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lets-try-some-writing · 6 months

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Looming Doom

Megatron knew Orion Pax, and he knew Orion the named Prime. Both came from the same place and were made of the same spark. A former friend, a lost brother, and a worthy foe. They were on opposite ends of the war, but they understood one another in a way no other could.

Megatron had hoped to end the war peacefully, but when the mech he knew was replaced with an abomination, he knew that to no longer be an option.

Previous part here.

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Megatron was no fool. He was well aware the the war was largely based on a misunderstanding that was taken too far and inflated by those in power. Orion Pax had not intended to take the rank of Prime. Megatron had long accepted that truth. The only reason their war still raged was because Orion wished to keep things the way they were, at least in part. He wanted to change things slowly, to give the Senate a degree of power. Megatron on the other hand wanted nothing more than to tear it all down. What was short term suffering for long term gain?

What was once a small disagreement argued over drinks turned into the basis for their respective creeds. But even with that said, there was always a sense of possible reconciliation. There were peace talks periodically, and more than once he and Orion came to agreements that benefitted them both. War was still waged, but agreements and treaties were slowly lessening the fighting. Peace was on the horizon, one that both Megatron and Orion could work toward and find a happy middle in.

Then Orion changed.

Not a spark knew what happened to him, not even Orion. When questioned he had no memory of where he went or what happened, merely that he had been altered. He vanished one cycle on the battlefield, remained MIA for almost a full vorn before turning up on Decepticon lands looking gaunt and out of sorts. Out of pure kindness, the Prime in name was returned to his faction even as the Senate tried to claim the Decepticons were the ones who hurt him in the first place. It was a bunch of slag, and for the most part, mecha had enough common sense to see the truth of the matter. Whatever happened to Orion Pax was not Decepticon in origin, and that became more and more clear with every passing cycle. The former archivist had always been full of life, but he was thin and emaciated. He hardly spoke and seemed to be lost a lot of the time. His memory faltered, and from what Megatron's spies confirmed, he was slowly degrading more and more. Not even Ratchet, a world renown Doctor, was able to do anything. The Autobots covered for their ailing leader and the Senate took the chance to try and have more sway. They were largely kept at bay by the raging Autobots, but it was still a looming threat.

Orion only appeared for three more peace talks and showed up for a mere two conflicts before he ceased turning up for anything. Those few instances showed him as weak, sickly even, far more so than reports indicated. He couldn't seem to think clearly and often clutched his helm in pain. His optics were unfocused and when spoken to, he hardly registered the words. He was hurt in a way Megatron could not comprehend, and he was not given the chance to assist before the Senate had their favored champion shipped off to a location of their choosing to try and repair him. Despite the anger he held toward his former friend, Megatron worried for him. Orion had never once shown such agony before. He was always aware and calculating, cunning in his own right. To see him practically unable to comprehend where he was as he held his helm in pain... it startled Megatron.

Sending in Ravage to observe Orion only made him more firm in his need to do something about the situation. According to what Ravage reported, Orion was hidden in a bunker and spent more time suffering in his berth than anything else. Scans showed that there were strange spark signatures coming from him, and his systems were shutting down in the strangest way possible. It was as if all nutrition was being siphoned away from him and being given to a different source. No matter how much the Autobots gave him, he only got weaker and he stopped responding to anything for the most part. But what concerned Megatron the most was when Orion would convulse and strange green fluid would seep out of his vents.

He remembered clearly the cycle he finally decided he could no longer wait around to see what would become of his foe. If Orion was going to die, he wanted to be there for it, if only as a comforter. The affliction his foe faced was inhumane by any standard. Even Megatron could acknowledge that. They were not on good terms, but they were brothers once. It was his duty to see what the situation was, and if nothing else keep the information to be used to the Decepticons advantage. He wasn't sure what he was expecting. Perhaps Orion had been kidnapped and was suffering from an illness he picked up. Maybe he had been shadow played and was fighting off the effects. There were a thousand and one possibilities. What he saw was most certainly not one of them.

"Orion... what in Primus's name happened to you?"

"Megatronus. It hurts. It hurts. Make it STOP-!"

He had not even needed to break into the facility his reports showed Orion to be holed up in. The Prime in name was wandering around the destroyed battlefields miles away from his supposed base. Not a spark was with him when Megatron landed, and his former friend seemed to be in a daze up until Megatron spoke. Orion screamed and clutched his helm, his optics shining so brightly as to be painful to see. Then he fell silent and continued in his aimless march, his pedes dragging and his gaunt frame heaving with every step while that disgusting green fluid trickled from his vents in a constant stream. It was a morbid curiosity that led Megatron to follow his mentally unstable foe. He did not need to follow for long though.

As soon as Orion entered into a desolate area with plenty of energon signatures nearby, he stopped dead in his tracks. He remained eerily still for a long time, twitching periodically. Megatron watched in silence, recording everything and transmitting it back to Soundwave. Then Orion screamed. It was an agonized sound, one that could have only come from one being torn apart from the inside out. Orion doubled over, he clutched his chassis and wailed in pure torment as he began to purge. First it was just energon that he expelled, but as the kliks passed by and Megatron watched in growing horror, organs and other internals quickly joined the growing mess on the ground.

He reached out to help more than once, but Orion's field was vicious and brutal. Not only that, but he could not longer be sure that whatever was happening wouldn't transfer to him. Megatron could not risk it... and so he could only watch on as Orion seemed to clear his frame of anything of worth, finally collapsing entirely onto the ground. His optics flashed only once more before he fell still and silent, his field vanishing as a sure sign of his offlinement. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to leave, but at that point Megatron did not even have enough time to process the loss of his foe and former brother before Orion's frame twitched again. Only this time there was no return of a familiar field. No, instead the frame that belonged to Orion Pax rose to its pedes and stood, it helm limply hanging and its posture akin to that of a puppet held on strings. The optics of the deceased mech before him flared, and then haunting words echoed from a body that should have been incapable of speech.

"Leave. Do not impede efforts to develop. Mission must be accomplished. Insufficient energon for gestation completion. More must be collected."

Mandibles chattered as whatever the thing was tried to speak. Orion's face split and his limbs contorted as the thing butchered Iaconian dialect. And just like that, the walking corpse dragged itself into one of the many crevasses that were sure to lead to energon deposits. Megatron did not remain and took to the skies as soon as the thing was gone. He should have killed it, looking back he firmly believed that is what he should have done. But the loss was so fresh and the thing so unsettling that he simply could not at the time.

He wished he had. He wished he had blasted the abomination into molten metal. At least then Orion could have rested in peace. As it was, he returned to his territory and shared with Soundwave all he had seen. They briefly tried finding the thing, but wherever it went, it was impossible to track. After a few stellar cycles of no word and absolute panic from the Autobots, they agreed that whatever the thing was had made itself scarce, as was for the best. Soundwave had theories about it being a parasitic creature of some sort, a mutant caused by the chemical warfare going on in the general area Orion had been found in. Starscream, upon seeing the data, thought that it could perhaps have been a phenomenon of a corpse moving after death. There were records of such a thing, but it did not explain what happened to Orion in the first place before he perished. Megatron had no theories of his own. He didn't care to consider what happened beyond the consequences. He had no intention of ever using whatever killed his foe as a weapon. It was not only disgraceful, but needlessly cruel.

He tried not to think about it. He tried to move on... but then a familiar face met him on the battlefield roughly six stellar cycles after Orion's death. He did not wish to believe it, but a powerful build, red and blue plating, those cycling optics... there was no mistaking the frame of his old friend and foe. Orion Pax stood before him, but there was something horribly, intrinsically wrong.

"Megatronus of Kaon. Lord of the Decepticons. You have seen more than intended. The threat you present is extreme. Surrender or an offer of peace will be accepted. Failure to comply will result in your extermination at my convenience."

"Don't you DARE call me that you abomination!"

"Your aggression is noted. To my understanding you had a connection to one Orion Pax. Compensation for that loss will be in the form of an amicable peace treaty should you agree to ending this war."

"Maybe once I would have accepted such an offer from Orion Pax, but you... you are a monster I cannot allow to live."

"Your emotional response is highly irrational. You would continue war for the sake of your personal interest? If it would soothe you, do know that I have no intention of causing any damage to your kind if there is an alternative."

"Allowing an abomination to rule over the Autobots is just as dangerous as the Senate having control over Cybertron. I don't care what your interests are. You killed Orion Pax and act as him. Both you and the Senate must be eliminated."

"How unfortunate... although not unexpected."

The thing, whatever it was, walked away from the battlefield without an concern for Megatron's reaction. It was cold, calculating, and driven by some goal he did not even try to understand. From that point onward, the thing was hailed as Optimus Prime, chosen of Primus and bearer of the Matrix. How the thing got the Matrix to comply with its will was something Megatron was unsure if he wanted to know or not. The Autobots adored their new leader, although Megatron did note some concern amidst Orion's old companions. Optimus Prime was a strategic genius and met Megatron at every turn. Their battles were fierce and the thing improved with every survived clash. It was rage inducing to watch the thing become better at blending in with every passing cycle. Did the Autobots not recognize how foreign its field was? Did they not sense the animalistic nature behind its far too Cybertronian optics? Did they not see the way in which it carried itself, its gaze always lingering a while too long on the dead and dying?

Optimus Prime was an abomination, a looming doom. Megatron fought his war for freedom, but now he had an additional goal. He needed to destroy whatever Optimus Prime was and ensure that it never rose again. Even if he destroyed the Senate and took control of Cybertron, if the thing lived, it was an unknown threat, one that had already proven to have at least a bit of backing from some source. How else would it have gotten the Matrix and Orion Pax's frame? No longer was his war just for freedom, but also to ensure that Cybertronians as a whole were protected from the threat of the pretender that controlled the Autobots.

His fears regarding the thing that called itself Optimus Prime only grew when the supposed Prime dropped off the map for several stellar cycles. He had vanished for deca-cycles at a time before, but whole stellar cycles? that was concerning. He directed all his effort toward hunting down the abomination while Soundwave directed the war. And through some miracle, he found Optimus Prime wandering the dead lands with something in its arms. Megatron for his part arrived with every intention to slaughter the abomination quickly and be gone. But before he could, the Prime turned to him coldly and Megatron's spark froze at what he saw.

In the Prime's arms was a larva, a huge creature akin to an isopod and almost as big as the its forearm. The larva had optics all over its insectoid face, although they were dim and unfocused. The thing was covered in plating and its mandibles chattered incessantly. However that was not what horrified him the most. Instead what shot fear into the very core of his being was the fact that the larva was obviously changing. Its plating was a rusty almost yellow color, its face was smoothed and its mandibles seemed to be slowly retracting. Its clawed legs were becoming hidden and far too Cybertronian digits and limbs could be seen developing behind layers of protective plating. The thing that called itself Optimus Prime had spawned.

"You seem to have a habit for seeing that which you should not."

"What in the Allspark-"

"I am aware you came with the intention to destroy me, but I would ask you refrain for the time being."

"Why should I?"

"My directive is clear, my orders unchangeable... but myself and my creation are a failsafe, one meant to preserve. To destroy us would only be a detriment, at least right now."

"What the frag does that mean?!"

"Our time has not yet come. For now, we remain hidden and we will not cause undue damage. But the more you see, the more you try to understand... it will only force me to eliminate you and your kind. Do you understand?"

"To the pits with you abomination!"

"How foolish."

He tried to fight, but before he could act, the Prime broke into a sprint that would put speeders to shame. Even as Megatron took to the air to keep pace, the monster was dutiful and hurried into a hole in the ground before he could do anything. Optimus Prime and its spawn were unable to be touched. From that point onward a certain yellow scout became Megatron's secondary target. He could see that the scout was far more Cybertronian than his creator. He felt, he blended in, and he seemed to not even know what he was. Megatron would one cycle need to kill him, but until the scout presented true signs of being like the pretender, he would be left alone. Megatron was not fond of killing young, regardless of their origin.

He half expected the Prime to spawn more as the war raged. But it simply never happened. The scout was the only one, and for that Megatron was thankful. The Senate was long gone by the time the war reached its peak. Now all he needed to do was eliminate Optimus Prime and its followers. He would allow the scout to live so long as he never spawned. He simply needed to ensure that Cybertronian kind were safe...

Optimus Prime's display of horrendous limbs and fangs after he hurt the Prime's spawn was more than enough to have Megatron reaffirming his belief that, whatever Optimus was, it needed to be eliminated for good.

#transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #optimus prime #bumblebee #megatron #soundwave #eldritch abomination #pretender au #mystery #the plot thickens #who do yall think was involved in the making of the pretender?#:) I love making these kinds of au's

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ghost-proofbaby · 19 days

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“I must admit,” his voice is dropping, a rasp taking over as he grows close enough that she catches a whiff of bergamot and rosemary, “Your blood certainly calls to me more than the others. It’s tempting, to say the least.”

summary: aruna probably should have known there would be consequences to letting astarion drinking her blood.

wc: 5.2k+

warnings: this chapter contains semi-graphic description of blood drink-

oh, sorry. i forget my audience. y'all knew it was coming - this one is for my fellow juice boxes <3

ao3 | masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Gale had been an endlessly patient teacher, and Aruna had taken that fully for granted. She simply hadn’t realized how good she had it, sitting with the wizard who would kindly answer all of her endless questions, until she was sat with Astarion and watched herself genuinely get on his very last nerve.

“So,” Aruna says slowly, leaning even closer to the vampire on the bed of moss they had all but claimed as their own, “Let me get this straight – they drink your blood, you drink their blood, and that’s how you become a true vampire?”

“You make it sound simple .”

“It does sound simple,” she narrows her eyes at Astarion’s exasperated expression.

“Well, it’s not ,” he huffs, brows furrowed as he levels her with a returning glare.

She doesn’t understand why he’d be glaring at her, but she sits patiently and waits for him to further explain himself. He doesn’t.

“The man who turned you-”

“ Cazador,” he hisses the name in interruption with infinite discontent.

“Yes, Cazador,” she doesn’t say the name with quite as much hatred, but something certainly tugs within her chest when the name falls from her lips. Something uncomfortably and nearly angry, but for reasons she can’t pinpoint, “He won’t let you drink his blood? Wouldn’t it be better for you all if there was… I don’t know, an army of powerful vampires?”

Astarion stares off ahead at something in the distance, and she could tell just how confining this conversation was slowly becoming for him. He sighs restlessly, “If only. Vampires are power-hungry creatures by nature. The biggest threat to a vampire isn’t a cleric with a stake, as you all seem to think. The biggest threat to a vampire, is another vampire.”

The pieces are slowly coming together for Aruna, and she’s slowly beginning to understand that tug of disdain within her as she said Cazador’s name. Nothing good is becoming more and more apparent to be a cold-blooded truth.

“He’s better off keeping you as his obedient puppet,” she murmurs, looking softly to her friend . “It’s not about strength in numbers by building an all-powerful army for the masses – it’s about Cazador building his own personal army of spawns. Making you a true vampire just makes you… competition.”

Astarion won’t meet her gaze. There’s not a single sign of him confirming nor acknowledging her observation. His reactions on their journey thus far make far more sense; the instinctually loyalty he offered her, the small acts of defiance in which he was always testing the waters of her patience. He’s practically traded one master for another – he’s freed of Cazador, only to try and weasel his way under Aruna’s thumb instead, because it’s all he’s ever known. The safety of being someone else’s responsibility, the desperate reach for normalcy that she doesn’t think he’s even noticed himself grasping onto. If she were to so much as utter what she’s just realized, he’d probably drive a dagger into her chest for the suggestion.

But she didn’t want to be Astarion’s newest master. She had no desire to exalt that type of terrible ownership over the spawn. All she really wanted was to keep him safe and alive, which was a mystery upon itself with all things considered.

She decides to change the subject, not wanting to push him any further, “How are you able to walk in the sun? Is it a symptom of the tadpole or-”

“I have no idea,” he suddenly perks up, slowly returning back to her. She likes to see that – loves to see the spark of livelihood return to his eyes and the curiosity race across his features. It’s better than all the vacancy that would creep it’s way across him as he spoke of this Cazador, “Somehow, this tadpole has done some good. I can walk in the sun, I can cross running water, I can enter residencies without invitation. Something, someone , has officially changed the rules thanks to our little friends.”

He taps a finger to his temple, and she feels the vibrations of their connection. She’d decidedly left the mental bridge open for the time being rather than closing him out again. All his tiny bursts of excitement with each word of his newfound freedom are felt fully, minuscule zaps amongst her own brain that she adores.

He deserves it. She hardly knows him, but she knows he deserves this freedom he’s found despite their… complicated situation.

“How convenient,” she hums, leaning back and mimicking his current position as her arms stretch out behind her to hold her weight, “Well, I’m glad one of us has some positive side effects. Sounds like you’ve won the brain worm lottery there.”

This time, when he looks away from her, there’s no stress or fear in his features. He’s not wandering far from her mentally in recollection of his past; he’s simply looking around smugly, a faint smile playing at his lips, perfectly content.

“Seems like it,” he agrees.

With all that he’s revealed to her, she’s painfully aware of one topic they haven’t even brushed the surface of: his feeding habits. She obviously knows that he fed on the boar, has no doubt he’s been hunting down whatever small creatures he can get his hands on without causing any sort of ruckus that would draw attention. But the question lingers – is he used to only feeding on small vermin and the occasional boar?

Is it enough to satiate his hunger?

“I have a question-” she starts, and he’s already rolling his eyes, but she elects to ignore it, “-and you don’t have to necessarily answer it, I suppose, but… well, consider me too curious for my own good.”

“When aren’t you too curious?” he pokes fun at her, but she can see that shift of worry beneath it all, “I think I’d be more worried if you didn’t have any prying questions for me after all that’s been said.”

It’s just them. There’s no real harm in her asking as the rest of the camp rests, blissfully unaware of all she’s uncovered tonight. And yet she still hesitates, weighs out her options as she considers just how defensive he might get if she brings up his feeding habits.

What answer was she even seeking out? Did she wish to hear that, yes , he could sustain himself as he had been? And did she even have a plan, a solution , if he says that he can’t ?

The only blood she has easy access to would be her own.

“You’ve been feeding on animals…” she begins uneasily, tongue already fumbling to find the right words. He’s looking directly at her now, attention all hers as he hums and nods to signal that he’s following along. How do I even phrase this? “Is that- are you- is that normal for you?”

“Are you really asking a vampire if it’s normal for him to drink blood ?”

The scoff he lets out truly isn’t helpful. Because she’s asking so much more than that.

“Well, no- I just-” she can’t stop her stuttering, hands curling into tight fists as her nails bite into her palm in an attempt to steady her tone. She should just spit it out – ask him plainly and suffer the consequences, if there might even be any. “Is that all you need? Can you survive on just those animals, or should I be worried?”

His face morphs. At first, it falls slowly, a genuine and vulnerable show of consideration until he seemingly remembers where he is and who he’s with. In an instant, the mask is up.

“Well, they’ve worked just fine thus far, have they not?”

His scowl is almost cute. That gentle scrunch of his nose and the way his lips pull to reveal the sharp tips of his fangs. The entire show should probably worry her, is probably his attempt to warn her from pushing too far, but she can’t find a lick of fear anywhere in her. In neither her own addled mind, or that half of her soul buried beneath a mountain of unknown memories.

“I don’t know, have they?” It’s a hill she’s decided she’s willing to die on. Even if he lashes out, she’ll be pushing the question. Not just for her own safety, not just for the rest of her companion’s safety, but for Astarion’s safety. She’s meant to keep him alive, and part of that includes making sure he’s well fed, “I’m asking if this is the diet you’re used to, Astarion. If you’re capable of carrying on this way without me waking up to you fangs-deep in one of our companions.”

She could have phrased it a bit more kindly. Especially as he stiffens up and glares even more harshly at her.

“I’m not a monster, you know.”

“I never said you were.”

“Yes, but you seem to be insinuating such. I’ve kept my fangs to myself so far, why would you assume that to change after finding one of the carrion I’ve chosen to dine on instead of - oh, I don’t know – Gale , for example.”

It’s certainly not the right time to crack a smile, but she can’t help it, raising a brow, “ Gale? Out of all our companions, he’s the one you’d first sink your teeth into?”

If Astarion had any blood to spare, she’s sure it would be rushing to his cheeks right about now.

“What can I say? He has a certain air of forbidden fruit to him, does he not?”

He seems shocked when Aruna suddenly shifts her seated position. Instead of lounging beside him, she takes up the space directly in front of him, leaning in as if they were partaking in a secret conversation that not even the Moon would be privy to.

“I suppose he does. Not my first choice but… at least he wouldn’t put up a fight like Lae’zel might,” she fully lets him sink into the hypothetical discussion with her rather than reminiscing on what he had assumed she was insinuating. It was a careful dance, a subtle beckoning, to drag them away from something that couldn’t be further from the truth.

She didn’t see him as a monster, not in the slightest. And perhaps she should, or one day he would give her a reason to, but not tonight. Not here, in their little patch of moss, just hidden away from the rest of the camp. A spot forever tainted for her from now on, no longer her own personal bubble of safety to escape to, but their sanctuary.

Any nights spent here without Astarion were tinged with loneliness, she’s come to realize.

“Lae’zel would be quite the adventurous choice,” he nods, eyes slowly becoming hooded, as though the conversation was igniting a certain hunger in him she knew wasn’t satiated by mere boars, “Is that who you would sink your teeth into, my dear?”

“Gods, no,” she laughs, shaking her head quickly, “I can feel the press of her blade against my throat even for entertaining the idea. No, no – I’d probably go with a safer option. Perhaps… Wyll.”

Astarion’s face twists, as if the mere suggestion disgusts him, “ Ugh . I perish the thought – the man would probably be far too sweet.”

She’s never really considered how each person’s blood may taste differently. And even if she’d never be in a position to really experience such a thing, it’s entertaining to watch Astarion’s reactions to the hypotheticals.

“What about Shadowheart?”

“Hm, better. She’s nearly as enticing as Gale.”

“And me?”

The question slips out beyond her control. She’s simply too lost in whatever game they’re playing. She expects another rapid fire answer, just as he’d provided for Shadowheart, but instead, he looks taken back . True and genuine consideration flashes across his features. He’s taking his time, as though actually picturing her blood flooding his senses.

It should scare her. It should make her turn her cheek to him and call it a night. The mere thought of him drinking her blood should be enough to shake her from this entrapment that is his charm, but it isn’t.

She’d let him drink from her once. In her dream, in her discovered memory, she had let him feed on her.

“Sweet, but not quite as overwhelming as Wyll’s,” he finally whispers carefully, gazing at her in bonafide interest, “I imagine you’d go down smoothly, like a well aged whiskey. Perhaps even burn along the way, but in an… enjoyable way, I suppose. A burn I’d like to experience, over and over.”

“Sweet and spicy?” she huffs, growing a bit breathless, “You make me sound as though I’m made of pixie dust and cinnamon.”

“You could be, for all I know.”

“I could be.”

Her voice is so faint she isn’t even sure if he’s heard her. But he has, of course he has , as he shifts a fraction of a meter closer to her.

All that temptation, and he still had never attempted to drink from her in the dead of night. He’s had ample opportunity to take a taste, and he hasn’t.

She trusts him. Gods, she trusts him more than she should, memories of a past life or not. Tasked with being his savior or not.

“You’ve never tasted a human’s blood, have you?” she quietly asks, finding herself also leaning in as he was, erasing that space between them. Her hand twitches, tempted to lift and shift her hair to only one side, to expose her neck to him. It would be playing with fire; it would be a reckless choice to bare such a vulnerable body part to a vampire who’s just admitted to craving your blood.

She doesn’t do it, not yet.

“You’re not human,” he teases with a tilted grin, cocking his head to one side, “You musn’t forget your drow heritage, dear Aruna. Although, I’ll admit, that only fuels the temptation. I’ve heard whispers of just how addictive a drow’s blood can be.”

“Addictive?”

She’s fully enraptured now. He’s caught her in whatever web he seems to be spinning for the two of them. They’ve saunted dangerously over a line that should have never been crossed; she should have left well enough alone, but she hadn’t, and now she pays the price as his words settle in her chest.

“Think of it in terms of wines,” he has no need to stay so quiet, but his tone continues to lull gently across the spanse between them. Low words that she swears travels only to caress against her skin. The connection between their tadpole practically purrs with his sudden enticement, “Elven blood of any sort will always be considered of the more elite variety. Sweeter, richer, easier to get lost in. I’ve never tasted it for myself, but… well, word spreads amongst spawns and vampire lords alike.”

He’s never tasted elven blood. She’s so close to getting an answer, one that she had forgotten she was chasing after as her knees bump his. She can feel the chill radiating off of him, and it should cause her to jump far from his touch, but she can only lean into it.

A piece of her wants to break the distance and reach out for him. To hold him in her palms, to feel his body against hers. As if there has been a space specifically carved somewhere deeply within her, and only his shadow could fill the emptiness left behind. Only his carmine eyes, only his starlit curls, only his honeyed words. Only him.

An Astarion-shaped hole, left between the two halves of her soul, that only he can bridge the gap between.

She opens her mouth to reply, unsure of what words were about to even fall from her lips, when he interrupts, “I’ve never tasted the blood of a thinking creature – Cazador forbade it. I’ve only ever feasted on beasts .”

A simple truth, offered so freely, that rattles her.

She thinks she hates Cazador more with each bit of information Astarion offers up.

“What would it do to you?” she whispers, swearing she could capture the reflection of her violet eyes somewhere within his pupils, “If you did drink from a thinking creature, would it be any… different?”

He all but sighs out, “Infinitely.”

Something inside her twists, thrashes, suggests.

Offer yourself up to him. Offer him a gift. Offer your neck and don’t linger on the details.

“It’d certainly make me more powerful,” he continues on, oblivious to the decision she’s arrived on the precipice of, “If you think I’m helpful in battle now, you should see what a well-fed vampire spawn is truly capable of.”

It makes sense . If she offers him her blood, he’ll fight better. He’d be more useful to her. Helping him achieve that power helps her in the long run as well, making her entire task of keeping him safe a whole lot easier. It would only be a taste; she has faith in him. He could restrain himself, he would stop when she commanded so.

It simply makes sense, she convinces herself.

“Would you like to?” she blurts out before she can overthink it.

His eyebrows crease, “Like to what?”

“Taste a living creature’s blood.”

Time stands still as it always does with just the two of them. Aruna doesn’t dare to take another breath as she watches Astarion’s reaction, only partially worried that she’s overstepped some boundary she’d grown blind to.

It made sense. It had to.

He offers her protection, always following her closely and lending his daggers as needed, and she would offer her neck. It’s an even exchange, a fair trade. It’s the bare minimum of a gift she could offer him.

“Well, that depends,” he laughs nervously, “Surely, no one is simply offering up their necks to me. Most of all not you.”

“And if I was?” she cuts in, “If I was offering up my neck, would you accept?”

His sharp intake of breath is audible, mouth falling open and gaze set on her. It’s soft with genuine shock for a few seconds before those rubies turn cold as stone, “Do not play games with me.”

“No games are being played here, Astarion,” she doesn’t know what she has to do to convince him as she shuffles closer, growing more determined now, “You said it yourself. You can fight better, be stronger. All of this would benefit all of us in combat.”

“And you trust me that much?” he huffs out, back straightening out as he sneers, “You’d trust me to not drain you dry, to not leave you in the middle of the road just like that boar?”

She’s never been asked a simpler question. For once, her mind is quiet, her answer resounding.

“Yes.”

She trusts him. Whether it’s the right thing to do or not, she simply does.

She knows she shouldn’t want this. It shouldn’t feel so natural to offer up herself on such a pretty silver platter. He should be the one yearning, begging, for the opportunity. He should be the one overwhelmed by thoughts of how his fangs would feel as they pierced into her delicate skin.

A chasm runs between them. Not Astarion-shaped, not Aruna-shaped, but vaster than either of them could fathom. And she stares into it, listening to the wind’s hushed warnings of all she is about to give up. All that is about to offer.

It’s a choice she can’t take back. One that she doesn’t even really want to take back, when she comes to think about it.

His eyes are lively suddenly as he leans forward, an unexpectedly gentle hand brushing away the hair flowing over her left shoulder. With their mental bond, she can feel his hunger. That ringing abyss within him that echoes with all his wants, all his needs. The crippling and terrible thing that haunts his own gut, just as Aruna’s cleaved soul weighs upon her own chest. He helps heal the cleave – she doesn’t understand how or why, but he does. He makes the ache of being split in two a little more bearable. This small offering of help is the least she can do. To soothe the ache that resides in him. A tit for tat, of sorts.

“You want this?” his pupils are blown, eyes wide and staring right where her skin quivers with her racing heart rate. Listening to each pounding of each beat that makes her hands shake as she continues to let his fingers graze the vulnerable skin, “Truly?”

“I do,” she confesses quietly, more to the moon than to him, “I want you at your strongest. If this is the price to pay, then so be it.”

Save Astarion, no matter the cost.

Her blood is a small token in the grand scheme of all that is to come.

He swallows hard, clearing his throat slightly, “Well… let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

It’s automatic as they readjust. She shuffles herself to lay down on the bed of moss they’ve made their own, holding her breath as Astarion grows closer and slowly lowers his palms to press into the ground on either side of her head. She can’t tell which is colder – the ground beneath her, or the body above her. He radiates a chill that challenges the night’s own beckoning winds, one that could freeze her from the inside out if she’d just let it. It doesn’t seem like a bad option, either, as warmth blossoms in the center of her chest from his proximity.

She thinks back to the day they’d discussed methods of killing each other, should either of them ever appear to be succumbing to ceremorphosis. How the mere brush of his hands over her throat had sent her into a tizzy. The way he hovers over her now has a similar effect, switching on a terrible need to simply be close to him. The need for his touch, for his closeness. To feel each breath that he takes, not out of necessity but out of instinct .

He could kill her if he wants to. Drain her of life, and with the way they’ve hidden themselves away, none of the others would know.

His cool breath hits the side of her neck that he’s exposed, right over her thrumming artery, as he whispers, “ Relax . Just breathe, darling.”

She finally lets out a breath, head swimming as she fists the ground below, preventing her hands from coming up to touch him as they so desperately crave. Each deep breath that follows is flooded with his scent. The night is lost behind the essence of rosemary, bergamot, and… was that brandy? She thinks it might be. She’s sure it must be – but all thoughts have begun to evade her as his head dips down fully into the space between her shoulder and her ear, chest grazing her own as he adjusts to straddle one of her thighs.

That’s my good girl, the whisper of his voice cuts through the tadpole bond, sending shivers down her spine as she gasps for breath.

If she thought all logical thinking had been sent to the wind before, she knew it truly was now. All she knows is him . If he wants her, he can have her. She’s his. If only for this moment.

He leans in closer, and waves of deja vu wash over her. She’s been here before , she swears she has. Beneath the weight of his body, his fangs mere inches from her skin.

She’s been here before, his nose bumping along her neck, beckoning for her to stretch it even further for him as she looks up to the night sky.

She’s been here before, feeling the pounding of her heart so ferocious that he surely can feel the residual shakes of it in the little air between them.

She’s been here before, the grasp of his fingers against her hip, knuckles tense as he leaves his fingerprints seared into her skin, dancing dangerously close to the hem of her nightshirt.

She’s been here before, feeling the graze of his fangs in trepidation as he takes in a final unnecessary breath-

The deja vu is interrupted. Flashes of memories intertwining with the present come to a halt by one simple, innocent action. He surely didn’t mean anything by it. Maybe it was instinctual. Maybe it was a warning.

The softest press of his lips to her neck, the briefest of pecks, before she feels the return of his fangs.

One kiss, not even a second long – and it effectively unravels her mind.

In an instant, all self-restraint has been lost. She’s dizzy with the lingering feeling of that kiss, reeling from such an innocent action, when her hands let go of the moss below her and fly up to him. He tenses at first. The first brush of her desperate palms against his shoulder, and he stills entirely. It reels her in for just a second, and she readjusts, her greedy paws finding purchase elsewhere. One hand fists his sleeve within reach, the other rests delicate at the nape of his neck, urging him forward. Pressing him closer, closer, closer.

She can hear his chuckle over the bond.

Demanding little thing.

Even over quiet, mental exchange, she knows she sounds pain-stakingly desperate and breathless as she replies, always.

Demanding more of his touch. Demanding more of who he truly is. Demanding, demanding, demanding. The shattered bits of her will always call out to him with such an exigent manner.

When his fangs pierce her delicate skin, it only fuels the flames.

Icicles spread out beneath her skin, a searing pain she shouldn’t be so familiar with blossoming from where he’s sank them into her. In an instant, she can feel her blood rushing eagerly to pour out all that she can give him. And he drinks greedily, taking all that she will offer fervently.

Every nip, every suck, every lick – she experiences it intensely. The hand on the back of his neck turns into a grip. She tries to keep gentle, she truly does, but she can’t help but tug tightly on those curls. Threading them between each finger, pulling on them in time with each pulsation of her ichor flooding his mouth.

She feels him growl against her skin, and her entire body goes limp, pliant in his palms.

She should stop him soon. She feels the tips of her fingers and toes going numb, but she finds herself clinging to the weightlessness that takes over her body. An addictive feeling, only comparable to what he must feel as he drags her even closer and buries his face even deeper against her.

They’re getting lost in one another. Her head buzzes, an endless string of whimpers falling from his hunger lips, and she knows they need to stop . But it’s a distraction – a beautiful, kind, nice distraction.

For just a moment, there’s no weight of who she is or once was. There’s no need for her to decipher her past or the memories that have been revealed to her thus far. All she has to focus on is him; the feeling of his hair between her fingers, the weight of his knee sliding up her inner thigh as he further bends himself in half to stay desperately close to her, his cold skin beneath her fingertips as they slip and lose their grip on his sleeve. Over the connection, the hunger fades, and in its place lingers a purr of satisfaction. Of happiness.

Her entire body has begun to go numb. Her eyes flutter shut, unable to handle the way the sky above is seemingly spinning.

“Astarion.”

Her voice is hardly even a whisper. Something to lose within the breeze, the smallest of pleas. Insignificant and insincere. He could kill her, here and now, and she would allow him.

Astarion.

Just as she feels herself slipping further, lids too heavy to even attempt to open, the tadpole connection between them goes taut. One moment, they’ve completely lost themselves in one another, circling about in that chasm together . The next, painful flashes blind them both. Muddled pictures, blurry with time and space, appear not only in her mind, but his .

Astarion, leaning over her, caught red-handed during a time in which he had tried to taste her blood without permission. Frightful as he waits for her to make a choice: to stake him, or to trust him.

Aruna, a book in one hand as the other tangles fully in Astarion’s snow-white curls. His face is buried in her stomach as he hums, hidden, but no doubt painted with a contentment the vampire has only dreamed of for two hundred years.

Astarion’s hands resting on Aruna’s hips, his lips brushing her ears with dire instructions as he corrects her hold on a pair of daggers. Do not let your guard down after your first attack, his distant voice coos to her as a determination sets onto her features.

Aruna, leaning her weight against Astarion’s side, pressed safely into him as he wraps a blanket around her shivering form a bit more securely. The backdrop of a city, of Baldur’s Gate, behind them. Nothing good waiting for them just beyond.

A plethora of quiet nights spent in one another’s arms, across multitudes of landscapes. In the very camp they reside in now, in a darker scene in which the mushrooms just outside their tents seem to glow with magic. In a land of shadows, in some sort of inn that buzzes with the distant chatter of patrons down below. They all flash, one after another, each memory growing more blurred as they continue on. Aruna can’t decipher them, can’t reach out to cling to a single one, as she feels Astarion react to the intrusion as well. And then, it finally happens – a resounding snap within her mind that would have made her cry out in agony had she had any energy left.

His fangs retract from her in an instant. He throws himself back, landing harshly on the ground beside her. She doesn’t even have the strength to stop him, let alone question out loud what has happened.

She can’t say a single word. The echoes of the memories linger, the tadpole connection seemingly shattered.

Heaviness consumes her, preventing her from sitting up immediately in the same revelry of shock that she assumes that Astarion exudes. It takes several deep breaths before she can so much as open her eyes, let alone sit up.

When she finally does, she finds Astarion to be exactly as she had predicted, exactly as she felt: downright petrified.

“What-” Astarion is the first to speak up between them, pupils so large that they swallow his eyes in pitch black. A drop of her blood has long trailed past his chin, marking down the side of his neck now as he takes a shaky breath, “-was that?”

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