Fangs of the Ascendant

by littlehouseofimagination

Summary:

Tav and Astarion have carved out a new life in the Crimson Palace, their rebuilt stronghold and the heart of their growing influence in Baldur’s Gate. As they navigate the treacherous games of politics and power, their fierce passion and unwavering love remain their greatest strength.

But everything changes when they discover they are expecting a child, something they never believed possible. This revelation threatens to unravel the delicate balance they’ve fought so hard to build, challenging everything they thought they knew about fate, power, and each other.

Chapter 1: Unchanged

Two weeks after the Netherbrain fell, Baldur’s Gate had not yet remembered how to breathe.

Smoke still lingered in the lungs of the city, a phantom of the fires that once licked homes and shops and left ashes in their wake. Streets that had been clawed open by psionic tremors now gaped like half-healed wounds, veins of shattered cobblestone stitched over with temporary planks. The air was thick with dust, and the bells that tolled from the High Hall carried sorrow for those the city lost.

The world felt like a creature that had been gutted and left to crawl; alive, but unsure if it should be. Children played in rubble and ash like it was simply part of the world now. Merchants reopened stalls beneath hastily built shelters, selling bread beside the bloodstains that would not scrub away. The Flaming Fist limped through their patrols with fewer numbers and more silence.

In the Upper City, nobles hosted quiet dinners for thin-lipped heirs trading gossip. Who would lead now? Who had survived? Who had power, and who had just pretended to? 

And somewhere, beneath the weight of all this silence and smoke, something ancient and feral still curled in the bones of Baldur’s Gate. Watching. Waiting. Hunger never died here. It only changed its face.

And yet, for all the smoke and silence and uncertainties, the city knew who had saved it. 

They were celebrated now in song and immortalized in stories that grew more gilded with each retelling. The Heroes of Baldur’s Gate. Their likenesses were already warped by the telling; braver, cleaner, brighter than they had been. As though they were the very faces of morale and goodness, rather than bloodstained souls who had clawed their way through hell and madness.

But the truth, the real truth, would never be known.

No bard could sing the weight of what they’d carried. No poem could capture the jagged edges of love, or the loneliness that gnawed even in victory. The world had their names, but not their truths.

One had returned to the scorched plains of Avernus, fire dancing under her skin, choosing damnation over death in a choice that hadn’t quite felt like her own. Beside her, the son of the Grand Duke, once heir to power. He cast it all aside, choosing devotion over duty. Another had taken to the skies astride a red dragon, vanishing into the clouds with a mind sharpened by vengeance and freedom. 

The wizard went north, to a tower waiting by the sea, where the memory of a goddess lingered like perfume on silk. The cleric no longer prayed, not in the way she used to. She had found peace instead among forest streams and blooming things, where silence did not demand answers. The Harper disappeared back into the city’s bones, slipping into shadows, guarding from below with quiet, thankless loyalty. And the Druid, ever restless, walked into the wildlands, letting the wind carry his name away like pollen.

And then there were the other two.

Not gone, not quite. 

Their names lingered in the city’s mouth like a half-swallowed secret. Too recent to become legend, too mysterious and yet still familiar. While the rest of their companions scattered to the winds, those two remained behind. They vanished behind the iron-barred gates of the Crimson Palace, and the city watched from a distance.

For years, the palace had stood silent and cold, untouched by time or truth. Its spires knifed the sky, its windows tinted so darkly they reflected nothing, not even light. Most in Baldur’s Gate had only known it as an ancestral estate, old and decadent, shielded by wealth and a bloodline too ancient to question. They hadn’t known what it truly was. What festered inside.

Now, it was being torn apart.

Tapestries embroidered with obscene revelry were shredded and burned. Velvet walls soaked with unspoken things had been stripped to bare stone. The windows were no longer blackened– they had been replaced with high panes of leaded glass that let in the dim summer light, refracting it across marble floors too long kept in shadow. The air still held a trace of iron and damp, but now it was overtaken by sawdust, paint, polish. The groan of scaffolding, the rhythmic strike of hammers.

The palace bled with its new master’s touch. Every detail now bore the new Lord’s imprint: gilded edges, imported velvet, mirrors framed in silver. Beauty sharpened like a blade. It was no longer a lair. It was becoming a throne. And standing beside the new, powerful Lord of the Crimson Palace, there was her.

Tav stood in the center of what had once been the grand ballroom, arms crossed over her chest, watching.

A month ago, this very floor had been slick with the blood of wolves and bats and half-living monsters swarming out of the dark as they hunted Cazador down through his twisted cathedral of horror. She could still smell it if she tried. The scorched fur, spell-burnt flesh, the thick iron stink of death. 

She tilted her head slightly, examining a team of workers piling remnants of the old flooring into a cart, and allowed herself the smallest breath of satisfaction. They were claiming it. All of it. And the fear that once lived in these walls was being exorcised not with fire, but with elegance. With purpose.

Cool hands slid around her waist.

Astarion drew her back against his chest in one fluid motion, the silk of his doublet brushing her shoulder, his lips hovering just beside her ear.

He was, of course, dressed to perfection. Deep plum and black, cut close to his form, silver thread catching the light in sharp, decadent patterns. Not a speck of dust dared touch him. He looked like the portrait of dark nobility, like he’d been born in the lap of power and remembered the taste now with almost erotic delight.

Tav’s gown was simpler but no less stunning; sleek, green to match her eyes, her hair pinned back in a style he had insisted suited her. The two of them looked like they had stepped out of another age entirely, otherworldly and untouchable.

“Careful, my love,” he murmured, voice curling like smoke. “You’re glaring at them again. If you keep it up, they might start thinking you’re the terrifying one.”

Tav tilted her head slightly, eyes still fixed on the workers. “Someone has to keep them moving.”

“They’re mortal, darling,” he whispered with mock sympathy. “Delicate things. Prone to panic. Chronically inefficient.”

Tav smiled, but her gaze stayed distant. He said it lightly, but she felt the weight behind it all the same.

They’re mortal. Just as she still was.

She didn’t move, but the thought settled like dust in her chest. Soft, familiar, impossible to shake. She had chosen this. After everything. After the blood and fire and standing at the edge of undeath with his hand in hers. She had chosen to stay in her skin. In her years. In her heart that still beat while his did not.

She could feel it now, ticking quietly beneath her breast. The fragile, constant reminder.

Astarion’s arms tightened around her, almost unconsciously.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured.

“Just thinking,” she replied, gently resting her hand atop his.

“Dangerous habit.”

“Terribly mortal of me,” she said, turning her head to meet his eyes, green to crimson.

And though she smiled, something in her chest ached faintly. Some choices, she knew, would never stop echoing.

She had only just gotten her life back.

Even now, when she tried to remember what came before the tadpole, the past remained a fogged mirror, clouded and fractured. Names, places, entire years lost to her. What lingered were fragments soaked in red. Blood on her hands. Blood on her lips. Blood in her dreams.

They guessed it had been twenty-odd years. Twenty years of her life erased, warped, or simply… gone. As if she had never existed until that worm wriggled into her skull.

And now she was free.

Free from her father’s voice, the dreadful god of murder who had once whispered through her veins with every heartbeat. Free from his legacy, from the razor-sharp urges that used to rise in her like sickness, like needles beneath her skin. The hunger to kill. To destroy. To please him.

She had rejected Bhaal. She had turned away from the path carved in blood and crowned in bone. She had chosen to become something else. Something better.

And she wasn’t ready to let that go.

Not yet. Not when the taste of freedom still felt so new in her mouth. Not when she was only just learning who she was, truly, without corruption curdling her spine, without nightmares of crimson slaughter, without the threat of transformation into something soulless and alien festering behind her eyes.

She wanted time. To discover the shape of her own soul. To live in this world with her heartbeat still intact. To know what it meant to choose love freely, without shadows twisting her will.

And so, she had told him no.

She would stay mortal, for now.

“An excruciatingly galling thing to be,” Astarion purred, his arms tightening just slightly around her. His tone was playful on the surface, just another of his little jests, but something colder swam beneath it, a flicker of disdain too practiced to sound accidental.

Tav didn’t answer. She just exhaled, her eyes flickering from his watchful gaze.

He pressed his lips to her temple, but the touch felt heavier than affection. It was possession dressed in silk. Beautiful, and tightening.

Of course he was angry. He hadn’t said it aloud, not in those exact words, but even she could feel the way it simmered inside him. Not rage. Not heartbreak. Something more twisted, more ancient. Something that watched her bleeding soul rebuild itself and wanted to cage it. Worship it. Own it.

She had chosen life. A flickering, failing thing. A breath, a heartbeat, a death waiting to happen.

But she hadn’t chosen it over him. She loved him, and he knew it. Why else would she stay?  She stood beside him now as he claimed a throne forged from his torment. She had pressed her blood-warmed hands into his cold ones and gave her vow. 

One day. Just not today. 

She felt his lips brush against her skin, the promise of eternity whispered like a sin behind her ear.

And she did what she always did when his words came too close to what neither of them were ready to confront.

Tav turned in his arms with the elegance of someone well aware she was being watched. She tilted her head just so, emerald eyes glinting beneath a fan of lashes, and let her fingers rest lightly on the lapel of his coat. Her voice, when it came, was soft and purring.

“Did you see the crowd outside the gates this morning?” She asked, her thumb idly smoothing a wrinkle in his collar. “They cheered when the foreman announced the new shipment of timber. Said the new Lord of the Crimson Palace had single-handedly saved the workmen’s quarter from ruin.”

Astarion blinked, the shift in tone catching for only a heartbeat before he melted into the flattery like wine into silk. She felt the tension ebb from his grip, replaced by something smug and feline.

She smiled, slow and knowing. “They’re starting to love you, you know.”

A low hum of approval rumbled in his chest. “As well they should. I am quite generous.”

“Mmm. Lavish, even.” Her fingers slid to rest over his chest, where his heart would’ve beat in another lifetime. “Gold to the city. Work for the idle. The charming smile doesn’t hurt either.”

He leaned in, lips brushing hers, pleased as a cat in cream. He caressed her waist, tugging her closer against him. “And such a darling, pretty thing on my arm.”

She arched a brow, feigning modesty. “Just another trinket to complete the look?”

His chuckle was a low, decadent thing. “Hardly. You outshine the jewels, my sweet.”

She hummed, unimpressed and unbothered, before her gaze flicked to the grand hall around them. “The refurbishments are running on schedule for your first gala, my Lord ,” she quipped, sparring a glance over her shoulder at the half-gutted room, where sparkling chandeliers were being hung and scaffolding climbed the high walls. 

She turned back to him with a smirk. “And once the invitations go out, every noble in the city will trip over their silks to kiss your boots. Gods forbid they’re left off the guest list and miss the chance to bow and beg for your favor.”

Astarion’s grin curled slow and wicked. “Desperation always makes the wine taste better.” 

She exhaled slowly and leaned into the arms still wrapped around her, her body molding instinctively to the shape of his. His touch grounded her in a way little else did. 

His mouth hovered at her forehead, and she tilted her face to him, her voice low and sure. “We’re really doing this.”

He smiled down at her, eyes sparkling. “Of course we are, darling. We’re going to have everything we deserve.”

Tav let her eyes drift closed. This city might never know what, exactly, they were letting in from behind the palace gates; what darkness, what defiance, what power-lust disguised as charm. But maybe that was for the best. Let them believe in the pretty mask. Let them bow to their generous Lord and his lady, and whisper stories in taverns about the heroes turned rulers.

Let them fall in love with the dream, just as she had.

Astarion kissed her then, sweet and slow. A promise more than a pleasure. She returned it with a smile that pressed against his lips, fingers curling in the fine fabric at his chest.

Yes. They would build something here, something lasting. Something new. A palace not of blood, but of purpose. And someday, she’d be ready to give him everything. But for now, this was enough.

This, his mouth on hers, his hands at her waist, the world slowly bending to their will, was more than enough.

For her.

Astarion could feel it in the way she softened against him, in the hush of her breath as she leaned into the illusion of safety, of permanence. In the mortal way she still measured time by the rise and fall of her chest, the passing of sunrises, the warmth of her blood, so close beneath her skin.

He held her, pressed another kiss to her lips, and let her believe this was all there was.

She would come around.

One day, she would see herself for what she was becoming. What he saw already. Not weak, not small, not fragile, but powerful. Meant for more than aging bones and dwindling years. He could give her forever. He could make her his. Entirely.

Let her have this for now. Let her cling to that heartbeat like it meant something more than time ticking toward the inevitable. Let her pretend to find joy in exhaustion, in pain, in passing days and fleeting warmth.

All it would do, all it could do, was teach her to want him.

To need him.

To choose him in the end.

And when she did, he would be waiting. Immortal. Unchanged. Eternal. Just as he promised.

Notes:

Welcome to my Ascended Dadstarion dreams! 🧛

I feel like I should give a couple warnings here. Yes, this story will have a happy ending. But before we get there, I find it necessary to get into a raw exploration of Astarion’s struggle. How even as the Ascendant, he wrestles with self-doubt, fear, and pain upon learning he’s about to become a father.

I'm also having a wee bit of fun putting my Tav into this narrative, where she got to experience an actual happy ending at the end of BG3 (see my other fic for reference) haha.

Anyways, I plan to do weekly updates on this and have a few chapters already prepared. Don't be surprised if I cave and have them all posted by tomorrow.

Happy reading!

Chapter 2: Hunger

Summary:

Under the glittering chandeliers of the newly restored Crimson Palace, Tav and Astarion host a lavish gala, drawing Baldur’s Gate’s elite under the pretense of collecting donations for the city’s rebuilding. Behind the silken smiles and flowing wine, the evening serves as a calculated display.

Notes:

CW:

There will be smut in this chapter!

The dressing chamber hummed with delicate chaos. Silks whispered like secrets as gowns were lifted and draped, their jeweled hems catching the light and scattering it in shards across polished floors. The faint clink of gold and silver echoed as bangles and earrings were sorted from velvet-lined boxes, their metallic music mingling with the occasional pop of a perfume vial being opened, the air thick with floral notes and musky undertones. Slippers padded softly across the mosaic tiles, weaving between cushioned stools and discarded ribbons, while muffled laughter bloomed and faded like perfume on warm skin.

Beyond the arched windows, the city made its presence known; carriage wheels creaked and clattered over cobbled stone, hooves striking a patient rhythm as horses snorted and stomped. The nobles of Baldur’s Gate were arriving, their voices drifting up in elegant, indistinct murmurs, punctuated by the occasional trill of laughter or barked instruction from a footman. Twilight had deepened to a royal dusk, and the Crimson Palace, aglow with torchlight and lanterns, shimmered like a jewel box cracked open at the edges.

The warmth of the room seemed to pulse in time with the flickering candlelight, each flame caught in the polished surfaces of glass, gold, and the tall mirror that loomed before her.

Tav stood atop a carpeted pedestal at the center of the dressing chamber, a statue come to life; still, but for the subtle rise and fall of her breath. Gilded candle sconces threw halos of light around her, catching in the sheen of her golden gown as it was drawn tight against her form. Behind her, her handmaids worked in quiet, reverent rhythm, lacing her corset with deft, familiar hands, as if she were a relic more than a mortal woman. One knelt to slip satin heels onto her feet, another adjusted the fall of fabric over her hips, smoothing every fold into submission.

Tav said little. She didn’t need to.

They knew what pleased their Lord now.

Her hair was tucked away from her face with precision, exposing the long line of her throat and the delicate slope of her collarbones, skin left bare like an invitation. But the rest flowed in soft, silken waves down her back, not fully tamed, never fully hidden. A balance. Her blush sat high on her cheeks, heightening the ivory pallor of her skin, while her lips were painted with only a breath of pink. Her eyes were ringed in kohl smudged just so, drawing attention to the clever glint within them, the fire behind the refinement.

Just the way he preferred her. 

The servants murmured quietly amongst themselves, low, unobtrusive conversation laced with stifled laughter behind gloved hands. But none dared draw her in, not as one of them. Not because they feared her. But because she belonged to him. And in this palace, in this city, that meant something.

Still, Tav was kind to them. She remembered their names. She noticed when Mira came in sniffling from a cold and sent for a cleric before breakfast, and when Lane returned pale and shaken from a rough night in the Lower City, Tav ensured a week's wages were discreetly added to her purse. She never spoke of it. Never asked for thanks. But the women knew. They moved around her with a quiet reverence not born of status alone, but of earned respect. Yet none presumed friendship.

She was the Lord Ancunin’s consort, and she wore that mantle now like the silk they wrapped around her form. Carefully, elegantly, with just enough stiffness to remind everyone it hadn’t always belonged to her.

She hadn’t asked for nobility. Hadn’t dreamed of gowns and titles and speaking in riddles over wine-stained politics. And yet… she didn’t mind it as much as she thought she would.

Not when it meant safety. Not when it meant power.

Not when it meant she and Astarion had carved out a place in this treacherous city where no one could touch them, not with coin, nor steel, nor crown.

This was survival dressed in gold thread. And perhaps, just perhaps, the beginning of something more.

The final lace was pulled tight with a practiced tug, cinching the corset into place. One last smoothing of the silk, one final pin in her hair, and the attendants stepped back in quiet unison, their hands falling to their sides like well-trained dancers finishing a performance.

A hush followed, reverent and laced with something like awe, until one of the bolder maids, a soft-spoken girl with honey-brown eyes and callused hands, let her admiration slip. “You’ll outshine every woman there, my lady.”

A ripple of agreement stirred among the others, shy and sincere.

Tav tilted her head at the mirror, lips parting just slightly as she considered her reflection in the gilded glass. “Well, that’s unfortunate,” she murmured at last. “I was hoping to go unnoticed.”

A few of the women stifled their laughter, uncertain if it was safe to indulge. With Tav, you never really knew.

“Think the city's noble sons will survive it?” One of the women dared ask, half in jest.

Tav gave a slow, wicked smile. “Oh, I imagine they’ll swoon. Or choke on their wine. Either way, Astarion will be delighted.”

Nervous laughter sparkled and faltered around her like falling glass. The kind of laughter that knew better than to linger too long.

It struck her, not for the first time, how very human that laughter was. Every soul in the Crimson Palace still breathed, still aged, still dreamed of lives beyond its walls. Astarion had been adamant about that. No spawn, no forced servitude. Immortality, he’d told her once with a silken smirk, was a treasure meant for them alone to share.

Tav turned to face them, her hands fidgeting as she smoothed the skirts of her gown. “You’ve done beautifully, all of you,” she added, her tone warmer now with sincerity. “Please, enjoy yourselves tonight. Your quarters are off-limits to guests, so you should not be bothered.” 

A few exchanged quick, wide-eyed glances. Grateful, startled. But none dared thank her aloud. Instead, they bowed low, murmured titles and well-wishes, and slipped out of the room with the soft swish of skirts and slippered feet.

When the final one was gone, Tav let the silence settle for a beat. The hush felt sacred after all the small motions and muffled gossip. Then she turned toward the far wall, where a tall white door, gilded at the hinges, stood slightly ajar.

Their bedroom.

She crossed the threshold with quiet steps, golden train whispering behind her like falling sunlight.

Inside, the light changed. It was warmer here, with amber sconces casting a softer glow over marble and velvet. Firelight flickered in the hearth, the scent of firewood and old books lingered faintly in the air.

And there, standing by the tall windows that opened onto the moonlit balcony, was Astarion.

Dressed in midnight black, the fabric finely cut and embroidered with silver thread at the cuffs and collar, he looked every inch the noble he now was. Elegant, dangerous, immaculate. A ruby pin gleamed at his throat. His hair had been swept back, revealing the sharp line of his jaw, the impossible beauty of a face carved from shadow.

He turned before she could announce herself, crimson eyes already on her like a drawn bow. And the way his gaze raked over her; his eyes were hungry, reverent, possessive in a way that made the breath catch in her throat.

“Gods,” Astarion breathed, soft and meant for her ears alone. His eyes swept over her with deliberate leisure, down the curve of her hips draped in gold, the delicate set of her shoulders, the soft tint of her lips. He advanced like a hunter savoring the inevitable, yet when his hands claimed her waist, they settled with a surprising tenderness.

“I should have you entombed in glass,” he murmured, the syllables curling with intimate reverence. One hand stayed at her waist, anchoring her close, while the other lifted in a graceful, almost theatrical sweep, as if conjuring the vision he spoke of.  

“A relic for future generations. ‘Behold,’ they’ll whisper, ‘the creature who brought even the Vampire Ascendant to his knees.’”

Tav huffed a quiet laugh, her fingers curling into his sleeves. “Careful. You say things like that and it’ll make me believe you’ve fallen in love with me.”

“Oh, my sweet love,” he purred, leaning in until his nose brushed her cheek, “I never once stood a chance.”

He smelled of brandy and something sharper beneath, like frost clinging to petals. He kissed her just beneath the ear, slow and soft, his thumb tracing along the bare skin of her collarbone.

“I heard the girls cackling in there,” he said against her skin, voice like silk and smoke. “What scandal did you inspire this time?”

“Only that I might outshine the noble ladies tonight,” Tav murmured, tilting her head slightly to better receive his mouth. “You’ll have to make sure none of our guests get too bold with their compliments.”

“I’ll make a spectacle of it,” he said, smiling against her neck. “Rip out the throat of the first one who looks at you twice.”

Tav let out a sigh and fluttered her lashes as though overcome, pressing a hand to his chest with exaggerated flair. “Be still, my heart,” she murmured, feigning a swoon against his shoulder. “You do know just what I want to hear.”

Astarion chuckled, rich and low, but the sound caught in his throat when her lips grazed the line of his jaw.

The jest faded on her breath, replaced by something slower, deeper, heat uncoiling low in her belly like a ribbon unwinding. His touch on her skin, the sounds of his breath, always did this to her. Always reminded her that no matter how polished and perfect they appeared tonight, beneath the surface they were still sharp, still hungry, still theirs.

Her fingers smoothed over the lapel of his coat, but her eyes locked on his with something darker. “You’d enjoy it far too much.”

And just like that, his smile turned feral. “Concerned about my enjoyment, are you?”

Astarion didn’t wait for her answer. His hand slid to the small of her back, the other rising to cradle her cheek with possessive ease, as though she were something precious he’d earned and claimed in the same breath. His touch tender but commanding, and Tav, as always, melted like wax beneath the heat of him.

Their lips met in a kiss that was both promise and warning; lush, slow, a lingering taste of what waited once the last guest had gone home. She curled into him despite herself, fingers tightening in the fabric of his coat, every inch of her aching to forget the damn gala and let the world outside their door fade into ash.

But the moment broke with a quiet, reluctant sigh. She pulled back just enough to rest her forehead against his, breath uneven.

“As much as I’d love to let you ruin me and the evening both,” Tav whispered, lips brushing his, “we have a city to beguile.”

Astarion groaned, theatrical and wounded, his hand trailing down her waist like a man grieving something sacred. “Must we?”

“Afraid so.” She stepped out of his arms with a sway of golden skirts and a smirk over her shoulder. “Come now, my love. Let’s give them a show.”

He watched her go with a hunger only barely leashed, and followed, as he always would.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The ballroom of the Crimson Palace glittered like a jewel split open under starlight.

White marble gleamed beneath a thousand soft reflections, its polished surface alive with the shimmer of candlelight. Stained glass windows towered along the walls, their gilded edges refracting the glow of chandeliers into fractured halos that danced over velvet drapes and gilded moldings. The air hummed with music and perfume, rose and wine and the faintest edge of something darker.

Gone was the old Crimson Palace, the lair of blood and ruin that had once loomed like a shadow over the city. In its place rose something new. Something refined, resplendent, and undeniably theirs.

Tonight was its debut.

A carefully chosen crowd flowed like cream through its corridors. Nobility, merchants, guild leaders, politicians in embroidered coats and bejeweled smiles. They sipped wine from crystal, praised the grandeur with exaggerated delight, and tried not to look like they were counting favors.

They all knew why they were here. Astarion had made certain of that.

Officially, the gala had been called for a noble cause: donations to aid in the restoration of Baldur’s Gate. The city still bore scars from the Netherbrain’s fall. Collapsed infrastructure, displaced families, fractured power structures. Someone had to step forward, to offer coin and vision where the Council had faltered. Who better than Lord Ancunin, the mysterious hero and benefactor who had already given generously, who now opened his palace to those willing to do the same?

Unofficially, it was a statement. A declaration.

The Crimson Palace stood not just rebuilt, but reborn. And so too did its master and the woman who ruled at his side.

Whispers followed them wherever they moved. She, radiant in gold. He, devastating in black, like some wicked prince carved from a storybook. They didn’t flinch under the stares. They welcomed them. They wanted to be seen, wanted the city to understand that this was no temporary pleasure. They were not a novelty to be gossiped over and forgotten.

They were power, dressed in finery and held together by blood and choice and something deeper still. Something that pulsed behind every shared glance and brushed fingertip.

Let the nobles preen and flatter. Let them drop heavy purses into donation chests and smile as though it wasn’t all a performance.

Tonight, Baldur’s Gate would feast on spectacle. And by the end of it, the city would know exactly who it belonged to.

Tav smiled so much her jaw ached.

She laughed at the appropriate moments, tilted her head just enough to appear intrigued, and refrained, miraculously, from rolling her eyes every time someone said, “You must be exhausted from all the saving of the city.”

If one more noble congratulated her on being a Hero of Baldur’s Gate like she had just returned from a fishing expedition rather than clawing her way out of the Shadow-Cursed Lands and fighting mindflayers in the sky, she might actually scream.

“…And to think,” drawled Lord Merrick, a bloated merchant baron with an unfortunate mustache, “you walked amongst commoners just a few years ago. How perfectly poetic. Now look at you. Gilded and glorious.”

She gave him her most radiant smile, the kind that crinkled at the corners of her eyes but never quite reached them. “It’s true. You can rise from anywhere, Lord Merrick. Isn’t it wonderful? Almost threatening.”

He chuckled, slow and oblivious, and Tav sipped her wine to distract herself. The vintage was excellent, at least. Light and crisp, imported from Amn. She let it linger on her tongue a moment before glancing across the ballroom.

Astarion stood near the grand staircase, surrounded by a circle of awestruck courtiers. He was telling a story. She could tell by the shape of his smile, that coy, dangerous little curve that meant he was about to scandalize his audience. When he moved, his coat whispered like a secret. His laughter floated above the music, rich and dark and effortless.

He caught her looking. Tilted his head slightly. Winked.

Tav’s breath caught, just for a moment, and the heat in her belly was far more potent than the wine.

The woman beside her, some distant cousin of a high magistrate, leaned in conspiratorially. Her eyes gleamed with a mixture of curiosity and something more, perhaps admiration. Her voice dipped into a whisper meant for ears that cared to listen.

“A man like Lord Ancunin… with such talents, I wonder, does he ever tire of one lady’s company?”

Tav’s lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile, turning so her eyes locked on the noble’s with a quiet fire. The room’s soft murmur and the clink of crystal echoed sharply in the silence as Tav observed her, long enough to make the air feel thicker.

“I’m afraid not,” Tav’s voice was smooth as silk but edged with steel. “I’m far too entertaining. Besides,” she added, a faint flicker of mischief dancing in her gaze, “let’s just say he prefers the taste of the hand that feeds him.”

A subtle pause hung in the air, the noblewoman blinking, caught between amusement and caution. Tav lifted her glass with a faint, almost imperceptible tilt of her brow and extended it toward the woman with deliberate slowness.

The noblewoman met her gaze for a heartbeat, then reached out without a word, accepting the empty glass as if it were a delicate offering and a quiet challenge all at once.

With that, Tav drifted through the crowd like smoke in a lantern. Graceful, luminous, slightly untouchable. 

She exchanged pleasantries with magistrates, bartered nods with guild leaders, endured too many compliments from aging nobles trying to weigh her worth. Some asked about the battle at the Netherbrain. Some asked about her old companions, which was actually a welcome reprieve from the gossip and flattery.

But even then there was the same undertone of admiration laced with calculation. Tav knew the look. The hunger behind the handshake. These people wanted something. Power attracted power, like blood in the water drew sharks.

She could almost hear Astarion’s voice in her ear. “Smile, darling. We’re dancing with wolves tonight. Might as well enjoy the music.”

When she found a moment of reprieve from the smothering nobles, she had barely turned the corner of the outer hall when a pale hand caught her wrist.

It pulled her through a narrow archway and into a curtained alcove; half-secluded, barely private, hidden only by a swath of sheer crimson silk that swayed like flame in the draft. The dim moonlight slanted through a narrow, latticed window overhead, casting silver bars across the marble floor and the shimmering folds of her gown. The music from the ballroom throbbed faintly behind the wall, dulled by stone but pulsing like a second heartbeat.

“Astarion, what are—”

Tav’s back hit cool stone with a soft gasp, stolen halfway from her lungs. Astarion’s hands had found her hips, urgent and unrelenting, dragging her back until there wasn’t a breath of space between them. His body pressed fully against hers, hard and trembling with barely contained need, and then his mouth was on hers, desperate, unrefined, starving.

There was no preamble. No gentility. Just the bruising crush of lips and the wet slide of his tongue as he forced her mouth open, groaning low in his throat the moment their tongues collided.

Tav melted beneath it. She always did.

Her hands clutched at the rich velvet of his coat, twisting and pulling, trying to steady herself against the onslaught. Her head tilted without thought, eyes fluttering shut as her mouth met his with matching hunger, each kiss deep and frantic, punctuated by the scrape of his teeth and the soft, broken sounds she didn’t mean to make.

She felt his hands sliding beneath her gown, gliding up her thighs with practiced reverence, until silk bunched around her hips and his fingers found the bare, slick heat between her legs. She gasped into his mouth, her hands fisting in the velvet of his coat.

“Say you thought of me when you dressed,” Astarion whispered against her mouth, voice low and wicked. “Say you wanted me to find you like this.”

“Yes.” She barely breathed before his fingers began parting her with a knowing touch that made her knees tremble.

When he finally tore his mouth from hers to let them breathe, she gasped as though surfacing from deep water. But he didn’t pause. His lips found her jaw next, then her throat, moving in feverish, open-mouthed kisses that left heat blooming beneath every pass of his tongue. His breath hitched and ghosted along her skin, sharp and hungry.

“Do you know how exquisite you are like this?” Astarion murmured, the words frayed with hunger yet steeped in reverence. His head dipped, nuzzling into the deep swell of her cleavage framed by her corset, breath hot against her skin before his mouth found it; sucking, nipping, tasting as though he could brand her with devotion alone. 

“I could spend centuries in you,” he whispered against her, “and count them well spent.”

He slid two fingers inside her, slow and deep and slick. Tav cried out softly, head lolling back to rest against the stone, its chill a cruel counterpoint to the fire igniting in her core.

She tried to speak, to shape words with a tongue still dazed from his kiss, but then he curled his fingers just right and she choked on her reply.

“I should have never let you leave our chambers,” Astarion growled as he moved back up to her neck. His fangs grazed the delicate skin there, just enough to make her gasp and dig her nails into his shoulders.

“Watching you, across the room. Laughing, toying with them, charming them all with that lovely little smile…” He thrust his fingers again, slow and precise, watching her writhe. 

“I was just being polite,” she whispered, dazed.

“You were torturing me.” His free hand gripped her thigh, lifting and anchoring it around his waist, opening her up to him, the angle making her grind helplessly against his palm. 

Tav’s hand gripped his jaw, dragging his mouth to hers in a bruising kiss, their teeth clashing in urgency. He growled low in his throat as her tongue met his, the slick slide turning into a hungry pull, sucking and tasting as though they could drink each other in.

“Astarion,” she broke away just long enough to whisper, “We’ll be missed–”

“Then let them miss us,” he snarled low. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

Tav bit down on a moan, shamefully aware of how desperate she was for him, and fumbled with the front of his trousers, tugging at the stubborn fastenings with desperate fingers. “If someone finds us–” she began, though her voice trembled with anything but conviction.

“Then I’d let them all watch me fuck you and take what’s mine.”

The filthy promise tore the last thread of her restraint. She pulled him free, her palm wrapping around his length, guiding him to her. 

His fingers were replaced by the press of skin and muscle, the first sharp thrust stealing a cry from her lips as she braced her heel against the cold stone, filled completely in one fierce, hungry movement.

One hand clamped over her mouth, his other digging nails into her thigh to hold her still as he ground himself deep inside, savoring the shudder that rippled through her.

“Mine,” he moaned, the sound vibrating deep within his chest. “Every bloody inch.”

The quick, ruthless rhythm he set had her thighs trembling, her dress a ruin around her hips, and the pounding of music from the ballroom felt almost in time with the frantic beat of her heart. The threat of being caught only wound the coil in her tighter.

Each snap of his hips sent her head tipping back against the wall, and he took full advantage, kissing down her bared throat, tasting her like he might never get the chance again. “You’re going to come for me,” he rasped, his voice a fraying thread of control. “Here, while our precious guests gossip and dance right outside.”

The friction was delicious, maddening, his hand holding her open, cradling her like something precious even as he fucked her like something forbidden. Her fingers scrabbled at his back, nails raking through velvet and linen, clutching to anchor herself in the whirlwind of sensation.

Her muffled moans vibrated against his hand, and his eyes flashed with something near feral delight. “That’s it. Perhaps we should let them hear you.” He pulled his hand away just to hear her gasp, his thumb catching her lower lip before sliding into her mouth, forcing her to taste his skin.

Tav’s eyes met his own, holding his gaze steady as she sucked on his thumb. He moaned at the sight, his hips desperately rutting faster, harder in response. “Fuck,” he cursed, his forehead falling forward to rest against hers. “You haven’t the slightest idea how close I am to keeping you like this for days.”

They groaned into each other, hands everywhere, gripping, dragging, pulling closer as if they could crawl inside each other and still not be close enough. His fangs grazed her lip, sharp and dangerous, and instead of flinching she chased the pain, sucked in a breath and kissed him harder, her fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck to anchor herself.

When her release came, it ripped through her, her cry swallowed by his mouth as he pushed her through it, relentless until he followed with a guttural groan, spilling into her and holding her there, pinned and full.

For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing, mingling in the charged air between them. Astarion remained slumped against her, his body a pale, delicious weight holding her pinned between himself and the wall. Tav was boneless, her knees trembling, and it was only his hold that kept her upright.

A few languid beats passed before he eased his grip, letting her leg slip from his hip. One hand slid down her thigh, lingering shamelessly before he coaxed her to stand on her own. With the other, he tucked himself neatly back into place, movements precise and unhurried, as though savoring the private aftermath. His deft fingers found the disarray in her skirts, smoothing the fabric back into place with a possessive care that made the heat in her cheeks flare anew.

Then he bent to kiss her again, softer now, unhurried, his mouth brushing hers in a final, claiming sweep. He murmured against her lips, voice a velvet whisper edged with wicked satisfaction.

“Go back out there glowing like this… and I’ll know every last one of them is wondering what I’ve just done to you.”

Tav lingered in the shadowed alcove a heartbeat longer, watching him. Even here, with his shirt still askew and his hair deliciously mussed from her hands, there was a regal gravity to him that had not existed in those wild, desperate days of their travels. Then, he had been sharp edges and quicksilver charm, surviving moment to moment with a smile that hid the bite. 

Now, the Crimson Palace itself seemed an extension of his will, its gilded halls and silken shadows bending around him like courtiers eager to please their lord.

He was changed. More dangerous. More certain. But that change had not loosened whatever had first bound them; it had only tightened it, tempered it into something fiercer. They were twin flames, burning hotter for having been stoked by time and ambition, and though his power now made the world bend, he still turned to her with that same devastating devotion. He was hers. Just as she was his.

So she would do as he wished. She stepped from the sanctuary of the shadows back toward the glow of the ballroom, the hum of music and laughter swelling to greet her. She walked among Baldur’s Gate’s nobility with her head held high, the weight of his claim hidden beneath fine silk and jewels. Her belly full with his seed, her pulse still thrumming with the memory of his hands, and the feel of his lips burned into every place he had kissed. 

She wore it like an invisible crown no one could see, but all would somehow sense.

Notes:

I cannot believe how much friction this story has gotten just from one chapter! I about cried when I saw your lovely comments. I may be slow to replying to them, but please know I appreciate them so much!

Please bare with me as I continue to set the stage here for what we're all waiting for. The next chapter, however, will be where the fun begins ;)

Chapter 3: Passion

Summary:

As the days pass, Tav begins to notice small, unexplained changes in her body. Fatigue, dizziness, and a subtle shift she can’t quite name. Beneath the surface, something impossible is quietly taking root.

The gala had been the spark. Opulent, calculated, and irresistible. In its wake, the city moved to their rhythm. Whispers from that night still curled through Baldur’s Gate like smoke, carrying their names into drawing rooms and counting houses, across merchant guilds and noble estates. The Crimson Palace had thrown open its doors, and the world had rushed in.

Already, Astarion had begun his quiet work. One by one, merchants and magistrates, guildmasters and lesser lords, found themselves drawn into his orbit. Some came bearing rare wines or delicate trinkets, eager to buy his good graces. Others came empty-handed, content to spill their grievances in the hopes of trading secrets for his ear. Each left changed; some smiling, some pale, but all of them aware they had stepped into the presence of something far greater than a mere noble.

His influence spread like candlelight on oil, seeping into every corner of the Upper City. With each day, more sought him out to beg, to bargain, to pledge themselves before the rising power in the Crimson Palace. And through it all, Tav watched, knowing their plan was working exactly as he intended.

Her place in all of it was as inevitable as his. The people of Baldur’s Gate still knew her name. Hero, Savior, the one who had stood against the Netherbrain when even their dear Grand Duke Ravengard fell under the Absolute. That legacy clung to her like a second skin, and when she stood beside Astarion, it became another weapon in his arsenal. Together, they made a picture the city could not ignore. Power and legend, hand in hand.

She had no love for the endless hours of polite warfare; those suffocating meetings thick with veiled threats, compliments sugared enough to rot teeth, and bargains spun in webs of carefully chosen words. That was his game, not hers. 

Her role was subtle but vital. She was the one who leaned close to murmur a warning when a deal sounded too sweet, who could read the truth in a flicker of a smile or the twitch of a hand. She could pull him back when his temper threatened to overtake strategy, or steady him when the temptation to dominate outright grew too sharp.

An advisor, of sorts, but one whose counsel he trusted above all others. And if the city thought her simply his beautiful consort, they were welcome to the illusion. Let them underestimate her. It only made the game easier to win.

This morning, her role was simpler, and far more pleasant. She was dressing for a stroll through the city at Astarion’s side, a chance to trade the palace’s polished corridors for cobblestone streets and river-borne breezes. 

It was still a performance, of course, every step a calculated reminder that they did not hide behind palace gates, but it was one they both enjoyed. They would drift through the market, pause to sample spiced wine or sugared almonds, offer charming nods to guildmasters and sly smiles to merchants, letting the people see them together in the sunlight. 

It was as much a game between them as it was politics; her hand curled in the crook of his arm, his quiet jokes pitched low for her alone, every shared glance a spark that made the whole charade feel less like duty and more like their own private delight.

For all the civility they displayed in public, the true language of their bond was spoken in private, in the dark hours behind locked doors. Their nights were no less calculated than their days; heated, relentless, and edged with the same hunger that drove their ambitions. Passion was another battlefield for them, one they entered with the same intensity they gave to courtly games. 

There, stripped of silk and pretense, they tested each other’s limits with teeth and hands, with whispered challenges and breathless laughter. It was not the gentle devotion of poets’ verses, but something fiercer. Possession and surrender tangled together, a dance of dominance and defiance that left them both undone. 

And when dawn came, they emerged immaculate. Polished smiles, perfect posture, while the memory of the night before thrummed between them like a secret pulse.

In her dressing room, the mirror caught the faintest mark at her throat, his claim on her left where only she might see. Silks and lace lay draped across the chaise, the aftermath of her indecision, while Tav sat at her vanity stool and let one of the handmaids work through the last twists and pins of her hair. 

One of the younger maids chattered brightly about the bustle in the market that morning, how it was stirring back to life due to “the Lord and Lady’s influence.” Another tittered about a merchant’s son who had asked, rather boldly, if the pair might sample his family’s new honeyed wine at their next ball.

Tav smiled faintly, offering polite replies where needed, letting their gossip fill the room like background music.

She hadn’t noticed when the tide of conversation around her began to recede, the chorus of voices ebbing into nothing but a faint hum in the distance. Her gaze had drifted past the room entirely, snagged on the golden spill of light beyond the open balcony doors. 

Outside, the sounds of the garden pressed. Birds trilling in the high branches, leaves whispering against one another, the distant whicker of horses from the palace stables. Each note was sharp and distinct, until they seemed to thrum in time with the quickening beat of her heart.

“My Lady, are you feeling well?”

The voice reached her as if through water; there, but muffled, hovering at the edges of her mind. She swallowed against the dryness in her throat, the motion tight and reluctant. A bead of sunlight slid across her arm, warm at first, then strangely stifling, heat prickling her skin until it felt damp.

“You look far too pale, my Lady. Please, allow us to call for the healer.”

Still, Tav did not answer. The haze only broke when movement cut across her vision. One of the servants stooped, lifting the hem of their gown to kneel before her, their proximity pulling her focus at last.

“Can you hear me, Lady Tav?”

The wind shifted through the balcony doors at that moment, catching the scent of the servant’s perfume and sweeping it toward her. A cloying, heady bloom of crushed jasmine and something sweeter, almost rotten beneath. The fragrance hit the back of her throat like a physical thing, coating her tongue, clawing its way up her nose.

Her stomach lurched.

Tav clapped a hand to her mouth too late. The rush of nausea was swift and merciless, bending her forward as her other hand fumbled for the armrest of the chaise. She gagged, her vision swimming with spots as her body heaved again.

“My Lady!” The kneeling servant stumbled back in alarm, nearly tangling herself in the folds of her skirts. 

The second handmaid cried out, the sharp sound slicing through the muffled haze that had settled over Tav’s mind. “I’ll fetch the healer!” 

The voice pitched high with panic, slippers whispering over the marble as they fled. Their departure stirred the air again, drawing a fresh curl of the offending scent toward Tav. She choked on a shallow breath, bile burning the back of her throat.

There was no stopping it this time. Her body seized with another violent heave, and she lurched forward, one trembling hand braced against the armrest while the other clutched uselessly at her middle. The sour rush of sickness clawed its way up, spilling past her lips in a humiliating wave that struck the polished floor with a dull splatter. The scent turned instantly more acrid, her stomach tightening again as the room seemed to tilt.

Somewhere beyond the doorway, hurried footsteps struck the floor, measured and certain, far more deliberate than the servant’s flight.

Moments later, the shadow of a tall figure crossed the threshold to her dressing chamber.

“Lord Ancunin,” a maid stammered, relief and nerves tangling in their voice. “Lady Tav is unwell—”

Astarion was already moving before they could finish, a sudden, silent sweep of motion that brought him into the room like a storm spilling through the threshold. His gaze cut immediately to Tav; bent forward, pale as moonlight, a sheen of sweat at her temple, lips parted in shallow breaths. The sharp scent in the air made his nose wrinkle, though his expression didn’t falter.

“My love,” he said, low and urgent, striding to her side. His coat flared as he crouched beside her, one cool hand sliding beneath her chin to lift her gaze. Crimson eyes scanned her face with precision, as though he could read every secret of her body in that instant.

“You’re trembling.” The words were more observation than question, his thumb brushing against her clammy skin. “And you didn’t call for me.”

She tried to answer, but another ripple of nausea twisted her stomach. He caught the back of her shoulders before she could pitch forward again, the strength in his grip effortless but unyielding, holding her upright as if nothing in the world could pry her from his hands.

“Out,” he said without looking away from her, his tone quiet but brooking no argument.

The remaining maids hesitated only a breath before bobbing a quick curtsy and scurrying from the room, skirts swishing in their retreat. The door clicked shut, leaving only the muffled hum of the palace beyond.

With the world narrowed to just the two of them, Astarion eased an arm firmly around her waist. “Come now, darling,” he murmured, guiding her to her feet with slow, unhurried precision, as if she were made of glass. “You’re going back to bed.”

“I’m fine,” Tav protested softly, though her voice was thin and breathless. “Just… the heat, perhaps. Or something I ate.” She forced a weak smile, as if that could smooth away the sweat beading at her temple. “You don’t have to fuss.”

His crimson gaze slid toward her, incredulous. “You’re pale as death and emptying your stomach onto the floor, and you think I won’t fuss ?”

The short walk to their connected bedchamber felt longer than it should, her knees unsteady, his presence a steady anchor beside her. The corridor between the rooms was lit only by the muted spill of morning light through tall windows, painting his pale features in gold and shadow.

At the bed, Astarion helped her down onto the cool sheets, brushing back a strand of damp hair from her forehead. “There,” he said, softer now, though his eyes still gleamed with that intense, searching scrutiny. “Lie back. Rest. Whatever this is, we’ll see to it you’re well again before long.”

“I told you it’s nothing,” Tav muttered, settling into the pillows.

“Yes,” he said dryly, adjusting the blanket over her. “And I’m sure it will be nothing again once I’ve seen for myself.”

Astarion didn’t leave her side. Even when she turned her face toward the window to avoid the weight of his gaze, she could still feel it; sharp, unyielding, like he could pierce through skin and bone if only he stared long enough.

She knew what he must be thinking. That she was fragile. Mortal. The same body she had stubbornly kept, soft, warm, and breakable, was the same one that betrayed her so easily. If she had taken his offer, if she had accepted the gift of his dark eternity, she wouldn’t be lying here pale and trembling under his watch.

The thought made her stomach tighten, not with sickness this time, but with the fear that he might see her as less.

“That’s the fastest I’ve ever seen you surrender,” Astarion said suddenly, his voice low, but not unkind. “And when you’re quiet, it’s almost always because you’re plotting to tell me later that I overreacted.”

Tav’s lips twitched despite herself. “Am I usually wrong?” She asked, turning back to look at him.

“You’re wrong about many things,” he said lightly, though his eyes betrayed no real amusement. “But not about the fact that I intend to keep you here until I’m satisfied you’re not about to collapse.”

Astarion lounged back in the chair beside the bed, one long leg stretched out, arms folding across his chest. He made a show of settling in, but she could see the way his gaze never drifted far from her, tracking each shift of her breath, each faint twitch of her fingers against the sheets.

She let her eyes fall shut, if only to escape that unwavering stare. The room was quiet now, save for the soft whisper of the curtains shifting in the breeze and the faint creak of his chair when he moved. She tried to let the stillness carry her, to sink into the cool sheets and the familiar scent of the linen, but she could still feel him there, watching, waiting.

Even without looking, she could picture the tilt of his head, the slight narrowing of his eyes as he pieced together every detail of her illness. He would not dismiss this as a passing faintness. He never dismissed anything when it came to her.

She told herself she didn’t care if he thought her weak, that it didn’t matter if he was tallying the cost of her mortality in the quiet corners of his mind, but the lie was thin and fraying.

The sound of his chair shifting again was the last thing she heard before the haze began to pull her under. She caught the barest hint of his voice, too soft to make out the words, but heavy with something she couldn’t name. Then she was gone, slipping into the uneasy dark of sleep with the knowledge that he would still be there when she woke.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Weeks passed in a blur of shimmering days and restless nights. Mornings began with a sour twist in her stomach, the scent carried up from their kitchens now a challenge rather than a comfort. Fatigue clung like a shadow, pressing down on her limbs when she least expected it. The sharp sweetness of perfumes, once a mere annoyance, now rolled over her senses in waves that left her breathless.

Still, she took her place beside Astarion in council chambers and candlelit parlors, enduring endless hours of veiled threats and gilded lies as though nothing were amiss. She pushed through the haze, donning silk and velvet for appearances, masking the growing weakness beneath carefully practiced smiles. Astarion’s sharp eyes were always watching, reading the unspoken signs with the patience of a predator who guards what he treasures.

Some days, it was the sudden dizziness that struck without warning, while standing in the sunlit hallways of the Crimson Palace or moving through crowded market streets. She would catch herself gripping the nearest railing or clutching Astarion’s arm to steady the world from tipping beneath her.

Other times, the metallic tang that lingered on her tongue was enough to sour even her favorite wine. Meals that once brought her delight now tasted like ash, swallowed with difficulty amid the tightening coil of nausea that lurked in her belly.

Nights were filled with what they always were, whispered promises and lingering breaths, their bodies entwined in a rhythm as steady and inevitable as the pulse in her veins. Afterwards, she would sit by the window, gazing out at the city lights flickering against the dark river, feeling both tethered and adrift. The lingering warmth of Astarion’s touch still humming beneath her skin, a quiet ache of closeness that clung even when he tranced in the bed behind her. 

Through it all, Astarion’s presence was steady and unwavering. He offered no words of pity, no empty reassurances. Instead, he moved with quiet purpose, anticipating her needs before she spoke them, his touch gentle when she needed grounding, his voice low and certain when the shadows pressed too close.

Still, his concern deepened with every passing day, his keen mind cycling through every plausible cause for Tav’s gradual decline. Poison? A subtle curse left by some enemy hidden in the city’s shadows? Exhaustion, perhaps, too many sleepless nights spent balancing power and politics. Or maybe an illness brought on by the heavy air of Baldur’s Gate itself, thick with dust and disease.

But Tav was stubborn, unyielding in her refusal to let anyone but him near enough to truly see her falter. Clerics and healers were politely turned away, their inquiries met with firm refusals or vague excuses. Pride and habit welded her defenses shut; she would not be treated like a fragile thing, nor would she admit to weakness.

So Astarion watched and waited, left to read the subtle signs only he could catch. The tremor in her hand, the fleeting flush of exhaustion behind her eyes. All the while knowing that if she did not relent soon, he might have to break through her walls himself.

It was after a lunch Tav couldn’t stomach that Astarion finally coaxed her from the confines of the palace with promises of fresh air and the quiet sanctuary of their gardens. The afternoon sun spilled gold over the manicured hedges and fragrant blooms, casting dappled light that danced across the cobblestones beneath their feet.

They walked side by side, close enough that their shoulders brushed with every step, those fleeting contacts sending gentle ripples of warmth through them both. Tav’s fingers found his hand, weaving through his long, pale fingers in a silent, intimate rhythm. He caught the movement, squeezing lightly, a wordless conversation sparked by touch alone.

She tilted her head toward him, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “This is much nicer than when you tried to swoon me with a walk through the Underdark,” Tav teased, voice low and playful.

Astarion’s grin was sharp, eyes glinting with mischief. “Ah yes, the infamous exploding mushroom incident.” He let his thumb trace lazy circles along the back of her hand. “A masterstroke of romance, if I do say so myself.”

She laughed softly. “I wouldn’t consider that masterful. You didn’t just trigger one, dear. You set off half the fungus forest.”

“All part of my plan to keep you on your toes.”

Their laughter mingled with the rustling leaves, a perfect reprieve from the weight of their days. They moved easily between words and silence, the garden around them fading into soft background noise. Fingers twined and untwined, brushing against skin and fabric; small, deliberate touches that spoke of trust and a fire that neither dared to extinguish.

They paused beneath a blossoming arbor, the scent of jasmine thick in the air. Astarion’s hand slid from hers to rest lightly on her waist, his touch featherlight but charged with intent. Tav leaned in just a fraction, letting the moment stretch between them, an unspoken promise held in a glance and the subtle press of skin against skin.

Astarion’s voice dropped to a low murmur, teasing yet tender. “You know, I could get used to this. Less explosions, more quiet moments like this.”

Tav smiled, warmth spreading through her despite the lingering traces of fatigue. “Careful,” she teased, voice light but sharp. “That sounds dangerously close to asking for domestication. And I’d hate to be the one to bore you.”

He chuckled a slow, amused sound, his fingers wandering in lazy, deliberate patterns along the curve of her waist. “I have every confidence you’ll find new and entertaining ways to challenge me.”

Their eyes locked, the playful spark deepening into something fiercer, a shared heat that both felt undeniable. Tav let her fingers drift teasingly along the line of his jaw before slipping around the back of his neck. Astarion’s fingers slid from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer, the heat of his touch igniting a slow burn beneath her skin. 

His voice dropped even softer, almost a whisper. “You do realize, teasing me this way only makes it harder to keep my hands to myself.”

Tav’s breath hitched, a mischievous smile curving her lips as she tilted her head. “Then maybe you shouldn’t keep your hands to yourself.”

Astarion chuckled, the sound low and approving, before his gaze flickered to her lips and back to her eyes, full of promise and unspoken questions. “Dangerous words,” he murmured. “But I find myself quite willing to explore that risk.”

A quiet laugh escaped her, light and genuine, as she traced a finger from his jaw down the front of his neck. “Good. Because I’m not planning on making this easy for you.”

Their breaths mingled, the charged silence between them dissolving as Astarion’s lips brushed hers, slow at first, testing the waters of a longing that had never truly ebbed. Tav responded with equal softness, her hands weaving through his hair, anchoring herself to the warmth of him.

The kiss deepened, slow and consuming, a dance of tenderness and desire that left no space for doubt or fear. Fingers traced familiar paths along backs and shoulders, the world narrowing to the pulse of shared heat and whispered sighs.

But beneath the surface, a faint dizziness tugged at Tav’s senses, a whisper of weakness that she fought to ignore. As the kiss broke, her eyes fluttered open, and the edges of the garden around them seemed to sway, the vibrant colors dimming at the corners of her vision.

Astarion’s brow furrowed instantly, his hands steadying her as she swayed. “Tav?” His voice was sharp now, edged with concern as he caught her before she could collapse.

She managed a weak smile, pressing a trembling hand to her temple. “Just... a little lightheaded,” she whispered, though the words felt fragile and far away.

He didn’t release her, instead pulling her closer, his protective gaze darkening. “We should get you inside.” 

A pressure built behind her eyes, a crushing weight that pressed deep into her bones, sapping strength she didn’t know she’d lost. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, drowning out the soft rustle of leaves and the distant city hum.

Tav tried to steady herself, gripping Astarion’s shoulders, but her fingers trembled, and the ground seemed to drift farther away with every pulse. The sweetness of the moment twisted into a tightening coil of panic and exhaustion.

Then, just as the edges of her vision darkened completely, a strong pair of arms caught her before she could fall, pulling her into a solid, unyielding embrace.

“Easy,” Astarion murmured, his voice low and steady beneath her ear. “I’ve got you.”

Warmth flooded back, steady and certain, as she surrendered to the darkness, safe in his hold, even as the world slipped away.

Notes:

Just a disclaimer that this story is consuming all of my brain cells, so I may have underestimated myself when I promised "once a week" updates.

Thank you for all of the kind comments and support! It truly makes my day when I see a new comment, kudo, or bookmark. It also fuels my typing fingers, haha.

Chapter 4: Possession

Summary:

After another fit of sickness, Tav hesitates before confronting the truth of her condition. Wonder and dread coil together, whispering that her life will never again be what it was.

The first thing Tav felt was the weight of the air. Heavy, with the faint scent of crushed herbs and something metallic beneath. Her eyelids resisted the pull of waking, clutching at the safety of darkness. The voices reached her before her vision did.

“…and you’re certain you checked for everything?”

Astarion’s voice, low, silken, and steeped in that dangerous stillness she had heard him reserve for enemies rather than allies. It curled through the air like smoke, beautiful but edged with poison.

“I— yes, my Lord,” the healer stammered. “We’ve examined for toxins, cursed influence—”

“Then check again,” he interrupted, each syllable honed fine as a dagger’s edge. There was no raised tone, no flare of temper, just a glacial precision that seemed to shrink the room around them.

Tav’s lashes parted sluggishly. The ceiling swam into focus, dark stone etched with hairline cracks, daylight pooling across them in pale gold ribbons. She shifted slightly and the sheets whispered under her. That single sound drew his gaze.

“You’re awake.”

His voice softened, but only for her; a dizzying contrast to the frost that had coated his words seconds before. Yet when he turned back to the healer, the cold returned in full force.

“If I find you’ve overlooked something through carelessness…” He didn’t need to finish. The silence that followed was thick with the unspoken.

The healer’s throat bobbed.

Tav wet her lips, the dryness of her mouth making even that small movement an effort. She told herself he was protecting her, though protection from Astarion often came wrapped in teeth and shadow.

“What happened?” She rasped.

“You collapsed,” he said simply, already crossing the space between them. He perched on the mattress beside her, his cool hand brushing hers with a quiet possessiveness. “The healer will discover why.”

“I—” Her throat tightened. “I told you before, it’s probably something I ate—”

“I’ll decide what it is.” His reply was not unkind, but it carried the unshakable finality of a verdict already passed. He swept a loose strand of hair from her face with a tenderness that made the moment almost intimate, until his gaze lifted past her, sharpening again.

“I told you to check everything again,” he commanded. “And if the kitchens are at fault, I’ll have the cook explaining himself by dawn.”

The promise in his eyes made it plain that “explaining” would involve far more than words.

The healer moved quickly now, fetching glass vials and muttering incantations, each furtive glance toward Astarion clipped with unease. When he approached her at bedside, Tav could see the bead of sweat forming at his brow. 

Blue light shimmered faintly from the healer’s hands as he passed them above her body, never quite touching, as though to do so might burn. And through it all, Tav lay silent beneath the weight of it; the thick air, the watchful eyes, and the quiet certainty that whatever they found, Astarion’s reaction would be as inevitable as nightfall.

“Her pulse is steady,” the healer said at last, finally daring to make contact to check her wrist with cold fingers. His touch lingered an instant too long, as though feeling for something more. “No signs of necrotic influence, no lingering spellcraft. I’ll prepare a purging draught—”

He hesitated, his gaze flicking, quick, almost imperceptible, toward Tav’s abdomen before snapping back to her face. The pause was gone in a breath, smoothed over with professional calm, but not before a faint crease marred his brow.

“You’ll prepare three at the least,” Astarion said, silk over steel. “And you’ll do so quickly.”

Tav tried to push herself up, but Astarion’s hand pressed gently, firmly, to her shoulder, keeping her in place.

“Easy, my darling. You’ll be on your feet when I say you will be, no sooner.”

She wanted to protest, to tell him she wasn’t fragile. But the moment her head turned, the floor seemed to lurch sideways, and his palm was the only anchor keeping her from sliding under again.

The healer returned with a tray, the soft chime of glass against glass filling the hush. Astarion plucked one vial free, holding it to the light before bringing it to his nose, testing it for deceit. Only when satisfied did he place it into her hand.

The draught was bitter and metallic, clinging to her tongue like coin and rust. She swallowed it down, wincing.

“That should settle your stomach and restore some strength,” the healer said. “Likely nothing more than strain or an imbalance in the humors. Still, I’ll mix another tonic for the mornings—”

“Do it,” Astarion cut in, already turning his attention away, dismissal written in the angle of his shoulders.

As the healer retreated, Tav caught the look on his face. A quick exhale, the loosened stance of a man who had walked away from the edge of something dangerous. But there had been something else, too, in the glance he’d given her; a flicker of knowledge swiftly buried, as though speaking it aloud might cost him far more than his life.

When the man was gone, Astarion turned back to her, the frost melting from his features in an instant. His thumb brushed over her knuckles, slow and deliberate, as though grounding himself in the feel of her skin.

“You’ll stay in bed for the rest of the afternoon,” he said.

“I have dinner with some of the ladies,” she murmured.

“Cancelled.” He left no room for debate.

She studied him in the lamplight; the sharp edges and cool authority, the tension strung through his frame like a drawn bow. Every inch of him was primed to strike at whatever dared to lay a hand on her. He’d burn the city to ash to keep her safe. And that should have comforted her.

But the healer’s look, that flicker of something in his eyes before he masked it, snagged in her mind. A small, unnamable thread of unease pulled taut inside her, refusing to be swallowed by the warmth of Astarion’s hand.

Her eyelids grew heavy, the room softening at the edges, but she felt the shift in the mattress as he rose. Cool arms slid beneath her, gathering her as though she weighed nothing.

“Rest now, my love,” he murmured against her temple, voice low and steady.

The last thing she remembered was the quiet swish of the door closing and the steady rhythm of his steps carrying her away, up the familiar path to their chambers, before the darkness claimed her again.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The palace always felt different without him. Quieter, yes, but also… looser, as though the halls themselves exhaled when his presence was gone.

Tav drifted through them barefoot, the polished stone cool beneath her feet. Her hair was unpinned, falling loose down her back, and the silk robe she’d pulled on that evening whispered against her skin as she walked.

She wasn’t sure where she was going. Perhaps nowhere. Perhaps everywhere.

Astarion was occupied in some meeting, some maneuver, anything from bartering for trade routes to quietly sharpening the knife that would gut an enemy’s reputation. Whatever it was, it kept him from her for the evening, and the absence left her with a kind of space she was unsure she wanted.

Dusklight poured in through the tall windows, gilding the dust motes that hung in the air. She passed through the gallery, where unfamiliar portraits scowled down with painted disapproval, then into the inner gardens, where late-blooming roses clung stubbornly to the trellises.

The stillness should have soothed. Instead, it pressed against her, heavy and unrelenting.

Every few steps, she caught herself pausing to lean against a pillar, to steady her breathing, to press a hand to the low, persistent ache in her belly. She told herself it was just fatigue. The healer’s tonic had done little to change that.

When she reached the fountain courtyard, she lowered herself to the marble edge and trailed her fingers through the water. It was cold, sharp against her skin, enough to make her shiver.

A ripple of laughter drifted in from somewhere beyond the hedges, guards swapping stories on their break, perhaps. Life went on around her, the same as ever, and yet… not.

The faint smell of jasmine still clung to her from that morning, and with it came the memory of Astarion’s hands on her waist, his lips almost on hers before the world had gone dark. The thought made her flush, even now, alone.

But there was something else under it, something that had been creeping at the edges of her awareness for days, maybe weeks. She couldn’t name it yet, and maybe she didn’t want to. Still the thought followed, patient as a hunter.

She knew something wasn’t right. Her body whispered it in every ache, every stolen breath, every sudden wave of exhaustion that left her clinging to stone or railing as though she were some fragile thing. The signs had been there, gathering, circling, asking to be seen.

So she lied to herself, carefully, deliberately. Each step forward became an act of stubborn refusal, as though sheer will might banish the truth her body was trying to confess.

Even as she clung to her excuses, her path bent of its own accord, away from fountains and gardens, away from the softness of distraction. She found herself moving down the long corridor, drawn by some quiet gravity she couldn’t quite resist. Her mind told her not to look, not to know. But her body, her feet, her pulse, they carried her closer all the same.

The library smelled of old paper and dust, with just the faintest undercurrent of candle wax, a scent that seemed to sink into the walls themselves.

It was the kind of quiet that felt alive, humming faintly in the silence, every sound amplified. The soft pad of her steps on the carpet runner, the whisper of her robe as it shifted around her legs, the creak of ancient shelves settling under their own weight.

This had been Astarion’s sanctuary once, he had told her.

When the cage of his existence grew too tight, when the endless demands and cruelties pressed down with no release, he would slip into the library and breathe as though the books themselves offered air. He spoke of it almost wistfully; how the spines lined up in solemn ranks, how the scent of ink and vellum felt more real to him than the blood that chained him.

Even then, he had been caught sometimes, punished for lingering too long with words that could not bleed or scream. Yet still he went back. He had told her once, with that sardonic smile that never quite masked the truth beneath it, that torment could be borne more easily when one carried whole worlds inside the mind.

And it was not only refuge, but recognition. He had been clever, even brilliant, long before he became someone else’s puppet. A magistrate, scarcely out of youth, trusted with judgments and laws, his name once spoken with respect. He said it without boasting, though his voice would grow softer when he admitted it, because those years had been the last time his mind belonged to him. The library had remembered it, when no one else did.

To him, knowledge had been a mirror, a way to remember he was more than hunger, more than a tool of someone else’s will. Poetry, philosophy, the intricate puzzles of law and history; he clung to them as though each page proved he had once been a man of substance, not just survival.

The thought was enough to make her pause at the threshold.

Much of Cazador’s collection had been destroyed after his death, either by Astarion’s order or Tav’s own restless need to purge the rot from its source. But some things had stayed. Practical things. Useful things.

And in Astarion’s mind, knowledge was the sharpest blade of all.

The remaining volumes, many of them bound in cracked, dark leather, lined the northern wall in a solid, unbroken block. She’d seen some before. Bloodline histories, maps of underground passages stretching far beyond the city, obscure treatises on ritual magic. Others she hadn’t dared to touch.

She reached for one at random, the cover stiff and cold beneath her fingers. Embossed along the spine, in curling silver script, was a single word: Succession.

Inside, the script was dense, written in a hand so meticulous it might have been etched rather than inked. There were notes in the margins, some in Cazador’s spidery scrawl, others in the neater, almost delicate writing she recognized as Astarion’s.

It was not just about rulership. It was about blood. The way it passed power, sometimes in ways neither intended nor desired. The way it could carry magic like a current; unpredictable, potent, binding across generations.

Her eyes traced the words without fully meaning to, but each line seemed to snag on her thoughts, pulling them toward something she’d been avoiding.

Inheritance is not always deliberate.

A faint chill slid down her spine, and she closed the book with more force than necessary, the sound sharp in the quiet.

Somewhere deep in the palace, a door slammed, followed by muffled voices. Astarion, perhaps, or one of his attendants. But here in the library, the air stayed heavy, still, almost watchful.

She set the book back on the shelf, slower this time, her fingers lingering on the spine as though it might give her an answer if she only touched it long enough.

Her fingers roamed the spines again, moving past histories and bloodline charts until they landed on a heavy volume whose cover was almost featureless, just a faint impression of a stylized bat, worn nearly smooth with age.

It opened stiffly, as if reluctant to be disturbed. Inside, the diagrams were stark and almost clinical. Cross-sections of ribcages with motionless hearts, skeletal sketches with annotations crowding the margins, illustrations of fangs and feeding patterns.

She skimmed quickly at first, the familiar litany of weaknesses and limitations she’d heard a hundred times.

The sun. The stake. The curse of an uninvited threshold. The weight of running water, the reflection lost to mirrors, the pulse forever absent.

She turned the page and turned it again, her pace quickening, an edge of frustration building.

Then a chapter heading stopped her.

On Dhampirs.

She stared at the word for a long moment, her breath catching, before she began to read.

The script seemed to draw her in, but the words themselves faded from her awareness almost as quickly as they came. The lines blurred, her thoughts crowding in until she couldn’t be certain if she was reading at all.

Her heartbeat, fast, unsteady, filled her ears. Her fingers tightened against the edge of the page. The muscles along her jaw locked, as if holding her still might keep the truth from spilling out.

She closed the book slowly, almost carefully, as though it might explode in her hands if she moved too suddenly.

For a long moment, she simply stood there with her palm flat against the worn leather cover, staring at the golden light pooling across the floor from the nearby window.

The air felt thick with the scent of parchment when Tav stepped out, the door clicking shut behind her. That smell clung to her hands, ghosting across her skin as if she’d pressed her palms into the ink itself. 

Somewhere far off, a servant’s voice drifted in conversation with a guard, but their words blurred to nothing before reaching her. It made her blink, made the quiet of the library feel like a dream she’d been shaken from too abruptly. She passed them without a glance, keeping her head down, the thoughts in her mind feeling too fragile for anyone else to see.

The palace stretched before her in a sprawl of opulence and shadow. She moved through it as though tracing a map she knew by heart, but each step seemed to draw her deeper into its hollow spaces.

She dragged her fingertips along the cool stone wall, grounding herself in its rough solidity. Her thoughts splintered in and out of the present; the sharp image of Astarion’s face when she woke in the infirmary, the tension in his voice when he thought she couldn’t hear, the weight of the book still pressing against her ribs from where she held it to her chest moments before.

Something about the hallways felt longer today, the turns sharper, the air heavier.

The infirmary existed less for charity than necessity. The Crimson Palace was no stranger to blood, and even its master, for all his newfound power, had seen enough to know the value of a healer within reach. Servants fell ill, guards returned from skirmishes with wounds, guests sometimes tested the wrong kind of wine, or the patience of their host. Better to have the means of swift remedy within the palace walls than to send whispers of weakness into the city by calling for aid elsewhere.

So the infirmary had been built into the quieter wing of the palace, where its scents of herbs and boiled water did not mingle with perfume and candle smoke. It was both practical and political, a self-contained sanctuary where ailments could be treated discreetly, away from prying eyes.

The healer himself was a carefully chosen fixture, his long years lending him an air of authority that few dared to question. He had once tended to nobles of Baldur’s Gate, before Astarion persuaded him into his service. Whether he came by coin, promise, or threat was a matter of speculation among the servants, but none doubted his skill, or the fact that he answered only to his lord now.

The door to the infirmary stood slightly ajar, a thin wedge of candlelight spilling into the hall. Tav paused on the threshold, hand hovering for just a moment, before she pushed it open.

Inside, the healer worked in silence. An older elf, his once-dark hair streaked with silver, leaned over a table littered with parchment scraps and rows of stoppered vials that glimmered faintly in amber, crimson, and green. His long fingers moved with deliberate care, sorting them into lines as though the order itself could ward off chaos.

He looked up at the sound of her step. For a flicker of an instant, surprise showed in his sharp, assessing eyes before smoothing away into neutrality.

“Lady Tav.” His voice was even, but too quick, as if rehearsed. “You should be resting.”

“I will.” She stepped further inside, letting the door whisper shut behind her. Her voice was steady, but her gaze did not leave him. “But first, I have a question.”

His hands froze above the vials, pale fingers lingering just short of glass. “About?”

“What you found. When I collapsed.” The words left her carefully measured, but they carried a weight she could not keep from them. “You told him you saw no signs of poison, no illness. But that wasn’t the whole truth.”

A silence stretched. Barely the length of a breath, but she saw it; the hesitation, the shift in his eyes. His gaze flicked, quick and furtive, toward the closed door before returning to her.

“I told the Lord what he needed to know.”

“And me?” Tav pressed, taking another step closer, the floorboards whispering under her feet. “What about what I need to know?”

The smallest crack opened in his composure. Not doubt, not fear, but calculation. A weighing of what could be spoken and what must be swallowed. His lips pressed together before he exhaled through his nose, a sound almost like resignation.

“If I had spoken the thought aloud in front of him,” he said, each word measured like a careful incision, “I doubt I would still be standing here. The Lord was looking for answers he could accept. And…” His voice dropped. “The truth was not one of them.”

His eyes darted again, not to the door this time, but to a locked cabinet in the shadowed corner of the room. His fingers twitched, half-formed toward reaching, before curling back to his side. When he spoke again, his voice had dropped to a near-whisper, so quiet she almost thought the walls themselves leaned to listen.

“Some truths,” he murmured, “are better spoken when no ears but yours are near… and when you’ve decided whether you want them at all.”

The thought struck her like a slow, heavy blow, not for what it was, but for what it implied. Her pulse throbbed at her throat, at her wrists. Thick, uneven, treacherous.

And just as swiftly as it had opened, the moment closed. Without another word, he turned back to his vials, aligning them with meticulous care, as if he had not said anything at all. Each clink of glass against wood rang with finality, making it clear he meant the conversation to be over.

But Tav did not move.

“You’re not finished,” she said quietly.

The faintest pause betrayed him, his hand hovering an inch too long over the next vial before setting it down. He did not look at her.

“You’ve told him what he wanted to hear. Now you will tell me. ”

“Lady Tav—”

“No.” Her voice was sharper now, cutting across the dim chamber. “Do not hide behind titles and careful words. I am not him. You saw something, you know something, and I will not be kept in ignorance.”

At that, he finally lifted his head, eyes narrowing, weighing her anew. In the silence, the faint crackle of the lantern wick seemed deafening.

“You think you want plain speech,” he murmured, “but truth has a way of binding, of cutting. Once it’s loosed, you cannot take it back. And once he hears of it…” His gaze flicked again toward the door, the shadowed halls beyond. “You may wish I had stayed silent.”

Tav stepped closer, close enough to see the fine tremor in his hands despite the calm he wore like armor. “Then tell me now, while it is still ours alone. I’ll decide what to do with it. Not him.”

For the first time, something like unease flickered openly in his sharp eyes. His throat worked, dry, as though the words he held back had weight enough to strangle.

“You are not weak,” he said at last, voice low and hard. “But strength won’t shield you from what this means.” His jaw tightened. “And if the Lord cannot accept it…”

He cut himself off, shaking his head as though to banish the thought. His fingers clenched around a vial, the glass straining faintly under the pressure.

“Speak it,” Tav demanded, pulse hammering. “Now. Before I drag it from you myself.”

The words struck their mark. His composure faltered, the mask slipping. For a long moment, the only sound was the fragile rattle of the vial in his hand. Then, with a sharp breath, he set it down, the glass clinking too hard against the wood.

Slowly, he turned to face her fully. The lanternlight carved hollows into his gaunt features, deepening the silver in his hair, making his eyes seem older still. When he spoke, his voice was low, reverent and afraid all at once.

“There is… something within you,” he said. “Not an illness, not a poison, not anything I have ever studied. It is new. Being created, cell by cell, heartbeat by heartbeat.”

Her breath caught, shallow and sharp, as though the air itself had turned heavier. A warmth bloomed low in her belly, not entirely fear, not entirely wonder, but something that made her feel unmoored. Her hand moved unconsciously to her abdomen, fingers splayed, the fabric of her robe suddenly feeling too thin, too fragile a barrier.

His gaze flickered down, briefly, toward her middle, then back up. “It should be impossible. And yet it is not. Your collapse, it was not your body failing you.” He paused, as if the next words might summon some curse. 

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping further. “This is no ordinary creation. It is nothing the world has seen before. A union of mortal flesh and… ascended blood. The first of its kind.”

He let the words hang there, heavy as iron chains, his sharp eyes searching hers. “Do you understand now, Lady Tav, why I did not speak it before him? The Lord would not hear wonder in this. He would hear only threat.”

“No.” The word left her too quickly, too sharp. She shook her head, forcing steadiness into her tone. “You don’t know him as I do. He would not see this as a threat.”

The healer’s gaze narrowed, unreadable.

“He wouldn’t,” she repeated, softer this time, as if speaking it could make it true. Her fingers curled against the fabric of her robe. “He’s… he’s longed for more than survival. For more than what was forced upon him. If this is real, if something new has come of us, it won’t be danger to him. It will be hope.”

Even as she said it, the words trembled at the edges. Hope was a fragile thing to pin on Astarion, on the sharp curve of his ambition, on the shadow of his past. She told herself he would see it as a miracle, not a chain. But beneath the conviction in her voice, she felt the crack of doubt like ice spreading underfoot.

The healer tilted his head slightly, regarding her in silence for a long moment. Then, with a weary exhale, he murmured. “Then pray, Lady Tav, that you are right. For all our sakes.”

She left in silence, the echo of her footsteps unnervingly loud in the deserted hall. The corridor stretched on, long and dim, its polished stone walls cool beneath her fingertips as though the palace itself recoiled from her touch. Each step fell in measured rhythm, a steady beat against the hush, a cadence at odds with the wild, uneven pounding of her heart.

The healer’s words lingered like a shadow, their weight settling deeper with every heartbeat. Her pulse thundered in her ears. A child. Their child. The thought rose, wild and blasphemous, and she could hardly grasp it, could hardly believe she wasn’t dreaming it still in some fever haze.

She understood now why he had not dared speak before Astarion. She had seen what the Ascendant could become when threatened. The ruthless protector who bled menace into every smile, who cut down whispers as swiftly as blades. The healer’s silence had not been mercy; it had been survival. Power, control, fear, all swathed in civility and silk.

Yet beneath the cold knot of dread, something fragile stirred within her, twisting sharp and tender in equal measure. Fear and hope, knotted inseparably, burning like an ember she dared not cup in her hands for fear it would vanish, or ignite.

When at last she reached their bedchamber, the heavy door closed with a muted click, sealing her away from the murmur of the palace. The sound felt final, intimate, as though she had locked herself inside a secret.

She lingered there, palms pressed lightly to the polished wood, breathing steady but shallow. The room around her was unchanged, familiar, warm, suffused with the faint scent of wine and firewood. Yet it felt strangely alien now, every shadow sharpened, every silence magnified. Solitude offered no comfort, only the stark clarity of the truth she now carried.

Tav’s thoughts drifted to Astarion. His unwavering presence, the fierce way he guarded her without pause or apology. It was more than love, more than loyalty. There was something raw beneath it, an instinct she could almost feel stirring in him, a hunger to protect not just her, but something she did not yet dare name aloud.

She traced the memory of his touch, the way his fingers curled possessively along her waist, the intensity behind his gaze when she faltered, the cold edge in his voice when he promised she would not be abandoned to weakness.

Had he already sensed the change inside her?

Or was it something older and deeper, a bond forged not in words but in the silent recognition of what was to come?

She moved to sit on the edge of the bed, every flicker of the fire sounding too loud, every heartbeat too heavy. Her hand drifted down, hesitating before settling against the flat plane of her stomach. Beneath it, deeper, hidden, something stirred. Not a movement she could truly feel, not yet, but a pull, as if the soul within her already reached toward her own.

She closed her eyes, pressing her hand more firmly, willing herself to sense it. To catch even the faintest whisper of the life the healer had spoken of. It was nothing she could name, nothing tangible, but still she felt it. A presence. Small, fragile, but utterly real. And her heart clenched with a sudden, startling ache.

The thought should have chilled her. She knew what she was, what her blood was. Her hands had always been steeped in death, shaped for murder, never for nurturing. And the healer had been wrong on one account. She was no mere mortal. She was Bhaal’s daughter, carved from his darkness, born for ruin. And the creature growing inside her was not only the child of the Vampire Ascendant, it was born of that legacy too. A child half-shadow, half-blood, marked by death before it had even drawn a breath.

By all reason, she should recoil. Fear it. Destroy it.

But she didn’t.

Her fingers curled protectively, almost possessively, over her belly. Because for all the darkness in their blood, she knew, already knew, it was more than that. More than hunger, more than cruelty, more than legacy or curse. It was theirs.

And even here, at the fragile beginning, she felt herself falling in love.

The quiet stretched, heavy with the oath she had silently made. Then the latch of the door gave a soft click.

Tav startled, head snapping toward the sound as the door eased open. Astarion stepped inside, his pale silhouette caught in the glow of the hearth. His gaze found hers at once, sharp as a blade, searching, and for a heartbeat she feared he had already divined her secret from the air itself.

The door closed behind him with a muted thud, sealing them together in the hush of the chamber. She sat frozen, her hand still resting over her belly, his eyes locked on hers, two secrets balanced on the edge of silence.

Notes:

Aaanddd scene! Sorry for the cliffhanger, it was just the perfect place to pause.

I would love to hear your thoughts on what Astarion's reaction will be?

Special shoutout to canonwho, for falling in love with these two just as much as I have, and for offering to brainstorm, and ramble, about Dadstarion brain rot with me!

Chapter 5: Obsession

Summary:

Astarion navigates his obsession, devotion, and growing awareness in the weeks leading up to Tav’s realization.

Notes:

Welcome back! This chapter takes place prior to the “big pregnancy reveal” and is meant to explore Astarion’s growing awareness that something is going on. I also wanted to show his possessive, obsessive behavior. Some content warnings below.

CW:

The last half of this is 110% smut with BDSM elements. You have been warned!
Oral sex
Dom/sub
A little degradation play
Just AA getting real freaky and Tav is into it

The morning light spilled softly through the high windows of the Crimson Palace, brushing across the marble floors and gilded edges of their bedchamber. A thin veil of warmth settled over the room, but it was the quiet that truly held him. The kind that pressed against skin, humming beneath the ordinary, a hum that belonged only to them.

Astarion lay on his side, elbow propped against the mattress, fingers weaving lightly through the tangle of Tav’s dark hair. He dared not disturb the soft rise and fall of her chest, nor the subtle flutter behind her closed eyelids. She was lost in some dream, unaware of the attention she commanded, unaware of how entirely she captivated him.

He traced the curve of her jawline with a gentleness that would have been foreign to the man he had been before, and yet it felt like the most natural act in the world now. Her lips, soft and unguarded, parted slightly in her sleep. Her breathing shifted as if the dream whispered secrets meant only for her. He remembered the night before, the sharpness of his desire softened by the warmth of her submission, the way she had claimed him and yet left him undone.

Even now, hours later, the air between them still carried that charged intimacy. The memory pressed against his skin, not urgent, not demanding, but persistent, a silent reminder of their bond. He studied her as one might study a rare painting, noting the shadows along her collarbone, the faintest crease of her brow where worry had etched itself without her knowing.

And beneath it all, he felt a tremor of fear. Of care. He loved her, more than he had ever allowed himself to admit. And in the quiet, as he stroked her hair and listened to the gentle cadence of her breath, he realized how fiercely protective he had become of her, of the life they had carved out together in this palace that had once been his prison.

He let his fingers drift through her hair, marveling at its weight, at the way it fell across her shoulders like liquid shadow. Even in sleep, she moved with a grace that had always unnerved him. So deliberate, so alive, and yet so fragile. He wanted to protect her, yes, but he also wanted to claim her, not in the blunt way of dominance, but as one claims what is undeniably his.

He imagined it, quietly, almost impossibly. Her fangs glinting faintly in the candlelight, her skin pale but unyielding, her body no longer delicate in the way that made him ache with both desire and worry. If she were like him, no harm could touch her. Weakness, death itself would bend before her. He could watch over her without fear, guide her, claim her entirely… and she would never leave. Never slip through his fingers into a world that could wound her, betray her, or take her from him.

The thought stirred something dark and intimate within him, a desire wrapped tightly in protection and possession. To make her like him would be to bind her to him irrevocably, to weave their fates so completely that the world could never pry them apart. And yet, even as he entertained the notion, he felt the tremor of guilt, of hesitation. She was still her own, not his. Not completely, not yet. Not until it was something she chose. 

And still, he traced her jawline, imagining how the act might change them both, imagining how beautiful she would be, strong and unbreakable, and entirely his. The image of her, luminous, untouchable, haunted him more sweetly than any fantasy he had ever known. He wanted her to see the world through immortal eyes, to stand with him unafraid of its cruelty. He wanted her forever.

And then he stilled.

There it was again. That sound.

Astarion had heard it days ago, when her body was weak in his arms and he had carried her here, pale and trembling, her forehead beaded with sweat. He had heard her heart beating steadily. Familiar. Beloved. But beneath it, hidden like a secret, there had been something else. A faint echo. Small. Fluttering fast, so fast, like a bird caged within her ribs.

He had thought he imagined it. Some trick of his sharpened senses, distorted by worry. Yet now, as she lay before him in the quiet of the morning, it whispered again. A second rhythm, faint but insistent, darting beneath the steady thrum of her own pulse.

He pressed his hand lightly against her sternum, as if touch might clarify what his ears strained to catch. The echo persisted, a small thump, hidden, but undeniably there.

Confusion prickled through him. He knew the cadence of her body as intimately as he knew his own; her breaths, the steady pull of blood through her veins, the delicious rush when desire set her heart racing. This was different. This was something else.

The sound gnawed at him, a riddle he could not solve. He wanted to tear it open, to understand, and yet something in him recoiled, as though knowledge itself might shatter the fragile spell of this moment.

Perhaps it was nothing. Perhaps it was everything. But the echo lingered, fast and small, haunting him like a secret she had not yet shared.

Astarion tried to force the sound from his mind, to fold it away into the corner of memory where inconvenient things went to rot. But it clung to him, sharp and insistent, like a thorn pressed beneath the skin. Her sudden faintness, the pallor that had begun to haunt her cheeks, this echo hiding beneath her heart… it gnawed at him. Something was wrong inside her. He could feel it. He could hear it.

And yet, what explanation was there? He had lived long enough to know the peculiarities of the body, its flaws and fragile betrayals, and still he could not reconcile this mystery. Not illness, not hunger, not anything he understood. Certainly not the impossible. His mind did not even dare wander there.

But the fear remained. What if this palace, this new life they had bled to create, was built on sand? What if he could not protect her from this?

He turned his face into the crook of his arm, closing his eyes against the weight of the thought. Tav was warm beside him, soft, alive, her breath a steady rhythm against the silence. He would not lose this, he would not lose her.

A quiet sigh escaped her lips. She shifted, lashes trembling against her cheeks before her eyes opened, hazy with sleep. And just like that, the echo retreated. The world narrowed to her smile, faint and drowsy, to the way she reached for him without hesitation, pulling him into her orbit as if she had been made to do so.

The sound, the worry, the gnawing questions, they were all gone. For now.

Astarion bent to press a kiss to her temple, allowing himself the fragile comfort of forgetting.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The streets of Baldur’s Gate thrummed with life; market stalls blooming with color, merchants hawking their wares, the dull roar of footsteps and cartwheels rolling over cobblestones. Yet none of it touched him. His gaze was fixed only on her.

Tav walked ahead, the hem of her gown sweeping just above the stones, her back straight, unbent by the glances that followed them. She moved as though the city belonged to her, and in many ways, it did. The morning sun spilled over her, and her black hair caught the light, glimmering with that faint, near-blue sheen, like midnight touched with flame.

The thought still clawed at him; how close he had come to never seeing her like this, the warmth of day gilding her cheeks, the golden flush across her skin. Had he not ascended, he would have been banished to the shadows, condemned to watch her brilliance from the dark. A half-life. A mockery of devotion.

Instead, Astarion walked behind her now, the sun itself powerless to mar him, and still he felt humbled; not only by the warmth on his own skin, but by the privilege of watching it illuminate hers.

She paused to glance into a jeweler’s window, tilting her head just so, and he drank in the cascade of her hair down her back, the long line of her neck, the curve of her shoulder as she leaned forward slightly to study the gold and garnets displayed within. 

Though she walked with the grace of any noble lady, Baldur’s Gate knew her as more: as the hero who had stood between them and annihilation. To him, she was more. She was a vision. His vision. A miracle he had clawed, fought, bled to have.

Tav lingered at the jeweler’s window, her reflection mingling with the glitter of gold and gemstone. She tilted her head, lips quirking. “Do you ever tire of it?” She asked, her voice carrying easily back to him.

Astarion arched a brow, stepping close enough that the trailing edge of her sleeve brushed against his hand. “Of what, darling?”

She glanced sideways at him, eyes catching the sun until they gleamed, vibrant green ringed with specks of gold. “Being looked at. We can’t take two steps in this city without whispers following.”

He smiled, sharp and indulgent. “I can hardly fault them. You are rather difficult not to look at.” His gaze dipped purposefully, tracing her profile, the hair tumbling down her back, the proud line of her shoulders. “In fact, I’d be more offended if they weren’t staring.”

Tav laughed, soft and sudden, the sound carrying over the murmur of the street. “And you, Astarion? Don’t tell me you dislike the attention.”

“Dislike?” He leaned close, his breath stirring the stray strands at her temple, the words meant only for her. “Darling, I crave it. But only when it’s yours.”

Her eyes softened, and for a moment the bustle of the street fell away. She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his without hesitation, an intimacy bold enough to send another ripple of whispers through the crowd. He let her, though every instinct in him screamed to claim her more openly, to bend down, to press his mouth to hers right there in the sunlight, to remind every passerby she was not merely to be admired, but already possessed.

Instead, Astarion lifted her hand, brushing his lips against her knuckles in a courtly gesture that still carried a lover’s heat. “Let them look,” he murmured. “Let them envy. They’ll never have what I do.”

Tav’s smile lingered, but as she turned away again, leading him down the street, the sound of her heart reached him; and beneath it, faint and fluttering, the echo returned. He faltered a step, the unease curling cold beneath his ribs, but she tightened her hold on his hand and he forced the thought down.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The chamber smelled faintly of wax and iron, the braziers casting tall, wavering shadows along the marble walls. It was one of the palace’s receiving rooms, neither as grand as the ballroom nor as intimate as their private quarters, but crafted to impress and intimidate in equal measure. 

A low-burning hearth stretched wide across the far wall, its flames licking lazily at blackened logs, the firelight playing across gilded sconces and velvet drapes the color of old blood.

Two deep sofas faced one another across a low table, meant for audiences conducted with civility and a show of leisure. A cluster of high-backed chairs lingered in the corners, for when the company grew larger or less trusted. And pushed just beyond the hearth’s warmth stood a longer, more austere table of carved oak, where discussions shed their pleasantries and turned toward contracts, coin, or schemes.

It was a room meant to contain masks, velvet hospitality stretched thin over steel.

The nobleman currently in their presence, a portly man with rings biting into every finger and wine already staining his lips, bowed too shallow, spoke too bold. His voice carried the self-importance of someone who had spent his life commanding rooms but had never learned the wisdom of silence.

“I bring what the city truly needs,” he declared, shifting his weight in one of the velvet chairs as though it were his by right. “Grain. Timber. Laborers enough to rebuild the districts still left in ruin.” He smiled, all teeth and oily charm, pausing as though the weight of his offer might impress them into gratitude.

Astarion reclined against the opposite sofa, one ankle lazily crossing over his knee, gaze sharp as glass though his smile betrayed nothing. Tav sat at his side, her hands folded loosely in her lap, head tilted just enough to study their guest with open scrutiny.

“Grain,” Astarion repeated, tasting the word as though it were soured. “Timber. Laborers.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Tav, just a flash of amusement, almost boredom. How quaint.

The man pressed on, unbothered. “It is not charity, of course. My House would require certain assurances. Preferential trade routes, exemptions from the more burdensome levies, and… naturally, my voice weighed more heavily in your councils. After all, someone must look to the true needs of Baldur’s Gate.”

The last words were delivered with a smug finality, as though he expected agreement to follow. Instead, the silence that settled was heavy, thick as the smoke curling from the hearth.

Tav leaned forward slightly, her eyes catching the firelight. “And what makes you imagine we are so desperate for stocks in wheat and wood that we would hand you authority in our own halls?” Her tone was even, soft enough to pass for polite, but the chill underneath it made the noble’s jeweled hands twitch against the armrest.

Astarion watched her, the firelight flickering along her features, painting her as both danger and divinity. There was a rhythm to the way she listened, measured her words, even the tiniest tilt of her head commanding respect without a single raised voice. Gods, how intoxicating it was, watching her claim power with the same elegance she wielded a blade.

He had always known her strength, of course. But this was different. Here, in the hall of their making, she was untouchable, sharp as the knives he had once learned to hide in the dark. And he, as ever, was helpless to do anything but admire. There was a thrill in it, the way the city’s would-be lords and merchants trembled under her gaze, not yet knowing that she could cut them down without breaking a nail.

The noble babbled on, offering trinkets and favors, unaware that he was standing on a knife’s edge. Astarion could feel Tav’s eyes cutting through him, sharp, precise. And in that glance, that subtle tilt of her brow, he knew he would follow her anywhere, even into darkness, because she was both his anchor and his storm.

Astarion leaned back slightly, exhaling a soft, almost imperceptible breath. The world could wait. The city, the schemes, the fools, they were all secondary. Her. Always her.

The man chuckled, the sound damp and unpleasant. “My lady, desperation is written on the city’s bones. Starving mouths, cold beds. What else could you need, if not what I offer? Unless, of course…” His gaze slid, first to Tav, lingering too long, then to Astarion. “Unless your interests lie elsewhere. More… indulgent pursuits than the welfare of the people.”

The air shifted then, subtle but unmistakable. The faint hiss of the hearth seemed louder, the shadows at the edge of the braziers stretched deeper. The noble could not feel the blade against his throat yet, but it was there, unseen, waiting.

Tav’s lips curved the faintest degree. Astarion did not smile at all. Their eyes met briefly, an unspoken accord sparking like steel in the dark.

“Your generosity is noted, sir,” Tav replied, “though the city’s needs are best weighed by those who bear its burdens, not those who merely observe from gilded halls.”

The noble cleared his throat, as if reminding himself of the rules of civility. “I came to speak with Lord Ancunin, of course,” he added, voice slick with forced deference. “Not with… his lady. But it seems fate, or whimsy, has drawn me before you both.” His gaze lingered a fraction too long on Tav, as if daring her to remind him of his place.

Astarion’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, not yet, but his eyes never wavered from the man. Every idle flick of his fingers across the armrest, every slow blink, was a lesson in controlled danger. Tav radiated that same deadly composure, and the noble, for all his wine and rings, had to feel it pressing in on him like a tightening noose.

A soft sound flickered at the edge of Astarion’s hearing, barely more than a pulse beneath her own heartbeat. The echo. It fluttered fast and small, made him ache with something he did not yet have words for. Protect her. Keep her safe. Keep her mine.

Each flutter pulled his attention closer to her, closer to the silent understanding that hung between them. One glance, one shared thought, and the decision would be made. The man’s charm, his gold, his pretense of power, none of it would save him.

Tav’s gaze lifted, steady and unflinching, letting no flicker of amusement or anger escape. “Do not mistake my presence for ornamentation, nor my concern for weakness,” she said, her voice smooth but edged with steel. “We both know who holds sway here, and it is not you.”

The noble’s smile faltered, a bead of sweat forming at his temple. He cleared his throat, forcing a laugh that came out tight and brittle. “My lord,” he drawled, eyes flitting from Astarion to Tav as though she were some ornament on his arm. “Power… is a delicate thing to hold. Too tightly, and it slips through the fingers. Too lightly, and others, perhaps wiser hands, snatch it away. You’d do well to remember.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, poisonous and deliberate.

Astarion’s smile froze, sharp as glass. He leaned back in his seat, every line of his body relaxed, though Tav knew the coil of violence simmering beneath. Slowly, his gaze slid to her, crimson eyes catching the firelight, and in that moment silence bloomed between them like a secret language.

Her lips curved, barely, a ghost of assent.

Her heartbeat, its echo, the silent understanding between them; all of it confirmed the choice he would make. That was all he needed.

Astarion’s hand moved like a striking serpent, seizing the noble by the throat and dragging him forward across the polished table between them. The man sputtered, rings clattering against wood as his breath cut short.

“You mistake me for something… soft,” Astarion purred, his fangs flashing as he spoke. “Something to be threatened. I am neither.”

The noble’s eyes widened, panic struggling to mask itself behind bravado. “My lord— this— this is… unnecessary—”

Astarion’s grip tightened, a deliberate, almost lazy pressure, enough to remind the man he had no control here. “Unnecessary?” His voice was silk over steel, low and amused. “You came into my home, spoke of indulgences as if I were a fool, as if she were a prize to be bargained over. Tell me, was that necessary?”

Tav watched quietly, every inch the poised partner to this storm. She allowed herself a small smile, not cruel, but the faintest acknowledgment of their shared understanding. She had seen him at his worst, at his most relentless, and she had chosen to stand beside him.

The man’s sputtering faltered, his hands twitching uselessly against Astarion’s grip. “I… I only sought audience with Lord Ancunin—”

Astarion’s head tilted, crimson eyes narrowing to twin knives. “And yet you speak to me, as though I were irrelevant. Perhaps you forget the company a lord keeps, or the cost of misjudgment in my halls.”

The noble’s knees threatened the polished floor as he struggled under the inhuman strength and unflinching gaze. Tav’s heartbeat thrummed in her chest, the echo threading through the tense room, an unseen metronome keeping time with the deadly ballet before her.

When the man’s desperate eyes flicked to her, pleading for mercy, she tilted her head. Almost tender. Almost amused.

“Do you think I will stop him?” She murmured, letting just enough humor slip through to make him flinch. “A lady’s place is hardly to command her lord husband, wouldn’t you agree?”

The noble tried to form words, apology, bargain, prayer, but they were drowned in the wet choke as Astarion’s teeth found his throat.

Astarion leaned back slightly, crimson eyes still locked on the fading struggle of life in the man’s form. Warmth pooled along his fangs, the deep, satisfying pulse of it humming through him. He drank greedily, the noble’s struggle fading beneath his inhuman strength, until at last there was nothing left but a lifeless husk.

With a flick of his wrist, Astarion let the body slump to the polished floor, rings clattering against the marble, and stepped back, crimson eyes still glinting with lethal calm. Blood still stained his mouth, glinting in the firelight, but there was no rush to wipe it away.

His eyes flicked to Tav, her posture effortless, as if witnessing death were a mere footnote in their conversation.

She regarded him with the faintest lift of an eyebrow, one hand brushing idly along the arm of her seat, lips curved as though amused by the ease with which he’d enacted judgment. There was no fear in her gaze, no hesitation. Only quiet, unwavering understanding.

It wasn’t power or hunger driving him, it was her. The way she commanded respect without raising her voice, the way she could sit beside him in the storm of violence and make it feel necessary. Every instinct honed over years of predator and prisoner, every reflex that had once served only himself, now curved around her like a shadowed armor, drawn irresistibly to protect her… and the small, fragile echo she carried within. 

Astarion’s lips parted, breath ragged, a crimson sheen still wetting his mouth. The sight of her watching him without fear, still calm, poised, and unflinching in the wake of death, ignited something deep and animal in him. Hunger shifted, sharpened. Not for blood. For her.

He crossed the space in a blur, a hand fisting in her skirts, dragging her forward until she was half-rising from the sofa. His bloodied mouth crashed against hers, the copper sting of fresh kill smearing between them. His kiss was all teeth and command, a demand that she answer him with equal ferocity or drown beneath it.

“Va are ath tel'quiet,” he hissed against her lips, voice guttural, almost broken with want. He gripped her neck, not choking, just the barest pressure that reminded her how easily he could. Her pulse leapt beneath his palm, beating wild against his cool skin, and it made his fangs ache all over again.

The faintest smile curved Tav’s lips, even with his hand closing around her throat. “So very dramatic, my lord,” she breathed, words a taunt, sweetened to test how far his control would stretch.

It snapped. His hand tore at the bodice of her gown, fabric straining until it yielded with a sharp rip, baring the pale curve of her shoulder and breast to the firelight. His tongue traced the line of her collarbone, wet and possessive, until his fangs grazed the delicate flesh; not to bite, not this time, but to remind her of the edge they danced upon.

“You think I kill for sport?” Astarion murmured, voice low, his fingers sliding beneath the hem of her gown to seize her thigh. “No, my love. I kill to clear the world of distractions. To make space for you. Nesh bren.” His hand pressed higher, pinning her hips to the armrest as though she were prey caught in his claws.

And gods, she arched into it. The very same poise she held in court, in the face of nobles and monsters alike, fractured into raw need beneath his hands. Her nails raked across his shoulders, making him shudder.

His hand tightened around her throat, thumb pressing just enough to make her breath hitch. “Then show me,” Tav whispered, voice ragged with both defiance and desire, tilting her head back into his hold. Her eyes burned into his, reckless and unyielding. “Prove it.”

The growl that broke from him was not human. His grip tightened on her throat, on her hip, on every part of her he could claim. In that moment, there was no lord, no lady, no hushed politics of court. Only predator and prey, lover and beloved, each daring the other to burn brighter, harder, deeper, until the fire itself would be ashamed of its lack of heat.

It was then he saw it, the blood smeared across her cheek and chin, transferred from his mouth when he had kissed her too hungrily. The sight stole his breath, not with shame but with a rush of something darker, something intoxicating.

“Beautiful,” Astarion murmured, almost reverent. His tongue darted out, tracing the crimson streak across her cheek before dragging slow over the corner of her lips. “Marked by me.” He licked her clean with agonizing care, savoring the metallic tang, his fangs brushing just close enough to tease. “Blood suits you.”

His hand fell from her throat only to unbuckle his belt with one sharp tug. The sound of leather sliding free was low, deliberate, meant to make her shiver, and it did. His crimson eyes gleamed as he doubled it in his hands, testing the strength, the flex.

“Do you trust me, my sweet?” He asked, though his tone already assumed the answer. He caught her wrists in one hand, pinning them together with ease, before winding the strap around them, the buckle biting against her skin as if to remind her that even freedom was his to grant or deny.

Tav pulled once, twice, testing. She could not move. And Astarion’s smile deepened at the sight. “With everything I have,” she breathed, the words raw and trembling, a vow given as much in hunger as in devotion.

His fingers traced the exposed line of her throat, feather-light, until her skin goosefleshed under the touch. He bent, his mouth closing hot and wet around her exposed nipple where the ripped dress exposed one breast. His teeth scraped the tender flesh until she gasped and arched helplessly into him. 

Leather creaked as she strained against her bonds, but he only pressed harder, pinning her thighs apart with his knee. “You wanted proof,” Astarion growled against her skin. “Proof that I would kill for you. But my love, do you not see? You are the very kingdom I crave to conquer.”

His mouth worshipped her with maddening patience, lips and tongue teasing every inch of soft flesh. He circled her peaked nipple with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue, then closed his mouth around it, sucking until her breath stuttered out in ragged gasps. Each sound she gave him was a gift, each arch of her body a delicious surrender.

Tav writhed, her bound hands clutching uselessly at air, her hips grinding against the firm press of his thigh in frantic search of release. He let her, savoring the way her body sought him instinctively, helplessly, as though he were the only answer to her need. His thigh tensed against her movements, urging her higher, tighter, until she was trembling with the effort of chasing her own pleasure.

Astarion lifted his head, fangs grazing her skin as he spoke against the swell of her breast. “So eager,” he whispered, a dark smile curling his lips. “So pliant. My perfect little pet, straining for more.”

Gods, how she undid him. His Tav, the woman who could topple gods and stand unflinching before devils, reduced to this; bound, trembling, grinding herself against him like she’d break apart if he denied her another second. And still, she looked at him with those eyes, full of trust so complete it was suffocating.

She gave herself to him without hesitation, as though he would never fail her. As though she believed he was worthy of such loyalty. Such devotion. He wanted to tear her apart for it, to consume her, to carve his name into her very bones so the world would know she belonged to him.

Did she not know how dangerous that was? How he ached to devour her, to possess her so entirely that no part of her could ever be separated from him again? He wanted her to wear his marks like jewels, bruises as crowns, her body a map of his hunger.

And yet, gods help him, he wanted to fall to his knees for her too.

The thought consumed him until he could no longer stand it. With a low, ragged sound torn from his throat, Astarion dropped to his knees before her, the motion sudden, almost violent in its urgency. His hands seized the torn folds of her gown, tugging and raking them upward with trembling impatience until the fabric bunched high around her hips, baring the quiver of her thighs to his hungry gaze.

“My ruin,” he breathed as his fingers hooked beneath the thin scrap of silk guarding her last modesty. He dragged it down in one fluid motion, savoring the way her skin bared itself inch by inch, until the ruined garment tangled briefly at her ankles. Tav kicked it off with a sharp motion, the belt at her wrists digging into her skin as she shifted, opening herself for him.

The sight undid him. Bound hands, parted thighs, the faint flush of arousal already slick against her. His mouth watered.

Astarion settled between her thighs like a supplicant before an altar, though the glint in his crimson eyes was far too feral for prayer. His hands locked her legs open, thumbs pressing into the tender flesh just above her knees, forcing her to spread for him. He inhaled, slow, deep, savoring her scent until his fangs ached with it. Then his lips parted, dragging a path of wet, open-mouthed kisses up the inside of her thigh, each one higher, each one designed to make her tremble in anticipation.

“Loyal little thing,” he whispered against her skin, followed by his tongue flicking out to trace the hollow where her thigh met her hip. “So trusting. So willing to let me worship you properly.”

His lips brushed against her folds in the faintest kiss, maddeningly gentle, before retreating. Again, he pressed forward, another kiss, another teasing flick of tongue, and again he pulled away, leaving her arching in frustration.

His hands slid higher, fingers gripping her hips, pinning them firmly against the armrest. “Patience, salen isal,” he purred, nipping lightly at the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh, his fangs grazing but not piercing. “I want every inch of you begging.”

“Please,” Tav murmured, her voice reduced to nothing more than a breathy sigh. When her hips bucked, chasing his mouth, he rewarded her with a slow drag of his tongue from base to peak, savoring every taste. Her moan cut through the firelit air, and gods, it made him shiver. He closed his mouth over her clit, sucking hard enough to make her cry out, before easing off again, leaving her panting, trembling, desperate.

Astarion glanced up at her from between her thighs, eyes glinting with wicked amusement, lips slick with her ruin. The smirk he wore was pure cruelty, lingering just long enough to remind her how easily he could unravel her and yet deny. His tongue traced a slow, mocking circle, savoring, withholding, reveling in her torment.

Tav’s head fell back with a shuddering breath, then snapped forward again, her gaze locking onto his. “Astarion…” she panted, voice trembling but sharp with challenge, “do it right, and I might even let you bite.”

Astarion’s eyes flared, his smirk cutting wider, sharp enough to wound. A low, hungry laugh rumbled from his chest as his grip on her thighs tightened, dragging her closer to his mouth. “Careful, my love,” he murmured, “I might just take you at your word.”

He returned to her folds, tongue plunging deep this time, slow and deliberate, curling inside her while his nose nudged against her clit. Her bound hands twisted against the belt, body writhing under his control, but he held her mercilessly, drinking in every gasp, every broken cry that spilled from her lips.

Pulling back, his lips glistened with her arousal as he looked up at her, hair wild, mouth parted in something close to reverence. “So wet for me,” he said hoarsely, voice trembling with hunger. “I could destroy you in a hundred ways, and you’d still thank me.”

And then he dove back in, tongue flicking in quick, tormenting circles over her clit, alternating soft, teasing licks with sharp bursts of pressure, giving her no rhythm to cling to. He wanted her undone, lost, unraveling, until the only name she could remember was his.

Her thighs trembled around his head, straining against his unyielding grip. Every flick of his tongue pulled her higher, tighter, until her breath came in ragged sobs, her bound wrists twisting against the belt as though she might break free by sheer desperation.

She was close, gods, so close. He could feel it in the way her body quivered, in the frantic roll of her hips against his mouth. She gasped his name like a prayer, a plea, and it set his blood thrumming with savage delight.

And just as her body began to seize, trembling on the edge of release, he pulled back.

Astarion stayed crouched before her, crimson eyes blazing as though he could drink her in without using his fangs. The belt was more than a restraint, it was a leash, a claim, and Astarion wound it tighter in his fist, the leather creaking as he yanked her down to her knees with a sudden jerk. She stumbled, laughing breathlessly at her own helplessness, and his mouth curved in something wicked.

“Good girl,” he purred, giving the bindings another sharp tug to remind her that her body moved only because he allowed it. The truth of that thrilled him, every little sound she made proof of how beautifully she bent to his hand.

“Look at you,” he murmured against her throat, voice thick with pride and hunger. “Tied, helpless, and still you give yourself to me.” His free hand slid over her chest, his thumb brushing her nipple until she gasped. He wanted to remind her she was utterly exposed, utterly his.

When Tav writhed, trying to grind closer, he caught her wrists again and yanked, arching her spine, making her chest thrust toward him. He nipped and bit, claiming her with small marks that would bloom into bruises. 

Tav gasped sharply, a shudder running through her as heat and pain tangled deliciously. “Astarion… gods, please,” she hissed, every bite sending sparks straight to her core. Her chest rose and fell erratically, jaw clenched, eyes wild with need and defiance, daring him to push her further.

“There, there,” Astarion purred. Her gown sagged precariously around her, the fabric already torn and hanging loose from his earlier impatience. With a loud tear, the rest of it gave way, splitting open until she was bared to him, flushed and trembling in the flicker of the firelight. “That’s better.”

Without so much as a glance, he tossed the ruined silk aside. It landed with a flop across the cooling corpse of the noble sprawled on the marble, the man’s sightless eyes now veiled in her ruined finery.

Astarion’s lips curled in a fanged grin as he glanced back at Tav. “Mm. A fitting shroud for such a pitiful creature, don’t you think? Dressed in what he’ll never touch.”

His hands slid down her bare sides, stroking her trembling body, her bound wrists pressed against his chest. “And here you are, flaunting yourself for me, while he lies silent and forgotten.”

Astarion’s low, amused hum rumbled through the air as he drank in every flicker of need and defiance in her gaze, reveling in the fact that she could not, would not, escape him. Even as he leaned back against the marble floor, crimson eyes never leaving her as he stretched out, fingers trailing along the curve of her hips. His hands gripped her gently, guiding her closer, urging her to take her place above him.

Tav straddled him, her bound wrists brushing his hair as she lowered herself until his mouth hovered at the apex of her thighs. She could feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint metallic tang still lingering from his earlier feast, and it made her shiver in anticipation.

He reached up, tilting her hips slightly, thumbs brushing over her slick folds before drawing back just enough to let her feel the maddening brush of his fangs against the soft skin of her inner thigh. “Stay still. Don’t move until I tell you,” he murmured, voice low and rough, pressing her closer as if he could swallow her whole.

His hands traced slow circles over her thighs, up to her hips, holding her firm while his lips parted, tongue darting out to trace teasing, slow paths along her folds. He kissed, licked, nipped in patterns meant to drive her wild, each motion calculated to make her hips jerk, to make her flush and gasp, but never giving her the full pleasure of his mouth, not yet.

“You are entirely… delicious,” Astarion whispered. “Every sound, every shiver… all for me. Do you love feeling perfectly obedient, my sweet? How eager you are to be claimed?”

His tongue slid teasingly, tantalizing, pressing only where he wanted, dragging her closer to the edge, then retreating just as her muscles tensed. Tav ground herself against him, desperate, and he groaned, lifting his face into her as he licked long, slow strokes up her length, nipping lightly as he went, reveling in her helpless shudders.

“Do you think you get to finish without my permission?” His voice was a razor’s edge, praise and cruelty twined together. “No, darling. You’ll ride me until I’m satisfied, not you.”

Tav’s hips began to move on their own, grinding and rocking against him, lost entirely in the heat of his mouth and the slow, torturing devotion of his tongue. Her hands, still bound at the wrists, clutched at his hair, sliding helplessly over him as she pressed down, seeking the friction and pressure that set her nerves alight. “Please, my love. I’ll do anything, everything— just don’t stop.” 

Astarion moaned into her, his hands gripped her hips, holding her firmly while letting her every movement dictate his worship. His mouth worked meticulously, dragging long, wet strokes over her slick folds, teasing her clit with just enough pressure to make her cry out, then retreating slightly to draw out the sensation, stretching her helpless pleasure into something exquisite and unbearable.

Her back arched, chest heaving, hair falling loose around her face as she whimpered and gasped, entirely consumed. Her movements became frantic, instinctive, riding his mouth as if she might dissolve into it entirely. 

When he felt her begin to shake above him, her body ready to give, he broke away entirely, licking his lips slow and deliberate. He looked up at her from between her thighs, mouth shining, and tightened the belt that bound her wrists until she cried out.

And then he felt it, the faint, insistent echo beneath the rhythm of her pulse. A tiny, fleeting sound. He redoubled his worship, tongue dragging up and down her slick folds, teasing her clit with deliberate precision. She arched into him, helpless and lost, the small echo driving him to new, desperate heights of devotion.

Her cries hitched, louder, wilder, every shudder of her body betraying her as she teetered on the edge. “Astarion… oh gods… oh—”

He tilted her just enough to lick and suck at every sensitive point, whispering praise and possession with each flick of his tongue. Then his hands slid upward from her hips, thumbs brushing the soft swell of her breasts, cupping and rolling them with deliberate, slow pressure. His fingers traced the taut peaks, teasing them between finger and thumb, drawing soft, breathy gasps from her lips.

“Yes,” he hissed, “let go for me… let me drink in every sound, every shiver. Fall apart for me, my sweet.”

Tav’s release came in violent, shuddering waves, hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth, cries spilling over him in a symphony of pleasure. He groaned, tongue still flicking, savoring every tremor, every gasp, until her body finally stilled, trembling in the aftermath.

Her body still quaked with aftershocks, thighs unsteady when he finally eased her off his mouth. He didn’t untie her hands. Instead, he kept them caught in the belt, guiding her to kneel aside him.

Astarion rose slowly, letting the tension in his limbs coil. His crimson eyes never left hers as his hands deftly worked the buckle of his pants, peeling them down to reveal the sharp hardness beneath. The cool air brushed over him, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips as he tilted his head, watching her reaction. With one hand, his fingers tangled in her hair like a leash, holding her exactly where he wanted her.

“Stay on your knees, darling,” he murmured, tilting his hips forward. The buckle dug against her wrists as she obeyed, bound hands resting uselessly in her lap. He brushed the tip of his cock against her lips, smearing a bead of precum across them before pressing deeper.

Her mouth opened, obedient, lips slick and swollen from his earlier attentions. He slid into her slowly at first, savoring the sight, her eyes lifted to him with that same boundless trust that nearly undid him.

He tugged her hair, forcing her to take him deeper. Her throat clenched around him, making him hiss. “Gods, yes… such a perfect mouth. You’ll let me use you however I please, won’t you?”

She hummed in assent, the vibration making his hips jerk forward. He chuckled darkly, stroking her cheek with his thumb. “So pliant. So loyal. You’d worship me like this forever if I asked.”

He drew back suddenly, leaving her gasping for air, drool glistening at the corner of her lips. His grip in her hair held her fast, denying her even the thought of retreat. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he slapped his cock against her tongue, the wet sound obscene in the quiet chamber. Then he dragged the length of it across her cheek and lips, smearing spit and slick in deliberate strokes, painting her face with his arousal. “Messy little thing,” he crooned, voice honeyed and cruel. “And all mine.”

When he pushed back in, he set a merciless rhythm, shallow thrusts at first, then deeper, forcing her to choke around him. She made a muffled sound, but her bound wrists never rose. She endured, body trembling, eyes glassy with need.

“Look at you,” he breathed, voice ragged with want, “still shaking from my tongue, and now you’re so sweetly gagging on me.” He groaned as she hollowed her cheeks around him, her helplessness only making him harder.

Her jaw ached, stretched wide around him, and tears shimmered at the corners of her lashes. When his grip eased, giving her the chance to retreat, she only pressed forward instead, shaking her head in a frantic, clumsy denial. Strands of spit clung to her lips as she fought to keep him, throat working around him in a raw, hungry plea. The sight pulled a ragged laugh from him, breath shuddering as he looked down at her. “Oh, my sweet girl… you’d destroy yourself just to please me.”

Astarion’s pace grew erratic, the cool silk of his voice unraveling into harsh, hungry moans. Tav’s throat convulsed around him, wet sounds filling the air as he drove deeper, his hand forcing her to take what he gave.

When he felt himself teetering on the edge, he yanked her hair back just enough so her wide, tear-bright eyes met his. Gods, she looked ruined; her cheeks wet, mouth stretched around him, wrists still tied tight, yet not a shred of resistance in her. Only devotion. Only trust.

That trust snapped the last of his restraint. His head fell back with a guttural growl, the sound ripping out of him as he drove into her one final, brutal thrust. “Gods, yes, just like that. Swallow it, every drop,” he snarled, his voice trembling on the edge of a moan. His release surged hot and unrelenting down her throat, and his grip tightened cruelly in her hair, keeping her locked against him.

Tav swallowed desperately, gulp after gulp, and the wet pull of her throat dragged more broken sounds from him; low moans that unraveled into sharp, hungry cries as he spilled every last drop inside her. She obeyed, swallowing greedily, and the convulsing clutch of her mouth made him unravel further. “Fuck— my perfect girl— don’t stop, don’t you dare—” His words dissolved into ragged cries, command and plea all at once, until he was spent and trembling against her lips.

When it was done, he kept her there a moment longer, savoring the sight of her bound and obedient, lips sealed around him as though she were his chalice. Only then did he ease his hold, stroking her hair with unexpected gentleness. 

“Good girl,” Astarion whispered, voice hoarse and broken. “My perfect little worshiper… you drank down every bit like it was made for you.”

Tav sagged forward, catching her breath, and he slid himself free, watching his seed still gleam at the corner of her mouth before she licked it away. Her bound hands twitched in her lap, aching for freedom, but he left them tied. He wasn’t ready to give her back her control just yet.

Astarion’s hand lingered in her hair, stroking once, deceptively soft, before his grip tightened again, yanking her head back until her throat arched, pale and vulnerable. His fangs grazed her skin, scraping as he trailed down the column of her neck, before sinking in just enough to sting, not drink. She cried out, hips jerking, and he laughed low against her flesh.

“You’re trembling, my sweet,” he purred, nipping hard enough to leave a welt. “Is it fear… or just the way you love when I ruin you?”

He shoved her back onto the carpet, the force jolting through her bound wrists as they hit the floor above her head. A broken laugh slipped from her throat, dark and breathless. He followed, caging her body, his mouth brutal on hers. With a growl, he wrenched her thighs apart and ground himself against her, still half-hard, teeth catching her lower lip until it bled.

“Fear? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Tav gasped against his mouth, tasting copper. Instead of shrinking beneath him she writhed upward, pressing herself to his body with frantic need. Her eyes were glazed, pupils blown wide, her breath breaking against his lips. “More,” she panted, voice ragged, almost a sob. “I can take it.”

When she moaned into him, he broke away only to seize a fistful of her hair and slam her head gently back against the rug, pinning her with his weight. “So pliant. So fucking eager,” he hissed, dragging her bound wrists over her head so she was stretched and helpless beneath him.

Astarion entered her in one merciless thrust, pulling another strangled sound from her throat. His pace was savage, hips snapping against hers with bruising force, his free hand gripping her hip hard enough to mark. Every thrust meant to bruise, every snap of his hips a reminder of who held her bound and beneath him. His grip in her hair forced her head back until her throat was bared, the tendons straining deliciously as his fangs scraped over her pulse. He bit down again, harder this time, enough to make her gasp and spasm around him.

Biting, sucking, claiming; he left his mouth everywhere, branding her with sharp teeth and tongue, until her skin was a tapestry of red crescents and mottled bruises.

When she clenched around him, desperate for release again, he yanked her hair back to growl against her ear. “You’ll take what I give you. You’ll come when I allow it.” His thrusts slowed suddenly, grinding deep instead of fast, teasing, tormenting, denying her the edge she craved until she shook beneath him in frustration.

Tav’s voice cracked out between ragged breaths, feral and trembling. She writhed against him, hips rolling up to meet every cruel grind. “Then test me, love. See who lasts longer, you, or me.”

Astarion wanted her broken, begging, but gods help him, he craved her fire more than her surrender. The way she writhed, daring him to lose control, was an agony and a rapture all at once. She was his equal, his undoing, his curse of exquisite teeth sinking straight into his hunger. Rage and desire collided in his chest, and before he could stop himself, he had to remind her, remind himself, who commanded this ruin between them.

He released her hair just to seize her jaw, fingers pressing into her cheeks until her mouth fell open. He spit into it, obscene and commanding. “Swallow it,” he ordered. And when she obeyed without hesitation, he groaned, fucking into her harder still. 

Tav’s wrists strained against the belt, skin rubbing raw as she tried to reach for him. The sight thrilled him; her desperate struggle, her utter helplessness. “Look at you,” he sneered, lips brushing her ear. “Bound, marked, aching, and still you’d beg me for more.”

He shifted, dragging her up by the hair until she was half-sitting on his lap, his cock still buried inside her. One hand clamped on her throat, not cutting breath but holding her exactly where he wanted. The other hand slid between her thighs, fingers cruelly circling her clit, rough and unrelenting.

“Does it hurt, darling?” Astarion taunted, tightening his grip on her throat as she writhed. “Or does it make you wetter when I use you like this?”

When she whined for release, he snarled and slammed her against his lap, fucking into her mercilessly. He bit her shoulder deep enough to bruise purple, his tongue soothing the sting only to bite again. Every strike of his hips blurred the line between ecstasy and torment, pleasure and agony, until she was trembling, overwhelmed.

“Don’t you dare come,” he hissed against her ear, slowing just as she teetered on the brink. He gripped the belt around her wrists and tugged, levering her backward until she crashed onto the floor beneath him. His teeth sank into the swell of her breast, leaving another mark. She screamed, half pleasure, half pain, back arching off the rug.

The sound broke him. With a growl, he bit harder, fingers grinding mercilessly at her clit until she shattered apart, body convulsing beneath him despite his command. He let her break because he wanted to feel it, wanted her writhing helplessly while still bound, still completely his.

And he wasn’t nearly finished with her.

Her orgasm tore through her, but Astarion didn’t slow. He fucked her through the spasms, hips snapping, his hand still grinding viciously against her clit. She tried to twist away, the sensation too sharp, her body twitching and convulsing in protest, but the belt bit into her wrists, holding her fast.

“Too much?” He mocked, voice a husky growl in her ear as his thrusts grew almost cruel. “My poor sweet thing… as if I could ever have enough of you.” His mouth found her breast again, biting down hard enough to draw a cry, lapping at it with relish as she writhed against him.

Tav’s cries tore through the room, a mixture of anguish and want, her body writhing under him like a creature caught between fire and ice. Every time she thought she might escape the storm, he dragged her back under. Fingers working her clit mercilessly, cock pounding deep enough to bruise, teeth marking her pale skin in fresh red blooms. Her cries grew ragged, half-pleas, half-mindless babble, every word dissolving into gasps.

She came again, her bound hands jerking helplessly above her head, her back arching as he held her down and forced her body to obey his will. Astarion laughed, low and wicked, grinding into her overstimulated flesh until her thighs shook violently. “That’s it. Again. I want you ruined completely.”

Her body was trembling so hard she could hardly breathe, every nerve lit with pleasure and pain. He shifted her suddenly, flipping her onto her belly and dragging her hips up. He slammed back into her from behind, ruthless, one hand curling around to toy at her clit again despite her frantic shaking.

“No, please,” she choked, but her body betrayed her, clenching hard, milking him, wet and desperate. “Astarion… too much…”

He snarled, yanking her hair back until her head snapped up, forcing her to meet his glowing eyes. “Don’t you dare stop. Don’t you dare,” he growled, voice vibrating with hunger. “Come for me again.”

And she did, helplessly, shattered, collapsing into the floor as another climax ripped through her, leaving her shaking and sobbing. He kept going, relentless, as though he would wring her dry, as though he’d consume every last drop of her resistance until all that remained was a trembling, marked, bound body molded to his pleasure.

He leaned over, biting into her shoulder, moaning her name as his hips stuttered, quivering with the push over his own edge. With a final, shuddering thrust, he sank deep into her, spilling himself inside, his release overwhelming and brutal. Her body clenched around him, riding the waves of pleasure, overstimulated to the point of delirium, every gasp, every moan, a symphony of their shared hunger.

He held her there, pressed to him, letting his fingers tighten just enough to keep her on the brink, as if to mark her completely; hers and his in equal, consuming measure. Even as he came, his gaze never left hers, crimson eyes reflecting the same fevered need, the same possessive, unrelenting devotion.

When he finally eased, collapsing with her against the floor, he didn’t let her drift away. Instead, he curled around her, one arm sliding beneath her shoulders, the other brushing stray hairs from her dampened face. 

Astarion’s thumb traced tender circles along her cheek, wiping away the tears she hadn’t realized were falling. “Shh… shh, my sweet,” he murmured, voice low and reverent, “you were perfect. Everything I could ask for.” 

He cradled her against his chest, hips settling against hers in quiet warmth, pressing soft kisses along her temple and the curve of her jaw, murmuring words of possession and reverence, letting her feel utterly cherished and claimed. Every heartbeat, every shudder, was theirs alone.

Beneath it all, a faint, insistent rhythm pressed against him, so small and fragile he almost didn’t believe it to exist. His fingers tightened around her gently, not possessively this time, but protectively. Desire, love, and something altogether new twisted together in a knot of raw, relentless need. And as he felt her pulse against him, that tiny rhythm became the focus of a devotion he had never known, a new obsession he could not yet name but would never, ever let go.

Notes:

Hi, I hope you are still breathing after that, because I'm not.

I promise we are getting back into Astarion's reaction to the news in the next chapter. If you'd like, I have it ready and can post it right away... hehe. Let me know in the comments what you think so far!

Some Elvish translations:
Va are ath tel'quiet - you are mine
Nesh bren - for this
Salen isal - my sweet

Chapter 6: Fear

Summary:

Astarion’s carefully maintained control begins to fracture as Tav reveals the impossible: she is carrying his child. Beneath the surface of his awe and desire, a quiet, relentless unraveling takes hold, each heartbeat a reminder of a future he never dared to imagine... and fears he may not deserve.

Notes:

As requested, the big reveal chapter! Buckle up boys and girls, we're going on a feels trip.

CW:

Some soft smut

Astarion’s steps were quiet on the polished floor, but even the softest tread could not mask the moment his senses caught her. The door swung closed behind him, and the unique scent of her, warm, lilac and evergreens, reached him before he even took the last step. The echo he had never known he’d been waiting for thrummed beneath her ribs, a pulse so delicate it could have been mistaken for imagination, yet it was real. His hand twitched, not quite under control, as the air between them thickened with silence.

There Tav sat, perched at the edge of the bed, hands pressed lightly to her belly. The light caught the curve of her profile, the slight furrow of her brow, the slow inhale and exhale that seemed measured against some new, hidden rhythm. He felt it, the echo again, resonating through the marrow of his bones, and his crimson eyes narrowed, sharp with a mixture of awe and instinctive protectiveness he didn’t yet fully understand.

“I’m ready to talk.” 

Her words drifted over him, soft, tentative, like the first notes of a lullaby barely remembered. She looked as though the effort to speak might cost her, and yet, what weight could press down upon his Tav that he could not lift?

Astarion tilted his head, crimson eyes softening as they traced the line of her hands to the worry pooling in her gaze. Her breath quickened, a quiet tremor that set his instincts on edge even as his face betrayed nothing.

“What about, little love?”

He moved toward her, every step measured, fluid, the picture of calm he so effortlessly painted. His hands worked over his coat with languid grace, pale fingers deft and deliberate, shrugging away the unnecessary constriction. 

The slow exhale he allowed himself carried an undercurrent of something untamed. It was awe. Possessiveness. A shadow of fear he refused to name. All at once, he felt the pull to shield her, to hold her steady against the world, even as he told himself there was nothing here he could not handle, nothing he could not solve.

With a final, practiced tug, he shrugged the coat from his shoulders and let it fall carelessly onto the chair beside the bed. He sank onto the edge of the bed next to her with a quiet, controlled ease, close enough to feel the subtle rise and fall of her chest, to sense the echo that threaded through her, and yet careful not to crowd her. 

Crimson eyes held hers, steady, unwavering, a question and a promise coiled into a single, silent look.

Tav’s hands lingered over her belly, fingertips brushing lightly as though testing the truth she had just discovered. “It’s… I’m…” Her voice faltered, fragile, almost swallowed by the quiet of the room.

Astarion’s eyes didn’t leave hers. The mask of effortless control he wore for the world outside, the mask that told everyone nothing could shake him, flickered, if only for a second. A shiver ran down his spine at the vulnerability he had never seen in her before, and an unfamiliar knot of fear and wonder coiled in his chest.

“You’re… what, darling?” His voice was calm, measured, but the faint tremor he didn’t allow himself to name lingered beneath each word. He wanted to reach for her, to gather her in his arms and shield her from the world; but even as he told himself he could handle anything, the truth of her presence, of whatever weight she carried, pulled him off balance.

He shifted slightly closer, the barest brush of his thigh against hers, testing the boundary between care and possession. “You know you can tell me anything,” Astarion murmured, voice low, intimate, the kind of whisper that carried both command and reverence. “Nothing could unsettle me so long as you’re here.”

Yet even as the words left his mouth, his eyes betrayed him, crimson flames flickering with protectiveness, and a raw, unacknowledged fear of what the future might demand of him.

Tav’s lips parted, hesitant, as if even speaking the word might unravel the fragile thread of reality between them. 

“I… I’m pregnant.”

The syllables hung in the air, light and impossibly heavy all at once. Astarion’s mind went blank. Crimson eyes widened, not with fear, exactly, but with the shock of encountering something entirely outside his control. The echo in her, the rhythm he had sensed before, throbbed in his ears, and for a moment he felt the world tilt beneath him.

For weeks he had felt it. That faint, insistent presence, a rhythm threading through the edges of his awareness whenever he was near her. He had tried to dismiss it as imagination, a trick of his mind, or some lingering remnant of old, restless instincts. He told himself it was nothing he needed to acknowledge, nothing he needed to claim or tend. And yet, every time he drew near, he felt it. A pull he could neither name nor resist, subtle but undeniable, winding through his chest and fingers, curling in the marrow of his bones.

Now, hearing it again, clearer, undeniable, a light almost trembling in the space between them, the truth settled over him like a shockwave.

It had always been a heartbeat. Her heartbeat… and not just hers. Something small, hidden, entirely fragile, and entirely his to protect.

The realization struck him in the gut, leaving him momentarily breathless. His instinct to shield, to guard, to claim this fragile spark flared hotter than he expected, and a pull of tenderness he hadn’t allowed himself in centuries swept over him. 

Astonishment. Wonder. Pride, dizzying, fragile pride that made his chest ache. Desire, in its most feral form, to protect, to shield, to possess, to cradle. 

All at once, crashing over him like a tide he could not flee, no matter how hard he tried.

He had been listening, he had been drawn, he had been holding back, trying not to let himself feel… and now, there it was, unignorable, undeniable. That steady, rhythmic echo, fragile yet unrelenting, was a life. And it was his to love, his to guard, his to be awed by.

And beneath it all, that subtle, insidious thread of terror.

He clenched his fists, forcing the dark tendrils of fear, doubt, and instinctive self-preservation to retreat. The wonder he longed to feel surged forward instead, bright and sharp and terrifyingly beautiful. He swallowed, keeping his face composed, though inside the storm of emotions threatened to shatter the mask.

Astarion let a slow, measured breath escape him, and finally, a faint, trembling smile brushed his lips. 

“My love… you… you’re carrying our life?” His voice was low, incredulous, tinged with awe.

Tav’s breath hitched, a shiver threading through her at the sound of his words. Her hands clutched the edges of the bed, knuckles white, as if bracing herself against the gravity of the moment. Her heart raced as she watched him lean closer, the warmth of his presence brushing hers without breaking the delicate barrier between them.

Every instinct in him screamed to flee, to protect, to conquer. But another, quieter, more urgent instinct fought just as hard. To stay, to marvel, to let himself be present.

For now, he allowed that instinct to win. For now, he let the light of awe, however brief, pour over him, chasing away the shadows threatening to consume it.

Astarion’s hand hovered, trembling slightly, over her belly. Fingertips brushed against the soft swell, light enough to be a whisper, and yet it sent a ripple through him, igniting something fierce and tender all at once. 

He closed his eyes briefly, letting the echo— no. Her heartbeat, their heartbeat, fill him.

Tav leaned forward instinctively, her own hand rising to meet his. When their fingers brushed, the smallest connection, a shiver passed between them, electric and grounding all at once.

“Do you feel it too?” She whispered, voice barely audible, awed and trembling.

Astarion’s eyes opened again, wide, molten, and meeting hers with the fierce reverence of a man confronted with something sacred.

A tentative smile flickered across her lips, fragile but real, and her eyes shimmered with a mixture of love and something quieter. Trust.

“I can hear it,” he breathed. Astarion’s chest rose and fell unevenly, his usual composure unraveling in the face of something so utterly impossible, so achingly beautiful. 

Tav leaned into him, letting her forehead rest against his chest. “It’s ours,” she whispered, voice trembling, as if saying it aloud would make it real enough to hold. “Something we made. Something just for us.”

Astarion’s lips pressed to the crown of her head, soft, reverent. “For us,” he murmured back, almost a vow, almost a prayer. His hands framed her belly now, cupping it gently, as if by sheer will he could shield it from the world.

“I never thought I could be capable of… this.”

The words felt foreign even as he spoke them, as though he were some stranger looking through his own eyes, hearing his own voice. Capable. The word carried too much weight. In his mind it conjured images he had long buried; blood-stained years spent as nothing more than a weapon, a body to be used, a creature who could only destroy. He couldn’t possibly know anything of creation, of giving life, of nurturing anything beyond the hunger that had ruled him for centuries. 

And yet here it was. A rhythm not born of him, not stolen, not coerced, but given. Shared. Something that existed because of love. Love that had survived torment and ruin and still endured. His chest ached with it, sharp as a blade, sweet as wine, and he found himself trembling at the realization that such a thing had come from him. From them.

The wonder was intoxicating, a heady rush that pulled at every carefully constructed wall within him. But beneath it lurked a shadow, a darker voice whispering that he would ruin this, too. That nothing he touched could remain pure for long. That the world would take this spark from him as it had taken everything else.

His fingers lingered against Tav’s belly, pale and unsteady, the slightest pressure as though he could memorize the shape of her beneath his hand. He wanted to sear it into his memory, to hold onto this moment before it could slip away. His crimson gaze returned to hers, softer than he meant it to be, helpless in the face of the trust shining in her eyes.

It terrified him, how much he wanted to believe. How much he wanted this to be real, to last, to not be another cruel jest the gods had spun at his expense.

Astarion nuzzled his forehead in her hair, closing his eyes as though the act could shut out the doubt clawing at the edges of his mind. “If I could keep you both safe by sheer force of will,” he whispered, voice raw and unguarded, “I would. I swear it.”

And for a fleeting, impossible moment, he almost believed himself.

Tav lifted her face to meet his, eyes glistening with tears she hadn’t realized she was holding back. “We’ll protect it,” she said, voice steadying with conviction. “Whatever comes, we—”

A sharp intake of breath cut her off as Astarion pressed a finger to her lips, silencing her not with command but with intimacy and devotion. His crimson gaze burned into hers, heavy with emotion. “We,” he echoed, voice low, fierce. “All of it. Together.”

His hand lingered at her lips for a heartbeat longer, then slowly, deliberately, he trailed it down to cup her jaw, tilting her face so their foreheads pressed together. Their breaths mingled, shallow and warm, trembling at the edges.

Without breaking the closeness of their foreheads, Astarion pressed a slow, feather-light kiss to the corner of her mouth, tasting the tremor of her lips before she even realized she was offering them. When she parted them, letting him in, he didn’t hesitate. His mouth found hers fully, gentle at first, as though kissing her could honor what they were holding together.

Tav’s hands slid up, tangling in his hair, anchoring him, grounding them both in the intensity of the moment. Her body pressed closer, curves meeting the heat of him, a delicious weight of shared breath and closeness. Each movement was careful, mindful, as if even the smallest gesture could fracture the miracle between them.

Astarion deepened the kiss, one hand framing her belly while the other roamed from her back to her shoulders, drawing her impossibly near. The touch was light, tender, and yet it ignited a fire that pooled low in his chest. Desire laced with awe. Protective instinct threading with want.

They lingered in the quiet, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling in a rhythm that felt almost holy. Eyes half-open, they savored the collision of passion and reverence, as if the world itself had paused to hold its breath with them.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, the words rough and fervent, torn from a place deep in him where desire and dread intertwined.

Tav shivered at the heat in his voice, her fingers threading tighter into his hair, a tremor rippling through her as though his claim had sunk down to her very bones. “I love you,” she breathed, unguarded, certain, offering herself without condition.

The sound struck him still. For a heartbeat he could not move, could scarcely breathe. Those words, he had heard them before, but now they carried a weight he had never known. They were no longer just an offering between lovers. They were laden with promise, with life, with everything fragile and infinite that pulsed in the fragile echo between them.

For a moment, terror clawed at his chest. Love meant loss. Love meant weakness, an opening for the world to drive the knife deeper. What had love ever brought him but ruin? He could already feel the shadows whispering, hissing that he would destroy this too, that he would fail her, fail the tiny spark that was theirs, and be left with nothing but ash in his hands. His whole being rebelled, instinct screaming at him to retreat, to snarl and sever before he could be undone.

And yet… her eyes. Her steady, unyielding trust as she clung to him. The warmth of her breath against his lips, her pulse racing not with fear but with devotion. The life beneath his hand, impossibly theirs. It undid him.

“I… I love you,” he whispered back, voice low and trembling, the admission rawer than any wound. It was both confession and surrender, a vow forged in desperation, binding him to her no matter what darkness howled in his marrow. His lips brushed hers as if to seal it, fragile and eternal all at once.

“I love you,” he repeated, firmer this time, as though he could anchor himself to the words before the fear tore him away. His voice carried reverence, defiance, a vow to fight every shadow that rose against them. To be worthy, even if he doubted he ever could.

Astarion’s lips trailed down her jaw, along her neck, brushing against the sensitive hollow of her throat. Tav’s back arched instinctively into him, letting him feel her, let him claim her in the only way that mattered here.

The pressure of his body against hers, the weight of it, was grounding, a promise as much as it was pleasure. Tav’s hands roamed across him, memorizing the familiar planes of his chest, the lean strength of his shoulders, the taut muscle of his arms. 

Astarion’s mouth traveled back to hers, placing a soft kiss only to then whisper against her lips. “I need you. All of you.”

He kissed her deeper, almost desperately, as if he could drown out the whispering doubts gnawing at him. She is mine, a fierce, wild voice inside him roared, clawing against the darker murmur that warned he would lose her, that all things beautiful slipped from his grasp sooner or later.

His fingers curled into her hips, pulling her closer, anchoring himself in the heat of her body, the living rhythm he could not deny. He was torn, dizzy with it; the urge to worship her, to fall to his knees and thank her for making him feel alive, and the darker urge to cage her, to never let the world or fate or cruel chance steal her away.

With a shiver and a nod, Tav responded, lifting her body into his embrace, pressing against him with a trembling urgency that matched his own. Astarion guided her, pulling her into his lap as though she belonged nowhere else. The press of her thighs around him, the weight of her body settling over his, stole the breath from his chest.

Tav’s fingers fumbled at the clasp of his collar, tugging it open with a quiet desperation. He caught her hands briefly, pressing her knuckles to his mouth, before letting her continue. Piece by piece, she revealed the pale, sculpted lines of his chest, each undone fastening making her pulse quicken.

In return, his hands were slower, deliberate. He slid them up the hem of her robe, knuckles grazing bare skin as though it were some forbidden treasure. He didn’t strip her quickly; he unwrapped her like something sacred, fabric drawn away with care. 

When it slipped from her shoulders, he leaned back for the briefest moment, crimson eyes raking over her with such raw intensity it made her shiver. No hunger had ever looked like this. Desire, devotion, and fear all at once. His lips parted as though he might speak, but instead he bent to her collarbone, kissing, tasting, worshipping the skin laid bare to him.

Her hands moved with renewed urgency, slipping lower, fumbling at the fastening of his trousers. She freed the clasp and tugged, fabric loosening beneath her fingers. His breath caught when her knuckles brushed over him, hard beneath the barrier of his smalls. He hissed softly, head bowing as his hands found her hips, anchoring himself while she pushed trousers and linen down. He lifted his body to help, movements almost unsteady, until she had bared him completely.

With aching care, he hooked his fingers beneath the band of her smalls and drew them down, inch by inch, until the final piece of cloth slipped free. He set it aside as though it were nothing, though his chest rose and fell as though he’d been running.

Now nothing separated them. Flesh to flesh, breath to breath.

Astarion leaned back, drinking in the sight of her bared body astride his lap, every line, every curve.

She chased him, leaning forward until her lips crashed to his, both of them swallowing the urgency now burning through the reverence, though it never disappeared. It only deepened, every touch weighed with meaning.

Astarion swallowed every shuddering breath from her as though it belonged to him. His hands slid down, framing her waist, then lower, fingers splaying across her hips to steady her trembling body. Slowly, deliberately, he guided her, the head of him nudging at her, and she broke the kiss with a gasp.

“Breathe,” he whispered, though his own chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. His forehead pressed to hers, eyes burning as he eased her down, inch by aching inch, until he was seated fully within her.

A starved sound tore from his throat, his grip on her hips tightening as if she were the only tether he had to this world. Her hands clutched his shoulders, nails digging into pale skin, eyes fluttering closed as she shifted to take him deeper.

For a heartbeat, there was stillness, nothing but their shared breath and the wild pounding of her heart against his chest. Then, at the faintest roll of her hips, the stillness shattered.

She moved with slow, deliberate grace at first, rising and sinking with each breath, her body sliding against his in a rhythm that drew soft, helpless sounds from them both. His hands traced up her spine, into her hair, before sliding back down to seize her hips again, urging her into a faster pace.

“Gods, Tav…” His voice broke, the words ragged. He tilted his head back, baring his throat, as though the pleasure was too much to contain. She followed the arch of his neck with her lips, pressing fevered kisses down to his collarbone, riding him harder now, her thighs trembling around his hips.

The careful rhythm collapsed into something desperate, their movements no longer measured but consuming, every thrust meeting every downward push of her body with a force that echoed their unraveling restraint. Their kiss broke apart into gasps and ragged whispers, but their foreheads stayed pressed together, mouths brushing, always searching for each other even in the chaos of need.

He hadn’t meant for it to happen, for the walls in his mind to shatter like glass under the weight of her. But there she was, her body his anchor, his ruin, his salvation. His thoughts blurred in a fevered fog; of Tav, of the unbearable devotion he felt for her, of the life stirring inside her that should not, could not be his. The terror of it, the miracle of it, burned him hollow.

“Tav— salen aestar,” Astarion groaned, her name breaking on his tongue like prayer. The words dissolved into Elvish, spilling from him unbidden, raw and fevered. His hands gripped her hips as though he could anchor her to him, with a desperation that bordered on worship and possession both.

Tav went still for a heartbeat, staring at him as though the world had shifted beneath them. The sound of it, his voice unguarded, hit her like lightning. It unraveled her, dragged her under, a delirious tide of lust and love so consuming it was almost unbearable. A whimper tore from her throat as her nails raked down his back, her body clenching hard around him as if to claim him, to burn those words into her flesh.

“Astarion,” she gasped, her voice breaking, her hips meeting his with frantic abandon. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. She wanted him deeper, closer, wanted to drown in the shreds of himself he had just given her.

“Fuck,” the curse was a hiss against her throat, his fangs grazing her skin without piercing. His hands clamped hard around her hips, forcing her down onto him, deeper, harder, until she gasped his name again like a plea.

“You feel that?” His voice was a growl, fevered, desperate. “Taking me so well, va were made nesh tel'quiet…” His forehead pressed to hers, crimson eyes burning, the reverence of before swallowed by something darker, filthier.

Her breath broke on a cry as he shifted beneath her, thrusting up to meet every fall of her body. She clutched at his shoulders, nails raking down his skin, too lost to answer.

“That’s it,” he panted, lips brushing hers, every word shaking with restraint he didn’t have. “Ride me, thiramin— take every bit of me. I’ll fill you, I’ll keep you so full you’ll never want for anything else.”

The words sent a violent shudder through her, her pace faltering only for him to seize it, to drag her down harder, sharper. His hand slid to her abdomen, pressing just enough to feel the way he stretched her, his voice a ragged snarl of reverence and filth both.

“Look at you,” he groaned. “Gods, I could spend eternity buried in you, my perfect girl. Sal'll fill va ausa salen lythi.”

Her answering moan was broken, strangled, her body trembling around him, and he swallowed it in a bruising kiss. Every thrust now was raw, brutal with need, their rhythm frantic, desperate, as though they could consume one another whole.

And as she began to tighten around him, her head thrown back in a cry, he broke against her with a growl, spilling into her with reckless abandon, his hips jerking up again and again as if he could drive the promise into her body.

Their bodies shuddered together, the world narrowing to the ragged cadence of their breaths, the hot press of flesh, the tremor of release that left them both trembling. Astarion’s hands, which only moments ago had gripped her with force, softened; sliding up her back, holding her as though she might drift away if he let go.

Tav sagged against him, forehead pressed to his shoulder, chest heaving. His lips found her temple, pressing kiss after kiss there, reverent, almost frantic, as though trying to ground himself in the reality of her.

At last, he eased her down from his lap, carrying her with careful strength, as though she were something fragile and irreplaceable. The cool sheets whispered as he lowered her into their depths, drawing the blankets over her bare form. He lingered, tucking each edge close to her body, his touch gentle, possessive in its devotion.

When he finally joined her, curling himself around her, he pressed one last kiss to her shoulder. Tav let out a breath and whispered into the quiet. “I love you.”

His arms tightened at once, breath catching against her skin. A pause, heavy, trembling, and then his voice, low and raw in her ear.

“Sal aestar va.” 

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The chamber was steeped in silence, broken only by the faint rustle of the curtains shifting in the night breeze and the steady rhythm of her breathing. Tav slept soundly, curled against the pillow, her face softened in the dim glow of moonlight. Her hand rested protectively over her belly, a gesture so instinctive, so tender, it twisted something deep inside him.

Astarion lay beside her, unmoving, crimson eyes wide open against the dark. Sleep would not come. How could it, when every breath she drew seemed to echo louder inside him than his own? When the faint, delicate thump beneath her ribs pulsed like a drumbeat against the silence of centuries?

That sound, so fragile, so impossibly alive, both exalted and terrified him. It was proof that something impossible had taken root between them, something he had no power to control, no way to command. He could sense it even now, a tiny rhythm entwined with hers, steady, relentless, unshakably real.

It hollowed him out and filled him up all at once. That fragile thrum was a miracle, and yet it struck him like a blade, twisting sharp and merciless in his chest. Every pulse reminded him of what he might lose, of what he might destroy. 

What did he know of life? Of care? He was hunger. He was ruin. His past was littered with ashes and blood, how could he believe himself worthy of something so impossibly new, so terribly pure?

His throat tightened. Part of him wanted to drown in it, to let the wonder sweep him away, to marvel endlessly at this life that was theirs. But the other part, the darker part, the one shaped by scars and chains and a lifetime of being used, hissed that this was folly. That he was cursed, incapable of creating anything but destruction. That he would taint this spark just as he had tainted everything else he touched.

Astarion’s hand twitched in the sheets, hovering inches above her belly, aching to rest there, to feel the warmth, to claim it as his. But in the half-light, his eyes betrayed him; he saw not his hand, but the memory of it. Filthy, nails black with dirt that never seemed to wash away. He blinked hard, and the image remained, the ghost of centuries where he had clawed at stone floors until his skin split, filth caked deep in the cracks. Shame froze him. What right did hands like his have to touch something so innocent?

He turned his head away, fangs pressing against his lip, shame gnawing as fiercely as fear. He listened for her breath, steady and reassuring. Yet as he closed his eyes, another breath ghosted against the back of his neck, hot and uninvited. The phantom press of bodies, the countless hands pinning him down, returned so vividly his chest seized. A thousand nights, the stink of sweat and wine spilled over him, bruises pressed into his skin like signatures burned into parchment.

He had to force his eyes open again, desperate to remind himself that she was the only one there, that the room was empty but for her.

The heartbeat carried on, soft and steady, untroubled by his turmoil. His body remembered centuries of silence, of submission, of survival at any cost. And now, here he was, offered something sacred, and all he could do was tremble, torn between wanting to guard it with his life and wanting to push it away before it broke him.

A flash of blood-soaked stone, the taste of rot and rat. A body curled, shivering in terror, shivering in filth. Screams echoing, the heat of hands that were never kind. He could feel the hands now , reaching, touching, claiming what was never theirs to take.

Crimson eyes burned as he turned his gaze to her face. She slept soundly, lips parted in soft breath, untroubled, as though she trusted him utterly. That trust was his undoing. It pressed down on him heavier than chains ever had, suffocating in its sweetness, its absolution. How could she not see what he was? How could she lay so freely in his arms, offer him this impossible future, and not tremble with fear?

The knot in his chest tightened until he thought it might strangle him. He swallowed hard, fangs catching his lip, the silence of the room suddenly deafening beneath the sound of that little heartbeat drumming and drumming, as though mocking him with its persistence. 

He could crush any mortal, annihilate a city’s guards without effort. He was power incarnate. He could protect her from any threat, any enemy in Faerûn, but he could not protect himself from his own mind, from the shadows clawing at his sanity. The contrast twisted in his chest, impossible and cruel.

Cazador’s voice hissed at him, distant yet sharp, carried on a wind only he could hear. “And yet you shiver.”

The ache grew unbearable. With a sudden, quiet motion, he pulled himself from the bed. The mattress shifted, and he stilled, holding his breath as Tav murmured softly in her sleep, turning just enough to reach for where he had been. Her hand fell on empty blankets.

Astarion’s throat constricted. He could not bear her touch, not now, not when he was unraveling.

He slipped from the room, bare feet silent against the polished floor. The door closed with the softest click behind him, shutting her away from the storm clawing through his chest.

Only in the darkened corridor, alone, did he let himself break. His back pressed against the cold stone wall, he sagged to the floor, knees drawn up as if he could somehow curl into himself and disappear. His hands trembled, clawing at the edges of his trousers, at the stones beneath him, searching for anything to anchor the chaos inside. 

Breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, each inhale a sharp tug, each exhale a ragged surrender. His shoulders shook, muscles taut then slack, wracked with the tension of centuries of fear and grief spilling into the night. Crimson eyes burned, wide and unblinking in the shadows, while a fine sheen of sweat coated his brow, dripping down to sting his eyes. 

His nails, white and tight against the floor, dug into the stone in futile protest, as though he could tear apart the fear itself. His jaw ached from clenching, teeth pressing too hard, fangs glinting in the dim light, a reminder of the predator and the child in him at once. 

“You can’t protect her. You never could. You’ll destroy it all.”

The words coiled inside him like vipers, slipping through cracks in his mind even as he pressed his palms to his face, trying to choke out the echoes. 

The weight of love and fear, of awe and terror, pressed down so completely that it seemed he might fracture entirely; break and scatter into the shadows, leaving only hollow red eyes behind. 

Notes:

I'm sorry

Even Ascended, Astarion’s trauma hasn’t simply vanished. Outwardly, he appears cocky, self-assured, even cruel, yet with Tav we see his fierce devotion and possessiveness toward the one he loves. Still, the idea that he has created life terrifies him. Beneath the confident exterior lies deep self-hatred. He still sees himself as dirty, worthless, and used. There's also the lingering fear of losing control over the fragile freedom and safety he has finally carved out for himself.

Also, please don't come for my Elvish. I'm not 100% sure it's accurate, but it's the best my little google researching can do :)

Elvish translations:
Salen aestar - my love
Va were made nesh tel'quiet - you were made for me
Thiramin - soulmate
Sal'll fill va ausa salen lythi - I'll fill you with my children
Sal aestar va - I love you

Chapter 7: Denial

Summary:

After their passion had burned away all pretense, the quiet of the morning left Tav and Astarion in a fragile stillness, each grappling with the enormity of the life growing between them. Shadows of doubt and wonder lingered, binding desire to fear, and devotion to an uncertain future.

The world had never felt so calm.

Tav stirred against the silk sheets, the weight of the Crimson Palace pressing down not as stone and shadow, but as warmth, as though the very walls breathed in time with her. A smile curved across her lips before her eyes even opened, born of the thought that had carried her into sleep and held her safe through the night. A child. Their child.

Her hand drifted instinctively to her belly. Flat still beneath her palm, yet the gesture made her pulse quicken. She imagined a spark there, small and hidden, impossibly bright, tethering her to life in a way she had never known. Dizzying. Intoxicating. A sweetness so sharp it smothered fear before it could take shape. For once, she let herself fall without caution.

Her mind turned to Astarion. The fire in his eyes, the joy that consumed them both in their rarest, truest moments. She thought of the way he held her impossibly close, as though she were both lover and salvation, the soft words of devotion breathed against her skin, promises not only to her but to the new life growing inside her. To picture his hands, elegant, blood-stained, cruel when they wished, cradling something so small and fragile sent a pang through her chest, fierce and tender all at once. He would be terrified, perhaps. But he would be radiant.

Eyes half-lidded, she reached across the bed, seeking the coolness of his skin that had become her anchor in every night’s drift between shadow and dawn. But her hand met only rumpled sheets, cold and empty.

Her smile faltered. Slowly, she pushed herself upright, the lightness in her chest colliding with a sudden ache of absence.

“Astarion?”

The name slipped soft against the stillness of the chamber, swallowed at once by silence.

Tav lingered in the hollow of the bed, the chamber hushed around her. Morning light spilled through the tall arched windows, a wash of gold against velvet curtains, softened by the remnants of night. The faint perfume of smoke still clung from last evening’s fire in the hearth, threaded through with another scent. Richer, more intimate, unmistakably his. Wine-dark and sweet, it lingered in the bedsheets, caught in her hair, marked along her skin as though his touch had branded her there.

She drew in a breath and the smile returned, foolish, unbidden,  and full, as the thought of him, of what they had done, of what they had made, set her blood alight.

The empty sheets whispered of his absence, but she clung to her joy all the same. It was enough to eclipse the faint prickle of unease, at least until her stomach gave its now-familiar lurch.

Her hand flew to her mouth as sweetness tangled with nausea. She swallowed hard, wincing, and groped blindly toward the nightstand. Fingers brushed cool glass, closing around the small vial left by the palace healer, the bitter draught meant for mornings such as this. With a shaky twist she uncorked it, the acrid liquid clinging like copper to her tongue. Unpleasant, but within moments the roil in her belly quieted, leaving only a dull ache in its wake.

With a soft sigh she sank back into the pillows, one hand resting instinctively over her abdomen. She closed her eyes, imagining warmth stirring there, imagining Astarion’s hand over hers, until a gentle knock pulled her from her reverie.

The door opened a crack, spilling in the muffled hum of the waking palace; the distant clatter of servants beginning their day, the soft scrape of brushes against stone floors, the faint scent of morning fires drifting on a delicate draft. One of her maids slipped inside, head bowed, the rustle of her skirts almost swallowed by the hushed grandeur of the chamber.

“My lady,” the maid said softly, her voice respectful yet well-practiced, like a carefully honed instrument. “Shall I prepare your bath?”

The simple cadence of the question brushed strangely against the extraordinary secret blooming inside her, a tiny pulse of life that made the world feel at once impossibly wide and intimately small. Tav only smiled, radiant and careless, the kind of smile that spreads without thought, as though happiness had finally grown too large to be contained within her chest.

She let herself be guided from the bed, yielding with a languid ease that made each movement feel liquid, as if her bones had softened to water. The morning itself seemed to melt around her. Light spilling in through the high windows, gilding the edges of the furniture. Dust motes drifting lazily in the sunbeams, the faint scent of lavender and rose from the bath blending with the warmth of the room. Each gesture, each step, felt dreamlike, a slow dance with the golden haze that wrapped her like a shroud.

Her thoughts strayed endlessly to him, to the memory of his lips lingering at her throat, to the way astonishment had flashed in those crimson eyes, the raw heat of it lingering longer than it should have, settling beneath her skin like a secret fire. And yet, as warm water lapped at her shoulders, tugging her into a soft, quiet reverie, another thought threaded itself through the bliss. He was not here.

Tav turned her head toward the maid, voice light, almost playful, the sound of it delicate against the soft echoes of the chamber. “Have you seen the Lord this morning?”

The girl paused, fingers tightening briefly around the comb she held, a subtle tremor in the practiced calm. All the servants were a little on edge around him, intimidated by his presence, by the quiet authority he wielded without effort, by the sharpness in his eyes that seemed to measure every thought and action. Even the most seasoned attendants never quite felt at ease in his orbit.

And yet, Tav felt only a flutter of amusement at their collective wariness. Astarion could command fear, respect, and desire all at once, and the palace seemed to bend around him, even in the early hush of morning.

“No, my lady. Not since yesterday.”

Tav only blinked, brushing the answer away as though it were nothing at all. Of course he wasn’t here. He often drifted through the palace at odd hours, restless as the night itself, silent as a shadow that never quite left her side. Always thinking, always searching; though in the end, his searching usually led him back to her. Perhaps today he had buried himself in solitude, already cloistered among papers and candlelight, lost in the labyrinth of his own mind.

The warmth of the bath lingered in her skin long after she stepped out, wrapping her like a second layer of awareness. She moved slowly, deliberately, letting the silk of her gown slide over her shoulders, feeling the faint brush of lace against her skin. Each sound, the quiet shuffle of the maid gathering her things, the muted clink of water in the basin, felt amplified, charged with the hush of expectation.

When at last she stood before the mirror, the world seemed to hold its breath. She hardly recognized the woman staring back. The maid had dressed her in a gown of deep burgundy, its square neckline edged with black lace that brushed delicately against her collarbones. A silver chain glimmered at her throat, catching the morning light and drawing the eye to the faint flush that had lingered on her cheeks since last night, stubborn and vivid. Her hair had been swept into a loose knot, a few strands escaping to frame her face, soft and unstudied, romantic in its disarray.

She looked radiant. She looked in love. Every curve of her smile, every tilt of her head, spoke of a heart unbound. And yet, beneath the gilded quiet, the warmth of the water and the sunlight, there remained the solitary echo.

She was alone.

Tav smoothed her hands over her skirts, as though the weight of fabric might steady the storm gathering in her chest. Drawing a breath that felt heavier than it should, she stepped from the chamber. Her footfalls were soundless against the polished marble, her heart insisting he must be waiting just ahead, while reason whispered otherwise. That something was already amiss.

The corridors of the Crimson Palace stretched wide and still, gilded sconces and tall windows casting pale ribbons of light across the floor. Morning clung to her shoulders like a blessing, as though even the sun conspired to shelter her in its warmth. She clutched that warmth as tightly as a lantern, holding it aloft against the darker voices stirring in her mind.

Her path, almost without thought, carried her toward his study. Where else would he be, if not with her? She imagined him bent over books and letters, weaving his careful webs of power. The carved blackwood door yielded beneath her touch with the barest sigh, her pulse leaping in anticipation.

And there he was.

Astarion sat behind the vast desk, silver quill poised in his hand, posture rigid, gaze pinned to some parchment he did not seem to see. The morning light spilled across him, sharpening the cut of his cheekbones, setting his pale hair ablaze as if spun from fire. For one blissful heartbeat, she could only stand and drink him in.

“Good morning,” she said at last, her voice softened by the tremor of a smile.

He looked up. His eyes met hers. Red, unreadable, cool as polished garnet. The edges of his dismissal blurred against the glow she carried, blinding her to the storm coiled beneath his skin.

Tav stepped further into the room with certainty, skirts whispering across the polished floor.

“You weren’t in bed when I woke,” she said, voice lilting with practiced warmth. “I wondered where you’d gone.”

Astarion did not answer at once. His gaze lingered on her for only a breath before dropping back to the parchment on his desk. The quill resumed its steady scratch, deliberate, final.

Unshaken, she drifted closer, her words spilling like honey. “I thought perhaps you were restless again, but then I realized you’d only come here. Your study always steals you away.” She laughed softly, resting at his side, skirts brushing the leg of his chair. “I was thinking, when you’re finished… perhaps we could walk the gardens? Or even into the city.”

The quill stilled. He looked up again, crimson eyes sharp as cut glass.

“I have affairs to attend to,” he said evenly, each word clipped and precise. His gaze slid past her, back to the desk. “On my own.”

For a moment, the words rang strangely in her ears, as though she had not heard them right. Her smile lingered, fragile now, her head tilting as if she might coax them into jest. “On your own?” She echoed, the words soft, almost playful, yet hollow and without laughter.

He gave a small flick of his hand, dismissive, his gaze never lifting from the parchment. “Yes. Matters requiring my attention. Political matters.” Astarion’s tone cooled, distant. “Hardly the sort of thing to entertain you.”

Something in her chest shifted, the glow she carried flickering at the edges. She searched his face, waiting for the indulgent curve of a smile, the glance that would soften the bite of his words. None came.

“Oh,” Tav breathed, softer, more fragile than she intended. Her hands folded before her skirts, fingers worrying at the velvet as if the fabric might anchor her. The softness was foreign to her, so unlike the confidence she carried through the halls of the Crimson Palace, so unlike the sharp, unyielding woman that demanded the attention of every room she entered. A quiet tremor of vulnerability thread through her usual composure, a tremor that belonged only to this strange, startling new life ahead of them. 

Her gaze dropped to the desk, to the neat lines of ink, the quill he seemed to care for more than her. For the first time since waking, the glow within her dimmed, confusion sliding into its place. Almost desperately, she forced brightness into her tone. “Well… perhaps later, then. After you’ve finished.”

But even as she said it, she felt the distance widen. Tav lingered beside him, searching his profile for some gentleness, some reflection of the joy that had carried her through the night. Instead, she found only the rigid set of his jaw, the faint tension in his hand where it gripped the quill.

Her smile trembled but did not break. “Astarion…” Her fingers brushed the polished edge of the desk, light and tentative. “We don’t have to go anywhere grand. We could simply sit. Talk. There’s so much to think about now. So much to dream of.”

At that, his head snapped up, eyes flashing. “Dreams,” Astarion echoed, the word sharpened into disdain.

The bite of it startled her. She blinked, faltering, but pressed on. “I know it’s still early, but—”

“Enough.”

The word cut clean through her, harder than steel. His chair scraped back against the stone as he rose to his full height. “You think this is some sweet little fairytale we’ve stumbled into? That this—” his hand slashed toward her abdomen, sharp and merciless, “—is cause for celebration?”

Her breath caught. Confusion unraveled into hurt as she stared at him, stunned, as though she no longer knew the man before her.

Tav’s lips parted, ready to plead, to remind him of the love that had carried them through night. But his expression froze her where she stood. Hard. Cold. Merciless.

“You speak of dreams,” Astarion said, his voice low, venom threading every word. “But tell me, what kind of dream is this, Tav? A Bhaalspawn mother birthing another cursed creature into the world?”

The words struck like a blade between her ribs. She sucked in a breath, sharp and broken, as if the very air had turned to ash.

“You can dress it up in whatever pretty lies you like,” he pressed on, relentless, eyes glittering with a terrible light. “But we both know what runs in your veins. Murder. Blood. Death. And you would pass that on?” He leaned forward, voice rising, as if the force of his cruelty might stamp out her fragile joy. “Gods, do you even hear yourself?”

She stumbled back a step, as though the force of his scorn alone had driven her. “I don’t understand. I thought that you—”

But he was already advancing, jaw locked, shoulders tight with fury. “You’re blind, Tav. Blind and selfish. You don’t see what this will become, you only see what you want.”

Her hand came to rest against her stomach. It felt suddenly fragile, protective, as though he had struck not only her, but the life within her. Her throat ached with unshed words, with the desperate need to make him see. But his voice cut through the silence before she could speak. Cruel, final, merciless.

“Get rid of it.”

The air between them turned to ice. Tav stared at him, certain she had misheard, but the unwavering edge in his crimson gaze left no room for doubt. His mouth was carved into a grim slash of resolve, and the weight of it pressed against her chest like stone.

The words clawed at something fragile inside her, hollowing out the fragile glow that had been growing there. Every instinct screamed, every shadow of doubt whispered that he might be right, but the instinct that had always guided her in the face of gods, devils, and death itself refused to yield.

“You heard me,” he said, voice honed to steel, sharp enough to wound. “End this before it begins. Gods, it never should have been possible at all. But we are not bound to indulge the cruel joke fate has played on us. Spare us both the misery. Spare it.”

For a long moment, silence wrapped them, dense and suffocating, his words echoing in the hollows of her chest. Then the hollow space hardened into something fierce, unyielding, a spark that refused to die. The softness splintered, cracks scattering where fear had threatened to root.

Tav remained, the same woman who carved her own fate with blood and steel, who had never been broken. That part of her, the part no terror or cruelty could touch, rose now, blazing with defiance. She would not bend, and she would not yield. Not to him, not to fear, not to the cruel impossibility of the life growing inside her.

Her eyes narrowed, jaw set. “No.”

Astarion’s gaze blazed. “You cannot be serious—”

“I said no.” The word cut like a blade. “Do you think you can command me? Order me to— Gods, I can’t even believe you. As though it were nothing. As though they were nothing.” She stepped forward, her voice low and seething, each word a hammer-blow. “You don’t get to decide this.”

The air shook with her fury, hot and alive, a storm rising to meet his own. In that instant, it was no longer dream versus denial, it was war between equals.

Astarion’s hands curled into fists, composure unraveling. “Do not be naive, Tav! You call it a miracle, yet it’s a mistake. A monstrosity waiting to happen!” His voice cracked the air, vicious, echoing off the stone. “And you would drag it into the world, blinded by sentiment?”

Tav’s blood surged hot, chest heaving as she hurled words back. “And you would destroy it because you’re too much of a coward?”

He flinched, as if struck, but the wound only stoked the fire. “Coward?” He hissed, crimson eyes burning. “I am the only one here willing to face the truth! This… this thing will not be salvation. It will be ruin. Yours. Mine. Theirs!”

“You don’t know that!” Tav shouted, stepping forward, defiance flaring in every line of her body. “You don’t get to decide what they will become. You don’t get to tear this away from me just because you’re terrified of what it might mean.”

“I am terrified of what it will mean!” His voice cracked, harsh and furious, yet frayed with a rawness that betrayed the break beneath. “Do you think I don’t know myself? My blood? My curse? And yours? Gods, Tav, do you not see? We are death. Both of us. And you would drag an innocent into it.”

He spun on his heel, crimson eyes flickering away from her, the faintest tremor in his shoulders betraying the storm beneath his composed exterior. His back was a wall she could not scale, the space between them suddenly cavernous, filled with the weight of unspoken fear and rage.

Her laugh tore out of her sharp and bitter, nothing left of her earlier softness. “And what do you know of innocence, Astarion? You’d rather destroy it than risk being proven wrong. That isn’t truth, it’s fear. You’re hiding behind cruelty.”

The words he had thrown at her, accusations of bringing something cursed into the world, of passing on the shadow of her Bhaalspawn nature, lingered in the air. They were meant to wound, to make her doubt, but she refused to falter. This child was not a reflection of her darkness, but a fragment of hope forged from what they both had endured. Even as fear gnawed at her, she held it at bay, fierce and protective.

The silence that followed was louder than their shouting, pressing in on every corner of the chamber. Astarion stood rigid, trembling faintly, crimson eyes burning with unspoken words. The weight of his terror, of his own self-loathing, hung between them. But Tav met it with unyielding defiance. One hand pressed over her belly, she drew herself taller, daring him to lay claim to what was hers.

The air between them trembled, brittle as glass. Her chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, fury blazing so intensely it seemed to scorch the walls. She carried the life within her like a banner, unbowed and resolute. Astarion’s hands shook where they gripped the edge of his desk, knuckles white, the quill crushed and splintered to dust between his fingers, a fragile echo of everything he could not face.

Even in his rage, she could see the fracture beneath, the man who feared love, feared life, feared being proven wrong. But she would not let that fracture touch what they had begun. This child, this chance, was theirs alone, and she would defend it with every part of herself.

“You think this is your redemption,” he spat at last, his voice raw, scraped out from someplace deeper than anger. “But it’s not. It’s madness. A fool’s delusion. And if you cannot see that, then you are more blind than I ever believed possible.”

Her jaw locked, her nails biting crescents into her palms. “And if you cannot see that this is love,” she hissed, every word a blade, “then perhaps you never understood me at all.”

He laughed then, harsh, bitter, a sound more wound than mirth. “Love? Gods, Tav, what is love but another chain? Another pretty lie we tell ourselves until the blade comes down? Do you truly believe this child will save us from what we are?”

“No,” she shot back, stepping closer, voice breaking yet fierce. “I believe they’ll save us because of what we are. Because we know the darkness. Because we’ll never stop fighting it. They are not a curse, Astarion, they are a chance.”

His face twisted, as if her words had struck deeper than any blade. For a heartbeat she thought she saw it; the crack in his armor, the ghost of the man who had once looked at her with awe, with trembling wonder.

Then it was gone. He wrenched his gaze away, voice snapping like a whip.

“Enough. I’ll waste no more breath on this.”

Her mouth opened, fury sparking, but he silenced her with a sharp raise of his hand.

“Do what you will, Tav. You always do. But don’t expect me to play the part of your doting fool.”

The words landed like stones, heavy, irrevocable.

Her throat burned, vision hot with unshed tears, but she would not let him see her break. Tav lifted her chin, shoulders squared, her voice low and cold, a blade drawn in the dark.

“Then stay here with your parchments and your cowardice. I’ll carry this child with or without you.”

He flinched at that, barely, almost imperceptible. But she didn’t wait for an answer.

Her skirts snapped around her legs as she stormed from the study, the door slamming behind her, the sound cracking down the palace halls like a thunderclap.

And in the silence that followed, Astarion stood unmoving at his desk, staring down at the splintered quill in his hand, as though he’d broken something far more fragile.

Notes:

Hello lovely readers!

I wanted to explore Tav in a moment suspended between wonder and reality. Her first morning after discovering the pregnancy, when the world felt almost dreamlike. And then that delicate sense of possibility is shattered. A sharp collision of the luminous, fragile euphoria giving way to the cold weight of reality.

I hope you enjoyed, and thank you so much for all the love in the comments. I appreciate it more than I can say! ❤️

Chapter 8: Seduction

Summary:

After their bitter clash over Tav’s pregnancy, she and Astarion host a grand dinner at the Crimson Palace, where his unrelenting teasing spirals until they both reach their edge.

Days bled into nights, and still not a word passed between them. The quiet that filled the Crimson Palace was not peace, but something heavy that pressed against the walls, seeped into the tapestries, lingered even in the echo of their footsteps across the marble floors. It felt more like a mausoleum each day, its silence not rest but suffocation.

Tav and Astarion shared the same chamber, but their nights had become a study in quiet cruelty. The bed felt far too small when his presence at her back was an unwelcome reminder of her fury, and far too vast when he lay on the opposite edge, turned away, a cold continent she could no longer reach. She woke each morning with the imprint of distance etched into her bones.

By day, he disappeared into his politics and his endless meetings, slipping from the palace with the dusk and returning long after candles guttered low. What little time he spent within the halls was spent at his desk, hunched over parchments, quills splintered beneath his restless hand. He spoke only to his servants, and even then his words were clipped, his smile as brittle as glass.

Tav, left in the wake of his absence, buried herself in the small, stubborn labors that he deemed beneath his notice. She walked the halls with rolls of fabric over her arm, overseeing the hanging of curtains, the polishing of silver sconces, the placement of tapestries that softened the echo of the great chambers. She counted coins and balanced books, weighing the gold that built their future, while he squandered himself on politics she could not touch. In the quiet of the afternoons she lingered in rooms he never entered, adjusting flowers in their vases, smoothing creases from tablecloths, desperate for order in the place where her heart had none.

And yet, in the stillness of each midnight, when the hush of the city pressed close and the moonlight spilled across their bed, she felt him near. Always near. The distance between their turned backs might as well have been a chasm, yet her body betrayed her, aching for the warmth of his touch.

The days of silence had given her more than enough time to burn with anger. At first, it was all she could feel. He had spurned her, turned cruel, dared to raise his voice and dismiss her love as if it were nothing. She had paced their chambers with her fists clenched, replaying every sharp word until they rang like broken glass in her skull. She had cursed him beneath her breath while pulling open drawers too roughly, while brushing her hair until her scalp hurt, while lying in bed with her back rigid and her body aching for the space he would not fill.

But Tav knew him. She knew him better than she wished she did, and anger could only burn so long before giving way to the cold clarity beneath. His silence was not victory, nor punishment. It was fear, thinly disguised as disdain. She had seen the look in his eyes before it vanished, the fleeting fracture that no mask could fully hide. He had been awed, even trembling when she first told him; astonished as though he had glimpsed some miracle he never thought himself worthy of. And then, as quickly, the awe had curdled into dread.

She knew the shape of that dread. It was the same shadow he had carried since the beginning, no matter how gilded the trappings of power he draped across himself now. To father a child was to invite proof that he was more than fangs and blood. And proof, to Astarion, was a blade aimed at his throat. A weakness he could not allow to take shape.

He could not bear the thought of it. That he might hold something pure in his hands, that he might taint what was good. Better to crush it now, to call it a curse, than to risk being shown that he was unworthy of love in its most fragile form.

And yet he did not see that this very refusal was what cut her deepest. That in walling himself away, he made her carry not only the weight of her own body, but the weight of his terror too. 

She could not forget the night before their undoing. How could she, when every inch of her still remembered it? His hands had trembled when they touched her, his body folded into hers with abandon that was more than hunger. In the heat of their lovemaking, she had believed—no, she had known, that he had accepted this miracle with her. That he had already begun to love it.

And now, when she turned in their bed, there was only distance. The sheets that had tangled them together like vines felt foreign and cold. She ached not only for his touch, but for the man who had looked at her then, the one who had let himself believe, if only for a single night, that he could be more than the shadow of his own ruin. To feel him gone beside her now, to sense the rigid line of his body drawn away from hers, was to grieve something she had only just tasted.

She clenched her hands against the ache, against the memory of his lips on her skin, the reverence of his voice whispering her name. To have him so close, mere inches, a breath away, yet sealed off behind silence, was its own exquisite torment. Even angry, even cruel, even shutting her out, her body still betrayed her. Recalling the way his hunger had once matched her own. The want burned in her veins, bitter and sweet, refusing to be banished by pride.

She had grown used to the ache of it, but never to the fury. How dare he retreat behind his masks, how dare he leave her to cradle both her secret and his absence. 

Now, the evening came cloaked in duty, in obligations she could not ignore. A dinner, one of countless such affairs the Crimson Palace demanded. The city had not quieted in the two months since the Netherbrain fell. If anything, its heartbeat seemed louder, thrumming with unrest beneath the cobbles of Baldur’s Gate. 

The death of Duke Ravengard had left a fracture in the Council of Four that no swift hand could mend. His son had turned his back on the city, vanishing into Avernus with blade and purpose both, and with him went whatever claim the Ravengard line might have pressed. Tav herself had urged him to go, for some burdens were never meant to be borne in chains of duty, and Wyll’s fate was already written in the fire of that infernal realm. 

Still, that left Baldur’s Gate in uneasy hands, its leadership more fragile than the gilded titles suggested. In the wake of such uncertainty, every dinner, every gathering, every whispered negotiation became a battlefield. Tonight was no different. The Crimson Palace, reborn into jewels and gold, was the perfect stage for such games. Nobles and emissaries would gather beneath its chandeliers not merely to feast, but to measure. To weigh alliances, to watch for cracks, to determine what power truly rested in the pale hands of its lord.

And Tav, bound to him in every way that mattered, was expected to play her part. Anger might have turned their bed into a battlefield of silence, yet her loyalty to him ran deeper than any quarrel; woven through her blood and breath, unshaken even when her heart ached with betrayal. She might loathe him in one breath and ache for him in the next, but never could she abandon him.

Candles flickered in the high windows, spilling molten gold across the chamber, as Tav stood poised in front of the mirror. Her handmaids moved with practiced grace, brushing out her hair, teasing it into intricate coils that would hold beneath jeweled pins. One smoothed her gown over her hips, the fabric heavy and stiff with embroidered patterns of crimson and black, while another fastened the bodice at her back with careful precision. Each motion was gentle, yet all of it felt like preparation for battle rather than celebration.

Tav’s eyes, darkened with kohl, followed the reflection in the mirror. Pale skin against the dark velvet, the curve of her neck accented with garnets that gleamed like drops of blood. She adjusted the stones with a meticulous hand, feeling the weight of them settle like a promise. She could feel Astarion watching her even now, though he was elsewhere in the palace, and the thought sent a shiver along her spine.

The handmaids moved quietly around her, but Tav’s mind was elsewhere. The bed they had shared was behind her thoughts, a shadow of distance she could neither escape nor ignore. Even as she let them fuss over her sleeves, smoothing the velvet over her wrists, she felt the memory of his hands, the brief touch that lingered far longer than it should have, curling through her stomach and tightening her chest.

One final glance in the mirror. She straightened her shoulders, lifted her chin, and let her lips curve just slightly in the practiced way she knew would hold the room’s attention. The handmaids retreated, murmuring soft assurances of her perfection, and Tav remained, poised and burning with a quiet fire, ready to step into the hall where duty and fury, politics and desire, waited for her in equal measure.

She inhaled slowly, letting the perfume of waxed floors, polished silver, faint hints of rose and candle smoke fill her senses and steady her pulse. Each step toward the staircase felt measured, deliberate, as though the distance she covered was not just marble beneath her feet but the gulf that had grown between her and him these past days. Her skirts swished softly with every turn, the rustle of silk a whisper of intent, a promise of the poise she intended to wield like a blade.

The shadows of the hall stretched long in the candlelight, railings glinting as she descended. Each footfall brought her closer, and with it, a tightening of the coil in her chest. 

The grand doors of the dining hall opened before her. Candlelight spilled across the high ceiling, gilded mirrors reflecting crystal and silver in a dizzying array. Nobles in silks of every hue murmured greetings to one another, their laughter tinkling like glass, but Tav barely registered them. All her attention went to the head of the table.

Astarion sat there, pale and impeccable in his tailored doublet, eyes flicking up just long enough to meet hers. The faintest lift of a brow, the ghost of a smile. He knew she had seen him, and that knowledge made the blood hum hotter through her veins.

Her heels clicked softly, a rhythm measured and deliberate, each step drawing her closer to him. Around her, the hall breathed with life. Servants moved with quiet precision, setting plates, pouring wine, adjusting the crystal candelabras so that every flicker of flame fell just so. The clink of silver and the rustle of fabric created a constant hum, a living tapestry of motion and sound.

Her attention, sharp and magnetic, remained fixed on him. Every detail of the room, every carefully curated flourish, was a background note. The space between them seemed to stretch and contract at once, a taut line drawn across the room, binding her gaze to his as surely as any chain.

When she reached his side, Astarion lifted his head in a quiet, almost imperceptible nod. A gesture of a gentleman, yet laced with something private and unyielding, a weight that settled between them more insistently than any words could. Tav’s gaze lingered, tracing the sharp planes of his face, the pale line of his throat, the dark gleam in his eyes that promised both danger and desire. For a heartbeat the noise of the hall, the murmured greetings, the rustle of silks, the careful clink of silver, faded to nothing.

The servant lingered, awaiting instruction with measured deference, the polished chair poised at just the right height. Astarion’s hand rose, long and pale, and curled deliberately around the chair’s back. He did not move it yet, only allowed his fingers to rest there, an unspoken claim, a silent command. Tav’s pulse thrummed in response, a mixture of irritation and anticipation she could neither deny nor suppress.

Finally, with a subtle tilt of his wrist, he drew the chair closer. Not abruptly, not as one would correct a piece of furniture, but with meticulous precision, a deliberate choreography that made the space between them shrink by inches. Every nerve in her body flared, attuned to the contact, to the intimacy of proximity enforced rather than requested. Her breath hitched once, faint and sharp, but she held her composure, lips pressed into a line, eyes fixed on his in a silent, mutual challenge.

She sank into the chair, adjusting the hem of her gown, and immediately felt the small, controlled contact of his knee brushing hers beneath the table. A casual touch anyone else might have been dismissed, but Tav knew that it was anything but accidental. His arm found the back of her chair, draping there with a slow, languid ease, fingers just grazing the curve of her shoulder, staking a claim she had not yet freely surrendered.

She lifted her gaze again, meeting his eyes, fire coiling in her chest. It was a fire he could see, could feel, but not entirely touch. She would hold it, and let him see only as much as she allowed. A quiet defiance threaded with a heat neither of them could fully ignore.

The servants stepped back, leaving Tav poised beside him, the soft scrape of chairs against marble the only reminder that the room was still a place of function, not just a stage for their private war. She could feel the deliberate curve of his hand along the chair, the slow, almost imperceptible tilt of his head as he acknowledged her presence without a word.

The first course arrived, placed with quiet precision, and the nobles began their polite rounds of introductions and compliments. A string of murmured pleasantries floated over crystal glasses.

A noble, a portly man in deep green silk, leaned toward Tav with a curious tilt of his head. “Lady Ancunin,” he began, voice smooth with practiced civility, “I must say, your absence from the recent gatherings at High Hall have been concerning to the city.” 

Tav’s eyes flicked toward Astarion for a brief instant, noting the faint lift of his brow, that almost imperceptible challenge. She let herself smile, just enough to seem courteous, but sharp enough to sting. “The city is resilient,” she replied, her tone light, casual, but with the precise edge that only he would recognize. “I’ve had other matters to attend to. Ones that required a bit more discretion.”

The noble blinked, uncertain, but Tav’s gaze didn’t waver. Her attention lingered on the hand that rested lightly along the back of her chair, fingers brushing the curve of her shoulder in a claim that was both possessive and teasing. A subtle warmth spread through her chest at the touch, and she pressed herself into the seat just enough to let the brush linger; not enough to yield, but enough to make the contact undeniable.

“I imagine you both have been busy,” the noble continued, eyes flicking between them, though he clearly could not perceive the full storm simmering beneath the surface. “‘Heroes of Baldur’s Gate’. It must be no small task, living up to such a title.”

“Certainly,” she said smoothly, a faint glimmer of fire in her gaze. “My husband carries the weight of such titles with such effortless charm, wouldn’t you say? Heroics are his specialty.”

Her words landed just so, and Astarion’s faint exhale, audible only to her, was a small victory she allowed herself. Beneath the table, his knee brushed hers once more, a deliberate, tantalizing nudge that sent heat curling through her stomach. She shifted subtly, letting the movement register, a quiet warning and a provocation both.

“Of course,” the noble said, nodding, unaware of the duel playing out between the two at the head of the table. Tav’s gaze lingered on Astarion, catching the slight smirk he tried to mask with a tilt of his head.

“I must commend you,” the noble continued, leaning slightly forward as if sharing a confidential observation, though his voice carried easily across the table. “The palace looks impeccable tonight. And the service runs like clockwork. It is no small feat to orchestrate such precision.”

Tav’s lips lifted in a polite, controlled smile, though the fire behind her eyes sharpened. “I do what I can,” she replied smoothly, allowing just enough pride to lace her tone without betraying the irritation simmering beneath. 

Astarion leaned into her, enough that the warmth of his breath brushed against the shell of her ear, the motion subtle, precise, utterly deliberate. “You are quite impressive,” he murmured, his voice a low silk against her skin. “The palace… every detail polished, every corner immaculate. You’ve outdone yourself. I hardly recognize the place...”

Tav’s pulse quickened. She forced herself to maintain her composure, a faint lift of her chin, a practiced breath to steady the heat rising in her chest. “I imagine you wouldn’t since you’ve spent so little time here lately.”

“…But,” he continued, his voice jumping an octave higher, exaggerated just enough that she caught the faint edge of mock outrage, as if her words were far too trivial to merit acknowledgment. “One wonders if all this… order, all this careful perfection… is reserved for the palace alone. Or is it your standard in our marriage as well, my dear little tyrant?”

The word struck her like ice, sharp and impossible to ignore. She let the small shiver run down her spine, careful not to betray her reaction to the nobles around them. Beneath the table, his hand brushed her knee, a deliberate touch that paired with his teasing like a spark.

Tav tilted her head fractionally, letting her gaze flick toward him. Not a surrender, but a warning. “Careful,” she replied, the words just audible enough for him alone. “Wouldn’t want the tyrant to drive a point straight through that lofty head of yours.”

Astarion’s eyes darkened with amusement, the corner of his mouth twitching as though her retort delighted and challenged him in equal measure. 

The dinner carried on, a symphony of clinking crystal and low, droning voices. Platters of roasted pheasant and spiced vegetables passed down the length of the table, their rich aromas mingling with the sharper tang of wine. Nobles leaned toward one another, their words weighted with tariffs and petitions, each complaint dressed in silk but stinking of desperation.

Tav let the conversation wash over her, catching fragments of disputes about dockworkers, whispers of merchant guild unrest, and half-hearted praises of the city’s resilience. It was politics, endless and tedious, and she was glad she need only nod in polite intervals, the mask of composure fixed easily on her face.

Astarion, however, thrived in it. He lounged in his chair with the ease of a man who owned every eye at the table, his laughter smooth and well-placed, his replies sharp as glass. He offered observations that charmed without committing, his voice slipping through the chatter like silk. And yet through it all his attention never fully left Tav.

Each brush of his knee against hers, each deliberate graze of his fingers along her arm, was a private counterpoint to the nobles’ tedious symphony. He played her as deftly as he played the court, weaving provocation into the quiet spaces between words, daring her to slip, daring her to burn.

Tav sat poised, her chin lifted, her smile cool and polite. But beneath the polished surface her blood hummed, her every nerve alive to his touch, his presence, the game only they were playing at the head of the table.

Astarion leaned back in his chair, wine glass turning idly in his long fingers, catching the candlelight in a blood-red shimmer. He nodded thoughtfully as one lord rattled on about tariffs on imported grain, his tone rich with sympathetic consideration. To any observer, he was the very image of engaged nobility.

Beneath the table, however, his hand shifted from where it had rested so innocuously at Tav’s knee. Fingers traced higher, featherlight at first, as though absentmindedly, as though he hadn’t the faintest notion what he was doing. A subtle pressure pressed against the silk of her gown, creeping along her thigh with the same deliberate slowness as his spoken words.

“Yes, tariffs are always a delicate matter,” he said smoothly, his crimson eyes fixed with feigned gravity on the complaining noble. “Raise them too high, and one risks starving the city of trade. Too low, and you invite chaos in its most… unrefined form.”

His thumb drew a languid circle, higher now, careful, wicked. Tav’s breath caught, but her smile remained fixed, only the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betraying her.

The noble nodded gravely, entirely oblivious. “Precisely, Lord Ancunin. It is a balance easily tipped.”

“Oh, but I do so enjoy the art of balance,” Astarion murmured, his voice carrying only enough weight to pass as polite banter, though Tav felt the words drag like velvet across her skin. His fingers pressed higher, teasing, hovering just shy of indecency, every motion purposeful in its restraint.

Tav forced her hand to remain still atop the table, fingers curled lightly around her goblet, her pulse thundering in her throat. She shifted just enough to make him know she was aware, a small press of her thigh against his hand; a warning, though it was laced with something perilously close to invitation.

The curve of his mouth deepened into the faintest smirk, hidden by the rim of his glass as he drank.

She could feel his thumb ghosting closer to the place he knew would undo her, the barest graze that made her thighs tense in warning. He lingered there, patient, as if daring her to make a sound, to betray herself before the whole table.

Her smile sharpened instead, the only tell in her expression a faint spark in her eyes. She shifted slightly, knees brushing together, trapping his hand where it hovered with criminal intent.

Astarion’s gaze flicked sidelong toward her, amused and unrepentant, though his words to the noble never faltered. “Of course, balance requires a firm hand. Gentle enough to coax, but strong enough to correct when things… stray too far.” His tone was perfectly civil, but Tav heard the private barb meant only for her.

She let him have it for one moment more. Just long enough for his fingers to press, slow, suggestive. Then her hand slipped beneath the table, swift as a striking viper, seizing his wrist in a grip deceptively delicate. Her nails dug into his skin, sharp crescents biting with warning pressure.

Astarion’s inhale was imperceptible to all but her, a faint break in the seamless flow of his facade. His smirk widened, crimson eyes glinting like embers. He did not pull away. If anything, the hand trapped beneath her nails flexed slightly, as though to remind her that he could play this game as long as she could endure it.

Tav’s thumb pressed harder, nails biting deeper. Her smile never wavered.

The courses rolled on, the endless parade of venison and sugared fruits blurring into a haze of chatter. Tav barely tasted any of it. Her every nerve was wound taut, her senses trained on the duel waged beneath the tablecloth.

Astarion’s captured hand lay obediently still for a time, but his restraint was an illusion. Slowly, deliberately, he began to flex his fingers against her thigh again, testing the boundaries of her grip. When her nails bit deeper, he only chuckled softly at some comment from a lord across the table, a sound too light to betray the sting she inflicted on him.

He shifted, his knee brushing hers, then pressing firmly against it, prying for space. His trapped wrist twisted just enough to let his thumb drag a lazy circle against the inside of her knee; a gesture small enough to appear accidental, yet potent enough to set her pulse racing.

Tav held fast, her gaze fixed serenely on the noble droning about tariffs. Only Astarion would feel the warning in her touch. Only he would hear the faintest catch in her breath, the tightening of her hold.

And still he pressed. His free hand, the one on the back of her chair, slipped lower, brushing lightly over the line of her shoulder, then the slope of her arm, his thumb stroking the bare skin at her elbow in a gesture that to all else appeared tender. But she knew better. It was a provocation, another layer in his relentless torment.

Astarion leaned closer, his words smooth and charming, addressed to a matron two seats down, yet his lips were near enough to Tav that she caught the ghost of his breath. “Discipline and indulgence,” he said silkily, eyes flicking toward Tav with a flash of heat hidden behind polite civility, “are often two sides of the same coin.”

Her nails dug harder in answer, her smile as poised as ever. If the nobles noticed the subtle tension shimmering between them, they mistook it for perfect composure. 

The feast waned, wine poured slower, laughter softening as candles dripped lower. At last, chairs scraped against marble, silks rustled, and the room swelled with murmurs of gratitude for their hosts. One by one, nobles offered bows and curtsies. The last echo of departing footsteps faded, and the heavy doors sealed with a thud that reverberated through the marble. Silence fell, sudden and suffocating, broken only by the low hiss of candles burning themselves to nothing.

Tav didn’t move at first. Her hands rested against the table’s edge. The mask she’d worn for hours, the smile, the gracious tilt of her head, the measured poise, cracked like glass under strain.

“You’re a smug bastard,” she spoke at last, the words slicing through the hush.

Astarion was already moving to his feet, slow, graceful, as if he’d been waiting for the strike. He prowled toward her, crimson eyes glinting. “Oh, dearest, you’ll have to be more specific. I was positively drowning in smugness this evening. Which part offended you most?”

She shot up from her chair, the silk of her skirts whispering furiously against the marble. “The part where you thought you could sit there, pawing at me under the table like some damned game.” 

He was on her in three strides, close enough that her words met the curve of his lips. “Oh, but you craved it, my love.” His hand caught the back of her chair, dragging it aside with a scrape as he boxed her in against the edge of the table. His smile sharpened, fangs flashing. “You enjoyed every moment of it, didn’t you?”

Tav’s laugh was bitter, breathless, her pulse hammering. “You think you’re untouchable, Astarion, but you—” Her words broke on a gasp as his thigh pressed between hers, not gentle, not asking.

“I what?” Astarion purred, voice a whip and a caress all at once. “Say it, Tav. Tell me what I am.”

Her breath caught, fury sparking against the pull of his body crowding hers. “You’re insufferable,” she hissed, her words brushing the edge of his lips. “Pompous. Impossible.”

“And yet,” his mouth grazed hers, sharp as the fang peeking just behind his smirk, “you can’t stay away.”

Tav surged against him, catching his mouth in a bruising kiss, all teeth and anger. For a heartbeat he let her take it, let her pour her rage into the clash, before answering with equal force.

Her hands fisted in his doublet, dragging him closer as though she might tear him apart or tear him open. She wasn’t sure which. Between kisses she grumbled against his mouth. “I hate you.”

He laughed into her lips, dark and hungry, his grip tightening on her waist. “Liar.”

Another crash of mouths, bitter and searing, her teeth scraping his lower lip until she tasted copper. She pulled back just enough to glare at him, breathless, lips swollen. “I should hate you.”

His hand slid to the back of her neck, holding her there, his crimson eyes alight with wicked fire. “Then do it, darling. Hate me harder.”

With a swift, fluid motion, Astarion brushed aside the nearest goblets and toppled platters, sending a cascade of fruit clattering across the floor. Shards of glass caught the candlelight, scattering sparks like miniature stars across the floor. A splatter of wine and juice formed a sticky, colorful mosaic among the broken crystal.

The table shuddered as her back hit its edge. Without breaking his gaze, he swept a hand across the table, shoving aside remaining dishes and plates with controlled force, clearing a space that seemed impossibly small for what he had in mind. Each movement was precise, deliberate, a display of dominance.

Then he reached for her. One arm curled securely around her waist, the other bracing against the table as he lifted her smoothly onto the polished surface. 

Her skirt fanned out over the crystal-scarred surface, catching a few droplets of wine and fruit juice, the smell sweet and tangy in the warm air between them. The candlelight flickered across her skin, painting her in gold and shadow, and Astarion’s crimson eyes drank her in with the hunger of a predator who had cornered his prey; and yet lingered on the sharp intelligence, the fire that dared him to touch her.

He leaned close, pressing his lips to hers with the same blend of whip and caress as before, the table trembling beneath her as if it, too, acknowledged the war and the surrender playing out atop its surface.

Tav’s hands were already in his hair, tugging hard enough to make him growl against her lips. He answered by deepening the kiss, tongue sweeping in with ruthless precision, claiming the space she thought she’d seized. His hand traced the line of her thigh through the bunched folds of her skirts, fingers hooking in silk as though he meant to rip it away stitch by stitch.

She broke the kiss with a gasp, her hand snapping to his chest, shoving him back just far enough to meet his eyes. “You think you can just take,” she sparred, voice trembling with both fury and want, “as if I’ll let you devour me whenever you please.”

Astarion’s smirk curved slow and dangerous, his fangs catching in the glow of the candles. He leaned in until their noses brushed, his voice velvet over steel. “Oh, my sweet, you don’t let me do anything. You want it just as badly. Every shiver, every gasp, your body betrays you.” His thigh pressed harder between hers, grinding against her, a cruel punctuation to his words.

Her nails raked down his chest, carving through the fine fabric of his doublet until she heard the threads give way. He hissed in pleasure at the sting, crimson eyes flaring brighter. “Arrogant,” Tav whispered, though her voice shook with the war in her blood. “You’ll drown one day in that smugness of yours.”

“Then drag me under,” he snarled, mouth crashing to hers again, this time with no hesitation, no mask. It was teeth and tongue and breathless fury, the kind of kiss that tasted of blood and desperation. Astarion’s hand closed around her hip, pulling her forward across the polished wood until their bodies fit flush, her skirts tangled between them, nothing left of the distance she’d tried to keep.

The table groaned beneath them, fruit rolling to the floor, the air filled with the mingling scents of spiced wine and their own mingled breath. Every movement was a clash, a test of dominance, their passion as sharp and cutting as their anger. Neither yielding, neither willing to be tamed.

The table rattled under them as Astarion pressed her down, his body a caging wall of silk and muscle. Tav arched up to meet him, her hands tangling in his hair only to yank his head back, exposing the pale line of his throat. Her lips hovered there, hot breath ghosting over the vulnerable skin, and for one fleeting instant, she imagined what it would be like to sink her teeth in just to spite him.

Instead, she bit down on his collarbone, sharp enough to make him snarl, his hips jerking forward in response. He caught her chin, dragging her mouth back to his, swallowing her fury in another clash of lips. The kiss was war; open mouths, bruising, the tang of blood where her teeth had torn his lip.

His hand slid beneath the folds of her skirts, fingers grazing higher with deliberate slowness until she shuddered against him despite herself. He smirked against her mouth, only to choke when her nails raked viciously down his sides, cutting through cloth and skin alike.

“You’re insufferable,” Tav gasped, her hands working in haste to free him from his trousers. 

“You’re divine,” he growled back, shoving the silk higher, parting her thighs with a ruthless press of his own. The scrape of the table against the marble floor echoed through the hall as he drove into her in one swift, merciless thrust.

Her cry broke into a ragged moan, swallowed in another kiss. Each movement was a battle, her hips meeting his with equal force, as if they both meant to bruise each other from the inside out. The air filled with the sound of shattering breath, of wood groaning beneath them, of hunger sharpened into violence.

When his doublet finally gave beneath her hands, she slipped her arms inside, clutching at the bare skin beneath. She gripped his back as he drove into her, each thrust a clash of fury and need. Their mouths broke apart only to crash together again, teeth catching, lips bruising. Breathless, half-mad, Tav tore her lips from his, eyes wild with the remnants of her darker hungers, yet sharp with the fury she still refused to surrender. Every gasp, every clawing touch carried the echo of her anger, as if even in this frenzy she meant to wound him, to remind him he had not been forgiven.

“I dreamt of tearing you apart,” she rasped, voice shivering with pleasure and violence, “of drowning myself in every drop you spilled.”

Astarion’s breath hitched, his rhythm faltering as a shiver ran through him, crimson eyes blown wide. Then a low, feral laugh spilled from his throat. The words licked at the core of him like flame to oil. He pressed his mouth to her ear, voice a decadent rasp.

“Gods, you do have the most delicious imagination…”

His hips snapped forward with brutal urgency, as if he could bury himself deep enough to bind her to him, to answer bloodlust with pleasure. And when her laughter broke into a moan, ragged, wicked, threat and ecstasy both, they felt the violent poetry of her desire twist inside, pulling them each down, deeper, into the madness they made together.

The rhythm of their bodies clashed like a storm breaking itself against stone, the table beneath them trembling with every violent thrust. His lips dragged across her throat, teeth grazing, breath hot with hunger that was lust and fury both. She clung to him, nails clawing deep furrows in his back, the pain only fueling him further.

“Say it,” he rasped against her skin, his hips snapping harder, faster. “Say you’re mine. Say you’ll give me everything.”

Astarion’s crimson gaze flicked down at her, alight with that old hunger, sharp, consuming, dangerous. His mouth curled into the smirk she knew too well, the one meant to unravel, to seduce, to bend her to his will. 

“You don’t need anything else,” he purred against her lips, his hand sliding low, possessive, pressing as if he could mold her into acquiescence. “Just me. Only me. That’s all you’ve ever wanted.”

The words cut through her haze like ice water, burning cold in the fever of their frenzy. Suddenly the world tilted. This wasn’t a plea, wasn’t an apology or a desperate reaching for her heart. It was the same honeyed snare he had once wrapped around countless throats. The coaxing, the claiming, the demand for surrender disguised as devotion.

Tav’s stomach turned, fury and grief colliding with the pulse of desire still burning through her veins. For a heartbeat she almost couldn’t breathe; not from his touch, not from the heat of him driving into her, but from the dawning clarity. This wasn’t reconciliation. This was war by another name.

Her body froze beneath him. Not in surrender, not in the trembling edge of ecstasy he thought he had coaxed, but in fury.

Her hands, which had clutched and clawed at his back, suddenly shoved against his chest with brutal force. Astarion staggered back a half-step, surprise flashing in his crimson eyes as she tore herself from his grip.

The scrape of her skirts against the table was a violent sound, her breath ragged as she slid off the polished surface, refusing the prison of his arms. “Get off of me,” she demanded, voice sharp and trembling, not with weakness but with the force of the rage vibrating through her.

Astarion blinked, mask faltering for the briefest instant before his smirk flickered back into place, weaker, edged with something brittle. “Darling—”

“Don’t darling me.” Tav’s voice cracked like a whip, raw and unflinching. She backed away, chest heaving, her lips still swollen from his kisses, the taste of him still bitter copper on her tongue. “This,” she gestured to the broken table, the shattered glass, “wasn’t love. It wasn’t an apology. It was you trying to control me.”

The fury in her eyes was sharper than any blade, and for the first time in a long while, he looked caught off-guard.

“You want me pliant, begging, desperate enough to trade away what I’ve chosen. Our child.” Her voice shook on the word, but her gaze never faltered. “But I am not that girl, Astarion. I will not be yours to break.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy and jagged. Candlelight flickered over spilled wine and shattered crystal, the remnants of their storm laid bare.

For a moment, he simply stared. The smirk clung to his lips, brittle as spun glass, his crimson eyes fixed on her with something too complex, too wild to name. Then the mask cracked.

His laugh was sharp, bitter, teeth bared like a wolf cornered. “Control you? Gods, listen to yourself.” Astarion’s voice rang with mocking disbelief, but the edge was too jagged, the pitch too high, betraying more than he meant it to. He stepped forward, hands spreading in an exaggerated display of wounded innocence. “I give you pleasure, I give you everything, and you twist it into some pathetic tale of chains and control?”

Tav didn’t flinch, and that, her steady fire, her refusal to bow, ignited something dangerous in him. His smirk faltered, twisting into a snarl. “Do you have any idea what I’ve sacrificed for you? For this wretched little fantasy you’re clinging to?” His voice broke, anger cracking open into something raw. “And now you’d throw it all away. For this.”

The word landed like venom, his gaze burning hot and hateful at her stomach for one shattering instant before he tore it back to her eyes.

“Sacrificed?” Tav spat, the word like broken glass on her tongue. “What in the Nine Hells could you possibly mean by that, Astarion?”

She stepped into him, close enough that her chest brushed his, forcing him to feel every tremor of her rage. “Tell me. Tell me what great, noble price you’ve paid for me, for us. Because all I see is you running, hiding behind your smug little smiles and games.” Her hand rose, pressing flat against his chest, not tender but firm, pinning him in place as if she could hold him there by sheer will.

For the barest instant, his face wavered. Too raw, too exposed, before he turned his head, a sharp laugh breaking from his throat. It was brittle, hollow, meant to slice rather than soothe.

“Oh, darling, must we spell it all out?” Astarion drawled, but the edges of his voice were frayed and uneven. He slipped from her hand like smoke, pacing a short circle as if motion could shield him. “Sacrifice, compromise, call it what you will. It’s what I do. What I’ve always done. Do you think power and security fall into our laps like fruit from a tree?”

He flicked a glance her way, crimson eyes catching the light, his smirk stretched too thin. “I have built everything we have. This palace, this life, brick by bloody brick. And you,” he paused, swallowing the tremor that wanted to escape, “you cannot even begin to imagine what it has cost me.”

But he did not name it. Not the nights he wakes in a cold sweat, convinced he’s still a slave. Not the gnawing fear that never leaves him, nor the voices in his head whispering he is still nothing, still worthless. He would not give her those truths.

Instead, he waved a careless hand, lips curling as though the very question bored him. “Sacrifices, my love, are the foundation of any empire. Best you leave the tallying to me.”

“Don’t you dare,” Tav snapped, her voice cutting through the chamber like a blade. The sound startled even her, low, feral, shaking with fury. She stepped toward him, closing the gap he’d tried to create

“Don’t you dare stand there and talk in riddles as though I’m some fool who should be grateful for scraps of your truth.” Her chest heaved, eyes blazing, every word dripping with the fire he always claimed to love. “You think I don’t know sacrifice? That I haven’t bled for you, lied for you, killed for you? You think it’s only you who’s given up pieces of yourself to keep us breathing?”

Her voice rose, sharp and trembling. “Look at me, Astarion! Look at what you’re saying! What have you given up for me that you think gives you the right to spit venom at the life inside me?” 

For a heartbeat, silence stretched taut between them, trembling, waiting to snap. Then Astarion’s face twisted. Fury and something darker, and he moved.

The goblet on the table went first, hurled with such force it shattered against the far wall, wine streaking the stone like blood. Tav flinched at the sharp crack, her head jerking toward the splatter, then back to him, her jaw set, her eyes wide with disbelief.

He seized a platter, flinging it across the chamber in a rain of silver and porcelain that crashed to the floor with a ringing, final violence. 

“You think you’ve given more?!” Astarion roared, crimson eyes blazing, his voice cracking as it tore from his throat.

Tav’s breath caught sharp in her chest, not fear but outrage, her lips parting in shock. “Astarion—”

Another crash, a chair upended, splintering against the marble. “Everything I’ve done was for you! Every filthy compromise, every calculated smile, every soul I’ve destroyed. Don’t you dare stand there and tell me I’ve given you nothing but riddles!”

He was pacing now, wild, every inch of him burning with the fury of someone cornered, every graceful line of his body jagged with rage. His hand struck the edge of the table, sending a line of crystal flutes skittering and shattering into glittering debris.

“And still, still, I’m the damsel in your story, aren’t I?” His voice broke into a bitter, feral laugh, raw around the edges. He turned on her, eyes blood-bright, fangs bared. “I’m the monster who can’t possibly understand. The wretch who’s too broken to love anything but himself. That’s what you want me to be, so you can keep clinging to this fantasy that you’re the righteous one, the martyr, the—”

His hand lashed out again, this time not throwing but tearing at the velvet runner along the table, ripping it down in a single vicious motion. Plates, goblets, candlesticks tumbled in a storm of chaos, candle flames guttering, shadows leaping up the walls like specters.

Tav’s whole body jolted at the sudden crash, her hands curling into fists at her sides. She wanted to strike back, to throw something herself, but instead she stood rooted in place, forcing herself still, burning her defiance into the air between them.

Astarion stood in the wreckage, chest heaving, lips curled into something between a snarl and a sneer, his voice dropping to a ragged hiss. 

“I have given for you, Tav. And this,” his hand slashed through the air toward her stomach before clenching into a fist, trembling. “This is how you repay me.”

Tav’s mouth fell open, a sharp, shocked breath tearing through her. The room spun with broken glass and toppled finery, but all she saw was him; his fist, his trembling, his fury aimed like a blade at her womb.

“Repay you?” She breathed, her voice shaking but not breaking. Her spine straightened, fire sparking through her veins. “Is that what I am to you, then? A debt to be balanced?”

For the briefest flicker, something pained flashed across his face, gone before she could name it. His lips peeled back, sharp with cruelty, and his words struck like a lash.

“I could be so much more without you dragging me into the dirt with your bleeding heart and your impossible dreams,” he hissed, voice low, vicious, trembling with all the venom he could summon. His crimson eyes blazed, cutting into her. “Without you, Tav, I’d already have the world in my hands.”

The silence after was deafening.

He turned sharply, his cloak flaring like a wound of shadow in the candlelight. Tav’s breath hitched, and instinctively, desperately, she reached for him, her fingers snaring the edge of his sleeve. “Astarion, don’t you dare walk away from me.”

For a heartbeat, he froze, back rigid, shoulders taut. Then, with a violent twist, he tore himself free, the fabric rasping against her grip as he ripped himself out of her grasp.

“Watch me,” he spat, not turning back.

And then he was gone, the doors slamming behind him, leaving her alone in the wreckage. The broken glass, the guttering candles, the bitter echo of his words still ringing through the hollow palace halls.

Notes:

Oh, you thought things were going to get better between them for a minute there?

*Misty Step escapes*