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windssong · 5 months ago

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Can I Be Good? Chapter 5: Hunger - Astarion

pairing: Astarion/f!Tav | Astarion/f!OC 18+ MDNI word count: 990 tags/warnings: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Not Canon Compliant, Vampire Ascendant Astarion, Redemption, Slow Burn, Enemies to Lovers, Mystery, Romance, Drama, Angst, Fluff, Smut, Original Female Character, Mentions of Trauma, Mentions of Past Trauma, Mentions of Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Masturbation, Blood, Blood Drinking summary: Centuries of pain, a ritual, (not) hunger, (not) desire, a lost soul, a search, a yearning, bodies, bodies... And a heart that changes everything.

Short and sweet.

Thanks for reading, and as always, if you want to chat, my ask box & dm's are always open<3 Thank you @nerdallwritey for reading these over, always helping out, and being an amazing friend, ILY!!!

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He hasn’t felt this hunger in centuries.

Not since the ritual gave him back the appetites of man.

When Lark Promise stepped into his club last week he had no idea this smell belonged to one of the people who had applied for the job he posted; at least not until he stepped onto the balcony, curious (relentlessly so) about the source of the blood that called out to him so viciously. A lesser man might have had a difficult time pinpointing any one particular person among that mindless crowd, in the dark no less; but he was better than any man, better than any vampire.

Astarion had found Lark in an instant. It was easier than breathing.

He had been surprised; shocked, even, to realize that the source of this torturous smell was known to him— a file containing her application was sitting right there on his desk.

Lark Promise.

It wasn’t her real last name; that bit hadn’t been too difficult to figure out. He didn’t know what it actually was. He didn’t know why exactly he cared.

Astarion made the decision to hire her for the position long before she came in for the interview.

It was that part of him he could not silence no matter how hard he tried. The cruel, the arrogant, the wanting, endlessly, endlessly wanting—

Simply miraculous, he thinks, that he even found it in himself to not jump on her the second she got that papercut.

The even worse part of him, that pathetic, weak excuse of a man, the one he buried with his old master— he was the one who practically begged for a distraction; and even after centuries, the only distraction Astarion knew was of the carnal variety, the disgusting union of flesh and sound and air and liquid. Lark wasn’t supposed to see it. But his dear friend Shadowheart, of course, had done it on purpose— sent her to his room like a prey animal. Just so she could see how horrendous, despicable he was. Weak.

Astarion stands in the middle of his office, clutching the blood-soaked handkerchief as if his whole life depends on it. This has to have something to do with her magic, which he has decided a force not to be reckoned with; compared to Gale hers may be not as controlled but oh-so powerful. Gale knows it too. He had said as much after meeting her for the first time, and it was so rare to see the wizard be humbled by the magical prowess of another that Astarion was inclined to believe him.

But what kind of magic? Why? It’s not just her blood either, it’s her skin mixed in, lactonic, innocent, filthy, fruity, flowing and exploding—

He shifts uncomfortably, realizing in a fit of clarity he has brought the handkerchief to his nose and he throbs with each inhale. He isn’t even sure if he’s exhaling anymore; afraid the smell, her smell, will leave him.

Astarion has never been a man of detailed plans, and he hasn’t needed to make one in a long time. But he needs one now desperately. He needs to taste her.

To get her out of his system, he decides. Nothing more.

Because he hates himself like this. Hungry. Nothing more than an insatiable appetite. Isn’t this why he sacrificed—

Another inhale and he almost growls, a mad, animalistic thing; he grips the corner of his desk with one hand, feeling the extension of his nails. His other hand still presses the fabric to his face, holding on as long as he can.

He has been careless with the nightly visits— always somehow forgetting to close her window again when he leaves. Maybe, unconsciously, he’s doing it on purpose— he wants her to find out. He wants her to catch him in the act, he wants to smell her fear; to hold a hand over her mouth to muffle her screams, sink his teeth into her.

This isn’t him. Hasn’t been him for a while. This much want and need. It makes him vulnerable. Makes him weak.

Despite himself, the need for friction is much too great; so when Astarion rolls his hips into the desk in front of him, it’s done on instinct to satisfy a need beyond any appetite or arousal known to man. It’s something else.

He needs to taste her somehow; if only for just once. And if she finds herself wanting his body in return, even better. Why not indulge himself in the one thing he knows he’s good at? Just like he did last night simply to remove the thoughts of her from his mind, or like countless nights before when he had nothing better to do, when he was forced.

Astarion slips a hand in his pants to find himself already leaking and he hates himself for it. He hates her. For making him want her uncontrollably like this. But it’s her blood, and nothing else, he tells himself. Once he’s had a taste, this will all be over. Maybe he’ll just drain her dry and keep her body. Maybe he’ll throw her into the disgusting waters of Grey Harbor. The fish can have her for all he cares.

With a lurch and a cry that dies in his throat before ever getting the chance to rip itself out, he spills into his hand, sticky and warm, warm like her skin when her hand brushed his—

This needs to end, winter masquerade be damned. One bite. That’s all it will take.

“Lark Promise,” he mumbles into the handkerchief before taking in one last, deep breath and shoves the damn fabric into a drawer.

Astarion didn’t become the most powerful vampire to ever exist just to be reduced to a schoolboy discovering his hormones for the first time. He has everything: power, eternal life, control.

There is one more thing he wants now, and Astarion gets everything he wants.

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#omg this was everything #fic rec

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windssong · 5 months ago

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The Taste of You: Chapter Three

The aftermath of their encounter has left a strange tension between Astarion and Myrkiira.

Chapter One is here.

Chapter Two is here.

Warning: blood and violence, but this is a vampire fic so you're probably expecting that, also some mentions of sensuality (but no smut this time)

As always, I'd appreciate any feedback on this story. I may put it on Ao3 soon, so stay tuned for that maybe.

Astarion didn’t need sleep, but even the shallow reprieve of his elven trance was broken—again and again—by visions of their tryst in the woods. He couldn’t shake the feeling of her quickened pulse beneath his lips, her warm breath against his shoulder, her wide eyes as she reached her peak, her blind trust in him as he ravaged her.

I’ve been known to be generous. Her words haunted him. A sacrificial lamb to his bloodlust.

Restless, he rose, pacing the length of his tent. His plan had been simple. Seduce her, earn her trust, secure his place at her side. And in a way, he had succeeded. He had gained Myrkiira’s trust, her protection, and perhaps even her affection. She had offered herself to him—her body, her blood. He had taken both. He mindlessly grazed a finger against his lips, remembering the taste.

The pit in his stomach coiled tighter with every passing thought.

He could have killed her. The realization made his throat dry. He pictured her now, pale and weak, barely able to stand after what he had taken from her.

He had bedded thousands, but this felt different. Lust had always been a tool, a means to an end. But last night, he had been reckless, ravenous, desperate in a way he didn’t understand. He had taken more than he should have, let himself drown in the pleasure of it, let the hunger consume him.

Surely, she would keep her distance now. He had ruined whatever goodwill he had managed to build, whatever fragile thing that had begun to form between them.

Dawn arrived before he could gather his thoughts. The first light of morning stretched over camp, too bright, too unforgiving. He stepped out of his tent, still adjusting to the strange sensation of sunlight against his skin.

Myrkiira was nowhere in sight.

Of course she wasn’t.

His fingers twitched at his sides. He thought about going to her—just to see if she was well, just to confirm that he hadn’t— but no. That would be foolish. He turned, ready to retreat back into the safety of his tent when—

"Hey, soldier!"

Her voice rang clear across the camp.

He turned, quickly fixing his expression into something charming, something easy. His best smile, as if he weren’t unravelling inside.

"Good morning, darling."

She stood a few paces away, looking him over with a bemused expression, noticing a single drop of dried blood on his collar. "Care for some coffee?" She paused, head tilting slightly. "You look like you need it. I didn’t realize vampires could get tired."

He let out a soft chuckle, shifting his weight onto one leg. "Vampires can do plenty of things, my dear."

He hesitated, tension in his words. “Have you seen Myrkiira yet?”

Karlach’s grin was immediate. “No, but I’d have thought you had. You two looked very close last night.” She tilted her head, playful and prying. “Something happen?”

His jaw tensed before he forced a laugh, light, dismissive. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Sure you don’t.” Her smirk lingered, but her voice softened. “Well, whatever you two are up to—kissing or otherwise—enjoy it, huh?” She exhaled, gaze flickering elsewhere. “I’d do anything to be able to touch someone like that.”

“It’s…” He hesitated, rolling his shoulders. “Not always that simple, you know?”

Karlach scoffed. “Of course it is! She likes you, you like her. Why not enjoy it?”

His smile faltered, just for a moment, before he twirled his dagger between his fingers, “I’d best get ready for the day. Can’t have my hair looking anything less than perfect when we’re knee-deep in blood again.”

Without waiting for a reply, he slipped back into his tent, relieved—if only briefly—to have avoided Myrkiira.

But his moment of peace was short-lived. A flurry of footsteps outside, quick and heavy, shattered the quiet. Before he could react, the tent flap was thrown open.

Shadowheart stormed in, eyes blazing.

“Oh, what now?” He rolled his eyes, dragging out the words with theatrical exasperation.

“Don’t act so innocent.” She snapped, voice sharp enough to cut. “Myrkiira can hardly stand. What the hells were you thinking?”

“Well, clearly, I wasn’t,” he snapped, folding his arms. “But you can give it a rest. I won’t bite her anymore, alright?”

Shadowheart’s gaze was razor-sharp. “You won’t?”

He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “No,” he said, more tired than annoyed now. “I get it, okay? It was fun while it lasted, but believe it or not, I’d prefer it if she didn’t die.”

A long pause.

“Fine.”

“Fine,” he echoed, drawing out the word and waving a hand dismissively. “You can leave now.”

Shadowheart hesitated, eyes lingering on him as if she wanted to say more. But after a tense moment passed, she huffed and stormed out.

...

Myrkiira flushed as she fastened the last strap of her armour, the heat of shame creeping up her neck. Shadowheart had been less than pleased to find her this morning—pale, unsteady, barely able to stand. And it was her fault, her lust had clouded all rational thought.

A warmth curled low in her belly, arousal that bordered on ruinous, from the memory. Had it always felt that good? She couldn’t remember. Couldn’t compare. But before she had even had a chance to recover from their passions, he had disappeared. She recalled the last look he gave her, lust turned to fear in an instant. Regret.

Steeling herself, she stepped out into camp, eyes fixed anywhere but him. She needed to focus, to push past the lingering haze of the night before.

And yet, the moment she heard his voice—smooth, teasing, so unbearably Astarion—she knew.

Knew that if he so much as smiled at her she would bare her throat again like the fool she was.He wasn’t even talking to her. Gale was rambling about his latest literary obsession, and Astarion was teasing him mercilessly. Myrkiira forced herself to look away. Watch yourself, her mind warned.

…

Myrkiira, Wyll, Astarion, and Shadowheart pressed forward through the mountain pass, each lost in their own thoughts—the road ahead, the cursed tadpole, the weight of unspoken tensions. The silence between Myrkiira and Astarion hung heavy, noticed by all but addressed by none.

His eyes met hers—briefly, fleetingly—but she found no clarity there. Only a hunger laced with something bitter, something that felt like hate.

Then, a snarl shattered the quiet.

A gnoll lunged from the tall grass, teeth bared, saliva dripping from its maw. Myrkiira’s eyes flicked around—there were more. At least six.

Without hesitation, she shifted, her body contorting into the sleek form of a dire raven. Wings spread wide, she shot forward, talons outstretched, striking at the gnoll’s face—tearing, blinding, relentless.

Astarion melted into the shadows, slipping into a crouch behind a bush, arrow drawn and waiting. Wyll charged ahead, sword raised, meeting the onslaught head-on.

But Myrkiira pushed too far. She was ahead of the others now, lost in the rush of battle.

“Watch out!” Shadowheart’s warning came a second too late.

A second gnoll flanked her, claws raking through feathers and flesh. She tumbled from the sky, slamming into the dirt with a sharp crack, shifting back into her elven form as she hit the ground.

Astarion’s arrow flew in an instant, sinking deep into the gnoll’s skull before it could land another strike. But the damage was done.

Myrkiira coughed, blinking up at the sky, pain radiating through her ribs. She wasn’t finished yet.

She surged to her feet, fists crackling with energy. She shot a bolt of thunder from her palms, sending two gnolls sprawling backward. Wyll unleashed an Eldritch Blast into the charging gnoll behind her.

Spells flew from her hands—fire, ice, and light—until a gnoll’s claws sank deep into her chest, sending her crashing to the ground. The air left her lungs with a gasp.

Astarion’s fingers curled around his dagger, knuckles white as he lunged. His footsteps fell heavier than usual, his strike swift and merciless, blade slipping between the gnoll’s ribs with deadly ease.

The rest of the group fought fiercely, each blow and strike decisive, until the last gnoll fell to the dirt, its blood staining the earth.

Astarion stormed over, fury flashing in his eyes. “What in the hells were you thinking?” he demanded, his voice sharp, “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

The fire that had fueled her attacks had burned out, leaving only frailty in its wake. She lay crumpled on the ground, her breath shallow, blood spilling in dark rivulets across her chest. Astarion despised the way the sight made saliva pool at the back of his throat, the hunger curling tight in his stomach. But even more, he hated the sharp sting of something closer to concern.

Before Myrkiira could respond, Shadowheart’s voice rang out, cutting through the tension. “Rich, coming from you.” Frustration shrouded her eyes as she prepared a healing spell.

Myrkiira sighed, feeling the warmth of Shadowheart’s magic flow through her, the healing energy bringing her back from the brink. She winced but managed to stand, her chest still burning from the wound.

Wyll’s steady hand gripped her arm, his voice calm but firm. “What our friends mean to say is... be more careful next time. We alreaady know of your prowess in battle, but you’re not invincible.”

Myrkiira nodded slowly, feeling a strange comfort in Wyll’s kindness, his quiet understanding. “I think I’ll head back to camp for now,” she murmured, her body sore but grateful for the respite.

Wyll’s smile was warm, a small but genuine thing. “Let me join you. You’re in no condition to go back alone.”

Astarion’s jaw clenched at the exchange, his eyes narrowing. Of course, Prince Charming had to save the day. He watched as Wyll’s arm wrapped around her waist, steadying her as they walked. There was a familiarity between them that cut sharper than Astarion cared to admit, a quiet intimacy he had never witnessed before.

#ohhhh I really enjoyed this #love how astarion is written and his internal conflict #fic rec

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