"You don't REMEMBER?" Karlach practically bellows across the bar.
Atavya blanches. She should have seen this coming when she signed up for a round of truth or dare with these heathens.
The party has commandeered the Last Light Inn's horseshoe bar after a particularly successful mission. They'd pilfered enough infernal iron to put Karlach's engine at ease - for now. And in the same day, they'd retrieved Art Cullagh's lute from a bonafide house of horrors (sadly for Arabella, they'd also borne back the news of her parents grisly passing). Halsin was with Art now, devising a way to open the portal necessary to retrieve Thaniel.
The remainder of the party, save Astarion, was in fine spirits for a toast to Karlach. One toast quickly turned into four and now… there was this. The poor tiefling children could hardly keep up with the refills of Red Dragon Crush and Arabellan Dry, but the troupe had pocketed enough curios and trinkets to satisfy the tiny blue and red hands.
Atavya had noted that within a matter of days - the same matter of days she had taken to sharing a room with Astarion, curiously - the band had bonded far more deeply than they had in their previous weeks of travel. The comforts of the Inn and proximity to answers at Moonrise Towers (however daunting the task of infiltrating the fortress remained) had cheered them all. Even Lae'zal's likeability had improved moderately - perhaps with distance from the creche and the sting of her failure to find a cure, a little warmth had returned to her spirits too.
So it wasn't a shock when the game was proposed and the questions and dares immediately turned bawdy. Wyll had very contentedly smooched Shadowheart on the lips, Gale had eagerly downed an entire bottle of an unlabelled Thayan vintage, and Karlach had confessed that yes - big-bosomed women were her preferred flavor of lover. The remainder of the party had flitted their gaze over Atavya's when it was their turn to pick a victim - it would take far more wine before any had the courage to overcome the deference to their de facto leader. But not Karlach - Karlach had already tasted freedom from the yoke of her master and was never going back.
"'Tav," Karlach had barked. "When's the last time you, uh, diddled the fiddle?"
The ranger choked, and a hand flashed to her mouth as little dribbles of amber liquid spilled from the corners of her lips.
Her companions roared in laughter.
Lae'zal, surprisingly, was the first to intervene. "Come now, you prudish little monks. Surely you know that it's good for the health of the heart to pleasure oneself at least daily?"
"Ah, yes, it would be merely a clinical concern of cardiac function for you, Lae'zal," Gale teased.
Lae'zal's already upturned nose tipped higher. "And you wizard? Is the tugging of your staff not a mental exercise for you?"
The wizard's purple shoulders shrugged. "I'd say it's as cerebral an experience for a wizard as it is a physical one. Can be dangerous when you're a storm mage, though. Sparks and ice going flying and whatnot,"
Per usual, most of the companions took twice as long to puzzle through Gale's words as Gale spent saying them.
"Remind me not to tussle with a storm mage in the throes of passion, then," Wyll said to no one in particular, raising his mug of ale for another long pull.
Shadowheart (whom Atavya had held at arms' width since that very odd comment about the Shadowlands being made in Lady Shar's image or some bullshit like that) was all business. She looks pointedly at Karlach and says "Last night,"
The barbarian nods approvingly and turns her gaze to Wyll. Wyll's dark complexion warms, and Atavya notices the imperceptible shift of his eyes towards the cleric "-last night for myself, also,"
Lae'zel, with the characteristic gravel in her voice making her reply sound almost like a threat - "this morning,"
Gale nods to himself as if affirmed, clears his throat and states - "count me among last night's revelers. You, Karlach?"
She lets out a chortle. "Two nights ago, if you can believe it. Was running so hot last night I thought I'd set the bedding on fire,"
And then all eyes turn to the diminuitive ranger, who is very clearly hiding behind her stein. "I don't… really remember," Atavya tells them quietly, the words only emerging under the combined force of alcohol and peer pressure.
This gave rise to Karlach's disdaining howl, and the remaining companions let out their own guffahs and gasps. And in an instant, the rapport she had built with these strangers in a mere matter of days vanishes. It's as if she's standing naked before them.
Atavya can't take it. She flees.
The presence of alcohol in her blood makes her feel preternaturally fast, and while there's only so far she can run within the radius of Isobel's protection, she loses herself in the lash of the Shadowland's chill wind on her cheeks and exposed shoulders for as long as she can. Still, her feelings of humiliation dance at her periphery.
'Damaged. Odd. Unfit.'
She stops at the docks, aware that she's essentially done a lap around the compound and now sits below her companions. Likely where she belongs.
She languishes there for what feels like hours, eventually peeling off her worn boots and socks and dipping her toes into the inkblack water. Her feet are splotched with blisters and corns, and though she's certain there's likely some sort of shadowcursed beast in the tributary capable of severing her feet at the ankle, the reprieve wins out.
A memory comes to her at some point (they've been doing this, popping into her mind like corn kernels over a fire, ever since she became roommates with Astarion). There's a tall woman sitting beside her on a lakeshore, imposing enough that Atavya senses she's merely a child. The woman shares her rose gold eyes, and the same black-burgundy shade of hair, so this must be… Mother. They've dug pits in the sand with their toes, and occasionally a gentle wave comes to fill the deposit with lukewarm water, still pleasant from the late summer sun even though it's now near to twilight. They are speaking softly to one another, but Atavya cannot hear the words. She can only register the feeling between them - profound trust, and an expected calm.
"Moonbathing, darling?"
The ranger is more than a little dissapointed to be pulled from her reverie. She felt that if she hand clung to it for just a little longer, she could have ascertained a name. A name for her mother. But the vampire's presence isn't unwelcome. Not anymore.
It's been five days since he had bitten her again, and the fourth night since they had shared a bed. They haven't shared one since - Astarion claims that vampires actually need very little sleep, and so when he's not hunting, he drapes himself over a plush chaise lounge, turns away from Atavya's form on the ancient but plush queen bed, and fades into some sort of dreamstate. They had never spoken about it directly, nor about the topic of Astarion feeding on her again, but there's surprisingly little awkwardness. It was as Atavya suspected - more than anything (except for blood of course, on Astarion's part) they had both needed companionship, the presence of another to keep them tethered to reality rather than nightmares. And after Atavya determined that the suspect ox was in fact an imposter, and had dispatched it alongside the ever vicious and efficient githyanki, Astarion was free to make use of the other two oxen as his nightly entree.
From Astarion's contributions to their fights over the last several days, Atavya could tell that the ox blood and whatever other animals the vampire had been able to identify as a victim under Isobel's enchantment was nearly sufficient for his needs. She couldn't bring herself to offer up her own blood, however. She was still too shy about the way her body would react, and mindful too that something ingrained in Astarion was pressuring him to reciprocate, perhaps somewhat against his will.
"How did you find me? Scent?" she asks, finally spotting the vampire spawn in the far shadows. He's both murderous and regal in his black fighting leathers, if you happen to notice him before he slits your throat.
"Precisely, dear. Only a couple of bites and your bouquet is like a song that's trapped in my head. No difficulty whatsoever in picking up the threads,"
Astarion strides to her and folds himself down onto the dock beside her. She remains silent, certain he can sense her morosity. And for a time, he's content to stare after the ripples and whirls of the water beneath and before them.
"Our friends let me know you'd run off. And why," he says to her gently, finally.
Atavya's a little surprised when his admission doesn't resurrect the overwhelming embarassment she'd felt earlier. She's sure that for him, the gossip was merely confirmation of something he'd likely suspected after he'd bitten her, brought her to the very precipice of ecstasy once again, and then have her effectively cuckhold him.
She lets out a frustrated sigh. "I hope I didn't crash the party. I'm not one for social hours, but… it was a jovial change of pace. While it lasted,"
"Nooo, of course not. The child labor is ongoing and the wine is still flowing!" he tells her, but she knows he's fibbing. Astarion's facade has rarely fooled her.
Atavya is studying the sunspots on her hands and trying very hard to keep from shaking. Her anxiety is likely palpable, but Astarion is nothing if not direct. "Is it true?" he asks.
She snorts, Verres-like once again. Damn is he good at bringing out the unladylike ranger in her. "That I haven't come in gods-knows how long? Or that my mind is still a bowl of scrambled eggs?" Atavya catches Astarion's eyes, which she notes are slightly dull again, although the skin around them crinkle in the slightest smile.
"The eggs, dear. I had a sense of your priestly abstention,"
Again, she appreciates his restraint.
"It's coming back to me. Bits and pieces and flashes. I think because I'm sleeping better," she admits. Astarion is considering her cooly, but looks relieved at this.
"How quickly did your memories come back? I knew it took most of you awhile to… get your bearings straight. But it seems I'm decidedly behind the curve,"
Astarion pats Atavya's hand. "I remember everything," he says, softly, as if trying very hard to lessen the blow. "It only took a couple of days for it to come back. Shadowheart, though, she's having a hard time determining what she's lost due to her vow, and what she might still be able to access. And Gale - he says he remembers everything up until a year ago very clearly, but the last 12 months are 'ripe with mirk',"
Atavya can't help but laugh at Astarion's exceptionally poor Gale impression.
"Well. Perhaps I'm less deranged relative to you lot than I thought,"
"Oh, I very much doubt that," the vampire says with a teasing smile. Atavya grins back, and then nervously turns away, pulling the cord from her horsetail. She notices that as her hair falls down and over her shoulders, Astarion's nostrils flare. 'Smelling me again?' she wonders.
When he speaks again, it's a bit breathless and pinched. "And the other item?"
The ranger blushes. "Well, according to Lae'zal, I'm jeopardizing my own lifespan with my abstinence. So forgive me if the door is locked the next time you return from a hunt,"
Uncharacteristic silence from Astarion prompts her to meet his eyes. Again, she notes how dark they are, and the lilac hues behind his pale lower lashes.
"Unless, you've bled the oxen dry? Were you… holding out for me?"
The vampire brings a slender hand to his own head. "Candidly, yes. The oxen are looking a little peckish, and it'd be foolish to run that well dry. But…," The vampire scoots a little closer to her. "I meant what I said before, Atavya. You are deserving. Deserving of having your own needs met, too,"
"I-," Atavya can't help but look away again. "I can't service myself, and I won't take advantage of you. And that's the short of it,"
There's that thumb again, firmly coaxing her gaze back up to meet his own. "It's not taking advantage if the other party is very, very willing,"
The ranger's mouth goes bone dry, all moisture and heat suddenly teleported to a very different part of her person.
"Are you certain, Astarion? I get the sense that… willingness is a rarity for you,"
This clearly hurts him, but it had to be said. There can be no more violations between or upon either of them. They frankly might not survive it.
"200 years is a long time, and still not very long at all. I think I remember what it was like, to care for a lover, to want for them, to want with them. Your memories on this front might be lost, but not for me. I can conjure enough tenderness up for the both of us, I think,"
It's the sweetest and most undeniably un-Astarion thing he has ever said to her, and it is confirmation that almost everything he has offered her or their companions has been a ruse.
Atavya wets her lips. "Alright then,"
At this, Astarion visibly brightens, and snatches up Atavya's hands with lightning speed. "Well! Your place or… ours?"
—
The party had been crashed. Except for Verres and the juvenile tieflings, who were all curled up and snortling softly with one another in the side room, there were no living creatures afoot in the Inn at this hour. This contributed to the very dreamlike sensation of ascending the stairs after the Moon Elf, the anticipation in her belly the only thing countering the buoyant feeling of climbing up, up, up towards their shared room.
The room itself was only slightly homier than the one originally assigned to Atavya, due mostly to the twin sets of weaponry and camp gear now lined up along the walls. It did, however, have a canopy bed, which conjured up visions of grandeur from days long since past, times eaten up in the wake of the Shadow Curse. This certainly wasn't the penthouse suite - Shadowheart and apparently Wyll had laid claim to that room. But this one would have been offered to a lesser lordling or a very wealthy merchant, and it still held shades of the luxuries due to that sort of person.
These sorts of luxuries - a shaving basin, a mahogany wardrobe, Astarion's nest of satin pillows and furs atop the chaise lounge by the mantle - were utterly foreign to Atavya, who could only recall worn bedrolls and her own pack serving as a pillow. But they were not unwelcome.
As Atavya enters the room, Astarion makes a show of coaxing the embers in the fireplace back into a respectable blaze, followed by an unnecessarily careful display of removing his Sussur dagger and unlacing his boots. He's giving her room to breathe, she considers.
So she does make herself comfortable. She mirrors his movements - although she has no armor or weaponry to doff, she removes her boots and her jacket, the enchanted baubles on her fingers and then makes to plait her hair.
"No," Astarion breathes, having just employed some of his own roguish magic to appear behind her without warning. "Leave that down,"
Atavya doesn't question this, and instead she turns to him full on. Simultaneously, his hands come to her waist, and the feeling of his nearness has her trembling again. In the firelight, Astarion's hunger is even more apparent.
"You can feed first," she whispers to him, lifting one finger to trace the intersection of the circles under his eyes and the high ridgeline of his very fair elven cheekbones. 'Sharp as his daggers,'
Astarion shakes his head. "After, not before, if you still want it. You deserve to know you are wholly capable without my venom,"
He doesn't realize it, but now he's put additional pressure on her - the need to satisfy him far outweighs the desire to satisfy herself. But she won't tell him this, instead she will try her very hardest to box this thought away.
"Okay," and then she brings her hands to the laces of her blouse. No grace or tactfulness, merely the mechanics. His hands still hers before she makes any notable progress at all.
"Let me," he tells her, and she acquiesces. It's too easy to become a pitiful, pliant and moldable thing under his touch and gaze. Some of his charms are inescapable, if not his words.
Astarion is graceful as he undoes her ties and stays, and clearly well practiced. She studies his work, capturing and cataloging the memory for future use. But this focus is too obvious, because he stops and looks up at her through his opalescent lashes. "You're paying attention to all the wrong things, love,"
'Love' knocks the rationality right out of her. He's not used that pet name before. He doesn't mean it in the literal sense, she's certain, but it opens the door to another memory. The memory of her parents - yes that was her mother - dancing together in a firelit copse of trees. They think she's asleep, but they don't realize that their lover's giggles grew just a skosh too loud, and now she's peering at them from the folds of her bedroll, unsure of whether to be embarrassed or endeared. Her father, substantially shorter than her mother, has both hands around his wife's waist and then hoists her a good 8 inches off the ground. They twirl, and Atavya's mother - Moraya - squeals. "You're still strong as a badger at 59, love,"
Astarion is calling her name and she snaps to. "Yes?" she asks.
"A memory?" he guesses correctly.
She beams at him. "I think my father was part gnomish,"
Astarion chortles. "That explains your height, or… lack thereof,"
The human playfully smacks his pectoral, and Astarion resumes his efforts.
Now she is paying attention, the high of her revelation outliving her trace shyness.
He removes her brassiere and halts. "Exquisite, Atavya," and he runs the backside of his hand lightly over her right breast, the nipple immediately flexing taut beneath his touch. This earns a smile from Astarion, and he repeats the act. Her breath hitches and Astarion gives her the look of a proud tutor. "Well clearly your heart's not as cold and dead as a vampire's,"
Atavya smacks him again.
Astarion backs her up to the bed and tips her onto it. When she's fully reclined, he tugs at her leggings and quirks a brow. Atavya nods, and lifts her hips to help him. Her underclothes catch against the leather and slide away as well - 'Such efficiency.'
She's as exposed to him now as she was when he last bit her, and somehow she feels tenfold more vulnerable. She considers that with the velvet canopy above them and crackling fire besides, this is proper romantic.
Astarion, still fully clothed in his burgundy trousers and plain white dress shirt, climbs up the length of her naked body, eyes on hers the entire time.
"How…?" they both happen to say at the same time. Atavya laughs, and Astarion turns on his side to lay next to her. "Well, you are the captain of this ship," the vampire says, gesturing from her feet to the mass of dark hair fanned out and around her.
"Fair enough," she agrees, running her eyes over him covetously despite herself. She's certain he's hard beneath those shockingly tight trousers, even if the leather is managing to keep him well contained. This gives her enough confidence to sit up and rearrange the pillows from behind her. "Sit behind?" Astarion heeds her without question.
Gentle as hummingbird wings, his legs and arms encircle her, hands resting on her ribs. Atavya turns her head to the side, the ruffles of his collar tickling against her ear. This leaves her neck exposed to him, and he breathes deep.
"Why do you smell me?" she asks. Astarion shifts slightly behind her.
"Since the first time I bit you, I can smell myself on you. Other vampires would call it 'claiming'. I've never experienced it before, and it's quite captivating. On your own, your scent is brilliant. Addictive. But mixed with my own venom…," When Astarion breathes again, it's almost a groan.
The guttural noise sparks echoes of another memory, but before she can grasp it, Atavya simply acts. She threads her rough fingers through Astarion's and brings their hands to her core. No prelude, no warm up. The vampire is simply there, forefinger pressed within her folds alongside her own.
Astarion is momentarily frozen but thaws immediately when Atavya growls out "Remind me,"
And so he does.
Astarion peels his fingers from hers while curling his free hand lower around her hips, tugging her leg outwards to provide him ample room. Atavya shifts her own hands to her breasts, both nipples now noticeably pebbled.
Before he begins, the vampire bends his lips to the dual scars on Atavya's neck and kisses them tenderly. And Atavya can't help it - she nuzzles him affectionately until his mouth tips up to hers, and she steals from him greedily. His leathers can't hide it now - he is hard against her ass.
Astarion's fingers begin to move, drawing lazy circles between her labia and around her clit. He pulls his lips away from hers with some effort. "You can't charge into it like a deep rothé, 'Tavya. You have to let it build,"
Atavya can only moan and slide down Astarion's body towards his touch.
"Fuck, you look incredible," the vampire continues. "So fucking strong,"
And Atavya has to admit - at this angle, every flexion of her abs, the petite yet muscular cut of her glutes - they're particularly well-displayed. She has cared for her body, spent a lifetime molding and nourishing it despite the trevails of an outlander's life. Precisely so that she could survive that outlander's life. There's something emboldening about that thought - if a man appreciates her figure, it's not because she had honed it for him. It was a gift she had given herself.
It's the confidence she needs to tell Astarion, quite commandingly, "More."
He needs no encouragement.
Now his hyper-dextrous finger narrows in on her clitoris, maintaining a steady if still somewhat light rhythm that has Atavya bucking up against him.
"Now your turn, love," he tells her, and lifts her left hand to his mouth. Quite lasciviously, he flexes her middle finger and slides it into his own mouth. For a moment, she can feel the razor sharp edge of a fang and her eyes fly wide. But Astarion doesn't bite - instead, he guides her slick finger back out and down, down, down between her legs, where he threads it neatly below his own.
She slips her finger inside herself, and immediately the sensation begins to heighten the gentle tightening of her inner muscles that preludes an orgasm. But after several attempts to find the angle and match Astarion's rhythm, she grows frustrated. This isn't quite right.
He can sense this, and a second finger joins hers. At first the pressure is nearly too intense - clearly it's been awhile since she's accommodated this. But Astarion goes slowly, focusing almost all of his effort on her clit instead. After a few beats, he presses in farther, testing her stretch. And this repeats for almost a minute, until finally he feels no resistance at all and slides fully in. She notes that his finger is crooked towards her front, and slides just a little deeper, and then… 'oh,'
"That's it," he coaxes, never ceasing the circles over her clit. "Just like that, sweet. Work our fingers. Breathe,"
Atavya's hips are undulating at precisely the right beat without any effort now. She is close, and a few more sweet nothings from Astarion will have her undone. That's exactly when he increases both the pressure and speed of both digits, and within an instant, Atavya is pushed over the edge.
"Oh fucking gods," the ranger screams, one hand clawing at her breast and the other ripping into the duvet beside her. Astarion is quite literally purring with encouragement, and this succeeds in drawing out Atavya's orgasm so long that she browns out, seemingly having forgotten to breathe.
"Sen-fucking-sational," the vampire is crooning to her when she resurfaces.
She's panting when she whips her head around to his and seeks out his mouth with her own. She's dazed, and it's sloppy, but he's more than willing to put up with it. They crash against each other with a little too much teeth, but they line the angles up soon enough. Atavya has turned around fully, and is pushing Astarion down into the pillows. When she pulls away from him, both hands pressed into his pectorals as if she's pounced him, his eyes are wide and his smile is bright.
Maybe she'll never recall if she's ever been so bold, but she can't rightly care. "More," she demands again.
Astarion laughs wildly, arching off the bed and head thrown back in his glee. "Two bites and one orgasm and I have you under my thrall!"
She won't be cowed by his teasing. The floodgates are thoroughly open now, and it's the vampire's own doing. So she takes him by the bulge of his cock.
Astarion goes utterly still and silent, and she sees him dissociate almost immediately.
Her hand flies off him like it's the redhot handle of a skillet left in a cookfire, and she unstraddles herself as well.
"'Star?" she asks. He doesn't respond.
Atavya removes herself from the bed completely, and wraps her nude form in the nearest throw. "Astarion," she says again, getting nervous now. Pale and unbreathing as he usually is, he looks eerily akin to a fresh corpse in this pose.
She doesn't want to touch him, fearful it would be a violation, so another trick comes to mind. Atavya leans over the side of the bed, still leaving ample space between herself and the stricken vampire, but she pulls the tangled plume of her unbound hair around to one side of her neck, and leans the exposed side down towards Astarion's face. For a moment, she fears it won't work, but then she gulps, and this must push enough fresh blood through her jugular that Astarion stirs, and then breathes deep through his nose.
He whips his head to hers, and after a blink, the magistrate's mask of composure and confidence returns. Atavya isn't fooled.
"I'm sorry, Astarion. I… lost my cool,"
"Well of course you did, darling. That was the end goal after all,"
Atavya still doesn't smile, and this must vex Astarion, who's clearly so used to being able to charm his way out of any foxhole.
"Can I sit?" the ranger asks, and Astarion nods once, although he does shift slightly farther away. The bed frame creaks under their collective weight and Atavya's blanket falls to flash a nipple, which together succeeds in breaking a little of the growing tension.
She fears that asking him questions might only pick the scab open wider, and any more apologizing feels wasted, so she parrots what he had recently said to her. "You are beautiful too, you know. And more than deserving,"
Astarion blinks at her, and then - to her gratitude - curls closer to her. Atavya settles next to him, studying his fair face. She's always known there's darkness hidden there - he's never been able to fool her. A life lived apart from society means she's never known duplicity and pretense, and instead of breeding naivety, she's built up some sort of intuitive buffer against it.
So when Astarion's quips intend to broadcast doggedness and uncaring, she's always spotted what they're intending to mask - insecurity, curiosity, and yes, trauma.
Atavya turns away from him, and as chastly as she can, settles herself parallel to the cool, firm expanse of his chest. He loops an arm around her after a beat, and then he presses his face into her hair.
"Was it as good for you as you can't remember?"
Atavya chuckles at this, although she knows that it's really just another deflection on his part. "And moreso," she replies.
There's only one thing she feels she can give him, to repay what he has gifted her. "Feed from me if you need," she says, although it comes out a bit more like a squeaking question. She feels slender fingers pull her hair away from her neck, but Astarion doesn't go farther.
"Do you offer because you pity me?" He asks her, barely whispering. "Or is my venom really that addictive?"
"I won't lie, Astarion, I wouldn't mind the opportunity to compare an envenomated orgasm to a normal one,"
"Little Gale," the vampire scoffs quietly, picking fun at her catalogic mind. .
Atavya ignores him, continuing - "But it's not pity. It's… I think, very much against my better judgment, that I might care for you,"
Astarion laughs at this, and tugs Atavya towards him until they're facing again. He quiets, though, when he sees she's being earnest.
"Well," he says, running a slow finger up her exposed arm, and a thrum starts to build in the ranger again. "It's possible I might care for you as well,"
Atavya, blushing, simply tells him "Thank you. For seeing me, and reaching me, and not letting me be alone,"
Astarion does not respond. He doesn't need to - he just presses his forehead against hers. "We the deranged must flock together,"
They lay together for a while, the crackle of the fire and Atavya's breathing the only sounds in the cozy room. Atavya can't help but sort and collate through her thoughts on all that's between them, and she works up the courage to clarify -
"I can't touch you, but I can kiss you. And you can finger me, and suck my blood. And we're roommates. Do I have it right?"
Astarion guffaws. And then he laces his fingers through hers again, and guides her hand to his groin. He's not quite so hard as he was before, but certainly his ardor isn't fully gone.
"Just give me a heads up the next time you're going to spring on me like a damn owlbear,"
She removes her hand.
"I'm serious, Astarion. It's not in pity. And it's only a little selfish. I want - I want to give you pleasure." And she tries to add in a bit of his humor, even if it's done poorly, if it means it'll get her point across. "I want us to not be deranged and lonely apart if we can be together instead,"
It works. His eyes close. "I don't think anyone's wanted for me before. I'm not sure I know how to feel,"
"Then don't. Don't know. I can't even remember. Just feel - and tell me what you're feeling. And we will take it from there,"
Astarion's eyes close, considering, and Atavya runs her hand up his chest lightly, reassuringly. When his eyes reopen, they are clear and resolute.
"I only want your blood tonight, 'Tav. Tomorrow, maybe I'll feel differently,"
"It's settled," is her reply. And Astarion smiles.
The vampire pulls her flush against him now, and hooks one leg over hers. She's pinned, and it's magnificent, but she feels certain that with a mere word he'd let her go. It's a tough and willful thing, this trust they're building between one another.
"By all means, pleasure yourself. Far be it from me to stymie the natural inquisition of a ranger,"
Atavya chortles, but she shakes her head. "I won't muddy the waters any further. Maybe tomorrow I'll feel differently too,"
When Astarion's silver hair finally rests against her cheek, and the lightning pinpricks of his fangs pierce her fragile human skin, it's no less pleasurable than it was before. But the wave that follows isn't one of lust. Rather, it's pure comfort. The feeling of being hugged in warm furs, with a steady fire nearby and familiar stars twinkling overhead. The feeling of the memory of home.