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Consult the others? No. Gods, no. |
can know about this. Is she mad? |
You intend to protest, beg her not to share this with anyone, tell her whatever death awaits you on the other side of this would be preferable, but she’s speaking an incantation before you have the chance. |
A bright, green aura envelopes you, cooling your skin and ever so slightly easing the cramps. With the pain dulled, it's as though you can finally think again. |
You want to laugh. This situation is so utterly ridiculous that you’d find it hilarious, were it anyone else, but with the modicum of relief comes exhaustion - eyelids heavy, vision blurring with weariness. |
"Get some rest. We’ll figure this out." |
Her reassuring words are the last thing you hear before you’re overcome by darkness. |
Astarion sits quietly beside the fire, absently picking the dirt from beneath his manicured nails. The night had unfolded like countless others before it: boring, mundane. Uneventful. |
Perhaps he should retire early. The Realm According to Bumpo sits patiently atop the desk in his tent, and if he heads to bed now, he could potentially finish a chapter before his watch begins. |
He stands, patting the dust off his trousers, just as Shadowheart emerges from your tent. He initially doesn’t pay her any mind - fails to notice the concern etched across her face. |
He snaps to attention, recognizing the fear in her voice. |
Astarion’s stomach sinks when their eyes meet. Shadowheart isn’t normally one to succumb to panic, but she looks as though she’s just stumbled out of a wolf’s den. |
"What is it? What’s wrong?" |
"I don’t know. She - I’ve never seen..." Shadowheart pauses, taking a steadying breath. "She’s feverish. She was fine only hours ago. I heard a cry from her tent and feared something was amiss. When I found her, she..." The cleric hesitates, eyes contemplative - as if weighing exactly how much she wants to reveal. |
"Out with it, damn it!" |
"Is there any chance she’s been poisoned? You two stayed behind, back in the village. Did she come into contact with anything that might have pierced her skin?" |
"Poisoned? No, she -" Astarion retraces the events, turning over your brief conversations in his head before landing on the only noteworthy detail he can think of. |
He taps a finger on his chin, a thoughtful smile creasing his face. "Unless, of course, the Infernal chocolates didn’t agree with her." |
"I’m sorry, the what?" |
"The chocolate she found at the apothecary. I assumed she hid it away so she could enjoy her little treat, unbothered. There was Infernal text on the wrapper." |
She stares at him with wide eyes, jaw slack with disbelief. "And you didn’t think to mention this earlier?" |
Astarion shrugs, unfazed. |
"Where’s Wyll?" |
He rolls his eyes. "How should I know? I’m not his keeper." |
"Oh, come on. That chocolate must have been at least a decade old. Are you certain this isn’t just some sort of stomach bug?" |
The cleric shoves past him, groaning in exasperation. She shoots him a glare and mutters, "I’m certain," before jogging in the direction of Wyll’s tent. |
"Infused with succubus spittle. Just one bite will have you and that special someone rolling around for hours. Consume responsibly." |
Astarion giggles boyishly. "An aphrodisiac? How fun." |
Wyll squints as he silently reads the next bit to himself, fingers tracing the text. He turns to Shadowheart, jaw tightening, "How much of this did you say she ingested?" |
"I only found half the bar." |
Wyll’s expression grows more serious. "This says the recommended serving size is one square... How many squares were left?" |
"Oh, gods..." she breathes, "Six." |
The three exchange silent, worried glances. |
"Could she die from this?" Shadowheart asks, her voice trembling with uncertainty. |
Wyll’s lips press into a thin line. In truth, he doesn’t know the answer. He could ask Mizora for guidance, but the devil’s been awfully silent after his recent failures. He isn’t sure she'd be willing to answer him, let alone grant any favors. Still, it may be worth a call. |
Just as Wyll’s about to suggest it, Astarion heaves a deep, dramatic sigh, throwing his hands up in defeat. |
"Alright, I know what we’re all thinking. I’ll take care of this." |
The other two regard each other, thoroughly confused. |
"Look," Astarion explains, I may not be well-versed in magic, or magical remedies, for that matter, but now that we know what’s causing this... I think it’s obvious what needs to be done." |
"You’re joking." Shadowheart laughs, incredulously. |
"No," he continues, "We can’t just sit here and hope for the best. We need to act quickly, and let's just say, this fits into my... skill set." |
"So, you’re going to, what? Have sex with her? You think she’ll be capable of saying anything but yes, given the state she’s in?" |
Astarion shoots her a glare. The mere thought that he’d ever so much as suggest doing something like that - bedding you when you’re too weak to reject him - the very idea of it makes him sick. |
He isn’t that evil. |
"Watch your tongue," he spits at her, "before I do us all the favor of removing it." |
"Hang on, you two," Wyll interjects, "Astarion, I think you might have a point. You would know better than anyone whether she’s in a right enough state of mind to... consent to this. You’re closest to her. She trusts you." |
He turns to Shadowheart, "It’s worth a try." |
Astarion notices two things as he pulls back the flap of your tent. |
The first is that it is unseasonably warm. Scorching hot, like summer. A stark contrast from the welcoming cool of the early spring night behind him. |
And second, that the air in the tent is heavy - heady with the scent of sweat and something else he can’t quite identify. It's clouding his senses, making his head swim. The taste of it settles on his tongue, like salt on the rim of an otherwise very sweet drink. |
The moonlight at his back casts a dark shadow over your sleeping form. Astarion hesitates for a moment, taking in the sight of you, vulnerable and oblivious to his presence, feeling too much like a wolf looming over a snared rabbit. |
You twitch, grimacing in pain. |
He frowns. This wasn’t the way he wanted to go about seducing you. His plan was much more sophisticated: a carafe of wine, a few honeyed words leading to a night of passion, your endless thanks, all culminating in some well-earned release and his assured protection. |
A mutual exchange. |
He’s roused from his thoughts by another grunt, escaping from between your clenched teeth. |
Whatever you’re going through, it looks like hell. |
Ugh. You know what? Fine. Maybe this isn’t the way he envisioned it, but when has life ever blessed him with a perfect scenario? He’ll offer his... services, and respect whatever answer you give him. If you refuse him now, he can always try again later. Under less perilous circumstances, provided you survive the night. |
And if not, well, he's never been one to play the hero, but at least he tried. |
He steps further inside, closing the entrance behind him. The moment he seals the tent shut, there is a palpable shift. The space feels infinitely heavier, laden with unnatural energy, reminiscent of anticipation, but just slightly... off. |
He breathes, trying to focus on anything but that intoxicating scent. The haze of it is maddening. |
The elf sits on his knees beside you, hands resting in his lap. |
He clears his throat, hoping the sound would be enough to wake you. |
There’s no response. |
He whispers your name. |
No choice, then. |
He drums a finger against your bare arm. |
The cleric was right. Your skin is so hot, it borders on scalding. |
Finally, you begin to stir. |
Again. It happened again. |
As soon as you closed your eyes to rest, you saw him - That thing that wore his skin. You felt his hands and mouth as he ravaged you until you fell apart beneath him, above him, wrapped around him, like he was everywhere all at once. |
He was demanding as he took pleasure from you. Ravenous. Mocking your cries, your begging. |
The hours stretched into what felt like lifetimes, and you’d nearly given up hope, resigning yourself to the idea that this was your new, endless reality. |
Until suddenly, you hear a voice that pulls you from the dark recesses of your subconscious-- the very voice being used to torture you |
Your name, uttered quietly by Astarion. Just Astarion. No second, more sinister layer beneath it. |
Your eyelids flutter, then widen as a chilling realization washes over you. |
He’s touching you. The pads of his fingers are both a balm and an irritant, soothing and igniting the flames licking at the corners of your mind. |
"You look like you’ve seen better days." He teases. |
You recoil from his touch, sitting upwards and crawling back away from him. |
He can’t be here. He, of all people, can’t be here. |
And yet, something within you is screeching in delight. |
"That’s him, isn’t it? The object of your desires? How fun!’ |
You swallow. Hard. |
"Astarion, I -" |
He holds up a hand, silencing you. "I’m aware." |
"Shadowheart informed us of your... predicament," he continues, "I can’t help but feel partly responsible, seeing as I was there when you found the chocolate -" |
"The chocolate? Is that - wait, what?" |
Shit. Your head is pounding. |
You press your palms against your eyes and groan. |
"I’ll spare you the details, but that chocolate was laced with succubus spittle - a highly potent aphrodisiac - and you, my dear, have consumed enough to bring an entire brothel to its knees." |
Your eyes snap open, meeting his own. There isn’t an ounce of humor in his tone. No sign of his usual mischief. |
Gods, he’s being fucking serious. |
"Now, as amusing as this might be if it were anyone else, I’d prefer it if our party’s leader made it out of this alive, and that leaves us with a choice." |
You gaze at him silently, waiting as the candlelight paints his sharp features in warm hues of amber and honey. |
"He’s quite handsome. I see why you like him.’ |
"You can ride this out alone," Astarion explains, "Shadowheart will return with her best salves and more potions for the fever. We’ll hope this passes quickly, but Wyll’s translation suggests the amount you consumed could leave you in this state for up to a week." |
Your stomach churns. You’re going to be sick. |
"And the alternative?" you manage to ask. |
His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining with your own. Your skin prickles at the contact. |
"The alternative is that you let me help you through this. Consider it a repayment, of sorts, for gifting me your blood. I’m somewhat of an expert on... well," he lets out a humorless laugh, "let’s just say, I’m the best chance you’ve got." |
Maybe it's the blood roaring in your ears, or maybe you’re still dreaming, but it sounds like Astarion is offering to... fuck you? |
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