When you arrive at the dining chambers that evening, you notice an extra place setting.

Astarion enters behind you and takes his seat at the head of the table. "Sit, darling."

"Who's joining us?"

Eliza walks in with Sylas Vore beside her, who is in a fresh tunic and trousers, with long hair arranged neatly at his shoulders. She gestures to the table, and then takes her leave.

"I'm half-surprised to see Eliza breathing," Astarion notes, unfolding his napkin. "Your control has taken quite the turn, Sir Vore."

It is an understatement, surely. You had just been bitten by him hours ago.

Sylas wordlessly takes a seat precisely at the same spot he had been compelled to chop into his wrist. You wonder if Astarion finds it amusing. He probably does.

"I'm glad you can join us," you say diplomatically, finding your seat.

Dinner is served quickly, and you watch Sylas as he tracks the servants. Plates of food are laid out at one end of the table, where Astarion is seated.

You don't know how much Sylas knows, but you say it anyway, "The food—it's not for us."

Sylas continues to watch regardless. There's a relatable hunger to him as his eyes halt at the necks of the servants, and then travel down to the steaming roast lamb, and boiling hot stew that are placed before his master. Wine is served for everyone.

Eventually, two servants appear with two large goblets. They ceremoniously place one in front of you, and Sylas.

Astarion hasn't taken a bite of his food, which is respectful in a way. Once he sees that you have your helpings, he gestures vaguely to both of you before beginning to eat.

You alternate between your wine and blood, as you always do.

When you look over at Sylas, you notice his hesitation at the two goblets.

"One is for dinner," you tell him. "And one is for… " Toleration. "Enjoyment."

Astarion merely smiles.

You toast to Sylas with your goblet of wine, and take a sip.

Once Astarion's plates are cleared out, and you've finished most of your blood, you dab your lips with your napkin. You're happy to see that both of Sylas's goblets are empty.

Astarion picks up his wine, and looks at you from across the table. "Lilith, come here."

You stand immediately, and you curse yourself for letting the compulsion wash over you so easily. Stiffly, you walk over to him, but your hand is ready, at your side, to blind you. You won't make this mistake again.

The next time he speaks, you don't see him. "Show me your wrist."

You wince, only briefly. Your robes should have been sufficient to hide it, but you hadn't paid close attention to how they could have shifted over dinner.

There isn't a way around this, you know, so you push up your sleeve, and let him see the bite on your skin. He snatches your wrist.

"How… disappointing," he murmurs, his thumb tracing the imprints. "You have not learned anything it seems, Sylas."

You have fulfilled his compulsion to stand before him, so you can move. You angle yourself to stand firmly between him and Sylas. "It was a loss of control."

"Isn't it always?"

"It was my fault," you insist. "I had my hand past the bars."

"Oh?" He grins at you, but his eyes are furious. "What was that hand doing in his cell, my love?"

Your fingers clench into fist. "Getting him to drink, Astarion. It isn't a concern. I will heal."

You don't like the way Astarion's eyes slide away from yours and linger behind you. You don't want to know what wicked thoughts are flitting through his brain. The momentary glint of that steak knife lingers in your memories, and you won't give Astarion another chance to hurt Sylas Vore.

But instead of any demonstration of violence, Astarion merely tugs on your wrist so you're pulled down to his lap. His eyes are on your braids as he speaks, "So, Sylas Vore. We need to ensure that your mortal life is tied up with a neat little bow." He gestures to a servant. "I was able to obtain sufficient documentation about your history."

Soon, there are papers being brought out and laid in front of him. You look down at them as Astarion runs a finger over one.

"Let's see. Father was lost in the Bhaalspawn crisis," he says, reading. "Your mother—though still alive, doesn't seem to reside in the city."

Sylas is quiet.

Astarion makes a noncommittal sound, eyes still on the papers. "No records of siblings either." He looks up, and a hand crawls onto your thigh. "A depressing only child—much like our dear Lilith. You must also be used to the loneliness."

He flips to a new page. "You own a modest apartment near the Fist headquarters—that will be quite useful to you during your daylight hours." He slides a finger down the rest of the page. "Never married, and no recorded children." Leaning back in his chair, he studies Sylas. "What else, Sir Vore?"

"What else?" You ask.

"Yes." His attention remains on him. "Friends, foe. A whore you favor at the brothels?"

You tense, keeping your eyes blankly on the sheets of paper.

There is still no response from Sylas. You wonder if he has been compelled into silence.

Astarion continues, "You're a man of vigor, and strength. It is a need, I'm sure you know. You must have someone warming your bed."

You don't know much about Sylas's lover, but you don't know how well the implications of her simply warming his bed will go over.

Quickly, your head turns to Astarion, and you place a kind hand to his cheek. "Does it matter, love? He has to forget who he was before. Whoever consorted with him then is irrelevant, because that Sylas Vore is as good as dead. Here, he starts anew."

Astarion says nothing for a while as he regards you. Eventually, he takes your hand from his face and presses his lips into your palm.

"You should appreciate how kind your mistress is," he says, dropping your hand. "I'm sure you're wondering about your status at the Fists. I expect you to return to the offices in a week, which means we'll need to work on your… breathing."

That's it. Your eyes narrow at Sylas and you realize that his chest hasn't moved… at all. He isn't breathing, so of course, he cannot speak.

And if he doesn't breathe, he cannot smell. Is this a way for him to keep his bloodlust at bay? Has Astarion compelled him into this method of control?

Astarion snaps a finger. "Oh—Azula. She came searching for you. A little fierce, and burly, I'll admit—but I won't fault your tastes. We all appreciate a little fire don't we?"

Sylas gives no reaction, which seems to disappoint Astarion. You know he's searching for something. Some tool, some leverage—some manipulative advantage.

"No?" He baits. "Does Sylas Vore not care for company? I shall need to remind you that Lilith here is unfortunately off limits."

"Don't be ridiculous," you say. "Sylas and I are practically… siblings, now."

"You are, aren't you?" Again, that satisfaction. He pushes you off of his lap, and stands, stalking towards his latest spawn. He stares at him deeply. "You will keep your teeth out of her, and anyone in this manor. If I get a whiff of you behaving like an absolute heathen, you will lose a hand, Sylas. Perhaps even more."

Quickly, you reach forward and tug at Astarion's arm. "Astarion—"

"Do you understand?" He reaches out and grabs Sylas by his shirt, dragging him to his feet. "This is my home, and everything in here belongs to me. You bear my mark on your neck, which signifies that you are also mine. With every action, you represent me, and you will do so elegantly. That means no blood on your clothing, and no bodies beneath your bed. Stay clear of any surface capable of reflection." He smiles unkindly. "And you might also want to try to avoid the sun."

He lets him go, and Sylas stumbles back into his chair. But you can sense that power building within Astarion. He has a new pet to play with, and he doesn't want to stop.

"I've had enough of this," you say quickly, your hand clasping at his. You can tell he tries to shake you off, but you persist, "Come upstairs with me."

Eventually, Astarion's head turns to the corner of the dining chambers, and he says, "Eliza. Show Sylas to his rooms." He bends to look him in his eyes. "You will remain there until released."

You don't lead Astarion to your shared chambers. His hand in yours, he doesn't question you when you turn to the opposite wing of the manor. He only waits behind you when you stop at the door to his study.

"Darling," he whispers with intrigue—and by the Gods, it brings shivers down your spine. The quiet timbre of his voice reminds you of a time… "Open the door."

When you enter, you let a single flame flow to light one of the sconces on the wall. The rest of them remain lifeless as you pull Astarion with you.

In this dim, soft lighting, you navigate to his desk, and pause in front of it.

"Why are we here, love?" He asks, as if he doesn't know.

You turn your head to the side to at least keep him in your peripheral vision. "I want you to take what you wanted today."

"Why?"

Because he is your problem, and no one should pay for it but you. "You don't need a reason why."

After a short pause, his fingers are in your hair—torturously slow, as he runs them through your braids. Once they're sufficiently ruined, he pulls at your belt, and peels back your robes.

In the warm light, you turn to him, and grasp at his surcoat, pushing it off of his shoulders.

Softly, he asks, "Why, Lilith?"

"Why?" You don't look at him. Eyebrows drawn, you focus your hands on his tunic. Your admission slices through you more than it would ever faze him, "Because I still love you."

"Do you?"

"It isn't a choice."

Before you can help him with his trousers, he turns you around, and you find yourself once again bent over the desk. He grips your hair, but it isn't harsh. There's a gentleness to his touch as he runs his other hand down your naked back.

"What is this?" he rasps, his fingers pressing into your shoulder blades, and spine. "You have... lost weight."

You turn your head, pressing your cheek into the desk. From this view, you can see the bookshelf.

"Do you starve for food, my love? Is the blood I find for you unsatisfying?"

You watch how the gentle light dances against the books. You wonder why he's talking. There's way too much talking.

And he doesn't like your silence. He pulls you up and spins you to face him. Before he can open his mouth, you reach for his trousers, but he grabs your wrists before your hands can make it to their only objective.

You don't like how he watches you endlessly, and you don't like that your mind wanders. This isn't the natural course of events. You should be filled with him right now, gasping, and scratching, and losing yourself entirely. He should be pulling your hair and fucking you straight into his desk like he had wanted to earlier today.

When your eyes focus on him, there isn't anything vicious in his expression, and truthfully, that scares you. You don't understand it. He observes you quietly, and you can't read a single thing about him.

But finally, he lifts you by your thighs so you're seated on the desk. With a palm, he pushes you down to your back, his hand sliding slowly over your torso. But you quickly sit back up when you notice him bend his head between your legs.

"No," you protest, your hands immediately on his waistband. "Just fuck me."

Again, he watches you.

But he doesn't stop you from clawing at his trousers, and once you finally see his cock spring free, you let yourself lie down.

Your sigh is out of relief when you feel him push into you, because you're finally settling into a moment where you know what to expect. The feel of his body against yours is natural, and you brace yourself for that punishing pace.

But seconds pass, and you're barely moving on the desk. Astarion is slow, his movements languid, and drawn out. It messes with you more than you want to admit, and you eventually demand, "Harder."

His hand caresses down your breasts. "Hm?"

"Harder, Astarion."

He grabs your calf and pushes one of your thighs up, digging his pelvis firmly into you. But his pace remains the same—long, gentle strokes that disorient you.

"Gods," you whisper. "Please."

He bends over you and begins to plant open-mouthed kisses on your neck. "Please? You don't have to worry, love." You can feel his smile, and you don't know if it's gentle, or wicked—and it drives you insane. "I will always make it good for you."

It isn't good for you. You need predictability. You need repetition. Your mind needs a hook to grab on to so it can stop reeling. "I want to ride you."

He drags soft nails down your arm. "But haven't you always just wanted to make love?"

You blink.

"But have you ever made love, Astarion? Have you ever bared your soul to someone and let them consume you whole?"

Astarion wrinkles his nose. "That sounds severely bad for me."

"But that's the beauty of it, isn't it? That vulnerability. It's pure, and raw, and... mind-shattering."

"Mind-shattering?' He makes a disapproving sound. "I pity whoever lets themselves be played as such."

"Oh, no," he says now, his smile against your jaw. "You don't get to leave me now, darling."

You grasp at his biceps, tears forming at the corners of your eyes. "Faster. Please."

"What's the rush?" He purrs. "You aren't even close."

Tangling your fingers in his hair, you press his head down to your neck, seeking any sort of familiarity in his bite. You cry out in frustration when you only feel the press of his lips.

"Oh, my sweet. We need to change things up, don't we?" He straightens, a hand lovingly tracing your waist and traveling lower before pausing at your pubic bone. "We can't be so predictable."

He knows.

He knows you don't want to be here.

He knows you'll puppet through whatever he wants.

But he also knows that you've memorized your role.

You rise up to your elbows as he continues to move lazily in and out of you. "Tell me what you want."

"I want to make love to the woman who loves me."

Astarion doesn't make love. He makes a mockery out of it.

You lie back down, your eyes empty. "What punishment is this, Astarion?"

"You wound me." He digs his hips into yours again. "I'm better to you than any master you could imagine." And then you finally feel that sweet comfort of his fingers closing in on your hair. The strong tug makes you cry out—in pleasure, or pain, or relief, you can't tell. "I don't want another word about Cazador from your mouth, Lilith."

He leans down, and you automatically wrap your legs around him. You gasp when he gives you a firmer thrust, and he savors it with another pull to your hair. "I hope we understand each other."

His pace increases, almost up to a tempo you can recognize. And you find yourself mumbling out, "Yes."

"This is what you want," he says, habitual breaths coming out fast with yours. "Isn't it?"

Faster, he's faster. And that's all that matters. Your thighs squeeze around him as you breathe, "Yes. More—please."

"Yes, Lilith," he hisses, his hand snaking down to your clit. "You will come."

But he isn't looking at you. His compulsion doesn't take effect.

So you grab his face desperately and lock your eyes onto his. "Say it again."

Something flashes in expression, but it is lost on you. He maintains eye contact this time when he commands, "Come, Lilith."

And you do. Gods—you do. Your mind blanks, and you savor those meager seconds of peace, and quiet, and emptiness.

You feel Astarion twitch within you as he slams into you one final time, his teeth sinking deep into your neck. You cherish that pain—that familiar, grounding sting as you ride out your high with him.

Once all motion halts, he unlatches his teeth, and you let your head tilt back onto the desk. Your hand shakes, still clutching his bicep, and your face is wet with tears.

Eyes vacant, your words come out in a quiet breath of relief, "Thank you."

Astarion stills, his stare traveling over your face, then down to your heaving chest.

"Oh, precious love." The flame in the room is slowly dying as he thumbs your parted lips. "Tell me. Have I finally consumed you whole?"

A/N: This chapter was brought to you by: exploding by mehro.

Tell me you're in pain without telling me you're in pain.