#astarion/reader

[harlequinlestat]

To Hold Me Like Water

Pairing: Astarion/GN!Reader or Astarion/GN!Tav Word Count: 1.4k+

Notes: This fic was completely inspired by this post by @skitpost. It's just a little fluff piece exploring Astarion's ears. It's my first fic ever, and it the first time I’ve written something that wasn’t a research paper in years. I was just really inspired to write something for Astarion. A huge thanks to the incredibly talented @redrocketpanda for editing this for me and making amazing suggestions on how to fix it up!

You had always been intrigued by Astarion’s ears. 

Though you would never dare admit your fascination to him or anyone else in your party, you routinely caught yourself watching how his delicately pointed ears subtly twitched whenever he was listening intently to his surroundings. In fact, the way his ears moved ever so slightly when he became particularly emotive was one of the first things that endeared him to you after he made your acquaintance by throwing you to the ground and holding his blade to your throat.

His ears were irritatingly distracting to you, and you longed to touch them. Partly because you were curious how they would feel against your fingertips, and partly because you yearned to see his reaction. You had never touched an elf’s ears before, and you had heard rumors that they were particularly sensitive.

Your relationship with Astarion had progressed in an altogether unpredictable manner over the past few months. What had begun with flirtatious banter and trysts in the woods had developed into something much more profound and intimate. Yet no matter how close you felt emotionally and physically to Astarion, you could never quite convince yourself to reach out and caress his ears. The thought perplexed you. It didn’t matter that you had shared your body with Astarion and known the feeling of his skin against yours - the sheer act of providing a gentle, comforting touch to what you assumed was a particularly sensitive part of his body felt far too intimate. 

You assumed your daydreams would remain simply that, until one evening in camp.

The evening had started as typical, with your party enjoying a simple dinner. The day’s battle against an Absolutist stronghold had been particularly bloody, and your friends were exhausted as they sat around the campfire, barely sharing a word. They had all retired early in preparation for the fight ahead, and you and Astarion had withdrawn to his tent to perform what had become one of your nightly rituals. 

There had been subtle changes in Astarion’s character since he defeated Cazador and gained true freedom. Rather than hiding his true emotions with sarcasm and charm, he had gradually become more sincere in his interactions with you. Despite this, there were certain parts of him that you assumed would never change, one of the most irritating being his vanity. What had started as a joking offer to pick the remnants of battle from Astarion’s perfectly coiffed locks had become a near nightly routine for the two of you.

Astarion lay languidly between your thighs, his weight resting entirely against your chest as he read through another one of his countless tomes. The two of you sat in silence as you meticulously began removing the gore from his still nearly perfectly wavy hair. He occasionally hummed in appreciation or made a stray sarcastic comment about your hands being too rough for his liking, but the two of you were relatively silent during this time, simply enjoying one another’s company and the dimming glow of the fire.

Tonight, Astarion’s hair was caked in some particularly dense patches of dried blood, and your typical routine was simply not enough to cleanse him to his liking. You had aided him in bathing in a nearby stream prior to this, your hands massaging and tracing his muscles as you removed dried blood and dirt from his skin. He had been unwilling to completely submerge himself in the water, and thus you had resorted to using a damp rag to lift the small amount of remaining blood from his hair and scalp. He appeared at ease against your body as you gently scrubbed with the rag. As the exhaustion of the day set in, your hands became sloppy in their movements as you rushed to finish the task so that you could sleep. Your eyes felt heavy, and you weren’t aware of your proximity to his ears until it was too late. 

Your fingers delicately grazed the tip of Astarion’s ear for just a moment, your boddy immediately tensing in response. Astarion’s breath hitched in his chest, the muscles of his back tense against your chest. You couldn’t see his expression from this angle, but you assumed it expressed discomfort.

“I’m sorry, Astarion. I didn’t mean to,” you practically whispered, a sudden fear taking root in your chest. Astarion remained silent, but he did not immediately move to leave you. Your mind began racing, trying desperately to figure out how to fix the situation.

“It’s…quite alright, darling,” he stated. He slowly turned his head to face you. The first thing you noticed was the uncertainty in his eyes as they cast downward - then the slight blush to his cheeks. As his eyes returned to yours, you began to piece together what had happened - Astarion had enjoyed your gentle touch.

“I’ve never been touched like that before.” His words were quiet and tinged with an uncertainty and lack of confidence you rarely witnessed. 

“Did you like it?” you asked, a blush beginning to creep onto your face against your wishes as you began to hope against hopes that Astarion would allow you to touch him again.

Astarion thought carefully for a moment before slowly nodding his head. “You know I love your touch, pet,” he attempted to smirk. You knew him too well -  this was an attempt to hide his apparent embarrassment and confusion with his usual sarcasm. Yet he seemed to know the charade was no use with you. He sighed. “I did enjoy it,” he stated plainly, allowing himself to lean back against you in defeat.

“Would you like me to do it again?” you questioned, waiting with bated breath.

Astarion’s eyes met yours again. Despite the conflict you could see within his eyes, you also saw the inherent trust he had in you and your relationship. “I think I would like that,” he whispered.

You smiled reassuringly at your lover as you gestured for him to lie back against your chest once more. He quickly complied, closing his eyes as his head rested against your chest once more. You could still feel some residual tension in his muscles as you prepared your hand. You started by gingerly running your fingers through his mostly cleaned hair, faintly scratching his scalp with the edges of your fingernails. Astarion began to relax against you once more as you massaged his scalp. Once his breathing slowed and he began melting to your touch, you allowed yourself to carefully begin tracing the outer shell of his ear with your index finger. 

Astarion kept his eyes shut, his head turning toward your touch, as if seeking it. 

As your fingers began to trace the pointed tip of his ear, you heard him release a sigh.  A smug smile began to pull at the corners of your mouth as you watched the normally ever-composed man melt into your touch. This is what you had desired for so long, and you now realized that you had admired Astarion’s ears not because they were so different from your own, but because they were his. Pride swelled in your chest as you realized you were the first to touch your lover’s ears and make him feel this way. This was uncharted territory for the both of you, and you were not going to let the moment go to waste. The outer shell of his ear felt firm and strong against the gentle touch of your fingertips. You admired the subtle variations in Astarion’s breathing as your index finger danced from his lower ear to the tip. You lavished particular attention to the tip of his ear, staring in near wonder as it twitched against your hand in response. Once you were certain Astarion was comfortable with it, you allowed your second hand to begin tracing the shell of his other ear. The elf looked at ease in your hands.

It was then that you realized you were probably the first person in centuries to see Astarion in any state of vulnerability.

Tears stung at the corners of your eyes as you continued your gentle ministrations. After a few minutes, he gently reached for your hands, letting you know that his sensitive ears were beginning to feel overstimulated by your touch. When he turned his head and observed your soft features and the tears you attempted to hide, he repositioned himself to kneel between your thighs. His deft hands carefully clasped your cheeks, and he pressed his forehead to yours.

“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it,” he whispered, then slowly pressed a gentle, yet firm kiss to your lips.

[grymghoul]

Sex with ASTARION post-fight has got to be so sick nasty. Covered in blood and sweet and he's just licking your throat, collarbone to ear. He presses you face down into some pillows, like that'll make the party forget what they heard. They won't. They know. They know the way he ruts into you, driven into a frenzy by the blood. His eyes roll back and he's twitching and shaking like a possessed man.

[cowboygenesis]

18+ knuckle up | astarion x reader

| buy me a coffee?

summary: after a drunken night and a dumb bet you're left in an emotional (and physical) chokehold by your favourite vampire companion.

pairing: astarion ancunin x afab!bard!reader tags: 18+, smut, fluff, switch dynamics, m/f, fingering, unprotected sex, resolved tension, playfighting, sex after training session. word count: 7.8k notes: this fic was SO fun to write even if im a gale girlie myself. this is my first attempt at writing ANY bg3 character, so i really hope i did okay. if not, let me know! comments help me improve my writing (and warm my heart, seriously, thanks to anyone taking the time out of their day to comment). anyways gang, no beta as ALWAYS, you know how we roll. ENJOY! masterlist.

It still made little sense to you.

You had honed your skills at the most prestigious music schools in Faerûn for years, pouring your heart into every note, every chord, only to find yourself shamelessly ridiculed for an entirely different kind of performance. And by a man you’d grown to like, no less.

"Get up, darling," Astarion’s voice drips with amusement, the self-satisfied smirk tugging at his lips with infuriating smugness. His crimson eyes watch you with a predatory glint, locking onto your vulnerable form sprawled in the dirt—a definitive result of his frustratingly agile moves.

You groan lowly, propping yourself up on bruised elbows, wincing as a dull ache pulses through your body. A stray lock of hair falls in front of your face, and you blow it away in frustration.

"I’m starting to think this isn’t educational at all." You glare at him with all the venom you can muster, eyebrows furrowed as his arms cross.

Your eyes absentmindedly scan down his body, taking note of his slightly disheveled shirt and tousled hair. He looks… good. Beautiful, even. Basking in the soft moonlight seeping through the vast greenery above, he stands there like he’s in his element.

He chuckles, seemingly unbothered by your vapid tone. "Oh, but it is, my dear. Think of it as a new, humbling experience. Valuable in its own right."

You bite back a retort as he offers you a hand, his expression making your eye twitch. You never thought you’d fall for arrogance, yet ironically it’s your own conceit that might have brewed your upcoming downfall.

After a particularly boisterous night of drinking in camp—brought on by the recent victory over a pack of gnolls—you foolishly accepted Astarion’s challenge to best him in hand-to-hand combat. Your alcohol-addled brain had been more confident than your body, and now, after a series of harsh jabs and sidesteps, you were being taught the harsh reality of “real” combat.

Defeated, you eventually obliged a quick lesson from the master himself, which he had (admittedly suspiciously) made you take after losing your bet.

At the very least, the bruising would rid you of your lingering hangover once you were done taking the thrashing. Plus, you hoped it would bring you two closer. Figuratively and physically.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying your hesitation. "Come now, my dear, don’t be so stubborn. You seemed so eager at first,"

"You told me you’d teach me to fight, not fall on my damn face," you lament, but begrudgingly accept his help, allowing him to pull you to your feet.

His grip is firm, and the coolness of his skin sends a small jolt of electricity down your spine. You had often imagined what holding his hand would feel like during the colder nights alone in your tent, and while the circumstances ended up being less than ideal, it was good enough for you. For now.

You rub at your sore arm with a frown and catch that Astarion, unmistakably, stands completely unscathed, his pale complexion almost glowing in the ambient light.

"I’m thinking…” he muses, glancing at the weathered lyre resting peacefully by the roots of a tree. His lips curl into a smirk, and you can feel the teasing jab sting your pride. “Perhaps you’re better suited to the more... delicate aspects of life,"

Your jaw clenches. While bards famously went underestimated— a fact you were reminded of frequently— it hurt more coming from someone you so badly wanted to fuck.

"Oh, I don’t know," you say with a saccharine tone, brushing the residual dirt from your pants; your favorite pair, yet you’d probably end up having to toss them out after your poor performance today. "I think a harp string could make a fine garrote in the right hands."

Astarion’s laughter rings out clearly, and your heart skips a beat unbeknownst to you. "Dully noted. Fortunately for the both of us, we’re stripped of any weaponry in our current pinnacle."

Your eyes roll, running a hand through your disheveled, sweat-slick hair and adjusting your posture to the one he had taught you: one foot forward, back straight.

"Again," you demand, squaring your shoulders. If he wanted to mock you, fine— but you wouldn’t go down without a proper fight.

Astarion’s eyes widen, but his smirk never falters. He sighs in faux exasperation but quickly matches your posture. "So eager to be tossed into the dirt again, darling."

Your face flashes with heat at his painfully languid remark, your mind going places it probably shouldn’t. You knew the pet names were simply an inherent part of his vocabulary and that he used them generously, with everyone, yet a part of you liked to imagine they were reserved for you, and you only.

“Try me again,” you reply curtly, lowering your gaze as you feel the tension sprawling through your aching body.

He shoots you an arrogant smirk, his gaze penetrating your soul with an intensity you didn’t think possible. He bares his fangs, licking over his bottom lip lazily. “Let’s see it, then.”

Astarion approaches, but this time, you’re ready. As he moves to close the distance, you anticipate the first jab, ducking low before he can catch you off-guard. You dart to the side, aiming a swift thrust toward his midsection. It’s clumsy and unpracticed, but it seems to work.

Your fist connects with his toned stomach. He topples off-balance, but only for a fleeting second. His reflexes are too sharp, too honed through his century-long life for you to overcome with your pitiful attempt.

He catches himself with a graceful pivot, turning the stumble into a curt spin that has him facing you once more.

"Fast learner, are we?" he muses, watching you closely through his fists. "I might actually have to try now."

"Don’t flatter yourself," you shoot back, heart racing. At that moment, you recognize you can’t win. Not this time, probably not the next. But you don’t want to forfeit, even if it means enduring a day or two of terrible muscle soreness.

Every sidestep, every deflected blow, brings you closer, the air between you growing heavy with static. You aren’t sure if it’s the heat of the fight or the dangerous proximity, but you can feel it—an irresistible, undeniable pull.

"Careful now," Astarion purrs as you barely miss his face with a rugged swing. He catches your wrist, holding it tight as he leans in, breath ghosting over your ear. "You wouldn’t want to harm me, would you?"

You swallow hard, your body tensing under his tight grip. The closeness is intoxicating, but you force yourself to stay focused, pushing back against the growing heat in your chest.

"Maybe I would." You don’t.

For a moment, neither of you move. The world seems to narrow, the charged atmosphere thick with tacit suspense. You can feel your pulse hammering in your throat, senses sharp, attuned to every breath he takes as they intermingle with yours.

"Darling," a dramatic pout creeps onto his lips, only to be replaced by a sly grin seconds later. You feel his grip on your wrist loosening just enough for you to slip free. It’s a calculated move, once he grants you himself. "You wound me with your words."

You take a step back, breathless. This isn’t over, not by a long shot, yet your muscles fight against that thought. They scream at you with pain, worn and stretched by what feels like hours of sparring.

“Sounds like you’re the one trying to wound me,” you taunt, shooting him a lowered gaze. “Why’d you take me out here? Trying to make your next kill less obvious?”

The vampire had insisted you two train away from the bustle of camp, even if it meant missing out on tonight’s feast. While the rest of your companions enjoyed the finest ale Baldur’s Gate could offer, you were stuck trying to prove something to your crush.

Astarion's grin widens, his eyes flashing with amusement as he takes a slow, calculated step forward. “Now, now,” he purrs, voice dripping with mock innocence. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have seen it coming— no need for childish theatrics.”

You hold his gaze, refusing to let him see the slight tremble in your legs from the strain of the sparring—or maybe it’s from something else entirely, you can’t be sure. You know he’s dangerous, that this game you’ve been playing with him has always had its sharp edges. But there’s something about that edge, about the way he dances so easily between teasing and threatening, that weakens your knees and makes you breathless every damn time.

"Then why are we here?" you challenge, taking a step back to match his forward one. Your voice is steady, but your pulse is hammering in your throat. The woods feel like a world apart from camp, the sounds of chatter distant as you sit in your isolated little bubble of the world. “It’s a little… intimate, don’t you think?”

Astarion tilts his head, studying you with a curious twinkle in his crimson eyes. “That sharp tongue again,” he says quietly, “Do you truly believe I’d go through all the trouble of bringing you out here just to end you? If I wanted your death, I’d make it enjoyable for both of us.”

Your breath catches at his words. His words drip with venom, but somewhere deep down, in the depths of his blackened heart, you swear you feel an instance of temptation.

“What’s the game then?” you ask, holding his gaze despite the anxiety twisting in your chest. “Because by the Gods, I know you love those.”

Astarion’s smirk softens, but the intensity in his eyes never falters. He steps closer again, until there’s barely any space between you, his presence intoxicating. “Maybe I just wanted to see what you’re capable of,” he murmurs, his voice low and velvety. “Maybe I wanted to see how far you’d let me push you before you push back.”

His hand hovers near yours, fingers brushing lightly against your skin, but he doesn’t make full contact.

“And maybe,” he continues, leaning in just enough that his breath grazes your cheek, “I’m curious what could happen once we both stop playing.”

Your heart is racing now, and you’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline from the sparring or the charged air between you that’s making your head spin a hundred miles an hour.

“You’ll never know,” you murmur, meeting his gaze with a boldness you don’t quite feel. “Because I’m not backing down from this.”

His grin widens at your rebellion, and with a swift, fluid motion, the man’s playful smirk turns into a vicious one. Before you can react, he spins you around, movements smooth and practiced, making you lose your balance.

Your back hits his chest, and within seconds he wraps one arm around your neck in a tight headlock— his grip is firm, but not painful. Your mind strays to his other arm, feeling it press against your waist to keep you securely against him.

“Such a feisty little thing,” he purrs into your ear, his breath warm against your sweat-slick skin.

You struggle against his hold, trying to twist free, but his grip is relentless. “Fuck you,” you manage to scowl, though the words are strained by the pressure on your throat.

Astarion chuckles softly, and you feel it reverberate through your body. “Oh, she bites back,” he teases, his voice a dark, seductive buzz. “Are you taunting me, darling?”

You try to shift your weight, to find a way out of the headlock, but his grip doesn’t waver. “You’re projecting,” you growl breathlessly.

“And you’re persistent,” he replies, “Suits you well.”

You feel a warmth spread through your belly, tickling your nerve endings and making your thighs squeeze. You thank the Gods he can’t see your flustered face right now.

And suddenly, he releases. Not fully, but his grip weakens enough to allow you a moment to slip out again, stumbling over your own feet as you face him.

“Here’s your second freebie,” he chuckles, getting into position again. “Careful, next one might come at a price.”

“Like I need a third one,”

You recalibrate, then in the spur of the moment, pounce. Your arms extend as they barrel toward him. His eyes widen, but he manages to catch them mid-air; his hands clasping into yours and pushing against you.

“Fair strategy,” he commends, and you sense it might at least be partially earnest. “Desperate, but fair.”

You strain against him, breath hitching when he periodically pushes back. Whenever he does, you feel his gaze boring into you with a crazed intensity.

Then, you try not to think about the fact your digits fit together really damn well— and fail. Take what you can get, right?

“What’s wrong, my dear?” he sneers, slender fingers tightening around your palm. He leans in, your chests threatening to collide. “Getting distracted?”

You grit your teeth, leaning in with your full body weight, but he barely budges. “You wish,” you shoot back breathlessly.

“I feel it,” he corrects in a whisper, leaning in just enough that his lips hover dangerously close to your ear. “It’s in your eyes. You’re not even thinking about our little lesson anymore, are you?”

Your breath hitches at his words, the undoubted truth in them cutting through the haze in your mind. He’s right. The bet, your lesson —somewhere along the lines, your sparring posture went lax. All that matters to you now is the palpable closeness, your hands in his, and his hot, idle breath on your neck. Your throat threatens to cast a strained groan, but you withhold.

“I—” you start to protest, but your voice falters. His chest is now pressed flush against yours, pushing you forward.

“Admit it,” he murmurs, his voice low, seductive. “And I’ll let you win.”

Your hands tremble in the small space they lock with his, the smoldering red of his gaze telling you he knows exactly what he’s doing—how his actions leave you a mess in body and soul.

“I won’t, I— I can’t,” you manage to stutter, but the words sound weak and unconvincing even to your own weary ears.

He chuckles softly, the sound reverberating through you like a slow current. “Liar,” he whispers, and you catch a glimpse of his pearly fangs in your hazed peripherals. “Not a good one, either. Another thing I should school you on.”

Your eyes roll, but the implication accelerates the growing tension within your guts. “Just how generous you are.”

His head tilts gradually, and you go pale as you catch his tongue running along the length of his bottom lip.

“No, darling,” he purrs, “I haven’t shown you generous just yet.”

And then, you catch his eyes darkening. There’s a certain mania to them when they widen, pupils blown out like a cat’s when he suddenly pushes firmly against you. Your feet stumble backward, staring into him as a wild grin plasters on his face.

You yelp when you lose balance, lips ajar and eyes closed shut as you feel your back crash into something soft, or at least, soft enough to leave you un-bruised.

When your eyes flutter open, he’s on top of you. You study his broad shoulders, the pale neck between them, and finally let your half-lidded gazes connect in a silent, tension-filled juncture.

The ambiance of dusk quiets down to a soft murmur, crickets chirping in the distance as his strong body hovers inches above you, hands placed firmly around your wrists to successfully lock you in place.

“Seems to me you’ve lost our little bet,” he purrs out, and your breath hitches as one of his legs slides between yours, slowly inching to put a distance between your knees.

All you can do is stare up at him hungrily, desperately, drinking in his weathered features and pray he’d let you run your fingers through his flaxen locks at some point in the night.

“No clever retort? That’s not the little bard I know and love,” he teases, and your hips almost buck into him at that one word. You know he doesn’t mean it, yet your teeth still clench when your body jolts in response to his familiar lilt.

“You’re playing dirty,” you finally breathe out, cringing at how strained your voice sounds as you lie under his weight.

“No one ever said this would be a clean game,” he retorts, his crimson gaze boring into you before gradually disappearing into your neck.

His lips hover over your skin, hot breath tickling the soft spot near your pulse point as you gasp quietly. You feel him hesitate, arms tensing and releasing over your own as if soaked in apprehension. You strain your muscles, eyes shutting in preparation for the inevitable, sharp bite coming onto your poor vein. Gods, was this his plan all along?

But then, you feel the grip on your wrists loosen.

Your eyes flutter open, and you quickly catch the tousled white locks in your neck as the vampire looms over you.

“Here’s your chance to run,” he hitches, and somehow he sounds just as out of breath as you do.

You lie on the blanket of moss, chest heaving and gaze tracing languidly over the treeline as you feel your body go limp. He’s giving you one last opt-out before… before something happens, be it a bloody massacre or... Or?

Your mind shrieks at you: take advantage, prove yourself on top in this stupid bet— but the little voice in your heart urges you to stay under his firm body; find out if your instincts rang true after all.

You stay. Not only that, but you let your hands slip out of his, one of them snaking down his shoulder while the other runs through his waves. They’re silky, and soft, and when you catch a whiff of rosemary in the air, your grip tightens.

“Astarion,” you whisper, voice surprisingly steady as your heart beats a constant rhythm into the space between you.

His body jerks abruptly, albeit subtly, and you feel him smirking— smiling— into the soft flesh of your neck. “So I was right, after all.”

His face withdraws from you slightly, the residual condensation of his warm breath leaving you shivering. You catch his gaze, half-lidded and scanning your expression with apt concentration.

“Feisty, spirited little thing,” he continues, inching towards you again.

Your stiff body jerks, grazing against him as your shaky hand snakes to his cheek. You cradle it gently but with urgency, and there’s a beat of silence before you finally understand what to do.

You inhale softly, catch his questioning gaze, and crash your lips onto his.

He groans softly when you meet in the middle, lowering himself with his arms. Your chest thrums with the beat of your heart, shooting waves of dopamine down your worn spine.

When you feel his nimble hand on your jaw, your lips part with a sigh. He matches your buzz with his own self-satisfied murmur, stroking your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

You smile. He’s sweet and bitter, and you whine gently into the kiss when you recognize brandy on his tongue.

This is what you’ve been waiting for all these lonesome months.

The culmination dawns on you like a powerful current, making your eyes squeeze and your hands tremble in his waves.

He seems to notice your tremor, but instead of slowing down or (Gods forbid) stopping, he dives deeper. You moan into his mouth as he wriggles a hand around your waist, holding you close to his hips and suddenly, you feel a steady pressure grinding into your crotch.

The movement is slow, precise, practiced. His hips buff into yours in a controlled rhythm, making you sense his already taut erection through the thick material of his linen pants.

“Do you get it now, darling?” he murmurs, breaking the kiss to stare lazily into your glassy eyes. “Look what you do to me.”

His hand snakes to your blouse, and before you can register what’s happening, you hear three ivory buttons pop off followed by the cool, evening breeze tickling your heated skin. You don’t need to open your eyes to know your nipples are standing taut in the chilly air, yet the image makes you redden.

“How— how unceremonious,” you croak out, moaning softly when his large hand begins palming at your right breast.

His thumb and forefinger squeeze at your erect nipple, toying with it in smooth, tactile movements and relishing the way his name sounds coming out of your kiss-swollen lips.

“Mm, forgive me,” he chuckles darkly, planting a quick, ardent kiss on your lips before lowering his face to your chest. His tongue licks a slow, tender strip up your sternum before he looks up to smile at you; it’s a genuine look of satisfaction, untouched by the plague that is his faux arrogance. “I’ll make sure to be good next time.”

’Next time?’

You look at him lazily, gaze puzzled and lips ajar to ask but he doesn’t even offer you the chance. His hand dips from your tits to the band of your pants, sliding underneath it with his finger, the coolness of his skin making you gasp.

His mouth assaults your other nipple with sucks, nibbles, and gentle bites, making you mewl under him as his hand continues to travel down the soft flesh of your thigh. He rubs it gently, lovingly, starting under your hip and slowly stroking his way toward the inner region, where you’re most sensitive.

“Divine,” he mumbles against your chest, pressing a kiss to your rib. “So divine.”

His free palm moves to your exposed belly, massaging it gently. You sigh at the slow, consistent pressure, moving your trembling hand to the back of his neck.

When your one eye pops open in curiosity, you see him snug against your body, face contorted with empathic fixation as he labors down your body. It’s intimate, yes, but also… loving. His tongue is warm against your breast, and his palms caress your skin with slow, delicate strokes; the same hands you’ve seen wield blood-soaked daggers and longbows.

He runs two digits along the stretchy fabric of your bottoms, lip caught between his teeth. He catches you staring and smirks up at you.

“Enjoying yourself?” he husks out, and you’re desperate enough to nod wordlessly.

He chuckles at your enthusiasm, hand smoothing down the waistband of your panties that peers from behind your bottoms. Not even your cutest pair, but oh well. He doesn’t even seem to notice, as his digits play with the elastic.

You’re already so exposed, but nothing can prepare you for what he does next.

With a few more kisses to your breasts, he tugs at the two waistbands, pulling down your pants and panties in one go.

The material slides off your legs and you hiss out, feeling the coolness caress your slick core. Your hands instinctively reach to cover up, but you’re stopped in your tracks by a strong grasp around your wrist.

“Oh no, no,” He looks up at you with an arched eyebrow, and somehow, despite his collected mien, you catch a soft dusting of pink across his cheekbones. “Don’t you dare deny me this view. Not after I’ve waited for so long.”

Your face heats up at the brazen comment, but that only seems to draw him closer. Your eyes flicker down to his lips, and he takes the hint immediately.

You connect in a heated kiss, and this time, Astarion is the one groaning against you. You work in tandem, like a gentle, effortless dance, heavy breaths intermingling in a sweet symphony of hums and sighs when…

You feel a touch against your heat. The contact is almost impalpable, yet your eyes flutter open in shock as the man’s fingers trace over your slit.

He withdraws from your kiss, hovering inches from your lips with a soft smile.

“S’unfair,” you slur, gazing up at him with a pleasure-drunken gaze. He exhales loudly, and you gasp. His fingers dip in, rubbing slow circles around your clit. “You— Gods—”

“Yeah? Tell me,” he taunts lowly, continuing his torturously languid movements with a devious smirk plastered on his perfect face. “What’s got you so bothered, my sweet?”

He dips down, teasing your entrance with his index. You pant softly at the prolonged stimulation, trying your damn best to stay focused on furrowing your eyebrows in mock anger.

“Got me so exposed and—” you trail tensely as his finger probes your entrance. “—And you’re still in your damn clothes.”

He hums in acknowledgment, but you doubt he’s even listening to you by how he surveys your body, bottom lip caught between his fangs. “I’m about to show you ‘generous’, like I promised.”

And then, he bottoms out. You moan, feeling two of his digits sliding into you, the slickness of your opening making it an easy feat.

You squeeze around him, and he pumps into you once, then twice for good measure. The sound of his movements is unbelievably and utterly obscene, making your stomach knot in delight.

“So wet already,” he purrs through a smirk, watching you writhe under him, “Don’t tell me our little sparring session got you this bothered.”

You roll your eyes, thighs squeezed tight around his wrist as you move your hips in tandem with his rhythm.

“Come on, talk to me,” he taunts again, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek and letting his fingers fuck you in a steady, purposeful rhythm. “Now’s not the time to get coy.”

He switches gears, stopping his movement so he can curl his fingers inside you. He presses against the sweet spot, his thumb reaching to simultaneously rub slow circles against your swollen clit.

You cry out at the newfound pressure, the warmth in your belly twisting into a vortex of fiery delight.

“I—” you mewl against him, wrapping your fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt. “I’m gonna— c-cum—”

His movements quicken at your desperate words, digits working hard against your favorite spot.

“Cum then, my darling,” he taunts firmly, his free hand roaming under your jaw and holding it in place. “Cum for me. Let me— let me look at you, sweet thing.”

Your glassy eyes struggle to focus on his face, but once they do, he hits something white-hot inside you.

His lips crash desperately onto yours, but you struggle to kiss him back through the blinding pleasure of your climax. It thunders down your legs, up your belly, making you cry out against his mouth as everything melts away into a wonderful oblivion.

The last thing you see before your muscles go lax is red.

He rubs your clit methodically through your high, letting you ride it out peacefully as he burrows into your neck again.

When your breath steadies, you feel his fingers slowly withdraw. The emptiness that follows makes you cry out softly, helplessly watching as the man runs his palms up and down your sides.

He presses a soft, soothing kiss against your swollen lips, and you can’t help but glare when you see that he’s still fully dressed, even after your heated orgasm.

He catches your pouting and raises an eyebrow.

“Yes, darling?” he purrs, pulling away to take you all in. You’re caught speechless when his hungry gaze scans down your nude body; starting at your smitten face and ending with a lingering glimpse at your spent pussy.

“Please,” you mewl out, raking your hands down his clothed abs. “Gods— Please take these off, I can’t—”

He does.

His hands momentarily withdraw from around you, and with a swift, deft move, he tosses his shirt off.

The silken cloth comes flying into the night like a phantasmal figure, and you watch it catch onto a stray branch to your right.

Your gaze skims hungrily down his sculpted body, watching his muscles tense and release with every little movement. Yes, you’ve seen him shirtless before, yet the context of your current predicament somehow makes it feel like it’s the first time all over again.

Unbeknownst to you, his hands work at his bottoms, swiftly unbuttoning the waistband and letting it sit loose against his hips. You catch a soft, white trail against the edge of his undergarments, leading down to a straining, tented mess below.

Your hand reaches out absent-mindedly, still drunk off the high of your climax and so, so desperate to finally feel him for yourself.

“Not so fast, darling,” he scolds, gently slapping your hand away and letting it wither at your side.

“Let me touch you,” you retort desperately, but he only chuckles as his fingers begin working at his waistband.

“You lost our bet,” he explains, sliding a thumb under the elastic and letting it lower. You catch the very base of his straining erection, and that taunting alone makes you gasp. “Gives me the upper hand.”

“Says who?” you hiss under your breath, failing to give him the glare he deserves as your eyes bore into his.

He gives you a once over, gaze drawing languidly over your exposed body, and only then does the extent of your nudity finally dawn on you.

“Don’t make me laugh.”

You shift under him, shimmying within the small space he allows, and he takes your brief distraction as a moment to unravel his pants completely. They drop to the ground behind you, leaving him in his undergarments, and you bite your lip at how dangerously lax they sit around his hips.

“I think I’ve left you waiting long enough,” he mutters, and your lips go ajar.

The thumb hooked into his briefs starts sliding down his waist, lower and lower until you’re finally even in terms of undress— and you’re ever so starstruck by the sight of his bulging cock hovering over your belly. It stands thick and taut within arm’s reach and you find the fact makes your mouth water.

Then, before you can think of touching him, you feel him place either hand below your knees. He looks up at you with a sly smirk, and you gasp softly when he pushes your thighs flat against your torso, feet in the air and scandalously exposed in front of him.

“You’re playing with me,” you mutter breathlessly, hissing as you feel his length stroking against your inner thigh.

His arms compress you tighter as you feel him lowering, the underside of his cock slapping against your tummy. The gasp that leaves your throat at the sudden contact widens your eyes, and he catches your gaze with his self-satisfied one.

“Do you like that I’m playing with you?” he follows up without a beat, his hips rutting forward. The movement is gentle, yet the pressure is enough to make you whine out in desperation— it’s also the only answer you manage to choke up for him before his cock slides between your wet folds.

“A-Ah— you fucking— fucking prick,” you hiss at the vampire, and so he bears his fangs at you through a wide grin. You find that it makes your breath hitch even amidst your despair.

“Now, now,” he reprimands, words syrupy, “bold words coming from someone so vulnerable.”

His nails dig into the soft flesh of your legs as he slides back and forth, taking meticulous care so that the head of his cock butts against your clit with every dip. The stimulation feels electric, and soon enough, you feel your still-sensitive body ramp up with heated energy for a second time this night.

A minute passes, yet it feels like an eternity. The air between you is thick with tension and the soft, repetitive harmony of your strained moans and his little gasps. You watch his eyes close in concentration, and despite his otherwise relaxed facade, you can tell he’s struggling to resist you by the way his eyebrows knit in the middle.

“Fuck me,” you breathe out, one of your hands extending to claw at his withholding forearm.

When your gazes meet, he looks surprisingly spent; eyes glassed-over, mouth ajar, and the slightest hint of sweat glazing his pale forehead. You realize that his domineering act seemed to come at the expense of his stamina: a resource you had slowly replenished in your comfortable position.

“Not— not yet, darling,” he hitches out, but the words appear tender and helpless to your trained ears. “I— I want to enjoy this— enjoy you—”

Your grip on his forearm tightens, making the bucking of his hips stutter. His eyebrow raises at your touch, but before he can shoot you a witty comment, you’re pushing him forward.

It happens within seconds.

Your knees straighten, feet slamming into his abdomen. He coughs at the sudden, unexpected impact, and you take the opportunity to grab tight onto his forearms. He falls backward, and just before his spine hits the soil beneath, you use the momentum to push yourself onto him.

When his eyes flutter open, you’re straddling his waist.

He blinks in brief confusion, surveying his surroundings before the crimson gaze finally turns to you.

He surveys your face, and you let him. The moment is like a silent meditation, heavy breaths intermingling as he takes your raw beauty in; the longing in your eyes, the soft dusting of pink across your nose, and ultimately, the plush of your lips he had ravaged mere moments ago.

Next, he moves to your body. His eyes scan down your taut nipples, down your tummy, and to the softness of your thighs squeezing his midriff to the ground. When he reaches the junction between your bodies, your hips buck as if on instinct.

“My, just how courageous we are,” he purrs under you, hands reaching to rub down the outside of your thighs. “I wouldn’t be so nice about your dirty tricks if I didn’t find this view thoroughly delectable.”

You shiver at his honeyed words, yet your gaze stays determined on him. Your palms go to rest atop his, marveling at the eccentric softness of his knuckles and the polarizing edge of the nails.

“No one ever said this would be a clean game,” you grin playfully, rocking your hips back to feel his hard length against the curve of your ass. When a soft hiss escapes his lips, you feel your ego inflate. “Sound familiar?”

His eyes roll, but the grin creeping onto his lips deceives him immediately.

His head tilts at you, fangs bearing in the soft moonlight. “You’re trouble.”

The mischief of your smile spins into a warm fondness. Your cheeks warm, and your heart swells, but you don’t quite understand why. “Oh how rich that is coming from you.”

And then you’re rising on your knees, hips hovering over his throbbing erection. Your palms connect, digits intertwining with his as you lower yourself onto him.

You test the waters first, letting his tip brush over your slit with feather-like touches. You hum gently at the teasing pleasure, and so does Astarion.

When you feel your tummy tightening with anticipation, you dive in. With a light shimmy, you line your hips with his, and with more desperation than you planned, you slide down.

You both hiss as the head of his cock penetrates you, the stretch making your palm tighten against his. You bend at the knees, eyes rolling into the back of your head at the delicious sensation of being filled to the brim after such a long, lonesome time.

Finally, you let your hips slam against his. The sudden, harsh movement makes you gasp out into the tantric air as his tip pokes against your womb. The dull pain quickly shifts into a flat, resonant pleasure, and you waste no time.

Your hips begin to buck against his, building a slow, steady rhythm until you’re confidently riding your vampire lover with a self-satisfied smirk on your lips.

Each thrust makes you mewl, moan, and cry out into the night, that pleasant angle of his cock hitting that same spot his fingers did just minutes ago.

His head rolls back into the ground, and with the remnants of his energy, he issues an occasional, quick rut into you. As it’s rare, you decide to savor it. You squeeze around him with the thrusts, and soon, you feel yourself running out of breath.

“I— I could let you do this for—hells— forever,” he hisses out, and suddenly, you feel his hands unclasp from yours and snake around your waist. “Where have you been all these centuries?”

Your upper body is dragged forward, your tits colliding with his toned chest when he pulls you into a tight, possessive embrace.

You gasp at the warmth between you, and your eyebrows soon furrow when you realize the position limits your hip movement. As you’re forced into a pause from your delirious riding, his lips crash onto yours.

Your tongues share a private, slack dance, heads tilting to adjust as you both hum and groan into the fiery kiss. You attempt to rut into him, and soon enough he gets the hint.

Keeping you immobilized against his chest, his hips pound up into you. The first few smacks are scandalously loud, and you revel in the newfound angle.

You’re lost in him, completely and utterly. When he moans, you respond with a hum— when his embrace tightens around you, you kiss him harder.

The familiar, fiery heat in your tummy bubbles up again. You feel it amp up, grow, and send jolts up your spine when suddenly, you’re being pushed up. When your eyes flutter open, you catch his still closed.

His chest stays firm against yours as he positions you upright, letting you straddle his hips as you’re both left sitting in the soft patch of grass and wildflowers.

With your body regaining its mobility, you start grinding against him again. The position allows for a deliciously intimate closeness, his cock burrowing deep into you as you resume riding him.

The pressure within you grows, emerging as a knot— threatening to unravel with every other thrust. Your clit rubs against the base of his groin, amplifying the pleasure into a sensation you’ve long forgotten about.

“A-Astarion—” you mewl out between kisses, and his hot breath tickles your face when he chuckles.

“Cum for me,” he sighs out, and the assertion comes off soft and pleading as it settles into the groves of your heart.

“O-Okay— I… I—”

He tightens his hold on your waist with one hand, as the other moves to cradle your cheek. His touch is unbelievably delicate and affectionate, and out of all the stimulation he had so graciously provided you this night, it’s that soft touch that sends you over the edge.

Your lips connect in one last kiss, and you moan throatily into his mouth. Your hips still, thighs squeezing as your pussy tightens around his cock in a moment of pure bliss. The steadily rising pressure in your belly finally tips over, sending a wave of bliss down your entire being.

Still, he keeps moving. You almost want to scream against him as his hips begin pounding into you again, the soft slaps quickening as he slowly peaks with you.

Withdrawing from the kiss to lean against your neck, he cums. Hard.

Your slowly declining climax seems to slam the gas pedal as you feel him release deep into you, the warmth spreading through your body like a genial embrace, a fact that makes him groan loudly against your mouth. Your breath stills in your throat, before finally releasing into a long, guttural moan— it echoes into the night, and your vision blurs.

White-hot bliss envelops your body, and you melt into Astarion’s for solace. You feel him grip you, caress your face, kiss away your adrenaline-fueled tears, and pant softly against your lips as your pussy spasms again.

Your orgasm envelops you in slow, pulsating waves as it withdraws, and you’re soon left huffing into the vampire’s flaxen locks. You think you hear him speak, but the ringing in your ears is too potent to know for certain.

Then, as the ringing finally retires, you hear him whisper your name. It’s a soft, patient call against the burning skin of your neck, one you commit to memory as you’re finally awarded your senses back— if only partially.

The forest feels exceptionally silent as you fall into his arms. You recognize the soft chirp of crickets in the distance, perhaps a distant hoot of owls, but it all seems to blend into an indecipherable blur as exhaustion floods your system.

Your head falls into the crook of his neck, and your mind sinks into the soft, languid thumps of his heart. His hand caresses your back, and you sigh deeply.

You sit there for what feels like hours, drinking each other in. You’ve waited so long, and finally, you’re at ease— it’s a feeling you wish to cherish, and if it wasn’t for the pesky passage of time, you’d choose to stay in this damned forest for eons; with him.

You feel him shift against you. His hands withdraw from your waist, and he whispers softly against you. “Come, my love.”

You hum in disagreement, face burrowing deeper into him. Yes, rosemary and brandy— now it’s clear to you.

He exhales sharply, and you smile into his neck. He waits for a beat, before placing a soft kiss to your temple. “Wait here.”

You nod gently and finally allow him to withdraw. The separation makes you sigh, your body shivering in the newfound cold of the night, but you persevere. In the longing to hold on to the moment for a little longer, you keep your eyes closed and hope he’ll return before you open them again.

You hear him shuffle around, walking from left to right, before finally returning to face you. “Hands up,” he mutters softly, and you do as you’re told in your pleasure-drunken stupor.

You feel him drape something silken over your sweat-slick body, the soft material draping your hips before coming to a stop at your thighs. When you breathe in, you immediately realize it’s not your shirt, so you grin.

When you’re comfortably wrapped up, he leans in. Once you finally sense the familiar warmth of his chest, you lean against his shoulder and breathe in his scent.

You’re surprised he does this for you. Tenderness is not exactly something you’d connect with a man of his past, of his skill. Yet, when his hands move to rest under your knees and back, you don’t resist.

He lifts you off the ground, letting your fatigued frame rest against him. He takes it upon himself to get you back to camp, safe and sound, and only slightly perturbed.

You drink in everything you can, letting yourself be greedy for once. The steadiness of his breath, his warm chest, the crinkling of leaves under his feet— it’s an image you swear to place, no matter what difficulties might threaten to befall you in the future.

And he’s silent up until you reach the campgrounds. The chatter of dinnertime has long died down, and when you open your eyes, you spot the crackling embers of firelight flickering away among a circle of stones. The flames cast a soft, warm light onto the closed tents, and you revel in the intimacy of the moment.

“Everyone met their bedtime while we’ve been naughty sneaking out,” he murmurs with a chuckle, and you close your eyes hurriedly in hopes of feigning slumber. Still, you can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face at his brazen comment.

You reach the outskirts and finally spot his tent just below an old, sturdy oak tree. You recall the talks you had out front so many times before, back when your feelings were just sparks of something much stronger and much, much warmer.

He crouches down and with an unsurprising agility climbs into the little shelter with you still in his arms. You lie slack against him, letting his arms lay you gently onto his woolen mat. You melt into the warmth almost immediately, sighing out dreamily when you feel his presence beside you.

It’s silent for a moment, and when your eyes finally flutter open, you catch him staring at you. His gaze is thoughtful but warm, lingering over your form with a certain glimmer.

“I guess it’s official, then,” you sigh out, closing your eyes again and letting a lazy smile drift over your features.

He pauses for a moment, then clears his throat. “What… what is?”

You chuckle softly at his awkward tone, shifting to the side and letting one of your eyes pop open to glance at him.

“My victory,” you state matter-of-factly before quickly shifting to your other side, facing away from him just to let a satisfied grin creep onto your face.

You don’t witness it, but his expression goes from tense, to disconcerted, to irritated in a matter of seconds. His eyes roll, and you suddenly feel a flat slap against your ass.

“Woah there, hey!” you gasp, followed by a cheeky giggle. Your head turns to face him from your comfortable position, and you catch him mirroring your grin.

“Quiet, now,” he commands softly, pivoting to lie beside you. His arm comes over your waist, pulling you into his chest. “Bet’s over, darling. I’m sorry to say, but you’ve not proven yourself capable. Shame, really.”

You blow a raspberry through your smile and shimmy closer to him, your body melting perfectly into his— a fact that has you near to falling asleep.

“Shame indeed. The look on your face was priceless when you ate dirt,” you shrug nonchalantly, “At least that’s the version I’ll be telling everyone come morning.”

He scoffs, the low rumble of it vibrating against your back, but his arm only tightens around you. You feel his face in your hair, breathing in your scent.

“If you do that, I might just have to kill you,” he mutters, but despite the intensity of the words, his voice is soft and loving against your head. His hand drifts to your belly, fingers tracing lazy circles against the soft skin there.

“You would never.”

He’s silent for a beat. Your lips open to build on your clever retort before you feel his sharp exhale on your neck.

“Sleep, darling,” he reprimands, squeezing your midriff gently.

You sigh contentedly, your lips brushing against the pillow as you settle deeper into his embrace. The tent is cocooned in warmth, but you feel the cool kiss of the evening breeze filtering in through the small opening at the entrance. Outside, the campfire crackles faintly, the last embers glowing like distant stars before fading into fine ash.

As you drift closer to sleep, wrapped in the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the world around you blurs into the peaceful haze of near-dreams.

Just as the veil of slumber begins to pull you under, you feel his lips press against your hair, a soft whisper brushing against your skin.

“As long as I'll live, I never could.”

[wehaveimagineshere]

Request for Ren! Could I request a scenario for Astarion to react to his gender neutral crush said they would sleep on the couch while he sleeps on the bed when both of them had to share a room with one bed? Even though the bed is big enough for both of them!

I woke up at like 3 in the morning (don't worry, I went back to sleep), saw this, and spent like 20 minutes thinking about it. I think I even dreamt about it! Thank you so much for the ask, and I hope you like what I wrote!

~*~*~

While you wouldn't necessarily complain about sleeping in the wilds, with the stars above your head and the sound of creatures going about their business, you had to admit having a roof to block out the rain and a comfortable bed to cushion your back was a nice change of pace.

"We don't have enough rooms for everyone in your party, unfortunately," comes the innkeep, flipping through her books. "Hopefully you aren't against rooming up."

"It would be cheaper that way," voices Wyll with a shrug.

Karlach laughs. "I don't care if I have to sleep on the floor. Give me a nice fluffy pillow and I'll sleep like a babe."

You catch the innkeep's eye and smile. "I think that answers your question."

Setting four keys down on the counter, she motions to the stairs to her right. "Well then, breakfast will be ready in the morning if you're interested. Enjoy your night."

As you grab the keys and turn to your companions, you grin as everyone eyes each other up. Shadowheart and Lae'zel would have to have separate rooms lest you wake up to one of them dead. Maybe the druids wouldn't be against wild shaping into cats that could sleep at the ends of the bed to free up space. Astarion--

Is staring at you with mischief in his eyes.

The moment he sees your eyes lock on his, he sidles up next to you. "What was that, darling? You want to share a room with me?" He puts a hand to his heart. "I'm honored, of course I'll agree. You needn't even ask."

Fighting the smile and giving him an eyeroll, you wave the remaining keys and set them back on the counter. "Figure it out, you guys. I'm tired."

"I would be too," you hear Gale mutter, eyes darting between you two with a raised eyebrow.

Slipping an arm over your shoulders, Astarion turns you toward the stairs. "I wouldn't bother trying to add yourselves to our room. We'll be...busy."

You hear Lae'zel scoff while Wyll laughs, "We know."

Letting him lead you up the stairs and to your room, he leaves you at the door while he sets his pack down on the bed. A single bed, large enough for two, yet... Glancing about the room, you spot a small fainting couch and make your way to it.

Rifling through your pack and grabbing up your nightwear and blankets, you start undoing your clothes. "I can take the couch."

His ruffling stops, and you turn to see his shirt half off, a confused look thrown your way. "What?"

"I can take the couch," you repeat, motioning to it for good measure.

Furrowing his brow, he looks between you and the bed. "Are you blind? There's enough room for both of us, darling."

Raising an eyebrow, you study the bed. While there was enough room to stretch out comfortably, and the thought of cuddling up against Astarion all night makes your heart flutter...

"You'd be comfortable with that?"

He gives you an incredulous look, then you watch as it morphs into a confused look once again, then shifts into one of surprise. Tossing his shirt onto the bed, he approaches you slowly and doesn't stop until your chests are mere inches apart.

The emotions you see in his eyes closes your throat.

"My love," he starts softly, quietly, feathering his fingers down your arm before gently wrapping them around yours, "you always continue to surprise me." Bringing your knuckles to his lips, he places a soft kiss upon them. "I wish for nothing more than to wrap my arms around you, feel you pressed up against me, and keep you all to myself."

Feeling your cheeks burn, you squeeze his fingers and give a smile. "How long have you wanted to tell me that?"

He grins with a wink. "I'll leave that to your imagination. Now!" Pulling you forward, he tugs on your shirt. "Get dressed so we can cuddle and be mushy and gooey and make myself want to throw up."

Laughing, you pull your hand out of his and do exactly as he demands.

[littlejuicebox]

The Little Things

Summary: Sometime in Act 1, Astarion is beginning to realize he may like you more than he thought.

Tags/Warnings: pure fluff, feelings realization, sexual innuendo, in game spoilers

*

Astarion’s nice, simple plan is falling apart at the seams. He isn’t quite sure when it began or how you slowly wormed your way into his heart like the parasite wormed its way into his brain.

He thinks it must have started shortly after the night you two spent together in the clearing. Perhaps the day you drew his scars for him in the dirt?

You notice the little things about him, and it flusters him entirely. No one else has ever bothered to pay attention long enough to catch all the subtleties you seem to see without missing a beat.

*

You notice he makes tea but never drinks it. It tastes like dirty water on his vampiric tongue, but he loves the smell and the warmth. One day you bring him a cup of tea and urge him to try it.

“This one will be different, I promise.” You say, and you smile at him so sweetly it’s impossible to refuse.

He quirks a brow but obliges. One small sip reveals that this tea is palatable… in fact, it’s actually enjoyable.

“What’s in this? Better not be a sore attempt at poisoning me.” He murmurs with a playful smirk before taking another long sip of the warm liquid.

You grin and show him your finger, where the smallest pinprick can be seen.

Blood. Of course.

His face feels hot, like patches of warmth are spreading across his cheeks. It must be the tea.

“Clever pup,” He chuckles, “I— thank you.”

*

One day you’re simply walking by him in camp, returning from a quick foraging trip in the woods. He’s perched upon a stool, reading a book, and drinking the remnants of his morning tea you’d brought to him just over an hour ago.

It’s a lovely little treat every morning. He’s secretly delighted every time you bring it by.

You pause and smile, “Enjoying your book?”

He hums a soft yes and dog ears the page before clasping it shut to acknowledge you.

“Quite, darling. And you? Enjoying your… digging in the mud?” He asks, cocking his head just slightly as he examines the small basket of potatoes you’d procured from the earth.

“It’s not so bad,” You laugh, and then your eyes flicker to his book, “Oh, I almost forgot.”

You rustle through your bag and withdraw a thin strip of burgundy fabric, offering it to him.

Astarion takes the gift. It’s a bookmark. There’s a delicate letter A stitched in gold thread at the top of the small trinket. He’d spent a few hours last week showing you how to sew and embroider little details.

“I noticed you always fold the corners of the pages, and Gale is always grumbling about it when you return his books, so…” You shrug and smile again, “Plus, it’s a small thank you. For the sewing lessons.”

His face feels hot again. It must be the tea. Again.

“Ah, yes. I shall be sure to use it now, then. Don’t want to risk angering the wizard and getting us all blown up!” He jokes as he places the bookmark atop his book, mostly as an excuse to break away from your gaze, which is causing him to feel flustered. He doesn’t know why.

You laugh softly and step closer to him, “It’s not as good as your work.”

You absentmindedly take his hand and turn it, revealing the inner sleeve of his shirt. Your fingers trace along the cuff, admiring a piece of his own embroidery he’d done a few days ago.

“I saw you stitched these little flowers on your shirt the other day. Can you show me how to do that?” You ask, bringing your eyes back up to meet his.

He swallows. Your hand is still resting upon his wrist.

“O-of course, darling. Anytime.” He responds, still thrown. How had you noticed that? His skin tingles from where your fingers had grazed against him.

But it isn’t a bad sensation. He quite liked it, actually.

You grin and then hoist your basket back up before bidding goodbye and walking over to show Gale your harvest. Astarion is left befuddled and simply staring as you walk away.

*

That same night you’re by the campfire, and Astarion is showing you how to stitch small flowers on a scrap of cloth. You’re leaning over his shoulder, watching his work intently. The proximity is making his fingers fumble more than they usually would, but you don’t seem to notice.

“You filed your nails today,” You remark, absently, as you watch his skilled fingers work their creative magic.

He blinks and pauses mid-stitch.

His nails? You noticed the length of his nails?

“I wasn’t aware they were so obscenely long that it would be so obvious.” He responds, his nose wrinkling just slightly. Perhaps his standards of cleanliness and appearance had fallen in the wilds.

“Oh, it’s not that,” You reply, your tone almost dreamy as you continue to observe the rogue, “I just look at your hands a lot.”

Astarion’s finger slips and he pierces himself with the needle. He winces slightly as he withdraws the sliver from his hand.

“I— what?” He asks, pausing his work to assess you with wide, blinking eyes.

You hadn’t meant to say that last part aloud. You’d been entranced and disarmed by the steady rhythm of his hands and the smell of Astarion’s freshly washed skin.

He’d started a new bar of soap today. You could tell because he smelled different when he returned from the river. You’d complimented the new fragrance and he’d stared at you for a moment too long, eyebrows furrowed. You worried you’d somehow offended him. And then he laughed and made some innuendo-filled joke about cleanliness being next to godliness.

He’s waiting for you to respond, the metal sliver of a needle held at rest between his thumb and forefinger.

“I…” You start, and you feel a blush creep across your face, “You have pretty hands.”

You finish the statement lamely and with a small shrug.

One, two, three beats of silence.

Astarion’s scarlet eyes are staring into your own; he’s thinking… deeply.

Before you process what’s happening, the rogue has already abandoned his project in the dirt and brought both his hands to cup your face, plunging forward to press a kiss against your lips. His tongue slides into your mouth, urgently dancing against your own.

You two hadn’t been physical since the night of the Tiefling party. He hadn’t propositioned you again, and you were far too nervous to attempt propositioning him. You are entirely caught off guard by his advances but eagerly receive his affections anyway.

When Astarion finally breaks away from you, his face is hot. He knows it isn’t the tea this time.

He wants to show you what else he can do with his pretty hands.

[graveyardcuddles]

Nectar - Astarion x Pregnant Fem!Reader nsfw One-Shot

18+ Minors DNI

A/N: Astarion makes love to his pregnant wife in the sun. That's it, that's the plot.

(also my first time attempting smut).

Tags/warnings: fem!reader, pregnant reader, pregnancy kink, pregnancy sex, breeding kink, oral sex (fem receiving), PiV sex, praise kink, body worship, super light teasing, extremely soft astarion, fluff, ooey-gooey lovey-dovey porn. also vampires can purr now bc I say so.

Word count: ~ 2500

The sweet smell of sun-warmed grass tickles your nose as you stir from your half-sleep. The leaves of the tree you were resting under rustled in the breeze, shimmering filtered sunlight over your resting spot. The warmth of the day had lulled you into a deep state of relaxation, the background melody of birds singing and insects buzzing almost hypnotic. Your upper half was comfortably shadded under the tree while your lower half was basking in the gentle sunlight. A thick blanket had been laid out underneath you, and a few throw pillows from inside had even been brought outside to maximize your comfort. Under your head, at your sides, a couple tucked under your hips and lower back. You needed all the comfort you could get now that you were in your seventh month of pregnancy. The novel you had been reading was now perched on your belly, forgotten about for now. Astarion, meanwhile, was resting in his favorite spot: between your legs.

His head lays at the apex of your thigh, nestled where it met your hip. His cool face was pressed against the swell of your belly - one arm snaked under a plush thigh. His other arm reaches up to cup the side of your belly. He's practically using you as a pillow, but you can't complain.

He had asked to cuddled up against you so sweetly - "May I, love? You're just so terribly soft, so lovely..." mumbled into your skin as he climbed into your lap like a cat.

You could hardly say "no" after that. His cold body provided a delightful contrast to the summer heat. A palm rests alongside the curve of your stomach, and the fingers of his other hand delicately run up and down your inner thigh, occasionally stopping to dig ever-so-slightly into the abundance of your flesh. You feel one of his pointed ears pressed into the lower curve of your belly, listening to the lifesong coming from within you: The double heartbeats of his wife and baby.

You look down and see the curve of your belly rising and falling gently with your breath, his head tucked up just to the side of your bump. You reach down and pet his hair, fingers winding around his curls. You feel him smiling against you. His hands continue to roam up and down your legs, nose nuzzling into your stomach. One hand wanders down under the short heam of your sundress to gently grope the cheek of your ass. "Ah! Naughty..." You scold him. He responds only with a satisfied hum to your belly.

You can't help but indulge him like this, though. He couldn't get enough of your body ever since it started growing to accommodate your little one. It had stared as a point of pride that he had simply managed to get you pregnant at all. But the more you began to show, the more reverent his gaze and touch became.

"Only you could make the impossible possible like this, my love. You were always full of surprises," he'd say, hands exploring your new curves. "And I must say this is one of my favorites you've sprung on me thus far."

He's always touching you - keeping a hand on the small of your back as you brush your hair in the mirror or coming up behind you to wrap his arms under your belly. The moment any insecurities around your changing body are brought up, he strikes them down immediately.

"I forbid you to feel ashamed at how beautifully your body is growing, darling. That's our baby you're growing. You're stunning, my love. A vision."

Astarion was still ever himself as always, though. One morning, you had dragged your tired frame out of bed before him and started padding your way over to the closet when you heard a snort come from under his breath. You turned around to see him watching you from bed, hand pressed over his mouth and failing to contain his laughter. After shooting him a very confused look he managed to compose himself.

"Oh, my little love," he said almost apologetically. "You um," he cleared his throat and looked a bit nervous, and perhaps for the first time ever, lost for words. "You have a...a bit of a waddle to your step, darling," he said as diplomaticly as possible as he made his way over to you.

You were seriously contemplating throwing the nearest shoe at him when he quickly added, "And it's absolutely adorable," he presses a kiss to your forehead, soothing the fury that was quickly rising up in you.

A sudden kick elicits a groan from you, and you rub over the sore spot. Astarion shifts and lifts his head from your thigh, rolling on his stomach to splay his hands out over your belly. He stares up at you from between your legs. "Are you alright, my dear?" He asks while watching you carefully for any signs of more pain. You stretch lazily and smile at him. His concern for you tugs on your heartstrings.

"You're incredible." He held you and cooed sweet nothings in your ear as he wiped away the angry tears. "My little miracle maker, creating life from unlife." He kisses you until you stop sniffling.

"The sway of your step just shows how strong you are, my love. Strong enough to carry our precious little dhampir, my brilliant girl." Eventually, after a long massage session, all was forgiven.

"Hmm. Are you still comfortable, darling? We can always go back inside if you'd like." His fingers make cold soothing circles on your warm belly, and suddenly, the desire pooling between your legs feels unbearable.

"Yes, my heart. Just some kicking." He lifts your dress up and over the curve of your belly, exposing it to the sun. He traces the stretchmarks on your lower belly with his fingertip. The contrast of the sun's warmth on your sensitive skin and his cool fingers tracing over where your taut skin has stretched to grow and give and make way for your baby feels heavenly.

The sensation sends off unexpectedly strong sparks all over your body before you know it you're already breathy. "Ahhh- Astarion!" He smiles and presses kiss after kiss on your bump. You gasp softly, your desire overflowing quickly as you find yourself increasingly sensitive to his touch.

"Oh...No, I'm alright to stay out out here for now," you mumble to him, a bit breathless. "I'm enjoying the sun." He buries his face just under your swell, inhaling deeply where your thighs meet. "Good girl, let me take care of you."

He nuzzles his nose along the thin waistband of your underwear. You breathe deep as you feel him hold a kiss over the thin wet line forming over your panties. His open mouth teases you, lips and tongue prodding and tugging at sensitive puffy flesh. Both his hands come up to cup your ass and hold you to him as he kisses you impossibly deeper through your soaked panties. His hands run down your legs, catching on your ruined undergarments and pulling them down to discard them. He gently parts your thighs as he leans back to admire you.

"Beautiful," he mutters to himself like a prayer. "So beautiful..." He's staring down at you through hooded eyes, his pupils so blown out with just you can hardly see the red there anymore. That predatory vampiric gaze that would normally prelude a bite to your neck. Instead, he drinks you in every other way that he can. Touching, smelling, tasting you. He massages the heel of his palm over your puffy mons, drawing out long pleasured cries of his names. His hand comes down to cup your sex, playing with your pussy teasingly. The drawn-out lazy motions already have you crying out.

"Oh my sweet girl," he coos as he leans foreword, carefully hovering over you and gently kissing you. Grounding you. The hormones coursing through your body already have you panting and shaking. "Use your words. Tell me what you need." You catch your breath, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and grounding yourself in his scent. "You. Need you. Please, make me feel good."

He kisses you deeply before trailing kisses from your mouth down your neck. He moves to your chest, kissing over where your heart pounds against the skin. He gently cups your tender breast, aching badly these days. He nuzzles and kisses them delicately. Finally, he slows down over your bump again. He grabs you by your thighs and hooks them up on his shoulders. You look down at him and see his ruby eyes disappear under your belly. Not being able to see him added to your anticipation.

You gasp as you feel his cool, flat tongue give a long, lazy lick up your slit. It feels like pleasantly cool water refreshing your overheated core as he laps again and again, his pace excruciatingly slow. You try to control your breath and clutch at the blanket below you as he indulges in you, but your body is buzzing with euphoria. You attempt to buck your hips against his face despite the added weight on your pelvis. He wraps his forearms around your thighs and pulls you to him, kissing you deeply over your clit before resuming his meal, feasting even deeper.

He groans, relishing in your taste, as his head works up and down, over and over again - pressing the flat of his tongue over you with a little more pressure each time. You let out a high-pitched keen and felt your pussy spasm desperately around nothing. You were shocked at how close you already felt to the edge.

"Remember to breathe, darling." He mumbles cheekily, one hand coming up to rub up the side of your hip. Your hand finds his, and your fingers intertwine. He's decided you've had enough teasing, and you cry out again as he presses his mouth fully into you. His tongue slots into your aching pussy, nose buried in your clit and his brow rest gently against your swollen mons. He lets out a deep groan of satisfaction as he nuzzles his nose and mouth into you, collecting your nectar. You try to control your breathing as you whine and moan and squeeze his hand as he holds you steady.

You can feel him grinding his pelvis into the ground, clearly needy for his own stimulation, but he remains focused solely on you. The pained groans from his throat suddenly evolve into deeper growls and then a rumbling from within his chest. He presses his tongue flat against you, dragging it along you again and again, so deliciously slow each time you try and escape from the feeling, but he holds you through the overstimulation. His grinding becomes more urgent. He suckles at your clit and you cry out a long strangled moan as your legs clamp down around his head, your inner thighs rubbing his sensitive ears.

Deep vampiric purrs resonate out from his chest and travel up his throat. You can feel the vibrations running from him to you, his pleasure spurring on your own. He pushes two fingers inside you and pumps them in and out rhythmically while sucking your clit in time. It's too much, and the only way you can maintain your breathing is keen and cry out each breath. Your cries feed his purring in a feedback loop, making them stronger and threatening to topple you over.

His fingers curl upwards inside you, and the combination of sensations finally does you in. Pulse after intense pulse rapidly throbs through your overstimulated pelvic muscles, contracting around Astarion's fingers as you ride it out. You wail as he continues to hold the suction over your clit as you cum, intensifying your orgasm. Jolts of ecstacy lance through your belly and spread out to the rest of your body in waves. Your head spins, your nipples tingle at the slightest friction from your dress, and when you close your eyes, you see bursts of color. The almost painfully intense throbbing in your core tappers out into fluttering pulses, a puddle of slick having pooled underneath you.

Your head lolls back and you gulp down air, legs shaking as Astarion gives you a few more licks for good measure. Once you ride out your orgasm he kisses you, checking on you to make sure you're not hurt. You nod through your post-orgasm haziness that you're alright. More than alright, really.

"Darling," Astarion groans as if he's in pain, palming at the tent in his pants. "Can I finish inside you? Please, I need to be inside you, love."

You smile and begin to move to your side, already supported by your many cushions. He guides you into position, laying on your side with a pillow under your belly. Your dress is fully pushed up, laying yourself bare before him. Astarion pulls out his cock and you feel the precum dripping on your thighs as he lifts your leg gently. He carefully lines himself up with your slick entrance and pushes himself in. He leans foreword and shudders but holds your leg steady, his other hand never leaving your belly.

He groans your name like a prayer, moving in short, fast thrusts as he quickly falls apart. He mutters incoherently in his bliss.

"Sweet girl, my sweet girl. So good to me, having my baby. My love, all mine."

He loses his pace, and his thrusts become choppy. His brows furrow together, and his fangs peak out from his upper lip as he lets go. He calls out your name as he cums, and you feel his release throbbing deep within you, drawing a few more spasms out of your sensitive pussy and making you both moan.

With the both of you now breathless he pulls out gently, cum leaking all over your thighs. He kisses your ankle as he gently lays your leg back down. Astarion moves to lay behind you and wraps his arms around your taut middle. He nestles in close, listening to your heartbeat slow down from your lovemaking. Your hand finds his, and you lace your fingers together again. As you begin to dift off into semi-consciousness, Astarion scoops you up effortlessly despite your pregnant frame. He smiles to himself, thinking he has the whole world in his arms.

"Let’s get you inside, my dear."

[brain-rot-central]

Unholy Desire

Pairing: spawn!Astarion x female!Tav (the reader is Tav)

Warnings: 18+, religious kink, breeding kink, innuendo, dry humping, mutual pining, reclaiming sexuality through kink, they talk out their feelings

Word count: 2.7k

Summary: Takes place in Act 3, pre-Cazador. You've finally made it to Baldur's Gate. You take time to offer prayers to your God after coming upon a small church on the outskirts of the city. You and your lover have grown closer over these long weeks, healing past wounds within your hearts, minds, and souls. Your desire has grown to become... sinful. You have a choice to consider: your Oath, or your lover?

This is the third camping spot you and your team find on the outskirts of Baldur's Gate. Rotating spots every few days was probably the best course of action, lest the Flaming Fists come to chase you away in the middle of the night.

You find an old abandoned church during your inspection of these latest campgrounds. It has been a while since you had a proper spot to sit and pray. Lathander has been kind in your journey, thus far. You hadn't offered thanks nearly enough for shining light in the darkest depths of the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Despite the challenges you faced, you and your companions arrived safely to Baldur's Gate. You kneel down behind a bench within the church and fold your hands in prayer. You hang your head and close your eyes. The sun begins to warm your skin as it shines through a crack in the church ceiling. A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth; Lathander is receptive to your prayer offering.

You don't recall how long you remain in that position, praying to the Morninglord. When your eyes lift up, you notice that night has fallen. You see a faint glow in the distance, surely that of the campfire. Faint bits of conversation travel along the night air. The conversation sounds jovial; it's probably fine for you to stay here a bit longer.

Astarion stands in the doorway to the small church, eyes fixated on you as you kneel once again in prayer. He'd come searching for you after your companions failed to reveal your whereabouts. He scoffs softly upon entering the abandoned structure. He thanks the tadpole nestled in his skull for affording him the luxury of waltzing straight into a church. Were this a few months ago, he surely would have burst into cinders upon the first step.

You hear a small 'crunch' off to your left; your head shoots up and your eyes settle on Astarion, who is frozen in place. You will your features to soften at the realization it was only your partner, your lover, who came to check on you. "Are you certain you're a rogue?" you speak to him through the darkness.

Moonlight pours through the ceiling and bathes his face as he comes closer to you, now within full view. He looks ethereal in the pale light. The moonlight reflects off his silver hair in a halo. His eyes glint like newly-polished ruby gemstones, his skin glows like the finest cut ivory. You find it challenging at times to believe he is your mate on this journey. Difficult to accept that the two of you had shared a bed on multiple occasions. The thought makes your mouth dry and your head swim. You shake your head slightly, clearing your mind of such perverse thoughts.

"My dear," he begins, his signature posh tone dripping from each word, "if you've truly forgotten just how deft I am with my hands..." Astarion sits next to your knelt form. He drops a hand to cup your chin, gently tilting your face up to meet his, "...then perhaps you need reminding."

You swallow thickly as he holds your face, and watch his eyes begin to hood. A smile graces his lips and he releases your chin. He scans the church briefly, snickering. "What in the hells are you even doing here? It's rather... drab, darling."

You stand up and brush yourself off. You proceed to then sit next to him on the bench. "I'm praying, Astarion." You take a deep breath in and meet his eyes. "Lathander has been most kind on our journey. I haven't given him nearly enough of my thanks."

Astarion audibly scoffs. "Ugh, I can clearly see that. But why, is my question."

"We made it safely to Baldur's Gate," you explain. "That's more than enough to be thankful for."

Astarion suddenly stands up and over you. A scowl graces his visage, "And you didn't think to tell me you'd be here?" He places one hand upon his hip. "No one had any idea where you'd gone!" His face falls and he averts his gaze to the side. "I was... concerned that you were still out in the city."

You chuckle. Astarion has a softer side to him that sometimes slips out of his otherwise gruff facade. It makes your heart sing with delight each time you see it.

"I'm Baldurian, my love. Remember? I know the city streets quite well." You reach out to hold the hand at his side, and his palm wraps around yours. "I also happen to be a Paladin."

You follow his eyes as they fall upon the floor. The grip on your hand tightens. "And it's not exactly a daily occurrence to have a blood-thirsty vampiric master hunting you." He sighs, soft eyes regaining their focus on you, "Please, darling, just give me some warning next time."

Ah, he's worried you may have been snatched by Cazador. You stand to meet him and wrap your arms around his neck. "My apologies, Astarion. It was not my intention to make you worry." You bury your face in his neck and breathe in. Bergamot, rosemary, and brandy; his signature scent. You feel your body slowly mold against his as the smell floods your olfactory receptors. There have been many nights you've fallen asleep dreaming of this scent. It was oddly comforting to you. It makes you feel safe and secure.

Astarion rests his hands upon your hips and leans his cheek against your temple. You stand together in the small ruined church, holding one another, bathed in moonlight from the cracked ceiling above. "Do you have any idea how much you mean to me," a low rumble escapes his chest as he speaks. His hands begin to snake up your back, his palms resting on your shoulder blades, "Any clue what I think about when I'm alone in my tent at night?"

You slide a hand up into his hair, twirling the locks between your fingers. You litter featherlight kisses along his jawline, and he tilts his head back to give you better access. The hand in his hair tightens, holding him in place. A soft groan escapes his lips as you lick a stripe up the center of his neck. "I don't think you've ever told me," you say.

He shivers within your touch. You watch his eyes flit to the back of his head as you suckle at the scars upon his neck, "Hells, Tav, I've told you so many times..." his voice comes as a soft whisper into the night air. Astarion's hands slide down your back and to your waist, gripping your hips.

"Remind me," you insist as you watch a purple mark bloom on his neck. His hips stutter into yours, and you feel the hardening length of him ever so lightly brush across your mound. You tilt his head to gain access to the opposite side of his neck, and your mouth descends once more.

Another moan escapes his lips and he lowers his face to your ear. "I..." You feel his hands sink lower, coming to rest on your backside, "I think of you below me." Astarion’s breath is cool yet heavy in your ear as his hips begin to meet yours in a soft rhythm, "Or, bent over, with my cock splaying your darling little cunt."

Your hands drop to his biceps as a shutter passes over you. Your hips involuntarily grind against his, pleasured groans slipping free from both of your lips at the joint friction. His hands grip your ass and he holds you against him. You feel the outline of him press against your sex; your walls clench around the thought of him buried to the hilt inside you.

You lean back in his hold and he dips his face to your neck, nose tracing the outline of your pulse point. You shiver as Astarion begins placing chilled kisses against your carotid artery, and you once again lace your hands through his hair.

"I think about your greedy pussy milking my cock for as much of my spend as it can…" Astarion takes a hand off your behind and guides it to your clothed mound, pressing his fingers slightly upward as he swipes across the general vicinity of your clit, "...until you’re positively overflowing, and my seed weeps down your folds into a pool under us." You buck into his palm at the pressure of his fingers. Your hips grind down instinctively against his hand, and you mewl into his neck.

"Please," you beg, "what else do you think about?" Your voice is airy and ragged. You notice the door of the church is open, meaning anyone could see your current state, were they to come over. You feel a sensual twist in your abdomen, and your hands begin untying Astarion's trousers. You need this man stripped and bare before you, getting caught be damned.

His hands come to rest upon your own. "Oh dear, whatever could I have possibly said to put you in such a state?" he feigns coyness as he takes over for you, undoing the knots to his pants. “Are you certain you can handle knowing more?” You raise your head to meet his gaze and nod, slowly. Your eyes are hooded over in lust and you feel a warm blush begin to creep across your face. 

Astarion raises a hand to cup the side of your face in his palm. His lips come to grace the shell of your ear, nipping at it softly with his blunted front teeth. The hand on your cheek begins to slide down to your throat and his fingers wrap around the column of your neck. His grip tightens into light pressure against your throat. “Do you truly want to hear…” his tongue traces the curve of your ear down to the lobe, “how I bring myself to completion…” his teeth tug at your earlobe, “...at the thought of you, swollen, with the ultimate consequence of our couplings?” His voice is a whisper in your ear, and you feel your knees threatening to buckle. You groan and extend your neck, a silent offering to the hand on your throat to hold tighter. 

He guides one of your hands between the apex of his thighs and cups his swollen length in your palm. Even clothed, you could feel how hard he is. It sends electric shooting down your spine, resonating as a throb of your sex. He sucks in a breath at the pressure of your hand. A broken moan escapes his lips and he speaks into your ear again, “Have you any idea how terribly my body yearns to breed you?”

Your head swims, slowly losing all connection to this material plane of existence. To carry the child of an undead would be blasphemy; you would lose your Oath and fall out of favor with Lathander. Yet… you breathe heavily at the thought of being pumped so full of cum that your womb no longer has room for it. Your pussy throbs at the thought of falling pregnant from such a situation. You feel wetness gathering at the center of your thighs. 

“Wouldn't that be the epitome of a holy offering to your God of life?” Astarion moves to press his forehead against yours, and kisses the tip of your nose.

“He's…” you try to rasp out a reply, but your voice fails you. Your face is burning and your thoughts are a muddled mess.

“He's what, dear?” You can hear the amusement in Astarion's voice, knowing he has gotten you to the point where your mind can no longer form coherent thoughts.

“He's… also the God of birth,” you force out. You feel his cock twitch against your palm as the words leave your lips. A shiver passes through you at the thought of giving birth to an undead child, Astarion's undead child. Would it even be possible?

“My, my…” You manage to open your eyes and catch the devious smirk gracing his lips, “how entirely sinful that would be. Your holy womb, thoroughly disgraced by the planting of my seed.” Astarion's lips form into a pout, his voice taking on a soft mocking tone, “I wonder if your God would forsake you for such a thing?”

You often forget Astarion is an undead; he played the part of the living so well, would easily blend into any crowd. Yet, during times like these, he relished in his unholy attributes. He'd long teased you about your devotion to Lathander, went on long monologues about how the Gods were graceless and inevitably forsook everyone. He'd told you how he prayed to every God he knew of during the year he was sealed in a tomb by Cazador. None had answered him. He was bitter, you knew this. And yet… he was also enamored by your devotion. Jealous, even, that your attention was divided between him, and a God.

Your arms come to rest upon his shoulders once more, and you move your head slightly back from his. Your eyes find one another; you hadn't noticed before, but your chosen conversation is having an impact on him, as well. Astarion's pupils are blown wide, the reds of his irises becoming thin rings. “...Could we even do that?” you question, “Could we actually… could I… Now?”

A chuckle escapes his chest. The corner of his tips turns upward into a smile. “Now probably isn't the best time, my sweet. Unless you'd like an audience.” He nods his head in the direction of your companions sitting around the campfire.

Suddenly, your periphery vision returns to you. You recall you're in the small abandoned church within camp, with your companions mere feet away from you. You'd almost begged Astarion to take you within earshot of your companions… in a church, after having just finished your prayers. A scowl graces your lips at the thought.

“Oh, don't be so sour,” Astarion says, tucking strands of hair behind your ear, “We can always try to make this a reality later tonight?” 

“Astarion, is it even possible for you to sire a child?” You watch his lips purse into a flat line with your questioning, obviously offended, “I mean, with your… condition.”

Silence stretches long between you. You watch his gaze fall to the laces of his trousers and he begins to retie the knots. The silence is uncomfortable, and you begin to fear you'd said the wrong thing. Yet, you genuinely did not know. Could it happen? You'd not taken precautions during your past encounters. Could it have possibly… already happened? You shift uneasily and remove your arms from his neck.

“...I read a book while out with Gale one afternoon,” he finally says, grasping your wrists before your arms return to your sides. His fingers weave between your own, joining your hands. “He'd been raving about visiting ‘Sorcerous Sundries’ again. Something about an old, dusty tome of some sort,” he scoffs. “I haven't a damned clue what he was talking about.”

Your eyes widen. “You went out shopping, willingly, with Gale?”

“I know,” he sighs, “rather unbecoming of me. Though, I often have reasons for my madness.” He raises one of your joined hands to his lips, kissing the back of your hand, “One being… us. And what our future could be.”

“Astarion…” It dawns on you: he took the afternoon with Gale to research this very topic. To find out if this could ever be a reality for you both.

He unlaces one of your joined hands and brings his palm up to hold the side of your face. “As it turns out, so long as you keep me well-fed, that of which you already do…” a genuine smile graces his lips, “this could very much be a thing between us.”

You smile and raise your hand to cover the one on your cheek, turning your face into his palm. You kiss the inside of his palm, “I think it's best we return to everyone else, lest we get tempted again to start.”

“Of course, dear. I would have to agree,” Astarion turns toward the doorway of the abandoned church, holding out a hand toward you. “Our chosen company of weirdos may turn up with pitchforks should I not return with you in tow rather soon.” 

You place your hand in his and follow his lead toward the doorway. “Another night, then?” you suggest.

“No, my sweet,” he says, kissing the back of your hand once more, “tonight would make a lovely opportunity to start.”

[commander-rahrah]

Firsts

Pairing: Astarion (non-ascended) x GN!Reader Word Count: ~1200 archiveofourown: here

masterlist: here

Summary: Post ending of BG3, established relationship. GN!Tav/Reader having a bit of self doubt and worrying that Astarion fell for the very first person he met once he realized he was free from Cazador and that they would understand if he someday decides that he wants to go explore or meet new people or fall in love more then once. Astarion’s reacts to this worry.

Note: I haven't posted any BG3 fics yet, but I just couldn't resist writing this little scene that's been bouncing around in my head this past week! I wrote it originally for my Tav named Olympia, a tiefling bard, but I changed it to second perspective for this post.

.·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*:·..·:*¨༺ ༻¨*

Astarion’s eyes were trained on your fidgety movements. You were picking at the blanket as you sat on the edge of the bed, your hand shifting anxiously back and forth as your brow was crumpled in thought.

Something was eating away at you. He just wasn’t sure what. You two had a seemingly normal day, not starting until well past sunset (your new adopted routine just for him). The both of you had done some research and shopping before returning to the tiny rooms you were calling home for the time being to relax for the remainder of the night.

But now that he thought about it, you had barely touched your meal tonight. And were much quieter than usual, not as optimistic or positive during the research that had once again been futile. Perhaps you were being plagued by nightmares again — images of the horrors the party had faced just a couple months ago were resurfacing.

A flash of anger coursed through him at himself for not noticing sooner. Taking a breath he didn’t really need, he strode over to you and joined you on the edge of the bed — the mattress sinking slightly with his added weight.

“Copper for your thoughts, my sweet?” He asked with a tilt of his head, before tucking a piece of your hair behind your ear.

“I— I was thinking…,” You were quiet, and stumbled as you opened your mouth. He’d very rarely seen you like this — you always had a way with your words. You could be more poetic and flowery than even him. “And— and I understand if you do end up feeling this way.”

Confusion spread across all of Astarion’s features, “What in the hells are you talking about?”

You finally looked up at him, your eyes big and crinkled with worry, “I was the first person you met when you realized you were free… from him.” The pair of you had silently agreed to never mention that name again. “The first person you’ve been with. If you… if you decide you want to go see the world, experience new things, new people… I would understand.”

His jaw clenched together, “What?”

“I feel selfish keeping you all to myself. When there’s so much of the world you’ve not seen, so many other people you could be with that I—“

His red eyes blinked at you, before his lips turned downward, “You’re being serious.”

“I—“

He cut you off abruptly, waving his hand dramatically and pressing it into his chest, “Do you think that’s what I want? Have I told you that’s what I want?”

You shook your head, lips creasing, “No, I just want you to know that it’s ok if—“

“What, if I want to leave?” He stood up from the bed, looming in front of you as he spoke, “If I want to go galivant around to meet mysterious strangers, have a tryst or some torrid affair? I know that I am capable of making my own decisions. I know that darling, and I chose you. I choose you. And you reciprocated that.”

“I did. I do, I choose you. But I’ve—“

He interrupted you again, “Let me ask you something. Do you love me?”

“Of course. With all my heart.”

His heart still swelled with your answer. It did every time you admitted it to him. To hear it put out into the universe. That a tiny corner of it was indeed intended for him and you.

He pursed his lips before asking, “Have you loved people before me?”

“I—yes.” You admitted, looking down to your fingers that had become a twisted knot on your lap now.

“And did it feel the same? The love you shared for those other people.” He asked quietly, stepping closer and leaning down to undo the knot of your fingers. Instead threading them through his own pale, cold ones. “Did your love for them feel the same way you love me?”

Your throat bobbed as you swallowed, squeezing his hand in confirmation. “No. Not even close.”

“Exactly. You explored and experienced… and it still led you here, to me now. To your version of a first, yes?”

You nodded, the bottoms of your beautiful eyes starting to form with water as you tried to keep your tears at bay.

“I don’t need anybody else, or anywhere else.” Astarion sank to his knees in front of you, keeping his hands intertwined with your own. He dipped his head so he was looking up at you, his red eyes soft and tender. “Look… yes, you may have been the first person I stumbled upon after that damn ship. The first person I met once I realized I was free from his grasp. But you are also the first person to treat me with kindness and compassion. Respect. You’ve fought for me, protected me, fed me, been patient with me. You were the first person whose touch doesn’t make me feel ill, the first person who’s brought me to a blissful euphoria. You’ve given me peace. Autonomy. Safety. And love. No one has ever done that for me, not in my whole existence.”

His half dead heart was thundering in his chest. He had already declared himself to you once before, yet his whole body was shaking with emotion right now.

“And how dare you think so little of yourself. You aren’t just some notch in my belt, not a stepping stone in my life. You are everything.” Astarion used his thumb and finger to push your chin up, forcing your eyes to stare up into his. “I love you. No on else. And there will be no one else.”

The tears that were welling in your eyes finally broke free, rolling down your freckled cheeks. “I love you too. Irrevocably so.” Your voice was a raspy whisper.

“Oh my lovely moon, I wish you could see yourself how I see you.” Astarion’s voice was a gentle whisper.

He pressed a soft kiss onto your lips, both of his hands moving to grab the sides of your face. His pale thumbs wiped away the tears. “I surely hope these are somewhat happy tears now?”

You nodded profusely in his hands, a breathy laugh escaping you. “Happy, relieved.”

“Good. Now, no more of this talk alright? There is only room for one person to be filled with self doubt in this relationship and that position is currently filled by me.”

You frowned, “Starry, don’t jest about things like that.”

“Old habit.” His smirk pulled up enough that his fangs poked out. “No more stewing with your anxious thoughts. You’re going to come and join me on the balcony. Come on,” He stood up and held out his pale hand for you before he gently tugged you to the small balcony attached to your rooms.

The pair of you looked up at the inky black sky, glittering with the sprinkling of stars you could still see in Baldur’s Gate. They were blinking and swirling around the glowing, full moon. A sigh of contentment left you both as you stood in comfortable silence and basked in the light.

“What would the stars be without their moon?” He whispered in your hair, wrapping his arms around your waist as he gathered you into him.

[glimmerfics]

do you: a) flirt with the vampire b) trust the vampire c) stab someone immediately

anyway, if you haven't seen it before, this is “Bite Me,” an interactive Tav x Astarion fic. you make the choices. some of them are crimes.

Try it out: https://glimmerfics.com/stories/biteme

[dogbinary]

Tailor's Version I Tailor!Astarion x Florest!reader

rating: E

wc: 3.3k

warnings: angst, heavy themes of grief and death, alcohol use, mentions of gore, nightmares (I promise it gets better), spoilers for the squid/death ending

summary: Tailor!Astarion/Florist!Reader are brought together when Dalyria arrives to Baldur's Gate. Astarion is tasked with designing her wedding dress, Reader is her florist. Slow burn, lots of angst, healing trauma. You get the picture. This will eventually earn its E rating.

a/n: This is a story about grief, learning to lean on those you love, and moving forward even if you feel you can't move on. It's very special to me, and I hope you enjoy it. You are not alone.

Read on AO3 Here

It begins as it always does, with the sound of snapping bones. Most nights, it haunts him - When he longs for sleep that never comes, the memory of the sound finds him there, creeping at the edges of his mind with every restless turn.

Sick, wet gurgling.

Rebirth. Misalignment.

An open mouth dripping with red—the coppery, sweet scent of blood that once enticed, sustained, and warmed him—now only curdles unpleasantly in his gut.

Endless rows of gnashing teeth replace tender lips that once spoke such sweet promises into his skin. The tiny, rough, amber-gray hairs that once sharpened the edges of his lover's jaw are gone. His endless constellation of freckles, a distant memory.

All that remains is pale, purple skin framing vacant, yellow eyes.

Astarion can hardly bring himself to recognize them, but he does.

He does.

Obscured by thrashing tendrils, he sees his lover's empty gaze, even now.

"Astarion,"

Beneath the rough canvas of splitting skin and blood -

Somewhere in those soulless eyes, behind those endless rows of jagged teeth - something deep within Astarion still manages to recognize him.

It's the way his pulse thrums beneath the newly exposed contours of his brain. Three hearts, three separate beats, Astarion recognizes their rhythm.

And everything they've built is crumbling before him.

Is this truly how it all ends, after everything? When the taste of his newfound freedom still lingers on his tongue, when there's so much left of the world for the two of them to see?

What of those whispered promises?

Astarion's tadpole, screeching but compliant, binds him to this creature's will. His mind drags the weight of his body along an invisible string, forcing him to approach this superior, beautiful being. He is powerless to resist.

"Astarion,"

There is no glint of love in the illithid's eyes, no familiarity as they search Astarion's face. There are only wet, writhing tentacles, stretching into every corner of his vision until he's being suffocated beneath their oppressive weight. There is only hunger.

Slender fingers coil around his arm and squeeze. Their claws break his skin, boring deep holes into the flesh of his shoulder and pinning him with their immense strength.

He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes from his throat.

"Brother!"

-

Astarion wakes with a gasp, a mixture of sweat and tears dampening his skin and darkening his sheets. His hands claw at his chest and face in a panicked fit until he suddenly comes to his senses and recognizes his surroundings.

The rose-red canopy above his head, the half-melted candle at his bedside illuminating his overly cluttered space - he's in his room.

Alive.

Well - not quite alive by definition, but undoubtedly not dead dead, and his brain, along with its jumbled contents, is intact, despite what the throbbing at the base of his skull would have him believe.

The linens beneath him are soaked through their silk, thoroughly ruined. 

If he keeps having these fits, he'll have to replace them again soon.

But he's safe.

No brain-devouring monsters in sight.

Just his brother, Petras, who may or may not be worse.

"Hells, Astarion. I could hear you from the first floor." Petras's voice barely pierces through the ringing in his ears.

Astarion opens his mouth to respond but notices the lining of his throat is cracked and dry. How long had he been screaming like that before being interrupted?

He runs a shaking hand through his hair, freeing a few unruly wet strands from where they stick to his face and willing his breath to settle. Air hisses between his clenched teeth, and the absurdity of it almost makes him laugh. His body may be long dead, but its reflexes remain cruelly intact.

Only when his shoulders cease their shuddering and his eyes adjust to the candlelight does Astarion notice that Petras is already dressed presentably for his shift—his dusty blond locks tied neatly in a half-bun and a fitted pair of workman's overalls that smell of fresh leather.

Petras looms at the edge of his bed with his ugly mug and nauseating sense of brotherly duty, averting his gaze, like a mutt caught rolling in the garbage. His boot anxiously digs at a raised floorboard.

He knows he shouldn't be in here, and is keenly aware of Astarion's commitment to privacy. Petras would typically rather risk a naked stroll in broad daylight than intrude on Astarion in his chambers, which tells him that this episode must have been notably more severe than the others.

His brother's eyes briefly flit to the dark oak nightstand beside him. They pause on a nearly empty glass bottle of Angelic Slumber, tucked discreetly behind a stack of leather-bound books. His brows furrow in concern.

The silence between them lingers on, hanging heavily between the two. Worse yet, it signals an impending question - one that Astarion, on a profoundly instinctual level, knows will piss him off.

"Are you alright, brother?"

Right, as always.

"Of course," Astarion responds with a scoff, "Why wouldn't I be?"

Even Petras wouldn't be foolish enough to miss such a blatant dismissal.

And yet -

"Was it about Tav?"

Astarion's jaw tenses, hands clenching the delicate sheets beneath him so tightly they threaten to tear.

"Do you not have anything better to do?" he hisses. I assume the countertops are dusted. Have the new arrivals been inspected and set out on their respective hangers?"

"Our next shipment isn't due to arrive until tomorrow evening -"

"So you've come to me in need of busy work, then," Astarion's voice swells, dripping with condescension, "Perhaps you'd enjoy scraping pigeon shit off the storefront concrete? I might even consider having you tend to the task with your teeth. A fitting punishment for disturbing my rest and disrespecting my privacy."

Petras stutters, readying an apology.

If Astarion were a better man - one that bothered to exercise any form of restraint or familial grace - he would have considered hearing the poor man out, maybe even thank him for his concern, but Astarion is not a good man, and before his brother can so much as utter a single word, he seizes one of the books at his bedside and hurls it as a warning shot.

The heavy novel narrowly misses Petras's head, whizzing past his pointed ear and landing by the door with a hard thud.

"Get out."

His brother backs out of the room, hands raised in submission, but stops just short of crossing the threshold, muttering, "I've left some mail in your office," before gently closing the door.

The empty expanse of Astarion's room envelops him in judgmental silence. He sighs heavily, releasing some of the tension in his chest, before falling back into the mass of decorative pillows that clutter the even emptier expanse of his bed. The ceiling stares back at him, the glow of the candlelight casting shadows over the textured patterns and weaving them into blurred remnants of his dream.

He forcefully presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. It isn't worth dwelling on the night terrors - he'd learned that much rather quickly, merely weeks after he'd watched his lover turn into… that thing.

But he won't dwell on that, either. He won't.

The glass vial on his nightstand silently taunts him. Its pink, syrupy contents cling to its side, evidence of its recent use.  Perhaps Angelic Slumber is a bit of an extreme measure, but the list of potential solutions to Astairon's fruitless pursuit of rest is dwindling down to nothing, while the list of disappointments grows ever longer.

Craning his neck to read the clock on the wall beside him, he's not surprised to find that it's well past noon - still early enough to get himself presentable before opening.

Just months ago, he'd have been rushing to throw on a bit of finery and fix his hair, the pages of his schedule lined from edge to edge with the names of impatient nobles. A fitting here, a cutting there, sewing, prepping, busy hands, busy work, head filled to the brim with spools of different colors and measurements, with not a single square inch left for any unwelcome thoughts. Not a moment to dwell.

But, with the turn of the seasons, business has slowed like clockwork. The shop's primary clientele of affluent Baldarians tend to migrate for the winter, holding up in their vacation homes outside the city before returning for collective holiday festivities. It's the second week in a row that he's had gaps in his schedule, and there are several more to come before the streets are flooded with customers again.

He can afford a hot bath to ease the tension in his shoulders. Perhaps he'll even have a glass of wine to help take the edge off - something light and fruit-forward in flavor, just enough to get him through opening.

He peels the sheets off his body and makes a note to strip them later, then trudges barefoot over his ornate, decorative rug to grab the book he so carelessly tossed at his brother.

The Realm According to Bumpo, Vol. 8, laid flat, page-side down. The force of his throw split the bloody spine - a terrible fate to befall a collector's item. He regards the novel with a small apology before setting it on his dresser and trudging towards the bathroom.

The cold tile bites at the soles of his feet, a discomfort he's learned to accept with the coming winter months. The floor creaks as he approaches the large porcelain tub and turns on the faucet. There's no mirror, no reflection to confirm what he already knows—that he's beautiful, of course, never mind the deepening bags under his eyes. If he can't see them, there's no proof they exist.

He certainly does not look as shitty as he feels.

The pipes groan and thud with the promise of hot water.

He'll make it through this night like every night before this one, just as he has for the past six years. He'll greet customers with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, make more than enough money to afford his diamond-encrusted pile of shit life, and then he'll read himself to sleep - the same song and dance over and over until the sun burns itself out or someone finally learns his identity and stakes him.

-

The crisp scent of new cotton and warm leather catch him as Astarion descends the stairs, masking the subtle sting of cleaning vinegar under the earthy undertones of wooden hangers and countertops.

The store lacks square footage. It’s much longer than it is wide - as is customary for most specialty shops in the heart of this bustling city, where a building's height is favored over its width. He wouldn't call it a flaw in the design, more so a consequence of population density - a small price to pay for the anonymity of a bustling town. The structural integrity is sound despite the building's age, and the thick brownstone walls act as excellent soundproofing. It's nice, if he may say so - tucked away and intimate - one of Baldur's Gate's best-kept secrets.

The real selling point was the second floor. There was no need to travel between work and home, which the realtor was quick to highlight. With so many external factors pressing him to find quick shelter (namely, the bloody sun), as well as the distinct lack of windows, this seemed like the most natural option.

It took Astarion and Petras several months to renovate the space. While the place was long abandoned and cleared of its contents, Astarion had a hunch that it had been some sort of bookstore before it came into his possession. The walls encompassing the central area and the claustrophobic back office were lined with shelves needing to be stripped. There was a distinct musk reminiscent of wet paper that never entirely dissipated, even when the century-old carpet was pulled back to reveal gorgeous, antique wooden flooring. To say he was appalled at the previous owner's lack of taste would be the understatement of the century.

The rest was a matter of decoration and display. Which, given Astarion's penchant for "collecting" trinkets during his travels, didn't take much time at all. He set out the less personal items, paintings of nameless faces, a refined leather assortment of furniture, and large, ornamental rugs to bring the room together.

He'd spent weeks forging the professional relationships needed to obtain his fabrics, began visiting the night market once a month to collect embellishments for his more ostentatious clients, and owned a steady business within the first year of his new life.

And so, the lowly vampire spawn carved out a little piece of this city for himself- this place that once held him prisoner. While it wasn't home, it was something.

It was his.

The amber glow from the main room spills into his office as he pulls back the curtain divider. This room, too, is claustrophobic, with just enough room for his essentials: a single desk, chair, and an oversized sewing machine.

Opting to rid this space of its built-in bookshelf walls may have afforded him some extra room, but he decided instead to use them as storage. The cubbies are filled to the brim with fabric swatches, thimbles, measuring tape, and, of course, mountains of unanswered letters.

A cluttered mess to the average observer, but to him, chaotic organization.

He lights a few scattered wax candles and finds that the mail Petras referred to is, in fact, waiting for him on his desk - a stack of papers piled neatly where several strips of leather and unwound spools had been pushed aside.

He sorts through them and briefly scans his eyes over the name of each sender before disposing of each one in the small bin beside him.

Their contents are the same as always, courteous reminders that bills are due, several solicitations for holiday donations (they tend to lay it on thick this time of year - as if the fates of deaf, blind, wartorn orphans were solely dependant on his 20 silver), and another invitation to one of Gale's lectures.

The paper catches his attention, cardstock with a rough edge. His nose scrunches at the gaudy gold trimming around the equally tasteless title, highlighted by an illusory glowing halo, "The Art of Arcane Illusions: A Symphony of Spectral Splendor."

A slight twinge of guilt tugs at his chest. Despite years of neglecting his correspondence - a towering stack of unanswered letters - Gale continues writing to him. The others have mercifully abandoned their attempts to connect with him long ago.

He tucks the invitation away along with his feelings, depositing it into a discreet desk drawer before settling into his seat. Countless sleepless nights spent in the plush embrace of his office chair have molded it to his shape. He finds comfort in that - every groove acts as a steadfast anchor, keeping him grounded through the turmoil that comes with the busier months.

Astarion grabs his ledger to check tonight's night's schedule. It's not entirely empty; one of his regulars will be in around seven to have some casualwear fitted. An easy turnaround. Then, at eight, he has to fit two young twins for a birthday celebration. At ten -

"Astarion," Petras's muffled call reaches him from behind the thick curtain. I have something here for you—another letter. It must have fallen out of the stack.

"Come in."

His brother's hands are shaking as he enters, and Astarion scoffs to himself. His earlier outburst couldn't have been that bad. He's undoubtedly acted worse, driven by higher levels of stress and even fewer hours of rest. And while that doesn't necessarily excuse his behavior earlier, it certainly doesn't warrant his brother acting like an overly emotional –

His thoughts halt as he's handed a note, thicker than the others and addressed to him by his sister.

He can hardly believe his eyes.

"It's from Dalyria,” Petras says with an emotional warbe to his voice, “She's in Waterdeep. I received an identical one."

Soft, warm light catches on the wax seal, the navy color contrasting with all the stamps she'd used before. Astarion's brows pinch in confusion as he takes the envelope, tracing the pad of his thumb over the indented image of an unfamiliar family crest. He carefully tears the note, finding two separate papers: one folded sheet and one small card.

"Oh, mine only had the card," Petras remarks with an unmistakable hint of disappointment.

He offers the card a quick glance, then a second, once he realizes what it actually is.

A wedding invitation. For him.

Well, isn't that sweet?

It takes him less than a second to decide he won't be attending. Years ago, he may have considered it, but the logistics of traveling to Waterdeep with his… condition are daunting, at best.

Still, it's nice to be considered. He'll have to send some sort of gesture along with his regrets. Perhaps a fruit basket.

He tosses the card in the bin, ignoring the scathing look of disapproval Petras is currently burning into the back of his skull.

"I take it you won't be attending, then?"

"Of course not," Astarion replies matter-of-factly. "Someone needs to be here to tend to things. This place isn't going to run itself."

"It's our sister's wedding, Astarion. Surely, you can find someone to take over for a few days. Or hells, maybe you could, I don't know, consider taking an actual vacation?" Petras crosses his arms, leaning his large, brutish frame against the wooden edge of the desk. "It's Waterdeep. The Waterdeep. Debaucherous-festivals-day-and-night, tavern-at-every-corner Waterdeep."

"I'm aware." Astarion's tone is dismissive. He doesn't spare his brother a glance as he unfolds the second sheet of paper. It's, surprisingly, a very lengthy handwritten letter, which he skims over as Petras continues the assault on his ears.

"You know, I remember a time not too long ago when you'd revel in the idea of depravity -"

Dear Astarion,

I hope this letter finds you in good health and even better spirits. You still often cross my mind, and I hope the sentiment is mutual despite your demanding schedule. Word has spread of your unparalleled talent among the nobles even here, so I'm sure that must be why I have not received any word from you.

Astarion rolls his eyes. The subtle jab does not go unnoticed.

As you may have read, we will be hosting our wedding here in Waterdeep in early spring. The celebration will be held in just a few short months. It still feels like a dream -

The low thrum of anxiety in his chest begins to swell with every word. There must be some significant point to this.

He impatiently skips to the final paragraph, bypassing the rest of her flowery embellishments and flattery, until his eyes land on a sentence that makes his cold, undead heart sink.

I will be traveling from Waterdeep to Baldur's Gate, and I would be honored if you would be willing to craft my wedding dress.

Oh. Oh dear.

"She says she'll be here by the end of the month," Petras notes over his shoulder, nearly startling him.

"I'm perfectly capable of reading on my own, Petras."

But the words start to bleed into each other the longer he stares at the page, and the ringing in his ears grows louder each second.

Neither of them had seen Dalyria since she'd left to help guide the remaining spawn into the Underdark - another piece of his past he'd shoveled 6 feet deep and buried, right along with the rest of the hell he'd been put through 6 years ago, and the 200 years before then.

And now, after all this time, all of the effort he'd spent sealing those memories away and moving forward, they still manage to infiltrate the one place he thought he'd be safe - breaching the walls he'd built to keep them out.

They're being delivered right to his doorstep in just a few days.

Astarion sets the letter on his desk and just… stares.

[charmandabear]

La Douleur Exquise

Pairing: Astarion/f!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 2.9k

Tags: mildly dubious consent, thigh riding, dry humping, vampire bites, blood drinking, fear play, degradation, modern au

Summary:

You never hook up with strangers you meet in clubs. And this one is a vampire? This may just be the worst night of your life. Or maybe the best. It's hard to say.

An adaptation of @ogyscrypt's erotic audio, "Wait... you like being drained?" The second I heard this I couldn't get Astarion out of my head. Chaboi's vampire kink is STRONG, y'all.

And thank you so much to @wicked-well for letting me use your gorgeous render for the header, it fits too fucking perfectly 🥵

You’re unsure if it’s the thumping bass of the music, or the rakish way he smiled at you from across the bar, or the buzz of alcohol flowing through your veins. Under any other circumstances, you’d be significantly more cautious. Yet here you are, stumbling out of a club with the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen attached to your lips. You paw desperately at his black button down, grabbing his collar to pull him into you. His scent is even more intoxicating than the whiskey sours you’ve been pounding all night – something sweet, herbal and citrusy. If you have any sense, you’ll ask him the name of it.

But that’s not what matters right now.

All that matters is the feel of his body as he presses you up against the brick wall in the alley beside the club. The orange glow from the streetlamps make his white curls almost look golden, the silver hoops in his pointed ears sparkling in the low light. The fingers of his left hand are hooked in your belt loop while the right is tangled in your hair, teasing at the possibility of pulling without giving into the temptation.

He breaks the kiss but keeps his lips close to yours as you both pant heavily, brains addled by lust and blood pounding in your ears. He chuckles, a low rumbling sound that makes your pussy tingle, and flashes that devastating smile.

“Don't get shy now, darling,” he purrs, lightly brushing his fingers over your exposed midriff and sending goosebumps down your arms. “Slide a hand into my shirt, slide a hand into my pants, be adventurous!” He returns his lips to yours, breathing through the kiss, “believe me, I do not mind.”

You take his advice, your fingers fumbling at his buttons and revealing his lean, sculpted chest. His shirt falls open and he rests his forearm on the brick behind you, the delicate silver chain around his neck swinging gently. He effectively has you trapped, and when he widens his smile just enough for two fangs to pop out, you press your lips together to catch the whimper before it escapes.

“V-vampire,” you croak, all sense of logic immediately flushed from your mind. You know that you should be terrified, that you should try to escape, but somehow learning this little fact about your nightclub stranger has only turned you on more.

“Very astute, love, well done,” he sneers, and the sarcasm in his voice makes your throat go dry. “Don't worry, I've known a few people who are into it.” He takes a finger and gently runs it down the side of your face. “I have a way of finding people who are attracted to my… oddities.”

Your tongue subconsciously darts out of your mouth to wet your lips and he lets out a long, contented sigh.

“I do believe you're a special case, however,” he continues breathily, sending a shiver through your core. “I believe that you and I,” he moves his knuckle under your chin and tilts your face up to meet his, “are going to get on like a house on fire. Now come here.”

He fiercely resumes the kiss, grabbing you tightly around the waist and pressing his palm to the skin of your lower back. You slide your fingers through his curls and pull him closer, desperate to feel every inch of him. You turn your head to the side as his lips travel down your jaw and onto your neck, pressing sloppy kisses along the way. This time you're more than happy to let your little noises of pleasure leave your lips, and you can feel him smiling against the sensitive skin below your ear.

“Oh, so you like neck kisses? Well, that’s a given, everyone likes neck kisses,” he giggles as he continues to tease you with featherlight licks and nips. “And I happen to be somewhat of an expert in the art of love bites.”

He captures your skin between his blunted front teeth and worries at the skin, shooting a stinging pain through you. His tongue laps at the tender flesh between his teeth, suckling at it without drawing blood. The overwhelm of sensations sends jolts of lightning through your core and stars dance across your field of vision. Just when the prolonged pain almost becomes too much to bear, he pulls off your neck with a wet pop and leans back to admire his work.

“Just beautiful,” he breathes, running a finger delicately over the purpling flesh. His eyes sharply meet yours as he says with a devious smile. “And don’t think I didn’t hear that moan.”

Your cheeks grow hot as your insatiable lust for this complete stranger – this vampire, a predator that you should absolutely be terrified of – gives you away. But there’s no turning back now. You lick your lips and let your gaze linger on his fangs for a moment before bringing it back up to those crimson eyes. “I like the feel of it,” you whisper, your voice cracking slightly.

“I’m glad,” he says airily before leaning in close to your ear. “Even if it does hurt, just a touch. But the best things do, don’t they?” He grazes his fangs along the thumping artery in your neck, your blood rushing to your head in a mix of arousal and fear. “Every last one of them.”

You can barely rasp out the “please” fast enough before he plunges his teeth into you, the feel of icy shards seizing up the left side of your body. You should be frightened by the pain, but instead it melts into a sublime numbness that sends a rush of adrenaline through your heart. La douleur exquise – exquisite pain. You never fully understood the phrase until this moment.

That’s to say nothing of the obscene noises the man is making. As he sucks long, greedy pulls of your blood, his grunts and groans vibrate through your skin. His breathing grows erratic in your ear, every sigh of pleasure sending a shiver down your spine. He clutches you tightly, one hand protecting the back of your head from scraping against the rough stone. The gesture would almost be tender if he weren’t currently ravaging your neck and sucking your life force right out of you.

And yet… every little twitch he makes, his body pushing against yours as your blood begins to course through his veins, sends your desire to staggering new heights. The perfect pale skin of his chest flushes slightly, and you can’t be sure but you think you might see the front of his pants straining slightly. Perhaps it’s just wishful thinking. Your breathing speeds up as you twist beneath him, trying to get just an inch closer.

“Hold still,” he snarls as he pushes you harder up into the wall. Your breasts heave as your breathing grows shallow, pushing your cleavage into his warming skin. His grunts fall deeper into his chest, growing desperate and borderline animalistic. You’re beginning to lose your faculties as your survival instinct puts all of its resources into just staying conscious, and a wanton moan slips through your lips against your will.

He slows suddenly, his heavy breathing tickling the open wound on your neck before pulling away. “What was that?” he asks in a low voice, your brain swimming as your head lolls to the side. He taps your cheek quickly to bring your attention back to him. “What was that? What noise did you just make?” You did not think your heart could pound harder with the amount of blood you’ve already lost, but somehow you can hear it ringing in your ears. He glares at you dangerously, clearly waiting for an answer.

“What?” Your voice is small, shame and embarrassment mingling with lightheadedness as you try to parse exactly what he’s feeling.

“You heard me,” he spits. “What noise did you just make, darling?” You’re terrified that you’ve made him angry somehow, until a devilish smile curls his perfect bloody lips upwards. “It was a moan. You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” He grins like a cat who’s caught the canary. “Other side, now,” he orders, and you obediently turn your head as his fangs pierce the unsullied flesh and send a renewed sense of arousal ricocheting around your body. A desperate keen works its way out of you, high and needy.

His hand twists in your hair and your hips buck into him, yearning for relief. He pulls you tighter into him, and now you’re positive that you can feel his cock through his tight leather pants. You whimper as he continues to gulp down swallows of your blood, your limbs tingling and your cunt throbbing for him. He laughs into your neck before detaching himself, gently lapping at the gaping holes still pouring blood. He sighs contentedly, licking his lips like he had just indulged in the sweetest cherry pie.

“Just look at yourself. Grabbed by the hair, neck craned aside, in a literal back alley being bitten by a vampire,” he jeers, his tone growing derisive. “And here you are, given away by your little shakes of excitement. Moaning, wantonly, like a whore putting on a performance.”

You pout at him, unsure if you feel more resentful that he sees fit to insult you, or that you kind of like it. He sees the gears turning in your brain and he giggles, a high pitched tinkling sound and a far cry off from the terrifying predator he really is.

“Oh, are you mad at me calling you names?” he coos condescendingly. His wicked grin only grows, showing off your red dripping down his pointed canines. He takes your chin in his hand, examining you, as though he’s appraising the quality of a cut of meat. “I could tell that you were a good one the moment I smelled those broken blood vessels under the skin. The moment I realized that you bled so prettily.”

You press your back into the brick wall behind you, your body giving you signals to run while your cunt clenches around nothing. He runs his thumb over your lips and your tongue darts out to savor him in any way that you can. He slips the digit into your mouth and you suck desperately, wanting to please. His hand cups your jaw and he pulls your face in close to his, the scent of iron hot on his breath.

“Give me another kiss,” he whispers, popping his thumb out of your mouth. “Taste your scarlet crimson on my lips.” He pulls you in for another searing kiss, the salty metallic sharpness coating your tongue and setting off your fear response.

You slide your hands into those white curls with a surprising amount of fervor given how lightheaded you feel. He slides his knee between your legs, lifting you off your toes slightly, the pressure of his thigh giving you much needed relief from the dull throbbing in your cunt. You groan into his lips and deepen the kiss, desperate for him to devour you whole, and he chuckles at your enthusiasm.

“Why do I get the sense that you’ve been dreaming about this?” he purrs, running a finger down your neck and swiping a droplet of your blood. He daubs the red onto your lips and you whimper, your tongue hanging out of your mouth like a lovesick puppy. “Why else would someone react so needily?” You whine and squirm on his thigh, conflicting instincts within you simultaneously trying to convince you to try to escape while craning your neck towards him. He chuckles and licks a stripe up the holes in your neck, pulling a ghastly shiver out of you. “Isn’t this just precious, you pathetic little thing.”

You gasp, once again surprised that the insult causes something in your stomach to flip over. He dives into your neck again and your hands clutch the collar of his button down, pulling him as close as you can physically get. He growls rhythmically in your ear with each swallow of your blood, and you can practically feel his cock sliding in and out of you so strong is your arousal. You claw at his back as you ride his thigh, his ragged breath caressing your hairline and tearing increasingly embarrassing noises from your throat. The pressure building deep within your core signals to you that it won’t be long now, and if he keeps this up you might simply collapse on the spot.

He pulls away panting and you make a strangled noise of frustration at the loss of his fangs. He drags the tip of his tongue up your jaw, transferring a thin line of his spit mixed with your blood onto your skin. He presses his lips to your ear with a low chuckle. “I’ve never seen such positive reinforcement for my illicit behavior. And look at you, practically grinding yourself on my fucking leg.” His voice is scathing but colored by an undeniable tone of amusement.

“Please,” you whine, your lips barely able to form the words. You grasp at him weakly, fighting against the blood loss to beg him to keep drinking so you can finally feel any sort of release.

“Oh, were you about to come? Look at me, slut. Are you actually going to come?” He grabs your chin and forces you to focus your bleary eyes on him. A wicked grin spreads across his face. “Holy shit, you are. You're on the fucking edge, aren't you?”

“Please,” you repeat, your voice raspy. “Please let me, I’m so close, I just need–” He cuts off your begging with a sharp tug of your hair.

“Oh don’t you worry, I will. And here’s what’s about to happen.” He runs his lips over your ear, and his voice has the feel of velvet pushed against the grain. Soft, but still somehow wrong. “I’m going to drain you dry while you rut on my leg like a bitch in heat. And when I let you come, I want you to moan for me in that pretty way you do.” He pulls back and hits you with a piercing red stare. “But I want you crying out my name. And if you do, and if you’re good, I promise, this won’t be a one-time thing.” His eyes are borderline hypnotic, and you find yourself nodding before you realize you’re missing important information.

“And what’s your name?” you ask shakily. His smile widens enough for his pink-tinged fangs to pop out. He brings his lips back to your ear and you shudder.

“Astarion.”

Before you can even process the sound of his name he’s sunk his fangs into your neck once again and you cry out with the pain and pleasure. You paw desperately at his collar as you grind your cunt onto his leg, rapidly building yourself back up to climax. The feel of his tongue lapping at your flesh, the vibration of his satisfied groans, and his heavy breathing in your ear swirl in a sinful mixture of lust and hedonism. Your roll your hips, your slick folds rubbing together and working your clit as the heat begins to spiral outwards. Your little whimpers grow into whines and eventually into full on moans until you finally feel yourself at the edge.

He can feel it, too, and he grunts between gulps, “Good. Good girl. Come for me.”

It’s all you need. “Fuck, Astarion!”

The moment his name leaves your lips he pulls his fangs and leg away, holding you up only by your hair as the waves of your orgasm wrack through your body, the sight of his feral bloody grin only prolonging it that much further. As the ripples of your climax slowly subside, he unceremoniously lets go of you and you slump down the brick wall and onto the dirty ground. He crouches down over you, taking your chin in his hand and forcing your gaze on him.

“Blink twice if you don’t think you’re dying, love,” he coos, his voice almost gentle. You manage a woozy nod, and then very deliberately squinch your eyes shut twice. He giggles and gives your cheek a few taps. He rifles through your pockets until he finds your phone, and picks up a limp arm and forces the phone into your hand. “Unlock code, pumpkin.” You force yourself to tap out the numbers before letting your head roll back to the side.

He pulls up your contacts and hits the plus button. “If you feel like you’re about to pass out, call emergency services. But,” his gaze flicks up to you as he pauses between typing numbers. “Once you feel like you can stumble onto your feet and get home, call this number, and leave a message with your address.” He drops your phone in your lap and gives you another kiss, sensual, his now warm lips moving softly against your cold ones. “And at some point, when I feel like it, I’ll come ‘round to you. And we’re going to do this again,” he kisses you and you can already feel a spike of arousal moving through you. “And again.” Another kiss. “And again.” His lips are wet from your blood, and you shiver as he pulls away, the cool night air sweeping against your frigid limbs. He breathes against your lips, a waft of iron infiltrating your nose. “I’ll see you soon, darling.”

He stands, and as he begins to walk away, you can barely hear him mutter quietly under his breath, “

.” You smile weakly, unable to bring yourself to care that you’re crumpled and satisfied in a back alley, knowing that you’re getting just as much out of this deal as he is.

[bubblegumfanfictions]

Perfect to Me |Astarion x Fem!Plus-sized! Reader|

Fandom- Baldurs Gate 3

Ship- Astarion/Fem!Plus-sized! Reader

Warning(s)- fatphobia, negative thoughts about weight, mentions of Cazador, Swearing

Summary- Reader is upset after a rough day in Baldurs Gate, but Astarion proves that she doesn't need to be.

Word Count- 1,700

A/N- Sorry if this isn't perfect, it has been a while. But merry Christmas and Happy Holidays everyone! (I also changed the name of the fic)

After a long and perilous journey through the Shadow Cursed Lands, The Underdark, and the Mountain Pass to gain allies you finally made your way to Baldurs Gate. The bustling streets and lively atmosphere was almost alien to you after so much time surrounded by nature.

The faces of your companions tell you all you need to know about how they feel at present. Disgust, Excitement, and Fear. You felt for Astarion, it must be terrifying returning to your old hunting grounds after so long, seeing the families of people he had condemned, but that wasn’t who he was now. You felt a fleeting sense of pride that your friend had promised the Gur he would help take down Cazador and find out what happened to their children– Whether they were alive or not is a whole different story.

Karlach on the other hand looked positively elated at being here. Her excitement was certainly infectious, You pause your thoughts and look over at the disgust on Lae’zel’s face, Well maybe not totally infectious. Although you did take note of a glint in Lae’zel’s eyes, she was interested but hid it well.

But even with Karlach’s excitement, you were nervous as all hells. You knew from experience that Baldurs Gate wasn’t a fan of people with your particular build (Well, unless you work in brothels or Burlesque shows but that is a different story.) Knowing what you know about Baldurs Gate you had prepared yourself before you left to expect some comments, looks and even some shoves.

You thought you had managed to keep your anxieties under control and to yourself but that wasn’t the case. Unbeknownst to you, while you were hyperanalysing everything out of nervousness, Astarion was keeping an eye on you. He’d never seen you so nervous- That might not even be the right word, terrified seemed to be the better term.

He didn’t know why you were so scared of everything. He had seen you take down an Orthon just so he could have the information that Raphael promised him. You didn’t have to do that but you did. When he asked you why you simply smiled and said “Because it was important to you.” So he didn’t understand your fears at all. Are you scared of big crowds? Of the idea that someone could jump you? No, thats not it, you’d look more alert than anything, not dazed.

After a few hours of walking around Astarion finally spotted what it was that was scaring you so much. He noticed the glares and whispers being sent in your direction. He was happy that you weren’t an elf because you wouldn't have liked the things he was hearing. He was physically restraining himself from ripping out these peoples throat. You were beautiful. Why couldn't they see that? Why couldn't you see that?

“Isn't she ashamed of coming out here?” Just breathe, Astarion. You'll be no good to the group in prison.

“She's much too big to be in with that lot.” Astarion kept his rage to himself, but he was sure the rest of his group noticed. After all you were connected by those wriggling parasites.

Eventually you all made your way to The Elfsong Tavern when the Emperor decided to reminisce about his time working with Duke Stalemane. Astarion didn't care though, not after noticing how vulnerable you looked, how upset and withdrawn you were.

He wondered if maybe you could hear some of the comments. Or if you were so used to the treatment that you knew what they were going to say.

Karlach barrels into the Tavern with all the grace of… well- Karlach. Finally getting to sleep in a proper bed for the night. Everyone was excited for it. After the trials they had all been through they deserved some much needed rest, even just for the day.

Karlach decided to go down into the Tavern to spend her night eating and drinking, Lae'zel went to the courtyard to practice. The group had discovered a temple with a link to Mystra and naturally relayed this to Gale so that's where he probably is. As for the others? You had no idea.

You took it upon yourself to kick your shoes off and practically face planted one of the beds in the room you rented, barely taking any notice of Astarion's eyes watching your every move.

The energy it took you to not burst out into tears in the streets had taken its toll on you, you were just ready to sleep.

Astarion moved over to you cautiously, for once he was lost for words. He didn't know what to say to you, should he acknowledge the elephant in the room or ignore it?

“Astarion? Are you okay?” You lift your heavy head to look at the handsome Pale Elf that was watching you. His eyes dance with uncertainty. He seemed deep in thought. “Astarion?” You say his name a second time and manage to catch his attention.

He shook himself from his thoughts “Oh, yes, Darling? What were you saying?” He thought his recovery was smooth but his discomfort still showed on his face.

You sit up and pat the spot next to you. Astarion smiled absentmindedly, even burdened by the thoughts of horrible people you were still thinking of others first.

Astarion sits next to you, “I'm fine, but are you. Don't think I didnt notice the way people were looking at you.” He paused, not knowing if he should let on that he heard what they were saying. “Or how they were… talking about you.”

You stayed silent, looking down at your hands. Like Astarion earlier you didn't know what to say. “You noticed that?”

He looked baffled, almost offended that you thought he didn't. “Of course I did! Why wouldn't I? This is you we are talking about Darling, it's so hard for me to not notice you.” He places his hand on top of yours.

The coolness from his hand is a stark contrast to the warmth of his words to you. “Tell me, why do you allow a few rotten apples to treat you so poorly.” He uses his other hand to brush some hair from your face that had fallen when your head lowered with sadness.

“Because its true. I'm nothing special, no one will ever love me the way I want them too. I'll be alone… forever.”

Astarion's heart shattered, he knew what it was like to feel so vulnerable, so self-conscious. He hated that your life in Baldurs Gate made you feel the same.

“Oh, Darling. I wish I could show you just how wrong you are. These people? This group that you brought together, they adore you, I adore you.”

“But why? I feel hideous.” Tears well up in the corner of your eyes, prompting Astarion to lift you chin with one hand and wipe your tears with the other.

“You are far from hideous my gorgeous gorgeous girl, I think you are beautiful, a walking piece of art. You do not deserve to be treated the way you are just because you don't fit in with their callous beauty standards.” The mixture of Astarion's kind words, the nasty glares, and your exhaustion caused you to break down, tears streaming down your cheeks.

Without missing a beat Astarion wrapped his arms around you in a clumsy hug. He could feel your shoulders shake as the tears (sadly) soaked his new doublet.

“You think I'm beautiful?” You sniffled, pulling your head away from his chest but maintaining contact. He may not be physically warm but his actions and words warmed you through.

“Of course I do. Why wouldn't I? I'm not blind, Sweetheart.” A soft smile painted on his lips. Astarion could tell that his words weren't really getting through to you, he knew that it would take a long time for you to finally feel good about yourself, but he can damn well try his best.

“But-” you attempted to say before Astarion shushed you, a finger gently pressed to your lips.

“No buts. I have been around for a long time, I have bedded more men and women than I can count. But you are by far the most beautiful being I have ever laid eyes on. You are so incredibly and unapologetically you and I would do anything in my power for you to see yourself the way I do.”

“But I'm not thin like other people, how can you say I'm beautiful when I look like this? ” He moved his finger down to your chin so he could tilt your head up.

“Because you are. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, you're the best person for me. I don't want to imagine a life with anyone other than you in it. I adore you darling. I love you and I want you to be happy and I would love for it to be with me.”

Astarion could see your expression change to a more hopeful one. “You love me?”

“I do.” He responds, his eyes darting down to your lips and back to your own again. “Can I kiss you?” The question slipped from his mouth before he could think. You nod your head, still shocked by the sudden confession.

He slowly closed the gap between your lips, when they finally touched Astarion could sense all of your worries melt away. His free hand squeezing the thickness of your thigh as you shared a loving kiss. Astarions fangs brushing against your lips and occasionally nipping them as the kiss deepened.

“Fuck yes! Finally!” You both turned your heads, seeing Karlach stood in the doorway watching as the two of you kissed.

“Man Gale is going to be PISSED. He owes me 60 gold.” She senses the awkwardness she had just caused with her entrance and sheepishly backed away “Don't let me stop you, I was just leaving.”

She slams the door behind her but you could hear her yelling that she was going to be a rich woman and that she knew she had an eye for romance.

The two of you just laughed. This was perfect.

[grymghoul]

Choking on ASTARION's cock so politely. Staring up at him as his nimble fingers part your hair. He can't even bring himself to close a fist around the strands. The weight of the limb encourages you to dip further down, huffing a breath against the barely there hairs at his base.

"Gods, darling, that is simply.. sinful."

[fullofbees]

My God's Bane (Astarion x F!Tav)

Tav no longer recognizes herself while Astarion finally comes to terms with his feelings towards her.

AKA I wrote my own leadup to Astarion's confession scene :3

CW: LOTS of angst, religious conflict/crisis, mentions of past physical, emotional, and sexual abuse (Astarion), mild depictions of gore Word Count: 9,437

He liked to think that he had a talent for reading people at this point. Most wear their emotions clearer than they believe. Even when they hide behind a quiet, joyful, or indifferent mask, everyone slips, shows their hand so to speak, and that’s when he strikes. 

However, when it came to the leader of their ragtag band of weirdos, she was easy. She slipped the moment they met, when he cornered her about killing one of those brain creatures outside the nautiloid crash. She all but ran to his supposed rescue, not thinking twice that the man before her could pose harm. It was as simple as breathing back then, to betray that small boundary of trust when he held his blade to her throat. 

Her heart was on her sleeve, and she extended it to every wayward soul they encountered. With remarkable speed, she was able to secure new adventurers for their mission. She made vows to the tieflings and druids alike, intent on restoring order despite the limited time they had. Whether foe or ally, she sought the safety of all involved – such is the way of a valiant paladin. It was an inconvenience, honestly. 

Ever since they arrived at the Shadowlands, though, Tav’s personality changed.  

Their first day in the darkness brought them to battle between the Harpers and their arachnoid escort. The towering bastard had to go and cast Sanctuary constantly, leaving the rest to pick off the weaker cultists until they could find an opening past his defense.  

Tav had swung the final blows, her blade illuminated in a holy light that was nearly blinding against the shadows. The drider fell, and joined his fellow Absolutists as bloody road markers.  

She was an excitable kind of person, cheering and hollering with the smallest of victories, giddy with triumph whenever her enemies fell. Add Karlach into the mix, and Astarion was positive that sleep would evade the camp that night, the two warriors whooping into the night, drunk off wine and adrenaline.  

But, as she had stood over the vanquished drider, Tav was silent. He could not make out the emotion that crossed her face; reverence – or perhaps mourning, as he watched Tav kneel to close each eye the spider possessed.  

Astarion knew he was the only one to witness it. The others were engaged in conversation as the Harpers so graciously invited them to their little hideout, in the form of an abandoned inn. When Tav stood from the ground and turned, she froze upon seeing him standing there, eyes wide with panic as she fumbled for words to say. 

All she managed was a desperate, “Please don’t tell the others.” 

He didn’t understand why, at the time, he had allowed her to place such trust in him.  

The same night, when everyone was gathered around the campfire, joking and sharing stories over whatever meal Gale managed to throw together, she stared into the flames until one of their companions pulled her mind back to the present.  

“An actual drider,” marvels Wyll, “It would have been magnificent if it weren’t so grotesque. Wouldn’t you agree, Tav?” 

“Hmm?” She hummed, eyes transfixed on the bowl in her hands. 

“The drider,” Wyll tried again, almost in disbelief that she had not heard him the first time, “What did you make of it?” 

Her spoon circled the bowl for the umpteenth time, the sound immensely grating to Astarion’s sensitive hearing.  

“Him,” she muttered. 

“I’m sorry?” Wyll asked. 

“What did I make of him? He’s a person, not an ‘it’,” she corrected with a huff of offense. “That poor man...” 

“I wouldn’t go so far as to pity the creature,” admonished Shadowheart, “It is only fitting that one be punished for failing their Goddess. Really, we were doing it a favor.” 

There’s an unwon arrogance that Shadowheart tends to mince her words with. Usually, he would find her quips amusing, but he wished she would have read the obvious tension.  

“He’s not a creature!” Tav slammed the bowl into the dirt in front of her. The metallic clang of the spoon against ceramic rang out into the stunned silence of those around the fire. 

“He was hurting! Desperate to be seen after Lolth’s rejection... and all it got him was a tadpole from another cruel Goddess!” Tav’s hands clenched into fists, brow furrowed as her eyes focused once again on the flames, “He didn’t deserve to die. I could have-- I mean, we could have done more!”  

“I do not understand,” said Lae’zel, “Why do you show such sympathies for the weak?” 

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” chimes in Karlach, and though Astarion assumed she would start on another lecture about friendship and unity, Tav did not let her finish. 

“I’m afraid I lost my appetite. Good night,” she said, her meal abandoned as she stomped off to her tent.  

Karlach sighed, shaking her head at Lae’zel. The githyanki had not moved, still perplexed by the situation around her. An uneasy quietness quickly descended upon the group, broken only by Wyll bidding them goodnight. A chorus of muttered ‘goodnights’ followed as they began to disperse. 

Considering it an outburst of exhaustion, Astarion left Tav to stew in her tent. He wished he hadn’t, for she was no better the next day. 

It was normal for her to seek their thoughts while exploring. She’d ask Karlach or Lae’zel for tips after combat, banter with Gale and Wyll, show Shadowheart every damn “pretty” flower she found, and insisted on directing as many vampire jokes as she could at Astarion. It didn’t matter how dreadfully unfunny they were, she always laughed.  

Adventuring was quiet now, as she ushered them from place to place, battle to battle, without a break. They found various victims of the curse, most a century old, but some new and with unfortunately familiar faces. It did not matter how long the bodies had been there, Tav grieved each one, tears streaming from her face as she read letters of their last words. While she bawled at their corpses, Astarion brooded, wondering when he had started to miss her laughter.  

She was praying more often as well, sequestering herself alone in whatever corner she could find and frantically whispering. Once, when she ceased her incessant prayer, Tav appeared to be locked in some kind of trance. She did not react to sound or touch, the whole of her eyes overtaken by a ghostly, lavender hue. She stayed that way for two hours.  

Everyone saw the tears that streamed from her eyes when her mind had returned from its journey, but she refused to answer their questions.  

Karlach approached him one night, nearly a tenday after Tav’s original outburst, telling him he needed to figure out what was wrong. He had scoffed at the tiefling; after all, it’s not like he cared about whatever mental issues shared rent with her tadpole. Right? 

“She likes you the most, fangs. If there’s anyone she’s willing to open up to, I'm bettin’ it’s you.” 

He laughed then, loud and boisterous, to hide the rising tide of excitement and anxiety that Karlach’s words had caused.  

“Trying to use me to pry into Tav’s life, are we?” He tsk-ed. Though he smiled, his anxiety had given way to anger. It poked and taunted his deepest fear; that he’s only useful when he can be used. It’s so painfully obvious that’s all he’d ever be, that even sweet Karlach knew it.  

But something besides the tadpole lurked around in his mind; why does he feel bad about tricking Tav? That is his whole plan, is it not? Use the strong sword-wielding lady to safely travel back to Baldur’s Gate, she dices this stupid cult and Cazador into pieces, and then he dumps her, finally free from any master’s grip.  

He banished the intruding thought instantly, bottled it as deep as it could go, for the looming answer to his question threatened to make him sick. He is undead, a creature of the night, an external parasite that feeds on Tav at night until he can find someone, something, better. His skin is cold as ice and his heart no longer beats. He has no heart to give; or so he tells himself. 

“You know that’s not the case,” Karlach had chastised, seemingly offended he could suggest such a thing, “We’re all worried. You can pretend all you want, but I know you are too. You can help her, Astarion.” 

Now that was a curious sentiment. ‘Help’ is numerous in its contexts; Cazador certainly considered himself helpful, merciful even, as he watched his new spawn vomit blood and dirt after clawing out of their tombs. The word implies a give and take, and the world is far more eager to collect than it is to provide.  

To put it plainly, he had nothing to offer their melancholic leader; he is nothing and has been for a long time. Still, Karlach had come to him, apparently unaware of his obvious lack. Perhaps he should hear her out. Perhaps she saw something in him.  

“And just how should I ‘help’?” Astarion asked, condescendingly drawling the question out, rolling his eyes for good measure.  

He saw how the edge of Karlach’s lips twitched, how her eyes narrowed, the way her mechanical heart roared to life with a bright spark before settling back into quiet embers. In poetic irony, it seems that he burned her.  

“Hells below, Astarion,” she nearly yelled, exasperated, tired, and practically begging him to cooperate. He doesn’t blame her for the outburst. Without the annoyingly bubbly attitude of Tav, the tension between party members had been amplified and pulled taut. They all may very well snap soon.  

“I’ll see what I can do,” he dismissed her then, attention focused back on the tome he had in his hands. But his mind did not process the words on the page. He reread the same line damn near ten times before he gave up and went to bed instead. 

His rest was anything but; it was fitful and full of sorrow.  

It was times like then when he wished he could slumber like every other living creature. When his victims and fellow spawn would speak of nightmares, they told tales of distorted visions and intense fear. His waking hours were already plagued with such issues, he could easily handle the nightmares. But no, instead he was cursed to revel in his own pain during his meditative rest, reliving and experiencing his own terrifying truths on repeat.  

That night, he tried searching for something he could do for Tav. Something that the others could not; something to prove his value to her. He did find it. It didn’t take him long at all.  

All he had to offer his little troublesome Tav was his body.  

And it broke him.  

He spent that night with the realization that this is who he is and always will be. A body to be used and used and used and used and used and used and used and u s e d....... 

Thankfully, Tav had asked him to stay at camp that morning. Even though he teased her with his usual, “Darling, I thought we had something special,” she could barely manage a smile, and muttered her thanks before flittering about camp in preparation.  

It was probably for the best, knowing how useless he would have been with that morose epiphany swimming in his mind. Though awake, the uneasy feeling from the night did not dissipate. His emotions were all over the place, that much he was sure of, but they had always been identifiable. Agony, desperation, emptiness.  

Now new and uncertain feelings – gods how he detested the word – seized his chest. Images of Tav pestered him the entire day; the bags under her eyes, the unkempt hair, the dying light of her spirit. Karlach was right, he was worried.  

Still, he could not find the source of his worry. He’d spent the last 200 years surrounded by shambling corpses and their victims alike. They slept like dogs, were beaten like beasts, so really, who was he to judge for a bad hair day?  

Astarion saw no use driving himself mad about it, after all, he had always warned her that her heroism couldn’t last forever. He spent that day doing what he does best when he finds himself without her company, distracting himself with enough shit wine and even shittier books. He didn’t think his tolerance would be shit too. 

Words had soon blurred together, and despite the book’s distinct lack of arcane knowledge, the letters seemed to arrange themselves in puzzles. He slammed the tome shut, opting to sit in the privacy of his tent and will away his growing headache. While his thoughts were no less jumbled, the feelings from before were becoming clearer.  

Worry; The presence of the undead made it impossible for him to feed on anyone other than Tav. Even though she always assured him that she did not mind, he felt like he was using her, and for the first time in a long time, he felt bad about being such a devious bastard. 

Rejection; He’d never tell, but the absence of Tav returning his superficial flirtations left him feeling empty. He tries to tell himself that it isn’t him, it isn’t his fault, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less to not have her affection. 

Fear; He would give his body to her, if it would make her happy. Thousands before her had found pleasure in him, it would be easy for him to allow her the same. He wanted to believe that he’d be selfless, place her needs and comfort above his own; but he knew he could not. He is selfish. Could she want a selfish man? 

It dawned on him then, what this cocktail of vulnerability and yearning was. The cause of his worry, the source of his comfort, the reason he felt like an idiot. He lov- 

The party had arrived back at camp, and he had stumbled to his feet to meet them, for how would it look if their charming vampire companion was found sulking and brooding in his tent. Karlach immediately shed her armor, talking about how stuffy it felt to be metal-clad. Gale carried a sack with the night’s dinner ingredients in hand and grumbled about the pain in his knees as he knelt to light the fire. Lae’zel, despite her stoicism, appeared happy, covered head to toe in the blood of the fallen. 

Tav looked no worse than she had for these last few days, and that ought to count for something. He watched as she removed the outer pieces of her armor, wincing when the harsh edges dug into new and old bruises alike. She picked up a rag and a small mirror, wiping away the blood from the cuts on her face.  

The sight of the crimson spilling from her skin reminded him of his hunger. Their quid pro quo arrangement had been forgotten in her despair, and he was desperate at this point for anything she would give him. Blood, sex, shallow praise, whatever she had to offer.  

Oh, right. 

He had yet to offer himself again, so what reason would she have to keep up her end of the deal? 

He downs the last of the wine in his goblet, swallowing the intoxicating substance just as the reality of his situation swallows his hope. With measured steps, he approached her tent, taking quiet yet deep breaths to ease the misery he felt knowing he’ll never be more than this. He opened his mouth to call her name, but Tav released the ties holding back the rainfly of her tent and shut them all out. 

That should have been it, but his drunken mind reminded him of his promise to Karlach, and his predatorial hunger lurched at the idea of another night unsatiated.  

Once the others were asleep, Astarion snuck into her tent, part and parcel to their routine since she first discovered his true nature. It was easier for him when she was asleep, not that the sharp pinch of his fangs left her totally undisturbed; but to approach while she was awake only guaranteed in his mind that he would end up on his back again.  

Tav was facing away from him, lying on her side, a formerly white linen sheet covered her sleeping form. Nothing was amiss as he had stalked closer, brushing the strands of hair away from her neck, his mouth unbelievably dry. He knelt, the perfume of her blood wafting sweetly from beneath her skin, as he placed his hand on her shoulder to steady himself.  

She awoke then, the force of her sitting so abruptly pushed him back and sent him stumbling. He had, thankfully, caught himself with his hand before falling into the dirt. Still, he was equal parts annoyed at dinner being interrupted and worried that he was caught.  

“Hells, Astarion, you scared the shit out of me,” she whispered. 

“And you almost broke my nose,” he chastised; not a total lie, but an exaggerated one, nonetheless.  

Tav rolled her eyes at him before letting herself fall back against her bedroll again, “Oh, you poor thing, want me to kiss it better?” 

At least she appeared to be feeling better, back to the self that loved teasing him.  

“If you’re offering, who am I to say no to the hand that feeds?”   

Upon realizing that he would not be allowed to dine and dash, Astarion straddled her thighs, ready to bargain for what he needed. He let his hand rest on her hip, soothing circles through the fabric of her nightwear.  

“Yea, s’pose you can’t say you won’t bite,” she said through a drowsy laugh. 

He allowed his hand to wander then, down the inside of her thigh, fingers trailing along the seam of her pants, “As if the lady would protest my bites.” 

With a kiss pressed to her lips, Astarion silenced any innuendo or proposition she may have made. He did not want to hear it, could not stand the idea of her confirming all the horrid things he thought about himself.  

This unspoken deal only served to remind him of how temporary freedom would be. At worst, he would return to Cazador, and the bastard would tell him how lucky he should feel, how there were other mortals dying to be in his position. He wished he could tell him that adding an ‘s’ before ‘pawn’ doesn’t make being a puppet any more lucrative.  

She promised that she would not let that happen. She promised to free him from his master’s chains, but what comes after? He would still be bound to the night, doomed to prowl moonlit streets for an eternity. Killing would still be his status quo, whether mammal or mortal, in order to satiate his hunger.  

Would she stay with such a monster? 

Thoughts he did not want to entertain had barged to the forefront of his mind again, and he knew he needed to move this along. At least with sex, he could force those thoughts away, bottle them back up, and allow his body to numb. At least, this way, he survived another day. At least her body is warm. 

At least—anything he can say to himself to justify another night on his back and to ignore the resentment building in his heart. 

Her lips had parted in a moan, and his tongue quickly lay claim to her mouth, as his hand finally cupped her sex. She gasped, and as his mind had started to drift off into the numb void, he had been pulled back by the feeling of her hand pushing against his chest. 

When he separated himself from her body, Astarion wanted to scream, wanted to shake her; why did she insist on taking the lead? It would be easy with him on top; he wouldn’t have to look at her, to feel her weight on top of him. Must she be so difficult? 

“I don’t want to have sex tonight.” 

What-- 

He looked down at her then, saw the flush in her face, felt how her hands fiddled with the ruffled collar of his shirt but harbored no intention to remove the clothing.  

“I’m not really in the right headspace for that,” she explained, “Plus, I can taste the wine on your lips...” 

“Right, well...” He didn’t know what to say.  

Astarion was frozen above her, unsure of what he was supposed to do. Awkwardness had settled over them both, each one terrified of scaring the other off should they move or speak. Until, the dots connect in her head and she practically launched herself upright, almost smacking herself into him again. 

“You haven’t fed since we got here, have you? Shit, I’m sorry!” She said as she pulled her hair to the side, exposing the column of her neck.  

Any other time, he might have shoved her away, storming out of her tent as his hunger gave way to the embarrassment of it all, his crumbling ego unable to cope. But as she all but dragged his mouth to her skin, urging him to drink, Astarion was thankful that her care outweighed his own pride. 

His fangs pierced her flesh, and she hissed at the pain, but did not complain further.  

He recalled the conversation they had about what their friends would taste like, debating over who would be sweet and who would be savory. Once he had mused that she would be bland, only if to rile her up, but the depth of her lifeblood had truly surprised him.  

She is a winter’s mulled wine, deceptively simple at first yet brimming with spice as she settles on his tongue. Hints of citrus tease his palate, the last taste of summer’s sweetness yielding to the zest of cinnamon and clove. It was gone as soon as it came, leaving its enjoyer to eagerly await the next mouthful.   

As he drank from her, he had felt the echo of a memory in his chest, of his younger days scribbling away next to a hearth, of a man who made his heart flutter and his skin burn with want. The man’s face remains obscured, buried under years of torment, but the feeling is there; the rush of something new and exciting; the naivety of first love. 

With wild hair and soft eyes that regarded him as if he held the entire world, the elf below him had unearthed a humanity he’d long since forgotten. What a wondrous feeling it was; to release all that had been brimming beneath the surface, to give names to the shadows, to feel again.  

Again, her hand pushed against his chest, weaker than before as she mumbles, “O-Okay, I’m starting to get dizzy.” 

His fangs retreated from her skin, and as his lips captured any wayward drops, he realized he did not wish to completely part in that moment. Gently, he laid her down against her bedroll, back on her side. He situated himself behind her, basking in the newfound heat that flowed through his veins, and allowed his breath to even out. Tav was already fast asleep when he turned, wrapping his arm around her and cuddled her to his chest. 

...  

Astarion had made sure to return to his own tent before dawn broke and if Tav had noticed the vampire snuggling her in the night, he was eternally grateful for her silence on it in the morning. He did not want to hear the insufferable taunts and jokes the others would make if the two of them were discovered together. Gale or Wyll, hells, probably even Karlach, would remind him that it’s only natural for two adults to seek out company between their giggles; as if he’s a little boy who's embarrassed about his crush.  

But that is what he is, isn’t he? He’s tucking tail and scurrying away because he’s afraid of others seeing that he is capable of feeling. Brazen displays of emotion, especially ones of love, are signs of a weakness to be exploited. Everything he had ever loved had been taken from him, had been hurt because of him. He could love her, he wants to love her, but it would just be placing a target on her back. Another one of Cazador’s endless lessons.  

She is safer this way.  

For what it’s worth, Tav did appear livelier that morning, bantering with Shadowheart as the cleric healed their bloodless leader, and it earned him a thankful pat on the back from Karlach. 

“Ah, I love the taste of Lesser Restoration in the morning,” Tav hummed happily, arms raised above her head as she stretched the sleep out of her body. 

“I don’t know why you insist on coming to me,” said Shadowheart, “You’re the one who chose to be a walking blood bank, and I know Paladins can cast Lesser Restoration. Why don’t you heal yourself instead of making it my problem?” 

“Because you’re always so charming,” Tav teased, “How do you expect me to resist?” 

“Kicking and screaming, I hope,” deadpanned the cleric. 

“See what I mean? Our own little ray of sunshine!”  

After breakfast, Tav assembled that day’s crew. The idea of a day of physical labor after last night's mental exhaustion made Astarion less than eager to accept her invitation. Still, he had said yes, and donned his armor as he made a quiet vow to himself.

He will always keep her safe in one way or another.  

The day’s mission had involved infiltrating the House of Healing to find something that could be used on this Art Cullagh fellow. Astarion had accepted, by this point, to not concern himself with the details and just assist Tav with whatever heroics she found herself agreeing to. They would happen with or without him.  

The exterior yielded nothing of value, except one half of a pair of warding rings Tav found on the skeleton of another victim. She was somber as she pocketed the ring and read the lover’s note, but composed herself afterwards, and said a small prayer before pushing forward. He had felt some level of pride and admiration, watching as a new strength kindled inside her. There was inflation to his ego as well, a selfish joy in thinking that his mere cuddles could fix her woes. 

He should have known better. Life had never been kind. 

They had entered the House of Healing through an antechamber that reeked of decay and spoiled blood. Infirmary beds were strewn about, and of the few that weren’t outright destroyed or flipped over, they looked less than pleasing without a mattress to cover the rusted springs. Rotting towels, shattered wash basins, and an unknown film covered the floors. Voices echoed from the main chamber ahead, so each step further in was made cautiously. 

They passed through a door to their right and discovered what used to be a woman as she floated before two of the beds, covered in nurses' attire that clearly didn’t know the definition of sterile. She - no, it - paid them no mind as they had approached, gazing down at the implements and bandages before it as if it couldn’t figure out what to do.  

With her hand on the hilt of her sword, Tav spoke first, “Excuse me, ma’am?” 

“Don’t call the doctor yet!” came the soft plea of the creature, “I’ve got potions, sutures - I know I can do this...” It turned to address their fellow nurse, yet startled when it saw the Paladin, “Oh! You’re a patient. This is the children’s ward – triage is back that way.” 

“I have something else I’d like to ask you,” Tav started, but her words faded off as she looked beyond the nurse in front of her.  

Two bodies laid still on the beds, clearly dead, though it was hard to tell if it was from the Shadow Curse or the nurse’s ‘treatment’. 

In an instant, Tav drew her sword, resting the blade in a tail stance, voice low with anger as she asked, “What are you doing with the dead?” 

The nurse regarded her with confusion as she replied, “Not dead, merely medicated. To ease the pain.”  

Tav raised her sword, now bracing her weight in a plow stance, the tip of her blade dangerously close to the nurse’s abdomen, as she snarled, “I asked you a question, creature! What are you doing with the dead?” 

Astarion had watched Tav face countless foes since their adventure together began. Even with the most wicked, she had never been so blatantly offensive. In hindsight, he realized that all those foes had been alive; fought them she must, but always done so reluctantly, and always ready to spare a life when able. There, in the House of Healing, did he first witness her true devotion as a Doomguide.  

Of course, she had told the group of her deity; was overbearingly eager to share it, in fact. Kelemvor; Judge of the Damned; whose symbol featured a skeletal hand raising balanced scales. Tav wears it on her chest – darkened purple stitched into a solid black surcoat that she dons no matter the armor underneath. She told them the stories of her years as a lone wanderer, proselytizing Kelemvor’s wisdom, performing last rites for the dying, and destroying necromancers.  

She was a protector of the living, and a slayer of the undead. 

The creature did not answer her question, insisting that the patients were sleeping and to be quiet lest they wake. The last words the creature heard were Tav’s whispered, “In Kelemvor’s name,” before the blade was plunged clean through its body. It collapsed to the floor, trying to speak, but the blood pooling in its throat only allowed for senseless gurgling.  

Tav placed her foot on the corpse and pushed it into the heap of flesh as she withdrew her blade. Thick, blackened blood congealed on the metal, and Tav held it in a white-knuckled grip as she stepped over the body and towards the beds. 

She took one glance and immediately turned around, tripping on the creature's body as she rushed out of the vestibule, landing on her hands and knees, as her sword skidded across the floor. She did not rise, instead sinking to her elbows as her hands pulled at her hair to the point that Astarion thought she might rip it out.   

Karlach rushed to her side, trying to ease the Paladin up as hushed sobs echoed off the walls.  

“Hey now, soldier,” said the tiefling, taking hold of Tav’s biceps and urging her to sit up, “Don’t go getting soft on me.” 

Shadowheart bypassed the two and peered into the beds before gasping, “It’s Arabella’s parents.” 

Another choked cry broke out from Tav as she finally sat back on her haunches, rubbing away her tears with a grubby hand, “I fucking hate this place.” 

“We all do,” assured Karlach, “But we gotta keep moving forward; don’t want to have worms forever, do we?” 

“No,” came Tav’s hushed response before she stood to her feet. She picked up her sword from the floor, flicking some of the blood off, “Let’s just get this over with.” 

Malleus Thorm was an abhorrent sight. Deciding to take the lead after Tav’s second outburst, Karlach interrogated the cursed doctor about his peculiar treatment plan. He spoke of Shar, of darkness, of absence. The victim strapped to the table was catatonic from the aimless carving of the nurses’ blades, though he was soon comatose after the doctor’s mechanical claws dug into his eyes. 

Tav was antsy behind her, shifting on her feet, practically chomping at the bit to send the undead man back into oblivion. The battle was difficult, but well won. Tav’s anger and adrenaline combined with Divine Smite proved a lethal combo.  

Shadowheart pulled a lute from the corpse of Malleus and held it out to Tav, “I think you might want this.”  

Tav took the lute, strapped it to her back and made way for the exit. Despite the exhaustion they all felt and the rush of emotions Tav must have experienced, she stayed silent. No cries, no curses, not one tear to be found. Astarion felt that agonizing mix of worry and sorrow creep around him. 

He increased his pace until he was able to fall in line with her, their other party members straggling not far behind.  

“Are you alright, darling?” He asked quietly, still not quite ready for his care to be announced to the world. 

She only nodded. 

...  

If he thought their adventures had been quiet before, they were dead silent now. Every fight with another Thorm family member pushed Tav further into despair. Any attempts by their companions to make her smile or laugh were futile. She walked and fought like a zombie, resulting in her near-death numerous times. Lectures about how she needed to mind herself went in one pointed ear and out the other, apparently.

Her silence was only broken by the fits of sobbing that occurred from her tent each night. If she managed to fall into her meditative state, it would end with her lurching forward, gasping for air as she scrambled off into the corner of camp to empty the contents of her stomach. 

Karlach had to take over as temporary leader, and if she had her way, Tav would’ve stayed behind. Yet, when the Paladin appeared every morning with her armor and sword ready, the tiefling couldn’t find the strength to not let her tag along.  

Astarion also insisted that he be allowed on each mission, even if his skills weren’t useful for their goal. For whatever reason, Tav listened to him more than the others, and would only accept his help when she found herself injured. He had to be there for her, even if watching her suffer wore away at his own sanity. He often found himself looking at the warding ring she had silently given him after their fight with Malleus, and wondered if he would ever hear her laugh again.  

Bones, blood, and viscera decorated the entrance hall. The gore was mundane to him, no more unique than a cobblestone street or tavern lights in the dark. The dank and forebodingness of the crypt did not stop him from admiring its beauty. The ruins must have been a marvelous sight in their heyday, brimming with the Lady of Loss’s worshippers as they sought to drown out their sorrow and begged for her guidance amongst the crystalline decor. 

Their group split to investigate the various rooms that surrounded the concourse, with him following behind Tav as she investigated the nook to the right. Through the towering archway, he saw that it was no more than a chamber, perhaps used as foyer for those who came to grieve the Thorm family. More bones were littered across its floor and piled in its corners. He saw nothing novel, yet Tav stopped stock still.  

“Myrkul...”, she had hissed with disgust, hands clenched into fists that shook in splintering rage. 

Peeking over her shoulder, he saw the triangle of femurs that had been constructed in front of the dilapidated desk, a skull perched neatly in the middle. He joined her at her side, casual when he had faced her and asked carelessly, “Who?” 

Truthfully, the name and symbol were of no interest to him; a forgotten name from a bygone era, and most importantly, a deity that had ignored his prayers. She looked up to him then, and the dusty air must have been getting to him, because he swore her gaze softened when their eyes met. 

“Myrkul Bey al-Kursi, a necromancer and prince who ascended to godhood when Jergal willingly parted with his title,” Gale interrupted just as Tav was about to speak. 

Astarion rolled his eyes at the wizard and resisted the urge to pettily stomp his foot against the floor. His look was not enough to kill, but it did have Gale surrendering, hands up in a wordless apology as he had backed away from the two. 

“Correct,” Tav said, breaking the tension she didn’t know had occurred, “He was usurped by Cyric, but the Prince of Lies was defeated by Kelemvor.” 

Astarion was desperate to keep her talking. He’d listen to an entire history lecture if it meant she’d come back to sound mind. Back to him. “What use would a servant of Myrkul have with some Sharran shrine?” 

“It doesn’t matter what ‘use’ they have for it,” admonished Shadowheart, “Lady Shar has decreed that Ketheric must die for his betrayal, and ridding her temple of other disgraces in the process is as much a bonus as it is an honor.” 

Listening to the cleric’s devotion was uninteresting at best, and torturous at worst. He almost pitied the poor girl, blindly following a goddess out of fear of what her memories might hold. 

Astarion had expected Tav to mirror Shadowheart’s enthusiasm, but instead saw her bristle, hands wringing together nervously. She was unrecognizable to him, the proud warrior now hunched in on herself as she gnawed at her bottom lip. Anxiety was radiating off her in waves; she looked like she might vomit. 

His body had moved before he had realized what he was doing, hand reaching for her shoulder to comfort her. When his cool skin had made contact with her chainmail, she recoiled, eyes wide and breath unsteady. Hurt by her reaction, he let his hand fall limply to his side, and gruffly announced that the party should keep moving. 

His patience wore thin as they descended into the abyss below the mausoleum. Gale and Shadowheart both wouldn’t shut up about the various magical auras they were picking up on. Sensing Shar’s presence in the Temple of Shar? Who could have guessed the dark goddess would have been there? Bloody amateurs. 

Tav nearly fell in battle again against the Dark Justiciars that were forever cursed to protect the temple. She was unfocused and reckless, and the shadows had swarmed her after making quick work of the necromancer’s lackeys. To make matters worse, there was still no sign of the devil Raphael had tasked them with killing. There were hundreds of rats, though, and the sight of them left a bad taste in his mouth. 

With some convincing from both he and Gale, Tav finally acquiesced and agreed to return to camp for the evening. Night had developed a new, uncomfortably familar cycle by then, with Tav disappearing to her tent before anyone could say anything to her. She would eat her dinner alone. He would pretend he didn’t hear her crying throughout the night. 

They found Balthazar the next day, and it was the first time he ever saw pure hatred burning behind her eyes. They barely survived, the undead necromancer’s poison draining their strength while his ghouls beat them with decayed teeth and talons. When the bastard finally fell, Tav stood over his corpse, whispered a prayer, and then carved her blade through the fat of his neck. She stabbed her sword repeatedly into his chest, moving down his torso until he was no longer recognizable; just a pile of oozing sinew and flesh. His hulking, sewn-together abomination was the next target of her wrath, and it too was reduced to a pool of guts and blood. 

It was not enough. 

She destroyed the furniture, set the bookshelves ablaze, tore down everything the necromancer kept in his makeshift laboratory. The rest of the party removed themselves from the room, watching silently from the threshold as their near-death leader found the strength to take all of Balthazar’s worldly possessions with her. 

It would have been sexy as hell if it weren’t so concerning. 

She eventually collapsed, falling to her knees, sword clattering to the ground with a metallic clang echoing around the room. Silence followed; stares were exchanged between Astarion and his fellow compatriots, each one wordlessly asking the other what the hell had just happened. 

Tired of walking on eggshells, of not doing something, Astarion walked over to Tav and kneeled in front of her. She didn’t notice him at first, eyes shut tight and chest heaving with labored breaths. He reached out again, placing his hand on her knee. 

She was startled, but didn’t move away like before. Instead, her bloodied hand covered his own, fingers tracing over his knuckles, inadvertently smearing the crimson against his pale skin. When he suggested they retire to camp early, she finally, finally, met his gaze. Glimmering violet swirled in her irises, no doubt the remnants of whatever magic she called on Kelemvor for. It faded away, leaving him with the woman of his adoration, looking broken and lost. 

Clinging to his armor, she staggered to her feet, yet nearly toppled again when she went to pick up her sword. It was instinct really, for him to grab her waist and to keep her upright. He certainly had held her hips in more lascivious situations, but somehow he felt more naked that time. 

Vulnerable. 

He doesn’t think he can keep this a secret any longer. 

… 

This last tenday has been punishing, and Astarion carries its weight with him as he searches the encampment for his wayward paramour. 

He finds her on the staggered rock where they helped Halsin rescue Thaniel, staring out into the darkness. Her posture is relaxed as she leans back on her arms, legs dangling off the edge where the water beats on the stone below. 

The silt crunches softly beneath his boots, and he knows she has heard him approach when her ear twitches. He settles himself beside her, brushing off any stray granules from his armor with a huff of disgust. She giggles. 

It must look comical, how quickly his head snaps up at the sound, searching her face for signs of madness. After how despondent she’s been, he expects to find a vessel, a hollow being with the residue of what was a soul, begging to be let go. 

Instead, he finds her kind smile, as she now swipes away the remaining dirt from his calf, “Not a fan of sand, I take it?” 

For all his prose, there is no poetry, no song, no prayer that could mimic the joy he feels when she teases him. He’s been drowning, his mood anchored to hers, and now she has yanked him from the abyss once again. Is this the feeling all those bards crooned about? That every two-bit novelist dreamed of capturing? 

He had long given up on such fantasies, convinced himself that the very notion of love made him sick. 

Love. 

There’s no use pretending anymore. It is love that he feels for Tav. It’s why he mopes at the end of the night if she dares to speak to him last; perhaps the tad murderous feeling he gets when he sees her acting too chummy with the wizard. It’s the comfort of knowing someone has his back, the safety of her sword shielding him from attack, the promises of freedom sleepily whispered between lips in the night. She is the first breath taken when he surfaces. The sun pales in comparison to the warmth in her touch, though she is just as apt to kiss his cheeks. 

She is back and gods, how he missed her. 

Gods, how he loves her. 

“No, I don’t,” he responds in his bantering tone, “It’s rough... irritating... and it gets bloody everywhere.” 

She hums in agreement, gaze falling to the ground before returning to the river. Silence befalls them again, and he finds himself clamoring for words. He wants to confess his love, sing her praises, ask her what the hell is wrong with her. Anything to fill the silence, he refuses to live in the saturnine hellscape that has been the last week any longer. 

“Astarion,” she beats him to it, “I want to apologize for my behavior these last few days. I put everyone at risk and going forward I’ll be sure to keep everything in check. Can’t have everyone dying because of incompetency.” 

A bit too diplomatic for his liking, and her laughter is much too forced. He’ll need to teach her some proper acting; it’s a miracle she’s survived as long as she has with that disaster of a performance. Aren’t paladins supposed to be charismatic, or is it the weapon that does most of the talking? 

“Oh, you were in a bad mood? I hardly noticed,” he states with all the indifference he can muster. 

She leans into him to playfully jab her elbow into his side, muttering expletives in an elven dialect he hasn’t heard in ages. 

“Seriously, I’m sorry if I made you worry.” 

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” he rushes out, hand idly scratching the back of his neck. 

The tension returns, though not as overbearing as before, as questions remain unasked and feelings unshared. It’s a bitter push, as neither is used to talking about their depths, and he doesn’t want to pry; yet a sweet pull, as he remains at her side, wishing for the awkwardness to dissipate. 

“It’s just...” She begins, and though she faces forward, he catches her sneaking looks at him in her peripheral, “There’s so much going on, I don’t know where to start.” 

If he had any blood in his body, he’s sure it’d be racing, his heart thumping wildly in tandem. He thinks she’s ready to talk, and that is half the issue. He thinks, but he doesn’t know; it terrifies and thrills him all the same. He wants to know her – aches for it, if he’s being honest. 

But he is terrified, so sure that he’s going to fuck up and ruin the one good thing he’s had in two hundred years. If she rejects him now, shuts him out for good, he’s not sure he can take it. 

This was supposed to be easy; she was supposed to be easy. 

“It doesn’t matter where you start, I’ll be here for the end.” Shit, shit, SHIT. 

“Astarion,” she gasps, hand over her heart, his name melting into a laugh, “That was actually smooth.” 

He tsks, “I take offense to that. I’ve always been smooth, you’re just too brutish to notice.” 

She laughs again, shaking her head as an enamored smile graces her lips. Her hand brushes stray locks of hair behind her pointed ear and even in the dim glow of the inn’s spell, he can see a blush staining her cheeks. 

But then, she sighs, slow and tired as her fingers soothe circles into her temples, “Can you keep a secret for me?” 

It’s what he’s been pining for, offered on a silver platter, and how could he not say yes. 

He raises his hand to his chest, drawing an ‘x’ over his armor, “Cross my heart and hope to—uh, well, you know.” 

Another chuckle escapes her lips as she adjusts her position, angling herself towards him. 

She swallows thickly before continuing, “Well, I uh—I talked to Kelemvor.” 

“Is that not par for the course for you Doomguides?” He asks incredulously, eyebrow raised and head tilting as he chuckles. 

This time, she does not grant him a smile or a laugh, focused on picking at her cuticles and the dirt under her nails. 

“I haven’t spoken to him since the nautiloid, I figured the tadpole was interfering,” she says hushed, shame and guilt on the edges of her voice. “I was preparing myself for the worst, but what I got was an impossibility.” 

What kind of cryptic bullsh-- She’s been hanging around Withers too much. 

Hundreds of possibilities race through his mind. What he knows of Kelemvor is only from what she has shared; while he did not seem to be a vengeful god, they already have one person burdened with a suicide mission. He could live without the blabbersome wizard, but her? 

He should have known the universe would only offer him misery, to dangle a sweet treat before him and rip it all away before he had the chance to savor it. 

“Did he ask you to sacrifice yourself?” He wants to hear it from her, needs to hear her say those dreaded words so he can make peace before she is nothing more than bones and fading memories. 

Her eyes find his, inflamed with tears she no longer has the strength to shed, “I wish he did.” 

The pain, the anger, the grief of the last few days resurfaces in her voice, that flare of purple sparking in her irises. Astarion does not often find himself shocked, but the callous and tempestuous storm raging beneath her skin leaves him speechless. Instincts tell him he is witnessing only a fraction of her fury. 

Then it ebbs, retreating like the tide, as she takes a deep breath to steady herself. 

“I’ve been having doubts, about my purpose, about this path I chose. I expected Kelemvor to berate me for lacking faith.” 

Her hands go back to tearing at her cuticles. 

“He by no means praised me, but he wasn’t furious, either. He didn’t seem like himself... He didn’t even look like himself. It was as if his passion was gone. I asked him what I should do, and he told me that only I can determine my future.” 

“So? What’s wrong with that?” He was genuinely confused by her demeanor. Self-determination, autonomy, freedom; all the things she promised to help him find and keep, yet she fears them for herself. 

“Kelemvor has been a part of my life since I was a teenager, I’ve devoted myself to him for the better part of two centuries. I don’t-- I don’t know who I am without him.” 

A kindred spirit. 

She clenches her jaw, letting out a frustrated huff, “What am I supposed to do? I can’t stay a Doomguide to a god who abandoned his own principles!” 

He knows she is bleeding from her nail beds, the lovely scent of spiced wine in the air.  

“I took an oath of devotion, to be honorable, compassionate, and honest. I do not fear death of myself nor my loved ones, for death is not something to be afraid of. It is not something one must seek, but it is what one should embrace should it find you,” She explains, “For the last two hundred and fifty-six years, Kelemvor would remind me of these tenets, and commend me for every valiant foe I slaughtered in their image.” 

As sweet as the fragrance is, he takes her hands in his; they have seen and caused enough damage for the time being. 

“And Kelemvor just... doesn’t care anymore. Every time we saw some poor undead creature cursed by Shar, I was reminded of how he dismissed me, like I was a fool for ever following him in the first place. I was his valiant hero, one his most beloved Paladins, and now what? I’m nothing.” 

“You are not nothing,” he replies in an instant, “You are everything. You don't need Kelemvor to be honorable or compassionate, because you already are those things. He was lucky to have someone as devoted as you, but if he wants to toss you aside, then good riddance; it’s his loss, and everyone else’s gain.” 

Crimson floods her cheeks again, as she stares at him dumbfounded. He fidgets in the momentary silence, the feeling of actually sharing one's feeling still mildly uncomfortable. But then it dissipates, because she smiles at him and brings their clasped hands to rest over her heart. Its beat is comforting. 

“Thanks, Astarion. I don’t know what I would have done without you these last few weeks.”  

“Someone had to keep you alive. I know I said you would make a pretty corpse, but that doesn’t mean I’m eager to see it, darling.” 

“I’m sure Shadowheart would let you have a nibble if I passed,” she says with a laugh. 

“Perhaps, but I don’t think she could compare.” 

The steady rhythm of her heart increases under his hands. She adjusts herself again, scooting closer to him so that she can lean her head against his shoulder. Her eyes close as she relaxes into him, and he feels so relieved at knowing her touch could be so intimate yet still so gentle. 

“There’s just one thing I don’t understand, Tav,” He says, his thumb softly tracing along her knuckles, “Why were you having doubts in the first place?” 

“Oh! Um...” She says, head lifting from his shoulder, “It’s so embarrassing, don’t worry about it.” 

“Don’t you dare hold out on me now,” He pleads as he slings his arm across her back, hand resting on her hip and pulling her in close so he can whisper, “Especially when it comes to gossip!”  

Sagging against his side, she groans out, “You are the wooooorst.” 

He raises his hand to his face, making a dramatic show of clearing his throat before uttering a very sickly sweet, “Please?” 

“Okay, fine,” she huffs before grumbling out something unintelligible. 

“What was that dear? No one likes a mumbler.” 

“Because of you! Because... I like you,” She says, carding her hand through her hair; her walls tumbling and every emotion she’s shouldered alone spilling forth in a maddened haze. 

“I’ve seen hundreds of undead, most of whom I gladly sent back to their graves. They were merely the husks of the people they once were. Any soul left in them was but a dying echo as they pleaded for their suffering to end. I thought I was helping,” she says, voice shaking, “But what if I ended the life of someone who just wanted-- no needed-- a second chance? Was I an arbiter of divine justice, or just some glorified executioner? I started to question everything when we met.” 

His mind is a whirlwind, thoughts simultaneously speeding yet slow. The half of him that yearns to be known, to be loved, is battling against his ever-present fear that he is not worthy of such. It’s a terrifying concoction, one that has him questioning just how accurate Tav’s description of the undead is. He has no idea who Astarion is; he knows who the elven magistrate once was, but who is Astarion the spawn, besides Cazador’s infernal expectations? 

“By no means am I saying that you haven’t suffered, but you are not some hollow corpse, Astarion. Despite everything that’s happened, and everything that has yet to come, you have grown in unprecedented ways. You’ve broken a mold, defied all odds. You’re simply breathtaking...” 

He is, isn’t he? No one has given him enough credit; no one has truly recognized the pure shit he has survived through. No one has offered him the chance or the choice to be better. He’s tired of the untrusting sideways glances, the disgusting feeling of some stranger’s eye roaming his figure. He’s always been expected to fall in line, and today he makes the promise to finally live for himself. 

“When this is all over, I want to stay by your side, if you’ll have me.” 

She looks at him with reverence, like he can pluck the stars from the night sky. He has seen this look before, when she would talk about Kelemvor, and he swears his undead heart nearly beats under her adoring gaze. He has no army to command, cannot turn into mist nor bat; he is practically powerless, and yet she wants him anyway. She believes in him, even though he can’t trust himself. Where he sees nothing, she has found something worth abandoning her god for.  

“I don’t think I’ve heard you this quiet before... are you alright?” 

He cannot find the words necessary to explain his delight. Even if he did, he doubts he’d still even be able to form them, arrange them into proper sentences. The truth has rendered him speechless.  

It doesn’t erase the fact that she sounds hurt, scared even, at the prospect that his silence means rejection. He recognizes the feeling all too well, and if she can overcome its pain to tell him the truth, then dammit, he can do the same. Perhaps he will forever roam darkened streets, but that doesn’t mean all of him must remain in the shadows. He must be honest, expose his own secrets to the proverbial light, and allow her the same choice. 

“Oh yes, I’m fine. I just... feel awful.” 

He hopes she chooses him all the same. 

“Look, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan-” 

[wehaveimagineshere]

Prompt: Artist Reader decides to give Astarion their sketchbook filled with sketches of him. Couple: Astarion/Reader

Frost actually gave me this prompt right as we opened up this blog. I knew I had to write it.

-Ren

~*~*~

"I'll be your mirror."

It had been a casual statement, handed forward with a small smirk and light words. It was taken casually, a fleeting kindness to be snatched by the night wind and forgotten.

The sketchbook being slipped into your small pack now speaks of a different tale, your fingers quickly but carefully tying the twine closed before sliding the strap over your chest. Glancing around, you spy your favorite vampire in front of one of the room's bookshelves, book in hand.

Hooking a thumb under the strap, you stride up, adopting an air of nonchalance. The rest of your fingers grip the leather as he looks up, a half smile bending his lips. "Well hello, darling." Tossing the book back on the shelf, he gives you his full attention. "What can I do for you?"

"Well," you start, trying your best to keep your fingers still, "I was hoping you'd follow me to the roof."

"The roof?" he echoes, eyebrows going up. "I don't believe we're allowed up there." His smile grows. "Which means we should definitely do it. I'm in."

The grin on your face almost hurts. "Let's go."

"One question." His eyes roam the room before tilting up, then back down to your own colored hues. "How are we getting up there?"

Pressing your lips together, your eyes dart away for a split second. "Aren't you the one good at getting into places you aren't suppose to?"

"Well yes, but. Hm." He holds up a hand, index finger half pointed and head slightly tilted. "Is this a challenge?"

You pause. "Yes?"

"Wait right here, darling. I'll be right back."

You turn and watch as he goes to his pack, rustling inside before drawing out whatever it was he was searching for. Then he walks to Karlach, who looks at him with confusion before her face bursts into a grin. Her axe is handed to him, her laugh boisterous as he tries - and fails - to hold it up. There's a bit more back and forth before Astarion physically huffs and comes back to you, tiefling in tow.

"So I hear you're breaking some rules?" is the first thing out of her mouth once you're in earshot.

A smile reaches your lips. "You could say that."

"Sweet. I'll help you guys get on the roof, follow me."

And so you do, out onto the veranda under the bright full moon. Karlach gestures for Astarion, who hands over rope, and she gets to work typing it onto her weapon. One of your eyebrows shoot up as she looks at the roof, bounces the axe a few times in her hand, and throws.

The sound of crunching wood meets your ears. Tugging onto the rope and grinning as the axe holds, Karlach sketches a bow. "Enjoy the stars. If you get caught, that's not my axe."

Astarion gestures to you. "Ladies first, as they say."

Karlach rolls her eyes and heads back inside, muttering, "Thank you, Karlach. You're very welcome, Astarion. Ugh."

You eye the rope warily. "How gentlemanly."

"This was your idea. Now go ahead, and don't worry, I'll consider catching you if you fall."

Huffing but unable to hide the smile, you make your way onto the roof with no issues. Settling onto the tiles, still slightly warm from the sun, you tug your pack onto your lap and look up.

While not as beautiful as they were on the Sword Coast, the stars still twinkle bright and fierce, the moon emphasizing their shine.

"You're not tired of the stars yet?" you hear Astarion ask, settling next to you.

"I don't think I ever will be," you respond, hugging the pack to your chest before turning to him. "That's not why we're here though." Drawing the strings open, you fish out the sketchbook and hesitantly hold it out.

His eyes drop to the book, noting the worn and dented leather, back to you, then back to the book. "What? Are these love poems? For me?"

"Just take it."

Grasping the book with gentle fingers, he settles it onto his lap and flips it open.

Your fingers twine together as his eyes lock onto the contents of the pages. His eyebrows furrow, and you feel your heart sink. "Am I suppose to know who this is?"

Oh. Glancing at him, you say quietly, "It's you."

His chest stills, fingers frozen above the pages.

So quiet, almost blending into the air, you hear him exhale, "What..."

"Turn the page."

So he does. And does again. And again. Each turn more slow, more careful, as his brain processes all he's seeing.

It's him, book in hand, face half in shadow. It's him, head on the owlbear cub's body, one knee up and fingers laced together over his stomach. It's him from behind, arms raised and to the side. It's him, a side countenance, hand on a hip. It's him, his face, the dips of his cheeks and the curve of his jaw, the arch of his brows and bend of his lips, the hair curling around his pointed ears and the nape of his neck.

It's him. On every page, a different angle, a different side of him.

He doesn't speak, barely even breathes, as he takes it all in. As his fingertips trace the panes of his face. Every line, every curve.

Chewing your bottom lip, you shift, unsure if you should break the stifling quiet but knowing you'll go mad if you don't. "I, uh. I said I'd be your mirror, so..."

His inhale is shaky. "You..." Pressing fingers to his eyes, he takes another rasping breath. "There is truly--" His voice hitches and he swallows. "There is truly no one like you."

"I'm glad you like it," you say quietly.

"Like it?" he echoes, hand falling from his face as his eyes snap back to the pages. "I love it."

Smiling gently, you scooch so your shoulders touch, reaching over to give a small, gentle peck to his cheek before slowly resting your head on his shoulder. "The entire book is filled."

He sniffs, a hand wiping across his eyes. "How can I ever..."

"Don't. I didn't do this so you'd pay me back. It's a gift, Astarion."

"A gift I will forever treasure." His head gently rests upon your own, eyes not once straying from the sketches. "Thank you."

You smile. "Always."

[littlejuicebox]

GINAAA MY GIRL!

Sending you a dadstarion prompt because you already know I LOVEEE your dadstarion content.

How did Tav find out she was pregnant with baby Gale? And how did Astarion react to the news?! Inquiring minds want to know.

To have and to hold.

Such a lovely prompt, my friend! Hope you like it!

Summary: Astarion turned mortal a few months ago, and this is his first-time experiencing illness of any kind. Unfortunately, as soon as he recovers, you start to show signs of sickness as well. Your condition is a bit different from his, though. (For more of this series check out the ‘Dadstarion’ section of my master list.)

Tags/Warnings: Dadstarion, domestic af, fluff, talk of illness, talk of vomiting, the mildest of angst with the mostest of comfort, pregnancy, etc.

A/N: I work in healthcare, not law, so I can’t guarantee the legalese is accurate lol.

Word count: 2.3K

-----

“Don’t come closer, darling, I’m disgusting.” Astarion groans from where you find him one morning, curled up on the bathroom floor.

It had been a few months since Gale of Waterdeep cast Wish, and from that moment until now the retired rogue had been a happy, healthy mortal. There were so many benefits to curing his vampirism that the elf never fully considered one of the major downsides… illness.

He’d never experienced a malady like this in his life. At least not in the one he could remember.

It’s horrible.

How had his little love or any of his friends endured this, more than once, in the past ten years?

Astarion is quite certain he contracted food poisoning from that questionable slab of salmon he ate at the Blushing Mermaid yesterday evening. He never did understand why you liked eating at that lowbrow tavern in the first place.

You crouch to examine your husband, pressing a soothing hand onto his forehead before running it down to cup his cheek.

“Astarion, my love, you have a fever.” You murmur, frowning with concern as you push sweaty curls from his face.

“Please make more obvious observations, dear,” Astarion gripes as he forces himself to sit up, still clutching his stomach. Gods, the vile churning in his gut is incessant.

He’s about to continue on with his quip, but the sudden urge to be sick forces the elf to shut up and scramble to the toilet. You hear the sounds of violent retching moments later.

“We are never going back to the Blushing Mermaid,” Astarion grumbles once the wave of illness subsides. His face is pressed against the toilet; all sense of decorum is gone. The rotten fish poisoning his insides won over any bits of pride he might have been clinging to.

You move to grab a wash rag, dampening it under the tap before kneeling back down by your husband.

“Poor thing,” You coo, folding the cloth in half before dabbing it against the back of Astarion’s neck, hoping to ease the fever.

The elf’s eyes flutter closed as he allows you to fawn over him for a moment. And then he groans and flicks his hand, palm faced downward, as if trying to shoo you away. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Just leave me here and go get ready for your meeting, darling. I’ll be fine.”

“In sickness and in health, remember?” You ask, running the cool cloth over Astarion’s face, causing him to sigh thankfully at the slight relief, “I’ll send word to the other Counsellors to inform them that I won’t be attending. You’ve never been ill before; I don’t want to leave you like this. Wyll can fill me in later.”

“Yes, ‘in sickness and in health’ and all that, darling, but those vows also included ‘until death do us part’ and I was an immortal vampire when we made them. So you were technically entering that verbal contract under false pretenses, which one could argue means it’s null and void. Go to the meeting, it’s—“

Astarion almost manages to finish his rambling legalese before more putrid liquid spews out of his mouth. When he’s finished vomiting, he whines again, any bit of stubborn resilience and feeble attempts at selflessness abandoned.

“On second thought, maybe you should stay here,” He says, his chest heaving with exertion as he clenches his eyes shut, “Please tell me you have a spell for this.”

“Unfortunately not, my love. I only have a spell for curses. Best I can do is half a bottle of Elixir of Health, some ginger-peppermint tea, and a bath.” You sigh, already crossing the bathroom on your way to the tub. You fiddle with the taps for a moment to start the bath and then begin to pour oils into the flowing water.

“Deal,” Your husband mutters, peeling off his sweat-soaked night shirt, “But none of that vile honey you got at the market here in town for my tea; I want the one Shadowheart and Lae’zel sent from Neverwinter.”

“Anything you say, Lord Ancunin.” You joke, rolling your eyes at your husband’s fussiness. He’d barely regained his sense of taste a few months ago and already favored upscale ingredients and meals, as if mortal food hadn’t been but ash in his mouth for two hundred years.

The elf glares at your insolence but doesn’t retort; he’s too busy trying to keep himself from vomiting again.

*

The following morning, Astarion wakes feeling much better. Practically brand new, in fact. It seems the potion and your strange flower child medicine must have done the trick. He sighs a breath of relief and then rolls to snuggle against you for a few more precious moments. He reaches his arms out and grasps at nothing but air.

The silver-haired elf immediately frowns and sits up. That’s exceptionally odd. You were not a morning person; you never had been in the ten years he’d known you. You always slept in longer than him, even in the wilds. On more than one occasion he’d had to lure you out of your nearly comatose slumber with the tempting smells of coffee and breakfast.

Astarion hears you gagging in the bathroom and goes to investigate. He soon finds you clinging to the toilet, practically mirroring how he looked the day prior.

“Oh no, little love, do you think you have food poisoning, too?” He questions, frowning slightly before kneeling down to press his hand against your forehead just like you’d done to him, “No fever, though.”

You whine, leaning into your husband’s hand before grumbling, “Damn the Blushing Mermaid straight to Stygia! Why do I even like that place, again?”

Astarion laughs, “I’ve been wondering the same thing for years, dear. I hope now you’ll finally reconsider. Do you want some tea and a bath?”

“Please,” You say, just before another wave of nausea hits you, forcing you to throw your head into the toilet and gag. Frustratingly, not much actually comes out despite the waves of sickness coursing through your body.

Gods, you wish you could simply vomit and feel relief.

Astarion begins to prepare the appropriate remedies, much like you’d done for him the day before. Thankfully, you seem to recover much faster than he did, and by midday you look and feel completely normal.

Good thing, too. You two were out of any elixirs that may have helped you had your ailment been as severe as Astarion's.

“Perhaps I’m just a better healer than you, darling.” The silver-haired elf teases as the two of you take afternoon tea in the sunroom.

“Perhaps I’m just stronger and more resilient than you, my love.” You retort, wrinkling your nose in jest at your husband.

He chuckles softly and then presses a kiss to your nose, “Agree to disagree.”

*

Astarion thinks the two of you are past this bit of bad luck, but when he wakes the following morning, he hears you retching once again.

When the elf finds you in the bathroom, appearing as almost an exact repeat of yesterday, though perhaps a bit worse, his brow furrows.

“Darling, I'm worried now. You look more ill than before. Perhaps we should take a trip to Jaheira? I can head to the apothecary for another Elixir of Health while she looks you over.” He murmurs gently, extending his hands to pull you to your feet.

You simply nod in agreement, too nauseated to do more than follow your husband’s lead as he slips you into a set of robes and ushers you into the carriage.

*

When Astarion returns to Jaheira’s after dashing out to the apothecary, he finds you sitting at the druid’s dining table. The two of you stop whatever hushed conversation you’d been having and turn to look at him in unison.

“Feeling any better, Tav?” He asks, coming to stand by your side before placing a worried hand upon your shoulder. You simply cover your hand with his and nod in response.

“Much better,” You say, flashing your husband a small smile. Something about your expression looks hazed, as if you’re stuck in a daydream. Poor thing, you're probably exhausted and experiencing brain fog.

“I’m sure you’ll be just fine with the teas and medicinals I’ve given you,” Jaheira assures, her eyes flickering between the two of you. She grins for the briefest moment before falling back into her typical, more serious demeanor.

Astarion swears he feels like something is off, but when he turns to give you a questioning look, you’re the picture of happiness as you sip from your tea cup, finishing it off.

Well, at least you’re doing what Jaheira has prescribed.

“What about the Elixir of Health I’ve just purchased?” Your husband asks, lifting the bag in his hand, “Will that help?”

“Oh, I recommend you keep it for something else. I don’t think Tav needs it for this,” The druid responds before standing, signaling it’s the end of the visit. She was always quite straight forward and lacking in certain genteel social graces, in Astarion’s opinion.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting with the Harpers.”

You quickly bid your goodbyes and Astarion helps you back into the carriage, eager to get you back to bed so that you can sleep off the rest of this sickness.

*

Astarion notices you’re uncharacteristically quiet on the carriage ride home. He typically doesn’t mind when you’re in one of your pensive, stoic moods. But this illness of yours had him more anxious than usual and he had to know more about Jaheira’s examination results, if only to ease his own worries.

“Darling,” He starts, taking your hand in his. But you don’t seem to hear him; you’re still lost in your own little world.

“My love,” He says, this time a bit more urgently, squeezing your hand just enough to pull your attention to him, “What did Jaheira say, exactly? Did she mention how long this illness will last?”

“Oh, the nausea will probably go on for a few weeks,” You reply, a goofy, lopsided smile breaking across your face. You cannot stifle your grin at the little secret you know you’ll be unable to keep for more than a few moments longer.

“Weeks?” Astarion questions, his voice pitching up with worry and brows stitching together in concern.

Why in the hells are you smiling? What druid bullshit was in the tea Jaheira gave you?

He folds his arms across his chest, not at all pleased by the lack of seriousness you seem to display. The idea of you being sick for weeks makes his heart hurt and his stomach churn as if he’s still sick. He could never stand to see you uncomfortable.

“Tav, are you drugged? This is serious. I fail to see what there is to be smiling about right now. You’re going to be nauseous for weeks and you can’t use an Elixir of Health? Are you absolutely sure Jaheira even knows what she’s—“

“I’m pregnant, Astarion,” You interrupt, and you cannot help but to laugh at your husband as his mouth hangs open mid-sentence, frozen in shock.

He blinks for a moment or two, otherwise completely still as his brain rushes to process the new information.

When the elf finally regains his composure and finds his ability to speak, he shoots out a flustered, rambled, “Darling, I— I’m sorry, can you repeat that? I’m not certain I heard you correctly. The road is quite bumpy and the wheels of the carriage are loud— I think they need oil— and the horses—“

You laugh and firmly grasp your husband’s hand, wholly capturing his attention before murmuring, “You ridiculous elf. You heard me the first time. I’m pregnant, Astarion.”

You don’t think you’ve ever seen a bigger grin cross your husband’s face.

“Tav, darling, I— gods, just come here to me.”

Astarion’s lips crash into yours, and he’s smiling into the kiss as he threads a hand through your hair, intent on pressing you closer into him. A tiny, delighted hum escapes your husband as he uses the kiss to express all the feelings he cannot yet put into words.

When he finally pulls away, he cups your face with his hands and peppers a few more kisses upon your lips.

“Is this your way of telling me you’re happy about this, Astarion?” You ask, grinning at your husband as he gazes upon you with the most besotted eyes you’ve ever seen.

“Thrilled, my love,” He whispers, before pressing forward to kiss you again, trying to convey the depth of his excitement with his affections. He doesn’t let go of you the rest of the way home, almost desperate to cover you in worshipful kisses, each one a little vow of love to you.

You notice he's unusually quiet, but then, he’s far too busy smiling and smooching to do much talking.

*

Later that evening, you move to get out of bed and head toward the bedchamber door.

“Ah, ah, ah. Where do you think you’re going, little love?” Astarion calls, already tossing his book aside to follow after you, “What do you need? Let me bring it to you.”

“I just wanted a cup of water, Astarion. I can go get—“ You start, but he quickly presses a kiss to your lips, effectively quieting you.

“Hush, my love. You’re still nauseated and you’re carrying very precious cargo.” He gently chastises as he turns you by your shoulders and steers you back toward the bed.

“You’re being dramatic,” You grumble, sitting back down in the bed and wrinkling your nose at your husband.

“Perhaps,” He agrees, grinning down at you as he gently folds the blankets back around your legs, “But you knew exactly the type of theatrics you signed up for when you married me, darling. 'To have and to hold, to love and to cherish' and all that, hm?”

And in that moment, Astarion was certain he’d never love and cherish anything more than you.

Nine months later, the little silver-haired newborn he held in his arms would prove him wrong.