People headcanon Astarion getting emotional/soft/weepy when you do nice things for him but may I present to you:
An Astarion who gets /mad/ about it. You wash his clothes for him while he's gone, and instead of being grateful, he asks you what you want out of it.
You bring him things you think he will like, extra loot, etc and of course he takes it and is ever so grateful... but his eyes narrow in suspicion and a frown tugs at his lips. He stares at the items, turning them over, wondering what's wrong with them.
Give me an Astarion who is always waiting 'for the other shoe to drop', who questions every kind thing you try to do, who accepts it but does not bask in your light- he winces, for it is too bright.
Give me Astarion learning how to trust your kindness with the same enthusiasm one would have going to the dentist to get a rotten tooth pulled without anesthetic.
Also consider: An Astarion that does nice stuff back not because he’s being a good person, but because he doesn’t want to be indebted to you in any way.
You washed his clothes? Well, fuck you. He’s going to stitch up that tear in your shirt and there’s nothing you can do about it. Find a different shirt while he does it.
You got him some extra loot? Well, the next time you’re in a battle, he goes for the person trying to attack you before they can hit you. You’re welcome.
He makes sure he has some ‘favor’ over you before asking to drink your blood any given time. Can’t have you doing favors for him and trying to pull it over his head later. He keeps track of who owes who like he’s collecting receipts to do taxes.
Even after he starts figuring out he can trust you, trying to balance out his ‘debt’ is a hard habit to break.
Finally starting my short little Karlach comic series, yay~
Even tho she clearly has some issues, to me Karlach (+ obiously Wyll) is probably the most mentally stable person in the group and I wondered how does a character stay this sane after suffering hell for so long.
And because she misses her parents so much I thought, once in her life she probably experienced the most wonderful love.
Drawing Karlach was very difficult at the beginning but now its fun!
I always try to stick to her androgynous design, i thinks its very beautiful~
For this one, i had so many different ideas for sceneries and conversations between the characters, it was crazy. (i had a version in which everyone was eating cake? [wtf xD]) this version was my favourite one. I hope you enjoyed!
THIS IS IT! THE UNICORN FIC!
ALSO COINCIDENTALLY A 300 FOLLOWER CELEBRATION PIECE! THANK YOU!!!
based on THIS ask, where a chance series of encounters in youth come together on one night, where everything just clicks for Astarion and his unicorn.
this has plagued my brain. this is all i know now. i hope you enjoy it as much as i enjoyed writing it.
wc: 2.8k
c/w: descriptions of mutilation. fluff. reader WAS a unicorn. yippee.
A bed of burning coals. Belly on a smooth stone slab.
Low candlelight as Cazador works, each measured smite into the milky flesh of Astarion’s back feels akin to a dull goring; blood a balm of cooling as it spills.
A mouldering steak.
With each biting shovel of the gouging blade he knows this is a horribly permanent form of disfigurement.
The pale face in the very periphery of his waning vision, flickering often to look at some tome of reference before conferring with Dufay in frequent sharp whispers.
He wipes the skin to clear his canvas after each twist of his tool. A searing rag. He can feel the fluff, the grit, as it settles deep into the exposed sticky blazing valleys between his shoulder blades. He feels the birth of rancid infection. The prickle of each and every prick along his tendons that the debris sets alight.
He knows little else in this moment.
He knows his limbs are useless in tight leather binds, but that this isn’t a case of reprimand as a flaying or a visit to the kennels may be. He’s been good this month. He hasn’t pushed his luck, nor toed the line. He hasn’t even seen Godey in a four tenday.
He knows that the gods can’t hear him down here, wherever here is. He was mercifully sedated at one point, but now all that remained were the paralytic properties of whatever was in the chalice presented oh-so-mightily to him at dinner. That his foetid, mortified carcass won’t allow him to howl, or whine, or scream.
He thinks that he had a similar tool to this when he was young.
He remembers the cool blunt edge in the kitchens and running the tip of his small thumb along it. Feeling it in his pocket, warmed by the heat of his still-breathing body. Sitting in the forest just the other side of the fence with a small wicker basket of apples beside him. Woven blanket underneath linen tunic, woollen overcoat despite the early Kythorn sun; juices running down his little chin as he looked up at the birds singing through the canopy of trees.
He then remembers his mother’s beckon call, leaving the cores to rot on the peaty floor; seeing the yellowing flesh dotted with twigs and brown leaves, glistening still.
-
“Are you coming?” He whispers sharply, head peering around the yawning mouth of your tent.
You stretch and roll your wrists, freeing your eyes of sleep with a soft rub.
“Hm?”
Astarion clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. You look at him in a daze.
He bristles in the post-gloaming purple dusk, your amber candlelight bringing his face warmth as his eyes scan your face. Behind him you can see a tapestry of stars starting to form in the sky.
His head shakes a little. Claps once. Incredulous.
Oh.
“Overslept.” You mumble. He sighs.
“Gods.’
Pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation.
‘You have five minutes before I pull you out of this foetid little pit, whatever state you’re in.”
He turns on his heel.
“Is that a threat?” You shout after him.
His head ducks quickly back in.
“A promise. Just so we’re clear.”
A nap in the thulsun heat. A day of rest. Astarion ‘knock, knock’-ing on your tent flap as you read and slinking in like a cat, perching precariously on the chair you use to throw your unwashed armour onto after battle. Several quips about the smell. You threw a pillow at him. Hard. He repostured and continued on breezily.
He’d ‘gotten wind’ of a gathering happening on the beach twenty minutes from camp. Scavengers finishing up at the Nautiloid wreckage throwing some debauched farewell to the Ravaged Beach before some bastardised mercenary force comes in to begin clean up. All the good stuff now gone, but plenty of wine; and, obviously, an opportunity for ‘a little bit of fun’.
He’d blinked at you coquettishly, leaning on the back of the chair, daring you to ask just how he’d gotten wind of such an event.
It’s rare you’ve bounced off another with such ease since your change. You’re too intelligent for his seduction techniques - the ones you hear him rehearsing quietly to himself from his tent each evening - to work the simple way he intends. That doesn’t mean the pale elf has had no effect on you, however.
You take comfort in knowing exactly how you’ll find him every time you look, and he’ll always be ever so pleased to hear that you have been looking.
A wink. A flash of those porcelain white fangs.
An invite to your bedroll for the most sordid of midnight snacks.
Chatter between friends, an ever-present whiff of flirtation; the quirk of a moonlit lip and the pleasure of mutual relief in the dead of night.
You fumble around the darkened tent in underwear searching for your discarded camp clothes as his fire-lit silhouette lingers outside.
-
Astarion thinks about the apples from time to time.
Tough, yet yielding. Biting. Sweet flesh bursting in season, ripe and white. Scraps of red skin stuck between hungry teeth. Seeds in their hard little hollows, stalks with small dry leaves. The way the juice ran so freely down his chin in the light of the sun and dampened the back of his hand as he’d wiped it away.
His full wicker basket empty by afternoon.
Highsun courtyard feasts. He remembers the animals; his mother joking with beaming eyes and a wine-dipped cheer about his ‘druidic potential’ as she held him close, hand on his head, the other on his chest, he stood against her legs as she wittered. Time spent watching for an opportunity to slip through the gate and sit in silence with the birds.
Cazador trenches into his back deeper this time. What Astarion assumes must be blood spatters into his hair with the force of flying blue jay shit, and he’d know.
He remembers the first time he saw the unicorns in the forest, how bewildered he felt. Startling white in such vivid contrast to the surrounding browns and greens.
They weren’t skittish like the deer were, nor could they have been ‘lost property’ like the horses who often roamed by. The kobolds were mean to him on more than one occasion and the boars who passed were simple creatures.
As a decisive yank is made and the gouging tool changes direction, fully embedded in the flesh it tears, he thinks about the smallest one.
-
Despite being fraught with innuendo and obvious peacocking, Astarion’s company is a reassuring distraction from your current tadpole predicament. A parody of traditional pursuit wrapped in genuine affection. He knows he doesn’t have to bring the bravado, because you’ll play along regardless.
And this eventide, alongside the fallen Nautiloid; he glows.
Skin soaked in the deep gloaming ambers and yellows of the campfire. Laugh of treacle, like a dozing highsun; a dawn chant on Lathander’s day - he tips his head back in a cotton lull and the quiet threat of his smile brimming through his sharp incisors devastates you.
You watch on from the open mouth of a scavenger tent astride a pile of pillows and blankets, surrounded in distant light and pilfered goods. A warm breeze carries the firesmoke and to your side is a newfound silver chalice full to the brim with heady Arabellan Dry.
He looks every part the favourite of the gods.
Sways gently in his seat. Imbibes generously. Lifts his arms wide in gesticulation with oft-rotating conversational partners and tells stories in hushed tones with the most salacious quirk threatening his brow.
Occasionally throughout your jaunt, you’ll wonder if he should be holding your mind like this.
Then his eyes meet yours.
Gods.
It feels like they all watch as he moves to you. Adonis in the flesh; effusive as his fingers circle the rim of his glass and he sinks to crossed legs beside you. Face by face.
“I am so fucking bored.” He mutters. Smiles widely at a passing new acquaintance before sighing a grumble.
“Which one was ‘bored’ again?” You peer mockingly into the crowds, searching with a hand resting atop your tired brow.
He elbows you. Hard.
“You sound remarkably sour, pet.”
“I’m not sour. I’ve had a beautiful evening” You sip. A gentle breeze rolls over you.
Astarion lolls his head back a little.
“Beautiful wasn’t really the plan though, was it?”
You turn to him. Narrow your eyes just the smallest bit.
Astarion tilts back and looks to the sky. He opens his mouth as if to speak. Closes it just as fast.
“What?”
You picture him falling in love with every single one he’d spoken to on the beach this evening; lifting locks of hair around nimbly twirling fingers and pulling another warm body closer. Tilting his head downwards, eyes remaining forward; struggling for words in covetous gasps. Seduction.
A small laugh. Gods.
“Beautiful. Fucking a stranger in a beach cove isn’t necessarily what I’d call beautiful, dearest.”
“That was your plan?”
“Wasn’t it yours?”
You stop for a good moment. Astarion clicks his tongue in thought. Blinks with the urgency of dripping treacle.
-
Gods. The memory alone would be enough to bring a smile to his face, and he remembers it so very vividly.
The apples. A baby unicorn.
One late Elient afternoon, the first time any of them had approached. His fingers stickied with juice. It didn’t appear to be cautious by any discernible means, refusing the peel he’d hesitantly offered far out on the flat of his palm.
Little thing. Just about his size, he thinks; and he was always small.
He remembers sniffing with a cold and haphazardly wiping his sticky fingers on the front of his coat. Reaching out so it could smell him.
Chewing open-mouthed, eyes closed, smoothing his face with the back of his hand.
They’d fall about together on feeble legs, his flailing arms and gentle nudges. Days on days spent venturing into the forest where it’d be waiting for him in the same clearing as always.
He remembers easing into the apple flesh with the tool edge and gently wiggling it into the crisp white to ensure a deep enough pit. Skimming imperfect rounds of the skin. Bouncing the resulting red spiral between his thumb and forefinger.
Cazador reaches for the dagger. A hundred-thousand molten pins.
-
The moon overhead. Unwavering in clarity. It almost feels like you’re on the precipice of a different world.
“You’re weird, you know.’ Astarion breaks his silence. The revellers continue to drink, to dance and talk clumsily around you.
Your eyes meet his. He wavers on the edge of certainty, but the performative lowering of his lids shows you he isn’t too sure. There’s a front to the nonchalance.
‘What are you?”
“Hm?”
“Fun. I said there’d be fun. You aren’t partaking.’ He takes a sip and swills it around his mouth whilst collecting his thoughts. The dossier. Racking through pages in his brain.
‘I can’t be completely sure, but I’ve met a lot of humans in my life. Seduced them. Given and taken like a market teller.’
His hands move as he speaks, a considered pattern of gesticulation.
‘And you simply… you’re above it all. You don’t even smell human. What are you?”
There it is. If you weren’t inebriated you’d be tempted to laugh him off.
Tonight, however; your bones are thoroughly wine-sodden.
Your companion has a twinkle in his eye. A beach of prospective lovers and he has collapsed at your side in respite. If he persecutes you as they would then you’ll die with his face the last thing you see. It doesn’t feel like a bad compromise.
“Not human.” You confirm, looking at your fingernails with a pert nod.
He laughs in a slight of vindication.
“Try me.”
“Sylvan.”
You can’t be sure if it’s from embarrassment or underlying fear that your head falls into your sweaty hands. Astarion’s snide streak plays at the fray of your mind.
“What? Half wood-elf or something?”
He sips.
“Unicorn.” You lift your fingers and flutter them around the sides of your head meekly.
Splutters.
“Explains why there are none roaming the actual woods anymore, I suppose.”
He’s taken it surprisingly well, all things considered. You aren’t sure what you’d expected. A minute of silence. The lazy roll of waves along the shore.
“What do I smell like?”
Maybe he’s wary of the driftwood stake near your hand.
“Apples. People don’t smell like apples. Usually sweat. Or perfume.’ He runs his tongue over his teeth and sniffs.
‘Not apples. I should’ve -”
Apples. A softness in the way he says it, you note. Favoured fruit in the allotments running the edge of the forests.
‘I’ve not had an apple in so long.”
He finishes with a wistful smile, topping off the wine in hand and refilling it with a swift glug.
“Do you miss them?”
“Apples? I-’
The cogs turn slowly - he wets his bottom lip and looks to the sky once more. His brow furrows as you watch him think.
‘I used to sit in the forest, just around the back of the garden wall. I was about- I’d have been about up to here?’ He lifts his arm to just above where his sitting head rests.
‘I was tiny. All day long. Peeling the skin, gnawing away. Ironic.”
Pauses as if in remembrance of something. Grimaces.
You smile fondly and reach for his arm. You’re willing to entertain the line of dialogue. It distracts from the situation and he seems open to indulging in it.
“Funny.”
He scoffs and taps your hand softly before taking it in his. Cool fingers lock around yours.
“How so?”
“Gods, a long time ago now - there was a boy I met who did the same thing. Fascinated by them. Would sit and peel them with a little tool. Strange thing.”
You take a sip as you imitate the focus of the young thing, pretending to work tunnels into the cooling air with your near-empty chalice.
Astarion whips his head to face yours.
“Two hundred years ago?”
“Why?’
He’s watching you as if you’re holding something very fragile in your faux-gouging fingers.
‘I suppose so? Round about then. Bit longer, maybe two hundred and th-”
“Me. It was me.”
Your eyes meet.
It’s the kind of moment you’ve read about in your downtime, the way the clock stops. Everything feels silent. The sea stops rolling soft on the shore, the voices around you are naught above a whisper; the glass in the hand not clutching yours set firmly on the sand as he shuffles to face you head on.
Apples.
You watch his eyes soften wholly. Not a single ounce of guard; no sense of hesitation. Two glimmering rubies in the moonlight.
“His eyes weren’t red.” You smile.
It takes a moment for him to react. He’s studying your face reverently, with newfound interest; mapping each of the lines and blemishes with a hand hovering over your cheek.
And then he laughs. The most beautiful sound in all the realms, melodic.
“They weren’t.’
He points to the scarred fang marks above his sagging collar.
‘I was also alive at that point.’
Astarion takes a few comfortable minutes to look at you as he strokes over your hand with his thumb. You’ve spent enough of the past few weeks looking over him to know him almost by heart but you’ll indulge with the context of the revelation before you.
“Look at us now, then.”
Your voice cracks. You didn’t realise the sheer size of the lump in your throat.
“I -’
He presses his free hand to your cheek as he did when you were both young. Soft. Jowls ablaze at his wine-sticky touch.
The sincerity in his gaze is brutal. If you weren’t so deeply enamoured you might just vomit.
‘The longest night of my life, I thought of you. The apples. How -’
Astarion takes a moment to survey you. You obviously look nothing like you did back then, aside from the brightest eyes he’s ever seen in all two hundred and thirty nine years of life and the same softness in how they revere him.
‘How you never came back. I waited.’
It’s then that you crumble.
‘How happy I knew I’d be when you did return.”
It’s cataclysmic, the way he talks. The last person who was kind to you and he thought you’d left him by choice this whole time. Remembering you in his darkest moments. All you’ve both suffered and here you are, on this rancid beach in the middle of nowhere; your hand safe in his.
“It wasn’t by choice. Never.”
The look on his face suggests he’s toying with the idea of playing the fair maiden, but he sees the way you crack and almost takes to tears himself.
“Well. You’re here now, and we have a lot of lost time to make up for. It helps that I was already fond of you, of course.”
He brushes the hair from your face and plants a deep kiss on your forehead as you bring your arms around his waist, hesitantly.
It’s a start.
One you’d never have seen coming when waking aboard the crashed nautiloid in front of you; but glorious nonetheless.
He doesn’t consider himself a clingy parent.
He just endeavours to spend every waking moment he can with her.
-
dadstarion watches dhampling sleep for a lil bit and has some thoughts about life. floof.
wc: 724
Astarion watches her as he sits, legs tucked up under him; with a chalice on the endstool to his side.
Despite his current book being one he’s looked forward to indulging for a while, he can’t lose himself in the pages quite yet. His eyes skim and reskim now familiar paragraphs while flitting to the small child asleep on the lounger.
The room is full of impossibly green tangling plants, and glows shades of orange in the late candlelight; incense blooming from the clay holder on the sill. A small trinket dish full of corvid gatherings. The boarded shutters, the curtains parted at either side; the painted mural in place of the window. Lanterns of coloured glass spilling forest greens and oranges soft.
Elven-pointed ears twitching, the occasional small shuffle. Each and every sleepy inhale and exhale from her tiny little body feels like a victory.
He doesn’t consider himself a clingy parent.
He just endeavours to spend every waking moment he can with her, hence her resting here now; in the den room, instead of her own well-loved bedroom. A wayward spider on the ceiling had turned into an evening of storytelling - a journal filled with tales of Grizzle the Arachnid in her spiky young hand.
She’s swaddled in a big patchwork throw he’d made early into his freedom following the fall of the Absolute, just as the idea of tailoring had come to mind. The stitching is a little skewed in places but the untrained eye would glide right over it, he’s sure.
He could carry her up the iron wrought spiral staircase and tuck her in - and likely will soon - but being able to sit and just observe feels like an indulgence. A rare treat.
A small part of him - he would never admit - was hopeful before her birth that she’d be his little nightling, although any lingering wants were blinded by unbridled joy at her ability to bask in the sun. He’d never expected the gaping hole in his undead heart at being unable to pick her up from a day of schooling, though.
He trances through it every time, or he fears he’d disintegrate trying it on big occasions. Her first day, missed. Many more to come.
He frowns.
He does stay awake to do her hair each morning before she heads off, though. Before she’d even reached her first birthday he’d sequestered away a book on Faerûnian Braids from the Night Market; her ringlets barely presenting then now flourishing atop her dozy head.
You. She looks like you.
Astarion’s heart pangs.
He misses you terribly. Dramatically. Wants to creep up the stairs in the style of Nosferatu and bite you in your sleep, fondly; doze the night away with his incisors reverently just beside your neck. His paramour. His well-bitten darling.
Sometimes, he reads the gaudy vampiric fiction novels slighted from the market and hidden away in one of the rafters when clients leave the shop earlier than expected. He thinks one day he’ll play into the notion - the skulker, the grand gestures, the one who stole his heart - then realises his life is wholly a mirror of the pages.
Gah. He’s a cliche. A horrid cliche. He shakes his head yet can’t find it within him to do anything but smile.
Nothing about this feels horrid.
It feels normal. Real. Home is home and it is the safest place in the world.
The dhampling stirs, stretching among the throw and rolling her tiny wrists. A small yawn tumbles from little lips.
“Darling?’
Astarion shuffles his leg from under him and turns his book, resting it on the lounger. Moves to kneel beside her.
‘Sweet thing. Come along, now.”
Her eyes open slowly. She looks at him with reverence. Her father. The balm of rest settles as a haze in this cosy room and nothing has ever felt so good.
Father. Him. Awful, nasty, terrible him. She could’ve been one of them, roaming the underdark in eternal childhood in another lifetime. He decides he won’t allow the thought to pass.
“Can you carry me?” She whispers, lifting her arms above her head.
“If I don’t; I fear we’ll be traipsing those stairs all evening, little love.” He speaks softly and gently lifts her sleepy self onto his hip.
She doesn’t understand his quips yet. She will, one day.
Summary: based on a prompt where Astarion slips into a proper sleep when Tav strokes his hair instead of going into an elven trance.
Astarion can feel the walls of brick closing in on him again. The air is sweet, rank, almost intoxicating and damp, so thick with moisture that he may as well be wading in the rotting breath of the house that has swallowed him. He has walked this path thousands of times before, knows it better than the tumblers on a lock that opens at his touch, and yet the way he feels his stomach drop in silent acceptance is still a familiar presence. Compulsion carries him where his feet do not wish to take him, whisking him obediently through the labyrinthine halls until he meets his master and is forced to his knees before him.
“Will you not even deign to greet your father when you see him, boy?” Cazador doesn’t even turn to face him, doesn’t need to when the authority in his voice is enough to make his household grovel for him.
The compulsion throbs behind his head, and he replies despondently. “Master.”
“Ah, so it seems you have not entirely forgotten your place,” turning around, he sneers down at his subject, the contempt clear as he notes his posture. Terrible. “And how many times have I told you to keep. Your. Back. Straight? You are a disappointment to my name. You should be grateful that you even have a home to come back to and a family to take you in, you worthless boy.”
Astarion keeps his eyes on the ground, taking note of the rivulets carved into the cold stone floor. His mind drifts to a place far from here and the noise that Cazador makes barely registers in his mind as he straightens up, waiting for the inevitable. But it's the *pain* that brings him back again. The pain and the loss of Cazador’s compulsion as his body threatens to crumple into the ground while the cursed knife he wields bites deep into his back, across his spine.
He is being tested. Punishments will be his undoing if he moves. But his mind fights against his better judgement and he twists himself, catching the knife between his hands just so he can make it stop.
||But there's a familiar voice in the din, echoing through the room, filled with sunlight and love and concern for him. He furrows his brows, tearing his concentration between stopping his master and trying to focus on the source of the voice. It feels so warm, so inviting… so different from the eternal cold that the chambers of Cazador’s palace are shrouded in.
“Astarion! Wake up!”
These stony floors, this master, this is no longer his reality, is it? Who is he? Where is he?
The voice returns with increasing urgency. “*Please!* I’m here for you.”
Suddenly he feels restrained, warmth envelopes him and he doesn’t know whether he should be afraid or give in to it. Instinctively, he lashes out against it, fear dominating his need to survive.
“ASTARION, you’re home, you’re safe. Please.” The voice breaks and there’s an overwhelming sadness that fills him, to hear them sound like that, as though they are a part of him that he doesn’t even know yet, dragging him up and out of his mind, breaching the bubble of subconsciousness until…
Gasping, he bolts upright sweat dripping and wracked with shivers. Looking down, he sees fresh linen. He’s on a clean bed, in a room that feels luxurious compared to what he once had. He has someone beside him, crying, long red lines etched across their arms.
What had he done?
The memories of the night before return, flooding him with realisation. He had been lying across their lap, their gentle hands running through his silvery curls. Their touch had been so inviting, so tempting. He had fallen asleep, slipping into the turbulent current of an uncontrolled dream. And now he had hurt the one person who had promised to stand by him through everything.
“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed, closing his arms around them, his hands running over the welts he had created on their skin. “I… I was dreaming. That I was back with Cazador. There’s no excuse for this. I’m so sorry…”
Would you push him away now? Had he ruined the one good thing he had attained?
Dread filled the pit of his stomach as he waited for the inevitable. Yet it never came. Gentle hands swiped away at his tears, lingering on his cheeks with affection. Confusion clouded him and through the blurriness of tears, he could see them smiling.
“I’m just glad you’re home.”
What had he done to deserve this at all, he wondered.
The sound of your heart hammering in your head threatens to drown out all the night-time sounds around you. Beneath your paws the earth rushes past as you race into the forest before you, foreign ground leading you somewhere you don’t know. You don't care. You cannot afford to stop. All you know is that you need to be far *far* away from him. You can't let yourself be caught and these strong legs, this robust body of the wolf you have transformed into is all you have to help you fly away from the his far-reaching grasp.
All of a sudden, you stumble, nearly falling face first into the dirt with a pained yelp. Inspecting the damage, you raise your leg to assess the damage. The fear you feel spikes tenfold as you see the sharp end of a snapped branch lodged deep into the underside of your paw. The unmistakable tang of iron reaches your sensitive snout, announcing your injury and your presence to the world. And if you can smell it, then he definitely can too.
Instinctively, you lap up the evidence of your blood from your fresh wound, hoping to stop the flow and to reduce the overwhelming scent of it from giving you away like a homing beacon. But it's too late. From the dense underbrush beside you, your pursuer pounces, taking advantage of your distraction to throw you roughly to the ground. In a frenzy, you fight back with all your remaining strength, knowing that if you gave up now, you might well be losing your life. But you are fighting against exhaustion and the pain and a fresh enemy and you slowly feel yourself losing, bit by bit as he grabs a hold of you.
Wrestling you until you lay there whimpering and immobile beneath his hold, Astarion grins in triumph at his victory knowing that your fate is held entirely at the discretion of his mercy or his cruelty.
You feel his fangs press against your throat with just enough pressure to not break your skin in a silent threat.
“Now darling, do you yield? Use your words for me.” He commands firmly.
His arms wring your body tighter like a steel snake around your middle, unforgiving and cold against your overheating body in a gesture to bend you to his will. Unable to sustain this form any longer you relent, shifting back into your human form and going limp to show your compliance. Gasping, your voice comes out in a thin tremor. “I yield, I yield!”
Astarion’s grip around your body doesn’t loosen but he slings his leg over your hip, holding your smaller form in place as he frees a hand to inspect your wrist. Taking in the sight of your ruby red blood pooling like pearls glimmering in the moonlight, he growls with anticipation, the vibrations from his chest reverberating through your own body.
“You hurt yourself! You poor thing.” he gasps in mock surprise. Lapping eagerly at the gash he groans into your skin with satisfaction as he whets his appetite in preparation for the feast ahead. “Mmmm… I could smell your *delicious* bouquet from a mile away, my dear.”
You don't miss the growing of the bulge pressed against your lower back as rocks against you teasingly, making his desire known.
Word count: 2.8k
Rating: Explicit. Please read the warnings!
Pairing: Spawn!Astarion x FemaleHuman!Tav
Warnings: 18+, fingering, cum play, cunnilingus, PiV sex, religion kink, praise kink, breeding kink, corruption kink, possessiveness, slight bdsm?, slight DD/lg (if you squint enough), cock drunk, pussy drunk
Astarion hasn't had anything in so long, not even himself.
Not until you.
Astarion sighs above you with a great heave of his chest, his head dropping low enough to rest his forehead against yours.
You unhook your legs from around the small of his back as aftershocks of your orgasm rock through you. Your legs come to rest on either side of your vampiric lover, his cock still buried within the warmth of your sex. With every rhythmic contraction of your walls around his length, you feel it twitch from within. The head of his cock is nestled at the base of your cervix, and you let out a pleasured mewl knowing he's dribbling the last of his spend directly into your ripened womb with each pulse of his shaft.
Gently, Astarion pulls his length free from your warm nest. You whimper at the sudden loss of feeling full, and his seed begins to seep from entrance. It trickles down your folds and pools under you, causing you to shiver as the night air cools it quickly against your heated skin.
“Tch, such a waste,” Astarion says with a click of his tongue. He's looking down at the apex of your thighs to survey his handiwork, disappointed seeing all of his effort lay in vain.
The blush on your cheeks was finally subsiding when a new wave of warmth rushes to your face again as his eyes study your cunt. Astarion runs a finger up your swollen sex, catching some of his spend and bringing it back up to your entrance. He pushes his finger into your thoroughly stretched hole, languidly pumping the digit in and out.
“We simply cannot have that,” Astarion comments. He removes his digit from your cunt and begins to slither down your torso, littering your sternum in chaste kisses as he goes. “In fact,” he states with a silken tone, “one cannot accept such poor conditions.”
Your nipples harden to stiff peaks as his tongue dips into the valley of your navel. Your legs bend at the knees almost instinctively as Astarion’s lips kiss the curls atop your mound.
Every memory cell in your body responds to Astarion autonomically, as if his touch has been seared into each of your nerve endings. It is intoxicating, and you can never get enough.
This man has dragged you into the depths of the Hells themselves. You've fallen out of favor with the Morninglord and have been shunned by your entire clergy as a consequence of succumbing to Astarion's advances.
It started as a simple favor; a quaint exchange. His continued vigor and vitality, all for the small price of occasional sips of your blood. You were hesitant at first, but you inevitably agreed.
You had no idea it would lead to you being on all fours in the cellar of an abandoned ruin, Astarion mercilessly pounding into you from behind as he grips your hair for leverage. You forfeited your honor to him, and your maidenhood, all too enthusiastically.
And you would do it all over again, for as long as he would allow it.
“We certainly need to rectify this unfortunate predicament,” he says. He kisses the soft skin of your inner left thigh, and you squirm at the stark temperature contrast of his cool lips against your heated skin.
A whimper escapes you as you feel the tip of his nose rub against your clit. Astarion licks a wet stripe up your center and you spread your legs wider, grinding your pelvis down onto the wet muscle.
His hands come up to wrap around your thighs as he suckles on your swollen nub, languidly stroking it with his tongue. You grip the sheets of the bed below you and pull as a strangled moan rips from your throat.
“A-Astarion,” you manage, voice barely above a whisper, “g-gods, please, it's so d-dirty…” Your voice trails off into a moan as he drags his tongue up your taint, collecting the remnants of his spend in a small well.
“F-fuck-!” you yell as his tongue pushes past your entrance, fucking himself back into your hole. Astarion hums into your cunt as he drives his tongue deeper into you, moving his head in just the right way for the tip of his nose to rub deliciously against your clit.
“The Gods are dead, my darling. There is only us,” he speaks into you. The vibration of his voice travels up into your pelvis and spreads across your abdomen, causing an obscene contraction of your walls around his tongue.
Your hands fly up onto his head and grip fistfuls of silver locks, bracing your feet on the bed as you grind yourself over his face. You cast your eyes down between your thighs to inspect the scene below, your breath coming in short gasps.
Smoldering red eyes meet yours, Astarion's eyelashes fluttering as he continues to hum into your sex. He meets your gaze once again and your heart begins to beat wildly inside of your chest.
This man was beautiful, so godsdamned beautiful.
And he was yours.
All yours.
Suddenly, he pulls himself away from your center and you whine in protest. You exchange glances and you see the corner of his mouth pulling upward into a crooked smile. Astarion pulls himself up and over your body again, bracing himself on his elbows on either side of your torso.
You moan softly as you feel his reawakened lust now resting against you, thick and heavy between your folds. The thought of using the small of his back as leverage to glide yourself against the weighted appendage crosses your mind, and you throw your head back with an exasperated sigh.
His hips twitch in response to your wanton display of pleasure and he groans, driving his hardened length through the slick heat of your swollen sex. He glides himself back and forth, smearing your arousal with slow rolls of his hips.
Once again, body almost possessed, your legs come up to wrap themselves around the small of his back, and you wrap your arms around his neck. The pre-cum leaking from his tip provides additional lubrication, and you mewl as the head of his cock teases your clit with each canting of his hips. He continues this torturous routine as he drops his face mere millimeters away from yours.
“I want you to taste us, my love,” Astarion coos as he pulls at your bottom lip with blunted teeth. “I want you to savor how well we complement one another.”
He skirts his tongue across your lips, seeking entrance. You open your mouth to accept him, and you immediately groan in pleasure at the taste spreading over your tongue.
Bittersweet yet mellow, with a distinct note that hits the back of your throat. Your whole body convulses, your back arching off the bed, chest pushing into his. It was debauched and utterly sinful; it was absolutely divine.
“Do you taste it, my darling?” Astarion asks as he pulls his mouth away from yours. His head dips to the nape of your neck and you shiver as he kisses your tender skin. “Can you taste how well we complete one another?”
Your hands travel up the back of his head and you tilt your neck off to the side, allowing Astarion better access to the column of your neck. His tongue worries the two small scars beginning to develop over your jugular vein, his favorite place to feed on you, and you grip fistfuls of his hair.
“Do you know what else I taste, pet?” His mouth closes over the ghosts of your scars and your body convulses, wanton moans spilling from your lips as he nibbles the soft flesh.
“W-hat, else?” you breathe out, words separated by huffs.
“Your arousal.” He licks a stripe up the side of your neck, mouth close now to your ear. “Your excitement.” He nips at your earlobe, pulling gently. His voice drops into a low growl and he speaks into your ear, “Your fertility.”
Your whole body arches off the bed, your breasts pushing into his chest, and you writhe under him. A bolt of lighting shoots across your pelvis as the walls of your cunt clench around the memory of your first time.
You think back to your coupling in the cellar, you on all fours as he slams into you repeatedly from behind. There was no other sound in that cellar aside from the wet squelching of your sex as he drove his length into you repeatedly.
You recall how thoroughly full you felt, how thoroughly mated. Your body willfully opening to him, beckoning him to claim you further. His hands on your hips held you steady as he filled you to the brim with his seed. You'd never cum harder in your life, your walls milking every last drop of his release.
Your clergy be damned; you knew there and then that you wanted Astarion on a carnal level. You want your womb to be desecrated by the sowing of his undead children.
“You want this, don't you?” he moans into your ear, accentuating his words with a drawn out thrust between your legs. Astarion braces his weight on one arm, snaking one hand up and over the delicate column of your throat.
You moan and lift your chin up just as his fingers wrap around your throat. “Tell me how much you want this, little love,” he says to you.
“Do you still want me?” is the silent question wrapped within his words.
Your hands release their hold on his hair and come to grasp the one on your neck. “A-Astarion,” you breathe, voice hoarse as his palm pushes against the center of your throat. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and you continue grinding your hips against his length, the head of his cock teasing your soaked entrance.
“What do you want me to do, Tavaria?” Astarion huffs out, voice desperate as he tries to resist the urge to sink himself into your warm, inviting center.
“I want… Gods…”
“What, do you want, Tavaria?” His voice is stern and demanding as he growls into your ear. “Tell me, now.”
Do you still want this, all of this? Us? …All of me?
Your head is swimming. You can think of nothing else but depraved, carnal lust.
“Fuck me, please, Astarion…” You open your eyes, hooded in lust, and meet his gaze. His mouth is slightly agape as he sucks in ragged breaths, his pupils blown wide. “Please, Astarion,” you beg.
The hand on your neck now rises to clasp your chin, holding your head steadfast. “Again,” he growls out, “say it again.” He grinds his hips further against yours.
You moan loudly into the night air, hoping no one from the nearby town hears. “Mark me, Astarion,” you manage to breathe out. “Fill my womb until the entire world can see what you've done to me.” You bring the hand holding your chin up to your mouth, placing soft kisses on the tips of his fingers. “Please,” you whine.
Astarion peels himself away from you in an instant, sitting up on his knees. “Turn over,” he growls out through gritted teeth.
It takes a second for the words to register in your brain, but your body inevitably moves as he commands. You turn yourself over on the forest floor, supporting yourself on your hands and knees. His palms sink into the plush flesh of your hips and he pulls you back toward him, his cock brushing up against the cleft of your ass.
You look over your shoulder to see him spit into his palm, working it over his length with urgent strokes. Suddenly the head of his cock nudges against your entrances and he sinks himself in. Your arousal provides enough support for him to fully sheath himself within you, and he hisses as his tip pushes against the end of your cervix.
Your arms give way and you lean forward onto your elbows, head dropping between your arms as your hips move of their own accord back and forth over his length. Your cunt throbs with each pass of his cock against your walls, and you sigh as it rubs against the spot inside of you that makes you see stars.
“Gods, you are so fucking warm,” he growls from behind you. Astarion reaches forward and grips a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back up. His other hand is sunken into your hip in a vice grip, holding you in place as he continues careening you both toward completion. You know you'll have a bruise come tomorrow, but you didn't care. You want him to mark you, to claim you.
You desperately push yourself back up onto the palms your hands, your muscles struggling to support your weight as your pleasure builds. Your whole body is shaking as you continue to meet his thrusts with your hips. Astarion adjusts his angle ever so slightly behind you, the head of his cock now pushing directly into the spot that turns your vision hot white.
“A-Astarion,” you mumble as saliva pools in your mouth, “d-don’t stop-!” You feel your thighs quaking, your cunt fluttering wildly over his length as you draw closer and closer to the edge.
Astarion catches onto your rapidly approaching crescendo and increases the pace. The clearing is filled with nothing but the wet sound of your arousal and skin slapping against skin. He lifts his chin up toward the sky and his mouth hangs open as he moans incoherently into the night air, hips never faltering in their assault.
“My sweet girl,” he says to you, voice thoroughly and completely wrecked, “you always feel so good around my cock.”
You feel yourself clench around him in response to his praise, pleasured mewls escaping your lips. His hand releases its grip on your hair, coming to rest on your hip as his fingertips sink into the supple skin beneath them. He's spearing himself directly into your cunt, directly into that spongy spot inside you, and your arms falter once again. At this point, you're not going to last much longer.
You cross your arms in front of you, resting your head on your forearms. Your brain has ceased all logical thought as he fucks into you mercilessly from behind. You mumble a mantra of “please, yes, please, oh, there, keep going,” from under him.
One particular thrust has you seeing stars explode behind your vision and you spill over the edge into oblivion. You think you scream, the pleasure ripping through you so intensely that it obscures your other senses, but they're muffled by your face buried in your forearms.
His hips still as your walls contract around him. He sucks in a deep breath through gritted teeth, uneven pants escaping his mouth. He begins to move behind you again, his hips stuttering in short bursts into your wet heat. “I'm going… I'm going to…” he pants from behind you, chest heaving.
You manage to raise your head enough to look briefly over your shoulder. He looks thoroughly debauched; damp strands of silver hair are plastered to his face and beads of sweat drip from the tip of his nose.
He is devastatingly handsome.
“Do it,” you reassure him, softly. “It's okay.”
Astarion’s mouth drops open, a raw, guttural growl rupturing from his throat. His bottom fangs glint in the moonlight and his eyes roll back into his skull as hips finally cease. The grip on your hips tightens as he pulls you further into him, and then you feel it.
Thick ropes of heat coat the inside of your cunt and you moan, feeling some of it slip out between the place where you're joined and drip down onto the forest floor below.
With a drawn-out sigh, he slumps against your back, the added weight causing you both to collapse onto the soft earth below. You feel him mouthing softly against your back, leaving absent-minded kisses across your skin as his brain performs yet another hard reset, the second one of the evening.
Astarion’s senses finally return and he pulls himself free, rolling off of you and onto his back. You reposition yourself onto your side and slot yourself against him. His arm comes down over your shoulder, and you tuck your head against his chest. You feel Astarion kiss the top of your head, and you sigh in contentment at the warm gesture.
Neither of you speak another word, thoroughly spent. As your eyes fall closed, you nestle your cheek against his chest and hear the slow thud of his heart as it lulls you to sleep.
A Curse and A Blessing (Astarion x Hearth Witch, AU, BG3 Drabble)
(I wrote this and realized there was no where it would fit in the current timeline of the fic, so it lives here as an AU)
"Welcome back—"
You put down your cutting knife and went over to the group, brushing your hands on your pants as you walked. Concern wrinkled your brow as you came closer.
Astarion was missing.
"What happened?"
"He's right here," Karlach said, pulling off her backpack and opening the flap.
A small white bat lay curled up on a pile of Astarion's clothes.
"What in the hells happened?"
The bat looked up at you and shrieked in a high pitched tone. You scooped up the small creature along with his clothes, and cradled them close to your chest.
Gale shrugged. "He rung that little feywild bell and talked to the pixie. Next thing we knew, he had been turned into this fluffy little thing."
The bat, ostensibly Astarion, hissed furiously.
"I'll take care of him," you said, wincing on your last word as the little bat clambered onto your chest and bit your collarbone.
Karlach raised an eyebrow.
"He's lapping at my neck, isn't he," you muttered.
She nodded, trying to hold back a laugh.
You waved them all off. "I'll handle this." You walked away, ignoring their snickers.
Entering Astarion's tent, you sat down. Letting the little fluffball lick your wound with his itty bitty tongue, you couldn't help yourself. You petted his soft fur. His body was a little bigger than the size of your hand, so you used two fingers to gently stroke him.
He suddenly stopped drinking and crawled down, resting on your bosom, and looked up at you.
"I'm pretty sure you're still aware of what you're doing," you said. "But since you make such a cute little bat, I'll allow it."
He made a soft squeaking sound and, settling himself on your chest, lay his head down and stared at you expectantly. After a few moments while you tried to figure out what he wanted, he reached out with one wing and flapped it.
"You want me to pet you again?"
He nodded.
Chuckling, you pet the little bat until his eyes slowly closed and he seemed to have fallen asleep.
Well, I can't go anywhere now that he's all cozy.
Then it occurred to you that pixie tricks only lasted an hour at most.
Wait, how long did it take them to get back—
Suddenly Astarion transformed back into his normal body, his weight crushing you.
And he was very, very, naked.
"Um."
"Oh." He let out a high pitched giggle. "Well, I suppose we don't need to look for a cure then."
"Um."
"Yes?"
"Could you... get off me?"
"Right, of course." He pushed himself up and rolled over. "You know, most people would have begged for the pleasure of having my naked body upon them."
"I'm not most people."
His expression changed from the flirty rake to something softer, more sincere. He reached and touched your cheek fondly. "I know, darling."
There was something a little melancholy in both his tone and his touch, and you wondered what it could mean as he put his clothes back on. You turned around as quickly as you could, but you still got an eyefull.
Well, that's going to haunt my dreams at some point.
When he was dressed, he held his hand out to you. "Shall we, my dear?"
You took his hand and let him lead you back out to the others.
Read Part 1 here: https://www.tumblr.com/theelfsongbard/737516092517482496/astarion-hunts-tav-drabble
There’s a hum of satisfaction as he’s holding you pinned to the earth beneath him, your cheek in the dirt. You look so helpless, and delightfully delicious, your limp body conveying your surrender as you deliver yourself to his urges. All his, now that he’s caught his prize. He’s sure he can hear the blood rushing through you as your adrenaline continues to spike and his heart flutters with excitement and a primal urgency to consume you and claim you once and for all. “You remember the word, yes?” He pants against the shell of your ear. Enthusiastically, you nod back your eagerness. “I’m yours tonight.”
Growling low, Astarion flips you onto your back with astounding efficiency, wasting little time in divesting you roughly from your clothing.
His eyes betray an unending hunger of bloodlust, but where his appetite for blood ends and his appetite for you begins, you can no longer tell. Your breath catches, as rakes his gaze openly at your most private areas and sooner than you can register he is upon you, strong arms folding one of your knees over yourself and planting his hand on the ground by your head, keeping you caged in his embrace like a prey animal.
His mouth devours yours in a kiss that leaves you wanting despite the fact that you should feel afraid of him, of the danger that he heralds as a vampire. As you arch into him, seeking contact, he sinks his fangs into the exposed column of your neck, icy and fast and painful, causing tears to spring from your eyes while he suckles at the wound, tongue laving against your skin while his teeth remain embedded, holding you in place.
Meanwhile, you feel the fingers of his free hand, begin to roam down your navel and tease at your slick folds, brushing against the sensitive exposed flesh causing you to jerk at the sensation. There’s little preparation as you feel him prodding against your entrance, wet with his own arousal. Soon enough he is stretching you, sheathing himself inside of your warmth up to his hilt.
Again and again, he plunges into the depths of your heat, his little shivers and barely audible gasps displaying his open pleasure to you. The ever increasing scrape of the twigs and little stones against your back with each thrust is a stark contrast to the smooth planes of his body against yours. Frantically, you throw your arms around his neck, holding on as you feel his pace stutter and you know that he is close.
In your mind, the connection between your tadpoles open and you feel the sensations of passionate enjoyment he is experiencing in his body. You wonder if he can feel the same through your body too.
*Overwhelming* is how you would describe it if you could find the words to express the moment. But they escape you and instead you find yourself hurtling over into bliss, clenching down around his manhood until the dam finally breaks, flooding your insides with his seed.
Above you, Astarion’s head is buried into your hair, panting like a soldier coming out of battle. There’s a pleased tremor that echos through the connection, strong and dripping with satisfied contentedness.
Mine. I covet them. I want to protect them. I care for them. I… love them. I want them.
The clarity of the thought sends shockwaves through your post-orgasmic bliss. Your gasp of surprise is quickly stolen away by a deep kiss. A song of longing and tenderness conveying more than it means is carried to you on soft lips as he puts your leg down and settles himself beside you. You can feel through the bond that he longs to touch you, to hold you as close as he can until you are hidden from the world and become a part of him.
Coveted and his alone. The first person he had come to care for after 200 years of servitude.
Wordlessly, you shift closer until you are just a hair away from him, an invitation to cuddle. You love him too. But this moment is fragile and you don’t want to shatter it with your touch. Warmth surges over you as tentative fingers slip over your waist. A controlled point of contact that provides him with a small mercy to his yearning. His face is tilted towards the stars and… he is smiling, you realise. A genuinely giddy smile, so unguarded and open.
This is the side you love of him best. You lay there for a little while, coming back down from your highs and eventually, his presence in your mind slips away, leaving you alone and empty. The mask is back on, his smile replaced with a salacious smirk and with it, all the walls that conceal the secretive vulnerability blooming within him.
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