Her Pretty Little Throat : An Ascended Astarion Fan Fiction

Astarion

The young woman sits on the street below me, shaking; her figure is quite small compared to the two dead guards beside her. Her lavender dress is tight against her tanned skin, doused with a spray of red, painting her in a baptism of blood.

It was dumb luck that I was outside to see the guards attack her. Many nights, something nestled deep inside of me lures me out to take in the moon and stars. Perhaps it's the memories from before the Netherbrain fell, seeping back into my subconscious. Being around for more than 400 years will do that to you. Memories triggered by new experiences—the taste of blood on my lips—will remind me of my first. A smile that I can never forget springs to the forefront of my thoughts without warning.

The burly one was truthful when he said that she had tried to run off. He failed to mention the fact that his hand was creeping up towards her breasts when she delivered the strike that winded him.

The weakness of targeting a young woman who is bound, blinded, and at your mercy still sickens me after all these centuries. Yet another memory is buried; the thoughts of helplessness make my blood burn hot.

I regret snapping his neck. He didn't deserve a clean death. I should have taken him to the dungeon so I could spend every day watching him waste away to nothing.

His friend met more of a satisfying end. With the fresh kill thrumming in my veins and the look of shock on his face, it was so easy to reach forward and tear his throat out. It was a waste of perfectly good blood, especially spiced with the whiskey he drank at some point in the evening. But what is a bit of a waste when it comes to vengeance?

"Shh." I walk forward and crouch down beside her, watching her chest rise and fall quickly with the fervor of a scared little mouse. Her fear is sweet as it prickles my tongue. "Don't worry, darling. I am not going to hurt you."

Reaching forward, I place my hand on her back, feeling her muscles tense against my touch. She's stronger than she looks; her body seems to be mainly muscle and gentle curves.

Being so accustomed to my prey, I make no effort to move until I sense her heartbeat begin to slow. Then, I softly stroke her back until I feel her sag against my touch.

"That's a good girl." I whisper as I lean forward, gathering her up into my arms.

Her weight feels nice against my chest, especially the way that she settles against me as if I'm a comforting presence. Something within my chest threatens to clench at the thought of it. Being trusted again.

I shake it off, listening to her heartbeat slow back to a normal rhythm until she sucks in a breath and slumps against my chest, her head lolling and resting against my shoulder.

—

I step foot into the palace, and the flurry of activity around me stops. Servants stare at me warily before casting their eyes down to the floor and hurrying off into another room. My precious spawn are the only ones that track my movements, ready to jump at my command. It's sweet but tedious, like being followed by a small puppy at all times.

Drystan rushes to meet me as I cross the foyer and make my way towards the grand parlor. He was my first spawn and my dearest one. I like to believe I am a softer, more benevolent master than Cazador was.

I remember the night I met him. The drow towered over me, with dark grey skin and ice-white hair that cascaded down over his shoulders. He pierced me with those once lavender eyes, making an effort to size me up as if I couldn't taste his fear and arousal on my tongue. As if I didn't have fresh blood up to my elbows from the dispatching of a few unruly nobles that failed to bow to me. Everyone else cowered, but he met my gaze.

He had a certain thirst for power that was, oh, so easy to manipulate. I couldn't help but make him mine.

"My lord?" He asks, walking beside me, his eyes glancing at the young woman bundled against my chest.

He makes an effort to take her from me, and I step aside. "No." A growl forms deep in my throat as I stare back at my spawn.

Drystan shrinks and falls back a few steps behind me as we enter the parlor.

The room is still decorated from the Grand Ball I held a few nights ago, with the servants continuing to work at their leisure to strip it off the mountains of fine glassware and ornaments scattered across the space.

I gently rest the young woman on the red velvet sofa. Crouching down beside her, I took the burlap sack off of her head, doing my best not to disturb her slumber. I freeze as I recognize the dusting of freckles across her cheeks. The subtle pointed ears that peek out from her long brown hair as it drapes across her shoulders. The resemblance is more than I can take.

Carefully, I reach out and remove the gag from her mouth and stare down at her lips, suddenly drunk on the haze of memories that return. Similar lips pressed against mine, dragging against the length of my throat.

I scrunch the linen cloth in my hands until my knuckles turn white and look up to see Drystan staring at me. If he noticed the slip in my mask, he doesn't mention it; instead, he schools his face into the neutral adoration that I am used to.

"I might have made quite the mess out by the road. Have it cleaned up by morning. I don't care what you do with the bodies." I look into his eyes, trying to ignore the half-elf in my peripheral.

"Yes, my lord." Drystan says it with a nod.

I roll my eyes at the honorific. It does nothing to encapsulate the power I have over Baldur's Gate, but The Vampire Ascendant Lord Astarion is quite the mouthful, and I tired of teaching it to every new spawn and servant that graced my presence.

My eyes find her bound hands, and I reach, untangling the rope from her soft skin. I notice the red marks forming at the base of her wrists, and my anger towards the two guards flares back to life.

I look at her again; I truly look at her, and it's impossible. She doesn't look a day older than when I held my blade to her throat. I could never forget her face, even after 200 years. Time threatened to steal it away, but something inside of me clung to it like an old friend. No, like a lover. The resemblance was close enough that I had begun to wonder if the champion's grave in the Lower Cities was empty.

Though the more I stare at her, the more I notice the subtle differences between her and Tav. Her nose is wider at the tip and is ever so slightly tilted up. Her brows are fuller and more rounded on top of her almond-shaped eyes. That and her hair is a rich brown instead of the mousy color that Tav kept up in braids.

I can't decide if this is a dream or a trick. If she is possibly some sort of magical construct created just to bring me to ruin, Teasing me of the future that I had hoped for all those years ago, then rip it away again. But, no, I cannot sense any magic in her. She is only mortal.

With each rise of her chest, I feel something different. Pain slips into sadness and melts away into anger, then into blood lust. With each beat of her heart, another thought crashes into me.

How dare she refuse my offer?! How could she leave me?! I had trusted and loved her. She all but held my hand as I took my revenge on Cazador, just to disappear the moment we weren't bound by the mind-flayer parasite. She was to spend eternity ruling by my side, and power isn't enough if you cannot have everything that you desire. Tav was my everything.

I focus on the small strip of skin at the base of her neck and her fluttering pulse as she lays there sleeping peacefully. I think about how easy it would be to lean in and taste her. To take. The anger in me threatens to reach out and break any beautiful gift that I am handed.

Amber eyes blink open, searching the room blindly until they find me, pinning me to my spot.