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wilteddreamsofbaldursgate · 3 days ago

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aeterna nostalgia

chapter four: the mourning after

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter Three

🩸Full Chapter List (Coming Soon)

🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

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

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

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

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

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She can barely stomach his touch at all, now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“By the bloody hells!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A curse on the other hand…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And what bliss that will be.

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

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

Astarion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Clack. Clack. Clack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” he decides. “Not that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, the truth will have to do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’ll be dining with Naomi, after all.

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

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

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

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

Thanks for reading! <3

#tbr #so excited for this!#other people's writing #aa #astarion x tav

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