns his head.

“I’d be insulted if you thought that.”

“And obviously you’re too tall to be Yousen.” Her fingers move to trail down the length of his neck before she continues her rounds, pulling away to return to his front and stare.

“Obviously.”

Flashing another wicked grin, she gives him a good once over for good measure. Letting her eyes linger at the open gap of his shirt, staring at his pale flesh before moving down the line until she hits his boots.

“I’ve also met Leon and he’s less of a sight than you are.”

Astarion fully grins at that, despite his best efforts. “Less annoying as well, I assume?”

“That’s debatable.” She grins back.

Fully immersed in whatever game she’s playing, Astarion quickly finds himself even more interested than before. His previous temptations rising to the forefront of his mind as he cocks his head, trying to figure out why.

Because there’s something different about her. Something defiant. Something that draws him in like a moth to a flame just waiting to get burned. Even at the surface, he can feel the heat of it all over her. A flaming need to fulfill this unspoken prophecy of hers. Whether it be immortality or something entirely new, Astarion doesn’t know, but he can see it flickering across her skin. Covering whatever truly lives beneath like a painful mask, burning her flesh the longer she wears it. Searing her soul in ways he’s all too familiar with.

“I don’t think I ever caught your name, darling.”

“Really? My reputation doesn’t precede me?”

“Not in the slightest I’m afraid.”

“Hm.”

Her grin fades then. Replacing it, a look of pure frustration that has Astarion swallowing hard, wondering what might happen if he continues to press.

Based on the way she continually flips through her emotions he knows it’ll definitely end up being a bit of a gamble. Still unaware of what she’s fully capable of, there’s a high chance of him ending up at the wrong end of a knife or worse. Neither of which he wants to think about right now, watching her glare in his direction.

At the same time though, perhaps based on previous assumptions, she’s the type to enjoy this sort of thing. This strange cat-and-mouse conversation they find themselves in, unable to back down. Like him, maybe she likes the chase of it all. The building back and forth that never seems to fully end.

Applying a bit of pressure to the conversation, Astarion can’t help but return the gesture of encircling her. Testing the waters, he mimics her movements carefully, placing a hand on her armour, gently letting his fingers slip across the leather as he breathes against her neck, suppressing the urge to laugh as she shakes beneath his touch.

“Tell me, what is it you do in there that makes you think you’ve earned such a glorious reputation?”

When she doesn’t respond he continues moving, letting his fingers roam across the expanse of her upper back, feeling her twitch while her eyes slowly close and her nostrils begin to flare.

“I mean, you’re just a hireling, aren’t you?”

As he moves to stand in front of her again, seeing nothing but scrunched-up eyes and pressed-together lips, he can tell he’s struck a nerve. A fact that makes him grin with newfound malice, moving his hands toward her face, allowing temptation to further pull him in.

“Nothing more than a paid hand for him to fu—“

He sees it before he feels it. Directly in front of him, the presence of a thick red strip rips through the side of his hand, cutting across the edge of his palm. At first, it’s hot and wet, irritating his skin to the point of distraction. But then the sensation is quickly replaced by her hand slipping up to grab his throat, shoving him roughly against the door before he can even think to breathe, inevitably knocking the wind right out of him.

Reminding him of the pain once again as she pushes herself against him, it’s as if he feels everything at once. The ignition of his cut-up hand; the pressure of her claws digging into his windpipe; the way her chest feels pressed firmly against his.

“You know, he always talks about that tongue of yours,” she tells him. Her voice no longer soft but instead full of venom, nipping at the cheek she begins to stroke with her hand just as he attempted to do.

Trying to remain composed, Astarion forces out a laugh; the garbled noise uncomfortably hitting his ears at the same time his uninjured hand moves to grip her wrist. Digging his fingers into her flesh, he can feel her own flexing against his throat, adjusting to the pressure he applies to her skin.

“I’m sure he talks of yours as well based on how frequent your little meetings have become,” he practically whispers, prompting that same old devilish grin to creep across his cheeks. Forcing her to clench her teeth and narrow her eyes, tentatively testing the flesh around his neck with a bit of tighter squeeze before releasing it entirely. Choosing to instead give him one last angry shove before surprisingly stepping down.

TAGLIST NOW CLOSED!

#sharp tongues #curse you!#astarion x original female character #astarion x female oc #astarion x female tav #astarion x zayis #zaystarion #knife fight #summer writes

27 notes · View notes

tripleyeeet · 6 months

Text

THE KNIFE OF INSIGHT

SUMMARY: While trying to comfort Zayis, Astarion realizes such attempts at civility might be futile.

PAIRING: Astarion & Zayis (OFC)

WORD COUNT: 3,346

WARNINGS: Angst, hurt/comfort, depictions of dissociation, hints of past abuse.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, I'm writing these two in whatever scenarios I want without limiting myself to the concept of silly little chapters!! Timeline wise, this is right after they encounter the Gur outside of the Hag's house! :)

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST

Astarion knows that look.

Before it fully registers, he can feel its increasing distance begin to set both him and Zayis apart. As she sits there, thumb roughly digging against the inside of her palm, he can see the exact moment that it happens. When she’s ripped from his grasp and hurtled into an entirely different realm.

It’s when he brings up Cazador that the look really becomes prevalent. Upon mentioning the vampire lord, her pupils dilate and her jaw tightens, her fangs grinding into her lip to the point of injury, prompting Astarion to sigh because he isn’t used to being on the inflicting end of such events.

Usually, the one to fall into anxious habits at the mention of his past, he isn’t sure what to do to help —how to coax such thoughts from her head in ways that won’t cause further damage. Seeing as he’s unfamiliar with such portrayals of empathy, it feels a bit inauthentic to suddenly offer up a helping hand. Plus, knowing Zayis she’d hardly accept it. The two of them are already too far gone to trust each other in that way. So, more than likely she’ll probably just swat whatever offering he decides to give. Perhaps spit on the ground and walk away.

Even before this mess she’d been like that. Prone to the same kind of emptiness Astarion often feels. So much so that there’d be days on end where the only words muttered between them were solely job-related. An echo of commands and responses that practically bored him to the point of madness.

It was awful. Partly because of the lack of stimulating conversation but also because he felt a bit guilty. Sad, even, feeling the desire to fix what was wrong often swelling in his chest but ultimately unable to break free.

Looking now, that same feeling pushes against his ribcage. Building in pressure, it’s as if he can no longer breathe as he stares. Trapped within her empty gaze, all he can do is watch as those mismatched eyes of hers stare blankly out into the night. How, despite their respective shades of charcoal and pearl shifting against the fire before them, there’s not a lick of colour left.

Devoid of everything but their presence, he knows all too well that the only thing she can probably see is a fraction of what’s truly in front of her. A mess of blurred-out shapes, pulsing in strange, unpredictable ways. A halo of confusion wrapping around her mind as she falls headfirst into a painful memory.

Narrowing his eyes, he studies her frame as the emptiness continues, taking in the way her mouth eventually slips open to breathe, allowing her chest to rise and fall in quick bursts. At first, the pace is slightly above average, reverberating in and out but eventually, it’s obvious she’s losing control. Allowing whatever painful thoughts to slip through the cracks of her beautifully, broken mind.

Almost immediately, Astarion has to stop himself from reaching out to her. Knowing that if he does he’ll surely pay the price, he instead sits there, staring at the increasing fear that begins to take over. How her fingers begin to claw wildly at her palm, etching rough patterns into the already irritated flesh.

It isn’t until she eventually breaks the skin that he gives in, feeling the sensation in his chest overtake the thoughts in his mind. Rougher than intended, he catches her wrist in his hand and mutters an aggravated stop that before he realizes what he’s done, watching her gaze slowly shift toward his face.

Upon seeing just how abroad she is when retaliation isn’t her immediate reaction, he can’t help but frown. Exploring the confusion throughout her face, he realizes that she’s well and truly helpless. A shell of herself. A vessel for thoughts too fearful to deny.

Swallowing hard, he turns her hand upwards to the sky, refusing to break eye contact despite the urge to look away heavy on his mind. “It’s alright,” he says. “You’re not there.”

Where it is he’s referring to, he’s not entirely sure but regardless the sentiment remains the same as he turns himself to fully face her, knees brushing against each other in the process. Their hands connecting cautiously so that he can run the pad of his thumb across her injury, smearing away the blood in kind.

He feels her twitch beneath him as if threatening to pull away before giving in. In response, he lets out a heavy breath and continues to soothe the wound with careful strokes to remind her where she is. To ground the wandering images he knows all too well.

“Whatever is in there can’t hurt you, okay? It can’t touch you because…”

Because I’m here.

Thankfully, he stops himself before he finishes. Before he makes it worse by adding to the burden.

“You’re safe, yeah?”

Her mouth parts to emit a wobbly sound of agreeance. One that embarrassingly tugs at his heartstrings so hard he ends up making another sound in response. A pitiful aw that makes her blink back the tears that have formed, suddenly remembering where she is. And more importantly, how he’s gently pressed up against her leg, holding her hand with such an uncharacteristic softness.

“What are you doing?” she asks then.

He doesn’t have an answer. Or at least, not one he can simply describe. Having developed a rather convoluted affection for her over the years, it’s not as easy as telling her he’s doing all of this because he cares or because he sees himself in her more and more each day and that in itself forces him to want to fix whatever he can. No, he can’t say that. Not unless he wants to allow this rare moment of civility to be met with truths he’s unwilling to reveal.

So instead, he merely turns up his lips, showing her a grin of falseness. Performing that familiar expression of innocence draped in all its usual mischief. “Why, just merely helping a friend in their time of need,” he tells her, leaning in at the mention of friendship. Forcing the word out like it’s some sort of burden.

Once again, she blinks, allowing her eyes to fully readjust before she offers a glare. “I don’t need your help,” she tells him, even though he can feel her breaking within his grasp. Cracking beneath the pressure of his hands wrapped around hers. Shattering against the quirking brow he uses to further antagonize her.

“No?”

“No.”

Unfazed by her defiance, he slowly peels his hands away, looking down at her fingers to see them subtly chase his own before falling into her lap. A gesture that has him reeling, if he’s honest.

Triggering newfound thoughts that rattle across the expanse of his skull, it forces him to wonder what the hell she’s done to him. How, after years of constant aggression and opposition, she’s still managed to rip right through his chest and crawl inside, acting as if such a thing is normal.

Because truthfully, it isn’t. Not for him, anyway. Not for a slave so tightly wound around his master’s thumb, that the mere thought of properly expressing things like empathy or love has him recoiling in fear, remembering the few times he was punished for it. How after falling in love once he was met with nothing but darkness for an entire fucking year.

Which is unfair, really. And the longer he sits there, watching her features twist in various shapes, trying to figure out the right way to respond to his supposed backhanded kindness, he can’t but hate her for it. To blame her for the weakness that settles beneath his skin and bones —wrapping around his cold, dead heart like a vice. To envy the fact that she’s capable of expressing herself in ways he won’t allow, but still refuses.

If he’s honest, it oftentimes feels like a stab wound the way she looks at him. Resembling that initial push, there are moments where the intent behind her eyes leaves him breathless and clawing at his throat, wishing just once she’d leave him be. That instead of treating him like a threat and wounding his heart with the plunge of her blade, she’d just admit to him that she’s scared.

“You’re allowed to fear him, you know.”

“What, like you do?”

Despite his better judgement, he merely offers the poor tiefling a smug look as he shakes his head, prompting her to huff and shove him aside before she stands up. “I don’t need your pity, spawn,” she tells him, and immediately Astarion’s frustrated all over again. Stirring in regret and resentment.

“It wasn’t pity I was offering,” he says.

Her sarcastic laugh cuts through the night. Penetrating his ears, it reminds him that it’s useless to try and help. To think that coming back time and time again won’t result in another slice of her reckless knife.

“You think just because you hold my hand that I’ll react in kind? That I’ll give in to whatever game you’re playing?” She looks at him in disbelief. “I’m not an idiot, Fangs. I know you better than anyone here! I’ve seen you at your weakest—“

“You say that as if I haven’t seen you at yours,” he argues, moving to stand —stepping so quickly into her space to press his forehead against hers that all she can do is clench her jaw and refuse to back down.

“Might I remind you, since it seems you’ve forgotten, that you and I—” he pauses to motion to both of them with his index fingers, “—are cut from the same cloth, my dear.”

There’s a pause then. Perhaps it’s a reluctance to argue or a realization that he’s right. Either way, for a moment he’s left waiting for a response, watching the way her eyes dart around his face, taking in the unbothered expression he portrays. Most likely cursing him for it.

“Just because we share a common enemy in Cazador doesn’t mean we’re the same.”

“Oh, really? Then where were you just now.”

Once again he awaits an answer, already knowing he’s right. Out of all the places she could’ve been in that moment, it’s painfully obvious to him she was lost in Cazador’s chambers. Locked inside without a key, forced to relive whatever happened behind those heavy doors. He knows because he’s experienced the same endlessly. Day after day, night after night, he’s seen that devil everywhere he goes, lurking in the corner of his eye. Reminding him that his freedom is temporary.

Looking at her now —at how her lips press together as she takes a step back, glancing at the fire— he realizes that perhaps her’s is too. Having been conveniently lost alongside master’s favourite spawn, it’s more than likely her sufferance will be far greater than his. With so much more to lose in the form of her mortality and a family that cares for her, it quickly becomes apparent just how scared she probably is. How terrified she must be at the thought of losing everything she risked to save.

He can’t help but feel a bit shaken by it all, especially after he notices the frown she offers back before walking to her tent, forcing him to stand alone, wondering how he always manages to fuck everything up. How, even after finally admitting to himself that he cares for her well-being he can’t yet admit it to her.

Once she’s gone, his hands raise to grip the roots of his hair as he closes his eyes, trying to figure out how to fix this. Because unfortunately, he needs to fix this, despite the reluctance that stirs. Despite the voice inside his head telling him he’s an idiot for feeling sorry for her.

Running his hands down the length of his face in annoyance, he wastes no time in following her footsteps. Walking a bit slow, he rubs his temples and tries to formulate a proper apology, knowing more than likely he’ll have to enter that damn tent on his hands and knees, grovelling for a second chance to gain any sort of sympathy.

Unfortunately for both of them, he’ll do it. And he does, dropping down to the ground as he opens the canvas flap to see her lying on her back, arms crossed angrily over her face.

“Fuck off, Astarion.”

Crawling towards her side, he lets out a heavy breath and shakes his head. “You know, despite your inability to perform, you really know how to make a dramatic exit.”

Before he can think to laugh at his ill-timed joke, she chucks a pillow at his head, forcing him to dart out of the way at the last second before moving to lie down next to her. “I’m sorry, but do you lack in hearing?”

“Not that I know of.”

She rolls her eyes and shuffles to the opposite end of the bedroll. “Why are you still here then?”

He knows whatever answer he offers she’ll hardly accept so he keeps it simple. “To apologize.”

At first, she looks confused, then strangely relieved before ultimately falling into that same pattern of defiant angst that has him internally groaning. Wishing just once that his vulnerabilities could be met with equal measure.

“You never apologize,” she points out.

“Not usually, no.”

“Then why?”

“Why am I apologizing?”

She nods. He thinks. Both of them simmering in a silence so deeply uncomfortable neither of them can look away.

“I suppose it’s because I can empathize,” he starts, knowing that’s just scraping the surface of reasoning. Really he’s apologizing because he wants to be on her good side again. To enjoy her presence. To not feel like he’s the reason she has to relieve all these terrible memories.

“Wait, you’re capable of empathy?”

Her sarcasm is warranted. Also, a bit appreciated, somehow.

“Of course I’m capable of empathy,” he spits back, grabbing the previously thrown pillow and shoving it into her face. “I may be a bloodthirsty killer but I still have feelings.”

She grumbles and rips the pillow from his grasp, narrowing her eyes. Refusing to say anything more until he continues.

It makes him want to scream, remembering all those nights together. The one's where she refused to talk. How in the beginning, she all but ignored his presence, refusing to acknowledge that, like her, he once was normal.

“Listen, I’m sorry if my lack of direction in regards to this sort of thing offended you,” he says, trying to step lightly with his words. Well aware that one wrong move could send the whole thing tumbling down again. “I don’t… I don’t know how to comfort people. Especially people who understand what he’s like.”

“Shouldn’t that make you more understanding?”

He releases a heavy breath, looking at her like she’s right. He should understand. And to some degree he does but at the same time, it’s that exact reason that frequently forces him to stop.

“I suppose the level of understanding sort of makes it more difficult.” He scrunches up his face, searching his mind for the right description. “Because you know him —you know what he’s capable of, and because of that you also know how things worked.”

He’s referring to the isolation. How, regardless of everyone being referred to as a family, it was forbidden to act as one. For as long as he could remember, everyone was required to fend for themselves, only working together for the sake of Cazador’s reign and nothing else. They weren’t meant to comfort one another. Only there to serve as hands to help their master feed, both he and Zayis, regardless of their deferring ranks, felt the same cold remorse. Experiencing that same seclusion time and time again.

It’s because of this he finds it hard to reach out every time he sees her struggling. Each time her eyes glaze over and she falls into that pit of despair, clawing at the edges trying to get out, all he can do is watch in horror and be thankful it’s not him this time. That instead of his mind, Cazador’s chosen to haunt her's. Which is obviously awful considering all that she’s done for him. After all the light she’s brought into this bleak, little life of his, the last thing he should be thankful for is her pain.

So he apologizes.

“I know you’re not particularly fond of me.” He offers her a subtle grin —one she returns despite everything. “I know that I’m a terrible friend and because of that you refuse to acknowledge me as such, but I promise I’m trying to get better. I’m trying to be better.”

He tries to speak as earnestly as possible. Allowing the pauses in between each sentence to settle before he moves on to the next, watching her expressions shift as they always do, searching for the right emotion to convey before ultimately softening. Resulting in the kind of face he’s not sure he’s seen on her before.

With that previous smile still present, it’s as if her whole soul reignites faintly. Behind her eyes, there’s an inkling of hope. Across her cheeks, there’s a warmth that settles behind their stormy hue. Even her ears, prone to sitting idle, sort of lift happily at his confession, prompting his chest to ache.

“I didn’t realize you were putting in all this effort just to be my friend?” she mocks, reaching up to squish his cheeks, causing his hand to lock around her wrist just before she can make it.

“Please don’t make me regret it.”

She snorts and tries to pull her hand away, finding his hold too heavy. “That’ll be hard to do considering how much of an ass you frequently are.”

Another tug prompts him to look down at their skin, realizing just how intimate it feels. Immediately making him swallow hard and loosen his grip, he feels her slowly slip until she stops about halfway to interlock their fingers. At which point, he’s the one who gets to look at her with an endless sea of expressions, moving from annoyed to confused, ending up somewhere halfway between content and reluctant.

“I’m sorry I snapped,” she says.

Instead of looking at him, her eyes are fully locked on their hands. Exploring their positions, her claws twitch against his knuckles as she tightens her hold, prompting him to clear his throat to get her attention.

“Is there a follow up to that apology or is that it?” He smirks.

“Oh, uh…” She narrows her eyes, resulting in Astarion letting out a scoff.

“I know my hands are pretty but I wasn’t aware they had the capability of rendering you speechless.”

“Shut up.”

He runs his thumb along hers, trying not to laugh. “I see the way you look at them. All entranced in their movement.” He leans in, pressing his forehead against hers like earlier, this time out of pure intent to annoy.

“You know, if you keep acting like this I’ll kick you out of my tent. And I’ll rescind my apology.”

“That’s fine. I wasn’t the one who needed an apology,” he tells her, bringing their hands to his mouth, and placing a playful nibble to her finger. An act that sets her off almost immediately. Returning to the old Zayis —the normal one who’s defiant but still playful— she shoves him off and groans, listening to the laughter that erupts through his chest.

“I’m going to bed.”

“Mmm, am I invited?” He reaches his hand to grab her waist but she swats it away and rolls over.

“You can stay if you like. No funny business though.”

He grins. “A cuddle perhaps?”

When she doesn’t object right away he knows that means yes. So gently he curls up behind her, feeling her shift so that he can wrap an arm beneath her before pulling her close, denying the urge to ask her more questions about earlier in favour of this rare moment of peace.

TAGLIST NOW CLOSED!

#the knife of insight #astarion fan fic #astarion x original female character #astarion x fem oc #astarion x oc #astarion x zayis #zaystarion #knife fight #summer writes

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