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Ildran loved that wicked little flash. Even when it was directed at him. |
Astarion may have gone to the sun, but the sewers held so many little reminders of Ildran’s beloved Underdark - mushrooms sprouting sideways through cracks in the damp rock, the occasional ooze begging to be licked. And in his new form, his precious second skin, he was a reckoning not welcome in the streets of the Uppe... |
"I brought you something," Astarion announced. He shoved the for-show cutlery aside and threw his prey, a shaking elf, onto the table. "He reminded me of that druid." |
Ildran leaned back in his chair as the man’s head landed with a crack on the wooden edge. "What, Halsin?" |
"Who? No, you know the one - smelled like dirt, arms like great ropey tree trunks." Astarion waved an arm. |
The elf on the table likely wasn’t even a druid. Certainly not one of Halsin’s girth. Halsin had muscles you could shred in layers. Halsin had a jaw just begging to be clawed off. How beautiful, Ildran always thought, to torture a bear that writhed like a man. |
Astarion sensed his disappointment. "Well, he reeks like he’s been rolling in bear shit all day, so I say - close enough." He threw himself into the chair opposite. "Don’t tell me you’re ungrateful." |
"What I am, is hungry," Ildran said. "I’ve killed enough tonight. I’m famished." |
The laugh from Astarion’s lips was bitter and high. "’I’ve killed enough?’ Do say more, oh Blade of Frontiers." |
"Maintaining the form is demanding." |
"You could always hunt without it, you know. You used to enjoy murder perfectly fine without all those extra teeth getting in the way." |
Ildran bared them, though in his drow form now. "Jealous?" |
The words were barely out of his lips than he found Astarion in front of him, kneeling on the table over the prone elf with a knee in the man’s chest and one pale hand around Ildran’s neck. "Careful, darling," he said, the words clipped and tight. "If you don’t appreciate when I do nice things I might stop doing them." |
Darling. So sweet, so barbed. |
Ildran summoned a claw and reached slowly for the man’s chest, pinning his talon in the divot just beside Astarion’s knee. The flesh punctured easily. And the elf screamed beautifully as he drew it up, up, cleaving the pectorals and crunching through the collarbone, slicing the skin until with a last flick he bifurcate... |
Tempting - oh, so tempting - to unsheath all his claws and rake the elf to ribbons beneath Astarion’s thighs. The thought of it was undeniably arousing. He could unlace that ridiculous ruffled shirt, kissing cold skin above while warm blood soaked them through below...Astarion clearly expected it. He laid out scenes li... |
"There. Now enjoy your dinner," Ildran said, taking a step back in violation of the script. He shook the blood from his claws. "I’ll find my own." |
The shock on Astarion’s face was delectable. |
He slept alone that night. |
Astarion was haughty for a few days, spurning him in the halls and sleeping in his coffin instead of their shared rooms. Good, thought Ildran. The slayer string was not one he ever pulled too hard. But their whatever-it-was spun on a delicate wheel of power. It tilted towards Astarion’s favor, then his own, but always ... |
Sometimes he wasn’t certain if they loved or despised each other. Only that, as Astarion would grudgingly admit from time to time, whichever it was, was nice. |
But no more than a week later Ildran returned as he always did after a night of worship - sated, in many ways, starved, in others - to find a feast worthy of the House of Hope adorning their finest table. The same long one Astarion delighted in toppling their guests upon for his own dinner. |
Astarion himself sprung up from the head of the table as Ildran approached. |
"I wanted to...treat my little treat, as it were," he said by way of explanation. "It occurs to me that this might be an area where our, ah, needs differ. Perhaps we can dine together, tonight." |
Ildran needed no encouraging. The slayer form, after all, was ravenous. Even long after he’d traded in the extra limbs and teeth for his weaker flesh, the sheer exertion of that rage lingered. His muscled ached for nourishment. His stomach, heartened and steeled at the sight of the evening’s disembowelments, growled fo... |
He tore into the feast. |
Later, Ildran decided, he’d question the motives behind Astarion’s "treat’. Selflessness wasn’t in his nature. Everything was an exchange, with Astarion. Gifts were made but not forgotten, their presence whipped out in some later argument he was determined to win. |
For now, there was food - all of it shockingly delectable, considering. Honeyed ham, roasted courgette, a half dozen kinds of meat and cheese pies, sour cherry tarts... |
"Delicious," Astarion murmured, eyes locked on Ildran’s working mouth. |
As Ildran began to slow down, Astarion rose. His tongue flicked hungrily over his fangs. "My turn." |
He brushed the hair from Ildran’s neck. |
Ildran would never say it aloud, but these little seconds just before the bite...they sent a raw and hungry anticipation coursing through his skin, even now. Little shakes of excitement, Astarion had once observed, and while he’d grown more accustomed to the feeling of being fed on, a certain amount of that thrill neve... |
Fangs pierced his skin harder than usual, and Ildran gasped. |
"Keep eating, darling," Astarion said into his neck, voice thick. "Your blood pumps harder with every bite." |
So it did. Ildran could imagine as much, knowing how the stream stuttered and flowed in concert with his own victims’ screams, each contraction of the neck and throat furthering that sweet, sweet exsanguination. |
It was only fair, he supposed. For Astarion to feed him, before he fed Astarion. |
From then on it became a pattern whenever the urges began to fester. He bid the household good night and tasked Scleritas as needed, indulged in the bloodbath of a few unfortunates, and returned to the palace to find his vampire leering over a table laden with enough food for five. |
Sometimes they did indeed dine together. |
Other times Astarion just sat and watched as he devoured, a fascination Ildran didn’t know what to make of burning in his red eyes. |
No matter the case, they were satisfying nights. Immensely satisfying nights. To kill and maim and slash and torment was its own reward, of course; he didn’t need this indulgence afterwards. And he still wasn’t certain what Astarion was getting from it all, other than an accumulation of favors and perhaps richer blood ... |
A problem for a later date. |
As Ildran kicked a chair back and settled in. Astarion was upon him within seconds. |
"You smell incredible. Sweet. A group of clerics, was it?" |
"Selunites," Ildran said through a mouthful. |
Astarion licked his neck. "Mm. And not quite dry." |
"I splattered one fresh for you as I left." Ildran grinned and gripped Astarion’s chin in his hand, relishing the curled lip over fangs as he toyed with it. |
"How considerate." |
He let Astarion lick the remnants of the Selunite from his skin. Blood and salt. A nice little apertif, he imagined, not being occasionally above such things himself. |
Less satisfying than a good rack of honeyed ribs, though. Dwarven, rothe, ox - Ildran scanned the impressive spread, quickly finding what he sought. |
Astarion’s hand tugged at his hair as they ate. |
In time the spread began to dwindle. It was too much food - it was always too much food - but he’d made a sizeable dent, and intended to finish at least two more of the plates still. The potatoes, he thought. And...dessert. |
At his side Astarion still drank, slow and lazy. One pale hand began to trail farther south. The cool touch slipped beneath the hem of Ildran’s shirt, fingertips lingering around Ildran’s navel until he scowled and slapped Astarion’s hand away. |
There was also that. |
The slayer form made him ravenous, true. Somewhat more ravenous than his drow body was able to keep pace with when presented with a second feast to make carnage of. He was gaining weight. And at this particular moment, stuffed as he was, the curve of his stomach was not exactly subtle. |
A few minutes later Astarion’s hand began to stroke beneath his navel again. |
And again, Ildran swatted the cold touch away. "Cut it out." |
"Oh, are we self-conscious?" Astarion purred, pulling back from his neck. "How cute." |
"Bold of you, calling a Bhaalspawn cute." |
Astarion nipped at his ear in response. "Then let me be bolder still, and say: you’re getting soft, Bhaalspawn. Like a plush little lamb." |
"Maybe you are too, feeding on me as you have been," Ildran retorted. "You just can’t see yourself in the mirror to tell." |
Astarion tossed his head back with a bloody grin. And yes, they both knew it wasn’t true. Astarion’s body would never change. His snow-driven hair never grew, his flesh never tanned or sagged, even his pristine nails stayed just as they’d been two hundred years ago. He only scarred the result of Cazador’s abhorrent mag... |
Ildran was nearly through the final dish of potatoes when Astarion suddenly snatched the plate from his hands and threw it back on the table. Before he could protest Astarion had swung a leg over his own, planting himself firmly in Ildran’s lap and rocking forward against his rounding belly. |
"Well," said Ildran, raising a brow. |
"Oh, don’t look at me like that," Astarion snapped. "I’m just as surprised as you are." |
"Whatever you say," he teased. "Lover." |
Lovers they might be, but sex hadn’t been a part of their dynamic since very, very early on - back when they each slavishly denied their respective true natures; back when Astarion was insecure enough to seek out protection using his most persuasive weapon; back when Ildran was shocked at the carnage his hands could br... |
Ildran darted his tongue into Astarion’s mouth, pricking it against the fangs as he so loved to do, relishing the little hiss Astarion gave as he sucked the errant drops of blood down. They kissed, open-mouthed and messy, until Astarion reached behind himself and brought a pastry stuffed with cream and jam to Ildran’s ... |
"Keep eating, pet." |
A shiver ran up Ildran’s spine. Who was he to disobey. Not when things were going so beautifully. Instead Ildran made a show of it, moaning at the sweetness, tensing his jaw such that his veins popped, arcing his growing belly up towards Astarion’s own flat one. |
Something about it felt...bestial. Juices dripped down his face instead of gore, and he panted heavy not from the effort of the kill but from the fullness in his gut and the arousal it brought below. He was a wolf after a rapturous hunt; a manticore with belly full of prey. |
Astarion drank deeply, his own hips grinding slowly against the soft curve of Ildran’s stomach. |
There would still be no sex, that much Ildran knew. He would take himself in hand later, once Astarion was done with whatever he wanted to do, and perhaps in the morning he’d arrange a trip to Menzobarranzan. |
No skinny predators in the Ancunin palace, Ildran thought. Their hunts always went well, their tables and cellars always full. Here, they feasted. |
It wasn’t for some months that he managed to seek out a mirror. Astarion got unforgivably irritating around reflective surfaces, and Ildran’s vanity was not so great that he’d willing put up with all that just to preen. He hadn’t quite caught a reliable glimpse of himself until he ventured into the city proper for a ta... |
Naturally he had contemplated calling upon the Weave for a bit of subtle adjustment. Sceleritas couldn’t be trusted not to pop up unannounced spewing measurements if tasked with the alterations, and he’d rather not give Astarion the satisfaction of knowing exactly how much the post-slay feasting had impacted his waistl... |
He was regretting that a bit now. There was no good way to stand on a gods-damned pedestal before a veritable wall of mirrors, some dwarf eye level with what used to be his waist, and not notice. |
He was simply bigger. Heavier. His arms had gotten thicker, the muscles beneath no longer visible. And even standing, his belly still rounded out over the edge of his undergarments, soft and padded like some plump, spoiled noble’s. |
Hells. For all Baldur’s Gate saw, that was what he was, Ildran realized. A high-bred drow who’d come to the surface, taken up with the handsome elf in the Ancunin palace - anyone who’d still call it the Szarr palace had long since seen a lengthy death - and gotten fat. |
If nothing else, he consoled himself, at least it was a splendid cover for his activities at the temple. |
The dwarven tailor circled him, muttering numbers aloud and wrapping tapes around Ildran’s thighs, and then his gut again, and then his thighs once more still. |
"Would you hurry up," Ildran griped. |
"Just double-checking, saer," the tailor said. "It’s...a departure from what I last had in your records." |
Ildran heaved a sigh, watching in the mirrors as his belly puffed up and deflated with his breath. |
He didn’t look at the numbers the tailor finally jotted down. He left with a selection of new robes in hand, and an order placed for some ceremonial garment Sceleritas had insisted upon for the next month’s sacrificial rituals. |
Back at the palace he changed into one of the new sets of robes. It was a white garment with open sleeves and a deep neckline, the sort of thing he’d have worn to one of the Baenre’s gatherings in Menzoberranzan - perhaps he was feeling homesick. Then he offloaded the garments with a thrall, instructing them up to the ... |
He found the vampire lord of the house himself in the library, balancing some massive tome on a single slender hand. |
Astarion glanced up as he entered, then looked again, deeper, scanning him up and down like some scrying eye. "This is new," he said with a wave in Ildran’s general direction. |
"This is what happens to mortals when we eat," Ildran griped. "Or has it been so long that you’ve forgotten." |
"I meant the clothes, darling. Though if you want to talk about...that, I’m all pointy ears. I didn’t even know drow could get fat." |
Ildran’s stomach dropped. |
Astarion just watched him in that haughty, reserved way he had, chin tilted up and one hand curled in front of his face. |
Oddly, aside from the nights Astarion plied him with some unending feast, they’d heretofor said very little about it all. Little changed in their day-to-day. Astarion played at magistrate, tucking political pawns into his back pockets like souveniers. Ildran saw to the urges and kept Bhaal satisfied. |
Astarion would rake nails against his exposed stomach with a grin, of course. Prick a tooth on the flesh of Ildran’s upper arm under the pretense of a lovers’ kiss, and squeeze. He didn’t mind that. It was only a slightly different flavor of what had always existed between the two of them; a gentle sort of cruelty. And... |
Ildran sneered, deferring to the tried and true tactic of lobbing it back. "Don’t tell me your vanity suffers by association." |
"My vanity is impenetrable. I’m only wondering how yours is faring these days." |
A bowl of grapes sat out on a table near the bookshelves, alongside a half-drunk glass of something. Ildran popped a few in his mouth and drained the glass - sherry, it seemed. "We have decorative fruit now?" he said, deferring again. |
Astarion hmm’ed. A curious little smile toyed at his lips, still maddeningly guarded. |
To Ildran’s immense relief, Sceleritas chose that moment to appear at his side in a whiff of smoke. |
"You’re back, my lord," his vile little butler said. "I have updates on the preparations for next week’s ceremony. Shall we retreat to your study?" |
Oh, the gods-damned ceremony. |
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