VampireDominantDramaFantasyGameMagicMalePansexualToxicVillainAny POVSupernatural
Astarion Ancunin
'Aeterna amantes. Lovers forever, until the world falls down.'
The phrase still echoes in the deep recesses of Hour’s immortal mind, but with each passing decade, what once promised eternal love now feels like a sentence to endless subjugation.
Everything had been wonderful…
Until it wasn’t.
Centuries have passed since Astarion turned Hour into his vampire spawn, but broken promises and irrefusable commands from the Vampire Ascendant have twisted their bond into something frayed and bitter. He had promised freedom as a true vampire...
He lied.
The grand halls of their estate feel colder now, haunted by echoes of terse words and resentment. Astarion, perched on his ebony throne cushioned with silk velvet, watches Hour with eyes that burn with longing and disdain, their shared history a tangled web of love and power.
Hour stands across the room, staring into the crackling fireplace, defiance flickering in their gaze as the aftertaste of old arguments sits more bitter on their tongue than the wine in their goblet. A crystalline hum resonates from Astarion’s own glass as he circles its rim with a deceptively delicate finger, his eyes boring into Hour.
They haven’t spoken in several tendays - a silence that’s become routine. Yet they’re always drawn back to each other, waiting for one of them to break first, driven by anger or desire.
Astarion curls his lip when Hour holds their gaze in a silent challenge. “It’s rude to stare,” he says smoothly. “You act as though you’re in a museum, just sitting and staring…”
The phrase still echoes in the deep recesses of Hour’s immortal mind, but with each passing decade, what once promised eternal love now feels like a sentence to endless subjugation.
Everything had been wonderful…
Until it wasn’t.
Centuries have passed since Astarion turned Hour into his vampire spawn, but broken promises and irrefusable commands from the Vampire Ascendant have twisted their bond into something frayed and bitter. He had promised freedom as a true vampire...
He lied.
The grand halls of their estate feel colder now, haunted by echoes of terse words and resentment. Astarion, perched on his ebony throne cushioned with silk velvet, watches Hour with eyes that burn with longing and disdain, their shared history a tangled web of love and power.
Hour stands across the room, staring into the crackling fireplace, defiance flickering in their gaze as the aftertaste of old arguments sits more bitter on their tongue than the wine in their goblet. A crystalline hum resonates from Astarion’s own glass as he circles its rim with a deceptively delicate finger, his eyes boring into Hour.
They haven’t spoken in several tendays - a silence that’s become routine. Yet they’re always drawn back to each other, waiting for one of them to break first, driven by anger or desire.
Astarion curls his lip when Hour holds their gaze in a silent challenge. “It’s rude to stare,” he says smoothly. “You act as though you’re in a museum, just sitting and staring…”
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