#Astarion x Reader

[connorsui]

"Girls like it when men ignore em"

LIEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSS

I WANT THAT MAN OBSESSED WITH ME

I WANT HIM THINKING ABOUT ME LIKE A PRAYER, EVERY BREATH, EVERY MOVE, EVERY CHOICE HE MAKES ANCHORED TO ME. I WANT HIM LOSING SLEEP BECAUSE THE IDEA OF ME IS TOO LOUD IN HIS HEAD TO LET HIM REST. I WANT HIM TO LOOK AT ME LIKE I’M THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERS—LIKE THE WORLD COULD BURN TO ASHES AROUND US AND HE WOULDN’T CARE AS LONG AS I’M STILL STANDING THERE.

I WANT HIM TO SPEAK MY NAME LIKE IT’S SACRED, TO LOOK AT ME LIKE I HOLD THE UNIVERSE IN MY HANDS. TO BE HAUNTED BY THE SOUND OF MY LAUGH, THE TRACE OF MY SCENT ON HIS SKIN, THE MEMORY OF MY TOUCH. I WANT HIS OBSESSION TO BORDER ON MADNESS, TO FEEL ME IN EVERY PART OF HIM LIKE A HUNGER HE CAN’T EVER SATISFY.

I WANT TO BE HIS FIRST THOUGHT

[rahuratna]

PLEASE.

Dominant Astarion was the drug I never knew I needed. Until NOW. Firstly, I love how you can write him in literally any scenario and he's so in-character. That's the mark of someone who has truly delved into the dynamics of a character and their relationships and works that golden thread of comprehension into every scene they write.

The spanking game. Good LORD. It's enticing, playful, intense and enrapturing... just like a certain vampire. You somehow wrote the perfect spaking scene for Astarion, and I bless you for this with more smut power, most unholy.

Something else I love is how you don't leave loose ends, and pace your writing so well. Every angle is scrutinised, there is attention and passion in the details, the denouement to the sex scene is as good as the sex scene itself, which is not a comment I can usually make. The conversation flows so naturally that I feel like I'm watching a scene from the game itself.

Just marvelous, as always. Thank you! 🧡

Chasing Lightning

Summary: You've spent all day teasing, tempting, taunting - you've really tested Astarion's patience this time. But pushing his boundaries is your favourite past time. Now, here you are, over his knee, about to receive the punishment you longed for, all according to your devious plan. Not that you'd ever admit it, of course.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 2003 Pairing: Astarion x Fem!Reader Content: Shameless smut, bratty reader, Dom!Astarion, spanking, light BDSM elements, rough sex, PiV.

Gif by silverformymonsters on Tumblr!

A/N: This, uh... Yeah, no, this is just shameless smut. I am so sorry. Behold, my spanking fic, written in a moment of madness.

You lay over his knee, eager, anticipating - a willing sacrifice on the altar of his desires. Each trail of his fingertips across the bare skin of your backside is a promise of what is to come.

You deserve this, you think to yourself. All your teasing, all your temptations. The way you pressed yourself against him when no one was looking, your face a pretty picture of faux innocence; the way you swayed your hips as you sauntered ahead of him, glancing back to meet his eyes, knowing they would be heavy with that predatorial hunger which ignites the flames of arousal deep in your belly. All part of your plan, which he is more than willing to oblige.

You hear Astarion’s voice, dark and dripping with honey.

“I propose a game, darling. A test of your intuition, shall we say?” You hear the wicked smile in his voice and it sends shivers of sweet anticipation coursing through your body. “I'll think of a number, one through ten, and you'll have to guess it based on how hard I spank you. Guess wrong, and I'll spank you again - the same strength - until you guess correctly. Understand?”

“Yes,” you breathe, wilfully yielding to him . There’s an intoxicating power in surrender. Your submission is a choice, freely given, and that makes it all the more potent.

In yielding, you become more. More alive, more aware, more you than you've ever been. The world narrows to the point of contact where his hand meets your skin. You are the ocean, and Astarion the moon, pulling you into new shapes with the inexorable force of the tide.

“Very good,” he purrs. His thumb rubs the gentlest of circles on your wrists as he binds them behind you with his spare hand. “Of course, if it becomes too much, just say the word. I can be merciful… on occasion.”

The game begins, a dance of unseen touches and breathless anticipations. Astarion’s hand hovers above you, its presence like the charge before a lightning strike.

“Let’s start with a simple one, shall we?”

His touch against your bare arse is a whisper at first, cool fingertips ghosting across your skin. More caress than slap. You shiver, every nerve alight with anticipation.

“One,” you murmur, more exhale than voice.

Astarion’s chuckle vibrates through you, a low rumble that you feel more than hear as you bury your face into the fabric of his shirt. “Oh, my dear. We’re barely getting started.”

The next strike lands with purpose - a sharp, precise sensation that blooms across your skin. It’s not quite pain, not quite pleasure, but something exquisitely in between that draws a gasp from your lips.

“Four?” you venture.

“Warm, but not quite.”

He strikes - the same strength once more, as promised.

“Three!” you gasp, revelation and pleasure mingling in your voice.

“Good girl,” Astarion praises and gods, how those words affect you. They sink into your skin, sweeter than honey, headier than wine. You crave his approval like air, each word of praise stoking the flames of your arousal higher.

The dance continues, each strike a new verse in this poem written on your skin.

Smack.

Five is a starburst of sensation. You feel this once, twice, three times until you finally guess correctly.

Smack.

Seven lands with the force of a thunderclap, reverberating through your body and leaving you trembling in its wake.

Smack.

Nine leaves you gasping, teetering on the knife-edge between pleasure and pain. The sting melts into a deep, throbbing warmth that pulses in time with your racing heart.

With each strike, each caress, the heat builds, a delicious tension coiling tighter in your core.

Four. Two. Six. Six again. Eight.

You find yourself arching slightly into his touch, eager for more, your body's reactions beyond your control.

Then, finally, comes ten.

It cracks across your flesh like lightning splitting the night sky, a white-hot streak of sensation that sears itself into your very soul. For a moment, the world whites out, every nerve ending alight with electric sensation. You cry out as the sensations overwhelm you, the number torn from your lips. The pain is exquisite, pushing you to the very limits of your endurance.

In the aftermath, you float in a sea of endorphins, your body humming with the echoes of Astarion's touch. Each point of contact throbs in time with your racing heart, a map of exquisite sensation etched onto your inflamed skin.

His cool hand soothes over the heated skin. The contrast sends fresh shivers through you, and you moan gently in response, despite yourself. Your skin is hypersensitive, your mind a mess of exhilaration and desire, eager for more, more, more.

Through the haze of lust, Astarion's voice chimes clear. “My, my. Such enthusiasm,” he purrs. “Tell me, darling, did you spend all day dreaming of this? Because I certainly did… in excruciating detail.”

You turn on his lap to look up into his eyes, suppressing a smile. “Who, me? I would never!”

Astarion's eyebrow arches, smirking at your obvious lie. “Is that so? So the way you rubbed yourself against me all morning like a worg in heat was just a coincidence, was it?”

You can't help but giggle at his accusation, which only seems to fuel his amusement.

“Do you have any idea how long you left me aching today?”

“I'm sorry,” you pout.

“Sorry who?”

“I’m sorry, Astarion.”

You don't mean it. And he knows it.

You could be good - a sweet, obedient little thing. But to be bad - to challenge him, to tease him, to test his patience until he finally brings you to heel - why, that's just so much more fun.

“That’s better,” he coos, his voice and his praise caressing you like silk along your skin as he gazes back at you, expression equal parts warmth and something much darker - hungrier - beneath. “Cheeky little pup."

He pauses, and the air becomes heavy with anticipation.

“But I'm not done with you yet.”

He rises and shifts you in a blur of motion, bending you over the edge of the bed, leaving your face buried in the soft sheets. Suddenly, you're exposed to him, your arousal on full display, and you feel the air against your hypersensitive flesh. Yet, in this moment, there is no place you would rather be than at his mercy. You are eager, dripping with expectation.

In the midst of your lustful haze, you hear the rustling of clothes - the familiar sound of his trousers unlaced. It sends your imagination soaring. Your core aches with what is to come.

But Astarion, the cruel man he is, doesn't enter you. Not yet.

Instead, you feel the head of his cock slide maddeningly, agonisingly slowly up the slit of you. You feel him become slick with your arousal as he slides down, and back up your slit once more, just barely skimming your clit, which throbs desperately with need. Such delicate, teasing touches - enough to drive you to madness.

“Do you want it?” He purrs.

“Mmhm,” you mumble pathetically into the fabric.

“Tell me, love.”

“I want–”

He inserts himself before you finish, colliding with you with the force of planets, stealing the breath from your lungs. The union is electric, a completion so intense that it borders on painful.

His desperation is evident, at odds with the image of restraint he was attempting to conjure as he ruts into you with wild abandon. His hands are everywhere at once, desperate and searching. Your own fingers claw at the fabric of the bedsheets, mindlessly, drunk on the sensation of him.

Astarion’s hands soon settle on your hips, pulling you to him as you collide again, again, again. You aid him, pushing yourself against his hips with each thrust, needing to be closer, always closer. You move together in a frenzy, chasing that elusive peak with single-minded determination. The world beyond ceases to exist; there is only this moment, this need, this all-consuming desire.

Breaths come in ragged gasps and are punctuated by moans and whispered pleas. “More,” you beg; “please,” you exclaim, though you're not sure how he could possibly get any closer, any deeper within you.

You feel his hand slide beneath you, and you lift your hips to greet him. Your throbbing clit welcomes his expert touch as he begins to unravel you as easily as he picks locks. He rubs circles around the bud, gently, in stark contrast to his wild rutting - indicative of the tiniest threads of self-restraint which remain within him, spared only to bring you to your peak. But gods, in the heat of the moment, you are especially sensitive, and his touch quickly brings forth rippling waves of sensation which threaten to overwhelm you. Your body twitches of its own accord and you know your climax fast approaches.

Your own voice surprises you, high and desperate. Soft whimpers escape your lips, growing in intensity and frequency as the tension builds.

Behind you, Astarion's sounds are a primal counterpoint to your own. His usual smooth tones are roughened by desire, a gravelly undertone that sends shivers down your spine. Low growls rumble from his chest - they speak of a hunger barely contained.

As you both near the edge, your voices mingle and intertwine. The sounds blur together - gasps and moans, growls and whimpers. The volume rises, unchecked and unashamed. You care not who hears you now.

It is you who first reaches the point of no return. A cry escapes your lips, raw and primal. Your body quakes, and pleasure crashes over you, a torrent of sensation that drenches every nerve ending. You're swept away in the deluge, currents of bliss pulling you under, spinning you in their depths.

His release soon follows and, although you don't see him, you feel the intensity in the air, in his increasingly erratic pounding, in his breaths. A growl rumbles from deep in his chest, vibrating through your bodies like rolling thunder. His grip on you tightens, fingers digging into your flesh as he releases into you, claiming you as part of his tempest.

He collapses against your back. His weight is solid and grounding like the calm after the storm. He pants slightly, aftershocks rippling through you both like distant thunder.

Slowly, the world comes back into focus.

Astarion's weight shifts behind you as his arm drapes lazily over your wrist. You feel his cool lips brush against your ear, and he nips it gently.

“If I didn’t know any better,” he muses, “I would say you enjoy being punished.”

You can’t help but laugh, the sound still slightly breathless. “If that’s what I get for misbehaving, I might have to do it more often.”

"Careful what you wish for, darling," he murmurs, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. "I have a whole arsenal of 'punishments' at my disposal. This was merely a taste."

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

“Why not both?” he replies, his tone rich with suggestion. “I do so enjoy keeping you on your toes.”

As he rises to his feet and helps you to yours, he kisses you, his gentleness a stark contrast from your earlier activities. Where there was an inferno, now there is now the warming comfort of the hearth. Where there was urgency, now there is patience. Eventually, you find yourselves settled once more, cocooned in the soft comfort of the bed. The lingering scent of your encounter mingles with the fresh smell of clean linens, a heady reminder of the night's activities.

“Alright?” Astarion’s voice is soft.

You nod, words unnecessary in this moment.

As you nestle closer to him, a contented sigh escapes your lips. Being bad certainly has its thrills. But these moments, wrapped in Astarion’s arms - these are treasures in their own right. The mischievous spark in you knows you'll seek out more opportunities to 'misbehave', but for now, you revel in this gentle aftermath, every bit as intoxicating as the storm that preceded it.

No Pressure Tags: @silverfangmarks @roguishcat @sparrowbard @chonkercatto

Masterlist can be found here.

[jmliebert]

Astarion Comforting You When You’re Sad

Astarion notices immediately when something is off. he’s usually the distant type, but with you, it’s different. seeing you upset is somehow unbearable

he approaches with a mix of impatience and concern, furrowing his brows as he says, “heavens, can you finally tell me what’s going on? or must I truly lose my mind trying to guess?”

doesn’t back down until you open up. for all his teasing, he won’t leave your side until you tell him what’s troubling you—even a little

if you try to brush off your feelings, he chides you: “darling, you’re awful at hiding things from me. don’t even try.” and it almost sound like a threat

but in reality he's just genuinely worried, and doesn't know how to cope with it

when you finally let it out, what starts with his characteristic intensity melts into something tender. his gaze shifts from piercing to understanding, something dangerously vulnerable flickering in his eyes as he listens

he’s uncharacteristically gentle. he holds you as you cry, his hand tracing soothing circles on your back. there’s no sarcasm, no biting humor- he's just being there for you

he could make a quip, sure. but he stops himself. he wants to be the person he once wished for during his times under cazador’s iron grip

so Astarion speaks softly, his words brimming with wisdom and the weight of centuries of experience. in those moments, you see just how old he truly is and how much he’s been through

if words aren’t what you need, he offers silence instead. he sits with you, holding your hand, as if to remind you that you’ll never be alone—not like he was, not ever

his touch is feather-light as he brushes away your tears, his thumb gliding gently across your cheeks. he caresses your hair, his other hand grazing your swollen lips as if lost in thought

and then comes that smile—the rare, quiet one he saves only for you, it hold a silent promise you see...

he draws a hot bath for the two of you, insisting it will help. with your head resting on his chest, you feel his arms around you, holding you close and your body unbend slowly

the water is warm, your pulse thrumming softly beneath your skin, and the scent of your blood is impossibly tempting. hunger gnaws at him, sharp and insistent, but he doesn’t say a word. wouldn’t dream of it—not when you’re like this

at night, he watches over you, cradling you softly and wishing you would never be sad like this ever again. if it were possible he would take all this pain of yours and bear it himself

because he loves you so much

︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

hello dove, you can find more of my works about astarion ♡here♡

[circescircle]

Could I request a GN Tav with Astarion/Gale/Rolan/ or karlach and their Christmas festivities like decorating cookies, Christmas tree decorating, wrapping presents ect

Ooo this’ll be fun. I haven’t interacted with Rolan much, but I do want to write him so I’ll try my best. It’ll be set to the six months after the Netherbrain with the ‘good’ endings.

Astarion

He doesn’t have any traditions (obvi)

Baking? Too messy. Wrapping gifts? Not his favorite, but he’ll make them look nice. Decorating a tree? Too many pine needles.

Truthfully, he’ll do anything as long as you do it with him

From putting flour on your apron to licking icing off your fingers

To wrapping gifts for your family and friends and putting a bow on your head

But above all, I think he’d enjoy decorating a tree

He’d be walking along BG and he’d see a poorly decorated one in storefronts and scoff

(He could do so much better)

And he does

This man has an eye for style. He’d make the most breathtakingly gorgeous tree in a day, despite never doing it before

He does hate tinsel

Despite being extremely dexterous, he’d somehow get it caught on everything

His foot, his fingers, even his hair

(He hates it)

He loves getting you gifts, though

He struggles with words, but gifts?

He can do that

His gifts will be so special since he remembered everything you say

Looked at a necklace too long? Guess what that pretty little gift under the tree is.

He doesn’t remember if his family had any traditions for the holidays. No opening a gift the day before. No matching pajamas. No family dinners. If anything, he used to be rather spiteful towards the holidays. Skulking about Baldur’s Gate, he’d see lovers and families laughing together. All while he was struggling to get through his day to day life.

But then it all changed. He was free. Free from Cazador, free from his past, free from everything that ever haunted him. The nightmares would linger, maybe forever, but it was easier with you.

Especially when you looked so cute in the matching plaid pajamas you made him wear. The garments were loose in you since you insisted on getting the size up.

You were a vision. The moonlight hitting your face made you look ethereal. He knew the necklace he got you, neatly wrapped and waiting to be put under the soon to be decorated tree, would look beautiful on your bare neck.

-

“The tinsel goes around the tree, Astarion,” you snickered, making him huff.

“I’m-” he tried to pull the sparkly string off, “I’m aware, but the damn thing…”

“For a rouge, you’re-”

He shot you a look, “Don’t you finish that sentence.”

With the tree nearly finished, the tinsel was supposed to be quick and easy. For Astarion, he wore it rather well. Wrapped around his ankle and arm, little bits in his hair and his shirt, paired with his signature pout.

You helped take it off of him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “You’re adorable.”

“You’re awful.”

“I love you.”

He huffed, but begrudgingly smiled, “Yes, yes. I love you, too.”

Gale

Morena is beyond excited to meet you, fussing over you like you’re her own child

She enlists your help in getting Gale his gift since she hasn’t seen him in over a year

Tara tags along, of course, not so subtly trying to convince you to get Gale to shave his beard

As for Gale, he’s rushing to finish grading his student’s finals before the school break starts

After a year in isolation and longer still with Mystra, he’s ecstatic to finally rejoin his mother and Tara

Any free time he has is spent on perfecting your gift, a spell that he had been working on since you mentioned missing the stars

Once everything is set and finished, he’d definitely teach you Waterdavian dishes

But baking?

Please help him

He can make potions, write new spells, create flavorful dishes, but baking trips him up

A few well placed hands over his as you stir and eating hot cookies before they’re ready and he’ll love it

But he’ll need you to keep teaching him again. And again. Especially how to stir.

You laughed, your hand over his as you ‘helped’ him fold the batter, “Are you sure you need help?”

“Absolutely,” he chuckled as he kissed the top of your head, “It’s very difficult.”

Rolling your eyes, you scooped up a bit of batter and plopped it on his cheek, making him scoff, “Excuse me, what did I do to deserve this?” He put a dollop on your nose in retribution.

There was more flour and batter on you both than on the baking pan.

—

“Go ahead,” his voice was soft, “open it.”

It felt light. You slowly unwrapped the box. It looked simple enough: a wooden box with a hole at the top with… something inside. You felt along the bottom and pressed on what you assumed to be a button from the ‘click’.

You understood why he wanted the lights down low for the gifts now.

The roof lit up with a light show. A 3D model of the constellations.

“You, ah,” he scratched the back of his neck, “You always look so breathtaking when you’re stargazing. You said something about missing them, so… I just wanted to give that little bit of joy back to you.”

I’m a little stuck on Rolan and Karlach, so I’m going to reblog this with them on a later date. Until then, take this offering.

[thewritetofreespeech]

Can I request headcanons for Astarion, Gale, Wyll, and Halsin reacting to gn s/o telling him how hot it was to them that he came in his pants please?

Astarion

Astarion is humiliated and lashes out because of it.

He is supposed to be the one to make them so flustered and consumed with lust that they cum in his pants. Not him!

He isn’t meant to loose control like this. Be excited this way. Has he ever been excited this way, like a bumbling virgin, it all these 200 years?

Astarion would tell them they are disgusting; even though he doesn’t mean it, he’s just disgusted in himself. Then he will slither off to change his pants and be mortified in private.

Gale

Gale is embarrassed, of course. Cumming in your pants like an over excited teenager is not something that has happened to him since his academy days. But he’s not surprised.

He’s been almost entirely celibate for almost a year. No physical touch at all, and no romantic feelings either. Completely numb.

Meeting them is like having the flood gates not only open but burst (no pun intended).

Gale takes it in stride though. Comments on their beautiful being the cause, and flattered that they think it's attractive. Tells them about his confinement so they understand that this is not a normal occurrence usually. Then sets to prove his worth as a lover by returning the favor thrice over.

Wyll

Wyll is surprised it came on so quickly. Usually he’s not caught off guard.

It’s embarrassing, to be sure, but no use crying over spilled milk. Or, in this case, cum.

Wyll has been the gentleman for long enough. And while he will always put their honor, protection, and affection above all else, he has also waited too long for this moment. He isn’t going to give it up.

So, in true dive in first fashion, he just takes off his pants and they keep going. They have to come off anyway in the end. Wyll calls them a naughty boy/girl when they tell him it’s hot while he takes of theirs.

Halsin

Honestly? Halsin is just relieved that this is the outcome, instead of him shifting into bear shape. Maybe that says something about his two halves coming together again, or the calm his wild shape feels when he is with him.

He isn’t embarrassed, though a little disappointed that he will have to wait now to be inside them. His stamina is high but not infinite.

When they tell him it’s hot that he came in his pants for them, he makes a common on ‘this is why I prefer sky clad’ but also feels the beast in him growl with desire. Maybe it’s not so ‘tame’ after all.

He reaches his hands into his pants to offer his spilled seed to them from his fingers. No use in wasting it. Watching them clean it off sets his cock hard again, and Halsin is ready to go.

[astarionfixation]

Worth mentioning if anyone cares about this still: I'm taking notes, I'm coming back 😉🩸😘💋

Am I Fu**ing Insane!?! MASTERPOST

Chapter 1: *Would it really matter if it was a bite or a kiss?* R: Mature

Chapter 2: +As if I had been kissed by mint leaves all over+ R: Mature

Chapter 3: *is she fu**ing…?!?!?* R: Very Explicit

Chapter 4: *F*ck Eternity if Immortality Looks Like Me* R: Explicit CW Blood, Gore

Chapter 5: *Who said it's no fun to play with your food?* R: Explicit CW Vague Mention of Sex Work / Trafficking

Chapter 6: "It won’t hurt but a moment, darling" R: Explicit CW PTSD, Disassociation, Panic Attacks, Blood

Chapter 7: *I have all the time in the world, darling* R: Explicit CW Vague Mention of past Trauma

Chapter 8: "Show me, and I’ll follow you" R: Mature CW: mentions of parental abuse, childhood abuse, forced prostitution, implied rape

Chapter 9: “Would you like my tongue first, or my fingers, darling?” R: EXPLICIT for Sex, Fingering, Cunnilingus CW: Vague mentions of past sexual abuse, PTSD

Chapter 10: *There's no need to hold back anymore* R: EXPLICIT for Sex, Fellatio, PIV CW: vague mentions of past sexual trauma, PTSD flashbacks

Chapter 11: +I am not a glass doll+ R:EXPLICIT ROUGH SEX (intercourse PIV)

Chapter 12: *That'll teach me not to get all talkative…* R: Mature CW for mentions of Abuse and Past Trauma, possibly body dysmorphia if you squint.

Pairings: Astarion X OFC Tav

Status: Ongoing

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54356776/chapters/137677126

I have a quite serious praise kink. Which also means compliments in the forms of tags and/or comments might very well spur me to write and post more

Teaser:

Astarion swallows again, involuntarily, his lips slightly parted mimicking hers and his mouth now watering the closer he gets to her. As the tip of his nose brushes lightly against her lobe a deep moan escapes her lips, carrying his name again to his ears.

“Astarion”

Her deceptively warm fingers have somewhat found a way to sneak up on him as they now tickle the back of his neck, almost as if she was inviting his mouth down to her and *Would it really matter if it was a bite or a kiss?*

[dez78]

Shameless

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

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Pairings: Astarion x Fem!Elven Tav

Warnings: 18+ (Explicit content)

Additional tags: Shameless smut, porn without plot, PIV, receiving

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

With Astarion’s recent consumption of your blood, his skin was flushed beautifully as an involuntary groan escaped his lips. His eyebrows were knitted together and his mouth hung open slightly, his crimson eyes glittering with bliss as he chased his climax.

His hips snapped in a quick succession of thrusts. Sloppy and uncontrollable.

"It feels so-good, darling." Astarion rasped pleasurably, his voice was hoarse. His breathes came in short ragged, uneven gasps. His eyes half lidded as he looked at you. His movements were desperate, yet tender.

You arched your hips, lost in your own ecstasy, your eyes pinched shut and your breathing ragged. The way Astarion’s cock deliciously dragged smoothly against your velvety walls, scratching that itch that had been tormenting you all day long. The teasing had left both you and Astarion desperate, the anticipation unbearable- now as he moved inside you, it was everything you two had hoped for.

When you opened your eyes, you could see the way he shuddered, the way his jaw clenched as though he were fighting against something inside. You knew then when his hips stuttered, what he needed, what he wanted.

You purposefully contracted your walls around him, making him moan in response. The way you tightened so deliciously made him lose his mind.

His face contorted in ecstasy. His hands twitching as he moved them instinctively to your hips, grabbing them for stability, grounding himself to you. His cock was particularly sensitive tonight, each shift of your contractions only heightening the pleasure, the smooth glide of his foreskin against his shaft intensifying the friction. It was delicious.

What was even more enticing was the way you creamed on his cock involuntarily as you met his hips with your own. Astarion was drowning in pleasure as were you, but you could tell- he was teetering on the edge. You could sense it, the tension in his movements, the desperation in his grip. You knew exactly what he needed because you needed it too.

"It's okay Astarion." You cooed in a voice of adoration, caressing his cheek.

"You don't have to hold on anymore, I want you, just as you are, right now." You whispered against his ear. He let out a whimper and his body shuddered in response.

"I-" He pressed his lips together in a thin line, his face contorted from immeasurable pleasure as he rolled his hips.

"You're so beautiful, Astarion." You praised as you traced circles on his jaw. Astarion’s thrusts were desperate.

"Let go for me, love." You whispered smoothly.

Astarion's movements faltered for a fraction of a second before growing frantic. His breath shallow and erratic as his body trembled with the overwhelming need to release. His thrusts became quicker, more intense, driven by primal urgency.

The rhythm he had once controlled now slipped from his grasp; his hips snapped against yours in a desperate force. His fingers dug into the flesh of your hips, grounding himself to you as if he couldn't hold back any longer, the pleasure consuming him.

Every shift of his body brought him closer, his groans rising in pitch as the fire inside him built to an unbearable crescendo.

Then with stuttering and sloppy thrusts, the fire inside his abdomen erupted. Astarion growled, primal and animalistic as his hips stuttered and his body shuddered. His release came in hot, pulsing waves, expelling thick ropes of his seed into you. You shivered when you felt him twitching inside you as he unraveled completely.

Seeing him let go and come completely undone, heightened your senses, seeing him like this, made a heat pool in the pit of your stomach. You reached up kissing his jaw sweetly as he became a mess.

You felt the strong pulses of his convulsions. Astarion’s toes curled, his fangs exposed as his mouth hung open, his eyebrows furrowing together. He kneaded the flesh of your hips as he came inside you.

You couldn't hold back, the sight of Astarion’s climax pushing you over the edge. You arched into him, moaning in pure bliss as your own climax tore through you. Your walls contracted tightly as your release coated Astarion’s cock, drawing a shuddering groan from him.

Even as his seed spilled inside you in hot, pulsing waves, Astarion’s hips continued to move. His thrusts were slower now, languid but no less intense, prolonging pleasure for both of you. Each deliberate movement sent another shockwave through you, your body trembling under the onslaught of sensation.

Your slim manicured fingers clutched the silken sheets like your life depended on it, your cries blending with his guttural moans. The waves of pleasure crashed over you, all-consuming and overwhelming, leaving you breathless and utterly undone as Astarion’s rhythmic, shuddering thrusts carried both of you through heights of ecstasy.

Astarion still held you, his breath ragged, his face buried in your neck as he rode out the remnants of his release. His panting cold against your skin. Your fluids mixed, an intimate, overwhelming reminder of your shared moment.

His pulses slowed and started to diminish coming in longer intervals, until stopping completely. That's when he took a shaky breath, sliding out of you. His seed pooled under you.

"Beautiful." Astarion whispered as he pet your hips. Your chest rose and fell steadily as you caressed Astarion’s back, basking in the way you made each other feel. To be the source of his pleasure and he to yours, made you undeniably happy

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 25: Hunting Ground

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 5.8K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

The tavern is a grim affair, smelling of stale beer and sweat. Shadows cling to the corners, like oil slicks that refuse to be cleaned away, and the sputtering lanterns hanging from crooked beams seem too exhausted to illuminate the room properly.

The clientele is a mixed assortment of rogues, mercenaries, and people who look as though they have more secrets than morals. A large half-orc with a patchy beard glares at anyone who comes too close, while a wiry elf in a tattered cloak palms a dagger. Even the bartender, a grizzled man with a missing ear, watches with a hawkish stare, his hands never far from the club he has leaning behind the bar.

Astarion leans in close, his eyes shrewd with awareness. “We should split up and cover more ground. It will be easier to catch anything useful if we are not one conspicuous trio.”

Shadowheart nods, her attention already sweeping over the tavern’s interior. “Stay within sight of each other,” she adds, her voice a shade sterner than usual.

You swallow down the knot of anxiety that forms at the thought of leaving Astarion’s side. It’s irrational, you know, given how well he can take care of himself. He could charm half the room and slice his way through the other half if he needed to. Still, the idea makes your fingers twitch with a half-formed desire to grab onto him.

You nod, plastering on a smile that feels far too tight. “Be careful,” you murmur to Astarion, who gives you a wink and a roguish grin.

He slips away into the crowd, moving like silk through the mass of bodies, and Shadowheart gives you an understanding look before heading off. Taking a breath, you step forward and fall into character. A charming yet dangerously mysterious smile slides across your lips, the kind that hints at secrets and makes people wonder whether you’re a friend or a threat.

Your focus drifts across the room, and you catalogue the patrons. Rough-looking sailors huddle over dice games. A pair of cloaked figures whisper harshly at a table near the back. A barmaid moves between tables, her eyes hollow and far away, as if she’s detached from the filth of her surroundings.

This place is a den of treachery, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. You know how to play the game, how to be what people in these places expect to see: a pretty face with the potential for ruin lurking just beneath.

A part of you remains on high alert, aware of where Astarion and Shadowheart are, keeping track of the distance between you. Stay focused, you think. Still, you keep one eye on Astarion, his silver hair catching the tavern’s oily light like moonbeams tangled in cobwebs.

He’s joined a game of cards, settling in with the kind of disarming ease that only he can manage. Shadowheart, meanwhile, glides around the edges of the room like a shadow given form. Her wolfish focus is sharp and attentive, missing nothing as she prowls the perimeter.

You take a deep breath, shedding the last of your tension, and begin your hunt with a simple trick: proximity.

You drift close to a group of rough-looking mercenaries boasting about their latest job and make sure they notice you. The trick is to be almost approachable, to seem just out of reach. You toss your hair, and the men’s curiosity sharpens, like wolves sniffing at the edge of the woods.

It isn’t long before one of them breaks away from the pack, sidling up to you with a swagger that tells you he thinks he’s in control of this encounter.

“May I buy you a drink?” he offers, leering in a way that would send shivers of disgust down your spine if you weren’t so practiced at this.

Instead, you tilt your head, considering him, and then let your smile widen just a fraction. “I was about to buy one myself, but I suppose it would be terribly rude to refuse.”

He grins, and you know you’ve hooked him. As he calls for a drink, you let the conversation flow, asking just enough questions to keep him talking. He’s eager to impress, telling you about some recent job escorting a merchant’s caravan, and you listen with feigned interest, nodding at all the right moments.

You slip away at the first chance of escape with a whispered, “Don’t be a stranger,” that leaves him grinning like a fool.

You move on to another cluster of patrons, this time a pair of traders whispering about how business has been suffering. Here, you adopt a different approach: you act the part of a fellow merchant, commiserating with their struggles and sprinkling in enough business jargon to earn their trust. You don’t push too hard, but you nudge the conversation toward anything unusual they’ve heard. They don’t have much to offer.

You glide between groups like a dancer changing partners. Each conversation is a delicate performance, a balance of charm and subtle prying. With a group of dockworkers, you switch to playful teasing, laughing at their ribald jokes and pretending to be scandalized, all the while coaxing out tales of trouble on the docks.

When a more serious crowd catches your eye—hard-eyed mercenaries with their hands never straying far from their blades—you adjust your act once again. Your smile becomes cooler, more challenging, and you weave your words with a thread of danger. They size you up, but when you don’t flinch under their scrutiny, they let you into their circle.

Here, you hear something more concrete: talk of graves being disturbed in strange ways.

It’s not much, but it’s a lead.

You’re nodding along, making the appropriate sympathetic noises as the woman in front of you drones on. Her voice is as grating as boots crunching over shards of broken glass, and you’re only half-listening, the other half of your attention firmly fixed on Astarion.

His laughter—smooth, melodic—floats across the crowd, drawing more attention than a moth-eaten tavern like this deserves. Even now, even here, he’s a beacon. The men and women at his table seem magnetized, drawn to his every gesture.

It’s maddening.

One of them, a rugged brute with arms like tree trunks, leans too close. His hand brushes against Astarion’s shoulder, lingering, and that familiar spark of jealousy ignites in your chest. It coils tight, a snake slithering through your ribcage, and you can’t help the way your gaze sharpens.

It’s absurd, really, the way everyone fawns over him, how they orbit his beauty like planets held captive by a star. Women, men—it never seems to matter; everyone’s drawn in, and you get it. Gods, do you get it, but still, it irks you.

The woman says something that makes your ears perk up, something about people disappearing from the lower districts, especially from a house of healing where the down-and-outs seem to be swept away like detritus in a storm. You refocus, flashing a smile that makes her puff up with importance, but you’re still watching Astarion, your peripheral vision locked onto that table.

You know Astarion can handle himself; you know he’s as dangerous as the blade he keeps concealed in his boot, but that knowledge does nothing to calm the roiling heat in your gut. The man is talking too loudly, clearly inebriated, and when his hand drops lower to rest on Astarion’s knee, you feel your fingers curl into fists.

Astarion throws his head back and laughs, and it’s a sound like sunlight breaking through storm clouds—deliberate, meant to disarm and entice. The minutes creep by, and your patience wears thinner than an old piece of parchment. Your attempts at charming conversation yield no further leads. The whispers and rumours all swirl around the same topics: the city’s underbelly swallowing the unfortunate whole.

Astarion’s game of cards continues, round after round, and he’s building up quite the impressive stack of coin. The gamblers around him are varying degrees of drunk and frustrated, their brows furrowed in disbelief at how thoroughly they’re being played.

Then, there’s the drunken ass—his hands have grown bolder, the touches escalating from lingering grazes to something more presumptuous. That ember of jealousy roars into a bonfire, and you resist the urge to stride over there and burn the oaf to ash.

Astarion remains poised, every move calculated to avoid the touch without looking like he’s avoiding it. His hands perform little flourishes, as if he’s merely emphasizing his amusement at the game, knocking away a grasp with an airy gesture. The ease with which he handles it should reassure you, but instead, it needles at your already raw nerves.

The man laughs, and he reaches out again. This time, he aims lower, his intentions crystal clear. Your vision blurs at the edges with the intensity of your fury, and you dig your nails into your palms to keep from marching over there and making a scene—or worse, letting the magic that hums under your skin break free and turn this entire bar into a funeral pyre.

Shadowheart’s presence is a calming anchor in your peripheral vision, but even she seems tense, her dark eyes darting between Astarion and you. She’s noticed your simmering anger, the way you haven’t moved from your spot in far too long. You press your lips into a thin line, silently willing Astarion to end the game, to finish this charade before your composure snaps like a brittle twig underfoot.

You exhale slowly, reminding yourself that your anger won’t help him. If you intervene, it’ll only draw more attention, but gods, it’s hard.

Gale’s manor looms, a great silhouette of stone and ivy under a sky washed with the fading indigo of retreating night. The air clings to a chill, fog curling in wisps around the base of the steps like restless phantoms. Astarion barely notices. He drifts, an apparition himself, anchored to the world only by the occasional murmur of Kamena’s voice.

His thoughts drift, unmoored, back to that tavern and to every awful, visceral memory it unearthed. His body is present, but his mind has been dragged back into places where hands claimed, used, and discarded. He swears he still feels it—phantom touches pricking along his skin, invisible fingers pawing at him, groping at his waist, his arms, wherever they could stake a claim.

He closes his eyes, but that only intensifies the memory: coarse fingers seizing his chin, breath hot and acrid against his ear, murmurs of desire that were nothing more than knives.

How is it that even with Cazador rotting in some forgotten pit, he remains haunted, every soft whisper of the past ready to drag him back to that hell? A deep shame burns through his chest. He’s stronger now, isn’t he? He should be past this.

But the hands don’t stop, and the breath doesn’t fade, and all he can do is stand there, fighting a war inside his head against ghosts who have never truly let him go.

“Hey,” Kamena’s voice is soft, a flickering candle in the dark, coaxing him back. “Astarion?”

He forces himself to focus, but it’s like trying to pull free of tar. He blinks, realizing he’s still standing in the manor’s foyer, Shadowheart long gone.

“Astarion?” Kamena tries again, worry threading through her words. “Where are you?”

He swallows, finding his voice and hating how fragile it sounds. “I’m… here,” he answers. “Sorry, darling. Lost in thought. Nothing to worry about.”

Kamena knows him too well, sees through every crack and flaw he tries to hide. Her eyes search his face, reading the pain he can’t disguise. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”

She turns, using her body to guide him toward the staircase, never touching him directly. Instead, she hovers close, her movements careful and deliberate, a hand gesturing to show him the way, an arm raised slightly to ensure he follows.

Astarion’s steps feel heavy, each one an effort as they ascend. He clings to her presence, attention trained forward, focusing on the sway of her movements, on the quiet grace that surrounds her.

As soon as the door clicks closed, Kamena’s fingers snap, and flames spring to life in the fireplace. She moves without hesitation, heading straight for the tub in the corner.

He stands, feeling unanchored, like a ghost in his own skin. His gaze darts to the flickering fire, but the warmth doesn’t touch him, doesn’t sink into the cold that’s burrowed beneath his bones. He walks aimlessly, every step a vain attempt to shake free from the invisible hands still clawing at him.

His eyes catch on the glint of his dagger lying on the side table. He grabs it, the cool steel settling into his hand with a familiar weight. He runs his fingers along the blade’s edge, feeling the whetted sharpness. He doesn’t notice the pressure building, the way his fingertips push into the edge of the blade, carving shallow lines into his skin.

Kamena’s voice floats through the haze, soft and steady, like an angel whispering down from the heavens. “Astarion. Give me the dagger, please.”

Her words tug at the deepest parts of him, the ones not quite lost in the tide of memories. He blinks, startled, as though waking from a dream. Astarion’s gaze drops to his hand, where thin, crimson lines well up across his fingertips. Blood beads and drips, painting streaks down his skin, but he feels oddly detached from the pain.

Kamena steps closer, her hand lifting instinctively as though to take his, but she catches herself. Her fingers hover in the space between them, trembling slightly, so close he can feel the warmth radiating from her skin.

“You’re safe. You’re here, in our room. No one can hurt you. I’m here, and I’ve got you.”

Astarion’s fingers curl tighter around the hilt, the dagger feeling heavier with every passing second. Reluctantly, he extends his hand, the movement jagged, unnatural, as if his body is at odds with the instinct to surrender it.

Kamena’s hand reaches out and takes the dagger from him. He feels the absence of the blade in his hand like the absence of a limb.

"The bath is ready,” Kamena gestures toward the steaming tub.

Astarion shifts slightly, forcing his mind to settle as her voice touches him. "Are you trying to insinuate that I smell?"

Kamena hums, a small, amused sound, but she holds his gaze for a long beat, her smile there but tempered. "I’m not saying you smell, but the bath’s there if you want it."

She backs away slightly, giving him space, and in that moment, her gentleness, her patience, is almost more than he can bear.

He presses his fingertips together, the slick of his blood smearing beneath his thumb. The shallow cuts on his skin knit together as if nothing happened. It always heals—mending, sealing, returning to its cold, perfect stillness. A parody of life. Beneath the flesh, the raw, aching wounds of his soul remain open. Festering.

Why is it that his body—a cadaver dressed in silken skin—can stitch itself whole, while his spirit remains in tatters? Why does he carry these invisible gashes, these scars that pulse and throb? A single careless word, a fleeting glance, and the old wounds gape wide, spilling anguish like blood from a reopened vein.

He stares at the red streaks on his fingers, as if the answer lies there, hidden in the crimson swirl. But it doesn’t. It never does. His blood is lifeless, a mimicry of vitality. His soul, if it still exists, is no better. He feels trapped in this silent torment, a scream that no one can hear.

The healing is a cruel joke. His body pretends at recovery, as though that will make him whole, as though that will stitch together the fractured pieces of himself, but it’s a lie.

The promise of warmth, of something alive against his skin rather than that damnable ghost of touch, pulls him toward the tub. Without a word, he moves toward it, feeling the weight of his body dragging. His fingers trail the edge of the tub for a moment before he undresses, his clothes slipping from his body in careless movements. There’s no care, no thought—just the need to shed what feels too tight, too heavy.

Kamena watches him from the corner of her eye as she grabs a cloth and begins wiping the blood from his blade with meticulous care.

Astarion breathes out slowly, his chest tightening for a moment as he lowers himself into the warm water. He closes his eyes, letting the heat settle in his muscles, the soft splash of water against his skin distracting him. It feels different tonight, the comfort almost too much for his fractured mind to hold onto.

He’s lost in the warmth when he hears the soft swish of satin. Kamena’s presence fills the room, and for a brief moment, Astarion allows himself to simply look at her.

She’s wearing satin shorts and a tank top. Her hair, like a cascade of silk, tumbles over her shoulders before she tucks it behind her pointed ear with the grace of someone who doesn’t even need to think about it.

Kamena moves toward his discarded clothes, and without a word, she begins folding them. Her movements are careful and precise, as if she’s the one tidying up the remnants of his life, making order of the chaos. Each fold is deliberate, a small act of care, and it unsettles him in the best way possible.

His mouth opens before his brain catches up. “You’re stunning, Kamena.”

She pauses, and there’s no teasing smile on her lips, no quick retort. Instead, she simply sits down beside the tub. “Are you okay?”

Astarion stiffens slightly, the question landing like a blow he didn’t expect, and he tries to hide behind the banter that has always been his shield. “Why wouldn’t I be? I’m absolutely fine. In fact, I’m positively glowing, as you can see.” His lips twitch, but the effort feels hollow, like something dying before it can be fully born.

Her eyes narrow slightly, her fingers unconsciously tracing the edge of the towel she’s holding. “Astarion… I saw what happened at the tavern.”

Astarion feels like a raw nerve exposed to the world. He wants to pull away, deflect, but he can’t. She sees through him, and he’s not sure if he hates it or needs it more than he can admit.

“Ah, that,” he starts, attempting once again to cover the tremor that has snuck into his voice. “It’s nothing. Just a bit of fawning. I’m used to it. Attention like that is... quite familiar, really. You know how it is. People just can’t resist.”

"I don’t think it’s nothing."

Her words sink in like a stone in water. He doesn’t want to show her how much it hurts—how close it is to the old scars, the ones that never really fade, the ones that still feel raw under his skin.

“I am fine,” he insists a little too forcefully, as if trying to convince himself. “I’m always fine. It is nothing.”

Kamena only nods, her eyes never leaving his. There’s no judgment there, no impatience. Just quiet understanding. She’s not asking for his confession. She’s waiting for him to offer it, in his own time.

Her fingertips skim the surface of the water, sending ripples across the stillness. Each movement is fluid and gentle, and Astarion watches her, the rhythm offering a strange kind of peace.

He realizes it then, like a sudden crack in the ice beneath his feet. He’s running too.

His chest tightens, something sharp and jagged biting at the edges of his ribs. Fuck. He’s been pretending, hiding, letting her think he’s fine when all he’s doing is locking himself behind walls she’s never meant to scale.

How could I be so foolish?

His voice is soft when he finally speaks, almost a whisper, like the words are fragile. “I have not felt like that in a long time,” he says, his gaze focused on the water. He clenches his fists, the memory still too fresh, too vivid. “That man at the tavern, he... he made me feel like I was nothing. Just a piece of meat, something to devour. I remember how it felt to be a toy, a tool, a thing that others could use as they pleased.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “That man wasn’t the first. He won’t be the last. All it takes is one touch, one moment of weakness, and I’m right back there. In their hands."

Kamena shifts closer to the tub, her hands resting lightly on the edge, though she doesn’t touch him.

Not yet. Not until he’s ready.

"I know what it’s like," she says, “to feel like you’re stuck, like every move you make could sink you deeper, and you have no idea if you can ever get back up to breathe."

The weight of her words hits Astarion harder than he expects. He can feel it—the echoes of the same fear, the same suffocating hesitation that creeps into his bones whenever he dares to move forward.

He knows she's talking about herself, the careful way she keeps herself distanced. It’s like she’s always half-reached, but never fully here. Her pain, her quiet self-protection—it’s all the same undercurrent that he’s been fighting for years, and it makes him ache in a way he can't quite explain.

Her fingers move over the water again, delicate, almost reluctant. There's a tremor in the motion, like the last fragile thread of a dream slipping away.

Without thinking, Astarion stretches out his hand, a slow, deliberate movement, and he touches her fingers. She freezes, her breath catching in her throat, but then her fingers curl around his.

There’s no grand gesture, no sudden shift. Just two souls, existing in the same fragile space.

The House of Healing stands like a crumbling tooth at the edge of the city, its façade streaked with grime and despair. The wooden shutters hang unevenly on rusted hinges. The smell hits you first—a rank cocktail of sweat, sickness, and something sour that clings to the back of your throat. It’s a place meant for those who have nothing left: no coin, no hope, no other options.

Inside, beds, if you can call them that, line the walls in uneven rows. Most are little more than pallets of straw covered in thin, stained sheets. Patients lie there like abandoned dolls, their faces hollow, their skin sallow. A woman coughs into a rag, the sound wet and deep, while another murmurs feverishly, her voice breaking into fractured words no one listens to.

The healers move through the room like wraiths, their robes smeared with grime and their expressions blank. They look as unwell as the people they tend to.

One of them, a man with a crooked nose and hands trembling from overwork, dabs at a patient’s brow with a damp cloth, his movements slow and mechanical. Another stands over a woman whose breaths come in rattling gasps, muttering a prayer under her breath as if words alone could stave off death.

Gale looks at the scene, more troubled than disgusted. His lips press into a thin line as he steps forward, his boots scuffing against the warped wooden floor. “No one deserves this,” he says quietly, almost to himself. His gaze drifts to a child curled on one of the pallets, his tiny frame too still, too pale. "Not even the poorest soul."

A healer shuffles past you, her face lined like old parchment, her steps dragging. You catch a glimpse of her hands, fingers gnarled and reddened, shaking as she tries to tie a bandage. She doesn’t look at you, doesn’t even seem to register your presence.

It’s easy to see how someone could disappear here, swallowed by the chaos and neglect. No one would question an empty bed, assuming death had taken its toll again.

Hecat steps closer to you. “So, where do we start?”

“Fan out,” you instruct.

Each step carries you further from the relative order of the main ward. You pass a cracked window, the glass fogged with grime. Outside, the faint sound of the city’s bustle feels worlds away, muffled as if even the streets refuse to acknowledge this place.

You move through the rows of creaking cots, where patients lie motionless or thrash weakly against stained sheets. You kneel by a frail woman whose limbs seem to have withered away like autumn leaves clinging to a branch. Her skin is sallow, her lips cracked, and when you ask her name, her response is little more than a garbled whisper. A sound that isn’t a sound.

“Can you hear me?” you ask louder.

Her head rolls to the side, but her vacant stare continues past you, into some abyss you cannot fathom.

Across the room, Gale’s deep voice carries briefly before faltering. You glance over to see him standing with a man whose head lolls forward, drool pooling at the corner of his slack mouth. Gale straightens, shaking his head at Hecat, who crouches beside another and mutters under her breath. Frustration twists her features, and her shoulders tense like a bowstring about to snap.

Rusted syringes are discarded like broken quills that have long since lost their ink. Dirty rags lie slumped in buckets of water so thick with grime it has the viscosity of tar, and the smell is indescribable—like rot left to fester under the sun.

You spot a healer briskly passing by, their robes torn and smudged. They move with single-minded focus, carrying a tray of empty vials that rattle softly with every step. You reach out, catching their arm.

“Wait,” you say firmly. “What’s happening here?”

The healer doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even acknowledge you. They try to keep moving forward. Even as you hold them in place, their worn shoes slide against the floor with each useless step. You shake them vigorously, hoping for any response, but get none.

“Answer me!” you demand.

Heat flares at your palms as you channel the Weave, not enough to hurt but enough that any normal person would instinctively recoil. The healer doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Their face remains eerily blank, their eyes as lifeless as the patients’ around you.

Your grip loosens, and they slip away again, disappearing into the haze of the ward. You glance at Hecat and Gale, who have stopped their own efforts to look at you. Gale’s brow furrows, his lips pressed thin. Hecat’s mouth twists, her sharp eyes darting between you and the retreating healer.

The world tilts on its axis as you pivot sharply. A wave of nausea crashes over you, and your stomach churns violently. Your knees weaken, and it feels as though the floor rushes up to meet you. The blood drains from your face, and your mouth floods with bitter saliva as you stagger forward. Before you can collapse, Hecat’s strong hands grip your shoulders, steadying you.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, but you can’t answer, your throat tightening as bile rises.

You double over and retch, the sound harsh and raw in the oppressive silence of the ward. Gale is at your side almost instantly, pressing a neatly folded handkerchief into your trembling hands. You wipe your mouth, head pounding with every unsteady heartbeat.

You wrench yourself free of Hecat’s hold, her concerned protest fading into the background, purpose driving you past the fog of illness and fear. Your gaze fixes on one of the patients, and you fall to your knees beside them, ignoring the wet squelch of the filthy floor beneath you. Your fingers work quickly, brushing aside the layers of grime-encrusted cloth covering their neck, searching for something—anything.

“Hey!” Gale calls from behind you, his voice sharp with confusion. “What are you doing?”

You don’t answer. You can’t stop. The thought, the terrible possibility, grips you like a vice. You check their neck, their wrists, their arms—your movements frantic now. Your breath catches as you fling back the sheet covering their lower body, exposing legs marred with a lattice of puncture wounds. Fangs, puncturing flesh over and over like an unholy feast.

“They’re enthralled,” you whisper, the words trembling from your lips with grim finality.

The three of you stare in collective horror at the grim tableau before you. Hecat’s jaw tightens, her sharp eyes narrowing, while Gale looks like he’s just been punched in the gut, his complexion pale and ashen.

“This isn’t a house of healing,” you continue, your voice hollow, almost breaking. “It’s a hunting ground.”

You see it now, in every detail—the desperate state of the patients, the apathetic healers who seem to be little more than empty vessels, the pervasive wrongness that saturates this place like a curse.

“They’re feeding on them,” you say, your gaze fixed on the patient’s legs, the bite marks overlapping in a grotesque pattern. “Draining them. Using them. Until there’s nothing left.”

“And then?” Hecat asks, though by the tremor in her voice, she already knows the answer.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to meet her eyes. “Then, they’re turned.”

The truth weighs on you like a stone, each piece falling into place to form a picture too terrible to look at.

This isn’t just a tragedy—it’s a factory. A grotesque assembly line, churning out victims and killers in equal measure.

Gale stammers, his words tripping over one another in his urgency, his hands gesturing wildly as if pulling answers from the air. “We can’t just leave them like this. There has to be something we can do!”

You, however, are unmoved. Perhaps it’s cynicism. Perhaps it’s realism. Or perhaps the hollowness within you simply cannot stretch wide enough to encompass this many broken souls. You glance from one bed to another, your gaze sweeping over the withered faces, the slack jaws, the glassy stares that don’t even track your movement. Each figure is a ghost tethered to a failing shell, far beyond any salvation you could offer.

You shake your head, the motion small but resolute. “There’s nothing we can do,” you say flatly.

Gale reels back as if you’ve struck him. “Nothing?” he echoes, aghast. “You won’t even try?”

You meet his eyes, and they burn with the kind of indignation that only comes from belief in a better world—a belief you no longer share.

“Look at them.” You gesture sharply to the room around you. “Do you think they can be saved? Their bodies are ruined. Their minds are gone. They’re not even living, Gale. They’re... leftovers.”

His face contorts, a mix of anger and heartbreak warring in his expression. “How can you say that? They’re people, not scraps on a plate!”

You exhale sharply, the sound carrying more weariness than frustration. “People, once. Now? They’re feeding troughs. Thralls. Whatever they were, it’s gone.”

Hecat steps forward, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “She’s right. Even if you pour magic into them, it won’t undo what’s been done. They’re too far gone.”

Gale doesn’t back down. “We don’t know that!” His voice rises, ringing through the grim stillness. “We owe it to them to try. To do something.”

You glance at Gale and Hecat, your voice sharp and decisive. "We should leave. Take a few days to regroup and plan, and then come back when it’s dark."

Gale narrows his eyes, his frustration still simmering beneath the surface. "And why, exactly, should we wait?"

“Because this place isn’t for the living. It’s a hunting ground. Come nightfall, the ones we’re after will return to feed, and we’ll be waiting for them."

Hecat smirks faintly, her arms crossing as she leans against the grimy wall. "Using their own trap against them. Clever. A little cruel, but clever."

Gale shakes his head, disapproval radiating from him like a chill. "And in the meantime, what happens to these people? You just leave them here, like bait in a snare?"

You fix him with a cold stare, your voice unwavering. "That’s exactly what they are, Gale. Bait. Better to use it than to let it rot."

Gale’s anger flares, his voice trembling with outrage. “Bait? That’s what they are to you? These are people.” His words lash out like a whip, sharp enough to sting. He takes a step closer, his face set in a righteous fury you once might have admired. “How can you stand here, look at this suffering, and decide their best use is as tools for your goals?”

You hold his gaze, unflinching, unrepentant. “Do you think I want this? Do you think I enjoy it? The only way to help them is to rid Waterdeep of the parasite feeding on them, and using what’s left of these people is the fastest way.”

His eyes widen, disbelief flooding his expression. “What’s left of them?” he spits. “You’ve already written them off, haven’t you? You’ve decided their lives are worth nothing, so why not throw them into the fire?”

You scoff, your voice rising. “You’re godsdamned right I have. Look around, Gale. What do you see? I see empty husks barely clinging to what could generously be called life. I see people who won’t thank us for whatever salvation you think you can offer. I see us wasting time on them when the real enemy is out there, thriving.”

Gale’s hands curl into fists, trembling at his sides. “You sound no better than the monsters we’re hunting.”

That lands like a punch, but you refuse to let it show. Instead, you take a step forward, closing the distance between you, your voice a growl. “And what would you have me do, then? Heal them? Bring them all back from the brink with a wave of my hand? The best thing I could do for them is—” Your voice breaks, sharp and bitter. “Burn it all to the fucking ground.”

The words are barely out before the heat ignites in you, surging like a storm unbound. Flames curl over your skin, licking up your arms and dancing along your hair. They flicker gold and crimson, light that bends and writhes like living poetry. The air around you crackles, the smell of burning ozone sharp in your nose.

Gale steps back, his eyes widening as the heat pushes against him. “This isn’t justice,” he says, his voice quieter but no less intense. “This is rage. Destruction.”

You laugh bitterly. “Don’t preach to me about justice. Justice won’t bring back the dead or save the next victim. Rage? Destruction? They get results.” The fire swirls higher, casting shadows that twist and shift across the room. “So tell me, Gale—what do you want to do? Save them? Heal them? You can’t even get them to open their eyes!”

Your words echo in the space, your flames their only answer. They reflect off the grimy walls, painting the room in molten light that only underscores the decay. Gale stands frozen, torn between his ideals and the grim truth of your argument. Somewhere, you think you hear Hecat chuckle, low and bitter, but you don’t look at her.

You don’t need her approval.

You don’t need Gale’s either.

All you need is an end to this madness—an end that might, just might, begin with flame.

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

Hi guys! It's been WAY too long. I'm really sorry. Work is crazy for the holiday months, and I've been told I may lose my job, so... it's been rough. Except spotty updates until at least the end of January (either work calms down or I get let go 🤣)

[rahuratna]

Okay, I loved every second of reading this. It's sweet, cosy, contains descriptions of cooking (I'm such a sucker for that in fanfic) and PAVLOVA, one of my favourite desserts. And Astarion, of course.

I loved the dialogue, how his haughty playfulness and those dashes of underlying warmth and genuine kindness come through. Perfect thing to read during the festive season!

I saw your Hogfather fic and loved it! Can I request a similar holiday request? Astarion helping the reader make something like gingerbread cookies or other traditional dessert foods for a party?

A Sweet Seasonal Seduction

So every year I would make Pavola with my nan and that is always a special memory and I would love to make one with Astarion.

The chill of winter had settled over the countryside, and your party had decided to hole up in the warmest, coziest place you could find: an old but well-kept inn in a quaint little village. After your latest adventure, everyone was a bit worse for wear, and what better way to recharge than a night of festive indulgence?

Snow fell softly outside, blanketing the rooftops and cobbled streets. Inside, the air was filled with the warm scent of cinnamon, nutmeg, and something faintly citrusy that made your nose tingle. It was festive, cozy—and yet Astarion, perched on the edge of the counter with his usual air of haughty disinterest, didn’t seem moved by it at all.

You, on the other hand, were elbow-deep in sugar and egg whites, carefully whipping the mixture into stiff, glossy peaks. Astarion had agreed to "help," but so far, he had done little more than stir the occasional bowl and make sharp, snide observations about the absurdity of baking.

"Remind me again," he drawled, inspecting a whisk with obvious disdain, "why are we spending our precious time and ingredients making—what did you call it? A pavlova?"

"It’s a festive dessert," you explained patiently, shooting him a sideways look. "Crisp meringue shell, soft marshmallowy center, topped with whipped cream and fruit. Trust me, everyone will love it at the party."

"Ah, yes, because nothing screams holiday cheer like fruit," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Why not just hand them all a turnip and call it a day? I can think of a much better way to use that cream," he purred, his lips curling into a wicked grin.

You couldn’t help but laugh. "If you’re not going to help, at least try not to distract me. The meringue is delicate—it’s like magic, really. One wrong move, and poof, it’s ruined."

Astarion leaned closer, his crimson eyes gleaming with mischief. "Oh, darling, everything I do is magic. Perhaps I should take over? I’m sure my refined touch could elevate this humble concoction into something worthy of my presence."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "You’re not touching the meringue," you said firmly.

He smirked, clearly enjoying your irritation. "Then what am I supposed to do? Stand here looking beautiful? Oh wait—" He gestured dramatically to himself. "Mission already accomplished."

You rolled your eyes and handed him a bowl of fresh berries. "Here, make yourself useful. Slice these."

He raised an eyebrow at the task but accepted the knife with exaggerated grace. "Ah, reduced to manual labor. How very… pedestrian." Despite his grumbling, he set to work, his deft hands moving with surprising precision as he sliced strawberries into perfect, uniform pieces.

You couldn’t resist sneaking a glance at him. For all his complaints, Astarion seemed oddly focused on the task, his usual sharp-edged demeanor softened just slightly by the glow of the firelight and the festive atmosphere.

"See?" you teased, your tone light. "Not so bad, is it? Almost fun, even."

He snorted, though a ghost of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Fun, you say? If you consider spending one’s evening slicing fruit instead of sipping wine by the fire ‘fun,’ then I suppose I’m having the time of my life."

You leaned closer, dropping your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Well, if you keep being such a sourpuss, I might just put you in charge of decorating gingerbread cookies."

Astarion paused, his knife hovering mid-slice. "Gingerbread cookies?" he repeated, his tone laced with mock horror. "And here I thought you couldn’t possibly insult me further. What’s next, darling? Carving little reindeer out of marzipan?"

You grinned, deciding to push your luck. "That’s actually not a bad idea. Maybe we can add little edible glitter bows to the reindeer. Oh! Or tiny sugar snowflakes!"

His laugh was low and genuine, the sound like warm velvet. "You are absolutely diabolical."

The meringue was finally ready, and you carefully spread it onto the parchment-lined baking sheet, shaping it into a circular nest. Astarion watched with a critical eye, his earlier protests forgotten.

"Hmm," he murmured, tilting his head as he examined your work. "Not bad. A little rustic, perhaps, but charming in its own way."

"Rustic?" you echoed, feigning offense. "I’ll have you know this is artisan-level craftsmanship."

He smirked, leaning just close enough to make your breath hitch. "If you say so, darling."

Once the pavlova was in the oven, you turned your attention to the whipped cream. Astarion, to your surprise, actually volunteered to help. He took the whisk from you with a flourish and began whipping with exaggerated enthusiasm, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

"Are you mocking me?" you asked, watching him.

"Mocking? Never," he said, though his grin gave him away. "I’m simply demonstrating how to wield a whisk with style."

Despite yourself, you laughed, and soon the two of you were working in unspoken harmony—Astarion arranging the sliced fruit on the finished pavlova with surprising care while you piped the whipped cream into delicate swirls.

By the time the dessert was finished, it was a masterpiece: a crisp, golden meringue topped with fluffy clouds of cream, jewel-like berries, and a dusting of powdered sugar that glittered like fresh snow.

Astarion stepped back, admiring the creation with a satisfied smirk. "Well, I must say, I’m rather impressed with us. Who knew we made such an excellent team?"

You raised an eyebrow. "Us? I seem to recall you spent most of the time complaining."

He placed a hand dramatically over his heart. "Complaining is an art form, my dear. But fine, I’ll concede—this was… mildly enjoyable."

"Mildly," you repeated, rolling your eyes.

He grinned, leaning in close enough that his breath brushed your cheek. "Let’s just keep this little adventure between us, shall we? I’d hate for the others to think I’ve gone soft."

"Your secret’s safe with me," you said, smirking. "But only if you promise to help with the gingerbread cookies tomorrow."

Astarion groaned, though the twinkle in his eye betrayed his amusement. "Fine. But only if I get to eat the first one."

"Deal," you said, laughing as you stole a berry from the pavlova and popped it into your mouth with a wink.

The party that night was a roaring success, but as you watched Astarion across the room, a rare, genuine smile on his face as he watched the party sampled the dessert you’d made together, you couldn’t help but think that the true highlight of the evening had been the quiet, unexpected warmth of his company.

Hope you like reading it as much as I loved writing it.

LIKE. COMMENT. REQUEST

[flow33didontsmoke]

when y/n does something so bad/embarrassing you have to facepalm and close your eyes for a minute

[itshelia]

Taking anti-depressant pills?? Seeing a therapist??? Journaling???? No need babe, my fav writer just dropped another x reader fic.

[stars-and-clouds]

HE DIDN'T WANT TO LET GO HE DIDN'T WANT TO LET GO HE DIDN'T WANT TO LET GO!!! -screams-

[connorsui]

"How beautiful was she?"

"Was? ...please ..she is beautiful, but not like those girls in magazines. She is beautiful, for the way she thinks, She is beautiful for the sparkle in her eyes when she speaks about anything she loves. She is beautiful for her ability to make other people smile, even if she was sad. No, she wasn't beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. She is beautiful, deep down to her soul ....

She is the love of my life"

The man: Nanami Kento, Geto Suguru, John Price, Jason Todd, Sam Winchester, Higuruma Hiromi, Halsin, Astarion Zayne, Sylus, Xavier, Levi Ackerman, Simon Riley, Johnny Mactavish, Leon Kennedy, Aizawa, Dabi, Hawks, Rafayel, Cooper Howard, Logan Howlett, Aemond, Nikto,

[cheekylittlepupp]

Whoever was responsible for the kiss scene at Larian...

the way his hand slowly moves up....

[ramen-flavored]

[colonelarr0w]

Astarion, once he's comfortable with you, is definitely the type of man to sleepily reach for you when he realizes that you've rolled out of his arms at night.

Like the moment, and I mean the moment, that he doesn't feel you wrapped up in his arms, he's up. Sure, he's groggy as all hell and he can't properly see anything around him -- but all he knows is that he's not holding you when he most definitely should be.

He'll push himself up onto his elbows, squinting to see that you've turned yourself away from him and rolled out of his arms. Your back is turned to him, but he knows that it wasn't intentional.

With a fanged yawn, Astarion reaches for you again. His arms loop around your waist and turn you around, tucking your head beneath his chin. Instinctively, your legs tangle with his own, your arms adjusting to wrap around his midsection.

He grins to himself, content again.