AUTOPSY: multi-fandom blog (expect lots of jumping around) // currently obsessed with true detective and twin peaks // slashers flicks // anime // video games // strawberry desserts // the cardigans // dark writing
trying to get back into writing but I am very slow. please feel free to drop a request and I'll try my best to answer. I'm always down to chat
LATEST KILL: "IN HEAVEN'S NAME (WHY ARE YOU WALKING AWAY) Part 1: HOLE IN THE EARTH" (L Lawliet x gn!reader)
after your horrible breakup with Ryuzaki, you move from your small town to the big city to start a new life without him. but a serial killer comes to the city too, changing your life forever.
multi chapter, slow burn, angst
"MOVIES DON'T CREATE PSYCHOS. MOVIES MAKE PSYCHOS MORE CREATIVE."
this blog contains dark content // 18+ only // don't interact if you're racist, a bigot, or really any kind of asshole variety
CONTACT YOUR LOCAL AUTHORITIES IF YOU SEE SOMETHING (1-800-ASK-RITA)
i thought the âthis is the face that launched a thousand ships, although now it would maybe be five-hundred.â line was just an internet joke but apparently that's a line Menelaus actually says in Nolan's Odyssey??
Not only that the language itself sounds straight out of a marvel forcibly funny haha moment, but Menelaus? The Menelaus who all thoughout human history, from Homer, to Sappho, to Euripides, to Virgil, to Shakespeare, to Brooke, to Barth; from Classical vases to Medieval poetry to Reinessance art, has been known as the man whose sword fell from his hands at the sight of his wife after 10 years apart?
"What joy for me to hold my wife" Menelaus?
"He flung the sword away, and kissed her feet" Menelaus?
"I believe all. I understand nothing. I love you" Menelaus?
"I have no fault to find; my wife, he daughter of Zeus and Leda, is mine again, she whom her brothers on their snow-white steeds, whilst torches blazed, made my happy bride, but gods removed her from my home." Menelaus?
The Menelaus who was picked out of the suitors by Helen herself? The Menelaus who couldn't kill a begging Trojan so his brother had to do it for him? The Menelaus who rescued Odysseus and got out Patroclus' body? The Menelaus who volounteered to fight Paris one on one so everybody could go home? Who kept expressing his guilt about himself being the cause of war through every assembly he spoke at in the Iliad? Who after 10 years away at Troy, took his wife through a 7-year long journey at sea back home, where he reinstated her as the queen of Sparta? Who wept like a child in front of Telemachus recalling the war and his brother and all the friends he lost and the only consolation being his wife' gentle hand on his?
You want me to believe that man scarred Helen's face and called her only worth half the ships because of it?
I'm actually physically sick just thinking about it.
Not only itâs extremely backwards and in fact a misogynistic choice to have a woman be punished, abused and disfigured when in the original patriarchal 3,000 year old (!) story she is described as reconciled with her husband, confident, clever and having self-agency, but also the way Nolan!Menelaus said that she was originally the face who launched 1000 ships sounded very sarcastic, like he didnât really think she had that beauty to begin with. And then when Lupitaâs Helen argued that it was never about her beauty and it was just about money and power, it actually decreased the impact of her beauty even more. It was all like Nolan was saying âyo guys she was actually just okay and nobody cared about herâ and I honestly donât know why Lupita thought she was participating in an improvement of Helenâs portrayal. (Maybe because she did not read the original story lol)
Summary: Astarion chooses to surprise you with a pair of underwear that you might find rather... stimulating.
Pairing: Astarion x female Reader, Astarion x You
Word count: 7k
Tags: Astarion x Reader, Astarion x You, Smut, Porn too much plot, Sex toy, Oral (male receiving), orgasms, MNDI, 18+, female Reader, Gale is not sure how he gets himself into these situations, Gale handles it like a champ.
A/N: Yay, 'Fangs and Cheeks' Part 2! It took me a year (a year!) to write and post this. I've rewritten this story so many times that I think it's as good as it gets. Please tell me if you notice any mistakes!
If you like it, please comment and reblog! My tag list is always open! Also, should there be Part 3 which focuses on Gale and his night to remember? Let me know what you think! đđđ
Dividers bby @saradika-graphics
The morning sun fought its way through Galeâs heavy eyelids, the brutal weight of exhaustion pinning him to his bedroll.
"How are you feeling, mate? Do you need anything?"
He couldnât remember the last time his bones had felt this heavy, but looking around the camp brought a faint, weary satisfaction. At least the others had the luxury of getting a good nightâs sleep. His sleepless vigil had bought them peace.
"You have proven to have your uses, wizard." Minthara's voice assaulted his senses from somewhere nearby.
The drow stood a few paces back, her tone making it evident that she was uncharacteristically impressed by his actions. For Minthara to offer anything resembling a compliment, Gale knew he must look absolutely wretched.
"Truly, your efforts were not in vain, my friend." Wyll said, stepping up to squeeze his shoulder with a reassuring grip. "You better stay put and rest."
"Yes. I will remain in camp. A wizard with no magic is an easy target. You do not deserve to die a dishonourable death after what you had done," Laeâzel declared.
Her voice was a grave, unyielding vow as she took up a post right at the entrance of his tent. Hand resting on her sword, her spine perfectly straight, she began scanning the tree line for potential threats.
"Good morning, everyone!" You said chirpily, pushing aside your tent flap and squinting a little when late morning light hit your eyes.
All heads snapped in your direction, making you take a half-step back only to bump into Astarion.
"It seems that our pleasure aroused displeasure among our campmates." The elf raised his eyebrows and clicked his tongue, seemingly unconcerned at being the subject of such intense attention. "I suppose a good olâ apology will not suffice?"
âWhilst I must congratulate you on making good use of the elf, your sexual escapades are becoming rather tiresome.â The drow drawled, looking only at you and deliberately ignoring Astarionâs indignant huff.
âI donât see how whatever happens in our tent is any of your concern,â Astarion countered, lifting his chin. âBut since you all seem to be in a boorish mood on this fine morn, I suppose I will volunteer to go to the market and replenish our supplies. Are you coming along, my sweet?â
You wanted nothing more than to crawl into some hole and not face your friends for a fortnight, but you couldnât deny that you were to blame for their sour mood. Offering a sheepish smile and a small wave, you grabbed Astarion and set a brisk pace, practically feeling their disapproving eyes bore holes into your back.
The rest of the week passed in a merciful blur. Between the constant ambush risks and the endless list of tasks on everyone's plates, your late-night disruptions became old news within a couple of days. The teasing comments fizzled out, completely swallowed by the reality of survival.
There was only one thing that truly bothered you. Astarion was being remarkably quiet.
He wasn't brooding, exactly, but he was intensely preoccupied. Aside from a few obligatory, sharp-tongued quips, he hadn't initiated a single verbal sparring match with anyone all week. You knew better than to pry immediately. Whilst you couldnât help but wonder what distracted your vampire, you decided to leave him to his thoughts.
Prior to meeting you, Astarion made sure that he did not let anyone know what he was thinking at any given time. Except lately he found letting his guard down more and more around you. You had noticed the signs. A wickedly smug curve of his lips when he thought you weren't looking, a dangerous, playful gleam in his crimson eyes. It was enough for you to realise that he was orchestrating something. Whether that meant a world of hurt for some poor merchant or an afternoon delight for you remained to be seen.
You yawned and closed your eyes. You were sure that you would find out soon enough. The afternoon was thick and balmy, the heavy scent of wildflowers lulling you into a boneless state somewhere between rest and wakefulness. You lay on your stomach, chin propped on your hands, determined not to move a single muscle despite the tall blades of grass tickling your neck.
"My sweet?"
Although apparently you would not be allowed to have a little snooze. You let out a weak, protesting groan, swatting blindly at his hand as an insistent finger poked your ribs.
"I have a surprise for you," he picked a blade of grass off your head and let it be blown away by the warm breeze.
You cracked one eye open. "Will this surprise involve moving?"
Cool fingers traced a path behind your ear, sliding slowly down the column of your neck to linger right over the twin puncture marks on your skin. "A little, but nothing that will inconvenience my darling too much. Lift your hips for me."
"Astarion, lifting my hips got me into quite a state the last time I listened to you," you muttered, stifling another yawn against your arms.
He let out a lilting laugh, thoroughly amused by the reminder. "It will be nothing like last time. If anything, I pride myself on not falling into a routine! Now, be a good girl and do as you are told."
"Pulling out the 'good girl' card and it's not even foreplay? Fine,â you sighed dramatically, âbut no funny business AncunĂn. We have to get going soon and I earned these twenty minutes of rest. "
You arched your back, lifting your hips off the grass. You felt his cold hands slide down your waistband, the air hitting your skin as he smoothly stripped away your trousers and underwear.
"I thought your surprise-"
"It's not sex. At least not now. It's a present."
Before you could question Astarion more, the soft friction of new fabric brushed against your thighs. He slid a fresh pair of underwear up your legs.
Curious, you pushed yourself up onto your elbows and looked down. The underwear was made of smooth, deep purple silk. What caught your eye, however, was a string of small, glittering gemstones running perfectly down the centre, from the front all the way to the back.
"Where did you get this?"
"Tsk, a gentleman never tells. Do you like them?"
"They are lovely. " You smiled and ran your hand through Astarion's curls, your vampire rewarding you with a pleased hum.
And they were. Which was to be expected since Astarion had an incredible ability to find exquisite, gorgeous things. Even if the embellishments were placed in a rather⌠unusual manner.
It took a while for Astarion to start giving you something so openly. In the past, you'd find a gift stuffed into your pack. A golden ring perched on your pillow. Sometimes you would look in the mirror and see a necklace already fastened around your neck twinkling merrily back at you. This unprompted, face-to-face offering felt entirely different.
"Hm..." His fingers danced along the waistband. "The colour looks rather fetching on you."
"I'm sure it does, my love. I trust you to know such things. But I can't help but think there's a catch."
"Oh?" Astarion raised an eyebrow, as if challenging you to elaborate.
Yet, he didnât deny it.
Putting his palm on the sparkly gemstones, Astarion locked eyes with you.
"Darling," he said, rolling the r on his tongue in a breathy way that came out as more of a purr, and made the word sound delightfully wicked.
And perhaps it was his proximity, or his cool breath on your stomach, or just your imagination, but you felt a delicious vibration dance along your skin.
Before you could process exactly what happened, Astarion was already helping you put your clothes back on. In minutes, your vampire was on his feet and ready to leave.
"Now, my sweet, let's go and get those supplies. I find myself in a bit of hot water with our friends, so can't have them thinking that dinner will be delayed because you canât keep your hands off me for five minutes!"
Thirty minutes later you found yourself gritting your teeth, eyes shooting daggers at Astarion's leather-covered back. That smug, insufferable ass! Who also happened to be the love of your life, but that was beside the point!
When you felt it the first time, you brushed the feeling off. The second time had you yelping, startling the vendor into dropping his produce. The third time you just knew that you did not imagine the vibrations. And the fourth time had you snapping your eyes in Astarion's direction because you knew without a slither of doubt that he was doing this to you on purpose.
The elf pretended to have no idea what got your panties in a twist. Quite literally. Astarion usually left the conversations to you in favour of feigning boredom. And yet today he was apparently too busy making small talk! Chatting a mile a minute with the vendors. All smiles and pleasantness. Asking questions and offering advice. Being so oh so charming and helpful.
You didnât believe it for a second.
Because everything was 'darling'. The 'darling' delicate daggers and the 'darling' fruit. Delightfully 'darling' rings and 'darling' potion bottles.
"Oh, darling!" Astarion beamed at you.
You bit your lip not to let out a moan, leaning forward so the fabric didnât brush against oversensitive skin.
It didnât help.
Astarionâs nostrils flared, and he gave a light, self-satisfied chuckle.
"Darling! You simply must try these darling little cakes!â
You blinked as his fingers hovered inches from your face, Astarion holding a cake with a strawberry perched on a bed of cream. It looked tart and sweet, and decadently delicious.
âOnly the best for my darling!"
You glared at him, stuffed the cake into your mouth and gave a defiant, angry chew. Another creature, who had a better sense of self-preservation, would interpret your look like the sign that it was the time to stop this game. But Astarion always enjoyed pushing your buttons a little more than others would dare.
âHow do you like it, darling?â
He dropped his voice an octave, the word leaving his mouth in a sinful purr, sensual lips inches from your ear. Your fingers grasping his biceps in a vice-like hold, nails digging into fabric, only had him grinning wider. Putting his face near the heated skin of your cheek, Astarion took a step forward and chuckled, "Do you need me to lend you a hand, darling?"
He was so dead.
But first you needed to get this damn underwear off. Or his. At this point, you were not picky.
Half-delirious with want, you grabbed Astarion by his collar and dragged him around the corner and into an alley. Quite conveniently, you two seemed to be completely alone.
Good. There would be no witnesses. To what exactly you were still not sure of.
"You think this is funny, huh?"
Your warning fell on deaf self-satisfied ears as Astarion chose to dismiss your angry hiss with a shake of silver curls and a roguish grin.
"Well, I am not sure I thought of much when I purchased it, darli-"
"Donât you dare say it!" You hissed, but apparently even half a word was plenty.
You moaned wantonly into his ear and pressed into him as every gemstone vibrated as soon as the word left Astarionâs mouth.
"You don't like it?" Astarion asked. First frown, first glimmer of doubt in his eyes.
"No!"
Yes.
"Okay, maybe I do.â You admitting the truth had his face light up in a way that would be sweet if you werenât so annoyed. âBut you can wipe that stupid grin right off your face!"
He pretended to try. A person that knew him less would perhaps believe that the chastened look was sincere.
"Why choose darling out of all words?" You asked in a shaky voice.
"I like calling you that because I mean it. You are the only one I mean it with."
The sincere admission immediately sent your heart aflutter.
Astarion pressed his forehead against yours, one hand snaking behind you to draw you closer, the other hand cupping your cheek.
"May I?"
Please.
"Oh, fine. Go on."
âDarling.â
A kiss on your lips.
âDarling.â
He palmed your breast and sucked on the twin marks on your neck.
Pressing a knee into your core, he licked his lips. Ravenous ruby eyes locked with yours and he whispered in a sinful voice meant only for your ears.
âDarling. Darling. Darling. Darling.â
You arched against Astarion and he quickly clapped a hand over your mouth, feeling you suck in a breath against his fingers as pleasure set your body on fire.
"Let's keep those pretty sounds just between us... darling," he couldnât resist saying it once more. Not when you were enjoying yourself so thoroughly.
Moments later, you sagged against him and grabbed his biceps to steady yourself as you rode that last wave.
âHow do you like my gift?â
âHuh?â
âGift, dear. Do you like it?â
You licked your lips and raised a hand to give him a thumbs up.
"Not the most imaginative compliment, but I suppose it's genuine enough," he pouted.
You planted a kiss just under his jaw and then another on the corner of his mouth.
âCanât get enough? Iâm not surprised,â he gave a dramatic sigh and leaned in to let your lips find his.
âDo you want to try it?â You whispered as you broke apart. âSharessâ is just around the corner. I bet the noises youâd make would be even sweeter.â
You meant for it to sound seductive, but it somehow sounded weird.
Shit.
âUnless you donât want to!â You said quickly, kicking yourself for coming on too strong. âWhich is okay! I mean, I probably shouldnât have even suggested it-â
He put the tips of his fingers on your lips for a brief moment, promptly ending your embarrassing tirade.
âIâd like to try,â he said tentatively, in a way that seemed almost uncharacteristically shy.
âYes?â You breathed, soft and hesitant.
âIâll tell you if I want to stop.â
âPlease do. I love you.â
âI know.â
And that was precisely why he wanted to try. With you, everything was different. There was no judgment. No being forced. It was simply two fractured souls experiencing one another, slowly uncovering what it truly meant to care.
Twenty minutes later, you rented a room at Sharessâ Caress. The moment the door clicked shut, Astarion turned the key in the lock, and your lips were immediately on his. You began stripping the clothes from each otherâs bodies with a desperate urgency usually reserved for sneaking away from camp.
Which, in a way, you were.
Luckily, the last vendor in the Lower City had assured you that his delivery boy could be trusted to haul your purchases back to the Elfsong Tavern. The boy had offered a long-suffering sigh as he tossed the heavy bags of produce into a handcart, dragging it away over the uneven cobblestones. To be fair, you weren't entirely sure what or how much you had actually bought. You were not sure exactly what and how much youâd purchased, seeing as you were somewhat distracted when you were trying to shop. But you were sure that Gale would manage to make something of it.
Right now, however, dinner was the absolute last thing on your mind.
You kissed a heated trail down Astarionâs chest, dropping lower and lower until your knees finally sank into the plush carpet of the brothel room. Smiling up at him, you slid the purple silk underwear off your hips. You held the fabric in your hand, watching the row of crystals glint enticingly in the low, ambient light of the room.
âWill it work if I say it?â you murmured, looking at the gems.
âIâm not sure,â Astarion replied, shrugging his shoulders. âBut you are welcome to try, darling.â
Licking your dry lips, you put your free hand on his sharp hipbone. You took a breath, attempting to mimic the exact, sultry tone he had used earlier.
âDarling.â
Nothing happened. The stones remained completely dark and still.
Figures.
âWell," you grumbled, looking up at him. "It seems these damn things only obey their actual master.â
âOh, donât pout, dearest," Astarion teased with a soft chuckle. "Look on the bright side. At least we now know you won't suffer any unwanted... stimulation if some passing stranger decides to get a little too affectionate with their words.â
âI suppose,â you muttered, refusing to drop the pout. You had suspected this might happen, but the lack of a magical reaction was still a bit disappointing.
Astarion reached down, dragging his thumb lazily over your lower lip until it parted under his pressure. Your tongue darted out instinctively, flicking against the pad of his thumb and earning an approving, low hum from the elf.
âAre you truly so displeased?â he asked softly.
âWell, yes! Itâs unfair!â
âPerhaps it isn't. But then again, when can you honestly say anything in this life is fair, hm?â He slid his hand lower, his cool palm settling gently against your neck, his fingers brushing right over the permanent puncture marks he had carved into your skin. âBesides... if you ask very, very nicely, you just might convince me to lend you my voice, so to speak.â
âTell me when, darling.â
The moment the word left his lips, a sudden wave of vibration rippled through the silk in your hand. The precious stones immediately buzzed to life, teasing and taunting your skin, answering solely to the call of their precious master.
You looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, entirely bare down to your waist. Freeing his cock from his underwear, you brought your hand forward, pressing the humming line of gems directly into his soft, sensitive skin.
âSay it,â you whispered.
âI think I might need you to sound a bit more certain than that, dear,â Astarion murmured, running his fingers through your hair, his grip tightening just enough to make you moan. âPerhaps I require a sturdier hand. A little more steel in your voice.â
You hesitated and looked away. A familiar wave of uncertainty washed over you. In moments like this, when you wanted to push him, to tease him, and to pleasure him without mercy, you often found yourself instinctively pulling back. Because how were you to know if something was too much? What would be that seemingly insignificant, harmless word or action that would ruin the tentative trust between you two?
âDearest?â
You felt Astarionâs long fingers slide beneath your chin, gently tilting your head upward to force you to look at him. Your eyes darted to his magnificent length for a split second before meeting his gaze.
âI know exactly what is going through that beautiful head of yours," he said, his voice dropping its usual performative edge, replaced by something profoundly sincere. "I am deeply grateful that you care enough to think about it. Truly. But I can assure you that I am most enthusiastically into this. So, I am telling you plainly. This is fine. Command me exactly as you see fit, lover.â
Your warm breath caressed his skin as you exhaled and swallowed, suddenly feeling nervous and parched. Astarionâs expression shifted, turning dark, heated, and predatory. His look was heated and predatory, chest barely rising and falling as he regarded you with an intensity that made you want.
You pressed the vibrating gems firmly against the smooth skin of his lower abdomen. At the same time, your free hand snaked around his hip, finding its target and giving a firm, possessive squeeze.
âOh, I see!" Astarion gasped out a laugh. "It seems I am not the only one in this room who appreciates a shapely derriere.â
âYou have absolutely no idea.â
âAre we returning to that lovely little conversation about the racy dreams you keep having about me, darling dear?â
Not letting him tease you more, you dug the stones deeper. The gems vibrated fiercely against him. Astarion gasped, his head snapping back as his mouth fell open. A sharp gleam of his fangs caught the low light before his jaws slammed shut, a ragged hiss tearing from his throat.
Encouraged by his reaction, you moved your hand lower, pressing the still humming gemstones directly into his softest flesh.
âNow,â you commanded.
âAs you wish, darling,â he strained out.
The gems came to life with a rhythmic hum. A breathless moan tore from deep within his chest as he instinctively thrust his hips forward into your hand, desperately chasing the intense sensation.
âOh, darlingââ Another sudden wave of vibration hit him, forcing his knees to buckle slightly as he almost fell forward against you. âIâm afraid I was rather inconsiderate to you earlier... I- I havenât the slightest clue how you managed to stay upright. I am finding it an absolute challenge!â
Smiling against his skin, you parted your lips and took him fully into your mouth, setting a slow, agonizingly languid pace that left him entirely at your mercy.
The slow, rhythmic slide of your mouth made it difficult for him to stay still, especially as the glittering gemstones continued to wreak havoc on his senses. Astarionâs fingers knotted tightly into your hair, not to pull or direct your movements, but simply to hold himself steady. His mouth parted slightly, his breath hitching every single time your tongue swiped over his length.
You kept the pace deliberate, agonizingly slow. You wanted him to feel every single second of it, to be left completely bare to enjoy the sensation. This was for him and for him only.
Astarionâs hips hitched in a desperate, uncoordinated twitch as you picked up your pace. The stones in your hand pulsed in sync with his quickening moans as he said the word over and over to activate them under his breath, his efforts rewarded with wave after wave of deep, electrifying pleasure. A ragged, broken sound caught in the back of Astarionâs throatâa raw vulnerability he only ever exposed behind locked doors, far away from the prying eyes of others.
Every muscle in his thighs locked tight. He curled forward and then threw his head back. The sheer intensity of the double stimulation was overwhelming. Between the cool, localized magic of the jewellery and the all-consuming, wet warmth of your mouth, he knew that he wouldnât be able to last long.
You swirled your tongue around the sensitive tip, your free hand flattening out against his lower back, using your palm to press him even closer. Astarion let out a sharp, fractured gasp, his body shuddering violently from the base of his spine all the way to his shoulders. He didn't want to stop you because- oh hell! He simply let himself sink into the rhythm you set, his fingers trembling where they rested against the back of your head.
The vibrations from the purple silk reached a frantic, hummed crescendo. Astarionâs breath hitched as his hips gave one final, helpless thrust upward. A deep, breathless groan tore from his chest as he spilled into your mouth, his entire body going entirely liquid and boneless under your hands. He slipped out of your mouth and put one hand on your shoulder, leaning on you heavily.
And then, in a sudden movement, he flopped onto the bed, pulling you down with him.
âWell, arenât you lucky to have such an inventive lover!â
"Ass."
"I think you mean, 'Thank you, lover. What a thoughtful gift. I will treasure the memories forever.' Though I suppose you chose to condense it to three letters."
âSomething like that,â you smiled, tracing the contours of his face with warm, gentle fingers.
Astarion was not the one to plan. But he found himself rather enjoying the way this particular idea of his turned out. He knew what heâd be seeing in his trance tonight â your face, blunt teeth biting your lip to keep yourself from crying out and then failing so beautifully.
It was not something heâd thought he would ever come to enjoy. Seeing another in throes of passion, wanting to be a part of it. But perhaps it was indeed as all those bards said, love is a balm for the soul. Or something along those lines. He never actually listened to their songs.
At least that was what it felt like. Your presence in his life was soothing and healing.
Most welcome.
Being with you made him feel new. Made him feel unburdened. And although that feeling would not last â shadows of the past coming to haunt him when he was vulnerable â he knew that you would be there for him. And he knew that he would allow you to be there for him. And that, on its own, was the most precious gift anyone could have given him.
The walk back to the Elfsong Tavern was a quiet, comfortable sort. Astarion slid his hand into yours, his pale fingers intertwining with your own while his thumb traced lazy circles across your knuckles. The air was cooling down, and for a moment, the cult, the upcoming battle with all its dangers, all of it felt entirely distant.
That peace evaporated the moment you pushed open the heavy wooden doors of your shared room at the Elfsong. To your confusion, you walked in what appeared to be a remarkably loud, incredibly tense debate.
âGith, I do not usually repeat myself. Although perhaps I should make an exception for a creature from another plane," Mintharaâs voice cut through the air, icy and unyielding. "I am going to bed the wizard tonight. It is an honour. And he is more than eager and willing.â
âI am also not in the habit of repeating myself," Laeâzel shot back, her tone sharp enough to split stone. "But as you are clearly hard of hearing, know this! I wish to have him, and I do not share. Find another to warm your bedroll.â
You blinked owlishly, frozen in the doorway as you watched the two of them bicker. Your gaze slowly drifted over to Gale. You werenât entirely sure when or how he had managed to become the central object of desire for two of the most dangerous women in FaerĂťn. Honestly, it didn't look like Gale had the answer either.
The wizard stood completely still between them. Minthara had a firm hand clamped onto his shoulder, her fingers digging deep into the soft cloth of his camp robes. On his other side, Laeâzel kept a vice-like grip on his bicep.
âOh, my! A treat and a show! What a day!â Astarionâs face lit up with pure, unadulterated delight. His smile was all fangs as he leaned in, watching the spectacle with the keen, predatory interest of someone who was already calculating the betting odds.
âHush, Star," you whispered, nudging his side. "This could turn nasty very quickly.â
âPerhaps it will," he chuckled, entirely unbothered. "In that case, my gold is on the drow.â
âIt seems that we have come to an impasse,â Minthara declared, deliberately yanking Gale toward herself.
âYes,â Laeâzel grunted, promptly yanking him right back.
Gale let out a small, high-pitched squeak.
You cleared your throat loudly, stepping forward into the firelight. âDid it occur to either of you that you should, I donât know... actually ask Gale what he wants?â
Your entirely logical suggestion was immediately met with two perfectly synchronized scoffs of profound annoyance from the warriors.
âShe does have a point,â Karlach intoned from where she was sharpening an axe, watching the drama unfold with a wide grin.
âWell, if he wants his head to be bitten off, then I think he should definitely go with Laeâzel,â Shadowheart smirked, leaning casually against a pillar. âI would assume that is a mandatory part of githyanki mating rituals, is it not?â
âDrow are also notorious for executing males who fail to please them,â Astarion chimed in, tossing his head back with a laugh. âOut of the frying pan and straight into the fire, wizard?â
Halsin crossed his arms, looking amused rather than concerned. In the early days, he would probably be worried. It seemed that he had got used to the chaos. âGale has proven to be a worthy companion, a loyal friend, and a wizard of great renown. Iâm sure he could easily handle them both.â
âIn a fight, right?â Karlach snorted, her shoulders shaking with laughter.
Astarion snickered, burying his face against your shoulder.
âSure," Halsin smiled good-naturedly, a glint in his eye. "That too.â
Galeâs eyes widened as he looked around the room for any shred of salvation. But then, the strangest thing happened. Minthara and Laeâzel stopped pulling. They slowly turned their heads, first looking down at the concerned wizard, and then at each other.
A quiet understanding passed between the drow and the githyanki. It was a look that could only be interpreted as mutual appraisal.
The silence dragged on. Gale held his breath, his eyes darting between the two terrifying women as they came to a decision.
Minthara was the first to speak as she looked Laeâzel up and down. âThe githyanki are brutal. Direct. Efficient. There is a certain... commendable discipline in your form.â
Laeâzel tilted her chin upward, her grip on Galeâs bicep loosening just a fraction, though her eyes remained fierce and sharp. âAnd the Underdark breeds survivors. Cold. Calculated.â
Gale swallowed hard, a tiny spark of hope lighting up his face. âSplendid! A mutual understanding of military respect. Now, if we could all just release me, I believe that Iââ
âA compromise, then,â Minthara interrupted smoothly, completely ignoring him. Her hand slid from Galeâs shoulder up to the nape of his neck, her fingers curling with possessive intent. âThe wizard possesses a remarkable reservoir of magical stamina. It would be a waste to spill his blood over a petty dispute of scheduling.â
Laeâzelâs gaze dropped to Galeâs flushed face, a predatory smirk slowly tugging at the corners of her lips. âIndeed. A joint victory yields more glory than a divided camp. We shall test the limits of his magic together.â
The tiny spark of hope in his eyes vanished, instantly replaced by panic. He looked around the room, silently begging for someone to intervene.
âOh, this is better than anything I could have possibly imagined!â Astarion practically vibrated with glee next to you, burying his face in your hair to stifle a burst of laughter. âTwo fearsome conquerors joining forces over one miserable, bookish wizard!â
Karlach let out a booming laugh, slapping her knee. âGo get âem, big guy! Just remember to breathe between turns!â
You could only watch in stunned, silent fascination as Minthara and Laeâzel seamlessly turned Gale around in unison. His knees shook slightly as the two women moved to escort him out of the shared room and into the smaller one just across the hall.
âIf I do not survive the night,â Gale squeaked out, casting one final, desperate look over his shoulder at you and Astarion, âplease... make sure someone feeds Tara.â
The panic on Galeâs face was too much to ignore. While the rest of the camp watched on, you gently pried your fingers from Astarionâs grip and stepped directly into the path of the terrifying females.
âHold on a moment, both of you,â you said.
Mintharaâs eyes snapped to yours, flashing with dangerous irritation.
âYou dare disrupt a tactically sound agreement?â Laeâzel hissed.
âI am simply suggesting we consult the prize,â you replied smoothly, completely unfazed. You stepped closer, looking past their broad shoulders to lock eyes the wizard. âGale. Look at me. Take a deep breath and forget about their swords for a second. Do you actually want this? Either of them? Both of them?â
The entire room went dead silent. Even Astarion stopped his snickering, leaning forward with immense curiosity to see what the wizard would say.
Gale blinked, looking at you as if you had just handed him a lifeline in the middle of a stormy sea. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing, and took a ragged breath to steady his voice. He looked at Mintharaâs sharp, striking features, then over to Laeâzelâs fierce, unyielding gaze. A sudden, surprising flush crept up his neck, turning his cheeks a brilliant shade of crimson.
âI... well, far be it from me to deny the profound honour of such... enthusiastic appreciation,â Gale stammered. He straightened his spine, clearing his throat. âIn truth... yes. I am entirely willing. Eager, even, to explore this unprecedented alliance. If they are both truly inclined, I would be a fool to refuse.â
Astarion let out a dramatic, breathless gasp behind you, clapping a hand over his mouth. âGood gods! Heâs actually going to do it! Even if I lose my bet, but this is infinitely better!â
Karlach let out a cheer. âThatâs what Iâm talking about, Gale! Go big or go home!â
Without another word of debate, Laeâzel gripped his upper arm again, while Minthara took the other, and together they resumed their march. Only this time with a perfectly cooperative, albeit heavily blushing, wizard leading the way.
The next morning arrived with a peaceful, golden light filtering through the windows of the Elfsong Tavern. The common room was unusually quiet, except for the soft clinking of cutlery and the rich aroma of coffee.
You and Astarion sat together speaking in low tones, enjoying a rare moment of calm.
Then, the heavy oak door to the sleeping quarters creaked open. Every single head at the breakfast table snapped up in unison.
Gale shuffled into the room. He looked as though he had been thoroughly dismantled and reassembled. His usually immaculate violet robes were hopelessly rumpled, one sleeve completely torn. His hair, typically kept in a tidy, sensible style, looked like a small animal had nested in it.
He didn't walk so much as limp across the room, his legs moving with a strange, unsynchronised rhythm.
"Good morning, everyone" Gale rasped.
"Well, well, well," Astarion purred, leaning his chin on his hand as he watched the wizard struggle to pull out a chair. "Looks like love is indeed a battlefield for some. Do you require a healing potion, hm? Or perhaps an entire crate of them?"
Gale slowly lowered himself into a seat, a long-suffering groan escaping his lips as his joints popped. He rested his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with a weak, breathless chuckle.
"I am... intact," Gale mumbled into his palms. "Though I am reasonably certain my soul was temporarily untethered from my mortal form somewhere around three in the morning. I saw Mystra. She looked unimpressed."
Karlach let out a laugh, sliding a heavily loaded plate of sausages and eggs right in front of him. "Eat up! You earned it! I've never seen anyone look so completely wrecked and incredibly smug at the same time."
"Indeed," Shadowheart remarked, taking a delicate sip of her coffee, her eyes dancing with wicked amusement. "Though I must admit, the absolute silence at one point was the most terrifying part. I fully expected that we would need to Withers at some point."
The door swung open again and Minthara and Laeâzel stepped into the room.
Unlike the wizard, the two warriors looked radiant. Mintharaâs armour was perfectly polished, her posture immaculate as she adjusted her cloak with a deeply satisfied smirk. Beside her, Laeâzel looked refreshed, her chin held high, her eyes bright with the satisfaction one would have after a successful campaign.
They both glanced toward the table. Minthara's eyes lingered on Gale for a moment, her expression shifting into a look of begrudging respect.
"The wizard performed... well," Minthara announced to the room, her voice smooth and imperious. "His endurance is notable for a frail surface-dweller."
"Indeed," Laeâzel agreed with a nod. "A worthy display."
Gale slowly lifted his head from his hands, his eyes wide and bloodshot as he looked at the two women.
You hid your laugh behind a cough and suggested that Gale should stay behind and recuperate.
In ten days time, the final battle was upon you. You could hear nothing above symphony of screaming steel and the terrifying psychic pressure of the Netherbrain looming just beyond the tower. You threw yourself behind a crumbling stone pillar, pressing your back against it as a stray bolt of energy exploded right where your head had been a second ago.
You stood up on shaking legs, your heart hammering loudly in your chest. But, to your embarrassment, that was not the only thing that you could feel. Right against your skin, the purple silk underwear was humming like a captive hornet.
"Watch yourself, darling!"
The sudden, intense pulse of magical vibration caught you entirely off guard. Your knees buckled slightly, a gasp tearing from you as a wave of localized heat rippled through your core. You narrowly dodged a charging cultist, throwing yourself to the side and driving your blade through his chest.
You glared through the smoke, tracing the smooth, familiar voice to a nearby ledge. Astarion was currently perched precariously on a pile of rubble. His arrows flew from his bow with deadly precision. He looked completely in his element until he looked down, noticed your visibly flushed face and dilated pupils, and realized exactly why your balance was failing you in the middle of a battle.
His eyes widened, an arrow slipping from his fingers as he stared at you in absolute, utter shock.
"Are you... are you wearing those?!" he shouted over the roar of a nearby fireball, his voice cracking with a mixture of disbelief and amusement. "Now?! During the literal end of the world?!"
"I didn't exactly have time to do laundry!" you yelled back defensively, your face burning hotter than the magical flames around you. "It was the only clean pair left in my pack!"
"You've got to be kidding me1" Shadowheart shouted as she sprinted past your pillar, raising her shield to deflect an attack. She glanced down at your trembling legs, then looked up at Astarion. "If you two die because of this, Iâm leaving you to rot!"
"Oh, have a little faith, Shadowheart!" Astarion laughed, dropping down from the ledge, onto what used to be stone bench and landing gracefully right next to you. He drove a dagger into a dying mind flayer, twisting the blade until the abomination stilled. The vampire set his crimson eyes on you, a wicked, smirk on his face. "Of all the times to run out of clean underwear, my sweet fool. You are truly magnificent."
"Shut up," you breathed out, your knuckles turning white around the hilt of your weapon. "Just... watch what you say!"
"I'll try my best, darling," he purred.
The vibration hit a frantic, trembling crescendo right as a massive armoured figure loomed behind you. Fuelled by a dizzying mixture of adrenaline, anger and overstimulation, you lunged forward, driving your weapon straight through the enemy's armour and bringing the troll down with a crash. You panted heavily as the magical stones slowly settled back down to a low, torturous simmer.
Astarion watched you, his tongue tracing his lower lip as a deeply heated, thoroughly impressed look flashed in his eyes.
"My, my," he murmured, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that made the silk against your skin hum expectantly. "Remind me to neglect our laundry duties far more often when we get back to the tavern."
Hours later, the smoke over the river slowly drifted away, carrying with it the final, ash-choked memories of the Absolute. The sky above Baldurâs Gate was no longer bruised with foul energy. The Gate was a city that had seen many a battle. It had healed before and it would do so again.
You sank to your knees, your muscles aching with a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. Your armour was scorched and some of it was torn clean off, your skin was smeared with soot, and your hands were still trembling slightly.
But, thankfully, the world was completely still. You let out a long, ragged sigh of pure relief, tilting your head back as you felt a cool hand on your cheek.
"Well. We survived," a smooth, familiar voice said nearby.
You opened your eyes to see Astarion looking at you. He stopped right in front of you, leaning his weight onto one hip as he looked down with a soft, affectionate smile.
"And more importantly," he murmured, his voice dropping into that low, teasing cadence you knew all too well, "you managed to make it through the entire ordeal without collapsing under all that⌠pressure. I must say, darling, your focus was truly commendable."
Right on cue, a sudden, sharp vibrationrippled through the silk.
You gasped, your spine snapping perfectly straight as the localized vibration flared to life. You shot him a look of lethal irritation.
"Astarion," you warned, your voice a low growl. "I swear to the gods, if you say that word one more time before I find a proper bath and change, I will throw you into the river."
Astarion clapped a hand over his mouth theatrically, his shoulders shaking. He stepped closer, reaching down to gently take your soot-stained hand in his, his thumb tracing circles across your knuckles.
"Alright, Iâll be on my best behaviour," he chuckled, his crimson eyes gleaming with a mixture of relief and quiet adoration. "No more magic. For now.â
You couldn't help but smile, pulling him down to sit beside you so that you could press your forehead against his chest. The city around you was beginning to cheer, the surviving companions were gathering in the distance, but right here, in the quiet aftermath of almost the end of the world, you two were safe in each otherâs arms.
you are NOT immune to cunty little detective. at some point in your life your brain will be taken over by a fictional detective and thereâs nothing you can do about it. it WILL happen to you. you might even end up transgender about it
genuinely so upset that the fight club movie replaced boiling marlas mother with stealing from a liposuction clinic that part of the book was insane. it better highlights how tyler claims he doesnt need women in his life, then proceeds to manipulate women and profit off of their literal flesh. i think it foreshadows very well how good he is at playing people no matter how special they believe they are to him, and how theres no reason he wouldnât manipulate the narrator as well.
part 1 / part 2 / part 3 (can be read as a stand-alone but i make references to part 2 in this one so do check out the first parts if you feel so inclined âĄ)
pairing: astarion x f!reader
themes and warnings: nsfw, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT! alcohol/drinking, mention of past trauma/abuse (astarion related backstory), blood (vamp stuff), porn with some plot because i'm a sucker for romance, masturbation, oral (female and male receiving), unprotected sex, penetration (female receiving), overstimulation, creampie.
author's note: i ramble a bit but i did go to the school of âcan't write smut without some context and a pinch of poetry for good measureâ (not that i'm a poet by any means). regardless, i really hope you enjoy!
synopsis: after an eternity of avoiding what's been growing between the two of you, tension breaks one night at the elfsong tavern.
Holding your breath. That's what the past weeks have felt like. Waiting for something, you're not sure what. A push, a tug. A string to snap. The great, pondering silence to shatter.
The noise of the city barely drowns out the feeling. It persists, like a splinter, a wine-dark stain, an itch under the skin.
You used to know how to breathe properly.
Astarion has kept his hands to himself, mostly. He's touched you, sure, though the language of his touch is different, separated from the secret dialect he employed that lone, hidden moment in the Underdark. Now, there's the precious way he rubs the inside of your wrist to call your attention. âWell, won't you look at that,â he'll whisper. Drawing your eyes to something unexpected or scandalous or vaguely demented, and you're reminded he could never bore you.
You haven't tried to discuss the thing. You'll both rather bicker over hideous fashion trends, which spots of the city are most amusing or hazardous (or both) on a night out, but whatever this is, whateverlies in the space between the both of you, a lethargic, starved dragon, this thing remains dormant, a terrifying and foreign subject.
There have been fleeting moments of almost scratching it.
Down in the city sewers, crouching between mouldy pillars, ready for an ambush. Can feel his presence behind you, an eyelash away, inert as basalt. You try not to let the nauseating stench and slimy dampness of your surroundings break your concentration. The vampire pressed to your back doesn't help.
âYou're bleeding,â he sniffs after a while. âIt's distracting.â
Eyes still fixed on your point of interest, you impatiently pull your sleeve down to cover the abrasion.
âGetting hungry, are we?â you sneer, matching his whispers. His talking seldom helps you focus.
He doesn't reply, but you can almost hear him smirk.
âGuess you should've grabbed a bite before we left,â you add, trying not to pay his wriggling any mind.
Astarion shifts forward a little. The soft leather of his armour grates the back of your shoulder. His voice caresses your cheek, muttered too close to your skin.
âYou know I don't like to rush. It's much more pleasurable to take your time⌠Savour things. Particularly when they're sweet.â
Doomed to surrender your concentration once and for all, your gaze catches his, the low glimmer in the carmine pool of his eyes. There's a disparity between the tightness in your throat and how appalled you are at his terrible innuendo.
During these brief, fluttering seconds, you both miss the signal to attack. Takes a roaring war cry, steel clanging, the scorching blast of a cantrip to beckon you back to reality. Your introduction into the fight is an uncoordinated mess, the delectable synergy you've felt countless times combatting next to Astarion diminished to a shambling dance, jittery and chaotic as an exorcism.
Your aim is off, smoke powder bomb detonating way too fucking close. No time to brace yourself or attempt to jump off the plummeting structure you've hoisted yourself upon for better visibility. The wooden scaffold carrying you and hooded adversaries comes crashing down, swallowing you up in a heap of ashes and rubble. Thoughts rattling in your brain like a box of snakes, a faint ringing in your ear, you can feel splinters stuck under your nails, hear the clatter of beams reduced to twigs falling apart around you. Eyes watery from smoke, cheeks painted a generous varnish of soot, you're pulled out of the debris by Astarion's hurried hands, blinking when met with his feverish gaze.
âAre you alright?â
His voice arrives muffled, a mermaid's howl from underwater. You nod â can't talk, trying to expel the acrid smoke from your lungs. Your aural faculty crawls back gradually, reticent as a dog that's been kicked.
âYou should see the other guys.â
Can taste bitterness on your teeth, how they're coloured black with smokepowder. It's an oddity, how Astarion would deign to lay his hands on anything so grotesquely covered in grime. Yet, his fingers are there, digging into your shoulders, holding your chin up, checking you over. Spying for harm under the crass.
âWhat a profoundly stupid way to die,â he comments, emphasizing the foolishness of it all.
âSure, but they had it coming.â
âI'm not talking about them,â he almost spits that last word out, âI'm talking about you. Taken out by your own grenadeâŚâ A scoff, the acidic sort. âI'd definitely mark that down on your tombstone for posterity.â
Spoken like he's never taken a million risks just for the joy of making an enemy yelp their mother's name right before receiving his blade. But it's all different when it's you, isn't it?
âThought I'd be the one having a little fun, for once,â you comment. Your bravado shines like dawn through foliage, hiding the imperceptible tremor in your hands. It's the one mistake you make, glancing down, clenching your fists. Astarion's gaze bounces from your broken nails to your own eyes, quietly watching the alteration in your expression, how quickly it reforms from brassy arrogance to stumbling anxiety once you understand that he knows. Eyes that seem to scream at him, âDon't, it's fine, I'm fine.â But it's nothing he hasn't heard from you before.
Your elbows pivot in an attempt to tuck the culprits behind your back, but his palms have seized your wrists, halting your gesture.
âThere is a distinction between fun and incompetence, you know,â he points out.
You swallow harshly, seemingly biting back something caustic.
He interrupts the bundling tempest in your throat, thumbs resting on a pulsating vein, hidden beneath the vanishing curve of your life line. You don't pull away. You could, if you wanted to. All it'd take is a light shake, just enough to brush him off, the way you would petals caught in your hair.
Instead, your clasped joints unfold, muscles relaxed. You breathe better.
âIf you weren't so damn distracting, perhaps I would've been more alert,â you murmur.
âThat makes us even, then.â
Your nerves have ceased spasming when Astarion lets you go. You rub your hands together, gazing back at him. There's a line at the corner of his mouth, something devilish and beguiling. If it weren't for the footsteps of your allies running through the pungent fog to you, perhaps you would've wiped some of the dust from your lips on his.
Another time, you've had a sip too many of Blingdenstone Blush. Cherry still sweet on your tongue, you're recounting an outrageous incident witnessed earlier near the docks. Tavern's rumbling with people, loud as a storm. Your voice quickly tires. You lean into him to speak, as most people do in conversation. âAnd listen to this,â pulling him closer so as not to lose the precious attention he's wrapped you in. It's the best part of the story, after all. Forearm resting on his shoulder, your fingers meet his hair and remain there, loosely playing with the curls draped over his neck. Absorbed in your descriptions, mind so focused on language, you forget about movement. This feels natural. Viscerally instinctive. Why refrain from it? Astarion loves you like this, guard down, tender, unburdened by constant overanalysing. You stop after a while, distracted by something else. A shame, he thinks.
When did he grow so pathetic? Thrown into this unbridled quest for your approval, pushing through briars of his old heart to catch a glimpse of you. Used to find petty satisfaction only through the adulation of others, little prince of vanity, macerating in unreciprocated worship; for centuries, such was the only cheap treasure he could trick himself into owning. When did the roles reverse? He should despise this, still leans into it, this earnest rot of the mind, an illness so delectable only poets and romantics (in other words, imbeciles) would allow to ferment. Spends burning efforts muffling the mad rush, silencing his yearning, this hunger of alien nature. Look at me, he'll think, give me your eyes, give me your face, and your wrists, and the back of your knees.
But Astarion doesn't want to be touched. Recoiling at the thought of another's knuckles stroking him, memories of ravenous mouths, pairs of anonymous hands. Latched onto his body like barnacles, etching their own sickening want into his skin. Then there's you, scraping away the rust. Tracing what's been eroded. So curious, so careful. It's the light hand brushing his back before you ask him a question. Your knee bumping his when you disagree. Your touch speaks a language he craves to commune with, asking âWhat do you think?â, âWhat's on your mind?â, âIs this what you want?â. How tightly you held him, once, a few hours before dawn. Because the past is never truly buried, and its caravan of sombre skeletons enjoys a stroll out from time to time. His face nestled into the nook of your neck; your embrace like an anchor, laden with a promise. Your hands don't take: they hold together.
So where does the silence fall from?
There are moments you want to pull him away, extract the truth, like a seed from a fruit. âWhat is this between us? What am I to you?â
All possible answers scare you.
Now, the night is warm, resounding with the joyful chatter of your companions. Their restlessness fills every nook and cranny of the Elfsong Tavern. Curled up against the velvet-soft upholstery of a booth, shoulder to shoulder with Shadowheart, you're playing with a napkin your busy hands have shaped into a swan. Wyll is recounting the tale of the redcap that almost skewered his good eye. A born narrator, he holds his audience's attention, charmingly effortless.
It's the first evening spent without Astarion close by. He met you moments after the sun vanished into the sea. Whispered something about getting some air. You didn't join him, sensing he wished to be alone. Through his absence, you learn how accustomed you've grown to having him at your side. How impulsive your desire to slip him every passing thought in your mind, drink in his laugh, wear his gaze like a second skin. There's an unpleasantness to the realization, though you aren't sure why.
Wyll's storyâone of many shared this eveningâreaches its epilogue. Cheers and witty comments accompany the concluded tale. Sensing you could be next on the roster, panicking at the prospect, you muster enough strength to rise from the delectable comforts of your seat.
âI shall now retire for the evening,â you declare. You are met with a cacophony of dramatic protests matching your humorous tone. A few jokes later, you are let go, with wishes of sweet dreams and restful hours.
Their laughter walks with you still as you make your way up towards your room, a smile lingering on your lips, basking in the solace of shared moments with your friends. Your arms reach up to the ceiling. Can hear your back crack, spine pulled in a delightful stretch.
You've got a date you wouldn't missâone with a warm bath.
An hour has passed, and the tips of your fingers are wrinkled like prunes. Body softened by water, a delicious indolence has settled in your limbs. Any attempt to move is met with drowsy resistance from your muscles and brain.
Skin glossy from condensation, you manage to shift position, one foot resting on the side of the wooden tub, lined up with clean, immaculate fabric. From the corner of your eye, you spy the final tremors of a dying candle, its flame extinguishing in a smoky rattle, further dimming its corner of the room. Perhaps it'd be wise to emerge, dry up, snuggle soft pillows under a weighted duvet, offer yourself to well-deserved sleep. A pleasing prospect, but you aren't quite ready for complete slumber yet.
Your hand trails over your stomach. Mind dawdling elsewhere, it weaves secret pictures crafted for yourself alone. Your reverie settles on a decor distant from your typical sceneries. Under your eyelids, you see the tormented valleys of the Underdark, the ghost of a campfire, the sleepless simulacra of a night. As the pads of your fingers tease your flesh, your imagination finishes its conjuration, beckoning the memory of teeth grazing your skin, snow-pale locks teasing your cheekbones, agile digits flashing through the tarnished light only to vanish between your thighs.
There's a creak, a shrill anomaly, alienated from your fantasy. Floorboards whining beneath a careful footstep. You sit up at once, hand flying to your side, seizing a weapon that isn't there. Relief washes over you once you recognize his gracile form.
âYou scared me,â you half sigh, half groan. Bringing your knees closer as you lean back against the wooden panel. âI wasn't expecting you.â
Astarion closes the door behind him.
âIs that so? I did knock, you see.â
Voice is silk soft, leaving you to wonder if he's telling the truth. In the feeble candlelight, you try to study him, only making out the uncanny shine of his umbral-kissed irises.
âAm I disturbing you?â he purrs. His words hold a puckish quality to them, teasing you like the whiskers of a cat. You dare not entertain the possibility that he's seen more than he lets on.
âNo,â you reply, a little quicker than you should. It is a silly answer, of course, given your current state, but you do not want him to leave.
Light brushes his face when he moves, taking one suspiciously well-behaved step forward. Your arms cross over the edge of the tub, chin resting on your wrists as you take him in. Lilac hues blossom beneath his porcelain skin, diffuse enough that they could pass for a simple trick of the faded lights.
âYou're staring,â he points out, absent-mindedly playing with the dismissed shirt you've thrown over a chair, running his fingers over the seams.
âJust thinking. Surely it isn't simple, getting fresh blood in the city without raising any suspicion.â
âNot if you know where to look,â he replies, enigmatic, seemingly uninterested in offering you the juicy details of his hunt. After a moment, he adds, âThere's no hiding anything from you, is there?â
You tilt your head to the side.
âI've just walked in, barely enough time to say hello,â you cut him off between syllables, inserting a playful âhello,â to which he responds with a scoff, ââHello yourself. And you've already guessed what I've been up to tonight.â
A grin floats to your lips, your nail picking on an imperfection in the wood pattern.
âI know where to look,â you retort, mimicking his aloofness.
He clicks his tongue. Perhaps you're inclined to generosity, or his standing so far away frustrates you. Shiny droplets crash from your skin onto the ground as you gesture to him. âCome closer, I'll tell you,â you promise.
He would've approached without your invitation; you're sure of it. Astarion kneels beside you, one arm resting on the side of the tub. He still smells like the night, vertiginous, enthralling, all fresh rain and smoke. His fingertips dip into the water, marbling its surface, turning it shiny as a mirror.
âIt's cold,â he notices. âWhat are you still doing in there?â
A shrug. Your knees are poking out of the bath like water lilies.
âFell asleep.â
His mouth curves into a grin. He knows you're lying. Embarrassment swarms your shoulders.
âHave you had too much wine, dear?â he inquires, so sickly sweet you almost taste the syrup trickling down your throat. You are never sure whether it is another side effect of his blood tasting. The burst of effervescent affection, miraculous if not strange, akin to having a wild animal rub against your ankles, asking to curl up on your lap.
âBarely. Someone kept stealing my cup.â
Your ego compels you to hold his gaze. Hoping to catch the moment he'll break away, look down to your nude, water-clad form. Regrettably, Astarion is better at this game than you are. A shudder climbs up your neck, birthed from cold rather than the eye contact.
âGrab a towel for me?â you gently plead, pointing to the neatly folded pile on a stool.
He indulges in one last lingering look, reminding you of the promise you haven't yet honoured. As he moves away, your arms cross, hoping to hide the physiological effects of cold on your body.
From the opposite end of the tub, Astarion holds out the piece of cloth to you, far enough that you'd have no choice but to stand in order to grab it.
Stubbornness causes you to consider the situation, pondering on possible outcomes and contortions in your head in order to avoid the trap. Your squirming doesn't go unnoticed. Astarion's having too much fun, with his fake, dove-like innocence, eyes alert, inescapable. You're tempted to kick some of the water in his face, or perhaps drag him in with you. He'd really hate that. He must read your malicious plans on your displeased expression, because his weight shifts, taking one step further back.
âYou won't let a lady freeze to death, will you?â The act doesn't takeâcan't quite sell the damsel in distress part, despite wearing the proper costume.
âOf course notâ, he coos, âcome and get it.â
He gestures to you, both encouraging and provocative. You bite the inside of your cheek. Somewhere over his shoulder, another candle dies out.
Impatience decides the outcome of this moronic power play. One arm curled covering your bust, you push on your legs, shocked from the brutal rush of air over your dripping skin. Your other hand attempts to snatch the towel from him, but Astarion swings it back, pulling it out of your reach at the very last second.
âGods, you're insufferable,â you mutter between clenched teeth.
âMmh? I reckon making you a little angry will warm you right up.â
Shamelessly departed from your face, his eyes seem to sear the parts of you it lingers on, dropping a scorching kiss on your ribs and thighs. Your pulse quickens, leaning in for a final attempt to seize something to cover yourself with.
Catching you by surprise, his arm circles your waist, pulling you to him in a slosh of water. You yelp, erupting in a vibrant fit of laughter, taken off guard but sincere. Your legs kick the air, flying over the edge of the tub with barely any effort. Giggles mixed with a few protests, you lament at the disloyalty of his ambush, met only with his spark of mischief and refusal to let you go. Astarion's hands are colder than the water, tickling your spine.
âYou haven't answered me.â The musicality in his voice is a delight to the ears, almost swabbing your indignation away. âLittle darling knows everything. What was the dead giveaway to my blood feast, pray tell?â
Swallowing your embarrassment like a sour brew, you deliver a magnanimous sigh.
âYou get a certain blush, after you drink,â you explain, an answer so simple it's almost odd he never suspected it. âHere,â your index taps his left cheekbone, âand there,â abandoning a drop of water on its right counterpart. âNever lasts longâsuits you, though.â
Astarion's eyelashes flutter in reaction. He seems taken aback. âI suppose there was no way for me to know⌠Other than you telling me, that is.â
You smile empathically. No mirror's fortunate enough to reflect his features back to him. Eyes are fallible for certain, and when he drinks from you, yours are usually shut during the process. But after he finishes, while his attention remains scattered, dazed, you often find yourself taking him in. It's true you do like this faint glow he wears after those sessions, holding a certain misplaced, secret pride from being partially its cause.
He tucks a string of wet hair behind your ear.
âDarling, you really are shivering.â
âAnd whose fault is that?â you murmur back.
After a beat, he moves away, not too far, just to shake the fabric loose, draping it over your shoulders and pulling the corners into your hands. Your fingers clench, grateful for the shielding weight. His gaze floats back to yours. Traipses down to your lips.
Worry compresses your chest, fast and cruel. You weren't born yesterday, and coyness only looks good on those who aren't sure what they want. You happen to know exactly what you want. The only issue is, what about him?
Maybe he catches doubt on your face. Something shifts in his gaze. Your mouth opens.
âI don't want to fuck around.â
Your words are abrupt, heartbreakingly earnest, reverberating through the dim light. How loud they sound, despite being spoken in a hurried breath. You speak fast, because your courage could waver at any momentâit is already slipping away, slick as an eel.
âI don't want to lose my head like last time if it means we'll never talk about it again. I can't sleep with you and just forget.â
Your gravitas forces a laugh out of Astarion. But it is a strained sound to your trained ear; there's nervousness behind the staccato. A small line appears between his brows, darkening his eyes. For the first time, he considers the stretched silence, urged to join you in splitting it in two, after weeks of bending it with no breakage. At last, there's the opening, an opportunity to spill, let the tormented sky tear, give way to downpour. This is new to him, foreign, fucking terrifying. He knows this dichotomy exists, the absurd pull of wanting something while fearing it. To see such paradox bundled in you leaves him helpless, unsure how to proceed.
I can't sleep with you and forget.
His left index finger curls beneath your chin.
âIt'd pain me if you did,â he admits.
âThen what am I to you, Astarion?â
He contemplates you, speechless. For once, it seems his repartee fails him. You're biting on your lip as if you hurt yourself, like the words had been growing within you for a long time, finally uprooted from your throat, prickly as briars. Brave girl. He could try and muster an answer. A proper one, for your sake, for those bright eyes set on him, wide and beguiling as a moonlit shrine. What are you indeed?
His hands nestle the base of your jaw, cradling your face. Can feel the fastened jumps of your heart right under his finger pads, jolting like a small bird.
âYou're someone I want. Someone I love.â
Surprise traverses your features like a comet. Perhaps you did not expect truth, raw and unrehearsed. Searching his gaze, you realize there's no embellishment here.
When he leans in to kiss you, you let him. This, too, feels natural. Your mouth responds to his, opening like a rose. It is not a first kiss, yet it feels like one. His tongue teasing yours, you recognize his taste, adjoined to something both singularly organic and iron-like. Astarion sighs into your mouth. The edges of the cloth dissimulating your naked form have dropped below your shoulder blades, and your body presses further into his, dampening his clothes, free hand slipping beneath his shirt, exploring the cool firmness of his lower back.
âI'm at a disadvantage,â you point out with a hitched breath and something like humour. âYou've seen so much more of me than I have of you.â
He smirks.
âI quite like you disadvantaged.â
There's an imperceptible rustling when the fabric hanging loosely from you hits the floor at last.
âIt's just not fair.â
âCan't wait to take my clothes off?â he retorts, brimming with malice. âI can hardly blame you.â
Arms around his neck, you're rolling your eyes, a little amused. Bringing your knee up slightly, you caress the inside of his thigh, lewd touch stopping barely an inch away from his crotch. His grin falters a tad, lips parted. You can almost hear him gasp, a growl caught in his throat.
âI didn't really fall asleep in the tub, by the way,â you admit, tilting your head.
Astarion scoffs, like there was ever a chance he'd swallow the pitiful excuse you served him earlier.
âWhat a surprise. You're a terrible liar, my sweet.â
âMaybe you know me too well.â
His grin widens, almost carnivorous.
âThat too.â
His right hand curves over your waist, your flesh still softened by water. You both clumsily hit the corner of the bed a little too strongly, a mixture of groans and laughter spilling into the tight space between you.
There's a buzzing in your belly, frogs leaping about, a menacing frenzy knocking all coherent thought away. He kicks his boots off as you gingerly help undress him, hands disorganized, jittery with haste, sending his shirt to the depths of the room. Astarion savours the warmth of your fingers running over his chest, exploring the hollow around his collarbones, falling to the defined line of his hips. Your eyes have a spark to them, brazen with fascination and stifled desire. He wonders if this is what he looks like, when you bare your throat for his fangs to taste.
âMy my, look at you,â he comments, just as you're about to dip your fingers into the waistband of his trousers. âGreedy little paws.â
Heat creeps upon your cheekbones, floundering from the interruption. It pleases him, to catch you like that, red-handed in the brazier of yearning. Nearing the corner of your mouth, he murmurs into your cheek:
âI'm not stopping you, love.â
And though it's just his voice, he might as well have slipped a hand between your legs.
Heart thumping in your ears, holding eye contact like an incandescent dagger, you kneel down cautiously, catching a glow of curiosity in his pupils. Fingers extend to finish what they started, to discard him from the rest of the garments hiding him from your touch. Layer after layer, taking your sweet time too. The outline of his erection is visible through his underwear, and you're gazing back up, lips shifting into a crooked curve. Your knuckles graze him ever so softly as you peel the fabric all the way down, dragging on for so long he thinks you might be doing it out of spite.
Astarion frowns almost imperceptibly, staring down at you, trying to ignore how close that pretty face of yours is getting to his length.
He's reminded of a blurry memory, your pillowy lips closed around his fingers, an image from so long ago it almost feels like a hallucination. The thought causes a twitch in his belly, clenched tight with craving.
You're enjoying this. Pretending you don't notice the tension in his muscles when you run your hands over his thighs. When you lean in, his hand jolts forward, almost to touch your hair, stopping just a thread away. You plant a cloud-soft peck on his hipbone, before standing back up in a gush of air, flavoured in honeysuckle soap. He's not sure what hits him then; torturous frustration or the relief of not having spontaneously combusted from your pernicious little trick.
Arms slipping around him like ivy, your hands clasp behind his back and you press him against you. Astarion represses a low, visceral grunt.
âYou're right, there's no rush,â you say, which would almost sound like an apology, if it weren't for the fact that you're whispering it so close to his ear, with his dick caught between your bodies, hard nipples teasing his chest. Gods, that expression of yours. He wants to erase your smugness, make your mouth open around his name, weigh your eyelids down with pleasure.
Sensing his distraction, you seize the opportunity, guiding him until the back of his knees hit the mattress. There's a light shuffle when he settles on the bed, shifting his weight towards the headboard in a more comfortable position. You barely manage to crawl on top of him, he's already grabbing your tits, your ass, feeling you out. You let out a disapproving hiss.
âGreedy paws,â you whistle, mimicking his earlier tone as you pry his claws away. He holds his hands up, deceitfully compliant, the scarlet sparkle in his eye seemingly asking what then?
You're leaning into him, bringing your faces closer. Until a sudden thump, the soft shock of your skull hitting the headboard, and he snorts, torn between compassion and snickering, shattering your concentration.
âCome on. I'm trying to be seductive here.â
âPhysical coordination, not an easy feat for all,â he jests, matching your tune. You're glad he seems to be enjoying himself.
âDo you do this a lot? Embarrass naked girls sitting on top of you?â
He hums melodiously.
âParticularly when the only one I'm interested in won't let me fondle her.â
Eyes rolling, you catch his right hand, setting it on top of your heart.
âHappy?â
His smirk is answer enough, softened by the way he looks up at you. He likes fooling around, digressing with you, even in the midst of what should be an important moment.
Carefully this time, your lips meet the firm line of his neck, mirroring a motion he's done many times with you in the past. His cool fingers squeeze your waist further, turning pliant under your gentle embrace. Love bites abandoned on his skin might not last long, but in your blurry mind, they're definitely worth a try.
Your hand slithers between your bodies, grazing his abdomen, his pelvis, until you find him, palming his hardness, curious to see how he'll fit in your hand. His jaw tightens. You caress him prudently, pulling your wrist in an upward motion.
âHow's this feel?â you whisper.
âKeep going.â
With a charmed grin, you comply. Fingers still massaging him, you kiss your way down his torso. When your mouth nears his dick, you feel him throb in your hand. You bite down on your lip, flushed from the irrefutable effect you have on him.
Astarion leans on an elbow to watch you. His eyes glimmer with antique carnality, callous desire, a look you've seldom seen on himâif everâeven through the depths of his blood thirst. It's eerie, but so fucking enthralling, lure and trap all at once.
Transfixed, his mouth falls slightly agape when your warm tongue, timid at first, begins to circle him. Tasting him. Textured skin, hard veins and rounded tip, offered to your exploration.
The outlines of his most indecent dreams are shaped just like the curves of your lips. When they wrap around his length, his hips jitter, a rush of delight ushering through his core. Finally, what he coveted most in his suffocated fantasies. Your mouth, that dream mouth, suckling him, inflaming his body. Drawing just the right amount of pressure, inexorably coaxing him into something hidden and tantalizing. You pull back a fraction of a second to catch your breath. He's fascinated by this shiny blend of him and you, gathered in the crevices of your lips, lightly coating your chin, like a thin layer of wax. Holding this image in his mind, his head rolls back. Fuck. Raspy moans break through his throat. Can't believe how deliriously good your tongue feels, your hands gripping him where your lips can't reach, touching him like you're searching for gold in a fountain.
Your free hand finds your clit, the other still playing with him, mouth tasting the saltiness of his precum, collecting it on your tongue, leaving his cock glossy with his arousal and your spit.
You're not sure at which moment his body begins to go slack. It's insidious, but impossible not to notice, how he shifts from responding to your touch to this sudden, frozen stiffness.
You pull back, warily licking your lips, stumbling in your mind.
âHey, hey... Are you alright?â
Bringing yourself up to his level, you search for his gaze, trying to ignore the spiked panic compressing your heart. Astarion has sat back up. He seems momentarily distracted by your glistening mouth, but you fail to read him, fail to decipher what could be shaking under his skull. His eyes find yours. Whatever he wishes to say, he struggles to find the words for.
âI justââ
The dreadful snake of worry coils over your sternum. You try your best to untwist it, shove it away, focused solely on him. His expression shifts, from this strange remoteness to something resembling frustration, shame, anger, a complicated brew, tensing his features. When he speaks again, his voice only seems calm. Decelerated, unbalanced, edging on the shadowy crack running through his thoughts.
âYou know I've⌠I've bedded many people. It seems at times that my body escapes me. I want to do one thing, but it resorts back to old habits. Habits I've been trying to shake.â
Intimacy used to be a deceptive tool, reliable as a dagger, gorgeous, cruel and cold, perfected and rehearsed to the last chisel. Every whimper and caress, studied glance, lubricious spectacle, all for pleasure, just never his. To be gifted it organically, after exhausting decades of tormented pretend⌠It's terrifying, unfamiliar, exhilarating. It overwhelms and shatters. He never wants to give it up. He does not know how to hold it.
âPerhaps it's too early.â Your voice fills the void. âWe don'tâ we shouldn't do anythâŚâ
He cuts you off mid-sentence, almost abruptly.
âNo. No, I want this. You have no idea how much I want thisâwant you. â
Astarion exhales, glancing down at your hands, still clutched around your knees.
âWhat can I do?â you inquire, almost in a whisper.
His fingers nudge yours, hesitantly tracing the shape of your nails.
âBe patient with me. Allow me to forget and learn again. Not in my former ways, but in⌠well, yours.â
Perhaps it'd be easier, with your hands to help, step by step in the dark, your voice following him, undoing old knots and chains.
âI'm with you all the way,â you promise.
He marks a pause. Grasping your elbow, he tugs you a breath closer.
âThe others, they weren't always⌠like you. Not all of them were gentle.â
âOh, Astarion⌠I'm so sorry.â
He might hate to be held now, you fear. He's always detested being seen like a glass sculpture, on the verge of shattering. One early morning, you remember embracing him, that memory still so vivid in your mind, because it was the first time his body leaned into yours like this, almost begging for affection, for reassurance. But even if he didn't pull away back then, you were afraid to have overdone it.
Leaving him untouched now, after such a confession, it seems wrong. You settle somewhere in the middle, hand stealing up to his face, thumb stroking his cheek. Astarion's fingers fall on top of yours. He kisses the inside of your palm. You've never seen him like this, so open, vulnerable.
âDo you trust me?â you ask.
He knows it's just the two of you in this room. That there's nobody to perform for. He used to believe safety was power, a honed blade. He never thought it could be a person.
âObviously. Yes.â
You nod, your nerves relaxing a little.
You lie down next to him, shoulder to shoulder in silence, giving him a moment to recollect. Two pairs of eyes, set on the diluted candlelight and blurred shadows painted across the ceiling. He listens to the rhythm of your heart, how it slows down to a steadier cadence. Its hum soothes him, a stable litany ushering away the haunted fears.
Lost in thought, the back of your hand wipes some of the lustful dampness still maculating your chin. His cold fingers suddenly brush your face, surprising you. Using the soft base at the back of his digits to rub your cheek, your lips, catching the spots you missed. He doesn't speak as he does so. You try very hard to keep your composure.
When he's done, a thought creeps up the back of your mind, an inappropriate realization, causing you to wriggle uncomfortably.
âI can hear thoughts rattling in that head of yours,â he warns.
Uncertainty bogs you down until you gather the courage to tell him.
âDid you⌠Feed tonight in prospect that you'd come to bed with me?â
You almost want to vanish in the shadowy draperies of the room upon babbling those words, but the brief palpitation between your question and his answer leads you to believe you aren't too far off. You look to your side, too late to catch his initial reaction, quick enough to witness the fast blink of his eyelashes.
âI'm a vampire, we tend to need blood to survive,â he mocks.
And though his sarcasm hides it well, he hasn't exactly answered the question. You know blood invigorates him, makes him focused, sharp, happy. And he did knock on your doorâor so he saidâat an hour unfit for courteous conversation.
You'd tease him more, if the moment before hadn't been so serious, still weighing around you. Out of kindness, you avert your gaze. His, on the other hand, still wanders over your body.
In the trembling light, you're suddenly very aware of yourself, the shape of your breasts, your stomach, your legs. Coloured with scratches, blemishes, old markings, your entire life story carved in your epidermis.
Without the diversion of proximity or movement, you feel strikingly exposed, laid bare under his gaze. Instinctively, your arms seal over your chest.
âWhat is it?â he inquires, noticing your sudden nervousness.
âNothing,â you reply flatly.
Slowly, he reaches forward. His slender fingers envelop your wrists, sounding your features for signs of awkwardness or protest. But your muscles unclench, pliant, offering him the lead. Gently, he moves your wrists away.
Astarion kisses you next, warm and heady, like wine pouring into your mouth. He pulls away too soon, alasâcertainly on purpose.
A roseate spark dances on the surface of his irises again. He's beautiful like this, with the blended light infusing a dusk like brilliance to his ivory skin, disordered locks cascading on his forehead.
âDo you trust me?â he asks, with the same inflection you used a few moments ago.
Your body responds before you do, surrendering to his touch, limbs lax, allowing him to take control.
âYes.â
His lips serpent down the path between your breasts, to your ribs, around your belly button. Nibbling on soft spots of your flesh, scars and imperfections, scattering affection on you like music notes. Your pulse rouses again when you feel his nails scrape your hips, legs opening for him almost spontaneously.
Astarion kisses the inside of your right thigh, where flesh blooms maddeningly tender. Eyes closed, he can hear the rush of blood under your skin. Can almost smell its distinct metallic bouquet, infused with what you've sipped on during the evening, blackcurrant aged in oak casks. Makes him forget he's already sunk his teeth in something else earlier, with lesser satisfaction. Humanoid blood is so very different, after allâyours in particular. The want grows dizzying. His mind stumbles, trails off, spellbound.
You let out a shocked yelp when his pointed fangs pierce your flesh.
A thin scarlet trickle runs down your leg, staining the sheets below. Astarion blinks quickly, abruptly pulled away from his haze.
âShit. Have I hurt you?â he inquires, remembering your cry, its sharp echo still oscillating around the room.
âNo. Iââ
It stung only for a split moment, less than a second, barely enough time for a moth to shake its wings. He's only ever drank from your neck until now, this is different. It was pain, but it didn't hurt, pain that brings pleasure, the sort people are often ashamed to speak of aloud.
âSorry. I'll be careful,â he promises.
âDon't be. I swear. I'm more sorry for the bedding, honestly.â
âAh. It'll probably see worse in its near future.â
You can't help but laugh, holding one hand against your mouth to muffle the sound. Astarion joins you for a short second, before his lips press into that secret part of you, turning your mirth into a moan.
Pulling you further to him, the back of your thighs rest on his shoulders while his tongue flattens between your folds. Alternating between whirling around your sensitive clit and careful suction, both eliciting a pathetic wail from you. Excitement twists around him as he tries to coax more of those sweet noises out, each one of your sighs sending a delectable wave to his core.
Your hands fall to your side, desperate for something to grab onto, wrinkling the sheets. Astarion's fingers find yours, interlacing with them as his wet mouth continues suckling on your clit. Eyes closed, you're in a whole different plane of existence, drowning in the feeling of his tongue ravishing you, your hands gripping his, the tickle of his hair falling over your lower stomach, light and fair as new snow. His fangs graze you from time to time, sending a jolt of electricity through you. Something hums inside your belly, unsteady, ecstatic. Astarion does not let go of you, even when your hips begin to jitter, pussy convulsing onto his mouth.
You don't want to come first. That's the only coherent certainty your brain can hold onto right now. With eyelids half open, you manage to push on his forehead, grab his chin. He stops, blinking from the interruption. You stammer to explain, voice strained with pleasure.
âWait⌠Fuck. Iââ
He props himself back up, pressing his weight onto the hands he's set on either side of your body, hovering over you. Shutting you up with a sloppy, stretched out kiss. You taste yourself on his lips, sandalwood and bitter cherry.
Knee torturously steered between your legs, he purposely pushes against your cunt. You feel like he's taking revenge on something you did earlier, but you're too turned on to remember what.
âWhat do you want?â he asks, teasing you with the tip of his nose, like he already knows.
His erection is suspended so close from your stomach, making you swallow hard. You're taking too much time to answer, searching for a proper sentence in your stunned mind. Astarion shifts his face down to your chest, pulling your left tit into his mouth, sucking on your nipple until your thoughts wriggle and crack. How the fuck are you supposed to talk when he does that?
âYou,â you laboriously manage to sigh. âWant you inside me. Wanna ride you, make you cum.â
âAnd what do nice girls say, when they want something?â he sings, vicious.
Could use one hand to count the amount of times you've begged for something in your life, and most of those instances, it seems, have been to him.
âPlease.â
âI didn't quite catch that.â
A low weep hisses its way out of you, between clenched teeth and pent-up frustration. The last strands of your pride barely keep you from grinding against his naked thigh, despite that patch of his skin being already humid with you.
âPlease,â and again in a hushed tone, âplease, I'll do anything.â
You can hear yourself, plaintive and pitiful. Worst is, you don't feel a single ounce of shame.
It seems your poignant supplication pleases Astarion. Perfidy tugs at his lips, hungry eyes tormenting you. You're afraid he'll pick on you some more, shocked when he doesn't.
âYou're irresistible when you beg,â spoken like a magnanimous devil. âCome get what you want.â
He doesn't need to give permission twice.
Catching his shoulders, you roll him over, switching positions with him. He lets out a huff when his back hits the mattress, grinning in both surprise and delight. Straddling him, the tip of his length pokes your hipbone. You reposition yourself, so his cock rests between your legs. Hips jittering back and forth, you don't take him in right away, relishing in a few seconds of pure friction with no barrier. From Astarion's complicated expression, the biting on his cheek, his gaze fixed on that precise spot between your joined bodies, you think you might be doing something right. It's ridiculous, how wet his mouth has made you. A few strokes of your core rubbing on his, and he's already soaked with you. After a moment, his hand sneaks down. You hoist yourself up a little, and he holds the base of his hard cock, tracing your folds with his tip. Breath hitched, you feel him slide inside you. Just the tip, breaching through you, then a little more, his pupils surveying you for any shadow of discomfort or pain. Your eyelids flutter, lips suspended around a vowel your voice has forgotten to push outwards.
âDon't forget to breathe,â he reminds you, with genuine care.
When you exhale, he tugs on your waist, pushing the rest of himself inside you. You muffle a whimper, goosebumps forming on your skin like frost. Your fingers clamp, hands resting on his chest for support.
He holds your waist, and you start to move a little. Your pussy clenches when he lets out an unrepressed moan. Lifting your hips slowly, the way his dick lags against your walls is absolutely mind-numbing. You carefully repeat the movement a few more times, first to adjust, and then for the gratification of watching Astarion's gaze darken, wavering, his eyes soon closing shut.
âDon't tease.â
âI'm not.â
âThen go faster.â
You're so willing, so eager to obey, your pleasure forging around his. You soon pick up a cadence. His hands dig into your hips, possibly painting grape blue markings you'll only notice come morning.
Sitting back, your hands push on his thighs, and this slight shift in angle makes your head fall backwards, neck exposed in pure abandon.
Astarion watches you, forgetting the rest, lips slightly parted. Can't get enough of this view, the arch of your body, the sheen on his dick each time you lift yourself up, your fluttering pussy shaping around his length with a lewd, wet sound. Ripples course through your tender flesh as he smacks into you. His hands are everywhere, grazing your nipples, palming your upper thigh.
Sitting up, Astarion wraps his arms around your waist. Whispering spells of blasphemy and praises into your ear.
âLet it out, my love. Let me hear that pretty voice.â
You suspect he wouldn't mind the whole tavern listening to you as well, but you're too turned on to care.
He's doing something with his hips, hitting a spot so raw, so tragically sensitive, your lungs run out of air. Pleasure sings through you, sharp as the cut of a sword, rummaging your insides with every single thrust.
"You're incredible, fuck," you sob, forgoing all attempt at eloquence.
He laughs, of course, still has enough conscience to do so, enchanted from having unraveled you.
He guides you firmly, with two hands on your hips, slower in motion but more purposeful too. Like he's making you count each thrust. One. The sharp slap of your skin meeting his. Two. He lowers you back down with the perfect amount of force, your clit hitting his pelvis in such a way you can hardly stifle a moan. When he pulls you up, your pussy clenches around nothing, hips jittering to meet him again. Three. You're so loud this time, completely unsuppressed. He keeps you flush against him, eyes shut. Nose brushing your collarbone, with wet lips dampening your skin. You're still stretched around him, holding him inside you. Can feel his cock throb, pulsing between your walls.
âStill with me?â you inquire in a soft voice.
His forehead falls against yours.
âYou'll make me come too soon.â
You chuckle, somewhat out of breath.
âAnd that's bad?â
Humour tightens the muscles in your core, contracting further around him. His jaw tenses, an ominous flash obscuring his gaze.
âFor the love ofâAs much as I like to hear you laugh, don't do that again.â
Shit, that's the problem, his response makes you want to do it againânot even out of malice.
Your hips roll against his once more, settling into a smooth, symbiotic rhythm. Soft pants and gentle moans stain the air of the room. One hand draped on the nape of his neck, you're ridiculously concentrated on not coming first. Want to give him that privilege.
The way you both move slows down gradually, tangled into a different language, from fucking to making love. Astarion senses when your body tires on top of him, a little more careless, drifting away from your methodic sway.
One hand resting on the small of your back, he carefully flips the both of you over. Catching your lower lip between his teeth as he pushes you down into the mattress. Your legs wrap around him, and you quiver when you feel him dig further into you. His lips move against yours, all tongue and feverish adoration, with the same devotion clerics adorn the altars of their gods.
Searching for something to hold onto, your hands roam across his back. There's the sudden scoring of the ritualistic scar beneath your fingertips, and your touch recedes elsewhere after a fraction of doubt, out of fear of making him uncomfortable.
âYou can touch me,â he assures.
Said he trusted you and he meant it.
With his consent, one of your palms spreads between his shoulder blades. Your other hand gets lost in his curls, gently tugging on the roots.
You hitch one knee a little further towards your upper body, sighing when you feel him hit that sweet spot nestled in you. He undulates into you like the ocean, and you're both lost in the exquisite back and forth of his cock, dragging through your folds as he buries back into your blushing heat.
âPull my hair again,â he whispers.
You're putty in his hands. Anything he says, you do, hopelessly fervent.
To your delight, Astarion comes first. Crashing his lips against your neck, the muscles in his back tense up, his whole body curving into yours. Think you hear him whisper that he loves you, though it could be a trick of your mind, high in euphoria. His hips stutter against yours. You press your calf onto his back, pushing him deeper into you, whispering for him to let go, that you've got him. He repeats your name, once, twice. Like he can't believe what you're doing to him.
Your body's on fire, and though the proximity has brought Astarion to a temperature typically fit for a living being, you feel a coolness nestled deep inside you when he comes undone, ushering a croaky moan out of your clenched throat. He tries to pull out, but it's sloppy work, cold seed dripping onto your pelvis, the other half seeping out of you like dew. Your hand falls between you, wrapping around him, stroking his slippery length as your thumb grazes his tip. Can feel him pulsate in your gentle grip, still rapt in his orgasm, sputtering drops of his spent coating him, powdering your fingerpads and lower stomach.
âAre you close?â His voice is husky, caught in a trance.
Like he needs to ask. You nod quickly, hands linking behind his neck. Astarion surprises you when he plunges his cock back inside you. He's still hard, not for long, but enough time for a few more enticing thrusts, enough to make you rupture around him. One hand rubbing your clit, raw from stimulation, his eyes plunge into yours, drowning you in a sea of scarlet.
âYou've been so good, my sweet. It's your turn now. Come for me, can you do that?â His fingers move faster. âSee how hard you made me? You can come on it if you want.â
Lips slightly parted, your expression freezes. Maybe it's the feeling of him filling you again, his touch on your clit, the shock from his praise. You break, shatter, evaporate, mind and body reduced to impalpable mist, a radiance of purest ecstasy.
Astarion has an air of victory when you come undone, his smile, gorgeous as hells. You're trembling like rain, swallowing the first vowel of his name as you whimper it into his mouth. Nails etching rosy crescent moons into his flesh, you clutch him staunchly, fearing you might fade away otherwise. His dick slips out of you, but his middle and index fingers pursue their delectable exertion against your sensitive bud, carrying you through your own climax. Until the uncontrolled shudder quiets down and your body goes limp beneath his. His touch subsides from your exalted nerves, plainly caressing your hipbone and waist.
His own muscles are wavering. All the effort, the intensity, catching back to him. Astarion's body slumps down next to yours, legs still half tangled together.
The bed's a mess. Pillows flung to the floor, comforter scrumpled like the broken nest of a bird. A few drops of blood pearl on your neck and breastsâyou don't even remember when he did that.
You wait for your lungs to function normally again. Astarion's looking at you, and you glance away, flushed, failing to hide a smile. In your afterglow, you're already recounting everything that's just happened with a hint of disbelief. Your legs are still shaking.
âHow are you feeling?â you ask after a couple of seconds.
How's he feeling? He feels like he's floating. Though it's nothing akin to that state of dissociation he'd experienced in the past, clinging to him during and after all sensual encounters, with disgust as a bedfellow. This is so different, he's not even sure it warrants a comparison. Pondering on it silently, he savors the odd buzz in his limbs, the delicate drowsiness clouding his mind, euphoria still streaming through his blood like a rare liquor.
âI could get used to nights like this, you know,â he hums.
âThey say moderation is good for the soul.â
âWhat a disgusting notion.â
His tone makes you laugh. Your skin still feels like it's burning, chafed from friction in some isolated spots, sore in others. You'll be a complete disaster in the morning.
âCome here,â he whispers.
The back of his hand brushes your shoulder, inviting you closer. There's the shuffling of movement, searching for a way to fit around each other, until you're snugly entwined, your nose nuzzling his cheek, his hand stroking your spine. The embrace is doubly satisfying, his body already cooling down to his usual temperature. It's soothing, calms the heat biting on your limbsâan upside you never would've suspected.
âI think I'm good for another bath,â you mumble sleepily.
There's a low vibration when he laughs. His voice merges with the shadows, floating around you, comforting as the warm hug of a velvet cloak.
( can be read as stand-alone ) part 1 / part 2 / part 3
pairing: astarion x fem!reader (bg3)
themes and warnings: nsfw, minors do not interact! friends to lovers, relationship study, smut with a disgusting amount of feelings, a little bit of hurt/comfort, grinding, fingering, semi-public/sneaky sex, swearing.
author's note: i genuinely believe getting frisky with astarion implies a certain amount of unchoreographed mess and desperation, so here goes.
synopsis: traveling through the underdark, obscurity favors bodies getting closer.
His voice calls your name, snapping you from your lingering thoughts. Eyes blinking, wiping the sweat from your forehead, you warily peep over your shoulder to the source of light. A pale hand holds up a torch to you, waiting for you to take it. Your eyebrows shoot up, voice soft, a little drained.
âCan't you carry it yourself?â
Astarion's condescending laughter dances like a song over the rippled rocks surrounding you, bouncing over the glistening obsidian and hanging stalactites.
âOhâI'm not the one who desperately needs it. Do try to keep up, darling.â
Your pride flickers for a moment, stung by the faint mockery in his tone. Thought yourself a paragon of stealth and agility, hiding the unsteadiness in your heels, but since your descent, your frequent slips and brawls with the complex bowels of the Underdarkâfollowed by creative and audible blasphemyâhave earned you more than a few sympathetic cackles from your traveling companions. Evidently, your tumbles haven't escaped the pale elf's observant watch.
The torch's vivid spark glides over his ruby-hued eyes, reminding you how his nature has reshaped them to savour the diffuse murkiness of the Underdark. Yours, on the other hand, are made for the surface, its glorious shimmers, the waking dawn and glowing afternoons. You accept his offering with feigned nonchalance, surrendering in recognition of your own limitations. He shoots you a softened grin, almost tender, a drop of nothing that sends a palpitation to your stomach. You sense his presence behind you the rest of the trail, invisible pupils burning a precise spot right between your shoulder blades.
The fire purs, its joyful flickers licking the opaque air, keeping the darkness at bay. Down here, it is difficult to know when eventide has fallen. The intense exhaustion sweeping everyone at once serves as a trusted indicator that the time has come to set up camp.
On a quest for a needle and a thread to repair a tear in your blouse, you've given up all attempts at furtiveness as your feet carry you towards Astarion.
You find him lounging on a slightly ragged carpet a little further away, at the verge of the light, where the tips of trembling flames begin to blend with the darkness. Unsteady light cajoles his features, biting at his sharp cheekbones, dropping reflections in his eyes as he contemplates your approach. There's barely the time to open your mouth or utter a word as you halt before him.
His hand flutters toward you. The back of his index trails lazily over the purpled bruise blooming on your knee, at his eye level, sending a pressure as soft as an ant's steps. The gesture shocks you. Disoriented, you forget to move away. His hands are cold, but you don't mind. You surprisingly do not mind.
He looks up at you.
âYou bruise like a peach, you know. Don't go falling off a precipice, I'd rather not go through the trouble of climbing down those pikes and crags just to scrape up what's left of you.â
Tone's judgmental, laced with mockery and a hint of smug disapproval. In pure contrast with what he's doing to your hurt flesh. His digits move over to the scarlet scratch, texturing the skin on your calf. Caressing that spot too, the way one would the petals of a curious orchid. Studying you. You stare down at his nimble fingers, how delicate they are. Perhaps there exists a science of the touch, an arcane art you haven't yet been introduced to. You are inclined to believe in it, watching him brush over your wounds like that, without eliciting so much as a wince or nip of pain from you.
You've forgotten what you came to him for. Or perhaps you've decided you didn't really need it after all. Slipping away from his grasp, you can hear yourself wishing him a croaky goodnight before carrying your tired carcass back to the blanket near the fire.
Sleep hovers over you. You're cranky, nervous. Senses playing with you like a wild animal, enjoying the struggles of its prey before taking the first bite. You think you hear cracks, hisses over the rocks, looming shadows slipping from a crevice. Something startles you, and you jolt up. Rubbing your eyelids, your entire body's tortured with a combination of fatigue and the jitters. Feeling worse than a rabid cat.
Need to wait a while, for your pulse to calm down, the cold sweat to evaporate. Your muscles are sore as you make the effort to stand. Attentively avoiding any loose gravel that may screech your companions awake, you've picked a corner of your bedroll, quietly pulling it towards Astarion's. Is it routine now? You can't remember when you started doing it. Your sleeping habits match in that they're both terrible. Insomnia serves as a prologue to your midnight chatters, stories exchanged in a whisper, until dreams whisk you both away.
You try to read his body language as you approach. Don't want to risk tearing him away from well-deserved rest. But you notice his eyelids trembling, nostrils flaring. Despite appearances, sleep has evaded him, too. Kneeling down, you blow on his lashes, ever so gently. A hum rises from his throat, low but not unwelcoming, though warning you not to repeat your gesture. His eyes blink open, set on you.
âNightmare or insomnia?â he inquires, tone low, raspy.
You sit one step away, gaze lingering into the neighbouring precipice, wondering if you've made a mistake leaving the proximity of the fire.
âShouldn't come as a surprise in this gods forsaken place, but, both.â Your own voice is a little hoarse, deformed still by the last fragments of your bad dreams.
âIf you're afraid of the dark, you can just say so. I won't judgeâwell, perhaps a little, since you are a grown, rather capable adult, and not some featherless juvenile.â
Your reaction is as instantaneous as a dog bite.
âI am positively not afraid of the dark,â you retort, caustically.
Glancing down at him precisely as you say those words, you catch the sly playfulness splashed upon his elegant features. You've given him exactly what he hoped for. A reaction, a bark. Your expression shifts, torn between annoyance and amusement. He knows how you work. Knows it a little too well. How to tease and nudge at your blasted pride. It works, though. You're not thinking about the shadows anymore.
âIf not the dark, what's troubling you?â he asks. Voice is genuine this time.
You sigh as you lie back down, hands joined over your stomach, picking at your nails.
âLet's not get into it now.â
Perhaps your lack of loquacity perplexes him. He props himself up on an elbow to look at you. You can't help but notice the creases between his eyebrows, small lines of concern. It takes an excruciating amount of self-control not to extend your hand towards his face, to brush your fingers over those lines.
âI've been enjoying our conversations, you know? And the simple fact that you're here tells me you have as well. But, if you didn't come here to talk, what did you come for?â
He speaks with cool detachment, but you catch a hint of misplaced incitement in his words. Throwing a dare at you. Daring you to what?
âWell, you're not sleeping either. What's keeping you up?â you diplomatically murmur, shamelessly shifting the subject.
He scoffs at your lack of subtlety, but is kind enough to let it slideâperhaps to avoid answering your question. His back presses against his bedroll once more, relinquishing you from his piercing gaze.
Silence settles between you like a foreign entity.
Dialogue isn't difficult with Astarion. Perhaps it used to be, just a little, when you first met. When he was all devious charm, calculated manners and crafted, lascivious smiles. And when your own guard was built so high, you couldn't even show you were breathless in public without fearing it a blatant sign of weakness. Closeness fell between you the way it often does, unexpectedly, slowly, peeling each other away one layer at a time. Snarky jokes around the fire. Comparing technique and bladework. Aligning what you had in common like marbles on the floor, discovering with a pinch of surprise that there were more than you ever suspected. A helping hand, a drop of blood. Confessions, at the heart of your sleepless nights.
This is new, though. The simple act of being. Existing beside the other, beyond the need to fill the space with words. Just the soothing crepitations of the fire and the presence of the other, intimate, comforting in the vertiginous dusk.
You turn your head, pupils gliding along the form of his profile, one you've come to memorize by now, even in the timid light. Can't help but notice the dark circles, wine-hued, sitting like bruises under his lower lashes.
âHow have you been feeding down here?â you ask.
He doesn't even try to lie.
âI haven't.â
Could've guessed it yourself. Should've, actually. Myconids, earth elementals, flesh built with rot or minerals; the local wild game doesn't exhibit much in terms of veins and arteries to quench a vampire's thirst. And you haven't invited him to drink from you in a while. Haven't even thought of it, you've simply been too exhausted and out of your usual mind to do so. You know he isn't resentful, hasn't even touched on the subject with you. But the possibility that he could be choking on his own hunger and not uttering a word of it worries you.
âWould you like some of my blood now?â you ask carefully, after a brief pause.
âDarling, half your blood's currently painting the trails of the Underdark. I don't think there's much left to spare.â
His tone snaps like a dry twig, a little more abrasive than you expected. You sense his sourness isn't directed at you, more so born from the frustration of having to turn you down. The need to show someâgods forbidârestrain and reason. All rather unlike him. It dawns on you, a thought, once fermenting at the back of your mind, suddenly propelled forward, hitting you with such simple violence you can almost feel it undulate in your chest. Astarion cares about you.
âFine. It's fine,â you mutter after a moment, suddenly troubled by the silence. Not sure who you're really talking to. A deep sigh. âJust, consider my neck at your disposal, should you ever need it.â
Often, when lying down, opening your jugular to him, you'd think of the way some wild beasts play among themselves, rolling over, showing their bellies to their mates as a sign of trust. You trust him, you wonder if he knows. But above all, you hope the reverse is true.
You're caught off guard when his body shifts next to you, his scent warming your face like a soft breeze. He's closer than before now, hovering barely at arm's length, his wrist bumping into your shoulder as he steadies himself above you. You recognize this, the typical prelude to his lips latching onto your neck, before the fangs pierce your skin, before your mind is sent into a haze as he satiates his thirst. His gaze locks with yours once again, a smile teasing his lips.
âYou're sweet.â The tip of his canines glistens before vanishing. Can tell he means those words, as simple as they are. But there's a quality to them, something gentle.
So you play along. Holding on to your words, exposing your throat, letting the back of your head roll on the fabric your body is nestled on. Wondering if he'll do it, forgoing his initial reluctance just to catch a taste.
His hand touches you first. You weren't expecting this. Wide palm and gracile fingers wrap around your neck. He doesn't grip, or grasp, or squeeze. They simply rest there, thumb lightly stroking the tense flesh under your chin. You can hear your heart tremble. Perhaps that's what he's chasing: a measure, your pulse, quickening below his digits. When he lets go, you inhale, not realizing you had been holding your breath.
You're waiting for what comes next. Those wintry shards entering you, iciness spreading to your bones, contrasting with the warm droplets cascading across your shoulder from the punctured wound. You remember one early night, Astarion lost in the pursuit of those rebellious drops, straying away from the patch of skin he usually contained himself to, tongue dragging all the way down to your collarbone. The look you shot him then, astonished, dizzy. He never did it again after that.
Now his nose grazes your ear, mouth nuzzling your jugular. Pecking at the base of your jaw, gliding down, following the precious lines of your sensitive anatomy. The bite doesn't come. He lingers, taking his time. Lips nibbling at your skin, abandoning a thin veil of dampness in a trail of kisses. This is new, too. Confusion tickles you. Not sure if you should speak, you're afraid any misplaced word would dispel him. Shit, you really don't want this to end.
A delicate drowsiness washes over you. You find his hair, tentatively pulling at the ivory locks. His caress halts right where your neck curves into your shoulder. An ungovernable sigh escapes you, eyelids almost fluttering shut. His canines tease you, tongue running over the fragile skin.
âMmh. So much warmer than usual.â
Words spoken directly into your neck, sending vibrations all the way to your spine, your guts, further below. There's a bell ringing somewhere in the pits of your consciousness, some smug slice of you singing you're really fucked now, aren't you? It's hard to move, even more so to think. The intoxicating delight of surrendering to a pull you've craved, fought against with all your might. Turns out your might is pretty feeble, brought down by a pair of fickle lips and just the right words spoken in your ear. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Without warning, Astarion withdraws from your neck, and it's like something was just violently pried from your avid hands. Exchanging looks, assessing the other. He can't be out of breath, but you are, and you haven't even moved. He notices this; eyes shine deviously, thinking I did that. You're the first to speak again. Can barely recognize your own voice, the way it drips with want.
âI think I might kiss you now.â
He purrs. âOh, such a corny line, my sweet.â
âI learned from the best.â You jest, hand still in his curls, entranced by the way they cuddle your fingers. Heart's ticking like a clock, impatient, desperate.
âCan I?â you ask again in a murmur, the tip of your nose lightly brushing his.
He kisses you first. Skipping the preamble and the timid pecks, stealing what you both desire. Mouth meeting yours with such turbulence, there's a knock of teeth or fangs on your lower lip, a spark of pain, a drop of iron-flavored blood. His haste ravishes you, lips drinking you insane. Like falling into a lake during the heart of winter.
Your grip on his locks grows firmer. You taste herbs and brandy. He's told you about it before, his tricks to push away scents of the undead. Never imagined the fragrance would linger in his kiss as well. You can't contain the faint laughter that spills from you at the realization. Puzzled, he pulls an inch away, observing you. His lips glisten, wet from your kiss.
âIs this⌠funny to you?â. Astarion's benign outrage stirs a warm gush in your chest. Your fondness for him's like honey, dripping down your throat, wiping away any residual anxiety. You caress his cheek with the back of your finger, mimicking his move from before, when he nearly drove you insane just from brushing over your wounds.
âNo. 'Course not. Just feeling a little drunk now, that's all,â you tease, leaving him the liberty of dissecting your cryptic phrasing on his own.
Your hand has slipped to the nape of his neck, guiding him back to you. Sucking his lower lip into your mouth, biting on the plump flesh. Savouring the edges of his smile. He hums, plays with the hem of your shirt, slips a hand under the garment. Following the shape of your waist, your stomach, the soft base of your breasts. Mapping you without an ounce of shame.
âFeeling adventurous?â you buzz.
âHard not to, with you.â His thumb flickers over the curve of your nipple. You bite your tongue, trying to keep your gasp of surprise to yourself. Desire pulsates through your core.
His knees have settled between your thighs, bumping your legs slightly apart. The sudden grimace that bends your mouth doesn't escape him.
âWhat's wrong, dear?â
âBruise the size of Avernus, right there.â
âApologies. Let's not⌠rough you up too much then.â
Gods, the air of him, as he says those words. Need to knock some of the self-satisfaction out of the elf. Your back arches to meet his weight, hips pushed to slot against his. He groans from the sudden contact and it's worth everything, turns you on out of your damned mind. You realize how aroused he is when his erection pushes into your inner thigh. Your mind goes blank, caught in your own trap. Hips roll again, cautiously. There's the faint rustle from your night attires. And friction. Your covered pussy teasing his hard length in a rocky rhythm, feeling the shape of him, pressed against your clit.
Pausing your sway, your feverish gaze searches his.
âIs this okay?â
Oh. Need a second to take the sight in. Eyelids heavy, he's biting the inside of his cheek, on the verge of dissolving in your arms. And you've barely done anything. Astarion pulls you closer, hand flush on the small of your back. A grin falls to your lips. You're gentler this time. Rhythm slow, viciously patient, watching him closely, right as your core connects with his. Want to see how he reacts, every flourishing quiver of pleasure, the way he bites back a moan when your cunt drags along his bulge. Fabric's drenched there, can feel it when you move, how it digs into you as you massage him. Brain's mush now. Feels too fucking good. Your wetness warms his cock through the layers of clothing.
It's pleasure and it's agony. You want more, to rip apart the fabric separating you. Want the curves and lines of his body buried into yours. Wanna feel all of him, not just a silhouette. Around you. Inside you. This isn't enough.
A poorly muffled whimper, yours, echoes through the circling obscurity.
His hand covers your hipbone, lowering you back down, severing the rousing friction between your centers. Leaving you mouth agape, starved. Almond eyes stare you down, blazing with something you can't quite name.
âWhy?â is all you manage to mutter.
He doesn't reply, but peeks forward to the fire, to your sleeping companions, not as far removed as you thought. You follow his gaze, swallowing strenuously.
âBe quiet, my darling.â
Your face heats up. The last thing you want is to wake your peers up with your shameless rutting.
âThis isn't how I imagined having you,â he adds in a low voice. âNot in the middle of some damp, insalubrious grotto, with our friends just one step awayâŚâ
âSo you have imagined it?â
He smirks. Hand gently stroking your waist.
âThere are other things we can doâfor now, at least. Less⌠exuberant things, perhaps.â
You raise an eyebrow, taken aback.
âSuch as?â
He hums, a mischievous shine livening his gaze, as if holding onto a secret he doesn't want to share. You rise a little, just enough to bring your faces closer.
âSuch as?â you repeat, separating each syllable. Your lips ghost over his cheekbone.
There's a short, suspended moment. Your breath fills the silence. Two bodies entwined like sleeping snakes.
âYou're lovely,â he says. And you sense he isn't playing anymore.
He searches your eyes. You let them engulf you, those crimson irides, trying to remember the last time someone looked at you like this. The answer is short: this is the first time.
âLet me make you feel good,â he murmurs, lips so close to yours, you can almost taste them again. You sense his desire, swirling around you like vines. He isn't coy about it, and something's aching between your thighs.
âWhat about you?â you protest with a disappointed frown.
âPlease. Tonight, this is all I want.â
Your breath hitches from a faint, anxious pull in your chest, a sudden worry that wasn't there before. Perhaps he feels you tense up; there's that crease between his eyebrows again. Your next words are spoken carefully, as if walking through a dark pond, trying to see how deep the water runs.
âYou know, when I let you drink from me, it isn't because I expect something in return.â
His expression softens.
âI know. And this is very different.â
âAre you sure?â
âDarling, must I beg some more for the chance to make you cum? Because I will, and gladly so.â
It doesn't come down to this, tragically. Your ability to speak vanishes soon enough.
Astarion's mouth finds yours. He's less hurried than before. Delicate, unwrapping you. His knuckles caress your stomach, slipping below the waistband of your underwear. You gasp at the sudden coolness of his touch. His knee pushes against yours, parting your legs a little further. Can feel the heel of his hand now, firm over your pelvis. Two fingers slide further below. Parting you. Spreading your slick in an upwards back and forth, so damn slowly, your pussy flutters in despair. One of your hands grabs his shoulder to steady yourself. Your skin's electric, drinking in each of his movements. His middle finger draws over your clit in a circular motion, making your nerves jolt. A disgusting wail escapes you. Need to break away from his kiss to search for air. You're soaked already from the senseless humping, now covering his joints and palm with your wetness.
His digits press into you, torturously languid. You bury your face into his neck. All thoughts have decidedly left your mind. When he halts his movement, you sigh a protestative groan into his ear. Fuck, you need him to move again. Your hips stagger, melting into his touch, cunt slipping on his wet fingers. Begging for him to keep going. Makes him laugh, with how eager you are.
âYou're cruel,â you whisper. Sharp teeth gently bite your shoulder in response. He doesn't satisfy you right away. Taking the time to savour the tight hug of your spasming pussy, how it twitches from him filling you.
âLook at me, darling.â
Such a simple task feels impossible. Not with his fingers pressed into you like that. Stifled moans bundle up in your throat; you're embracing silence with an open mouth. As you arduously peel yourself away, he watches you, your furrowed brows, watery eyes, lips raw from his kisses and bites. You're a fucking vision.
âMy beauty⌠How perfect you are,â he says, almost in a breath. Murmured praises make your entire body flicker. He picks up a rhythm at last, joints thrusting into you, forcing a whimper out of your pretty mouth. âPromised I'd make you feel good.â Your pussy feels so deliriously soft, encircling him. Could devour you then and there, your companions be damned.Scattered beads of sweat roll across your skin to Astarion's. His pace quickens, knuckles brushing your flesh as his digits drag along your velvety walls. âAre you mine?â.
Mind wiped clean of care, you've stopped worrying about your breathy sobs or the sinful squelching composed by his curved fingers, sliding in and out of you.
âYes.â
âSay it properly,â he purrs into your neck.
You bite your lip. Gods, he's a tease and you're so close to ecstasy your vision's a blur.
âI'mâCan't...â
Air escapes you. Not sure you know how to speak anymore, the way you're choking on the pleasure he inflicts upon you. Your nails dig into his shoulders, searching for balance. He presses his forehead to yours.
It swallows you completely, the wave of his touch, merciless, this implacable pressure on your sensitive nub. How his fingers spread your folds, searching for what makes you cry, pinching and caressing and pushing his way through. The pulse of your heart quickens, matching the throbbing of your cunt. Heat swallows your guts when his fingers dig into you again, stirring you from the inside, coaxing your body into an uncontrollable quiver.
Grasping the back of his neck, you come with your eyes half closed, drowning into him, mouth open in a silent cry. Pleasure bites at your limbs as he squeezes every last drop of shaking delight from you. He kisses you furiously, tongue slipping into your mouth, relishing the shudders of your overstimulated pussy as it clenches around him. When he pulls out, you can see how his skin glistens, coated in you.
Your mind's a delicious blur when you feel the tips of his index and middle fingers rest on your bottom lip. He doesn't say anything. You part your lips, welcoming his digits on your tongue. Tasting yourself, mixing your spit with the slick you've abandoned on the pads of his slender fingers, as he chased your high for you. Your gaze tangles with his. He's looking at you, a glimmer in his eyes, enthralled at the sight of your perfect mouth suckling him. When you let go, he whispers.
âGood girl.â
You won't recover anytime soon if he keeps saying things like that.
A little dazed, you see him press a handkerchief on the flesh between your legs. Adjusting your loosened clothing next, pulling your top down, brushing your hair away from your face. Finally, he collapses next to you, offering you the room to breathe at ease.
Your body's your own again. The air seems cool around you, like you've been brought back to a strange reality you don't quite recognize.
Astarion watches you come down. Listening to your breathing and your pulse until it has slowed down, becoming barely perceptible. Seconds stretch before he speaks again, so damn softly you almost miss his words.
âHave we cured that fear of the dark?â
The corner of his mouth curves into a grin.
You respond with an exhale and move to look at him. Your body's still palpitating from his ministrations, basking in the lingering delight shivering through your veins. You turn over after a moment, lying almost on your stomach to press yourself against him. He hums and responds to your touch, welcoming you closer. Your arm wraps around his waist, pale locks tickling your temple.
( can be read as stand-alone ) part 1 / part 2 (nsfw) / part 3 (nsfw)
pairing: astarion x reader (bg3)
warnings: mentions of blood & blood drinking (vamp stuff), intense pining.
author's note: it's about the silent yearning, man. also people being clueless about their own feelings. more of a relationship study than anything. i tried to be poetic-ish but i'm no sylvia plath, heh.
synopsis: after astarion's vampirism is revealed, something shifts between the pair of you.
Morning light teases the hazy skies, and you haven't plunged a stake through his heartâyet.
Astarion senses your curiosity. Your questions are short but selected with care, falsely nonchalant yet dipped in poorly camouflaged interest. He indulges you to a limit, aware that it might be the price to pay for the draining you graciously agreed to the night before.
Moments later, traveling under the noon sun biting at shoulders and exposed necks, you surprise himâas you often do.
âWhat color were your eyes, before?â
For a short second, it feels like he might laugh, inject cruel disdain into his response to disguise the sting of the acidic truthâhe does not remember the color of his eyes. Centuries have passed, grains of sand sparing his skin from scratches and scars, his perception of himself faltering along with it, flowing to the bottom of the hourglass. He tells you the truthâwhy shouldn't he? The taste of your blood still lingers under his tongue, metallic and sweet.
Finds himself asking back, âWhich do you think would suit me best?â.
And for you to answer: âHard to pick just one. Hells, red doesn't even look bad on you. You just have one of those faces.â
A shrug, your attention swiftly broken by the winged, buzzing creature tickling your ear. It's a thing you do, kindness thrown so matter-of-factly, making it impossible to believe it flattery or a lie. Makes him feel terrible about his own flowery words, meticulously crafted feathers of unctuous hypocrisy, destined to brush and cajole, a means to an end, reliable, hollow as common reed stems.
âJust say I'm beautiful and we'll call it a day.â
You grin, but keep quiet, chasing the insect away with a hand, smile so eloquent you might've just spilled your thoughts on his lap like honey.
The next day, you're looting one of the corpses, crouched over a fallen drow like a vulture, elbows deep into his pockets. Astarion wipes his soles of blood on the grass, spying on you from the corner of his eye. You're exhuming a bottle, heavy with sloshing, thick liquid, glass reflecting the sharp light of day onto your nose. You hand the potion to Shadowheart, but your fingers still fidget afterwards, toying with something so small he barely catches its outlines.
A moment later, enjoying a break in the shade of ivy eaten ruins, you're extending your palm to him. The stone is cracked, but its blue hues shimmer, gentle yet vivid, reminiscent of waves playing and crashing through a veil of white foam in the harbor of Baldur's Gate.
âFound your eyes.â Your voice half swallows the joke, tongue twisting around the words, throwing them in haste. Your tone is timidânot timid, wary. What can you possibly fear, you who just sent a pack of gnolls to their divine makers?
You slip the ring into his hand. The bronze band of the jewel feels warm, still infused in the glowing heat of your skin following the effort of combat. The gesture leaves him hesitant, bewilderment that only lasts mere seconds.
That sly grin on his lips, again.
âI understand you find me irresistible, but a ring, darling, so soon? Let's take things a little slower.â
Eyes rolling, you scoff. Your hand, like an agile a spider, gently pinching his finger, mimicking the jewel's hug around his digit.
âOn second thought, I'm not sure blue works that well on you.â
Astarion pries his hand and the gift away from your claws.
âThen I suppose you'll have to dig out more for me to try on. I'm certain we'll find my color, eventually.â
A nod, your amused smirk. âSomething green, next time, perhapsâŚâ
He thought you fearless. It only takes him a couple more days to understand you're not. Your terror is discreet. It is the slowed blinking, the watery eyes, the palpitation of a vein on your neck. He watches you steady your breathing, restrain your hand from shivering, knowing your own stance will inspire your companions' bravery. If you aren't afraid, they won't be either. Better than fearless, you're courageous. Astarion sees you biting your tongue and swallowing your terror, hushing it away like an undisciplined stray cat. After the fight, it catches back to you. You step away from camp, seeking the gentle purr of a stream, hoping to drown your anguished thoughts in the murmurs of the wilderness. Body collapsing, legs shaking, trying to recompose yourself, away from familiar eyes. The pride of victory barely overshadows the fear gnawing at your stomach, fear of making the wrong choices, of losing an ally to a cunning blade or a vicious spell. You don't hear him approachâperhaps he notices that, purposely stepping on a dry twig, causing it to snap for you to turn around.
âThinking of making a run for it, my dear?â
Getting closer. Can't let anything happen to you. There they are, those two pokes holes, still visible on your neck, slightly darkened in comparison to the tint of your skin. Not just a blood source, but a shield. You like him, he thinks, and if you like him, you'll make sure nothing happens to him. So he shifts his body next to yours, shoulder bumping against your own. Makes you laugh with wit and gossip, wipes the residual fear away. Because he needs you strong. That's all there is to it.
Bantering. He likes that you bite back. Your words are sharp, but they don't wound. Your tone teasing, nibbling at him.
âDon't break a nail now, we don't have time to fetch a healer.â
Your gaze embraces Astarion's hands, as he picks at the rusty lock on a chest.
âTrust me, darling, nobody's ever complained about my fingers before.â
The chest surrenders its secrets, cracked open with barely a squeal from the tools. A whispered âwell doneâ as you brush against him to examine the treasures, praise inaudible to anyone except him. Such small words, yet he can't help but pick them up like pebbles, tucking them into a corner not too far.
Signs are there, yet you're not sure he likes you. Elaborate performances tire you, make you nervous. It's the first thing you've noticed about him, your perception whispering to be careful. Charming smile, gracious poise, so well studied, so precise in their intent to seduce, to entrance. He's like that with most people, you let it go at first, thinking it'll glide over you like water over rocks. But rocks erode, and more than once, you find yourself running off with a pretext, before the heat in your cheeks turns you dumb. Tension melting into frustration. Why should you worry about such things, about him liking you? Your fingers ghost over your throat, feeling the bumps where his lips once were, drinking from you. Offering blood should earn you truth, earn you honesty. You feel shame at your own sense of entitlement. Friendship shouldn't be earned, it is a gift, effortless, natural as the bee rubbing pale pollen on an autumncrocus.
You're picking a fight with Astarion over something mundane. A displaced quiver, bloody spatters on your bedroll â who cares, trifles you'll forget about the next day but that feel deadly important at the moment. He says you're a spoilsport and you call him difficult. Your steps carry you to the opposite of the camp, grunting something about âleaving before you say something you'll regretâ. You don't remember who apologizes first. Maybe the effort comes from both, maybe Wyll gave it a push. It's like watching two kids forced to shake hands after one fed the other dirt. You're both annoyed and frustrated, tired from the long day. Unsure about what to say. Shared discomfort settles it better than words ever could, putting the matter to rest before you even need to open your mouth.
Hostility feels out of place between the two of you.
âI'm sorry for calling you difficult.â
And his smile, canines catching ivory moonlight.
âYou're cute if you think I haven't been called worse.â
Two voices hummingâyours and hisâmixing with the cracks of the fire, heads leaning towards the other like conspirators under the darkened skies. Couldn't sleep, so naturally, you've dragged your bedroll closer to his. He tells you of Cazador and the night he grew fangs, of life in the palace, feeding on rats and roaches, the hissing whip, digging into his flesh. Forced to hunt for souls in the city, sacrificing them on the altar of a cruel executioner, night after night after night. Survival and its bitter taste. Among complex mixtures of anger, outrage and sadness, you feel the poke of something different. Gratefulness, that he trusts you enough to confide in you. You try not to press, sensing he doesn't enjoy this, the dwelling on the past, digging up rotting pieces of his own history before your very eyes. You accept those pieces as they are. Him, as he is. He asks if your neck still hurts. You answer you haven't thought about it at all, even if it's a lie, that the memory has been creeping up on you more often than you care to confess. You try not to think about it too hard, his body bumping against yours, nose brushing the side of your jaw, whiffs of jasmine, cloves and iron, hushing your reason away, stronger than a glass of liquor, silver locks dropping down, caressing your cheek. Your wounds aren't quite healed yet. He notices you scratching there from time to time, pressing the pads of your fingers against them. Newly acquired mannerism.
Goblins are nefarious creaturesâthe pulsating cut on your arm attests to it. But Astarion's the one who got splashed by the rays of a fire arrow, hastily patched up on the side of the road. The cry he let out when the flames kissed his skin still rings in your ear.
âIt's just a scratch. I'm not made of sugar, you know,â he assures as you kneel next to him at camp.
âWith your repartee, I can safely say nobody here thinks you're made of sugar,â you gently mock, to hide your worry. One would think a soul as dramatic as his would've made this wound a more general and pressing matter, but you recognize his behavior because it echoes yours. It's that tired habit of retreating away like a wild animal, to lick its wounds in peace, incapable of accepting any sign of pity.
Your eyes fall to the lesion, and he notices it. âI promise it's nothing,â he swears with a hint of impatience, sewing needle loosely held between his fingers, trying to patch up the damage made to his clothing.
âI believe you,â you concede. Silence drifts as you diligently watch the progression of the thread in the garment. Eventually, your index rises, smooths away the undisciplined wisp of hair hanging before his eyes, worried the strand might bother him in his work, earn him a prick of his needle. Your gesture holds the opposite effect, halting Astarion at once, shattering his focus. His irises meet yours, gazes entangling. Silence stretches. It takes effort to break; you're the first to try.
âYou can feed on me tonight, if you wish.â
His eyes linger on your throat a second too long. The faintest shadow of a smirk creeps at the corner of his lips, but uncertainty floats in the depths of his eyes.
âAre you certain your neck will survive that ordeal?â
Your hand intuitively flies to your throat, over the two rounded scars flourishing on your skin, barely perceptible. Is it weariness you sense in his voice, hidden behind the jesting?
âWhat do you mean? You're as gentle as a flower,â you snap back.
Laughter spills from his lips. It's the sort of sound you wish you could bottle up, to listen to on rainy days. You feel it then, in the warmth of the gaze he wraps you in. Familiarity. Safety. That red string woven between the both of you, by your hands, over the course of the weeks. In this instant, it isn't just blood that you're offering. Astarion understands this. As you stand up, he calls your name, catches you with the simplest words, tone slow, deliberate, like savoring a ripe fruit.
âThank you.â
The intensity soaks you to the bone, presses your throat, folds over your heart. Your soul wriggles under his gaze, your voice slightly hoarse when you respond.
not even close to joking when i say that everyone going "meeeee :3" in the notes needs to ask themselves why they're so much more willing to listen to jazz that isn't made by black artists
If you like Casiopea, check out some classic jazz funk fusion albums like Head Hunters by Herbie Hancock or Return to Forever by Chick Corea.
If you like the Cowboy Bebop soundtrack, check out some later period big band albums like Mingus Ah Um by Charles Mingus and The Roar of '84 by Buddy Rich.
If you like the Persona soundtrack, check out some more modern jazz fusion albums with electronic elements like Black Focus by Yussef Kamaal or Freedom Fables by Nubiyan Twist.
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