Chapter Text
Kevin, as he will henceforth be known—because really if he’s going to lie there doing absolutely nothing, the least he can do is have a name worth sneering at—remains disappointingly inert. The sun has risen, set, risen again, and is on the verge of dipping below the horizon once more, and still nothing. No dramatic clawing. No monstrous rebirth. No anything.
What is the point of turning someone if they are just going to be dull about it?
You leer at the makeshift grave with your arms crossed, foot tapping against the disturbed earth. “Kevin,” you call out, “if you’re going to disappoint me like this, I will be forced to rearrange your corpse into something more amusing. My patience has limits, and I can’t wait days for you to figure out how to un-die. Do something. Flail a little, at least. This is embarrassing—for both of us.”
Astarion groans as though afflicted with some incurable malady. “Kevin. Really, Alita? That is what you have chosen to name him? Of all possible names in the endless expanse of existence, you decided upon Kevin?”
You shrug, suppressing the urge to giggle. “It suits him.”
“It most certainly does not!” Astarion exclaims, his timbre leaping an octave as he wildly gestures at the grave. “Do you hear yourself, darling? Kevin is not a name for a vampire! Kevin is the name of a farmer who dies in the first act of a tragic ballad. Or the man who cleans up after dogs in the city square. Or—” he narrows his eyes dramatically—"a hopeless merchant who tries to sell you cabbages and cries when you walk away.”
Feigning confusion, you cant your head. “What if his name strikes fear into the hearts of mortals everywhere? What if parents whisper it to their children at night as a warning? ‘Go to sleep, or Kevin will come for you.’” You spread your arms wide, your voice deepening with mock gravitas. “‘Beware, mortals, for Kevin approaches.’”
Astarion gapes at you like you’ve just declared your plan to redecorate with pink lace curtains. “That is preposterous.” He points an accusing finger at you, his ruby eyes narrowing. “You are doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”
“Doing what?” You ask innocently as you brush a speck of dirt off your sleeve. “I think it’s a fine name. Strong. Masculine. Memorable.”
“Memorable?” Astarion sputters. “Yes, perhaps memorable for being painfully mundane. Oh, I can see it now. We storm a castle, our spawn at our side, and the guards tremble as they ask, ‘Who goes there?’ And when I announce, ‘Kevin,’ they will burst into laughter before fainting from disbelief. Truly terrifying.”
You purse your lips, tapping your chin, pretending to mull over his words. “You know, you might be right,” you venture and see a brief ripple of relief spatter across Astarion’s features before you add, “Perhaps Kevin is too intimidating. We wouldn’t want him overshadowing us.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a prayer for patience. “I do not understand you. You could have chosen anything. Anything! Something with elegance and bite. Cassius, perhaps. Lucien. Even something ominous like Mortis. But no. Kevin.”
“I think it’s charming,” you say breezily.
Astarion’s jaw tightens, and you can tell he is trying and failing to keep calm. “You are impossible,” he finally declares, throwing his hands into the air.
“Thank you,” you reply sweetly, clasping your hands in front of yourself and shimmying your shoulders while Astarion’s eyes narrow further. “I’m keeping it. He looks like a Kevin.”
“You buried him,” Astarion snaps, “in the dark of night and decided he looks like a Kevin? Did you commune with his soul while you were at it? Did he whisper his tragically mundane aspirations of starting a wheat farm and naming all his goats Kevin Junior?”
“Maybe,” you retort with a smirk. “Or maybe I just have excellent instincts. You’re getting very worked up about this, you know.”
He huffs, pacing a tight circle. “I am not worked up. I am merely mourning the utter annihilation of taste and dignity.” He gestures wildly at the grave. “The shame alone will kill him before the sunlight ever can.”
You tilt your head, smiling like a cat with feathers in its teeth. “He’s already dead.”
“That,” Astarion counters sharply, “is precisely my point.”
The smug look on your face is enough to send him pacing again, muttering things like, “Completely insufferable” and “No appreciation for artistry.”
Truthfully, it’s his absolute revulsion that made you keep the name in the first place, but you’ll never tell him that. Watching him agonize over it is far too satisfying.
The fledgling remains frustratingly lifeless, and you nudge the mound with your boot as though it might stir something awake. “I hate waiting. It’s dull.”
“And yet, you named him Kevin,” Astarion points out smugly, his lips curving into that infuriatingly perfect smile. “Truly, you reap what you sow, my love.”
You open your mouth to retort, but he’s already moving. He glides to the edge of the clearing and props himself against a tree, one leg bent and his boot planted casually against the bark while he busies himself, spinning his dagger between his fingers.
“He’s been a vampire for less than two days. Must you already torment him with your cruel, cruel expectations?”
You whirl with a scowl. “It’s not cruel; it’s constructive. What if he never gets up? What if he’s broken? What am I supposed to do then?”
“Oh, my sweet, impatient terror. I believe it’s called a pyre.” He smiles wickedly.
You sigh heavily and glare at the grave like it’s personally offended you. Remaining idle was never your strong suit. Back when Bhaal was your benevolent, psychotic babysitter, he quickly learned that leaving you without orders for too long was a recipe for disaster. You would find things to do. Usually involving sharp objects and sacrificial acolytes.
“I could be experimenting right now. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve invented a new form of torture? Ages, Astarion. Ages. The last time I had free rein, I managed to stretch a man’s soul between three planes simultaneously. Three. He screamed in three-part harmony. It was glorious.”
Astarion chuckles. “Stop fretting.”
You snap your head and narrow your eyes. “I am not fretting.”
“Oh, you’re absolutely fretting. It’s quite adorable, really. You’re like a mother hen with particularly homicidal tendencies. Shall I fetch you a bonnet?”
You jab a finger toward his chest, and he catches your hand with infuriating grace, spinning you effortlessly so your back presses against him. “If he doesn’t rise soon, I swear I’ll dig him up and make him rise myself. By force, if necessary.”
“Because nothing motivates a newborn vampire quite like your unique brand of nurturing,” he muses.
You huff, turning back to the grave and planting your hands on your hips. “He’s going to rise. He has to. I didn’t waste my time on some useless lump of meat who’s too lazy to claw his way out of a little dirt.”
Astarion smirks, his fangs glinting as he leans his head back against the tree. “I suppose time will tell. Though if he doesn’t rise, it will be quite the shame. Poor Kevin—eternally doomed to mediocrity, even in undeath.”
You groan. “Stop calling him Kevin.”
“You named him Kevin!”
“And you’re making it worse!”
His laughter rings out as you stand there, seething. You swear the grave beneath your feet twitches, but it’s probably just your imagination. You stare at it, daring it to prove you wrong.
Kevin has until the count of three. If he doesn’t rise by then, you’ll just have to dig him up and shake unlife into him.
“One…” you mutter under your breath, leaning down slightly as if your mere proximity will stir him awake.
“Threatening the fledgling with numbers? My dear, how positively terrifying,” Astarion mocks while balancing his dagger precariously on the tip of his finger. “I am sure he quakes beneath the soil at your might.”
“Two…” you continue, ignoring him, though you shoot a quick glare over your shoulder that promises retribution later.
The dirt shifts slightly, and you freeze. Astarion notices it, too, his dagger dropping into his palm in a fluid motion. The earth above the shallow grave stirs again, and a gnarled hand bursts forth, clutching desperately at the air.
Kevin emerges slowly, his face twisted in an agonized grimace as he hauls himself up, dirt cascading off his shoulders in clumps. His eyes are wild, and his lips curled back to reveal fresh fangs. He looks feral, bloodthirsty, and thoroughly disoriented. The man growls low in his throat, his focus darting between the two of you, clearly unsure whether to attack, grovel, or bolt.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Do something useful. Snarl. Hiss. Try not to drool,” you bark.
Kevin’s mouth opens, but it’s not a snarl or a hiss. It’s a strangled, wheezing gasp as he collapses onto all fours, shivering like a wet dog.
“Oh, for the love of—” you groan. “This is pathetic. I’ve seen half-dead rats with more vigour.”
He opens his mouth again, and this time, words manage to stumble out. “What… what happened?” he croaks.
You exchange a glance with Astarion. He’s practically vibrating with amusement, his eyes sparkling with barely restrained laughter.
“What happened is I drained you dry, and now you’re mine. That’s the short version. Would you like the long one? It involves a lot of blood, screaming, and a tiny violin playing somewhere in the background.”
Kevin flinches as Astarion crouches beside him, his crimson gaze locking onto the fledgling’s trembling form. “Do try to make yourself less embarrassing, won’t you? I have a reputation to uphold.”
As Kevin finally rises unsteadily to his feet, Astarion straightens and dusts himself off, casting you a sidelong glance. “Well, he is upright, which is more than I expected. Perhaps there is hope for him yet.”
“Maybe,” you say, shrugging. “But if he trips over his own feet, I’m naming the next one, Greg.”
Astarion’s groan is so loud it echoes through the clearing. “I am begging you—have some standards.”
The road back to Ancunín Manor stretches ahead. Hethtalos’ hooves thud softly on the ground as he picks his way along the path. You are settled comfortably behind Astarion, your arms wrapped around his waist, and your cheek resting against his shoulder.
From behind you, the sound of scuffing boots and an ungainly stumble shatters the brief serenity. You glance back, watching as Kevin lurches forward like a puppet with half its strings cut. His feet drag over stones and roots, his arms swinging uselessly at his sides as though he is not yet sure what to do with them.
You sigh. “He is walking like a drunk deer.”
Astarion follows your gaze with an expression of deep disdain, as though looking at Kevin requires effort. “That is an insult to deer. Even the drunk ones have better posture.”
Kevin does not respond. He does not speak at all, though the fizzing presence in the back of your mind suggests he is aware. It is not a voice, not even the shadow of one—just an irritating, static hum, like a swarm of flies trapped beneath your skull.
You wrinkle your nose in irritation. “What do you suppose he is thinking about?”
Astarion snorts softly. “I would wager it is something spectacularly profound. Perhaps, ‘Left foot. Right foot. Oh no, tripped again.’”
As if on cue, Kevin’s foot catches on an exposed root, and he stumbles forward with all the grace of a collapsing scarecrow.
Astarion sighs theatrically, one hand rising to rub his temple. “You would think vampirism might have gifted him at least a sliver of elegance. Instead, it seems he has become some sort of… lumbering undead buffoon. Congratulations, dearest. You have created the world’s most embarrassing spawn.”
The estate is marginally less decrepit than when you last saw it. The weeds have been uprooted, and new windows gleam in the faint pre-dawn light.
Astarion schools his expression to be carefully neutral. “It is better than I expected, I suppose,” he murmurs more to himself than you.
Ellis opens the door with all the reverence of a temple acolyte and bows his head as you and Astarion stride into the manor. Once the door closes behind you, Ellis takes his place at your feet, kneeling with his forehead to the floor.
Astarion hums his approval. “Stand, Ellis.”
Ellis rises fluidly, his eyes darting briefly to Kevin, who stumbles in behind you.
“Where is Meric?” Astarion queries while loosening the high collar of his shirt.
Ellis’s lips press into a thin line. “Some of the workers… proved to be less resilient than others, master. Meric felt it best to handle matters before your return.”
“Did he now?” Astarion drawls, running a hand through his silvery hair. “How very proactive of him.”
Astarion sweeps an arm dramatically toward Kevin, who has been lingering awkwardly like a drunken guest at a party he was never invited to. “Ellis, allow me to introduce... Kevin. He, well... he exists. Your new brother.”
Ellis clears his throat with a faint nod of acceptance. “I will… ensure he is shown where he belongs and apprise him of the house rules.”
Ellis steps forward, gesturing for Kevin to follow him. When the two disappear into the depths of the house, you let out a breathy laugh, turning to Astarion with a smirk. “Do you think he will survive the week?”
Astarion snorts, his chest rumbling with a deep laugh. “Highly unlikely. Though I must admit, it will be fascinating to see how long he lasts. Shall we inspect the rest of it, darling?”
You snicker, slipping your arm through his. “Lead on.”
You wander through the halls. The tradespeople have done admirably, given the scope of the rot they were working with, though the cracks remain—literally and figuratively.
Hand-carved tables sit in rooms too ruined to deserve them, and ornate rugs stretch like thin skins over the worst parts of the floors. The walls have been painted, but hastily so.
You push open the doors to your shared chambers. Lavish furnishings command the room, with deep plum and gold accents strewn like veins of precious metal throughout. Your boots sink into the plush rug that sprawls beneath the hulking bed.
Astarion moves past you, trailing his fingers over the edge of a new claw-footed tub positioned near a curtained alcove.
You undress at an unhurried pace, letting the heavy layers of your clothing peel away like a snake shedding its skin. Astarion watches you from where he leans against the tub, arms crossed and head tilted just so—smug, amused, the corner of his mouth twitching up into that signature smirk. He never misses an opportunity to admire you, and tonight is no exception.
You climb into the massive bed with far more satisfaction than you care to admit. The silk sheets sigh, and you stretch out across the vast expanse like a queen claiming her throne.
“This bed is ridiculous.”
Astarion raises a brow, pushing off the tub with languid grace as he begins to undress himself. “I believe the word you are looking for is magnificent.”
You laugh lightly, turning your head to watch him as he sheds his fine clothes. “Magnificent, yes, but unnecessary. Why do you even need a bed this big when we trance as close as possible anyway?”
He pauses mid-motion, one sleeve half undone, and his grin sharpens like glass. “What can I say? I enjoy the option of space, even if I never use it.”
He finishes disrobing and slips onto the bed, looping an arm around your waist to pull you close.
“You know,” he murmurs, fingers trailing idly along the curve of your hip, “this bed feels rather underutilized. All this space, all these silk sheets, and here we are—just lying on them. How terribly unambitious of us.”
You lean in to kiss him, your lips moving slowly against his, tasting the familiar, intoxicating mix of danger and hunger. His lips glide down your neck, and you shiver from the unexpected gentleness of it.
Astarion’s hands caress your body like he’s afraid to break it, exploring the soft curves as if he’s discovering you anew. It’s both tender and fervent, a quiet desire that builds beneath your skin.
He kisses a path down your chest, pausing to nip gently at your collarbone. Your hands roam his lean, muscular form, and you roll your hips against his, eliciting a sharp gasp from him.
Astarion lowers his head, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your chest. His lips brush the sensitive skin beneath your breast, and you gasp. He smiles against you, repeating the caress that makes you shudder and your skin prickle.
Your heightened senses make every touch feel exponentially more intense. You can hear the quickening of his breath and feel the whisper of his eyelashes against your skin. Your fingers slide down his sculpted chest, relishing the smoothness of his skin. He quivers under your touch with a soft moan.
Astarion's tongue traces lazy circles around your nipple. You gasp, arching into him, your nerves rejoicing with pleasure. His hand kneads your other breast, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak.
“Astarion.”
He glances up. ”Yes?"
“I love you,” you breathe.
"I love you too, Alita. More than I ever thought possible."
His lips return to your breast, tongue swirling around your nipple before taking it into his mouth. Your hand traces the elegant curve of his pointed ear, eliciting a growl of pleasure from deep in his chest.
Your legs part instinctively as his hand drifts lower. Your breath catches as Astarion's skilled fingers find your slick folds, teasing and exploring with vexing patience. He circles your swollen flesh with agonizing slowness, building the tension until you're writhing.
"Please," you whimper, hips bucking upwards.
He slides two fingers inside you, curling them to stroke that perfect spot with every pump while his thumb continues its relentless assault. A building pressure coils tighter and tighter until your muscles are trembling and taut.
Just as you're about to tumble over the edge, Astarion withdraws his hand. You whine at the loss, but his mouth blazes a path of kisses down your body—along the column of your throat, between the valley of your breasts, across the plane of your stomach. Your skin feels aflame, every nerve ending alight and enticed to hum.
His breath fans across the sensitive flesh of your inner thighs as he kisses slowly upward. His tongue swirls patterns on your skin, teasing you with what’s to come until you’re nigh on crazed with the anticipation.
Astarion takes your lips into his mouth, sucking and tugging gently with a hint of teeth to mix up the sensations. He groans, savouring your flavour.
"Fuck," he whines, almost choked.
His talented tongue explores every fold and crevice, alternating between broad strokes and precise flicks. You cannot help the shattered cry as he focuses his attention on your clit, circling it with the tip of his tongue before sucking gently.
Astarion's fingers join his mouth. He curls them, stroking along your walls with insistent pressure as his tongue continues its relentless frenzy. The ecstasy is all-consuming, and your hips rock and jerk with such frantic energy that his forearm comes across your body to keep you steady.
"Let go, my love," Astarion urges, between precise flicks and more languid, firm strokes at the sides of your pearl. ”I want to taste your pleasure."
His coaxing sends a tremor down your spine. You tangle your fingers in his silvery hair, pulling him closer as your body tenses. The pressure mounts exquisitely, your inner walls clenching around his fingers. When he gently scrapes his fangs against your engorged, tender bud, your world bursts into fragments of bliss so pure it unspools your very essence.
A riptide of euphoria pulls you under as you come, Astarion's name falling from your lips as if you were reciting a verse from scripture. He moans but doesn’t let up, lapping at you as convulsions ripple through you until you gently push his head away.
Your soul has not returned to your body before you feel his lips mould to yours. "You drive me mad with desire,” he breathes.
You can feel his hardness pressed against you as you grind desperately against him. "I need you inside me.”
Sitting back on his heels, he drags you into his lap. He growls as he grasps his cock, drags his swollen head through your lips, and slowly sinks into you, working you open with unhurried rocks of his hips.
His cock slides in and out with long, deep strokes. You wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him even deeper. His crimson eyes meet yours, pupils blown wide with lust. He keeps his thrusts slow and controlled as if he means to make love to you for hours.
Your fingers dig into Astarion's shoulders as he continues his torturously slow pace. You roll your hips to meet him, your bodies moving together in a passionate dance.
His thumb finds your clit, sweeping across it with maddening expertise. He knows your body too well when to increase his pace and pressure or ease to lighter, teasing circles. The twin sensations of his thick cock stretching you and the pressure on your aching pearl have you senseless.
"Let me feel you clench around my cock.” Astarion purrs husky with desire against your ear.
With a deliberate, tight circle against your clit, he tosses you over the edge. You cry out as your inner walls pulse rhythmically around his thick shaft. He whines in response, his pace faltering slightly, and captures your lips again. His kiss is tender yet passionate, conveying all the love and desire he feels for you.
Your hands roam his back, feeling the play of muscles beneath his skin. Astarion shudders at your gentle touch, a soft moan escaping his lips.
His pace quickens, rutting into you with renewed fervour. Your tongues dance as he continues to pound into you, his cock hitting all the right spots. his breathing grows ragged, signalling his control is slipping.
You break the kiss, gasping for air you no longer need. Astarion's lips trail down your neck, fangs grazing your skin.
"Fuck, yes," you sigh, tilting your head to give him better access.
He obliges, sinking his fangs into your flesh as he thrusts deep. The sharp pain quickly blooms into exquisite rapture. You scrape your fangs along his shoulder before biting down, completing the circle.
His blood is infernal nectar that sets your senses alight with a power that should not exist in mortal comprehension. It hums through your veins, vibrating with ancient, profane magic that burns and soothes in the same breath.
It tastes like a poem—a twisted sonnet etched in hellfire, dripping with the kind of beauty that makes hearts weep and souls crumble. The power in him—the power of him—sings through you, a resonance so divine and damning it feels like consuming lightning spun into liquid.
Astarion growls low in his chest, his hips snapping forward with increased urgency. His cock pulses, leaking precum and easing his frantic thrusts. Your joined bodies move together in a primal rhythm, driving you both higher.
"Alita," he groans against your throat, "my Thiramin, my love, my wife, my queen."
The tenderness in his voice makes your undead heart ache. You answer by clenching your inner muscles around him, drawing a sharp gasp from his lips. You can feel every vein and ridge of his shaft as he pistons in and out of your tight heat.
Your orgasm comes like the lash of a whip, and you have to muffle your lewd screams against Astarion’s neck. He moans wantonly, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chases his own release.
"Fill me," you gasp against his ear, capturing the tip of it and running your tongue along its ridges. ”I want to feel your cum inside me."
He mewls your name as hot ropes of his seed paint your inner walls. The feeling of his cum flooding your channel triggers another smaller orgasm, your cunt milking every last drop from his pulsing cock.
Astarion slumps against you as you both tremble in the aftershocks of your shared ecstasy. His lips find yours in a tender kiss. You taste the lingering traces of your arousal on his tongue as he languidly explores your mouth.
He gently withdraws, and a whimper escapes your lips at the loss, your sensitive flesh clenching around emptiness. The silk sheets whisper beneath you as he adjusts your bodies, cradling you against his chest.
His hands begin to roam—not with lust, but with idle affection. Fingertips trace slow, meandering lines over your shoulder, down your spine, then back up again.
“You are unbearably perfect,” he murmurs against the shell of your ear. “Even now, sweaty and dishevelled… perhaps especially now. I should commission a portrait of you like this. Though I suppose I would have to kill the artist afterward. No one else deserves to see you like this.”
You snort, tilting your head to look at him. “And what would you do with such a portrait, hmm? Hang it in the parlour for Kevin and Ellis to admire?”
He lets out a soft, genuine laugh, his chest rumbling beneath your ear. “Oh, absolutely not. That would be vulgar. I would, of course, keep it in our chambers. For… inspiration. A masterpiece should always be kept close.”
You roll your eyes but don’t move away, basking in the sound of his laughter. It’s softer than the sharp edges of his usual wit, and you can’t help but feel warmed by it.
“Careful, Astarion. You’re beginning to sound like a sentimental fool. Next, you’ll be writing me poetry.”
“Do not tempt me. I am capable of great feats of absurdity when it comes to you.” Astarion sighs dramatically, his fingers resuming their absent-minded wanderings across your skin. “You know,” he begins, his tone rich with mock sincerity, “I believe I am inspired. No, not merely inspired—moved. Deeply, profoundly moved. By you, my love. By this moment.”
“Oh, gods,” you groan, burying your face in his chest. “Don’t.”
“But I must!” he declares, his voice lilting with theatrical fervour. “How can I deny the muse that is your beauty? Your radiance? Your…” he pauses, running his tongue along his fangs, “…delightful bloodlust?”
You tilt your head up to glare at him, though the corner of your mouth betrays the slightest twitch of amusement. “Astarion,” you warn.
“‘Oh, crimson rose of endless night,’” he continues, utterly undeterred. “‘Thy lips, like rubies soaked in the tears of mortals, doth tempt me to madness—’”
You sit up suddenly, cutting him off by clamping your hand over his mouth. He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused but not at all inclined to stop. His laughter vibrates against your palm.
“Do you hear yourself?” you ask, exasperated. “What is this drivel? ‘Crimson rose of endless night?’ You sound like an insufferable bard with a head injury, and you know how I feel about bards!”
He gently pulls your hand away, smirking as he leans closer. “Sweetheart, I’m shocked! Do you not appreciate my artistry?”
“No,” you deadpan, flopping back onto the bed. “This is your revenge for Kevin, isn’t it?”
His smirk widens, eyes glinting as he leans closer. “It is a start.”