Chapter 1: Please
Chapter Text
The night air was cool, crisp with the scent of damp earth and pine. The others slept soundly, scattered around the dwindling fire, their dreams guarded by a false sense of peace.
Astarion didn’t sleep.
He barely had since the nautiloid crash, and certainly not since their ragtag band had decided to camp together like old friends instead of the strangers bound by a mutual curse that they truly were. He kept to himself as much as possible, keeping the appearance of grace, of charm, of affable mystery. Playing the role of the upper city snob, though remaining charming enough to be kept around.
He had offered to keep watch tonight, as he had every night since they'd banded together. He didn't sleep much anyway. The transition from his nocturnal lifestyle to a diurnal one was proving difficult. Thus, watch duty seemed like the obvious job for him--his way of proving useful.
Their campsite just outside of the Grove turned out to be quite well hidden; a fact that should have been a comfort to the one on guard duty, but tonight, it was agony. With no danger to distract him, he was unable to ignore the aching groan of starvation in his belly.
The hunger gnawed at him, hollowing him out from the inside. Like something had reached in and scooped out his core.
His hands trembled as he pressed his back to a tree at the edge of camp. His eyes were drawn to the huddled forms by the fire light. He could practically feel the gentle rise and fall of chests, the fragile pulse in throats, the temptation in every heartbeat. He grit his teeth and clutched the base of his throat as if he could strangle the need out of himself. Every thump of a heartbeat was a drumbeat in his ears.
Then came the familiar, greasy whisper in his mind, “thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.”
Cazador’s voice.
“To do so is to succumb. To fail me.” the words surrounded him.
Astarion choked down a lump in his throat, then straightened his back until it ached. Now standing tall, he psychically waved the voice away.
'Cazador is dead to me. I am free. I am not his creature anymore.'
So why did the rules still feel like iron nails in his bones?
He swallowed hard and cast his gaze over the sleeping camp. He lingered over each companion, and considered.
Shadowheart. Haughty, secretive, sharp-eyed, possibly not truly asleep. She would definitely fight him. Scream, maybe. Possibly even curse him. He’d seen the way she clutched that strange relic of hers, and he had no idea what in the hells it could do to him. Not worth the risk.
Gale. Pleasant, pompous, reeking of desperation. He could be easily seduced. But magic lingered on him like perfume, and Astarion wasn’t about to gamble his life on whether or not the wizard had a fireball prepared up his sleeve. No.
Wyll. Heroic. Earnest. Fool. Much too eager to slay monsters. A blade would be in Astarion’s ribs the moment he tried. And worse yet, he’d have to listen to Wyll’s moral speech as he died.
“Ugh. Spare me.” Astarion grumbled.
Lae’zel. Gods, absolutely not.
Karlach. New. Loud. Radiant with life. Seems naive enough to allow it, but standing next to the tiefling was enough to boil him, so a bite was out of the question.
That left—
His eyes landed on her.
Eirwen.
She slept on her side, a few feet from the others, curled like a cat in the grass; pale skin kissed by moonlight. Her white hair spilled around her shoulders like snowmelt, her horns revealing the only hint of her potential danger. She looked delicate, but something about her also looked unnatural. Like something was lurking beneath the surface. Something old. Something secret. Something kindred to him in a way he couldn’t place.
He was reminded of their first meeting.
His knife to her throat.
Her eyes—wide, yet calm.
She hadn’t screamed, begged, or even turned to the others for help. She had simply looked at him as if she saw something familiar in the threat, and wanted to see what he’d do with it. And when the tadpole connected their minds, and he realized his mistake, she hadn't just forgiven him. She’d met his violence with understanding.
Did she already know what it meant to be dangerous and still want to live?
Maybe she would understand.
Maybe she would even… let him.
His hunger snarled in delight.
He stepped silently toward her, shadows clinging to his every movement. His mouth watered. His fangs ached. The camp felt miles wide, and every footstep sounded louder than the last. He cursed the loose gravel at his feet.
When he finally reached her, she hadn’t so much as shifted, and Astarion resisted the urge the celebrate prematurely. He crouched beside her and reached out with trembling fingers.
Just a taste.
One sweet, stolen mouthful.
She’d never even have to know.
But the moment his hand brushed her jaw, her eyes snapped open.
“Shit.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” she hissed, already reaching for her dagger.
He raised his hands, scrambling back. “No–no! It’s not what it looks like!”
She sat up, eyes narrowed, not lowering the blade. “You were leaning over me in the dead of night, Astarion. What else could that be, a kiss!?”
He winced. “No! I–I wasn’t going to hurt you! I just needed–well… Blood”
He watched as her suspicion evolved into realization. Her eyes roamed to his lips, and he parted them slightly, allowing her a view of his fangs.
“So you’re a vampire.” It wasn’t a question.
Silence. Even the forest seemed to hush.
“Yes.” He had to breathe the word; his vocal cords refused to assist.
“I’ve been feeding on animals,” he went on, “since we crashed. But it’s… not enough. It’s never enough. I’m starving. And tonight—” He paused, hoping she’d hear the emphasis. “It’s unbearable.”
He finally met her eyes.
“Look, If I just have a little blood, I could think clearer. Fight better.” He reasoned.
Eirwen didn’t speak. She was staring at him, her expression unreadable, the dagger in her clutches stayed at the ready.
“Please.”
And then she lowered it.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” she muttered, rolling her head back in resignation “but fine. If you need blood… take it.”
He blinked, startled. “You’d let me?”
“Not while I’m sleeping,” she said sharply. “Not without asking. But if you’re asking—” She met his eyes again. “Then yes.”
He swallowed hard. The hunger roared through him, ravenous and eager.
“Really? I–Yes, of course” he forced his voice to sound even, not too excited.
“Let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”
He moved toward her, gently guiding her to lie back onto her bedroll. Ever the gentleman. His fingers brushed her hair off of her shoulder, his touch light, careful. Then he caged her in, arms braced on either side of her, hoping she wouldn’t notice that he was cutting off any chance of escape.
Then—he bit. Hard.
She gasped, her hands clenching into his shirt. What followed was heat—pure, molten, delicious heat pouring down his throat. He drank with slow, reverent pulls, and her body betrayed her, leaning into it. Her thighs trembled. Her breath came in shallow, shaky bursts.
Astarion moaned against her skin.
Her blood was divine.
Ambrosia.
Her scent filled his lungs, soft and flora, yet tinny, and tinged with fear and arousal. She clung to him like she wanted more, like she liked it. And the little whimpers she made—those desperate, needy little sounds—
He was undone.
The control he’d been forced to perfect for centuries unraveled in an instant. Her blood fueled something deeper than hunger—something darker. Lust, possession, liberation.
He needed more.
He deserved more.
She offered herself.
It wasn’t his fault.
She didn’t say stop.
And so he drank.
And drank.
And when her body sagged in his arms, when her heart stopped beneath his lips, it was already too late.
He tore himself back with a strangled cry.
She collapsed to the ground.
“No—no, no, no,” he whispered, dropping to his knees. “What did I do?”
He touched her cheek.
Cold.
Her lashes fluttered half-closed, mouth parted, still.
He backed away like she might burn him. His hands were slick with her blood. His lips—gods, her blood was still on his tongue.
He ran.
Chapter 2: The Body Remembers
Summary:
Astarion is wracked with guilt for murdering the only companion that trusted him. Worse, he is aroused by the thrill of it.
Notes:
ooo boy, this one's probably gonna make some folks squirm.
Astarion will be battling with some feelings of shame and disgust mixed with arousal. Masturbation scene incoming. Lots of negative self talk, too.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
He ran until his legs gave out beneath him.
Branches clawed at his arms, stones bit into the soles of his feet, the woods blurring past as though he could outrun the sin still dripping from his chin. Wind rushed in his ears, but it couldn’t drown the sound of her fall. It couldn’t bury the final, fragile flutter of her pulse as it vanished under his lips.
He tripped over a root and crashed to his knees in the wet moss, gasping, clawing at the earth like it might let him sink through. The adrenaline hadn’t faded yet. It crackled through him like wildfire, keeping his senses sharpened and feral.
He had killed her.
His throat tightened with something that wasn’t hunger for once. It was grief. Horror. Shame. And something worse still, something so much fouler that it made him gag:
He was hard.
He doubled over in the dark, fangs still bared from the feeding, as if that would explain the ache in his cock. His nails raked down his neck in frustration, trying to feel something else, anything else, but all his body remembered was her.
Her warmth, her scent, the soft gasps against his ear as she held him closer instead of pushing him away. The heat of her blood in his mouth.
Her thighs had trembled.
She’d moaned.
She’d let him.
“Fuck,” he spat, curling forward and pounding his fists into the dirt. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—what is wrong with me?”
He pressed his forehead to the ground, panting. He’d thought hunger was the worst of it. The clawing, the need, the endless torment of being denied what his body screamed for. But this—this was a deeper corruption. A desire not just for blood, but for her. Her voice. Her body. Her permission.
Even now, the memory of her whispering, “If you’re asking—then yes,” rang in his skull like a church bell.
He tried to shake it. He clutched his temples, growling at himself, but his cock throbbed in defiance of his guilt. His thoughts twisted, unspooled, unfurled into imagined versions of the scene:
Her gasping his name.
Her pulling him closer.
Her parting her legs and mewling “please.”
He growled again, but it was no longer from rage.
His hand moved to his waistband before he could stop it. He didn’t even remember deciding. He cursed himself with every stroke, with every slick drag of palm against cock. The guilt didn’t lessen the arousal—it fed it. It burned.
He imagined her voice, broken and breathless. Imagined her saying how good it felt. How badly she wanted him. How beautiful he was, even with her own blood on his lips.
She would have given herself, he told himself. If he had asked her right, taken his time…
She would have begged.
His hips jerked, fingers tightening. His breath hitched and grew ragged, misting in the night air as his thighs tensed. The pleasure spiraled up with the shame and tangled into something unbearable—so sharp and desperate he almost cried out.
Her blood. Her breath. Her voice, trembling with want. Her body—
He came with a strangled gasp, thick and hot across his stomach, his whole body twitching like he could shake the thoughts loose—
And then, as the final pulse ebbed from him, the memory returned, raw and merciless:
Her body going limp.
Her pulse vanishing beneath his lips.
The sickening sound of her death rattle.
He had killed her.
Astarion collapsed forward with a guttural sob, the cold earth kissing his fevered skin. His cock twitched once more in the aftermath, as if to mock him. The release had changed nothing, only solidified it. He was truly a monster.
A starving, shame-soaked, pathetic thing who had destroyed the only person who had ever trusted him.
His fingers clawed at his chest, nails digging into his skin, but the sharp pain did nothing. Nothing would make it right. Nothing would undo the feeling of her blood inside him—or the ruin he’d made of her in return.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the dirt. “Gods, Eirwen—I’m so sorry.”
And for the first time in two hundred years, Astarion wept for someone other than himself.
Notes:
....so....how we feeling?
The next chapter is already up.
Chapter 3: The Morning After
Summary:
Wrapping up this first little arc. Will she forgive him?
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The sun had not yet risen when Shadowheart found the body.
She’d stirred early, as she often did. Her prayers to Shar had to be quieter now, more private since the crash, but her discipline had remained. She moved lightly through the camp, checking on everyone.
Until she saw Eirwen.
Pale. Still. Cold.
“Shit—!” Shadowheart dropped to her knees beside the rogue, already reaching for her pouch. She pressed her fingers to Eirwen’s neck. No pulse.
She muttered a quick prayer and pulled out a scroll.
A few whispered words and a shimmer of divine light later, Eirwen gasped and lurched upright, clutching her chest like she’d just surfaced from deep water. Her eyes wide in shock and confusion, then sharp with realization.
“Eirwen,” Shadowheart said urgently. “What happened?”
Eirwen coughed. Her throat burned, her head spun, and her heart raced in her chest like it was trying to escape.
“I don’t know,” she lied, breathless. “I’ll explain later.”
Shadowheart frowned. “Astarion is gone. He’s not in camp. Did something happen?”
Eirwen stood slowly, her limbs stiff and aching, and shook her head. “We’ll talk. Just… not now.”
Before Shadowheart could argue, Eirwen turned and slipped into the trees, her movements quieter than usual—almost wary. Almost haunted.
She moved quickly at first, driven by anger, heart still stuttering from what had been done to it. The bite. The lie. The betrayal.
He’d almost killed her!
And yet...
Her fingertips drifted to her throat, feeling the twin pinpricks. The memory of it slammed into her: his body pressed against hers, the heat between them, the dark thrill of surrender. How easy it had been to give in. How good it had felt. And—strangest of all—how quiet everything else in her mind had become.
No whispers. No urges. No hunger for violence.
Just him.
And that was the part that scared her the most.
By the time she found him—slumped beneath a tree, pale and rumpled, head bowed in shame—her fury had melted into something more complicated.
Regret. Relief. Want.
He didn’t hear her at first. Or maybe he did and didn’t move. But when she stepped into view, he looked up sharply. His eyes were red-rimmed, and he straightened quickly, trying to smooth his hair and brush dirt from his shirt. The performance flickered to life like a reflex.
“Well,” he said with a tight smile. “You’re looking rather well for someone who was recently, ah… deceased.”
She raised a brow.
“I suppose I should thank Shadowheart,” he added lightly. “Clerics really are underappreciated.”
Then she punched him square in the face.
He yelped, reeling back and clutching his nose. “Gods’ bleeding hells!”
Eirwen snorted, shaking her hand. “I feel better now.”
“I don’t!” he snapped, voice muffled by his palm.
She crossed her arms. “Don’t let your hunger get that bad again. I would’ve thought you’d know when to stop.”
“I thought I did,” he muttered, still cupping his nose. “It’s not like I meant to drain you dry. Honestly, the dramatics.”
She narrowed her eyes. “It’s not like you’ve never drank from a person before. Do you just kill everyone you feed on?”
He went quiet.
Then he said, flatly, “You were my first.”
Eirwen blinked. “What?”
“I said,” he repeated, lowering his hand, “you were my first. My mas– the one who made me, Cazador, didn’t let me feed on people. Just vermin. Rats. The occasional stray dog if I’d ‘earned it.’”
She stared. “You’ve… never fed on anyone?”
“I’ve bitten people,” he said darkly. “Fangs are a helpful weapon in a pinch. But I’ve never drank. Never even tasted. I didn’t know how much was too much—I didn’t know what it would feel like. And then you—”
His eyes flicked to hers, heat blooming in his red orbs.
“You were quivering,” he said, voice turning velvety. “Making all those little noises. Whimpering. Moaning.”
Eirwen’s cheeks burned. “I—was not—”
“You were,” he purred. “It was rather unfair, actually. I was starving, and there you were, cooing in my arms like a sacrificial offering.”
“Shut up!” She shouted, flustered.
“Just... be careful next time.”
“Oh?” His smirk sharpened. “Next time? Already planning our next encounter, are we? You needy little thing.”
She laughed—despite herself—and shoved his shoulder. “I said shut up.”
He grinned, still rubbing his bruised nose. “Does that mean I’m invited back to camp?”
“Yes,” she said. “But if you come near me while I’m sleeping again, I’ll stab you.”
“Fair enough.”
He stood slowly, brushing the dirt from his trousers, and for a moment they just stood there—watching each other, uncertain. The bond between them had changed, twisted into something raw and strange.
But not broken.
“Come on,” she said at last, turning back toward camp. “Before the others get more worried, and Wyll comes to stake you on my behalf.”
He followed, invigorated.
“You think it’d be Wyll? I think Lae’zel would jump at the chance to gut me. ”
Eirwen chortled, “maybe they’d all fight over who gets the honors.”
“Ah, nothing bonds a party quite like the shared fantasy of stabbing me in the heart.”
Notes:
So this concludes the first three chapters. Please let me know what you think if you feel so inclined! I'd love to hear feedback. The next set of chapters will be about their first time sleeping together.
Chapter 4: Just a Practical Pursuit
Summary:
Astarion never expected to feel worshipful watching someone kneel for another god, until Eirwen offered her pain to Loviatar. Jealous, ravenous, and aching to claim her for himself, he lies to himself about his intentions, and seduces her simply because she's a useful ally. That's all. He swears.
Notes:
I'm back again with more of this series! I hope the first set of chapters weren't too dark for the very first encounter.
So this one is the next major moment in their arc, when Astarion suggests a little get away into the woods.
I've already got the first three chapters of this arc ready, so I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text
Astarion had never been particularly devout. The gods had never done him any favors. They had watched— if they watched at all— while he suffered beneath Cazador’s thumb for centuries. But as he witnessed Eirwen kneel before Abdirak, baring her back in silent offering to Loviatar, something inside him stirred.
It was not faith. It was not reverence. And yet, it felt like worship.
The first strike landed with a sharp crack, and she shivered. The shiver was not from pain, not from fear, but from pleasure. He saw it in the way her shoulders rolled back, the soft gasp from her lips, the flutter of eyelashes falling closed as the next strike cut cleanly through her tunic.
Blood welled to the surface in perfect red lines, catching the torchlight and gleaming like spilled wine on an altar. She tilted her head back, lips parted, a portrait of divine agony, and Astarion...ached. There was something unholy in the hunger that coiled inside him. It was violent, possessive, and consuming.
He knew it was wrong. Knew he shouldn’t want this, shouldn’t feel this feral urge gnawing at his spine, his fangs aching with restraint. And yet, he did. Gods, he did.
How dare that wretched priest be the one to draw these sounds from her? How dare he touch her like that, mark her, coax out such exquisite surrender?
Astarion could tell that Eirwen was different. There was something in her, something broken and brutal and glorious. Something that matched the darkness in him beat for beat. But seeing it made manifest, watching her bleed for a god who had never even touched her, it drove him nearly mad with need.
Beside him, Shadowheart’s voice pulled him back to himself, dry and amused. “Would you have joined up with her if you’d known she was into this sort of thing, Astarion?” He turned just enough to meet her eyes, slipping a smirk onto his face with the ease of habit. “I mean,” he said breezily, “I had my hopes.” She snorted. He barely heard her. The ritual was ending.
The priest, a smug little worm in gaudy leather straps, stepped close to Eirwen. He touched her cheek with a softness that made Astarion’s lip curl. He praised her brazenly, then whispered something, a blessing perhaps, and began to wipe the blood from the tiefling’s wounds. Eirwen hissed at the sensation of the priest’s touch, but leaned in to allow it. The sight was unbearable.
It should be Astarion’s hands on her. His mouth on her back, lapping away the blood. His voice in her ear, praising her submission, her strength, her beauty.
But instead, the ever efficient Shadowheart stepped forward and cast a spell, and the blood disappeared. The wounds faded. As if the offering had never happened.. Astarion nearly growled.
Eirwen stood then, flushed and breathless, still radiant from the aftermath of agony. And Astarion made a decision. He would see her bare again. But next time, it would not be for some useless priest and his lecherous god. Next time, she would tremble for him.
Besides, he told himself, this was just a practical pursuit. She was a strong ally. This was nothing more than securing favor. That’s all.
That’s all.
The opportunity came later, when Eirwen mentioned returning to camp. Astarion moved without hesitation, sliding into her space with a predator’s ease. “You know,” he purred, “I was just thinking about you.” His tone was light and teasing, like it wasn’t a loaded confession. “Remembering our time together. And I’m not just talking about that lovely neck of yours.” His fingers playfully tapped the air, inches from her neck, for emphasis.
He chuckled, smooth and self-satisfied, though tension pulled tight beneath his skin. Her gaze met his. Her expression was cool and unreadable, but not cold, so he pushed forward.
“I’m growing rather fond of the whole package, honestly.”
Eirwen tilted her head, her mouth curling, but not quite smiling. “The ‘package’ you drained until I went limp in your arms?” she said, voice velvet-soft and laced with iron. “Funny how that endears a girl to someone.”
He blinked, but didn’t retreat. “And yet here you are, still standing. Still lovely.”
“Still curious,” she corrected. “Which is not the same as forgiving.”
That stopped him, for half a second. Then he smiled again, slower this time, more dangerous.
“You clearly like me,” he said, voice dipping into something silkier, something sharpened to a razor’s edge. “I felt it. The other night, when I drank from you.”
His voice dipped to barely above a whisper, reverent and hungry.
“Those little trembles… you enjoyed it, didn’t you?”
She held his gaze long enough to make him wonder if maybe he’d imagined it all.
“I did,” she said. Not breathless. Certain. “But don’t mistake pleasure for permission. I’ve already died once for you, Astarion. I’m not in the habit of doing it twice.”
Gods. He wanted her.
“So did I,” he said, the words heavy, slow, delicious. “Enjoy it. More than words can say.”
He took a breath he didn’t need, drawing in the scent of her skin, the steady rhythm of her pulse. He wanted to feel her again—writhing, gasping, offering . But he waited. She was not prey, not now. She was choosing this.
“I think you deserve a reward,” he murmured. “I was very pleased with what you gave me.”
She arched a brow. “You mean the blood or the near-death experience?”
“Surprise me.”
She smirked. “Someone less trusting might think this is suspicious.”
“Well, thank the gods we’re all such good, trusting friends, then.” He lifted a hand in mock solemnity. “On my honor, the only thing on my mind is depraved, carnal lust.”
That made her laugh, sharp and sudden, like a match being struck. The sound went straight into him, rewarding him with warmth.
And when she smiled, when she said, “That sounds pretty good to me,” the warmth bloomed.
Chapter 5: The Clearing
Summary:
The act 1 clearing scene, written out how I like to imagine it.
Notes:
I had a lot of fun writing this one! Hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text
The moon was doing him favors tonight.
Astarion lounged in the clearing like it had been made for him, his shirt lay discarded on a nearby stone, dappled silver light softening his edges, the faintest breeze tousling his hair, making him the very picture of temptation. Every detail had been curated when he’d scouted this place earlier, pretending to gather firewood. He’d noted the soft moss underfoot, the half-circle of trees for cover, the way moonlight spilled like wine through the canopy. The scene was just right.
He was going to seduce her here.
Not just bed her. Not just drink from her. Seduce her completely.
He imagined how it would go: her hesitant smile, the inevitable blush, the breathless way she’d say his name when his mouth finally met her throat again. This time it wouldn't be in desperation of hunger, but in offering . He pictured her tangled in his arms, pliant and perfect, and then—
He glanced back toward the direction of camp.
Nothing.
She was late.
Not dramatically so, but just enough for doubt to begin whispering in the corners of his mind.
What if she wasn’t coming?
What if she’d come to her senses?
What if she’d remembered how her body had gone limp in his arms, her breath stopped, her pulse still, and decided that death wasn’t worth the flirtation?
He exhaled sharply, shaking the thought from his head. No. No, she’d liked it. She’d moaned for him. She’d said yes.
Still, he ran a hand through his hair and paced once, twice. Adjusted the angle of his lean against the tree. The moonlight hadn’t changed, but it suddenly felt a bit more like a spotlight.
And then there she was.
Emerging into the clearing like something out of a dream, all light and soft grace, eyes glinting with curiosity. She wasn’t breathless or flustered. If anything, she looked amused .
And gods, she was beautiful. Even in her simple camp clothes she looked like sex. Her body did most of the work, as Eirwen’s figure was decadently full.
He had to take a moment— just a moment —to collect himself. Straighten his spine. Reclaim the role.
Then, with all the confidence he could muster, he stepped out from behind the tree, bare-chested and gleaming.
“There you are. I’ve been waiting.”
A slow prowl toward her, the hunger beneath his voice now wrapped in his signature velvet.
He continued, “waiting since the moment I set eyes on you.” His gaze roamed over her, smoldering and sure. “Waiting… to have you.”
He saw the spark in her eyes before she spoke. That challenge. That tease .
“You don’t have me yet.”
Gods, he wanted to pounce on her.
He grinned, feral, and delighted.
“Don’t I?” His hand found her hip with practiced ease, gently pulling her flush against him. She didn’t resist. That was all the confirmation he needed.
“You’re here.” His breath brushed her ear. “And I don’t think you want to talk. I think…”
A pause. A whisper.
“…you want to be known. To be tasted.”
Her eyes fluttered. Her lips parted.
And then she kissed him like she’d made her decision before even arriving in the clearing.
There was no hesitation in it. No pretense. Just pure searing heat, and the quiet moan she gave when he bit at her lower lip. Astarion answered with a pleased, rumbling noise low in his throat, gripping her hip harder now, pulling her against his bare chest. Her clothes, damn them, were in the way. Every damned layer acted as a barrier to what he wanted.
But he didn’t rip them.
He wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to sink his claws into her leathers and tear until her body was bare beneath him. But clothes aren’t replaceable at this juncture, so he bit back the desire. Instead, his fingers worked with practiced finesse, undoing the fastenings of her trousers while kissing down the column of her throat. Slowly, reverent, savoring her scent.
“I could devour you,” he whispered into her skin, voice hoarse with want. “But I’ll be gentle. Just this once.”
She shivered in his arms.
When her top came off, he paused to admire her. Eirwen bore the shape of seduction. Her hips were wide and sumptuous, a tender belly that curved gently, and thighs that could crush or cradle with equal ease. She was no waif; she was hunger made flesh, a feast of a woman, seemingly designed to tempt and torment. Gods, he wondered, was she truly a tiefling? Or had he been seduced by some rogue succubus, draped in flesh too decadent for this plane?
Whatever she was, she was utterly his for this moment.
Before he could shake the look from his face, she jumped.
Her arms wrapped around his shoulders as she leapt into him, legs securing around his waist with surprising strength. He caught her with ease, laughter catching in his throat, and pressed her back to the nearest tree. The bark scraped behind her, a contrast to the soft slick heat he felt grinding against the head of his cock.
“Impatient, are we?” he teased, and she only rocked her hips, inviting him further inside.
He groaned, the sound involuntary. He was hard and aching, nearly trembling with restraint, and she was ready . Wet, needy, inviting . He pulled back, teasing the tip of his cock along her folds, reclaming control, making her wait. She whimpered, the sound needy and desperate against his ear, and he lost his resolve.
He pushed in with one smooth, deep thrust.
She arched with a gasp, nails raking over his shoulders, and he had to pause, eyes fluttering shut as he gritted his teeth. She was gripping him tight . Velvety, warm, and deliciously wet, pure sin wrapped around him. And gods, the way she moaned . It wasn’t dainty, or performative, but guttural and real. Astarion was sure he’d never heard anything so arousing in his life.
He set a rhythm against the tree, hips snapping forward with controlled power, pressing kisses against her mouth, her throat, the tops of her breasts. He wasn’t usually one for kissing during sex, it was far too intimate, but—Gods— he couldn’t stop. Her mouth was addicting. The way she clung to him, the way she whispered his name like it meant something.
It was enough to make him lose himself.
But then with a sudden movement, Eirwen pushed off the tree and twisted, sending them both tumbling to the mossy ground. He let out a startled grunt, laughing even as she landed on top of him, straddling his hips with a look that made his blood burn.
“Well,” he breathed, “someone’s feeling bold.”
She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to. Instead, she lifted off of him, and lay back onto the forest floor, arms stretched above her head, back arched in offering. And then she lifted her head, baring her neck, her smile granting silent permission.
Every thought fled his mind.
He lunged forward, mouth at her throat, fangs piercing with practiced grace. Her blood hit his tongue like ambrosia. It was just as thick, rich, laced with lust as he remembered. She moaned when he bit her, hips lifting to meet his with a shudder. He sank into her again, slower this time, grinding deeper as her blood sang through him.
He was fucking her and feeding on her at once, and it was divine . She writhed beneath him, gasping, clinging, her body utterly undone. He groaned against her skin, licking the blood that pooled at the wound, one hand gripping her thigh while the other braced beside her head.
She came with a cry, her whole body convulsing around him, her nails scoring his back.
He didn’t stop.
Her pleasure made him drunk, and he wanted more. He chased it with ruthless precision, hips slamming into hers until she cried out again, shaking, a second orgasm tearing through her as if her body couldn’t help but give in to him. Her head lolled to the side, mouth parted, breathless.
Then—just as he sank his fangs deeper, just as her body arched beneath him—she gasped his name.
“Astarion—”
His climax hit like a curse and a benediction all at once. His name, moaned from her lips like it meant something sacred, pushed him over the edge. His whole body tensed, trembling as he came hard inside her, his mouth still at her throat. He groaned into her skin, low and broken, tasting her, owning her, undone by the sound of his name on her tongue.
He hadn’t expected to enjoy it this much.
He hadn’t expected to feel anything but power. But gods, the pleasure was real. Deep. Devastating. It shocked him when he came. His body trembled with it, his mouth still at her throat, drinking as he came hard, pulsing deep inside her.
He collapsed beside her, panting. No clever quips. No smirk. Just stillness.
And then—almost by reflex—he rolled onto his back, pulling away from her warmth.
That was always the rule. Don’t linger. Don’t touch . Don’t feel.
But when she curled up next to him, not quite touching, just close enough that he could feel the heat of her skin beside his, he didn’t move away. Didn’t speak. Just breathed.
She mumbled something—half-asleep, satisfied. “Mmh. I feel like I could take on the whole world now.”
But she was a poor liar. She drifted quickly to sleep on the forest floor, like it was the softest bed.
Astarion stared up at the moon, and manually filled his lungs, trying to calm his racing mind.
He told himself it was just the blood.
Just the sex.
But the emptiness he’d braced for didn’t settle in the same way.
Not with her beside him.
Chapter 6: Scars and Open Wounds
Summary:
After the smut, comes the trauma. Eirwen notices Astarion's scars, and ventures to ask.
Notes:
Thanks for reading everything so far! This chapter is going to be a tonal shift, but I hope you agree that it's still in character for Astarion at this juncture. We're starting to diverge a bit from canon, because the game doesn't let us linger enough on the emotional weight of things, and the high chance of Astarion walling back up emotionally, but I hope you can understand why I'm going in this direction.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The forest was quiet in a way that felt gentle and welcoming, as if the night’s debauchery had sanded away the world edges.
Eirwen woke slowly, her limbs heavy with pleasure, her body aching in all the best ways. Moss cushioned her back, damp and cool beneath her bare skin, and birdsong drifted through the trees above. Pale light filtered down through the branches, mist curling lazily around the clearing like it, too, had nowhere else to be.
She blinked the haze from her eyes, and then she saw him.
Astarion stood a few paces away, still completely nude, eyes closed, arms outstretched as if embracing the morning. Sunlight kissed every inch of him, giving him the appearance of a godly statue made of marble. He was divine, etherial, and so beautiful in a way that almost hurt to look at. His silver hair glowed like moonlight, curling gently in the way that always looked perfect. His chest rose and fell in a slow, deliberate rhythm. And for a moment, he looked… peaceful. Almost free.
She let herself admire him. His body, his stillness, the almost feral elegance in the way he bared himself to the light he could never touch before the tadpole. But then her gaze drifted to his back.
The skin there was marred with a series of scars, which were arranged in a roughly circular formation across Astarion’s upper back, centered between his shoulder blades. At first glance, She thought they resembled a brand, but closer inspection revealed the work was done by hand, cut into the flesh with a blade, not stamped.
The lines radiated outward in uneven spokes, forming a sunburst-like shape, though the symmetry was a mess. She recognized the marks as infernal, but it didn’t seem as if the writer knew the language, as there were obvious corrections made, and shallower, unsure lines. She was able to guess at a few phrases, such as one that appears to say the fire below, but most of it is unreadable, the strokes too distorted, either from poor etching or from healing over time.
Below the central circle, three longer scars drug downward in parallel, stopping near the small of his back. These were cleaner, deeper. They don’t match the rest of the pattern, they seemed more like additions than part of the original design. Almost like tethering lines. Or drains.
As she studied those deep marks in particular, a sharp ache bloomed at the base of her skull. It was brief, but searing, as if her body, despite the absence of memory, recognized the pain of that kind of wound, and the laughter of its creator.
He turned, sensing her eyes on him. There was something guarded behind his smirk, but he let it surface anyway.
“Careful,” he drawled, voice still rough with sleep and something else—something brittle. “If we stay out here any longer, the others will start talking. I’m sure they’ll think I’ve drained you dry.”
He paused, then added with a lazy shrug, “Again.”
Eirwen laughed softly, propping herself up on one elbow, her smile slow and real. “After everything you did last night,” she said, voice husky, “I forgive you for killing me.”
He laughed. “You’re far too generous, darling. Most people hold a grudge over murder. But then… most people wouldn’t offer themselves up again afterward.”
Eirwen hummed, unbothered, her smile crooked.
“Most people haven’t survived worse.”
That made him pause.
He looked at her—really looked—eyes narrowing just slightly, as if trying to solve a puzzle he didn’t want to finish.
A long silence stretched between them.
Her gaze flicked to the scars again.
“What is it?” she asked quietly. “On your back.”
He went still.
Not visibly. Just a subtle tightening in his shoulders, a flicker of unneeded breath caught between ribs. But his voice, when it came, was much too light.
“Oh, that?” He made a vague gesture behind him, as if it were a smudge on a shirt. “It’s a poem. A gift from Cazador. He considered himself quite the artist, and used his slaves as a canvas.” Astarion barely paused, like the words were coming out before he considered them. They were flippant, matter of fact.
“He composed and carved that one over the course of a night.”
His lips quirked, humorless. “He made a lot of revisions as we went.”
The words tumbled from him, one after another, like they’d been waiting to escape for years. His eyes didn’t meet hers. He kept speaking in that breezy tone of his, as if he could laugh his way through the memory. As if he believed that flippancy could make it hurt less.
“And gods, it took hours. By the end I could barely stand. But it was a privilege, you see. A gift. Not everyone was worthy of being immortalized in verse.” His tone was still overly flippant, but the last sentence skipped, as if he were fighting the lump growing in his throat.
He finally looked at her.
And froze.
He had expected revulsion. Discomfort. That tightening around the eyes. The shift of weight. The awkward turn away. Or worse, pity. Something to tell him that yes, you were weak, and it shows.
But what he saw in Eirwen’s face shook him to the core.
Fury.
Her eyes burned. Her mouth was set in a thin, livid line. Her whole body tensed like a drawn bow, like she was already imagining the ways she could destroy the thing that had dared to harm what belonged to her. There was no shame in her gaze. No hesitation. Only fire.
He had never been looked at like that before.
It made something inside him crack wide open—and then something else twist shut.
He clenched his jaw.
How dare she?
How dare she see him like this, all scraped raw and trembling? How dare she offer that look of protection, of vengeance? As if he were something broken that needed defending? As if he was even hers to avenge?
The softness curdled in his belly into anger at the way she’d made him comfortable enough to let it spill out at all. How dare she make him feel that comfortable?
He scoffed, stepping away, his smirk returning like armor.
“Well,” he said with a half-laugh, “that was dreadfully soppy, wasn’t it? I really must be losing my edge.”
She sat up, watching him carefully, but didn’t speak.
“Let’s head back, shall we?” he said, already walking away without looking back. “Don’t want anyone thinking the lion ate the lamb.”
And just like that, the distance was back. The mask. The cold velvet wall of charm.
Notes:
Please consider leaving a kudos and/or comment <3
Chapter 7: What Lurks Beneath
Summary:
After an intense night with Astarion, Eirwen lingers in the clearing, reeling from the vulnerability he let slip. She sees something broken and beautiful in him, something that mirrors her own darkness.
Back at camp, Shadowheart confronts her about the blood she keeps giving Astarion. Eirwen confesses just how much she needs him—not just for desire, but for control over her dark mind. Shadowheart understands. But warns her: be careful. Because Astarion may not realize the power he has over her. And if he does… he might use it.
Notes:
This arc is one that I've been excited to share since I started editing and compiling it. Prepare for lots of yearning in the next few chapters!
New tags added, so please check them!
Chapter Text
Eirwen lingered in the clearing long after Astarion had gone.
The moss beneath her was warm now, sun-dappled and soft, but the stillness around her did nothing to settle the storm inside. Her body still hummed with the memory of his hands, his lips, his teeth against her throat. But it wasn’t the pleasure that stayed. It was the moment after . The way his voice had caught when he spoke of his tormentor. The way he’d looked at her –vulnerable and unguarded.
And then the way he’d left.
Too flippant. Too smooth. Rebuilding the wall in real time.
She wrapped her arms around her knees and stared at the sunlight through the trees. For just a breath, she’d seen something real, and it was beautiful.
It wasn’t the sculpted perfection of his face, but the broken thing beneath, that fed her desire. The beautiful man carved into verse without consent, desperately trying to figure out his own melody.
Because she had seen herself mirrored in his desperate need to keep the mask in place.
Because what lurked beneath her skin wasn’t safe either.
She thought back to the grove. Arabella, trembling before Kagha’s snake. Eirwen hadn’t moved. Hadn’t spoken. But she’d wanted to. She’d wanted to whisper run , just to watch the fangs strike, and see her young life snuffed out. She’d practically salivated for it.
There was something very wrong with her.
She didn’t know what it was, but it felt like ownership. Like the same sort of leash that Cazador had on Astarion, was wrapped around her soul as well.
She exhaled to clear the lump in her throat, and stood. She wouldn’t follow him. Not yet. But she wouldn’t let him slip away forever. Because she had seen the truth in him now, and she wanted more.
By the time she returned to camp, the fire had burned to cinders. Most of the others were still asleep—Gale snoring faintly under his blanket, Karlach sprawled halfway out of her tent like a lazy cat in the early morning sun. Only Shadowheart was awake, seated on a log with a tin mug in one hand and her other lazily petting Scratch.
As Eirwen approached, Shadowheart glanced up and said dryly, “Well, Scratch—look who’s returned from her little nocturnal frolic. Let’s hope she’s still got enough blood left to stand.”
Eirwen didn’t answer. She dropped onto the edge of the firepit, drawing her knees to her chest, her expression unreadable. Her body still ached, but her mind was louder than ever.
Shadowheart let the silence stretch just long enough to make her point. Then: “So… how was your night?” she asked, voice laced with thinly veiled curiosity.
“Fine,” Eirwen muttered.
Shadowheart sighed, setting her mug down. “Just ‘fine’? No starry-eyed sighs? No scandalous tales?”
Eirwen didn’t reply. Scratch nosed under her hand, and she absently pet him, grateful for the distraction.
Then Shadowheart’s voice shifted—quieter, steadier.
“He fed on you again.”
It wasn’t a question.
Eirwen didn’t deny it. Just tossed Scratch’s ball and watched him bound after it.
“Why do you keep letting him do that?” Shadowheart asked.
Still, Eirwen didn’t look at her.
“He’s not entitled to your blood,” Shadowheart continued. “Even if it makes him purr.”
That earned a soft chuckle. “I know.”
Silence followed again, except for the soft thump of Scratch returning with the ball.
Then, finally, Eirwen said, “I just…he needs it.”
Shadowheart studied her for a long moment. “Maybe he does,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean you do.”
Eirwen looked up at that. Her smile was faint, wry. “I might,” she said.
Shadowheart tilted her head, watching.
Eirwen hugged her knees tighter.
“When he feeds,” she said slowly, “everything else goes quiet. The urges. This… thing inside me.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Back in the grove, when Kagha had that snake pointed at Arabella…I wanted to say run . I wanted to watch it happen. I didn’t say it. But hells, I wanted to.”
Shadowheart’s expression darkened, but she didn’t interrupt.
“There’s something inside me,” Eirwen went on, her voice steady now, like she’d rehearsed this confession a thousand times in her head. “Something that wants pain, blood… death. I don’t know what it is. But when Astarion feeds from me… it stops. I don’t feel cursed. I don’t feel like a puppet. I just feel… his.”
A beat of silence passed. Then she added, quietly, “I think you understand that. Don’t you? You gave yourself to Shar. Not because she’s kind. But because the darkness makes sense. Because surrender gives you peace.”
Shadowheart’s mouth twitched. She looked away.
“I do understand,” she said. “Sometimes carrying control is heavier than surrendering it.”
Eirwen smiled gently at the honesty, but then Shadowheart turned back, her expression sharpening.
“But be careful,” she said. “Astarion isn’t a god. He’s a Vampire. Charm and seduction are his weapons just as much as dagger and fang, and he will use them to survive."
Eirwen nodded, but didn’t speak.
Shadowheart leaned in slightly. “If he ever realizes how much quiet he brings you—how much power he holds over that thing inside you—he might use it. Not out of malice. Just… instinct. And instincts can be cruel.”
“I know,” Eirwen said softly.
“Good.” Shadowheart’s tone gentled. “I’m not telling you to stop. I’m telling you to watch him . Because no one—not even him—gets to be your leash.”
Chapter 8: The Silence
Summary:
Astarion didn’t mean to be seen, not like that. Vulnerable. Wanted. So he runs. Back to his mask. Back to cold distance. And Eirwen feels the sting of his retreat in every sidestepped touch, every withering dismissal. Even during mealtime, when his absence should be expected, it feels like a wound. Every night she offers herself. Every night, he says nothing. But the silence is wearing thin. And she’s nearly at her breaking point.
Notes:
The yearning! I just love these two broken, stubborn idiots.
Chapter Text
Astarion lingered at the edge of camp, half-shrouded in mist, where the trees filtered the morning light into soft silver streaks. He told himself he was only passing through—just retrieving a dagger, or perhaps checking his pack for... something.
Not spying. Certainly not lurking like some jealous lover in the underbrush.
That would be pathetic.
And yet, he didn’t move. Didn’t announce himself. Just listened—silent, still, watching the way Eirwen leaned in when she spoke, the way Shadowheart’s brow furrowed in concern. Watching, because he couldn’t help it.
Because whatever they were saying, it was about him.
He saw it in the way Eirwen stared at the embers, in the way her mouth tilted, not in her usual smirk but in something closer to grief, and in the stiffness of her shoulders. As if she were holding something heavy inside and didn’t know where to put it down.
He hated it.
Hated that she looked so quiet, and raw.
Hated that it was because of him.
He had told her too much.
He’d opened the floodgates for a handful of heartbeats and in her eyes he’d seen that she hadn’t turned away. She’d burned for him. Not with the expected pity or revulsion, but with something dangerous and furious and terribly, beautifully loyal.
And it had made him want to fall to his knees.
So he ran instead.
Back to his mask. Back to the edges. Back to the safety of solitude where no one could look at him like that again.
He leaned against a tree now, arms crossed over his bare chest, eyes fixed on the dying firelight playing across her cheek. Her hair still tangled from their rendezvous. The bruises from his mouth, still shadowing her throat. She looked sinful and sorrowful in the same breath.
And that made him mourn something that should have been a victory.
Astarion’s jaw clenched.
He didn’t want her to feel for him.
Didn’t want her to see the pathetic, ruined boy beneath the smoldering good looks. Didn’t want to be cradled. Or protected. Or… saved.
That wasn’t what this was supposed to be.
It was supposed to be simple.
Yet here she was, as usual, proving to be anything but simple.
And now—damn her—neither was he.
He looked away, forcing a breath through his nose, trying to will back the version of himself he understood. The charming, cruel one who didn’t linger after a conquest.
But still, he stayed.
Just long enough to watch her laugh at something Shadowheart said.
The sound was quiet.
Fragile.
Later.
The stench of rot clung to the goblin camp like a second skin. It was all a miasma of smoke, sweat, and spoiled meat. Goblins lounged about in various states of intoxication, bickering, gambling, gnawing on things Eirwen didn’t want to identify. The four of them—Eirwen, Astarion, Shadowheart, and Karlach—moved through the chaos wearing the faux confidence of ‘True Souls.’ Though they had yet to understand what god they were pretending to serve, it wasn’t hard to pose as leaders. A few well-placed lies, a sneer or two, and the goblins were more than happy to accept them. Especially Eirwen, who seemed to effortlessly wear authority like perfume.
A group of goblins fell over each other, sloshing their mugs of ale, and bickering over who’s turn it was to pour another round. Eirwen arched a brow, nodding toward them “Charming company. Think they’ll share what’s in their mugs if I flirt hard enough?”
He hummed noncommittally and adjusted one of his bracers. “Mm. Do try not to catch anything.”
Then he slipped past her, careful not to brush her arm.
Karlach and Shadowheart shared a look that Eirwen pretended not to notice.
Later, during an encounter with a particularly rude bugbear, her fingers skimmed for his arm, an anchor she didn’t quite let herself grab. But Astarion stepped forward a half-beat faster, the gap between them widening by inches, intentional and unspoken.
He didn’t look back.
Karlach’s brow furrowed in concern. “Hey, Soldier, what’s with—”
A drunken goblin stumbled into them, sloshing ale down his front. Shadowheart’s hand shot out immediately.
“Watch it,” she snapped at the goblin, before turning smoothly to Karlach. “Didn’t you say you wanted to see how they make their stew? I think I see a bubbling pot of something revolting with your name on it.”
Karlach blinked. “Oh. Right. Stew. Definitely curious.”
As Karlach wandered off, successfully redirected, Shadowheart gave Eirwen a sidelong look. A subtle lift of her brow. ‘You’re welcome.’
Eirwen said nothing.
But her jaw was tight, and her eyes were on her tormentor--the beautiful elf who wouldn't even look at her.
Gale had outdone himself again. The smell of herbs and roasted rabbit drifted through the evening air, as the party gathered round the campfire as they did every evening. These nightly meals had become the one consistency in their lives. It was the routine that turned strangers into friends.
Karlach and Wyll were bickering over some absurd goblin superstition—Karlach swearing she’d witnessed it herself, while Wyll stood firm in his disbelief. Eirwen suspected he denied it less out of conviction and more to indulge in Karlach’s fiery enthusiasm.
Meanwhile, Gale was delivering an impromptu lecture on wine pairings to Lae'zel and Shadowheart. For once, the women seemed to be bonding over their mutual lack of interest in anything the wizard had to say.
Eirwen sat near the fire, laughing where appropriate, nodding along.
But her eyes kept drifting to the empty space beside the logs.
Astarion’s spot.
He never ate—of course not—but he was always there. Smirking at Gale’s dramatics, mocking Karlach’s table manners, lounging like he was born to recline against silken pillows.
Tonight, his absence thundered in Eirwen’s ears, echoing like a heartbeat too loud to ignore.
She tried to focus on the conversation. Sipped wine. Smiled. But something tugging at her, like a thread pulled tight at the back of her neck. He was nearby. In his tent. Possibly watching, possibly not.
When the fire burned low and the party drifted to their bedrolls, she walked to his tent. She didn’t call his name. Didn’t ask permission.
She stood just outside and said, just above a whisper, “If you’re hungry… I’m here.”
No response.
She waited.
Then turned away.
She chose to believe he was sleeping.
Chapter 9: Breathing Again
Summary:
Eirwen has had enough. After watching Astarion waste away out of pride or shame or fear, she catches a rabbit and brings it to his tent—only for him to refuse again. Furious and desperate, she storms inside to confront him.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Days passed.
They continued scouting the goblin camp, waiting to make their move until the druid they needed was found. More lies, more bluffing, more charade. And through it all, Astarion remained distant, and cool.
And paler.
She was sure he’d resumed hunting at night, but if the scattered squirrel carcasses near camp were any sign of his success, it wasn’t enough.
He barely spoke. Smiled even less. The effortless elegance she adored had given way to tension again, each movement tight with restraint. She saw the hunger in him, etched in the sharp set of his jaw, the dark hollows beneath his eyes, the way his body moved like it was holding itself back from breaking. Still, he refused to feed. She didn’t know what hurt more: watching him wither, or knowing he wouldn’t let her save him.
Every night, she stood outside his tent. Offered herself. Said nothing when he didn’t respond. And every night, she walked away with her fists clenched.
She told herself it was just worry. That she was just scared for him—watching him waste away, silent and stubborn, starving himself out of some twisted sense of control. But the truth kept slipping through in moments she couldn’t ignore. The way her hands itched to reach for him. The way her body ached just to feel him. She wanted him fed, yes. Whole. Safe. But more than anything, she wanted him close.
So she caught a rabbit.
It had taken her nearly an hour, crouched in the underbrush with a snare she’d tied from a frayed bootlace and sheer stubbornness. It was a scrawny thing—still kicking desperately, warm and panicked in her hands—but it would do. It had blood, and he needed it.
She approached his tent with it clutched to her chest, its frantic heartbeat fluttering against her palms like a second pulse. Every few seconds it would panic, trying to wriggle free of its fate, but Eirwen clutched it harder until it couldn’t move, unwavering in her resolve. The flap was drawn shut, as it always was now. No candlelight. No invitation.
She cleared her throat softly.
“I brought you something.”
Silence.
“It’s fresh.”
Still nothing.
She hesitated, then took a step closer. “You don’t have to take from me. Just—take something. Please.”
A pause. Then, from within, his voice—flat and distant.
“I’m not hungry.”
The rabbit squirmed in her grip again, trying to claw free.
“Gods damn it, Astarion!” she snapped, and hurled the creature to the ground.
It didn’t wait. It bolted into the brush like a shot, vanishing into the dark with a rustle of leaves and a single terrified squeal.
She stared after it, fists clenched, her chest heaving.
Then, without another word, she ripped the tent flap open and stepped inside.
The interior was sparse, but tidy. Astarion sat on the edge of his bedroll, shirtless, back hunched, hands braced on his knees like he was fighting gravity itself.
He looked up, startled.
“Eirwen—” he began, tone already sharp with protest.
She didn’t let him finish.
Without a word, she crawled forward, slow and deliberate, until she was on her knees before him. Close enough to feel his energy, close enough that he couldn’t look away. Her eyes locked on his, unblinking, as she drew her dagger with a practiced flick and pressed the blade to her own wrist.
“If you won’t take it from me, fine,” she said, voice low and shaking with fury. “But I swear to every god still watching, Astarion—if you don’t feed, I’ll carve it out myself. I’ll bleed into a gilded goblet and hand it to you like the spoiled little prince you’re pretending to be.”
Astarion stared into her unblinking eyes with shock. The silence was deafening.
Then—
A bark of laughter, rough and real and shocked out of him.
“You idiot,” he breathed, then he reached his hand slowly to hers.
She didn’t flinch.
He took the dagger from her fingers, tossed it gently onto the cot, and pulled her into his lap like it was the only thing he’d wanted to do for days. She let him move her, happily sliding her back against his chest, her legs draped over his. His hands trembled as he swept her hair aside, fingers lingering at her neck like a prayer.
Then—
His bite.
Pleasure bloomed, sudden and shattering, lighting up her nerves like a sunrise behind her eyes.
And for the first time in days…She breathed.
Eirwen felt his breath at her throat. It was hot and ragged, and the soft drag of his tongue as he licked the blood from her skin made her melt into him even more. She nestled into the curve of his body, her head lolling gently against his shoulder.
Astarion exhaled, long and slow, his hands coming to rest lightly on her waist. Not possessive. Not playful.
Just there.
“Gods,” he said after a beat, voice low, “you really are the most dramatic woman I’ve ever met. Do you always threaten self-mutilation to get a man’s attention?”
Eirwen huffed a soft laugh. “Only when subtlety fails.”
He smirked against her neck. “Darling, if you wanted me so desperately, you could’ve just said so. No need to resort to bloodletting.”
“Oh, please,” she murmured, shifting in his lap until she could half-turn to look at him. “I was simply overflowing. You’ve no idea how annoying it is to lug all that extra blood around.”
He chuckled lightly. “Mmm. Must be exhausting. So noble of you to lighten the load.”
“I’m very selfless,” she deadpanned.
They both laughed—quiet and close and easy.
For the first time in days, the tension between them loosened. The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It didn’t ache.
Astarion reached for a blanket and drew it around them both. Eirwen curled more fully into him, draping her arm across his chest, fingers idly tracing the lines of his collarbone.
“You know,” he said lazily, “I half expected you to mount me in some dramatic display of triumph after all that.”
“Tempting,” she replied, lips quirking. “But I think I’ve earned a night off.”
His eyes glittered. “Oh, I see. I relieve you of all that extra blood, and now you’re too tired. What a selfish little morsel you are.”
She chuckled softly, but her eyelids were already beginning to droop.
“You’ll get your moment,” she murmured sleepily. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll tie you to the bed and drain you dry in my own way. Tit for tat.”
He groaned theatrically. “Be still my unbeating heart.”
But she didn’t answer.
Her breath had evened out, slow and steady against his chest.
Astarion stilled.
She was asleep.
Just like that.
Curled against him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he was safe. Like she trusted him with her softness, her stillness, her peace.
He stared down at her for a long time, one hand absently stroking on of her horns.
She could’ve ridden him until dawn, wrung him out in sweat and sin and satisfaction.
But instead, she fell asleep on him.
And somehow, that felt far more intimate.
Far more dangerous.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t dare.
He just stayed there, heartless but not untouched, holding her while she dreamed.
And tried not to think about how much he already missed her when she wasn’t looking at him.
Notes:
This chapter is my favorite that I've finished so far, so I really hope you enjoyed it. Please consider leaving a kudos, and a comment if you have feelings to share!
Chapter 10: Alfira
Summary:
The plan is set to defend the grove from Minthara's army. While preparing, Eirwen meets a sweet young bard who pulls emotions from Eirwen that she hadn't expected to feel.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Eirwen had barely slept, only enjoying a few blissful hours cradled in Astarion’s arms, enjoying the quiet that felt more like a ceasefire than a victory. She had left his tent well before anyone would have roused enough to notice she’d been there at all.
The sun was just beginning to rise over the camp, morning dew clung to the grass, and the trees filtered the light in soft gold slants. It was the type of morning Eirwen would have loved to enjoy, but there was no time to linger. They had an arch druid to find, if they were ever going to get that damned worm out of their skulls.
Luckily they found him in the furthest wing of the goblin stronghold, just before noon. He was caged and snarling, his massive brown bear form pacing behind iron bars. A pair of goblin children were throwing rocks at him.
“Halsin,” Gale breathed, eyes widening. Leave it to the wizard to figure it out first.
The bear let out a low growl in recognition of his name.
“Well,” Karlach muttered, arms crossed, “that explains a lot.”
Eirwen stepped closer, cautiously, while Wyll and Karlach distracted the children. The bear moved to meet her, pressing his snout against the bars. His eyes—intelligent, and deeply tired—met hers, and she nodded once.
“We’ll come back for you,” she said softly.
A low huff of air escaped him, and she knew he understood.
They didn’t free him yet. The goblins were already eyeing them with suspicion, and they couldn’t afford to risk the whole camp turning on them before they were prepared.
So they turned back.
Back at the grove, Zevlor was waiting. He looked even more exhausted, and twice as skeptical, but he listened.
When Eirwen laid out the plan—to bait the goblins into attacking the grove, to use the terrain and the strength of the druids and tieflings in a unified ambush—Zevlor frowned. “That’s assuming we can get Kagha to agree.”
“Leave her to me,” Eirwen said.
With words as sharp as her blades and just as deliberate, she brokered a fragile alliance. Played Kagha’s pride against her fear, invoked tradition and survival, sworn to having seen Halsin with her own eyes. The rats at the druid’s feet scuttled and squeaked, prompting Eirwen to wonder why rats should have any opinion on the matter. Thankfully, Rath had urged Kagha to listen to reason, and she agreed, without the approval of vermin
By sunset, the grove was a hive of preparation.
Lae’zel drilled the tieflings with ruthless precision, her voice echoing like a war drum. Karlach sparred with two tieflings at a time, all booming laughter and encouragement to try new techniques. Wyll continued his teaching the younger ones on how to hold a blade steady, how to plant their feet and stand their ground. They would be hidden away during the battle, of course, but it was important for them to know, just in case things went south.
Gale and the elder druids stood beneath the great tree, weaving enchantments into the soil, marking out glyphs that would become traps for the unsuspecting. Shadowheart walked the perimeter again and again, her eyes scanning the treetops, murmuring prayers to Shar beneath her breath.
Astarion vanished into the shadows, trailing behind Mol and her band of child-sized saboteurs. They returned with traps that were equally crude, vicious, and effective. The kind that would take off a leg or gut a goblin from below. Astarion seemed surprisingly proud of the band of misfits he’d tutored.
And most importantly, Eirwen kept the peace. She soothed tempers, brokered deals. She kept Zevlor and Kagha from ripping each other apart, and made sure everyone understood the stakes.
After hours of dealing with it all, she found herself seeking peace in an alcove of the compound, where a pretty blue tiefling sat tuning a half-mended lute. Eirwen considered leaving, but before she decided, the woman looked up from her instrument.
She jumped slightly in surprise, “Oh! You’re the one that’s going to get us through this.”
Eirwen offered a half-smile. “I’m going to try.”
The young woman nodded, hesitant. She lifted her fingers off the neck of her lute to offer a shy wave.
“I’m Alfira. If you’d like a distraction, I’ve been trying to write something. For my mentor, Lihala. She… passed recently.” Her voice caught, grief and guilt threading tightly through each word. “I thought maybe you’d… understand.”
Eirwen wasn’t sure if she did. Her memory was a void. There were no soft memories of kind faces to yearn for. It was all just blood and hunger. And the gnawing possibility that someone, somewhere, had once grieved because of her.
But the tension building in her belly welcomed the distraction.
They sat together long past sundown, shaping the bard’s grief into melody. Eirwen’s contributions were quiet and halting at first, but raw enough to surprise even herself.
When the song was finished, Alfira played it for her. Her voice was soft and trembling, the fragility of it deepening the music, not weakening it, making the sorrow ring truer, more mortal.
When the final note faded, Alfira lowered her lute with shaking hands and wiped her cheeks.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Eirwen only smiled. “You sang it beautifully.”
She didn’t know what to make of the ache curling low in her chest. Something warm, small, and breakable. Something that felt suspiciously like hope.
She didn’t know how to say any of that. So instead, she said softly, “I hope I see you again, Alfira. In Baldur’s Gate.”
That night, after supper, Alfira stood at the edge of camp with her lute slung across her back, and a satchel at her feet.
“I’m coming with you,” she said with determination, but then added “if you’ll have me,” with less certainty.
The group exchanged looks. Astarion raised a skeptical brow. “Oh lovely. First a mangy dog, now a weepy bard. Are we building a crew, or starting a shelter?
Lae’zel scoffed. “She will die in the first battle.”
“She’s not a warrior,” Shadowheart said flatly. “She’s a liability.”
But Wyll shook his head. “To even ask takes bravery. That’s worthy of a chance. Every hero’s journey begins with one step.”
“I agree,” Karlach added, offering the girl a grin. “She’s got heart. And we’re gonna need that—seeing as we’re down one.” She glanced around, hopeful someone would catch the joke. Eirwen rewarded her with a quiet chuckle.
Gale inclined his head. “Everyone has their role. Even those who don’t fight.”
The deciding vote fell, as always, to Eirwen.
She stepped forward, looked Alfira in the eye, and said, “This next fight will be hell. Goblins. Cultists. Drow. If you stay, it’s not to watch. It’s to survive. To endure.”
Alfira nodded, fists clenched. “I will. I want to prove I can.”
Eirwen looked to the others.
“She stays,” Eirwen said. “Her trial begins tomorrow.”
Astarion scoffed, but relented, “By all means, let’s bring along the emotionally fragile minstrel. I’m sure she’ll be instrumental in the coming bloodshed.”
Shadowheart snorted. Karlach threw up her hands in mock outrage. “Oh, so his joke lands, but mine get crickets?”
And just like that—Alfira was one of them.
A soft note in a world growing sharper by the hour.
But maybe, Eirwen thought, that was exactly what they needed.
Notes:
I think we all know what's coming
Chapter 11: Empty Sockets
Summary:
Eirwen wakes to discover she's done the unthinkable.
Notes:
Content warning for this chapter include descriptions of graphic violence, death, body horror, and dissociation
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Eirwen woke to the metallic taste of blood.
It clung to her lips, her tongue, the inside of her throat. Warm, thick, and delicious. For a fraction of a second, she just enjoyed the sensation of the ichor trickling off her hands, on her face, and in her mouth. The sickening, yet heady and warm nectar felt nostalgic, and comforting.
Until her eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, and her stomach dropped.
Alfira lay at her feet.
The young woman’s body was twisted in the dirt, her pale blue skin streaked with gore. She had been stabbed repeatedly, long past the point where life had left her. Blood pooled beneath her, sticky and black in the moonlight, soaking into the earth.
Eirwen’s arm ached all the way to the shoulder.
She wracked her addled brain for anything that could explain this outcome. But there was no confrontation, no memory of a decision to take a life. When she pushed through the fog, begging her stubborn cerebrum to yield anything of value, all she remembered was a single, blinding flash of Alfira’s face in the moment she realized she was going to die.
Eirwen’s knees nearly gave out as the vision swelled in her mind. She thought the pounding in her ears was guilt. She thought the trembling in her hands was revulsion. But then came the awful clarity: it was want.
It was hot and steady in her gut, flowing like molten lava through her veins, and the shame of it was suffocating. Her breath hitched. She forced the feeling away, tried to bury it in the pit of her stomach where she hid all the other rot.
Dropping to her knees, her hands moved without thought, as if they might smooth away what she’d done. She untangled Alfira’s hair strand by strand, brushed her cheek with trembling fingers, the way a child might handle something fragile that they'd already broken.
“You’re ok.”
The words came without meaning, spilling out of her mouth like breath.
Again.
“You’re ok.”
Again.
“You’re ok.”
Each word was thinner.
Not sure if it was for the victim, or the killer.
The body was limp in her lap, her weight rocking forward and back in some small, automatic rhythm. The movement meant to soothe, though she couldn’t say who she was trying to comfort.
Then, something gave under her touch.
Not skin.
Not bone.
A wet collapse, the soft give of something that should never be touched.
It punched straight through the fog in her head, yanking her back into the reality of what she’d done. Her body recoiled before her mind could catch up. She shoved the weight out of her lap, and Alfira’s body rolled limply onto the dirt. The bard’s head tilting just so, so that the ruined face stared up at her.
Empty sockets locked on hers, mouth agape in a silent scream, frozen in time forever.
Eirwen jerked back with a strangled sound, scrambling away from the body, hands clawing at the dirt. Bile burned the back of her throat and she doubled over, retching until her ribs ached.
When the heaving stopped, she crawled forward on hands and knees with no direction in mind. The damp earth clung to her blood-slick fingers, grinding into the creases of her skin. The sensation was gritty and slick and far to overwhelming . She couldn’t bear it.
She staggered to her feet and bolted toward the lake’s edge.
The water was black as ink, and she plunged her hands in, disrupting the reflection of the moon that scattered across the lake's surface. She scrubbed until her skin burned, desperate to strip herself clean. But whether it was the dirt, the blood, her trembling hands, or some God’s refusal to forgive, the stains clung stubbornly, swirling red in the water, refusing to dissipate.
She crumpled, pulling her knees to her chest, hugging them hard. Her whole body trembled. The sobs came quietly at first, then harder, each one pulling at something deep and ragged inside her. How could she have done this? How could she have liked it?
“Darling, is there a reason you’re howling at this hour?”
She startled at the voice, and Astarion stepped out of the shadows, pale and sharp against the moonlight. His gaze flicked over her, then past her, toward the darkness where Alfira’s body lay.
“Well,” he said mildly, “this is a mess.”
“I didn’t—” Her voice cracked. “I don’t remember—”
“I’m sure you don’t,” he said lightly, though his eyes were unreadable. He stepped closer, close enough for his shadow to brush over her. “Now, breathe. You’re shaking so much you’re going to vibrate yourself into the lake.””
“She’s dead,” Eirwen rasped. “Alfira’s dead. And I—”
“—have blood all over yourself, yes. I can see that.” His tone was clinical, almost bored. “best to focus on the next steps.”
Her throat tightened. “You’re not even going to ask why?”
“Do you want me to?” he countered, tilting his head. “You don’t look like you have an answer you’d enjoy giving.”
Eirwen swallowed, her gaze dragging back toward the shore. That flash of Alfira’s final moments of terror burned behind her eyes again, and that same dark curl of arousal returned with it. Her claws dug into her palms in an attempt to distract from the shame.
Astarion was silent for a moment, studying her.
“We can drag her into the woods,” he said finally. “Or the river. Come morning, she’s nothing more than a tragic disappearance."
“No.”
One pale brow lifted. “No?”
“She deserves more than to vanish like she never mattered. I can’t just… make her disappear.”
Astarion sighed, “Ah, sentimentality. Mortals and their infernal fondness for leaving bodies where anyone could trip over them.”
She said nothing. Just pulled her knees tighter, staring at the fractured moon in the water.
“Fine,” he said at last, settling beside her with a lazy stretch. “Then you’d better come up with a convincing tale. I’m not fussed about your motives, but the rest of them? They get awfully sentimental about these things.”
Her voice shook. “I— I don’t have one. I was just… standing over her. It was horrifying. I—”
She stopped. The truth hit like a knife to the ribs.
“I’m…I’m lying.”
A sob tore out of her before she could stop it. “I think I loved it… It was—Hells, Astarion—it was arousing.” She choked, then asked, barely audible, “What the fuck is wrong with me?”
For a long beat, he didn’t speak. Then something shifted in his expression, a flicker of recognition.
He leaned closer, and the air between them tightened. His hand lifted, and for a breath, she thought he might comfort her, maybe let her lean into him until the tremors passed.
Instead, his fingers brushed something into her palm. She looked down to see a folded kerchief.
“I wouldn’t lose too much sleep over that,” he said evenly. “Horror and arousal have a way of intermixing at the most inconvenient times.”
Her gaze darted up to him, but he only gave a faint, knowing smile. She held his gaze, allowing the silence to linger for a moment, embracing the calm before the storm with him.
“Besides,” Astarion broke the silence, shifting to stand. “Lae’zel has held a blade to each of our throats at least once. You just beat her to the slice.”
A short, broken laugh escaped her in spite of herself, and Astarion smiled.
“Come on,” he said, offering his hand. “Let’s at least tidy her up. No sense in letting the presentation cause more trouble than the act itself.”
Eirwen took his hand, allowing him to help her to her feet, and pretended not to notice how much his touch anchored her.
Notes:
I hope this series is resonating with someone out there, because OOOFF this chapter was hard to write! I sometimes experience dissociative episodes, so while it was cathartic to write out how it manifests, it took a decent amount of emotional labor to get through! But I'm honestly incredibly happy with the result, so well worth it to me.
I'd really appreciate a comment, if you feel so inclined! I intend to press on with the series regardless of how many hits it receives, because it's really dear to me, but it would be lovely to know that I'm not *only* sharing it for myself. I really want to know how you feel about my take on things so far. I realize that I'm veering from canon a bit, but I'm trying to keep Astarion's characterization in line with how I think he'd react in these situations. Sometimes I find myself writing him too obsessed with Eirwen, and have to pull it back, and remind myself that I'm writing their early days. I'm sure a lot of you can understand that feeling, either from writing fics, or from just starting a new game and wanting to jump straight to his confession scene, haha!
Chapter 12: Quiet Condemnation
Summary:
Eirwen faces the others' reactions to her crime, and is tempted with the chance to allow Astarion to take the blame.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The camp was too quiet.
Eirwen had feared the wrong thing while she and Astarion had feebly cleaned the body. She had dreaded the shouting, the potentially violent retribution. But this–the deafening silence of her companions as they stared at her with a mixture of emotions that she couldn’t fully read– was so much worse than the disarray that her mind had expected.
Alfira’s body lay beneath a blanket a few paces away, the edge darkened where the blood had seeped through. Eirwen did her best not to let her vision linger on it for too long, yet her eyes kept drifting back, drawn to the sinful comfort of its stillness as a reprieve from the piercing stares of her companions. She knew she shouldn’t, knew it was wrong, but the gore offered a floating kind of quiet, and she longed to sink into it.
Then a movement caught at the edge of her vision—pale, and deliberate. Astarion stepped closer. He didn’t touch her, didn’t speak, only occupied the space just near enough that her eyes snagged on him instead of the body. When she looked up, his gaze was waiting for her. Not soft. Not forgiving. Simply there. A tether. She realized she hadn’t been breathing, and let in some air, Astarion’s eyes seemed to soften, but perhaps she imagined it.
Karlach’s voice cut brazenly through the silence. “Are we all going to just stand here, or is someone going to explain what the fuck happened?”
Eirwen swallowed, her throat felt impossibly dry. “I killed her.” The words trembled out, getting quieter with each word of admission. “I-I don’t know why. I just woke up and she was— I don’t remember doing it. Just… just standing over her when it was already done.”
A stunned silence hung in the air, torturing her once again.
Shadowheart was the one to break it this time. “Eirwen, I understand memory loss more than anyone, but how could you possibly not remember doing something this…vulgar?”
Then Gale spoke, voice careful, deliberate. “Perhaps she isn’t the one responsible.” His brow furrowed, the gears of logic turning. “Eirwen, is it possible you’re misremembering? That it wasn’t you at all? We do have a certain undead resident in camp who has already shown himself to be…untrustworthy in the night.”
Every eye turned at once toward the pale elf.
Astarion’s head snapped toward Gale, eyes flashing. “Oh, how convenient, ” he scoffed. “Of course! Blame the vampire. Why not?” He shifted on his heels and pointed at the body, “You pride yourself on that mind of yours, Gale, so use it! Just look at the mess left behind! Do you really think I’d waste time butchering the girl like some goblin with a dull knife? If I’d wanted her dead, she’d be neat, tidy, and very, very dry. ”
Despite the logic laid before him, Gale didn’t back down. He looked to Eirwen, searching her face. “You said that you don’t remember, correct? Not the act itself. Only waking to it, already complete. That absence of memory is mighty convenient for someone like him. He could have—”
Eirwen froze. For the barest heartbeat, the thought enticed something inside her, like a stranger whispering in her ear. She could let it stand. Take the lifeline Gale was graciously dangling before her, and let the suspicion fall on the overt monster in camp. Her chest ached with the weight of wanting to give in. For a heartbeat, she imagined stepping back, and letting the suspicion settle on him, watching the relief wash over her companions’ faces.
‘ They're all so keen to believe that their leader isn’t the predator in the dark, so why not give them that comfort? It’s a clean escape. A lie that would make everything so much easier.’
Astarion’s eyes found hers. His expression was unflinching, and it felt like a warning and a dare all at once.
“No,” she said, her voice sounding more brave than she felt. “It was me.” She turned her gaze away from him, and continued, “Astarion helped me to not lose myself in the shock of it.” Something that didn't feel entirely of herself twisted with disappointment and disapproval, causing the silence that followed to feel even heavier than before.
Shadowhearts brow knit, searching for a solution that made sense. “Perhaps the tadpole’s influence is at work here. It has been known to push its host toward acts they might not otherwise commit.”
Karlach’s voice cut in, raw and hurt. “She wasn’t just some act ! She was a person! An artist. We’ve lost something from the world now, and you can’t put it back.”
Wyll made to place his hand upon his fiery companion's shoulder, but feeling the heat, he simply nodded. "Indeed. She had many more songs to write, and foes to face."
Across the fire, Astarion’s lip curled faintly. “Let’s not exaggerate her usefulness. We weren’t exactly relying on her to win the day.”
Karlach’s head snapped toward him. “She still deserved to fucking live, Astarion!”
Her friend’s words hit like a blade between Eirwen’s ribs. She forced the sob in her throat to stay down, but despite her best efforts, she couldn’t hide the pain from showing on her face.
Seeing that pain, Karlach’s voice softened, though her eyes stayed hard. “Look, Soldier…If this really was the tadpole, and you couldn’t control it… then I understand. But you have to fight it,” She leaned forward, locking eyes with Eirwen. “This can’t happen again. Ever.”
“Of course…never.” Eirwen said, though the words felt like ash in her mouth. She didn’t know if she was telling the truth.
Finally, Laezel broke the remaining tension with an impatient tsk sound, “Have we finished this display of sentimentality? We have wasted half of our morning with this she’lak, rather than readying our blades for battle.”
“Efficient as ever,” Astarion muttered, but everyone silently agreed to let it rest, and one by one, they drifted away to their tasks, focusing on the bloodshed to come rather than the one in their camp.
Shadowheart lingered last. She rested a hand on Eirwen’s shoulder, her touch steady but not soft. “I’ve got your back,” she said quietly. “Just don’t give me reason to regret it.” The words carried equal weight of loyalty and caution, and Eirwen found herself grateful for both.
When she was alone again, her gaze drifted toward the shrouded shape at the edge of camp. She had feared the shouting, the condemnation, even the violence of retribution. But silence, heavy with judgment and shame, was so much worse. It clung to her like the blood still beneath her nails, impossible to wash away.
The morning moved on regardless. Because it had to.
Weapons were checked. Armor strapped on. The druids began their chants, weaving enchantments into the grove’s trees and soil. The tieflings gathered in knots, whispering nervously as Wyll and Karlach drilled them through last-minute formations.
No one mentioned Alfira again. Not aloud. But Eirwen felt the absence in every sideways glance, every pause in conversation when she passed. The lute, still strapped to the bard’s back beneath the shroud, seemed to hum in her ears like a phantom note.
She forced her hands to move, to gesture, to lead, doing anything to keep them from shaking. A leader couldn’t crumble on the edge of battle. Even if she didn't want be one.
Astarion passed her once, close enough that their shoulders brushed. He didn’t look at her, didn’t speak. But the deliberate contact was enough to remind her that she wasn’t entirely untethered, and she ignored how her hands steadied slightly.
By the time the sun crept toward its zenith, the grove was as ready as it would ever be. The plan was set: Minthara and her goblins would be lured in by Eirwen’s faux treachery against her people, and find themselves in an ambush.
And when Eirwen finally called her companions to gather, they came—still wary and watchful, but present.
The weight of Alfira’s death hung over them all, a shadow that wouldn’t lift easily. But shadows could wait. The cult would not.
Notes:
Tiefling party is next! I originally had a tiefling party story written, but since I had to move things around to include Alfira's death, so now it takes place right before the big battle, it changes how I visualize the party going. So I'm currently in the drafting stage for it, and I'm excited for where I'm going to go with it, and I hope you all will enjoy it. As always, thank you so much for reading! It means so much to me!
Chapter 13: Hurt Me
Summary:
After victory against the cultists, celebration ensues, but Eirwen wears her joy like a mask. Haunted by Alfira’s death and terrified of her own lack of control, she avoids Astarion all night, until he corners her. Their argument turns to recognition, and Astarion offeres a way to get her mind off things.
Notes:
woooo this chapter was a hard one to write! I wrote and rewrote it multiple times to try to get the right emotions, but I'm finally satisfied with it. I hope you enjoy, and think that the smut in this chapter is worth all of the brooding haha!
Chapter Text
The battle had been brutal, but graciously one-sided. Every trap they’d set had sprung true, every druidic ward had burned through goblin ranks, and the tieflings had fought with a ferocity born from desperation. Eirwen had thrown herself into it eagerly, savoring the distraction of the chaos of battle, relishing the way Minthara’s eyes widened in the instant before she cut her down. The Drow had been especially beautiful as the blood pooled from her wounds, eyes growing glassy. It had brought Eirwen a fleeting feeling of peace. Violence was always easier than thought, and for a time, it was a comforting balm. However, victory fades quickly, and shame has a longer reach.
But just as quickly as the shame returned, a new distraction took its place, and the camp was alive with firelight and laughter. Cheers and clinking cups echoed through the night air, Scratch and the Owlbear cub darted between legs, Gale conjured a spray of harmless colorful sparks for the guests’ amusement, and Karlach’s booming laugh rattled louder than the drums.
For the others, it was a celebration of triumph, and a chance to release the tension they’d been holding in their shoulders for a long time.
For Eirwen, it was a familiar facade.
Throughout the night, she flounced her way through the crowd with a tipsy sway, playing the part of the carefree leader she had portrayed every night prior. She danced with Bex while Danis watched and laughed, spinning until their tails tangled and their breath came out in hiccuping giggles. She cheered loudest when Gale and Rolan put on a ridiculous impromptu duel of cantrips, their lights and illusions sending the crowd into shrieks of delight. She draped herself lazily over Shadowheart’s shoulders, teasing Lae’zel with pointed questions about her battle techniques and how they could be used in the bedroom, laughing harder when Karlach snorted ale through her nose. She even tugged Wyll into her arms when he sulked at the edge of the fire, teasing gently about his dashing good looks being amplified by his new horns until he cracked the smallest of smiles.
To the rest of them she was a magnetic flame around which everyone gathered, but she couldn’t shake the fact that none of them seemed to notice that there was a distinct lack of music at this party. They laughed with her, leaned on her, happy to let the horrors of the morning dissolve into the revelry of the night. It seemed as though they had all chosen to forget.
She should have been relieved about that.
Instead, it made her skin crawl.
Every laugh scraped hollow against her ribs. Every cheer clanged in her skull like broken glass. She didn’t feel like a hero. She felt sick. But she continued to smile and laugh and dance, because pretending that things were fine felt better than acknowledging the truth.
And though she would never admit it, she was avoiding him.
Astarion had lounged in the firelight, one hand curled around a goblet he didn’t drink from, his smile sharp and false in a way only she seemed to notice. Every time his crimson eyes found her, she turned away just a fraction too quickly. She’d laugh louder, pantomime taking another drink, drape herself over someone else, pretending to be drunker than she was. Distracted. Unaware. Too busy leading the revelry to notice him watching her.
When the energy calmed and the crowd began to dwindle, Eirwen slipped from the firelight, her cup abandoned, her false laughter gone. She walked into the trees with only the night air for company, hoping to let the cool air strip away the icky feeling of the person she'd been pretending to be all night.
She leaned against a tree, tilting her head back, dragging in the misty air like a cigarette. For the first time all evening, she let her smile fall.
“Mm. Funny thing about pretending to be drunk.”
A voice came from behind her, low and sly.
“You only fool people who haven’t spent two centuries doing it.”
She froze for a heartbeat, then turned to see Astarion leaned against a nearby trunk, pale and gleaming in the moonlight, his smirk sharp enough to cut.
“So tell me, darling,” his eyes glinted, “how much longer were you planning to avoid me?”
Her throat went dry, but she forced a scoff. “Avoid you? Gods, Astarion, not everything revolves around you. Do you truly think I don’t have better things to do than devote every breath to your ego?”
“I suppose it doesn't have to be every breath,” he started, lazily pushing off the tree to close the distance between them. “Just the ones you wasted laughing too loud, playing the role of the drunken maiden. All that energy poured into pretending you didn’t see me watching. It was adorable, really.”
She rolled her eyes and retorted, “maybe I’m just drunker than you believe.”
“Darling, if you were drunk, you’d be draped over me instead of sulking in the woods. No, you’re stewing. Over one corpse, when you reveled in stacking the goblins like kindling. I saw how you reveled in that drow’s death, so please spare me your hypocrisy.”
“Don’t you dare.” She shoved him, hard enough that his back hit the tree with a thud, and he looked at her without surprise. Her body caged his in, every muscle tight with fury. “Don’t you dare compare the two.”
Unfazed by her aggression, his brow arched, amused despite the force of her anger. “Touched a nerve, have I?”
“It’s different,” she hissed. “Minthara, and some goblins–I chose that. But Alfira?” Her voice cracked, low and shaking. Each sentence tumbled out like fragmented thoughts. “I woke to her body ripped apart. I didn’t decide it. I didn’t even know it was happening ’til it was over. I really liked her, Astarion.” She drew in a jagged breath. “If I’d had the choice… I wouldn’t have killed her…I wouldn't. I–I’m sure of it."
Something flickered across his face, and for a heartbeat the smirk fell; his gaze slipped from hers, as if granting her a sliver of privacy.
“My body was…was like a puppet for something else,” she whispered, eyes wide as she recollected the emotions. “And that is fucking terrifying.”
Astarion tilted his head, eyes returning to her “Ah,” he murmured. “That. Yes. I can understand that.”
Eirwen blinked, startled by the sudden sincerity.
“I know what it feels like to kill without choosing. To be made into a weapon, your hunger or your hands used by someone apart from yourself." His smile was faint, yet bitter. “So yes, darling. I understand.”
Her chest tightened. For the first time, she saw the reflection of herself in him. It wasn’t just the shared wit and penchant for violence that had drawn her to him, but shame, and the ache of being used.
The moment stretched, though fragile.
Then he broke it with a sly grin. “So, let's get your mind off of it. If violence won’t do, perhaps we should try something else. Sex, for instance.”
She barked out a shocked laugh. “Gods, you can’t be serious.” She stepped back, shaking her head, only to feel his hand catch her waist, pulling her flush against him again.
“Oh, I’m very serious.” His lips brushed her ear as he leaned close, and his voice dipped, smooth and dangerous. “I saw the thirst in you today. The way you killed. And I want to see more of it. Stop being so ashamed, my sweet. I, for one, enjoyed what I saw.”
Her breath hitched, body melting against his despite herself. “What if I lose myself and kill you too?” she whispered.
His laugh rumbled low in his chest. “Then at least we’d be even.”
She didn’t laugh, so he switched his approach.
His grip tightened on her waist, commanding. “You may not trust yourself,” he murmured. “So trust me. Allow me to guide you.”
Something in his tone— sharp, commanding, and absolute—slid through her like steel into lock. She exhaled, shuddering, and nodded.
“That sounds good to me.”
In a blink, he spun them, pinning her to the tree. Her back pressed against bark, his body caging hers in, anchoring her in place. Their mouths crashed together, urgent and hungry, as their hands fought with one another’s clothes until they were bare in the cool night air.
His fingers found her first, sliding into her with practiced ease, his other hand braced against the tree to hold her steady. She groaned, trying to relax into the rhythm, hips rocking into his palm, but her mind still buzzed, grief and fear clinging like cobwebs.
“Astarion,” She began, suddenly shy.
“Hmm?” he cooed, moving his digits just so, causing her to shiver, “What do you need?”
“Hurt me,” she breathed, barely able to admit what she desired.
The growl that tore from him was feral, delighted.
“Gladly”
His free hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back to bare her throat, gripping the base of her skull with seasoned strength, enough to pull a satisfied gasping sound from her. His fangs sank into her flesh, sharp and merciless, and her cry broke into a desperate, mewling moan. Her body finally surrendered, the tension unraveling as blood and pleasure swirled together.
Her hips jutted forward and back, following his rhythm until she was gushing and shaking from pure rapture, and he talked her through her building orgasm.
“That’s it,” he murmured darkly against her skin, lapping at the pooling blood, and adding an additional finger, “that’s my girl.”
She cried out as the ecstasy hit her in full force, his body keeping her upright as every muscle tensed and relaxed all at once.
Satisfied with her reaction, he pulled back just enough to alight his erection with her folds, but rather than slamming into her, he teased her, stroking, but not yet entering. His mouth moved lower, biting at her breast, drawing another gasp from her lips as she felt the building heat from needing more of him.
She whimpered, and attempted to adjust her hips enough to engulf his cock, but he held her in place, smirking at her pitiful need. After silently trying to coax him forward, but receiving nothing, finally, she begged. “Please, Astarion! Please, I need—”
“Do you?” he purred, sliding along her slickness without giving in. “Will you finally let this ridiculous brooding end if I give you what you want?”
“Yes,” she gasped, voice breaking. “Gods, yes, I promise.”
His smirk widened. “Then by all means.”
He slid into her with a linguine slowness, filling her entirely. She sighed gratefully at the feeling of his member stretching her just right, but then he stopped to enjoy her expression shift from desperation to satisfaction. She impatiently let out a sound from deep in her gut, nails raking against his shoulders, wordlessly pleading to be truly fucked.
“So needy,” he teased lightly, but his cock throbbed as felt her tighten around him, and he lost the control he’d barely been holding onto.
He fucked her with brutal intensity, every thrust forcing thought from her head until there was nothing left but him—the pain, the pleasure, the sharp bite of his teeth and the darker bite of his praise.
When she shattered around him, it was with a cry full of release, not regret. He let out a whispered swear, and spilled inside her, loosening his grip on her hair, and she took the opportunity to pull him closer to him for just a moment more.
He huffed a sort of half laugh, half sigh, but let her hold him for just a bit, leaning his head into her neck once more to lick away any remaining blood. After a lingering moment, he chuckled low, smug and sated, his breath warm at her ear. “There now. Much better than brooding.”
And for the first time since waking to Alfira’s body, she felt clean.
Not absolved.
Not forgiven.
But emptied.
As if he had wrung the poison out of her veins and left her hollow enough to breathe again.
For a while, they lingered there, bodies pressed together, his mouth lapping idly at the blood at her throat. No tenderness, or promises, just the steady rhythm of breath returning to her lungs, the sharp edges of shame blunted by content exhaustion.
At last, she shifted, gathering her clothes with shaking fingers. He let her go without a word, only smiling faintly as he fastened his own garments back into place.
When she returned to camp, the fire had burned low, reduced to embers. Her companions were already asleep, sprawled in their tents, their night softened by dreams.
Eirwen sank down onto her own bedroll, still feeling the phantom weight of fangs at her throat, the echo of his hands on her skin. She took comfort in the pulsing ache where his hands had dug into her hips
She was sure that the shame would come again tomorrow, but for tonight, at least, the silence in her mind was mercifully still.
And yet… as her eyes fluttered closed, she swore she felt something stir just beyond the firelight– a presence, quiet and patient, as though the dark itself were watching.
Chapter 14: The Sky Beneath
Summary:
As the party descends into the Underdark, Eirwen struggles with the lingering dread of Sceleritas’ visit. A brutal skirmish with a minotaur and the warmth of her companions’ banter bring fleeting relief, but it’s Astarion’s teasing, a lustful interaction, and his unexpected choice to stay by her side that allow her to relax again.
Notes:
I have a lot of feelings about this chapter. So if you'll indulge me, I added them to the end notes <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Sleep never came.
She’d been on the edge of it, curled beneath her blanket with the phantom weight of Astarion’s hands still on her skin, her mind finally quieting after all of the guilt and noise. Then the shadows had shifted. And the butler appeared.
He was ugly, impish, and otherworldly. Perhaps older than life itself. Jovial in a way that would make one’s skin crawl, and yet oddly familiar all at once.
Sceleritas’ words had cut through her like a jagged blade. He did not tell her what she was, only that she belonged to something beyond herself, and it had plans. When he vanished, the silence he left behind was worse than his strange presence, as though the darkness had winked at her and promised it wasn’t done.
She’d sat awake for hours, hunched around the few remaining embers of the dying fire, her lungs refused to fully fill, each breath shallow and uneven with dread
By dawn, she hadn’t slept at all, but when the others rose, she pretended her fatigue was due to enjoying the night too much, simply hungover. Astarion had flashed a look that said “still lying?” but graciously, he didn’t vocalize the query.
The grove was already stirring. Tieflings bustling, druids mending what they could, and Halsin’s calm voice rose above the murmur, giving direction. Supplies needed to be packed. Rations counted. The road forward was clear: the heart of the cult could be found in Moonrise tower, but they'd need to traverse the underdark to get there, so that was where they would go next.
Eirwen moved among her companions like a wraith, her smile practiced but her eyes hollow. Every step felt mechanical, as though she were already a puppet dancing to some tune she hadn’t learned.
Karlach cracked jokes to lighten the air while she and Wyll shouldered heavy packs. Gale fussed over scrolls and muttered warnings about creatures he’d read about. Shadowheart checked her crossbow string for any fraying with a meticulous focus, and Lae’zel paced impatiently, grumbling about the unlocated creche.
Astarion lounged as ever, pale eyes following Eirwen as she busied herself. She refused to meet his curious gaze. Not after last night. Not after the butler.
The group knew just where to go. After an earlier encounter with a phase spider monarch, Gale had made note of a gaping cavern mouth just below her nest, and speculated that it likely led into the depths of the Underdark. So, they returned to the layer below the blighted village, and took a leap of faith. With the assistance of a featherfall spell, they descended slowly, anxiously, into the unknown below.
Midway down, the air shifted into something damp, heavy, and full of the musk of stone and rot. Strange fungi clung to the walls, their glow providing a false comfort in the gloom. The Underdark stretched around them in vast silence. Fungal forests glittered in hues of violet and green, cavern walls studded with crystals that pulsed faintly as though alive.
When feet hit soil, they all readied their weapons, their shoulders taut with anticipation. After a tense moment of assessment, Shadowheart stepped ahead of the group, crossbow in hand, but her voice was softer than her stance. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she murmured. “Most people only associate the Underdark with rot and ruin. But look—” she tilted her chin toward a towering cluster of mushrooms, their caps shedding soft light like lanterns. “There’s beauty here, too. You just have to look for it.”
Eirwen let her gaze travel where Shadowheart’s pointed, and the sight caught her. It was beautiful, in its own grotesque way. Like the world beneath had grown its own kind of sky. For the first time in days, her chest loosened. “I suppose,” she said quietly, “even darkness deserves to be admired.”
Karlach grinned, “that’s the spirit, soldier! See? We can find joy down here. Even if it’s only in weird, possibly deadly mushrooms.”
The smile Eirwen gave her friend in return was small, but real.
Then the sound of hooves shattered it. Heavy, echoing through the cavern like drums. A bellow followed, deep and guttural, rattling the stone.
Lae’zel’s head snapped toward the dark, her longsword already in hand. “Something large approaches— a horned brute!” she barked.
The creature burst from the shadows, horns angled downward, ready to charge, as its glowing red eyes locked on them.
Wyll cursed, diving aside as it charged. “Hells, that’s a bloody Minotaur! We need to move!” He shouted, jutting to the left, as the creature’s horns slammed into the ground where he’d just stood.
Lae’zel was already on it, slicing into its flank with a grin sharp as steel. Karlach roared with laughter, swinging her axe wide, sparks flying with every strike. Wyll darted behind, blade flashing, calling out orders half-lost in the chaos.
Eirwen met Lae’zel’s eyes mid-fight and both women grinned with competitive mirth. Her twin daggers sang in her hands as she lunged in, striking hard and fast, ducking beneath a swing of its massive arm to plunge steel into tendon. The monster roared, then staggering, and with a final swing of her axe, Karlach brought the beast down.
Eirwen stood over the kill, chest heaving, blood splattered across her arms and cheek. She felt no shame, no guilt. Only exhilaration.
At her side, Astarion smirked, eyes fixed on her more than the carcass.
“My, my. You do know how to put on a show. I didn’t even get a stab in before it was downed. I’m impressed.”
Heat coiled low in her stomach, treacherous and immediate. She tossed him a smile over her shoulder, sharper than she meant it to be, then pivoted away before he could read more on her face. His chuckle told her he’d read it anyway.
“Well, that was fun!” Karlach beamed, already elbow-deep in the beast’s carcass. “Hey, Gale, think the meat’s edible? Probably tastes weird, but I’m willing to try!”
Gale’s face went pale. “Elminster’s beard, no! Do you know how many diseases thrive in a body like that? My cookware would never feel clean again.”
Karlach snorted. “Bah! Fire’ll kill whatever’s in there. Just needs the right spices, dontcha think, Wyll?”
“I can provide the spices,” Wyll said gamely, sheathing his blade with a flourish. “Though I’m not sure even the finest spices in the Sword Coast could save such a cut.”
Lae’zel sneered. “Pathetic. Flesh is flesh. You coddle yourselves with choice.”
Shadowheart arched a brow. “Bold talk from someone so desperate to get one parasite out of her head, yet willing to risk swallowing another with her supper.”
For once, Lae’zel paused, eyes narrowing as if weighing the words. Then she inclined her head, just barely.
“On this point… perhaps you are not wrong.”
The silence that followed was stunned, broken only by Karlach’s chortling: “Well I’ll be damned! Lae’zel finally agrees with you on something, Fringe.” Shadowheart scoffed, but Eirwen spotted her smirk before the cleric turned away.
Halsin crouched by the beast, studying it with calm inspection. “Best to leave it,” he assured, brushing blood from his hands. “Creatures of the Underdark cannot reliably sustain surface dwellers. Its meat is contaminated by its environment. The beings of this realm will find better sustenance in it than we could.” He gave the beast a final pat, and mumbled a prayer to Silvanus.
His words, however, sparked another round of bickering. Karlach protesting that she’d at least try a bite, just to know what it tastes like, Gale threatening to hex her if she so much as touched his pan, and Wyll laughing as he tried to play mediator.
By the time camp was being set, the debate still carried on, even as they each completed their chores around the firelight. The noise was almost comforting in its chaos.
Eirwen drifted to the edge of it all, content to listen from a distance. For the first time in days, the sound of their laughter and argument felt real again, like she was actually here enjoying it. She was still smiling faintly when she felt the familiar weight of a presence at her shoulder.
“Well, Well,” Astarion purred, “The mighty beast slayer.”
He smoothly stepped forward, and leaned close, crimson eyes gleaming as he took in her disheveled, still bloodied state. “I must admit, the way you gutted that thing was positively breathtaking. I half expected you to mount it as a trophy. Or perhaps…” his smirk curved sharp, fingers already finding her waist “you’d prefer to be mounted instead.”
Her laugh escaped before she could stop it, bright and startled. “You’re insufferable.”
“Mm, true,” he admitted, lips ghosting near her ear, “but admit it. You like me that way.”
She meant to roll her eyes, to fire back something cutting. Instead, she kissed him.
Their mouths crashed together instantly, teeth clashing before falling into something hungrier. Astarion made a low sound that was half growl, half laugh, and pressed her back against the cavern wall, his hand searing at her waist while the other slid up, curling possessively at the nape of her neck.
Her fingers fisted in his curls, tugging him closer, needing him closer. His hair was softer than she’d remembered, sliding like silk through her blood-slicked fingers. The sensation made her melt further into him. She tilted her head, letting him in, their tongues tangling as though in some private duel neither intended to lose.
His thumb stroked just under her jaw, coaxing her chin higher, exposing her throat to him. She shivered. He didn’t bite, but the threat lingered like a promise that she desperately wanted him to keep.
Her hands wandered of their own accord, skimming over the hard line of his shoulders, the curve of his chest, down to the narrow flare of his hips. His body was taut, alive with tension, but he trembled faintly under her touch, as though he hadn’t expected her to claim him back. Her tail flicked with lustful curiosity, wanting to know what other sensations she could give him.
“Gods,” she whispered against his mouth, barely a sound. She wasn’t even sure what she meant, be it curse, prayer, or plea.
He chuckled darkly, his lips brushing her cheek as he murmured, “Careful, darling. Keep moaning like that and I’ll think you’re falling for me.”
She just answered with another kiss, fierce and unsteady, swallowing the laugh before it could rise. He caught her wrist as her hand slid lower, pressed it flat against his chest, over where his unbeating heart lived. His own hand covered hers, holding it there.
And for a single breath, the kiss slowed. Less hunger, more gravity.
Her lips softened against his, her body leaning into the steady heat of him, her hand pinned over the hollow where his heartbeat should have been. For a moment, it was not only about lust or distraction, it was about this: the terrifying warmth of closeness neither of them had asked for, yet both were clinging to.
When the kiss broke at last, their breaths mingled, ragged and uneven. His smirk returned, but his eyes were too sharp, too bright, betraying something unguarded.
“Mm,” he drawled, lips still brushing hers. “Much better. I do so prefer you flushed from me rather than fretting with guilt.”
She would have sparred back with another quip, or a playful shove, but as if a plug were pulled from a drain, the energy poured out of her all at once, her body finally realizing its own exhaustion. Her forehead came to rest against his shoulder, her body sagging with the weight of fatigue she’d been hiding since dawn.
For a moment, Astarion froze. Then he huffed a sharp little laugh. “Really? All that fire in battle, and now you collapse on me before things even get interesting? I’m wounded.”
She made a soft sound that was half a laugh, half a sigh. “Mm. Sorry.” Her voice was slurred with sleep.
Despite his shallow words of disappointment, he bent and swept her up with ease, ignoring the faint stir of protest she gave before nestling instinctively against his chest, tucking her horns below his chin. He stilled at the unexpected trust of it, the soft press of her warmth against him, not even questioning her safety. Then, with a scoff at himself, he continued walking. By the time he reached her tent, her breath was slow and even, her fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt. He assumed she was already asleep, but then she spoke, just above a whisper.
“Stay. Please.”
Something in him shifted, quick and sharp, before he smoothed it away with a smirk. “Well, if you insist.”
He set her down with practiced grace, then hesitated only a moment before settling down beside her. She found him without even opening her eyes, tucking herself into the curve of his body as if she had always belonged there. Her breathing slowed, steady and sure, until the last of her tension melted away. Despite the predator in her tent, the tadpole in her skull, and the looming darkness surrounding her, she slept sound and untroubled.
Notes:
I’ll admit, I didn’t expect much from this chapter when I sat down to write it. It was supposed to only be a transition to get from Point A to Point B without a massive tonal shift.
But once I started mapping it out, it surprised me by becoming one of my favorites.I had so much fun with the companion banter in this one especially. Even though I’m a total Astarion simp, I love all of them, and I want that to show through Eirwen as well. Finding the balance of them caring about her, while not knowing what she’s truly going through, was tricky, especially since the game doesn’t really explore the companions’ reactions post-Alfira. I imagine they’ve just been swept along by the chaos: the grove battle, the party, and now the plunge into the Underdark.
On a personal note: writing has been such a catharsis for me as I manage ever worsening chronic pain flareups, and this fic has been a source of real joy. Seeing the hit count go up and knowing that people are reading (and hopefully enjoying!) truly brightens my day. Thank you so much for being here with me on this ride!
Chapter 15: A Bit too Obvious
Summary:
In the hush of the Underdark, Eirwen gives Astarion something he thought he’d lost forever: pleasure without performance. And in the aftermath, his companions are quick to notice that perhaps lust isn’t all that ties him to her.
Notes:
(PLEASE READ THIS FIRST)
This chapter contains exploration of Astarion’s feelings as a survivor of sexual trauma. Because of that, the intimacy here has elements of dubious consent, not in the sense that Eirwen pressures him (she doesn’t), but in the sense that Astarion says yes more for her enjoyment than for himself. His trauma complicates how he experiences the act, and while it ultimately becomes deeply positive for him, I know that the nuances of this may be difficult or triggering for some readers.Please read with care, and take care of yourselves first. <3
(Also, please let me know if I need to add tags!)I've added my feelings in the ending notes.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It started with a kiss.
A teasing thing, barely a whisper at the corner of his mouth. Then another, warmer, more insistent, trailing downward as her lips brushed along the edge of his jaw, her hand sliding into his. He let her guide him away from the campfire glow and into the vast hush of the Underdark.
The others faded behind them, their voices muffled by stone. The cavern swallowed every trace of sound until all that remained was the crunch of gravel beneath their boots and the faint drip of unseen water. Strange fungi glowed faintly along the walls, casting their skin in shades of violet and green. And when Eirwen glanced back at him, her eyes shimmered like rubies, seemingly emitting their own light.
She didn’t speak—not with words. But he felt what she wanted in the press of her body against his, the way her hands curled into his cloak, guiding him down onto a bed of moss clinging stubbornly to the stone. He let her. Of course he did. He always let her.
He wasn’t surprised when she sank to her knees, and pulled her long hair back into a sleek ponytail. Not exactly. But his body still went taut with something he didn’t name. Eirwen looked up at him, reverent. Almost worshipful. Her lips parted as she exhaled a shaky breath, and he could see how much she wanted this. Not just the pleasure of it, but the closeness.
She probably thought she was being sweet, the poor thing. He’d seen it before—eager little lovers who wanted to feel generous. Intimate. He always let them. Played along. Moaned, sometimes even faked a shudder for effect.
He wasn’t going to deny her. Not when she looked at him like that.
He braced himself for the old routine: while hands grab too greedily, and the mouth takes, he would just drift elsewhere, eyes fixed on some faraway ceiling, then he’d fake it for her, make her smile, she needed a distraction, so why not give her one?
But then she touched him. And stayed. Just… stayed there, nuzzling his thigh like she had all the time in the world. Her fingers traced the line of his hip, not trying to take, just feeling him. As though he were something precious. As though this wasn’t performance, or obligation, or the prelude to being dragged back to Cazador.
Her eyes lifted, glowing like embers in the gloom. She whispered, “Can I?”
Gods.
He swallowed hard, and managed a nod.
The first drag of her tongue nearly undid him. It wasn’t frantic, or even lewd, not at first. It was deliberate. Slow. Purposeful. Like she was mapping him by touch and taste, every flick and swirl painted with devotion. She didn’t look away from him. Not once.
Her hands gripped his thighs like an anchor, her lips closing around him with exquisite pressure, and it was so much. Nearly too much. Yet he wanted more.
He’d spent centuries enduring this. Surviving it.
But this? This wasn’t survival.
She moaned, soft, pleased, and the sound vibrated through him like thunder rolling through stone. His knees nearly buckled. His hand shot out to brace against the cavern wall, the rock cool beneath his palm, while the other buried itself in her hair. Gods, the way she hummed at the touch, taking him deeper as if begging him to lose control—
No one had ever wanted that before. No one had ever truly wanted him.
The heat built sharp and distantly familiar, coiling low in his belly. It felt real. Raw. As if something alive had been caged in his chest for centuries, and now it was clawing free.
He couldn’t pretend. Not with her.
For the first time in centuries, he felt it coming—not forced, not performed, but because she meant it. Because she wanted this to be good for him. And gods help him, it was.
When he came, it poured out of him in a startled gasp, his whole body shaking as she swallowed him down like he was holy. His hand trembled in her hair, his other palm scraping against the rough stone behind him, grounding himself as his control broke.
She rose slowly, wiping the saliva from her chin and lips, cheeks flushed, eyes proud. She looked at him not as if she expected praise, but as though she had given him something from her soul and hoped he felt it.
He did.
Astarion pulled her into his arms before thought could catch him. His face buried in her shoulder, and for a moment he just… held her. No mask. No charm. Just silence. Just her.
“I didn’t think I could feel that again,” he whispered, barely a breath.
Her hand stroked along his back. “You can.”
They didn’t speak as they cleaned up, the cavern’s fungi still painting both their faces in the now familiar opalescent glow. For once, silence wasn’t heavy. It felt… bearable. Almost comfortable.
When they turned back toward camp, Eirwen fell into step beside him, her arm brushing his with every stride. For a few paces, it was nothing more than that. But then, casually, as if it were nothing at all, his hand slid to her waist. Not guiding, not claiming. Just there. He felt the steady warmth of her through leather and fabric, and for a few precious steps, he let himself imagine what it would be like to keep it there.
They reached the edge of the firelight far too soon. As the voices of their companions carried toward them, he let his hand fall away. His mask slid back into place with the ease of long practice, a sly smirk curling his lips.
“Mm, delightful,” Astarion sighed as though returning from some grand affair rather than a walk in the dark. “Amazing what a bit of… entertaining company can do for the spirits.”
Karlach’s grin went wide. “You two have some fun in the dangerous depths?” she asked, voice ringing with mischief.
Eirwen laughed, the sound bright and easy, and gave Karlach a smile that didn’t bother to hide its answer. “Perhaps a little too much fun,” she admitted, her eyes glittering. Then, with a flick of her tail, she pivoted, “but now I’ve got far too much energy. Lae’zel, care for a spar?”
Lae’zel smirked, already rising with her blade in hand. Wyll trailed after her with a half-grin, half-grimace. “I’ll keep watch,” he said. “To ensure neither of you forgets what nonlethal means.”
Eirwen barked a laugh, twirling her daggers as she stepped into the open. “Nonlethal, of course. But I want it fun. No rules, right, Lae’zel?”
“No rules,” Lae’zel replied, her voice calm, assured. “You will find that freedom means little when facing one who has mastered discipline.”
Eirwen’s grin was wicked as she flicked her blade into her palm with an almost lazy flourish. “Oh, perfect,” she quipped, eyes glinting. “Because I’ve been dying to see the look on your face when my undisciplined flailing puts you on your ass.”
From the sidelines, Astarion lingered, gaze fixed on the curve of her smile as she threw herself into the challenge. It was unguarded, genuine, and warm in a way he’d never seen her offer so freely to anyone but him. Something about it clawed at him, sharp and unwelcome, like jealousy.
He buried it in an instant, smothered it with a scoff, then leaned back on one elbow, arranging himself in his usual picture of easy disdain. To the others, he was nothing but amused.
“Gods,” he drawled, voice rich with feigned boredom, “this is going to be entertaining.”
But his eyes never left her. Not for a moment.
Eirwen’s hair clung damp to her temples, horns gleaming faintly in the cavern light as she ducked under Lae’zel’s blade. The clash of steel rang sharp through the cavern, sparks bouncing off stone. Then Eirwen cheated with a quick kick of dirt and gravel into Lae’zel’s face, and a triumphant shout of “pocket sand!”
The Gith’s enraged screech echoed through the Underdark, bouncing off stalactites. Wyll doubled over with laughter.
And Astarion smiled.
Which, of course, was when Karlach leaned over to Shadowheart with a conspiratorial grin and said, “He’s got it bad.”
Astarion blinked, caught as if waking from a trance. “What?”
“You heard her,” Shadowheart said with amusement, sipping from her tin cup, her smirk wicked in the flickering firelight. “You’ve been staring at Eirwen like a devout before the altar.”
“I have not!”
“You haven’t blinked in four minutes,” Karlach laughed.
“I’m undead. We don’t need to blink.”
“Right. And the little smile?” Shadowheart teased. “Very subtle.”
Before he could retort, Gale’s voice drifted over from the cooking fire, maddeningly casual. “To be fair, he has been different lately. Calmer. Almost… pleasant.”
Karlach gasped dramatically. “Pleasant? Our Astarion? Here in the dark gods’ basement?”
“You know,” Gale went on, stirring the stew, “I suspect our dear vampire is enjoying more than just Eirwen’s blood.”
Astarion laughed too quickly, too sharp. “Please. It’s just a bit of fun. She’s a very enthusiastic lover. Honestly, what more could a man want?”
“Emotional intimacy?” Gale offered smoothly, not even looking up. “A reason to smile when you think no one’s watching?”
“I do not smile when no one’s watching,” Astarion muttered.
“You did just now,” Karlach said, grinning.
“And yesterday,” Shadowheart added. “When she offered you her wine.”
“Also ten minutes after that, when she braided your hair,” Karlach piled on, snorting. “Badly, I might add.”
“She tried,” Astarion mumbled, pushing down the fond chuckle that was roaming up his throat.
“Exactly,” Gale said. His tone warmed, almost conspiratorial. “That’s the thing about her, isn’t it? She tries. With all of us. She caught you that rabbit, remember? Sat outside your tent begging you to eat it like a worried wife. Didn’t she hold a dagger to her own wrist just to force you to feed?”
The silence that followed was heavier than stone, thick with meaning. Astarion could feel their eyes on him—amused, fond, and a bit smug— and he fought the urge to fidget.
“I’m just enjoying myself,” he said coolly. “Isn’t that what we’re all here for? A little fun before the inevitable death and destruction?”
“Oh, for sure,” Karlach agreed. “Just didn’t think you’d catch feelings.”
“Feelings?” he scoffed. “Absolutely not.”
“Sure, you feel nothing for her,” Shadowheart said, stretching her back lazily, “and I’m a cleric of Selûne.”
Karlach snorted into her drink.
Mercifully, salvation arrived in the form of Eirwen herself, smug and flushed as she sauntered into camp. Her armor was scuffed, her hair wild from the fight, sweat gleaming faintly violet in the bioluminescent glow. Wyll was still chuckling behind her.
“She bit me,” Lae’zel was shouting from across the cavern.
“On the ass!” Wyll wheezed.
“No rules, remember?” Eirwen called back with a grin, before flopping down beside Astarion and stealing his cup like she’d done it a hundred times.
“Did you cheat?” he asked, raising a brow.
“I creatively adapted.”
“That means yes,” Wyll laughed. “She faked a stumble, rolled in gravel, called for a time out, and Lae’zel was too confused to stop the bite.”
“I am surrounded by incompetents,” Lae’zel growled, storming off toward her tent.
Eirwen only laughed and leaned back against Astarion’s shoulder, breathless and glowing. “Worth it.”
He looked down at her—hells, even covered in dust, sweat, and bruises, she was radiant— and couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at his lips.
“Definitely.”
Karlach caught his eye and waggled her brows again. Shadowheart smirked. Gale stirred his pot, while looking over his shoulder with infuriating serenity.
Astarion rolled his eyes and took a long drink.
He could play the game. Pretend this was about nothing but sating hunger and lust.
But the ache in his chest said otherwise.
And worse… in the hollow of the Underdark, surrounded by stone echoing with the laughter of his companions, he didn’t hate it.
Notes:
This chapter actually started as one of my old one-off fics. It was something I wrote for myself and never planned to share. When I began pulling all my short pieces together into one larger story, I thought I’d just clean this one up and slot it in. But when I sat down with it again, I realized I couldn’t just brush past it. I had to flesh it out more. And to my surprise, I ended up crying all over again, as if I were writing it for the first time.
Astarion’s journey with his sexuality as a survivor is something that hits me very deeply. I think what makes his story so powerful is how nuanced it is. He’s undeniably a sexual being, not just using it to survive, of course, but I believe there’s also some genuine enjoyment there, as long as he can keep it casual. That duality makes him feel so much more real than many portrayals of survivors in media.
And that’s why this scene felt so important to me: because it’s different from everything that’s come before. Their previous encounters had Astarion in control, either hiding in performance or losing himself in Eirwen’s body. But this moment was about her giving him pleasure, with no mask for him to slip behind. That vulnerability is terrifying for him… but it’s also what makes it beautiful.
So yeah. This one got me in the feelings, and I hope it resonated in a similar way with you as well.
Chapter 16: Rot and Bloom
Summary:
In the Myconid colony, Eirwen reels from Omeluum’s revelations about the state of her mind. But Astarion provides a distraction in the form of fungal necromancy, and the two of them get into a little hijinks raising some idiot dwarf as a spore-ridden husk. Things only get messier, however, when they return to find out that the nameless dwarf had a name...and a wife waiting for him.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The colony pulsed with strange life, fungal spires exhaling spores, the air thick with the musk of rot and damp stone, a low thrumming song vibrating through the cavern walls. It was a world meant to overwhelm the senses. Yet Eirwen hardly noticed. Her skull still rang too loudly for anything else to matter.
Omeluum’s voice had been calm, almost kind in its strange cadence, but its words still reverberated inside her skull: “Your flesh has been burrowed into. Your flesh has been excavated. A tadpole need not tunnel when they greet their host.”
The words had struck harder than any blade. She’d known something was wrong—the intense headaches, the strange emptiness in her memories— but the confirmation of hearing it confirmed made her stomach twist with dread. Someone, something, had already carved into her before the parasite ever came. She tried to piece together flashes, scraps of thought, but her mind rebelled. Only pain answered. It shouldn’t be like this. She should remember something: a face, a reason, anything beyond the pulsing ache. But the harder she reached, the more it slipped away, and the emptiness mocked her.
So many questions beat through her. Was she simply the victim of circumstance? Had some villain plucked her from the street and carved her up for their twisted amusement? Or worse, had she earned it? Was this retribution for sins her broken mind refused to recall? Her slaughter of Alfira was proof enough of what she was capable of.
Gods below, who am I?
Her vision swam. It was only when the hum of the colony pressed suddenly back into her awareness with the rhythmic hum of the fungal creatures, the shuffle of boots, the faint hiss of spores, that she realized how far inside she’d fallen. Too far. She blinked hard, forcing herself upright, rolling her shoulders back as though poise alone might wipe the tremor from her hands. She prayed none of her companions had noticed. She did a quick sweep of her vision to confirm the others were all consumed with the sights and sounds of this strange world they’d found themselves in.
Thank the Gods—
Then her gaze snagged on a pair of crimson eyes across the cavern. Watching her. Noticing. Astarion was half-turned toward some grotesque bulk of fungus shaped into something like a man, and despite the oddity of his company, the pale elf’s attention was directed onto her. His lips curved in that amused little smile that said he’d noticed more than he should. Heat rushed unbidden into her chest, sharp as panic, warm as fire. Gods, of all people to catch her cracking!
She forced a smile, quick and meaningless, a wordless plea: I’m fine. Go back to your new friend.
But he didn’t.
He was already moving toward her, deliberate as a cat closing in on prey, and her stomach dropped with shame at being seen, yet twisted at the same time with something dangerously like relief. Something strange. Something she didn’t have the words for. He slid to her side with that infuriating grace that stirred her, his lips curved in a sly smile that told her he’d seen every emotion on her face.
“Darling,” he purred, voice dripping with mock sympathy, “you look positively dreary. If I didn’t know better, I’d say our resident brain squid hurt your feelings.”
Eirwen’s jaw tightened. She let out a soft scoff, trying to wave him off. “I’m fine. Really. Just a bit tired.” The words came too fast, too practiced.
He tilted his head, crimson eyes gleaming, the picture of amusement. “Mm, yes. Fine. And that trembling in your hands? Absolutely a sign of confidence.”
Heat prickled at her ears. She wanted to snap, to tell him to leave her be. And yet… the part of her that had been drowning minutes ago clung to his presence like driftwood. Against her better judgment, the words slipped out quieter, rawer.
“It told me what I already knew,” she muttered. “That something tore into me before the tadpole. That my head is…” She trailed off, biting down hard on the rest.
Astarion’s smile sharpened, swift and merciful. “Oh, darling, don’t tell me you’re about to say broken. How dreary. You’re far too lovely to sulk about skulls and the worms inside them.”
Her lips twitched, a startled laugh almost breaking through the dread.
He leaned in just a fraction closer, lowering his voice until it was silk meant for her alone. “Fortunately for you, I have the perfect cure for such moods.”
Eirwen arched a brow. “If it’s sex, I’ll have to pass this time.”
Astarion’s grin widened, wicked as ever. “Tempting as always, my sweet, but no. Believe it or not, I have other hobbies. This particular one,” His voice dropped into a playful, mock whisper, watching for her reaction, “involves corpses.”
Eirwen’s eyes lit, interest immediate and unguarded.
Astarion laughed, the sound chipper and triumphant. “Ha! I knew that would get your attention.” He leaned in, voice dropping into conspiratorial silk. “Come along, my dear. We’re going to play with fungal necromancy.”
Before she could press, he placed his hand on her lower back and swept her toward the squat bulbous myconid hovering at the cavern’s edge, its massive cap sloughing spores with every shuddering step. Eirwen looked upon the swollen blob of a creature for a moment, waiting for it to do anything of interest, but it just slouched.
Seeing her incredulous expression, Astarion stepped into her view, and took her hand to lead her even closer, as if introducing the sagging bulk of a creature as a fellow guest at a dinner table. “This is Glut. Poor thing’s entire colony was slaughtered by duergar. Tragic, really. Understandably, it is rather eager to get some revenge.”
Eirwen shrugged, “Ok, sure, we’re already planning to kill them for Sovereign Spaw. Does it just want to tag along?”
Glut rumbled slightly, but before it began its psychic words, Astarion interjected. His tone was light, but there was an edge of dark amusement as he went on.
“Well yes. It wants to help us clean up this duergar mess. But that’s not the exciting part. You see, as luck would have it, Glut has a rather useful skill. It can turn corpses into these delightful little mushroom puppets. A touch grotesque, yes, but undeniably practical.”
Astarion tilted his head toward her, his eyes glinting. “It has offered to share that talent with me. And because I’m feeling generous, I’m extending its offer to you.”
Her stomach gave a wicked twist of intrigued excitement. The ache in her skull dulled as something sharper took its place. “You’re saying we could…raise an army of undead spores?”
Astarion’s brows arched, his grin widening like a blade unsheathed. “Gods, listen to you. Straight to conquest, as though we’re about to march an entire army across the Underdark.” His laugh was low and rich, curling around her like smoke.
He closed the gap, his hand holding her elbow, the touch was feather-light, yet possessive in its intent. His voice dipped, silk threaded with something darker. “I adore the ambition, but perhaps we start small, hm? One corpse. A test run. A taste of what it could be, before we raise legions.”
The ache in her skull ebbed, dulled beneath the thrum that ran through her at his touch. She shivered, not from the chill of the Underdark but from him, and found herself nodding.
“I’d like that.”
They didn’t have to search long. Just a short walk from the myconid colony brought them to a lower platform, its surface choked with bibberbang mushrooms that glowed a harsh, neon yellow. Amid the pulsing caps wandered a lone dwarven man, pacing in loose, unsteady circles. He swayed like a drunkard, muttering nonsense, his words lost beneath the faint hiss of spores. At times, he seemed almost aware of the danger, hesitating at the edge of a cluster, edging back with clumsy care, only to forget himself a moment later and stumble forward again, jolting at the mushrooms’ angry hiss as though surprised all over.
“Oh, perfect,” Astarion drawled. “Practically compost already.”
Eirwen’s daggers itched in her hands. “How do we even get to him? The fool is surrounded by exploding mushrooms.”
Undeterred, Astarion tipped his chin toward their slovenly fungal companion. “We send in the shroom.” Glut seemed to nod, then lumbered forward, its pulpy feet squelching against the stone, each step leaving a smear of wet rot. The bibberbang spores stirred only in recognition of their kin, knowing it as part of the greater colony. Despite its grotesque bulk, Glut moved silently, and the dwarf never saw death coming.
There was only a startled gasp before Glut’s hulking limbs struck. Bone gave way with a wet crunch. The man’s body crumpled into the mushrooms, vanishing beneath their pulsing glow.
For a moment, there was stillness. Only the eerie swaying of the caps, as though the colony itself leaned in to feed. Then came the twitch. A single jerk. Another. Limbs spasmed against the stone as though pulled by invisible strings. His spine arched at an impossible angle, the sound of it cracking like firewood. Eirwen leaned in to see the horrors, forgetting her own for one blissful moment.
Her eyes widened as she watched the skin at his neck bulge, split, and then something pale and fibrous threaded outward, curling over flesh like roots through broken earth. Filaments webbed across his chest, pushing upward until grotesque fungal blooms split through the skin, fleshy and slick with ichor. His jaw twitched, jawline rupturing as spores took root there too.
When the dwarf’s eyes snapped open, they were no longer his own. The milky orbs stared without recognition, soulless and empty. His head lolled, then twitched upright in a jerky, insectile motion.
Whoever he had been was gone. This thing lurched to its feet on stiffened limbs, a grotesque puppet bound by rot. It shuffled toward them, obedient to its new masters, nothing left of the man but a hollow husk, animated and enslaved by fungus.
Looking upon their creation, Eirwen’s stomach flipped with a visceral thrill. Gods, it was horrid, but it was also magnificent. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling, wide and sharp, as her mind raced with the possibilities.
When she glanced at Astarion, though, his expression was one of elegant revulsion—nose wrinkled, lip curled, crimson eyes narrowed as if the sight offended him.
“Wasn’t this your idea?” she teased, laughing at his expression. “You look like you’re going to vomit.”
He scoffed, waving a hand dismissively, though his nose was still wrinkled. “Darling, I said it would be entertaining. Not pleasant. Fungus is innately grotesque. This is like watching a meal rot into mold.”
Upon its return, Glut handed Eirwen a glowing blue mushroom, more flower than fungus. “Noblestalk,” it rumbled. “Rare. Useful.”
Eirwen plucked the fungus from its hands and tossed it into her pack without thought. “Neat.”
They returned to the colony arm in arm, still laughing about their “experiment.” Eirwen’s cheeks were flushed, eyes bright, feeling lighter than she had in hours. Spotting Gale near the fungal lanterns, fussing over an enchanted necklace he’d just procured from Blurg, she called out, “Oh, Gale, you’re going to love this! You should have seen the magic Glut shared with us. Necromancy—by mushroom!”
His brow lifted, curiosity sparking across his face. “Fungal necromancy?” he echoed, both intrigued and faintly horrified. But then his gaze slid past her shoulder, and the color drained from his cheeks. “Oh… oh dear.”
Before she could ask, Karlach bounded over, wiping some goo off her gauntlets. “Hey, did you two see a bald dwarf out there? Goes by Baelen. Derryth’s been—” She cut herself off, eyes snagging on the fungal husk trudging obediently behind them. Her jaw dropped. “Oh shit.”
“Baelen? What’s happened to ye…?”
The voice came from behind.
Eirwen froze, heat crawling up her neck. She and Astarion shared a guilty glance before turning to face Derryth Bonecloak. The dwarven woman’s sharp eyes traveled slowly over her husband’s twisted husk. She didn’t scream. Didn’t even blink. For a long, dreadful moment, she simply looked.
At last, she asked, flat and cutting, “Was this yer doin’? Thought you’d have a laugh playin’ with fungus, did ye?”
Astarion’s lips parted in a careless drawl. “Honestly, you should blame the Underdark, not us. We simply tidied up—.”
“It was us,” Eirwen cut in. Her voice shook but she forced the words out. “I thought… I thought he was just another victim of the Underdark. Lost and stumbling. We didn’t know who he was.”
Gale shifted uncomfortably, murmuring, “I… should check the necklace’s resonance,” and slipped away. Karlach muttered a curse under her breath, gave Eirwen a sympathetic look, then followed after him, leaving the weight of the exchange squarely between the three of them.
The silence cracked with Derryth’s scoff. “Figures. Shoulda known he’d end up like this.” Her arms folded, shoulders squared. “The bumblin’ fool. Always stumblin’ about, useless as a lump, gettin’ himself in trouble. S’pose if ye hadn’t taken him, the Underdark woulda finished the job.”
Her lips twisted, something sour between bitterness and grief. “Truth is, he weren’t much better before the accident. Good-for-nothin’ drunk. A mean bastard, when the bottle was close.” She looked back at the husk, eyes hard. “Never thought I’d be rid of him down here. But I s’pose the dark finds its own way.”
Her words were flippant, but the sadness beneath them was unmistakable.
Astarion’s grin sharpened. “Well, then! Seems like we’ve all done each other a favor. No harm, no foul.” He dusted his hands as though the matter were neatly solved.
Eirwen, though, couldn’t shake the weight in Derryth’s eyes. Piece of shit or not, that shambling husk had once been her companion, her whole world. And now he was nothing but rot and fungus.
Derryth gave a final sigh, weary and resigned. “I’ll just hafta head back without the noblestalk, then. The whole trip wasted.”
Eirwen blinked, then fumbled with her pack. “You mean… this thing?” She pulled free the blue-glowing bloom Glut had given her earlier, and held it out for Derryth to take.
The woman’s eyes widened faintly at the sight, then snapped into a glare. “So that’s it, then? Ya murder my fool husband and toss me a prize mushroom to soothe yer guilty conscience, is that it?”
Eirwen held her gaze, unbothered. “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing. Take it or don’t.”
Derryth snatched the stalk from her hands. “Hells, at least yer honest. But don’t think for one moment this makes ya noble.”
Astarion’s lip curled. “Well, isn’t that delightful. We part with a rare mushroom that might be worth a king’s ransom, and in return we get scorn. Honestly, darling, if you’re so keen on rewarding cruelty, I’d prefer you limit it to mine.”
Derryth muttered something under her breath and stalked off, clutching the stalk like it was hers by right.
Astarion turned back to Eirwen, arms crossed, crimson eyes flashing. “Do you make a habit of giving gifts to people who sneer in your face, or is this a special occasion?”
Eirwen’s lips curved into a faint smirk, though her voice was steady.
“We didn’t walk away empty-handed, Astarion. We got a fungal minion out of it, didn’t we?”
He sneered as he watched Derryth stalk away with the mushroom clutched tight in her fist. “After hearing what Baelen was like in life, I doubt he was worth the trade.”
Eirwen shook her head, her voice softer than she meant it to be. “It wasn’t about worth. She just needed something to soothe a pain she can't name…same as me.”
The words hung there between them, heavier than she intended.
For once, Astarion had no quick retort. His mouth parted, then closed again, a flicker of something unguarded passing across his face before he covered it with a sharp laugh. “Gods, You really are far too sentimental for someone so good at casual murder.”
He swept ahead with practiced ease, hips swaying as though the conversation hadn’t touched him at all, but Eirwen lingered for a moment longer, her gaze following Derryth’s retreating figure until it vanished around the bend. Her skull throbbed again, pulsing sharp and insistent. She pressed her palm to her temple, willing the ache to fade, and forced herself to move.
By the time she caught up with him, her smirk was back in place. Astarion cut her a sidelong glance, crimson eyes glinting. “You know, perhaps I should have suggested sex after all. Less mold, more moaning.”
She huffed a laugh, brushing her shoulder against his as they walked. “The night is young,” she murmured, her tone sly.
His answering grin was wicked, sharp as a blade, and just as promising.
Notes:
This chapter came from me wondering what would actually happen if you used Glut to raise Baelen and then returned to Derryth. In-game, she doesn’t react at all. You can just tell her that he died in the Underdark, and that’s it. That always bugged me, because if you came waltzing back with her husband’s corpse as a fungal puppet, there’s no way she wouldn’t notice. I wanted to explore what that confrontation might really look like.
Derryth fascinates me because she feels so real. She reminds me of family members who have lived through so much pain—not happy, not optimistic, just… surviving, pushing forward because what else can you do? I find her tragic in that she clearly had no love for Baelen, even hated him for his abuse, but at the end of the day he was still all she had. That contradiction is so heavy. And I think Eirwen connects with that, in her own way. Even without remembering her life as a Bhaalspawn, she carries the memory of what it was like to be surrounded by people she couldn’t love or trust, and yet needing them because they were all she had. It makes her soft-hearted enough to give Derryth the noblestalk, even when Astarion doesn’t understand why.
And speaking of Astarion—I also hope this chapter quietly shows his protectiveness in his own twisted way. He distracts Eirwen when she’s spiraling, encourages her darker urges without judgment, and even bristles on her behalf when Derryth is sharp with her. It’s not the kind of gentle protection most people would expect, but it’s his way of standing beside her.
I hope you enjoyed this strange little detour! I’ll probably have another chapter or two in the Underdark before we make our way into the Shadow-Cursed Lands. I have a few pre-written chapters that take place specifically in act 2, but I feel like there's at least a couple more things to explore in the underdark before we get there.