#vampire ball

You shiver at the scrape of his teeth and the hint of his tongue; he’s teasing one of the places he used to feed from when he still suffered the constant ache of his bloodlust, and those sacred areas will always be a little extra sensitive from that intimacy you shared for so long. 

“Can you blame me?” you breathe, once you’re sure you have control over your voice again. “All that time, I never got to really look at us, Astarion. It was always only me, held by an invisible ghost. So I could look forever at this. At you and I, together at last.” 

“Mmm. Mephistopheles’s gifts really are to be appreciated.” His hands are more insistent with their cajoling now, black-painted nails digging into the silks draping your body, the only damned barrier between him and what he wants, what he knows you want.

For a heartbeat, you toy with the image of him taking great fistfuls of the sheet, rending the ridiculously expensive fabric into useless shreds merely in order to bare you to his desires once more. 

You have such a colorful imagination, my darling pet, he laughs into the haziness of your still not-fully-awake mind. Come back to bed, Little Sweet, and let us simply indulge each other’s darkest wishes until nightfall…. 

It’s so tempting to consider. You still haven’t fully adjusted to the fact that you no longer have to scrape by just to survive from day to day, that you really can just lie in bed with your lover for an entire passage of the sun if you truly want. 

Maybe you should take him up on that. 

That’s it, my lovely consort, give in to me, and I will make all your wildest fantasies come to life. 

With a long exhale, you reluctantly drag yourself out of the decadent rush of images he’s pouring into your mind’s eye and refocus on the single image before you. The gaze that meets yours in the mirror, most of his face still pressed beneath your jawline, is annoyed now at your resistance. 

“We can’t, my Love,” you remind him lightly. “We’re hosting the midsummer’s ball tonight.” 

“Oh to the nine hells with the damned ball!” He releases you and dramatically sinks back into the depths of your horrendously luxurious shared bed. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to go.” 

You quickly readjust the sheet around yourself; without the added pressure of his hands on you, it had almost fallen to the floor. Crossing the room, you pull the velvet window drapes further apart, closing your eyes and smiling into the golden rays of the late-morning sun streaming in. 

Mephistopheles’s gifts are to be appreciated indeed. 

“I think people would be a bit suspicious if the Vampire Lord Ascendant suddenly canceled the ball he planned months ago,” you point out, smirking as always at the way he preens for a moment when you use his full title, the vain bastard. “And, if I recall your own words correctly, my Lord, you did wish to ‘lull the witless nobles of Baldur’s Gate into a false security before we inevitably depose and feast upon them’. Have your plans really changed so soon?” 

He hisses in frustration, pointedly looking away from you. “We have all of eternity to stage our grand coup d’état, Dearest. What about what I desire right this minute? Hmm?” 

You turn around at that, struggling to keep a straight face at the way he’s posed in the center of the disarrayed blankets, propped on one elbow, his face still upturned and sulking. His other arm drapes with carefully contrived thoughtfulness across one knee, both of his long, sinuous legs emerging from beneath the covers so that only the bare minimum of him is left to the imagination. 

“Do you want me to summon a painter to immortalize your magnificence in this moment, my Lord?” you tease, leaning towards him, but still not close enough for him to grab. 

His eyebrows lower, and he closes the distance between you, obviously weighing how successful his efforts would be if he pounced right now. “What I want,” he whispers dangerously, “is a little respect from you, my recalcitrant paramour. So…,” and he reaches out, traces a fingertip from the base of your neck up to your chin, “are you going to get on your knees and apologize for that naughty, glib tongue? I can think of much better uses for it than prattling nonsense.” 

Your skin blooms with faint heat at his suggestive words and sly grin.

He draws you closer, until you’re leaning over the bed, until scarcely more than a breath would cause you to tumble forward, collapsing into his lap…. 

And then you pull away, the sound of your laughter dancing around the chamber as he growls and spits at your blatant refusal to comply.

“One day, Pet, you’re going to get in so much trouble, I hope you know.” 

“Oh I’m well aware, Astarion.” You drop your sheet and swiftly shrug into a fur robe. “But as I said, I can’t let you persuade me back to bed today. We have to get ready for tonight, and a certain vampire lord tends to take all day long to dress and do his hair, now that he can see his reflection. You know I speak the truth.” 

“Screw the truth,” he grumbles, collapsing backwards and flinging an arm over his eyes. “Fine, I’ll order you a bath. But don’t forget yourself, Sweet Thing. You’re walking on thin gods-damned ice.” 

You bask in the delicious shudder those words send through your body — threats of "discipline" from Astarion more often than not manifest in very creative hours of pleasure as he teaches you a lesson, and you can’t deny how you crave the confidence his transformation has given him like an addiction. 

“Aren’t I always?” you toss over your shoulder as you leave for the bath. 

“Brat.” 

It takes one to know one, you think to yourself with a snort. 

“I heard that!” he shouts after your retreating back. 

You laugh all the way down the long corridor. 

When you sink into the deliciously hot water, you notice with a flutter of your undead heart that he must have asked the servants for a special addition to your usual bath, as a profusion of red rose blossoms floats lazily on the water's surface, clustering around your body and infusing the air and your skin with their overwhelming perfume.

Roses from Astarion carry a twofold message, as clear and vibrant to you as the deep color of the flowers themselves. An assurance that he’s not truly angry, as he knows they are a longtime favorite of yours, and a promise that the offer of pursuing “darkest wishes” for however long your combined stamina lasts is still very much on the table for later. 

It puts a smile on your lips for the rest of the afternoon’s preparations. 

When he at last joins you in the main ballroom of the former Szarr palace, fully refurbished into an opulent gathering space graced with only the finest trappings that endless wealth could afford, you make no effort to hide your admiration of how splendid he looks in his finery, broad shoulders and slender waist accentuated by a perfectly tailored red-and-gold long coat with a high collar and artfully embroidered scarlet dragon wings spread wide across his chest. Immaculately blended dark eyeshadow and a circlet that rises in sweeping, vaguely ominous arcs on either side of his head make his face even more hauntingly beautiful, and his elegant ears are adorned with your favorite pair of his earrings, the dangling ones shaped like tiny daggers with rubies set in their hilts. 

He holds out a hand to you, and you take it, rising from your seat. 

“You look beautiful,” you murmur as he rests his forehead against yours, a surprisingly vulnerable display of affection. 

His soft lips smooth out from their rakish smirk into a wider, more genuine smile. You know how, even with the near-limitless power he now holds, he still hungers for such simple praise. 

“And you, my precious darling —” he pauses, breathes in the scent of the rosewater that clings to your hair and weaves itself in with your own natural, beloved scent, “— are a vision this world is not fit to contain. Death becomes you, Dearest.” 

You are clothed in deepest black, a gorgeous gown with a plunging neckline both back and front and a high side slit, shimmering fabric that runs over your curves like waterfalls and reveals a rose motif in crushed velvet overlay when the light hits it just right. It fits your body like a second skin; you remember when Astarion had it made for you, how when it came time for the final adjustments, he chased the tailors away with a snarl and performed the necessary gathers and stitches himself, loathe to let anyone else lay hands on his finest treasure in such an intimate manner. 

“I have something for you,” he adds, and opens his other hand to reveal a necklace, a choker of luminous blush-colored pearls strung together and oddly accented with crimson glass beads. “May I? 

You turn, and his cool breath ruffles your hair as he clasps the jewelry around your throat. You immediately understand the design as the cascade of dark red droplets rolls down the side of your neck, the endmost few trailing into the dip between your breasts. 

Like rivulets of blood from a vampire’s kiss. 

Then his lips are beside your ear, one hand sliding up to surround your unguarded throat, the other drifting across your waist. 

“So no one doubts to whom you belong,” he purrs, and your vision blurs for the briefest of seconds at the sheer headiness of having him so close, so powerful and all-consuming. 

“Thank you, Star,” you murmur when he lets you go and you find your power of speech again. 

His expression softens at the endearment you’ve used for him since the early beginnings of your time together. “I don’t know if I want to let you go to this ball at all, when you look so lovely,” he remarks regretfully. “Would you really be so angry with me, if I locked you away in my bedchamber until it was over, so none of these undeserving wretches can bask in your glory? I wish to ravish you myself, and you know how I utterly detest sharing what’s mine.” 

You give him a stern look. “That would make me incredibly angry. I want to socialize. And surely you, of all people, must understand that I want to be seen.” 

He blows a discontented breath out through his nose. “Oh, very well. It was worth a try at least.” After another moment of still seriously considering the immediate risks of throwing you over his shoulder and whisking you away to his personal quarters, he gives himself a shake and offers his arm. “Don’t mind me, my Love. Only thinking out loud. Shall we?” 

You bare your teeth at him as you take it, and he rolls his eyes, leading you up the staircase to where his throne sits overlooking the main space.

“Now now, Sweet. Behave for your master, or I shall lose my patience.” 

It’s entrancing, watching the richest of the rich of Baldur’s Gate mingling below you, dancing couples sweeping across the floor in great circles, men discussing politics and recent news along the sides of the room, ladies sharing gossip and giggling in flocks by the refreshments. The very air is thick with perfume and intrigue, swirling with every shade of color, alive with savory tidbits of the ever-shifting landscape that so defines the upper social scene.

You are rapt, ears perking at each change in the surrounding sounds, eyes flitting from one lavishly dressed form to the next. In your lifetime you had only rarely even seen balls of this magnitude, and you itch to join the festivities yourself now that your rightful place among them is sealed in stone. 

Astarion, however, is making that itch extraordinarily difficult to scratch. He couldn’t be any more bored with the lack of chaos, and as such is lounging in his throne with an air of absolute detachment, the only subject of his attention being you seated in his lap. His wonderful hands are terribly distracting, one stroking up and down your exposed back at a torturously slow pace, the other dancing with light touches across your abdomen and down your thighs. He whispers catty judgments of your guests into your ear with snide laughter, and occasionally squeezes your hip to bring your gaze back to him when he deems it has wandered too long. 

The music stops, starts again, and this time it’s an old song you love, something dark and urgent in a minor key with a beat that almost rushes, and a muscle in your leg twitches involuntarily with the desire to move with the melody after sitting still for so long. 

You hear your lover growl in surprise at the unexpected movement, and the hand in your lap flies up to grasp your jaw and gently but firmly turn your face to look at him. 

“Careful, Darling,” he warns, through a smirk that flashes fangs. “If you continue to writhe about in such a…precarious position, I’ll be giving the idiots down there the kind of show they’ll never forget.” 

His other hand creeps around from your lower back to dip under your dress through the slit, his thumb teasing your inner thigh with an entirely improper caress. 

The music may be loud, but surely even its volume can’t hide you when I make you scream for me…. 

You tear yourself away from his touch before he can coax you any further under his spell, rising to your feet and taking a step away from his throne. 

He snatches at your hand, long nails lightly raking your skin. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

“You’re making me lose my powers of judgement with your delicious threats and enticements,” you inform him, tone dripping with overdone sweetness. “And besides, I wish to dance for awhile.” 

His eyes narrow, but you can tell that your words have stroked his ego enough, and after a long moment of hemming and hawing just to torment you, he releases your wrist. 

“All right, my dear little love. Go enjoy yourself then — gather up the latest gossip, endear yourself to the locals with all of that charm and appeal, and as I said before, do behave yourself.”

He lazily kicks one leg over an arm of the throne and beckons a servant, who swiftly brings him a crystal wine glass filled with a dark red liquid. 

Wine? 

He grins at you and swirls his drink around a couple of times; by the sluggish way the liquid moves, you realize that it’s blood instead. Though he no longer needs to subsist upon it to survive, he still partakes sometimes when his tastes -- and his image -- benefit from it. 

“Aw, are we thirsty, my pet? Want a drink?” He takes an exaggerated sip, staining his teeth crimson and running his tongue over his lips. 

You take a step back towards him, mouth watering, but he nudges you away with his boot. 

“Too bad. Run along and play with your mortal toys now, Sweetheart. Daddy’s had enough of your games.” 

You scowl down at his insolent face, and the first familiar spikes of what he so eloquently calls your bratty streak start to bubble in your chest. “Fine. Enjoy yourself, my Lord. I certainly intend to.” 

As you glide down the staircase, his burning eyes sear into your mind, hard and forbidding. 

And remember, I will be watching your every move. 

It’s been a few hours now, and you’re without a care in the world; even the ever-present whisper of Astarion prodding at the edges of your mind has been dulled by the savor of decadent food and drink, the intoxication of music, and a succession of increasingly skilled dance partners. Parties make for bold men, and even your subtly vampiric looks soon become a temptation, not something to be cautious with. 

You know he’s watching, probably with an ever darker glower at you attracting so much attention, and that fact alone makes your steps lighter and your laugh freer as you move from partner to partner, every once in awhile stealing a glance up at the brooding Vampire Lord on his throne. 

He’s absolutely simmering, you know he must be. 

And that only makes your steadily building ache for him blaze all the hotter. 

A new hand reaches for yours, and when the impeccably dressed man rises from a deep bow, you recognize your old companion Wyll with a jolt of pleased surprise. “Young Duke Ravengard! I’m ever so happy to see you again. You look well.” 

“Lady Ancunín, I presume?” he asks, and despite the fondness in his warm voice, you can feel the dark shadow of doubt passing over him as he takes in your rich attire and the subtle changes that have affected you. 

“I am.”

It still sends a fierce stab of delight through you whenever anyone addresses you by your Lord’s surname. 

“May I have this dance?” Wyll asks, and, eager to catch up with a longtime friend, you accept. 

His poise on the dance floor is every bit as flawless as you remember, and you quickly fall into the rhythm of his steps as he guides you around the entire circumference of the room, the eyes of those around turning to watch, hushed whispers of admiration and rumor immediately starting to fly. 

“So you took him up on his offer,” Wyll remarks in a low tone. There is no condemnation there, not yet, only curiosity. 

You gaze over his shoulder at where Astarion has suddenly leaned forward in his seat, his stare burning holes in the pair of you, the lines of his lithe body all tense, tightly wound and ready to explode at a moment’s notice. 

“Yes.”

Wyll lowers you into a dramatic dip, the red beads of your necklace brushing the floor before he sweeps you upright again.

“So I did.” 

His hand rests between your shoulder blades, warm against your cold skin as he guides you into a twirl, and your vision clouds ever so briefly as the force of Astarion’s anger swells like a violent wave behind your own eyes. You crossly push back against his influence.

It’s a dance, Star. He means nothing by it. 

“Are you happy?”

Wyll’s soft question is genuine, his handsome face gentle with concern. “You seem to fit into this ‘life’ with a certain…naturalness, I must say. But is it really everything you wanted?” 

“Careful,” you warn in an undertone. “Anything I see or hear, he can as well.” 

“I am well aware of Astarion’s ego, and also his fragilities.” Your dance partner holds firm as he flings you out to arms’ length, then pulls you back in, his arm wrapping around you as you sink into another dip. “My question remains. Are you content with this eternity you have chosen?” 

You drop the playful demeanor you've been wearing all night to deeply consider his worries. Is this new life everything you desired for your future once, does it measure up to the foolish dreams of your youth, back when you had nothing but your own courage and ambition to carry you forward? 

The music has dropped to a melancholy, dirge-like waltz, and even Astarion’s presence in your inner mind seems to be holding its breath awaiting your reply. 

Anything you could desire, he is more than happy to throw at your feet. You live in sheer luxury, in possession of the finest clothes you could ever dream up, libraries of poetry and myths at your disposal, any food you might crave set before you at the first hint of your slightest whim. 

And of course him — the rogue you fell in love with, now yours alone for the rest of time, until the sun burns out.

Those were the words he had murmured in your ear the night he took you as his, the night his passions were finally free to overrun you in all their raging intensity, as he made love to your body and soul and you took your last mortal breath shuddering in his arms.

You are his and he is yours. 

Forever. 

Until the sun burns out. 

So your answer, when you smile up into Wyll’s worry-darkened gaze once more, is as sure as the star-studded heavens flowing on in endless grandeur beyond the ballroom's immense windows. 

“I am happy, Duke Ravengard. More so than I could have ever thought possible.” 

The music fades out as the song draws to an end, people applaud the musicians. Wyll releases you, bows deeply, and presses a chaste kiss to your hand. His eyes, when he meets yours, are sad, but he still smiles that lovely smile you have missed seeing for so long. 

“Then I am happy for you, Lady Ancunín. Give my respects to the Vampire Ascendant.” 

Then he takes his leave, and you are left alone. 

You glance up at the throne, and realize it now sits dark and empty. 

Astarion has gone. 

Slowly, the massive ballroom empties out in the hours after midnight. The nobles of Baldur’s Gate leave in clusters, and the chatter that reaches your ears is promising. They all had a grand time, are overflowing with praises of the space and the music and drink, and all in all seem the proverbial fattened geese, suspicions allayed and their unguarded complacency ripe for the butcher’s blade.

The night was a success. 

You wander the length and breadth of the great hall, blowing out the candles one by one. The servants have already extinguished the great chandeliers, and soon you are left in darkness, only the squares of blue moonlight from the windows illuminating the black shadows.

You pause in the center of one pool of light, sensing you are not alone. 

A thick mist has rolled in, creeping along the floor, settling in the corners and enveloping you in a cool embrace. You breathe in a familiar scent, the subtle perfume of bergamot, rosemary, and brandy, and instinctively melt into the very center of the undulating cloud, letting your eyes flutter shut. 

He’s solid again as silently as his misty form came in, holding you tightly, kissing the back of your neck, fingertips trailing down the center of your chest from your collarbone all the way to your stomach. 

“Dance with me now,” he urges in a deep, velvety whisper. “I hate watching everyone else have their fun with you.” 

You smile and comply, and despite the harshness of his statement, he’s so smooth and soft with you, each touch light as a butterfly’s wing, his body melting against yours when he brings you in close. He’s discarded his fine jacket somewhere along the way, leaving his bare torso to be sculpted by moonlight and shadow before your eyes, beautiful and ethereal in that elven way that even undeath couldn’t steal from him. 

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers hotly into your chest as he lifts you, turning his steps so you plunge into darkness and then rise back into the window’s light. 

“What do you mean, my Star?” 

The impromptu dance halts; he gazes down into your face, lets his fingers trace the contours of your cheekbone and jaw. 

“Is there anything you wish were different?” 

You roll this inquiry over in your head for a moment before answering. 

“Maybe one thing.” 

His muscles tense, turning his chest and abdomen to stone. “Tell me.” 

He’s anticipating your regrets, that maybe after Wyll’s prodding you do wish you had never become his dark consort at all. 

“Don’t be afraid, my Love.” You kiss him, reveling in the hunger that desperation has caused in him. “I only think I would like to go out more.” 

“Outside the palace?”

He sounds confused, reluctant. 

“Yes.” You break away from his grasping arms and go to the nearest window, gazing out at the lights of the city stretching on into the distance. “I want you to walk with me down the busiest streets, to catch the startled eye of every passing mortal and make them stare after us in awe. I want you to show me off to all our neighbors, like any Lord does with his Lady.”

Turning to meet his eyes again as he slowly approaches, you add, “I just want to walk with you under the sun, as any lovers might.” 

The sheer relief in his face is an enormous weight lifted from both your shoulders. “Well, if that’s what you truly think would make you happiest, perhaps we shall. You somehow make such a simple act sound almost…enjoyable.” 

You laugh and reach out for him again, and he envelops you in a smothering embrace, a hand coming to rest at the back of your neck, twining your hair around his fingers. 

“Now,” he purrs with wicked anticipation, “are you finally going to admit how eagerly you thirst for me, Precious? I could feel your shameless lust thickening the air all evening long, torturing me with every little naughty glance you tossed my way. I think my little lost love needs to be reminded that she belongs to me, and that there are consequences for straying too long from my side.” 

His deft fingers are already undoing the laces and buttons that hold your dress together, shedding the rich fabric from your body like so much snakeskin until the dewy moonlight fairly glows on the surface of your bared skin, the jealously guarded expanse of worshipped flesh that he and he alone can lay claim to. 

Even your self-control cannot hold fast against him when he undresses you so sensually, and you can’t fully quiet the soft whine that leaves your throat as he backs you up against the nearest wall, lifting you and sliding his hands beneath your thighs for leverage as he nudges himself between your legs. 

“That’s it, Darling, don’t try to stifle it,” he croons as he leans further in to kiss and suck a pathway from your throat all the way downward.

“I want to hear just how much you love the way that only I can make you feel.” 

“Astarion -- ” you try, but you find you can’t remember what it was you wanted to say anymore, as his nails dig into you and he teasingly pricks at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh with hungry fangs.