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mahoushojo-chan · 10 months

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Astarion x Tav || dress-making

without any strings attached

synopsis: He traces the edges of the loose, unwoven threads of fabric. He folds the muslin cloth and cuts the edges, unravelling worn patches with his knife. He patches the holes with a beautiful ladder stitch, hems the edges with a simple running stitch. He can ruffle the fabric around the arms to make a batwing sleeve for her. He holds up the chemise to the candlelight when he’s finished with it. It’s fit to the bust and adorned with a ruffled edge. It feels like something is missing—he likes to embroider phrases on his clothes, but he can’t figure out what to put.

Or, Astarion makes a nightgown for Tav.

an excerpt of ‘cause my love (is mine, all mine)

word count: 1817

pairing: astarion/tav

other tags: f!reader, hurt/comfort, sickfic, slight angst, non-sexual intimacy, romantic tension, friends to lovers, dress making, not being used to love or loving, help these idiots please

now listening: two - sleeping at last

ao3: here

concept: sickfic part 2 + dress making

All that occupies his mind is Tav. The dream he had, her blood, her songs, her tireless efforts, her pitiful trembling and perspiration, and the state of her clothes soaked with various unpleasant fluids. The realization of how powerless he is against natural illnesses.

Vampires and their spawn didn’t get sick. He had almost forgotten that was something that most people did. He can’t remember the last time he was sick—what he did, what his parents would do. They all belonged to a time before he was turned, when he was still just an elf. He knows the bare minimum, and Dalyria is ever-present to remind him: she needs food, water, and lots and lots of rest.

Still, he can’t help but think she must be stuffy with all the stagnant air in the keep and her old dusty, road-tattered clothing will help.

If he can’t get her body off of his mind, then he might as well do something with it.

He finds enough material in the wardrobes. There are a number of blankets that go unused due to their poor quality—whether it’s because of stains or tears, but he can’t let them go to waste.

Astarion would like to say that he doesn’t remember this particular skill of his. It feels menial—a task suited for peasants or handmaidens. He never saw himself as someone who fixed things, but sewing was just a small way to keep his luxuries intact. It helps him keep his life sweeter.

How many evenings had stitching, sewing, embroidering, granted him peace and reprieve? How many times had the needle pricked his finger before he could finish a pattern without staining the fabric with red beads? How long had it taken him to make knots that would endure the finest cloth?

He traces the edges of the loose, unwoven threads of fabric. He folds the muslin cloth and cuts the edges, unravelling worn patches with his knife. He patches the holes with a beautiful ladder stitch, hems the edges with a simple running stitch. He can ruffle the fabric around the arms to make a batwing sleeve for her. He holds up the chemise to the candlelight when he’s finished with it. It’s fit to the bust and adorned with a ruffled edge. It feels like something is missing—he likes to embroider phrases on his clothes, but he can’t figure out what to put.

It doesn’t need to be perfect, although he wants it to be. The red seams are a stark contrast against the white fabric and make every mistake obvious. It just needs to be fit for use when she needs it.

He figures he’ll ask Dalyria to bring it to her, since she’s been doing a well enough job as Tav’s bedside nurse when Astarion’s away. He had practically coerced her into sticking beside his companion—but if Dalyria were there, it meant that Leon would not be, which was to Astarion’s relief. It wasn’t his place to intervene, but he knows the temptation after a bite can be excessive, and Tav doesn’t have enough blood to share.

Just as he finishes folding it, he hears the door to the room creak open. He assumes it’s one of his siblings, and they usually let each other come and go without acknowledging the other’s presence.

But the scent hits him quickly. He would recognize it anywhere.

He feels warm arms wrap around his shoulders and a hot breath whispers in his ear, “This is where you were, Star?”

Her voice sends shivers down his spine. His ears are particularly sensitive, and he can’t help but wonder if she’s doing it intentionally as she continues, “Come back.”

“No need for such impatience.” He tuts disapprovingly, but there’s no bite to it. “You shouldn’t be out of bed.”

As he turns back to face her, he sees her hand reach out to him and he almost flinches. She brushes a lock away from his face, and tucks it behind his ear, her finger brushing his cheek. She seemingly ignores what he’s trying to tell her, and simply looks at Astarion. She bats her lashes up at him. “It was in your face,” she says, matter-of-factly, letting out a little giggle at the end again.

He sobers a little. Is this her plan to get him to forgive her little excursion out of bed? He reaches out to tame Tav’s hair. “All your hair is in your face,” he counters, trying to push it out of her face, until he’s holding her face from both sides. He looks at Tav’s serene, sleepy eyes, her cutely pillow-tousled hair, and, most of all, her soft-looking lips. She looks back at him, and he feels his throat go dry again. Damn.

When he goes to move his hands away, she reaches up and touches his right hand, leaning into his touch until she’s able to hide her face in it, until she’s all but kissing the palm of his hand.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I was saying nonsense.” She says, and Astarion furrows his eyebrows, unsure of what she’s apologizing for. It doesn’t sound like she’s apologizing for being sick—not anymore, at least—but then she adds, “Are you avoiding me?”

He’s a little surprised because he’s been doing his best to hide it. It wasn’t like he was completely abandoning her, of course, but he doesn’t want to get in between whatever she’s looking for. If she’s looking for more than what Astarion can give, he has no choice but to concede, so he explains, “I just don’t want to get in your way. I mean, far be it my place to tell you what to do, right?”

He had been very careful to sound as neutral as possible, so he’s a little surprised to hear her console him. “You’re not in my way. Why would you say that?” She seems to pout, and her eyebrows scrunch up with worry.

Because I suspect you’re going to find someone better and tire of me any day now, and so I have no choice but to mentally prepare himself, is what he wants to say.

Technically, this isn’t fair to Tav, and he knows it. The only thing she had done was allowed Leon to feed on her, so it would be easy to tell himself that this idea is all in his head and he should just get over it. Feeding wasn’t inherently romantic. She might even have done it just because Leon had been starving himself. It’s just that Leon sounded like he was… fond of Tav, and he knows his older brother is affectionate. He’s willing to sacrifice his freedom for the people he loves.

Tav deserves someone who loves her. Someone who is bound to her through thick and thin. There are times where Astarion wishes he was that kind of person; but he doesn’t know if he is. He doesn’t know if he’s ready to be. He doesn’t know a lot about himself, and surely Tav has better things to do than appease his uncertainties.

“I just…” Astarion pauses, unsure of how to word it. He turns towards the nightgown he made for her because it’s easier to look at than meet her gaze. “I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know how to love.”

Surprisingly, she replies, “I don’t know how to be loved.”

Astarion had expected her to say something sweet and comforting, since she always knew the right words to say. She was always so in-control of her thoughts and feelings. To hear her admission feels like it dooms them both. He realizes that her sickness has made her more honest, and she’s probably revealed something rather important with that statement, but it’s such an absurd situation that he can’t help but throw his head back, letting raucous laughter ring before settling down. “Well, fuck.”

She giggles as well, more in response to his contagious laughter than the situation itself.

He sighs, letting the electricity between them die down.

Finally, he shifts his chair backwards with a resounding creak, tipping back on his seat to balance the back legs precariously. “Before you distract me any more, you need to get back to resting. But before that, get changed.” He scolds, and passes her the nightgown he had made. “I’m not overly enthusiastic with the result, but anything’s better than your abused homely clothes.” He points out.

“A smock? It’s a little small for you, don’t you think?” She asks, and he sighs.

“It’s yours, actually. Something clean, for once.”

She reaches out to take it and unfolds it in her lap. He expects her to put it on and then he can escort her back to bed, but she looks down at it incredulously. She takes extra time to trace her fingers over the fabric, paying extra attention to the stitching.

Then her eyes start welling up with tears.

Astarion panics a little at this.

“It’s surely not that awful—” he starts, but then he properly sees her expression when he leans in to take it back from her.

Her tears drip onto the fabric as she looks down at it, treating it as if it were the most beautiful thing in the world. “Y-You made this for me?” She chokes up, though Astarion isn��t sure whether it’s the light cough or the emotion in her voice. She continues, “Th-thank you.”

He figures the cold really must have chipped away at her senses, because he didn’t expect her to react like this. “It’s not that rare for me to do something nice.” He chides, but his hand already reaches to wipe her tears.

“No, no, it’s just—it’s your love.” She tells him, cryptically and poetically as usual, clutching it tightly. He doesn’t understand, so she continues, “It’s the shape of sewn holes, careful stitches and washed cotton, today.”

He still doesn’t know what she means, and it sounds like a bit of nonsense to him. He rolls his eyes, and tells her, “Yes, yes, you can tell me all your maudlin poetry about love once you’re feeling better. Now get changed.”

He turns around so she can do so, and she’s so amazed that she actually follows his request.

When he turns back around, he’s nearly knocked breathless at how well she wears his dress. There’s just something about her beauty, her long, disheveled hair and bare feet, the beautiful white gown fits her perfectly, and it gives an ethereal aesthetic.

“Gods, you’re beautiful.” The words slip out of him before he realizes it, and he sits back to admire her work.

She seems to agree with him, although she doesn’t say so. Her hands keep tracing the hems of her sleeves and the carefully stitched patterns at the end. All she does ask is, “How—How could you think you’re incapable of love?

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