ayselluna

[ayselluna]

some of astarion’s consorts/wives/girlfriends/exes and future romantic entanglements 🫀

quick credits, top to bottom, left to right:

picture 1: @pastureghost artemis @rubyeyebabybat | @bloodinwine @njuta (me) @olivedrop | @mellybaggins @preciouslittlebhaalbae Matcha Mischief

picture 2: @brabblesban @anacdoce @lamp-snail | @schuldigkun @litsenn @xxnashiraxx | @weirdmullosk @spacesunderstairs @endorennaao3

picture 3: @meeshrox @emilythecosmicbat @vakariansyndrome | @aevallare @motherzhiv @roguishcat | @loserscardigan @irondeficienttav | @bludazey

i  didn’t keep the references open while drawing, so i know i missed some details (skin tones, elf ears etc). some things  (tattoo, freckles, bright lipsticks) were simplified or removed for style, but if i got anything wrong just let me know and I’ll fix it 🫀

full credit and fic links under the cut!

and here’s where i admit i’m not much of a reader, and i haven’t read the vast majority of these fics. but i love ocs a lot and this is my way of giving back to all this community has given me! these are all very neat characters and y’all should do yourselves a favour and check them out!

picture one

percy from pot, kettle by @pastureghost. this writing is so good y’all. she really gets inside percy’s head and it paints the whole narrative and percy is just SUCH an interesting character. she does the socially awkward/insecure tav so well. just dropped a new chapter too, go check it out!!

styx from renowned AO3 commenter Artemis_the_gr8. she has left me SO many thoughtful comments. she truly gets astarion 🫀or at least my interpretation of him, haha. i had to simplify styx’s tattoos a lot for this collage; she looks so much cooler in reality and i hope we get to see fic of her someday 🫀🫀

mahina from rubies and whiskey by @rubyeyebabybat. i’m so gay for this tav lol. so cool and thoughtfully written and competent! she feels very realised in her backstory, personality and appearance, and it all ties together into a full character. and she’s hot and has a cool tattoo. the exact type of person i’d want to put out cigarettes on me.

effy from until you by @bloodinwine. my faavee🫀🫀 effy feels so fucking real. she’s so magical and wonderful and human and flawed and until you is the best thing written in this fandom—if you haven’t read it go do so. and i’m so proud to be able to call june a friend too she’s the loveliest.

myla from elegy to benevolent hearts by me. three raccoons in a trenchcoat. absolute disaster, tacky, smells bad. 0/10 but she’s learning!! bhaals school for hot white girl drow just didn’t teach you words like “i’m sorry i stabbed you again.”

jaz from made for this by @olivedrop. such a hottie i would make us both miserable during a summer fling. and olive! olive is such an effortless cool person that when i started reading made for this, i was convinced jaz would be cool as fuck. and kind of! at times! and at other times, a bit of a floundering mess haha. this fic is so sweetly written please go read. 

morwen from oathbreaker by @mellybaggins. if i could read, this is what i’d read haha. i heard so much positive stuff about morwen and her development! and just from reading about her on tumblr she’s very cool for being an high-functioning alcoholic. i love characters with depth and development and issues and all that and morwen hits all of the boxes down to the equivalent of a “no ragrets” facial tattoo.

erin from indelible imprints by @preciouslittlebhaalbae. another one i heard good stuff about their development from! honestly i think i had just drawn three characters with long black hair in a row and was looking for something different. and a little butterfly told me that the author was lovely! what can i say i love blue hair and pronouns.

eirwen from one last thrust by Matcha Mischief. it was love at first sight when I saw the pictures of this doll on reddit. look at her!! she’s so cute and and squishy and sexy!! and then you see the fics and it’s all dark fuckery fucking & she’s obsessive and wild-hot :> lovely gal.

picture two

ban from whither thy beloved gone by @brabblesban. i have said before and i’ll say it again: visually, ban is my favourite tav with astarion. they look so good together!! and i am happy to say there’s a lot of images of them to chose from. ban has been so kind to me in this fandom, and she’s now making delightful 3d artwork, but started out as one of the big astarion writers. it’s not often you see longer fics being finished in this fandom, so please check this one out.

raven from untitled by @anacdoce. the raven longfic hasn’t been published yet, but you can read snippets on anacdoce’s blog, and, in the meantime, check out some of her other writing? plenty of astarion/reader to soothe your soul 🫀anacdote is an absolute sweetheart too, and raven herself has this lovely vulnerability to her that just makes you ache a little. she’s super cute too—exactly the kind of tav who makes you understand why astarion would trip over himself in a heartbeat. but im biased since she has the same in-game face as myla, haha.

dreya from stronger together by @endorennaao3. i made a reddit post from a throwaway account asking for complicated tavs, and endorenna sent me such a lovely dm that i had to draw dreya lol. it was just so overflowing with the love and thought she put into this character. and it is a delightful character too: dreya is brave, compassionate, and a little too willing to see the good in people. but under that strength she’s fragile, struggling with self-loathing and a patron who won’t let her go. 

irrae from please don’t make me try spell this darthiir lueth dhaerow by @schuldigkun. i briefly beta’d this fic for a while ‘cause the concept hooked me: a fleshed-out, well-researched lolth-sworn drow tav. irrae is everything you’d expect—ruthless, dangerous, delicious backstory—and then some. she’s fascinating on her own, but what really makes it hot is how she clashes and colludes with Astarion. two sharp, dangerous people circling each other with knives behind their backs? hella.

ellith from i call them friends by @litsenn. a durge after my own heart so naturally im obsessed ahaha. bloodthirsty, vivacious, and just a little bit silly—they got that sparkle that makes you want to follow them into very bad decisions. and  litsenn is brilliant—check our her astarion analysis posts, they have some interesting insights. and all the fics she has are of a length even my (lack of) attention span find appealing, so spend a few minutes checking ‘em out. you’ll come out bloodstained and grinning.

ofelia from with stars to fill my dreams by @xxnashiraxx. ofelia and nyari were the reasons this ended up as a 3³ thingie rather than a 5x5 with 25 characters like originally intended. i had drawn ofelia, wasn’t happy with how she turned out, dropped her in favour of another character—and then it was like suddenly i was seeing xxnashiraxx being so damn altruistic all over the internet. commenting on fics, being thoughtful in replies, sharing posts. i told @bloodinwine and she let me know that not only is ali an absolute sweetheart, ali had also made a series of tav portraits. and it’s much more involved than this is!

ofelia is cool too but seriously go show this person some love.

rhaenyra from noblesse oblige by @weirdmullosk. man what an unique tav. man what an unique concept (spawn astarion and her, in the underdark building an army). the fic is sadly not updated anymore but i still had to draw rhaebabe because i miss her & she can step on me.

halinae from under the sussur tree by @spacesunderstairs. i have since long stanned hal from afar. she feels like a lil rabbit, and i’m just a big fan of when they’re gentle, yet flawed🫀and im a big fan of drow, and especially drow that take the drow-ness into consideration! and this one has and hal still managed to emerge both kind and a bit cowardly. check ‘em out!

minx from as we were by @lamp-snail. not updated anymore but one of my fav fics :< time travel and all that. minx is hilarious and gods favourite soldier. she also had chemistry with absolutely every character, there’s no one i didn’t want minx to get with.

picture three

hydie from all it cost me by @meeshrox. meesh showed up in a server of mine over a year ago, bushy-tailed and bright-eyed and immediately showed an level of note-taking and outlining that i had never seen before my entire life. it was insane y’all. and she was like “yeah i haven’t written anything like this before” but i have three books of this planned and mentally i was like “ok, sure. good luck i guess.” but she did it!! or she is still doing it; a year later and still regularly publishing updates! hydie is a delightful durge; an absolute freak but also someone that just feels older and world-weary and still pretty nutsy at times. check her out!

emily by @emilythecosmicbat. i just love this whole concept so much!! emily and xulia and astarion has such a unique thing going on—xulia is the durge and astarion’s wifey and all that and emily is one of their consorts—and they have so much rich lore and it just clicks all the happy buttons in my brain to see them. and emily-the-author is an absolute doll too and brings such good energy to this fandom and i hope everyone has seen her bats. the true batstarion queen haha.

tavitha from i wanna be yours by @vakariansyndrome. this is the only tav i had to redraw from scratch because i drew her too hot, let that speak for itself :> but that version was also missing the spunk this character has! and vakariansyndrome is so so so lovely and does so much for newcomers to this fandom 🫀

auri from kindred by @aevallare. this is the fourth version of auri i’ve drawn. i almost gave up and excluded her until next version of this project but last second i was like. no. she has to be there. alex has always been very kind to me, and very gracious in general whenever i’ve seen her join a server and immediately get hoarded by adoring fans. and something she said about astarion when i was just starting out trying to write my first chapters—that he is, first and foremost, a survivor—always stuck with me. hope these two get their happy ending soon 🫀

zhivraelle from these scars @motherzhiv. honestly? zhiv is the most gorgeous tav of them all. go look at the screenshots! and her and astarion go so well together; it’s one of those pairings where it’s like. yes. them. star-crossed lovers. both zhiv-the-character and zhiv-the-creator are absolute sweethearts; i have never before in this fandom met a person so grateful for so little. shoujo heroines, both of them haha.

coraline from chasing perfection by @roguishcat. so roguishcat followed me on tumblr pretty early on. and me, not understanding tumblr, didn’t follow back until today and instead just clicked their name whenever they liked one of my post since not a lot of people did. and their feed was always so supportive of others! i’m happy they had a fabulous tav for me to draw—cora is so fun, i love a bitching schemer that will outmanevoer instead of hit hard. also a big fan of when the absolute knockout characters are a bit vain about it; it’s hard work! such a unique tav please check her out.

evie ray from with your boots underneath my bed by @loserscardigan. coming in with a great argument for “save a horse, ride a cowgirl”; i just saw evie’s design when loserscardigan followed me on tumblr and decided that I Must Draw The Hat. the hat was a pain to draw, but evie was so much fun! i love how strong her entire character comes across and i’m so intrigued by the concept of her. she has a chip in her neck?? dagger chains?? a gladiator??? tragic lack of engagement on this fic with a character this cool and interesting; please check it out.

nyari from what binds us by @irondeficienttav. irondeficienttav followed me on tumblr and they had a tumblr header that resonated with me so hard that i immediately decided to draw their tav. but alas, i had a million tumblr windows open with tavs i wanted to draw, and they got lost… until i saw a post of theirs that just struck me as brave to write. so once more i was compelled to add nyari!righteous paladin trying to deal with aa; how could i not. i was trying to simplify the tattoo but in the end the simplified design ended up just as messy as the original one, haha. 

lilith from hellish rebuke by @bludazey. blu is one of those rare people that will reblog tav art that does not contain astarion and it makes my heart swell every time. my bread and butter as i hate drawing the stupid sexy vampire. lilith starts out fragile, but what makes her shine is how much she grows across the story. hellish rebuke is one of the big-name astarion fics in the fandom, and it’s completed, so you can binge the whole arc right now. and once you’re hooked? there’s a sequel already underway so go go go.

the creators of the characters are free to repost, use, and modify these portraits however they want. no credit is necessary, but if you do want to credit a fic link is extra appreciated! otherwise its njuta on tumblr, psykiatrin (elin) on discord and hyena on ao3. i really should solidify my brand a bit…

you can download all images (with and without background) here. and also see some alternative versions for some tavs!

[ayselluna]

I’ll adopt him. Thanks 😂

Hey guys I am taking Shadowheart and the others into town to get food can you watch this thing for me while we are gone?

He bites be careful.

Patreon

Kofi

[ayselluna]

A Fitting Reunion

a tailor (spawn) astarion x fem!tav reader fic | nsfw | ~13.7k words

(dividers by @saradika-graphics)

Summary: After a rather embarrassing experience at the reunion party, you have been nervous to see Astarion again. You manage to gather the courage to visit his tailoring shop for dress alterations—and to be a better friend to him. And maybe there is just a little part of you that still hopes for something more. But he couldn’t possibly want that—or could he?

Tags/CW: anxiety, piv sex, oral sex (both ways), post-game, fluff/smut/mutual pining

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Or read below...

Breathe. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. Then again. And again.

You can do this.

He is your friend.

A friend you used to sleep with.

A friend you never stop thinking about.

Ever.

Hells.

You have not seen Astarion since Withers’s party. The one where you drunkenly suggested you would not mind taking a stroll together back into the woods where the two of you once used to go. You could still remember the way.

You might have phrased things a little less delicately at the time.

And of course he said no.

“Darling, flattered as I am, I think it’s best we get you to bed. Your own bed, to be clear.”

A more gentle rejection from him than you perhaps deserved. What must he have thought of you? Coming on to him like that when you knew a night of passion was probably the last thing on his mind? You are supposed to care about him, not treat him like a piece of meat.

Not that you ever thought of him that way—but still you worry how it seems.

Fuzzy though the details are, you remember enough to know Astarion was the one to ensure your safe journey home that night. The one to step through the portal with you, to help you up the stairs, to tuck you under the covers. And how did you repay him?

You made yourself a stranger.

You should have gone to see him sooner. Apologized. Been a real friend.

Granted the party happened only a month ago. A month is not too long a wait, is it? People live busy lives. Some of your friends you only see a few times a year.

Or maybe it has not been long enough. Maybe you are making too big a deal of this, and you will only be making an even greater fool of yourself by doing this now.

The garment bag draped over your arms feels heavier and heavier. Maybe a purely social call would have been a wiser choice than this transactional one. On the other hand, you do want to show your support for his new business venture. Any friend would do that, right?

Breathe, you remind yourself. Just breathe.

You repeat your exercises as you try to calm your rapid heartrate. A near impossible task knowing he will be able to hear it the second you walk through that door. Gods, your heart is hammering so hard that you worry he might already hear it through the walls. Curse his vampiric senses.

You can still turn back around. Come back another time. When you are ready.

Who are you kidding?

You will never be ready.

But, if the choice is between now or never—between the shame of showing your face or the pain of never seeing his again—you know what you have to do.

Swallowing your pride, you manage to free a hand enough to turn the handle, lean against the door, and push.

The bell rings.

Its shrill announcement of your arrival sends you spiralling. You think of running. Hiding. Just dropping to the ground and crying.

But there will be no escape because the second you hear that achingly familiar voice sing out the word, “Coming,” your feet are frozen to the floor.

Then comes the inevitable moment, when you see him and he sees you, and you look away, and you look back, and you try not to avert your gaze, and you try not to stare, and gods help you through this for his beauty stuns you still.

He briefly mirrors your silent stupor before you see the crinkle of his eyes and the crook of his charming smile. “Hello, darling.”

Frantically you ask yourself what this means. You sift through every detail you know about the man before you as you try to deduce the thoughts running through his mind. Whether he is truly happy to see you or if he only pretends to be. Whether this is his real face or once more the mask.

You have imagined this scene a million times, practiced every possible variation of it in your head, but when you try to think what to say your mind runs blank. You settle for a few words that are simple and true. “It is good to see you, Astarion.”

“And same to you, my friend,” he says, and you manage a small smile. Are you really worthy of being called his friend after all this time apart? Is an honest-to-goodness friendship even possible between the two of you?

You do not speak so he continues. “And might I add that you are looking more delicious than ever.”

Oh. He is flirting with you. Falling back on old habits, perhaps. Or maybe he seeks to lighten the mood, to ease you into a conversation that clearly makes you feel awkward. Nothing more. Still your heart flutters as it always used to back in those early days. 

Back when you were foolish enough to believe he might be your forever.

“I was hoping you could help me,” you tell him, trying to get yourself back on track. “I have a gown that needs alterations. I take it you have heard about the upcoming Ravengard ball?”

“Oh, yes,” he says, reaching out to take the garment bag from you, and though you are glad to be free of its weight, you are not quite sure what to do with your hands. “I have been invited myself, but honestly, I expect the whole affair to be dreadfully boring. I suppose I could always introduce a little chaos into the mix myself, but…” He shrugs. “I’ll likely just skip it.”

“You’re not going? Not even for Wyll?”

Not even for me? That third question burns in your mind but you dare not ask it.

“We were not exactly the best of friends if you’ll recall.”

That is true. You remember many a tense exchange between them—Wyll needlessly cruel at times, Astarion spitting back with an understandable but equally vicious venom—no real surprise that the unlikely alliance between a monster hunter and a vampire spawn would also be an uneasy one.

The fact that you once shared a dance with the Blade did nothing to help matters. The tenderness in his touch and the awe in his eyes told you he wanted something beyond friendship. A true love, a happily ever after, a tale straight out of the pages of a storybook—tempted though you were, you could not envision that future with Wyll. Not while you were still spending your nights tangled up with Astarion.

Even knowing now how it all turned out you would not have chosen differently.

You consider encouraging him to attend, expressing how much you would appreciate having his company there, but you let the moment pass as you follow him deeper into the shop. “It seems you have done quite well for yourself,” you comment—your words still feel more stilted than you would like, and your gaze meanders about the shop rather than meeting his—but at least you are here.

And he really has done well for himself, you think. The front of house proudly displays a tasteful array of apparel—a combination of carefully curated selections from local clothesmakers and his own elegant and inventive fashions. Perhaps you should have commissioned him to design your dress in the first place.

“I have, haven’t I?” He lets out a little hmph as he considers it. “I thought this life might be a little, uh… pedestrian, for my tastes, but… to my surprise, I like it. It suits me rather well.”

“I agree,” you say with a genuine smile as he stops you in front of a series of curtains—the dressing rooms, you assume. Sure enough he pushes one open and gestures you inside, hanging the garment bag on a hook.

“Well, darling, let’s get you out of those clothes and into that dress, hm?” Your breath hitches. You almost let your imagination run away with you, but of course he gives you your privacy. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

You peel off each layer one by one, trying not to think about the fact that your former lover is on the other side of this curtain, trying not to remember the slow and sensual ways he used to strip you bare.

But you do think about it. You do remember.

You are just friends now, you remind yourself. No more. And no less, you hope. To be without him all this time has left a hollow in your heart. You want to fill its empty spaces with his presence. You want him to be part of your life again.

So why does being here only make your heart ache harder?

And why are you still so godsdamned nervous?

You sigh and slip into your gown, admiring its A-line silhouette and its delightful shade of purple. Not quite the right fit, but that is why you are here after all. Astarion can surely fix that for you. He does work wonders with his hands.

Hands that you now realize will have to lace up the back of your dress because there is no way you’ll be able to accomplish that by yourself.

Hugging the loose garment tight against your chest, you call for help. “Astarion?”

“Yes, dear? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to fall into peril right here in my dressing room. You do seem to have a knack for finding trouble wherever you go.”

“Just… come in, please.”

He pushes through the curtain and you are instantly and acutely aware of just how snug this little space is.

“Ah, you need to be tied up, I see.”

Of course he would choose to phrase it like that. Now you are thoroughly convinced he is thoroughly enjoying your embarrassment. He always did like to make you squirm. In more ways than one, the Astarion in your head adds. Ugh. You feel a fleeting sense of relief as you spin around, but the mirror betrays you, putting your mortified expression on full display while the look on his face remains a mystery to you. The chuckle you then hear at least helps you picture his smirk.

He takes his time with you. Like he always did. Words he once said echo in your mind. A treat like you deserves to be savoured. Does it tempt him still to be so close to you? To sense your blood pumping through your veins? To see your neck so deliciously exposed? You ponder and you reminisce and you catch yourself tilting your head to one side.

It seems the tempted one is you.

You wonder if he noticed. He may be ‘tying you up’ as he so eloquently put it, but you feel more like he is undressing you. Like he is uncovering you bit by bit, inch by inch, piece by piece. Like he could reach into your mind and read your most intimate thoughts even though the tadpoles are long gone.

“There we are,” you finally hear him say, snapping you back to reality. You pause in front of the mirror together and you wonder what it isn’t telling you. What he thinks when he looks upon you. 

“A fine choice, my dear,” he says as you both step out of the dressing room. “Much better than those hideous rags and that horrid armour you wore on the road.”

You roll your eyes at him. “That horrid armour kept me alive. Forgive me for picking function over fashion.”

“Oh, come now, fashion need not be sacrificed. Yours truly had both, thank you very much.” He gives you a playful bow.

You snicker—and then a full-fledged grin spreads across your face. To have this bit of banter with him again feels right. A bit of good-natured ribbing is something you can handle. What you do not know quite how to handle is—

“Luckily for you that smile more than made up for your questionable wardrobe.”

And just like that you no longer know what to say.

Astarion guides you over to a fitting platform, circling you as he sizes up what needs to be done. And though you know this is all about your dress and not you, you begin to fidget under his intense scrutiny.

“Much too long, obviously,” he remarks. “Typical. It should be taken in at the waist, too. We must do justice to that pretty figure of yours after all.”

Another flirtatious comment from him, another internal panic for you. You are not given much time to ruminate on this one though before he asks you a question that catches you off guard.

“Did you bring your shoes?”

“My shoes…?”

“Shoes, darling,” he says, elongating the rounded vowel as he repeats the word. “You have heard of the concept, surely. They come in pairs? You wear them on your feet?”

“I know what shoes are,” you insist, glancing towards the open dressing room where your trusty boots remain on the floor.

He follows your line of sight, and you nearly laugh when you look back to witness his eyebrows raise in horror then furrow again in exasperation. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. You will not be wearing those ghastly things to a ball.”

“They’re comfortable, and no one will be able to see them,” you say with a shrug and a smile, and this time you do laugh at the indignant noise he makes in response. Really, you did plan on wearing something more suitable—but you are enjoying this little opportunity to vex him.

“Absolutely not. As an upstanding citizen of this fine metropolis, I cannot stand idly by while you commit this outrageous crime against fashion.”

“Upstanding citizen, huh?”

“Of course,” he says with that mischievous smile of his. “I’m hardly the ‘help every poor unfortunate soul in sight’ type—that, my dear, is unique to you and you alone—but perhaps a smidgen of your do-gooder nature has rubbed off on me. Now,” he continues, returning to the matter at hand, “let me find you some decent shoes. We’ll need them to measure the length.”

Ah, that makes sense. You pout and you nod, playing your little game, but you do look forward to a new pair of shoes. Your adventures did leave your boots well-worn, not to mention covered with so much gore and grime that not even repeated scrubbings could remove all the stains. Your boots really did see everything.

He disappears into another part of the shop then reappears with a few options in hand—a selection of flats and modest heels you can actually picture yourself walking in—all simple but elegant. He knows just what you like.

“Sit and try these on,” he says, extending a hand out to you—an offer to help you down from the platform you presume—and you take it.

His touch is pure electric shock. Or maybe it is only the chill of undeath that leaves you shivering. And then you think on it, that pleasing tingle, the texture of his skin, the way his long, slender fingers interlock perfectly with yours, and your heart is fluttering, and he lets go all too soon, and you are lost. Empty. Incomplete.

And right now you are not ready to consider what that means.

You push your confusion out of your mind as you take a seat on the edge of the platform, refocusing on the task at hand. You pick out a pair of off-white kitten heels and try them on, and you find yourself pleasantly surprised by how comfortable they feel. To be sure, you take a few steps, you test other pairs, you return to the first—yes, these will do.

“Satisfied?” Astarion asks, and you nod. “Good. Back up you go, darling.”

You step onto the fitting stand once more—without assistance this time, which is somehow both a relief and a disappointment. Astarion sets about his work, pulling pins out of the small cushion tied to his wrist and pushing them through the hem, all while you stare into space and contemplate whether or not you should say anything.

You should say something, you decide. You did manage to catch up with him a little at the party last month before your drink got the better of you, but you are doing a poor job of it now. You’ve barely even talked. Not really. How can you call yourself his friend if you cannot even gather the courage to speak to him?

“How are you?” you blurt out. Those few trite words do little to express how much you truly care for his well-being, how every day you wonder if he is fed, if he is safe, if he is happy. Quickly you add, “With the whole ‘vampire tailor’ thing, I mean. No monster hunters at your door, I hope?”

His nature clearly isn’t a secret. The many mirrors give him away if nothing else.

“Not a one,” Astarion says, glancing up at you from where he kneels. “I am, after all, one of the great heroes of Baldur’s Gate. The fact that I also happen to be a vampire spawn is not so much a threat, but an… eccentricity. And a bit of eccentricity is right at home in this city.”

“I’m glad no one is giving you any trouble,” you say. Another question needles your mind, one you are almost afraid to know the answer to, but you ask it anyway. “And… are you feeding well?”

“I have my sources.” Oh. Good. That is good. Yes. Definitely. Not like it matters who or how. Not like the mere thought of him sinking his teeth into someone else crushes you. Not like the scene plays out in your mind no matter how much you don’t want it to. Your eyes shut. Your stomach twists. Your heart sinks.

“None quite like you,” he adds, and beneath that sultriness he so likes to tease you with, you detect a softness there. Or maybe it is only a trick of the imagination. A pretty lie you tell yourself.

And yet, when your eyes flicker open, all you can see is his boring back into yours, staring, seeking, searching.

Breathe. You must breathe.

And then the moment is gone, and he shifts out of your sight, concentrating his efforts on the back of your dress.

The minutes pass in screaming silence.

You wish he would fill your ears with little jokes, or idle chatter, or something, anything to save your mind from spiralling. Anything to save you from you.

You regret all you have done wrong and all you have failed to do right. And yet, you want, and you yearn, and you hope.

“It really has only ever been you, you know.”

His words shock you back to your senses and suddenly he is standing on the platform with you, mere inches away.

“Oh,” you say. Gods, what else can you say?

All is quiet between you. He fusses with your straps, and the fabric of your bodice, pins everything into its proper place. A hand lingers at your waist.

“You once told me that the world can be a kind place. That has been truer than I expected. But no one has been more good to me—and good for me—than you.”

What?

No. Whatever you think this is, you are wrong.

“I’m not so sure about that,” you protest, your heart pounding. “That night at the party… I wasn’t thinking, I… I know it wasn’t what you… I’m so sor—”

He stops you, shushing you softly. “Oh, no, no, love, you will not apologize for that. A little drunken fancy is nothing to be ashamed of. You were nothing but sweet. And it was sweet of you to worry. Unnecessary, but sweet.”

Your head is spinning. You were far from a good friend that night. You did him wrong. You were so sure.

But he does not seem offended in the least.

Quite the opposite, really.

“Although,” he says, and you hear the mischief in his voice as he leans in to speak into your ear. “I am rather curious about those pretty words you said when…”

The bell rings.

The two of you startle and separate.

“Oh, Astarion, dear?” a voice calls out, singsong yet sharp.

The scowl that then sullies his features tells you all you need to know. He curses under his breath before singing out an answer. “Just a moment, Lady Furrington. I am finishing up with another client.”

Astarion is all business now as he checks over his handiwork, and as he ushers you to the dressing rooms, and you cannot help but to mourn what could have been had no one else stepped foot through that door. You wonder what he would have done. What he would have said. What might have sparked between you.

You will lie awake tonight wondering and wondering and wondering.

You pause together just outside the dressing room, and he says, “My apologies for the abrupt finish, darling. Her requests are endless, but her coin purse is bottomless. Enough so that an extra charge here and there goes unnoticed.”

“You have to do what you have to do,” you say with a shrug. You take a step into the change room, and to your surprise, he follows you inside. You shoot him a quizzical look.

“The laces?”

“Uh, yes. Right. Thank you.”

He reaches around you as he begins to pull them loose. He is close. Impossibly, maddeningly, enticingly close. His gaze falls to your lips and, gods, you can almost taste his.

“Astarion?” cries out that same shrill voice.

He steps back. Another moment lost forever.

“Come back tomorrow night?” he asks.

Sooner than you thought, but you do not question it. You simply say, “Yes.”

You leave. You start your trek home. And, as you walk, an inkling of something forgotten—something you wanted to forget—itches within your brain. What was it he mentioned about that night? Something about ‘those pretty words’ you said?

You think, and you think, and you think, delving deep into your fragmented memories, searching for the missing pieces you need to complete the puzzle.

You stop in your tracks.

You remember.

That night, as he put you to bed, at the height of your foolishness, you told him the most mortifying thing you could have told him.

But in wine there is truth.

You felt it. You said it. You meant it.

You love him.

It was the right choice. The right choice. The right choice.

How many nights have you lain awake, desperate to believe in the truth of those words? You thought one day they would sink in and soothe you. Instead their endless echoing always felt more like a pulsing headache.

Funny that, last night, the very opposite thought is what kept you awake.

What if, all this time, you were wrong?

You were so sure back then that friendship was the right choice. A hard choice, but the right choice. Never had anyone given him anything without the expectation for more. You could be that person, right? You should be that person. You wanted to be that person. A friend was what he needed. What he deserved. That superceded any silly notions of romance you had in your head.

Your offer of friendship meant everything to him, or so it seemed. Not a friend in the world until you, he said. His sincerity and his soft words melted your heart, and when he took your hand in his, and gazed into your eyes, you knew you were hopelessly in love with him.

You fought it. You denied it. You cried and cried and cried over it.

Still your feelings stayed the same. And so you did the only thing you could do. You resolved to keep your secret hidden under lock and key.

As if anything in this world under lock and key is safe from the likes of Astarion.

You love him. You have always loved him. You still love him.

And it seems he knows it, too.

And maybe, just maybe, there exists the teeniest tiniest trace of a possibility that he might be interested in you?

No, no, no. Surely you are mistaken.

He thought about kissing you, though, didn’t he? You saw him glance at your lips, right? Or did you?

No, no, no. A figment of your wild and wishful imagination, nothing more.

He would never want you.

Still you primp and you preen before the mirror like you are prepping for a date, not a dress fitting. Still you want to impress him, enamour him, pretend you stood a chance with him. Still you wonder and you worry that, maybe, improbable as it seems, you did once stand a chance with him, denied him and deprived him, denied and deprived yourself.

“You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.”

Those words of his still echo in your memories. You thought, then, that friendship was the realest thing you could ever hope to share. But, if you let yourself try, you could have been something more, couldn’t’ve you?

Maybe he did want you, could want you, does want you.

And if he does…

No. Do not let yourself go there. Do not get your hopes up. Never get your hopes up.

You take a moment to breathe, pull yourself from the mirror and leave through the front door. You will go to this appointment and you will be normal and you will be sane and you will be the friend you promised him you would be, not some gawking idiot full of foolish desires.

Twenty minutes is what it takes to walk from your place to his. Twenty minutes of exercise? A good thing, of course. Twenty minutes of cycling through these same tired thoughts ad nauseum? A not-so-good thing. That will not help you through this.

Maybe it won’t make much of a difference. After all you are quite capable of sending yourself into a frenzy in a mere twenty seconds let alone twenty minutes.

When you finally arrive at his door your head is still swimming.

Breathe. Just breathe.

You did it yesterday. You can do it again today.

The bell rings.

The silence that follows is enough to deafen you.

Well, it would seem you underestimated yourself before. You thought it would take twenty seconds to achieve total panic? More like five.

Astarion appears in the blink of an eye, all elven grace and vampiric mystique, emerging from what feels like out of nowhere but in reality must have been somewhere back of shop.

He is somehow even more gorgeous today, if that is even possible. His hair, perfectly coiffed; his vest, exquisitely embroidered; his whole ensemble, impeccably tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and slender waist. His sleeves are rolled up, and his shirt is a little more open than it perhaps needs to be at the chest, and gods, are you blushing?

You are here for a reason, and that reason is not to ogle him, tempting though it might be.

“Darling!” he says, greeting you with that brilliant smile you so adore. “I’m glad it is you, and not a certain patriar that so rudely interrupted us yesterday. There is only so much of that particular displeasure I can endure. My patience is thin enough as it is.”

“And yet you have managed to endure,” you remark, laughing a little at the thought of him attempting to navigate customer service. “The coin is that good, huh?”

“Oh, it is. Satisfying as it might be to deny my services to the worst offenders, a few of these annoying but harmless ones must be tolerated. Bad for business otherwise. Today, though, I made a point of keeping my schedule clear of all other distractions. My only priority now is you.”

You. The way he purrs out that one little word sends a thrill throughout your body.

But you must not read into that. You must temper yourself.

Be normal. Be sane. Be his friend.

“Alas, your gown is not quite done yet, though. I was just finishing up the hem when I heard you come in. It won’t take long. Follow me into the back, if you will?”

“Oh, uh, of course,” you say. You had expected more or less a repeat of the previous day—trying on the dress, making sure it fits correctly, changing back into your regular clothes, returning home. A nice, predictable order of events.

You like predictable. You like all its safeties and comforts. You like how it acts as a balm to all your anxieties. If you can predict, then you can prepare.

Unpredictable, though. Unpredictable is unnerving. Downright terrifying, even. And yet it is rife with possibilities.

The best things in your life have come from unpredictable. The greatest adventure you’ve ever had. The happiest memories.

The man you love more than anything.

Even if what passion you shared was fleeting. Even if this platonic connection is all that remains. Even if that glimmer of hope you cannot quite quash, no matter how unwise you think it, crushes you one day. You will still tend to and treasure your bond in any and every way you can.

So you take a deep breath and you follow him.

Astarion leads you into a room just big enough to double as a work area and a storage space. Rolls of fabric, diverse in colour, pattern and texture, fill the shelves lining the walls. What you notice most, though, are the in-progress projects draped over the mannequins. You would love to watch him at work. You suppose you will get one little taste of that now.

You also spot the base of a staircase in one corner, and that sparks an even greater curiosity within you. This lower floor is his business, but that upper floor is his home. A place entirely his own, and you hope he has filled it with anything and everything that makes him feel safe and happy and free. Maybe he will invite you up those stairs someday—you are friends after all—but for now you both seat yourselves across from each other at his work table.

“A good thing you came to me for this, darling,” he says, and you try not to stare as he licks the tip of his thread and pulls it through the eye of his needle with ease, “—else you would have been out of luck. Wait times are usually much longer than this.”

That is true, and you know you should have planned for this better. The ball is only a tenday away. “Oh, I’m sorry for the rush, you didn’t need to—”

“Hush, hush, my sweet,” he says, a gentle chiding that reminds you of yesterday. “It was not a bother. Not in the least. Although…” He pauses and smirks. “You haven’t paid me yet.”

Aghast, your mouth drops open, but he stops you before you can blurt out your hundred apologies.

“Now, I know that one so honest as you would never make such a mistake on purpose. Our time was cut short after all. Then again, not all of our gold was acquired by honest means, was it?”

“Thanks to your thievery,” you remind him. “Gods, you practically cleaned out the whole Counting House.”

“And yet I don’t recall you objecting. True that I picked many locks during our adventures, and why was that I wonder?” He makes a show of his hums and his haws and then one final aha. “Oh yes, that’s right. Because you asked me to.”

“Our mission was important,” you insist. “We needed gold, intel, resources… We did what was necessary to succeed. To survive.”

“Oh? Tell yourself that if you must, darling, but I think you just liked to watch my hands.”

That comment instantly warms your cheeks—and the realization that you actually have been watching his hands as he starts to sew absolutely scorches them. When you glance up to his face, you find him grinning at you.

And just like that you’re grinning too. You are embarrassed, yes, but you must admit there is something especially endearing about seeing Astarion like this—the skill, the passion, the care he puts into his work, the way his smile softens as he settles back into his state of calm and contented concentration—he looks happy.

It makes you happy. It makes you calm—or at least as calm as you can be under these circumstances. It makes you love him even more.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” he says, shifting back in his chair, pulling the garment from the table and into his lap, pulling farther away from you. Have you been staring too much? Has he taken offense? Does he no longer want you here?

He pauses, and gives you a pensive look, and you look back, lost as to what to do or say or think. Maybe you should go. Give him some space. But, he invited you in, didn’t he? Said it wouldn’t take long? You can’t just leave.

And you don’t want to leave. You hope that he doesn’t want you to leave either.

He breaks the silence with a chuckle, resuming his stitching like nothing has changed. “You never were. Not that I mind, though. If you want to watch a master at work, then who am I to deny you?”

“I can hardly see what you are doing now, though.” You try to keep your words matter-of-fact. Try not to show just how unsure and insecure you are in this moment. In too many of your shared moments.

“A shame. I’m afraid you will have to settle for admiring the stitchwork when it’s done. And it will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

You try to read him. He gives nothing away, offering up no more than a little smirk as you study him. He was always better at reading you than you were reading him.

You want to know. You need to know.

“I will,” you say, and that need to know brings out a boldness in you that was not there before, and though your inner voice scolds you and screams at you, you add, “though I would rather admire you.”

His eyes briefly flicker to yours, then back to the dress. You swallow hard.

“Then, by all means, bask in my presence and shower me with your praises.”

Good. No scrunching up his nose, no recoiling in disgust, no sign you went too far. But neither did he give you any indication that his feelings mirror yours.

Not that you truly expected that, of course.

Still you continue to examine him closely. He seems relaxed, focused, comfortable. There is a hint of fang to his smile and a gleam to his eye, and when he next glances at you, he raises an eyebrow.

Wait, does he actually want you to praise him? Should you? What can you even say? Oh, Astarion, you are clever, and funny, and talented, and gorgeous, and I am completely, absolutely, madly in love with you?

The greater your panic, the greater his amusement, until he can no longer resist clicking his tongue at you. “So shy now, darling. And yet you were not the least bit shy for me the last time I had you on your back.”

Oh. Whatever you expected, it wasn’t that.

Your wide-eyed, open-mouthed, heart-thumping shock earns a hearty laugh from him.

“Gods, you’re so adorable.”

Words fail you, and so you let out a giggle, its pitch too sharp, its volume too loud, its presence awkward, your presence awkward.

“It’s a good thing, my love,” he says softly, sincerely. “Trust me on that.”

My love. You zero in on those two words, and though your head tells you to dismiss them, your heart tells you to keep them and to cherish them.

And you are growing quite the little collection of words to thrill and fill you. Adorable, on your back, tied up, pretty figure, looking delicious, that smile, nothing but sweet, good to me, good for me. My love. You have not forgotten a single thing he said.

But you know it would be foolish to treat every flirtatious remark and sweet nothing as a romantic overture.

Even if you want to. And, oh, how you want to.

You seek distraction now, glancing at the table in front of you. It is a rather cluttered space, various tools of the trade scattered about—spools of thread, scraps of fabric, scissors and needles and pins—but what catches your eye most is a messy little pile of papers. Sketches.

“Are those your designs?” you ask, nodding towards the stack, leaning a little closer—just enough to imply a second question: “May I see them?”

“Yes,” he answers, and though he rolls his eyes, he smiles. “Go on, then. Take a look.”

Carefully you gather up the pages and begin your perusal. His sketches immediately impress. Astarion, the artist—you had never pictured it—but perhaps it should come as no surprise that a man with a skilled hand and a keen eye would take so well to pencil and paper. The time, the effort, and the creativity he poured into these—into every aspect of his work—is clear, and you are glad to see this side of him.

One by one, you look through the sketches, giving thoughtful attention to each and every one before moving on to the next. Some are still in their early stages, little more than rough outlines, while others are fully realized with intricate detail and vivid colour. The designs range from the everyday to the formal, from the simple to the elaborate, from the masculine to the feminine, and everything in between. A little something for everyone.

It eases you, this repetitive motion, this comforting quiet, this sweet glimpse into the life of the one you love.

Until you see it. Until your fingers tighten against the paper. Until you freeze.

Not because of the clothing, but because of the model. The shape of her figure. The shade of her skin. The style of her hair. The familiarity of her face.

It’s you.

He drew you. Like you are his muse. Like he could not help but to think of you. Like he is as in love with you as you are with him.

No, you try to tell yourself, this must be some coincidence. And even if it isn’t a coincidence—and really you should just admit to yourself that this cannot be a coincidence—it cannot mean what you want it to mean, right?

Maybe it is just because you are his friend. A real person he can easily visualize in his mind’s eye. Yes, that must be all this is. Yes, of course.

You quickly flip through the remaining pages. There is no Karlach, no Gale, no Shadowheart, no Wyll, no Lae’zel, no Halsin, no Jaheira, no Minsc—not that any of them got to know Astarion as well as you did, though. All you find are faceless figures, generic and unremarkable. Until, oh, there you are again. Oh, and once more. And again. And, by the gods, again.

“Did something catch your eye, darling?” Astarion asks, lips curled into a smirk, looking and sounding every bit like the cat that got the cream.

You pull that first sketch of you out of the pile and set the rest down, holding it in the air for him to see. “Is this me?”

“Ah, come to think of it, I did have you in mind when dreaming up that particular outfit, yes.” He shrugs, and the nonchalance of it all vexes you.

“And not only this one?”

“Not only that one, no. I do think of you often, you know.”

No. You don’t know. But maybe you are beginning to know. Beginning to let hope blossom in your heart, brave and beautiful and boundless.

He pauses his work, stares at you a moment, meets you eye to eye—and, gods, you feel like you are connecting heart to heart. Soul to soul. He speaks again, eventually, shifting back to a less serious, light-hearted tone. A retreat into his own comfort zone.

“What more can I say? I like to imagine you in my clothes, darling.”

And out of them, you can almost hear him say. Honestly you could go for a little body to body as well, but you know not to push him. Hells, you are not even a couple.

You never will be, says a different voice. An unwelcome voice. Your own voice, ever cruel and destructive. But maybe that voice of yours is wrong. Maybe it isn’t never. Maybe it is just not right now.

And you can live with not right now.

“Actually,” Astarion continues, “I’m not sure imagination is enough anymore.”

You blink at him.

“I’ve always thought working with a live model could spice things up a little. Someone to be my canvas, so to speak. Perhaps you might be willing to step into that role sometime? I rather like having you around.”

He wants you here more often. Does not mind being up close and personal with you. Wants to be up close and personal with you.

The very notion of it makes you giddy with an excitement you are no longer able to contain, and so when you open your mouth, what slips out is, “I like you, too.” Gods, what are you saying? “Like being around you, too.”

Embarrassing, yes, but you decide that grin upon his face and that laughter rippling out of him are worth it.

“If it is what you want, then I will be here.”

“It is what I want,” he says, and there is a conviction to it that sets your heart fluttering. You watch as he reaches for a pair of scissors. “Well, darling. It’s settled then. And I am pleased to tell you your dress”—a pause, a snip—“is complete.”

Oh. You were starting to wish this would take the whole night.

He sets down the scissors, the needle, and what remains of the thread upon the table, standing as he smooths out the gown—and that is when you realize it. That thread. It is thick and gold, not fine and colour-matched like you would have expected. Granted, you are not the expert here, but it is a curious choice—and a choice that makes you curious.

But, before your mind can wander too far down that path, Astarion’s voice startles you back to the present.

“Well, darling? You do realize you will have to try it on again?”

“Yes, of course,” you say, your chair screeching backwards as you push yourself out of it. “And thank you. For everything.”

“It is my job, after all,” he says, slathering his words with a thick coat of exasperation, but even he cannot hide the pride underlying them. “And for you? It is my pleasure.”

Always the flirt. But, for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to believe there might be more to it than a little teasing or empty flattery.

And, small and insignificant as it seems, you are still wondering about that thread.

He leads you out of the back room and over to the dressing rooms, back to that same snug space you shared with him yesterday, pushing the curtain to one side and hanging up your gown. You step inside and pull the curtain closed.

You undress, and you think, and something he told you tickles your brain. Something about the stitchwork. “It will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

Hmm. Maybe you should take the time to admire it.

You lift the hem and examine its inner edge, following that neat, flawless line in its circle, not a single speck of gold to be seen—

Until you find it. A hidden message, simple in design, yet elegant in execution. Four words. Four earth-shattering, heart-warming, life-changing words.

I love you too

You want to laugh and you want to cry and you want to sing. You want to wrap your arms around him and squish him and squeeze him until he can take no more. You want to tell him how much you love him, tell him a thousand times, then a thousand more, and gods, you want to hear him say it.

But to embroider those words so lovingly into the fabric is the sweetest confession he could have made to you.

You love him even more for it.

You can hardly wait to tell him—properly this time, not uttered out on some drunken late night like before—but, for now, you slip into your dress, and step into your shoes, trying hard to suppress the squeals begging to burst out of you.

He loves you. You spent so much time—too much time—convincing yourself that such a thing was impossible. But he loves you.

You exit that little room, and you see him, and you know it would only take seconds to close the gap between you and hug him and never let go. But, your dress is hanging open in the back, and you’re shaking, and you don’t want to ambush him with your touch if he is not yet ready for that.

The moment will come.

Or maybe it is time to take control of this. You will find that moment, and if you don’t, then you will create it, and then when you do, you will make it count.

Automatically he walks towards you, steps behind you, laces up your bodice, so close yet not close enough. You wish you could touch him, and the next thing you know, he is offering you his hand, and so you take it, and you squeeze it.

And he squeezes yours back.

He guides you onto the fitting stand. You catch a brief glimpse of yourself in the surrounding mirrors—the perfect fit of your gown, the way your smile shines—but the only thing you want to look at is Astarion.

He completes a single revolution around you, and when he stops in front of you, and you beam down at him, he stares back in admiration, in adoration, in awe. Like you are the sun itself. Like you are the centre of his whole world.

How could you not have known?

“You love me?”

His eyes grow wide as those words fall out of you. It’s all surprise, at first. But then it is openness. Vulnerability. “Ah. So you saw it already, then?”

“Yes,” you murmur, afraid to make a wrong move lest you wake up from this dream before you hear those words you want to hear more than anything. “You love me?”

Silence. You panic, and you retreat, pulling back, looking away. “Not that you need to say it out loud, of course. Not if you don’t want t—”

“I love you.”

Your eyes snap back to his. You watch him draw nearer and nearer, and you feel his hands find their place at your hips, and you breathe in that nostalgic scent of bergamot and brandy.

“I love you,” he says again, and you are so happy you could cry.

You throw your arms around him, pulling him into a hug that feels like home. You needed this. You needed him. And, when his arms wrap back around you, you know that he needed you, too. Here, both of you are snug, and you are safe, and you are loved.

And though you know he must know it by now—that he must see it in your eyes and feel it in your embrace—you say it anyway. “I love you, too.”

You both pull back, but only a little, just enough to smile at each other.

“This time on my own,” he begins, “it has given me the chance to think about what I truly want. All of this,” he says, gesturing around the shop, “I may not have expected to end up in a life this domestic, but… I’m happy. Mostly happy, anyway.”

He pauses, and you tilt your head, waiting, wondering, hoping.

“I want more. I want a partner. And who better than the woman who stood by my side through everything? Who always treated me with kindness and understanding? Who I just so happen to utterly adore? I want you.”

Tears well in your eyes, and you are smiling so hard it hurts, but you are sure this is the happiest moment of your life. “Then I am yours.”

And then he cups your face in his hands and kisses you.

You melt into him, into his softness and his sensuality, into the comfort of his embrace and the heat of his touch. This is perfect. This is right. This is where you belong. You pour all of your affection into every press of your lips, willing him to feel your devotion, your desire, your love down to his very core. But, when you part your lips to meet his tongue, he breaks away.

You fear something will break inside you—but his reassuring grin steadies you.

“Just a quick moment, darling,” he says. “There is but one little thing I need to do.”

Astarion steps off the platform and heads towards the front of the shop. At first you are confused. And then you understand.

The bell rings.

The ‘open’ sign is flipped to ‘closed.’

The lock clicks in place.

And, tonight, the bell will ring no more.

Astarion locks the door and locks eyes with you.

You remember the day you met him as if it were yesterday. Little more than a beautiful stranger to you, back then, all elegance and ice. Even as your lover he felt unreachable, with you by midnight and gone by morning, no more real than a dream.

But now, as you gaze upon him, he is warmth, and he is sweetness, and he is truly, honestly himself. Mask off for you and only you.

Unbelievable, really, how far the two of you have come. And yet, with your whole heart, you believe it.

The man before you is your best friend. Your love. Your partner.

And tonight, together, you will take your first steps towards a life intertwined. Whatever that looks like.

And, gods, what does that look like? What comes next? Will he invite you into his arms? Into his home?

Into his bed?

The mere thought of it, you all wrapped up in him, sets your mind racing and your heartrate rising. There is a familiar hunger to his pretty eyes as he draws near, and you wonder if that rapid rhythm in your chest is still, to him, the irresistible siren song it once used to be. If he longs to taste your blood, your lips, your—

Oh, but you should not get too far ahead of yourself. He might not yet want what you so evidently crave. You must not forget that.

You can be patient. You will be patient. You will give him as much time as he needs.

Not that Astarion is making this easy for you. Certainly not with the way he grins his roguish grin, nor the way he wiggles his fingers as he reaches a hand to you, coaxing you down from the platform.

Maybe patience is not so necessary after all.

But surely there are important conversations to be had, which you very much want to have, and surely a night of sweet kisses and cuddles would be a good place to start, the perfect place to start, even, no matter how much you want to—

Oh. A hard pull, an audible gasp, and you are flush against Astarion. His intense stare is holding you in place just as much as his hands on your hips are.

“What’s that look for, my dear?”

“What look?”

“That mind-going-a-hundred-miles-a-minute look. We’re not overthinking now, are we?”

“No.” It's a weak attempt at denial, and you know it. “All right, maybe a little.”

“A little, she says? Just a little? Well, even if that were true, I’m afraid even a little is simply unacceptable, sweet love. Not when I’ve got you like this. Whatever shall I do with the likes of you?”

His hands shift upwards, every bit eager as they sweep along the curve of your waist, every bit assured as they cup your face. In his eyes you see your whole world spinning, and your mind continues its endless spinning along with it.

“Well, darling. I suppose then I’ll just have to kiss”—a brush of his lips—“you”—so plush and perfect against yours—“senseless.”

There is an urgency to the way he kisses you now, to how his tongue tastes and his teeth tease, and it makes you drunk with desire you have too long denied. You match his every insistent press against your lips, the need blooming between you escalating into a feverish frenzy. Your mind is indeed rendered senseless—but your body is awash with sensation.

His mouth leaves yours, leaves you breathless and boneless, but still wanting more. And more is exactly what he gives you as he kisses a trail along your jaw. To your neck, perhaps? No, to your ear, and you giggle when he nibbles at your lobe.

He whispers, "Come upstairs with me?"

As if there were any chance you would say no to him now. "Yes."

And yet he makes no moves to whisk you away. Instead he pulls you back into the blistering heat of his kiss, his apparent haste to have you making you doubt whether you will even make it up to his quarters at all. His every impatient touch has you envisioning how he might take you—bent over his worktable, or pushed against the dressing room wall, or laid out on the floor, anywhere, everywhere—until, oh, he is tugging loose the ties at your back.

It is all suddenly a bit too much. A bit too fast. A bit too real.

Is he actually truly ready for this?

Astarion instantly senses the change in you, moving back, but keeping close. And even though he is calm and composed, and gives you a kind smile, you cannot help but feel that this precious moment is in ruins, and the reason is you. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Oh, my love. Always so full of apologies even when there is no need for them. How about we go upstairs, make ourselves comfortable—change back into your everyday clothes first if that would suit you better—and we'll sit and have a chat, hm?"

You take a deep breath to steady yourself. "That sounds wonderful. Truly."

"Good," he says, nodding towards the dressing rooms. "Off you go, then. I'll be waiting right here."

You make your way inside, glancing at your flustered face in the mirror before you slip out of your gown, your worries creeping their way back into your frazzled mind.

Where did it all go wrong?

To connect through touch is something you want desperately. And, by now, you are almost entirely sure Astarion wants to share in that with you, too. But therein lies the problem: almost isn't enough, is it?

What if he is only doing this because he thinks it will please you?

And how can you be sure when you hardly know how to be sure of anything?

Part of you still feels ashamed for lusting over him, knowing all that you know. The other part of you just feels ridiculous—here you are, pulling on layer after layer of clothing, when every indication suggests he wants to get you naked before the night is through.

You analyze every moment you've shared tonight, searching for even the slightest of signs that this is all just a performance.

Yet you find none.

Maybe the best thing to do is to just trust him. Trust him to make his own choices, to decide his own limits, to navigate all of this together with you.

After all, if you are sure of only one thing in this world, it is that Astarion loves you.

You gather the hem of your dress into your hands one last time before you leave it behind, tracing over every line and every loop of his embroidered message, committing those beautiful words to memory. It is exactly what you need to bring a smile back to your face.

And, when you finally step out of the dressing room, Astarion matches that smile the moment he sees you.

The two of you walk hand in hand into the back room and up, up, up the stairs, your anxious anticipation growing with every single step you take.

"I'd tell you I'd give you the grand tour, but I'm afraid my home is far too humble for that," he remarks, and for the first time tonight, you notice a bit of a shake to his laughter, an irregular height to its pitch.

And here you thought that the only nervous one was you.

What if that means—

No, you'd better not worry what that means.

No matter what happens, you will be here for him as he is here for you.

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sure it's perfect. And I'd take a nice, cozy, humble home over a palace any day."

"I might not have always agreed with that sentiment, but now?" Reaching the door at the top of the stairs, he pauses long enough to smirk at you before twisting the knob. "I find that I do."

You step inside, taking in as much of the surrounding space as you can. The only light emanates from the fireplace, its flickering flames casting a sensual glow across the room. The open layout is typical of city merchants' quarters—no walls needlessly taking up the already limited space—a sitting area on one side, a small disused kitchen on the other. A pair of strategically placed dividers offers some sense of separation, and behind them—oh, yes, that is most definitely his bed.

Best not to linger too long on that thought.

Although you do make a mental note that it is big enough for two.

Taking both your hands in his this time, Astarion pulls you towards the loveseat in front of the fire, playfully pushing you into its comfy cushions and planting a single kiss upon your lips that you hope is a promise for many more.

He does not yet take his place at your side, however, instead lighting a candle on the coffee table—and it is then you study the scene before you.

A now-lit candle. A vase home to a single blush-pink rose. Two goblets and a bottle of your favourite red wine. A spread that is romantic. Meticulous. Premeditated.

You let out a chortle.

"What?" Astarion asks, eyes narrowed, but lips curved into an unmistakable smile.

"It's just so"—a bigger, brighter laugh bursts out of you—"so obvious."

"Obvious? Obvious?" He tosses his head to one side as he scoffs. "Are you really only realizing this now? Darling, I have been obvious this entire time. You, on the other hand, have been hopelessly oblivious."

And, in retrospect, you can admit that it's true what he says. The evidence was everywhere, even if you could not, would not, thought you should not believe any of it.

But you do now.

He settles next to you on the loveseat, warmth rushing to your cheeks at his sudden nearness. His fingers, cold to the touch though they are as they interlock with yours, do nothing to cool you. No, if anything, they have quite the opposite effect; the whole of you hot and molten beside him.

"Tell me, love," he begins, the purr in his voice and the mischief in his grin telling you he intends to use every ounce of his charisma to its fullest extent. "Should I have serenaded you with song? Recited to you a sonnet? Scattered a trail of rose petals from your door straight to my bed?"

"Maybe, though it's not too late," you suggest. "If you would like to regale me with music and poetry, I won't complain."

"Oh, my dear. I wouldn't be quite so sure of that. I am a man of many talents, yes, but I'm no bard. Although, if the result is hearing you laugh again, then it might still be worth a try."

You grin. "Then try."

Astarion clears his throat dramatically, and with his back tall and straight, and his nose held high in the air, he starts to speak.

You cannot even begin to take him seriously.

"Your skin so sweet and lips divine, / your blood the most delicious wine. / Each precious bite is my delight; / so let me make you mine tonight."

"You're ridiculous," you say—but you are indeed laughing.

"Why thank you, darling," he says, lowering his head in a mock bow. "Ridiculously eloquent, I hope? Or ridiculously charming? Ridiculously good-looking, at least?"

"Just ridiculous."

He gasps. "Oh, how you wound me. And here I was, professing my profound affection."

"It sounded more like you just want to eat me."

"Maybe I do want to eat you"—he leans in enticingly close—"in every sense of the word."

There is no mistaking his meaning now, is there?

You want this—you can feel it in pounding heart, and your weakened limbs, and your aching core—you want, you want, you want.

And yet you fear. Fear falling back into the dark depths of doubt, panic dragging you deeper, deeper, deeper down until you're drowning.

But you do not fall for it is Astarion's hands that keep you safe on solid ground.

"Oh, my sweet, lovely, darling girl."

And it is not only his hands, but his voice that soothes, and his eyes that blaze with such fierce certainty that you wonder how you could have ever failed to see just how much he cherishes you.

"Let me state the obvious because it seems obvious is what you need: I love you."

How new to your ears those words still are and yet you already think the sound of them sweeter than any song. You beam at him, because of course you do, and he beams right back, because of course he does, because this, this togetherness, is what you both want, what you both need, what you both deserve.

That look, so full of adoration, beckons you forward, and so you move in slowly, kiss him softly, hold him sweetly. He does the same, at first, an arm wrapping around your back, the opposite hand snaking its way down to cup your backside. Not that you resist. Nor do you resist when, unexpectedly, he pulls you hard against him, laughter bubbling out of you from the surprise and the clumsiness of it. And yet, here you are now in his lap, and here he is guiding your legs to straddle him, and it dawns upon you just how suggestive this new position is.

Even the slightest roll of your hips might have… well, quite the arousing effect.

Oh, he knows exactly what he's doing, the sneak.

And, if this is how he wants you, then that must mean—

"And," he says before you can finish the thought, "I want to explore anything and everything that loving you means."

Anything. Everything. Never have those two words sounded so sublime, his voice like velvet, his implication indisputable. Your imagination runs rampant, unlimited and unsuppressed, your mind opening itself fully to passion and possibility.

And you hope imagination will blossom into beautiful reality.

Astarion buries his face into your neck, peppering it with little kisses—maddeningly where you know he knows it tickles—revelling in every giggle he draws out of you. Vexing though it is, yes, the levity of it amuses you, calms your nerves.

You did, back in those early days, feel most ease with him whenever you would let yourselves be silly. You remember it well. Perhaps so does he.

And then—when tension fades, when you are limp and pliable in his arms—the mood shifts. Then, he kisses you where it doesn't tickle. Then, those sounds spilling out of you are decidedly not laughter.

His mouth moves to meet yours. A heady mixture of love and lust swirls about in your mind, and you succumb to it, to him, to every brush of his tongue and graze of his teeth. Almost embarrassing how little it takes to make you squirm about in his lap—but his body answers yours just as readily, the twitch of him against you leaving no doubt to his burgeoning desire.

This is really going to happen, isn't it?

"And"—you mourn the loss of his lips—"if all of this is somehow not obvious enough"—but his husky tone has you enraptured—"then let me be clear: I will not be satisfied tonight unless and until I've fucked you thoroughly."

Oh. You stare in stunned silence, mouth agape, as you process the filth you just heard: his lust stated so exquisitely explicitly that you long to press into the hardness you know you will find there, kiss him wildly, pleasure him endlessly.

And that, you decide, is exactly what you will do.

But your affection is too soft and too shy to plunge any deeper without testing the waters first. You kiss him once, then twice, then again and again and again, tentative touches turning tender then teasing as your courage grows. Astarion welcomes it all, wants more of it all, urging you to take this further in all the ways he can: pulling you closer, holding you tighter, kissing you harder. When at last your hips begin to undulate against his, he matches your rhythm, eager for you to feel the full length of him against your wet and wanting core.

With shaking hands you unfasten the singular clasp that had been holding his vest closed. That ever anxious part of you waits a moment for his objection, expects it, dreads it—but it doesn't come. Instead he only gives you his gentle encouragement.

"Go on, love. Undress me. Touch me."

You nod and you smile. Yes, there is anxiety in your anticipation, but so is there desire that drives you, and elation that thrills you, and such deep, overwhelming love for the man before you that how could you not want to devote yourself to pampering him?

Button by button you work your way down his shirt, exposing more and more of him until every fastening is undone. You examine the hard planes of his chest, first with eyes and then with hands, delighting in the way his smooth skin and firm muscle feel beneath your palms. He purrs his approval, rocking his hips against yours with such abandon that you curse your clothes for preventing him from pushing inside you.

Your fingers trail downwards, delicate but daring as they dance towards their destination. When at last you reach to undo his trousers, your eyes dart up to his, one last search for any sign he doesn't want this—but the look he gives you, part lust, part unwavering, undying trust, tells you what deep down you already know.

And it is all the permission you need.

Your attention returns to where he wants it to be. The sight of him, his arousal straining against fabric in his desperation for you, intensifies the throbbing between your own thighs. And so, with eager hands, you set him free.

You know his body well. Studied him with all of your senses. Learned how to glide and twist him into a whimpering mess with only a hand. And yet, practiced as you are in his pleasure, you cannot help the gasp that escapes your throat when you finally set eyes on his cock. To see him so riled and ready, to know it is all because of you—it fills you with awe, and with pride, and with overwhelming desire to put all you have learned to good use.

You start with a stroke of the hand, sliding up and sliding down his shaft, pulling the sweetest of sighs from his lips. Oh, how you love it when he is needy like this, hips moving in time with your every repeated motion. You keep touching him and teasing him, hand gliding up and down and up and down, thumb sweeping across the milky bead gathered at the tip.

But what you really want is a taste.

You lean forward for a kiss—only a fleeting peck, nothing more—and, if the way he huffs and pouts is any indication, it isn't enough. But you have quite a different use for your mouth in mind, don't you? You withdraw your hand, and he opens his mouth in protest, but no words come—for by now he is wide-eyed and mesmerized as you lick your thumb clean, savouring his salty taste. You lower yourself to your knees.

"May I?" you ask, smiling slyly up at him.

"Oh, my love. There are few sights so delightful as your lips wrapped around my cock."

His lewd words bring fresh heat to your cheeks, and he laughs.

"Hmm, I must say that flustered look of yours does have its appeal, too," he says, and you try to maintain your composure as you grab one of the little couch cushions, settling it comfortably beneath your knees. "Especially when it means you're imagining me inside you."

Oh, that unabashedly wicked, aggravatingly arrogant, adorably lovable man. The advantage might be his now, but he won't be the one holding it for long.

"And," he continues, growing more smug by the second, "come to think of it, there are many, many positions that suit you just as beautifully. Like when—"

The words die in his throat as you lick a languid stripe along his length, earning from him a low, pleasured groan. The sound pleases you immensely. But what a shame it would be if he were to leave his filthiest fantasies unspoken.

If he loves to tease you so, then why should you not do the same?

You run your tongue all over him: exploring every inch, tracing every vein, flicking against the tip, but never quite taking him into your mouth. When you have him whimpering the way you like, you pause just long enough to prompt him to say what he failed to before: "Like when…?"

"When— gods—"

Oh dear, it seems language is lost to him again the very moment your lips close around him. You bask in your triumph, sucking him and swishing him with your tongue, watching the way he watches you. And though at times his eyes flutter shut and his head falls back, his gaze always finds its way back to you.

You keep working him, using your hands to pump him and play with him as your mouth performs its magic, rediscovering all the little things that drive him wild. It feels good to make him feel good. It feels even better knowing how much he truly desires this.

"You want to know what I like best of all?" he manages, eventually, his tone dark and throaty; you hum your enthusiastic assent, and the vibration of it sends a shudder through him.

But the words he says send a shudder through you.

"The sight of you lying utterly helpless beneath me."

Oh. Well. You do love this—relishing his pleasure as you bob your head along his length—but you very much love that, too. You remember well how it felt. How letting him have his way with you could awaken either of his extremes. The vampire at his most feral, or the man underneath, a secret softness reserved only for you.

When all was done between you, you used to worry those tenderest moments were only part of his act. But maybe you were wrong.

Maybe they were always real.

"I've been thinking about you"—you ache more and more for your own satisfaction now though you never stop giving him his—"fantasizing about you ever since that night at the party. Wondering what it would be like to have you in my own bed."

And you know at once his bed is soon to be your destination when he leans forward to give you a gentle nudge. You still, letting him slide out of your mouth with a wet pop.

"And, my love," he whispers into your ear, "I intend to find out. Now."

Far be it from you to deny this beautiful man anything he wants.

Astarion rises to his feet, shrugging off his open shirt and pushing off his trousers. To see him like this, so gorgeously and gloriously nude, leaves you speechless.

"Well, darling?" he says, shamelessly eyeing you up and down. "I assure you you'll have much more fun without your clothes."

Needing no further encouragement, you start to disrobe—but your pace is found wanting and Astarion is all out of patience. He steps forward, tugging and tearing at your layers, eager for you to join him in his state of undress. Sure enough you hear a button clack against the floor, fallen victim to his reckless haste.

"Careful!" you insist, but really, you're more amused than annoyed.

Not to mention aroused.

"Oh, don't you worry, my dear. I'll fix that right up for you."

"You'd better."

"Of course. I'm your personal tailor for life now."

For life. This really is it for you, isn't it? You are his, and he is yours, and for however long you both walk this realm, you will spend your days and your nights together.

You wouldn't have it any other way. And neither would he.

When at last you are beaming and bare before him, Astarion takes a step back for a better look at you.

He stares.

And then he strikes.

You are swept into his arms, into his passion, barely conscious of anything but the feel of skin against skin and lips against lips—though it is abundantly clear he is a man on a mission. He pulls you along in his mad shuffle to reach the bed, sacrificing finesse to gain speed, unable to wait a second longer than necessary to have you.

And indeed he wastes no time in lifting you onto the mattress and pushing you flat on your back beneath him.

"Finally," he growls and he grins, and you're already there bucking on the bed before he has even touched you where you need him. "Finally I have you right where I want you. Right where you belong here in my bed. Right here with me."

The thought of this one day becoming your bed—your home—thrills you almost as much as his impatient touches do.

But, as eager as he is, he still recalls exactly how to excite you. Still gives ample attention to all those places most sensitive and secret. Still treats your body like his sanctuary—a sacred thing to be revered, to be relished, to be worshipped.

And, as he settles between your thighs, you know the pleasure he'll, oh, so willingly provide will be nothing short of divine.

He starts with a single lick—one long and languid glide along your slit—and already, all at once, it's too much, and it's not enough, and it's the most wonderfully perfect sensation you have ever known. It pulls from you a shake and a cry, and in turn, a soft laugh from him as he takes pride in his ability to please you. He licks you a second time, and then a third, and again, and again, until his tongue is lapping at you with a steady fervency.

The bliss he brings you is better than you remember. Countless times you tried to relive your memories—desperate to return to him, if only in daydreams—but your fingers always paled in comparison to the way his tongue dips inside your cunt and flicks against your clit.

Although maybe it is better than ever now that you know he loves you.

You grasp for his hand and he grabs it gladly.

And he certainly knows how to work you well. You writhe about, your moans mewling and wanton, your body wanting more, more, more. The pleasure you crave is close now. You glance at your lover—mussed up curls and pink-tipped ears, his attention focused wholly upon your undoing—and to know that Astarion is the one making you feel this way intensifies the heat coiling in your centre.

A little more is all it will take. You ready yourself for it, your grip tightening, your limbs trembling, your feet bracing against his shoulders. And, when he tongues you with the quick, precise flicks you like best, you yield, wave after wave of pleasure crashing into you. Astarion does not relent, continuing to devour you until you are thoroughly sated and spent.

You lie there, panting hard, basking in the pleasant tingle that still lingers in the aftermath of your orgasm. Gods, you haven't felt this good in ages. And, from the smug smile that begins to spread across his face, it seems he knows it, too.

"Well," Astarion says, licking his lips as he sits up. "You look positively wrecked, darling. And all because of me. You want more, don't you?"

Such self-satisfied bravado. Not that it stops your core from clenching at his suggestion. Nor do you deny him when he shifts over you, cock gliding along your swollen folds, ready to push inside.

Oh, you want more very, very badly.

And so you invite him in. "Yes."

Slowly Astarion sinks into your sex until he is buried to the hilt. A perfect fit. You did always take him exceptionally well. He pulls back, and pushes in, and pulls back, and pushes in, coaxing gasps and moans out of you, ensuring you feel each and every inch of him as he makes love to you.

And it is love, this time. Love that underlies the lust in his eyes. Love that fuels the languorous rhythm of his hips. Love that urges him to lavish you with little kisses.

You return his love in every way you can: touching, holding, caressing, kissing, enjoying all that is nostalgic and all that is new. You roll your hips. You cry his name. Surely the extent of your adoration is made abundantly clear—but, if by any chance all this isn't enough, you sing it out loud: "I love you!"

He lets out a laugh, a soft and elated little sound. "I love you, too."

But, for all his sweetness, so is there carnality, frantic and feral and finally free. He thrusts harder, moves faster, pours all of his passion into every motion he makes. Of course you are more than happy to allow him this indulgence. The addictive friction, the lewd noises of bodies colliding, the delight of being filled so completely—every intoxicating detail feeds that familiar heat building within you.

Sensing your impending release, Astarion lifts his head from where it had been nestled in your neck and draws back just far enough to reach a hand between your legs, rubbing circles into your clit with his thumb. You imagine you must be quite a sight—all shivering and squirming under him as you begin your surrender to bliss—but his stare is locked only upon your eyes.

And it is then that you lose yourself to the euphoria he gives you. Then, that your walls clench around him; then, that you let out a keening cry; then, that pleasure radiates from your core to every extremity of your body. And where you go, Astarion is quick to follow, groaning as he empties himself inside of you.

He collapses on top of you, and you pull him into a tight embrace, vowing you will never, ever let him go again.

You missed him so much. Love him so much. And, to be with him like this, so close and connected, makes you feel that all is finally right in this world.

A comfortable and contented silence falls between you.

Until it breaks.

"I wasn't entirely honest with you before."

His words hang heavy in the air as panic takes hold. What if this was too much, what if this was too fast, what if he did not want any of this at all?

But then, when you feel like you might never catch your breath again, he takes your face into his hands and grins devilishly. "What I really like best of all is that I can take a single glance at you and tell just hopelessly in love with me you are."

Oh, that infuriating and wonderful man.

"Don't scare me like that!" you say, scolding him. But, despite his foolishness—maybe because of his foolishness if you're really being honest with yourself—you lunge forward for a kiss. Then another. And another.

When your lips break apart, and his eyes are again heavy-lidded with lust, he makes his suggestion: "Perhaps I might… find some way to make it up to you?"

You think a moment. And then you grin. "Why, yes, I do happen to have one idea in mind. About the ball… be my plus one?"

He does not roll his eyes, nor does he complain of the tedium he'd have to endure, nor does he make any attempt at denying you. He answers only with a soft smile and a single word.

"Always."

Tag List: @preciouslittlebhaalbae, @roguishcat, @zozoparsnips, @goodgirlgonebard, @amoremagnificentbastard, @hellethil, @xxnashiraxx, @vividiana, @dramatiquechipmunk (join tag list for future fics here!)

Thank you so much for reading!

Special Note: This will be a series on AO3 as well, plus all entries will be crossposted here on Tumblr!

My AO3 | My Masterlist

[ayselluna]

When Astarion Gets Jealous ꨄ︎

Astarion is absolutely the jealous type

he scoffs, rolls his eyes, sighs theatrically

and who does he get jealous of? you, obviously

he loathes any attention you get that isn’t from him

behind that carefully practiced boredom are watchful eyes—always on you, always discreet

it’s confusing at first. no strings attached, yet he gets irritated when someone else is a little too nice around you

watches you charm your way around camp at night with a thin smile. so social, aren’t we?

so he mocks Wyll’s “blade” with a pearly smile...

...puffs his chest around Gale, especially after the Tiefling party. (poor Gale never stood a chance)

casually notes you’ve been spending just a bit too much time in Shadowheart’s tent. (not that he cares)

Karlach? he can tolerate. you’d melt if you touched her—literally

yeah...he notices everything—every laugh, every glance—but says nothing. far too proud to ask

the more jealous he is, the sharper the sarcasm. sometimes even a little cruel—but it’s not about you. he’s just mad at himself for feeling anything at all

but once things get serious, his jealousy shifts. it's quieter. tamed by...love. its root buried deep in his well-hidden lack of self-worth

he feels like he’ll never be enough—so he’s still jealous, but it’s softer now, on the outside at least

and Halsin? oh, he’s noticed. that walking tree trunk of a druid and the way he looks at you. Astarion says nothing. not yet

when you mention Halsin’s little offer, Astarion freezes. jokes. smirks. but his eyes flicker

two ways this plays out:

you decline Halsin offer: Astarion exhales like he’s been holding his breath for hours. the relief is palpable. suddenly, everything feels lighter. brighter. he wouldn't tell, but he wants you only to himself after all

you say you’re thinking about it: Astarion heart sinks. still, he acts unfazed. aloof. but now he’s quietly clinging to you—watching, waiting, making sure you’re still a thing. quietly enduring, even trying to enjoy it, but deep down he know he can't. he want's you only to himself

oh, Astarion. what we do for love…

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

now everyone repeat after me: ASTARION YOU ARE ENOUGH AND YOU SHOULD NEVER DOUBT THAT!!!

you can find more of my works about astarion ♡here♡

support me here <3

[ayselluna]

My BG3 headcanon: Astarion truly cares about his Tav | Durge, doesn't matter if they are friends or lovers, so when his dearest had a date night, he secretly followed, just in case.

Bonus below:

[ayselluna]

My BG3 headcanon: Astarion truly cares about his Tav | Durge, doesn't matter if they are friends or lovers, so when his dearest had a date night, he secretly followed, just in case.

Bonus below:

[ayselluna]

Astarion + Fandom (Mis)Characterization

(2/3)

What if Astarion isn’t either of the two versions fandom picked for him?

(Part 1) (Part 3)

[Edit: Removed anonymized example screenshots after some feedback. I want this to stay focused on broader fandom trends rather than individual fanworks. Thanks to those engaging in good faith. Clarification here.]

————————————————————————

Version One: the sexy vampire who could ruin you (and that’s hot)

————————————————————————

This characterization of Astarion is the most frequent reading I’ve seen. People who characterize Astarion like this tap into his manipulative side, the seductiveness and possessive charm the PC sees in him in early game or even in Ascended!Astarion:

Astarion: “Here’s my little treat with their cheeks all flushed. You will come to my bed tonight, won’t you?”

Astarion: “Hahaha! Don’t be stupid, darling. You’re mine, remember?”

In these characterizations, he often continues to sexualize himself or you, or is portrayed as constantly in control of the romantic atmosphere.

Why this is effective:

1. He has power and agency in this version, and uses them to his advantage. It plays into extremely popular romantic tropes, seen frequently in places like the “BookTok” community on TikTok - featuring dark, dominant romantic interests who take charge and overpower romantic or sexual scenarios.

2. Prior knowledge of the “sexy vampire” trope. Vampires have long been seen as creatures of allure and dangerous desire. Drinking blood is seen as sexy, sensual, and intimate. Inherently, this primes Astarion for interpretation that aligns with preexisting sexualization of vampires and fantasy power imbalance.

3. His background as someone who spent 200 years seducing people gives basis to the idea that seduction and extremely pointed flirtation is his default, even when in a genuine relationship.

4. His response to his trauma - the performative, emotionally unavailable lack of vulnerability - reads as confidence and domination (and again, recalls classic BookTok tropes). The intrigue in turn makes him appear more attractive in a heteronormative, exaggerated way than a male character who is more emotionally open (see: Wyll or Gale).

5. Perhaps most importantly: This is the exact version of himself Astarion actively tries to convince you is real in game.

Astarion becomes easy to sexualize in highly simplistic ways because he already plays into multiple pinholes of typical “dark fantasy” tropes. He presents himself as an object of desire, and it’s easy to believe him.

Even with full context of his story and arc, his presentation is so practiced and effective that many real life players fall into the trap of believing the performance over the actual person underneath.

And while this version does capture some aspects of Astarion’s character, it fails to align with what we see in game when he feels truly safe.

Character reality:

1. While Astarion does demonstrate control over the romantic narrative early on, portraying him as constantly confident and in control undermines the vulnerability we see when he realizes he truly wants a relationship with the PC (romantic or otherwise):

- Lines from his Act 2 confession after killing Yurgir:

Astarion: “You-…you’re incredible. You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.”

Astarion: “…I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what I want.”

- He tells you: “I want…something real.” Because, to him, the seduction isn’t real. It’s not his actual wants, it’s not who he is when he’s being genuine. He tells you it was all a performance either way.

2. Astarion clearly does not view vampirism as sexy, and is disgusted at the premise. This is most clearly demonstrated in the interactions with Araj Oblodra:

Araj: It’s not for sale, but it’s yours if you bite me.

Astarion (to Araj): “I will have to decline.”

Astarion (to PC): “Are you actually asking me to do this? Trading me for some potion?”

Astarion (to PC): “You could have asked me to do the same [as Cazador] - to throw myself at her, what I wanted be damned. But you didn’t. And I’m grateful.”

- His condition, to him, is a curse, not another thing to be sexualized. He emphasizes to you that it is important to him not to be used for his body again, which leads directly to the next point:

3. While Astarion spent 200 years seducing people, that was not by choice, and he clearly did not take pleasure in it. He openly tells you that he operated that way because he was only desired for his body:

Astarion: “I spent two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back for my Master. What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing, it never mattered.”

- It’s important to mention here that he directly tells you sex and being sexualized is not something he’s authentically comfortable with in a real relationship at the moment.

Astarion: “Even though I know things between us are different, being with someone still feels tainted. Still brings up those feelings of disgust and loathing.”

- In a relationship where Astarion is genuinely loved and valued - he would be able to drop the act because he knows he is loved for more than his body. Seduction is no longer a requirement for intimacy, because he is already aware his partner loves him for all of him.

4. Astarion’s allure as a “mysteriously intriguing trauma-ridden individual” disappears as soon as you gain his trust. While he is slow to open up, once he does, he is generally vulnerable with the PC - not bouncing back and forth between completely closed off and open book. His lines towards the end of the game when romanced, are generally sweet and heartfelt rather than gritty.

Astarion: “Nothing special of course. You’re only the first person who I truly care for.”

Astarion: “You are perfect, every time.”

Why does this matter?

While portraying Astarion as dominant and sexually aggressive plays into some of the lines he displays in game, it misses the fact that the point of his arc is that the seductive aspect is primarily a protective mask. He is naturally theatrical - but the flirtation and prominent sexuality are illusions for control, not the true self.

The whole point is that’s who Astarion wants you to think he is, and he’s good at it.

- It isn’t how he treats the PC when he’s in a genuine romantic relationship.

- It isn’t how he treats the PC when even just given genuine friendship.

- But it is how he presents himself and an extremely convincing performance if you only get to know him on a surface level. Which is common, because of the fact that Astarion tends to have a lot of fans who know him through online content without having played the game.

Ironically, the character whose backstory is based on the trauma of being oversexualized is in fact frequently oversexualized by the fan community. While the “hot manipulative vampire” version does have origins in his surface personality, it isn’t the full story of who he is.

It leaves no room for how the game shows us Astarion would genuinely love - uncertainly, awkwardly at first, stripped of performance or romantic expectations.

What are your thoughts? Have you seen any interesting interpretations of Astarion with regards to tropes?

————————————————————————

Stay tuned for Part 3, analysis of the opposite extreme (Astarion as a helpless victim) and its ramifications.

(2/3 based on this post from @scrimmiestbingus)

[ayselluna]

Not Without You

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Pairing: Astarion x Reader

Rating: Mature

Tags: Angst, Eventual Fluff, Fighting, Various Weapons, Arrow Wound, Blood, Wound Care, Barely Conscious, Losing Consciousness, Spawn Astarion (He might be a little OOC here), Explicit Language

Word Count: Around 1100

Written For: @badthingshappenbingo @fandom-free-bingo @fluffyjuly @whumpmasinjuly-archive

Squares/Prompts Filled: N3 - Shot With An Arrow for BTHB | Card B: O2 - Stealing From Thieves for Fandom Free Bingo: Virtues and Vices Edition | Fluffy July Day 30 - "Listen to my heartbeat." | Whumpmas In July Day 30 - "Brace yourself."

Dividers By: @/saradika-graphics

The plan had been straightforward.

Just a simple repossession of stolen material to its rightful owner.

The goods stolen from a traveling cleric caravan were valuable, but nothing sacred enough to risk your lives over. or so you thought. Still, your group had agreed to recover them, more for goodwill than gold. A mission to restore faith, not test it.

But the moment you breached the thieves' hidden stronghold, carved deep into the moss-choked cliffs north of Rivington, you realized something was wrong.

Too many guards.

Too much coordination.

And one too many eyes watching from the shadows.

You’d been right to flank with Astarion. He’d insisted, of course. “Darling, you might be a clever little minx with a blade,” he’d said, tracing your jaw with a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes, “but you bleed far too easily for my liking.”

You thought it was just another dramatic line.

You didn’t realize how true it would become.

The battle broke loose like a thunderclap. You were fast, slipping between cover, throwing daggers, your magic sparking with practiced ease. Astarion was faster. A blur of death and destruction, slashing through thieves with a grin that bordered on gleeful.

The first wave fell easily.

Then came the second.

A rogue archer, clever bastard, had taken position on the crumbling ledge above, half-hidden behind debris and brambles.

You never saw him.

The arrow tore through your side like a burning brand, lodging deep beneath your ribs. You gasped, staggered, and fell hard, your daggers clattering against the stone.

Time stuttered.

You didn’t scream.

But Astarion did.

“NO!”

It wasn’t his usual sardonic drawl, no mocking lilt. It was raw. Terrifying. A sound you’d never heard from him before.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. One second he was beside you, the next, gone in a crack of displaced air. The vampire spawn misty stepped straight onto the ledge, fury given form.

Astarion butchered the archer.

There was no grace, no precision. Just rage. He drove his blades into the man’s chest over and over, blood spraying his pale face and silver hair. You weren’t sure when the body stopped moving. Astarion didn’t seem to notice or care.

By the time the others reached you, the battle was over, but the real war had only just begun.

You were too pale.

Your skin clammy and slick with sweat, eyes glassy with pain. You were trying to sit up, but your limbs shook uncontrollably. The arrow was still in you, buried to the fletching.

“Stop moving,” Astarion growled, kneeling beside you, voice taut with terror. “You’ll make it worse.”

“I…I didn’t see him…” You choked, blood staining your lips.

“Shh. Don’t speak.” His hands hovered, unsure where to touch without hurting you more.

And then-

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Astarion stared at you, as if you’d just said something unspeakable.

“Sorry?” he echoed. “Why in all the bleeding Hells would you apologize to me?!”

“I should’ve...should’ve dodged, or-”

“You were ambushed,” he snapped, voice trembling. “Do not apologize for bleeding. Do not apologize for hurting. Gods, why must you always-"

He cut himself off, jaw clenched so tight it clicked. His hands shook as he lifted you into his arms.

“I’m taking you back to camp. Right now. I can’t treat this here.”

The journey was agony.

Each step jolted the arrow. You buried your face in his chest, trying not to scream, your fingers clutching at his shirt. He whispered to you the entire way, frantic, disjointed things.

“I can’t lose you.”

“You’re mine...you promised.”

“This world isn’t worth a damn without you in it.”

His tone was different than usual. Not teasing. Not playful. Terrified.

By the time you reached camp, you could hardly hold your head up. He didn’t bother with tents or audience, he lay you down on the closest bedroll and immediately set to work.

Karlach reached out with a hand, her voice gentle. “Astarion-”

“No!” he snarled. “Don’t touch her. I’ll handle this.”

Even Shadowheart, no stranger to triage, backed away. She saw something in his eyes, something feral.

Astarion knelt beside you, covered in blood. Yours. Theirs. His own, maybe.

“This is going to hurt,” he said, voice shaking.

You nodded faintly.

“I need you to be brave for me, my love.”

You were always brave for him.

“Brace yourself.”

He gripped the arrow and yanked.

The pain was worse than anything you’d ever known. It stole your scream. The agony flared white-hot, your body twisting before going limp with shock.

You didn’t hear yourself sob.

But he did.

And it broke him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, over and over. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry…”

He worked quickly, binding and stitching with shaking hands. The blood wouldn’t stop. His breath caught in his throat more than once. You kept fading in and out, consciousness slippery as water through your fingers.

The wound was deep, but no longer bleeding. He’d cleaned and dressed it as best he could, muttering quiet oaths under his breath the entire time. Your face had gone pale again. Not just from blood loss this time, but from exhaustion. From everything.

He lay beside you on the bedroll, carefully maneuvering your body so that your head rested against his bare chest. His hand gently smoothed down your hair as your breathing evened out, little by little.

The pain was still there, he could feel every wince, every twitch, but you were safe now. And he wasn’t letting go.

His arms wrapped tightly around you, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

“I can’t lose you,” he said again, hoarse. “Not you. Not after everything.”

You reached for him with trembling fingers, brushing blood from his cheek. “I’m here…”

It was steady and strong.

“You nearly weren’t.”

He brought your head to his chest. “Listen to my heartbeat,” he whispered.

For centuries, it had been silent.

But now it beats, and it beats for you.

“You gave that back to me,” he murmured into your hair, voice barely more than a breath. “I didn’t even realize how empty I was until you loved me.”

You made a sleepy sound against him, not quite words, just a soft acknowledgement that you were still there. Still listening. He smiled, heart aching.

“My fierce, reckless little light,” he whispered. “I’ve faced monsters. Gods. Death itself. But nothing frightens me the way the thought of losing you does.”

He brushed his lips across your temple. You didn’t move, but he felt your fingers tighten just a little over his chest, like you were grounding yourself in the sound of him. The beat of him.

“I would tear this world apart for you,” he continued, his voice gentler now. “But I’d rather keep it whole…if it means I get more nights like this. Holding you. Feeling your warmth. Listening to you breathe.”

You let out a soft sigh and curled further into his embrace.

Astarion cradled you like a precious, delicate treasure, like you might disappear if he loosened his grip even an inch.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered. “So damn proud. You fought so bravely today. Yet even after all that, you were still worried about upsetting me.”

He laughed softly, full of wonder and heartbreak.

“You absolute fool,” he said, smiling into your hair. “How did I ever deserve you?”

The stars glittered overhead. The fire had burned low, casting soft shadows across the camp. The others were silent. The danger had passed.

And here, wrapped up in his arms, your ear over his heart, you were safe.

“You don’t have to be brave anymore, my love,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Not here. Not with me. I’ll be brave for the both of us.”

He kissed the top of your head softly.

“Sleep now,” he whispered. “Sleep, and dream sweetly. I’ll be here when you wake.”

You drifted off to the sound of his heartbeat beneath your cheek.

And Astarion didn’t move, not even once. He held you all through the night, whispering soft promises against your hair, until dawn lit the sky.

You woke slowly, like surfacing from the depths of a dream you weren’t quite ready to leave.

The ache in your side was sharp but dulled, bandaged tightly beneath your nightshirt. But what you felt first wasn’t pain, it was warmth.

Astarion’s arms wrapped around you, his fingers gently brushing along your waist. His chest pressed against your back, rising and falling in a calm, steady rhythm. His cheek rested in your hair, and his breath ghosted across your neck.

For a moment, you didn’t move.

Neither did he.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, his voice already thick with emotion. “Thank the gods.”

You turned your head slightly and felt him shift, gently guiding you to lie on your back. His hand hovered protectively over your bandaged side. His eyes were bloodshot, and his usually pristine hair was slightly mussed.

“You didn’t sleep,” you said softly, fingers brushing his cheek.

“Didn’t want to.” He smiled, tired but sincere. “I was too afraid I’d close my eyes and…wake up without you.”

You opened your mouth to reassure him, but he leaned down and pressed the gentlest kiss to your forehead.

“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry again,” he whispered against your skin. “You’ve already apologized far too much for getting shot. You were brilliant yesterday, even if you scared me half to death.”

You smiled faintly, the corner of your mouth tugging up.

“I’ll accept one thing, though,” he added, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “An agreement that you’ll let me fuss over you now. Just for today.”

You laughed, soft and hoarse. “Just today?”

He grinned, and gods, it was the most beautiful thing you’d seen. “Fine. Tomorrow, too. And maybe the rest of eternity.”

He sat up slowly, slipping out from under the bedroll to grab a fresh set of supplies from a nearby pack. His shirt hung open, his chest covered in faint bruises and bloodstains that had long since dried.

“I’m going to redress the wound, my sweet,” he murmured as he knelt beside you again. “It may hurt a bit, but I’ll be careful.”

You nodded, your trust absolute.

He helped you sit up slowly, sliding in behind you so you could lean against his chest as he worked. His fingers were delicate as he unwound the old bandage, his brows furrowed with concentration.

When you winced, he immediately paused.

“Sorry,” you breathed.

“Ah-ah.” He leaned down, brushing a soft kiss to your shoulder. “None of that. You’re allowed to hurt. You’re allowed to be soft. That’s what I’m here for now. To care for you.”

He gently cleaned the wound, whispering little nothings as he worked.

“You’re so brave.”

“I’ve never known anyone like you.”

“You terrify me in all the best ways.”

You let your eyes flutter shut, soaking in his voice, the way his fingers moved so gently across your skin. When he finished re-bandaging the wound, he pressed a lingering kiss to the center of your back, just above the dressing.

“Finished,” he murmured. “You did perfectly.”

He helped you lie back down and climbed in beside you again, pulling you back into his arms as if you belonged there.

“You’re still shaking,” you whispered, resting your hand on his chest again.

“I know.” His voice cracked. “I’ll stop eventually. I just…need you closer a little longer.”

You tilted your chin, and he understood instantly, his lips met yours in a slow, gentle kiss. Nothing hungry. Just soft. Full of relief and devotion.

He cupped your face in his palm, brushing your cheek with his thumb.

“You’re mine,” he whispered against your lips. “And I’m yours. No more pretending otherwise.”

“No more pretending,” you agreed, your voice breaking just a little.

He kissed you again. And again. Pressing them to your forehead, your nose, the corners of your mouth.

Then he held you tight and tucked you against his chest, letting your ear rest over the sound of his still-beating heart.

“Sleep a little longer, my darling,” he whispered, stroking your back. “The world can wait.”

And with his heartbeat in your ear and his lips in your hair, you drifted back to sleep.

Safe. Loved. Home.

Astarion Tag List: @kashii9652 @labyrinth-runner

[ayselluna]

08/30 - Negotiate

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Characters: Astarion x Reader 

Words: 1,291

Summary: Astarion is used to giving… in exchange for something. Blood, pleasure, favors - everyone wants something. So when you do something kind with no strings attached, he’s suspicious. Then he’s confused. Then he’s undone. Because no one ever offers him company without a price….until now.

note: been wanting to do this for a while now - so I consider this the 1st chapter of my yet to be announced full story. For now, it serves as Day 8th of my fanfiction challenge,

Moonlight silvered every broken column around the camp, catching on pale birch trunks and the scattered shards of shattered statues. The others were asleep or on watch, their muted voices drifting somewhere beyond the ruined archway. Only Astarion remained in the central clearing, lounging with theatrical languor on a fallen pillar, crimson-lined cloak spread like spilled wine across the stone.

You approached with a small mending kit cradled in one hand. His white silk shirt - savaged by a ghoul’s claws earlier - gaped open at the shoulder, fraying threads fluttering against alabaster skin.

Astarion’s eyes flicked to the kit, then to you. One pale brow arched in lazy appraisal. “Darling, if you were desperate to get my clothes off again, you only had to ask.”

You ignored the bait, sinking to your knees beside him. “Hold still.”

“My favorite command,” he murmured, voice a purr shaped for dark corners and entanglements. “Though I usually prefer it whispered.”

You threaded the needle. “And I prefer my patients quiet.”

His lips parted in a small, delighted “ooh,” but he obeyed. Only the occasional hiss of thread sliding through cloth broke the hush. When your knuckles brushed his skin, cool as porcelain beneath moonlight, he glanced down, lashes half‑lidded.

“Must you be so gentle?” he asked, faux‑petulant. “I fear I’ll become accustomed to it.”

“You could learn to enjoy softness,” you said, tightening the final knot.

“Oh, I enjoy many soft things.” His gaze dipped, undeniably appreciative, before returning to your face. “But softness always comes with a bill.” He flashed teeth - not quite a smile, not quite a threat. “Shall we discuss payment?”

You finished snipping the thread. “There is none.”

A laugh burst from him, bright and brittle. “Adorable. Truly. But come now - everyone wants something.” He rose, looming above you, silk settling over lean muscle. “A kiss? A bite? A night tangled in sheets until dawn burns us both? Name it.”

You stood, brushing pine needles from your knees. “Not interested.”

“In me?” He pressed a hand theatrically to his chest. “Impossible. Or perhaps coin, then? Secrets? I have centuries’ worth - recipes for poison, noble scandals, the names of hidden vaults.”

You shook your head.

His smile thinned. “Power, maybe? A favor owed by a monster with sharp teeth. Very useful, our kind of favor.”

Still you said nothing.

Astarion’s mirth cooled into suspicion. He prowled a half‑circle around you, predator graceful despite the torn shirt. “Fine. We’ll drop the flirtation. What darkness do you hide, sweet thing? Are you planning to trade my gratitude for someone else’s misery?”

“Astarion—”

“Or do you fancy ensnaring me?” He leaned close, breath velvet and iron. “Make me yours the way Cazador made me his? I’ve worn chains before; I can spot new ones being forged.”

The hurt behind the venom stung more than the words. You inhaled, steadying your voice. “I don’t want chains. Not on you. Not on anyone.”

He scoffed, but the sound wavered. “Then what do you want?”

You hesitated. Because the truth felt too small, too fragile for a man who thought currency only came in blood or lust. Yet you spoke it anyway, quiet but unwavering.

“Your company,” you said. “Your presence. Sit with me awhile. Just talk. Nothing sexual, no favors owed.” You met his eyes. “That’s all.”

A bark of incredulous laughter escaped him. “That’s rich! You mend my shirt and ask for tea‑time conversation? Darling, is this some new kink I haven’t heard of?”

“I’m serious.”

“People do not help Astarion Ancunin for conversation. They help for pleasure, profit, or pity and I despise all three.”

“I’m not offering pity,” you answered. “And conversation is a pleasure, at least to me. If you’d rather walk away, you can.”

He opened his mouth - surely to deliver another teasing barb - but the words died. You watched his expression shift, glittery amusement draining until confusion sat naked on his features. It lasted only a heartbeat before he hid it behind a smirk, but you’d seen it: the startled child beneath the painted masque.

He licked his lips, voice softer. “You truly expect nothing else?”

“I expect you to keep the shirt intact,” you said, folding your kit. “Beyond that? No.”

Silence unfurled, heavy as velvet. The campfire popped; an ember drifted skyward. Somewhere distant, a nightjar called.

Finally, hesitantly, Astarion settled back on the pillar and patted the mossy stone beside him. “Well. If conversation is the price, it would be rude not to pay.” His tone aimed for flippant but landed shy of conviction.

You sat, leaving a respectful hand’s breadth between you. He glanced at the gap, then at your face, as though trying to discern an angle he could exploit. Finding none, he exhaled - a soft, bewildered sound.

“What would you have me speak about?” he asked. “I warn you, my tales skew toward decadence and gore.”

“Tell me what you miss,” you said, staring into the fire. “Before all this.”

He blinked. Perhaps no one had asked him that in two centuries. You could almost hear the rusty gears turning.

“I…miss flavor,” he said at last, voice contemplative. “Food was pointless after Cazador. Imagine recalling the taste of wine, but every sip now is ash unless it’s blood.” He forced a laugh. “That’s terribly morbid dinner chatter, isn’t it?”

You shrugged. “Dinner’s long over.”

He studied you. In the fire‑lit dark, his crimson eyes caught sparks of gold. “I used to love pastries,” he muttered, as if confessing sin. “Piled high with sugared berries. There was a bakery near the palace in Baldur’s Gate. Dawn‑rise steam in the windows, the scent of yeast and honey.” A wistful curl shaped his mouth, bruised by longing. “I would sneak out with friends after magistrate meetings. Ruin my appetite before banquets.” He huffed. “Petty rebellion, but mine.”

You listened, neither pitying nor prodding. The quiet between you carried no demand. He seemed to feel that difference - like cool water on burned skin.

“Your turn,” he said, after a while. “What do you miss?”

You told him: moonlit windows in a city far south, the hush right before summer rain, the way fresh parchment smells when you crack open a new journal. Small, human things - evenly traded.

Time blurred. He lounged with one knee drawn up, cloak draping elegant folds. Anecdotes slipped free - barbed jokes about Balduran nobles, sly impressions of Cazador’s fawning spawn. Each story left a little more daylight between him and his fear.

When the fire dwindled to a glowing heart, Astarion stretched lithely. “Look at that - we’ve nearly talked the poor flames to death.”

You offered him the blanket draped over your shoulders. “I’m heading to my bedroll. Keep warm.”

He accepted it, fingertips brushing yours - a touch light as breath, yet enough to raise gooseflesh. He noticed, of course; his lips tilted upward in the faintest, most genuine smile you’d seen.

“I’ll return it tomorrow,” he said. Then, quieter, “Thank you.”

“For what?”

A pause. “For deciding I’m worth more than barter.”

You gave a small nod and started toward your corner of camp.

At your first step, his voice followed: dry, teasing again, yet threaded with something softer.

“Just so we’re clear,” he called, “if you ever want to renegotiate - say, trade polite company for a night tangled in scandalous positions - you have only to ask.”

You laughed, glancing back. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He watched you until you vanished beyond the ruined archway. Only when the night quieted did Astarion glance at the neat stitches on his sleeve. He brushed them with one thumb, as if testing reality.

For the first time in two hundred years, someone had offered him kindness priced not in flesh, coin, or fear but in presence. A currency he scarcely believed existed.

And in the hush of crumbling moonlit stone, Astarion found himself strangely, achingly…rich.

[ayselluna]

modernbat: size matters

(Fun fact: originally, Batstarion was tiny — like a regular bat — but I had to make him bigger, because otherwise you just couldn’t see any expressions on his little face.

i know, that giant bats exist, but in europe (where modernbat is) all bats are sooooo small compare to our vampy)

[ayselluna]

deadly(-)diminuendo's fic masterlist

(dividers by @saradika-graphics) Here is my humble little collection of Astarion fanfiction.

Please note these are all explicit and intended for an adult audience.

I'm slowly but surely adding more to this list! I do not take any fic requests, but feel free to send asks or dms!

My AO3

You can also check out my writing related posts using these tags: #my fics | #my wips | #my writing Tag List: If you would like me to be on my tag list, check out this post (or let me know in some other way)!

A Fitting Reunion | Spawn Astarion x Fem!Tav | Post-Game | ~13.7k words

After a rather embarrassing experience at the reunion party, you have been nervous to see Astarion again. You manage to gather the courage to visit his tailoring shop for dress alterations—and to be a better friend to him. And maybe there is just a little part of you that still hopes for something more. But he couldn’t possibly want that—or could he?

Read on AO3 | Read on Tumblr

To be expanded in A Fitting Romance series

Eat You Up | Spawn Astarion x Fem!Tav | Post-Game | ~3.8k words

Though you and Astarion are no longer lovers, you still love him with your whole heart. And so, though it makes your heart ache, you've never stopped letting him feed upon you. On one cold winter night, your monthly cycle prevents him from feeding upon you in the usual way. Astarion suggests an alternative you simply cannot resist—one that you know will test the boundaries of your relationship once again.

Read on AO3 | Read on Tumblr

Sweet Dreams, Darling | Spawn Astarion x Fem!Tav | Act 3 | ~4.1k words | CW: somnophilia / cnc

An evening spent reading a racy romance novel awakens a fantasy you never knew you had. The thought of your sleeping body becoming a thing to be used for someone else's pleasure brings you an unexpected thrill. Of course Astarion catches you in the act and of course he cannot resist teasing you. But he is willing to indulge you.

Read on AO3 | Read on Tumblr

The Ascendant Takes a Bride | Ascended Astarion x Fem!NonTav | Post-Game | ~4.4k words

Just as you and your family are about to fall into ruin, you agree to marry the mysterious Astarion Ancunín in exchange for his promise to pay off all your debts. Attractive and charming though he is, you cannot help but to feel nervous about your arrangement. Some say he is a vampire. You have seen evidence that both supports and counters that claim. You are not sure what to believe. Finally you find yourself alone with him on your wedding night—and Astarion has some unexpected surprises in store for you.

Read on AO3 | Read on Tumblr

Those Three Little Words | Spawn Astarion x Fem!Tav | Post-Game | ~1k words

Every year you and Astarion return to the place where he began his life anew and every year you indulge in your love for each other. (Or: a short and saccharine tribute to graveyard sex)

Read on AO3 | Read on Tumblr

You Were My First | Spawn Astarion x Fem!Tav | Act 1 | ~3.9k words

The night he bit you, Astarion awakened something unexpected within you: desire. You offer to let him bite you again, only to receive a more scandalous offer in return. And though you have never before had a lover, you have never felt more tempted.

Read on AO3 | Read on Tumblr

You Will Know | Ascended Astarion x Fem!Tav | Post-Game | ~9.1k words | CW: non-con (Haarlep using Tav's form)

Every time I make love in your shape, you will know. There are two mistakes you regret more than anything. One, helping Astarion complete the ritual that changed him into someone you no longer recognize. Two, giving your body away to an incubus, an eternal pact from which you can never break free. Haarlep has begun to take your form almost every night, making it impossible to forget your pact, impossible to forget the nights you shared with the man you once loved, all while a stranger ravishes you from beyond. Only it isn’t a stranger at all.

Read on AO3

Coming Eventually:

let me kiss those poisoned lips: an act 1 Spawn Astarion x Tiefling Tav oneshot

Croquis: a post-game Spawn Astarion x Reader oneshot part of A Fitting Romance series

A Lesson in Embroidery: another post-game Spawn Astarion x Reader oneshot part of A Fitting Romance series

An as yet untitled Ascended Astarion x OC gothic romance-inspired longfic

[ayselluna]

One day I'll buy Baldur's Gate 3, but for now I can only offer this Astarion I drew for my friend's birthday

[ayselluna]

You made him laugh.

[ayselluna]

Alright I will say it now bc I have not seen anyone acknowledge this even once:

I love Astarion's undereye circles.

I love that he's considered immensly beautiful and handsome by literally everyone in game as well as most people outside of it despite having these rather prominent "flaws" right on his face.

As someone who is also very pale and has genetically dark undereye circles, who constantly had to hear stuff like "Did you not sleep? Are you sick?? You look soooo tired/sick" which ultimately took a massive hit on my already low self-esteem, someone who tried every possible beauty hack to get rid of them or cover them up, it is so SO refreshing to have a character for fucking once that not only has those same dark circles but is also still considered beautiful, entrancingly so even.

Anyways, I love Astarion's undereye circles.

[ayselluna]

idk i think what is interesting about astarion to me is the fact that you have a guy who started out an asshole (normal type) and then spent two hundred years in a very carefully and specifically crafted (by the writers of the game) Become A Terrible Person Or Die nexus. like it wasn’t just a Torment Nexus, he wasn’t just in hell, i feel like this is very important not to forget, he was in hell but it was specifically a hell designed to, over time, kill the empathy of anyone trapped in it, kill their brain’s ability to prioritize other peoples’ survival, to numb one’s conscience.

and then he gets yanked directly out of that nexus and despite that the fact that he spent, again, two hundred years in a situation that was sort of a rock tumbler for the human soul, there’s still a pebble left in there. and it’s a pebble that can be grown if placed in the right environment and provided with a support network.

so i think it becomes interesting because it really does i think force you to start thinking about the limits of free will even on as basic a level as the human personality. i think the fact that he becomes such a different character based on player choice, that his end morality is so hugely dependent on player choice, is uhhh. a big part of what the devs were going for probably.

it makes a lot of people really uncomfortable to acknowledge some bad people would be good people if literally nothing changed except they had a good support network and different circumstances. especially because it means the opposite is also true. which is even more uncomfortable.

you know that part in the beginning of fellowship of the ring where gandalf is talking about how gollum is ultimately only like that because of the ring and gandalf thinks his story is sad? astarion is kinda like if they sexualized gollum.

[ayselluna]

my recent bg3 pinup flash!! i ran out of halsins so obviously i just have to do everyone now

book in with me here :3

[ayselluna]

This is gonna get flagged I’m sure but you’re welcome, it’s Astarion doing push-ups