Work Text:
The floating clouds their state shall lend
To her; for her the willow bend;
Nor shall she fail to see
Even in the motions of the storm
Grace that shall mould the maiden’s form
By silent sympathy.
The stars of midnight shall be dear
To her; and she shall lean her ear
In many a secret place
Where rivulets dance their wayward round,
And beauty born of murmuring sound
Shall pass into her face.
-from The Lucy Poems by William Wordsworth
You look over the remains of the latest wild-goose chase that Moonrise Towers has seen fit to bestow on you. A chase that has most of your party nursing wounds and the rest of you covered in muck. You look for a clean-ish place on your pants to wipe your hand, give up, and cast a Prestidigitation. It mostly works.
You look at the others. Astarion’s bedraggled and cranky about everything. Wyll’s barely hanging onto consciousness. Gale’s probably out of spells and Shadowheart looks more annoyed and distrusting than usual.
You crack your neck and say, “Right. We’re going back to the Last Light Inn. They have a bathhouse and we’re not going to fix anything here until we get some decent rest. Back to the glyph and let’s get out of here.”
To your infinite surprise, no one argues.
You negotiate a couple hours of music for hot meals, hot baths, and rooms with reasonable soundproofing. The room you’re shown to is barely big enough for the bed. There’s a mirror on the wall and enough floor space for you to drop your bag and violin case. You take a speedy bath - promising yourself a long, long soak before you head back into the gods-forsaken tower - and start getting ready to put on a show.
You have your performance dress on and are sitting on your bed before the mirror. You have your hair pinned up and your makeup brushes in hand. The door clicks open and you swap the brush in your hand for a dagger. Astarion comes in and you put the knife down and return to your eyeliner.
He settles on the bed behind you, trailing a warm hand down your spine. You shift your eyes to meet his in the mirror and are surprised all over again when you don’t see him. He chuckles and says, “Vampire, little love. Or did you forget?” He brushes his fingertips over the pulse in your neck and chuckles again at the shiver.
You check your eyeliner for symmetry and switch to your lip color. You ask, “How did you get used to that? Like, I can see how I could get comfortable with the blood and darkness, but not not being able to use mirrors.” You finish your lips and examine your work before looking for his eyes in the mirror. Again.
He says, “I’m not sure that I am. I haven’t seen myself in two hundred years, but it doesn’t stop me from looking. How did you do that while talking?”
You laugh and turn to face him. You say, “Oh, I can do a full face of makeup and my hair while running for my life. It was in the same class session as performing while hungover and how to maintain a Bluff no matter what. It was the only class where the instructors were allowed to actually stab us. I heard there are fights over who gets to teach that one every year.” You look him over and ask, “Who’d you have for dinner? I thought you were in the bathhouse.”
He catches your hand and brings it to his lips. He kisses the back and then presses a long kiss to the inside of your wrist. He smirks at how your pulse spikes and says, “When you left, one of the Drow followed, bragging that they’d have you for dinner. I thought that they should learn exactly how wrong they were.”
A smile curls across your lips. You brush your fingers along his jaw and a thought sparks. Will he be offended? Eh, let’s just see. You offer, “I can be your mirror, Aster. If you like.”
You see his mask snap into place. He asks, brows elegantly arched, “And how do you propose to do that, hm?”
You shrug and say, “Bard, love. I have words and I have magic. Either could work, I think.” He still has your wrist at his mouth and something’s happening in his eyes. He’s thinking hard about your words. Looking for a trap, maybe? Or how I’m trying to manipulate him? I get it.
Astarion smiles and the lamplight glints off his fangs. He says, “Very well, surprise me, darling.” He reclines against the wall, putting some physical and, you suspect, mental space between you.
“Your hair is the color of fresh-fallen snow under moonlight. It curls in tempting, inviting ringlets. Your features are sharp, stern, strong. You could cut glass with that jawline.” Your voice is quiet, controlled, as you describe him the way you would for a song. You twitch your fingers, pulling the melody from your words. His eyes bore into you and he’s given up on the facsimile of breathing he sometimes affects.
You continue, “Your eyes are red, true, but perhaps not the shade you think. They’re not the red of rubies nor of heart’s blood nor of roses. They’re the red of good wine with flashes of light just before one drowns in them.” Almost there. You say, “Your mouth is expressive. Your lips are lush and convey more with a twitch than many actors could dream of portraying on the stage.”
He chuckles at that, but it’s forced. He drawls, “Very good! Now tell me that I’m pretty and we can call it a day.”
You say, “You are beautiful and that’s the least interesting thing about you. But, if you don’t believe the words of a Bard, maybe this will help?” You release the magic and feel it take hold.
Astarion sits bolt upright. He starts to reach out and freezes. He whispers, “Is that…me?!”
You glance in the mirror to make sure. Almost, but not quite…ah, there. You draw in your brows and tighten your eyes and jaw before turning back. You say, “Yeah, pretty much.”
He watches the micro-movements of your face as you mimic his expression. He traces your jaw with one hand and his with the other, comparing the lines and texture of the skin. He maps his features with quiet intensity.
You have to stretch your jaw after a minute. You complain, “How do you not have a constant headache?” You shake yourself and resume his typical posture and expression.
This surprises a laugh out of him and he says, “I suppose I'm simply used to it. You are…” He trails off and meets your eyes. “You are amazing. Though I don’t think that I can wear that dress. The color’s all wrong for me.” You laugh and watch him catalog what he looks like when amused.
There’s a knock at the door and a holler comes through the wood of, “Ten, Bard!”
You shout back, “Ten! Thank you!” The footsteps clomp away and you start flexing and stretching your fingers. You say, “I need to go warm up soon.”
Astarion holds your chin in his hand. He says, “Thank you, little love. This is the…kindest thing anyone has done for me.” He looks over his features again and says, “But even I am not so vain as to want to kiss myself. Release your spell, please, and go amaze these unworthy people with your remarkable talent.”
You laugh and let the magic dissolve. He pulls you to his mouth and sweeps his tongue along yours. He is careful to not disturb your hair or dress and you’re careful to remove all your lipstick from his face before you head back to the common room to pay for your stay.
The night is a good one. The crowd never gets truly unruly and your friends relax and enjoy a couple hours where no one is actively trying to kill you. You take a few requests, but you mostly play whatever feels right in the moment, whether that be a rowdy drinking song, a slow love song, or an excerpt from a violin concerto.
At the end of the night, you call out, “Wyll! What song do you want? Three words or less!”
He startles and says, “Um, light? I…what?”
You shrug and sing, “You would not believe your eyes If ten million fireflies Lit up the world as I fell asleep…” You cast Dancing Lights as you play to fill the room with the illusion of the fireflies.
You turn to Shadowheart next. She’s ready and asks, “Make Gale blush?”
You pick out a jaunty rhythm on your strings and sing, “Oh you hear a lot of stories 'bout the sailors and their sport. About how every sailor has a girl in every port. But if you added 2 and 2 you'd figure out right quick—It's just because the girls all have a lad on every ship…”
Gale looks alarmed to be picked out of the crowd by Shadowheart’s mischief, but recovers smoothly and says, “Something your mother taught you.”
You laugh, which does not seem to be the reaction he expects. You say, “My mother?! My human Bard mother, renowned for her drumming across several nations and planes? A song from that mother?! All right, you got it.” You nearly shout the words to me of her songs, “I, I keep a record of the wreckage of my life. I gotta recognize the weapon in my mind. They talk shit, but I love it every time. And I realize….” There are some of Mom’s fans in the audience and they gleefully sing along to the chorus.
You meet Astarion’s eyes across the room. He’s been lurking in the shadows, watching you while also watching everyone who’s watching you. His voice is soft, but you catch it. He challenges, “Unravel me.”
Well. I can do that. You smile and pull the bow across the strings. You accompany yourself with slow notes and sing, “Every once in a while, something changes And he's changing me. It's too late for me now, I am altered: There is something beneath…”
The rest of the room falls away and no one dares walk between you.
You finish singing and take a bow to thunderous applause. When you straighten, Astarion isn’t where he’d been standing. Huh. Weird. You pack up your instrument, accept a bottle of wine, and make your slow way back to your room.
The lamp is lit when you open your door. You give it a quick glance, but things seem to be the same as when you left. Huh, no Astarion. I’ll lock the door when I go to bed. Give him time to decide if he wants to stay with me or find a room of his own. You put your violin case on top of the pile of bags and start undoing your dress. The fabric slides off and you reach for your corset laces.
You’re looking in the mirror out of habit and you don’t see the hand that wraps firmly around your throat. You freeze, hands still tangled in your laces behind your back.
Astarion’s voice is a deadly purr in your ear, “It’s a foolish little bard who doesn’t carefully check her room for unwanted guests. Whatever should I do with you?” He flexes his hand around your throat and chuckles at how your pulse jumps.
Oh, yes please. You hold yourself still and swallow. You say, “It’s a foolish thief who tries to take what belongs to a vampire.” Heat curls in your belly at the soft growl this earns you.
He runs his nose along your ear and asks, “Are you saying that you’re… his?” He pulls you closer and you hear the key turn in the lock.
You smile into the mirror, pretty sure you’re focused on where he’s looking over your shoulder. You say, “Well, yeah. I thought that it was pretty obvious.”
Astarion’s voice is still a purr, still deadly, but maybe not as steady as before. You surprised him and he doesn’t have a line ready. He instead says, “Hm. In that case, I think we should play a little game. Give me that control that you think I need. Does that sound good to you, pet?” He sucks the tip of your ear into his mouth and your knees go weak. He laughs, dark and silky and says, “I suppose I have my answer. Very well. Be a good girl and choose a watchword. Something you can remember. I promise to stop when I hear it from your beautiful lips.”
Your thoughts are sparking and you don’t want to force them into working. You say, “Robin?”
You feel his head shake. He says, “I need you to tell me your watchword, not ask me what it is. Try that again, darling.” He backs off for a moment.
“Robin. Please, Aster.” You try to push your want and need into your voice and eyes.
He laughs again and completely lets go of you. He commands, “You have one minute to get those things off and get yourself onto the bed. Or else.”
You yank at your laces and get the corset off in record time. You’re pushing your smalls to the floor as you ask, “Or else what?” You climb onto the bed, still facing the mirror. You sit on your heels and wait with your hands on your knees.
The bed dips as he comes up behind you. You still can’t see him in the mirror and it’s more than a little odd to see your hair move on its own. He says, “Or else I’ll blow out the light and go to sleep.” He tips your head to the side and barely breaks the skin over your pulse. A tiny thread of blood comes free and immediately vanishes as he licks it away.
Astarion lifts his head from your neck and says, “Give me your hands.” He’s behind you and lifts your arms up over your head. It’s strange to see the rope as it wraps your wrists, but not what’s doing the wrapping. It’s soft and smooth. You flex your fingers and he tugs you up. He says, “I think this will work better than the tent pole. Much less likely to result in accidental collapse, anyway. Did you even notice when you got this room?”
You look around and don’t see anything. You’re still watching in the mirror and see the rope loop around a hook in the ceiling and tie itself off. You glance up and see several other convenient anchor points in the ceiling beams and the wall above the head of the bed. You say, “Huh. No, this is just the room they said they put the Bards in. That tracks.” You look at yourself in the mirror. You’re balanced on your knees and your body is stretched out.
Astarion laughs and presses against your back. He skates his hands down your sides and you shiver. He says, “I do not like anything you’ve said about the Bardic Guild leaders, but I very much like the education you got.” He lifts one of your breasts and teases the nipple to attention. The effect in the mirror is startling, pulling a whimper from you.
He switches sides and the flush runs down your neck. You can see the dents in your skin where he’s holding you, but the mirror says you’re all alone. He’s just playing with your tits and you can feel the wetness pooling between your legs.
He nudges your knees further apart and pulls one hand along your inner thigh. He collects your slick on his fingers and pushes them into your mouth. He says, “You’re already a mess? We’ve barely even begun.”
Okay, yes, watching yourself suck on something that’s not there is weird. Extremely hot, but also weird. Still, it’s working for you, especially when he says, “Good girl,” and takes his fingers from your mouth and swirls them around your nipple.
Astarion is flush against you. He’s not dressed and his cock is pinned between you. He drags his nails along your thigh and flicks your clit. You twitch in his hold and you can feel how smug he’s feeling. He murmurs something against your skin and rakes his fangs across your shoulder.
There is a time and place to be stoic, but this is not it. “Please,” you blurt out. “Please more. Please.” You try to move, to encourage him, but you have no leverage.
He laughs and keeps up his slow, torturously slow, exploration of your body. He says, “Oh, I don’t know. I rather like seeing you desperate. It’s a good look for you, truly.” He draws lazy circles around your clit and stops when you get close. He waits patiently for you to calm down and then starts it all over again. It’s maddening and delightful.
You don’t need to see the feral smile to know that it’s there. It’s obvious in his murmured praise and sardonic observations of your state. He’s not as calm as he’s pretending, but he does a good job of covering it.
Astarion finally buries his fingers in your cunt and bites your shoulder. You shriek and writhe with nowhere to go and nothing to do but let him play you. He’s relentless, ruthless in pushing you straight off the cliff into an orgasm, and your voice breaks on a near sob, “Please, Raven. Um, Rook. Fuck.”
He stops and asks, “What? Did you forget?” He turns your face and you get your first look at him since this started. He’s worried. “Too much?”
You’re panting and say, “My hands. Can’t feel my fingers. Don’t want to stop but need them down. Please?”
He holds you up and unhooks the rope. In the next instant, he has the knots undone and is rubbing feeling back into your hands. He says, “Clever girl. There, better?” You flex your fingers and nod.
Astarion topples you over onto your back. He crawls up your body and pins your hands to the bed next to your head. He laces his fingers with yours and steals your breath with a long kiss. His cock nudges at your folds and you’re so wet that it’s a problem. He finally resorts to pinning both of your hands with one of his so that he can sink into you in one smooth, delicious thrust.
He sets a slow, deliberate pace until you moan “please” into the kiss. His grip on your hands tightens and he slams into you, escalating your moans to a scream muffled by his tongue.
He breaks the kiss and stares hard into your eyes. He growls, “Mine.”
You nod and whimper, “Yours.”
He drives his fangs into the side of your neck. The flash of pain is instantly replaced by pleasure, white hot pleasure that casts stars in your vision. Pleasure ricocheting from your neck to pussy to heart and back. Pleasure that wipes away any worries about “real” and “manipulated” and “ticking time bomb in my eye”. Pleasure that makes everything make sense for one crystal moment.
Astarion releases your neck before you get lightheaded. He delicately licks the puncture wounds and you shiver. He brushes a strand of hair off your face and asks, “Are you still here?” He’s still buried in you.
You blink up at him and say, “You unravel me, body and soul, and you ask if I’m still here?” You lift your head to kiss him and the coppery taste of your blood fills your mouth. You say, “I’m here. You?”
“How is it that the more I have of you, the more I want?” He’s looking at you with an expression you’re not sure how to read. “I keep expecting to be satiated, to be satisfied, but I could drown in you and still be starving.”
You press your hand to his cheek and he turns towards it. You say, “Don’t actually drain me to death, please, but take as much as you want.” The tadpole takes the opportunity to shift and connect you.
Astarion shudders and says, “You are mine and I will keep you safe, even from myself, should it come to that.” He presses his lips to yours and the kiss is a promise. You thread your hand into his hair and hold on.
The lamp had spluttered out a while ago and the room is warm, dark, and quiet. Astarion wraps you in a blanket and pulls you into his arms. You yawn and ask, “Why do you always do this?”
His voice is tired, but satisfied, “Because I have no warmth to share with you and don’t want you to wake up cold because you’re sleeping with a corpse.”
“Oh. Okay.” You’re warm and comfortable and utterly worn out.
He’s playing with your hair and you’re starting to drift. He asks, “Is there anything you would deny me, little love?”
You stop breathing for a moment and immediately wake all the way up. Shit. Trap? Trap. What answer does he want? How is he going to use whatever I say against me? Crap. Breathe. Relax, idiot. You’ve given too much away. Soften your spine and unclench your jaw and find your way out. You take a breath and slowly say, “There are a…couple things, yeah. Why?”
Astarion presses a kiss to the top of your head and admits, “Because you are the first person in centuries who I’ve wanted to please in bed. You aren’t a transaction or a chore and I want to keep you mine. I don’t want to drive you away by asking for something you dislike. That’s all.”
That wouldn’t be reassuring to anyone else, but it’s comforting enough. You force your voice to stay light and smooth and say, “Okay, um, I don’t like being burned. Or cut. I like breath play, but I don’t like losing consciousness or being drugged insensible. I really don’t like anything happening while I’m sleeping or unconscious.” Your veneer of calm fails a little by the end of it and Astarion goes very still behind you. You shove the memories back into their little box and bury it deep. Again.
His voice is even and quiet, “I need a name, love. Who do I need to go have a…pointed conversation with?”
“Jonathen Erasmus, but I hope you know a talented necromancer for that conversation. He’s dead dead. Like, really dead. It was…messy.” You let that memory surface to wipe away the way it felt to have all your choices taken away. You explain, “I was young and at school under a fake name so that I would succeed or fail on my own talent, not Mom’s name. So he thought I was an orphan without support and he could do what he liked.” You shake your head and say, “I got away and called my mom for help. But Dad and Papa got to me first. Mom was pissed since she had to pay for a Resurrection so she could get a turn at him. I had to change schools and start over. I know I wasn’t his first…project, but I sure as hell was his last.”
You look off into the dark of the room. “He didn’t break me. That happened later. I’m not…proud of how I handled him then, but it ended well enough. I guess. I don’t enjoy those memories, though, and don’t want to reenact them.”
“We won’t.” Astarion’s voice is certain. He goes back to petting your hair. You fractionally relax and he asks, “Where did you learn the song you sang tonight? It was…beautiful.”
You smile and some of the tension wisps away on a yawn, “Wrote it.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
“Why?”
“You.”
He’s quiet for a long, long moment. You would have said that he wouldn’t be able to hold you tighter, but he does. He whispers, “I am so glad that I didn’t know you before the tadpole. I would have killed you, brought you to death, and that haunts me.”
You get a hand free from the blanket and grab his arm. You consider and discard several responses before finally settling on, “Yours.”
His whisper is nearly lost in your hair, but you’re pretty sure he says, “Yours.”