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She dreams of Menzoberranzan, though she herself has never been. She dreams of it as Minthara had described. A city of shadow, of assassins and courtly intrigue. She dreams of towers hewn into dark stone. Dark, lantern lit streets sheltered from sun and rain and snow by the mighty cavern sky overhead, casting the city of the Drow forever in shadows. She dreams of these shadows now, the shadows of her blood, her birthright, the darkness of her people. She dreams.
It is a sickly sort of sleep, fitful and sweaty. The sort one might expect when beset by fever. Her muscles ache, and she is cold and hot simultaneously in a way that leaves her both sticky and shivering. When she does open her Lolth-sworn eyes she beholds only sterile darkness. Nary a flicker of light to guide her wide pupils. But she was not, is not , sick.
Falon never gets sick. And she wasn’t on the last night she can remember in camp, just outside of Baldur’s gate. On a ruinous hill overlooking the city’s many walls and staggered homes, their windows blazing like a million tiny candles against the dark.
Astarion had held her hand in his, anticipation written across the lines of his handsome face. Cazador awaited them within those walls, sequestered in his palace away from those lights. And the ritual… and ultimate power.
Her fingers twitch at the thought of it. All that power in his hands. Their hands, because they were together. A unit. They protected one another and loved one another and by all the gods they would ascend together, too. The pads of her fingers scrape along cool, damp stone. And she realizes, with a sudden keen sort of Drow awareness, that she is being held beneath the earth. Her fever isn’t breaking, more so she is breaking it. Shaking her pounding skull she fends off the clouds about the edges of her consciousness and brings herself hurtling into the present moment. Out of the shadows. Out of the dreams.
“Fuck,” she curses harshly as she swings her legs over the edge of the stone stoop. She is bare footed, stripped down to nothing. By the touch of her tentative fingers she finds bruising across her ribs and over her belly. Then, when they reach her neck, she winces. A wound. Sour by the smell in the air, almost as strong as the stench of stale blood. Beneath the odor of rot and decay, she whiffs something sharp and familiar. A whisper of home in the Underdark. Drow poison.
“Just my luck,” she grouses. When she tries to stand she finds her knees are like jelly, and her head swims with such vigor that she is forced back down onto her stone bed.
Nothing to do but wait then. But Falon has never been a patient individual.
“Hello?” She calls out, voice harsh on her own ears as it echoes back to her from some yet unknown space.
When she receives no answer she calls out again, this time with more strength, more air behind the call, “Hello!?”
Water drips somewhere nearby, but the perfect darkness remains still.
“Shadowheart would love it down here,” Falon sighs, reclining back onto her stone bed. She shivers, muscles twitching involuntarily. A direct consequence of the Drow poison. Alone, sickly, and very, very bored she begins to break down the components which go into such an elixir as Drow poison. Essence of swarming toadstool, common enough in the Underdark. And any simple salt.
She had distilled plenty of the stuff herself since their own foray through the darkness.
Astarion uses it often on his blades.
Rolling onto her side, she thinks of him.
Astarion.
She cannot contain the strange warmth that pulses through her chest at the very mention of his name. Falon has had lovers before. Other Drow, mostly. Men and women. But never before has she been so moved by a relationship. It should have been simple, easy. They should have used one another and then moved on. Because that’s what she was; a user, a taker. And so was he. But they were stuck, now, in some unseen vortex. Its arms extending outward, pulling them in, drawing them together towards its central point.
To Falon, that point will be the moment of Astarion’s ascension. Or perhaps the moment she seizes control of the mother brain. Maybe both.
But she knows already that all of that power means nothing if she is not with him . If they do not wield it together.
He has promised to make her his dark consort, which she is satisfied with. Neither of them will ever need to fear again, not while they wield such unimaginable power.
She ponders over the ritual for a moment; the details of it are still unclear but… but perhaps that is why she is here. Wherever here is. Perhaps this is some sort of machination of Cazador’s. Capture Astarion’s loyal Drow. Imprison her. Lure the vampling in.
Yes.
Yes.
It makes perfect sense and suddenly she finds herself shaking off the final dregs of her poison. Enraged. Jaw set painfully tense as she lunges to her feet and rockets forward until she is met with the brutal cut of icy, metal bars against her skin.
“Cazador!” She rails into the darkness, rough voice echoing into eternity. “Cazador, you will not have him!”
In truth the chances that Astarion will even come after her are slim, she thinks. He might feel something like love towards her, but his fear of his former master trumps all. His sense of self preservation is stronger than any bond they might share.
Still, she rages.
She is a warlock, afterall. And though she lacks her sword, shield and armor, she still has her magics. He had been counting on the poison to hold her in sleep, but he had miscalculated somewhere. Perhaps in her resistance to such things borne from the Underdark. Because with practiced ease she slaps her palms together and misty steps through the bars, out into the sublime darkness which envelopes her.
With a snarl she rubs her palms together and produces a small flame, no larger than that of a guttering candle, but it is enough to illuminate the way forward through the dank dungeon.
With caution she proceeds forward, or backward, or some direction through the wide, cavernous halls of the dungeon.
“I will not be bait!” She cries out, voice low and husky and tremulous with her rage.
She is her only chance at escape. She must rely upon herself if she wishes to see sunlight again.
Falon is not afraid. Perhaps she should be, for all of the horrors Asatrion has described to her, late at night as they lazed in his tent. Terrors revealed between soft, longing kisses. Unimaginable tortures he had endured. But nonetheless, Falon can only muster anger towards the Master Vampire. Anger for his crimes, anger for daring to harm a hair on Astarion’s silky head. Anger for every act of sex and violence he ever forced her lover to commit.
And it is this same anger that blinds her to the creatures encroaching through the shadows. She doesn’t sense them until it is too late, until their claws are upon her and the ghouls have wrestled her down onto the cold, damp stone of the floor. Her body aches in complaint as they press her into the stone. Their vile stench assaults her nostrils as they bind her hands and gag her with an old, soiled cloth which tastes of rust and salt. No hands, no words. No magic.
Still, she struggles and writhes against them. Using all of her battered body to make their job as difficult as she possibly can.
They snarl and growl and croak half words at her until one approaches with a vial that is pressed to the wound on her neck. More poison. Her stomach lurches, her muscles tense and seize. And then she goes limp once again, eyes fluttering shut, weak protests dying on her gagged lips.
When she awakens again it is in a warm, sweltry room that reeks of decay and stale blood. There is brightness past her eyelids; cool and green. And she blinks her red eyes open, vision bleary. The room is cavernous and cathedral-like.
“Hmm?” A man, black hair slicked back. Glowing red eyes and obvious fangs peeking past his deathly pale lips. Cazador, no doubt. He saunters over to her, staff in hand. Behind him there is a sarcophagus, elaborate inlaid with ebony and gold. Falon deduces that this Cazador before her is merely an aspect of that which lies within the coffin, “It would seem our guest is awake.”
Falon peers around the space, horrified to find that they are in the center of some sort of massive ritual circle. At its edges are suspended in eerie red light the pale bodies of six spawn. Their bodies are bare from the waist up, skin slick with sweat. A single place remains empty; waiting for Astarion to arrive.
Falon’s nose wrinkles up, brow furrowing as the master vampire approaches her.
He is smiling, wide and sinister, and her stomach flips at the cold aura that seems to surround him.
“Sweet Drow,” he coos, and he touches her cheek with his cold hand. “Our guest of honor.”
He sweeps out an extravagant arm, and all the monstrosities that fill the room pause to listen to their master speak, “For without her we would not have Astarion. It is so like him to take up with a creature so vile as an under-elf. A childish attempt to avoid his family is what you are, an adolescent rebellion, nothing more.”
Falon snarls against her gag.
Fuck you.
Her meaning is clear enough, even without words.
Cazador tuts, then slaps her hard across the cheek, turning her head, “You will bleed before this day is done, little under-elf.”
He won’t come. She wants to say. You’re using me as bait but Astarion isn’t a fool. He won’t give up his life so easily.
Ultimately, as much as it hurts her to think it, she knows that he is far too selfish to make an appearance. Even for her. Cazador is going to be very disappointed. And she is going to die for it. Horribly. Terribly. Screaming, most likely.
She shuts her eyes, letting herself slip into a half meditative state. For a moment she beeseches her patron. The Fiend. But she receives no answers, for she is far beyond their reach in this hellish prison. This is it, then. At least she lived, she thinks. At least she loved, even if that love was not enough to save her in the end.
She is going to die here. Alone. Probably in agony after hours of slow torture and blood-letting and-
The great doors to the ritual room swing open. Much to Cazador’s delight.
It’s him. She senses his presence before her eyes flutter open and she beholds her love in abject horror.
The absolute idiot has come for her. And he isn’t alone.
To his left stalks Gale, to his right Lae’zel, and bringing up the rear is the mighty Paladin herself; Minthara.
Falon could weep at the sight of them. And she raises her head in triumph just as Cazador seizes her by the scruff of her neck and hoists her into the air for Astarion and their companions to see.
She must look terrible- glancing down at her naked body she finds she is a mottled mess of bruises and laceration- Astarion looks horrified. He trembles with something , throat bobbing, eyes unreadable as he and the others freeze on the walkway that leads to the circle.
“Stop right there!” Cazador commands, and Falon feels the cold steel of a dagger press against her middle. A bat flies forth at silent command, tugging the gag from her mouth. Likely so Astarion can hear her scream.
The rescue party remains very still.
Astarion speaks, all of his usual frivolity is absent from his tone and words, “Let. Her. Go.”
Cazador laughs madly, lowering Falon back to her knees. He kicks her hard in the ribs, sending her careening sideways with a yelp that makes Asatarion visibly wince.
“Don’t fall for it, Astarion!” She shouts, painfully. “Run!”
“Shut up, you heinous little bitch!” Cazador brings the dagger down and into her shoulder twisting it brutally as a cold spell bites into her sundered flesh.
Falon grits her teeth around a wail of agony.
“Stealing what is mine!”
“I was never yours, Cazador!” Astarion dares a step forward, only to go still as his former Master sinks the blade in deeper, earning a throaty groan of pain from Falon.
“You abandoned your family,” Cazador declares. “And what for?”
He frees the dagger from her shoulder and drags her up to her knees, pressing the cool steel neatly across her throat, pressing just hard enough to draw a few beads of her blood. The same blood Astarion has fed upon a hundred times to maintain his strength.
“Some Drow whore?!”
“Stop!” The pale elf cries out, voice piqued with terror. “Do not touch her! Harm her no more.”
Cazador smiles, cruelly, and releases Falon to fall limp and bloody on the smooth marble of the ritual room floor. She bleeds profusely from her shoulder. She raises a trembling hand to stifle the flow of blood, but it does nothing. The air is rich with the scent of her. Her ichor, Her insides coming out in a rush of crimson between her fingers. She is dying.
Her pale head thumps weakly to the floor, and she can only just turn enough to watch Astarion lower his weapon and, slowly, make his way towards his former master. Her vision is blurred with encroaching demise. Her hearing comes as if through water.
“Heal her,” Astarion demands, voice soft, tremulous. “Heal her and I will take my place in your vile ritual.”
No . She mouths. And she must have managed the word aloud because Astarion looks at her with such agony written across his expression that she wants to scream. She gasps, flipping onto her stomach. She drags herself in a trail of her own crimson blood towards Astarion and Cazador.
The latter laughs cruelly at the pathetic display of desperation. Devotion.
He lifts his heel and slams his boot down onto her with such force that her shoulders crack audibly, chin slamming into the floor so her vision swims and her head throbs. She spits blood, but still manages to touch Astarion’s boot.
The pale elf hits his knees in front of her, dragging her dying body into his lap. His teeth are set, eyes fierce with grief and agony.
“Kill him,” Falon’s voice trembles. “ Kill him .”
Astarion only holds her as his former master laughs over them. He says nothing, lips sealing into a tremulous line. Real tears prick at the corners of his eyes. He touches her hair, her cheek. Pressing his palm over her weeping wound to no avail.
“Save her,” Astarion begs, raggedly. “Save her and I will give you everything .”
Cazador chuckles dark and sordid, “No.”
Astarion looks up to him, stricken with fear, “ What ?”
“Your punishment for abandoning your family,” the master explains as if it is a simple concept. “You will watch this cursed love of yours perish. And then you too will die in my ritual.”
Astarion holds her tighter, but she is fading, fading, fading.
“I-
“I think not,” Minthara, the rest of the party nearly forgotten in the chaos unfolding around them, says. And then, having positioned herself just so. She unleashes a ferocious beam of light from Lathander’s mace that cleaves the space in two. Disintegrating whatever monsters are unfortunate enough to stand in her path (many).
All at once everything bursts into action. Asatrion is rendered away from Falon as she lays dying on the floor. Lifted by the power of Cazador’s staff. His clothes explode off of him and he is hoisted to his place in the ritual circle. Gale, Lae’zel, and Minthara rush forward, swinging and casting and banishing in a blur of steel and spell.
“Save him,” Falon croaks. And her eyes flutter shut. She cannot imagine a world without Astarion in it. She may die here, but she hopes they manage to spare her love the same cruel fate.
“Kill the Drow!” Cazador shouts as he becomes a cloud of black mist, darting away from the slaughter of his people.
One of the werewolves hears this command and descends upon her in a flurry of claws. Falon feels almost nothing as her insides are made out, but she does hear Astarion’s scream of agony as she is disemboweled, before Lae’zel spears the offending creature on her lance.
Save him , she mouths at a whisper. Lae’zel is leaning over her, saying something but alas Falon cannot hear. Save him.
Falon dies, coldness creeping into her being. Icy finger wrapping around her heart until it is still and dead in her open chest.
At least she loved.
Her final thought.
At least she loved, sure and true.
The world comes into focus as if through a lens. It is… so bright, so loud. And for a moment Falon wonders which of the hells she has come to reside in. There is no heaven for a creature such as herself. A killer. Slaughterer. No matter how achingly tragic her death might have been.
“Easy, my treasure,” a voice, soft, lilting, familiar, meets her ears. But there is a new quality to it now. Musical, like bells, like the sweet, sliding scale of a violin.
“Astarion,” she breathes, stirring, finding that she is laid out in his lap. He is holding her close to him, close enough that she can hear the steady beat of his cold, dead heart in his strong chest. She sits up some, hiding her face in the crook of his neck. They are alone, wherever they are. She can sense it, the others, their scents , are distant.
“Ah,” she exhales, nuzzling into his neck. He smells so delectable, she can think of little else. “What-
“Shhhhh,” he soothes a hand up her back, inviting her into his throat. “Drink, dearest.”
Without a second though she bites his throat, teeth piercing his beautiful, pale skin as though it were nothing more than butter. Immediately her gullet is filled with cool, sweet vampiric sanguine. She purrs, drinking deeply of him. And she knows he is her sire. She is his consort. His chosen spawn. His mate.
Carefully, after a long moment, he pries her fangs away from his neck.
“Enough for now,” he says, softly chastising her for her newborn thirst. “I’ll teach you to hunt later, you will need live blood to sustain you, my love.”
Falon nods, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She notes that she is still naked, but all of her wounds have healed, save for a scar on her shoulder where she was stabbed and raking marks across her middle where she was disemboweled.
“Where are we?”
“Still at the palace,” Astartion explains, a glint of pleasure in his crimson eyes. “ My palace, now. Our palace.”
Falon nods, finally taking in her surroundings properly. They’re in the master bedroom of the estate. Sprawled across the wide, downy mattress of a massive four poster bed. The carpets are plush. The pillows filled with goosefeathers and fluffed to perfection. The curtains are drawn, rich maroon in color. The duvet, stained with blood, is trimmed and embroidered with gold.
“I died,” she exhales softly. “I remember you screaming. And I remember dying, hoping that the others could save you in time.”
Astarion stiffens under her, arms winding around her waist. He nuzzles into the delicate place behind her pointed ear, “You almost died, darling. But I saved you.”
“Did you complete the ritual?” She asks.
Astarion nods into her skin, pressing a delicate kiss to the corner of her jaw, “I ascended. And then I saved you. My first act as master of this mortal realm was to raise my beloved to sit beside me.”
Falon turns her face, pressing their foreheads together. The tadpole twists and lurches, bridging their vampiric minds. He opens up to her immediately, and her mind is filled with a gory scene unfolding.
She lays on the floor, torn to shreds, ripped to little tiny pieces. Somehow she still breathes, quick, shallow, wet draws as she sinks further and further from her final consciousness. Astarion, filled with new purpose, new strength and vigor, collapses over her, pulling her bloodied corpse into his arms.
“My love,” he breathes, heaving on a sob. Agony floods him, possesses him from his very core. He has never known a pain like this, like this grief. This loss. He has lived for well over two hundred years, but in a few short months she has given him everything. He will not lose her here, he cannot.
Trembling in his devastating grief, he lays his fangs against her throat and drinks what little she has left to give. Tears speckling her skin all the while. And then he guides his newly ascended flesh, his wrist, to her lips. It is foolish, perhaps, to think that she can come back from such grievous injury. But he has to try. Revivify scrolls can only mend so much. Their companions watch on in terrified silence as he works over her cooling body.
“Bite,” he commands, but she cannot. So he rips his flesh open with his own teeth and presses it to her mouth. “Drink, damn you. Drink!”
He is forced to massage her throat to work the blood down to her stomach.
The others watch on in terror, horror, as he lifts her into his arms. He kisses her forehead, her cheeks. His tears fall over her face like soft rain.
“Leave us,” he breathes the command with a new air of authority. The others are compelled to obey. “Leave!”
It is instinct that drives him now. The desire to get his mate to safety, succor. A soft, quiet place for her to turn or die in the process. Already the first muscular twitches of his venom have begun to pull at her fingertips…
He cuts the memory off there, despite her curiosity, “The change was brutal. It’s best not to remember the circumstances of one’s birth.”
“So you brought me to this bedroom to be reborn?” She asks, glancing around again. “Why?”
Astarion chuckles, letting her go and reclining into the pillows, “Because this is our chambers now, darling. Here we will spend decades in each other’s arms. From here we will plot our domination of Baldur’s Gate, and then all of Faerun.”
His smile is positively wicked , and Falon laughs, unable to keep from leaning forward and drawing him into a slow, hungry kiss.
“You are so beautiful,” he breathes when they part, crimson eyes flashing. His fingertips ghost along the curve of her cheekbone, high and elven. Then his expression falls slightly, something tainting the carnal glint in his gaze, “...I watched Cazador kill you, my love.”
Falon cups his palm to her cheek, she kisses it delicately and feels him trembling against her in his agonized memory, “He didn’t kill me. I’m here.”
He blinks like the scarlet memories are overwhelming him, “I watched him stab you, break you, I watched his minion tear you to shreds… I was helpless. Falon, over the two hundred years I spent with him never did I endure a torture so acutely painful as that. It was… an exquisite sort of pain.”
“Astarion-
“ I’ve never felt so powerless ,” he admits, and he shifts, pulling her bodily into his lap. And she knows that he needs to be grounded, she knows he needs someone, something to subdue those bitter memories and replace them with light, and life, and the laughter they share.
So she kisses him, twists their bodies so he looms over her, so he might have power over her while they make love. She never wants him to feel powerless again. She impresses as much upon him through their Illithid connection. Astarion goes still over her, uncertain. She knows he does not want to simply take without consideration for her own wants. He may be her sire, her lord and master but he is no Cazador.
“I’ve given you everything,” she breathes against his lips, fingertips trailing over his infernal scarred back to play at the waistband of his trousers. “Let me give you this as well… our first night in an eternity of nights together.”
“You’ve given me everything ,” he repeats, and then he kisses her ferociously. Their tongues lance, fangs dragging until they taste blood on one another’s lips. He parts from her, nibbles her neck, tastes of her newly immortal blood, then licks the wound closed. She is naked under him, back arched, breasts pressed firmly to his bare chest.
He kisses each of them, traveling down her body in a trail of fiery kisses that leave her writhing with desire for more. She is so hot, so taken with the flames of want that she feels as though she might combust at any moment.
When he reaches the apex of her body, he presses her thighs to his shoulders. Hooking her strong calves over his scarred back. Falon watches from above, head propped on the downy pillows, wetting her lips in anticipation as he nuzzles and kisses her inner thigh. He inhales deeply of her heady scent, eyes flashing with predatory hunger.
“The sweetest taste,” he murmurs seductively, and then he delves, licking a long, hot stripe through the wet folds of her cunt.
Falon bucks into his mouth as he devours her; eating her up as if she is the most sumptuous of meals. He laps and sucks and kisses, and when her ankles lock behind his back he groans, arms winding around her thighs, pushing himself further into her.
He finds her clit with practiced ease, laving at it with sharp pulls of his tongue before he takes it between his perfect lips and sucks.
Falon writhes on the duvet, hips bucking off of the mattress, “Oh!”
Her body curves forward of its own volition, fingers winding through the silky silver tresses of his mussed hair. She pushes his face more insistently into her wet core, and shivers when his tongue drags along her slit in carnal promise.
Their eyes meet, his; the deepest crimson as his handsome mouth is otherwise occupied. Hers; pupils blown wide to obscure her own bloody iris, desire brimming, pleasure mounting. Her thighs begin to tremble, hips rolling without rhythm into her lover’s face. Heat rises in her chest and cheeks, electricity shooting down her spine as raw magic dances at her fingertips.
“Mmmf,” Astarion groans into her pussy, eyelids fluttering shut, redoubling his efforts to bring her to climax on his lips and tongue.
The heat mounting in her core is suddenly unbearable, a tight sensation coiling in her belly as she bucks once, twice, thrice, and she finishes with a soft cry and a rush of wetness against Astarion’s handsome face. White flashes behind her eyes, and her hips roll through the aftershocks as he kisses her mound and lips and thighs, soothing her with soft, unintelligible words.
“Fuck,” she breathes as she comes down. Astarion peers up at her mischievously, nipping her inner thigh to taste of her once again.
Falon bites her lip, giggling at the sharp sensation followed by the pleasurable press of his wet lips to her skin. Then, once he has licked the wound closed. He stands, erection obvious in his tight trousers. She cocks her head at him, raising an inviting brow. Her legs spread further, inviting him to stand in the cradle of her thighs as he shucks the offending garment and tosses it away, forgotten in some corner of the room.
“Mmmm,” Falon hums, eyeing his hard cock with no small amount of reverence.
He has the prettiest cock she’s ever seen. Long, but not overly so. Thick and veined but not so imposingly as to frighten or disgust her. The crown is thick, pale as the rest of him, a bead of pearly precum already gathered at his slit.
“You have a pretty cock,” she exhales, scooting to the edge of the bed.
He comes to stand at her apex, dragging the head of himself through her folds teasingly. Wetting himself, preparing her.
“Darling, I’m gorgeous,” he replies, a sly smile gracing the shining mess of his face. Then his expression hardens, his ministrations between her legs come to a sudden halt. “You are my dark consort,” he explains, “but I will never make you do this unless-
“I want it,” Falon replies, pushing her hips up. The head of his dick presses through he folds, right up to her slit. “Hells, I want it so bad, my master, my love .”
Astarion’s cocky visage resumes, “Then you shall have it, my heart.”
And he presses forward, parting her, splitting her open and filling her up with his cock. He inches forward slowly, giving her time to adjust to each rut of his narrow, powerful hips. Falon bites her lower lip, still unused to her new fangs. And at the smell of the blood on her lips he leans forward to kiss the taste away as he slowly bottoms out within her.
He is a perfect fit with his perfect cock, the stretch of him is sublime between her thighs which tremble at his hips.
Falon sighs with relief, feeling deliciously full, and locks her ankles at the small of his back, digging her heels into the perfect globes of his pale ass.
Astarion shudders with pleasure, pressing his forehead to hers so their eyes lock in a heady stare, “You are sublime, my love.”
“Fuck me, Astarion,” she answers, fingers caressing over his biceps.
But he doesn’t fuck her. No. Instead he sets the sweetest, slowest pace. Canting his hips forward in lazy motions that have her moaning into his mouth, fingers caressing up his scarred back, gliding through the waves and curls of his silky, silvery hair. He kisses her deeply as he makes love to her, thoroughly. Grounding her to the earth, anchoring her to the pleasurable stretch between her legs with his teeth and tongue and seeking lips.
Falon hums into his mouth, sucking against him, probing with her tongue which he meets with his own.
You are my love.
The words echo in her mind. Not from the tadpole. Not from the Illithid connection. But from something deeper, more animal, more primal and base that takes hold in their hearts as Astarion’s pace begins to pick up. The bond between vampires, between king and beloved consort, runs deep and true between them. Pulsing in their immortal blood.
Their hips clap, filling up the room with illicit cacophony as their moans spill in harmony. She’s so wet, and tight and she knows through their connection that her body is heaven to him. A haven. The sweetest sort of shelter for him to lose himself within.
Together they are safe.
Like this they are pristine. Perfect. Joined and locked and wrapped up around one another so tightly they are inextricable from one another. It is impossible to say where one of them ends and the other begins, they are so thoroughly lost in one another.
His cock slides repeatedly against a spot within her that makes her back arch off of the opulent duvet. She gasps into his mouth, nails dragging down his pale shoulders, “M’ close.”
She’s tightening, seizing up around him so enticingly that he can only fuck her harder, deeper. She’s sobbing with pleasure now, whimpering into his mouth, hips rolling in time with his thrusting.
Wet noises spill through the bedroom, accompanied in symphony by the rapid clap of their bodies and the peaking pitch of their moans and growls and groans. Astarion pulls away from her lips, hiding his face against her throat as his pace devolves into frantic jackknifing.
Falon’s cunt aches deliciously from the ferocity of his fucking. Her mate, her lover making her whole, complete. She winds her arms around him, holding him tight as she bucks and rolls and comes for the second time.
Astarion puffs at the clasping massage of her walls around his cock, and follows suit with a deep groan. He muffles the sound into her throat, where he bites down. The sharpness of the sensation sends another wave of pleasure wracking through her body as he drinks of her deeply while simultaneously filling her with the cool balm of his cum.
When he pulls back, he kisses the fresh pinpricks on her neck, before lolling his head to the side, offering his own throat for her to drink from.
Falon does, happily accepting his invitation; she pierces the thin, pale skin of his throat with her new fangs and swallows him down. Deep, rich mouthfuls of cool, vampiric blood meet her tongue. The sweetest taste in all the world. When she pulls away they kiss, the flavors of their blood mingling between their tongues.
Panting, Astarion pulls out and rolls to the side, pulling Falon with him so she is cradled protectively against his bare chest.
“And so our eternity begins,” he exhales dreamily, allowing his eyelids to flutter shut.
Falon nuzzles into the crook of his shoulder, sighing contentedly, “Just have that pesky mother brain to contend with now… and Orpheus… and Orin and Gortash and-
“Oh, please do shut up,” Astarion groans. “You’re killing the mood, dearest.”
Falon laughs, reaching for his chin. She turns his face to kiss him delicately on his pretty mouth.
“Thank you, by the way,” she says, tucking herself as close to him as is bodily possible.
“Whatever for?”
“For coming for me.” She admits, “I thought I was going to die there, alone.”
Astarion tenses beneath her, turns his head to hold her stare. His eyes are suddenly fiery, intense, “You… Falon , that you doubted me at all shows that I haven’t been forward enough with you.”
“Wha-
He flips their bodies so he looms over her once more, bumps their noses together, brushes her lips with his own, “You are everything , my treasure.”
Falon blinks, filled with sudden intense heat, “Oh.”
Astarion shakes his head, “That I ever gave you reason to doubt that, to doubt me… ”
“But you did come for me,” Falon counters softly, kissing his lips tenderly. “You came and that’s what matters.”
“I was too late,” Astarion exhales shakily. “I watched them tear you to pieces.”
“But you saved me in the end. And now we have eternity together, Astarion. Forever.”
“Forever,” he echoes, nuzzling into her neck, laying his soothing weight over her body. Falon cards her fingers through his hair, lets him hold her for an immeasurable amount of time. They have eternity to look forward to, what’s a few hours lazing in each other's arms?