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"Don’t let me keep you," Astarion said. He waved a hand, returning to his book, the moment broken. "Plenty who need killing, and all that." |
It was late by the time Ildran convinced Sceleritas that death was best orchestrated by the impulses of the moment, not scripted like some lower city puppet show, and retreated to their rooms, exhausted and irritable. The hunt would need to wait for another night. |
Astarion lounged on the wide bed, a glass of blood or wine in his hand, evidently still engrossed in his same book from earlier. He could look so damned gentle sometimes, Ildran thought. His face all pensive like that; brows raised and lips falling open. |
Sometimes he forgot just how young Astarion had been turned. Thirty-nine years was nothing, not for an elf, or a drow. |
Astarion didn’t look up from his book as Ildran began to disrobe. "The slayer comes to bed before dawn? If you’ve tired of killing, darling, we’ll need to talk." |
Ildran sighed. "I’ve tired of planning the killing." He heaved himself onto the bed, reaching over to toy with the wispy curl by Astarion’s ear. "It’s tedious. I miss the days our prey were simply those in front of us. No thinking, just..." |
"I’d be tempted to agree, if not for the night that dastardly little shit you call a butler convinced you to try and disembowel me. I like you having some discretion over your impulses." |
"How long until you let that go?" |
"Oh, never. You really should have thought of that before you snapped those lovely teeth at an immortal, pet." His voice was teasing, his eyes flirtatious, but there was truth there, Ildran knew. |
He’d expect nothing less. |
"Your own brand of murder does have its benefits," Ildran admitted, stroking Astarion’s fine-lined cheek with one finger, resisting the urge to sharpen a claw and carve a new line of his own. "More...intimate, I sometimes think." |
"To have your face buried in their necks, or wrists, or thighs? Their scent so close, the raw edges of their wounds brushing your lips...I’d say so, yes." |
"Darling," Astarion breathed. "You do know just what to say, don’t you." |
The book had been tossed aside at some point, and Astarion’s nails now dug into the slight hang of Ildran’s stomach, pulling him closer. |
A hint of tongue peeked between his fangs. |
"Perhaps you should try it my way, then," he said, and leaned into the cold grasp. His belly brushed against Astarion’s own flat, bare stomach. |
Astarion gave a breathy hum. "Your way, hm? And how would that be?" |
Ildran nuzzled at Astarion’s pale neck just above the bite marks. He always smelled beautiful there. Some lingering trace of his last mortal wound, Ildran sometimes thought - a little floral, a little acidic, blood mixed with decaying perfume. Of course he would be drawn to the site of his dead love’s own death. |
"Go for the gut," he said into the twin punctures, lips curling in delight as Astarion’s breath hitched. "Find the softest, most vulnerable inch of flesh, and dig your claws in until they come apart." |
The grip on his stomach tightened, just as he thought it would. Astarion’s nails pricked hard at his skin. They weren’t sharp enough to draw blood, but Ildran knew when the hold broke he would have thin half-circles serving as a blueprint for a more satisfying bite. |
Gods, but he was already hard. He’d need to slink off and take himself in hand when Astarion tired of the petting. |
Fortunately, that time didn’t seem to be imminent, as Astarion drew him into a messy, teeth-clashing kiss. |
The sensation of being so much bigger than Astarion still felt new. They were well-matched in height, and never terribly off in build, until recently. Straddling Astarion’s slim hips like this, bracing his palms on the headboard on either side of those tousled white curls, the soft lower curve of his belly still held i... |
It was satisfying in a way Ildran hadn’t anticipated, and that he couldn’t quite put words to other than to say it awoke something carnal in him that normally kept itself within the skin of his slayer form. |
"Enough," Astarion said, breaking the kiss. "On your back." |
He rolled over, thighs spread. Astarion settled on his own stomach between them. |
"Now then. Where do they bleed the most, done your way?" Astarion’s mouth traveled across Ildran’s belly, teeth scraping cruelly against the flesh, nipping at his options. "Here? Or...here?" |
Ildran groaned. His arousal was assuredly evident, curving up towards the hollows of Astarion’s collarbone and neck, yet Astarion didn’t arc away. |
"Doesn’t a vampire lord know where to find an abdominal vein?" He couldn’t resist the jab. |
Astarion looked up, eyes spark-red and lips parted. "Tell me where you want me to bite you, darling, or I’ll go for the obvious source of pooling blood. I’d rather a soft mouthful but I’ll take a hard one too." |
Ildran tapped low on his belly, right where he knew a beautiful vessel ran down to his leg, and gasped as Astarion sunk fangs into the spot without hesitation. |
Nearly a full inch of his flesh was clasped between Astarion’s teeth. |
He was used to a bite that punctured the vein but stayed at the surface. This - this, he could only shudder through, begging the dead gods for sanity as Astarion’s tongue lapped not at the wounds but at the pad of fat between. Unhinged thoughts ran through Ildran’s mind. Did he taste better like this, richer - could As... |
Astarion’s hands stilled by his hips. He let up, releasing Ildran’s stomach and breathing hard. |
The sight of those lips dripping with blood would never grow old. |
For the first time, Ildran considered that perhaps Astarion’s interest in sating the appetites of his slayer form was no more complicated than this was for him. Perhaps they simply appreciated each other’s hunger, and whatever artifacts it brought, be they red eyes and fangs or a softer belly and thighs. |
"You’re beautiful," Ildran whispered. |
Astarion crawled up the bed to lay beside him, planting chaste red-lipped kisses to Ildran’s torso as he went. He paused at Ildran’s nipple and flicked it with his tongue. |
"It could be like this forever, you know." Astarion murmured. "If you would only trust me." |
Of course Astarion couldn’t resist pushing it. Of course he’d go and ruin the night - damn him. |
Ildran scowled and pushed him off, arousal and affection waning. "I won’t be your spawn, Astarion." |
"You wouldn’t be -" Astarion caught himself, quite literally biting his tongue in apparent frustration. He swiped harshly at his mouth with a thumb and smeared the blood on the sheets. "It’s not as if I’d turn you from bed to the kennels. You’d be my consort." |
"Fine," Astarion snapped. Always lobbing a bet into the ring and abandoning the game as soon as it was apparent his hand was unlikely to win. "I’ll let it go, but -" |
Ildran left him there, not bothering to listen to the end of the sentence as it trailed off in undignified profanity behind the slam of the door. |
He stalked off to clean the blood from his belly and take care of his erection. |
Why now, of all times? Astarion hadn’t pressed the subject in at least a year, if not more. They tested each other, yes; played cruelly, yes; but each maintained their own side of the unspoken line upon which so much rested, even all these years later. No late-night surprises. They kissed, sometimes more. They drank, s... |
Knowing Astarion, there was likely some obscene, ruthless calculus behind it all that only made sense to him. As if he was owed additional attempts to persuade Ildran to turn every time he unexpectedly sprung an erection. |
The thought sat uneasily in Ildran’s gut. |
Ildran brought himself off angrily, not enjoying it, just waiting to spill over the marble tiles of the lavish bathroom so he could dry off and go to sleep. One of Astarion’s thralls would clean up the mess in the morning. |
Ildran lay awake, mind brimming with thought about the ritual to come. It promised to be excruciating, and not in a good way. The mantle of the Dread Lord’s Chosen wasn’t always one he enjoyed. The temple’s regular worshipers had expectations, not all of which could be handled by underlings. From time to time a night l... |
He wouldn’t even have Astarion there for distraction. "I’m all for a bit of ritualistic murder, but that simply seems excessive," Astarion said when he described the event. |
Ildran glanced across the bed. |
Astarion was a beautiful sleeper. Lying there all still with blue shadows under his eyes and not a hint of color in his cheeks, he looked like a lovely corpse. Technically perhaps he was. |
It was sickening, Ildran thought, how much trust they put in one another. No right-minded vampire ascendant and Bhaalspawn would share a bed. |
At first light Astarion was on his feet and clapping his hands in apparent disregard for Ildran’s feigned rest. |
"Quite the day ahead of us, isn’t it!" he exclaimed. He threw the curtains back as Ildran groaned. In the morning sun his face was almost golden, so pale as to reflect back whatever light hit it. "The world is ours for the taking, my pretty little pitfiend." |
"Funny how it’s only my achievements that are ours." |
Astarion whirled. "Now why ever would you say that." A hand pressed to his chest, as if comforting the unbeating heart there. "Have I not been nothing but supportive of your - your little aspirations?" |
"And I of yours?" Ildran threw back. "Ascendant?" |
"Oh, darling, don’t be coy. Knowing I have your unwavering devotion in all things makes them that much sweeter." |
There was a scab to pick there, but Ildran let it be. He didn’t need to be in any more of sour mood than he already was for what should be a day of divine butchery. If they were going to fight, they’d fight after the murder. |
He’d picked up his newly commissioned ceremonial robes a few days prior, but, dangerously, not bothered to try them on until today. They were beautiful, he had to admit. Bare-armed, cut deep at the neck and high at the thigh, in silver silk that nearly matched the tone of his skin and would certainly stain when the blo... |
They were also...quite tight, he thought, wriggling a bit to get them overhead. If not for the generous side slits Ildran wasn’t even certain his legs and ass would’ve fit. And he had...gods, he had visible cleavage, the softness on his chest pushed inward by the unforgiving fabric. |
Across the room, Astarion gave a low, breathy sort of hum. |
Ildran plucked at the silk. "I take it that means you approve." |
"How could I not. You look positively delicious." |
He raised a brow. |
"Gorgeous," Astarion said, throwing his arms wide in the tiniest of mea culpa bows before bounding over to pinch at the roll beneath Ildran’s chest. "Delectable. The best-dressed Chosen of Bhaal those sorry excuses for assassins will have ever seen. A veritable vision of a last sight for the dying." |
"Alright," Ildran brushed him off with a slight laugh. "Alright. Enough." |
Astarion grinned. "Go spill some blood." |
The ceremony itself was unremarkable. The killings put before him were unimaginative, the cultists a bit brutish. It wasn’t often he missed Orin, but at least she’d had a flair for ritual. Perhaps he should bring back the lending library. |
He found the throne somewhat less comfortable than he remembered. Stone everything, squeezing his hips, and as soon as he’d sat down the silk robe grew dangerously taught across his gut. He’d had to hold his stomach in nearly the whole proceeding, and it was difficult to enjoy the growing pile of bones and bodies when ... |
As the hours of mindless slaughter droned on, Ildran distracted himself thinking of what awaited when he returned. |
He’d grown expectant of the post-ritual proceedings awaiting him when he returned from a night in slayer form. Astarion was always in his element at daybreak, Ildran at the darkest moonlit hour. There were few things more satisfying than drinking in those pre-dawn moments in some dim room of the palace, savoring everyt... |
At last they came to the sacrifice’s highlight: an aasimar. Lovely, bound, and stoic. |
Ildran summoned his slayer form. The robes melted away, another set of arms sprung from his sides, and as he roared down the gauntlet he felt the hunger build. |
Astarion, he thought, going for the aasimar’s eyes. Astarion, taking her breast in his jaws. Astarion, Astarion, Astarion - the one thought that awoke everything in him, all the rage and desire and love and malice he had. |
And a wonderful one, after the rest of the day’s lackluster sacrifices. |
Back in his drow form Ildran tore through the palace. |
He found Astarion on one of the upper floors, in a bookshelf-lined room they rarely used, a banquet table artfully arranged in the middle of the dark parquet floors, with enough food to sate a dozen. |
Astarion sat at the head of the table, swirling a glass of what had to be wine - were he already sipping blood he’d never be looking at Ildran so hungrily. |
How in the hells did he even find the time to do all this, Ildran wondered. The thralls were nowhere to be seen. Astarion’s current three household spawn were no doubt sitting quietly wherever he’d compelled them to. Even Sceleritas knew to fuck off and not inquire about the ritual until they finished their private goi... |
"So?" said Astarion. He took another leisurely sip. "How was it?" |
Ildran, famished, lit upon a loaf of bread and salty butter. Through the mouthful he said, "Disappointing." |
Astarion clicked his tongue. The show of sympathy didn’t mask his pleasure; his eyes flashed bright as ever. "Oh, pet. You should have stayed here with me. I never disappoint. The aasimar wasn’t up to snuff?" |
"The aasimar was the only good part." Ildran stuffed another hunk of bread in his mouth. "I tore off her ears and blinded her so all she could do was feel every inch of her undoing. Gods, little star, you should have heard how she screamed for mercy. Her body heaved like she was coming, it was...excruciating, glorious,... |
"Yes, yes, I’m sure she looked very pretty, all laid out on the table and begging for it to stop." Astarion cut him off, a glinting smile on his lips. "Your turn." |
He cast the glass of wine aside, took Ildran by the throat, and threw him back upon the feast. |
A vampire lord’s strength more than compensated for Ildran’s advantage in sheer bulk. He flew back like the shattered glass. |
It was a waste of good food to lie in it. But flesh was flesh; did it matter so much if he were pinned to a spread of raw human limbs or roasted rothe ones, if his hair was wet with blood or some other fragrant sauce. |
Horribly, delightfully, the parallels aroused him. He would so love to see Astarion straddling him above an oubliette of carnage. He would gladly, oh so gladly, take this. |
Astarion leaped atop him within seconds. He swung a slender leg over Ildran’s broad, near-bare hips and settled down as if awaiting coronation on a throne himself. |
"Now then. Start eating, slayer. I know you’re hungry." |
This was more fucking like it, Ildran thought, as Astarion rather forcefully brought a cream-filled pastry of some sort to his lips. In the throne he’d been bored. In his second skin he’d had a single enjoyable kill, just enough to arouse his appetite. Now, he hungered, and he couldn’t think of anything better than thi... |
Astarion tugged at the deep neckline of his bloodstained robes. The silk shred easily in his strong hands, past Ildran’s chest, and the little newly formed roll beneath, all the way down to his navel. |
"It wasn’t leaving much to the imagination anyways, darling," Astarion said. "And I imagine you’ll need the room." |
Astarion kissed him, even while he still chewed. He pressed Ildran’s arms out wide and ran his hands over the softening biceps, rubbing them up and down and dragging his nails into the flesh. |
Ildran became dimly aware of music playing somewhere in the palace. A surprisingly lovely tune given the scene. The sort of thing you’d put on for an evening of ardor; an unexpected choice from Astarion. |
It was hard to imagine Astarion procuring all this food alone. It was even harder to imagine him arranging it artfully on gold platters and long porcelain trays, with an eye towards the section of the table that was clearly for consumption and the section that was clearly for him to straddle Ildran upon. Yet the presen... |
It was either a flattering display of affection, or a wanton bid of manipulation. Ildran wasn’t sure which. |
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