#astarion x ofc

[cassieuncaged]

Batstarion (Astarion x Reader)

Summary: You share some time with a certain Ascended Vampire in bat form.

TW: none :)

WC: 1 K

A/N: just a fluffy oneshot inspired by Pani-artz Batstarion series, that’s all :)

Long, leathery wings stretch across the tufted cushion, a flurry of squeaks escaping before you whisper an evocation.

“Amicus animalis,” your fingers trace his tiny body, getting lost in the snowy coat that covers him. “You may speak now, love.”

“Lord,” he corrects in that buttery voice you delight in so much, though it’s difficult to take anything serious when Astarion lounges about in bat form. White pinpricks appear from behind an upturned snout, his menace evaporated as beady eyes muster any intimidation. “I am your lord and you will regard me as such.”

“Oh?” You bring a finger up to one fang, releasing a droplet that’s offered to the bat. A tiny pink tongue laps at it lazily. “It’s I who sits upon your throne; shan’t I be your lord?”

“Do not mock me, pet,” he seethes, though that pink noses nuzzles against your finger before sharply latching. He sips though it feels more like a tickle when he’s in this form, “I’m ghastly.”

“You’re adorable.” You coo, scratching beneath a fuzzy chin as he likes. When you stop, you noticed his batty expression has softened, tiny features relaxed. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Immensely,” he sighs, wings twitching against either of your thighs, cartilaginous sinews loosening as his claws dig into your breeches. “Turn me."

“Isn’t my lovely face enough?” You jest though some truth is hidden in that; after all, it’s been almost a year since you’ve last seen your own reflection. Now you chat with the bat form of your lover and closest confidant. Were you finally losing what was left of your mind?

“Don’t be naïve,” he tsks, sinking into the tufted velvet. “I’d like to look upon the audience.”

“The hall is empty, my love,” your eyes fall on the empty benches as wings threaten to flap. “Patience, I’ve got you.”

One hand slid beneath his warm belly, enjoying the heat you no longer wrought. Then he was carefully scooped and turned so that beady little gaze to see the ornate room that often clamored for the attention of the lord regally displayed upon the dais. Then a content chirp echoed through the vaulted ceilings as his body spasmed.

“Imagine if all the citizens of Baldur’s Gate saw you now, my lov…, my lord.” One finger began stroking from between tiny coned ears to the root of a wiry tail. His fur was so luscious and soft, not unlike the curls so carefully manicured atop his head, “Commanding with such ferocity propped upon the lap of your consort.”

“I suppose it would be quite the sight,” he chuckled, making her shiver like it always did. “Baldur’s Mouth would have quite the story. ‘Decrees heralded by rodent’; I think it’s silly enough to make the front page.”

“Think yourself popular, do you?” you teased, enjoying the moments he was seemingly relaxed and docile; they were so far few and between these days.

“Darling, I know I am.” He wriggled playfully against the cushion before pinkish hued wings began to flap. It was always mesmerizing to watch him float, expecting him to morph back into himself with a cloud of smoke. But he remained as he was, eyeing you expectantly. “The sun has long set; let’s peruse the palace gardens.”

The velveteen cushion was tucked upon the seat of the gilded throne as he began to glide to the far end of the hall, leaving you practically sprinting to catch up. Boots clacked against the marble floor, robes swishing around sure legs as you raced down the aisle. He paused, wings flapping in place as your place was taken beside him.

“Do keep up, dear,” he chided, little teeth clicking as he gracefully dove through the opened oak doors and down the decadently decorated hallway. “We haven’t all night. Oh, wait; we do don’t we?”

Your chuckle mingled with his, allowing the flamboyant bat dart to through the ornate glass doors that servants obediently wrenched open. It was a treat to watch him dive through the hedged archways, dipping down to bury his nose in a budding rose that practically glowed beneath the full moon.

“Pick one,” he encouraged, “Put it behind your ear.”

Doing as asked, two red pinpricks watched diligently as the petals hung over the shell of your ear. Then, it finally happened, fluffy white bat dissipating into a black mist before Astarion stretched out in front you, gently tipping your chin upwards.

“Beautiful.” He cooed before pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Just beautiful.”

“Would ‘Batstarion’ agree?” you giggled, enjoying the quiet moments before the hammer inevitably dropped. He was so rarely this tender and you missed it terribly. Gently, he pulled your hand into his before drifting to the edge of the gardens.

“He loves flowers, that’s true.” He grins, wiping residual pollen from his own nose, “Though I’m unable to hold you with those bloody wings. Not to mention the language barrier.”

“I love the chirps,” you argued, enjoying the arm that instinctually wrapped around your waist, possessively. “It’s very cute.”

“I’m meant to be menacing,” he growls and you’re reminded of his other form, back elongating, jaw distending. You shivered at the thought. So you allow your fingers to dance across a strong cheekbone as his gaze fell upon the lights twinkling lights in the Lower City below. “How will I ever rule The Sword Coast if I’m not?”

“In due time, my love.” You reassured him, enjoying the caress of his cold breath against your ear. “This will all be ours. They’ll pledge fealty and you can rest upon as many velvet pillows as you please. I’ll even rub your little furry belly.”

“Will you?” then, when you expected his teeth to plunge into your neck but nuzzled against you again. A welcome change. “That’d be strangely comforting.”

#astarion x you #astarion x reader #astarion x ofc #astarion x tav #astarion #oneshot #fluff #batstarion #reader insert #female reader

[mystra-midnight]

Possession

summary: even if he hadn’t been a vampire, able to hear the wild thundering of her heart and feel the coiling of her muscles as he hovered over her like the cold, dead night, he would have known. he would have seen it in the depths of her fiery eyes.

tags: 18+ only. emotional anguish. brief mentions of rape. brief mentions of abuse. astarion being a respectable horndog. he's also got it bad for his girl: because he needs real love dammit

w/c: 1.2k

a/n: i finally started playing bg3 after waiting and waiting for it to be released and then never having the time. astarion is always my number one. here is a little moment with him and vitani, my bg3 character. but truly it could be any tiefling character or reader.

Panic. 

That was what she had felt the first time she'd awoken to find Astarion staring down at her with those perfectly pointed fangs. It had pooled in the pit of her stomach and festered, burning as she swallowed around the feeling. Vitani had tried to push it down, tried to ignore the way it twisted through her organs like a snake, poisoning her from the inside out, starting where he couldn't see the damage.

Except he knew. Well, no, he suspected.

How could he have known the truth? He was but a stranger then, a predator looking for a meal. Astarion couldn't have possibly known the torment of her past when she refused to breathe life into it by speaking words aloud. He couldn't have known that the scars on her body were from something other than fighting. He couldn't have known that her body had not always belonged to her.

But he'd seen the mirror of his emotions in her demon eyes and had suspected the dark truth. When he'd looked down at her, watching the way she scrunched her eyes shut and refused to watch as he came closer, when he'd looked at how her claws burrowed into the dirt to ground herself, when he'd felt the tension coiled through her blood and watched how she refused to move or breathe, he suspected where her anxiety stemmed from.

At the beginning of his undead life, he acted much the same. But hunger won, and he'd fed. 

She should have told him then, taking the time to explain the feelings his feeding invoked. She should have told him that it brought a long-buried past to the surface of her mind and turned memories into reality. Teeth and tongue, claw and fang— she felt them on her skin again. The bite of the whip as it lashed skin from bone. The taste of a dozen men’s essence.

The memories of those nights were unrelenting, making her feel so small, so helpless. Having him shadowed over her reminded her of how she’d been property to be taken and used. And yet, Vitani had trusted him for reasons she didn’t fully understand even now. And Astarion had almost betrayed that trust— he’d almost lost himself in blood-lust.

And now here they were, in the same situation again.

Except this time, he knew.

Even if he hadn’t been a vampire, able to hear the wild thundering of her heart and feel the coiling of her muscles as he hovered over her like the cold, dead night, he would have known. He would have seen it in the depths of her fiery eyes.

Vitani felt impossibly small, lost in the memories bubbling to the surface of her mind as she lay beneath him. There was a rising panic threatening to choke her. A secret part of her wanted to fight and hide her feelings: to keep him at arm's length.

Breath struggled to feed her starving lungs as she took in the sight of him— beautiful and haunting, untouched by the hands of time. He smelled like bergamot and rosemary, and his lips tasted like brandy when he kissed her. Astarion always seemed to invade her senses, somehow smothering and drowning her while breathing life into her lungs.

Her fingertips touched his cool skin and traced along the points of his ears, eliciting the undead's pleased and quiet growl. But even that sound couldn't soothe her as it usually did. Her skin felt burned beneath the weight of his desires, yet she shivered beneath his ice-cold touch. 

"Sweet flower." His voice was soft, each syllable breathy, as light as air. His lips followed a familiar path along the slope of her neck, where the tips of his fangs caught at her racing pulse. Her body jolted beneath him, pleasure and trepidation painting the whimper that tumbled past her traitorous lips.

Her claws found purchase in his pale skin, but he felt them tremble. Her hips canted, seeking friction, and he caught them in his palms to pin her in place.

"Vitani." His voice was louder this time, though no less captivating.

This time, fiery orbs drew open to find his vermillion stare. His eyes had deepened to blood red and glistened beneath the moonlight. Vitani stared at him, brows drawn together ever so slightly. For a moment, he was tempted to soothe the wrinkles away with the swipe of his thumb, but he was as still as night.

"Astarion?" Her voice shook, quaked beneath the force of her emotions, arousal and lust, hesitation and fear. His expression was soft yet serious as he gazed into her eyes, refusing to let her look away and count the stars, as she so often did to avoid talking about her emotions.

He had learned how she behaved— how she thought and fought. Vitani had a tenacity that rivalled their hellion companion and a magical finesse that made the Wizard of Waterdeep envious. He had also learned what upset, frightened, and excited her.

And through each minute spent in her company, he had ached for this moment. Astarion longed to feel her velvet heat wrapped around his length, for her to give herself to him as he gave himself to her. He wanted to hear her scream his name, to watch her write beneath him, to swallow the breathless moans from her lips. Astarion longed for her, craved her, and coveted her.

But he could not hurt her. 

"I can feel you shaking," he said softly, leaning down to ghost his nose along hers. "We do not need to. A kiss is more than enough for now. We can stop." Even his appetites, the carnal lust that ruled his roost, could not stay satiated on the taste of her lips alone.

Their placement was not unlike the first time: her on her back, him between her thighs. But it was so very different. Clothes had been forfeited in the heat of the moment, now lying haphazardly on the forest floor. She could feel the weight of his erection pressed against her core, the chill that met her heat. And this time, she wanted him more than she could remember wanting anyone, more than she'd wanted her freedom for so many years.

This time, he was not a predator, and she was not prey.

"No," she answered in a whisper.

He was partway through peeling himself from her, the separation of their skin agonizing in his mind, when her thighs tightened around his slim waist, trapping him there. "I don't want you to stop."

The Pale Elf lofted a finely sculpted brow as his undead heart thumped. She canted her hips again, letting his erection press through her slick folds, letting him feel her arousal. With seeking hands, she pulled him down and found his lips with her own. She smelled like nightshade and lavender and tasted like vanilla. And his head swam.

And in that moment, Vitani knew that her body was still not her own. But she was not afraid because it belonged to Astarion— the pale elf who had lived two centuries, who had been possessed, used, and manipulated. Who had been hurt, and who had been broken. They were kindred spirits— opposite sides of the same coin. If ever there was one person who understood the wild racing of her heart and the torment of her thoughts, it was him.

"I'm yours, Astarion."

And as though words had not been enough to prove her devotion, Vitani offered him her throat.

#astarion #astarion x vitani #astarion x tiefling #astarion smut #astarion fanfiction #astarion x ofc #astarion drabble #astarion imagine #astarion bg3

[tugoslovenka]

Sanguinans

Summary: Tephraxa had never thought of blood afflictions much, not until a pale elf by the name of Astarion came into her life. She now craves the feeling, and longs for the full moon when the vampire is at the height of his bloodlust.

TW: Blood stuff, knife play, some gore

Sanguinans adjective san· guin· e· ous bloodthirsty; of, relating to, or involving bloodshed; of, relating to, or containing blood

A/N: This is an edited re-post after I fixed up some stuff that I didn't originally like. This is one of the more hardcore smuts I've done so, I suppose read at your own disposal?

Also available on AO3!

Tephraxa had never pondered about the smell of blood.

She used to quickly tend to cuts, knowing the dangers of leaving an open wound to fester for too long. She didn’t mind the metallic taste that occasionally tinged her tongue when she accidentally bit the inside of her cheek.

Yet, life’s crimson elixir was a fragrance she now carried. A path of punctuated passion trailed from the crook of her neck down to her lower belly, where it ended in a deep gash. The pooling was thick at the surface, scarlet in color and running hotter than the heritage she inherited from Zariel.

It was comforting to her now, the sight of her own injuries. 

The pale elf she had the fortune of meeting taught her many things. She wasn’t innocent in pleasures of the flesh, but what he offered was akin to the celestial delights people spoke of in the Upper Planes.

The first time his fangs found their mark was during a desperate plea for aid, a starved beast that craved food for sustenance, lest he die. Tephraxa wasn’t too keen on the idea, but ultimately decided to give in. What felt like an ice pick jabbing at her skin soon turned into a numb pain that overwhelmed her—and ultimately scrambled any sense for self-preservation. She wouldn’t dare admit her stifled moans as he drew blood, though she was almost certain he was too busy to notice. What surprised her was that she was his first—more than a rotting rat found in the lowest depths of the Lower City.

That night marked the beginning of a twisted relationship that would reshape her forever.

During a particularly rough fucking, Astarion told her he would keep suckling at the memory of her even after she was long gone. Even in a thousand years, when he would all but forget how to love, it would be Tephraxa who would flit back into his heart. 

If she didn’t offer hers on a platter before that, she thought.

Toxicity manifested itself in many forms. While she was familiar with numerous ailments that caused physical suffering due to it, what they both shared could undoubtedly be categorized as such.

Bloodlust had been an alien concept before meeting him. The nocturnal creatures typically associated with such cravings lurked in the shadows, seeking a quick fix when no one was looking—which was especially heightened during a full moon. She soon learned however, that a full moon held a special place in his tragic history.

Astarion had passed during one. Centuries of torment had blurred some of the details, but he could still recall the pale moonlight gently kissing his skin on that fateful evening, when a group of Gur took issue with his rullings. The high elf used to be a magistrate with a power to strike down those who the Council saw as disposable, she learned. Cazador was his savior the same night, rescuing him from the vagabonds with an offer of eternal life.

An offer he would come to regret, realizing how long "eternity" truly was. Two centuries he spent trapped beneath the Szarr estate, sustaining on diseased rodents and long-lost memories of a once he once led. 

It was during a full moon that he was turned. He could barely remember the blur turning into blackness as his life drained alongside the only self he knew himself to be. From that day forward, he would be known as Astarion, the charming servant who had served the Szarr family.

Hence, every full moon ushered in an animalistic, voracious side of Astarion that stripped him of all reason. His charming demeanor gave way to an insatiable hunger, rendering him more beast than man. She witnessed his struggles to restrain it during their first month of travel. Whether due to trauma or sheer habit, his fangs grew sharper, nails longer, eyes ruby red at the sight of the smallest droplet of blood—like the one that had trickled down Tephraxa's skin when she injured herself in battle.

It took every bit of his control to stop from gnawing at her arm, as he had later confessed.

In the second month, she watched as he savagely tore animals apart in the forest, drinking their blood until he fell unconscious from the copious amounts he had consumed. At the time, she had already agreed to becoming his bloodbag—a term he detested—and she couldn't help but wonder if her consistent feeding was contributing to his further descent into madness.

Tephraxa couldn’t remember when this blood sharing turned into something more perverse. Maybe it was the hardness she felt against her thigh as he latched onto her neck that ignited something inside her. Even in her weakened state, she reached out to touch it, which elicited a moan so delicious, she had it etched in her mind ever since.

It began slow, noviced even. His fingers were deep inside of her, exploring her cunt with three digits while his fangs worked her throat. A drawn out moan had him momentarily lose control, driving them deeper until she swore he could feel him biting into her vocal cords.

The dagger came next. He used it as a way to tease—mostly himself—preventing his throbbing fangs from finding release as he made shallow cuts on her body, using his tongue to trail the blood that trickled down her purple skin.

What Astarion hadn’t mastered however, was the ability to feed while he was buried inside her. By the time their foreplay finished, he already had her blood coursing through his veins, content enough to not require more. The only goal he was preoccupied with was to fill her to the brim—an exchange, he had called it—her blood for his seed.

There was something invigorating about slowly growing fatigued, limbs shaking from lightheadedness as she felt the suckle of his teeth take from her life force. Heat occasionally escaped her body and for a few moments, she was as cold as he was. She was completely at his mercy, weakened, pale, with every nerve screaming for pause.

But she wouldn’t give in. All she needed was his touch. It was the only refuge she sought.

“What a delectable sight," Astarion commented, dragging his thumb softly over the gash on her lower belly as blood began pouring out. The tiefling used her tail to balance herself, hands bound together by rope so as to prevent her from moving. "You love to be defiled, don't you, my sweet?"

Astarion’s voice was sickly sweet, speaking in a tone one would to a dim-witted mutt. He reached a hand over the cut, pressing down and eliciting a loud yell from Tephraxa. She began shivering, feeling a cold sweat build up at her temples and drop down her body.

He smoothed an adoring hand over her hair, coating it in blood as he tutted in disapproval. “Though I adore your pained screams, darling, I do believe you are making too much of a fuss.” He reached down to grab her smallclothes, bunching them into a ball before shoving it in her mouth.

She could taste the earthiness on them and almost gagged at the grassy texture on her tongue. Astarion had kneeled before her, admiring the laceration that was yet another decoration added to the collection of many depraved memories they shared.

His lips began kissing one end gently, coating his lips in blood as he looked up at her. She was completely paralyzed. Had it not been for the tip of her tail keeping the slightest bit of stability, she would have keeled over from exhaustion.

His tongue curled, licking away at the now-dried blood below her abdomen and seeking out the crimson heat as it was continuing to pour from her bowels. “Delicious as ever, my love,” he purred, grabbing a hold of her hips and keeping her steady as he hungrily lapped.

It felt like an eternity.

For a brief moment, Tephraxa was certain they had gone too far. She could no longer feel his tongue or touch, and she swore she lost her hearing when he dipped his tongue inside her injury. It was only when she felt two fingers reach for her cunt that she jolted awake, a shot of adrenaline coursing her to blink to attention. Astarion began pumping his fingers—coated in her juices and blood—keeping her balanced with his other hand while his tongue was licking her injury clean. Her eyes shut, a mixture of pleasure and pain overwhelming her. She began fighting her constraints, willing closure, but the elf had ensured she remain firmly restricted.

When she opened her eyes, she saw Astarion’s focus on her. His eyes were glazed over, and she wasn’t sure if they had turned completely black instead of the scarlets that commanded her. 

He reached forward and with a small tug, her smallclothes fell to the ground as a string of spit followed suit. Quickly, he took her lips in his, immediately tasting the metallic flavor of her own blood as he did so. She moaned in response, not hesitating to allow his tongue to coat her insides with more of it.

The restraints on her lower body had loosened a moment later, Astarion having expertly unhooked them during the passionate kiss. It was only then did she realize just how weak she was, as in an instant, she began falling forward, legs too weaked to support her weight.

“Easy now, darling,” Astarion whispered, cupping the sides of her hips as she crashed her body into his. “I may have indulged a little too much.”

“No…”  Tephraxa immediately retorted, weakly looking up in his direction to find his eyes. “No. I—I’m fine.”

He smiled in return, an expression she could only recognzie as a challenge. He often pushed his darling to her limits, making sure to take her to the point of no return before giving her a release. “The little death”, he called it, and it was only a matter of time before she thought they would go too far, make an unfixable mistake that would bring about her doom.

But they never did. It was as if he knew exactly when to stop.

A hand pet the top of her head, lightly adding pressure until the tiefling understood his hint. With shaky legs and some steady guidance from him, Tephraxa lowered herself until she was at eye-level with the crotch of his trousers. She barely had time to steady herself before her hands grabbed at the bloodstained leather that already revealed the outline of his cock.

She flinched when she felt his fingers tug at her hair, aiming her gaze towards him. He looked demonic—pale and bloodied—breathing heavily as he bared his fangs. And yet, she still felt a gush of heat between her legs, a depraved response to a horrifying sight.

In one swift motion, he had dropped his trousers on the ground as the gleaming head of his cock collided with her nose. She looked at the tip, and then back at Astarion before reaching her tongue out for a tentative lick. She ran it across the whole length with the direction of his grip, before stopping at the head.

The pressure increased on the back of her skull as she pushed herself forward until her nose reached his abdomen, choking and gagging as he groaned in pleasure. He held her there, tears forming in her eyes from the pressure in her throat. She was too weak to protest—not that she would want to—the usual playfulness of the tease being taken over by a need to follow his animalistic whims.

And then, his grip loosened, disappearing entirely as he ran the same hand through his curls while fixated on her. Tephraxa opened her mouth wider, sucking more of his length back inside as she bobbed her head, making sure to dart her tongue out just as he had instructed the first time they did it. His unconscious thrusting eased her efforts, and she could feel saliva running down her chin, mixing in with the dried blood from the kiss.

Astarion gave no warning before fully pushing back in and almost knocking the tiefling into the ground. She felt the tip hit her tonsils, immediately prompting a gag from her as her throat convulsed around him.

“Remember to breathe, my love,” Astarion reminded her, thrusting with slow and deliberate strokes as he let his palm graze down her face.

She took in deep breaths from her nose, knowing it would help her take more of him in. Whether it was the cut or her lungs burning from the lack of oxygen, the tiefling felt like her body was on fire. Reaching out to claw at his hips, she heard Astarion hissing and moaning as he neared his release.

He suddenly grabbed a hold of his cock with one hand while another craned her neck back up. He let his wet member rest on her cheek as tears fell, a sly grin on his face, satisfied with his work. “You take me so well, devil," he cooed.

She knew better than to ask for her own pleasure. Challenging him at the height of his bloodlust was a mistake, since he would probably opt for teasing her to the point of hurting instead. It was best she allowed him to decide when he would give her a release, even if her cunt was throbbing with need.

He set another brutal pace then, hand now gripping her hair so tightly that she was sure a few more thrusts would scalp her. A flash of steel interrupted her thoughts, and she saw the blade that left many decorations on her body rest below her chin.

“No choking,” Astarion warned.

Tephraxa nodded as he continued to pump into her throat. Every signal in her body was asking for relief, though she knew she would receive none. More brain fog occupied her as the elf quickened his pace, and she soon started seeing spots of darkness as she felt dangerously close to passing out.

Astarion seemed to have other ideas, however. The tiefling felt empty as his cock retracted violently from her mouth, leaving her agape and staring up at him like a dumbstruck animal. He kneeled down, using one hand to push her forward, and it didn’t take much before her back hit the cold dirt.

Hitching her legs up until they were hooked over his waist, he began licking down her navel until he reached the wound. He spent some time taking in the scent and admiring his work, his hand gently going over the hardening skin.

“Beautiful...” he breathed, mostly to himself. His eyes briefly met hers, before he bared his fangs, angling his head down until it reached the inside of her thigh. He had bitten there many times before, with bruises now faded enough so that he could create new ones.

It was a much smaller puncture wound as he drew the blood. He had once told her she tasted sweetest there, something about the heat coming from her core. He didn’t spend much time, knowing she had already lost too much blood already.

With no small effort, he pulled himself from the bite with a gasp, panting heavily. He slid down until he was laying on his stomach, assessing the area. Tephraxa was at a loss for words and breath, with only a whimper escaping her lips, barely.

She couldn’t find the strength to say anything. Not to scold, or compliment. 

Taking hold of her knees, he pried her legs open and leaned forward. With the grip he had on them, she knew he was trying to steady himself into control. She could hear him swallow before his lips touched the wetness on her clit. She was certain the gush had turned into a flood, because the sounds he created while lapping were similar to a full tankard of ale.

She spread her legs further, allowing him better access while barely making any noise. He pulled her hips forward, mixing in the blood trickling from her thigh with her juices, coating the slick flesh with the sin of their deed. Astarion knew better than to ask her to speak, knowing the squirming and barely-audible murmurs escaping her lips were enough praise.

He exhaled slowly once he reached either side of her slit, muttering a silent “Gods, you are delicious,” before pushing his tongue inside. Her aching entrance received some release, and his thumb found its way on her nub, massaging in slow, circular motions—just the way she liked.

Unsure of the source of her sudden strength, she began grinding her hips against his face, angling him to other bits of her wetness. The undignified whine that escaped her lips was nothing short of embarrassing, even more so considering how he had literally cut her open to bleed in the middle of it.

The sting from his fangs almost made her heart leap out of her chest. He occasionally warned—promised, to bite her cunt, never enough to actually cause injury, but the threat was enough. With a small chuckle, he continued tasting her, savoring every bit of her heat as she tightened her legs around him, squeezing weakly.

“Is my sweet ready to come?” he asked, continuing his ministrations once he heard the first audible moan escape her lips. She had enough energy to bite at her lips, feeling her pulse quicken until she could hear ringing in her ears.

“How I love that feeling,” Astarion hummed. According to him, the intensity before her orgasm quickened her pulse so much that he could feel it on his tongue. It ached in his fangs, and he had to exert inhumane levels of control to not dig them into her soft flesh when it happened.

Tephraxa threw her head back in pleasure, the dizziness making her go temporarily blind. She came undone around him with a sob, releasing mews as the aftershock of her orgasm made her body twitch involuntarily. She lay there, completely frozen, muscles shaking vigorously as Astarion continued licking, pushing his tongue in her entrance as she continued to clench.

When her breathing had finally stabilized, he released her cunt with a pop, resting his head on her thigh while grinding into the ground. Whatever blood was mixed in his hardness demanded he find release, but he would allow Tephraxa a moment before he buried himself to the hilt.

“Ast—Astar—“ she began, a series of incomprehensible sounds following what he could only discern was a compliment. The tiefling was pretty sure he was going to break her one day, but she would have lived a happy few years nonetheless.

He crawled up her body until he met her lidded gaze, a hand following to wipe away at the blood, spit and come on his lips before leaning down to give her a kiss. She didn’t respond, her withered state disallowing any muscle on her body to move. Astarion often told her she looked particularly adorable when she was flushed, a purple flush covering her cheeks—and oddly enough, the tips of her horns.

She noted the strained erection on her lower belly, gently rocking in an indication of his desire. Tephraxa hissed when she felt his sharp fingernails dig into her skin, dragging down until she felt the familiar drizzle of blood follow. Astarion’s hands patted over her flesh, covering his hands entirely before moving them between his legs.

Her clit was sensitive, not enough to hurt, but enough to make her involuntarily buckle when she felt his hand there. His other hand moved to his cock, and her eyes followed his movements until she saw him mix his pre-come with her blood—something he found surprising pleasure in.

Once he was satisfied, he pushed the head of his cock on her clit, looking down to admire his work. “I will never tire of the sight,” he muttered. He leaned down, sinking his teeth into the dip between her neck and shoulder, not to draw more, only a moan from Tephraxa who was unsure how she was able to produce any sound at all.

With a thrust, he was inside her. Her tight ring of muscle accepted him without much resistance, and Astarion roared into the cold air of the forest as he began to thrust. Tephraxa watched as his muscles flexed with each push, noting the veins that were more visible in the moonlight now that he had her blood pumping in them. She could never get used to his cold length, not entirely. Shivers ran up her spine as he rutted aggressively, opening his mouth to show fangs that must have been hurting from use.

“Mine, m—mine...” Astarion kept repeating, his eyes not leaving hers as he leaned forward until their foreheads touched. She knew she belonged to him in a way, forever bound to his needs by her blood alone—and while a much younger Tephraxa would be disgusted at the thought, she had no protests being Astarion’s bloodbag until he no longer had any need for her.

With one push of her leg, he had it hooked around his waist as he sought for depth, making sure to slow down every once in a while to admire his work. She could feel his balls slapping at her cunt when he did so, and her mouth drooled at the thought of him releasing inside her soon. It was something she learned to crave since meeting him—to be coated in his seed.

Sometimes he would choose her face to paint over. She eagerly would lap at the string of saltiness coming on her face, before he forbade her from doing so, stating that a piece of art should be kept untouched. Instead, once he was satisfied with the sight, he would feed her his spend from his own fingers until they were licked clean.

Her mouth opened in silent pleasure as he continued, now pinning her further into the ground as his thrusts became erratic, no longer rhythmic, control leaving his body entirely as he sought for release.

Tephraxa’s own body was shaking. The pain that she initially felt was now completely numbed, a pleasure washing over her that made any other sensation pale in comparison to what she felt when the full moon couplings came. Sometimes, she thought about becoming a spawn herself, if only to experience the joys that he did. But she knew he needed her for sustenance, and she was content with it.

Raw, undiluted pleasures of the flesh were no longer something she was satisfied with. Astarion had shown her a world of perversion that she would crave for the rest of her life. Even if her body was marked from his scarring, his bites, his vampirism—she wanted nothing else.

With a loud groan that echoed in the wind, Astarion’s movements suddenly halted. She felt the warmth of his seed, moving deep inside her until it coated every part of her. His cock was throbbing deep inside her, much stronger than she had ever felt before, and it was the sight of him that was her undoing as well.

She released in silence, her voice no longer being capable of making sound as her legs began to shake underneath him. She thought about the mix of her and his come, their spit and blood, and it made her tremble uncontrollably until she too, stopped moving.

Astarion would be her death, figuratively or literally.

And she would have it no other way.

#astarion smut #astarion fanfiction #astarion x tav #astarion x original female character #astarion x ofc #my fics

[somethingblu3]

in this house, we love a possessive astarion who is also pro-consent.

#astarion #astarion x ofc #fic preview #and fun appearance of my grammar checker that does not like Astarion's name at all. #wip #arranged marriage fic #Arimeia

[grisailledreams]

The Bed I Rolled

Who ordered more Astarynne*?

AKA who wants to witness the girls fighting?

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Pairing(s): Astarion x OFC // Astarynne (Astarion and Brynne)

CWs: Blood, injury.

I think this technically counts as hurt/comfort?

Brynne screwed her stinging eyes shut and shook her head to rid herself of the next round of blood droplets threatening to course over her brows. She panted. The stench of battle - death, fire, magic, burned feathers, sweat, decay - it choked her with each breath. Breathing through her mouth wouldn't have helped matters, she swore she could taste it all. She slowly turned and noted which parts ached instead of that odd mix of warm and cold in turn that came with open bleeding. Karlach stood in the open door of Isobel's room, amber eyes wide. Her rage ebbed. Neither of them hung up their weapons.

Wyll's voice trailed out behind Karlach, checking on Isobel - those horrible, winged creatures had tried their best to surround her. The cleric sounded wrathful.

"You okay, pinky?"

Though Dammon had fixed Karlach's touch problem, Brynne still felt the warmth of that large hand before it landed on her shoulder. Lightly. Like Karlach was still afraid she was going to hurt someone. Brynne nodded, sucking the corner of her bottom lip between her teeth. The one-armed hug she received anyway made her stomach clench.

This had been her first fight without him.

She couldn't have known about the attack earlier, when she and Astarion raised their voices at one another only a few feet away from the spot she was standing now. Karlach and Shadowheart filled the cobwebbed, creaky mezzanine with unease and impatience. And Brynne had every right to be angry!

"I thought we were on the same page!" she had shouted, already on-edge from the curse surrounding the inn. "We agreed, we don't make deals with Raphael! You were very clear about that last time!"

"That was before I knew it wasn't bloody poetry carved into my flesh." He gave her that glare he used to flash when they first met, the one of disdain and disgust that came from the upper echelons of a city looking down on someone whose blood wasn't quite so blue or rich. Only this time, she recognized it for the wall it was. It hurt that much more. "I'm not sure who popped off this mortal coil and made you leader, but I certainly didn't give you authority over my choices!"

An empty beer mug had come flying over the railing from the bar below, shattering on the ground between them. Jaheira shouted at them to take it outside before she chose not to miss again.

The balcony hadn't made it better. They just… kept going. Brynne, dressing him down for offering himself up on a silver platter to a devil without knowing what he'd have to pay. Astarion, insisting that her solution of asking either Karlach or one of the myriad tieflings at the inn to translate his scars was the worse option. If the markings were, as he suspected, a note of bondage, then Raphael may help him out of it. What good would it do him to be free of one master if it placed him on the chain of another?

Something snapped. Brynne turned from him. She wanted to leave and she wanted to go now. Without Astarion. Without thinking, she jumped from the balcony to the cobblestones below, aiming for and missing a haybale. Cracking her knee felt like a fair trade-off. The next thing she knew, Karlach had jumped down and jogged after her.

No matter how much comfort Karlach offered, Brynne wouldn't talk about it. No, that wasn't it. She couldn't. Fear gripped her heart so tightly that she could hardly breathe, let alone form the words for it. Raphael's eyes when he looked on anyone from their party reminded her too much of hungry human men meeting elven women for the first time. Hungry. Not for their bodies, in Raphael's case, but for so much more. Karlach validated her feelings, tried to assuage her anger, and nothing worked. Brynne kept walking.

In her heart, she knew she needed to cool off, but she overcorrected. Ice formed a barrier around her when they found the door to the inn's cellar and went exploring. She stayed silent and let Karlach take the lead. Smashing crumbling walls, directing Astarion to pick locks. It wasn't until they found a strange, underground grotto filled with meenlocks that she pulled ahead. Crouching on a high ledge, she pulled the party into battle with a well-aimed bottle of alchemist's fire. She hadn't realized how offended the meenlocks would be by the gesture and soon found herself surrounded by the teleporting crab-things. Thunderwave. Push them. More took their place. They slashed at her with their claws, paralyzed her with their twisted magic. Frozen in place, she heard another set of boots clamber up on the rock formation behind her.

But after the meenlocks lay dead in smoldering heaps on the ground, neither adventurer spoke to one another. They were still hanging on to too much resentment. The other needed to offer an apology first, of course.

"This is my dinner, you filthy little Blidbdoolpoolpspawn! Back off!"

Thank the gods for the paralysis because Brynne would have forgotten to be angry with him and laughed at his flawless pronunciation of the kuo-toa goddess. In spite of his phrasing… she knew. And it helped her buck the hex holding her hostage.

It came to a head when they returned to camp and Brynne asked Astarion to stay behind. She hadn't thought anything of it, only that Wyll wanted to speak to Mol and he and Gale both needed new gear from Dammon, anyway. But Astarion looked gobsmacked. Then, of course, as if he didn't care. He went back to his book and waved her off without a second look.

They would make up later when the party returned to camp, the fire roared, and the wine came out. After all, a little thing like an argument wouldn't keep him from feeding when she'd already offered.

Divine Melira so loved to laugh at her bards.

It felt as if Marcus attacked the moment they were apart.

She didn't know how Wyll liked to fight, or how to coordinate spells with Gale. They all stepped on one another's toes. Or, at least, Gale and Brynne did. Unaccustomed still to his new infernal body, Wyll either missed or hit one of his teammates. Isobel was particularly unhappy with being on the receiving end of a Wounding Ray and Karlach yelled at him when he accidentally caught her with a whip. Meanwhile, the other magic users kept accidentally surrounding themselves in clouds of daggers and fire.

Astarion had fought with her so long at this point that it felt as easy as a lyre chord. They stalked their prey like jungle cats, hidden in the shadows, hand signals and mouthed words in perfect harmony. Like the Zhentarim hideout heist. The githyanki stashes. The druids' treasures. She distracted, he disarmed. Brynne even managed to impress him with her own slight-of-hand once or twice.

Now he wasn't here. Even with Karlach, she felt… exposed.

Somehow, they managed to make it out alive. Between the healing spells Brynne kept hurling around (one of Shadowheart's usual jobs) and Karlach making it her personal business to fell Marcus, the entire inn had but one casualty and one person carried off by a demon. Generally, a success. But it didn't feel right.

The world tipped off-balance and the blood dripping from the brim of Brynne's hat to the tip of her nose brought her back to the present moment. She looked up from her thoughts and saw her party watching. Ever-concerned.

Gods. She'd become one of her own awful love songs. Her heart ached, wounded, vulnerable, for the one she'd left behind.

So when they trudged once more back to camp, injured and filthy and exhausted, Brynne let her feet carry her the familiar path to that overly fancy tent where Astarion stood, still reading. His eyes gazed impassively at her. Bored. Uncaring. False.

"You look like you had fun, darling," he drawled. "Why the long fa-?"

Brynne flung her arms around him so hard that she knocked the book out of his hands and her hat off of her head. He hesitated. Then he hugged her back even harder.

#astarynne #astarion #brynne of harlow #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fic #astarion x oc #astarion x ofc #been thinking of referring to brynne by the epithet 'brynne spidersong' because she's got a fancy spidersilk lyre #*absolutely no one LOL

[eclecticshadowwitch]

Chapters: 8/29 Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con Relationships: Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Astarion/Tav (Baldur's Gate) Characters: Original Female Character(s), Original Characters, Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Wyll (Baldur's Gate), Cazador Szarr Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Before Astarion is a vampire, Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Past Sexual Assault, slowish burn, Teasing, Dominant Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Magistrate Astarion, Master/Slave, Master/Pet, Master/Servant, Dubious Consent, Astarion is an asshole in the beginning, Angst with a Happy Ending, I'm bad at dungeons and dragons lore, Don't Judge Me, pleasure slaves are common and normal, i just wanna fuck the pansexual vampire twink, it's not too much to ask Summary:

The warmth burned from the inside out, her chest heaving from the exertion of moving in time with the body underneath her. Every muscle spasmed and ached, exhaustion clawing at her chest and threatening to climb up to her brain soon enough. She didn’t know how much more of this her body could take. Cool hands ran down the length of her skin, wandering in places only she dared touch recently. The coolness of the touch barely abated the fire in her skin, and she desperately wished that it would, if only to give her some aspect of respite. Sharp teeth carved little lines against her throat and cheeks, sanguine tears leaking from every little wound in her skin, reaching down to their creator. Soft, supple lips caressed her skin, asking and aching to pull more pleasure from her skin and soul. Oh, her soul; it craved to give in. It ached to release to the body underneath her. It was a wonder it hadn’t already. It was a miracle she could even remember her own name.

#chapter 8 is out #new chapter #fanfic #bg3 fanfic #astarion fanfic #astarion #astarion x ofc #astarion bg3 #bg3 #baldurs gate #baldurs gate 3 #dark!astarion #bg3 character #alternate universe #bg3 alternate universe #before astarion turns into a vampire

[redpensandgreenarrows]

Oh hey look, I wrote a thing. But for a whole new fandom, because muses are weird. Also, I added a new fictional crush to my list and fell for a vamp:

Sharing here to hopefully get some more traction. :-)

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x ofc #astarion fanfic

[lunian]

still thinking this moment in the morning after Astarion tried to bite Gale for the first time was so damn funny

#they are dating now ofc #bloodweave #mystuff #baldur's gate #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #astarion ancunin #gale x astarion #gale origin

[hammerikaika]

This screen makes me a bit insane

#bg3 #ofc i gave gale the manbun hair of COURSE I DID #bloodweave #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #gale of waterdeep #astarion ancunin #gale dekarios #game photography #astarion x gale

[bg-brainrot]

Would You Still Love Me? (Astarion x Tav)

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Summary: When you ask the question, 'would you still love me if I were a worm?' Astarion's response surprises you in more ways than one.

Tags: POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, silly goofy mood, act 3 unascended Astarion

Word count: ~1.7k

--

You’re chatting with Astarion over dinner at the Elfsong when a question strikes you. It’s an odd one, and you’re not sure if you should ask it. Your curiosity builds as you consider Astarion’s possible answers though and, by the next lull in conversation, you can’t help yourself.

“Astarion?” you ask, spearing a potato on your plate.

The vampire swirls his wine glass, watching the red liquid fall into place before answering, “Yes, dear?” 

“Would you still love me if I were a worm?” The question spills out of you, sounding even sillier than it did in your head.

Your lover blinks at you, as if he couldn’t possibly have heard that properly. But when your expression doesn’t change, your eye contact doesn’t drop, no admission of jest is to be seen, he finally says, “Darling, what kind of ludicrous question is that?”

“Well, would you?” you counter, pointing at him with your fork before popping the potato in your mouth.

His face grows pensive as he thinks. It’s a few seconds later before he asks a follow up question, “What type of worm?”

You finish chewing as you think of the worms you know. Not many admittedly– life in the city meant that free patches of earth are few and far between. So you answer the only worm that truly comes to mind, “The earthworm kind.”

“And I would know that it’s you?” he asks, leaning forward now. It seems like he’s invested in the question now, despite his initial reaction.

You nod, as if that’s a given. “Yes, you saw me transform.”

“Hells, I was hoping I could pretend not to know,” he says with a smirk. 

“Wicked man,” you retort, shooting him a responding smile.

Astarion’s face looks thoughtful again as he considers the developing situation. “Could I turn you back?”

Now you shake your head vehemently. What use was the exercise if magic would fix you? “No, nothing could turn me back. I’m simply a worm from now on.”

“Hmm, and are you certain that you would love me?” He raises an eyebrow at you in challenge, as if he’s cornered you in your own mischievous little game.

“Of course,” you answer immediately. “I don’t think my little worm brain would be able to think of much else.”

“How sweet… I think,” he says, cocking his head. You suppose it is, though you had meant it as fact. “Well then, one final question, if you would?”

You nod, gesturing for him to continue with your fork. “Go ahead, I’m an open book. Or worm, in this case.”

“How long do worms live?”

You blink, having not expected such a question from him– and truthfully also due to not knowing the answer. “I don’t know. Maybe Halsin would?”

Astarion locates the druid, sitting a few tables away talking to Wyll and Karlach. He raises his voice to be overheard in the din of the tavern. “Halsin, be a dear, how long do earthworms live?”

“A fantastic question, Astarion!” The druid’s voice carries easily with excitement. “It truly depends on the conditions of the worm, but anywhere from a few years up to eight years.”

You balk at that fact. A worm can live how long?

“I’m happy to tell you all about ideal soil conditions–”

Astarion cuts the man off with a loud, “Thank you!” Then he turns back to you. “Well, there you have it.”

“Have what?” you ask in response, confused at the turn in conversation.

“You would live at most eight years. I’m immortal, my love. I think I can manage less than a decade of loving a worm,” he says, rolling his eyes at you.

You’re not sure how to take the casual way that he speaks of your impending wormy death, but you find it oddly comforting to know that he would in fact still love you. You honestly hadn't expected that. “So you’d keep me around? Made sure I stayed healthy and safe?”

He nods, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Naturally.”

You can’t help but laugh at the idea of him keeping you as a pet worm. It seems almost unbelievable. “You wouldn’t throw me into the nearest patch of dirt? Or worse yet, let a bird take me?”

“Gods below, dear,” Astarion responds, aghast, putting a hand over his heart as if he’s been truly, deeply offended. “I would never.” Then he gets a far off look in his eyes and adds, “Well, maybe never. I suppose it depends on if I needed you as bait. But I’m certain I would be able to rescue you after the fact.”

“I would allow it,” you say, with a short nod. “If you’re using me as bait, it’s likely for good reason.”

"And after you pass? I would miss you terribly of course," he says solemnly, with his most maudlin, tragic expression.

"You'd better. And I expect the best soil for my burial," you say, pointing your fork at him threateningly.

“Of course, darling,” he says, only the hint of his smile visible from behind his wine glass. He takes a sip and looks at you again. “Now, why would you ask such a thing?”

You shrug, entirely convinced it was just a passing thought. But, as you poke and prod at your food, you find yourself answering, “I don’t know. What if, before this all ends, something happens to me. I already come with my own scars and problems, gods know how much worse it can get.”

Astarion stares at you over his wine glass, processing what you've just said before responding, "My love, believe it or not, I'm a vampire. I have 'scars and problems' of my own. If you think that anything could happen to you that I wouldn't be able to handle, you'd be sorely mistaken."

You hadn't expected him to say such words so sincerely, and you find yourself a bit taken aback. You love each other, you'd said as much on the night Astarion had been freed from Cazador, but it still feels a bit intimidating to know how deep that love could run. Apparently earthworm deep.

The idea that this man, who would rather bathe in blood than touch an inch of dirt, would continue to love you? Well, despite the inane premise, you find the warmth in your heart to feel very real.

"What about you, darling?" he asks, pulling you out of your thoughts. "If I were to become a worm, what would you do?"

You answer quickly, "Easy. I would still love you, probably keep you on my person, and offer you blood or other sustenance when you need it."

Astarion looks at you aghast. "Sweet hells, do not put me in your pocket."

"And why not? I would be extremely careful, and then I would never lose you," you respond, explaining yourself logically. "Besides, even as a worm, who knows what kind of trouble you'd get yourself into."

"I should be saying that to you," he says, placing his wine glass on the table, serious now. "I can't believe you would put me in danger like that. I fully expect you to place me somewhere nice, like the lawn of some pampered Upper City noble."

You think about his proposition for a second before shaking your head. "But then I couldn't take care of you. What if you get stepped on?"

Astarion considers your counterargument with narrowed eyes. “Ugh, fine. I shall stay in your pocket. But I expect you to clean it regularly. And I demand that you get a new lining for it. Silk, preferably.”

“Easy enough to do,” you say, nodding along. “You would be most comfortable worm this side of the Chionthar.”

At that, the man looks pleased, picks his wine glass back up, and reclines back in his seat. “Good. And, for what it’s worth, I'm sure you would make a very cute worm.”

You’re not sure if that’s meant to be a compliment or an insult, but you suspect it’s the former. “Thank you,” you say, smiling at your lover. “You would make a dashing worm yourself.”

“Are you both expecting to turn into worms any time soon?” you hear from behind you. You turn around to see Halsin standing tall over you. His tone is friendly, warm as he continues, “I would be happy to take care of either of you.”

You can’t help the blush of embarrassment that comes over your face. You’re also not sure how to take the words. Is he asking to adopt you both, as worms? Gods, how did you end up here… So you look back to Astarion who is now shooting you a look that says, Now look what you’ve done.

“Err, no Halsin. It was just an odd little conversation we were having. Sorry to cause you any confusion.”

“No need to apologize, my friend,” he replies. “Though if you ever do need help, you know where to find me.” He gives you both an affectionate smile before heading off. 

While it’s nice to know that others would care enough to take care of you as a worm, you’d meant the question to be solely for Astarion. You’re left burying your face in your hands to hide your shame.

“So, darling… what did we learn?”

“To never ask Halsin about earthworms,” you mumble through your fingers.

Astarion gives you a ‘tsk’ before responding. “No, my dear. If either of us turns into a worm, we must hide that fact from Halsin." He scrunches his nose in distaste before continuing, "I refuse to live in whatever healthy soil he’s found for us.”

You snort at Astarion’s conclusion, but still find yourself agreeing. “Fair enough. Better yet, let’s try to keep ourselves at the very least bipedal.” The two of you share a laugh, but in the back of your mind you’re already thinking of your next question. I wonder if he would still love me if I were a mimic? I suppose there’s only one way to find out.

#astarion x tav #astarion #fanfic #rogue + rogue #astarion x reader #astarion fluff #would you still love me if i was a worm? #there's no right answer ofc

[cleric4vampire]

Finally revisited my Durge playthrough again, which means confession time! And wow, despite the fact that I've watched this scene a thousand times, it still hits so hard.

I know people have spoken about this scene at length, but look, I have freecam now and being able to study Astarion's expression beyond the standard angle has made his feelings and behavior here feel particularly more poignant for me.

Especially here, because the camera is typically focused on the hands at this part, and you can only see his profile right at the end. Even then, a lot of the significance is lost in the moment; it all plays out in seconds, after all.

He wordlessly asks for your hand, initiating an emotionally tender act. Not only is that something he hasn't had the luxury of doing in a very long time, but also something that he hasn't been the recipient of in just as many years. He's expressed that physical closeness can bring up feelings of disgust and loathing, and yet - he wants this, and he's showing you just how much.

But look at his expression here. It's vulnerable, crestfallen. To me, it looks as though he doesn't believe for a moment that you will take it. His sense of self-worth is meager. When you tell him you care about him, he asks for reassurance. He doesn't believe that he has value beyond what his body can provide — sexual pleasure — and this is decidely not that. This kind of touch serves no purpose but connection. And how much of that can he even offer, confused and broken as he is?

But then you take his hand.

His eyes are bright with recognition. Shining with emotion. He doesn't understand yet, not truly, why you are the way you are. But you have a tendency of casting aside the doubt that always threatens to engulf him. He doesn't know what's in store for the two of you, but there's something sprouting in his chest that feels an awful lot like hope.

Ending this with a bit of writing that by Seán O'Casey that I feel is especially fitting for this relationship (going both ways!):

When it was dark, you always carried the sun in your hand for me.

#astarion meta #astarion #using durge tags because that's the character and relationship depicted here though ofc it's fitting for tav as well #durgestarion #astarion x durge #durge #bg3 #astarion x durge!aune #oc: durge!aune #I have SO much more I want to say about this relationship. specifically between astarion and aune as people who are #both touch-averse and sex-repulsed to *varying* degrees. I've made 'touch' - especially that of the hands - into a huge symbol of their #relationship to each other and with themselves #aaAARRGghhhh thoughts thoughts thoughts

[cassieuncaged]

Comforting Touch (Astarion x Reader)

NSFW/MATURE/18+/MDNI

Summary: You bring a new definition to a ‘good morning’ for a certain vampire spawn.

TW: explicit sexual content, oral sex (male receiving), hand jobs, language, etc.

WC: 1.7 K

A/N: Haven’t done a smutty reader insert in awhile so here ya go!

The windows are safely shuttered come morning, only the tiniest tendrils of sun sneaking through the cracks. Your shared chambers may be humble though they are rather cozy, stuffed to the brim with furs and a meager stone mantle. Astarion had pouted when you’d balked at a mansion nestled in Manor Born, telling the Grand Duke a cottage on the outskirts of the city would be preferred. Raised from elven nobility, he’d thought an opportunity had been squandered for a mere pittance. Though the vampire didn’t complain now, curled into your side as he tranced.

Organic warmth soothed him these days especially, no longer having the luxury of the sun beating down upon icy skin. Though he’d settled for the heat that his lover radiated, the moon coming to love the sun for all she offered. It was poetic, despite the pangs of frustration at losing something else. What had his last two centuries been but filled with loss?

Dashing the intrusive thought from a groggy mind, bleary eyes fell upon the prim man. One arm was slung across your torso, rising and falling with your every breath. Limp curls had bled out the rest of their pomade, laying messily atop his head and across a pallid brow. You giggled, knowing how he preferred to keep them so neat and tidy, practically styling every damned curl with his fingers. It was as frustrating as it was adorable. Now he didn’t care, nestled between your bosoms. Cold air escaped his mouth, fangs twitching as he remained blissfully unaware of the world around him.

Fingers gently muss silken curls, enjoying the locks of spun silver tickling the tips of your fingers. They were so lovely and soft, malleable as they wound around sure digits again and again. It kept you busy, refusing to move until your lover stirred. A long time had passed where Astarion had known no such comforts and hells you wanted to hoist them all upon him now. Of course there were adventures to be had, research to be done, companions to write to. But that could wait a bit longer. At least until those liquid ruby eyes fluttered open, as delicate as the wings of a butterfly.

Pads of cool fingers pressed into the fleshy curve of your thigh, flexing softly before even colder lips were pressing gently across your chest. He lingered for a moment, enjoying that steady heartbeat that ruminated beneath his touch.  A delighted chuckle vibrated against a warm plane of skin, resulting in goose flesh that spread from your scalp down to the tips of ten toes.

“Morning, darling.” He murmured between kisses peppered up to one clavicle then the hollow of your throat, “Have you been awake long?”

“Not especially,” you sighed, enjoying his ministrations as soft touches migrated from thigh to navel, drifting down to trace the curve of one hip bone, “Just enjoying you.”

“Seems to defeat the purpose when I’m lost in a trance,” he cooed before rolling onto his side. Your mouth was agape, scraping across the sight of him, skin lustrous beneath the low light, groin delicately draped with the coverlet. “There’s more fun to be had when I’m awake, my dear.”

Propping yourself on one elbow, you studied him silently as a barrage of thoughts crept through your mind. One word and you’d be a fly trapped in the spider’s web, the hare bloody and twitching in the wolf’s maw. And as much as you enjoyed submitting to him, something more appealing came to mind.

“What is it, love?” his head cocked to one side, curls lolling as he did. Gods he was lovely, and you wanted nothing more than to remind him of that. “You’ve a mischievous glint in your eyes; what’re you thinking?”

“Oh, nothing…” You inched closer until your nose practically nestled beneath his chin, lips pressing against knot bobbing in his throat. One hand pressed against the flat of a lean chest, fingers drifting down the ridges of hard muscles, “It’s just that you always take care of me. Let me take care of you.”

“That’s, erm, a very nice thought.” His voice trembles as his fingers wrap around a slender wrist, stopping the descent to the apex of muscular thighs. “But this is all still very new to me.”

“We can just lay like this,” you whisper against icy skin, nuzzling into the column of his neck, “I won’t force you into anything.”

“I didn’t say stop,” burgundy eyes roll, unseen as warm lips continue soft ministrations. Carefully, he drags your fingers to the hem of the coverlet, urging you to uncover his cock. The silken bedclothes began to tent as he slowly hardened. “I often imagine your hands on me.”

You hesitate, chewing the inside of your cheek. As much as you want to caress him, there’s a small request that hangs at the back of your throat. Eyes shutter at the thought of teeth slotting into those fading scars, feeding until warmth envelopes the icy marble of his body. How you swear it ignites a pulse within in his chest, how the veins in his cock become tight ridges along his shaft, skin dusky and warm…

“Whatever you’re thinking has you smelling absolutely delectable.” He inhales your arousal as it tickles his nostrils, filling his heightened senses. “Do tell, lover.”

“I’d like you to bite me. First.” You pull back, so your gaze can fall upon those shimmering rubies. An ashen brow arches upward at this revelation, corners of lush lips quirking upwards. “I want to feel your warmth beneath the tips of my fingers, against my tongue…

“How absolutely debauched of you,” he reaches out to stroke your hair, genuinely adoring such a suggestion despite the aching inside him. The spawn wishes he could provide such a natural warmth but appreciates your loving offer. “Let me sup from you.”

Then he curls into the curve of your neck, suckling and lapping at scars that have never healed completely, preparing you for the icy sting. You hiss at the initial insertion, the ice that shoots through your veins slowly dissipating into a thrum that invigorates as life blood is supped upon. And you feel it, the heat begins to pool beneath his skin, inviting as you finally pulled the sheet from his hips.

Astarion laps at the droplets oozing from your wound as lithe fingers drift down his length. He peels his lips away, mouth bloody as he looks upon you. Eyes drift down to see your own gaze glued to his now straining and rosy cock. Feeding upon you always stiffened him completely, leading to a pleasurable grind against your thigh while he shrouded you like a shadow.

But now, shallow breathing was parsed through gritted teeth as you finger gently traced a dusky vein from base to tip, enjoying how the blunt head was flushed and bulging. He twitched beneath such a gentle touch, enjoying how you used a fat bead of pre spend to lubricate the length of his slit. The muscles in his neck tightened at that familiar tug behind his navel, the one that demanded more. So your fingers splayed around him, enjoying how he felt like velvet wrapped around steel as you gave a firm squeeze. Slender hips thrust involuntarily, needing more friction as you suddenly removed that warm hand.

“What are you doing?” his voice came out in a strangled whimper, eyes widening as you lapped at his salty seed coating your thumb. It was still a mystery to the vampire how his body delighted you so, though he wasn’t about to complain. Awkwardly, you craned your neck upward to dribble a healthy amount of drool upon an upturned palm before slinking back to where he most needed such attention.

“Relax, my love.” You pressed a kiss to his chin before focusing on that task literally at hand. “Let me take care of you.”

And he did, savoring the rhythmic pump as your knuckle slid down his length, careful to stroke from head to base. His hips began to meet your jerks, imagining the tight heat of your cunt wrapped around him so pleasantly. Actually focusing on his own sexual pleasure was still so foreign, chasing his own release without worrying about another’s climax. Gods, it was delicious. Almost as much as the blood still staining his lips.

“On your back,” you demanded softly, removing a soaked palm to topple him onto the broad back, “I want to taste you.”

“If you do that, I’m afraid I won’t last.” His breathing was coming out in ragged pants as you slid between his spread thighs. Astarion watched with rapt attention, enjoying how your breasts swayed as you moved to lay flat on your belly.

“That’s alright,” you assured, tongue darting out to lap at the seam beneath the head. And he moaned, such glorious music cutting straight to your core. What a symphony every groan and whimper was, even as you continued to tease with short licks and kisses. “I want you to come undone in my mouth.”

“Get on with it, please.” His hips thrust upwards, tip pressing past the barrier of your lips before you complied with his wishes. Hollowing your cheeks, you sank upon all that could be fit into your mouth as a warm fist enveloped the rest. His heady musk invaded your senses, cock twitching on your tongue, practically begging you to move. “Hells below.”

Astarion’s deep bellow had been enough to spur you into a fervor, bobbing hungrily as his back arched off the mattress. Lithe fingers knotted in your hair, holding you still as he began to frantically fuck your throat. He could count on one hand how many times he’d enjoy such a pleasure over the past two centuries while he craved to lose track of how many times he absolutely lost himself in you. Pumping, striving, chasing that release while he imagined you bouncing atop him. Your blood warmed him but he felt like he was on fire.

“So good,” he muttered between ragged breathing as you struggled to breathe out of your nose. “So, so good.”

Then the dam broke as he came down your throat, twitching and spasming until he was still against your tongue. Swallowing all of the seed that was earned, you broke away and began to clean his softening length before snaking up to curl upon that delightfully broad chest.

“How do you feel?” your voice was a welcome whisper that buzzed in his ears, messy curls digging back into a down pillow as long arms cinched at the small of your back.

“Like I know what it is to feel true pleasure,” he groaned sleepily, nuzzling into your own nest of messy hair. “True love.”

“You’re drunk on ecstasy,” you giggled, eyes watching as his expression softened, any masks long melted away. “It’ll pass.”

“The feeling won’t,” he argued softly, “No, you’ve gifted me so much that I never thought I’d have. Taking care of me so sweetly. I’m eternally indebted to you, darling.”

“There’s no debtors in love,” you reminded him warmly before resting an ear above his dormant heart. “There’s only equals.”

“If this is your way of reminding me, I may need your help remembering more often.”

#astarion smut #astarion #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x ofc #astarion x you #smut #oneshot #reader insert

[vspin]

I need to write this scene...maybe it takes place after killing Cazador...both of them realizing Astarion's moments in the sun are numbered. But both enjoying this moment, that was never supposed to be possible.

#Tav ofc will also go back to the sun sensitivity but not to astarion's extent #bg3 mine #astarion #my oc: Tav'Lyn #astarion x tav

[tugoslovenka]

Warding Bond - Chapter 5

Non liquet

A/N:

Also posting on AO3!

The Hells were an organized place thanks to the Lords that ruled them. If one was to ignore the wailing souls crying out in unison like a twisted orchestra carried by the winds, the landscape was quite serene. Save for the few eruptions that flashed through the rivers of lava, the vastness of Avernus cast an eerily soothing ambience for the most part. A stillness in which Varra could bury the chaos of her mind. 

Looking out from the balcony, she heard the occasional flutter of wings from the imps that broughtRaphael news from the battlefields, the estates, his father.  

The little lamb he entrapped seemed to draw the attention of many in the Hells. The devil wouldn’t disclose any details, of course, but his incubus—succubus, when bored enough, would offer some insight purely to provoke a reaction from Varra. 

It didn’t work. 

Servants of the devil had no will of their own. The fragments that once formed a coherent enough personality disappeared with the contract Raphael made them sign. Nothing the seductive fiend could have said would truly shock, disappoint or excite Varra—whoever that once was. 

“A little demon told me daddy isn’t too happy with his snobby spawn!” Haarlep sang, rousing Varra’s attention from the daze she typically found herself in during most days. 

“Hm?” she murmured, not really asking, not really responding. 

Raphael’s voice still seeped through the feminine voice of the succubus, but the human recognized its playful tone. 

“Oh come now, little lamb.” Haarlep approached, putting both hands on her shoulders, caressing downward until they stopped at her hips. “Are you not positively dying at the gossiping opportunities?” 

“Hm…” she muttered again, not really responding, not really asking. 

Claws dug into the soft flesh of her sides as the succubus clenched her jaw in irritation. Raphael’s word was her oath, and she followed it not knowing her life depended on it. Whatever vassals adjured her in his absence did not stir the same response, no matter how convincingly they tried. 

It couldn’t work. 

“You weren’t this docile for the first few decades. I wonder which punishment broke you. Was it the years-long mirage of your past adventures?” The nails retracted, now scraping their way up her arm until the claw rested on her cheek. “It was rather amusing watching you with the dopey grin of a child who received their first puppy—before its bones got turned to dust right as they came to like it.” 

“Hm.” 

Varra felt a poke at her thigh. A slender tail pried her legs open as Haarlep grabbed at her throat. 

“Maybe the punishment room he threw you in for five years did it. I could hear your delicious screams from another realm, little lamb.” 

Varra moaned—just like she was taught to—when she felt the tip of the fiend’s tail wriggle into her smallclothes and lightly tap at her nub. It provoked a rough prod from the succubus, who seemed disappointed in her rehearsed response. 

Varra didn’t yell, or scream, or tear herself away. 

She didn’t know how to. 

“Was it that spawn who softened your head? What was it again—Astarion?” 

“Astarion?” she repeated, suddenly more aware of her surroundings. 

“Astarion...” Haarlep mocked, her bottom jaw extending, upper body growing as her exposed breasts disappeared into a firm chest. The hair shortened, as did her—now his—legs. Before Varra stood incubus Haarlep, often the preferred version of the two for the master of the House of Hope. His tail retracted from the wettening folds between her legs, instead wrapping itself around her waist. 

“Raphael?” 

A guttural voice. Unnaturally low. Vara watched the mischief in Haarlep’s eyes turn to horror, as he gaped at the shadow looming over her. The figure was large, their frame towering above both the little lamb and her wanting incubus. She could make out a pair of gargantuan horns, which sent shivers up her spine. Slowly, she mustered enough courage to turn, first seeing the long train of a black sarong, which hugged the muscular body of a man—a devil—whose upper half was bare save for two spiked shoulder guards, coated in flames. The belt on his midriff bore a symbol: a three-pronged trident that pierced a golden ring. His wings spanned the entire length of the balcony, engulfing Varra’s body in their overwhelming heat. 

“M-my lord.” Haarlep dropped to all fours, head bowed against the marbled floor. 

The devil inspected him with bemusement. He did not seem to notice the awestruck human, who stood transfixed at the power that radiated in front of her. Instead, he gestured towards the groveling fiend, which immediately prompted him to raise—snap—his head, as though commanded.  

“What is this?” The reverberation from his voice could crack stones.   

“My lord. I can explain—I… I am—He calls me Haarlep. I serve—I am his—” 

A huck of disgust quieted the blabbering lips of Raphael’s squirming, near-identical copy. 

“Haarlep…” The man repeated, curling his lip in revulsion. “Where might Raphael be?” 

“I’m not certain, your lordship. He doesn’t—” A gasp. “He doesn’t—doesn’t say where he leaves.” Haarlep began choking as if he was being throttled. Indents formed on the red skin, alongside a sizzling that seemed to maim him. 

Nothing could burn the denizens of the Hells. Yet somehow, this did. 

“Pathetic.” 

The choking sounds grew progressively louder. 

Finally, the stygian eyes of the devil who apparated in the House of Hope fell upon the little lamb stunned at the brutality of the scene. She swore she saw flames for irises, though she knew better than to comment. 

She couldn’t comment. 

“Are you the plaything my son has been using as fuel for my headaches?” 

Son. 

What little knowledge she held inside the hollowness she once called a head seemed to tear at the very walls of her skull. This was no ordinary dissatisfied associate that followed Raphael to his residence in hopes of receiving whatever they’d  been promised. This was none other than Mephistopheles, Lord of the Eighth, Archduke of Cania, Baron of Hellfire. 

Most importantly, father to Raphael. 

Varra opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She was paralyzed, unable to move as though the ground had swallowed her. And yet, there were no restraints, no chains, no invisible shackles that bound her to silence. 

For the first time in a long time, she was simply at a loss for words. 

“Are you mute, girl?” he pressed, curling his hand, eliciting another choked sob from Haarlep, whose eyes were now rolling into his lids. 

“No. Yes. No, I—My name is Varra, my lord.” She bowed neatly, making sure to dip her head lower than usual, knowing the eminence of the archdevil who pored over her. 

“Varra." He almost spat at her. Her skin felt uncomfortably warm. It seemed his ire inflamed the literal hells surrounding her. 

“M—My lo—Master—Please."

Haarlep’s eyes were by now bulging out of their sockets. He mumbled incoherently, continuing his pleas until he could no longer form words. Mephistopheles groaned at the sight, shaking his head like a disapproving parent before releasing the incubus from his stranglehold. With a single flick of his finger, he dragged him, coughing blood, across the pristine marble floor, transporting—sentencing him elsewhere. 

“Grim degenerate,” he remarked, contracting his hand to relax the muscle. His nostrils flared and he raised his head, unwillingly taking in the ashes from the air. 

With a look behind him, he mumbled something unintelligible, and then turned to face the woman whose hands were clasped neatly at her front, back straightened and head held high. 

“Strange. I smell no fear.” 

Archdevils were the most powerful entities in Baator. The hierarchy of leadership necessitated sinister wickedness and institutional cruelty, which is why those whose brutality outranked the most vile crimes on the Material and Astral Planes ten times over sat atop the pecking order. The most powerful of these archdevils were the Lords of the Nine, each reigning over their own circle of Hell. 

Lord Mephistopheles ruled the Eighth—the realm of the living cold, the final stop before the deepest layer, which housed the Overlord of them all, Asmodeus.  

The fear that should have frozen Varra’s bones was absent, not for lack of impression, but rather care. Life no longer held any meaning for her, nor was she moved by the grandness of important people or the wonders of bewitching places.

And while this was both bewitching and grand in its own, twisted way, it was not enough to hold her corded for more than a few minutes. 

“I’m sorry, my lord,” she said, practiced as ever. 

A puff of smoke belched from his chuckle. 

“Come here, girl.” 

Without encouragement, Varra stepped closer to the archduke, feeling another surge of heat break against her skin. A large hand descended upon her, claws digging into her hair with no concern for comfort. There was a slight pinch somewhere at the back of her neck, similar to the pop of a pustule after a particularly rough scratching. 

Mephistopheles only laughed humorlessly in her direction. 

“Varra D’allrnir of Cloakwood. Would you like to leave this place?” 

Althea felt a sudden urge to spew her guts over the concrete floor. Death, as she had learned, no longer fazed her, not for many years, so the nausea creeping up her throat was unexpected.

Cazador Szarr. Dead, yet not fully deteriorated. Vampires were the antithesis to life, and so their bodies showed subtle signs of the curse—red eyes, paling skin, icy to the touch—and still, their appearance juxtaposed the shortcomings found in mortal beings. There was no aging backward, so the fine lines and moles that developed over the years remained, but imperfections such as pores, dry patches and scars disappeared entirely. That is, until a prayer of Lathander, Selûne, or whatever other radiant God defiled them into rotting fully.

Death became undeath until it died. Whatever Astarion had done appeared to disturb the unnatural order of things. 

Killing an undead required more than lighting incense or salting the earth. Killing an undead of the highest caliber took even greater effort, and Cazador Szarr was not a man who fell easily. A lifetime of two centuries allowed him the time and grace to not only concoct the rites that would have made him vampire ascendant, but to turn his mansion into an impenetrable fortress.

The zombified version of his master was not what this ritual should have resulted in. Given the uncertainty of changing the ceremony’s only subject—at best—it would have taken Astarion’s life. 

Mephistopheles was not clear when he tasked her to right the wrong of Raphael’s unwanted amendment. The contract he had broached with Cazador was simple: seven thousand souls and seven distinct spawn. The terms defined Lord Szarr who, sua sponte, would conduct the Rite of Profane Ascension, thereby consuming the souls of seven thousand and seven persons per curiam of the Lord of the Eighth. Those marked by the runes would under no circumstance of force majeure be exempt from their participation in the ritual.

Raphael however, was neither nature nor deity. Protecting Varra was a simple act of abjuration magic, a loophole in the wording of the conditions given to the vampire lord. Yet, he knowingly warped the terms through sheer spite.

She only learned the truth years after her departure from the House of Hope. What Raphael sought to gain from changing the contract was access to the pool of souls promised to his father. Egotistical displays were common in the Nine Hells, especially among children of archdevils, who were always looking to gain the upper hand, like a circus of performers fighting for the position of head clown.

The only rule that was assumed would never be broken was going against their own—or any other devil spawn’s—parent.

The son of Mephistopheles had committed a cardinal sin by robbing his own father.

It would seldom go unpunished given the rules of Baator.

“Dreadful, isn’t it?” Astarion asked, gently caressing the decaying cheeks of his—their former master.

She knew his name, but there was still a role to be played in this conversation.

“Who is that?” The surprise on her face was hopefully genuine enough to avoid any questions.

A sigh. Annoyed for the most part, but with a hint of capitulation.

“Darling, we both know this facade ended the moment you scratched my perfectly smooth, pink ivory with your filthy hook.” He rolled his eyes, dropping Cazador’s head.

Fuck.

Althea could no longer move her body, not for a lack of instinct, rather something was holding her limbs in place. The only muscles she could move were her eyes, which darted panickedly, between her paralyzed body and the vampire lord who stalked towards her.

“Do you really think I don’t know what goes on in my home, Althea?”

She would have retorted if given the chance, but her mouth was clamped shut. Instead, the curses she so desperately wished to utter were reduced to screams inside her head, and she hoped he could hear them. Her body had long gone into fight mode, at least in her mind, where she was sifting through her list of spells for one that could restore her freedom of movement.

“I’ve spent years turning this prison into a home. There is not one inch inside this manor that my senses do not reach. So let us try another way.” He cleared his throat, looking away for a moment before turning back to her with a pair of glowing rubies. “Who sent you?”

Tendrils coiled around her memories, attempting to extract them before she could close her mind. Unlike when devils probed at her, this was not a delicate effort. Pain seared through every nerve in her body, stretching at the fibers until she felt them split.

Her mouth opened, though no words escaped. He was searching through her psyche—and for a brief moment, he penetrated. She was greeted by the familiarity of Avernus and the comforting image of the distant mountains. A gasp of pleasure cut through another memory—darkness overwhelming her as she sunk deeper into the soft cushions on Raphael’s bed. A prickle against her thigh then whisked her off to a desolate wasteland, goosebumps covering her body as she recognized an expansive forest, stretching for what seemed to be miles. Familiar words echoed in her head; Althea of Can—

And then she felt it—a coolness caressed her bruised mind, rousing her to where she stood. The Cold Lord’s amulet had frozen over underneath her dress. The searing pain turned into a comforting salve, which took material form, flowing into Astarion’s hands, turning his fingers into icicles.

Astarion burned from the frostbite, though he could no longer will himself to move. She heard his screams for the second time this afternoon, yet these felt grating—animalistic even. Mephistopheles’s voice resounded in her head, “unworthy .”

The laws of the Hells were easy to follow. Those who meddled with them risked eternal damnation. This rang especially true for the serpents who slithered into powerful treaties that were not meant for them. It meant the tails that threatened suffocation would invertedly be coiled around their own necks.

The respite didn’t last long. Despite her strength returning, it quickly became clear that the master of the house had planned for an unexpected turn of events. A sudden barrage of noise distracted Althea’s reclaimed concentration, prompting the connection to the Baron shut. Screeches, screams, yowls—all manner of cries forced Astarion and Althea apart, each hitting the opposite corners of the room.

“Enough of this!” Astarion roared, rising until he was levitating in the air, his body shrouded with a glowing red mist. Thrusting his hand forward, he pulled Althea to her feet, and in the same motion slammed her against the wall. Once more, she was being held, though it felt much feebler this time. Her arms could still move, something the vampire was not expecting, judging by his reaction.

It’s not until his hands began shaking that she noticed panic on his face. The redness in his irises was diminishing, blinking in and out like a lantern losing oil. Deep chants in a language she did not recognize sputtered from his mouth as he tried to regain composure, to no avail.

Althea dropped to the floor, balancing on her hands while watching the vampire ascendant convulse, his body contracting until he, too, fell. 

She wanted to inquire, to ask the many questions that circled in her head about what she’d witnessed. Vampires—vampiric lords at least—had abilities that made them uniquely powerful. Superhuman strength, unnatural immunity to disease, the ability to blend into society without the compulsion of bloodlust. It also gave them the time to learn magic and procure artifacts not available to most. The Rite of Profane Ascension should have given its subject more, making Astarion nearly indestructible, capable of rivaling lesser deities. 

Something was wrong.

Her attention was brought back to the scattered, pained groans of the man holding onto his side, obvious discomfort written over his face. He was weakened. Too weakened. Not waiting for another opportunity, she fixed her stance, hands reaching for the dagger at her waist. Lord Ancunín, the Decadent, hero of Baldur’s Gate, had fallen against all odds. Against barely any odds.

“Come now, Althea,” he said in a low tone, gazing at the blade with bloodying eyes. “End this.”

He was wrong.

#astarion x tav #astarion x original female character #astarion x ofc #baldur's gate 3 #astarion fanfiction #my fics #wb

[cringecannon]

hi ok im assigning myself as ur dove anon so that way i can just ramble at u constantly but anyways first of all may i just say your writing is phenomenal…?!?!?! 🖤 and i offer this wonderful little thought for us to ponder together spurred on by some of astarion’s labyrinth inspired quotes: being astarion’s most precious, well kept possession; he cherishes you in the way that one covets a prized pet from show lines. you are so well taken care of & well maintained, draped in flimsy finery. delicate lace and silk, short & sheer so that no piece of you is ever kept hidden from him. but that’s just it: you’re his pet. you don’t know how to care for yourself, of course. he speaks to you like one might a puppy, or even, maybe, a child. he treats you as if you don’t know any better, that you simply can’t protect yourself, can’t be trusted to make decisions without his guidance. treats your fits of rage as little more than a hissy fit, like you just need a nap, something to eat, or time out. so long as you’re good, however? oh. he’ll bend heaven for you, and if that doesn’t work, he’ll absolutely raise hell. so long as your whims align with his own, or at least settle within that grey area where giving you what you’re asking for is of little consequence to his goals, of course. — 🕊

You’re a bird in a cage to him. A beloved pet, sure, with a beautiful gold cage and all the expensive things you could ever want inside… but still a pet.

He shows you off like one, too. Whether dancing at an extravagant ball or sitting on the floor with your head against his leg as he doles out orders to his spawn, you’re dressed in the finest money can buy, jewels and gold draped everywhere.

He tells you he loves you. Isn't it enough that he believes it? Does it really matter that real love isn't suffocating, degrading?

You make the mistake of asking what love feels like to him. He pauses, confused. You've caught him off guard. He stalls for a moment, clearly looking for your angle. When he finds none, he pulls you against him, slender hands cradling the cold skin of your jaw as he coos his answer. Love is... everything. Warmth, enveloping. It's the morning sun against your skin. His thumb brushes your cheek and he smiles down at you before pulling you into an embrace.

Wrapped in his arms you find a divine cruelness in the notion that love to him is the sun, seeing as he has doomed you to never see it again.

#also omg the lil anon sign off is so cute??? #can all my regular anons (only if you’re comfy with it ofc) start doing this because I’m obsessed #.astarion #.bg3 #🕊️ anon #astarion x reader

[itsangrynar]

TW: BLOOD

Imagine being best friends with durge- BUT also realizing trauma is not forever and be free to love your vampire husband

#my art #angrynar #astarion #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #durge #tav x astarion #elie ravenloft #astelie #what if durge was your tav's bff #and tav had to kill em #i do love having an excuse to talk about scars #its the lore #and ofc another excuse to cuddle with astarion #blood #tw blood #tavstarion