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happy-beeeps · 16 days

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Sweat it out

Summary: tav comes down with a nasty flu, and one of her travel companions begins to worry... and maybe realize his feelings

WC: 1.3k

warnings: none i think! idiots in love

f!tav x reader

It’s quiet outside Astarion’s tent as he paces back and forth. Halsin has been inside with you for far too long, and the lack of communication has him worried. How long has it been since he hasn’t ended the night with your words, your breath near his? Weeks, months?

He doesn’t like to think of it. In fact, he’s doing an excellent attempt at thinking about anything else as he paces, and fails to notice the clatter of their camp members walking over to him.

“Chin up soldier, the rest of us seem okay, it probably has nothing to do with her tadpole.”

“Karlach is right,” Gale agrees, “it seems unlikely that the rest of us would be spared the same fate if this truly was connected to our wormy affliction. She will pull through.”

As much as it pains him to admit it, Gale is right. For all logical sense, this should have nothing to do with the mind flayers—but the thought offers little comfort (few things hinging on Gale’s ideas rarely do.)

It has started this morning, you had remarked how your head felt wrong. You felt wrong. You had ignored it, had soldiered on. As the day progressed, you complained of aches that had not been there, of chills that ran down your arms. Your skin grew pallor, covered in a sheen of sweat. By the end of the night, a cough ragged at your chest, and you could do nothing f else but whimper to yourself. The slightest motion had set tears out of your eyes, your skin burning itself to rid your body of whatever was happening.

Only Halsin, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart accompanied you now, the two healers were working overtime on an attempt to find your ailment, and Lae’zel was not easily persuaded to leave behind one of her dearest friends.

Astarion thinks of the dagger pressed to poor Wyll’s throat when he kindly attempt to guide her towards a spot nearest the fire.

He’s worried about you. This isn’t new, he’s made peace with the reality that he cares for you, he just hasn’t figured out how to say it. Now, he fears the opportunity may be slipping from him.

It’s Halsin’s booming voice that calms his nerves, he and the other two step out from the tent, his grin palpable even from where Astarion is standing. “She’ll be fine. It’s a nasty virus, I’ve given her a brew to aid in the healing, and I’ve created tonics for the rest of us.”

As he passes them out, Shadowheart walks up to Astarion, who is quickly making his way towards your tent. “You… don’t need a tonic. On the account of you being, you know. Not really alive.”

“You’ve got such a way with words, really,” he breathes, but his eyes flicker to the flap of your tent, “so I can go see her?”

Lae’zel speaks up, placing a firm pat on his arm as she walks by, “she’s certainly been asking for you.”

* * *

You have two clear, feverish trances.

The first is of your mother. A memory that’s not uncommon, one you drift back to anytime you attempt to rest an illness away. Its familiarity brings comfort as you attempt to sweat this bug out, and ignore Halsin and Shadowheart’s proding over your body.

The other is… newer. One you hadn’t expected. You’re in a secluded section of camp, feet tapping against the water, skin swathed in moonlight. Your wearing nothing other than a long, white shirt, unlaced dangerously along the neck. This is no more than two days ago.

You follow the memory along, watch from your eyes as you trace circles along your bare thighs, until you look to your side. Astarion is there, eyes swimming with emotion, as he gnaws on his lip.

Memory Astarion reaches out, grabbing your hand, weaving your fingers together. “I’m glad you’ve convinced me to stick around after our escapades, you are entirely addicting.”

Memory you leans against him, pressing your weight against his. His skin is cool, the chill sending tiny bumps along your exposed legs. “I’m glad you’ve decided to humor me, Star.”

You’re mortified when your eyes flutter open, your mouth in the process of muttering his name, to realize he’s here. Next to you. In your tent. As you sweat through probably a third pair of smallclothes.

“You rang?” He’s cheeky when he speaks, but his hand goes to palm your stomach quickly, as if he’s checking to make sure you’re here, you’re still you. The concern is sweet, and it sends an all new kind of flush across your body.

“Feel so sick, Star.” Shit. Is that tiny little voice coming from you?

He moves then, gentler than he’s ever moved before, carefully contorting his body around yours and pressing you against him. In an instant, it’s like a salve to your soul. You’re covered in him—his smell, his weight, his temperature. The chill itself is a whole other soothe to your aches.

“I know you are darling, but Halsin said you’ll be better soon.”

“Can’t get you sick,” a cough takes your lungs briefly, “who’s gonna pick the locks for us then?”

He laughs, and smooths a few stray hairs out of your face. “I won’t. Officially medically cleared, according to Shadowheart. On the account of my ‘not being alive.’”

You move to nod your head, but the pain makes you stop. Astarion is quick, and he cushions the movement with his hand before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I hear you were dreaming about me?”

“Maybe. Lots of trances. You know how it goes.”

“Was it particularly scandalous? Is that why my little love is so keen to swear?”

“Don’t have it in me to hit you.”

“You wouldn’t dream of it.”

It’s a calm silence that takes you next, Astarion stroking your hair as you listen to the distant clamor of your friends. You break it, after another moment.

“I remembered my mother.”

You don’t often talk about your family, and he knows this. He moved just slightly so you can see his face, curiosity and warmth covering his eyes. “What was it?”

“When I was little, I got sick, nothing bad but still sick. My mother, she’d rub my hair and sing to me,” you pause to close your eyes, as if you could will her here right now, “she’d go to our kitchens and shoo the cooks out, she’d make me her special soup, and when she brought it to me she’d promise me she’d teach me one day.”

“She sounds lovely.”

“She was. Smart too. She always knew things about me that I didn’t know.”

“Oh, like what?” Astarion’s face shimmers with a laugh and you use the last bit of your strength to attempt a shrug and burrow into his chest.

“She used to tell me she knew I’d end up with someone older. Don’t know if she knew how old.”

After your words, as if in cue, your chest begins its steady rise and fall, and Astarion recognizes the twitch in your fingers. You’re trancing again. Which means he’s stuck with your words and their heavy implications.

Still, with the way your overheating body simmers against his cold touch, he resolved that he doesn’t mind their weight, not at all. In fact, he’d like more of your burden.

You don’t slip out of your trance that night, but feel the briefest ghost of a kiss on your forehead.

When sunlight rolls around, your eyes blink awake. You’re weak, you can feel it, but better. You go to sit up, but realize quickly Astarion’s weight is still against you, one arm cradling your head to his chest, one arm twisted beneath you.

You’ve never quite felt so comfortable, so held. You don’t remember what you told him last night, don’t remember exactly what he said. Instead, you decided to live in this moment now, and pray to all the gods you’ll get to relive it again soon.

#astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 fic #astarion ancunin #astarion ancunin x reader

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happy-beeeps · 1 month

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Late Night Talking

Summary: after a chance encounter, you spend some time getting to know the strange clone who showed up at your door.

Warnings/rating: alcohol, cursing, vaguely suggestive content

A/N: this is going to be a multipart, but not quite a longfic! I'm in love with this man I can't do this.

WC: 1.7k

It’s late when the buzzer at your apartment door goes off with the tone noting an incorrect keycode. You hear it again, loud and shrill, and you’d be worried if you didn’t hear your roommate Flora’s drunken laughter following it. There’s a male voice too, deep and warm, and you’re happy the sweet medic has found someone to share the night with. You’re both medics, and both conveniently on leave at the same time following the last mission you went on with the 501st and 212th. She had needed to blow off some steam, and was happy to do so following an invitation from her 212th crew. You had turned down a similar invitation from the 501st, having dealt with nearly enough of Fives’ humor for the time being.

You open the door for them, and are greeted by the sight of Flora, brown curls bouncing and cheeks flushed as she presses against the gigantic hunk of man in your doorframe. From the looks of it, he’s a clone, but not quite like any clone you’ve ever seen.

“Making friends?” you ask, and she blushes as she enters.

“This is Wrecker,” her voice is soft and slurred as she leans on your shoulder, “He’s walking me home.”

“It’s the gentlemanly thing to do,” the clone named Wrecker smiles, bashfully rubbing a hand behind his neck. He’s drunk too, and you’re surprised a man of this size can get this drunk.

Although, Flora can put away a drink.

“That’s very sweet of you Wrecker,” you smile, and you can practically feel Flora’s cheeks burning as he all but devours her with his eyes. “Flora, who’s going to walk him home?”

“That would be me.”

The voice that answers is raspy, tinged with annoyance coated in endearment. Wrecker stands from where he blocks the entire door frame to reveal another man, shorter than Wrecker but taller than any clone you’ve worked with before. He has a short crop of silver hair, and a tattoo you can’t quite make out over his eye.

“Crosshair.” He offers, but does not move to extend a hand. He does, however, take the opportunity to rake his eyes up and over your figure. You can’t deny the chill that runs down your spine. “Alright Wrecker, we need to get back to the barracks.”

“Or you could stay?” Flora offers, her hand reaching past you and pulling Wrecker into your apartment. For such a large man, he follows her easily inside. She leads him down the hallway to her room, hardly offering you a second glance. This leaves you standing in front of Crosshair, who merely rolls his eyes and huffs a laugh at his brother practically running behind Flora.

“Well, I’ll be on my way.” Crosshair moves to walk down the hall to the lift, but you stop him before he can.

“Wait,” your voice comes as a shock to him, and he turns to face you. “It’s late, just stay the night. We’ve got plenty of blankets. Our couch is more comfortable than the beds in the barracks.”

“Spend a lot of time there?” While his joke would normally be accompanied by a hurtful tone, his barb lacks venom. Instead, there’s something nearly flirtatious in it. As if he’s asking if you’d even be interested in him.

“Meh. 501st boys aren’t really my type.” You move out of the way of the door, an open invitation for him to step inside once more.

There’s a beat, and he obliges.

Crosshair moves quietly through your space, as if he regards every one of your belongings as if it’s made of fine crystal.

You move to grab a glass from your cabinet. “Do you drink?”

“Heavily.”

“Excellent.”

He takes the whiskey from you, pouring your glass first then his, and you realize the gentlemanly gene might not have just gone to Wrecker. You both settle on the couch, your feet pulled up on the couch as you regard him. He’s a startling kind of handsome up close, he looks sharp and nearly lethal. You feel a deep urge to reach out and touch him, trace the heavy contours of his cheekbones. You don’t, of course, settling instead on tracing the lines etched into the glass.

“I’m sorry about him,” his words are sudden, his movements slow. He jerks his eyes towards the direction of the hallway.

“Don’t be, he seems sweet. I’m sorry about her. She’s on and off with someone on the 212th.”

“We’re not on Coruscant often. It’s for the best.”

“Oh,” your voice sinks at his admission, and his eyes dart to yours from where they rested on his glass.

“Disappointed?”

“It seems too soon to tell, but maybe.”

He smirks, and sets his glass down on the table in front of him. He disregards the coasters, but wipes the bottom of the glass before placing it, a quirk you find intriguing.

“So, what battalion are you and your brother part of?”

“We’re… special forces. Squad 99.”

“Ah, secretive,” you joke, and he offers a small laugh in response.

“I’m a sharpshooter.”

“That’s a high stress job, a lot of my boys get tension headaches when they miss.”

“Good thing I don’t miss.”

There’s a beat where you should respond but you don’t, merely scoffing in response as you lean back on the couch.

“You’re a medic too then?”

“With the 501st. We’re on leave right now,” you set your glass down next to his, using the coaster, and move to turn the holo on. “I’m not on Coruscant often.”

“Pity.”

“Disappointed?”

His eyes meet yours now as the light of the holo casts blue shadows across his face. “Considerably.”

You scoff, but blush all the same. “You don’t even know me.”

“I bet I know you better than you think.”

“Oh yeah? I’d like to see you try.”

He picks up the glass and takes a large, gulping sip. He sets it down again, without wiping the bottom, and smirks at you. You feel suddenly so watched, as if he’s an apex predator you’ve let into your home.

“You like things clean, not because you’re a medic but because you feel a need for control. You’ve watched me set my drink down without a coaster and made a decided effort to remind me without being rude. Most likely an only child, maybe an orphan, and you’re older than Flora. You keep plants around because you like the thought of something alive greeting you at home but Flora is allergic to fur. You drink whiskey because it’s sweeter than people give it credit for, like you.” He moves closer to you on the couch, his hand going to trace circles on your knee. “You’ve slept with maybe one clone, and he was not as impressive as you’d hoped, and it’s been a long time since.”

The tracing pauses and your breath hitches in your throat at the pause in movement, and at how close he is. He smells like something smokey and metallic, he smells like you should be afraid of him but your body refuses. His voice is breathy as he continues, leaning in. “I am not like the last one.”

“I don’t even remember his name.”

“But you will remember mine.”

You move to kiss him so fast he’s almost surprised. The kiss is desperate on both ends, it must have been a long time for him too. He’s feverish, impatient, the kiss chaste and rough, but never mean. He’s gentle in response to every breathy pull, his hands trace along your jaw softly after every nip on your lip. Your hands move to drag along his back, grateful that he seems to have left the top half of his armor back at the barracks. Your hands splay across the taught muscle on his back, he’s lithe and his muscle moves like a cord along him. You pause for a moment and pull away, each pausing to catch your breath.

“How did you know all of that?”

“You learn a lot about a person through the scope of a blaster.”

“Hmm…” your fingers trace idly along his shoulders, “almost right, but the plants are actually Flora’s. And I’ve been with two troopers.”

“I was close,” he offers, and you smile back. “And close earned you that.”

“Next time I’ll think of something better.”

“So there’ll be a next time?”

“If you’ll have me.”

It’s an easy decision. He spends the night with you in your room, though you don’t sleep together. He’s not particularly snuggly, but when you come too in the early hours of the morning to his attempts to rise, he’s soft when he extracts your head from his chest, doing his best not to wake you. Somehow, he looks softer in the early morning. The slivers of sun from between your window shades cast him in an almost blurry light, and he’s typing something on your datapad when you squint an eye at him.

“Nice try,” you murmur, and he turns to face you, surprised that you’re awake.

“Wanted to let you sleep, you didn’t tell me it was your first night back.”

“You didn’t tell me it was your last,” he’s packing quickly, and it’s far too early for even a call back to the barracks. He’s being sent away, and soon.

“It’s easier this way,” he taps the datapad, “that’s a comm channel. It’s secure, but I’m not normally available. When I’m back–”

“Save it,” you gesture for him to reach towards you and he does. You press a soft kiss against his lips, and he nearly melts at the gesture. He’s so different than last night, almost full of regret that he has to leave your bed. You motion to one of the small pots on your nightstand with a white lid, “bacta and herb ointment. It’s for my knee aches. I give it to my boys with trigger finger. Take it.”

He opens his mouth to deny you and you flip tummy down on your bed, your voice muffled into your pillow. “Something to remember by. Now get out, I don’t want to have to watch you leave.”

He does. He leaves quietly, but not without pressing a warm, lingering touch to the back of your calf, exposed to the air as your leg hooks around your blanket.

“We’ll be seeing each other.” He murmurs, and you’re not sure if it’s meant to assuage you to him, but it works for both, a salve for the tinge of hurt neither expected to feel this morning.

#tbb crosshair x reader #tbb fic #tbb crosshair #crosshair the bad batch #crosshair #the bad batch x reader #the bad batch #bad batch crosshair

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