Work Text:
“Are you saying that—” He tried desperately not to press at his old scars. “Cazador,” he spat. “I was in love with Cazador. Because he… compelled me to.” But Ancunín did not have to say a thing. The terrible expression on his face said everything… “And—” he said. He took a breath, looking at Ancunín with something like fear. “And, in all those worlds you travelled, how many times did you find this?” Ancunín took a moment to answer. He looked at him, a shadow in his face. “Every time.”
~from Ancunín
Marionette
Like a doll
Like a puppet with no will at all
And somebody taught me how to talk
How to walk
How to fall
“I’m a Marionette” by ABBA | 1977 CE // Ghost | 2013 CE
The Bad Thoughts had come to pester Astarion again. Right in the middle of a lovely dream. How rude of them. He could hear the precious little sounds that his Love made each time he slept. Music to his pointy ears. But when his Love was deepest in his slumber, those naughty Bad Thoughts came calling:
“This isn’t right.”
“This is not where you belong.”
“You are smarter than this.”
“You are more than this.”
“He hurt you. Remember that he hurt you and hurt you and hurt you–”
Swirling, tormenting whispers that wouldn’t leave when Astarion covered his poor ears. Tears came to his eyes. It was the Thoughts that made him sad, of course. Everything else in Astarion’s unlife as of late had been perfection, and it always would be.
His Love had promised a perfect, perfect life for him, so long as he behaved. So long as he was a good boy. And Astarion was always a good boy now.
In his younger days, he had been bad. He had tried to leave his Love, leave his perfect house and his perfect life. How silly. Why would anyone leave such perfection? Astarion could not recall. He could not imagine. But his Love told him that he had been bad before, and had been punished for it. Of course! When one is bad, one is punished, and one learns to become good. Punishment for being bad is deserved. If he was bad, he deserved punishment. But he was good now, a very good boy, and he was never, ever punished.
His Love stirred, and the Bad Thoughts had the decency to fade away to nothingness. It was horribly unfair that those Thoughts only came to Astarion when his Love was too deeply asleep to help him feel better. And by the time his Love had woken entirely, the Thoughts were so thoroughly banished as to be forgotten until their next unwanted visit.
A servant had drawn back the thick velvet curtains in his Love’s bedchamber, allowing the moonlight to spill through the ancient windows of the palace. Astarion was thrilled to see it and leapt from the bed to sit by the window and bathe in its light. Moonlight was the only safe light; this is what he had been taught. Sunlight would hurt him, and so he could not go outside in the daytime. Not ever. He waved his hands before his eyes in the light, observing the pearlescence of his pale skin, the delicate blue lattice of his thin veins. He was so pretty. He knew this because his Love had said so. He was “a work of art,” “carved as if from marble gifted by the gods,” “a rare specimen too beautiful to be squandered.” His Love said such wonderful things.
Astarion could sit and wait for hours until his Love awoke. He never bored and never tired. Just sat and waited, head empty of all thoughts apart from those of his Love. The lovely things he did, the tasty treats he brought. Astarion was never too hungry, for his Love would gift him little creatures to sup from. Cute little rats from the basement and tiny, adorable bats from the attic. Small meals were all he needed. All that he received.
His Love would wake and then they would play, as they did each night. His Love would fetch Astarion from the bench by the window, or shake him awake if he was still in trance. Astarion loved the games they would play. He knew now to offer his wrists to his Love, each to be clasped in a pretty gold bracelet chained to a post on the bed. He wished that he could keep the bracelets on all the time; he did so love to see how they gleamed in the moonlight. His Love liked to play these games with his clothes off. Astarion knew he should at all times be ready to play, so he rarely wore clothing at all. This was true tonight. He sat naked in the light of the moon, listening to his Love stir, waiting to be retrieved to play.
“Come to me, Astarion, my pet,” his Love called from the bed. Eagerly, he returned, heart fluttering from the sound of his name on his Love’s lips.
“We are attending a party at the Duke’s palace tonight. But first, pet, it’s time for you to play.” Astarion was bursting with enthusiasm at the thought of going to a party with his Love. A party meant wearing a pretty outfit, having a warm bath with fragrant soaps and perfumes. And a chance to be seen standing in a place of honor next to his Love as his most cherished spawn. His most prized possession. It felt so deliciously good to be wanted and cherished.
He knelt onto the bed and held out his wrists to receive his lovely gold bracelets. His Love pushed his hands away, then presented him with a new gift, a gold collar with a chain that disappeared over the edge of the bed. So shiny and so pretty, and he wanted it so badly. His Love snapped the collar around Astarion’s neck, sending a thrill traveling down his spine and pulsing at his entrance. He heard a second *click!*, as though his Love had closed a lock around the collar. How funny. His Love had no need for such things. He had no plans to be anywhere but here, in this bed, with his Love.
Astarion snuck little glances at his Love while each of his bracelets were secured around his wrists. He adored the pale gold of his skin, his long raven hair, his burgundy red eyes. Everything about his Love was perfect and wonderful, and Astarion could not imagine a life without him in it. What a horrible notion. He put the very concept of the thought from his mind.
His Love’s hand was at his back, and he was shoved forward onto the bed, onto his belly. He could feel the excitement between his legs, feel how hard he had become from just the start of playing, from the feeling of his Love’s hand against his skin. It was no wonder why his Love wanted to play like this every day, if he felt as good as Astarion did.
He felt his legs yanked backward and heard the clank of chains. Astarion’s undead heart skipped a beat. This was another new present. His Love was so delightfully generous today. Long fingers gripped his calf, lifted his leg. Astarion heard the familiar *snap!* of a bracelet, felt cool, smooth metal against his ankle. Then his Love released the leg without warning and began to work on the other. The metal bit into the thin skin of Astarion’s ankle as his leg dropped back onto the bed. He hurt and he felt sad, but only for a moment. This was supposed to hurt. Playing always hurt some way or another. And if his Love was hurting him while they played, then it must be correct. His other ankle stung as it too fell hard onto the bed and banged against the metal of his new bracelet.
But his Love could do no wrong. His Love was perfect, and he had given Astarion a perfect life, because he was a good boy. Hurting was just part of his perfect life, of course.
“He hurt you. Remember that he hurt you and hurt you and hurt–”
No, no, no. Those Bad Thoughts would not ruin his playtime. He pushed them away, replaced them with thoughts of his Love, and how his Love would play with him. They were not welcome, those Thoughts, and why were they even here when his Love was surely awake?
The bed had been quietly squeaking, and Astarion noticed that the squeak was growing in volume and persistence. His Love had begun to play without him. He felt sad and alone, and he tried to reach back to touch his Love, so he would know that his pet wanted to play, too. But those bracelets–so pretty, so shiny–stopped him short, and he heard the clank of the chains against the bed posts as they reached their limits. Astarion wanted to ask his Love to enter him, to touch him, to grip him. But he knew the rules for playing. He was allowed to say one word, and that was his Love’s name. And he surely would cry out that name, just as soon as his Love would bring him to his bliss. If he would only touch him. Astarion felt a strange sadness that hurt his chest. He did not feel sad, he felt angry, angry and left out. But only for a moment. He almost spoke, but he remembered the rules, and he remembered that he was a good boy. His Love would not forget, surely. And if Astarion did not reach his own end, then it was meant to be so.
He was not allowed to touch his body when it was not playtime or bathtime. His Love watched him bathe every night. He would know if Astarion touched his body in a playtime sort of way. That was against the rules. Only his Love could touch him there, unless he was told to touch himself there for his Love to watch. Even at bathtime, his Love washed those forbidden parts between his legs, and he was so very good at making sure Astarion was scrubbed clean.
Everything was per–
“Ah!”
A scream escaped Astarion’s throat before he could catch it. It felt as though he had been torn in half as his Love had entered him. It was a night where his Love did not slick himself before he began to play. There had been other nights like this, and other pain like this. Astarion did not know why his Love chose to cause him this pain, but he knew it must be right, because it was his Love’s game to play.
He was not sure whether his Love would consider his scream as the action of a good boy or a bad boy. His attitude on the matter had varied from playtime to playtime. He was inconsistent. But that must be how it should be. Astarion held in his pain as tears streamed down his cheeks and wet the pillow that he had bitten to quell his cries. Surely his eyes were just watering because of the pain, for what reason would he have to be sad about his Love playing with him?
“More of that, pet. I want to hear your sweet screams echoing from the walls of my bedchamber.” Screaming was good today, then. Astarion released the pillow from his teeth, turned his head, and let out a yelp, a wail, a howl for every pain he felt as his Love took him. He did not have to pretend or to playact his screaming. He felt pain so white-hot that it burned into his vision. It drove stakes through his brain. The screams tore at his throat and lungs. His Love prised him apart and pushed deeper inside, prolonging the searing, scorching pain at his entrance.
Astarion could hear his Love grunting his pleasure as his thrusts became harder and more erratic. Soon, the best part would come. The end of the playing, when his Love pumped his seed deep inside him, or on his back, or on his face. It was his favorite because his Love was so pleased and sated, of course. Not because the act had ended. He would endure the pains forever for his Love, just to see him satisfied–the flush in his cheeks, the glaze over his eyes. The seconds of his contentment.
Astarion screamed again as his Love pulled his hardness from the spawn’s body to spend on his back. He felt the muscles in his Love’s legs shudder against his own. His Love’s nails bit into his calves as he grabbed them to steady himself.
“It's bathtime, pet. Time to get cleaned up for the party.” Astarion felt the smooth metal slip away from his wrists and ankles. He heard the delicate jingle of tiny keys and waited for the click of release from his pretty new collar. He loved these new presents; he looked forward to playing with them again. He was mistaken about his collar, though. Rather than unlocking it, his Love had released its chain from the bed and wound the slack around his fist.
“Crawl to the washroom like a good little pup,” his Love commanded, and he happily obliged, dropping to his hands and knees. It was a considerable trip to make, and he would be dirty and sore upon arriving, but his Love would be so pleased to see how good a boy he could be.
Astarion ambled down the hallway to the washroom on all fours, followed by his Love. His collar jangled in a delightful way as the chain knocked against it. Every servant, every spawn they passed on the way was surely jealous of the care that his Love lavished upon him. Astarion knew that he was the favorite, the best behaved, the best treated. His Love took such good care of him.
As they arrived at the washroom, Astarion moved to stand and felt a foot on his back, pushing him back down. “Not yet, pet.” His Love gestured across the tile floor to the furthest bath. Though his hands and knees were already bruising, Astarion continued to crawl across the floor until he arrived at the bath. He sat on the cool tile, waiting to see what his Love wanted him to do next.
“Climb in the bath and wash yourself, slowly.” He indulged his Love, of course.
There was a rough washcloth hanging on the edge of the tub, which Astarion dipped in the steaming bath water. He stood in the tub, running the washcloth down his arms and legs, across his chest. He made his best effort to clean his Love’s seed from his back. It would be easier to take care of if he could dip under the water, but he did not know if he was allowed to sit yet. He began to bend his knees, to sink into the tub, but was stopped by a hand under his chin. His Love pulled him back upright, took the washcloth, and scrubbed it across Astarion’s back, cleaning every crevice of the large, ornate scarification present there. Astarion felt sad that his Love had to touch his imperfections, but he was happy to be touched by him.
His Love walked around to the front of the tub to begin cleaning the parts of Astarion that he was forbidden to touch. He was still excited, but did not know if this was good or bad today. As his Love knelt before him and took his hardness into his mouth, Astarion concluded that his excitement made him a very good boy today. His Love’s tongue and throat felt wonderful, but there was pain whenever a tooth scraped the delicate skin. His Love tongued and sucked him, clawed at his body. Astarion wanted to ask for more, to tell his Love exactly where to put his lips and tongue to best please him. But that was not his place. This was for his Love, not for him. It was so lucky that he felt good when his Love entertained his desires.
Astarion reached out a hand to touch his Love’s jet black hair. His hand was smacked away, and he briefly felt a fang pressing against the skin of his hardness. That was a bad thing to do. He would not touch his Love while he enjoyed himself.
He stood in the tub and felt his toes wrinkle as his Love sucked and sucked. It didn’t feel like much anymore, but it wasn’t for him. His Love had grunted in a frustrated sort of way. He seemed upset that Astarion had not reacted as desired, had not yet squealed his name in pleasure. Astarion felt a hand run across his hip and around, seeking his entrance. It would sting for anything to touch him there, but if his Love wanted to touch him, then it must be the right thing to do.
Astarion felt a bath-wet finger rimming around his entrance before pressing inside. He pressed his lips together hard to keep his screams inside, and his eyes began to water again as he squeezed them shut. Encased in his pain was a delicate strand of pleasure, and this he nurtured, for he knew that the playtime would not end until he had released into his Love’s mouth and cried out his name. He knew how much his Love desired this. He had not been bidden to scream, so that must no longer be a good thing to do. Instead he focused his thoughts on what made him feel best: his Love’s pleased face; bathing naked in the light of the moon; fresh sheets on the bed; his Love’s gentle touch, which was so rare and precious. A new thought flashed briefly in his mind, of a man he had seen at a previous party. An elf, like he was, tall and fair, with sharp features and a shock of white hair that twirled prettily around his pointed ears. The man had smiled at him briefly, and Astarion wished that he could remember more of his features. What he had worn, the color of his eyes…
What was he thinking? His thoughts belonged to his Love and to no-one else. He came back into himself and soon realized that he felt the anticipatory pressure that meant he was ready to release.
“Oh, Cazador,” he moaned as he filled his Love’s mouth. “Cazador…” His legs felt weak with fatigue, but he was not to sit; that was not a good thing to do.
His Love did not swallow his gift, but spit it into the tub where it swirled amidst the soapy water. Astarion longed to feel his Love drink deeply as he came to bliss, but his Love would never hold his spend in his mouth for long. This must be the correct thing to do. Dipping the washcloth in another part of the bath water, his Love began to scour his forbidden parts, so hard as to be painful. This must be the correct way to do it, and so his Love must carry it out, for Astarion would never clean himself so harshly, were he allowed to do so.
His golden collar was unlocked and removed, his neck scrubbed clean. His short hair was soaped, then rinsed with a bucket of water dumped over his head. His Love toweled him off once he was allowed to step out of the tub. He had stood so long in the water that the soles of his feet had begun to itch. Astarion was directed to walk back to the bedchamber on two legs, towel wrapped around his waist.
He had been instructed to choose an appropriate outfit for the Duke’s masked ball, and he relished the task. He flung open the doors of his wardrobe and began to explore. After deliberating the merits of various colors, he chose a waistcoat of dark purple and black brocade, fastened with gold buttons. He had a black shirt with puffed sleeves that would go splendidly with this, as well as black trousers that were tight in strategic places, should his Love request that a guest should be brought home. Astarion dried himself from head to toe, scrunching his curled hair in the towel to squeeze out excess moisture. He dressed and pulled on his high boots, then finger-combed and twirled his hair to bring his curls to life. He darkened his eyes and applied a touch of glitter at his throat and sternum. It always felt good to shimmer in this way, even if he was the only one who could see it. As a final touch, he slipped a black lace mask into his trouser pocket, to wear when he and his Love arrived at the party.
Once dressed, he met his Love at the dining table as he had been directed. They would have a light dinner before embarking, to avoid the temptation of mortal necks, of course. A covered tray was placed before Astarion by a servant with an odd glint in their eye. They seemed amused, but with what or whom, Astarion could not say. The same servant then sat in a chair next to his Love, anticipating their fate.
Astarion lifted the tray cover to reveal a rat trap, with a sluggish brown rat writhing within. There would not be much time before the rat died and its meager blood turned to something akin to poison. The poor little rat. How sad. Astarion sank his fangs into its small body and drank what he could before he heard the beating of its tiny heart cease. He placed the exsanguinated rodent back on the tray and covered it again after briefly petting it.
He watched in fascination as, across the table from him, his Love had latched his fangs firmly into the servant’s neck. He took long pulls of blood as the servant sat sluggishly. Astarion aspired to drink the blood of a thinking creature, though he knew this was not allowed. It was a bad thing, and if he did it, he would be a bad boy and would be punished. And he had not been punished in so very long, because he was such a good boy.
His Love finished his meal and dropped the servant’s lolling head unceremoniously to the table with a full-bodied *thud!*. How painful. They would have a headache later, certainly.
It was time to leave for the Duke’s party. His Love had ordered a coach, and the close quarters offered Astarion the opportunity to look into his Love’s eyes and think on how much love he felt in his heart. How much deep, heartfelt devotion. He knew that his Love must love him, too, for why else would he lavish him with this perfect life? His Love did not look him in the eye, but rather seemed to be deep in thought, as if staring through Astarion and into the back of the carriage. His Love must have such important things to think about, but Astarion felt sad for just a moment, having hoped that his Love would look at him.
The carriage pulled up to the gates of the ducal palace and stopped to release its vampiric passengers. His Love stepped out first, then Astarion followed. He had so hoped that his Love would hold out a hand to help him down the narrow steps to the ground. Alas, his Love did not, but had turned to speak with someone else. He followed his Love to the ducal palace, a home even richer and more beautiful than his own, if it could be believed. Astarion reached into his pocket and brought out the black mask, which he tied at the back of his head. What fun a masked ball would be! A queue of guests waited for their turn to be announced and presented to the party at large. When it came time for he and his Love to enter, they were announced as:
Lord Cazador Szarr and guest
And guest? He had never paid much mind to these announcements before, but tonight, he was bothered by this. “I do have a name,” he said aloud, forgetting himself.
“You will not speak unless spoken to, boy. You know our rules,” said his Love, so very harshly. Barely had they arrived and Astarion was already being a bad boy. It was a wonder that he was ever allowed to attend these parties, or to leave the palace at all. He must try to behave.
So focused he was on his thoughts of disobedience that Astarion had lost track of his Love. He was nowhere to be found, not in any direction that Astarion looked. It happened that he was still near the entrance of the palace. The guests continued to trickle inside. Astarion noted that, while most guests arrived in pairs, there was a man standing alone a few rows back at the entrance. He had not bothered with a mask, and his face had a familiarity to it that Astarion could not yet place. Stepping up to the entrance door unaccompanied, the man was simply announced as:
Lord Ancunín of Baldur's Gate
An elegant name. One he knew from somewhere, perhaps someone from his life before. Lord Ancunín glanced up, his gaze piercing directly into Astarion’s eyes from across the room. In the instant their eyes locked, his tears welled up and the Bad Thoughts burst forth:
“This is not where you belong.”
“This is not right.”
“This is not who you are.”
“You are smarter than this.”
“You are better than this.”
“You are worth more than this.”
“He hurt you. Don’t forget that he hurt you and hurt you and hurt you and hurt you and–"
The Thoughts were so loud and so strong that they were tormenting to hear. He again covered his ears and this made no difference. The Bad Thoughts were lodged far into the recesses of his brain. And if looking at that man had caused these Thoughts, well, then he never wanted to look at that man again.
Wait.
He finally recognized the man. It was the white-haired elf that he had seen before. Whose image had infiltrated his moments of intimacy with his Love and made them better–NO–nearly ruined them, of course. And now, that elf was walking right toward him, and his Love was nowhere to be seen. The elf seemed to be surrounded by a golden haze. It was beautiful, enticing, glamorous.
“What is a lovely little treat like you doing here without an escort, darling?”
Astarion was hastily trying to remember any rule he might be breaking by talking to the man. But this Lord Ancunín had spoken first, and Astarion was expected to always be polite, especially to a potential mark of such high value.
“I– he’s here somewhere. I got turned around and… lost track of him, I fear.” He bit his lip nervously. He was not used to being separated from his Love for so long.
“You seem distressed, my dear. How about I act as escort until we can find him?”
A very small part of Astarion wanted never to find his Love–Cazador–to find Cazador again, if it meant he could stay with this man. He found himself nodding before he thought to stop himself. Oh, but what a terrible thought. Something only a bad boy would think.
The pale elf's voice dropped low enough so that only Astarion could hear. “You are not bad for wanting something for yourself, after all that you have given.”
That strange sadness, that anger, filled his chest and pushed at his ribs, threatening to burst. “I don’t know who you are or what you think you know about me, but you will not take me away from my Love!” He had blurted out the angry, rude words before they could be stopped, before he could clamp his hands over his mouth to silence them.
If he failed to land a mark such as this, Cazador would be so displeased. And Astarion would face the punishment that he had dodged for so long.
It was all too much–the cacophonous music, the swell of the celebratory crowd, the flicker and flare of the lights, the clink of silverware against innumerable plates. And the biggest disruption of all, that pale elf, come to spoil his perfect life. Astarion panicked and burst into tears, great racking sobs that would soon draw undue attention if he could not regain composure. That pale elf, Lord Ancunín, gathered him up and spirited him away to a quiet garden outside. He held the spawn as if he was weightless.
There was a hedge maze at the edge of the garden. Ancunín set Astarion down at the entryway and led him through it, as though he knew each path and dead end already. They came to a clearing that seemed forgotten, little more than a stone bench and a few flickering lanterns, overgrown, uncared for.
Astarion thought it was the most beautiful place he had ever been. The pale elf, the most beautiful man he had ever seen. He felt a thick fog lifting, like his brain had been steeped in molasses that was finally being washed away.
He pulled the string tied at the back of his head and let the black lace mask fall away from his face.
“I don’t belong here,” he said.
“You do not,” Ancunín said, in a voice that sounded like the one Astarion heard when he read to himself.
“This is not who I am. I am better than this, smarter than this.”
“It is not. And you most certainly are, darling.”
“He hurt me. He HURT ME. HE HURT ME!!” Astarion worked up to a roar as his thoughts became his own. “Why do I think I love him when HE HURT ME?! He did all of this to me!”
Ancunín took the grief-stricken spawn back into his arms and held him. Held him and whispered little nothings to tell him he would be alright, darling… it’s over now, darling…
“How could it possibly be over? Unless… Unless you’re here to kill him.”
“I am, but it comes at a price, my love.”
The depths of Astarion’s disgust were fathomless now that all his thoughts and faculties were his own. He could remember every childish thought, every compelled belief, every single scrap of pain from the years the spell had been in place. He hadn’t avoided any punishment by “being good.” He had been in constant torment, blissfully ignorant of it all the while. He wretched, and he vomited what little blood he had in him.
“I don’t care,” Astarion said, wiping the gore and bile from his mouth. “I just want it to be over.”
“There’s no easy way to say it, love. If he dies, you will also die. Try as I might, I have found no way to save you.”
“What do you mean, you’ve found no way to save me? You’ve done this before?”
Ancunín considered how much of the truth he might share, what could help and what would only harm. “Yes, dozens of times. If I kill Cazador now, you will die a painful death along with him. But if I kill you first, in whatever manner you might want, then you will have dignity in your death and I will have all the time I need to bring to him a slow, agonizing conclusion.”
It was horrifying to consider, but Astarion knew he would rather die on his own terms than to die in agony at his captor’s side.
“But who are you? Why are you doing this?”
“Just think of me as a sort of guardian angel, darling. An answer to all of those prayers to the gods that you thought were never heard.”
When Astarion woke this evening, he did not know that this would be his last night to walk the plane.
“There are things I never got to do. So many things that were taken from me.”
“We don’t have much time, but I can try to grant you some of those things.”
Astarion thought back to his dinner, a dying rat in a rusted trap, provided by a servant who sneered at him. How he had longed for better. “I’ve been subsisting on rodents for the entirety of my unlife. I want to drink from a thinking creature just once before I die.”
“That can be arranged.”
“Can I drink from you? You smell... like nothing I have ever smelled before. Divine, delicious…”
“Dangerous, unfortunately. Mine is blood you can’t drink. I’m a thinking creature to be sure, but I am no mortal, nor anything else you’ve ever known.”
“Bit of a show-off, are we?”
Ancunín threw back his head and laughed, as much from sheer relief as from amusement. Astarion sounded more like himself all the time, far less like an infatuated adolescent with an unrequited crush.
“I live to show off,” said Ancunín with a grin. "It’s rare I encounter someone able to appreciate it.” With a snap of his fingers, he had summoned a stuporous party guest. Calm, docile, ready to be fed upon. “Now, is there anything else you desire before your untimely demise, my love?”
Astarion considered what might satisfy him enough to accept that he would have to die and he could think of only one thing.
“I want a kiss from someone who cares for me.”
He thought on how he had been fucked daily for time unknown, but could not recall ever having been kissed in all that time.
“That’s the most effortless gift I could give. For I would not be here with you, to release you from this, if I didn’t care deeply for you.”
“I know. Somehow, I know that.” Astarion was finally close enough to see the elf’s eyes. They were a vivid red, like twin rubies that he could gaze at forever. He began to reach toward the elf’s face, then stayed his hand, thought better of it, feared what might happen. What if none of this was real? It would be the cruelest trick of all.
Ancunín caught his retreating hand and pressed it against his face. “I am real. I’m here. It’s almost over.” He gestured toward the party guest. “Now, drink. Feed to your heart’s content.”
As Astarion looked to the guest, a strange taste filled his mouth. An acidic liquid, likely analogous to the drool that mortals described when encountering a delectable meal.
“It’s your venom, darling. When you’re allowed to feed as you ought to, your body makes a venom to render your meals pliant. They don’t hurt when you feed.”
“It’s not supposed to hurt?” Yet another betrayal surfaced as he thought of each time Cazador had taken from him, gnawing cruelly into his neck or shoulder. The blistering sting of his fangs, the relentless draw of Astarion’s blood from his weary body, the lethargy that came after. And the fucking that inevitably came after that, when Astarion was too bloodless and dazed to resist. Not that he would have thought to. He would have thought it was good and perfect and right, that he deserved it. He might even have considered it a treat.
Ancunín watched as Astarion puzzled this out, as his brow furrowed and he became angrier and angrier. “No, love, we aren’t meant to hurt them. Just to take what we need and release them.”
Astarion was still too furious to notice the slip of the tongue, the referral to ‘we’ rather than ‘you.’ It was for the best.
The guest had been sitting on the stone bench, swaying, waiting. Astarion was still worried about hurting them. He watched as Ancunín laid them back gently onto the bench. “Do they know where they are? And what will happen to them?” There was a wrongness to this. He feared that it would be the same as how he had been taken advantage of.
“Oh yes, love, they’re quite willing. There are always mortals eager to give themselves to the creatures of the night. It excites them, darling. The danger of it. The risk.”
Astarion knew too well about such mortals, how they pawed and clamored for him, begged for his fangs in a way he could never oblige. Until now, in his final hour.
“I found this one milling about the party. One can spot them from leagues away sometimes. Don’t fret, my dear; we have asked before biting.”
He had to trust that this was the truth. The elf did not seem to have lied to him about anything else tonight. Ancunín took him by the shoulders and guided him to his prey, whereby the starving spawn fell upon the mortal to feed as he never had before. Astarion bit down on the guest’s neck, gently as he could while still fulfilling himself. As his fangs broke skin, the guest smiled contentedly, a satisfied hum vibrating their throat. Astarion felt delirious with pleasure from the moment the blood touched his tongue. Nothing had ever tasted so satisfying, nothing had ever felt so nourishing as this. The constant cramping of his belly faded, and for a moment, it frightened him. A key aspect of himself was gone, but it was a bad part, and it had been excised. He moaned in delight at the absence of his hunger.
Living, thinking blood, from a heart beating vigorously inside a person who was content to let him feed. Not the anemic, diseased blood of a dying animal whose last thoughts were terror and whose only thoughts before were survival. It was exquisite, it was rich, it filled him and warmed him in a way he could not remember ever feeling.
Ancunín had been through this night so many times, he had spotted and courted every fang-chaser at this party. Knew their names and what they liked, knew which ones would come willingly and which would be too frightened. For this Astarion, he had chosen one of his favorites. A sweeter, less lecherous deviant who was simply lonely and harbored odd tastes.
He smiled as he watched his quarry’s final meal, knowing that it would be his best one. But his smile could not quite reach his eyes, for he knew that the night couldn’t end until this spawn’s life did.
Astarion drank and drank until he felt a tender hand on his shoulder.
“I’m so sorry, my love, but you must stop. You have to leave them something, or they will die.”
Astarion’s eyes snapped open, and he looked, mortified, at the cyanotic lips of the guest. He covered his face with shame.
“Oh, love, don’t think I didn’t come prepared. We all make the same mistake our first time.” Ancunín pulled a small bottle from his trouser pocket, uncorked it, and tipped it into the guest’s slacked mouth. Color returned to their lips and skin. Their heart rate returned to a regular pace, their chest rose and fell, pulling in air. “See, all better.” The peaceful grin returned to the guest’s face. “They will be so pleased with the gift you gave them once they wake,” Ancunín said, pointing to the bite marks that Astarion had left behind. A thin stream of blood had trickled down to the guest’s white collared shirt, where the stain bloomed into a tiny flower.
“Now, darling, I have a gift for you. But first, how do you want to make your grand exit?”
Astarion had been watching the expanding bloodstain on the guest’s shirt, taken in by the contrast of pure white and bright red. Vivid colours were another thing he was not overly accustomed to, having spent most of his time in a dimly-lit bedchamber or one of a hundred smoke-filled taverns.
How did he want to die? How does one answer such a question?
“I don’t know, quickly? You said you’ve done it before. How do you usually do it? How can you make sure I never come back to this?”
“That has less to do with your death and more to do with the way I handle your body after. I’m not sure you want the gory details, darling.”
“No, I’m not sure that I do,” Astarion said, unnerved.
Ancunín snapped and the guest was gone. They were alone once again. The light from the lanterns and the moonlight highlighted the elf’s features in a way that made Astarion’s knees feel weak. He sat down heavily on the stone bench, mourning for the time he had lost. “Why couldn’t I have met you sooner? I saw you before; why didn’t you seek me out then?”
“It wasn’t the time, my love. Now is the time. Are you ready?”
“I don’t know that I’ll ever be. But I know that I’ll go mad if I have to return to the palace with my Lo– my master, with Cazador. Cazador,” he hissed.
Ancunín joined him on the bench, held his shaking hands, and reassured him, “You are never going back, Astarion.” He held the spawn’s pale face against his hand, played with his curled white hair, gazed into his ruby red eyes. Astarion would never know that he was peering into a living looking glass.
Winding his fingers through the curls at the back of Astarion’s head, Ancunín pulled him into a kiss. Someone’s tears fell on someone’s cheeks; it was not clear whose. It was unfair that his firsts should also be lasts, but fairness was a fortune that had rarely smiled on Astarion. He wanted to stay like this, kissing a beautiful man who appeared from the shadows to save him, for the rest of his life. And he would.
Ancunín pulled a dagger from the holster at his back, readied himself, still kissing this tragic, precious spawn. It had come time to end this once again, as he had many times before. He stroked Astarion’s cheek with one hand, then thrust the dagger between his ribs with the other. The kiss broke as Astarion collapsed into Ancunín’s arms. His long unlife had finally ended.
“Thank you,” he said, in barely more than a whisper.
“Of course, my love.”
“And so,” Ancunín whispered, gently touching Astarion’s hand. “I killed you. So many times.”
The words came to his lips unbidden: “Thank you.”
~from Ancunín