#Tailor!reader

[i-am-a-night-crow]

could you do a slico X male reader where reader is a tailor originally from noxus but now loyal to him? (Yes I know that’s out there, vague and kinda random, sorry lol)

Sweet tailor (part 1)

Silco (Arcane) x male!reader (reader is a tailor)

-> fluff

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Noxus, a rich and powerful country, where money and your place in the society is more important than anything else.

You, a simple tailor, quickly became one of the most famous tailor of the whole country. Everyone was trying to get a piece of work of yours. Even the richest ones tried to get one.

Everything was perfect for you. You were having plenty of money, you were popular. But your life was boring. Every day, you were doing the same. Making clothes for the richest people when the poor was freezing outside. Quickly, you started working for other countries and cities as well.

And the city with the most request was Piltover.

So here you are today, walking through Piltover since it's your day off.

But one thing no one warned you about, was Zaun. Crossing that bridge could be dangerous for someone like you. It could mean so much, for someone who didn't even know about this place.

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You are walking through the streets of Zaun, unaware of the place you are in.

Everyone is looking at you weirdly. With your beautiful and rich clothes, no wonder you're an attraction for everyone.

After an hour of wandering in the city, people started showing interest in you. Or I should say, in your money.

A well dressed man walking in the disgusting streets of Zaun is never common.

So here you are, getting cornered by a group of men.

-"You look like a Piltie.. Aren't ya ?"

-"I'm sure he have plenty of money on him! Imagine what we could get with that"

-"Give us everything you have"

You look at them unsure of what to do. You are all alone, in a city you obviously don't know about. Nothing could save you.

That's what you thought until you heard someone walking in your direction.

You don't know who is the person, but he's obviously important here. Since the men who cornered you quickly left after they saw him.

-"Well.. What a man like you are doing here?"

You hesitate to answer. What I should say? What will happen for me?

-"not talkative huh? You know.. It's dangerous for you out there"

No way.

-"I'm.. Not sure. Where I am exactly?" you finally ask after a long silence between you two.

-"You are in the Nation of Zaun"

-"Oh... And who are you? They immediately left when they saw you.. I'm not in danger, right?"

He looks at you before smirking.

-"No you are not. My name is Silco. And you will quickly understand why people fear me"

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It's been years since that day happened.

After Silco explained to you what was Zaun. And who he was in this city. You decided to stay a few days to see by yourself.

Everything was so poor, and what he told you about Piltover made you stay even longer.

You quickly started working for him after you decided to stay a few more weeks.

What you didn't know was that those weeks became years.

So here you are today, working again as you simply listen to him talking about his last meeting with the Chem-barons.

-"Why am I stuck with idiots?"

-"I don't know Silco" You hum while working. "Stop moving for a second" you gently scold him since he doesn't stop moving. You put your hand on his arm to make him stop moving it.

It's something you managed to do through the years you spent with him. At first, he hated when you touched him, even for your work. But now, he doesn't back up. He even search for your contact sometimes.

-"I can't believe they are still alive. Ugh.. If only they could be really useful"

He mumble under his breath as you take some measurements. You write on your paper as you adjust his sleeve.

-"You can't take someone else to work for?" you ask while working.

-"If only it was this easy.." he sighs loudly again as you grimace in dissatisfaction as he moves again.

-"Stop moving!"

He rolls his eyes before staying still for a while. Which allow you to continue your work.

-"I'm sure you will find a way to deal with them, like you always did before. It's not some losers who will scare you, isn't it?" you ask before looking at him.

-"clearly not, that's true"

-"See! All problems have a solution"

As you say that, you finish to adjust his sleeve before looking at it.

-"Okay, done with this one"

-"Thank you" he nods his head.

You continue working on his other sleeve for a moment before he talks again.

-"Did you know some guards from Noxus came again this morning?"

-"They did?"

-"They're still searching for you. They are a little late now, don't you think?"

It makes you huff of amusement.

-"Whatever they will say or do, I'm staying here, with you"

You look over at him before smiling. He looks back at you before smiling a little. How you love his smile. It's so rare to see it, but when it happens, you always feel some butterflies in your chest. And you know you're the only one who can make him smile like that, so you always feel special.

-"How kind of you"

You both stay silent for a few minutes before you look at the time.

-"It's already late"

-"Indeed"

-"I think we should stop for today. Your suit is almost finished. You will be able to slay next week" you smile widely. "anyway, I see you tomorrow at the same time as today, alright?"

-"Yes"

You pack your things before waving at him.

-"Have a good evening Silco"

-"You too"

As you leave, you can hear him talking to himself. What you hear make you smile of amusement and fondness.

-"What is 'slay'?"

_________________________________________

Hello!

Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it.

I hope I managed to do something you wanted.

I know it's not really a relationship fiction, but I didn't figured how to make it in that context. But if someone wants, I could write a second part where it's based on the relationship part, and not the context of how they met.

I'm sorry for the wait for this request, and for the other ones as well, I was in the hospital so I couldn't write for a few days.. But don't worry, I'm now working on the other requests I got. And don't hesitate to continue to give me requests you would like to ask!

English is not my first language so I'm sorry for the potential mistakes.

[thedarkcircuswritings]

Howdy, I'm Anon, Hollow Anon

Hope im not too late, may i request some Caramel Arrow x Fem!Tailor!Reader (the one of the 4th patreon request)

"I was simply wondering... what kind of winter clothing you had." It had been a week or so after the strange incident involving Caramel Arrow and the other Cookies, and just as the archer promised, she had returned on her own to get a better view of your large collection of hand-tailored outfits! As she looked into different robes and fur-adorned cottons, you helped reconfirm her measurements and suggest this and that for her to try on. You were so attentive and close, it made her heart pound loudly in her chest. It was even difficult to speak, even from something as simple as you lifting her arm by her hand to make sure the sleeves were on right. "T-Take this as my sincere apology for what happened... I couldn't stop thinking about how it all transpired, s-so would you mind if I come again?"

[deadly-diminuendo]

A Fitting Reunion

a tailor (spawn) astarion x fem!tav reader fic | nsfw | ~13.7k words

(dividers by @saradika-graphics)

Summary: After a rather embarrassing experience at the reunion party, you have been nervous to see Astarion again. You manage to gather the courage to visit his tailoring shop for dress alterations—and to be a better friend to him. And maybe there is just a little part of you that still hopes for something more. But he couldn’t possibly want that—or could he?

Tags/CW: anxiety, piv sex, oral sex (both ways), post-game, fluff/smut/mutual pining

Read On AO3

Or read below...

Breathe. 

Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Again. Then again. And again.

You can do this.

He is your friend.

A friend you used to sleep with.

A friend you never stop thinking about.

Ever.

Hells.

You have not seen Astarion since Withers’ party. The one where you drunkenly suggested you would not mind taking a stroll together back into the woods where the two of you once used to go. You could still remember the way.

You might have phrased things a little less delicately at the time.

And of course he said no.

“Darling, flattered as I am, I think it’s best we get you to bed. Your own bed, to be clear.”

A more gentle rejection from him than you perhaps deserved. What must he have thought of you? Coming on to him like that when you knew a night of passion was probably the last thing on his mind? You are supposed to care about him, not treat him like a piece of meat.

Not that you ever thought of him that way—but still you worry how it seems.

Fuzzy though the details are, you remember enough to know Astarion was the one to ensure your safe journey home that night. The one to step through the portal with you, to help you up the stairs, to tuck you under the covers. And how did you repay him?

You made yourself a stranger.

You should have gone to see him sooner. Apologized. Been a real friend.

Granted the party happened only a month ago. A month is not too long a wait, is it? People live busy lives. Some of your friends you only see a few times a year.

Or maybe it has not been long enough. Maybe you are making too big a deal of this, and you will only be making an even greater fool of yourself by doing this now.

The garment bag draped over your arms feels heavier and heavier. Maybe a purely social call would have been a wiser choice than this transactional one. On the other hand, you do want to show your support for his new business venture. Any friend would do that, right?

Breathe, you remind yourself. Just breathe.

You repeat your exercises as you try to calm your rapid heartrate. A near impossible task knowing he will be able to hear it the second you walk through that door. Gods, your heart is hammering so hard that you worry he might already hear it through the walls. Curse his vampiric senses.

You can still turn back around. Come back another time. When you are ready.

Who are you kidding?

You will never be ready.

But, if the choice is between now or never—between the shame of showing your face or the pain of never seeing his again—you know what you have to do.

Swallowing your pride, you manage to free a hand enough to turn the handle, lean against the door, and push.

The bell rings.

Its shrill announcement of your arrival sends you spiralling. You think of running. Hiding. Just dropping to the ground and crying.

But there will be no escape because the second you hear that achingly familiar voice sing out the word, “Coming,” your feet are frozen to the floor.

Then comes the inevitable moment, when you see him and he sees you, and you look away, and you look back, and you try not to avert your gaze, and you try not to stare, and gods help you through this for his beauty stuns you still.

He briefly mirrors your silent stupor before you see the crinkle of his eyes and the crook of his charming smile. “Hello, darling.”

Frantically you ask yourself what this means. You sift through every detail you know about the man before you as you try to deduce the thoughts running through his mind. Whether he is truly happy to see you or if he only pretends to be. Whether this is his real face or once more the mask.

You have imagined this scene a million times, practiced every possible variation of it in your head, but when you try to think what to say your mind runs blank. You settle for a few words that are simple and true. “It is good to see you, Astarion.”

“And same to you, my friend,” he says, and you manage a small smile. Are you really worthy of being called his friend after all this time apart? Is an honest-to-goodness friendship even possible between the two of you?

You do not speak so he continues. “And might I add that you are looking more delicious than ever.”

Oh. He is flirting with you. Falling back on old habits, perhaps. Or maybe he seeks to lighten the mood, to ease you into a conversation that clearly makes you feel awkward. Nothing more. Still your heart flutters as it always used to back in those early days. 

Back when you were foolish enough to believe he might be your forever.

“I was hoping you could help me,” you tell him, trying to get yourself back on track. “I have a gown that needs alterations. I take it you have heard about the upcoming Ravengard ball?”

“Oh, yes,” he says, reaching out to take the garment bag from you, and though you are glad to be free of its weight, you are not quite sure what to do with your hands. “I have been invited myself, but honestly, I expect the whole affair to be dreadfully boring. I suppose I could always introduce a little chaos into the mix myself, but…” He shrugs. “I’ll likely just skip it.”

“You’re not going? Not even for Wyll?”

Not even for me? That third question burns in your mind but you dare not ask it.

“We were not exactly the best of friends if you’ll recall.”

That is true. You remember many a tense exchange between them—Wyll needlessly cruel at times, Astarion spitting back with an understandable but equally vicious venom—no real surprise that the unlikely alliance between a monster hunter and a vampire spawn would also be an uneasy one.

The fact that you once shared a dance with the Blade did nothing to help matters. The tenderness in his touch and the awe in his eyes told you he wanted something beyond friendship. A true love, a happily ever after, a tale straight out of the pages of a storybook—tempted though you were, you could not envision that future with Wyll. Not while you were still spending your nights tangled up with Astarion.

Even knowing now how it all turned out you would not have chosen differently.

You consider encouraging him to attend, expressing how much you would appreciate having his company there, but you let the moment pass as you follow him deeper into the shop. “It seems you have done quite well for yourself,” you comment—your words still feel more stilted than you would like, and your gaze meanders about the shop rather than meeting his—but at least you are here.

And he really has done well for himself, you think. The front of house proudly displays a tasteful array of apparel—a combination of carefully curated selections from local clothesmakers and his own elegant and inventive fashions. Perhaps you should have commissioned him to design your dress in the first place.

“I have, haven’t I?” He lets out a little hmph as he considers it. “I thought this life might be a little, uh… pedestrian, for my tastes, but… to my surprise, I like it. It suits me rather well.”

“I agree,” you say with a genuine smile as he stops you in front of a series of curtains—the dressing rooms, you assume. Sure enough he pushes one open and gestures you inside, hanging the garment bag on a hook.

“Well, darling, let’s get you out of those clothes and into that dress, hm?” Your breath hitches. You almost let your imagination run away with you, but of course he gives you your privacy. “I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.”

You peel off each layer one by one, trying not to think about the fact that your former lover is on the other side of this curtain, trying not to remember the slow and sensual ways he used to strip you bare.

But you do think about it. You do remember.

You are just friends now, you remind yourself. No more. And no less, you hope. To be without him all this time has left a hollow in your heart. You want to fill its empty spaces with his presence. You want him to be part of your life again.

So why does being here only make your heart ache harder?

And why are you still so godsdamned nervous?

You sigh and slip into your gown, admiring its A-line silhouette and its delightful shade of purple. Not quite the right fit, but that is why you are here after all. Astarion can surely fix that for you. He does work wonders with his hands.

Hands that you now realize will have to lace up the back of your dress because there is no way you’ll be able to accomplish that by yourself.

Hugging the loose garment tight against your chest, you call for help. “Astarion?”

“Yes, dear? Don’t tell me you’ve managed to fall into peril right here in my dressing room. You do seem to have a knack for finding trouble wherever you go.”

“Just… come in, please.”

He pushes through the curtain and you are instantly and acutely aware of just how snug this little space is.

“Ah, you need to be tied up, I see.”

Of course he would choose to phrase it like that. Now you are thoroughly convinced he is thoroughly enjoying your embarrassment. He always did like to make you squirm. In more ways than one, the Astarion in your head adds. Ugh. You feel a fleeting sense of relief as you spin around, but the mirror betrays you, putting your mortified expression on full display while the look on his face remains a mystery to you. The chuckle you then hear at least helps you picture his smirk.

He takes his time with you. Like he always did. Words he once said echo in your mind. A treat like you deserves to be savoured. Does it tempt him still to be so close to you? To sense your blood pumping through your veins? To see your neck so deliciously exposed? You ponder and you reminisce and you catch yourself tilting your head to one side.

It seems the tempted one is you.

You wonder if he noticed. He may be ‘tying you up’ as he so eloquently put it, but you feel more like he is undressing you. Like he is uncovering you bit by bit, inch by inch, piece by piece. Like he could reach into your mind and read your most intimate thoughts even though the tadpoles are long gone.

“There we are,” you finally hear him say, snapping you back to reality. You pause in front of the mirror together and you wonder what it isn’t telling you. What he thinks when he looks upon you. 

“A fine choice, my dear,” he says as you both step out of the dressing room. “Much better than those hideous rags and that horrid armour you wore on the road.”

You roll your eyes at him. “That horrid armour kept me alive. Forgive me for picking function over fashion.”

“Oh, come now, fashion need not be sacrificed. Yours truly had both, thank you very much.” He gives you a playful bow.

You snicker—and then a full-fledged grin spreads across your face. To have this bit of banter with him again feels right. A bit of good-natured ribbing is something you can handle. What you do not know quite how to handle is—

“Luckily for you that smile more than made up for your questionable wardrobe.”

And just like that you no longer know what to say.

Astarion guides you over to a fitting platform, circling you as he sizes up what needs to be done. And though you know this is all about your dress and not you, you begin to fidget under his intense scrutiny.

“Much too long, obviously,” he remarks. “Typical. It should be taken in at the waist, too. We must do justice to that pretty figure of yours after all.”

Another flirtatious comment from him, another internal panic for you. You are not given much time to ruminate on this one though before he asks you a question that catches you off guard.

“Did you bring your shoes?”

“My shoes…?”

“Shoes, darling,” he says, elongating the rounded vowel as he repeats the word. “You have heard of the concept, surely. They come in pairs? You wear them on your feet?”

“I know what shoes are,” you insist, glancing towards the open dressing room where your trusty boots remain on the floor.

He follows your line of sight, and you nearly laugh when you look back to witness his eyebrows raise in horror then furrow again in exasperation. “Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. You will not be wearing those ghastly things to a ball.”

“They’re comfortable, and no one will be able to see them,” you say with a shrug and a smile, and this time you do laugh at the indignant noise he makes in response. Really, you did plan on wearing something more suitable—but you are enjoying this little opportunity to vex him.

“Absolutely not. As an upstanding citizen of this fine metropolis, I cannot stand idly by while you commit this outrageous crime against fashion.”

“Upstanding citizen, huh?”

“Of course,” he says with that mischievous smile of his. “I’m hardly the ‘help every poor unfortunate soul in sight’ type—that, my dear, is unique to you and you alone—but perhaps a smidgen of your do-gooder nature has rubbed off on me. Now,” he continues, returning to the matter at hand, “let me find you some decent shoes. We’ll need them to measure the length.”

Ah, that makes sense. You pout and you nod, playing your little game, but you do look forward to a new pair of shoes. Your adventures did leave your boots well-worn, not to mention covered with so much gore and grime that not even repeated scrubbings could remove all the stains. Your boots really did see everything.

He disappears into another part of the shop then reappears with a few options in hand—a selection of flats and modest heels you can actually picture yourself walking in—all simple but elegant. He knows just what you like.

“Sit and try these on,” he says, extending a hand out to you—an offer to help you down from the platform you presume—and you take it.

His touch is pure electric shock. Or maybe it is only the chill of undeath that leaves you shivering. And then you think on it, that pleasing tingle, the texture of his skin, the way his long, slender fingers interlock perfectly with yours, and your heart is fluttering, and he lets go all too soon, and you are lost. Empty. Incomplete.

And right now you are not ready to consider what that means.

You push your confusion out of your mind as you take a seat on the edge of the platform, refocusing on the task at hand. You pick out a pair of off-white kitten heels and try them on, and you find yourself pleasantly surprised by how comfortable they feel. To be sure, you take a few steps, you test other pairs, you return to the first—yes, these will do.

“Satisfied?” Astarion asks, and you nod. “Good. Back up you go, darling.”

You step onto the fitting stand once more—without assistance this time, which is somehow both a relief and a disappointment. Astarion sets about his work, pulling pins out of the small cushion tied to his wrist and pushing them through the hem, all while you stare into space and contemplate whether or not you should say anything.

You should say something, you decide. You did manage to catch up with him a little at the party last month before your drink got the better of you, but you are doing a poor job of it now. You’ve barely even talked. Not really. How can you call yourself his friend if you cannot even gather the courage to speak to him?

“How are you?” you blurt out. Those few trite words do little to express how much you truly care for his well-being, how every day you wonder if he is fed, if he is safe, if he is happy. Quickly you add, “With the whole ‘vampire tailor’ thing, I mean. No monster hunters at your door, I hope?”

His nature clearly isn’t a secret. The many mirrors give him away if nothing else.

“Not a one,” Astarion says, glancing up at you from where he kneels. “I am, after all, one of the great heroes of Baldur’s Gate. The fact that I also happen to be a vampire spawn is not so much a threat, but an… eccentricity. And a bit of eccentricity is right at home in this city.”

“I’m glad no one is giving you any trouble,” you say. Another question needles your mind, one you are almost afraid to know the answer to, but you ask it anyway. “And… are you feeding well?”

“I have my sources.” Oh. Good. That is good. Yes. Definitely. Not like it matters who or how. Not like the mere thought of him sinking his teeth into someone else crushes you. Not like the scene plays out in your mind no matter how much you don’t want it to. Your eyes shut. Your stomach twists. Your heart sinks.

“None quite like you,” he adds, and beneath that sultriness he so likes to tease you with, you detect a softness there. Or maybe it is only a trick of the imagination. A pretty lie you tell yourself.

And yet, when your eyes flicker open, all you can see is his boring back into yours, staring, seeking, searching.

Breathe. You must breathe.

And then the moment is gone, and he shifts out of your sight, concentrating his efforts on the back of your dress.

The minutes pass in screaming silence.

You wish he would fill your ears with little jokes, or idle chatter, or something, anything to save your mind from spiralling. Anything to save you from you.

You regret all you have done wrong and all you have failed to do right. And yet, you want, and you yearn, and you hope.

“It really has only ever been you, you know.”

His words shock you back to your senses and suddenly he is standing on the platform with you, mere inches away.

“Oh,” you say. Gods, what else can you say?

All is quiet between you. He fusses with your straps, and the fabric of your bodice, pins everything into its proper place. A hand lingers at your waist.

“You once told me that the world can be a kind place. That has been truer than I expected. But no one has been more good to me—and good for me—than you.”

What?

No. Whatever you think this is, you are wrong.

“I’m not so sure about that,” you protest, your heart pounding. “That night at the party… I wasn’t thinking, I… I know it wasn’t what you… I’m so sor—”

He stops you, shushing you softly. “Oh, no, no, love, you will not apologize for that. A little drunken fancy is nothing to be ashamed of. You were nothing but sweet. And it was sweet of you to worry. Unnecessary, but sweet.”

Your head is spinning. You were far from a good friend that night. You did him wrong. You were so sure.

But he does not seem offended in the least.

Quite the opposite, really.

“Although,” he says, and you hear the mischief in his voice as he leans in to speak into your ear. “I am rather curious about those pretty words you said when…”

The bell rings.

The two of you startle and separate.

“Oh, Astarion, dear?” a voice calls out, singsong yet sharp.

The scowl that then sullies his features tells you all you need to know. He curses under his breath before singing out an answer. “Just a moment, Lady Furrington. I am finishing up with another client.”

Astarion is all business now as he checks over his handiwork, and as he ushers you to the dressing rooms, and you cannot help but to mourn what could have been had no one else stepped foot through that door. You wonder what he would have done. What he would have said. What might have sparked between you.

You will lie awake tonight wondering and wondering and wondering.

You pause together just outside the dressing room, and he says, “My apologies for the abrupt finish, darling. Her requests are endless, but her coin purse is bottomless. Enough so that an extra charge here and there goes unnoticed.”

“You have to do what you have to do,” you say with a shrug. You take a step into the change room, and to your surprise, he follows you inside. You shoot him a quizzical look.

“The laces?”

“Uh, yes. Right. Thank you.”

He reaches around you as he begins to pull them loose. He is close. Impossibly, maddeningly, enticingly close. His gaze falls to your lips and, gods, you can almost taste his.

“Astarion?” cries out that same shrill voice.

He steps back. Another moment lost forever.

“Come back tomorrow night?” he asks.

Sooner than you thought, but you do not question it. You simply say, “Yes.”

You leave. You start your trek home. And, as you walk, an inkling of something forgotten—something you wanted to forget—itches within your brain. What was it he mentioned about that night? Something about ‘those pretty words’ you said?

You think, and you think, and you think, delving deep into your fragmented memories, searching for the missing pieces you need to complete the puzzle.

You stop in your tracks.

You remember.

That night, as he put you to bed, at the height of your foolishness, you told him the most mortifying thing you could have told him.

But in wine there is truth.

You felt it. You said it. You meant it.

You love him.

It was the right choice. The right choice. The right choice.

How many nights have you lain awake, desperate to believe in the truth of those words? You thought one day they would sink in and soothe you. Instead their endless echoing always felt more like a pulsing headache.

Funny that, last night, the very opposite thought is what kept you awake.

What if, all this time, you were wrong?

You were so sure back then that friendship was the right choice. A hard choice, but the right choice. Never had anyone given him anything without the expectation for more. You could be that person, right? You should be that person. You wanted to be that person. A friend was what he needed. What he deserved. That superceded any silly notions of romance you had in your head.

Your offer of friendship meant everything to him, or so it seemed. Not a friend in the world until you, he said. His sincerity and his soft words melted your heart, and when he took your hand in his, and gazed into your eyes, you knew you were hopelessly in love with him.

You fought it. You denied it. You cried and cried and cried over it.

Still your feelings stayed the same. And so you did the only thing you could do. You resolved to keep your secret hidden under lock and key.

As if anything in this world under lock and key is safe from the likes of Astarion.

You love him. You have always loved him. You still love him.

And it seems he knows it, too.

And maybe, just maybe, there exists the teeniest tiniest trace of a possibility that he might be interested in you?

No, no, no. Surely you are mistaken.

He thought about kissing you, though, didn’t he? You saw him glance at your lips, right? Or did you?

No, no, no. A figment of your wild and wishful imagination, nothing more.

He would never want you.

Still you primp and you preen before the mirror like you are prepping for a date, not a dress fitting. Still you want to impress him, enamour him, pretend you stood a chance with him. Still you wonder and you worry that, maybe, improbable as it seems, you did once stand a chance with him, denied him and deprived him, denied and deprived yourself.

“You deserve something real. I want us to be something real.”

Those words of his still echo in your memories. You thought, then, that friendship was the realest thing you could ever hope to share. But, if you let yourself try, you could have been something more, couldn’t’ve you?

Maybe he did want you, could want you, does want you.

And if he does…

No. Do not let yourself go there. Do not get your hopes up. Never get your hopes up.

You take a moment to breathe, pull yourself from the mirror and leave through the front door. You will go to this appointment and you will be normal and you will be sane and you will be the friend you promised him you would be, not some gawking idiot full of foolish desires.

Twenty minutes is what it takes to walk from your place to his. Twenty minutes of exercise? A good thing, of course. Twenty minutes of cycling through these same tired thoughts ad nauseum? A not-so-good thing. That will not help you through this.

Maybe it won’t make much of a difference. After all you are quite capable of sending yourself into a frenzy in a mere twenty seconds let alone twenty minutes.

When you finally arrive at his door your head is still swimming.

Breathe. Just breathe.

You did it yesterday. You can do it again today.

The bell rings.

The silence that follows is enough to deafen you.

Well, it would seem you underestimated yourself before. You thought it would take twenty seconds to achieve total panic? More like five.

Astarion appears in the blink of an eye, all elven grace and vampiric mystique, emerging from what feels like out of nowhere but in reality must have been somewhere back of shop.

He is somehow even more gorgeous today, if that is even possible. His hair, perfectly coiffed; his vest, exquisitely embroidered; his whole ensemble, impeccably tailored to emphasize his broad shoulders and slender waist. His sleeves are rolled up, and his shirt is a little more open than it perhaps needs to be at the chest, and gods, are you blushing?

You are here for a reason, and that reason is not to ogle him, tempting though it might be.

“Darling!” he says, greeting you with that brilliant smile you so adore. “I’m glad it is you, and not a certain patriar that so rudely interrupted us yesterday. There is only so much of that particular displeasure I can endure. My patience is thin enough as it is.”

“And yet you have managed to endure,” you remark, laughing a little at the thought of him attempting to navigate customer service. “The coin is that good, huh?”

“Oh, it is. Satisfying as it might be to deny my services to the worst offenders, a few of these annoying but harmless ones must be tolerated. Bad for business otherwise. Today, though, I made a point of keeping my schedule clear of all other distractions. My only priority now is you.”

You. The way he purrs out that one little word sends a thrill throughout your body.

But you must not read into that. You must temper yourself.

Be normal. Be sane. Be his friend.

“Alas, your gown is not quite done yet, though. I was just finishing up the hem when I heard you come in. It won’t take long. Follow me into the back, if you will?”

“Oh, uh, of course,” you say. You had expected more or less a repeat of the previous day—trying on the dress, making sure it fits correctly, changing back into your regular clothes, returning home. A nice, predictable order of events.

You like predictable. You like all its safeties and comforts. You like how it acts as a balm to all your anxieties. If you can predict, then you can prepare.

Unpredictable, though. Unpredictable is unnerving. Downright terrifying, even. And yet it is rife with possibilities.

The best things in your life have come from unpredictable. The greatest adventure you’ve ever had. The happiest memories.

The man you love more than anything.

Even if what passion you shared was fleeting. Even if this platonic connection is all that remains. Even if that glimmer of hope you cannot quite quash, no matter how unwise you think it, crushes you one day. You will still tend to and treasure your bond in any and every way you can.

So you take a deep breath and you follow him.

Astarion leads you into a room just big enough to double as a work area and a storage space. Rolls of fabric, diverse in colour, pattern and texture, fill the shelves lining the walls. What you notice most, though, are the in-progress projects draped over the mannequins. You would love to watch him at work. You suppose you will get one little taste of that now.

You also spot the base of a staircase in one corner, and that sparks an even greater curiosity within you. This lower floor is his business, but that upper floor is his home. A place entirely his own, and you hope he has filled it with anything and everything that makes him feel safe and happy and free. Maybe he will invite you up those stairs someday—you are friends after all—but for now you both seat yourselves across from each other at his work table.

“A good thing you came to me for this, darling,” he says, and you try not to stare as he licks the tip of his thread and pulls it through the eye of his needle with ease, “—else you would have been out of luck. Wait times are usually much longer than this.”

That is true, and you know you should have planned for this better. The ball is only a tenday away. “Oh, I’m sorry for the rush, you didn’t need to—”

“Hush, hush, my sweet,” he says, a gentle chiding that reminds you of yesterday. “It was not a bother. Not in the least. Although…” He pauses and smirks. “You haven’t paid me yet.”

Aghast, your mouth drops open, but he stops you before you can blurt out your hundred apologies.

“Now, I know that one so honest as you would never make such a mistake on purpose. Our time was cut short after all. Then again, not all of our gold was acquired by honest means, was it?”

“Thanks to your thievery,” you remind him. “Gods, you practically cleaned out the whole Counting House.”

“And yet I don’t recall you objecting. True that I picked many locks during our adventures, and why was that I wonder?” He makes a show of his hums and his haws and then one final aha. “Oh yes, that’s right. Because you asked me to.”

“Our mission was important,” you insist. “We needed gold, intel, resources… We did what was necessary to succeed. To survive.”

“Oh? Tell yourself that if you must, darling, but I think you just liked to watch my hands.”

That comment instantly warms your cheeks—and the realization that you actually have been watching his hands as he starts to sew absolutely scorches them. When you glance up to his face, you find him grinning at you.

And just like that you’re grinning too. You are embarrassed, yes, but you must admit there is something especially endearing about seeing Astarion like this—the skill, the passion, the care he puts into his work, the way his smile softens as he settles back into his state of calm and contented concentration—he looks happy.

It makes you happy. It makes you calm—or at least as calm as you can be under these circumstances. It makes you love him even more.

“You’re not exactly subtle, you know,” he says, shifting back in his chair, pulling the garment from the table and into his lap, pulling farther away from you. Have you been staring too much? Has he taken offense? Does he no longer want you here?

He pauses, and gives you a pensive look, and you look back, lost as to what to do or say or think. Maybe you should go. Give him some space. But, he invited you in, didn’t he? Said it wouldn’t take long? You can’t just leave.

And you don’t want to leave. You hope that he doesn’t want you to leave either.

He breaks the silence with a chuckle, resuming his stitching like nothing has changed. “You never were. Not that I mind, though. If you want to watch a master at work, then who am I to deny you?”

“I can hardly see what you are doing now, though.” You try to keep your words matter-of-fact. Try not to show just how unsure and insecure you are in this moment. In too many of your shared moments.

“A shame. I’m afraid you will have to settle for admiring the stitchwork when it’s done. And it will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

You try to read him. He gives nothing away, offering up no more than a little smirk as you study him. He was always better at reading you than you were reading him.

You want to know. You need to know.

“I will,” you say, and that need to know brings out a boldness in you that was not there before, and though your inner voice scolds you and screams at you, you add, “though I would rather admire you.”

His eyes briefly flicker to yours, then back to the dress. You swallow hard.

“Then, by all means, bask in my presence and shower me with your praises.”

Good. No scrunching up his nose, no recoiling in disgust, no sign you went too far. But neither did he give you any indication that his feelings mirror yours.

Not that you truly expected that, of course.

Still you continue to examine him closely. He seems relaxed, focused, comfortable. There is a hint of fang to his smile and a gleam to his eye, and when he next glances at you, he raises an eyebrow.

Wait, does he actually want you to praise him? Should you? What can you even say? Oh, Astarion, you are clever, and funny, and talented, and gorgeous, and I am completely, absolutely, madly in love with you?

The greater your panic, the greater his amusement, until he can no longer resist clicking his tongue at you. “So shy now, darling. And yet you were not the least bit shy for me the last time I had you on your back.”

Oh. Whatever you expected, it wasn’t that.

Your wide-eyed, open-mouthed, heart-thumping shock earns a hearty laugh from him.

“Gods, you’re so adorable.”

Words fail you, and so you let out a giggle, its pitch too sharp, its volume too loud, its presence awkward, your presence awkward.

“It’s a good thing, my love,” he says softly, sincerely. “Trust me on that.”

My love. You zero in on those two words, and though your head tells you to dismiss them, your heart tells you to keep them and to cherish them.

And you are growing quite the little collection of words to thrill and fill you. Adorable, on your back, tied up, pretty figure, looking delicious, that smile, nothing but sweet, good to me, good for me. My love. You have not forgotten a single thing he said.

But you know it would be foolish to treat every flirtatious remark and sweet nothing as a romantic overture.

Even if you want to. And, oh, how you want to.

You seek distraction now, glancing at the table in front of you. It is a rather cluttered space, various tools of the trade scattered about—spools of thread, scraps of fabric, scissors and needles and pins—but what catches your eye most is a messy little pile of papers. Sketches.

“Are those your designs?” you ask, nodding towards the stack, leaning a little closer—just enough to imply a second question: “May I see them?”

“Yes,” he answers, and though he rolls his eyes, he smiles. “Go on, then. Take a look.”

Carefully you gather up the pages and begin your perusal. His sketches immediately impress. Astarion, the artist—you had never pictured it—but perhaps it should come as no surprise that a man with a skilled hand and a keen eye would take so well to pencil and paper. The time, the effort, and the creativity he poured into these—into every aspect of his work—is clear, and you are glad to see this side of him.

One by one, you look through the sketches, giving thoughtful attention to each and every one before moving on to the next. Some are still in their early stages, little more than rough outlines, while others are fully realized with intricate detail and vivid colour. The designs range from the everyday to the formal, from the simple to the elaborate, from the masculine to the feminine, and everything in between. A little something for everyone.

It eases you, this repetitive motion, this comforting quiet, this sweet glimpse into the life of the one you love.

Until you see it. Until your fingers tighten against the paper. Until you freeze.

Not because of the clothing, but because of the model. The shape of her figure. The shade of her skin. The style of her hair. The familiarity of her face.

It’s you.

He drew you. Like you are his muse. Like he could not help but to think of you. Like he is as in love with you as you are with him.

No, you try to tell yourself, this must be some coincidence. And even if it isn’t a coincidence—and really you should just admit to yourself that this cannot be a coincidence—it cannot mean what you want it to mean, right?

Maybe it is just because you are his friend. A real person he can easily visualize in his mind’s eye. Yes, that must be all this is. Yes, of course.

You quickly flip through the remaining pages. There is no Karlach, no Gale, no Shadowheart, no Wyll, no Lae’zel, no Halsin, no Jaheira, no Minsc—not that any of them got to know Astarion as well as you did, though. All you find are faceless figures, generic and unremarkable. Until, oh, there you are again. Oh, and once more. And again. And, by the gods, again.

“Did something catch your eye, darling?” Astarion asks, lips curled into a smirk, looking and sounding every bit like the cat that got the cream.

You pull that first sketch of you out of the pile and set the rest down, holding it in the air for him to see. “Is this me?”

“Ah, come to think of it, I did have you in mind when dreaming up that particular outfit, yes.” He shrugs, and the nonchalance of it all vexes you.

“And not only this one?”

“Not only that one, no. I do think of you often, you know.”

No. You don’t know. But maybe you are beginning to know. Beginning to let hope blossom in your heart, brave and beautiful and boundless.

He pauses his work, stares at you a moment, meets you eye to eye—and, gods, you feel like you are connecting heart to heart. Soul to soul. He speaks again, eventually, shifting back to a less serious, light-hearted tone. A retreat into his own comfort zone.

“What more can I say? I like to imagine you in my clothes, darling.”

And out of them, you can almost hear him say. Honestly you could go for a little body to body as well, but you know not to push him. Hells, you are not even a couple.

You never will be, says a different voice. An unwelcome voice. Your own voice, ever cruel and destructive. But maybe that voice of yours is wrong. Maybe it isn’t never. Maybe it is just not right now.

And you can live with not right now.

“Actually,” Astarion continues, “I’m not sure imagination is enough anymore.”

You blink at him.

“I’ve always thought working with a live model could spice things up a little. Someone to be my canvas, so to speak. Perhaps you might be willing to step into that role sometime? I rather like having you around.”

He wants you here more often. Does not mind being up close and personal with you. Wants to be up close and personal with you.

The very notion of it makes you giddy with an excitement you are no longer able to contain, and so when you open your mouth, what slips out is, “I like you, too.” Gods, what are you saying? “Like being around you, too.”

Embarrassing, yes, but you decide that grin upon his face and that laughter rippling out of him are worth it.

“If it is what you want, then I will be here.”

“It is what I want,” he says, and there is a conviction to it that sets your heart fluttering. You watch as he reaches for a pair of scissors. “Well, darling. It’s settled then. And I am pleased to tell you your dress”—a pause, a snip—“is complete.”

Oh. You were starting to wish this would take the whole night.

He sets down the scissors, the needle, and what remains of the thread upon the table, standing as he smooths out the gown—and that is when you realize it. That thread. It is thick and gold, not fine and colour-matched like you would have expected. Granted, you are not the expert here, but it is a curious choice—and a choice that makes you curious.

But, before your mind can wander too far down that path, Astarion’s voice startles you back to the present.

“Well, darling? You do realize you will have to try it on again?”

“Yes, of course,” you say, your chair screeching backwards as you push yourself out of it. “And thank you. For everything.”

“It is my job, after all,” he says, slathering his words with a thick coat of exasperation, but even he cannot hide the pride underlying them. “And for you? It is my pleasure.”

Always the flirt. But, for the first time in a long time, you allow yourself to believe there might be more to it than a little teasing or empty flattery.

And, small and insignificant as it seems, you are still wondering about that thread.

He leads you out of the back room and over to the dressing rooms, back to that same snug space you shared with him yesterday, pushing the curtain to one side and hanging up your gown. You step inside and pull the curtain closed.

You undress, and you think, and something he told you tickles your brain. Something about the stitchwork. “It will be well-worth the admiration, I assure you.”

Hmm. Maybe you should take the time to admire it.

You lift the hem and examine its inner edge, following that neat, flawless line in its circle, not a single speck of gold to be seen—

Until you find it. A hidden message, simple in design, yet elegant in execution. Four words. Four earth-shattering, heart-warming, life-changing words.

I love you too

You want to laugh and you want to cry and you want to sing. You want to wrap your arms around him and squish him and squeeze him until he can take no more. You want to tell him how much you love him, tell him a thousand times, then a thousand more, and gods, you want to hear him say it.

But to embroider those words so lovingly into the fabric is the sweetest confession he could have made to you.

You love him even more for it.

You can hardly wait to tell him—properly this time, not uttered out on some drunken late night like before—but, for now, you slip into your dress, and step into your shoes, trying hard to suppress the squeals begging to burst out of you.

He loves you. You spent so much time—too much time—convincing yourself that such a thing was impossible. But he loves you.

You exit that little room, and you see him, and you know it would only take seconds to close the gap between you and hug him and never let go. But, your dress is hanging open in the back, and you’re shaking, and you don’t want to ambush him with your touch if he is not yet ready for that.

The moment will come.

Or maybe it is time to take control of this. You will find that moment, and if you don’t, then you will create it, and then when you do, you will make it count.

Automatically he walks towards you, steps behind you, laces up your bodice, so close yet not close enough. You wish you could touch him, and the next thing you know, he is offering you his hand, and so you take it, and you squeeze it.

And he squeezes yours back.

He guides you onto the fitting stand. You catch a brief glimpse of yourself in the surrounding mirrors—the perfect fit of your gown, the way your smile shines—but the only thing you want to look at is Astarion.

He completes a single revolution around you, and when he stops in front of you, and you beam down at him, he stares back in admiration, in adoration, in awe. Like you are the sun itself. Like you are the centre of his whole world.

How could you not have known?

“You love me?”

His eyes grow wide as those words fall out of you. It’s all surprise, at first. But then it is openness. Vulnerability. “Ah. So you saw it already, then?”

“Yes,” you murmur, afraid to make a wrong move lest you wake up from this dream before you hear those words you want to hear more than anything. “You love me?”

Silence. You panic, and you retreat, pulling back, looking away. “Not that you need to say it out loud, of course. Not if you don’t want t—”

“I love you.”

Your eyes snap back to his. You watch him draw nearer and nearer, and you feel his hands find their place at your hips, and you breathe in that nostalgic scent of bergamot and brandy.

“I love you,” he says again, and you are so happy you could cry.

You throw your arms around him, pulling him into a hug that feels like home. You needed this. You needed him. And, when his arms wrap back around you, you know that he needed you, too. Here, both of you are snug, and you are safe, and you are loved.

And though you know he must know it by now—that he must see it in your eyes and feel it in your embrace—you say it anyway. “I love you, too.”

You both pull back, but only a little, just enough to smile at each other.

“This time on my own,” he begins, “it has given me the chance to think about what I truly want. All of this,” he says, gesturing around the shop, “I may not have expected to end up in a life this domestic, but… I’m happy. Mostly happy, anyway.”

He pauses, and you tilt your head, waiting, wondering, hoping.

“I want more. I want a partner. And who better than the woman who stood by my side through everything? Who always treated me with kindness and understanding? Who I just so happen to utterly adore? I want you.”

Tears well in your eyes, and you are smiling so hard it hurts, but you are sure this is the happiest moment of your life. “Then I am yours.”

And then he cups your face in his hands and kisses you.

You melt into him, into his softness and his sensuality, into the comfort of his embrace and the heat of his touch. This is perfect. This is right. This is where you belong. You pour all of your affection into every press of your lips, willing him to feel your devotion, your desire, your love down to his very core. But, when you part your lips to meet his tongue, he breaks away.

You fear something will break inside you—but his reassuring grin steadies you.

“Just a quick moment, darling,” he says. “There is but one little thing I need to do.”

Astarion steps off the platform and heads towards the front of the shop. At first you are confused. And then you understand.

The bell rings.

The ‘open’ sign is flipped to ‘closed.’

The lock clicks in place.

And, tonight, the bell will ring no more.

Astarion locks the door and locks eyes with you.

You remember the day you met him as if it were yesterday. Little more than a beautiful stranger to you, back then, all elegance and ice. Even as your lover he felt unreachable, with you by midnight and gone by morning, no more real than a dream.

But now, as you gaze upon him, he is warmth, and he is sweetness, and he is truly, honestly himself. Mask off for you and only you.

Unbelievable, really, how far the two of you have come. And yet, with your whole heart, you believe it.

The man before you is your best friend. Your love. Your partner.

And tonight, together, you will take your first steps towards a life intertwined. Whatever that looks like.

And, gods, what does that look like? What comes next? Will he invite you into his arms? Into his home?

Into his bed?

The mere thought of it, you all wrapped up in him, sets your mind racing and your heartrate rising. There is a familiar hunger to his pretty eyes as he draws near, and you wonder if that rapid rhythm in your chest is still, to him, the irresistible siren song it once used to be. If he longs to taste your blood, your lips, your—

Oh, but you should not get too far ahead of yourself. He might not yet want what you so evidently crave. You must not forget that.

You can be patient. You will be patient. You will give him as much time as he needs.

Not that Astarion is making this easy for you. Certainly not with the way he grins his roguish grin, nor the way he wiggles his fingers as he reaches a hand to you, coaxing you down from the platform.

Maybe patience is not so necessary after all.

But surely there are important conversations to be had, which you very much want to have, and surely a night of sweet kisses and cuddles would be a good place to start, the perfect place to start, even, no matter how much you want to—

Oh. A hard pull, an audible gasp, and you are flush against Astarion. His intense stare is holding you in place just as much as his hands on your hips are.

“What’s that look for, my dear?”

“What look?”

“That mind-going-a-hundred-miles-a-minute look. We’re not overthinking now, are we?”

“No.” It's a weak attempt at denial, and you know it. “All right, maybe a little.”

“A little, she says? Just a little? Well, even if that were true, I’m afraid even a little is simply unacceptable, sweet love. Not when I’ve got you like this. Whatever shall I do with the likes of you?”

His hands shift upwards, every bit eager as they sweep along the curve of your waist, every bit assured as they cup your face. In his eyes you see your whole world spinning, and your mind continues its endless spinning along with it.

“Well, darling. I suppose then I’ll just have to kiss”—a brush of his lips—“you”—so plush and perfect against yours—“senseless.”

There is an urgency to the way he kisses you now, to how his tongue tastes and his teeth tease, and it makes you drunk with desire you have too long denied. You match his every insistent press against your lips, the need blooming between you escalating into a feverish frenzy. Your mind is indeed rendered senseless—but your body is awash with sensation.

His mouth leaves yours, leaves you breathless and boneless, but still wanting more. And more is exactly what he gives you as he kisses a trail along your jaw. To your neck, perhaps? No, to your ear, and you giggle when he nibbles at your lobe.

He whispers, "Come upstairs with me?"

As if there were any chance you would say no to him now. "Yes."

And yet he makes no moves to whisk you away. Instead he pulls you back into the blistering heat of his kiss, his apparent haste to have you making you doubt whether you will even make it up to his quarters at all. His every impatient touch has you envisioning how he might take you—bent over his worktable, or pushed against the dressing room wall, or laid out on the floor, anywhere, everywhere—until, oh, he is tugging loose the ties at your back.

It is all suddenly a bit too much. A bit too fast. A bit too real.

Is he actually truly ready for this?

Astarion instantly senses the change in you, moving back, but keeping close. And even though he is calm and composed, and gives you a kind smile, you cannot help but feel that this precious moment is in ruins, and the reason is you. "I'm sorry, I—"

"Oh, my love. Always so full of apologies even when there is no need for them. How about we go upstairs, make ourselves comfortable—change back into your everyday clothes first if that would suit you better—and we'll sit and have a chat, hm?"

You take a deep breath to steady yourself. "That sounds wonderful. Truly."

"Good," he says, nodding towards the dressing rooms. "Off you go, then. I'll be waiting right here."

You make your way inside, glancing at your flustered face in the mirror before you slip out of your gown, your worries creeping their way back into your frazzled mind.

Where did it all go wrong?

To connect through touch is something you want desperately. And, by now, you are almost entirely sure Astarion wants to share in that with you, too. But therein lies the problem: almost isn't enough, is it?

What if he is only doing this because he thinks it will please you?

And how can you be sure when you hardly know how to be sure of anything?

Part of you still feels ashamed for lusting over him, knowing all that you know. The other part of you just feels ridiculous—here you are, pulling on layer after layer of clothing, when every indication suggests he wants to get you naked before the night is through.

You analyze every moment you've shared tonight, searching for even the slightest of signs that this is all just a performance.

Yet you find none.

Maybe the best thing to do is to just trust him. Trust him to make his own choices, to decide his own limits, to navigate all of this together with you.

After all, if you are sure of only one thing in this world, it is that Astarion loves you.

You gather the hem of your dress into your hands one last time before you leave it behind, tracing over every line and every loop of his embroidered message, committing those beautiful words to memory. It is exactly what you need to bring a smile back to your face.

And, when you finally step out of the dressing room, Astarion matches that smile the moment he sees you.

The two of you walk hand in hand into the back room and up, up, up the stairs, your anxious anticipation growing with every single step you take.

"I'd tell you I'd give you the grand tour, but I'm afraid my home is far too humble for that," he remarks, and for the first time tonight, you notice a bit of a shake to his laughter, an irregular height to its pitch.

And here you thought that the only nervous one was you.

What if that means—

No, you'd better not worry what that means.

No matter what happens, you will be here for him as he is here for you.

You give his hand a reassuring squeeze. "I'm sure it's perfect. And I'd take a nice, cozy, humble home over a palace any day."

"I might not have always agreed with that sentiment, but now?" Reaching the door at the top of the stairs, he pauses long enough to smirk at you before twisting the knob. "I find that I do."

You step inside, taking in as much of the surrounding space as you can. The only light emanates from the fireplace, its flickering flames casting a sensual glow across the room. The open layout is typical of city merchants' quarters—no walls needlessly taking up the already limited space—a sitting area on one side, a small disused kitchen on the other. A pair of strategically placed dividers offers some sense of separation, and behind them—oh, yes, that is most definitely his bed.

Best not to linger too long on that thought.

Although you do make a mental note that it is big enough for two.

Taking both your hands in his this time, Astarion pulls you towards the loveseat in front of the fire, playfully pushing you into its comfy cushions and planting a single kiss upon your lips that you hope is a promise for many more.

He does not yet take his place at your side, however, instead lighting a candle on the coffee table—and it is then you study the scene before you.

A now-lit candle. A vase home to a single blush-pink rose. Two goblets and a bottle of your favourite red wine. A spread that is romantic. Meticulous. Premeditated.

You let out a chortle.

"What?" Astarion asks, eyes narrowed, but lips curved into an unmistakable smile.

"It's just so"—a bigger, brighter laugh bursts out of you—"so obvious."

"Obvious? Obvious?" He tosses his head to one side as he scoffs. "Are you really only realizing this now? Darling, I have been obvious this entire time. You, on the other hand, have been hopelessly oblivious."

And, in retrospect, you can admit that it's true what he says. The evidence was everywhere, even if you could not, would not, thought you should not believe any of it.

But you do now.

He settles next to you on the loveseat, warmth rushing to your cheeks at his sudden nearness. His fingers, cold to the touch though they are as they interlock with yours, do nothing to cool you. No, if anything, they have quite the opposite effect; the whole of you hot and molten beside him.

"Tell me, love," he begins, the purr in his voice and the mischief in his grin telling you he intends to use every ounce of his charisma to its fullest extent. "Should I have serenaded you with song? Recited to you a sonnet? Scattered a trail of rose petals from your door straight to my bed?"

"Maybe, though it's not too late," you suggest. "If you would like to regale me with music and poetry, I won't complain."

"Oh, my dear. I wouldn't be quite so sure of that. I am a man of many talents, yes, but I'm no bard. Although, if the result is hearing you laugh again, then it might still be worth a try."

You grin. "Then try."

Astarion clears his throat dramatically, and with his back tall and straight, and his nose held high in the air, he starts to speak.

You cannot even begin to take him seriously.

"Your skin so sweet and lips divine, / your blood the most delicious wine. / Each precious bite is my delight; / so let me make you mine tonight."

"You're ridiculous," you say—but you are indeed laughing.

"Why thank you, darling," he says, lowering his head in a mock bow. "Ridiculously eloquent, I hope? Or ridiculously charming? Ridiculously good-looking, at least?"

"Just ridiculous."

He gasps. "Oh, how you wound me. And here I was, professing my profound affection."

"It sounded more like you just want to eat me."

"Maybe I do want to eat you"—he leans in enticingly close—"in every sense of the word."

There is no mistaking his meaning now, is there?

You want this—you can feel it in pounding heart, and your weakened limbs, and your aching core—you want, you want, you want.

And yet you fear. Fear falling back into the dark depths of doubt, panic dragging you deeper, deeper, deeper down until you're drowning.

But you do not fall for it is Astarion's hands that keep you safe on solid ground.

"Oh, my sweet, lovely, darling girl."

And it is not only his hands, but his voice that soothes, and his eyes that blaze with such fierce certainty that you wonder how you could have ever failed to see just how much he cherishes you.

"Let me state the obvious because it seems obvious is what you need: I love you."

How new to your ears those words still are and yet you already think the sound of them sweeter than any song. You beam at him, because of course you do, and he beams right back, because of course he does, because this, this togetherness, is what you both want, what you both need, what you both deserve.

That look, so full of adoration, beckons you forward, and so you move in slowly, kiss him softly, hold him sweetly. He does the same, at first, an arm wrapping around your back, the opposite hand snaking its way down to cup your backside. Not that you resist. Nor do you resist when, unexpectedly, he pulls you hard against him, laughter bubbling out of you from the surprise and the clumsiness of it. And yet, here you are now in his lap, and here he is guiding your legs to straddle him, and it dawns upon you just how suggestive this new position is.

Even the slightest roll of your hips might have… well, quite the arousing effect.

Oh, he knows exactly what he's doing, the sneak.

And, if this is how he wants you, then that must mean—

"And," he says before you can finish the thought, "I want to explore anything and everything that loving you means."

Anything. Everything. Never have those two words sounded so sublime, his voice like velvet, his implication indisputable. Your imagination runs rampant, unlimited and unsuppressed, your mind opening itself fully to passion and possibility.

And you hope imagination will blossom into beautiful reality.

Astarion buries his face into your neck, peppering it with little kisses—maddeningly where you know he knows it tickles—revelling in every giggle he draws out of you. Vexing though it is, yes, the levity of it amuses you, calms your nerves.

You did, back in those early days, feel most ease with him whenever you would let yourselves be silly. You remember it well. Perhaps so does he.

And then—when tension fades, when you are limp and pliable in his arms—the mood shifts. Then, he kisses you where it doesn't tickle. Then, those sounds spilling out of you are decidedly not laughter.

His mouth moves to meet yours. A heady mixture of love and lust swirls about in your mind, and you succumb to it, to him, to every brush of his tongue and graze of his teeth. Almost embarrassing how little it takes to make you squirm about in his lap—but his body answers yours just as readily, the twitch of him against you leaving no doubt to his burgeoning desire.

This is really going to happen, isn't it?

"And"—you mourn the loss of his lips—"if all of this is somehow not obvious enough"—but his husky tone has you enraptured—"then let me be clear: I will not be satisfied tonight unless and until I've fucked you thoroughly."

Oh. You stare in stunned silence, mouth agape, as you process the filth you just heard: his lust stated so exquisitely explicitly that you long to press into the hardness you know you will find there, kiss him wildly, pleasure him endlessly.

And that, you decide, is exactly what you will do.

But your affection is too soft and too shy to plunge any deeper without testing the waters first. You kiss him once, then twice, then again and again and again, tentative touches turning tender then teasing as your courage grows. Astarion welcomes it all, wants more of it all, urging you to take this further in all the ways he can: pulling you closer, holding you tighter, kissing you harder. When at last your hips begin to undulate against his, he matches your rhythm, eager for you to feel the full length of him against your wet and wanting core.

With shaking hands you unfasten the singular clasp that had been holding his vest closed. That ever anxious part of you waits a moment for his objection, expects it, dreads it—but it doesn't come. Instead he only gives you his gentle encouragement.

"Go on, love. Undress me. Touch me."

You nod and you smile. Yes, there is anxiety in your anticipation, but so is there desire that drives you, and elation that thrills you, and such deep, overwhelming love for the man before you that how could you not want to devote yourself to pampering him?

Button by button you work your way down his shirt, exposing more and more of him until every fastening is undone. You examine the hard planes of his chest, first with eyes and then with hands, delighting in the way his smooth skin and firm muscle feel beneath your palms. He purrs his approval, rocking his hips against yours with such abandon that you curse your clothes for preventing him from pushing inside you.

Your fingers trail downwards, delicate but daring as they dance towards their destination. When at last you reach to undo his trousers, your eyes dart up to his, one last search for any sign he doesn't want this—but the look he gives you, part lust, part unwavering, undying trust, tells you what deep down you already know.

And it is all the permission you need.

Your attention returns to where he wants it to be. The sight of him, his arousal straining against fabric in his desperation for you, intensifies the throbbing between your own thighs. And so, with eager hands, you set him free.

You know his body well. Studied him with all of your senses. Learned how to glide and twist him into a whimpering mess with only a hand. And yet, practiced as you are in his pleasure, you cannot help the gasp that escapes your throat when you finally set eyes on his cock. To see him so riled and ready, to know it is all because of you—it fills you with awe, and with pride, and with overwhelming desire to put all you have learned to good use.

You start with a stroke of the hand, sliding up and sliding down his shaft, pulling the sweetest of sighs from his lips. Oh, how you love it when he is needy like this, hips moving in time with your every repeated motion. You keep touching him and teasing him, hand gliding up and down and up and down, thumb sweeping across the milky bead gathered at the tip.

But what you really want is a taste.

You lean forward for a kiss—only a fleeting peck, nothing more—and, if the way he huffs and pouts is any indication, it isn't enough. But you have quite a different use for your mouth in mind, don't you? You withdraw your hand, and he opens his mouth in protest, but no words come—for by now he is wide-eyed and mesmerized as you lick your thumb clean, savouring his salty taste. You lower yourself to your knees.

"May I?" you ask, smiling slyly up at him.

"Oh, my love. There are few sights so delightful as your lips wrapped around my cock."

His lewd words bring fresh heat to your cheeks, and he laughs.

"Hmm, I must say that flustered look of yours does have its appeal, too," he says, and you try to maintain your composure as you grab one of the little couch cushions, settling it comfortably beneath your knees. "Especially when it means you're imagining me inside you."

Oh, that unabashedly wicked, aggravatingly arrogant, adorably lovable man. The advantage might be his now, but he won't be the one holding it for long.

"And," he continues, growing more smug by the second, "come to think of it, there are many, many positions that suit you just as beautifully. Like when—"

The words die in his throat as you lick a languid stripe along his length, earning from him a low, pleasured groan. The sound pleases you immensely. But what a shame it would be if he were to leave his filthiest fantasies unspoken.

If he loves to tease you so, then why should you not do the same?

You run your tongue all over him: exploring every inch, tracing every vein, flicking against the tip, but never quite taking him into your mouth. When you have him whimpering the way you like, you pause just long enough to prompt him to say what he failed to before: "Like when…?"

"When— gods—"

Oh dear, it seems language is lost to him again the very moment your lips close around him. You bask in your triumph, sucking him and swishing him with your tongue, watching the way he watches you. And though at times his eyes flutter shut and his head falls back, his gaze always finds its way back to you.

You keep working him, using your hands to pump him and play with him as your mouth performs its magic, rediscovering all the little things that drive him wild. It feels good to make him feel good. It feels even better knowing how much he truly desires this.

"You want to know what I like best of all?" he manages, eventually, his tone dark and throaty; you hum your enthusiastic assent, and the vibration of it sends a shudder through him.

But the words he says send a shudder through you.

"The sight of you lying utterly helpless beneath me."

Oh. Well. You do love this—relishing his pleasure as you bob your head along his length—but you very much love that, too. You remember well how it felt. How letting him have his way with you could awaken either of his extremes. The vampire at his most feral, or the man underneath, a secret softness reserved only for you.

When all was done between you, you used to worry those tenderest moments were only part of his act. But maybe you were wrong.

Maybe they were always real.

"I've been thinking about you"—you ache more and more for your own satisfaction now though you never stop giving him his—"fantasizing about you ever since that night at the party. Wondering what it would be like to have you in my own bed."

And you know at once his bed is soon to be your destination when he leans forward to give you a gentle nudge. You still, letting him slide out of your mouth with a wet pop.

"And, my love," he whispers into your ear, "I intend to find out. Now."

Far be it from you to deny this beautiful man anything he wants.

Astarion rises to his feet, shrugging off his open shirt and pushing off his trousers. To see him like this, so gorgeously and gloriously nude, leaves you speechless.

"Well, darling?" he says, shamelessly eyeing you up and down. "I assure you you'll have much more fun without your clothes."

Needing no further encouragement, you start to disrobe—but your pace is found wanting and Astarion is all out of patience. He steps forward, tugging and tearing at your layers, eager for you to join him in his state of undress. Sure enough you hear a button clack against the floor, fallen victim to his reckless haste.

"Careful!" you insist, but really, you're more amused than annoyed.

Not to mention aroused.

"Oh, don't you worry, my dear. I'll fix that right up for you."

"You'd better."

"Of course. I'm your personal tailor for life now."

For life. This really is it for you, isn't it? You are his, and he is yours, and for however long you both walk this realm, you will spend your days and your nights together.

You wouldn't have it any other way. And neither would he.

When at last you are beaming and bare before him, Astarion takes a step back for a better look at you.

He stares.

And then he strikes.

You are swept into his arms, into his passion, barely conscious of anything but the feel of skin against skin and lips against lips—though it is abundantly clear he is a man on a mission. He pulls you along in his mad shuffle to reach the bed, sacrificing finesse to gain speed, unable to wait a second longer than necessary to have you.

And indeed he wastes no time in lifting you onto the mattress and pushing you flat on your back beneath him.

"Finally," he growls and he grins, and you're already there bucking on the bed before he has even touched you where you need him. "Finally I have you right where I want you. Right where you belong here in my bed. Right here with me."

The thought of this one day becoming your bed—your home—thrills you almost as much as his impatient touches do.

But, as eager as he is, he still recalls exactly how to excite you. Still gives ample attention to all those places most sensitive and secret. Still treats your body like his sanctuary—a sacred thing to be revered, to be relished, to be worshipped.

And, as he settles between your thighs, you know the pleasure he'll, oh, so willingly provide will be nothing short of divine.

He starts with a single lick—one long and languid glide along your slit—and already, all at once, it's too much, and it's not enough, and it's the most wonderfully perfect sensation you have ever known. It pulls from you a shake and a cry, and in turn, a soft laugh from him as he takes pride in his ability to please you. He licks you a second time, and then a third, and again, and again, until his tongue is lapping at you with a steady fervency.

The bliss he brings you is better than you remember. Countless times you tried to relive your memories—desperate to return to him, if only in daydreams—but your fingers always paled in comparison to the way his tongue dips inside your cunt and flicks against your clit.

Although maybe it is better than ever now that you know he loves you.

You grasp for his hand and he grabs it gladly.

And he certainly knows how to work you well. You writhe about, your moans mewling and wanton, your body wanting more, more, more. The pleasure you crave is close now. You glance at your lover—mussed up curls and pink-tipped ears, his attention focused wholly upon your undoing—and to know that Astarion is the one making you feel this way intensifies the heat coiling in your centre.

A little more is all it will take. You ready yourself for it, your grip tightening, your limbs trembling, your feet bracing against his shoulders. And, when he tongues you with the quick, precise flicks you like best, you yield, wave after wave of pleasure crashing into you. Astarion does not relent, continuing to devour you until you are thoroughly sated and spent.

You lie there, panting hard, basking in the pleasant tingle that still lingers in the aftermath of your orgasm. Gods, you haven't felt this good in ages. And, from the smug smile that begins to spread across his face, it seems he knows it, too.

"Well," Astarion says, licking his lips as he sits up. "You look positively wrecked, darling. And all because of me. You want more, don't you?"

Such self-satisfied bravado. Not that it stops your core from clenching at his suggestion. Nor do you deny him when he shifts over you, cock gliding along your swollen folds, ready to push inside.

Oh, you want more very, very badly.

And so you invite him in. "Yes."

Slowly Astarion sinks into your sex until he is buried to the hilt. A perfect fit. You did always take him exceptionally well. He pulls back, and pushes in, and pulls back, and pushes in, coaxing gasps and moans out of you, ensuring you feel each and every inch of him as he makes love to you.

And it is love, this time. Love that underlies the lust in his eyes. Love that fuels the languorous rhythm of his hips. Love that urges him to lavish you with little kisses.

You return his love in every way you can: touching, holding, caressing, kissing, enjoying all that is nostalgic and all that is new. You roll your hips. You cry his name. Surely the extent of your adoration is made abundantly clear—but, if by any chance all this isn't enough, you sing it out loud: "I love you!"

He lets out a laugh, a soft and elated little sound. "I love you, too."

But, for all his sweetness, so is there carnality, frantic and feral and finally free. He thrusts harder, moves faster, pours all of his passion into every motion he makes. Of course you are more than happy to allow him this indulgence. The addictive friction, the lewd noises of bodies colliding, the delight of being filled so completely—every intoxicating detail feeds that familiar heat building within you.

Sensing your impending release, Astarion lifts his head from where it had been nestled in your neck and draws back just far enough to reach a hand between your legs, rubbing circles into your clit with his thumb. You imagine you must be quite a sight—all shivering and squirming under him as you begin your surrender to bliss—but his stare is locked only upon your eyes.

And it is then that you lose yourself to the euphoria he gives you. Then, that your walls clench around him; then, that you let out a keening cry; then, that pleasure radiates from your core to every extremity of your body. And where you go, Astarion is quick to follow, groaning as he empties himself inside of you.

He collapses on top of you, and you pull him into a tight embrace, vowing you will never, ever let him go again.

You missed him so much. Love him so much. And, to be with him like this, so close and connected, makes you feel that all is finally right in this world.

A comfortable and contented silence falls between you.

Until it breaks.

"I wasn't entirely honest with you before."

His words hang heavy in the air as panic takes hold. What if this was too much, what if this was too fast, what if he did not want any of this at all?

But then, when you feel like you might never catch your breath again, he takes your face into his hands and grins devilishly. "What I really like best of all is that I can take a single glance at you and tell just hopelessly in love with me you are."

Oh, that infuriating and wonderful man.

"Don't scare me like that!" you say, scolding him. But, despite his foolishness—maybe because of his foolishness if you're really being honest with yourself—you lunge forward for a kiss. Then another. And another.

When your lips break apart, and his eyes are again heavy-lidded with lust, he makes his suggestion: "Perhaps I might… find some way to make it up to you?"

You think a moment. And then you grin. "Why, yes, I do happen to have one idea in mind. About the ball… be my plus one?"

He does not roll his eyes, nor does he complain of the tedium he'd have to endure, nor does he make any attempt at denying you. He answers only with a soft smile and a single word.

"Always."

Tag List: @preciouslittlebhaalbae, @roguishcat, @zozoparsnips, @goodgirlgonebard, @amoremagnificentbastard, @hellethil, @xxnashiraxx, @vividiana, @dramatiquechipmunk (join tag list for future fics here!)

Thank you so much for reading!

Special Note: This will be a series on AO3 as well, plus all entries will be crossposted here on Tumblr!

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[dhampling]

the gate girl!dadstarion, 1.5k

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

“Come on. We’ll be late.”

Your hand meets his with a toothy grin.

Astarion teeters a little.

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

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

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

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

He grimaces.

“She’s going to think I’m weird.”

“Is this for her, or you?’

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m being stupid, aren’t I?”

Your eyes roll fondly into your skull.

“Yes. Now, get moving.” 

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

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

“With a coat. And gloves. And…’

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

‘A scarf.’

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

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

-

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

In his head it was always late summer. Sunblushed.

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

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

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

And then, there it is.

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

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

But none have ever seen him in the flesh.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hm?”

“Marta-’ 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They’re all relatively harmless, he decides.

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

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

“Hm?”

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

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

Your eyes narrow at Marta in jest.

Oh.

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

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

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

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

“I- I made the little one a scarf.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

And there she is.

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

Then she sees him.

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

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

“DADDY!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✦

[mona-risms]

whats our opinion on making robin perform without her underwear☺️

-🗑️

I have a Very good opinion about it 😄 bonus points if I'm playing guitar for her 😄 I think I made smth similar to this but with a vibrator on my other account but still

Considering Robin's outfit, first of all, it better be held up by magic or smth bc no underwear = no bra or even pasties and that means Easy Nip Slip. That or she has padding in there idk actually

Ohhhh the way she'd have to restrict her movements or else people would have a view of her pussy. Tbf it's not as if it'd be much of an issue, considering Robin's music style isn't really the energetic sort, but it's the fact that she still has to be carefull bc one swing of her dress and SWOOSH HSR TMZ HAS A FREE ARTICLE TO WRITE

And yk what. I think she'd be into it. The risk is ABSOLUTELY horrifying don't get me wrong, but there's something extra thrilling to her about performing for an intergalactic crowd without panties on. I'm gonna be so honest she probably practiced moving with the 'handicap' in private, which is goofy.. until she's on stage and she knows exactly how to move and swing and manipulate her stage outfits to draw YOUR attention and EVERYONE ELSE's attention separately—nobody else will really know except for you, especially considering everything about her (movement, vocals, etc) is absolutely perfect otherwise

And if she drips onto the stage from being so fucking turned on, she'll call it sweat 🤷‍♀️ though be warned that she's going to definitely jump your bones after the show

(And then taunt you by saying that was easy and you should give her more of a challenge)

(I'd give her a vibrator next time idk about yall)

[moonselune]

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

The brain worms entered my head as well upon reading this

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Tailor!Astarion xf!reader | The Most Beautiful Mannequin

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re incorrigible,” you muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

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

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

[aurorasgate]

midday zayne thoughts - 18+ minors dni pls🩷

hes the type of man to shave your pussy for you. of course this is only if you want to, he has no preference when it comes to that & just wants you to be comfortable. but im talking about when you want it, maybe you missed your wax appointment or just haven’t had time to shave lately & are feeling uncomfortable, maybe even waiting to be intimate with him again till you’re able to do something about it.

but he so easily coaxes you onto the bed where a warm bowl & all the supplies he needs to help you are waiting & he’s so sweet as he tucks a towel underneath your bum before he starts, adoring how flustered you are when spreading your legs for him like this despite the fact you’ve been intimate & similarly posed before.

of course his hands are nothing but skilled & tender as he touches you & he kisses your thigh when you mumble how embarrassing this is but he reassures you that it isn’t embarrassing at all, that it’s apart of his duty to care for you in every way & admits he quite likes this particular way.

& how could he not when he’s making you feel better, comfortable, confident, whichever it might be. it’s only a plus he’s getting to see your glistening pussy that grows wetter the more time passes even though he isn’t teasing you or touching your twitching clit. at least not yet.

[littleoddwriter]

can't stop thinking about Dmitri choosing what Sergei wears for the birthday dinner; especially because he does it in a manner that is so indescribably hot to me. (the way he looks him up and down, smiles almost condescendingly, but is clearly excited, tells him off for wearing what he does and wanting to stay in, almost whining about how it's his birthday and so obviously Sergei has to comply, already having a fitting suit ready at hand, etc.)

and so I'm just over here and absolutely running with that because nobody can tell me that Dmitri wouldn't do that with his partner, as well.

just- Dmitri choosing your outfit when he's going out with you (or for other occasions, or even generally), and you're both loving it because it's casual yet intimate, and it's also a great act of love and affection because in order to dress somebody in a way that makes them comfortable and happy you have to know them so deeply that it's transcending.

[verbenaa]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[admrlthundrbolt]

Still Not Dead (Sevika x Chubby Reader)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After being branded Silco's personal tailor. You weren't sure what may come of the arrangement. But as his right hand woman becomes the frequent go between. Well who were you to complain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hi guys, I'm back at it again. Having recently watched Arcane season two. My love for Sevika was reignited. She finally got more screen time. And oh boy did she shine.

So without further ado, I hope you enjoy.

---------------------------------------------------------

The scowl that had settled on her face had become a constant today. It seemed as if every stop she had made for Silco's sake, was trying to piss her off. A comment here, a challenge to her station there. It really was a shit day. The kind of day she wished the brat had followed her. Maybe then she wouldn't have this seething silence bearing down on her.

But as the last place crossed her mind, her face softened. Sevika usually wasn't the type to grow fond of anyone. It took a lot for a person to worm there way into her heart. Against all odds you had managed to do it. Between your sweet nature and soft body. It was hard to not like you in one way or another.

Stepping into your shop, she took in the scent. Fabric and incense filled her lungs in a pleasant way. You did your best to source new material for your shop. But in the bowels of the lanes that was far and in between. So you made do, between the incense and detailed hand washing. You really put in the work to make what you had great.

This had been what drew Silco to your Tailor shop. Your lovely fabric selection and skill with a needle. It didn't take long for you to become his tailor. Which you didn't argue with. If the King of Zaun wanted you in his fray, you agreed. While it did leave you with a few less customers. It also garnered you protection, along with a steady income. Not a bad deal, especially in the underground.

She hesitated and looked at the entrance of the shop. You weren't in the front. But would she be over stepping boundries if she went through the storage door?

She didn't get long to think about it. Poking your head around the corner, your face lights up. Taking in your flush cheeks and the sweat on your brow. It made her heart flutter for a moment. Seeing you that way made her mind drift to the reasons you could be in that shape. Mentally shaking the thought from her mind, she only caught the end of you sentence.

“perfect timing.” You rushed over and grabbed her arm. Guiding her to the back room with a soft warm grasp. Even as your slightly moist hands wrapped around her arm. She couldn't help but feel admiration. Though this time when you began to speak, she made sure to pay attention.

“You wouldn't believe what they were trying to charge by the yard. But yours truly managed to haggle them down to something more than reasonable. With the new price I happened to buy out their stock." Your free hand gestured wildly. That was another thing she liked. Just how expressive you were. Between the faces or motions you made. You were always showing how you felt. Not putting a wall between yourself and others. The complete opposite to herself really.

“They were kind enough to help me load it on the cart. But in my excitement I didn't consider the unloading. Really you would be a lifesaver if you'd lend a hand.” Bringing her out the back entrance, you stopped by an over stuffed cart. Staring up at her hopefully, you gave her a sheepish smile. “If you don't mind that is.”

Her face burned with a heated flush. Thankful for her darker complexion, she nodded her head. “Of course. It shouldn't take long.” Scooping reams of fabric under each arm. She easily hefted the considerable weight and carried it inside.

You rushed after her, stuttering. “Oooh, you don't have to burden yourself with so many.” You weren't sure what the warmth coating your face was from at this point. While you wanted to blame it on the few spools of cloth you had managed to carry. That didn't stop you from admiring the taut muscle that covered her arm. Or the way her back flexed when she placed the textiles in you storage area. In less time than you had been struggling. She had emptied the entire cart, without even breaking a sweat. A small part of you was jealous. While a much larger part was singing her praises.

“Really, you don't know how long that would have taken me. Is there anything I can do to thank you.”

Shaking her head, a small smile settled on her face. “I was headed here anyway. So it was no problem.” She wanted to add on ‘especially for you'. But her walls wouldn't let the words leave her mouth. Feelings like that were better locked away.

Your eyes widened in remembrance. “Oh right, Silco's order." Darting over to a rack, you gathered a few racks. “The shirts have been reinforced with a layer of wool. I know little Jinx is rough on clothes. Even if they're not her own."

She gazed down at your ernest smiling expression. Wishing she was a bit more selfish and could indulge in your company a bit more. Still your comment made a chuckle squeeze out of her chest. “While that's true, Jinx isn't as little as you remember her.”

Your smile dimmed a touch. “I wish they would come around more. But it's always a joy to spend time with you.” Gazing up at her through your lashes, your smile brightened once more.

Stumbling to gather the clothing, she agreed. Swiftly making her way out of your shop. Heart pounding all the while.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It wasn't long before she was back in your store. Berating herself all the way at what a fool she was the last trip. But there was no way she would explain how much of an idiot she was to Silco. No, that would give him weeks, if not years, of material to tease her with. They may be close, but that didn't mean she wanted him involved in her love life. As nonexistent as it was.

Still under his orders she was stepping through your door once again. The upper crust of the Zuanites were throwing a gala of sorts. And he expected her by his side. Even if these events were supposed to be peaceful affairs. It didn't hurt to have some muscle with you.

Entering your shop, her heart leapted into her throat. There you were, bent over a pile of fabric. Your plump bottom wiggling enticingly in the air. Shifting through the textiles for something just out of reach. She gave herself only a moment to ogle the scene before her. Then cleared her throat.

With an exclamation, you whirled around in surprise. Holding a hand to your chest, you sighed in relief. There were a lot worst people that could walk in on you in that position. Fanning a hand towards your full face, you made your way to her.

She was tall, broad, and imposing as ever. But that only made the butterflies in your stomach flutter all the same. Between the smell of cigars, oil, and something uniquely her. You had to hide the shiver that ran down your spine.

Wrapping her arm within your own, a habit it seemed. You maneuver her to the back room. “I can't wait to work with you. Really I have so many ideas. It will be quite the challenge to narrow it down to one.”

Once again you had swept her up in your whirlwind. Your warmth and casual compassion flowing over her in a pleasent wave. She welcomed you in like the old friend she wishes she was. It would have been overwhelming with anyone else. But not you, never you.

Shifting her arm a bit, to make it a more comfortable position for yourself. She noticed the way your grip tightened over the newly flexed muscles. Meeting you gaze, one side of her mouth lifts in a crooked grin. “I'm sure you'll make the best choice.” Her ego skyrocketed at the flush that coated your plush cheeks.

The afternoon was filled with measurements and light conversation. It seemed as if both of you wanted to avoid the more political subject at hand. More and more enforcers were showing up in Zuan. It was only a matter of time before blood was spilled.

Instead you focus on the moment and soaked in one another's company. You may have warded away the silence with your chatter. But everytime she had anything to say, you listened whole heartedly. And as you basked in the gentle lull of companionship. The both of you grew closer, emotionally and physically.

You draped the deep red fabric against her skin. You knew the color was a favorite of hers. She never traveled with her crimson cloak. But the rich color you had picked brought out her eyes so well. On top of the embroidered golden details. It made for a sight that got your blood rushing.

Her pulse was pounding. Every touch of your soft talented fingers made her stomach clench. She was sure that you could feel the excess heat coming from her skin. Gazing down at the way you would contort your plush body to work. It was mesmerizing. It caused an anger to well within herself. How many times had Silco offered to get her something made by you. But it made this moment all the sweeter.

Even through all the sensations and feelings. She couldn't help but admire your talent. The way you pinned the fabric upon her. It was something that boggled her. Every adjustment making the textiles transform into a piece of proper clothing.

As you smooth the fabric over her prosthetic arm, she smiled. You gave it just as much respect as the rest of her body. It was something she wasn't used to. Being treated so human, rather than regarded as a weapon. You really were special.

“How did you end up here?” It had slipped out of her mouth. She watched your widening eye shoot up to her own. A somber smile slid into place on your face. Even if it was a sour emotion, she found it still beautiful on you.

Sliding the garment around her waist, you pinned it in a more flattering position. “No matter how hard you work…. It doesn't make a difference if you come from poor beginnings.” The emotions that flashed through your eyes at the statement was heart breaking. But a feeling she was all to familiar with. The people that lived in Piltover wouldn't give you a chance if you came from Zuan.

Then in only a moment, you stood taller and squared your shoulders. “It's there loss though. Haven't you heard, the King of the Underground says I'm the best tailor around.” And with that your usually bright smile returned. Even if it was a bit forced at the corners.

In that moment all of Sevika's reservations began to melt away. You were a pillar of beautiful compassion. This gorgeous being of grace and hospitality. Leaning towards your welcoming aura, she lowered her head forwards. Glancing between your eyes and lips. Her heart jumped furiously when you tilted your head up. Eyes fluttering shut, as you craned towards her lips.

The two of you a mere breathe away, when your door slammed open. “Sevika, Silco needs you.” Jinx's shrill voice rang out in the small shop. Causing both of you to jerk back, as if her voice had shocked the two of you. Making her way to the back, poking and prodding at things along the way. She grinned at your fast hands taking the unfinished clothes off the bruiser. Her smile only widening at the glare that the tall woman sent her way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stumbling her way to your shop. Her breath came out in heavy pants. If she could just see you, it would be OK. This was the lie she told herself. On repeat in her mind. It was the fabrication that kept her from breaking.

Slamming her hand against your shop door. Her last shred of hope hinging on you opening the door.

Swinging it open, you blinked up at her in surprise. She had never visited this late. It was honestly lucky for her that you had fallen asleep at your desk. But as your eyes focused on her, you realized what shape she was in. She was covered in scraps and bruises. Hair messy and out of it's usual half up style. The strands hang, limp and loose in her angular face. And most worrying of all, her mechanical arm was missing.

Putting a hand on her shoulder, you meant to usher her inside. But the moment your soft hand graced her skin. She crumpled into your plush chest. Gathering her as well as you could into your arms. You shut the door with a bump of your foot.

The two of you colapse to the floor, barely out of the entryway. Shuffling her into a bit of a more comfortable position. You threaded your fingers gently through her disheveled locks.

The moment you tucked yourself around her, the damn broke. Tears poured unfettered from her aching eyes.

Gripping you tighter, her voice quivered. “He's dead. Silco is….” She burried her face into your neck. Unable to finish the statement. Not wanting to deal with your expression at the admission. She knew you cared for him as more of a friend than a client.

Your eyes filled with tears. But you didn't pay them any attention as you held her firmly. Cupping her face in your hands, you met her gaze. The sincere look you gave her sent another bout of sobs out of her chest. “We'll get through this. Silco knows how strong you are. But you can lean on me as much as you need.”

She couldn't stand it. Leaning all of her weight on you. Her wet salty lips met your own. Molding together in a slow deliberate fashion. You pulled each other closer, fitting yourself’s together.

Forhead resting against yours, she breathed heavily. “You're the only good thing I have left in this world.”

The tears that tracked down your face were an odd mixture of grief and happiness. Crashing your mouth back on hers. You allowed all your pent up emotions to flow into the kiss.

She met you with the same ferocity. Wishing that he could be there to say ‘I told you so’. But knowing that having you in her arms, pressed into her. Was enough to make her think of a better future.

[silcoitus]

Tailor-Made (Chp 19)

Previous chapter: Chapter 18

Tailor-Made Masterlist

Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI 

Chapter tags: Silco x Fem!Reader, Reader-Insert, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Set between Acts 1 and 2 of Arcane, hurt/comfort, fluff; vaginal fingering; hand job; blow job;

Chapter word count: 5.2k

Chapter Beta Readers: @medic-simp

Total word count: 68k

The weekend somehow manages to both drag on and speed by; short, frantic bursts of chaos and bustling activity interspersed with dull, quiet lulls that have you almost falling asleep at the register. The only thing that manages to keep you awake during those brief moments of peace is the thought of seeing Silco again come Monday.

Seated at your stool, you look over at your dress form. Silco’s vest has come along nicely; you’ve got all the important base pieces done and now just need to finish all the finer details. The gold trim is sure to take you some time as you’ve decided to add it by hand, wanting to make sure it looks absolutely perfect. And while you have plenty of notions and enclosures from your Topside shopping trip haul, you’re still playing around with them and figuring out what pieces to incorporate and which to save for a future garment. 

Gods, I hope he likes the progress.

Read Chapter 19—Eager to Please on AO3

Stay tuned for Chapter 20!

Taglist: @averagecrastinator @mazikomo @writingmysanity @insult-2-injury @constantfragmentation @ariaud @jennrosefx @steponmesilco @leave-me-alone-silco @whatisafandom @violet-19999 @juicboxd @you-never-talk @noposwe @toripandashady @sirenofzaun @22carolina08 @roxnpens @commanderblood @Medic-Simp @cthezaunite @verdant-onyx @ursawastricked @artwithvivien @edlix @lackofhonor @spoczkot @witchypandamonium @lotus-99 @robin-the-enby @blissfulip @all-that-we-hope-to-be @zaunite-leo @silvia-elaine-hestia @nyx2021 @cccandynecklaces @another-batkid @toogaytofunctiondangit @rinkatai @mollymauksboi @pinklunarprincess @skeppy-kaxel | @rhynestonez @glitterandgoldfinds @pinkrose1422 @cloudroomblog @dad-dumpster @jennithejester @redlovett @kleinnac @quack-quack-snacks @lemononalilypad @aikoiya @deliriousfics @plufic @quinn-grey @speeb @sarynnah @k0iiz @anon-nee @helaenabugmom @ethnicallymoral @xiller0

[thedovesaredying]

Imagine, Mafia Boss Kyle taking a liking to the sweet thing serving behind the bar of an associate's club. He's supposed to be there to meet with his old mentor, Price, to discuss an arrangement that will benefit them both. Price has one of his expensive cigars between his lips, lazily puffing at the smoke like an old dragon as he listens to the other man spout off his terms.

Normally, Kyle would be calmly sipping at his provided drink while keeping his mind laser focused on the conversation happening around him. Instead, his eyes track your every movement, how you so easily perform your job while laughing along with each patron and gracing them with your brilliant smile.

But someone like you deserves much better than to be serving drinks to common, everyday people. You should be sat in his lap looking pretty while he feeds you straight from his fingertips and caresses your skin with his lips.

The deal wraps up quickly, with both Price and the other man agreeing to the proposed terms. Kyle's approval is all that's left for everything to go ahead, and he gives it happily, with one minor alteration to the deal.

Hopefully you won't be too upset about needing to travel to his side of town for your new position.

[arafilez]

੭୧ ⼂ [ 02:25 ] ﹗

ー☆ㅤㅤ [ khj x fem!reader ] ㅤ੭𓂃 ㅤfluff, estb rl, pg13 ㅤ warnings afterthought of love, tailored but it's not necessary to read that ㅤ﹢ㅤ0.4k wc

The clock ticks on your desk as you clutch your head in slight frustration staring at the numerous emails from your employees still left to be addressed. Your head hurts lightly but you settle your mind as you decide to start by opening the one from Xu Minghao, the head designer of his department.

Before you can click on it a familiar scent fills the room and you turn your head looking at Hongjoong who is currently rubbing his eyes in a futile attempt to keep them open. You watch him as he adjusts his eyes and a frown etches his face making a sheepish smile grow on yours.

“You said you would sleep an hour ago,” you grimace at his tone and watch him walk towards you and stare at you with questioning eyes. You stick your tongue out at him despising how the man can function so well even after waking up from a deep sleep.

He slaps your hand lightly as it is about to touch the keyboard making you slap his arm in return and is instantly met with a pair of judgmental eyes and you sigh in defeat. Hongjoong relaxes as soon as he sees you closing the tabs before he drags you to your shared bedroom.

You finish your basic night routine and as soon as your body hits the mattress sleep overtakes your features. You hum in content as Hongjoong’s hands round along your waist pulling you closer to him and you hear him say, “I miss you so much and the only thing you miss is work.”

You giggle lightly and look up at his pouty and squished face before pecking him on the lips saying, “You weren’t saying this last week when you drew designs till four in the morning.” He groans lightly and retaliates, “Do you always have to disagree with me?”

“No, but it’s fun,” your body vibrates from your silent giggles and Hongjoong breaks out in a soft smile before pecking your nose and whispering, “Sleep you workaholic.” You pout lightly at his sentence and he presses a kiss on your lips taking you by surprise. Your cheeks grow warm in his response and you kiss him back loving the sweet taste encasing your mouth.

As soon as he pulls away you get shy, hiding your face in his chest, giggling and he chuckles at your adorable behaviour, his hand running over the small of your back. He loves how you still get all flustered from the softest kisses and will never be tired of it.

He can never get enough of you.

ー☆ㅤㅤ [ ara's notes ] ㅤ੭𓂃 ㅤi think this couple has a special place in my heart oml ㅤ𓏧ㅤ library ㅤ atz shelfㅤ navi

੭ 𝅄ㅤ ꒰ TAGLIST ꒱ ㅤ⏤ㅤ @haneagerr @weird-bookworm @lvlystars ㅤ𓏧ㅤ fill this or comment or ask to be added.

ㅤㅤ(ㅤㅤ© arafilez on tumblrㅤㅤ)

[djljpanda]

Can we have more poly asmo and fizz with blitzs younger brother.

This time blitz's brother is a tailor and they love to make different types of clothing 💓🎀

Tailor Boyfriend

Asmodeus X Fizzarolli X M!Reader

A/n: Reader Is Blitzo Younger Brother

You had gotten into fashion at a young age as you fell in love with the costumes in the cirus

At first you would stitch up any ripped clothing or make whole new ones

You found it enjoyable and so did everyone else seeing how you have a talent

Even after everything you became one of the biggest fashion designers in Hell

Even making the upper class appeariciate your skills and personally seeking you out

But by that reason that's how you got in touch with Fizz (again) and Ozzie

I think Ozzie and Fizz find it cute when you ramble about facts about fashion

Also love seeing your sketches

You do make custom outfits for your boyfriends and they love it and would tease you as they always fit and you know what colors suit them the best

Asmodeus one time asked you if you can help design some outfits for his succubus workers and with allot of time you made those outfits you can see the succubus were in the latest episode

With your skills of sewing you would help bandage Fizz up when he would get hurt

Matching outfits for all of you for different events

I would say Ozzie and Fizz wouldn't mind being your model as you try on new fabrics and different sewing techniques

I believe those two would keep the magazines with you or your outfits on them or if it's just one picture they would cut it out feeling proud of you

Fizz and Ozzie will ask for some lewd outfits which they have many that are from you even asking you to make some for roleplaying

Overall Ozzie and Fizz love your work and love how big your name has gotten in Hell

[moonselune]

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

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

Tailor!Astarion x f!reader | Tailored to Perfection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[silcoitus]

Tailor-Made (Chp 18)

Previous chapter: Chapter 17

Tailor-Made Masterlist

Rating: Explicit. Minors DNI 

Chapter tags: Silco x Fem!Reader, Reader-Insert, Eventual Smut, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Set between Acts 1 and 2 of Arcane, hurt/comfort, fluff

Chapter word count: 5.3k

Chapter Beta Readers: @juniper-sunny @anon-nee

Total word count: 63k

The following day, you can't stop thinking about Silco.

As you get changed in the morning. While you're cooking breakfast. As you wash the dishes. 

No matter what you do, you can't get him out of your mind. The tenderness of his lips. The firmness of his chest. The pull of his hands.

But it's not just the way he makes you feel, the attraction you feel to him physically.

The softness of his voice when he speaks to Jinx. The clear concern and affection he holds for her. The fact he took her in in the first place. 

You had stopped the two of you from progressing further, fearful that he would turn out to just be another Nico. But he's already shown with his words and actions that he's not like your ex.

Would it be so bad? If you enjoyed yourself?

Read Chapter 18—Slowly but Surely on AO3

Read Chapter 19 here!

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