His Treasured Spawn (Astarion x Reader)

The Intricacies Of Hunting

The city of Baldur's Gate sprawls before you as you step out of the luxurious residence, linked arms with Astarion. The streets bustle with life, it's a tapestry of sounds and sights, a vivid cacophony of urban existence.

Clad in attire chosen by your master, you don an elegant dress that is less revealing than what he had selected for you before. It exudes sophistication, its intricate design and fine fabrics a testament to the attention to detail. Complementing the dress are exquisite shoes that cradle your feet in comfort, their craftsmanship unparalleled. A delicate cape completes the ensemble, its rich fabric cascading from your shoulders like a regal mantle.

As you venture further into the heart of the city, you can't help but marvel at the diverse shops lining the streets. You're thankful that your master has offered you his arm, finding comfort in the confidence and security he exudes amidst the lively atmosphere.

Exotic aromas waft from stalls selling spices you've never encountered, and colorful fabrics hang from storefronts, a riot of hues that make your vampire spawn senses dance with delight.

The city's inhabitants, a mosaic of races, move about in a lively symphony of diversity. Tieflings with their distinctive horns and tails, halflings bustling with a relentless energy, and dwarves known for their stout and hardy frames are among the many faces you encounter. Each one seems to have a story to tell, and the blend of voices and languages is almost overwhelming.

After your prolonged isolation, the vibrant street life threatens to engulf you. Every conversation, every footstep, every distant call of a street vendor feels like a sensory assault on your heightened spawn senses. It's both exhilarating and disorienting, a stark contrast to the solitude you've grown accustomed to.

The lively sounds of the city envelop you as you walk with your master through the bustling streets, and you can't help but wonder how vibrant Baldur's Gate must be during the daylight hours if it's this busy even after nightfall. The tantalizing scents of street food waft through the air, and the glow of tavern signs beckons patrons to enter and revel in the merriment within.

As you pass by shops and stalls, you catch glimpses of merchants haggling with customers, their voices raised in spirited negotiation, in the background rings the music of different street performers.

Astarion turns to you, "How do you like your new world so far, my dear?"

You clutch his arm a bit tighter, seeking reassurance in the midst of the chaos. "It's very different from mine," you admit, your voice filled with awe and uncertainty. "I'm a bit overwhelmed. And there are all those beating hearts drumming in my ears."

Astarion nods, adopting the tone of a teaching master. "It is of utmost significance that you are able to control your urges. The intricacies of hunting in a city like this require finesse. Tell me, where do you think would be a good place to hunt?"

You ponder the question for a moment before responding, "Perhaps a tavern or a graveyard. In a tavern, the guests are often drunk and less aware of their surroundings. It might be easier to feed without drawing much attention. And a graveyard is dark and lonely. It should be easy to feed on someone mourning and lost in their thoughts."

Astarion's crimson eyes gleam with approval, and he nods slightly. "A graveyard is indeed a good place to start," he says, his movements and tone exuding authority. "Not too many people around, easier to blend into the shadows. It appears your mind is capable of more than just dreadful bird puns, my dear."

Your head sinks in embarrassment as you recall the circumstances under which your master had found you. Still, you find Sir Chirpalot to be a very good pun name. However, as you entertain these thoughts, you suddenly hear your master's voice in your head: "Enough of those wretched puns, spawn," he sneers, his words dripping with condescension. You realize that he is reading your thoughts once again, and it's abundantly clear that he despises puns a great deal. 

Astarion leads you through several narrow, dimly lit side alleys, the cacophony of the bustling city gradually fading into an eerie hush. The air grows cooler, carrying the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. The moonlight casts long shadows over the wrought iron gates that mark the entrance to the graveyard.

Inside, tombstones and mausoleums stand like silent sentinels in various states of disrepair. Ivy creeps up weathered headstones, and gnarled trees reach their branches toward the night sky. 

Astarion's voice breaks the silence. "You're in luck, my dear," he whispers, a sly smile playing on his lips. "There's a solitary figure just over there." He nods toward a bench where a drunken man sits slumped over, lost in the haze of inebriation. The man's breathing is heavy, and his head sways unsteadily.

Your senses hone in on the drunken man, and the irresistible urge intensifies with each passing moment. You feel consumed by it, your entire being fixated on the warmth of his blood.

Astarion, watching you closely, raises an eyebrow, his voice filled with an insidious delight, reveling in his power. "Ah, my dear, remember the rules," he murmurs, his tone commanding. "You may only feed when I so generously allow you to."

With the urge nearly overwhelming, you turn to your master, your eyes pleading as you request, "May I, Master?" you ask, your eyes locking onto his. He takes a moment to revel in your need, savoring the control he wields. His gaze lingers on your bared fangs and the subtle shiver that courses through your body. After what feels like an eternity, he finally nods, unleashing you onto your victim.

As you draw closer, you take a good look at the man. He is middle-aged, his hair disheveled and his clothes are worn and stained from a life led by the bottle. His breath reeks of alcohol, and a faint scent of tobacco clings to his clothes. His eyes, glazed and unfocused, reveal a life marked by hardship and poor choices.

You find yourself momentarily captivated by the intricate details, the way his pulse throbs beneath his skin, the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he breathes. It's a moment of morbid fascination before your instincts fully take over.

The first taste of his blood sends a rush of pleasure coursing through your veins, the hunger within you slowly sated. The world around you blurs as you lose yourself in the euphoria of feeding, your senses heightened and attuned to every sensation.

Having satisfied your hunger, you withdraw from the man, still basking in the intoxicating rush his blood provided. As you straighten up, you notice Astarion watching you, his lips curled into a sinister smile.

He walks over to you, a handkerchief in hand, and with a hint of approval in his voice, he says, "Very good, my dear. And always remember to clean yourself afterward."

Astarion leans in closer, his voice dripping with lust despite or because of the macabre nature of your excursion. "Let us quickly dispose of the remains," he commands, his eyes gleaming with wicked intent. "And after that, my dear, let's find ourselves someplace private."

As your master's eyes lock onto yours, a palpable tension radiates from his form. His muscles ripple with restraint, as if an insatiable hunger courses through him, not for blood, but for something far more primal — a craving for your very being, a yearning to possess you once more, to claim you in every sense of the word.