#caniasfire

Avernus was an unforgiving landscape, the rough terrain scraping against the pads of Ibis's bare feet. She'd been trudging through this literal hell hole for over a month now, evading devil patrols as best she could. It was boring and tedious Ibis much preferred a fight, but it was a necessary precaution.

After falling to many a devil blade, forced to reform in the depths of the Abyss only to crawl her way back to Avernus again…she'd learned to be more cautious.

Despite her previous failings, Ibis's resolve was resolute.

She WOULD get to the material plane, no matter the cost.

Movement caught Ibis's eye in the distance. A green spec, moving out in the open.

A lone devil. All alone. With no back-up.

Perfect.

A vicious grin tore across the cambion's face, her body laying low as she prowled towards her new found prey. A devil isolated from it's pack was a rare find, usually traveling with an entourage of underlings and muscle to back them up. If this one was so confident by themselves…that must have meant they were high ranking. Valuable.

Fighting against devils directly had not worked out thus far…perhaps ransom would work in her favor.

       Iago whirls towards the sound of snapping branches, but holds the spell on their tongue when a familiar viridescent tiefling stumbles into their little haven. The primed attack turns into a mage hand, a wretched-looking clawed thing that starts to pluck out the leaves from his hair, flicking a twig from his shoulder. 

       “A bad one for you, it seems,” Iago answers unhelpfully. 

Astarion moves with practiced grace, the dagger in his hand a natural extension of his body as he circles Amay, eyes gleaming with predatory intent. Sparring had never been his preferred pastime; there was no thrill of true danger, no satisfying conclusion of blood spilled, but Amay had asked, and that, somehow, made all the difference. The rogue had agreed, though his motivations ran far deeper than the mere act of honing skills. He wasn’t here for the sake of practice; this was about keeping Amay close, manipulating desire, weaving his web of control with every lingering glance and fleeting touch. Yet, something unexpected has shifted between them.

Astarion doesn’t quite realize when his mind begins to wander during their exchange of blows, but it happens. A flash of Amay’s determined expression, the heat of his blood pounding through his veins, and the smell of sweat and life so close——it all blurs together for a moment. And in that moment, Amay moves faster, sharper, and suddenly, Astarion’s back hits the ground. His breath catches, but not from the impact. Amay’s thighs, strong and unyielding, press into his sides, holding him firmly in place. He looks up into Amay’s face, a wicked glint sparking in his crimson eyes. The dagger is at his throat, the blade cool against his skin, but there’s no fear. Only amusement. Desire, even, perhaps?

How very unexpected.

Astarion’s lips curl into a smirk, a slow, dangerous thing that twists with knowing amusement. His voice, soft and taunting, drips with innuendo as he speaks, utterly unbothered by the precarious position he finds himself in.

❛ Did you really need practice, ❜ he begins, his tone rich with suggestion, ❛ or was this just an excuse to get close to me again? ❜

His voice lowers to a purr, and Astarion leans up, just slightly, just enough to close the distance between them. His face is so close now, his lips hovering just a breath away from Amay’s. The faintest brush of air passes between them, and he can feel the heat radiating from the man’s skin, the intoxicating pulse of too hot blood just beneath the surface. Astarion’s smirk deepens, and his eyes flick up, meeting Amay’s gaze with a look that is all hunger, all invitation.

❛ Darling, ❜ he murmurs, the word slipping from his mouth like silk, ❛ you don’t need an excuse for that. ❜

He lets the moment hang between them, the weight of it heavy, charged. His pale, slender fingers brush lightly against Amay’s thigh, tracing an idle path that speaks of promises unspoken. The dagger remains at his throat, but Astarion’s posture is relaxed, as if they are merely having a pleasant conversation and not locked in a sparring match where the line between play and seduction is all but obliterated.

His smile, sharp and wicked, remains in place, and for once, Astarion isn’t entirely sure if the game he’s playing is still entirely within his control. Something unfamiliar stirs in his chest, something easy to ignore, yes, but not easy to dismiss entirely. Not when Amay is so close, pinning him down, their bodies pressed together in this unexpected, delicious moment of tension.

The dream is so beautiful at first——too beautiful. It’s the kind of happiness Astarion hardly lets himself believe in, let alone hope for. He and Amay are free, truly free. The shadow of their cursed pasts long behind them. No tadpoles, no hellish masters, just endless possibilities. They’re powerful, unbound, ruling their world together as they should. The sun shines down on them and Astarion doesn’t flinch beneath its light. Amay’s laughter fills the air, bright and untainted, a sound of pure joy, and Astarion’s heart swells to hear it.

But then comes that shadow.

It seeps into the dream like blood into water——dark, spreading, impossible to ignore. Before Astarion can react, he sees him. Cazador. That monstrous, familiar figure looming, his red eyes glowing with twisted amusement. There’s no escape, no chance to protect what he loves. Cazador’s hand shoots out, fast as lightning, closing around Amay’s throat. Astarion tries to move, to scream, to throw himself between them, but he can’t. He’s frozen. Helpless. He can only watch, horror gripping his chest like a vice, as Amay struggles, choking on his own pleas for help.

Cazador’s gaze snaps to Astarion, eyes gleaming in the surreal darkness, glowing like embers of an ancient fire. “Foolish, boy,” he sneers, his voice a venomous sound that crawls into Astarion’s soul. “You really believed you were capable of escaping me?” Astarion’s mouth opens, but no sound comes. He tries to shout, to cry out, but his voice has abandoned him. He can’t even tremble, pinned by the overwhelming weight of Cazador’s will. He’s back under his master’s control, just a pawn again, unable to save the one he loves, condemned to watch the life drain from Amay’s eyes as Cazador sinks his fangs into the soft flesh of his throat. Desperation claws at him, a frantic, animalistic need to do something—anything—but he remains paralyzed, a prisoner of his own mind.

Then, through the suffocating silence, he hears his name.

It starts like a whisper, distant, but it grows louder. A sudden shift in the bed, the faint rustle of sheets. The weight of the nightmare begins to slip, like sand falling from his fingers, but the terror still clings to him, thick and oppressive. The dream collapses inward as though the world itself is falling away, leaving him weightless, suspended over a yawning abyss.

Astarion wakes with a violent start, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. His eyes snap open, wide and frantic, pupils blown as he takes in the familiar room of the Elfsong Tavern. The soft glow of distant lanterns, the faint hum of the city outside——it’s real, all of it. Not a dream. Not a nightmare. But his mind is still trapped in that place, still haunted by the image of Cazador’s hand wrapped around Amay’s throat. Amay. He bolts upright in bed, hands grasping blindly in the darkness, reaching for something, someone. His fingers collide with warm flesh, and it grounds him, yanking him back from the edge of panic. His darkvision adjusts quickly, and there, beside him, is Amay——alive, safe, untouched.

Relief hits him like a punch to the gut, and without thinking, he pulls Amay into a desperate, crushing embrace. He holds him as though he might vanish if Astarion lets go, his arms trembling with the force of it. The warmth of Amay’s skin, the sound of his breathing, the solidness of him——it anchors Astarion in the present, reminds him that this is real, that Cazador is not here. A choked sob claws its way up from his chest before he can stop it, a sound so raw and broken it shakes his entire frame. He presses his face into the curve of Amay’s neck, where he can feel his pulse——steady, alive. It’s a comfort, but it doesn’t stop the flood of emotion that threatens to overwhelm him. He fights to swallow it back, to push down the terror that still lingers at the edges of his mind, but it’s too much. For a moment, he allows himself the vulnerability, clinging to Amay like a lifeline.

The vampire spawn sits by the flickering campfire, his crimson eyes subtly tracking the strange green-skinned figure across from him. The night is deep, and the others are already slipping into their restless dreams, but he’s still awake, his mind buzzing with a mixture of hunger and curiosity. His fangs ache, an ever-present reminder of the gnawing hunger he’s been trying to suppress, sneaking out into the night to sate himself on whatever unfortunate creature he can find. But it’s a pale satisfaction compared to what he really desires.

His gaze lingers on Amay, whose skin almost seems to shimmer in the firelight, a vivid green that refuses to blend into the shadows. He smells of sulfur and hellfire. It clings to him, even days out of Avernus, and it stirs something primal within the vampire spawn. What would he taste like? Would his blood burn like the fire he reeks of, or would it be something else entirely? The thought makes Astarion’s tongue press against the roof of his mouth, fighting back the urge to bare his fangs and take just a taste. But he can’t—not yet. Not with the others so close, and not when he’s worked so hard to keep his true nature hidden.