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That fateful night, it was not Astarion hunting the streets of Baldur's Gate for Cazador's next victim. It was Petras.
And while Petras was freed to galivant in the sun and save kittens from trees and fall in love, Astarion remained in the dark under his Master's cruel hand, certain the thing that saved his good-for-nothing brother wouldn't bother to come back and save him, too.
“I’m sorry,” Halsin finally said, a genuine pain exposed. “I hate to leave you here even for another night. But we’ll return in the morning, and you’ll be free of him.”
Astarion’s breath shuddered, his chest rising, the thin lines of his ribs expanding.
“Cruel as can be,” he murmured. “Hope kills faster than any knife, you know.”
Bookmarked by TheClockIsRunning
15 Jan 2024
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Bookmarked by TheClockIsRunning
08 Jan 2024
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There’s the scent of copper on Cazador’s breath, and a slight color to his usually pallid cheeks. His touch is almost gentle. Almost- the sharp points of his nails still dig as he leans in closer to sniff at Astarion’s bare neck. He pulls back almost immediately after. For a moment, the expression on his face is utterly, terrifyingly unreadable- then his nose wrinkles in disgust, lips pulling back to bare his teeth.
“You reek,” he says, yanking his hand away as if he’s been burned.
Bookmarked by TheClockIsRunning
08 Jan 2024
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Astarion has spent two hundred years waiting for a hero to come.
It isn't the foolish sort of idle dreaming that one reads about in adventure tales, no – he doesn't moon about in picturesque arched windows, pressing his hand to his chest and sighing. But he does hope sometimes, furtive and distantly yearning, in the same way he still prays to gods who never listen, every now and again.
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Bookmarked by TheClockIsRunning
31 Dec 2023
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If he turns to watch as Cazador gulps down the meal, Astarion will have to think about it. If he thinks about it, he'll have to acknowledge the smell.
If he acknowledges the smell, strong and rich and intoxicating, he'll have to think about how much he wants it. How much his stomach has tied itself into knots at even the thought of a taste. How his teeth ache, and saliva floods his mouth, and how if he could wrench back even the barest scrap of control, he could bend down and lap at some of the precious liquid drying on his own hand.
He can't, of course. So he swallows, and he forces down the endless hollow ache inside him, and he does his very best not to look as Cazador takes his time over a young woman who had been, up until three hours hence, a vapid, lovely young thing in a ruffled dress with quite a knack for dancing.
Bookmarked by TheClockIsRunning
27 Dec 2023