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astarionsblueundies · 4 months

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A scene from the wip fic, in which Astarion sees what he can do about making the process of feeding a little more comfortable for his generous friend, Ashe.

Pairing: Tav/Astarion Rating: idk, not E Word Count: ~5,700

(For context, this is after the Act I Gur encounter. Astarion has been consistently feeding on Ashe, but they've otherwise not outwardly expressed any romantic interest apart from his incessant flirting, which Ashe can't trust since he does it with anyone. She's positive her crush on him is quite unrequited.)

Beside the crackling fire, a comfortable silence settles over camp as everyone winds down from a long day of unfortunate but necessary violence and deception. Ashe still doesn’t feel cut out for these things, but she bumbles her way through them nevertheless, and she hasn’t died yet—not permanently, anyway.

Bumbling is better than dead, she supposes.

With another sunset come and gone, she sits cross-legged on her bedroll, fiddling with the corner of a worn page as she reads a fun little tale about life in The Nine Hells. She wasn’t expecting a slice-of-life story when she looted the book off an infernal corpse, but it’s been page-turningly delightful so far.

Astarion, on the bedroll adjacent to her, flips through his usual much larger and dustier tome. Ashe doubts his is nearly as fun, but she’s curious about it all the same. Someday she’ll ask about it, but for now she’s engrossed in reading about how much chain devils enjoy karaoke.

While some of her other companions usually take advantage of the fire’s warmth to bed down, it looks like it’s just the two of them tonight. The air is still quite warm despite the night’s light breeze, so it seems that most are sticking to their tents.

Ashe doesn’t have one for whatever reason, so fireside it is for her.

Astarion always chooses fireside as well. He hasn’t said so explicitly, but Ashe suspects he enjoys the heat in the same way a lizard might. She’s positive he wouldn’t appreciate the comparison, so she’s kept this hypothesis to herself.

As the hour grows late and Ashe’s eyelids grow heavy, all is peaceful for a single, rare moment. So much so that even the low, sudden hum of Astarion’s voice startles her. “I saw that, you know,” he says.

Ashe snaps up from her book, brows knitting together as she meets his gaze, which is startlingly on her, by the way. She wonders how long it’s been like that. “Wh-what?”

He barely elaborates, “Earlier.”

She blinks, clearing her throat. “Sorry, let me rephrase that… what?”

“Back there with the Gur,” he elaborates more with an incline of his head. “That little move you made—stepping in front of me like some sort of bodyguard.”

“I—” she stalls out, tamping down the wave of heat rushing to her cheeks. He wasn’t supposed to pick up on that. Clearing her throat, she gathers her wits about her and blusters out what she considers a very reasonable retort. “Well of course I did. He was after you. What did you expect, that I’d just step aside and hand you over?”

“Oh, don’t make it sound so ridiculous. I’m sure it’d be tempting for some,” he muses, waving his hand about in the air, “on a platter even.”

“Please. I doubt they even make platters that big. Be reasonable, Astarion,” Ashe scoffs, trying to keep the amusement from her voice as she imagines an entire Astarion folded up cartoonishly on an oversized platter with an apple stuffed into his mouth. A little garnish on his hiney. “Regardless, no. It wasn’t all that tempting. Despite your concerning penchant for chaos, I happen to want to keep you around. So yes, I stepped between you two.”

“Mm. I’m not sure if I should be flattered or insulted, dear.” Judging by the look on his face, it’s definitely the former. He loves this. “You don’t think I can handle a single Gur?”

She gives him a tired look. “It’s not about that.”

“No? Do tell. What’s it about then?” Of course he wants her to indulge him.

“I-I don’t know, Astarion,” she huffs, marking her page with a dog-eared fold and clapping the book shut in her lap. “I didn’t really think about it, I just kinda moved, okay?”

Did she mention he loves this?

His brow arches and his face settles into something charmingly arrogant–which is annoying, by the way.

“Oh? Feeling a bit protective, are we?”

To deny it outright would be silly at this point. Best to just be difficult about it, Ashe decides.

She takes a beat to stare before clicking her tongue. “Perhaps. Is that acceptable to you?” she asks, feigning concern like she’s just performed some sort of grave clerical error. “I can certainly refrain from all protective or otherwise favorable behaviors towards you in the future, if you so wish.”

He smiles and lingers an amused look on her. “No, no. I suppose I’ll allow it.”

“My, so very gracious of you. Thank you, Astarion. Thank you so much for letting me shield you from monster hunters and whatever other scary things might come crawling after you.”

“You’re most welcome, darling,” he hums, looking pleased as blood punch with himself. “I suppose it was rather cute, in a way. You volunteering to be my darling little meatshield.”

“Yes, well, just so you know, if a Shadowheart hunter showed up, I’d have stepped in front of her too. There are plenty of people I would meatshield.”

“Ah,” he pouts—dramatically so, “and for a moment there you had me thinking I was special.”

“Oh, I could tell. Hence my clarification.” With a shake of her head, she shrugs and lets out an overly apologetic sigh. “I’m sorry to say, Astarion, but you’re entirely ordinary. Not special. Boring even. It simply can’t be helped.”

“Boring,” he balks with an incredulous laugh before angling his head to tip low. Like this, his crimson eyes glint playfully in the shadow of his brow as he levels a dangerous look at her. A certain predatory quality seeps into his words, smooth and low. “Do you find it dull whenever my teeth sink into your neck as you slumber, dear?”

“Dull? Oh, no. No, I find that quite sharp, actually,” Ashe retorts, blinking at him innocently, tamping down an expectant little smile because she knows just how much he loves a stupid play on words.

And by ‘loves’ she means ‘despises eternally’.

He does indeed look offended, which pleases her greatly. “You think yourself pretty clever, don’t you?”

She hums thoughtfully. “I’d consider myself a medium amount of clever, depending on the day. Why do you ask? Oh dear,” she clutches her hypothetical pearls, “was that too close to a pun for your liking?”

“Entirely,” he deadpans, not quite keeping his smirk at bay.

“I’ll admit, it was low-hanging fruit. I was feeling a bit audacious. In my defense, you do make it fun.”

“So my suffering amuses you, does it?”

“Only when I inflict it,” Ashe clarifies. “Anyone else will be immolated, of course.”

“I see. Well,” he pauses, fingers idly pulling across and playing with his bottom lip as he watches her intently, clearly enjoying himself in their little back-and-forth, “any more of this rampant audacity and I may have to take drastic measures. Best be careful, darling.”

“Oh, that shouldn’t be necessary,” she assures with the utmost confidence and a pat of the book in her lap. “I think I got it out of my system. I doubt I’ll blight this world with another pun until tomorrow morning at least.”

“Do try then, dear,” he says, his tenor slipping into something dreadfully concerned. “I’d hate to have to bleed you dry tonight.”

“Ah, the price of a pun?”

“Steep, I’m afraid. Delicious too, but that’s beside the point.”

With a soft smile, she just looks him over for a thoughtful moment. “You know, Astarion, I will give you this.” He holds her gaze with amused anticipation and a raised brow. “That truly is a remarkable talent you have—making death threats sound so very charming.”

“Mm, you flatter me, dear. My years of experience are finally paying off.”

“Yeah, yeah—masterful delivery,” she yawns, setting her book aside and tugging off her outer layer of clothing to get ready for bed. The shirt that remains beneath is a simple cotton tank top. It reveals her neck and the faintest of wounds from the night before—mostly healed now due to a cure wounds cast on her during the day’s battles.

She can practically feel the weight of his gaze on it though. How it lingers there like he’s counting the beat of her pulse, now more rapid than it had been only a moment ago. As much as she enjoys and has grown comfortable with his company, he still manages to make her nervous with just a look sometimes.

Earlier in the evening she’d told him he could ‘visit’ her that night, and he graciously took her up on the offer as he always does.

With his very elven lineage, he doesn’t really sleep. He simply rests in a state of deep meditation for about four or so hours, and gets up refreshed, good as new—she’s jealous, by the way. It’s usually at that point in the night that he wakes her, by way of opening a vein. Not the most pleasant of wakeups, she’ll admit.

He’s gotten much better at knowing when enough is enough at least. Credit where credit is due, or something.

“Did you want to just do this now?” Ashe hesitates to ask, looking over at him. She knows it’s early, but this way she can sleep through the night unbitten. This way, she can be more aware during it.

Why she wants to be is something she doesn’t dwell on too much. The answer might prove concerning on a personal level. Ashe likes to ignore that level.

“Hm?” He blinks, humming in questioning like he didn’t quite catch what she said, mind elsewhere.

Her small fingers climb up her shoulder and find the strap of her tank top. She pulls it to the side and lolls her head the opposite direction, neck elongating. A delicate curve with a thumping pulse. Keeping her eyes on him—tired as they are—she says, “I just figured now seemed as good a time as any? The camp is quiet. You… did want to feed, didn’t you?”

Realization quickly gives way to a look of heady satisfaction on Astarion. Anticipation. She is offering herself to him, albeit early, and the expression on his face alone tells her yes, he’s appreciative of this. “Of course, of course, far be it for me to deny your… generosity. I was simply taken aback by the early hour is all.”

“I—I mean it’s not a big deal either way,” she says quickly. “If you wanted to wait for some reason, that’s fine. I just figured since everyone seems to be asleep or occupied anyway, we could just do it now. Sometimes waking up like that can be, mm… a little jarring?”

“Oh?” This actually puts a crease between his brow as his eyes flit over her. It’s almost unnerving, the rare occasions his concern seems genuine like this.

“Which is fine!” Ashe fumbles to assure. “It’s nothing I haven’t agreed to.”

His head tilts to the side, eyes appraising her carefully now. Studying her. “Should I be going about it differently, darling?”

“I… I don’t know… maybe? I wouldn’t mind trying something else, anyway,” she admits, picking at her cuticles. “I-I think if I were a little more alert when you actually bit me, it might be less, erm, alarming?”

“Well, I certainly don’t mean for you to be awoken in a fright. I’ve only done it the way I have for the sake of discretion and timeliness for you, but I’m more than happy to… revise the process—with your input, of course.”

“Okay,” Ashe agrees. “Thank you, I—yeah, we can try that.”

“Good.” He smiles. “Now, how would you like me to go about it then?”

Ashe blinks at him. “I—" Her brain is entirely, annoyingly blank. As it turns out, knowing what she doesn’t want and knowing what she does want are two very different things. “I’m… not sure...?”

Astarion hums in consideration, gears turning behind those luminous eyes of his. “Well, how about this,” he proposes, setting his own book aside. “Why don’t you lie down. Get yourself all cozy and relaxed as if you were asleep, and we can work through some options together. I do have some thoughts. Think of it as a little… oh, I don’t know, a roleplay exercise.”

“A-Alright,” she agrees with a nod, swallowing thickly as she lies back, not entirely sure what he means, but trusts that he knows what he’s doing. “Yeah. That’s—okay, yeah. That sounds like a good idea, I think.”

“You’re going to hurt my ego sounding so surprised like that, you know.” He gives her a chastising look as he moves languidly to position himself over her.

She’d normally have something borderline rude and/or snappy to retort with. Your ego is that fragile, is it? But right now, he’s leaning far too close for her brain to function on that level. “Sorry,” is all she manages in a whisper, not quite able to look him in the eye.

He lets a breath of a laugh from his nose, looking down at her. “Not to criticize your form, dear, but I’ve seen split lumber more relaxed than this.”

“I’m sorry—I just,” she huffs, grumbly in her admission, “You’re making me nervous. I don’t know.”

“Nervous?” he chuckles quietly, settling in even closer. “There’s no need for that. Your job is simple. I’ll be making some… suggestions, and all your pretty little self needs to do is decide if they suit your liking.”

Her mouth slants to the side as she chews on her cheek, regarding him and not feeling like he’s being terribly disingenuous right now, which is nice. “That’s all?” she questions.

“That’s all. You have my word.”

“Okay,” she breathes, letting the tension leave her as best she can.

“Much better. Now, you don’t normally sleep with your eyes open, if I recall correctly?”

After a quick indignant huff, she shuts her eyes.

Leaning over her, he keeps himself propped up. “Keep them closed,” he murmurs. “For as long as you think you’d stay asleep, keep them closed, darling.”

She says nothing, just continues to lie still in response. The small, approving hum in his throat makes her think it’s the correct response.

“Now…” he whispers, shifting to hover over her even more. “What if I let you know that I was here like this… with a little gentle pressure.” His movements have a cat-like grace as he swings a leg over her, his knee finding purchase in the space between hers. He settles atop her with a saccharine promise, “Nothing painful. Just my body to yours.”

Ashe does all she can to stay calm, lips pressed together tightly, a measured breath shaking out of her nose. Because right now his thigh presses to a spot between her legs and it’s talking all of her to resist the instinct to move against it. To push her hips up and find relief on that leather-clad thigh of his.

A way to ease the fire suddenly burning inside her.

“Well?” Astarion murmurs, and his face is so close to her ear now. “Are we okay with this so far?”

Ashe has to swallow before deciding to just nod. She worries too much about how she’ll sound. What her voice might give away.

“Good,” he purrs, lips just ghosting over the shell of her ear. “You know, I usually try to stay off you as much as possible, but this position gives me much better leverage.”

He takes a moment to inhale slowly. Deeply. Is he… smelling her? If so, the satisfied exhale he looses makes her think he likes it. Nosing at the crook of her jaw, he coaxes it to tilt to the side, leaving her neck undeniably exposed to him.

“There,” he breathes, “that’s perfect.”

Ashe can’t help it. She cracks her eyes open to look up at him. He’s staring down at her just as she suspected, and a smirk crawls across his face as he notices her peek.

“Surely that wasn’t enough to wake you yet, my dear,” he questions.

“I… don’t know.” Her voice is small and airy. Her tongue moves behind her lips in an attempt to find to moisture.

“Well then,” he contemplates aloud, eyes like perfect jewels as the reflection of embers shine within them. “I suppose I’ll just have to continue until you do, hm?”

Her stare latches onto his for a moment longer, wondering what exactly she’s getting herself into, and moreover, if it’s worth it. With a reluctant nod she apparently decides it is, closing her eyes once again.

“Here’s what I’m thinking…” Astarion dips down. She can feel each whisper of breath against the thin skin of her neck. “I’ll linger here like this. Let you feel my weight. Let it slowly rouse you.” He settles further as if to make a point and—

Gods… Gods above, does he realize where his thigh is? Can he understand what it’s doing to her?

He continues on as if he doesn’t, she’s not so sure about that though. There’s something dark in his voice that straddles the line of hunger and fed. Something insatiable.

“Then… I’ll let you know where I’ll be biting you. Mark the spot, so to speak… no surprises, on my word.” Astarion leans in, hovering over the curve of her neck. Her breathing halts entirely as she waits in nervous anticipation. His tenor sinks low, hardly even a whisper, “Right here, darling.” He punctuates it with a slow, sweet press of his lips to her rabbiting pulse.

And this… this is the thing that makes her breath hitch.

It’s slight. She keeps it contained in her nose, holding it there tensely. Her hand moves on its own, twitching to grab at his arm as if to steady herself, despite laying flat and still already.

His lips quirk at this. She can feel them against her, stretching into a smarmy little smirk like he’s just won a bet.

He lingers a moment like this—his cool skin somehow searing like a hot brand against her—and pulls away ever so slightly. “That’s good, just like that, darling,” he murmurs, the simple praise flooding her face and, um, other areas… with a rush of heat. “You hold onto me and keep quiet. I’ll go on, and… once you feel awake. Once you feel… ready for me,” his voice dips into this low, almost-purr, “you just give my arm a squeeze. That’ll be our signal.”

Ashe takes a deep breath through her nose. For a moment she thinks it’s fine. She can do this. Tamp down whatever bodily reactions are rapidly swelling within her. Sort them out later. Alone.

But then he moves back in and opens his mouth against her neck and—

Composure be damned.

The gentle scrape of canines raises goosebumps across her flesh like brail, and she prays he cannot read whatever it says about her. It runs an undeniable shiver down her spine that she only manages to partially subdue and—ah, his tongue, what the hells is his tongue doing?!

It presses to her pulse unabashedly. Flattens soft and lavs it as if begging for entry. Priming her.

Ashe’s breath stutters out in such a way that makes her chest jump with erratic little spasms. She tries so hard to subdue them with only mediocre success.

His teeth tease at what’s to come as he continues to lavish her neck with sweet, suckling affections. It’s like he’s drinking from her already, but no skin is broken yet. This part isn’t for him.

It’s as he said, he’s just marking the spot.

She nearly lets slip a hot, panting breath. Nearly.

Don’t make this weird. Don’t make this weird. Don’t make this weird.

Her lips press into a tight line, forcing a stuttering exhale from her nose instead. No embarrassing sounds allowed. No, sir. She is sleeping—or pretending to anyway—not panting like a dog in heat, thank you very much.

Oh, but it’s taking everything. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he seems amused by her resistance. Like she’s just posed a fun, unexpected challenge, and oh, how he loves a challenge.

Humming low and quiet against her, he sounds coaxing. Soothing. He sucks and nips at her flesh tenderly like he knows she’s fighting to stay in control, and he wants to assure her it’s just fine to lose it.

With a hand laid on his bicep, her fingers curl around it, but don’t quite grasp. She should though, right? Squeeze him? Surely him sucking on her neck like this would be enough to rouse her, as he would say, then he can proceed to drink and they can be done.

But Gods, she doesn’t want to be done.

The way his body feels pressed to hers... His thigh still tempting her hips to roll up just to see what it would feel like. How very kind he’s being with that tongue that so often only gives a lashing.

She’s never felt a thing like this.

So she should stop him, yeah, but she doesn’t. It’s a selfish thing, to want more of this honeyed feeling pooling deep in her abdomen and spreading warm throughout. But he’s always telling her to be more selfish, so….

The weight of his body blankets her even more. Even heavier. He settles atop her further. It should be suffocating, but instead it feels… safe?

Is that stupid? Feeling especially safe beneath the vampire spawn charlaton about to feed from her?

Yeah, probably. But it doesn’t matter because just then he shifts. His thigh rubs deliciously against the heat between her legs and—ah… ahm—

She realizes with no small amount of horror that this little slip of a noise, barely a breath on the breeze, has come from her.

Worse yet, her hips move on their own, tip up to meet the broad plane of his thigh without so much as a fleeting thought. It’s a shy response. Experimental. A barely-there lift of her hips, just wondering at how it might feel.

Very good, by the way.

By the Gods, she needs to get a hold of herself. Shoot some frantic prayers to Tymora. If Ashe is lucky, Astarion will just assume all that was simply her, y’know, adjusting herself or something. As one does. All normal things.

And if she’s really lucky, she won’t do it again.

The last thing she needs is Astarion realizing the intensity of this ridiculous, unrequited crush she has on him. The absolute fool she is for him. How his mouth humming and lapping at her neck has all but unraveled her and so badly does she want to just unseal her lips and let his name fall from them.

Her hand grips his arm in a panic, suddenly in fear of what else her body might do if she doesn’t stop this.

That’s the signal. She knows that he knows because his ministrations come to a pause.

“Yes?” He pulls off enough to whisper against her neck and she feels his absence with a longing ache. “Feeling ready now, are we? Present and in control of our faculties?”

She wants to scoff. He’s awfully presumptuous about her stupid faculties. She certainly wouldn’t consider herself in control of much. Precisely why she needs him to proceed, like, now.

Squeezing at his arm once more, her fingertips sink into his lean muscle and stay like a vice grip, holding tightly in both confirmation and anticipation.

While her neck is still stretched out for him, her head tipped back and angled away for ease of access, she manages to shakily nod.

“I’d like to hear you say it, darling,” he murmurs low. “Just this once. Just to be sure. I only need to hear you say ‘yes’.”

Oh, of course he’s going to make her speak.

He really is evil.

As if her lips haven’t been sealed tight in a desperate attempt to keep any and all noises held at bay. After a thick, audible swallow, she manages to breathe out a flimsy, “Y-yes,” that sounds just as pathetic as she feared.

No time to dwell on it. There’s only a flicker of a second between her consent and his mouth bearing down on her once more. This part she knows well enough.

Or does she?

It’s different this time. He’s not chomping down on her like it’s a freaking timed trial. Some task to cross off his to-do list.

No, his teeth sink.

They ease into her languidly, like she’s something to savor tonight.

The pain is still there, sure, but she’s ready for that. What she’s not ready for is what comes with it—or more accurately, what far overshadows it.

What makes her back jolt into an arch and her chest press against his in surprise. What makes her let out a gasp and do everything in her meager power to hold back the litany of little puffs and noises begging to spill from her.

Astarion groans deeply like she really shouldn’t. Slips a hand beneath the small of her back and keeps her tightly against him as he continues to indulge in her, drinking and drinking like a desert-stranded man to an oasis.

Her hands search for him to hold onto, pawing blindly until they find his arms. The cotton sleeves of his shirt twist between her white-knuckled fingers.

He’s never had her like this. The way he lets the blood pump into his mouth and fill it. Lets it pool and spill a little—decadence—before he drinks it down.

The pain ebbs until she can hardly even find it amongst the waves of gasping pleasure washing over her. Pulling her under. Sweeping her off into the sweetest of undertows.

She’s slipping away and she couldn’t care less. Not of that, and not of her lips that finally fall ajar. The hitching sigh, surrendering from them just one thing—his name.

“Astarion.”

And that might be music to him because he redoubles his efforts. Tugs her tighter. Adjusts his jaw wider. Sinks his teeth deeper. Rolls his body against hers as he rakes his other hand into her hair to hold her still at this perfect angle.

She’s at his mercy—not something he’s known for.

She should be worried. Maybe a small part of her is. This is the most he’s ever drank from her, but it’s also the most incredible it’s ever felt.

As the strength saps from her grip and dark spots dance at the edges of her vision, she paws up his back until her fingertips are met with soft curls at the nape of his neck. Folding her fingers into them, she whispers another soft plea.

“Astar… star…” Her breath grows airy. It’s hard to even get a word out. Her fingertips feel numb as they gently comb through his hair—she’s always wanted to do that. “Star…?” She whimpers once more, scratching tiredly at his scalp. “Stop… please? Star?”

Suddenly he tears back with a startled gasp. Like a drowning victim sucking in their first breath as they come back to themselves.

Her head feels heavy, all swimmy as she stares up at him in a daze.

“Sorry,” he breathes, his face too blurry for her to make out any particular expression. “I… got a little lost there for a moment, but you seem alright, yes?” he asks, not without an anxious uptick. “Ashe?” he prompts when she doesn’t answer straight away, tucking a hand beneath the back of her head, angling her to look at him.

“Hm?” she hums absently, head lolling until he rights it again and pats her cheek to bring her to attention.

“Yes? You’re… alright, yes?”

“Oh, mhm, I’m—sorry, yeah, I’m just… a little light-headed… I think.” She blinks a few times, vision slowly swimming back into focus with Astarion front and center staring down at her. Now, maybe it’s the blood loss talking, but with the twinkling night sky as his backdrop, she thinks this is the most beautiful he’s ever been.

She’s breathless. Speechless. Shameless in her staring adoration.

“You’re sure?” Astarion presses with an odd smirk, his brows knitting with something torn between uncertainty and amusement. She must be making a dumb face, but she doesn’t have it in her to care. “You’ve got this sort of, ehh… lobotomized look about you. Ugh, tell me you haven’t let Volo near you with that ice pick.”

“No…” she whispers absently, clearly distracted.

There’s not a single cloud in the sky that night. The only thing blocking the moon is Astarion’s stupidly pretty head, but the glow still radiates out from behind. Illuminates the wispy edges of his soft curls with this ethereal glow. It makes him look like an angel—damned deceitful lighting.

But right now, even amongst all the stars in the sky blinking down at her, he outshines them all.

“Beautiful,” she mumbles, thoughtlessly reaching out for his face like she’s in a trance and doesn’t realize how fully weird this is.

Astarion chuckles low in his throat. “You’re talking about me?” He questions as her hand clumsily finds him, feeling at his cheek like a blind person prepping to sculpt him. “Mm, well, perhaps you have your wits about you after all.”

Bold of him to assume. For the record, her wits seem to have gone on strike, and who knows when they’ll resume working.

“Ah hah, this really is a gift,” he says, clearly satisfied judging from how stares down at her. “Look how flushed you are for me, even still,” he brushes a knuckle over the apple of her blooming cheek, “even after I’ve had my fill. I must say, this was one of your better ideas, or at least… as long as it was good for you? Did you find this more… palatable?” he asks like he doesn’t already know. Like he couldn’t freaking tell.

He’s either toying with her or she did a better job than she gives herself credit for.

“I—yes,” she whispers with a swallow, still recovering from whatever daze he threw her in. ”It was fine.”

“Fine,” he repeats. Draws out the word with a tone just dripping with heady amusement, his smirk stretching into a smile. “I couldn’t agree more. It was quite fine indeed. We should do it again sometime—up to you of course.”

“Yes, I-I’ll—” she nods with a swallow, trying to string together a sentence with little luck, “yes, I’ll um, I’ll let you know.”

“Well, I look forward to it then,” he murmurs, leveling her gaze with those heavy-lidded eyes of his. “Sweet dreams then, darling.”

And with that he’s starting to shift off of her. She blinks up at him, absently touching her neck. Bringing her fingertips close to her face, they remind of her morning dew on roses. Wet and red.

“Oh? Did I miss some?” Astarion questions, his long fingers wrapping around her petite wrist.

Ashe stares in awe as he pulls her hand close. He leans in. Tethers her hazy gaze. Brings her fingers to his pouty lips and parts them to take her fingertips in his mouth. “Mm,” he hums, using his tongue to reclaim every bit of her that he’d left behind. “Your blood is even sweeter tonight, darling,” he says, finally returning her hand. She lets it fall to her neck once more, absently feeling at the two neat little wounds there. “No wonder I can’t get enough.”

When she glances at her fingertips again, a fresh daub of red adorning them, a thought occurs to her. A stupid, impulsive one.

“Wait.” Her voice is like gossamer silk, nearly floating off in the cool night breeze. Astarion waits.

Flush-faced and heavy-lidded, Ashe holds his gaze as she brings those fingers to her own mouth this time. He watches intently. Slowly now, she finds the corner of her lips. Presses down. Smears a pretty streak of glossy rouge across them.

“Oh,” Astarion murmurs with a roguish realization. “Oh, so that’s what you want.”

“If you want,” she whispers, a tinge of sadness peeking through, even in her mystified state.

He breathes out a laugh. “Why, I can’t think of a reason I wouldn’t want that.”

She smiles slow and somber, reaching out to take a curl between her fingers. She misses and nearly pokes him in the eye, but eventually finds one. “You’re just so beautiful, Astarion…” she exhales deeply, pulling her hand back to clumsily feel at the ugly scar blanketing nearly half her face. “And I’m just me.”

Astarion stares. There’s a flicker of some indiscernible expression tugging his brows together before his face takes on its usual wolfish humor.

“I mean this is the nicest way possible, darling, but for a smart girl, you can be rather lacking.”

She doesn’t respond because suddenly his mouth is on hers. One of his hands rakes through her hair to cup the back of her head and pull her up to better meet him.

Her lips part with a gasp as his tongue swipes languidly across them once. Twice. He cleans her blood from them with a satisfied noise humming low in his throat before pressing his lips flush to hers.

It nearly stops her heart.

He can’t possibly understand how long–how much–she’s wanted this. A shaky breath blusters from her nose as he holds the kiss. Draws it out. A whimpering sigh slips from her, vibrates against his lips, and he answers back with an approving groan.

When he pulls away, she can do nothing but blink at him like a hot-cheeked idiot. Despite her obvious lack of blood, it still manages to feel like it’s bursting in her chest.

“There,” he says, a devilish smirk playing across his lips. “All cleaned up and ready for bed, you precious thing.”

“Goodnight, Astarion,” is all she can whisper. Brain no function.

He lingers on her a moment longer with a thoughtful tilt of his head, expression unreadable, and says, “Indeed it is, my dear. Indeed it certainly is.” With that, he’s pushing to his feet and wishing her sweet dreams.

Ashe isn’t certain she’s not already in one.

#astarion/tav #astarion x tav #astarion/oc #astarion x oc #Astarion #astarion ancunin #bg 3 #baldur's gate 3 #fic snippets #fic wip #Ashe is my little dummy just let her be stupid and pat her on the head #Yeah this is her first kiss #Not that he knows that #who knows if I'll ever actually publish this fic but here

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frantic-fiction · 3 months

Text

I'll Find My Way Back to You

(Can't find source of pic if it's yours let me know)

Astarion x GN!Reader

Prompt: A century after Tav passes Astarion comes across an artist who is oddly familiar and paints moments that seemed to be pulled straight from Astarion's life.

Thank you to @justporo for letting me use their idea. Go show them some love.

Warnings: Tav's death, brief mention of s*icide, angst with a happy ending

Word Count: 4.6k (Oops kinda went overboard)

Masterlist

“There’s no world I wish to live in without you,”

“My dear Astarion, we will find our way back to each other. This is not the end.”

Over a century has passed—a long, lonely century without Tav by his side. Astarion doesn’t understand how he’s endured, not with the void in his chest that appeared the moment he laid them to rest. The absence of his person, his love, his Tav, has left Astarion once again alone.

For nearly a decade, he found himself trapped in a state of near-catatonia, a prisoner of time within their empty home. He wasted away, the days blending into one another, each marked by a silent ache in his chest—the void left by Tav’s departure. Tears soaked into the earth of the carefully tended grave, adorned with vibrant flowers from Tav’s garden. He often contemplated surrendering to the sun’s embrace, letting its rays turn his existence to ash for a semblance of peace.

He yearned to end the pain, yet he refrained. He made a promise whispered with heavy hearts and painful sobs—a promise that forced them to confront the harsh reality that Tav would always leave first. Instead of embracing the end, Astarion wasted away, a ghost of his former self, yearning for the return of his love. Change arrived when Tav visited him in a dream; the details were blurry, but Tav’s beautiful smile was etched in memory. The sweet words in that dream eluded him, yet upon waking, a faint lightness settled within him. Astarion graced the night with a flicker of energy for the first time since Tav’s passing.

Tav would have wished for him to move on. They would have wanted him to live. The stagnant life he clung to wasn’t what Tav would want for him. So that day, Astarion gathered his essentials into a bag and set forth as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. Only momentarily stopping to bid his love a final, tearful farewell. Since that moment, he hasn’t stopped moving.

Astarion believed Tav would take pride in the life he’s built—the good he’s accomplished over the many years. He traversed all over Faerun, from Waterdeep to Skull Crag, never lingering in one place for too long. He wasn’t the hero Tav was, but he aided towns against monsters, dispatched goblins, and took odd jobs to help however he could. Throughout his travels, he dedicated most of his time to sharing stories of Tav, ensuring their memory lived on. When he first heard the bards’ songs recounting the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, he knew he had succeeded. Now, you can’t sit in a tavern without hearing tales and melodies about Tav.

Every day, he longed for Tav to be by his side. He yearned to feel their soft skin, experience their tender kisses, and sense their warm arms encircling his waist—the echo of their laughter dancing in his ears. He missed every aspect of Tav and would do anything to see them again. Yet, the world ran out of miracles for him. Instead, he learned with time to cope, to come to terms with their absence, and keep them close to his heart.

***

Astarion traverses the dusty cobblestone of Wyrm’s Crossing and finds himself back in the heart of Baldur’s Gate—a city he’s consciously avoided for most of the century. It’s a place drenched in memories from his past life with Cazador, but mostly, the streets seem to be haunted by the presence of Tav.

His return to Baldur’s Gate remains shrouded in mystery. All he can discern is that he awoke one day in Daggerford, gripped by an inexplicable yearning to revisit the city. A compelling force tugging him down the Sword Coast, Astarion initially dismissed it as mere homesickness, scoffing at the notion. Yet, the persistent thought lingered, infesting his mind until he could no longer ignore the instinct to return.

The city remains strikingly unaltered despite the passage of time and the trials it endured. The same piss-stained cobblestone, alleyways cluttered with remnants of urban life, and a diverse array of inhabitants navigating the night. It’s an unsettling constant, especially juxtaposed against the transformation of Astarion’s existence.

Wandering through the back alleys and side streets, Astarion meanders aimlessly. Occasionally, a sight triggers memories, evoking a lump in his throat. The Elfsong Tavern, once familiar, now bears a different name and identity, a formal establishment concealing the echoes of nights spent in Tav’s comforting embrace. Bloomride Park, the graveyard, and the docks—all weave together, painting a vivid tapestry of Tav’s omnipresence.

Amidst the tumult of emotions, Astarion grapples with why he subjected himself to this emotional turmoil. The urge to retreat, to flee Baldur’s Gate before the dawn breaks, lingers within him. Yet, the itch persists, buried deep within his bones, propelling him forward. He silently promises himself the night to wander the city, and by this time tomorrow, he will be on his way to another town for another adventure.

Venturing into a dim, isolated street, Astarion observes a solitary lamplight spilling its soft glow from a store window. Peering through, he discovers a small art studio. Within, a graceful elf seems to dance with a paintbrush, each stroke deliberate yet flowing. Like a harpie song, Astarion is mesmerized and utterly captivated. He watches on silently, observing the elves happily consumed with their work. It gives him a wave of nostalgia, moments of watching Tav as they painted, unaware he was watching from the door. Astarion could almost hear the sweet hums that filled the room between brush strokes.

Then he freezes, gaze snapping to the paintings that adorn the studio, scattered reflections of his life. Images of Karlach, Shadowheart, and all the others grace the space. However, it’s the depictions of himself that seize his breath. Compelled by an unseen force, Astarion walks right into the studio. In a far corner, he sees an intimate portrayal—an embrace that resonates with familiarity.

The bell rings, and you break from your artistic trance. Startled, you look up, and there stands the pale elf in the doorway—the hero of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion—the man who has clouded your dreams for as long as memory serves. Startled, you look up, and there stands a pale elf in the doorway—the hero of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion—the man who has clouded your dreams for as long as memory serves.

The dreams began as mere fragments—white curls, sharp teeth, delicate hands. Gradually, they evolved into more vivid scenes—muffled conversations by a campfire, laughter and gentle shoves, and stolen kisses between bed sheets—private moments of a stranger, a byproduct of an active imagination intertwined with an elven crush. Or at least that was what your mother would say. Now, the subject of those dreams stands before you.

Astarion, surrounded by the art that mirrors his life, fixates on a miniature portrait. The details are hazy, yet he recalls the campfire, the desperation in his gaze, and a significant confession followed by an embrace.

You pick up a fallen brush with a trembling hand, placing it in a water cup. Asterion was just as breathtakingly beautiful as your dream portrayed, but to see him in person has your heart hammering in your chest and your breath quickening with nerves. Wiping paint-covered hands on your smock, you took a deep breath and gathered the courage to approach Astarion.

Staring at the portrait, you utter quietly, “This one’s my favorite. Though I wish I could have captured the others’ images better.”

“Tav.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The person you painted. My partner Tav, they used to paint too,” Astarion’s voice carries the weight of unspoken emotions.

“Oh, yes. They were the leader of your group, if I remember correctly. I’m sorry for your loss.”

Astarion remains silent, the canvas now a source of unbearable memories. He moves through the studio, examining the art up close. It’s weird to have your muse perusing around your gallery. It’s embarrassing to have Astarion see just how many pieces have been dedicated to him. What do you do at this point? Should you follow him, tell him about each piece and the dreams behind them? No, that seems pretentious, so you retreat to the canvas you’ve been working on for the better part of the week.

This piece was different—a symbol rather than a person or scene. Rings of unknown runes fan out in jagged edges, evoking a sense of beauty tinged with profound sadness. It disturbed you to your core, but you needed to paint it. It’s how it always goes. Once a dream pops into your head, whether it’s a scene, a person, or a symbol, it refuses to leave until you’ve laid it on a canvas. Picking up the brush, you dip it back into the red paint and continue to bolden the lines.

“Who are you?” Astarion’s voice is right behind you; you jump, knocking a pot of paint over. Cursing softly, you quickly right the pot, attempting to salvage the spilled paint. Paint isn’t cheap, and in your non-upper-class circumstances, every drop is precious.

“Oh, I’m sorry; I have been very rude,” you offer your name. “I, of course, already know you, Astarion. It’s hard not to come across the tales of the heroes of Baldur’s Gate, but I guess—” Your rambling trails off pathetically as something changes in Astarion. There’s tension in his shoulders, a coldness in his eyes. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you nervously play with a loose thread on the smock.

Astarion scrutinizes you with a piercing gaze, his eyes lingering on your face as if searching for hidden truths. The air becomes taut, charged with an almost palpable intensity. Then, as if propelled by an unseen force, he reacts like a tightly wound rubber band snapping. Reaching out, he harshly pulls you to him, bearing his teeth at you. Your stomach drops, shocked by the aggression.

“Have you been following me? Stalking me?” His voice carries a storm of anger, his grip on your shoulders unyielding, the coldness of his touch akin to ice piercing through the fabric of your being. “Don’t lie to me because I’ve shown one person that fucking scar, and I buried them.”

Your heart races, fear coursing through your veins as you whimper a response, tears welling up in your eyes. “I-I don’t know, I’m sorry,”

“Don’t lie!”

“Please, I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know; I have dreams; I don’t know why, b-but I dream of you,” your voice falters, and your vulnerability is laid bare. “I dream of you, your friends, and places I’ve never been. I’m sorry, I’ll stop, I promise.”

As abruptly as his hands seized you, they vanished, leaving you stumbling to your knees, unable to contain the torrent of tears streaming down your face. Curling in on yourself, you can’t stop the cries of apologies and promises of never picking up a brush again, of burning every last piece in the room.

Astarion looks down at you, his expression shifting from anger to a complex amalgamation of horror and something else—perhaps realization. Stepping away, he leaves you rooted to the spot. Your gaze fixed blankly out the window. Odd and conflicting emotions swirl within you—fear, confusion, longing?—all clashing fiercely. Amidst the tumult, one thought emerges with undeniable clarity—this won’t be the last time you see Astarion.

Astarion’s breaths come in ragged gasps as he runs through the barren streets, escaping the grasp of the haunting memories that threaten to consume him. His thoughts are a raging storm, and he pays no heed to the bewildered faces of those he rudely pushes past. The town of Rivington is a blur as he sprints through it, a desperate escape, picking a direction and refusing to stop until his body aches, halting only when the sun begins its ascent above the horizon.

In his frantic need to run, there was no consideration for shelter from the sun’s relentless rays. Mercifully, he stumbles upon an abandoned cave. Dry, dusty, and shrouded in darkness, it becomes his refuge. In a corner, he sinks slowly against the cool, rough wall to the ground, seeking solace in the obscurity.

Astarion pulls his knee to his chest, pressing his forehead against his crossed arms. Shaking and shivering, a stark contrast to the bitter summer heat enveloping the cave, he clings to his vulnerability. Eyes shut tight, jaw clenched, fingernails dig deep into his arms as if attempting to anchor himself in the reality that threatens to crumble around him.

Desperation claws at him, and he yearns for Tav. The desire to feel Tav’s warm embrace, hands crossing over his chest, pulling him close, torments him. He longs for the soft whispers of love and the gentle press of lips. Astarion can’t navigate this without Tav. He’s a mess, barely holding on, living each agonizing day, acutely aware that the best part of him is gone, and he can do nothing to reclaim it.

The cruelty of encountering such intimate moments from his past life with Tav wounds him deeply. These were moments meant for him and Tav alone. Realizing that a stranger could capture those cherished memories intended for one person alone turns his stomach.

Anger becomes a conduit for his overwhelming emotions, and the terrified look on the artist’s face is etched in his mind, an indelible scar on his conscience. Shame burns within him, a searing reminder of the boundaries he violated. Physically assaulting someone in their own space—what would Tav think of him now?

The artist adds another layer to Astarion’s confusion. The familiarity is uncanny—the excited calf raises, the almost-stumbles afterward, the nervous lip biting, puffed cheeks during deep concentration, and the mindless dancing when no one is watching. Every little thing the artist did mirrored Tav, and with all his memories physically displayed, Asterion finds himself lost in a sea of confusion. Why does this stranger resemble his love so deeply?

The bards’ tales of soulmates and reincarnation, once dismissed as mere children’s stories and fiction, now claw at the edges of Astarion’s consciousness. What if? What if Tav found their way back to him? Weirder things have happened in his long life, and the possibility plants a seed of hope within him.

Yet, he forcefully suppresses that hope. It won’t serve him, not now. Instead, he resolves to learn more. By nightfall, he returns to the city, catching the first boat to Waterdeep. After a day and some change, he stands outside the Wizards’ tower, resentment simmering as he contemplates turning to Gale, his best chance at answers.

A groan escapes Astarion as he hangs his head, and a series of knocks echo on the thick wooden door. “This better be worth it…”

The door swings open on its own into a dimly lit foyer. Astarion follows a familiar path, the cool air and faint scent of ancient tomes embracing him. He ascends the staircase with nostalgia and reluctance, each step echoing the countless times Tav and himself sought knowledge and assistance within these walls.

As he pushes open the study door, a scene unfolds before him. Gale is hunched over a worn scroll, graying hair ruffled, and a small pair of reading glasses set on the tip of his nose. The room is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, creating an intimate ambiance. Notes adorn the margins, evidence of Gale’s ceaseless quest for understanding.

Gale looks up, a broad, warm smile gracing his features, and Astarion is momentarily transported back to the times when this sage was only a joke he poked fun at across camp. Removing his reading glasses, Gale pushes up from his desk, an air of welcoming familiarity enveloping the room.

“Well, look who the tressym dragged in. How are you, Astarion?”

Astarion stiffens as he is pulled into a spontaneous hug by Gale. The embrace is both unexpected and oddly comforting, a physical manifestation of the genuine camaraderie they’ve shared through the years. Astarion, unaccustomed to such displays of affection, awkwardly pats Gale’s back before gently pulling away.

“I’m afraid I’ve been better.”

Gale’s eyes convey concern and understanding as he gestures for Astarion to sit. The worn chair creaks under the weight of memories and the weightier burden of Astarion’s troubled soul.

“Then sit down, my friend, and tell me how I can help.”

***

Days of tireless research and a network of favors exchanged between magical acquaintances have led them to a glimmer of hope. Though not expansive, the discovery hints at the possibility that souls entwined so tightly may have a magnetic pull toward each other. A pull is so strong that souls can find each other in different lifetimes. Tales have described soulmates experiencing memories from previous lifetimes together, but they were vague at best. The specific remains elusive, shrouded in mystery, yet it’s enough to kindle a spark of hope within Astarion’s lonely heart.

Gale, ever the bore, offers a gentle reminder, “Now, just remember, if you try to force feelings before—”

“I would never!” Astarion’s retort carries a venomous edge, an unspoken warning to watch his following words carefully. Gale raises his hands in defense.

“My point is the brain is a prickly thing. It’s best not to rush anything it’s not ready for.”

“Yes, yes, you have said this five times already. Would you please activate the portal? I have an apology to make.”

Anticipation hums in the air, a palpable energy that courses through Astarion. A fleeting smile graces his lips, and for a moment, the weight of his grief is replaced by a glimmer of life.

Looking at Astarion with a fondness born of shared trials, Gale responds, “Of course, Astarion.”

With a confident shake of his wrist, he activates the magical circle, and the room is bathed in a radiant glow of bright runes, their purple luminescence dancing in the semi-darkness.

Astarion steps toward the portal, his heart pulsating with trepidation and newfound hope. However, before crossing the threshold, he turns around to face Gale, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Thank you, Gale. I will not forget this.”

“It was my pleasure. Now, I expect to meet this lovely artist sooner rather than later.” Gale’s parting words hang in the air, infused with the hope of rekindling a connection beyond the realms of understanding.

Back in the heart of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion swiftly navigated the bustling streets, an air of anticipation accompanying him. His purpose was clear—to reach your studio and beg for your forgiveness. A brief pause along the way allowed him to acquire a small bundle of daisies, a spontaneous choice fueled by the memory of Tav’s fondness for these delicate blooms.

As Astarion approached the studio, a surge of uncertainty clawed at him. Hesitation gripped his every step, the shadow of fear etched across his features. The fear in your eyes during the last encounter was seared into his memory. Had his previous outburst irreparably damaged any chance of reconciliation? The conflicting forces of his desire to see you again and the instinct to flee wrestled within him. Yet, he pressed forward, forcing himself down the street, and there you stood.

The scene that greeted him was a chaotic masterpiece of colors. Paint adorned your cheeks and arms, a testament to the artistic fervor that consumed you. Your hair, a cascade of untamed strands, framed a face that mirrored both exhaustion and creative passion. Astarion had a sudden urge to brush the strands away and press a soft kiss to your cheek, something he often did with Tav.

Your weariness was palpable—shoulders slumped, eyes half-lidded. Perhaps, he pondered, he should postpone this encounter, allowing you the reprieve of rest. The realization that he might be the last person you wanted to see compelled Astarion to take a step back, an unspoken retreat.

But just as he moved to leave, your eyes jumped up to meet his, you froze mid-stroke, and Astarion couldn’t read your expression. He should go. Why did he think this was a good idea? He’s just about to run when you nod for him to come in. Obliging, Astarion found himself standing awkwardly within the studio; you went back to painting. Your brush danced across the canvas, applying a vibrant shade of blue in deliberate strokes. Astarion’s attempts to break the silence faltered, his words dissolving into the room’s stillness.

“What are you doing here, Astarion?” The steadiness in your voice pierced the calm. You tried to hold on to your anger for the man all week. But upon seeing him standing so lost on the street had your resolve crumbling. You can’t deny the mild excitement that fluttered through your veins upon seeing him again.

His voice, momentarily lost, found its way back. “I-I came here to apologize for last week. My behavior was deplorable, and I wish to make things right.”

A wry amusement flickered in your eyes as you evaluated the bouquet, now slightly worse for wear under his tight grip. “And you believe a bundle of broken daisies would win you my forgiveness?”

Astarion, caught off guard, looked down at the bruised bouquet. “Um…well, I was hoping for roses, but they were fresh out.”

A snort escaped you as you put down your paintbrush and approached him. A tentative touch on his forearm transferred the flowers from his grasp to yours, eliciting a shiver down his spine. The longing to reach out is strong, but Astarion holds still as you retreat.

Intently studying the daisies, you began to divide the bundle into two piles. Astarion watched silently, recognizing echoes of Tav’s essence reflected in your actions. While understanding that you were not Tav, the profound sorrow gripping his heart seemed to ease in your presence.

“Half,” you declared suddenly.

“Pardon?”

“Half of the daisies survived.”

“And where does that leave us?”

With a theatrical flair, you pondered the question, pacing the room. “That, good sir, is the question. What is my forgiveness worth? I did luck out; daisies are my favorite, so you’re a step farther than roses would have gotten you.”

Astarion, grasping the playful undertone, decided to play along. With a hand on his hips and a wicked smirk, he responded, “Well, I am a pretty lucky man. Now, please, I beg, what more can I do to gain your forgiveness?”

You hummed softly, tapping your chin. You keep Astarion in suspense for a moment before you suddenly turn to the man. “How about…I get dressed, you take me out to dinner, and we’ll go from there?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” The agreement hung in the air, a hope for something more lingering.

***

The dinner evolved into an evening stroll, a seamless transition from pleasant chatter to playful banter. It was an unexpected evening, but the time spent with Astarion was so easy, so familiar you didn’t want it to end. Reading about the saviors of Baldur’s Gate was intriguing, and dreaming of a vampiric elf held its allure, but nothing compared to the tangible presence of the real Astarion.

Astarion embodied the epitome of perfection – handsome, intelligent, and endowed with a wit that had you giggling all night. He was the quintessential gentleman, the embodiment of every mother’s hopeful wish for their child.

What started as a single date quickly snowballed into a series of enchanting encounters – one date led to two, then five, until you found yourself drawn into his orbit every week. The pace was exhilarating, and being around Astarion felt like being charged with an electric current. It was not just addictive; it was a whirlwind of happiness, and you couldn’t help but revel in it.

If one indulged in whimsical tales, the idea that Astarion might be your soulmate would have crossed your mind. His ability to read you so intimately sometimes felt like he delved into the depths of your mind.

The dreams persisted, evolving into a kaleidoscope of memories that intertwined your moments with Astarion and a phantom era where someone else shared his company. Astarion, at times, would cast glances at you as you transferred another dream to canvas, an anticipation lingering in his eyes. Despite his attempts, he couldn’t veil the disappointment when the visions resulted in nothing more than another painting adorning the wall.

Then, it occurred on a serene spring day, three years since Astarion first entered your studio. The sun had yet to set, and you found solace curled up with Astarion. Limbs tangled, chests pressed together, hands intertwined – a tableau of intimate connection. His cold nose nestled against the crook of your neck, his white curls playfully tickling your nose.

Behind your closed eyelids, soft images of a forest clearing unfolded – Astarion shirtless, beckoning you towards him. Something clicked, and suddenly, the foreign memories that greeted you each night became a mosaic of your own experiences. The floodgates opened, overwhelming you with a lifetime of moments – kisses beneath the stars, laughter resonating around a campfire, and heart-stopping close calls with death.

Astarion often spoke of Tav, a robust and kind soul who played a pivotal role in shaping him. He wouldn’t be who he is today without them. You now knew a bit better; yes, you had nudged him along the way, but his growth was his own, and you couldn’t be more proud. To think of the years he spent without you, the grief he must have had to push through. If the roles were reversed, you don’t believe you would have been strong enough to keep going.

Startled from his slumber, Astarion found your body descending upon his, your hand meeting his chest with firm slaps. “Stop you, little gremlin.” Groggily, he attempted to restrain you in a tender embrace. He was met with your swift departure from his lap. He heard the patter of your feet retreating from the bed.

“You are a bastard, Astarion!”

Fully alert and by your side instantly, “What did I do, my sweet?”

Worry etched into every crease of his face as he cupped your jaw, looking frantically into your eyes. You intertwined your fingers with his, your other hand reaching out to caress the skin of his hip. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Astarion scrutinized your face, his eyes delving deep into yours. The faintest furrow of his brows betrayed his thoughts. As if following an unspoken script, he pulled you in by the waist, foreheads gently meeting.

Glistening with unshed tears, Astarion whispered, “You remember?” His voice trembled.

“Yes… maybe it’s all still tangled. But yes, I remember Tav – well, I remember us.”

Astarion’s smile widened, his fangs peeking out, and his lips met yours in a heated kiss spinning the two of you around the room. It was a slow dance of lips as if Astarion had all the time in the cosmos to savor this moment. While you could quickly lose yourself in the embrace, you were privy to all his subtle tricks. You turned your face when he attempted to draw you back into the kiss.

“Gods, Astarion, for three years, you knew and never said anything. I’ve painted you for almost as long as I could wield a brush, and for three years, you knew why!” Another slap graced his chest, and tears trickled down your cheeks, eagerly wiped away by his thumbs.

“I wanted to, my love. The moment I realized I wanted to. But this couldn’t be rushed; you can’t rush the mind.”

“Star, I’m so sorry I took so long,”

“No, stop; you took as long as you needed to return to me.” His forehead rests against yours once more, and the room stands still for a moment. “What matters is you’re here, in my arms, and I’m not letting go anytime soon.”

A choked sob mingled with a chuckle, and you nuzzled closer into Astarion, hiding your face into his neck. “Gods, I love you, Astarion.”

“And I love you.”

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Okay loves, let me know what you think. I've been working on this for over a week and still find some sections I'm not all that happy with, but I want to move on to other pieces. Any and every interaction makes my day.

Taglist: heartfully10, ayselluna

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #bg3 #reader insert #astarion imagine #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion #fanfic #writing #soulmates #soulmate au #reincarnation #frantic fiction

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