#abyssmarked

A raw thrill shudders through him as those words spill from tempting lips. It’s lust: pure and animalistic, the magnetic draw of an entity so sexual—so deeply alluring—that his body responds without a second thought. He’s been resigned to it from the moment they first met. She’s a succubus, a creature built to entice him in every bodily way. What hope does he, a mere human with questionable impulse control even on the best of days, have against such temptation?

But, he can’t forget the very large elephant in the room—the sharp, unpleasant awareness that the slightest slip could spell his eternal doom. If anything could dampen the mood, it’s that.

“I like kisses. I like kisses very, very…” his train of thought falters as her hands move over his body, claiming him as her own. Breath hitches and quakes; eager fingers have already started plucking at his clothing, hungry for the heat of his naked skin. “Very much,” he breathes, swallowing hard against the sudden dryness in his mouth. There was a point he was trying to make. What was his point?

He writhes in his seat on the bed, slowly scooting away from her until his back is pressed up against the headboard. “But, just to be clear,” he continues, rushing to finish the thought before she can pluck away his attention again. “There will be no siphoning of life force tonight, correct?” He tenses as her hands slide up his thighs, grunting against the surge of desire that threatens to take over. It’s almost embarrassing how easily she can take him apart, just with her touch. But of course she’s good at this. It’s written in her blood.

The atmosphere was thick with merry that night, the fellow companions circled about the fireplace of Last Light Inn with wine and mead shared between them as they recounted the most glorious aspects of the hard battle won today. They had a right to their joy and festivities, of course, and such indulgences was a natural byproduct of massive adrenaline rushes that resulted in a victory. They could be allowed this.

But even the most victorious of battles had their losses. Even fights won had a mourning weaving through it. Astarion knew this well, he'd spent two-hundred years trying to find pride and joy in whatever small victories he could manage in a life that was pure shit, bile, and pain. He supposed it was nice that his companions were still able to savor such things, to find a silver lining, as the expression went.

Astarion was no stranger to jubilations and, frankly, he sought any reason he could for it ever since he'd been infected with the parasite. Tonight, however, he couldn't find it in himself to join in. Not even for an excuse to drink wine that, thanks to his undead status, tasted of vinegar but still helped him feel alive when it went down his throat burning.

He chose to linger instead at the archway of the door that led outside, ears twitching slightly at the sounds of the others regaling their parts in the battle and laugh, his arms crossed as crimson eyes scanned the horizon of the lands. There was something dense and solemn beneath the surface, something that pulled at him. That something was what made him so reluctant to the festivities to begin with.

He was only mildly surprised to realize that their illustrious leader was not among the party, the very one who constantly led them into these battles and was the main source to their victories.

Sneaking away was hardly any effort when they made merry so very loudly, but the rogue took soft steps in the direction of where they had last set camp and where Nepharia's tent was tucked away. The camp was quiet, looking so abandoned with not a soul in sight. But Astarion knew better, he could smell the scent of her blood faintly in the air. She was here.

He wasn't even sure if she could feel his presence of the sound of footfall when he approached, as she had succumbed to her grief. A grief that was justified as his gaze traced over the gaping wounds left where he knew wings used to be, caked in dried blood - some even still damp near the central tears. The scent was intoxicating for the vampire, to say the least, and it was his body's natural response that his mouth water as he grew nearer and the sweet metallic smell grew stronger. But Astarion had had practice in restraint now, thanks to Nepharia whom he looked down upon and felt nothing but compassionate sorrow for.

A part of her had been taken and a scar would be left to remind her of the freedom robbed from her. He could relate, and muscle memory of the pain of a knife carving into his back made him wince. He was luckier, however, it that he was branded with a scar rather than having had a piece of his flesh torn away and discarded like trash.

He knelt behind her, pausing a moment to decide if he should reach out to her or to speak up. Truthfully, he wasn't very good at comforting others. He and his siblings were not allowed the luxury of showing compassion and softness to one another, and those who dared still try were often mocked and belittled and beaten for their weakness. Yet he felt compelled to, to show her that she wasn't alone in her grief and that there was a soul out there who could possibly understand the grief that overcame her. Without another thought, his body acted, leaning over to place the most tender of kisses to one of the fresh scars upon her back. Nepharia had been the one to teach him such affections.

The way that she recoils and shifts into her disguise is what keeps him from making another move. Simply staying where he was knelt as her observed her, as the quiver in her voice sounded out and made his heart twist. He was familiar with such a reaction, because it was one that he practiced so devotedly himself.

He knows this game.

It hearkens back to his infernal youth, when all he knew were devils and the damned. It’s all too familiar—that cloying, senseless desire that threatens to choke all rational thought. He’s felt it before, struggled against the lure of a succubus as if the will of a mere human could break the hold. He can’t help but respond to her, because she is the honey and he the helpless fly—she was born to be everything that he wants and more, and for all his iron will, his flesh still yearns to taste hers.

It irritates him. Control is a virtue he extols above all others, so to lose his? It borders on unforgiveable.

Still. He needs her cooperation. It’s dangerous letting her get so close, but at least here he can keep an eye on her. And for all her charms, he has no intention of giving in. He’s played this game before—seen for himself just how dangerous a succubus can be. He’s walking a fine line, playing along just enough to keep her invested, holding back to maintain what self-control he can still muster. She’s a threat to him in more ways than one; he just needs to get her on his side before she manages to get him on his back.

As she saunters through his office the thinly veiled flirtations of the past few hours fall away. There’s a design to the way she moves—a carefully measured cadence, as if the passing of moments are the beats of a familiar dance. It’s effortlessly natural when her fingertips loose the neckline of her dress, exposing more of that hellish skin the color of moonlight. He can’t help himself; his gaze feasts on the shape of her body, an artful arrangement so perfectly balanced that his attention borders on fascination. He feels drawn, as if pulled by some invisible force, beckoned deeper into the embrace of carnal delights.

—And he resists. He stands his ground even as she draws closer, chin raised in guarded awareness. Sticky-sweet words wash over him, stroking at his hungry ego, lulling him into a state of relaxation too deep to be natural. He tightens his jaw against the sensation, muscles visibly working beneath the skin. Hot blood rushes through his veins as a quickened pulse drums inside his chest. Powerful hands tighten into fists at his side, the tensing of hard muscle pulling him away from the lull of delirium. This has to stop. Any further, and she might just get what she wants.

She is softness and beauty and raw desire. But he is as hard and unyielding as stone. He is Bane’s Chosen—the Tyrant—and he will not be so easily unbound.

“You put on a good show, you know.” His tone is curt, business-like—a critic discussing the latest stage-play rather than a man fending for his life. “But what happens next, I wonder? You kill me, take my stone, and then what? I conceived this plot. I know how to control the brain. Kill me, and you’ll plunge this city into chaos.”

He pauses. One hand raises, fingers unfurling, itching to touch—and for a moment he nearly gives in, hungry fingers reaching for the pristine skin of that pretty face. He thinks better of it at the last moment, fist curling in on itself once more.

( do it. ) don't do it. ( do it. doitdoitdoit. ) shadowy smoke leaks from her eyes from the voice in her head, the increasing volume and increasing desire for mischief.

" assert your dominance! eat it back. " with a flash of recklessness that seems to drag itself from somewhere thoughtless and deep within her, midge strikes out to grab something — not poisonous, not dangerous, killing her would do nothing for the voice in her head . . . there! a pinecone unfortunately within reach, and she bites directly into it. promptly — a mistake. the woody prongs bite back against her tongue, crumbling into dust and seeds of unpleasantness. with a wrinkle of her nose, she spits it out as the voice in her head cackles.

WHILE THERE WAS BETTER FOOD HE COULD FEED ON, the unfortunate foes that stumbled across the party's path would do. Being able to sink his teeth into a living, breathing humanoid left him feeling stronger and happier. Not the tastiest but he'd choose this over a wild boar or rat any day.

With the last of their foes vanquished, until the next fight at least, the vampire stepped back from his chosen prey to rejoin the rest of the party. Watching as the rest varied in their tasks from looting to cleaning off their weapons. Stepping up to Nepharia with a content smile on his lips. "Well! That was certainly an entertaining fight, how did you fare?"

Watching as she stood up, his smile faltered when she reached out to him. Freezing in place when her fingers brushed over his lips and chin. Blinking and brows furrowing in confusion until her hand pulled away to reveal a smear of blood. "Ah, well, forgive me for being a messy eater."

There is a single blink in a gaze of red as Minthara reflects on the question - and it did not take her long to do so. In a single movement she saw her face, Her Priestess, the smile on her lips as she once grazed her own index along them. Then the next breath, the final drag of her touch along her bottom lip as she drew her last breath. It was always a strange occurrence, Minthara thought - that a single sentence threw her back over a hundred years. To a time when she was much younger, to a time when loyalties were questioned and loyalties were proven.

Minthara's arms tense briefly and she manages to feign the action for a shift forward to grasp her own tankard - forward, to the point, militaristic. " Yes. My first." The answer comes without hesitation for Nepharia, driven forward by the memory of her dying in her arms as the poison did it's work. "She was a Priestess of House Vandree. Beautiful.. Elegant." She recalls the grace she held - even as she struck down her enemies. And with the recollection Minthara tone lowers with an adoring hiss, feeling her chest swell with the pride. "Ruthless."

"I adored her." Minthara's story continues, yet as she spoke she remembers. And remembers well the early mornings wrapped in her arms, the smiles shared as her Priestess plucked a piece of fruit into her mouth before sharing a kiss. - The Drow blinks slowly to she pull herself from the memory. "And had been sharing her bed for some time when the order came that she must die."