#astarion fanfic | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

khywren · 2 days ago

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❛ pairing: Astarion/f!OC (Ysera) ❛ word count: 8.6k ┊ ❛ rating: 18+ MDNI ❛ tags/cw: angst, hurt/comfort, hurt no comfort, emotional sex, PIV sex, mentions of trauma and abuse, references to Astarion's past, blood, blood drinking

▸ preview: He had been purposely avoiding her before, vexed by his concern for her wellbeing, but it all seems so pointless now.

Why shouldn't he take as much as he wants – as much as he needs? He'd be stupid not to when she's offering herself so willingly. Sooner or later she'll tire of him, and what will he have then? Nothing but his pride and an empty stomach.

Her kind words hadn't saved him when he needed them most. They're nothing more than a distraction now, and a luxury he cannot afford to indulge if he wants to maintain his freedom.

OR: Sometimes all it takes is a little darkness to expose the light. AO3 ┊ masterlist

The shadow-cursed lands are easily the most depressing thing Astarion has seen in weeks. Descending into the Underdark had been awful enough (the bioluminescent mushrooms were, after all, a poor substitute for the warmth of the sun), but here, amidst the pervasive scents of death and decay, the darkness is nothing if not suffocating.

There's an unsettling weight to it, the way it bears down upon them all with an almost crushing force, as if it seeks to drag them down into some endless abyss.

Even when he had prowled the streets of the Lower City, he had found some refuge in the stars that dotted the night sky like so many glittering jewels, or the inviting glow of one of the city's many taverns and brothels.

It's hardly strange, then, part of him almost misses it. Here, where all traces of light have been snuffed out. Had he ever truly been content amongst the shadows, or was it just another of the many lies he had told himself over the years?

For this place is naught but shadow, the kind of creeping, carnivorous darkness that devours everything in its path. It's burrowed beneath his skin and made itself at home in his very bones, like an itch he can never hope to scratch. He would tear himself apart before ever hoping to purge it.

He hasn't felt like this since…

In the farthest recesses of his mind, he hears the scrape of stone-on-stone, recalling the hopelessness he'd felt when the last slivers of light he would see for an entire year refused to be sealed away with him.

Astarion shakes his head to rid himself of the memory.

A soft sigh leaves his lips as he swirls the wine in his glass, fingers wrapped around the delicate stem as he lifts it to his mouth and takes another sip.

He needs a distraction.

His eyes drift lazily across the bar at the back of the Last Light Inn, searching for her as they always seem to these days.

Astarion's only salvation sits no more than fifteen feet away, but even her light has dimmed in this wretched place. It's evident in the way Ysera slumps her shoulders, the weary fatigue she conceals behind a put-together facade. Her tail hangs limply over the back of her barstool, as still and lifeless as his unbeating heart.

The rest of them might be fooled, but Astarion has worn enough masks to know when someone is playing a part. Watching her is like watching some unknown entity puppet her body, guiding her through the motions without any real respect for the craft. To say it unnerves him is an understatement; he'd find more life in a corpse.

As she takes yet another hearty drink of whatever she plundered from behind the counter, Ysera entertains the bard they met back in the grove with a strained smile and a hollow laugh that echoes harshly in his ears. Astarion remembers her name is Alfira, but only because Ysera had greeted her so fondly the moment they were reunited. There's nothing else remarkable enough about her to retain his interest for more than a fleeting moment.

One after another over the course of the evening, he has watched from afar as the tieflings that had survived the journey to Last Light have circled her like vultures, taking what they needed from her – reassurance, hope, a promise to ensure their safety. Alfira is but the latest scavenger, coming to collect the final scraps.

And Astarion is furious. At the tieflings, for being too weak to carry their own weight. At Ysera, for letting them use her without a second thought. And at himself, for being no better than any of them.

After all, had he not been the first one to take more from her than he was owed?

The stem of the wine glass cracks beneath his fingers, and Astarion pushes it aside before sliding gracefully from his seat. He hears Ysera echo the same empty promises she'd given the rest of the stragglers from the Grove, vowing to secure them safe passage to Baldur's Gate, as if any of them have any say in the matter.

Alfira thanks Ysera profusely and excuses herself when she notices Astarion approaching. Lost in her thoughts, Ysera turns back to her drink, and Astarion watches her expression turn grim. She downs the rest of the alcohol in a single swallow, teetering on the barstool as she swipes another bottle and upends half its contents into her glass.

The subtle notes of vanilla, smoke, and cinnamon assault Astarion's senses as he draws nearer to her, but not before Ysera has gulped down most of what he assumes from the way she scrunches her nose and sticks out her tongue must be a rather strong batch of whiskey. Hardly his preferred drink, but it's done its job of getting her thoroughly drunk.

When she raises the glass to polish off the rest of it, she only manages to lift it halfway before Astarion intervenes and lays his hand over her wrist to restrain her. She whirls to face him, fire burning in her eyes as he pulls the drink from her hands.

“All right, darling,” he says gently, “that's quite enough of that. I'm not sure what you're hoping to find at the bottom of that glass, but I assure you it's not worth the headache.”

Ysera regards him with sullen fury, and her tail twitches irritability.

“Oh, don't spoil my fun.”

She lurches forwards to steal the drink back from him, but her movements are uncoordinated and slow, and Astarion lets out an amused chuckle as he holds the glass above her head while she swipes helplessly at it. When she finally gives up, he returns it to the counter behind her, well out of reach.

“This is what you consider fun?” he asks incredulously, raising a single brow. “Drowning yourself in cheap spirits? You look positively dreadful. ”

“Thank you for noticing.” Ysera huffs and folds her arms over her chest, and Astarion is quite certain from the look she fixes him with that she's imagining his perfectly arranged curls going up in flames. “Don't act like you're not just as miserable as the rest of us.”

For a moment Astarion hesitates, caught off guard by the truth in her words. But he decides in the end that it's just a lucky guess and shrugs his shoulders dismissively while brushing a stray bit of dirt off of his armor.

“Speak for yourself, my sweet; some of us are flourishing. In fact, I rather find myself quite at home here.”

Shadow, shadow, everything is shadow, he can't get out, there's no way out –

“Liar.” Her voice is slurred but rings in his mind with alarming clarity, ripping him from the memories that refuse to remain buried.

“You haven't come to my tent in days, and I know you're not feeding on anything out there because there is nothing.”

Ysera's temper flares, red-orange fire licking her palms before she clamps them shut to extinguish the flames. He can't decide if she's worried for him, hurt by his absence, or something else entirely.

“Listen, darling,” he starts, “you're hardly in any state to –”

“To what?” she shouts. “To stand by and watch you starve!?” Her body shakes with what might be a restrained sob, and something about the way she looks at him twists like a knife in his chest.

“You know I can't do that, Astarion! Let me help you.”

‘Please!’ His fists beat mercilessly on the stone, fingers scraped raw and bloody. ‘Someone help me!’

No one comes.

The anger that's been simmering inside him erupts, and his eyes flash in warning. But she meets his ire with determination, either too drunk or too stupid to realize what she's done. The memories she's pulled to the surface, long since locked away.

Only then does he notice the staring. Half a dozen tieflings watch them with bated breath, eyes wide and curious. Even some of their companions have noticed the commotion.

Astarion schools his expression and twists his lips into a bitter smile.

“Fine.”

Ysera opens her mouth immediately, ready to refute his remarks, but she clearly wasn't expecting this.

“Wait… that's it?” she asks, narrowing her eyes as she peers up at him in disbelief. “Seriously? After all that, that's really all it took to convince you?”

Astarion responds with another shrug and a tilt of his head.

“Come now – do I really seem like the kind of person who would lie just to get out of an uncomfortable conversation?”

Ysera snorts audibly.

“Astarion, you are exactly that kind of person.”

A smirk flits across his face, silver brows arched as he leans in towards her. Ysera's back hits the counter as she retreats, and Astarion watches her nostrils flare as she breathes in his scent, caged beneath him with no intention of escaping.

Her eyes travel to his lips, and there's little more than a hair's breadth between them when his hand closes around the handle of the glass behind her, and he withdraws suddenly from her personal space.

She masks her disappointment well, but her eyes spark with a passion he hasn't seen in days.

Well, at least there's still some life left in her.

Astarion swirls the rest of the whiskey in her glass and swallows it. It tastes like ash in his mouth, but it's well worth the venomous look she throws his way. He sets the empty glass down beside her and saunters away with a flourish of his hand.

“I'll see you tonight, darling.” ————

The air here is stagnant as ever, but Astarion swears he feels a chill snake its way down his spine as he walks through their camp. There's enough distance between his tent and Ysera's for him to dwell on what she'd said to him earlier that afternoon, and no one around to stop his thoughts from wandering.

‘I know you're not feeding on anything out there because there is nothing.’

She's right, of course. The first night they’d arrived here, he'd snuck away from camp in the middle of the night and stumbled upon the body of a dead bear, lying peacefully on the side of the road as if in slumber.

He'd sank his teeth eagerly into its fur, retching when its putrid blood had burned like acid in his throat. The same inky black ichor had oozed from every other creature he had come across, each less appetizing than the last.

By the third day, he was ravenous.

He'd slipped into Ysera's tent well after everyone had gone to sleep, but she'd looked so frail and cold beneath her blankets that the thought of drinking from her had physically repulsed him.

Each time he'd considered asking her again, the treacherous voices in his head had condemned him for his selfishness, filling him with an unfamiliar guilt that he still isn't quite sure what to do with.

Worse still, he feels plagued by that same guilt even now, even after she has all but demanded he come to her tent and feed from her.

Astarion hesitates for only a moment before he thrusts open the flap of Ysera's tent, startling her from where she sits in front of her mirror to brush out the tangles in her hair. It's gotten significantly longer in the month and a half since they've been traveling together, cascading over her shoulders in satiny pink waves as she turns to face him.

Her face falls when she sees his conflicted expression, but she scoots towards him anyway and invites him to sit with a sweep of her hand.

“I was starting to think you were going to stand me up again,” she murmurs quietly, twisting her hands in her lap.

Relying on instinct has gotten him this far; Astarion finds himself settling back into familiar routines, letting a seductive smile play across his lips as he kneels across from her. He cocks his head to the side and clicks his tongue, purposely dragging his gaze over every curve of her body.

“And waste another moment without enjoying that delicious blood of yours? That simply won't do.”

Her heart leaps in her chest, a blush staining her cheeks. It's almost too easy, her concern for him seemingly forgotten in an instant.

He wants to feel proud, confident that he can still get what he wants from her when he wants it.

But the only thing he feels when he looks at her now is shame. It sprouts like creeping, twisting vines, suffocating him from within.

She hasn't bothered to light any candles, and Astarion suddenly finds himself missing the way her golden eyes glimmer like warm amber in the firelight. Ysera crawls towards him and settles comfortably in his lap like she's always belonged there, and Astarion instinctively inhales her scent, swept up in the aroma of roses and springtime that make him yearn for the sun.

He hasn't had the time to remember what it feels like to be cold, but everywhere she touches him breathes new life into his frigid skin, caressing him like the kiss of a nascent flame. She sweeps her hair obediently over her shoulder to expose her throat to him and waits for his instruction.

When Astarion lifts his hands to grip her waist and thread his fingers through her unbound hair, he's trembling.

Not in anticipation, but with anger.

Astarion holds her more tightly than he should, and Ysera's spine immediately straightens. The racing of her heart suggests that she is afraid, and yet she still does not refuse him.

How many years had he suffered, trapped in an endless cycle of misery under Cazador's cruel thumb while the buzzards stripped him bare? How hard had he fought to claw back even a modicum of freedom, only to watch her willingly submit to the whims of complete strangers whose lives were ultimately insignificant? To him , when he's done nothing but take and take and take?

With every poor, worthless fool she helps, she makes a mockery of him.

His rage is a volatile thing, barely leashed behind the fangs he presses into her throat. A soft whimper escapes Ysera's lips, and she clutches at his shirt. Somewhere on the periphery of his mind, he realizes he's hurting her, but the rush of blood that pours into his mouth as he punctures her neck without warning washes the thought away on a current of red. Her pulse pounds in his ears, and with every swallow he can feel his own strength returning.

He had been purposely avoiding her before, vexed by his concern for her wellbeing, but it all seems so pointless now.

Her kind words hadn't saved him when he needed them most. They're nothing more than a distraction now, and a luxury he cannot afford to indulge if he wants to maintain his freedom.

Ysera yields without protest when Astarion bears down upon her, pushing her roughly onto her bedroll. He pins her beneath him, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of her blood as if in a trance. When his fangs dig deeper, she lets out a strangled sob, and the sound of it wrenches him out of his stupor just in time to realize just how close he'd come to losing control of himself completely.

Astarion refuses to look at her when he tears himself away from her throat, pointedly avoiding the ghastly wound he's left behind. The air is thick with the smell of her blood, and the drops that run down his chin bloom red against the white fabric of her nightshirt.

His stomach tightens. All this time, he'd fooled himself into believing he was the one in control.

But no matter what he does, he can't escape the one simple truth that he is weak. The only question now is who gets to hold his leash: Cazador or Ysera?

“Astarion?”

Ysera's voice sounds so fragile, timid and uncertain as she calls out to him. He grimaces when her hand cups his cheek with more tenderness he deserves, compelling him to look at her. He knows what he'll see when he does: revulsion, fear, betrayal.

But when Astarion forces himself to meet her gaze, the look of concern writ across her face fractures something deep within his chest, and he gasps for breath he no longer needs.

“What's wrong, Astarion? Are you alright?”

The softness of her expression cuts him like a knife, and he pulls himself away as if he's been burned.

“I should go.”

“What? I don’t – Astarion, wait!”

He's halfway on his feet by the time she reaches for him, hands just brushing past the collar of his shirt.

Don't look back.

This was a mistake.

You gods-damned fool.

Another sob bubbles in her throat, and he keeps his back to her, certain that looking at her now would ruin him. He doesn't want to know what she looks like, broken and abandoned not by some nameless foe, but by someone else she trusted not to hurt her.

But it's worse than that, because he is afraid to know.

“Please… don't go.”

Astarion clenches his fists and walks away.

Their camp is still quiet as Astarion stalks back to his tent. He's halfway there when he sees a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, turning to see Gale and Shadowheart engaged in a hushed conversation together.

They glance at him from across the campfire, and their expressions grow stern as they survey the state of him. It likely doesn't take them long to piece together what has happened. The hand Astarion wipes across his mouth comes away red, stained with the remnants of Ysera's blood he hadn't had the time to clean up before he left her tent.

Astarion deflects their silent accusations with a scowl, daring either of them to speak. But they say nothing, and Astarion turns up his nose in defiance before returning to his tent.

They don't understand. None of them do.

The moment he returns to the privacy of his tent, Astarion wastes no time peeling his clothes off and throwing them to the far corner. Her scent clings to him anyway, and even after he's cleaned the blood from his mouth, it's all he can think of.

He pulls on a fresh pair of trousers and makes himself as comfortable as he can, settling into his bedroll. The same one Ysera had insisted he keep once she found out he was trancing on nothing more than an old wooden board.

What must she think of him now, he wonders?

Astarion sighs and closes his eyes. He half expects her to come after him, but with each passing minute, he realizes it's nothing more than wishful thinking.

When he finally slips into an uneasy trance, all he sees is her face, twisted in grief.

————

Isobel's moonshield glows bright white and ethereal as Astarion slips through it like a phantom, his skin prickling as he emerges on the other side of the barrier.

He had been told Ysera had come this way not long after they had returned from their preliminary visit to Moonrise Towers, though he doesn't quite understand why she would choose this of all places until he spots her.

She's sitting on the flat top of the rock that extends over the lakeshore, and Astarion watches as she grabs a loose stone from the spot next to her and throws it as hard as she can into the water. Her tail thumps against the ground, and he can overhear her muttering about the drow they'd met shortly after coming face to face with Ketheric Thorm himself.

She grabs another rock and hurtles it farther than the last. Astarion finds it all rather amusing, and anger certainly looks far better on her than sorrow.

He clears his throat as he approaches, and she makes a noise of surprise when she turns to face him, scarlet coloring her cheeks.

“Astarion! Uh… hi. How long have you been –?”

Astarion gestures to one of his pointed ears and smirks through his fangs. “Long enough.”

Ysera's already buried her face in her hands when he sits next to her, and she inhales sharply before letting out a frustrated groan.

“It’s just – I don't – I can't believe that woman!” she seethes. Her teeth are halfway bared behind her snarl, body bristling with magic. She fixes her gaze on Astarion, expression softening when her eyes rove over his face.

“I can't believe she thought she could speak to you like that.” A string of Infernal curses tumbles from her mouth, and Astarion watches as she opens her palm and ignites a brilliant ball of white-hot flame.

“I still think Gale should have let me incinerate her.”

He hasn't seen her this upset in weeks, and an unexpected thrill of pleasure courses through him at the fact that it's all on his behalf.

“And that, darling, is why we leave diplomacy to the wizard.”

Ysera pouts at him. “Oh, come on. You would have enjoyed it too, and you know it.”

Without Gale's interference, Astarion has no doubt that their encounter with the blood merchant would have gone awry. The look of terror on Araj’s face when Ysera had summoned her magic and threatened her had been extremely entertaining, and he hadn't been the only one to be disappointed when Gale had intervened.

“True,” he says wryly, "but I hardly think the great General Thorm would have appreciated us attacking one of his little minions.”

Ysera snorts and rolls her eyes.

“He might if he knew how much of a bitch she is.”

Astarion throws back his head and laughs. It's the best he's felt in days.

“What?” she mutters indignantly. “We'd have been doing him a favor! Whether or not he deserves it is irrelevant.”

This time, when Astarion fixes her with a mischievous grin, it's completely genuine. His influence on her is evident; even a month ago, she never would have suggested such a thing.

“Well, there's always next time. And if she should happen to find herself in the way of a blade –”

“– or a fireball,” Ysera interjects, tail swishing excitedly back and forth. Astarion simply nods in agreement.

“It would be such a shame, of course, but accidents do happen.”

They look at each other for a moment, and despite the familiar ease Astarion can sense returning between them, her face remains inscrutable.

“In all seriousness, though…” Ysera says after a moment, “I'm sorry about what she said.”

Astarion stares out across the water and dismisses her with a wave of his hand.

“Don't be. What's done is done.”

What hadn't surprised him was the way Araj had spoken to him, intent on using him to indulge her strange fantasies. It's nothing he isn't already used to, and instead of feeling angry, the only thing he'd felt was numb.

That Ysera would be against the idea was another given, but it was the ferocity with which she had defended him once he’d expressed his disinterest that he had found the most intriguing.

Especially considering what had occurred between them only two nights prior to their visit to Moonrise.

He still doesn't understand her, or why she insists on being so kind to him. Somewhere, some part of him that he thought long dead stirs to life, the part of him that dares to hope that maybe she might actually care for him.

The same way he's been too scared to admit he cares for her. The people he cares about don't survive for very long. She deserves better than that.

He's never really had someone to care for before – someone he could truly call his own. Everything he had had been ripped away from him the night Cazador turned him. Little by little, she had worked her way into his cold, dead heart, so quietly that he hadn't even noticed it until it was already too late.

“That doesn't mean I have to like it,” she's saying now, looking at him with more of that righteous indignation. “I promise I'll never ask you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable, no matter what we're offered in return.”

A weight lifts from his shoulders. There's freedom in her words, the closest he's felt to it since waking up on that beach so many days ago. He reaches for it tentatively, as if it will slip through his fingers if he isn't very, very careful.

“Thank you.”

He lets Ysera lay her hand over his, and together they listen to the waves break against the shore in silence. If they survive this, he vows to himself that he will confess everything to her, before he leaves. He'd thought it would be better to slip away quietly, to pretend like nothing had ever happened between them, but as she leans against his shoulder and strokes the back of his hand with a fondness she reserves only for him, he knows that he can't go through with it.

The best he can do for her now is try to convince her to stand up for herself so this doesn't happen again. Him. The tieflings. All of it.

“You'd do well to heed your own advice, you know.”

Ysera lifts her head from Astarion’s shoulder and looks at him in confusion.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

Astarion huffs a dry laugh, and she furrows her brow.

“Only that I haven't seen you smile once since we came to this place,” he says simply.

“I mean… yeah, just look at it. Do you blame me?” she counters, throwing her arms wide. She must expect Astarion to commiserate with her, but he only looks at her sternly.

“I'm talking about the tieflings, darling,” he says sourly. “You don't owe them even half as much as you've given them.”

“I…” Ysera bites her lip and looks away to avoid meeting his gaze. “It's fine.”

“Is it?” he presses.

She draws her legs close to her chest and wraps her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees. For a moment Astarion thinks she won't respond, but she sounds so small when she finally tells him:

“My whole life, all I've ever done is hurt people. My parents are dead because of me.” She traces a hand over the jagged scars that mar her face, and Astarion remembers the sordid tale of how she got them.

“So is the man who gave me this.”

Dead by her own hands, after he'd carved into her face as a punishment for hurting him.

“And you too.” Astarion glances down at his chest, eyes following the path of the mark she'd left seared into his armor the last time her temper had flared, hot as the forge in the Underdark.

“I just…” Ysera sighs and hugs herself tightly, eyes downcast. “I just want to help people, if I can. I don't see anything wrong with that.”

At last, he thinks he understands. In her desperation to feel wanted, to convince herself she isn't just a mistake, she's destroying herself in the process. He sees his own self-loathing mirrored back at him like some vile, twisted shadow, always there, always whispering in his ear that no matter what he does, nothing will change.

“You'd sacrifice your own happiness for people who are more than willing to take advantage of that kindness,” Astarion observes dryly. “Doesn't seem like a fair trade to me.”

He knows she can't refute the truth. The seconds turn into minutes; and there's something deeply sad about the way she smiles as she finally turns to look at him again.

“And what about you?” she asks quietly. “Is that what you're doing, Astarion? Taking advantage of me?”

————

The next evening, Astarion finds himself outside Ysera's tent once again. He tells himself it's the hunger that has brought him to her proverbial doorstep, because it's more convenient to lie than it is to admit he feels the need to set things right between them.

That still doesn't make him any less anxious as he slips quietly into her tent. He finds her tucked under a pile of blankets, thumbing through one of the terribly written romance novels she's picked up from one merchant or another. When she hears him enter, she looks up at him and sets her book aside without a second thought.

Astarion has come to her tent enough times now that they have long since established a routine, and even though his visits have been infrequent as of late, she still seems more than eager to accommodate him.

Neither of them speak about what happened the last time he paid her a nighttime visit.

He leaves his boots by the entrance and makes himself comfortable amidst the pile of blankets she's used to line the floor of her tent.

“Back so soon, Astarion?”

“What can I say? I've missed you, darling.”

The truth slips through his lips like water through a sieve, even though he hides it behind a well-placed smirk.

Ysera combs her hands through her hair, tying it back and out of the way. Astarion's eyes follow the shape of her jaw before reluctantly settling on the bite marks on her throat. They've healed since their previous encounter, but it doesn't stop the memory of her, bloodstained and trembling, from resurfacing in his mind like a festering wound.

Yet when she crawls out from beneath her blankets and into his lap again, she does so without hesitation. There is no trace of fear in her golden eyes, and although her smile is hollow, she holds his face in her hands with a gentleness that cannot be anything but sincere.

Blazing heat follows the path of her fingers beneath his chin. Under her direction, Astarion lifts his head to meet her gaze. There is an emptiness there now, a cold detachment made all the more haunting in the flickering light within her tent that casts her face in shadows. The tenderness of her hands as they sink into his hair sends a chill down his spine, and despite himself he leans into her touch.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said, you know,” she says, twirling a stray lock of his hair around her finger. He hums thoughtfully in response.

“Do you want to know what I really want, Astarion?”

The shadow-cursed lands have stolen something from each of them, but they have taken the most from Ysera. Gone is all her reckless optimism and carefree laughter, her last and only defense against the darkness that dwells within her own mind. The woman in his lap may wear her face and speak with her voice, but it isn't her.

Astarion swallows thickly and nods.

“I want to think about something other than this place, or these worms in our heads,” she says, barely above a whisper. “Or why can't I sleep without these godsdamned nightmares.”

The dam breaks, and her body shudders with a quiet sob as she presses his face against her neck in a silent plea.

“You're the only one who’s ever made it all disappear,” she whimpers. “Help me forget, Astarion.”

He knows it is an impossible request. He's been trying to forget for two hundred years, long enough to know the weight of what she's asking of him. But he presses his fangs into her flesh like a balm all the same, soothing her as she sags against him and rakes her nails across his scalp.

He cannot make her forget, but he can distract her. He owes her at least that much. And for the first time in a long time, when he sinks his fangs into her neck and lets his hands slip beneath her nightgown, everything feels right.

Astarion’s hands drink in her warmth with the same eagerness he swallows her blood, roving over her curves and dragging his nails against her bare skin. She shudders at the contact and moans softly, pressing his face even more firmly into the curve of her neck.

“Astarion…”

When Ysera accidentally brushes her hand over the shell of his ear, Astarion groans into her throat, grabbing her by the hips and positioning her over the growing bulge in his pants to let her feel the hardening outline of his cock as he rocks his hips against her. She responds beautifully, grinding down against him the moment he pulls away. His tongue swirls around the puncture wounds on her neck, coaxing more delicious sounds from her before he pauses to admire his handiwork.

When he unlatches from her and sits back on his calves, a trickle of wine-dark blood spills over her collarbones, staining her skin with crimson as it disappears beneath her nightgown. Astarion’s fingers glide smoothly up her torso, yanking the garment down as her breasts spill into his hands. Her hips jerk forward again as he brushes over her nipples, pinching the taut buds between his thumbs and forefingers.

Ysera sighs softly when he presses his nose against her chest, and she tastes just as heavenly as he remembers as he runs the flat of his tongue across her flushed skin, following the trail of her blood. The marks on her neck entice him to drink more, but instead he nips a teasing path along her throat and across her jaw, breath fanning out against her ear as he drops his voice to a pleasing growl.

“You've told me all about what you want – now tell me what you need .”

“I–”

Her breath hitches as Astarion’s fangs press into her skin, and her hands fumble blindly for his laces.

“I need you,” she whines. “I need this .”

A laugh rumbles low in his throat, and Astarion rewards her with another nip. “Very good. You need my cock, darling? It's all yours.”

As Ysera works at his laces with trembling hands, Astarion braces himself for the familiar sense of dread that has been his constant companion during their nights together. But her touch is gentle, almost reverent, as she frees him from his trousers, and he finds that he doesn't hate the feeling of her hands on him perhaps as much as he should.

But Astarion smothers the thought as he catches a glimpse of her eyes, smouldering like golden embers beneath her lashes.

At last, she's come back to him.

With one hand braced against her back, Astarion steadies Ysera as she lifts her hips, maintaining eye contact with her as she watches him expectantly. He pulls aside her underwear, exposing her quivering cunt as he lines his cock up with her entrance.

“Are you ready for me?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers.

Astarion understands the language of pain – what it means to finally feel something after feeling nothing for so long. He can see it now in her eyes, pleading for something she doesn't quite know how to ask for.

So with a quick snap of his hips, Astarion sheathes himself inside her in a single, harsh thrust. At the same time, his fangs pierce her neck again, blood running thick and warm down his throat. Ysera cries out and whimpers his name, but the way she throws her arms around his shoulders and clings to him tells him everything he needs to know.

Ysera rolls her hips each time he drives his cock inside her, letting him bottom out with each thrust. She's tight, pulsing around his cock as he works her open, and even though it must hurt she begs for more, more, more .

Kneading her breasts in his hands, Astarion encourages her to keep moving, whispering words of praise into her ear when he's taken his fill of her blood.

“That's it. Good girl. Focus on me.”

Sparks ignite between them when their eyes meet, and even through her half-lidded gaze he can feel the intensity with which she watches him, devoting herself to memorizing every detail of his face, the way he holds her, and the fullness of his cock, warmed by her body and her blood as he maintains a steady pace inside her.

“More,” she sobs, bucking her hips and throwing her head back on a broken moan. “Please, Astarion…”

As much as he finds he enjoys the intimacy of having her in his lap, it makes things unnecessarily complicated. He misses the warmth of her body and the scent of her skin the moment he lays her back against the blankets, reaching for the nightgown bunched around her torso and pulling it over her head. Ysera waits patiently for him to reach for her underwear next, smooth fingers hooking beneath the waistband before he slides them down her legs and tosses them into the darkness.

She looks up at him, pupils blown, swallowing as Astarion gently spreads her legs and seats himself between her knees. Slicking his hand over his cock, he takes in the sight of her, pleased by the gentle curve of her mouth and the way her heart flutters beneath her ribs. He slides his length through her slick folds, gathering her arousal.

“Wait.”

Astarion pauses, confusion coloring his expression as he wonders what's gone wrong.

“I…”

Even in the darkness, he can see the flush that stains her cheeks, plush lips parted as she pants softly.

“I want to see you too.”

She smiles sheepishly when he rolls his eyes, and he huffs dramatically before grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. The rest of his clothes join hers in the same half-forgotten pile, and Astarion quickly returns to his place between her legs.

“Better, darling?”

“Uh-huh.”

It's difficult for him not to preen beneath her attention as he eyes travel over the sculpted planes of his chest and shoulders, but Ysera anchors her gaze instead on his face, studying him as though it's the first time she's seen it.

He wonders what she sees when she looks at him, what she's searching for with those brilliant golden eyes. Ysera's breath hitches when he enters her again, hands on her waist as he seats himself fully inside her. He pulls almost completely out of her and pauses, waiting for her to whine in frustration before he slams home again. He does it again, snapping his hips forward with enough force that it nearly lifts her off the blankets.

The sound of her languid moans sounds like a symphony as he sets a feverish pace, grunting through gritted teeth as he fucks her hard and deep. Hands tucked beneath her knees, he gives her everything she'd asked for, taking pride in every whimper and moan that tumbles from her mouth.

“What are you thinking about now?” he asks. The lewd sound of their bodies moving together fills the silence between them while Ysera struggles to find an answer to his question, and she barely gets out a single word before her eyes slam shut and she buries her fists in the blankets.

“You.”

He hits a particularly sensitive spot inside her and she cries out in pleasure, gasping for breath. “You, Astarion. Always you, always, always…”

The admission pleases him more than he cares to admit. He's seen the way some of the others look at her, and with every thrust of his hips he makes sure there will never be room for anyone but him.

The thought of her sharing this kind of intimacy with anyone but him is nearly enough to drive him mad. Her secrets, her hopes, her fears, all of them are his and his alone.

But what, then, does that make her?

Yours.

His mind rejects the obvious answer.

It's strange, he realizes, that even as his mind wanders, it remains fixated on her. He wants to remember the way she looks beneath him, trying so hard to keep her eyes focused on his face. He wants to remember the feel of her in his hands, the way she moans and whimpers only for him.

He wants to remember, because for the first time in so many years, he finally feels like more of a man than a monster.

Astarion adjusts his position and leans over her, and Ysera takes the invitation to gather his hands in her own. Their fingers lace together and she squeezes tightly. He can feel her magic brimming just beneath her palms, undulating in time with the steady drumming of her heart. Her eyes shine with the ferocity of a supernova, a dying star scattered into the cosmos.

He feels the tether on her power snap taut, and her body trembles with the effort it takes to restrain it. Ysera's throat constricts with a sharp gasp as Astarion drives his hips forward again and again, coaxing her closer and closer to the sweet oblivion he knows she needs with each delicious thrust.

The air crackles with magic when Astarion pins Ysera's arms above her head, lightning dancing between her outstretched fingers. She arches her back and writhes each time he thrusts into her, his pace unfaltering as he banishes any lingering doubts from her mind.

Her fingers flex and she looks away, a frightened animal in flight. Astarion grabs her chin between his fingers and tilts her head towards him to capture her mouth in a tender kiss. His tongue slides across the seam of her lips and she yields to him without hesitation. He greedily devours every delightful little sound she makes for him, kissing her in just the right way he knows will produce the exact response he wants from her.

“Don't run from me,” he says softly. It's more of a request than a demand, but she complies all the same.

Her gaze returns to his face, albeit reluctantly, and Astarion doesn't know what comes over him when he smooths his thumb across her cheek and cradles her head in his hand. “I’ve got you.”

The gentleness of his own voice surprises even himself.

Ysera has always been afraid of herself, but never of him. He can't understand why. He's hurt her. He can't be certain he won't do it again, before everything is over. Whatever monster dwells within her must be truly terrible if it would convince her to seek solace in someone like him, no matter how much he's come to crave her affection.

She clings to him like so many others before her, legs lifting to encircle his back to keep him close, tail coiling tightly around his leg. An instinct to beg for more of the only thing he has to offer her.

But what he can't dismiss as instinct is the way she looks at him, bright and warm as the first rays of the sun as dawn breaks over the horizon. Mere inches separate them, and Astarion can feel her breath fanning out over his lips with each sigh and gasp she makes beneath him.

“Astarion…”

His name sounds like honey on her tongue. Despite himself, Astarion recoils from the longing in her voice, his expression impassive despite the terror that takes hold within him and encircles his unbeating heart like a fist.

He remembers so few of his victims, but there is one he will never be able to forget. The man he had refused to condemn, the one and only time he had rebelled against his master’s orders. He had looked at Astarion the same way Ysera does now, had spoken his name with the same yearning that it had doomed him to a year of starvation and suffering.

No , he wants to scream, don't say it.

This isn't what he wanted.

But it's no use. He watches, helpless, as her mouth falls open and her hand raises to brush a stray curl behind his ear.

“Astarion, I lo –”

He crushes his mouth against hers, swallowing her confession with a desperation he hopes she will mistake for affection.

Astarion understands love the way a scholar understands facts and figures – from a distance and with cold indifference. He's grown adept at mimicking its trademarks, the mannerisms of genuine devotion, to be used as a means to an end but never to be indulged in.

Because allowing himself to hope for anything more would be to invite his destruction.

And yet, as Ysera kisses him back and murmurs the words against his lips again and again, Astarion can't stop himself from reveling in how good they sound. If he must be weak, let it be for something worthwhile.

I love you, Astarion. I love you. I love you.

He doesn't respond, his mind a whirlwind of contradictions. If it bothers her, Ysera doesn't let him see it. Instead, she winds her arms behind his back, touch featherlight as she traces the scars carved into his flesh. With each pass of her fingers, she erases the pain he'd been made to feel when he'd received them, if only for a fleeting moment.

Astarion doubts she's even aware of what she's done to him, that each time she touches him with such gentleness it makes him want to abandon centuries of habit and believe that they might actually have a future together. Tonight was supposed to be about her, but in everything she does, somehow she still prioritizes him.

“Ysera.”

He tests the feel of her name in his mouth, spoken with the same devotion she's given him. Her entire body shudders in response, and Astarion finds that he rather likes it. The need to please her becomes an all-consuming thought in his mind and he lowers his head, taking the peak of her breast into his mouth as he continues to roll his hips into hers at a pace that brings them both immense satisfaction.

Ysera lets out a keening whine when Astarion pinches her nipple between his teeth and flicks it with his tongue, mirroring the gesture on her other breast with his hand. The hands on his back instinctively tighten, nails pressed into his skin.

“I wonder if I could make you come for me like this,” he groans, voice low. “Would you like that, Ysera?”

She murmurs something immediately that sounds like “yes”, but Astarion considers his options. She'd probably agree to anything he said now, if she thinks it would bring her the relief she seeks. And he can give her so much better than that.

“Perhaps some other time,” he says, chuckling when she whines in protest and writhes beneath him.

One hand slips beneath her, cupping the base of her tail while the other drags a torturously slow path down her stomach towards the place their bodies are joined. Ysera sucks in a breath, trembling in anticipation. She lets it out on a strangled shout when Astarion circles her clit with his thumb; at the same time he caresses the underside of her tail, sending tremors of pleasure throughout her body.

Her eyes fly open, hazy with arousal. “Again,” she pleads, canting her hips to press herself against the hand on her clit.

A single fang gleams behind Astarion’s lips.

“I thought so,” he purrs. He alternates his strokes, teasing both her tail and her clit between every thrust of his cock inside her. Her cunt tightens around him and he bites back a moan, watching her fall to pieces in his hands.

“Astarion. Astarion. ” She says his name like a mantra, clinging desperately to him as he guides her to the edge, keeping her just on the precipice. He knows her body well, enough to build her pleasure to a roaring crescendo, and only once she begs for release one final time does he finally give it to her. With one last pass of his hands and thrust of his cock, Ysera finally lets go, gnashing her teeth and arching her back off the blankets as she shatters beneath him. Her chest heaves as she gasps for breath, riding the cresting wave of her orgasm as Astarion increases the pace of his thrusts and follows her quickly over the edge.

His hand comes away from her cunt slick with her arousal, and Ysera watches him slowly lick his fingers clean, enraptured by the sight of it. Astarion pulls out of her with a sigh, fixing his hair and bushing away the curls that have fallen over his eyes.

Ysera glances between Astarion and the entrance of her tent; he can tell that she's afraid he will leave. On any other night he would collect his clothes and go, but he can't bear the thought of abandoning her again, not after everything that has occurred between them.

He feels her relax the moment he takes the liberty of laying down beside her, and although his back is turned he can still hear the way her heart skips a beat as she sighs in relief. She settles in beside him, and they slip into a comfortable silence.

Is this what it would be like if they were together? Enjoying one another's company without obligation or expectations? The emptiness he feels now has nothing to do with what just transpired between them and everything to do with the fact that she isn't still in his arms, sharing her warmth with him.

Astarion feels her hand hovering over him, hears her reconsider before rolling over onto her other side and drawing the blankets up to her chin. They lay together in the darkness, but the silence soon becomes suffocating.

Astarion’s mind races, a thousand different thoughts waging war within him. Guilt wraps its way around his heart like strangling vines, each pricking thorn gnawing away at his already fractured composure. He moves before his brain has time to remind him it's a bad idea, rolling over to face her.

Ysera makes a muffled noise of surprise when Astarion slips his arm over her torso, tucking her tightly against his chest. He holds her close enough to calm the tempest raging inside him, indulging more than he should by burying his nose into the nape of her neck and inhaling the scent of her.

She deserves to know the truth. And tomorrow, he will tell her everything. But for now, he grants himself this small mercy, entertaining the fantasy that this could be forever, that he could be the one to bring back her smile. Because when she finally lets him go – and she will, once she learns of his deception – at least he won't have to wonder what it might have been like to be hers.

————

Astarion has been awake for hours by the time he sees Ysera emerge from her tent, hair disheveled as she rubs the sleep from her eyes. He'd been loathe to extract himself from her arms earlier that morning, but the longer he let it carry on the harder he knew it would have been to go through with what needs to be done.

Ysera smiles softly at him as Gale passes a plate of food into her hands, and she brushes Shadowheart off as the cleric fusses over the fresh bite marks on her neck. Shadowheart skewers him with an accusatory scowl, but her temper cools when she notices the soberness of his expression. Whatever she thinks happened between them, she doesn't press any further.

When breakfast is finished and the plates have been cleared away, Astarion grabs Ysera's attention and leads her away from the others.

He doesn't want an audience – not for this.

She follows him quietly to the edge of camp, and they come to a stop just before the barrier of the moonshield. She seems to pick up on his stiff posture, and her reaction to his expression when he finally turns to face her seems to confirm her worst fears.

“Do you have a moment?” he asks. “I… I think we need to talk.”

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion smut #bg3 fanfic #astarion fanfic #astarion x oc #astarion x female tav #tiefling tav #ysera #character study #astarion x tav #astarion x f!tav #spawn astarion #my writing

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verbenaa · 2 days ago

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to eden | chapter ten

𝓅𝒶𝒾𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔: Astarion/F! Tav 𝓇𝒶𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔: E 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝒹 𝒸𝑜𝓊𝓃𝓉: 7.1k 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈:

𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: Astarion throws the knife aside, uncaring where it scatters itself as it clangs against stone with a sharp sound, before he cups her paling face within his palms.

“Rin!” It will do no good yelling in her face when she’s very much not conscious as she lays still on the ground; but he can’t seem to help it, running his thumb over her cheek as something inside him snaps with a painful twist.

It’s a very strange feeling, the one bubbling up in his chest and throat to pierce his unbeating heart through, only carnage left in its wake.

A part of him, one long forgotten about and buried deep into the forsaken corners of his mind, recognizes it for what it is.

Fear.

𝒶/𝓃: hello again! apologies it's taken me so long to get this out. I ended up having to split this chapter into 2 due to the length, so here is the first part! hopefully the other half (which will now be ch 11) won't take nearly as long since it's about 75% done. love you all sm and let me know what you think in the comments! kisses xoxoxo

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With blurring vision, Rin can see Karlach fell the last of them from her position on the ground as blood leaks out of her at a rate that she feels should probably be alarming, though she can’t quite find the energy to be all that concerned about it at the moment.

In hindsight, it was perhaps not the brightest idea she’s ever had to send herself leaping off a rock and into a horde of enemies in an attempt to distract them from the large, whirling portal that Halsin had disappeared into.

It was probably a very stupid idea.

It worked rather well in the end, though, so Rin will consider it a success in the long run; provided she doesn’t bleed to death on the cold, hard ground before they can celebrate their victory.

But fuck, if the consequences of her actions didn’t hurt.

This was far from Rin’s first time to be stabbed—that honor went to when she was a gawky and awkward teenager, hair chopped short and dressed in overlarge clothing; and had found herself cornered in an alleyway following a foiled escape attempt after snatching several gold pieces off a tavern tabletop.

She had earned herself a small, pocket-sized knife to the side, slid neatly between two of her ribs. The blade had been barely longer than her fingers, the metal of it brittle and cheap; and so while it had certainly hurt she can’t say it really compared to the one she’s presently dealing with.

It was a good thing, in Rin’s opinion, that she couldn’t move.

Because if she were able to look down and see the size of the dagger sticking out of her chest, she fears it might make the pain even worse. Some things were simply better not to know, and she’s convinced this has to be one of them.

She had been able to feel it as the blade had spiked through her leather armor before piercing into her skin; pain erupting in her chest and spreading through every inch of her body, so agonizing she could barely take a breath as she had staggered back.

She managed one last spell, a shockingly well-executed thunderwave towards a group of shades off to her side—she’ll need to be thanking Gale for helping her perfect her technique on that one, she reminds herself off-handedly—before she had sank to her knees and eventually down onto the bloody dirt.

She doubts anyone even noticed her defeat in the chaos of it all, but surely they’ll notice soon. They have to, don’t they? Wasn’t she their leader, or whatever it was they liked to call her?

In the near distance, she recognizes the booming of Halsin’s voice as it resonates through the air and though she can’t focus on his words she can make out the vague sentiment that it was done and that he had succeeded in his mission.

Rin manages a sigh of relief, the motion inordinately painful in this position. If she had more strength she would roll herself over or perhaps even call out for help, but that seemed like an awful lot of effort at a time like this.

Where was Shadowheart, anyway? She desperately needed the cleric and her healing touch, in the event she’s even closer to death than previously assumed, a fact that was looking more and more likely by the minute.

And what a truly awful place to die this would be, so dark and with nary a beam of sunlight to be found. Perhaps her companions would give her a nice burial somewhere, at least, were she to perish in the next few minutes.

At the pretend funeral Rin oversees in her mind, she imagines a lovely hillside with wildflowers of all colors blowing on a gentle breeze—but there aren’t any of those nearby thanks to the curse.

Utterly depressing.

She sighs again, sending another concerning stab of pain through her form, hands gripping on nothing but air as she suffers through it with a quiet, pained whimper.

Karlach, at least, would probably cry at her funeral; she was wonderfully soft-hearted like that. Gale, too, seemed like the sobbing type; the ones who always go all teary-eyed at weddings and funerals and baby celebrations.

Astarion would—well, actually, she doesn’t want to think about what he would do at her pretend funeral. She hopes he would mourn her in some way, but in the end he’s already lost plenty and she’s just another person and someone he hasn’t even know that long on top of that and—

An errant thought hits her, and oh, poor Astarion. Who else would he drink from were she to perish here? She’s certain none of their current companions would willingly offer up their necks (or any other parts, for that matter) to him.

There’s a quick pattering against the earth that reverberates against her head where it lays on the trampled and singed pine needles—footsteps, she realizes a bit too slowly for her liking—and it’s as if she’d summoned him with her thoughts as a familiar set of gloved hands turn her over with less finesse than she would expect from the rogue.

Rin bites back a sob at the motion as she finds herself settling in Astarion’s hold, her head tucked into the curve of his arm and the elf’s features carefully blank, though there’s something that looks curiously like panic sparking across his claret gaze as his eyes meet her own.

“Hardly the place to be on your back, darling,” He manages as his eyes hone in on her newest accessory, unfortunately still attached to her. Or inside her, more accurately.

Astarion’s voice is surprisingly smooth and soothing despite the increasingly frantic look in his eyes as they dart back and forth between her face and the dagger currently embedded deep in between the leather scales of her armor.

Rin likes the sound of it, she decides. He should speak to her in such a way more often, the dulcet tone of his words nothing short of lovely.

He could probably lull her to sleep if he were to keep talking, and she vaguely considers the idea. Astarion seemed to be decidedly opposed to the idea of them resting together in any other way, but maybe he’d allow it while she’s on her potential deathbed.

A pity that it had to be that way, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, could they?

“Apologies,” Rin winces as she speaks, another wave of pain cascading through her. “I shall try to die closer to your bedroll next time around.”

Astarion tsks, the sound of it wonderfully familiar and a hazy smile settles on her lips as she lets her lashes slowly drift shut, only for a moment.

“Oh, I think there’s life in you yet. You’re far too pretty to die, dearest.”

She’d blush if her blood weren’t busy elsewhere, namely flowing out from her chest.

Distantly, Rin notices that his words aren’t quite so soothing this time around, something that sounds an awful lot like concern tightening around the edges of them; but it’s good enough for her and will do just fine as the darkness behind her eyes begins to beckon with a siren song that she’s unsure she can resist for much longer.

She’s bleeding all over Astarion, and not in the way she knows he would prefer; the bright ruby of her blood falling in a steady stream from where the knife is buried deep in the skin below her collar, hilted into the soft flesh of her breast and mere inches from her blessedly still-beating heart.

Gods, she must look like a mess.

Rin settles further into the darkness as she finds the strength to turn her head towards Astarion’s chest, nose bumping the darkly spun armor he wears (and fits him rather beautifully, she thinks) as she takes a shuddering breath, the sound wet and heavy.

Strange, she didn’t think breathing was supposed to make that noise.

“No, no. No sleeping,” Astarion says sharply despite what she thinks must be his thumb running up and down her armor where he holds her, his touch calming even through all the layers between them. “You can rest later, but now’s not the time.”

But it was so tempting, what does he expect her to do? There’s a knife in her chest, her head feels funny, and he’s holding her so delicately in his arms. Going to sleep was the only logical solution at a time like this.

There’s more pounding of what Rin assumes must be footsteps and she somehow manages to catch pieces of Shadowheart and Halsin’s conversation from afar, their voices sounding far more distressed than they should be following success.

Not a great sign, all things considered.

“Hey Soldier, you doing alright?” Karlach bends down from several paces away, trying to get a good look at her as heat still steams off of her from the battle, sweat and blood beaded upon her fiery skin in equal measure before directing her words towards Astarion. “She’s not kicked the bucket yet, has she?”

“Still here. Sorry to disappoint.” She manages a weak smile Karlach’s way as she forces her heavy, tired eyes to open. “However, I think I could do with some healing.”

Karlach smiles at her and Rin is suddenly dizzy despite not being in motion, inky black clinging to the edges of her vision as she blinks slowly in an attempt to clear the troublesome vignette encroaching upon her, its presence yet another decidedly bad sign of the state of her health.

Rin isn’t exactly sure whether its minutes or seconds that pass as she lays in Astarion’s arms, something strange in his gaze as he looks at her, but finally she feels the vibration of a final set of feet making their way towards her.

She hears Shadowheart before she ever sees the cleric, her clear voice ringing out from beside Rin as she appears within her field of vision while she still lays tucked into Astarion’s chest. “Stay still so I can get a look at you.”

“How lucky for you that I can barely move,” Rin muses.

The cleric only responds to her with a familiar, wry look laced with a touch of warmth before turning her attention to meet Astarion’s hard gaze, his thumb still brushing in sweeps across her arm.

“We’ve got to get the blade out before we can heal her.” Rin isn’t quite sure why Shadowheart is addressing Astarion and not her, the injured person, but she’s not in the mood to entertain the reason. “And fast. She’s losing a lot of blood.”

“Oh, you don’t say?” Astarion scoffs with a baleful roll of his eyes, tugging her infinitesimally closer to him and Rin doesn’t even mind the lance of pain because she realizes she can still smell him over the scent of battle—rosemary and brandy and earthy citrus far preferable to the fire and acrid brimstone of battle. “Did Shar herself teach you such sagely medical advice?”

“At least I have medical advice to give. Vampires aren’t known for their healing prowess last time I checked.” Shadowheart cuts an imperious look Astarion’s way, chin raised.

“Can someone please just do me the honor of removing it, then?” Rin interrupts with a heaving sigh, the effort required peculiarly difficult.

There’s a beat of silence that has her contemplating the merits of falling asleep again, and she’s fairly certain she’s willing to risk the ire of her companions for a cozy little nap at this point.

“Astarion, your hands are likely the steadiest. Can you remove it without doing extra damage?” Shadowheart queries, her tone far more serious now.

“Of course I can,” He snaps in reply before he redirects his glance back to Rin’s face, expression softening. “I’ll be gentle. Or as much as I can be.”

She would hope he would be.

Carefully, Astarion shifts her back onto the ground and Rin mourns the loss of his arms, and it’s a very unfair exchange in her opinion—she’d much rather die in the comfort of his hold than on the impersonal chill of the ground.

She whimpers when his fingers meet the handle protruding from her chest, the slight motion managing to jostle it, sending another cascade of agony through her.

“Ready, darling?” His grip on the dagger is sure as he swallows, unease swirling in his eyes as they meet her own. A terrific sign of her fate, on all accounts. “On the count of five.”

Rin manages a nod as she stares up at him with clouded, hazy eyes that she doesn’t realize only serve to alarm him even more before speaking softly, tasting blood on the syllables as they weakly leave her lips. “I trust you.”

He looks as though she’s gutted him with her words as his brow creases and eyes widen as if stricken, which is rather ironic considering she’s the one with a knife inside her and he is practically free of any sort of wounds aside from a bloodied lip and a darkened eye as far as she can tell, still just as handsome as ever.

“One, two, three–” Astarion takes a deep breath and pulls, and the last thing Rin remembers before darkness overtakes her is the look of genuine apology on Astarion’s face as a searing pain erupts in her chest, her very last thought that he’s a downright liar for not waiting until he reached the number five.

✧· · ─── ·✧· ─── · ·✧

The first thing Astarion feels when Rin loses consciousness, the handle of the dagger that had just been buried in her chest now enclosed within his palm, is sheer, illogical panic.

It rings in his ears and sets his chest aflame, and if it weren’t for his terror that she was now dead and that he was the one who had accidentally killed her in his attempt to save her life instead, he would be concerned that something was awfully and horribly wrong with him instead.

Astarion himself was no stranger to pain or injury, having bled enough over the centuries to probably fill several fountains worth of his blood; and while her injury was undoubtedly quite pressing in the nature of its severity, the blade had thankfully avoided the important bits when it had imbedded itself into her skin.

If it hadn’t, she would have already been dead by the time he had reached her.

But the sight of it, the blood pouring from the wound in rather copious amounts, the look of agony etched across her features, and then her eyes falling shut and body going lax—it was all very dramatic of her.

A bard, indeed, if that performance was anything to go by.

Astarion throws the knife aside, uncaring where it scatters itself as it clangs against stone with a sharp sound, before he cups her paling face within his palms.

It’s a very strange feeling, the one bubbling up in his chest and throat to pierce his unbeating heart through, only carnage left in its wake.

A part of him, one long forgotten about and buried deep into the forsaken corners of his mind, recognizes it for what it is.

Fear.

Astarion has known fear, of course.

He’s spent so many years afraid, alone, and hurting—he still vividly remembers the potent fear of death as it had loomed over him and then struck all those decades ago, only for him to awaken six feet underground with a hunger he’d never known the likes of before in the pit of his stomach as he had clawed his way to what he thought was to be his freedom.

Oh, how wrong he had been.

He remembers each and every moment of fear instilled in him by Cazador with an unfortunate, visceral clarity; every trembling ounce of it as he had waited for a punishment to be handed down, for the door to slam in his face to lock him away for Gods knew how long, for whatever other horror had been divined up for him—all of them perfectly designed to break body and soul and spirit.

But he’s not quite sure he’s ever felt fear like this for someone else before.

Astarion immediately hates the feeling with every fiber of his being.

“What’s happened to her?!” He demands at Shadowheart and there’s something frantic that shakes in his voice, the sound of which he’s wholly unfamiliar with as his eyes fixate on Rin’s face, looking as though she had simply fallen into a deep sleep, though the pained furrow of her brow tells a different story.

He hates that he hates the sight of it as his thumb continues to brush foolishly across her now pale cheeks, the freckles dotting her skin in familiar clusters standing out against the pallor of her face, as if the motion would coax her back awake and ease the pain causing it somehow.

“She just fainted, Astarion.” The cleric sends him a look that he does not appreciate, and he scowls back at her in response. “She’ll be fine so long as you let me focus.”

Karlach takes a step closer behind him, the heat emanating off of her hitting him like a wave. “Aw, did she pass out? Poor Rin.”

Normally, he wouldn’t mind the warmth from the infernal engine that churns inside her chest, but now all it does is make the cold sweat that’s beading on his skin that much more noticeable, sending an unshakable chill through him instead.

“Her pain tolerance leaves much to be desired, it seems,” Shadowheart drawls before she sighs, raising her hands in front of her and hovering them over Rin’s increasingly still body.

Too still for his liking, her chest moving up and down with only the slowest of motions. Much longer, and it would simply stop moving altogether.

Astarion ignores the way his throat tightens at the thought, unable to swallow down the rampant terror surging through his chest.

“Can you just heal her already? Insult her to her face when she’s awake.”

“I’m getting to it.” Shadowheart cuts a glare towards Astarion, though it doesn’t have half the bite the Sharran thinks it does.

“Te Curo.”

Slowly, waves of glowing blue begin to emanate from Shadowheart’s palms, enveloping Rin in a familiar, soft effervescence and Astarion can imagine the feeling of it—a cooling sensation followed by the telltale itch of skin reknitting itself, the feeling vaguely uncomfortable and slightly sickening.

He’s been healed enough times to know that Shadowheart’s spell should be enough to close the wound, but the strange panic slicing at his insides seems intent to not let up despite the spell’s conclusion, that icy cerulean haze slowly evaporating from the air like the clearing of mist.

“We need to get her out of this armor, I want to make sure the wound healed fully. Karlach, since we’re so close, can you carry her back to camp?” Shadowheart queries with a glance up.

For once, Astarion agrees with the cleric though he’s not about to admit it, and only gives out a murmured affirmation in response as he counts the breaths moving Rin’s chest.

The tiefling walks up behind him and he begrudgingly stands to move out of the way for her to take his place, and he once again hates the feeling that resonates through him at having to leave her side.

How tiring this all was beginning to be.

“Up ya go,” Karlach gathers her up as carefully as she can, and Rin looks pitifully small and slight in Karlach’s hold. “Ooh, light as a feather, isn’t she?”

“It’s because her head is mostly empty,” Astarion edges out. “It’s a wonder the worm even has anywhere to hide itself in that brain of hers.”

If she had a brain, she certainly hadn’t used it today. Her logic—provided there even was any at work—was infuriating, and anger threatens to intercede over the slowly lessening grip of fear that had taken ahold of him.

He considers allowing it.

Anger was a much more palatable emotion, after all. One that he understands.

Being angry was comfortable, easy; something that he knows all too well how to wear like an armor that he can summon up at will. He doesn’t like the way this newfound fear has settled over him, clawing up his throat to choke him and paralyze his heart even though it no longer beats.

Anger would be much preferred, in the end.

But the anger doesn’t yet come, not really—or at least not in the way he would expect.

He can feel it burning there, a slow simmer in the depths of his chest at the sheer stupidity, the idiocy of her forgetting that she was very much mortal and therefore quite liable to injury; but a foreign sort of relief intercedes over it, taking control of and transforming his anger into something else that he doesn’t quite understand or yet have a name for as he keeps his gaze trained upon where Rin rests near motionless in Karlach’s arms.

She might not be conscious, but she was very much alive.

And he’s damned to the hells and back for caring about that fact.

Part of him—the irritating part that seemed to be upset, of all things—wishes he were the one holding her instead.

But at the very least, out of everyone to get to carry her, Karlach was the next best option so Astarion shall allow it as he walks on beside them, his eyes on the lookout for any trouble heading their way despite the fact that they’d already walked back into the shimmering dome of Selûne’s light.

They’re bustling into Rin’s tent within minutes, Karlach settling her onto a still-unmade bedroll, the threadbare blanket kicked into a messy heap at the foot of it, yet to be pulled back up for the day.

“Right then,” Shadowheart says in a no-nonsense tone as she steps inside, briefly glancing around the tent before kneeling beside Rin’s still sleeping form. “Armor off.”

They set to work and no one mentions Astarion’s ease at undoing her armor or the way his now-ungloved fingers know exactly where the next buckle or tie is before discarding it to the side with practiced finesse.

Her shirt’s a bloody mess when they finally peel the scaled leathers and ruined gambeson off her form, now stained the deep, dark crimson of her own blood down the front in a ghastly splash, tainting the simple embroidery along the hem.

“Off with it.” Shadowheart gestures with a nod of her chin towards Astarion. “The shirt, I mean.”

“You want me to take off her shirt?” He narrows his eyes at her before lowering his gaze back down to the garment in question.

“Well, you certainly have the most practice at getting her out of her clothes, do you not?”

Astarion scoffs and rolls his eyes, but can’t exactly refute the fact.

Nor would he want to.

“Why, is that jealousy I detect in your voice, Shadowheart?”

It’s not escaped his knowledge that some of their companions had made their own invitations to her once upon a time—she herself had said so before she had chosen him, after all—and he can’t help the slight hint of gloating in his voice as he jeers at the cleric.

He’d never questioned Rin as to who had, exactly, professed their interest; but he knows how they all look at her. The sight of it has certainly annoyed him enough the past few weeks.

“You’re hearing things,” Shadowheart responds sharply as she glares his way. “Now, are you doing it or am I?”

“Oh, I’ll do it,” He grumbles in defeat, though he’s not certain there was ever any sort of actual debate on his answer.

As if he’d let anyone else undress her under his watch. Even if it was only for very valid medical reasons.

The tunic was undeniably wet with blood, sticking to her skin as it begins to dry. His eyes flit up to Rin’s face, brow blissfully uncreased as she still sleeps on, wholly unaware of his apparent inner turmoil.

The sight of it and the knowledge that she’s perhaps no longer in much pain sends a wave of relief through him that he didn’t realize he needed, and it’s yet another strange feeling that he’s not used to.

It’s been a long, long time since he’s even bothered to consider someone else’s well-being, and he’s unsure what to make of it.

Caring in such a manner is crossing a line he’s had drawn for centuries, and he fears once it’s been stepped across, there will be no turning back.

“Can’t you just…rip it off her? Like they do in the books?” Karlach queries from beside him, arms crossed in front of her chest as she sways from foot to foot, her non-broken horn mere inches from snagging on the canopy.

“I would have thought that was in your particular skill set, Astarion.” Shadowheart agrees, quite unhelpfully in Astarion’s opinion, from beside him.

He was very capable of tearing off clothes when inclined to do so, thank you very much.

“Even if it is—” Astarion cuts a sharp look towards Shadowheart before continuing. “She’d burn me alive if I ripped her shirt. Without her permission, at least.”

He knows he doesn’t need to add on the last part, but it felt necessary in order to preserve his image as a rakish, no good sort of man. Which he most definitely is, of course.

Astarion remembers the last time she threatened to burn down his tent (and him with it), and he has no intention of inciting another threatened ignis from her; or at least not for this,of all things. If he must be threatened in such a manner again, he’d rather it be for a much more enticing and scandalous reason, not because he was trying to do something as tedious as saving her damned life.

“Can you not just peek underneath it? Why must it be taken all the way off?” He demands, unable to pinpoint why, exactly, he’s so bothered by this.

It was just a shirt. And she was just another person, in the end.

He’s lost count of how many times he’s undressed others and undressed her—the contours of her form an image he could envision in his mind and conjure the feeling of against his fingers without a second thought.

He could do it easily. In seconds, probably, even with all the blood sticking to her skin.

It would be rather uncomfortable for her to stay in her tunic like that. He can imagine the stiffness of it, knows the feeling all too well firsthand, and he shifts uncomfortably with a frown as he stares at her.

“Fine,” He relents with a groan while Karlach just watches on amused, though he doesn’t understand what she seems to find so humorous about this entire debacle.

Astarion suddenly wishes the others weren’t here, that he wasn’t here and being forced to face the fact that she had practically died and that he seems to feel rather strongly about that fact, but he pushes the unhelpful and unnecessary chatter in his mind aside as he works her tunic off of her sleeping form instead.

It takes all of his dexterity to keep his motions soft and smooth, jostling her as little as possible until he’s finally pulled it up and over her head before bringing the fabric up to his face to examine the slash.

A clean cut through the weave and it’s really a wonder she managed to live through the battle at all. He’d have to mend it for her, later on. It wouldn’t take too long and with any luck he could return it before she’d even noticed it was gone in the first place.

The shirt may have been utterly drab and boring to the point of offense, but if he’s not careful, she’ll pick something worse next time around—Gods know the rags they’ve found so far on this journey have been downright awful.

Shadowheart leans in as he stashes the ruined tunic beside him and out of sight from the others, and she lets out a pleased hum as she checks the wound, poking at the reknitted skin with a gentle touch.

There’s a swish of fabric that has Astarion’s head swiveling towards the entrance of the tent, reflexes at the ready and hand reaching for one of the daggers at his side when none other than Gale, of all people, sticks his head inside.

“Is everything alright in here?” The wizard asks in a manner he likely thinks is helpful, when in reality it’s actually just plain irritating, at least in Astarion’s opinion. “Is anyone in need of my expertise?”

The wizard’s gaze peruses the interior of the tent, wandering from object to object as he takes in the space for what Astarion assumes must be the first time. His eyes stop, though, on the form lying in the middle of it all.

Gale of all people would not be seeing Rin’s nearly naked body if he has anything to do with it—and thankfully, he does!—so Astarion shoots a cold glare the wizard’s way as he maneuvers himself in front of her form, shielding her from the pair of wandering eyes.

“Out of here, mate. No one invited you,” Karlach sighs out at the same time as Shadowheart says cooly, “No, Gale. I seem to have things perfectly under control without your help.”

“Well, I didn’t realize this was an invite-only sort of thing. I simply wanted to check in on our fearless leader’s well-being and offer up some of my rather extensive knowledge, if needed. That’s all, nothing more.” He holds up his hands in mock-surrender, the gesture infinitely grating.

“Her well-being is very much already being taken care of,” Astarion snaps, words as cold as ice. “So go find something else to use all of your ‘expertise’ on.”

“And with that—” The wizard sends him a pointed look which Astarion merely glares back in response to. “—I shall go busy myself elsewhere. Good luck and goodbye!”

The wizard backs out of the tent as quickly as he had peeked his head in, gone in a flash of garish purple to go do whatever the hells it was that he did when not annoying someone else.

Good riddance.

Shadowheart releases an audible sigh as she moves to stand to her full height post unwanted interruption. “Well, she shall live another day. Once she wakes up, she’ll probably be back to her normal self and serenading us all drunk at the campfire by dinner. My work here is done.”

He looks at Rin’s sleeping face once more—still so dreamy, sweet, and unaware.

Defenseless as a fawn. Terribly mortal. The definition of an easy target.

“I can—” Astarion starts, back stiff. “I will watch over her.”

The two women turn to him, their expressions both far too intrigued by his words for his tastes.

“Well, then, Astarion.” Shadowheart says, brow raised in skepticism. “We’ll leave her in your…capable hands.”

Karlach affords him a genuine smile as she ambles towards the exit and he swears she lets out a noise that sounds an awful lot like an ‘aw’ to Shadowheart as she ducks between the flaps, though he will not be acknowledging that at this present moment.

The two of them share a final look—highly unnecessary, in his opinion—as they leave together, and the tent is rather abruptly very empty and very silent, the soft sound of Rin’s breathing the only noise.

He stands frozen, staring at her sleeping form—she looks so much more human in her sleep, so mortal and delicate without her sharp words to act as armor—as a barrage of thoughts hit him all at the same time, warring together against him.

He’s not even sure why he’s still here, why he even volunteered for such a thing, considering she was fine now.

More than fine, honestly.

She was alive, which is what matters. She doesn’t really need someone to just watch her sleep, for Gods sake.

But he’s compelled to stay by some unknown force that he relents to despite the blaring in his head telling him to leave and get out while he still could. Nothing good could come from being this near to her sleeping form, for who knows what that ever-present traitorous voice will tell him to do.

Likely something sweet—a sickening thought, as always.

Astarion shifts from foot to foot, unsure of what quite to do with himself. He’s never really been much of a caretaker, so to speak.

The opposite of one, really.

But Rin, for all her lack of consciousness, seems settled enough; her lovely face clear of any discomfort despite the speckles of drying blood scattered across her cheek and neck as her chest rises and falls in a slow, even rhythm.

With unsure hands, he reaches out and tugs the blanket at her feet, pulling it up until it rests underneath her chin, covering her nakedness and guarding her from the ever-present chill of the curse that hovers around them.

His bare hand brushes against her neck by accident, her skin soft but still just a touch too chilled and he’s quick to yank it back, flexing his fingers before balling them up into a fist as his stare becomes harder the longer he fixates on her sleeping face.

Astarion, unfortunately, remembers watching her go down in unnervingly stark detail.

He hadn’t seen her jump off that rock and into the chaos, otherwise he would have done more, done something at the very least, to cover her.

But he did see it when that dagger hit her, a warning immediately going off in his head as he had noted exactly where the blade had been directed. It was a kill shot, certainly, and frankly he’s surprised that the cultist who threw it had managed such precise aim.

In his mind, he could still hear the startled gasp that left her lips as the knife had hit and she had fallen to her knees, sending off a final spell before collapsing into the dirt.

It was the least he could do, in the end, to show the cultist what precise aim actually looked like.

An arrow to the throat, perfectly placed to cut through the windpipe, was all it took to down his new number one target and though he unfortunately did not get the opportunity to watch them suffocate—he had more important things to deal with—he knows that at the very least it was an appropriately miserable way to die.

He had feared the worst when he had finally reached her; fully expecting to turn her over and see those vibrant green eyes he liked so much staring blankly ahead, devoid of life, and her chest frozen on her final breath.

Discovering her still alive, though hurt, was a much better outcome.

Rin even still possessed the wherewithal to respond to him with some semblance of her usual irreverence and it had taken all of his self-control to not do something rash like profess his relief at the sound of her voice and the life still held within it.

Still, she managed to have the last laugh in the end, those damned words of hers clanging around in his head regardless whether he wishes them to or not.

‘I trust you.’

Gods. She may as well have staked him in the heart with that little sentence, for he doesn’t deserve her trust.

Not after the way he’s been playing her like a fool for weeks and months now—he forgets which it is sometimes, the days and nights of their exploring and killing blending into one another; the only moments that stand out to him those that feature her in the center of them recently, the number of which seem to be increasing by the day and if he’s not careful she will be the only thing on his mind, her name and face a constantly repeating banner in his thoughts.

Although at this point, he’s not so certain he isn’t actually playing himself as well.

He must be set on his own demise, clearly, to harbor such…feelings toward her, even if he doesn’t—and won’t—admit the existence of them to himself most of the time.

What is he supposed to do with such useless things, anyway? He indulges in her enough as it is, any more will only put him at a level of risk he can’t afford.

With a sigh, he steps away from her figure, blanket securely pulled up around her to preserve her warmth and preferred modesty, a quirk about her he finds to be so very entertaining with how quickly and with such great enthusiasm she seems to shed her clothing for him.

As it were, she wasn’t keen to show terribly much of her pretty skin—a loss for humanity at large, in his opinion, as she looks very lovely wearing very little; but a win for him, as he gets to enjoy the sight all on his own with no one else the wiser of the beauty she keeps hidden beneath those drab tunics of hers.

Comfortable, she calls them. He scoffs at the idea.

No wonder she never made much money as a bard. Perhaps if she indulged in some of the more risqué fashions he’d seen others don over the years, she would have been more successful at her art.

With little else to do he resigns himself to waiting, though he isn’t quite sure what for. For her to awaken from her slumber, perhaps? It would invite a rather awful amount of questions, though, were he to be present at such a moment.

Questions he is unwilling to answer.

So, Astarion doesn’t count the time as it passes and simply busies himself with a variety of other things instead. Time, he has found, can be quite strange when one finds themselves immortal and so he has gotten rather good, if he may say so himself, at filling the minutes and hours as they leisurely pass around him.

He pays half-attention to the errant thoughts that swirl in his head as he cleans the sharp edges of his many blades—though he avoids the ones that center too intensely around Rin, for now.

He looks at her makeshift vanity and at the only makeup she apparently possessed in an attempt to decipher why, precisely, he always seems to find her lips to be so enchanting— he finds a pretty rose colored balm that he knows can be used on both lips and cheeks, however the discovery does little to solve his mystery.

He uncorks the almost empty bottle of perfumed oil she uses to sniff at it for himself, another foray into his prior investigation—it smells so much better on her than it does in the bottle, but he isn’t quite sure why or how that is, and again leaves him with more questions than answers.

He stares at the single stalk of purple foxglove she had somehow procured and placed into a small decanter to act as the singular decoration in her tent and he counts every bell-shaped flower—he’s impressed she managed to find a living plant in a place so cursed, even if it is still poisonous in the end, but it adds a certain warmth to her tent that feels so very her he can barely stand it.

He’s flipping through one of the books she has stacked in a corner—The Druid Who Daredaccording to the worn and broken spine, the decidedly indecent contents on several dog-eared pages of which he will definitely not be forgetting about—when he comes across something hidden in between two thin pages.

It’s nothing unusual, especially in her tent, just an innocuous piece of parchment folded thrice.

The same way she happens to fold all of her letters.

Astarion’s brow quirks as he takes a glance back at Rin, still snuggled peacefully in her blanket and none the wiser.

He shouldn’t. He knows better.

Most people don’t read other people’s personal letters, especially when said person is something like a lover, even if their situation is somewhat complicated.

But Astarion considers himself to be infinitely worse than most people and can’t help the curiosity that fills him when he sees what looks an awful lot like his name written many times over in dark ink bleeding through the thin vellum.

He’s seconds from reaching into the book, intent on grabbing the slip of parchment to open and read it, careful and covert, when he hears the soft rustling of movement behind him.

Astarion slams the book shut as if it had grown teeth and threatened to eat him, setting it back onto the stack where he had found it lightning-quick as he turns back around, expecting to be heavily berated to when he inevitably meets what he assumes will be a very angry bard.

When he does turn, however, he’s greeted instead by the sight of Rin not yet fully awake, only just stirring with soft groan and her back arching in a stretch, head tossing to the side.

Luck, it appeared, is on his side today.

In more ways than one.

Despite his apparent good luck, however, he’s now faced with the issue of leaving. Because he certainly can’t be found in her tent standing over her like some guardian angel.

How could he possibly explain to her that he’s been watching over her like some nurse, caring for her like he has any right to—even if only by watching her from afar.

He doesn’t have the words to explain himself and so he will not.

But he doesn’t plan on being too far away tonight, either way. Someone needs to keep an eye on her in the event something happens. He doesn’t know what that something might be, but his point still stands. It may as well be him to take on the job.

And so, Astarion grabs his gloves along with her ripped, bloodied blouse and flees with every ounce of stealth at his disposal, sneaking out of her tent just as Rin’s eyes begin to flutter open.

#oh I wonder what will happen next time hmmmm #astarion x tav #astarion x f!tav #astarion x female tav #astarion x oc #astarion bg3 #astarion fics #astarion fanfiction #astarion fic #astarion fanfic #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #astarion #verbenaa writes things!

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bardic-inspo · 20 hours ago

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aeterna nostalgia

chapter four: the mourning after

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter Three

🩸Full Chapter List (Coming Soon)

🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire.

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter Summary: Astarion reels in the wake of his consort's amnesia, and forms a plan to restore her memories.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“To whom can a vampire bare its soul and admit its fears? With whom can the vampire vent some of the intense sensuality that seems to pervade its breed? From whom can it receive consolation for the past, comfort for the present, and hope for the future?”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

Blood smears over Astarion’s swollen lips, painting his front from neck to navel. He’s already drained two thinking things dry today. The dirt from their graves still lines his nail beds. No matter.

The nobles’ screams will sound just as sweet, whether they see the horror coming or not.

After he laid Naomi in the safety of their shared chambers, and laid Claude and Thessa to rest in the gardens, the other patriars had remained in his study to be dealt with. Claude had the foresight to lock them there. But the door would only hold the conniving fools for so long.

Astarion would be sure to clean himself of all the gore before waking his darling. And when he wakes her, he’ll wash away the woes of the day with one last compulsion: remember.

His steps thud down the hall. Racing heartbeats slap his ears like boots smacking through puddled streets. So much wet, delectable noise. He swipes his tongue across his teeth in anticipation.

Astarion lurches towards the study door. His hand claws around the knob.

In an instant, he could be rid of the patriars for good. Pour their pride, their hopes, their lives down his throat until only he remains. And he’ll do the same to every footsoldier that comes calling after. Even Duke Ravengard, when he inevitably comes to visit righteousness upon the Crimson Palace.

Astarion could take everything, in light of what’s been taken from him. He should. It’s only right someone else should suffer. Naomi’s not here to argue any different.

Her name pangs through his temples. Astarion recoils abruptly from the door, his hand dropping slack at his side as he bites back a pained hiss.

The vampire ascendant sits at the head of the conference table in his study. His fingertips curl and unfurl into fresh grooves worn down in the mahogany.

At the table’s other end, Naomi surveys him in portrait, her expression guarded and glittering. She’s not alone; they’re seated on separate thrones in the towering canvas, hands delicately clasping each other’s. Both of them are drenched in jewels, clad in finery worth more than any who set their eyes upon it. The gold-leaf frame on its own cost more than most peasants make in a decade.

There’s a more lascivious version in their private chambers, with Naomi seated on his lap. The only finery she wears there is that of her bare figure, with Astarion likewise undressed. It’s lucky he preemptively covered it before she batted her eyes open. Given how she reacted to her own reflection, she may not have taken kindly to her likeness twined so completely with his.

Her reflection is a gift, granted by the greater present of his presence. And yet, his generosity is entirely lost on her now. She's forgotten all of the times he's taken her so tenderly, all the wealth he's lavished over her, all the pains she's been spared as his treasured consort. She's forgotten the love they share, the love that broke through the dirt of those sunless centuries and seated them here: happy, eternal, untouchable.

She can barely stomach his touch at all, now.

“Oh darling,” he utters in the barest whisper, his pounding head dropping into his hands. “What am I to do with you?”

Outside, night falls in a dark curtain across the Gate. The windowed wall overlooking the city fills with little motes of flickering lantern light. From here, they seem small enough for him to reach out and extinguish, one by one, with just a pinch of his fingers.

His jaw clenches. He could’ve been far crueler to this city. He’s been utterly benevolent by comparison.

And this is how his kindness -- his restraint -- is repaid. This is the thanks he gets.

The empty kind, bleated by sheep who don’t know their own luck. Every one of the patriars muttered their gratitude as they filed from the room without so much as a scratch. Any misgivings they had were soothed with the calming timbre of his Ascendant Authority -- a devilish boone that grants him the ability to bend the perception of even those he doesn’t have direct dominion over.

It’s time for you all to leave. Everyone expected to attend the meeting was present. Nothing out of the ordinary occurred. You definitely didn’t notice any blood.

It isn’t the bludgeon of compulsion. The effect is more subtle, and must operate within the reasonable expectations of whatever captive audience he seeks to manipulate. He cannot command those he hasn’t bitten, but he can curate. Such revision is made all the easier by the blood of his new spawn thrilling through his veins, and the mundane, repetitive song and dance all the nobles come to expect. The cattle long for their routine, and will readily return to it at the sight of a strong hand.

Astarion drums his fingertips restlessly against the pages of an open book. His abilities will stave off immediate inquiry into Thessa Gray’s sudden disappearance. For most, it will be enough not to arouse any suspicion. Unless pressed -- and who would have reason to? -- the other nobles will offer threadbare replies as to the day’s dealings. But such answers could crumble to confusion under scrutiny.

If someone knew better, they might know a vampire had a hand in muddling their minds.

Wyll knows better. Wyll will know about Astarion’s new spawn soon enough. Time enough for Astarion to sort out this matter of memory.

He skewed the patriars’ recollections easily enough. They had recollections to tamper with. The spell scroll didn’t simply mold Naomi’s memories. It stole them. He can’t curate absence. Evidently, he can’t compel it away, either.

“By the bloody hells!”

The table rattles with the sudden pound of his fist, but the pain needling his temples barely recedes. It doesn’t flee like it should. The low, guttural growl in the back of his throat doesn’t scare it off, either.

His head hurts. His head shouldn’t hurt. Nothing so mundane as a headache should have a hope of harming him! Astarion grits his teeth, nearly ripping the page from the tome in front of him as he turns to the next.

It’s the same cruel pain that plagued him when he woke Naomi. After the incident in the throne room, he’d braced for her hostility. He hadn’t accounted for her terror. Or that it would feel like teeth sinking into his skull.

The woman cries in glass; every tear down her cheek has the same lethal sheen. No soothing words or gentle touch could dull the sharpness. And now he bears the unseen scars of it.

His compulsion didn’t work. His consort can’t remember their precious time together. And he, the vampire ascendant, is suffering something so inane as a migraine.

If Naomi feels the pain, too, then at least she’s trancing through it. Their bond requires emotions to be shared. He feels any harm that comes to her as if it were his own, and vice versa. His triumphs are hers, and their joys are joint.

She would not recoil from him so, stranger or not, if she could feel his affections. Astarion’s lip curls. She had no problem seeing the monster of him, turning a blind eye to the care he’d taken in her comfort. Her fear could’ve cut a throat as easily as a dagger. Astarion tried to scrape his way past it, but when her eyes set sight on her own reflection, it climbed into something consuming. It was reflex to send her into trance again. Like shirking away from a fire spitting sparks.

She can’t trance forever. The back of his throat grows drier, the longer his thoughts linger on his consort. She needs to feed.

And pain is not the same as fear. They are complementary colors, not identical ones. Astarion is intimately acquainted with all the subtle shades in between. The distinction stirs a festering disquiet in his gut.

Can she feel their bond at all? Her memories may have taken the direct hit, but their bond is…strained. Twisted in on itself. So loud and large are her feelings, maybe his are simply quiet in her head.

Or, maybe, the time for his restraint is over.

It could be a stronger hand that’s needed for her thoughts to open to him again. The seamless telepathy they shared before was something cultivated over time. A conscious choice they each made until it became an unconscious one. Either of them, in theory, could choose to shelter their own thoughts. Feelings would still seep through, and such deprivation didn’t suit a union so harmonious as theirs.

It’s a choice she would never ordinarily make. One he could grow to forgive when this interruption in their eternity is so far in the past, it can be forgotten.

With a long-drawn sigh, Astarion snaps the book shut and tosses it into the piles of others strewn over the floor. In lieu of tearing out the patriars’ throats, he’d torn all the tomes from the shelves. So much for all the coin he’d spent furnishing Emilia’s studies. He’s yet to find anything of use in the rare arcane texts his library boasts of. No cures for his consort’s ailing memory. Only more and more incendiary possibilities of what caused it.

A charm? Unlikely. Emilia said it herself: by your bond, she’s immune to anyone’s will but yours. An enchantment would’ve ended when the caster did. The man turned to literal sand before Astarion’s eyes, and still, Naomi’s amnesia persists. What’s left of the culprit sits in a bronze dish further down the desk, alongside the burnt scraps of the spell scroll. He can’t make sense of such remnants -- it’s in a strange, geometric script he can’t decipher.

A curse on the other hand…

The notion nips at his mind like a putrid rat. At first, he bats the idea away. But as night bleeds to dawn, it recurs with a sickening nausea he can’t ignore.

What a specific insult to add to this particular injury; Naomi has been the victim of a curse before, albeit of a very different nature. Only those who knew her during their tadpole days would know that intimate detail. She herself didn’t understand her own plight when they first met. Astarion freed her of those bonds long ago. What lingering effects of her former curse remain, Naomi learned to wield as weapons of her own.

Astarion rubs the fresh creases on his forehead. Only a day ago, Naomi smirked and said: this is my home. I know where all the sharp things are. And now, she cuts her own lips on the fangs she’s unfamiliar with. Her abilities could be further hazards, if she no longer recalls how to use them.

Still, it was no mere wizard who cursed her in the past. All things considered, this is a far simpler predicament than last time. It should follow that the solution is simpler, too. If it is a mundane curse, then a mundane cleric should be able to cure it. Or, another wizard. One more skilled than Emilia was.

Astarion knew such a man once. A shame that man is no more. Gods never answered Astarion’s prayers in the past, and he’s not about to depend on one, now.

He still knows a skilled cleric. One that might answer the call of his coin purse. After all, where would the Mother Superior and her House of Grief be without his financial sympathies?

But no. His consort won’t need either of them. Astarion stiffens abruptly, a new realization latching into place in his mind.

It wasn’t Gale or Shadowheart who saved Naomi from her first curse. It was Astarion. It was never clear to him if the act of making her vampire did the trick, or if it only worked because he was the vampire above all others. Either way, Astarion usurped Naomi’s former chains by binding her to him instead.

He lets out a strangled laugh, the only sound for hours in the deathly quiet palace.

It all comes down to blood, really. It’s the way he’s solved all of his problems in the end, one way or another. He needn’t worry himself with magic when the old vampire cure-all could have her in his arms again within hours.

One drop should do. She’ll remain a vampire bride as she was meant to be -- there can be no separation, and no making of a ‘true’ vampire unless a sire wills it. She will sup of him once more, and know him again.

And what bliss that will be.

A sudden smile wakes on his lips, warming his face with the fresh daylight streaking through the windows. His nose tilts towards the ceiling, and his eyes flutter shut. Naomi’s touch feels far too muted in his mind when it’s only memory he’s drawing from, and not the live current of their flourishing bond.

It’s a comfort all the same, to imagine her fingers coursing through his curls, her nails scraping against his scalp. Her scent of lavender and lemongrass, sharp and sweet, never fails to make his mouth water. He’d sup of her, too. Take that divine nectar from her neck and take her with her stomach laid flat across this desk, back arched, legs spread wide, his hands hooked around her thighs, his name a fountain from her mouth.

Astarion.

His eyes flash open at once. He gags back a raw whimper in his throat. Pain, not pleasure, flares within his skull. His lustful fantasies dissolve into one piercing recollection: the distress on her face when she woke beside him earlier.

“Do you know my name?” He’d asked his wife.

Astarion, she said. He mulls over the shape of the sound in Naomi’s mouth, the way she said it with such warring confusion and certainty. Even as she answered him without hesitation, he saw the surprise cross her face.

Astarion. To her, he is inextricable. He is instinct.

She isn’t lost to him. She isn’t. She can’t be.

Astarion shoves from his chair so violently, it topples over. He doesn’t bother to right it again before storming from the room like a thundercloud. The corridors echo with his footsteps and the shrill squeak of his heel as he turns down another. Before long, he comes to the closed door he seeks, a faint glow of silver magic glittering around its edges.

Emilia had the enchantments carved at his behest. They’re a part of the manor itself, and so they still survive without her. None but he and Naomi can see the effect without some manner of arcane detection. None might enter or exit without the spell’s password, known only to him and his consort.

A detail, like so many others, Astarion’s sure she’s forgotten.

Soundlessly, he turns the knob and presses the door open. It’s absurd, the way he tip-toes towards the bed. As if she could wake without him willing it. It’s absurd to be looking in on her at all. Of course, she’s still here. Astarion forces out a long breath. It doesn’t sate the anxious scamper of his heart beating in his throat.

It’s equally ludicrous that he hesitates at his side of the bed, glancing furtively between the empty space beside her body and the empty chair in the corner. Ridiculous, really, that the corner is where he ultimately retreats to. But then, the situation itself is outlandish in every sense. No ill was ever supposed to befall her here, in their home, beneath his protection.

He sits stiff-backed, legs crossed, with his hands clenching the armrests in a rigid grip and his eyes fixed on his trancing bride. Her white hair splays over the silk pillowcase. The lace of her nightgown drapes off her freckled, lilac shoulders. Except for the occasional flutter of her eyelids, she’s utterly still. Astarion is a statue at her bedside.

What memories play behind those closed eyes? He wonders. Perhaps, in her trance, she relives her time in the Underdark, and the temple to Eilistraee that raised her. Naomi still remembers her mortal life, something that fades for most vampires in time.

Without such mortal memories of his own, for centuries, all Astarion could remember was Cazador’s cruelty. He learned to substitute reverie with sleep. It gave him a chance, at least, to dream of something different, instead of replaying something agonizing. Some nights, he was luckier than others. Cazador could still turn a dream into a nightmare, after all.

Astarion has been nothing but lucky since knowing Naomi. And he’d no longer needed to trade reverie for sleep. He hasn’t gotten a wink of either since she’s forgotten him.

It’s nighttime again when he rises from his seat. He latches the door behind him just as quietly as he coaxed it open. His legs move sluggish, as if wading through waist-high water. The cool air of the garden courtyard tickles his collar, rousing him from his daze.

Something clatters nearby. Movement flashes in his periphery. Astarion’s heart lurches in his chest as he pivots and stiffens. With the culprit locked in his sights, he lets out a long, pained groan.

Gods below. It’s only the gardener, skulking as she’s wont to do. Astarion studies the skeletal figure with equal measures of disgust and fascination. She was only a dusty pile of bones when he and Naomi happened upon her in some forgotten closet. No doubt Cazador locked her there years ago and threw away the key without a second thought. Astarion has no idea who she might’ve been.

But the second Naomi sang, the skeleton became whoever his consort wanted her to be. And Naomi wanted a gardener to help her grow all manner of beautiful, exotic things. Astarion’s heartbeat settles, though it aches like a bruise with every pang. He starts off again with a huff.

Floral sweetness cloys in his nose, lush petals framing the stone path to the heart of the courtyard. The gardens are home to every shade of violet ever known. His favorite are the petrea vines, hanging like garland from the trellises. Wistfully, he reached out to cradle a strand. The delicate blooms are so similar to the shade of Naomi’s eyes, when she was still mortal. Water babbles from the enchanted fountain up ahead, mingling with the faintest sound of piano keys.

Astarion’s eyes grow heavy. If he only closes them, perhaps he can pretend he’s still in the ballroom, that the moonlight bleaching his cheek is the sun, that he never left Naomi alone at all. That she plays for him, still.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

Astarion whirls around, seething. “What are you doing?!”

The gardener scuttles on, trowel in hand, without so much as a croak in reply. It’s a relief, really, that the thing can’t talk, even if it is uncanny in its understanding when others do. Naomi thinks his distaste for the gardener is a matter of favoritism, that he simply values his own progeny over her bonier servants. He doesn’t dwell on it long enough for any other reason to come to mind, though his eyes linger on the trowel’s sharp edge until the gardener disappears between the hedges again.

That Naomi’s servants still function as they should, he supposes, is a good sign. Her magic remains as strong as ever, it seems, even if her memory isn’t.

When at last he comes to the bare patch near the back, strategically shielded from sight by lush hydrangeas, the dirt is already writhing. He watches coldly as the soil shifts and sinks. An arm bursts through, raking madly at the air, and then another. The hands are the color of a faded rose, and tipped in dark, pointed claws. Thessa.

“Finally!” Astarion sighs. “I was beginning to think I killed you for good!”

He reaches forward, grips a flailing hand, and pulls.

The tiefling bursts from her grave, collapsing at Astarion’s heels. Her clogged scream sends a score of crows into the sky. At least the cacophony drowns out her awful retching.

Claude still hasn’t stirred. Well, Astarion won’t weep if he fails to. He doesn’t weep over the same ceremony that once started his own existence as a snivelling spawn. With Zylar and Emilia, he took time and pride in molding them, and even mustered a fair amount of pity for their lesser state. The burial was something he prepared them for. Something they saw for the rite of passage it was.

There’s no time for such luxuries now. Astarion’s kindness cost Naomi dearly. Whatever Zylar did or didn’t do in the throne room before Astarion arrived, it led to Naomi’s current state. The wretch will stew and starve in his cell while Astarion sees to his fresher spawn.

The dirt of Claude’s grave begins to crack. A ragged snarl rips from Thessa’s throat. She’s filthy, streaked in dirt, eyes wide and wild, blood and spit hanging from her chin like some slavering dog. Astarion knows what’s next. He steps back neatly as she lunges, leaving her to thump face-first at his feet.

“You will not allow harm to come to your-- wait!” Astarion holds up a finger, brow furrowing.

Thessa stares ahead blankly on all fours, an empty canvas awaiting his command.

“No,” he decides. “Not that.”

He taps the same finger against his lower lip, abruptly pensieve. He was about to say: you will not allow harm to come to your sire. But it was that command that caused Emilia to harm Naomi. And Emilia’s inability to conceive of nuance led to her downfall.

If he compels Thessa in the same manner, she’s likely to meet the same fate as the spawn that came before her. She’s not special or smart enough to steer herself towards any other outcome all on her own.

So he settles instead on: “You will not harm your sire or his bride. You will protect them both to the best of your ability.”

He can’t help but feel a small twinge of disappointment at how quickly the compulsion douses Thessa’s fire. His shoulders stung for an hour after her death: a product of the frantic, scorching spells she lashed at him as he drained every drop of blood from her body. Now, she merely lies limp in the dirt, haggard and panting, glaring daggers at her new master.

Claude surfaces shortly after. Astarion heaves him from the hole by the collar, setting him atop solid ground with little ceremony. The gnome echoes Thessa’s sputtering for air he no longer needs, but he refrains from any foolhardy aggression. He quivers as Astarion repeats the same compulsion he bestowed on Thessa. When it’s done, Claude’s wet, pleading eyes fix on Astarion. No longer are they colorless gray, but a gleaming, ruby red.

“H-hungry,” Claude stammers, voice fraught.

“Yes,” Astarion says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Come, both of you.”

He leads them to the dining room, where he pulls out the chairs across from where he and his consort typically seat themselves. On grander occasions, the lavish hall hosts all manner of rich and powerful guests. Most days, it seats only two.

Stiffly, Thessa sits. Claude nearly collapses into his chair, clutching the armrests for dear life. The man is pale, even by vampire standards. He always had a sickly pallor in life. Undeath didn’t relieve him of it.

The nearby hearth bursts to life with a snap of Astarion’s fingers. He crosses the hall to an ornate cabinet. The lock opens at Astarion’s mere touch. He takes a decanter, with velvet red liquid sloshing inside, and a pair of wine glasses from the cabinet before shutting it again and sauntering over to his waiting spawn. The lock re-engages with a faint click.

Claude’s eyes track his every motion. Thessa leans in, hypnotized by Astarion’s fingers toying with the glass stopper. It calls to mind a cat, with pupils blown wide, preparing for the perfect moment to pounce.

He’s not a monster. Well, not entirely. This isn’t an act of kindness. It’s necessary, if he doesn’t want them wilting over like desiccated waifs.

With a thin smile, Astarion twists the stopper free. The scent hits the roof of his mouth at once, rich, ripe, and succulent. He can see the second it reaches his spawn. Their eyes glaze over with raw, overwhelming want. Thessa’s lips twitch towards a snarl. The sound that seeps out instead is nearly obscene. Claude shudders hard enough to shake his chair, too.

“Wait until it’s set in front of you,” Astarion chides, carefully pouring each glass in turn. They recoil only slightly. “And do try to drink like you’re civilized.”

They can’t help but not be. Like meat tossed to starving dogs, reason leaves them, and instinct takes the reins. Between their frantic gulping, glass shatters. In only seconds, they’ve downed their first blood, and shed just as much of their own in the process. With a low growl, Thessa plucks shards from her lower lip. The same broken pieces glint from fresh cuts in Claude’s hands.

Astarion could’ve compelled them into composure, but the demonstration suits him. It’s an important lesson for any spawn of his to see how little control they have, and how much their sire holds.

“Now that you’ve become acquainted with your new nature,” Astarion says pointedly, fully aware their attention flits between him and the decanter he shifts casually between one hand the other, “ let me acquaint you with our current predicament. Your mistress…”

Astarion clears the abrupt thickness from his throat as he contemplates what to say to set his spawn to task. He could lie, say Naomi’s been wounded, or fell ill. But any vague excuse could raise suspicions of a make-believe weakness. And weakness, even if only pretended, is something fresh spawn would be all too hungry to exploit. Such is the way of those lowest in the ranks. There’s no time for needless distractions that could muddle their aims.

No, the truth will have to do.

“...was the target of a powerful spell. It’s taken a great deal of her memories. You’re going to help me get them back. Your aid in this will be duly rewarded. And let me assure you: there is much I could reward you with, should I choose to.”

As if he snapped his fingers, their focus recenters on him.

“Claude, you will show Thessa to Emilia’s chambers. These are to be her chambers now. And then, you will take her to my study. There, Lady Gray, you shall discern how the caster who so harmed my beloved disintegrated into sand before anyone else could lay a finger on him. Claude will assist you with whatever you require. Neither of you are to leave the palace. And neither of you will speak of Naomi’s ailment to anyone else.”

Thessa’s eyes narrow. “I’m a sorcerer, not a wizard. I’m certainly not a healer or an alchemist.”

“If you’re not useful, you’d best endeavor to change. And quickly.” He offers a humorless smile. “You’re welcome, by the way. You won’t be able to tell by looking in a mirror, of course, but I’ve done wonders for those wrinkles of yours, darling.”

Hesitantly, her fingertips ghost across her own smoothed cheek, tracing upwards to the corners of her eyes. Her hand falls back to her side, gaze dropping to the floor.

Quietly, she says, “My family will ask after me.”

Astarion clicks his tongue. “A secondary problem. One we can solve to your satisfaction, should you first earn mine.”

“Master,” Claude blurts, voice raw and rasping. “Might we have more?”

The gall of it! Anger sparks like waking embers in his gut. Astarion stills the decanter within his grip, holding it close to his chest.

“You might,” he croons, “but neither of you will unless I permit it.”

The gnome’s lip quivers. Perhaps he’s pushed poor Claude too far. No -- this is all heavenly compared to Cazador’s vampire orientation.

Astarion heaves an exasperated sigh. “For your own good, you’ll have to learn restraint. That learning starts now. It will be trying. But we’ve no time to be delicate, I’m afraid. I’m certain you can shoulder the burden.”

Sheepishly, Claude nods. “Yes, my lord. To your new quarters then, Lady Gray.”

As they leave the hall, Astarion spies another figure stirring at the perimeter. It clacks across the tile, a broom and dustpan in skeletal hand. Ah. The maid. Another one of Naomi’s ‘spawn’.

This one, at least, seems intent on disturbing him as little as possible. The skeleton crouches as it nears the table, carefully collecting the remnants of the shattered wine glasses. Astarion repays its consideration by leaving it to its work.

He eyes the decanter of blood wistfully, but doesn’t hesitate as he replaces the stopper and stows it back inside the cabinet. Though he’s a man of immense appetites, tonight, he doesn’t intend to spoil his supper. Not this time.

He’ll be dining with Naomi, after all.

A/N: Thank you so very much for your patience! I've been battling a recurring sinus/respiratory infection that just won't quit. Between that and the holidays, this chapter took a little longer than I would've liked.

More Naomi and Astarion in the same room together in the next chapter ;) And, as some of you suspected, we’ll be seeing at least one other familiar face soon-ish, too.

HUGE thank you to the amazing, phenomenal, incredible @pinkberrytea for pre-reading this one, and for being a constant source of encouragement and inspiration. Please check out her lovely fic!

And a shout out as well to another dear friend, Garnett Gibson, who recently gifted me an amazing one-shot of non-amnesia Naomi x Astarion engaging in some steamy hunter/prey play. If you enjoy this story, or liked Blood in the Mortar, you'd love Garnett's one-shot. And their other wonderful fics, too!

Thanks for reading! <3

#astarion #ascended astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #tavstarion #tav x astarion #aeterna nostalgia #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #astarion fanfic #dark consort #vampire lord astarion #naomi tavriel #my writing

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anacdoce · 2 days ago

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Wip Wednesday

Thank you @roguishcat for the tag ❤️ you made me giggle while reading your wip!! 🤣

I'll share another wip from chapter 9 of my long fic. It was hard to choose a wip that wasn't too revealing. This chapter will be a wild ride!

(Not proofread).

No pressure tags: @larvasmoon @bloodinwine @yennefer-of-vengerbergs @saucy-scribbler

#wips #my wips #astarion #astarion ancunin #bg3 #bg3 astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion fanfic #astarion romance #astarion x raven #astarion x female oc #ana writes bg3 fanfic

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asherquazar · 4 months ago

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Don't ask me where I got this screenshot, but there is a girlie out there with a $20,000 life-sized Astarion sex doll.

I just have to ask…were the fanfics not enough??

#astarion #baulders gate 3 #vampires #astarion fanfic #astarion fanart #amazon reviews #gay vampires

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colonelarr0w · 8 months ago

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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.

#colonelarr0w #astarion fanfic #astarion x reader #astarion fanfiction #astarion bg3 #astarion #bg3 x reader #bg3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3 x reader #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 #baldur's gate 3

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loulouhattie · 6 months ago

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good boyfriends carry their princess home after they have bottomless kobolds

be a good boyfriend

be like finn

there will be no sympathy for that hangover

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 fanart #bg3 #baldurs gate fanart #astarion #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 comic #astarion comic #karlach fanart #karlach #karlach fanfic #astarion fanfic #astarion fluff #karlach cliffgate #comic art #original comic

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libbybee · 2 months ago

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IN THE HEAT OF YEARNING — SA

◜pairing: astarion ⨯ fem!reader ◜rating: MDNI 18+ ┊ wc: 6K ◜cw: mentions of astarion's past, dependence, masturbation [M], anorgasmia [M], piv, cock riding, creampie.

▹ summary. after cazador's defeat, astarion faces something he thought lost to time; his heat. the unfamiliar sensation of longing and freedom makes him torn between the instinct to dominate and the desire to surrender to you.

A/N. english isn't my native language, sorry if there are grammar mistakes.

AO3 ┊ MASTERLIST ┊ PLAYLIST

‎

It had been weeks, perhaps months, since you helped him put an end to his master, Cazador. Even now, Astarion wasn’t sure how to feel or what to do.

The sensation of freedom hit him like a tornado tearing through his life, leaving him adrift and uncertain. Even the pronunciation of the words caught on his tongue, clinging to his throat whenever he tried to voice a trace of what he felt.

Declaring himself “unchained” sounded jarring to his ears, but, fortunately, there you were to help him adjust to these unfamiliar emotions that weighed on his shoulders. With everything that freedom entailed. Everything.

He hadn’t told you about this… personal problem of his. Truthfully, he couldn’t bring himself to do it, ashamed of what you might think or say if you found out.

After so many failed attempts, he stopped considering it altogether, only cursing himself for not telling you sooner.

Astarion knew it was foolish to feel so ashamed, especially considering the kind of person you were and how much better you treated him than the nightmares of his past—the loneliness that had surrounded him since he had begrudgingly accepted the curse of immortality. But, gods, just thinking about it made his throat tighten painfully and his hands tremble with cold sweat.

He tried his hardest to confess to you on those unique occasions you shared in private, when there was no one else around to overhear, but every time, he backed down.

Now, feeling this unbearable urge, he was determined not to say a word. Nothing in hell would make him… except his very self.

His lips whimpered pathetically, your name slipping through gasps muffled against the fabric of your panties. His eyelids squeezed shut, his other hand massaging the head of his cock tightly enough to hurt, desperately trying to mimic the sensation of your warm walls wrapped around him. Only to fail miserably.

His vampirism had awakened this cursed heat, a condition he loathed to the very core of his damned nature, yet he couldn’t prevent or fight against it. He had spent decades quelling his desires in solitude, without anyone to ease the craving when he needed it most.

The self-pity of it swelled his skin, feeling himself become so… damned “sweetly necessitous” and so lovesick for anyone who crossed his path in those times when he was still delivering prey to his master. But now he had you. And gods, you were going to be a problem. The faint traces of your arousal on the crushed fabric pressed to his nose were enough to drive him mad; you smelt so, so irresistibly good…

Fleeting memories of the first time he bit you flashed through his mind in a haze of desperation to reach his orgasm. The sweetness of your blood, like rich port wine on his tongue, was the finest thing he’d experienced in his entire existence.

He was quite clear just how thoroughly you’d unravelled his self-reliance. This inefficiency blazed brighter than ever in his mind each time he found himself dependent on you, and you weren’t there for him, just like now. Craving you in a way he hadn’t needed anyone in lifetimes.

The sheer sensation of having your naked body pressed up against his while he buried himself balls deep inside you. The feeling of the perfect, welcoming warmth from that exquisite pussy of yours, gripping him as if he were the most vital thing in your life… He’d give anything to feel you like that right now, having you to ease his agonising heat until his pain and loneliness were fully sated. But these thoughts only sent his urgency skyrocketing higher than ever.

The side of your shared bed still held your intoxicating scent. Pressing your panties to his sharp nose reminded him of how tightly your walls would clench around him every time he thrust in and out of your perfect cunt as he fucked it exactly how he knew to so well. An intense desperation took hold of him, slamming his clenched fist into his quivering pelvis to fuck his hand with a ferocity that echoed how he would fuck you again if you were here. By now, thick beads of his precum trickled from his swollen tip, sliding down his pale, agile fingers.

His silky white curls clung to his sweat-dampened forehead and nape, his teeth gritting in nothing but frustration at his inability to reach that elusive release. Each time he came close, the peak seemed to slip away, taunting him from just out of reach. But he couldn’t fully blame himself, because deep down, he knew he didn’t want to cum like this.

It wasn’t just the release he craved; it was you. Without you here, everything felt hollow; his touch was a pitiful substitute for the real thing. He wanted nothing more than to cum inside you, to hear the sweet, melodic sounds of your moans and gasps as his warm semen filled you, seeping out around the edges of his cock as he stayed buried deep within. He longed to watch you bask after your climax, knowing you were utterly his in that moment, both bound in bliss.

The fantasy gripped him, vivid and fierce—an impossible hope to leave something lasting within you, to fill you until he could almost imagine creating life together, even though he knew his cursed being would never allow such a thing. Yet the thought alone, however unattainable, only drove his need further, intensifying his urge to fuck you completely, as if every part of him belonged to you, even in ways that fate had denied him.

He tried once more to focus, though his body trembled atop the sheets with sheer need. He closed his eyes and fantasised about your pussy all reddened and swollen for him, glistening in your rich juices and so deliciously wet that you’d be dampening the sheets beneath you.

A deep flush spread from his cheeks to the very tips of his sensitive ears as he realised just how utterly charmed he was by you and how his mind overflowed with visions of you and only you. He could see it all so vividly: your gorgeous, tempting pussy, the soft contours of your breasts that fit his hands as though crafted just for him and his carnal lust, your lips swollen from his endless kisses, and your eyes glazed, pupils blown wide with pleasure.

Every detail of you was etched into his mind—an addicting vision he couldn't escape. You were the star of every lustful scene that played out in his imagination, the embodiment of his most desperate fantasies.

Astarion could almost feel the anxious pulse of your clit, just begging for his mouth and tongue. The thought of his lips grazing that sensitive bundle, tormenting it to the point of agony, filled his mind, and he could hardly help but drool. He could practically taste you, the luscious, toxicant sweetness of your arousal filling him as he’d lavish every inch of your cunt with his mouth, sucking and licking with ravenous need until you were drenched.

He let out a low, frustrated growl, swirling his closed fist just around his incarnate tip in a futile attempt to force his climax. But his mind betrayed him, flooding with vivid images of your sweaty body and the insatiable pussy he yearned so badly. However, he was pretty clear: nothing could replace you. Not his hand, not the fantasies that had become a poor substitute; nothing could come close to the reality he wanted.

In his mind, he saw you beneath him, legs spread-eagled, your lips calling his name in whispered moans that grew louder with each thrust. He could nearly feel your breath against his ear, filling him with the sweet sound of your whimpers, each one more desperate than the last. His hand felt pitifully inadequate compared to being buried deep inside you, his body pressed down against yours as he consumed every last piece of you.

He was completely lost, so absorbed that he didn't even hear the soft creak of the door or the faint shuffle of your footsteps.

In the quiet shadows of your bedroom, he trembled with the wrenching pain, torn between hunger and exasperation. His voice whispered out, barely audible, “My love… I need you.”

Astarion’s breathing came in ragged gasps as he chased a release that refused to reach him. Tightening his hand to increase his movement speed, he became almost frantic, as though sheer desperation could fill the emptiness of not having you. His head tipped back, eyes squeezing shut as he let out a strangled moan against your panties, your lovely name slipping from his lips like a mantra.

You’d woken in the night, drowsily reaching for him only to find the other side of the bed empty, letting your hand land on cool sheets instead of his skin. Concerned and bleary-eyed, you went looking for him, thinking that perhaps a nightmare had drawn him away.

But nothing could have prepared you for the sight before you.

In the dim light spilling from the cracked curtains of a window, his silhouette trembled, his hips bucking desperately into his hand as if he couldn’t stand another second of the ache inside him. His cheeks were flushed with a feverish red, and his lips parted to release soft, breathless whimpers. His grip on himself was almost punishing, fingers digging into his flesh as he stroked with an almost frenzied pace, trying to force himself to the relief he sought but clearly struggling.

You inched closer, entranced by the sight of his body arching and tensing, brow knit in frustration as he let out quiet, ragged curses under his breath. His voice, thick with desperation, cracked as he whispered your name as if the mere thought of you was both a balm and a torment. He was so lost, so utterly engrossed in his aching need, that he didn’t notice your presence.

Unable to resist, you let out a quiet voice calling his name while opening the door, just loud enough to break through his veil.

He snapped open his eyes; his red irises gleamed in the darkness as he finally became aware he wasn’t alone. Astarion froze, lips parting in shock as his gaze met yours, the flush in his cheeks deepening as he felt instantly embarrassed with your underwear under his nose. The rich fabric of his Victorian shirt clung to his chest, slightly askew from his restless movements.

“I was… I wasn’t expecting you…” He managed to speak with a low, rough voice, as if pulled straight from the depths of his body. He relaxed slightly in an attempt to regain his composure, though his cock gave a subtle, instinctual thump against his stomach as he failed to suppress his arousal. Then he swallowed hard, the exposed skin at his throat glistening in the dim light from his sweat, his expression a blur of yearning and bashfulness.

You took another step closer to your old bed. The intensity of his state made your breath quicken as you took in every detail of his parted lips, the flush trailing to his ears, the slight tremor in his fingers as he tried to maintain them steady…

“Come here…” He reached out, inviting you. His eyes gleamed with want, and, at that moment, he felt himself wholly yours to possess and do whatever you wanted, but you didn't know just yet.

“Couldn’t sleep, Astarion?” You asked with both curiosity and… somewhat understanding.

Astarion let out a sigh while a soft smile tugged at his lips. “It seems I have… trouble finding satisfaction without you, my dear.” He lowered the fabric of your underwear from his face to leave it on the nightstand, his eyes never leaving yours, although his vulnerable yet unabashedly captivated emotions.

His delicate fabric slightly loosened at the collar and sleeves, a bit untied, his hair tousled… This image of him awakened something inside you, drawing you deeper into his charming and cuddly spell.

You reached for his hand, marvelling at how adorable he looked at this moment. With a serene smile, you settled beside him on the bed, the mattress dipping under your weight as you sat close enough to feel his body almost touching yours.

Astarion let out a long, shaky breath, his body finally relaxing as he leaned into you, his forehead coming to rest on your shoulder. He was warm, and you could feel the faint tremor in his body as if something had unravelled his entire being.

Then he let out a low, breathless giggle; the sound tinged with relief and a hint of humour. “You’re toying with me…” He murmured softly against your skin before placing a kiss on it with a touch of playful reproach. “Leaving me here all night… suffering by myself.” His words were light, but you could feel the weight behind them, the hollowness he rarely showed.

As his head rested heavily against your shoulder, Astarion’s fingers tangled in your hair, gently gripping it as if securing himself to you. His touch was both eager and tender as he instinctively snuggled closer to encircle your waist, seeking solace in your embrace. It was a stark contrast to that usually composed and confident vampire you knew, making him appear almost childlike as if he were looking for comfort after a nightmare.

You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him closer against you. The way he nestled into you made your soul melt in affection, but a flicker of concern crept into your mind as you wondered what had haunted him in the quiet solitude of the night. His sigh was soft, barely audible, and his grip on your hair tightened as if he feared losing you.

“What’s wrong, Astarion?” You asked softly while caressing his arm gently. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

He furrowed his brow slightly, the weakness in his demeanour becoming more pronounced. “I suppose… I thought I could manage. But it seems I could not.”

Before continuing, he took a deep breath to steel himself. “There’s something I haven’t told you… something I’ve been trying to suppress.” As he spoke, his eyes peered at your face, a mixture of uncertainty and yearning reflected in their blackness. The playful humour that often danced in his gaze was gone, replaced by a rawness that tugged at your heartstrings.

You searched his eyes to urge him to continue while your thoughts were already wondering what it could be. “What is it?”

Astarion swallowed hard, his brow furrowing as he wrestled with his emotions. “I… I’m in my heat…” He finally confessed. “After everything that happened with Cazador, I thought I could control it and push it away. But it’s relentless. This… need; it’s too much, and I’ve been fighting it alone for so long.”

You instinctively pulled him closer, the warmth of your body against his providing a gentle anchor in the storm of his turmoil. Feeling a surge of empathy, you cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing softly over his cheek, hoping to erase any sense of his silly shame. “Astarion… You are not alone any more. I’m here… with you.”

He leaned into your touch, a faint shudder passing through him as he let out a soft sigh, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly for your words. “I didn’t want to burden you with this, darling…”

“You could never be a burden to me, silly.”

A liberating glint passed through his eyes before they narrowed slightly, his expression gentling as he leaned his cheek into the warmth of your hand. “So tell me, my darling… what are you going to do with me now?” He asked sweetly, smiling with some curiosity, as though he were either coaxing you forward… or daring you to finish what he’d started.

You held his gaze for a few seconds longer before letting your eyes drop to his hard, aching length.

You slowly pull out of his embrace to rise from the bed, then with unhurried motions, you slip your fingers beneath the waistband of your pyjama trousers and your panties, sliding them down your legs. The fabric fell to the floor, quickly joined by your bra, leaving you bare before him. The chilly winter air grazed your skin, causing a shiver to dance along your back and harden your nipples instantly.

“I’m going to take care of you…” You saw how his eyes roamed over every inch of you with his usual intense, hungry gaze, caressing your body as though it were a precious treasure he could finally hold.

Astarion’s gaze returned to yours with a warm, wide smile, brimming with adoration and desire. “You’re…breathtaking…” He murmured, almost as though speaking the words out loud might shatter the moment.

Your heart swelled at the sight of him, so open, so vulnerable, and so utterly yours. You settled back onto the bed beside him, leaning close as you placed a soft, reassuring kiss against his cheek. Letting your hand drift from his thigh to his lap to wrap your fingers around his cock, feeling the hardness of it, respond immediately to your gentle touch by throbbing excitedly. You began to slowly stroke him, keeping a slow yet steady rhythm.

He moaned softly, his head fell back, and his eyes closed while a subtle shudder ran through him. His fingers instinctively clung to your arm; the look of pure need etched from his face only spurred you on. Your strokes grow firmer as each pass of your hand drew a new, delicious sound from his delicate lips. During that, you leaned closer to let your warm breath graze his neck before you started to spread soft kisses along it.

His usual composure had crumbled, giving way to a raw, unrestrained need—a desperation born of decades of unsatisfied feelings and the maddening ache of his heat. He tried so hard to find satisfaction, but nothing had ever been enough since he met you. Only you could soothe this torment and bring him the relief he required.

You pulled back slightly from his neck, meeting his eyes as you paused your attentions to gently nudge him onto the bed. He didn’t resist at all, allowing you to do whatever you wanted with him and looking at you with sparkling impatience across his darkened pupils.

You ran your hands along his thighs one more time, fingertips tracing over every taut line and curve, savouring the feel of his skin. As you settled on the mattress to straddle his hips, you leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his stomach, your lips grazing over the fabric stretched over his torso. Your hands travelled up, resting on his chest, where you could feel his muscles tense beneath his clothing. With a teasing smile, you left a gentle trail of kisses along his uncovered chest, up to his collarbone, and finally brushing your lips along his jaw.

His hands locked to your thighs, his breaths warm as he relaxed in your presence. He allowed himself to be vulnerable before you, and it was unlike anything you had seen in him before. He looked as though he might beg at any moment, desperate and undone. His fingers trembled slightly as he held you tighter, sliding his hands up to grip your hips.

“Is this what you want?” You asked, although you already knew the answer well, just to savour this moment, having him so needy for you.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, his answer slipping out almost without thought. “Yes.” His voice was harsh, barely holding together as he looked up at you in admiration like he could hardly believe he was so close to the release that he’d been yearning for.

Astarion moved his hands from your hips to your waist, guiding you down as he suppressed a desperate groan, his head tipping back into your pillow, still infused with your intoxicating scent. “My darling…” He purred, calling out to you. “I need you, please…” The words spilt from him with urgency, though his seductive edge persevered. His hands gripped your hips again, uncertain where to grab, only knowing he wanted every part of you. “Pretty please…”

At the same time, your other hand slipped lower, cradling his sac and massaging softly in rhythm with each stroke. His sighs came faster, a soft groan escaping him as your fingers trailed along his sensitive skin.

The transformation in him was almost endearing, watching his pride melt in the face of his heat. You couldn’t help but smile, your cheeks warming as he let slip those velvety, magical words.

Reaching down, you let your fingers brush over the base of his cock, feeling the rigid heat of his arousal. You spit into your palm and took his hardened cock to slick him out, stroking him slowly up and down. You weren’t entirely wet yet, and you wanted this moment to be as perfect as possible for him.

You moved your focus to his swollen, pulsing glans now, slick with precum that had trickled down his length. You continued stroking with both hands now, smoothing the warm fluid mixed with your saliva to make sure he was well lubricated. Finally, positioning yourself, you let the head of his cock rub your clit and your entrance.

You closed your eyes, savouring the sensation until you heard him release a strangled moan, his fingers digging into the skin of your hips as if holding you could somehow ease his ache. Reopening your eyes, you saw his flushed cheeks and closed eyelids, and you felt captured by his vulnerability. Your heart pounded against your chest at seeing him so… exposed to you.

Although you were keenly aware of his need and, in a way, his impatience to bury himself inside you, you couldn’t deny that you wanted to draw out this special moment as long as possible.

Finally, you let the head of his cock kiss your entrance, beginning to lower your hips as you felt the delicious stretch of your slit as it let him through and of your interior accommodating him. You felt yourself tighten instinctively around his thick length, your walls gripping him as he slid deeper within.

Once he was fully seated within you until his tip was pushing against your cervix, you began to rise and fall slowly. Rolling your hips slightly forward and back, you felt the rigidity in his cock and every vein deliciously caressing your walls. His grip tightened as he released sweet, breathy sighs with each massage you gave his cock with your cavity, his eyes fixed on you, utterly enraptured as he felt himself dissolve beneath you.

“Just you…” His voice trembled with a tone you haven't heard from him. “I’ve needed this… needed you… for so long. I tried to resist… gods, I tried… but nothing, nothing else could…” His words trailed off in an involuntary moan as his pelvis lifted instinctively to feel every inch of your insides squeeze his painfully swollen cock.

A satisfied moan escaped your lips as you watched him giving in to pleasure, his expression lost in bliss. Spurred by his urge, you began to move with more eagerness, riding him harder and faster, your pelvis colliding with his in a wild rhythm. Every thrust sent jolts of pleasure through you both as your hips moved in perfect sync.

Bracing your hands on his chest, you leaned down to capture his lips, and he responded with a yearning whimper, returning the kiss with impatience. “I’ve never seen you like this, Astarion.” You murmured against his lips, admiring the flush across his cheeks. “It’s… adorable.”

He let out a soft, breathless laugh, though his voice was thick with longing. “I’m yours, my love…” He confessed in a low tone, holding your gaze with an unusual intensity, his eyes shining. “With you… I can’t help but lose myself…”

His hands slid up to grip your waist, attempting to guide at least your intensity and reclaim a hint of control, but you took his hands in yours. Sliding them over your torso to your breasts, letting him grab them and feel the softness of them. "Love, let me…” He raised his hips once more to penetrate you deeper. His need to bury himself inside you almost agonisingly, each motion making his tip hit your sensitive G-spot and coax gasps from your lips as he struck it with raw precision, just as your cervix.

You threw your head back, a strangled whimper escaping as the blend of pleasure and faint pain sent shocks through your womb.

“Astarion…” You called after recovering your breath just enough to let your lips brush his ear. One hand tangled into his silky hair while the other traced his chest, your fingers skimming over the fabric of his shirt. “Let me… I want to make you feel good, my love…" You whispered, letting your breath ghost over the sensitive skin of his neck, feeling him shiver beneath you because of how responsive he was to your closeness.

Astarion’s throat caught at the sensation of your warm lips on his neck from your sudden smooch, his fingers tightening around your breasts. A sly smile played on his lips, though his usual sharp wit softened because of his heat.

“Oh, my darling…” He rasped with his tone both a plea and a command as his fingers slid down to your hips, anchoring you closer. “You already do make me feel good… so exquisitely good.” His lips found the spot behind your ear to press a kiss against it. Descending to the curve of your jaw, and then lower, tracing a path full of delicate, heated kisses down to your neck.

Then he pulled you, rolling you onto the mattress in a sudden but gentle motion. His body hovered over yours as he took a moment to drink in the sight of you beneath him. “But I think it’s time I return the favour.” His voice dipped into a low growl, his thumb smoothing against your cheek as he cradled it. “Let’s see just how well I can repay you, love…” He whispered before diving to your lips with a ferocity that left no doubt of his intentions.

Every single touch and lingering kiss was a deliberate act of his devotion, focusing entirely on bringing you to the same heights of pleasure he so desperately craved.

Your lips crashed against his with a passion that mirrored his, a burning hunger in every kiss. You tangled your fingers into his silken, white hair to hold him close, refusing to let an inch of space between you. Your other hand gripped the fabric of his shirt in his waist, tugging it firmly, wanting nothing more than to feel his skin against yours.

Before drawing you into his embrace, he positioned his cock at your entrance to enter back inside you, joining his hips firmly against yours with a delicious thrust that made your clit kiss his bare pelvis. A guttural groan escaped his mouth as he responded eagerly to your touch, his hands wrapping around your waist and pulling you close. Each of his movements quickened, his hips surging forward with growing intensity, each thrust driving you both toward a shared frenzy. Impulsively, he broke the kiss to trail his lips along your neck, leaving a searing path of devouring kisses and grazing your skin with his fangs, sending a subtle shiver through you.

“Gods, you're… intoxicating.” He whimpered roughly between kisses. His hands slid to your hips, gripping you rigidly to guide your body in time with his as he fucked you. His lips stayed on your neck, savouring every moan you gave him, lost in the sensation of your bodies moving together with an urgency that none of you could contain.

Astarion’s hand grabbed firmly at your nape, his fingers threading through your hair as he held your head in place against his shoulder. Positioned snugly between your legs, his thighs lifted yours, angling you so that every inch of his cock entered your pussy, leaving no space unfilled.

He bobbed his hips forward with a ferocious, exhausting pace that drove him impossibly deeper into your cunt, his mouth returning in trailing hot kisses all over your skin. His grip on your nape tightened with each surge of his pelvis against yours, anchoring himself in the intensity of it, feeling how your walls massaged and vibrated around his cock. His other hand gripped your waist, drawing you closer to him as if he wanted to merge your bodies completely.

The rhythm had become urgent and desperate, his mouth leaving feverish kisses along your neck and shoulder as his pace grew erratic, driven by the overwhelming, raw desire consuming him. His hand tightened around your waist, pulling you more tightly as his thrusts grew harsher.

The fire in your body was exactly like his, a blazing need that surged with every stroke. Your hand slipped down to your swollen clit, fingers stroking it in synchrony with his pleasurable thrusts. Your actions only seemed to drive him further; a primal growl escaped his lips as his hips snapped forward with a force that stole your respiration.

“Look at you… so eager for more…” Astarion purred, his tone rasping and dripping with lust. His crimson eyes roamed down your body, pausing at the place where your fingers moved against yourself. He observed entranced how your fingers stroked your entire clitoris, slick and needy while meeting each of his thrusts. The sight seemed to inflame him, his pupils dilating as he devoured the scene before him. A wicked grin curled on his lips. “You’re utterly delicious… I can hardly resist the urge to devour you whole.”

His voice was thick with desire, and how his crimson eyes darkened further made your heart race. You could see the pure hunger burning within him, igniting an answering fire deep in your lower belly. As you continued to stimulate your clit, the tension grew unbearable, stretched so taut that one more push, one more touch, was all it would take to send you both over the edge.

He dipped his head, his breath hot against your skin. “I need to hear every delicious sound you make, every gasp and moan.” He murmured, the rasp in his voice thickening with each thrust.

As if in response, you moaned louder, the heat pooling between your legs intensifying as you clung to him. The urgency in his movements grew, his thrusts becoming a frantic tempo, pounding into you with a force that sent waves of ecstasy crashing inside your entire pussy. You could feel him nearing his peak, the way his cock hardened impossibly harder inside you, leaving copious amounts of precum between your walls. The quickening pace of his breath and the tightening grip on your hips only made it more evident.

“My love…” He purred, his voice a seductive growl that resonated deep within your pussy. “I want to feel you cum around me…”

“Please…” You pleaded in a whisper, not fully sure of what you were pleading.

Astarion surged forward, claiming you with a fervour that stole the breath from your lungs. Every thrust felt overwhelming, as though he were trying to mark you as his own, to leave a lasting imprint on your body and soul. Your bodies moved in perfect harmony, a primal dance that sent shockwaves through you both, pushing you closer to the precipice of bliss.

As the words sunk in, you felt your walls tighten further around his cock. The intensity of the moment was overwhelming, and the delicious pressure built higher and higher, threatening to spill over.

“Together…” You gasped, feeling the edge draw nearer. “I—” His lips crashed against yours in a fierce kiss, drowning out your words as his tongue rapidly tangled with yours. The world around you faded, leaving only the two of you entwined in this frenzied embrace. And then, as if replying to your unspoken plea, the dam broke.

Your climax hit you like a storm, pulsing through your core and leaving you spent as your arms tightened around him and your hips moved to fuck his cock as well. Astarion let out a shuddering moan that broke the kiss, his grip almost bruising you as he reached his own release, his body trembling and spasming as yours with the intensity of it. You felt his warm cum exploding inside you, each release sending a delicious sensation up your womb and cervix, prolonging the endless pleasure crashing through you. His hands held you against him as you both rode out ecstasy, lost in the shared, heady sensation of being completely intertwined as he kept buried inside you.

You clung to him, surrendering to the exquisite moment, feeling utterly consumed by the heat and the connection that bound you together. The aftermath left you gasping for air with your heart racing, both of you lost in the afterglow of passion.

As the lingering waves of your climax subsided after a while in each other's arms, you gazed at Astarion, a playful smile tugging at your lips. His tousled hair fell charmingly over his forehead, and a layer of sweat glistened on his skin, making him look beautiful and irresistibly enchanting.

“You know…” You started softly with a glimmer in your eyes, “You look absolutely adorable like this, all consumed by your heat.” Your heart fluttered as you watched his brows knit together in playful disbelief.

“Adorable?” One of his eyebrows went up. “I assure you, my dear, that’s the last thing on my mind right now.”

“Oh, come on!” You replied, laughter bubbling up like the sweetest melody for his ears. “Just look at you! You’ve never looked more charming—practically irresistible!”

He warmly chuckled, a rich sound that filled the air with joy. “My dear, I was merely indulging in what is quite natural for me. Thank you.”

You feigned a dramatic gasp, placing a hand over your heart in mock shock. “Darling! Just admit it! What an honour it is to see you in such a cute light! Who knew a fierce vampire could also be a cuddly little beast?”

Astarion rolled his eyes, but the smile that tugged at his lips was an undeniable admission of his enjoyment. “Cuddly? Now you’re pushing it, sweetie.”

“Maybe.” You said, leaning closer to him as your eyes sparkled while you batted your eyelashes playfully. “But honestly, there was something so sweet about you right now. You were so lost in the moment, like watching a passionate artist at work.”

He leaned back slightly, crossing his arms with an exaggerated huff, his attempt to maintain composure failing delightfully. “I suppose I must allow you this little delusion, but do not mistake my passion for cuteness.”

“Whatever you say, my fierce little vampire.” You joked, inching even closer. “But I stand by my word. You’re absolutely adorable.”

With a soft, fluttering laugh, you reached up to plant a gentle kiss on his lips. The moment felt electric, charged with love and affection. Astarion’s lips curled against yours before reciprocating your kiss, and for a fleeting second, the heat of passion intertwined with the sweetness of the moment, turning the surrounding air into something truly magical.

As you pulled back, you found him looking at you, a soft smile gracing his features that melted your heart. “You’re insufferable, you know that?” He murmured in a playful voice mixed with exasperation and fondness.

“Only for you.” You replied, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. “And I think you love it. A reason more to the list for being with me!”

“Don’t say it too loud.” He replied, the playful glint in his eyes betraying his bravado.

You laughed, his presence enveloping you as you revelled in the playful banter, your hearts intertwining in the sweetest ways. At that moment, every worry faded, leaving only the bliss of shared affection, laughter, and the delightful intimacy of you two.

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2K notes · View notes

littlejuicebox · 1 year ago

Text

You'll stay still, won't you, little love?

Pairing: Spawn Astarion x F!Reader/Tav

Summary/Setting: Sometime in the beginning of Act 3; you and Astarion are exploring intimacy/sex

Rating/Warnings: M+ / 18+ only please/ Smut with little to no plot / Light BDSM / Soft Dom Astarion vibes / Some mild in game spoilers / PiV / CW / fingering / teasing and overstim if you squint / not beta read or edited too much

Word Count: 2.2K

A/N: I'm a degenerate, idk what else to tell you guys. I’m shocked this came out of my brain, but here we are. Enjoy or be totally flabbergasted or avoid it entirely I don’t know about you all but I simultaneously want to do all three. 💀

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You suspected Astarion enjoyed exploring intimacy with you, perhaps more than he thought he would. The first few weeks after his confession at Moonrise Towers resulted in a rather chaste arrangement between the two of you. Days were filled with stolen pecks and occasional hand holding between missions; nights were spent mostly cuddling half-naked or sometimes simply making out.

When a situation became particularly heated, he would always break away, panting. The flush on his face and the thrumming of his undead heart told you he enjoyed these moments, and his erection pressing into you always became quite the distraction.

Gods, how badly you wanted more. But you had to force yourself to pull back and allow him to take the lead, never pushing further than he was willing to give.

For a few weeks, a bit of grinding and caressing above the waist was as far as Astarion would advance. But shortly after leaving the Shadowlands, something within the silver-haired elf changed. He’d become quite intent on exploring your body almost every night, putting his masterful fingers and tongue to work, almost desperate to watch you come undone.

“You don’t have to, Astarion,” You pant one evening, after a few weeks of nearly daily interactions quite similar to this one. The rogue was working his nimble fingers inside the edge of your small clothes, aiming to delve into your already soaking folds. The bulge of his cock, barely covered by his own underwear, pressed against your rear as he slowly rocked his hips into you.

“I know, my love,” He murmurs, removing his mouth from where it had been tenderly suckling your neck. The vampire licks along the fresh love bite, eliciting a little whimper of pleasure from you. And then he smirks as his fingers find the already engorged bundle of nerves between your legs, causing you to instinctively buck toward him with a whine, “But I want to. I quite like the pretty little sounds you make for me, you know.”

He continues his ministrations for a few moments, reveling in your desperate keens. Nothing else stroked Astarion’s ego quite like this.

“Darling, I’d like to try something different tonight, if you don’t mind.” He purrs as his fingers change their rhythm from the languid circles over your clit to gentle, teasing strokes between your folds. The rogue’s hand dips just enough to tease your entrance with two digits before he retracts again, leaving you mewling in frustration.

You need more. He knows it. And he aimed to give you more tonight, but he couldn’t resist the opportunity to toy with you for a moment or two.

“What is it, Astarion?” You ask breathlessly, as he pauses his movements entirely. You whine again and then turn your head to look at the rogue, where he is smirking down at you, clearly enjoying the desperation he’s elicited from his lover. You are caught between his cock and his hand, slowly rolling your hips back and forth, practically begging the silver-haired elf to fuck you with his fingers.

“I want you to come on my cock tonight.” He responds, arching his eyebrow just slightly, a glimmer of excitement in his eyes, “If that’s what you want, my sweet.”

Your eyes widen in shock, and you swear you feel yourself grow more slick at the mere suggestion. You lick your lips, attempting to moderate your own excitement, trying to avoid making him feel obligated in any way. Astarion’s fingers have resumed their teasing movements, and the newly found wetness causes the vampire to chuckle in delight.

“Judging by the slickness of your perfect little cunt, that certainly is what you want. Am I correct, love?” He purrs into your ear, fangs grazing against your lobe as he rolls his growing erection toward your ass once again.

“Y-yes,” You gasp, and as soon as you do, Astarion rips your underwear from your body before tossing the ruined undergarment across the tent.

“Then you will get what you want on one condition, darling.” He continues, and you feel the engorged head of his cock stroking between your folds from behind. The sensation makes you shiver in delight; you desire nothing more than to have him buried inside you.

“What is it?” You ask, instinctively rolling your hips back against him again, moaning when his length rubs against your clit.

Astarion grabs your hip firmly, digging his nails into the side of your ass and ceasing your movements entirely. You whine and then he’s practically laughing in your ear, you can feel how entertained he is by your predicament. He places a tender kiss on your neck before he purrs, “You aren’t allowed to move one bit, sweet girl, or else I will pull out and leave you with nothing.”

You groan in dismay at this stipulation, “Astarion! I don’t- I don’t know if I can hold still.”

“Oh but my love, the choices are simple,” He continues, his voice playfully condescending as his other hand wanders up to lightly tease a nipple, ripping another little moan from you, “You can either be filled by my cock or by my fingers. So which will it be?”

You whine as the male elf uses one hand to stimulate your breast and the other to barely plunge into your sex again.

“Your cock!” You cry, unable to contain yourself any further, “I want your cock.”

Astarion chuckles, quite content with this response. He slides his erection between your folds again, using your arousal to lubricate his length, “And you’ll stay still, won’t you, little love?”

“Yes, I won’t move,” You agree, and this earns you a delighted groan from the vampire. He reveled in the power dynamics of your coupling, and your willingness to surrender control in the bedroom.

“Good girl,” He coos, and then he’s pressing himself into the entrance of your sex. You moan as the head of his rock-hard cock stretches your cunt; there is a bit of resistance at first; it’s been several weeks since more than two fingers have been inside you, after all.

He takes you inch by inch, slowly dragging himself along your velvet walls. Before long, Astarion’s length has filled you completely, and you’re basking in the sensation of being stretched by your lover.

His breath is ragged behind you as he struggles to remain in control, almost entirely overcome with the desire to simply have his way with you. But that’s not the game tonight, he reminds himself.

In one swift motion he’s rolled you both so that you are straddled over him, your back pressed to his chest. He uses his knees to spread your legs wide, fully opening you up for his seasoned hands to explore. His long fingers drag over your stomach and then travel down between your legs, where they easily find that sensitive nub.

“How does it feel to be sitting atop my cock, darling?” Astarion asks as he slowly, teasingly strokes his slender fingers up and down on your drenched folds. You are seeping arousal at this point, coating him with his well-deserved reward. His cock throbs at the thought.

“Wonderful,” You respond, honestly but breathlessly as you struggle to keep yourself from rolling your hips at all. Your legs are positively shaking with the effort to exert such control, and the little tremors running along your spine are urging the vampire on.

Astarion guides your own hand up to your breasts, where he urges you to tease your own nipple. He palms the flesh of the other breast in one hand as he continues to drag his nimble fingers around your throbbing bud.

You are instinctively clenching around him now, your body desperate to milk every ounce of seed from the vampire. Astarion himself is shaking with the amount of restraint it’s taking him to not lift his hips and fuck up into your warmth.

You cannot restrain yourself any longer, your hips buck and you’re instantly rewarded with the delicious sensation of Astarion’s length running against your walls. But then a sharp, stinging smack singes the side of your ass, and a shocked gasp escapes your lips.

“What did I say, darling? Be a good girl and hold still. Try that again and I will pull out.” The rogue warns while speeding up his efforts on your clit.

You sharply pinch your own nipple, trying desperately to keep yourself from moving any more. But gods, how badly you want to. You’re so close. Your walls are clenching tighter and tighter, and the sensation is causing Astarion to grunt in response. He’s trying just as desperately to hold back as you quiver around him, tempting him to do the exact opposite.

His hips buck just once before he regains control and stills himself, but gods the walls of your tight pussy wrapped around him felt divine. The sharp thrust made you moan loudly in delight, and your entire body was shivering from the self-control you were using to hold still. He felt you standing on the precipice of pleasure, so close to the edge. You just needed a little push to fall into a world of ecstasy, and that, he could provide.

“Let go, little love. Come for me,” He whispers hoarsely, and the command sends you tumbling over the edge. You feel the wave crashing over you, rippling through your sex and up to your spine. You clasp your hand over your mouth as you whine, signaling your release.

You are mid-orgasm when Astarion roughly grabs both sides of your hips and hisses, “Fuck it.”

And then he’s thrusting upwards, repeatedly burying himself inside you, intent on fucking you through the second half of your orgasm. You cry out in pleasure as the vampire moans into the side of your neck, continuing to piston himself into you as he chases his own release.

Once again, his fingers find their way to your over-sensitive clit and he’s working at it frantically, in the practiced motion he knows to be your favorite. You keen and try to clamp your legs shut; the sensation is almost too much. But Astarion growls and forces your legs open with his knees as he quickly brings you to the edge of another orgasm.

Your lover is panting with exertion as he holds back his own release. Through gritted teeth he urges you on, using the hand not playing with your clit to grab your hip and slam you down to meet his thrusts.

“One more, darling. You can do one more, can’t you? Let go, I’ve got you.” He coaxes, his voice near breathless but filled with gravel.

“Oh, fuck!” Is all you can respond as the second orgasm rips through you, stronger than the first. You’re seeing stars as your pussy throbs around Astarion’s shaft, rewarding his efforts with a deliciously tight grip and another gush of your delectable juices. The high-pitched, uninhibited whine that escapes you while you’re drowning in ecstasy is music to the rogue’s ears.

As your greedy cunt clenches around him again during that second wave of pleasure, Astarion emits a strangled moan of his own.

He buries his face in your neck as he soon struggles to buck forward, shakily dragging his sensitive, swollen length in and out of your walls just a few more times before he buries himself balls-deep. Thick ropes of his spend shoot up into your warmth as he groans, consumed by his own euphoria behind you. His cock continues to pulse for a few moments longer, urged on by the relentless spasming of your sex around him.

Both of you are heaving and shaking slightly once he finally relaxes his legs. You’re still laying atop him as he slowly roams his hands over your body, idly stroking your curves in soft, soothing motions.

“I thought you said we couldn’t move,” You finally say, voice completely hoarse from the cries of ecstasy you uttered moments ago.

“I said you couldn’t move, darling. I didn’t say anything about me.” The vampire responds with a self-satisfied smirk as he playfully nips at your earlobe, “Are you truly complaining that I did all the work?”

“No,” You respond, finally pulling yourself off of the vampire, releasing the slick combination of your respective arousals as it drips between the two of you. “But at some point I’d like it to be me making all that effort to bring pleasure to you.”

He pulls you down beside him with a little hum. You pull the blanket over the two of you. No other words are exchanged as you drift to sleep, thoroughly exhausted by the events of the day and this satisfying but unexpected evening. Astarion watches you sleep, and for the first time he allows himself to acknowledge that he might also like to let you have a bit of control in the bedroom… perhaps next time.

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brabblesblog · 6 months ago

Text

A kiss, stolen in a moment away from the crowd.

Read up on what these two idiots are on about here:

Whither is thy beloved gone?

Remember ye not the former things.

Art by @pickled0ctopus

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lovelybluebirdie · 1 year ago

Text

Something to care for

Astarion x f!Reader

Summary: Astarion seeks comfort when he is terrified of losing you to his former master.

Word Count: 2,1k

hurt/comfort, angst and fluff

[ AO3 ]

Fleeting glances across the tavern, jovial laughter followed by a touch to his arm, and Astarion has exactly what he needs. Your trust builds fast over his charming words, so you agree to accompany him to the mansion without doubting his intentions.

Astarion dissociates, follows his usual routine as he has done for over hundreds of years by now, while you remain blissfully unaware that you are already caught in his trap.

The scene feels painfully familiar, and yet it doesn't at all.

Uneasiness spreads over him.

No, this doesn't seem right.

Why are you here?

The next moment you lie on his old master’s bed, your eyes closed and shallow breaths emitting your lungs. A dark silhouette is bending over you, its mouth glued to your neck.

Cazador.

Panic creeps down Astarion's spine.

No, this isn't right at all.

His thoughts start to race. He needs to free you from this monster's claws - now.

Cazador looks up as his lips form a hideous grin, blood running from his chin and spluttering on your motionless body.

“A very pleasant bouquet you have brought to me, boy. But you know of that already, do you not?”

Astarion freezes.

The malice in his voice shatters his ribs with the blow of an axe.

He wants to scream, to get you away from here, but his body doesn’t respond.

Suddenly the whole scene shifts and Astarion finds himself with his fangs buried deep inside your neck, warm liquid pouring in his mouth while your hand rests loosely on his nape.

An unbearable dread rises in him.

He desperately tries to tear himself away, to stop feeding on you, but an invisible force holds him down, leaving it impossible to let go.

He must be going mad.

“You sought out to drink from thinking creatures, did you not? Go on then, lavish yourself on her blood! Bleed her dry.”

Cazador’s command unleashes like a fist to his skull.

Astarion knows that he is enjoying this, and it makes him sick.

He concentrates back on you, frantically looking for a way to get you out of this.

“It's alright, Astarion…” you whisper. “I know this isn’t… you.” You seem on the verge of fainting, the hand that rested in his hair slipping, your pulse weakening.

The fondness in your words almost breaks him.

He wishes to plead, to offer himself - to give Cazador everything he demands, if only he would allow you to leave unharmed, but he can’t speak.

Instead, he feels Cazador’s violent grip push him down, ramming his teeth deeper in your neck.

Astarion’s eyes wet and his body trembles while he’s obliged to swallow more of your blood. The thick liquid spills over his lips onto your neck, drips to your hair and paints the collar of your blouse.

Astarion knows that he’s hurting you, killing you, yet he has no control over his own doing. He can't stop, even if his whole body longs for nothing more than to release you.

His senses start to dull, colourful dots exploding before his eyes, while he’s unable to form a single coherent thought anymore, entirely helpless to this monstrosity he inflicts on you.

“What’s the matter, boy?” his former master taunts with a malignant chuckle and positions himself so that Astarion has to look at him. “Isn’t this what you craved? To be free of me, to do as you please?"

His laugh evolves to a gruesome crescendo, echoing through the dreary halls that Astarion once called his home - mocking him, a punishment for his disobedience.

Astarion summons his remaining strength to banish Cazador from his mind and fixates back on you.

He must save you, now, otherwise you will -

Astarion's lungs are on fire. His fangs ache, and his chest is bursting.

He grasps his throat and chokes as he remembers the taste of your blood in his mouth.

Gods, what has he done to you?

He takes a moment to perceive his surroundings.

This is not Cazador’s mansion, he realises, but your shared tent in the camp you made near Rivington.

The essence of his nightmare returns with agony: his fangs piercing your neck, Cazador’s order to bleed you dry, while you were completely defenceless against his torment. The image is almost too much to bear.

With haste, he begins to fumble the woollen fabric of his bedroll in search of your warm body. He has to ensure that you are alive - that he didn’t hurt you.

Then his hand finds your wrist and he stops in his motion. He pushes the fright that shrouds him aside and feels for your pulse, careful not to wake you. There it is - a constant throb at his fingertips.

Despite the evidence that the violent scene was nothing more than a figment of his imagination, he can’t bring himself to fully accept that there wasn’t an actual threat - that you are safe. Yet he has no desire to worry you with his musings, so he starts to slowly pull his hand away, before he notices that it’s already too late. You sit up beside him, rubbing sleep from your tired eyes.

You look so adorable that his chest grows tight.

“Astarion? Are you alright?” Your brow furrows when your gaze meets his, concern lingers in your voice.

Astarion opens his mouth, only to press it shut again as he feels hot tears forming in his eyes. He swallows hard. He wants to reassure you that it’s nothing, to tell you that you should go back to sleep, but the ferocity he committed in his nightmare robs him of any speech.

You give him an understanding expression and lift your blanket. “Do you want to come over here?”

He nods and shifts towards you.

You wrap your arms around him and pull him into a tight embrace. Astarion sinks his head onto your chest and listens carefully to your heartbeat - to make sure you are truly unscathed. That he didn't kill you, didn't bleed you dry - that he has not become like Cazador.

The pulsing sound flows in a soothing rhythm.

He closes his eyes and inhales your familiar scent. The weight that is crushing his lungs slowly begins to dissolve.

You are so warm, he thinks, so comforting, always so affectionate.

“It’s alright,” you breathe and rest your lips at his temple. “He can’t hurt you now.”

There is no need to ask how you know what haunts him, you simply do, and Astarion buries his face deeper in your chest, grasps the fabric of your tunic and lets out a deep sigh. A few silent tears he has tried to hold back spill from his eyes, dampening your clothes.

Your hands draw circles on the small of his back, up to his shoulder blades, until they move to his hair and tenderly stroke along his ears.

He concentrates on your touch. You are here, with him, unharmed - he didn’t hurt you.

A calmness enfolds and for the first time since he woke he allows himself to relax.

Astarion suddenly wonders if he ever had something like a home, a real home, somewhere he felt safe - not Cazador’s mansion, the place from his nightmare, where he endured nothing but torture and cruelty.

Something he could choose for himself - willingly. Not something he was forced to, but something he wanted.

For centuries he was used to the pain he suffered under Cazador’s rule, but you've proven how different his life can be. Through the time he spends with you, he's learned that he is valued as a person. You make him feel seen - show him compassion and patience, despite him missing the words at times.

You give him honest, loving affection, without any vile intent or in expectation of getting something in return.

You are the only one who is like that. Who genuinely cares for him, who loves him. No one was ever kind to him, only you. No one has a heart like that.

Maybe a home isn’t a place, he thinks, but a person.

He feels your fingers twisting gently around his curls, while he listens to the sound of your beating heart, and wishes to never let go of you.

But there is still Cazador and the Rite of Profane Ascension to overcome, and his mansion is barely a tenday away from now.

Astarion wants to shove the thought aside, but knows he can’t. Not when there is so much at stake - when you give him so much to care for.

He envisions the ancient ritual Cazador has planned.

If he was to complete the rite himself, would he become even more powerful than his old master? Would this newfound power offer you protection - keep both of you safe?

But what if you came to harm once you entered his residence? Hells, what if it would be his fault?

The fear of losing you clings its relentless hooks back to his core.

Astarion sinks deeper into your arms and sighs.

No. He cannot lose you - not to the Absolute, not to Cazador or any other madness you have to encounter along your way.

His shoulders tense, leading you to squeeze them fondly.

“He won’t win, Astarion,'' you vow with the determination that Astarion knows too well by now. “We will beat him.”

At first he wants to scold you, point out how naive you were to think it would be an easy task to confront his past tormentor, but instead he pauses to consider.

He remembers the foes you've come across on your journey. There have been gruesome, vigorous creatures among them, and yet you were able to vanquish them in the end.

Have you gathered enough strength to destroy a powerful enemy like Cazador, though?

For a second, Cazador’s liveless body appears in front of Astarion’s inner eye.

Maybe, there was a real chance…

After all, to ensure that both of you will be safe - truly safe - Cazador must be ended, one way or another.

“Is that so?” Astarion clears his throat and frowns. “Well, when you sound so resolute I find myself actually imagining us succeeding.”

Your features soften as you lean forward and put a kiss to his brow.

“I know we will,” you reply confidently. “Besides, for some reason I was declared the leader of our little group, so I'd suggest you better put some trust in my word.”

“I’m afraid being the leader of this group full of weirdos is hardly something to be proud of, love,” Astarion murmurs against your neck.

“That’s rich, coming from the weirdest of the bunch,” you tease as you tousle through his curls. “You’re a rogue who’s terrified of clowns - shall I go on?”

Astarion snorts at your remark. “I'm not terrified of them!” he protests with a pout. “It's just.. They make me uneasy, alright? And they're not original - or funny. Honestly, I’d rather witness a goblin mating ritual than any of those wretched clown shows again.”

He removes your hand from his hair to intertwine your fingers with his. Then he recalls the image of the clown you visited at the circus the other day and his face turns into a grimace.

“Keep telling yourself that, but I know for a fact that you were absolutely petrified the moment you saw Dribbles.”

“That wasn’t even a regular clown - that beast was also a shapeshifter!” Astarion exclaims in feigned bewilderment.

You raise an eyebrow and wait for a moment, leaving Astarion curious, until you pin him down to tickle him all over.

“Stop it, you cheeky thing!” Astarion presses between his laughs while he tries to shelter his most sensitive parts from your ruthless fingers.

When he eventually manages to roll on top of you and grab your wrists, you look at him lovingly and catch your breath. He feels the remaining knots in his chest come loose.

Then your face turns serious again. “I promise you, we will beat him.”

“Stubborn as ever,” Astarion states and clicks his tongue, before his lips curl up to a genuine smile. “But perhaps I’ll remind you of that promise when the time comes.”

“By all means, I hope you do,” you assure and return his smile, your thumb softly brushing his cheek.

You have a rare talent to relieve the tension, he notices. To make him feel light - to make him laugh even, a real, honest laugh, despite the horrors that linger on his mind of late.

Astarion kisses the tip of your nose and lifts from your chest, resting his body against your back and draws you in a close embrace. Then he buries his face in your hair and presses a kiss to your neck, relishing your pleasant warmth.

A sudden fire rises inside him.

The thought of facing Cazador remains scary, terrifying even, but somehow with you, he senses there is a viable chance to defeat him at last.

You give him something to care for, and he will do everything in his might to protect you - both of you, his home.

He won’t lose you, and he won’t lose this.

Masterlist

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