@elinorbard I Decided To Help Put A Stop To Those Brain Weasels The Best Way I Know How, With Presents,

@elinorbard I decided to help put a stop to those brain weasels the best way I know how, with presents, so. Have a Ta'avrathim and a hug 💜

Chapter Summary:

Bonnie and Astarion strangely reunite after five years of separation.

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Chapter 1: Eye on the Sparrow

Ao3

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Main Page & Chapter List

Word Count: 5k

Pairing: Astarion x female western bard OC

CW: Language, Violence, References to Trauma

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Loud roars roll out of the Elfsong Saloon like thunderstorms tumbling down from the eastern mountains. The old fir building is abnormally packed for the beginning of the week, damn near every civilian poking around in Baldur’s Gate spilling out of its batwing doors. Oil lamps hang outside, blazing like devils around the raucous place. 

Astarion approaches the saloon, garnet eyes nearly aglow with want in the pitch dark night, lured by the faint scent of blood. Not just any bouquet, mind, but one that belonged to a woman named Bonnie Sparrows: enemy; friend; brief lover. It’s been nearly five years since he last saw the elf, having hightailed it out of her vicinity shortly after they finished what they set out to do, yet her aroma stuck around in his mind like a habit he couldn’t quit. The sweetest swill he’s ever had: honeyed milk and sugar violets. 

He runs his tongue along his upper gums, trying to alleviate the ache in his fangs without any success. Dangerous move, Bon, the vampire smirks to himself, knowing she’s brought him there on purpose as an open invitation he couldn’t refuse. See, that’s the thing about Bonnie, she did everything with intention. Foolhardy or not, she deliberately put all her thoughts and actions into whatever goal she was meaning to achieve. 

As his boots drag him past a few horses tied to a wooden hitch post, he hears them softly snort, sensing his existence as the predator that could feast upon them at any moment. He eyes the closest one, pupil shifting to the side to view it better. “Vile creatures. More prone to biting than I am…well, almost,” he mutters under his breath. 

“My, my, is that the renowned gunslinger Astarion ‘Crimson Eye’ Ancunín or do my eyes deceive me?” a high-pitched voice twangs, interrupting him from chastising the unsettled equines. 

Astarion lifts his head to see an amethyst-skinned tiefling leaning seductively against the outdoor railing, breasts giving him a generous greeting as they pour over the top of her silken bodice. She’s clearly one of the lost, a prostitute that’s seen too much, judging by the dark bags under her eyes. His stomach drops, wondering if he had looked as raddled as she does before his former master died. He reckons he was fortunate he couldn’t see his reflection anymore during that era, the last of his repressed humanity at risk for disappearing if he had ever gotten a glimpse of himself. Two centuries of brutality and starvation does something to a person that never does seem to leave their outer appearance, always embedded just beneath the pores. 

A silver curl peeks out from under a weathered black cattleman hat as he tips the edge at the lady. “Good evening, darlin’,” he replies politely.

The woman smiles wide, lifting layers of purple petticoats to curtsy. “Now how come I never see you at Sharess’s Caress with a mare or stallion in your lap, hmm? Handsome feller like you would be treated like royalty there!” 

Astarion can’t fault the whore for being attracted to him, he is a beautiful man, anyone with at least one good eye could see that. Head full of snowy waves, opalescent skin rivaling the moon’s luminance, and a sharp jawline, he’s as every bit of a refined-looking gentleman that immortality would allow. Not to mention, he possesses an educated mind with a debonair that easily beguiles others that is typically uncommon in western Faerûn.

Only hiccup he has to worry about is the populace discovering he’s a vampire spawn. Creatures like him aren’t well-received—perhaps understandably—especially in recent years. Taking up a vocation as a bounty hunter has allowed him space from people suspecting, tending to be more interested in his attractiveness and marksmanship than that fact that his accent seems to lack the same present day drawl or that he never exhibits an appetite for mortal food. 

Still, a frown falls upon his face. He understands the woman is just trying to make a living, enticing him for coin in exchange for her adept services, but the glint in her eye tells him she meant what she implied. It didn’t matter the amount of time that had passed since he was last forced to use his body for another’s pleasure—much like the soiled doves at the brothel house—folks still continue to view him as only a sexual object. 

He takes a moment to check the threading in his cowhide gloves while he rearranges his thoughts. “As much as I appreciate your tempting proposal, I am far too busy draining this city dry of all its bad blood,” he says, showing off his pearly white teeth.

The tiefling swiftly descends the stairs in front of the saloon, meeting him at the bottom. Her hand wraps around his bicep and she pulls herself flush against his chest. “Well, how about you take me inside and buy me a drink then? And if you’re feeling up to it later,” she purrs into his ear, dragging a manicured nail down his jawline. “you’re more than welcome to wet your wick inside me.”

His breathing stops.

No.

She’s pushing and pushing.

No.

Frisking the point of his ear.

No.

He doesn’t want this.

No. 

This isn’t okay.

No. 

NO!

Anger glazes over his eyes as he feels his body freeze from her touch. He focuses on an object, any object. There. Decorative beads hanging from her horns. That’ll do. The colors are dim at first, but then burst with vibrancy. He takes a breath, feels his chest rise and sink. Two men exit the building, singing a drunken ditty. They both come into clear focus as another puff of air enters his lungs. And then sound begins to break through the fuzz in his ears. Laughter. Words. The clinking of cups. Finally, a familiar heartbeat. Bonnie.

He is safe and he is here. 

He is safe and he is here.

He is safe and he is here.

Astarion doesn’t seek out the woman’s face, but instead snatches her wrist, yanking it back. “This is the only warning you’ll get to keep your hands off me,” he warns with a hiss. 

Her bronze irises dilate, shocked at his reaction. “Didn’t mean to upset you none,” she laughs nervously, flinching as though she were used to a man handling her in a rougher way than he did. “I—” her tone lowers, violet cheeks darkening with blush. “I can give you a fellatio, if you’d prefer. But please don’t tell no one. They wouldn't take kindly to knowing I did something like that.”

Nasty fluid burbles in his upper throat as he releases her. The woman scuttles a couple steps backwards and rubs her wrist. “Just…stop talking,” he manages, panic subsiding as his surroundings sharpen into view again. “I would suggest flying back to your coop for the rest of tonight.” He dips into his vest pocket to pull out a few gold coins, tossing them her way. 

With cupped palms, she catches the shiny discs. “Truly am sorry about what I’d done,” she apologizes, bending down to shove the gold into her boot. “If you ever change your mind, I’ll be waitin’.” She’s additional apologies and hair ringlets swaying as she delivers a courteous bow, gradually departing down the street back into the night that beckons her.

The pale elf pauses, allowing an ounce of pride to wash over him for setting a boundary. He’s getting better at buffering those intrusive episodes as they occur, inner wounds covering themselves in scar tissue, lessening the pain with every midnight chime. It’s a lonesome road he sometimes travels, struggling to counterbalance his trauma and daily life built up by thousands of former strangers’ hands gliding down his statuesque form like a cactus prickling at his flesh for a single night of passion he didn’t have a choice in. Touching him had been a death sentence. For his conquests. For his abuser. For his broken soul. 

Gruff men’s brays explode from the saloon when Astarion belatedly enters. Feathered fans open, intentionally tickling patrons' noses as their feminine owners entertain with songs and sparkling tasseled shoes. Liquor pours on end into glasses of all sizes. A slurred heated discussion concludes when a businessman lays unconscious on the floor next to his punched out teeth.

But, amongst the boisterous crowd, the vampire finds her. 

Bonnie is leaning against the bar with that coppery red hair resembling a fox’s fur, loosely cascading over her shoulders, with booze pressed to her lips like she’s been a regular since the place was built. Her worn pecan colored hat is pulled down enough to solely hide the top portion of her face, revealing only a pair of heart-shaped pouters as pink as sunbeams passing through a cloud. 

He’s admittedly apprehensive to approach the lady; they didn’t part on the best of terms. And life changes people, for better or worse. The Bonnie he knew may be lost to a past he would have to mourn in the dust. Was he prepared for that? To slough her from his memory like a rattlesnake sheds its skin. He furrows his thick brows, contemplating if he should leave before she notices him. No, he needs to properly face her. Put things to bed so they could both move on without any lingering questions.

Besides, unbeknownst to her, he’s there for far more than a trip down nostalgia lane or his lust after her crimson draft. Woman has warrants out on her name and a man has a bounty to collect. 

Spurs clank as he trudges along towards the bar, spiked rowels tapping the hardwood beneath him. Astarion offers a nod to the dancing ladies and buzzed buckaroos on his way, avoiding their conversations until he reaches his destination standing next to Bonnie. He billows out his jacket, positioning his elbows onto the countertop. 

“What can I get you, honey?” an older barmaid riddled with white sunspots inquiries as she cleans out a glass for him.

“You’ll break my cold heart if you tell me you don’t serve red wine in this fine establishment,” he replies, turning on his charm with a wink.

“We do try to keep folks happy ‘round here,” she chuckles, obviously falling for his flirtatious demeanor as his head carelessly props up on his fist. She searches a shelf behind her, procuring a green bottle, then pours the maroon drink into his cup. “Here you are. That’ll be two silvers.”

“Thank you.” He slides the change across the counter. “Extra for a tip.” The barmaid smiles at his charity, collecting the money, ready to serve another customer that’s walked up.

Bonnie’s heart starts pulsing wildly, a bison stampede alive in Astarion’s ears, knowing that she immediately recognizes his voice. She’s anxious. Bonnie “The Duet” Sparrows is anxious. Around…him. This is a woman he saw take down ten bandits while she hummed a piano sonata to herself without breaking a sweat! 

He can’t help but grin to himself, smug with satisfaction that he caught her off guard. Second time he accomplished the feat with her. First being when he unexpectedly fucked her on his mortal grave after Cazador perished. He never had something so godsdamned ethereal beneath him, with his bite marks adorning her peachy skin, claiming her as his own. 

Then, he ran. Leaving her a shivering babe on his unhallowed tombstone. Terrified to want. Doubtful his yearning for an intimate connection without sex would ever be sated. 

“Here for the show, cowboy?” Bonnie asks, smiling into her glass of whiskey. Her tone is peculiar: sultry; richer; an octave lower. Not what he remembers. 

Astarion chances a quick glance at Bonnie’s side profile, breath stuttering when he makes out the details of a turkey vulture feather tied into a short braid tucked behind her ear. After all the misery he brought on her, she kept that ugly thing like some memento she couldn’t let go. Maybe she’s forgotten about its significance and just likes it dangling from her strands, but that wouldn’t match who she is. She’s wearing it on purpose.

He doesn’t remark on the accessory, opting to leave their reunion unsoured. Instead, he recollects how she got that feather in the first place. Her gang was starving, food scarce on the frontier, and he assisted her in hunting down some vultures as a last resort. At first, he agreed for his own selfish reasons, needing to further manipulate her into trusting and caring for him so she’d help him smoke his master. Then, Bonnie had plucked out one of the bird’s feathers, telling him that the critters reminded her of him: lives circling, harbinging death, but hiding light in their wings. He told her his wings shattered ages ago and she squeezed his hand something sweet and thoughtful, murmuring that “stars shine brightest in the dark.” Astarion hadn’t ever been touched in a way without someone expecting relations in return. From that moment on, his feelings towards her were complicated. 

“I guess that depends on what kind of show this is and if it’s worth my while,” Astarion answers, nonchalantly sipping his wine. 

Bonnie wets her lips. “Mm. I think you’ll be fond of the main event, but it’s the grand finale that’s guaranteed to really shoot off.” 

He smirks, pleased that their coded exchanges haven’t altered. Though, he does briefly wonder if she brought him here to get rev—

“Not here for revenge if that’s what you’re thinkin’,” she clarifies as if reading his mind. Thoughtlessly, her fingertip traces along her glass’s rim. “Got other business that brought me here.”

A sigh of relief quietly sneaks through his lips. He turns, wine in hand, back now pressed into the counter as he scans the locals. “Then, I’m all pointy ears.”

Bonnie nods in the direction of an unkempt man and woman—drows—trying to avoid her gaze. “Two fleas with black bandanas and a red sigil stitched in.”

Scarlet eyes narrow at the couple, studying their behavior. They’re jittery, anticipating things to probably end badly. Astarion hears them chattering fast, but can’t make out what they’re saying amidst all the excitement. Helping Bonnie out of this would be the perfect way for him to capture her. He knows she intends to pay him, hence her blood she deliberately spilt to persuade him there. Feeding on her will get him close enough to tie her up, a flawless plan.

“What did you do for those roughnecks to trail you?”

“I lived,” she breathes out somberly. 

He lifts a brow, curiosity begging to be indulged. Can he trust her? Her bounties say otherwise. But, emotions are a hell of a blindside when it comes to someone he once cared for. Cheekily, he taps twice at his fang. “And what’s my reward if I decide to engage?”

World is in slow motion when her head pivots, craning her neck to regard him directly. Wintery blue eyes and sun-kissed freckles dabbled across her delicate rosy upper cheeks, welcome him from underneath her hat. She’s aged a bit, couple more smile lines added. Her weight gain has filled out her curves in a way that dampens his mouth. 

Hells, how is she still so lovely?

“I think you know what your reward is,” she simpers, tugging her scarf down to show him the surface level cut she made on the side of her neck. 

Nostrils flare, transfixed by the coagulated droplets along the cut’s seam. “After this, we need to talk,” Astarion fans out shakily, somewhat keeping his composure.

Bonnie blows him a kiss. “Don’t worry, I won’t slip away—not yet anyways.” 

Least she’s being honest.

“How are we doing this?” he asks, setting his barely drunk glass down. 

She rustles in her back trouser pocket, presenting a minted coin between her index and thumb fingers. “Remember how to do the ‘Whistlin’ Bullseye’?”

He scoffs at her, crossing his arms defiantly. “Really? That’s your grand strategy?! Why don’t I just convince them to join me outside and dispose of them the old-fashioned way: my teeth.”

A finger flies up to her mouth. “Shh, keep your voice down, will ya? Listen, I’m not looking to kill them, just…run them off. It’ll make things worse otherwise.”

His gaze softens. “Bon, I—“

“‘Starion, please,” she pleads, flicking her lengthy lashes up at him.

Astarion’s head is spinning, lost in her cool eyes. He never could say no to her. “Fine. We do this quick.”

She smiles big. Hopeful. Spirited, lovely, Bonnie. “You know the signal.” She rolls up her sleeves and squats down to pick up a fiddle case he hadn’t noticed, unlatching it to remove the instrument inside. The rest of her whiskey is shot down her gullet in a singular gulp. “Now wait here, I have a show to do.” 

He watches her hips sway—ones he had dug his fingers into for dear life as she moaned his name—leading herself to a neighboring table already occupied. One of the men seated respectfully allows her to hold onto his shoulder as she hoists herself up onto the furniture. The vampire stays put, patiently skimming his digits along his revolver’s grip stuffed into his waistband.

“Could I have everyone’s attention?” Bonnie hollers, waving that fiddle bow in the air. Head after head rotates in her direction, voices dying on imbibed tongues. A few wolf whistles rise and fall. Astarion rolls his eyes at that. Bastards are nowhere in her league. 

“Much obliged,” she says, tipping her hat. “I know too many women aren’t known for playing the fiddle out in these parts, but if you’d allow me, I’d love to play a song for y’all.”

“Sweetheart, you can do anything you want to us!” a random person yells aloud, causing the building to erupt with mirthful hysterics. 

In the racket, Astarion tracks the couple from earlier. They’re whispering harshly now, absorbed in a private argument. What is he up against? One…no…two measly pistols by his observation. Idiots. 

Bonnie is grinning ear to ear, pretending their pathetic attempts to flirt are funny. “Alright, settle down.” A wave of silence rushes through the crowd again. It’s been a long while since Astarion last heard her sing, longer yet since he listened to that chordophone in her hands. 

He waits, dislodging his ear canals of any interference. He waits, a twist of elation behind his ribs. He waits, desiring to be captivated with her nightingale song that once soothed his hurt. He waits and waits and waits, but she does not sing. 

What Bonnie does do, is furiously run that bow along the fiddle’s strings like an exorcism she’s committed to jigging out. It’s odd, unprecedented even, that she’s not purifying the room with a seraphic hymn. Usually, she belts out a chorus in between her fiddle solos, expanding her diaphragm that naturally soaks the spotlight. 

Astarion’s sight clings on the slightest twitch at her lips, quivering as it does when she’s mulling. Why isn’t she singing? He nips his inner cheek. There’s a begotten memory of her, a spell that breaks inside him in a way that history’s been rewritten. Could something awful have happened? Bonnie’s whole life is attached to music, to song. He could ask her, set aside their wavering qualms tangling them together, but he wasn’t sure it was wise to crack open that coffin containing their heartstrings when he didn’t know what else would spew out.

Boots are tip-tapping on top the table as she continues to play, maintaining her hastening tempo. The audience is clapping, encouraging her with praise. Sweat bolts down her temples and disappears beneath her shirt’s collar. Lit lantern twines are quaking as notes sporadically bounce from the ceiling rafters. Bonnie’s eyes raise from the fingerboard on her instrument, sweeping out to find Astarion. She winks at him, a cue that it’s time to let his silver fly. 

It’s the coin she tosses above her that kicks off the havoc. She whistles, shrill and crisp, then crouches low with her hands basketing over her ears. Astarion clutches his gun, ripping it from the front of its snuggled up place in the front of his pants, and shuts one eye as he aims at the coin.

Rhapsody. That’s what he calls the revolver. One of two he owns. Pewter and gold, rubies inlet into the frame. Cazador Szarr’s old weapon that Astarion nabbed, vowing to cleanse its evil sins by practicing being a do-gooder where it counts—somewhat. No one cares about murder when it comes to killing the right folks and he did enjoy the added tidbit of instilling a little fear that comes with being a gunsman.

Smoke plumes appear after the gun’s recoil, happening faster than the eye can see. Identifying the culprit seems less important than chancing death and the saloon soon ignites into screams. People scamper about like pill bugs until the place is cleared out, leaving behind half-filled spittoons and toppled liquor cups rolling gently in place. 

Bonnie hops down from the table, rushing to the doors to peer out into the evening. “Don’t see anyone lingering. Can you sense them?”

Astarion walks to the table, bending to retrieve the fallen coin. It’s warm in his palm, his gun’s bullet fragment lodged into the circular object’s engravings. He inhales a practiced breath through his nose. “The only scent I detect is yours, darlin’. Seems like your rats got scared away by your reckless scheme.”

She laughs. “It worked, didn’t it?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I still believe my method would have been less sloppy, but seeing as we haven’t seen each other in years, think of it as a ‘welcome back’ gift.”

“Then, I guess I should count my lucky stars you showed up.” She saunters to the bar. He can hear her shuffling around, glass tinks echoing, whiskey pouring into a glass. She whirls, facing him with drinks in her hands, one being the wine he purchased earlier. “Have a drink with me while we chat? Before you get your payment. For old time’s sake.”

There’s something in the vacillating fog that separates them, warning him to decline. He should harden himself to her, seize her for his bounty, and leave. Praying to himself for the courage to ignore that kind smile and valor she retains. His mind doesn’t catch up until after he already agrees, shaking his head more eagerly than he expects. 

They sit across from each other at a fairly spotless table, Bonnie sliding his glass to him. “So, a bounty hunter, eh? Can’t say I saw that comin’.”

He places the glass rim between his lips, allowing the burgundy liquid to splash against his teeth. “Let’s not avoid talking about that little stunt you just pulled. Why is the Baenre Gang on your hide?” Astarion asks, intently staring at her. 

The gleam on her expression dissipates. 

“Did you think I didn’t know?” he persists, thinking about the cherry-red spiderweb sigil embroidered on the drow’s bandanas. “Baenre has been expanding their territory this past year, causing quite the panic throughout Faerûn.”

She purses her mouth. “I don’t particularly want to talk about them.”

Astarion glugs the rest of his wine. “No? Then, let’s talk about these warrants that are out for your immediate arrest. Since when did Bonnie Sparrows reduce herself to nothing more than an imprudent criminal?” he chides.

Bonnie blinks at him, tilting her head. “Why don't you remind me what crimes I’m being accused of?” she goads.

He holds his hand and starts to count. “Robbing a stagecoach, stealing a horse, arson.” His skin pinches together in the middle of his brows, distraught by the last offense he means to speak. “And the murder of the Harper Clan’s leader, Jaheira. I don’t understand, Bon, wasn’t she like a mother to you?”

Tears well up as she bites her lip. “How do you know I was the one who committed them?”

Astarion’s fist knocks on the table twice. “Eyewitnesses. Bullets similar, if not, identical to that peacemaker you’ve always been packing.”

“You believe the evidence?”

“It’s overwhelmingly pointing to you, unless you can come up with reliable alibis.”

Bonnie swivels her head, evading his scrutinizing glare. He thickly swallows, partially dreading what he has to do next. Rhapsody raises from under the table, aimed at her elegant neck. She slowly sails those almost translucent baby blues to the firearm and fucking smirks.

“I don’t care about most of your transgressions—hells, some of it even sounds fun—but killing the savior of the Shadowlands has turned the whole continent inside out and they want blood…your blood,” he says, clicking back the gun’s hammer. “Be grateful it’s me that found you and not someone else that would crucify you on the spot. Given our history, the very least I can do is be fair to you.”

The room begins congesting with her disruptive sardonic laughter, thrashing her head back, something tittering on denial and sorrow. She holds up her hands in the air. “Suppose I need to fess up! Sure, I did it and I enjoyed every moment of it,” she growls, suddenly throwing her peacekeeper and a knife onto the table. “Here. Confiscate them. Let’s get this over with before dawn melts your ass to a crisp and I’m blamed for your death as well.”

Astarion eases himself from his seat, revolver steady on his bounty. Gradually, he inches closer to her, watching—always watching—her movements. Have to expect the unexpected with a woman like Bonnie, no matter how tenderhearted she might be. He gestures the gun tip upwards, motioning her to stand, proceeding to unhook ropes from his wide belt. 

“Hands and legs together,” he instructs. “I think we both understand that if you try anything, it’ll end very badly for you.” Of course she knows; she’s been privy to his gunwork on several occasions. He’s a swifter, deadlier draw and if she tries to tempt fate by running, either his lead or fangs would get her.

She stands, kicking back her chair, putting her arms in front of her body as requested. The spawn decocked the weapon’s hammer, cramming it back into his pants. He shakes out one of the ropes, folding it in half, and sets forth on wrapping it around her wrists. 

He’s glad he has gloves on, skin to skin contact guaranteeing he’ll burst into flames as his fingers coast against her flesh. A cinch is formed in the middle when he brings the rope underneath, looping it back up until he knots it entirely into a perfect double column tie. He gives it a precursory tug, peeping at her through his unfurled black lashes. “Does it hurt?” he questions, deeper than intended.

“N-no.” That flush on Bonnie couldn’t be missed, descending from her face to her neck. She’s wholly dazed when she finally looks at him with half-lidded eyes. Astarion wonders if the abrupt fresh odor of mellifluous musk, delightfully invading his nostrils, is her arousal. His stomach flutters. “You know, I always did want to be tied up by you.”

Her admission inconveniently goes straight to his cock, making the poor neglected thing jolt behind his leathers. “Flirting isn’t going to get you out of this.” Astarion tugs the knot again, rechecking his handiwork. “But, I can assure you, it wasn’t for a lack of not wanting to. You just always managed to escape from my grasp,” he pokes in return, unable to resist a bout of coquetry. 

Sussing out the knots he should use on her ankles, he slinks southward onto his knees. The next rope binds her comparably to her wrists, squarely knotting it and making sure the bight is in a perfect position. Again, he pulls on the rope, testing for its security and her comfort. 

“Not gonna let me go this time?” Bonnie says softly.

“This time? What do you mean—” Pupils enlarge as he raises, organs contorting when he finds her gaze a wistful longing. Fragile. She’s all fragile. He grabs the knot at her wrists, grazing his thumb alongside it as if to console her. “Bonnie…I never meant to betray you.”

Ichor fiercely rushes to her parted lips. “Save it. I’m not interested in rehashin’ the past with you,” she spits.

“Then, why’d you come back? You’re not a dumb woman; you had to have known the law would be on you as soon as you entered the city. So, why?”

“Some things are more important than my wounded pride,” she whispers, boring her eyes into his. “I also had to see.”

“See what?” he inquires, feeling her heat rising from her skin.

“See if you would listen,” she responds flatly.

“Listen about what?” Something is amiss. Intentional. Remember, Bonnie is intentional. But, Astarion is ensnared by her warmth and her perfumed oils darting into his nose. Gardenia. Smoked tea. Desert moss. Oils that are drowning him in sleepy memories of her. 

Bonnie’s smile is crooked. Here it comes. “When I tell you that you’re a man that’s about to fall asleep in thirty seconds.”

Fuck.

Astarion plummets to the ground, limbs giving out. “Bonnie, godsdamned you!” 

She scoots back a few feet, balancing her bound body while avoiding his thrashing arms. “Angelic Slumber Potion. Perhaps you should’ve thought twice before drinking with someone you don’t know anymore.” The wine glass, she laced the glass!

He scratches the top of the table for leverage, sweating profusely as he tries to defy the potion’s effects. Oh, but sleep sounds nice and his eyes are heavy, drooping just so. Heavier than they’ve ever been. Dreams will come and maybe he’ll meet her there. The woman he can’t admit he ever…

Somehow he’s on his back, staring into his fate that’s coffee-stained beauty spots and suffocating in red-orange marigold tresses surrounding, surrounding, surrounding his vision.

Bonnie chucks his ropes onto his chest, attending to her sore wrists. “When you wake up, I want you to remember something: I’m the one you let get away.”

No wonder his love life is a mess.

The GROWL in his voice and the way he moves his whole body while saying this has me feeling some type of way. Imma need to take a lap or a cold shower.

well. bisexuality and vampirism

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ends September 15th

Many thanks to @tadpole-apocalypse , @mercymaker , and to my spouse Cory for letting me cameo their Tav OC's! Tadpole-apocalypse also inspired this comic with a hilarious comment. 🖤 For what it's worth, I really love drawing my oc with other people's oc's! I'm just so damn shy to ask and ALSO don't want to come on too strong to my mutuals and creators I like. 😅