You Can Blame This On Two Things: My Dumb Ass Setting Off Every Damn Spore In The Underdark And The Realization

you can blame this on two things: my dumb ass setting off every damn spore in the underdark and the realization that i’ve never written sex pollen fic before.

that said, there’s not actually any sex in this fic - but it still counts! someday i’ll write smut i swear.

where i am most ruined (astarion x gender neutral!reader, baldur’s gate 3)

You Can Blame This On Two Things: My Dumb Ass Setting Off Every Damn Spore In The Underdark And The Realization

Astarion knew they should have given the myconid colony a wide berth. Should have steered clear of the Underdark as a whole, really. The lack of sunlight was appalling enough without the added annoyance of setting off some noxious fume or other with every step they took. Even now his gut ached from the wild laughter brought upon by the Timmask Spores, but his was a paltry discomfort when compared to your current plight.

Curled into a ball within the circle of Karlach’s arms, your eyes clenched shut, you try desperately to breathe through the fever burning through you. You gasp at each hitch in the tiefling’s stride, every ragged breath punctuated with a whimper you try valiantly to suppress.

“Sorry,” you bite out, your shame evident beneath your clouded eyes and flushed face.

“Hush, soldier,” Karlach soothes you, though Astarion is certain her cheeks are just as flushed as yours. “We’re almost there. Just hold on a bit longer, yeah?”

You nod feebly, your eyes drifting towards Astarion’s for a brief moment before they clench shut once more, your fingers digging into the meat of your arms as if in some futile hope that your own touch could somehow alleviate your agony.

Astarion grits his teeth. In broken speech the sovereign Spaw had explained the intricacies of the spore to which you’d been exposed - an aphrodisiac of sorts, meant to encourage the spreading of seeds within the flora and fauna of the underdark, but seldom touched by mortal tongues.

The effects would come about quickly, he had warned, and would take hours to dissipate if left unchecked.

Upon those words, Astarion had felt the heavy gaze of your companions shift to him. His stomach had swooped, an all too familiar ache settling deep within his belly, and though no one had uttered a word, their expectations were clear enough.

It isn’t as though the idea disgusts him. He cares for you - Astarion is certain of very little, but of that, he has no doubt. What had begun as a simple ploy to charm you to his side had backfired spectacularly, leaving the vampire reeling in the face of the affection he felt for you - true affection, not a shallow parody construed only to manipulate you.

Shedding the shackles of Cazador’s control came with its own set of issues, however - namely, the terrifying realization that Astarion had no idea what he was doing. He had spent the past two centuries seducing countless victims under his master’s command - he could scarcely recall the last time he’d felt genuine affection for another person, let alone how to navigate the complexities of sex without falling into the same poisonous cycle.

He had become so adept at separating his mind from his body during the act that he hadn’t dared to initiate anything more with you once he had finally admitted to the depth of his feelings.

How could he? The tadpole had severed Cazador’s hold upon him and yet Astarion had still fallen into the same old habits, anyway, using every tactic Cazador had ingrained within him to entice you into bed - not because he’d wanted to, but because he had to, or at least he’d felt he must, for how else could he secure his newfound freedom than to ply you with his charm, his body?

But now -

A short, sharp cry escapes your mouth as Karlach lowers you gently upon your bedroll, and Astarion’s stomach abruptly twists itself into knots.

You’re in pain, suffering. He can smell the salt of your tears even now, no matter how furiously you try to blink them away. If you needed him - if his touch could ease your agony, he would give it to you. His memories, his fears, his own agonies be damned, he would do it. He would try, for you.

“I’ll fetch some water,” Karlach murmurs, her hand hovering over your sweaty brow before she pulls away, careful not to touch you. “See if we can’t cool you down a bit, yeah?”

You nod feverishly, trying for a smile that trembles at the edges and falls as soon as Karlach leaves. Your head lolls along your bedroll, your discomfort more than evident, but still you make the effort to search Astarion out and tell him in a soft, choked voice, “You don’t have to stay.”

Astarion scoffs, making a great show of settling on the ground beside you - a task made eminently more difficult while he’s still clad in armor. “Silly thing,” he mutters, carefully brushing his knuckles against your flushed cheek. Even that small touch makes your breath catch, and Astarion sinks a fang into the meat of his cheek, unsure if the pull in his belly is born from discomfort or something else, something far more alien.

You were a sight to behold, even like this, half-mad from the arousal forced upon you by the spores and struggling valiantly against your body’s rising need. Astarion aches to soothe you, to cool the fire burning through your blood, but the thought of touching you, holding you, only to sink into himself and float mindlessly away, turns his blood to ice.

He wants it to be different, with you. Needs it to be different.

Silence falls between you while you await Karlach’s return. Astarion continues to stroke your cheek, his touch light, and though your body shifts restlessly atop your bedroll and he can smell your arousal, a sweet tinge to the air that remains unmistakable, your breath gradually eases from ragged pants to slow, steady inhales.

Astarion takes his leave Karlach arrives, but only to rid himself of his armor before he returns to your tent, waiting by the entrance while the tiefling mops at your damp brow. She’s rid you of your own armor - it lays in a discarded pile at your feet, leaving you clad only in your loose tunic and trousers, and you look a touch less miserable without the heavy bulk weighing you down.

“Gale’s working on a potion to help you sleep,” Karlach tells you, her voice a soothing rumble. “I’ll bring it by as soon as he’s done. Until then - “ She shoots Astarion a glance, a smile curling her lips. “You’ll be in good hands.”

She trusts him to care for you. It’s a startling thought, somehow. A sobering one. Astarion says nothing, but dips his chin in acknowledgment. He doesn’t relish the thought of disappointing the crimson tiefling any more than he’d like to disappoint you.

Karlach departs with a reassuring pat to his shoulder, the tent flap falling shut behind her. With the usual noises of the camp muffled, Astarion is left to focus on little else but your tremulous breaths and the heady scent of your arousal. The scarce bit of space between you quickly fills with it, making his blood heat and his fangs ache. He waits for the discomfort to settle in, the fear, but it’s muddled, hovering on the fringes of his mind as he returns to his place by your side, fingers drifting along your cheek.

You’re warm, too warm to be wholly natural, and you sigh at the chill of his skin, pushing your cheek into his palm.

“How does it feel?” he asks, thumbing at the swell of your lip.

“Burns,” you murmur, clouded eyes seeking his. One of your hands grasps for his forearm, curling meekly around it, while the other finds purchase in your own tunic.

Astarion swallows. “Does it hurt?”

You shake your head. Along your bedroll, your body shifts restlessly, thighs pressing together and fingers curling tight within the folds of your tunic. “Not pain, just - heat. Want. Too much.”

Your voice breaks around the words, breath growing thick. Astarion rises to his knees and lowers his brow to yours, feeling the heat of your skin sinking into his. “Breathe, love,” he urges you, cupping your flushed cheeks within his palms. “Just breathe.”

You huff against his lips, a strangled attempt at a laugh, but you do as he commands, breathing as he does - slow, steady, deep.

“I’ll see you through this,” he promises, and the hitch in your breath warms him straight through, gives him the strength to insist, “Whatever you need, love - just ask, and it’s yours.”

Your eyes find his, and despite the spore’s haze there is clarity within those depths. You understand what he’s offering, what he’s prepared to give, if only you would ask for it.

But you also know what it would cost him.

“No,” you croak, fingers curling around his wrists. “I won’t do it, Astarion. I won’t ask. Not for that.”

Astarion closes his eyes, relieved and feeling horrid for it, but only until your palms slip along his throat, his jaw, and curl gently around his cheeks. When he next meets your gaze, there is no condemnation to be found, no anger, and the vampire abruptly deflates, sinking his cheek into your palm.

“Now is hardly the time to be stubborn, darling,” he tells you, because despite his own reservations, he doesn’t enjoy your suffering, and wishes to ease it.

“Now is exactly the time,” you return promptly, brows furrowing over clouded eyes.

“Surely there is something,” Astarion persists, and you huff out a breath, thumbing at the delicate skin beneath his eye, your touch as light as a bird's wing.

“There is this,” you tell him, fingers delving into his curls and resting furtively on the curve of his skull. “Your presence is all I need, Astarion. I can bear the rest, if only I have that.”

“You have it,” he vows, and not only for this night. For as long as you need it. You have him.

It’s no longer such a terrifying thought, he realizes, twisting onto his side and gathering you against his chest. It’s exhilarating and strange and wholly unfamiliar, yes, but it isn’t terrifying.

It’s just true.