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Dear. Oh. Dear.
He says every word with pointed intention, reforming from mist and taking steps towards the guests, all the elegance of a dancer. They have been forced to their knees to meet him, disarmed and quaking in polished plate.
Astarion leans down at the hip to admire his reflection in a pauldron. Ignores a terrified whimper as he brushes a curl back into proper place.
"For Lathander's best and brightest, you three really aren't very bright , are you?"
He slowly straightens up, perching a hand on his hip, casting a careless gaze to the paladins beneath him.
"How many of these little raiding parties have you sent now, mm? I would've thought you'd have gotten the message by now."
One of the three survivors begins frantically whispering prayers under their breath, but his voice jerks when the point of a spear is pressed firmer against the back of his neck. The bones of the skeletal warrior stationed behind him rattle in warning.
"Now, now," it's Lord chides, "Give him a chance. I want to see if someone answers."
The expanse of the dungeon projects his voice, as the paladin reels off memorised devotions to the Morninglord. Lathander, protect us. Lathander, cast your glory so that it may see us through this darkest night. On and on, until the words crumble into silent sobbing and tears are cast against the dirty stone below.
"What a shame. Seems like no one's home." He doesn't even bother hiding the sadism from his glee.
"You're wrong." The woman in the centre position speaks up, with all the subdued confidence of a defeated leader. "We are his chosen, and he has guided us here to end your unholy tyranny once and for all."
"Is that right? Well," The vampire sweeps a hand through the air, "Far be it from me to deny you the path your god has put you on."
He makes a rising gesture with his hand, and the undead jab their weapons in the paladins' backs until they manage to clamber to their feet in their heavy armour.
Astarion doesn't wait to watch, already gliding through the great hall of the dungeon. Occasionally he even takes a step, like he's sentimental for the time he had to use his two feet just like everyone else.
As they reach the end of the corridor, the crumbling stone walls begin to close in on them, moss all glistening with moisture. Ahead, a great pair of oak doors await, shimmering supernatural red; an indication of the magic that keeps them closed tight. And more than that, the doors are sealed physically also, barred and locked and chained in every conceivable way to the point that the wood of the door is barely even visible any more.
Astarion approaches, places a palm against a great chain the width of his arm. He takes a moment to himself, as if offering up a prayer of his own.
"I can feel the little flutters of his heart. He always gets like this when he knows that his prey is approaching."
The paladin leader grasps her holy symbol tight in her fist.
"Morninglord preserve us. This is where you keep the Bhaalspawn." She scrunches up her nose in disgust. "Locked away like some bloody treasure."
"My finest treasure." The vampire glances over his shoulder. "Would you like me to show you?"
The leader still has some fight in her. She scoffs. "Only so that I might slay two monsters in one day."
"Why, of course. That's what Lathander asks of you, isn't it?" When Astarion turns, there is a delighted spark to his eyes. "Your friends had similar aspirations, before my consort…" He twists a hand, trying to find the right turn of phrase, " redistributed their insides."
One of the paladins, their face twists into something of sheer loathing.
"And so now, I bring you the same opportunity I brought to them: slay my champion, and I will humbly surrender myself to you and your companions. Hells, I'll even help point out the spot where your stake goes, if you'd like."
He taps a spot on his chest where once, unbelievably, a living heart used to beat, and winks.
"Wretched creature," the leader snarls, "The stake would be a mercy, for all the suffering you have inflicted upon this world."
Astarion tilts his head, as if genuinely considering the suggestion. "Perhaps you're right. And would a stake even work on me?"
He shakes his head, and wafts away the thought. "Well, it's an issue to discuss once we get there."
He steps closer to them, voice lowering.
"After all, I can't imagine killing one little Bhaalspawn poses any issue for Lathander's chosen ."
"You're insane, if you think we would trust the word of a vampire."
The undead holds a hand to his chest, leans back in affront.
"I'm hurt! Would you really paint me with the same brush as your regular, cowering bloodsucker?"
A frown.
"In case you weren't aware , I have ascended, and beyond the more obvious advantages, I possess a certain level of honour that my undead relatives lost when they were turned. What that means is when I make a deal, I make it with the intention to keep it."
When the paladins do not immediately respond, Astarion shakes his head and turns back to the door, dancing fingertips over callous metal.
"But it can't be helped if you'd prefer to die as cowards. I suppose I'll just use you as wolf feed instead. Such a shame, I'm sure your god would agree…"
A further moment of silence and then, "Oh, blast it all, Nymera! We'll die either way- we have to try!"
The leader closes her eyes, still squeezing the icon of Lathander hanging from her neck.
"...And you would have us slay a Bhaalspawn unarmed?"
Astarion grins to himself. He knows he has them now.
From nowhere, the weapons of the disarmed paladins clatter to the ground; two maces and a greataxe still glowing gold with holy power. No one is bold enough to reach down and grab something.
"Now, do put on a good show. The gods and I, we like that sort of thing."
He makes a brief gesture with his hand and the chains across the door come to life, twisting and rattling like great skeletal serpents, frantic until the moment they drop heavy and lifeless to the ground.
The oak doors part slow, with a creak, and the stench of death billows out with such force that it seems strange for it to not be some dark miasma that can be viewed with the naked eye. It's all it takes to shock the paladins into action, gathering their weapons from the ground in the anticipation of some great, hulking beast.
It makes the emergence of the Bhaalspawn almost underwhelming, in a way. He is certainly intimidating for a humanoid, with a good foot over his master and perhaps twice as broad. The red eyes of a vampire's spawn regard his surroundings; all the patience and serenity of a domesticated beast that knows it no longer has to hunt its meals.
As he steps further past the doors, a chain attached to his neck comes into view, dragging across the stone behind him. It connects to a collar clasped tight around the Bhaalspawn's throat: a delicate thing, cast in silver. It is almost laughable that it holds back the beast it is bound to.
Astarion reaches up, hooks a finger over the top of the collar.
"My little treasure." There is a hushed kind of awe to his tone. "Isn't he just the sweetest thing you've ever seen?"
His words are utterly devoid of insincerity- for a moment he really is nothing more than just a boy in love. The vampire tugs gently at the collar with his finger, so that the taller man's head eases down as he is pulled into a soft kiss.
And the Urge accepts it gladly, taking Astarion's face with a delicacy not at all befitting of hands his size.
"Now…" Astarion lingers over his partner's lips a moment longer than he ought to, like he's reluctant to move too far away. But he does, eventually, carefully releasing his grip on the Bhaalspawn's collar and then moving to adjust his sleeves.
"Play nice, you lot. I'll be watching."
A turn, a final glance at the group of paladins.
"I wouldn't dream of missing a minute of this."
The vampire disappears in a puff of mist and then a heartbeat later, as if an afterthought, the skeletal warriors clatter into three neat piles of bones behind each of their captives. It leaves the paladins free to do as they please.
"So this is what the favourite son of Bhaal has been reduced to," the leader says, clasping the handle of her greataxe tighter. "A vampire's plaything? How laughable."
The Urge looks upon them, huddled protectively in their little group. They seem ever so small in the great halls of Astarion's dungeons. Almost too little to bother with. But the one that speaks for them, there is a glimmer of something there- heroism perhaps- that he would love nothing more than to snuff out.
He watches them, all but cowering before him, the dwarf, the elf and their human leader. He says, "I don't see you laughing."
Ignis!
The elf cracks first, fires a bolt towards the Bhaalspawn that hits him square in the shoulder and immediately fizzles into nothing, like an ember dropped into cold water.
He is barely armoured- just a few pieces of gilded plate over the vitals- and has only his bare hands to fight with, but the way the Urge grins, it's like he already knows he's won.
With a cry from the dwarf, the three charge him all at once. As the Urge ducks under a swing from the leader's greataxe, he steps on his chain and pulls it taught, tripping the elf in the full weight of their armour. He turns just in time to catch the dwarf as his mace comes down towards him. He grabs their forearm, and squeezes.
A dull crunch, and the dwarf screams out in agony, helpless as they are lifted from the ground with that same, ruined arm.
The Urge holds them up in front of his face, looking with what could almost be curiosity, in the same way that a cat is curious about the bird under its paw.
" Don't–" The leader reels back for another attack, but before she can muster the power she watches the Bhaalspawn lash the dwarf hard against the ground, with all of the strength a body his size can accommodate.
She watches, as her comrade is turned to pulp inside the casing of his armour, gore erupting in a mess of sporadic trajectories.
The other paladins go stock still, save for the twitching of the elf's throat as they emit a whimper. It is a sound quickly overshadowed by the Urge's low chuckling.
"Look at him, how perfect he is now."
He is trembling, but it can't be fear. There is a light in those red, soulless eyes unmistakable for anything but delight. "Put down like sickly little calf."
His eyes turn to the elf, who might not even realise that they are crying.
"Don't worry. Yours will be the honour of a slower death."
The Urge breathes in deep, inhaling the smell of fresh blood lingering on dank crypt air, and it makes his head spin so dramatically that he is none the wiser to the pommel of the greataxe as it jabs into the base of his back. It is not the force alone that topples him, but rather the holy power of the weapon. He hits the stone with a thud, the chain attached to him rattling noisily.
"Elanora!" The leader cries, "hold him!"
But the elf has become far too frightened to even acknowledge the command, scrambling backwards, desperate to escape the killer.
It is her concern for her comrade that leaves the human open for a heartbeat too long. The Urge swings with the dwarf's mace and connects with her calf, and she falls, screaming more with fury than with pain.
"You scream beautifully. I think I'll save you for last."
He is comfortable enough leaving her there as she fails to get back to her feet, getting up with far greater ease and striding languidly to catch up with the fleeing elf.
They have reached the other end of the corridor, where they are slamming their fists against a steel door that refuses to open to them. Once they sense the Bhaalspawn there they turn, back flush to the door.
"P-please," they beg, but the man remains unmoved, expression bare beyond the cooling blood of the dwarf.
He takes another step forward, and then another, but then the chain attached to his neck goes taught and he reels back slightly. He has reached the bounds of his territory, it seems.
The elf realises it with a strange, fluttery kind of sigh: that they are safe, even if just for a moment. They even manage to spit out a laugh, when the creature reaches out to them, as if beckoning for them to approach. As if he expects them to wander willingly into his arms.
But then an incantation is muttered and some invisible force yanks the elf forward, toes scraping across the ground, and they are brought neatly into the Baalspawn's patient grip after all.
He grabs them by the base of their long hair as they scream and try to wriggle free, clawing uselessly at his fist as he drags them back to where the fight first broke out. Once his chain is slack enough to pool on the ground he throws them down on top of it.
Immediately the paladin attempts to scramble back up but a boot is pressed down between their shoulder blades, clamping them down easily. They writhe for as long as it takes to realise that the Bhaalspawn has looped his chain around their throat, grabbing a side with each fist and pulling.
The elf immediately begins to splutter and spasm, fingers grasping for purchase against the metal biting into their throat and finding none. They are left to struggle like that for far too long, until all colour has evacuated their face and their movements are reduced to the occasional twitch.
Finally, the Urge sucks in a sharp breath, gives a firm tug of the chain and then there is a deafening crack as the elf's head snaps back at a gruesome, unnatural angle. After that, the struggling stops.
He drops the chains unceremoniously, watches the body for a moment. Once he is done revelling in the sight he casts his head to one side, glancing to where he left the leader bleeding.
She is no longer there.
"Unholy beast!" From behind him, the leader's voice is brimming with hot fury. The Urge spins around, to the sight of the last remaining paladin, her greataxe already primed to swing.
There is a flash of golden light and she brings the axe down hard into the Bhaalspawn's chest. It bites though his plate like cheap wood and buries itself into the very centre of his chest, so deep that for a moment she struggles to pull it back out again.
Once she does, blood immediately bubbles to the surface of the wound, hot and bright. For the first time, this son of Bhaal appears shaken, eyes wide as they turn down to his chest.
"By my hand," The paladin is reeling back for another swing, "you will never harm a living thing again!"
"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure, darling."
Astarion's voice behind her, and a small, delicate blade pressed to her throat. She tilts her head back deathly slow, just enough to catch the corner of that pale, grinning expression leering over her shoulder.
Astarion says, "You nearly won, you know. Perhaps you really are Lathander's chosen after all."
"You said…you said you had honour ."
"Hm? Oh- yes, that's what we call a lie, dear. Bye bye, now."
The vampire puts her down unceremoniously, one slice of the dagger is all it takes. He barely even waits for the body to hit the floor before he's rushing to the Urge's side, where they've collapsed to the ground, propped up on one elbow.
"I… failed you," the Urge says, voice strained with pain as he clutches uselessly at the blood soaking his chest.
"Don't be ridiculous. You did wonderfully. Just like always."
There is the tiniest wavering of concern to Astarion's tone, but nothing befitting such a mortal wound. He watches the great gash in his consort's chest seep a thick, bubbling ribbon of blood.
"In any case, I'm not about to let my most beloved pet bleed out amongst his prey."
Astarion clicks his tongue, stands up, and reaches down a hand for the Urge to take. "Let's go get you all fixed up."
The moment their hands connect, the Urge feels the strength rush back into his limbs. He has long lost the ability to discern whether this kind of strength is derived from the love of his partner or the control of his master. He has long given up on deciding which one he would prefer.
Astarion walks them out of the dungeons, holding his partner's fingers with a feather-light touch as though they were made of cracked porcelain. The chain doesn't hold his consort back this time. Dirty with the blood of the paladins, it will snake along behind them as far as the vampire allows.
Once they are out in the palace proper, with all its rich finery and warm lighting, Astarion asks him a question.
"Remind me, love: how long has it been since you last felt the sun?"
The Urge looks down to his other hand, where it's clutching his chest. Deep red fluid leaks stubbornly between his closed fingers.
"You know I don't keep track of the days."
The Palace walls are decorated floor to ceiling with various portraits of the master standing smug and proud next to his consort. Most will only ever see the Bhaalspawn this way: depicted in an artist's oils.
Perhaps it is cruel, to keep the Urge locked away from both the world and the sun alike. But Astarion is the darkness itself now, and every moment spent out of the light is spent blissful and cherished in his embrace.
He wants for nothing; spoiled to the point of ruin, Astarion sometimes jokes. He is sent bodies upon bodies to brutalise, until the corpses pile high to the ceiling and he is sick with the bloodlust. And as soon as the obligations of the day are complete, Astarion visits with gifts and wine and whatever else he fancies, and they bask in each other's company until reality beckons for the vampire lord once again.
"Nineteen years, seven months and thirteen days." Astarion is perfectly matter-of-fact about it.
"That's exactly how long it's been. But you know, it's spring now, and the weather is beautiful. Would you like to see?"
The Urge swallows. "It sounds like you mean to grant me one last mercy, before you put me down."
Astarion tuts, and moves in close.
"Don't be silly, pet."
He places hand over the bigger one that's clutching hopelessly at the wound.
"It would take a lot more than this to tear you away from me."
***
A garden is kept up on the roof of the palace, though it is seldom used. Rose bushes line a little area made for sitting, branches tangled and unruly from their lack of maintenance.
There are pillows for comfort and a rug to protect against the rougher stone of the roof, set inside three low walls that box in the space. At the very centre, a little table decorated with candles and glassware of different shapes and purposes; ornate decanters, half-empty wine bottles, even a few potions for good measure.
In theory there is enough space inside for five or six people but it is a more peaceful spot today, quiet save for the chitter of starlings and the ever so distant hum of the city's day to day bustle.
The sun hovers white and blinding above the scene, watches in silence as Astarion helps his consort to lie back into the pillows.
The Urge doesn't look, afraid the light will sear his retina, so he has to rely on the vampire to guide him down. He meets the cushioning at his back with a pained grumble.
"So? How does it feel?"
Astarion preens his favourite treasure like an enormous doll; adjusting their hair just so, setting out the chain so that it drapes back over the pillows, smearing a wet drop of blood on their cheek in a vivid stripe down to their jawline.
"The gaping axe wound in my chest?"
His master flashes a smile. "The sun ."
Still refusing to open his eyes, the Urge makes a sound which suggests that he isn't particularly keen to find out.
"Look at me."
He cracks open his eyes, reluctantly. Astarion is sat by his side, leaning over him so that his handsome face eclipses the sun. The Urge doesn't say a word, but his expression must say it all, the way the other man smiles down at him.
"Do you have any idea how many nights I wept, believing I would never see the daylight again? Feel it on my skin?"
The vampire strokes the side of their face with the back of his knuckles.
"I am so glad that I am able to give you this moment."
The Urge watches Astarion's face carefully: the downturned curve of his mouth, the slight furrow of his brow, despite the smile. He understands every feature so intimately, it reads as easy as words on a page.
"You brought me here because you feel guilty," The Urge says. "You think you're responsible for what happened down there."
"I am responsible." The immediate reply. "The moment you gave yourself to me, allowed me to make you what you are, your life became mine alone to protect."
There is nothing that can be said to that. The pain in the Urge's chest mixes with the swelling of his heart into such a delicious cocktail that it takes his breath away.
"And yes, okay, maybe I've been too reckless, pitting our visitors against you like that. But can you really blame me? You just look so damn good killing with your hands."
The Urge scoffs, and shifts over the pillows in pain.
"Here," Astarion's hands move to the plate over his consort's chest, "Let's get this off of you."
He takes one half of the shattered armour in each hand, fingers curling under the broken edges and slowly peeling it away like the skin of some great stone fruit. Congealed gore strings from the Urge's bare chest. A deep wound marks the very middle of his body, the complete length of his sternum, and it continues to weep fresh stripes of blood all the way down to his stomach.
Astarion pulls the armour off over his arms, discarding it thoughtlessly. He is far more concerned with the vivid, violent display laid out before him. It has been nineteen years since the Urge has seen the sun, and it has been nineteen years since Astarion has seen them bleed like this, well-guarded a treasure as they are.
"My, my. Red really is your colour, isn't it."
The vampire runs a finger along the edge of the wound, and the Urge tenses, expecting pain to explode through his chest. Instead, all agony melts away, replaced by a pleasurable numbness all too familiar to him from their countless feeds.
He feels Astarion work a finger into the wound and tilts back his head as he groans in relief, and delight. It is as if the other man intends to coax out the pain by hand, rubbing over torn muscle and raw nerves until his digits are slick with blood.
"There. Does that feel better now?" Astarion says the words around his fingers, tasting his consort's blood. Since his ascension, it is the only kind he still finds himself hungry for.
"It did, until you stopped."
It's only half of a lie. Once Astarion stops, the sting does begin to bite again, but nowhere near as intensely. Mostly, he just wants to be touched there again- a place inside of him that no one else has ever been.
The vampire eyes him curiously; he seems pleasantly surprised by that answer. He licks the blood from his fangs and hums, draping himself over the larger man's body so that his chin rests at the top of their stomach.
"Alright."
He returns his fingers to the split in his consort's chest, pressing them into the wet gore forcefully enough that fresh blood spills out over the edges of the wound. He chuckles when the Urge swears and curves his back.
"That good? I should have known you'd be into this sort of thing." He kneads over the exposed meat and catches fingers against the broken skin where the pain should be the worst. Back and forth. The wound deepens with his insistent pressing, blood coming faster as the body's pulse starts to quicken.
"A shame to let something so delicious go to waste though, don't you think?" He leans in closer to the source of it: that heady, metallic smell. "I don't suppose you'd mind, if I…"
Though the hunger no longer haunts him, Astarion feeds on his consort more nights than not. And every time, despite it all, he still asks first.
This time, though, it is almost an inconvenience, as the Urge has to draw himself out of his pleasure long enough to respond. Eventually he shakes his head.
And the vampire tilts his to one side, grinning as he continues to idly tease at the wound. Lovingly tearing his flesh apart. "As in yes, you do mind, or…"
" Do it ." The words are forced through gritted teeth.
Astarion tuts. "So eager."
The Urge watches as the other man presses his lips to the blood pooling at his stomach, chasing the flow of it in a curve over his side until he finally reaches the wound itself. He feels a sucking kiss against chest and can't stop himself from reaching out, burying blood-sticky fingers into Astarion's curls and resting them lightly on top of his head.
The vampire's eyes flick up as he drinks from the wound, pressing into the exposed muscle with his tongue. The Urge should feel violated, predated upon, but there is a softness to his partner's gaze and a sensuality to how he kisses the pain into pleasure. He quickly realises that his breath is shuddering, and that all this attention has heat flooding to his hips.
"Mmnh…" the other man eventually lifts his head, a mess of blood and saliva stringing from his mouth in long, thick ropes. It is a far cry from how delicate and pristine he usually looks when he feeds; like this, the Urge can see the monster that the rest of Faerûn sees. Astarion has never looked more handsome to him.
"If you keep looking at me like that, I might just have to kiss you." The vampire licks his lips, but it makes little difference. Blood stains the cracks between his brilliant white fangs, and in that moment the Urge yearns to be torn apart by them. His master would kill him so perfectly, he is sure of it, but he is also sure that day will never come. He knows that they are destined to face down the end of the world together.
He slowly relinquishes his grip on Astarion's hair, and the other man rises up to meet him. The metallic odour of gore lingers on him like perfume, and what better scent to attract a Bhaalspawn. The Urge would love nothing more than to steal a kiss, but he has been trained far too well for that. Instead he waits, lips parted, for whatever his master is generous enough to give him.
"Good boy," Astarion says to his patience, low enough to be a whisper. He takes his time settling himself over the larger man's hips, purposely making no comment when he feels the jut of their cock against his thigh. Privately, though, he finds it terribly endearing just how eager his pet is, following what most would consider to be torture.
He kisses the Urge's bottom lip, once, brief. Chuckles at how this giant of a man swoons from such an innocent gesture, their eyelids fluttering. The manifestation of death itself, trembling at his mere touch.
"What a sweet little thing you are." Another kiss; this one he allows to linger a little longer. He can tell that it is taking all of his consort's strength to keep to his languid, teasing pace. "Do you like how you taste?"
The Urge can taste his own blood on his partner's mouth, bitter and sharp. He grunts, affirmative.
"You know I won't feed from anyone else." He looks down at his treasure through pale lashes. "Why would I, when you're always so eager to give me everything I need?"
The vampire takes the base of the chain into his grip, holds it there between them.
"You were even ready to die for me today, weren't you?"
"...In a heartbeat."
Clear as the sky above them, Astarion's eyes flash with lust.
"And I would have been happy to follow you. You know that too, don't you?" As he speaks, he gently rocks his hips, just enough to create some friction between them. "I wasn't lying to those paladins- I really would have let them kill me after you. There's no place for me in a world without you in it."
"Please…" The Urge can't handle this kind of talk, paired with this kind of teasing. His voice is small and fragile. "Please kiss me."
From the chain, Astarion raises a thumb and strokes it over the width of his consort's lower lip. "I just did, darling."
"Not how I need."
"And how is that, exactly?"
The Urge swallows. Imagines Astarion tearing the tendons from his neck and luxuriating in the hot spray of his lifeblood.
"Devour me."
It's more than enough of an answer. Astarion sighs into the mouth of his consort, using the leverage of the chain to pull them back into a kiss. He is benevolent this time, permits the press of their tongues as they begin to melt into each other. He feels hands go to his waist- oh so polite- and he makes a correction to one of them, pulling it down to the curve of his hip. The other is very much quick to follow.
The Urge's attention is only drawn from the caress of Astarion's mouth when he feels the weight of his chain drop onto his chest. His master has sat himself back up, is dabbing away the blood at each corner of his mouth with a ring finger. His other hand traces the outskirts of the gash in his chest. The bleeding has finally begun to slow, but it shows no signs of stopping any time soon.
"You know, I think I ought to put this beautiful body of yours to good use. What do you say?"
"...Thank you."
The way Astarion laughs, smile dripping with condescension, the Urge realises he was never supposed to answer that question. He would flush, if his physiology still allowed for it.
"I mean, I suppose you're not wrong." The vampire climbs off of his lap. "Now, sit up for a minute, darling."
He busies himself with the bottles clustered on the table beside them, searching for something amongst the clutter. The Urge props himself up with some effort against the half wall, slinging an arm over it for support.
"Here we are," Astarion declares, spins around to present a round red bottle that he rattles in the air. "Can't have you ravish me half-dead, after all. That's more your thing."
Ravish me . The phrase rings in the Urge's skull like a firework gone off too close, and for a moment he doesn't even notice the sun-warmed oil of the healing potion as it slowly melts over his ruined chest.
Astarion works the fluid into the wound with his thumb, kneading the edges of it together until they start to seal by themselves. Soon enough, the evidence of there ever being any damage at all is reduced to a shiny, off-colour stripe of skin that splits the Urge's chest in two.
But even once he's done healing, Astarion continues to pour, the fluid seeping thick and glistening over his front and into the creases of his abs.
"You're wasting a perfectly good potion just staring, my love. Let's get that armour out of the way."
He doesn't have to be told twice, fumbling with the buckles that hold armour and cloth together until it all tumbles away from his waist. There's no ignoring it now: the thick erection lying hot against the muscle of his thigh, and the blood-tinged potion trailing in glistening streaks past his abdomen.
By the time the potion has run empty he is practically soaked in it, viscous fluid trickling down between his legs. Astarion sets the empty bottle down, sidling up to his partner and running a hand through the mess coating their chest.
"Now let me tell you how this is going to work."
His hand slides easily down the Urge's front, deft fingers curling around his length with a practised familiarity. He begins to stroke them slowly.
"First, you're going to undress me."
He presses his lips to his consort's neck. It is a gnarled battleground of overlapping bite scars.
The oil of the potion makes the vampire's palm glide with dangerous ease. He squeezes tighter and the Urge closes his eyes, barely stifling a moan.
"Then, you're going to take those murderous hands and worship every single inch of my body."
Astarion doesn't even look as his fingers work the other man over. He has already committed to memory exactly how his pet likes it, to the point that it shouldn't even be fun any more. But there is something addictive in the strain of the Urge's jaw, the minute twitches of his brow, the bob of his throat. All those little signs of desperation in his lover's face are something he will never grow sick of, and so that is what he watches.
"And then ," the wet smack of his palm grows louder as he picks up the pace but he still barely seems to exert himself at all, while the Urge tilts back his head and groans and pleads. "You're going to fuck me as if I were one of those poor paladins you left rotting in my dungeons."
The Bhaalspawn who committed those acts of violence, he isn't the one being touched here. This creature is altogether more pliant, utterly helpless to torment of the smaller man's fist.
Astarion rests his head on his consort's chest, and together they watch as he idly coaxes a bead of precum from him with a firm press of his thumb.
"Do you think you can manage that, pet?"
As he leaks over his master's fingers, the Urge manages a grunt and a short nod.
"Use your words, darling. You know I don't speak beast."
"Mmn- yes…master."
Astarion relinquishes his grip all at once, to the tune of his consort's sob- a desperate mix of relief and disappointment. His dirtied fingers are wiped off on the Urge's cheeks: tops on one and undersides on the other. A peck to the corner of his jaw completes the gesture.
"I'm glad to hear it."
He sits up, raises his arms in the air so that his shirt can be removed. The Urge barely has a moment to collect himself. He tangles a finger into the laces that string it together, tugging so that the fabric falls loose from the vampire's chest.
The moment the shirt is over his head and stripped from his arms, the Urge has his lover down on the pillows, a reversal to their earlier positioning. He pulls off their shoes at the heel, leaves them abandoned alongside his broken, bloody armour. Trousers are unlaced and tugged away from the hips. It is all actioned with a gentle kind of efficiency, a far cry from the violence so frequently committed by the very same hands.
When he goes to finally peel away the vampire's underwear, a pale hand is placed upon his.
"Not yet." Astarion says, "Worship."
The Urge has no complaints about that. Astarion's pale, perfect body is a feast laid out before him, one that he would happily gorge himself on to sickness. He places his hands at the vampire's sides, just under his arms, thumbs smoothing over the silk-soft plane of his chest. It is almost comical how small his Astarion is when he allows himself to be held like this. It would be far too easy for the Urge to squeeze, and crush the other man's ribcage like an eggshell.
Astarion knows it too, and knows it's what his consort is thinking of when fingertips press bruisingly into his skin. That must be why he enjoys being touched like this so much, why a simple caress has him keening softly and turning his face into the pillows. He enjoys the touch of this bloodthirsty monster, stolen from Bhaal himself, knowing he is the farthest thing from danger. It reminds him of how much he has won.
" Gods," the vampire sighs, as the Urge starts to brush their thumbs over his nipples. "I do love those clever hands of yours."
He is held steady as his body tenses and flexes, those same rough hands smoothing down his sides, over his stomach and thighs. The Urge leans in, kisses at his throat, and Astarion can feel the pinpricks of their fangs as they scrape over his skin. It would only take the slightest squeeze of his jaw, a single drop of blood, and the vampire would lose everything . He knows how the power of his blood must call to them, and yet his darling consort remains perfectly obedient, attentive to his pleasure above all else.
" Such a good pet," Astarion sighs, not just because it's true but because it's exactly what his lover wants to hear. It's why the Urge doesn't bite, when his entire body screams for it. He wouldn't know how to be anything else.
The larger man kisses over the body beneath him, until Astarion's breath rattles with arousal. It is at that point that he presses the ball of his palm against the Urge's forehead, pushing him away so that he can get up and fold himself over the wall beside them.
"Now, finish the job."
Resting on his elbows, he fixes his gaze outwards, to the roses beginning to bud. The silk of his underwear tickles his skin as it is pulled down to his knees and then, after a beat, he feels the weight of his partner's length as it slides hot and slick over the small of his back. The vampire hums his enthusiasm, even curves his spine, basking in the sensation of his partner grinding over him.
"I…need to prepare you first." The Urge says.
Astarion chuckles in response. " You're worried about me? How cute."
An idle hand reaches for the chain pooled beside them, lifts it over his shoulder, and then yanks . The larger man almost collapses on top of him, his hands falling to the wall either side of Astarion to keep his balance. The vampire tilts his head towards them.
"Let me handle the thinking, dear. I'd suggest you focus on your strengths."
The Urge hesitates, afraid of hurting his master, but he is far too desperate to argue. He takes Astarion's hip and eases his cock into him, or at least tries to, but the other man's body provides just about as much resistance as he expected. Still, these minimal, shallow thrusts he offers are already maddening, his body aching for more.
"Mmn, keep going." The vampire sounds perfectly calm despite it all, and the Urge can't help but wonder if maybe an ascended vampire doesn't even feel pain the same way anymore. He hopes it isn't true; hopes that Astarion feels every vivid bloom of pain as his body is gradually forced open by his dick. How else can he express the full depth of his love?
It isn't long before he's moving a little easier- his master's body knows the routine even if it was taken by surprise this time. Astarion groans and sighs and pushes his hips back, revelling in the easy movements of his partner and the slow, creeping pleasure it evokes in them both.
"You're holding back on me." Astarion says. The tension on the chain remains firm and brutal, keeping the Urge fixed in position, laid out over his back.
"Come on, now. I know how you still dream of tearing me apart."
The larger man squeezes his eyes shut, tries to focus on the rhythmic roll of his hips. "Don't."
He's not so sure he can hold himself back like this.
"Don't be frightened, love. You could never even hope to hurt me." Astarion laughs at the thought. "But…I would like you to try.'
It doesn't matter what his master says, The Urge can't allow himself to unlock that door. Can't indulge himself in those thoughts: of fucking this delicate body until it breaks, of pooling their blood in his hands, of worshipping every inch of their body- just like they asked- inside and out.
When he blinks away the red haze at the edges of his vision, his hands have pinned his partner's shoulders down to the wall and he's fucking into him in earnest, hips clapping against the backs of his partner's thighs. It's such a sudden transition that he almost stops, but then the sound of Astarion's moaning filters into senses, and in an instant he forgets why he was ever even worried.
He reasserts the position of his hands, breathes sharp out of his nose as he puts his full strength into the snap of his hips. Every thrust sends lightning through him, and it's even better knowing that Astarion is powerless to stop him. He can take his pleasure as slowly or as quickly as he pleases.
It isn't often like that with them. It's usually endless hours of being teased and tormented, until the Urge is trembling and wholeheartedly begging to be fucked, and how could Astarion ever deny his darling pet?
The Urge likes it like that, feels safe and loved and a comfortable distance from the mindless beast that, deep down, they fear has all but consumed them.
Now, that same beast is mating its prey with the same brutality with which it hunts its victims: forceful and relentless and spurred on by the smaller man's delighted cries.
The Urge has killed in every means and manner there is. Nothing is sacred anymore. The only thing left to destroy is the life of his soulmate. The terrible ecstacy it would evoke in him; the sweetest despair he would ever taste. He would never need to kill ever again, he's sure of it.
It is something he knows he will never experience, but fucking Astarion like this gets him so deliciously close. As his hips continue to move, he takes the other man's throat in his hand, forcing his head up and back, chin tilted up towards the sky. His splayed fingers make for a makeshift collar then, one that can feel the flex of muscle and tendon as the vampire sounds out his approval.
" Gods… don't you dare stop."
Astarion wraps another loop of chain around his knuckles, brings their faces closer together.
"I want to tear your heart still-beating from your chest," the Urge replies, huffing the words against his master's cheek.
" Yes ."
"I want to flay the skin from your muscle, and the muscle from your bones. I want to make it last a thousand centuries."
"I know you do." For a single, profound moment, it almost sounds as though Astarion pities him. "It's okay. You can let go."
With his master's permission, he does. He lets go of the fear of hurting the only person who will ever love him. He unbinds the chains he holds himself in to keep his lover safe, and succumbs to whatever they were holding back.
Every thrust is bone-shattering now, designed to tear Astarion apart. He folds his arms around the smaller man's torso, practically pulling them onto his dick as he gets himself as deep as possible.
He finishes like that, bottom out inside of them, the intensity pulling a low groan out of him. The white-hot ache of his climax is so dizzying, so incredible, that for one terrible moment the Urge is convinced that he really has killed his master.
But then Astarion chuckles breathless and exhilarated beneath him, and allows the chain to go slack in his palm. The vampire smiles, and there is fresh blood on his lips from where the intensity must have had him biting down.
"Such a good boy." Aside from the shudder of his breath, his master is perfectly composed. He slowly flips himself over, sits back against the wall, and spreads his legs wide. "Look at what you do to me."
The Urge finally sees that the vampire is achingly hard, cock bobbing eagerly in anticipation of more. Astarion doesn't touch himself, though- that's what good pets are made for.
For a moment, he could have sworn his lover was dead. He could have sworn that he felt Astarion slip away, that he tasted those final, panicked breaths and the little spasms as his life slipped away. It was horrifying, and the greatest bliss he's ever felt.
But just like a dream, with every passing moment the memory loses its vividness, until he can't be sure that it wasn't all just in his head. Those red eyes are still smiling up at him after all, as full of life as they've always been.
It frightens him, how much he mourns Astarion's survival, though he loves them more than death. It frightens him more to know that this is an inner conflict he will never escape. It's an old terror, and once it consumed him constantly, until Astarion turned him into this.
He sinks down to the ground between his master's legs, accepts the erection as it is pressed up against his face. Allows the comfort of subservience to override everything else.
He remembers when Astarion first brought him down to the dungeons. He'd questioned all of the locks his master had put on the doors, insisted that they weren't necessary. He would never kill again, after all. Not without express permission.
Of course you won't, Astarion had laughed. But the chains aren't here to hold you back. They're to keep you safe.
"Thank you," The Bhaalspawn says, kissing at the base of his master's cock and stroking him with gentle, loving fingers. "Thank you, thank you."