mangomonk - Tumblr blog

[mangomonk]

hellooooo whereee aree youuu dearest writerr

hellloooo dearest friend

i'm back-ish! got swept up with life during the new year and now writing again a bit (piloting a new and longer astarion story on ao3 now!), will take some time this week to respond to messages thank u for ur patience<3

[mangomonk]

Hi! Just wanted to say I love your Astarion stories! They're the right mix of angst/pining/feels and he seems so in character! Plus, my main Tav is a monk too, and it's a pretty rare pairing, but I like how her stoic attitude befuddles the vamp baby. Looking forward to more! Happy travels:)

this rlly made my day : D i am so glad that he seems in character, it's such a relief! and GAH i love astarion x monk pairings — would love to hear more about ur monk tav, the monk class is so underrated!! this is such a sweet message, thank you for taking the time to send it!!

i appreciate this so much i shall gift u anon with a snippet of a wip scene — i've been trying to figure out how to approach the intimacy scene btwn the two of them and i suspect the final version will look very different from this draft, but here's a lil snippet:

— — — — 

Despite how much he wanted her blood physically, he could only bring himself to drink a few mouthfuls. It must have been a good call though because when he pulled away, she slumped a little against his shoulders, her breathing shallow. She must not have healed entirely from the shambling mound. He had had a suspicion that she was shouldering through it, but seeing her now only confirmed it. He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as he tucked his chin carefully over her head. “Stay for the night.”

Immediately, he could feel her stiffen in his arms as she tried to withdraw. But Astarion held her against him carefully. Somehow, he was sure if she saw his expression, she would see right through him. What exactly she would see, he wasn’t sure — that this was a ploy? Or that he genuinely wanted her to stay? “Astarion,” she began softly into the material of his shirt. He was surprised but pleased that she stopped trying to pull away. “You don’t owe me anything—”

“I know,” he said firmly, fingers tightening around her shoulders. “I know that I don’t.”

A moment of silence. He could practically hear her thinking. “You don’t have to force yourself—”

“I’m not,” he sniffed in disdain. “Do you think I would ever force myself to do something I don’t want to do?” That was a lie.

“You want me to stay tonight?” She asked uncertainly. 

“Yes.” That was not a lie. He could hear her heart speed up, but for a moment, he wasn’t sure if it was hers or if his had started beating again from her blood. Astarion swallowed thickly, beginning to pull back at her silence. 

“Okay,” she breathed out, breath warm against his collarbone.

Astarion straightened against her, a bit in disbelief. He couldn’t believe his luck. The first time he had asked her, she had rather clumsily skirted around the topic of sleeping together. “Okay?” He parroted, pulling back to look at her fully now. Despite the fact that he had just taken some of her blood, her cheeks were flushed.

“Er, shall I go get changed then?” She asked, clasping her hands together. The motion was so uncharacteristically awkward of her that had Astarion not been so focused on trying to process the turn of events, he would’ve sought to sear the endearing image in his mind. Instead though, he sat blankly as she hastily rose to her feet. She nearly fled his tent in two paces, but at the tent flap, she hesitated, turning to offer him an impossibly tiny smile so bright and earnest that Astarion felt something in his chest lurch as he watched her dumbly. He didn’t know — nor did he want to know — if it was guilt or some sick form of joy. Both feelings were equally foreign to him now. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

Astarion wasn’t sure how much time had passed as he sat still on the cushion. Part of him leapt at the success of his plan. Though it had taken him longer than he had anticipated, he felt a little smug that he finally succeeded in seducing her. The other part of him felt a stab of shame and apprehension. Before he could dwell on it, he swallowed back the sense of regret rising in his throat and forced himself to his feet. He had done worse before — at least this time, it was on his own volition. Right, this was his decision. It was his plan, and it was working. There was no reason to feel regret, he told himself.

Astarion hastily tucked his empty jars into the corner and spread out his bedroll. He rearranged his pillow and neatly spread his blanket across the bedroll. He dabbed the essence perfume he had stolen from the vendor around his neck. And then he sat down and waited, staring at his tent critically. Would candles be too much? 

“Astarion?” She called softly from outside of his tent. 

Astarion carded a hand through his hair with one hand and twisting open the first button of his shirt with the other. “Come in, darling,” he said, trying for a low tone, though it came out sharper than he would’ve liked.

When she entered the tent again, Astarion took note of her plain sleeping tunic. More importantly, he noticed that she had pulled her hair from its normal braid, and it fell down her back in hastily brushed waves. He wanted to detangle it for her. He shook the thought from his head, instead forcing a light smile on his face. “Will you stand there all night?”

“Right,” she said, her gaze darting from him to the bedroll as she took a step closer. “Er, which side do you prefer?”

“I’m happy in any position,” he purred instantly, but the innuendo seemed to fly over her head as she knelt down next to him slowly. Immediately, he shifted over to make room for her. He watched her settle down next to him, careful to leave a gap between them. With her ki control and stillness of mind training, Astarion knew that she had far more of a reign on her body than others, so when he realized he could hear her heart thumping erratically, pleasure wormed its way into his chest. So she did want him — the thought sent a thrill of satisfaction through him. He turned to look at her with half-lidded eyes as he felt the familiar cold, mechanical feeling begin to desensitize him as his mind began to close in on itself.

“Well,” the monk said, pulling his blanket to her chin. “Good night.”

He was pulled back into the moment immediately. 

“Good night?” Astarion spluttered, propping himself up on his elbows so he could properly stare at her in shock.

She stared back at him, blinking at him owlishly. “Yes?”

“You’re just— just going to sleep?” He demanded. “I— You— I thought we’d— Why else would you agree to stay?”

Immediately, her cheeks darkened, though her expression remained steadfastly sober. “I thought we would just sleep together.”

“Yes,” he said dryly, looking to the sky for patience. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling wrong-footed. “Sleep together.”

[mangomonk]

im traveling for the rest of the year so apologies if the pieces are coming slower! currently working on Remus x Winnie one shot where Winnie meets the Marauders for the first time, many Astarion one shots, a Dammon fic, and hopefully the next chapter of the Sirius fanfic… unclear what will come out of the oven first

[mangomonk]

I think one of the reasons I’ve gone completely wild for Gale’s romance is because it has all the dressings of a Classic Austen Romance (handsome eligible bachelor, charming dialogue, an impediment keeping the two love interests apart, slow burn, sweet confessions of love, etc.) but with the gigantic curveball of it being in an absolutely batshit insane setting.

The eligible bachelor wizard just happens to have a goddess as an ex-girlfriend, the impediment keeping Gale and Tav apart isn’t some basic society class snubbing but a literal nuclear bomb in Gale’s chest and a gigantic brain monster, Gale’s sweet confessions of love are very romantic, poetic, and classy but also occasionally include things like him telling Tav how much he’d love to smash in the middle of a battlefield.

It’s….perfect.

Classic romance is obviously an incredible genre and I love it, but there’s something that hits different and is infinitely sweeter when it’s not two beautiful well-dressed fancy people proclaiming their love flawlessly to one another, but an imperfect self-loathing man standing in a puddle that he for some reason set his camp up on, telling a scarred, scaled, fanged, sweaty, smelly person with bits of Goblin guts in their hair that he loves them with his whole heart and that the celestial canvas is the only worthy backdrop on which to place their beauty.

That is love.

[mangomonk]

Dammon fic wip

a/n: dammon lovers rise up

Dammon couldn’t help but watch the monk soldier curiously over the rim of his cup as he listened politely to Rolan prattle on into another argument with his siblings. It was only natural, he thought, that his eyes kept straying back to her throughout the celebration — she was the reason for it, after all. Everyone was vying for her attention, it seemed.

Dammon watched Zevlor flit over to the monk — similar to how he had seen Cal, Alfira, and a handful of druids draw close to her. He had watched Yen smile awkwardly each time she let a new person pull her back to the center of the camp where the others were dancing. He must have watched for a moment too long because Rolan cleared his throat, pulling his attention away from the dancing elf.

“Hmm?” He hummed apologetically, but Rolan followed his gaze easily.

“With the amount of time you’ve been watching, you’d likely would have had three rounds of dancing already,” the older tiefling said. “You may as well try your hand at dancing.”

Dammon hurriedly swept his attention away from the center of the camp, taking a big gulp from his dented cup. “My hands are not made for dancing,” he said, grimacing down the sharp taste of the cheap wine as he rubbed the pad of thumb against his index finger to confirm that the rough calluses from years of working with his hammer were still there. They were, of course. 

“Yes, well, hers certainly aren’t either,” Rolan observed amusedly, flicking his gaze knowingly back to the center of the camp. Despite his growing mortification at getting caught, Dammon couldn’t help but follow Zevlor’s gaze. He could see her nearly tripping over her feet as Zevlor tugged her rather ungraciously in dizzying circles. Something tugged in his chest — likely sympathy, he thought. “Perhaps our savior needs some saving, hm?”

Dammon hesitated before taking another swig from his cup and draining it. Before he could convince himself otherwise, he made his way to the center of the camp, dodging a wildly dancing Karlach in the process. 

“Pardon me, Zevlor,” he began once he was within earshot. The other tiefling slowed down his erratic pace. Behind him, he could see Yen’s face wash with relief, which only encouraged him to continue. “Could I have a word with Yen? It’s about the weapon you commissioned,” he added, darting a glance to the monk meaningfully.

“Right, I was wondering about… that,” the monk said inelegantly. He tried not to laugh. So she was good at slaying goblins and saving people, but not at lying or dancing.

“Another time, then,” Zevlor said with a nod as he retreated reluctantly. 

“Thank you for saving me,” she said to him once they were out of earshot.

Dammon offered her a good-natured smile. “I should be the one saying that.”

“We wouldn’t have made it even a step in the camp without your wares,” she said. Dammon felt a wriggle of pleasure worm its way in his stomach at her words.

He had agreed to try to repair Karlach’s engine for a number of reasons — he felt a level of camaraderie with the tiefling with their shared time in Avernus, he thought the problem was an interestingly complex problem mechanics-wise, and he felt a sense of responsibility to do what he could given that their party saved the Grove.

And he would never admit it outloud, but he also briefly considered it as a way of seeing the monk again. When he told her to come find him again for an answer, he had meant it.

[mangomonk]

to feel warm in cold love

↳ summary: in his attempt to make tav touch-starved for him, astarion realizes he's lost his own game. (alternatively, astarion is dreadfully cold and touch-starved, and tav is dreadfully warm and respects boundaries.) ↳ content: mentions of blood and battle, named tav, astarion is a little mean and very emotionally repressed, act 1 and 2 plot mentioned ↳ a/n: inspired by astarion's "don't touch me" dialogue and that one post that basically calls him a loser lol. title is from "cold love" by rainbow kitten surprise! also i'm a little confused by tagging convention — is tav alright to tag if they're an OC and not 'reader?' cross posted on ao3

The first time he fed on her, she sat perfectly still, her legs criss-crossed and posture straight as she swept her hair to the side. The perfect image of a monk. He would’ve teased her for it, had he not been distracted by the gleaming skin of her neck and the ache of hunger with his fangs. He couldn’t believe his luck.

How perfectly foolish to trust a vampire, he thought dimly to himself as he crouched over her, eager to take the opportunity — no matter how ridiculous it was — before she changed her mind. His fingers slipped into her hair to cradle the back of her neck as he tilted her head back carefully for better access. He moved with perfect precision — though he had never fed on a person before, he had imagined it in the darker moments of his hunger, even more so after he had met Xuan as he had begun scheming of ways to earn her favor. It wouldn’t be far-fetched to say that he had been dreaming of it.

The moment his fangs pierced her skin, all previous notions of what he had dreamt of before melted away and all he knew was the rich taste of her blood. He didn’t notice her shuddering in his hands or her slowly going limp against him as he swallowed gulp after gulp. He nearly forgot all restraint too, until she pushed at his shoulder hard enough for him to draw back. 

He felt warmth spreading through him, his hunger satiated, and then, shame roiling deep in his gut. A trickle of her blood dribbled from the corner of his lips. She was pale-faced, a dazed expression on her face as she stared up with him. Astarion, swept by this newfound satiation and familiar shame of his hunger, was at a loss for words. “This is a gift, and—” he began, just as she seemed to snap out of her daze.

“Sorry,” the monk said, “I didn’t mean to touch you but you didn’t seem to hear me.”

Astarion stopped short to stare at her in disbelief, reeling a little. Had her blood been drugged with hallucinogens? Why was she apologizing? He stared at her for a beat longer, but she seemed to be entirely sincere.

“Oh,” he said ungracefully as he recovered, straightening and letting his expression fall into one of familiar charm. “Oh, darling, you can touch me however you want if it means I have a little snack as sweet as you.”

She frowned at him, but Astarion was too distracted by the bead of blood forming on her skin where his fangs had been to notice.

— — — — —

The next time he fed on her, Astarion was less controlled by his hunger, though the same thrill of anticipation ran through him as he crouched next to her. She insisted again on sitting, and though the position was awkward for the both of them, he wasn’t going to bite the hand that was feeding him. Not metaphorically, anyways. And not the hand, at least.

This time, he noticed her hands clasped tightly in her lap as if she was anticipating the sting of his fangs. He paused, hovering over the nape of her neck. “My sweet thing,” he murmured, amused. He noted the goosebumps that formed along the pretty curve of her neck where his breath ghosted across his skin. He noted the way she shivered in his hands. He noted that she smelled wondrously sweet beneath the smell of soap. “You can hold on to me if you’d like to.”

“Do you want me to?” She asked.

Astarion blinked, grateful that she couldn’t see his surprised expression from her angle. “Whatever you want,” he said after a beat. When she kept her hands clasped carefully in her lap, Astarion shrugged to himself and dove in.

— — — — —

The third time, he perhaps had gone too far because when he withdrew, she swayed for a moment and slumped forward, her forehead falling against his collarbone. For a moment, panic flared within him as he caught her, before she mumbled something into his shoulder. “Sorry, got dizzy for a moment there.” Another apology — he thought he’d get used to them by now, but each one left him equally bewildered and baffled. “I didn’t mean to touch you.”

In his arms, he felt her try to withdraw weakly. Instead though, he held her firmly, supporting her boneless weight against him. “Let’s stay like this for a moment,” he hummed, tucking his chin carefully over the crown of her head and letting his fingers splay against her back. She was always so unfamiliarly warm. It felt like he was being scorched alive. “Would hate for my favorite traveling companion to crack her skull open. Our other companions would immediately have a stake through my heart, I suspect.”

To his pleasure, she didn’t protest, instead going even more limp against him. “Thank you,” she said into his shirt.

Astarion felt a warmth, similar to the one that she was radiating, flare deep in his stomach. It must have been because he had just fed. “My pleasure,” he said simply, meaning it.

— — — — —

Strangely enough, Xuan seemed to have no qualms with touching their other companions, Astarion began to notice. She linked arms with Shadowheart occasionally when they were walking — Astarion noted that Shadowheart never complained. She leaned on Karlach whenever they were standing close, despite the tiefling’s obvious warmth. Even Gale, the wizard who hadn’t touched a mortal being in years, she greeted with a fond hug.

Astarion though, she never touched.

It wouldn’t have bothered him if she didn’t make such a show of giving him a wide berth or nearly jumping out of her skin whenever he brushed by within an arm's reach.

It definitely wasn’t because he watched Wyll’s arm loop over her shoulder affectionately one night as they sat around the campfire. In the name of keeping warm from the cold, Wyll had teased. Cold? What did Wyll know about being cold? Astarion was always so miserably cold, but in that moment he felt something like angry heat flare up within him as he watched her lean against The Blade.

That was definitely not why it bothered him. Though Wyll flirted with Xuan in fleeting, light-hearted comments, it was Astarion who was putting honey in every word he shared with her. And he had made his advances even more than clear, quite literally spelling out his propositions for her. He knew she was interested in him with the way she flushed or the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t looking at her. So why was it that they never touched, not unless he had his fangs buried in her neck?

Soon, Astarion came up with a new scheme. And he thought himself clever for his plan too as he followed the sure-footed monk closely across the goblin camp, docking and releasing arrows efficiently the moment he spotted a goblin. He was feeling impatient. At the end of each battle, it seemed ritual for her to give the nearest companion a crushing sort of hug of relief and triumphant. So the faster this battle was over, the faster he’d—

“You’re fired up today,” she remarked to him as she clubbed another goblin with her staff. She didn’t even have to shout at him across the sounds of the battle because he had stayed within an arm's reach of her the entire fight.

Astarion preened a little, flashing her a devilish smile. He opened his mouth to smarm when Karlach bellowed across the courtyard. “I think that’s the last of them.” He watched Xuan’s face break into a triumphant grin as he took a step closer to her. The others were mostly across the courtyard, though Lae’zel was a few yards away.

“We did it!” She beamed, whirling around. Astarion now was only two steps away from her, his arms already preemptively outstretched when she stepped past him, throwing her arms around… the Githyanki warrior.

Astarion blinked once. Then twice. Then he turned, incredulous, to see Lae’zel pat the monk on her back awkwardly.

“The customs of this plane never fail to baffle me,” the Githyanki warrior said stiffly.

“You did brilliant today!” Xuan said brightly, practically glowing.

Astarion stared at the two, still slack-jawed. “And what about me?” He spluttered now, entirely undignified, but he couldn’t help it. Not when she was being so obviously stingy in her affections!

Xuan drew back from Lae’zel. Astarion couldn’t help the sick anticipation growing in his stomach as she took a step towards him. His hands twitched at his side, but he forced himself not to raise them. 

“You were brilliant too,” she beamed. “Your aim for the one in the tower was so precise—”

Astarion’s anticipation fell flat as she stopped several feet away from him, still prattling on about his fighting.

“Spare me the praise,” he snapped irritably, turning on heel swiftly to stalk back to camp.

— — — — —

He spent the rest of the evening brooding in his tent as the others celebrated their success with a hearty stew that Gale cooked and some cheap wine they had looted from a cellar in the Blighted Village. 

Was it possible that she wasn’t interested in him? He had made his advances perfectly clear, and though they had often rolled off of her like water, or she had just smiled embarrassedly down at her feet, she had never rejected him. 200 years of perfecting the art of seduction, and he couldn’t even get within a foot of a naive monk? The thought hurt his pride. And then another thought, one much worse, that spurred him to his feet and out his tent to seek out the target of his thoughts.

Was she disgusted with him? So much so that she couldn’t bear even touching him?

“Darling, are you decent?” He asked from outside the tent, letting his normal drawl tinge his voice as he added, “Though I wouldn’t mind if you weren’t decent.”

“Astarion?” She asked from inside. “Come in.”

He lifted the flap of her tent and stepped in. She was standing in the center of her tent, a crude, wooden comb in her hand — he recognized it a little bitterly as the one that Halsin had whittled for her. She must have just come from the nearby stream, because her hair was still damp and hanging in tangled tendrils, a sharp contrast to the dreadful braid she normally kept it in.

“Are you hungry?” She asked, blinking up at him owlishly. Astarion ignored the bubble of irritation in his gut. He couldn’t seek her out unless he was hungry? Though to be fair, which Astarion was not, the only times he did were when he was hungry.

“No, no,” he lied dismissively, waving his hand airily. Now to disprove his theory. “Darling, I can take care of that for you,” he offered, closing the distance between them and reaching for the comb.

To his dismay, she shied away from him swiftly with a nervous laugh, putting that cursed two feet of space between them again and nearly stumbling over her own bedroll in the process. “No, I got it, but thank you—”

“I don’t bite, you know,” Astarion blurted, half-irritatedly, half-miserably. She shot him a raised brow and quickly, he waved his hand dismissively. “Okay, fair point, I do bite, but you already know what it’s like, so there’s really no reason for you to jump out of your skin the moment I’m in an arm’s distance from you.”

“Well,” she said, not quite able to look him in the eye as she inched back imperceptibly. Astarion huffed under his breath at the sight. “I didn’t think you liked being touched.”

Astarion stared at her for a moment, expression slack. “Darling, what in your sweet mind has you thinking that?” He dropped his voice in a well-rehearsed manner. “Haven’t I been clear with you in my propositions that I’d like to be more than touched by you?”

A pained expression flitted across her face, but it disappeared tactfully. He only caught it because he was studying her carefully, quick to pick up any changes. She bit the inside of her cheek. “You told everyone not to touch you.”

Oh. Oh. He did have a vague memory of sneering, “Don’t touch me,” at the start of their travels. But he hadn’t expected anyone to respect it, let alone remember it. He felt like she had just clubbed him over the head and sent him reeling.

“If it’s you, it’s fine,” Astarion said quickly. He found himself surprised to know that he meant it.

“Oh,” she blurted, mouth opening and then closing. She looked equally dumbfounded.

Perfect. This was the perfect moment he had been building towards, when her guard was down just enough for him to sink his teeth in. Metaphorically, of course.

Astarion took a step closer to her. And then another. She looked like she was ready to flee, but out of pure stubbornness, stood very still. They were so close now that he could feel her body heat rolling off her in waves. He held back a shiver.

Astarion skillfully let his posture slouch in an attempt to not tower over her, tilting his head to catch her gaze again. He had a plan. Proposition her, offer her his services so she could enjoy his range of touch. He’d say it coquettishly, perhaps brush her hair to the side. Maybe drag the tip of his finger down the angle of her jaw. Something that would make her cave, that would make her so starved for his touch that she would devote herself to him. That was the plan, he reminded himself, and this was the perfect moment—

 “Well, maybe if you said please once in a while,” she huffed mulishly, clearly just to regain face, though her gaze darted away from him in clear embarrassment as a dark flush began to bloom rapidly across her cheeks.

Astarion was clubbed over the head with the sudden, newfound realization that she looked wonderful when she was flustered. His fingers twitched — he wanted to cup her cheeks and confirm that her skin was as warm as it looked. He stared at her, entirely distracted by this line of thought, any previous thought melting away as he watched the blush spread to the tip of her ears. He was so entirely distracted by this new image of the monk, that without much thought or resistance—

“Please,” Astarion murmured in a soft sigh, the yearning in his voice an unfamiliar ache even to his own ears.

She swallowed thickly, her throat bobbing. Astarion’s vision would have normally pigeon-holed to her neck at the motion, but he couldn’t quite tear his gaze away from her hand as it raised slowly, palm up between them. And then she stopped, her hand hovering between them, her gaze intent on his, brows raised in almost a challenge. Astarion found himself moving by himself, his hand moving to rest uncertainly over hers.

Her hand was wondrously warm. 

“Is this okay?” She asked softly, as if not to spook a wild animal.

Astarion swallowed. How could he tell her that this was more than okay? That it felt like she was lighting him on fire with just a mere touch? That he would happily burn? That he was warmer than he had been in the past 200 years? “Yes,” he managed instead, voice tight. “This is nice.”

Encouraged, she covered his hand with her other one, the callouses on her fingers brushing against his skin. Gods. She was devastatingly warm. 

— — — — —

When Ketheric Thorm finally fell to Dame Aylin’s blade, Astarion breathed out a long sigh of relief, undocking his arrow as he surveyed the mess and rubble. From his higher vantage point, he did a quick headcount. Shadowheart and Aylin seemed to be in a private conversation, the latter handing the cleric Selune’s Spear of Night. Gale was putting his spellbook away, looking haggard, but otherwise in one piece.

Astarion frowned, scanning the tower again swiftly. He always had a mental tab on where the monk was in battle given that most of his arrows went into picking off enemies that he deemed too close to her — most of them, if he was being entirely honest. He could’ve sworn she had been by Ketheric Thorm when he fell, but he still couldn’t spot her. Swallowing back his growing panic, he turned to hurry down from the little cliff he had used as a vantage point.

“Astarion.” His alarm melted away instantly at the sight of his monk straightening from where she had hauled herself up. The thought that she had sought him out after the battle sent a pleased thrill through him. “I never understand how you get to these places,” she huffed, brushing her bloodied hands against her tattered robes. He really wished she wore armor.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, reaching out to cradle her wrists and inspect her fists. He really wished she used her staff more. His stubborn monk. “As much as I love blood, this is quite a lot.”

“Not mine,” she said with a tired, but triumphant grin. Astarion thought he couldn’t tire of seeing her post-battle, breathless and beaming, even if she was covered in blood and grime. They stood staring and grinning at each other perhaps foolishly for a moment longer. “I can’t believe we did it,” she said finally, eyes still bright.

“I can,” he huffed as he rubbed his thumbs over her wrists, marveling at the warmth of her hands. “With a monk as stubborn as you are, I wouldn’t be surprised if you found a way to punch mindflayers back to their original form until your hands are just nubs. You really ought to stay out of the front lines,” he chided half-heartedly.

“But I have these hands watching after me,” she said, twisting her hands in his so that she could grasp his hands. Astarion stilled instantly, fighting the urge to close his eyes to immerse himself in the warmth of her hands. “Thank you for picking off the Necrolites.” Before he could respond with a shrug or a huff, she brought his hand towards her.

Astarion’s brain, for lack of better words, short-circuited as he watched and felt her lips press gently against his palm. Gods, the post battle adrenaline made her bold.

Inwardly, Astarion hoped for more battles to come in their near future. 

“Oh,” he blurted inelegantly, dead heart jumping back to life in his chest. “Do that again.” A pause. “Please.”

He could feel her lips curve into a smile against his palm. She pressed a firmer kiss against it again before brushing a ghost of a kiss against his fingertips and then one more against his wrist, as if she was feeling for a heartbeat. Astarion sighed, curling his fingers around her jaw.

“Oh,” she hummed, her eyes tracking over his face carefully. He felt entirely wrong-footed, as if he was losing a battle he didn’t know he was in. “You’re blushing.”

He jolted, scowling. “I don’t blush,” he retorted, before correcting himself. “I can’t blush.” In a poor attempt to distract her, he glared down at her a little impatiently. A little shamelessly. “Anyways, aren’t you here for your victory hug?”

Xuan arched her brow as she stepped closer. Astarion fought the urges to flee and close the gap between them and instead stood very still as she stepped even closer until there was only a hair's width between them. And then she paused, as she always did, a question in her stillness. Is this okay? 

To answer, Astarion closed the gap between them, looping his arm around her to place his hand against the small of her back. In all honesty, he was still getting used to it, his actions clumsy and stiff at times. But she never pushed him, instead always letting him take the next step in closing their distance. Once he did, she shifted a little in his arms to wriggle her arms around his waist. 

“You’re getting blood on me,” he huffed softly, though he made no move to shift away from her. Instead, he dropped his head to rest his forehead in the junction of her neck. He let his eyes flutter close as he marveled at how warm she was.

“I thought you liked that,” she said. He could almost hear the coy smile in her voice. 

Astarion sighed in defeat, smiling against her skin. “Only if it’s you.”

— — — — —

my masterlist

a/n: if u liked this, i would love to read ur thoughts tee hee it's always honestly a giant encouragement to write more when i read everyone's comments + i can't tell if i'm writing him ooc!

[mangomonk]

heart on/under your sleeve

↳ summary: his monk throws herself into one too many battles, but astarion, in his anger, doesn't realize that most of them are for him. (alternatively, astarion learns that he can't always hide his heart under barbed words, as much as he tries.) ↳ content: blood drinking, named tav, astarion is a little mean and very emotionally repressed, act 1 plot mentioned ↳ a/n: without shame, i love ur comments and reblogs so if you like this, please consider! cross posted on ao3

Entering the spider’s cavern under the Blighted Village had been an absolute and unnecessary failure, Astarion thought furiously as he scraped off the last of the spiderwebs entangled to his clothes. They had been lucky enough to have been mostly out of range for the spider matriarch’s poison sprays, though as he whirled around to glare at the party, the image of Xuan ducking to get closer to the spider matriarch flashed in his mind.

If he had fed recently, his blood would have been boiling.

“That was the most idiotic thing you could have done,” he snapped, rounding upon the monk. She was tearing the tattered sleeves off of her monk robes where the spider poison had made contact. The sight only made him angrier. “And that’s saying something after being dragged into all your little heroic quests for all these strangers.”

“I wanted to do good—” Xuan protested weakly, but Astarion barked out a sharp laugh.

“Good? Good?” He spat, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. The image of her running headlong into the battle — a battle to save strangers, no doubt — only spurred on his panicked fury. How could she be so foolish? To risk her life for some passerby on the road? Didn’t they have enough problems as it was? “At best, the only good you’ve done is been a carnal distraction to our impending death. A wonderful distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. If we don’t find a cure—”  

He would have continued, but the silence from the others made him pause. And when there was no angry or sharp retort from Xuan, Astarion paused for a beat longer, turning fully now to look at her.

To his horror, the monk — his strong-willed, stubborn monk that rushed into battle with the most stoic of expressions — seemed to wilt a little as she turned her face downwards, her brow knitting together as she blinked rapidly at the ground. The fabric that she had been ripping hung limply in her hands.

He wanted to take her by the shoulders and give her a good shake. Didn’t she know it was folly, that it was pathetic, to have her heart so visible, he wanted to scream as he watched her expression crumple. Instead, Astarion stared at her, stricken and unsettled as his anger quickly melted into a growing unease.

Eventually, Karlach let out a disgusted sigh, breaking the thick silence.

“What?” He snarled, desperately barbing himself in his anger so he didn’t have to think too hard about the poignant hurt on her face. “Am I wrong? What good is it to blindly throw yourself into a pit of spiders? What if something happened to y—” Astarion cut himself off sharply from that thought to rapidly pivot. “What if something happened to us after you dragged us into your little heroics? Are you going to take responsibility for playing the hero?”

She let out a laugh, but it sounded a little wet. Something in Astarion’s chest seized uncomfortably. “You’re right,” she said, her voice forcibly airy as she cleared her throat. The residue of her hurt was clear enough on her face that Astarion had a difficult time looking directly at her. Not that she was looking at him anymore. “I’m sorry everyone for dragging you into all these tasks, I won’t ask that of anyone again,” she said. The worse part, Astarion realized, was that she meant it. “Um,” she began, rummaging through her pack, her face downturned away from him. “Here. For the book,” she said choppily, thrusting a purple stone into his hands. It took him a moment to recognize it as the amethyst she had picked up in the spider’s lair.

Astarion held it in his hands dumbly, his words caught in his throat and his anger rapidly waning. “Xuan— I—” he began as he reached out to her, not knowing where his words or his hands were going.

Fortunately — or rather, unfortunately — for him, it didn’t matter that he didn’t know where they were going, because before he could finish his sentence or touch her, she recoiled back, her expression finally shuttering close. 

“I’ll head back to camp first.”

— — — — —

A soft rustling outside his tent. Astarion recognized those footfalls anywhere, but before he could speak up, a gentle rasp against one of the wooden poles holding up his tent. “Astarion?”

He surged to his feet so quickly that the unopened Book of Necromancy in his lap clattered to the ground with a thud. He carded a hand through his hair swiftly as he cleared his throat, “Yes?” The tent flap opened just enough for him to see her. “What can I do for you, darling?” Inwardly, he grimaced at the eagerness in his voice.

With her backlit by the campfire, it was difficult to see her face properly. “It’s been a few days,” she said quietly, still standing outside his tent.

A tremble of something akin to hope stirred in his chest. They hadn’t properly spoken in days now. It was starting to drive him a little mad. And though he had suspected that his long term plans of manipulating her into protection were over, he had spent the better parts of the past few nights wracking his brain on ways to salvage it. To save his plan, of course, was the only reason why he continued to think about it. Maybe they were still salvageable. Perhaps she was there for an apology, one that he wouldn’t mind giving if it meant that there was still a chance for him.

Astarion opened his mouth quickly, eagerly, when she continued, “You can feed on me tonight, if you’d like.”

Oh. So that was why she was here. He closed his mouth, ignoring the crumbling sense of disappointment. What reason was there for him to feel dismay? This was the best possible outcome, he told himself. He didn’t need to apologize or do anything to salvage their relationship or his plan and the foolish monk would still give him sustenance. 

So why did he feel so wretched?

“Oh,” Astarion said glumly, before catching himself and drawing his posture straight. His delighted smirk came to him with more resistance than normal as he beckoned her in. “You already know that I’d love to if you’re offering.”

Xuan didn’t respond as she stepped into his tent carefully, closing the flap behind her. He watched as she settled quickly on the floor. Astarion followed, dropping to kneel next to her. She smelled intoxicating over the cheap jasmine scent of the rubbish soap she had bartered from the trader. He swallowed thickly as she swept her hair back from the nape of her neck. Though he had seen her do it countless times now, he still felt something deep within him warm and thrum. 

Astarion leaned in before pausing, waiting for her to grasp at his shoulders or his arms to brace for the sting. Only, she sat perfectly still and stiff as he leaned closer, her hands still clasped tightly in her lap. He waited for a moment longer before she cleared her throat expectantly. “Is something wrong?”

Astarion blinked down at her, fangs still out as he tried to give a reassuring smirk though he knew she couldn’t see it anyways. Maybe it was more for him. “No, of course not, sweetheart.” Swallowing the feeling of unease, he closed the distance between them and pierced her skin.

He was careful this time to keep count of his gulps despite the haze that rapidly surrounded him at the taste of her blood. Even around his hunger and daze, he could feel how she stiffened in his hands and never quite relaxed. After the seventh gulp of her blood, Astarion drew back, licking at his lips. He raised his arms preemptively to bracket around her shoulders, expecting her to droop a little against him as she always did after the blood loss, but before he could properly hold her, she lurched to her feet stiffly, pale-faced and wobbling. “Darling? You’re going to hurt yourself—” he began, alarmed as he rose to his feet after her, his hand reaching out to support her.

But again, before he could properly touch her, Xuan flinched back from his hand. Astarion felt something in him twist violently as she took another staggering step backwards. He realized then, belatedly, that she wasn’t properly looking at him, her expression shuttered close. “Find me whenever you’re hungry,” she said, voice as formal and stiff as when he had first met her. The perfect image of an impartial monk.

“You’re not going to stay?” He blurted, disbelieving as he lurched after her. He felt as though she had clubbed him over the head. He knew he had upset her, but he figured… since she came to offer him her blood, that maybe it was all sorted out now. That they would return to before, when she would lean against him for a few wonderful moments to recover, when they’d talk about nothing in particular in low murmurs. Maybe steal a few kisses. 

She paused outside his tent. “Is there any reason to?” 

Astarion felt a little ill. So he fell back into the persona he knew best, letting his face relax and eyes go half-lidded in the way he knew made her blush. Only, she was still not quite looking at him. “Oh, I can think of several reasons to stay,” he purred. “Pleasure. Yours. Mine. Our collective ecstasy.” He was rambling now, though he was sure she wouldn’t be able to tell past the smooth honey of his words. “That’s what you want, isn’t it? To lose yourself in me?”

Finally, she looked at him. Astarion froze. She looked so terribly resigned, her shoulders set. “No, that’s not what I want,” she said softly, her voice distant as she looked away from him again. “And even if it was, you made it perfectly clear that it was a distraction. Good night, Astarion.”

For the first time ever since he’s gotten the tadpole in his brain, Astarion felt an emotion he knew too well. He felt miserable.

— — — — —

When he emerged from his tent the next morning, after a long night of trying not to repeat her words, Astarion was met with an unsettling silence. The others had already awoken, but they were milling around nervously. He frowned at the tension as he took a mental headcount. Their party that did most of the heavy lifting outside of camp seemed to be gone. “Where did the others go?” He asked, his question directed to Gale, who was putting salve on a new injury that had been keeping him at camp recently. 

The wizard hesitated, seemingly not quite able to look him in the eye. “They left at dawn,” he said reluctantly. “Well, she was going to go by herself but Wyll caught her sneaking out,” Gale said pointedly, giving him as much of a glare as he was capable of. “The others insisted on going, in case you were wondering.”

“All of them?” Astarion pressed impatiently, looking around camp again. Xuan, Halsin, Wyll, and Karlach were indeed gone. He ignored the sharp twist of hurt in his gut at being left behind. Halsin? She took the bulking druid over him? He knew for a fact that the bear of a druid wouldn’t be able to sneak anywhere.

“She said something about monster hunter by a hag’s den—”

A cold jolt ran through Astarion as he stiffened. “Where is the hag’s den?” He demanded, already reaching for his pack and crossbow.

“You made it rather clear that you didn’t approve of activities unrelated to the tadpoles, spawn,” Lae’zel said from behind him. 

To everyone’s surprise, he ignored Lae’zel’s jab as he towered over the wizard. “Where is the hag’s den?”

— — — — —

Astarion ran like he had never ran before. Past the Emerald Grove Environs, past the Blighted Village, straight to the Putrid Bogs. It was fortunate he didn’t need to breathe as a spawn because he was sure he would have collapsed on the ground by then. 

When he rounded the bend of the Riverside Teahouse that Gale had marked on his map, the sight made his already-cold blood run colder. 

“What’s wrong? Where are you hurt?” Astarion demanded as he neared the party, his eyes tracking over her limbs to make sure they were intact. Her face was deathly pale, a thin sheen of sweat across her brow. She was clutching at her stomach as she leaned heavily against Wyll. Astarion stared intently at where she was holding, but there didn’t seem to be any blood or gaping wound on her torso.

“Astarion? What are you doing here?”

“Give her to me,” Astarion snapped at Wyll, reaching forward to grasp at her shoulders carefully before the tiefling could argue. “Where are you hurt?” He asked again, running his hands carefully down her limbs again, just to make sure. “Was it an arrow?” She always left her left flank open — that’s where Astarion normally stood. Gods damn it, he cursed inwardly, taking in the cut on her cheek. He should’ve told the others to fill in her left flank.

She shied away from his grasp, but Astarion kept a firm hold on her. “Astarion, I’m fine,” she began unconvincingly.

He swallowed back his growing panic and bent at the waist, looping one arm swiftly under her knees, the other behind her back to carry her bridal-style. At his lift, she yelped in surprise, but before she could argue, Astarion moved forward, not bothering to see if the others were following. “Shadowheart can heal you back at camp.”

“Astarion, I’m fine. Put me down,” she demanded. When he didn’t pause, she continued. “I didn’t get hurt, I just… I just ate a bad apple.”

Astarion stopped mid-step. “A bad apple,” he repeated.

“Yeah, we found a few in the crates by the den and I…” she trailed off, clearly embarrassed.

“Non-vampires,” Astarion huffed under his breath, feeling his panic begin to ebb away slowly. He almost laughed at how ridiculous the situation was. “—always going around and eating the first thing they see.”

“My blood will be fine in a few hours if that’s why you came—” 

A sharp twinge in his chest. He ignored it. “That’s not why I came.”

“So can you put me down now?” 

Right. He was still carrying her against his chest. She was so wonderfully, terribly warm. It felt like he was holding the sun against his chest. But it wasn’t until he was holding her that he realized how terribly fragile she seemed. Dimly, he wished she was part-orc. If she was going to be such a stubborn monk and not use armor, how could she be so flimsy? “No, I don’t want to,” he said mulishly, resuming his walking.

“But I’m fine, really, nothing a little rest can’t fix up later—”

“Then rest now,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. 

“I’m getting blood on your tunic.”

“A waste.”

To his satisfaction, she fell silent as he continued walking, though he could practically hear her unhappiness. “So why did you come, Astarion?”

Astarion thought he would never tire of hearing his name from her. After 200 years under Cazador, he had gotten too used to being referred to only as spawn or worse names. He kept his voice level as he trudged forward, careful not to step on any uneven parts of the path. “The wizard said you found a monster hunter.”

He felt her stiffen in his arms as she tried to straighten out of them. “He was looking for you. Sent by someone in Baldur’s Gate.”

Astarion ignored the chill that ran down his spine. “I know.”

She wriggled a little more, clearly trying to see his expression, but Astarion kept his attention forward steadfastly. “I didn’t say anything about you, if that’s why you came,” she said, almost indignantly. She was practically bristling in his arms. “I would never give you up.” 

Astarion ignored the warmth that spread in his chest. “I know.”

She didn’t seem to hear him as she continued, her voice rising in anger. He would never admit it, but he was relieved to see that she was angry — even if it was at him — rather than that awful distant formality that’s been between them. “I would never,” she said again bitterly, working herself into a little tiff. “I know you see me as just a distraction, that you think that I’m just… just—”

“You always keep your left flank open.” 

“I always keep my left flank open,” she parroted instantly, before pausing in clear disbelief. Then she bristled. “I always keep my left flank open? So now you have no faith in my fighting either—”

“You always keep your left flank open.” Astarion said again, swallowing thickly. To cover it up, he sighed, as if she was being unbearably daft. “That’s why I came.” She fell silent and Astarion found it unsettling enough that he continued onwards, his tone growing more dramatic the more nervous he grew. “Because who else is there to fill in your left flank? The gods know that with Halsin as hulking as he is, he’d probably stumble over his feet and crush you. I doubt he has the dexterity to fill in your left flank if the situation calls for it. ”

“And you think you’re the better option to fill it?”

Astarion’s irritation flared. “Of course,” he snapped sharply before forcing his shoulders to relax. He took a slow breath. “I guarantee you that none of our other companions have as keen a sense as to when you’re going to rashly throw yourself into the path of a goblin. No one else is paying nearly enough attention, of course.” She was silent again at this, and Astarion couldn’t help but continue as he began to work himself into an indignant sort of vexation. “Speaking of keeping your left flank open, you also really ought to not carry your heart so openly on your sleeve,” Astarion berated. “The wrong person might come by and use it against you and… and…”

“And?”

“And it’s unpleasant to see!” He blurted, chest heaving now. He clamped his mouth shut much too late, mortification coiling through his body. She also fell silent, his mismatched words undoubtedly playing through her head.

When she finally spoke up again, Astarion nearly dropped her. “You know, if you were concerned about me, you should have just said so from the start.”

He closed his eyes, willing for patience. “Was it not clear enough from the start? Anyone with two eyes would be concerned about a naive monk rushing headlong into battle,” he muttered irritably to the air.

Her voice turned solemn. “I can’t keep up with you, Astarion,” she said softly, sounding glum. “You do things like this that make me think that maybe, just maybe, you care for me. And then you go about with the most cutting words to say that I’m a distraction.”

She was already ignoring his lecture about not wearing her heart on her sleeve. Something deep in Astarion’s chest throbbed painfully, the ghost of a heartbeat. “Yes, well, it’s entirely possible you’re a distraction because I’ve grown to care for you,” he said stiffly. It’s perhaps the most honest he’s been with her and it’s an entirely uncomfortable feeling. It was an awful feeling, entirely disgusting, he thought. Astarion fought the urge to flee. “I’m putting you down now.”

“No, I don’t want to,” she said mulishly, parroting him earlier smugly. His chest tightened when he felt her tuck her head against his shoulder, her fingers grasping at the collar of his shirt. Astarion stilled instantly, any thoughts of putting her down quickly disarmed. If this was what he got for being honest, maybe he would consider it. At this proximity, he could smell that awful jasmine scent she seemed to love. He really needed to steal her some fragrance oils the next time they came across a trader. He started walking again, belatedly realizing that he had already lost the battle he had inadvertently started. 

Gods, help me, he thought as he tightened his grasp around his little sun.

— — — — —

my masterlist

a/n: if u liked this, i would love to read ur thoughts tee hee it's always honestly a giant encouragement to write more when i read everyone's comments!

[mangomonk]

I love the focus on small details here, it’s so sweet, thank you op!

I’d like to think that once Astarion’s grown comfortable with physical affection, he gets a lot more affectionate with you. Especially when it comes to casual or subtler gestures.

Like an arm draped over the back of the couch when he’s sitting next to you. His arm isn’t actually touching you, but he’s got his thumb hooked just under the collar of your shirt resting idly in the soft well of your clavicle.

Hooking his foot around the back of your ankle or letting his knee press against yours under the table when he’s sitting next to you (which he always is because who else is he supposed to sit next to? Gale??)

Keeping a hold on you when you’re in a crowded space. Holding your sleeve, your wrist, linking your pinkies. Anything to make sure he doesn’t lose you in the chaos.

Always having a hand on your waist, your back, your hip. Part of it is born out of wanting to keep close to you, part of it is born out of a little bit of possessiveness — A subtler way to show you off as his.

Thumbing dirt and grime off your cheeks, adjusting your collar when it’s fallen crooked.

I feel like once he’s stopped doing it out of habit, he’s not super duper into PDA (Still loves on you, obviously. Just more casually), so it doesn’t happen super often when you’re around others, but he’ll peck your cheek or temple every so often as a greeting. Especially when you’ve been apart for short while.

If you’re wearing pants with belt loops, I feel like he’s def the type to pull you to him by them. Just loops a finger through and tugs until you get the hint.

Idk I just feel like he’d be pretty affectionate once he’s warmed up to non-sexual intimacy. Not always, he still has off days as everyone does. But even then, he usually still wants to be close to you.

[mangomonk]

astarion angst wip

a/n: sneak peek at a oneshot of astarion being emotionally constipated and rude af

“I wanted to do good—” Xuan protested weakly, but Astarion barked out a sharp laugh.

“Good? Good?” He spat, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. The image of her running headlong into battle — a battle to save strangers, no doubt — only spurred on his panicked fury. How could she be so foolish? To risk her life for some passerby on the road? “At best, the only good you’ve done is been a carnal distraction to our impending death. A wonderful distraction, but a distraction nonetheless. If we don’t find a cure—”  

He would have continued, but the silence from the others made him pause. And when there was no angry or sharp retort from Xuan, Astarion paused for a beat longer, turning fully now to look at her.

To his horror, the monk — his strong-willed, stubborn monk that rushed into battle with the most stoic of expressions — seemed to wilt a little as she turned her face downwards, her brow knitting together as she blinked rapidly at the ground. 

He wanted to take her by the shoulders and give her a good shake. Didn’t she know it was folly, that it was pathetic, to have her heart so visible, he wanted to scream as he watched her expression crumple. Instead, Astarion stared at her, stricken and unsettled as his anger quickly melted into a growing discomfort.

Eventually, Karlach let out a disgusted sigh, breaking the thick silence.

“What?” He snarled, desperately barbing himself in his anger so he didn’t have to think too hard about the poignant hurt on her face. “Am I wrong? What good is it to blindly throw yourself into a pit of spiders? What if something happened to you—” Astarion cut himself off sharply from that thought to rapidly pivot. “What if something happened to us after you dragged us into your little heroics? Are you going to take responsibility for playing the hero?”

She let out a laugh, but it sounded a little wet. “You’re right,” she said, her voice forcibly airy as she cleared her throat. The residue of her hurt was clear enough on her face that Astarion had a difficult time looking directly at her. Not that she was looking at him anymore.

[mangomonk]

hey so we put your morally grey character in a fandom. yeah half the fanbase makes them into a perfect angel who did nothing wrong and the other half depicts them as a cartoonishly evil villain who hurts people for fun. no we dont know how to explain that people can do bad things for good reasons or good things for bad reasons. sorry man

[mangomonk]

ok that's it i cannot believe i'm going to write a full fic for an npc but the lack of dammon content has me parched dammonation rise up

[mangomonk]

*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ masterlist ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

marauders masterlist

bg3 masterlist

[mangomonk]

*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ bg3 masterlist ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚

*these are all paired with my named tav/oc

astarion

heart on/under your sleeve ↳ summary: his monk throws herself into one too many battles, but astarion, in his anger, doesn't realize that most of them are for him. (alternatively, astarion learns that he can't always hide his heart under barbed words, as much as he tries.) ↳ content: blood drinking, angst+fluff, act 1 plot mentioned

to feel warm in cold love ↳ summary: in his attempt to make tav touch-starved for him, astarion realizes he's lost his own game (alternatively, astarion is dreadfully touch-starved) ↳ content: mentions of blood and battle, fluff

if you could see me in the mirror ↳ summary: astarion loves riling up tav to see all her expressions, but to his mingled relief and chagrin, she never quite seems to notice his. (alternatively, astarion helps tav in a roundabout way, for the sake of his entertainment, he says.) ↳ content: mentions of blood, slow burn astarion is a little mean and very emotionally repressed

[mangomonk]

to feel warm in cold love

↳ summary: in his attempt to make tav touch-starved for him, astarion realizes he's lost his own game. (alternatively, astarion is dreadfully cold and touch-starved, and tav is dreadfully warm and respects boundaries.) ↳ content: mentions of blood and battle, named tav, astarion is a little mean and very emotionally repressed, act 1 and 2 plot mentioned ↳ a/n: inspired by astarion's "don't touch me" dialogue and that one post that basically calls him a loser lol. title is from "cold love" by rainbow kitten surprise! also i'm a little confused by tagging convention — is tav alright to tag if they're an OC and not 'reader?' cross posted on ao3

The first time he fed on her, she sat perfectly still, her legs criss-crossed and posture straight as she swept her hair to the side. The perfect image of a monk. He would’ve teased her for it, had he not been distracted by the gleaming skin of her neck and the ache of hunger with his fangs. He couldn’t believe his luck.

How perfectly foolish to trust a vampire, he thought dimly to himself as he crouched over her, eager to take the opportunity — no matter how ridiculous it was — before she changed her mind. His fingers slipped into her hair to cradle the back of her neck as he tilted her head back carefully for better access. He moved with perfect precision — though he had never fed on a person before, he had imagined it in the darker moments of his hunger, even more so after he had met Xuan as he had begun scheming of ways to earn her favor. It wouldn’t be far-fetched to say that he had been dreaming of it.

The moment his fangs pierced her skin, all previous notions of what he had dreamt of before melted away and all he knew was the rich taste of her blood. He didn’t notice her shuddering in his hands or her slowly going limp against him as he swallowed gulp after gulp. He nearly forgot all restraint too, until she pushed at his shoulder hard enough for him to draw back. 

He felt warmth spreading through him, his hunger satiated, and then, shame roiling deep in his gut. A trickle of her blood dribbled from the corner of his lips. She was pale-faced, a dazed expression on her face as she stared up with him. Astarion, swept by this newfound satiation and familiar shame of his hunger, was at a loss for words. “This is a gift, and—” he began, just as she seemed to snap out of her daze.

“Sorry,” the monk said, “I didn’t mean to touch you but you didn’t seem to hear me.”

Astarion stopped short to stare at her in disbelief, reeling a little. Had her blood been drugged with hallucinogens? Why was she apologizing? He stared at her for a beat longer, but she seemed to be entirely sincere.

“Oh,” he said ungracefully as he recovered, straightening and letting his expression fall into one of familiar charm. “Oh, darling, you can touch me however you want if it means I have a little snack as sweet as you.”

She frowned at him, but Astarion was too distracted by the bead of blood forming on her skin where his fangs had been to notice.

— — — — —

The next time he fed on her, Astarion was less controlled by his hunger, though the same thrill of anticipation ran through him as he crouched next to her. She insisted again on sitting, and though the position was awkward for the both of them, he wasn’t going to bite the hand that was feeding him. Not metaphorically, anyways. And not the hand, at least.

This time, he noticed her hands clasped tightly in her lap as if she was anticipating the sting of his fangs. He paused, hovering over the nape of her neck. “My sweet thing,” he murmured, amused. He noted the goosebumps that formed along the pretty curve of her neck where his breath ghosted across his skin. He noted the way she shivered in his hands. He noted that she smelled wondrously sweet beneath the smell of soap. “You can hold on to me if you’d like to.”

“Do you want me to?” She asked.

Astarion blinked, grateful that she couldn’t see his surprised expression from her angle. “Whatever you want,” he said after a beat. When she kept her hands clasped carefully in her lap, Astarion shrugged to himself and dove in.

— — — — —

The third time, he perhaps had gone too far because when he withdrew, she swayed for a moment and slumped forward, her forehead falling against his collarbone. For a moment, panic flared within him as he caught her, before she mumbled something into his shoulder. “Sorry, got dizzy for a moment there.” Another apology — he thought he’d get used to them by now, but each one left him equally bewildered and baffled. “I didn’t mean to touch you.”

In his arms, he felt her try to withdraw weakly. Instead though, he held her firmly, supporting her boneless weight against him. “Let’s stay like this for a moment,” he hummed, tucking his chin carefully over the crown of her head and letting his fingers splay against her back. She was always so unfamiliarly warm. It felt like he was being scorched alive. “Would hate for my favorite traveling companion to crack her skull open. Our other companions would immediately have a stake through my heart, I suspect.”

To his pleasure, she didn’t protest, instead going even more limp against him. “Thank you,” she said into his shirt.

Astarion felt a warmth, similar to the one that she was radiating, flare deep in his stomach. It must have been because he had just fed. “My pleasure,” he said simply, meaning it.

— — — — —

Strangely enough, Xuan seemed to have no qualms with touching their other companions, Astarion began to notice. She linked arms with Shadowheart occasionally when they were walking — Astarion noted that Shadowheart never complained. She leaned on Karlach whenever they were standing close, despite the tiefling’s obvious warmth. Even Gale, the wizard who hadn’t touched a mortal being in years, she greeted with a fond hug.

Astarion though, she never touched.

It wouldn’t have bothered him if she didn’t make such a show of giving him a wide berth or nearly jumping out of her skin whenever he brushed by within an arm's reach.

It definitely wasn’t because he watched Wyll’s arm loop over her shoulder affectionately one night as they sat around the campfire. In the name of keeping warm from the cold, Wyll had teased. Cold? What did Wyll know about being cold? Astarion was always so miserably cold, but in that moment he felt something like angry heat flare up within him as he watched her lean against The Blade.

That was definitely not why it bothered him. Though Wyll flirted with Xuan in fleeting, light-hearted comments, it was Astarion who was putting honey in every word he shared with her. And he had made his advances even more than clear, quite literally spelling out his propositions for her. He knew she was interested in him with the way she flushed or the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn’t looking at her. So why was it that they never touched, not unless he had his fangs buried in her neck?

Soon, Astarion came up with a new scheme. And he thought himself clever for his plan too as he followed the sure-footed monk closely across the goblin camp, docking and releasing arrows efficiently the moment he spotted a goblin. He was feeling impatient. At the end of each battle, it seemed ritual for her to give the nearest companion a crushing sort of hug of relief and triumphant. So the faster this battle was over, the faster he’d—

“You’re fired up today,” she remarked to him as she clubbed another goblin with her staff. She didn’t even have to shout at him across the sounds of the battle because he had stayed within an arm's reach of her the entire fight.

Astarion preened a little, flashing her a devilish smile. He opened his mouth to smarm when Karlach bellowed across the courtyard. “I think that’s the last of them.” He watched Xuan’s face break into a triumphant grin as he took a step closer to her. The others were mostly across the courtyard, though Lae’zel was a few yards away.

“We did it!” She beamed, whirling around. Astarion now was only two steps away from her, his arms already preemptively outstretched when she stepped past him, throwing her arms around… the Githyanki warrior.

Astarion blinked once. Then twice. Then he turned, incredulous, to see Lae’zel pat the monk on her back awkwardly.

“The customs of this plane never fail to baffle me,” the Githyanki warrior said stiffly.

“You did brilliant today!” Xuan said brightly, practically glowing.

Astarion stared at the two, still slack-jawed. “And what about me?” He spluttered now, entirely undignified, but he couldn’t help it. Not when she was being so obviously stingy in her affections!

Xuan drew back from Lae’zel. Astarion couldn’t help the sick anticipation growing in his stomach as she took a step towards him. His hands twitched at his side, but he forced himself not to raise them. 

“You were brilliant too,” she beamed. “Your aim for the one in the tower was so precise—”

Astarion’s anticipation fell flat as she stopped several feet away from him, still prattling on about his fighting.

“Spare me the praise,” he snapped irritably, turning on heel swiftly to stalk back to camp.

— — — — —

He spent the rest of the evening brooding in his tent as the others celebrated their success with a hearty stew that Gale cooked and some cheap wine they had looted from a cellar in the Blighted Village. 

Was it possible that she wasn’t interested in him? He had made his advances perfectly clear, and though they had often rolled off of her like water, or she had just smiled embarrassedly down at her feet, she had never rejected him. 200 years of perfecting the art of seduction, and he couldn’t even get within a foot of a naive monk? The thought hurt his pride. And then another thought, one much worse, that spurred him to his feet and out his tent to seek out the target of his thoughts.

Was she disgusted with him? So much so that she couldn’t bear even touching him?

“Darling, are you decent?” He asked from outside the tent, letting his normal drawl tinge his voice as he added, “Though I wouldn’t mind if you weren’t decent.”

“Astarion?” She asked from inside. “Come in.”

He lifted the flap of her tent and stepped in. She was standing in the center of her tent, a crude, wooden comb in her hand — he recognized it a little bitterly as the one that Halsin had whittled for her. She must have just come from the nearby stream, because her hair was still damp and hanging in tangled tendrils, a sharp contrast to the dreadful braid she normally kept it in.

“Are you hungry?” She asked, blinking up at him owlishly. Astarion ignored the bubble of irritation in his gut. He couldn’t seek her out unless he was hungry? Though to be fair, which Astarion was not, the only times he did were when he was hungry.

“No, no,” he lied dismissively, waving his hand airily. Now to disprove his theory. “Darling, I can take care of that for you,” he offered, closing the distance between them and reaching for the comb.

To his dismay, she shied away from him swiftly with a nervous laugh, putting that cursed two feet of space between them again and nearly stumbling over her own bedroll in the process. “No, I got it, but thank you—”

“I don’t bite, you know,” Astarion blurted, half-irritatedly, half-miserably. She shot him a raised brow and quickly, he waved his hand dismissively. “Okay, fair point, I do bite, but you already know what it’s like, so there’s really no reason for you to jump out of your skin the moment I’m in an arm’s distance from you.”

“Well,” she said, not quite able to look him in the eye as she inched back imperceptibly. Astarion huffed under his breath at the sight. “I didn’t think you liked being touched.”

Astarion stared at her for a moment, expression slack. “Darling, what in your sweet mind has you thinking that?” He dropped his voice in a well-rehearsed manner. “Haven’t I been clear with you in my propositions that I’d like to be more than touched by you?”

A pained expression flitted across her face, but it disappeared tactfully. He only caught it because he was studying her carefully, quick to pick up any changes. She bit the inside of her cheek. “You told everyone not to touch you.”

Oh. Oh. He did have a vague memory of sneering, “Don’t touch me,” at the start of their travels. But he hadn’t expected anyone to respect it, let alone remember it. He felt like she had just clubbed him over the head and sent him reeling.

“If it’s you, it’s fine,” Astarion said quickly. He found himself surprised to know that he meant it.

“Oh,” she blurted, mouth opening and then closing. She looked equally dumbfounded.

Perfect. This was the perfect moment he had been building towards, when her guard was down just enough for him to sink his teeth in. Metaphorically, of course.

Astarion took a step closer to her. And then another. She looked like she was ready to flee, but out of pure stubbornness, stood very still. They were so close now that he could feel her body heat rolling off her in waves. He held back a shiver.

Astarion skillfully let his posture slouch in an attempt to not tower over her, tilting his head to catch her gaze again. He had a plan. Proposition her, offer her his services so she could enjoy his range of touch. He’d say it coquettishly, perhaps brush her hair to the side. Maybe drag the tip of his finger down the angle of her jaw. Something that would make her cave, that would make her so starved for his touch that she would devote herself to him. That was the plan, he reminded himself, and this was the perfect moment—

 “Well, maybe if you said please once in a while,” she huffed mulishly, clearly just to regain face, though her gaze darted away from him in clear embarrassment as a dark flush began to bloom rapidly across her cheeks.

Astarion was clubbed over the head with the sudden, newfound realization that she looked wonderful when she was flustered. His fingers twitched — he wanted to cup her cheeks and confirm that her skin was as warm as it looked. He stared at her, entirely distracted by this line of thought, any previous thought melting away as he watched the blush spread to the tip of her ears. He was so entirely distracted by this new image of the monk, that without much thought or resistance—

“Please,” Astarion murmured in a soft sigh, the yearning in his voice an unfamiliar ache even to his own ears.

She swallowed thickly, her throat bobbing. Astarion’s vision would have normally pigeon-holed to her neck at the motion, but he couldn’t quite tear his gaze away from her hand as it raised slowly, palm up between them. And then she stopped, her hand hovering between them, her gaze intent on his, brows raised in almost a challenge. Astarion found himself moving by himself, his hand moving to rest uncertainly over hers.

Her hand was wondrously warm. 

“Is this okay?” She asked softly, as if not to spook a wild animal.

Astarion swallowed. How could he tell her that this was more than okay? That it felt like she was lighting him on fire with just a mere touch? That he would happily burn? That he was warmer than he had been in the past 200 years? “Yes,” he managed instead, voice tight. “This is nice.”

Encouraged, she covered his hand with her other one, the callouses on her fingers brushing against his skin. Gods. She was devastatingly warm. 

— — — — —

When Ketheric Thorm finally fell to Dame Aylin’s blade, Astarion breathed out a long sigh of relief, undocking his arrow as he surveyed the mess and rubble. From his higher vantage point, he did a quick headcount. Shadowheart and Aylin seemed to be in a private conversation, the latter handing the cleric Selune’s Spear of Night. Gale was putting his spellbook away, looking haggard, but otherwise in one piece.

Astarion frowned, scanning the tower again swiftly. He always had a mental tab on where the monk was in battle given that most of his arrows went into picking off enemies that he deemed too close to her — most of them, if he was being entirely honest. He could’ve sworn she had been by Ketheric Thorm when he fell, but he still couldn’t spot her. Swallowing back his growing panic, he turned to hurry down from the little cliff he had used as a vantage point.

“Astarion.” His alarm melted away instantly at the sight of his monk straightening from where she had hauled herself up. The thought that she had sought him out after the battle sent a pleased thrill through him. “I never understand how you get to these places,” she huffed, brushing her bloodied hands against her tattered robes. He really wished she wore armor.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, reaching out to cradle her wrists and inspect her fists. He really wished she used her staff more. His stubborn monk. “As much as I love blood, this is quite a lot.”

“Not mine,” she said with a tired, but triumphant grin. Astarion thought he couldn’t tire of seeing her post-battle, breathless and beaming, even if she was covered in blood and grime. They stood staring and grinning at each other perhaps foolishly for a moment longer. “I can’t believe we did it,” she said finally, eyes still bright.

“I can,” he huffed as he rubbed his thumbs over her wrists, marveling at the warmth of her hands. “With a monk as stubborn as you are, I wouldn’t be surprised if you found a way to punch mindflayers back to their original form until your hands are just nubs. You really ought to stay out of the front lines,” he chided half-heartedly.

“But I have these hands watching after me,” she said, twisting her hands in his so that she could grasp his hands. Astarion stilled instantly, fighting the urge to close his eyes to immerse himself in the warmth of her hands. “Thank you for picking off the Necrolites.” Before he could respond with a shrug or a huff, she brought his hand towards her.

Astarion’s brain, for lack of better words, short-circuited as he watched and felt her lips press gently against his palm. Gods, the post battle adrenaline made her bold.

Inwardly, Astarion hoped for more battles to come in their near future. 

“Oh,” he blurted inelegantly, dead heart jumping back to life in his chest. “Do that again.” A pause. “Please.”

He could feel her lips curve into a smile against his palm. She pressed a firmer kiss against it again before brushing a ghost of a kiss against his fingertips and then one more against his wrist, as if she was feeling for a heartbeat. Astarion sighed, curling his fingers around her jaw.

“Oh,” she hummed, her eyes tracking over his face carefully. He felt entirely wrong-footed, as if he was losing a battle he didn’t know he was in. “You’re blushing.”

He jolted, scowling. “I don’t blush,” he retorted, before correcting himself. “I can’t blush.” In a poor attempt to distract her, he glared down at her a little impatiently. A little shamelessly. “Anyways, aren’t you here for your victory hug?”

Xuan arched her brow as she stepped closer. Astarion fought the urges to flee and close the gap between them and instead stood very still as she stepped even closer until there was only a hair's width between them. And then she paused, as she always did, a question in her stillness. Is this okay? 

To answer, Astarion closed the gap between them, looping his arm around her to place his hand against the small of her back. In all honesty, he was still getting used to it, his actions clumsy and stiff at times. But she never pushed him, instead always letting him take the next step in closing their distance. Once he did, she shifted a little in his arms to wriggle her arms around his waist. 

“You’re getting blood on me,” he huffed softly, though he made no move to shift away from her. Instead, he dropped his head to rest his forehead in the junction of her neck. He let his eyes flutter close as he marveled at how warm she was.

“I thought you liked that,” she said. He could almost hear the coy smile in her voice. 

Astarion sighed in defeat, smiling against her skin. “Only if it’s you.”

— — — — —

my masterlist

a/n: if u liked this, i would love to read ur thoughts tee hee it's always honestly a giant encouragement to write more when i read everyone's comments + i can't tell if i'm writing him ooc!

[mangomonk]

ive seen lots of fics where tav draws astarion but I want one where tav is so bad at drawing that he’s just dumbfounded when she shows him a crude stick figure after making him pose. bonus points if he’s a little secretively hurt that’s how she sees him bc we all know that astarion’s vanity stems from a place of survival and insecurity.

and then maybe someone in camp who can actually draw steps in to do it after tav failed so miserably (i think wyll gives secret artist energy) and tav spends the whole time hovering and pointing out weirdly specific aspects of astarion’s features and quirks that /have/ to be included or that wyll is getting incorrect and that’s how everyone realizes tav is smitten

[mangomonk]

if you could see me in the mirror

↳ summary: astarion loves riling up tav to see all her expressions, but to his mingled relief and chagrin, she never quite seems to notice his. (alternatively, astarion helps tav in a roundabout way, for the sake of his entertainment, he says.) ↳ content: mentions of blood, astarion is a little mean and very emotionally repressed ↳ a/n: surprise i'm also writing for bg3 now! i've given in to the BG3 brain rot, here is a scene of astarion and my tav that's been floating around in my mind. i haven't finished my playthrough yet and i'm lowkey making up monk lore as i go along because i can't find much online, but in this oneshot, monks wear robes and have the runes of their temple's values as body art (inspired by the tattoo options in the game) when they go to fancy schmancy events.

Astarion had an idea of what to expect as he hovered outside her door, seeking his next target for entertainment. He had first attempted Wyll and Karlach, but the heart eyes they were making at each other had been a disgusting enough signal for him to leave. Gale, expectedly, had gone off about his plans for Sorcerous Sundries for a tedious stretch of time and Shadowheart had been no fun until she had mentioned that Xuan had asked her for help getting ready for the coronation.

And that was how he had ended up outside the door to her room in the inn. He could nearly imagine her now. He had seen ceremonial robes before to know that they were boringly cut and modest to a fault — likely even more boringly cut and modest, in his opinion, given that they would be monk robes — but somehow he felt a twinge of anticipation linger in his stomach as he raised his hand to knock on her door. Maybe she’d have her hair freed from that dreadful braid — the thought made his anticipation heighten. And then it made him pause, half-bewildered, half-mortified by his excitement. Gods, I’m starting to lose it. Perhaps he would need to do some serious self reflecting after this. No, he was just bored, he reasoned, frowning, just as the door swung open.

“Shadowheart! Can you—” Xuan stopped abruptly, expression more frantic than he’s ever seen before scrunching in confusion at the sight of him. “Astarion?”

He was half correct in his expectations — her hair was freed from that dreadful braid. Only it hung in wild and uneven inky waves down her shoulders, half-curls sticking out at unruly angles. Some of them looked like right angles, he observed dimly in shock, likely an artifact of being in a braid for too long. That wasn’t the most shocking part, though it rendered him speechless enough.

Smeared across the left side of her cheek and neck were smudges of red. For a moment, panic flitted in him from its likeness to blood. Was she injured? And then another thought — had another vampire fed on her? He didn’t know which thought it was that made his stomach twist. But then upon second glance, he could see that it was too dull to be blood — paint.

“Gods, what happened to you?”

Despite the flicker of embarrassment that flashed across her face — and her entire appearance — Xuan did an admirable job at straightening indignantly, though he could see she was holding on tightly to any remaining scraps of dignity as she puffed her chest out like a proud bird. 

“I’m getting ready,” she said simply.

“I would never have been able to tell, darling,” he observed, gloating to himself as he watched her bristle. This could be fun, he thought, his gaze falling to another smudge of paint that had smeared towards her jawline. Before she could protest, he stepped past her into her room. 

“If you’re here just to make fun of me, let’s save both of us the energy.”

“I’m not here just to make fun of you. I’m here to make fun of you and help,” he said, taking a glance around her room. It was sparsely decorated, just as he had expected. Boring.

“Help,” she echoed, in clear disbelief.

Astarion cleared his throat, throwing her a glance over his shoulder as he stepped up to the table where she had laid out a small tub of red paint. “Less of help you, and more of help me,” he corrected easily. “What would the others think of me if our sweet little leader looks as though she’s just come from battle to the coronation?”

Through the mirror, he could see her scowl at him. “Perhaps they would think twice to cross us,” she said mulishly. 

“Yes, I imagine they’ll frighten at the sight of your hair. Maybe take some psychic damage,” Astarion waved her off dismissively, biting back a grin at her clear displeasure. “Sit,” he said, arching a brow at her challengingly. For a moment, he thought she was going to argue, but to his surprise, her scowl faltered and she trudged over dutifully to the chair, her demeanor not unlike one of a prisoner being led to the gallows. He bit back another grin, before it slackened into incredulity at the sight of her red-stained fingers. “Did you try to do this with your hands ? I know you prefer unarmed strikes, but darling, that doesn't have to apply for makeup.”

To her credit, Xuan looked embarrassed, her expression turned as meek as he thought he’d ever see it. “I— You know—” she started, her golden gaze flitting away from him. A part of him reveled a little in her sheepish expression — it wasn’t often he had ever seen the stoic-faced monk abashed.

During their travels he had seen her face pale close to death, her tired triumphant grin while covered in the blood of others, the grimly determined set to her brow as she set foot in the goblin camp, her unimpressed and irritated scowl when he crossed the line, her faint laugh lines with Wyll and Karlach by the campfire. Though most of his attempts at propositioning her or irritating her mostly rolled off her shoulders, the occasional glare from her always stirred up a sense of satisfaction and something else within him. He liked to think that her general lack of reaction to his seduction and flirtation was her monk discipline, rather than a signal to her level of attraction to him because he could always feel her shuddering in his hands before he's about to feed, her eyes blown wide and dark. And because Astarion was too proud — and he would never admit it, but insecure — that to think otherwise would be nearly unbearable.

Astarion had discovered during their travels that for a stolid monk, she had a wide and entertaining range of expressions. But this meek expression was new. He tucked the image carefully into the back of his mind as he watched her fumble for a moment longer before admitting quietly, “I thought it would be easier than a brush.”

Ah , he thought dumbly. That was right, she still wasn’t comfortable with the brush. He ignored the twinge of guilt — what did he have to feel guilty for? He was already lending a hand more than he normally would have. And if anything, it should have been the wizard trying to teach her how to read and write that should feel guilty. He had seen the small sessions the two held in Gale’s tent in the later hours of the evening after dinner. Astarion was sure Gale was going at a rate too fast for the illiterate monk to keep up with. He could almost bet his newfound freedom that Gale launched right into trying to have her read some ancient spell scripture. If it had been him teaching her, he surely would’ve started with getting familiar with holding a brush properly. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Right, well, if you tell me the runes, I’ll paint them for you,” he said finally after a moment, unable to think of any worthy gibe.

“May I?” She put her hand out. Without really thinking, he nodded. His first mistake. Or maybe his first mistake had been seeking her out in the first place. Though he would never have been able to pinpoint it directly, there had been a reason he had sought out the entertainment of the others first.

“Vitality, sincerity, and compassion,” she recited automatically, straightening. Before he could even sneer at her words, his contempt faltered as she grabbed his wrist gently to flip his hand over. “They look like this,” she said, with enough earnest pride that would have made his sneer deepen had he not been so caught off guard by her fingers around his wrist and hand as she began to trace out the rune along his palm. The ghost of her finger against his palm made his skin itch. Very suddenly, Astarion was swept with the overwhelming urge to flee.

“I know what they look like,” he blurted harshly, resisting the urge to snatch back his hand. Or to wrap it around hers.

“Oh, right of course,” she said, looking embarrassed again as she withdrew her hand. “I wasn’t sure if there might be ancient runes and modern ones or…”

It very well might have been in ancient runes, he realized, inwardly wishing he had actually paid attention to the character she had been tracing. No matter, he told himself as he turned away from her gaze. Knowing monks and their ridiculous fixation on tradition and discipline, they were probably in ancient runes. Astarion picked up the damp cloth on the table and re-wet it into the small tub of water. The water was already stained pink, and her cheek looked as though she had just begun to rub vigorously at it.

“Right, well, I’ll get to it,” he announced to the air as he brought the damp cloth across her cheek, focusing his attention on the droplet that began to slide towards her jaw rather than the unabashed way she was watching him. There was no reason for him to be flustered, but he could feel an unwanted bundle of nerves growing in his stomach. Irritably, he slipped his hand below her chin to tilt her head back, half to get a better angle, half to see her reaction. He was sure it wasn’t the leftover paint that made her cheeks redden. Feeling right-footed again, he smirked down at her, before using the dry end of the cloth to absorb any remaining droplets against her skin. 

He lifted the brush and began on the first rune. At the feeling of the brush against her skin — or perhaps, she realized staring at him openly was awkward at best — her eyes fluttered shut as she sat still in the chair.

Despite the warning bells in his mind, Astarion took the moment to study her face carefully. Her brows were strong, perhaps too strong for her face, but relaxed, rather than furrowed as he normally saw them, they gave her a younger expression. Her lashes were long, but devastatingly straight, a stark contrast to the curl that had fallen against her temple. It’s the damn braid , he thought, not for the first time that day.  Her nose was also boringly unassuming, neither fit for her face nor not fit her face. A scar from their battle at the goblin camp had healed to be a thin, white line atop the bridge of her nose, faint against the tan of her skin. His gaze dropped lower. Her lower lip was fuller than her top, a soft pink that mirrored a familiar hue that he couldn’t quite place. He stared at them for a moment longer — in an attempt to try to remember where he had seen the color before.

All in all, her features separately were rather unremarkable, he decided. Nondescript, even. So why was it, that when her disastrously boring features were put together, she looked so—

“Astarion?”

Her uncertain voice snapped him out of his musings as he tore his gaze away from her lips — he had still been trying to place the color — only to see that her eyes were open now, her too-strong brows furrowing slightly. 

“Did you forget the rune?”

He blinked at her, and then the half-finished rune on her cheek. Right. He was painting it on her cheek. 

He swallowed the unsettling feeling that he had never properly looked at her before. “No,” he sniffed indignantly. “I was just considering the placement. To add some life to your rather dull face.” He added, rather unnecessarily.

Perhaps because the bite was only half there, the insult seemed to roll off of her effortlessly. “Traditionally, it’s supposed to stretch down to my collar,” she said, pulling back the ink of her hair and twisting it across her other shoulder to reveal her neck.

Astarion stared at the nape of her neck blankly for a moment before recovering, drawing himself into a carefully neutral expression. It must have been because he was a vampire spawn that something in him stirred at the sight of the long column of her neck. Yes, that was why. Though his fangs didn’t even ache with hunger, and rather, the ache seemed to come from deep within his chest. “Ah, my favorite part of your body. Or one of my many favorites, beautiful,” he drawled, though his voice came out more forced than seductive. 

“You just said my face was dull,” she grumbled under her breath. If he didn't know better, he would have said she looked miffed. But Astarion knew that his words never had any effect on her.

“Yes, but your body? Riveting,” he said easily. “Whatever training the temples had you doing was good .” He drew out the last word, giving her a cursory once over.

Xuan snorted good-naturedly, but maybe it was because of their proximity, that he could see the way her face crumple briefly, the corners of her lips twitching into the slightest of frowns, before her gaze darted away from his. Astarion suddenly felt the ridiculous urge to take back his words. Maybe even apologize. Instead, he ran his tongue over the point of his fang. “Sincerity, was it?” He asked, though he already knew the answer.

She nodded and he dipped the brush back into the red paint. He stepped closer, half in the bracket of her legs and bent at the waist so that they were eye to eye. To get a better view of where he was going to be painting, of course. He slipped his free hand into her disastrous waves to cradle the back of her head, tilting it back to allow better access to her neck. At the familiar motion, a flash of an image of him biting her neck one of those many nights flickered distractingly across his mind. She must have had the same thought, because she stiffened in his hands briefly, before relaxing wonderfully.

Silly girl, he wanted to shout. Didn't she now it was dumb and naive for letting your guard down around a vampire? He wanted to take her by the shoulders and give her a good shake and scold to put some sense into her. But he didn’t. Because this was exactly what he had wanted — a shield for himself with her guard down so that he could easily manipulate. Somehow though, he didn’t quite feel the triumph he thought he would.

Astarion swallowed thickly and carefully painted the next ruin right below her jaw, ignoring how the strokes on this ruin came out shakier than the previous. “Compassion is next?” The question came out somewhat strained.

She hummed in confirmation. His vision narrowed to the slope of her neck as he watched her throat bob. This one was to go at the nape of her neck. At the touch of the brush, she shivered a little in his hands. Normally, Astarion would have felt a sense of smug satisfaction at the sight, but this time he nearly dropped the brush. He took a shuddering breath he didn’t need and quickly, hastily, finished painting the ruin.

“Done,” he said, taking a quick step back. “That’ll be 200 gold for my artwork.”

She laughed, which did little to still the trembling feeling he still had in his hands. She turned to the mirror to inspect his work, her expression softening. “I haven’t had these ruins on me in ages. It reminds me of home,” she sighed, her voice tinged with awe and warmth. Her eyes were bright and pleased as a flicker of nostalgia flashed across her face. “Thank you, Astarion.” Though the fondness was clearly for the sight of the ruins, he felt a little cracked open. Flayed raw.

Astarion was, perhaps for the first time in two centuries, suddenly very glad that he had no reflection in the mirror that she could see as he watched her fond expression — he was very sure that his would give him away. It was always to his mingled relief and chagrin that she never seemed to notice his expression when he looked at her.

[mangomonk]

if you could see me in the mirror

↳ summary: astarion loves riling up tav to see all her expressions, but to his mingled relief and chagrin, she never quite seems to notice his. (alternatively, astarion helps tav in a roundabout way, for the sake of his entertainment, he says.) ↳ content: mentions of blood, astarion is a little mean and very emotionally repressed ↳ a/n: surprise i'm also writing for bg3 now! i've given in to the BG3 brain rot, here is a scene of astarion and my tav that's been floating around in my mind. i haven't finished my playthrough yet and i'm lowkey making up monk lore as i go along because i can't find much online, but in this oneshot, monks wear robes and have the runes of their temple's values as body art (inspired by the tattoo options in the game) when they go to fancy schmancy events.

Astarion had an idea of what to expect as he hovered outside her door, seeking his next target for entertainment. He had first attempted Wyll and Karlach, but the heart eyes they were making at each other had been a disgusting enough signal for him to leave. Gale, expectedly, had gone off about his plans for Sorcerous Sundries for a tedious stretch of time and Shadowheart had been no fun until she had mentioned that Xuan had asked her for help getting ready for the coronation.

And that was how he had ended up outside the door to her room in the inn. He could nearly imagine her now. He had seen ceremonial robes before to know that they were boringly cut and modest to a fault — likely even more boringly cut and modest, in his opinion, given that they would be monk robes — but somehow he felt a twinge of anticipation linger in his stomach as he raised his hand to knock on her door. Maybe she’d have her hair freed from that dreadful braid — the thought made his anticipation heighten. And then it made him pause, half-bewildered, half-mortified by his excitement. Gods, I’m starting to lose it. Perhaps he would need to do some serious self reflecting after this. No, he was just bored, he reasoned, frowning, just as the door swung open.

“Shadowheart! Can you—” Xuan stopped abruptly, expression more frantic than he’s ever seen before scrunching in confusion at the sight of him. “Astarion?”

He was half correct in his expectations — her hair was freed from that dreadful braid. Only it hung in wild and uneven inky waves down her shoulders, half-curls sticking out at unruly angles. Some of them looked like right angles, he observed dimly in shock, likely an artifact of being in a braid for too long. That wasn’t the most shocking part, though it rendered him speechless enough.

Smeared across the left side of her cheek and neck were smudges of red. For a moment, panic flitted in him from its likeness to blood. Was she injured? And then another thought — had another vampire fed on her? He didn’t know which thought it was that made his stomach twist. But then upon second glance, he could see that it was too dull to be blood — paint.

“Gods, what happened to you?”

Despite the flicker of embarrassment that flashed across her face — and her entire appearance — Xuan did an admirable job at straightening indignantly, though he could see she was holding on tightly to any remaining scraps of dignity as she puffed her chest out like a proud bird. 

“I’m getting ready,” she said simply.

“I would never have been able to tell, darling,” he observed, gloating to himself as he watched her bristle. This could be fun, he thought, his gaze falling to another smudge of paint that had smeared towards her jawline. Before she could protest, he stepped past her into her room. 

“If you’re here just to make fun of me, let’s save both of us the energy.”

“I’m not here just to make fun of you. I’m here to make fun of you and help,” he said, taking a glance around her room. It was sparsely decorated, just as he had expected. Boring.

“Help,” she echoed, in clear disbelief.

Astarion cleared his throat, throwing her a glance over his shoulder as he stepped up to the table where she had laid out a small tub of red paint. “Less of help you, and more of help me,” he corrected easily. “What would the others think of me if our sweet little leader looks as though she’s just come from battle to the coronation?”

Through the mirror, he could see her scowl at him. “Perhaps they would think twice to cross us,” she said mulishly. 

“Yes, I imagine they’ll frighten at the sight of your hair. Maybe take some psychic damage,” Astarion waved her off dismissively, biting back a grin at her clear displeasure. “Sit,” he said, arching a brow at her challengingly. For a moment, he thought she was going to argue, but to his surprise, her scowl faltered and she trudged over dutifully to the chair, her demeanor not unlike one of a prisoner being led to the gallows. He bit back another grin, before it slackened into incredulity at the sight of her red-stained fingers. “Did you try to do this with your hands ? I know you prefer unarmed strikes, but darling, that doesn't have to apply for makeup.”

To her credit, Xuan looked embarrassed, her expression turned as meek as he thought he’d ever see it. “I— You know—” she started, her golden gaze flitting away from him. A part of him reveled a little in her sheepish expression — it wasn’t often he had ever seen the stoic-faced monk abashed.

During their travels he had seen her face pale close to death, her tired triumphant grin while covered in the blood of others, the grimly determined set to her brow as she set foot in the goblin camp, her unimpressed and irritated scowl when he crossed the line, her faint laugh lines with Wyll and Karlach by the campfire. Though most of his attempts at propositioning her or irritating her mostly rolled off her shoulders, the occasional glare from her always stirred up a sense of satisfaction and something else within him. He liked to think that her general lack of reaction to his seduction and flirtation was her monk discipline, rather than a signal to her level of attraction to him because he could always feel her shuddering in his hands before he's about to feed, her eyes blown wide and dark. And because Astarion was too proud — and he would never admit it, but insecure — that to think otherwise would be nearly unbearable.

Astarion had discovered during their travels that for a stolid monk, she had a wide and entertaining range of expressions. But this meek expression was new. He tucked the image carefully into the back of his mind as he watched her fumble for a moment longer before admitting quietly, “I thought it would be easier than a brush.”

Ah , he thought dumbly. That was right, she still wasn’t comfortable with the brush. He ignored the twinge of guilt — what did he have to feel guilty for? He was already lending a hand more than he normally would have. And if anything, it should have been the wizard trying to teach her how to read and write that should feel guilty. He had seen the small sessions the two held in Gale’s tent in the later hours of the evening after dinner. Astarion was sure Gale was going at a rate too fast for the illiterate monk to keep up with. He could almost bet his newfound freedom that Gale launched right into trying to have her read some ancient spell scripture. If it had been him teaching her, he surely would’ve started with getting familiar with holding a brush properly. The thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“Right, well, if you tell me the runes, I’ll paint them for you,” he said finally after a moment, unable to think of any worthy gibe.

“May I?” She put her hand out. Without really thinking, he nodded. His first mistake. Or maybe his first mistake had been seeking her out in the first place. Though he would never have been able to pinpoint it directly, there had been a reason he had sought out the entertainment of the others first.

“Vitality, sincerity, and compassion,” she recited automatically, straightening. Before he could even sneer at her words, his contempt faltered as she grabbed his wrist gently to flip his hand over. “They look like this,” she said, with enough earnest pride that would have made his sneer deepen had he not been so caught off guard by her fingers around his wrist and hand as she began to trace out the rune along his palm. The ghost of her finger against his palm made his skin itch. Very suddenly, Astarion was swept with the overwhelming urge to flee.

“I know what they look like,” he blurted harshly, resisting the urge to snatch back his hand. Or to wrap it around hers.

“Oh, right of course,” she said, looking embarrassed again as she withdrew her hand. “I wasn’t sure if there might be ancient runes and modern ones or…”

It very well might have been in ancient runes, he realized, inwardly wishing he had actually paid attention to the character she had been tracing. No matter, he told himself as he turned away from her gaze. Knowing monks and their ridiculous fixation on tradition and discipline, they were probably in ancient runes. Astarion picked up the damp cloth on the table and re-wet it into the small tub of water. The water was already stained pink, and her cheek looked as though she had just begun to rub vigorously at it.

“Right, well, I’ll get to it,” he announced to the air as he brought the damp cloth across her cheek, focusing his attention on the droplet that began to slide towards her jaw rather than the unabashed way she was watching him. There was no reason for him to be flustered, but he could feel an unwanted bundle of nerves growing in his stomach. Irritably, he slipped his hand below her chin to tilt her head back, half to get a better angle, half to see her reaction. He was sure it wasn’t the leftover paint that made her cheeks redden. Feeling right-footed again, he smirked down at her, before using the dry end of the cloth to absorb any remaining droplets against her skin. 

He lifted the brush and began on the first rune. At the feeling of the brush against her skin — or perhaps, she realized staring at him openly was awkward at best — her eyes fluttered shut as she sat still in the chair.

Despite the warning bells in his mind, Astarion took the moment to study her face carefully. Her brows were strong, perhaps too strong for her face, but relaxed, rather than furrowed as he normally saw them, they gave her a younger expression. Her lashes were long, but devastatingly straight, a stark contrast to the curl that had fallen against her temple. It’s the damn braid , he thought, not for the first time that day.  Her nose was also boringly unassuming, neither fit for her face nor not fit her face. A scar from their battle at the goblin camp had healed to be a thin, white line atop the bridge of her nose, faint against the tan of her skin. His gaze dropped lower. Her lower lip was fuller than her top, a soft pink that mirrored a familiar hue that he couldn’t quite place. He stared at them for a moment longer — in an attempt to try to remember where he had seen the color before.

All in all, her features separately were rather unremarkable, he decided. Nondescript, even. So why was it, that when her disastrously boring features were put together, she looked so—

“Astarion?”

Her uncertain voice snapped him out of his musings as he tore his gaze away from her lips — he had still been trying to place the color — only to see that her eyes were open now, her too-strong brows furrowing slightly. 

“Did you forget the rune?”

He blinked at her, and then the half-finished rune on her cheek. Right. He was painting it on her cheek. 

He swallowed the unsettling feeling that he had never properly looked at her before. “No,” he sniffed indignantly. “I was just considering the placement. To add some life to your rather dull face.” He added, rather unnecessarily.

Perhaps because the bite was only half there, the insult seemed to roll off of her effortlessly. “Traditionally, it’s supposed to stretch down to my collar,” she said, pulling back the ink of her hair and twisting it across her other shoulder to reveal her neck.

Astarion stared at the nape of her neck blankly for a moment before recovering, drawing himself into a carefully neutral expression. It must have been because he was a vampire spawn that something in him stirred at the sight of the long column of her neck. Yes, that was why. Though his fangs didn’t even ache with hunger, and rather, the ache seemed to come from deep within his chest. “Ah, my favorite part of your body. Or one of my many favorites, beautiful,” he drawled, though his voice came out more forced than seductive. 

“You just said my face was dull,” she grumbled under her breath. If he didn't know better, he would have said she looked miffed. But Astarion knew that his words never had any effect on her.

“Yes, but your body? Riveting,” he said easily. “Whatever training the temples had you doing was good .” He drew out the last word, giving her a cursory once over.

Xuan snorted good-naturedly, but maybe it was because of their proximity, that he could see the way her face crumple briefly, the corners of her lips twitching into the slightest of frowns, before her gaze darted away from his. Astarion suddenly felt the ridiculous urge to take back his words. Maybe even apologize. Instead, he ran his tongue over the point of his fang. “Sincerity, was it?” He asked, though he already knew the answer.

She nodded and he dipped the brush back into the red paint. He stepped closer, half in the bracket of her legs and bent at the waist so that they were eye to eye. To get a better view of where he was going to be painting, of course. He slipped his free hand into her disastrous waves to cradle the back of her head, tilting it back to allow better access to her neck. At the familiar motion, a flash of an image of him biting her neck one of those many nights flickered distractingly across his mind. She must have had the same thought, because she stiffened in his hands briefly, before relaxing wonderfully.

Silly girl, he wanted to shout. Didn't she now it was dumb and naive for letting your guard down around a vampire? He wanted to take her by the shoulders and give her a good shake and scold to put some sense into her. But he didn’t. Because this was exactly what he had wanted — a shield for himself with her guard down so that he could easily manipulate. Somehow though, he didn’t quite feel the triumph he thought he would.

Astarion swallowed thickly and carefully painted the next ruin right below her jaw, ignoring how the strokes on this ruin came out shakier than the previous. “Compassion is next?” The question came out somewhat strained.

She hummed in confirmation. His vision narrowed to the slope of her neck as he watched her throat bob. This one was to go at the nape of her neck. At the touch of the brush, she shivered a little in his hands. Normally, Astarion would have felt a sense of smug satisfaction at the sight, but this time he nearly dropped the brush. He took a shuddering breath he didn’t need and quickly, hastily, finished painting the ruin.

“Done,” he said, taking a quick step back. “That’ll be 200 gold for my artwork.”

She laughed, which did little to still the trembling feeling he still had in his hands. She turned to the mirror to inspect his work, her expression softening. “I haven’t had these ruins on me in ages. It reminds me of home,” she sighed, her voice tinged with awe and warmth. Her eyes were bright and pleased as a flicker of nostalgia flashed across her face. “Thank you, Astarion.” Though the fondness was clearly for the sight of the ruins, he felt a little cracked open. Flayed raw.

Astarion was, perhaps for the first time in two centuries, suddenly very glad that he had no reflection in the mirror that she could see as he watched her fond expression — he was very sure that his would give him away. It was always to his mingled relief and chagrin that she never seemed to notice his expression when he looked at her.