The screams are agony.

Part of you is thankful for the compulsion that keeps you seated, because your bloodlust feels unmanageable given the amount of blood that has sprayed all over one side of the room.

But Astarion lets go of you soon enough, and you realize just how much you have been fighting your invisible bonds when you topple to the ground. Your palms scrape against the wooden floor, and you look up, the screams of pain ringing in your ears.

"Sylas," you say, your voice cracking. You feel powerless, and empty—emotions frayed, and hands shaking. You get to your feet before him and try to avoid the sight of the profuse bleeding, but it's everywhere. Your mouth salivates, and your jaw clenches.

You want this.

You want to sink your teeth into his skin and end his misery.

But then you would be the one who killed Sylas Vore.

You fall to your knees, because your fingers are inching towards him, and you need to get away. His screams make it hard to focus, but you try. Your hands are on the floor, nails digging into the boards, and you drag yourself away.

From what you've seen, you know that his wound is too deep. He will bleed out if he doesn't see a healer. Hells, he may die even if he makes it to a healer.

"Astarion," you say through gritted teeth, because you know he's there. "He needs help."

You tear your eyes from the floor to look at him standing by the doorway, observing. Finally, he comes forward, and crouches before you. "This is the first time I'm disappointed to see you on your knees, darling."

You want to scratch at him and shred him to bits. "Help him."

He seems entirely unbothered by your concern. "Didn't you want a taste?"

"Help him."

"Perhaps you're simply… uneducated in the art of the bite." He grins, devilish. "Though I should apologize, I haven't been the most demonstrative teacher." He reaches out a hand, and strokes your face. "Come, my love. Let me show you how."

You know what this means. "No," you protest. "Astarion—"

But he looks you in the eyes, and tells you, "Get up, my dear."

Stiffly, your limbs move, and you stand before him. There's a part of you that wants to explode in fire and flames, and maybe Astarion sees that, because he quickly commands, "I want you to sit. Quietly."

Silenced.

Limply, you land in your chair.

"And you." He turns to Sylas. "You will also cease your incessant yelling."

Immediately, there is complete and utter silence, except for the sound of your heavy, unnecessary breathing. A habit—a comfort—from your living days.

You can't say a word. Your mouth opens in a silent gasp as Astarion digs his fingers into Sylas's hair, yanks his head to the side, and sinks his teeth deep into his neck. On the table, Sylas's hand, covered in gore, twitches, as Astarion draws, and draws, and draws. With each second, Sylas's skin that is already pale from the blood loss, turns whiter, and whiter, as he loses almost all of his life source.

And that is it.

Astarion withdraws his teeth, and lets go of the man with terrible fortune, who thuds to the ground.

Lifeless.

With a finger, Astarion wipes the corner of his lips. "Certainly not as sweet as you."

You hardly hear him. Your eyes are trained on the body on the floor—eyes blank, mouth parted, and long hair strewn about.

Gods—was that what you had looked like?

Your eyes unfocus, and exhaustion seeps through you. And momentarily, you are gone.

"One bite." Astarion nuzzles your neck. "Just one."

You laugh, your back cold against the cement wall. Somehow, you've both made it to the dungeons beneath Cazador's estate. There had been a party, and food, and wine—so much wine. Your friends had left this grand city, but you and Astarion were now known to ravage the taverns until early morning. The fight against the Absolute had taken a lot out of you—out of everyone—and you just wanted a time of joy, peace, and pleasure. Astarion, with all of his wickedness, agreed.

"This place," he now says, a hand tracing the curve of your waist over your dress, down to your hips, "will be entirely redone. Ours to paint however we please."

"Not even a single reminder of Cazador," you declare strongly.

He hikes up your long skirts, grabbing onto your thighs. He pushes you into the wall, and wraps your legs around him. "You—the mistress of this manor."

"And you, the master?"

He kisses you, and then you feel his sharp teeth along your jaw. "Yes. Yes." You're sure that you'll bleed if he keeps it up. "But I need one more thing. Just one little, tiny, inconsequential thing."

You hesitate, because you always do. "I don't know, my love." You let your head fall back, away from his face. "I don't know if I want to be… dead."

"Dead? No. Different," he tells you. He's always so convincing. Persuasive. Confident. More so, you've noticed, after the Ascension. "You will be better. More resilient. Eternal."

You frown. "But the sun, and mirrors…"

"No," he says vehemently. "My blood, darling, is Ascended. And you will be… just like me." His lips are on your jaw once again. "Forever, you will be mine, and I will be yours."

"Forever?" You can hardly imagine that.

He settles more firmly between your thighs. "Everyday. Until this godsdamn world is no more. Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me. Tell me yes."

"Yes," you gasp, your lips parting without your volition.

He stills, because clearly, he did not expect it. After a pause, he quietly asks, "What did you say?"

The wine—you know it's the wine. "I—"

You must want it.

Him.

Forever.

If you were sober enough, perhaps you would recognize the anomaly of your mouth moving without your control.

But you aren't even a little bit sober, and you tug at your skirts, and his waistband. "I want you."

Astarion is silent, and you can't imagine what's running through his mind when you're squirming against him like this.

You grab his face and pull him to you, your nose brushing his cheek. "Astarion."

He snaps out of it, and two hands press onto the wall, at either side of your head. "Look at me."

Happily, dizzily, you oblige.

"Now, tell me what you want."

"You."

"In the dungeons?"

"I don't give a damn where."

Fabric tears, and his kisses are on your shoulders, and breasts. You moan when he slips a finger inside of you, and then another. There's something so oddly reverant about his pace—slow, languid movements, yet deep, and demanding. As if he needs the time to fully process your existence before him.

And then his fingers are out of you, and you're pulled from the wall. He lays you down on the pathway that you know leads to the ritual chamber.

He crawls on top of you. "You want this." He kisses your throat. "This life. This manor."

"Yes," you breathe as you feel his cock begin to push into you.

"Fuck, Lilith." When he's filled you completely, he pauses. "Tell me you're mine."

You're panting, but your lips, and your throat move to obey. Easily. Effortlessly. "I'm yours."

"Forever." It isn't a question.

You smile as he takes you quickly, and roughly in the dungeons. Your head is thrown back, and you can vaguely make out the ritual chamber behind you. There is still blood, you notice, all over the sacrificial platform.

The slaughter from just a week ago.

The same hands that killed his siblings are the same ones that hold you down now. With the ferocity of his pace, you know he wants you over the edge, and soon.

Because once you come screaming, Astarion digs his teeth into the column of your neck. It's unexpected, and part of you wants to push him off. You can. Your magic is strong enough.

But you had agreed. You had said it. Yes.

It hurts terribly, and your body begins to twitch. You aren't sure if it's because of the sex—he's still inside you—or because of the swift emptying of all the blood from your body.

The last thing you see is the vaulted ceiling of the dungeons, and the last thing you taste is merely a drop of metallic blood—Astarion's, it must be.

And the rest is—and forever will be—darkness.

"Lilith."

You blink, and your gaze focuses on Astarion, who tugs on your hand to pull you up from your seat. His smile is soft, and for a moment, you don't remember that you're in the dining chambers. You don't remember Sylas's inanimate body on the ground, or the cuts of his skin that litter the dining table. The blood, for that moment, doesn't burn your throat.

Astarion tips up your face with his hand, and presses his lips to yours. They are warm, and sweet.

And bloody.

You jerk back, but he catches your arm. "Delicious, yes?"

You lick your lips, because you can't help it. And at that sight, Astarion kisses you again, his lips firm, his tongue dominant. You taste Sylas, and you want more.

You're entirely ashamed. You find the strength to pull back, and your eyes slide past Astarion to the ground, where Sylas's body lies. His right hand twitches once. Twice.

"Do you know what's happening?" Astarion asks expectedly.

You don't answer. You don't want to. And besides, you can't. He hasn't let you go enough to speak.

Astarion pulls you with him as he approaches the body. More of it begins to twitch, and the mutilated wrist isn't looking too terrible anymore.

"You had so kindly asked me to help him, didn't you?"

You grit your teeth. You're already mourning for this man, and his soul that is being ripped away mercilessly from his body.

"Sylas Vore." Astarion brings his own wrist to his lips, and tears at the skin with his teeth. Crouching by the body, he lets a drop of his blood land on Sylas's lips.

"My love, let me introduce you to our eternal connection into the Flaming Fists."

A/N: Grow up, Astarion. Sylas was just being a gentleman. No need to take away his whole agency and make him your slave or anything, no matter the political gains.

Also, Ascended compulsion works in a more diverse manner, it seems... hmm.

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