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wilteddreamsofbaldursgate · 1 year ago

Text

Daybreak Ballads

NSFW || Astarion x fem!bard!Tav/reader || ao3 || masterlist

Rating: E, +18 Word Count: +3.5k Warnings: Smut. Orgasm delay. Soft dom!Astarion. Oral+fingering (fem!receiving). PiV sex. Praise kink?

And yet, Astarion did have an undeniably keen eye for beauty and dramatics alike. If he only put a little more of himself into his work, you were convinced people would adore his poetry. He only had to find his intended audience because one thing was clear: as much as you loved Astarion, his poetry simply wasn’t for you. At all.

a/n: This has been in the works for ages and when I wasn't pulling out my own hair over this, it was quite fun to write, I suppose. Special thanks to @tragedybunny , @bardic-inspo and @littlejuicebox for emotional support. The masterful poem at the end has been handmade for Gina. With love. By the pale elf himself.

You’d never said you disliked Astarion’s poetry, let alone that it was bad. When the pale elf had asked for your expert opinion on his poetic endeavours, you’d just assumed it was honesty he’d wanted. So honesty was what you’d given him.

The form of his poem looked messy, unappealing even; its rhythm was off, contorted by wordy lines that lacked any pleasant flow. Astarion’s motifs were obvious at best and trite at worst, and his rhymes were, well, creative, you supposed. But most of all, Astarion’s pieces left wanting for personality. Where was his wit? His snark? His passion? Where was all the fun?

Try as you might, you just couldn’t see yourself performing Astarion’s ballad—at least that’s what you assumed he’d attempted to write—for your regular audience, not with your flute nor your lyre. It just felt wrong to translate his words into song, forced. You didn’t even need to take a closer look to recognize his work as haphazard, dull, and, worst of all, inauthentic.

To your surprise, Astarion had taken your admittedly harsh review of his work with uncharacteristic grace—suspiciously so, in hindsight, at least. After all, the vampire could be quite…sensitive. That night, though, he’d just nodded along to your blunt words, an almost arrogant smirk tugging at his lips, promising you to compose a piece to your liking one day.

Just for you, Astarion had said with a wink as he’d retrieved his poetry from your hands, the dying campfire reflecting in the ink of his elegant handwriting. Crimson eyes sparkling with mischief as they’d wandered over your body. His tongue had slowly wet his sensuous lips as if in anticipation of...what?

Just wait and see, darling…

If your brain hadn’t been all clouded by lust earlier tonight, you would’ve noticed that Astarion had been up to something. He’d been throwing you suggestive looks all evening, purring sweet nothings in your ear whenever he’d gotten you alone. Surprised you in your tent when your companions had been sound asleep, the campfire burned low. His hand had practically been glued to the small of your back as he’d guided you to a most charming little clearing, not unlike the one in which you’d first slept with him all those weeks ago.

That Astarion had kept calling this idyllic, moonlit spot his perfect motif had somehow eluded you as you’d been too preoccupied with the telltale heat gathering between your legs. In fact, you’d followed the vampire like an eager little pup, already wound tight around his little finger. The promise of Astarion’s inviting touches and lingering kisses had lured you right into his honey trap—and how bittersweet it was.

Now, shivering from painfully drawn-out desire and cold morning dew settling on your skin, you could feel that cursed smirk brush against your dripping wet core again—a silent warning.

Oh, fuck.

Astarion’s lips closed around your almost painfully swollen clit, sucking at it leisurely as his lower arm pinned your hips against the cold earth as if you were but a sheet of paper threatening to take flight with the next gust of wind. Another gasp echoed from the trees as your left hand clawed at the damp grass underneath you, looking for support but finding little. Your other hand grasped at silver curls with as much success.

Astarion was rather enjoying himself as your body squirmed under his sinful mouth, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your thigh as he adjusted your trembling leg over his shoulder, opening you up even more for his thorough ministrations. You tossed your head back at the gentle but intoxicating shift of position. His name was stuck in the back of your throat, suffocated by shaky moans as the tip of his tongue brought you ever closer to the edge of release.

Feeling the coil in your lower belly tighten, your toes curled against the raised scar tissue on Astarion’s back, eliciting but an amused sigh from him before his lips released your wanting nub with one last lingering caress of his tongue.

You wanted to cry; this was the second time he’d left you hanging somewhere between bliss and frustration.

Shaking from pent-up pleasure, your elbow threatened to slip on the wet grass as you sat up as much as the weight of Astarion’s arm allowed. Through the evaporating clouds of your laboured breath you only just caught a glimpse of Astarion’s crimson eyes gazing up at you from between your thighs; he was all messy curls and unfairly thick eyelashes. Smug smirks turned wicked.

You swallowed.

“Astarion…” you breathed, not knowing if it was a warning or plea, but before the syllables had faded into the fleeting night, his attention had returned to your cunt once more. The tip of Astarion’s nose grazed your clit. You could feel his cold breath against your burning folds, feeling no different than the gentle breeze of dawn tickling your exposed skin. There was no gentle sensation snaking up your spine when Astarion licked down your slit ever so slowly, and for the first time that night, you truly registered how far you really were from camp. You let out a blissful cry, knowing there was not a soul to hear you but the elf feasting on your cunt.

The weight from Astarion’s arm shifted from your hips down your side. His hand wandered along your curves, groping the swell of your ass before it wound itself back up your inner thigh. He pushed your legs further apart, opening you up impossibly wide. You let out an excited squeal you would be embarrassed for by morning, but not now, no. For the better part of the night, you’d been a whining, trembling mess under your lover—always painfully close to release and yet no part of Astarion had filled you as of yet. But maybe he’d had enough now. Maybe he would finally deign to push you over the edge, with his fingers or his cock, you didn’t really care anymore as long as he finally let you come undone.

And, indeed, Astarion’s fingers inched closer to your core, though all they did was trace the course of your pulsing femoral artery he could no doubt sense underneath your heated skin. You relaxed a little under his sweet little caresses and wondered dully if he would soon exchange the fruits of your cunt for proper nourishment.

He didn’t. At least not yet.

Without warning, the tip of Astarion’s tongue teased your entrance, driving you wild. Your hips instantly bucked against Astarion’s face as your hand clenched around a fistful of his soft hair. Finally! This was divine, this was—

Astarion withdrew from you in an instant, ignoring the undignified whine of protest escaping your lips—fuck, you’d been so close! By the self-satisfied look on his face, though, he was well aware of that. For a moment, he studied the heavy rise and fall of your flushed chest, his chin resting right below your navel as you lay beneath him, dumbstruck. His pointer finger still ghosted up and down the inside of your leg, the lazy movement a stark contrast to the blood racing through your veins.

“Oh, darling, look what you’ve done…” Astarion pouted, his sensuous lips moist with your arousal. “You’ve ruined my rhythm.”

His fingers slowly wandered down, down, down your leg and curled around your ankle before he gently let it glide off his shoulder. With an outrageous nonchalance, he sat back on his knees and considered you. Crimson eyes darted over your feverish skin that glistened with sweat and morning dew. They trailed from your parted lips down your collarbone, through the valley of your breast, until they beheld the mess between your legs with blatant amusement. How you wanted to wipe the stupid smirk off his face; how you wanted him to finally take you.

Behind Astarion’s broad shoulders, you could see the sunrise in the distance; a gentle purple bled into the indigo of night right above the treeline. Day would break soon, but you didn’t have it in you to appreciate twilight when, suddenly, Astarion’s arms came down on each side of your head, eclipsing the waking world around you.

His hips settled against your core as he crawled atop you, habitually making you arch your back against his own growing desire pressing into your belly.

“But don’t you worry,” Astarion purred, clearly delighted as he lowered himself onto you until the silken tip of his nose brushed against yours. “Your body is a well of inspiration to me, my little muse…”

Astarion closed the small distance between you with a heady kiss; your mind went blank as you tasted yourself on his lips, the warmed tongue demanding access to you once more. You opened your mouth to him readily, moaned into the kiss as Astarion’s hands wandered up and down the curves of your body. Your head spun. Nobody—nothing—else could ever make you feel like this, and you cursed yourself when you had to break away from him to fill your inconvenient lungs with air.

Spit and slick weaved like cobwebs between your parted lips as you beheld Astarion with dazed eyes, breathing hard.

He was perfect.

From the fading light of the moon reflecting in his serene locks to his kiss-swollen lips that were a sharp instrument of the sweetest temptation. That smirk that promised unforgettable ecstasy, granting it only whenever he wanted. There was no song nor poem you could compose that could ever do Astarion justice, no instrument to capture the intricacies of his soul. He was a masterpiece.

Drunk on his lips, you leaned forward as his fingers continued to run down your middle, along the curve of your ass before taking hold of your thigh again. Your tired legs twitched to wind around Astarion’s hips, wanting to pull him closer to where you needed him most.

But before you could even move an inch, you found yourself lying flat on your stomach.

Astarion’s arm wound around your waist from behind, roughly pulling your ass up against his lean middle before you could so much as gasp in surprise. Wet grass tickled your cheek as you tried to find your balance, take a puzzled look back at him, but you could only feel him bend over you again, his erection poking your lower back.

Astarion’s kiss-warmed lips ghosted over your ear, “Now that you’re in proper form, let’s write some poetry, shall we?”

What?

He tossed your messy braid over your shoulder, pressed a wet kiss to the exposed nape of your neck as your knees struggled for support on slippery morning dew.

“You’ll sing some more for me, won’t you, little songstress?” Astarion breathed against your spine. “I’m sure you’ll make a real show of my newest piece.”

It took you a moment to process his words. Maybe it was the pebble cutting into the palm of your hand or the day’s first birdsong reaching your ear that lifted the fog in your head, but it finally hit you.

Astarion hadn’t brought you here for a tryst in the dirt, no. You were here because he was writing poetry. Except, this time, you weren’t his critic, but his choice medium. Which could only mean one thing: He rather had taken your criticism of his artistic endeavours to heart, and now you would have to pay the price for your honesty.

“Astarion…” you breathed, quick words of appeasement lost in a moan as he started to grind against you. Suddenly, daybreak felt like an eternity away.

“Yes, darling?” He asked, the perverse amusement evident in his voice. “How do you like my work so far? Is it to your refined taste this time?”

Curse the damn elf. You knew what he wanted, what he’d craved all along. What he’d expected from you the moment he’d shared his work with you. And as if you weren’t in a most precarious position already, he really wanted you to say it—praise him and his stupid poetry when he knew how badly your body was aching for him.

Clenching your teeth, you slowly rolled your hips up against his now rock-hard cock. Maybe, if you just got him to fuck you already, you would get away with your pride intact. All of this was embarrassing enough as it was.

Your efforts were repaid with little more than a chuckle, though—and two fingers that started teasing your entrance, carefully dipping into you without even slightly dampening your need.

“Fuck!” You whined into the grass as your hips chased Astarion’s digits, wishing they were his cock instead, filling you as you’d so lusted after all night long.

“What was that?”

Astarion’s movement stopped at once, leaving you empty once again.

“It’s good,” you hissed against the wet ground as tears of frustration threatened to spill from the corners of your eyes. “Your poetry—Astarion, it’s so good, I swear.”

So much for pride.

“Oh, you think so, little nightingale?”

You nodded frantically as he bent over you again, nibbling at the shell of your sensitive pointy ear. Astarion chuckled.

“Don’t get me wrong, this means so much coming from an expert artist such as yourself, darling, but I can’t help but wonder whether this is a professional opinion or empty flattery for the sake of indulgence…”

You could feel his fingers ghost over your clit, knowing he would never touch you without a satisfying answer.

“It’s true—nobody does it quite like you,” you cried, not bothering to specify whether you meant his poetry or his more distinctive talents, and it didn’t really matter.

Throughout your career, you’d gone looking for inspiration in quite a few beds but never had you written better poetry than in your rather short time together with the pale elf. Astarion was unlike any lover you’d ever taken, nor had you ever cared this deeply for another person whatsoever.

“Nothing compares to you, Astarion,” you whispered, truthfully.

“Ah,” Astarion’s fingers slid back into you the moment the words had left your mouth, curling deliciously against your walls—a reward for your generous recognition of his talents, no question. “But I’m sure there’s room for improvement still?”

Hips moving up against his digits, chasing the sweet friction of his cold skin, you groaned. Fine. If he wanted a damn lesson in poetry, he could have one.

“There always is. What’s the point of art when there’s no growth—ah!”

There was a lewd sound as Astarion pulled his fingers from your core once again, though this time you could feel his body shift behind you. The two fingers that had worked you open so well now gently parted your folds. You let out a low moan as you could finally feel the wet tip of Astarion’s cock teasing your throbbing clit, though it was his lips brushing the back of your neck that really made you shiver.

“So what would you have me do, little nightingale? Would you have me put more of myself into my work, again?”

“Yes, gods, please,” you mewled, dragging the syllables out just like you knew he enjoyed. “Put as much of yourself in as you can.”

Astarion tried and failed to cover his quickening breath up with a sharp laugh, finally giving away the strain on his own composure. “Well, you are the expert, aren’t you?”

The iron grip on your hip was the only thing keeping you from toppling over as Astarion buried himself inside you with one forceful thrust. The entirety of his impressive length stretched you painfully wide, and he only granted you one moment to adjust to the feeling of complete, blissful fullness before he pulled out of you again. Grunting, he repeated the movement, faster each time. His deep groans soon turned into a perfect rhyme to your breathless moans as he fucked you franticly.

“Like my poetry now, darling?” He hissed, slamming into you over and over again as your hand found Astarion’s in the dewy grass.

Your fingers wound around his wrist, up his lower arm, grasping for support. Couldn’t he see, feel, hear how much you adored his poetry?

“You’re an artist,” you panted through open-mouthed gasps, your entire body singing him the song of your desire, though you really doubted that he paid it much mind.

Astarion had buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent greedily. His tongue traced the curve of your collarbone; you could feel his fangs scrape against your tender skin every now and then. He was a fast learner, you noted, dully—Astarion was already losing himself in his passionate work.

“Have I found my intended audience yet?” He muttered, more to himself than to you, as his knee hooked under your leg, pushing it up until you lay almost flat on the ground.

“What do you want me to do, darling? Write down how divine your cunt is? Have everybody know what sinful music you make when I fuck you?” Astarion let out a choked laugh. “Fuck that! I don’t need an audience, because they only need to take one look at you and recognize you as a work of mine.”

He wasn’t wrong. You would be deliciously sore when you returned to camp with the scent of your lover lingering on your skin like ink on thick paper. He was already written all over you; you were his creation. Who else could coax such magnificent sounds out of you but him? And who were you, really, to teach him about poetry when all you had to do was offer your body to him? You hadn’t lied when you said Astarion was an artist.

Your fingernails left little half-moons on his pale arm as he fucked you half senseless. You could feel yourself dissolve deeper into pleasure with every relentless snap of his hips, knowing that this was when Astarion was most himself—buried deep inside you, chasing his own ideas and desires. Enjoying himself. Writing poetry.

You came fast and hard. Astarion gasped as your cunt clenched violently around him, his movement growing increasingly erratic. He breathed incoherent strings of pretty words into your ear, pulled your hips down on his cock with so much urgency it left you reeling far beyond your orgasm. He was close, too. His rhythm faltered as he slipped into a frenzy, cock twitching inside you as he lost himself in his poetry—in you.

You brought your arm behind you to find Astaron’s sweat-drenched face, cupping his cheek. He groaned as he leaned into your touch.

“You’re so talented, Astarion,” you said. “Fill me with all you have.”

That was all it took. With one last grunt, Astarion spilled himself inside you. He continued rolling his hips into you for another moment, his pace slowing before he collapsed on top of you.

You let the familiar weight of your lover ground you, enjoyed the way his hands wound under you to caress your stomach, your breasts. Astarion pressed a kiss to the crown of your head before gently withdrawing from you. His seed gushed out of you, leaving his signature on the insides of your legs.

“You really think I have a thing for poetry?” Astarion asked, sheepishly, as he rolled to his side, pulling you with him to rest against his lean chest. “Or does my talent only reach as far as your pleasure?”

The sun had finally risen over the treeline, melting the morning dew from your skin. Drawing lazy circles across his chest, you considered Astarion’s question.

“Talent means nothing without practice.”

He hummed, clearly pleased with your answer. “Care to practise with me, then?”

“Your poetry or my pleasure?” You asked, looking up to search his face.

Eyes closed to the sun above you, Astarion smiled. “It’s all the same with you, isn’t it, little songstress?”

The pale elf pressed another kiss to your temple, pulled you even closer to him as you chuckled at his words.

“I would be quite honoured, Astarion.”

The page had been ripped from your journal. It rested neatly folded in half next to your bedroll, elegant handwriting bleeding through the paper. Bards weren’t morning people—it just came with the job. Though, even as sore and sleepy as you felt, you would’ve never missed the note waiting for you to be found upon waking with the sun. You’d been expecting it, after all. With uncoordinated hands, you unfolded the piece of paper.

“Getting drunk on your

Sweet morning dew, nightingale.

Fucking you—such bliss.”

—A.

You scoffed at the poem in your hands, carefully folding it again before you reached for a small box filled with similar pieces of paper. You added the poem to the growing collection. There was no talent without practice, and Astarion and you had only just begun.

tag list:

@spacebarbarianweird @bardic-inspo @kawaiiusagichansan @darlingxdragon @herautumnmorningelegance @ayselluna @chonkercatto

#astarion #astarion x tav #astarion bg3 #astarion smut #astarion x female reader #astarion x f!tav #astarion x you #astarion x f!reader #astarion x female tav #astarion fanfic #bard tav #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 smut #baldurs gate 3 #astarion ancunin #emicha writes #wilteddreamsbg3

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