levis-reading-recs

[levis-reading-recs]

Tav's Nightmare

https://archiveofourown.org/works/57464338

I have rewritten this story. I really hits on depression and how sometimes it is a beast to defeat. I really do hope you enjoy it. It also touches on very personal difficutlies

For those that do not have access to AO3: Tav's Nightmare

She twitched in her sleep, a fleeting tremor that betrayed the war still raging in her mind. He felt it—the tension coiling in her muscles, the unease pressing against him even as she slumbered. With a quiet sigh, he pulled her closer, tucking her against his chest. Skin to skin, no barriers between them. A novelty. A revelation. He had spent centuries recoiling from touch, shrinking away from warmth like it was something alien, unbearable. But here—like this—he wanted it. Needed it. Her breath ghosted against his skin, each exhale a whisper against his ribs, grounding him. The weight of her draped over him, legs tangled, her arm resting lazily at his waist. Perfect. He was at peace for the first time in two hundred years.

And yet, she was not.

The irony wasn’t lost on him; his mind was quiet, while hers was unravelling. Ever since Cazador, her nights had worsened. The nightmares, the memories—those didn’t scare him. What did was the way she had withdrawn. Her silence. The distance she placed between herself and the world, between herself and him. Their companions had noticed too. Karlach, Gale—watchful eyes, worried murmurs.

Astarion had never known how to comfort. Never been anyone’s steady foundation. But for her, he would try. He was no knight in shining armour, no hero to sweep her away to a fairytale ending. He had no illusions about that. He was not the kind of man who could fix things with a kiss and call it love. But he was hers—the man she had chosen—and that still left him breathless, overwhelmed in a way he barely understood. And yet, with each passing day, he grew more comfortable in that truth. She had never been an easy read, her trust hard-earned, her emotions a guarded thing. He had spent months learning her, peeling back the layers of a closed book, reading her story page by page. And in her eyes—the only place she never truly hid—he had seen everything. Pain, loss, the weight of a lifetime’s worth of sorrow. But now, there was something else. Something growing.

A fire.

Not the kind that burned everything down, not the kind he had spent years fearing. No—this flame was hers. It flickered in the way she looked at him, the way she stood beside him, the way she fought for him. He had seen it the night she silenced that damned Drow, standing unwaveringly at his side, her magic humming in her blood.

“He gave you his answer,” she had said, crushing the potion in her fist, letting it fall uselessly to the ground. It was then he had realised—his simple plan had unravelled. The war inside him had settled. He no longer wanted her as a conquest. No longer wanted her as a mark. He wanted her.

All of her.

And he had known, truly, without doubt, when he saw her fall at Moonrise. When she stood tall beside him against Cazador, magic burning through her veins, her body weakening from its toll. He had known when she threw herself in front of those necrotic claws and crumpled, when he felt the world threaten to shatter around him.

He had wanted power once, for himself, for survival. Now, he only wanted it for her, to protect her. But the look in her eyes when he turned away from ascension—the pride, the quiet acceptance—had been worth everything. A life in the shadows, in the unknown, as long as she was there. So, if she needed him now—if she needed someone to be steady, to be constant—he would learn how. She had carried him through his darkest moments. Now, it was his turn.

He tightened his hold on her, pressing a kiss to her hair, letting his eyes close. She had been quiet for a while. Maybe—just maybe—her mind had quieted too.

"Run, Tavi, run!" Her mother's voice ripped through the chaos, frantic, urgent. Smoke choked the night sky, turning the horizon into a nightmare of shifting orange and black. Tavi's breath came in sharp bursts, her vision blurring as tears burned at the corners of her eyes.

"Tavi!" And then, her mother was there—her hands firm, pushing her away, shoving her toward escape. Toward survival. The village burned behind her. Home—the only home she'd ever known—gone.

Tavi ran.

Her lungs burned. Her muscles snapped tight with each desperate stride. She could feel the fire in her blood, every nerve screaming at her to go faster, to get away. See danger. Run from it. Do not engage. Do not fight. Run. That was how she survived—how she was supposed to survive. She ran until the flames disappeared behind her, until the glow on the horizon faded into nothing. Darkness swallowed her whole, the forest pressing in from all sides. Her steps slowed. She turned back.

"Mum?" Her voice cracked in the stillness. Nothing. Maybe she had fallen behind—she wasn’t as fast, not like Tavi. Not spry like a full elf. "Mum?"

Silence.

The fear hit her chest like a blade. "Mum?" Her voice rose, desperate, panicked. "Mum? Mum? MUM!" Her legs buckled. She collapsed forward, trembling, her breath ragged. No, no, no, not alone, please. Not alone. But the truth was already curling into her gut. Her mother had pushed her away. Had saved her. And she was gone.

The memory fractured. Glass shattering in all directions.

Tavi was not in the forest anymore.

She was standing on the porch of her home. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, barely holding her together. Her partner—no, her ex-partner—was leaving. Walking away, never looking back.

Because of her.

She was crying, shaking, calling for the only comfort she had ever known. "Mum?" The word felt foreign now, childish, broken. She sank to her knees, gasping through the sobs clawing at her throat. "Mummy."

A Tenday. That’s all it had taken. She had lost her unborn child. She had lost them. "Mummy." She fell sideways into herself, curling up, crushing her arms against her stomach, trying to hold in the grief. But it spilled out anyway, raw and relentless. Even her magic refused to answer her call.

Another shift.

She was walking now, down an unfamiliar road. The city loomed ahead, indistinct in the haze of time. She didn’t know what day it was. What month. What year. She only had a purpose. A small one. But a purpose, nonetheless.

Tonight was the night. Tonight, she would have her answers. She wore simple traveling clothes. Her hair hung loose—why bother pulling it up? No one was waiting for her. No one would care. She had no home to return to. No one expecting her. The world was too bright. Too dark. Too empty. She just had to get to the top of the tower. That was all that mattered.

Pain.

Restriction.

Was someone screaming? Was she screaming?

She couldn’t move.

A reptilian woman filled her vision—too close, her face sharp, calculating. Tavi struggled, but it was useless. The pressure held her still.

Then—searing agony.

The tadpole forced into her eye.

The rows of teeth.

She blacked out.

She woke in light. Too bright, too harsh, stabbing into her skull like a blade.

Her head throbbed. The scent of burning twisted in her nostrils. No, no, no—not again.

Mum. Mum. Mummy! Tavi stumbled upright, heart hammering. But it wasn’t her village. It wasn’t the raid. It was a crash site. The wreckage of a nautiloid. A dark-haired woman lay unconscious nearby. She moved toward her—

Flash of silver. Cold metal against her throat. She fell back, breath forced from her lungs, her body hitting the ground hard.

The blade pressed closer, sharp and unyielding. A silver-haired elf loomed over her, grip tight, fury burning in his gaze. "I saw you on that ship," he snapped. The blade pressed harder. "Nod." She did. Mechanically. "Good," he muttered. "Now—what the hells did you do to me?"

The Emerald Grove. The Tieflings. The goblins.

The Underdark. The Shadow-Cursed Lands.

Moonrise. The Absolute.

Ketheric. The Chosen Three.

Myrkul. The Guardian.

Cazador!

Tavi gasped, bolting upright. Her eyes darted around, wild, disoriented. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Where—where was she?

Breath. Steady breath against her skin. Warmth.

The Elfsong. Her bed.

Astarion’s chest beneath her cheek. He was trancing, still, peaceful.

She let out a shuddering breath, the tension draining, just a little. But then—He will leave eventually. You know this. The voice was back. Had it ever truly left? She knew it was fading—knew that every conversation with Astarion made it weaker—but tonight, it had returned.

Her malicious self. Her true self. You bring nothing but death. Making decisions for everyone else. She squeezed her eyes shut. She did not want to listen. But the words lingered, curling at the edges of her mind, whispering truths she had spent so long trying to forget.

No! He loves me.

Tavi clasped her hands over her ears, pressing hard, trying to drown out the words clawing at her mind.

But has he said it? Her breath caught. No. He hadn’t said it. She loved him—by all the pantheons, she loved him with every fibre of her being. She would die for him. She had, against Cazador.But the voice was relentless.

You destroy everything you touch. Your father abandoned you, disgusted by your mixed blood. Your mother left, dying just to rid herself of you.

No. Stop it. She died to save me. She told me to run.

And you ran. The only thing you’re good at.

Tavi stood abruptly, snatching up a shirt—uncertain if it was his or hers—pulling it over her head. Rosemary and bergamot filled her senses. Astarion. His scent surrounded her, grounding her, but only for a moment. Her gaze flicked downward. He was still deep in trance, unmoving, untouched by her storm. She turned toward the ladder.

Running again. No surprise there. She ignored it. Forced herself forward. The latch creaked under her hand as she pushed up onto the tavern roof.

The night stretched wide, stars scattered like broken glass across the sky. The breeze carried salt and smoke from the docks, cool against her skin. She shivered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself—not just for warmth, but for containment.

The voice slithered back in. Stupid, worthless girl. You should have perished with your mother. Then none of this would have happened. Shadowheart would be a Justiciar. Wyll wouldn’t be a devil. Karlach wouldn’t have a life sentence. Lae’zel wouldn’t be running from her Queen. And Astarion—your beloved Astarion—he would be ascended.

NO. No, stop it. Stop it. Stop it. The words caught in her throat, barely whispered. She turned her back on the voice, gripping the edges of her skull, pressing her palms hard against her ears, eyes squeezed shut.

But it was forming.

She could feel it.

A presence coiling in the shadows, stretching out from the corners of her mind—waiting. Watching. Waiting.

It breathed against her neck. It whispered through her bones.

You kept him weak. So, he wouldn’t leave you. You kept him low, kept him chained, so he wouldn’t realize how worthless you are. Just a lost little elf girl. Too weak for him. Too weak for anyone.

Tavi trembled. No. No, I never…

Tick tock. It’s almost over. There have been no talks of ‘after,’ have there? He isn’t going to bring it up. He won’t be yours beyond the battle. You deny him his freedom. You deny him his life in the sun. Keeping him buried with you in the shadows. Selfish little bitch.

She straightened. The tears on her cheeks felt distant, meaningless. Numb. Numb she could do.

She walked toward the edge of the roof, her steps slow, deliberate. Below, the city sprawled out, alive with distant voices and flickering lanterns. The fountain outside Sorcerer’s Sundries glowed faintly in the square. They were going with Gale today. Research. They could do it without her. They didn’t need her.

What use was a sorcerer when they had a wizard? Gale of Waterdeep. A name filled with history, weight, meaning.

The voice took over her mantraAnd you—Taveleigha of who-knows-where.Nothing.No mother. No father. No child to call her own.I mean, it wouldn’t take much.The thought whispered, soft, insidious.Headfirst. Nobody could stop you. Smash the brain. Smash the tadpole. It would be over. Quiet.Isn’t that what you wanted?The voice pressed closer, wrapping around her, suffocating her, pinning her beneath its weight.

She moved to the edge.

Her toes curled over the stone lip, hanging just over the drop.

The beast was circling now, winding around her limbs, breathing against her throat.

Leaning in.

Waiting.

Astarion stirred. At first, it was subtle—the faintest shift in their bed, an absence barely noticeable. But as his awareness sharpened, he realized what had woken him. The weight of his partner was gone. His hand reached instinctively for her side of the bed, brushing against cold sheets. She had been gone for a while. I knew I shouldn’t have tranced.

“Darling?” His voice cut through the stillness of the room.

Silence.

Shadowheart was still asleep in her bunk. Most of their companions remained undisturbed—except for Karlach, who was just beginning to stir. She blinked, her gaze landing on him. “Where’s Tav?” she asked immediately, concluding what he already knew—one of them was missing.

“I was thinking the same thing.” Astarion pulled himself upright, reaching for a shirt. His options were limited—only two camp shirts remained after neglecting to wash their clothes. The poet’s shirt, irritatingly sentimental, or the black one he had planned to wear tonight. With a sigh, he shook out the black shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles before tugging it over his shoulders.

Karlach had moved to the centre of the room, idly stroking Scratch’s ear as the dog shifted, sensing the movement. Astarion crossed to join her, careful not to wake the others. He settled onto the sunken seat beside her, watching as she absentmindedly ran her fingers through the hound’s fur. Karlach’s ability to touch still fascinated him—how she had gone from burning to warm, how she could hold people now. He was still navigating the complexities of his own comfort with touch, but he had noticed something recently—he missed Tavi’s. The casual touches. The way her hand would squeeze his arm. How she grasped his shirt during a kiss, or let her fingers trail along his ribs. Everyday intimacy, as natural as breath.

And now, she was gone without warning.

Tavi never left without telling someone.

“I know she’s struggling,” Karlach murmured, breaking the silence. “She’s private. Takes on everyone else’s problems without dealing with her own. But to disappear in the night…”

Astarion frowned, surprised by how easily Karlach had pieced it together. He knew Tavi wrestled with her own demons—had seen the weight of them, though never the full picture. He also knew that when she was alone, she was her worst company.

They had only been in Lower City for three weeks, but those weeks had been relentless, overwhelming; Cazador, Mizora, Wyll’s contract, Rivington. And before that—so many distractions. Maybe she had been drowning, and none of them had noticed.

Karlach’s voice pulled him back. “Hey, Fangs!”

Astarion snapped back to the present. “Do you mind? I really don’t want to wake the whole party.” Too late. Gale and Shadowheart were stirring, their heart rates spiking from the rude awakening. Halsin would be next—soon, he’d be moving toward the fire to make breakfast.

Shadowheart stretched, eyes narrowing as she picked up on the tense atmosphere. “Where’s Tavi?”

“That, my dear friend, is exactly what we were discussing.” Astarion rose abruptly, pacing now, his unease mounting.

The longer she was gone, the worse it felt. He needed to go find her, but where would he even begin? Baldur’s Gate was sprawling. Searching blindly would be foolish.

“You don’t think she was taken, do you?” Gale asked. Astarion exhaled sharply. Thank you very much, Gale. Of course, it had been his first thought. The moment he had reached for cold sheets. But he had forced it down, refusing to let panic take hold. Still, was it irrational to think that?

“I—”

“I can try Locate Person,” Shadowheart interrupted. “But it only works within a thousand feet.” She hesitated, doubt flickering across her face. Astarion caught it immediately. Don’t back down now.

“Please,” he said simply.

Shadowheart nodded, shifting toward her space in The Elfsong, gathering herself for the spell. Her fingers trembled slightly as she prepared it, and Astarion hovered. He knew he wasn’t helping, but this was Tavi.

Everyone in this room cared for her. Loved her. Shadowheart knew that, too.

He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to demand speed as she traced melodic movements in the air, whispering litany under her breath. The room had become louder now—his heightened senses picking up the soft murmurs between their companions, making it impossible to focus.

Hurry, hurry, hurry

Then, after eleven painstakingly slow minutes—

Shadowheart sighed. Her expression flickered from exhaustion to surprise.

“She’s above us.”

A beat. The room went still. Astarion laughed. Relief shattered the tension like glass.

"The roof. We didn’t even think of the roof. Went straight to worst-case." Astarion exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he strode toward the ladder. He should have known. Tavi loved this space—the scattered throw pillows they had collected up here, the quiet retreat where they had watched the sunrise and sunset together so many times over the past few weeks. He had lost count of how often she had curled against him under the open sky. He smiled faintly at the thought, only for the warmth to vanish the second he stepped onto the roof.

She was at the edge. Bare feet barely touching the stone lip, toes dangling over open air.

Astarion froze.

She was only wearing his shirt, drowning in it, the fabric pooling at her mid-thigh. Beautiful, the thought flickered, unexpected and unimportant in the face of something far heavier.

She was staring downward. Motionless.

He swallowed, glancing back as Karlach pulled herself onto the roof. Their eyes met. A silent conversation. Give me a moment. She nodded, staying put. A barrier between them and the others.

He took a slow step forward. "Tavi, my love?" His voice was careful, measured. He couldn’t risk startling her.

She didn’t react. He stepped closer.

"Tavi?" Firmer now, but still gentle. His heart was beginning to tighten, the familiar ice of fear creeping back in.

Then, softly—flatly—she spoke. "Did you know there are more than 6,000 suicide deaths a year in Baldur’s Gate?"

Astarion stiffened. "Tavi…" He moved forward instinctively, but her shoulders tensed. He stopped short.

"What do you think their families do?" Her voice was distant, detached. "Do they mourn? Do they continue on? Do they forget?" She wasn’t waiting for answers. She was just speaking words slipping out, raw and aimless.

This scared him.

He had seen her fierce, passionate, rebellious, joyful, furious. He had seen her cry. But this—this absence, this emptiness—this was something new.

And it terrified him.

He flicked a glance at Karlach. She had gone rigid, standing at the hatch, stopping anyone from climbing up. She must have heard. If I can’t pull her back, he thought, Karlach can. She was stronger—could haul her inside if it came to that. Astarion’s voice softened. “Darling…”

"I was going to be a mother."

He stopped short. She was still staring downward, her hair falling loose around her face, half-shielding her expression.

"I was happy," she murmured. "Starting to feel little movements, little nudges. I didn’t have much—just a small home, a partner who I thought loved me. But I was going to be a mother."

Pain. There it was, rising through the numbness.

Astarion said nothing. What could he say? He had never known this loss. But he knew that she had—that many in their bloodline had. "I was picking colours, decorations for the nursery. I was going to understand my mother’s love because I was going to become one."

She still hadn’t moved.

He took another step.

Still, she didn’t flinch.

He took the chance, his steps feather-light. Rogue instincts now serving a different purpose.

Get her away from the edge.

Away. Away. Away.

"I had never felt pain like that before," she stuttered. "Constant. Never-ending. It hollowed me out, stripped me down until I was nothing."

He stopped.

She inhaled sharply, a shuddering breath. "Nothing terrible happened, I wasn’t attacked…" she gritted her teeth. "It just happened." She faltered. "I happened. I couldn’t keep my baby safe."

Astarion’s jaw clenched. “My love, these things happen—there’s no rhyme or reason—”

"They don’t just happen!" Finally, finally—she turned toward him.

Anger.

He could work with that.

"Everything I touch turns to dust!" She stepped forward, heat rising in her voice. He stayed put. Let her come closer.

"Everyone dies. Everyone leaves."

Another step.

"My mother!"

Another.

"My sister!"

Another.

"My father left!"

Another—faltering but still moving.

"My ex!"

A step closer.

She was in reaching distance now.

Astarion inhaled. How had he missed this? He had been so consumed with Cazador, so desperate for vengeance, so blind to the person beside him. He had known she carried demons—but never how deep their claws reached. Never how wrong they were about her.

"My—" She choked.

She staggered. Astarion reached forward.

Her sobs broke free, shattering the silence, harder and faster than any cry he had ever heard. Harder than his own sobs the night Cazador fell. She collapsed into him, trembling violently, her breath ragged against his neck. He held her. Held the back of her head. Held all of her. Lending her strength. Giving back what she had given him over and over again.

He looked over her shoulder, meeting Karlach’s gaze. She stared downward, silent, giving them space—but he knew. Everyone had heard. Everyone had failed her. They had all been drowning in their own burdens, too distracted to see hers—too wrapped up to realize their de facto leader was unravelling. They had to do better. He had to do better.

Tavi gasped against him, clutching at his shirt like he was the only thing keeping her tethered. He only held her tighter, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. Then, practicality. He needed to get her down. But—the ladder. Astarion stiffened. He couldn’t carry her and climb at the same time. He couldn’t risk letting go, couldn’t risk her slipping through his grasp and spiralling back into that darkness. Karlach was already moving. She pressed a scroll into his palm—Dimension Door. No hesitation. To hell with the cost. Astarion adjusted his hold, whispered the incantation. White-blue light swirled around them, and in an instant, they were back in the room.

Tavi curled into their bed, small and silent, her sniffles the only sound. Astarion knelt beside her, watching as she pulled her body in, folding in on herself.

Safe. But still breaking.

He swore to himself—he would not let her break completely. Not like this.

Halsin and Karlach gently ushered their companions out of the room.

“We’ll be back later,” Karlach murmured, her voice carrying a quiet reassurance. “Take the day. We’ll sort out Gale’s research. Just—look after her.” Astarion offered a weak smile in response, something tired but grateful. Karlach had become his closest friend. What a novelty.

And then, finally, the quiet.

Tavi was curled in his lap, small, tucked close like she wanted to disappear entirely. Her knees rested over his crossed legs, her breath brushing against his neck in soft, absent sighs. Her lips pressed gentle, thoughtless kisses to his skin—like muscle memory, like grounding. But the laugh that followed was wrong, hollow, devoid of warmth. Astarion sighed. She didn’t see herself the way he did. She didn’t know how deeply she was loved; how impossible the world would be without her in it. Those claws ran deeper than I ever imagined. He shifted, moving her from his lap onto the bed, but the sound she made—a tiny, reluctant noise of protest—sent something sharp through his chest. He ignored it.

Instead, he positioned himself in front of her, crossing his legs, closing the space between them. His fingers found her face, tracing the dried tracks of old tears, brushing them away as if he could erase them entirely. He wished he could. Gently, carefully, he tilted her chin upward.

“Tavi.” His voice was quiet, measured. “I wouldn’t lie about this.”

Her eyes searched his, uncertain. “The thought of you in this world—having endured what you have—hurts.” His thumbs ghosted over her cheekbones, slow and reverent. “I cannot fathom it. I cannot fathom how someone so strong can think so little of themselves. That you reached that point, and none of us noticed…” His gaze flickered downward, briefly weighed by guilt. “And I was guilty of it too.”

A sharp exhale. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more observant.” Something in her expression shifted—disbelief, confusion, doubt. Astarion caught it instantly and squared his shoulders, forcing himself to sit taller. “No. No guilt.”

This was not about his failure. Not now. He steadied himself, then made sure she heard him.

“I. Love. You.” Each word deliberate. Each syllable punctuated with a gentle squeeze of his fingers against her jaw, grounding her, making sure she couldn’t look away.

She gasped. Her entire face twisted with shock—like she had never expected to hear those words from him. And that alone nearly broke him. His lips curled into a slow, knowing smirk—the roguish one, the one he reserved for her alone.

Tavi swallowed thickly, voice barely above a whisper. “I love you too.” Wet. Fragile. Perfect.

Astarion wasted no time; His lips met hers, urgent but careful, exhaling into her as she breathed him in, as if grounding herself in his presence. Her fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him close like he was the only solid thing in her world. And for now, maybe he was. It was just the two of them.

Against The Brain.

Against Baldur’s Gate.

Against The Emperor.

Just them, against everything.

And they loved each other.

No Pressure tags: @roguishcat @shewhowas39 @lirotation @asweetlovesong @astarionancuntnin @starlight-rogue @renard-rogue

[levis-reading-recs]

Blessed

Pairing: Astarion x Tav (reader) WC: 2143 Summary: You enter a temple in the city to find a disused sauna. Lucky for you, Astarion knows exactly where to find you for a little bit of heresy! Blasphemy! Tags: dom/sub undertones, dirty astarion, choking, female oral, rough, a lot of dirty talk, like oops, slight ownership reference if you squint NSFW

(Suggestions/pairings/spicy ideas or challenges are welcome!)

also more religious allegories, sorry. this is so loosely edited because i had to get this out of my head and scrivener is giving me issues with formatting.

---

The heat clings to your skin like silk.

The sauna is empty except for you--  tucked behind the inner sanctum of the temple, hidden past a mosaic-tiled hallway that no longer sees worshippers. Once, it was used for ritual cleansing, reserved for high priests and the anointed. A sacred space meant to purify the body before communion. But the gods are silent now, and the scent of incense has long since given way to rosemary and cedarwood. The door creaks on rusted hinges as you step inside, towel clinging to sweat damp skin. Steam curls up in thick waves, diffusing the lanternlight until the air seems to glow with halos, yellow and calming.

You’re alone. For now.

The bench is warm against your thighs as you settle in, palms flat at your sides. Sweat beads at your temples, trails down your throat, curves and nestles into the hollow at your collarbone. You breathe deep-- sharp herbs and salt and old ash, the smell of fire long burned out. The stones hiss with every splash of water, the room mist-thick and fragrant with herbal steam. Another deep breath and you can feel the days on the road practically melting away as you sit, your muscles relaxing and finally, blessedly!, your back releases its tension. 

The groan that leaves your lips is practically pornographic, head dropping back onto the soft cushion behind the bench. You kick out a leg languidly, enjoying the heavy, heated air as it brushes against you, heated just enough to feel humid and thick. The secluded sauna offers enough privacy that you’re bold enough to fully drop your towel, taking a moment to drape it to either side, allowing the steam to kiss the whole of you. 

The change in air pressure is what alerts you first, a swirl of coolness brushing against your legs and making you look up sharply, reflexes honed from the perils of the road. Everything inside you pulls taut. The vacuum of the door opening parts the steam enough for you to make out someone entering and shutting the door behind them before moving into the room properly, and you’re able to see who it is for the first time clearly. The door clicks shut behind him. The lock turns.

Astarion enters your field of vision like a shadow cut from moonlight, all soft silk and sharper things beneath. Boots discarded. Daggers missing. Leathers shed. Only a loosely tied robe of charcoal-gray linen, cinched at the waist, clinging to damp skin and scandalous intentions. Pale chest bare beneath the open lapel, red eyes slow and appraising. He says nothing at first. Just watches you from beneath already dampened curls, red eyes catching the flicker of the lanterns like a slow-burning flame.

"Well," he murmurs, finally, voice thick with heat and wine-dark charm, "how very pious of you. Coming to a holy place for purification. Though I must say, I prefer my absolution… more carnal." He grins down at you at your place on the bench, sharp white teeth suddenly seeming much more dangerous, much more pointed.

Your throat goes dry.

He walks towards you with the patience of a predator, bare feet silent even on the slick stones and robe parted every so slightly-- just enough to reveal a teasing flash of pale hip and the long, lean muscle of his thigh. He stands before you, letting you look. And gods, do you look. His robe slips farther open, revealing the lean cut of his torso, the silver-pale trail of hair beneath his navel, the telltale sharpness of his hips.

When he stands before you, he doesn’t ask permission. 

He simply kneels.

Astarion’s hands are warm on your knees as he spreads them apart gently, pries them open like the cover of a sacred tome. He situates himself better between your legs, palms sliding up the sides of your naked thighs like a benediction, and looks up at you with reverence, and then grins, slanted and blasphemous.

“You came here to be clean,” he says, lips brushing your inner thigh. “But tell me, my love… do you truly want to be cleansed? Or do you want to be consecrated?”

You shift your hips against the towel beneath you, thighs parting in silent invitation.

His hands glide up your thighs with agonizing care, trailing streaks of heat in their wake. He doesn’t move quickly. There’s no need. The others were too pious to their own chosen forms of worship to wander into somewhere so sacrosanct and-! His mouth finds the crease of your hip and you gasp, your fingers tightening on the edge of the bench to either side of you. Astarion’s red eyes flicker up to meet yours and a silent agreement passes between the two of you-- desecrate. His lips move from your hip to your upper thigh, kissing the spot like it deserves worship. You shiver. The air is heavy and wet, and it only thickens with the tension rising in your gut.

“I thought of you,” he whispers, lips brushing your sensitive skin between each word, “while I fucked myself on my fingers this morning and came into my fist. Thought of your mouth, your hands… the way you say my name when you’re too far gone to be shy.” His voice grows husky, nails grazing sharper against you as his arousal grows.

Then his mouth is on you.

There is no hesitation, no preamble. He parts you with reverent fingers and leans in slowly, normally whip-sharp tongue dragging along the length of your cunt with slow but devastating intent. The first pass is exploratory, teasing, but the next is nothing short of hunger, lips sealing around your clit as if tasting divinity itself. The heat of his mouth rivals the sauna and you allow yourself to moan softly, back arching as pleasure builds in the center of your gut.

"Gods above," he mutters between long sweeps of his tongue, pulling away from you to make smoldering eye contact, "if this is sacrilege, may I be damned a thousand times over." His hands grip your thighs tightly, holding you open for him, tongue plunging deep, curling inside you. He drinks you in like communion wine, slow and obscene, eyes flicking up just once to watch you tremble. Fuck, how he savors it… every gasp, every twitch, every roll of your hips against him, seeking more more more!

Astarion moans against your cunt, the sordid sound sending sparks straight through you. He alternates between flicking your clit with precision and burying his tongue as deep as he can reach, murmuring praise into you with every sound you make. "So sweet," he purrs, lips slick and shining, "so radiant, my darling." When your legs begin to tremble, when you clutch the towel beneath you in desperation, he doesn’t relent; instead he devours you like prey, merciless and slow, until your thighs visually tremble and shake and your breath hitches in your throat.

When he pulls away from your cunt you reach for him, but he’s already rising, already dropping his robe to the slickened stones to reveal the long, hard line of his cock, glistening at the tip. Astarion guides you back against the seat of the sauna, levying your ass and hips forward to meet him with ease. One hand braces behind your neck, the other trails slowly between your breasts. You arch into the touch with a luxuriating sigh-- the way he touches you does nothing to convince you that you /arent/ God.

And a God should be loved, no?

“Mm. Such devotion to your subjects,” he purrs. “Perhaps I should offer a prayer.” His lips move slowly to your own, brushing gently against your cheek first, the promise of more. Astarion kisses you slowly, like he’s sealing a pact. His tongue slips against yours, coaxing, claiming, and when he slides a hand around the back of your neck, it’s not forceful… it’s possessive. You’re already his, he’s merely reminding you of the truth.

“Astarion,” you gasp against his lips and whine when his long, lithe fingers part you again in preparation. He smiles into the kiss, allowing his lips to hover just above yours, the space between you filled with soft pants and desire.

“Blessed are the wicked, for they shall be filled.”

He sinks into you with a slow, deliberate sigh, head falling back, mouth parting in silent ecstasy. Your breath hitches. He’s so deep, stretching you open with agonizing fullness. A slow roll of his hips, and your body welcomes him like a prayer answered in blood and heat before he pulls out again, just as slow. The head of his cock nudges through your slick folds with delicious ease, gliding in inch by inch until he’s buried deep again, thighs pressed against your ass.

You grip his hips and pull him closer, and he moans, a strangled, hungry sound. Astarion steadies himself with one hand on the back of the bench while the other scorches a searing path up your side, fucking you in a rhythm that is filthy in its elegance; it’s slow and cyclical, like a dance learned in a different, darker church.

“This place,” he pants, “this temple… they used to baptize virgins here. Can you imagine it? The holy oils. The sacred chants. All wasted on trembling girls too afraid to even look at themselves.” The laugh that leaves him is sharp and sardonic. “Wasted. But you… oh you, darling…” Astarion grunts as he thrusts into you once, sharply. A bead of sweat drips from a white curl, lands on your collarbone. “You have no fear, do you?”

With a wry smile of your own, you meet each of his thrusts, hard and insistent, and the sound he makes borders on obscene. His thighs slap against yours as the pace builds, each grind of his hips sending shudders through your core, fucking you into the bench, into the etched memory of the temple. You hear the wood of the bench creak under his hand as he grips it tighter, his other finally sliding between the two of you and between your legs, swiping at your clit in fast, desperate strokes.

He’s close, but still wants you to finish.

What a gentleman.

“Fuck me,” you gasp, your own grip on the bench threatening to tear your fingernails, “don’t stop.” His eyes find yours, red and fervent, nearly crazed with arousal. “Ruin me.”

The wet slap of bodies. The rasp of his breath in your ear. The hiss of the steam stones. All of it blends into a heady blur as your pleasure crests. You feel him tremble above you, his pace growing erratic and arms threatening to give way to exertion, hips stuttering as he grinds deeper into you. The coil inside you tightens with each thrust, your release threatening to snap inside of you like a taut rubber band.

You reach up, fingers threading into his hair as you press your forehead to his, voice rough with want. “Come for me.” The breath that leaves him is a sharp exhalation of shock through his nose, and you watch as his eyes grow dangerous. Astarion's hand wraps gently but firmly around your throat, his thumb brushing your pulse as his hips snap forward one final time. He holds you there, suspended between fear and pleasure, his own breath ragged as he fills you, his eyes trained firmly on your eyes. The pressure, the heat, the thrill of it sends you reeling and your climax surges up in a blinding wave, drawn out and delicious, your body clenching around him as you fall apart beneath his grip.

When he relaxes his grip on your throat enough for you to breathe you draw in a shuddering gasp, your eyes fluttering as he draws one more climax from your shaking body, his pelvis rocking perfectly against you. His hold softens as you twitch under him, gasping and panting as you come down. He leans down, brushing a kiss against your lips, his chest heaving against yours. Astarion’s mouth trails to your throat, where his thumb still rests reverently over the flutter of your pulse.

There’s a brief moment where you’re worried he’ll give in, bite you, end things right here.

But no.

He trails his pointed nose into the hollow behind your ear and huffs a short laugh.

"Do you think they’ll smell it?" he murmurs, voice syrupy with satisfaction. "The priests. The paladins. The ones who wander in to light candles and whisper prayers to indifferent gods. I want them to smell your delicious cunt, and what we’ve done here.”

“Let them,” you respond, smiling into his hair and pressing a kiss to his temple that seems almost chaste in comparison to what you’ve just done.

He laughs. It’s soft.

Unholy.

“That’s what I thought you’d say.” 

---

as usual, i hate writing endings. if anyone has requests, let me know :) sorry again if there's any typos or weird formatting, i'm trying out Scrivener for the week and it's odd.

[levis-reading-recs]

08/30 - Negotiate

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Characters: Astarion x Reader 

Words: 1,291

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shook your head.

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

Still you said nothing.

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

“Astarion—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shrugged. “Dinner’s long over.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[levis-reading-recs]

elfsong tavern — "you're allowed to feel these things." + astarion (because i fear this prompt was written for him)

the death of peace of mind

pre-confession!astarion x fem!reader

summary: 0.8k

“I’m okay,” you say, holding out the palms of your hands as if that were all the proof he’d need after seeing you nearly bleed out at the Inn. One of those winged freaks had dug their claws deep into your back. It would’ve been fine. You’d been through worse, even just on this journey of yours. Shadowheart had already been on her way to heal you when Astarion had lost it. Daggers flying and flaying skin from bone, fangs tearing through anything that had the misfortune of getting close, more than one arrow directed through the skull of a winged horror or, even, Marcus, the fist that had shown up and caused all of this. 

Then, his hands, cradled in crimson, had pulled you into a grip so tight it had stolen the breath from you.

or the one where astarion can't fight the fear of losing you.

masterlist

“Go away,” Astarion grunts. Your fingers hover at the seam of his tent flap, hesitating at the sound of being caught. You weren’t sure how you thought you could sneak up on him this late at night, or if you were even attempting to sneak up on him at all. Still, you waiver. 

“Astarion?” you ask softly. 

A scoff, then a rustle. His hand creeps out just enough to give you a glimmer of his face under the moonlight barely shining through the shadow curse. “Darling, you do know the meaning of the word away, don’t you?”

Blinking, you lower your hand. You’re a beat away from opening your mouth to respond when Astarion begins again. 

“Well, come in, then, if you’re just going to stand there gawking all night,” he grunts before shifting back to lay on his bedroll, the tent flap fluttering shut behind him. You crawl in after him.

His tent had always been on the sparser side. A bedroll, a tattered blanket, more than one empty bloodjar–a wonder no one had caught onto his affliction before his nighttime snack–and a backpack full of his arrows and armor. Recently, though, you’d noticed some additions. Nothing crazy, or gaudy, as he’d like, but enough to make note of. 

The dagger you’d found at the goblin camp. He’d been all fangs when you’d handed it to him, accepting it with little less than a barb at the fact that it’d been the first piece of equipment you’d found that was suitable for his needs. You’d found more since, but the ritual dagger still sits beneath his pillow in case your camp becomes compromised in the middle of the night. The toad teapot you’d nicked from the hag’s lair. He’d teased you mercilessly when he’d found it in the camp chest later that evening, ribbing you with a pinch at your waist and a curl to his lip. An amulet you’d found beneath a rock in the druid’s grove dangling like a chain from his backpack, one he put on each night after he fed from you to heal you from your bloodloss.

Additions, you realized, of your time with him.  

“Are we just going to sit here and stare at each other, then?” he asks. The ring on his finger glints as he twists it. The matching band sits on your own hand. The engraving on the inside of it feels heavy as you remember it. True Love’s Caress.

“Astarion,” you say, quieter this time, but just as soft. The tips of his ears droop a bit. 

“I don’t-” he cuts himself off, jaw clenching enough for the rest of his sentence to come out in a mumble. “want to talk about it.”

You eye him cautiously, your gaze falling over the way the candlelight softens his usually sharp features. 

“I’m okay,” you say, holding out the palms of your hands as if that were all the proof he’d need after seeing you nearly bleed out at the Inn. One of those winged freaks had dug their claws deep into your back. It would’ve been fine. You’d been through worse, even just on this journey of yours. Shadowheart had already been on her way to heal you when Astarion had lost it. Daggers flying and flaying skin from bone, fangs tearing through anything that had the misfortune of getting close, more than one arrow directed through the skull of a winged horror or, even, Marcus, the fist that had shown up and caused all of this. 

Then, his hands, cradled in crimson, had pulled you into a grip so tight it had stolen the breath from you. 

“I know you’re okay, Darling,” he says. His head tilts, eyes narrowed. The wall you’d been picking at for weeks now was starting to come back up. 

You shift closer to him, just enough to where your knees are pressed together while mirroring his criss-crossed legs. Your outstretched palms still linger in the air between you. 

“You’re allowed to feel these things, you know,” you say slowly. A scoff escapes him, bitten off and sharp. You don’t reach for him, don’t push, but you leave yourself open for him to take if he chooses. “You’re allowed… to be afraid… for someone else.”

He doesn’t meet your eye as his hand finds yours. It’s not hard, or even much of a hold, but he rests it there. Clean from blood, clean from the day, just your skin against his. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. 

“That’s okay.”

“I don’t-” he cuts himself off with a sigh. “What if you hadn’t been okay, Darling?”

“Withers would have brought me back.” “And what if he couldn’t?” he snaps. His hand is still in yours, gentle despite his tone.

“Look at me,” you murmur. He hesitates, but his eyes find yours in the low light. The carmine catches in the candlelight. “I’m okay. I’m alive. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t promise that, my sweet,” he whispers. 

“Then let me be here as long as I can,” you reply. You’re not promising him the world, barely promising enough to ease the ache still clenching his lungs, but it seems to calm him. His shoulders ease, his ears droop further, his jaw unclenches. 

A short nod. “Okay.” 

[levis-reading-recs]

I can't stop thinking of knitting Astarion a blanket.

Maybe it's because I'm elbow deep into crocheting baby clothes but who knows

Like, imagine knitting or crocheting Astarion a blanket. Because everyone else managed to bring something along for the journey when the mindflayers kidnapped you, you had a backpack and some coin, same for Laz'el, and Shadowheart and Gale and probably everyone else, but not Astareon.

He has nothing, not a coin to his name. Just a dagger, a bow, and a few arrows. He steals what he needs to make his tent but he's all too aware that none of it is really his.

And then he sees you working on your project by the fire, sipping on a mug of steaming tea or coffee. He sees you wandering around villages and random groups of people, bartering your way to some yarn.

Of course he's curious. But he'd never ask, because, obviously, it would never be any of his business. It could never be for him. And then, after working on it at any moment you could, you come to him one night with the blanket neatly folded in your hands.

"I don't know if you get cold," you say, "But I thought you might want a blanket if you do."

You're so awkward, you know Astarion likes the finer things in life. He likes luxury, and this is hardly luxury. It's a dark blue, but only because you died it. The yarn you bartered never came in the same colour and sometimes it wasn't even the same thickness. You tried to match it as best you could, but it wasn't perfect.

Astarion notices it and for the first time in his very long, miserable life. He doesn't give a shit. Because it's his. Completely, 100%, his own thing. Cazador has never touched this, he has never seen this, he will never lay a finger on his blanket. And the fact that it's his is only overshadowed by the fact that you made it for him. Not because he likes you, he's not even realised that yet, or not properly anyway, but because you looked at him, fangs, sarcasm, blood thirst and all, and decided you were going to take a tenday and make a blanket to gift to him. You decided he was worthy of yarn, time and effort. All so he could be a little warmer at night.

That blanket might not be worth much, if anything, but when you're as used as Asterion is to being worth less than shite, it's like happening upon a vault of precious diamonds.

He doesn't say thank you, he just grabs it from you and tries to act nonchalant. Because if he opens his mouth, he might actually just start crying.

[levis-reading-recs]

A little chat between Sherlock and his girlfriend.

[levis-reading-recs]

Here For You

Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, 2,570 w., Oneshot (1/1 Chapters)

Main tags: Teen!Sherlock, Autistic!Sherlock (& Mycroft), Meltdowns, Hurt/Comfort, Brotherly Love

Summary:

Sherlock has dedicated all 14 years of his life so far to understanding others. Their ticks, their emotions, their thoughts. Despite seemingly hating them all, he yearns for connection. It burns when it's thrown back in his face. When all he has is scotch and his thoughts, though, who comes looking for him? Or: Sherlock has a bit of whiskey in an attempt to fit in, is caught, and has a meltdown. Mycroft is there for him.

[levis-reading-recs]

I Triple Dog Dare You (Astarion x F!Reader) (Part 2 to Pinkie Promise)

CW: Angst, mentions of trauma, mentions of sexual trauma, mentions of bullying, mentions of parental death, mentions of domestic violence, mentions of voyeurism

Both titles have been inspired by the song ‘School Nights’ by Chappell Roan

Dedicated to @amica-aenigmata-naboo - thank you for demanding a part two 😂

Part 1: Pinkie Promise?

✨this has been proof read once and I have been awake and working since 3 am. It is not 10:04 pm. Please help✨

You finish your letter by folding it into thirds and then writing ‘Star’ on the back. You take a deep breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth- reminding yourself that you already know he likes you back, you are just taking that last extra little step. You also can’t attempt to write this letter again- this is your 8th draft, the others turning into flames in your hands very quickly.

You want to ask Astarion to be in a serious relationship with you. You have only been seeing each other (as far as you know) and you’ve spent almost everyday sleeping with him in his tent since you had ventured into the Underdark. Most of the time- you don’t even have sex. You stay up talking together and sharing soft kisses- no clothes, just intimacy. You adore those moments immensely.

Life around camp has also been good- everyone is finally beginning to get along. Shadowheart and Lae’zel even silently respect each other now. It feels like one big happy family and you are grateful for them when this whole journey feels far too big and scary.

Recently, you and your crew have been playing an ongoing game of “Triple Dog Dare”. The only rule is you can’t dare someone in the middle of a battle or a serious mission. Otherwise- it’s all fair game and if you decline to do it, you have to take the darers’ guard duty or help them with a chore. The chores were limited to one task and it can’t be taking down a whole tent + equipment- the one time Astarion had to take down Gale’s tent had been disastrous. The dare had been to allow Gale to take you on a date- Astarion shot back with a “I triple dog dare you to swallow my fucking knife wizard.” All parties (minus Astarion) agreed that this dare was not to be followed through on.

The game has had… less than favorable results. Watching Wyll and Karlach streak across the camp while you were piss drunk was awful. Oh and the time Gale almost died because Wyll dared him to spy on the two of you for 20 minutes. You hadn’t heard his thoughts, but Astarion had. His head had shot up from between your legs with a furious look in his eyes. Astarion had covered your naked frame up quickly with his shirt (his trousers still on) and chased after Gale until he pushed the man into the freezing Underdark water.

The group then had to make a few more rules people didn’t realize they had to make. In Gale’s defense- Wyll didn’t specify and Wyll is a real snob about which chore he gives the person. It’s also the worst chore and usually includes de-stinking his boots. You are almost positive Wyll does this on purpose as repayment for all the headaches this groups’ shenanigans has given him-oh and the horns.

Karlach triple dog dared you today to finally confess your feelings to Astarion. You had gawked at her and then dared her to do the same with Dammon. You shook on it and it was done.

Finding out that Astarion’s life is in far more danger than any of them had realized shook you to your core. You are tired of wasting time being afraid to ask him what you already know (or at least hope you know). You are silently grateful that Karlach has given you the push you needed (you doubt she would have actually made you do anything- she wouldn’t put you on blast like that).

It just never felt like the right time in the past. Having your life be in constant danger is kind of a romance killer and you aren’t sure how the hell you are supposed to do this.

Do you court him? Do you ask him to court you?

You ultimately settled on just flat out telling him your feelings- politics be damned. It’s not like you were welcome in High Society anyway.

Now you are in the safety of Last Light Inn and it feels like the right time to bring this up. You worry that waiting any longer will result in him looking for someone more serious or maybe you would always just be a person he slept with during the journey to his freedom.

You hope you are more than that and you are almost positive you are. The way he looks at you, kisses you, and talks to you is so genuine- his eyes are always so soft and so are his lips. He protects you and you protect him. You adore him and you think he adores you too.

So naturally, walking up behind him and Shadowheart talking isn’t a nerve wracking endeavor to you. This is all going to go off without a hitch!

Or so you thought.

Your ears twitch and you barely hear what they say to each other, but you do. Gods you wish you hadn’t.

“You are insufferable, Cleric.” Astarion groans, “I already told you my answer.”

“Oh please- you follow them around like a lovesick puppy. You can’t honestly tell me you have absolutely no feelings for them.”

Shadowheart takes a long sip of her pint and raises an eyebrow at him. You remain in the shadow- your heart thumping out of your chest. Maybe he’ll say a lot of wonderful things about you? Maybe your hopes will be-

“Nope, not a single feeling outside of my carnal desires,” he says nonchalantly, “that’s all it’s been and they know that.”

Oh.

You feel all the air leave your lungs as you crumple your letter and shove it in your pocket. You don’t know why you insist on listening further.

“Then I triple dog dare you to go talk to someone and take them to bed. You will have no problem bedding that Harper who keeps giving you ‘fuck me’ eyes- I’m sure.”

Oh please no.

“You offend me- that’s hardly a challenge,” he says while standing up, sauntering over to the Harper that is eyeing him.

You promptly turn around and hurry out of the building. You can’t breathe. You should have known better.

You had always been Tav the Guillable, the Plain, the Insufferable, etc, etc. You had been thrown at your aunt and uncle when your parents passed. Your aunt and uncle lived in a nice Human only city and you are a ‘filthy half-breed.’

One of the boys in your Archery class found out you had a crush on him so he asked you to meet him by the river. You showed up with wild flowers for him- something your mother told you Wood Elf’s do to show affection. He showed up with your entire class- all of them laughing at you for being stupid enough to believe he liked you and then his future partner beat the shit out of you before throwing you into the rushing water. You wished you hadn’t survived, but a nice family who was tolerant towards Half breeds saved you. Your Aunt and Uncle were pissed. Admittedly, so were you.

They treated you terribly- constantly trying to marry you off to old men who you would turn away with your boorish behavior.

You really thought you had it right this time. Everything felt so natural and right- like you had been made for each other. What did you not pick up on? What did you miss this whole time? How could you have been so blind?

You pick up your bedroll on the way out- you were all going to sleep on the floor of the inn with the rest of the Harpers and Refugees, but you couldn’t pretend you wanted to be near Astarion like he does with you. You aren’t ready to confront him- you aren’t ready for the pretty illusion to be completely shattered and swept under the rug yet. You were just getting used to being someone he loved and now the whole world is crumbling underneath you.

It was barely anything- obviously- so why does it hurt this much?

You find yourself in front of Damon’s metal shop and he’s talking to Karlach. You clear your throat and they both look at you. Karlach suddenly looks concerned when she sees the look on your face.

“Could I sleep above your shop tonight?” You say with a strained voice, “behind the hay? I just… need to be alone.”

“Sure thing- it’s all yours.”

You smile gratefully at him and begin to climb up the ladder.

“Do you want me to tell Fangs, Soldier?”

You can hear the question in her voice. She is your best friend after all.

“No- please don’t,” you smile at her sadly, “I would prefer he doesn’t know where I am.”

Karlach nods in understanding, giving you a sad smile, and you go behind the hay and lay out your bedroll. It smells like him and you don’t know if that’s helping or hurting at this point, but you are mostly too tired to care.

Your heart hurts as you try to find sleep. You throw the crumpled note across the little loft and silently begin to cry.

At least you knew what it felt to give and receive love- even if it was false and unrequited the entire time.

*****************************************

Astarion is barely present for the conversation with the Harper male who is trying to impress him into bed. Astarion is only thinking of you and how much he wants to get this over with so you can find a more secluded spot together. Every morning to every night feels like far too long to wait to have a tender moment with you.

Astarion imagines leaving lingering kisses along your collar bones and your cheeks. He thinks about how he desperately needs to rebraid your hair. It’s been frizzy and unruly from all the fog- the baby hairs sticking out all over the place. He also needs to patch up your armor again- your Meilikki Cleric Armor ripped apart from the events of yesterday.

Mostly though, he wants to spend the off day tomorrow with just you. Astarion wants to find somewhere to hide or even just rent a room so that you can just be in each other’s presence un interrupted by the world. Astarion’s heart glows at the thought of the sexless intimacy you share. He’s so happy it’s not a priority to you- it’s allowed him to do things at his own pace and as he wants to which is very freeing to him.

Astarion had finally admitted to himself that his plan had well and truly failed- he has fallen for you very hard.

He doesn’t know what possessed him to lie to Shadowheart. He mostly just didn’t want to be pressured to leap forward. Astarion isn’t sure if you want to be something real with him and he also doesn’t know if you are hell bent on being a proper noble woman who marries a proper noble man. It would break his heart if you rejected him and Astarion has no desire to feel that way. For now, Astarion will bask in his peaceful ignorance.

The Harper man eventually scowls at Astarion and tells him to fuck off if he isn’t interested. Astarion goes back to Shadowheart with an annoyed look on his face.

“Fine- you win, Cleric,” Astarion scowls, “I have feelings for them. I couldn’t even give that man a moment of my attention because I couldn’t stop thinking about them so if you will excuse me-“

Shadowheart squeals in delight and Astarion rolls his eyes. Astarion walks around the entire inn and property- you are nowhere to be found. Astarion is beginning to become more and more worried. Astarion is pacing out front when Karlach and Dammon come up to the Inn- ready to hit the sack.

“Karlach,” Astarion says, a bit more panicked than he means to, “where is Tav? I’ve been looking for them everywhere and I can’t find them!”

Karlach looks suddenly uncomfortable and like she definitely knows where you are.

“Karlach if you know where Tav is-“

“I do!” She says exasperated, “but they specifically asked that you don’t know and I don’t blame them! You gonna go fuck them and pretend to have feelings for them again for the billionth time?”

Astarion is stock still and horribly confused. What in the hells is she talking about? Karlach shoves a piece of crumpled paper into his hands and shakes her head at him.

“You know- if you are going to fuck with someone’s feelings,” Karlach tries to keep her patience, “maybe don’t pick the nicest person in the room. Honestly Fangs- fuck you. I thought you were better than that.”

Astarion is at a loss for words- which is very rare for him. He slowly unfolds the note- hoping it might put some of the pieces together.

Star,

I have really come to enjoy your company and our time together.

I am quite smitten with you and I’m too nervous to say this out loud, but I would like to be able to call you my partner (in a romantic sense)- if you return my feelings, that is.

If not, no worries. All I want is for you to be happy.

-Tav

The pieces click together like a haunting tune.

You had heard everything that was said between him and Shadowheart. Obviously you didn’t stick around for the important part, but Gods you must be heartbroken.

Astarion has to assume you were hiding somewhere in Damon’s shop if Karlach is the one who knows where you are. He had been avoiding the shop initially so that Karlach could have her privacy with Dammon. Now it’s fair game.

Astarion quickly walks towards the shop and as soon as he enters- his ears pick up your quiet sobbing. Your thoughts are loud and unguarded- his words playing in your head over and over again. You are wondering why you aren’t good enough. Astarion finally sees what you have refused to show him- your parents are long gone, despite the fact that you talk about them as if they are waiting for you to come home. Your Aunt, Uncle, cousins, and an entire society have rejected you, humiliated you, and belittled you. This just happens to be the salt in the wound. You keep looping through the thought of how stupid you are to have missed this of all damn things. How could you even begin to think he would actually want you? Plain, boring, ugly, half-breed Tav.

Oh my Darling, what have I done?

Shadowheart had been teasing him relentlessly ever since you had all arrived back to the safety of Last Light Inn. You had led them all to support Astarion in finding out more about the scars carved into his back. It had been incredibly dangerous and Shadowheart had had to heal him more than usual- he kept putting himself between you and every bomb, warrior, etc. He wanted her to stop- he likes the privacy of his little world with you.

Now he’s demolished that world and your heart in less than an hour. Astarion was actually nervous earlier- realizing how deep his feelings for you are and how much he wants something real with you. He just isn’t close enough with Shadowheart to share those feelings out loud willingly. Astarion is thrilled that you feel the same way, but now he isn’t sure he can convince you that his feelings are genuine and not a giant lie.

Astarion slowly makes his way up the ladder and he hears your sobbing stop- one single sniffle occurring before silence.

“Darling?” he asks quietly.

The air is tense and Astarion feels more nervous than a school boy with a crush. You hiccup.

“Astarion.”

Your voice is strained and cracks- he can hear the effort you put into trying to make your voice sound steady and normal.

You are definitely not happy with him. You usually address him as Star when he first arrives in your orbit.

Astarion takes it as a good sign that you are at least willing to speak with him.

“It’s come to my attention that you may have overheard a conversation without context and without staying until the end,” Astarion says slowly, “I was hoping you might let me explain myself.”

You sit up gingerly, your head bent, and look up at him with puffy, bloodshot eyes. Your bottom lip is swollen- you often worry it between your teeth when you are upset. He doesn’t like when you are upset, but he does love how incredibly delicious it makes your lips look. Your skin is under a veil of tears and your cheeks are stained pink from you rubbing away the sadness from your face. It’s unfair how beautiful a crier you are.

Astarion decides to go against his better judgement and he crawls towards you. You look at him with a guarded expression, but you don’t fight him as he pulls you into his lap- his fingers moving the hair out of your face and wiping the remaining tears from your cheeks.

“Shadowheart was teasing me for being… overly concerned with your safety today,” Astarion begins, “I just didn’t want to- her and I aren’t close enough for me to-“

Astarion huffs in frustration and looks down at the floor momentarily before making direct eye contact with you. He decides to use the tadpole- maybe showing will make more sense than explaining.

Astarion shows you his original intentions of manipulating you- his musings over your beauty, but your aggravating naivety and the annoyance at your persistent kindness. He feels you flinch a little, but your body begins to relax against his as you watch his feelings change. Astarion lets you see all of his jealousy, confusion, fear, and adoration for you. He even lets you see his turmoil during sex. Astarion enjoys himself with you- more than he’s ever enjoyed himself with anyone, but the self-loathing and disgust pose a challenge during intimate moments.

Lastly, Astarion shows you how scared he is to lose you. He lets the feeling consume him and he feels like he’s a rope ready to snap at any moment. His mind wanders to how much he doesn’t ever want to have to miss you- the beautiful moments you have shared together and how much joy you have brought to his life. You make him want to be a better person- well at least in your presence. Astarion would do just about anything for you.

You press your forehead to his and release a relieved sigh. Astarion pulls you in for a deep, tender kiss. The kiss is needy, but not in a sexual way. Astarion needs you to know that he really does adore you- his affections are absolutely not fake.

He finally has to pull back to let you breathe and you wrap your arms around his neck.

“You make me so so happy, Darling,” Astarion whispers tearfully, “I really don’t want to lose you.”

“Star, I adore you for all the sentimental reasons,” your eyes sparkle as you look at him, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Astarion tries not to show how relieved he is, but the way his shoulders slump gives him away.

“We don’t have to have sex, you know,” you say quietly, “I can wait until you are ready. I want you to be happy and feel loved more than anything.”

Astarion is surprised by the choked sob that escapes his lips- pulling you in closer.

“That sounds like a challenge.”

“Yeah well,” you pull back and smile at him, “I triple dog dare you to prioritize your wants and needs first!”

Astarion rolls his eyes at you and tries to hide the grateful tears threatening to spill from his eyes. You are his most favorite person across all the planes. He is so grateful for you, your patience, and how much you try to understand him so that you can support his healing from centuries of abuse.

“Cheeky pup.”

You grin widely, “the cheekiest.”

“Hmmm well,” Astarion slyly smirks, “if we are going to play this childish game…”

You pout, jutting your lower lip out. Astarion places a chaste kiss on your cheek before whispering in your ear.

“I triple dog dare you to be something real with me.”

Astarion’s nerves are going haywire- praying to every God he can think of that you still want to be serious with him.

Your smile could light up the entirety of the Shadow Cursed Lands. You give him a short sweet kiss on the cheek and A kunik*.

“Dare accepted.”

*A kunik means nose kiss in Inuit

[levis-reading-recs]

Pinkie Promise? (Astarion x F! reader) MDNI 18+

Author note- this is specifically for @spitfireunhinged who wrote a beautiful little post with a concept that I adored. I hope I did it justice and you enjoy!

CW- NSFW, mentions of SA

Synopsis- You tell Astarion that you don’t think sex is as good as people say it is. Astarion is determined to prove you wrong.

*not my pic. Please let me know if it is yours so I can give credit

I rewrote this like 7 times. This draft is lightly edited, but I couldn’t wait to post it!

Part 2: I Triple Dog Dare You

Astarion had heard the phrase “pinky promise” before. It was usually between Leon and Victoria before Leon left for a hunt. She always made Leon pinkie promise that he would come home and Leon always swore it- his pinkie hooked with hers.

The whole thing made Astarion vomit, but he thought it was just a “them” thing since he had never heard it before.

Then you used it on him and he had hurt your feelings terribly. He had called you a child and then proceeded to mock you.

You had just smiled at him sweetly like you usually do, apologized for invading his space, and for crossing his boundaries.

When Astarion had come by an hour or two later to drop off a book he ‘borrowed’ (it was his book, but he wanted an excuse to talk to you again), he heard you sniffling and asking Karlach if you were a child. You were so upset by his judgment because you like him as a person and thought the two of you were friends. Karlach said that some people just aren’t capable of being nice.

Astarion found you after Karlach went to sleep and pinkie promised to never call you a child again (and that he doesn’t think you are a child).

Suddenly, it was your thing and it slowly became more enduring as time went on. A part of him was envious if Karlach or Gale offered you the gesture first and you would give them one of your breathtaking smiles. He wishes he could initiate it, but it feels far too intimate to him. Asking someone to promise him something? Perish the thought! No one can truly be trusted. Well- maybe you can be trusted.

Astarion doesn’t know when he became so infatuated with you and your existence. Maybe it was that first night at camp when the two of you got to know each other a little bit better. You hadn’t been able to sleep because you were struggling to adjust to the new environment. You asked him lots of questions that he honestly had struggled to answer, but you were actually interested in him- not just his body.

Astarion was beginning to crave your presence and he despised sharing it with anyone else. One time he even went as far as making you pinkie promise you wouldn’t kiss Gale when he had called you over. You had scoffed and said that is ridiculous because “Gale would not kiss you ever, yuck!” , but did it anyway.

Low and behold- Gale did not get his kiss. He’s tried since, but you have rejected his advances. Astarion likes to think it’s because you like him more- want him more.

So maybe that’s why he was quick to drag you away from the Tiefling party after you had made your rounds- not wanting to watch you be with another person a second longer. You let him take your hand and you giggle as he chastises you for taking so long to talk to everyone else.

“How dare my self-proclaimed ‘best friend’ spend so much time not in my presence!” Astarion melodramatically states, “I am hurt, Darling. I thought we had something special.”

You blow air out of your mouth with an eye roll and smile at him.

“Well of course we do,” you say matter of factly, “but I also knew the minute I went to talk to you that I wouldn’t talk to anyone else.

“I’m the fearless leader!” You say with emphasis, “Leader of the Freakshow- welcome one and all to the most traumatized individuals alive!”

Astarion’s chest bursts with laughter, “how very on the nose of you, my Dear.”

“I must keep all of us humble, my Sweet,” you say boldly.

He tsks at you and twirls you around, “I’m afraid you aren’t allowed to steal my lines- that is going to cost you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Certainly.”

“Name your price.”

Astarion pauses- right now doesn’t feel like the moment to go full throttle. He has more work to do.

“I need time to think,” he says lewdly, “there are so many things I could ask for, after all.”

You hum in agreement and smile at him coyly.

Maybe it’s because you are the first person he has actively sought out since he has been released from Cazador’s grasp.

Astarion guides you to a spot in the meadow he had found earlier. Well- actually he had followed Gale to it earlier- Astarion just found an even better spot like 10 yards away.

Gale had stupidly announced to Wyll around the campfire that he was going to ask to spend time with you alone tonight.

There was immediately not a chance in hells that that was going to happen. Gale found a nice spot in the forest- Astarion found a better one. Gale brought a blanket and wine? Pfft, Astarion can do that.

You stop in front of the blanket and wine before you look at him- a nice blush running up your neck.

“Is this for-?” You seem surprised.

Which Astarion finds very interesting considering you are from Noble society- shouldn’t you be used to being courted? Astarion is almost certain you’d have at least a hundred suitors.

“For you?” He smiles charmingly, “well of course, only the best for you, my Dear.”

You duck your head and you blush even harder. Astarion guides you to sit with him. You both drink the wine and talk. You ask him questions about himself and he asks plenty about you.

Astarion isn’t sure when the conversation turns into talking about sex- that had always been the original intention of the conversation.

“Sex can’t possibly be all that great.”

“Pardon?”

You shrug your shoulders and slightly slur the sentence again with emphasis.

“Sex can’t possibly be all that great.”

Astarion is shocked to his core. You flirt back and forth with him as if you’ve bedded at least a couple men.

“You’ve never?”

“No.”

“How?”

You look at him with a puzzled expression. You are staring at him as if he’s grown a second head.

Hypocrite. You’re the one spewing none sense!

“How?” You state incredulously, “you have looked at me right?”

Oh yes and I’ve imagined fucking you until you are screaming my name, but that’s beside the point I suppose.

“I’m nothing much to look at. I’m always the friend- never the girlfriend or the lover or whatever!” You emphasize with your hands, “no one has ever felt that way about me and if they have- they’ve never gone for it so I assume it’s just not that much fun.”

Astarion feels like he’s dying all over again. That was your assumption? Not that you might be horrifically oblivious because he’s only tried to to get in your pants several times. One time he quite literally asked you to come to his bed that night and you showed up with a book.

“Darling,” Astarion’s exasperation obvious, “I’ve been trying to have sex with you for a couple weeks now. Probably even more than that at this point.”

You stare at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

“You,” you stammer, “you want to? With me? No way.”

You laugh nervously, “you are beautiful and intelligent and-“

“No, no way.”

Astarion raises an eyebrow at you and smiles seductively. Your lips part slightly as he pushes you on your back and parts your legs with his knee.

Your arms automatically wrap around his neck- your pupils blown wide with lust. Astarion kisses to the left and right of your lips- grinning when he hears your huff in frustration.

“You sure do keen a lot for someone who doesn’t think sex could possibly be ‘that good’, Darling,” Astarion coos, you tighten your lips in embarrassment.

Astarion rolls his eyes at you and cups your face while putting his thumb in your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. You hum with pleasure and peer at him through hooded eye lids. Astarion feels his cock strain against his pants

“So, my Dear,” Astarion drawls, “do you want me to fuck you? Would you like to see all the bliss you are missing out on?”

You nod eagerly and Astarion presses his thigh against your growing heat. You whine around his thumb and you run your tongue against his skin.

Fuck.

“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” He asks hotly.

You nod- Astarion can smell your arousal and feel it seeping through both of your pants.

“Pinkie promise?” He says teasingly, pulling his thumb out of your mouth to hold out his pinkie.

You hook your pinkie with his and whisper, “pinkie promise.”

Astarion pulls you in for a mind numbing kiss- caressing your lips with his until you are keeping up with his pace. He feels your arms around his neck pull him in deeper.

Your kiss against his lips is sweet and intoxicating- for a second he completely forgets about the purpose of the evening. Astarion could sit here and just kiss you like this until the sun comes up.

Your breathing hitches and Astarion watches as you desperately try to find release by riding his thigh- your movements erratic and wanting. The sounds you are making fill him with excitement and for the first time in a while- he’s actually eager to be inside someone.

He realizes your moaning has become muffled all of a sudden and he looks up to find you covering your mouth- your cheeks and ears are bright red while you pant with arousal.

Astarion laces his fingers through yours and holds your hands down on either side of your head- your pupils are blown wide from lust. The galloping of your heart is like music to his ears.

“Oh no,” he whispers seductively, “do not keep those delicious moans of yours from me, Darling. You promised to be good, remember?”

“Y-yes,” you say between heavy breaths- this time you are the one to surprise him by closing the space between the two of you with a needy kiss.

Astarion unlaces his fingers from yours as he begins unlacing your trousers- quickly discarding them to reveal your soaked underclothes. He growls involuntarily as the smell of your arousal hits the back of his throat- you smell incredible.

Astarion could leave it at just taking your pants off for now, but Gods does he want to see more and if you are willing to let him, then he is not going to deny himself the pleasure of being able to touch and kiss every inch of your body.

Your shirt is next and you don’t even fight it- helping him get the article of clothing off and helping him discard his shirt as well. Astarion stops and looks down upon your naked form.

“Gods you are exquisite,” Astarion says as he begins to kiss down your naval, “open your legs for me, Darling.”

He leaves tiny love bites as he goes- wanting to make sure everyone knows exactly who you belong to. You are a whimpering mess underneath his touch as he presses his fingers to your clothed clit- teasing you slowly.

“Asta-“

You are cut off by your own sounds of pleasure leaving your throat as he slips your underwear off- slowly pushing one finger into you while playing with your clit using his tongue. A string of curse words leaves your mouth as he begins to pick up the pace with his fingers and basks in the way pleasure looks on your face, how your body is writhing for him, and the tumbling praises for him echo through the clearing.

He rolls your sensitive nub between his teeth and he has to hold your hips down as you keen underneath his touch. Astarion adds a second finger- still meeting some resistance, but you aren’t stopping him, in fact- you are giving him complete access using your tadpole right now (intentionally or not) and he can feel how desperate you are to feel fuller. Then he adds the second fingers and the euphoria that rings through your body goes straight to his groan. Astarion can feel his cock straining against his pants as he brings you over the edge with his fingers and mouth- your sweet pleasure dripping down his chin and his fingers. He languidly cleans his fingers off with his mouth, humming in delight while making eye contact with you.

Your eyes are half lidded and glassy- your mouth is slightly parted open. He leans forward and leaves a chaste kiss on them and begins unlacing his own pants- slipping them off and throwing them to the side- his underwear quickly following.

Astarion lines himself up with your entrance- your orgasm coating the head of his cock and he has to fight the urge to slam into you right away. He lines himself up with your entrance- teasing you. You look more nervous now than lustful and Astarion feels his gaze soften. He hovers over you and caresses the side of your face with his thumb. The last thing he wants is to start with you in the wrong headspace.

"Wrap your legs around my waist."

You obediently comply- your back slightly arching and your pert nipples are touching his chest. You sigh in arousal at the contact.

“This may hurt a little,” he says, “we can stop whenever or however much you need- we can stop completely and try again another time even.

“But do you want me to continue?”

You smile up at him with relief and nod coyly.

“I trust you, but please go slow,” you whisper.

Astarion feels a tightness in his chest when you look up at him. Your eyes are so vulnerable and of all the people you’ve decided to trust you chose him. Astarion is fighting not to dissociate- wanting to give you his full attention.

Astarion slowly begins to push inside you. You cry out and clutch at his shoulders- taking a sharp breath as he slowly sheaths himself inside you. Astarion has to fight the want- no need to go faster- you are so damn tight and Astarion is almost wondering if he should have done more foreplay.

He rocks in and out of you- making sure to check on your facial expressions. There are tears pricking your eyes, but your look of discomfort is becoming more and more euphoric as he keeps rolling his hips into you gently.

“Hells darling,” Astarion manages to moan out through clenched teeth, “you feel so fucking good.”

You whimper at his praise and Astarion lifts you up by the hips so he can get a better angle. He thrusts a minuscule harder this time and the whimper that leaves your mouth is making him feel positively feral.

“Astarion,” you whine, “ple- please I need more.”

You definitely don’t have to tell him twice. Astarion snaps himself up into you at a faster pass- your keening only encouraging him to go faster- both of you moaning and gasping while clawing at each other. For the first time in the last 200 years- Astarion does not want to stop. Despite the feelings that are always there, this may be the only time he’s actually experienced bliss while being with someone.

"Such a good little pup, aren't you?"

You clench around him at his words, you beg him to fuck you harder, and he drops your hips back to the ground before putting his face into the crook of your neck- kissing and praising you as you ride out your high.

“You were such a good girl for me,” he breathes into your air, “thank you.”

Your hands find purchase in his hair, tugging his lips to yours. If he needed air, the kiss would have suffocated him from how intense and wanting it was- the air between the both of you feels alive and Astarion barely registers that he’s finishing inside you until he’s collapsed on top of you- his head resting on your chest as it races in time with your breathing.

“That was amazing,” you say breathlessly and Astarion can’t help but laugh.

“I told you so.”

You plafully slap his arm and laugh- the sound filling his body with comfort. He can hear your heart beat begin to slow down and your breathing becomes deeper.

“Thank you Astarion,” you say sleepily, dozing off with your hands teasing his curls, “not just for this- for everything. I feel worth something when I’m with you.”

You yawn and Astarion tries to focus on the sound instead of the twisting guilt in his stomach. He cares for you too and that might be where he fucked up.

Your breathing quickly evens out and he is drowning in the smell of sex and rose water- a scent he heavily associates with you. Astarion stays there with his head on top of your chest- trying to get his bearings together. That was like no other sexual encounter he has experienced before- it was blissful- so why the hell is he about to have the melt down of the century?

“Shit,” you jolt awake, accidentally pushing Astarion off you- your eyes are still glassy “sorry I should probably not just fall asleep here- I’m sure you want to get back to your tent…”

Astarion pulls you back down and against his chest as if it’s exactly where you belong. The idea of you leaving right now makes his soul twist painfully. No, he needs you to stay. Existing is easier with you around- it has been since he met you on the beach.

“Stay,” he whispers, “please.”

There is a pause and he worries he may have overstepped his bounds. You look up at him with sleepy, kind eyes. If peace were to have a face- it would be yours.

“I’ll stay as long as you want me to.” You smile at him sweetly.

The word leaves his mouth before he can stop himself, “pinkie promise?”

You give him the biggest, toothiest grin he has ever seen. Astarion is certain you may be the single most beautiful person he’s ever met.

You take his pinky in yours and then place a soft kiss against his cold lips.

As you pull away, you whisper against his mouth, “I pinky promise.”

[levis-reading-recs]

You before me Fandom: Merlin (TV) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Merlin & Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Knights of the Round Table & Merlin (Merlin), Lancelot & Merlin (Merlin), Merlin & Percival (Merlin) Characters: Merlin (Merlin), Lancelot (Merlin), Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Percival (Merlin) Additional Tags: Whump, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), Febuwhump 2025, Day 20, i did good right?, Unconsciousness, Merlin Whump (Merlin), Self-Sacrifice, Self-Sacrificing Merlin (Merlin) Series: Part 20 of Febuwhump 2025 Summary: Merlin saves the lives of Arthur and the knights at the cost of revealing his magic

[levis-reading-recs]

Louder.

Centuries before the circumstances of his ascension, Astarion watches the sunrise. Inspired by this artwork by pickled0ctopus For @glorious-void

TW: Torture, implied SA, Non-con elements, Suicidal Ideation Read on AO3.

Louder.

He tries, gods, he really tries. But he doesn’t have much voice left; today’s session with Godey had all but scratched his larynx raw.

He feels the chafe of the manacles on his wrists. He knows better than to fight against them, knows there’s no winning that, but Cazador liked having him do it anyway - for the theatrics of it, he had said.

That voice in his head, incontestable. 

So he had fought, tugging and pulling and yanking with a desperation that was not his, no, if it were up to him he’d just hold his hands slack but he has to fight, has to pull until his wrists are broken bloody weeping everywhere -

A loud crack behind him, and he screams as the whip lands, as requested. However the only thing that comes out of his mouth is a broken, hoarse groan. He despairs, knowing he’s failed his master yet again.

“The master said louder.” Godey cracks the whip again, and Astarion manages a louder sound this time, halfway between a shout and a moan. 

Please, he thinks, let that be enough.

He knows it is anything but.

He’s on a bed, the sheets white and clean in one of the guestrooms; a small comfort, one that he knows won’t last.

He eyes the window warily. The curtains are peeled back just far enough for a sliver of moonlight to land across him; Astarion arches his neck. The moonlight falls across his Adam’s apple, his hair falling back in silvery waves. 

Whatever new thing Cazador has thought up, Astarion thinks, might be preferable to the horrors Godey does. He had run out of sounds to make, of screams to titillate his master’s ears. 

And so Cazador had instructed him to clean up, boy, and lay down on the guest bed. 

Open the windows a fraction. Let the moonlight touch you. 

Do not move a muscle and watch the dawn arrive. 

Astarion had done just so. He wonders if the master intended to kill him this way, hopes for that to be the case. Likelier than not, however, he knows that this is yet another sort of cruel punishment that he just can’t see yet. 

The question of being able to die… well, he supposes not die die, as he’s dead - 

Of not existing, then, is something that has been plaguing him ever since he dug his way out of his grave. 

His master’s rules have so far prevented it. Not that Astarion hasn’t tried to find a loophole; years of his training as a magistrate have been put into exhausting, terrible use, trying to find some way he could circumvent Cazador’s words, twist them, and allow himself peace. 

No matter what type of logic he’d use in his head it never worked; he’d always find his own body betraying him, seeking safety when push came to shove. He’d scream at himself, to just please, please, stay put and die, but his body acted of its own accord, in accordance with his master’s will.

His body. Not his anymore. 

Astarion’s eyes, the only thing he feels allowed to move, keeps staring at the window. He watches the moonlight slowly wane. The hope is still there: perhaps this time with Cazador asking him to stay put he can last long enough to end; he could twist his interpretation enough to finally free himself.

Highly unlikely, he knows, but the embers of hope in his heart cannot be so easily tamped down.

All too soon the sun begins to rise. Astarion has not seen it in what seems like forever; his eyes widen to take it all in. Beautiful, the way those gentle rays illuminate everything; the small glimpse of color in a world so full of darkness makes his breath catch.

There are worse ways to end, he figures. This is positively divine.

The thought is unfortunately cut short by the sound of footsteps approaching him. His footsteps.

Cazador stares down at him, hidden in the safety of the shadows.

“Not exactly how I imagined you would execute this, but satisfactory,” he says. “A rare accomplishment, boy.” Despite himself, despite the gnawing hatred for his master, Astarion feels the swelling of pride at these words and immediately curses himself. Was he so wretched now that he craved even praise from him?

“Thank you, master,” he croaks out automatically.

Fuck.

Cazador smiles, as if hearing the thought. “One more thing.”

Astarion sees that gleam in Cazador’s eyes; in an instant what little hope he has dissolves and his undead heart begins to speed up. 

Of course there was to be no freedom. His master knew better, wanted him by his side forever, of course he did, who else brought the most beautiful victims, who else had the most exquisite screams -

“You want… to live,” Cazador says, eyes glowing a faint crimson as he taps into his power over him. “You’ll want to beg me to spare you from the sun.” Long, thin fingers, fingers that have touched him in so many ways and in so many places, all of them horrible, rest against his thigh. 

He feels the magic slowly take, the calm resignation and expectation of finally being allowed repose slowly morphing into panic that wasn’t his own, an alien feeling taking over him, ruling his heart and his mind.

His heart races, breathing quickens, whimpers, even as he tries to tell himself this isn’t what he wants. Betrayed yet again by his body and mind, trapped within the confines of Cazador’s will. He should be used to this by now; it’s been years of this, of endless waking nightmares of neverending bodies of dead-end hallways and pure shit -

The stream of sunlight begins to creep towards him, and Astarion struggles. He needs to keep still as commanded, but cannot stop his mouth.

“Master, please, I - I don’t want to die here,” he begins to say, his voice a wreck still. Cazador, still above him, watches with wry amusement, the hand on his thigh moving higher.

Astarion cannot help the whine that escapes him. “Please. Please.”

I’ll do anything say anything be anything just please don’t let me die here.

Never mind that those words, those thoughts, are not his; that he will never mean them in his deepest heart. He says them anyway, feels them anyway. 

“I think I’d rather you be quiet, child,” Cazador replies. 

Immediately his mouth snaps shut. His eyes shift over to look at Cazador, the defiance in them slowly ebbing away as the sunlight finally touches him.

Blistering, sizzling pain erupts from that line on his throat. He can hear his skin begin to burn, the crackling sound loud in the near-silent room. He doesn’t scream, doesn’t speak. Instead he watches his master, gaze conveying those traitorous feelings Cazador forces him to possess.

The pain increases, incrementally at first, and then worse as time passes. However it isn’t worse than any other pain he’s felt before, especially in Godey’s sessions.

He stares at Cazador and then at the sunlight, feeling freedom slip away from his fingers. So close to escape, to peace, and he is reminded that he can never have that. That this is it for eternity, to be Cazador’s, to spend day after day reliving the same waking nightmare without end.

A single tear falls. A different kind of pain.

If he could scream, he thinks, he could have been louder now. 

  

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[levis-reading-recs]

Hi, here’s a whumpier, full-team version of Astarion’s Bite Scene because I couldn’t get it out of my head.

It’s a little over 7k words and with a sprinkle of added worldbuilding for flavor! Mind the tags and enjoy the ride!

[levis-reading-recs]

Wyllstarion thought that’s rattling around in my brain—Wyll’s so willing to give anything for others, even if it’s something he needs, something he can’t afford to lose. So in the long term, if he gets into a position where he trusts Astarion enough to let him feed, it’s entirely possible that he offers himself up even when he shouldn’t—when he’s been injured, when he’s too weak and doesn’t have enough blood to be giving any away.

And Astarion, who has experienced attentiveness to his unspoken needs for the first time in 200 years because of Wyll, notices and stops himself, even though it goes against every instinct he has, and tells Wyll to rest instead.

HE WOULD BE THAT GUY. I hope you don't mind - I wrote a thing based off your thing.

Wyll coughed suddenly, the motion pulling at his wounds under carefully-applied bandages, causing him to grimace both in pain and at the memory of its source. Hours ago now - had it been hours? It must've been hours, the sun had set - he'd taken his own rapier to the gut after a frankly embarrassing display of being disarmed by his opponent in the melee.

He was laid up in their makeshift medical tent now, hurt but healing, his injured ego a small price to pay for his life.

He'd gotten too used to fighting creatures with more teeth than brains, wasn't prepared in the moment for an opponent that could match his wits, not in this barren hellscape where everything was more monster than man.

Sloppy, he thinks, angrier at himself than his enemy (long dead now - few could survive a githyanki silver sword to the skull, and gods if he wasn't grateful for that). He could hardly afford to be careless now, not with so many depending on him.

He vows to pull Lae'zel aside when he's back on his feet, ask her to spar, to encourage more drills and bouts of one-on-one sparring amongst their group in general. The better to brush up on his skills and endurance and test the limits of his companions' own.

They could use the practice, and not just because they'd had their asses summarily handed to them today.

Astarion was wan and bleary-eyed next to him, looking less ethereal in the moonlight than sickly, every bit the walking corpse he was in actuality. His features were drawn tight with exhaustion and pain - nursing several broken ribs, his left side mottled purple with angry bruises from a glancing hammer-blow that had his body ragdolling across the battlefield. It might've been comical if they hadn't narrowly escaped with their lives.

The vampire spawn was plainly exhausted and - and there was hunger there, too, his eyes a little wild with the sharp aroma of blood permeating the med tent, cutting through the noxious scent of sweat and stale air, the suffusive atmosphere of worry that hadn't much abated.

Shadowheart had spent herself patching them all back together and was finally resting, the candle in her tent snuffed out with a tired sigh. The camp was quiet except for Wyll's slightly ragged breathing, the muffled sounds of Karlach snoring into her pillow. Somewhere in the distance or the depths of his psyche, he heard the rushing of a river.

He wasn't feeling his best self. But he wasn't feeling his worst self either. A day of moderate hiking followed by getting his shit wrecked by marauders had him losing precious pints that Shadowheart had tried her damndest to get back in him, to some avail. The pain was tolerable. There were stitches in his side from where the blade had pierced his abdomen - Astarion's work. The lad was surprisingly deft with a needle, and hardly prone to fainting at the sight of blood.

Astarion, who hadn't yet left his side. Wyll wondered distantly if the scent of blood in the air was more a balm or tease for him - did it soothe, the way the scent-memory of the market in the lower city soothed Wyll? Cinnamon apple pie and brioche bread fresh from the ovens, the air suffused with saffron and cloves, spices of every sort peddled by merchants from Neverwinter to Chult. Or was it torturous, to be so near an ambrosia you could only half experience, to merely smell what you were forbidden to taste?

He wondered, but now was hardly the time to grill Astarion on the intricacies of his vampiric hunger. Still, he wasn't looking well. Apart from the extensive bruises and the shattered ribs that lie beneath them, his skin was waxy and clammy like a mortal with a cold sweat, eyes sunken deep in their sockets. Shadowheart could only perform so many miracles a day.

Feeding would hasten his healing. And Wyll wasn't feeling the worst he'd ever felt.

Fancy a nightcap? he thought, didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until Astarion stiffened beside him, subtle as the sun. A moment passed, the other man took a deep breath - necessary only insofar as it seemed to fortify him, his atrophied lungs didn't ache for air, did they? -

An unidentifiable look passed over his tired features before he schooled them into something more imperious, raising a dubious eyebrow. A cool hand landed on Wyll's arm, rubbing soothing circles in his bicep.

"You smell about as appetizing as bilge water, darling," he sniffed delicately, attempting haughty but finding that it didn't quite land. "I'd rather partake of fresh food, if it's all the same to you." He wouldn't meet Wyll's eye, and Wyll couldn't bring himself to comment on the tremor in hands or how very large his pupils looked in the lamplight.

Nor did he seem inclined to leave Wyll's side, and Wyll found that he couldn't bring himself to comment on that either. He chuckled tiredly instead, eyes falling shut, blessedly dark and drifting on the effects of a potent healing potion.

"Another time, then," he assented, mumbling through his exhaustion, "when I'm less rank and more appetizing."

He felt more than heard Astarion's answering laugh - curiously wet, but the threads of conscious thought were tenuous now and the observation escaped him as soon as it was noted, as the Blade of Frontiers drifted at last into a dreamless sleep.

[levis-reading-recs]

Would it be possible to write something for a Tyrion x Stark fic? The Lannisters are staying at Winterfell, Tyrion and Ned's daughter form a friendship founded on a shared love of literature. One of the first times they meet he finds her reading a book on Southern law in the library just because. When he asks about why she's not reading Northern law she simply states that she's read several already. After Ned is executed, she and her sisters are held captive by the Lannisters and Tyrion tries to use his influence to protect her. Tywin marries her to Tyrion to stop the Tyrells from laying a claim to the North through her.

If this interests you at all. Thanks

The Last Stark Lady

Requests are closed

- Summary: A story where the lion and the wolf find common ground.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Tyrion Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: The plot has been purposely altered from the books to fit the narrative of this short story.

The Lannisters arrive with all the pomp and swagger of the South, their crimson banners blazing against the pale Northern sky like fresh blood spilled across snow. The courtyard of Winterfell thrums with activity as the procession winds through the gates—guards in gilded armor, proud horses tossing their heads, and noble ladies in silks that shimmer like firelight. At the front rides the King with Robert’s easy grin, beside Eddard Stark, tall and quiet as a shadow in the midst of the southern grandeur. But it is the lion-banners that catch your attention most—more pointedly, the golden-haired twins and the imp who rides a squat pony and surveys his surroundings with quick, darting eyes and the twitch of a clever smile.

You linger at the edge of the crowd, quiet, unreadable, your hands folded before you in the proper way your lady mother taught. Your siblings are scattered nearby—Arya wriggling impatiently, Bran watching from Catelyn's side with bright curiosity—but you have eyes only for the peculiar figure of Tyrion Lannister. There’s something different about him, something apart. It isn't just his stature or his mismatched stride, but the way he looks around with interest instead of arrogance. When he meets your eyes for the briefest flicker of a second, his smirk does not mock—it intrigues.

It is not until two days later, with the court settled and the feasting begun, that you find him again—not in a hall or a yard, but in the quiet sanctuary of Winterfell’s library. The great stone chamber is dimly lit by sunlight struggling through narrow windows. Dust motes swim in the golden beams, caught like whispers in the air. You sit alone beneath one of those windows, curled into a carved wooden chair, a thick book resting on your lap. The spine is cracked, the vellum pages worn from generations of hands, but you turn them gently, reverently, as though each word matters.

“Southern law?” comes a voice like dry wine and sharp wit. “How bold. Or is it heretical to say so in these parts?”

You glance up slowly, already knowing who it is. Tyrion Lannister stands in the doorway, short and solid, leaning heavily on the carved lion-headed cane he favors. His tunic is dark green velvet with lion clasps of gold at his shoulders. He grins, head tilted like a fox sniffing the breeze. “Most Northern ladies prefer embroidery to legal statutes.”

You raise a brow. “I prefer things that make sense.”

He chuckles, the sound low and oddly pleasant. “And yet you choose Southern law? Surely you jest.”

“I’ve read three books on Northern law already,” you say simply, turning the page without looking up again. “This one is older. Less poetic. More precise.”

Tyrion walks further in, his boots soft against the flagstones. “You read for leisure, I gather? Not because your father insists upon it?”

You mark your place with a strip of cloth and close the book slowly, looking up to meet his gaze with an appraising calm. “Lord Father values learning, but he never forced it upon me. I’ve a mind for words, not blades.” You gesture to the chair beside you. “If you’d like to sit, ser.”

“I’m no knight,” he says, but he sits anyway, resting his cane against the side of the chair. He peers at the cover of the book. “Tales of the King’s Peace. Dull as dirt. But you’re still reading it, which makes you more interesting than most of the court.”

You glance at him, head tilting slightly. “You’ve read it?”

“Once, under duress,” he says, with a dry smile. “A maester at Casterly Rock hoped it might cure my ‘frivolity.’ It did not.”

You stifle a smile. “A shame. You might have made a good judge.”

He laughs again, more genuinely this time. “Gods forbid. No, I’d rather argue before the court than preside over it. You strike me more as the judge. Reserved. Clever. Quiet enough to see more than most.”

You flush faintly, surprised by the sharpness of his insight. “And you see that after two minutes?”

He leans forward, steepling his fingers. “I observe. It’s how I survive.”

You look at him then—truly look—and find in his eyes the quicksilver flicker of thought, the restless intelligence that mirrors something in yourself. You recognize, then, not the drunken imp of rumor, but a man carved out of quick wit and hidden steel. And in return, he sees a Stark girl who does not need to speak loudly to wield power.

After a moment, you speak again. “There’s a volume on Oldtown’s municipal structure in the back row. The maesters rarely lend it out.”

Tyrion brightens. “You’re hoarding the good ones already, I see.”

“I might be persuaded to share.”

From that moment, something shifts. You begin to find each other more often—quiet corners of the castle, the gaps between courtly obligations, the dim hush of the library, or stolen walks near the godswood where the southern heat does not reach. You speak of books, of history, of riddles and governance. He tells you of Casterly Rock and quotes Valyrian poets over wine; you recite lines from the Old Tongue and challenge his logic with Northern proverbs. There are no titles between you in those moments, only minds meeting across an invisible bridge.

And he makes you laugh—openly, unguardedly. That, more than anything, surprises you.

In the depth of winter’s stronghold, you did not expect to find warmth in a Lannister. But here he is. And already, you suspect you’ll miss him when he leaves.

The days after your father's death bled into one another like ink spilled on parchment—dark, endless, and impossible to erase. There was no day or night in the Red Keep anymore, only a long, bitter twilight, interrupted by the cries of your younger sister or the shuffle of silent maids too frightened to speak your name. They did not call you “Lady Stark” now. You were simply the North girl, and though your chamber overlooked the city and its golden sprawl, you were caged just as surely as the ravens in the rookery. Winterfell was far behind you now. So too was your father, and every sliver of innocence you had clung to in your girlhood.

Sansa wept every night, whispering apologies into her pillow, and Arya—Arya was gone. Vanished like smoke. You prayed she had escaped, though dread gripped your chest tighter with each passing moon. The court moved on as though nothing had changed—banquets, hunting feasts, whispered plots beneath marble arches. Queen Cersei smiled like a blade, and her son, who now sat on the Iron Throne, wore your father’s death like a crown.

You had expected the worst from the Lannisters. You had not expected Tyrion.

He came to you not long after the bells tolled for your father, not with condolences—he was too sharp for that, too honest—but with quiet understanding. You were seated by the narrow window of your chambers, staring at the sprawl of King’s Landing, your fingers twisting a length of your mother’s embroidery thread. When the door opened, you did not rise. You did not flinch.

“I came to see how you fare,” he said, his voice measured, careful.

You turned slowly to regard him, your eyes hollowed by grief, your mouth silent.

He sighed. “You look as though you haven’t eaten in days.”

“I haven’t.”

“Then we shall fix that.” He crossed the room and placed a small basket on the table beside you. Warm bread. Soft cheese. A bottle of Arbor red that glinted like garnet in the light. You stared at it blankly.

“You’re not like the rest of them,” you said quietly, at last. “You’ve never been.”

“No,” Tyrion replied with a rueful smile. “That’s why they hate me too.”

He stayed with you that night, not out of obligation but because neither of you could stomach being alone. He spoke of books, of politics, of irony so dark it nearly made you laugh. Nearly. And in return, you allowed your grief to crack just enough to speak. You told him of the godswood at Winterfell, the sound of snow falling through pines, the rasp of your father’s voice when he read aloud by the fire. He listened with an attentiveness that softened something in you, something fragile you had thought long buried.

So it continued, over the moons that passed. Tyrion visited when he could, brought books when the maesters would not, and shielded you where possible from the worst of the court’s cruelties. But his influence was not endless, and you both knew that even his wit would not hold Cersei or her mad boy-king at bay forever.

When the letters came from Highgarden—delicately worded, sweet as honey but poison beneath—everything shifted. The Tyrells were seeking a match. Not for Margaery, not yet, but for you. The last true Stark daughter of age. A claim to the North, if taken by Southern hands.

Tywin Lannister did not hesitate.

You were summoned before him in the Tower of the Hand, the air thick with incense and the rustle of parchment. He sat behind the great carved desk like a god of judgment, his pale eyes hard as polished emerald. Tyrion stood nearby, arms folded, gaze unreadable.

“You are to marry my son,” Lord Tywin said, without flourish.

The words struck like frost, sharp and sudden. You stood still as stone, your hands folded tightly before you.

“And if I refuse?” you asked.

Tywin’s mouth curved downward. “Then the Tyrells will take you, and through you, the North. I will not allow that.”

You looked to Tyrion then, expecting defiance, perhaps protest. But he only watched you, silent, shoulders tense. Not eager, not pleased—but trapped.

“I did not ask for this,” he said quietly, when the chamber had emptied and the weight of your fate hung between you.

“I know.” You turned to him, breath unsteady. “Neither did I.”

And yet, two nights later, beneath the flicker of a thousand candles and the judgment of a dozen false gods, you were wed. The gown they gave you was white and silver, embroidered with direwolves and lined with sable, as though someone thought it would make you feel less like a prisoner. Your hair was braided in the Northern fashion, though your tears never fell. You kept them locked behind your ribs.

Tyrion’s hands were gentle when he took yours. His voice steady as he spoke the vows. He did not kiss you afterward, only looked into your eyes and murmured, “If you wish me to sleep elsewhere tonight, I will.”

And you nodded. Grateful. Confused. Heartbroken.

You lay awake long after, in a bed too large and too cold, staring at the shadows cast on the ceiling. You were a Stark. You were a wife. You were a pawn.

But in Tyrion, you had a strange sort of ally. Perhaps even—someday—a friend.

[levis-reading-recs]

eek! Hope I'm not too late! it's already 30th here!

If you'd write for Tyrion plz could I get a x wife!reader where she takes care of him (running him a warm bath, massages, pain relieving tea etc) when he has a particularly bad pain flare up?

As someone who knows first hand what chronic pain is like I know all too well how difficult it is to accept help at times, even when you probably need it, and I get the strong impression that Tyrion would be more stubborn than most, but sometimes its nice to have just one person that you trust enough to let help.

For Better or Worse

Requests are closed!

- Summary: Tyrion is in pain and refuses to admit it. But you are stubborn as any Stark.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Tyrion Lannister

- Note: The reader was married to Tyrion instead of her sister, Sansa.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @oxymakestheworldgoround

You watch Tyrion from the corner of your eye, his movements slow and careful. His usual swagger seems muted tonight, replaced with an uncharacteristic stiffness. He’s trying to hide it, of course—sipping his wine a bit too quickly, cracking a joke that lacks its usual bite—but you’ve known him long enough to notice the way his hand clenches around the arm of his chair, the way his brow furrows when he thinks no one’s watching.

It’s one of those nights. The kind where his pain flares up, gnawing at him like an uninvited guest.

“Tyrion,” you call softly, approaching him with the kind of ease you know won’t set him off. “Are you all right?”

He glances at you, offering a smirk that’s meant to reassure. “Ah, my sweet wolf, ever the doting wife. I’m fine. Really.”

You narrow your eyes, not buying it for a moment. “You’re terrible at lying, you know that?”

“Is that what they say in Winterfell? In the South, we call it ‘selective honesty.’” He chuckles, but it’s short-lived, and you catch the wince he tries to mask with a sip of wine.

You sigh, crossing your arms. “You’re in pain.”

Tyrion waves a dismissive hand. “A minor inconvenience. Nothing to worry your pretty head over.”

“Right.” You give him a look that says you’re not leaving it alone. “You’ve been shifting in that chair for the past hour like it’s full of splinters. When was the last time you had some relief for your back?”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by your persistence. “Relief, you say? Are you offering, my dear?”

“Don’t distract me.” You step closer, laying a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tension knotting under your fingers. “Let me help.”

Tyrion sighs, but there’s a softness in his eyes that betrays him. “I appreciate the offer, truly, but I’m fine. I’m not some frail thing in need of coddling.”

“I know that. But even the smartest man in Westeros needs a bit of care now and then.” You kneel beside him, looking up at him with a determined glint. “Please, Tyrion. Let me make you some tea, draw you a bath… do something.”

He huffs, leaning back in his chair with exaggerated annoyance. “You’re as stubborn as a mule, you know that?”

“Must be the Northern blood,” you quip with a grin. “Come on, just this once. You don’t have to be so damn proud.”

Tyrion stares at you for a long moment, his defenses slowly crumbling. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Not a chance.”

“Gods, how did I end up marrying the one Stark who’s more persistent than the Other?”

You smile triumphantly and start preparing the tea. In the dim light of your chambers, the soft clinking of the teapot fills the silence. The scent of herbs wafts through the room, soothing in itself, and you bring the steaming cup to him.

“Drink this,” you command gently, “and then I’m running that bath.”

He gives you a mock scowl. “You’re bossier than I anticipated when I married you.”

“And you’re more stubborn than I anticipated,” you shoot back, gently pushing the cup into his hands. He takes it with a resigned sigh and drinks, the warmth seeming to ease him a little.

When the bath is ready, you help him out of his clothes, Tyrion muttering something about feeling like an old man. You ignore the remark, guiding him into the warm water with a care that surprises even him.

“This is… oddly nice,” he admits after a long silence, the tension in his shoulders beginning to melt away. “I might have to make a habit of this.”

“Only if you promise not to be so difficult about it next time.”

Tyrion grins. “No promises.”

Once he’s soaked long enough, you coax him out, wrapping a soft towel around him before guiding him to the bed. He watches you with an expression caught somewhere between appreciation and disbelief, like this kind of tenderness is foreign to him.

“Turn around,” you instruct as you straddle the edge of the bed behind him. He raises a brow but does as you ask.

Your hands move to his back, gently kneading the knotted muscles, feeling the way his body tenses and then slowly starts to give in to your touch. He sighs, a sound of relief that’s almost inaudible.

“You’re too good at this,” he mutters. “You should charge me. A Lannister always pays his debts, after all.”

“Consider it part of the marriage agreement,” you tease, your fingers working into another knot. “For better or worse, remember?”

“I recall something along those lines.” He shifts slightly, his voice softer now. “You’re a patient woman, you know. More than I deserve.”

“I think you deserve a bit of care,” you say quietly. “Whether you believe it or not.”

Tyrion is silent for a moment, letting your words sink in. “You’re… far kinder than I expected, marrying a Lannister.”

You press a kiss to the back of his neck, feeling him relax further under your touch. “Well, you’re not just any Lannister.”

“Flattery,” he mutters, but there’s a warmth to his voice. “It might work.”

It’s a quiet moment, one that feels both intimate and oddly vulnerable, but there’s an ease to it, too. For all his bluster and pride, you know that beneath it all, Tyrion is simply a man who’s not used to being taken care of.

And tonight, you’re more than happy to remind him that he doesn’t always have to carry everything on his own.

[levis-reading-recs]

The Sunwalker's Gift

Synopsis: Legends say those who were cursed to live in the shadows are not lost. There is a ring, a ring of incredible power that allows its vampiric wearer to walk in the sun once more. If there is one thing you know, it is that Astarion—your partner, your lover—deserves to own this ring more than anyone. You put yourself in great danger to acquire it for him without his knowledge but in the end, you succeed. So now, what magical piece of jewellery would be more suitable to propose to the vampire spawn you want to spend the rest of your life with than this one?

A/N: Who’s the goose that’s on the loose…

Words: 1694 Warnings: so much fluff, mentions of smut, SPOILERS FOR ACT 3

Blood, tears, sweat, another suicide mission. The rusty ring in your hand almost appeared as if it hadn’t been worth it to risk your neck and sanity for it but appearances were deceptive. This unassuming piece of jewellery in your hand held the answer to Astarion’s prayers. The very object that had made this long and exhausting search so rewarding in the end.

He didn’t know about it yet. He had no idea you’d had a lead with this legendary object at all. And after months of relentless and disappointing searches, Astarion had all but decided the ring was just another myth created to mock him in his misery… to the very point you had begun to doubt your decision to stop him from finishing Cazador’s work and letting him ascend.

You took a deep breath, shaking your head to chase the thought away. No. Walking in the sun was not worth spoiling his mind, his very soul—regardless of the fact you would have never left his side. You’d decided that the night he had confessed his feelings for you. This man was to be yours, forever.

Now you’d give this ring a little bit of polishing, and a bath in vinegar and soap and then you were certain it would look as good as new. You couldn’t wait to see the look on his face, to see the first moment he slid it on his finger and stepped back into the daylight without tadpoles and sacrificed souls. Nervousness washed over you when you pictured your plan in your head but there was no doubt—only excitement and impatience.

Today would change his life for the better. Perhaps one day, if he so wished, you would even find a way to cure his vampirism altogether but for now, you wanted him to have this gift.

Your shared bedroom was empty, the sheets unmade and the smell of sex still lingering in the air. You were still getting used to the nocturnal lifestyle, of course. Staying up with him all night and sleeping during the day was messing with your inner body clock but it was a small price to pay to be with him.

The wooden door leading out to the balcony was open, the barest hint of light pouring through the gap. You approached it on bare feet, the hinges creaking when you pushed the door open further.

“There you are,” he mused without turning around. Astarion was leaning against the metal railing of the balcony, staring into the darkness. A few torches here and there lit the still-sleeping city as the sun began to crawl up from behind the hills, the chirping birds urging it on to start the morning. He truly was a sight to behold—shirtless and pale, even with the everlasting scars Cazador had inflicted on his back, you were overcome with the urge to drag him back to bed and have your way with him in an instant. You did that a lot these days—giving him pleasure upon pleasure without asking for anything in return. Astarion had learned in a rather rewarding way what your mouth and tongue could do for him. Teaching him to be intimate with you in a both consensual and sensual way was a task you were happy to pursue.

You hummed in response, walking up to him to sling your arms around his middle from behind, the ring hidden in the pocket of your morning robe. You pressed the side of your face against his back, his cold skin cooling your heated cheek.

He had been doing this a lot lately. Dragging out the final moments of the night, catching a glimpse of the sun and Baldur’s Gate below him before retreating to the shadows again to ensure his own survival. No more. You sighed.

“What is it, darling?”

“Nothing… I just… love you.”

Astarion chuckled—a barely audible sound coating your heart like sweet honey. At last, he turned around to face, your arms still wrapped around him. You had to look up to meet those crimson-red eyes and the gentle smile tugging on his lips.

“I love you too.”

“I don’t ever want to be apart from you again, my love.”

“Nor I from you,” he purred. His smile was gentle, genuine. You’d fought hard to make him drop that wall of feigned confidence and reveal the real feelings lying underneath. Now, you couldn’t get enough of it. “Let’s head back inside. I’m starting to feel… warm.”

“Just a moment, please.”

The vampire spawn raised his eyebrows but waited nonetheless.

“You said forever,” you went on, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Yes?” He dragged the word out and smirked, reciprocating your hug now; his palms resting against your waist. His closeness calmed your nerves, encouraging you without him knowing.

“I… I want forever to start now. I want us to belong to each other and I want everyone to know.”

“Oh my… you’re feeling quite poetic today, my sweet. I don’t object.”

The first sunbeams hit the stone floor of the balcony upon his playful teasing and you could tell that he was getting nervous, eager to flee to the bedroom to avoid the angry burns he expected any moment now.

With a deep breath, you freed yourself from his embrace and took a step back to get down on one knee. It was then you saw the surprise dominating his beautiful face, his lips parting. Determined, you reached into your pocket and pulled out the shiny ring, holding it out to him.

“Astarion Ancunín… will you make me the happiest woman of Faerûn and marry me?”

It took him a heartbeat to remember how to draw oxygen himself, it seemed. He muttered your name under his breath, red eyes fixed on the plain but powerful ring in your hands. He didn’t recognise it, of course, didn’t expect it to be what it was. He had no reason to believe that this unimpressive piece of jewellery was about to return something to him which should have never been taken in the first place.

“Marry you?” he repeated, almost unbelieving. “I… I do, love. I want… yes.”

Yes. You smiled, the weight of uncertainty falling from your shoulders at once. You took his hand in his, sliding the ring on his finger and rose to your feet again, wrapping your arms around his neck to kiss him.

Astarion melted into your affectionate treatment without hesitation, yet you could tell he was holding back. Uneasy, he pulled away.

“Darling, as much as I would like to savour this moment, could we celebrate our engagement inside?” He glanced at the sun rising higher and higher. Any second now the balcony would be fully submerged in its warm light.

Instead of responding to his plea, however, you only smiled at him. You were certain this would work—you had seen the ring in action after all, made sure it was safe before you took it to your love. You had met up with Dalyria, one of Astarion’s spawn siblings, in secret, only two days ago for this exact reason and she had volunteered to try the effects of the ring—saying it was the least she could do in return after Astarion had freed them.

“I need to get inside!” You reached for his hands when he panicked, holding him in place. Only seconds later, you were both drowned in the soft morning sunlight.

Astarion squeezed his eyes shut and flinched, expecting the burn and the pain the day brought him—but nothing happened. He remained standing, the sunbeams warming his skin.

“What… what is… how is this possible?” he breathed out.

“The Sunwalker’s Gift. It’s the ring, Astarion.”

His red eyes widened, disbelief swinging in his smooth voice as he looked down on his ring-clad finger to admire the shining piece of jewellery reflecting the sunlight. “But… but how? How did you get it?”

“The mage we found and spoke to contacted me a few weeks back. He put me in touch with a bard who meddled with vampires before—two of which, after a couple of pints, revealed that the ring was every vampire’s secret dream and rumoured to have been buried with a deceased vampire lord in the lands north of Rivington a couple of centuries ago. After that, the mage and I returned to do more research and discovered where his tomb is located.”

“And you went to this tomb… alone? Have you lost your mind? Gods, anything could have happened to you!” He was trying his best to be upset, truly. You had to hold back a giggle when his voice went a little high-pitched. It was flattering knowing that the only person this gorgeous man had ever truly shown honest concern for was you.

“I wasn’t alone, I promise. I had help. Halsin and Gale accompanied me.”

“Halsin I can understand. But… Gale?” He pretended to gag, eliciting another childish giggle from you. But then, his tone became more serious once again.

“You did this for me… I…” The very hint of an embarrassed laugh clung to his words. “I’m not sure I even deserve you.”

“You do. I love you. And you’re stuck with me now. You just agreed to be my husband, remember?”

“How could I?” Astarion muttered your name again. There was admiration and affection as it left his lips like a prayer. You had no doubt that part of him was still processing what this engagement ring really meant. It was too early still for joyous screams and running across the flower fields hand in hand. “Thank you. This is… I did not dare dream of this and yet you continue to surprise me. I just… thank you, my love.”

You nodded. “I told you all I want is for you to be happy. I would have turned every single rock in Faerûn to find this ring for you. Now come on. We have a long day ahead of us and a wedding to plan.”

Astarion smirked, his red eyes sparkling with joy, relief and affection. “Darling… there is nothing I’d like more.”

A/N: I am so crazy for him this is abnormal even for me. I'LL BE GETTING A GROUP PHOTO WITH THE WHOLE MAIN CAST AT MCM, I'M SO HYPED!

[levis-reading-recs]

We live for a clingy Astarion.

One that can't keep his hands off of you once he's finally got you all to himself.

How he curls his pointer fingers into the waistband of your trousers and yanks until you're flush against him. Grabs a cheeky handful of your ass when you lean in for a kiss, cups your face with his free hand just to feel as it grows hotter, guides you until your mouths are slotting together in that languid push and pull that never fails to have goosebumps rising along the skin of your arms.

It's absolutely perfect. The warmth of you. The little sounds you keep making into his mouth when he swirls his tongue around yours just so. The steady rise and fall of your chest against his own, unmoving one. He's so spellbound that he's forgotten to breathe again. A moan gets trapped in his throat–comes out like an eerie creak when you tangle your fingers in his hair to drag him impossibly closer. He finally hiccups in a breath when you give a teasing nip at his bottom lip. Full on groans this time.

It never gets old, he thinks, being with you. It's rather funny.

Astarion's been as close to you as one can feasibly get, more times than he can count at this point.

Body to body. Flesh to flesh. He's been tangled up in you–has buried parts of himself so deep inside so many different ways that he often forgets where he ends and you begin. He's kissed you until his lips have gone numb from it. Held his ear close to your panting mouth to hear the sounds you make for him and only him. Committed every whine, and groan, and whimper to memory as if he'll be deaf by morning.

He's sank his fangs into the soft skin at your neck, wrists, chest, thighs–mapped out every major artery until he could find them with his eyes closed if he had to. He's swallowed down your lifeblood in greedy mouthfuls until your warmth overtook that ever-present ache in his bones. Your life becoming his own. Every time he feels his skin flush with heat, he thinks of you and the gift you continuously choose to give him.

You make him feel more alive than he's felt in over two hundred years.

But, he's an awful, greedy man. You give, and give, and give again, and he can't help but want more. Need more.

So Astarion pulls you close again, kisses you over and over, presses his bare skin to yours and basks in your warmth, and explores every curve and dip and imperfection in your perfect skin with his mouth, and tongue, and teeth. He counts the number of times he can make you say his name and how many different ways you can say it. He trusts you with everything, just as you have trusted him. He lets himself get lost in you in ways he'd never thought he'd have.

And when it's over, he lies close to you. Presses a pointed ear to the spot on your ribs where your heart beats the loudest and listens as it slows. You're tangled up in one another– parts of him buried so deep inside that neither of you are sure where he ends and you begin. You fall asleep rather quick, lulled by the lazy trail of his fingers along your goosebumped skin, wherever he can reach.

It never gets old, you think, being with him. It's rather funny.