Archive of Our Own

It’s not that Astarion wasn’t appreciative of the gifts. Far from it, actually. He was mostly just worried about how their allies would feel when they found out what their fearless leader had been getting up to in order to procure them. 

Astarion was fine enough hunting animals. It brought him no unique joy or satisfaction, beyond the relief that it was voluntary and accessible. He could eat when he wanted, as much as he wanted, all away from prying eyes. It was enough of a glimpse of freedom that he barely dared to hope for more.

And after he had hoped for more, just the once, Figg now offered himself up every night, without fail. There was something about Figg’s blood, something deeper, richer in it, like it was laced with chocolate and wine and any number of other sinful things. Maybe it was because Astarion wanted him, worse than anyone he’d ever set his sights on before. Maybe it was something in Figg’s past, long forgotten, that sated Astarion’s appetite. 

But he could only drink from Figg just a little at a time. If he over indulged like he had the first time—suffice it to say that it wasn’t the guilt that had made Astarion woozy after he accidentally exsanguinated Figg. It was unfiltered bloodlust clouding his vision for several hours, intrusive thoughts of tearing each and every one of their party to shreds before they even left camp. 

(Astarion thinks of how Figg looked at him, after Shadowheart had revived him that morning. Not angry, or vengeful. It was as if he were impressed . Sizing him up.) 

And after a few nights, Figg had caught on— Astarion drank for less time, and Figg must not have felt as drained after. Figg didn’t question it, he was rather stoic about these things. Astarion saw himself in the way he formed bonds; Figg knew the less questions he asked of others, the less questions would be asked of him. 

After a week, came the first gift. 

It was a cultist, to assuage any immediate concerns of morality, but he had been killed cleanly, nearly bloodlessly, and recently . Figg’s kills tended to be messy and artistic, the big man practically danced with his scimitars, slashing and gutting with abandon. But this cultist had a dagger still lodged in his chest, and it was the only wound on him. 

All his blood was still inside. 

Figg had led him to the clearing where he’d dumped the body. It was late; where he had managed to find someone to off at this hour was beyond Astarion. 

He simply said, “I brought this for you.” 

Astarion just stared at him then, studying the other man with curiosity and apprehension. Something compelled Figg to hunt. To kill. And everything about him screamed assassin— the way he dressed, his tattoos, even his build. But whoever he used to be, he seemed uncomfortable in that role now. Until he didn’t. 

Figg was like a house cat in a panther’s body. Built for efficiency and power, but attempting to be small, controlled, and maybe even good . Astarion was familiar with those cursed with lycanthropy, and this was not that. 

No, the house cat-panther had brought him a dead mouse as a gift. 

“For me? Darling, you really shouldn’t have,” Astarion smirks, pulling up his facade. Lightly, he adds, “You probably really shouldn’t have.” 

“They were wandering too close to camp and, well,” Figg shrugs— he’s bloody, not his blood, and not this cultist’s. There was another, then, that satisfied what Figg needed. “You need to eat.” 

Heat stirs in Astarion’s gut. Despite the alarm bells ringing in his head, he is not immune to romance. This man hunted and killed a person for him to feed from, killed him special , and dragged him back to camp. All Astarion had to do was climb out of his bedroll, stumble thirty yards into the forest, and eat. 

“Indeed. Thank you, then.” 

Figg steps a little closer, nervous. The kitten and the panther flicker back and forth between his eyes— Astarion gets the panther. “And after, you can have dessert.”

It’s all Astarion can do to swallow back an incredulous laugh. He can’t muster a response, not without showing his hand, so just sneers up at Figg before moving towards the corpse. 

He does not turn his back to him. But he sinks to his knees and pulls up the cultist’s sleeve, digging his thumb into the wrist to find a vein. Figg watches him with morbid curiosity, breath hitching as Astarion rips the skin open and seals his mouth over the wound. 

He stands there, panting and twitching, clearly at war with himself as Astarion takes long pulls from the body. The man is a sight, chest heaving and glistening with sweat and blood, viscera sprayed from his thighs to his hair. Whatever he had done to the cultist’s friend had been for his own pleasure, though the image doesn’t repel Astarion like it should. 

The corpse is drained of all good blood before Astarion realizes he’s just been staring at Figg the whole time. He looks as if a strong gust of wind may set him off, every fiber of his being tense and predatory. 

“You’ll have to clarify what is on offer for dessert, my sweet.” Astarion can’t help himself. His life hangs in too delicate a balance these days not to indulge himself. It doesn’t matter that Figg is part of the weight tipping the scales. 

Figg twitches, eyes focusing as he comes back to himself. “Living blood, if you wish. Or…” 

He trails off as Astarion beckons him closer. He’s across the clearing in three long strides, quick and silent, even as his boots press into the earth. 

“Or? Speak up, pet.” 

Something flickers across Figg’s face then, and he barely gets it under control by the time his hand is tangled in Astarion’s hair. Astarion can imagine the other timeline for a moment, where his insolence gets his face buried into Figg’s clothed groin, the shape of his cock scraping into his cheek. 

He instead gets his head tipped back, the tug on his scalp firm but gentle. Figg blinks down at him, slow and measured. “I can give you whatever you want.”

Astarion goes for the laces of Figg’s trousers, half dried blood coming away on his hands. He ignores his obvious prize, instead shoving fabric down and away so he can mouth at the uppermost part of his thigh, just under his hip. 

“So generous,” Astarion mumbles into skin before biting. He’s not hungry, but gods does he want whatever runs through Figg’s veins, addictive and intoxicating. Figg’s hand tightens in his hair and he groans, hips twitching forward. Astarion takes his heavy cock in hand, lest he start leaking onto his shoulder, and works him quickly, easily. 

Maybe it’s base, maybe it’s desperate, but he touches himself too. They both finish like that, with Astarion’s hands on them and his teeth in Figg’s skin. With the dead cultist watching, lifelessly. 

The second gift is a little messier, though fresher. 

Figg had disappeared for a minute too long— the party often let him, as he was silent and powerful in his own right, and their more delicate sensibilities could be saved from whatever he felt the need to do. But the goblin camp should be empty at this point, decimated of all Absolutist life. A twinge of anxiety draws Astarion away from the group and back into the temple itself. 

And so Astarion gets to watch him make his kill this time. The self-flagellating human apparently could not be permitted to live. 

Figg leaps from the shadows— even Astarion hadn’t seen him at first, and rakes one blade cleanly across his neck. The human hits the ground with a gurgle, turning around only to earn the second blade to his gut. 

Masterful. Practiced. Almost reverent . Astarion suppresses a shiver. 

Figg doesn’t see Astarion. He’s too busy gazing down at his kill with fire in his eyes. His fingers twitch, unsure if he should rip the blades from the body and bury them in anew, or watch him leak and bleed. For a second, the fire dies, and he shakes his head slightly, blinking away his craze. 

The blades stay embedded as he crouches to heft the body onto his shoulder, though it does not mean the body isn’t bleeding. Profusely. Onto Figg and his armor. 

“You know that I am perfectly capable of hunting for myself, right?”

Figg whips around to face him, eyes wide and panicked. Something like a guilty smile tugs at his face, the innocent expression harshly out of place on his blood spattered body. 

He drops the body back into a heap at his feet. “It just seemed… wasteful.” 

“As you are well aware, I can actually feed from people without killing them.” Astarion jumps down off the scaffolding. The temple is cavernously empty around them, filthy and desecrated. 

Figg gets that distant look in his eyes. “I can’t…get what I need…not without killing. Not always, so I just thought that you could…”

So, he can’t control himself. Not a secret, but it’s almost a relief to hear him admit it. Still, Astarion feels uniquely equipped to talk to him about it, if only so their softhearted companions could be spared. Gesturing to the body he asks,  “Did this satisfy your… need?” 

Figg’s eyes become downcast as he looks at the human, maimed on the floor. “Not really, no. Or, perhaps, not enough.”

Astarion moves to him, eschewing every survival instinct he has to put a hand on his arm. “The last drops of living blood from a creature are the most sustaining. I can obviously feed from something in small servings but it’s not as… satisfying.” 

“Is that why you barely feed from me?” 

Astarion inexplicably chooses to be candid. “No, my dear, that is something else entirely. Your blood is different. Whatever drives you to do all this,” he gestures to the body, “Makes your blood quite the heady thing.” 

“It craves innocence. We didn’t leave a single goblin alive, and yet it is still unsatisfied.” 

Astarion jolts slightly as Figg reaches out with the tadpole. The man is eager for power, he’s already absorbed the essences of other tadpoles, and Astarion can feel it in the strength of the connection. Morbid curiosity colors his better judgment and he accepts the intrusion, bracing himself on Figg’s arm. 

A familiar feeling overtakes him: hunger. An evil, bloodthirsty drive that takes every fiber of one’s being to combat. But while a vampire’s hunger is interwoven with coy and cunning, a hunter’s instinct, Figg’s hunger is desperate. Astarion can see flashes of blades tearing skin and fingers drawing designs in blood. 

There’s another familiar thread. He can sense Figg reaching for Cazador, and the closer he gets to Astarion’s past, something in Figg’s becomes clearer. 

The images overlap, like sketches on thin paper. Astarion sees himself kneeling at Cazador’s feet, all too familiar. But if he focuses he can see Figg in the same position, big body crumpled into a position of submission, leaning away from the man standing next to him. He can’t see who it is, but he’s clearly noble, silk shoes and fine fabrics. He wears ridiculous golden rings that cover his fingers, turning tips into claws, making it easy to card through Figg’s hair. 

The image shifts— Figg sees the scars getting carved into Astarion’s skin and Astarion sees a dagger in Figg’s hands, carving into the skin of a patriar. 

The connection falters. Astarion is struck with one final feeling, overwhelming above all the blood and violence. A heady mix of care, pity, and concern— all directed at him— and then fear. Not of him, no. For him. 

Figg sucks in a breath as if being held underwater. His eyes are wet and he staggers slightly, uneasy on his feet. 

“Who was that?” Figg asks weakly. “I’ve never— I don’t remember who that was.” 

“The man with the gold rings? You don’t know him, not at all?” Astarion tries to stay calm in the face of this revelation, but the shock of their similarity terrifies him. How could they ever hope to outrun their masters? 

“It’s familiar… but I don’t…” He swallows thickly, eyes wet. When he looks at Astarion’s face he seems to panic, and he reaches for him haltingly. “I never hurt you, right?”

“I’d remember if I’d been graced with your presence before, darling.” He lets Figg’s gauntleted hands fall onto him, clutch him through metal and leather. “All my scars are Cazador’s.” 

“You had to hunt for so long, never got to eat. The bodies…I was just trying to take care of you.” His earnest expression is back, face open and eyes wide. “I don’t want to be whoever I was.” 

“Nor I,” Astarion says, resting his hands on Figg’s broad chest. “Who do you want to be?” 

“Yours.”

Astarion surges forward, crashing their mouths together. Figg meets him halfway and then some, easily taking his weight. He drinks Figg down, tasting blood that isn’t his and unshed tears. Their tadpoles stay dormant, they don’t need them to understand each other like this. Astarion hasn’t been able to look in a mirror in two hundred years, but this will do. 

He breaks the kiss first, dragging the flat of his tongue across Figg’s face through goblin blood and sweat. Figg grunts and pulls him closer by his hips, their bodies flush from chest to thigh. 

“I can help you,” Astarion says directly into his ear. “You want to be better, and I know what you need. I can keep you on a short leash. A guard dog will have to bite something eventually, even when there are no intruders.” 

“Guard dog,” Figg repeats, as if it means something to him. 

“I saw your past, I understand if you don’t want to submit in that way anymore—“

Figg sinks to his knees before Astarion can finish his thought. “I don’t know who I was but I think I need this. As much as I need to kill, I need to be… wielded.”

“I’m not the most pure-moraled person to entrust that to. Not if you want to be good.” Astarion revels as Figg nuzzles his face into his hand. 

“Maybe not good. Just better. If not better… then at least I’m yours.” 

It’s a dangerous, dangerous game to play, and to play with the most unstable of men. But Astarion looks down at Figg, supplicant and practically begging for it, and he doesn’t feel powerful. At least not how he always imagined Cazador felt— Cazador kept him weak. He was beaten and maimed and starved. 

Figg is strong, stronger than him, far far more dangerous. But he aims none of it at Astarion. Astarion wields the realm’s most wicked dagger— no, the most viscous, well-trained hound. He will be well fed, well groomed, kept on a leash just tight enough that he can still be himself, but never straying far from his caretaker. 

“You will tell me if this arrangement no longer suits you.” Astarion demands. Another way he can distance himself from Cazador. 

“Of course. I’m still just a man, after all.” 

“Next time you want to bring me a gift, invite me along for the hunt.” He bends just far enough to grip Figg’s chin, not immune to the catch of his breath or the blow of his pupils. 

“Anything you want.” 

“And you will tell me when you need to satisfy your bloodlust. So that we can do so in such a way that means we can make it to the end of this thing. I won’t let you have us arrested before we handle our tadpoles.”

Figg nods seriously, as much as he can with Astarion holding his jaw. 

“And I think if you don’t fuck me right here in this temple, for all these corpses to see, I’ll go be some other lunatic’s handler.”

Without hesitation, Figg moves to strip off his gauntlets, his hands so obviously clean while the rest of him is so blood splattered. He stays on his knees, waiting, watching, looking up at Astarion with a passive expression. His eyebrows waver, his hands flex, and Astarion sees the mask settle over him. Control. 

Astarion takes slow, purposeful steps backwards, just calculated enough not to trip, retreating to the dais in the center of the room. Figg watches him, perfectly still. His eyes flick across him, following his hands as Astarion divests himself of his armor. He breathes deeply but silently, and if you didn’t know he was there, he’d disappear into the background. 

When his feet hit the dais, Astarion sinks to sit, knees spread wide as he leans back on one hand. “‘Fuck me’ was an order, pet.” 

Figg moves so quickly Astarion can’t even command him to crawl. But he kneels between Astarion’s legs all the same, hands immediately grabbing at his chest and hauling him close enough to mouth at his neck. Astarion hums a noise of approval, every drag of lip and skin lighting up his nerves. 

“Can’t help myself with you,” Figg sighs into his skin, kissing down his chest. “It’s a different feeling, to the urges, but—“

Astarion swallows back a gasp as Figg laves his tongue over his nipple. “I don’t want you to help yourself.”

Fingers dig into Astarion’s ribs as Figg forces him back enough to look him in the eyes, only a thin halo of green around blown pupils. “You’ll tell me if I cross a line.”

Sincerity stings his skin like the sun is supposed to. “Yes, fine—“

Figg is back on him in an instant, mouth and hands seemingly attempting to envelop him. In a mess of grinding hips and fumbling hands, he gets Astarion’s trousers down to his thighs, taking his straining cock in hand without hesitation. Astarion yelps a moan, clinging to his back— Figg is still fully clothed, fully armored, and it makes the vampire feel defiled in a way that he can’t describe.  

Figg moves to flip him over, but hesitates at the last moment, eyes softening as he looks between Astarion’s pristine pale skin and the grimy temple floor. Before Astarion can assuage his concern, Figg is stripping off his mantle— the cape freshly dyed from red to black and bloodstained red once again— and lays it out on the floor. 

Astarion gratefully buries his face in this piece of fabric meant to call Figg back to his past, lets his body be positioned just how Figg wants it so that he can press his mouth to Astarion’s hole, using spit and slicked fingers to pry him open. He’s so careful with him, despite his persistence, but Astarion doesn’t have the focus to urge him to be rougher, every barbed word caught in his throat and replaced by moans. 

And Figg is careful but he is not slow and he is not gentle. The third finger comes with teeth digging into the meat of Astarion’s ass and nails digging into his hips right over the bones. He follows Astarion’s moans and gasps with trained accuracy until he’s brought him dangerously close to the edge, thighs shaking under his attention. 

“It’s enough!” Astarion manages to hiss, and Figg obeys instantly, pulling back just enough to turn him back over. His face flickers between barely controlled and pure adoration, the shadows cast by his hair only partially hiding the fire in his eyes. He presses forward, the rough edges of his armor biting into Astarion’s thighs. 

Figg pushes himself into Astarion just slow enough to prevent hurting him seriously and just rough enough to hurt deliciously, dragging Astarion’s hips forward until their bodies are flush. Desperate for something to moor him, Astarion hooks his hand into the collar of Figg’s shirt, pulling him forward, relishing in the drag of fabric against his bare chest. 

“You should get me a collar,” Figg exhales as he follows his pulling hand with a roll of his hips. 

Astarion’s voice comes out tight and strained, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

Figg plants one of his hands next to Astarion’s head, using the other to hike Astarion’s thigh up further. “And a leash.” 

“Gods,” Astarion bites out, unsure if it’s at his words or the drag of his cock. 

Figg gets a look on his face, control slipping slightly. “And a tag.” 

“In case you forget who you are again?” Astarion teases to hide the way it makes his cock jump, trapped between them. 

“So everyone knows who I belong to.”

Any response Astarion could have come up with is replaced with a moan as Figg snaps his hips forward. His pace goes from not-quite-enough to brutal in a matter of seconds, knocking the air out of his lungs. Astarion can feel the drag of the stone floor against his back beneath the thick fabric of the cape, and he barely gets his eyes open long enough to watch a bead of sweat roll down the side of Figg’s face, dripping off his jaw. 

Astarion pulls him impossibly closer, core straining as he surges up to latch his fangs into the soft skin just under the junction of his neck and ear. Figg moans unabashedly then, the sound reverberating right into Astarion’s skull as rich blood fills his mouth. 

It’s so different, this. There’s no impatience for it to end, no dread about the after. He drinks readily given blood from a humanoid, he fucks him of his own free will, they play a power game that Astarion knows he can end at any moment. Figg will protect and care for him— to a fault, perhaps, but as Astarion get’s his every desire satisfied, it really becomes the least of his concerns. 

And perhaps the best part, the blood and the friction and the sounds of their moans echoing through the temple drown out his thoughts. The world is nothing but their bodies, chasing pleasure and satisfaction together. When Astarion pulls away from Figg’s neck with a gasp, Figg’s hand immediately delves between them to pump Astarion’s cock, his own hips stuttering ever so slightly. 

Astarion crashes their mouths together as he comes, letting Figg lick the taste of his own blood off of Astarion’s tongue, swallowing Figg’s groan as he finishes just a moment after, sweat dripping onto Astarion’s chest. There’s no impending nausea, no preparing to put his walls back up; something has shifted so fundamentally inside of him that it’s actually a loss when Figg eventually starts to pull away. 

The third gift is just what he asked for: an invitation. 

The tieflings were crowded in their camp, loud and raucous. Astarion was still grappling with the idea of being a hero, not just him, but Figg too. The refugees carried on, their companions carried on, blissfully unaware that the loss of one of their own had been at Figg’s own hands. 

Figg had admitted what he’d done to the bard after he and Astarion had reached their agreement. Despite the severity of the conversation that followed, it had ended in the modification of an old belt into a collar, and the addition of an old ruby pendant to represent a tag. 

Seeing the gem glint across the camp in the firelight as Figg fidgeted with it brought Astarion some reassurance— it seemed to be a physical reminder of their arrangement. It did lack subtlety— he had heard the comments from all of their companions, but a few judgmental remarks were nothing if it meant he didn’t wake up to a ritually maimed wizard. 

Figg perks to a noise unheard by all. Astarion watches him nod and politely excuse himself before retreating into the tree-line, disappearing so subtly that Astarion doesn’t even know what direction he’s gone. 

Astarion takes a huge swig of his wine, steeling himself. Letting Figg go off alone with all these people around— innocent people— felt like a risk. Astarion may as well be standing with his back to a sheer cliff and trusting that Figg is standing at the bottom with open arms. 

But they leave for the mountain pass tomorrow, a huge and committed step forward on their journey. If Astarion can’t truly trust Figg, can’t trust him not to give into his scrambled memories the closer they get to the city, then he’d like to know now. His heart needs to know now, so he can squash whatever budding affection is threatening to bloom in it. 

In the time that he waits, anxiously, he watches, ensuring no one disappears suddenly or wanders off alone. He’s so fixated on this that he misses the presence behind his tent until Figg is behind him, reaching for him. 

Anticipating the worst, Astarion manages to keep his startle silent. His eyes immediately go to Figg’s clothes and hands, looking for blood. He’s clean. 

“There are three gith hiding in the woods.” He says quietly, eyes darting across the party to confirm everyone is still unaware. “They have stopped, seemingly because they were not expecting our numbers, and are discussing what to do.” 

Astarion gapes at him, panic rising in his gut. “Should we get the others—“

Figg cuts him off, voice low and commanding. “They are going to turn back. They pose no threat to the party but they are now uh… easy prey.”

“Darling, when I said hunting, I meant one poor maiden separated from her beau, not taking on three githyanki scouts alone.” His tone is incredulous, and Figg’s eyes narrow defensively. Astarion holds the end of the invisible leash, all he has to do is pull. 

A long moment passes, control and drive flickering behind Figg’s eyes. Finally, something in him heels. “As you wish.” 

A drunken and jovial cheer erupts from the crowd where Karlach regales the refugees with a story. Tonight, Astarion is being hailed as a hero. 

“I suppose the heroes of the hour wouldn’t let enemy scouts take precious intel back to their base.” He sighs, shoulders sagging. “Though it seems unwise to go this alone.”

“You and I are quieter. Faster. Bringing anyone else will alarm the tieflings and allow the githyanki to slip our grasp.” Figg is already turning away, jaw twitching as he tries and fails to conceal a sneer. “Besides, you want to watch.” 

Astarion clicks his teeth in indignation but does not argue. He does make sure to arm himself before falling into step behind Figg, immediately becoming mindful of the forest floor and its noise-making litter. 

Even as a spawn, he has certain advantages here; his vision in the dark is much improved and he can forgo breathing for extended periods of time. It gives him the space in his mind to observe Figg. He is shockingly quiet for someone so large, moving through the leaves effortlessly despite his head nearly brushing some of the boughs. 

It’s clear that backtracking to fetch Astarion had lost them a bit of ground. They find the trail quickly enough, able to find where the scouts doubled back and turned away. Where they could have gone to make for the main road however, they turn suddenly, back into the trees. 

“That’s odd,” Astarion breathes as quietly as he can. “If they were going back towards the creche, they’d go that way.” 

“Unless they decided to attempt to overtake us from a different angle.” Figg’s lip curls as he studies a footprint. “Originally they would have walked right up to the front of camp. If they went around…”

“Let’s pick up the pace then, shall we?”

Some stealth is forgone for speed, though Astarion still doubts any would hear them coming. The forest flies past them as they creep back towards camp, orbiting the perimeter towards the creek. 

They hear the githyanki arguing quietly amongst themselves and slow to a crawl. Astarion briefly entertains the idea of an interrogation, but Figg already has his blades drawn, eyes dark and focused. They split from each other, moving wordlessly to flank their prey. 

“They’re civilians. The number of people who actually pose a threat are limited.”

“Any one of them could have the artifact—“

“You have no idea what an untrained mob is capable of!”

Figg’s scimitars glint in the moonlight as he springs from the bushes directly onto one of the gith’s backs. She goes down with a yelp and a gurgle, throat torn wide before she can reach for her weapon. It gives Astarion an opening to lunge forward with his own daggers, slicing through the gut of another scout easily. Both of them follow with their second blade, striking and stabbing and ensuring they stay down. 

The final githyanki does have just enough time to brandish his sword. Figg engages him without hesitation, his longer blades making it easier to parry any attack. Astarion slinks back, slowly rounding them as they wrestle to land a hit. He’s not fully out of sight, but there is no way for the gith to block four blades, and it’s easy enough to sneak a dagger into his back. 

Curiously, Figg steps back, despite Astarion having created the perfect opening for him to land a killing blow. The githyanki wheels around to Astarion, slashing wildly, his blade missing Astarion’s face by an inch. It sends him reeling slightly, and they stumble a few feet back. Ducking under another crazed swipe, Astarion puts a gash in his thigh, then his chest, then his arm— 

The gith’s eyes go wide as he crumples. Astarion watches him go down as Figg finishes raking his blades along the backs of his knees. Figg kicks his dropped blade away into the trees, eyes wild and hungry. He spins his scimitars in his hands, gaze flicking across the scout as he tries to find the next place to bury them. 

“Enough,” Astarion demands, adrenaline making him lightheaded. Figg inhales a sharp breath but his arms fall to his sides obediently, blood dripping from his swords into the dirt. 

“You will get no information from me, istik!” 

“I don’t really care,” Astarion says, not even looking at him. He plants one foot on either side of his crippled body and squats, driving the point of his dagger directly into his stomach. The gith howls in pain, though he’s fading quickly, his heartbeats slowing at stuttering. 

Figg’s nostrils flare. He looks angry. Astarion watches him, bemused, and pulls the gith forward to his mouth, teeth sinking into the sinewy muscle of his shoulder. The warrior struggles uselessly, too weak to throw Astarion off, and he drinks deeply, barely tasting the blood as he drains him. 

Teeth grinding, eyes narrowed, Figg practically shakes with self control. His anxious gaze finally meets Astarion’s blissful one, neither one of them seeing the githyanki woman drag herself up enough to arm her crossbow until the mechanism clunks loudly with a bolt being released. 

The bolt sticks firmly in Figg’s thigh, who valiantly does little more than hiss and wheel around to face her. She at least has the wherewithal to look afraid as he flies at her, kicking her back prone before slashing her chest open with his swords. 

He cuts and cuts and does not stop until she is more red than green. The other gith is long dead, and Astarion lets his meal fall away from him, practically hollow. He lets Figg bury his blade in his victim one last time for good measure before clearing his throat and demanding his attention. 

“Heel.” 

Murderous intent flashes in Figg’s expression, whatever beast lives inside of him reeling at Astarion’s absolute disrespect. But it does not stop the big elf from falling to his knees into the puddle of blood he spilled, wincing as the crossbow bolt in his thigh is jostled in the process. 

Astarion stands and crosses to him, reaching out to cup his face. His thumb drags through gathered blood spatter on his high cheekbone, smearing it artlessly. Figg tips into the touch, eyes slipping closed and chest heaving with deep breaths. 

“Are you satisfied?” 

Green eyes flash up to his, too quick to tell who’s looking at him. “Never. But it isn’t nothing.” 

“What do you need?” 

“It wanted the tieflings.” Figg exhales, shoulders sagging. Examining his bloodstained hands, he seems to tell himself, “But blood is blood.” 

“I’m sure I can weave you a sob story about these Gith and their families and aborted destinies, if that would satisfy.” Astarion tucks his fingers under his chin and tips his head back. “You did well.”

Figg opens his mouth, lips seeking Astarion’s thumb. “I’m sorry.”

Astarion smiles, imagines his hair must glow with the moonlight, the way his body is casting a shadow over Figg’s. He feels strung tight with energy and arousal, power and assurance melting off his skin like smoke. 

“Don’t apologize. You told me what you needed, and we took care of you, didn’t we? Your training is paying off.” Astarion drawls each syllable out, really making sure Figg is hanging onto every word he says. The man beneath him blinks up at him, something softening in his face. 

He keeps the smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth in check, but Astarion sees it anyways. “I like when you feel like this,” Figg whispers, as if an aside to the larger production. “Confident. Self assured.”

“Eager to ruin it, are we?” 

“No,” Figg says too quickly. “I want to stay like this.” 

Astarion hums, finally pushing his thumb into his mouth, watching his eyes roll back blissfully. The violence hungry beast inside Figg curls up and sleeps at the barest display of Astarion’s dominance. He inches forward, hands obediently in his lap, taking the digit fully into his mouth. Astarion presses his thumb down before Figg can suck, gently prying his mouth open. 

“Little pet,” Astarion coos, knowing just where to push to make Figg drool. “I let you go after these people, let you cut and maim and kill, and still you want more from me?” 

A small noise escapes the back of Figg’s throat as a line of spit drips out of the corner of his mouth. 

“It’s an awfully good thing I know how to take care of you— you know I have more than enough experience to make you regret this.” 

The horrible truth dangles between them, but all it does is make heartbeats quicken and pupils become blown. 

“Show me you remember how to say stop when your mouth is full.” 

Figg moves his hands from his lap only to tap Astarion’s thigh three times. 

Astarion’s only ever felt the demonstration, but relief washes over him nonetheless, knowing that it’s there, for either of them. He pulls away just enough to tug at the laces of his trousers, cock already aching just from their teasing. 

Figg’s heavy gaze follows his hand as Astarion touches himself, smearing what's left of his drool across his length. The rapid puffs of breath across Astarion’s skin make him shiver, the heat of Figg’s mouth so enticing, but he has to torture just a little bit more or it’s no fun at all. 

Ever so gently— he doesn’t want to hurt Figg any worse than it’s already going to— Astarion lifts his foot to nudge the crossbow bolt still lodged in  his thigh. His hand never leaves his cock, because he can’t help but stroke himself as Figg hisses in pain, chin falling to his chest. Astarion can smell his blood, rich and savory above all the githyanki’s, he can hear his rapid heartbeat shift from lust to pain to panic. 

“I was going to let you hump my leg,” Astarion sighs, “But that seems like it will make it a tad difficult.” 

“Allow me to—“ Figg moves before Astarion can stop him, fist clenching around the bolt and wrenching it free, his anguished grunt echoing through the trees. 

Alarm makes Astarion’s blood go cold, but he channels it into rage. He brings his boot back to the wound, grinding his heel into it at the same time as he fists a hand into Figg’s hair to yank his head up. His mouth is open with a gasp of pain and Astarion pushes his cock in, relishing in the half-satisfied gurgle. 

“Stupid.” Astarion spits, trying to conceal how good his mouth already feels. “As much as I relish in tormenting you, you can’t just treat yourself so carelessly.” 

Figg’s eyes roll back as he loosens his jaw and the muscles in his neck, making it all the easier for Astarion to fuck his mouth. He tries to look up at Astarion between his hair falling into his face and the tears welling up through his lashes, eyebrows pinched in a silent plea. 

Rich blood spills out of his wound wastefully, soaking into the earth beneath his knees. Without even tasting it, the scent makes Astarion’s nostrils flare, something primal clawing out of his chest. With one last press of his boot into the wound, he lets his foot slip between Figg’s thighs, yanking him forward simultaneously. 

Figg moans around him as he takes what he’s given, shuffling forward so that he can rut against Astarion’s shin. There’s too many layers, and Astarion laments the fact that he can’t really feel him, but he is treated to a drooling groan around him as Figg finds a pace. 

Saliva foams at the corner of his mouth as Astarion fucks past his lips, chasing his own release. Figg clings to his thigh, careful despite his frenzy to not do anything out of line, and works himself against Astarion in time. There is no way it will be enough for him, which is fine by Astarion, who is already scheming for more. 

“I need to keep you in fighting condition, pet.” Astarion’s voice is tight and rough, a failed attempt at composure. “Only I’m allowed to hurt you like that.” 

Figg sucks a breath in through his nose, eyes wet and unfocused as he tries to look at Astarion. Drool runs down his mouth and slips down Astarion’s thigh, and it’s the man’s expression of utter bliss that brings Astarion to the edge, pulling Figg’s face to his hips and keeping him there, ignoring the spasm of his gag. 

His legs feel weak, and Figg’s continued grinding threatens to topple him into the mud. Astarion pulls Figg off of him with a hiss, watching his tongue loll and a long string of saliva stretch and break. He does not move from his kneeling position; though his thighs must burn and his cock must ache, and simply he lets tears and drool slide down his face, patient and still. 

“I could leave you like this,” Astarion whispers, retying his trousers. 

Figg works his jaw for a moment before he speaks, voice hoarse. “If you want to.” 

“Just hearing you say that is enough. Come, pet.” Astarion turns and begins to walk away, trying to conceal the weakness in his legs. “I can’t have you traipsing mud and blood all the way back to camp.”

The only indication that Figg has fallen into step behind him is the gentle wince of his breath. The creek is not far from where they caught the githyanki, and their camp not much further than that, the soft din of voices barely audible through the trees. Still, they’re far enough away to safely bathe, Astarion figures, and if someone catches an eyeful, then it’s just their little treat. 

With the water lapping at their boots, Astarion sets about undressing Figg, batting away his attempts to help. There’s some hissing and whining as Astarion peels his trousers off of his wounded thigh, the skin around it mottled and purple. The pain hasn’t troubled Figg’s arousal in the slightest, the shape of his cock plenty clear through his undergarments. 

Without warning, Astarion lays his palm over the hole and speaks the incantation, casting the sparing amount of healing magic he understands to cure the wound. The skin glows and stitches itself back together, leaving behind a nasty scab and plenty of bruising to remind him of it. It’s nothing rest and actual healing won’t fully fix, but it will keep Astarion’s glutton for punishment stable enough to fuck him. 

“Clean yourself up,” Astarion demands, shoving him towards the water playfully. Figg goes hesitantly, only moving as far away from Astarion as he must. He relaxes a fraction as Astarion begins to strip away his own clothing, pausing to let the cold water run through his shirt and rinse some of the stains out. Through the corner of his eyes, he watches Figg cup water and scrub it over himself- most of the blood still wet enough to be easily washed away. 

The collar stays on, it always does, the leather soaked dark with water. Figg watches Astarion expectantly, hair dripping onto his freckled shoulders, wet skin appearing pristine in the moonlight. 

Neither of them are clean, not really. All the water of the Chionthar could run over their hands, but it would never be clean. Their bodies would just turn the Grey Harbour red. 

In one of his more lucid moments, Figg had said something about not carrying guilt for the sins of his master. But now that Astarion holds the title, even consensually given, even as playful as they pretend it is, are Figg’s sins now his own? Or does his bloodlust still fall on the head of that noble from his memories? Or onto the head of whatever cursed him in the first place? 

“Astarion,” Figg says, voice still hoarse despite his soft tone. His eyebrows pitch slightly, expression mirroring Astarion’s own guilt. “Are you alright? Did I go too far?” 

Muscle memory allows Astarion to quickly fix his face— but it only sours Figg’s expression further. Defensively, Astarion spits, “Don’t look at me like that.” 

Figg taps his own thigh three times. “We don’t have to do this.” 

“Would you believe me if I said I wanted to?” Astarion snaps at him, expression twisting. Panic rises uncontrollably in his throat. 

Figg opens and closes his mouth before heaving a sigh. The water glistening on his skin makes his goosebumps all the more apparent. Finally, he says, “I don’t know. But it doesn’t have to be like this.”

“And what is this to you?” Astarion thinks he might be sick. In his stupid moment of reflection— he’d ruined it. 

“What we were doing before… it’s, well, a game.” Figg moves out of the water, picking part way up the shoreline. “It’s all very intense and very dangerous, but our… relationship isn’t actually that.”

Astarion scoffs and breaks eye contact, scooping his shirt off the ground. “Do you think the three gith we just killed think it’s a game?” 

“You know I don’t mean that.” Figg snaps, voice suddenly harsh. “I mean the collars and the domination. You and I both have… needs. Urges. But we are both trying to control them.” 

Astarion backs away as Figg approaches him, and it isn’t until Figg nearly has him backed to a tree does he stop pressing forward. Clutching his shirt to his chest like it will save him from this conversation, Astarion can’t help the shudder of his breath as he tries to keep tears at bay. 

“You aren’t my master, Astarion. Not really. I come to heel because I respect you. Trust you. And I know that you respect me.” 

“I don’t do a very good job of showing it, do I?” Astarion asks wetly. 

“You do. You know how?” 

Astarion shakes his head no. 

Figg reaches out and taps his arm three times. “That was your idea.” 

“It’s the bare minimum,” he exhales, eyes locked onto where Figg’s hand hovers. 

“I didn’t ever have that before.” Figg lets his fingers run up his forearm, testing. “Did you?”

Astarion bites back a sob, and shakes his head no again. Hesitation thrown aside, Figg surges forward to pull Astarion into his arms, a big hand cupping the back of his head to push his face into his chest. And something breaks in the vampire, some sort of dam keeping all the grief inside of him giving way to choking cries. 

He can barely get the words out, but he has to explain, he has to defend himself. “He took everything away from me. My body— what I could do with it. I’m still just a man, I just want to feel good, but he’s even taken my ability to have pleasure.” 

“You don’t have to explain,” Figg says, lips pressed into the crown of his head. “You know that I understand.”

Astarion does know. And it’s miserable. He cannot stop grieving in that moment, for everything he lost. Everything Figg lost. Everything they could have had— how, untainted, they would never have connected like this. 

He doesn’t mean to reach out with the tadpole, but he’s in Figg’s head before he can worry about it. Immediately, he’s awash with Figg’s own misery, for him, for himself— knowing what he does and not knowing all the rest. Astarion knows Figg is seeing his conquests, sex and romance that he puppeteered, and seeing the kennels afterwards; he’s seeing Cazador’s shoes afterwards. 

The image of Figg at the noble's feet is in reach again, but this time it’s through Figg’s own eyes, looking at his own blood stained hands and fine boots embroidered with red silk. His scalp stings with the phantom sensation of his head being wrenched up by the hair— he’s looking out over an audience hall of beige stone and dark wood. A patriar lays dead in the center of the floor, a design drawn in his own blood surrounding him. 

Astarion remembers kissing Sebastian, his blushing face and unsure lips, pressed against the wall of an alleyway— he has the thought, and then he’s Figg again, face held in place with a dominating hand, tips of gold gauntlets digging into his jaw to force his mouth open. Astarion licks into Sebastian’s mouth as he moans, thigh pressed into his groin. Figg has a dagger at the noble’s stubbly throat to stop him, but the noble pushes into it carelessly to kiss him anyways, blood blooming from a shallow cut as he claims his mouth. 

Figg feels Astarion’s genuine affection for Sebastian, innocent and hopeful. He feels it sink into a tar pit of guilt, emotions boxed away. Astarion feels the sick thrill of arousal as the noble cuts himself on Figg’s blade and licks his teeth. He can tell that part of Figg thought he was playing the long game; that allowing the noble to dominate him like that was a calculated move of a pawn on a lanceboard. But even this past-Figg feels violated, disgusted at his desire, shamed by his position. 

Astarion watches Sebastian get hauled deeper into the palace, kicking and screaming. Figg pulls his trousers back on as the noble slides a wax sealed envelope across his desk— Figg’s next target. 

There’s a wave of anger and confusion as Figg tries to remember— so much so that it causes their connection to fizzle and fade. 

“Don’t worry darling,” Astarion says into Figg’s shoulder, pinned in place by his clutching arms. “Cazador was tragically ugly too.” 

Figg sniffs a laugh against the top of his head. A beat passes before he pulls back slightly, keeping Astarion in place, clutching his biceps just shy of painful. His green eyes are wet and his face is contorted into a focused squint— Astarion feels more like Figg can see clear through his soul now than he could through the tadpole. 

“We both did horrible things. Regardless of who handed down the orders, we did them.” Figg’s jaw tenses as he swallows, and Astarion knows better than to interrupt. “But our masters took pleasure anyways, free from guilt. They didn’t care that it hurt us. They didn’t worry if they deserved it or not. They only took.”

“What are you saying?” 

“They’re still out there, hurting someone else for pleasure. They probably think they broke us.” Figg gets a look in his eye, the same glint he gets before he suggests a totally harebrained plan. “Aside from killing them when we can, the best revenge will be continuing to enjoy ourselves until then. Living our lives, loving each other, taking pleasure in whatever form we want.” 

Astarion’s voice is barely a whisper, no longer muffled by Figg’s skin. “What if I don’t want to do anything? Doesn’t that ruin your plan?” 

Figg sounds genuinely confused when he asks, “Why would it?”

“Gods you’re—“ Astarion laughs incredulously. “You’re ridiculous, you know.” 

He becomes aware of Figg’s utter nakedness as he searches his face, his hair brushing his collar bone as it dries, the spattering of freckles across his shoulders and down his chest. 

“Don’t overthink it. You want what you want and you don’t what you don’t, and if that ever changes abruptly, I don’t care. Don’t try to explain it or justify it,” Figg says. Astarion is listening, truly, but he does find himself distracted by the ripple of his obliques and the slope down to his narrow waist. 

He lets his hand mirror his gaze, sliding his fingers across Figg’s hips and tracing them back up his sides. Figg leans into him, tilting his head as Astarion’s touch trails up his collarbone to hook gently in his collar. 

“This doesn’t bother you?” Astarion teases, knowing the answer anyways. He gives the leather a gentle tug and watches Figg’s eyes slip closed and his breath catch slightly. 

“I love it,” Figg breathes. “It’s different, I know that much— it’s better.”

Figg’s eyes flutter back open, and Astarion catches his gaze, cupping his face. “I want this.” 

“Okay,” Figg says, and as soon as the words leave his mouth Astarion is moving him, using the collar to flip their positions and put Figg’s back to the tree. 

“Touch me,” Astarion commands him before kissing him, and as their lips meet, Figg is petting his hands over his back and grabbing his ass, hauling him closer. He tastes like tears and blood and ale— and Astarion thinks about the tieflings in their camp, blissfully unaware of the scouts and the murder and whatever history their supposed ‘heroes’ have. 

To them, they are the heroes. And that feels like more of a character to roleplay than master and guard dog, the idea completely foreign, though not unwelcome. 

Astarion slips his thigh between Figg’s, pushing them flush from hip to chest. Immediately, the larger man grinds into him, already hard and desperate. The collar is loose enough to get several fingers under, and Astarion twists it in his hand, gathering leather until it’s tight enough to choke. Figg exhales a whine into his mouth, and Astarion can hear his heartbeat quicken. 

The wet slide of their mouths and the grind of their hips is perhaps the closest thing to bliss that Astarion has ever known. It’s desperate and clumsy, but Figg slides his hands over his scars and it doesn’t make Astarion feel pitied; it’s reverent. 

“Astarion,” Figg breathes into his mouth, making no attempt to push him away. “Please fuck me.” 

“Oh? Feeling needy, my pet?” Astarion’s body thrills at the idea in a way it normally never does.  

Figg grunts as Astarion roughly pushes his hips against his, trapping his cock between them. “Please,” Figg asks again, just shy of whining. “I want you in any way you’ll have me.” 

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Yes, you do.” 

“Conceited little shit,” Astarion teases. He grabs the collar again to force him to his knees, following close behind. He gropes for Figg’s discarded clothes, knowing he’s got something hidden in his pockets. Finding the bottle of oil, he’s quick to push him even further back, crawling over him until he’s nestled between his thighs. 

Figg adjusts eagerly, pillowing one arm under his head and shifting his hips to draw Astarion even closer. His mouth tips open at the slightest hint that Astarion will kiss him, their tongues meeting before their lips. Astarion slips his hand between them, pressing a slicked finger into Figg without much preamble. Figg chokes on a moan, usually serious expression crumbling as his eyebrows pitch and his eyes roll back. 

It doesn’t need to take long to open him up, but Astarion is enraptured by him slowly falling apart. Figg moans softly under his breath as each finger is added, and by the time Astarion is pumping three into him with ease, his flush has reached his chest and his thighs quiver against his hips. 

And as an added little treat, Astarion’s vicious guard dog starts begging. 

“Please,” he hisses after several pleading glances. 

“Please what, pet?” Astarion sits up straight, drawing his eyes over the long line of his body; the tremble in his abdomen and his cock leaking against his hip. 

Figg can’t make his expression look intimidating or serious as Astarion brushes his prostate. “I need you inside me,” he murmurs when he can finally get his voice out. “I need you.” 

Astarion can hear his blood rush through his veins, the pulse point in his neck drawing him in like a moth to a flame. “Mm, well, you’re not in much of a position to be making demands are you?”

“You make demands from this position all the time,” he points out breathlessly.

“I mean,” Astarion reaches out to pluck at the collar, “This position.” 

There are plenty of metaphors about provoking monsters and letting sleeping dogs lie, but really, what comes next is what Astarion wants. Figg surges up, and Astarion can’t really follow any of their movements until his own back is on the ground and Figg is swinging a thigh over his hips. Astarion makes an indignant sound despite wanting this so badly, if only so it will make Figg sneer. 

Reaching between them, Figg swipes his hand over Astarion’s cock efficiently, slicking him with no intent of pleasing him. Astarion doesn’t struggle, he keeps his arms over his head as if they’d been pinned, though he does furrow his brow and pout, acting petulant as if something like this were not his plan all along. 

Only looking a little self satisfied, Figg wastes no time in lining himself up, the stretch of his torso and flex of his arms reminding him of just how much physical power he has, how he’s going to use it to ride him. 

It’s been a while since Astarion was inside someone like this— frankly he hasn’t really cared to be, but the white hot clutch of Figg’s body threatens to send him over the edge far more quickly than he’d like. It doesn’t help that there is no delay, no slow inching down; Figg sinks down all the way in one agonizing slide, wrenching a sound from his mouth that must carry through the woods. 

He immediately starts grinding shallowly, a bead of sweat dripping off his nose and onto Astarion’s chest. “Gods,” he hisses, planting his palms onto his own thighs to give himself leverage, “you feel so good.” 

Astarion twitches his hips up— he wants to really thrust up into him but he’s heavy. Figg grits his teeth and pins Astarion’s wrists to the ground, planting his other hand on his chest. It punches the breath out of him and he wheezes, unable to take a full breath against the weight of him. 

“You just can’t help yourself can you?” Figg snarls, working himself on Astarion’s cock with a smooth roll of his hips. “No matter what we do, you need me to take charge.” 

“Says the brute with no patience,” Astarion bites back, but it’s weak in his pleasure-punched voice. 

“No need to be sharp with me, my love,” the corners of his mouth turning up to smile through his panting. “I’ll always give you want you want.”

Making any sort of snide retort is made impossible as Figg rolls his hips again, and honestly why would Astarion want to distract from the sight anyways? His eyebrows pitch together and if his mouth isn’t open breathlessly, he’s gnawing on his lip. Even in the throes of pleasure, Astarion has seen this man make many expressions, but none of them have been quite so broken as these. Vulnerable. 

And vulnerable is an inane word to use for a man of his size; each muscle down his neck to his abdomen shifts as he works himself on Astarion’s cock, strained in such a way to twitch and ripple enticingly. 

Figg sits up, and Astarion doesn’t move his wrists, he knows better, and the shift in the angle has them both crying out. He raises himself up higher this way, and Astarion is able to snap his hips up to meet him. Astarion half expects to get scolded for it, but all he gets is a strangled course and a distinct impression that he’s meant to do it again. Clutching his thigh with one hand, Figg brings the other to his mouth, biting into the meat of his thumb to muffle his sounds. 

“You take it so well, pet,” Astarion pants, trying to remember how his voice works. He’s said words like this before, but never ever like this. “Some deity made you for me, sculpted you to perfection, made you velvet and fire inside just for me.” 

“G-gods,” is all Figg says, thighs shaking as he works to meet Astarion’s thrusts. His cock bounces, aching and flushed, smearing wetness across both their abdomens. 

Thighs burning, skin becoming increasingly sticky and flushed, they work in tandem; Astarion is not as sensitive like this he finds, but it doesn’t mean he’s immune to the friction. At a point the effort starts to leak into the pleasure, and with the way the big man is trembling, Astarion things with a well timed surge he could topple him over—

Figg crumples slightly, planting his hands on Astarion’s chest, breathing ragged. “Please, I’m close, I need… need—“

“Touch yourself, darling, show me how good I’m making you feel.” Astarion expects the words to feel slimy and false, but they come out with a purr and a roughness that surprises him, and they have Figg exhaling with relief, shifting his weight to wrap a hand around himself. 

He works himself roughly, bordering on desperate, and Astarion doesn’t have the heart to tell him to slow down, too focused on keeping their pace and keeping his pleasure. The sound of their hips meeting fills his ears, and it’s good, really good, and Astarion realizes he’s closer than he thought, especially as Figg’s body clenches around him. 

Astarion moves his arms from their obedient place above his head to touch, digging his nails into Figg’s thigh and moving Figg’s hand from his chest to his neck. The pressure on his throat is immense; if he had to breathe it would be far rougher than any mortal could bear. The concept, the violence of it makes them both moan, and what is only a matter of seconds feels like hours and hours. 

“Come— come in me,” Figg stammers, and through blurry eyes Astarion watches veins under his skin shift with strain. 

“I will,” Astarion rasps. “But don’t wait for me.”

“In my head,” he clarifies, “The tadpole—“

The desperation with which their minds merge nearly feels against his will. All at once he can feel Figg’s body, his pleasure, the stretch of his rim and the drag of his cock. He can feel sweat and breath and the pump of his hand— he knows Figg can feel the hot clutch of his own body, the crush of his hand onto his throat. And Figg is close, he’s waiting , and as soon as Astarion is in his mind he rolls his hips and works his hand, again, and again, until only a moment later he’s finishing across Astarion’s chest with a strangled groan. 

And feeling him, inside and out, in his mind and on his body, is enough to get Astarion to come too, even when he didn’t think he could, snapping his hips up and meeting him where he trembles. In Figg’s mind he can feel his own come fill him; in his own body he can sense the sticky slide. Every breath they take is ragged, and the breathing and the pounding heart and the sweat are all such foreign sensations to Astarion that he shivers with overstimulation. 

Figg slips off of him carefully, slips out of his mind carefully, and crumples to the earth beside him. He gathers Astarion up to his clammy chest, tucking the vampire’s face into the crook of his neck and clinging to him. It’s as if Figg needs to be held, which could be true, Astarion reasons as he’s smothered, despite it feeling so improbable. 

But to be wielded is to be held— one clutches the handle of a sword to use it to kill, and in this way Astarion melts into him, running his hands over any skin he can reach, kissing softly at his neck as chastely as he can manage.

Figg’s breathing slows, and his heart regulates its beat. Astarion licks cold sweat off of his freckled shoulder, tastes the muted tang of salt and the promise of the blood underneath.  

“Just so we have our priorities straight,” Astarion says after several minutes of peaceful silence. “We’re getting rid of the worms, killing your creepy master, killing my wretched sire—“

“No, wait. First, we do whatever makes us happy. Then we deal with the worms, then kill our masters in whatever order is most convenient, and then, maybe, we can save the city or something.” 

“We’re not very good at being heroes, are we?”

Figg shrugs, and it jostles Astarion. “Who said we were heroes? If our priorities happen to align with whatever the city deems heroic, then lucky them.” 

“Admit it, little assassin, you’ve enjoyed playing the good guy.” Astarion teases his nails across Figg’s side, delighting in the trip of his heart rate in response. 

Shifting, Figg rolls over him, pinning him underneath his body. His brow is furrowed, as if he wants to be annoyed with Astarion’s teasing, but it softens as he admits, “I know whoever he was, he’d hate it. Something makes me feel like I’m picking right at the seams of his grand scheme.”

“Keeping you to myself has the same effect on me. I won’t be turning you over to him, and I plan to savor the look on his face when he sees you.” Astarion trails his hands over Figg’s shoulders, tucking his hair out of his face and dragging his thumbs along the shape of his tattoos. 

Figg moves on top of him, shifting his weight to one elbow to trace Astarion’s face. His touch is intimate, more intimate than perhaps anything else they’ve done, and Astarion can feel him trace the shape of his nose and the curve of his cheek down to the sharp line of his jaw. “Why’s that? Am I quite a catch?”

“You’re practically a mountain.” Astarion laughs. “My big, lethal, brute. He wishes he could control you like I do.” 

“May as well recruit Halsin too. Collect as many big elves as possible—“

“Don’t threaten me with a good time, darling.” Astarion teases. He’s not ready to indulge in that fantasy just yet— maybe if this all blows over. “Besides, I wouldn’t want my puppy to get jealous.” 

Figg exhales something between a laugh and a gasp, and Astarion can’t help but surging up to kiss him. He sinks his teeth into his lip, letting his rich blood spill between them. With Figg above him like this and the press of the earth beneath him, Astarion narrows his senses to a pinprick, world completely consumed by him. 

He can feel a shiver pass over Figg’s body, still capable of cold despite everything, and Astarion finds himself enamored at how much of him he gets to have. The man would not admit discomfort to another of their party. The others think him cold, stoic, calculated, and he’s in Astarion’s arms, whining from his lips and a pet name. 

Maybe only one other has seen him like this, Astarion muses as he eventually shoves him off and gets them back into the stream to rinse off. And Astarion won’t be giving Figg the kill order for him. No, he’ll torture that man himself, no matter the concequences. 

“Here,” Figg says, pulling Astarion’s attention to the shore. He’s holding his own damp shirt out like an offering, a towel despite his own chill. A selfless gift, like so many of his others, and almost just as bloodstained. 

Astarion steps into the offering, allowing Figg to dry him. “Thank you, my love.”

Figg’s eyes pinch ever so slightly in a smile as he pets it over Astarion’s body. 

“My pup,” Astarion teases, and Figg scoffs another breathless laugh, dipping his face to his.