#astarion x echo

[heylittleriotact]

Open Invitation - Thirty-Two (Watermelon Sugar Hiiiiigh...)

In which:

Astarion annoys everyone in camp

Hot, romantic, sensual period smut because this is a romance fic about a vampire

Ever been to a GWAR concert?

Content Warning: The entirety of this chapter is basically smut centered around menstrual blood so if that's not your thing, best skip this one . Excerpt under the cut🩸

Pairing: Tav (High Elf Feylock) x Astarion

Rating: Explicit

Themes: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Cycle Breaking, Happy Ending (but not without a lot of pain first), very involved archfey patron.

Disclaimer: Complex trauma delving with direct and implied reference to various forms of abuse, including rape/sexual assault, as well as implied self-harm, including suicidal thoughts/behaviour. Explicit violence. Smuuut.

Excerpt:

It wasn’t a warm night by any stretch, and she could feel the cool air on the sensitive, wet heat between her legs. Some blood was drying on her inner thighs and it made her skin prickle as it tightened in the open air.  She brought up a hand to softly trace the shape of his ear and pressed her lips to his. “Go on then…” she whispered.  He kissed her back and smoothed her hair with a careful touch that gave away the best of him whether he wanted it to or not. “Remember to relax,” he told her, “and I’ll see to it that this is as enjoyable for you as it is for me, my sweet.”  She nodded and took a steadying breath, exhaling heavily. She let her eyes slide shut and could feel Astarion’s weight shift as he began moving downwards, trailing sweet kisses over her neck and belly as his hands roved over her abdomen, pushing her shirt up and exploring her skin.  She felt them slide down to the sides of her hips as her nipples hardened in the cool air, and he whispered, “Lift your hips a little for me, love.”  She pushed her hips up slightly into the air and Astarion’s hands slid beneath her, cradling her pelvis. She shivered when she felt his breath on her skin once again.  “Good girl.” Those two little words in combination with the feeling of his lips on the inside of her thigh drew a whine from her, but it wasn’t one of lust or desire: it was one of barely contained longing. Her heart, her mind, her body… they were so full of affection for this man that she felt as though she may as well have a Netherese orb of her own embedded in her chest, threatening to explode at any moment. “Does that feel good, love?” Echo nodded and murmured, “Yes.”  He passed his tongue over the thin delicate skin again, cleaning away the mixture of fresh and dried blood that had been deposited inside of her thighs during the evening. “Good.” He whispered, and she felt his tongue glide over the blood-coated surface of her labia. Her hips jerked in his hands at the sensation of him worrying at her bloodied skin.  “Relax.” He squeezed her ass reassuringly and ran his flattened tongue over the length of her seam, causing her to bite her lip and writhe against him desperately: every touch left the sweetest fire in its wake and her body could not help but surrender to him in every way. He shrugged his shoulders under her knees so he could free his hands to pin her hips, and sounds of pleasure rumbled deep in his throat as he swallowed the life-bearing blood that had collected between her folds like pristine morning dew between the petals of a flower. Even the gentle waves of his voice vibrating into her hypersensitive pussy was a thrill. 

[moonslittlestar]

If we could just hold on a little longer.

[nexelart]

held. secured.

[miraculan-draws]

ECHO CH 8 IS UP RIGHT HERE!!

[something-pithy]

Oooo a drabble. I've been craving your writing, I love the tone and the way you write internal dialogue for both Astarion and Zee/Tav, it's so distinctive for each character. Please gimme a (fluffy?) drabble from Astarion POV?

Looking forward to mid-Julyish!!

Ummm... soo.... first of all, I probably should have checked my tumblr messages before now if I was gonna make such an offer... >.< but better late than never? I hope? I'M SO SORRY Also I tried to do a drabble and this is what happened instead. loooooooooool Thank you so much for the ask! I swear to god I'll write them actually interacting with each other if I get another ask or request looooool ANYWAY HERE WE GO --- Obviously he couldn't tell her what a precious thing she actually was. His self-absorbed mien more than suited him; it was a trademark, a bait-and-switch, and as such, part of an intricate web of defense- and survival mechanisms that had served his aims well.

It wasn't the sex. Well, it wasn't just the sex -- which was obviously superlative, since he was involved, and she was not only creative and cheeky but quite the acrobat, really. At first, he'd tried leaving her tent after -- casual, rakish, smirking.

But the little gremlin always pulled some sort of trick -- asked him some question too ridiculous not to answer, hid his smalls or his boots or his favorite shirt, or simply draped herself over him as though it were the most natural thing in the world, and it always felt like she belonged there.

And how galling it was, at first, to have to attach himself to someone who not only committed their little band of miscreants and misfits -- and consequently and most importantly, him, to acts of kindness, generosity, and selfless heroism, but was a damned bard, and too witty and clever by half to dismiss. Yes, pretty and witty, and despite her do-gooder leanings, indisputably an agent of chaos with a penchant for mischief that... well, how could he help but appreciate it? She was worth her weight in entertainment value, that much was obvious to anyone.

But although it was a rare quality indeed for such a little altruist to be likeable, charming, and interesting enough for him to overlook -- or at least tolerate -- her benign shortcomings, that wasn't it, either.

Well, not all of it.

Part of it was that she was deceptively, appallingly observant. Keenly so. Quietly so. She saw what she oughtn't; past the misdirection, distraction, past the profundity of violence and darkness and rage that pulsed at his core to something... else. Something she had no business looking at, to be frank, but...

He actually hated that. Hated all that she saw and the strange version of it mirrored in her honestly absurdly large eyes and soft soulful melodies and the audacity of her unguarded sadness that in the briefest of moments, he saw. Hated the way it made him ache, the confusion of unsettling softness it evoked. But saw it he did, despite her performance of the clever, playful, pretty, witty mien that suited her even better his own fit him.

Because somehow it was all genuine, it was all her. Like her warmth. Like her kindness. Like her ferocity and tenderness and feral, demented glee. And though he hated those moments when something in her eyes or voice or touch suggested she saw every pathetic, stunted, debased nuance of his being, the magnitude of his deficiency, his weakness, she never exploited it. Never exposed it, never spoke of it.

He strongly suspected that it had never even occurred to her to do so, and that it never would.

Because she was good. Immutably, implausibly, irrevocably good, no matter her impish insouciance, her reckless intemperance, her convivial subversion. No matter whatever shadows or grief haunted her even as she reveled in joy and color and life.

That such a creature could look at him, see him, and see something worthy... it was almost enough to give him hope.

And the rarity of that for one such as him made her precious, indeed.

Or at the very least deranged beyond reckoning. Either way, entertaining such thoughts and... feelings (eugh) was troublesome enough. Actually speaking them could be ruinous.

No matter what she thought she saw in him or how good she might be, he could only entice if he was always just out of reach. It would hardly do for her to know that she was perilously close to having him in the palm of her dainty, lute-calloused little hand.

Besides, the little gremlin would never let him live it down.

[brightermorepls]

So ridiculously normal about these two.

[darksunrising]

Bard On Bard Violence (3/?)

Masterlist of the Echoes of Faerûn Series

× × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

Rating / Warnings : Mature audiences.

Fandom, Pairing : Baldur's Gate III, Raphael x Tav (focus), Astarion x Tav (background)

Author’s notes : If you're about to make a deal with a Devil, you might as well get a lawyer involved, and a good one.

× × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

Echo starts playing later into the night, Astarion by his side, both in their finest, not bloody-est clothes. It doesn’t take long for Raphael to show up in his usual show of flame and embers, though he does raise an eyebrow at Astarion’s presence.

“My, my, little mouse, I didn’t think I would have shaken you so that you would need emotional support”, he teases, making his way to the pair.

“ Legal support, actually”, Astarion corrects with a toothy grin, his hand still firmly set on Echo’s shoulder as he stands, slipping along his spine to his waist. Raphael’s eyebrows furrow, at that, and Echo raises a hand in an attempt to keep peace.

“If you would allow it”, Echo starts with his usual lyrical little lilt of persuasion. “I would rather have another pair of eyes to look over that contract, since I don’t have that much experience with infernal contracts.”

Raphael has a little laugh. “And you believe bringing your vampire little boyfriend will help in that regard?” It’s playful, not as rude as it should sound, considering what he’s saying.

“I used to be a magistrate, believe it or not”, Astarion says, refusing to part with that confident smile. “Echo can read infernal, and I can read legalese ”, he says, with a twirl of his free hand.

Raphael’s expression moves to an unreadable one, stroking his chin for a second before he snaps them away without warning as he did the first time they met. The warmth of the House of Hope hits them like a truck after the chilly night air, and Astarion strengthens his grip on Echo, arm moving to hook around his waist to pull him close against him. Just for show, or to intimidate them, Raphael’s shed his human appearance for his devilish one, skin deep carmine, iris burning bright gold on dark sclera. 

“Welcome back”, he lilts, hands and arms open as he stretches his wings, showing off their ridiculous span before he folds them neatly behind him. “If you’ll follow me to my office, we will be more comfortable there.”

Their steps echo in the halls, all marble and intricately woven tapestries - he has taste, if anything, not to make the place look like a den of evil like you’d expect from a Devil with ambitions such as his. Even the heat is quite pleasant, like basking in the sun after a week of spring rain. It’s quite a large house, too, some doors open on cozy drawing rooms, many closed. Echo can see Astarion’s eyes quickly move from a feature to another, lingering on every lock. He’s memorizing every corner of this place as they walk through it, and the thought that his vampire is already planning a heist in the house of a seemingly very powerful cambion brings the ghost of a smile to his lips.

Raphael’s office is as elegantly decorated as the rest of the House, though more intimate, velvet and chiselled wood, and a burning fire in the hearth, which, if unneeded, certainly does bring a certain atmosphere. The cambion walks around his desk - mahogany, of course, massive, and gestures to the chairs on the other side for the two visitors to sit. Astarion reluctantly lets go of Echo to sit, legs elegantly crossed, while Echo struggles not to sit as he usually does, one leg folded up, or turn it over to straddle it. He figures that’s not really proper to go negotiate a contract on his soul - or part of it, at least.

“Now”, Raphael starts, clapping his hands together. “Here is a little draft I’ve started working on, if you’d like to take a look.” He snaps his fingers again, and a scroll appears out of thin air, unrolling to reveal a neat infernal script, red so deep it almost looks black. He hasn’t bothered writing in Common, of course.

“Do take your time, dear, I have all the time in the world”, Raphael drawls, eyes lidded like a contented cat.

Echo reaches for the scroll. The paper feels like vellum - might be, actually, though he doesn’t want to think about what sort of veal could give out a sheet so long. Silky soft, warm, he can feel the writing on the other side where the quill’s scratched the paper in. He leans in towards astarion, translating as he goes. Not only is this infernal script, but actual infernal. It’s been a while he’s had any practice, but he can make sense of it, if a bit slowly. He does look up at Raphael from time to time, who’s either seemingly deeply focused on his correspondence, or meeting his gaze with a malicious glint in his eyes.

The contract is rather long, and Astarion keeps marvelling at Raphael’s craftiness in his turn of phrases, in the legal sense, of course. It is quite helpful to have the ex-magistrate around, little glasses perched on his nose, to point out subtleties that would have eluded Echo, word-crafty as he is. That’s all the danger in Raphael, millenia of experience in how to best tighten the noose around a human soul in verbose legal jargon, all with the fluidity and lyricism to conceal any nefarious intent.

“I do hope you’ve brought more paper”, Echo says, lips curled up in a smile. “I have some corrections indeed.”

Raphael grins, leaning in towards him.

“Do tell.”

× × ×

“I have to say, I am not fond of ‘when desire and need strikes’ as a denomination for when you can summon my client's services”, Astarion pipes up, clearly enjoying himself quite a lot, the way he puts emphasis on his words. 

The devil leans back in his chair, opening his hands. “Considering your client would have free reign to use the power I provide him whenever his desire strikes, I think that is a fair equivalence”, he replies. He's probably used to having that sort of lazy argument work on his other clientèle. The mischievous glint in his eye confirms he's expecting more from the duo, however. 

“In theory, removed from all context, of course. You know as well as I do that you summoning me has not the same implication as me summoning the Hunger of Hadar with your blessing ”, Echo retorts with half a laugh, to which Raphael brings a hand to his heart in mock offense. 

“Yes, I do think we ought to clarify, how often, and how long you should be able to summon my darl- client's services”, Astarion adds, correcting himself as if the mistake hadn't been intentional. 

“Fine.” Raphael leans back in, like he's conceded a great deal to the pair. “Do tell me your requirements.”

Echo taps his lower lip with the end of the elegant glass quill Raphael's provided for him, gladly noticing the near imperceptible glance the Devil takes at it. “First, I would want a minimum delay of two weeks between summons”, he starts, fully aware that this number is entirely out of the range of what Raphael might accept. He's right in that he immediately interjects like he's been slapped. 

“ Two weeks ?”, he exclaims, feigning shock and horror. “You must be joking. I will give you two days.”

“Unacceptable”, Astarion replies. “My client will need recuperating time between descents into the Hells that two days simply could not fulfill. Ten days.”

“Outrageous. Four days.”

“A week.”

“Five, and I will throw in Balduran holidays.”

Astarion takes a look at Echo, and they both turn back to the Devil. “Done.” Raphael takes some notes, scrawled in a tiny, neat script on a sheet of paper he’s produced from his desk.

“Now, about the length of my client’s sojourns in your House...”

× × ×

The back and forth lasts a little, Astarion and Raphael battling for who will look most like an outraged peacock at the other’s offers, Echo sitting back with a hardly suppressed smile, arms crossed over his chest. Since time is far from linear in the House of Hope, they’d agree Echo could be summoned for a maximum of twelve hours in the House, passing as only one hour in Faerûn. 

Of course, that would also mean his body would only feel that time passing as a single hour. He and Astarion had calculated, with much harship, and much protest from Raphael - not much more competent than either of them concerning algebra - that should he use his summoning right as often as he’d be allowed, Echo would feel 48 by the time he reached 46, which was not acceptable especially to Astarion, who resented to give up more time with him than absolutely necessary, on his already tragically short lifespan. That specific comment, said by the elf with such legal casualness, still managed to take Echo in an emotional chokehold he needed a few minutes to fully rid himself of.

“About the other thing”, Astarion says after a little pause, clearing his throat.

“The other thing?”, Raphael asks, taking an air of innocence that’s almost hilarious to see on his devilish features.

“Sex”, Echo says, very matter-of-factly, arms still crossed over his chest.

“Go on.” Raphael has a little encouraging gesture of the hand. He will make him spell out everything, of course.

“I need a safeword”, Echo starts, the words coming naturally as most do, the hundredth time they come out of your mouth.

“Don’t you trust me to stop if you ask?” Raphael’s expression betrays an inkling of genuineness, beyond that predatory, sharp smile.

“I will not teach you that begging to stop has its appeal...”, Echo says, noticing the hint of a smirk on Astarion’s face, out the corner of his eye. “... on both sides. I need a safeword to differentiate play and actually needing a break.

Raphael’s wings bristle, a little, though he has a little nod, taking notes again. “Fair enough. Do you have one in mind?”

“ Iceberg .” Easy to pronounce, easy to say loudly. Thematically appropriate. Raphael’s smile twitches, and he writes it down.

The rest comes easy. It’s only a checklist of boundaries, and he’s very intimate with those. Nothing unsanitary save for bloodplay. Nothing in public, nothing that would cause permanent death, dismemberment, injury, annoying little conditions like pregnancy, or scarring. That last point, Raphael protested.

“If I am to be your patron, I should bear some mark on you for the length of our agreement. It is common practice, for Warlocks and their Patrons”, Raphael explains, like it bears no arguing.

“Like Mizora’s little gift to our dear friend Wyll, you mean?”, Astarion jibes, mimicking horns sprouting from his head.

“That specific gift was a punishment, rather”, Raphael corrects, raising a finger. “That sending stone he uses as an eye would be a more apt example, for instance.”

“I am not letting you replace one of my body parts, Raphael”, Echo sighs, tapping his fingers over his arm.

“Nor would I want to!”, the Devil replies, opening his hands in good faith surrender. “I only want to be allowed one mark.”

Echo and Astarion share a look. “Did you have anything in mind?”, Echo asks, somewhat suspiciously. Raphael claps his hands together, and stands up.

“Glad you asked, dear.” He strides to a console on the side of the room, and gets a box made of dark, lustered wood, mounted on small feet, intricately carved and gilded. He sets the box on the desk, in front of Echo, and invites him to open it as he sits back in his chair.

With a last quizzical look to the ever impassible cambion, Echo lifts the top of the box to examine its contents. Laid on a deep red velvet cushion, are two matching golden cones, made of intricate, sharp filigree, two tear-shaped rubies dangling from the pointy ends. Astarion’s leaning in with an appreciative little hum - he’s always had an eye for the finer things in life, and they definitely are that.

“I did notice you enjoy to adorn your horns”, Raphael says. “These would have to be fitted, of course, but I figured these would be discreet enough for your liking, and obvious enough for mine.” He looks very sure of himself, which is infuriating mostly because it’s warranted, considering the way Echo looks at the pieces of jewellery. These look like they’ve taken great craftsmanship, and time . Makes him wonder, how long Raphael’s been planning this deal? How long since he’s been sure enough Echo would consider it? To be so utterly familiar with the bard’s tastes?

“It works”, Echo says, as flatly as he can, gently closing the box’s lid. The tone doesn’t matter to Raphael, the Devil’s seen what he needed.

“Good”, he near-purrs, making Astarion’s ears twitch in annoyance at the sound. Nails clicking as he taps them over the wood of the desk.

“I think we have covered most of everything”, the elf interrupts, drawing Echo’s gaze back to him. “Anything else you can think of, darling?”

The tiefling thinks, a little, quill rested on his lip again. Once he notices that little dip in his gaze again, he leans back in his chair again. “I think we’re good.” Raphael’s expression shifts, near-imperceptibly, not long enough for Echo to really read into it. The excitement of the whole situation, negotiating a deal with a Devil , cools down until he starts to feel that little dread again, the natural one any sane person should feel when dealing with a Fiend.

“The amended contract will come to you as soon as possible”, Raphael says as he stands up, Echo and Astarion following suit. “In the meantime... Sleep well.” He raises his hand, and in a snap, the pair are yanked back into the cold night air, only the faint scent of cherries and cedarwood hanging to their clothes proving they were ever gone.

× × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

Comments are super appreciated, and you can dm me if you want to be on the taglist if that’s still a thing people do!

[lirotation]

Mortal Astarion X F! Human Tav. Ummm, angst.👀

For decades, this manor offered him a place to call home in the truest sense. 

The hallway was a sacred gallery, adorned with paintings that were not mere canvases, but tangible echoes of their life together. Each brushstroke, lovingly rendered by her hand, captured the essence of cherished memories.

Whenever he opened the door at the end of the hallway, he was greeted by the radiant smile of his beloved, and the hearth beckoned him to surrender to its comforting embrace. Yet, it was the vast window next to it that held the greatest significance. The tender caress of sunlight danced across his skin as he lost himself in the pages of a book beside her. It was here, bathed in the golden rays, that he could truly revel in the miracle she had bestowed upon him – the cure to his vampiric curse, a gift of life, a reminder of the depths of her love and the power it held to transcend even the most insurmountable of boundaries.

Here at home, he had found everything his heart desired.

But nothing is ever truly perfect. Life simply doesn't work that way.  Even the mightiest of fortresses cannot withstand the relentless march of time.

He thought he was ready for it, but not like this.

Never like this.

_________

The poem cited is "When You Are Old" BY W.B. Yeats. One of my favorites.❤️

Alright, thanks for reading the second installment of my "this did not really happen to my couple". After delving into the mortality of my Tav, Amaara, I found myself confronting a fear more profound than death itself – the fear of morbidity, of life's vibrancy fading before its inevitable end. So I decided to yank my CP around this theme. Self-indulgence at its finest.😊

[vixstarria]

This is even better than that time Ban pegged Ascended Astarion with a whit- *gets shot*

𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Ch 10: Yes.

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

Once in a while, right in the middle of a (not so) ordinary (un)life, love gives us a fairy tale.

Professionally edited by @editing-by-night

Read on AO3.

Masterlist

Commissioned from my dear friend Leira Art <3

Astarion’s thigh was starting to get numb. Ban was on her stomach, stretched out beside him, her hands cradling her face. The unfortunate fact that her elbows were digging into his thigh was something she missed entirely.

He’d arranged for a small moonlit dinner in the gardens, just bedding laid over the grass and nothing but the moon and the stars to keep them company. It had seemed like the perfect idea after a long day of trying to broker some sort of arrangement between Shadowheart and the city about the now-abandoned Sharran cloister. Ban had gone to see Shadowheart for this purpose when she’d first come back to Baldur’s Gate; that had been the day the mirror had been delivered. The two had been coordinating in anticipation of today’s meeting ever since.

He sighed and flexed his leg in an attempt to get Ban to notice his discomfort. She shifted along with the muscle, but merely looked at him, smiling.

“You’ll have to move soon, else your poor husband loses his leg,” he remarked.

She lifted from his leg, smirking. “Nonsense. You’re undead. Regardless, bodies don’t work that way; all you’d get is a… spasm, of sorts, which I’m sure you can handle.” She gave him a soft pat on his beleaguered limb, playfully dismissive.

“As enlightening as you think that is, I actually do know what cramps are. Being undead doesn’t save you from that particular torture, as I’m sure you know.”

“Just teasing you,” she said amiably, lying down to rest her head on his thigh instead.

He looked down at her, admiring the way her hair fanned out in a halo around her head.

“Cramps, spasms… you’re all too familiar with such things, aren’t you?” He wrapped his fingers around her bicep, squeezing. “You’ve probably had more than your fair share, flailing about with that frankly ridiculous weapon of yours.”

“Says you.” Ban huffed, glaring good-naturedly at him. “You couldn’t even swing it, Astarion. You and your little crossbows and daggers…”

He laughed, sliding his hand over her shoulder. “You’ll have to tell me how you became so… forgive me, brawny.” Astarion watched her consider the question, eyes glazing over as she brought forth memories.

“After I ran away from my family, I found my way into the employ of an innkeeper, as a barmaid. Not a horrible place to earn your keep; they were kind enough to allow me to live in one of the rooms of the inn. But as in all such establishments, you occasionally get… unpleasant clientele.”

He rolled his eyes. Of course. “And so this was a way to protect yourself.”

“It was,” she agreed, “One day, a customer managed to get their hands on me; before anyone could intervene, I broke his nose. It was mostly a lucky shot, but the innkeeper saw potential in it. They had been a skilled fighter, and decided to pass their skills along to me. Over time, I built a small reputation keeping the peace in the tavern, took a shine to… all that, and eventually received offers from merchants and the like, to help out or provide protection.”

“With a greatsword?” he said, a little incredulous.

“No, although I wish I had. Merely a longsword; easier to handle, but a lot less impressive.” Her hands mimed swinging one, the movement quick and efficient, if inelegant.

His hands covered hers. “You’ll have to teach me how to wield a greatsword one day.”

Her answer was quick. “Not a chance you’ll have the patience for such a slow weapon, Astarion.”

He chuckled. “Truer words have never been spoken. Besides, finesse and dexterity are all you ever need, really.” He twirled their entwined hands, flipping an invisible dagger in the air. She giggled, and he watched their hands against the night sky, dancing amongst the stars.

“This was a brilliant idea. I’m impressed you came up with it.” He peered down at her as she spoke; he’d thought she’d passed into sleep - her eyes had been closed for some time.

“I’m far more capable than you give me credit for,” he scoffed. Since she was not asleep after all, he gave in to his lingering urge and wrapped his hands around her wrists, tugging her off his much-abused leg and up. Spreading his legs, he guided her to sit between them. She leaned against his chest, closing her eyes as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Far more romantic is what I would have said,” she corrected, “not that I’m complaining. But this is something that… I don’t know, Gale would have done.”

“Gale?” Astarion scoffed in mock offense, “I can do better than anything he could conjure up. Had you said Wyll, I’d have to admit I’d have a slight challenge on my hands.”

“A slight challenge?” Ban laughed, “It would be quite a bit more than a slight challenge for you to outdo Wyll in romantic gestures, Astarion.”

“Tell me, then. What would you consider the most romantic,” he rolled his eyes, “thing he’s done?”

Ban was silent for a moment, then raised a finger in an aha! gesture. “He gave up his life in Faerûn and followed Karlach to the hells.”

His stomach turned, the comment stinging as it hit sensitive spots. She said it in jest, but there was an underlying truth behind her playful words.

“You truly think I wouldn’t do the same for you?” He was a little piqued, the offense not entirely feigned anymore.

Ban shrugged, failing to sense the change in his mood. “And give up everything you have? Every bit of luxury? Your palace, your art, your suits… the sun? Why would you?” she quipped airily.

A soft hiss escaped him. “I would do anything for you; have already done so, to be frank. I’ve fought everything we’ve had to overcome, have I not? Everything we’ve ever faced. I fought for you, for us - fought our enemies, our companions, the Absolute, my master, myself…” he took a sharp, pained breath, “I have clawed my way through everything for the privilege of being the one by your side. Nothing would part me from you.” He clenched his jaw, his scowl deepening. “If anything, I should ask the same of you. Would you go to the hells for me?”

He watched her face. She barely considered the question and answered quickly - too quickly for his liking.

“I would, of course,” she replied, her tone still light and conversational, as if she didn’t take his statement or his question seriously. She smiled at him, but it did nothing but agitate him further.

Why would she take him seriously? It was hypothetical, nothing serious, even though his words had been from the heart. They’d even been to the hells before, however brief, although that was for thievery and to save the godsdamned world. For a moment his mind flashed to Haarlep, his daggers sinking into that cursed incubus’ flesh, for her, always for her-

“Forgive me for asking such an inane question, then,” he snipped, all mirth gone, “For the longest time I’ve felt… unsure. Of how much you love me.”

He’d always felt it, he realized. From their days on the road - wondering when she’d come to her senses and he’d be left to rot, to the early days of his ascension - wondering where she had gone though her body had still been there, to their eventual reconciliation - wondering if he’d ever be enough for her to love him as he did her. Always doubting, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He was exhausted.

She blinked, surprised. “Don’t I tell you enough? I love you so, so much. Endlessly so.” He felt her body stiffen in his arms; it merely served to irritate him even more.

“You do say it more as of late, which I find gratifying. Thank you.” The bitterness bled into his voice; not that he’d tried very hard to mask it. “Whether you truly mean it or not remains in question, especially with how you’ve…” he tilted his head in that cold, arrogant way of his, a defense mechanism she hadn’t seen in awhile, “treated me, since we reconciled.”

She finally realized the extent of his pique, that it ran deep, and that her flippancy had reopened the wound. She lifted herself up to meet his gaze.

“Astarion, I… I am sorry. I-”

“Do not apologize, at least not yet.” He took a moment to clear his head; the Ascendant could never be allowed free rein in conversations like this. Never again. “I refuse to hear mere platitudes in an attempt to placate me. I wish for you to hear what I have to say, and should you feel it appropriate, you may do so then.” He was stern but holding the vitriol back. This needed to be said, but it need not be an argument.

“Alright.”

He watched as she pulled away from him. There was a sudden spike of fear there, one that dissipated when Ban stayed within the circle of his arms. She’d shifted just far enough so that she could meet his gaze.

“I’m listening. Say everything you need to say,” she said gently, offering him a nervous smile. She rested a hand on his thigh, giving him a reassuring squeeze.

I’m here. Her mind touched his, something she’d been doing more and more often these days. He let her in, lowered the walls he’d been hiding behind for so long.

“I am aware you love me. How can I not be, when you have shown me so time and again?” A small, rather sad smile graced his face as he spoke. “What concerns me is the intensity of it - rather, the strength and longevity of it, compared to mine.”

“Strength?” Her lips tugged downwards as she considered his words.

“But I… I did tell you. You’re enough. You’re all I want,” she sighed, “But I also know it’s probably not enough - they’re merely words.”

“I am enough, for now,” he corrected.

A small series of thoughts were passed to her: a memory of their argument after her discovery of the contract, moments when he’d expected her to commune with him but instead she retreated, times he’d hoped she’d feed from him and nourish herself with his blood in moments of intimacy, only for her to turn to their stores instead.

“Would I still be enough, were I to displease you again? We’ve discussed this, but I must confess that I haven’t been completely forthright with my feelings on the matter.”

He wanted to tell her how painful it had been; how reminiscent of being punished by his master it was - to a lesser degree, of course, but it opened the same wounds in him nonetheless. He found his heart failing him, unwilling to inflict pain. He wished he could say it but he couldn’t allow it, wouldn’t willingly hurt her, wouldn’t let her even see-

And what of it, if she treats me that way? I can handle it, have handled it for centuries. I’m not worth better; they’ve all drilled it into me - Cazador and his patrons, our companions, even her. She turned away from me when I was lost, shut me out when I tried to understand her, withheld her heart from me until I begged, wielded silence like a weapon when I didn’t behave. Yes, most of that was my own fault, but that merely serves to prove I’m unworthy of it all. Of her.

Just shut up, Astarion. Let whatever needs to happen happen. You don’t-

He felt the air in his lungs escape him as her arms crashed around him and held him tightly, so tightly it felt like it could bruise. He found himself pressed against her chest, realizing she was murmuring into his hair.

“No, no, don’t hide, please,” she whimpered, barely coherent, “You- I didn’t know, I didn’t see, and I know you’ve tried to tell me before but it felt like barbs you were throwing mid-argument. I didn’t want to see there was truth behind them. I’m them, aren’t I? I’m so sorry, Astarion, please.”

He let her hold him, allowed her to cry into his hair, fingers digging into his back with a desperation he hadn't seen in her before. His hands rubbed her back, but he didn’t speak. His thoughts had slipped into her mind as they’d flitted through his, he realized, but he didn’t regret it.

“I love you. I love you so godsdamned much and I realize I’ve been doing it wrong, not loving you the way you deserve. I’ve been neglecting your needs in favor of my own. I’ve been… all of them. Cazador, everyone who ever used you, even my wretched parents. I’m like them - I’ve been being everything I hated in them all and I’m just like them and I should just-”

Her frantic words cut off in a sharp intake of breath and she tried to pull away, her face stricken with horror. Astarion held on, refusing to let her go.

“Don’t go,” he crooned softly, as if calming a skittish animal, “because that would only serve to hurt me more. If you do love me so much then tell me. Show me. I need both in equal measure, my love.”

“I thought I was,” she choked out, “I thought I had been trying. And I’m not sure I’ve succeeded at all-”

She bit back a sob, refusing to allow her words to dissolve into tears. Not right now, when he deserved to hear more than sad blathering, knowing that his first instinct would be to backtrack. The tears came anyway, pooling in her eyes. She took several deep breaths to collect herself before continuing.

“There’s trying, and there’s not trying hard enough. I’ve been the latter; I see your pain and I make attempts in the moment, but then you seem better and I let myself carry on. I slip into old habits and behind walls that are all too easy to hide behind - and I let myself ignore what’s outside those walls.” She laughed, the bitterness evident. “Ironic, I think, that I’ve been doing what you did after the rite. I’ve been hiding myself from you, the way you hid yourself from me. You’ve tried so hard to heal my pain, attended to my needs, at the expense of your own… worked tirelessly at undoing the damage of those early months, and you’ve succeeded… but it was so easy for me to keep letting you do that, to be neglectful attending to you and your needs. To your heart. I will try to be better - No. I will be better. I swear it.”

And there were truths, painful ones, that needed to be said. She steeled herself; there wouldn’t be a better time.

“It has been better,” he assured, “These past weeks have been wonderful; they’ve soothed a lot of the ache. I suppose I merely wanted you to know, and even then I wasn’t sure if it was worth the risk of dredging up.”

“Oh, but it is. There’s something I should have told you, something I should have talked to you about the moment we reconciled, or any one of a hundred times since. I should have told you that although I never stopped loving you, and wanted to be with you again, I didn’t forgive you. That I resented what you’d done to me, resented it enough to keep holding it against you, to measure every good thing you did against the past - and I found it lacking.”

“Ban-” he tried to interrupt, his face a mask of worry, but she shook her head; her eyes begged him to allow her to do what he’d done for her barely more than a month ago. He quietened once more, tightening his grip on her, grounding them both.

“I withdrew at every sign of discomfort; I didn't even really try to trust you more, not outside of our bedroom, anyway… Even as I promised to work on us... I used affection as currency - I saw it as… justified retribution, at times. Not consciously, not deliberately, I don’t think, but neither did I deliberately try to move past those feelings. Even as I speak now I’m only now finding the words for it. All I know is I should have told you this, should have realized earlier what it was I was doing to you. I should’ve been fighting to improve myself, and our relationship, like you were, instead of putting all the burden and responsibility for my feelings and our happiness onto you alone.” She finally let him go enough to cup his cheek.

“We desperately need to learn how to talk, Astarion, as laughably simple as that sounds. Let’s both do what you promised to do for me - if we find ourselves unable to talk it out, we’ll use the connection to think it out, together.” He nodded in agreement and she sighed, calmer now, but no less agonized over these personal revelations.

“I wish I… hadn’t done any of that, or that we had found our way to talking about it earlier, but I also know how… recalcitrant I can be. And of course you feared yet another retreat, or worse, had you tried and it escalated. I didn’t make any attempt to talk about it, and you didn’t feel safe enough to try. We've both spent too long afraid to talk, me fearing compulsion and now you fearing abandonment.”

He chuckled. “On that I cannot refute you, and thus can provide no comfort. On the other hand, not all of my concerns are because of your transgressions, or mine. Some of it is concern about your… former mortality.”

Ban froze for a moment, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“It isn’t a fundamental issue, but if we are to talk about love, and its relative… longevity, even though such a concept is nebulous at best,” Astarion’s eyes flicked away, gathering the strands of the thought he was trying to piece together. “I suppose this is worth bringing into the discussion.”

She saw the way his eyes darted away, locking onto some distant spot; the way his shoulders squared, the bated breath. Even now he tries to diminish his own feelings to avoid upsetting me further. Now that she was watching for it, she couldn't believe she hadn’t seen it all this time - rather, that she had seen, but had refused to acknowledge it, so much so that it had stopped registering in her conscious mind. Never again, she vowed silently.

“What ‘this’?” She was confused, but allowed him the space to think.

He stayed unmoving for a few moments, then finally reached for her mind.

What flowed into her was immense - seemingly boundless stretches of time, of days flowing into months flowing into years, decades, centuries. The moon rising and setting, interminable nights of untold suffering and the rare, quiet moments in between, stretching seemingly endlessly. To her, it felt an eternity - although she knew this was a mere grain of sand in the infinity of time.

Fragments of memories, the earliest of which were mere wisps, lost to the weight of the centuries; then his time with Cazador, bathed in cruelty, a parade of bodies and the scents of rot and sex and filth, blood-red and tinged with pain and fear and anger and self-loathing, all blending together in one massive wave of anguish - then silence.

His year alone, she realized, a small gasp escaping her as he allowed her to see a fraction of how it had felt. The maddening isolation, the despairing, desperate prayers to every god ever named, his fingers bleeding throat raw stomach hollow every muscle aching mind racing and this is it forevermore the four corners of this cold tomb please let me die please-

“Astarion,” she cried out, gripping his shoulder, trying to stop him from spiraling. Those beautiful eyes locked onto hers and to her surprise he was calm. He took her hand, squeezing it.

The memories shifted. The colors became more vivid, the smells became warm and heavenly in comparison to everything else before. The chirping of birds. The smell of grass and earth. Sunlight. Blood from a boar, warm and so, so much of it, and his stomach had never felt so full…

Footsteps, a blade held to someone’s throat. Cautious, hesitant trust. The smell of thinking blood, so close he could lean in and taste it. Laughter. Voices. Her voice. His teeth, sinking in, that first taste forever dooming him to crave it, crave her. Their first nights together, the push-pull of his heart and mind, warring between thinking her a gullible fool and the flickering ember of warmth and affection in his chest.

I want us to be something real.

But not merely real; thiramin - passionate, true, eternal. Nights under the stars. Fighting back to back, daggers and sword flowing seamlessly. Banter by the campfire. Frustration as he regarded her hands, trying to teach her how to pick locks, only for her to give up and smash the chest with one swing of her sword. Those same hands, touching him with an aching tenderness. Uneasiness slowly morphing into trust and then into comfort and then longing, into home. Touch me love me see me be with me, forever and longer than that. I love you, I love you and I will say it, soon, every single day, when I am free.

His eyes left hers, downcast as the memories continued to flow.

Power, as it flowed into him, exhilaration drowned by the look on her face and the disgust in her heart until all he felt was loss and anger, that the thing he loved most would slip through his fingers when freedom was finally his. Regret, still stabbing even to this day. Visions of her face, cold and angry and at times frightened. His voice, commanding, demanding her subservience - on your knees, a finger pointing downwards. The denial of any vulnerability - rebuffing her when she reached for him, admonishment for the attempt. The slow corruption of what was between them.

Astarion didn’t shy from it, his hand merely tightened on hers. The stream of recollections didn’t stop, but his eyes flicked back to hers.

The agony of losing her, the hopelessness, the emptiness. The slow process of prying open his heart once more, at first nearly impossible and then increasingly easy. The sheer joy of seeing her smile at him again, her face emblazoned into his mind. Memories of more recent, happier times. Elation mixed with spikes of anxiety whenever she retreated from him - confusion, worry, fear. And finally, the slow ebbing of those feelings, contentment suffusing more and more of the final visions, the doubt ever-smaller, more easily brushed away.

And then she was seeing through his eyes, he through hers, here in the garden with no other soul, only the stars in the sky. One last feeling - love - and he retracted from her mind, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Ban snapped back to reality, to her own mind, reeling. In front of her Astarion looked fond, his hand still cradling hers, waiting for her to settle before he continued.

“A long time to live, and I am still young for an elf,” he began, “I would assume the weight of it infinitely more burdensome for someone as young as you, from a short-lived race.”

She nodded. “I wouldn’t contest that. Were I not turned, I would have died within the century.”

“But you will not,” Astarion reminded, “I am merely concerned about your capability of loving steadfastly, long past the normal span of your lifetime. The constancy required for a love that spans millennia, that follows us through reincarnations… It is something elves are born with. It is not so for humans. I simply… wanted to bring it to light.”

“Astarion,” she said, voice tinged with hurt, “Just because I’m human doesn’t mean I will fall out of love with you in a century or two. No one can know the future, but I swear to you - I will love you for however long this-” she gestured between them, “-undeath lasts, love you the best that I am able. Eternity, if it comes to that.”

Ban weighed her words, weighed the visions he’d allowed her to see. “I know I can’t prove anything today. The future is never set, and I’ve hurt you. I have no idea how to measure our love, to even consider if they are things to be compared against each other-”

“They are not,” he assured her, “But I appreciate that they have now been spoken out loud. That I am understood, seen, and that you do not disagree.”

“If that’s the case, I can promise to continue comprehending. To… see you, fully, even when it’s uncomfortable for me. To understand, to do better. To listen and care, and love. To work toward your happiness as much as my own. To fight for us, always. I can’t prove it today, but I will prove it. From today, until forever.” She made this vow without hesitation or reservation, and with utter sincerity.

Astarion smiled at her, a soft, almost hesitant smile, one that told her she’d soothed a lot of his heartache, before leaning his forehead to touch hers. They sat, quietly, absorbing one another’s feelings through their bond.

“Astarion…” She lifted his hand and placed it over her heart as she spoke; his brows raised in surprise. They had spent a long time in heavy but comfortable silence, basking in the closeness of their shared emotions. Hearing her speak aloud nearly startled him, but he was eager to hear what she may have to say.

She waited until his eyes met hers, until that slight surprise passed into curiosity. He held her gaze, lips parted as if to speak.

“Let me get this out,” she interjected before he could respond. His lip quirked, eyes narrowing, his brows shifting into an expression of wry, if fond, amusement.

Ban locked her gaze onto those beloved crimson irises, ignoring everything else. If she considered any more of his beautiful face, she was sure her courage would fail her. She’d been thinking about this, had been considering it for a long while before the mirror, before her family came back into their lives. She had lain awake thinking of it as she was cradled in his arms, had almost spoken it into being numerous times in post-coital bliss or in quiet, happy moments. It had never been quite the right time - something had always come up - whether it be some small quarrel they had, some playful remark that derailed her line of thought, or simple cowardice. She’d let her lingering doubts serve as excuses, but the idea never went away for long. This finally felt like the right time, to finally fully open herself to him, to let her faith and love and trust shine through in actions, as well as words.

She felt her hand shake, tears threatening to blur her vision, and swallowed hard.

“I figured I would say this sooner or later, or if I’d kept letting my cowardice win then later than sooner, to be frank. It’s been on my mind for…. Well, I’m not even sure how long, but it’s been a long time. It first crossed my mind that it would make sense, politically - legally it would make sense as well: properties, assets, all that - and no one would question the legitimacy of our union, would solidify alliances and our good standing, and-”

Her words were cut off by a soft laugh. He leaned in, keeping his hand over her unusually fast heart, and pressed his lips to her forehead.

“Keep going,” he urged, his tremulous voice filled with a hunger she barely recognized, and although he was smiling, his eyes were misty and intensely focused, as if not a single other thing existed in the world besides her, and him, and this moment. “I think I’d rather like to hear what else you have to say.”

She couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, so she gave up trying. Taking a deep breath, she whispered, “I love you.”

“I’m aware,” Astarion responded, the picture of patience. “And you’re well aware of how much I adore you in turn.”

“This isn’t… politically it does make sense,” she said again, knowing full well she was repeating herself. “But I don’t want you to think that, I- I’m not doing this because it makes sense. It- that’s not it, and I’ve just been thinking it and it’s not that, do you un-”

This time it was his lips on hers that interrupted her, a soft caress that was unhurried and filled with nothing but reassurance. He held the back of her head, keeping her close. She allowed herself to melt against his parted lips, allowed his tongue to slip in and explore her, but he barely dipped in before retreating. He didn’t speak, merely gave her a small nod, thumb wiping away a falling tear.

She took several deep breaths, collecting her thoughts as best she could; she was appalled how much she had fumbled it thus far. “I’ve thought about saying it so many times, and in just as many ways. When I was lying in your arms, when I’d made you laugh, over meals, when we talked about our plans, even when we argued…” She shook her head. “Gods, even before that. I fantasized about it that first night in the clearing - stupid and naive, I know, but there it is. It just kept popping into my head, ever-present, always a wonderful daydream that I daren’t speak into existence. I was afraid I’d ruin it.. I knew… I knew it would seem cold, calculated, because there is so much benefit to our goals in it, and I didn’t want it to be for that. I didn’t want to say it when you might think it was only about that, because it isn’t, not at all. And then the time never felt quite right, and I was so scared of making you feel it was cheapened by politics…” She sighed, pausing again to gather her courage.

The words finally managed to leave her mouth. “I want… forever. I want what you wanted, all this time. To be real.” Another shaky breath, and she saw the smile on his face fade, replaced by an eagerness framed with such tenderness it almost broke her. “I was your first. I want to be your last. I want you to marry me. Say yes, please.”

“Ban,” Astarion chuckled. It was a soft, wet sound, his sniffling ruining the intended effect. “You merely had to say ‘will you marry me’ and it would have sufficed.” He flapped a hand dramatically. “You could have gone with some quip, like ‘if you turned me into your bride, why don’t we make it real’ or some comment about how I already call you my wife…” He trailed off as he realized she’d begun to sob, shoulders shaking.

“Love… yes. Of course yes!” He shook his head at the utter idiocy of this moment, of how she’d assumed, even for a moment, that he’d refuse, as if all that babble wasn’t just his own nervousness coming to the fore, the old theatrics a way to defuse strong emotions. He pulled her to him tightly, pressing her to him, his joy overwhelming him as he felt her return the hug with just as much strength.

Yes. Of course, yes. Astarion recognized it for what it was - a large step - and felt joy suffuse him. I am seen, chosen, cherished, loved… I am enough! Everything he’d wanted and had ever needed, condensed into the being of this magnificent person he held in his arms. He pulled away to peer at her face and she shied away, cuddling deeper against him, as if she could stay there forever to avoid his prying eyes.

“Darling, your tears will stain my shirt,” he chided, as if he wasn't crying himself, tears streaking all over his own face. There was a muffled sorry and she let him go, her hands moving to cover her face; he was quick enough, however, and caught her wrists.

“There’s no need to hide, nor cry for that matter,” he murmured, blinking his own tears away. “This is a happy moment. We’re to be wedded, for real this time - not that it matters, really,” he scoffed. “I’ve considered us husband and wife for, gods, I don’t even know how long.” That made her smile, at least, and she finally opened her eyes, although she hadn’t looked him in the face yet.

“Do indulge your to-be-husband, Ban. First, don’t enlist a cleric to officiate the ceremony. I won’t stand for religious prattle. And second, I want to be wed quickly. No more than a month.”

“A month we can do. As for the other, I was thinking Ulder might help us,” she finally said. He blinked in surprise, impressed.

“So you have planned this,” he mused. “You figured you could pull favors from dear Wyll’s old man, get a wonderful ceremony, and consolidate political influence, all in one fell swoop.” He clapped his hands in amusement. “I’m impressed.”

“Well there was also the fact that I get to marry you,” she quipped, eyes still pointedly staring at his chin instead of his face.

Astarion placed a hand under her chin, tilting her face up. “I know,” he murmured. “I know all too well.”

He leaned in close, slotting his lips against hers. This time he didn’t pull away, allowing the kiss to intensify. He waited for her to part her lips then pushed his tongue in, tasting and devouring. Finding a fang, he pressed his tongue against it, longing for her to taste him.

When they parted he was breathless, eyes locked onto her face. “How long have you been considering this?”

“A while,” came the answer, spoken hurriedly as he pulled her on top of him, lying back onto the dewy grass. “After the clearing, it was a daydream - a silly, romantic wish. I first thought of it as more than a fantasy, in terms of the political benefits, shortly after we reconciled, but of course didn’t really think seriously on it then. In terms of when it became something I definitely wanted, for myself - for us… When we had the ball to celebrate our first year. I could see us doing that, but instead of celebrating an anniversary, it would be our wedding.”

“Then why not ask me earlier? That was months ago.” He shivered at the feeling of her lips pressing against the base of his ear; Ban was obviously seeking to correct previous shortcomings. He felt her trail a small path of kisses across his jaw, and then the underside and down his throat. He sat up a bit, propping himself up on his elbows, baring his neck to her, a plea for her to continue. “Did you think I would be so foolish as to decline forever with you, when that’s all I’ve longed for?”

“I thought you would find the ceremony involved trite; like you said, you already obviously considered us wedded,” Ban said. “I also didn’t want you to think it was merely a political move. I didn’t know how to make it romantic and not… pragmatic.” There was a quick pause and then her lips were replaced by fangs, cautiously scraping against his skin, far more hesitant than he would have been. The sensation sent a wave of delight straight to his groin, regardless. “I apologize that I haven’t been feeding from you. It’s not you. I- it’s taken a long time to be comfortable with what I am now.”

“Forgiven.” Astarion purred as her hand wrapped around his nape, guiding his head to the angle she desired. Fingers caressed the curls at the base of his neck, sending more shivers racing along his body. He’d known of her issues coming to terms with her undeath - he’d been hoping learning how to use her powers would help finally ease her into it. That being why she rarely sank her fangs into him was a significant relief, chasing even more of his concerns away. “It is trite,” he admitted, a small sigh escaping his lips as he pressed his hips against hers. “As much as I do agree - doing so will solidify your legitimacy as my partner, afford you more respect, provide a wondrous opportunity to host a grand ball, provide ample chance for mingling, and bind us together in a new way, one that I want very much. I am no fool; I am not incapable of knowing both can be true at the same time.”

“I know you’re not. I just didn’t want you to-”

“To be hurt,” he agreed, placing a hand over his chest dramatically, the effect significantly lessened by the fact that he was painfully hard. The comfort at her openness, in the acknowledgment of his hurts, the balm of her promises, the all-encompassing joy of their engagement, the pleasant weight of her straddling him, grinding against him, the press of her fangs against his neck… It all blended, forming an irresistible cocktail of desire. “Darling. I’m touched. A little insulted you’d think me that incognizant,” he chuckled as she huffed at him, “but very, very glad you have thought of me - worried for me.”

“That being sa-'' he began to say, but the words were aborted in favor of a low, undignified whine as her fangs finally found their mark, sinking into his neck. Pain and icy coldness spread from the pinprick wounds as she drank - rather clumsily in his opinion - the pain quickly followed by pleasure. His hips bucked as her fingers gently traced the edge of his ear. “You- ah- might want to suck and then swallow, instead of… whatever it is you’re attempting to do.” He shifted to center his cock against her, allowing her to feel all of him with every grind of her hips.

Ban opened her mouth to snap out a retort, forgetting to lick the wounds to stem the flow beforehand. Blood gushed and she swore, tongue immediately latching onto his neck to seal them shut.

Astarion snorted. “Messy, Ban. Whatsoever would you do if you actually did have to drink someone dry? You’d have half of it spill.” He took a look at his shirt and sighed. “There’s also the fact that you ruined my sh…”

He cut off with a groan, her wicked tongue lapping harder at his neck, sliding down to his collarbone, licking the blood that had pooled there. A soft snap heralded his shirt being torn open, buttons flying off in every direction, baring his chest. There was another sharp flash of painful pleasure as she nipped at the hard planes of his chest, nicking him slightly above a nipple; he opened his eyes to see her licking at the small rivulets of blood.

“Fuck the shirt,” she said, eyes glinting mischievously. “I want you to forget everything but my name.”

He swallowed, his skin feeling a little too tight, and his cock gave a long throb at her words. He was rather taken aback, surprised by the uncommon forwardness; he delighted in it, in fact. “You’ll have to try harder than that.” Not that he thought she’d have a hard time of it - Ban knew him as well as he her, and all she had to do was place her finger-

But that wasn’t a finger, was it?

She’d slid up his body again, pressed a kiss against his lips - quick and hurried - and before he knew it she’d taken his ear into her mouth, sucking it once. Hard.

The sensation was gone as soon as it came - wet and hot and tingling all around his ear, almost overwhelmingly intense for that split second. He whined at its loss, hips violently jerking up against hers, cock straining against his trousers.

There was want, there was need, but there was also desperation.

“You utter…” He shook his head. “Where did you learn that from?” More, he thought, I need more.

Ban laughed, pulling away to shoot him a wry grin. “A couple of suggestions from friends, here and there…”

He groaned. “Shadowheart?”

“Perhaps.”

He felt her hand snake down, wrapping around his clothed length; his hips canted upwards of their own accord to meet her, seeking friction. The other hand traced an ear, tongue swirling around a nipple and gods he refused to come like this, at least not tonight…

“That’s quite enough.” There was no bite in his tone - he thought it impossible at the moment - but she paused long enough for him to lean her back until she was underneath him. One long, hard thrust - pressing his cock against her, fabric the only thing between them and oh gods he could feel how wet she was - and he pulled away enough to flip her over.

“Was it too much?” She propped herself up, looking at him over her shoulder with careful, slightly concerned eyes. Astarion shook his head.

“On the contrary; I want more of it, much more - but later, else this won’t be a long enough nor a worthy enough encounter for our engagement night.” He considered her, laid out in front of him, eyes and body beckoning to him. “On your stomach, darling,” he whispered, pleased at how quickly she obeyed, lying flat and resting her head on her hands, the muscled expanse of her back and ass presented to him. He ran his hands up the back of her legs, slipping under her dress, fingers digging into each ass cheek before rucking the garment up and off, tossing it to the side.

She turned to look at him, amused. This he matched with a wry grin of his own as he sat up and made a show of stripping off his trousers - slowly undoing the laces, hooking his fingers under the waistband and tugging them down inch by painstaking inch to reveal pale, perfect hipbones, running a hand over the tented outline of his cock, causing her to bite back a moan. She knew Astarion was fully aware of how he looked: bloody shirt torn open, wounds already closing, grass in his hair, cockhead finally slipping out of his trousers. He stroked himself again, eyes locked onto her.

“Hurry up, you tease,” she admonished, rolling her hips to briefly lift her ass up in the air.

He didn’t need to be told twice. Trousers and underwear were roughly tugged down and kicked off. He crawled towards her and she began to spread her legs in anticipation, but he stopped her with a gentle touch. Guiding her thighs back together, he slid his legs on either side of hers. He grasped himself as he shoved her underwear to the side, sliding across her folds, rubbing himself against her.

She watched him throughout all this, her look of amusement changing into one of lust. He gave her one last smug smirk, then slowly sank inside her; the position made the fit deliciously tight, but she was so wet he slipped in without difficulty, burying himself to the hilt. They both groaned when his balls pressed against her.

He leaned forwards, palms gripping the small of her back, thrusting into her. Utterly perfect, that tight, wet, heat that was taking him so well, the feeling of being home. His thrusts gradually lost their slow pace as his self control dissipated. With every stroke he could hear her moan, feel her clenching all around him in an exquisite rhythm that was only her, could only ever be her-

He wrapped his hands around her waist, urging her to sit up. He sent an image over their connection, showing her what he wanted, and she had to bite back a moan of anticipation. He knelt as her legs slipped out from under him, watched hungrily as she straddled him, her back arching against his chest as she slid down onto his length once more. Her ass was pressed wonderfully against him and she began to ride him slowly, gliding her hips languorously, keeping him deep inside her. He rolled his hips up into her, working with the rhythm of her movements, slipping a hand lower to part her folds and find her clit, tracing circles in a slow but insistent pattern.

“Astarion, I love you,” she groaned out. “I’ve always loved you. Have always wanted you, longed for you, needed you. You… you deserve everything - love, happiness, the world. I haven’t been the best at giving it to you, but I swear I will. I’ll love you and cherish you and choose you, over and over again, in every lifetime and beyond. My life didn’t really even start until you. You were my real beginning, my future… you’ll be with me at the end, and for every step in between. You’re the part I’ve always been missing, the half that makes me whole, the other half of my soul. There’s only ever been you, there will only ever be you.” She was babbling, words spilling freely, words she had kept behind walls for so long.

Words he had always needed to hear. Words that only fueled his desire and joy, that brought tears to his eyes and drew a whimper from his lips, hips thrusting faster in response. What he had hoped she’d be to him for so long, finally reciprocated. In her own words, yes, but very much the same. He breathed the words out into their bond, hoping she understood.

My thiramin. Finally. My very own. I’ve waited for you for so long.

They both sighed, both overwhelmed by the headiness of the moment, their bodies moving in unison. Their grinding gradually began losing rhythm as they both approached their peak, the quiet gasps and groans becoming more urgent. His hand snaked up her body to her neck, fingers wrapping below her chin to pull her head back; she felt him press his lips against her pulse, then replace them with fangs.

“I should show you how it’s done,” he purred. “How to bite perfectly, to suck, to swallow, to lick.” Each word was accompanied by the action itself. A small nip, enough to break skin and draw blood, then pleasant suction, and then loud, exaggerated swallows, accompanied by moans of satisfaction breathed right beside her ear. In conjunction with those talented fingers on her clit and the unhurried rhythm of their lovemaking, it was almost too much, but she never wanted to stop.

She leaned into his touch, arching her back and neck to give him even more access. Tangling her fingers in his curls, she tugged, urging his head forward. He followed her lead, eyes closed. She could tell he was close, possibly even closer than she was - his short, rapid panting, the now-frantic rolling of his hips, the fingers on her clit losing their tempo - she saw it all, saw her husband lost in her, lost in his pleasure and joy, and she intended to give him more.

He was pressed tightly against her, jaw digging into her shoulder as he drank from her neck, his eyes roved down her body, watching everything. He was so focused, so lost, he didn’t even register her movement as she shifted to wrap her lips around his ear again. She took it in and gave a long, firm lick and then a sudden suck, swallowing as she did.

She felt him come before she heard it - the sharp, hard jerk of his hips, the sudden, violent slam of his cock so deep inside her it bordered on pain, and the fingers on her neck tightened, overwhelming her with sensation. His loud, whimpered gasp followed a half a heartbeat later, quickly chased by his low, guttural moan as he spilled inside her. The feeling was so intimate, so delicious, so perfect and she came undone as well, clenching tightly around him over and over as their joint pleasure took them both.

Perfect, his cock buried in her, her spasming around every inch of him, his fingers working her through their orgasms. Suddenly, their minds linked, each reaching for the other at their peak, reveling in the joy and the love and the overwhelming pleasure the other felt. Her clit, his cock, his hand on her neck, her fingers in his curls, his ear between her lips, her nails digging into his thigh - every sensation mixed together in a golden spiral that was magnificent and wonderful and beautiful and euphoric and consuming and it was everything and then suddenly it became too much. They instinctively drew away from the contact, the edges of it having become too keen, leaving them both overstimulated, overwhelmed, and a bit delirious.

Their bodies slowed in unison and they collapsed into each other as the last waves washed over them. She leaned heavily against him; he released her neck and held her close.

“That,” Ban said, licking her lips shakily, “was new.”

“Far newer than even you intended,” he agreed. “I however found it glorious - both things, in case you were wondering.”

Ban nodded. “That last thing we’ll have to use sparingly, I think. I…” she sighed, feeling lightheaded. It was amazing, far more intense than the time they’d melded minds while touching themselves before their reconciliation. Remember, Ban, openness, she admonished herself. She found it easy to do, suddenly realizing the lack had been more a force of habit than any actual need to hide, for awhile now. “It was amazing, much more intense than when we shared our pleasure from afar.” Her voice was quiet, almost distant, her mind struggling to retain thoughts in the aftermath.

“Agreed.” Astarion’s voice cut through the haze in her head, and he slowly repositioned them, turning her in his arms to cradle her in his lap. She could see him peering at her, the concern in his gaze obvious. “Are you alright?”

“Oh yes, just a bit adrift, like my mind is more exhausted than my body. I do think I’ll need a break after this, though,” she admitted.

He hummed softly, thoughtful. “Perhaps it would be a good time to bring back that idea we had - that little game we wanted to play. We agreed on a tenday, yes?”

Ban chuckled, tickled even through her exhaustion. “I’ll do you one better. Not until our wedding.”

“Not until-” Astarion cursed. “Gods. You are evil, you know that? You give me the best meal of my life and then decide on a month-long fast - evil. Unmercifully, unrepentantly evil.”

“It’s a yes or a no, Astarion.”

He smiled, seemingly pleased at the prospect despite his complaints. “It is not unprecedented amongst elven mates, to fast in this way, for long periods, to heighten the pleasure…” he mused, a devilish smirk blooming at the thought. “I’d very much like to see how intense things can be after a month’s respite.”

“Yes, or no,” she pressed.

He laughed. “Yes, darling. Yes to everything.”

To every question she’d asked today, to every one she would ask from this little game to eternity - yes.

Bonus: Was listening to this song while writing this chapter!

Taglist: @tavamarie @ayselluna @enterthedreams @coltaire @qiific3 @misscrissfemmefatale @vixstarria @eatyourheartoutmylove @micropoe10 @thegoodwitchs-blog @akirahime @velcyrptr @i-cant-get-into-my-other-account @babblebrain-blog @asterordinary @last-but-not-the-least @artist4theworld @gracemisconduct @decedentcoffeewizard @rootin-tootin-n-kind @pursuitseternal @youngtacobanana @krispeenuggiez @girlygmer-blog @cheezits4lyfe @vinegarjello @the0ldmann @wisteriaofthegraves @midnight-musings-of-nyx @toni-winchester @icybluepenguin @beepersteeper @hereliesblackdragon @generalstephkenobi

[fangswbenefits]

Book

Summary: Astarion comes across an interesting book and decides to share the knowledge with you. Quite literally.

Pairing: Astarion x female!Tav

Warnings: 18+. Breeding kink. P in V. Vampire bite. Blood drinking. Creampie. Overestimulation. Cumplay.

Word count: 1.7k

It wasn't unusual for you to find yourself on your back, knees bent and legs spread apart as Astarion's hand worked diligently in between them.

“You know… I came across this book in Rivington."

Two fingers rubbed slow yet measured circles between your slick folds. His dexterity truly shined through in these moments, as he lured you closer and closer to the edge of your sanity.

“A book?” 

“A most interesting book.”

His lips pressed lingering kisses across the exposed side of your neck, and you struggled to keep your eyes fixed on his hand.

He adored it when you watched him deliver unprecedented pleasure, and the sight was positively maddening with your wetness coating both his fingers as lewd sounds echoed in your ears.

The cluster of pillows strategically placed behind you aided you to take in the view more clearly, and you couldn't help but moan softly.

Suddenly, you jolted at the feeling of one fang raking across your sensitive skin. “What of it?”

“Do you really want to know, darling?”

His purring voice alone could edge you so effectively that you had to grip the bedsheets under you, balling your fists and silently praying to the gods above to help you stay grounded.

“Yes…” you moaned, eyes nearly fluttering shut.

Astarion quickly bfound your pulse point and planted an open-mouthed kiss.

Just bite me… 

That would surely be your undoing, but he merely chuckled and you felt him smile.

“It spoke of dhampirs - half-vampires.”

Gods…

The implication that dangled from his silky words wasn't particularly subtle and you found yourself clenching around nothing.

“It is not an easy feat, but with the right amount of dedication and… perseverance,” he punctuated each word with a roll of his fingers, drawing soft whimpers from you. “... I'm quite certain we can explore it.”

You clenched again, and your legs faltered, almost dropping from the chill that ran down your spine.

He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “No, no, my sweet. Keep your focus and your legs up high for me.”

Astarion thrived on your pleasure and basked in your praises.

He was good.

He knew he was good.

And he wanted you to show him.

Stroking his ego was a sure way to get his complete devotion.

The throbbing between your legs intensified tenfold and you could see it swollen and peeking through your folds as he dragged his drenched fingers all the way up to your lower abdomen.

“What do you say?” He purred in your ear, massaging you tenderly.

Another agonising clench.

You parted your lips in search of a reply, but the words died in your mouth at the sight of his fingers spreading your wetness across your skin.

“Well? Will you let me breed you?”

His crude words had you gripping the fabric in your hands tighter, and you wondered how much longer until it finally tore.

“Astarion…”

Slowly but surely, you felt something prickling at the skin on the back of your hand.

It was slightly cool and you needn't need to look to know his cock was leaking precum.

Just for you.

The liquid began dribbling down your skin as he began pressing soft kisses along your jawline.

Silently, he grabbed your hand until your fingers instinctively wrapped around his hardening cock.

And then he hissed.

“Tighter,” he urged, placing his hand atop yours to squeeze down hard. “You're tighter than this…” he finished with a sigh.

This time, you allowed your eyes to flutter shut as you rolled your hips in desperation.

He fucked your hand slowly, occasionally bringing your thumb to swipe across his tip, earning delicious and urgent moans from him.

Your breathing quickened and you felt the mattress shift under you as he carefully slid his cock from your grip, positioning himself on top of you.

“Eyes on me.”

You took a deep and shaky breath and your gaze dropped to witness an elegant finger disappear inside you.

A swift gasp escaped your throat and you couldn't stop yourself from clenching around him.

The corner of his mouth quirked up in an approving smile. “So eager…”

You were mesmerised by how he so easily slid a second one, the wet sounds nearly doing it for you.

He shifted until his cool lips were on yours, nipping at the lower one with the razor-like fang, easily drawing blood and gently suckling on the bruised flesh. 

Your back arched when he removed both fingers from you before pressing his cock at your entrance.

By this point, you were too soaked to offer any resistance as he slowly sank into you.

You broke the kiss first, greedily looking in between your bodies just so you could watch his cock slide in and out, bulging veins glistening with your wetness.

“Enjoying the view, darling?”

You bit down on your lip, tasting your own blood as you nodded through half-hooded eyes. 

Countless sweet rolls of his hips pushed you further and further along the inevitable precipice, and the familiar coiling and throbbing had your mouth drop open, unable to rein in your spilling whimpers.

He dipped his head to glide his tongue across your lower lip, both his arms caging you in and allowing him to angle his hips so he could sink fully into you.

You were visibly pulsing, your folds parted slightly, and his gaze soon followed yours.

A guttural grunt rumbled in his throat. “Let go, darling… and let me feel you tightening around me.”

You gripped his arms, bracing yourself for the impending wave of overwhelming bliss that took over your entire body, and through gasps and pants and moans, you plunged down the spiral of bliss.

A distant groan from Astarion was heard as your vision blurred, powerful contractions rippling through your lower half.

He was mumbling something, but you couldn't make out a single word, far too lost in your high to focus on anything else.

You felt his lips on your neck and you threw your head back, offering it fully to him.

As the waves of your contractions finally subsided, you came back to your senses, trying hard to even out your laboured breathing.

He was still buried deep inside you.

Had he come with you?

The answer came when his fangs began prodding the skin along your pulse point, as if barely containing himself.

He had yet to reach his peak.

“Can you give me another one?”

Your eyes widened and you struggled to form coherent words. “I… I don't… know.”

He brought one hand to grip your knee, pushing your leg against your torso, and spreading you further apart for him.

The pace he had set was contained and slow, a constant reminder that he yearned for his own release.

His tongue darted out to swipe across your flushed skin, and you turned your head, granting him easier access.

“Use your words.”

You swallowed, gasping from how oversensitive you suddenly felt from the constant friction in between your legs.

“Please…” you could only bring yourself to plead. 

His fangs taunted the fragile barrier of your skin, but not with enough pressure to draw blood.

“Use. Your. Words.” He rasped impatiently, punctuating each word with a snap of his hips.

You brought your hands to his chest, feeling the taut muscles tense under your touch. 

“Bite me…”

The sharp sting had you grip him hard, his hardened nipples digging into the palms of your hands.

As soon as he got to control the flow of your blood, he quickly matched the rolls of his hips with each mouthful of warm liquid he downed.

Your senses were full of him.

Filled with him.

Dragging on hand to settle on his throat, you moaned as you felt him under your palm, eagerly swallowing your blood.

It didn't take long before his skin began to heat up against yours, and you could almost swear you felt his cock hardening even more inside you.

His pace didn't falter. If anything, he was simply indulging in the newfound vigour that only your blood coursing through his body could provide.

Wanting to further tease him, you circled his nipple with the pad of your thumb, earning an approving grunt.

The crescendo of pleasure began to throb deep within you with each passing moment, and you felt him take one of your hands in his, dragging it down to settle where his body connected with yours.

He slid out just enough for your fingers to trace along the bulging and pulsing veins that slithered around his cock.

He quickly withdrew from your neck with a low, rumbling groan, his handsome face hovering yours, droplets of blood dripping from his lips onto yours, which you quickly swiped clean with your tongue, tasting the metallic aftertaste.

You kept teasing his nipple, feeding your own pleasure from how responsive he was.

Astarion was about to come undone, and you realised that having your blood dripping down his chin and neck, was enough to catapult you steadily yet rapidly into the heights of your own pleasure.

Your eyes watched his face twist beautifully as he reached his peak, mouth dropping agape in a raging growl that made you shudder.

Under the touch of your fingers, you felt the underside of his cock spasm rhythmically as he emptied himself inside you.

It was too much.

You felt some of his cum overflowing and staining your fingers, and you immediately dragged them to the pulsing swell between your folds, coating it in the warm liquid and gasping as the violent wave of bliss had you contracting around him.

Astarion buried his face in the crook of your neck as he cursed and whimpered and pleaded for you to have mercy on him.

You truly wished you could grant him such relief, but you were far too gone to be of any comfort as both of you rode out your peak.

With a final grunt from him and a moan from you, he slumped against you, cock still buried deep.

You pressed a hand to the back of his head, slipping your fingers along his damp and soft curls, cradling him in your embrace.

“Just so we're clear,” you began in between pants. “What are the chances of this actually happening?”

He didn't reply right away, instead pressing his lips to the bite marks on your neck, cleaning up the mess.

“Not that high, I reckon?” You managed to chuckle, raking your fingers along his scalp.

“Not high at all.”

Just as you had suspected.

“But we're so used to turning the impossible into possible, that I can't see why this should be any different.”

Oh.

Oh.

A/N: I'm... sorry.... hahaha

Masterlist

[heylittleriotact]

Open Invitation - Thirty-Three (Did Someone Order an Angsty Love Confession?)

In which:

Raphael continues to antagonize Echo

Astarion is confused about feelings

Echo accidentally breaks Astarion

Astarion starts devising plans again: a definitive strength of his

Excerpt:

Echo’s eyes opened slowly to the sleeping face of her lover. Underneath the mask of smeared, dried blood, his features were relaxed and at peace - free of the tension that usually pulled at his eyes and the corners of his mouth.  She shuffled forward slightly and kissed the crown of his head, preparing to snuggle up to him properly. “Cozy. I don’t suppose you have room for a third?” She was halfway across the tent in a blink, launching herself away from Astarion towards the source of the voice, mind empty except for molten fury: she was going to fucking eviscerate the good for nothing pervert if it was the last thing she did. Her momentum was jolted to a halt instantaneously when Astarion - apparently not lacking in reflexes upon waking - seized her around the middle with his arms and hauled her back against him. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing here?!” She snarled, straining obstinately against Astarion’s hold on her, uncaring of her nakedness. When it became clear that she wasn’t going to be able to break free, her hand came up and a telltale golden aura began to glimmer around her fingers in the darkness of the tent.  Astarion grabbed her wrist and forced it down to her side. “Stop it!” He hissed, and Echo shuddered with indignation as Raphael smirked at them both from his perch atop the lid of her trunk. “I tell you again: keep an eye on that one, Astarion - she’s going to get you into all sorts of trouble if you don’t.” The devil oozed, looking entirely unperturbed by Echo’s outburst at his unannounced and uninvited appearance inside her tent first thing in the morning.  How long has the sick fuck been sitting there? She wondered.  Astarion pulled the bedroll over Echo’s form, shielding her from Raphael’s distinctly leering gaze. The devil squinted his eyes and nibbled absentmindedly at his lip as the last of Echo’s flesh disappeared under the cover, and Astarion’s piercing glare did not leave his face once: he wasn’t happy about this either, but his head was cooler than Echo’s. “You couldn’t have picked a better time and place to reveal yourself?” He scowled, squeezing Echo’s arm reassuringly as she practically vibrated with furious need to rip Raphael’s greasy tongue out of his mouth.  This was her space. It was small, a bit smelly, and not indicative of her ideal standard of living, but it was the one and only scrap of privacy and solitude she was guaranteed since this shitshow began, and Raphael having the audacity to invade that sanctity and just… materialize inside of it was beyond offensive to her.

 Pairing: Tav (High Elf Feylock) x Astarion

Rating: Explicit

Themes: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Cycle Breaking, Happy Ending (but not without a lot of pain first), very involved archfey patron.

Disclaimer: Complex trauma delving with direct and implied reference to various forms of abuse, including rape/sexual assault, as well as implied self-harm, including suicidal thoughts/behaviour. Explicit violence. Smuuut.

[moonslittlestar]

These two are just in their own little world.

[lovelybluebirdie]

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

[miraculan-draws]

WIP WEDNESDAY our spooky boy is cranky and sad and people keep poking him with sticks in ch16

Read the lead-up here!

[chadleys]

moon sick. | astarion

›› pairing: astarion x f!reader

›› wordcount: 2.5k

›› genre: smut, established relationship

›› rating: 18+, mdni

›› synopsis: whilst on the road, you get your period. astarion, being the loving, caring, supportive boyfriend he is, offers to help. he has no ulterior motives. obviously.

›› warnings: period sex, bloodplay, unprotected sex, oral sex, dirty talk

you wake with a start, astarion’s cold arm a comforting weight across your waist. you can’t think what could have possibly woken you up so suddenly, as you listen for any untoward noises around camp. but there’s only astarion’s steady, gentle breathing behind you and gale’s obnoxious snoring echoing from the other end of the clearing.

as you settle back down on your bedroll, however, you become aware of something sticky and wet between your legs. could be that a wet dream concerning your beloved has you in such a state, but you don’t remember dreaming of him last night. no, now that your senses are returning to you, you remember that last night was reserved for another visit from your so-called guardian. so what … ?

you toss your end of the blanket aside and groan, throwing your head back against the pack you’ve set out for a makeshift pillow. doing so earns you another yelp; must have made contact with one of the stems of the many apples wedged into your supply bag.

astarion is on his feet in an instant, startling you; you weren’t even aware he was awake. not that elves ever truly sleep. it always slightly unnerves you to feel him levitating beside you in his meditative state. ❝ you’re hurt. ❞ his voice is rough, thick with inertia. ❝ i swear i’ll find whoever did this and bleed them dry. we should never have trusted that damned cleric; shar this and shar that. i’ll shove her blessed shar right up her — ❞

he’s already kicking his own pack aside to stomp his way out of the tent when you hiss, ❝ astarion! ❞

luckily he’s not too aggravated to stop and give you a glance back so you can explain in a low murmur, ❝ it’s my cycle … ❞

astarion stops short, one pale hand clutched to his chest. ❝ oh … i — ❞ he waves that same hand now toward the opening of his tent. ❝ i thought … ❞

❝ i know what you thought, ❞ you sigh, more weary knowing what’s to come over the next 7 days than you are of him, than you could ever be of him. ❝ but it’s not. so just come back to bed. please? ❞

❝ i thought you’d never ask … ❞ he purrs, back to his normal self.

unfortunately, you’re doubled over in pain before he’s even halfway back.

❝ i knew you were in pain. ❞ astarion’s back at your side in a flash. ❝ just tell me who and i’ll — ❞

❝ i am, ❞ you gasp, ❝ in pain. but … not because anyone hurt me. well, more like mother nature cursed me. ❞

a particularly bad cramp seizes you and your hand flies out, clutching the front of astarion’s silky tunic. you press your fingers in to feel his cold, broad chest. the sensation calms you a bit … until yet another bout of pain rolls through your midsection.

icy fingers find yours, ghosting over your knuckles. ❝ shall i … see if the druid can make you something? ❞

you shake your head, tugging at his shirt. ❝ just lay with me. please. ❞

astarion’s skin is blessedly cool against yours, as it always is. you lean into him, pressing your face against his frigid neck, soothing your burning cheeks.

his glacial hands find the edge of your tunic, and then the small of your back, which helps more than he could possibly know. you shudder against him, pushing, trying to get more of him.

❝ you know … ❞ astarion sniffs, delicate voice very close to your ear. ❝ i have heard of one thing that is guaranteed to relieve moon sickness. ❞

pulling back, you glance curiously up at him.

he has that rakish grin on his face that you’ve come to know all too well in the past weeks. his reddened eyes roll away from you. ❝ come now, pup. you must know what i mean … sex. ❞ your heart jumps into your throat at the thought; you’re sure astarion can feel it beating harder against his own chest.

suddenly, his mouth is just under your ear, teeth rasping against the exact place he’s fed from you dozens of times before. ❝ i can smell it, my love. ❞

you don’t answer immediately; while you can’t deny the thought appeals to you, if for no other reason than to rid yourself of these damnable cramps, you’re also apprehensive. astarion feeding from your neck is one thing — still intimate, but relatively normal by vampire standards. to have astarion feed down there, on that blood, feeding from your womb …

❝ you’re right, it’s a bad idea, absolutely disgusting. i don’t know why i — ❞

❝ do it. ❞

❝ eh … hm? ❞

❝ do it, ❞ you repeat, grasping onto him for dear life as another squeezing, crushing shock of pain settles in your stomach. ❝ please, astarion. i can’t take it anymore. ❞

it’s been many moons since your cycle has been this bad. traveling on the road without proper food or rest may finally be catching up to you, exacerbating things. not much you can do about that until you reach the city, though.

other than letting your vampire lover drink your blood, of course.

laying you gently back without another complaint, astarion slips the blanket off of you and reaches to undo your breeches.

anxiety overtakes you; there’s already blood on your trousers and the blanket, you’re going to have to wash them in the river as soon as you’re able. you can’t even imagine the scene underneath your pants … but you’re about to find out.

gently, astarion prizes the trousers from your legs, then gasps softly. ❝ oh, my love … ❞

prying your eyes from the ceiling of the tent, you finally look down. astarion is there, of course, looking lovely as always. except, however, the lines on his face look deeper, almost carved, and the dark circles under his eyes are darker, his eyes redder.

another spell of panic grips you; bright red blood is smeared across your inner thighs.

astarion looks dizzy as he takes you in, cold hands cradling the outsides of your legs. you’re about to apologize and shove him away, tell him this is a mistake, in fact you will ask halsin to make you something — and that’s when astarion mutters, ❝ you are exquisite, ❞ and dives in to have his first taste.

the feeling of his tongue on your thighs makes you shiver, and the cool night air wafting in from the tent flap isn’t helping. you grab the clean end of the blanket and drape your upper half, canting your hips up to tell astarion what it is you truly want.

because even through all the anxiety, there’s also a bubble of arousal blooming between your legs. astarion can’t tell, of course, not through all the blood down there, but you sure as hell can. you have the most perfect creature you’ve ever set eyes on between your legs; how could you not be aroused?

❝ all in due time, ❞ astarion chuckles, voice muffled against your thighs as he continues to clean you up. thoroughly. too thoroughly.

❝ you always tease, ❞ you whine, knocking one of your knees against his ribcage.

this time when his gaze flashes sharply to you, his eyes are the reddest you’ve ever seen them. it makes you shake.

astarion’s nails dig into your hips, deliciously, wickedly. you tremble, reaching for him. he chuckles and kisses the inside of one of your wrists, which leaves a smear of blood. ❝ always such a needy little pup for me, aren’t you? ❞

you don’t even have time to nod before he dives back in, his mouth exactly where you want it this time. his lips suction around your clit, tongue lapping out lower down to scoop a sizeable pearl of blood into his mouth.

this time, astarion is the one who shakes. he lays his cheek against your still-bloody thigh and shudders. ❝ you’re going to be the death of me, ❞ he sighs, and you can see him skirting his tongue around his mouth, flitting over his lips, savoring you.

you huff. ❝ you’ll be of me, too, if you don’t keep going. ❞

❝ so pushy, ❞ your lover mutters, but there’s absolutely no heat in his words as he obeys your command and buries his face back into your blood-soaked cunt.

for a while you just lie back and enjoy yourself, and let astarion enjoy himself as well. his arms are strong around your legs, holding you in place so you can’t squirm away. it feels way too damn good, you may have been tempted to try. but as it is, you can’t do anything but revel in the silky feeling of astarion’s tongue lapping up everything you have to give him, his fangs catching every so often on your clit, making you see stars.

at some point, you glance down at him and gasp. ❝ your shirt! ❞

you know how much he prides himself on his physical appearance, and now there’s blood staining the front ruffles of his normally immaculate tunic.

he glances down and tuts, frowning. ❝ oh well. it’ll have to go with the rest. ❞ just like that, he rips it off and tosses it with your soiled trousers.

he must be in heaven, you suspect, if he’s willing to discard his cherished clothing for you.

now shirtless, astarion gives one last gentle kiss to your clit and then slowly starts to climb your body. there’s blood dripping from his chin, staining the rest of the blanket wrapped around you. but more importantly, his broad chest is skating up the expanse of your bloody cunt as he comes, and your clit throbs seeing all that red coating his torso.

❝ astarion! ❞ you gasp, and he grins, mouth full of your blood.

❝ i’m loathe to ask you for a kiss, ❞ he whispers, so low you can barely hear him. ❝ just one. i promise. ❞

you swallow thickly, and he waits for you to lean up, pressing your lips to his in the softest kiss you can manage. blood squishes between you, and you can feel it coating your lips as you lie back down.

one lap of your tongue against your bottom lip and you grimace, spitting and rubbing at your mouth with the back of one hand.

astarion laughs heartily as you mutter, ❝ ugh, not for me. ❞

❝ more for me, ❞ astarion says, almost gleefully.

he’s obviously preparing to get back to it, but you keep him close with your hands on his shoulders. ❝ i want you. ❞

brows furrowed, astarion squeezes your waist. ❝ darling, you have me. ❞

❝ inside, ❞ you beg quietly, which you know enjoys immensely.

your next step might be a mistake, but you decide to chance it. bracing yourself with your legs wrapped around him, you thrust up, dragging your wetness along the front of his trousers. you can feel that he’s hard, and now there’s blood all over his pants. you’re hoping he won’t mind, considering his tunic is already ruined for the night as well.

luckily he doesn’t seem to, dark gaze sweeping down over the two of you covered in your blood, and then back up. ❝ i thought you’d never ask. ❞

his trousers quickly follow his tunic, erection jutting up between your legs.

❝ he looks happy, ❞ you giggle, as his swollen head prods at your blood-soaked entrance.

❝ to see you? always. ❞

having astarion inside of you is normally a relief, a release of all the rampant, pent up emotions this journey has bestowed upon you.

tonight is different.

with all that blood flowing south, your womb is aching, you're sore and swollen as astarion’s cock spears through your lips. every thrust sends a fresh flow of blood down his shaft, which earns you a tight growl from the vampire as he takes the backs of your knees in hand and shoves your thighs back toward your chest, eager to get even deeper inside of you.

and you’re eager to have him, nails digging into his chiseled back, the hard marble of his jaw knocking against your shoulder as his lips, slick with blood, find your ear again. ❝ are you feeling better, pet? does my cock soothe that ache inside of you? the ache that raged inside of you, until you met me? until i filled you up in every lovely way possible? ❞

his words make your brain go haywire, knees shaking around his ribcage, toes curling, your mouth rubbing comfortingly at his cool shoulder.

more than that, you do feel better. the more aroused you become, the more blood flows out of you, the less painful your cramps become. until you’re pushing down against him, trying to ride him at the same time as he’s shoving himself inside of you with reckless abandon. until you can’t remember why you started this in the first place, other than to wind up begging for him to finish inside of you.

❝ inside. please, astarion, inside … ❞ it’s hard to even think clearly enough to form words, your mind consumed with the sight of his beautiful body moving atop yours.

you assume he’ll make you beg, as he so often does; he loves hearing the desperate, pleading tone in your voice that tells him all he needs to know — you belong to him.

but he doesn’t. he fucks into you as hard as he ever has, his thick cock gliding against your engorged walls, making your eyes roll back.

and then the talking starts. the words that make you wish you knew whether or not vampires can actually have children. ❝ you want me to get you pregnant, love? want your belly to swell with my child inside of it? i will wait on you hand and foot, i promise. i would love seeing you walk around knowing you hold my heir, that you protected my seed so well that it grew into a child inside of you. ❞ astarion pauses momentarily to laugh, tugging your earlobe between his teeth. ❝ with all this blood, i know you must be fertile. ❞

both of you share a laugh, briefly.

and when you cum, together, he sinks his teeth into your neck with nothing but a quiet grunt, cockhead twitching and spurting inside of you.

you mewl softly, feeling the vampire trembling and shaking as he empties himself into you. your hands pet through his hair, soothe the back of his neck, across the scars circling his back.

the pain from before is nowhere to be found, replaced instead by a warm, fizzy feeling sitting low in your gut. astarion is bracing himself on his elbows above you, with obvious effort.

you pull him down to lay atop you; he’s not exceptionally heavy anyway.

❝ i love you, ❞ he sighs, nestling his face, chin still slick with blood, against your collarbone. ❝ and … promise me we can do that again. ❞

❝ i love you. and i promise. ❞

[darksunrising]

Bard On Bard Violence (5/?)

Masterlist of the Echoes of Faerûn Series

× × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

Rating / Warnings : Mature audiences. Slight dubcon in this chapter.

Fandom, Pairing : Baldur's Gate III, Raphael x Tav (focus), Astarion x Tav (background)

Author’s notes : Echo is starting to get used to his newfound warlock powers, when Raphael's next summon comes in early, much too early for what the contract allows. Did he miss a footnote, or is there something fouler at play?

× × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

Echo figured after he had gotten some sleep, that he’d be feeling much better. That this uncomfortable tug at his heartstrings was only manufactured by the excitement of the hellish party, and that terrible liquor. Unfortunately, it becomes obvious as he drags himself out of his tent, lured out by the enticing smell of breakfast, that he will not be offered any mercy, save for a persistent headache that does distract somewhat from the emotional turmoil. Not everyone seems to be up - it’s early, the clouds still bearing the bright colors of sunrise. Gale, perfect man that he is, is busy cooking breakfast over the campfire, and Echo can hear the faint sounds of metal on wood indicating Lae’zel has been at her daily training for a while now.

“Did you have fun at the demonic sex party?” Astarion’s voice comes slipping into his ear, as arms do around his waist, planting a little kiss at the back of the tiefling’s neck. Always sneaking, that one, though Echo never gets surprised by him. His perfume sometimes comes before him, and sometimes, it’s a near supernatural instinct that he’s near, a compulsion to turn back and pull him close.

“It wasn’t a sex party”, Echo groans through the little smile floating on his lips. It might have been better if it had been a sex party, at least, he wouldn’t be so confused about that last... interaction, with Raphael.

“I always knew, deep down, that this Cambion was a boring nerd”, the vampire sighs, squeezing his lover to his chest briefly before he lets go. He’s usually not that demonstrative so early in the morning, which Echo has to assume is a tiny bit of possessiveness leaking through. He can’t say he doesn’t enjoy that a little. “Though you do famously have a soft spot for those”, Astarion adds, a bit louder. Echo gives him a playful shove as he gets to the campfire to beg for sustenance to the wizard.

“I love you too, Astarion”, Gale says, handing a plate to Echo when he reaches him.

“Thank you, I owe you my life.” He drops to the ground, legs crossed, and digs in with the hope that some food will manage to eradicate his hangover.

“I would go to Shadowheart, if you are having trouble with processing alcohol”, Gale says with a tone of sage counsel, and the face of teasing mischief.

“Of course, because I would love to tell her to exert herself healing me from my inability to hold one glass of infernal liqueur”, Echo replies in between two bites.

“Well, at least you did not die from it. I know of a warlock, once, who-”

Astarion sighs loudly as he leaves, and Echo gladly sits next to the wizard to listen to him. He’s usually the talkative one, with all the Bard thing, so it’s quite relaxing to listen to someone else, for once. Not that Astarion isn’t chatty, he certainly is, but Gale has an encyclopedic knowledge of tales and trivia that would probably make him a great teacher. It’s also easy to only pay half a mind to what he’s droning on about, and let himself be soothed by the sound of his voice. Gods know he needs the distraction.

× × ×

The merry band of heroic misfits has had quite a few days, since Echo’s first favor to Raphael. He’s had more than one occasion to try out his newfound abilities, delighted to remark how much more easily warlock spells come to him, even those he had started working on learning before striking the deal with Raphael. He’s focused on spells that call for ice, maybe an act of defiance, maybe the Canian blood coursing through his veins, even so far removed. Wyll had been an incredible help mastering the few spells he’d picked, Mizora much less so, now that she enjoyed lounging around at camp like she didn’t have anything better to do.

Whenever the spell he casts calls upon his infernal pact, Echo swears he can see something shift in the rubies dangling from the tip of his horns. He did ask Gale if the ‘gift’ had been enchanted, and the wizard had found no foul play, which didn’t really set his mind at ease. Not that he didn’t trust Gale, but getting repeatedly bent over by forces beyond his comprehension had made him a bit careful, if not downright paranoid at times. Everything about this deal had gone on a little too well, and he knows that Devils, by design, do not make unprofitable deals. That much Mizora had made clear, giving her opinion unprompted.

Raphael’s second letter, arriving much earlier than the contract allows, does set his mind at ease in that sense. So, the Devil had found that loophole. He should be a bit mad about it. Unfortunately, he’s still annoyed he’s been cast out so unceremoniously the last time, and he would enjoy an opportunity to give that Devil a piece of his mind - maybe also on how to respect contracts, since he’s at it. He slips the edge of his bladed tail at the corner of the envelope, and opens it in one fell swoop. He picks the little card out, and reads the words aloud, bracing for the teleportation spell laced within.

The House is now almost familiar, after the party. He knows the corridors, which doors are locked to him, and which are not. He expects to be transported in the main hall, or Raphael’s office, with some prepared, flowery line to greet him. He doesn’t expect a ridiculously large bed, and an equally ridiculously underdressed Raphael lazily lounging on it, his gaze piercing through Echo like fire through paper.

“That’s awfully presomptuous even for you, Raphael”, Echo says, trying not to choke on the words. He’s wearing a harness, and nothing but, for crying out loud, what in the name of- The devil on the bed interrupts the train of thought with a mocking little laugh, wings fluttering behind him.

“Raphael? Oh, do come closer, little mouse, look again”, they taunt him. It is Raphael’s voice, but besides the obvious, something does seem wrong. Their face is too, smooth, youthful, their hair lacks any grey, their eyes his laugh lines, and those between his brows, sculpted after Gods know how long reading contracts at candlelight. Not that Echo’s paid too much attention to all that.

“Who are you?”, Echo asks, not risking a step forward, but refusing to flee either, helpful as it would be since the letters are a one-way trip each time.

The Devil smiles, flashing their teeth as the tips of their forked tongue run over the sharp points. “I am curious, above anything else, about my Master’s new... pet.” They roll that word off their tongue like a delicacy, still keeping that predatory gaze fixated on the little tiefling as they slip off the bed. “You’ve gotten him in quite a state, you know.”

They’re just as tall as Raphael in his non-human form, towering more than a full head of height above Echo, horns and wings nonwithstanding. Every movement is the pinnacle of grace, and they scarcely stays still at all, making it very hard for Echo not to look at their perfectly sculpted body, the hard ridges into their hips, the veins snaking underneath the skin, barely suggesting their heartbeat, slow, strong. He wonders if that too, is a true likeness to Raphael.

“Well, delighted to meet you, Curious Aboveall, I’m Echo”, the tiefling replies, doing a neat little mockery of a bow, and hoping the Devil has a sense of humour, at least. If they do, their response is still to catch Echo’s chin between two fingers, the claw on their thumb digging into his lip.

“Cheeky little thing, aren’t you?”, they purr, their tail brushing against the side of his hip. “I see why he likes you.” There’s a warmth to their skin not even Raphael has, and Echo starts to understand why some bards like to pretend just a smile can fell a man.

“You’re-” His voice pitches higher, involuntarily, before he can catch it. “You’re an incubus, aren’t you?”, he asks, blessed by a sudden insight when he finds himself parting his lips for the stranger, his heartbeat strong and erratic against his ribs.

“And smart, as well! Aren’t you quite the catch?”, the Devil coos, their tail gently slipping to the inside of Echo’s thigh before it retracts, and they let the poor mortal go, circling him like a wolf does a wounded elk. “I’m Haarlep-”, they whisper in his ear when they pass behind him, and does a smooth little twirl, arms and wings opening in what looks like a debauched version of Raphael’s power play, “- Raphael’s personal incubus, and living testament to the man’s vanity.”

Isn’t that a turn of events? Somehow, Echo can’t bring himself to see Raphael have use for an incubus, though the proof seems rather indisputable. He can’t imagine he’d need one, though he considers, shamefully, that his own personal bias regarding that matter may be tainting his thought process. One more intersting, and pressing question, might be what Raphael would be doing summoning Echo into his incubus’ chambers, all the while not respecting the contract’s clauses.

“Well, Haarlep”, Echo starts, trying to regain his usual composure. “Could you perhaps tell me what I’m doing here, considering Raphael is not supposed to summon me until about two days from now, as per our contract?” Legal speak, legal speak, do not look at the Devil’s tits.

“Oh, Raphael didn’t summon you”, Haarlep laughs, and brings a hand to their chest, leaning in a little, almost conspiriatorially. “I did. And I thank your eagerness to respond, it’s only rare Raphael leaves the House for any substantial ammount of time.”

A slight shiver runs down Echo’s spine, though he lets nothing transpire of this. If Raphael is gone, that means he’s in the House, with no means to leave, and without his... Ally? Patron? to help. “You could have come to the party, I was playing for hours”, Echo says, tilting his head to the side.

“I was unsurprisingly banned from that specific event, probably not to disturb your mortal sensibilities”, Haarlep replies, faux-devastated.

“Considering Raphael sent me to kill Yurgir, I don’t think my delicate sensibilities are that high into his priorities.” 

“Anywhoo”, Haarlep dismisses with a sigh, and pulls Echo back to the bed by hooking two fingers into one of his necklaces, prompting a little cry of protest that gets utterly ignored until he’s been pushed into the plush mattress. Haarlep’s large hand pins the tiefling down with humiliating ease, and their smile looks almost hungry. Fortunately for him, something clearly stops working in Echo’s brain to make the distinction between fear and arousal, which is demonstrated on his face by a deep purple blush, and a heartrate that really can’t be good for his health. “I want to know what you did to him.”

Echo’s expression veers into confusion, though it’s still clearly the most subdued of the emotions currently affecting him. “I- I didn’t do anything to him”, Echo protests like he’s on the stand.

“Oh, please”, Haarlep scoffs. “Hours after he dismissed you, he was still pacing his office like a caged feral beast, you must have done something.” The incubus leans in, lips parted, inches from Echo’s face. “I can find more pleasurable ways to make you talk, but you’d be gambling your soul, little mouse”, they purr, low and quiet.

Echo feels like he’s swallowed a lemon, and he’s fairly certain he’ll need a long bath after this, if he ever goes back to camp again. He can’t say he’s not the slightest bit tempted. Haarlep is almost straddling him, they’re so close he can feel their warm breath on his lips, they smell so nice-

“I kissed him”, Echo blurts out, the words almost enough to end that last remaining half-inch between them. “That’s it. He didn’t even seem to enjoy it all that much.”

Haarlep freezes, and for a second, their eyebrows shoot up before they have a deep, throaty laugh and lets themself fall to the side, supporting their head with a folded arm.

“That certainly would do it, yes”, they drawl, shoulders still moved by little chuckles.

“... Would you care to explain a little?”

The incubus, clearly very satisfied with the inner turmoil on Echo’s face, takes their time answering, lasciviously stretching, laying on their back in a way that somehow manages to highlight all their features in the most flattering way. “Raphael does not kiss, darling”, they say, lazily, looking at their nails - shorter on the right hand, Echo notices, of course he does.

“What do you mean?”, Echo presses them, with half a mind to use the same tactics on them, though he doubts he’d have the same effect on an incubus.

“Whenever he needs to fuck someone, he sends me to do the dirty work - and believe me, his clients should be all the happier for it. And he doesn’t kiss me, that’s not the sort of relationship we have.” That one sounds particularly sarcastic, though it doesn’t help Echo understand.

Haarlep pauses, waiting for a response from Echo, and pouts when they get none, the bard, for once, finding himself mute. “You're probably the first person who's kissed him in eons, or Fuck Knows how long. No wonder he was so shaken.”

“I did ask”, Echo blurts out. 

“Even worse”, Harlep replies, voice silky sweet. “Having a choice can be such a burden”, they continue, extending a hand to trace the tiefling's jawline, a claw slipping down his neck. 

“And you would love to spare me that trouble, wouldn't you?” Echo's voice is slightly strangled, though he's not entirely hostile to the idea. 

Haarlep has a deep, silent chuckle, dark and rumbling through their chest. “Oh, far from it, little mouse”, they whisper as they get closer, slipping a thigh in between Echo's, their wings forming an almost protective cocoon around them.

“I would like to make you beg for me”, they purr, slowly pressing themself against Echo's core. “I would have you whimpering my name like a prayer with just my thumb, I would make you discover new Gods with my tongue, I would take your soul for my own and feast on it like the finest dessert...” Their voice is low, deep, every syllable igniting nerves in Echo’s spine, every twitch of his body bringing him closer to making a huge mistake. It’s getting hard to form any coherent thought, especially when the incubus presses their thumb to his lower lip to coax his mouth open.

“Come on... Play with me, pretty please?”

The sound Echo makes in response is unsuitable for any and all kinds of audiences, and his hand quickly finds one of the many leather straps of Haarlep’s harness to pull them in and close the last inch of distance between them. The incubus has an ominous little laugh against the tiefling’s lips, and tips his jaw open to slip their forked tongue in, enthusiastically welcomed by an eager sigh. Echo doesn’t understand immediately the gravity of that particular mistake. Only when the first spark of electricity runs down his spine and makes him arch his back and roll his hips into Haarlep’s, only when he starts feeling so empty he almost begs, does he remember. Haarlep is an incubus, and they laugh, a delightful, if slightly mocking sound.

“Such a shame, such a shame dear Raphael is not here to save you”, they murmur in Echo’s ear, their clawed hand lightly scratching its way down Echo’s body, reaching for a thigh to splay it aside and run their thumb between his legs, pressing the thin fabric of his pants in until the poor tiefling whines.

“I don’t think- mmmh-” Echo starts, suddenly interrupted when the incubus’ expert hand easily finds the area to focus themself on, rubbing lazy circles through the fabric as it soaks itself in his juices. “- I don’t think he’ll be- plea-ased if you- if I-” It’s getting increasingly challenging to not only talk without interrupting himself with humiliatingly keen noises, but form full sentences in his mind before trying to utter them.

“I can take Raphael’s punishments”, they reassure him with a predatory grin. “Especially if that means I get to enjoy your body before he can.”

He could push them off. He could try, at least, do something else but let his body respond to the little impulses led by Haarlep’s spittle. Arch your back. Grind on his fingers. Beg for more. Whimper their name, worship their mouth, pull them closer, closer~

“I would remind you it’s very impolite to play with your food, but I assume the barest sense of decorum would be lost on an incubus.”

The voice reache’s Echo’s ear while the other is busy with Haarlep’s little praises. He tips his head to the side to find the disapproving glare of Raphael, embers still dancing around his human form, arms crossed over his chest. You’d assume the dread that seizes the tiefling like a cold hand reaching through his body to tug at his guts would manage to choke the moans out of his throat. It doesn’t, and he can only keep his hands to Haarlep’s shoulders like he actually did anything to stop the incubus.

“Raphael, what a nice surprise! You usually don’t rush home so fast”, Haarlep teases, utterly undisturbed, completely ignoring Echo’s squirming and attempts to close his legs.

“Get out”, Raphael sighs, with a little nod towards the door. “My lenience has its limits.” It’s evident there’s an ammount of controlled anger in the Cambion’s voice, though it’s still unclear to Echo who that anger is directed towards. Haarlep pouts, though they do remove their hand from Echo - with a last little press to make him squeak -, not breaking eye contact with Raphael as they lick their fingers clean. They remove themself from the bed, and wink at the still trembling, discarded tiefling before they walk out, dramatically slamming the door behind them.

The sound reverberates in the room, and it takes Echo a little to gather himself enough to sit up, and look in Raphael’s general direction, absolutely refusing to entertain the idea of looking him in the eye.

“I’m sorry-”

“Did they hurt-”

The voices rise and fall in unison, leaving the room in empty silence once again. Echo sighs, hands plastered to his face for a second to try and tone down the burn he feels all over it.

“I... Don’t know how that happened, I feel...” He has a dry laugh. “... Ashamed would be a weak word for it.” Humiliated, horrified, very keen to disappear into the ground. Especially since he still feels that burning stir in his body, desperately yearning for the touch they’ve been denied.

“You were tricked by an incubus”, Raphael replies, with only the barest hint of a smile on his lips. “Many mortals have befallen the same fate, and I do not hold you responsible for it... Though I am a tad disappointed you fell for it.”

“Hey, I had no clue anyone but you could summon me!”, Echo replies, suddenly finding the energy to bitch through sheer indignation.

Raphael’s made his way to the bed, leaning on one of the posts, one eyebrow cocked. “Do you think I would be so quick to disrespect the terms we set for our contract, my dear?”, he asks, looking down at the tiefling with the same unaffected manner he usually does. That little word has the same effect it always does.

“I figured you managed to work a loophole into the final document. I came to yell at you, originally.”

“So, what you assumed then, is that I was both dishonest, and so uttely addicted to your presence I could not wait even two days before calling upon your services once more?”, Raphael replies, tilting his head to the side. He tuts in mock disapproval, and the look on his face goes right to Echo’s core.

“You know-”, Echo starts, pointing at the Cambion with little regard to the disparity in power. “- It’s so unfair to be like this when I-” He interrupts himself with a little huff, tail thumping at the bedding before he can focus enough to will it still.

Raphael has a proper laugh, still mockingly insulting enough to make something stir in the poor tiefling. “I enjoy you, but I am still a Devil”, he starts, before leaning in closer. His smell is intoxicating, the earthy, heady aroma deliciously underlined by saccharine notes of cherry. “My very Nature dictates I should take advantage”, he hums, seemingly enjoying putting Echo through metaphorical Hells as well.

“Will you?”, Echo replies, unable to look away from the warm, brown, distressingly human eyes staring down at him, or to disguise the desperation in his tone.

Raphael hums. “Haarlep has gifted you with a need you can only quench through time or release”, he muses, eyes dipping to the tiefling’s mouth with languid obviousness. “... But I do not make a habit of finishing my incubus’ meals myself”, he finishes, standing back straight, and raising a hand ready to snap his fingers.

“Raphael, please-”, Echo blurts out, resenting how pathetic he sounds.

“I look forward to our next meeting”, he says, ignoring his pleas save for donning a very self-satisfied smile, and snaps Echo back to his tent.

× × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × × ×

Comments are super appreciated, and you can dm me if you want to be on the taglist if that’s still a thing people do!