#tystar

Tyrus’s own wounds were unhelped by radiant magic, but they had almost closed up on their own already. Still, he leaned back against the bookcase, trying to steady himself through the deepened hunger pains and lightheadedness that was only growing worse over the last two nights since this mission started. He’d managed two rats before they snuck under the hidden passage of the Last Light Inn, then crawled back up in an anxious old fisherman’s shack who led them to a secret backway into the morgue. Since then they’d battled aggressive oozes, a flock of undead, and a few Sharran guards, with little rest in between.

Not that rest would fix the issue, Tyrus knew, ripping his eyes away from the blood dripping down Jaheira’s ribcage.

“We need to find a hiding place and rest,” he said aloud whilst moving to the doors behind them, casting Arcane Lock to buy time before any other medical staff tried to enter the amphitheater. “We’ll go to the Waning Moon next.”

When he turned back, Cynda nodded toward the small side door Astarion had lockpicked to get them in. “We could try hiding back in the morgue, or one of the mausoleums outside,” she said.

Jaheira scoffed, then winced as Cynda’s hands lit up and the deep cut knitted back together. “Are you ready for another fight, then?” she countered. “There are still many guards and Justiciars patrolling the streets. Sharrans seem to be more active in these dark hours of night.”

“An unfortunate coincidence for us,” Astarion replied in a light tone, though he wasn’t looking at anyone as he flipped his dagger once and sheathed it. “Shall I spy out a short resting spot for us above?” he nodded at the second level and began heading towards it.

Halsin protested, “It’s not safe to go alone—”

“Much safer than trying to sneak with you lot clattering next to me,” Astarion countered in a bright, unbothered tone as he skipped up the stairs two steps at a time.

Halsin glanced over at Tyrus beseechingly, but he just shook his head. 

Cynda was the one to snap on a twig and alert the guards they fought, just before this fight. And if this encounter with Malus Thorm had shaken Astarion even half as much as it did Tyrus, then he wouldn’t deny Astarion a bit of space to process it. Even if he’d much rather be held and comforted right now.

Tyrus skimmed over the bookshelf titles, trying to distract himself. But his vision was coming in and out of focus, his mind and body too sluggish to even stand for long. He’d never fought this many times in so short a period, of course—even during their trek through the Underdark, he and Astarion had taken regular breaks and avoided or ran from any danger they crossed wherever they could. He hadn’t felt this depleted, so thoroughly and so suddenly, since . . . well, since Cazador.

The scent of spilled blood in the air grew stronger, suddenly. Tyrus stiffened, turning to find Cynda approaching with Jaheira’s fresh blood still on her hand. Tyrus took a quick step back, hardly able to focus on his sister’s words, “Did your wounds heal alright?”

He couldn’t call himself nearly so experienced at ignoring blood as Astarion was, even if his damaged mind stopped him from enjoying it. So Tyrus used only the air remaining in his lungs to answer, “Just like usual,” with a shaky nod.

But then Cynda took a step closer, a hand reaching out—and Tyrus flinched, voice desperate as he pleaded, “Don’t come near!”

Cynda froze. Halsin and Jaheira both looked his way. Tyrus wished desperately for Astarion, but he wasn’t there.

“I’m sorry, Tyrus,” Cynda said, her dark red eyes round with concern as she began backing away. “We . . . we all just need some rest and replenishment right now, I know. Can I do anything?”

“I’ll be fine,” Tyrus quickly shook his head.

His sister gave him a sad little smile and a nod. Then she turned and moved over to Halsin, taking both of his hands in hers as she whispered quietly to him.

Tyrus sighed and turned away, wishing for his own hand to be held, to be consoled and reassured by the one person who understood why he felt so shaken—and whose proximity wouldn’t worsen his hunger pains right now.

Tyrus sat on the steps as his sister and Jaheira checked the area for clues, trying to breathe through the feeling and not recall Malus Thorm’s sickly sweet voice, his purring placations so similar to ones that still regularly haunted Tyrus’s mind and heart. He blinked back tears and cast Find Familiar, telling himself he would finally drink this time, and without retching or crying or shaking . . .

The small white cat he summoned on the stair next to him looked up at Tyrus with wide, innocent blue eyes. It didn’t fight when Tyrus picked it up—but he only held the creature close and stroked its fur, blinking and blinking until finally, he gave up and let the tears fall.

“May I ask something?” a low, gentle rumble of a voice asked, pulling Tyrus out of his deep melancholy.

He quickly rubbed away the tears and blinked up at Halsin who, even standing four stairs below, managed to tower over Tyrus. His strong-jawed, handsome face was lined with concern, though what Tyrus noticed more at the moment was the mouthwatering vibrancy and huge quantity of blood pumping through Halsin’s veins.

Tyrus felt his fangs begin to unsheathe and winced, holding the cat a bit tighter as he nodded in answer.

“Thank you,” Halsin said with a smile, then sat himself down a few steps lower than Tyrus—which was just enough distance that Tyrus could still focus on Halsin’s words as he nodded at the animal in Tyrus’s lap, “I hope I’m not interrupting supper.”

“Oh, no—I mean, I thought about it, but . . .” Tyrus stuttered, then shrugged, stroking a hand down the sleek fur of its back. Since Tyrus learned the spell for himself, he still had yet to actually do more than pet the cat. “I’ll find something soon, I’m sure.”

“Astarion’s mentioned you struggle to drink blood,” Halsin said with a gentle smile. “I’m sure, with how many injuries we’ve all sustained, I’m not the only one with an appetite right now.”

“We won’t make it a problem for anyone,” Tyrus said, glancing over at Jaheira and Cynda who were quietly speaking to each other across the room. “I was just—overwhelmed, a few minutes ago. We’ve both had ample opportunity to practice restraint, I can assure you.”

Halsin nodded. “And I notice you shapeshift into an animal most nights for Astarion,” he pointed out. “I’m sure that keeps his strength up—though he’s explained to me that it is not something he can offer in return, correct?”

The old memory of Astarion in lion form intruded then, crying and clawing in protest as Tyrus held him in his greedy grip. Whimpering and bleeding in the closet for minutes afterward.

Tyrus blinked around more tears. Too sickened by the memory alone, he gently placed his familiar down and silently instructed it to go and keep watch for Astarion’s return. 

“I thought I might instead,” Halsin continued. Tyrus’s head whipped toward him at those words, wide-eyed and a bit horrified. But Halsin looked perfectly at ease as he shrugged his huge shoulders and said, “At least, for the duration of this mission—though if all goes well, I might be open to other occasions as well.”

Tyrus swallowed hard. “Halsin,” he whispered, “I would never ask . . .”

“Which is why I offered,” Halsin said, smile widening. “I wouldn’t want my heart’s dearest brother to be left vulnerable at a time like this, especially with an easy way to help. We need you at full strength. Just tell me how best we might make you comfortable, and avoid any problems that make it hard for you.”

Tyrus had to fight the urge to stare at Halsin’s neck or start inching closer. Now on offer, his blood seemed to carry a tangible taste in the air, taunting Tyrus.

He was glad he was no longer holding the cat, his fingers instead digging into his thighs as he rasped, “It–it tastes good, I just . . . I just feel like I’m hurting something, whenever I do it. Makes me sick, I . . . I’ve already hurt so, so many people—” his throat closed up, the rest of Tyrus’s words choked off.

And just at the reminder, the sweet scent of Halsin’s blood took on a sickening quality. Tyrus swallowed down a roll of nausea, looking down at his lap again, all at once imagining the drained, disfigured rabbit corpse in his grip, Cazador Szarr’s voice creeping from the darkest shadows of his mind: No sensations, not even the sweet embrace of lovers, bring us true satisfaction any longer . . . nothing, compared to that taste in your mouth . . .

“You won’t hurt me,” Halsin replied with a confident tone, dispersing some of the shadows. “I am no stranger to pain—I even enjoy it, in choice circumstances—and unlike your spell, I lose none of my faculties or intelligence when I take wildshape. So long as you stop once I revert back into elven form, there shouldn’t be lingering effects either.”

He was right. Tyrus had never allowed himself to consider this option, but a wildshaped druid would be much better equipped to retain rational thought and resist fighting him than an animal or polymorphed individual, and wouldn’t risk draining their true health in the process either.

In theory, it was a perfect solution. 

In practice . . .

“Do you think Cynda would mind?” he had to check next, giving a furtive glance towards his sister who, for all her acceptance of Tyrus and Astarion, had already shown to be endearingly protective of Halsin.

But just then Cynda was leading Jaheira towards the back doors into some sort of office, giving Halsin a meaningful nod and Tyrus a soft, loving smile before she closed the door behind her.

Halsin stood and walked back down the stairs, gesturing for Tyrus to follow. “As long as you’re willing to try . . . she actually suggested it, a few minutes ago.”

Tyrus felt his lingering reserves fade. Even if he wanted to, he didn’t know how he’d argue further. And he didn’t want to—he stood and walked down the stairs, swallowing hard as Halsin waited for him with a gentle smile. 

The druid said nothing once Tyrus reached him, just bent forward, his back in a tall arch . . . then landed on all fours with a swirl of bright green light, and a large cave bear with kind, intelligent eyes stood there in his place.

“You and Cynda are far too good, Halsin,” Tyrus whispered, shaking his head ruefully before he finally gave in to the Hunger.

Then Tyrus closed the remaining distance, burying his face in Halsin’s furry neck.

It tasted wondrous. The blood of a thinking creature still, Tyrus realized distantly as his fangs sank in and the first drops landed on his tongue, the flavor earthy and animalistic but carrying the richness and vitality that normal animal or polymorphed blood simply lacked. He retracted his teeth and drank deeper, arms moving on instinct to cling to this creature and continue feeding. 

The bear tensed a bit at the bite, but otherwise just let out a snorting breath as Tyrus drained it, standing perfectly still. Willing. Not fighting Tyrus, not crying out, even responding with a soft, soothing rumble when a desperate whimper escaped him. Tyrus felt tears prick in his eyes yet again and clung harder, sweet relief sweeping through his body when Halsin didn’t so much as cringe away, but stayed firm—even leaned against Tyrus.

Till he drank so much Halsin grew faint, of course, the bear’s legs swaying and then crumbling under it. Tyrus knew he could pull back—he probably should, with the druid sure to change back at any moment—but he fell to his knees with it and stole a few more mouthfuls, stroking a hand through the great bear’s fur just before green light flared in his half-lidded vision and Halsin’s form shifted.

Tyrus leaned back and swayed as a wave of euphoria washed over him, even stronger than what he’d experienced when he first tasted a thinking creature’s blood from the charmed, thrombophilic victim. Power and energy coursed through him—life essence, this time with no terrible side effects to anticipate, only the brief wonder whether the vitality surging through him was enough to start his dead heart beating again. 

Halsin wasn’t limp and drained under him either, only sighing as he shuffled his large limbs to sit more comfortably on the floor. 

“Are you alright?” Tyrus tried to check, though he couldn’t quite focus through the blissful rush of blood energizing him, from his senses to his thoughts to his connection with the Weave itself.

“Yes. That was rather . . . relaxing,” Halsin smiled, feeling at his neck—where not even a bite mark remained. “Too tired for wildshaping again till we rest,” he reported, “but otherwise, perfectly whole.”

“There’s a little room in the attic where we might sleep away the day,” Astarion’s voice interrupted from a distance.

Astarion’s light feet were nearly silent as he walked back down the stairs, Tyrus’s familiar trailing behind him with a perked tail. Astarion came to a hesitant stop at the sight of both Halsin and Tyrus sitting so close on the floor, however, his dark eyes glancing between them. “Unless we’ve already started a cozy nap here . . . ?”

Tyrus stood up quickly—and then swayed, grateful when Astarion dashed forward and his arms were suddenly there to steady him. “I’m fine,” Tyrus assured before his lover could worry, feeling a blood-drunk smile briefly twitch at his lips. “I . . . I’m much better, actually, thanks to Halsin offering his blood just now. Thank you, Halsin.” Then Tyrus looked over Astarion in return, asking in a soft murmur, “How are you?” 

Astarion’s lips thinned, his eyes shifting away despite how quick he was to reply, “Halsin’s blood, hm? Darling, I’m much better now, knowing you’re not starving anymore.” He let go of Tyrus and asked Halsin curtly, “Though it seems you lost track of the other Aman’del you’re so fond of?”

Halsin stood, his smile unwavering as he said, “I’ll let them know we’re finished,” and moved toward the back room.

Any minute now Tyrus’s spell on the doors could get dispelled—so the group didn’t waste further time before hurrying up to the second level, following Astarion to a small pulley elevator they took up to the attic, and then up a ladder to a small, circular study isolated at the very top of the hospital. They found thick drapes to cover the east-facing windows just before dawn broke, sitting in silence for the first hour or so as alarms and shouts echoed through the building, the dead doctor and nurses discovered.

But they weren’t discovered. Eventually Cynda took to exploring the room, showing Tyrus any books of interest she found, while Jaheira sat in one corner and sharpened her swords with a deep frown. Halsin was deep in meditation the second he laid on some old folded drapes, and Astarion sat back against the wall and closed his eyes with his hands in the official position for the same, though Tyrus seriously doubted he was actually trancing.

It wasn’t until all three mortals had finally laid down and seemed deep in sleep or trance, that Astarion’s eyes opened and found Tyrus already watching him.

Through Message Tyrus asked, Are you actually alright? I wanted to crawl out of my own skin the moment he started speaking. 

I’m glad you had a big bear to comfort you, then, Astarion replied in a barbed tone. Tyrus gave him a single look, however, before Astarion’s prickly exterior wilted. He certainly didn’t remind me of anything good, no.

I’m sorry, Tyrus replied. Can I do anything . . . ?

Astarion let out a soft huff. You do plenty. Then he hunched in on himself, admitting, I am jealous he could be there for you like that, darling. You look so much better now. How I wish I was able . . .

I do too, Tyrus admitted, but it’s alright. You are there for me in every way that matters.

Astarion scowled, unconvinced. Am I? He got onto his knees and crawled over to Tyrus and, once there, wrapped his arms around Tyrus’s waist. As Tyrus held him in return, he felt Astarion’s forehead fall to rest on his collarbone. I want to give you everything . . . but here we are, with nothing but danger and new horrors to boast of. I want to see you content, healthy, happy. I want to be the one to make it so. Astarion blew out a breath and leaned back, regarding Tyrus sadly. And yet I ran off. Left you for Halsin to comfort.

And found us the perfect hideaway, Tyrus pointed out, enjoying the little scoff Astarion gave him in response. I’m only sorry it meant I couldn’t comfort you, my love, he said, cupping Astarion’s smooth cheek. That was . . . an ugly reminder, to say the least, of the kennel. 

Astarion shuddered underneath his touch, his eyes slotting closed. Finally, he nodded. Jaheira may be angry we got no information, but . . . I didn’t want to hear any information from such a despicable person. He opened his eyes again, searching Tyrus’s face. I’m glad you finally restored your health, darling. Is there anything else I can give you?

Tyrus smiled, repeating an old request out loud: “Hold me?”

Soon enough they laid down on a dusty rug, Tyrus curled up against Astarion’s side with his head on the other man’s chest. And it was strange, he knew, that the one person who should remind Tyrus of all the horrors he’d survived, was still the one he yearned for above anyone else when he felt haunted by memories, or worried about the present, or scared for the future.

For all that he’d needed a few minutes to himself, Astarion held him just as firmly back now, running fingers through Tyrus’s hair until they’d both settled and managed something close to four hours of a trance. 

It took a bit longer for the others to stir. Cynda, the last to rise, sleepily stretched out her limbs from where her small body had curled up in Halsin’s lap, just as Jaheira checked behind the drapes and declared the sun had officially set.

Everyone besides Astarion and Tyrus quickly consumed their rations, then all put on their armor before pulling out an old, annotated map of the town. Cynda was to plan their pathing for the tavern that night, Jaheira to estimate how many guards they might expect, Tyrus and Astarion to plan the stealth and potential fighting strategies needed—but before all such plotting began, Astarion looked over at Halsin and placed a hand on his large forearm. “Thank you, by the way,” he said in a quiet, fervent tone.

Morfred wanted a larger group to ensure they had enough support. Jaheira said no more than three highly-skilled individuals, to give them better chances at stealth. Ganyl simply wanted to go, even though his entire enclave was against risking their leader, and it took two meetings just to talk him down. Halfred didn’t think the quiet assassination plan of Ketheric Thorm was a good idea in the first place. They all worried that Ketheric’s brother, Malus Thorm, could be too tight-lipped or ignorant of the Gauntlet’s secret entrance to be worth the risk of fighting first.

Astarion had given up on attendance for the last two meetings. But as designated ‘Leader of the Vampires,’ however underqualified Tyrus felt he was for such a role, he felt obligated to attend. Just so he’d have updates to give Astarion and the spawn army below, really. He and Astarion had come up with the idea of a quiet assassination to avoid further bloodshed, so they were already guaranteed a spot in the party if and when it was approved. Halsin was a tentative third in Ganyl’s place, though Jaheira wanted it to be herself who struck Ketheric’s killing blow.

Now Tyrus felt close to giving up himself. He left the meeting before its scheduled end when Jaheira and Halfred started a shouting match about the risks of trying Ketheric's son at the Waning Moon Tavern instead, and Messaged Ganyl to send word if a decision had finally been made. Then he crossed the road past the armory, over the short bridge and around the small, cheery fountain in front of their temporary abode of late, the Last Light Inn.

Tyrus let out a plaintive sigh of relief the moment he was through the doors and could shrug off the sapping weight of the Cloak of Dragomir, avoiding the occasional beam of sunlight until he reached the stairs and could head down to the basement floor. Most of the rooms were used for storage—but at the end, built around the low docks the inn now used to receive war supplies from the east, were a couple of suites that looked directly out over the Chionthar.

He hadn’t expected to find Astarion in their suite, really. His partner liked to socialize a lot more than Tyrus ever did. In their short time here, he’d already been chatting with some soldiers at the inn’s bar, meeting more often with Halsin, and playing enough lanceboard he now could beat Tyrus if he focused hard enough. Astarion was used to crowds, to strangers, while Tyrus still found himself seeking the safety of four walls and a single locked door.

As he reached the door, however, Tyrus thought that safety must have been an illusion as his ears picked up Astarion’s voice, loud and seemingly in distress.

“Ah!—ah, gods—Tyrus!”

Tyrus wrenched the door open in a panic, hurrying inside—

—and was confronted with the sight of Astarion in a bath, pale face flushed, eyes squeezed shut, steamy water sloshing around the fast pace of his wrist under the water as he tugged at his pink, erect cock.

Tyrus stared. Even as Astarion’s eyes wrenched open bleary and wide, his hand freezing in the water, Tyrus couldn’t stop looking. He’d seen Astarion’s cock before so many times—but in his defense, it’d been months. Only feeling the shape of it in Astarion’s trousers when their kissing progressed further, only seeing Astarion’s bare body offhandedly as they dressed. Now Tyrus could also admire how much more lively Astarion’s skin looked despite still being pale, how his half-submerged, muscled middle had softened into looking less malnourished and dehydrated thanks to a healthy diet.

After another second, Astarion relaxed a bit. He waved toward Tyrus with the hand that had a moment before held a death-grip on the wooden tub’s edge, smirking as he huffed, “Could you close that, love?”

Tyrus’s momentary shock at the man’s beauty faded, then, in time for his rational brain to kick in. “I can come back later—?” he started to offer.

“No—no, I . . .” Astarion interjected, only to hesitate. His eyes trailed away for a moment, uncertainty lining his face. 

Tyrus retreated back to the door. “I don’t want to interrupt,” he spoke in earnest, and smiled at Astarion when the other vampire tentatively met his gaze again. “Truly—I’d much rather you enjoy yourself, like you’ve been wanting to.”

“Not quite like how I’ve wanted to,” Astarion scoffed, though a moment later the lines on his face faded. “No, stay here, darling. If you’d like to. I’m only imagining you here anyhow.”

“That’s quite different,” Tyrus pointed out, though he went ahead and shut the door, locking it for good measure before turning back to Astarion.

“Is it? I was just thinking of you interrupting me like this,” Astarion smirked, gesturing at himself. The hand in the water wandered back between his legs and began to lightly stroke as he sighed, “Though in my head I skipped the part where a whole conversation would be necessary for you to join. Bring a stool?” he nodded at the floor just next to the tub.

Tyrus didn’t hesitate to obey. He grabbed a small cushioned one in front of the sheet-covered mirror and placed it so he could sit just next to the tub’s head. His stomach swooped at being this close to Astarion—at watching him stroke himself again, bare and exposed save for the flimsy distortion of the sudsy water.

He wanted to touch him. He wanted to help, or at least kiss Astarion. But he wouldn’t dare do a thing without checking, given how impossible it’d been for Astarion to be sexually intimate since Cazador’s death.

And Astarion was such a pretty sight just to watch, with his eyes shutting again and dark lashes on display, pink lips slightly parted. Meanwhile, his small breaths and huffs of pleasure as he built back into a rhythm sounded sweeter to Tyrus’s ears than any melody. Even the smell of him was delightful. That smoky, musky perfume he always had a slight hint of at the palace was now much more refined and strong thanks to their shopping in the city. It was already a feast for the senses, if not all of them.

But when Astarion’s other hand extended just a bit past the tub, palm up, Tyrus was quick to take it and enjoy a sense of touch as well. Astarion hummed and pulled their clasped hands down into the water, flattening Tyrus’s palm to rub against his inner thigh. Tyrus gratefully mimicked the movement, and next let Astarion’s hand overtop his guide him to gently handle Astarion’s ball sack, eventually taking over to stroke his erection in tight, quick motions Tyrus still remembered the rhythm of well. 

Astarion’s hand stayed cupped around his throughout it all, continually guiding and keeping control even as he sighed, “Tyrus . . . uh, I’ve missed these hands . . .”

“Would you like it if I did anything else?” Tyrus murmured, after another minute of nothing but stroking and listening to Astarion’s heavy breathing.

Astarion’s eyes shot open, head lifting to regard Tyrus with a furrowed brow. His hand slowed Tyrus’s to a stop. “Such as?”

Tyrus bit back the assertion of Anything, anything at all. Giving actual ideas would probably be more helpful, if Astarion didn’t have his own. “Kiss you. Your lips, your neck,” Tyrus started with. “Or . . . here,” smiling as his thumb idly swiped over the head of Astarion’s cock and his partner visibly shuddered in response. Letting his voice go a bit lower, as he pointed out, “I don’t need to breathe, after all.”

“Fuck,” Astarion swore, then gave a short, barking laugh. “This is what four months of celibacy has done to my sweet, virtuous partner? I didn’t think you even liked that sort of activity, darling.”

“I haven’t ever tried it, technically. At least not of my own accord, so,” Tyrus shrugged. 

The air went somber ever-so-slightly at his words. 

"Shall I?" Tyrus asked in hopes of dispelling it.

“Not this time, my love,” Astarion sighed, starting to move Tyrus’s hand again around him. “But . . . yes—kiss me, please. I think I just need a little bit more of something—”

Tyrus wasted no further time. They’d kissed goodbye only hours ago when he left for the council meeting, but it’d been more than a tenday since Astarion had kissed him like this. One of their first nights in this inn, in fact, before he’d grabbed one of Tyrus’s wandering hands by the wrist and ended things rather abruptly. But whatever else Tyrus did or did not feel in the mood for otherwise, he never got tired of kisses—Astarion’s free hand cupping his jaw close, lips so passionately pressing and sliding against Tyrus’s, tongue darting out to taste and in return welcoming him in.

His instinct was to bury his free hand in Astarion’s curls, but Tyrus gripped the tub’s edge instead. He didn’t want to risk the wrong touch ending this lovely, easy moment. Not when Astarion was so clearly enjoying his other hand’s touch at the moment, hips bucking up and splashing the water a bit more.

Sometime later, a small moan escaped Tyrus when Astarion slid his hand back to tightly cup the nape of his neck, angling Tyrus’s head for an even deeper, all-consuming kiss. Astarion’s hand tightened a bit further around Tyrus’s in the water, so he sped up his movements even more—and groaned with Astarion as the other elf wrenched free of their kiss and threw his head back, shouting “Tyrus!” shakily, his cock pulsing in Tyrus's grip, his spend streaking in the water as the press of his bent legs made the wooden tub slightly creak in protest.

Tyrus kissed down Astarion’s neck and bobbing adam’s apple, slowing his strokes with the guidance of Astarion’s hand as Astarion breathed harshly through the aftershocks. When at last Astarion released his grip on Tyrus in the water, head resting against the tub again, Tyrus went back to gently stroking his smooth inner thigh. He rested his forehead against the other man’s clavicle, listening to them both breathe for a moment before whispering, “Alright?”

Astarion huffed—and then he began laughing. A soft, lighthearted, warm sound Tyrus couldn’t help but smile at, and hoped never to forget as Astarion’s chest lightly shook underneath him. Then Astarion’s wet arm emerged from the water and wrapped around Tyrus, pulling him in just a bit closer despite the awkwardness of the tub between them.

“Oh, besides a sore wrist of late,” he chortled, laying his cheek against Tyrus’s head when his giggling finally stopped. “I did start to find some enjoyment, even managed an orgasm the last two times, though. And this? Hmm . . . this is nice.”

Tyrus smiled wider against his chest. Of course, after another minute his back twinged and he regretfully had to pull from Astarion’s embrace—but was grateful his partner quickly dried off and joined him on the bed, despite the fact only Tyrus still needed a trance.

Once they'd both changed and his lover was spooning him snugly from behind, Tyrus thought to ask, “Have there been other things you like to imagine? Any specifics that I should take into account?”

The entire line of Astarion’s body froze up behind him. “I . . . I wouldn’t say there’s much I’m sure about acting on, darling,” he said in a slow, careful voice. “It’s been hard enough just to imagine sex without the thought of a customer, or him, intruding. Once that’s less an issue, I—I should be back to normal.”

“Normal,” Tyrus huffed, shaking his head and hugging Astarion’s arm a little closer to his chest. Being around relatively ‘normal’ people of late had taught Tyrus just how far off he and anyone else from the spawn colony were likely ever to be from such an ideal. “But hand jobs with you guiding me, would you say that goes on the safe list?” he stipulated.

Astarion was quiet for a moment. Then he kissed the tip of Tyrus’s ear, repeating, “The safe list, what a sad state of affairs—but yes, I’d call that a success. We’ll have to see about your mouth. And perhaps, if you’re up for it, I think I'd enjoy some unconventional stimulation, just skin-to-skin.” A beat of silence, then Astarion’s voice came out so soft and uncertain, almost afraid, as he admitted, “I . . . I’d still like a break from anything so performative as full intercourse, if that’s alright . . . and, if you can forgive it, I may still just need time, before I can offer attentive service to you, love . . .”

Tyrus twisted under Astarion’s arm so he could face him—but only to wrap his arms tightly around him, tucking his chin into the crook of Astarion’s neck. Declaring, gently but firmly, “There’s nothing to forgive, and no service to worry about. You have always been so giving, love." Even more softly, he coaxed, "Now, let’s take care of you for a while?”

Tyrus felt his partner’s body shudder in his arms. Then, increment by increment, Astarion melted into the embrace.

Tyrus didn’t answer right away—though neither did he pull from Astarion’s grip. He squeezed Astarion’s hands in reassurance while he tried to assess his body, this position, and what, if anything, was happening in his head.

“It feels impractical, I suppose, if you still want to be using your hand for the rest of it,” he nodded down in the direction of Astarion’s erection.

Astarion’s worry faded into amused exasperation. “I’m restraining you, Tyrus. Please be serious.”

“I am,” Tyrus protested, even if he understood what Astarion was truly asking. He wiggled his wrists in Astarion’s grip—then shrugged. “I seem to be fine. Though, I don’t understand: why do it?” 

Even in the midst of asking, Tyrus watched how Astarion’s eyes slid away, his shoulders hunching up and his hands pulling out of Tyrus’s. Embarrassed about the answer—no, ashamed, Tyrus quickly gauged.

He managed to catch one of Astarion’s hands before it went far, at least. Then gave it a quick squeeze, pulling Astarion’s arm forward while he propped himself up on one elbow. 

“I don’t have to understand,” Tyrus corrected himself, before pressing a small kiss against the other man’s knuckles and then moving their hands back to the previous position. “If it’s something you wanted to try, I don’t think I’ll mind.”

Astarion blew out a breath. “You’re right that it’s a bit impractical to do for long, love, especially with just my hands,” he sighed around a small half-smile.

Tyrus did feel something then—a small swoop in his belly. Uncertainty, at the thought of something besides Astarion’s hands.

He was a mage of great power, well capable of defending himself, free of a master’s influence, and currently alone with the person he trusted most in this entire world. Still, the thought of allowing rope or worse, cuffs around his wrists, in a sexual context no less, after the experiences of his first winter ball . . .

If he did ever try such a thing willingly, Tyrus already knew he would feel more vulnerable than he ever could with a thousand Dark Justiciars at his back.

He blinked, realizing Astarion was watching his reaction with sharp, inquisitive eyes. Tyrus had no idea what expression had taken over his face, but tried now to give a reassuring smile. “You could . . . hold them with one hand?” he offered, moving Astarion’s hand then to meet both of his own in between them. 

Astarion’s pale face colored, ever-so-slightly, and Tyrus felt some satisfaction knowing it was thanks to him twice over. “Well. Perhaps the delicate shape of those wrists are good for something besides fancy spellcasting,” Astarion said—very careful in starting to wrap his forefinger and thumb around Tyrus’s wrists, despite the flippancy of his tone.

It didn’t mean much to Tyrus, at first, as Astarion used his free hand to spread more oil on his erection and then in the intimate crease of Tyrus’s inner legs. It was the same as what they’d done the last two times before, save he was left to watch and stay pliant while Astarion slung Tyrus’s legs over his free arm, then slot his cock into the tight seam of Tyrus’s thighs.

Then Astarion moved Tyrus’s captured wrists up, past his chest and face—holding them down into the pillow just above Tyrus’s head.

Tyrus felt another swoop in his belly as Astarion went back to kissing at his neck and nipping his earlobe, holding him so securely and confined while his hips moved. This time the feeling was harder to define: still uncertainty, but something more complicated, too.

Strangely, it was easier to just focus on tactile sensation instead—Tyrus was only half-hard at the moment, but whenever the head of Astarion’s cock rubbed just so against the slippery oiled skin behind his balls, he could feel arousal tightening in his groin. This time even more so, considering Tyrus could do nothing with himself at the moment but lie there and feel.

Astarion’s words were his only distraction, though they fueled Tyrus’s arousal in a different way; murmuring things like, “I have all of you now, don’t I?” and “Taking it so beautifully, darling,” and “All mine,” as he began moving faster.

Tyrus hadn’t bothered having an orgasm since their last night before Cazador’s death. Now he could feel his body building up to something like one, with the combination of feeling Astarion so enthusiastic and aroused above him, the perineum massage from Astarion’s cock spreading a deep, pulsing pleasure within him, and the inability to do anything but take it with his hands pinned above him.

“Astarion,” Tyrus gasped after a few minutes, though he was too overwhelmed to say more. To even translate what he was feeling into words and needs, even as he felt tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

Astarion quickly came to a stop. “Too much?” he murmured in Tyrus’s ear, the ring of his fingers loosening around Tyrus’s wrists.

Tyrus shook his head. “Just . . . just, so much,” he sighed, before instinctively making what little movement he still could: undulating his hips against Astarion’s cock snug between them. 

Astarion sucked in a hitched breath at the feeling. “Gods, you’ll be the death of me,” he half-groaned, half-laughed, before holding Tyrus tight and moving his hips again.

It was a deeper, slower build up than Tyrus was used to, his cock leaking over and over despite the fact it hadn't grown full mast. All of this felt so contradictory—being so helpless, yet so entirely taken care of. And when the pleasure did come to a peak, it was all-consuming and yet left him just as aroused as before.

“Astarion, please,” Tyrus begged after that point in a high, breathless voice, still unsure what he was asking for. “Please, please.”

Clarification apparently wasn’t needed. A dark fire lit up in Astarion’s eyes at Tyrus’s words—he thrust sharp and fast, eased further by the mess Tyrus had made, then let out a desperate moan as he found his own release.

He barely had to do more than touch Tyrus’s leaking erection, afterward, before Tyrus joined for an uncanny second time.

This time, Tyrus did feel his body come down from it, though his mind was left both a bit floaty and confused. Nowhere close to the overwhelm and devastation of his first few experiences with sex—though maybe it would have descended into that, if not for how carefully Astarion treated him once it was over. 

After cleaning their bodies quickly with Prestidigitation, he slowly released Tyrus’s wrists, bringing them up to massage and kiss one by one. “You did so well, love,” he murmured while smoothing Tyrus’s hair, pressing his lips to the corners of Tyrus's drying eyes, positioning Tyrus's legs more comfortably when Tyrus didn’t have the frame of mind to do it for himself.

Next, Astarion used the same spell to warm the huge, knitted blanket Cynda had given them and cocooned it around the both of them, pulling Tyrus at last into his arms. Stroking a hand up and down Tyrus’s spine, kissing the crown of his head, before whispering, “Thank you.”

Tyrus’s thoughts had slowly, gently cleared through the process—and though his mind still felt a bit tender after such a strangely intense experience, he also felt a wonderful, blossoming warmth in his chest, more lovely than any of the previous sensations combined.

“I trust you,” he said back in a soft voice, smiling when Astarion’s arms squeezed around him just a bit tighter in response.

-

Later, he leaned back and said, “So . . . you like hearing me say, ‘Please,’ hm?” 

It felt dangerously easy, practicing the incantation and hand somatics just a few times one morning until Astarion felt the spark of something in his hands. But that was just before the door opened and Tyrus walked in late with a flat, empty look in his eyes, pulling Astarion away from the little discovery.

Astarion tried to cheer him with a warm, “Good morrow, love,” as Tyrus shut the door, wondering if he should share his private studies now to lift the drow’s dour spirits. 

But Astarion quickly forgot the notion when he saw Tyrus’s face crumple into something terrified and broken as their eyes met.

Astarion didn’t think further before snapping the book shut and tossing it onto the bedside pile, going upright. He had to hold himself back from a faster speed, really, not wanting to rush Tyrus despite his hurry to reach him.

In the meantime, Tyrus was murmuring something Astarion only belatedly realized must have been a few spells, his dark ruby eyes flashing with just the smallest twinkle before he stared at the wall to Astarion’s right. And the terror faded back behind that flat, empty expression again, in the bare seconds before Astarion stood in front of him.

“Tyrus?” When Tyrus made no answer, Astarion reached out—then stopped himself. “ What’s happened?” he entreated instead, stepping just a bit closer.

Finally, Tyrus looked at him again, his pale brow furrowing as he asked the last thing Astarion expected: “Can I kiss you?”

Astarion wanted to kiss him every day. He wanted to hold him and touch him, make him smile and bring him pleasure. He wanted Tyrus, with a true desire he’d thought had been lost decades ago.

But in his imaginings of how it would go, the first time they tried intimacy again after Cazador’s assault on Tyrus, Astarion had pictured kissing him after some lovely day of reading stories, or listening to Tyrus ramble about the arcane, or once Astarion had provided Tyrus with a bit of blood.

Not when Tyrus looked the way he did now: scared, resigned—hopeless.

Astarion could only make terrible guesses as to why. “Darling, what’s the matter?” he asked, just barely stopping himself from reaching out a hand and cupping the other man’s cheek.

“I . . .” Tyrus grimaced, looking further crestfallen as he admitted, “I just wanted to ask, before I explain.”

Explain what, part of Astarion wanted to ask right away. But the rest of him didn’t look forward to bad news. Clearly, Tyrus was holding onto something terrible. And the fact that he wanted to kiss Astarion first was concerning on top of strange—but as Astarion looked over Tyrus’s face, he could somehow tell the question was genuine. The desire for Astarion was there, only half-smothered by a thousand other worries and fears and needs at the moment.

It wasn’t close to the ideal kiss Astarion had imagined . . . but outside of whatever else was going on, it seemed to fully be Tyrus’s choice.

With that knowledge, “How could I say no?” 

Astarion took the chance to hold him a bit, on top of joining their lips. And just sliding his palm to press against the small of Tyrus’s back felt like so much combined with the way Tyrus was kissing him, his lips clinging to every movement of Astarion’s as if unwilling to let the kiss end. Whilst a growing flame of desire flared within him, Astarion wrapped his other hand around Tyrus’s shoulders, felt a greedy satisfaction as Tyrus reached up to do the same, and wondered if he needed to know about whatever Tyrus thought should be explained. If they couldn’t just lay down and get lost in each other, just like this, instead.

But Tyrus broke from the kiss and spoke poison into the air: “He’s watching.”

The fire in Astarion’s belly abruptly died a cold, damp death.

The gift of permission into the favorite spawn chamber, so long as Tyrus allowed it, was already tarnished by why Cazador had granted it. And anytime Astarion forgot and felt himself growing too happy, a haunted look would cross Tyrus’s eyes and remind him. Or worse, something dead would flatten the drow’s expression. And Astarion had nothing save useless words and the futile effort of gathering gold to offer.

Nothing, save his own blood.

Considering how long it’d been since Cazador’s fuck-feeding of the poor man, Astarion had guessed another encounter was imminent. Tyrus would have little chance to resist if he didn’t get a single drop of sustenance in the meantime—and perhaps this was the price.

Maybe Astarion should be grateful it was him Tyrus was likely being forced on again, not Cazador himself. 

He wasn’t.

“He wants us to do something,” Tyrus explained, confirming his guess, and Astarion felt abruptly nauseous. Grateful in a rational way that Tyrus was telling him the truth, while also furious in a childish way that he couldn’t have continued on in blissful ignorance. “For me, to—to—”

Astarion’s mind flashed through a dozen terrible possibilities, and suddenly he had to know, so his mind could replace the disgusting, terrifying memory of hurting Tyrus in the kennels with anything else. “For you to what, Tyrus?” he asked, keeping his voice slow and careful despite his inner rage.

It burst out of Tyrus like a convoluted geyser, then. Something to do with Cazador blackmailing Tyrus into performing oral sex on him, first with the promise of blood, then a threat on Astarion, before settling on the likely-more satisfying conclusion of getting to watch the both of them in misery while Tyrus went to Astarion instead.

Not so bad as Astarion had feared, truly. But the misery on Tyrus’s face made sense—Astarion knew the withering, soul-crushing pain of guilt well, despite his own best efforts to cultivate a bit of sadism to counter it. With how much Cazador pulled the strings, the few semblances of choice he offered were almost always equally terrible, detrimental to the soul. But certainly in this case, Tyrus had correctly chosen the lesser of two evils, he thought.

Not that Tyrus seemed to believe it. Either that, or they had already run out of time—for then Tyrus began moving to his knees in front of Astarion as if to start things here. With such a miserable, forlorn expression on his pretty face, Astarion didn’t think even a direct compulsion from Cazador would manage to stir interest in his groin right now.

“Tyrus,” Astarion entreated, putting a hand on the man’s robed shoulder as he checked, “can you wait?”

Tyrus’s eyes widened in sudden horror. “Yes, sorry, whatever you’d like,” he said in a hurried, guilty tone, head ducked as he rose back up and nodded.

Astarion couldn’t stand to see him so unsure, so afraid, when he could still do something about it. So he took a page out of the drow’s own book and pulled Tyrus in, wrapping arms tight around him and feeling his throat tighten at the slight tremor he could feel in Tyrus’s body. 

“That’s alright,” he assured carefully, biting back his usual indignation at useless apologies. Now wasn’t the time to chide Tyrus; it was the time to do everything in his power to make this a neutral or even good experience, if that was possible. “It’s just, the first and only time we did something like this you seemed . . . very hurt, afterwards. Do you remember?” he asked, though it was highly unlikely Cazador would make Tyrus forget anything about initiation. “I even very uncharacteristically agreed to stay a while after, I felt so terrible leaving you in that state. And that was before the—the whipping, the party, and Cazador.”

Tyrus winced against him, even as he mumbled, “I’ll be fine,” into the crook of Astarion’s neck.

But Tyrus was trembling even harder at the reminder, and Astarion refused to simply weather through this, to just try and minimize damage like he had the first time. It hadn’t destroyed them before, but that was likely because nothing had been built yet to destroy. If they just numbed themselves and behaved like rote, obedient animals now, he had a feeling Tyrus wouldn’t be able to enjoy intimacy together ever again. Maybe, neither would he.

So Astarion let out a scoff and pulled from the hug to grab one of Tyrus’s hands, nodding down at how Tyrus’s fingers shook. “Will you?” he pushed back.

Tyrus didn’t answer right away, Astarion was happy to see. The drow’s pale brow furrowed while his eyes began flicking about. Calculating, if Astarion had to guess, in a quick, intelligent, self-aware manner that reminded Astarion of one reason why he was so deeply fond of the man.

The fear was slowly replaced by a small but firm resolve in his expression, before Tyrus asked, “Could you hold me, after?”

And there exemplified yet another reason. 

While the warmth in Astarion’s chest was just as terrifying as it was wonderful and precious and rare, what could he do but lean into it and promise, “After? After you can have whatever you’d like, my love.”

By now, he knew better than to think Tyrus would want the act reciprocated, even if Astarion would happily even their score that way. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t try to give Tyrus what he truly needed, if the arcane text was correct in saying Polymorph was not a self-casted spell only.

Once they were on the bed—Astarion purposefully on his back to impose the least amount of control, Tyrus kneeling with hesitant movements between his spread legs—Astarion wistfully thought of how he’d imagined their first array into consensual, sexual pleasure. They’d just start out kissing, like they used to when he snuck down to visit in the spawn dormitory, until Tyrus instinctively started grinding against him. Then Astarion would sneak a hand into his trousers, kiss his neck and ears until Tyrus was a whimpering mess again, except this time take him in hand . . .  

It didn’t matter. Instead, no instincts would be allowed save the one to protect, Astarion sternly reminded himself.

But then Tyrus leaned down and just kissed him for a while. And oh, how dearly Astarion had missed every second of this. It wasn’t a mechanical, precise act to satisfy his prey; it wasn’t a loathsome, dominating assault from Cazador. It wasn’t even a performance to please their unwanted audience—Astarion doubted Cazador was enjoying this part. It was simply something soft and warm and blooming between them, growing in passion with slow but reciprocated care. 

Astarion didn’t think twice about it, when he felt Tyrus pulling his shirt loose from his trousers, stroking the skin of his belly under it with soft fingertips. Just felt a swift punch of arousal, once Tyrus broke away to lean down and trail kisses there with his even softer lips instead. By the time Tyrus’s hand trailed lower, Astarion could already feel his cock hardening. And with just a few strokes of Tyrus’s hand over the fabric, it was starting to strain against his trousers.

Once Tyrus had unbuttoned them he hesitated, however. His eyes began to wander about the room, body tensing—remembering, as Astarion suddenly was too, now, who exactly his performance needed to please.

But Cazador apparently hadn’t given them any sort of timetable, and Astarion prided himself in being a seasoned expert at finding loopholes in the bastard’s commands.

“Tyrus,” Astarion murmured, “come back up here,” smiling at him as Tyrus gusted out a sigh and gratefully crawled up his body again. Then Astarion eagerly went back to showering the drow in kisses, on his lips and down his neck while Astarion removed the last barrier of clothing between them and what unfortunately needed to happen next.

Only on Tyrus’s timetable, however. Astarion would be happy to kiss forever—until Cazador gave up his hiding spot, banged down their door, and made them suffer the consequences, even. Rather that, than prod and persuade and gently pressure Tyrus into it for the sake of minimal pain, like Astarion had their first time. He loved . . . he cared for Tyrus much too deeply now for that. 

Where Astarion’s self-preserving nature had run off to, he didn’t know—which only seemed to prove Cazador’s point about things like love only making a person weak. 

But maybe, just maybe, whatever would replace it could be just as strong.

Astarion wasn’t to find out that day—for, a couple minutes later, Tyrus did pull away of his own accord again. And every touch of his hands and his mouth that followed was a painful reminder to Astarion that he hadn’t lost enjoyment of sex. He simply couldn’t call any of what he’d done in the last eight decades something close to it.

Tyrus went slow, of course, some touches starting hesitant, but he didn’t look to be retreating into the back of his mind or reliving some terrible memory, at least. Especially when trying to fit more of Astarion in his mouth, he didn’t seem very at ease—and if this was just the two of them, Astarion would have told him to not bother with more than the head if he didn’t want to. Given everything, he simply kept an eye on Tyrus and made sure to hold his hips perfectly still as the drow set his own pace.

But once a rhythm picked up, Astarion admittedly couldn’t pay attention to the subtle indications of how Tyrus was doing when the mere sight of him taking Astarion in deeper was enough to wash Astarion’s senses in sharp, full-body pleasure. And beyond the sight, the feel of his wet, warm mouth, the tight circle of his lips, and the steady strokes of his hand around the base of Astarion’s cock—it was enough to pull thoughtless, brazen words of affection from Astarion’s lips as he smoothed away the other elf’s silky hair from his face and rode the building waves of pleasure.

Astarion was fairly certain he attempted to warn Tyrus when he was close, but to no avail. Tyrus only seemed to take him in deeper, more determinedly, all at once until the pleasure reached a tipping point and suddenly flooded through Astarion’s entire body. He didn’t think much after that as he groaned through the consuming, bright pleasure of it, vaguely aware of Tyrus dutifully swallowing and continuing to gently stroke with his mouth and hand as Astarion shuddered through a slow, glowing comedown.

Eventually the sensations carried over into over-sensitivity, not prolonged pleasure, not that Astarion had the presence of mind to explain that to Tyrus. He only reached down and nudged at the man’s shoulder, sighing in relief as the stimulation stopped.

That sigh caught in his throat, when Astarion heard Tyrus suddenly speak in a hoarse, deadened tone, informing him: “This was a gift from your master.”

Then the afterglow sputtered out as quick as water over a flame.

Tyrus had put a hand over his own mouth, his eyes wide as silver platters before squeezing shut the next moment in clear shame. But Astarion didn’t need to see such a reaction, to know exactly who sent the message.

Every good, temporary enjoyment he’d felt during the act just made him angry now. But of course, Cazador wanted them to be intimate on his terms. But of course, he couldn’t just allow Tyrus to do this to Astarion instead without having the last word. And of course, he had to remind Astarion in yet another visceral way, that he’d poisoned this tree from its very roots.

Yet somehow, Astarion kept hoping the fruits of their relationship wouldn’t ruin them both? Cazador was somewhere laughing at Astarion for his own stupidity, right now.

Somehow, he did still hope, Astarion realized whilst quickly redressing and running to fetch something he could wrap around Tyrus’s trembling shoulders. Somewhere along the way, it had become second nature to fight for something he could only hope for, to always put someone else before himself—even to learn a bit of magic, after all these years.

But Astarion didn’t nod and move away. He was trying but failing to act nonchalant—picking at his nails, casually crossing his legs, but clearly waiting for Tyrus to drink. Watching to see if Tyrus could prove everything was alright, after he’d failed to hide the rat he hadn’t drunk from a night earlier.

Maybe if he did this for Astarion, Tyrus bargained with himself, he’d be able.

So he picked up the carcass . . . and felt all at once nauseous, terrified, and disgusted with himself, the moment it touched his lips.

“It–it smells off again,” Tyrus tried, the same excuse he’d given about the rat, though he remained a terrible liar. When Astarion just gave him an incredulous look, Tyrus sighed and lowered the carcass. “Maybe there’s something wrong with my stomach. The thrombophilic blood still affecting it, or . . .” he shook his head. Or there was just something wrong with him, Tyrus didn’t finish.

Astarion gave him a very displeased look. “Just try a taste, love,” he scolded. “I’m sure your appetite will return to you.”

Tyrus held in a shudder. “Maybe later?” he offered.

But later came, and Tyrus still had no appetite. He blamed it on the blood being too cold, promising to not wait too long next time. Astarion only frowned at the excuse.

For the rest of their tenday in Baldur’s Gate, Astarion didn’t press the issue at least—but he did make pointed remarks about all the new animals and occasional criminals he was tasting, and suggested multiple times that Tyrus join him once they figured out that Polymorph could allow them to go out together. Frowning, every time Tyrus just nodded or gave a noncommittal answer.

It wasn’t until they were down in the Underdark, on the trail of the spawn horde, that Tyrus’s starvation became a liability.

Astarion had always been faster. But with the little rest his mind allowed him, and more than two tendays since he last drank—from a thrombophilic victim, no less—Tyrus was slowing them down terribly. His feet were quick to stumble and make noise, his magic was harder to access. Back at the palace, there were plenty of times he’d been much worse off than this, but few situations where it mattered. Now, in one of the most dangerous terrains in Faerun, he was a liability to them both.

So Tyrus felt a bit of hope, when Astarion went off to scout around the hollow they’d found for the night and came back tugging a deep rothe carcass with him.

“I drank half,” he said with a wide, blood-smeared smile. “The rest is for you, love.”

Tyrus quickly finished his Tiny Hut casting, kneeling over the creature with surprise and interest. The blood smelled rich and strange, but good. Certainly like nothing Tyrus had tasted before.

And yet, when he lowered his lips towards the bite mark Astarion had already made in its fur, Tyrus felt his insides twist with revulsion.

He thought of the rat Leon had used to trap him, that Cazador had spent tendays beating him over. He thought of the larger, festering one he’d hid in the drawer, that had put him in a tomb for a year. Worse, he thought of the rabbit, limp and twisted and deformed in his grip as Cazador raped him. He could still feel it almost, the blood curdling in his stomach the moment he realized what he’d paid for it.

And, much too viscerally, Tyrus thought of the gingery thrombophilic blood resting like lead in his undead limbs, clotting in his lungs, splitting pain in his abdomen and head.

Tyrus heard Astarion let out a small exhale of disbelief, as he pulled back without so much as wetting his lips. But he couldn’t do it. He needed to—but he couldn’t.

“I don’t think I’m hungry enough yet,” he murmured, sitting back up. “You finish it, love.”

When Astarion didn’t immediately answer, he made the mistake of fully looking at him—and felt his soul crumble at the confusion, worry, and heartbreak in his partner’s eyes. Things Tyrus had never wanted to see on Astarion’s face again, and all of it because of him.

Tyrus felt tears build in his eyes in return, and he buried his head in his hands before his face could fully twist with despair. It seemed like all he could do the last two tendays was cry or make problems. Shouldn’t he be happy, not a broken mess? Shouldn’t he want to drink all the blood he could, as he’d dreamed of for so long?

Couldn’t he at least force it down now, for Astarion’s sake?

“I don’t know what’s wrong,” he whispered, just before he felt familiar arms come around him, pulling him into his partner’s chest. Tyrus collapsed into it, letting his tears soak into the ruffles of Astarion’s new silk shirt. “I know it’s fine now, and I’m hungry, I should . . .”

“Shhh,” Astarion hushed, holding him just a bit tighter. Kissing the top of Tyrus’s head, before he murmured, “You’re alright.”

After the tears passed, Tyrus shook his head. Sighing as he admitted, “I’m not. I’m slowing us down—we’ll never catch up to them, at this rate.”

Astarion gently pulled back from their embrace and met his eyes with a rather serious expression. “I don’t care when or if we ever find them, Tyrus,” he replied, reaching forward to wipe at his tears. “I’m worried about you. Is there something you would like? Or think might be easier to try, at least?” Astarion let out a sad chuckle, adding, “I’d track down a dragon for you, love, if I knew you’d drink it.”

That cracked a smile on Tyrus’s face as well. Then he sniffed, glancing down at the large creature. “It smells good,” he admitted softly. “Different enough I thought I wouldn’t . . .”

“Recall a bad memory?” Astarion guessed correctly.

“Many,” Tyrus nodded with a sigh—though it wasn’t just the memories, he knew. More accurately, it was all the terrible associations the memories had given him, compounded into one deep aversion.

An aversion he simply couldn’t afford.

“I’ll try again,” Tyrus tried to convince himself, pulling away fully to lean down towards the bovine creature. Focusing in on the differences he could smell in the dead animal’s cooling blood than anything he’d drunk before—more earthy and herbal, for a start.

“That’s it,” he heard Astarion sigh with relief, a hand grounding on his lower back as he pressed his lips over his lover’s bite and forced himself to try. And Tyrus felt a small thrill of happiness, both as the first taste warmed his tongue and when he heard Astarion continue to praise, “You’re doing so well, darling,” already pulling back Tyrus’s hair before he could brush it out of the way himself.

And for a while, he was doing well. Tyrus felt his hunger take over quickly, his instinctive need overriding the crackling static of fear and revulsion in the back of his mind. He couldn’t swallow it down fast enough, near choking with how fast his mouth pulled it in.

Then the carcass twitched, when he needlessly tightened his grip.

All at once Tyrus’s mind catapulted back in time again, now to the day Astarion had tried Polymorph to be fed from, and Tyrus hadn’t even been conscious of how much the lion was fighting him as he greedily drank, taken over by bloodlust for so long before he came to his senses and allowed Astarion to scamper away, bleeding and crying . . .

Tyrus pulled away from the carcass just before he gagged, blood revolting halfway to his stomach—choking out a large portion of it onto the ground.

“That’s alright,” he heard Astarion still soothing him, hands still grounding on his back as Tyrus huffed and gasped then stared blearily at the pool of blood he’d wasted.

But not all of it had been lost. Tyrus could feel his head clearing a significant amount, his focus sharpening, his limbs lightening. This harrowing memory couldn’t hold him for long—Astarion was right here, after all, free and healthy.

So Tyrus sat up straighter, licking absentmindedly at his lips as he turned to Astarion and murmured, “Thank you.”

Astarion gave him a feigned look of confusion. “For allowing you a small taste? This was nothing, darling—I could go and fetch us a whole second beast if this is what you can stomach—though perhaps cattle from the surface might go down smoother for you . . .“

“You are wonderful, you know,” Tyrus laughed, before leaning in and kissing him.

It was something so simple. Just Tyrus’s hands, already gripping his back and hip, squeezing a bit tighter. And then Astarion’s mind suddenly decided to translate the enthusiasm into obligation. 

All at once he felt used, dirty. Out of control. 

Objectively, he knew Tyrus expected nothing. Astarion was the one who had the inconvenient drive for sex, the one whose body quite physically yearned to touch and be touched like this by Tyrus with such a force he pushed himself into discomfort. But that knowledge didn’t stop the unsettling feeling chilling his spine now as he felt the grip pulling him closer. Like he’d once again become nothing more than a thing to be used.

Was he not allowed this anymore? Astarion silently lamented whilst kissing Tyrus harder in defiance. Did he not deserve both freedom and pleasure? Was this the gods’ petty punishment, some final penance for his supposed wrongs?

Fuck that, Astarion inwardly growled, and didn’t think further before he reached down, grabbed the grasping hand at his hip, and pinned it above Tyrus’s head.

Tyrus broke from their kiss, staring up at him with wide eyes as they both caught their breath. Clearly confused—though not frightened yet, at least.

Astarion let go of his wrist before that could change. Then pulled back entirely and faced slightly away from his partner, swallowing down a small portion of guilt. He hated being restrained, even for a moment, and Tyrus surely carried a similar sentiment. 

“A bad memory?” Tyrus said softly, as they had taken to asking each other.

If only it were that simple. 

“Let’s trance,” Astarion sighed. Throwing Tyrus a tired smirk, before nodding at their surroundings, “Who knows how long we’ll be invited back into this cozy little inn, after all.” Half-grateful, half-bitter when Tyrus didn’t press him further about the reaction, just held his hand with a bit more carefulness than usual as they tried to rest.

The following dusk he headed to the lapping river shore early, using the cloak in hopes to get a moment alone before Halsin showed up and they had another of their ‘talks’ prior to the night’s quests.

But Halsin was already there, to Astarion’s annoyance, trying and failing to skip stones whilst humming a tune under his breath.

“Waiting all day for me, darling?” Astarion teased as he approached, trying to shrug off his annoyance. “Good thing Cynda doesn’t seem the jealous type.”

Halsin turned and smiled at him. “Not at all. She has a voracious appetite herself,” he replied—and then let out a low chuckle at Astarion’s grimace.

The half-drow girl had somehow wormed her way into his affections with the same speed Tyrus once had, if in a sisterly way. While objectively he would support such a thing, Astarion felt how he imagined Tyrus would at the implication of her sexual exploits. And maybe a tad jealous, too, of how easy Halsin and Cynda’s affections seemed to be.

“Well, you two can make up for Tyrus and I, then,” he huffed, waving a dismissive hand before looking out at the vivid sunset.

“You seem bothered lately, every time you mention your relationship with him,” Halsin mused. “Why is that?”

Astarion felt his hackles raise, along with another flash of guilt. “Bothered? He is—we are—our relationship is the only good I hold claim to,” he sputtered. “It’s the reason we’re all free, alive—he’s wonderful, perfect, deserving of whatever he—” Astarion cut himself off when he realized Halsin wasn’t trying to argue. He let out a slow breath and finished, “If I’m bothered, it has nothing to do with him.”

Halsin slowly nodded. “Understood.” 

There was a minute of silence, the large elf managing a single skip from one of his four next stones before Astarion felt the urge to explain further. Half to defend Tyrus still—but also because, after the last few tendays, he’d found with some begrudgement it was helpful to get things off his chest. Allow them to be spoken, examined by an outsider, validated or questioned so he could articulate what he was feeling to himself.

“I told you we haven’t had sex since our freedom,” Astarion started eventually. “And I suppose that is beginning to bother me.”

Halsin paused mid-way through throwing a stone, raising a brow. “Have you talked more about it together?”

Astarion grimaced but nodded. “A little. He likes it but doesn’t need it—his sister must have stolen all his ‘voraciousness,’ I suppose, I didn’t think for years he’d even want to try it. But it’s me, who really wants to and keeps . . . stopping us. I did it again earlier today, before our trance.”

He paused, waiting for one of Halsin’s insightful questions or interjections, but the elf stayed silent. Just held out a smooth, flat stone for Astarion to take.

Astarion huffed but did, rolling the rock around again and again in his hands. The older elf at least knew how to pick the right ones for skipping, even if his execution was dastardly. 

Slowly, Astarion forced out the words, “I don’t want him to think about me in terms of sex. I don’t think I want anyone to . . . and I know of all people, Tyrus doesn’t want me for that, but every time we get more intimate the prospect of the act itself clouds my reasoning. I feel used, like my body is being exploited, even though I know rationally otherwise. I was the one who initiated it!” he finished with a bitter laugh. 

Halsin hummed. “Do you feel the same when you masturbate?”

Astarion felt his insides jolt in fear, for some reason. “I lived as a sex slave for nearly a century,” he growled, barely resisting the temptation to throw the rock in his hands at Halsin instead. “Why in the Hells would I be doing that?”

“Self-pleasure can be a very healing thing,” the elf replied in that sage, even tone of his, unbothered by Astarion’s blunt words or scathing tone. It made Astarion wonder a lot of things about the elf’s background.

“I don’t—” Astarion sputtered, then recovered, “There’s nothing about sex that feels like pleasure anymore. Not unless it’s with him.”

Silently, he questioned his own words. Nothing about the sexual acts he performed for and with his victims for Cazador had given him any sort of pleasure, after the first few years of doing it. Hells, even kissing felt like a burden until it was with Tyrus. But seeking pleasure alone?

Cazador had found him the last time he tried, Astarion remembered with a sudden nausea. Which explained his initial fear at Halsin’s question. It was a hazy, old memory his mind clearly didn’t want to hold onto—but in investigating the pieces of it that remained, the bastard’s words came through much too clear: “I always knew you were a slut, boy, but a deviant too? If you’re so desperate for it, then . . .”

“Astarion?”

He blinked, realizing he had been staring ahead at nothing, white-knuckling the stone. “I don’t think it would be any fun, for me,” he recovered in a hoarse voice, trying and failing to smile.

Halsin didn’t respond right away. The older elf spent a minute looking around for more stones to throw, leaving Astarion to recover from the harrowing memory in silence. 

Finally, once he’d gathered a handful, Halsin nodded at Astarion and said, “You might be right—especially at first. But there’s a lot of things you two have and do, that you’ve said used to be triggering or considered impossible. Perhaps this is another thing you might . . . reclaim, in a sense.” When Astarion just frowned, the elf added, “And it might help you feel more comfortable with your body in the future, if you want to try engaging in sex with Tyrus again.”

Sex with Tyrus. Truly, Astarion had gone too long without it. Just the words brought up a dozen delicious memories—the dual sensation of Tyrus kissing at his neck and kneading hands into his ass, the little whimpers that left Tyrus’s parted lips when Astarion gave him pleasure, the warm tightness of him encompassing Astarion’s cock, that last time—and Astarion had to look away, glad he couldn’t blush and that Halsin would have no way of knowing his cock had just twitched in his trousers.

Back when Cazador caught him, Astarion had just been trying to self-soothe and give himself one small good thing in the midst of hell. When he and Tyrus were intimate, it felt like a way of giving each other comfort or providing distraction from their terrible reality. Even a method of cleansing himself of what he did on other nights without Tyrus.

But now? He was simply desperate, just like Cazador used to goad him about. 

The smallest look, word, or action could have been used against him—pointed to as signs of interest, framed as evidence to why he’d asked for whatever torture happened next. Nine years ago, just failing to hide his benign interest in the drow had earned them one of Astarion’s worst punishments to date.

His desire, perceived or real, had always been used and weaponized against him. 

Maybe that was what made it still feel like a dirty, dangerous thing now.

Astarion distracted himself from all the painful realizations with an insult: “You really have no idea what you’re doing, do you?” he huffed, watching another of Halsin’s stones plunk into the water.

Halsin chuckled. “Ganyl’s given me pointers, but I wouldn’t mind a few more.”

Technically, Astarion had only tried out this pastime once on a slower night in Rivington—but his accuracy had yet to fail him in most things. “Step aside, darling,” Astarion smirked, lifting the rock and getting into position.

He threw it with unerring form. Astarion’s smirk broke into a true smile as they watched it skip along the surface of the calm waters, something close to four dozen times before the stone sank just a few meters off from the opposite shore.

Halsin made a low whistle, shaking his head. “I’ll keep practicing,” he said around a hearty laugh.

Astarion gave one more smirk before dusting his hands off his trousers, turning to go.

But the older elf was never one to leave him without some call to action, in the six times they’d met thus far. “Will you consider the idea?” Halsin asked behind him. When Astarion paused, glancing over his shoulder, he continued, “It doesn’t have to be a specific act, or with an end goal in mind, you see. Self-pleasure can mean a lot of things.”

Like what? Astarion wanted to ask. But he had a bit too much pride still, to admit to just how lacking his knowledge was in this area. “If I ever get a moment alone with all this ‘infiltrating the Gauntlet of Shar’ talk, perhaps,” he conceded with a huff.

A thrill of both fear and anticipation shot down his spine, however, as Astarion walked away. He knew if he tried to touch himself and keep his mind blank, his thoughts would end up crowded with a thousand terrible memories. But if he could manage to fill his mind with only what he wanted to do—be with Tyrus, at least in his imagination . . .