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𝐁𝐀𝐋𝐃𝐔𝐑’𝐒 𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐈𝐈𝐈
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ╰┈─➤ 𝕭𝖑𝖊𝖊𝖉𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝕳𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖙𝖘 · 𝕺𝖕𝖊𝖓 𝖂𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖉𝖘
❝ There's solice in silence,
but it feels like torment without you. ❞
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↳ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆:
➵ Astarion × Male Reader · The Pale Elf × Teifling Tav
↳ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄:
➵ Romance · Angst · Dark Fantasy
↳ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒:
➵ blood intimacy · obsession · devotion
➵ power dynamics · trust · hunger
➵ submission · accepting change · self love
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↳ 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒:
➵ mdni · 18+ content · reader discretion advised · ftm Astarion · ftm Tav · Teifling Male Reader · blood · vampirism · suggestive content · dysphoria · intimate scene · established relationship · strangers to lovers · past trauma · brief mentions of Cazador · illithid powers · mind flyer parasites · nsfw · blood play · knife play · flirtatious mind fucking · public sex · frotting · temperature play · crude vocabulary · afab vocab used · ftm vocab used · subtop Astarion · dominant Male Reader · long rest · Patreon Preview · testing
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↳ 𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆:
➵ Act I / Act II / Act III
↳ 𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐒:
➵ yes / no
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↳ 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘:
➵ When Tav disappears from camp in the dead of night, Astarion follows, expecting trouble and finding something far more complicated. What begins as teasing curiosity turns into a quiet confrontation with exhaustion, trust, and unspoken desire. Under moonlight and watchful stars, lines blur between control and surrender—and neither of them walks away unchanged.
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Astarion notices your absence from camp immediately.
Not because he’s particularly noble or attentive — gods no — but because your bedroll is empty, and that simply will not do. You have a habit of being exactly where you shouldn’t be at the worst possible times, and tonight has all the makings of another incident. He scans the camp with a practiced flick of his eyes, notes the sleeping shapes, the dying fire, the way the night feels too quiet, even with Halsins’ bear-like snores in the distance.
Ah. There it is. That gnawing feeling in his chest.
How inconvenient.
He moves without announcing himself, slipping beyond the edge of camp until moonlight opens up onto the lake beyond. And there you are — seated at the water's edge, shoulders slumped, staring into nothing like the world hasn’t already demanded enough of you today.
Well. That’s…less scandalous than he’d hoped. And far more troubling.
He clears his throat anyway, leaning casually against a nearby tree. “You know, if this is your idea of sneaking off for some secret rendezvous, I’m offended I wasn’t invited.”
You don’t jump. You don’t turn. You just breathe out, long and slow, like the sound’s been sitting in your lungs for hours.
Astarion straightens.
He crosses the distance in a few easy steps, boots crunching softly against the ground, not as stealthy as he normally is. Up close, the signs are obvious — too still, too quiet, the tension coiled in you like a wire pulled too tight. He’s seen that look before. On his own reflection, usually. Gods, he hates that he recognizes it.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, much lighter than he feels at that moment.
“Didn’t try,” you reply. Your voice is flat. Not distant — just worn.
He sits beside you without asking, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch. The lake reflects the two of you in broken silver, your silhouettes warped by the water’s gentle movement. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence immediately. He lets it stretch, listens to the night, to the way you keep clenching and unclenching your hands like you’re bracing for another blow.
“So,” he says eventually, softer now, “care to tell me which dreadful, world-ending revelation has kept you awake this time?”
You huff under your breath, not quite a laugh. “Didn’t think about it. That’s the problem.”
Ah. There it is.
Astarion tilts his head, studying you from the side. No blood. No immediate danger. Just exhaustion — deep and merciless. The kind that doesn’t fade with sleep. He feels something twist unpleasantly in his chest, into his ribs, and ignores it with practiced ease.
“Well,” he murmurs, “if you were hoping to brood alone, I’m afraid I’m dreadful at giving people space.” He nudges your knee gently with his own. “Occupational hazard.”
You finally look at him then, and gods — you look so tired it steals the breath from his lungs. Normally he'd tease you about being up all night with him, but the look on your face left a sore feeling he couldn't simply wipe away with a tease.
His voice drops, losing its edge. “You don’t have to be strong all the time, you know. I won’t think less of you. If anything…” He trails off, then smirks faintly. “I might even find it endearing.”
He watches your shoulders ease —just a fraction — but it’s enough.
You look at Astarion for a long moment, his pale features sharp in the moonlight, red eyes catching the lake’s reflection like spilled wine. Your chest tightens. A sigh slips out of you before you’ve decided what it means — resignation, exhaustion, or surrender, you’re not sure.
» [DECEPTION] You could lie. Say it’s nothing. Brush him off with a crooked smile and let him coax you back to camp, let him curl around you in the shared bedroll like he always does — familiar teeth at your throat, a warmth that leaves you lightheaded by morning and pretending you don’t notice how unsteady you feel afterward.
It would be easier.
» Or you could do the opposite. Push him away. Tell him to piss off. Let the emotions you’ve kept buried claw their way up, hot and feral, demanding air like water from a cracked spring.
You weigh the choices until the silence grows heavy enough to press against your ears.
Finally, you speak.
“Why associate yourself with a foul blood like myself, Astarion?” The words come out low, rough around the edges, like you scraped them from somewhere deep and ugly inside your chest.
His reaction is immediate. Confusion flashes across his face, sharp and unguarded.
“And pray tell,” he says, tone light but eyes narrowing, “where is this suddenly coming from?” He gestures vaguely toward you. “You do know I don’t judge Tieflings. Gods — Karlach laughs louder than the damned gnolls we fight and I tolerate her just fine. And yes, I will admit, helping those refugees wasn’t my first priority, but you were pleased, and you even managed to profit from it, so I’d say it wasn’t all for naught—”
“You know that’s not what I meant,” you cut in, huffing, fingers curling into the fabric at your knees.
Astarion stills. The humor drains from his voice like a tide going out.
“Then be clear, darling,” he says firmly. “Because I’m not fond of guessing games when they sound like self-loathing.”
The lake ripples softly as you shift, tail flicking once before you still it, embarrassed even by that small betrayal of yourself.
“I look at myself,” you begin, voice quieter now, “and all I see are… parts that don’t belong. Horns that curve too sharp, skin tinted wrong, teeth that look more suited for tearing than smiling.” You swallow. “Claws I have to keep filed down. A tail that gives me away before I ever open my mouth.”
Your gaze drops to the water, to the reflection you’ve tried not to study too closely. “People look at me and see a devil before they see me. And sometimes…sometimes I do too.”
The words come easier once they start. “This body —” you hesitate, jaw tightening, “— it isn’t what it’s supposed to be. Not entirely. I fought for it to be closer, but there are still reminders. Things that feel unfinished. Wrong. Like I’m trapped halfway between what I am and what I was meant to be.”
You expect silence. Pity, maybe. Revulsion, if you’re unlucky.
Instead, Astarion exhales softly.
“Oh,” he says. Not mocking. Not dismissive. Just… understanding.
He shifts closer, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “You know,” he murmurs, eyes tracing your horns, your profile, the line of your jaw, “it’s fascinating how cruel people can be about bodies they’ve never had to live in.”
You risk a glance at him. He’s watching you with an intensity that makes your breath catch — not hunger, not calculation, but something sharp and deliberate.
“I spent two centuries being told exactly what my body was for,” he continues quietly. “What it was worth. How it was meant to be used. And when you’re stripped of that choice long enough, you start believing there’s something inherently wrong with you for being shaped the way you are.”
His hand lifts — slow, careful — hovering near your horn before resting against your cheek instead. Cool fingers, grounding.
“But let me be very clear,” Astarion says, voice low and unwavering. “There is nothing foul about you. Nothing broken. Nothing unfinished.” His thumb brushes your skin, reverent. “You are sharp because you had to be. Different because the world demanded it. And gods help anyone who mistakes that for weakness.”
A faint, dangerous smile curves his lips. “As for perfection? I find it dreadfully boring. Give me someone real — someone who chose themselves, scars and all — over a polished lie any night.”
He leans in just enough that his forehead rests against yours. “And if you ever decide to push me away over this,” he adds softly, “I’ll be terribly offended.”
Then, gentler still, his voice now a whisper over the brushing winds. “You don’t have to love every part of yourself. But I won’t allow you to hate them in front of me.”
You sit there together longer than either of you means to.
The night wraps itself around you, cool and quiet, the lake breathing softly at the shore. Your breaths fall into an easy rhythm, close enough that you can feel his inhale brush against your skin, warm against the chill. Moonlight paints his features in silver and shadow, catching on the sharp line of his cheekbones, the red of his eyes as they stay fixed on yours — unblinking, intent, unreadable in that way of his that makes your pulse stutter.
Your tail betrays you first.
It sways once. Then again. A soft, unconscious movement, like your body reacting before you’ve decided how you feel.
Astarion’s gaze flicks downward, and a slow, wicked smile curves his mouth.
“Oh?” he murmurs. “Well. That’s telling.”
Heat rushes to your face. You try to still it, mortified, which only makes him chuckle under his breath. “Careful,” he adds lightly, eyes dancing. “You’ll wear a groove in the ground at this rate.”
You groan quietly, turning your face away — and feel his fingers catch your chin, tilting it back with infuriating gentleness.
“There you are,” he says, softer now. His hand doesn’t retreat. Instead, it drifts — along your jaw, down your throat, tracing the lines of you with a reverence that makes your chest ache. “You know,” he continues, voice low, “I rather like you like this.”
“Like what?” you ask, breath catching.
“Like you,” he replies easily. His thumb brushes your skin, caring behind it. “Not trying to be palatable. Not folding yourself into someone else’s idea of what you should be.” His eyes meet yours again, unwavering. “Don’t change your shape for anyone. Least of all for ghosts who don’t deserve the effort.”
Something tight inside you snaps — not painfully, but like a cord drawn too taut for too long finally giving way.
You lean in without thinking.
The kiss is sudden, hungry in its honesty, your hands tangling in his clothes as you press him back against the cool earth. He makes a sound — surprised, pleased — before melting into it, laughter caught between breaths. The ground meets his back with a soft thud as you pin him there, hovering over him, heart pounding like you’ve just made a reckless, wonderful mistake.
Astarion looks up at you, eyes bright, lips parted, utterly unbothered by his position.
“Well,” he says faintly. “If that’s your answer… I think I like it.”
Astarion doesn’t struggle when you press him back — doesn’t even pretend to. The earth is cool beneath him, the grass whispering softly as he settles, one hand coming up to brace against your side while the other curls lazily at your wrist, more invitation than restraint.
He looks up at you like this, pinned and smiling, eyes bright with something dangerously fond.
“Well,” he breathes, a quiet laugh slipping out, “that escalated delightfully.”
Your heart is hammering so loudly you’re half-convinced he can hear it. You hover there for a moment, close enough to feel his breath against your mouth, the night pressing in around you like it’s holding its own breath. His teasing expression softens just a fraction, gaze flicking over your face with careful attention.
“You know,” he murmurs, thumb brushing against your pulse, “most people try to hide when they’re feeling exposed.”
“Most people aren’t you,” you reply, voice low.
That earns you a smile — slow, pleased. “True. And most people,” he adds, quieter now, “don’t look at me like that.”
You lean down again, this time slower, letting the kiss linger. It’s not hungry now — it’s grounding. A reminder. His fingers curl into your clothes, steady and warm, anchoring you as if he’s making sure you’re real, that you’re still there.
When you pull back, just barely, he rests his forehead against yours.
“Stay,” he says softly. Not a command. Not a plea. Just truth.
The lake murmurs behind you. The camp feels far away. For the first time all night, the weight in your chest eases — not gone, but lighter. Bearable. Shared.
Astarion’s smile turns gentle, almost shy in the moonlight. “See?” he whispers. “Perfectly yourself. And gods help me…” His eyes flicker with warmth. “I wouldn’t have you any other way…”
He shifts beneath you, just enough to pull you closer, and the night closes around the two of you — quiet, unhurried, and finally kind.
For a heartbeat, he lets you have it.
Lets you loom over him, lets your confidence settle, lets your tail sway like you’re not acutely aware of every inch of him beneath you. His hands remain at your hips, warm and steady, eyes half-lidded as he watches you with open, wicked appreciation.
Then he smiles.
Not the sharp, showy one he wears for strangers — but the knowing curl of his mouth that means you’ve underestimated him.
“Oh, don’t look so smug,” Astarion murmurs. “I did say I liked enthusiasm… not that I planned to surrender.”
Before you can respond, he shifts — quick and fluid. One moment you’re pressing him into the grass, the next the world tilts, cool night air rushing over your skin as he rolls you effortlessly onto your back. The ground meets your shoulders with a soft thump, and suddenly he’s above you, knees braced on either side of your thighs, pale hair falling loose around his face like a curtain.
He pauses there, just to let it sink in.
“Well,” he says lightly, eyes tracing your expression, your breathless surprise. “That’s better.”
His hands slide up your arms, pinning your wrists above your head — not hard, but firm enough to make the point. His thumbs brush your pulse, feeling it race, and his smile turns slow and predatory.
“You see,” he murmurs, leaning down until his mouth hovers just above yours, breath cool against your lips, “confidence looks wonderful on you.” A pause. “But so does letting yourself be wanted.”
He dips his head, kissing you — not rushed, not gentle either. It’s deliberate, claiming, his weight settling just enough to remind you exactly where you are. When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, noses brushing.
“And for the record,” Astarion adds softly, eyes dark and intent, “I meant every word.” His grip tightens, “Your shape. Your fire. All of it.”
He kisses you again, slower this time, savoring the way you respond beneath him, the way the night seems to narrow down to just the two of you—breath, heat, and the promise humming between your bodies.
The way Astarion has you pinned beneath him — muscle coiled and eyes burning — sends a shiver of memory sliding down your spine. It reminds you of that first fateful encounter, the tension of steel and suspicion, the way his knife had glinted in the light as he accused you of collusion with those who had abducted him. You had been just as much a victim, yet there had been no hesitation in the way he had assessed you — sharp, unyielding, predatory. And now…the roles feel entirely different, yet the electricity of that first clash hums faintly beneath your skin, entwining with what passes between you tonight.
Your gaze lifts to meet his, and he stares down at you with that familiar hunger and heat, a tension that dances in the spaces between desire and curiosity. Moonlight traces the planes of his face, highlighting the delicate sharpness of his cheekbones, the curve of his lips, and the way his eyes glint like twin embers in the dark.
The air feels impossibly close, thick with scent — earth, grass, and the faint iron tang of your own blood lingering from earlier — and you realize how taut your own body has become, every nerve ending tuned to him.
A tingle flickers along your spine, a sensation you instinctively attribute to the parasite whispering behind your eye. But this time it isn’t intrusive or violent; it is subtle, coaxing, a current of warmth that winds inward rather than forcing itself upon you. It slides through your chest and stomach like molten silver, leaving a gentle ache in its wake, a signal of connection rather than invasion.
And then, suddenly, your mind is awash with images — glimpses of yourself entwined with Astarion, lips brushing, hands roaming, the heat of skin pressed to skin. The images are sharp, vivid, almost tangible; the world around you seems to blur, fading beneath the intensity of what you see. A jolt of realization hits — you are not merely envisioning; you are peering into his mind as he peers into yours. The parasites that have haunted you both are entwined, bridging thought and sensation, allowing a shared intimacy that is both thrilling and terrifying.
The sensation is dizzying, leaving you breathless for reasons beyond mere exertion. You have never been entirely comfortable wielding illithid powers, the sense of intrusion a constant gnawing at your ethics. And yet…seeing Astarion’s reaction—the way he leans closer, eyes half-lidded, lips curving in that dangerous, possessive smile — leaves no doubt that he is reveling in it.
He is indulgent, eager, and it is impossible not to respond in kind, to lean into the connection, letting the parasite’s whispers thread desire and trust through both of you.
The night deepens around you, the moonlight painting pale silver across your skin and his, the subtle brush of his fingers against your arms and torso electric as you remain entwined. Every glance, every faint smirk, every inhale from him carries the promise of what these shared thoughts can become, the intimacy of minds connected as surely as bodies. It is dizzying, heady, and undeniable — a bridge of thought and sensation that neither of you can — or would — resist.
It isn’t long before the heat between you becomes impossible to ignore.
It happens quickly after that — shirts discarded to the grass without ceremony, hands and mouths finding bare skin with practiced ease. There’s nothing frantic about it; it feels rehearsed, familiar, like a ritual you both know by heart. Astarion’s lips trail along your jaw, your throat, pausing where your pulse flutters fast and eager beneath the skin.
He stills.
“May I?” he asks softly, voice lower now, stripped of teasing. Even after all this time, he always asks.
You nod, breath already shallow. “Yes,” you say. “You can.”
Astarion exhales, something like relief flickering across his face before hunger settles back in. He presses a brief, grounding kiss to your skin first—an unspoken promise—then his fangs sink in.
The pain comes sharp and immediate.
It always does.
A white-hot flash sparks through you, teeth breaking skin in a way that no amount of familiarity ever fully dulls. You hiss softly, fingers clutching at his shoulders, muscles tensing on instinct. But it doesn’t last. It never does. The pain fades quickly, melting into a heavy warmth that spreads outward, settling deep in your chest and limbs like a slow, dizzying heat.
You sag into him with a breathy sound, body remembering what your mind already knows.
“That’s it,” Astarion murmurs against your skin, voice thick. His grip tightens just enough to steady you, to keep you steady as he drinks. “I’ve got you.”
The sensation shifts as he feeds — less sharp, more pulling, a strange, intimate ache that makes your knees weak and a heat build between your legs. Your pulse thrums beneath his mouth, each beat echoing through you, and you feel the way he responds to it: the subtle tension in his frame, the low sound he makes when the taste hits just right.
“You’re…steady tonight,” he whispers, almost reverent. “Confident. Gods, it’s intoxicating.”
You swallow hard, head tipping back to give him better access. “You’ve done this before,” you murmur. “I trust you.”
That earns a soft sound from him — something between a hum and a sigh. His hand slides up your spine, anchoring you, grounding both of you in the moment.
“And I don’t take that lightly,” Astarion says quietly. “Not for a second."
When he finally pulls back, he does so carefully, tongue sweeping over the bite to seal it, his forehead resting briefly against your shoulder as he steadies himself. You’re lightheaded, warmth lingering in your veins, but it’s familiar too — a shared aftermath you both know how to navigate.
He looks at you then, eyes bright, softened by satisfaction and something far more tender.
“Still with me?” he asks.
You manage a faint smile. “Always.”
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[ To Be Continued @ Patreon! ] [ Full Fic Release on 02.05.2026 ]