Hi everyone! I’m Ricci (she/her, 32), a self-taught artist from Ukraine. I’m utterly obsessed with BG3, Astarion, and my own OCs, so that’s exactly what you’ll find here!
I have 4 OCs tied to the BG3 universe: Yara (my Tav), Illusen (my Durge), and Dranar & Zarrisha (a pair of Lolth-sworn drow, non-playable characters who are part of the shared story). They all exist in the same universe and timeline, constantly crossing paths. Right now, though, I’m hyper-focused on my girl Yara and Astarion. Her background and lore are under the "keep reading" (eventually, I'll make a separate post about her rats)!
Find me here:
PATREON: (That’s where all my NSFW content lives, plus WIPs, linearts, timelapses, and stuff I don’t post anywhere else) patreon.com/cw/liubov_ricci
INSTAGRAM: instagram.com/liubov_ricci
BLUESKY: bsky.app/profile/liubovricci.bsky.social
X: x.com/LiubovRicci
AO3: archiveofourown.org/users/Liubov_Ricci
A few things about what I do:
• My blog is 18+! I create NSFW content and often dive into sensitive or dark themes: sex, gore, trauma, mentions of abuse, torture, slavery, mental illness, murder, etc. This is dark fantasy, guys, consider this your heads-up!
• You can find all my work under the #art tag.
• Commissions are currently closed, but that might change anytime. However, I’m always down for art trades!
• I mostly focus on illustrations and attempting comics, but I also write. I don’t post my writing often, but when I do, you can find it under #text, #lore, or on AO3.
Important: My English is decent, but all my major posts and fic are edited by my husband or a friend, or I spend way too much time proofreading them myself. So if you catch me skipping articles, mixing up words, or saying something incredibly stupid – bear with me. I’m dumb and my brain is damaged, guys.
Now, let's get to my gorgeous woman 😌
Backstory
• Yara grew up in a wealthy jewelry-making family in Baldur’s Gate. Her grandfather founded a business making and importing rare jewelry, adorning all the city's nobility. Her father, a simple ranger, was the only one who truly loved her, but he was murdered when she was only eight. Since then, she’s been hunting for his killers to solve the mystery of his death. Her mother remarried, and then came the nightmare: a high-society stepfather who was an absolute monster. Yara spent three hellish years in captivity, enduring constant violence and torture while her mother ignored it all through a drunken haze.
• She didn’t just escape, she tore her way out. Literally. She ripped her captor’s throat out with her teeth and strangled him with the very rope that bound her to the bed. She was 14. Since then, she’s been a wild thing – feral and fiercely protective of her freedom.
• She was starved, feverish, and covered in infected wounds from the whip. Alone and utterly scared, a grumpy duergar found her dying in the streets and brought her to a traveling circus. She worked as a laborer and was treated like dirt, but she found her first true soulmate there: a rat named Gray Lady (the same rat that would later become part of her "swarm")
• Yara eventually ditched the circus for the woods, surviving on pure spite and the survival skills her father taught her. She learned to see with her nose and ears, becoming a predator in her own right.
• A brush with a ghoul led her to a group of smugglers. She found work, her first love, and her path as a ranger. She left the group years later when they started trafficking slaves – a line she refused to cross.
Personality
• She’s a "glass cannon" with zero self-preservation instincts, mired in self-destruction. She’ll throw a sword like a javelin or charge armed foes with her bare fists just to feel something. She’s wise but lacks formal schooling. She navigates the world through intuition and scent. She’ll die protecting the innocent, but she finds a little too much joy in putting "villains" six feet under.
• Trauma turned her into a predator who protects what’s hers with reckless aggression, because love is her North Star. If she claims you, she’s obsessive, protective, and soft as moss. With Astarion, she’s finally found someone who understands the weight of the leash they both still feel.
Sexuality
Trauma left its mark. While men attract her, they also usually trigger a cocktail of fear and disgust. She feels safest with women – loving their bodies and their touch – so her long-term relationships were only with women. Before Astarion, she only let two men into her bed for one-time flings. And kids – hard pass. She’s terrified of becoming the same "trash mother" she had.
Tadpole era & Beyond
• She survived the Absolute and became a Hero of Baldur's Gate (zero Ascensions, thank you very much)
• Sadly, the team lost Lae’zel and Karlach.
• Illusen (my Durge), Shadowheart, and Halsin became her best friends. Jaheira became the mother figure she always needed, and Astarion became her entire world.
• After a brief, chaotic stint leading spawn in the Underdark, she and Astarion moved into her grandfather’s old estate in the city. Along with them, they took the vampire children and some of the most vulnerable spawn.
• They found a way to let Astarion walk in the sun and stopped Yara’s aging.
Random facts
• She speaks a bit of Orcish (mostly so she can trash-talk the people she thinks killed her dad; she caught sight of an orc near her father's body)
• Her "eyeliner" is permanent ink. The dots on her face were a messy attempt to feel something while high, a bad decision made just to feel the needle.
• She can swallow swords (thanks to her circus life and an endless need to prove she's tough) and fight blindfolded by relying on sound and scent.
• Doesn't touch a drop of booze. She hates the feeling of not being in control of her body, though she’ll occasionally light up some devilweed or a pipe.
• She knows she’s "attractive" to others, but her own reflection looks like a mess of scars to her. Her clothing and armor are always chosen to hide her numerous scars.
• Before she was a Swarmkeeper, she had a bear named Ashpaw (now happily retired with Halsin)
• The dark rat on her shoulder is Corvus – the very one Jaheira chats with at the Elfsong Tavern.
• After she performed the ritual that fixed her aging issue (dying, if you will), she obviously had to pay a price and deal with a lot of side effects. One of the most curious ones is that her eyes shift colors when the mood strikes, though they are naturally as black as coals.
• Most of the time, Yara wanders around bitten, bruised, marked, and half-drained. It's what makes her feel most alive.
A little snippet from the first chapter of my massive Astarion/Tav fic, with Durge as a third main character
Planning to post the first four chapters on AO3 this week.
Illusion sheds the likeness of his master like a hound shaking water from its fur and once again hangs over the elf as a black cloud.
"This isn't about your parents at all, is it?" The shadow twists his spineless neck until his shapeless head juts almost upside down. He studies Illusen's emotionless face, suspicion flickering in spectral eyes, drinking it in.
"I don't want to talk abou–"
The shadar-kai doesn't get to finish before Luce forces his way inside him with an uninvited thrust of phantom body. It's a familiar sensation, yet no less shocking. The shadow fills every crevice, every crack and fissure, every tattered scrap of his soul. Even his heart – he fills that too, though he was already there. The man remembers the first time this happened, how ticklish it was, but now he just wants to vomit, for the bastard turns his entrails inside out, winding his guts around a fist, rattling bones as if wanting to swap each one's place, to shuffle them like a fucking deck of cards. A convulsive shudder shakes the mattress as Illusen thrashes beneath the suffocating pressure. Through a wave of nausea, he notices the fury clawing its way to the surface with renewed force. He strains for a breath that freezes halfway. It's torture, when Luce rummages through him like this. The shadow doesn't amplify his emotions, as he'd thought as a child, but adds his own. Right now, they don't align, and torment him. Usually, he barely notices the foreign presence in his body, but only when he's ready for it, when consent has been given. But for this barbaric invasion of his innards, it is impossible to be prepared. He wants his body back. Wants to stop feeling the intruder slithering through his limbs and licking his ribs with a cold tongue. Wants it to stop.
A little snippet from the first chapter of my massive Astarion/Tav fic, with Durge as a third main character
Planning to post the first four chapters on AO3 this week.
Illusion sheds the likeness of his master like a hound shaking water from its fur and once again hangs over the elf as a black cloud.
"This isn't about your parents at all, is it?" The shadow twists his spineless neck until his shapeless head juts almost upside down. He studies Illusen's emotionless face, suspicion flickering in spectral eyes, drinking it in.
"I don't want to talk abou–"
The shadar-kai doesn't get to finish before Luce forces his way inside him with an uninvited thrust of phantom body. It's a familiar sensation, yet no less shocking. The shadow fills every crevice, every crack and fissure, every tattered scrap of his soul. Even his heart – he fills that too, though he was already there. The man remembers the first time this happened, how ticklish it was, but now he just wants to vomit, for the bastard turns his entrails inside out, winding his guts around a fist, rattling bones as if wanting to swap each one's place, to shuffle them like a fucking deck of cards. A convulsive shudder shakes the mattress as Illusen thrashes beneath the suffocating pressure. Through a wave of nausea, he notices the fury clawing its way to the surface with renewed force. He strains for a breath that freezes halfway. It's torture, when Luce rummages through him like this. The shadow doesn't amplify his emotions, as he'd thought as a child, but adds his own. Right now, they don't align, and torment him. Usually, he barely notices the foreign presence in his body, but only when he's ready for it, when consent has been given. But for this barbaric invasion of his innards, it is impossible to be prepared. He wants his body back. Wants to stop feeling the intruder slithering through his limbs and licking his ribs with a cold tongue. Wants it to stop.
I have no idea how I went this long without knowing about the mod that lets you have two Tavs in your party. Anyway, I found out about it yesterday and started my first canonical playthrough, where Yara and Illusen lead the group together, the way they're supposed to (yeah, yeah, I know it's against canon and Tav and Durge can't exist at the same time, but you'd be surprised how often I either reinterpret or straight-up ignore canon)
Now my party looks the way it's always looked in my head. I'm so happy! They're finally together and they look so cool!
Huge thanks to @onyxvix for telling me about this mod
Orryx as the Slayer of Bhaal vs. Orryx as the Ravager of Bhaal, with Astarion for size reference
Canonically he only transforms once during the timeline of the events of BG3, during the fight with the Avatar of Myrkul.
From a non-canon standpoint...you can use your imagination for the reasons he transforms.
I've been thinking so, so, so much about Astarion's reaction when Tav offers him their blood after the first bite, instead of him feeding on enemies. The idea that he isn't actually thrilled about it (the way I see it) - about being dependent on someone again - really stuck with me for a long time. So I ended up with my own take on it, through the lens of Astarion's relationship with Yara. This is actually an excerpt from my longfic about these two. This topic just tore my soul out.
Please mind the tags/warnings before reading:
AO3
Astarion needed no more than three weeks to creep into her tent at night. On that windy evening, the thick walls fluttered so violently that sleep seemed impossible, yet she managed. Yara knew he was a vampire. She never spoke of it with others, nor with him, but she always knew. She saw how he meticulously hid his smile, yet to her secret pride, it seemed that alone with her, he forgot that rule. His fangs glinted in his grin so often, she’d even begun to find it pleasing. Sharp, like him — obscenely perfect. Her fear came only from waking suddenly to a stranger’s presence. She wanted to help, and so she did. Without a drop of hesitation then, without regrets after. When he cradled the back of her neck and pulled her closer to sink deeper into her throat, her fingers accidentally brushed the scars on his neck. And even through the intoxication of that first bite, she felt him shudder.
It took them no more than a month for him to pin her against rough bark, and then for her to push him into damp earth. Near camp, under moonlight, in the silvered night that promised to be special, he bit her a second time. Astarion drank not just her blood, he drank her essence, her frailty. As she came again and again, eyes wet, staring up at the star-strewn sky, her insides hollowed out with aching emptiness. He smiled at every moan, the dig of her fingers in his white curls, the tremor of her lashes, but when he buried his face in her neck, she knew his smile faded. Afterward, curled into a tight ball with her back to his cold side, Yara didn’t wipe the quiet tears while he lay still — not asleep, not breathing — in the rustle of leaves. She wasn’t crying, the warm trails simply flowed from how good it felt with him, and how unreal. That night shattered her forever, but not completely. And she wanted it all. Wanted to be left as nothing but sharp shards after he was done — no one would get hurt by, because no one would touch.
It took them saving and slaughtering dozens of souls to return to that same clearing, that same forest, as if it were that same night. Then he bit her for the fifth, the sixth, and the last time. This time, no marks remained on her neck. Instead, the elf — paler than ever under the clear night — left marks on her scarred thigh while he curled his fingers inside her and bent her back in pleasure like a slender branch. He left tiny, almost tender wounds in the crook of her elbow while making love to her slowly, gently, not like the first time. An apology. A farewell. He licked the tiny punctures at her wrist, whispering something into her skin, perhaps so she’d remember this night forever as the most beautiful thing that had ever happened to her. Because he didn’t need to remember. He didn’t want to. That time, she didn’t stay till morning. That time, she wanted to weep for real. Alone. At dawn, Yara cried herself to sleep, thinking of how he’d searched with teeth and tongue for that one spot where she’d taste best. In truth, Astarion was searching for a place that wouldn’t make him feel so guilty. A place that wouldn’t addict him like her hot neck had, like her hair always falling into his face, smelling of river water and bitter herbs. Then she told herself she still wasn’t ready for such closeness, because the shards left of her were dull and safe. So he wouldn’t cut himself on them.
After that night, by silent agreement, they no longer made love. They gifted each other only kisses in the pitch-dark of his tent, sharing her heartbeat between them — hers alone. Bruising embraces that brought pain and carried only the hope of solace. Yet Yara hoped for that closeness, the one she was unhesitatingly ready for. She thought Astarion wouldn’t stop drinking her blood, would let them keep that act of trust as something binding them tighter than lust. Instead, he denied her even that.
Back then, she still didn’t know why it mattered so much to her. Now, when Astarion finishes his watch late at night and walks toward her with a tired, faint smile, her heart beats faster, because she understands herself. He sits beside her on the shared bedroll used by those seeking warmth near the fire. Shoulder to shoulder. Both gazing into the distance, or at the ragged flames, or at their own boots. She’d watched him for minutes on the camp’s edge as she passed by earlier. He’d felt it — spine straightening instantly — but hadn’t turned. Exhausted, she thought. Starving. For days now, no living soul had crossed their path, let alone one he could feed from. And she suspected the woods offered him no better luck. She hugs her knees to her chest, squeezing them so tightly, as if she could gather all her courage into a single fist. Smells his perfume, the one he applies each morning as if they dwelled in a manor, not a reeking camp. A scent that’s seeped into her clothes and lungs. That floods her mouth, with every sudden whiff, with the salty aftertaste of cold skin.
“You’re exhausted.”
“I’m not.” Astarion replies without pause, and she tastes the lie’s bitterness on his tongue.
“When did you last feed?” Her voice is toneless, hollow — for now. Because she knows it’ll dissolve into worry and pity in seconds. And that thing still unnamed.
She doesn’t need to see him to know he’s smiling — a crooked slash of lips. She feels it in his sigh, in his shifting weight beside her, in the way his words begin:
“Worried? How sweet. Pointless, though. I can manage.”
Oh, he can. So well that the shadows beneath his eyes deepen hourly, his mockery sharpening like a blade.
“Astarion, you could… I could—”
“No, you couldn’t, darling.” The words crack like a slap from a man still stinging from one.
“Why? You called it a gift… that first time.” Yara presses her chin to her knees, emptiness echoing in her voice. Firelight bleeds the distant woods of color, leaving them dark and dead.
“You can’t give the same gift twice, Yara.”
His tone is suddenly bright, buoyant — her eyes widen. He’s mocking her. She lifts her head, confusion twisting into fury.
“But I already have!” she cries, trembling, staring at the thief stealing everything she is. “You’ve drunk from me seven times!”
“You counted?” He meets her gaze, and this time the amusement in his eyes is genuine—disbelieving. “Gods, you truly are enchanting.”
His fanged laugh rings over the camp, scattering night birds, drawing stares. Yara’s cheeks burn like the fire at their feet, but she doesn’t look away. Rage, she thinks. Humiliation. She opens her mouth—
Astarion cuts her off before sound escapes:
“All seven times were unforgettable, darling. Exquisite. Almost too sweet, given how you trembled, how you moaned, how your generous mortal heart raced—” He wears his most seductive, most hollow smile. “—I treasure it. But we stop here. No, listen. We stop because neither of us wants this. Not really.”
They stare. Black into red. Seconds stretch, hollow. She feels the Sword Coast crumble into hells beneath her, dragging her down. Terror flashes in her eyes — he sees it — offers no comfort. Her eyes grow wet, like those nights he shattered her again. And again.
“That’s not true.” A whisper, devoured by crackling wood.
Astarion sighs, glances down, then turns his whole body toward her. He cradles her face in cold palms, leaning close. She fights to keep her eyes open. His whisper is gentle, warm enough to blur meaning. Almost.
“Believe me, you don’t want this. And I don’t either.” His smile is soft, sorrowful, one she doubts he’s ever shown her before.
He leans even closer, leaving his breath on her cheek, the sweetness of his lips on hers, and the ghost of pale curls against her skin — a touch that isn’t really there. This kiss is long and tender, longer than it should be given the circumstances. And when his hands no longer cup her face, when his breath vanishes from her skin, she speaks with lips barely moving:
"This isn’t help," Astarion shakes his head, still smiling faintly. "It’s shackles. One day you’ll thank me for this... little love."
His spine is unnaturally straight as he walks away, leaving her alone with the night, with regret, with disbelief. Yara struggles to cling to the tenderness of that first real kiss, feeling her heart thud unevenly in her chest. She knows it’s final. She fears that from now on, everything that could bind them together will vanish.
***
After hours of restless, tearless sleep, Yara crawls out of her tent clad in leather and steel, certain it’s over. Of course she’s not deluded enough to think any of it resembled a real relationship. But even that toxic intimacy has now run its course. The fresh morning air, always so sweet, now tastes poisonous. Like Shadowheart’s smile. Like Gale’s "good morning." Out of habit, Yara turns her head right and spots him past another tent. He’s watching, the corners of his lips barely lifted. Anyone else would miss it. But she’s not anyone. Every faint crease, every mole, the small scar he likely got as a boy — all etched permanently into her mind.
Astarion sits on one of his cushions, sharpening a dagger. She thinks ignoring him would be childish and stupid. He probably already sees her as a naive girl. So Yara nods a greeting — brief, effortless, she hopes. As she starts to turn away, she sees him laugh silently, head bowed and shaking. It could mean gods, she’s such a fool or just I can’t believe this. When the laughter fades and the vampire rises, sliding the dagger into his belt, his lips form the same silent come here. His eyes are suspiciously warm. Stunned, she stares after him as he rounds the boulder where they all watch the river shimmer at dusk. I should ignore him, she thinks. Mid-thought, her legs carry her after him.
Pathetic. Pathetic. PATHETIC, how pathetic you are, Yara! How stupid.
But hands pull her into shadow and press her against him, emptying her head. Hips against hips, a soft touch at her waist, eyes seeking hers. She doesn’t touch him back, just braces her forearms against his chest, clinging to the illusion of autonomy she never truly had.
"They’ll see us," she whispers. The grass beneath his boot seems greener than seconds before.
A low chuckle stirs her hair, sending shivers down her neck:
"They know everything."
"No, they don’t."
"Fine. They don’t. But they will."
Her laugh tastes bitter. A hook she seizes desperately, driving it into her own heart. Astarion admits he’s considered their companions finding out. He binds her with small details she might mistake for meaning. Their eyes finally meet. She smiles, hoping it’s the smile of the grown woman she is:
"Then we’d better make sure they don’t."
He rolls his eyes and laughs — still quiet, unheard — turning her heart into fragile petals.
"Darling, don’t. That look only suits you in battle."
She wants to ask what he wants. He doesn’t let her. His lips touch her forehead, freezing her from within. She forgets to breathe. Stays just as stunned as his brow meets hers, nose touches nose, breaths mingle. Then, finally, the kiss. Their second real one. Her fists unclench, palms flat on his chest. He doesn’t grip her hips like before, doesn’t slide his tongue between her parted lips. Just mouths warmed by laughter and something almost real, his hand caressing cheek, ear, neck, fingertips in her hair. Yara barely holds back a sob, melting into his hands with sweet, aching pain. Because she is the pain. Another sharp hook, she knows it. Knows what he’s doing, yet kisses him back. He can’t give her substance, so he gives what he deems safe: hope for sincerity that will fade by their next conversation. He’ll keep her close, dangling these moments, because letting her go risks losing his foolish little ally. His guarantee of vengeance. The others who barely care if he lives or dies without her. He’ll hold. He’ll bind. And she’ll let him.
Her sigh drowns in his embrace as he presses her cheek to his chest, chin resting atop her head. She means to say how much she hates him, but when she speaks, she doesn’t know what words will escape her throat:
"I want—"
"I know."
And it proves he knows nothing.
***
Two sunsets later, the tent flap rustles at night, letting him inside. Yara lies with her back to the entrance and doesn’t turn, knowing it’s him. His scent, his near-silent movements, the sound of his breath — the one he sometimes remembers to fake. A light touch at her side, the shuffle of blankets as Astarion settles behind her, not attempting to hold her. Her imagination paints him staring at the tent’s black ceiling, wishing he could see cold stars through it.
"Talk. I’ll listen. I’m here... for you."
"I didn’t come for that," he whispers back.
She doesn’t tense. Her heart doesn’t stutter, because she isn’t ready. Not for anything an adult vampire and a mortal woman might do at night.
"Then why?"
He could say the same. Could mutter I’m here for you. Instead, he curls around her under the blanket, pressing her close, his hand flat on her stomach, and stays silent. The knot in her throat tightens. Her eyes shut. Grief settles between them — a chasm masquerading as closeness. She’s certain she won’t sleep tonight, not while he lies motionless behind her, listening to her heart. Minutes crawl by. Yara loses count before he stirs again. Fingers gently brush tangled hair aside, baring the sensitive skin at the nape of her neck. First comes his breath — scalding like embers — and then her heart stutters. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and shoulder, scattering sparks behind her eyelids. When his nose and lips trace a shivering path to her nape, then her ear, and he inhales her almost greedily, a frightened moan tears from her chest, raw as pain. She feels suspended: about to faint, or weep, or shatter into the hardest climax of her life. Blurred vision. An aching, slick heat between her legs that steals her breath, pulls a quiet, shameful whimper from her.
"Shhhh, it’s alright. I won’t do anything." The reassurance isn’t for her — it’s for him.
But he lies. Because he’s doing everything to shatter her again, to make her shards sharp. Beneath the softness of lips, she feels the threat of fangs at her pulse. Feels how hard he is, pressing against her backside. Her thighs clamp tight, but she doesn’t move. He binds her ruthlessly. Holds her. Whispers:
"Fall asleep, Yara. Sleep."
And twines their fingers together. Her cheeks are wet. He knows. And still he binds. And still she lets him. Even as she drifts off, she curses herself for allowing it all.
***
One evening, when real kisses have become usual and embraces turn into performatively hungry hands sneaking under clothes, Yara returns to camp very late. All day in the woods — her true element — she ponders the meaning of his "shackles". Focused hunting clears her mind better than diving into an icy river. Images no longer blur. Astarion’s glances don’t distract. She almost finds the answer — terribly improbable. The ranger mutters to herself, "Don’t even dream of it, fool," and releases the arrow with her exhale. The arrow, unlike her suspicion, hits true.
She thinks about how she’s never kissed him first.
When her gaze finds the campfires, then his pale curls, her arms and back already ache under the weight of the kill. She doesn’t intend to speak to him. Just hand him a portion and rest, because only a hunter can hate hunting this fiercely. Yara drops the carcasses near the field kitchen, wishing only to never touch them again. Her sigh is relief she can’t hide.
"Why do you always hunt alone?"
Of course he’s here, tightening the thin thread around her throat into a noose.
"To focus," she answers flatly, not turning. "Why? Worried? Pointless. I can manage."
She can’t resist throwing his own barb back, though she knows he isn’t worried. Never will be. The girl wipes blood on her pants, tugs a large wineskin from her pack, and offers it to Astarion. He doesn’t take it. Maybe because he sees her broad smile is as false as most of his.
"For you. Catch up. You’re weakening. Missing strikes, ignoring openings." Her outstretched arm trembles, from exhaustion or unsteady emotion. "Will you take this help, or is it also 'shackles'?"
He stands rooted, face blank — an expression that speaks only of dawning, silent offense. Then, in a blink, he takes not her humble offering, but her wrist. Firm. Possessive. As if he’s granted himself the right. He pulls, and her breasts bump just below his chest. Fingers press into her wrist and waist, promising not to let go. He leans in, whispers directly into her ear:
"Only if you drink wine with me, darling."
She doesn’t tremble or pull away, staring at his shoulder, or rather, past it.
"I don’t drink."
"I know. But I want you to." The smile in his voice blooms into soft laughter that plays with her dark hair. The laugh of a man who’s planned something only he will enjoy.
"Why?"
From a distance, it might look like a dramatic pause in their dance. She isn’t worried about being seen. That would be Astarion’s problem.
"I’ll tell you why I don’t want your blood," he emphasizes the words sharply, cleanly, "while I drink what you so kindly brought."
Not "why I don’t drink from you" or "why I refuse." "Why I DON’T WANT." Yara knows this is his game — another endless round she shouldn’t care about. She laughs mockingly, but weakly, as if courage fails her:
"I don’t want to know."
"Of course you do." He releases her wrist, lifts her chin instead. Look at me. "You think about it at night. Think about it at dawn while braiding your hair. Think about it when I hold you in those little hidden nooks."
Eye to eye. He never looks at her lips. Yara wants to scream, "Who the hells are YOU to decide what I want?" But her gaze drops to his lips, stretched in a smile, and instead — mind empty — she asks:
"Can I kiss you?"
The hand at her waist slackens. His eyes fly so wide, she nearly flinches. His shell cracks, spilling raw vulnerability into the open.
"You’re asking permission?"
He never lets her speak, even when he asks the question. His palm firms, slides up, anchors firmly between her shoulder blades. Astarion leans in to kiss her — she sees it’ll be rough. She drops the wineskin. It rolls on thirsty earth. Fingers against his lips stop him as barely an inch remains between their faces.
"Can I kiss you?" she repeats, watching vulnerability burst from its shell like a living, beating heart.
He swallows, studies her face. His eyes almost close. The nod is so faint, it might be imagined. She’d never have kissed him first, never touched him uninvited. But here it is: permission. Yara rises onto her toes, weaves fingers into the hair at his nape, and returns the tenderness of his own real kisses. No tongues, no tricks, just softness and warm breath. It lasts only moments before his groan vibrates against her mouth. He bends her nearly double, supporting her back, parts her lips, invades without waiting for surrender. She justifies. Accepts. For a second, she thinks it’ll become what he always does to her — but this kiss... This kiss is "I want you," and "thank you," and "why do you do this to me?" and "never stop." But he stops. His tongue sweeps her lips, gathering taste to remember. He doesn’t breathe at all. She breathes too fast. Words unravel like torn lace:
"Tell me why you don’t want my blood."
Eyes stare into his bared soul. Astarion doesn’t move, as if lost, unable to regain his senses.
"I don’t want to," he whispers, barely audible, and releases her.
He takes seconds to lift the gift from the ground and leave. His spine straighter than ever. But this time, as Yara watches him go, she smiles.
The whole text just doesn't fit here, lol. So if you want to read the whole thing, the link is above. Thank you!
"Where is Lae'zel" "What happened to Lae'zel" "omg did you kill Lae'zel" WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO, JUST LET HER HANG OUT AFTER SHE TRIED TO KILL EVERYONE? 😭
