Chapter Text
Absolutely disgusting, Astarion thinks. The man in front of him is burly. His beard is unkept, greasy, and decorated with flecks of old food like ornaments on a tree. Yellow teeth smile at him with breath that reeks of cheap beer. The man speaks with a hand firmly on Astarion's thigh, fat fingers squeezing his flesh. He feels like a fish plucked out of the water, suffocating in the grasp of a proud fisherman.
Astarion wants to vomit.
"You know, we could getaway an' have some fun, er, just you an' me. What d'you say?" The man says with a slight slur in his words. His cheeks are flushed. His eyes roam over the pale elf's body. His are eyes that desire. Desire to devour.
Astarion smiles. "Darling, I thought you'd never ask. Lead the way."
The man stands up and stumbles. Astarion offers his arm for support. The human brushes him off and instead wraps an arm around the elf's waist. His grip is tight, feeling him up through his dress shirt.
Together, they leave the tavern.
Half an hour later, the man takes him on his back, pressing his face into Astarion's neck. He grunts like a pig into his ear with each thrust. It's not incredibly painful. There's not much inside Astarion though the man certainly thinks otherwise.
"Like that? Like-- ahh-- like 'avin my big cock fuckin' you?"
The vampire spawn rolls his eyes. They always think themselves so precious, so desirable.
He forces a moan. "Oh, yes, darling. You're being so good to me."
The man sneaks a hand behind the elf's head, grabbing a fistful of silver curls to yank him back. He sucks on the pale neck exposed to him, marking him sloppily.
Astarion focuses on the sound of the bed creaking awkwardly. Each thrust knocks the bedframe against the wall. The scent of old linen mixes with the nauseating body odor of the man and their sex.
A few messy pumps and brutish grunts later, the man spends himself inside Astarion. His release feels hot inside him. It feels like the man is branding him. He winces at the sensation.
"Fuck-- you got a tight ass. Feels so good."
"So I've been told. I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, dear."
The man pulls out. What was his name again? Harry? Henry? He can't remember. He doesn’t care enough to ask.
With the worst part over, it doesn't take much for Astarion to charm the man into following him to Cazador's palace. He dumps him at his master's feet, unceremoniously.
Cazador examines the cattle brought before him. The man tethers on the edge of unconsciousness. He's too drunk to notice the vampire looming over him.
"This one will do," his master says. He turns to Astarion. His eyes roam over his body, taking in the sight of his messy hair and bruised neck. Mocking satisfaction settles in his gaze. He delights in Astarion's shame.
Cazador inhales, breathing in his scent. "You smell like a whore," he sneers.
Astarion bites his tongue and looks down at his feet. He can feel the man's seed running down his leg. He certainly feels like a whore. The inside of his skin feels dirty. He feels so unclean he could cry. He doesn't though. Not in front of Cazador. If his master wants to see him cry, he'll have to torture the tears out of him.
Cazador dismisses Astarion for the night, and the vampire spawn retreats into the shadows. In the last couple of hours until dawn, he hunts for rats to feed on. Their blood doesn't fill the roaring pit in his stomach. He hungers for more. He always wants more.
The next night, the pale elf makes his way to a different tavern located on the other side of the city. These things have to be careful. Cazador hates drawing attention to his misdeeds, and it simply won't do to ruin his precious reputation.
This tavern feels much more homely than the ones he's used to. Much less. . . debauched. Inside, the fireplace is lit, casting a warm light on the occupants. There's a small stage on the other side of the tavern where a tiefling girl is singing and playing the lute. Her voice is soft, almost like a lullaby.
There's a variety of victims to choose from-- humans, elves, tieflings, even a couple of gnomes. No one sat alone, unfortunately. No one seemed to be drinking for the sake of getting desperately drunk either. No. The tavern people here are smiling and laughing and speaking to each other with such warmth it makes Astarion want to rip their heads off.
How disgusting, he thinks. He contemplates leaving for another tavern nearby. One full of depraved souls and hedonists like him. He's so lost in his loathing for everyone here that he doesn't notice the stranger coming up behind him until--
"--You look so lost it's almost adorable."
The voice cuts through his thoughts with a cold blade. Astarion spins around. Playful eyes greet his gaze with a sly smirk.
It's the smugness that does it. Waves begin to rage in the vampire spawn. He shakes off the shock of surprise and puts his mask back on gracefully. Far be it for him to let cattle get the better of him.
"Perhaps you'd care to show me around," Astarion purrs, stepping closer to his next victim.
The stranger raises a brow. "Oh? And why would I care to do that?"
His voice is deep and smooth. He stood straight like a brick wall. To his bitterness, the elf saw he was a few inches shorter than the stranger.
The stillness in him was eerie, perhaps a result of a disciplined profession. Paladin? Monk? Astarion can't decide.
"Don't be like that, dear," Astarion says, smiling. "Show me a good time and I'll show you a very good time."
Something changes in the stranger.
There's a flicker of anger that quickly turns to laughter.
He dares to laugh in Astarion's face.
It's so blunt and loud that a few of the tavern people glance their way.
I'm going to fucking kill you, Astarion wants to say. A burning sensation fills his mind, punishing his thoughts. The stranger belongs to Cazador.
Everything belongs to Cazador.
A hand reaches out to tug on his silver curls in mock affection. "Oh why not," the stranger coos.
He gestures to a table behind them, obscured by the shadows where the light of the fireplace cannot reach. "After you," he says, giving the pale elf an innocent smile.
Disgusting, Astarion thinks. I've never seen anyone uglier.
The vampire spawn moves to take a seat.
He does not see how the stranger's unblinking eyes follow his every movement.
He does not see how he yearns to dissect him.
The elf stood out to the Dark Urge the second he walked through the door.
It's rare to see someone so beautiful. Silver curls, pale skin, and blood red eyes. He'd make a lovely corpse, he thinks.
The elf looks around the tavern. There's something fragile in the way he carries himself, hiding an open wound. A wound that could bleed wonderfully under skilled hands. He takes a step back, guided by regret. It looks like he's going to leave.
That simply won't do, the Dark Urge thinks. He stands and leaves his table in the corner of the room, walking over to the pale one in silent steps.
"You look so lost it's almost adorable," he says.
The elf startles and whips around, staring at him with wide eyes. He grins at the sight of his fear. It's not taken too kindly. With a breath in, the elf makes himself relax and greets him with cold eyes.
Curious.
"Perhaps you'd care to show me around," the pale one purrs. His voice is laced with lust, and he steps closer to him with shameless determination.
He catches a whiff of his scent. A slight odor of decay masked by bergamot, rosemary, and a dash of aged brandy.
Very curious.
"Oh? And why would I care to do that?" He asks, coolly. He made his voice sound passive. The need to cut the elf open was almost unbearable. His desire to see his beautiful guts decorate the tavern floor was itching at his skin like poison ivy.
"Don't be like that, dear," the elf says, smiling. "Show me a good time and I'll show you a very good time."
For a second, his restraint falters.
Kill him. . . spit at him. . . mock him. . . devour him whole.
The voices are everywhere and nowhere, and he can't help but burst into a fit of laughter. It shakes him to the very core of his damned soul.
This beautiful, pathetic elf believes he can motivate him with the promise of sex. He is a Bhaalspawn, above carnal desires. His design is much more elegant.
Ever so watchful, he doesn't miss how the elf tenses. How his jaw clenches and his eyes glare at him for just a few seconds before returning back to their previous playfulness.
What are you, really?
In an impulsive move, he lets himself reach out and, gently, he tugs on the elf's silver hair. It feels like he's holding moonlight.
To kill or not to kill, that is the question, he thinks to himself. Alas, the night is young. He'd make the pretty elf sing a song of pain and misery before it was over. Of that much, he was certain.
"Oh why not," he says, extending his arm to gesture to the table behind them.
With his best smile, he adds, "After you."
The elf grins and moves to seat himself at the table with his back against the wall.
"Allow me to introduce myself," he says. "My name is Astarion. And you are?"
He smiles. "I'm not in the habit of giving my name out to just anyone, Astarion. Besides, people only refer to me by my title nowadays."
Astarion bristles. To his credit, he hides it well. "How very mysterious. And what exactly is your title?"
The Dark Urge.
"Wouldn't you like to know," he teases, pouring a cup of wine for the pale elf.
Astarion thanks him, downing the silver goblet in large gulps. He watches his throat and the way his skin flexes as he drinks.
"So, what do you do in the city? Or is that also a secret?" Astarion asks.
The Dark Urge smiles. "I work with corpses."
A moment of silence passes between them.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me."
The elf stares at him like he's grown another head. "You seem. . . proud-- proud to be a mortician, I mean."
"Have you met many morticians?"
"I can't say I have."
He sighs, dreamily. "It's my delight. Not everyone has the skill to work with corpses. Not everyone can stomach it."
Astarion chuckles and it's an honest laugh. He looks surprised at himself for it. "I suppose not. I can't see the appeal, but far be it for me to judge others for their. . . delights."
"What about you, Astarion? Where do you take your pleasure?" He asks coolly.
"I think it's obvious where I take my pleasure," the elf says, eyes traveling down his chest, going lower and lower to rest at his groin. Astarion bites his lip ever so slightly, then looks back up to meet his gaze.
His eyes twinkle with mischief. The elf grins at him, all charm and beauty.
The Dark Urge smiles in return. "Is it really a pleasure for you?"
The words hit him like a stone being thrown in a pond that's been still for too long.
"Excuse me?"
"I said, is it really your pleasure? You look like you don't want to be here, little elf."
Astarion's smile grows teeth. "Is that so?"
The elf raises his head defiantly. That's when the Dark Urge notices two curious puncture wounds in his pale neck, slightly obscured by the collar of his shirt. The scars are healed but they glare at him like dark eyes.
Could he be--
Astarion draws his attention by grabbing his hand. He pulls him close until his body is halfway across the table. He breathes in his face, "Then tell me, my dear, what is my pleasure?"
He risks a quick glance at their silver goblets on the table. A distorted reflection greets him. The Dark Urge sees only himself, the pale elf nowhere to be found. The realization hits him like a gust of grey wind.
Vampire.
He lets himself grin in Astarion's face, baring sharp teeth. For the first time in a very long time, he feels excited. The beginnings of an intricate plan weave themselves in his mind.
"Let me show you your pleasure somewhere more private, little elf. I promise you won't regret it."
Astarion purrs, or maybe he snarls, "Darling, I thought you'd never ask. Lead the way."