I've been doing some style experiments lately cause I've got bored of my own stuff in the past months, so I tried some different brushes and made it even more paper-feel this time.
also Xaden: *has 107 scars on his back for the protection of all the marked ones*
also Xaden: *falls in love with Violet months before she does but keeps his distance because he thinks he's the worst thing possible for her and keeps disregarding his own feelings as he's done his entire life*
also Xaden: *leaves a jar of violets next to Violet's bedside when he has to leave early for a leadership meeting the morning after they first sleep together*
also Xaden: *is repeatedly shown as a competent and caring wingleader who does well by his cadets*
also Xaden: *saves Aaric by dragging him through the closing Archives door even though Aaric hates him*
also Xaden: *immediately jumps into action to help Lynx when his shadows start manifesting, even though Xaden knows this implies his own doomed fate*
also Xaden: *literally leads an entire revolution to protect those who can't protect themselves*
Summary: The ask already says it all, so in short: Astarion’s having a rough time and putting on his usual Astarion theatrics. The reader has the patience of a saint (and the eyes of a hawk), sees right through his behavior, and does their best to take care of him—not without mistakes and the occasional dilemma, of course. The story takes place after the arrival at the Last Light Inn and before Astarion’s canonical confession. So no Yurgir or Araj, yet.
Notes: More notes at the end! xP
The camp hums with a familiar kind of buzz.
The Shadow-Cursed Lands are anything but hospitable—dark, dangerous, and unsettling.
But after battle and hard-earned victories, evening settles in with strange serenity, almost comforting. It brings with it a sense of earned rest, and that sliver of companionship that still makes you feel alive, despite the death that surrounds you. That constantly tries to swallow you whole.
Shadowheart is carefully cleaning herbs by the fire.
Karlach laughs loudly as she peels something that looks suspiciously like an oversized, too-purple potato—which Gale clearly deems inedible, possibly poisonous.
Wyll is busy trying to wrestle a blanket away from the owlbear, who’s just stolen it straight from the hearth, all under Lae’zel’s cold, disapproving glare. Scratch trots around them, barking with enthusiasm, thinking it’s all a game.
Everything is as it should be.
And the warmth of the campfire starts to seep into your bones—cold from the creeping darkness—and into your soul, even more so.
But there’s something—or rather, someone—that unsettles the moment. A flicker of unease growing in your chest.
You notice it instantly: Astarion is off.
He’s not hovering in his usual haughty way, making snide remarks about seasoning and poor camp etiquette. Not trying to micromanage a dinner he won’t even eat.
Not that he’s ever truly blended in with this group of would-be heroes, but tonight… tonight there’s something different. Something that makes your jaw tense as your eyes instinctively follow his movements around the camp.
He appears out of nowhere, doesn’t greet anyone.
It’s like a cold blade cutting through the evening’s warmth.
His steps are heavier than usual—just barely dragging. There’s stiffness in his posture.
He moves unsteadily, shoulders slightly hunched forward. Small, nearly imperceptible details… but you’ve known him long enough to notice.
To pay attention.
To read even the subtlest twitch of his mouth.
You remember him like this once before—after feeding on a bear. But in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, there are no bears. In fact, animals—like anything else living—are a rare exception.
Then it hits you.
He hasn’t even styled his hair tonight.
That shining, silver mane—always carefully maintained—is disheveled, damp, and flat. Curls falling haphazardly across his forehead and down the back of his neck.
That is the first real red flag.
And with it, the weight in your chest grows heavier.
With a sudden motion, Astarion snatches the good bottle of wine from Gale’s hands—the one you’d found earlier during the day’s exploration. A bold, aged red. Rich, full-bodied.
The kind you save for celebrating something grand.
“Ah, finally something worthy of this illustriously shitty day,” he mutters, sarcasm dripping, as he brings the bottle to his lips—no glass, of course.
Wyll raises a protest. “Hey! That was—”
“—for those who managed to keep your precious, delicate asses intact, I presume,” Astarion cuts in sharply, casting him a glance like shattered glass.
“Sorry, darling, maybe next time try a little harder and show off a little less. Honor, blah blah, loyalty. Even the Blade of Frontiers can stab the enemy in the back once in a while. You’ll see the results, hero.”
The silence that follows is sharp.
The owlbear stops chewing on the blanket.
Even Karlach’s wide grin falters.
You stiffen, but thankfully, nothing escalates. Astarion turns sharply, stumbles just a little, and walks off.
Lae’zel snarls something under her breath, but he doesn’t respond. He simply disappears into the black rocks and flickering shadows of the camp—swallowed by the darkness as if he’d always belonged to it.
And you…
You watch him go.
There’s something that claws at your chest. Something you can’t ignore. Something you won’t ignore.
It’s not just the moodiness. Not just the biting sarcasm or the stolen wine. It’s the way he didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.
Not even yours.
The way his left hand hovered over his side more than once, fingers curling slightly whenever he moved—or spoke—as if hiding a pain too raw to show.
And if there’s one thing you’ve learned about Astarion…
It’s that when he pretends he doesn’t need anyone—when he plays strong and untouchable—that’s when he’s hurting the most.
You take a breath, set down the pot you were holding, and make your decision. You’re going after him.
You can’t leave him alone.
Not now.
You step into the shadows beyond the camp, guided only by the certainty that he’s out there—somewhere just ahead. He can’t have gone far—not in the Shadow-Cursed Lands. Out here, every step beyond the reach of light is a gamble, even for someone like him. And you don’t take him for a fool reckless enough to risk that, not just for the sake of a dramatic exit.
You press on through an almost unreal stillness, broken only by the crackle of torches and braziers scattered around the perimeter. The bitter wind rustles the brittle, lifeless shrubs with little conviction. You narrow your eyes—and there he is, barely outlined on the edge of the light’s glow.
He’s seated on the ground, slumped against a large blackened rock clawed by thick, gnarled roots. Like the talons of a hag.
You take just a moment to observe. His neck is tilted to the side, head hanging as if it’s become too heavy to hold up. His shoulders are hunched. The bottle he stole lies abandoned in the dirt, rolled a short distance away.
He didn’t even finish it.
“So,” you say quietly, careful not to startle him, “is this how your grand dramatic exit ends?”
Astarion lifts his head just barely—and for a heartbeat, you hope he’s smirking at the jab. Or that he’ll shoot something back your way with his usual biting charm, faster than a crack of lightning.
Something familiar. Reassuring, even.
But Astarion does neither.
The silence lingers.
He glances up at you, and you catch a strange glint in his eyes through the damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead.
It’s cold. Sharp.
You stiffen slightly. He’s looking at you like you’re a nuisance. Or worse—a threat.
There’s a warning buried in the faint gleam of his eyes and the sneer tugging at his lips like the start of a snarl.
“What’s this?” he spits. “Did I break poor Wyll’s heart? If you came to lecture me, my dear, do us both a favor and save your breath.”
You hesitate, unsure how to proceed.
So you say nothing.
You let the provocation hang in the air and step forward slowly—like you would with a wounded animal.
Close enough now to see where his hand is pressed tightly against his side. His shirt is stained—a dark patch blooming beneath pale fingers that tense the moment your gaze lingers there too long.
“What happened?” you ask, and your instinct is to kneel beside him, to gently move his hand and take a better look—the urgency plain in your voice.
“Oh, for the gods’ sake—really?” he snaps, rolling his eyes skyward in a motion that seems to cost him far more than it should.
“I just want to make sure—”
“Touching,” he cuts you off, venom dripping from every word, “but I’m afraid there’s no tragedy to be found here. Disappointed? Try the Last Light Inn—still full of sniveling tieflings, suicidal Harpers, and even a stray Flaming Fist or two. Plenty of options to unleash your noble urge to help.”
A beat.
A single breath.
“Now get out of my sight.”
The tone—half irritated hiss, half full-on growl—lashes out at you without mercy. A sharp pang hits your chest. The impulse to turn on your heel and leave slams into you, strong and sudden. Your pride screams, your jaw tightens, and the tip of your boot scrapes ever so slightly across the dry earth and dust, already beginning the motion.
But then that question comes back to you—and it stops you in your tracks.
“What do you see?”
He was the one who asked it, back then—standing in front of a shattered mirror that reflected nothing at all, his eyes wide with fear, his brow furrowed in worry.
“I want to know what the world sees when it looks at me,” he’d said.
So you look again.
And you see him—not the sharp tongue, not the brittle, snarling façade.
You see someone who needs help.
Someone who needs you.
But he can’t say it—not the way others might. And you won’t give him that satisfaction—no, that confirmation. You won’t let him believe he’s alone. You won’t let him cling to the lie that yes, tieflings, Harpers, even Flaming Fists deserve help—but not him.
Not the monster.
You steady your breath, calm the pounding of your heart, and move toward him.
One step. Then another—each more determined than the last. No words, no explanations: just the firm, silent decision that you are not going anywhere.
Astarion’s eyes narrow dangerously as you approach. He rises too—jerky, uneven—squaring off against you despite the state he’s in. Stubborn, you think. You’re not surprised he managed to survive under Cazador for so long.
“I told you to leave, didn’t I?” he growls. He’s furious now—but there’s something else beneath it, something deeper that leaks through his tone, his gaze.
Fear. And a faint, aching shadow of shame that tugs at your heart once more.
“Gods, you’re insufferable. What the hell do you want? You here to finish the job or something?”
You try to reassure him, raising your hands in a gesture of peace—palms open. An instinctive motion. Perhaps too much so. Because Astarion misreads it. He grabs your wrist as if you were about to reach out and touch him.
His grip is clawed and tight enough that a gasp escapes your lips.
“I… Astarion, please,” you manage to say.
You feel your skin burn where he holds you, but you let him cling to the only thing within reach. Because that contact tells you everything.
You can feel it—how much he’s shaking, how hard he’s trying to stay upright. He could collapse any moment now.
So you offer your arm and hold him the only way you can, in this moment when every fiber of his being screams at you: don’t look at me.
“So what do you want?” he spits, continuing his tirade. “Want me to throw myself at your feet and thank you for coming to save me, is that it? Want me to spill my shattered dreams while you hold my hand?
Is that what you want?
Pathetic—you’re pathetic—coming here, playing the hero, acting like you give a damn—”
His voice cracks. He falters. The fury starts to fray at the edges, and even his grip on your arm loosens for a moment.
You want to scream at him to stop, to stop doing this to himself, to save his strength—but you can’t.
Not when rage seems to be the only thing holding him togheter.
“And then what?!” he lashes out again. “Want me to cry? Break down? Collapse into your arms like a good little broken toy? I’m sorry to disappoint you, darling, but you’ll get nothing from me.
I owe you nothing. Not gratitude. Not trust. And certainly not the truth—”
He stumbles. His voice cuts off—half growl, half sob. His fingers slip, and he drops to his knees in the dirt without warning. If you weren’t there to witness it, he’d already be curled up like a dying animal. Instead, he laughs.
At you.
At himself.
A low, bitter sound that slices through the darkness of these cursed lands, through the silence, through even your resolve.
“—Go on, look at me. Look at what your noble, useless concern has dragged out. Happy now? Is this what you wanted—this disaster? This fucking wreck—”
“Astarion,” you say—his name solid, like a fixed point in the fog. “That’s enough.”
You’re shaking now, too. Tears sting at your eyes, and you realize that good intentions alone aren’t enough when faced with this kind of pain.
The real kind.
Deep. Rooted in the soul.
The kind that hurts just to look at.
And the sight of Astarion like this—so defeated, so overwhelmed—not just by the wound (that’s the least of it)… It steals the breath from your lungs. And suddenly, you feel guilty.
Guilty for walking in too fast, for stepping into this fragile, uncertain territory without enough care, without a map to guide you.
You grit your teeth. Ball your fists. There’ll be time for self-pity later. Right now, Astarion needs you—whether he knows it or not. Whether he likes it or not.
“I’m sorry,” you say quietly, “but I’m going to check your wound now.”
It isn’t a question. It’s a statement—so he has time to brace himself. So your presence, your touch, won’t feel like an invasion.
“It’s nothing,” he coughs, collapsing onto his side. “Just a scratch. It’ll pass. It always does,” he insists.
But this time it’s pain, not anger, that curls his lip and bares his teeth.
You kneel beside him—slowly, respectfully.
You slide your arms under his shoulders and lift him just enough to shift him, propping him gently back against the root-twisted rock. Then you shrug off your cloak and fold it up, making a makeshift cushion to tuck behind his neck and head.
Astarion half-closes his eyes and exhales, letting his head fall back with a soft groan of relief.
“Not this time. It should’ve healed by now,” you murmur, turning your attention to his side and reaching for the fabric of his shirt.
His fingers catch your wrist again—stopping your motion. You let him. You wait. Patient.
Your eyes meet.
They’re glassy, fever-bright—but you see it, immediately. He’s studying you—digging deep, maybe trying to tell if your help is genuine, or if it comes with strings attached.
Or worse, a price.
Whatever he finds in your gaze… it must be enough. Because slowly, he lets his arms fall to his sides. He allows himself to be vulnerable.
A silent permission.
You turn back to the wound—and you’re almost surprised when he speaks again, no longer with arrogance, but with a weariness that tastes of resignation.
“I made a stupid assumption,” he murmurs at last. “I thought it would heal. Like always. But it hasn’t. There was… something in that weapon.”
The mention of the weapon is timely. Your mind kicks into motion—frantic—and you begin to retrace every detail of the day up to this point, as if rewinding a reel of film, searching for a clue that had slipped past you.
You recall the skirmish in the Shadow-Cursed Lands, one scene after another. It had gone surprisingly smoothly. A brief but brutal battle against a group of humanoid figures—corrupted and disfigured by shadow. Empty husks moving within the darkness, neither alive nor dead, yet no less lethal for it.
You think back to the aftermath, how you’d all begun to relax, basking in the quiet relief of having made it through yet another fight. But then—there was the last of those creatures. The one that had waited, hidden among the skeletal, leafless bushes, and taken Gale by surprise.
Astarion had been the first to react—sharp reflexes always at the ready.
You remember the way he’d moved: a curse muttered in Elvish through gritted teeth, and a shove to push the wizard out of harm’s way. Then he’d faced the enemy alone.
The clash had been so fast you can barely recall the exchange itself—but a detail, almost out of context, pierces your memory now. Sharp. Distinctive.
The creature’s clothing.
A torn, weathered robe. A sacred vestment, blackened by time, by the darkness of these cursed lands, and by crusted blood. But still recognizable.
The symbol of Kelemvor.
Your eyes widen. Your stomach knots. Astarion wasn’t wounded by just any weapon.
He was struck by the consecrated blade of what once was a paladin or a cleric—a war relic still soaked in divine power, waiting who knows how long to strike the right target.
Crafted to punish the undead.
To burn them.
To keep them from healing.
Now all the pieces fall into place. The dramatic entrance, the hostile attitude toward companions who’d been careless in battle, the biting sarcasm, the stolen bottle. The anger. Vast. Overwhelming. Because it’s not just about the wound, or the pain, or the price he paid to keep everyone safe.
It’s about something worse.
Something unjust.
A divine punishment he didn’t deserve—yet received all the same. Not for what he’s done, but for what he is. And now he must pay simply for the stubborn act of existing.
You hold your breath, summon calm into your chest, and return your focus to the wound.
His shirt is soaked now. You hadn’t even thought someone like Astarion could sweat—but he’s drenched. The fabric over the injury clings to him, not with fresh blood, but something thicker, darker.
You touch it carefully, revealing the edges of the tear carved into pale flesh. And when your fingers brush bare skin, Astarion growls softly through clenched teeth. His body goes rigid, muscles tensing—but he endures. He lets you continue.
He’s warm.
Too warm for a vampire.
It’s unnatural for the body of an undead—but perfectly in line with the fever-glassiness you’d seen in his eyes earlier. The skin around the wound is inflamed, red and angry. The cuts themselves are clean, precise, and the bleeding stopped some time ago.
Still—if you focus, if you really listen—you can almost feel it: divine magic lingering in the air, radiating from the gash on Astarion’s side.
It’s still active. Still eating into him.
Crawling deeper and deeper into places you can’t see.
Astarion lets out a quiet moan, closes his eyes, and surrenders his head to the makeshift pillow beneath him. He’s exhausted. Overwhelmed by the feverish state that’s gripped him. And he no longer sees you as a threat.
He lets go.
Relinquishes control.
“You really do care, huh?”
The question barely reaches you, just a thread of sound. But the meaning—unexpected and yet unmistakably clear—hits you all the same, straight in the chest.
Astarion hasn’t moved. Hasn’t opened his eyes. Only his lips part, in a motion that seems to cost him an immense effort. And yet, he still manages to mutter something more.
“What a disastrous development… and such an inconvenient surprise. You really are an idiot, darling.”
Your heart skips a beat—then starts pounding, wild and fast.
You feel the urge to say it—to tell him.
Yes.
Of course you care.
You’ve cared since that first night, deep in the forest, when you shared kisses, love-sick sighs, and whispered promises beneath the stars.
When, far from you, at camp, there were still laughter, music, voices—tieflings and companions caught in celebration.
You’ve cared since then, even if you never truly knew what he felt in return. And it doesn’t matter.
Because you’d still care, either way.
You want to tell him all of that—and so much more—but Astarion simply… gives out.
His body relaxes all at once. His shoulders slump, his head tilts to the side in an awkward, almost unnatural angle. For a moment, your breath catches—your heart stops—but you realize almost instantly: he’s only lost consciousness.
There’s no time to waste.
You lean in closer, making sure he’s settled against the makeshift pillow. With care, you adjust his soaked shirt, rolling it up gently around his waist. Then you rummage through your pack and pull out clean bandages and your water flask.
Being careful not to aggravate the wound, you rinse it and wrap it slowly, keeping it clean and dry.
There’s little else you can do. And the urge to call the others is strong—surely Gale or Shadowheart would know better.
But you can’t.
Not like this.
Not after everything that’s happened.
Exposing him like this—laid bare and vulnerable in front of the others—would be a betrayal. An unbearable humiliation.
He would hate it.
You can’t allow that. Not after he gave you even the smallest sliver of trust.
No matter how little it may be—it’s all he has.
You sigh. It’s probably just a matter of waiting now. Letting the divine power fade on its own.
But you have no idea how long that will take—or what might happen in the meantime. He’s still burning up. The heat radiating from his skin is shocking—unnerving—for someone who’s supposed to be undead.
So you do what you can.
You take the last bandage and soak it with water from the flask. Then, gently, you press it to Astarion’s sweat-drenched forehead, where his silver curls are stuck and tangled.
“Mmh,” slips from his lips—a whimper, a barely decipherable murmur. “Please… I-I…”
“Shhh,” you say gently. “It’s all right.”
You pause for a moment as you trace the line of his jaw with the damp cloth. He’s beautiful—even now, even in unconsciousness. But you notice it: his features are too sharp, almost sunken; and the pallor of his lips is even more pronounced than usual.
The realization hits you like a punch—you hadn’t seen it before:
He hasn’t fed.
And the question that follows knocks the air from your lungs: since when?
The possible answer is unbearable to consider—because living enemies are scarce in these cursed lands.
And you know it.
You’ve always known it.
A wave of frustration rises in your chest—hot and sudden. Why didn’t he tell you? Why does he keep pretending he’s fine, while he wastes away right in front of your eyes?
But more than anything… why didn’t you think of it sooner?
You grit your teeth.
“I’m a real idiot. But if you think you’re not worth the trouble… then you’re even more of an idiot than I am,” you say to him, to the shadows.
You shove down the guilt—and the simmering frustration over this whole situation that is, yes, an inconvenient surprise, as he would put it.
You still feel the emotions kicking around inside you, desperate to be heard—desperate to remind you of everything you should’ve and could’ve done to prevent this.
But there’s no time for that. Not now.
You need to act.
You’ve always respected his wishes. You only truly discussed it once—after the first night you let him feed on you—and his proposal had always seemed fair, after all.
You had promised that it would be up to him to decide if, when, and how he fed.
Mostly on enemies.
But this isn’t just any night.
This is a damn emergency, and you can’t afford to hesitate or hold back. Astarion needs to feed. It’s a necessity—his regeneration won’t progress otherwise, he won’t be able to fight off the holy effects of the weapon that wounded him, and he won’t heal.
“No… I don’t want… s-stop,” he stammers.
Another groan reaches your ears. He’s growing more restless with every passing second, lost in unconsciousness, overwhelmed by fever and who knows what nightmares. All the more reason to act quickly.
With swift but careful hands, you grab the waterskin from the ground and wedge it between your knees. Then you reach for the small knife you always keep tucked in your boot—good for cutting ropes, herbs, or in this case—skin.
Without hesitation, you slice the pad of your middle finger.
The pain is sharp, immediate.
A short cut, but deep enough. You press your lips together as thick, slow drops of blood begin to fall.
You let them drip into the waterskin—one, two, three… then a few more. Just enough to stir his instincts.
“I’ll be good, I promise… I’ll be good. So p-please, j-just this once…”
His voice is barely more than a whimper. You didn’t think he was even capable of sounding like that—so small, so filled with terror. Your heart clenches, but you keep your focus. Even though every instinct is screaming at you to run to him, to hold him tight and shield him from whatever nightmare he’s trapped in. You force yourself instead to watch the water change color—dark red blooming like liquid smoke in the metal container.
“I’ll kill you… I’ll rip out your throat… I swear—”
Astarion’s screams and threats falter, swallowed by a ragged gasp that rattles straight through your bones. You swallow hard. You take the cloth you’d been using to clean his face and soak a portion of it with the blood-infused water.
Then you return to him, sliding an arm gently behind his neck to lift his head just slightly.
“D-don’t touch me… don’t tou—”
He’s begging now—and a tear rolls down his cheek.
He writhes. Rejects you. And those words hurt you. They cut deep with their meaning. With their weight. Because you don’t want to do this. But you have to.
So you blink away the tears stinging your eyes, and bring the soaked cloth to his lips. You press it gently against them, urging him to open. A reddish sheen stains his pale skin.
Astarion flinches again—refusing the contact, the offering, the invasion.
Just once.
The next time you try, something changes.
You pause, hovering the cloth near the split of his mouth—and there. You see it. A small, almost imperceptible movement.
His tongue lifts, like a timid shadow, seeking the spot where the cloth releases the blood. He gathers it. Tastes it.
And a shiver runs the length of your spine.
It’s such a simple gesture. So human—and yet not. More than anything, it’s fragile. Childlike, almost.
And it lasts barely a heartbeat. Because the transformation is nearly instant. Whether it’s the taste or the scent, the predator in him recognizes it.
And wants it.
His muscles tense all at once. His nostrils flare. His eyelids twitch open just a sliver—just enough for you to glimpse a glint of ruby between damp lashes, oddly sinister.
Then, with a sharp snap, his jaw closes around the hand holding the cloth.
Instinctively, you try to pull back—but before you can move, before you can speak, his fangs sink into your flesh with no grace, no warning.
There is no reason. No control. No finesse.
Only instinct.
You gasp, body flinching under the shock of it. It’s nothing like before. No velvet words. No teasing smiles. No seductive charm. Just hunger. Just desperation.
Just pain—yours.
And still…
You let him.
And he feeds.
Gods, he feeds like a ravenous animal. There’s no trace left of Astarion—not the one you know—only raw, primal, uncontrollable need.
His jaw tightens, and you feel it—his fangs sink deeper, tearing further into the already wounded flesh. He tries to grab you with both hands, to hold you in place, to keep you from escaping—but only his right manages to clamp onto your arm. The left falls uselessly beside him, too heavy, too weak to be of any help.
Hot blood pulses from the wound like a raging river, and he drinks with a desperation that borders on violence. His Adam’s apple bobs with each gulp, a strangled sound escaping him every time.
It burns.
It burns.
And at the same time, it’s cold as ice—chilling you to the bone, and the numbness begins to creep in. You grit your teeth and try not to scream—but it’s impossible to stay still. Your muscles tense, your vision blurs, and the world starts to spin.
He doesn’t stop.
“Astarion,” you whisper through clenched teeth, trying to shake him, to snap him out of it—“Astarion, stop!”
He doesn’t hear you.
He’s gone—lost to hunger, to fever, to instinct.
You push him—at first gently, not wanting to hurt him. In response, he sinks his fangs in deeper, like a starving dog guarding a bone. And the cold from his bite pierces your very mind, pain exploding through your body until you’re trembling violently, eyes shut tight, jaw locked.
So you brace yourself—feet and knees firm on the ground—and push him away with all the strength you have left, before it’s too late. A choked cry rips from your throat as your muscles strain and fight against the beast’s frenzy—the one inside him. The pressure tears into your hand, where his fangs are buried—but you grit your teeth and hold your ground, even as you feel your flesh begin to rip.
Finally—finally—he lets go.
Not by choice.
Not really. Not even because of your push.
His body simply gives out. Overwhelmed by exhaustion, by injury, by pain. His head falls to the side, your blood streaking his lower lip and staining his chin, and he collapses against your chest with a broken exhale. Satisfaction, maybe. Relief. But also sheer, utter exhaustion.
You stay frozen for a moment, heart hammering, hand throbbing and bleeding. Shock trembles through your limbs. You look down at him, slumped against you like a child, and it’s hard—so hard—to reconcile this vulnerable figure with the ravenous spawn who almost killed you seconds ago.
You were lucky, you realize. And the weight of blood loss and fear crashes down on you all at once. You’d just like to let go, collapse to the ground yourself, and remain motionless. But you can’t rest. Not yet.
Slowly, you ease Astarion down onto the makeshift pillow, doing your best to settle him in a comfortable position.
Your hand trembles as you pull it back and inspect the damage: the bite is deep, ragged from the force of his hunger and your brief struggle. The skin is soaked, blood still spilling steadily, soaking your sleeve.
You let out a soft curse under your breath, biting back a harsher one. You tear off the sleeve and use it to fashion a makeshift bandage.
It takes time—and a good deal of effort—but you manage to wrap the hand well enough to stop the bleeding. The pain is sharp and constant, but you welcome it.
It keeps you awake.
By the time you’re done, you’re drenched in sweat. You settle down at his side. With your good hand, you find his. You need it. Maybe he needs it too. You squeeze gently, just to let him know you’re there. And for a moment, it feels like the world steadies. Like the simple weight of his hand in yours is enough to anchor you both.
Astarion’s fingers are still warm—but still. No more tremors. You sigh, allowing yourself to relax—just a little.
You stay.
All night.
Listening to his murmurs, spilling from fevered sleep into the quiet. Disjointed phrases, half-formed thoughts. Fragments of names you don’t know. Pleas. Threats. Apologies. And still you watch him, guard him, always alert to whatever might lurk in the shadows—threatening this fragile sliver of peace you’ve fought so hard for.
But slowly, the fever recedes. His rest deepens. And even his lips regain some of their usual pale color. On his cheeks, you swear there’s the faintest flush of pink. Not much—but enough.
Enough to count.
As the dark sky begins to take on a cold, pale shade of slate grey, you realize the night is coming to an end. And that’s when Astarion’s eyelids flutter—then open.
His eyes are clearer now. Still tired. Still heavy. But aware.
He blinks slowly, adjusting to the dim light of your camp. And at last… he sees you.
Right there. At his side.
“…You’re still here,” he remarks softly, his voice slightly hoarse.
There’s a different light in his eyes now—bright, yet calm. He almost looks surprised, if you go by the small creases forming on his brow.
“And here I thought I’d been perfectly clear about that. Either you’re deaf or you’re devoted to the point of martyrdom, I suppose. May Loviatar’s blessing be upon you!”
His gaze slide to the bandaged hand resting in your lap. You tense up in response, as if caught red-handed.
“In any case, I expected more sense from you. Or at least a bit more survival instinct.”
The light in his eyes shifts again, dimming as he studies your wound. He’s brooding on something, though you can’t tell what. The thought unsettles you, but you stay silent and lower your gaze. Shame floods back in, along with the guilt you’ve been holding at bay all night.
“I shouldn’t have done it without asking you,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry, Astarion.”
You don’t reach for excuses. You made a decision, and now you’ll bear the consequences. You hear him let out a short, soft sigh, though you don’t see it—you’re still staring at the dust on the floor, still avoiding his eyes, waiting for a verdict straight from his lips.
“I only remember… blood. And… you calling me. Then nothing,” he replies at last; and only then do you realize he hasn’t pulled away from the hand you’re still holding. Your heart jumps. “I imagine something terribly heroic must’ve happened, something that would’ve made me roll my eyes on the spot with extreme disapproval.”
You shake your head and give a faint laugh, your good hand’s fingers still intertwined with his, tighter than ever.
“I’d recognize your taste among a thousand, darling,” he says at last.
He reaches out, brushing your chin with a tenderness that jars against the last image you have of him—starving, fevered, a slave to his instincts and dangerously strong despite his failing body. With a gentle pressure, he urges you to lift your head.
You obey and meet those red eyes at last. You find nothing you feared there: no disgust, no blame, no hate. You don’t want to delude yourself, but you think you see the faintest lift at the corners of his eyes, the ghost of a smile—one that vanishes at once as some thought crosses his mind. You can tell by the way he blinks, looks away, tilts his head.
“I really did it, didn’t I? I bit you… like some damned animal.”
A pause. His voice turns quiet, almost flat. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”
The way he says it hits you hard. It hurts, even though he’s right. Even though you thought the same thing—he’d looked like an animal. Yet it leaves you with a sense of helplessness and injustice that makes you tremble from head to toe. You don’t care what others might think, or what some god like Kelemvor might deem righteous. You don’t want him to talk about himself that way, to believe that’s all he is. Because he isn’t. He’s not just a predator and his instinct. Not to you. He’s so much more. And he doesn’t even see it, and that makes you angrier than you ever imagined.
“Astarion, you were literally burning with fever. You collapsed, exhausted and delirious. And you hadn’t fed for days. Do you know how I felt when I saw you like that?”
You bite your lip as guilt surges back, reminding you how busy you’ve been—leading the group, fighting the shadows, planning the infiltration of the Moonrise Towers and Ketheric Thorm’s downfall with the Harpers—to notice how one of your trusted companions was suffering. How Astarion, of all people, was facing it alone.
You don’t wait for a reply, of course. You just shake your head and let out a sharp, sarcastic smile—self-directed mockery, as the words, and everything you’ve been holding in all night, finally come spilling out like a broken dam.
“I felt like shit,” you say, your voice harsher than you intended. “An idiot, like you called me. Because I should’ve seen it sooner, and part of me did. Gods, I did. These cursed lands offer nothing for a vampire spawn. And yet, I didn’t notice. I let this happen to you. To you.”
You shake your head again, bitterness rising in your chest.
“And you didn’t say a word. You told no one, Astarion. Nothing. You kept it from me.”
Maybe it’s a rebuke—at least on the surface—but there’s no anger in your voice. No resentment. Just exhaustion. And regret. Because he didn’t trust you. And guilt, and something deeper still: affection. Most of all, that. Affection you wish he could understand—could accept.
The silence that follows is full. Not heavy, not light. Just… full. Saturated with all the meanings and feelings floating between you.
Astarion watches you closely, his eyes drinking in every detail, calm and searching. You can tell he’s taking his time—processing, considering. There’s no joke. No deflection. He’s not running. He’s not pretending. And already, that is a kind of answer. A kind of recognition. Of what you share. Of what you feel for him. And it’s all there, plain as day—in the dark circles under your eyes, in your mortal pallor, in the bandaged wound on your hand, in the fingers still curled around his, in the simple fact that you stayed.
Then, slowly, his fingers twitch inside yours. A hesitant, deliberate movement. A caress? You hardly dare to name it.
“I couldn’t tell you,” he says at last, voice low. “Because your gaze is the only one that matters to me.”
You arch a brow—quietly asking for more—and Astarion, as always, picks up on it instantly.
“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” he continues, letting out a dry laugh that dies before it fully forms. “Broken. Pathetic. Something to pity. Or a starving, repulsive beast. Dangerous.”
“A moment of need doesn’t define you, Astarion. It doesn’t make you weak.”
The words rise to your lips instinctively—but the look in his eyes, the shadow of bitterness there, tells you everything you need to know about the years he spent under his master. Where even need was weakness. A tool to exploit. To diminish. To shame.
The thought alone makes your blood burn, but you fight to stay composed.
“It doesn’t diminish you in the eyes of your companions,” you press on gently, as if trying to remind him that those days are over, that Cazador’s shadow is far behind. “It doesn’t diminish you in my eyes.”
And as you say it, you squeeze his hand between yours like it’s the most precious thing in the world.
Astarion stares at you for a long moment—longer than you expect. Studying, weighing, just as he had during the night, when he couldn’t decide whether to let you help him or not. But in your gaze, he finds only honesty. Steady, unwavering, real. So bright it almost seems to catch him off guard. Maybe even move him, if the subtle lightening of his features is anything to go by.
You see him hesitate. His tongue wets his lips.
Then, finally, he speaks.
“…Thank you,” he says softly, his voice trembling just slightly. “For staying. Even after I—”
“Kicked me out so rudely, called me an idiot, and bit me?” you interrupt, though this time your lips curl into a smug, teasing little smile. “Oh, and if I recall correctly, you also swore you’d rip my throat out—but maybe that was just fever delirium. You made so many threats throughout the night I lost track, along with who they were even aimed at.”
You keep the rest to yourself—the tears, the pleas. You guard them deep inside.
“Details,” the vampire spawn mutters in reply, rolling his eyes with a half-smile. “I prefer to think of it as… an overwhelming act of passion directed at you, my dearest.”
You chuckle, relieved to see him back to his usual self, with his quick tongue and sharp wit. The same as ever, and yet somehow different. Better, you like to think. A new kind of silence settles between you. Lighter than the last, yet just as heavy. Like the glances you exchange. Then, suddenly, it hits you: you both vanished into the cursed shadowlands in the dead of night without telling anyone.
“I should go check on the others, they’ll be worried sick,” you say, starting to rise, your gaze already drifting toward camp.
Astarion’s hand tightens around yours, with no intention of letting you go, and you freeze mid-motion. You turn back. He’s still there, lying down, his head sunk into the makeshift pillow—your cloak, carrying your scent. His silver hair spills in messy strands, his gaze fixed squarely on you. The sight steals your breath.
Especially for what lights up his eyes. Something bare. Something true.
“Stay,” he says, “just a little longer.”
The request is not spoken with fear, nor with need. It is pure and simple. A desire voiced aloud, as natural as breathing—from the same man who hissed at you to disappear the night before. You don’t answer with words. You simply sink back down beside him, hand in hand, and rest your head on his shoulder. He closes his eyes and lowers his forehead against yours, a touch so intimate, so delicate. Your breathing slows, softens. You haven’t slept all night, and this is the most perfect place you could ever imagine to rest for a while.
And, once again, you simply stay.
Devider by @saradika-graphics! Thank you very much! <3
Well, what can I say? This is my very first Astarion x Reader ever, so please be gentle with me. I’m not even sure if I did things properly, since in a way the reader and Tav kind of overlap, lol. I’m well aware this theme has already been tackled countless times, so I don’t pretend to have written anything particularly original. But it’s still my own take on how Astarion might react if he were in need of someone’s assistance—especially when he doesn’t fully trust them yet.
I don’t actually know the precise effects a blessed blade would have on an undead, so I took some poetic liberties because I felt like it. Hopefully the result is still enjoyable and somewhat believable. xD Anyway, I wanted to try this experiment instead of always replying in the usual way.
New tutorial with a poses which should work with every body type ❤️And of course I will also explain how I achieved this effect in the shot. If you don't want to miss other tutorials I can tag you in the next post - just let me know 💜.
Link to previous tutorials.
Note: I have the game in Polish, so my translation of the original game poses etc. may be slightly different.
To Photo Mode I recommend this mod, it will be easier for you to set the pose and light:
Better Photo Mode by Volitio
How to get a pose:
Astarion
Pose from:
Get a Room - Photo Mode Romance Poses and Animations by Allindriss
Astarion Romance - To Ground A
Expression: Happiness - contentment
In the ground animation I used the sequence more from the beginning:
Durge
Pose from:
Claravel's Emotes for Photo Mode by Elledwyn/Claravel
Romance - Romance 8 Kneel To Lay
Expression: VEE Happy - Happy: Pleased - Up & Right
Vanilla Expressions Enhanced - A Photo Mode Mod by Lumadaire
In the romance animation I used the sequence more from the end:
You have to move the characters a bit to position them well - remember patience and calm are your allies! 😅
To avoid the fisheye effect, reduce the FoV Slider to 30 or lower (for this advice thanks to @mogruith 💚)
Effects
I made the shot on map Dreamscene Forest from Snapshots by Rdekarios + I used this effects from this mod:
Change atmosphere - Uncursed Moonrise (Dawn)
Change light - Jungle Dawn
Fireflies are from Pretty Particles by Scar. There are two versions of this mod, one paid on Scar's Patreon and one free on Nexus Mod. The effects that I used are in the free version - "Fireflies".
I also used Reshade by Kikyo99 "Cozy Warmth 2.0" - unfortunately, Kikyo99 deleted her mods due to unpleasantness in the fandom. If anyone is interested in this Reashade, but don't have it, please write to me and I will contact the creator and ask if I can share my file to you.
I used the mod Lighty Lights and Photo Mode stuff by Rakor, because the light in Photomode in the game is awful, and this mod turns it off. It may seem complicated, but on the mod page in "Videos" you will find a guide created by thedaffodilsbard (Tina) on how to do use it !
I used 7 point lights - but that's because of the very dark scenery . Here you have to test for yourself what kind of light suits you - stronger or softer e.t.c.
To get the bokeh effect, I used IgcsDof with max bokeh size 0.010
Shot from game:
and after processing in Photoshop among others: strong darkening of the tree, making the braid texture on the ear, improving the character's colors, adding star texture.
The star texture is made by me, if anyone wants to use it, here is the link.
If something is unclear or you have a problem with something, you can always write to me ! 💜
cuddling is one of astarion’s favorite things to do and i will die on this hill.
the warmth of you, mixed with the sound of a live heartbeat. being able to hear your veins and the blood that flows within them. the expansion and deflation of your ribs every time you take a breath.
but more than that, he loves being close to you.
when you first start your relationship, you have to reassure him that it’s okay. that you don’t mind being woken up just because he wants you to hold him. and of course, he’s very reluctant but eventually, with your reassurance, astarion understand. most nights he will just lay on top of you while you sleep.
he loves putting his head on your chest, to feel your heartbeat, but astarion also loves to just.. be on top of you? he likes to be held, and it’s strange, he never thought he’d want anyone to touch him ever. and when he does put his head on your chest, you better believe the rest of his body is completely on top of you, as well. arms wrapped around you, legs intertwined, physically as close as he can get to you without digging in your skin.
which he also loves, astarion wishes he could get under your skin and feel your warmth from the inside. buut, this is just as good. the feeling of your hands twisting and smoothing down his curls gets him extremely sleepy, and he loves when you braid the slightly longer parts of his hair. a state of bliss and complete safety overwhelms him when you two snuggle up together.
astarion finds his emotions are highest when you’re both in this moment. cuddling is one of the most pure things you can do with someone, it’s all about being close without any sort of sexual intent. you’re holding someone just to be close to them, to cradle and protect them; and he loves that. it shows him how much you care, to be able to do this without excepting it to turn to sex. astarion feels like a puddle, in a good way. sometimes, he’ll tear up a little while you hold him, thinking about how far he’s come, how much he loves you, how he can feel your love in everything you do, and your life together.
and you love this, too, obviously. having his head over your heart; between your breasts or just on top of your chest. you like when he’s a little higher too, head rested a top your collarbone or shoulder. you cradle him, in a way, and rest your chin atop his head.
you both love it, and if anyone else from camp saw you two, they’d sigh and mutter something about lovesick idiots.
If Astarion has no reflection in the mirror, but neither do the clothes he wears, if he was inside me, would I lose my reflection? Since I would be technically... On him. Like clothes.
‣ preview: Ysera swallows thickly, her heart stuttering in her chest. Astarion's eyes blaze with curious delight as he pretends to wait patiently for her response. She bites her lip, eyes darting around the room as if someone somewhere might overhear her if she speaks too loudly. So she leans in close to Astarion's ear and sheepishly whispers it to him instead.
“I want to know how it feels to be inside you.”
AO3 ┊ series masterlist
Ysera sneezes loudly, stirring up a cloud of dust motes. The old wizard’s tower they've found themselves in has been empty of any real treasure – not unless they count the dust, which is more abundant than anything else here. She and Astarion have made it to the top with barely anything to show for it but wasted time.
Ysera sighs heavily as she reaches for a worn, leather-bound book in the middle of an oak table, staring curiously at the cover. It has no title, but the golden embossed design of two elves engaged in a display of passionate lovemaking tells her enough about its contents. She chances a glance over her shoulder to ensure Astarion isn't looking and peeks inside.
The first several pages chronicle the author's fascination with the subject of sexuality and the nature of physical and emotional attraction. There's a passage about the importance of indulging one's own desires, but she scrunches her face and stops reading when the author begins to describe his own exploits in great detail.
“Ugh. No thank you.”
Flipping through the rest of the pages, she sees a catalog of names and details of equally explicit acts, growing more and more flustered as her eyes scan the parchment. She's so absorbed in what she's doing that when Astarion suddenly claps a hand on her shoulder, she lets out a yelp of surprise.
“What have you got there, darling?”
“It's –” she begins, then shakes her head. She's not certain how to describe it – or if she even wants to. “It's weird.” Astarion leans over her shoulder and begins to read. He snorts as he spots a particularly racy entry, then another, and another still, turning page after page to confirm that, yes, this is indeed the entire book.
“You think whoever wrote this watched all these people get it on?” Astarion laughs snidely. “What a freak.”
Ysera mirrors his laugh. “To each their own, I suppose.” She tries to close the book but finds that it suddenly won't budge, almost as if phantom hands have pried it open. A faint magical aura envelopes the pages, which begin to turn of their own accord, faster and faster before they're both staring at a completely blank page near the back of the book.
Try as she might to drop the book, her body refuses to listen to her commands, and even Astarion is helpless to pry it from her hands before a blinding light manifests above the pages and engulfs them completely. The last thing she hears is the sound of her own scream as Astarion grips her tightly.
When she opens her eyes, Ysera expects to see anything but the large, lavish bedchamber they find themselves in. A massive four-poster bed sits against the far wall, the sunlight that spills through an adjacent window casting shadows on the duvet through the canopy. The room smells faintly of lavender and clean linens, adding to the eerie sense of calm that fills the space and makes it far more intimate, especially considering its size.
Astarion and Ysera exchange curious glances.
“Where in the hells are we?” Astarion says, eyes narrowed suspiciously as he scans the room for any signs of danger. They appear to be the only ones here, no obvious traps or intruders lying in wait.
Ysera shrugs, equally as baffled. “I think that book sucked us up,” she hypothesizes, scowling when Astarion snickers.
“Your words, darling, not mine.”
He turns away to investigate. The only door in the room is sealed shut, no amount of force making it budge even slightly. There are no keyholes for him to pick the lock, and he gives up on that fruitless endeavor with a sigh as he turns back to see if Ysera has had any more luck.
She's standing beside the bed, gazing out the window and illuminated by a beam of buttery golden sunlight. Birdsong fills the air, and she glances at him over her shoulder.
“I wish you could see this,” she says softly. “Wherever this is, it's beautiful.”
Astarion approaches her anyway, unable to see much without stepping into the sun. His curiosity gets the better of him, and he arches his back, standing on his tiptoes to catch just the slightest glimpse of the canyon that sprawls out beneath whatever clifftop this place has been built upon. But he leans just a little too far forward, his stomach lurching as he tumbles forward unexpectedly.
Ysera calls out to him, rushing to catch him. But she's too late, and Astarion stumbles into the sunlight, flinching as the warmth of the sun's rays wash over him. He grits his teeth, anticipating the searing pain he expects to feel… only to be met with the warm caress he remembers fondly from his time spent in the sun before their tadpoles were destroyed.
Time stands still as Astarion glances at Ysera, his pale skin almost glittering in the light. He hears her gasp in shock.
“It must be enchanted,” she says. “This whole place is some sort of illusion.”
“It certainly feels real,” Astarion murmurs. He straightens and slips his cloak off his shoulders, basking in the magicked sunlight. Palms upturned, he lets the warmth seep into his bones, banishing the natural chill of his undead body. Ysera smiles at him fondly, her golden eyes sparkling.
“I wish we could stay,” she says glumly. She had almost forgotten how incredible he looks in the sun.
“Careful what you wish for,” Astarion says dourly. “I don't think this book is keen on letting us leave any time soon.”
Ysera frowns, holding a hand to her mouth in thought as her brow creases. “There has to be something we're missing,” she says. “You enjoy the sun, I'll keep looking.”
“Gladly, darling,” Astarion hums happily, laying back on the bed and stretching out like a basking cat. His eyes drift closed as he listens to Ysera rifling through the rest of the room’s contents, searching for any hint that might help them.
After a while, her footsteps become louder as she approaches him once more, and he exhales sharply when Ysera tosses a book onto his stomach. Astarion takes the book in his hands as he sits up, eyes drifting between it and Ysera as he waits for an explanation.
“Don't you recognize it?” she asks, arms crossed. Astarion gives the book a closer inspection, realizing as soon as he opens it that it's an exact replica of the book they had found in the ruined tower.
“And?” he asks, lifting a brow. “I don't see how this is supposed to get us out of here.”
“Look at the last entry,” she tells him. Astarion does as he's told, flipping through the pages before something catches his eye. Sure enough, at the bottom of one of the pages, he reads the words aloud, scrawled in the same flowing script:
Astarion Ancunín and Ysera Whitlock:
There's nothing written below, and Astarion doesn't even have time to contemplate exactly how the book knows who they are or how their names have mysteriously appeared on the page before Ysera shifts on her feet and says, “You get it, don't you?”
Astarion stares up at her and shakes his head, waiting for her to continue.
“This book is like… some weird record of all those people's deepest desires, right? What if they were trapped here, just like us?” Her face grows red, and she stammers, “What if it wants us to, you know… add our own? That would explain this fancy room. The windows and doors are all sealed. I don't know how else we're supposed to get out.”
Astarion slams the book shut and tosses it on the bed beside him, huffing a wry laugh.
“Trapped in a lecherous old book… Wonderful. Now I've certainly seen everything.” He runs his hand through his hair and pinches the bridge of his nose, considering her suggestion. It does make sense, of course, once he looks past the bizarre notion of it all. It's not too far out of the realm of possibility, he supposes. He's seen his fair share of strange, enchanted tomes, but at least this one is mostly benign, provided Ysera's assumption is correct.
“All right,” he says, shrugging. They're stuck here anyway; might as well enjoy themselves in the meantime. “But there's just one problem, darling: we've done practically everything there is to do with one another.”
Ysera grows even redder, the blazing heat in her face spreading down her neck and beneath her robes. Astarion assumes she's simply remembering all the nights they've spent tangled up in one another, but it surprises him completely when she says instead: “Not everything. There's… there's something I'd still like to try, actually.” Her tail flicks two and fro behind her the way it always does when she's feeling anxious.
A wicked grin spreads across Astarion's face, and he eagerly gets to his feet and crosses the short distance between them. He leans close, purposely making Ysera squirm with embarrassment as he tries to guess exactly what it is she's thinking of.
She's adventurous enough in bed, to be sure, but she typically prefers more standard methods of lovemaking. Whatever this is must truly be something scandalous if it's getting her this worked up just thinking about it.
“Do tell,” he purrs, tipping her face up with a single elongated finger.
Ysera swallows thickly, her heart stuttering in her chest. Astarion's eyes blaze with curious delight as he pretends to wait patiently for her response. She bites her lip, eyes darting around the room as if someone somewhere might overhear her if she speaks too loudly. So she leans in close to Astarion's ear and sheepishly whispers it to him instead.
“I want to know how it feels to be inside you.”
Astarion's cock twitches immediately in response, already straining against his laces. Her suggestion ignites something primal deep inside him. He's been penetrated before, of course, but never by her. Never with a partner he actually wanted to be with. It hadn't crossed his mind before, but now he can't stop himself from thinking about it, about her pressed against his back as she thrusts inside him, being the one to hold him down as he writhes beneath her. Surrendering control to the person he trusts most of all.
An exhilarating proposition, to say the least.
“My, my…” Astarion says slyly, “who knew you were harboring such wicked little fantasies all this time?” He smirks at her through his fangs, unable to conceal the hungry way his eyes rove over her body. Ysera seems to notice how eager her suggestion has made him, if the erratic racing of her heart is any indication.
There is, of course, one small caveat they've yet to address.
“I'm curious to know how you plan to accomplish that without a cock,” Astarion says as he tips his head to the side, studying her. “Not unless you've been very, very good at keeping that little secret to yourself all this time.”
Ysera laughs – almost confidently, none of her apparent nervousness lingering in her expression now that Astarion seems more than open to the idea of letting her fuck him.
“Oh, no,” she says, flashing him a smile as her lips quirk upward. “I have a spell for that.”
So she's been thinking about this for a while. Gods. His cock is almost painfully hard, and he wants nothing more than to rip his clothes off and let her ravish him.
Ysera elaborates further – much to Astarion's dismay, although he supposes he's curious to know exactly where she learned such a trick. He'd swear she was doing it on purpose just to torment him if he didn't know her any better.
“There's a spell for everything, if you know where to look. You know how I've been visiting Gale in Waterdeep, from time to time?” Her eyes narrow to match the mischievous grin that spreads across her face. In a hushed whisper, she says, “His private library has quite an array of books on all sorts of… interesting subjects.”
Astarion groans and finally pulls her into his arms, exceptionally tired of not being able to feel the curves of her body pressed against him. She feels his erection now, brows lifting as he bends down to kiss her firmly on the lips. He bites her lower lip with his blunted teeth and growls, “Remind me to thank that wizard the next time I see him.”
Within moments, the two of them have shed their clothing, tossing it into a pile behind them. They're both far too eager to deny themselves much longer, an unspoken understanding of their mutual desire for one another.
Astarion watches with rapt attention as Ysera casts her spell. The ease with which she speaks the incantation and the precise movements of her hands are enough of an indication that she's practiced this before, and he wonders just how far she's taken it. A faint aura glows between her legs, tracing the outline of the thick, heavy cock that soon materializes in its wake. It's clearly magicked, translucent and resembling one of her Mage Hand spells, but the way it bobs and sways as convincingly as his own makes his mouth water.
Astarion wets his lips and steps towards her.
“Does it –?” He tries. “I mean, can you feel it?”
“Mhmm,” Ysera hums pleasantly. “I only tried it out before to make sure the spell worked. I wanted to save the rest for you.”
Oh. By the gods, she spoils him.
His hand hovers over her cock, and he looks into her eyes. “Can I?” he rasps.
“Yes. Please.”
Ysera's breath catches when Astarion wraps his hand around her cock; it feels real enough, firm and slightly warm in his palm as he strokes it slowly, watching the way her face contorts as she holds back a moan. He clearly knows what he's doing, brushing his thumb over the slit on the upstroke, squeezing gently before he glides his hand back down to the base above her pubic bone where it molds to the shape of her body.
With its weight still in his palm, Astarion's fingers dip curiously beneath Ysera's legs, and he groans when he finds her wet and wanting, her slick folds dripping with arousal as the cock in his hand throbs and twitches.
“Hmm, what have we here?” He glides his fingers across her opening and teases her clit, using his spare hand to fist her cock and work her there as well.
“Astarion.” The effect he has on her is evident in the wanton way she moans and rocks her hips into his hand, electric pleasure singing through her veins. She doesn't know if she can come like this, how closely the spell imitates a real cock, but her legs begin to buckle and she doesn't know how much longer she can last if he keeps this up.
She's used to him touching her, is familiar with how that feels, but this is something altogether unexpected. Her cunt clenches around nothing, arousal dripping obscenely down her thighs. Astarion reluctantly releases her, and she lets out a sigh, both out of relief and disappointment.
“I’m supposed to be the one pleasuring you, remember?” she pants breathlessly. She inclines her head towards the bed, still bathed in radiant sunlight. “Get on the bed. On your knees.” Astarion needs no further encouragement.
The plush mattress sinks beneath both of their bodies as Ysera makes herself comfortable behind Astarion, who's propped himself up on his hands and knees and lifted his hips towards her. His own cock hangs between his legs, hard and leaking. He looks remarkably handsome, swathed in the light, skin awash with warmth.
If he's nervous, nothing in the way he looks at her suggests anything other than his eagerness to have her. His eyes are round and curious, lips curved in a small smile.
Before Astarion can ask if she's still certain about proceeding, Ysera places her hands on either side of his ass and delicately spreads him open. He arches his back beautifully, as if on instinct, breath hitching as she kneads his flesh between her palms and gives him a gentle smack with her hand. Astarion shakes his hips to taunt her, but he gets more than he bargained for when she nips him playfully, leaving the impression of her teeth in his skin.
“Why, you cheeky little –”
“I'm sorry, would you prefer my mouth somewhere else?” Ysera asks. “Perhaps this will be more to your liking.”
She bends to flick her tongue against his hole, swirling it experimentally. Astarion groans wantonly at the first pass of her tongue, warm and wet as she laves it against his sensitive rim. Encouraged by his reaction, Ysera continues to tease him with alternating pressure, using the tip and the flat of her tongue to coax more breathy moans from him. She loves the way he convulses beneath her, completely at her mercy.
It's not about having power over him, but the ability to make him gasp and plead for more as he forgets anything that isn't her, her, her. Nothing matters now but his pleasure.
“Ysera, darling,” he pants, fists bunched in the sheets. It feels good, better even than he had expected it would. Has she done this before? When she presses her tongue against the tight ring of muscle, his hips buck and he flutters open for her, teeth clenched as he begins to tremble. She uses the opportunity to slip her tongue inside, exploring and tasting him. A low groan rumbles in her throat as she feels his cock jump when she sweeps over a particularly sensitive place. She does it again, and Astarion trembles like brittle a leaf in the wind.
They both know they will be doing this again – often, if Astarion has any say in the matter.
“Please,” Astarion whimpers. His voice is small. Needy. Desperate in a way she's never heard him before. “I need you. Inside.”
Ysera releases him, gathering the arousal between her slick folds and spreading it over her cock, shuddering at the sensation that rips through her body. She adjusts herself behind Astarion, opening him to her once again as she presses the tip of her hard length against his rim and pushes forward.
He's tighter than she expected, so she moves slowly, pulling out and pushing back in as she works him open with shallow thrusts. But she's slick enough, and whatever pain he feels is quickly overwhelmed by the pleasure and the newness of her inside of him. It's been far, far too long since he's been in this position. Astarion's walls clamp down around her cock and they both let out a strangled cry, but when Ysera stops moving Astarion begs her to continue.
“My love,” he struggles through gritted teeth. “Don't stop. I need more of you.” Ysera shushes him and slips a hand into his hair, stroking softly.
“It's all right, Astarion. I'll take care of you. I promise.”
It takes a moment, but once she's fully seated inside him, Astarion exhales a long, drawn-out breath and flexes his fingers. “Ahhh, hold on,” he says, wiggling his hips to adjust around her. “Gods, you feel so good. So, so good. Remind me again why we waited so long to try this?”
“A mistake I am regretting with every passing second,” she admits, huffing a laugh. “You feel good, too.” It takes more effort than she would have initially thought to fight the urge to snap her hips forward and bury herself inside him with quick, needy thrusts. Is this what she feels like when he's inside her? Gods. It's no wonder he often struggles to hold himself back.
“I'm ready,” Astarion says after a time, looking at her over his shoulder. He sounds as though he's about to start begging her for more again, and as much as she would love to hear it, neither of them are in the mood for teasing. Ysera pulls out of him almost completely before rolling her hips forward, and when she glides against his walls with little resistance there's nothing more holding her back.
Hands bracketed on his hips, Ysera surges forward, plunging into him with quick, rough thrusts. His ass bounces every time their bodies collide, and she pushes him into the mattress. Astarion immediately begins to whimper with need, face pressed into the sheets as he loses the will to hold himself up any longer. His arms go slack and he sinks down onto his stomach, balling his fists in the sheets as he gives himself over to pleasure.
“Yes,” he mumbles, voice slurred. “Yes, ‘Sera, yes, yes, feels so – oh …!”
She's never heard him so incoherent before, fuck-drunk, wonderfully pliant beneath her hands, and absolutely breathtaking. His mouth hangs open, revealing his fangs, his eyes straining as he struggles to look at her. There aren't enough words in any language to do justice to the brilliant shades of ruby and carmine she sees reflected there. Ysera commits the image to memory, determined to remember every single second she has him beneath her.
The sunlight is warm on Astarion's skin, but its heat pales in comparison to the raging inferno growing inside him, the way Ysera's hands leave a path of searing heat down the curve of his spine. Her hands linger on his hips when she reaches them again, struggling to hold onto his sweat-slicked body as she thrusts and thrusts and thrusts. She is both gentle and rough at the same time, reducing him to a babbling mess as he tries to tell her how wonderful she is. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows the words don't quite come out right, but she smiles at him anyway.
Ysera's muscles ache with a delicious soreness, and as it becomes increasingly difficult to hold him up, her thrusts begin to falter and her rhythm breaks.
“Astarion,” she pants, sweat beading on her forehead and dripping into the hollow of her throat. “I want… to see your face, want to see you when you come.”
“Yes,” he answers immediately, almost as if he was anticipating the question. “Anything, anything. Oh, please, make me come.”
Ysera pulls her cock out of him just as long as it takes to help him roll over onto his back, shoving a pillow beneath his hips to prop him up. He's much easier to manage this way, some of her waning strength returning as she takes in the sight of him: hair disheveled, mouth agape, and utterly ruined. His cock hangs heavy against his thigh, flushed pink and weeping.
Hooking her hands under his bent knees and pressing his legs back towards his chest, she wastes no time folding him in half and slipping back inside his slick hole, pounding into him with enough force to tear a keening whine from his throat. She watches the way his expression changes with each roll of her hips, his jaw falling slack before clenching again when she hits a particularly sensitive spot deep inside of him. Memorizing the angle, she does it again and again, coaxing a series of broken, strangled cries from his lips.
He tries so hard to speak, but the words fall through his brain like water through a sieve. Within seconds he can no longer recall what it was he was even going to say or why it was important in the first place. It feels so good to give himself to her like this, to let her dictate his pleasure. He doesn't need to think – he only needs to feel . And by the gods, does he feel. Every caress of her hands on his skin, every inch of her cock as she thrusts inside him; every sweet nothing she murmurs to encourage him – he's already madly in love with her, but if he could fall for her all over again this would be the moment.
Astarion’s mouth falls open with a guttural moan when she lets go of one of his legs to wrap a hand around his neglected cock, slick with so much precome that she finds an easy rhythm, pumping him in time with each of her punishing thrusts. She works him diligently closer to the edge, pride surging through her when she notices the telltale signs of his impending climax. His thighs quake and his hips jerk every so often, the promise of an earth-shattering orgasm so close on the horizon.
Astarion wrenches his eyes open to find Ysera leaning over him, her face almost close enough to kiss. His body feels too light and too heavy all at once, floating in some nebulous void. But he somehow manages to reach out to cup her cheek, his quiet moans of “ah, ah, ah…” tickling her skin as his cool breath ghosts across her face. He loses himself in her golden eyes, the way she looks at him enough to make his heart ache. If it still beat, it would be racing.
Hells, he swears it just might be.
“That's it,” Ysera encourages him, her voice wavering as his walls pulse and contract tightly around her cock. “You're close, aren't you?” Astarion breathes something that sounds like “yes,” and she bends down to kiss him. The kiss is slow and purposeful, tender where the rest of her is rough and primal. Her lips coax his mouth open and he kisses her back, whining in protest the moment she pulls away.
“You've been so good for me, Astarion,” she murmurs in his ear, borrowing the same words that have unraveled her on so many occasions. Watching the effect it has on him is intoxicating; how he whimpers and writhes, hips bucking as he fucks desperately into her hand.
“You can come now, it's okay. I've got you.”
Yes. Yes, he can, he can and he will, he just needs her to –
His vision goes blank as white-hot pleasure rips through his body and he comes harder than he ever has before, painting her hand and his stomach with thick ropes of white. The sheer force of his orgasm is too much for her to bear, her hips stuttering violently as her toes curl and she comes just as hard for him. The last thread of her concentration on the spell snaps like a taut bowstring and Astarion feels suddenly empty as her cock blinks out of existence, mourning the loss of her. Ysera tumbles forward and collapses onto his chest, panting heavily and breathing in the scent of him.
Astarion folds his arms around her with what strength he has left and holds her against his chest. His body is so warm, and she melts into his embrace. Neither of them have enough energy to speak. Ysera props herself up on an elbow after a while, the curtain of her hair falling over her shoulder as she looks down at him. She smiles fondly before rubbing her nose against his. Astarion sighs, satisfied and thoroughly pleased with the outcome of their little experiment.
What feels like several hours later, the bedchamber creaks and groans as the walls begin to shake, rousing them both from their sleep. Ysera lifts her head groggily, wincing as her limbs protest her sudden movements. The same blinding light that transported them here engulfs the room, and the next time they open their eyes they're standing inside the abandoned tower as if they'd been there all along, the book still clasped between Ysera's open hands.
Ysera flicks her gaze questioningly to Astarion, but the soreness of their muscles and the weary sort of exhaustion they both feel confirms that whatever happened was most certainly more than a very vivid hallucination. Beneath their names on the final page, the book has written for itself a rather detailed passage about their exploits, and Ysera closes it with as much force as she can muster before throwing it clear across the room. Her cheeks burn a bright pink. The only thing that had stopped her from ripping out the page was the thought that a book powerful enough to transport them to an alternate reality might not take too kindly to being defaced, and she's not keen on finding out what else it might be capable of.
“We should go before anything else happens,” she says in a clipped tone, spinning on her heel and marching towards the nearest exit. Astarion's hand shoots out to grab her by the wrist, and when he pulls her back and convinces her to look at him, she finds a wolfish grin has overtaken his face.
“Oh no,” he purrs, slipping his arms around her back and caging her against his body. “Not so fast. This little library of Gale's you mentioned before… does he know you've been browsing those sorts of books?”
Ysera blanches, and the way her heart skips a beat gives her away immediately. “I thought as much,” Astarion says conspiratorially. “I'll tell you what, my dear: show me the other little tricks you've learned, and I promise your secret stays with me.”
Even after she twists out of his arms and storms off down the stairs to hide her embarrassment, his laughter still rings in her ears.
Astarion – and the image we expect to see when we think of a victim.
No, this isn’t meant to be a plea for you to stop hating Astarion.
This isn’t a "But look what he had to go through! Go give him the world”.
This is meant to show how different victims of violence can be – and how arbitrary it often is when we choose to feel compassion, and when we don’t.
Let’s take the same trauma, the same environment – but two different personalities experiencing it.
there will be two different pictures of a person
Victims are different. Just as different as all of us are.
Astarion’s life changed in an instant. One moment, he was a magistrate walking home. The next, he was a vampire locked in a cell. Hunger. Violence. Prostitution.
Love and compassion – forbidden. No one to help. No way out.
Two hundred years.
If you try to imagine that, try to picture yourself in that situation – it’s unimaginable.
And injustice like that exists in the real world too. Children. Women. Men.
So why do some people feel no sympathy for Astarion?
Because he’s mean – and that means he deserves it
Because he doesn’t act like a victim?
– not like the victim we imagine in our heads.
And this happens in real life too.
⚠️ Trigger warning: SA and child abduction
Those who know the case of Natascha Kampusch – a girl abducted and kept in a man’s basement for eight years, who escaped – may also know that she was demonized in the Press.
And why? Because just days after her escape, she gave an interview – and she didn’t cry.
She didn’t look broken, fragile, or psychologically shattered. On the contrary: she sat upright, calm.
This isn't how we imagine a victim. In our minds, the conclusion could be, 'they couldn't have found it that bad.' maybe it is a bad person themself
But here’s what we need to understand:
People react differently to trauma and danger. Fight or flight. That’s instinct.
We develop different coping mechanisms – also instinctively. In moments of extreme stress, our subconscious kicks in to protect us.
Sometimes it makes us feel nothing. Sometimes it makes us even laugh.
It tell us, it's not that bad. We adapt, try to align ourselves with the abuser to survive.
This even happens in hostage situations (Stockholm Syndrome).
Astarion survived 200 years of unspeakable evil.
His coping mechanisms are incredibly strong.
But our idea of a “real” victim is someone who cries, rocks back and forth, and needs comforting.
Real victims, however, often had to learn to be so strong that no one – no one – sees how vulnerable they really are.
Which only means they endured far more than any human mind should ever have to.
And i think we don’t have to see him as a victim. Or what a victim should be Like.
We can see him as a fighter – one who finally, after all this time, is allowed to lay down his weapons.
when you told sylus that you wanted to be on top tonight, he wasn’t expecting you to ride him completely speechless, with only his muttering curses and his deep, breathy groans able to escape his parted lips. he didn’t know you had this in you, and he’s barely able to contain himself as your pussy sucks him in tightly and swallows his length whole.
“fuck- slow down.”, sylus grunts through heavy breaths, gripping on the plush of your hips as you continue bouncing on his cock with your head thrown back and your hands placed firmly on his shoulders, needy whines falling from your lips as he bottoms out inside of you and his sensitive tip kisses your cervix with a deep hiss.
he could hardly handle it with the way his cock throbbed agonisingly against your greedy walls and the plush of your ass colliding with his pelvis over and over. the slapping sound echo throughout the room alongside the choked moans that sylus just can’t hold back and he’s struggling to understand where this has come from.but he can barely form a thought when he’s grunting in pleasure as you continue to fuck yourself dumb on his cock, with sylus thinking you’re about to fuck him completely dumb as well.
you can’t help but moan out his name in response when you see the affect you’re having on him, ignoring his attempted plea as you sink further down on his sensitive cock. sylus feels like you’re actually trying to kill him.
he wasn’t going to last long if you kept this up, and soon finds himself harshly gripping on your hips as his needy grunts and furrowed brows follow an intense orgasm that fills you up completely, warmth filling your core, “ah- fuck..”
and despite this, you’re not slowing down. with your head thrown back and his cum leaking from your swollen pussy, you finally feel your own high with the flick of your hips.
sylus feels his brain short circuit, his cock throbbing at the sensitivity and the way your pussy continuously clenches around it while you come completely undone with needy whines escaping your lips. he just couldn’t take it, groaning out deeply when he roughly grabs your hips and lifts you off his overstimulated cock, “ah no- get off, get off.”
he looks at you bewildered, his large chest heavy with his cheeks flushed and his hair messy and unkempt. he can’t form any words when he looks at you, glowing and breathless, and all he can do is laugh in shock, pulling you closer before muttering against your ear, “damn, you’re gonna kill me one of these days, sweetheart.”
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