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“No!” Astarion shouts, his heart pounding so hard he wouldn’t be surprised if his pulse is visible. He struggles against the hands pinning him down – Minsc’s, Jaheira’s, Wyll’s, Karlach’s – to no avail. “No, don’t – don’t do this, you don’t want to do this, Tav, please!”
Tav – no, the fucking illithid carrying Tav’s name and memories and absolutely nothing else of who she was, of the soft-hearted cleric he could manipulate – is unmoved, still advancing on him; wildly, Astarion looks around at the people holding him still for its approach.
“Karlach,” he begs. “Karlach, you wouldn’t let them do this to me, would you? We’re friends, godsdamnit, aren’t we?!”
“Mate…” Karlach chokes out, her cheeks streaked with tiny flickering flame-tears, but her grip unrelenting. “I don’t know what the fuck happened to my friend, but… you’re not him. Not anymore.”
“That’s not -” Astarion pants, then gives her up as a bad prospect, his head swivelling between the rest of them. Shadowheart, who’s standing just a few meters away, face hard and radiant spirits swirling around her, ready to be called forth to force him back out of his mist form if he tries using it to escape again… her, he doesn’t even bother trying. He’s already been burned badly enough that he’s genuinely unsure if he can even sustain the focus necessary for his mist form any longer; he knows there’s no mercy for him there.
His gaze shifts to the only other person besides Karlach he thinks he might have a chance with. “Wyll -”
“I’m sorry, Astarion,” Wyll says, mouth downturned and gaze shadowed by grief. “This is – it doesn’t have to be forever. Just until -”
“Until what?” Astarion demands, incredulous, and nearly manages to break free in a bout of panicked struggling as the illithid comes to a halt before him. “Until the mind flayer decides it’s enough? Decides to let me go again? Oh, because that’s the sort of thing those tentacled fr-”
He manages to cut himself off by the simple expedient of biting his tongue bloody.
A swallowed mouthful of blood, then he makes his voice go soft and wheedling. “Tav, darling, let’s just stop for a moment and talk about this, all right? I know I said – perhaps one or two unpleasant things, after you changed, but you can’t think I truly meant them, can you? I was just scared, and upset, and ah- afraid of losing you, afraid I’d already lost you, that’s all! I still love you, you have to know that. Just as I know you still love me; I thought you were gone, but you’re not, are you? You’re still you. We could be together again, have something real, just like we both said we wanted in the Shadow-cursed Lands. Isn’t that what you want, my love?”
The illithid’s hand raises, reaching towards his face; Astarion feels a scream of rage, of protest, of horror, bubbling up in his throat.
Astarion, the illithid says inside his mind, and he flinches violently. Enough.
Astarion lets out a low, wounded noise; a whine of terror and anger both. “I’ll kill you,” he vows. “Every last one of you, I’m going to turn you into my spawn so I can stake you to the ground and slowly peel off your skin, if you don't let me go you’ll all die screaming – no, no, Tav, stop, I don’t – I didn’t mean it, I – Tav -”
And then the creature’s hand is curving around the side of his face, incongruously gentle – Minsc’s hand is on the other side of his head, stopping Astarion retreating from the touch of that disgustingly slimy, rubbery skin, and he tries to turn to mist again, Shadowheart or no bloody Shadowheart, but it immediately fizzles out before taking hold, his pain and panic too much to let him focus enough for the magic to succeed – and the mind of that unwelcome, abhorrent other is crashing down upon his own.
Astarion’s shouting and sobbing, but the sound is distant, muffled; whatever’s happening with his body pales next to the feel of that illithid mind shoving forward, pushing aside his paltry mental shields like they don’t even exist. It pauses briefly, examining the surface thoughts and emotions – his ruthless, murderous intent, the utter lack of any truthfulness in all his prior promises and apologies, the extent to which he loathes them all – then continues on, shattering the next layer of mental protections and leaving the wreckage strewn about as it delves deeper, past the rage and the brittle facade of power and control to where the same terrified, pathetic spawn he’s always been lies hidden and cowering still.
Tav, that cringing wretch begs mentally. Tav, please.
It’s going to be all right, my love, the illithid thinks back, gentle in all the ways its invasion wasn’t, and then -
Tav’s mind swallows him whole.
♦
It’s grey.
He floats, unmoored, in a sea of foggy grey.
He has no limbs here, but it caresses his limbs, twisting tenderly around them. No ears, but it muffles all sound, the world left soft and formless in its wake. No eyes, but it seeps inside them all the same, blanketing his sight with thick grey fog.
His master is saying something about him, about injuries, something about taking him, but he can feel the placidity of their emotions; it’s nothing he need worry about.
He drifts.
Many hands lift him up, the feel of them cushioned by the fog, and he can feel, too, that they don’t matter; he ignores them.
The next set of hands do matter.
He gives a little whine – the fog’s inside his mouth, pressing down his tongue, but it allows this – and shivers his delight as he’s laid within his master’s arms, returned to their embrace, cradled close to their chest. He turns his head to the side, nuzzling into them and -
(- something slick, trailing down in front of it, brushing his cheek as he turns his head, and as the depths of his mind whisper to him of tentacles his body tries to jerk, to pull away, but the fog rolls in and weighs him down, holds him still, surges up and envelops his mind again and he -)
- is rewarded with the feel of his master’s hand carding gently through the curls at the back of his head, a quiet, cautious joy suffusing their mind. Their mind, and by extension, his.
They touch him and he melts willingly into their touch, feeling how it feeds their delight, and the knowledge that he’s pleasing them stokes his own delight, in turn. Until all caution has been discarded, his master’s satisfaction and pleasure blazing between them, unchecked.
(- a part of him had always known it would end like this, known he’d only ever existed to one day be consumed, but he’d never believed it might come from her -)
Cause and context slips through his fingers, slips from his thoughts, but there’s the smallest lingering trace of aching disbelief, of yearning betrayal, left floating in his mind. He doesn’t know why he feels them, but – he feels them. The fog’s advance has halted; it holds steady, the innermost edges of it burning away just a little as his master’s mind focuses in on him more closely. A faint glow pierces the gloom and he – he knows it, he knows –
Tav?
The glow brightens in the wake of his wondering, his question, sunlight chasing away a few more tendrils of fog, and he – yes of course he knows her, how could Astarion ever not know his Tav-master-monster?
The sun intensifies, then, and Astarion’s left whimpering at the inescapable knowledge of his Tav-master-beloved’s displeasure – she’s displeased with him, what did he do, he has to fix this has to be better, be worthy of her, but the brightness blinds him, leaves him squinting his not-eyes and fumbling with his not-hands for a path forward as the sun’s heat pounds mercilessly down upon him and he’s going to burn -
Regret, chagrin; apology. Punishing heat softens to a pleasant warmth, leaving Astarion loose-limbed and languid as he sprawls out beneath it, luxuriating in the comfort and safety of his Tav-master-beloved’s embrace. The sun hovers directly overhead, now, creating a small pool of light and warmth in the midst of the encircling fog. The light, too, is gentle once again.
My Tav-master-beloved, Astarion thinks again, feeling his lips curve in a smile against her viscid skin.
His Tav-master-beloved doesn’t reply directly, but there’s a subtle strengthening of the glow that cocoons him, a careful touch that explores his seared skin -
(- from when Shadowheart had burned him, over and over again, forcing him back into his weakened, injured body every time he tried to escape until he’d been too exhausted to keep trying any longer and then, only then had the rest of them moved in, set upon -)
- pressing him firmly back down onto the bed beneath him, a gentle admonishment in his mind from his Tav-master-beloved, carrying her desire that he keep still and let her do as she wishes with him, and Astarion obeys of course, sinking into the softness that surrounds him because there is nothing he’d like more -
(- countless kisses, the lightest brush of her lips over his after asking, always asking, his Tav smiling down at him, limned by the light of the setting sun and handling him so achingly gently until he’d tried to drag her down into the darkness with him and she’d stopped handling him at all, until eyes that had once looked upon him with love held only sorrow and the stabbing reminder that he’d never be enough for her, that there was nothing left for him other -)
- than to please and obey her, as always.
Blunted, thick nails catch and tug on ragged edges of the gashes in Astarion’s charred clothing, as his Tav-master-beloved carefully removes each garment, pausing as she goes to assess the extent of the damage done to the body beneath her hands. Her nails scratch at the skin, now and again, but she’s pouring all her focus and dedicated intent into avoiding harming him, avoiding even so much as hurting him. But he can feel too the leashed frustration at the clumsiness of her new hands, muscle memory not yet built enough for fluidity; as the edge of a nail slices into one of the still-healing sores on Astarion’s chest and elicits a tiny, pained noise, her frustration spikes.
Astarion’s mind just stops, uncomprehending – had that not been what his Tav-master-beloved desired, he’d thought – known – she wanted his reactions, wanted his vocalisations, wanted his all – and sun and fog alike wrap themselves around his distress. It’s brushed aside with the lightest of touches, silken-spun cobwebs of confusion dissolving in the wake of reassurance that of course she wants that, wants him, wants everything.
With his worry washed away, his Tav-master-beloved resumes disrobing him. Limbs shift and hips lift obligingly for her as she goes along; Astarion just drifts and lets his body get on with it, obedience flowing effortlessly from her intent, without need of his involvement. There’s still the occasional tiny touch of pain when she snags skin inadvertently, but no further frustration; his Tav-master-beloved’s mind assures him all is well, and thus he is well.
The sun hasn’t yet reached the chill sunken down deep and anchored into bone, but it’s pleasant to feel a touch of warmth upon his undead flesh again, all the same.
♦
He surfaces from the haze when a citrus-scented wrist is pressed against his mouth.
He bites.
He slowly drinks the strange-tasting blood -
(- not like the drow, no, it’s odd inside his mouth and sets his tongue to tingling but it’s not unpleasant, not foul, not like it would have been with her if his Tav hadn’t refused, supported him, shielded him when the other had wanted to take him and use him, she’d said his body was his own hadn’t she so why -)
- letting it pool inside his mouth with gentle pressure from his lips and tongue, careful as ever not to hurt his Tav-master-beloved when she offers him this gift. As he drinks he can feel his wounds, his burns, healing; sores recede, skin knits back together, and Astarion smiles helplessly against the wrist within his teeth, elation bubbling up and spilling over until he’s writhing upon the sheets at the feel of his Tav-master-beloved’s strong, deep satisfaction.
At the knowledge of her unshakeable resolve to see him cared for and protected; to allow none other to hurt or touch him, ever again.
Astarion finishes drinking and healing both, withdrawing his fangs and lapping up the little trickles of blood left behind. He can feel it spark some memory for his Tav-master-beloved, but she doesn’t choose to share it; simply regards him, thoughtful, as she sits on the bed by his side.
When her hand returns to his now-flawless chest, a nail scraping gently over one of the little nubs, Astarion’s body twitches in reaction. His cock has long since filled, naturally, hard between his legs just as it always is when he drinks from her; it hadn’t mattered before, but he can feel in his Tav-master-beloved’s intentions that it matters now. That she wants to give him pleasure; that it pleases her, in turn, whenever she watches him welcome her touch.
And so Astarion obeys, of course, body and mind both welcoming her hands upon him, his pleasure feeding into hers and flowing back to him, again and again and again it echoes between them, builds upon itself until he’s shaking with every single touch, panting out pleading little whimpers from nothing more than fingertips intent upon exploring each inch of his skin and learning it all anew. There’s a current of caution within her, worries over new hands and new nails, but it soon fades as she sees for herself there’s no need. A harder press of a nail on one pass sends pain sparking through his nipple; what of it? If it comes at the hands of his Tav-master-beloved, how could he not welcome it, whatever it may be?
With caution cast aside, touches grow more assured. A three-fingered hand curls carefully around Astarion’s cock, pulling a louder whine from his throat. She wants him to react however feels most natural; his hips jerk, thrusting up into the grip, pressure perfectly attuned to whatever brings the most pleasure. She’s equally responsive to his thoughts as his body is to her wishes; no sooner has the image entered his mind than her wrist is twisting, attempting to swipe a thumb over the tip of his cock.
Again, frustration flares in a tiny flash. The hand is whisked away; Astarion barely manages a desperate, needy moan before it’s replaced by something else, dexterously flexible and damply clinging as it wends its way up and around his length to form a tight seal at the top. Gentle tugging offers suction reminiscent of a mouth -
(- a tiny flicker of disquiet, memories of countless unwelcome mouths and hands and cocks and cunts and teeth upon and inside his body, surrounding him consuming him drinking his blood and devouring his soul one small scrap at a time for decade after decade after endless numb blurring decade, but that’s over now he never has to do that again because he’s powerful not pathetic, because -)
(- because his Tav won’t allow it, will never allow another’s touch upon him, he’s safe with her, protected and adored, the only touches he’ll ever feel again are hers and he welcomes every one of them when it’s her, her mind her hands her tent-)
Sharp, spiking unease, quickly swept away by soothing fog that settles gently upon him; Astarion sinks gratefully into the cool, blanketing succour. Just as he sinks into the sensation of the not-quite-mouth upon the head of his cock, the rippling of the slippery appendage wrapped around it.
Into the slow drip of that thick, viscous fluid down his member and behind his sac to pool between his legs, coating his skin and soaking the sheets beneath, from the tops of his thighs to the small of his back.
Sensation is slightly numbed now, Astarion’s desperate need alongside. He can still feel his Tav-master-beloved’s approval and enjoyment, still feel her pleasure in his own, the inevitability of his own in hers, but there’s also the smallest of distances, the shortest of delays.
A disconnect.
And then, as sensation sharpens pleasantly once more: a sudden, inexplicable distress.
Astarion whimpers with it, brow furrowing, and his Tav-master-beloved’s mind flows seamlessly over his own, easing the ache within. He quiets, drifting once more; only vaguely aware of further appendages curling around his thighs and parting his legs, pushing their way beneath his hips to adjust the angle.
As his Tav-master-beloved puzzles over some manner of problem, a musing air about her mind out past the fog shrouding her thoughts, a final slick tenta-
appen-
ten-
- amorphous pressure probes its delicate way up the inside of Astarion’s thigh, leaving a thicker trail of oily liquid as it progresses. It slips down and underneath him; Astarion whimpers again, caught between the pleasant feel of that pulsing presence spiralling up and around his cock, changing to suction at the head, the reassurance and warmth of his Tav-master-beloved’s attentive adoration, and that… pressure, rapidly growing less and less amorphous all the while as it pushes forward, gently unrelenting where it meets with a far-off, nebulous resistance, then finally slips inside.
Another little noise, this one louder, voiced more fully as Astarion bites his bottom lip; his teeth immediately release at his Tav-master-beloved’s disapproval. Just as the tension tightening the muscles of his back, his shoulders, drains from them directly by her will; just as his body relaxes into that pressure as it inches its way farther inside, widening as it goes.
Astarion’s hands try to curl at his sides; nails rasp against the fabric of the sheets before the hands flatten again, loose and just as unbothered as he is, as the illith-
(- his Tav, his Tav-beloved, since the moment he set eyes on her she’s always been his Tav-beloved, never changed never will change, always hers, never parted ever again just as he’s always wanted needed craved -)
- as his Tav-master-beloved carefully stretches him open, pushing in until she meets resistance from his body that sings with slight pain – his body untenses itself beneath her, again and again and again because it also keeps tensing again and again and again and Astarion doesn’t know why but it also doesn’t matter – and then pausing. Pulling back again, a finger’s width. Pushing forward into that smallest of pains, but it’s taking just a little more to spark it, every time. He’s taking just a little more, every time.
And then, on one of those tiny thrusts just the same as all the others, something in the precise way she presses up against a spot she’s pressed her way across nearly every time before makes his brain just – skip.
The flare of satisfaction from his Tav-master-beloved is equally as strong as that tiny moment of sweet, sharp pleasure, blurring out everything else. The presence inside him undulates, flexing in place and pressing again, prompting another spark; a low moan spills from Astarion’s mouth, and at his Tav-master-beloved’s formless urging, he gives into his body’s wishes and chases the source of the feeling.
Hands clench into sheets for better purchase. He tries to lift his hips, to rock back into the pressure, but the t- t- appendages pushing thighs up and back and supporting his hips make it difficult. But no sooner has he thought it – indeed, even before he’s fully thought it – than those appendages quickly rearrange, snaking out from beneath Astarion’s hips so he settles back atop the slick-drenched sheets. The appendages lower his legs, letting his feet fall flat upon the surface of the bed; Astarion’s hips snap sharply, driving up to meet the presence inside of him. It feels good, and Astarion’s mind stutters again, and his Tav-master-beloved’s mind suffuses his own with her approval so Astarion keeps going.
Pleasure builds quickly; faster than is usual -
(- usual? Is there a usual? Countless unwelcome mouths hands cocks cunts tee- but no, no, that’s not right, there’s only his Tav-beloved, only ever been her, nothing else, nothing unwelcome nothing unpleasant nothing for him at all ever again but bliss, belonging, safety, her -)
- as fast as is usual, fast as it should be building, but the more Astarion’s body moves to welcome that thick presence deeper inside, the more it responds with twists and squirms and pulses and thrusts of its own, leaving him shivering and panting beneath its relentless assault, a t- ten- tentacle now cinched tight around the base of his cock to hold back Astarion’s completion -
(- Tav-beloved, illithid, Tav-master-beloved, Wyll and Karlach holding him down on the mind flayer ship as a tadpole is dropped into his eye, as his love, his Tav, his master drops the tadp- no no never no, not him not him not ever him, not her beautiful-vicious-deadly-beloved-thrall-Astarion -)
- the more his mind flickers, warm sun and sedating fog bleeding into awareness of a body that writhes on a bed, crying out its need as the illithid oh-so-carefully fucks into it with a tentacle, as the other tentacles slither and drip and ooze their way across that body, painting the thighs with their glistening slick as they spread them achingly wide, baring it for the illithid’s emotionlessly analytical gaze, and it’s not even his, why does Astarion have to see and to feel all of this when it’s not even his -
(- his Tav-master-beloved, his, always his, will never leave him never abandon him still here not going anywhere, different now but not gone, not lost to him, never never never be alone, never have to be afraid again -)
- but the fog is fighting to snap into place against the feel of leg muscles pushed past their limit for far too long, muscles that are twitching and shaking and knotting themselves into spasming agony as they’re forced to remain precisely in the place the mind flayer wants them, and even if it doesn’t matter, even if it’s not his, the pain still exists. Just as that sickeningly-sweet, choking ecstasy of a tentacle curling into him exists too, shoving itself deeper with a thick, liquid squelch as it seeks the best angle to work over that same spot again and again, and Astarion’s struggling mindlessly to push back into it, to pull away, reaching for the second tentacle suckling at his cockhead to tear it off hold it still thrust up into it he doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter, none of it matters, his hand is quickly caught by three fingers and a thumb circling the wrist and pinning it back down, citrus and blood in his nose now and he’s salivating at it, feral as the tomb -
- the sun’s searing light struggling to reclaim its space at the heart of him, to warm and soothe and illuminate just him and nothing else, nothing but him and his beloved sun and everything else beyond left dulled and dimmed by the fog -
- a pulse from the tentacle inside him, a squeeze of his cock, and Astarion wails -
- and Astarion reaches for the fog, reaches out desperately and grabs it, helps pull it into place, back where it wants to go, back where it belongs, and when he hears a sob issue forth from his throat he doesn’t know if it’s need or relief, but it doesn’t matter, all that matters is the fog flowing peacefully over him once more, a blanket numbing the world and cosseting his mind.
The fog, and the sun that follows in its wake.
His Tav-master-beloved’s love shining down upon him, just as her mind shields and protects him.
And Astarion knows, as her sun burns away the last shadow of doubt -
(- safe with her, always safe, he’ll never fear or want for anything, ever again -)
- she will always protect him, just as he’s desired for so, so long.
Pleasure peaks, barely more than an afterthought; it’s nothing to the feel of his Tav-master-beloved’s delight in him, her unrestrained joy in his possession. But her will is that she brings him bliss, her satisfaction that he welcomes it from her, and so Astarion parts his lips on a shuddering little sigh, spilling inside the clinging grip of her tentacle at the head of his cock.
The sun shines steady above him. Fog rolls smoothly, just beyond.
He slumps back, relaxing into sated security; his Tav-master-beloved lifts a hand, running gentle fingers along the line of his cheek, then strokes through his hair, just as she’d always do.
And Astarion smiles. Turns, nuzzles into her touch, trusts the full weight of his head to her hand.
Closes his eyes, wholly complete and wholly content.