The Gauntlet of Shar is the most ungodly, suffocating and miserable experience of Atavya's (memorable) life. Dark and dangerous like the Underdark, but lacking completely in the flora and fauna that captivated the ranger's attention. Except for the rats - there are a puzzling plethora of rats. If it was not for the fact that finally infiltrating Moonrise Towers led them to believe that the key to defeating Ketheric Thorn was tied up in this place, she never would have entertained Shadowheart's pleas to finally meet her measure.
And to make matters worse, her monthlies begin without notice on the third full day of their attempts to solve Shar's puzzles.
It's been months since the Nautiloid crash at this point, but the first time that the sharp aches and sudden rush of hot, viscous fluid takes her by surprise. She assumes it's because she's finally been offered proper nutrition during their stay at the Last Light Inn.
They're walking away from a particularly grueling fight with Raphael's imprisoned Orthon, who even Astarion couldn't fool, when it happens. She's far enough away from the party that she assumes no one sees her wince and blush - she has nothing to tactfully shove in her breeches, and her last meager potion of restoration was tossed haphazardly at Karlach during the fighting, who bravely offered herself up as their charger, per usual, after shoving a Soul Coin into her chest.
She's tempted to order them to turn around and march back to the Inn, rather than the spartan camp they'd assembled in the remains of Balthazar's lab. But she feels suddenly quite peckish, and doesn't think she'd manage to win in a fight with the dark cleric. Atavya's seen how close Lae'zal and Shadowheart have come to bloodshed over the seemingly most trivial inconveniences of camp life.
"Gods, surely I'm not the only one utterly spent from that little tussle, am I?"
Astarion steps from the shadows, twirling one of his newly acquired blades round a finger like it's a child's toy and not an enchanted murder device.
Karlach lets out a single belly laugh that echoes through the crumbling walls of the ancient tumble. "Yearning for your coffin, yeah Astarion? Missing some critical beauty sleep?" Verres is a boar, and has no concept of language or humor, but he's become very fond of Karlach and lets out a well timed snort.
Shadowheart looks vaguely offended at Astarion's suggestion - but Atavya knows the cleric took a rather nasty spear to the flesh behind her knee, and has seen the cleric's hands glow with restoration magic no less than four times since the fight with Yurgir and his ilk. They're close - they only need one more umbral gem - but even the most fervent of Shar's devotees are merely mortal. The cleric sighs and shrugs.
Atavya gives Astarion a nod, and when the rogue's clever crimson eyes meet hers, she realizes - he can smell her. He's covering for her.
The party changes course.
By the time they return to their bedrolls and packs stashed in the lab, Atavya is tremendously grateful for the replacement cloak she bought off the tiefling children - it's the only thing hiding the pooling smear of blood in her crotch. She fishes semi-clean rags from her pack and mumbles her excuses about finding a lavatory, and pads off into the dark. The other women don't mind - Karlach is already stoking up a small cook fire and Shadowheart is searching through her pack for potions and bandages to see to her wound. Atavya's too distracted to notice that the vampire spawn is missing. And Verres is already softly snorting and circling around in the ratty quilt Atavya packs just for him.
She finds an alcove off the room where they'd killed Balthazar's undead (fortunately, the party had had the sense to throw the bodies into the void before they stunk the place up more than they already had), and sees to cleaning herself up.
It's not a shock when she senses Astarion's presence over her shoulder. She's become so used to his comings and goings, no matter how hushed, that she would wake whenever he'd return from a hunt to their shared room.
It is, however, slightly uncomfortable. She supposes there's nothing to feel awkward about - he already knows she's bleeding, and precisely what type of bleeding. But for the first time since she has come to know the vampire spawn, she feels slightly like prey.
"'Tav?" he asks gently, while she fixes the ties to her breeches. The bloodstain is mostly scrubbed from the exterior of her doeskin leggings, even if the interior is wrecked beyond repair. Atavya glances at him over her shoulder, whipping her horsetail in slight annoyance.
"Nothing to see here, darling." She's taken to flipping the diminutive back on him, which typically earns her a roll of crimson eyes. Not this time.
"You're bleeding," he states the obvious. "And, selfishly, I have a bit of a problem with that,"
It dawns on her all at once that he hasn't fed from her or an ox in over 4 days, and there's nothing but rats down here. And he had told her, just the night prior to setting out for the Sharran temple, that under no uncertain terms would he ever feed from a rat.
Atavya turns to him and peels down the collar of her jerkin. "Astarion, please,"
The vampire slices his hands through the air and shakes his head, but she does see his throat bob - undoubtedly with want.
"We need you functional, oh fearless leader. And besides, that's a bit sadistic even for me, don't you think? Preying upon on already wounded animal,"
Atavya rolls her eyes. "Human women lose less than 2 ounces of blood during their monthlies. I once saw a mother bear kill 7 kobolds with her afterbirth only partially passed. Don't discount the ferocity of females. And anyways, it's more the cramps that took me by surp…,"
Naturally, she summons one, and it overtakes her in a shockingly embarrassing manner. With a huff, Atavya doubles over. Astarion summons one of his ethereal bursts of speed, and catches her before she stumbles on the temple's decaying flagstones.
"Tell me more about your natural ferocity," he whispers in her ear while she recovers. This earns Astarion a swift jab in the ribs.
It's relatively easy between them now. There's been no more preludes to sex, and only a handful of bites. But the vampire has shared Atavya's bed every night, even if he sleeps very little. In the mornings (if they can call it that, given that it's now been weeks since they've seen the sun and Atavya's circadian rhythm is utterly fucked), they tended to face one another, blinking, and Astarion would ask the same question - "any memories?" Atavya's answer was typically no - their missions during the 'day' were utterly depleting, and her sleep was dreamless, especially with Astarion's cool and confident body at her side. But sometimes she would catch glimpses in the night - of a beast companion before Verres, or of climbing through ruins in mountain valleys, or of her mother decoding animal tracks or picking wild herbs. She would tell all of this to Astarion, who would probe until there was nothing left for Atavya to mine from the mists of her addled mind, and then he would nod approvingly before removing himself from the bed and preparing himself for the day. Atavya was admittedly left feeling slightly bereft whenever he left her side, but she would tamp this down.
Strong body. Strong mind. Do not infringe on Astarion's very newly acquired bodily autonomy.
This was the way.
Atavya's breathing has slowed, and she registers that Astarion is not only crouched over her protectively, but also has a firm hand rubbing circles on the small of the back. She can't help but recall the other time he massaged her like this, when he was wantonly taking from her and she was so willingly giving.
"I'm serious, Astarion. Feed. One of us needs an edge if I'm going to be a liability for the next 24 hours,"
He can't argue with her imposing rationality. No one in the party does - except sometimes for Gale, who seems to merely get a kick out of the act of debate. So instead, he peels open the breast of his fighting leathers and probes for something in his shirt pocket. Atavya leans back, and stretches her legs in front of herself gingerly, nervous to do anything that might provoke another cramp.
Curiously, the vampire pulls forth a long silver chain and finally a small amulet set with near-microscopic sapphires. Atavya can tell at once that it's enchanted. "Saving that for Gale?"
Astarion's mouth quirks up. "Actually yes. But seeing as how Elminster seems to have granted him a temporary stay of executio-splosion, I'd reckon it's meant for you,"
And then he kneels and raises the necklace over Atavya's head, which she bows to him. For the briefest moment, she registers somewhat sentimentally that Astarion is giving her a gift, and jewelry no less. But as soon as the amulet nestles between her breasts, she's overcome by the reprieve it provides.
"Restoration magic?" she asks. "Presumably," he replies. Atavya breathes deeply, and at once the uncomfortable bloat and swelling in her abdomen and groin subsides. The ranger hums appreciatively.
"Thank you," she tells him simply, and leans back onto her forearms, granting herself the opportunity to lean into the calm Astarion has gifted her. There were other injuries throughout her body, she realized, that she'd forgotten completely since the battle with Yurgir, and if she closed her eyes and focused, she could imagine what it looked like inside her body as the pale blue of restoration magic washed over her bruised ribs or swiftly knit together the tears in her fingertips.
"You're magnificent, you know," Astarion's voice comes to her, and her eyes pop open. The tenor of his voice with her has started to change - not the sickly sweet sardonicism of a maligned courtier, but something softer, bordering on a growl. More vulnerable. It is infinitely more compelling to her than his charming front ever was.
When she looks at him now, she's torn in two. On the one hand, if she's very honest with herself, the lust that ignites at the sight of Astarion in his well-oiled if blood-spattered black leathers is very nearly untameable. On the other hand, with his guard down, Astarion's new-found vulnerability seems so fragile to her that her inclination is to retreat from him, in the same way she might if she encountered a newly born fawn.
It would be easy to believe that all of Astarion's actions, towards her or anyone else, were merely transactional. There was certainly a predictable pattern in his efforts. Charm, then bite. Seduce, then bite. From what Atavya had gathered of Astarion's reflections on his prior life so far, this was only a slight adaptation in his 200 years of vampiric life, which had previously been dictated by - charm, then bring under his master's thrall. Seduce, then bring under his master's thrall. And indeed, this most recent action seemed to fit the bill. Provide wounded, preferred victim with moderate healing via an enchanted amulet he just happened to be carrying on his person. Then bite.
But from what Atavya could tell, Astarion had been starving for some time.
If he had wanted her blood, he would have made his move at least two nights ago, when it became apparent that the Sharran Temple was in fact home to the Dark Justiciars' trial and it was going to be no small feat to complete the multiple missions tangled up in the labyrinth.
And now there was this - his seemingly honest compliment, that set off no alarm bells in Atavya's typically adamantine mental defenses.
So Atavya lifts two fingers to Astarion and beckons him near, the gesture unintentionally lewd given what had recently transpired between them. The vampire spawn obeys, climbing over her with alluring grace, and plants his hands on either side of her shoulders. She's exceptionally aware of Astarion's exposed forearms, well-muscled and venous as they are.
As usual, there is a lightning hum of energy throbbing between them. When they had first met, and the stony ranger had deigned to pay the feeling any mind, she'd chocked it up to the tadpoles' desperation to commune with one another. But she's under no illusions now - this is attraction in its purest form, and she's fairly certain it's legitimately mutual.
But she's refrained from acting on it, even after Astarion's 'tutelage'. The memory of the vampire spawn's dissociation, where his crimson eyes went dull and full of loss so suddenly, is seared into her. She often finds herself checking him for it when she thinks he isn't looking - quiet moments across the campfire, or in the act of helping one another pitch a tent. Ever-wary of its return and somehow convinced that it will be her fault if it does, like a pack-mule's recurring lameness that you know predicts its sad demise.
She shakes her head - Atavya's desperate to beat the habit of comparing her companions to the animals she's known throughout her life, desperate to become just a little more civilized. Astarion notices this and raises a pristine brow. "Sorry," she tells him. "Momentary reverie,"
"Remember something?"
She lets out a dry laugh. "Only confirmation of my incompatibility with polite society,"
"Yes, well, that's been rather obvious from the start,"
They smile at each other, and Astarion ducks his head to her clavicle. "I can feed from you?" He always asks, and there's always an undercurrent of insecurity in the request.
Atavya threads her fingers in his hair and presses him closer to her, murmuring her assent.
As the liquid lightning overcomes her bodily, it is a nearly impossible task to restrain herself from acting on the feelings that overwhelm her. It's as if she's being Commanded by some beast living within herself, that desperately wants to claw and feel and taste the devastatingly attractive elf now lapping blood from her neck. But, with the same impervious resolve she managed to summon the last time Astarion fed, she clings to the vampire chastely. She will not act on her base impulses without some overwhelming show of consent. And she knows, though it pains her ten times more than any menstrual cramp, that that day may not come. Some wounds of the spirit cannot be overcome (she cannot remember why or how it is that she has come to understand this so deeply, but she senses there's some heartbreak in her pre-tadpole past that impressed this upon her).
But it's not as though Astarion doesn't make efforts to test her. Atavya guesses that, for the most part, the bloodlust that overcomes him is nearly all-consuming. It's only from the rigidity in Astarion's posture that she senses he has to work very very hard to reserve a single iota of self-control, otherwise he would drain her utterly. But with that kernel he has reserved to preserve her life, he also presses at the limits of her self-control. There are moments, when he's feeding, where he withdraws his lips from the wound at her neck to lap up the mess he's made before the blood ruins her hair and clothes. Sometimes, when he resumes his suckling, he will miss the punctures, and lasciviously find his way down or across her neck until he finds his mark, leaving a patchwork of purple welts in his wake. Atavya highly doubts he'd ever done this with one of his animal victims.
There are other times where he seems particularly fascinated by her hair, and will go so far as to unwind the thong that typically holds the plume of dark burgundy at bay. Atavya tends to twist her bangs back into this horsetail, and after they come undone, the vampire will make a lazy display of loosely winding the coils back - all while feeding from her, his second hand clutching at her shoulder or jaw to hold her steady for him.
Atavya rarely knows what to do with her hands in these instances. She knows what she'd like to do with them, but that is forbidden. So instead, her hands tend to lie limply at her sides, or chastely across the high part of Astarion's back. Similarly, she forces her mind to be pliant and demure, even if this requires maintaining an internal chant of edible fungi or sedative herbs. The cracks will widen momentarily - an image of her head bobbing and throat choking on Astarion's cock, or the thought of his mouth on her clit from behind her while she clings desperately to the headboard of their bed in the Inn will pour through with all the force of Wyll's eldritch blast - and she will obediently claw the chasm shut before some howl of need escapes her mouth.
Strung as tightly as she is, she fails Astarion's newest test.
He has significantly slowed the pace of his feeding since his first attempts, and so it is almost a surprise when he finally parts from her neck with a wet smack of his lips. He ducks back for only a moment to deposit his icy venom on her wounds, which knit together doubly fast through the combined power of vampire saliva and her amulet of restoration. And then, his eyes boring into hers the entire time, he bends down and kisses her fully on the mouth.
Atavya gasps, and this succeeds in allowing a little of her own blood to dribble into her mouth. She considers that Astarion's venom may have some property to enhance the bouquet of her blood, because she can swear that behind the copper tang she tastes something floral and sweet like nasturtium or wild violets. And then - balsam? Pine tar?
Astarion's tongue probes against hers, breaking through her momentary lapse into wilderness librarianship, and she considers that he's making one of her most perverse dreams come true. To taste herself on his mouth, even if this wasn't the taste or liquid she was expecting.
The ranger shoves him back.
The vampire looks wounded. "Why?" She demands.
He considers this, eyes darting to and fro, conveying a moment of introspection. And then, with quiet and heartfelt delivery, he says "Because I want to,"
She will accept this. Internally, she is overcome with a sense of wonder and longing and yearning for every inch of his body to avail itself to her, joyous at the thought that any of her fantasies might actually come true. She maintains a handle on this, though, reminding herself that at any moment, Astarion would have every right to revoke his consent. And moreso, she really ought to let him lead.
"Okay,"
Astarion resumes his assault on her lips, but not before licking the remainder of her blood from the corner of her lips. It's filthy, and Atavya's core ignites at the sight of it. She gives her hands permission to roam.
She clings to him bodily as their mouths vie for purchase. One hand tries desperately to slide up the back of his fighting leathers, just to test whether the temperature of the skin on his back is as cool as his hands or mouth, but the armor is oh so delectably tight. The other hand latches into his hair with surprising viciousness. Astarion returns the favor, winding the majority of her hair into his hand and tugging back gently so that she's forced to stare down at him across her nose.
"Do you know," he growls out, "how often I have thought of this? Of ravaging your mouth? And how long the silent war has been raging in me, trying to sort out whether I wanted this for you or for me?"
Atavya wets her lips, every fiber of her mind clinging to that word ravage. "And your verdict?"
Astarion offers her his classic wicked grin, but there's no lie in his eyes. "This is very very much for me,"
She collides into him, ignoring the sweet pain in her scalp as her hair goes taut in Astarion's grasp.
She presses him back onto the grimey pavestones, straddles him, and works a hand up the frontside of his leathers, never letting her mouth part from his. They are hungry, feral creatures, clawing their way towards the scant light buried each other even in this awful, oppressive place.
"I can't remember if I'd worshiped a god before," she tells him, her hand retreating to pull at the lacing up Astarion's front. "I sometimes think I do now,"
Where the hell that had come from within her, Atavya had no clue. Vampire venom. Anesthetic. Restorative. Aphrodisiac. Possibly taste-amplifying? Possibly uninhibiting?
All Astarion does in response is groan, arching into the dirt and ichor caking the stone beneath them. His hands fly to the ties on his leather breaches, and Atavya bats his hands away. She takes the bait.
An archer's fingers are necessarily dextrous. Elegant or particularly soft? No. More likely to be calloused and blistered, sometimes even flayed. Fortunately the restoration magic has reversed some of that. But she is no less efficient. If anything, the desperate want to please Astarion, to worship him as she had alluded to, speeds her on.
Astarion's cock is as resplendent as she remembers it, especially now that it is fully swollen with want of release. A bead of pearlescence pools at the tip, and she bends to lick it off. She remembers him admonishing her about charging in like an auroch or some such, but she refuses to be harried. In one swift motion she's fulfilling her desperate desire to sheath him fully in her mouth, and Astarion is simultaneously writhing with the overwhelm and coaxing her on with small, gasping pleas. She can make some of it out through the blood pounding audibly in her mind - there's a lot of "fucks" and "oh Atavya, yes".
'Gentle. Easy,' the maternal voice cautions her, and she minds this. She needs to listen to him, to be attuned to his desire. Obviously, he very much desires this, but… 'Let him lead,'
And so she does, taking a moment to resurface for air and capture her unbound hair in her thong. She keeps one hand on Astarion, pumping slowly to maintain his desire. And he looks up for her, not ungrateful for the reprieve.
"Do you like this?" she thinks to ask. He nods once and brings one hand to hers on his cock to try to speed her motion, but she continues at the steady pace. "Tell me," she commands him, "tell me what you want, Astarion,"
Again, he has to visibly focus, to reach inside himself and past layers of scar tissue formed by every malicious command to use his body for another's gain or another's suffering, and never for his own satisfaction. Atavya is patient, her free hand crawling up to continue unlacing his armor and ultimately resting on the semi-exposed plane of his abdomen, stroking gently and encouragingly. Her right hand continues its efforts on his cock, earning her a pulse and another drop of precum every few seconds.
When Astarion opens his eyes, they are clear and narrowed with lust. "Show me what I taught you. But keep that up - the… devouring," Astarion's eyebrows waggle.
She obeys - she couldn't deny him now, when the consent and the remit are so clear.
And so she switches hands, her right sliding into her leggings and between her thighs, the left holding steady at Astarion's base. She opens her mouth and slides down onto him at the exact moment that her middle finger finds her clit, and the moan she produces succeeds in collapsing Astarion fully onto his back, a hissing groan escaping from his own throat. Atavya is hastened, and matches the bob of her head to the pace of her fingers. When she dips her digit inside of herself, noting the incredible moisture brought on by her courses but also the extraordinary heat, she forces her lips to meet Astarion's hilt, ignoring the gag that this brings on and instead clinging to the ringing sound of the vampire's pleasure, escaping heedless into the abandoned temple. It's very likely Karlach and Shadowheart can hear this - she doesn't give a damn.
"More, Atavya," Astarion demands, and the ranger doubles her pace. But this isn't what he means. "Fuck yourself for me," he clarifies.
Atavya removes her hands momentarily to shimmy her leggings down, paying no mind to the rusty stain at the inseam or the rags stuffed within. Astarion props himself up on an elbow to watch her, and when she plunges her fingers back into herself, he gives her a sinister smile that rivals Raphael's. "Yesss," he hisses, and she bends her head back to his throbbing member.
He watches her through half-closed lids, noting the rivulets of blood trickling down her hand with each thrust inside herself. Atavya can feel them, and she notes that his gaze is becoming more demanding - hungrier. He's imagining the taste of her blood, she knows it. And that is his undoing.
He comes deep into her throat with a gasp and then a slew of curses, hands scrabbling in her hair to simultaneously keep himself sheathed in her and then to coax her off of him, to relieve the overstimulation. After a moment to breathe, he folds upwards and holds Atavya's head between his hands. She hasn't stopped working herself, keeping her eyes on his obediently and intently. "Filthy ranger," he tells her, one icey thumb landing on her lower lip and gently pulling it back until she gasps. "Indecent for polite society,"
Atavya comes. And when she does, Astarion plunges his fangs back into her neck, and her cry becomes equal parts explosive pleasure and white-hot agony. With each roll of her orgasm, she imagines bellows in a forge, pumping her lifeblood into Astarion's mouth and body. And this pleases her.
Atavya's breathing normalizes, and Astarion parts from her neck. For a moment, he holds them together, foreheads touching, and Atavya savors this almost as much as she treasures what they have just shared. Mutual release. For Astarion's benefit. And also, very much so, her own.
"Thank you," the vampire tells her, and she's surprised by the extent of raw emotion in his voice. She pulls back gently to study him, and notes a crimson-tinged tear budding at the corner of his eye.
"No," she murmurs with near-offense, and raises her thumb to catch the moisture. But Astarion captures her hand and tilts his cheek into her palm. When his eyelid flutters shut, the tear falls, and Atavya is helpless but to let it roll onto her hand and evaporate in their shared body heat.
She never compares Astarion to a wounded animal again.