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Astarion shivered in the cold night air as he watched Tav sleeping peacefully in the grass. They looked beautiful. They always did, Astarion found himself appreciating that beauty more and more often.
When he first offered up his body to them, he couldn’t care less about their appearance. They could have been the most repulsive creature in all of Faerûn and Astarion would’ve still slept with them. The only thing on the vampire’s mind on that night was the looming threat of Cazador and the protection that Tav could provide.
He could hardly even recall the last time he considered the appeal of someone’s appearance. Astarion didn’t have that luxury as one of Cazador’s spawns after all. When he was turned and forced to bring delicious victims to Cazador for the first time, he would try to alleviate his disgust by choosing prettier prey. He could remember cherry-picking from the gorgeous elves and humans who were unfortunate enough to wander into one of his frequented taverns like a spoiled child.
The victims’ looks never mattered in the end. All their touches felt vile on his skin, all their kisses made his stomach churn, and all their thrust made him choke on bile. All the victims Astarion bedded, no matter how handsome or alluring, washed into one.
Sebastian.
Thousands of men and women touched him during his time as a slave. Thousands of victims and yet they all wear the same face. A young human’s who was so naive, it made Astarion want to laugh. He wasn’t even kissed before and all Astarion did was take all that innocence away without hesitation only for Cazador to…
No, Astarion shook his head, he wasn’t going to think about that now. He killed Cazador. Astarion was free. Sebastian was free and so were the other seven thousand or so spawns. So what did it matter who Astarion found pretty? He was free to fuck who he wanted now, wasn’t he? When, where, and how.
For the first time in two hundred years, Astarion enjoyed sex so why was it that he couldn’t enjoy the moment? Why couldn’t he just be free from his thoughts of his forced conquests? He wanted to sleep with Tav. He wanted to show them his grave. He wanted to let them in. It was his choice. All of it.
This was supposed to be the end. The grand finale. Showing them this part of his past, sleeping with them… It was supposed to bring him closure, help him reclaim some broken part of him. He should be happy. He should feel liberated and empowered, not like this: conflicted and confused.
He was pathetic. He defeated Cazador and threw away his chance to ascend only to feel like shit.
Cazador was dead. Astarion won. The rest of the spawns were in the Underdark, enjoying their freedom. The last thing on his mind should be the victims the vampire lord forced him to take.
Astarion sighed, running his fingers through Tav’s soft hair with his eyes glued onto his grave. Astarion Ancunín. The grave of a dead man. Of course, he was still alive, in a way at least. But Astarion the magistrate, everything he was before becoming a vampire spawn was gone. Cazador murdered the man he once was and took everything that remained.
There was nothing left of his old life except for half-remembered facts. He knew he was a magistrate and a corrupt one at that. He knew he was born a noble and lived a comfortable life. He was a stranger to struggle. He also knew how he died, how he got jumped by the Gur.
But he could recall nothing of significance. He couldn’t remember his mother or any other family member for that matter. He couldn’t even remember the colour of his own eyes for hells’ sake.
Astarion often found himself wondering about his life before Cazador despite the gut-wrenching agony it always caused him. It brought him some twisted comfort to know he was a person before Cazador, that there were people who cared that he died.
He wondered if he had taken any lovers.
He must have. Astarion knew that. He wasn’t naive. Even when he first started hunting, the intricate ways in which he touched and pleasured his targets could only be achieved through vast experience.
He wondered if he reveled in their bodies. If they loved him and Astarion loved them in turn.
It was a ridiculous thought.
It didn’t matter what he did or who he was before Cazador. That man was dead. Cazador destroyed him.
Astarion looked down at Tav, taking in their disheveled clothes and the love bites covering their neck. He enjoyed taking them. He reveled in the sounds they made, the way their body arched in response to Astarion’s caresses. He could still feel their sweet taste on his tongue.
Tav was breathtaking as far as Astarion was concerned. He was enthralled by every fiber of their being. He could spend hours staring into their eyes and losing himself in their infinite beauty. He would find himself fascinated by the way their hair curled around their neck, fantasising about running his fingers through those gorgeous locks for days on end. Yet once they were naked in front of him with all their irresistible allure on display, he couldn’t find the slightest hints of arousal in himself.
He didn’t understand. Tav was perfect. They were the first person in two hundred years whose beauty caught Astarion’s eyes and he wasn’t attracted to them.
He enjoyed the way Tav’s hands felt on his body as they discovered every inch of him ever so gently. Unlike the times when Astarion simply slept with them as a way of manipulation, it felt great. Their touches didn’t make his skin crawl, and their moans didn’t nauseate him like before. He loved the way they writhed beneath him but he still wasn’t satisfied.
Well, that wasn’t completely true. His body was certainly satisfied and it did feel nice to some degree. It just didn’t feel necessary or something he would desire. For Astarion, it was simply more gratifying to see Tav in highs of pleasure than experiencing it himself.
Astarion knew Tav would understand if he never wanted to sleep with them again. Or if he didn’t want to get pleasure out of sex. They were so painstakingly kind and understanding, that Astarion knew they would never hold this against him.
That didn’t make him feel any less broken.
He wondered if Cazador ruined him. If the countless hands and one-faced targets touching and using his body destroyed something precious inside him. That would be laughable. Of all the gruesome things Cazador subjected him over the years, this was the thing to break him. How pathetic.
That was a stupid thought of course. The number of people one shares their body with doesn’t define them. And Astarion also knew that there were people who didn’t experience that innate desire for others’ bodies. But he would never know if he was like this before Cazador. His creator took any agency Astarion had over his own body. Even the enjoyment of self-pleasure was deprived of him for two centuries. How was he supposed to know himself?
The morning sun slowly crept over the horizon, a few rays of sunshine illuminating the almost empty graveyard. Astarion closed his eyes, savouring the warmness while he still could. Soon it will be gone, along with the tadpole in his head.
The vampire gently nudged Tav who was still in a deep slumber, making them stir. Astarion smiled at them softly as they rubbed the sleep out of their eyes, pressing a tender kiss onto their warm lips.
Things would be fine. He was free now after all. He had the power to explore himself and the world, even if the sun would be taken from him. Astarion had someone who loved and cherished him and whom he loved and cherished in return. With Tav by his side, he would figure it all out.