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All things considered, Feyran was a fairly easy pet to take care of. And so incredibly useful, too. Astarion would tell him what needed doing, when he needed it done by, and the little half-elf would make it so. He hardly ever needed specifics - ‘make it look deliberate’ or ‘make it look like an accident’ were the only particulars Astarion needed to share. After that, Feyran would take care of it perfectly. He once stole a valuable document by making it look as though an animal had broken in and ripped or eaten everything, complete with scratch marks on the furniture and muddy pawprints.
The only downside was that it had raised Astarion’s expectations a touch too high in regards to the rest of the servants he had acquired. For one, most of them shied away from the idea of murder like virgins. For another, they were often so stupid Astarion had to direct their every step or they would fumble even the most simple tasks. Worst of all…some of them expected to be paid. As though serving him wasn’t payment enough! Feyran never demanded or expected payment.
Well…that wasn’t entirely true. Astarion had a room just for him in the manor. Not just a guest room, but a room that was his . A large comfortable bed, a wardrobe where he could store all his simple, cheap clothes and tight fitting armors, a cabinet for all his precious little daggers…and he had delectable meals delivered to him thrice a day. He had every possible creature comfort he could ask for, which was why it sometimes slipped Astarion’s mind that such accommodations weren’t really the payment Feyran was hoping for.
Sometimes it could slip his mind for weeks at a time, and he wouldn’t remember until certain behaviors started emerging from his most loyal pet. It would start with him just becoming less verbose, making their meetings very to the point: ‘What do you want and how do you want it done’, and then leaving. Normally a stage that Astarion would overlook, as settling into the role of a vampire lord was much less reveling in power and more paperwork and other such tasks than Astarion would have liked. He was busy , he couldn’t always notice when Feyran was starting to have a fit.
The second sign was more noticeable, but could still be missed - Feyran would start avoiding him. He’d leave whatever thing he was asked to steal in Astarion’s bedroom or office without so much as a note, or he’d not even report a successful assassination unless he’d been specifically instructed to do so. And even then he would have a servant deliver the missive, or a scribbled ‘it is done’ on a piece of paper.
It was only the stage where he couldn’t find Feyran when he needed to that Astarion would start to suspect things were wrong. He wouldn’t be in his room or anywhere in the castle, and he’d be deliberately avoiding his usual haunts in the city. Astarion was forced to go looking for him himself. His brainless servants certainly couldn’t be trusted to find the elusive rogue - only Astarion was up to the task of locating Feyran when he didn’t wish to be found. More than once the search had taken him over a day, and he’d find himself hissing curses and swearing to himself he would turn that wretched red-headed brat into his spawn just to avoid these headaches.
A promise to himself that he has yet to fulfill. But every time this happens it becomes more tempting.
Of course, it has occurred to the Ascendant that he could play the game right back. He could ignore Feyran’s disappearance and wait for him to come crawling, but that was just the thing…he wouldn’t. As much as Astarion called these ‘fits’ or ‘tantrums’, they weren’t - not really. They were symptoms of the half-elf’s annoying little disease called free will . Astarion’s lack of proper payment meant that Feyran would get it into his head that he wasn’t happy here (as though he was ever happy), that he craved adventure and true freedom. Shortening their encounters, avoiding him entirely, and then becoming scarce…they were steps he took to distance himself, like an addict slowly cutting themselves off from the source.
It all meant Feyran was preparing himself to leave . To leave Baldur’s Gate, leave his role…leave Astarion .
And that. Would not. Happen.
He was far, far too useful for Astarion to let go. And truthfully, he loathed the way this wretched little game of theirs kept him beholden to someone . It should be enough that Astarion had use for him. It should be enough for Feyran to know that he was serving him. Such knowledge should humble and gratify him! He shouldn’t need this payment .
But such anger melted away to a quiet, ignorable burn in the back of his mind when stepped onto the docks and saw that familiar head of red hair gently blowing in the wind, his blue-green eyes fixated on the distant horizon. The look of longing on his face, the determination furrowing his brow…his shoulders drawn back and hand resting on the hilt of his dagger…
Such a sight nearly brought a flutter to Astarion’s heart, recalling their early days together when the half-elf’s boldness and willingness to kill (and oh, he killed so very well) were enough to stir Astarion’s interest and desire. His little murderer was so damn pretty , now that that disgusting illithid ‘evolution’ had vanished with the tadpoles, and given him back his proper face and body…Astarion couldn’t help but take a moment to stay where he was, out of Feyran’s focus, to just stand there and admire the man. Admire him like a collector might admire one of the best paintings on their walls, or a rancher one of his prize horses - an object, a possession , who’s value only mattered so long as it was his .
But the trance was broken when Astarion noticed something - there was a bag next to Feyran’s feet, and his keen senses were able to espy a bit of paper sticking out of the pocket of his pants.
‘...no. He wouldn’t dare .’ Astarion’s eyes flash and his hands curl into fists as he slowly approaches, walking towards Feyran from behind from the other side of the docks. His gait is leisurely, his posture relaxed - but his eyes are full of fury. ‘He would not dare to leave me.’
His steps are silent as he comes up to Feyran. Normally the half-elf might have noticed him by now, he was usually so alert. But his focus is on the horizon, and whatever nonsensical daydreams he might be having about freedom . So Astarion is easily able to come up to him and snatch the ticket out of his pocket, holding it up next to his face. He smiles when Feyran whirls around to face him, daggers drawn.
Astarion's teeth show as he asks. “And what is this?” His voice is light, lilting in an almost playful manner, as though he’s teasing a friend, rather than reprimanding a naughty pet.
Feyran’s eyes briefly widen, but as always he is quick to reign in his emotions, gaze turning stern as he sheathes his daggers and puts his arms at his sides. “It’s mine, first of all.” He snaps, his glare turning more aggressive when that response makes Astarion laugh.
‘As though you truly own anything at all, pet. You know you’re mine - everything you have is mine. Body, mind, and soul included, you ungrateful little wretch .’
Astarion does not voice these thoughts, because he knows it’s a… sensitive topic for his little killer. Feyran values freedom more than anything - a value they shared, once upon a time. Now that Astarion has his freedom (and will never, ever lose it again), it’s less of a value and more of an…objective completed. He needn’t worry about it anymore. Nor need he respect it for others. But if he were ever to voice this belief, that Feyran was his , that he had no choice to leave, then the half-elf would become considerably more difficult to deal with.
So they continue to play this game. “You didn’t tell me you were going on holiday. I’m certain such a thing would not have escaped my memory.”
Feyran returns the demeaning laugh Astarion had given him a second ago, and the Ascendant vampire finds he really does not care to be on the other end of such a noise. “Escaping your memory is the easiest thing there is to do.”
It’s an insult, and Astarion should take it as such. But, he can’t help but smile and let his eyes shine. Normally it takes far more arguing for Feyran to let his hand slip, but this time it’s been revealed immediately.
“Oh, my dear friend …” Astarion purrs, stepping closer, ticket still pinched tightly between his ivory fingers. “Have you been feeling forgotten ? Unappreciated? Taken for granted?”
Feyran tries to step back, but there’s little room for him to do so on the edge of the docks. “I am not a dog that needs attention.” He growls.
“Oh, lie to yourself all you like, my treat. We both know it’s not true~” He places one hand on Feyran’s waist, and Astarion can feel the way his skin still jumps at touch, as though he wants to leap away - after all this time, he’s still terrified of the feeling of another’s hand on him, no matter how gentle.
“Don’t touch m- ”
“Do not tell me what I can’t do.” Astarion’s other hand finds its way to the back of Feyran’s head, long fingers threading through his hair and holding it tightly.
Feyran bites his teeth together and his eyes squint up as he’s rendered still, glaring at Astarion. The vampire stares back at him, and eventually his gaze slides down to the dagger blade being held at his throat. My, but his pet’s reflexes were still so quick.
He smiles down at the shorter man, unthreatened by the display. For a few moments they hold each other’s stare, and the sound of Feyran’s heartbeat, the way his throat gently pulses with it, is so delicious .
“Drop it, pet.” Astarion orders, voice soft and adoring, like a parent binding the scraped knee of their reckless child.
For a second, it seems like Feyran may actually ignore the order - that he may choose to disobey. But they’ve done this dance too many times by now for Astarion to really believe that will be so.
He sighs, content and vexed, when the knife clatters loudly onto the wooden boards beneath their feet, the blade catching the last rays of the sun as it sets over the horizon. Feyran is breathing hard through his nose, and Astarion hums quietly as he runs his hand slowly up the half-elf’s back, feeling the minute tremors of his body - he smells like anger, but there’s an undertone of fear.
“So flighty…so sensitive…” Astarion whispers, loving the way that Feyran’s ears nervously flick whenever Astarion speaks into them. “So… untrusting …so afraid …this lonely body of yours is so quick to reject the slightest brush of fingers…” The very tips of his fingers graze the back of Feyran’s neck as if to prove a point, and he delights in the way Feyran jerks violently, the way his breathing picks up as he moves his hand around to his throat, spreading his hand over it.
He’s so very strong, now - crushing Feyran’s throat in his hand would be all too possible. And from the look in his eyes, Feyran is well aware of this - it may be the only thing he’s thinking about. And they can’t have that can they?
Astarion lets the threat linger a moment before bending his head down and kissing the skin over his artery, maybe briefly letting his tongue slip out for a taste. He can’t help it - the way Feyran’s blood races every time he touches him is like a siren’s call.
His other hand pulls gently on Feyran’s hair, tilting his chin back and up, and if Feyran were a less reserved man, Astarion imagines this is the point where a delicious little whimper might slip out. But Feyran has always been difficult to bring to that point, and they haven’t the time here, now, on the docks. But he doesn’t fight the pull as much as he would if he truly wanted Astarion to let go of him.
“Every muscle, every instinct you have, is primed for escape, isn’t it?” Astarion whispers against his neck, hand trailing to rest at the small of Feyran’s back and push him in closer. “No one can ever lay a hand on you…except me.” He grins. “You fight yourself for me , don’t you? Every moment is a war against your own self preservation. But you want me. You crave my touch. You lie awake at night hoping for it, praying for it to be the next thing awaiting you when you return to me, fresh blood on your hands…”
Feyran doesn’t respond - he keeps his arms rigid at his sides, hands curled into fists. He wants to deny it, he wants it to not be true , but gods damn him…it is. Every word.
“You’ve been neglected…alone in your bed, heartbroken and starved for my touch.” There’s a hint of pity in Astarion’s voice - only partly mocking. Feyran’s situation has always been something of a mystery to him. Every day of his life for the past 200 years, there was always hands on him that Astarion didn’t want. When he escaped, he rejoiced in the luxury of being able to go hours, even longer, without being touched at all.
There was a point, when he did desire touch of a specific kind…that of a loved one, the sort that had… emotional intimacy…but the very thought makes him scoff now. He’s above such desires, he’s too powerful to need anyone.
Even Feyran, he doesn’t need. He could snap his neck right now and toss him into the sea and only mourn the loss of the convenient services he provided. Perhaps one day he will, when this dance of theirs ceases to amuse. He’d rather Feyran be dead than free. If he can’t have him, no one can - not even Feyran.
But for now, the way he need only lightly pluck at the strings he’s tied so carefully around Feyran’s every joint in order to make the half-elf fold in his arms is a delight. Being able to wield this power of seduction…one that he was forced to learn and use for the benefit of him…now is free for him to use whenever he wishes, on anyone at all, for his own purposes. Knowing that Feyran would never let anyone else do this, that he only responds to Astarion’s overtures, no matter how much he knows it’s manipulation…is as satisfying as a long drink right from the throat.
Slowly Astarion trails his lips up the side of Feyran’s neck, over his jawline, hovering near the corner of his mouth. He feels the half-elf tense in anticipation, and smirks when he only pulls away, leaving Feyran grasping for something being yanked out of reach. An unspoken promise for a little treat later. If he behaves.
Astarion removes his hands, and holds up the ticket in front of him. “Tear it up.”
Feyran stares at it, hands twitching, before he reluctantly takes it in his grasp. He brushes a thumb over the printed letters, smudging the W a touch, before he grips it tightly and rips. Astarion sighs in contentment as he watches the pieces flutter in the wind and go their separate ways, shoulders dropping a touch.
Then he suddenly kicks the bag at Feyran’s feet into the water, in such a sudden motion that Feyran can scarce follow it. The rogue can’t even get out a word of protest before his chin is tightly caught between Astarion’s fingers, forced to look at Astarion so fast that it hurts his neck.
“Never do this again, do you understand?” He snarls, voice low and eyes radiating malice. “If I ever catch you on this dock again…”
The threat goes unfinished - whether that’s because Astarion feels no need to verbalize it, or because he doesn’t know what he’d do…the vampire himself isn’t sure.
He takes a deep breath and releases his prey, stepping back. “I will see you tonight, my treat. And we will make up for lost time, won’t we~?”
Feyran’s expression is…numb, as he looks at him and nods. But Astarion can see through it. He can see the longing hiding there in his eyes, desperate and hungry.
It’s a picture he carries in his mind all the way back to the castle, knowing well enough even without having to glance over his shoulder, that Feyran is following at his heels.
As he always will be.