"Lord Gortash seems to really have an aching desire for our allyship - yours in particular," Astarion mutters. "I think he wants a bit more than to ally with you."
They had shown up not 10 minutes earlier, guns blazing, before the Chosen of Bane had talked them down; his reasoning was that they would never be able to defeat him there as his Steel Watch stood guard, nor could they defeat Orin without his help.
Karlach had nearly told him where to stick his alliance - but then she saw Wyll's father, Duke Ravengard, at the far end of the hall, and she knew it would have to wait.
Had Karlach not wavered, Aysla would have continued to lead the charge; but without her - the one person who was owed her vengeance upon Gortash more than anyone - Aysla let it go, opting for the temporary alliance.
She's chewing on the inside of her cheek, seated poutily in between Karlach and Astarion, with Wyll on Karlach's other side.
The hall is full of decadent, useless people watching a decadent, useless man put on a crown. As the ceremony drones on, Gortash looks to them with frequency, glancing in Aysla's direction pointedly.
And Astarion hates it. He hated it Fraygo's Floghouse, he hated it at Sharess' Caress, and he hates it here. He hates watching the eyes of stupid, po-faced brutes rake over Aysla.
Aysla finally looks up from her shoes, and stares right back into Gortash's ruddy face. Then, she leans into Astarion's shoulder familiarly. She takes his hand, the one closest to her, and places it on her knee. "That's too bad."
She looks at Astarion and bites her lip.
A cord of something both familiar and strange pulls him to her tautly. The attraction is always there, but now, so much time having gone by without having her, it's something like possession; something like need.
"And why is that?" he breathes. No one can hear them over the chatter of the crowd.
He looks at her willful face. He looks at her eyelashes, her gaunt little cheeks, her pointy chin, and her sweet, pink little mouth. He ought to kiss her here, he thinks. Gortash's coronation will pale in comparison to the crowning of his lips on hers. He wants them all to see.
Can't they tell their stares are not wanted? Can't they see the invisible tether between the two of them? Can't they see her heart in his hands?
She brushes his jaw with her nose. If the lords and ladies of the court find it scandalous, the lords and ladies of the court can go fuck themselves. "I belong to someone already."
Something clicks for Astarion then. His mind flashes to the times when he had her before - his cock in her mouth, his hand between her legs. Would it still feel tainted to couple with her, now? Or would it just feel right?
She says she's his.
He removes the hand she placed on her knee and puts his arm around her chair. He leans into her space. "How far is this Abbadon Manor in Brampton you spoke of?"
"Um - quite a ways away - maybe an hour's walk?"
He pulls out a scroll of Haste and smiles wickedly. "Let's get going then, darling."
"Now?"
"Wyll and Karlach can fill us in. Fuck this coronation."
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
When they reach Aysla's house, she pauses at the front door. "Um - wait here."
"Really? We came all this way for you to tell me to wait here?"
"Just give me five minutes!"
She runs inside, and slams the front door.
Aysla's house is more of a cottage, a tiny thing, but she was house-proud regardless. She had purchased it on her own, with her own money, after 6 years of working at The Counting House bank. She had been glad she didn't sell it when she met Davidus too. It had served as her safe haven afterwards, and it made for an excellent depression cave.
The first thing Astarion notices is the brightly colored door, painted a glossy, cherry-red. Closely inspected, one can see the various little bumps and gouges in the wood, clearly old and heavy. Someone took time to carefully paint it; to make it shiny and new.
Looking around, the rest of the details of the little home indicate the same care. The neighborhood of Brampton is all gray and dreary, but the house is like one clean spot of sunshine. He can see neatly tucked away by the side of the house various brooms and rakes in a neat row.
This was home of the infamously inebriated Aysla-of-the-past, pre-tadpole?
He notices, too, several cats lining the perimeter. He counts up to 6 of them, when Aysla's door swings open.
"Ok," she smiles, breathing a little heavily. "Come on in."
The inside of her home is not quite so cheerful. It's quite tidy and clean, with various, clearly handmade, pieces of furniture. The walls are all white - and that's what it is, Astarion realizes - the walls are all so, so white.
There is not one painting or portrait or poster hanging on the walls. It's sterile, in here, like no one lives here at all. Or like the person who lived there didn't care to put up pictures - they didn't care to make their space feel like home.
And truly, Aysla didn't. She never got the chance to decorate because she was always so damned busy. First, she was busy working overtime at the bank - then, she had her hands tied, literally, with Davidus.
Once finally freed, she could have found a new lease on life, and filled her house with decorations and dinner parties and joy. But she didn't - she just got The Depression. She spiraled, drank, and spiraled some more. Once she resigned herself to probably just drinking until she died, there was no reason to decorate.
But the house was clean, at least. Always near spotless, so that when the day finally came, she thought, morbidly, whoever found her remains wouldn't think her a slob.
Astarion thinks it's a little heartbreaking, but he hardly has time to ponder it. Their whole fucking lives had been heartbreaking.
The moment the door shuts behind them, he grabs her face, and presses it to his.
He pulls back, leaving Aysla panting lightly, and holds her hands in each of his. "I want to... initiate something."
Aysla's body says yes before she does, a wave of heat rushing to her core. "Okay," is all she musters.
"Do you have a bathtub?"
Aysla cocks her head. "Yes?"
He looms over her, breathing into her ear. "Would you like to take a bath?"
She nods, feeling slightly nervous, and drops his hands gracelessly, turning towards the bathroom to draw the bath.
He smiles, leaning against the chaise of her living room. His, she had said. Maybe he isn't ready to take all of what is his, yet, without the loathing and disgust creeping back into his skin, but surely he can break off a piece?
"Where do you keep towels?" he calls for her.
"The closet by the hall!" she replies.
There is a narrow door across from her living room. As he's already turning the knob and pulling it open, Aysla realizes where she's fucked up.
"Shit - wait -"
She runs out to see him aghast, with the closet door open.
There are several shelves - the top one holds a stack of neatly folded towels. Every other shelf is lined to the gills with neat, seemingly endless rows of bottles. Enough amber-colored liquor to spell a death sentence for anyone who dare attempt to imbibe it all. And this is what Aysla was up to, before she was abducted by a nautiloid, and thrown into this mess.
"Oh, darling..." Astarion says, stepping back.
"Wrong closet," she says sheepishly.
"Stocked up, were you?"
"A lifetime supply," Aysla replies dryly, "if you're trying to kill yourself."
She mimes a 'badum tss' on imaginary drums.
"Right," he says.
A long silence stretches.
"Maybe... don't? Try to kill yourself, I mean? Anymore? Some of us would mourn the loss of that pretty face. Not to mention your very useful pension for violence."
Astarion knows his tone comes off uncomfortable - because he is. It's an intimate and unspoken topic, but he's painfully aware that he may be the only person in the world that she trusts enough to lean on in any capacity. She could not have chosen worse, but he's determined to do the best he can with the position he holds, unqualified and inexperienced as he is.
"Can I ask..." he trails off. How long had they shared a bed, and he had avoided the question. "Why?"
She opens her mouth and closes it.
"I mean - I know why, to a degree. I know that those men... hurt you. But it sounds like you had already been hurtling yourself towards early liver disease before that. It seems like it only accelerated it. And," he gulps before he continues more softly, "why have you stopped? I try not to pry, you know, but I did notice that you don't really partake anymore - is it on my account?"
Aysla suddenly feels very small.
She bites her lip, deciding how much of herself to reveal. "Oh, I don't know Astarion - some of us are just born with too much self-pity and too little wit!"
The joke doesn't land, despite her halfhearted chuckle.
"If you must know," she continues, "I always resented being chosen by whatever celestial ancestor of mine decides to bestow these ' gifts' upon me, if you can call them that. I've had nightmares nearly my entire life. I was a sleep-deprived child, to say the least."
She starts fiddling with her hands nervously.
"Drinking calmed the nightmares. But anytime I did sleep, I'd have these horrendous visions of things that would sometimes happen, sometimes not. It was a terribly anxious way to live. And the drinking helped with that. And then," she continues, still unable to look at him, "I met Davidus. And I was already a lost child - I was only nineteen, for gods sakes - and then he started hitting me. And then he caged me. And then he shared me, with people. And I wanted to die, every day. And I had nothing to accomplish it with, but that. "
She gestures to the bottles.
"I suppose when I escaped, I could have stopped then. But I just felt... a sort of injustice. I'm supposed to be what, the third great granddaughter of an actual angel? And yet that power let... this happen? Does that make any sense to you?"
Aysla finally looks at Astarion, and her eyes are on fire.
"And here I am talking about me - and the whole time, you were right there! I just don't understand it," she laughs, all bitterness and rage, and shakes her head. "Everyone praying to their little gods - it's a stupid fantasy. What kind of gods would do that, Astarion? To either of us?"
He just looks at her. Her lip trembles, her hands tremble, quaking with anger.
"I'm the happiest I've ever been now, with you - that's why I stopped drinking. But how ridiculous and demented, that we were right under each others' noses, trapped in our separate hells. I was locked up being forcibly violated , and you were out here being used too - and we were so close to each other. It's all so sick and unfair. So I kept drinking - to stick it to whatever foul higher power in the Astral plane that had sat idly by while I got split in two by some bumbling oaf every other day. I wanted to show them what I thought of their fucking gifts. Whole lot of nothing it ever did for me," she sneers, eyes glossy.
Astarion chews on that for a second.
"I prayed to every god there is," he says, mournfully. "None of them answered."
Aysla's face only contorts more, hearing him admit it; that he felt the same bitter dejection, the same spurning by the light the gods seemed to so arbitrarily shine on some and not others.
"Once," he says, his eyebrows pulling together, "in the beginning of my slavery, I started to feel... empathy; for the poor wretched creatures I would bring back to Cazador. They weren't all bad - there was a darling, sweet boy - one I couldn't bear to bring back to him. So I ran."
Aysla tries to picture it. The Astarion she knows doesn't pull punches - he doesn't stay to help innocents unless he has to. But he wasn't always that way; someone made him that way. Just like her.
"He caught me, of course, and the bastard sealed me - starving - inside a dusty tomb, all on my own, for an entire year," he recalls grievously. "A year of silence. Months I spent scratching my hands raw, and more months I spent not moving at all. Months wishing only for death."
She wonders which hell she would prefer - one more year kept as a pet to be used and abused? Or a year in a tomb, with no one and nothing at all? They're both horrible. They're both just so fucking unfair.
"Sorry to keep talking about life and death - I'm sure we've had enough of both. But, do you think," Aysla says, finally willing herself to voice her fear, "that it'll be different? When they're dead?"
Astarion puzzles at that. "Not even killing Cazador will ever change what he did to me. But taking his life's work? That might be something." He smiles wistfully.
"And," he adds, "I would do it for both of us, you know. We would be safe - forever. I could protect you. I could scratch every damned name from your list."
Looking at Aysla, Astarion could cry if he let himself. She looks like she did when she was standing over the dark-haired man at Flaygo's Flophouse - lost and small; tired and confused. How could anyone hurt a little face, like that? He'd kill them all today if he could.
"I used to dream of them, every night," she says. "But I don't anymore. Not since you."
Astarion smiles a little at that. He knows she still has nightmares, though he hopes he chases away the worst ones - laughs them away, kisses them away, cuddles them away from her.
"And the last time I saw them - my deva, my guide - they only told me one thing when I asked about my future. They just said ' justice ,'" she adds. "I think it meant you. I think that for everything you've suffered - we've both suffered - maybe we're meant to get justice."
And what else could it be? For all the pain and suffering that Cazador had wrought upon him, what else would stealing it from under his nose - becoming so impossibly strong that no one could ever hurt him, or her, ever again - be, if not justice?
"I'm so lucky," he says softly, "that you're mine."
Her heart swells. He never calls her that - his. She wonders sometimes if he reviles the idea of possession - of owning one another. Though she doesn't push it, deep down, she loves it. Oh, how she loves the idea of being his .
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Aysla lies in the bathtub. For once, the conversation ebbs and flows. They're both loquacious people, but a peaceful calm fills the air.
After a stretch of silence, Aysla suddenly wonders aloud, "What's your last name? I just realized, I've never heard you go by a full name."
Astarion sits behind her in the tub - his grand plan had simply been to bathe together. An innocent enough activity, but intimate, he thought. Safe. He plays with her hair, enjoying the feeling of her against his bare chest.
The water shakes a little with the vibrations of his chuckle.
"It's Ancunin," he replies, a smile in his voice.
"Ancunin," she repeats. "Prettier than Abbadon."
Aysla bites her tongue, wishing she had said nothing. The implication of her thought hangs in the air.
But he has wondered too. The elephant in the room they both dance around. "What do you think you'll want to do, after all of this, my love?"
Aysla is grateful that her back is turned to him. It makes it easier to speak her heart out loud to the water in front of her, than to him directly, "Well - we could stay here. It's nearly paid off. I make decent money at The Counting House. And we can redecorate it to make it feel more yours, too."
Now that she's started, she can't stop the babbling nervous words from tumbling out. "Only if you want to, of course. And we could always move, if you'd prefer, and I could rent it out, or I'm sure I could get a decent price selling it - I'd just need to give it a fresh coat of paint - and the mortgage rates in the city are great right now, so - I could always pull some gold from my savings, if you'd rather we stay some place nice -"
Astarion tunes out when she starts talking about mortgage rates, and explaining how amortization works. She can't see him, but he's beaming .
She answered his question, without saying it directly - she wants to stay together. He worries she wouldn't want to, despite all the sweet nothings they had already confessed to one another. He always takes the words with a grain of salt - it's easy to confess undying love for someone when dying the next day is such a real possibility.
But what if they don't die? What if they make it? What if he Ascends? They could have everything. But he hasn't asked her about her thoughts on that part yet. She wants to stay together, from the sounds of her meandering answer - but would she let him turn her? Would she stay beside him, in perpetuity?
He realizes that she's still droning on about retirement investments when he leans to one side of her and kisses her neck. Why is she trying to sell him on sticking with her as if she's presenting a report to some boardroom - as if she's not the only person in the world that he has? Where else does she think he'll want to go?
She finally trails off when he trails kisses down to her collar.
Astarion loves this - he loves her. He even thinks he could love her little ramshackle home. It reminds him of a memory too far gone to grasp the full details. The smell of fresh baking, children's laughter, sunlight - the memory of a warm, that he's all but forgotten.
He would rather live in a broken little cottage with her, than in a palace without her. Her tiny house, full of spoiled little cats. In another life, maybe, if they had met as normal people, they could have filled it with love and warmth and spoiled little children.
"You'd want me to stay with you?" he asks, softly.
"Well - only if you'd want to," she says, flushing.
"That sounds lovely, my dear." He kisses her ear. His hands drift to the sponge, off to the side of the tub. He starts rubbing it against the skin of her collar, the skin of her chest, the skin of her abdomen, drifting further south, slowly.
"Or - we could stay in the palace, together," he says, nuzzling the skin of her neck as his hand drifts tantalizingly closer. "Once it's mine. And you'll be mine, too, won't you?"
He had danced around the word for too long, worrying that she wouldn't like it - after all they had been through, perhaps she would find something wrong with him implying any kind of ownership.
But he knows that she likes it. He can tell from the way that her hips swirl, pushing against him, when he says it. It feels right .
And it's a bit of a test, too - if the Ascension works, as he hopes it does, he doesn't want her for a few cheap years. He wants her forever. Does she want to be his, too?
"Yes, Astarion," she says.
He keeps up the swirling of the soft sponge as it reaches her womanhood. "Yes, what, my love? Tell me."
"I'll be yours," she replies, bucking her hips against the feeling, wishing desperately that it was his hand. "I'm yours already."
His left hand fondles her breast.
"Astarion - should we stop?" Her breaths come in shallow pants.
"I'll tell you when, darling - I promise - but not yet," he says, his voice tinged with urgency.
He drops the infernal sponge.
"I want to touch you," he says into her ear. "May I?"
She swirls her again, needily. "Please," she hisses.
He parts her folds in the water. She's so warm. He dips a finger into her, and the water splashes as her body responds.
He kisses and sucks at her neck. He lets his fangs ghost the skin where he's left little scars that never quite get the chance to heal.
She nods, before he even has the chance to ask the question.
He bites down, at the same that he slips a second finger into her silky wetness. He groans into her neck, trying to lap the rivulets of blood as they drip from her veins, before they can cascade into the splashing water.
"Gods, Astarion," Aysla cries out. It's all too much - the talk of the future, the love in her heart, his hand in her cunt, his teeth in her neck. She sees stars.
"Mm," he hums back, releasing her neck from his fangs. He pushes the length of his hardness up and down against her bare back.
"You're everything, you know, Aysla," he says, pumping his fingers in and out of her languidly. "You're everything that matters."
They said I love you to each other so many times that it had lost some of its punch. It still holds meaning - gods forbid he leaves Aysla's tent in the morning without saying it back - but it isn't enough to express what she is to him.
He feels feverish, when he moves his hand from inside of her to rub her clit fervently, unforgivingly. She tosses her head back against his shoulder and whimpers into the air.
She's more than a lover to him - she's tied up with everything he wants. She's his. Images flash of what their future could be - they could have a palace, he could protect her, he could give her everything.
She comes undone around his ruthless fingers, tensing and spasming in the water, leaning back against his chest, neck exposed; hair wet; cheeks flushed.
Astarion didn't realize how close he was getting, too, as he grinds against her back under the warm water.
Suddenly he stands in the tub. She turns around, obedient and eager, waiting for his cue. Would he like her to sit there naked on display for him, for inspiration? Would he like her to put her mouth on it? Whatever he wants, her eyes say she will do.
He strokes his cock languidly, looking down at her. Such a pretty sight. Her mouth hangs open, pink and parted.
He tightens his grip. How badly he'd like to be wrapped in her lips, like he had been before. He had fallen in love just a little bit faster that night in the woods, that seems so long ago now, when she undid him with her pretty, devious little mouth. He pumps himself more quickly as he thinks of her face, slick with spit and himself, sucking him eagerly, letting him fuck her mouth until he slammed against the back of her throat.
He takes his left hand and holds her chin, as she looks up at him devotedly. He pulls her jaw open, just a little, and she leans forward pliantly, offering her mouth up to him.
He curses as his orgasm pulses onto her tongue, her tongue just an inch or so under the head of his throbbing cock. It goes for much longer than he thought it would, and she stares into his eyes the whole time - like she's grateful. When he finishes, she licks her lips and swallows.
"Was that okay?" she asks sweetly, the taste of him still in her mouth.
Was that okay? Astarion just laughs; the booming, hearty one that Aysla likes the best.
"Fuck," he breathes as he leans down to kiss her before they can towel off and blissfully collapse into bed together. "I love you." He's still smiling into her mouth when they kiss.