A/N: just a dadstarion drabble. feeding as a love language. mdni.
word count: ~ 3000
tags/warnings: sfw, shameless fluff, soft spawn astarion, baby fic, mentions of reader being pregnant in past tense, breastfeeding, soft blood-drinking (? lol), tav reader, mom reader, soft vampire romance, hints of angst, just lots of sweetness, playing fast and loose with dnd lore about dhampirs and vampires.
You're enjoying a rare deep sleep when a small yet powerful sound jolts you into a state of semi-consciousness with alarming urgency. You can barely register your own body around you, attempting to roll and shift. Suddenly, you feel a familiar cool hand touch your shoulder. "Shhh, it's alright, love. I've got her."
Astarion. He must have sensed your panic at your daughter's cries before he even had the chance to grab her himself. You sigh in relief as he quickly moves to soothe her.
"Gods below, whatever could be making that absolutely hideous sound? Has a little gremishka gotten into our home?" He says with a heavy dose of sarcasm as he pads over to her cot.
Untangling yourself from the bedding, you open your eyes just in time to see Astarion gently lifting your tiny daughter out of her bassinet.
"Darling, waking up your mother so early?" He tuts. "And here I was hoping to make this a peaceful morning."
Despite his mock scolding, his expression betrays the softness of his eyes, wide with adoration. His lips curl upwards in a carefree way that you've never quite seen from him with anyone else. A secret smile that only she can pull from him. She scruches her little legs, and he places a gentle kiss to the top of her head, his hand covering almost her entire back. He coos to her as her cries taper out into little whines. Nestling her close to his chest, Astarion tucks her tiny head under his chin. Rocks her gently while shushing her until she goes quiet.
You watch as her tiny scrunched body relaxes as she calms in his hold. So enchanted you are by the two of them that it takes a moment for you to notice the aroma of food coming from behind you. You turn around and see a small tray on your nightstand with a bowl of porridge, two hard-boiled eggs, toast, and some blackberries.
Once again, you find yourself struck by how much he's changed in the years since the Nautaloid. He never used to cook for you before, and you never resented him for it. You couldn't expect him to be enthusiastic about cooking when he couldn't even taste what he made for you.
All of that changed after the news of your impending little one broke. He had quietly taken to practicing a few basic meals for you. They often lacked the amount of seasoning you normally preferred, but with your overly tender stomach, the bland meals ended up being a blessing on days you could barely keep things down.
As you eat your breakfast, you watch the two of them. Somehow, he's always had a remarkable talent for calming her. Something else you never imagined. You used to tease him about it frequently: "Oh sure, I go through all the hard work only for you to be the favorite, then?" He had simply smirked, barely able to contain his triumphant aura.
He's talking to her now; always talking with her about anything: one tangent will lead to another story and then another. He carries on conversation with her as he would any adult, despite the fact she can't even babble yet.
Even before she was born, he would speak to her in the womb. He knew your heartbeat would be a source of comfort for her when she was born, just as it was for him. She would recognize you from it, know you. He lacked the ability to provide that same comfort but hoped his voice would make up for his lack of heartbeat.
In truth, you were awed every day by how naturally Astarion had taken to caring for her, and how much she in turned seemed to take such comfort from him. You remembered how he refused to believe it at first. How something so small and innocent and precious could possibly come from him, an undead creature. Him, with his red eyes and fangs and cold skin. He had been so afraid of frightening her with his appearance at first. You had reassured him constantly, and he had seen his own likeness in the form of portraits over the years. But he could never be sure you weren't just placating him. Could never be sure those artists weren't simply flattering him.
The first time she opened her little eyes and peered up at him, Astarion let out a sigh of relief that her irises weren't a vampiric red. As her tiny eyes bore into his, he tried to discern what their true color was. You were half-delirious from exhaustion as you watched the two of them become acquainted. Barely thinking, you sleepily suggested to him that perhaps her eye color took after his original shade from before he was turned.
Astarion grew quiet and still for a long moment, something inside of him seemingly triggered by your words. A memory locked away long ago, lost to time. For the second time that same day, his body was hit with deep racking sobs. As he cried quietly into your shoulder, he clung to the little bundle in his arms, a part of himself thought long lost now given back to him.
He brings her to you now, settling down next to you in bed. You cuddle up next to your husband and baby. He's still too enthralled with her to pass her off to you, as he often is. He kisses her little hands and cheek. He smiles radiantly, far past his fears of scaring her. You're more than content to let him hold her as you eat.
She's calmed down now, her soft delicate features smoothed and her big bright eyes looking up at you both. Those captivating eyes are like faceted gemstones, a rare shade even amongst High Elves. Her skintone is similar to yours in color but with an unsettling washed-out, pale undertone that would be alarming on any other child who wasn't a dhampir. Branches of veins show through her semi-translucent skin. Her soft, silky miniature curls were the color of milkglass.
Your little one is deceptively fragile-looking, sickly even. It's easy to forget sometimes how powerful they could potentially be one day. Even at her tender young age of eight weeks, she's a formidable one. Eating and crying with equal fervor. Small and mighty. Just as opinionated as her father.
She wastes no time in letting you know both know she has needs that must be met. Rolling towards Astarion in his arms, she presses her tiny face into his chest. Her little mouth opens up as her face nudges around his shirt, seeking nourishment. You both giggle at her frustrated attempt.
"I think that's my cue, love." You place the tray back on the nightstand and gently take her from him to nestle her in your arms. Pulling down one strap of your nightgown, you begin feeding your babe in a peaceful ritual you had mastered weeks ago with her. Astarion settles in behind you with his chin resting on your shoulder. For a few minutes, he simply watches the two of you. When he takes note of your unfinished breakfast, he grabs a handful of blackberries from the tray and holds out for you to eat at your leisure as you cradle her.
It isn't lost on him, the way in which you were the first person to ever feed him. Truly feed and nourish his body, with the very blood from your own body nonetheless. Never in a million years did he ever think he would one day witness you feeding his child with that same body. An entirely brand new soul, somehow born of your union. Innocent, beautiful and alive. A part of Astarion was alive again, and he could hardly believe it even as he faced each new challenge head-on.
Since she was born, he would sometimes go without feeding for days at a time. Though the elk, deer and boars that populated the nearby woods provided ample prey for him, you knew he hated leaving you two behind even for a few hours of time that it typically took for him to hunt.
He was trying to hide it, but you could tell he was starving now. His face was a little more hollow than usual, eyes a bit more sunken, skin paler and colder. It was truly a testament to how much he adored your daughter that despite his sickly appearance, he still radiated with joy in her presence.
The blackberries run out. You tilt your head to look at him. "You should feed," eyes fixed on his. He blinks at you, obviously surprised at your suggestion. "Just a bit of my blood before you go hunting."
It takes more than a bit of willpower to stifle your giggle at his reaction. Astarion had never been one to hesitate accepting your blood.
"I- Darling, come now. You're sweet to offer, but we shouldn't. Not when you're already expending yourself," his arms snake around your waist, and his cool fingers knead into the softness of your belly comfortingly.
"Ha, trust me, this is nothing compared to feeding you while traveling and fighting for our lives in the wilderness," you assure him.
"Besides," you gesture at the jewelry around your neck. "That's what this is for."
The Amulet of Silvanus, which had already been more than useful to both of you during your time traveling, had come to have many more beneficial properties than you could have imagined at the time. It restored your blood levels, allowing Astarion to feed on you regularly. And even though he had abstained from feeding on your blood while you were with child, it had been found to also be useful in keeping your milk supply up, giving it a second use once your baby had arrived.
"It's alright," you insisted, eyes and voice soft. "I feel strong enough for this again, my love. Truly. And I trust you," your daughter continues to nurse peacefully, blissfully unaware of the conversation between her parents.
"At least let me take the edge off of your hunger, Astarion. I know you won't go too far. Besides," a smile forms on your face, unable to hold back your enthusiasm any longer. "You know I've missed it, too."
He stared at you for a moment before breaking into a smile that made your heart ache so much you swear it could have killed you.
"My love," he kisses you on the forehead, then on your lips, then both of your cheeks and your lips again. It's soft and reverent, gentle and loving.
"Always so good to me." He strokes your hair and kisses you some more before pulling away gently. His maroon eyes broke from your gaze and locked onto your little one.
"Are you sure about this, though?" There was a hint of hesitancy in his voice despite his previous enthusiasm. "I don't want to do anything that would hurt you around her," he whispered, conflict clear on his face. You considered his words carefully.
"Well..." You start with a hint of playfulness. "I don't know if you remember, dear husband, but this?" You gestured at your nursing infant. "Feeding her? It was painful at first. And we don't even know if she'll need blood one day. But if she does, I'll be providing it for you both." He looks guilty already, so before he could respond, you followed up. "But even so," you cup his cheek, gently forcing him to look you in the eye. "No matter what happens, she can't hurt me." His eyebrows raised, and he smirked at you with obvious skepticism.
"When we first found out about her, we vowed we would love her, no matter what. Even if her hunger drove her one day to drain innocent people dry." You gaze down on your little dhampir, your precious 'baby monster,' as she fed. "At the time, I was scared, but now... my love for her is so deep. I know nothing will ever change it. Nothing could ever possibly change it."
You look to him and see his eyes were round with wonder. "You don't have to if you're not comfortable, my heart. But just know you don't have to worry about hurting me. You could never hurt me, my love."
He sighed, looking at you with a sort of incredulous amusement that would normally be followed up with a statement about how nothing you say ever makes sense. Instead, he takes the hand that had been caressing his cheek and kisses it longingly.
"I'll never understand what I've done to deserve you, my dear," his nose runs along your inner wrist, savoring your scent.
"Hmm, besides helping me save the world? Well, making me laugh and being adorable definitely doesn't hurt."
"Our daughter is adorable. I am enigmatic and alluring, NOT adorable," he rolls his eyes dramatically.
"Hmm. Sorry love, but I'm afraid all evidence points to the contrary. Our daughter gets her looks from somewhere, and you know who she takes after." Astarion can't hold back his grin he looks down at her and strokes her silvery curls. The semblance between father and daughter was no small point of pride for him.
"Alright, my love. I know better than to argue with the mother of my child." He slips in behind both of you easily, pulling you up so your back is flushed to his chest, allowing yourself to lean back into him.
His arms come up under where both of yours are supporting your babe. He cradles the both of you protectively. "I've got you. I've got you both," he reassures. Your little girl continues to nurse peacefully, both parents holding her tight.
Astarion noses at the base of your neck and inhales deeply. Soft kisses pepper up and down your neck before his lips hold still in place, silently asking permission once more.
You tilt your head back against his shoulder in answer, giving him greater access. Taking a deep breath, you feel the familiar sting of his fangs breaking your skin. He was so gentle, sinking his teeth in fast enough so as not to make the sting linger, but also slow enough so as not to bruise the skin. His fangs work back and forth tenderly, taking great care to keep the bite bleeding while not opening the wound further.
You find yourself easily relaxing. "You're still gentler than she is most of the time," you joke.
His lips attach around the bite wound, gently latched just enough to keep them sealed around it. The flow of blood stayed slow and steady this way, trickling gently from you to him. In your arms, your little one is also feeding eagerly. For a moment, you can't help but giggle at how the sound of Astarion's suckling at your neck joins in with her own precious little eating noises. Her tiny ears wiggle adorably with each drink, and while he refuses to acknowledge it, you can feel Astarion's own ears make miniscule twitches when he feeds on you.
Sighing happily, you sink deeper in his embrace. You had truly missed being able to provide this for him. Time seems to slow down to a hazy crawl as you savor this moment. In the warmth of your bed, surrounded by your little family, you feel as though you could spend an eternity here. You wish you could. It wasn't easy to sacrifice so much. Give so much of yourself over to caring for your babe. But it was moments like this that had made your many sacrifices worth it.
Your undead love at your back and your tiny, half-undead infant in your arms. The feeling of his cool chest and her not-quite-warm-enough little form were somehow the most natural thing in the world. The steady beating of your heart sustaining the both of them. They were both supposed to be impossible, wrong, and profane to everything sacred and divine. And somehow, they were perfect. And you were lucky enough to have them both.
Though you're more than prepared to supplement your daughter's diet with blood the moment the need arises, you feel grateful in this moment that she's still satisfied with your milk. Melancholy borders on the edge of your warm and blissful feelings. Astarion has spoken often of how painful the blood hunger can be for him. You try to keep it to yourself, but guilt squeezes your heart when you think of her with those same hunger pains. Astarion has already sworn he will guide her through them, teach her to hunt on animals when she's strong enough. As you look upon your daughter, you can only hope to yourself that she and Astarion keep each other close, even if you one day leave them behind. There had been talks of ways the two of you could extend your lifespan, and you invested every hour you could spare into researching life-extending magic.
Yet if your endeavors failed or you died prematurely, after some time, perhaps decades, perhaps centuries in the future, you will be the one who leaves first. Astarion will remain unliving and physically unchanging, and while dhampirs were said to be more alive than undead, they were exceptionally long-lived creatures. Sources the two of you researched varied greatly, but all accounts agreed that dhampirs could outlive High Elves by centuries, possibly thousands of years if they renewed themselves with blood. Two ancient souls, undead and half-undead, largely unchanging in an ever changing world. Astarion and her would need each other.
Just as you begin to feel lightheaded, he pulls away, licking and kissing your bite to seal the wound and carefully collecting any stray strands of blood. "Easy," his arms are diligently wrapped around your babe, keeping her supported and snug. "Restore yourself, darling," he encouraged.
You nod sleepily and bring your hand up to touch the amulet. "Te Absolvo," with a soft flash of healing magic, your dizziness was instantly gone, the buzz in your head replaced with Astarion's sweet praises in your ear.
"Thank you, my love," he whispers. He presses a deep kiss into your neck, where your fresh bite mark heals. Your daughter has finished her meal now as well, and you pull your gown back up to tuck her closer to you. She snuggles up on your chest, and you stroke her back softly. She's fast asleep again already, her schedule leaning more and more each into the nocturnal with each passing day. Another early manifestion of her dhampirism.
Nocturnal sleep schedules, blood hunger, spider-climbing, shape-shifting. It didn't matter what new challenges the two of you might face with her. You trusted Astarion would be there for her. He would struggle. He would make mistakes, you know. But he has you both.
As you hum sleepily to your baby girl, Astarion nestles into your neck tenderly. He mumbles unto your skin quietly, just barely loud enough to be heard.
🗡 summary: Astarion and Tav (reader) face a brutal, overwhelming battle that pushes them to their limits. Tav gets badly injured and Astarion brings her to safety, after begging and pleading for him not to leave her, and Astarion begging and pleading for her to stay where she is, he hands her his crossbow and heads off to finish off their assailants.
🗡 masterlist | ao3
The ruined cathedral had long since been abandoned—forgotten by the gods and swallowed by ivy, the bones of it left to rot beneath the quiet weight of dusk. You sat in what appeared to be an altar room in the depths of the crypt (most likely used for cultish activities, given the strange inscriptions and dried blood on the walls) feet braced against crumbled stone, back pressed to a broken altar. A starved little candle burned beside you, its light too small to fill the vast, hollow dark. Your crossbow lay across your knees, loaded. Waiting.
You could still feel the press of his fingers when he handed it to you, his crossbow.
“You shoot at anyone who comes through that door who isn’t me.”
He’d said it like a vow. Like a line drawn in blood. His eyes didn’t flinch when he spoke it.
There’d been word of hunters in the next valley. Not bandits, not cultists—the other kind. The kind that watched from the shadows, learned your habits, waited until the light was gone and your guard was down. They weren’t hunting just any vampire. They were after Astarion.
He’d always known. Always shrugged it off with that infuriating, cheeky smirk, voice dripping with mock charm: “Everyone wants a taste of me. Can you blame them?”
But now, the joke had run dry. The hunters were here, and the danger eminent. The gravity of the situation weighed on him far heavier than any jest could mask.
Whether they’d been sent by Cazador or were in it for gold, it didn’t matter. They were trained, they were many, and they were close.
He hadn’t wanted to bring you, the others begged you not to go with him, but you’d insisted.
You should have listened.
They found you, in the end. The attack came swift and brutal. Though you’d both been bracing for it, it still caught you off guard. Sparks flew, arrows whistled through the air, fire cracked, and chaos raged across the nave. Stone chunks rained down from the ceiling, turning the floor into a treacherous obstacle. The stained-glass windows (whatever was left of them from neglect) shattered completely, their colors lost in shards scattered across the floor. Another piece of the chapel’s soul torn away.
In the midst of it all, a hex slammed into you, sending you crashing to the floor. Your head struck hard against the cold stone, the world spinning and your skull pounding. Gripping your staff, you forced yourself to your feet, desperate to fight back. You willed a fireball, but only a weak, flickering spark sputtered from your fingers, barely enough to light the darkness. The magic that once flowed strong now felt fragile, like it might vanish the moment you needed it most.
You clawed at the air, desperate to summon even a little thread of magic, but only weak sparks sputtered from your fingers—tiny sparkles that fell like dust, vanishing before they even reached the floor. Like matches struck again and again, flaring briefly before dying out. Panic clenched your chest as you pushed harder, reckless and unfocused, your desperation blinding you to everything around you.
Before you knew it, Astarion was at your side. Without waiting for a word or glance, he swept you up over his shoulder and carried you through the twisting, narrow corridors of the cathedral.
He didn’t stop until he reached the crypt below.
He told you to stay behind—to remain in the ritualistic altar room this while he flushed them out. You could see it in his posture, the strain in his jaw, things were dire. He was already coated in so much blood.
You reached for him on instinct, fingers curling around his arm in protest, trying to pull him back.
He spun, pressing you hard against the altar, his breath ragged, his voice low and trembling with fury. “You hit your head—you’re bleeding, your magic’s not working, and you just stood there?” His hands trembled where they gripped your arms. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was trying to cast Fireball,” you said, the words barely leaving your mouth before a wave of pain rolled through you.
It was only now, in this narrow sliver of stillness, that your body caught up with what it had endured. The heat of the fight had masked it, but now your skull throbbed with every heartbeat. You winced and reached back with trembling fingers, feeling through your hair until you found the tender spot. When your hand came away, it was slick with your blood.
His eyes darted to your fingers. You saw it in him then—a flash of panic, too fast for him to hide.
“Gods—” he hissed through clenched teeth, and then his voice dropped into something hoarse and gutted. “You almost got yourself killed.”
His fingers curled tighter around your arms. “I can’t lose you,” he breathed. “Not like this. Stay behind this door. You shoot anything that moves. That is all I’m asking. Please—just do it.”
You opened your mouth to protest, but he stopped you, raising his voice “Do it! Do it for me, please.”
It wasn’t about fear. It was about you. About keeping you out of it.
He turned toward the door—toward the dark beyond it—without another word.
You couldn’t stand to see him go. A fracture began, which cracked further with every step he took closer to that damn door.
“Wait!” you cried, voice cracking under the weight of it, scrambling after him on unsteady legs.
You barely made it two steps before you fell—knees hitting the stone hard, palms skidding raw. The crossbow clattered from your hands. The sting was nothing next to the wave of desperation rising in your throat and how quickly the tears flooded your eyes.
“Astarion—please—” you choked out between sobs.
He stopped.
Spun around.
“No!” he roared, the sound tearing out of him like a beast forced into language. It wasn’t just fury—it was terror, panic, heartbreak all wrapped in one shattering note. “You are staying right here!”
The words ripped through the air, each one thundered and trembling, so full of dread you could feel it pulse in the marrow of your bones. It wasn’t a command—it was a plea flayed raw.
He stormed back toward you, fell to his knees before you, and grabbed your shoulders again with shaking hands. Not to hurt. Not to hold you down. To anchor you. Like he thought you might slip away entirely if he didn’t.
His eyes were wide and burning—red-rimmed, rimmed with exhaustion and blood and fear.
“You stay here,” he said again, softer now but no less sharp, his voice breaking on every other word. “You wait until I come back. You don’t run. You don’t follow. I’m begging you—” He choked on the last word, the breath stuttering out of him. “please, please, just stay right fucking here.”
You couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe.
You were still on your knees, shaking in his grasp. The cold from the stone floor had nothing on the cold seeping into your chest.
He was holding you like he couldn’t afford to let go. Like he’d already buried you in his mind a hundred times and couldn’t stand to do it again.
You searched his face—his beautiful, battered face. There was blood dried along his jaw, fresh cuts across his lip, a bruise darkening near his temple. Strands of his silver hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat and streaked with crimson, wild from the fight.
But worse than all of it was the look in his eyes.
You had never seen him like this. So undone. So exposed. Like all the elegance, all the wit, all the charm had been stripped away and left only this—a man kneeling in front of you, begging not to lose what little light he’d ever found.
Tears fell, hot and soundless, down your cheeks. “I can’t—” you whispered, barely forming the words. “I can’t let you go alone.”
He shushed you with a breath, forehead pressing to yours. His grip on your shoulders loosened just enough to become an embrace, his trembling arms circling you like he was trying to memorize the shape of you.
“Please,” he whispered again, this time so quietly it could’ve shattered glass. “Please.”
You saw it—a single tear cutting through the grime and dried blood on his cheek. It slipped down in silence, unnoticed by him, but not by you.
And then—his voice, low and wrecked and barely holding together: “If anything happens to you, I won’t survive.”
That was the truth. Not a flourish. Not a dramatic line. Just the raw, bleeding fact of it. You saw it in his face. In the way he held you like a man already grieving. He leaned back just enough to see you again, thumbs brushing the corners of your eyes, messily wiping away tears he couldn’t stop from falling.
But then, your brow twitched, and your breath hitched. The words knocked something loose in you.
“Well what about me?” you snapped, louder than you meant to. Your voice cracked, but you didn’t care. “I just have to sit here? Wait? Hope you come back? But what if you don’t? What if you never do? What the hells am I supposed to do then?”
The tears came hard and fast now, hot and overwhelming.
“At least we could both go out together—”
“Stop. Stop!”
His voice cracked like a whip. He gritted his teeth, eyes squeezed shut like he was trying to hold something in.
“You’re making this harder,” he rasped. His eyes snapped open, burning. “Gods, you’re making this so much harder.” He swallowed hard, jaw trembling. “I need to try to get you out of here. Because one of us making it out is better than neither. I have to try. I have to.”
He swallowed hard, mustering the strength he needed. “You trust me, don’t you?”
Moments passed, he held his breath, then you finally nodded. It was subtle, you didn’t want to do it, but you had to let him go.
“Then let me do this. Just this. For you.”
He kissed your forehead. Soft, breathless, like a goodbye he refused to say aloud.
Then he stood, staggering once, one hand dragging against the stone for balance. He didn’t look back when he opened the door again. He couldn’t. He wasn’t strong enough.
You didn’t call after him.
You just sat there, knees burning, crossbow limp beside you, and listened to the heavy thud of the door as it shut behind him.
And then—only silence.
Only your heartbeat in your painfully throbbing head.
Only the weight of his absence stretching out into the dark.
You’d imagined waiting would be the hard part.
It isn’t.
The hard part is not knowing.
A candle lay toppled over beside you. You turned it upright and sparked it with what little magic you had left.
You grip your crossbow right, finger resting firmly on the trigger. You close your eyes for a moment, and he’s already there behind your lids: his blood-wet grin, the satin curl of his voice, the way he touches you like he’s never known softness until now. That kiss by the dying fire. His mouth warm. Greedy. Reverent. The way he’d pulled away like he didn’t deserve it.
“You trusted me.” He’d whispered that night like it hurt him.
You did. You do.
So, you keep the crossbow ready, like he asked. You watch the door, wait, and stay put, like he asked.
You wait.
⸻
Time passes. How much time, you’re not sure. You’re on your second candle now, about halfway burned. When the first one started to gutter, you took the next one from the altar and carefully brought it to the dying light, making sure the flame didn’t go out. It was eerily quiet; it had been for ages.
Then, the sound comes softly—so soft you almost convince yourself it’s imagined.
A chill runs down your spine when you hear the careful pacing of footsteps drawing nearer, slowly but still coming.
The door opened slowly, the creak of the rusted metal hinges piercing through the silence of the altar room.
Your pulse slams into your throat as you raise the crossbow, hands trembling, it’s mechanisms clicking with every twitch you radiate. Breath caught in your lungs like it, too, has been hunted. Your finger hovers near the trigger. You’re already bracing for the worst.
A footstep inside.
And there he is.
Astarion.
You don’t lower the weapon. Not at first. It takes a full second—two, maybe more—before your body can even register relief. Because what stands there barely looks like him.
He’s drenched in blood.
Soaked through. His boots leave red-black prints across the stone floor, the leather of his armor slashed and torn. One padded sleeve is nearly gone, hanging in ragged strips from his shoulder, exposing a gash that splits the muscle down his upper arm like a raw seam. His jaw is tight, teeth clenched, a dark bruise blooming across one cheek where the skin has split clean through.
His daggers are still drawn, slick with dark, drying blood, ready in case anyone had made it to you.
His eyes glow a sharp ruby red, piercing through the darkness. Not with fury. Not exactly. With something worse. Something wretched and hollow and shaken. There’s violence in him still, but not the kind that reaches outward. This rage turns in on itself, coiling around his bones like a curse.
He doesn’t speak. He just stands there in the doorway, blood drying in streaks and spatters on his skin. His chest rises and falls in slow, deliberate rhythms, each breath heavy and ragged.
You lower the crossbow. Your arms feel numb.
A moment passes.
And then he’s moving, sheathing his daggers once he realizes that it’s all over, and you’re safe.
Not with urgency. Not with grace. He just walks—slow and heavy, every step laboured.
When he finally reaches you, he drops straight to his knees like the strings had been cut. The sound of it echoes. His body folds in on itself, shoulders hunched, blood still dripping from his fingers.
“I said I’d come back,” he breathes.
The voice that leaves him is not the one you know. It’s ruined and hoarse, cracking at the edges, like it’s been dragged across glass. You can hardly hear it.
Your breath catches. You shake as you look at him—really look at him.
He is a ruin of himself.
There’s a split down his bottom lip—wider now than before, stretched open by the way he’d been snarling, baring his teeth like an animal while he tore through them. A welt swells above one brow, angry and red. His hands are scraped and raw, knuckles split, nails caked with grime and something darker.
His eyes, gods his eyes, hollow, vacant, and exhausted beyond words.
His body trembles beneath the weight of whatever he’s endured—whatever he’s done—to make it back to you.
You set the crossbow aside and reach for him.
He doesn’t hesitate. He leans into you like a drowning man claws for air. His forehead presses against your stomach, blood and sweat soaking through your clothes. His arms slide around your waist and hold fast—desperate, unrelenting. Like he could crawl inside your skin and hide from everything. His breath hits your abdomen in short, unsteady bursts.
You thread your fingers into his hair. It’s sticky and damp, matted to his scalp in places, warm from blood and heat. Your other hand cups the back of his neck, cradling him gently.
The strength goes out of him all at once.
“What happened?” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away, he just holds you tighter.
The silence stretches. You can feel his pulse hammering beneath his jaw. His body trembles with it.
“They kept coming,” he murmurs. His voice is low. Muffled. Like it hurts to say the words. “I thought I’d finished them all. But more were waiting. Down the ridge, past the trees…”
You flinch.
He senses it and his grip on you tightens. “I took care of it,” he says quickly. “All of them. It’s done now. We’re safe. You’re safe.”
He breathes that last part like a prayer. Or a plea. But you can hear the break in his voice. The guilt threading through it. He’s shaking again, worse now.
You pull him closer.
He buries his face in you.
“They almost got down here.” he says. “I didn’t realize at first, I thought I was too late.” He chokes on the words. “I thought I’d find you dead.”
A pause.
You hold him tighter.
“I tore them apart,” he says.
Soft. Barely more than air.
“I didn’t even think. I just… I ripped them. I didn’t know I could. Not like that.”
His voice sounds… small. Frightened of himself.
And for a split second, you let your mind go there. Let it conjure the image: his daggers flashing red, bone splitting beneath his grip, that raw, unthinking violence in his eyes. Blood coating the walls. The floor. His hands… Maybe even his teeth.
You stop yourself.
You swallow the picture before it finishes forming, pushing it down where it can’t reach you. Your curiosity—foolish, unguarded—had gotten the better of you. But you don’t want to know.
Not really. Not like this.
So you hold him instead.
You press your lips to his temple. He lets out a shuddering breath at the contact, some invisible thread inside him fraying loose.
“You came back,” you whisper. “That’s all that matters.”
His body curls tighter. His hands fist in your tunic like he’s afraid you’ll pull away. “I didn’t know if I’d make it,” he admits. “I left you with nothing but a crossbow and an old wooden door.”
“You left me with silence,” you murmur. “And I didn’t know what to do with it.”
Your voice is barely a breath, trembling at the edges. “I thought you were going to die. I thought I’d never see you again. And I didn’t know how to feel—I was angry, terrified, praying to gods I don’t even believe in…”
Your throat tightens. You swallow hard against the sting rising behind your eyes.
“I didn’t know if you were ever going to come back through that door,” you whisper.
His breath stutters, catches—and then the tremble overtakes him. His whole body curls inward, as if the weight of the moment, the truth of it, has unraveled something vital inside him. Slowly, he lifts his head.
You see him.
Not the vampire. Not the monster with red-stained teeth or the graceful predator shaped by centuries of survival.
Just the man. Broken and bare. Wide-eyed. Real in a way he’s never allowed himself to be.
“You make me feel…” His voice is raw, hushed like a confession whispered in the dark. His throat works around the words, but they don’t come easy. “Gods,” he breathes, “I don’t know what you make me feel. I’ve never… I’ve never had a word for it.”
Your fingers cradle his cheek, and he leans into it instinctively. Starved for touch. For safety. For you.
He presses a kiss to your wrist. Then to the soft bend of your elbow. Your shoulder.
Not demanding. Not hungry.
Grateful.
As if you’re the first thing he’s ever truly chosen for himself, and choice wasn’t ever something he was familiar with. As if your skin alone could cleanse him of what he's done, what he's endured.
“You trusted me,” he whispers, like he still doesn’t believe it. Like the words burn and soothe all at once. “You stayed.”
“I’ll always stay.”
His arms tighten around you, and for a moment, he just breathes. Against your ribs. Against your heart. As if syncing his rhythm to yours is the only way to hold himself together.
He shifts up and buries his face in your neck, lips brushing your skin as he exhales.
And you let him.
You hold him as if he might vanish otherwise, as if your arms alone could shield him from every sharp thing in the world. You kiss the top of his head, his temple, every bloodied inch you can reach. You anchor him in silence and warmth and the steady promise of your body.
Because now you know what he’s made of.
Not just moonlight and sharp teeth. Not just rage and ruin.
But ache.
Longing.
Hope.
And you will not let him go.
Not until the last candle gutters out.
Not until the final enemy falls.
Not until he believes—truly believes—that he is more than what his master made him.
And maybe… not even then.
---
🗡a/n wow you made it to the end! i hope you enjoyed it! the story idea came from this prompt list
warnings: cowboy charlie (s7e1), soft touch-starved charlie, (fake) blood, mention of vomiting, no use of y/n, mac is a jealous baby, fluff, lotsa kissin'
an: i know this is a very niche part of the market but i needed to get it out my system. it's a personal head cannon of mine that Charlie is ace but that doesn't mean he doesn't deserve some kissy kissy and my need to love on him is literally making me a non-functional member of society: so enjoy! remember to reblog and comment to support your favourite writers :3
summary: Charlie makes a handsome cowboy, covered in fake blood or not.
the knock rumbling against your door is almost certainly loud enough to wake up the whole floor of your apartment building. you flinch back against your couch at the sound, flicking off the television that’s been only half entertaining you for the last hour.
“babe! babe!”
even without his calls, you know it’s him. Charlie was the only person who could arrive so unprecedented at your apartment at nearly nine o’ clock at night and not expect a right hook to the jaw as soon as you swing the door open.
you’re halfway to a whisper-yelled “Charlie, keep it down!”, tugging the door open, when you take in the state of your boyfriend.
he’s lively, bouncing on the balls of his feet: hands fidgeting around the orbit of his head. “you won’t believe what happened.”
beyond that, his umber locks are hiding under the reach of a caramel cowboy hat. his chest tucked into a denim vest with a bowler tie flat against it.
most jarring of all is how his whole cowboy get-up and the better half of his face is covered in … is that blood?
“—so then Frank got on one knee and when he proposed, Roxy literally had a heart attack and—“
your boyfriend is still standing out between the hallway and the doorframe, halfway through another outrageous tale that the neighbors are no doubt privy to.
“baby …” your chest tightens and twists in concern. you reach for his face, the blood is caked in his beard but dry to the touch. “you’re covered in blood?”
he quietens at your touch. he usually does. whole body stutters like he’s never been met with a soft hold a day his whole life.
“oh— this? don’t worry, i ate some of these tablet things so i could go on this date with this lady from the internet—“
you’re guiding him gently by the wrist into your apartment, shutting the door behind him.
“you went on a date with a lady from the internet?”
he fumbles, fingers drifting to brush against your palm. “well, not for me. obviously not, i have you—“
nudging him through the apartment to lean against your kitchen sink, which he does without resistance, you laugh lightly. “well, don’t let me hold you back, Charlie.“
his forehead tightens in confusion. you love the look of it on your sweet, sweet boyfriend. the water is cool where you run a rag under it’s stream.
“you know what they say, don’t let your current girlfriend stop you from finding your future wife.” your voice curls at the edge, teasing him, and you’re horrible because you know Charlie is no good on picking up on stuff like that.
he shakes his head, hands nervously scrunching at his sides. your own rise to his head, gently bumping the cowboy hat so that it sits further up his crown and you can start working the wet cloth over the crimson marks on his creased forehead.
“why would— you’re my future wife. aren’t you?” it’s phrased like a fact more than a proposal. a clarification.
Charlie is sometimes the most romantic person on the planet, by no fault of his own. he says things like that with such honesty and quiet conviction that it curls a warm feeling between your organs: like maybe he was the other half every person sets out to find between the throes of fighting general existence. at least yours.
you smile at him. that i’m so fucking sickeningly in love with this doofus kind of smile that seems to set him a little more at ease. his fingers are tentative when they reach for your hips.
“i was just teasing, babe. i’m sorry.”
you’re gentle where you’re dragging the cloth over his skin, working from the top of his face to clean it of blood.
“oh.” he settles. “well anyways, so Roxy has this heart attack: Frank is still on one knee, Mac tries to call 911–!”
Charlie rambles and you listen. at least as well as you can with his less than comprehensible story-telling abilities and his talent for being involved in mostly unbelievable happenings.
the rag has made it’s way to his beard, you’re still trying to work softly: hand under his jaw while the fabric works between strands of wired hair, thumb pressing a bump into the hollow of his cheek.
“so after that we hung up. and i came straight here, cause i wanted to tell you.” he sighs, body slumping with the catharsis of imparting his tale upon you. “Mac said i’m a pussy because i’m always leaving them to come here. but i missed you, and i think he’s kinda jealous cause i have a girlfriend and he doesn’t.”
your hand stills, curling under his chin so your knuckle is steering his face up to yours. “Mac can go suck a dick. and i missed you too, Char.”
he’s the one who presses up for a kiss, eyes still wide and desperate as the day you met. you indulge him happily, squishing your nose against his when your lips meet sloppily and your hands wrap around his neck: pushing him further against the edge of the sink.
Charlie hums and it’s your favourite sound. his hands are lost, but excited where they’re chasing up your back and over your face.
your boyfriend tastes bitter and metallic, like the blood capsules he threw up, but also sweet like the melting packet of caramels he keeps in his jean pocket.
you pull back, brushing your nose against his. his face chases yours: eyes still closed.
“you look so handsome in this little get-up, baby.” sighing, hand twisting into his, you say. “you make a good cowboy.”
he perks up at that, “you should hear my accent! what i said to that lady, so, when she opened the door i said—“
there’s a grumble, like he’s clearing his throat, “—tarnation, you look pretty as a peach. yes you do!”
the accent is crumbly but charming in a way that only your Charlie can make it. he nods, grinning and proud, and you throw your head back to laugh.
you pat fondly over his shoulders, “you’re sure talking a lot about this lady you took on a date while i was sitting home missing you like crazy. was she pretty?”
he guffaws, huffs like you’ve asked him about the weather. “nah. i mean … like, not pretty like you.”
there’s a moment of quiet. he waits to see if he’s said the right thing.
“hmm.” you run a gentle thumb down the side of his face. “you know i don’t like to share.”
you press your chest against his and his breath buckles. his skin is sticky with sweat when you push a kiss into his neck.
“you’re kinda making me all jealous with your story.”
Charlie shakes his head. “you-you shouldn’t be.”
releasing his neck with a pop, briefly grinning at the hickey you’ve painted there, you bump your nose lovingly against his.
“i know.” he’s red with a blush now. “wanna put on a movie and not watch it while we make out on the couch?”
stormborns
jacobvanloon
annaxmalina
jbbartram-illu
areudirty
germansingergirl
