#And I know illithids were a thing long ago

[hugintheraven]

So, is anyone going to talk about how Baldur's Gate 3 is just recycling the Animorphs plotline but less horrific, or are we just going to smile and nod along?

[bloodiedrogue]

WHERE'S YOUR PATIENCE? (7)

SUMMARY: You and Astarion finally have the conversation. Among other things.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 5,912

WARNINGS: 18+ sexual content, teasing, little bit of hand stuff, vaginal sex, CONSENT IS SEXY, mentions of past sexual/physical trauma, potential spoilers for acts 1/2.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Say thank you to the 2 bottles of Corona and the tequila shot I took to loosen up my brain enough to write this smut. I couldn't have done it without them. (And also my bardic inspiration @imgoingtofreakoutnow)

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

-

The weeks following feel like an uphill battle —a never-ending course of constant information and action all tied into one long work month. Without warning, you find yourself overwhelmingly annoyed with the pace of it all. Not to mention the unwavering guilt, knowing that if you’re not fighting hordes of Absolute cultists or doing research on how to rip the Illithid out of your head, your time is essentially wasted.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like. 

Considering the severity of everything, even when you’re resting from a long day's work, you always find your mind wandering. Picking apart texts from old books you’ve found during infiltration missions. Oftentimes late at night when Astarion’s come back from feeding, you spend a lot of your time together relaying said thoughts. Using the late-night silence to fuel the drive that’s been missing throughout the day. 

By the time you get to the Inn within the Shadowlands, you’re surprised he’s not sick of you for it. Nowadays, just the mere thought of your own voice makes you want to rip off your ears, and although you know it’s crucial that you discuss things like this, you know there are other things that are important too. 

Like your shared confession. And your promise to talk of the past when you were both ready. 

Since that night you haven’t asked him about it. With everything happening so quick, it’s been pushed to the back of your mind —lost amongst the clutter of thoughts that you’re often forced to leave behind. Deep down, you imagine he’s somewhat in the same boat but still, there’s even more guilt that surfaces. Filling both sides of the spectrum like an overflowing glass of water —so much so that by the time you’re gifted a proper night’s rest in an actual bed you’re already too tired to care. 

As soon as you enter the Inn after your journey through the cursed shadows of the forest you head straight to the bar, barely batting an eye at the barkeep who looks you up and down, horrified by the state of your dress.

“Whiskey, please.”

“And… whatever else you got back there that doesn’t taste of fermentation.” 

You turn to see Astarion already standing beside you, moving his hand to the small of your back to usher you into one of the stools. Immediately, you oblige with a sigh, blinking back sleep as you rest your bloodied elbows on the countertop, earning yourself a look of annoyance that Astarion squashes with an unfriendly scowl, showcasing his canine teeth. 

If you weren’t so exhausted you probably would’ve laughed at such a sight, but considering you are, you instead let out a soft hum and down your whiskey when it’s placed in front of you, signalling for another. 

“I see you’ve already decided how you’re going to spend your night off.” 

Nodding your head, you barely register his words, slumping your damp forehead down against the counter with a groan. “How the fuck are we even alive?” 

It’s a fair question when you take into account all that you’ve been through. All the puzzles and battles and endless expectations to now save all of Baldur’s Gate just to get these damned Illithids out of your head. 

At this rate, you and everyone else should’ve been dead ages ago. Either murdered and looted for your tadpoles and their powers or already turned into tentacle-faced beasts. Not sitting next to Astarion, covered in blood, sweat and tears, wondering how the hell you’re supposed to keep going. How you’re meant to keep this unrealistic momentum of burnout over and over and—

He runs his palm along the base of your spine, drawing his fingers up and down as he takes a sip of his drink. “Hells if I know, darling.”

Feeling a bit delirious, you laugh and raise your head to look between him and the new drink in front of you. “We should’ve been dead by now.” 

“You? Perhaps. Me?” He pauses to dig his digits into your aching neck, making your head fall forward again in delight. “Well, I have far too much to do after all of this is over.” 

“Yeah, like what?”

When he doesn’t answer right away you remember the conversation. That moment by the fire where you kissed and confessed and told each other you’d talk about it. Immediately it fills you with anxiety, clouding your features with a worried brow and frowning lips as you crane your neck to the side. 

When you look at him you notice he’s not really there. His eyes sit in their normal position, staring back but there’s nothing. Not a thought or feeling; just two empty voids surrounded by bloodied dissociation. 

It pulls at your heartstrings far too much —makes you let out a breath and raise your frame to slip off the stool and move to hug him. Despite the lack of attention, he manages to follow suit as it happens, wrapping his arms around your neck as you burrow into his chest, once again sighing, wondering if you should apologize and offer your ear or merely forget the exchange entirely. 

Before you can even think to do either he’s standing up, keeping his hold as he grabs your other whiskey and proceeds to drink it down, barely batting an eye. 

Raising your brow at him, you feel his fingers dig into your neck again, rubbing rough circles that have you resting your forehead against his chest, trying to form any semblance of a thought. 

It makes him laugh and raise his hand to your hair, running his fingers through the roots. “Let’s get cleaned up.” 

You’re already off and climbing the stairs before you’re able to answer. Pushing through the pain that radiates through your calves with every step. Leaning against him with tired eyes that eventually open up when the door creaks open in front you of. 

Somehow you managed to earn yourself a private room. One that’s actually clean with a real bed and a tub —all of which almost have you in tears. 

“Nice of them to give us some privacy, hm?” Astarion smirks down at you as he speaks, watching as you roll your eyes and finally pull yourself away, reaching for the clasps of your leather vest. Like the rest of you, it’s coated in a thick layer of dirt and blood. All of it dried and coming off in disgusting clumps that have you scrunching up your face. Brushing off the top few clasps, you try not to focus on the way it feels against your fingers. How it collects under your nails as you narrow your eyes, struggling to get the damned thing off.

It makes him scoff and pull you back in, pushing your hands aside to undo the first clasp. “I feel as though I recall a time where you claimed to be patient?” 

As he moves down to the next one you shake your head and look away. “Emotionally, yes. Physically I—“

“I’d say you’re far more patient in that regard, actually.”

For a second you’re not sure what he means but then it hits you. He means sex. Physical intimacy. A line of which you hadn’t yet crossed due to several things. The main being your lack of conversation —your lack of focus to a promise you both said you wouldn't break. 

Obviously, the lack of time hasn’t helped either, but as you stand there, watching his fingers pull apart your top layer, you find yourself visibly frustrated. Angry at yourself for not taking the time to offer the piece of yourself you desperately want. 

After that night it was always your intention to go first. To tell him all about your past in order to open the floodgates. You figured if you were brave enough to do it —to be the one to bite the bullet— maybe he’d inevitably follow. 

But then life got in the way and now nearly five weeks later it suddenly feels like you’re stuck in this limbo. One where you’re dancing on the edge, teetering with bated breath. Wondering if maybe the time is right. 

As his hands move further and further you find yourself fighting your imagination. Brushing off the feelings that start to surface as you stare down at his hands, watching their delicate ministrations. 

It’s apparent then that he's no stranger to the art of undress. As his fingers twist and turn to work the clasps apart, you have to stop yourself from giving in to temptation, knowing that it’s wrong. Remembering the promise you made.

Moving your hand to stop him, you clear your throat and watch his eyes. Noticing the way they filter through the air to eventually focus on you, blinking as if he wasn’t there to begin with. 

“Can we talk now? Maybe?”

His hands sit against your leathers, gripping the metal with tightened fingers that still somehow manage to pale from their hold despite his complexion. “Course.”

Running your fingers along his knuckles, you slowly wrap your fists around them, bringing them up toward your mouth to place soft kisses despite the mess of battle that lingers. Then you drag him further into the room, placing him on the edge of the bed. 

“Do you know who Beshaba is?” you ask, plain and simple, unsure how else to start the conversation of your past as you sit beside him.

“The deity?”

You nod, slowly, letting your gaze anxiously fall to your lap. “I grew up in one of her churches after my parents died. Learned everything I know about the world from a priestess named Hessa.”

As you try your best to further collect your thoughts, Astarion leans in, narrowing his eyes at the way your hands start to shake against your thigh.

“Is she the one in your dream?” he asks.  

Without hesitation, you nod. “They thrive on infliction,” you explain after, watching him frown. Taking in the way his demeanour changes without warning to become something you’re not quite sure you've seen before. “Their doctrine revolves around fear. If you don’t participate you’re expected to endure only pain and misfortune.”

You remember growing up underneath all these women, listening to their cautionary tales of Beshaba’s terror. It instilled fear in you from the get-go —taught you that the only way to endure the horrors of this life was to devote yourself to her. To offer everything you could in exchange for peace, so you did. Unwaveringly so. 

“As a child, I grew up listening to these women scare everyone for the sake of their goddess.” You pause to swallow, feeling the memories of Hessa’s knife each time you later disobeyed, slice across your skin. “Then, as an adult, I followed the cycle.”

“Willingly?”

You shrug your shoulders. “At first.” 

You remember as soon as you were old enough you were sent out to recruit. To trick the minds of all the simple folk, weaving fabricated tales of disasters that were carried out by Beshaba’s hand. It was difficult to do. Seeing all those ruined minds come crawling to you for salvation —begging for forgiveness in the form of eternal loyalty. 

Thankfully though, it grew old pretty quickly. The formula of travelling Faerûn, following the endless calamity and blaming it on the lack of faith was enough to pull you out of the fog. As each day passed, it became increasingly hard to pretend your faith was still intact, so you formulated a plan. 

“When we arrived in Baldur’s Gate I tried to leave. In the middle of the night I abandoned my sisters —tried to run and never look back but…”

There’s a moment where your mouth just closes, trailing from the memories of your story; straying solely to the image of Hessa. To her hands and face each time she broke you apart and put you back together. 

Without even trying you can feel her next to you, whispering her teachings in your ear —touching your scars with calloused hands. Her voice still has that icy hold on you even when you’re far away, keeping you still as she forces you down to kneel on the stone floor and await your punishment. 

A punishment you’ll always feel you deserve. Even now that you’ve well and truly denounced the faith. Deep down you still feel the guilt of your exit. The pain of having to carry the trauma of an existence you never had the choice of living. To this day, it still eats away through the scars that line your stomach. Boring lines of betrayal across your skin.

The last thing you want to do is cry, but as the reminder of such abuse continues to penetrate your mind you find the tears falling anyway. Collecting at the edges of your eyes so quickly that you’re forced to close them in order to reset your vision.

As you do you feel Astarion wrapping himself completely around you. Pulling you into his chest with heavy hands that feel nothing like hers. Reminding you that you’re safe. That you’re here with him and nobody else. 

“Is this wretched woman still stationed in Baldur’s?” 

You feel his fingers on your chin, pulling your face up so that he can see you when you nod, holding back tears. 

“Good. Then our destinations align.” 

His voice sounds different. Instead of the usual softness or flirtation, it’s spoken through clenched teeth that strain against his throat, somehow feeling almost like a threat. An unspoken but well-articulated phrase of warning that has you sniffing and wiping your eyes. “What do you mean?” 

At first, you figure he’s talking about the Illithid. The urgent need to get to Baldur’s Gate before time runs out. But then you’re ripped back to reality —to the moments where he’s briefly mentioned his desire to return home. To finish whatever business he has after this timely journey is over. 

“The person who sent the hunter—“

He practically spits out his name. Cazador Szarr. A man you’re unfortunately well aware of given his reputation. 

After arriving in Baldur’s Gate it was common knowledge to avoid him and his property. As awful as your church was about promoting the misfortunes of others, they made it very clear not to get involved. According to them, he was an unholy man —one that could never fully be understood due to the obvious seclusion of his person.

To this day, you've always wondered what lies behind those doors of his. What sinister things he was up to throughout the years. 

However, when you look at Astarion —when you see the way his rage suddenly seems to know no bounds, you know it’s bad. Worse than bad considering Astarion hardly ever gets angry. Sure, annoyance and frustration often come out but anger —real anger— never does.  

“When you told me that you wished I didn’t know what it felt like, I didn’t realize how similar our experiences were.” His fingers rub rough circles into your flesh, distracting his mind as he lets out a breath and continues. “I didn’t know the level of your pain.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“I know.”

His voice cracks. Your heart breaks. Then, both of you sit in another wave of silence, letting the words previously spoken sit at your feet as you stare at one another, trying to gauge what happens next.

You don’t anticipate his hands moving to his armour. Nor do you retain any sense of restraint when you reach to follow them, both of you working to pry it off before he pulls his tunic over his head. 

Despite being on the road together for so long you’ve never seen him bare like this. So open and willing to prove to you that he's here. With you, here’s here and ready to share whatever you think you need. 

Embarrassingly, it makes you want to cry all over again, reaching for his face. Feeling that familiar coolness beneath your touch as he turns to rest both hands on your hips again.

“It’s been so long since I’ve willingly wanted this.”

“This?” You look at him confused.

“To be intimate.” His fingers tighten around your flesh, digging into the plush ever so slightly. “To share the act of sex with another rather than exploit it.”

There’s a small smile that creeps through then. An inkling of hope for the vampire’s happiness as you inch in closer, placing the softest kiss you can muster to his cheek. “But you’re nervous?”

“Terribly,” he admits with a heavy breath. “In the span of 200 years I’ve bed countless men and women —all of them willing. All of them happy to have enjoyed my body only to end up at death’s door.”

It’s a lot to take in —the admittance of his faults. As soon as the first detail is uttered it’s as if the floodgates open and he’s telling you everything. From the moment he was turned and forced to crawl from his grave to the years that followed luring person after person into the Szarr home for a master so cruel you immediately wish to kill him. 

“I spent so long under that bastard’s thumb that… I don’t even know who I am anymore. How I’m meant to be now that I’ve attained even the slightest bit of freedom.” 

You understand how he feels. Perhaps the levels are different but deep within there’s always been this nagging feeling of how you’re supposed to live your life. How you feel as though you should be travelling the world in search of a new purpose rather than once again fulfilling someone else’s. 

But then you remember what’s at stake. And how even someone else’s fate can affect your livelihood. Then it’s as if the cycle repeats itself, constantly reminding you that if you don’t participate then that’s the end. Your freedom is null just as Astarion’s, leaving you to wonder what’s the point of it all.

“I think people like you and I are just meant to live.” Your hands move up to touch his hair. Carefully, you grip his curls between your fingers, pressing the pads into his skull as you run them down, hearing him sigh. “To enjoy what little time we have.”

“Little?” He raises his brow with a smirk. “Darling, I’m immortal.”

“True but you could still become a Mind-flayer like the rest of us.”

“Fair point.”

He seems calmer now. The usual persona of his overbearing personality coming through, making you grin. 

Instead of tightly wound he’s relaxed under your hold, practically melting against your touch as he lowers himself to rest on your shoulder. As he does, you end up catching a glimpse of his back, fully seeing Cazador’s work in the form of rough, red etchings that coat his entire spine. 

You have to force yourself not to ask about them until he’s ready, tightening the hold you have around his head as you riddle his face in kisses, letting your lips linger against his temple as you close your eyes. 

“They’re not as bad as they look,” he says then, somehow reading your mind. 

As painful as it is to admit, you know he’s right. Compared to other scars you’ve seen his look undeniably perfect. The way they paint the image of what looks to be some sort of sigil against his pale flesh. Despite the violence endured to create such a piece, it’s obvious that there was care put in too. A meticulous hand working away with the precision of someone borderline obsessed. 

If it wasn’t the result of abuse you could even call it beautiful. But since it’s not, you only continue to hold him, gripping his face for dear life, wondering what kind of pain he had to suffer to earn such a massive reminder of his ownership. 

“Do you know what it is?”

He lifts his head, looking at you like he’s seeking the answer himself. “A brand I’m guessing. Not that I can tell. Unlike you I can’t use a mirror. Nor can I very well reach to trace the damned thing myself.” 

Your fingers twitch at his words, feeling the temptation to touch them grow as you remember your own scars. In terms of appearance, they’re much more rigid. Three jagged lines that cover the middle of your stomach, making sure you remember. Ensuring your mind that every day you live on this earth —every new moment spent thinking that you’re worthy of whatever this is between you— that you’ll never be normal. 

The moment they dug that first knife into your gut you were marked for life. Branded just like him. 

Swallowing hard you force yourself to slip away from his grasp, watching the confusion that erupts before the understanding starts as you shakily discard your leather layer and throw your tunic over your head. 

It takes everything in you not to put it back on when you see the look on Astarion’s face. How it studies you with knitted brows and a clenched jaw that makes you want to hold him again.

“Mine are just… lines. They don’t mean anything.” As you motion to the thick slashes that have been carved over countless times you catch his gaze twitching upward, taking in the exhaustion.

“She did this?”

After you nod you feel his hand move forward, ever so gently grazing the top of the centre line with curiosity. “How many times?”

“I don’t remember.”

“But you remember how it felt?”

You press your lips together, breathing through your nose. Sucking in the Inn’s dusty air before blowing it out as you nod, forcing back the memory. Pushing through the pain as your tadpole squirms, asking to let him in. 

Like all the other feelings you’ve shared as of late, it’s been so long since you’ve felt his presence like this. Even with the Illithid’s constant use outside of each other, when he calls out to you it’s completely different. The movement behind your eye doesn’t feel like an annoyance. It feels like a call. A tingle of hope that has you answering before you can even question what it is he might want. 

When you answer there’s a warmth that hits your skin. Enveloping you completely, you feel the aching of the heat carry through your extremities, cascading down in anxious pools that have you breathing rather hard. Closing your eyes, you see the image of Astarion’s hands in front of you. Slowly he wiggles his fingers and turns his palms, taking in the fact that he’s safely under the sun, despite what he is. 

You realize then that this is the first memory he has of freedom. Of a life where he truly believes the tether’s been severed. All the thoughts inside his mind are full of nerves. Building anxieties of the past and the future being interrupted by a present he never thought was possible. 

It’s a memory that stirs you to move. To guide his hands to your waist as you crawl into his lap and grab his chin. 

Touching his skin you feel that same warmth flow through to your core. Letting it take over all the thoughts of scarring and owners and the lives you’ve both lived to get to this point, it takes away your breath. Pulls from you the needs of anything but him. 

In this moment, none of it matters anymore. Every experience is nothing more than a dimming shadow compared to the sensation of his breath wafting over your face as you angle your head down to look at him.

“Do you want this?”

His tongue darts out to line his lips. His hunger growing at the sight of you —at the feeling of you moulded to him like melting wax just cool enough to touch. “Yes.”

“So it’s okay if I—“

There’s a hand in your hair before you can finish, forcing you down to his mouth. It’s rough at first but quickly softens once he’s got you where he wants you. Firmly set atop his thighs and in his grasp. Allowing him enough access to reach up and touch the edge of your neck, his thumb lingering towards the centre to press a soft touch —reminding you that you have to breathe. That the usage of your lungs is no longer second nature but something you actively have to think about through the open-mouthed kisses that work to take it all away. 

Your head dizzies at the feeling. All at once your vision blurs while your hands begin to roam, stretching over skin and bone, eventually hitting raised scars that make you kiss him even harder, knowing it’s what he needs. What he deserves after countless years of loveless encounters. After touches, empty of anything resembling the adoration you wish to offer him.  

While laying waste to his bruising lips, you clumsily slide down his lap so that you’re standing on the ground, tucked between his open legs and bending forward. 

Confused, you feel his face twist against your own, prompting you to pull away and lower yourself further, letting your knees gently come in contact with the floor. 

“I was enjoying you where you were,” he muses then, cocking his head to focus on the way your hands begin to slide up over his knees, resting on each outer thigh. 

“And now you’ll enjoy me over here.” You smirk.

“Cheeky pup.” 

“The cheekiest.” 

After that, you shuffle closer and reach for his belt, keeping eye contact every step of the way to make sure you aren’t stepping over any boundaries. 

The last thing you’d want is to make him feel uncomfortable —to feel used in all the ways he used to experience. So you combat all that by checking in; offering him subtle glances every time you take the next step. 

You can tell immediately that he’s appreciative. Whenever he nods there’s a faint smile that sits across his lips, offering you approval as your fingers knock against the metal clasp of his belt, shakily moving to open it up.

At some point he ends up doing it himself, leaning forward to kiss your forehead and laugh at the nerves that render your fingers useless. Nerves that only spread when you stare up at his face while his hands busily move the strap aside.

After tossing his belt aside he doesn’t let you go further. Instead, he drags you further between his legs, leaning down to cup your cheeks and kiss you all over again.

It’s distracting, to say the least. The feeling of his lips moving in tandem with your own as he reaches around to rid you of your bra with two quick swipes, leaving you just as bare as him. 

It sends a shiver down your spine that makes him smirk, his upper lip quirking against yours before he gently bites down making you groan. 

“Can’t let you be the only one with a view,” he mutters against you, making you awkwardly laugh as you watch his gaze lower to your naked chest. “Can I, pet?”

“No, I suppose not.” 

Your voice sounds anything but confident as his hands continue their descent, matching your previous desires when they linger at your belt, waiting for you to give him the okay. 

When you do he makes quick work, unclasping the belt with skillful hands before lightly smacking your ass, signalling you to stand before he carefully slides the rest of it down, thumbing the edges of your legs. 

You have to force yourself not to cry out right then and there, feeling overwhelmed by the soft touch of his fingers. How they barely graze the outer parts of your already parting thighs, stopping at your knees when he looks up at you with a smirk.

“You seem nervous, darling.” 

Rolling your eyes, you shove an open palm to his chest, pushing him back against the bed with a scoff. One that makes him laugh and watch as you kick off the remainder of the fabric, trying to appear brave. Something that proves to be harder than you anticipate when he swiftly follows suit, giving you a show of your own in the form of freshly exposed skin you’ve only ever imagined in the deepest corners of your mind. 

In almost an instant, the fabric slips away, revealing more of him than you possibly could’ve expected, making your mind wander as the building arousal between your thighs twitches with desire. Telling you that you need this. 

You open your mouth to ask for more only to be yanked upon his lap causing a yelp to fall from your lips that makes you both laugh. 

“You really are a marvel, aren’t you?”

With a smile, his eyes scan your naked frame. Up and down and back, they linger at every part as if he’s studying you for future use. Taking mental notes with each passing freckle or scar that lines the length of bare skin. “I mean truly, look at you.” 

As he speaks, one hand runs along your neck —over your shoulder and down your arm until it’s resting at your thigh, gripping you tight. “I’m not sure what God out there decided to make you but remind me to give them my utmost thanks after this is over.”

When he leans in you have to force yourself not to nervously laugh at his praise, once again feeling his lips find refuge on your own, driving you to take things further. Encouraging you to make him feel as good as he deserves. 

This time though, instead of asking for approval with a glance you do so with a touch, reaching down to grip the end of his length with gentle hands that make him moan. Ever so quietly, the second you hear it you immediately strengthen your hold, using your free hand to grip his shoulder as you work him slowly, noticing him push. Feeling the subtle arc of his hips buck against your hand, wanting more.

For a moment you think about doing it. Letting your hand tighten further while you pick up the pace. It’d be easy. Nothing more than a simple readjustment but something mischievous stops you from doing it. 

Remembering that night at the grove —the one where he relentlessly teased just to get a rise out of you— you find yourself smirking and pulling away, gripping his shoulder even tighter to keep him in place.

Almost immediately, he knows exactly what you’re doing. He can feel it in the way you languidly pull at his cock, barely holding on with each stroke. 

“You think you’re clever, do you?”

You quirk your brow and bite your lip, massaging the apex of his shoulder. “I have to be if I’m going to be hanging around you.”

Furthering his torment, you then tighten your grip for a couple more pumps before returning to your previous pace, eliciting a hiss of disapproval that has him gripping both your hips and maneuvering you to sit against his right thigh. 

“Oh really?” 

Pushing up into your core, Astarion shifts you back and forth with his hands, making your breath catch inside your throat once you realize what you’ve done. How you’ve instantly set yourself up for a failure you know he’ll only revel in winning.

Considering he’s more than capable of making you fluster solely with words, you should’ve expected this —saw it coming from a mile away. 

Continuing your ministrations as lazily as possible, he barely registers them as he glides your folds against his leg. Holding you down, he manages to apply the perfect amount of pressure to build the tension, making you press your lips tightly together, forcing back any sound that might be deemed a loss. 

Even though it’s anything but a competition. A detail that’s reminded once he maneuvers one of his hands to cup your sex, rubbing rough circles into your clit. 

It makes you lose all semblance of thought, forgetting the hold you have on his cock as you shakily reach for his other shoulder, steadying yourself against him. 

“Doesn’t it feel nice when you give in?” 

Despite the context, there’s surprisingly no snark to his words. No sarcasm or bite —just genuine thought. A question so true to its word that all you can do is pant through the building pleasure and nod; letting him raise you off his leg and station himself at your entrance. 

It fills your mind to the brim with needs and wants you never thought you’d feel again. Having been subjected to abuse and then forced upon a journey you’re still not sure you’re ready for, the thought of attachments like this never once crossed your mind. 

Even after everything you’d been through, you never thought Astarion was capable of such tenderness —of loving care and safekeeping. Of gentle touches that run across your aching skin as he looks at you and you at him, both of you deciding it’s okay. 

As soon as it’s given, he’s sliding into you. Painfully slow, he uses the approval to grant you access to your shared pleasure, pushing through the tightness just as you open your mouth.

“Feel alright?”

Your fingers press against his neck as they slide up to cup his chin so you can pull your foreheads together. “More than alright.”

Through an unsteady breath, he laughs and guides you further down, allowing you both to savour the sensation for a moment before pulling back out again. 

As soon as he’s missing you’re already longing for more. Desperate for the fill of his cock, prompting a whine to escape; earning yourself a tut. 

“Remember patience?”

You do. More than anything in this moment you remember your claim and how foolish it was to think he wouldn’t forget it. 

“I recall you saying—"

“Astarion, please.” 

You’re not sure if it’s the anguish in your voice or the squirming of your hips that does it, but almost instantly he’s giving in. Once again offering you exactly what you need in the form of a push and pull so viscerally satisfying you’re left slumped against his chest, keeping hold of his neck. Forcing his hand to grip the back of your head to see the way he ruts inside of you. 

It’s a sight that’s almost too much. One that makes you moan and close your eyes, allowing him to move your face to his. At which point you’re on the precipice of ruin. Both body and mind becoming a mess of everything and nothing, forcing your breath to falter. 

You can tell Astarion’s in the same boat, struggling to maintain his starting pace the longer you mindlessly grind against him, unable to contribute much of anything else.

Together, the two of you try to move in unison, pushing and pushing —inhaling and exhaling. Anything you can do to share the burden of the building pleasure that grows and grows until—

When it hits, it feels better than you imagined. Deep within there’s a blooming that unfolds, petal by petal, opening to reveal unholy tremors that make you release a heavy plume of air through your closed lips. 

Gripping you close, you can feel Astarion follow quickly behind, twitching inside before he inevitably spills out, making both of you groan and fall back onto the bed in a fit of nervous laughter before he cheekily suggests you make use of the tub. 

-

TAGLIST: @poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo@jjfchk@idiotsatan@bluestuesday@bloopthebat@art-by-greenie@heneralmoon@sukunababe@dreamingaboutyousworld@ranfithegood@haniscrying@liadamerondjarin@the-lake-is-calling@marina-and-the-memes@rookieoftheyear@zraloci-cpr@kaetmo@snickerdoodle-daydream@wowowwild@d1anna@raswiet@conniesbbymama@venus-wrts@demonicthorns@kihten@deadglamsheep@sanscas@spammypasta@leighsartworks216@rose-gold-blue@p1ssmagg0t@hellish-writes@ghostinvenus@otayz@sexysquatch@sleepyeclair@colorful-anxieties@alina-exe@ilana-the-lasagna@lillifer@girlwiththepapatattoo@y2cade@acelin-ginsberg@pinkuranium@catrad0rable@scarletrosesposts@qwnamidala@itsrosebabe@bunnyperi@queenofcarrotflowers-s@tatumadams20@spkyxszn@chlort@f3v3rs@awkwardwookie@joy-the-reader@warm-milk-with-honey-blog@vertigocrime@iyis@wildpiper@pebblethestone@tillywasneverhere@bex-03@kaetmo@revemiya@staticspouse@itzagothamcitysiren@djarinsmixtape@when-the-night-came@epicy0n@bababahannah@sleepyred1703@lotus-99@lofcompass@r4d10h34d5@vampninjaz@itsmekalou@offbrandhand@yikes-buddy@konenichi

(If you'd like to be added to the taglist, fill out this form. Also, if your name isn't on here and it should be I couldn't tag you so message me and I'll try again next time!)

[leighsartworks216]

In Your Silence (I Hear You)

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

Requested by @ghulehh666:

"Just had this idea for so long in my head, basically astarion x tav(gn). Tav is really antisocial, never visits tavern or such, and prefers to stay somewhere quiet and alone or with Astarion. When they have to talk, their ability to speak sometimes randomly locks out and doesn’t know what to say."

I know you said antisocial but I kinda went further and made it more social anxiety or autism-coded

Also I still have not played the game or seen much gameplay so some things may be inaccurate and stuff

Warnings: going through a busy crowd, brief mention of nails digging into skin, some sensory issues (touch, sound)

Word Count: 1,287

Masterlist

AO3

You were holding on for dear life. Your arms curled tightly around Astarion’s, eyes scanning every which-a-way. Unfortunately, this was a rather common occurrence.

Before all this, you kept to yourself. Perhaps to an extreme. You avoided going outside, you didn’t speak to anyone for as long as you could help it, and you were quite happy like this. Dealing with other people was always a headache, and never near worth it, but staying alone? The only person you could be irritated with was yourself.

And then you got kidnapped. And somehow, somehow everyone chose you as the one to save the world. You couldn’t stay alone anymore. Too much was at stake. But sometimes it was all too much. Too loud, too demanding, too… everything.

Astarion didn’t know what to make of you upon first meeting. He’d assumed you were working with the damn Illithid, but when he insisted you just kept shaking your head. Truly, he’d have thought you were mute, if he’d not seen you talking with the damned creatures. Now that it’s been weeks, he knew you better than the rest. After all, it was his tent you ran to when you needed quiet, and, even more than that, it was him you trusted to find your voice when you couldn’t.

That’s how you ended up in this bustling market street, clinging to him as he smoothly guided you through swaths of people. He was used to navigating crowds. His eyes sought out slightly-more-open gaps and he’d be able to slip through with no issues. Alone, that is. With you, the strategy was a little different. Not only did he have to get himself through, but you as well. He could only imagine what the weaving pattern he took to find even-more-open gaps in the sea of people looked like from above.

The street never seemed to end. More and more people entered from either end. Stall owners barked out calls to potential customers. Everyone was shoving to get where they needed to go. Astarion was tired of it. The only reason you’d turned down here was to find one specific stall for some spices Gale wanted. He’d stopped looking for the stall long ago, leaving that task to you.

Toward the end of the street, though still quite far from any freedom, you squeezed his arm and planted your feet. He stopped immediately. Your eyes were set on one of the stalls - a table filled with handfuls of herbs, small bundles of them tied together with string. He sighed through his nose. Gale better damn well be happy for all the trouble this is.

Astarion placed a hand over yours on his arm, searching for any opening in the river of people going around you both. He could feel the anxiety radiating from you the longer it took. As soon as there was even a hint of a gap, he pulled you through.

Trying to walk through the hoard rather than with it was a nightmare. You were jostled and bumped into by everyone. Astarion wanted to switch you to his other side to act as a human shield, but doing so risked losing you to the flood. And when you finally got through, finally standing in front of the one stall you came here for, you felt it. Like a switch, your throat felt leaden. Your vocal chords were heavy. It seems preserving your voice for this moment did not help at all.

“Hi! Welcome, welcome! What can I get for you today?” the stall-keeper beckoned. Astarion had to fight to keep his eyes from rolling. All traders were always too cheery, overacting as they tried to play nice to convince you to buy more.

The vampire turned his focus to you. You still held onto his arm, but it was a little more relaxed. Your nails weren’t digging into his arm, at least. (You always apologized profusely when your voice came back, even when he brushed off your concerns of hurting him or, worse, being a nuisance.) You searched the table, eyes roaming stacks of small spices and bundles of large herbs. Astarion had no idea exactly what Gale’d asked for. He trusted you remembered.

A moment passed, and then you were pointing at a small cloth bag, round and full. The attendant lit up. “That’s our special blend! It contains all you need for any meal! Just one pinch and your mouth will thank you for it!” When they said the price, Astarion saw you retreating in on yourself. It was a lot to ask for one small sachet, though it looked like it would last several weeks if conserved properly.

Before you could even formulate an apology to Gale for his damn herbs and spices being too gods damned expensive, Astarion was pulling out his coin purse and counting out the gold. “We’ll take one.”

The attendant picked up the sachet by its drawstrings and plopped it into your hesitant hand. You squeezed his arm - you didn’t like that he was paying for it. He handed over the money, and pulled you back into the throng of people.

It wasn’t long before you were at the end of the street and being tugged along to a quiet side-road as there was no longer a need to slow down to glance at each stall. As soon as the people thinned out to a manageable level, you let go of his arm and reached for your own coin purse.

“Please, love, you don’t need to pay me back.” He covered your hand holding the purse, preventing you from opening it. “Besides, I will be more than happy to discuss repayment with the Wizard.”

You gave him a disapproving look. He just rolled his eyes.

“Was acting quickly to get you out of that mess as soon as possible not what you wanted?”

You glared harder. “Don’t twist it,” you muttered. The weight was still there, but being out of the crowd had helped enough. Though, it seemed heavier now that you have spoken… Damn.

He chuckled airily. “Hate to admit I was working outside of my own self-interests for once?” You raised a brow at him. “Well, aside from having Gale in my pocket, until he compensates me for the loss.”

You huffed and put your coin purse away, tucking the sachet away in the process. Your hand found his arm immediately after. He didn’t even react as you gripped onto the fabric of his sleeve. At first, he’d been a bit scandalized, complaining that you’d wrinkle it or pull at the embroidery. He almost… enjoyed it. The simple act of keeping each other close, relying on him to act as an anchor. It felt nice to be needed.

He noticed before you that your feet were beginning to drag. The sole of your boots scraped on the street every couple steps, not to mention how you slowed down ever so slightly. He smiled knowingly, resting his hand over yours on his arm once more. It was reminiscent of nobles strolling along, prim and proper.

“Come on, dear,” he encouraged smoothly. “Once we return I can read that mystery novel to you.”

You grabbed onto his arm with your other hand, pulling yourself closer to rest your head against him. You had a tired little smile on your face. How unfortunate such outings were so much on their leader. He’d probably get two lines in before you passed out in his mess of pillows.

“Though, it is rather obvious who the culprit is.”

You pinched his arm.

“No, my being a magistrate has nothing to do with it,” he chastised. “It’s hardly my fault I’m more observant than you, dear.”

[thatfreshi]

I Want to Mean It - Astarion x Reader

Your wedding is fast approaching, and you have one last preparation to make.

Recommended Song: Sick of Losing Soulmates - Dodie

You and Astarion are set to get married tomorrow evening. After nautiloid crashes and illithid parasites, you never really thought you'd get to do some romantic ritual like this. After all, both of you should have been long gone by now, yet Lady Luck stuck around.

Despite how soon the ceremony is, you've been quite busy working with Gale, who just so happens to be your best man. A powerful wizard like that is good to have on your side, especially when marrying a vampire. After yet another long day of perfecting spells and testing magical methods, you return home to your lover, who is making last-minute stitches into his wedding outfit.

"If it isn't my soon-to-be spouse, come here my love."

Despite his cold skin, it's a warm embrace. You're tense though, and he can sense it.

"What's the matter darling?"

You try to swallow the nervousness, but it sticks in your throat.

"I'm sorry I've been so busy this week. I just wanted to make sure everything was perfect for us."

"Why of course. It has to be a night to remember after all. Wouldn't be our wedding if it wasn't."

You go to grab something out of your pocket, wrapping your hand around a small vial, almost shattering the glass with your grasp.

"What have we here?"

He slips his hand past yours, easily removing the vial from your hand. To his surprise, it's empty. There is a slight coating of what used to be a liquid inside.

"Astarion, I love you so, so much."

He investigates the vial further, almost ignoring your sentence.

"Well of course my love, I know that."

He uncorks the vial, and is immediately hit with a sickeningly sweet smell, a scent he can't quite place.

"My god, what is this. Or better yet, what was this?"

You're shaking, unsure of what he'll say if you tell him. Instead, you move to your other pocket and grab a rolled-up piece of paper from Gale's journal. Putting it in his pale hand, you go to sit on the bed, head in your hands. He begins reading.

"On the sixth day of attempting to perfect my spell, I have confirmed the following:

It was successful

The research I found was accurate and correctly documented

The subject has gained immortality."

There is more listed below, but he doesn't read it.

"Tav, you idiot. You absolute fool I-"

Astarion is unable to speak, both dumbfounded and emotional.

"Ambrosia, you're playing dangerous games. Games you don't know the rules to."

He's angry, you expected him to be. As someone who has lived for centuries, he knows what you've asked for, what you've done. Ambrosia, a liquid of pure joy, one of the only things that can grant immortality. You spoke to Gale for weeks on end, trying to figure out the safest way to live forever. Turns out, there are very few, and this one was quite difficult to perform.

"Astarion I-"

"No, we have to reverse it, we have to go to him right now and figure out how to stop this."

"Aster, my love, you know as well as I do that's not possible."

"Well damn it he'll make it possible!"

You shudder a little. He doesn't raise his voice often, usually only ever out of fear. Then the tears roll.

"Why would you do this to yourself."

You get up from the bed and wrap your arms around his shoulders. He turns away, almost as if he's ashamed of your choice.

"Because when we say our vows tomorrow, and I tell you I want to be yours forever, I want to mean it."

You begin to sob too, not out of fear, but out of how much you love this man. Years ago you never would've drunk something like Ambrosia, you never would've asked to live forever.

"But you'll be stuck with me forever. Hells, I'm stuck with me forever and sometimes I wish I wasn't."

You don't know what to say, how to tell him you knew this was right, how you and Gale fought about what you were asking for, how he said that Astarion would react this way. While you try to gather the words, he turns to look at you again, still overwhelmed by this information.

"What if... what if you get sick of me?"

You wipe a tear away from his eye, and give him a bittersweet smile.

"You know damn well we're already sick of each other."

You chuckle, he does too.

"You should've told me."

"Well, I wanted my wedding gift to be a surprise."

While the mood lightens, he loses some of the tension, all of the anger dissipates. He realizes he's not alone anymore, that he won't have to watch you pass on into the afterlife without him.

"Well, it's a phenomenal gift my sweet."

You both become enraptured in a deep kiss, something ravenous behind his lips, something relieved in his heart. That kiss multiplies, until you're both out of breath.

"Save some of that for after the ceremony dear."

You wink at him, and you both burst out laughing. The hysteria in the air, it's something you've never quite felt before, and you'd get every chance to feel it again, alongside with Astarion, and you realize you've never felt more sure about anything in your life. This is one decision you'll never question, as long as he's yours, and you are his.

[epiphyllous]

when morning comes (Astarion/Reader) [1]

With your bleeding heart and altruistic bravery, it is almost too easy for Astarion to come to the conclusion that his best plan of action is to seduce you. All he has to do is not fall for you-- a feat easier said than done.

-or-

(Where were you ten, fifty, hundreds of years ago when he needed you? How dare you come now, the knight in shining armor for the less fortunate, when he has been waiting centuries for someone like you to save him? How dare you come to him now when he is like this?)

Word Count: ~10k Notes: Astarion/Reader, Paladin!Reader, AFAB, gender-neutral "you", a study in Astarion's romance route + added features, [switches to your POV], annoyance to lovers, fall first/fall harder, slight Lae'zel/Shadowheart, Wyll/Lae'zel, Halsin/Reader; may have some descriptors of my Tav but generally no specifics (let me have my brown eyes), NSFW contains Virgin!Reader, trauma related to Astarion's past [Part 2]

[Act I: Druid Groves]

From the start, you and Astarion chafed at each other's presence. Granted, he had threatened you at knife point, quick to suspect you were of the illithid colony, and you had responded in kind with a painful headbutt. But surprisingly enough, that had nearly no consequence to the relationship compared to the vastly different way the two of you engaged with the world.

"Do you always just... do things for other people for no reward?" Astarion asks you disdainfully when you promise Zevlor you would speak to Kagha. It's the third favor you've picked up in the last hour. "Seems very... inefficient."

"Yes?" You reply, confused as though he were the strange one. (In his humblest opinion, you're the lunatic who decides to help everyone who asks despite the arguably more pressing issue of their hostile parasite.) "I mean, helping them is going to help us in the long-run. We need information and supplies, and they have both of that."

A half-truth at best. Astarion has seen you soothe stray animals and children on the beaten road, help wayward allies, and offer up your amenities without hesitation. Helping others happens to align with your goal rather than the other way around. He feels his mouth twist in annoyance.

Astarion sniffs at your answer, and you give him the massive eye roll you habitually do every time the two of you argue. "Would it kill you to help them out a little?" You say, "It's not like it's completely out of our way to do it."

You make it sound so simple, he thinks bitterly. He glances at the sword at your hip and the shield on your back and wonders if you could ever understand how it feels to be powerless. It would explain your naivety, the way you cling onto doing the 'right' thing, your paladin vow to protect the weak no matter how foolhardy it may be. 

(Where were you, he thinks, ten, fifty, hundreds of years ago when he was still surviving on the scraps of whatever Cazador decided to provide for him that night? Where were you when his cruel master carved into his skin, a painter on a screaming canvas? When he was buried underground, no longer alive but still living, until he clawed his way up with bloody hands, only to find out his body and soul belonged to another? When he was compelled by vampiric thrall to lead his first victim of thousands to their death?

And how dare you come now, the knight in shining armor for the less fortunate, when he has been waiting centuries for someone like you to save him? How dare you come to him now when he is like this?)

"It's a matter of principle, darling." Astarion simpers, "I, for one, am not the type to play hero."

He expects a sneer, the silent treatment-- those he knows easily how to respond to. The gauging look you give him, though, and a thin veneer of frustration just underneath before it dissipates gives him pause. "Well," you say mildly, "we can agree to disagree. You're coming along anyways so let's just get going, yeah?"

Astarion follows you then with no comeback in mind, only a question as to how far your patience can go.

.

.

.

It is with great hesitation and no small amount of begrudgement that Astarion admits he has never been one for planning. After all, why hope for a future that will never occur? What future does he have when every move he makes is in accordance to someone else's will, every decision made never his own? 

When Astarion decided to travel with the unfortunate duo (now group) with similar illithid fates, he did not anticipate how difficult it would be to hide his affliction of a vampire. For the brief moment in the sun, he thought perhaps that because he was immune to daylight, his thirst for blood would have also disappeared. Imagine his surprise, nights after, when he finds himself starving and with no inconspicuous way to feed himself. 

There is always someone on the lookout for goblins or other enemies alike. There have been few times he can sneak out without calling attention to himself, especially for such a long absence as hunting for prey would be. Astarion can feel himself grow weak over the course of a few days, and though he briefly thinks about telling you the truth about his identity, he is resistant. 

Good heroes tend to hunt creatures of the night like him. Considering his blatant disregard for those you choose to protect, he isn't sure he will continue to be under your protection if he is outed. Astarion finds traveling as a pack to be too conveniently safe, but he is so, so hungry. In the midst of his hunger, anyone's blood will do, but it is yours that tempt him most: healthy, righteous, and pure-hearted. He has never been allowed to feed on a thinking creature, and at this point, he isn't sure if he should, considering the risks.

But Astarion is tempted by the smell of your blood shed during a particularly fierce battle, and as he feels his hands tremble, he concludes that he must find a way to feed tonight.

You always, without fail, set your tent up near the fire. It is where he finds himself creeping over your bedroll at the dead of night only to find that you have woken up to look up at him in shock. (He has never been one for planning.)

"...Shit," Astarion lets slip out, backing away. You stand at the ready, eyes boring into him as you come to the realization of what he is. "No, no- it's not what it looks like."

 "...And what exactly is it supposed to look like then?" You ask tensely, and Astarion feels the situation quickly run away from him.

"I wasn't going to hurt you!” He puts his hands up and swallows. “I just needed, well, blood."

"You're the reason why that boar on the side of the road had no blood.” You realize, narrowing your eyes. "How many things have you hunted without us knowing?” You accuse, “People?"

"No!" Astarion exclaims, "No people. Never any people. I can sustain myself on animals, kobolds even-- but it is not enough. Not when we're fighting every day like this."

He sees a flicker of sympathy in your eyes and hope builds in his chest. "I feel so weak," he pleads. "If I just had a little bit of blood, I could think clearer. Fight better. Please."

You don't relax but you don't try to attack him either. Astarion considers that a winning chance. "Have you told anyone that you're a vampire?"

"They're more likely to ram a stake through my ribs than anything," Astarion mutters. "At best– even for you– you'd say no unless you trusted me." He looks up at you and sees the way your eyes look into him for the truth. "And you can trust me. I wouldn't want to harm anyone in this camp." And it is technically the truth, though Gale tests his patience sometimes. Even he cannot promise that he wouldn't betray everyone at the drop of the hat if the situation begs for it, but this is a completely different matter at the moment. 

Your gaze is unfaltering, the silence palpable as the two of you look at each other. Astarion feels his palms sweat as he awaits your judgment and for the proverbial hammer to possibly fall on his head. 

"Okay," you say instead. "Alright. I trust you. As long as you don't try biting me again without permission, it's fine. Can you promise me that at least?"

"Really?" Astarion knows this is what he could ever hope for, but a part of him is baffled that you would ever think to trust him. He supposes your foolhardy compassion has its benefits-- though he would be lying to himself if he didn't admit there was a part of him that was rather... flattered by your trust. "Yes- yes, of course. Thank you."

He presses his lips in thought. If you were so willing to put your faith in him, then perhaps it would not hurt to ask. "If I could ask you to trust me just a little further..." He says, "I just need a little blood. I won't take anything more than I need. Please."

Astarion can see the hesitation in your eyes when he asks. Are you weighing your trust in him, he wonders. Or are you worried about your safety, the benefits versus the risks? It would make sense-- you really shouldn't. But a moment before you respond, he somehow knows that you would. 

[He looks so tired, you think, heart clenching with sympathy. You wonder how you've missed it for this long or if he's that good at pretending otherwise in the presence of others. It could be both-- Astarion has shown to be a great performer, and you are one of his best audiences. You find it difficult to argue against letting him bite you; the anticipated pain, the possible negative effect, the case that his hunger is too much for you to quench all pales in comparison to what good you would do for him. 

You are halfway to being smitten already, and you cannot deny yourself this.

But you are not naive. You are not fearless. For whatever trust you give to Astarion, you are afraid of the fact that if he betrays you in this, you can never go back to how it was before.]

"Promise me you'll stop if I tell you to," you tell him quietly. 

He acquiesces quickly. Of course, he will, he promises, only just enough. You lay back down at his suggestion, body tense in anticipation. He does not let that feeling linger too long, seizing his chance before you decide to change your mind. He buffets your body with his arms before he sinks his teeth into your outstretched neck. 

You taste better than he could possibly have imagined. 

To think he fed solely on mice before-- bog water in comparison to the sweet red of your blood, invigorating and undeniably delicious. Astarion gets another mouthful and groans, feeling strength return, warmth pooling into his belly. If bears and boars were the main course, then you are the mouth-salivating dessert– irresistibly delectable and leaving him wanting for more.

Your body trembles underneath him, your hand clenched into his shirt as a counterweight to the pain. Your pulse bounds underneath his tongue, the small gasps you cannot suppress resounds into his ears. This, too, puts feeding in a different plane than before, an extra level of appeal that can only be experienced with thinking creatures. Perhaps it is you in particular that adds another layer to the pleasure. Having you at his mercy, taking what you so graciously offered with ravenous hunger: power courses through him for more reasons than one.

[Your heart beats as fast as a rabbit's, fear and adrenaline powering you in the same manner. Or, if you were being honest, anticipation and a little bit of excitement fuels it as well as Astarion climbs on top of you, hunger in his eyes. 

It is a more literal type of hunger, but it is an intense look either way that leaves you frozen like a deer in headlights. 

The bite itself is more shocking than it is painful. You barely muffle your exclamation, unused to the feeling of someone so intimately close combined with the instinctive fear that accompanies the loss of blood. You hold onto Astarion without thought, and you squeeze your eyes and bite your lips as he takes your blood in with every suck. 

As scared as you may be, you are undeniably aroused from the feeling of it all-- the numbness that gently overtakes your mind, the light, floaty feeling of pleasure of the bloodloss combined with the intimacy of someone you’ve always been attracted to. The knowledge that he is gorging himself on you, taking pleasure from you, makes your blood run hotter than it has any right to in this situation. 

And then, you feel a switch flip, and the lightness becomes disorienting, and the numbness bleeds into coldness. Panic starts climbing up your throat. You let yourself think for the briefest moment if Astarion will let go on his own, but you know you will not last long enough to wait. Worry gnaws at you at this thought, and you can only hope that Astarion is true to his word when you tell him to stop.

And he does. Perhaps it is the feeling that you have placed your trust in the right person that has felt the best out of everything that has happened tonight.]

"Astarion-" he hears you grit out, "that's enough."

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course.” It takes but a moment for Astarion to register it before removing his fangs from your neck. He sees blood trickle from the punctures and he bemoans the waste as he pulls away. Next time– if there is a next time– he'll be neater, he thinks. He watches as you breathe just as hard as him, eyes slightly glazed over, and he barely resists the urge to lick his lips. 

He stands from you to give you space, and you slowly sit up, looking at him with an emotion he can't quite place. It concerns him little at the moment with the strongest blood he's ever consumed in two millennia coursing through him.

“That was…” Astarion begins, breathless with adrenaline, “Amazing.” He delicately wipes the blood from the side of his mouth, an irrepressible smile on his face.

“Hope that helped,” you say, and he almost laughs at the understatement of two centuries.

“It very much did.” Astarion breathes in deeply. “My mind is finally clear. I feel… strong,” he nearly purrs. Happy.”

“Looking forward to seeing you fight then,” you say, hand at your neck as the punctures gradually close. You sigh, wiping your bloody hands onto the patch of grass. “Going out to hunt?” You ask like any other day.

“I am, darling.” He stands tall, head held high with a confidence he has not felt in ages. To think this is what he's been missing out on… “You're invigorating, but I'll need to get something more… filling,” he tells you, glancing back.

You give him a flippant wave of the hand, and he isn't sure if you are too tired to be wary of him or uncaring of the risk considering what you allowed him to do. “Good hunting,” you say genuinely before yawning. 

“I will. And-” You turn to him then, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion but still alert. Astarion pauses for a moment. “This is a gift, you know,” he says. “I won't forget it.”

He walks off into the forest after and finds easy prey to feast on. It's a shame it does not taste as good as you did, but he will make do and ride out the feeling of power for as long as he can. It is when he returns to camp with you fast asleep by the fire that Astarion realizes the emotion on your face was relief: relief that he had stopped when you had asked, and that he kept to his word. 

What a fragile thing trust is, to be put to the breaking point at a single moment in time. What if he had continued to consume and drink you dry? He suspects it would have rather dire consequences to your mortality and even worse effects to his relationship with you. It would be unsalvageable, he realizes, if he had not stopped when you had asked. For some things may be forgiven, but this would be reprehensible. 

Astarion finds that he understands you too well for his liking. How many times has he not been able to give consent? Wanted to say 'no' but forced to say yes? (Not knowing now how to say 'no' at all?)

For the sake of his own livelihood (the camp would kill him for your death), his budding relations with you, and a part of him that yearns for what he should have had, Astarion is glad that he was not greedy tonight-- and, as the day comes, for the following nights to come.

The pitchforks and torches do not come the next morning. Maybe it is because everyone else has their equally dangerous secret to hide or because of your influence on the camp. You are more concerned at how you would help him feed than afraid that he will hurt anyone. 

"Why, isn't it my favorite traveling companion," he says to you when you approach him.

"You mean tastiest,” you say back, and he knows you are truly well and beyond hard feelings if you can joke about it.

"Well, I suppose that as well.” He tells you, “Though you have been the only one I've bitten so there is no competition, really."

And to his surprise, telling you about Cazador, his ill-begot fate as a vampire spawn and its subsequent diet, is easier than he would have expected. You listen with a sympathetic but otherwise neutral ear that makes it easy for him– and he suspects everyone else– to confess their circumstances to you. He's rather surprised he's been able to “resist” for this long. Even Gale has confessed he has a literal living bomb inside him in the little time they've all spent together as a group. 

(It goes to show how much everyone has grown to trust you; even Astarion is starting to see what everyone else sees in you.)

“I don't mind you taking my blood once in a while,” you instruct him, “but you can't just do it to an innocent person.”

“And how about a guilty person?” Astarion asks slyly, gleefully watching as you saddle next to him with a similar smile. 

“Free real estate, I suppose,” you say nonchalantly. “Just ask before you bite me?”

“No more late night surprises, you have my word on that.” He smiles, fangs bared, and you don't even blink at the sight of them. 

.

.

.

In the druid grove, you pick up a few more favors from the locals, though at least you have begun to ask for aid for the road. Not exactly payment, though you are offered a reward anyways. Astarion thinks you are either very lucky people are desperate for help or very charming in that innocent, eager to do good type of way that compels people to be generous. It is not unlike Wyll, who joins your group of illithid-afflicted companions, as the Blade of Frontiers. 

Naturally, the two of you get along as like-minded individuals. Gale, too, gravitates toward you for your compassion, and Shadowheart trusts you for perhaps the same reasons. Even Lae'zel, who you often have problems speaking to without feeling intimidated, has come to begrudgingly accept you as the de facto leader of the group. You are, as Astarion suspected, strong in battle as you are in personality. 

He often forgets both, but he cannot be blamed. After he witnesses you stand up to Lae'zel for the sake of an intimidated tiefling, he sees you lose an argument against a squirrel. Astarion sees you send goblins off rooftops and speak to trolls with confidence, and then he watches as you ask him to unlock a barn door with raunchy sex noises simply out of morbid curiosity. 

It is in these moments-- apart from your heroism and startling sense of morality-- that you and Astarion are often on the same page. As long as it is not from the needy, you don't find it a problem to loot. (He thinks practicality plays a role in disturbing dead bodies for money and items, and your vow says nothing against it.) If it's for the sake of peace, you don't mind spinning half-truths and lies. (The lies he personally thinks you need to work on more but he is a master of deception so perhaps there is no comparison with him.)

Your curiosity knows no bounds, and it is in this, both you and Astarion take cheerful glee in raking chaos. 

"I don't know what I expected!" You say almost cheerily after the group defeats the unlikely couple of bugbear and ogre after purposely interrupting their very loud lovemaking. 

Shadowheart gives you a raised eyebrow that has you sheepishly grin at her, and Astarion lets out a laugh. "Well, I certainly had a guess, but finding out was very interesting indeed."

"Interesting... is certainly a way to describe the scene we just witnessed," Gale says dryly. Astarion catches your eyes before you smile slyly. 

Innocently, you comment, "I wonder how the mechanics worked with the height difference-"

Gleefully, Astarion is quick to join in, watching Gale balk at the topic, “Well, with the way she was on her knees-” 

"Some things need not be pondered!"

That is when Astarion realizes that as long as the world stops begging for your help, the two of you get along quite well. If anything, Astarion finds your presence and comments most amusing out of everyone in camp. Gale is exceedingly verbose and other times awkward. Lae'zel Astarion isn't sure knows the meaning of joking, though her violent tendencies are right up his alley. Shadowheart-- as it turns out and makes total sense-- is a worshiper of Shar and therefore an automatic stick in the mud. 

Wyll waxes far too much about justice, and Karlach, when they find her and proceed to not kill her despite Wyll's initial request, is the next best thing though he is still wary of how hot she burns. You, however, have the humor and wit to match every ridiculous situation they encounter, and if anything, Astarion must give you that. God knows how he'd survive the boredom of camp and not being arms deep in gore without having someone to gossip with. 

The two of you agree the most when it comes to other topics, like Mystra's treatment of Gale, how good Wyll looks with horns, feelings about Gods. It makes for great and easy conversations though the two of you are also quick to snark if there is a disagreement. Astarion admits his words were sharp in the beginning (and you gave it right back until you just mellowed out) but he eventually relaxed when his role in camp solidified after his vampiric reveal.

And what a gift your blood was; Astarion counts his lucky stars that you continue to offer your neck to him as long as it is only yours he bites-- with permission, of course.

He was almost beginning to relax when a gur comes, asking for him.

Luckily enough, it seems this Gandrel has no idea what he looks like, so the two of you can play innocent together. You and Astarion give each other a discrete look before you go back to talking to the monster hunter. It must be Cazador, he seethes. Who else would put a Gur on his tracks acres away from Baldur's Gate? 

"And what did you want to do with this vampire spawn?" You ask innocuously.

"I would like to capture him."

"Capture? Not kill? Does someone want him alive?" You question, and Astarion must give you this: you are an excellent conversationalist, to seek more without giving much at all. Your eyes widen in what can be assumed as surprise, though they remain calculating. "You said so yourself: even vampire spawn are dangerous. Why would you accept a job to capture him?"

The gur shuffles his feet for a moment, chewing on his words. Astarion watches in secretive awe as you urge the hunter to trust you with unbidden information. "Well... It's not a request from an outside source..." He trails off, "We... have questions we were hoping he would answer."

Now that's curious, Astarion thinks. What would a monster hunter need for a spawn besides its demise? He knows you have the same question when he glances over at you as you watch on thoughtfully.

"Were you hoping to capture it to get to the vampire lord or something?" You ask, "Is that something that would even work?"

"We have little leads besides this vampire spawn, if I can be frank." He sighs and Astarion watches as he unravels the truth before you. "It's our children, you see. They've been captured.”

You are ever sympathetic to the Gur's plight--genuinely so. You hold no qualms keeping Astarion's name from your mouth but you speak to the Gur and provide him with advice and information you have received from Astarion. What a cheeky pup you are, playing double agent without batting an eye. Astarion feels like forgiving you for taking away the opportunity to get rid of the monster hunter once and for all just for the show of your wit and guile. 

Though Astarion thinks you could afford to be more ambitious. If you could have perhaps a little creativity in deciding what you want to do with the little tadpole in your brain or the absolutist cult, Astarion is sure the two of you would get along more.

"I don't know how the tadpole will change me," you admit with unexpected vulnerability. "I don't want to give them more power over me, and I don't know if feeding them will let them."

"Well..." Astarion pauses, scoffing at your response before he can accept the fact the two of you have more in common that he would rather believe. He'd rather not lose what he barely got back as well, he thinks. "I suppose there is reason to hesitate so maybe I'll wait until some other brave soul decides to give it a go." He gives you a look before continuing, "Try not to convince the others too much. I'm not too eager to be the first and only one to eat a tadpole."

You shrug noncommittally, promising nothing. Astarion barely resists the urge to roll his eyes. Paladins. 

.

.

.

Considering the dire straits in which you are bound and the rocky start the two of you had, Astarion would not have imagined the relationship with you to progress in this manner. Having you trust him was already beyond what was expected, especially after revealing his vampiric origins. Giving him your blood was a gift that he could hardly believe happened. One can imagine his surprise when he finds out you are charmed by his wits, finding genuine joy in his wry commentary. 

For god knows why, you have grown fond of him-- he can see it in the way you provide him with the best equipment, the way you seek his presence. The way you laugh freely around him and turn your back to him during battle, believing he will defend it. Though arriving at this point was coincidental, it is almost too easy for Astarion to come to the conclusion that his next step is to seduce you. 

Astarion sees your laughter, but he also sees the way you throw him glances when you think the others aren't looking. You instinctively lean closer to him when he is near and when he speaks, your eyes are quick to find him. You are attracted to him– and he means to capitalize on it and make you feel as though you would rather die than have him get hurt.

It's a simple plan, really. The seduction comes easy; all he needs to do is stay unattached, so if things go wrong, he'll find someone else to take cover under. 

(The plan should be simple-- he has learned tactics that would put any to their knees, tricked hundreds of people of his affections. But something about doing this to you-- this performance-- makes him uneasy. 

It's a shame, he finds himself thinking. He thinks he was beginning to like you too.

The thought lingers only for a moment. He is quick to push it from his mind; that too is a learned habit.)

Astarion finds his opportunity after the goblin camp has been slain and the tieflings throw a celebration in thanks. 

The wine is mediocre at best, but there is much of it to be shared, so the party is still in full blast when the moon is overhead. He finds himself a secluded part of camp to sip at the sorry excuse of a liquor, discomfited by the praise they give him for participating in the fight against the goblins. 

You are unused to the praise as well, humble as you are, but you are nearly glowing from the joy you feel as you make merry with those you have befriended. The rest of the party, even companions who were ambivalent at best at the idea of helping the tiefling immigrants, are satisfied with the outcome despite the lack of progress with removing the tadpole. He would say otherwise– the trade of goblin lives for tieflings hardly makes a difference, and surely the goblins would throw a wilder party than this. He says as much to you when, faithfully, you find your way to him to talk.

“All I want,” he tells you, “is a little bit of fun. Is that so much to ask?”

You snort into your drink. “Knowing you, it could be.”

“Don't be so sour,” he croons. “I like a good time as much as anyone.” His eyes fall half-lidded as he looks at you. You raise your brow at him, noticing the change in tone as he continues. "You know, we could always make our own entertainment."

The look you give him is partly apprehensive and the other amused. He knows that glimmer of recognition of what he is asking, though you are quick to hide it for plausible deniability. "...What do you mean by that?"

Astarion, with practiced ease, leans in, watching as you instinctively do the same before he purrs out, "Why, sex, of course. Experiencing a little death, figuratively speaking, is quite fun, wouldn't you agree?"

Your face is already flushed from the alcohol, but your cheeks on high brighten in the dimly lit torches at his tent. It's evident you didn't expect him to suggest something like that, especially to you, though you are not completely unwilling if the lack of immediate denial is of any indication.

You are rendered speechless though; a first for you considering how quick you often are at retorting back at his comments. It makes Astarion think of two conclusions: you are either inexperienced or incredibly shocked at his offer. Both are familiar, though the thought of your naivety extending into sexual relations does, at the very least, give him pause.

It is not as if he has never been someone's first. Virgins are often most eager to lose or prove themselves in someone so willing to offer bliss. If you are one, well– the shy ones are always the ones that are easier to fell.

He prepares himself to drop a few one-liners to convince you to take the offer, but you glance away for a moment before you turn toward him, face unreadable.

"If you're down," you say. You smile.  "I don't mind."

"Until later then," Astarion replies easily. "Wouldn't want the others to interrupt, unless you're interested in that."

At this, you laugh, and he relaxes. "Definitely not. Though, I'm curious." You ask, "Am I your first choice, or am I just the first to say 'yes'?"

Astarion finds the best lies are in truths. "Lae'zel was quite eager to find a partner earlier. Luckily she and Wyll are in quite the agreement for tonight as far as I can hear and I have no desire to get in between whatever the githyanki has in store." He smiles slyly at you. "Besides, I couldn't help but overhear you flirting with our druid earlier so I at least knew you were in the, ah, mood. Never imagined you'd be quite so bold." 

"It's the alcohol," you mutter, rubbing your cheek. You take the wine from his hand and take another swig. "Also, I didn't realize he'd be coming with us so that was a surprise. Almost as much of a surprise as you asking me." You glance at him briefly. "Well, sort of."

Astarion feels a familiar prickle of suspicion as he stares at you, already unamused at whatever dirty truths you have prepared for him. "What is it now?"

You quip a half smile, eyes bright under the torch fire. (Your eyes are brown.) "Nothing," you say teasingly. "Guess you do like me a little bit."

Astarion watches as you walk away, feeling less victorious than he imagined himself to be.

The flirting, the seduction, the fight for survival is familiar. The banter, the bickering, the camaraderie between the two of you is beginning to be just as familiar. Astarion feels just the slightest bit unease at how true your words are. 

.

.

.

Astarion has much to prepare for the night, so it is lucky that you take center stage of the party, as the savior of the grove. You take part in the merriment and make conversations, taking genuine interest in the stories others tell. The tieflings keep you busy for the most part, but Astarion is nothing if not good at building anticipation, putting as much heat into his gaze as possible when you do have time to take a glance at him. 

You are quick to focus your attention elsewhere after giving him a look, but the smile on your face that stays means that at least he is always on your mind. In some ways, he has missed this... coyness, the thrill of the chase. The results of his previous endeavors never fail to unease him, but with you, it is different. The familiarity of seduction comes with a little bit more fun knowing you are not going to be his victim- not like it usually is. 

"Hey, still not joining in on the fun?" You suddenly ask him, your hand gently prying at his arm so you can hook onto him. You have gotten more drunk in the time you were away, the warmth of your skin seeping into him from where you've attached yourself. Your face is almost comically red if not for the carefree smile on your face and the affection that betrays on your face when you look at him.

Something in his chest warms at the sight of you.

"Unfortunately, the tieflings' company has not become any more appealing since you've been gone. Besides," Astarion says slyly, "the only thing I've been thinking of is how you'll taste later when we're alone."

You let out a huff, turning your head away with a half-embarrassed and pleased smile. "Laying it on a little thick, aren't you?"

"Not at all," he replies easily. "It's the truth, after all." 

You look at him as though you don't believe a word, but you are charmed by them anyway if your expression is of any indication. As conscientious as you normally are, the alcohol and the fact you are delving into his territory of seduction puts you at a disadvantage. Even if you are the one that knows him best in the camp, you are not attuned to every secret. Half-truths and lies come easier than anything else, if only because it allows him to keep his distance.

When the camp is cleared and you linger to bid the others farewell, Astarion slips away to the lake to prepare. It is almost ritualistic the way he cleans himself, the cold waters readying himself for what comes next. He thinks of what lines to tell you, how he should appear to you to best whet your appetite. Are you chaste or are you more animalistic? Would you prefer to take a dominant or submissive role? Astarion cannot tell these things about you based on his interactions with you, so he can only rely on his flexibility and years of experience to get him through it. 

(For a brief moment, he wonders if this is something he must do. What if you would protect him regardless of how this night goes? You are compassionate, sympathetic to the plight of others-- goodness flows within your veins like the light that beacons from your holy sword. Could that light not shield him too, without his body as an offering?

But gods are rarely so magnanimous, no matter the sacrifices. Astarion will not take his chances even with you. 

Even then-- even then, he wants this night to be at least a little enjoyable. It is with you, after all. If there is someone who can allow him to feel safe, it is you.)

Moonlight beams above, and Astarion hears your quiet footsteps come closer. His expression masks into something more suitable for seduction and he steps from the shadows of the trees to greet you. 

Upon seeing him, you yelp in surprise and- god, can you blame him?- he jumps as well. 

"What in God's name-"

"Sorry, sorry! I didn't expect to see you half naked all of a sudden!" You stammer, "I mean, not all of a sudden, I guess. Your... state of undress didn't cross my mind as something I'd see right away."

It is reckless when his mark is so close to fruition, but he finds himself dropping the act, hand at his hips in an instinctual indignant huff you seem to invoke from him easily. "Darling, what did you expect after the invitation I gave?" Your sheepish grin is your only answer, and Astarion feels a quick flash of annoyance at how easily you are able to derail his thoughts. 

Quick to redirect the conversation though, Astarion angles his body sensually, lowering his voice in the manner he knows can send shivers down his victims. "Perhaps you'd prefer if you could strip me down yourself?"

Like clockwork, your cheeks flush pink even as you roll your eyes in attempts to salvage your embarrassment. "Only you'd be able to pull those lines out of nowhere," you mutter, and Astarion allows himself the satisfaction when you approach him, eyes looking down at him appreciatively.

Only a small gap lies between the two of you now, your dark eyes meeting his. You are waiting on him; Astarion does not hesitate. 

He takes your face into his hands and brings his lips to yours. Your eyes close almost immediately to the touch as you give into him, face tilting up to align with him and mouth parted to allow him in. Though Astarion knows not how you incline to be normally, he knows that this night, he's the one in control.

Your hands curl into the front of his chest as though you do not know where to touch, so he helps you along and pulls you in until there is nothing separating you. Astarion can see the way your eyes widen when you can feel his arousal beneath his trousers, and recognizes your interest with the way your pupils darken your eyes. 

There is a slight satisfaction in seeing you this way. As stubborn as you are, you are malleable in his touch, opening up to his hands like a flower in bloom. He lifts you up against the tree, your legs quickly wrapping around his waist in response, and your little giggle morphs into a gasp of pleasure when he grinds into you fully. 

It is probably instinctual the way you arch your back and bare your neck to him. It isn't in him to resist the temptation to bury his nose into the crook, nipping at the sensitive skin between your collar bone. And this is when he feels your hands, that were curled into his hair, push him back slightly, and his stomach drops. 

He should be worried that he made a mistake and think about how to put you back on track with him. His safety depends on his success, after all. Despite himself, Astarion feels more hurt at your rejection, your mistrust, than anything. (Since when did that ever matter to him?)

"I wasn't going to bite, you know," he says, hoping nothing in his voice gives anything away.

"No, that's not it," you tell him, and your hand is quick to cup his face reassuringly. He finds himself soothed by your gesture though he wishes he was not in need of it in the first place. "I trust you not to without my say. I mean, you probably could tonight if you wanted..." You trail off. "I just wanted to let you know something before we go any further." 

The offer for blood pleases him more than it should, as does the affirmation of your trust. "Whatever you want to say, darling, I doubt it'll deter me from having my way with you tonight," Astarion says, eyes half-lidded and staying strong despite the undignified huff you give him. 

"Well, alright," you say as you try to save face. You brush over his collarbone with your thumb as you think. You're nervous, he realizes, over whatever you have to say, and he can't begin to guess what you could possibly reveal that would be of such import to leave you in such a state. "I... have never-- this is my first time. Having sex," you say, and Astarion does his utmost not to show any semblance of surprise. 

"I hope," you continue, "that's okay? You'll probably have to show me a lot of things but, you know..."

You are a virgin after all. Astarion had some thoughts on the matter but he never truly took stock in it considering how rare it is to save yourself for this long. You were modest but far from prude, and you had thoughts of debauchery like any other in the camp. But you are of untouched flesh. Inexperienced. And yet you accepted him to be your first? 

You are not so unique that he has never bedded someone like you, but it does tweak his heart in a way it has not for a long while that you are giving yourself to him as a result of his seduction. You feel self conscious about this inexperience, and it would be easy to take advantage of that for his benefit. Typical, even.

The thought does not sit well with him.

"I know you wanted a fun night," you tell him, eyes downcast when he does not respond. "So I get it if you're not interested anymore since I'm probably going to be a lot of work-"

"And what’s to say we cannot have fun while discovering something new?" Astarion interrupts in a momentary panic. He's not on autopilot but he's not stopping the night from happening despite your deference- so what is he doing? "Darling, I'm rather concerned you want to spend your first night with a vampire-" He needs to get back on script.

He recites the words in his mind. Isn't this what you want? To lose yourself in me? And all he has to do is say it-

"No, that's not-" You talk back, frowning. "You being a vampire has nothing to do with it. When you asked, I said yes because I trust you, vampire or not." 

To have and to hold, he thinks, and wonders how you have survived for so long being so willfully trusting when at times you should not. "Then trust me, darling," he says, heat building in his chest. He lifts you up again and growls. "Let's have some fun. That's what you want, isn't it?"

"If that's what you want," you breathe out, and Astarion claims your mouth with his own.

You let out a sigh when he begins to undress you, his dexterous hands easily removing every lace and button to leave you bare. You giggle into his kiss, and Astarion lets himself smile, being pulled along as you roll on top of him playfully, mischief in your eyes. You full on laugh when he rolls you back over, uncaring of the outdoors, bearing your neck for him to bite. 

Astarion doesn't remember the last time he's had fun doing this. And it is fun- always has been with you, he realizes, a type of levity that he has not experienced with anyone else. He takes leisure in biting you, sucking a mouthful of blood that has him moaning into your neck as he rolls his hips into you. Your hand gently cards through his hair as he bites, and true to his word (only taking just enough), he pulls back with blood on his lips before swooping down to share in his bounty. 

He cannot help but laugh when you stick out your tongue at him, nose wrinkling at the metallic taste of blood that is otherwise sweet to him. He pulls his remaining clothes off and smirks when he sees you follow the line of sight down to his hardened cock in compulsive curiosity. 

"Like what you see, darling?" 

You make a noncommittal hum as you sit up, quick as you are unbothered by your nakedness. "Can I?" You ask, gesturing toward him, and he would find it amusing for you to ask if not for how eagerly you grasp his member at his nod.

Astarion hisses in pleasure as you pump his cock, getting into an easy rhythm with your thumb sliding deliciously on the tip of it. He watches as you gather spit to smoothen the pace, hand delicately pushing your hair from your face, and feel arousal melt into his belly like molten lava. 

"Why, it seems you have a little bit of experience in this matter, or are you just talented?" He asks and earns himself a coy look. 

"Just twice," you say, twisting your hand in a way that has him rolling his hips. "Hold my hair, will you?" 

Astarion is quick to follow your orders-- almost instinctively-- and before he has a moment to ponder on that, he is throwing his head back when your mouth swallows his cock in wetness and heat.

Most of his so-called lovers were more eager to be pleased than please; it makes sense that you would be different with the way you are. Your eagerness is quite adorable, as is your earnestness to provide him pleasure. Astarion revels in it, ecstasy climbing up like a tidal wave.

"That's enough, dear," Astarion purrs. He sees you look at him with a protest on your lips, and he continues, "I'd much rather continue this while I'm inside you." 

Based on your expression, you are more than thrilled at the aspect. 

Astarion guides you to lay down as he climbs over, hands carving a path over your curves and into your heat. He is careful to not scrape his fangs over your bosom, though he suspects you would not mind it in the least with how roughly he plays with your nipples to elicit a moan. You are dripping by the time he is done preparing you. 

It does not take much resistance to enter you fully. You let out a short cry, reaching out to him instinctively for comfort as your body adapts to him. True to your words, you are tight beyond measure, squeezing his cock as though you are determined to milk him for what he's worth. You pant into his ears, hands grasping over his shoulders as you ease into the feeling of him. 

The moment you nod, Astarion begins to move steadily. It is easy for the both of you to lose yourself in the pleasure, and it is these moments that he feels himself drift away, and the feeling of dread settles in.

Any type of intimacy takes him acres away, the gasps and moans that was music to his ears fading into numbness. He hardly knows what he's doing, except to know that he's doing well enough, hands playing at your clit as he moves at a persistent rhythm.

Astarion wishes it were different. Sex is fun, especially with you, if only it didn't make him feel as though he were fighting for his life. Every stroke calculated, every climax comes with a price. You are not to be taken back to Cazador, but it still feels like he's going to. 

You tighten around him, and he knows you are about to come just as he is. He lets out a grunt and persists through a rapid pace before feeling your body jolt in pleasure. He soon follows after, head upon your shoulder as he shudders into his climax. 

The night is still young; why don't we go back to my place for more? 

Won't you come home with me? We need so much more time to get to know each other.

His next lines come too easily for him that it makes him sick.

A hand pulls at his cheek rather cheekily and Astarion finds himself coming back from the haze. He lifts his head to look at you, face relaxed from pleasure but still otherwise amused. 

Is it ridiculous to think that the sight of you makes him feel safe?

"That," you begin, "was crazy. Sex is like that, huh?" 

"Be welcomed to the land of the living, darling," Astarion says. "I fear you have been missing out on one of the finer parts of life."

"Well, it's not like I've never orgasmed before," you tell him, "but I guess it is pretty different with someone else." You sigh when Astarion removes himself from you. "Thank you for being so patient with me."

"No need to mention it, darling," he says, finding it easy to relax with the banter, "though I dare say it did not take very long for you to be prepared. Why, I'd even call that a record for getting as wet as you did-"

"Hey!" He avoids your playful slap with ease as you pout at him. "I... I have no comeback to that, except maybe you're welcome."

"I'm welcome? I should be the one saying that to you. I'm rather magical in bed, don't you think?"

"I don't know if your neck could support a head that big if I agree with you." You laugh, flipping your hair away again. For a moment, Astarion has the urge to take it upon himself to brush the stray strands from your face, but he does not. "By the way," you continue, "are you okay?"

Astarion blinks. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you just seemed a little..." You stop before shaking your head. "No, never mind. You seemed a little far away but what would I know."

His heart lurches. "I had to make sure I didn't lose control," he says carefully. He clears his throat and goes for levity. "Who knows if your fragile, virgin body can handle it?"

Astarion is grateful you take the line for how it is, quick to come up with a haughty retort, the banter easy to fall back to. You are adamant on being sturdy enough and not one to waste a chance, he proposes a long night of lovemaking-- if only to cinch the deal with you. After all, he thinks as your legs close around his head, this is all part of his plan: seduce you and win your protection. Nothing more, nothing less.

He tries not to think how sex for once, as he nips playfully at your thigh, has been enjoyable. 

.

.

.

The sun wakes him up before anything else. It is unfamiliar to him, even at least a month beyond the time when his deathly aversion to sunlight has disappeared. The warmth of the morning rays, the light that dawn brings-- Astarion did not realize how much he had missed it until he had felt it again. 

He almost isn't sure if he can ever go back to never feeling it again.

He stands to bask in it fully, glancing over to his side to watch your sleeping figure for a moment. You are curled up in your own clothes-- and his shirt as well, he remembers, having a little play fight over it before you eventually let exhaustion take you. The ache in his body from last night is familiar at least, and he stares at you, waiting for the dread to come-- but it does not. 

How curious. Only good for his plans if everything is more palatable, of course, but it is... unexpected for him to feel so at ease. He decides not to question it, using this moment of strangely acquired peace to face the sun in its entirety.

Your voice filters in after many minutes, a little scratchy from slumber. "You awake already?" 

"It isn't exactly the break of dawn, dear," Astarion replies, and he shoots a glance back expecting your usual deadpan, but you are rubbing your eyes sleepily instead. A thought comes to mind that he has never seen you in your first waking moments: you are rather unguarded, movements leisurely and expression soft still. It's quite... cute. "I'm rather surprised you're awake. I thought you'd be exhausted from last night."

You let out a titter behind your hand at this. "Yeah, well, everything aches in different ways than a fight, so it's not too bad." You yawn. "Still sleepy though," you mumble, looking up at him through the gaps between your fingers as you block the sun from your eyes. 

"Say," you begin, and Astarion realizes belatedly that the reason you were looking so intently at him was because you saw his back. "Can I ask about those markings on your back? Are they scars?"

"A poem from my old master," he replies facetiously. "Or so I assume. He carved it all into my back in one night." His lips purse. "He made a lot of revisions."

"I'm sorry," he hears you say with sympathy in your voice, and he knows he must quickly move on from this topic. 

"It's fine," he says abruptly. "It doesn't matter now. I'm free and far from Baldur's Gate. And he'll never control me ever again."

"Good," you say, and he wonders if putting warmth into your words comes naturally to you.

"Yes, it is." He pauses. "May I have my shirt back? Not that I mind being half nude, by the way- if only to let everyone know exactly what went on last night."

"Don't even joke," you sputter, tossing his shirt- miraculously clean- to him. "I don't kiss and tell! And they'll definitely know, but not the details!”

.

.

.

In the morning glow, nothing much has changed. As predicted, the entire camp is in-the-know of whomever slept with who. Astarion is quick to inquire Lae'zel about her tryst with Wyll, only to find, to the mutual disappointment, that he spent most of the time talking about his feelings. Shadowheart, on the other hand, was more than happy to share her wine last night. 

"Shadowheart mates like she fights," Lae'zel says. "Precisely and aggressively."

"Which is a good thing, I assume."

"Immensely." Lae'zel pauses then in breaking down her tent to look at him intently, which, for the githyanki, is as terrifying as anything. "I see you and our paladin decided to explore each other's bodies last night."

"Why, yes, thank you for noticing. It was quite the exploration," he responds, opening his mouth to elaborate.

"I suppose even you have your charms," she tells him instead, and the conversation ends there.

(Astarion hopes to glean more conversation elsewhere to no luck. Your talk with Shadowheart this morning is brief ("Lae'zel, huh."/"Astarion."/"Yep."), and Karlach's put-out expression is enough to give sympathy and a wide berth. Astarion sees Gale gazing upon the visage of his goddess again and turns the other way.)

The camp dynamic stays strangely the same. It is to Astarion's benefit, for he was comfortable with how the way things were, though he is more generous with the pet names for you. Halsin joins the fray, and they make their way to the mountains upon Lae'zel's insistence. 

In the midst of adventure, Astarion finds that you seek his presence more often. His night invitation seemed to open an avenue up for you to be more comfortable in doing so. Astarion finds he doesn't mind it; your camaraderie is most enjoyable in the too quiet camp and as far as "seducing" goes, you are doing half the work for him. 

Your gaze holds some heat for him once in a while when the moon is high and the fire burns low, but you have not asked him for another night. He is neither pleased nor displeased at the notion, because your affections for him are as clear as day. He knows you would say yes in a heartbeat if he did propose another night together, but he rather likes the late-night conversations he often has with you, a type of intimacy that borders on his comfort zone-- exciting and enjoyable without the unnecessary reminders of his past. 

Still, he sometimes finds himself recalling his night with you fondly. It's strange: he's gotten on his back ten thousand times or more and forgotten half of them, but his time with you, he knows he will remember. 

Astarion puts the thoughts of "why" (why you? Why are you different? What makes you special?) behind him for now. A treasure hunt for the Blood of Lathander (as if you needed to shine even brighter), a stolen githyanki egg (Lae'zel keeps it safe in her backpack), and an escape from a créche later, Astarion is more than happy to find refuge in the underdark, which proves to be more beautiful than any of them could imagine.

Something makes him look over to you then, and he watches as you take in the sights with wonder in your eyes, the gentle darkness cradling your face in its dreamy blue glow.

[aka-indulgence]

Illithid Kiss

So I caved. Immediately. Mind flayers are hot, bite me

Thanks to @llamagoddessofficial for showing me 1 (one) image of bg3 mind flayer and immediately going AWOOGA

Yes I made an ao3 link, I ‘ve been taken over help

(Mind flayer x Female!Reader

Mind flayer goes by he/him)

Vaussur took you in as his thrall for what feels like a long time ago. Despite being a mind flayer, for his kind, he had surprise you at every turn, acting unlike how you expected an illithid to act- like how the rest of the mind flayers in his hive acts. Lenient and forgiving with you, letting you roam with your mind free (for the most part), you find yourself unexpectedly getting attached to him.

What do you do, when all of a sudden your mind flayer ‘master’ asks you to tell him about human love? When he asks you to show him more directly? And most importantly…

Would you kiss a mind flayer?

Content warning: Mind control involved (consensual), suggestive themes, master/servant romantic relationship

—————

“Tell me, pet. What does it mean to love like a human?”

You’re snapped out of your musings at the voice, echoing both through the room and chambers in your mind. You look away from the window, from the alien society outside. Vaussur was looming behind you, a curious glow in his eyes that looked soft, somehow.

In the shadows of the room he looked ominous, almost spine-chilling. Illithid armour glinting in the faint light, while the rest of his body was merely a silhouette save for his glowing, golden irises. It reminded you of stories people back home used to tell you when you were young: to close and lock the doors at night and close the windows lest a monster sneak into the room. You didn’t know what a mind flayer was, back then, but seeing him now, he fits the stories perfectly.

Yet, he keeps surprising you with his curious mannerisms- his strange questions. You turn to face your ‘master’.

“Why do you ask?”

“As you might guess, it’s not something I can speak of amongst other illithids,” he says matter-of-factly, with a bit of humor in his eyes. “But its still something I’m personally interested in, nonetheless.”

You giggle. “What do you mean? Do you study humans?”

Mind flayers don’t have mouths. But from the way his tentacles moved, it almost looks like Vaussur was smiling at the sound of your giggle. But he answers seriously.

“I have been, as of late.” He gives you a meaningful glance. “Of course, illithids are the superior race and our ways of living are equally superior. … But I find myself becoming curious. We don’t have such customs in our society, and what I’m about to say is unbecoming for a mind flayer, but…”

You look at him curiously as he struggles to speak his words.

“I… envy you.” He whispers. “You have no idea how exquisite your mind tastes, my dear thrall. … How tender, the sweetness in every drop of thought in that delectable mind of yours, the warmth and comfort your memories radiate… You come from a world where a small, innocent, kind thing like yourself could flourish and bloom- thrive, even. How can such a world exist?”

The way he describes your mind in frightening and alien detail, reminds you of what he is- an illithid, a being that literally has a taste for brains. But even so, the way he described yours, though a little unsettling, almost sounds like a poem, words woven carefully just for you. Try as you might, it sounds like a compliment to you.

“W-well,” you stutter, staggered by his flowery words- coming from a being that has never seen much of life in the sun. “I think humans are more social than mind flayers. You communicate out of necessity, working together like a hivemind for the elder brain… right?”

“Right. You remembered what I told you? Smart pet, you prove me again and again why you’re my favorite thrall.”

“Um!” Being called a thrall wasn’t flattering, but still you feel your mind spin from the praise. “Thank- thank you. As I was saying, humans communicate and cooperate too, but we don’t do it just out of necessity. We find joy in the comfort of other humans- and other beings too, if they’ve formed a bond. We do it because we like it. We make bonds with people in our families and our communities, for companionship and… sometimes more. We can work alone, but most suffer from being solitary.”

You don’t know what kind of love Vaussur was asking you for, but you thought keeping it general was a good start at least. And the safest option, considering the other possibility.

“Interesting… not unlike illithids.” He comments.

“Really? How so?”

“As a non mind-flayer, you would not know this, but… it’s very unhealthy for a mind flayer to be completely alone.” You raise your eyebrows in surprise while Vaussur continues. “No elder brain, no other illithids, no thralls. Mind flayers are surrounded and connected by thoughts. To strip the familiar away from them… I’ve heard stories where they’ve gone mad.”

“Wait- mind flayers can go mad?”

“Of course. We are superior but not perfect- even I can admit that. Mind flayers can’t thrive in isolation, we must rely on another living being. It’s a disgrace for a mind flayer to accept it, let alone admit it- especially to admit they rely on thralls so heavily beyond labor.”

“I didn’t know that.” You remarked, seeing the illithids in a new light. Most of what you’ve heard from when mind flayers were merely myths and legends, and from what you’ve seen directly from their society indicates that they’re a self-sufficient, self-aggrandizing people. To know they could be attached to anything other than themselves, or at least to their elder brain… and Vaussur had so easily conceded this information to you.

“Wait, if it was a disgrace, why are you admitting this to me right now?”

“Because I’m no different. And it is no disgrace to say that I need you to stay with me.”

Your mouth hangs open at his honest confession, like it was factual. You try to ignore the little flips your stomach is doing, and whether or not it was a good feeling.

“I’ve also heard that there are different types of love. Platonic and romantic, I think they’re called.”

“Yes, yes there is, it’s-” you stop yourself, even as you quieten the excitement in your chest at the mention of the other type of love (to your puzzlement). “How do you know about that?”

“During my time on a ​​reconnaissance mission. I was looking for possibles hosts to implant with tadpole.”

You fail to hide the distaste on your face at the mention of ceremorphosis. If Vaussur saw it, he doesn’t react.

“I heard them talking about it. I think they were discussing whether what they felt for each other was one form or the other. Their discussion about the romantic one became particularly charged.”

He refocuses on you, and eagerly asks, “What is… romantic love?”

He was trying to sound calm and analytical but you could hear it: excitement. But why would a mind flayer be so interested in romance, of all things?

“It’s… like I said earlier,” you swallowed. You don’t know why you felt so bashful about it, like you were in a group of children talking about your parents kissing like it was a scandal. “It’s when people have more… intimate relationships with another. It’s not very different from platonic love, but different nonetheless. It’s…”

How do you explain romantic love to someone who doesn’t know what it is? How is it different from platonic love? Just having to explain what love is to him proved itself quite confusing to you, as the more you tried to grasp the definition of love to you, the more it slipped away.

“It’s like…” you grasp again, “romantic love is when you meet another person, and you feel a, a… a spark. It’s more intense than platonic love, where you just feel this… attraction to the other person, where you want to be as close to them as possible, and just their presence can make you really happy. You do things with them things you wouldn’t do with any other people you have in your life, intimate things. Someone you want to share your life with.”

You feel a little helpless as you clasp your hands together, trying to convey what you think love looks like to someone who’s never experienced it. Even with your loose explanation, Vaussur is rapt with fascination, his luminous glare unblinking. 

“I’m sorry if this is confusing to you…”

He shakes his head. “That’s more knowledge than any mind flayer knows. And… if it proves hard for you, pet, maybe you should show it to me.”

“I… show it?”

You were about to ask how, but as soon as you thought that, a word echoes in your mind.

With a kiss.

Your eyes widen, and unfortunately, it looks like your mind was loud enough for Vaussur to notice.

Without skipping a beat, he asks you, “Can you… show that to me? Kissing?”

Added with his forwardness, you fluster, but you try to calm yourself. Vaussur is a mind flayer. He’s never experienced any kind of love, let alone romantic. He really is just curious, he’s not trying to charm you… right?

You try to explain it to him.

“I c-could, but… kissing you would be more… romantic. One of the intimate things people do together to be romantic.” You said that twice. Your mind is tripping over itself. “You have to- no, you should do it with someone you care about deeply, the one you want to keep in your life. At least, that’s how you make it more meaningful.”

Vaussur doesn’t speak, not immediately. A strange look washes over his face, his brows furrowing. Subconsciously, he brings his hand to a tentacle, stroking it thoughtfully.

“I don’t see the problem. That describes how I feel about you perfectly.”

Everything goes quiet for you.

… “What?”

Vaussur doesn’t skip a beat.

“That’s how I’ve felt about you since I took you as my thrall. That is not a strange concept. I’m intimately familiar with that feeling.” He pauses. “Unless this is hesitation because I’m a mind flayer.”

“I- no that’s not it,” you say, the ice freezing your tongue melting. “It’s, I just- do you… love… me?”

“Perhaps. If that really what love is, then yes. But illithids don’t have ‘romance’ or ‘love’. So I need you to show me what it is.”

You shake your head, you can’t believe the situation you’re in, looking at the floor. The mind flayer that’s called you his thrall might very well love you- even be in love for you. People have described mind flayers as soulless, one of the defining characteristics they were often associated with, something you’d accepted as fact, until you were captured by one. Despite his illithid tendencies, the air of superiority, lack of care for non illithid lives, and strange fascination with brains; for what he is, Vaussur’s acted with more humanity than what you imagined a mind flayer was capable of.

You’ve noticed that most of your favorite qualities in him come out when you have his attention.

Though he’s always been imposing and quite frightening, you can’t believe that you’ve… thought what it’d be like to kiss him. At times when he seems to go against his natural instincts, like keeping you away from the feedings, how he praises you when he defends you from other mind flayers, how you were precious to him, and the way he held you protectively whenever you needed to cross their domain.

You’re amazed at yourself when you answer him with “... Alright.”

When you pick your head up from your musings, you startle from how close he was to you. You could see the patterns in his illithid armor, the intricate swirls and spirals, turning to complicated geometries as they reach the edge of the armor, extending from what looks like a mind flayer skull in the middle of the collar area. Long, dark purple robes extend from underneath, covering most of Vaussur’s skin. You withhold the urge to trace your fingers over the shapes.

You look up, way up. You were no stranger to this- even among mind flayers, Vaussur was particularly tall. He loomed over you, your head only reaching somewhere in the middle of his chest, and you’d have to crane your neck whenever he commanded you. But now, with the prospect of… kissing him, he seems all the more imposing. The closes thing you could to kissing him properly would probably be on one of tentacle.

“Um…”

Vaussur makes a strange sound, a sound that tickles your brain. A laugh…?

Before you could worry about what you were about to do, you feel a magic presence all around you, like someone was holding you. Your feet lift off the floor as you’re picked up by his psionic energy, bringing you face to face with him. There’s expectance in his burning gaze, something that makes you feel small and defenseless. You feel his thoughts seeping into your mind, mixing with yours: the want to be closer, of warm affection… and something possessive. You’re not sure if he’s trying to make you feel the same things for him, or if he’s simply communicating with you the way a mind flayer would with each other. It scares you a little, especially feeling his more foreign emotions- but whatever it is, you know he’s being genuine. You don’t sense a hint of malice in all the rush of feelings he’s emanating.

Despite your timidity, you can’t say those feelings were wholly unpleasant. You find you’re actually leaning into it, closing your eyes to try to feel it coursing through you. When you open them, you find the courage to brace your hands on his plated shoulders. Brilliant citrine eyes glance down at them, and you realize how small they must look to him.

Your brows furrow a little as you look for a good place to… kiss an illithid. Your fingers curl, and you try to position your head a bit to the side. You could feel him watching your every move, and you swallow.

You lean in. You could smell him, somewhat like vanilla and something else, and you’re surprised that you like it. Your lips press to the side of his face, above two of his tentacles, and kiss him. Vaussur closes his eyes and hums- you could feel him physically and mentally relax. His skin was strange, smooth and slick with a thin film of something; but you didn’t dislike it.

You pull back, parting with a little cup! as you did. Vaussur looks a little more… floaty, like he was dreaming.

“... Can you do that again?” He murmurs

You purse your lips together, hands letting go to twiddle your fingers, not quite knowing where to look.

Apparently Vaussur takes your hesitation negatively.

“I feel your nervousness, puppet. What’s the matter? … Did you not like it?”

You didn’t know mind flayers could even sound hurt, but he did, though he tried to hide it from you.

“No, no!” you stressed, “I’m just! It’s! … I’m just… shy.”

His eyes widen. You know what he must be reading from your mind right now: curiosity, interest, maybe even… fondness.

When you look at his mouth you feel a mix of emotions. Were you afraid? Were you excited…?  … No you don’t want ot think of what that meant, it’s too much. You stare for his mouth a moment longer while you try to gain the courage to kiss him.

You decided to work up to it.

Your hand reaches for a tentacle tentatively.

“Can I…? Touch your..?”

The tentacle flexes. Vaussur seems clueless as to what you want to do with it, but he lets you have it.

You give it a feather light touch, tracing a finger down its length. You realize how… sensual this feels, and you wonder if mind flayers ever enjoyed the pleasures of the body…? If they could? Vaussus gasps quietly, the tentacle reacting to your touch, twitching closer to you.

You’ve found yourself imagining what it was like to stroke his tentacles, of what would happen. Vaussur closes his eyes, letting you run your hand down. It’s smooth and slick with illithid mucous, cool to the touch, almost slippery. You think you like it. The other tentacles start to curl and sway closer around you, as if looking for your attention. You feel a sudden sense of pride fill you, at the effect you had on this mind flayer, just by touching him lightly.

His tentacles start their own exploration of you; timidly at first, but they quickly gain confidence and start to lavish you with tender caresses. One prods and brushes your cheek. Another traces along your collarbone curiously. The third free tentacle slides behind your back and holds you steady. The one you’re holding- clearly enjoying what you’re doing to it, curls around your arm.

You tittered. It’s like they had minds of their own. You wondered… what would happen if you kissed him on the tentacle?

You lift it up to you and give it a gentle peck.

Apparently, they were sensitive because as soon as you did, claws closed around your back and hips and pulled you flush against Vaussur’s chest, squeaking as he did. He lets out a deep, pleasurable sigh that turns your cheeks red while he grips you tightly, wantingly. You’d always assumed that a mind flayer’s body would feel cold, but even though his skin was covered in fluid, he was warm. Very warm.

So were you.

His golden eyes were glowing brighter than ever, his tentacles caressing you and start to float and curl languidly around you. His mouth is open before you, and your breath mixes with his.

You don’t feel fear.

“Please, my human,” he implores, “teach me. Teach me how you love.”

You didn’t hesitate this time. You felt naturally drawn to him. Willingly, you lean into him, his body, his feelings. You wrap your arms around his neck and somehow, your lips found his mouth and you started to kiss him.

As you expected, kissing Vaussur was nothing like the kisses you’ve experienced with other humans, or even other humanoids. You aren’t sure how to describe it, it felt you were kissing all around you rather than on one single spot, he surrounded you. His tentacles start to wrap you more tightly- around your head and neck. Though the thought of how vulnerable you were in this position with a mind flayer- that he could eat you so easily- did cross your mind, it only did so briefly. You were worried earlier that kissing a mind flayer with their mouths that opened four ways accompanied by lamprey teeth, meant to suction and grind into skulls might feel horrible but… you’re delighted that that wasn’t the case. The sensation of having him surround you and hold you so lovingly tightly was quite pleasant.

He hums, the sound vibrating around you. He starts floating backwards with you, slowly settling into his bed, his hands wandering, feeling you. You could feel him in your mind again, but he wasn’t intruding. It felt more like he was asking for your permission. You happily let him in, and you feel yourself cradled by his thoughts: soft, warm adoration for you.

Despite what the natural order tells you, you felt safe with him.

Vaussur had seemed confused earlier, not knowing what to do with himself while you spoiled him with your kisses, but he’d started becoming more confident, evident from the way he holds you and the tentacles’ affectionate touches. He starts taking control, sitting up a little and folding you backwards, reciprocating your kiss with new fervor, deepening it. His claws start to dig into you possessively, and you squeak, his power overwhelming you.

A flood of satisfaction floods your brain, and it isn’t yours.

I like those sounds. Vaussur’s voice purrs in your mind. Give me more.

You gasp and mewl, squirming in his hold, which only excites the illithid more, tentacles winding around your head tighter. One hand manages to stray from the tangle of limbs, only to quickly get reclaimed by his slender fingers, entwining with yours.

Don’t be scared, sweet human. He teases diabolically, I promise I won’t eat that delicious mind of yours. You’re safe with me.

You don’t know how long he kept you like that, hungrily taking your mouth while his hands and tentacles wander. When he was finally sated, Vaussur gently pries his tendrils off your face, and lets you go. You take a gasp of air, the blood in your head slowly draining away, and you cool down. You could feel warm imprints on your face where his tentacles and mouth were. Already, you find yourself missing the closeness you shared, his warm mouth on yours.

It felt like he was sucking your face in the best ways.

… You feel scandalized by your own thoughts, and you cover your mouth bashfully.

“I felt that.”

Damn it!

Vaussur chuckles, his eyes flickering with smugness. His gaze wanders over your face, like he was admiring his ‘work’.

He looks happy, eyes crinkling at you.

“Just like I promised. Your mind is still yours, untouched, undigested. Though… there are marks on your face. I rather like it.”

You don’t know how red your face is right now, fingers scrambling on it as if you could see it better that way.

“W-what?”

He chuckles again, and your frantic thoughts stop when a finger brushes your cheek.

“Thank you. For showing me that, puppet.”

Slowly, you smile, small and demure. “Your… welcome. Thank you for keeping my mind safe. I…” you swallowed, laughing nervously, “I liked it.”

Oh. Oh, he liked that.

“I did too. Immensely. You’re… incredible.” He praises you. “I would not be opposed to it if we did it again.”

You’re suddenly intimately aware of the fact that you were on his lap, practically straddling him, his arms keeping you close. He’s just invited you to another kiss, and you… like that idea. Sheepishly, you say the same.

“I… I wouldn’t either.”

You’re hoping you’ll get to kiss him again soon. Maybe more.

He lays you down beside him, and as he presses the top of his tentacles to your head, you realize it was his attempt at giving you a peck. You smile, and you instinctively curl into him, tentacles floating around you protectively.

Rest, human. He urges. You’ve done a lot today. Sleep.

You let him mentally compel you. It was nice, being able to sleep whenever you wanted without having to toss and turn before hand. You feel sleep quickly take you and your eyes fall close.

…

Vaussur stays up a bit longer after you, admiring his pretty ‘thrall’ that he feels lucky to have found. His fingers comb through your hair and behind your ear.

You’re… extraordinary.

You smile in your sleep as response. He thinks that might be the prettiest thing he’s seen in his illithid life: you being happy while you were with him.

He doesn’t think these soft, tender feelings are natural for a mind flayer. He wonders if he inhabits a human body.

You curl a little, trying to escape the chill, and Vaussur pulls a blanket up to you, and covers you. He needs to rest soon too, to shed his armor and sink into bed with you by his side.

His small… cute… vulnerable little human.

Whatever he may be in his previous life before the ceremorphosis, one thing is clear to him now.

He loves you.

And no one else can have you.

[shewolfofvilnius]

Wild Magic: Chapter 1

(oh my gods I actually WROTE SOMETHING)

Read on AO3 Part 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 Notes: Genre: Romantic Comedy, Magical Adventure, Self-discovery Words: 5100 Pairings: Gale x Lia (main, developing), Rolan x Tav (background, established) Tav is a secondary character, a female tiefling bard. Chapter 1 is mostly PG-13 (w some slight comedic nudity at the end) but will eventually become Mature

Synopsis:

"Rolan always said I put the 'can't' in 'cantrip."

Gale has time off before returning to Blackstaff Academy and has been tasked by Rolan to find the cause of a worsening series of magical oddities and maladies affecting Ramazith's Tower. Mishaps that have only increased by several orders of magnitude after Lia attempted to use a scroll to light a room only to have the scroll backfire (a rare occurrence all its' own).

In the process, it's discovered the cause of the tower's unstable and increasingly...wild...magic is far closer than it appears. In the process, Lia gains both a new dimension in the sibling rivalry with her brother Rolan, a new level of annoyance at puzzles, and yet another new wizard to both frustrate and fascinate her endlessly. She might even (gasp) learn a thing or two about magic along the way. Gale, Rolan, Cal, and Tav certainly hope she will, anyway, for all their sakes.

Full 1st chapter below the break:

A snowy breeze drifted across the Lower City district of Baldur’s Gate. A red-hued tiefling woman stood in contrast against the snowdrifts swirling about her. The cold hadn’t been a surprise, however, the snow had come on suddenly as she had been picking up some supplies she had had delivered to the Elfsong. Certain couriers were…apprehensive…about delivering to the tower, but the Elfsong? No worries.

“There wasn’t a cloud in the sky at sunset – I wasn’t in there that long. Where is all this coming from”.  Lia shivered under her cloak.  “Only a few more blocks to go.  The nerve of Rolan and Tav to just LEAVE for WEEKS like that.  What do Cal and I know about running an entire magical store? I can barely cast Dancing Lights even with a scroll AND that arsehole’s notes – damnable backfires - and Cal’s even worse.  I swear if it wasn’t for Tolna the tower would have burned to the ground two tendays ago.”  

Lia, rather cross but using her desire to enact revenge against her elder brother and his lover, the so called Hero of Baldur’s Gate, provided extra warmth against the snow and cold.  To an outside observer, the gusts of wind even appeared to be in sync to whatever the woman walking by was muttering to herself.

They said they’d be gone a tenday. Two tops. Why has it been a month?!  They were just going to visit that little lakeside near that stupid grove!

Finally arriving at the recently repaired Sorcerous Sundries – and the looming tower overhead that she and her family called home. She’d never admit it, even after a potion or under duress, but she was beginning to…ugh…miss Rolan and Tav.

Fortunately, no such admission would need to be made.  Nearing home, she noticed a flurry of lights and sound coming from the nearby emporium. Half of her suddenly became hopeful that Rolan and Tav had returned; the other half apprehensive at what the activity could be if it’s NOT them. The things they’d all been through since The Descent had made her permanently apprehensive.

Rounding the corner, she could start to feel heat against the presence of the cold and snow.  Further investigation, however, came to a half when Lia carefully rounded the corner, and came face to face…with a mind flayer.

Taking an instinctive step back and reaching for the dagger she’d just obtained from Dammon, Lia assumed a defensive posture.

“Lia.  I remember you.  Please, wait” projected the mind flayer, almost with a hint of…familiarity?!

“Prepare to die, Illithid scum!”

A hint of what could almost be called fear, if mind flayers felt fear, appeared to cross the creature’s face for a moment, before a shout rang across the shop foyer.”

“Lia! STOP! WAIT!”

Making their way through a small but raucous gathering were two all-too-familiar tieflings.  Her insufferable brother, Rolan – and Tav.

Lia’s concern was immediate.  “Do you MIND telling me what that thing is doing here, you two? Last time I saw a mind flayer, they were sweeping up corpses and using water scrolls across half the lower city! I can still occasionally see specks of silver in the cracks of tile.” Lia was NOT allowing THAT thing to harm any of her friends, her family.

“Bloody hells, Lia, that’s Karlach. Giant tiefling barbarian? One horn? Persistently on fire? Tav TOLD US the sacrifice she made to save the city. Put that weapon DOWN.”

Fear and the worst case momentarily crossed her mind. Could they have been enthralled?  She’d once heard Tav speak of the suggestive power mind flayers, of their ally known as “The Emperor”.   Tav HAD said that Karlach had become a mind flayer…”

Sheathing her dagger but keeping a defensive staff, Lia looked towards the mind flayer before her. Her gaze slowly softened, and she exhaled.  “It’s good to see you, soldier.  Sorry about the cold welcome.”

“It is fine, soldier. You are not the first person I have encountered who has had that reaction. It is not ideal, but eventually, you learn to adapt. I am so glad that Tav found you all after our fight against the Elder Brain.”

As Lia looked over the mind flayer before her, a voice boomed across the room. “Apologies for the confusion, dear sister” perked up Rolan.  Rolan, for a moment, considered teasing his sister about the weather, but decided that such levity could wait until tomorrow.

“Several of them all arrived together at the Emerald Grove, where I’ve been deep in consultation with the druids there for the past few days.  I must say they seemed far more amenable to my presence this time. The new Archdruid, Francesca, has made a stark difference towards climate of the grove.”

“Oh of course now that you’re the bleedin’ Archmage of Baldur’s Gate suddenly they have time for a tiefling” spat back a still embittered Lia, remembering many of those same druids had been all too keen to cast her, her family, and their friends and traveling companions out to face sudden death just months earlier.   Lia sighed; this was an argument for another time. 

“Speaking of climate, dear sister, I don’t recall there being any forecasts from the seers indicating snow. Curious, we didn’t even encounter any prior to arriving in the city.”

Glancing towards the window, Lia looked at intently at the flakes against the glass.  “Beats me. Went to go pick up some things I had shipped to the Elfsong, and the flurries started almost as soon as I walked out the door.”

The elder tiefling, seizing the opportunity to tease his sister, could not resist. A smug grin crept across his face. “Clearly, Baldur’s Gate is merely responding to your chilly disposition, sister.”

Letting out a glare and a low growl, Lia growled towards her brother, before snapping back. “If it was your personality out there, Baldur’s Gate would be a desert in a tenday.”

A chuckle escaped the tiefling wizard’s face.  “I missed you too, sister.”

The warm moment was broken up by a shout from a younger tiefling in a silvery flowing robe. “Tav!”

Lia ran towards her future sister-in-law with a warm embrace.  The tiefling bard had become family in recent months, though she still questioned Tav’s taste in gentlemen. Her brother? Seriously? Did she suffer head trauma while fighting The Absolute?”

“I still wish the three of you had been able to come to the party” shouted back Tav. The conversation crossed back to Lia - “From the looks of it, you brought the party back to us!”

The two women looked around the room. High Harper Jaheira!  The legendary ranger, Minsc! Grand Duke Wyll Ravengard!  She’d already come face to…face? with the now-Illithid Karlach.  She could swear she also saw a cat she didn’t recognize skulking off in the corner, although she would swear it had…wings? Did she have too much sherry earlier that evening?

“Lia? Lia? Anyone home?” Tav looked at Lia with concern.

“It’s good to see so many of these faces again.  Wouldn’t have anything we have without you and your friends.  I’m just a little overwhelmed, wasn’t expecting a party.  I’ll be back. Just gonna drop these off in the kitchen!  Missed you!”

Making a hasty exit towards the top of the storefront, she stepped into the rightmost portal at the top of the stairs. One of Rolan’s first actions had been to reconfigure the four portals in the storefront for tower access – and to ward against unauthorized entry by the use of small keystones attached to a pendant. To access the privacy of the tower, one would either need to be granted access, or be a skilled enough mage to essentially function as a magical locksmith. 

The tower’s magic had been…on edge? Lately?  The keystones had largely kept the portal system stable, but without Rolan present to maintain the magic, several weird issues had arrived. Randomly locked doors.  Rooms that would extinguish all their lights when she walked in.  Two days after Rolan and Tav had left, Lia recalled, she had tried to use a scroll to illuminate a room.  While she didn’t trust Rolan’s assessment of the ease of using it, even Cal had noted the simplicity by which the scrolls worked. 

Except instead she’d nearly been electrocuted by the damnable thing. The lights in the room lit up, sure, but so did she. She spent the better part of an hour physically illuminated, as though her own skin were a light source.  Glitches had been growing more and more common since then, although Cal SWORE that they only seemed to occur when Lia was there.  Except the locks, which seemed to have a mind of their own.

Rolan had also been quick to note that no, the ‘Knock’ spell she’d seen him use to unlock the storefront once shortly after they’d moved in – after they’d been locked out – would not open the portals.  Knowing that no one save her brothers and Tav held keystones, Lia figured she could retreat to the kitchen, regain her composure with a few moments of privacy.

As the warm glow of the kitchen portal enveloped her, a few minutes away to regroup would be perf—

Hopes of a moment or two of solitude were quickly dashed. A tall human man clad in the most ornate purple mage’s robes she ever seen sat seated at a table, glass of wine and some sort of book before him.  She remembered – this was another of Tav’s friends. Gale, that was his name. Ugh, not another wizard.

“Oh, a thousand pardons. I wasn’t aware anyone would be venturing up here. Hello! I’m Gale Dekarios, Professor of Illusory Magic at Blackstaff Academy”

The man stood to greet Lia, extending a hand outward.

“Friend of Tav’s, right? Considering this is my home, this is our kitchen, and my brother indicated that the portals were locked, I’d REALLY love an explanation as to why you’re in here.” She was clearly unimpressed at the wizard stood before her, annoyance and contempt gradually simmering warmer.

“A thousand pardons, my dear…Lia, I believe. Rolan’s sister!”

The sound of a clawed hand tapping the countertop impatiently echoed around the room.  “Yes, I know who I am.  Why are you up here? And don’t call me ‘my dear’”

“Apologies again, I meant no ill will or intent” hastily sputtered the wizard. “Your brother had indicated an issue with the tower’s lock mechanisms and asked if I might be so keen as to take a look. That’s primarily abjuration, however…. you don’t share your brother’s inclination towards the arcane, do you?” asked Gale.

“Can’t say I do.  Tried, a couple of times. Rolan said I put the ‘can’t’ in ‘cantrip’.”

Resisting the majority of a hearty laugh at the wordplay, Gale still couldn’t help a small chuckle.”

“I know we’ve been having issues with locks malfunctioning, traps going off, ever since we moved in.  It’s why the portals are tied to these things”, noted Lia, showing the pendant that normally allowed them access. 

“It’s a clever mechanism, but long term the root cause needs addressing.”

“Okay, but, why the wine and the book?”

“When I entered this room 20 minutes ago, that door -” Gale pointed towards the larder entry

“The larder locked itself AGAIN!?”

“A simple ‘Knock’ spell was easily dispelled, so right now I’m observing. And for me, I’ve found a good glass of wine and some quality literature helps pass the time. Say, now that you’ve entered the room, I wonder…” The wizard’s voice trailed off, as he raised his hand to begin manipulating the Weave, quietly muttering several things Lia couldn’t quite understand under her breath.

The door to the larder swung open. 

“Aha. You’re entering via the portal appears to have triggered the next sequence in which doors are locked.”

“But why would the portal from the shop to the kitchen – OH!” Lia’s face lit up. “I saw something like this once!  It was…”

“Please, do continue, anything could be of import or significance” responded Gale, with kindness.

Looking the wizard directly in the eyes – and after shaking loose a stray thought – Lia continued. “There was this game thing that I saw once in Elturel when we were kids. You’d push a button, but when you did all the buttons around it flipped over. You had to be real careful and try to set them off in a specific order, and flip them around a few times, but eventually if you did it right, you’d get them all pushed in!”

“The wards on the doors are tied to the same magic as the portals. The portals are forced open with the keystones, but whenever you use them, it’s flipping over other locks.” Lia’s face sunk.  She might not have been a magic user, but she’d spent hours playing that game in frustration. “It means we’re going to have to set off all the locks, we’re gonna have to see which ones cause other ones to change, and it’s going to be a long night.”

“Indeed, long month more like.  Fortunately, we’ve just hit a break period at Blackstaff and I’m CERTAIN that this magical lock system would be of great note to researchers, it truly IS a marvel.”

“If you say so.”.  Lia’s frustration was palpable. The locks had been malfunctioning for weeks, and now it turns out the only way to solve it was going to involve diligence, studious observation, and the services of another wizard. 

“Apologies if this is a sensitive topic, but as I’ve been tasked to help, there IS a matter I’d like to go back to.  Neither you nor your younger brother…. Cal, I believe…have any magical aptitude whatsoever? It’s quite unusual for a family to have a spellcaster as talented as your brother while…”

Lia exhaled. She knew where this was going, might as well get it out of the way.

“Rolan’s adopted. We do not EVER make a thing out of it in this house, Rolan is our brother, but he was adopted. Hence why he’s ‘Master’ of an entire wizard’s tower, and Cal and I…run the shop, and mostly try to not get ourselves blown up.”

“Ah.  I see.  Well…” The wizard’s voiced trailed off. The conversation had stretched on now for some time, and Lia had nearly resigned herself to wanting to rejoin the party (whatever the risk to the damnable locks) when Gale’s thought finally made its’ way to his mouth.  “Has Rolan ever, you know, shown any interest in teaching the two of you?”

“He’s managed to get Cal to a point where he can use a scroll without it backfiring or causing us to need to evacuate the shop.  Whenever he tries with me, it ends…explosively.  I tried to use a scroll for LIGHT and managed to set an entire bookshelf ON FIRE”.

It was an unpleasant memory. She’d found her brother an insufferably smug teacher.  It’d all always come so easily to Rolan. Lia’d rather just have her wits and a good sharp blade.”

“When I first met Tav, if she attempted to use her instrument as a focus, she could perform minor spells, but on her own had zero capacity to cast – in fact, it would frequently result in a backfire of wild magic not unlike what you’ve just described with the bookcases.  From what I recall, you generally prefer a bow or blade to magic, however, if you’d at least like to be able to use a scroll, I believe I can help. It may even make dealing with the locks simpler.”

“Learn magic? From you? Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t. Seriously, I have tried. Hells, I have actually, proper tried.  Rolan tries to be supportive, but…he looks so angry when I try, and it backfires like that.  It wastes scrolls, and knowing his sister is SO magically inept, I just…I don’t need more proof that I can’t do this stuff.”

Lia turned towards the portals

“Tell you what – I’m not above a friendly bit of wagering, and truly, I believe this will help all parties involve.  Tomorrow morning, I’ll be at the door of the shop an hour before you’re posted to open.  This is zero risk, all reward. You don’t even have to step out into the cold.  Since you’ve said that even scrolls cause backfires, let’s start there. If I can get you to cast one scroll – something relatively harmless like Dancing Lights – without a backfire, then you get rewarded.  I, uh, I know things. About Tav. And your brother. You could tease them both mercilessly. “

“Tempting, Wizard. But how do you know things I don’t about Rolan?”

“Wizards are notorious gossips, and your brother has rapidly developed quite the reputation.  Mostly positive, I hasten to add. But replete with a story or two that could certainly cause him minor embarrassment.”

“So, wait, I get to figure out this magic thing enough not to blow up the tower with a single scroll, I get juicy gossip about those two, and I don’t even have to leave the house…. really, wizard, what ARE you getting from this.”

Looking directly into the woman’s black and orange eyes, Gale simply grinned. “My dear, there is no greater joy than to be able to show someone who believed that they are incapable of something that they indeed possess the capability.  So many in this world would be capable of so much more if they were only of the belief that they could.  I believe you can do this.”

Lia let out a small, toothy grin.  He believed in her? Even over six months after that brain had nearly destroyed the city, Tav’s friends were continually a surprise.

“Also, I MUST admit…”

Oh, there’s always a ‘but’ or an ‘also’, Lia thought to herself.

“In all my years, I have only rarely known the use of scrolls to produce the kind of wild magic surges and backfires that you’ve described. If something IS impairing your ability to manipulate the weave in any manner, including a common scroll, that’s something worth investigating.”

Her defensiveness rose once more. She was no one’s laboratory experiment or object of pity.

“Look. I have a theory – and I RUSH to emphasize, it is only a theory – I think whatever is going on with the locks and the wards and your ”backfires” as it were are somehow related. Why and how? That is what I’d like to get to the bottom of.  If I can help a charming young lady gain some skill in the arcane arts along the way?  I would consider that a win-win situation.”

Sorry, charming? Was he?  Damnation, he was at least ten years older than her.  And a wizard.  No, no, work past it Lia. Okay, say something, this is getting awkward.

“Fine, one hour before opening. Wait – where are the rest of you staying tonight?  In the tower?”

“We were able to send ahead and rent out our old suite in the Elfsong.  There’s fewer of us now, and it’s only a few streets away.”.

Alfira and Lakrissa had mentioned this suite.  Absolutely palatial.  Alan Alyth had offered them the entire upper floor suite of the tavern during their battles against the brain.

“Snow’s piling up. If you don’t head back soon, you might be stuck the rest of the night.”

“Ah yes.  Still, I could certainly picture worse environs to be trapped in for a night.”. 

A slightly uncomfortable quiet began to hang over the room, broken only by occasional howls of wind and snow pelting the windows.

“Party’s downstairs. If you’re through ‘observing the locks’, let’s rejoin everyone else.  And you, I’ll see you promptly at six.”

Gale rose and began to head towards the portal with Lia. Once more, the warm glow began to envelop them, then, suddenly, a loud POP and a chilly breeze. 

Snow? Wait, they were outside? Why did she have a headache?

“Lia, I must admit, I did not anticipate this particular development.”

Looking around, the situation quickly became clear. 

“We’re on the bleedin’ balcony of the tower!?!” let out a shocked Lia. The pair had at least landed on firm ground, but near the uppermost floor of Ramazith’s tower, and most importantly, outdoors. 

“Right, let’s look for a door or window.”

The pair searched around, and eventually Lia found an opening to a window to the library inside.  Escaping the frigid gusts of the outdoors, Gale raised his hand, planning to illuminate the lighting inside the library.

“In for a penny, in for a pound.  Lia, do me a favor, watch me, carefully repeat every motion I make, and repeat every sound I make. Clear?”

Doing an imitation of Gale, the tiefling retorted back “Watch me, carefully repeat every motion I make, and repeat every sound I make. Clear?”

Letting loose a louder laugh this time, Gale began the process of casting Light.  Lia, relaxed in spite of their situation after the joke, following along closely. Word for word, motion for motion, she had proven a fantastic mimic for the wizard from Waterdeep.

At least in terms of her attempts to copy Gale.  The results…diverged.  Gale’s attempt effortlessly resulted in the illumination of a nearby brazier.  As did Lia’s.  “Gale! Oh, my gods, I….” Before she could complete the thought, an itch began to spread through every cell of her being. An itch that became a tickle.  Laughing, Lia suddenly found herself as though a weight had been lifted off her shoulders.”

“Uh, Lia…”

The levity of the moment was replaced by a different form of levity as Lia found herself nearly a meter off the ground – and rising.  Leaping, Gale managed to grab her by the hand and pull her towards him. 

Equally parts amused and concerned, Lia fleetingly found herself noting the wizard’s surprisingly firm grip.   For a bookworm, he has surprisingly strong hands here.

With her attention firmly focused on Gale, she noticed his casting once more. A glow rapidly enveloped them both – and she found herself beginning to return to the ground, slowly and gently.

Suddenly, a feeling of static and a pop of light. Gravity took hold once more, and the tiefling woman came crashing down upon the human wizard, landing atop him on the ground.

Realizing she had Gale pinned to the ground, she allowed her brain a moment, then rolled off, a sly grin mixed with intense confusion. 

“WHAT IN THE NINE HELLS WAS THAT?! Gale, not that I dont appreciate the soft landing but what happened? I did your little magic thing, it even looked like it worked, then suddenly I’m airborne.  What’s going on?”

Gale attempted to regain his composure, his mind lingering perhaps just a moment too long at having just had Lia atop him.

“Lia, excluding Rolan, does your family have ANY history of magic use whatsoever?”.

“Honestly, a lot of our folks died when we were young.  Why? I already told you, I’m not a mage. Rolan and I aren’t even related.”

“I’m aware that Rolan isn’t strictly your biological sibling. However, what I just witnessed is crystal clear, Lia.  Would you like the good news, the bad news, the worst news, or what’s behind door #4?”

“Out with it, wizard!” glared Lia, albeit slightly playfully. 

“What do you know of magic users known as ‘sorcerers’?”

“I’ve heard Rolan say things. Honestly, I think he was a little jealous. They’re the ones that are just born with magic, right? No studying or…. wait, what are you saying?”  Lia’s confused statement, however, was betrayed by a knowing look upon her face.

“There exists a category of sorcerers known as ‘Wild Magic’ sorcerers. The source of their magic tends to be the most unpredictable. Sometimes it’s by pure happenstance of birth.  Others it’s by unintentional magic exposure. Some have gained their talents by interactions with demons, or with the fey.  Still others went to their deaths believing that their powers had simply been a trick of the Gods.”

“Out with it.”

“Lia, what I’ve witnessed now twice in just the last half hour with you is indisputable. Those are the tell-tale wild magic surges of a sorcerer.  Why it started with scrolls, I’m not sure – perhaps it’s particularly volatile magic, perhaps there was some sort of ward on one of the scrolls that you tried to use that caused its’ magic to backflow into you. But ONLY a wild magic sorcerer could have caused what you just experienced when you attempted to light that brazier.   You’re a sorcerer, Lia.”

The intense emotion of the situation brought forth a familiar tingle. Her eyes shot open with alarm.

“Control it, Lia.  With study, you can learn to master these – “

Gale’s words were all too late. Another flash and crackle of electricity filled the room, along with a light layer of smoke. 

“Lia, answer me please, are you okay?”

As the smoke cleared, the first things visible were a pile of clothes of the ground.

Eyes opening wide, Gale could only let out a shocked “Uh oh.” as he prepared a sending spell and tried to think of what counterspell would be proper for this.

---

Downstairs, the magical lights of the shop flickered for a third time.  Grand Duke Wyll was the first person to notice “Look, everyone, the snow’s stopped.”

“Finally. The weather seers hadn’t said anything about snow” noted Rolan, interrupted by the large man (and mighty hamster) near him. “Clearly, they did not seer this coming” chuckled Minsc. 

“Hey, has anyone seen Lia? She took a bundle to the kitchen an hour ago, and she’s not back yet.  Kitchen portal’s not working either!” shouted Cal across the room. 

“The magic in this tower HAS been rather…eccentric, dating back to even before we’d left.  I had asked Gale to look at it.”  Rolan looked concerned towards Tav. 

Suddenly, Tav heard a familiar ping near the back of her head.  A sending spell?  From Gale.

“Tav. Come quickly to the library.  Bring Rolan. It’s Lia. Portals acting weird. Wild magic”

The hero of Baldur’s Gate wasted no time, grabbing her betrothed and heading towards the library portal. “It’s Gale, he’s with Lia.  They’re in the library, and it sounds like trouble.” 

“Why would my sister be in the library? Why would she be in the library with Gale? He’d only gone to the kit- “

Remembering that Lia had taken the now non-functional kitchen portal herself, they exchanged a confused glance.

“Gale said something else.  Said that the portals are weird and indicated “wild magic.”. 

“That is most certainly bizarre, my love.  How would the wild magic of a sorcerer affect the portal system?  What does it have to do with Gale and Lia?”

“No clue.  Wyll, Jaheira,“ Tav yelled across the room, “Rolan and I are going to the library. Something’s not right. If we’re not back or you don’t get a sending spell from me in fifteen minutes, get Cal’s keystone and come directly to the library. Portals are acting weird, though, so be prepared for anything. Keystone works for up to two people.”

Wyll nodded, almost eager at the chance for some semblance of actual adventure. Minsc appeared slightly saddened to not be invited to whatever was about to go to down town.  The others continued to focus amongst themselves?

“Ready, my love?” asked Rolan to Tav

“Ready”

The glow of the portal engulfed them quickly.  Aside from a slight draft, and a marginally smoky smell, moments later, they found themselves in the library. Gale’s hand was aglow and raised over his head.  In front of Gale stood a pile of clothes and a medium sized sheep, bleating in a vague panic.

“Gale what is-“

“QUIET. NOW.” shot back the wizard, grateful at their presence but annoyed at the interruption.

A curious pairing of scents, lilies and root vegetables, began to waft over the room. Rolan quickly found himself wondering Why in all the nine hells is Gale reversing a poly…OH. OH NO

A bright flash and more smoke engulfed the room.  Before Gale – and at a distance Tav and Rolan – once more stood Lia, now in the unfortunately compromised position of being “on all fours” and, embarrassingly, naked as the day she was born.

“Oh, oh thank the Gods, thank you Gale.  That was…I am getting rid of ALL of the wool in my wardrobe tomorrow.” Gale rapidly averted his gaze as a passing thought tried to remain in his mind. Rolan looked ready to fire a spell of Blight in his direction.

As Tav went over towards Lia in order to help her future sister-in-law with her outfit and to offer comfort, Rolan angrily grabbed Gale, pulling him towards an alcove on the site. 

“Gale Dekarios. Explain, now! WHY WAS MY SISTER A SHEEP? WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?”

“Rolan, I promise, you and Tav will get a full recap in the morning.  What we both need now is to find someplace to rest, and safely.  Lia is safe, Rolan, she – “ “SHEEP. GALE, WHY WAS MY SISTER A SHEEP. WHY WAS MY SISTER NUDE AND IN THE LIBRARY WITH YOU?”

“Brother I’m fine.” Yelled Lia across the room.

“I just don’t understand WHAT IS…”

What had been an anger and confusion filled stream of consciousness set of reactions slowly gave way to Rolan’s more analytical nature.

Sheep.  Magical backfires. The angry sending spell I got from Tolna.

Rolan’s jaw started to hang open as his pupils opened so wide his eyes began to form an eclipse.

“You can’t possibly…no…she’s nor.”

With an almost giggle, a now re-clothed Lia make her way over towards her brother and Gale.  “Looks like you’re not the only mage in the family now, brother”

“Oh gods, she’s not.”

“Rolan, as senior instructor of Illusion at Blackstaff Academy, it is my solemn duty to inform you that your sister, Lia, is in fact a sorcerer. Potentially one of some moderate degree of power, if albeit near-zero control without the proper tutelage”. 

“Rolan, this is great. ANOTHER mage in the family!” noted Tav, excitedly.  Her music had provided Tav herself with a conduit to the Weave, while Rolan’s skills as a wizard were known.  Now, here was Lia – and she was manifesting magic?!  The possibilities for taunting Rolan are delightful now.

Sharing a glance at each other then towards Rolan and Gale, Lia and Tav began to laugh.

“Damnation.” grimaced Rolan.  “Still, if you can learn some measure of control”, began Rolan with a mix of pride and hesitation, “If you can learn some manner of control, perhaps you may yet accomplish great things.”

“I had offered your sister a magic lesson in the morning. I would actually still like to follow through with that, if it’s alright with you Lia?”

“You know what?” Lia glanced at the two wizards with a mix of curiosity, playfulness, and perhaps just a pinch of spite?  “I’d like that. I think I could learn a lot from you, Gale Dekarios.”

This time the glances were shared between Rolan and Tav.  Uh oh.

[amorgansgal]

A Night Sky With No Stars

I have failed dramatically at posting to a schedule for the Halsummer SFW Week! I was meant to post this two days ago, but got excited by a Gale fic and completely forgot, so I will post this one and the next day's one today! This features my tav Vanya and a bit of nudity, but nothing more scandalous than that!

Day 5: First argument/disagreement with PC

They fought off the githyanki who had turned up in the middle of the night. Halsin had only briefly caught Vanya swiftly making her way to the glowing portal and then she vanished from view. While he helped the other clean up camp and wash off the blood from his hands, his thoughts were solely on her. He could only pray that she was alright, that she would come back. He knew he should rest, yet his mind buzzed endlessly. Where was she? Would she come back? How long would it be? Would she return by sunrise or would it take a day, two, a week, a month? Jaheira, Aylin and the others who had slept further away from the fire had gone back to bed, but now Halsin was left lying on his bedroll, his eyes fixed on where the portal had been. He could not resume his meditation, he was too worried about her.

Finally, as the sun streaked the sky with gold, pinks and reds, a portal shimmered open and Vanya stepped out with Gale, Karlach and Shadowheart. Relief flooded through him and he got to his feet. Vanya bounded over to him and it was only when she stepped closer and into the first patch of sunlight that he realised something was wrong. Inky black veins covered her face, darker around her eyes and snaking out over her neck, shoulders and arms. Her eyes, that had become so beloved to him, those deep blue depths that so reminded him of the coast she came from and the god she worshipped, were pitch black. The irises and the whites of her eye were as dark as the night sky with no stars. 

“Gods, what happened?” he asked as he cupped her face, looking over her for any other signs of injury or pain. But she smiled at him.

“I’m fine, we’re all fine. The Emperor offered me a special tadpole, so I took it. I'll be able to help more people, Halsin.” She sounded so pleased and delighted, but his stomach curled and he frowned.

“I thought you wanted to find a cure, not to become more illithid.”

“I’ll still find a cure, but for the time being, I may as well. I’m stronger, I’ve got more abilities…”

He swallowed tightly. He didn’t want to be selfish or berate her for making that choice, but gods… what if they didn’t find a cure? What if the tadpoles changed her entirely? What if she lost everything about her, her spirit, her joy, her love for new places and people? What if she was stripped of everything until the reason he had fallen for her was utterly gone? 

“Oh, Halsin! Don’t look at me like that. I’m still me. I know it’s done something strange to my eyes, but-”

“I am not concerned about the change to your eyes, but the change to you and who you are. What about all the times you have insisted Gale to temper his ambition or begged Astarion not to seek vengeance and control? What then? Why is it fine for you to do this, but not for them-?”

“Halsin, it’s just a temporary thing. It’s just to give us an edge over our enemies and over the Netherbrain. Surely, we’re going to need every bit of luck and skill we can gather?”

“You have me and Jaheira and Dame Aylin and Isobelle… how much luck and skill do you need?”

She gave a shrug and for the first time in his life he was immensely frustrated by the more careless and unthinking side to her. Usually he delighted in her ability to not let things bother or worry her, but now… “What does that mean?” he asked coldly.

“I’m just trying to help people. I’m just trying to be useful.”

“You are useful!” he barked and several people in the camp shushed him. Wyll pulled a cushion over his head and Lae’zel glared at Halsin from her bedroll, then dropped her head back down and fell back to sleep again.

“Well then stop acting like I’ve done an awful, terrible thing. I’ve not murdered thousands of people and I’m not trying to take over a whole city, I’m just trying to be good and have a good chance of beating Orin and Gortash and the Netherbrain!” Vanya hissed back.

He sighed heavily, she was just trying to do the right thing. He knew her. This wouldn’t be about power or seeking glory or control over others. But gods he missed her eyes so much, missed the way they twinkled with life and mischief and happiness. He missed her freckles too, now that they were lost to the black spiderwebs on her skin. She was still beautiful and it was still Vanya, but he was so scared she was going to lose more and more of herself to this thing. He gently stroked her cheek.

“I am sorry, I do not think you won’t be able to control this, but truth be told I miss your eyes and I am scared you will lose yourself to the Emperor’s commands.”

“I won’t. You can trust me, Halsin. I’m not going to lose myself or become an Illithid. I promise. I’m still the Vanya you know and love. Now lets rest in your tent before the others wake up.”

‘But for how long for?’ he thought. ‘How long will you remain the Vanya I know and love. How long will the Emperor keep you in his clutches? Will he let you go at the end or will he want you to become an Illithid entirely? Will you heed me then or will you become something untouchable, unknowable, unloving?’ 

He let her take hold of his hand though and he stepped back into the tent with her, when the flaps were closed, she stripped off her clothes and curled up next to him on the bedroll. He closed his eyes and just tried to feel her, her warm soft skin, the rivelets of her hair, the way she entwined her fingers with his. He tried to pretend that nothing had changed and the woman lying next to him was exactly the same as she had been the day before. He held her tightly and kissed her brow, he didn’t want to lose her.

[thranduilsperkybutt]

☾ the gold & the rust ☼

Pic Sources: 1 | 2 | 3

Pairings:  Astarion Ancunín/Tav!Reader Warnings:  NSFW; angst/comfort smut; yearning; Astarion is not ascended; mentions of past canon-typical trauma/abuse; the struggle of healing; Astarion has racing thoughts and you can't tell me otherwise; canon-typical biting; it's not about the sex it's about the feelings; spoilers for the endgame Word Count:  7,168 words Reader Gender:  Female Author:  Meg Summary:  You’ve told him you will find him some cure for his darkness; you are set on performing a feat no one in history has ever achieved, all for him, but he wonders if it is as futile as the sun laboring to join the moon. Maybe he is destined to forever look upon you with the knowledge that when your bright, beckoning light inevitably burns out, he will be left with only his darkness, alone again... A/N:  Look I blame Hozier for making too many Astarion-coded songs that make me sob my eyes out while thinking about the implications of his "good" ending. Astarion has literally changed my brain chemistry.

The sun cusps over the horizon, its soft tendrils spreading over a murky sky. Beckoning the night’s fleeing retreat with a gentle violence as the day demands more territory in each passing second. Sparse hues of blue manage to cling to some lingering clouds that have yet to meet the threateningly beautiful pink and orange sky.

Astarion reaches out from behind the heavy curtain and his darkness, towards the pillar of light that breaks into the privacy of your bedchamber. Pale fingertips dip hesitantly into the light, as if he could believe everything that has occurred over this past week has been only a dream. It takes but a moment for the evidence of his reality to meet him when his skin sparks and dusts under the light of day.

He flinches back, hissing lowly from the burning pain of it. Glaring down at his flexing hand as if the disdain in his eyes could change the fates that have turned the thread of his life into this ever-knotted thing. He’d never imagined he would miss having that damned illithid parasite in his head, yet here he was. Yearning to reach for morning again. Wishing to experience a dawn that may never welcome him again.

He hears the stirring moan, soft and drenched in exhaustion, and dares a glance away from his own skin and stinging regret. Stilling entirely, Astarion hopes he has not awoken you just yet. He does not wish for you to see him like this, in this state of self-pitiful detestation. Though he knows you may yet love him despite having seen it, showing the reality of his mind beyond his comfortable performances is easier said than done. Tension drips from his shoulders, if only a little bit, as he watches your body relax into the cushions with your blissfully ignorant slumber.

The sigh at his lips is shaky. Mournful. He looks back towards the sunlight and remembers how it had felt when it had forgotten how to punish him like this. He doesn’t know which is crueler: to have never felt it at all, or for it to be ripped away from him like this. In the brief time he was granted to finally walk in the sun again after the past two centuries, Astarion can’t help the fresh anger that bubbles up in him at the taking away of it. He didn’t deserve this--- any of it.

Truthfully, he has no clear memory of how the sun had felt to him when he was simply a mortal elf and not a spawn belonging to a master. It had been so long ago; memories fade over time when drenched in horror, he’s discovered well since. Still, something tells Astarion he loved the day even then as he did now. He’s certain he had always loved the heat of it--- the color.

The way it filters through your hair when you stand in the path of daylight, kissing the edges of your skin in a way he forever wished to share with it. It had been warmer and kinder to him than he had ever expected to receive, somewhat like you. You were undeniably beautiful in the light of day.

Even standing within the finality of the sunset of your journey together--- foes vanquished, coated in sweat and victory--- he had thought the same.

But nothing good ever lasts, he’s learned. At least, nothing but you. Astarion wonders if he would still grieve this much if he were to never have known the day at all. Would he know what he was missing? Would a piece of its cosmic heat have whispered of you to him, even then?

He can’t truly comprehend a world in which his fate had not become so intimately entangled with yours. Perhaps that is the worst part, how he knows he would always brave this feeling of loss to gain what he has with you. In the end of it all, he knows he has made the right choice to have this over the temptations of that infernal ritual’s power.

Despite that knowledge, Astarion truly hadn’t expected you to run after him when the lingering illithid protections dissipated from his being and the sun began its remorseless burning again. He had scampered away from the docks in an abject desperation, attempting to flee from the light’s betrayal. Astarion was the objectively faster party, but you had found him eventually--- you always seem to find him--- after he had taken to cowering behind wooden crates that cast a meager shadow of solace. He had been shaking, cradling himself, closed off entirely from the world as that sickeningly familiar taste of how things had been before--- back when he was still Cazador’s--- came flooding back onto his palate. His mind had become drenched in a fear he had thought could never claim him again.

You’d cut through all of it with your worried call of his name. Plunging him into the magical darkness you cast upon the both of you to shield him from the sun’s assault with such a thoroughness that not even you could see through it. His call of your own name sounded far too broken on his tongue for his own liking, but you’d followed the sound towards his outstretched arms all the same.

Dragging him up into yours, only a sliver of the calamity in his soul dissipated when you promised him blindly, “Come, quickly, I’ll get you someplace safe.”

Despite his better efforts, his voice shook as he allowed you to clumsily drape your cloak over his curls in darkness, unable to bring the deflecting humor to his voice that he so achingly wished would return, “Darling, you are a sight for sore eyes; or, you would be, I’m sure, if I could see you.”

“I told you this would come in handy,” you shot back, and he had been grateful for your effort at ignoring the bittersweet grief that so clearly drenched his soul in favor of reminding him of how he had teased you for spending a good amount of your gold on this very cloak when you’d all first arrived in the city.

His breath remained shallow, but his hand tightened over yours in what he hoped you knew was gratefulness when you finished ensuring the fabric had covered any of his exposed skin, “I shall never question any of your purchases again, on my honour.”

“Of course you will, Astarion,” he heard the slight worry in your voice as much as you tried to hide it. He felt the spell waning and with it the returning disorientation that even slight sunlight left him in. You had grasped his arm firmly and spoken with a confident determination that he suspected was as much for your comfort as it was for his, “Now, get ready to move quickly and keep your head down; the dark won’t last much longer.”

You were good for your promises, he’d learned over his time travelling with you, and that had brought some small comfort as the day reemerged before he’d had a chance to respond. Then, you were maneuvering him through the city, towards the darkness of Sharess’ Caress, with such a precision that he might think it more important than any quest you’ve had thus far if he hadn’t known better. Gripping him tightly the whole way, Astarion still has not dared tell you how grateful he was for it--- for you, surprising him against his better judgement every time with how you simply are.

It has been nearly a week now of you coming to his side in the night and yet some part of him still expected the other metaphorical shoe to drop. For you to come to your senses and tell him that you simply cannot carry on like this with him.

He wanted to believe you. Gods, how he wants it. Yet, he still felt like a fool to think he’s earned some love such as yours. He wants to believe he deserves the way you look at him like he can be what you see him to be. It’s too dangerous for his heart to invest in the thought that he maybe can. That maybe he is, already.

For you to look at him and tell him, “We’ll find it together. I promise we’ll find a way for you to walk in the sun again,” with such determination--- for you to be someone who genuinely believed the both of you could achieve it---

Well, you simply must be mad. He doesn’t know how else to explain these little ideas of yours.

Astarion figures you’ll continue to be as much a surprise to him as you’ve made a habit of in the past… and then there was that persistently annoying optimism of yours to contend with.

But this?

He doesn’t think that you understand the truth of the choice you’re making, to stay with him. To love him. How could you know it and still look upon him with such eager hopefulness as you do? He barely understands it at all himself, and he’s had centuries to come to terms with what he’s become. Forgive him if it’s a bit difficult to begin to understand just what “being something better than what Cazador made him” truly means.

He understands how much he wants you, though. He wants it all. The life that was stolen from him, the opportunities, but mostly for you to be there--- here. Where you’ve not wavered an inch from his side; you’ve given him no reason to think you plan on leaving anytime soon.

Why does he still fear it so much, though?

Some part of him had thought--- hoped foolishly, rather--- that killing Cazador would somehow fix two centuries of torment. Fix him. In the brief time after, he discovered that it hadn’t. In his elongated struggle, he worries it never will.

Nightmares still plague him, he still jumps at shadows, he still has thoughtless fear dart through his mind before he remembers again that his former master is well and truly dead. That simply existing in happiness was the rebellious proof of his victory over a man who he hopes will not haunt him forever. When he is with you, Astarion almost believes that Cazador won’t. It is some charm you have bewitched over him surely. Your ability to calm this chaos in him with soft eyes and patient hands that do not seek to own him, yet he eagerly chooses to belong there all the same.

Astarion still has trouble loving you like he knows you deserve to be loved. There are times when he can barely stand physical touch, though craves to want yours. And you understand the duality of the contradiction in him, taking only ever what he is willing to give.

Sometimes he thinks you too understanding, with little concern of how this affects you. He’s always baffled by how selfless you can be sometimes, particularly when you’re taking in strays. He has come to admit, if only to himself, that he does see the irony in his complaints. Moreso, he’s terrified of what will happen when that seemingly endless well of care you hold within you for others inevitably runs out.

What will happen when you can no longer bear his eccentricities? The compromises? The sacrifice that his double-edged love requires of you? Will there come a time when all he offers as part of being in this real love becomes too overwhelming?

Astarion had fallen in love with you in the easy warmth of sunlight. Looking upon you now as the dawn creeps against your sleeping form, his heart aches as he wonders if he can truly doom you to a life in his complicated darkness.

Selfishly, one thought consumes his mind--- he knows he wants to. He would want you, no matter the cost to you both. You have told him over and over again how you want the same but, Gods, he can’t figure out what he has done for this sliver of joy and it eats away at him in the dark. It’s unreasonable what he asks you to give him, but he’ll take it all the same. Bitterly he thinks, if he were a better man--- the man you see him to be--- he might even feel guilty for it.

For now, all he feels is the monstrous need to escape these racing thoughts in his head.

When will you walk away to join the sunlight for good? Hells forbid the answer his weary heart is preparing for ever be spoken from your lips.

Astarion hopes the day never comes when you choose to go where he cannot follow. He wants to spend all his days traipsing after you, wherever you may lead, no matter how much he may complain about it for show.

Astarion wants to spend all of it, whatever it may be, whatever he’s got left, with you. He’s terrified of the day that you change your mind on him. Fearful that you may one day decide these sleepless nights with a vampire spawn who can offer you nothing more than his undying love and sarcastic quips are nothing compared to the full life you could have with someone else. This theoretical, easy life in the sun that he dares to think he is stealing from you by loving you as he does.

Well, he supposes that reclaiming Cazador’s palace is always an option, rather than his other fantasy of burning it to the ground. Spending an eternity draping you in finery and keeping you to himself within a palace feels like something he should want, but he can’t help to think that it would be no better than making his love for you into a somewhat prettier cage.

More than he wants you, he needs you to freely want him. He’d be tempted to take up praying again if he had any faith that it could solidify your love for him forever, but deep down he doesn’t want heavenly intervention. He wants you to want to be with him--- to choose him willingly and without any regret for what the inevitable sacrifice will be. That understanding is, perhaps, what makes his heart swell with this bittersweet glory over all else.

You’ve told him as much and what your lips did not confess to him willingly, your body has whispered to his with an adoration that threatened to scorch him in much the same way of your beloved daylight. You’ve told him you will find him some cure for his darkness; you are set on performing a feat no one in history has ever achieved, all for him, but he wonders if it is as futile as the sun laboring to join the moon. Maybe he is destined to forever look upon you with the knowledge that when your bright, beckoning light inevitably burns out, he will be left with only his darkness, alone again--- this being the most horrible realization of all to have come to him tonight.

Hells, how desperately he wants to believe you, but Astarion has always had difficulty getting his hopes up. He hasn’t been known to bet on losing dogs, and he certainly doesn’t bet on his own odds these days.

But he figures you have more than enough hope for the both of you.

A minute smile quirks his troubled lips at that thought, watching your fingers twitch in your slumber. He shouldn’t doubt you as he does; you’ve given him everything. His freedom, his salvation--- even from himself, when he hadn’t known how much he needed it. Things he can never repay, and yet you’ve never asked him for a repayment. He owes you everything, but you’ve been adamant in tempering his sense of obligation. You’ve reminded him that everything he's done, he’s chosen for himself.

You’ve only ever asked him to love you, and that you have had for far longer than you know--- far before you ever actually plucked up the adorable courage to ask him for it.

He has come to love you more than he’s ever loved anything for as far back as he can remember. The depths of his adoration could scare even him with the raw vulnerability he is left with when it comes to you. How beautifully all his plans and plots for self-preservation have backfired upon him, though. He would not have you destroy his peace of mind in any other way.

Maybe one day, he’ll admit to you exactly when his nice, simple plan truly began to fall apart. The idea dances in his mind, of how you’ll react to that particular information. You’d hang on his every word, he thinks--- it would be rather pathetic of you, if he weren’t in much the same state.

Gripping the curtain, Astarion finally deems it time to push the budding light out of his darkness. If it is to be the only place he may have you for all of your days, he’ll make his darkness a sacred place. He decides he shall worship you in it--- all other gods have forsaken him already. Until the day his little hero saves him once again, he will indulge in this darkness with you.

The patriars nipping at your heels for guidance, the unwashed masses of the Gate clamoring for their glimpse of his hero, even your other traveling companions--- none of them shall invade upon this sanctuary.

He moves towards the bed, returning to you. Exhausted from a late day in the city and an even later night of enjoying his company, you’ve taken to claiming sleep when you can these days. The evidence of your labor rests in the dark circles under your eyes. He doesn’t think he could stop you from your philanthropic efforts assisting the city’s reconstruction even if he tried.

Still, right now, in these hours you are only his.

He dips his weight onto the bed and lays himself alongside you, pulling you tenderly against him as his lips graze your neck. Truly, he knows it is cruel to wake you, but he doesn’t know how he can manage to miss someone like this when you are right before him. It is as if his very soul yearns for you. He melts against the rhythmic flutter of your heart, and it sounds more like his home than the palace he has spent the last two hundred years in ever could.

Teeth graze against your carotid pulse, and you stir slightly. He hums into the soft warmth of your flesh, biting without intent to draw blood--- though the thought of it does cross his mind. He has never recovered from the taste of you. Cold fingers curl into your bare hip, dragging you slightly closer at the feeling of your waking movements.

Your pulse picks up against his lips. Astarion hears the patter of your heart in your ribs as his tongue drags up your throat towards your ear. Your breath hitches when his lips graze your jaw, but your eyes remain closed.

His lips twitch with mirth at your effort to have him do as he pleases.

“Quite the show, my little love, but I know you’re awake,” Astarion murmurs, slurred from the back of his throat like a man lost in thorough indulgence. Drunk with the scent of you on his skin, he leaves another faux bite on your jaw as you squirm beneath his assault.

“Shall you feed again, is that it?” yawning, your hand rubs at your eyes before you blink them open. When his hands run up your sides, your answering shiver reminds him of that first night he’d fed from you. Lit only by the campfire, you had allowed him to take too much before stopping him, even then.

He chuckles breathlessly, shifting the covers to invade your space more completely as you come back to your consciousness piece by piece, “As tempting as it is when you offer oh so nicely to be my treat, I hunger for something more satisfying this morn.”

“Ah,” you gasp from sleep-drenched shock, reacting on a delay as he brings his knee up to strategically push your legs open. Allowing you to feel the growing length of him through the thin linens between you, he levels you with his weight in a slow grind. Blinking up at him, your eyes focus in a darkness lit only by the dim glow of dawn beyond the curtains when he languidly rolls his hips against yours, “A-Astarion---!” He is watching you peculiarly, with a glint of some unreadable darkness in his eye that you can’t quite place. The breathless whimper at your lips sends that warmth of yours straight down his spine, “What’s gotten into you?”

He hasn’t had you since that night he had been so drenched with adoration that he’d taken you on his own grave and truly confessed how he loved you. Ever since then it had been battle and struggle, one after another, in your pursuit to stop the Absolute for good--- constantly ensnared in some new concern that stole any potential moment he could’ve used to steal you away from duty. After the final battle, Astarion had been so dejected by the return of his vampiric limitations, and you had been near constantly pulled away to assist the public---

There was the part of him that enjoyed indulging in the easy-going intimacy you offered him. The lack of pressure to perform was something he had not yet fully become accustomed to; a certain comfortability that has been cultivated between the two of you over the time you’ve been together. The sense of knowing that he is well and truly safe with you. Despite this understanding, he wished to freely want you in every way he was capable of.

And, oh, how he has come to want you over these last few days.

It was so mindlessly simple and immensely complex. He can barely put into words to describe the ways he wants this. Carnally, intimately, wholly, eternally--- nothing is a sufficient descriptor. Maybe in that vast library that your wizard, Gale, insists on boasting about showing him one of these days, Astarion will find an all-encompassing word for how he wants to have you forever.

As it stands currently, he settles on the comfortable seduction that has become second nature to him, “Actually, I was quite hoping to have gotten into you by now, lover.”

He’ll never get over how you melt for him; how you fall for every word. He watches the heat he stokes behind your eyes, the flex of your fingertips where they lay beside your head on the pillow.

Then, he descends upon you.

A practiced mouth parts yours as his cool hand takes the long route from your waist to your throat, indulging in the feeling of everything in-between. He sets your skin on edge in his wake, stirring a familiar feeling that he was entirely too good at urging from you to settle low in your stomach.

Gentle fingers find his hair and he feels the scrape of your nails against his scalp when he finally rests his hand on your throat to hook his thumb beneath your jaw, kissing you deeper. Passionately. As he always does, Astarion excels at unravelling you in every way, but you have no idea how much you manage to rebuild him with your every touch.

Your body welcomes him completely, urging him closer in ways he doubts you are consciously aware of. His hips rock into yours with each passing second that your heat spreads through him, feeling himself grow harder at your soft moans that meet his eager mouth. When you tug slightly at his hair, he lets a cautioning sound fall from his tongue onto yours, but you only nip defiant teeth at him in response.

And then he’s pushing your hands down, captured at the wrists by his. Pinning you to the pillows while he draws back just enough to catch the breath that is coming, labored, from the both of you.

“I’m sorr---” you begin, remorselessly.

“Telling a pretty lie won’t save you from me,” Astarion leans close once more, dragging his skin against your cheek as he kisses a trail towards your ear, feeling you test his grip at your wrists with a half-hearted tug. “I do believe all of this ‘Hero of Baldur’s Gate’ business has kept you from the more important happenings of our bedchamber. It would be a terrible pity if you continued to neglect your baser desires when I am in such a mood to indulge you.”

“Are you sure you’re talking about me?” you tease and he feigns a mild shock at the insinuation that his own behavior is the reason you’ve yet to bed him.

“I’ll have you know I am all indulgence, unlike you, darling hero,” but when he leans away, your eyes capture his. Reading him too easily, you know something is wrong as his carefully constructed mask falters, if only for an instant. It’s all you need, and Astarion regrets losing himself for the moment as he watches your softening gaze survey him.

“Is that so…?” You’re left guessing at what troubles him, “If you missed me, you could’ve just said so. The city can survive a few days.”

“Does the city know that?” it would be so easy to leave it there, to let you think you’ve figured him out once again. The anxiety in his veins won’t allow it, however, and his mouth speaks before his mind can instruct him to shut up, “Tell me, darling, that you won’t regret it someday… Of course, you won’t--- but I would like to hear it all the same.”

He looks down on you with growing vulnerability, confidence cracking. That detestable anxiety that has plagued him all evening coming to the forefront of his mind once more. Crimson irises swirl with a reckless uncertainty and it reminds you of how he had looked upon you when confessing his initial manipulations in those early days of your relationship.

“Regret what?” the confusion on your face nearly has him losing his nerve, but he chokes back the urge to dismiss you so quickly.

“I don’t want you to regret… choosing me,” his voice is clearly pained at the thought, cold hands at your wrists tightening like he is afraid you will run from him should he let you go. “Choosing us, I mean. I am well aware of all you shall endure if you spend each painstaking night of forever with me. It is a price I was willing to pay for my freedom, but you… I--- I know you have said that I am what you want, but I don’t want this to be one of your regrets. I don’t want you to resent me for keeping you here---”

Astarion was constantly preparing himself for the ending of all things; it is a part of his nature that you wish you could soothe with simple words alone. It will be much more difficult to satisfy than that and you know it, but you intend to spend all your years working towards earning his unwavering faith in you. This trust that he has so endearingly placed upon your soul, when every piece of his own screamed at you for doing the same. You doubt he knows how, if you were to someday break him in the way he so fears, you feel it would be as if you were destroying a part of yourself.

You cut off his rambling with a firm, “Astarion!” like it hurts you to hear him talk of himself in this way. His mouth snaps shut as you search him for the cause of this doubt, “Have I done something to make you think I will have these regrets you worry of?”

“Well, no, but---”

When you pull at his grip this time, he wordlessly releases you, only for you to reach up to him to drag him down into a tight embrace, “Then, why is your heart so troubled?”

“I---” he chokes on the word and how shallowly his lungs fill with you holding him so securely in your arms. Maybe it is better that you hold him so closely that you cannot see how he crumbles against you, dissolving into your grasp as if you are the only thing holding him together when he confesses, “I know what it is to live this life of darkness. You are so---! You deserve everything I can’t give you, starting with a life surrounded by the beauties of daylight.” His head turns, misty eyes catching your worried stare. He regrets the distress he’s caused you, but moreso he needs to hear your reassurances that his mind has gotten the better of him in this. He has never hoped so pitifully that he was wrong.

“Astarion,” heart swelling at the loss in his eyes; he looks to be mourning for you. As your thumb smoothes along the lines of his jaw, you come to realize the depth of his lingering sadness, “tell me, what good is the sun? The sun cannot care for me as you do or feel my love in return. A life of pure sunlight is worthless if it means living it without you.” You watch his breath catch in his chest, a stifled sob of his relief that he does not give into so easily.

His voice comes strained and nearly sounds like he’s on the verge of arguing with you, “You so obviously will miss it! You talk of finding a way for me to ‘walk in the sun again,’ but what if it’s impossible? What if we waste our lives searching for something that was never attainable? When you realize it, I wouldn’t have you look differently upon me.”

“Is that it? You think I talk about finding you a cure for my own benefit?” you scoff, before leaning towards him to place a soft kiss against frowning lips. He lingers in the middle ground as you depart just enough to demand he listen, “I only think of you, Astarion. Since the moment I first saw you, you’ve consumed my mind, body and soul. The sun was made for you--- and you’d know it if you ever had the privilege of seeing yourself in it. I only want for you to be happy.”

The arch of his brow tells you he still doesn’t fully believe you, despite his attempt at a half-hearted joke through the tightness in his throat, “I do quite enjoy when you call me beautiful.” It’s more than that, and you both know it, but if he were to ask you right now to name one thing about the light of day that you know you will sorely miss, it would be never seeing him in it again.

Rolling your eyes, you sigh at him with a lopsided smile, “Oh, my silly vampire, I love you much more than the sun. Without you, I would not want any of it. In fact, you can take the moon and stars, too, while you’re at it---”

He cuts you off with the eclipse of his mouth on yours, hands spread along your ribs to dig eager fingertips into your skin as he pulls you in as close as he can manage. The kiss is more languidly meaningful than the last; he intends on burning the feeling of you into his mind to replace the torrid thoughts there. If your words had not been enough to convince him, you hope the way you receive his body with your own can. Every part of you calls to him, blood and sinew, breath and bone, flesh and spirit.

Maybe it’s clear to him now, that you are as intertwined as the earth and sea. Should the tide of your soul ever depart from his shores, he can rest in the knowledge that your reunion is inevitable. As far as you are concerned, you are fated in such a way that not even the gods above or the devils below can alter the course of how your body fits beneath his--- how you shall always welcome him home.

You will have him, for as long as he will have you.

When he finally withdraws, he dares not go far, eyes blinking open slowly in a melancholy acceptance, “How can I be so fortunate?”

Brushing the mess of white curls behind his pointed ear, you hum at the shiver that runs through him when your fingertips graze the skin there, “I don’t know, but it’s about time things start going our way, don’t you think?”

“That it is,” his groaned agreement softens the worry in his eyes and he melts into the stroke of your hand against his temple.

“What you should be worrying about, Astarion, is whether you’ll regret choosing me when I’m all old, wrinkled, and grey,” it’s only half of a tease, and you hope he can’t see through the smile on your lips. The thought has been on your mind for some time after realizing that the two of you were going to somehow survive everything you’ve endured these past months.

“Darling,” he scoffs, nudging his nose with yours, soothing you as much as you do him, “knowing how well trouble finds you, we’ll both be long dead before either of us need worry much about that.” His lips graze yours, when he gives you his earnest answer, “For our sake, I hope to spend every moment we have left with you, watching every sunset and sunrise we are granted until the end takes us both.”

It's more complicated than that, but most real things usually are.

What isn’t complicated is how you feel beneath him, tongue tracing his teeth as he ravishes you. There is a completeness that comes in the way of his body fitting against yours. This reassurance in your touch will never falter. Even if your mind were to eventually escape you, he will know you were always his. If the world were to fall away in this moment and leave nothing but this room, Astarion would happily float out his days with you here forevermore.

He loves you. You love him.

He can scarcely comprehend anything else. Nothing else matters, he decides.

Nothing but your little shivers and whines when his fingers delve down the soft flesh of your stomach--- nothing but the arch of your body into the exploration of his touch. Nothing is worth more than his name whispered from your lips in that scandalous tone you reserve for these moments he sets your skin ablaze with teeth and tongue. You call to him like it were a prayer, but Astarion has hardly done anything so holy to warrant the way you say his name.

His sole inkling of faith is spent on the belief that he could live his whole life, his extended eternity, and never tire of loving you.

Soft and demanding partner within the thrill of his touch, you’ve learned, and his hands part you for him with that comforting understanding. Insistent and hesitant are your finger’s answer to him, digging into the nape of his neck as your head falls back against the pillows. Throat bared, it’s a wonder he doesn’t take another bite of you where he’s done so frequently before, but his attention is too acutely focused on the aching wetness between your thighs and his slender fingers.

Your lips part in an open moan of his name with how expertly he drags pleasure through your veins with each stroke within you, and he drags his teeth against your jaw in a growl, “You sweet, generous thing, always so ready for me.” Finally, he grants you some relief from his constant teasing, pressing the heel of his palm into your most sensitive nub. He allows you to seek your own pleasure with each desperate grind of yourself against the hand that continues to stroke pleasure from within, “Do you have any idea what the sight of you does to me? How dearly I long for us to never leave this bed?” The rasp of his voice has heat rushing up your spine, muddying your thoughts with each continuance of his lascivious tongue, “Leave the Gate to fend for itself, my dear, for I should have you like this always, stripped bare with me between your thighs.”

“Have me then, Astarion,” you really did purr for him in times like these and as much as he enjoys teasing you for it, he truly does relish the tone you get when he has drenched you in lust. His reaction at your words is groaned against your throat; he’s so near, but his hand retreats from you all the same. Never to neglect you for long, your lover is soon tearing at your smallclothes with an impatience that was not wholly unexpected from him.

He pushes his weight onto his forearm beside your head, using his other hand to tug at the laces of his loose breeches while glancing down between you. His eyes, rubies in the darkness, snap to yours and it is as if he has dipped you in firewine and struck a match. You burn for him, from the inside out and in such a way that you know he has thoroughly ruined you for anyone else. You are dripping with it, onto the sheets and the new press of his length against your core. His indulgent rub of himself through your folds is punctuated by him grinding into you, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling for but a moment.

Hair disheveled, you watch the beauty of him as he swallows deeply before capturing you in that piercing gaze once again, “I think I shall have you, now--- how did you just put it?” He crowds you with his arms, and your breath hitches at the feeling of him catching at your entrance when he murmurs lowly, deliberately, “Body and soul? Isn’t that right, my love?”

The way you drag him down into your kiss as he pushes into you is a messy, desperate thing, but it only seems to urge him on. You simply cannot seem to get close enough, though not for lack of trying, as he fills you gloriously. Astarion gasps into your mouth, staggering the push of his hips against yours, devouring you until he is left seated so deeply within you that you can hardly breathe. Then, hands around your thighs push your legs up, and he fits impossibly further.

You sob a moan against sharp fangs, deliriously full of him as he begins a slow fucking that is just enough to drive you into madness. Clambering for something to ground yourself, your nails dig into his back, scraping against the scars that remain there--- his hips snapping faster into you at the feeling of it.

He smears saliva across your jaw and down your throat, understanding your breathless, “Please, please,” for what it is. Permission.

Pain is so fleetingly brief that it may as well not exist at all, because when he bites down hard enough to draw blood from your skin, you are met so suddenly with a lightheaded ecstasy that is compounded by the pleasure he pulses through your body. Only the raw stretch of his every thrust keeps you from dissipating into delirium entirely. You are left keening beneath him as he dissolves into the taste of your blood, feeling his moans against your neck and the way his thrusts begin to match the drum of your heart in your ears. Astarion’s fingers drag in the space between, stopping only when he has found the base of his seat within you.

You feel your heart skip in your chest before he ceases the meal he’s made of you, licking your throat of the sloppy blood that threatens to yet spill. The iron of it meets the smell of sex in the air and he strokes his fingers against where he continuously plunges so deep within you; the wet sounds of your coupling may have been embarrassing if you weren’t so disoriented with the raw need of it. Your every nerve has fiercer concerns than your fickle dignity when he is working to make such a wonderful mess of you as this.

“Delicious,” Astarion groans into your shoulder, nipping and groaning against whatever he may get his mouth on as he feels your increasingly erratic clenching with his harshening pace. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, feeling him reach to draw tight circles at your clit as his own pace begins to falter. Neither of you will make it much further through this. He is left stained, begging upon your skin, “Come with me--- Hells, darling--- I need you to---"

Finding a grip in his hair allows you to drag his head sharply back to force his open-mouthed gaze to cast upon you once more, desperate to see him as he falls apart with you.

The sight of him is nearly enough for you to lose what little sense you’ve held to; while his complexion has turned slightly rosy with the assistance of your fresh blood, he still looks upon you with a consuming hunger all the same, “I love you.”

“Gods---!” dark eyes slam shut as he gasps out your name before all control leaves him in the mindless oblivion that he drags you down into alongside him. Scorching pleasure burns from the inside out as he loses himself in the trembling heat of your rapture, dissolving into a wild and erratic pace that bursts sparks of euphoria behind your eyes.

You are both left in the sticky aftermath of it, heaving mingling breaths as tension melts into you from where he collapses and lingers atop you. You hold him, content to have his softening length seated within you for all eternity as you let him continue his mindless caressing of your skin.

He has said it before, but it will never be enough, so he says it again in the hoarse aftermath of your lovemaking, “I love you, darling. You have made me so… happy.” Should you ever forget it, he is prepared to remind you for the rest of your days, “Thank you.”

Your own repeated declaration is sighed with a contentment that you hope will last a moment longer as your fingers take to stroking through his hair when he lays his head against your chest. Can he hear it from there, you wonder, how your heart whispers only the sweetest of sentiments for him? You like to think he can.

“Astarion?” you finally croak after some time, and he hums soft acknowledgement without much movement. “We should watch the next one together.”

“The next what, my treasure?”

“The next sunrise.”

There is a smile in his voice when he murmurs, “Always.”

[lucklessrat]

Erp..For the ask, 2, 7, 14, 18, 20 or 30? Answer whichever you want lol ik its a lot so its fine if you dont answer all:)

WOW nah imma answer all of them lmao i love talking about my boy

2. Did your Dark Urge have any romantic and/or sexual relationships prior to their illithid adventure? If yes, who was it with and what was it like? If no, how did they feel about being single?

COMING IN HOT WITH THE BIG QUESTIONS. So the thing about Leth is that he's really, really old. He's about 300, and his life is roughly broken in to 3 phases: His youth, the huge chunk of time he spent as a tiger with no memory of having been a person, and the period in which he served as the head of Bhaal's temple in BG. In his youth be was a bit of a playboy, so he had a long and complicated dating history, but they were mostly casual relationships. He dated less and less as his Urge got worse. For the last two phases he had completely withdrawn from other people both emotionally and physically. Unfortunately, he also had A Thing with Gortash but in his defense, he had not gotten laid in like 200 years. That relationship was 100% emotionally manipulative toxic bullshit, but it happened.

7. Did your Dark Urge recall any childhood memories? If yes, how do they feel about the revelations? If no, was it by choice or lack of options?

I think he recovered most of his memories by the end of the game. They're painful to think back on, but it was a very long time ago now.

14. How good of a liar is your Dark Urge? How do they feel about lying?

He is a VERY good liar, but he hates doing it. Not for any moral reason, he's just very blunt and direct by nature. He GREATLY prefers intimidation over deception.

18. How does your Dark Urge feel about love?

Another hard hitting question! Look, Leth is just a big stupid sentimental old man, and he loves very deeply and earnestly. He's also a miserable bastard. He isn't shy or dishonest about how he feels or what he wants, but he avoids getting attached to people, mostly because he's afraid of hurting them. He regards love as "an inconvenient inevitability of the thinking mind," and he is a dick to almost everyone he meets, but damn if he can't stop himself from trying to help them anyway.

20. Is your Dark Urge open about their Urge or do they try to hide it? Why?

He's open about it, for the same reason he hates lying. Deception only complicates things, and he would rather give fair warning and be left alone then accept company from people who don't know what they're getting themselves in to.

30. What are your Dark Urge’s intentions/goals after the end of the game?

Lethean is honestly so fucking tired lmfao. He'll probably stay with Astarion post-game, but he's so exhausted by then that he's like, "I've lead a cult, then another cult, and then lead a small army that I unified to destroy both of those cults. I'm tired of leading. You do it."

[wakacreations]

Zevlor's Bizarre Cocoa Adventure (Ch. 3)

Prologue Ch1 Ch2 Ch3 Ch4 Ch5

Word Count: 1360

Summary:

Zevlor thinking strange things and dreaming strange dreams.

A wetness trailed down his cheek, the smell of iron filled his nostrils but only moments ago drowned in the smells of decay. “Obey the Absolute and you shall be free!” a shrill voice echoed. Cold winds rushed through his bones, feet firmly held to the muddy ground. Waves of pulsing warm air brushed over his skull, then a sharp piercing sensation radiated from his temple as it burrowed its way deeper. The hilt of his sword once in his grasp dropped helplessly to the soft earth. Zevlor’s head pulsed and throbbed violently. His hands gripped his skull forcefully as if he could glue his splintering mind back together.

“Hellrider, you shall bring glory to your people. They will be safe under our oath,” the voice beckoned him. His body had gone rigid. “What is happening!?!” gruff Zevlor. “Commander Zevlor, you will save us won’t you? You can protect us! I know you can!” Whispers of voices long known, some forgotten, and some recent flood into his ear canals. There were whispers of children that cling desperately to his arms to avoid the falling flames. Their yelling and pleading of tieflings being dragged away by hungry orthons. The screams of agony deafening his ears.

“Please do something Commander Zevlor, sir! I can’t take much more,” one of his own injured men fell onto him. Their eyes wide with horror soon grew to a glassy emptiness. “LAY YOUR WEAPONS DOWN! We will be safe with them,” the words escaped his mouth foreign to his own ears. What little strength his knees held buckled under the weight of the pressure. The cool dirt met his metal leggings as a warm red pool bathed his knees. “YOU TRAITOR!” The whizzing of arrows fluttered past his skin. A much too cold clawed hand trailed across his brow.

He awoke to a hobgoblin peering down at him. Sweat bathing his clothes, his joints stiff in place, tail lay limply at his side. “The first illithid teleportation is the hardest,” as he handed him a bucket. “3… 2… 1…” A rush of bile made its way up Zevlor’s throat. He doubled over clutched the bucket feeling the last of putrid acid leave his body. “You'll be alright. It would be kind of me to say it gets easier but it never does,” as he patted his back. Zevlor looked up at the hobgoblin as he wiped his mouth. “Blurg. Pleasure to meet you,” he grinned.

The hobgoblin walked over and rummaged through a set of cabinets. “Now, where is it? Ah, there it is. Drink this, it should help with the nausea.” He tossed him a small flask. “Anything to get this taste out of his mouth,” Zevlor thought. In one swig the potion of vitality vanished. “Thank you. It's Zevlor, a pleasure.” Though his stomach had settled, his mind still held a dull ache. A whiff of herbs filled the air. “Hungry? I got some warm food I've prepared for you.” Blurg setting down a tray on the bedroll. He took a seat across from the tiefling. Zevlor slowly ate the stew placed in his hands. It was a rich warm dark broth, filled with celery, carrots and hardy potatoes. Some healthy portions of beef were in the mix as well.

“If you prefer something with proper meat you can help yourself to our cured supplies.” He pointed at a stack of crates nestled in the corner of the tent. Zevlor gave Blurg a sideways glance pausing his meal. “Don't worry the food is safe unless you are allergic to mushrooms,” Blurg chuckled. “Most dishes I prepare are mostly plant based. Less I have to worry of any dried goods molding down here. But I'll meet the dietary needs of whomever I serve.” He smiled at the tired tiefling who thankfully resumed eating. 

“So, he's the famed Hellrider. Well Rolan was not far from their description,” Blurg gave the old paladin the once over. Their sharp face no longer the sickly pale red moments before, hair and battered skin still dampened with sweat, their clothes cling to their lean form. “It was such a hassle removing that armour. Paladins,” his gaze moved towards the pile of metal that laid beside the bedroll. “For as toned and hardened their muscular body may be, their mind was still vulnerable. He won't cope well for another illithid fast travel,” Blurg thought. His eyes met with Zevlor’s shimmering orange eyes.

“Omeluum told me you're in need of chocolates?” The tiefling’s tail flicked. Zevlor passed his finished bowl to Blurg. “Another helping if you would kindly, please.” He made his way to the opened pot, “You still haven’t answered my question, friend,” as Blurg ladled another helping. “Yes, I am in need of such supplies,” Zevlor cleared his throat. “Would it be possible to spare a crate or so?” he said with a bated breath. Another rejection would be too unlikely but things have not turned out as smoothly as he initially hoped. His tail snaked to his midsection and gave a firm squeeze.

“Are you able to stand? We'll have to make our way to Omeluum's tent. It is a bit of a ways,” Blurg's brow furrowed. With tentative shaky legs Zevlor rose to his feet. A tremor still held his figure. His arms spread outwards as if made to walk a line. Each step was made with a conscious effort. Tail moving to-and-fro like a ship’s wheel to keep himself on course. A slight sway in his step as he made his way to Blurg. “You walked as if you’ve had more than a couple of pints at the Blushing Mermaid, Zevlor.” The hobgoblin braced his hands to catch the teetering tiefling if need be. “I will be fine. Just give me a couple of minutes to recollect myself and I shall be ready,” Zevlor rasped as he leaned on a table for stability. Blurg gave a questionable look and a raised brow but didn't push further. “I will go check in with Omeluum, do call for me if ya need anything. It is no bother.” Blurg flipped open the flap of the entrance. “Less I forget,” the hobgoblin called over his shoulder. “Welcome to the Underdark, friend.” The flap fluttering shut.

“I am finally alone,” Zevlor took a long drawn breath. He slumped down into a stool. The sounds of dripping echoed on. For all the things that just transpired his mind was stuck in idle. He listened to the repetitive sound of water droplets for what felt like minutes but how long it truly was is indefinite. “Time moves differently in the Underdark,” he gathered. The tension still lingered on his form. He closed his tired eyes and began his assessment. Shoulders are tightly winded with tension that can't be helped. Neck is a bit stiff, could be due to his earlier resting position. He gave his body a good long arched stretch. Legs still have a weakness to them but some walking will help get the blood flow back into them. “The mind…. well that will take a long time to repair,” Zevlor opened his eyes. More rest called for him. The bedroll beckoned him but there won't be peace in his dreams.

He took a couple more bites of his stew. “For a dish that has little to no meat, it is quite delicious. Maybe I should see if Blurg would be willing to share in a culinary exchange. I'm sure Tav would..” his cheeks grew a more reddish hue. “Oh, I… What would they make of me?” as he peeled off his sweat-streaked clothes. “If I am almost always this frightened,” he slipped into a pressed shirt. “If my griefs are much too cumbersome of burdens to bare. Especially not for them to bare, not to them of all people, have they not suffered enough,” he fastened tightly on his chest plate. “If I am too feeble of a man, less I at least be capable of returning a favor owed. I can hope to provide them that courtesy guaranteed,” blade fixed to his hip. “I can't provide them much but this is all that I am,” he catches a glimpse of himself off a metal tray. “Too worn, too beaten, and too unworthy.”

[lunastrophe]

Like many I wanted to thank you for this blog. Ever since playing BG3, I've grown fascinated with drow. Some of the lore I read about them feels cartoonishly monstrous, though, and I'm admittedly a little uncomfortable with all the slavery that I don't know how to play one in a proper D&D campaign. Is there a way to tackle this sensitively/better without watering down the drow (or the Underdark for that matter) and making them into something they're not?

Hello and thank you for reading! 🙂 I agree, in some sources - especially older ones - drow often seem over the top evil, although even in those older sourcebooks, it was already stated that not all the drow are evil and chaotic.

🕷️ Drow And Slavery - lore-wise, many Underdark societies - drow, duergar, illithids, aboleths, beholders - are slave-owning societies.

Lolth-sworn drow are typically focused on individual advancement at the expense of others - not only non-drow who they consider to be inferior, but also other drow. The concept of innate freedom and equality is utterly foreign to them. They are taught that the strong are meant to rule the weak, and that the weak exist to be exploited or to die. The presence of slavery in the Underdark drow societies is, in a way, a consequence of this grim worldview.

This worldview, on the other hand, is closely tied to the Way of Lolth - although it may be also connected to the fact that Underdark is an extremely dangerous, often deadly environment where survival of the strongest is usually a thing.

🕷️ Not all Lolth-sworn drow keep slaves, though, even if they do not oppose slavery. Many drow, especially commoners, cannot afford to buy and keep a slave. Groups of drow adventurers, mercenaries or small military squads also generally do not keep slaves or servants.

🕷️ There are also drow societies that do not support slavery and these are mainly Eilistraean. Followers of Eilistraee are forbidden to take slaves and they often actively oppose enslavement in its many forms, fighting the slavers and freeing the slaves.

🕷️ Also, I imagine that in the Underdark, there are drow who do not support slavery by matter of choice or alignment, not necessarily in connection to any particular culture or faith.

Such individuals could be outcasts, mercenaries, adventurers, scholars, artists, merchants - maybe even former slaves (to other denizens of the Underdark, like illithids, for example).

In the Underdark, there are - usually small and secluded - communities where freed slaves seek refuge. Drearing's Deep from Neverwinter Nights: Hordes of the Underdark can be an example of such a community. They are often inhabited by surfacers or deep gnomes, but there can be also some drow among them.

🕷️ Not long ago, Aevendrow and Lorendrow were also introduced to the D&D universe, two factions of "good" drow who rejected Lolth. They do not live in the Underdark, though, but in secretive enclaves: Callidae in the North (Aevendrow) and Saekolath somewhere in the southern jungles (Lorendrow).

🕷️ So, to sum things up, it is totally possible to play drow who does not support slavery, or even a Lolth-sworn drow who simply does not rely on slaves and does not keep them.

There are several established drow-inhabited locations where slavery is not present at all - but if you want to, you can also create such locations and incorporate them into your game without straying too far from the established lore.

You are also free to use the existing lore only as inspiration and, for example, create a setting in which slavery does not exist (anymore). Underdark drow society in such setting could, for example, forbid slavery because in the past, series of slave rebellions nearly destroyed many drow cities - and in result, keeping slaves was deemed too dangerous.

Hope you will find at least some of this information helpful in some way 🙂

[artbymesa]

The Consequence of Sacrifice

Sigh. Here we go again.

Rating: Teen and Up audiences Word Count: 2.5k Warnings: manipulation, mental anguish, mentions of past abuse Summary: You managed to resist the astral touched tadpole when it was given to you, but only just barely. Astarion does not take too kindly to its influence over you. Pairing: Astarion x Urchin/Rogue!Tav [Reading this that I also wrote for my Tav isn't necessary for understanding this one, but it does give greater context to where my head is at for characterization when writing this haha. I am writing these ideas as they manifest while playing the game 🤣] [Takes place immediately after the event at Wyrms Lookout. Big, big spoilers through the end of Act 2 ahead. I had to bend a couple small mechanics as this scenario plays out in the game and how the characters handle this. But I felt this scenario had a ton of potential and wanted to explore it since it would have been difficult for the game to implement, haha.]

With the hardest thrust you could muster, you threw your sword into the ground and it dug itself deep into the dirt. You fell to your knees with a loud yell, screaming out into the sky at the cliff that overlooked Rivington and Baldur's Gate.

It had been a bad idea. Your gut had told you this from the start. You should have seen this coming.

You had barely resisted the astral touched tadpole from the Emperor. Barely. By shear, unadulterated, dumb luck. But these so called illithid instincts had nearly taken you. Changed you. 

You had embraced the potential, early in your travels…

You were not imbued with magic the way sorcerers or wizards or warlocks or druids were. You did not have the strength of a barbarian or a fighter.

You grew up on the dirty streets of Baldur's Gate, surviving on crumbs with little beyond knowing your way around locks and traps, an adeptness for persuasion and, somehow, an uncanny ability to lead. For most of your life, that had been enough.

But this…these battles, this journey you were up against– it terrified you that it wouldn't be enough.

You had grown attached to your companions. Attached enough that you'd die for them if it came to it. Beneath your little rag-tag group’s quirks and beneath your steely exterior– it was the first real family you wish you had long ago. Throughout your life as an orphan, people had come and gone. Some had stayed longer than others, some had a greater impact on your life, but they were kindnesses that existed only in passing. 

These companions had fully trusted you with their lives, their very fates– and you took that seriously. 

They had all suffered such incredible hardship even before this mess– before these tadpoles had bore their way into all of your skulls. Your life surviving on stealing and scraps seemed like a cakewalk in comparison to what some of these people had gone through. Yet here you all stood– persevering despite it all.

Their second chance at a life of peace was in your hands– these people who cared for you and you cared for so deeply. Failing them was not an option.

So when the time came to consume the tadpoles and “embrace your potential,” you and you alone took it. You thought you had done it strategically of course– consuming as few as would keep you all alive. You used your tadpole’s influence where you thought it mattered.

But like all things, it came at a cost.

When the mindflayer….the Emperor had pushed you to use the astral touched tadpole– it had nearly taken over. Hijacked your mind– almost consumed you with the desire to…evolve… When you came back to your senses, it had only just dawned on you how close you had come to losing yourself. 

How long could you hold out like this for them? How much of your mind had the tadpoles destroyed that you’d never get back…How many of your thoughts and decisions were even your own anymore? And would they continue to align with keeping your companions safe? 

What would happen if there came a time it didn't?

Tears leaked around your balled up fists that pressed against your eyes and your tadpole squirmed at the pressure.

“....Darling, are you alright?” The voice startled you from behind and you lurched around, your reflexes expecting another fight. But your mind finally caught up and your body relaxed– squeezing your eyes shut as you wiped at your face.

“I heard yelling. Given what we just faced… I wanted to be sure we didn’t have any more unwelcome visitors.”

Your throat wanted to close.

“I'll be fine, Astarion. I…I just needed a moment…”

“‘Fine’ does not look or sound like this, dear.” He gestured at you with a quick once over. You watched as he studied your face with rapid eye movements.

This had been the first time he had seen you break. And you could tell it was startling him.

You had survived the crash. Quietly killed the goblin leaders. Leveraged Wyll's contract for him. Convinced the Orthon to kill himself and all of his followers. The tollkeeper. Ketheric Thorm’s followers. Faced and defied Vlaakith with Lae’zel, helped Shadowheart defy Shar and free Dame Aylin. And to top it all off--killed Ketheric Thorm as the avatar of Myrkul. The God of Bones himself. 

To him thus far, you had seemed unshakable. An unyielding force as sure as gravity. To him, thus far– your protection and the safety you provided was unwavering.

Dealing with Cazador was still on the horizon. 

“Please, Astarion. It doesn't do you or anyone any good to see me like this. I just need to get my bearings…it was... It was just overwhelming.”

He watched you again. With a depth behind his eyes you had a hard time placing. But then his expression fell and his shoulders dropped with a slow sigh. And after a moment's thought, he closed the distance between the two of you.

“I'm not here for my sake.” He said as he sat next to you, allowing silence to settle between the two of you. 

The both of you stared forward, watching the faint glow of the city below. The people that had no clue what was headed their way. How many of them might die in the coming days? 

It was interrupted only when his eyes caught sight of your hands as they wrung together in your lap.

“It's about the astral touched tadpole isn't it?”

You bristled, and your hands suddenly tensed together in a tightly knit lock. So he had picked up on it…of course he did. Much of your conversations together had been unspoken. Reading body language was an art form you both spoke.

“I saw the look in your eyes. When the Emperor gave it to you. It almost happened…Didn't it?”

Without turning your head to him, your eyes darted in his direction at your side then away. You could feel his gaze on you. In a small way, you were relieved that there was a mutual understanding here. The less energy you had to devote to making sense of the topic, to conveying it to him– the less risk there was for the tadpole to warp your words and betray you. But on the flip side of the coin– you weren't sure if it was safe speaking about this to him at all.

“I have to be careful with my words about it.” You mustered carefully, tactfully– and you could swear you could feel a frown form at your side.

What came next however you did not anticipate.

Hearing him shift closer next to you, you felt his cool hand slide against your face– urging you to make direct eye contact with him in an uncharacteristically intense focus.

You blinked a couple times, taken off guard by how close he was now. 

“It's trying to control you. Manipulate how you feel about it. Even now…isn't it?”

An answer came to you immediately, but the words struggled to leave your mouth. Something was pulling them back.

“...--Yes.” You winced, managing to grab back the reins momentarily. “I'm scared of what I might say about it. To you. I’m not sure how much I can even acknowledge it, let alone…” Another wince.

He studied your face even longer this time, as if he might find something hidden somewhere in the most subtle aspects of your expression.

Apparently it worked. And he found his answer.

“Give me your pack for a moment.” 

“What?” You asked, but before you could protest, he was already on his feet and rummaging through it before he found the astral touched tadpole. 

With very little hesitation, he dropped it to the ground. Without having embraced his illithid instincts like you had or needed to use his tadpole’s influence almost at all prior to this because you had taken on that mantle– its grip on him seemed almost nonexistent in comparison to yours.

Wait! Stop him from– The emperor’s voice gripped at the edge of your mind, demanding alarm and attention.

“Astarion–!” Your illithid instincts lashed out, unsure if the words were even your own and lunged at him with anger. But Astarion was quicker than you, and he squashed it deep into the dirt beneath his heel.

The crack in the veil formed by the time you made it to him, and he caught you in a firm restraint of an embrace. He knelt back down to you.

You felt a tug at your mind again.

Disappointing. Our chances of success have been lowered by your companions' actions. You would do well to work on your leadership.

“We…we could have needed that…” you gasped, but your words were hollow and lacked conviction. There was objective truth to the words you spoke, but you couldn't tell if you said them because you believed them or if you were still being influenced by your tadpole.

Your weight sank in his arms as your vision was clearing, though the echoes of the influence remained with the tadpoles you had already consumed. “What if…what if it was the only way I could–”

“I remember when I turned into a vampire.” He started, loosening his grip on you to something gentler. “I was helpless when it happened. My body warped against my will and I was just there along for the ride. My body and mind were no longer my own. I refuse to do that again. And I certainly will not let that be forced on you if I have any say in the matter.”

You were frozen there, knelt over awkwardly in his lap and unable to think clearly. You weakly gripped at the fabric of his shirt and buried your face in his chest. It seemed to compel him to speak again.

“Look, you've–... you’ve given a lot of yourself to everyone here. In fact, you’ve helped everyone in this camp. Myself included. Here I was thinking I had nothing to give back.”

“It wasn't transactional.”

“Please. I’ve spent too many years feeling pathetic. As miserable as it is to say– the highlight of my life has been this little adventure of ours and most of what I've gotten here has been pity. The bar isn’t very high.”

“Astarion–...” but he raised a hand to stop you.

“So believe me when I say that if you needed but couldn't squash the little monster on your own, I am delighted to. We've made it this far without the astral touched tadpole, we'll make it out of this without it too. With your mind and body still intact. Even if you managed to resist it now there's no telling if you could later. I'm simply removing the temptation when it clearly does not seem like you or, quite frankly, anyone here wants this.”

It took you a moment to form the words. 

“I felt this…strong wave of disappointment when I denied the astral touched tadpole. When the Emperor gave it to me. A stronger emotion than I think I’ve felt for anything. Ever. The abilities I gained by using these illithid powers and the influence I had on others, it turned itself on me twofold. I almost lost myself to it. I was afraid to talk about it to anyone here. Touch it, look at it– anything. I was afraid I'd lose the battle the second time around or even worse…might try to convince someone here to evolve.”

“Perhaps your tadpole would not have let you do what I did. All the more reason some intervention was in order. Take this from me. It is not worth the cost.”

“The Emperor will be…is…upset with us.”

“Let him be. Eugh. That way he looked at you, that whole ‘devastating beauty’ shtick–” he said with his signature mocking tone, a sweeping hand gesture and an annoyed flick of his wrist, “not that I disagree of course,” he added with a sour chuckle, “but it made my skin crawl. I know that tone better than anyone. Seems even a mindflayer can be capable of floundering with subtlety.”

“Am I detecting a hint of jealousy?” you tried to tease lightheartedly, but it just came out exhausted. “Almost everyone in this camp has already come onto me or tried and you made no mention of it before.”

“It's a different discussion entirely if you were entertaining the advances of our travel companions. But the Emperor trying to influence your free will on the matter is frankly something I won't stand for. At least when I tried to...to manipulate you into– well… you still had the free will to say no.”

You could feel him bristle at some kind of internal struggle at his own words. But it seemed before he could put any more thought to the matter, he spoke again.

“We’ll be better for this, I assure you. Like I said– we've gotten along fine without it so far.”

“Let's just hope it's a decision we won't come to regret. If it was the only way I could save some of you, I–”

“I think I should stop you right there. I believe you had a line for this, my dear. Refresh my memory on your wording, would you? I think it went something like– repeat after me– thank you for helping me, it was very kind?”

You sighed, wishing you could muster a measure of your usual returned banter. Some kind of feigned annoyance at the fact your teasing was being turned against you. But in honest to goodness truth– you were relieved. Relieved that this decision was taken out of your hands. Relieved that you didn't have to worry about convincing your companions to evolve or doing so against your will. Relieved that you weren't battling this alone.

And incredibly grateful that he had stepped in and sensed this about you. That you needed help with this– and that he helped.

“Thank you, Astarion…Thank you for helping me…it was very kind.” you said, pulling yourself further into his embrace. “More than you realize.”

 There was a momentary hesitation from him, but with a slow drop of his shoulders, he returned the gesture– pulling you up into a proper hug as you both still sat there on the cliff that overlooked Rivington. His words were softer when he spoke again.

“Any time, love.”

[yellowstonewolves]

Liar for Liar

Pairing: Wyll/Astarion

Chapter: 1/?

Ratings: Explicit in later chapters ;), mature for now

Summary: So there's this guy. "The Blade of Frontiers". Wyll Ravenguard. Can Astarion make use of the cocky righteous son of a bitch or not? Can he keep all his secrets hidden from the vaunted monster hunter? Might Wyll have some secrets of his own? (Slow burn that vaugely follows along with a Wyll Origin run. Smut in later chapters)

Ao3 link:

Astarion came to in the wreckage of the mindflayer ship, a telltale shade of green blazing against his closed eyelids He turned towards the dirt, braced every muscle.

Moments ticked by, and he was still alive.

He cracked open an eye, hissing at the sting of the sudden flood of light, and raised his arm. His skin was soaked in sunlight, glowing pearlescent with it. His head swam at the thought. The sun was warming him now, he could feel it, laying on him friendly, as if he had never been away.

He cupped his hand as if it would slip through his fingers, pressed a kiss to his palms as if daylight was something he could kiss.

Every inch of the world glowed with gifts for him, the muddy hues he had known transfigured into resplendent shades he only now realized he had forgotten. He stared at the gently waving prairie grasses and the little round stones and the dirt, even the dirt. His eyes ached but he wouldn’t let them close, not yet.

Gods help him, he was halfway to crying,at the simple beauty of a sun-soaked day, like some sort of fucking druid. 

Voices cut through the pastoral babble of nature then, and Astarion came crashing down to reality, hands whipping back to his daggers. He craned his neck in the direction of the sound.

“This tadpole’s not the worst thing I’ve ever had stuck in my head,” said a deep, pleasant  voice

Tadpole. Astarion’s ears would have twitched at that, had he not learned to suppress that reaction.  Was that what the thing in his head was called? He crouched behind a boulder, and  peeked out at them, a well built, one eyed, noble looking human and a scrawny half elf girl.

 “There was that ballad that was popular several years ago, the Snake and the Siren,” continued the man. He was handsome, the way the sun shone on his chiseled cheekbones, the spray of stubble along his jaw. But he was also familiar. He had been on that ship, “It echoed through every tavern, at all hours of the day and night. It was so annoying!”

“I don’t know it.” his companion responded

“Really? You’re lucky. It was everywhere.”

 She shrugged, “I don’t listen to music.”

“ You don’t… what, any music?”

She shrugged again.

Were they mindflayer thralls? It didn’t sound like it. But they could very well have retained all their human memories, even some semblance of a human personality, although their wills were no longer their own. He was pretty sure that was how illithids worked, although he hadn’t exactly brushed up on the lore about them recently. How negligent of him.

  They were not taking him back to the ship, not now that he’d felt the sunlight on his skin for the first time in 200 years, could  see it even now, everywhere he looked.

Would they fall for an ambush? Could he pull one off? It had been so long since he’d needed to think so hard. Usually he could just  whip out the routine, as habitual as getting himself dressed in the evening. Sometimes he wound his arm around some tipsy stranger in a tavern and found himself already in that lavish bedroom, head between their legs, with no memory of how he’d gotten there. 

It was a welcome departure to be in a situation that called for some finesse.  

The one eyed man came upon him first. He sprang into action at Astarion’s calls for help, but he did not look entirely surprised to find himself on the ground, Astarion’s knife pressed to his neck.

“Now,” Astarion purred, “I saw you on the ship, didn’t I?”

“Oh? Good for you”The man grinned, as if he were not aware how dire a position he was in“Did you watch me slay the ship’s captain?”

“No. And I didn’t--

“That’s too bad. I was in rare form. It was a sight to behold. Wasn’t it Shadowheart?”

“Let him go” the half elf said “Wyll is foolhardy but I need him alive”

“Certainly. Once he’s answered all of my questions. Now—

The man took advantage of the moment of distraction, rocked him to the side with a quick tilt of his hips, and slipped out from under him with some fancy rolling maneuver. 

Astarion swore, and crouched, ready to tackle him again. His eyes met Astarion’s red ones. 

Astarion felt a pressure in his head, something writhing, rooting through his thoughts. Astarion’s hand flew to his temple. It was Cazador he thought, heart pounding. Except it wasn’t. 

It was this man. His memories, bleeding into Astarion’s own. Astarion watched him chase some burly devil across the plains of Avernus, felt the familiar thrill of the hunt, and something else, under it. The righteous, furious indignation of an honest to gods hero, confronted with something he had judged to be evil.

The hero introduced himself as Wyll Ravenguard! The Blade of Frontiers! 

 He took the ambush in stride, “Some people lose all good sense in these kinds of situations” he said ,brushing the dust from his armor “Were I not a seasoned adventurer, perhaps I too would have succumbed to panic.”

He didn’t look like a seasoned anything. His scars aged him, but once they were accounted for, he couldn’t be older than thirty. But then, humans had funny ideas about aging.

Astarion took Wyll’s pardon magnanimously, for all he longed to call out for the insult hiding in those genteel words of his.

He took Wyll’s outstretched hand, shook it. The man looked him up and down, intensely scrutinizing. Astarion fought the impulse to cower under his steely gaze. He had more experience in keeping secrets than this whelp had in wiping his own ass. This Blade would glean nothing from him.

Hours later, Astarion stood by, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Wyll free a gith from a cage, seemingly unbothered by her hostile demeanor or the notoriety of her violent race. Astarion gleaned from their conversation that she had tried to kill Wyll on their first meeting as well. Goody. At least he wasn’t the only one.

At the first opportunity, Astarion pulled Wyll into a sidebar. As glad as he was to have someone of her stature along to protect him, he thought he’d better establish to the man who had fallen into the role of their leader that he was a far more useful companion, the last one who should be sacrificed to some rampaging monster or capricious god, should the need arise.

Astarion asked “When she breaks all your bones for failing to live up to her standards of brutality, can I have that fancy rapier of yours?”

Wyll raised an eyebrow“Many have tried to break me. None have succeeded.”

“Are you sure that’s not just up to luck?”

“A little luck”Wyll responded, “and a lot of skill. But if you’re afraid of her, I know a spell that could lend you some temporary courage.”

Astarion withdrew, trying to look as if he wasn’t pouting.

Their little group chanced upon a gently pulsing portal and when Wyll crept closer to it Astarion leaned forward, eager to see whether it would destroy him or not. 

When it turned out to contain an incredibly milquetoast wizard, Astarion was less enthused 

“How good can he be if he got himself stuck in there?” Astarion said. “He’ll probably blow us all up trying to light a campfire.”

“He was falling to his death at the time. Besides, these tadpoles are very complex, magically. We’ll probably need help of someone with a wealth of arcane knowledge” said Wyll, “if not him, then who? You? You don’t seem to be the intellectual type”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You seem to prefer to let your knives do the thinking for you. If indeed, you are thinking at all.”

“I am thinking.” Astarion huffed “I am thinking of all the dreadful things I could do to you in the dead of night tonight, if I got sufficiently fed up with your disrespect”

“See?” Wyll chuckled, “threatening me. That’s a poor plan if I ever heard one.”

 It’s a shame, really, Astarion thought. They were bedded down for the night, and he was filling his canteen from a stream, letting the water flow over his wrists with not so much as a twinge of pain.

Such a sharp tongue is wasted on a bleeding heart. It will fall silent, when Wyll’s blinkered valor gets him killed.

 Some memory wanted to stir within Astarion as he thought this, of another man, another time. He wrestled it down. 

He worried it was showing on his face, because when he looked up, he noticed Wyll was staring at him, from his place by the flickering campfire. He was holding a little black notebook, a quill poised over it, dripping ink as Wyll held it in place.

Astarion sauntered over, to stand by the fire’s gentle glow. He let his eyes linger on the hint of chest exposed by Wyll’s tight leather nightclothes “See something you like?” Astarion asked, infusing each word with sumptuous flavor .

Wyll’s gaze was suspicious, lingering on Astarion’s face, “Pardon me for asking, but do red eyes run in your family? Rare color, for an elf.”

Astarion snorted, relieved that he had not been caught in a moment of weakness, “Indeed they do.” he said, “Do stone eyes run in yours?”

 Wyll just chuckled, “An elemental somewhere, perhaps, in the Ravenguard family tree”

Astarion leaned just a bit closer, trying to catch a glimpse inside the notebook he was holding, but Wyll snapped it shut. 

Part of Astarion wanted to press, but his position among these odd people was still tenuous. There was no use in alienating their esteemed leader.

Besides needed to rest soon, if he hoped to have time to hunt before morning light. Should probably hunt first, sleep later but he was bone deep exhausted. He changed out of his doublet, finally, into more comfortable clothing. He’d need to pick up something with a higher neck once they reached civilization. If he was still free by then. 

His trance was predictably miserable. He woke up panting and sweating, head pounding . It took a few minutes to remember that he was free but when he did, his mood took a dramatic swing for the better.

He stalked the woods for the better part of an hour, looking for deer. By the end of it his good humor had dissipated entirely.Their party’s racket seemed to have scared all the big game away. He was just about to give up and go back to his tent hungry when the bushes behind him shook.

He whirled around just in time to see a rabbit hop from it, and pause, sniffing the air.

He took a step towards it and the creature looked up, met his eyes with its big brown ones. He could smell that its blood was pumping too fast, heart about to explode.

“There there” he whispered, keeping himself very still. 

The rabbit stared for a second, blinked. Then ,seeming to consider that he might not be an imminent threat, the rabbit’s eyes darted to a hole in the ground, about a foot to the left of it.

In that moment, Astarion pounced, teeth landing on its neck, arms and legs crashing into the ground painfully.  His fangs sunk beneath the rabbit’s  fur as its hind legs buffeted his chest. Its blood was like lukewarm water, tediously dull for all it took the edge off his thirst, albeit with none of the rotten aftertaste of plague. 

He caught a glimpse of the hole it had been looking towards, and he knelt over it, listening. There were more rabbits inside, smaller ones. He lashed out with his claws and came up with a fistful of bunny. It was only a kit,  couldn’t have been more than a week old, head the size of a peach pit. Barely a mouthful of blood in that tiny body.

  There would have been no harm in releasing it really, except that now it had made him contemplate releasing it. To inspire such thoughts was a crime that must be punished with extreme prejudice. 

He held the kit in his hand like a teacup, extended his pinky as he did so, on a whim. He pretended for a moment he was out on a veranda somewhere, finely dressed and entertaining the most refined company he could imagine—himself.

“And how are you finding your beverage, Lord Ancunín?”

“It is bland, Lord Ancunín, but there are worse tastes.”

“Too true.And how are you finding freedom, Lord Ancunín?”

“It is not bland enough. All this dreadful running about. But there are worse tastes.”

When he had finished he tossed aside the ball of fur that had been the kit, rubbed his face against the pelt of the mother, hoping to remove all traces of blood.

Just as he was leaving he saw Wyll, although the human did not see him. The man crept from the mouth of his tent, surveyed the camp, and stalked off towards the forest. He darted a look directly in Astarion’s direction, and secure in the knowledge that he was well hidden, Astarion took in his expression. The man looked haunted.

Wyll sat under the trees, chest heaving. He pressed a finger to his stone eye, withdrew it. He shook his head “Gods damn it. Why can’t I just…” He let out a groan.

 Wyll looked up, scanning the trees, as if his pitiful human eye was capable of discerning threats in the darkness. He seemed to conclude he was alone, and took out a handsome mahogany pipe from a leather pouch over his hip, stuck the end between his teeth. He drew out a smaller pouch of tobacco, crumbled the dried leaves between his long, thin fingers. He filled the bowl, pressed a thumb to pack, filled it to the top again. He pursed his pretty lips and blew, priming the pipe.

So he had a smoking habit. Astarion would not have expected it of him-a bad example to his leagues of adoring fans, surely? 

Wyll took out an arcane igniter,flipped it open and tapped the rune inside. A mote of fire flared up in the wake of his finger. Its reflection danced over his cheekbone, an orange ball wavering on his skin like the moon on the surface of a lake.

 Wyll lit up with the same hand that was holding the pipe, letting the tip of the flame brush the surface of the tobacco just for a second, without scorching the rim of the bowl. It was a neat party trick, one that Astarion had seen performed many times, in many bars, though not often with such practiced nonchalance. 

White vapor rolled out over the burning leaves. Astarion could almost smell it, bittersweet, acrid. The scent of gin-soaked hunting grounds and doomed afterglows.

 Wyll closed his eyes tight, cheeks hollowing as he inhaled. 

Wyll blew a cloud of smoke into the night air, watched it wind in tendrils towards the heavens. Some of the tension had melted from his shoulders, though not all of it.

  Astarion toyed with the idea of strolling over, asking for a pull, and then another, brushing his lips against Wyll’s inviting ones, feeling the points of his stubble clustered like stars on his skin. He imagined sucking the smoke from his mouth, pulling back, letting it leak from his parted lips like a poisoned promise as his palm cupped the hero’s jaw, thumb stroking the warm skin of his face.

Too bold, he decided, but he found himself taking a step forward regardless. A branch snapped under his foot. He winced. Shit. 

Wyll jumped like a kid whose parent had just rattled his bedroom doorknob at the worst possible moment, yanking the pipe from his lips as he squeaked “who’s there?” 

Astarion stilled himself, refrained from blinking or breathing and Wyll cleared his throat, said in a deeper, more classically heroic voice “Who’s there?”

Astarion didn’t move a muscle. 

In a much louder voice, one that echoed like a chorus of monsters from the very depths of the hells, he bellowed “Answer me!”

Astarion fought the urge to bolt.

When that produced no response Wyll shrugged, slumped back against the tree. He held a finger to his eye, lowered it just as quickly, sighed. 

Astarion recognized despair when he saw it, the stale kind, where the wounds were scabbed over with layer after layer of resignation. There was nothing to gain, he saw, in trying to muscle in on this moment, so he would take his leave.

It had nothing at all to do with that voice Wyll had shouted in. Astarion had not been pants-shittingly terrified, hearing it. 

He hadn’t.

[trickstercaptain]

        He'd avoided the elephant in the room — no, elephant in the camp — for long enough. Sometimes, over the past few days, their paths had fleetingly crossed, and Jack had found himself staring across at Billy's familiar blue eyes, sinking however briefly into memories dead and buried nearly fifteen years ago. It had been long enough now to know that there was no punchline coming. He wasn't about to wake up any moment now, relieved to find that this entire ordeal — illithid tadpole, cursed Shadowlands, inexplicable tomb containing his long lost boyfriend all included — was just an unpleasant dream that he could move on from. Billy was alive, untouched from the day that he'd left, stood, sitting, sleeping on the other side of their quaint little camp, and it was about time that Jack talked to him.

        But what could he say? What should he say? What even was there to say? All things that Jack had been grappling with from the moment he'd stumbled back from the tomb that Billy had awoken from. All things that he was no closer to answering even now, having found the courage from somewhere to approach Billy's tent and catch his eye. There was no hiding how lost and uncertain and confused he felt, and he hated it.

        After a lengthy moment of silence, Jack braced himself. Shook his head. “ This is all too strange, even for me. ” He didn't think he could do this. Then you're a coward, Jackie. No, no, he had to. “ I thought you were dead. ” He had to force the words out, and even then they only came out as a pained whisper. Nor could he hold Billy's gaze, his eyes flitting around their surroundings, his hands, his clothes, his feet. “ Or you just... didn't want to come back. I looked for you for weeks. Followed every fucking lead no matter how ridiculous it was, and... ” He stopped. Closed his eyes. Drew a long breath. “ I had to get on with my life. I had to. ” And yet, why did he feel so guilty about it?

@hargrovetm

[brooklynislandgirl]

51. How do you think the RP/Fandom community has grown or changed since you started?

53. How would you respond if someone is rude to you or has done you wrong?

Memes from Another Mun || -

51: How do you think the RP/Fandom community has grown or changed since you started? Picture it... The Internets...20...a long time ago. When the web was wide and new and we'd just eked our way out of AOL and dial-up hell. Okay maybe a little later than that. We RP ancestors huddled around the virtual fires of our little cliques, telling our stories and painting our digital cave paintings in fandoms that spanned as far as the eye could see. It was a wild time born of primordial chaos. You had ninjas and neko-dhamphire-dragon assassins hanging out in the "rafters", vampires drinking bloodwyne while their translucent orbs took in the stunning visages of elves and Illithids and...and it was some crazy shit. I could put up a 500 page doctoral thesis about the way rp communities used to be, where everything was a cross-over, and canons almost literally did not exist, and if they did...they were the VERY odd duck out, most folks shying away from them. Every single person had their 'home' and then sometimes someone would be slighted and groups would go to "war", elaborate flaming/call outs/actual written storylines and so on. But there were rules, and there was a certain...decorum. And everyone seemed to understand it was a collaborate effort. Some of the prose might have been blindingly purple, and others might have been one liners, and sometimes just numbers.... It was quite creative and I look on those days, clearly, with fond memories. Nowadays, I think the writing has gotten...if not better, then certainly more focused. Like Pangaea splitting apart and forming the continents we know today, you can find a fandom for just about everything, and it's all a little weirder than it was before. I do feel a pain in my heart that a lot of people can't put their differences aside to have fun, we aren't as supportive of new people as we could be. We treat OCs like a disease but I kind of laugh at that because EVERYONE's CANON is literally someone's OC. A part of me misses the old days. And a part of me is glad that the hobby is still flourishing, and people are still being creative, because at the end of the day, we're all just trying to live our best fictional lives out here. <inserts the Judds Song, "Grandpa, Tell Me About The Good Old Days"> ~*~

53: How would you respond if someone is rude to you or has done you wrong? I mean, it depends on the act of rudeness. If people wanna talk smack behind my back, that's fine. I can't stop anyone. And I don't care to police things beyond my control. If it's put in an anonymous ask? Oh my sour summer child, I will peel paint with the strength of my vitriol as I tear that down as soon as I come back from grabbing some coffee. I will have citations, indexes, Venn diagrams of exactly where you fucked up and how, and a whole-ass TEDtalk about why this is neither friendly or correct. I am an adult, I do not enjoy talking out both sides of my mouth, and I expect people who have a problem with me to be the same way, and straight up just tell me. Not everything has to be on a public forum, sometimes discretion is still a virtue. If someone at least tries to be a reasonable human being and addresses a concern, a mistake, etc. and comes to me and says hey, I got this problem...the I will do my best to listen, and if I've done any harm {real or imagined} or overstepped a boundary, I will apologise. Most of the time though, I will respond to another person in the same manner with which I am treated.