Archive of Our Own

The dance of death, to ashes all must go lest they be cursed with eternal torture. Hell on earth some would consider it, for death is meant to be the end, universal and finite. A measure to complete one's life, to let their deeds measure up to something. What then, is the purpose of unlife?

Astarion didn’t bother thinking about it- he’d let the poets lament and the romantics enjoy their beautiful tragedy for it was simply a truth that he lived.

For a time, a good long time, he had lamented it too. For it was torture, beyond what he had been through with Cazador. He was a slave to his own desires and cravings. A slave to the night. A slave to the unfeeling that always tinged the dead. 

But he was saved.

By some god-forsaken miracle he was saved by a tadpole of all things, and by people that were unlike anyone he had ever met. He had hated them for their blind compassion, for their persistence in trying to make him something he was not, he hated their pity . 

It wasn’t pity though. It was something he had never shown, or been shown before, and that was sympathy .

It was a learning journey, a journey of self discovery, a journey of perhaps even recovery, picking up the pieces of a self shattered through death and unlife. And then it was over. The brain defeated and with it the protection of the tadpoles. The protection from the sun. And he was a slave to the rules of vampires once more.

He hadn’t thought to spend time appreciating it, the freedom, not until it started first as a burning itch before turning to a horrid blaze upon him, eating him and driving him back into the shadows. Driving him to a new journey. To figure out who he was now . How he would spend eternity, as a free spawn, but one that still suffered from all of the weaknesses he had before. Though were they weaknesses? Or merely parts of himself he could never change?
He had learned, over the years, that they were something he could embrace and even use to thrive. He wasn’t hiding in the shadows, he was embracing them, embracing himself in a way he never could have done before. Finally he was living up to who he wanted to be.

Now some may ask- was he a hero? The answer was … Not necessarily. He wasn’t an adventurer by typical standards nor was he a man who appeared very often, if only for the occasional meeting with a friend, a party, perhaps even a trist if he truly felt like it.

What he did was hunt. Not because someone hired him, but because he found almost giddy glee in sniffing out greedy, corrupt members of the higher echelon, and hunting them down like the animals they were. Attending their parties, their soirees, their banquets and art showings, dancing with them, rubbing elbows, pretending to be one of them because it was an act he knew all too well. Only to lure them into safety, lead them into the darkness, and drain them.

So yes, some would call him a hero for putting an end to those horrid people regardless of whether he did it for the greater good, or simply because he wanted to.

—------

A soft hum lilted from Astarion’s throat as he put the finishing touches on his disguise, namely just embellishing on the proud white and bronze suit he had designed for this hunt. The suit itself tells a silent story in its elvish swirls loosely following foxes and rabbits as they run across the fabric. Something that could easily be overlooked given what he was to attend tonight - an ever popular masquerade ball. Who would question the dashing fox with his suit that merely spoke of what foxes did best? 

The bronze colored mask sat off to the side staring blankly as its master worked his deft fingers with needle and thread to pull the whole thing together. How many times he had used it to fix his own clothes, and, in some ways, fix his own life. Now he used it as a tool, to help fashion someone else's doom. How beautiful life was with its roundabout nature.

______

Pierre Wintershine, the son of famed lord Valentine Wintershine, youngest magistrate in his family, found that the quickest way to be heard in Baldur’s Gate was to let money fall in his hand and in turn let certain sentences be carried out. As it turns out, excusing murder charges under lack of direct evidence for one of the children of the Harbormaster earned him a mighty deal of favor and additional income. 

Some might call him a shining star with just how much money and good word he could bring to the Wintershine family in such little time. They didn’t need to know the truth of it, even if he was fairly certain the rest of them made gold in much the same way.

He looked out amongst the gathering attendees of his masquerade ball he had put together, pale green eyes scanning the masked faces with a mild smile touching his lips. It was nice to finally be doing something to get himself ahead of his older brother in his father’s eyes. There were just a few more people he wished to have under his beck and call before he truly felt that he would surpass even the influence of his father. It had always been a competition, his father made sure each and every one of them knew that. Only one name would go on that will, and it was the one who proved themselves the most worthy Wintershine. 

There were a few people tonight that Pierre fully intended on speaking privately with, a few people he wished to get to know. This was his hunting grounds for new opportunities. All the reason he wore the dashing gray and white suit that he did, the mask of the wolf fashioned to his face. A glass of champagne fizzed in his glass that he casually brought to his lips; a warm, sure feeling settled in his belly. Tonight would be the best night in his life, he could feel it. After all, he had designed it that way. Like setting up a silent trap in a game of lanceboard, poised to take the opponent’s Mystra, which would in turn lead to an unavoidable checkmate two more turns down the line.

Success in the real world was not something that was designed for the meek and poor to achieve, and that was a simple fact in Pierre’s eyes. To keep with the image, it was like putting a child with no idea of the rules they played with, against a master at lanceboard.
These people that milled around him, they knew the rules, they knew how to play, and each of them, on their own, were a piece to be added to his own board. 

It was time to get to know the pieces.

—-----

A light drizzle had started as Astarion stepped out of the carriage, offering a gracious bow to the driver before turning around to the estate that welcomed him with warm lights and sounds of merriment echoing out of its halls. It was a feast for the senses, even out here, and he had made sure not to spoil his appetite, for it would be no fun to hunt on a full stomach. The bronze colored ends of his swallow-tailed suit swept out behind him as he made his way up the path, listening to the glide of strings from within the main hall of the manor along with the piano that accompanied it. By the pace of the song, the dance had only just begun, it would be easy to slip in from the rain with the distraction of movement and sound. 

The white and bronze figure reached the door, the unknowing door servant speaking those three magic words of, “Please come in”, allowing him to slide inside with unnatural grace, brushing soft as a whisper past people far too invested in alcohol, food, conversation or longing looks. It was all too easy to act as if one belonged here.

Plucking a shimmering glass of champagne from a tray, Astarion settled himself at the outskirts to survey the territory, wafting the glass under his nose like any other stuffy elite might. After all, he used to be one. He used to attend these very things, thrown by his colleagues, he used to host them too. The part of him that died centuries ago.

So many heartbeats filled Astarion’s ears as he stood there, red eyes scanning out of the bronze mask he had fashioned to hide the majority of his upper face. After all, what was the point of a masquerade if not to purposefully hide one’s identity? Leave them guessing and wondering who the curly haired fox was. 

Dancers waltzed in the open expanse of the center, stepping in time with each other, turning and maneuvering about the dance floor like puppets on strings, or porcelain statues on a music box. Elegant and yet unnerving at the same time with the whisper of cloth and clack of shoes filling the undertones of the music, eyes focused on each other like they were the only people in the room and yet somehow able to be aware of the other dancers around them.
There was something inherently intimate in these dances, letting yourself be led, or leading your partner into a dance that would not stop until the music finished, a bubble of concentration only upon each other in a room of people watching. Every movement was perfect, your hearts almost beating as one, the music guiding you as much as your partner. A conversation without words.

People were gilded in all manner of suites and dresses, feathers and furs, silks and laces, draped in finery that spoke of their wealth. Glittering gems, magic infused clothes to make themselves even more stunning than the next person. He almost couldn’t even help himself in letting his hand wander upon passersby, picking loose golden chains, and glimmering brooches that these people would never miss. After all, there was no harm in making a monetary living while on the hunt. 

It was just when Astarion was “accidentally” bumping into a drow individual, graciously apologizing as he slipped the timepiece from their wrist, when he saw him. The wolf of the ball, standing and looking over his herd as he may very well have called them. That wretched little son. 

And Pierre seemed to see the accident as it happened, his eyes lazily watching the interaction of fox and dove just in time to catch the eyes of the fox. He would have continued his sweeping gaze if the bronze masked individual kept moving on, milling about the rest, but he held his gaze. From across the room it felt like they were looking at each other like they were no more than a few feet apart, something keen in both of their eyes. If anything, Pierre almost could have sworn there was a knowing look in the man’s eyes, before he saw the fox drifting away. 

“Lord and Lady Viscount are just arriving now, my liege.”

The voice of his assistant spoke from behind him, pulling him out of his own mind and thoughts of the strange bronze and white fox for the time being. Glancing over his shoulder, Pierre hummed, taking another sip of his champagne. 

“Send a servant out to accompany them on their walk up with a parasol, have them be guided to the dining hall first. Be sure to mention that there is a special reserve of the Amenethas Red, just for Lord Viscount, and an off limits portion of roast quail ready to be prepared for Lady Viscount should she desire it.”

Listening to the fading footsteps of his assistant as they went, Pierre watched the first waltz come to an end before deciding to properly amble about to see who had arrived so far. 

“Good evening, I do hope you are enjoying the ball so far,” his voice would rumble out, a shining smile offered to those he passed by.

Compliments were lavished upon him and his costume, how it screamed of elegance and power and somehow managed to capture the attention despite the dour colors. Laughs were shared, but he never spent too much time with any one group. It was just a taste. Make them feel seen, desired, before ambling on. The trick was never to show too much interest at first, let them chase you before swooping in and enrapturing them in a private conversation that way they could believe they had won you over.

Yet even still as he played the initial move of his larger goal, he couldn’t help but think about the white-haired, golden masked fox. The way they had looked at each other. Who was he? 

Pierre had a good sense who most everyone was beneath their mask, whether it be by voice, or mannerism, or whatever else. He at least had an idea when it came to guessing who was under the costume. And yet the handsome fox stumped him. White with bronze accents, it certainly stuck out, and yet even now as the magistrate made the rounds about the crowds he was struggling to find the man.

“Ah, and there’s the man of the hour! The hungry little wolf of the Wintershine’s!” 

A smirk touched Pierre’s face as he heard the boisterous voice calling from behind him. Turning around, he’d find the very captain of the Wyvern’s Sting, Amelia Reid, standing there with a hand on her hip and a glass of champagne gripped in her hand. He knew it wasn’t her particular scene, one of these parties, and yet here she was anyway. It was a good sign. If the captain of the Wyvern’s Sting was sealed tonight then that meant that the Wintershine’s would own one of the most revered trading ship crews along the Sword’s Coast. Their family name would be seen all the way down to Chult with the reach that this crew had. 

“And what do we have here - don’t tell me…” Pierre hummed, bringing a hand to his chin in thought.

“A bird of paradise?”

“Bloody hells, how’d you guess that one? Cheeky thing you are,” Amelia laughed out, reaching a hand over to pat the magistrate on the shoulder, earning a chuckle from him all the same. 

“What can I say, I’ve an eye for details and I do like pretty birds.” Pierre paired his words with an award winning grin.

The captain rolled her eyes and shifted her weight, causing the feathers that she was adorned with to bounce with her movement. “Mm, and do you know what pretty birds like?”

She leaned in closer and lowered her voice with a cheeky grin.

“Better drinks than this sparkling water.”

A chuckle rolled out of Pierre. He always enjoyed the ones that were only interested in material things such as strong alcohol or pretty necklaces. It made warming them up and befriending them all too easy. 

“Well, my dear pretty bird,” he hummed, leaning his head in close with hers.

“Lucky for you I have an entire keg of orcish black rum in the cellar that I was planning on gifting to you and your crew in the near future anyways. If you care to take the first drink of it, one of the servants will gladly take you down to fill the glass.” 

The look on her face was priceless; surprise, glee, and eagerness blooming up like an explosion upon her face.

“Bloody hells Pierre, how did you get your hands on that stuff?”

“It was a celebratory gift from a client’s family, I’m not much of a rum fan myself so I’ve sort of, well, kept it in the cellar until I could find someone who could properly enjoy it. Selling it seemed disingenuous,” he offered with an almost sheepish smile under his wolf mask. 

Amelia whistled out and nodded her head, tossing back the rest of her champagne and handing the glass off to Pierre. “My crew is gonna love you. If you’re free a week from today we’ll be settled in port, I want you to be with me when I bring that keg onboard.”

And there it was, the first piece of the night, and a damned good one at that. The captain and crew of the Wyvern’s Sting were being lassoed in. All it took was a keg of rum. Gods it was too easy at this point. 

“Of course, I wouldn’t want to miss such an occasion. You can meet me here and we can transport the keg together. Now go, fly free, taste that rum my friend!”

The captain let out a harsh, ringing laughter, not having to be told twice before she was wheeling around and pushing her way to the nearest servant. 

Pierre had only just enough time to let out a quiet sigh of satisfaction before he heard the first chords of a new waltz beginning to strike up, and a new voice filtering in behind him.

“Pardon me darling, but would you mind if I had this dance?”

Turning around to see who had spoken, Pierre was faced with none other than the fox he had seen across the ballroom who had all but disappeared up until this point. He stood graciously bowed and hand extended in courtesy. 

“Well how in the realms could I ever say no to a handsome fox like you?”

Chuckling out, Pierre accepted the gloved white hand, leading the other man to the dance floor with the grace of someone who very much owned the place. Masked faces turned to look at the two of them, the wolf and the fox, as they made their way out to the dance floor, center of attention as the host deserved to be.

Turning and settling with the bronze masked fox, the magistrate would smile, keeping his hand with the stranger’s as they settled into their respective positions. 

“Do you wish to lead or follow?”

“I hope you don’t mind if I lead my dear wolf,” the voice of the curly haired fox said, almost gentle, the smile warming the pale face.

“Not in the slightest.” Pierre smiled, letting his arms shift into place, feeling the other man settle one hand upon his shoulder blade and the other holding his hand firmly in place. And all the same he let his own free hand settle onto the upper arm of the white shoulder of the fox. 

The first chords of the wind instruments followed by string started the movement of all the dancers upon the floor, but it was the two of them that followed the tune of the violin in the center bubble.

“I have to say, you’re the only one to have stumped me tonight,” Pierre murmured low enough to not be overheard with the music.

A soft chuckle escaped his partner, his steps easy, graceful as ever, sweeping and turning them with dizzying ease. 

“Oh dear me, have I truly outfoxed the wolf?”

Pierre couldn’t help but to laugh under his breath, his brows arching under the mask as he matched his partner’s steps, paying very close attention to every move. He felt a faint bead of sweat at his forehead for how hard he had to work in order to keep in pace with this man. He had danced this waltz a thousand times it had felt and yet this man was turning and stepping with the pluck of the string instead of the lazy, easy fluidity of an individual who wished to just move around the dance floor. 

This was pointed to some degree, and Pierre was left fumbling just trying to keep up. 

“Wh-” he laughed, figuring the other was just using a play on words. 

“I guess you could say that, the only thing coming to mind is perhaps you’re an emissary for Nine Fingers? She would be the secretive sort to send a messenger and not actually come.”

All he earned in response was another soft chuckle just in time for Astarion to suddenly shift his arm to under his, bracing his lower back and sweeping him up, turning around and setting them in a new direction.

Pierre stumbled and had to lean into his partner’s hand to keep it hidden from the crowd and dancers around them, his heart stuttering in his chest. He couldn’t afford to make a fool of himself in front of these people.

“Perhaps so darling,” the voice of the fox cooed softly, his thumb subtly sliding across the back of Pierre’s suit, as if to sooth him. 

A whirl of thoughts raged in the magistrate’s mind and for a moment he was speechless. Was this really the person that Nine Fingers sent to him? Charming as ever, it would make sense. A woman of the dark networks sending a sly fox his way, perhaps even as a gift himself. If it was, he would have to personally thank her later because truly this man was making him work for this dance. Assuming that was the truth.

If it wasn’t, then who could this individual possibly be? White curly hair, pale skin? It didn’t ring any bells in his mind of the people he had personally invited. 

Before he could think further on that possibility though, the fox was swinging them to the outer circle of dancers, the light of the room following them in their dip and sway, faster than the others, weaving in and out. It was taking all of Pierre’s endurance to not pant for breath as they swept about with an almost uncomfortable speed. There was so little time for thought if he wished to not stumble over his feet. And all the while he could feel the eyes of the man focused on his masked, wolfish face. There were murmurs of amazement and awe from the crowd as the man Pierre danced with flitted about, weaving back into the inner circle.

His heart was pounding as he felt his feet practically skidding across the floor, just barely kept in tune, chased by the polished black of his partner.

“You’re quieter than I thought you’d be, is there a problem? Perhaps the fox has caught your tongue?” The sly, soft voice mused as they bounced along the inner ring, keeping with the increased tempo of the waltz as it reached its crescendo.

“I-” A breath gusted out of the magistrate as, once more he was pulled into a new direction, taking the center once more. He almost felt dizzy with the speed that they had sunk their feet into, his body lashing backwards in a sudden dip.

“Come now, can you not keep up? Shall I slow down? We’re putting on a spectacular show, you and I,” the voice trailed with a sound of disappointment, not even breathless. Pierre couldn’t disappoint the possible emissary, it would be a bad show to Nine Fingers, perhaps even disappointing to the onlookers.

“No I can keep up just fine,” Pierre all but snapped under his breath, and he could see the devilish smirk it garnered from the other man who only gripped him tighter.

The waltz faded to a singular instrument, the call of the violin, causing the rest of the waltzers to slow their movements, fading into the background to allow for the voice of attention. The fox and the wolf who battled within the center of the room. Pierre was swept violently towards one side, dipped and then, audible hurried steps led him to the other side where he was swept into the air before they came tumbling down to the center and he was laid to rest upon the floor, guided gently down by the fox who had never let his eyes stray away from him. He was breathless, limp, a single hand extended in theatrical death as he looked up at the white and bronze mask. And, in truth, he thought that was it, that him lying there upon the floor with the other man looking down at him was the finale. So when the fox leaned down to press a featherlight kiss to his neck, Pierre could do nothing but watch in stunned silence. His heart was thundering in his chest, his thoughts astray, all of the careful plans of the night were suddenly but paper fluttering in the wind of a storm. 

A raucous applause thundered through the dance hall as the pale figure helped Pierre up to his feet once more, saving him from swaying from the daze he was in. He had never been rendered so breathless, so speechless, in his life. He had to take a moment to look at all of the masked faces, searching for a way to confirm this was real and not some bizarre dream brought about from the prolific amounts of alcohol he likely had over the course of an evening. 

No- he was of sane mind, he knew he was, he had barely a glass or two of champagne. He had a conversation with the good captain, and had practically cozied himself in the good graces of her and her crew. He knew what he was doing, and yet he felt so lost. 

“Perhaps we can speak somewhere more privately?”

Pierre’s attention was brought back to the curly-haired pale fox as he spoke. He forced himself back into some form of composure, his head nodding, and his throat clearing to ensure his voice was kept low.

“Yes, we can speak within my chambers, there is plenty here to keep the rest busy.”

A part of him was relieved, he could focus on what he wanted to do. To sway another big name under his rule, the famed Nine Fingers. Yes, a private talk with her emissary would do well. 

His hand slid away from the unnamed figure as he bowed before the crowd before leading away from the masses.

He didn’t have to look over his shoulders to know that the man followed him, even if he was as silent as a shadow, there was a presence about him that was undeniable. 

They parted from the main hall into a series of various other halls; left, right, right, left, until they reached a grand door that would open into a room fit for a king. Pierre pushed the door to his room open with a smile, welcoming the man in with a gesture. “Please, make yourself comfortable. There is a barrel-aged whiskey imported from Sigil within the cabinet should you be so inclined to a better drink than sparkling water meant to entertain the masses.” The high elf paired the words with a lighthearted chuckle, wishing for nothing more than the man to think he was being welcomed into comfort not afforded to every guest. After all, it was always part of his tactic. Many people of Baldur’s Gate were lured with material goods whether it be fine alcohol, silks, clothes, weapons, food, whatever else. If you had the money for it, you could buy just about anyone, pair it with social grace? Pierre was an expert at what he did.

The figure walked in, the swallow-tails of his coat sweeping after him as he took in the well-furnished room that could have housed a small family in terms of size. Sweeping from grand bed to huge picture windows, to tapestries and paintings, the fireplace, personal bar and anything else a person could desire within the comforts of their own room. Luxury and decadence in all of its splendor. 

“That was quite the spectacle, that dance. I didn’t think that Nine Finger’s would have a proper dancer among her ranks, and here we are,” Pierre chortled out, making his way over to the personal bar to begin pouring himself a glass of the previously mentioned whiskey, removing the wolf mask in the process. 

“Ah, well, our lady likes to please those she deems worthy, does she not?” The figure idly stepped closer to the bar, closer to Pierre with a faint, pleasant smile visible under the extended nose of his mask. 

“It certainly seems so. I haven’t had a dance like that…” The high elf magistrate breathed and shook his head before taking a savoring sip of his drink, his summery green eyes focusing elsewhere.

“Ever, now that I think about it.”

“You held up well darling, all things considered. I would have expected lesser individuals would have crumbled within the first dip and it would have been me throwing around dead weight.” 

A proud chuckle escaped Pierre, his brow quirking and his head tilting in a casual display that he knew his own worth when it came to ballroom dancing. “Well I like to imagine the dance in itself was a test, as much as it was for pleasure though-” He raised his hand that wasn’t holding his drink.

“Don’t tell me if that’s the truth or not, let me live with my fantasies if you don’t mind.”

A haughty laugh lulled out of the fox as he neared ever closer, finally coming to remove the bronze and white mask to place it upon the bar counter. Kind green eyes stared back at him, though there was something off about them, and Pierre couldn’t quite place what. Either way, he didn’t have much time to actually analyze the man’s eyes before his drink was pulled from his hand and a finger was pressed to his lips with a quiet shush.

“You may live with whatever fantasy you wish to live with darling, you will receive no judgment from me,” Astarion hummed out with a charming wink before he downed the glass of whisky before the magisters eagerly watching eyes. The taste was revolting and would ultimately have no effect upon him, but it was all for the show. 

Settling the empty glass on the wood of the counter, a content breath gusted out of the elf with wispy white hair, blowing the faint smell of whisky into Pierre’s face.
Smirking lightly, Pierre plucked the glass back, earning a smile from the other man as he went to refill it.

“Well, then perhaps I shall begin by asking what it is that Nine Fingers desires? To what do I owe the fair lady for her ongoing support in the coming weeks?”

The sound of the whisky filling the glass filled the silence between his words and the almost bored sigh of the pale elf next to him who stood so close that they practically bumped sides.

“What do you have to offer that she would want? I believe this is the part that you’re meant to sell yourself to her, or-” Astarion paused with a chuckle. “To me, and so that I may inform her on how worthy you are of The Guild’s time and resources.” 

Pierre tilted his head, this emissary was good, or at least smarter than he would have expected for anyone sent from the underground mercenary gang. He had heard that Nine Fingers was good at ‘greasing the wheels’ of Baldur’s Gate, but she, truthfully, wasn’t very high on his suspected masterminds in his book.

“Well I think having a magister who, mind you, is quickly becoming quite popular for some of the large name cases he has judged, at her right hand, helping her when some of her people are in a legal pinch, is a good start to the boons I offer.”

“You and every other magister who isn’t particularly interested in being a friend of the law, sure.”

The deep tanned high-elf couldn’t help but blink that he had been so quickly dismissed considering he thought that offer alone was a fairly good one to have. Surely it was dangerous to try and find a magister willing to bend the law to benefit a criminal gang?
He drummed his fingers on the desk, trying to shake off the surprise, shooting back the whisky. After all, he couldn’t be outdone by the emissary. This was still as much of the test as the dance was.

“Oh dear, don’t tell me that’s all you had to offer her darling? That’s…-”

“It’s not, rest assured, I was only taking time to enjoy my drink. Within the next week or so I will have a new trading fleet that can bring in anything her heart could desire, poisons from Chult, forgotten scrolls from the depths of Candlekeep, the newest inventions from Lantan, truly she could name it and with my new fleet, we could grant it.”

Astarion had leaned closer as the man listed off his next bargaining chip, listening to the way his heart fluttered in his chest, he could hear the course of his blood in his veins, gushing in time with each heartbeat. It was beautiful. He was beautiful, even he couldn’t deny that.

Pierre chuckled, moving himself away from the personal bar. He didn’t intend to get drunk with this simple negotiation, no matter how important it was. Instead, he paced idly to the otherside of the room.

“ That is a more promising deal. Though you’re sure you have this fleet under your beck and call? Or… Was that more something you were hoping to get done tonight?”

The question caused the magister to blink and glance over his shoulder. How did this man immediately call that out? Pierre had to put on a smile, letting out a chortling laughter as the other man took a few casual steps after him.

“I assure you, I do very much have them. Strange you would think to question such a thing!”

“I’m only ensuring we’re not dealing with a wealthy man who’s in a bit over his head, that’s all,” Astarion replied gently, dipping his head slightly.

“Nonsense, I’m well aware of what I’m doing, I wouldn’t have made it as far as I have if I didn’t.” 

“That’s a very good point. Though, ah. I will be honest in admitting that…” Astarion eased closer until he was but a breath away from the man, a hand coming to softly straighten the man’s pocket square that had gone crooked during their dance.

“I’m not impressed.” The words were paired with a frown, his eyes focusing on the reaction of the magister.

“Not… Impressed?” Pierre’s brows arched as he looked up into the green eyes of the other man, his brow furrowed. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt slightly harder to breathe with the other man so close to him. 

“Sadly not, you’ve offered something that, yet again, any person with wealth can procure. You’re not special. You do not stand out. You have your fancy ball with fancy guests. Your fancy food and drinks with fancy offers.” Astarion sighed, a hand gently coming to brush a strand of the man’s wavy dark brown hair behind an ear, his head tilting. “It’s all been offered before. Money and material, the easy way to people’s hearts isn’t it?”

Pierre was speechless as he listened to the other man talk, he stood there as the cool hand straightened his suit and almost adoringly tucked his hair behind his ear that caused a tingle to run down his spine. Had he offended the emissary by offering these great boons? Was Nine Fingers really not impressed by such an offer? His heart hammered in his chest while his mind raced, trying to figure out what to say next.

“What’s the matter, have you run out of things to offer? Where’s your bravado little wolf? You seemed so promising on the dance floor.”

The disappointed sound of the other man’s voice caused his gut to lurch and the sickly clamor of fear to paste across his skin beneath his fine clothes. No he couldn’t afford to be a fool in front of this man. He couldn’t afford not to have Nine Fingers on his side, he would need protection. 

“Pardon the pause, it seems the whisky hit me a bit harder than usual,” he chuckled out, at least recovering the confidence of his voice, his hand coming to brush against Astarion’s before gently taking the cooler hand and pressing it to cup his face.

“Tell me then, what may I do to please her? Or you, in her stead?” 

Astarion’s smile returned, his thumb tracing over Pierre’s warm cheekbone, eyes taking in the handsome face, so full of life. Full of plans and goals and desires. What would be done was a gift really, the final moments of bliss and comfort instead of bleeding out in an alleyway. Yes he was going to do the other man a favor. If only because he could see a bit of himself in Pierre. The man that lived and breathed those centuries ago, able to live lavishly, bathe in the sun in all of its hedonistic glory. Yes this man before him was an image of his living self, wasn’t he? Hungry for everything that life had to offer without thinking of anything other than what made him feel good.

“My dear Pierre, that almost sounds like a proposition, you should be careful of those,” a soft chuckle resounded from the white haired elf as he let his hand linger for a moment before he strode behind the other, hand tracing down the mans jawline and then to the crook of his neck, his thumb subtly feeling along the pulse. He couldn’t ignore the shiver that rolled down the other man’s spine, the way his heart fluttered, oh he could practically taste it in the air, the life and excitement that flowed through him. It nearly made him salivate.

“And what if it was? Certainly we can both have our fun, it is a party after all isn’t it?” Pierre kept his breath measured, but the idea of having someone in his bed tonight was an exciting one. Especially such a high profile one, even if he didn’t truly win over Nine Fingers, he would at least garner the win of having bedded a rather fine emissary of hers, right? There had to be some worth in that, and if not even still it would be a night of pleasure. Him disappearing from the ballroom would add a mask of mystery to the ball, keep people chasing after him, seeking his attention. Yes this would fit in nicely. 

“Then why dance around it? Are you so timid, so scared to ask for what you want?”
Astarion leaned closer when he spoke, his voice dipping down lower as his lips drew to barely graze across the exposed part of the magistrate’s neck, a hand pulling the collar down. A kiss was pressed to it, tender, gentle. Another shudder, and he could see the bumps rising sneakily along the tanned skin of the other man, a stutter in his heart. If he had a heart too then maybe it would have beat faster, maybe it would have raced at the same speed as Pierre’s.

“Scared?” Pierre laughed, trying to hide the shudder of delight that rolled down his spine at the kiss to his neck, his back leaning against the man dressed in bronze and white. His own hand would softly come to cradle Astarion’s head against his neck.

“Hardly, but we’re both classy men, aren’t we? We move differently from the rest of the world, so why should we bend to the idyllic normalcy that others have decided to make what everyone considers normal?”

Astarion rolled his eyes, but gave a light chuckle nonetheless. “All of that to say that you don’t like to make the first move.” Another kiss was planted along the man’s soft neck that turned into a soft suckle, an arm coming to lace across Pierre’s chest to hold the other elf to him.

A small sound of delight cooed from the magistrate’s lips as he felt the wet, swirling pressure of lip and tongue at his sensitive neck, his eyes closing as a tingling warmth settled in his abdomen. His hand that had moved to cradle Astarion’s face would now travel to the soft white curls, fingers curling in and gripping. “If you must dull it down to layman's terms…”

His throat burned the more he suckled, drawing the blood to the surface of the skin, his teeth itched, his fangs ached , but no, he would drag this out. Yes, he was the judge here wasn’t he? This man’s life hung so fragile in his hands at this very moment. Not a question of if though, only when.

But he’d remove his lips with a soft breath, and nuzzle just behind the sensitive, pointed ear of Pierre, guiding him forward. “Then perhaps I shall take the lead once more dear Pierre,” he murmured into the other’s ear, light as a feather.

How Pierre’s heart fluttered in his chest as he was led forward, leaned over the edge of the bed with the other man pressed behind him. He let out a sigh with a smile. Life was so wonderful wasn’t it?

“Let’s get these pesky things off my darling, and see you as you are truly meant to be seen.” Astarion’s words were filled with warmth, like a man getting ready to pull away the cloth to reveal a work of art, as he gave a final kiss to the back of the man’s neck before helping him to roll over.

This was a gift for him, wasn’t it? Yes perhaps this was a show of Nine Fingers good faith to present him with such a wonderful man. Pierre’s green eyes watched as the deft pale fingers of the man worked to undo each of the buttons of his vest, easing it off of him before working off the rest of his shirt. Such a simple task and yet his heart sung for this man already, his skin crawled with the anticipation of it all as soon his bare chest was revealed.

“My, look at you . A feast for the eyes.” 

Astarion brought his hands to cup Pierre’s face, looking down with such a fond smile that the other man had to wonder for just a split second whether they had met before. And then the white-haired man let his arms roam, tracing over shoulders and pecs before settling on his sides, savoring every rib on their descent further down while his lips languidly meandered from collarbone to torso and further still.

Shaky breaths came from Pierre as he laid back and watched it all, the electric warmth slithering down his spine still as hands and lips trailed on a predetermined path. “Gods you are…” A breathy laugh escaped him as he trailed off, almost wishing to press the other to go faster.

“Perfect? I know darling,” hummed out Astarion as he settled at the waist band of the other man. By now the man's heart was a perfect orchestra in his ears, a sound that nearly overshadowed every other. He could hear, and smell the blood rushing through the other man, concentrating in face, in ears, and in that which stirred hidden still within pants.

It should have been sad how easy it was. But this was him, and he was doing this for himself. And he found no sadness, no anger, or feeling of grossness in his heart. Astarion was genuinely happy with what he was doing. 

Careful hands slowly began to ease down the suit pants of the magister, eyes flickering to Pierre’s face that was still watching with the haze of lust in his eyes. There was no shame in the bulge that tented his fine silken briefs, the man knew what he was doing. He was being played like a fiddle and, gods above, did Pierre love that. He loved when it was easy with no fumbling, or guessing.

“Eager pup.” Astarion couldn’t help the soft chuckle as he threw pants and shoes aside, head slowly ascending to be between the tanned thighs of the other, warm breath tickling the supple skin before he turned to one and began to suckle while his hands loosely grasped at the band of the briefs.

“Bloody hells,” Pierre laughed, his legs shifting so that his calves rested upon Astarion’s shoulders, one of his hands laying loosely upon his chest, a thumb brushing over a raised nipple. With his eyes closed, he almost wished he could forever feel like this. All needs met, basking in the warm glow of pleasure, of glory, of success. He deserved this. After all he did to get here, the risks, yes he had earned this life.

The pale elf pulled away after leaving a sizable mark at the inside of the other man’s thigh, slithering up over the other man to suddenly and hungrily press his lips into Pierre’s, inhaling the breath that the other offered. 

A groan escaped the magistrate as he felt the weight of the other man atop him, the pressure against his restrained erection causing him to roll his hips in a desire for friction. Breath stolen from his mouth that only made his head swim in colorful rose as he wrapped his arms around the back of Astarion’s neck. To be loved so graciously, so wholly, no questions, no competition, to be cared for, yes in the moment it was the only thing that he wanted. To be fed so graciously from the palm of the gods, surely they too saw his plight and offered him this.

Moments later he felt the cool press of skin against him as the other man removed his top, his trousers, and yet it did not touch Pierre’s mind. No his skin was a sun, radiating and warm enough for the both of them. The kiss was broken just as unconsciousness threatened to take him.

As he lay gasping for breath, his heart a thunderous drum in his chest, he finally felt himself being freed, his yes shifting in time to see the gentle hand of Astarion tracing along the veins of his hardened erection, a motion that caused it to jump and twitch for more.

Pierre could but grit his teeth, his arms pulling the other’s head back down for a kiss to drown everything else out. For all he wanted in this moment was to drown everything in that glorious lustful haze where there was no future, no past, only present beauty. 

The hand that stroked him was slow and steady, following in time with the way they rocked their heads together in the battle for breath that only one needed. 

Once more the kiss broke, this time Astarion doing the honors, a string of spittle hanging between them before snapping. Smiling, he murmured to the other man, “You haven’t begged once my darling. I am proud of you.”

Why did those words sink so deeply into him, why did they cause his heart to flourish more than any title could ever give him? Pierre could only look up in stunned silence, a hand brushing along Astarion’s cheek. He didn’t need to say it for the other to know that he was thankful. In some weird, strange way he was thankful to hear those words but he would never admit that aloud.

There was the shifting of a bottle before clear liquid was poured onto the fingers of Astarion’s free hand. Leaning his head down, he’d go back to tender kisses along Pierre’s neck while his fingers teased and traced at Pierre’s entrance, earning twitches and small bucks from the magistrate along with small puffs of breath.

Had any of his lovers been like this? Pierre couldn’t remember, not a single damned one. But it didn’t matter. His head lolled, relenting to the tender press of the other’s lip before a soft, strained groan escaped him as he felt a cool, slick digit press within him, curling as it dragged along the soft, warm interior of him.

Astarion was patient, he was slow as he pushed and dragged that finger inside of the other man, letting Pierre use his own hand to sluggishly stroke at himself in tandem with his own work. The man’s heart hadn’t stopped, it was still that beautiful chorus. In truth, there was a part of him that wished to hear it all night. To never hear it stop because the beat of the heart of pleasure was beautiful. Strained and excited thumping like a bird flapping against the cage restraining it. A shame that the bird must be let free eventually, wasn’t it?

Pierre didn’t even try to hide the thick groan that escaped him as a second digit wormed inside of him, the thrusting fingers managing to drag across his sweet spot which caused a deep shiver to roll across his form and his hand to quicken its pace.

His breath had quickened to match it all, his head leaning further back as he arched to the pleasure that scored his skin with beautiful fire. 

“Careful,” Astarion hummed, his hand that wasn’t working the other man would gently rest atop the near desperate jerking of Pierre’s hand. Slowly he’d draw his digits from the other man now that he was slick and relaxed. “Wouldn’t want you to miss the main course.”

Breathing heavily, the magistrate had opened his eyes to look up at Astarion as he felt the hand stop him. He’d give a cheeky smile, his hand instead going to trace the head and gather some of the clear, sticky nectar that had escaped him. There was a pit of excitement in his gut that mixed wonderfully with the pleasure he was feeling.

Unable to ignore that look, Astarion let out a quiet laugh while leaning down to give a slow and tender kiss to the tanned elf while he pumped and slicked his own member before lining himself up.

“Deep breath in love,” he breathed, waiting for the other to start to inhale before pressing in with the timing of Pierre’s breath that ended in all but a shrill moan from the magistrate as Astarion hilted himself.

“There we are,” Astarion cooed with, for once, a shaky breath of his own. This was it wasn’t it? The final moments of this man's life. Bliss. Beauty. Happiness. Thinking he had won. It was a better death than he deserved, and yet even still Astarion was the judge here. And this is the sentence that the other would carry.

Pierre pressed himself up against Astarion, arms again at the back of the other man’s neck, his legs lacing around the small of the pale elf’s back. He was filled, his heart was soaring, his head was fuzzy in that electric fire that he never got enough of, hanging onto those words, I am proud of you.

Almost lazily, Astarion leaned his head down to kiss the other man as he started to pull out before thrusting forward with a small plap as their bodies met. It was tender, it was gentle, it was nothing wild or crass as he kissed and made love to Pierre. His hands felt at the warmth of the other man, his lips trailing down to the other man’s neck again, suckling as his thrusts increased in their tempo.

Panting and groaning with the increase of the pace, the magistrate worked his hips, rolling and shuddering with the steady pushes into him as his inferno grew. He could feel it, that beautiful mountain’s peak growing ever closer, his voice rising to it all the same. Who cares who heard it, he was happy . 

He didn’t even feel it, that pinch of pain at his neck, his eyes were closed as he gave himself into those throes of passion. 

Astarion quickened himself, one hand cradling the side of Pierre’s head to keep it still, and the other going to start to pump at the magistrate’s shaft all the while crimson flooded into his mouth. He guzzled it desperately, the flavor as pure as it came, echoing the chorus Pierre’s heart still sang with. 

The groans of the tanned elf grew wild until he gave a wild buck into Astarion’s pumping hand, his face twisting into one of complete and utter carnal delight as white thread after white thread spewed from his twitching member. His mind was a sea of oil paints, smeared reds and pinks, oranges, the colors of sunset and sunrise, memories trickling into that beautiful background as pleasure wracked his body.

A soft sigh escaped the pale elf’s nose as he too shuddered and gave a harsh final thrust into the other man, his eyes rolling back as he tightened his hold on the other man. Let him know nothing but beauty and warmth in those final moments. Let him die on that high, as he wished he had.

It was hard to tell if his breaths were coming in shorter, but it didn’t matter did it? Because gods did he feel good. Faintly he was aware of a tiredness easing into his breaths, like anchors softly tying to his limbs. It wasn’t frightening. If anything it was comforting the way it beckoned to him. He had truly been blessed hadn’t he? What a beautiful life. What a wonderful end to a wonderful night. Now there was nothing left but to sleep.

That orchestra began to fleet, removing notes one by one until it gave a final, soft sound before stilling altogether. Astarion pulled his lips from the bloodied neck, breathing in and then out deeply. He wouldn’t have long.

But first he had to look at him, he had to see his face.

And the face that he saw was one of serenity, not terror, not horror. Just peace, happiness. Strange how even he, a monster, could afford that to people. 

Astarion pulled himself from what was once Pierre and cleaned himself up in the magistrate’s bathroom, got dressed and headed towards one of the large windows. He gave a final look at the still figure on the bed, the fox mask left neatly aside the discarded wolf one on the counter.

And as he began his descent from that window, Astarion felt his own sense of peace wash over himself.