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dex20 · 1 year ago

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"shameful company" — astarion

also on ao3. pt. 4 of series (don't) lose your head

pairing : astarion/oc (m!durge) word count : 7.3k content : mentions of canon-typical violence, hurt/comfort, gratuitous fluff, wound care, applying stitches, bathing/washing, (astarion's) trauma and introspection, healing and establishing boundaries, intimacy and touch starvation, falling in love, named tav/durge with lore

The suite above the inn was strangely quiet compared to the floor below. Boisterous laughter and shouting from drunkards carried up the stairs and yet none dared to actually walk up there. Word of the murder that occurred in the spare room spread like wildfire throughout the city, and understandably, the average tavern-goer tried to avoid anything that would find themselves at the business end of a dagger.

Especially when there’s now a fresh trail of blood leading up to those double doors for the second week in a row.

As for inside the suite, it certainly looked like another altercation had occurred. Sanguine pools stained the quaint setup of rugs and pillows in the middle pit, which was also now strewn about. The floor was littered with bandages, potions, and some rather crude medical instruments spilling out of an adventurer’s pack — the owner of which sat near the hearth, a sheen of sweat covering his furrowed brow as he worked diligently. The barkeep could clean up the mess, for all he cared. He’s far too occupied with tending to his lover’s wounds to worry about anything else.

The two exchange no words, unless you count the tiefling’s quiet gasp and muffled prayer upon bearing witness to the grisly wound marring the other man’s flesh.

Though he delighted in a bit of goriness, the sight of his already low supply of blood pooling out of his own leg was admittedly something Astarion did not plan on happening today. Or ever, preferably.

For now, he sits feeling rather exposed, his right leg bent at the knee and breeches pulled down to his ankles as Niraeniel carefully dabs at the frightful-looking gash tearing through the flesh of his thigh with a damp cloth. Astarion grits his teeth, hissing through the burn of vinegar being doused onto the nerve endings of his skin. He counts himself lucky that the tonic Nir just about poured down his throat earlier had blunted the worst of the pain, but he could still feel the deep chill seeping into the meat of his thigh. It was like a ravine of ache and dull agony.

Astarion lets out an exhale of relief upon noticing the bleeding has ceased for the most part, silently thankful that the injury wasn’t nearly as severe as he thought. Astarion leans back against the wall, watching idly as Niraeniel cleans the wound, though not exactly at him — his eyes can’t seem to focus on anything in particular, feeling somewhat faint from how much blood he’s lost.

Nir pulls away briefly to reach for his suturing supplies, and for a moment Astarion isn’t so confident in his decision to let the tiefling anywhere near him with a needle and thread. He’d never even mentioned having any medical skill until today, simply leaving the duty to Shadowheart just like everyone else in their rag-tag group.

The vampire stops Niraeniel short when he reaches for his leg, placing his hand over the cautious grip bracing his thigh.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” Astarion says, words nearly a whisper from the strained sound of his voice.

Niraeniel shakes his head in response, swatting his hand away. “Would you rather I left you there to bleed out?”

“I’ve done the same to you before, haven’t I?”

“Yes, well, you make it quite difficult to stay mad at you.”

Astarion huffs, but still relents, relaxing back into the wall with his head turned away. Niraeniel shifts closer to him once more, tapping his knee softly to get his attention. “Could you tilt your leg a bit, ‘Star?”

The vampire glances at him from the corner of his eye for a short moment but says nothing in acknowledgement, simply slanting his leg in compliance so that Nir can get a better look. Even though he knows his lover is purposefully looking away, Niraeniel still smiles softly at him. He leans down to the examine the wound closer, taking hold of the other’s lower thigh again. The gash isn’t terribly long nor deep, but it still cuts scarily close to the major artery within Astarion’s thigh.

“Huh. Certainly a strange angle to go at …”

“Do you actually plan on helping or are you just going to gawk at me where the sun doesn’t shine?” Astarion snarls at him, but his ragged speak betrays his tone, sounding more like doubt than disdain.

The tieflings sighs, “Please, I really don’t have the patience to argue with you right now.”

With his free hand, Niraeniel intertwines his fingers with Astarion’s, and the gesture immediately pulls his gaze back to the man before him. Astarion finally notices the look of genuine concern marking his lover’s features, and his own expression softens at the sight, feeling a pang of guilt for acting coldly. Astarion’s eyes then follow down to their hands clasped together, and he offers a gentle squeeze in acknowledgement. “Fine, then. I suppose I’m in no position to be fighting again so soon, either.”

Niraeniel chuckles at that, and the sound is sweet enough to even tug the corners of Astarion’s mouth into a weak smile.

“Just sit back. I’ve got you, I promise,” Niraeniel murmurs reassuringly.

As if his words weren’t enough to swallow, Astarion nearly freezes when the other man leans in to press a quick kiss to his cheek. Normally, he’d try to deflect this nauseating amount of tenderness, but for now he’s content to do exactly as asked, letting his eyes flutter shut as Niraeniel continues to tend to his wounds.

With a careful hand, he guides a needle through the tip of the driver from the suturing kit and the braces the edge of the gash with the forceps in his other hand. Astarion hisses when he feels the needle dig into his skin, and although there’s no direct pain thanks to the potion he drank earlier, the mere sensation of the needle pulling through his flesh is uncomfortable to say the least.

Still, he watches intently as Niraeniel knits the skin back together, tying knots in the catgut thread to secure it in place before cutting the excess string and making his way down the gash to repeat the process.

Astarion clears his throat. “So, may I at least ask how you learned to treat wounds like this?”

Niraeniel hums passively at the question, too fixated on making precise movements to look up at the vampire. “It came with my career, honestly. I usually work alone, so I had time to practice on myself.” His nose wrinkles at the memory, remembering how excruciatingly painful it was to stitch his own injuries back up after a few close calls — and the times he witnessed the same reaction from siblings in arms when there were no healing potions left to spare. He continues, “But sometimes they’d pair me with younger recruits who made a habit of biting off more than they could chew. It became a rather important skill.”

“I see,” Astarion muses, his thoughts immediately drifting to the worst possible scenarios. “Has anyone died under your care?”

“Not necessarily. I try my best, but I’m not a cleric. Some wounds cut deeper beyond normal ability.” Niraeniel’s words seem to trail off, an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air as his own mind begins to spiral. He immediately shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the creeping memories. “But you’re not at risk of passing prematurely right now, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Astarion lets out a dramatic sigh, clutching a hand over his unbeating heart theatrically. “Oh, thank the Gods, I was worried about my obituary sounding too boring. ‘Stabbed in the femoral artery by a lunatic gnome’ is a rather dull way to go out, don’t you think?”

“You jest, but count yourself lucky she missed the mark. A cut there could have bled you out in minutes.”

The vampire huffs bitterly in response, quickly dropping the act. He appears rather deep in thought now, if the serious expression pursing his face served as any indication.

Satisfied with the other’s silence and his own needlework, Niraeniel pats his knee before pulling away to grab a small jar of ointment. Astarion winces from how cold the cream is, but decides it would be a poor idea to complain. He simply breathes in deep, shifting his position now that he doesn’t have to sit frozen in place.

He gazes up at the ceiling, finally stable enough to reflect on the events that transpired today. They’d been ambushed by a group of Bhaalists while taking a shortcut through a park, of all the damned places. Luckily, he was able to react quickly, opening throats with his dual daggers with a terrifying level of finesse. Though admittedly, he did get a bit ahead of himself, tunnel vision set on taking out the archer above — it left the group exposed from behind, which might have been a fatal mistake for Niraeniel if Astarion hadn’t swooped in to take the blow for him.

Astarion swallows, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. On one hand, yes, he does feel rather stupid for redirecting the attacker’s swing to an equally lethal area on his body, but on the other …

He remembers the wide-eyed look of fear on his lover’s face as he staggered backwards to avoid the figure behind him, and the even more dramatic look of horror upon watching Astarion proceed to tackle the perpetrator to the ground. Niraeniel was rarely, if ever, caught by surprise — Astarion calls to mind the night he was crouched over the other’s unconscious body, just about to sink his teeth into the poor tiefling’s exposed neck before he stirred awake right in time. There was no look of panic, nor a startled scream. Just a disconcertingly straight face as he scrambled to pull out his boot-knife and then held it to the vampire’s throat.

Although the details remain hazy considering the bloodthirsty frenzy Astarion was in, he remembers Niraeniel being just as quiet when he took his last breath, offering little more than a strangled cry and weak scratch at the vampire’s shoulder before falling limp in his arms.

Astarion panicked to find a solution at first, but if he’s being perfectly honest, he wasn’t particularly moved by the loss. He’d only known the man for a day or two, after all. Although, there was something tragically beautiful about the scene he had caused — Blood dribbled down his chin, and he felt the warmth of it both on his skin and surging through his body. He was lost in the comfort of it all, until the eerie silence from the body beneath his pulled him back to reality.

The fond memory lingered in his mind for a while, until he started growing closer and closer to the man, their relationship eventually spinning into something far more intense than either would have imagined. What Astarion feels for Nir runs far deeper than body and blood, and the thought of the tiefling’s bloodied cadaver staring lifelessly at him again is sickening. It was motivation enough to throw his own life into danger.

Before Astarion can drown in his own morbid musing, a quick tug to the pointed tip of his ear snaps him out of his mind. His head jerks down to meet eyes with a very distressed looking Niraeniel.

“Astarion?”

“Yes, dearest?”

Niraeniel immediately flicks his forehead, earning a forced yet unenthusiastic ‘ow’ from the vampire. “What the fuck is wrong with you? You had me worried sick for a minute there.”

“Terribly sorry about that,” Astarion replies, feigning nonchalance. “Lounging by the fireplace like this is rather cozy. Can you blame me for nodding off?”

The tiefling tuts at the blatant lie, shaking his head in disapproval. He doesn’t comment on it any more though, resuming with the task at hand. He carefully wraps the injured leg in a cloth bandage, dressing layer by layer. “What happened back there, anyway? I thought we agreed to stick together.”

“And that’s what I was doing. I spotted her sneaking up from behind. She would have stabbed you if I hadn’t intervened,” Astarion explains, hunching over slightly to lean in close to Nir’s face.

“Is that supposed to comfort me? I’ve been on the giving and receiving end of some pretty serious injuries. You don’t need to protect me.”

Astarion huffs out a laugh of disbelief that they’re even having this conversation. “And just what was I supposed to do instead? Stand there and let it happen?” His tone is packed with a bite, but behind it there’s an ache of concern. He sighs deeply, “Hells, is it really so inconceivable that I don’t want to see you hurt?”

Niraeniel searches his lover’s gaze, but there’s no hint of deceit reflected in his ruby eyes. Just raw honesty.

“I understand that. But I could say the same thing about you.”

They’re both left quiet again for an uncomfortable few seconds in time before Niraeniel finally snips off the extra material of the bandaging and pins the end of the wrapping around Astarion’s thigh securely. “There,” he starts, pushing off of his knees to stand. “Now the worst is taken care of, at least. Do you think you’re able to stand?”

Astarion shrugs and reaches for the tiefling’s hand, trying to lift himself off of the floor until he grunts in pain and falls back on his rear from putting pressure onto his wounded leg.

Niraeniel can’t help but laugh at the tumble, quickly kneeling back down beside the vampire who’s now staring daggers into him. “Okay, okay, maybe not so soon,” he sputters out, reaching into his pack for a vial of red liquid. He pops the cork of it open, holding it up to Astarion’s mouth. “Could you drink this, please?”

Astarion raises an eyebrow skeptically. Although he trusts Nir fully, he would still prefer to know what he’s about to ingest before taking a swig. “First of all, what is it?”

“Rogue’s Morsel, Balsam, and Mergrass. Don’t worry, it’s just something to hasten the healing process.”

The vampire nods slowly in understanding, letting his body sink back onto the floor once more as he tries to release the tension building up inside of him. He reaches for the vial, but Nir gently pushes his hand away.

“Don’t,” he insists, pressing the rim of the glass to Astarion’s lips. “I’ll take care of you.”

Astarion scrunches his nose, pulling away from the other’s touch despite the feelings at the base of his mind screaming at him to give in for once. “Ugh, I’m not helpless, you know. I don’t need you to dote on me.”

Niraeniel shakes his head. “Maybe so, but you don’t need to carry everything on your own, and I’d love to help you. Just let me try.”

“Help me? You’ve already done enough, what makes you think —“

“Nothing at all, barring the fact that you almost bled to death on me,” Niraeniel cuts him off, a sneering edge to his voice. “But … it runs deeper than that. I know you don’t like relying on anyone for anything. It’s admiral to be independent, but not when you’re hiding on purpose.”

Astarion’s mouth parts to bark back in protest, but before he can start, Nir interrupts him once more, “And you should know well by now that you don’t need to hide from me. Not even your at your worst.”

The vampire is rightfully stilled, eyes widening as he stares at the man with a mix of wonder and horror from being read so thoroughly — he’s an open book before him, tattered edges and all. He lets out a deep sigh, wearily accepting the fact that it would be foolish to keep pretending Niraeniel couldn’t see right through him. “I’m just not used to … all of this. I can’t even remember the last time someone treated me like you do.”

“Good thing I’m here for you now, then,” Nir replies. He brings the vial to Astarion’s lips once more, quietly thankful that the vampire finally relents and parts his mouth. Carefully, Niraeniel brings his free hand up to Astarion’s face, cupping his jaw and tilting it upwards ever so lightly. He rubs his thumb over the elf’s cheekbones as the red liquid trickles into his mouth, emptying the glass of its contents.

“Was that so hard?” Nir teases, smiling softly once Astarion is finished drinking from the glass. The tiefling then discards the vial, paying no mind to the way it rolls across the floor — far too busy with brushing a stray curl behind Astarion’s ear to care.

“If it were anyone else, yes. But you have quite the knack for hospitality, my dear.” Astarion’s tongue darts out over his bottom lip, savoring the taste of the elixir he just drank. “Did you mix that yourself?”

Nir hums in affirmation. “It’s nothing special. I’m surprised the flavor wasn’t horrible, though. Those ingredients tend to be a bit, ah, bitter.”

Without thinking any better of it, his eyes trail down to the vampire’s sanguine-stained lips — a mistake Astarion quickly notices.

The vampire chuckles softly, finding his partner’s habit of wordless admiration to be quite endearing. “Oh? Are you looking for a taste as well?”

“Of you? Always.”

Without missing even a heartbeat, he leans in to lock mouths with Astarion, nipping playfully at his lower lip. He was right — the taste is pleasantly earthy, though there’s a faint hint of iron mixed in, no doubt the remnants of blood from Astarion’s earlier snacking.

When Nir begins to pull away, Astarion weakly reaches up to tug on the collar of his shirt to draw him right back in to the kiss. His hand falters not a moment after, brushing against the bare skin of the other’s chest peeking out from the neckline of his garment before falling back into place on his lap. He grumbles at his own tenuousness, uneasy at the concept feeling so utterly weak in front of another person — both physically and emotionally, in his dreadful case.

It’s always with him, Astarion thinks to himself, He’ll be the death of me yet.

Nir observes the failed affection, and immediately backs away, nervous that he did something to upset his lover. “Is there something wrong?”

“Oh, no, not really,” Astarion responds rather sarcastically, “just that I’m currently lacking the strength to so much as touch you.” He rolls his eyes as if to shrug off the issue, though the distracted look in his gaze is enough to signal his disappointment.

Nir laughs, “Numbing will do that to you. I would offer to sit on your lap if you’re really looking to get close, but …” The tiefling trails off, choosing to gesture vaguely towards Astarion’s damaged leg instead.

“Mocking a feeble man now, are you? That’s quite cruel, even by my standards,” Astarion teases, pretending to be offended.

“Oh, hush. You’ll be fine come daylight.” Nir presses a finger to his lips, letting it linger there for a moment while he’s lost in thought. “Would it help if you fed from me?”

Astarion tilts his head, a rather uncharacteristically adorable gesture for such a sharp-edged man. “I didn’t want to ask since you also lost a decent amount of blood from that fight, but if you’re offering …”

Niraeniel nods, immediately beginning to fumble with the buttons on his shirt and letting the fabric fall to his arms, tilting his chin up to bare his neck. Though his skin is a dark grey tone, the freckles dotting his arms seem to twinkle under the glow of the hearth’s fire.

The sudden gesture surprises Astarion, delightfully amused by how ready the other man is to offer his own life force. “Careful now, dear. If anyone were to walk in on us right now, they would think you were trying to seduce me.”

“Just bite me before I change my mind.”

“Ah, you’re such a sweetheart,” Astarion quips with a cheeky wink before diving right in — his fangs descending on their usual target on Niraeniel’s neck, tearing through the dual puncture marks that just begun to heal. Nir yelps at the sudden pain, but wraps his arms around Astarion to pull him closer anyway. The vampire makes a strange sound of approval somewhere between a moan and a low hum, sipping greedily at his neck. But this time, just like every night after the tiefling had first offered him sustenance, he releases his bite before the sanguine satisfaction can cloud his thoughts.

Astarion’s eyelids flutter closed as he slouches forward, nuzzling the top of his head into the crook of Niraeniel’s neck. He sighs contently, finding the strength in his arms to return his partner’s embrace.

“Thank you,” the vampire murmurs softly, rubbing circles into the other’s back to soothe the pain.

Niraeniel nods, “Of course. Though … I have to ask, what do I taste like? A mouthful of blood like that only has smack of iron to me.”

“It does? That’s a pity.” Astarion finally withdraws from the hug to examine his own gory handiwork. ”The flavor is bit hard to describe, though — everyone has their unique taste, but yours is particularly enigmatic. Like a lush full-bodied wine, though there’s a delectable hint of raspberries and dark chocolate.”

“Aww, now I almost feel like I’m missing out. Almost.”

“On being a vampire?” Astarion questions. “Trust me, darling, the list of quirks is far shorter than what you’ll lose. Besides, I would certainly miss this,” he purrs, referring to the warmth of the tiefling’s skin by the way he’s now tracing a finger down his arm.

“Your touch has never bothered me,” admits Niraeniel, disguising a shiver elicited from Astarion’s cold, clammy caress as a slight shrug not a second later. He is telling the truth, though. No matter how his body reacts out of initial instinct, he still longs for more.

“Hmph. I can’t say I’ve ever heard that before. Not with my clothes still on, at least.” Astarion finishes his sentence with a chuckle to lighten the mood just a little bit, but the attempt falls flat from how utterly despondent he sounds.

“There’s many more ways to be intimate with someone beyond that.” To emphasize his point, Nir takes the other’s wandering hand into his own and brings it to rest over his heart.

Astarion glances up at him questioningly, but is quickly distracted by the steady beating just beneath his palm. He lets his hand flatten out against the bared chest, focusing on the thick texture of the ridges lining Nir’s skin underneath his fingertips and the slow rise and fall of his chest with each breath he takes. He’s so very alive, so full of warmth and a hidden kind of radiance only ever revealed during tender moments like this.

Only ever revealed to me, Astarion realizes.

He closes his eyes, still fixated on the thrum of his lover’s heart. “I know,” he starts, “It’s more a matter of not really knowing how, I suppose. Cazador never let me hold onto any of my conquests longer than what was necessary. Which, admittedly, felt like a small mercy at times.”

Nir gently squeezes his hand in a silent sort of understanding, a solemn expression on his face. There’s a darkness that quells within him — that familiar drive to maim and murder, and for once he doesn’t chase it away. He may not have suffered what Astarion has, but he’s going to delight in ripping Cazador to shreds for what he’s done anyway. He almost gets lost in his own grisly imagination before Astarion’s touch drags him back — a soft, unintentional tap to his sternum.

Nir bows his head, both out of sympathy and his own shame. “I may not be able to take away your past, but I can promise you that it’ll be a cold day in Avernus before I let anything happen to you again.” He notices Astarion crack an eye open at this, and so the tiefling holds his gaze firmly. “I don’t know how either, as you’ve probably gathered by now. But I’d love to learn, as long as that’s what you want as well. We don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

As be begins to pull away, Astarion immediately clutches at his shoulder, rooting him in place. “Wait. Wait. Gods, if there’s anyone I’m going to be this close with, I …”

He stops himself, turning his head away rather bashfully, appearing more like a smitten schoolboy than a man of his age. “I want it to be you,” Astarion finally adds, words tumbling out as little more than a whisper.

The confession hangs in the air between them for a long moment before Nir exhales slowly, relief flooding through him. "Astarion," he says quietly, reaching up to carefully brush the back of his knuckles along Astarion’s flushed cheek, tracing the line of his jaw before cupping his face in both hands. "We'll have to figure this out together, won’t we?”

Astarion’s eyes soften as he studies Niraeniel's profile, taking in every little detail — the tired look in his eyes, to the way strands of white hair fall in his face, and how his hands tremble ever so slightly, like the tiefling is scared of shattering him if he holds on too tightly. It's clear to see how much effort Niraeniel puts into caring for Astarion’s comfort first and foremost, and that kindness alone fills the vampire with a warmth he hasn’t felt in far, far too long — if ever.

Without any further thought, Astarion crashes his lips against Nir’s, a sense of urgency and need fueling the kiss. Astarion wraps his arms around him, letting himself fall back onto the floor below while pulling Niraeniel down with him. He can’t help but grin against his mouth, fangs grazing against his lower lip ever so slightly. Their teeth knock together, but neither seem to care, happily hurried and messy with their affections.

Niraeniel finally parts to take a deep breath and re-adjust his position so that he’s straddling Astarion’s waist, his hands now on either side of the vampire’s head in order to keep himself up while he drapes his body over the other’s. He lowers his head back down again, meeting Astarion’s lips in another deep kiss. Astarion’s own hands travel up the tiefling’s back, eliciting a shiver which he chuckles at. His fingers tangle into his long white hair, untying the ponytail in the back of it so that Niraeniel’s hair now cascades downward, tickling Astarion’s cheeks.

Nir slowly begins to trail his lips down to his jaw, but doesn’t actually kiss him yet, instead pausing in place just a few centimeters away. “Is this okay? Can I kiss you here?”

“Do you really need to ask that?”

“Always better to make sure,” Niraeniel responds, but still doesn’t budge.

Astarion rolls his eyes teasingly. “Yes that’s perfectly fine.”

At his word, the tiefling resumes his ministrations, leaving kisses across his cheeks and jawline. They’re quick and chaste, little more than hurried dabs before moving onto the next area, nuzzling into the crook of Astarion’s neck.

“What about here,” Niraeniel questions, “Is this okay?”

“You don’t need to ask for my approval for every little thing,” Astarion sighs out. Although he feigns sounding irritated, it couldn’t be further from the truth — his lover’s insistence on consent is rather endearing, and a sharp departure from what he’s used to. No one has ever payed that much attention to his wants and needs — far too eager to take until there’s nothing left of his body and mind to give. And yet Niraeniel refuses to even move a muscle until Astarion gives his explicit agreement.

“But … yes.”

Astarion can feel the corners of the man’s lips curl up as they press against his throat, tracing the curve of his Adam’s apple. He can feel his breath upon his neck, close to the permanent bite scars that mark his flesh, and the sensation makes him quiver ever so slightly.

Content with his reaction, Niraeniel sits back up, peering down at Astarion from above. “You need a bath,” he comments, brushing a curl back behind his ear.

“Are you saying I’m dirty?”

“Maybe,” Nir says with a devious smile.

Astarion scrunches his nose but still grins back, nudging the other’s arm playfully in retaliation.

“Hey, we’ve both had a long day,” the tiefling adds in defense of himself. “But … would you let me take care of you?”

“Didn’t you just?”

“No, I mean, would you, ah —” His words trail off as he thinks of how to best propose his question, unable to meet Astarion’s eyes. “Would you let me help you bathe?”

Astarion blinks, quirking an eyebrow from both confusion as well as suspicion of Niraeniel’s intentions.

“I won’t be getting in with you,” Nir clarifies, shaking his head. “I can wash off later. This is purely about spoiling you.”

“Mm-hmm,” Astarion hums, now in deep imagination about the idea of being washed by someone else. It’s a sickeningly sweet and vulnerable concept, something more suitable for a happily married couple instead of the strange bond between them that neither man has bothered to put a proper name to. Still, the thought is a welcome one, especially if it means getting to be spoiled like royalty. “An invitation to be pampered by a sweet boy such as yourself? I must be dreaming.”

“Is that so?” Niraeniel questions, already swinging his leg off of Astarion’s waist so he can stand. “You’ll have to tell me all about what’s going on in that pretty head of yours, then.”

Astarion pushes his back up from the ground as well, moving back into a sitting position. “Well, it starts with you sweeping me off my feet and carrying me like a princess over to the washroom, since it’d be terrible if I had to move my leg again so soon.”

“Surely you’re joking? You probably weigh above four stones more than I do,” Niraeniel complains, gesturing up and down to his own short stature. The vampire has over twenty five centimeters on him in height, which isn’t a terrible disparity, but Nir is rather weak.

Astarion follows the other’s hand movements, drinking in the full sight of him toweing above his sitting form. “Ah, that’s true. I suppose you’ll just have to figure something else out then, won’t you, darling?”

Nir grumbles in response, but his tone is distinctly light-hearted. “Alright, but if I drop you, then the blame is all yours.”

“I can live with that.”

Niraeniel shifts into a crouching position and hooks an arm underneath the crook of Astarion’s knees and wraps his other arm around his back. He murmurs a cantrip under his breath — a simple spell to temporarily amplify the strength in his grasp, just for a handful of time. He takes a sharp inhale before beginning to lift the vampire’s body with a near-effortless amount of ease. The man still weighs down his back, but at the very least, he’s secure in his arms.

Astarion’s breath hitches when he realizes he’s actually being picked up bridal-style, as he expected Nir to simply let him lean on his shoulder and limp side-by-side. Yet here he is now, nearly curled up into a fetal position and held close to the other man’s chest by his warm embrace. His knee-jerk reaction is to demand to be let down immediately, but he’s unable to muster the strength to speak those words.

And that’s when he finally understands just how utterly weak he is in his lover’s presence. How Niraeniel lets him drop his strength at the door — no, how he encourages him to do so. He’s broken down the vampire’s carefully constructed walls only to build them back up again twice as strong around the two of them. There’s no need for him to let go of this feeling of safety like he has so many times before. This comfort isn’t ephemeral — it clings to him much in the same way he’s now wrapping his arms tightly around Niraeniel’s neck, wondering if it’s possible to melt into someone else.

Slowly, he peeks his eyes open once more, peering up at his partner’s face who’s already smiling down at him.

“Aren’t you just adorable,” Niraeniel teases, pressing a kiss to the vampire’s forehead.

Astarion rolls his eyes. “Paint a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Niraeniel knows it’s a playful jab, but responds in earnest anyway, “I think not. The real thing is much better.”

Once inside the washroom, Nir gently sets the man down on stool tucked into the corner. Now kneeling beside Astarion, he places his hands on either side of his shoulders, grabbing his attention. “Do you need help, you know, getting undressed?”

Astarion ponders the question for a moment, not entirely sure of his own answer. He loves Niraeniel dearly, trusting that he would never hurt him, but the thought of someone else’s hands reaching to undress his body again …

Astarion shakes his head. “I appreciate the thought, but no. I think I’d be more comfortable doing that part myself, for now.”

Niraeniel nods, releasing his grip on the other’s shoulders. “Of course. I’ll keep my back turned. When the water is ready, I’ll let you know, athough I’m not entirely sure how you’re going to get over to the tub on your own …”

The vampire chuckles. “Always worried about me, hm? I’m sure I’ll be fine crawling just a meter or two.”

Niraeniel smiles back at him, ruffling up Astarion’s hair before rising to his feet. “By your orders, my liege,” he says sarcastically, offering a dramatic bow before turning to the tub. The tiefling kneels at the edge of the basin and turns the on the faucet, letting it fill with water. He reaches a hand out to let the water run over it, testing the temperature and then adjusting it to be just a little bit hotter than what would be comfortable for most, mindful of the fact that Astarion doesn’t feel heat quite as strongly.

Once satisfied, he pushes himself off the ground once more, walking over to the nearby cabinets. He sorts through the shelves, looking through the assortment of soaps and vials stocked so considerately by the roomkeeper. “What do you want to smell like? Bergamot, vanilla, lavender? Or something spicy, perhaps?”

Astarion hums thoughtfully, still busy with removing his clothes. “I’m not sure. I’m quite fond of bergamot, but I already have that mixed into my perfume,” he muses. Astarion finishes unlacing his braies, letting the article pool onto the floor with the rest of his rather elaborate get-up.

He remembers when he bought it — the group had stopped at an armory to stock up on better gear that wasn’t nearly tearing at the seams from how much use it had seen. Niraeniel had offered his own coin to buy a costly set the vampire had his eyes on. There was no use arguing with him — he was wholly satisfied to see how the fit looked while Astarion was modeling it, a content smile on his face while he helped to adjust the leather padding of the coat. Astarion just stood there rather awkwardly, if a bit tense, caugh up in the careful touch of his companion’s hands across his body. He’s certainly not used to be fussed over in that way, and although he adores it coming from Niraeniel, he couldn’t quite shake the nagging thought of when the comforting contact would warp into something cold and cruel.

But it never did.

He wanted to lift the other man into his arms and kiss him until he was breathless just as much as he wanted to run and hide from the uncharted territory.

Astarion looks over at him now, watching as Niraeniel continues to rummage through the cabinet, the sound of glasses clinking together and getting knocked over competing with the rush of the water filling the basin. The tiefling never once peers back to get an eyeful of Astarion’s barren form, just as he promised, too caught up in reading the labels on each bottle and bar to care about much else. The sight makes something within Astarion’s chest stir — like the beating of a heart, if his memory serves him correctly. Like the gust of a balmy breeze in a land where wind hasn’t blown in centuries.

He think he’s just about lost his mind when he begins to laugh. It’s an honest-to-gods giggle, a carefree sort of sound unburdened by the weight of today, or yesterday, or the centuries before that.

Niraeniel begins to turn his head in confusion, but quickly stops himself short. “Uh, Astarion? Are you feeling alright?”

“Oh, I couldn’t be better, my dear. Trust me,” Astarion responds, still grinning like an idiot. “Anyway, what’s your favorite scent? We’ll go with that.”

“It’s … mugwort. Are you sure?”

“As ever,” Astarion purrs. He can’t tell if he means the soap or is asking for reassurance about his mood, but regardless, it’s a resounding yes.

Niraeniel heaves a deep sigh, allowing his shoulders to sag slightly. “Maybe I should have brought you to a cleric to begin with,” he adds, letting out a soft laugh of his own. He plucks the mugwort-scented bar of soap from the shelf, as well as a few other toiletries — a bottle of conditioner, a soft rag, and a towel for later. After turning back to the tub to set the supplies down, he turns the faucet off and reaches an arm into the water, swirling it around. “Perfect. Now it’s your turn to drag yourself over here, I’m afraid.”

“No. Carry me.”

“What?”

“You heard me the first time, darling.”

“I — I didn’t know if you’d be comfortable with that,” Niraeniel admits, “Since you’re, well, naked.” The tiefling still doesn’t turn his head, choosing to remain kneeling by the bathtub.

Astarion shrugs, even though he knows the other man can’t see him. “I didn’t know if I would be either. But I’ve come to find that I feel safe with you,” he explains, trying not to focus on the lump forming in his throat. “I know you’re trying to tread carefully for my sake, so … I trust that you’re not going to do anything to upset me. Not on purpose.”

The tiefling dips his head in understanding, closing his eyes. “I’m glad. We’ll try, but as I’ve said so many times before — if something doesn’t feel right, you need to tell me. Please.”

“I don’t think anything could feel wrong, as long as I’m with you,” Astarion responds, his voice now sounding raw like he hadn’t spoken in years, honesty wearing through his tone. “Now, are you going to lift me again, or not?”

Niraeniel laughs, already beginning to stand and turn without missing a beat. He can now see the vampire’s coiled form in the corner, his knees drawn up to his chest out of modesty. There’s absolutely nothing arousing about the scene, though — what lays in front of him is not just a body, but a person — his lover. He picks Astarion up again with ease, eyes never leaving each other’s gaze, like an exchange of unspoken words only they understand.

To Astarion, it’s a promise of protection. He feels so utterly exposed like this, and yet the way Nir stares past the surface and into something far deeper within him feels like being wrapped in silks and linens — a new and terrifying kind of way to be known by another soul, but ever-so-comforting to know that he doesn’t need to hide from it.

Astarion whines as he’s being gently lowered into the water, already missing the tender skinship. Still, he allows himself to relax fully, focusing on the warmth of the bath enveloping his body.

“Feels good?” Nir asks, beginning to dip the rag into the water and lather it with the bar of soap.

“If you told me I died and woke up in the heavens, I’d probably believe you.” Astarion smiles at the thought, letting his head roll back onto the lip of the basin and eyes blink shut in bliss.

“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you’re stuck with me for a little while longer.” Once the rag is soapy enough, the tiefling taps softly on Astarion’s shoulder, the gesture making the vampire open his eyes just enough to peer back questioningly.

“May I?” Niraeniel asks, gesturing to other’s shoulders which are peeking out of the water.

Astarion nods. “You may.”

His eyes flutter closed again as Nir begins to brush the rag against his body, surprised at himself for not flinching out of impulse. It … feels quite nice, actually, Astarion thinks, as the feather-light grazes across his skin washing away all of the dirt and blood from their earlier battle. He can certainly smell the mugwort, the bitter sage-like scent filling the air he breathes.

“You know, mugwort is technically a psychoactive herb,” Niraeniel recalls, reaching across to lift the other man’s arm, spreading soap down the length of it. “Not a particularly strong one at all, but it’s still used often to induce a mild feeling of euphoria.”

“Is that why you drink it?”

“Indeed. It tends to help with my nightmares too. Not that you’d need it for that reason, considering you only need to trance.”

Astarion hums in acknowledgement. “I can sleep if I want to, although staying unconscious for nearly seven hours straight doesn’t sound like something I’d trade for.” He leans forward, allowing Nir’s hand to travel from his arm down to his back, scrubbing away at the skin there. “But it’d certainly be a nice excuse to stay in bed with you for a little while longer.”

Maybe the mugwort is fueling his mood somewhat, but Astarion almost feels as though he’s floating. Being treated so tenderly by someone else — it’s almost overwhelming, like Niraeniel’s touch is liquid fire and he could burn up any minute now. He’s grateful that his head is bowed in this position, otherwise his lover would most certainly notice the tears beginning to well at the corners of his eyes.

Tears. Tears. Not from distress or any other negative reason, but from complete and utter absolution, releasing the agony from over two hundred years without any kind touch, little by little.

Unexpectedly, Niraeniel tilts Astarion’s head back up, about to begin lathering soap into the vampire’s hair. Just like Astarion had anticipated, the man immediately catches sight of a fat tear rolling down his pale cheek, dripping into the water below. But before he can even begin to pull away, Astarion grabs the other’s hand and holds it firmly in place.

“Keep going. Please.”

Niraeniel’s mouth merely hangs open, frozen and unsure of what to say or do in the face of his lover when he’s like this.

Astarion chuckles at the sight, shaking his head before wiping his own eyes. “They’re good tears, my sweet. Don’t worry.”

The tiefling is silent for a moment longer, still questioning Astarion’s honesty. He looks for any telltale signs of detachment — a far off stare, dialated pupils, twitching ears — but there is none. Astarion wants this. With a kind smile, Niraeniel cautiously leans forward, slow enough that Astarion can lean away if he needs to, but he never does.

Instead, the vampire meets him half-way, pressing their lips together gently. There’s no hunger in the way he kisses him now, or at least none in his usual way. Simply a chaste affection and an aching to be shared, to be known and tasted, not as a body, but as something beyond the physical realm entirely. An aching to be loved.

And as the tiefling responds with a lighthearted giggle, already beginning to run the conditioner through his curls and massage his scalp with deft fingers — all the while peppering kisses over every inch of his face — Astarion begins to realize how much he aches to love him back.

hi i barely use this website anymore (mostly on twt here and here) but i want to get this fic out there more because i'm v proud of this part in particular!

for now — likes, reblogs, and feedback are greatly appreciated! thank you so much for reading this far!

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #astarion x oc #astarion x durge #astarion x tav #astarion fic #fanfiction #writing #support your local homo writing about homos i guess #ive been obsessed w this character since ea im so glad hes finally getting the popularity he deserves #hes been a treat to watch develop ehe #and by that i mean wow! im in this game and i dont like it! /ref #astarion fluff #dividers by cafekitsune #astarion ancunin

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