#tailor!astarion x reader

[moonselune]

Could I please request headcanons or a Drabble for postgame Tailor!Astarion x reader? The worms are eating my brain I can’t stop thinking about him pinning dresses on his s/o with a measuring tape round his neck

The brain worms entered my head as well upon reading this

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Tailor!Astarion xf!reader | The Most Beautiful Mannequin

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Astarion worked with a meticulous grace, his hands sure and steady as they roamed over your body, pinning fabric here and there. It was strange, to see him in this domestic light. Gone was the battle-hardened vampire spawn with his daggers and shortswords in hand, now replaced by a man who had found peace in the art of tailoring, his fingers just as deft with needle and thread as they’d been with blades.

The light of the afternoon sun spilled through the window of your shared home, bathing the room in a warm glow. You stood in front of the mirror, dressed in little more than the fabric he’d carefully draped over you, while Astarion worked around you like an artist with his masterpiece.

He was muttering something to himself, eyes narrowed in concentration as he adjusted the hem of the dress. A length of measuring tape hung around his neck, and a handful of pins were tucked between his lips, their metallic gleam catching the light. Every now and then, he’d pluck one from his mouth and secure a fold of fabric, his fingers brushing against your skin in a way that sent a shiver up your spine.

“You know,” he said around the pins, his voice slightly muffled but still carrying that familiar, teasing lilt, “this would go much faster if you could stay still for even half a minute.”

“I’m trying,” you protested, though the soft laugh that followed betrayed your amusement. “It’s not easy when you keep poking me with pins.”

“Well, if you didn’t wriggle so much, my dear, I wouldn’t have to poke you,” he countered, raising an eyebrow as he removed the pins from his mouth and placed them on a nearby table. “Honestly, you’d think you’d never been fitted for a dress before.”

“Not by someone like you,” you murmured, letting your eyes linger on him for a moment. He wore a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, exposing the pale, smooth skin of his forearms, and there was a casual elegance to him that made your heart skip a beat.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” he replied with a smirk, though you could see the faint flush that crept up his neck. “Now, arms up. I need to see how this falls.”

You obliged, lifting your arms as he instructed, and he stepped closer, his body brushing against yours as he adjusted the fabric over your shoulders. You could feel the warmth radiating off him, the gentle press of his fingers as they smoothed out a crease. His touch was so light, so careful, as if he was afraid that one wrong move might tear the delicate material—or perhaps tear you.

He took a step back, scrutinizing his work with a critical eye, before making another adjustment, his fingers brushing against your waist.

“Much better,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “You know, I must say, you do make for quite the lovely mannequin.”

“Mannequin?” you repeated, giving him a mock glare. “I didn’t realize I’d been reduced to nothing more than a glorified coat hanger.”

“Well, if you could refrain from moving every other second, perhaps I could start seeing you as something more,” he teased, his lips quirking into that familiar, devilish grin. “But alas, you’re not making it easy, darling.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re adorable,” he shot back without missing a beat, stepping closer once more.

This time, his hands rested on your hips, his touch lingering, and you felt your heart skip a beat as he leaned in, his breath ghosting against your ear.

“Besides,” he murmured, “it’s not every day I get to play dress-up with the most beautiful person in all the realms.”

You felt a blush creep up your cheeks at his words, and you bit your lip to keep from smiling too widely.

“You’re incorrigible,” you muttered.

“And yet, you adore me,” he replied smugly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck before he pulled away to continue his work.

For a while, you stood there in comfortable silence, letting him work his magic. Every so often, you’d catch him stealing glances at you in the mirror, a soft, almost tender expression crossing his face before he quickly masked it with that practiced smirk. It was those moments that made your heart ache with affection, that reminded you just how much he’d changed, how far you’d both come since the days of endless battles and bloodshed.

“There,” he said finally, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “What do you think?”

You turned to look at yourself in the mirror, your breath catching in your throat. The dress was exquisite, the fabric hugging your body in all the right places, the cut and stitching flawless. It was a work of art, and you couldn’t help but marvel at how perfectly it suited you, as if it had been made for you—and in a way, it had.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathed, turning to face him, your eyes shining with gratitude. “You’re amazing, Astarion.”

He shrugged, though you could see the pride in his eyes, the way his chest puffed out just a little.

“Well, I do try,” he said, though his voice was softer now, more genuine. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it,” you corrected, reaching out to take his hand in yours. “And I love you.”

He blinked, his eyes widening slightly before he let out a soft laugh, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“Always so sentimental,” he teased, though there was no bite to his words, only warmth. “But for once, I suppose I’ll allow it.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips.

“Thank you,” you said, leaning in to press a kiss to his cheek. “For everything.”

He hummed, a pleased sound rumbling in his chest as he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you close.

“Anything for you, darling,” he murmured against your lips, his eyes shining with a love that made your heart feel like it might burst. “Anything at all.”

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Oh I actually adore Tailor!Astarion so much, and I hope you guys adore him too! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[deadly-diminuendo]

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!

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[dhampling]

the gate girl!dadstarion, 1.5k

He knows vaguely where the building is - he’s sure he’s passed it on one of his late night jaunts - but you’re coming along too. He knows he’s prepared for this moment, down to the most minute detail.  - astarion is a school-gate dilf on his first pick-up adventure with you. wc: 1.5k a/n: dadstarion fridays! wooooo! hope you enjoy - love, dal x

“Come on. We’ll be late.”

Your hand meets his with a toothy grin.

Astarion teeters a little.

He knows vaguely where the building is - he’s sure he’s passed it on one of his late night jaunts - but you’re coming along too. 

He knows he’s prepared for this moment, down to the most minute detail. 

Weeks spent designing the overcoat now covering his clothes - almost feltish in texture, a deep blue with gentle golden threading. Brass buttons. The smallest red ribbon detailing in the seams. The fit is immaculate, despite the fact he had to take his own measurements. The gloves match beautifully, just as he’d intended.

Shoes polished within an inch of their lives. Shirt and trousers pressed to perfection. Hair neatly coiffed with assistance from your gentle hands.

He grimaces.

“She’s going to think I’m weird.”

“Is this for her, or you?’

He takes a moment. Examines both sides of his glove with a flex. Sniffs pointedly. 

‘She’s not going to think you’re any weirder than she already does. She’s your little freak.” You grab at his sides playfully and he shimmies around your clutches, breaking into a timid laugh. 

The dark skies of Deepwinter are primed to allow Astarion his first ever school pick-up. 

He hasn’t slept, you know that. Bag in hand holding the gift he’d spent the short day hidden away working on. Your matching scarves around your necks. The biting chill beyond the threshold of your hearth.  

Eyes round in a contemplative lax as his hand rests atop the door handle. 

“I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”

Your eyes roll fondly into your skull.

“Yes. Now, get moving.” 

It takes you enclosing your hand in his for the door to open, immediately facing a brutal fracas of ice-cold winds lapping at your face. 

“How in any realm is a child expected to walk home in this? Ridiculous!” He shuffles from foot to foot as he chunters while you lock the door and pocket the key, looking up to the stars.

“With a coat. And gloves. And…’

You point to the bag in his hand as you interlink your arms.

‘A scarf.’

Astarion gives a small smile, pressing a chaste kiss to your head.

‘Come on, now. We might get there in time to see her out the door.”

-

The walk there isn’t the leisurely gander Astarion had dreamt of when he’d thought of this moment. 

In his head it was always late summer. Sunblushed.

And yet as you turn your head to him in your giddy half-canter; cheeks flush and breath clouding the space around your perfect head, he can’t believe he ever imagined it any other way.

The stars overhead are familiar as they always have been. The slightest slippy tread of frost on the cobble. Windows around you lit with candles and the loud taverns you pass en-route seem well hunkered-down.

He finds himself pulling you closer with each corner turned, stumbling to keep with your gait.

And then, there it is.

A huddle of parents waiting out in the cold, hands rubbing together; a low hum of chatter. School gates still closed. When you greet some of them with familiarity - one or two even getting a hug as you make your way to your preferred circle - and introduce him as your husband, his heart swells. 

He didn’t realise you were friends with these people. That these fellow parents could be people to have anything in common with in the first place. Astarion is hardly the enigma he used to be within the city walls and they know of him. They know you’re with him.

But none have ever seen him in the flesh.

There’s a minute where he ponders what they think of him. How you’d described him, how they may have looked at your daughter under the orange gloaming light of Leaffall and wondered which features of hers came first from him as opposed to you. How they’d pieced him together in their minds.

He feels a little out of place as you chatter - hyper aware of each stolen glance in his direction. The whites of new eyes flickering in the darkness. 

It isn’t often he meets new people anymore. Even his client roster is exclusive. 

“Why would I tell you how good-looking he is when he isn’t even here to hear it?”

He tunes back in. They all look, you included.

“Hm?”

“Marta-’ 

A faux accusatory glance on your face as you look over to the human who - Astarion presumes - is Marta. 

‘Asked why I hadn’t told the group just how attractive you are.”

The way the most blinding smile breaks over your ruddied cheeks. He melts behind a scoff.

“Actually darling, Marta has a point. I’m hurt, frankly.”

Gods. They’re all laughing. Your gaggle of school-gate friends and he has them laughing.

“No, it’s just dark. See him by light. Then you’ll change your minds.”

You huddle closer despite the brazen lie and the group laughs away. He throws in a small chuckle for good measure and presses a kiss to your head once more.

They’re all relatively harmless, he decides.

What do school gate friends do? Why have you never invited them over for wine or something? 

“I mean - Astarion, what do you think?”

“Hm?”

“They’re showing a rather keen interest to come over one evening for dinner. Inconspicuous, I’m sure.” 

He looks around warily. Can they read his mind? Is someone here a weird school gate mind reader freak? What the fuck?

Your eyes narrow at Marta in jest.

Oh.

If you’re even showing the slightest hint at wanting the doting husband, the doting husband he will give you. Freely and willingly. Far too easily. Naturally.

“Oh! Whatever you want, my love. Anything.”

Astarion takes your head in his hands and brings you close for a warm kiss, eyes softening as he holds you in place. A gentle smile against the harsh wind.  

“What’s in the bag?” Another asks in a jarring fettle. Your head whips round. He answers softly. 

“I- I made the little one a scarf.” 

A coo arises from those huddled around the two of you. 

“He’s a tailor. A good one, too. Really good.” 

You nod with a smile, looking at him. You’re mid-cycle and the idea of your daughter spotting him with those big eyes makes you a bit weak.

A saccharine voice from somewhere in the mix - “He’s immaculate, honey. I’m a little jealous?” 

If he can blush, Astarion feels one coming on. This feels staged. 

“He can’t take his shoes off without kicking them up the wall. Or catch spiders.”

-

As you resume your quiet chatter amongst the group, Astarion catches the door open in the near distance and a soft amber glow pouring from it from the corner of his eye.

It’s a trance. He looks over the heads obscuring his view, the tips of his toes touching the ends of his pristine shoes. 

And there she is.

Absolutely perfect. Small, searching the crowd for the parent she knows will be here.

Then she sees him.

It’s not difficult from afar, even in the dark - she recognises the shock of white hair anywhere - and the look of sheer confusion painted on her face shifts to unfettered joy in seconds.

Gods. She’s running. Tiny legs, bag flailing in her hand. Shouting-

“DADDY!”

As she hurtles towards him, he realises he’s never seen her run like this. She can’t run like this in the house. It’d be enough to make him sad if he weren’t so wholly elated.

He crouches just in time for her to barrel into his open arms.

The way he cups the back of her head is as if he hasn’t seen her in years, spinning her as he stands and holds her at his hip. She’s babbling something wicked and all of it sounds like utter nonsense and he’s so besotted it doesn’t even matter.

His little girl, out in the world. Being a person. 

And it’s him that she chooses to run to. 

“Charming! Hello love!” You shuffle closer and plant a large kiss on the back of her head, taking the bags from her hand and hoisting them up over your back in a routine twirl.

You take Astarion’s hint of a glance toward his bag and roll your eyes fondly, feeling for the scarf and slipping it back into his hand.

“My little darling! Hello! I have something for you - close your eyes.”

He haphazardly wraps the scarf around her neck with one hand as she bristles against his hip, wiggling her shoulders in some impromptu happy dance.

“Look now! You match us!” He exclaims. 

She opens her eyes and squeals with glee you haven’t seen at the school gate before, ever.

And true to his word, the scarf wholly matches both of yours. Embroidered with small golden stars on navy fabric. Her name in some immaculate loopy hand. Far too big for her at present, but warm on this coldest of evenings.

“I love it daddy. I want another one.” She nods acutely and smatters his face in small kisses. 

As you look to Astarion, he raises both brows in amusement at her request. She tucks her head in under his chin.

“Come along now. Let’s get you warm by the fire.”

✦

[verbenaa]

You’ve always loved the settee that Astarion keeps in his shop, the dark green velvet worn soft from the countless hours you’ve spent lounging upon it, favorite book in hand as you recline.

It had quickly become a part of the routine that you now cherish—you, languishing with a cup of tea or goblet of wine as you watch Astarion work diligently, his fingers nimble as he stitches and embroiders to his heart’s content.

But your favorite thing about the little settee were the moments exactly like this one: when Astarion sets down his needle and thread, garment carefully draped over a mannequin before sauntering over to you, taking whatever it is you hold in your hand and setting it carefully on the windowsill behind you as the curtains flutters in the soft nighttime breeze.

“You’ve been very patient, darling,” His words tumble out low, dulcet, as he kneels down next to the indent of your waist, hovering above you. “Why, I can’t quite believe that I haven’t heard a single peep from you yet.”

The scent of him—an ever familiar cologne of rosemary and bergamot fills the air around you as you turn innocent eyes to glance up at him, eager to play coy.

“Maybe I know the value of what a little patience will get me.” 

Astarion swings a leg across your body, straddling your indolent form as you flutter your lashes and your arms lift to wrap around his neck, newly freed fingers running through the snowy curls resting there at his nape as he leans forward.

Astarion’s own fingers, the very same clever ones that you always admire, dance at the hem of your dress before trailing it upwards over the soft skin of your legs, fingertips teasingly brushing over each inch of skin the soft linen bares.

“And what, exactly, do you think it will get you?"

[redlittlefoxari]

Astarion Epilogue Ultimate master list

Prequel Under the Sun Again Master list

Summary: Tav and Astarion set out on adventures all across Faerûn. One-shot format that encompasses the span of 50 years after the event of the game.

*In the style of one-shots that highlight some adventures*

Warnings: NSFW 18+, blood, violence, character harm, mentions of SA, smut, trauma bonding, graphic depictions of violence.

An Adventure in Making Life (Complete)

Summary: Tav and Astarion set out on a new adventure when they find out that vampires can get mortals pregnant. Takes place 50 years after the events of the game.

*The one that started it all written in second person*

Warnings: NSFW 18+, blood, violence, character harm, mentions of SA, smut, trauma bonding, graphic depictions of violence, pregnancy, birthing scene.

Sequal: To the Ends of Faerûn

Summary: So much has changed since then Astarion changed careers and is now a tailor while Tav runs the counter. While their daughter attends Gale’s School of Wizardry. That's right their daughter. Everything is going smoothly until something dark threatens to destroy all of Faerûn and it's up to Astarion, Tav, and their Daughter to stop it from happening.

Warnings: NSFW 18+, blood, violence, character harm, mentions of SA, smut, trauma bonding, graphic depictions of violence, threats of harm to children.

[theyoutubedork]

just a small little tailor! Astarion x bounty hunter!reader I’ve been working on lately, let me know what you think, do you want the rest?

“That I can believe,” you chuckle, turning your head to look at the coat. “I love the color you chose. A little on the nose though, don’t you think?” You look back to meet his gaze, and are surprised to find him already looking at you, a dangerous smirk on his lips.

“Have I ever been the kind to practice subtlety?” his voice lowers to low timbre, “and last I recall, you liked me in red, darling.” His words makes you bristle, your shoulders straightening, cheeks flushed. You remember the exact moment you told him that. It was when he woke you in the middle of the night, pleading eyes asking for your blood.

You had stared at him for what felt like a decade, weighing your options. When he bit his bottom lip in such a tantalizing, hungry manner, you had felt your blood rush to your ears.

“O-okay, I suppose a small taste is fine..” your finally reply, your signature scowl falling into a pout. Astarion noticed this and finally let go of the door flap of your tent. He sauntered over, towering over you and brushed your cheek with his deft fingers. You shiver when his cold skin makes your skin prickle with anticipation.

“Relax dear, I want you to be comfortable,” he whispered lowly into your ear, and you heard him inhale your scent deeply, and couldn’t help the shuddered gasp that you let out. His hand moves to your jaw, craning your neck to the side, as he takes a deep breath in before grazing his teeth over your skin.

“Oh you smell divine..” He mutters more to himself.

“Star-“ the nickname falls from your lips but interrupted by the sensation of his gleaming fangs piercing your soft flesh and you let out a small gasp.

[poetsiren]

Omg..... Next installment, PLEASE!

What Once Was

Pic credit: iiven

Astarion x gn!reader/ gn!Tav

Summary: Astarion and you decided it was best to remain friends, following the fall of the Absolute, Astarion finds he is regretting letting you go.

Warnings: Angst, Angst with a happy ending, Astarion being bad with communication, Astarion is bad with feelings

Word Count: 1.8k

Masterlist

"Astarion," Tav whispers, their breath warm against his ear as their fingers trail down his forearm, nails lightly scraping the surface. Hesitantly, they intertwine their hand with his. Their warm doe eye pierces straight into his, and he feels vulnerable under the intense stare. "I care about you, but maybe what you need right now is a friend, not a lover."

Astarion freezes his body still as a marble statue. Inside, his mind is a storm of confusion. Emotions he barely remembers flood him, swirling in a chaotic whirl that leaves a sharp ache in his chest. He gripped Tav's hands as if they alone were the sole thing keeping him bound to the material plane. Maybe in that moment, they were.

A friend?

When was the last time Astarion had a genuine friend? He doesn't know, but somehow, the word seems too mundane to describe the beautiful person in front of him. Tav, the first creature in 200 years of agony, showed him kindness and love, showing him that he was more than the mindless puppet Cazador molded him to be.

The topic was too heavy to unpack fully at that moment. Astarion had just tasted freedom. He was free of that monster and was learning what it meant to live again. He was too confused and broken to figure everything out, and so what more could he have said?

"I-I would like that."

***

A thunderous round of knocks pounds against the front door, jolting Astarion from his novel; he exhales a long, heavy sigh, flipping the page as he sinks deeper into his armchair. The crackling fire provides a once comforting backdrop, now barely audible over the persistent knocking. He tries to ignore it, his eyes skimming the lines without truly reading. But it's becoming harder by the second.

"Astarion!" Your voice is slightly muffled from behind the door. "Are you seriously going to leave me out here in the cold?"

"Where's the key I gave you?" Astarion calls out; his voice tinged with irritation. He remains firmly in his chair.

You're quiet for a moment. "I may have lost it, b-but it's not my fault, I swear!"

Astarion clicks his tongue, tossing the novel onto the side table, and moves to the door. "If only the history books knew the real hero of Baldur's Gate instead of their exaggerated grandeur." Unlatching the bolt, Astarion swings open the door with a smirk. You stand impatiently on his doorstep, arms crossed over something, lips puffed out in a pout. "If the world knew the real you, I doubt you'd have many admirers singing your praises."

You push past him, pressing a warm jar into his chest as you go. "You're just jealous I'm famous and adored. Now stop being mean to the only friend who puts up with you, you grump."

Astarion's heart clenches as he stares at the jar of blood in his hands. He watches absently as you flit around the room, tidying up the minimal mess he's accumulated since your last visit.

Friend.

The word stings like sunlight on his skin. A rock settles deep in his stomach at the reminder.

Astarion has many regrets, but letting you slip through his fingers is the one that haunts him most. If he could go back, he would pull you into his arms and never let go. He would whisper how much he loves you and beg for time because he can't imagine facing the darkness without his light.

But it is too late for that because how do you ask someone as bright and full of life as you to return to someone as broken and doomed to the shadows as him? Astarion has to settle for the barest comfort your friendship can offer him despite the pain that comes with it.

"Hey, Star, could you sew this button back on after your meal?"

Your melodic voice pulls Astarion back. He turns and heads to the kitchen, where you are already seated. It's only then that Astarion truly takes in your appearance.

Gods, you're beautiful. You're wearing clothes that perfectly accentuate your body, stirring a sense of longing in Astarion. You're even wearing the delicately embroidered scarf he hand-crafted for you last winter. Why did he let you go?

Astarion swallows hard and retrieves a chalice from the cabinet. "Of course, my dear."

"Thank you! I can't believe I popped a button."

Astarion pours the blood into a glass, watching the deep red liquid swirl as if it's the most captivating sight. His eyes flicker up briefly before darting back down. He asks carefully, unsure if he wants to hear the answer.

"What's the occasion?"

You drop your chin, a bashful smile tugging at your lips. You fiddle with the fallen button, spinning it on the table before slapping your hand over it and repeating the action.

Astarion takes a sip and waits. The sweetness of your blood coats his tongue, and he savors the mouthful. It's nothing compared to drinking from the source, but you felt it was best to do it this way. You said the prior act felt too intimate for two friends and blurred too many lines, and Astarion felt he had no place to voice opposition.

He takes another quick mouthful, knowing he only has so much time to savor the blood before it congeals into an unpalatable gel.

"I-I have a date."

Astarion chokes on the blood, pulling the glass from his lips as a fit of violent coughs overtakes him. An unsettling feeling churns in his stomach, making him feel like vomiting, but it's not from the burning in his throat.

"Is it really that surprising that someone would ask me out?" You scoff, taking Astarion's coughing as an act of humor rather than the painful surprise he's currently feeling.

"No-" Astarion wheezes through another round of coughs. "That's not-"

You come over and smack his back harshly. Astarion's unsure if it's to help him or express your anger, but the pounding against his back seems to finish his fit.

"I thought vampires couldn't choke," you mumble under your breath. He can hear the annoyance drip from each syllable.

"I am quite the unique spawn, it would seem." Astarion wheezes, slumping into the chair you were previously sitting in. You opt to lean against the counter away from him. "So… who is the special lady or gentleman who has captured the hero's attention?"

Astarion cringes at the hollowness in his voice. He doesn't care to hear the answer, and it's obvious. He doesn't care to hear you gush about whoever has captured your heart and will whisk you away tonight, ripping the last sliver of you he has left.

"Don't pretend to care." You glare, a scowl stealing away your beautiful smile.

"It's rather uncouth to assume your best friend does not care, my sweet," Astarion lies, hurting for all the wrong reasons, but you don't need to know that. "Now, are you avoiding the question because you're afraid I won't approve?"

"No," you respond, not meeting his eyes, opting to fiddle with the button again.

"Then out with it."

"Do you remember the bard?" Your smile says all he needs to hear. Your voice fades to the white noise of his mind.

Astarion feels like he's dying all over again. The damn bard, the suave casanova with a voice as alluring as his smile. 

The two of you, Shadowheart and Gale, met at an old, bustling Tavern earlier in the month. Astarion had wished to stay home, but you all dragged him out of his house.

It wasn't a terrible evening; the wine was decent, and despite his best efforts, he enjoyed hearing what Shadowheart and Gale were up to. Astarion was having a good night. At least until the bard sauntered over with his brightly colored ensemble and his dashing smile, asking you for a dance. Astarion had hoped you would decline, but you bashfully accepted his outstretched hand and let the bard whisk you away.

For the remainder of the night, Astarion watched glumly as the bard swung you around the dance floor. He watched you giggle as you spun, dipped, and turned into his sturdy arms. He watched as you fell for his charms. Astarion felt what was left of his heart, the sole piece that belonged to you, crumble into powder. Because there you were, happy with a man who was everything he could never be. A man you deserved. A man with as much light and life as you.

Astarion left early, not wanting to see the love of his life slip further away, missing the crestfallen look that dawned on your lips the moment you saw Astarion slip out the back.

"Astarion?"

Your voice brings him back. And suddenly, Astarion realizes he can't let you go. He will lose you forever if you leave his home tonight; Astarion cannot live with that. He cannot live without you by his side. He cannot live without your smile, your laugh, and your touch, everything. 

Astarion wants to be selfish and keep his light, even if that means dooming you to the dark.

"Don't go," he chokes out, voice cracking. Astarion is out of his chair and stumbling to your side before he can tell his legs to move. He's cradling your hands, his eyes pleading for you to understand the gravity of those two simple words.

"What? Why?" You balk, stepping back.

Astarion matches your step. "I think you know why, Tav," he says, his voice firm this time. He cups your face with his palm, and you inhale shaky, seeming to freeze under his touch.

"Astarion,"

"Stay," he pleads, stroking his thumb over your cheekbone, eyes burning with desperation and hope.

"Astarion," you say softly, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes. "Why now?"

His heart breaks, feeling tears burn in his eyes, knowing he might lose you forever. "Because I can no longer pretend to be happy with just being your friend."

Astarion crashes his lips to yours before you can respond, pouring his desperation and passion into the kiss. You gasp, clutching onto his shirt in surprise before meeting his kiss with equal enthusiasm. He swears he can see stars and feel warmth deep in his chest. When he pulls away, he's panting, his eyes searching yours.

 "I love you," he confesses. "Gods, I love you, Tav. I should have never let you go."

"Astarion, I-"

Astarion pulls you close, wrapping you in a tight hug. "Please, Tav," he whispers, his voice thick with tears. "Just stay."

"I'm not leaving," you assure, nuzzling in his hold. "I-I love you too. I've always loved you, you know that. But after everything, can we just...can you-" You pause, struggling to find the right words, torn between past traumas and new beginnings.

"I don't know," Astarion admits, "But I've never been more certain about anything than I am about you. The rest, we'll figure out." 

And with no other words needing to be said, you held Astarion tighter, and he swore he would never let you go again.

This was heavily inspired by the fact I'm replaying bg3 (again) and romancing Wyll and went the friend route with Astarion. It was painful but I survived...mostly. Anyway, feedback always makes my day so let me know what you thought 🥰

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[devnmon]

elegant and erotic

astarion x fem!reader

Summary: You ask Astarion for help putting on a dress, but he has another idea brewing when you're alone with him.

warnings: quickie, cumming inside, piv sex, dirty talk

word count: 1.8k

a/n: drops this. runs away to my final exam study session. i came up with this idea (a while ago) and it's rotted my brain so much that it's now a quickie fic. enjoy xx

-

Stupid. Godsdamned. Dress. 

How in the hells did you get this on at the shop? 

You were already sweating from the layers of makeup painted on in the early morning. Now you couldn’t figure out which strap went where and how you were going to be comfortable in it all night long. 

Stood in a cluttered bathroom, you hadn’t even wanted to put the dress on your body yet. Whose idea was this perplexing design?

With it still left on the hanger, you padded over to the door and cracked it open an inch, your eyes darting around to the individuals that were still in the room. Mostly everyone was tending to themselves, except for one who wasn’t, in the corner of the room, checking his nails. 

Astarion. 

Your gaze dropped to the floor. Maybe you should just figure out how to put the dress on by yourself rather than bother the silver haired elf. Who you’ve been attracted to since you could remember. Called you darling and never left a bruise when he fed from you.

Risk putting it on wrong? Ripping a hole in it? Shit. No. His fine tailoring… 

No, you’d just have to suffer through the way he made you feel for his help. 

“Psst. Astarion. Astarion!” 

His elven ears twitched at your call, attention immediately catching you peeking out from behind the bathroom door. 

“Yes, darling? Something wrong with your dress?” 

You almost melted hearing it again.

“Yes- Well- no, nothing’s wrong with it. I just.” You sigh, “I’m having a hard time getting it on. Could you help me?” 

Astarion’s mouth ran dry.

Help you into your outfit? Touch you? 

He’d be hard pressed to refuse you anything. 

“Of course, dear. How could I say no?” 

Would he really be the first one to see you in the finished product he put every inch of his skill into? 

Gods, he felt so honored. 

Reluctantly you stepped backwards, opening the door for him to enter, and he slipped into the room faster than light. You were still in just your undergarments, standing awkwardly by the sink. 

All of his strength was dedicated to not letting his eyes wander on how your breasts sit so perfectly in the brassiere, and your waist, ugh, your curves. As if the gods made you with every intention of ruining him. 

Astarion clears his throat and walks over to where your dress hangs over by the wardrobe. He stops for a moment, admiring the perfectly tailored dress that was made to fit your body specifically. 

What a piece, he thought to himself. If he’d have known you were the recipient of such a garment, he would’ve taken more care with his stitching and made sure it was easy for you to put on. Although… he’s not completely upset about it. You’ve got him in an isolated room asking for his help putting your dress on. There was nothing more perfect than that. 

He unzipped the material and turned back to you. 

“Here, darling. Step into it. Much easier than trying to fit it over your head.” 

That name. The one he called you on many an occasion. It was your favorite, but he needn't know. 

One of your hands grasped his shoulder, stepping into the garment carefully. You almost stumble into him, but quickly catch your balance. Shame you didn’t, it would’ve been another excuse to have his hands on you. 

Astarion can’t ever forget the moments he’s flirted with you here and there, ever so lightly as to leave room for you to make a move if you so chose. But after this morning of getting ready had passed, he probably wouldn’t get the chance to ever see you in this dress again. 

Situated around your waist now, he greedily runs his fingertips down your back, his cool skin a stark difference to the heat field bathroom. You tried and failed to hide the shudder that ran up your spine, letting a smirk grow across his lips. 

Astarion’s fingers slipped around your waist, dragging upward as he did the zipper. 

“You know, you look most ravenous in this dress. A shame I won’t get to see you in it again after today.”

His compliment threw you off guard, especially when he used that sultry tone. 

“Truly a shame,” he started again, “I’m planning on etching this vision before me into my mind for a later time.” 

Astarion’s nose brushed against the side of your ear, taking a long inhale of your scent. With the way he exhaled, it was most satisfying to his senses. Your eyes met in the mirror, before you pulled yours away, afraid you’d blush and blow your cover. But little to your knowledge, it had already been gone. 

You turned around to face him, knowing smirk already plastered on his face. Those red eyes darted downwards and then back up to your face before licking his lips. 

His hand snaked around your waist again, pulling you flush against his body with nowhere to go but closer to him. 

“Astarion… what’re you doing?” 

“Don’t act like I can’t smell the lust in your body growing every second we’re in here together. And we both know you didn’t invite me in here just to help you dress, darling.” 

There’s that name again. Bringing a blush to your cheeks. 

This was it. You were already putty in his hands. Time to make a move. 

“It would be most devious to get up to anything right now. but… you’ll be so busy later, I'm not sure if you’ll even see me in the crowd of men wanting to dance with you.” 

“Oh, shut up, Astarion.” 

You gripped the collar of his ruffled shirt and closed your lips around his. Just as you thought, sweet like rosemary, the same way he always smelled. The way he kissed, with a hunger but still tenderly, was something you fantasized about as well. 

Gods, he was good at it. 

His other hand gripped your side as well, spinning you around so his behind pressed against the side of the sink. Pulling you in again, one of his hands traveling down past your behind to hike your thigh up onto his body. 

“I’ve been thinking about this- you- for ages…” You speak, pulling away from his mouth for a moment. 

“The way you look right now… makes me want to wreck you. Smudge your makeup and mark your pretty skin up with my teeth.” The vampire said in reply, pushing the length of fabric up your leg, revealing your supple, soft skin. “Wondering ceaselessly what it feels like…to be inside you…” 

His proximity along with those words had you clenching around the hot air between your bodies. 

“Feel this?” He took your hand, placing it upon the outline of his hardened cock. “It’s just for you.” 

“I want you… to fuck me… here… right now…” you panted. 

Astarion’s palm ran up your sides, grasping at the supple flesh of your breasts. It was easy to slip the other between your legs, finding you completely soaked already. 

“Since when did you become so naughty?” 

“You just do it to me…” 

“And all ready to take me… seems you’ve been thinking about this a lot, haven’t you?” 

When you nodded, he said nothing else, reaching for his belt buckle and undoing it with haste. He was already hard as it seemed, the moment he saw you in his dress. Along with how badly he wanted to see it on the floor. But fucking you in it? He’d be fine with that, too. 

His cock sprung up, already hardened and eager to find solace inside your walls. You knew he was just as eager when you felt his tip at your entrance, sliding through your slick folds and over your clit to tease. 

“Astarion.. Before we… you can’t make a mess of me like this…” 

“Guess I’ll have to come inside then…” Astarion smirked, pushing inside torturously slow. 

The delicious feeling of him splitting you open was followed by a louder than desired sound exiting your lips. The elf knew this would happen, placing his hand over your mouth and lowering his voice as he bottomed out inside you. 

“Shh, my love. We wouldn’t want everyone to hear what we’re getting up to in here, now would we?” 

You shook your head in reply. 

“Good girl.” 

He’s lucky his hand is there to muffle the pathetic way you moaned from his praise. 

When he slides back out, angling himself differently and pressing back into you, he kisses the sweet spot inside you like a cherub with an arrow. His thrusts start slow, letting you adjust to him, then picks up speed with your leg around his waist. 

Astarion’s grunting is in time with each drag of his cock along your walls, already sending you into a blissed out state. You’re bouncing on his cock, and you can’t even register it in your mind yet. How did you get here again? Something something help with your dress? Your mind closes off to any other thought than the pretty elf. All you desire now is to ride him till you see stars. 

No doubt in your mind Astarion’s hips are talented with the sparks shooting through you at every next thrust. 

“You’re… so… beautiful… fuck… love seeing you absolutely ruined in something so perfectly crafted.” 

You move his hand out of the way to whisper, “Wouldn’t want anyone else to make dresses for me… you have every measurement of my body…” 

The quick slapping of skin turns feral in a flash when he reaches down to toy with your sensitive clit, triggering your walls to clench around him and spur him on even further. 

“Mmh…” you muffle your moans as best you could before uttering, “I’m going to… Ah- I’m–” 

It only takes one more flick of his thumb over your clit and you’re toppling over the edge, encouraging him to do so as well with every rhythmic pulse over his length. 

“Ah.. ah… Darling, I’m coming…” 

His cock presses fully into you, noticing it twitch with release as his warm cum fills you to the brim. With no time for pleasantries, he pulls out, knowing you’d be keeping him inside you all day, whether physically or not. He kisses you again, moving a lock of hair out of your face and then placing one on your cheek before carefully smoothing the long tresses of your gown. 

“There. Like nothing even happened.” He admires how you look, even if he wouldn’t get to savor it for long. 

“I’m sure my flushed cheeks will say enough after you walk out of here.” Your gaze doesn’t leave him, heart still pounding in your chest as he tidies himself up. Grabbing a bottle of hairspray, he does one quick layer on his hair and blots his face and yours with a setting powder. 

“Much better. I’ll let the others know you’re ready.” 

“Wait,” You grab his wrist as he heads for the door, “Astarion… I have a room at the tavern booked for tonight… with a queen bed…”

He turns back, pulling you into a passionate kiss, before replying. 

“Then I'll see your delicious self tonight.”

-

a/n: might write a part two soon to this. teehee

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: You come into some unexpected gold, and decide to treat your companions to a shopping spree. When it comes to this merry band of travelers, however, nothing ever goes smoothly ...

[Astarion x Tav/Reader]

Genres: Romance, humour, fluff, angst.

Warnings: Dirty jokes, Lae'zel's hatred of cardigans.

Dividers by: @saradika-graphics

Taglist: @roguishcat @obsessedwhyyes @fantasyheroine

(If anyone else would like to be added to my BG3 taglist, please drop me a message or let me know in the comments!)

"Listen, all of you. I've got the perfect thing planned."

Watching their expressions with the air of a circus conjurer, you drew a small leather bag from your jerkin. As you shook it, the contents emitted the pleasant chime and clink of something valuable. 

Wyll grinned, one finger tapping his chin.

"If I'm not mistaken, you got lucky with a hunter's stash."

Eyes closed and brow furrowed in concentration as he listened to the sounds from within the bag, Astarion nodded sharply.

"You're not mistaken at all Wyll. My darling has found ... let me see ... two diamonds, one jacinth shard, unpolished ... and a tourmaline ring."

A profound silence reigned after this statement. You snorted in amusement and Gale raised an eyebrow.

"Well. A rogue always has his uses, it seems."

You gave Astarion a bow, which he returned, his wrist circling in a mocking flourish.

"Correct, Astarion. And, since I found this little treasure, I've decided what we're going to do with it."

Lae'zel folded her arms.

"One can never have enough weapons."

Karlach groaned.

"Oh, come off. We've done nothing but arm ourselves to the teeth since the beginning. Let's do something else!"

You nodded, a small smile curving your mouth.

"I'm actually with Karlach on this one. Listen, protecting ourselves is important, and an absolute necessity. But we've picked up some good gear on the way here and it's about time we looked after our morale too."

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"All right, I hear you. What do you have in mind?"

You clapped your hands together and beamed around.

"Clothes shopping. I mean, look at us. Most of what we're wearing is holding on by a thread and prayer and we've never prioritized that on the road here. Plus, there're all the recent battles we've been through, both in the city and out of it. Let's get ourselves a few outfits. Have a bath in a proper tub. Have a nice meal. No harm in that, is there?"

You heard cheers and murmurs of assent all round and nodded in satisfaction. Only Lae'zel still seemed put out by the need for what she termed 'frivolous nonsense'. Wyll patted her shoulder placatingly.

"You'll see what we mean soon enough, Lae'zel. Just join us. You won't regret it. Think of it as ... learning yet another Faerûnian custom."

Once your party had reached the city, you decided to split into groups in order to peruse the variety of clothing stores and boutiques on offer. You set upon the Elfsong Tavern as the place to meet after your shopping had been completed.

Your group consisted of Astarion, Lae'zel and Gale, while Wyll set off in the opposite direction with Shadowheart and Karlach.

Astarion took it upon himself to guide you, considering his familiarity with the surrounds.

"Oh, there's much less variety than what's on offer in the Upper City, darling, but there are a few good spots that not many people know about. There are merchants that import fine fabrics, and not everyone is aware of this, but they also employ skilled tailors who will make you a custom fit on request."

Gale looked impressed.

"You certainly know a lot about this, Astarion."

His compliment was waved off airily.

"Of course. I do know a thing or two about fashion."

You examined Astarion carefully as he said the words. There was something more here, some bitter undercurrent to the way he spoke. You knew him well enough by now to recognise when he was hiding an emotion dredged up by unpleasant memories.

You decided not to question him on it immediately. There was a time and place for everything.

Lae'zel was still looking decidedly unenthusiastic. As you meandered through the streets, she clicked her tongue and suddenly entered a shop on the left.

You paused before shrugging and entering behind her. It was a clothing store after all, one of the kind that sold rougher cuts for hard travel and the road.

Wandering amongst the wares on display in wicker baskets, you recognised a lot of familiar items, the colours perfect for camouflage, the homespun fabrics, the sturdy boots. Astarion turned his nose up at the selection, but this didn't deter Lae'zel.

She walked through the store in a straight line, picking up a shirt, trousers, underwear and boots and returned to you, a satisfied expression on her face.

"See? Shopping doesn't have to be an affair for the day. I've already picked out what I need. Now you do the same and we can go and find something far more worthy to spend our money on."

You shot a pleading glance at Gale and Astarion, both of whom rose admirably to the occasion.

Astarion came forward slowly, eyeing the clothes in Lae'zel's hand with a critical eye.

"Hmm. Hmm. I suppose ... no. Not at all. Not really. How ... disappointing."

"What do you mean?" she snapped, "What's disappointing?"

He bit his lip, shaking his head.

"It's just ... during all of our travels together, I actually have come to admire the kind of warrior you are, Lae'zel. You're certainly the fiercest I've known, and that's saying something. So ... and it pains me to say this, but ... this choice just isn't ... you."

Gale nodded in agreement, raising one finger as he explained himself.

"To put it in plain terms, a powerful githyanki like yourself should be dressed in colours and fabrics that exude ... intimidation. Power. Flair. These ... dusty road clothes don't quite cut it."

You glanced over at Lae'zel whose brow was now furrowed deeply, considering the items she'd chosen. She set them down and folded her arms.

"And I suppose you lot know what would suit a warrior like me?"

In spite of her challenging tone, you let out a breath of relief. This was Lae'zel's manner of giving in, somewhat, her way of showing her trust in the knowledge and abilities of her companions.

Astarion perked up and grinned.

"Oh trust me on this, Lae'zel. By the end of today, you'll be looking truly fearsome."

"Then lead on."

Across town, Wyll was facing a few challenges of his own. Shadowheart turned out to be exceptionally picky about what she spent her money on, and the higher the quality, the more her judgment of all of its minute flaws came to the fore.

Karlach, on the other hand, was so easily distracted by things other than clothing that they'd had to stay her hand away from her purse on more than one occasion when she saw a trinket or gadget that caught her eye.

Mind racing, Wyll finally hit upon a solution to the issue at hand, deciding to visit a store he knew of that catered to both their needs.

There was a certain company he knew that stocked both exclusive items for theatre actors, jewellry, props and hand-carved items of all kinds. He led them to the front door of the establishment and shot the two ladies a smile.

"So, this is a place I've known about for a while. Came here with my father a few times when we had costume parties and he wanted me to wear something unique."

When they entered, Karlach looked around in delight.

"Oh, Wyll! This is perfect! Look at all of these hats and horn ornaments! I can't believe how hard it is to find anything horn-related in this place."

Shadowheart, meanwhile, had hurried over to a selection of dark plum, cobalt and emerald-dyed dresses, eyeing them with ill-concealed longing. Wyll raised an eyebrow.

All Shadowheart's clothing choices thus far had been singularly streamlined and fitted to her form for ease in battle. He hadn't put her down for someone who preferred frills and flounces.

Clearing his throat, he approached and gestured to the dresses.

"Care to try them on? I'll ask the proprietor to - "

She backed off, hands raised almost defensively.

"Oh, no, not at all. I was just ... looking."

Wyll pulled one of the dresses, a deep violet silk, from the rack and held it up against her.

"Well now. That colour looks simply splendid on you, Shadowheart. We can't have you leaving here without trying it out."

Karlach bounded over, a red leather pointed hat sitting perfectly over her horns.

"Oooh, smashing! You've got to take that!"

Shadowheart's mouth opened and closed a few times as she uttered some faint protests, but was soon convinced to choose some dresses and make her way to the changing screens.

Wyll gestured to Karlach's outfit.

"And what'll it be for you, milady?"

She giggled and cleared her throat, adopting a coquettish pose. 

"Well, aren't you a right charmer? What do you recommend for my strapping frame, good saer?"

Wyll held up his hands excitedly.

"So, when I was young, there was this stage actor, Lady Zenith, who took the city by storm. She played a pirate queen and I saw some of her appearances. Just fantastic. A lot of costume stores still sell clothes inspired by some of her looks, and I'm sure this place does too. I think they'll suit you perfectly."

Karlach's eyes were now gleaming in anticipation.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Show me the goods, man!"

This time, you'd taken Astarion's reccomendation into account and followed him to a different store, closer to the Upper City, that specialised in outfits for adventurers and mercenaries who were looking to make an impression at events and parties.

Lae'zel now seemed far more invested, and you also grew excited as you saw the array of clothing that shouted of wealth earned the rough and violent way.

Embroidered jerkins, leather braces and belts, embossed hats and smart trousers adorned the shelves, along with dress swords and scabbards, ruffled blouses, trimmed boots and fur cloaks.

You tugged Lae'zel through the store, and you could practically see the appeal of this activity open up in golden avenues before her eyes as you held up dashing outfits in blood red, dark green and black against her.

You handed her a few items to try on before finding a jewel-toned blouse, comfortable padded trousers and boots for yourself. Finally detaching yourself from the siren's call of colours and fabrics, you noticed that Gale was no longer in the store.

"Where'd he go?"

Astarion gestured vaguely somewhere in the region of the shop across the street.

"Said he saw something he liked over there."

Crimson eyes were flicking perceptively over your clothing choices. Hesitantly, you held them up for his inspection.

"Do they look nice?"

"They look wonderful, darling. Hold on."

He reached over your shoulder, thoroughly distracting you with the way his breath fanned across your collarbones and plucked something from a shelf above your head. He held it against the blouse you had chosen and you spied a delicate broach in gold filigree, a starling with a garnet eye.

"Oh, that's beautiful!" you breathed.

You made to take it from him, but he flipped the piece quickly out of your reach.

"No, sweetheart. This is my gift to you. I've been ... saving up a little too."

Something about those words tightened your throat, the bruised sweetness of a summer fruit, painful as it was poignant.

When you'd first met him, it had been obvious that Astarion had very little to his name. His clothes, in spite of their former grandeur, had been darned and repaired many times over, their gold threadwork faded. His belongings were all mismatched remnants of a time of wealth.

He had scrounged every ounce of gold he'd found in the field, and in battle, hoarding it with almost obsessive desire, the kind that comes from knowing the state of being truly destitute.

And to think that this same man was now offering up his gold to buy you something as frivolous as a piece of jewelry. You knew better than to turn him down. You'd wear his gift, and treasure it well.

You couldn't help notice, however, that Astarion had not picked out any outfits for himself.

"Arent you going to get anything?"

His gaze slid away from yours, traveling around the store as he spoke.

"Oh, I'm holding out for now. I want to find something I really like before committing. You know how it is."

Expression growing hard, you tugged at his sleeve, gaining his attention.

"Listen here, handsome. I didn't get my hands on those diamonds to dress you up in drow armour all over again."

His eyes widened slightly at your tone, fangs sliding into view as he smiled.

"Oh my. Are you annoyed with me, dearest?"

"No, but I will be if you don't pick something. And I don't care if you find something better elsewhere. I'll buy that for you too. And I'll buy anything else that takes your fancy."

"Gods below, it's so enticing when you shower me with adoration like this - "

"Astarion."

He uttered a small laugh, a genuine sound that caused an alarming flutter of uncontrollable tenderness in your chest.

"Well, if you insist. But you've got to help me pick them out. I can't see my own reflection after all."

You cocked your head.

"Is that why you didn't want to choose anything?"

He traced a finger over the laquered wood of the shelving before answering.

"Not quite. You see, when we served under Cazador, he made us dress according to ... his specifications. We could wear nice things, but they were all chosen by him. Owned by him. We had to return them immediately after use. It's ... not easy for me to accept such gifts."

"Oh ... I didn't realise. I'm - "

"Don't apologise."

His tone was sharp, only softened by the warmth of his glance.

"I know you. I know why you're gifting me things. It's the same way I gift you this broach. We do it ... as equals. Partners. Lovers. Nothing more, or less. We do it because we want to."

Wordlessly, you took his hand, bringing his fingers to your lips and holding them there. Astarion tugged your hand towards him, placing a soft reciprocal kiss on your own knuckles.

"Now, are you going to help me choose or not?"

He released you and sauntered away, shooting you his trademark smirk over one shoulder.

"And don't even think about sneaking a look behind the screens while I get changed."

"Wouldn't dream of it. And you're going to lace yourself into those fancy shirts, I suppose?"

"Never fear, darling. I'll be crying out for you just the way you like."

"Shadowheart? Are you all right in there?"

"What? Oh, I'm ... fine."

Karlach and Wyll exchanged glances. Adjusting the red leather hat over her horns (which she seemed rather loathe to part with) Karlach cleared her throat.

"Come on. We want to see you in the dress."

"It's all right. I've tried them all on. I think I ... "

"Shadowheart, I hate to insist, but we really want to see you in those dresses. We can't leave here with nothing."

Wyll's polite, but firm tone seemed to do the trick. The screen parted slightly before Shadowheart took a large stride out, almost tripping over her skirts.

She looked like a goddess descended from a more radiant plane than earth, that was for sure. The gown she wore composed a supple bodice, flowing skirts, fan-like sleeves and a brocade collar, turquoise shot through with pale green embroidery.

Karlach gasped and clapped, while Wyll spread his hands effusively.

"Stunning!"

"Oh hells! Why on earth were you hiding back there?"

Shadowheart's posture had been so stiff, it looked like she was practicing military drills, but under their positive response, she relaxed somewhat. 

"Um. To tell you the truth ... I've always ... been partial to gowns like these, but I think ... I'd been told that they didn't belong on me. On someone like me, I think."

Wyll disappeared briefly behind the screens and re-emerged with the other gowns in hand.

"Well, I think these are well spotted. They'll all look marvelous."

Shadowheart eyed him skeptically.

"That's all well and good, but what about you, Wyll? I haven't seen you try anything on yourself."

Karlach nodded eagerly.

"Oh, go on. You're a fancy man, I reckon. Could do with some ruffles and tight pants."

Wyll snorted.

"I think you've got me mistaken for Astarion."

"Your arse is better."

"Karlach ... never let him hear you say that. And I mean never."

"Lae'zel, I never expected you to be so insightful regarding colour combinations."

"I'm good at most things. This should come as no surprise."

Astarion snapped his fingers.

"Ah, there she is. The Lae'zel we know and love."

Tucking away your own wrapped purchases into your rucksack, you frowned as you glanced out the door.

"We need to find Gale. Where on earth has he wandered off to?"

You followed Lae'zel and Astarion out into the street, examining the shopfronts for any sign of the stray wizard. A little further down the street, Lae'zel stopped so abruptly that you walked nose-first into the hilt of her sword.

"Ouch! What are you - "

"Be silent," she hissed.

Instantly, you were on the alert, hand snaking toward your weapon.

"What is it? Vlaakith's troops?"

"No. Worse."

Astarion drifted closer to your side, eyes scanning the street like a bird of prey.

"Don't keep us in suspense."

"It's Gale. Wearing some kind of ... monstrosity."

Hissing out a sharp breath, you shot her a glare.

"Why on earth would you make me panic like - "

"Shut up and look. It's ... truly horrifying."

Astarion had apparently forgotten his nerves in a second and gleefully sprang up on a low wall behind Lae'zel to get a better look across the crowded street, almost hanging piggyback off her.

"What is it? What could our dearest Gale be up to? Could it be - "

Gale chose that moment to exit the shop he had made his purchase at, a singularly self-satisfied expression on his face. As for what he was wearing ...

You hurriedly schooled your face into warm surprise when he saw you and waved, approaching eagerly.

"Oh, you'll never guess what I found. This used to be all the rage at Waterdeep when I was a lad, especially amongst the scholars."

Astarion deflated, arms draping limply across Lae'zel's shoulders.

"Gods below, don't get my hopes up like that. I thought he was cross-dressing for a minute."

It was a testament to how transfixed the githyanki was by Gale's outfit that she didn't attempt to dislodge Astarion from his perch.

"Gale. What is ... that you have on?"

The item in question resembled a robe, one much shorter that ended just below the waist. It was made from some kind of fluffy material, the colours pleasant enough, but strange to look at. Buttons came all the way up the front and it was clearly made for cooler weather.

Gale gestured to the garment proudly.

"Oh, this is a cardigan. Never see one before, I take it?"

"It's horrid," she blurted out, ignoring the way your eyes bulged and the fact that Astarion had now clapped a hand over his mouth.

Gale, fortunately, had developed something of a thick skin where Lae'zel was concerned. He waved her disgusted look away.

"Oh, come on. Give it a chance. If a whole city once thought it looked good then - "

"That city deserves to be razed to the ground."

He grimaced and turned to you.

"And your verdict?"

You shook your head hurriedly.

"Oh, I don't share her opinion. It looks comfortable and simple. Perfect for a ... wizard."

Astarion cleared his throat and you groaned internally.

"Oh, absolutely, darling. I just ... hope he never wore that around Mystra, because quite frankly, that would explain so much - "

Whirling on your heel you made a cutting motion with your hand. He was presenting an unusually united front with Lae'zel in their hatred of the cardigan.

"What is wrong with you both? He looks ... normal."

Gale sighed and folded his arms. He was getting that stubborn look on his face, the one that probably made the Weave quiver and entertain thoughts along the line of "Here we go again."

"Well, my apologies for offending your senses, but I will be wearing this every day from now on, considering how cold the weather's getting."

Lae'zel grunted as if struck with an arrow.

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, I would."

"I'll destroy it."

"You could try."

Raising your hands, you stepped between them.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves, you lot. Gale, you're perfectly entitled to wear whatever you want - "

"I would certainly think so!"

"And Lae'zel, whatever your reservations, let's try to be civil, yes?"

She folded her arms and looked to be deeply in thought for a minute. Head snapping up, she approached Gale who regarded her warily.

"Wizard. I can't change your mind regarding this ... regrettable choice, but would you humour me on one thing?"

"And what's that?"

"Undo the buttons. It looks ... odd. Like a human in a sausage casing."

"She's right, Gale," chimed in Astarion, "The Weave works so much better when you show it some chest hair."

Gale raised an eyebrow.

"Probably why it never works for you then."

"Ooh, I love it when you get nasty."

The Elfsong Tavern was packed to the brim, the heat of many bodies, the sweet thrum of a lyre and the chatter of a myriad voices spilling into the dark streets. Your party had trekked their way upstairs to the refuge of your private quarters, leaving the door open in a mild concession to socialising.

The occasional patron would sway up the stairs and drink a toast to your good company.

To round off a day well-spent on treating yourselves, you'd ordered up some of the taverns finest ales, wines and dishes, laid out on a long table in the central area. Your companions took some time to bathe and dress themselves in their new finery before meandering over to the small feast.

Wyll looked sleek and elegant in a mahogany and gold coat, dark trousers and embroidered shoes. He lounged on the sofa beside Gale, who stubbornly persisted on donning his cardigan over a comfortable pair of woollen pants.

Studiously avoiding Gale, Lae'zel stood at the head of the table, a roast leg of lamb in one hand, her resplendent green doublet slashed through with blood red, providing an intimidating, if reassuring familiarity.

Karlach was currently downstairs, ordering more drinks from the bar, so you made your way over to Shadowheart and Astarion who were standing together by the hearth. You caught the tail end of their conversation.

"Purple looks a bit ripe on you, darling. Sort of like a plum that's been left in the dark for too long."

"Hmm. I suppose you think that white looks dashing on you. All it does it highlight your pallor."

"I am a vampire. I have to cultivate a certain otherworldly appeal. You on the other hand ... were you going for pauper princess banished from the kingdom?"

"More like assassin princess. A romantic image, you know? I have to wonder at those red highlights on your coat, though. What was the intention there? That you'd dribbled your dinner all over yourself?"

Attempting to hide the way your mouth twitched, you gestured to their clothes.

"I think you both look lovely."

"Oh, my sweet, how kind of you to say that about Shadowheart."

"Indeed. Astarion seems to think he has monopoly over good looks. It's nice to hear him corrected on that front."

Even as she spoke, she reached across and impatiently brushed away a thread from his coat.

"Gods, that was irritating. Now that's better."

Astarion regarded her sourly before clicking his tongue.

"Hold on. Your eyeliner is slightly smudged."

You took a sip of your wine, grinning to yourself as he fussed a little, correcting the stray mark beside her eye.

"There." He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. "Can't quite compete with me, but I suppose pale hair does look good on you."

"Likewise," she sniffed, before shooting you a smile and wandering off to find Karlach.

You finally let out the small laugh you'd been holding prisoner.

"Good to see you two getting along."

He huffed and made a show of adjusting his cuffs.

"I don't know what you're talking about, my sweet. What's that, in your goblet? A quality vintage, I hope?"

You allowed him to pilfer it out of your hand, eyes traveling across to where Lae'zel had now joined Wyll and Gale, stiffly complimenting them on their clothes.

"I think we needed this. A chance to unwind a little. Spoil ourselves."

Astarion drifted closer, fingers grazing the broach you now wore at your collar in place of honour.

"Indeed. You always seem to know ... exactly what we require. Even when we don't know it ourselves."

You turned and met his gaze, noting how the lightness of his tone betrayed the depth of feeling that was reflected there, just beneath the surface.

Regarding him with a tender smile, you extended a hand as the bard downstairs struck up a merry tune.

"Shall we dance?"

He sank into a gallant bow, fangs glinting in the dim light, and took up your offer, arm curling intimately around your waist as he pulled you close.

"Let's show them how it's done."

As you swept across the floor, swaying and dipping with Astarion's light guidance, you saw Wyll leap up and clap his hands, immediately inviting Lae'zel to dance with him.

She scowled and folded her arms, but Gale was always one step ahead.

"Oh, go on, Lae'zel. Weren't you the one who told us you could do just about anything?"

He stood and approached her.

"Of course, you could always dance with me instead. Get a firsthand feel of how soft and fleecy this cardigan is - "

She took a step back, an impressive feat on Gale's part.

"Fine! I'll partake of a ... turn with Wyll. Just this once."

Your dance was brought to an abrupt end when Karlach set the drinks down at the table with a resounding thump and cackled gleefully, wrapping her arms around you, hoisting until you and Astarion were both airborne on either side of her.

"Oh, you two precious things! Thanks for the treat, soldier. Just look at my hat!"

Astarion eyed the red leather dubiously.

"Looks like something right out of a sex dungeon."

"Even better!"

Breathless with laughter as Karlach whirled you around, singing loudly, you tipped the brim of her hat down and placed a kiss on Astarion's cheek, watching the softness build in his eyes, the burnished beauty of the firelight on his gleaming hair.

Seeing them all like this, these companions who'd wormed their way into your heart faster than any mindflayer tadpole, was well worth the battles that had brought you to this point.

You'd see this through, banishing the shadows from their lives one by one until light and merriment pervaded every living moment together.

And damn it all if you didn't look fabulous doing so.

[dragonsfictavern]

In The Wind 

Astarion Ancunin X Reader

a/n: This came to mind specifically because of the scene in 2005 Pride and Prejudice where Bingley is trailing after Jane and touching the ribbon on her dress. So keep that in mind bc it haunts me in the best way

summary: After your tunic gets torn in battle, you and Astarion head to a shop to get materials to get it fixed. Astarion, trapped in thoughts surrounding you, decides to do something to properly show his appreciation

word count: 2k

The day was cool, the breeze blowing through the opened door of the fabric store you and Astarion currently walked through. The others were Gods knew where but Astarion didn’t particularly care where they were. His thoughts were on you. More and more he found that his thoughts always came back to you.

Baldur’s Gate was loud. It has always been loud. Something Astarion remembered specifically. But he found the sound drained out as he stared down at a beautiful ribbon. At first he couldn’t exactly say what about it had caught his attention. What kept it. But upon reflection he noted how it reminded him of your eyes.

Cursing himself under his breath, Astarion threw down the ribbon and glanced away from the pile of fabrics. But just as his eyes lifted from the box, they fell right onto you. You who stood right in the sunlight, whose hair flowed through the wind that passed through the store.

He couldn’t look away from you, once again not really believing that you somehow cared about him. You were so… good. It was honestly almost nauseating. But it was also something he admired about you. It made him want to be better. To be better than what he was before. Most importantly for him. But he couldn’t deny he also wanted to be better for you. To be someone you could be proud to love.

Astarion walked around one of the makeshift aisles of the store. You were busy as you looked over some of the patches of fabric while Astarion was busy as he watched you. He didn’t blame you for not having noticed his stare. You were on a mission after all. Your tunic had been badly torn in your party’s last battle. The tear could easily be mended by you and the enchantments on it could be replaced by Gale if he was going to actually be helpful today.

But Astarion knew you weren’t the most gifted tailor. At least, not better than him. He could do a fine job, he’d been doing it with his own clothing for longer than he’d care to admit. A rare warmth spread through his chest as the idea came to him. When you least expected it, he’d take the fabric from you and fix your tunic before you even noticed it would be missing.

Something in him told him he just had to do this. To show you he cared, at least enough to do something as little at this… and to show you that you weren’t making a mistake as you stuck by him. Astarion closed his eyes as he shook out those unwanted thoughts. Not wanting to think about any of that or what it meant.

When Astarion opened his eyes he’s met with you walking away, a long piece of fabric hanging from your belt. A brief shot of panic ran through Astarion as you walked away, only deeper into the store to pay for fabric. Yet that didn’t shake away the fear. Astarion cleared his throat in order to push down the panic and put it with the rest of his emotions he was ignoring before he headed after you.

He doesn’t say anything, knowing he doesn’t need to. He knows you know he’s there. The wind blew through the store once again and your scent wafted straight into Astarion’s nose. He closed his eyes as he continued to follow you. He relished in the way you smelled. Focused and memorized it, knowing he could pick it out of an entire crowd of people. Aware of the fact that he could find you in an instant if needed. But still he preferred to remain close. Have you stay in his sights.

As he opened his eyes and looked back upon you, his eyes moved down your form. Not stopping until they halt at the fabric on your belt. He hand reached out and lightly fiddled with the end of it that flowed in the air after you. Neither of you have stopped walking, Astarion not thinking as he walked behind you. His attention completely focused on the fabric and the way it hung off of you. On how beautiful it would look on you.

He then noted how soft the fabric was. How easy or difficult it could possibly be to work with. A plan already had formed in his head at how he’d stitch it into your tunic. It would be flawless, just as all his other work had been prior. Just as his thoughts shifted into imagining your reaction, your voice broke him out of it.

“Are you trying to pickpocket me?” You ask softly, not having bothered to check back and glance at him. Astarion blinked back, hand still gripped onto the fabric, though his eyes found their way to the back of your head. Before he realized what he’s done, an easy grin was on his face and a joke had slipped from his lips.

“You, my darling? Never,” Astarion jested, both of them keenly aware of the fact. He gave a little tug on the fabric for good measure and was rewarded with the sweet melody of your laugh. You shook your head as you both turned a corner, seemingly in search of an attendant.

“Oh, don’t give me that. No one is safe,” you teased right back but for some reason Astarion felt his grin drop a little. His brows furrowed as he quickly thought over your response. The word ‘safe’ having run repeatedly in his ear. He wanted you to feel safe. With him. He wanted you to know that you were safe from him. Whatever that meant he didn’t exactly know but it was what he felt. From what he could pin point.

He debated even telling you all this. To have allowed himself to randomly unleash his soul to you in the middle of a random shop in a city that held so many memories for him. But then he started to think about what you’d say in response. How you would react. Emotion begun to rise within him at the idea of admitting any of that to do. So instead he simply continued the light and fun banter.

“Well now I suppose I must for fear that I have something to prove.” Astarion gave another tug to the fabric, though this time a little bit lighter in order to have kept up the playful atmosphere. As your laughter echoed throughout the store due to his actions, all those pesky emotions subsided.

You lightheartedly pranced forward a few steps in a weak attempt to get your fabric out of his reach but Astarion followed right on your tail. Both to stop you from getting away and to stop any other displaced emotions from coming forth from your distance.

“Or you could simply not steal my fabric from my person,” you responded with laughter still in your tone. Astarion tsked as he shook his head at you. He picked up his pace, walking closer to you now. He adjusted his grip on the fabric, getting ready for his next move.

“No, darling, I’m afraid that doesn’t seem to be an option,” he said smoothly before he harshly tugged on the fabric for the third time. It slipped from your belt with ease and curled right around Astarion’s hand. You immediately felt it and a gasp ripped from your throat.

You turned around, finally facing Astarion since you both walked in here. You looked breathtaking. Astarion could marvel at your beauty for hours. At times he’d almost swear it’s greater than his own. Almost. But he especially thought your beauty shined most spectacularly in the sun, and it had hit you just right in this moment.

“Ah, Astarion! Why must you do this?” You asked with a light grin on your face. Astarion mirrored it, holding the piece of fabric slightly above his head as he knew you wouldn’t be able to reach it. That didn’t stop you from trying as you stepped up to him to try and reach for it. Your body pressed against his and instead of feeling like he needed to back away, not wanting to be touched, Astarion found himself leaning into you.

“I believe you practically asked me to do this, love. Begged me to almost as much as you beg for my attention,” he boasted, his expression smug as you continued to try and grab at the fabric. He’d lower it briefly just as you’d reached for it but then quickly bring it back up. You laughed again, shaking your head at him. Astarion didn’t realize until that moment that he had been counting the number of times he had made you laugh. The revelation sent a tremor through his chest that he’d rather just ignore.

“My dear Astarion, I think that tadpole in your mind has finally driven you to insanity,” you said with a light scoff. Astarion’s face dropped into a deadpan at that, though he couldn’t help the quirk of his lips still present.

“Dear me, how humorous you are, darling,” he responded back flatly, though a teasing note was still clear through his tone. His attention zeroed in on you once again as you snickered back at him. Astarion fell deeper into his focus, his ears ringing till he felt a deep pounding surrounding him. He didn’t realize before it was too late that he had focused on your heartbeat. It sounded light. Happy. Because of him.

While he remained distracted, his body sagged in place, not paying attention to his momentary lack of posture. You don’t hesitate to use that to your advantage as with it he had lowered his arm that held the fabric. You reached up, your arm having stretched as far as it could go before you swiped up the fabric right from his grip. A noise of victory left your lips and it effectively alerted Astarion. He blinked back, breaking out of his thoughts. It only took a couple of seconds for him to realize he didn’t have the fabric anymore. He met your smug look with a bit of disbelief as his eyes connected back to yours.

“I try,” you replied playfully to his previous comment as you winked at him. Astarion stood there frozen for a moment before he added another mental tally as you laughed once more. You strode off to barter with the owner as Astarion stood off to the side while he waited for you.

He couldn’t understand how easy this all was for you. How open with yourself you had always been. Especially toward him. He… didn’t know how to do stuff like that. To let you in so easily. But stitching this for you, even without your initial knowledge, that he could do. It was the only way he knew how to express what you meant to him. It was all he was ready to do. For now anyway.

So as you walked past him after you purchased the fabric, Astarion stayed particularly close. As you both entered the hustle and bustle of Baldur’s Gate’s streets, there were a lot of things around you both that served as proper distraction. Astarion struck when the time was right, just as another vendor started a loud argument with a customer, you looked over and that’s when Astarion reached out and slipped the fabric off of you with the lightest touch he could have managed.

He gazed down at it with a smile on his face and a sense of victory in his heart, his thumb brushed over it lightly as he reminded himself of its softness. But when you started to turn your head back to him, his eyes jerked up and the fabric disappeared within the confines of his inventory. You snorted as ruckus that continued off to the side and as you looked at him, Astarion plastered on another one of his signature grins.

It was only after you chuckled at him and looked back forward that Astarion found his grin had softened. He looked toward the streets just as you had as he counted down the minutes till you both got back to camp and he could get started. He wondered if you’d like it and what you’d say when you found out. Most of all though he wondered if you’d know what it meant. If you’d see through him as you always seemed to. Strangely, this time around he kind of liked that thought.

[dogbinary]

Tailor's Version I Tailor!Astarion x Florest!reader

rating: E

wc: 3.3k

warnings: angst, heavy themes of grief and death, alcohol use, mentions of gore, nightmares (I promise it gets better), spoilers for the squid/death ending

summary: Tailor!Astarion/Florist!Reader are brought together when Dalyria arrives to Baldur's Gate. Astarion is tasked with designing her wedding dress, Reader is her florist. Slow burn, lots of angst, healing trauma. You get the picture. This will eventually earn its E rating.

a/n: This is a story about grief, learning to lean on those you love, and moving forward even if you feel you can't move on. It's very special to me, and I hope you enjoy it. You are not alone.

Read on AO3 Here

It begins as it always does, with the sound of snapping bones. Most nights, it haunts him - When he longs for sleep that never comes, the memory of the sound finds him there, creeping at the edges of his mind with every restless turn.

Sick, wet gurgling.

Rebirth. Misalignment.

An open mouth dripping with red—the coppery, sweet scent of blood that once enticed, sustained, and warmed him—now only curdles unpleasantly in his gut.

Endless rows of gnashing teeth replace tender lips that once spoke such sweet promises into his skin. The tiny, rough, amber-gray hairs that once sharpened the edges of his lover's jaw are gone. His endless constellation of freckles, a distant memory.

All that remains is pale, purple skin framing vacant, yellow eyes.

Astarion can hardly bring himself to recognize them, but he does.

He does.

Obscured by thrashing tendrils, he sees his lover's empty gaze, even now.

"Astarion,"

Beneath the rough canvas of splitting skin and blood -

Somewhere in those soulless eyes, behind those endless rows of jagged teeth - something deep within Astarion still manages to recognize him.

It's the way his pulse thrums beneath the newly exposed contours of his brain. Three hearts, three separate beats, Astarion recognizes their rhythm.

And everything they've built is crumbling before him.

Is this truly how it all ends, after everything? When the taste of his newfound freedom still lingers on his tongue, when there's so much left of the world for the two of them to see?

What of those whispered promises?

Astarion's tadpole, screeching but compliant, binds him to this creature's will. His mind drags the weight of his body along an invisible string, forcing him to approach this superior, beautiful being. He is powerless to resist.

"Astarion,"

There is no glint of love in the illithid's eyes, no familiarity as they search Astarion's face. There are only wet, writhing tentacles, stretching into every corner of his vision until he's being suffocated beneath their oppressive weight. There is only hunger.

Slender fingers coil around his arm and squeeze. Their claws break his skin, boring deep holes into the flesh of his shoulder and pinning him with their immense strength.

He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes from his throat.

"Brother!"

-

Astarion wakes with a gasp, a mixture of sweat and tears dampening his skin and darkening his sheets. His hands claw at his chest and face in a panicked fit until he suddenly comes to his senses and recognizes his surroundings.

The rose-red canopy above his head, the half-melted candle at his bedside illuminating his overly cluttered space - he's in his room.

Alive.

Well - not quite alive by definition, but undoubtedly not dead dead, and his brain, along with its jumbled contents, is intact, despite what the throbbing at the base of his skull would have him believe.

The linens beneath him are soaked through their silk, thoroughly ruined. 

If he keeps having these fits, he'll have to replace them again soon.

But he's safe.

No brain-devouring monsters in sight.

Just his brother, Petras, who may or may not be worse.

"Hells, Astarion. I could hear you from the first floor." Petras's voice barely pierces through the ringing in his ears.

Astarion opens his mouth to respond but notices the lining of his throat is cracked and dry. How long had he been screaming like that before being interrupted?

He runs a shaking hand through his hair, freeing a few unruly wet strands from where they stick to his face and willing his breath to settle. Air hisses between his clenched teeth, and the absurdity of it almost makes him laugh. His body may be long dead, but its reflexes remain cruelly intact.

Only when his shoulders cease their shuddering and his eyes adjust to the candlelight does Astarion notice that Petras is already dressed presentably for his shift—his dusty blond locks tied neatly in a half-bun and a fitted pair of workman's overalls that smell of fresh leather.

Petras looms at the edge of his bed with his ugly mug and nauseating sense of brotherly duty, averting his gaze, like a mutt caught rolling in the garbage. His boot anxiously digs at a raised floorboard.

He knows he shouldn't be in here, and is keenly aware of Astarion's commitment to privacy. Petras would typically rather risk a naked stroll in broad daylight than intrude on Astarion in his chambers, which tells him that this episode must have been notably more severe than the others.

His brother's eyes briefly flit to the dark oak nightstand beside him. They pause on a nearly empty glass bottle of Angelic Slumber, tucked discreetly behind a stack of leather-bound books. His brows furrow in concern.

The silence between them lingers on, hanging heavily between the two. Worse yet, it signals an impending question - one that Astarion, on a profoundly instinctual level, knows will piss him off.

"Are you alright, brother?"

Right, as always.

"Of course," Astarion responds with a scoff, "Why wouldn't I be?"

Even Petras wouldn't be foolish enough to miss such a blatant dismissal.

And yet -

"Was it about Tav?"

Astarion's jaw tenses, hands clenching the delicate sheets beneath him so tightly they threaten to tear.

"Do you not have anything better to do?" he hisses. I assume the countertops are dusted. Have the new arrivals been inspected and set out on their respective hangers?"

"Our next shipment isn't due to arrive until tomorrow evening -"

"So you've come to me in need of busy work, then," Astarion's voice swells, dripping with condescension, "Perhaps you'd enjoy scraping pigeon shit off the storefront concrete? I might even consider having you tend to the task with your teeth. A fitting punishment for disturbing my rest and disrespecting my privacy."

Petras stutters, readying an apology.

If Astarion were a better man - one that bothered to exercise any form of restraint or familial grace - he would have considered hearing the poor man out, maybe even thank him for his concern, but Astarion is not a good man, and before his brother can so much as utter a single word, he seizes one of the books at his bedside and hurls it as a warning shot.

The heavy novel narrowly misses Petras's head, whizzing past his pointed ear and landing by the door with a hard thud.

"Get out."

His brother backs out of the room, hands raised in submission, but stops just short of crossing the threshold, muttering, "I've left some mail in your office," before gently closing the door.

The empty expanse of Astarion's room envelops him in judgmental silence. He sighs heavily, releasing some of the tension in his chest, before falling back into the mass of decorative pillows that clutter the even emptier expanse of his bed. The ceiling stares back at him, the glow of the candlelight casting shadows over the textured patterns and weaving them into blurred remnants of his dream.

He forcefully presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. It isn't worth dwelling on the night terrors - he'd learned that much rather quickly, merely weeks after he'd watched his lover turn into… that thing.

But he won't dwell on that, either. He won't.

The glass vial on his nightstand silently taunts him. Its pink, syrupy contents cling to its side, evidence of its recent use.  Perhaps Angelic Slumber is a bit of an extreme measure, but the list of potential solutions to Astairon's fruitless pursuit of rest is dwindling down to nothing, while the list of disappointments grows ever longer.

Craning his neck to read the clock on the wall beside him, he's not surprised to find that it's well past noon - still early enough to get himself presentable before opening.

Just months ago, he'd have been rushing to throw on a bit of finery and fix his hair, the pages of his schedule lined from edge to edge with the names of impatient nobles. A fitting here, a cutting there, sewing, prepping, busy hands, busy work, head filled to the brim with spools of different colors and measurements, with not a single square inch left for any unwelcome thoughts. Not a moment to dwell.

But, with the turn of the seasons, business has slowed like clockwork. The shop's primary clientele of affluent Baldarians tend to migrate for the winter, holding up in their vacation homes outside the city before returning for collective holiday festivities. It's the second week in a row that he's had gaps in his schedule, and there are several more to come before the streets are flooded with customers again.

He can afford a hot bath to ease the tension in his shoulders. Perhaps he'll even have a glass of wine to help take the edge off - something light and fruit-forward in flavor, just enough to get him through opening.

He peels the sheets off his body and makes a note to strip them later, then trudges barefoot over his ornate, decorative rug to grab the book he so carelessly tossed at his brother.

The Realm According to Bumpo, Vol. 8, laid flat, page-side down. The force of his throw split the bloody spine - a terrible fate to befall a collector's item. He regards the novel with a small apology before setting it on his dresser and trudging towards the bathroom.

The cold tile bites at the soles of his feet, a discomfort he's learned to accept with the coming winter months. The floor creaks as he approaches the large porcelain tub and turns on the faucet. There's no mirror, no reflection to confirm what he already knows—that he's beautiful, of course, never mind the deepening bags under his eyes. If he can't see them, there's no proof they exist.

He certainly does not look as shitty as he feels.

The pipes groan and thud with the promise of hot water.

He'll make it through this night like every night before this one, just as he has for the past six years. He'll greet customers with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, make more than enough money to afford his diamond-encrusted pile of shit life, and then he'll read himself to sleep - the same song and dance over and over until the sun burns itself out or someone finally learns his identity and stakes him.

-

The crisp scent of new cotton and warm leather catch him as Astarion descends the stairs, masking the subtle sting of cleaning vinegar under the earthy undertones of wooden hangers and countertops.

The store lacks square footage. It’s much longer than it is wide - as is customary for most specialty shops in the heart of this bustling city, where a building's height is favored over its width. He wouldn't call it a flaw in the design, more so a consequence of population density - a small price to pay for the anonymity of a bustling town. The structural integrity is sound despite the building's age, and the thick brownstone walls act as excellent soundproofing. It's nice, if he may say so - tucked away and intimate - one of Baldur's Gate's best-kept secrets.

The real selling point was the second floor. There was no need to travel between work and home, which the realtor was quick to highlight. With so many external factors pressing him to find quick shelter (namely, the bloody sun), as well as the distinct lack of windows, this seemed like the most natural option.

It took Astarion and Petras several months to renovate the space. While the place was long abandoned and cleared of its contents, Astarion had a hunch that it had been some sort of bookstore before it came into his possession. The walls encompassing the central area and the claustrophobic back office were lined with shelves needing to be stripped. There was a distinct musk reminiscent of wet paper that never entirely dissipated, even when the century-old carpet was pulled back to reveal gorgeous, antique wooden flooring. To say he was appalled at the previous owner's lack of taste would be the understatement of the century.

The rest was a matter of decoration and display. Which, given Astarion's penchant for "collecting" trinkets during his travels, didn't take much time at all. He set out the less personal items, paintings of nameless faces, a refined leather assortment of furniture, and large, ornamental rugs to bring the room together.

He'd spent weeks forging the professional relationships needed to obtain his fabrics, began visiting the night market once a month to collect embellishments for his more ostentatious clients, and owned a steady business within the first year of his new life.

And so, the lowly vampire spawn carved out a little piece of this city for himself- this place that once held him prisoner. While it wasn't home, it was something.

It was his.

The amber glow from the main room spills into his office as he pulls back the curtain divider. This room, too, is claustrophobic, with just enough room for his essentials: a single desk, chair, and an oversized sewing machine.

Opting to rid this space of its built-in bookshelf walls may have afforded him some extra room, but he decided instead to use them as storage. The cubbies are filled to the brim with fabric swatches, thimbles, measuring tape, and, of course, mountains of unanswered letters.

A cluttered mess to the average observer, but to him, chaotic organization.

He lights a few scattered wax candles and finds that the mail Petras referred to is, in fact, waiting for him on his desk - a stack of papers piled neatly where several strips of leather and unwound spools had been pushed aside.

He sorts through them and briefly scans his eyes over the name of each sender before disposing of each one in the small bin beside him.

Their contents are the same as always, courteous reminders that bills are due, several solicitations for holiday donations (they tend to lay it on thick this time of year - as if the fates of deaf, blind, wartorn orphans were solely dependant on his 20 silver), and another invitation to one of Gale's lectures.

The paper catches his attention, cardstock with a rough edge. His nose scrunches at the gaudy gold trimming around the equally tasteless title, highlighted by an illusory glowing halo, "The Art of Arcane Illusions: A Symphony of Spectral Splendor."

A slight twinge of guilt tugs at his chest. Despite years of neglecting his correspondence - a towering stack of unanswered letters - Gale continues writing to him. The others have mercifully abandoned their attempts to connect with him long ago.

He tucks the invitation away along with his feelings, depositing it into a discreet desk drawer before settling into his seat. Countless sleepless nights spent in the plush embrace of his office chair have molded it to his shape. He finds comfort in that - every groove acts as a steadfast anchor, keeping him grounded through the turmoil that comes with the busier months.

Astarion grabs his ledger to check tonight's night's schedule. It's not entirely empty; one of his regulars will be in around seven to have some casualwear fitted. An easy turnaround. Then, at eight, he has to fit two young twins for a birthday celebration. At ten -

"Astarion," Petras's muffled call reaches him from behind the thick curtain. I have something here for you—another letter. It must have fallen out of the stack.

"Come in."

His brother's hands are shaking as he enters, and Astarion scoffs to himself. His earlier outburst couldn't have been that bad. He's undoubtedly acted worse, driven by higher levels of stress and even fewer hours of rest. And while that doesn't necessarily excuse his behavior earlier, it certainly doesn't warrant his brother acting like an overly emotional –

His thoughts halt as he's handed a note, thicker than the others and addressed to him by his sister.

He can hardly believe his eyes.

"It's from Dalyria,” Petras says with an emotional warbe to his voice, “She's in Waterdeep. I received an identical one."

Soft, warm light catches on the wax seal, the navy color contrasting with all the stamps she'd used before. Astarion's brows pinch in confusion as he takes the envelope, tracing the pad of his thumb over the indented image of an unfamiliar family crest. He carefully tears the note, finding two separate papers: one folded sheet and one small card.

"Oh, mine only had the card," Petras remarks with an unmistakable hint of disappointment.

He offers the card a quick glance, then a second, once he realizes what it actually is.

A wedding invitation. For him.

Well, isn't that sweet?

It takes him less than a second to decide he won't be attending. Years ago, he may have considered it, but the logistics of traveling to Waterdeep with his… condition are daunting, at best.

Still, it's nice to be considered. He'll have to send some sort of gesture along with his regrets. Perhaps a fruit basket.

He tosses the card in the bin, ignoring the scathing look of disapproval Petras is currently burning into the back of his skull.

"I take it you won't be attending, then?"

"Of course not," Astarion replies matter-of-factly. "Someone needs to be here to tend to things. This place isn't going to run itself."

"It's our sister's wedding, Astarion. Surely, you can find someone to take over for a few days. Or hells, maybe you could, I don't know, consider taking an actual vacation?" Petras crosses his arms, leaning his large, brutish frame against the wooden edge of the desk. "It's Waterdeep. The Waterdeep. Debaucherous-festivals-day-and-night, tavern-at-every-corner Waterdeep."

"I'm aware." Astarion's tone is dismissive. He doesn't spare his brother a glance as he unfolds the second sheet of paper. It's, surprisingly, a very lengthy handwritten letter, which he skims over as Petras continues the assault on his ears.

"You know, I remember a time not too long ago when you'd revel in the idea of depravity -"

Dear Astarion,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and even better spirits. You still often cross my mind, and I hope the sentiment is mutual despite your demanding schedule. Word has spread of your unparalleled talent among the nobles even here, so I'm sure that must be why I have not received any word from you.

Astarion rolls his eyes. The subtle jab does not go unnoticed.

As you may have read, we will be hosting our wedding here in Waterdeep in early spring. The celebration will be held in just a few short months. It still feels like a dream -

The low thrum of anxiety in his chest begins to swell with every word. There must be some significant point to this.

He impatiently skips to the final paragraph, bypassing the rest of her flowery embellishments and flattery, until his eyes land on a sentence that makes his cold, undead heart sink.

I will be traveling from Waterdeep to Baldur's Gate, and I would be honored if you would be willing to craft my wedding dress.

Oh. Oh dear.

"She says she'll be here by the end of the month," Petras notes over his shoulder, nearly startling him.

"I'm perfectly capable of reading on my own, Petras."

But the words start to bleed into each other the longer he stares at the page, and the ringing in his ears grows louder each second.

Neither of them had seen Dalyria since she'd left to help guide the remaining spawn into the Underdark - another piece of his past he'd shoveled 6 feet deep and buried, right along with the rest of the hell he'd been put through 6 years ago, and the 200 years before then.

And now, after all this time, all of the effort he'd spent sealing those memories away and moving forward, they still manage to infiltrate the one place he thought he'd be safe - breaching the walls he'd built to keep them out.

They're being delivered right to his doorstep in just a few days.

Astarion sets the letter on his desk and just… stares.

[moonselune]

hi!! i’ve never requested anything on tumblr before so hopefully i’m doing this right lol (and hopefully reqs are still open) but i adore your work like so incredibly much! i’d love something fluffy with an astarion who becomes a tailor after the events of the game. also, would you consider writing a sequel to the dark!BG3 “my dearest assistant” or was that more of a one-off? i loved that one :) but yeah you’re my fav bg3 writer, it can be really hard to nail all of the characters but i feel like you characterize them so well every time. hope you’re well :)

yesyesyes this is so sweet, i decided to do the tailor one bcs I know everyone (including myself) adores this idea, I will probably post a second part to dearest assistant in the new year <3

Tailor!Astarion x f!reader | Tailored to Perfection

Can be read as a follow up to this -> ⟢The Most Beautiful Mannequin⟢

The sunlight streamed through the windows of your home, golden and warm, illuminating the flurry of activity that had overtaken your living room. Swathes of fabric in rich hues were draped over every available surface, accompanied by spools of thread, scissors, and a small sketchpad where Astarion had meticulously outlined his design. In the middle of it all, you stood before the mirror, wrapped in partially pinned fabric, trying not to laugh as chaos unfolded around you.

Astarion moved with his usual graceful precision, his deft hands tugging at the fabric, arranging folds, and securing pins. His brow furrowed in concentration, the picture of a master craftsman at work. But today, he wasn’t working alone.

“Darling,” Astarion said, his tone carrying that familiar dramatic exasperation, “if you move even a fraction of an inch again, I’ll have to start over.”

“It’s not my fault!” you protested, though your grin betrayed your amusement. “Blame your assistant.”

Your assistant—your six-year-old daughter—stood at Astarion’s side, clutching a pin cushion in her tiny hands, her white curls gleaming in the sunlight. She wore a miniature version of Astarion’s tailoring outfit, complete with a perfectly tailored waistcoat and a pocket for her measuring tape. Her eyes, so much like yours, sparkled with determination as she balanced on her tiptoes to hold the pin cushion closer to her father.

“Papa, you’re doing it wrong,” she declared, her voice small but confident as she frowned at the fabric.

“Excuse me?” Astarion straightened, placing a hand over his chest as though she’d mortally wounded him. “Wrong? My sweet, I am never wrong.”

“Yes, you are,” she countered, placing the pin cushion on the table and picking up a crayon to scribble something in her little notebook. “See? The drape should go this way.”

She held up her sketch, which was a colorful crayon rendition of the dress he was making, complete with sparkly stars and a bow that she had apparently decided was non-negotiable.

Astarion squinted at the drawing, then glanced back at the fabric. “A bow? Really? Do you know how passé that is?”

“Bows are pretty,” she insisted, crossing her arms in a way that was so reminiscent of him it made you laugh.

Your laughter broke what little stillness you’d managed to maintain, and the fabric shifted. Astarion groaned dramatically, pressing a hand to his forehead. “And there goes my perfect pleat. Truly, the gods test me today.”

“Stop being so dramatic,” you teased, biting your lip to suppress another laugh.

“I am not dramatic,” he retorted, bending down to retrieve the fallen pin cushion and handing it back to your daughter. “I am merely surrounded by chaos. Absolute chaos.”

Your daughter giggled, taking the pin cushion and dutifully holding it up again. “We’re not chaos, Papa. We’re helping.”

“Yes, helping,” he muttered, though his smirk betrayed his fondness. “Very well. Let us attempt this again, my dear apprentice.”

“Okay!” she chirped, bouncing on her toes as she watched him pin the fabric once more. Every now and then, she’d pass him a pin or a spool of thread, her tiny hands quick and eager.

“You know,” Astarion said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye, “if you keep up this level of dedication, you might just surpass me one day.”

She gasped, her eyes wide with excitement. “Really?”

“Don’t tell anyone,” he said in a mock conspiratorial whisper, “but yes. You have the makings of a true artist.”

She beamed at the praise, her curls bouncing as she nodded solemnly. “I’ll be the best tailor ever!”

“I have no doubt,” he replied, ruffling her hair before turning his attention back to you.

You watched the exchange with a warmth that made your heart ache. Despite the bickering and theatrics, the bond between them was unmistakable, and it filled the room with a joy that was impossible to contain.

After a moment, your daughter piped up again. “Mama, you’re moving too much!”

“I can’t help it,” you said, laughing as you adjusted your stance. “You two are too funny.”

“It’s a serious business!” she declared, though her giggles betrayed her words.

“And yet, you laugh,” Astarion teased, casting a playful look her way. “Clearly, we’ve inherited your mother’s inability to remain serious.”

“Hey!” you protested, though you were grinning too much to be offended.

By the time the dress was finally pinned and ready for stitching, the three of you were thoroughly entangled in laughter and shared triumph. Astarion stepped back, hands on his hips, admiring his work with a satisfied smile.

“What do you think, my dear?” he asked, gesturing for you to turn toward the mirror.

You looked at your reflection, taking in the carefully draped fabric and the beginnings of a masterpiece.

“It’s beautiful,” you said, glancing at him. “You’ve outdone yourself again.”

“Of course I have,” he replied smoothly, though his eyes softened at your words. “But I must give credit to my assistant.”

Your daughter clapped her hands, beaming with pride. “We did it, Papa!”

“Yes, we did, my love,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he added, “Now, go tell your mother she owes us both a very large reward for our hard work.”

“Cookies!” she exclaimed, dashing off to the kitchen in search of her prize. Without even thinking to even ask you, and Astarion just encouraged her, telling her to run like the wind.

You turned to Astarion, shaking your head with a fond smile. “You’re incorrigible. Especially when it comes to her.”

“Can you blame me? And yet, you adore me,” he replied with a smirk, pulling you close for a kiss. “Don’t deny it, my love.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you murmured, leaning into him as the sound of your daughter’s giggles echoed from the kitchen.

This was disgustingly cute to write, tailor astarion you have my heart and soul. I hope you guys enjoyed this! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[ghoulishlygrey]

The New Mrs. Dekarios Chapter One

Chapter One

Find chapter two here <3

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

Gale Dekarios x Fem!reader/Tav

18+ MDNI

Tags: weddings, tailor!astarion, bride!reader, oral sex, cunnilingus, wedding fluff, praise kink, soft Gale, sorcerer tav

Read it on Ao3

Enjoy!

Words: 3484

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

The Waterdeep breeze tickled your face and sent your veil from out behind you, gracefully floating on the wind. You had just stepped out from the tower, you were wearing your dream wedding dress. You felt so beautiful, the dress fit you like a glove and accentuated all your best features. You stared down the aisle and your eyes met your fiancé’s. He looked so handsome in his formal wear, a deep purple with golden accents around the sleeve and collar. He was misty-eyed as his gaze fell to you, a deep sigh resonating in his chest as he brought a hand up to swipe at his eyes. Shadowheart and Karlach were already at the end, standing off to the left. They looked wonderful in the outfits you had picked out for them, though Karlach looked a tad uncomfortable to be wearing something so fancy. You were glad to have fixed her internal engine, and were glad to have freed Shadowheart from her toxic faith. They both smiled at you from across the venue, sharing the same sentiments. Alfira and some hired bards play a lovely tune in the corner, waiting for the bride, you, to show up. 

Lae’zel sat in the audience, not wanting to take place in such an event, she even used the word *istik* when asked about it. But she was here nonetheless, and that you were grateful for. Astarion unfortunately couldn’t be there, as your wedding took place during the day, albeit sunset. “I’ll show up to the reception, darling.” He assured you, putting another pin in your, at the time, too-big dress. Astarion had tailored it for you, his own little contribution to your big day and his own special way of being there for you. Withers stood in the middle of everyone, big book in hand and a blank expression on his decaying face. Classic. The teiflings you had slain the goblin leaders for made up the bulk of the audience, along with the remaining companions you picked up along the way. Wyll stood next to Gale, as he was presented with the honor of being best man. Tara, Gale’s tressym, sat on a pillow next to Wyll, two rings tied with twine around her collar. 

As you began to walk down the aisle, you thought about every event that led up to this moment. What if you had never been abducted? What if you had never walked past his malfunctioning portal? You would never know, and would never want to find out. After everything you had endured, it seemed to be all worth it in the end. Worth it for this moment. 

You finally reach the end of the aisle, handing off your bouquet to Karlach. It was composed of night orchids, a beautiful gift from Shadowheart that you just had to incorporate in your big day. She was one of your best friends, after all. 

Gale takes your now free hands in his, fingers running over your knuckles. “You’re stunning.” He rasps, a familiar tone to his voice that stirs something within you. 

“Thank you,” You reply, moving your hands to interlock your fingers with his, “You look very handsome.” And you meant it. You had never seen him wear something so extravagant and sophisticated, used to him wearing either light armor or his classic robes. He looked delicious, you thought, and if nobody else was here you’d drag his ass straight back into the tower and tear the clothes from his body, relishing in each button and buckle.

The fantasy doesn’t last long as you ground yourself and remember where you are. There was plenty of time for those shenanigans later.  

“Let’s begin.” Withers says, tone as formal as ever. 

“Welcome to all. We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of,” He says your name, “and Gale in holy matrimony.” 

Withers prattles on with his speech, all the while you’re locked in eye contact with Gale. You’ve always loved his puppy dog eyes, big brown spheres that looked at you like you were the only girl in the world, a gaze that held you in such high regard. You give him a warm smile, one he returns with a slight chuckle, he was just so damn happy. 

“Do you,” Withers says your name,”Take Gale to be your lawfully wedded husband?” 

This was it, the moment you had been waiting for since the first words you had spoken to this handsome man. “I do.” 

“And do you, Gale, take,” He says your name, “to be your lawfully wedded wife?”

“I do.” Gale says, words spilling from his mouth the second Withers was done with the question. He was clearly excited, a fact that made you blush. 

“Now, the vows.” Withers grabs your attention, looking at you blankly but expectantly. You clear your throat, getting ready to address not only your lovely fiancé, but your massive audience too. Karlach hands digs in her suit jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper and hands it to you. You nod in thanks. 

You unfold the paper, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, you were nervous; you weren’t used to giving big speeches. 

“Gale, my love,” you start, taking one of his hands while keeping the other one busy with holding the paper, “Ever since I pulled you out of that portal, I have loved you. I have loved you through our adventures, through our hardships, through everything we have faced. Even when you absorbed my rare magic items, which I still don’t know the logistics of, by the way-” That gets a chuckle from the crowd and Gale. His eyes were sparkling with unshed tears, a reaction that spurred you on to continue your speech, “-I have loved you.” You feel the tears in your own eyes now, you could just feel the love radiating from your lover as he stares at you, listening intently. 

“My love for you will never falter, like a star; when I am long gone my love for you will live on through our poetry, through the friendships we’ve made, and finally it will live through you. I have not regretted a second of our journey together, and if it takes an illithid tadpole for us to be together, so be it. I know we can tackle anything that’s thrown our way, we’ve been doing an amazing job already. So whatever comes next for us, I’m glad it’s with you.”

You hand the paper back to Karlach, turning back to Gale and giving him your full attention. To start, he says your name, voice like honey as he does. “Before you I was lost, wandering through life without purpose. I never knew what real love was, what it could be like, what it could feel like. When I first met you, not only was I taken by your beauty but your kindness. You could’ve easily walked past that malfunctioning portal but you didn’t. Instead you calmed it with your talent in magic, and pulled me out. If not for you I would be lost, you are the leading light in my life, and you have been since the moment I laid eyes on you. You have continued to take my breath away with your courage, valor, and talent and I will love you until my last breath. I shall say it one more time for emphasis; I love you.”

“Tara, if you will.” Withers signals to the tressym, who gets up from her purple silk pillow to rub against Gale’s leg. He picks her up, holding her out so you can take the rings from around her collar. “Thank you,” Gale says into her fur before setting her down, Tara seems to nod before heading back to her pillow, settling in to watch the rest of the ceremony. 

You hand your ring to Gale, holding out your left hand for him. He delicately takes your hand, sliding the ring over your ring finger, a perfect fit. It was your dream ring, everything about it was everything you ever wanted; everything you dreamt about since you were a little girl. 

The ring you got Gale was also beautiful, it was silver with embedded amethyst. Purple, his favorite color. 

You meet his gaze again as he takes your hands in his. You never knew a gaze could hold so much love and admiration until you met Gale, until you had this relationship. 

“I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss the bride…” Withers looks like he very much wants to leave, or that he couldn’t care less, you couldn’t decide and you yourself didn’t care.

Gale gently moves his hand to cup your face, and your arms go to his shoulders. He pulls you closer before delivering a chaste kiss, sweet and simple. You return in kind, slotting your lips over his. 

The kiss is over as quickly as it started. Everyone in the audience has risen to their feet, applauding you as you take your new husband's hand and head down the aisle and back towards the tower. As you did, you sneak a glance over to your lover who to your surprise is already staring at you. “What?” You ask him, cheeks glowing with a pink blush.

“I’m looking at the most beautiful woman in the world, the new Mrs. Dekarios.” He beams at you, and you beam right back. Soon, you come upon the tower and you reach a hand out to open the door. 

“Ah, ah, ah, what do you think you’re doing?” Gale asks, putting his hand over yours and stopping you. “I’m opening the door? We have to get ready for the reception.” You glanced back at your guests, all of which were mingling, retrieving drinks from the various barrels and crates, and dancing to the music. 

“We do this right or not at all.” Gale says, and before you can question what he means he’s scooping you up into his arms earning a surprised squeal from you. “Gale-!” You say, arms automatically linking behind his head and around his shoulders. 

He gives you a wicked smile before kicking open the door and walking through. “There! Now we’ve done it properly.” He holds you in his arms for a moment longer, taking a moment to gaze upon your face. You take the opportunity to lean in and kiss him. The kiss starts out slow, so slow that Gale is able to delicately set you down without breaking it. However, it picks up quickly when Gale slides his tongue across your lips, requesting access. You allow it, opening your mouth for him, allowing your tongues to clash together. 

You feel his hands skate up your back and your arms around his shoulder tighten, pulling him as close as possible. What he does next makes you gasp into his mouth; he begins to undo the corseted back of your dress, hands expertly undoing your laces. You know exactly what he has in mind. “We can’t.” You say, barely breaking the kiss to get the words out before diving back in. There were so many people just beyond the front door, all of which were waiting on you. Gale just smiles against your lips before continuing his unlacing. He halts the kiss when he’s done, leaning back to get another look at you. “I need you.” He says, voice dripping with lust. And boy, did you want him, too. 

“But the others-” you start, turning your head to gesture towards the curtained front window.

“Can wait.” He cuts you off, leaning back in to make a trail down your neck with his mouth. You moan when he finds your pulse point, sucking lightly.

“Wouldn’t this be bad luck?” You chuckle, hands carding through his hair as he kisses back up your neck and towards your lips. 

“I think we’ve had enough bad luck to last us a lifetime. The world owes us.” He says, pulling back from your face to look into your eyes. His were twinkling, pupils blown wide in want. 

Your eyes glanced at the clock on the wall. The sun was setting steadily outside, the reception started when night overtook the sky. You wagered you had approximately twenty minutes of free time before people came looking for you. Your eyes drift back to his, and it’s like he’s almost reading your mind. “We have to be quick,” You start and you can see the excitement hit his face as it lights up. You slide out of your dress completely left in only your undergarments. He takes a second to take you in, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.  

“I will ravish you properly later, my love, as you deserve. But for now I just need you, and you may have me in any way you desire.” 

As much as you’d love to be full of him, sheathed to the hilt on his cock, you wanted to make this time about him, wanted to give him pleasure. 

You sink to your knees in front of him and the shock on his face makes you chuckle. 

“What?” You ask, hands making themselves busy with the buttons on his trousers. His hands fall over yours, stilling your movements. 

“You don’t have to do that, this should be about us, not just me.” 

“We have all night to make it about us but for now shut up and let me ‘ravish you.’” You quote him to himself and he laughs, removing his hands from yours and letting you continue your unbuttoning. 

“I love you.” He says simply, gazing down at you with that familiar look, the look that made your knees weak and heart full. “I know.” You tease, finally pulling his trousers down his legs. 

His erection is already fully present, restrained behind the fabric of his underwear. Your mouth instantly starts to water, just the thought of taking him with your mouth stirs something in your core. 

You push the waistband of his boxers down and his cock springs free. You grip the base, earning a shudder from your husband. 

“So perfect,” He coos, hand going to your head and massaging gently. 

You just smirk up at him, making eye contact as you take the head in your mouth, tongue swirling around it and lapping up the salty precum. 

Gale’s head fell back with a groan, and his hand made a slight pressure against your scalp, a silent asking of you to take him further. 

You let him go entirely after that, if only for a moment. 

“So impatient.” You scolded light-heartedly.

He chuckles, “You’re the one who said we have to be quick.” 

You hum in response, going back to the task at hand. This time you do take him further, letting him in inch by inch. When you reach as far as you can, you wrap your hand around what you cannot, making sure he was covered entirely. 

You felt your eyes flutter shut as you worked him over, tongue rubbing the underside of his shaft. You hollow your cheeks, creating a suction that makes him gasp. 

“I fo-forgot how good you were at this.” He smiles down at you, the hand in your hair petting you. “Such a good girl.”

Something about his praise ignites something in you, shooting a wave of pleasure down to your core. 

It spurs you on, encouraging you to take him deeper, bobbing your head and opening your throat as his head hits the back of it. You suppress a gag, your saliva dripping from your mouth and down his shaft. 

He grunts and moans at every little movement you pull, whispering sweet little praises all the while. 

“So good, such a perfect mouth on a perfect girl.” He manages to get the sentence out through moans and grunts, hand on your head tangling in your hair, following each movement. 

It was just too much, the pressure between your legs grew with each word and sound he made. You reach down, hand disappearing below the waistband of your panties. Your fingers find your sensitive bud, making small circles around it and you moan against his cock. 

Gale catches what you’re doing and it sends a steady blush across his face. “You look so good doing that.” 

You whine, hand in your waistband moving faster with each breath you take. Soon you can feel his resolve faltering above you, his hips shaking and breath heavy. 

“I’m going to-”

“Do it.” You momentarily slide from his cock to look up at him before continuing your languid motions. 

With a few more head bobs, he’s there, releasing into your mouth. You take it in, lapping up every drop as it shoots in your mouth. Above you, he’s moaning, free hand over his mouth to keep himself from alerting everyone outside to your activities. 

With a little pop, you pull off his shaft, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

“I saw what you were doing down there, did you finish?” He asks, helping you up before tucking himself back into his trousers. “No,” You were honest with him, you didn’t have enough time to finish yourself off, but that was fine, that moment was supposed to be about him anyways. But when you look at Gale, he almost looks offended.

“Well, we can’t have that!” He says grabbing your hand and leading you to the couch in the living room. You gasp when he (gently) pushes you down onto the cushions and kneels before you. 

“My lady,” He starts, grabbing one of your hands, “Allow me.” 

You part your legs for him, allowing access to your clothed cunt. “If you insist.” You laugh, allowing his hand to slip from yours as he pushes your underwear to the side.

Even though he’s seen it a thousand times by now, he always is in such awe when he gets to see your sex, gazing at it and you like he was lost in the desert and your pussy was water. 

He wastes no time diving in, licking one broad swipe up your folds. You mewl, back arching off the couch at the contact. He brings a hand to your lower stomach, keeping you firmly grounded.

“I have barely touched you yet you’re soaked, you truly are magic.” He says, momentarily watching you from between your legs. To him, you were magic itself. Somebody that he worshiped, someone that he loved. You knew all this, and returned it ten fold. 

He turns his attention back to your aching hole, tongue dipping in as he makes another stripe. He starts to lap at your hole, tongue moving in and out at a steady pace. You moan, long and loud and it causes him to pop up once again. “We must be quiet, dearest. We don’t want them hearing us.” He chuckles, face glistening with your juices. 

You laugh, making a show of you covering your mouth with your hand and beckoning him to continue. He does, diving back into your pussy with renewed vigor, lips coming to encircle your clit and sucking gently. You bite your hand, choking back a cry of ecstasy as he makes you see stars with his tongue alone. You gasp when he introduces his fingers, plunging one and then two into you. 

He moves in and out of you rhythmically and you find yourself rutting against his face, moaning whenever his nose rubbed against your clit. You were chasing your high, relishing in the feeling of the coil in your stomach tightening with every thrust of his fingers. His fingers are stretching you out so deliciously you can’t help the tears that spring from your eyes. You curse mentally, you’d have to redo your makeup before you went to your reception. 

A couple more plunges and you’re there, cumming around his fingers with a muffled scream. He laps at your hole more, catching every last drop of your orgasm. You collapse into the cushions, panting slightly as he moves to lay next to you. 

“Now *that* was magic.” You sigh, head looking to the side to catch a glimpse of Gale who is already staring at you. 

“Everything we do together is magic, my love.” He sits up, and you catch another glimpse of his beard, dripping with your slick. You blush, adjusting your underwear back to its proper position. 

He stands, “Alright, up you get.” He holds his hands out to you, “We have a reception to attend.” You glance out the window, goddammit, you were already running behind schedule. 

“Race you to the top of the tower.” You say, picking up your dress from its state on the floor and taking position at the base of the stairs.

“Oh, you’re on.” He says, running past you and up the stairs.

“I didn’t say ‘go!’”

You run after him, laughing the whole way.  

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

note: Thanks for reading! If you'd like to see more of my work don't forget to follow me here for updates and more fics.

[brain-rot-central]

I read this Astarion x reader fic where reader goes and visits Astarion post-game at his tailor shop. They ended the romance by choosing to become friends but there were unspoken feelings and honestly it was really good and I loved it.

But now I'm thinking about more of a desperate, messy reunion. UA living in a basement apartment somewhere in the Lower City (probably a cellar tbh if we're talking fitting canonically; maybe the cellar of Elfsong actually). He and Tav/Durge haven't spoken since the end of the war where they chose to go their separate ways, but he's kept tabs on them. Still interacts sparingly with everyone; lends a hand at the apothecary in town mixing potions (and poisons for those willing to pass him the extra gold).

He keeps thinking about Tav/Durge and can't get them out of his head. He finally grows the courage to send a message via carrier pigeon to them, asking for them to meet.

One thing leads to another and then they're sloppily stumbling into bed with one another with barely a word spoken--their bodies do all the talking. It leaves them more confused than anything else.

Idk I just love the drama lmao

[redlittlefoxari]

To the Ends of Faerun Master List

Summary: The year is 1548; it’s fifty-six years after Tav and Astarion defeated the elder brain with their rag-tag group of friends. So much has changed since then Astarion changed careers and is now a tailor while Tav runs the counter. While their daughter attends Gale’s School of Wizardry. That's right, their daughter. Everything is going smoothly until something dark threatens to destroy all of Faerûn, and it's up to Astarion, Tav, and their Daughter to stop it from happening.

Warnings: Smut, Blood, Violence, NSFW 18+, Fluff, Angst, Pregnancy, Talks of Emotional trauma, Talks of Physical Trauma, Physical Abuse, Blood, Bodily harm, Death.

AO3 link here Redlittlefox

Chapter One: Happy Little Family

Chapter Two: Steady *Smut*

Chapter Three: Worth

Chapter Four: Old Gods

Chapter Five: Pact

Chapter Six: Numb

Chapter Seven: Let it Out

Chapter Eight: Drunk

Chapter Nine: Hide and Seek *Smut*

Chapter Ten: Fair

Chapter Eleven: Wicked Goddess

Chapter Twelve: Binding

Chapter Thirteen: On Hold

Chapter Fourteen: Mother Knows Best

Chapter Fifteen: Shadow Purge

Chapter Sixteen: Something in the Air

Chapter Seventeen: Mind, Body and Soul *Smut*

Chapter Eighteen: Morning

Chapter Nineteen: Distracted

Chapter Twenty: Blood and Fear

Chapter Twenty-One: Scars

Chapter Twenty-Two: Friends Forever

Chapter Twenty-Three: Wants and Needs

Chapter Twenty-Four: Rest and Relaxation *Smut*

Chapter Twenty-Five: Trouble

Chapter Twenty-Six: Promise Me

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Almost There

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Evereska

Chapter Twenty-Nine: List of the Lost

Chapter Thirty: Rotten

Chapter Thirty-One: Get Out Alive

Chapter Thirty-Two: One Step Forward

Chapter Thirty-Three: Walking Dead

Chapter Thirty-Four: Bite Down

Chapter Thirty-Five: Servant of Corruption

Chapter Thirty-Six: Trapped

Chapter Thirty- Seven: Twisted

Chapter Thirty- Eight: Cracks

Chapter Thirty- Nine: Fill in the Blanks

Chapter Forty: Hesitation

Chapter Forty-One: Lovey Dovey

Chapter Forty- Two: Finally *Smut*

Chapter Forty-Three: What Ifs?

[deadly-diminuendo]

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

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 Next:

Eat You Up: a post-game Spawn Astarion x Reader Tav menstruation kink oneshot

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