#like the fact that he makes the same offer to tav with just a little less panache basically too

[vlaakithsfinest]

Okay as much as I like durgetash & Gortash being stupidly in love with durge and vice versa, I really love the idea that Gortash kinda didn’t give a shit about durge and legitimately only saw them as competent or semi competent business partner. It makes durge rolling back up with amnesia and Gortash tripping over himself to get them on his side even funnier to me

Like his plans have gone completely fucking sideways. Ketheric is dead. Orin’s wrecking havoc. The city is being subjected to frequent earthquakes bcs the brain is about to break free. Durge walks in as the convenient solution to all his problems and Gortash sidles right up durge all 💖✨💖✨💖OMG it’s my FAVORITE ASSASIN💖✨💖✨💖 (thank god I don’t have to deal w Orin any more thank god I don’t have to deal w Orin anymore thank god -) wait, you don’t remember anything? Yeah we were TOTALLY best friends, BFFs, if you will-

[sorcerous-caress]

could u possibly do how companions would treat tav's kid? like in a situation where a tav had a child/younger sibling or smth. fluffy fluff all around

You know how sometimes fate aligns so that your past deeds follow you into the future? This request gave me a flashback to my old writing blog.

Companions reacting to Tav's younger sibling/child

[ bg3, fluff, several characters ]

[ Astarion, Gale, Wyll, Halsin, Karlach, Laezel, Shadowheart, Minthara ]

Astarion

What on earth is that little gremlin following you around? Just make sure that no one feeds it after midnight.

To say he's not a fan is a huge underestimation, he signed up for a camp full of hot available single adults and not a daycare. How are you expecting him to be his usual self when a pg13 warning keeps chasing you around.

Whatever, he will just ignore the goblin-like thing. He can do that, how hard can it be?

Well...actually now that some time has passed, he has to admit that the little menace is really funny at times. Especially that one time he stole Gale's books to build a book throne in the mud, Astarion swears he could still hear Gale's heart shattering into a million pieces, what a fond memory.

What? Pfff, no, he isn't getting attached. He just...well was doing some trick with a coin to make it disappear, and the kid happened to be nearby, Astarion definitely wasn't trying to impress them.

Now the thing about picking locks is that it's better to teach them young. Think of all the small places, nooks, and crannies they could fit into, bringing them some loot and actually be useful.

And since he's already bothering to do it, might as well teach them how to wield a bow. Properly wield a bow, not like how Wyll does it no, it requires elegance only an elf is capable of and Astarion is the most expert here to train them.

Did you see that? They're actually getting better. He genuinely is impressed, so much that he doesn't register the smile of pride adorning his face, the excitement in his voice as he boasts about the kid's accomplishment and how they're clearly superior than the other crotch goblins.

Gale

Ah, children, truly the future of mankind. Humanity's hope and the ones who will carry the torch after us.

He is almost giddy at the idea of having an impressionable youth to teach, to steer and to spoil rotten like he was spoiled.

Will show off magic tricks nonchalantly, he definitely has a hidden agenda in trying to make the kid a wizard. After all who is better than him, an arch wizard, to teach a new curious soul about all the wonders of the weave? No magic is too advanced, everything is possible with imagination.

If anything, kids have the best imagination, better than adults do. Which is the argument he uses when you ask him why your little one can shoot invisible fireballs now.

He would love to read to them, he has all kinds of stories about heros, past legends and fables that will guarantee them a safe and sound mind. A healthy mindest to nurture then into a good kind hearted adult.

Even when his books end up the subject of the kid's abuse kind of a lot- Gale is nothing but forgiving. Cut the kid some slack, if anything, Gale is happy they are safe and sound.

Would make special meals for the kid during dinner time a lot, bunny shaped carrot cuts or soup with a sparkly finish. He can even teach them some basic recipes, cooking is a very important life skill afterall.

Wyll

He is very experienced with kids. Feels a bit concerned for the fact they're at camp all alone and volunteers to stay behind and watch them. And no, unlike the previous two, he doesn't try to indoctrinate them into elf supremacy culture nor tactically manipulate them into being a wizard.

He just lets them be a kid, plays ball with them. Shows them how to play fetch with Scratch. Overall a very cool and laid back older brother.

He definitely takes great inspiration from his own dad and how he raised him, offers the same advice and wisdom his own father shared with him.

Shows the kid that life is so much more than it seems, nothing is truly evil and nothing is truly good. Both can be found in each other. He treats the kid with respect and doesn't pull the older than you card unless necessary.

He wants them to establish their own being, their own character and carve their own path in life.

Definitely does whatever he can to keep Mizora away from the child. That devil cannot be trusted, and even while he knows the kid is smart, he doesn't want to leave it up to fate whether Mizora tricks them into a pact or not.

Halsin

The kid adores him and all of his animal forms. Halsin indulges them a lot and changes into whatever wildshape they deem the coolest that day to play with them.

When he looks at them, he sees a seed for the future. It requires care and nurturing to grow properly, and he is willing to make this world a better place for them.

Shows them how important nature is, how we should take care of the world just like it takes care of us. How we should respect the plants and the animals, how every meal is a gift and should be treasured.

He has a very fatherly vibe to him. It comes naturally, and he doesn't even have to try. Whenever the kid feels overwhelmed or scared, it's Halsin they run up and hide behind.

Also, when they get in trouble too because they know Halsin will take their side.

And he knows the kid is using him sometimes, but he lets it slide. Takes the kid on walks a lot, helps them make friends with the nearby cat that sometimes frequents the camp.

There is a potted plant they're both growing, a small shared project between the two of them. Halsin adores the look of happiness the kid has whenever the plant sprouts a new leaf and grows taller.

They don't have to know that it was Halsin's powers keeping it alive throughout the frequent changing of their camp and consistent travelling.

Karlach

Little soldier is what she calls them.

Picks them up a lot after her engine gets fixed, let's them ride on her shoulder and hang on to her horns sometimes. Even indulges them and pretends she is a robot that they're controlling.

Sorry Astarion, she can't stop hugging you. She's a simple robot, and the overlord kid on her shoulders demanded it.

While Wyll is the cool yet dependable older sibling, Karlach is the even cooler one who's very chaotic and would help the kid in their pranks and cause trouble a lot.

Ah, what the hell kid, sure you can pick up her great flaming axe and swing it around. Actually she will use a nearby table as a shield and you should definitely try throwing it at her.

It's not that she means to be a bad influence, it's just that she is extremely indulgent. That it circles back to being a bad influence without meaning to.

They want to only eat sweets for dinner and all day? Hell yeah little soldier she wants the same. They want to do it for the rest of eternity and never eat vegetables again? Sign her the fuck up because she is ride or die.

Oh yeah, your kid/sibling can swear now, thanks to her, you're welcome.

Jaheira

Is the one feeding them the vegetables, after telling Karlach off and putting her in the timeout corner.

It's not enough that she has a gaggle of children back home, but you had to bring another one with you to the camp? Oh cub, you and your own little cub are going to be the death of her.

If Halsin thinks he can hide them behind his bear form he better think twice, Jaheira isn't below putting the both of them in line if she has to.

She demands respect, and the kid definitely ends up giving it to her, begrudgingly or not. They understand she is the true form of authority in this camp and that they better do what she says and finish their chores.

They definitely see her as a grandma. She is secretly touched if they call her that but acts unaffected. She just doesn't want to let the kid down. She has to be strict because medicine never tastes sweet.

They remind her of her own kids backhome sometimes, she does get homesick a lot more with them around.

Shadowheart

No, she isn't emo. No, she isn't goth either. What is this kid talking about? They better know that worship of lady Shar is very sacred and not a passing phase she will grow out of.

You know how kids are overly curious and always ask these intrusive questions? Shadowheart is a magnet for that.

They just go up to her ,unannounced, and tell her about the recent camp news. She sips on her wine and gives the kid a glass of grape juice while they gossip.

Yes, she is a half elf. No, she is still as capable as an elf.

Wait, what did Astarion say about her? Really? Well, kid, thanks for being a snitch now. If you'd excuse her, she has urgent business to take care of.

She sees them and wonder if this is how her childhood was supposed to be like, if this is what she was missing out on all her life. Sometimes she can't help the burning envy at the back of her throat as she watches them be showered with love and care for simply existing.

But she doesn't let the bitterness get to her, not with how the kid looks at her in awe and admiration. She vows to be at least a decent example and not disappoint them.

Laezel

If left unattended, she will start a boot camp. Come one kid, get down, and give her 40 push-ups now.

What? She is just looking out for them. How else are they supposed to join the battlefield if they have no upper body strength?

Yes, the battlefield, why do you ask? Of course, she wants them in the front lines eventually. War is the perfect environment to raise a child, to make them strong and fast. You were very smart for bringing them here with you, she has to admit.

Bah, she scoofs at Karlach and Astarion's ways. It is a danger hazard at best. The kid needs to start with training equipment and not actual weapons. Her companions' lack of braincells does surprise her sometimes.

Well...she also does mention the fact that for them to graduate, they have to actually murder someone from the camp. You know, like how she murdered half her classmates when she was still in training.

She actually...does a good job at training them safely, she evaluates their weakness and strengths and gives them advice based on it on how to improve. She looks out for their well-being and shows them the most efficient way to end a fight.

But she's only joking? Right? Right???

Uh....did anyone see Gale??

Minthara

To put it in the nicest way possible, they are terrfied of her.

She thinks it's good because any sane person should be afraid of her. Frankly, she'd be concerned for a possibility of brain damage if they weren't.

They avoid her, and she barely pats an eye over it.

Although she was always the first to act whenever they were in danger, completely beheading the enemy with her sword before they could touch a hair on the kid. Still she doesn't care for the fact the child is drenched in blood and just saw someone get murdered.

She thinks they should get over it. The sooner, the better. Life is full of murder and blood, you'd be only dooming them if you don't let them see things for how they really are.

Drow culture for raising their children is very brutal, most of them die young and even the ones who do make it alive, don't live as long as the surface elves do.

Each drow carries deep scars from childhood, both on body and mind. Minthara wasn't the exception.

She tolerates your young out of respect for you. She tolerates what she deems as disobedience and disrespect from them.

You're not sure if they'll ever stop fearing her, but you also know that you can trust her to be there for them. To not hesitate a second in saving their flesh no matter what the cost is.

[happy-beeeps]

Sweat it out

Summary: tav comes down with a nasty flu, and one of her travel companions begins to worry... and maybe realize his feelings

WC: 1.3k

warnings: none i think! idiots in love

f!tav x reader

It’s quiet outside Astarion’s tent as he paces back and forth. Halsin has been inside with you for far too long, and the lack of communication has him worried. How long has it been since he hasn’t ended the night with your words, your breath near his? Weeks, months?

He doesn’t like to think of it. In fact, he’s doing an excellent attempt at thinking about anything else as he paces, and fails to notice the clatter of their camp members walking over to him.

“Chin up soldier, the rest of us seem okay, it probably has nothing to do with her tadpole.”

“Karlach is right,” Gale agrees, “it seems unlikely that the rest of us would be spared the same fate if this truly was connected to our wormy affliction. She will pull through.”

As much as it pains him to admit it, Gale is right. For all logical sense, this should have nothing to do with the mind flayers—but the thought offers little comfort (few things hinging on Gale’s ideas rarely do.) 

It has started this morning, you had remarked how your head felt wrong. You felt wrong. You had ignored it, had soldiered on. As the day progressed, you complained of aches that had not been there, of chills that ran down your arms. Your skin grew pallor, covered in a sheen of sweat. By the end of the night, a cough ragged at your chest, and you could do nothing f else but whimper to yourself. The slightest motion had set tears out of your eyes, your skin burning itself to rid your body of whatever was happening.

Only Halsin, Lae’zel, and Shadowheart accompanied you now, the two healers were working overtime on an attempt to find your ailment, and Lae’zel was not easily persuaded to leave behind one of her dearest friends.

Astarion thinks of the dagger pressed to poor Wyll’s throat when he kindly attempt to guide her towards a spot nearest the fire.

He’s worried about you. This isn’t new, he’s made peace with the reality that he cares for you, he just hasn’t figured out how to say it. Now, he fears the opportunity may be slipping from him.

It’s Halsin’s booming voice that calms his nerves, he and the other two step out from the tent, his grin palpable even from where Astarion is standing. “She’ll be fine. It’s a nasty virus, I’ve given her a brew to aid in the healing, and I’ve created tonics for the rest of us.”

As he passes them out, Shadowheart walks up to Astarion, who is quickly making his way towards your tent. “You… don’t need a tonic. On the account of you being, you know. Not really alive.”

“You’ve got such a way with words, really,” he breathes, but his eyes flicker to the flap of your tent, “so I can go see her?”

Lae’zel speaks up, placing a firm pat on his arm as she walks by, “she’s certainly been asking for you.”

* * * 

You have two clear, feverish trances.

The first is of your mother. A memory that’s not uncommon, one you drift back to anytime you attempt to rest an illness away. Its familiarity brings comfort as you attempt to sweat this bug out, and ignore Halsin and Shadowheart’s proding over your body. 

The other is… newer. One you hadn’t expected. You’re in a secluded section of camp, feet tapping against the water, skin swathed in moonlight. Your wearing nothing other than a long, white shirt, unlaced dangerously along the neck. This is no more than two days ago. 

You follow the memory along, watch from your eyes as you trace circles along your bare thighs, until you look to your side. Astarion is there, eyes swimming with emotion, as he gnaws on his lip.

Memory Astarion reaches out, grabbing your hand, weaving your fingers together. “I’m glad you’ve convinced me to stick around after our escapades, you are entirely addicting.”

Memory you leans against him, pressing your weight against his. His skin is cool, the chill sending tiny bumps along your exposed legs. “I’m glad you’ve decided to humor me, Star.”

You’re mortified when your eyes flutter open, your mouth in the process of muttering his name, to realize he’s here. Next to you. In your tent. As you sweat through probably a third pair of smallclothes.

“You rang?” He’s cheeky when he speaks, but his hand goes to palm your stomach quickly, as if he’s checking to make sure you’re here, you’re still you. The concern is sweet, and it sends an all new kind of flush across your body.

“Feel so sick, Star.” Shit. Is that tiny little voice coming from you?

He moves then, gentler than he’s ever moved before, carefully contorting his body around yours and pressing you against him. In an instant, it’s like a salve to your soul. You’re covered in him—his smell, his weight, his temperature. The chill itself is a whole other soothe to your aches. 

“I know you are darling, but Halsin said you’ll be better soon.”

“Can’t get you sick,” a cough takes your lungs briefly, “who’s gonna pick the locks for us then?”

He laughs, and smooths a few stray hairs out of your face. “I won’t. Officially medically cleared, according to Shadowheart. On the account of my ‘not being alive.’”

You move to nod your head, but the pain makes you stop. Astarion is quick, and he cushions the movement with his hand before pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I hear you were dreaming about me?”

“Maybe. Lots of trances. You know how it goes.”

“Was it particularly scandalous? Is that why my little love is so keen to swear?”

“Don’t have it in me to hit you.”

“You wouldn’t dream of it.”

It’s a calm silence that takes you next, Astarion stroking your hair as you listen to the distant clamor of your friends. You break it, after another moment.

“I remembered my mother.”

You don’t often talk about your family, and he knows this. He moved just slightly so you can see his face, curiosity and warmth covering his eyes. “What was it?”

“When I was little, I got sick, nothing bad but still sick. My mother, she’d rub my hair and sing to me,” you pause to close your eyes, as if you could will her here right now, “she’d go to our kitchens and shoo the cooks out, she’d make me her special soup, and when she brought it to me she’d promise me she’d teach me one day.”

“She sounds lovely.”

“She was. Smart too. She always knew things about me that I didn’t know.”

“Oh, like what?” Astarion’s face shimmers with a laugh and you use the last bit of your strength to attempt a shrug and burrow into his chest.

“She used to tell me she knew I’d end up with someone older. Don’t know if she knew how old.”

After your words, as if in cue, your chest begins its steady rise and fall, and Astarion recognizes the twitch in your fingers. You’re trancing again. Which means he’s stuck with your words and their heavy implications.

Still, with the way your overheating body simmers against his cold touch, he resolved that he doesn’t mind their weight, not at all. In fact, he’d like more of your burden.

You don’t slip out of your trance that night, but feel the briefest ghost of a kiss on your forehead.

When sunlight rolls around, your eyes blink awake. You’re weak, you can feel it, but better. You go to sit up, but realize quickly Astarion’s weight is still against you, one arm cradling your head to his chest, one arm twisted beneath you. 

You’ve never quite felt so comfortable, so held. You don’t remember what you told him last night, don’t remember exactly what he said. Instead, you decided to live in this moment now, and pray to all the gods you’ll get to relive it again soon.

[viennacherries]

Prompt suggestion <3 Rolan/Tav NSFW. Tav really likes it when Rolan speaks to her in infernal. She doesn’t understand it, but it doesn’t change the fact that it turns her on. He starts to notice her subtle reactions to when he curses or something in infernal. Which leads to bedroom shenanigans lol. My username is the same on A03 ^^

this has taken me a minute, mostly because i had to spend some time literally making up the infernal language for the purpose of this fic LMAO. if you're interested in my process it's in the end notes on ao3.

i changed the prompt a little though; rolan doesnt notice because he's very silly and keeps failing the perception check. lia notices immediently.

NSFW read on ao3 here

~~~

The first time Tav hears Rolan speak infernal, she doesn't even register it as a word. It slips past his tongue and it's all consonants and noises that she's not sure she could emulate properly with her non-tiefling tongue.

"Zurgan." He mutters it under his breath as he drops a pile of books.

Her quill stops midair where she's busy writing up an inventory of magical items they've found. With everyone else busy or gone from the city, she offered to help Rolan with organising the tower. It's been a nightmare, frankly. The previous tower master (she wont do him the privilege of speaking his name, the bastard) had apparently spent the last who-knows-how-many years stuffing things into random shelves and boxes.

She frowns as she tries to repeat the word, "Zu- Zurgan? What's that mean?"

Rolan jumps, clearly having forgotten she's in the room, "not zurgan, zurgan. It means- well, I don't know if it translates literally to common. It's... an expletive, I suppose ."

She laughs, "so it means 'fuck'?"

He huffs, and rolls his eyes, "I suppose that's a close enough approximation, yes."

"I don't think I've ever heard you swear before."

"Well," his brow is furrowed as he thinks, "I suppose I try not to, really. It's not becoming."

Tav snorts at that, "Gods, how old are you, 150? Besides, how is swearing in tiefling any different?"

"The language is called infernal, you uncultured swine. I'm a tiefling, I speak infernal."

"You speak something alright. Usually a crock of shi-"

"What did I say about it not being becoming, hm?"

She rolls her eyes at him, "so sorry, Master Rolan, please accept my humblest of apologies for disgracing your presence in such a regard."

He rolls his eyes at her, but she hears him snort and sees the quirk of his lip. "I suppose as far as apologies go, that one will suffice."

~~~

Several weeks later, Cal shouts through the door to the study where they're cataloguing evocation books, "Rolan! Lia and I are heading to the market, do you want us to pick up more of the wine you like?"

He laughs, which is rare enough in itself, and leans out the door to reply.

"Fazit drakon'ziz orum?!"

She hears Cal's responding cackle from down the hallway. "alright, alright, little drakon'ziz. I'll get 2 bottles, 'cos I love you."

When Rolan comes back in, chuckling to himself, Tav doesn't say anything. She wants to ask what it means, but she's... distracted.

Something about the way the words sound when he says them is... enticing. She's not sure if she could repeat them without butchering them, but even if she could she's sure they wouldn't sound as delicious as when they come from him. It's something about the rich tone to his voice, which she's always liked, coupled with the harsher edge it takes on when he speaks the foreign language.

Gods, she's been spending far too much time with him,

She clears her throat, "drakon'ziz?"

Rolan turns to her, still smiling, " drakon'ziz , but close. It means dragon."

His lopsided smile, aimed at her, coupled with the gruffness of the unknown word, is a little bit intoxicating.

"What about the rest of what you said? Fa- Fazit something?"

"'Fazit drakon'ziz orum?' It means 'does a dragon want gold?' It's a tiefling saying, basically means 'yes, obviously.' It just sounds better in infernal."

Tav agrees. It sounds rather lovely in infernal, in fact.

When Tav doesn't reply, he raises an eyebrow, "I could try and teach you some? Infernal, that is. If you'd be interested. Tell me something you want to be able to say, I'll try and teach you how to say it."

She thinks for a moment.

"What if I want to call someone a shit-head?"

He barks out a laugh as he rolls his eyes, "of course you'd just want to know how to insult people. I think the closest translation would be uzterku'zereb.  That means 'shit-for-brains'."

Despite the small jolt her stomach gives as he utters the phrase, she starts cackling. "That's even better!"

~~~

It's been about a month and a half since they started cataloguing everything in the tower, and it's basically become a nightly occurrence that Tav stays for dinner with them. Rolan has finally sat down at the dining table, after bringing all the dishes and cutlery through, and right as he hits the chair there's a sheepish voice from beside him.

"... Rolan~" It's Lia, in a singsong voice, and he huffs.

"What do you want?" It's a question, but it sounds more like an admonishment.

"How could you?! Assuming I want something from you. My beloved big brother. I look up to you so much. Also I left my drink in the sitting room."

You and Callum both laugh, and he makes a very dramatic show of pushing his chair back out with a huge sigh.

"You're such a..." He flails for a moment, as if the word in common has escaped him, "an uztanatez. Next time, you're getting it yourself."

She laughs, "My dear brother, I would fall on my sword for you."

"Mhm." He grumbles, " gladiz zurzum kuluz ..."

Cal nearly falls out of his chair laughing as Rolan trudges from the room, and Lia has a grin on her face from successfully riling him up and getting what she wanted.

Tav is blushing.

"What did he say?" She feels hesitant to bring attention to herself when she knows she's bright red, but she's also too nosy for her own good.

Lia looks at her and opens her mouth to answer, but pauses as she takes in Tav's face. Cal, blissfully, doesn't notice.

"Well the first bit was him calling her a suck up," he laughs through his explanation, "and the second bit was him telling her exactly where she could shove her sword."

She laughs, and thanks him for telling her. Lia is still looking at her. Her face warms more.

"What?"

"Hm." Lia smiles in a way that looks slightly threatening; the way Tav imagines a shark would smile at a seal before taking a huge chunk out of it. "Nothing, really. Only, you weren't that flushed before Rolan spoke in infernal. Got a thing for the devil's tongue, have you Tav?"

Cal furrows his eyebrows in confusion, before his eyes widen and his mouth drops in an 'o' of understanding.

She's about to deny it but she can feel that she's even redder now, so instead she buries her face in her hands. "Don't you dare! Don't you dare say anything!"

"Say anything about what?" Of course Rolan would walk back in now. He places Lia's cup in front of her and turns to Tav expectantly, but Lia speaks before she can.

"Tav is just embarrassed because she didn't understand what you said, she felt left out."

His face breaks into a look of confusion, "You shouldn't be embarrassed by that, Tav, you don't speak the language. Uztanatez-" Tav sucks in a breath, and Lia snorts, "means 'bootlicker'. Gladiz zurzum kuluz means... well... 'shove your sword up your rear'."

Cal and Lia are both sporting shit eating grins. Tav thinks now is a good time to pick a God and pray.

~~~

" Pulch'zer."

He says it as she walks through the door to the study one morning.

"Sorry, repeat that?"

His eyes widen, and his face flushes a deep crimson colour. She's never seen him blush before, or at least she's never noticed because of his skin's natural shade.

"Sorry I was just..." He averts his gaze, looking back at the paperwork he's working on, "I was just thinking out loud..."

She chuckles lightly. "Ah, that text will be kicking your ass then. Pulch'zer. What does it mean?"

He looks up at her again. His eyes lock with hers.

"You're close, it's not pulch'zer, it's pulch'zer . You have to put more emphasis on the 'Z' sound."

Gods, she needs to stop asking. He always ends up correcting her, and she always ends up going bright pink. He pronounces the words more precisely when he's teaching her how to say them, it drives her insane.

"Pulch- Pulch? Pulch'zer."

He chuckles, stands and walks over to her. "You're close, but now you're putting too much emphasis on it." He's only an arms length away from her now. " Pulch'zer ."

She gulps. He needs to stop repeating it.

"P- Pulch'zer." She can't tear her eyes away from him, she stares right into his gaze as she repeats it. He sucks a small breath in, so small it's barely noticeable.

"Yes. Very good."

There's a pause.

"So. What does it mean?"

He's flushing again. "It... Well. It..."

She raises an eyebrow, "that bad huh?"

"... it means 'beautiful'."

Tav's face twists in confusion. "What about your book is beaut-"

Rolan surges forward and plants his lips on hers. She gasps into it, the rest of her words swallowed by her inhale and his tongue. She sinks into it. His hands fall onto her waist, and he uses them to drag her closer, pulling the whole length of his body against hers. When he pulls away it feels far too soon, but in his defence he's breathless. He only leans his chest away, his hips still against hers.

"I wasn't talking about the book."

The look in his eyes is vulnerable in a way she's never seen him before. As though he desperately wants her to understand, and yet is terrified that she will. Like he's scared to fracture whatever comfortable thing they've fallen into together.

"Well..." She takes a deep breath, rests a hand on his chest. "Then I'd like you to know that I think you're very pulch'zer."

He sucks in through his teeth and lets out a single disbelieving laugh. "That sounds ridiculously good when you say it, you know."

She snorts, dismissive, "please, it's far better when you say it. I love when you speak infernal."

He stares at her.

She feels her eyes bug out of her head as what she said hits her. "I mean! Not that- I don't mean that like-"

"You love it? What does that mean?"

She can feel the heat in her face. Suddenly everywhere he's touching her is too much, she needs to fall through the floor to a new realm and start her life over with a fake name.

"I don't- I didn't mean-"

As she fumbles over her words, Rolan's face starts to lift into an understanding smirk. "Oh. I see. You love it."

He leans forward towards her, and his lips brush her ear.

"Tibiz plazet link'zon mezoq ?"

She shudders, "Rolan, I have no idea what you're saying."

He chuckles lowly against the shell of her ear. " Zedzit'n, nul'umne? Zede illizquit diko ."

Gods, it's torturous. He's dropped his voice an octave, giving the already heavy words an even more gravelled tone. Her breath is coming out in pants and she whines. The way it's affecting her is ridiculous.

He doesn't stop, " morentez me'zam? Notzo'illi ."

"Rolan, please."

He grins against her, and she feels his length pressing against her body through his robes. " Quid plaket, dilekt'miz ?"

" Rolan , common tongue, please . I want to know what you're saying."

"I said 'please what?'"

Tav huffs in irritation, "I don't know."

He brings his lips up to brush hers, smiling against her as she tries to pull him closer.

"Do you want me to kiss you again?"

She swallows hard around the lump in her throat and nods.

"Mhm. Ask me nicely."

The noise she lets out is embarrassing, a high pitched whine that she couldn't stop if she tried, but she feels his breath against her lips as he exhales in excitement.

"Kiss me, Rolan. Please."

His smile is wide against her, "as you wish, pulch'zer."

When he kisses her, his lips are gentle against hers. Soft and pliant, eager but restrained. When he parts them slowly, she responds in kind and finds his tongue with hers, and he rewards her with a deep, sensual moan from low in his throat. His lips are warm and soft, his mouth tastes of spearmint, his breath flows through her. She feels her small-clothes growing damp.

As he deepens the kiss his movements grow more insistent, more intense, and he squeezes her hips as he grinds her into him. She moans in response and the noise flips a switch in him. All of a sudden his lips are frantic, the kiss turning messy and needy, and his hands are running up and down her body as thought they don't know where to settle.

He pulls back enough to speak, his breath dancing along her lips, his voice barely above a whisper. " Nezkiz quid'mih fakiaz. Volui'illi tamd'umne ."

Tav moans, long and slow as the words rush over her skin, "Gods, Rolan. I wish I knew what you were saying. Fuck ."

He chuckles quietly, "perhaps I'll teach you Comprehend Languages. Then again... Forzit adv'illi."

She groans. "Rolan, please ."

He grins, grinding his length against her, "please, what?"

The huff she lets out is impatient, "you know what."

His mouth traces the shell of her ear again and she shivers. "Perhaps. But tell me anyway."

She groans, "please fuck me, Rolan."

He needs no further invitation. Rolan undresses them both rapidly, swift and efficient just as he treats his work, and they're both bare before each-other in a few moments.

When he looks over her, sweeping his eyes across her form, he lets out a low noise of appreciation. "Hells, Tav, you're beautiful."

She feels nervous, all of a sudden, bare before him, but she smiles despite it. "So are you."

He's back on her, trailing his lips along her throat and collarbone, leaving teasing bites and grazes with his canines. She's a whimpering, writhing mess beneath him but she doesn't care. She can feel his length pressed against her stomach, can feel the grooves of the door on her back, and she's absolutely aching with need.

"Is this okay? Are you comfortable?" His questions make her chest ache with a different kind of need to the one pulsing through her core.

"Yes, Rolan. Please, for the love of- fuck me against this door."

His moan in response to her words is loud and wanton. " Hells , Tav. Lift your leg for me."

She does, and he grabs under her knee, lifting it up so it wraps around his hip, the heel of her foot against the base of his tail while her other foot stays planted against the floor. His other hand comes between them, grips the base of his cock and rubs it against her folds. She throws her head back as she keens, and at the same time he lets out a groan closer to a growl.

"Fuck, you're so wet. Is- This is still okay? You want this?" His voice wavers with lust.

Hearing him curse is almost as incredible as hearing him speak infernal. "Yes , Gods if you don't-"

He's sliding himself into her before she can finish her threat, and the rest of her words fizzle out into a high pitched moan as she throws her head back. His length is ridged and she can feel every notch as it slides into her. He works his way into her slowly, thrusting only an inch at a time until his pelvis comes to rest against hers, and he folds over to rest his forehead against her shoulder.

His first half of his sentence is muttered, the second half directed at her, "Tam strikta , fuck. Ita infek'tum strikta. Tell me when you're ready, dilekt'miz."

"I'm ready, please, fuck me."

He silences his own moan by clamping his mouth over the meat between her neck and shoulder, and begins thrusting shallowly. The slide of him inside her, the ridges on his shaft dragging against her walls, has her tightening her leg around his waist and dragging him closer. He grunts through his mouthful of her skin and starts to pick up his pace, until he's thrusting hard and fast into her.

She's a mess, and she knows it, but it doesn't matter. She's digging her heel into his ass and arching her hips away from the door to get closer to him, head thrown back and eyes wrenched shut. It's too much, but it's not enough. She grabs his hand that isn't holding her knee up and places it round the back of her other thigh. He's a quick study as always, taking a firm hold on the back of her leg and hoisting her other leg up around him, so she's held up against the door by just his weight against her and his bruising grip. It changes the angle, he drives deeper into her, and they both moan in tandem.

He's speaking again, infernal dialect spilling from him freely into her skin, " Nezkiz. Nezkiz quam di'tez vellem. Quamdiu korpuz tuum'kontraz petivi. Vid'tez habzeq. Miz'tib animez'umne ." He speaks the words with a reverence that that has her keening, clenching around him.

"Rolan, I'm so close, fuck don't stop."

He shakes his head, thrusts into her harder, "Hells, I won't, Tav. I won't, I won't, adv'illi, adv'illi -"

The utterance of more quiet infernal words against her tips her over the edge, and she finds her release around him. His movements become stuttered, desperate, " Tez amorez. Tez amorez taz'multo. Perfik'miz. Amaz, amaz, num'quam latuz dezeraz. Morent'illi anim defendam."

He follows her over the precipice and empties himself inside her. She tightens her hold on him with her legs and kisses his neck as his hips twitch through his release, and as he stills they both try to find breath against each-other's skin.

"Gods, Tav." His voice is hoarse, "you- that was- I-"

She chuckles, which makes her walls clench and his hips stutter as he gasps at the feeling. "That was amazing, Rolan. What... Um. What were you saying?"

She pulls away to look at him, and his face is incredibly red. His freckles are barely visible through the violent blush. "Oh, um. Nothing- Nothing, really. Nothing important. Just... babbling. You know."

She laughs, slowly lowering her legs to the ground, both shuddering as he pulls himself from her. He mutters a quick incantation and they're both clean.

"You're going to have to teach me Comprehend Languages, now. I'm far too nosy to leave it at that."

"Hm. We'll see."

~~~

Translations:

"Tibiz plazet link'zon mezoq?" ("You like when I speak to you in my native tongue?")

"Zedzit'n, nul'umne? Zede illizquit diko." ("But you don't care, do you? It's not about what I say.")

"Morentez me'zam? Notzo'illi." ("Moaning for me already? Aren't I lucky.")

Quid plaket, dilekt'miz?" ("Please what, my beloved?")(he lies and tells her it means "please what?")

"Nezkiz quid'mih fakiaz. Volui'illi tamd'umne." ("You have no idea what you do to me. I have wanted you for so long.")

"Then again... Forzit adv'illi." ("Then again... Perhaps I won't.")

"Tam strikta, fuck. Ita infek'tum strikta. Tell me when you're ready, dilekt'miz." ("So wet, fuck. So tight and wet. Tell me when you're ready, my beloved.")

"Nezkiz. Nezkiz quam di'tez vellem. Quamdiu korpuz tuum'kontraz petivi. Vid'tez habzeq. Miz'tib animez'umne." ("You have no idea. You have no idea how long I've wanted you. How long I've craved your body against mine. I have dreamt of having you like this. My soul burns for you.")

"adv'illi" ("I won't.")

"Tez amorez. Tez amorez taz'multo. Perfik'miz. Amaz, amaz, num'quam latuz dezeraz. Morent'illi anim defendam." ("I love you. I love you so much. You complete me. Please, please never leave my side. I would protect you to my dying breath.")

[avocado-writing]

hiii your bg3 writing is so *chefs kiss*

I was hoping you'd be able to write the companions' reactions to a bard!tav, giving them a private serenade one night. like they lead them to a clearing away from camp one night and there's a picnic set up and tav sings a song they wrote specifically for their love?

if all the companions is too many, could you please specifically do Halsin, Astarion, Minthara and Wyll?

oh, cute! going to give you a lute, as I think that’s easiest!

Astarion

he makes a comment about how he feels the picnic was a bit unnecessary as he can’t eat it, but you mention you’re his snack later ;)

you sit him down, pour him a glass of wine, and pull out your lute

you ask, suddenly uncharacteristically shy, if you can play him something.

he cocks his head to the side and nods.

your fingers dance across strings, and when you start to sing, he realises it’s a song about him.

you once offered to be his mirror, and tonight you repeat that. your song is about how lovely he is, in every way. how he’s handsome but kinder than he wants to admit. brave. fierce.

its the most sincere celebration of his character he’s ever heard, and by the end of it, he’s left shocked.

“oh…” “did you like it?” chewing your lip, nervous.

“it’s… you’re…” he really doesn’t have the words to convey how you’ve made him feel. so he gently takes your chin in his hand and kisses you.

the kiss gets deeper. the lute is abandoned. so, really, is the picnic. the music the two of you make then is of a different kind.

later, when he has time to come up with a suitable review, he will tell you how much it meant to him. you are his favourite musician, and he has a new favourite song.

Halsin

oh, he’s been around for a long time, but this is the first time someone’s done something like this for him.

he’s just sat in bowled-over silence as you play for him, and it is amazing. an epic ode to his life and kindness, how strong and handsome you think he is.

he comes closer as you sing, sitting right next to you. studying every inch of your face as you perform.

when you’re done, he tells you that it was the loveliest thing he’s ever heard.

“I’ve heard pods of whales singing as they meet up with their lost family… until now, it was the sweetest sound to have graced my ears.”

he gets you to repeat the song and turns into different animals to enjoy it, be it via vibrations or different ways of hearing. either way he wants to be surrounded by your music, and you.

Minthara

absolutely no idea how to respond.

she was brought up in a cutthroat world. this softness is new to her.

she remains quiet for a while as she tries to work out if you’re trying to get anything from her. is this a trick?

”oh, I’m sorry,” you say after a while when she’s just been staring. “did you not like it?”

”no. no, it was… play it again.”

you do, and she really listens to the lyrics. they’re about her beauty. how glad you are to have met her. her strength in battle and soul.

she’s exceptionally moved.

“this is… a priceless gift that you’ve given me. I have no way to repay you.” “I don’t need repayment. it was freely given.”

she kisses you, for she has no way else to thank you. you have moved her more than she thought possible.

Wyll

you play and he listens. his eyes and smile go wide.

absolutely enraptured. claps when you’re done, and cheers your performance. you laugh and bow for him.

he tells you how much you mean to him, what a sweet gift this is. how your love is his most treasured possession.

he reaches into his pocket… and takes out some paper.

“I… I know this is incredible timing but actually… I wrote you something, myself.”

and he starts to read out a poem.

oh, it is lovely. full of flowery verse, and sweet appreciations of you. all the little things which make him love you. you pick up your lute and play along eventually, and he gets into the rhythm too.

the two of you laugh at the fact that you both had the same idea! you’re so alike, so in sync.

he holds you tenderly, kisses you softly.

you end up writing many songs about your Blade. he is your perfect muse.

bonus:

Karlach bursts into tears when she hears it, and scoops you up into a big hug at the end. she’s so emotional. she can’t stop saying she loves you, she loves your song, all of it. lots of wet kisses for you.

Gale is rendered speechless for the first time he can remember. he just stares at you in adoration. he’s never had anyone love him enough to write a song about him before, and he full force of his affection for you hits him in that moment. he is smitten.

[astarionxhappiness]

This is my first piece of writing in about five or so years, so thank you Astarion for giving me that fire again.

I did my best to find all the typos, but this was written on my phone at about 1 AM while half asleep, and autocorrect is a bitch, so bear with me.

Prompt: you have a bad past of sexual abuse, but catch feelings for Astarion.

Word Count: A little over 4,000 words

Warnings: mentions of sexual abuse if you squint a bit. Fluff. Lots of fluff.

The two of you had been traveling together for some time now. And while you had gotten of to a rocky start, you felt that you had grown a rather strong bond over the past months.

Though you supposed that facing constant and never ending threats, as well as having a tadpole connecting your very minds could do that to anyone.

Having to constantly put your life into another's hands like that. . All of your trust. And in turn, they offered you the same.

It had been years since you had felt such trust for a person. Such faith and warmth. And to a vampire spawn no less.

The thought made you smile to yourself with great amusement, biting your bottom lip absently and tugging.

Perhaps it wasn't even putting your trust in a vampire spawn. . Perhaps it felt funny to find yourself putting your trust in him.

"What's so funny?"

The words knocked you from your daze, bringing your attention back to the world around you.

The sound of the crackling fire, the uncomfortable log making your ass sore the longer you remained seated on it. The night air chilling your skin through the thin fabric of your tunic.

"Tav?" Astarion's voice sounded again, ever demanding. His tone made you look over at him quickly.

"You keep doing that today. . Are you falling ill or something?" You did not offer a response to this rhetorical question, knowing it was asked out of fussiness from being ignored, rather than genuine concern.

"I'm just thinking," you replied, glancing over at him again. "Nothing is funny."

You had had a hard time looking at him all day. You knew it had to do with the dream you had had the night before, though you were still having trouble admitting it to yourself.

The very memories of it made you feel flush.

"Oh?" He quirked a brow as he gazed at you from the corner of his eye, his head tilted back in a manner that showed off his jaw nicely.

"And what is it you're thinking about so intently then, hm? It must be something quite interesting to have you so distracted." The suggestive smile and knowing glint in his eye made you flush, looking away bashfully.

"Whatever you think it is, I can assure you it isn't that," you replied with vehemence, listening to him burst into musical laughter.

"Oh, it truly is so much fun to tease you, darling" he replied, tilting his head to look at you, a smile dancing on his lips that showed off his fangs.

"So what was it, then? If not the idea of me ravishing your body?" He had been making such jokes more and more for weeks now, but the immersion did nothing to stop your face from going red once more, forcing you to look away from him so he wouldn't see.

Not that it truly mattered. You knew he could tell exactly what your reaction was. Hence the reason he loved to make comments.

"Astarion, could I ask you something?" You found the nervous words leaving your mouth before you could stop them, making your body tense.

Your head remained bowed, gazing intently at your lap.

The smile fell from his lips, a look of uncertain curiosity taking place in his features instead.

"What's on your mind, darling?" He asked, making you wring your hands together.

"Do you. . Do you actually like being with people?" The question made him pause for just a moment before a smile cracked the far more real expression that had come before it.

A breathless laugh left his lips.

"Of course," he replied, unwilling to admit to the possibility that that was in fact a lie.

He felt the question was building to something more, and he was unwilling to make himself unavailable should you want him.

His eyes squinted slightly in curiosity when you offered little more than a nod of your head, wringing your hands together.

"So. . So you enjoy. . Being touched?" You glanced over at him, tensing harder when you found his inquisitive gaze already looking back at you.

"Why are you asking me these things my sweet?" He asked. "Is it perhaps. . Because you really would like for me to touch you?" He brought his hand out to very lightly cover your wrist, making your breath catch.

Silence grew thickly between the two if you as your response to the question remained stuck firmly in your throat.

You startled violently when footsteps sounded from off to your left, followed by Wyll's voice.

"Are you two coming to eat? Gale's just finished cooking. " He hesitated as he spoke, watching Astarion's hand slide subtly off your wrist.

"I am actually not feeling particularly well," you replied, flustered as you got to your feet. "Excuse me." They both watched you go, having similar expressions if uncertainty as Astarion stood up next to Wyll.

You remained in your tent for the remainder of the evening, listening to the others talking and laughing over warm food.

You shivered absently as you laid on your bedroll, the thick furs feeling less warm than usual. You hoped that it was simply the nights getting colder, but you had a feeling it was rather your thoughts giving the impression of warmth leaving your body.

You shut your eyes, your fingers tracing the palm of your other hand tucked by your face as you heard Astarion reciting one of his favorite stories to the others, undoubtedly keeping the company of a nice glass of wine.

The tips of your fingers traced down to your wrist where his hand had covered just a few hours before, your mind wandering back to the dream that had corrupted your thinking all day.

You had sworn off touch long ago. Your experience with it being only violent and cruel.

You did not want it.

A simple brush of the shoulder led to temptation of touching one's arm. Then, perhaps the urge to move in closer. Feel their breath against your skin, inhale their scent. .

These were temptations that people seemed incapable to control.

No! You wouldn't risk it! Not again! Not ever again.

You would not be used for another's pleasure.

And yet. . Astarion had touched you, had he not? Not just tonight, but other times as well. Whether it was catching you mid trip, protecting you in a fight . . even waking you from a nightmare or two. .

You took in a deep breath as these memories crossed your mind. The feel of his hands clutching your shoulders, his soothing, concerned voice as he tried to calm you down.

You had felt faint that night, waking with the air out of your lungs.

You had fallen against him, your hands shaking, weakly grasping at his arms as you tried not to faint. You could still feel the sensation of your temple resting against his broad chest. The feeling of his cool hand coming to rest on the side if your head.

He had never stopped talking while you worked through your panic attack. Plenty of it was not actually comforting, but the simple sound of his voice grounded you. And his touch made you feel drunk.

You had pushed those feelings away after that night. but after your dream, after the vivid sensation of his touch against your skin, his soft voice easing your tension. . You knew the sensation. It was too vivid not to have been spawned from a memory.

That feeling of safety. . Never had you expected to ever feel it in your life. .

You bit your lip as you curled in on yourself, wrapping an arm around your torso.

If your fears were right, and all touching always led to pain and violence, then why had Astarion never tried anything?

Even tonight, the touch had been. . Gentle. Hesitant, almost. Offering the option for you to pull away if you so pleased.

But you didn't. Something about it felt right. Like having a taste of water when you didn't realize just how thirsty you were.

Perhaps. . Just maybe, it was possible to find safety with him.

You trusted him with your life, after all.

And from things he had told you in the past, you got the feeling he would understand the fear you had of being taken advantage of more than anyone.

Your attention was grabbed by the sounds of everyone getting ready to head to bed, most likely due to the rain that had begun falling, making it's presence known to you by tapping rhythmically against your tent.

You bit your lip, feeling your stomach twisting at the resolve you made.

You would just ask him. What was the worst that could happen?-

You had to stop your brain from answering this question.

It took you a little under ten minutes to harden your resolve.

You kicked off the thick fur blanket, stuffed your feet in your unlaced boots, and headed for the vampire's tent across the camp from yours.

Except, by the time your feet stopped in front of his tent, your resolve had weakened once more, leaving you standing in the dark with rain slowly absorbing into the thin layers of your clothes.

You were already shaking with nerves by the time that thunder boomed in the sky so loudly it had you yelping in surprise, your mind having been far more preoccupied with other things than the lightning overhead. flinging yourself through the flap of fabric that covered the entrance of his tent, you froze as you laid eyes on the man laying in the dim lamp light.

Your entrance made Astarion look up with a start from the spot on his bed, his finger marking the page of his book he had been reading.

He looked confused by your odd entrance, though your meek posture and flushed skin made him smile at you. It rather made your head dizzy and your feet want to run.

"Hello, beautiful," he greeted, his tone ever seductive. "I figured I would be seeing you again tonight." He shut his book in a way that had you wondering how many times he had practiced the motion in order to get just the right amount of seduction out of it.

He was. . Everything that you were not in such moments.

Confident, charismatic, smooth and seductive. Experienced, and more or less functioning.

You looked down, hands clasped before you.

"I-i didn't mean to bother you," you whispered, finding yourself far more nervous than you normally were.

"I just. . I wanted to ask you. ." You shut your eyes as your cheeks went bright red.

He couldn't help but notice the soft tremor rattling your body. Your meek position was not one he often saw you possessing. Only in moments when you were truly terrified or nervous about something.

It was, much to his horror, rather.. endearing.

He had only seen you in such a state a spare few times, but when he did, he had the odd urge to handle whatever it was causing it.

And in this case, he felt certain that the thing causing you trouble, he could definitely take care of.

He stood up, moving over to you, making your heart beat quicken with nerves.

He had a way of looming that made you want to flee.

When you flinched back from him, suddenly rethinking if your request was such a good idea, you watched to your great surprise as he took a step back, frowning.

"Are you scared of me?" He asked with sudden realization.

The action had not been made out of anticipation, or longing. No. . People did not flinch like that unless they expected something unpleasant to happen.

You looked up at him with round, horrified eyes.

"No!" You replied quickly, your body trembling a bit harder.

"I- no, of course not, I just-" he turned his head to the right slightly as he continued to look at you, frowning as he brows furrowed.

"I just get- nervous, with people. . Touching me," you finally managed to get out, sounding royally ashamed.

You had survived an illithid tadpole swimming around in your skull, the crashing of a ship you you were on only because of being abducted, countless perilous fights, and even knocked the head off of one or two goblins without ever skipping a beat.

But this. Proximity to someone that had never once tried to murder you, or handle you in a way you didn't want to be handled. . This terrified you?

It was only then that he realized you had always avoided being touched by others. You had never shown interest in any form of romance, or even friendly pats on the shoulder by the others in your little party.

You had always managed to casually and seamlessly avoid such interactions.

"Why do you get nervous being touched?" He asked, though he had his suspicions. "I assure you, love, there is absolutely nothing to be afraid of." He offered his hand out to you, but made no further attempt at contact. Remaining a respectful distance from you.

You looked away, a part of you desperately wanting to reach out and grasp his hand, feel the sensation that you had found yourself desperate to for.

You did not, however. You remained rigidly shaking in place as you looked away.

"You. . You said that Cazador, . . That he made you do things you didn't want to do? With him? And. . Others? " You whispered nervously.

It had been a conversation you had had with him some weeks ago, out on a ledge relaxing beneath the stars while the others slept.

He frowned at the mention, dropping his hand when the offer was not accepted.

"Yes," he replied, seeming slightly more guarded. "Why?"

You tensed as another roar of thunder raged in the sky, your eyes shutting.

"Well- someone. . Someone did things to me. To hurt me, and- and use me-" you looked up at him, eyes round and nervous, a part of you expecting to be met with disgust.

The expression you were met with however, was one of a silent understanding. The defense in his gaze softened.

Though the bitterness remained, you felt certainty that it was not directed towards you.

"I see," he replied, his suspicions finally being confirmed.

"So why are you here, then?" He tilted his head back slightly. "Trying to rewrite the pain in your past?" He guessed. "Well, I'm okay with that. Happy to be of service, darling." He offered you a charming smile as his weight shifted to one hip, his hand coming up to hang loosely at the wrist.

"No, actually," you replied, watching the false happiness slip off his features. "I-. . I wanted to ask if. . You would want. . " you scrunched your face, looking tortured.

"I can read your thoughts if you'd rather not say it aloud," he offered when you fell silent.

You looked only more pained by this offer, but nodded mutely, opening your mind to him as the request was caught in your throat.

He shut his eyes was he felt the connection take hold, swimming in your thoughts to latch on to the question stuck in your mind.

"Do I want to cuddle?" He demanded in confusion, taking an affronted step back, letting out a breathless laugh as he looked at you.

You tensed, shaking just a little harder at his reaction, your stomach twisting in a manner that made you glad you had not eaten that evening.

"I-. . No one's ever asked me that before," he went on, the vehemence in his voice dissipating as he looked at you, features taking on more trouble attributes.

He looked at you quietly, your small form shivering, your clothes clinging to your body wetly, making him wonder how long you had been outside his tent, too scared to come in and ask for such an odd. . Innocent, request.

The strange part was, it. . Sounded rather pleasant.

You had never asked anything of him before. You offered loyalty to him and never asked for anything in return. Not even his own loyalty to you.

You had fought for him. Saved him. Cared for his wounds, and been there for him in moments when he felt he could open up.

"I-" he hesitated as you stayed silently staring at him, waiting for something bad to happen.

He did not need an tadpole to read the nervousness and fear in your mind.

"-i think I would rather like tjat," he found himself genuinely admitting.

He offered his hand again to you, his demeanor soft and delicate. The same demeanor he had offered when he held you when you couldn't catch a healthy rhythm with your breathing.

You looked down at his hand, hesitantly stepping forward and putting your hand over his, feeling a rush if excitement and longing rush through you as you felt his fingers wrap gently around your hand.

You took another step closer to him, your mind almost blank as you shut your eyes, and wordless pressed your body against his in a gentle, soothing hug.

He hesitated as you did this, fairly certain no one had ever hugged him before this very moment.

It felt. . Warm. . Comforting, almost.

Safe.

He wrapped his arm around you after a moment of uncertainty, the hold tenuous and hesitant.

He kept your hand in his, pressed between your bodies up against your chests.

He shut his eyes, feeling himself melting into the embrace.

When you pulled away finally and looked up at him, he quietly used your hand still in his to tug you with him towards the bed on the ground. He sat down on top of the blanket, looking up at you wordlessly, his hand still tenderly grasping yours.

You took in a deep breath, looking down at him intently as you sat on the ground in front of him on folded legs, taking in another deep breath with nervous giddiness from the proximity.

It felt just as you had dreamed it. The warmth, the tenderness. .

You leaned forward for what Astarion instinctively expected to be a kiss, but found himself freezing when you pressed your forehead tenderly against his, your eyes shutting.

The soft little breaths you took in to try and calm yourself, soaking up the touch in a manner that clearly felt euphoric- it was not things that went unnoticed by the vampire spawn.

You were. . Positively adorable. The gentle way you hesitantly brought your hands up to let the very tips of your fingers touch either side of his face. The soft, earnest expression you wore as you soaked up the feeling of being touched . .

He shut his eyes, bringing his hands up to gently cover your hands, feeling your tadpole reaching out to his, should he want it.

Curious, he reached out, and felt himself tale an inhale as a feeling of warmth washed over him.

Feelings of care, and trust. understanding, and longing.

But not for the thing most people wanted from him. . It was a longing to be to see, as well as be seen. A longing for understanding.

He brought his hand to press against the mid of your back, gentle and coaxing, you slowly agreed to the request, and let him guide your body to press against his.

The touch felt so different than usual. Perhaps it was the connection of the tadpole, but it felt warm, and safe

You felt safe.

He had never felt such a sensation before in his life. To genuinely trust someone. To care for them.

There were small, subtle glimpse of pain in your thoughts. Ones that he found he wanted to prod at further, but resisted.

He brushed his nose against yours mindlessly, and you returned the action, feeling entranced as he opened his own mind mind you in return, letting you see how cared for you were with him.

You melted further into the touch, slipping your arms around his back, a hand coming up to the back of his hair mindlessly to play with the soft silver locks.

He brought his hands to your sides, keeping you pressed against him as he carefully headed backwards so you rested down on top of him, his fingers coming to run along the divot of your spine.

Wrapping your leg around him, you settled comfortably against him, the heaviness of your body on top of him feeling like a pleasant weighted blanket.

He let his hands roam along your wet clothes before making their way into your damp hair.

He wanted to ask how long exactly you had been out there to have gotten so wet, be he refrained, simply listening to the rain hit the tent as you both soaked up the comforting touch.

You folded the blanket up around the two of you after a time, and felt him roll you both a moment later.

You opened your eyes softly to look at him, gently resting your forehead against his once kore, though there was no tadpole connecting you this time.

"If you ever want someone," you whispered, bringing your fingers up to tenderly touch his cheek. "If you ever want to talk, or just. . Have someone to be with, I am here." You brushed your nose against his, watching his lids fall half closed.

He looked like he wanted to respond, but was perhaps, for the first time in his life, at a loss for words.

He felt an overwhelming sense for gratitude towards the offer. He had told you things before, but it had been in moments of weakness, or because it was necessary.

He had never shared just because.

"Well," he finally whispered, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "This. . Offer, goes for you as well." He looked down, clearly trying his best, but having a hard time with more vulnerability.

"Thank you," you murmured, inching a little closer. "I'm. . Astarion, I'm so sorry, for everything you had to go through." The words were spoken with great feeling, your heart aching thinking about of of the things be had admitted to happening.

"It's in the past now, well isn't it," he replied, stroking your cheek. "But. . Thank you, love," he added with a great deal more hesitancy.

You smiled slightly, which he found did odd things to his insides.

He sighed mentally to himself. He was not going to allow himself to feel things things for you- he couldn't.

You were just-

His breathing froze as you shifted up, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and head as you shifted him so his head rested against your chest, the position feeling incredibly shielding and warm.

He felt his stomach twist, his throat strangely tight.

He wrapped his arm around your torso hesitantly after a moment, apprehensive.

No one had ever- held him before. It was not how this worked-

And yet. . He found his eyes falling shut with sudden exhaustion.

He cursed you, unsure what exactly it was about your touch that had him feeling so. . Melty. But it was unaccept-

Singing?

His ears perked up slightly, distracted from his thoughts as a sweet, soft melody gripped his attention instead.

His body eased to rest more heavily against you as his muscles relaxed.

Perhaps. . It would be okay just to relax and enjoy for a little while? And then he could get back to his plotting and manipulations later. .

He took in a deep breath, feeling your fingers touching his hair tentatively, running the tips of them through the outer layers of the silvery strands.

The soft vibration of your chest as you switched between signing and humming different parts of the song had him entranced.

You kept your gaze on him as you did so, feeling your stomach twisting with giddiness.

This had been it. It was just like you had dreamed. . The feeling of his arms around you, the dim light of the lantern casting calming shadows.

The tender, warm touch with none of the unpleasantness.

It was everything you had been craving and more.

You shut your eyes after a time, feeling him slowly heating against you as he slipped off into peaceful slumber.

You slipped down sleepily after nearly an hour of just enjoying the position of holding him safely in your arms.

You felt him shift in his sleep as you settled down against him, his arm wrapping around you, pulling you close.

You pressed your forehead against his softly, eyes shutting, feeling his breath tickle your face with every slow exhale.

You let your leg rest loosely in-between his, wrapping your arm around his waist before settling.

You slipped off a little while later to join him in slumber, the soft drumming of the rain and rumbling thunder in the distance lulling you to sleep.

[senseandaccountability]

“Is this truly our prodigal son?” - meta ramblings about Astarion and Cazador and breaking vicious cycles

“I didn’t have a choice… but it seems now I do.” Astarion is indeed the prodigal son in the sense that he has to return to his home in order to find himself and his purpose. 

For at least half the game, he is - at least outwardly - what he has been made to be. A pretty facade to be consumed. In the mirror he doesn’t see himself, he remembers nothing of his past, he can’t even read the words etched into his own back - he is, in all aspects, unwritten, unmade until he starts walking back into his own life. Reclaiming it. Or rather - remaking it. Because there is nothing sustainable there to reclaim, his heritage from Cazador contains nothing but death and violence. And power built on those two ingredients. Even when he claims that’s what he wants - power, walking in the sun, to never be afraid of anyone again, you can hear how hollow the desire is. Isn’t this what you want for me? he asks Tav, equal parts manipulation and the fact that he probably has no idea whatsoever how to figure out if he wants something like that for himself. He’s never had the luxury of choice. Shouldn’t I want this? When Tav later says that considering slaughter of seven thousand spawns isn’t who Astarion truly is he doesn’t even say she’s wrong, he replies: IT SHOULD BE.

“If I can’t have my freedom, then neither can they.”

Astarion is also, to use the same religious myth, the son who remained behind and keeps count. He counts the injustices done to him, he compares, he gathers bitterness and lust for revenge over two hundred years. Nobody ever did anything to help him. Nobody came to his rescue - he even says so himself early in the game that no hero saved him, it was the mindflayers who did. He admits to Gale that he’s prayed to all deities - but no one answered. When Tav prods about the countless of spawn he’ll sacrifice for his own ritual he brings up the same argument - what about what he’s owed? Everything was taken from him, too!

“You’d almost feel sorry for the poor, deluded souls. But they’re idiots who brought this on themselves, so… don’t.” 

Astarion doesn’t want to identify with the victims because then he has to identify as a victim. (Or even worse, someone who willingly accepted the offer of a vampire, aka idiot who brought this on himself.) And no matter how much he talks about what Cazador put him through, he’s not ready to do that, not fully. Instead he pushes them further away from himself, especially as his guilt and pain and self-loathing gets poured into preparing for the Ascension. That one thing that will finally separate him from everyone else, make him safe and untouchable. The others, the victims, they’re weak, pathetic, nothing like him at all, they’re too far gone, they’re different, they couldn’t survive out there so it’s better he kills them so they serve a purpose. It’s not exactly subtext, either, Tav can outright ask him if he really intends to kill them just because they remind him of himself and his voice breaks when he answers that. “They do not. That weakness inside me is dead. It’s dead. I have a higher purpose.” He comes a little bit closer to breaking out of his cycle with the Gur children, they happened not that long ago, he’s visibly moved by the fact that he had forgotten them and felt nothing when he delivered them and when Tav asks about his feelings on the subject, he admits: “I just… I never want to see these little scraps of misery again. The world doesn’t need to know my shame.”

But it takes the encounter with Cazador to truly break out of the pattern.

“Did I not make you who you are?” “Do not slouch before me, boy! Have you no respect for yourself?” he snaps at Astarion when you first enter his ritual. And when the camera pans to Astarion, so full of rage and fully intent on killing Cazador with his bare hands if he has to, we see that he actually does slouch. He’s that boy again.

He’s returned, the boy who caused so much trouble, who screamed the sweetest when he was tortured, who was thrown into a tomb for a year for refusing his order and who eventually stopped fighting back. Godey says: “You always were sharp, little one. Sharp enough to cut yourself.” The boy who Cazador tried to make something of, but to no avail. He was incorrigible. “I fondly remember your empty boasting, your tired jokes, your endless prattle…” All abuse aside, Cazador hurts Astarion in that precise way only a parental figure can hurt a child - through constant disappointment, the cruelty of not caring. The parent that only punishes, that sees nothing but faults. He even tells Astarion that he ought to be begging their forgiveness for coming crawling back after abandoning them. “Forgiveness? You’ve never forgiven anything.” / “No! No, fuck you and fuck everything you’ve ever done to me.”

“I’m so much more than what you made me,” Astarion tells Cazador when he finally has him on his knees, one last attack away from getting the revenge he’s dreamed of for two hundred years. When he asks Tav for help he - again - brings up the “isn’t this what you want?” Because even if he knows he’s more than what Cazador created him to be, he doesn’t know what that “much more” consists of yet. If you detect his thoughts at that moment you learn that he’s afraid, hungry, intoxicated. That all he can see is the power of the ritual and the freedom to do anything - to be anything.

“I want you to live a life you’re proud of,” Tav pleads. “You can’t be proud of this.” Tav who sees someone else in him, a way forward that isn't steeped in Cazador's tyranny. Tav, who treats him like a person, with autonomy.

“I know you think this will set you free, but it won’t. The power will trap you, just like it trapped Cazador.” And it was this Astarion required to truly remake his life. Returning as the prodigal son to the place that was his home, where he was taught he amounted to nothing, that he was a means to an end, that the only way to ever feel safe in life is to hold power over someone else. 

That’s why I found his “No! No, fuck you and fuck everything you’ve done to me” so powerful, because it’s it’s much more than an insult or a protest. It’s an acknowledgement that you were hurt and that you didn’t deserve it. 

And by extension here - that you’ve hurt others in turn and they didn’t deserve it, either. That perhaps you are just the same as the weak, pathetic spawn in the dungeons. That perhaps we all are. That perhaps the true power lies in daring to hope. For forgiveness, for understanding, for more people out there to have a heart like Tav’s. That you, if you’re given a chance to make choices for yourself, can make a life you can feel proud of. Even if it means you have to let others see your shame. To care again is to live again, like Tav says while they're exploring casa Cazador. And Astarion wants to feel alive.

When you can make Astarion realise he can be better than Cazador, he immediately shows  protectiveness towards the spawn, telling his siblings to lead them to the Underdark and then telling the truth to the Gur but making sure to point out that if they come hunting - they’re hunting their own children. Cazador’s been dead for a couple of minutes and Astarion is already doing a better job as some sort of wretched father figure for these poor souls. Because he's given them freedom to make their own choices, treated them as equals. Shown them the care nobody ever showed him before. That's how you break cycles and pack one hell of an emotional punch. Fuck you and fuck everything you’ve done to me, indeed.

[soulessjourney]

T'ill I Go Blind

Paring: Astarion x fem!DurgTavReader

Word count: 2.2k

Summary: When Gortash reveals details about your past relationship, Astarion refuses to entertain any of it.

Warnings: OOC Astarion, angst, mentions of truama, mentions of death, jelous Astarion, Gortash, fluff, Humor, Astarion of course making a few out of pocket comments, Scared Astarion

A/N: It's basically cannon at this point that Gortash and the Durge are exes or had something going on, so enjoy my depiction of just how their first meeting after so long would be like.

Who would have thought that you would find yourself standing in Baldur’s Gate, face-to-face with Gortash, who gazes at you with surprising tenderness? "Well, isn't it my favorite assassin? It has been too long since we indulged in each other's presence," he remarks. You raise a quizzical brow as your arms fold over your chest, leaning against the protective metal.

"Ah, yes. How could I forget? You lack the memories of what we once shared. A shame, truly. Your father never was one for the ideals of... affection." You resist the urge to let your jaw drop at his words, while Wyll stifles a laugh beside you.

"I'm sorry, but you're telling me you and Tav had some sort of connection?" he asks, looking between both of you. Beside you, Karlach goes stiff, and you reach out through your connected minds, assuring her that you have no clue about the nonsense the man is spouting. Upon your words, she visibly relaxes, folding her arms and shifting to stand a step in front of you, ready to protect you from the person she once trusted if need be.

"We did, in fact, have a connection, and that connection was the reason why your friend now has no memory of who she is," Gortash states, a frown appearing on his lips. "Her father felt threatened by the idea that his perfect assassin was falling for someone, so why not punish those who fell into forbidden love." From beside you, a sudden gag sounds, and Astarion clears his throat.

"I do apologize, but that had to be the most sickening thing I've ever heard, and I don't mean the fact that her father stripped away her memories." It's hard to suppress a laugh at Astarion's words, especially since you can feel the jealousy radiating off of him. Astarion is what you'd call a cat; he thrives when affection is given on his terms, but he is quite territorial with things that belong to him. In this case, you are that thing—mind, body, and soul. You are his human, and he would rather tear the world to shreds than give you up.

Reaching back, your fingers gently brush against him, and he seizes the opportunity to interlace his fingers with yours. A sense of safety and confidence washes over you as his hand firmly holds yours. Gortash, observant of the interaction, advances toward both of you, prompting a tenseness in your body.

"I see you've found a replacement, Little Flower," he remarks. The use of that nickname freezes you, causing your body to stiffen as memories flood your mind. Flashbacks of your younger self and Gortash flow through your consciousness. Despite the rugged and worn-down appearance, Gortash possessed qualities that rendered him remarkably handsome. In the recollection, you both stood in the middle of a flower field, having sneaked off after some convincing. He delicately placed a flower in your hair, affectionately uttering the same nickname.

Gortash notices the recognition in your eyes, prompting him to smile at Astarion. "Seems she remembers that exchange very well. The kiss we shared sealed our promise to one another. Yes, you two are quite...adorable, but let her stay where she belongs. It won't be long until your little romance disappears when her memories return."

Astarion vibrates with anger, and all you can do is squeeze his hand, offering silent reassurance. Gortash attempts to provoke him in a way he knows best, wanting to witness the dissolution of the bond you share. However, Astarion surprises everyone. Instead of reacting impulsively, he closes his eyes, takes a few deep breaths, and regulates the tightness of his grip around your hand. He's wrestling with the urge to draw his knife and thrust it into Gortash's chest.

Your chest swells with pride at how far Astarion has come from the first encounter when he held a dagger to your throat. "I'll never let her go, not until she tells me to. And when she does, I'll do everything in my power to protect her from a distance because she doesn't deserve to revert to the life she once lived. Not when she's worked so hard to build herself a new life. Not when she's almost killed herself fighting the demons that claw at her, begging to escape."

A snort escapes Gortash as he listens to Astarion's words. "To think someone as powerful as you settled for that," he spits, redirecting his gaze toward you. "Have your fun, Little Flower, but as much as I would love to bring up the past and the memories we share, I have other matters to discuss with you," Gortash states, pacing around the room. "Your sister is stirring up trouble and making things difficult. Her newfound thirst for power after you left is creating tension in my city." You know precisely who he is referring to. In your few encounters with Orin, she made it clear that you both shared the same father.

"What Orin does is none of my concern. If she's hell-bent on trying to take something I don't even want, then let her. I don't know what kind of life I lived before this, but I don't want any part of it. I was given a second chance to finally live, and I won't be ruining that over some family drama," you shrug. You notice Karlach adopting a look of approval at your words. Seeing Gortash again is tough for her, especially now that you know you apparently had some kind of relationship before waking up on the ship.

Gortash sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, and nods. "Yes, yes, I quite understand what you are saying. You're breaking free from those torturous chains, but your family matters affect the lives of those in Baldur's Gate. I don't care if you are sweeping your matters under the rug, but I want you to kill her. Take out Orin and bring me her stone, and when you do, I'll assist you in defeating the Elder Brain." Something about his words is taunting, making you question the truth of his alliance with you. Almost as if sensing your doubt, he leans against the table behind him.

"I do not wish to fool you; I don't stand for the loss of innocent lives. Orin is out of control, and the brain will wreak havoc if given the chance. If we can control the brain, we can destroy it."

Your mind races as you consider the situation. Releasing a defeated sigh, you clench your jaw, allowing your face to fall into a blank stare. "Fine, I'll kill her." The sound of your group protesting fills the room, echoing off the walls. Gortash only smiles at your words, letting his eyes lock onto yours as your friends attempt to talk some sense into you. After a few minutes, Gortash dismisses you and leaves the room.

Your companions follow behind you, attempting to get your attention before Karlach finally speaks up. "Tav, stop walking away. You know what he did to me and the hell I've lived through. Accepting his offer is a betrayal to me, so you better explain. If you don't, then I have no choice but not to trust you or to stay in the group." Her words hit you hard. She was like your sister, a reason for you to live.

"I'm playing him at his own game. We saw the power these stones had over the brain when we fought Thorm, meaning he had plans for them when he got them all to himself. Trust me, Karlach, I don't trust him either, but we need to take advantage of this. He could be the key to leading us right to the brain so we can destroy it, so I can save all of us," you whisper, looking up at your friend.

Karlach meets your eyes, searching them as if trying to detect any lies in your words. So, you open your mind to her, letting her read your intention with Gortash. Silence fills the area around your group as they wait for Karlach's response. "I trust you," she finally says, sending you a bright smile. You let out a breath of relief at her words as Astarion walks up beside you. You could feel how tense he felt, and you immediately knew something was wrong.

Things between the group had gotten tense after you entered Baldur's Gate. You felt the urge calling to you more than ever before; Astarion was only steps away from having to see Cazador again, and Karlach finally had to come face to face with the person she trusted her life with and who stabbed her in the back. Sending him a look, he nods slightly before looking away. It was a silent communication that you two would be talking when you got back to camp, and you could only hope this wouldn't end in a fight between you two.

---

Upon your arrival, you couldn't help but notice how Astarion immediately headed toward a shaded area. Jaheira spoke quietly to you about matters that needed attention in the city, but your gaze remained fixed on your lover. Jaheira fell silent before laughing quietly, drawing your attention back to her. "You two are quite fond of one another. Go to him; you've been worried about him since the walk back," she said, patting your arm soothingly. Nodding in gratitude, you walked towards Astarion.

He sat on the ground, gazing up at the sky, with rays of sunshine warming his face through the leaves. Stopping behind him, you were unsure of how to initiate the conversation between the two of you. "Star," you said, your voice carried by the slight breeze swirling around you. You sensed him tense, knowing that the forthcoming discussion would likely be tense as well.

With his back to you, he leaned his arms on his knees, shifting his gaze ahead. "So, you were the one involved with the absolute and why we're like this," he stated. Your heart dropped as you looked down. Indeed, you were. Your memories flooded back when you entered Wyrm’s Crossing, remembering who you were, who your father was, and what he wanted you to carry out.

"As angry as I want to be with you, I can't. I know what it's like to feel trapped under a command without being able to escape. I mean, look at what Cazador made me do. I want to be angry, but I just can't," he continued, and your shoulders dropped as you listened to his words. "But that's not why I'm questioning things. Not us; I could never question us. What I'm questioning is what will happen when you fully regain your memory. You and Gortash obviously have something, or rather had something. He talked to you like he was seeing his lover all over again. He looked at you like he was undressing you, ready to show our group of lovely friends that you still belong to him."

There it was—the feeling of your heart shattering in your chest as you listened to his words. He was terrified of losing you, and you had no idea how to reassure him that you're his.

Moving to stand in front of him, you drop to your knees and gently grasp his face in your hands. Opening and closing your mouth, no words escape you. Lost in his eyes—those crimson-red orbs that appear scared and broken—a part of you feels angry, angry at yourself and angry at Gortash for dredging up a past you have no memory of, a past you never want to revisit.

“I meant it when I told you that you mean a lot to me, Star,” you finally say, brushing your thumbs against his cheek. “You’re my entire world. You stayed by my side when the urge wracked my body, when I attempted to take your life that night. You didn’t judge me when it got so bad I caved and harmed an innocent person. You held me and told me that I could beat those urges. You saved me, Astarion, and I will not be leaving you.” His tears begin to pool under the pad of your thumb as you speak.

“Losing my memory was my second chance at life, and then I met you. You gave me something worth living for. Hells, all of our friends did, and I refuse to go back to that life I once lived. I don’t want to be a killer, and I don’t want to be his daughter. I want to be my own person. I want to be able to make my own decisions and control my own body and mind. So, my little Star, I won’t be going anywhere because my home is right here by your side.”

You can tell your words have moved him in some way as he is now fully sobbing. Pulling him to you, you let his head fall onto your chest as you allow him to fall apart in your arms. The fear that plagued him during your meeting with Gortash finally leaves him as he deflates in your embrace. Soon, his sobs quieten, and you both lie under the tree, his arms wrapped tightly around you, almost as if he fears you will disappear if he lets go. In that moment, a peaceful and intimate moment, three words are finally shared between you two. In that moment, you vow to destroy Cazador and show him what true power is. In that moment, the urge claws at your insides, begging to be unleashed, and soon enough, you will let it take over your very being.

[charmandabear]

Office Hours: I want this like a cigarette (3/16)

Pairing: Astarion/Named F!Tav Rating: Explicit Word Count: 4.9k Tags/Warnings: semi-public sex, under the desk blowjob, vampire biting/blood, chair sex, wildly unprofessional behavior (full list on ao3)

Summary:

Ancunín makes Rosalind feel so gods damned flustered, there simply has to be a way to get her revenge.

Okay, I know I goobered it and released this chapter a week late, but I'm hoping to make up for it with the fact that a) the Masterlist will be out momentarily, and 2) you're getting chapters 3 and 4 at the same time. And chapter 4 is almost entirely new stuff! But that's for the next post.

Next chapter ~ Read it on AO3 ~ Masterlist Office Hours playlist on Spotify

Ever since Rosalind slept with Ancunín — or, perhaps more accurately, he fucked her mercilessly over his desk — she hasn’t been able to get him out of her head. It's a little embarrassing, frankly. Every time she passes him in the hallway, a single glance over those round wire frames has her suppressing the moan that bubbles in her throat. One whiff of his fragrance and her pussy clenches in a Pavlovian response.

Standing in front of her mailbox in the main office, she reads a thrilling update from Volo about season selection. The next meeting is going to be even more brainstorming. Lovely.

Rosalind can smell him before she hears him, and the heat creeps up the back of her neck. He comes up behind her, standing closer than is probably necessary, and reaches above her head to empty his own mailbox.

“Pardon,” he says politely, but she feels like he’s going out of his way to brush against her. A shiver runs down her spine as he very gently grazes the back of her neck while shuffling through the papers.

He turns and starts chatting amicably with Hope. How can he stay so cool when Rosalind is practically in shambles? She pretends that she’s still reading the short memo just to collect herself. When he finally leaves the main office, she manages to turn around and imitate some semblance of a normal person. Hope catches her eye and frowns.

“Is everything alright with you? You're looking a little flushed,” she asks, genuine concern coloring her voice. Rosalind twists her face into a smile, hoping that it reads as gratitude rather than annoyance.

“Yeah, I'm fine, thank you. Probably just a little dehydrated,” she says, putting a little extra rasp in her voice to help sell the story.

“I’m about to leave for lunch, I could grab you something from the student union, if you're thirsty.” She smiles sweetly, fully unaware of the double entendre.

“I'm good, I have some water back in my office. I appreciate the offer, though.” The smile is now plastered to Rosalind’s face as she moves to leave the office. She bumps into Karlach while trying to make a hasty exit.

“Gods, soldier, you okay? You look like you just got out of a sauna.” She claps Rosalind on the shoulder and her knees buckle. The technical director had spent 10 years in the army, so Rosalind couldn’t fault her for the nickname, or the smack to the shoulder, for that matter.

“Just a little thirsty, is all,” she replies, continuing to scoot her way out of the office.

“Yeah ya are!” Karlach points two finger guns at her and flashes a big suggestive smile. Rosalind freezes for a half second, then realizes that Karlach is making a generic lewd joke and not pointedly calling her out for her current condition. Rosalind awkwardly finger guns back as she finally slips through the doorway and books it to her office.

She sits down at her desk and grabs her water bottle, taking a long sip. It's unbelievable how much of a hold he has on her. She thinks back to her bathtub fantasy from a few days ago. She could not have predicted the dynamic more incorrectly. She really thought that she would be the one in control, that she would have him coming undone for her.

That’s one of the few positive memories of her relationship with Aradin. He was a condescending ass — frankly, not too dissimilar to Ancunín. But when she got him into the bedroom, it didn’t take much to turn him into a pathetic whimpering mess. Her favorite thing was to ride his face, finally getting him to shut the fuck up. She shakes her head to clear it of the memory.

Instead, she lets the image of Ancunín pounding into her while pushing her face into his desk flood her mind, setting her heart racing. Her breath hitches slightly as the memory plays out vividly, like her own personal erotica.

“It must be rather exciting, whatever's got your blood going that way.” His sultry voice interrupts her debaucherous thoughts and she yelps in surprise. She glares at him leaning in the doorframe, hands in his pockets with his unbuttoned collar poking out from beneath a charcoal sweater. Looking like an absolute gods damned treat. He chuckles and saunters into her office, settling into one of the chairs across from her desk and crossing his lithe legs. Rosalind grumbles; despite her newfound attraction, he's still an arrogant little shit.

“I thought you couldn't come in uninvited,” she scowls, keeping her voice low for fear of someone overhearing.

“I don't recall being invited to come last time, but you didn't seem to mind,” he says with that little giggle of his, and Rosalind crosses her arms with a petulant pout. “Regardless, the rule only applies to homes, not individual rooms within a public university.”

Her frown deepens, unsure if he's being patronizing or not. “Is there something I can help you with, or are you just here to frustrate me?” She leans forward on her desk, trying to imitate his casual authority. She isn’t terribly successful.

“You seem to be doing that perfectly well yourself, the way I could hear your arteries pumping from down the hall.” His smile widens, flashing just a hint of fang, and her resolve weakens. He stands and stretches his arms above his head, his sweater raising just enough to show off a sliver of porcelain skin. Okay, now I’m positive he’s just doing this to annoy me.

“When you have a free moment, stop by my office, I have something to show you,” he drawls, an almost bored lilt coloring his tone. “And do try to keep that heart of yours under control, it’s distracting to the point of vulgarity.” He glances at her over his glasses one more time before retreating into the hall again.

Rosalind crosses her legs, trying to ease the ache between her thighs. He's absolutely insufferable. And he’s so much worse now that he knows he has this power. Well fine, if he has something to show me, he can walk it over his damn self. I’m staying right here. She wrenches open her laptop in an attempt to distract herself with work.

***

It’s a few days later when Rosalind finds herself in the student union, waiting for a coffee to help fight off the bitter cold. Out of the corner of her eye she spots the fight choreographer for the play currently in rehearsals. The PhD candidate studying githyanki history has an assistantship with the theatre department as fight choreographer for at least one play per semester.

“Lae’zel!” she calls, waving at the grad student. She spots Rosalind and walks over, expressionless.

“Greetings,” she says in a tone that Rosalind would attribute to anyone else as cold. But she’s grown accustomed to the gith’s less animated manner of speech.

“Hey, how are rehearsals for Rosencrantz and Guildenstern going?” Rosalind asks conversationally, and Lae’zel scowls.

“Not as well as I’d hoped. These students of yours have absolutely zero combat training, save Varrl, of course,” she says flatly, the disappointment all too evident in her voice.

“That makes sense, I’m sure he’ll make for an excellent Lead Player,” Rosalind replies as the barista calls her name. She turns to grab her coffee and when she turns back around, Ancunín is strolling up behind Lae’zel, snowflakes dotted across his black peacoat. Rosalind’s stomach clenches when she sees him, and she’s almost grateful for his dark round sunglasses that hide those piercing red eyes of his.

“Tut tut, Professor, don’t you know all that caffeine is bad for your heart?” he coos with a vicious smile as he shakes the snow from his hair. Rosalind can already feel her cheeks flushing, but she’s determined to keep her cool.

“Dr. Ancunín, I didn’t realize you were so concerned for my heart,” she retorts with the most aloof energy she can muster.

Lae’zel shifts her eyes between the two of them briefly before apparently deciding to ignore whatever tension she can sense. “I’m glad you are both here, for I have a query regarding the character of Hamlet. He is in this play very little, and I cannot glean his fighting style from the minimal source material.”

“Did you read Hamlet as a part of your prep?” Rosalind gives her a quizzical look, and Lae’zel stares at her matter-of-factly.

“No, why would I bother wasting my time with that?” she asks earnestly. Rosalind opens her mouth to respond and then closes it, realizing that she can’t argue otherwise.

“Hamlet would have impeccable sword fighting technique as the son of a king,” Ancunín answers Lae’zel’s initial question, but keeps his eyes fixed on Rosalind. “He’d be well-trained. Disciplined.”

She’s furious at how quickly he can make her heart pound in her ears. The corner of his lips twitch upward and she knows he can hear it, too. But she’s determined to maintain the upper hand.

“He’s also a bit of a show off, and extremely arrogant.” She holds Ancunín’s gaze for a moment longer before looking at Lae’zel. “This is for the fight on the pirate ship at the end, correct?” Lae’zel nods, so Rosalind continues, “Yeah, I would imagine he’s fairly careless, completely self-absorbed, and ultimately a coward when it becomes too much for him to handle.” Ancunín’s smile grows wickedly as Lae’zel contemplates Rosalind’s analysis.

“Yes, that does make sense to his character, particularly given his escape and the end of the scene,” she says with a nod, and then looks back at them pointedly. “And professors, if fornication is required to maintain a healthy working relationship, please, do not include me in your foreplay. It’s rather unprofessional, and rather sloppy.”

Mortified, Rosalind splutters, “We are not sleeping together!” in the exact same moment that Ancunín smirks, “Last I checked, she likes it sloppy.”

Rosalind whirls around on him, wishing that she knew any magic at all that could cause him psychic damage. Lae’zel simply rolls her eyes with a quiet, “Ch’k,” before stalking off, leaving them to simmer in their awkward moment.

“You can’t say that shit in front of my colleagues!” she hisses at him, and his smile turns downright impish.

“Oh don’t give me that, like you weren’t having fun,” he sneers, and she clamps her mouth shut. The problem is that she was having fun, before he took it too far.

“Ass,” she grumbles and takes a swig of her coffee as she stomps out the student union, his giggle ringing in her ears like a bell.

***

Back in her office she seethes at her desk, rapping her fingertips rhythmically against its surface. She needs to find a way to get her revenge, to somehow make him feel as flustered and uncomfortable as he does to her. A small, reasonable voice in the back of her head reminds her that escalating this power struggle will not end well, but her stubborn pride quashes the thought down.

Without having a fully formed plan, Rosalind finds herself walking towards Ancunín’s office. She takes a moment before knocking on the door, smoothing down the front of her dress and tousling her hair to give it a little more volume.

Suddenly the door opens and her student Mol comes barrelling out in a huff.

“D’you believe this berk? Gettin’ on my tail for ‘academic integrity.’ Ain't nobody more integrous than me!” she grumbles, adjusting her bag angrily. She turns her heated gaze to Rosalind. “Can you talk to your boyfriend and tell him to leave me alone?” she spits and Rosalind splutters involuntarily.

“Mol, we’re not—”

“Come off it, miss. Everyone sees the way you look at ‘im. Just work your magic so I can get back to gettin’ a college education.” And without another word, she's off. It’s been less than a tenday, the students couldn’t possibly be gossiping already, could they?

She shakes her head and steps into his office. It's just as cozy as last time, warm light emanating from lamps in every corner to compensate for the blackout curtains over the windows. She strides up to his desk and slams her hands down on it.

“Please tell me you’re not so stupid to tell the students about what happened,” she scowls, and he glares at her.

“Gods no, I’m a vampire, not a monster,” he hisses back before taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “No, that girl is just too clever for her own good. I’d almost respect it if she didn’t get on my last nerve.”

She crosses around to the other side of his desk and leans against the edge, letting her skirt ride up ever so slightly. She catches his gaze flicking down to her thigh before he puts his glasses back on and looks up at her from his chair. “Speaking of vampire,” she says, hoping she’s not too obvious in the way that she shakes her hair clear of her neck. “How do you get around campus without burning up in the sun?”

“Darling, I didn’t realize you were so concerned for my skin,” he flashes a self-assured smile, clearly pleased that he’s able to use her flirty banter against her. He casually rests his hand just above her knee, but Rosalind doesn’t miss the way his eyes narrow with a mild suspicion.

“Maybe I’m just curious,” she says, nonchalantly examining her nails. “Maybe I’m invested.” She trails her fingers down his wrist and plays with the buttons of his cuff.

“Just a concerned citizen?” He visibly relaxes as his hand absentmindedly begins to slide up her leg, stopping just under the hem of her skirt. “If you must know, it’s only the direct sunlight that causes harm. If I’m sufficiently covered up, and the cloud cover is thick enough, then I’m safe.” He squeezes her thigh on the word “thick” and her breath catches in her throat.

“Didn’t you say you had something to show me?” she asks in a raspy voice. She wants to kick herself; she was determined to not give him the satisfaction by bringing it up.

“Hmm, now that was several days ago, what makes you so certain I still have it?” he asks in an overly performative sing-song voice.

“Well if you don’t have it, then I guess I’ll head out—” Rosalind turns to leave but he catches her wrist and pulls her down until she’s straddling his lap. Before her logical mind has time to protest, she’s wrapping her arms around his neck and rolling her hips into him, pleased that she can feel the beginnings of an erection. He lets out a little puff of air that can almost be mistaken for a moan. She takes a deep breath and arches her back, letting her ample tits graze along his lips. He runs his nose along the neckline of her dress and slides his hand underneath her skirt to cup her ass. Her mouth drops open silently as she grinds into him harder, aching for any bit of friction.

Then a knock at the door.

They both freeze and stare at one another. There’s a muffled voice on the other side.

“Dr. Ancunín, do you have a minute? I have something extremely important to tell you,” Dr. Dekarios from the School of the Weave shouts through the door.

Rosalind has no idea what possesses him to instinctually reply, “Just a minute!” and the two of them share a silently mouthed exchange.

-What the fuck are you doing?

-I don't know, I panicked!

-What am I supposed to do?

-Hide, perhaps?

Without thinking she slides off his lap and hides under the desk. Just in time, too, as Dr. Dekarios doesn't wait for permission to open the door and waltz right in.

“Dr. Ancunín, thank goodness, I hope I'm not interrupting anything.” Rosalind can hear the arcana history professor rush in and eagerly sit down in one of the red velvet lounge chairs across from Astarion’s desk. She groans internally with the realization that she might be stuck here for an unbearably long time.

“Actually, Dr. Dekarios, I was on my way out,” Astarion says as he starts to stand before quickly reversing that decision. Rosalind realizes with a smug sense of satisfaction that he’s still slightly aroused.

“Completely understand, I'll keep this brief, then. So, the other day, you and I spoke of the use of bardic magic and its position amongst playwrights in Renaissance England.”

“Yes, I recall,” Astarion responds through gritted teeth. He sinks back down in his chair, resigned to sitting through this conversation.

“And how it was common practice at the time to use magic from the College of Swords as decreed by Elizabeth? Ben Jonson, Marlowe, Beaumont and Fletcher, they all used College of Swords magic.” Dr. Dekarios’ voice increases in pitch with his excitement. Rosalind suppresses a sigh, preparing herself for a long wait in this cramped space. It would be uncomfortable for a thin person to fit, nevermind her, especially while trying to keep out of the way of Astarion’s long legs.

Although…

What if she didn’t keep out of the way? What if she just… brushed her hand along his thigh…

Astarion coughs to hide the sudden intake of breath her touch causes. He crosses his legs and she smiles knowing it's to give himself a little reprieve. A feeling I know all too well.

“Yes,” Astarion says, his voice frustratingly even, “I recall your enthusiasm in telling me this.”

Rosalind assesses his body language, trying to read his response. Is he into this? Is this a game he wants to play? She decides to test her luck again, dragging her fingers up his thigh more deliberately. His leg quivers and he shifts his posture as the arcana professor continues.

“Well, I had a thought. Consider this: Shakespeare brought about a major shift in how we think of the Western theatrical canon as it pertains to bard magic, correct?”

She shifts forward and squishes her tits into his knees that are now pinched tightly together. She slides her hands up his inner thighs, prying them apart slightly. She leans into his legs further as her hands continue their journey upward, squeezing as they get to the top of his thigh.

He kicks suddenly, a soft thump into the back of the desk. Is it a warning, telling her to stop? She pulls back and glances up at him, but the top of the desk obscures most of his face. All she can tell is that he continues to stiffly nod while Dekarios rambles.

“And remind me, what other major storytelling convention did Shakespeare also shift during this time?” Rosalind makes a face, and she honestly can't tell if he’s actually asking, or giving Astarion a mini exam in his own specialty.

She waits for some sort of response from him. After a moment, he lets his thighs fall open and gently nudges her hip with the side of his shoe. No, his foot.

This motherfucker is playing footsie.

Oh he is definitely into her little game.

She pushes his legs open again, this time sliding her hands all the way up to his cock, and she can feel it twitch beneath the wool of his pants. She gently strokes him and his hips give a subtle twist into her.

“I'm not sure—” Astarion begins, but stops short when his voice cracks. She nuzzles his bulge, running her lips across it as it hardens. She slips a hand under him and gives his balls a gentle squeeze. She can hear his breath stutter, but it's unlikely that Dekarios can as he quickly answers his own question.

“The humors, correct? My understanding of non-magic literature isn't fully up to snuff, but I am correct in remembering this, yes?”

Rosalind licks a fat stripe across the fabric and she hears a metallic click above her head, like his watch just made sudden contact with the surface of the desk. She can imagine the veins in his hands bulging as he clasps them together tightly.

“Hm, no, ah yes, you are correct. Most English Renaissance playwrights understood characters as a balance or imbalance of the four humors.” Astarion manages to keep his voice relatively steady despite the slight stammering, and Rosalind is determined to up her game. She reaches up to undo his belt buckle as quietly and efficiently as possible. Luckily, she’s able to hide the noise within Dekarios’ exclamation.

“Yes! That's exactly what I was thinking! So, hear me out. What if these two gradual changes were related? In moving away from College of Swords magic, Shakespeare felt less constrained by the four humors. Or perhaps the other way around?”

She reaches into his pants to free his cock, now fully hard, and teases her fingers along his shaft. His hips buck a little more forcefully, as though controlling his movement is growing more difficult. She grips his pelvis tightly, holding it in place, and relishing having the upper hand for once. She didn’t expect it would be quite like this, but she’s not complaining. She flicks the tip of her tongue across his slit and his hips twitch again under her hands.

“Could be…” is all Astarion can manage to reply. Hopefully at this point Dekarios is in a full-on oration and he won't need to contribute much, if at all.

She pops the head of his cock into her mouth, working the underside of it with her tongue. She clamps her forearms down on either side of his lap, pulling him closer and letting her tits brush his inner thighs. She squirms, the slick feeling between her legs and the heady lust making her dizzy until a miniscule moan works its way into her mouth. Not loud enough for anyone to hear, she can only hope, but she’s certain that Astarion can feel the vibration by the way his hips jerk again. His face above, or at least what she can see of it, gives little away.

“And this could even,” Dekarios continues, showing no sign of awareness of anything else happening in the room, “signal the shift into realism, could it not? Beginning with Shakespeare and culminating with Chekhov and Ibsen in the nineteenth century?”

She takes in more of him, relaxing her tongue and letting him fill her mouth, discovering his taste. He almost lifts off his chair in his attempt to thrust into her, and she uses it as a way to take him in deeper. Her jaw is beginning to ache with how slow she’s going, but it's worth it to feel Astarion’s frustrated discomfort.

He takes a slow breath before speaking again.

“You know who would absolutely love this discovery of yours?” His voice is low, smooth, as she bobs her mouth on his cock. “Professor Tavlin of the theatre department. Her office is right down the hall.”

She chokes and he deftly covers the sound of her gag with a cough.

“Bless you,” Dekarios says after a fraction of hesitation. Then he continues as though there was no interruption at all.

“Then I shall share my findings with her! Down the hall, you say?”

“Room 208.”

“Excellent!” Dekarios stands and Rosalind wraps her hand around the base of Astarion's shaft, letting some saliva dribble out of her mouth to lubricate it. She can hear the wizard quickly make his way out the door.

“Gale!” Astarion yelps as she twists her hand and swirls her tongue in tandem. He clears his throat and corrects his decorum. “Dr. Dekarios, the door, please.”

“Oh, of course! Apologies,” he says with slight chagrin, and the door latches with a dry click. Astarion rolls his chair back and grabs Rosalind’s hair, pulling her out from under the desk.

“You saucy little minx,” he growls and she stumbles forward, their lips crashing together. He breaks the kiss by yanking her hair back, and his eyes sparkle wildly over the wire frames. He roughly turns her around and pulls her into his lap, his shaft pressing into the cleft of her ass. “Having fun with your little games?” he hisses in her ear as he pulls her dress up with one hand, the other sliding down below the waistband of her leggings.

“You certainly seemed to be,” she says with a breathless giggle that gets cut off by a gasp as his fingers slide easily through her folds before finding her clit. The hand on her dress slides over her breast, pinching her nipple into hardness as she arches against him.

She reaches her arm behind his neck, twisting her fingers into his silver curls to keep herself braced against him. He makes quick little circles around her clit with his ring and middle fingers while continuing to grope her breast with his other hand. Her head falls back onto his shoulder while she breathes heavily, writhing beneath his touch. He presses sloppy kisses to her shoulder, licking and nipping without sinking his fangs into her.

“Fuck, please, bite me,” she whines, clutching onto his hair and pushing him against the crook of her neck. She can feel his lips stretch into a smile before he bites down, and she slaps a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out in bliss. The sensation is such an overwhelming mix of pain and pleasure, the initial ice cold shard that melts into a lightheadedness bordering on sublime. The fingers on her clit slow and his grip slackens as he loses himself in her blood, and she whimpers needily, rutting her hips into his hand.

Just as Rosalind’s vision starts to darken, Astarion unlatches and roughly pushes her off his lap, spinning her around by the waist and easily tearing through her leggings and underwear.

This man is wracking up quite the clothing bill.

He pulls her back into his lap, barely taking the time to line himself up before sinking her down onto his cock. He shoves his fingers into her mouth and she moans around them, the taste of her own juices flooding her tongue. He keeps his other hand firm on her lower back as he thrusts up into her.

“Gods, fuck,” she groans, words muffled by his fingers as she continues to roll her hips into his, pushing her cleavage into his mouth. He pulls the neckline of her dress down to expose her breast, taking her nipple into his mouth and sucking lightly. She breathes heavily and tries to stifle the noise of her moans by pressing her open mouth into his hair. She can smell that citrusy fragrance he wears and her fingers claw into him.

“Please, I’m— Astarion,” she whimpers before clamping her mouth shut and burying her face into his ear.

“Fuck— look at me,” he growls, and her eyes lock onto his as his glasses slide down his nose. He pulls her into a rough kiss to keep her quiet, and he tastes faintly of iron.

He fucks into her harder as she bounces on his cock, her needy whimpers growing louder against his lips. The piercing pain of his nails digging into her ass and the grunting deep in his throat as he approaches his release send her rocketing to her climax. She comes with an explosive cry that gets swallowed into his kiss. She continues to ride out the waves of her orgasm as she feels his, his hips thrusting upward as his dick throbs with the pulse of his semen.

They finally slow, the sticky mess between them squelching loudly. They listen intently past the sound of their heavy breathing to try to detect any indication that someone overheard. When they deem it safe, Rosalind lets out a sigh of relief before the two of them dissolve into giggles. He drops his forehead onto her shoulder as she rests her cheek on his sweaty mass of curls.

They disentangle themselves from one another and she winces slightly at the feeling of him sliding out of her pussy. She gets a better look at him, her blood still smeared on his lips and chin, his now flaccid dick slumped above his waistband. She’s certain she can't look much better, dress rucked up around her waist, one tit hanging out over the neckline.

They methodically put themselves back together, Astarion stuffing his wet dick back into his pants, Rosalind straightening her dress and hair. She catches his gaze again and somehow he still manages to make her blush, but this time bringing a feeling of warmth and giddiness rather than frustration and embarrassment. He reaches out to tuck a wayward lock behind her ear.

“Next time, can we please have sex in your office?” he says with a teasing chuckle. She swats his chest playfully only to find herself drawn into him, not wanting to pull her hand away. It's strangely romantic, and if she were able to think clearly, his hands snaking around her waist might bother her. But her head is still spinning and her cunt is still throbbing with the aftershocks of her orgasm, and little could upset her right now.

That is, until the doorknob turns and Dekarios pops his head back in.

“Looks like she’s not—” His voice dies off quickly when he realizes what he's walked in on. He coughs, mumbles an incoherent apology, and backs out quickly.

“I swear to the gods I'm getting a scroll of arcane lock for that damn door,” he growls under his breath, and she leans her forehead against his chest with an exhausted sigh.

[bardic-inspo]

Midnight Chimes

Chapter Eight: Creature Comforts

Pairing: Astarion x Cursed! Tav

Next Chapter (Coming Soon!) ✨Full Chapter List ✨BG3 Fic Masterlist ✨

Series Summary:

It’s easier for Astarion to believe Naomi tastes so sweet because she was his first. Easier to ignore the fact that every undead in vague proximity yearns for the same blood that’s sated him night after night. Easier to pretend her music is arcane as any other bard’s, and not divine enough to wake corpses from the dirt. Easier to pretend Naomi is simply a bard, and not something more akin to a siren. One that's slowly realized she's not just another sailor, after all. Easier to bury the fact that he's already stupidly in love with her. Like she wouldn't just raise that out of the ground, too. A curse rears its head. A devil comes calling. Astarion fights for his freedom from Cazador. He and the rest of their merry little band fight to save Tav from the doom she feels she's fated for.

Chapter Preview:

“All I want is a bit of fun,” he huffs, exasperated. “Is that so hard to ask?” Good, she thinks. It wouldn’t do her any good to go believing otherwise. To believe that drivel he pours could’ve come from somewhere earnest, instead of some purple-prosed paperback with the spine bent as often as a whore’s. But it could feel good, to be broken in by him like a tome left too-long untouched. To yield to someone else’s touch again. Better to ache with it after, having been opened and known again, than to ache alone. “You mean sex.”

Chapter CW: SMUTTY SMUT SMUT. NO LONGER EVENTUAL. 100% CONSENSUAL.

✨ Click here if you prefer to read on AO3 ✨

Naomi wakes from a sleep without dreams to find her feet without shoes.

Stiffness lances through her shoulder blades. Gingerly, she shifts from her propped seat against the tree trunk, frowning at the threadbare blanket she finds tucked around her bare toes. She shivers with the chill that nips her neck, shrugging the blanket closer.

Serves her right for falling asleep in a place so stupid. In such sparse clothing, no less. Her nightgown seems far too sheer in the sunlight.

But then, whoever thought to leave her a blanket should’ve thought more about what one measly bit of cloth would do. Absolutely nothing, in these elements. She’d need a half-dozen more layers, at least, to stave off the cold that creeps in on autumn nights.

Sure, the days are warm enough. But only by the grace of a sun that burns as much as it comforts the cold away. The Underdark has its own volatile elementals and fitful lava fields. But not weather beyond ‘dry’ or ‘damp’. Certain reaches of her homeland are said to be cold, but Naomi’s never known them. For most of her life, she’s only known consistent warmth and heady humidity.

Up here, the air’s thinner. Flexible. Ever changing. 

It’s a change, to be so immersed in it. In her prior travels, any inn she came to would offer room to a bard who would work to earn her keep. They hadn’t heard of her, sure. But then, they heard her with a fiddle and forgot whatever qualms they had about welcoming in a strange drow.

In the company of a snapping hearth, from the safety of a window, Naomi had seen the sky heave and sob. Every time a storm rolled through, the heavens stomped their feet like a wailing babe. Water leaked from the clouds like a wrung sponge. Such a messy, miserable ordeal. Snow, at least, sparkles on the way down. But all in all, she’d rather not be soaked in any such nonsense.

Perhaps her companions would think her sheltered. Pampered. Soft.

But none of them know how to weave through bibberbang without breathing it in. Probably, none of them can tell the difference between torchstalk and timmask. Well, maybe Gale can. But no way can he gut a bulette without wasting any of it. He’d probably still make a halfway decent stew out of it, though.

Naomi never knew the comfort of her own room with a featherbed before she’d known the surface. Astarion isn’t so cushy, and not nearly so warm. But his company was comfort enough, it seems, for Naomi to stumble into sleep.

She clears her throat, glancing sideways, but already knowing the elf must be long gone. She must have him to blame for the blanket. And, apparently, the boots.

Tentatively, Naomi reaches for the shoes left in Astarion’s stead. Her fingertips follow the bright blue stitching on the sides, curling into leather that’s been carefully polished free from age and wear. He didn’t find them like this, she’s sure. 

She’s also sure he’s flighty. Dangerous, when the mood strikes him. More because of his tongue than his teeth. He’d sell her to save his own hide if he had to. If they stood in each other’s shoes, and the Gur had come for her, perhaps she’d be in chains right now.

Maybe Astarion’s never known the comfort of having someone watch his back. That, at least, was something Naomi always had back home. Maybe that’s why she finds herself taking her tentative alliance with the vampire to heart. Or why she’ll indulge in his flirtations, even as he plucks the lowest hanging fruit she’s ever heard. 

She feels sorry for him. The notion squirms in her gut. Oh, he’d loathe that. But he’d love that it’s only half the truth.

The other part is that he’s funny. She laughs at him as much as with him. But, still. When he giggles like a fountain, it’s hard to down the sound with a straight face. 

And he’s beautiful. His lips are sly and snide and smirking, but they’re plush, too. And there’s something about the too-perfect set of his snow-white curls that curls her knuckles here and now. She leans her head back against the tree with a soft sigh. Her mind mills with thoughts of raking her fingers in his hair, while that wicked mouth of his melts against her own.

Perhaps all he’s really out for is blood, and her body is just a consolation prize. But it’s nice to feel wanted. Even in some shallow sense.

Naomi slips into her new shoes with a fleeting smile, flexing to feel they fit just right. A little comfort could go a long way. For her and the vampire both.

Wrapping the blanket tightly around her for some semblance of modesty, if not pride, Naomi tiptoes back into the cave where they’ve made camp. The scent of broth swells to her nose, setting her mouth watering. Gale tends to breakfast. Shadowheart, Wyll, and Karlach talk in warm tones that blend with the crackle of the cookfire. Naomi ducks behind the tents, keeping to the fringes until she can safely tuck inside her own. If anyone catches a glimpse of her, they have the decency to keep quiet about it.

Naomi keeps her tent neat and orderly; even while staying in the inns, any urge to sprawl recoiled to the memory of her temple matrons scolding her for not keeping tidy enough in her youth. She’d shared a room with so many others, then. It took some time to be able to trance on her own without their soft chorus of breath swimming in her ears. She’d never known, before, that quiet could be so deafening.

And lonely.

Her pack rests near her tousled bedroll. Naomi eyes the tent’s other occupant warily as she rifles for a change of clothes. Alfira’s lute lurks in the corner where the tent’s drapes of blue-gray canvas loop around the pole holding them aloft.

Gale concluded Alfira’s instrument isn’t cursed after all. After that valiant effort, Naomi hadn’t had the heart to tell him she never learned to play the lute even a little. She can return it to the tieflings today, at least.

Cursed. The notion rolls in her mind, restless like a stormcloud. Restless, like the purpling shadows beneath her eyes. Naomi scowls into her tarnished pocket mirror and stuffs it back into her pack. 

She can’t keep on with so little rest. She needs to trance again, properly. Even if it means another meeting with the devil. Devils deal in contracts more than curses. It makes little difference; they’re all C-words, anyways.

Including that hag.

Dirge singer. Death bringer. Though, the hag could’ve called her ‘sunflower’ and made it sound like she murdered a puppy.

“Ouch!”

Naomi flinches sharply. Her hands retract from her pack on instinct. She turns her palms over, but finds no sign of what stung her. And the crawling necromancy stains that darkened her arms the day before have almost faded entirely. 

Thrrrum.

A sudden chord snaps like a rubberband, strummed harsh and fast and then gone. Naomi hisses, ears aching even as she rubs them.

Thrrrrum. THRRRRUM. 

The sound skewers through her skull. Naomi cowers. 

THRUM, thrum-THRUM, THRR--- 

Swallowing hard, heart hammering, Naomi whips her head towards the lute.

It’s just as lifeless as the girl who used to play it.

Birdsong filters through the camp alongside the crackling fire. The sounds are just as smoky sweet as they were before. As if nothing sour interrupted them at all.

Naomi lets out a tight sigh, massaging the fresh lines forming on her forehead. Those few discordant notes, they sounded familiar. For a split second, she thought she could make something of them. A melody, maybe. She can’t think of how it goes. Her jaw clenches as she braids the loose hair around her face back into her bun.

She trades her tunic for her leather armor, even though it still needs tending, and even though their travels today will take them back to the safety of the Grove. They’ve a habit of stumbling into monsters at every turn, after all. She gathers up the borrowed blanket and sets off to return Astarion’s brief affliction with kindness. 

Well, part of it. She’s keeping the shoes.

She finds him pouring over some moldering text. Even squinting, she can’t make out the title on the cracked leather binding. Astarion doesn’t even lift his head as she hovers. She clears her throat pointedly.

“Good morning, darling,” he murmurs, distant. Reluctantly, he peels his eyes from the fresh page he turns to, wearing a practiced smile that grows smug as he soaks in the sight of her. “You’ve gotten your beauty sleep, I see.”

“Thank you,” she says, holding out the blanket to him. “For this.”

Metal clangs behind her. Naomi stiffens. Gale spews curses as he fumbles with the lid of the stew pot. “Oh, for the love of--”

Astarion scowls at the blanket, and then at her, one elegant eyebrow arched.

“And for these,” she adds, shifting her heel so he can admire his own handiwork. The blue stitching arches bright against the dark leather. She finds herself staring, too. And babbling like a brook to fill the weighty silence. “You picked a nice color. Almost makes me think of--”

She stops short, mouth suddenly dry, eyes flitting back to his face to find him surveying her with a sly smile.

“--home,” she finishes quietly.

He wanted it to, she realizes. Astarion knows how to get what he wants. And he wanted her to think of him and home in the same blink, every morning, as she takes her first step into daylight. 

The sun suits you as well as the stars do, darling. 

He wants to be threaded through her head, inextricable, like the steaming waters she waded into as a child, the songs drifting from the temple, the warmth and wet of the Underdark itself. He means to sink teeth into her memories and add his fangs to the ones she treasures.

Naomi swallows thickly. She wouldn’t mind offering her neck for another night. With the dirt rough beneath her. His body pressing, taut, against her own. She wouldn’t mind it at all, now that she knows where all that blood goes.

Raw heat sweeps her skin, just like the kind that furled from the lake she showed him in her memories. Astarion’s gaze slinks over her, sheer and silky. She feels bare beneath it.

Until he utters some chiding, knowing sound, low in the back of his throat. Then, she feels sweaty. Balmy. Grimy. And sheepish. She shifts her weight between her feet.

It’s more likely, maybe, that he just doesn’t want to owe her anything. She’s helping him flourish, after all. Astarion’s not the sort to be dirtied with debts.

“But of course,” the vampire croons. “We need our fearless leader in tip-top shape, after all.”

“Your leader?” She repeats incredulously.

Astarion turns his head one way, then the other, making a show of looking about. It’s all dramatic effect; his pout of confusion easily reverts to his signature smirk a second later. “Do you see anyone else stepping up, darling? When you open those lovely lips, lovely things seem to happen. Either our enemies fall, or they fall in line.  We’re all inclined to let you keep doing it. Besides, it’s been so much fun to watch.”

She’s fully aware her slack-jawed expression only feeds the gleam in his eye. It’s not the lewdness of his implication that catches her off guard, but the pragmatism of it. The faith in her that he and the others apparently share. 

The goblins were easy to bring to heel; they nearly bent over backwards at the mere sight of a drow, anyway. But even after the incident with Alfira, and her escapade with the hag…her companions still want her to take the reins.

Naomi’s stomach knots. They’ve seen her use her tongue like a whip or a chain, and somewhere along the way, without her even bidding them too, they decided to fall in line as well.

Dimly, she hears Gale falling over his own feet somewhere behind them. Or, maybe he’s choking. Hard to make heads or tails of that strangled, scuffling sound. When she half-turns her cheek, the wizard’s face is ripened red, but he seems no worse for wear. Astarion takes her attention again. 

“And if the shoes fit,” Astarion hums merrily, “well, it’s really all decided then. I do have more of that thread. But it would be better suited if you dyed those leathers we took from that dead drow, first. I imagine they’ll fit you perfectly.”

There wouldn’t be much left to the imagination at all, if she wore what little clothing he spoke of. Much as she might loathe everything else to come from Menzoberranzan, begrudgingly, she knows the garb would look good on her. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says evenly, forcing the blanket firmly into his grip.

His lips twitch, but he takes it, cradling his book carefully in one hand, while holding the blanket at arm’s length in the other. He stalks off with it pinched between his fingers, held at bay from his body as if it were sopping. Gale lets out another strained noise that sounds suspiciously like a screaming kettle.

“Are you…all right?” She asks him, eying his unkempt hair. His knuckles must’ve worried it into disarray. The stew bubbles fitfully beneath the wizard’s furrowed brow.

“I am simply stupendous,” he promises, but it sounds pitchy. “Never better!”

The grove opens to them readily, with praise and thanks heaped like confetti upon their heads as they pass the tieflings’ caravan. Wyll and Karlach drink in the accolades, doling out kindness in equal measure, as if serving up helpings of Gale’s nightly stew. The wizard himself struts a little taller as he basks in their gratitude. Even Shadowheart seems moved to the slightest smile -- one she might actually admit to, if pressed.

Astarion’s mouth morphs between a smirk and a sneer. One moment, he hovers near Naomi’s shoulder. The next, she turns to find he’s tucked tail, lurking near the rear of the party like a cat that keeps circling but won’t quite settle.

Naomi finds a stature fitting of a hero-by-happenstance, accepting Zevlor’s coin and offer of camaraderie with the right words and the right thanks. The kind a good person might give, with the kind of performance that a good person might believe. It earns her a sideways glance from Shadowheart and Astarion both.

Naomi doesn’t shy from their scrutiny. They’re the same in this, she’s sure. At least, she’s not so sure she would have spared the effort on the tieflings’ behalf, if the search for a cure steered them elsewhere.

The real prize is a spoiled fruit; Halsin doesn’t have the cure they’d dared to hope for. But he has information. And he makes good on his promise to share it. The burly elf waves a hand in greeting as they approach him at the heart of the Grove.

“I hear there’s to be a celebration this evening,” Halsin says. “Well-deserved, after all your efforts. I hope you relish the chance at revelry. It may be some time before you’re afforded another such night. There is much to be done. And I promised I would help you however I could.”

“You did,” Naomi replies, leaning back to survey the rather sturdy length of him. “We'll make our plans now so we can make merry later.”

“I’m certain a cure for you can be found at Moonrise Towers,” the druid asserts, “but it’s…complicated. The journey, specifically -- it’s extremely perilous. Though, it seems you’re well-accustomed to navigating danger. To get to the Towers, you’ll need to pass through a terrible place -- a cursed place.”

Naomi stifles a sigh. There’s that ‘C’ word again. Cropping up like a stubborn weed. What else did she expect, really?

Halsin tells them of the shadow curse shrouding Moonrise and the surrounding region in darkness and decay. When Naomi wonders aloud how the Absolute’s forces could withstand such conditions, the druid doesn’t have an answer.

“Perhaps it’s the tadpoles,” Astarion muses airily. “Our wriggling friends might shield us from the curse entirely.”

“Only the Absolute’s elites have them,” Gale says with a shake of his head. “Their foot soldiers don’t. They’d need another method to move en masse.”

“You could go overland, along the Risen Road or through the mountains,” Halsin suggests. “But you’ll run into the shadow curse eventually. You could also go under. There is a tunnel in the ruined temple of Selune. It leads to Moonrise Towers through the Underdark.”

Naomi doesn’t meet any of the eyes that snap, at once, to her. She fixes her gaze, instead, to the scenery just past Halsin’s broad shoulders. Even without the tadpole, she knows they all share the same thought.

Wyll gives voice to the question hanging over them. “Is there any chance such a route might carry us near your home? Would you know the way?”

“No,” Naomi answers flatly.

“That’s a shame,” Astarion murmurs beneath his breath, the sound teasing like a breeze near her ear. “Truly. I would’ve liked to have seen it in person.”

Naomi stiffens. She feels his presence prickle along her neck again, even though he’s feet away. A memory of his bite. One bite out of her memories, and he thinks he has her story figured.

“You would’ve seen a pile of rubble,” she says without inflection. “That’s all that’s left of it, now. Boulders and bones.”

“A shame,” he says again, gently enough, her jaw softens slightly.

“But I do know the Underdark,” she says, rolling her shoulders back. “I know what we might find down there. How to navigate underground.”

“And if what we’ve heard from some of the tieflings is true,” Shadowheart adds grimly, “there’s Githyanki along the other route. Strong odds they would’ve had our heads even with Lae’zel in tow. Without her, it’s not a wager I’d like to take.”

One unanimous nod of assent from the others, and it’s decided, even before Halsin tells them further of Ketheric Thorm’s fabled fortress. The mention of her goddess lights Shadowheart like a candle. Before their eyes, the devotee of darkness positively glows.

Naomi wonders, ruefully, if the Sharran will have the same demeanor a few weeks into a moss-and-mushroom diet. Perhaps she’ll need to teach them how to gut a bulette, after all.

“Well, go on! Get in there with them!” Karlach blurts, swaying in time to the lively tune brightening the hollow. Her mug of beer sloshes, spilling over with the overzealous shimmy of her hips.

Naomi winces, back turned to the band as the crowd claps to their rhythm. “I was never good at being that sort of bard,” she shouts above the crescendo.

“What, fun at parties?” Karlach scoffs. “What other kind is there?”

“I’m a riot at a funeral.”

Karlach’s back bows as she glugs, streams seeping from her lips. Naomi watches, briefly fascinated, as the beer sizzles on the surface of Karlach’s broiling skin. It steams off of her in a sweet, wheaty aroma.

“It wassss sssbeautiful,” Karlach murmurs, sobering even as she slurs. “What you did for Lae’zel. Even though she despised you. You sing too pretty to stand around and pout about it!”

Naomi smiles, in spite of herself. “And your mug is too empty for you to still be standing around, talking to me.”

“Fine. Fine,” Karlach heaves an overdrawn sigh, stumbling off reluctantly. “But you’d better break out that fiddle they gave you in our next fight. I wanna hear this riot of yours!”

Flickering silhouettes stutter across the orange glow bathing the clearing. Naomi’s left alone again among so many of Zevlor’s caravan, those they saved from certain death at the goblins’ hands. Song rakes the air alongside fluttering flakes of ash and buffeting laughter. 

Naomi watches the festivities like she would a sunrise; they’re a gorgeous spectacle, to be sure. Something she can see, that can wash over her, but she isn’t part of it, even standing here, adrift in the middle of it. 

Alfira should be. 

She hadn’t wanted to accept the fiddle Zevlor had handed to her in exchange for Alfira’s lute. Well, she’d wanted to accept it. Whether she should have is a moot point now. It stays stowed in her tent for tonight. Still, she thinks of it wistfully.

It’s a beautiful, breakable thing. But it fit like a glove, in her grasp, beneath her chin. In a way that so little has.

“Do you ever tire of denying yourself?”

Naomi offers Astarion a sideways glance. The vampire offers her wine, straight from the bottle. Tentatively, Naomi reaches for it. Their knuckles brush against each other on the neck. The touch is gentle, and yet it feels like flint to steel the way it lingers, sparking, in her fingertips.

Astarion’s eyes shine like the glass in the firelight as she lifts it to her lips for a swig. 

The wine is sharp at first, and then it smooths to velvet on her tongue. Rich. Red. And--

“Awful, isn’t it?” Astarion mutters critically while she hands it back. “Vinegar for wine is hardly a fair consolation prize for all of our blood, sweat, and carnage. I think you deserve something sweeter, hm? A taste of what you’ve been staring at. Perhaps we both do.”

Astarion’s gaze drops, heavy-lidded, to her neck. She’s sure he can see the flush of it, even in the darkness, even by firelight.

 “A little…levity,” he whispers, and it sounds like a promise. “I was right, of course. Those leathers do suit you.”

Naomi swallows, abruptly warm even in such sparse clothing. Astarion’s eyes cut the angle the leather does, down between her breasts, to the lacing at her navel. It would only be one step to close the distance between them, yet, that space weighs her ankles; the notion of moving even an inch feels like wading through waist-high water.

“Yes, I’m tired of it,” she says, eyes peeling back to the party around them. Wistfully, she watches the sway of the bards, their fingers flitting over flute and fiddle. “No, I’m not sure I deserve any different.” She takes a shallow breath, forehead creased, discordant worry whittling in the back of her mind. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten something very important.”

“You have, haven’t you?” He says, head tilted. Naomi blinks up at him wordlessly.

“Pleasure, sweet thing,” he shakes his head, pitying. “I could feel it when I was lost in your neck, you know. You’re positively starved for it? Aren’t you?”

Yes, she thinks at once, an ache panging in her chest. Of course I am. She doesn’t--

“You don’t need to say anything. I already know how you feel,” Astarion rasps, daring the inch closer she couldn’t take herself. His slender hand darts out swift as a dagger. 

Naomi tenses for the touch that doesn't come. His fingertips only ghost over the hairline scar slashed across her nose, tracing its path, but never once grazing it. 

“I know what your last lover left you with,” he says. “And I know better, darling.”

The back of his hand curves down with the column of her neck in a could-be caress. Naomi’s throat bobs, and Astarion’s gaze flits to the motion, fixated. All at once, the fireside is sweltering. 

Intoxicating. The scent of him floods her, crisp and spiced even above the smell of the smoking flames. She hadn’t noticed before, even with her head against his shoulder. But one breath closer, one breath away, and it takes her mind away from anything else.

“I feel it too, you know. This…connection between us,” he says beneath the snap of kindling. 

It feels just as frail, this tentative thread winding them closer. So close, she thinks. He’s so close that, for the first time, she can see his chest is perfectly still without a breath pulled through it.

What might it feel like, to be still for a moment? To lay her ear to his ribs and hear nothing at all? Silence without solitude. Sanctuary without…history.

Pleasure, instead of pain.

He’s so close. He’s so hungry, with the wolfish gleam in his eye, and the edge of fangs in his smirk. But it can’t be a tether he longs for. 

“What do you want Astarion?”

His brow twitches before it settles again. “You know,” he purrs, “I’ve been very good, too. Playing the hero of all things. Hmph.”

“That’s not an answer.” Her snicker sours his expression to a scowl.

“All I want is a bit of fun,” he huffs, exasperated. “Is that so hard to ask?”

Good, she thinks. It wouldn’t do her any good to go believing otherwise. To believe that drivel he pours could’ve come from somewhere earnest, instead of some purple-prosed paperback with the spine bent as often as a whore’s.

But it could feel good, to be broken in by him like a tome left too-long untouched. To yield to someone else’s touch again. Better to ache with it after, having been opened and known again, than to ache alone.

“You mean sex,” she says, his slow-spreading smile a mirror of her own.

“The kind you’ll never forget,” Astarion drawls, voice gaining gravel again. “We could steal away once the others are asleep. Take the night for ourselves and forget all this madness. I know where we can find our own little piece of nowhere.”

Astarion’s eyes are crimson as the wine he hands her. His fingers curl cool, around hers, as she takes his offering a second time. The sip tingles on her tongue, brimming with promise.

The vampire wets his lips. “So what do you say, lover?”

Damp grass tamps down beneath her feet. Naomi shivers, free of the fireside’s warmth, and -- she confirms with one last glance over her shoulder -- free from prying eyes. The night’s crisp, cool, and quiet but for the dull croak of creatures who call the brush their home.

Between the bottle brush pines, she glimpses a sky alive with simmering stars. It’s beautiful. Resplendent. She could stare at those heavens for hours, neck craned upward, her chin in her hands.

Naomi comes to the crest of a small incline. The forest thins. There, across tall grasses, leaned lithe against a tree, she sees him. When she blinks again, the moon, the stars, and the faint blush of the astral sea seeping from beyond are all dull, faded things.

“There you are,” Astarion’s whisper is coarse. He presses from the tree. Naomi can’t quell the hitch in her breath. Moonlight slinks with him, liquid silver cloaked over his bare shoulders.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says, closing their distance with long, lazy strides as her own steps cease. “Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you. Waiting to have you.”

Pristine, moon-bleached curls frame his face. She knew she’d find that knowing smirk on his lips. But the heady lust in his eyes is tempered with a softness so different from the silky way he speaks and stares. Like sand through her fingers, it feels so fleeting.

“You've been waiting to use that line,” she says, but the barb lacks any sting. “And besides, I know it was murder on your mind that first time we met. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Briefly, his eyes narrow before his expression smooths to match his tone. “Oh darling, all I wanted to do that night was taste you.”

The spiced scent of him swells with her hammering heartbeat. Naomi’s eyes wander, unbidden, to the curve of his lower lip. The barest tips of his fangs dig into the plush of it.

“I think you want to be tasted,” he says with certainty. “I think one bite wasn’t enough.”

“You could be right,” she whispers back, eyes half-lidded.

Gently, he lifts her chin with a pair of his fingers. “I think the night we met could’ve gone something like this.”

The crush of his lips is velvet; his mouth is soft as it catches hers, rougher as he keeps it. She drifts into the kiss, weightless, lost to the slow, deliberate, inevitable way he coaxes her open.

His hand on her hip is a sudden anchor, his fingertips pressing imprints of sweet pressure. She parts for him readily; her legs shift to accommodate the nimble fingers working her free of her laces, her lips allowing his tongue to soothe the ache he made. 

She thinks of those same skilled hands, working open a lock with an expertise that would have earned anyone else calluses. He always pinches the pick so precisely in his grip, the blue veins in his pale wrists flexing with instinct but only the barest effort. With just as much ease, the leathers crumple at her heels and he bears her to the night. 

Abruptly, he parts from her. Naomi pants, chest heaving. As he steps back, she steps forward out of her clothing piled in the dirt. 

Red eyes rake down her body, burning from her neck to her navel like wine down her throat. He dips with fluid motion, doing away with his trousers before he straightens. Her own gaze flits low as anticipation clenches between her legs. Her teeth catch the inside of her cheek, muffling the noise she knows would only grow the girth of his ego.

There’s so very much of him to anticipate.

Strong arms loop around her waist, ending any distance between them with firm pull. She gives to his grip, catching her breath as the chill panes of his chest press cool against her breasts. When his lips have hers again, and his hands weave reckless though her hair, he casts the cold away entirely. At least, she forgets all about it while he’s tugging her hair loose from its bun, and tugging her lower lip between his teeth.

For a moment, she sways dizzy, eyes shut to the world. He’s her gravity. Astarion hitches her legs over his hips, hard grip buried in her ass, and lifts her, spinning her round. 

Her back scrapes rough against the tree bark. It’ll sting in the morning. But his tongue teases at the roof of her mouth and all she can think now is more, more, more.

More of that pleased sound rumbling low in the back of his throat as her hands clutch the nape of his neck. More of that blissful mouth she gasps against. More of his skin smoothing like satin over hers. More of the taste of him taking her mind and emptying it of all else.

Naomi’s fingernails drag tender against his scalp, silver curls threading through her fingers. Astarion tilts his head back into the touch. She takes the opportunity to graze them down the delicate edges of his ears, too, satisfaction stoked by the sound of his ragged snicker.

“Good girl.”

He mutters the praise feather-faint on the heat of her tongue. Any purchase she had falters to the needy, tightening coil of want drawn suddenly taut inside her. As if he said the words to the lips between her thighs instead of those he claims with his own.

Her legs quiver when her feet find the dirt again. Astarion cups her breasts, rolling a pebbled nipple between the pads of his thumb and forefinger. Naomi groans into his open-mouthed kisses, into the exquisite, electric pleasure he plies from her tits. Her heels drag back into the soil, but it's her own needy noises that ground her.

Until the rigid length of him, the only warmth he has, grinds against the meat of her thigh, and her mind blanks but for the answering ache inside her cunt. 

Her footing wavers. She stumbles forward, shoving firm against his hips. Abruptly, Astarion’s eyes fly wide. She smears a kiss and a stifled breath against his collarbone. Then, his grip tightens, and they’re falling together, down into the dirt.

Astarion breaks her landing with a dull huff. Her own snickering snaps the quiet like twigs underfoot. It can’t be helped. And she can’t help but bask in that dazed look he wears as he watches her, laughter and moonlight gleaming in his eyes without a trace of reproach. 

She’s got a perfect view of that gorgeous face, so she can see what it does to that self-assured smirk of his when her trailing hand reaches its destination. Naomi shifts, straddling his thighs, one palm painting over the lean spread of his chest. The other smooths up the side of his leg until she comes to the crux of what she longs for, the inspiration for all the slickness she has waiting for him. Her fingers wrap lithe around his shaft and stroke.

Astarion shudders out a breathy, contented sigh.“I was right about you,” he pants, head lolling back against the ground while his hungry eyes roam her body.

“What’s that?” Naomi asks, her voice saccharine as she tilts her head, the twist of her wrist anything but innocent.

“You are stunning in silver.”

She follows his gaze, turning her attention downward to the curve of her tits, rising with the shape of her own breath in her lungs. Past her collarbone, her dense freckles thin out over the pale twilight shade of her skin, like stars dissolving in daylight. Her lilac-gray pigment fades, too, into ethereal blue by the light of the moon. Every inch of her is alive with it. Even her hair, falling loose and tousled over her shoulders, takes on the shimmer of fresh snowfall.

She swallows, the motion rippling through the flat of her stomach. Last night, Astarion said the daylight suited her. She replied in kind. But tonight, she said to him, you don’t have to pretend with me, and she meant it. He didn’t say it back. Maybe he meant it, anyway. He watches her so intently, now.

Tonight, he says she’s stunning. Tonight, beneath her, he tells the truth. If only for a little while. The daylight suits them fine enough, but they're creatures of the night, the pair of them.

Her breath snags as he sits suddenly upright. The motion shifts her, too. She’s still spread over his lap, but her grip is gone. A cunning smile curls on his mouth. Firm hands press against the small of her back, pulling her flush against the hard ridge of his cock. Every slow rock of his hips sends pleasure stuttering through her stomach. Every thrust across her cunt has him more and more slicked with her.

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. He draws a hand through her hair, tugging back with a gentle hold. Nonsensical noise tumbles from her mouth. Her pulse pangs in her throat, bared to his lips.

“And you’re so very eager,” he says, the words tingling against her neck. “Aren’t you?”

She braces for the bite, for the piercing pain that will yield to delectable numbness in a moment’s time. But there’s no trace of his teeth. Instead, his mouth merely drags delicately along the path of his favorite vein, throbbing just beneath the surface of her skin.

“I’m not the only eager one, it seems,” she says in a husk of what her voice used to be.

“Mm,” Astarion rumbles in reply, “we’ve both waited long enough.”

He pushes hard against her shoulders. Naomi’s back thumps against the gritty dirt. Astarion is smooth marble as he crawls across her, knees bracketing her own. On instinct, her hips lift, straining towards his hardened cock looming, glistening, above her cunt. 

He chides her with a click of his tongue. A forceful palm pins her back down beneath him. But her punishment is short-lived. He threads a hand between them, licks his lips, and dips just one finger between her slick folds.

Breath stammers from her lungs. Astarion circles her clit like circling prey. The black look in his eyes is calculated, distant, and pierces straight through her. Like he hardly sees her at all --  only the dirt beneath her body, the ground he could fuck her into, the little deaths he could bury her with. His wrist flexes with the arch in her back. He buries his soaked finger inside her heat. 

And just like that, he has her curled around it. Naomi’s not sure what language keeps leaving her tongue. It’s known to no one but the two of them. It’s filthy as the wet, clicking rhythm of him playing with her cunt. 

He blinks, brow knitting briefly, and the set of his jaw seems to ease. She catches the flash of his fanged smirk behind her slitted lids before he leans forward and laps at her trembling tits. Naomi’s eyes shut tight as the whole of her squeezes with touch of his tongue against her pert nipple. Her cunt clings, needy, around his finger, but she doesn’t have to beg; he slips in a second, granting her that perfect stretch she so desperately seeks.

“Gods--”

The seal of his mouth breaks abruptly with a lewd pop. Naomi jerks from the ground, bucking to the sharp but fleeting reproach of his fangs against her swollen nipple. He leans higher, nosing at the crook of her neck. His breath sends a shiver across her skin as a low growl seeps between his teeth. 

“The gods aren’t the ones giving you this.”

His knuckles crook inside her cunt, and like she’s any other lock, Naomi’s lips open at his whim.

“Ah--Astar--star--”

“Better,” he snickers darkly, “as in ‘surely you can do better’.”

Somewhere in the feverish flurry of her thoughts, she feels a swell of victory, knowing her critique of his charms left such an imprint on him. A second later, he kills her breathless laughter, swiping his tongue against the slanted edge of her ear. Naomi chokes around the sweetest shudder. It’s his name she mangles in her mouth as she comes hard and sudden, spasming around the pair of fingers he used to turn her to putty in his hands.

Astarion eases back, sitting up on his knees and giving her room to prop her chest with her arms. The look in his eyes is a predatory one as he rubs his cunt-slicked fingers across his lips. A long, steaming sigh leaks out of him.

“My bittersweet treat,”  he drawls, “you’re so very flushed for me.”

“Can’t I treat you, too?” Naomi asks, lashes low as she leans her head to the side, an open invitation to her open neck. Her fingertips trail over the stretch of it, skimming the flare of her collarbone down to the swell of her breast and teasing at the nipple he’d toyed with before.

Surprise floods his face, stoking the grin on hers. It’s too perfect. He’s too perfect. His carefully coiffed hair is riled into picturesque disarray, his eyes rounded wide. He recovers in a blink, grasping her thigh, angling her ankle over his shoulder, and pulling her tightly to him.

“You generous little thing,” he croons, his mouth descending down her leg. He drops to his forearms, sucking a path of fervent kisses along the tender flesh of her inner thigh. “But I’ve only just started, darling,” he pants, his breath furling across her cunt. 

His tongue dips through her folds, mapping the heat of her with languid, deliberate strokes. Like he means to take the spread of her in his mind as much as his mouth. Commit her to muscle memory in the same manner his long, elegant fingers can nock a new arrow without a glance at his hands.

And she thinks, with a cry breaking like glass in her throat, he could have her in pieces just as easily.

The vampire’s yet to let his teeth sink in. Every drop of blood Naomi came to the woods with stays within her veins. But Astarion doesn’t need his fangs to have her in a boneless puddle beneath him; his lips alone have that managed. 

He devours her all the same, drinking in her writhing whimpers as he slips a finger inside again, groaning his approval as she takes another and clenches tightly around him. Sweat flares across her forehead with the forceful fit of her orgasm thrumming through her cunt. 

She chases after her breath, awash in Astarion’s embrace, in the sprinting thunder of her own heartbeat slamming his ribs while he climbs back over her. He strokes away the hair plastered to her cheek, and a lightweight, dizzy feeling flutters in her chest.

Realization snaps with her pulse, the back of her mouth growing suddenly dry. There’s no answering echo pounding back beneath his skin. His heart is silent, his chest cool and soothing to the touch. 

He’s quiet. Not the lonely kind of silence. But a deeper, richer shade of it. The kind of quiet that eases whatever wayward, nuisance of a noise that lurked in the back of her head. She hadn’t even known it was there until she’d known its absence. Until Astarion laid bare against her body, and she heard nothing at all inside his chest.

 It’s…nice.

“Are you still with me, darling?” The vampire searches her face, eyes narrowed by the barest hair, his curls aglow in a moonlit halo.

“Y-yes.”

“But don’t you look dazed,” he muses, putting on a pout that’s all for show. “If you still want me inside of you, you’ll have to say so, lover.”

“I do. Want it,” she answers at once, sparking a keen glint in his eye. She swallows, downing the hoarseness in her throat.

“Then say the words,” he coaxes, hovering taut above her.

Naomi tilts her head back, a sultry smile hanging slack from her swollen lips. “I want you inside me, Astarion. And I want you to have your fill of me while you’re filling me.”

His gaze dulls over, drifting down to her throat, his pupils blown wide. His voice is rich and dark as he whispers roughly, “So be it, my sweet.”

He seals the vow with a chaste kiss and the slow roll of his hips. The head of his cock nudges, warm and thick against her entrance. Instinct and anticipation have her cunt gripping around a panging nothingness. His fangs graze the pattering pulse-point in her neck. 

Naomi doesn’t know she’s held her breath until Astarion sinks into her with cock and fangs both. The exhale bleeds from her body in a heady rush.

“Isn’t that better?” He growls against her ear, the tang of her blood and sex mingling on his breath and in her nose.

Dimly, she’s aware of the prickling punctures in her neck. But then, his mouth soothes them again, sucking with a hard fervor, and she melts into the blend of his cock smacking wet against her cunt. 

Into the blend of blood and sex and sweat that takes her like a tide. Into the crash of lips and hips that has her writhing, riding on a climbing crest of pleasure. Every prod of his cock against that perfect place deep within her cunt drowns her in permeating bliss.

She could fade into that feeling entirely; dissolve into nothing but the crash of her own breath and the length of him wrapped within her. Just when she thinks she might, Astarion peels from her throat. He kisses her with groaned urgency, pulling a moan from her mouth into his. 

She comes apart that way, sealed with him, with a hard, lightning tremor shooting from her cunt through her chest. Astarion grunts, his teeth catching her lip with a sting that sends sparks simmering down through her toes. Her cunt convulses, wringing his cock through his frantic, shuddering thrusts.

Astarion parts from her mouth, face scrunched. He pours into her with a ragged groan. Absently, she strokes the dangling curls from his face, watching, rapt, as his brow trembles with the rest of him.

And then he pours from her, his body spilling into the dirt beside her, his cum seeping from her throbbing cunt. 

Cool, lonely air licks the sweat from her skin. Naomi shivers. 

Then she flinches; a flurry of fabric drops over her in a dark shadow. Gingerly, she takes the blanket, eying the swirling, pristine pattern of the stitching. It’s not the same as the one she woke up with this morning.

Astarion lies on his back next to her, still and silver as a statue.

“We can’t have you cold,” he murmurs faintly, as if miles away, “now, can we?”

A/N: THEY FINALLY FUCKED!! WOO HOO! Naomi: He's not even that good at flirting lol but it is entertaining.

Naomi five minutes later: It would be real stupid of me to think he means any of this lol we're totally just having fun it's casual

Naomi ten minutes later: Where's the cuddles though 🫠 Super excited to share Underdark happenings, lots more Naomi lore, and some Astarion POV about what just happened here next chapter! Divider credit for before and immediately after story text to @firefly-graphics. Divider credit for scene breaks and banner below to @saradika-graphics. *Tag List: @wilteddreamsofbaldursgate, @mancsunite, @marlowethebard,

@ayselluna, @wingsy-keeper-of-songs, @vixstarria

*I'm sorry if I missed you, I'm new this tag list thing! Lmk if you want to be added!

[apricoctopus]

Raphael's Special Offer

It's kinktober, so I decided to write something a bit spicy!

It's a continuation of my previous fic, Daily Dose of Terrible Men, but you don't have to read it to understand what's going on. It's short and cute though.

Raphael/Fem!Tav. Named Tav, softish Raphael.

3682 words, it's explicit, but nothing shocking. Just a sub and a bratty bottom trying to have sex, and hilarity ensues. And face sitting, because admit it, you all know what Raphael's horns are really for.

Act 3. Agartha decides to find out exactly what kind of services Raphael provides in a brothel. And of course he has something special for his favorite client.

Agartha stood in front of the door unsure what she should do. She heard music and laughter from the first floor — of course, this late at night Sharess’ Caress was the most crowded. But she didn’t hear anything from behind the door in front of her.

She even put her ear to it. Nothing. It meant that Raphael wasn’t with a visitor and she wouldn’t be interrupting anything— that was good. But it was possible he wasn’t even there — she was sure he had other places to be. Probably more distinguished than a brothel on the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate.

Or maybe he was sleeping. Taking a nap. As a devil he probably didn’t need much sleep, but he wasn’t a young man after all.

Agartha snorted, imagining Raphael dozing off after a busy day of collecting souls of brothel goers.

WHY ARE YOU GIGGLING LIKE AN IMBECILE? WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE?

Somehow the Emperor managed to scream and whisper in her head at the same time. It was a bit funny, that he tried to lower his voice, as if worried that Raphael could hear him.

DID YOU REALLY PUT ON A DRESS? AND WHAT IS THIS ON YOUR HEAD? DO YOU HOPE TO IMRESS YOUR DEVIL WITH THIS?

Agartha frowned and adjusted gilded rings and horn caps borrowed from Alfira. They had similar horn shape, so this set fit her pretty well. And they really complimented her blonde hair and yellow eyes, and went well with her new dress of deep blue satin. Obviously, Raphael was ought to be impressed.

Agartha had her own “hornaments” as she called them, but they were at home on the other side of the city. It would take her too long to go get them, and she was afraid she would lose all of her courage on the way there.

It wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, though.

“Shut up, will you? Why don’t you bother Wyll or someone else?” Agartha whispered angrily.

MAYBE BECAUSE WYLL OR ANYDODY ELSE FROM YOUR MERRY LITTLE BAND OF WEIRDOS ISN’T SNEAKING INTO THE BROTHEL IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT TO FORNICATE WITH A DEVIL?

“And how do you know that? We have a devil at camp, go check, maybe someone’s fornicating with her right now!”

LIKE YOU DID NOT SO LONG AGO? THIS JUMPING FROM ONE FIEND TO ANOTHER MAKES ME REALLY APPRECIATE THE FACT THAT AT LEAST YOU DIDN’T TRY TO FUCK THE ORTHON. YOUR RECENT BEHAVIOUR MADE ME LOWER MY EXPEC…

Suddenly the Emperor’s presence vanished — not just his voice, but also that unpleasant feeling at the back of her head, like someone was constantly watching her. Devil’s Den door creaked and opened.

Apparently, it was an invitation.

Agartha went inside. The room was dark, illuminated only by the starts peeking through the windows, but thanks to her infernal ancestry Agartha had no trouble with that. She saw red rose petals the scattered on the floor and thin ribbon of smoke coming up from incense on the edge of the pool, feeling the room with sweet, heavy smell. At the other end of the room a set of stairs led to an arch, covered with red drapes. Through a thin gap between them a strip of warm light fell on the marble floors. Agartha went straight to the arch.

When she pulled the drape to the side, she was surprised to see that the second room, well-lit and spacious, was actually pretty cozy, with soft carpets on the floor and a big bed that, after spending so many weeks on the road, seemed extremely comfortable.

Raphael sat behind a desk of carved wood, eyeing Agartha curiously. Blue doublet hung on the back of his chair, several buttons on his shirt were undone and frills of its collar were laying freely on his shoulders. When Agartha forced herself to look away from Raphael’s chest hair, she noticed a neat stack of papers in front of him.

“New contracts?”

Raphael nodded.

“It was a good day. May I inquire, why are you here? Did you come to bring me the Crown? I would be most impressed if you managed to get a hold of it so quickly.”

“No, I don’t have it yet,” Agartha said as approached him and sat on the desk.

“What brings you here then?”

She shrugged.

“Nothing important, really. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Go on.”

“It’s a curious choice for an office, even for a devil. A brothel, I mean. Why here?”

“It has a lovely view,” Raphael gestured towards one of the windows. The view of Chionthar glistening under the stars and city lights was indeed lovely. “And I don’t see anything wrong this the nature of this place — especially in Baldur’s Gate. In terms of comfort and quality of service any difference between a brothel and a high-end restaurant here will be marginal. But most importantly Sharess’ Caress is very… accessible. In a more refined establishment, my choice of potential customers would be limited, while here everybody is welcome. That’s exactly what I need — I want my services to be available to people of all backgrounds and levels of income. I don’t discriminate.”

“How noble of you.”

“Thank you, my dear. I knew you would appreciate it. But I feel like you still have questions, am I right?..”

He was, and she was glad he asked.

Agartha wasn’t naive. She saw the way Raphael treated her: all these visits during her travels under the guise of “just checking”, all the gifts, and compliments, and pet names, and “my dear”s. Whatever everybody, especially the Emperor, said, it was more than just a manipulation to get her to trust him. He really liked her, and finally it was time to see just how much. So, for the first time in weeks, she took a good long bath, brushed her hair properly and even bought a new dress — and something else she hoped Raphael would enjoy. Agartha was ready to make her move. She didn’t have a clear plan and had failed to come up with one on her way there, so she decided to improvise.

“Still, it’s a brothel. People normally don’t come here to sign contracts. Is this,” she gestured towards the stack of contracts, “the only service you provide in this fine establishment?”

The moment Agartha said the last words, she felt relief that the Emperor didn’t hear her. If she survived after asking Raphael this, damn squid would mock her relentlessly till the end of her days.

The devil looked at her bewildered. He was taken aback by this question as much as she was, although he quickly composed himself.

“I… Yes, normally that’s the only service I provide, as you put it. Yet…”

Raphael got up from his chair and stood in front of Agartha. He gave her a long, pensive look, as if still deciding what to do with her.

“You are my favorite customer, after all. And for my dear Little Mouse I can think of something special,” he said cupping her face in his hands. “I think I know why you really came here, and I will be happy to give it to you.”

Agartha noted how his skin was soft and feverishly hot, and that he had some new perfume — still sweet, but more flowery this time. And then he kissed her.

It felt like falling. Her stomach dropped, and head started spinning. Agartha had been waiting for this moment for so long, she felt nauseous from excitement. With trembling hands she pulled his shirt up, and he took it off, breaking the kiss for a moment. She felt him up gliding her hands from his waist to the chest, to his neck, hugging him and pulling him closer, and suddenly he broke the kiss again.

“Wait, wait for just a second. You deserve something truly special,” as he said this, air filled with heat and shimmered, and Raphael’s disguise burned away in bright magical fire.

As a human Raphael was pretty average. Not too short and not too tall, not too big and not too skinny, a perfectly normal middle-aged man. And a very attractive one, although the only one who agreed with Agartha on that matter was Astarion. Raphael created his human disguise in a way that made him look respectable, but not threatening. Trustworthy even, if he actually tried.

As a cambion Raphael was very different. He wasn’t like Mizora who more or less resembled a tiefling with wings and especially fancy horns. He was so tall that the top of Agartha’s head barely reached his shoulder, and wings and two sets of massive black horns made him seem even bigger. His features seemed sharper and harsher. He was covered in scales everywhere expect for his face, chest and stomach, and rows of hard ridges ran under red skin. And there was something different in the way he moved and looked at her with unblinking orange eyes, like a snake.

Right. Not a fox. A snake. And she was a stupid Little Mouse.

Perhaps the Emperor was right.

Raphael leaned on the desk so his face would be on the same level as Agartha’s and his hands would block her from trying to slip away. She gasped for air, as heat emitted by his body made it hard to breathe. The devil spread his wings as much as the space allowed, and Agartha suddenly felt claustrophobic and trapped.

“Are you scared? I can hear your heart beating.”

Only when he said it, Agartha understood that her heart was indeed racing so fast, it felt like it was going to jump out of her chest.

“Yeah,” she said in a coarse voice. “A bit.” 

He kissed her neck while his hand slid under her dress, claws scratching her thigh, making Agartha gasp. Raphael smiled and pressed harder — not enough to draw blood, but enough to make her shiver and lash her tail against the desk leg.

“Shh, don’t be afraid, Little Mouse. I won’t hurt you, unless you ask me,” he whispered.

Agartha was afraid — it was the first time she saw Raphael’s true form so close and she was not prepared to how inhuman he looked. Despite her fear — or may be because of it? — there were tension and warmth growing between her legs. It was all scary, and confusing, and hot — in every sense of this word.

Raphael’s kisses moved lower, to her collarbones and her cleavage, and his hand moved up, fingertips massaging her through wet fabric of her panties. Agartha was grateful he kept his claws away this time. She shifted on the desk into a more comfortable position, opening her legs wider and holding on to his shoulders for support.

She touched him, gingerly and unsurely at first: rough, scaly skin, thick membranes of his wings, hard cartilaginous ridges on the back. She ran her hand through his hair and gently scratched scalp near the horns — she knew from experience this spot should be sensitive. Raphael made a sound that could only be characterized as purring.

“You can purr?” she couldn’t help but nervously giggle.

He looked at her and made that sound again — something between a cat’s purr and a low rumble.

“That’s… that’s fascinating. I had no idea devils could do this.”

He answered with a kiss, sharp fangs briefly brushing against her lips, and put his hands on her waist, moved them up to her breasts, squeezing them slightly, and then to her back to unhook the dress, now soaked in sweat. It slid off her, leaving Agartha only in lingerie of red silk and golden lace. It was not her favorite color combination and she honestly considered it a bit tacky, but she guessed Raphael would like it.

The devil straightened up and looked at her, clearly enjoying the view:

“Gorgeous.”

Agartha leaned to him and planted a gentle kiss on skin over his ribs, where it was soft and not covered in scales. To her delight, Raphael’s cambion form had, as well as the human one, impressive chest hair and a happy trail leading down from the belly button into his pants. Agartha glided her hand over his firm press and traced hard ridges on his sides down to his hips.

Raphael put one hand on the back of her head, sending pleasant shivers down her neck when tips of his claws touched her scalp, while unbuckling his belt with the other. Agartha pulled his pants down, and as they fell on the floor, she wondered what his reaction would be if she just got up, said that there was no way that thing would fit in and excused herself. His cock, fully erect, was almost the size of her forearm and just as thick. It looked painful, although ridges did spark her curiosity. 

It seemed Raphael noticed her reaction and knelt in front of her, as if trying to look less intimidating. It didn’t work, partially because he raised his wing and caressed her cheek with it in a gesture equally sweet and terrifying.

“Oh, don’t worry. It will be fine. You will be fine. You know you can trust me.”

Agartha really hated when he said that.

Raphael kissed sharp ridges on her knees, and her thighs, and then moved to her belly, covering it in kisses, while taking her panties off.

“Why are you so tense? Didn’t I promise I won’t hurt you?” he asked with a chuckle. “Oh, my dear, dear Little Mouse, you need to relax. Let me help you with that.”

Raphael picked her up with one arm — Agartha yelped and hugged his neck, to keep herself from falling — and headed towards the bed. He laid down and dragged her closer to the headboard, eventually forcing to stand on her knees right above his face.

“You can hold on to my horns, if you want,” he offered politely. “Come on, I won’t bite.”

Agartha hesitated. She fantasized about this moment a lot, to the Emperor’s annoyance, but she never imagined herself on top of Raphael. Usually, her scenarios involved being bent over a table with some spanking and maybe bondage to spice things up. Seeing her indecisiveness, Raphael put hands on her hips and pressed down. She had no choice but to oblige, grasping his horns. They were spikey but otherwise rather handy.

All of her hesitation faded the moment his lips pressed on her pussy and his forked, almost painfully hot tongue touched her throbbing clit, both tips circling around if, teasing and caressing. She felt like there was nothing left of her, just this sweet pulsating warmth, radiating through her body.  Agartha didn’t even notice when she started grinding her hips, following the rhythm Raphael set, moaning louder and louder, begging him not to stop. Raphael grasped the base of her tail, where skin was especially tender, and stroked, each move sending waves of overwhelming tingling sensation through her spine. It was all just too much, and her movements became erratic and back arched. She came so hard, she would fall if Raphael wasn’t holding her.

“Oh, fucking Hells...” she moaned.

Raphael kept holding her, even when she tried to get off his face. After a short rest his tongue touched her clit again, more aggressive this time.

“What… what are you doing? Let me... ahh…”

Raphael wasn’t just teasing her, he pressed right on the most sensitive spot again and again, making Agartha twitch with her whole body. He firmly held her hips with one hand, while other stroked her tense back, and trembling belly, and breasts with hard nipples that ached from rubbing against the lace of her bra.

Her arousal grew with each sharp movement of his tongue — and not only because of how mercilessly he stimulated her. She loved the pain of spikes on his horns sinking into her palms, and his claws scratching her back, and ticklish trickle of blood where they punctured skin. And most of all she loved the realization she was completely his power. He was so much stronger than her, that no matter how desperately she fought, she could not escape or at least move her hips away, to give herself a little rest. Even her tail frantically whipping against his body didn’t bother him.

Agartha came again, her body trembling, legs and arms aching from tension. She couldn’t even moan, and the sound she made was a pathetic, weak whimper. It didn’t just fail to stop Raphael this time — it only whetted him. His teeth scratched her hot, sore skin, making her whimper again. She was so overstimulated, her muscles contracted with each movement of his tongue, as pleasure mixed with growing pain.

Hells, doesn’t he get tired of this? Doesn’t he need to breathe or something?..

It was the only coherent thought her clouded mind was capable of right now.

She put her hand into Raphael’s hair, brushing it, finding that part around the horns, as if it could somehow make him have mercy on her.

“Raphael, stop, stop, please… it hurts, stop!”

With her pleading neither of them heard the sound of the door to Devil’s Den opening followed by rushed footsteps.   

“You asshole! Let go of her immediately!” Angry scream finally made Raphael let Agartha go, and she fell on him, panting and shaking from aftershocks.

“What?..” Raphael rose up in bed using his wings for support.

Agartha rolled on her stomach to look at the invaders and groaned.

Drapes that used to cover the arch were laying on the stairs — apparently Karlach tore them off. Tiefling woman stood in her armor, with a flaming axe in her hands, surrounded by fire and smoke bursting from vents on her shoulders. Behind her Agartha saw Wyll and Astarion, both alarmed and armed, ready to strike.

It was awful. It was worse than that time with the Emperor, because at least he wiped that memory from her poor companions minds. But the image of Agartha, with her hair messy and make up smudged, laying on top of naked Raphael with a boner that was approximately the size of her arm? They would remember that.

A catastrophe.

“Care to explain what is going on here?” Karlach asked, even angrier than before.

Why would you be angry? Agartha thought with annoyance. She sat right on top of Raphael — she had learned already that her weight didn’t bother him in the slightest. He, in an unexpectedly thoughtful gesture, raised his wing, covering her from her shocked friends.

 “What does it look like to you?” Raphael’s voice sounded calm, but Agartha could feel he was seething. He had that scrunch on his nose that appeared only when he was really angry. “Perhaps you would care to explain what are you all doing here? I can’t remember inviting any of you.” 

All three of them seemed confused. It looked like they expected to see something different here.

“The Emperor said Agartha was in dang…” Wyll started to explain, but he was interrupted.

“The Emperor? Again?” The devil fell back on the pillows laughing, his anger dissipating in a moment. Agartha slapped his chest in frustration.

“It’s not funny!”

“Again?..” Astarion chimed in.

“But it is! Who could have thought an illithid could get so jealous! He just doesn’t want you to be happy, my dear. And you can’t say he is not inventive. I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck off. You are not sorry.” She exhaled, counted to 10 and then turned to her friends. Her face was so hot and red, she felt like it was possible to fry an egg on it. “That squid is full of shit and I’m not in any danger.”

Karlach raised an eyebrow.

“Really? Well, it sounded like you were.”

She will never let me forget this.

“Well, I wasn’t! So please, leave. I will come back in the morning and you will tell me everything you think of it. Leave.”

“How do we know you are not charmed? The Emperor says the devil,” Astarion pointed his dagger to Raphael who now looked relaxed — all parts of him, in fact — and amused by the drama, “blocks your mind from him.”

Agartha wondered for a second if she should indeed pretend Raphael had put a spell on her. Would it help her keep at least a scrap of dignity?..

“Oh, no-no-no, you get it all wrong. I was the one being seduced and charmed here, isn’t that right, my dear?” Raphael asked, gliding his hand across Agartha’s thigh.

Damn mouthy devil.  

“I wasn’t charmed, no one is charmed, and no one is any danger, except for the mind flayer when I get my hands on him. And if you don’t leave right now, I will jump out of the window. I’m serious.”

“It’s not very high,” Raphael pointed out.

“Fine.” Karlach said and nodded to the guys to head back to the door. “We will have a talk about this later. Shagging a fiend, for fuck’s sake…”

When they left, Agartha took off her bra, threw it in the corner, and laid on top of Raphael, exhausted. He wrapped his hands around her and covered her with both wings. She was sweating in there and it was terribly unsexy, but she didn’t care.

“Well, since we are alone now?..” Raphael suggested, but Agartha shook her head, almost hitting him in the face with her horns. She didn’t care about it either.

She remembered something that happened at the very beginning of her journey. Not that long ago, in fact, but it felt like it was in a different life. Right now, she seriously believed that in that exact moment she ruined her karma and doomed herself to life of misery, loneliness and terrible relationships with terrible men.

The moment when she opened the door of that cursed barn.

“Moment ruined,” she whispered quietly. “Passion… squished like a slow goat under foot.”

“Goat? What goat? What in the Nine Hells are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Nothing… Can you purr again, please? It was really cute.”

[trulycertain]

Blech

Karlach guesses she shouldn't be surprised when she's popping off to the river for a quick dip, and halfway into the woods, finds Fangs and their mighty leader snogging furiously.

In which Astarion gets his groove back... and is deeply obnoxious in the process. Based on the arse-grab in the Patch 5 kiss, that banter with Lae'zel about he and Tav barely being able to keep their hands off each other, and the fact that even if Halsin's not involved with them, he's noticed Astarion and Tav having sex again. Because they're clearly That Damn Couple.

Tav/Astarion, background Karlach/Wyll. 2.6k. SFW - some mild accidental voyeurism and mentions of Astarion's canon sexual trauma, but all the bedroom business is implied.

Ao3 link

Something's different, after Lora and Astarion sneak out of camp to do... whatever they did. Karlach probably doesn't want to know. Honestly, she thinks it's got more to do with the fact that his old bastard of a master is dead. Finally being able to take a proper breath for the first time in two hundred years... or the dead-guy equivalent, anyway. Must be a hell of a feeling. Invigorating.

Sure, Astarion still has times when you reach out to touch him and he gets that face, the one that says he'd flinch but he's too well-trained. And sometimes he gets that haunted look in his eyes, the one that makes Karlach think of blood and fire and something getting shoved into her chest; she's only been able to see the edges of his nightmares, but she guesses for him they're probably torture and sex he doesn't want to have and being so. damn. hungry all the time. (Like being lonely, like wanting to be touched so much it aches, and suddenly being awash in a wealth of it. Wyll must've spent most of the journey since her engine got fixed up hugging her - and that's after they spent what felt like three days in her tent. For Astarion, she guesses that it's blood and not getting staked. Sudden scary kindness, all the same.)

But he doesn't snap anymore - not unless he thinks you're doing something really stupid. She offered him a fist and he actually bumped it the other day, while Wyll cackled in surprise (and then coughed when he realised he was doing it). Miracles never cease.

Astarion and Lora have always been, well, weirdly soppy, once you got past the sniping. They'll tell jokes about blowing up hags, disagree on everything, call each other idiots with fancy words while laughing at each other's annoyed faces... and then you'll find them by the campfire, Astarion sewing some frilly thing with his ankle absentmindedly wrapped round Lora's. They hold hands, when they're at the back of the group and think they're being sneaky about it and can pretend it’s just their shoulders bumping; Wyll gave her the eyebrow-nudge the first time he noticed it, and it's been hard not to see ever since. And if you're looking for one of them, it's usually best to knock on Lora's tent so they've at least got time to spring apart and pretend they weren't cuddling.

But something's new. Something obnoxious and... kind of hilarious, if Karlach's being honest.

Lora eats stew in the Elfsong while trying to keep a straight face, but Karlach spots Astarion smirking into his wine glass in that way he gets when he's being a little shit. On impulse, she checks under the table and... she recognises that fancy gold-embellished shoe. And the fact it's sneaking up Lora's shin. Sure enough, there's a far less fancy boot hooked round Astarion's knee.

Karlach snorts when she comes back up. "Footsie? Really?"

Lora seems like she might be blushing, if it was dark enough to show up; Astarion just looks innocent, but his eyes are gleeful, crinkling at the corners.

Gale sighs, "Do you mind?"

He just gets an even louder, more dramatic sigh in response from Astarion, who says, "All perfectly innocent, I assure you. I hadn't even managed to get above the knee." He mutters into his wine, "Spoilsport." Swallowing, he adds, "And no-one's saying anything to Karlach, considering she's had her tail on Wyll's arse for the past half-hour."

Wyll jumps.

Karlach says, "Snitch."

"Coming from you, darling? Really?" But he's smiling into his cup.

Karlach guesses she shouldn't be surprised when she's popping off to the river for a quick dip, and halfway into the woods, finds Fangs and their mighty leader snogging furiously. Except Lora's paused to laugh and go, "Really? Really?" Probably referring to his hands on Lora's arse, unabashedly getting a good grip. (Karlach can't especially blame him. That's a whole lot of woman.)

Astarion's voice is cheerfully haughty. "What, I can't appreciate art?"

"You're ridiculous."

He rubs his nose against hers. "And you're beautiful." Karlach waits for the punchline or the sting in the tail, but it doesn’t come. His voice is soft and silly, like he’s just been hit round the head with something heavy. Fuck. Is that what Fangs in love sounds like? Sure seems like it. At least he’s put his hands somewhere less enthusiastic.

"Sweet-talker." Lora's voice is low, that soppy teasing way that lovers get with each other.

"...Yes, so I've been told. Except this time I get to mean it.”

Yeah, much as a formerly-pent-up part of her would really like to see this, Karlach also isn't paid enough for this shit. Even if she's not a merc anymore. She stares up at the trees and whistles a tune, pointedly. 

Lora actually jumps.

Astarion turns his head and says, “Karlach? I thought that might be you.”

Karlach rolls her eyes. “Just looking for a bath. Not… this. Cute, though.”

Astarion gives a tiny half-grimace, and Karlach realises it’s the closest he gets to embarrassment. “Yes, well. I’d thought I was decent at finding a secluded spot.” He raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, I bet you are. But there’s a whole camp trying to do the same.”

Lora tugs at his hand. “Come on. Let Karlach spend some quality time with the river.”

Astarion throws a jaunty wave Karlach's way as he saunters off. “Later, darling."

So yeah. That's... either not been a thing before, or they're being way more obvious about it.  Which gives everyone full licence to tease, in Karlach's opinion. Especially later, when Astarion won't lace up his stupid frilly shirt, and he has like... wow, are those three lovebites on his neck? Pretty impressive ones. Even Wyll and Gale are staring.

Shadowheart says, "I thought you were meant to be the vampire here."

Lora suddenly pokes the rabbit on the fire with a lot more force; Astarion takes his nose out of his book to give Shadowheart a sharp look, but his mouth's twitching when he gets back to it.

Karlach's even less surprised, somehow, when she goes to answer a call of nature and finds him pinned against a tree with his legs around Lora's waist, mouthing at her neck like he's about to try for another snack.

Karlach says, "Nice," cause it is, and cause it'll annoy them enough to let them know she's there.

Lora freezes; Astarion seems totally unsurprised. And makes no move to get himself on the ground, just opens an eye and says cheerfully over Lora's shoulder, "Why hello, Karlach. I always had you down more as the 'getting stuck in' type than liking to watch." And then the bastard winks. Astarion's always acted like a massive perv. A massive perv and happy? He might be even more of a pain.

Karlach says, "I wasn't watching. Some of us poor fuckers are trying to find a place to piss. You don't own the woods, you know."

Lora puts her face in Astarion's neck like she wants to die a little, but somehow still doesn't drop him. It's kind of impressive.

"I'm gonna find a good hedge. And take a different path back." Karlach gives them a nod. "Soldier. Fangs."

Lora mumbles, still muffled by smug vampire neck, "Thanks, Karlach."

Astarion, being Astarion and tactful as a very pointy brick, cackles so hard it follows Karlach out into the woods.

Not that whatever they have going on isn't hot; neither of them's exactly ugly. But she's not actually trying to know about that much of it. Especially not the big stuff, the real stuff.

Sometimes you don’t manage to dodge the real stuff fast enough.

She hears one night, as she's heading back to camp, "You've gone somewhere else." Lora. Sounding worried.

"Don't be ridiculous, darling. There's nowhere I'd rather be than - all right. No, I can't do it. Don't - We don't have to stop."

"Sure we do. My thigh's killing me, anyway. Oof. Move over." That fidgety sound you get when someone’s shifting bedrolls and a vampire’s stupid-huge pile of cushions around, now Lora’s finally got him to sleep on more than a damn board. (Karlach doesn’t care if he says it helps his back. She’s got enough problems of her own to know that’s a load of shit.)

His voice is fainter. "My sweet, I..."

"Astarion, what's my name?"

Karlach’s trying to head fast to her own tent. Really, she is. But hers is next to his and it’s… hard, when you’re worried for a friend.

"I…" A pause, and he swallows through such a dry throat you can hear it click. "Lora? What - For a moment I thought you were someone else."

"There you are."

"I'm so sorry, I..."

“Why?” Lora asks – gently, but she’s never good at being bullshitted.

“Because it shouldn’t be like this.”

Karlach heads over to her own tent, sits and tries not to listen; strokes a hand over Clive’s fuzzy head. Wyll’s still sleeping in there, bedroll carefully a ways from hers but close enough to hold her hand – she can hear him. She’ll head in given a sec, as subtly as a seven-foot flaming tiefling can.

Astarion says, unsteadily, “He’s dead. They’re all… they’re all dead, or down there in the dark. I’m free. I’m with you. I want to be with you, not… every ghost I’ve ever lain down for. You deserve better.”

Teddy bear fuzz. She can touch fuzz now, and Wyll, without the singeing. She’s here. She’s here, and there are owls and trees and Wyll making those little snoozy breaths behind her and no flames other than a damn campfire. Fuck. She knows Astarion would bite her if she even suggested it, but sometimes she really wishes he had a Clive. Something. She’s seen that ratty old blanket he insists on carrying round and tucking ashamedly into his tent; maybe that’s something similar for him.

Lora says easily, “You’ve got that one wrong.”

Astarion mumbles, fancy cut-glass syllables muffled by a bedroll, “Why didn’t you pick someone easy?” He laughs bitterly. “Well, I’ve always been extremely easy. Isn’t that just the problem. Why didn’t you pick someone normal? Someone boring, with a cottage and a dog and – someone who could fuck you without losing himself.”

Lora says, “Because that’s not my type. I want you. The fucking is secondary.”

He snaps, “It’s never secondary. It’s all there is. It’s all people want me for.”

“Hm. I want you for your sewing, and the way you grin with all your fangs, and your shit taste in books.”

 “It’s better than yours.” Astarion sniffs – the haughty kind. Better than the kind he was verging on before.

“I want you for the way you hold me when I’m afraid, and you get so damn angry when someone hurts me.”

“That’s just common sense. You’re our leader.”

“Hmm. Tactical cuddling’s a new one. …I want you for your gold thread and your sunrises and your little presents you sneak me when you think I’m not looking, and the way you pretend to hate puns but you laugh at them. All the tiny things in life you hoard like treasure. I’ve been free all my life, but I’ve never enjoyed it as hard as you.” There’s a pause, and a shuffle of fabric and bodies. “…I like the way you hold my hand, too.”

“Thank you,” Astarion says, very quietly.

Karlach manages to sneak into her tent without setting Wyll on fire. And she gives him, and Clive, a quick squeeze.

Karlach manages three days before she gets done by a bunch of sneaky-bastard nettles in the woods, and hobbles back to camp. She keeps setting the fucking dock leaves on fire.

“Lora!” she whines, because Shadowheart’s deep in scary intense prayer – she’s switched it to a moon goddess now, sure, but she still looks like she’d stab you in the kneecaps if you interrupted.

“Karlach!” Lora says brightly, even if it’s all muffled, from her tent.

There’s a very posh sigh from the same tent.

Oh. Well. Right. Karlach tries, “You decent in there?”

Astarion drawls, “I was trying very hard to get her indecent, actually.”

Lora groans, “Ignore him.”

“Oh yes, please do. As usual. It’s not as if a man can find any privacy in his lover’s tent.”

Karlach says, “It’s a tent, mate. Privacy and tents aren’t a thing in the same sentence. You can keep it in your trousers ‘til we hit an inn tomorrow, right?”

Astarion mumbles something that sounds like it’s into a pillow. Karlach makes out something about “two hundred years” and “freedom.”

She says, “Yeah, yeah, I get that, but my arse is stinging something fierce.”

Astarion sits bolt upright so obviously the tent moves. “Wait, wait, I’ve changed my mind! Now this I have to see.” The tent flaps swiftly get undone by hands that are obviously way too good with knots, and then he crawls out into the camp, still shirtless and wild-haired, shit-eating cat’s grin all over his face. “What happened, darling?”

A dark brown foot follows him out, and gently prods at the side of his thigh ‘til he moves over.

“Nettles happened,” Karlach says, miserably.

Lora says, “Ouch. Let me see what I can do.” She stands and heads over to Karlach.

Astarion, still outside the tent but now sitting cross-legged, squints at Karlach’s leathers; he’s about knee-height, after all. Not that he ever gets much taller, when he's standing next to Karlach. “Are those brambles? Here I thought they’d all just burn away.” He looks up at her, and the smile in his eyes is less sharp-edged, now; he's trying for comfort. “Do you want to keep them? They really do add something. Like the studding.”

Yeah, the brambles were what she was trying to avoid when she landed in the nettles. “I want to forget all this ever happened,” Karlach moans.

Which is how she ends up sitting on a few borrowed foofy plum cushions outside Lora’s tent in her pants – look, it’s a camp and modesty is a distant memory – while Lora heals her thighs and the side of her glutes (and her shoulders, and that bit under her chin from when she tripped), and Astarion sits with her trous in his lap, picking out bramble after bramble with some fancy little tweezers he’d got stashed away. “Is that better?” Lora says, checking her over.

“It really, really is. Thank fuck. Thank you, soldier.”

Lora beams at her, all sweet and pretty, the way that makes you get how Astarion fell for her – he does have a weakness for sunshine.

Astarion neatly folds Karlach’s battered leather trousers and hands them back to her without a word, even a snide one.  

“Thanks, Fangs.”

All right, so they make her a little sick. But they seem like they’re getting better at subtlety, lately. And times like this, she’s glad that her friends are a weird little couple. Seems like they're good for each other.

Astarion claps her on the shoulder – a rare thing, for him – and gives her a broad grin full of fang. “Marvellous. Always glad to help a friend in need. Now, would you mind being elsewhere, so we can ravage each other?”

No, Karlach takes it all back. She’s gonna feed them both to a beholder.

[bananasfosterparent]

Dancing With the Devil (if the devil is you)

🥀🩸🥀🩸🥀🩸🥀

"My Consort, how long has it been since we danced?"  "Oh, my Lord... hours." To Death we Dance | Dark Macabre Waltz

🥀🩸🥀🩸🥀🩸🥀

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Unnamed/Ungendered Tav (or Reader)

Triggers: None. Just a little fun fluff.

Summary: Tav/Durge (or you) dancing (badly) with Ascended Astarion and musing on the shared bond.

Note: I wrote this in April 2024, with my own Tav in mind (Neutral Evil, female, body type 3/strong, criminal background), so some of the details do reflect that, but I did keep it gender neutral and low on said details, so anyone or any Tav/Durge can more or less be swapped in. This was just something short and sweet for funsies uwu

🥀🩸🥀🩸🥀🩸🥀

“One, two, three, one, two, three, one, two, three…” 

You count the steps in your head. The two of you dance through the mirrored ballroom. You try your best to focus on your graceful partner, and not your reflections or your feet awkwardly shuffling about the marble floor. You feel every lumbering inch of your height as you try to follow the steps, towering over your Lord. You want him to lead and you feel much more confident in his guidance instead of your own.

Your Lord had taught you how to ballroom dance, but it clearly wasn't your strong suit from the very start. While you were quite awful at it, there is something in the motions together that calls to you. Beckons you to keep trying. Keep going. Keep dancing. 

Despite the room being full of servants and guests, they simply vanish as you swirl around together in a whirlwind. With each twirl, you feel anew, no matter how many times the steps repeat.

You had given Lord Astarion everything. Your time, your attention, your talents, even your very life itself. And yet, you never feel like you could honor him enough. He deserves so much, and you feel you have so little to offer.

But he seems to think the same of himself.

With the gift of eternity spent together, you have made it your mission to prove him wrong. And if that meant dancing with him until you had it perfected, then so be it.

Your eyes flash toward the mirrored walls of the grand chamber as the pair of you circle around. The fact alone that your reflections are visible is enough to make your heart flutter–were it still beating, that is. 

He is truly magnificent. His beautiful body, held firmly in your hands as you grasp his palm and waist. His embroidered suit, highlighting the grace and elegance he naturally possesses. His poised air and biting wit. His charm, cleverness, and honest brutality. His horrifying passion. 

You had helped him claim the power that was rightfully his. Not just with encouragement and support, but directly. He put it best, the fateful and cherished night you fell into immortality with him: You had given him everything. 

And for everything you had given him, he gives it back tenfold. 

But it isn’t his power, confidence, influence, nor his sensuality that captivates you so. No. Quite the opposite in fact. 

Where he feels insecurity and lacking… you see his unrealized potential and true beauty. 

Thanks to your background as a criminal, you are able to take the broader strokes of his devious plans and fill in the gaps with the details to bring his schemes to full color. Never again has he floundered or wavered in his decisions, not with you to strengthen and take up the slack where he falls short.

You are his. His consort. To cherish, to protect. To love. 

Love. How that word makes you tremble. Not the usual sense of the word, as the world often uses it. As you used to imagine it.

He offers you that sinister smirk of his, as you continue to twirl around. 

Mortals would mock your love. Call it wicked and strange. But they simply do not understand. The love between you and your Lord is deeper than any mortal could ever hope to understand. Calling it simply 'love' felt like an insult. The pair of you knew genuine passion and joy deeper than any. The most hidden spaces of your dark, jaded heart are held together with his pure and all encompassing possession of you. Just the same, your possession of him is the only dark comfort to his now beating heart.

You are undead, and yet… in moments like this you swear you feel your own heart still thumping in your chest. The blood bond between yourself and Astarion allows you to feel what he feels in a way so complete, it rocks every part of you. He senses your anxiety. Your unsure steps and pauses. He feels them before you ever even make them known in the physical. And in that you find your comfort.

You shake your head slightly, trying to keep your focus on your bodies moving.

The pair of you, Lord and Consort.

Unstoppable.

Unmatched.

Perfect.

Well, mostly. If only you could get these dance steps down.

🥀🩸🥀

[autistichalsin]

Shippy Halsin/Origins moments, part 1: Lae'zel

I'm starting with Lae'zel because, sadly, she and Halsin have vanishingly little together. They have (2) party banters together, total, and very few of their one-one-interactions, I.E. in Origin Lae'zel runs, offer anything different than a Tav would. That said, there are a very few interactions I can pull shippiness from!

In the ending, if Origin Lae'zel is on the Orpheus path and chooses to fly off to the astral plane, Halsin will say: fly on, Lae'zel. May the Oak Father preserve you and guide you true.

Even if she's not of his world, he still hopes his deity will protect her. :)

If Lae'zel stays loyal to Vlaakith after the confrontation, Halsin says: Your loyalty stands to you, Lae'zel. I can only hope Vlaakith recognises it as I do.

Your queen's words have set your mind then, Lae'zel? I would not wish to be the one that Vlaakith unleashes you upon.

He believes in her, even on her evil path, and he admires her strength and skill in combat.

Similarly, if Lae'zel decides to turn against Vlaakith instead here: So, it seems that Vlaakith is your queen no longer, Lae'zel. That took no small amount of backbone.

He admires her, quite a bit.

When getting to know Halsin in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, Lae'zel, as with the other Origins, has a line unique to her.

For Lae'zel, the line is: I despise sunsets, slow wits - and small talk.

To which Halsin responds: Luckily there's nothing small about getting to know someone like you. There's little occasion for frivolity in nature - I can appreciate your stance... even if others do not.

Halsin very rarely responds negatively even to blatant insults. Here, though, he not only doesn't mind it, but he outright states his respectfulness of her and her boundaries. Despite having just said he wanted to know her like she wanted to know him, he is willing to back off when she says she doesn't want it to veer into small talk, and instead affirms her worth as a person (basically saying it's not small talk when it's her) and that it's valid to not enjoy more than the necessities of conversation.

This is a level of insightfulness and respect that a lot of the other companions don't give Lae'zel; they will either be angry at her attitude or try to get her to lighten up. Halsin just respects that this is who she is, even if he would like to talk to her casually. It speaks to Halsin's fluidity and adaptability in social situations that make him well-suited as a romantic partner to many different kinds of people, and while Lae'zel may be scornful of most- and definitely would scorn Halsin's diplomacy-first approach- I could see her slowly beginning to respect Halsin's attitude in turn. Unfortunately, though, that has to stay a theoretical, because in canon, almost every line that implies something between them is from Halsin to her, not vice-versa.

Here is one of the two party banters they share:

Halsin: Such hoarding of wealth. A tomb for riches that could be put to better use.

Lae'zel: I've heard the same said of bears - the kind you take the shape of. They hoard, gorge, and hibernate through hard times.

Halsin: True... but only until the thaw, then life goes on. This gold may never see daylight again, while others go cold and hungry.

Halsin doesn't act offended here, though he would have every right to be (in fact, he reacts calmly whenever someone pushes back against his nature metaphors and such). Instead, he calmly states his position to her.

Also, this is probably reaching (but when the content is this sparse, I kind of have to, right?) but one gets the feeling a Githyanki wouldn't exactly know a lot about bears normally. Maybe she asked the companions for information about bears to learn more about Halsin?

Their other party banter is, uh... well. THAT one.

Lae'zel: You've quite the appetite, Halsin. I'd wager you've bedded more of your foes than you've felled.

Halsin: Hmm. A challenging sum. The chimera has three heads... but does it still count as one?

Lae'zel: Must have been a challenging kill.

Halsin: Kill... yes.

The openness in sexual conversation is interesting, because both are far more unashamed about sex than normal; Lae'zel because of her culture and Halsin because of his Druidic beliefs. This causes Lae'zel to show no mercy in slut-shaming Halsin, and Halsin to be equally unusual in taking absolutely no offense to it, calmly responding to her question by... sharing a story one gets the feeling few others would want to share, I.E. bedding a chimera. (Well, either bedding it, or lying about it to troll Lae'zel, which would also be entertaining).

Interestingly, this conversation is all about the juxtaposition of sex and violence. While we all know Lae'zel prefers her lust as dessert after bloodlust, Halsin enjoys regular lust, but seems open to mixing it with violence (bedding more of his foes than he's felled). Which would seem to indicate he would be open to Lae'zels... preferred courtship.

And indeed, one of the few bits of reciprocation we see from Lae'zel is when discussing her thirst for Halsin. I.E. if another player character asks her for an open relationship with Halsin, she says: Undoubtedly. Arms like tree trunks, chest broad as an ocean[...]

And after recruiting him: Halsin's proved himself a fine ally already. He'll be useful in battle, If those tree-trunk arms are an indication.

Lastly, though it's not nearly as fun as some other reactions, they do, of course, react if the other is kidnapped by Orin, and it at least indicates good feelings to each other.

Lae'zel: Orin thinks Halsin's abduction is an ultimatum to kill Gortash. Foolish woman - as if I needed more reason than I already had.

This is actually quite a lot of positive emotion considering it's Lae'zel of all people saying this. It indicates she is NOT happy Halsin's been taken, even if she acts aloof about it.

And, lastly, to finish up this tragically short meta, is Halsin's reaction for Lae'zel being kidnapped by Orin: Will Orin truly free Lae'zel if we slay Gortash? I am not so sure... a rescue may be in order.

He wants to save her. :)

Yeah, that just about sums up how little I can piece together, try as I might. I WANT there to be a lot for them because I adore them together and want to have something to point to, but sadly, really, all we got is "Lae'zel's down bad" and "Halsin really respects her boundaries as a person who doesn't like to talk much." Not a lot to go on, but it could be a lot worse!

One post down, five more to go. :) Next up will be Halsin/Wyll.

[littlemourningstarr]

Feed the Beast

Sekh finally gets that drink Rugan promised him- with a far more enjoyable outcome than he initially expected.

Kinktober 2024, Day 23: "Creampie"

Read below or on AO3!

Pairing: Astarion x Transmasc tav

Part of the Eternally Yours series!

Tags: Transmasc tav, jealousy, cunnilingus, vaginal sex, creampie, voyeurism, kinktober, kinktober 2024

Sekh knotted his hair back as he headed down the stairs of the Elfsong. The tavern was beginning to bustle, the light of the day fading, most of the patrons willing to utterly ignore the threat of the Absolute that was being openly thrown about in the streets.

If there was one thing Sekh had learned in all his years, from any city- albeit all of them smaller than Baldur’s Gate- was that when night hit, it didn’t matter if the world was ending, so long as there was a strong drink and the prospect of promising company to be had.

He side stepped Lakrissa with a grin as she delivered drinks, her tail flicking at him playfully. He could see Karlach and Wyll, across the tavern, already with drinks in hand. Considering there was no one in their room above when he’d left, he presumed that everyone had already dispersed for a bit of reprieve.

Even if they were trying to fight the gods and avoid turning into mind flayers, they deserved to have a little fun, after all.

Sekh made his way to the bar, was content to wait as Alan dealt with an already overly drunk patron, before he heard someone exclaim, “Well, by Sune’s grace.” The drow glanced over his shoulder, just in time to see a human man shouldering through the crowd, smiling at him. He looked familiar…

The Zhentarim. The color of his armor gave him away.

“Rugan,” he offered, plucking the name from memories that felt like they occurred lifetimes ago. The man grinned at him, this ruggish charm to his face, pleasant lines along his mouth and eyes.

“The fact that you remembered is another blessing.” He leaned up against the bar, dark eyes taking Sekh in in the same way he had, back in the cave mouth after the gnolls, and within the Zhentarim hideout. “I do believe I owe you a long awaited drink.”

At that moment Alan was finally free of the drunken patron, and was more than happy to take Rugan’s order. Sekh didn’t have time to say anything else before the man was holding two glasses and gesturing towards a little table, set slightly away from the chaos. Sekh followed, glancing about the tavern again, caught Karlach’s eye as the tiefling quirked an inquisitive brow.

Sekh shook his head, chasing away whatever sordid little thoughts she was having. He wanted to shout to her about Astarion, but he knew the vampire had slipped away to find himself a meal. Sekh just hoped he would be back soon. Everything still felt fresh, with Cazador newly dead, and a part of him wanted to hover over Astarion like a protective shroud.

He fought that part down, because Astarion needed to know that Sekh trusted him, to make his own decisions, to take care of himself. And he did, he just-

He worried.

He heard a buzzing chuckle in his head, realized Syl was laughing at him and his tumultuous thoughts. He would have told her off, had he not reached the table already. Instead he ignored her, settling down as Rugan offered him the glass.

“Hope you’re a whiskey man,” he offered, and Sekh had to smile.

“My tolerance is shit,” he admitted, lifting the glass, “but shockingly, whiskey treats me better than wine.” Rugan lifted his glass, tipping it towards Sekh.

“I think we should drink to you,” he offered, and before Sekh could protest was tossing back a solid mouthful of the whiskey. Sekh took a solid sip himself, the burn down his throat rather grounding. His mother had always liked whiskey- he had memories of her out drinking his father while attempting to play Sava on many nights. It had always been a fun sight, until they chased him off to bed for a bit of privacy. “Glad to see you here in one piece, Sekh’met.”

Sekh flashed a smile. “Glad to be in one piece. I take it you didn’t have anymore gnoll trouble?”

Rugan chuckled, a shockingly warm sound. “Gods no, thankfully. I’ve seen enough of those flea-ridden beasts to last a lifetime.”

Sekh raised his glass to that. “Agreed.” He took another drink, the burn less intense now, filling his belly with warmth. There was maybe half a mouthful left in his glass, and he tossed it back with ease, noticed Rugan just watching him as he set the glass down. It was the same look he’d had back at the Zhentarim hideout, still. Interest. Of the most definitely carnal kind.

And Sekh was flattered, and maybe once upon a time, if he’d blown into a city and Rugan had looked at him like that, he would have taken him to bed. But now, with his heart so wrapped up in Astarion, his blood singing for the vampire even when he was gone-

And the tangle of thorns that Rolan had now added, to his heart and soul, the tiefling’s kisses still a fresh memory…

“I know that look,” Sekh said, “and I’m flattered, but I’m going to break your heart now, instead of in ten minutes when you ask me to bed.”

Rugan’s brows arched, eyes a little wide- and then he laughed, shaking his head. Laughed at himself, Sekh was sure. “I’m that obvious?”

“You were that obvious when we first met.”

Rugan glanced at his cup, before he tipped his head back, finishing his own whiskey as well. “Shame, I’ve never been with a drow, and you’re…” he shrugged a shoulder.

“Alluring? Heart stopping?” Sekh filled in, grinning like mad. There was a flitting pull, in his mind- Syl getting endless bemusement from this little chat. She did so love when Sekh got cocky.

Rugan snorted, shaking his head. Before he could say anything else, Sekh felt a set of cool fingers tracing up his shoulder, and then Astarion was leaning in, eyes hyper focused on Rugan. “Who is your company, pet?”

Rugan jumped a bit, as if Astarion had simply appeared out of nowhere. “Impressively quiet,” he mused, his eyes locked on the hold Astarion had on Sekh’s shoulder- recognition dawning in his eyes. Sekh would have offered a sheepish smile- but his head was beginning to hurt, with Syl’s presence whipping about, eagerly waiting to see if Astarion would get territorial- she did love a little bloodshed.

And now his tadpole, squirming, as it did every so often. He schooled his face to avoid grimacing, and reached up, covered Astarion’s hand with his own.

“Astarion, you remember Rugan.” He added, softer, “The Zhentarim.”

Astarion continued to stare, his face a cool mask. When he didn’t speak, Rugan did. “With the way you move like a ghost- do you want a job?”

Astarion laughed then- a single, sharp sound. “You couldn’t afford me.”

Rugan was smiling despite it. “The Zhentarim can afford anything. But, I can take your rejection.” The words were spoken to Astarion, even as Rugan looked at Sekh. He stood up then, grabbing his glass. “I think I need another drink. Keep yourself in one piece, Sekh.” He gave them a nod before he slipped away, into the tavern, back towards Alan and the bar.

Sekh glanced up at Astarion, but before he could say more the vampire was hauling him up from his seat, a hand grasping his forearm and all but pulling him through the crowd. Sekh followed quickly, as he was led up the stairs, Astarion all but throwing open the door to their shared sleeping quarters-

And then Sekh, being slammed back against it, so hard his shoulders dug into the wood. Astarion pinned his one arm up over his head, studying him with those red eyes, so alert, a bit of color to his cheeks from having freshly fed. His hold was firm, but not painful. Had a single thing he’d done caused Sekh discomfort, the drow would have spoken up.

“He wanted you.” Astarion said the statement without flourish.

“Yes, he did.” The vampire moved closer, effectively boxing Sekh back against the door. “And I didn’t want him. Do you trust me when I say that?”

Astarion nodded. His eyes weren’t burning with anger or fear, but swarming with this primal, feral need. It left Sekh feeling warm in his belly- and it had nothing to do with the whiskey he’d had.

“And yet, you pulled me up here and have me cornered like I’m prey.” Sekh rolled his hips with the last word, watched Astarion’s eyelids flutter.

“Seeing someone look at you like that.” The vampire leaned in, nosed at Sekh’s jaw, so he could breathe in his pulse. “It makes me feel like a beast.” He squeezed Sekh’s arm, and the drow’s other hand found Astarion’s waist, grasping onto his shirt.

“And what does that beast want?” Sekh whispered. He felt Astarion’s mouth, press to his pulse, tongue flick against his skin, taking a taste. “Does it want to be comforted?” Because if Astarion needed Sekh to hold him and whisper how much he adored him, he would. He understood jealousy- especially when things were still new. When Astarion had only just bared his heart to him.

Astarion shook his head, pressing tighter to Sekh, so he could rut against him. “It wants to devour.”

“Then feast.”

Astarion lifted him then, hoisted him up with a strength that seemed unrestrained suddenly, fueled by a belly full of blood and Cazador’s broken chains. Sekh didn’t argue or fight being tossed over Astarion’s shoulder, the vampire cupping his ass with one hand as the other grasped his thighs, carrying him quickly across the room to their bed. Sekh’s only thought was that he was glad they had the room to themselves- and he hoped everyone would keep themselves busy, for a bit.

Astarion tossed him onto the bed, climbing up over him and ravishing his mouth. The kiss was all teeth and Astarion’s searching tongue, pushing into Sekh’s mouth, tasting of blood still. Sekh growled over it, hands moving for Astarion’s shirt, nearly ripping at the fabric as he tried to shove it up his torso. Astarion had slipped a hand between them, managed to get Sekh’s pants open enough that he could slide right in, hand getting into his underwear and fingers sliding along his lips.

Sekh arched, the single touch sending a tremble through his thighs. Astarion tutted, before he whispered, “Wet, are we?” His fingers pushed past Sekh’s lips, sliding with a slick ease to his entrance and teasing. “What was it? Him?”

Sekh lifted his head, answered with a kiss, pinching Astarion’s lower lip between his teeth. The vampire groaned, a finger slipping into Sekh, as the drow whispered, “you.” 

Astarion pulled his hand from Sekh’s pants, growled out something about needing him naked- honestly, the words were lost on Sekh. He felt blinded by Astarion’s contagious need, was more than happy to rip at clothing and squirm about the bed with him until they were both gloriously naked.

The moment Sekh’s back was flat against the bed again, Astarion was shoving his thighs open, staring down at his cunt with starved eyes. His nails bit into Sekh’s skin as he settled on his belly, wasted no time dragging his tongue up along his slit, gathering all Sekh’s desire on his tongue and swallowing with a smile. Sekh spread his legs wider, swore his hips were going to crack with the effort, as Astarion’s tongue pushed directly to his clit, circling it slowly, as if Sekh needed to be teased.

The drow bucked, and in response Astarion closed his mouth over the heavy bud, suckled at it. Sekh whined, tipped his head back, breathed Astarion’s name-

And felt a warmth, inside his skull. Fuck, Syl was still pulling at their connection, breathing in his pleasure as if it were her own. “Fuck, Astarion- wait.”

The vampire lifted his head, pupils blown from savoring Sekh, staring up at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Syl is still… she can-”

Astarion huffed. “Let your little patron watch, my sweet. Let the world watch for all I care.”

And then he lowered his mouth back to Sekh’s cunt, and any protest Sekh had died with the next flick of his tongue. If Astarion didn’t care, he sure as the nine hells didn’t. He rolled his hips up, meeting his lover’s mouth, as Astarion focused that devilish tongue on his clit, flicking it now, over and over again, quickly, so quickly it was driving Sekh’s belly to waves-

Gods he was close.

He reached down, sank his fingers into Astarion’s curls. “Slower,” he managed, and his vampire listened, slowing the movements of his tongue, lingering along the most sensitive spots that he had learned. Sekh groaned, tightened his hold on Astarion’s hair, pulled him closer, felt a heat enveloping him, rising up in his veins. He ground into his lover’s mouth, held Astarion so close he wasn’t even sure how the man managed to move his tongue-

And found his bliss. He came with a grin and Astarion’s name on his lips, could feel the shadows on his face wisping about, extending down his neck, his shoulder, as if he was using his patron’s shadows. His vampling continued those perfect movements of his tongue, until the wave had crested, subsided-

And then he was pushing up onto his knees, grasping Sekh by the hips and studying him, as he left his cock rub against his flushed cunt. “I think she liked that,” Astarion teased, noting the way Sekh’s shadows were moving.

Sekh didn’t bother responding- Astarion was right, after all- and simply let his hips cant, encouraging Astarion to rub his cock against him. “You’re not done with me,” Sekh teased, and Astarion’s only response was to push himself into him in a single, smooth thrust, until he was fully sheathed in Sekh’s body.

Sekh gasped, the sound ending in a guttural growl, as Astarion fucked into him with a pace that was relentless. The vampire was baring his teeth, those glorious fangs, a line of sweat making its way down his throat, eyes wild and rabid. He looked as if he wanted to possess Sekh, starting inside his bones and seeping out until he had every inch of him.

Sekh tried to push back, meeting Astarion’s rhythm. The vampire dropped down over him, caught himself with one hand pressed firmly to the bed, the other grasping Sekh’s chin, forcing his drow to hold his stare.

“You.” He thrust deeper, made Sekh see sparks, in the corners of his vision. “Are.” He gripped harder, nails poking little indents into Sekh’s dark skin. “Mine.”

The kiss he gave Sekh stole his very soul. Sekh reached for him, held on, let Astarion relentlessly take his pleasure from him, wanted nothing more than the be the one to give it to him. When Astarion pulled back, he pushed himself back up to his knees- panting now, cheeks flushed as if he was alive.

Sekh knew the little signs that his lover was close- the subtle grit to his teeth, the darting movements of his eyes. He rolled his hips harder to meet each movement, determined to bring Astarion off- and could only sigh in bliss when he felt Astarion’s first spurt of cum, inside him.

Instead of burrowing deep into Sekh’s body, as he normally would, Astarion pulled almost out as he moaned, reaching down to stroke his shaft with just his head buried in Sekh’s body. Sekh whimpered, could feel his lover’s orgasm more like this.

Astarion pulled out while he was still panting, and Sekh could feel his cum, sliding along his hole, coating him. Astarion smirked, all fang, staring down at his drow’s messy cunt. “What a pretty little mess,” he nearly cooed, taking his fingers and swiping them through his cum. Sekh shivered, the nerves of his cunt still so alive- and then gave a sharp cry, as Astarion pushed those fingers into his body, began fucking his cum back into him. “We’re not done, darling,” he breathed, watching Sekh squirm. “I’m going to make sure that every inch of you smells of me. By the time we’re done, no one will mistake you for being anything other than mine.”

Sekh arched, let his eyes fall shut- couldn’t find a reason or the desire to argue. If anything, he wanted everyone to look at him and know Astarion was there, in his very blood.

He wanted everyone to look at Astarion and know Sekh was there, deep inside his marrow, as well.

[whimsiandwild]

Right

Pairing: OC Tav (Thom) x Astarion

Word count: Just under 1.2K

Synopsis: Thom is in a little over his head after being lured by succubi. Thankfully, a handsome vampire is all too willing to come to his rescue...

A/N: I know, I know: WHERE'S GORTASH?! Sometimes I don't do that. SOMETIMES.

This is just a silly little idea I had and wanted to share. I love Thom with my whole heart and I wanted to write more of him, and I also love BG3, so it seemed like a beautiful match. I might make this a series depending on the feedback. Enjoy!

Thom was not a stupid man, though some had called the point into question on many an occasion. However, he was a sucker for a beautiful face with come-to-bed eyes; he'd been played a fool before by many a handsome rogue or pretty maiden. He liked to believe that he was just a man too filled with love, but the reality was that he was a man driven more by libido than the brains the gods had allowed him.

The worst of it had been the deception. How had he let himself be strung along for so long? It seemed all too obvious to him now what he had been; a sacrificial lamb dragged to the slaughter. If he'd known his end would come from damned succubi, he'd have offered himself to the gods by his own hand.

On second thoughts, the worst of it was that he had been warned; he'd just chosen not to listen.

At the time, he'd enjoyed Astarion's jealousy; the vampire wasn't used to someone else being the centre of attention when he was present. Oh, how he would laugh if he could see Thom now. As a matter of fact, he was quite sure he could hear the very same laugh at that very moment.

"Oh dear, darling. I did warn you," Astarion gloated from somewhere behind him. "Takes a monster to know one."

Thom could almost hear the way the man's eyes rolled as the succubi hissed viciously at him.

"Ladies, you must realise that you're extravagantly outnumbered? Besides, the bard is mine."

There was something disgustingly feral in the way Astarion said the word; Thom felt it in every inch of his body.

It was with excruciating shame that he realised that the entire team must be here. Astarion could very easily have managed the three alone, he just loved an opportunity to prove he was right, especially at the expense of someone else's humiliation.

Within seconds, there was a cacophony of sound. Karlach's bestial roar; the clash of steel against steel as Lae'zel lunged at one of them, the monster pulling a dagger from her thigh; Gale's casual boasting as magic missiles almost clipped Thom's ears. But the most magnificent of them all was Astarion.

He moved with such grace, spinning constant circles around the screeching succubus until she was dizzy, It was a beautiful sight; like a dance you wished to be part of but were held back by some irrational fear. Flashes of silver shone just outside of Thom's vision, the only evidence of them the blood trailing from the woman's face and chest. Astarion was toying with her, enjoying the frustration he was building in her, and Thom was mesmerised.

"You're very lucky you're handsome, Thom. You'd never survive otherwise."

Thom flushed, being jostled as Shadowheart made quick work of his binds. The moment he was free, he lunged to the side and grabbed his lyre, strumming an aggressive note and hitting the whole party with some bardic inspiration, not that any of them needed it. They'd made quick, clean work of all three, basically finished before the note had evaporated into nothingness.

"C'mon, soldier," Karlach said with a grin, holding out her free hand to help Thom up, which he gladly accepted. "What're you like?"

"Gale, you almost took his head off! It would have made the whole excursion pointless!" Shadowheart scolded the wizard, who, of course, took absolutely no notice of the reprimand.

"Ah, but this is where you are mistaken, my Sharran friend," Gale said, a finger in the air as he made his point. "I was all too aware of where the missiles were headed. Young Thomas had nothing to worry about, except maybe a light trim to that magnificent mane."

Eyes narrowing, Thom had a few choice words for the Wizard of Waterdeep but, Astarion slid into his vision almost immediately and distracted him.

"My poor little bard," he purred, Thom pouting as he found nothing to retort in response; Astarion was an overwhelming presence. "You're quite lucky I had the sense to follow you after that harlot led you away from the inn. Imagine the state… pieces you'd be in if I hadn't."

Thom muttered his thanks, snapping his knife belt around his waist and slamming the lid of his lyre case shut, clipping the locks closed.

"Sorry, darling. I didn't quite catch that."

"Thank you," he said through gritted teeth, standing to full height and towering over Astarion. By at least an inch or two.

"Good boy," Astarion laughed, Thom huffing at the affect those words had on him. "Now, tell me I was right and all of this will be forgotten. Water under the bridge, darling."

Not a chance, thought Thom.

"You were right," said Thom.

Astarion sauntered out with a shit-eating grin on his face, Karlach wrapping an encouraging arm around the bard's sagging shoulders as the group made their way back to camp.

Thom and Astarion were the only two left awake, lying side-by-side and gazing up at the brilliant celestial orb above them. Turning his head to the side, Thom smiled as he watched the vampire's face, quite possibly the most beautiful one he'd ever seen; it wasn't often that Astarion looked calm, but he looked positively serene presently.

"I don't need a tadpole writhing around in my brain to know you're staring, darling."

"I am grateful," Thom began as he turned his eyes back to the star-studded sky. "That you came. I should have known from the start but-."

"-You're not always the brightest banana in a bunch," Astarion finished with a chuckle, no malice in the sound. "I know. It's why I came to your rescue."

"Did you mean what you said?" Thom asked after a brief silence; his heart was pounding as he finally brought up the thing that had been niggling away at him since their return.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, darling."

"Yes, you do."

Rolling onto his front, Thom pushed himself up onto his elbows and watched the vampire; his expression hadn't changed a bit.

"Setting aside the night of the tiefling party-."

"Why on earth would you want to do that?" Astarion teased, his fangs gleaming as he grinned.

"I'm quite serious, sir," Thom huffed, the formality of it catching the vampire off guard, one red eye opening to look up at him. "I may not be a clever man like you or Gale but, in matters of the heart, I am deadly sure. If my heart and soul are to be put on the line here, I need to know the truth. Did you mean it?"

Astarion considered him for a long moment, his gaze penetrating the bard as he seemed to be trying to memorise every detail of him; it made Thom very self-conscious. With a dazzling smile, the vampire's long fingers grazed Thom's cheek, sending a shudder through him.

"Yes," Astarion said quietly. "I meant it."

With a nod, Thom lay back down beside his vampire, the two of them watching the changing sky in silence, their hands clasped between them. Nothing more needed to be said. At least, not tonight.