Astarion Bookshelf - Tumblr Posts

Your fics/headcanons give me the feeling of eating freshly baked cookies with warm milk while wrapped in a blanket fresh from the dryer. Just so sweet and comforting. Your post the other day about the number of kiddos he'd want got me wondering: how would astarion handle his partner being in labor? I feel like he would be freaking out so badly internally but trying so hard to keep it together for them. Does it get easier with each baby? Does he cry each time? Also, I had this image in my mind of him introducing the older girls to their new baby sister each time and just being sweet and cute with his growing family and I'm dyinngggg. Thank you again so much for all the wonderful fics sorry this message was kinda all over the place I LOVE YOU. ❤️

hello my sweet angel!!! firstly - you inspired me. I'm inspired. i wrote something based on the introducing the siblings idea. see below!

He’s not sure he’ll ever tire of it.

Feign exasperation, absolutely. Roll his eyes in jest, move things along with the smallest ‘away, away’ of his free hand at the faces pressed against the inside of the kitchen window as you both approach the house in a beleaguered stumble - snout noses and wide grins, breath fogging the glass trying to gain a glimpse. Incredulously sigh at the fact that it’s just a baby.

It looks like a baby. Sounds like a baby. Smells like a baby. The house tends to have at least one kicking about at any given time, gods; there’s absolutely nothing unfamiliar nor noteworthy about a baby dhampir in Baldur’s Gate at this point. If anything, he’d be surprised if the townsfolk weren’t banging down his door come morning with a council-endorsed petition to encourage him to stop breeding the little shits.

Frenetic. He’s still practically vibrating with adrenaline from the birth still. Shaky hands stilled under the weight of the baby basket. Legs flying.

Another girl, obviously. Another ‘A’ name conjured from the recesses of his ancient wisdom. Some variation of a label he saw in an apothecary a week ago - you’re past the point of putting too much thought into their names, a fact that becomes obvious to anyone who lends it too much of a thought.

Apothecary. He ponders the viability of that one. Apothecaria? Apothe. Antiseptic. Asbestos. Arugula.

Fuzzy as the door swings open into the night and the stew-warmth of the kitchen bleeds outside. He holds the door, the carrier containing the baby; hospital bags strapped to his back, the weight of another little thing on his conscience. A pack mule. He pulls a face.

The eldest steps from the sitting room through the parted gaggle of waiting Ancuníns and takes a look at the new addition.

A brief moment passes.

Then she smiles as anticipated, nodding her approval - a time-honoured tradition in your household ever since the second was unleashed unto her sister - before falling to the back of the crowd, pulling out a chair for an exhausted you; and resigning from her primary carer duties for the evening.

It’s bittersweet. At this point, Astarion can never be sure if this time, the whole bustling through the doorway in the middle of the night with a newborn thing; will be the last.

But as each previous youngling steps in line to greet the newest addition to their chaotic sisterhood, he finds himself looking over to you fondly. The way your hand still rests atop the round of your belly, the other supporting your head as your elbow rests firm on the table. Cheeks aflush, lids drooping closed with each breath; and yet you sit there instead of retiring straight to bed to watch them.

Their eager faces, hushed whispers; fingers poking and prodding the small exhausted thing presented to them once more. Rolling her name around their mouths to get used to the sound. You watch each movement with a warm heart and dopey grin.

Obviously you want this again. He wants this again. This moment of soft whispers and unfettered love amongst siblings.

No, he resolves;-

this won’t be the end.

-

i LOVED THAT SO MUCH. THANK YOU.

with regard to the labour:

astarion cries with the first two babies.

after that, he realises it's probably more important to be supportive to his partner at this moment in time.

he can compartmentalise any emotions he's having with the logic that they can wait, honestly.

none of his worst fears are going to materialise, he knows this now. he's done it before.

with the later babies he's a pro.

he even has the nerve to sit there and exclaim at points that he's bored, and that you need to hurry home as he has a client coming to the shop later.

despite both knowing it's a jest, this always earns him a pillow to the face.

THANK YOU NONNIE!!! I LOVE YOU!

ivory tower 18+ ASCENDED!ASTARION X AFAB!READER, 4.6K

Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city; but you want this.

woah boy! my first ascended astarion piece, so please be kind! dal is back babey! woooo! thank you to @bhaalism and @lipstickghoulie for dealing with me while writing this i love you both endlessly. wc: 4.6k cw: afab reader, female language used. breeding, mind-control, p in v, ascended astarion, public fingering, private banging, great times all round, as always if there are errors no there aren't, creampies, yippee

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep. Not really.

She sometimes slows just enough to find some purchase amongst the muddle, though - tiptoes lazy through highsun in soft linens, the burgeoning swell of soap suds and sunny rosemary through wide open wooden shutters. Lingering - sweat-soaking worn leathers, the sore of the flex in the arch of your foot splayed over cobble. As if to grasp at the memory, your fingers stretch out from your side and on to the dark oak of the armrest, in a moment of sheer jubilance. Summer. The sun. Wide bright mornings. Hopeful and hot as a bated breath. 

The city ambles onward this evening, no different despite the inclement weather and the din of an early darkness. Half-lidded through dark streets as rain smatters the roofs with wet, glistening something dozy under the tall oil street lamps and swirls of ever-present heavy fog. Gurgling whilst each drain fills with water and swallows deep into the sewers. 

Scatters the hay, bears the slip; sings a slow drunken stutter of thunder-wind whiling at the windows into the small hours. There’s a comfort to be found in it. 

The harbour bell will go on to toll for every sail weary ship coming in from the fog; the crescent caress of the Gate’s waiting arms lit low with oily dots of amber. That even this late into the night the bands of trawlers on the dock work crates and barrels into cargo holds with worn hands and ruddy cheeks. The gulls and their scattering squawks. The flapping of their fat feathered wings up into the clouds. 

From where you sit in the Ivory Tower you can hardly see anything at all. Fog obscures the streets to a point, other than the light patches under the oil lanterns out on the ramparts. The window runs dripping wet with condensation. Pools under the pane. 

A hideaway of sorts within the manor. Newly reclaimed by Astarion in some deal with the quivering council in order to keep him sweet. Not that he has any armies of undead in his retainer to command as yet, but they don’t need to know that. There’s time. You’re still blessedly mortal and able.

Astarion. 

He should be skulking the halls somewhere below with that unnerving silent step he’s taken to using. Your cheeks grow warm, the blanket over your shoulders pulled closer into your chest as you allow your mind to run wild; the scald of bliss to your brain like that of some ironmonger’s poker, split straight to the core. 

Your love. Your lover. 

Amongst his many newfound desires and passions seemingly includes the impetus to redesign a centuries-old palace from scratch, and while you doubt he has the want nor willpower to take the project anywhere near to completion you’re more than happy to indulge him during this burst of creativity. A designer’s eye. Lavish yet not ostentatious, he tells you. Your own private wing of the palace, and one you’ll share together. He has no need for his own private chambers. You’re the only one he wants to be beside. You understand that at its essence, it isn’t even necessarily a want to design for creativity’s sake, it’s important to you both to have every memory of the residence’s former owner gone. Every threadbare tread of carpet, every scuff on the wall; every painting being demounted by workers downstairs and shipped to the auction house first thing in the morning. You can hear them if you still enough, heart still beating in your chest and the low chunter of layman gossip.

The version of him you knew before his ascension was so very scared. Beautiful, but wavering. You loved him of course; and you always will  - it was that version of him, the one lost in the wilderness that you fell for, and gods; you fell hard - frenetic and whiny, fleeting as light snow never to settle on the forest floor. Wild-eyed. 

But this Astarion - the real Astarion, as far as he is concerned - has you completely and utterly enraptured each day you wake together, the same as ever, from the second your eyes open. Wrapped in those Daerlunian-import plush linens atop your gargantuan newly-installed four poster bed. Face of marble with those cattish dark lashes and eyes of carnelian crush. Enchants every room he walks into, as he always has. 

You don’t know he’s with you until a hand ghosts your shoulder, sinewy; with those deft pale fingers deep encroaching on your collarbone in his grasp. 

“I didn’t hear you, lover.”

“But I heard you.’

He circles round the velvet armchair, resplendent in his home finery. Not a crease to be seen. Voice soft, yet laced with a bristling concern.

‘Why do you insist on sitting up here?”

You err for a brief moment. 

“I can hear the rain on the roof, here. See some bustle when the fog clears. The city goes on.” You shake your head with a smile as he crouches beside you, nestling his head in the crook of your arm.

“But it’s cold. Dark. Come down - I can light the fire in our sitting room if you like?” 

“We have so many centuries yet to see together! What sense is there in not observing the world as it is now? Keeping record of the city as we saved it?”

His head lifts and his eyes meet yours, some churlish quirk of a brow in the low light.

“An archivist, now? Is that to be your profession alongside me? Whilst you raise our young?”

“If I wish it to be, yes.”

He laughs, a gentle low hum.

“Then an archivist you’ll be - the most renowned in all the lands. We’ll make it so.’ He stands once more and takes your hands from your lap, bringing them clasped to his lips in a soft, lingering kiss. 

‘I’ll begin planning on your archives - I presume you’ll want a library? Or something similar in your wing, maybe even an office. Who knows?”

Astarion looks to the room around you, the shapes covered with old canvas and the rickety floorboards underfoot. Cobwebs in the corner. There’s no grimace nor displeasure. He simply surveys as cool as still water. Objective.

“I’ll have some of the merchants relay their contacts come morning too. If you insist on expanding your territory up here then it must befit you.”

“Befit me?” You grin now. His hold on your hands remains secure.

“If you want me to say it, then I suppose I will. As many times as it takes to get it through that heavy skull of yours.’

His smile reaches his eyes as he circles back behind your chair, fingers splayed over your shoulders once more in a deep round kneading pattern.

‘There’s nothing you won’t have if you want for it. Nothing too good for you to covet, my solace; Saviour to the whole Sword Coast and every plain mite within its bounds.’

There’s a small pause as he bows to kiss the top of your head.

‘And I thank the stars every day that I can provide for you. That you saw the potential in me and lifted me higher, to such profane glory amongst the swill of common man. That my gold, my influence, and terror, and each lift of my blade is at your command and yours alone. That you stayed at my side.” 

He doesn’t like to mention the gods, hence the stars. Pointedly brings the grimace back into play, occasionally even furrows with the slightest twinge of anger brewing at his brow. The gods had no role to play in your shared victories. No divine intervention saved him from two hundred years of torment, from certain death after the crash of the nautiloid along that sun-soaked span of rocky beach;-

You did. You with your strange inclination toward the weak man he once was. The shell he lived in like a hermit crab on the shore, nothing more.

-

On bright days, you thank him for giving you time.

Time to live, time to breathe with full lungs. Time to allow you to burn your eyes in the beating sun with a silver pot of fresh coffee and whatever ridiculous spew the papers hold between the pages today. 

You know as you sit in comfortable silence that your time dwindles, and that your turning is inevitable. Your eternal wedded bliss is to be alongside him and will be as vivid in nature as all the colours of the astral plane, if he’s to be believed - and there’s no reason not to see his word as gospel. You can see each moment as crystalline as sea glass on sand. Forever with the man you love more than you’ve ever felt inclined to love anything. The bridal ceremony is but a drop in the vast ocean of your lives together. 

He thanks you too. Often alongside you with eyes closed in some dozy recline, forearm hanging lazily whilst he takes the sun on his skin like a blessing. A loose linen shirt akin to the one he wore back at camp at the start of your journey together, strings wide open, a blaze of blinding flesh at the corner of your eye each time he shifts.

The veranda on a clear day. Astarion has assured you he’ll never take this from you. He’ll never take anything that you don’t willingly give him with a clear heart - and why would you give him your ability to bask in the sun, like a street cat in days-warm dust? What purpose does that serve either of you, beyond making you a less useful weapon in his prized arsenal?

At one point, all you wanted was to talk to him - and it rings true even now. The want to be the bearer of all his tales. To learn about him, to be close to him; to hear him tear the world apart with that dulcet snarl, walking alongside each other on the barren dirt trails out in the wilderness. Hop-skipping to keep up with his quiet gait. Giving him back as good as you got. The glimmer of his hair in the sunlight, the way he’d sometimes just stop.

Close his eyes. Feel the heat. The gentle burn of highsun on tender flesh. A soft inhale.

That morning out in the clearing after your first night together. Arms outstretched in a welcome to the light. It had taken a few minutes for it to click as you’d silently watched on, why his sun salutation was so fond. So open.

It’s to be a long engagement with regard to your transformation whilst the manor undergoes renovations. Reason after reason as to why now isn’t the ideal time to commit you to eternity. You know why he wants to keep a hold on your precious mortality for the time being, of course; and that keeps you from the forever embrace of his Dark Kiss. It never changes. 

You’ll allow him to sire your children. You want him to. Crave it. Him.

Your very own lineage together, he whispers; frenzied by your ear as his fingers crawl the bare span of your thigh. He can breed you full like fate intended and you’ll have something - besides him - that’ll also last forever. Something of your own surpassing the death of all of your contemporaries. The Vampire Ascendant and The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate, flesh-on-flesh, skin smacking skin; his debauched groans and lewd whimpers as he buries himself inside you, your cooing breaths;-

You’ll wed normally too, for the interested eyes of the city. Some dull ceremony with the elites adorning all tables as gilded pieces might some decorative chess board, deceptive vows. Legally it makes things easier should anything befall either of you but the hassle almost makes the whole thing undesirable - gods, especially because he already treats you as some smitten newlywed might. Adores you. Follows you around the manor, stalking; like some wolf cub after its mother. Carries you to bed each evening and ploughs you senseless, until spit gathers in the corners of your wet, wanting mouth and you can’t see straight through grey-blear eyes.

He likes the idea of you taking his name by law. Melds with your own like it were meant to be, from the starter threads of whatever cosmic tapestry pulled you together, the marriage of your first name to his last, interwoven by a scholar’s hand in gold-shining delicate point.  

Ancunín. The House of.

Tapestries. Large, spanning the halls. The Sarsantyr's over in Waterdeep - they’ll be able to create what you’re picturing. 

A familiar gaze meets yours. It’s then that you realise you aren’t alone in your mind once more

“If you want tapestries, you only have to ask.” 

“In fairness - you didn’t give me a chance to.”

He hums, tilting his head a little in the sun’s glare.

“I’ll send for them. The Sarsantyr's, yes? Have them pack up all their little-’

He pulls a face and lifts his hands in some kind of puzzled shake.

‘Sewing bits? Textiles? I’ll send carriages. They can come and stay in the lower rooms. Create the masterpiece you envision.” Astarion sniggers a little at the thought of putting them in the old dormitory while you remain lost in thought.

“Okay. Check them through first though, yes? 

The real event - the wedding - will give you total ecstasy beyond your wildest preconception, you know this. Unfettered and euphoric. Books and books on the topic stacked clumsily beside your bed, reds and greens; the turning of a vampire bride in leather bound prose. You know what to expect in florid detail. You know to trust your lover, that the rabid creature you’ll become is only a temporary mental state precursing an eternity alongside him. 

And yet, you wonder about the children. They’ll be here by then. However many he decides is enough, naturally; assumedly under the care of some hired help whilst you engage in your thoroughly bastardised pastiche of a wedding ceremony. You laugh now. He’s still in your head, mulling over your thoughts as soon as you can think them. 

Will you miss them? Will they be your last thought before you pass away; Astarion unable to complete this ritual alone as he was unable to before? Will your death lead to his, leaving your dhampir offspring to ravage Baldur’s Gate unsupported by the windfall of knowing parents? There’s still no hesitation, though. You will bear his young. You want to. The consequences either way are vast and long-lasting, and you’d rather be at his side than facing his ire- 

“Love, what are these thoughts? What on earth is going on in that very pretty head of yours today?” His voice is a low drawl, pitying yet laced with affection. He sits straight in his chair whilst a hand lazily searches for yours atop the sun-warmed table; beyond the scope of the ramparts wall the low meander of city life continues on.

“Mulling things over.”

“You don’t need to do that, pet. Come now.’ He beckons you onto his lap and wraps his arms around your middle, hand searching for the soft pillow of your chest as your ass backs up to his abdomen.

‘You want me to make it better?” 

You nod gently, the sun catching your eye in a particularly bright beam and making you squint. 

“Please.”

“Poor thing. It’s okay.” As he coos; one hand finds the curve of soft flesh at your chest, holding the weight of your breast firmly as he starts lightly thumbing at the nipple through your nightshirt.

“There, now. Good girl.” Your head falls back onto his shoulder, a deep sigh as he lulls you into a new state of calm astride him. Birds sing overhead whilst you nuzzle his neck.

“I will miss this warm flesh of yours, you know. Terribly so.’ His other hand moves to your nightskirt, gently hitching the material bit-by-bit up your thighs until you sit exposed to the air. Nobody can see you from here - the faceless crowd little but colourful dots below; Astarion giving a small tense laugh as he feels your pulse quicken against him. 

He toys with your skirt, edging ever nearer your exposed cunt; and your eyes flutter closed. 

‘But the greater purpose… I just can’t let it go. Us. Our lives together. I sincerely doubt you want to wither away to age; to lose your extraordinary beauty-’

A gentle groan as he feels your warmth.

‘Do you, my most precious flower?” 

“Of- Of course I don’t. I want to be with you, as we are; forever.”

“Then we’re going to need to make a concerted start on the only thing setting us back, are we not?” His fingers gently tap on the crux of your pubic bone, threateningly close to your clit. You feel the familiar seep of your slit leaking onto the bunched skirt fabric and you think of honey. Some kind of sweet glaze.

“Yes.”

As you sink further into him his fingers move down just a little to meet your clit; and in response to your delighted sighs he very lightly begins to stroke either side of the engorged flesh. There’s no urgency to his movement nor his demeanour; just a treacle-thick teasing grin as he turns his head to kiss your blazing cheek.

“Good.”

There’s something borderline celestial about the gentle way he touches you, coaxing more of your slick from you with every gentle jerk. He deftly motions ‘come hither’ with a soaking middle finger dipping lightly at your hole then brings your arousal up to wetten your clit once more.

“You want this, don’t you?” A finger slips down to your cunt, this time slipping and nestling deep inside as you feel yourself writhe on him. One arm scrambles around the back of his neck to support yourself while he begins to curl at your spongy spot, and the anchor of your arousal shifts free.

“I’ve been rifling through that glorious mind of yours these past few days and I see you now. You want comfort. To comfort. To seek shelter in those warm lights on the horizon, to know you aren’t alone in the late hours.”

You nod furiously, wincing, desperate to feel him deeper. Thicker. You need more, your fox-eyed paramour giving only the barest minimum he can do to watch you squirm.

“You, with my babe in arm;- oh the image alone does things to you, doesn’t it?”

It’s as if he’s creating the visions in your head as he speaks them, bringing them to the forefront of your mind in hushed coos and silent gasps. As if by magic, the only thing on your mind is a primal need for him to fuck you full. Nothing else, no mind for coffee nor completed manor renovations. 

You will be round. You will brim with life before he turns you, and you’ll take to his seed the minute he offers it to you. You’ll accommodate him like no other across Toril could hope to. You wonder if he has the power to decide how many, as he adds another finger to your unbridled torment. If he could choose to speed the process up with a celebration of twins, triplets. An heir and two spares. Maybe he’d wait instead until the first was born, just to ensure the viability of his bloodline. A test.

He’s doing this; you become starkly aware as he withdraws his fingers, spiderwebs of glistening drool clinging to your inner thigh as he brings them between his lips and suckles. He’s giving you these ideas of grandeur because he can. Because you are his. Because you wouldn’t want to belong to anyone else, to be tied to any other notion of whatever a fulfilling life is, if it weren’t one shared wholly by him. With him.

“Let me take you inside, sweet one. Let’s take care of you properly, shall we? Curb this fever, hm?”

Please, you think. Please take this burning hole in my womb and make it full with you. Extinguish the flame with your unholy spend and give me children. Give me oud and orchids and a life of warmth, however long we both may live.

“Use your words, my love. Tell me you want this.”

“I want this. Please.”

-

On the bed you now lie, the room cool and dark; balcony doors open wide with light-billowing curtains. Sweat consumes you as your thoughts run wild, the smell of your arousal, clammy hands and deep breaths in the low light. Astarion approaches like something from a dream, shirtless now; smirk plastered cheek-to-cheek as he leans over your trembling form with confidence - your lust-addled fingers reaching for his steady form like a ship to harbour. 

“You want to feel it, little dove? Feel how you set me alight?”

He pries your wrist from him with gentle urgency, taking your hand under his and skating both downwards; down the plane of his tight torso, slowing to a stop just above his pelvis.

“Tell me - do you want to feel it?”

A small smirk plays at the corner of your lips, but he doesn’t seem to notice - watching the way your hand twitches under his.

“Hm?”

His groan is guttural. Thick. He doesn’t even try to mask it, eyes wide as his hand shifts yours just a little further down and over the blistering burn of his heavy cock through loose linen trousers. A hazy sigh as he moans a small whimper at your touch.

“Please, Astarion. I beg you.”

It’s like his fingers are enchanted, the way they reduce you to this sodden mess. Unable to think unless guided delicately by his superior whim. 

“I need to bury myself inside you fully for this to take. I need your full attention, submission; your devotion to our lives together. Do I make myself clear?”

He’s giving you one final chance to withdraw. Your head clears for one sweet moment and you can do little else but stare at his bulge with heavy lids and your mouth agape.

“Crystal. I ache for you. Please, give this to me.”

You lift to meet him in a soft kiss, jaw slackened and cunt ablaze. Nothing else matters, no complications, nor possibilities of horribly mangled spawn from your womb as a result of your copulation. This scalding stupor that sends you insane won’t go away until he quenches it with his seed. 

Your response has satisfied him, if the way he stands sharpish and unties his trouser laces is anything to go by. The glassy head of his cock stands purple at his stomach, leaking wild at the slit and red-hot as your hand reaches blindly for him in your hunger.

He gently taps you away and back down onto the sheets. 

“Magic?” You hear yourself mumble, still amazed at how surely swollen he must feel with how sore he looks. Has to be. 

“Just me.”

There’s a tenderness in his eyes as he crawls back over you, legs instinctively parting and lifting at the knee to accommodate him. Something that compels him to hold your face in the hand that isn’t supporting his weight and just look at you, fondly; for what feels like an age.

Then he shifts once more to angle himself, decidedly spending no more time on preparation. The heat of his cock against your slit is unlike anything you’ve ever known, dizzying yet pleasurable; hard and yet still yielding, and as he thrusts a shallow dip into your core you swear you see angels overhead. Yes, you’re ready. You’ve never been more ready for anything than you are for the sheer ecstasy you know he’s about to give you, and he’s going to give you it in droves. Seismic tremors as he shifts a little and you adjust to him once again.

He nods. He hears you. 

Then, he snaps once more; and he’s lost.

Each glub of his cock meeting your spill as he ruts into you; the way you feel it running downward in long dribbles, with each and every mindless hump of his hips eking more honey from your cunt in spades. 

You hear the sounds of your shared carnal pleasure and it makes you clench around him in some kind of self-perpetuating cycle. Groans and whimpers and moans and hisses and the frequent egregious slaps to your thighs whilst he chases his high. 

He’s perfect like this. Halo of curls above you, voice silken as he calls you every pet name under the sun, his, always. Your legs ache already from being wound so tightly, interlocked around him, and you think of the prespill inside you already. How each fangy showman’s smile means he’s twitching at your cervix and leaking molten gold inside you with every thrust. 

It’s not until he nuzzles down to your neck that you remember to offer it, potentially for the last time on this mortal coil. 

“Are you asking?”

“Well, you didn’t offer.”

The immediate pang is one of violent nausea, subsiding quickly into a wooze coating the bottom of your stomach in black tar as he fucks upward. Unease. There’s something in his spit, you assume. Something that makes the gaping wounds a little more bearable, a little less raw as he kitten-licks the flesh between swallows. Ice courses your veins with adrenaline as it always does.

Astarion chokes down his first sip with an eager cough. The burgeoning panic wracking your limbs turns into a numbed haze as your lover feasts, big neat gulps whilst he clutches at your ribcage with fingers splayed deep and cock buried to the hilt, like a man starved. His hair tickles  at your jaw, the smell of something herbal. Slightly lemony. 

He splutters that he’s close and you feel yourself nearing your peak too.

There’s a profane desecration in what he’s doing, painting your walls in an attempt to get you pregnant. Something deeply sordid, raw; ungodsly. There’ll be no Lathandrian blessing for your young, no gentle welcome into some family fayre on the outskirts of the city. No villages to raise them, no cards nor flowers from friends or family; but you want this. 

You want him to taint you in his particular shade of crimson, visibly; so the realms know who made The Saviour of Baldur’s Gate come to heel. The man who compelled her through sheer love alone and to whom she gave everything. The indomitable force for whom you’ll die, only to resurrect forever as his.

Visions of your turning don’t scare you - all lightning and thunder, the cries of your dhamplings in some nursery down the towering halls of your palatial wing; and yet you’ll be safe in his caress. He wouldn’t let a single thing happen to you. He won’t. 

And as he cums; he calls your name.

Some rhythmic prayer over and over again; and with each kick of his cock he loses some of his bedroom charm and hurtles back to earth, humbly enraptured. More candid. His weary muscles tighten as yours threaten your own release around him.

“Cum for me, now. Milk me.” in a heavy whisper whilst he strokes the soft flesh of your cheek; and you do. You cum harder than you can remember ever before. Each wave of sheer pleasure some blackout tidal wave as you writhe, staccato in his arms. 

If you die during the ceremony, you’ll die happy. Should the younglings bite their way through your womb, it won’t matter.

You’re loved. He loves you, in soft kisses and gentle arms carried all the way to the waiting washtub. In the way he sponges your aching shoulders and brings a washcloth to your dazed face.

Baldur’s Gate doesn’t sleep, not really.

But tonight it will, in the patient, visceral bliss of calm before a summer storm.

— desert fever

› cowboy astarion x f!reader

› wc: 8k+

› a/n: I FINISHED IT!! (dies) :3 also I made it more weird and unsettling than like sexy cowboy aesthetic sorry I can't help but make him a creature in a fucked up western ghost town (if there's mistakes pretend you do not see) ilysm @dhampling for being the only reason this got done <3

warnings : death themes, loneliness, physical injuries, blood drinking multiple times, sorta yandere?, cockwarming, orgasm denial, lil clit play

Midwinter - 200 Years Prior

Wind rips through the canyon a thousand feet overhead, nothing moving in the godsforsaken town and the mule packer knows something is wrong.

Two miles south stands the mine, the proverbial godsend, that sound which should be filling the canyon with the sound of machinery smashing ore is starkly missing.

He dismounts the tar black steed, the horses nose pinked by the icy chill and it’s nostrils flaring, its mane filthy with a dirty crust of ice. The single rig saddle is ice crusted as well, the leather components frozen stiff as board. He rubs the horses neck, speaking in soft, low tones about how he did good work today and a nice, warm stable awaits with plenty of feed.

The man wades through thigh deep snow towards the mercantile, baging his fist against the doorframe. Inside, the lamps are extinguished and the big iron stove squats dormant and forlorn in the corner, unattended by the usual smattering of miners jawing over burnt coffee and tobacco.

“Hello, anybody in the back?”

As he steps back out he notices theres not even the sound of animals braying or snorting in the cold.

“What in hells?” he whispers.

When he delivered supplies a few months ago the humble mining town had been teeming with its usual bustle, now Dreads Hand looms lifeless before him in the late evening gloom, its streets empty with unshoveled snow in high banks against the planked sidewalks. No tracks as far as the eye can see, save for his own coming in.

The cabins along the lower slopes bordering the tiny town are buried up to their chimneys, not a single one of them smoking.

He makes his way up the street to the sloon, expecting perhaps for a handful of locals to be sheltering from the storm inside, greeting him with some glorious profanity about being unprepared for the weather.

Not one’s inside.

Not a single customer, no one at the piano, and again every kerosene lamp is extinguished.

Only a forlorn half pint of beer sits on the pinewood bar, frozen through.

The path to the closest cabin is unplowed and takes roughly ten minutes to wade towards without webs on his shoes.

He pounds his fist against the door once more, counts to one hundred in his head. The latch hasn’t been hooked, but even so he feels like a trespasser as he swings the solid wood door open to step inside.

Food languishes untouched on a table, coffee long since gone frozen just like the beer in the bar. He removed his gloves to touch the roast in the middle of the table, cold and hard as the ore in the mines. Wine had at some point frozen and shattered the cups that held it.

Outside again, back with his steed for some small comfort he shouts, turning around and around in the hopes his voice will carry further.

“Is anyone here?”

It’s twenty seven miles back to the closest outpost, and the horse needs rest. Having ridden the last sixteen hours he needs it too, though the idea of spending the night in Dreads Hand has suddenly become much more sinister. The horrible silence is unnerving.

He decides to chance it, something tells him its safer on the trail back, even in the threatening dark and icy terrain with exhaustion creeping into his vision.

Something just ain’t right here.

—

30th of Eleasis - Present

From early childhood it was all you could remember, just you and your father acting in your childlike mind as fanciful explorers, wanderers. Always somewhere new to plant your feet, always some other sunrise to chase.

Once you had grown curious enough to ask, after many, many years of this endless chasing and his words echo inside your skull to this day.

“It’s just in our blood.”

What, exactly, was in the blood had yet to reveal itself. As you grew older and more alert to the realities of your life you believed he had been speaking about your occupation as monster hunters. Perhaps being the blade that sings in the night before ichor spills across the ground was what thrummed in your veins.

Although you believe differently now.

It was bad luck. Nothing but.

—

Dreads Hand was aptly named.

A husk frozen in time, the curiosity of every would be adventurer although it’s long been picked clean of anything of value. The wind whipped through the crags above your head, the trail leading towards the often whispered about ghost town like it was a reward after navigating treacherous and tight terrain.

Someones idea of a joke.

Even in it’s heyday the town had hardly been prosperous, only one twenty-stamp mill that had filled the canyon with the sound of rock crushers pulverizing ore was the only thing of note in the otherwise one horse stop off. That sound used to be the sound of money being made, and only two things ever stopped it: holidays and tragedy.

That sound hadn’t echoed through this place in two hundred years, and it was assumed when a mule packer had found the entire town deserted one fateful day in Nightal that tragedy had befallen them, though of what nature that tragedy was had yet to be accurately discovered.

Still, ever since then this place had long been whispered about. Perhaps those whispers gave it some sort of new life, perhaps not. It may very well be that some manner of beast had made its way into the derelict town, drawn in by the solitude of it, growing fat off the easy meals from snatching unsuspecting people from the town farther in the opposite direction on the trail but you were prepared to dispatch whatever run of the mill creature people in the neighboring town had complained was screaming its head off in the night.

Something nagged at the back of your mind as the hollowed out bones of the town came into view from the trail. There had never been a single body discovered in Dreads Hand or the surrounding area, which had been combed thoroughly on the off chance there had been some survivors that could explain what exactly had befallen them. Not even a hint of blood in the dirt.

It was as if one day everyone had gotten up from their tables and simply marched out into the setting sun, the wind erasing any evidence of footsteps in the sandy red soil and snow.

Another unique feature of the town was the perpetual night that fell once a year on the eve of the last day of Eleasis and lasted until the end of Nightal, it bewildered anyone well versed in magic and didn’t fit with the knowledge of environmental curses that even the best scholars had poured over. It was believed this had something to do with the long missing townspeople, but again at the time it was discovered there was no sign that anything was amiss. No blood, no bodies, no damage of any kind.

Just the wind whistling through homes and the small smattering of stores, and an inky darkness blanketing it all, like a babe tucked into bed.

As your feet kick up red dust you grimace, wishing for the first time that you hadn’t agreed to this.

The thought strikes you abrubtly, making you freeze.

You’d done all manner of hunts alone since your father had passed, why was this any different?

The hair on the back of your neck stood on end, sweat sliding down the column of your spine in a suddenly icy trail as the feeling of eyes boring into your back mounted the closer you came to Dread.

—

31st of Eleasis

Being alone is worse than the loneliness you felt growing up. Alwasy bouncing from place to place, only ever the two of you. At least it was the two of you.

But it’s different now. Now, you have to figure everything out on your own and it’s exhausting coupled with the constant injury and death. Sometimes you’re afraid if you start thinking too hard about this way of life you may just collapse on the spot, slumped in the dirt to cry and cry and cry. Weep until you dissolve and mix with the earth.

It all has to be for something. It’s in the blood.

You can only tell yourself that so many times before you start tasting bile on you tongue.

—

Luckily setting up in town wasn’t difficult, what with your pick of any number of decrepit, modest prairie homes to choose from. You had expected the feeling from the previous day to cling to you like a second skin, unease brewing hot in the pit of your stomach. Whether fortunate or not it hadn’t, but you also felt an odd sense of regret to not feel even a hint of disquiet inside a home that was possibly haunted by the dead and lost.

All you felt while settling in to prepare for the hunt was a strange melancholy. Never had you stayed in an actual home, not once in your life. The longest you had ever been in one place was during a particularly difficult hunt for a hag close to Neverwinter. That had been three months of careful stalking and planning, but even then you hadn’t stayed anywhere but in the forests closeby your target.

Doomed to a life of transience, of always existing in a state of maybe. Maybe you live, maybe you die. Maybe you’re successful maybe you are not.

Sleep had been empirical and unsatisfying, but you did your best to chalk your restlessness up to the nerves that always accompany a hunt.

This one was unique in that you truly had no idea what you were tracking, if anything.

It’s just as likely people simply heard the wind tearing at the sheer rock faces around them and assigned a boogeyman to the sound.

You shake your head as you finish readying your supplies for the day. Nothing too intensive at the start, a brief exploration of the abandoned buildings to see if theres any obvious clues: tracks, nesting behaviors, perhaps even the remnants of meals. What those meals may be you didn’t care to know in detail.

The old, once solid wood creaked underfoot as you strapped shortswords to your back, feeling relieved at the familiar weight of them. It was reassuring, going through the motions of an age old routine. It was easy to put aside the little pangs of grief as you stepped out past the rotting wood of the threshold.

Back in Edgewater, some twenty seven miles to the south, you had met with a scholar by the name of Hallowleaf who was inarguably the most knowledgeable about the accursed settlement. The last ten years she’d devoted her life to researching the place, everything from its founding to its eerie end.

She'd had some… interesting information for you before you had set off and as you walk down the now mostly rotted through plank sidewalk you're reminded of the conversation.

“It is curious, apparently the church at the far side of the town had fallen into disrepair sometime before the mass disappearance.” She said, pointing on a well worn map.

You scrutinized the marker denoting the old church before speaking.

“Was it abandoned by that point?”

“That's contested, officially yes after the local priest of Lethander passed it went into decline. But, there were some odd writings recovered during the search.”

Hastily, as if too excited to show you the copies, her hands fumbled in the bag set against the legs of the chair she sat in.

“There were some fragments referencing one of the horse hands and the church but since it's all piecemeal it's hard to make sense of. It could be that this person rode off to try and secure a new priest, but that feels unlikely given no one has ever come forward as being from Dreads Hand.”

“Maybe they died trying to?” You mused, still staring at the map and trying to commit the landmarks to memory.

Main Street ran for two hundred yards down the middle of the canyon, and you walked between the false faced buildings. Many had long since collapsed, but you stopped at a structure with five little balconies.

This must've been the brothel, and as your eyes lingered on the crumbled, jagged toothed facade you could almost hear the whistles from long gone men and women drifting down from the windows.

It was funny that this place had originally been named Hope, back when it was all of a handful of buildings and the mine was being constructed. The people who moved here really had felt that way, apparently enough to stay. And then to stay even after it took on the moniker of Dreads Hand.

The place was no stranger to unfortunate occurrences, sickness had swept through many times. The loss of their priest and subsequently the loss of any religious presence. The decline of the mine as less and less ore could be found inside the red rock.

Maybe everyone just had gotten utterly sick of the place.

Maybe hope had died first, before any of her believers.

Midway through town you stopped again at what was once the saloon. Apparently the bartender was quite notorious, having been recognized during that summer as a fugitive who'd fled from Elturel and dodged execution.

She still would've, if not for the fact that the woman had been the sole proprietor of the only lively business in the whole town so instead she spent her days chained to the bartop. They'd been loath to part with her, but she disappeared with all the rest.

By midday you had yet to see any fruits of your labor, each broken down pile of wood and brick held precious little in general but resoundingly no signs of any activity. The only thing alive here seemed to be yourself, and with each passing moment the unease of your initial entry to Dread ebbed as the wild, harsh sun beat down. If anything it felt oddly relaxing to explore the place, and it was at least a tiny bit exciting to see all the places that had only been abstract map markers to you previously.

If nothing happened tonight you were considering starting the trip back to Edgewater tomorrow, although you’d be lying if you said the prospect of witnessing the permanent night set in over Dreads Hand didn’t make you a little nervous. The other reason you would stay at least until nightfall passed was to see if the darkness brought with it any kind of beast. You’d be remiss to not at least make sure that what the people to the south reported wasn’t tied to the curse, but it was looking more and more likely that this was a case of simple rumor running too freely with peoples tongues, crafting phantoms and terrifying themselves.

—

1st of Eleint

Its been known that people can create false memories, our minds are simply weak and suggestable. It looks more and more likely that the vast majority of reports of strange happenings here are similar in nature to false memories.

There is no evidence of anything, malignant or malicious, making a home here.

—

The darkness was bewildering in its unnatural presence. Although you knew it was morning there was no way to tell, it was black as pitch both inside and outside the half destroyed little cabin you’d taken shelter in. It was no wonder why this was referred to as some curse, only some sort of unnerving magic could create a bubble of false night that could last for four months.

That darkness provided good cover to make your way towards the old mercantile at the very least, that spot provided a decently unobstructed view of the surrounding area and would be your perch for most of the day, waiting as soundlessly as possible for any signs of fresh activity before heading off around midday.

As unique as this place was, you’d be glad to have it facing your back. Something about creeping around in a town that felt more like one giant mausoleum felt lecherous, even the presumed dead shouldn’t have their rest disturbed.

Before you could step towards the threshold your nerves lit up, freezing you in place as you became all too aware of your own breathing. The doorway seemed more akin to a yawning maw, the splintered wood like rotted teeth waiting with bated breath to see if it’s prey would walk willingly into its gullet.

You couldn’t be sure, given the dark and your own rising anxiety, but it seemed as though something were moving in the shadowy depths of the place.

You need to leave.

The thought brought with it panic that gripped you hot and tight, making your heart start hammering so hard inside your chest it was a wonder your ribs don’t crack from the force.

“Do you want a head start?”

A voice drawls from inside, nearly making you yelp but you remain rooted to the spot as you catch a brief flash of reflective red breaking through the haze.

“Who- who is that?” you ask shakily, hating how you feel more like a frightened child.

Some primal instinct recognized the danger as you remained frozen, and it didn’t help that when the voice next spoke it seemed to be bouncing all around you, omnipotent and completely disguising the speakers location.

“If you want to be caught just keep standing still."

The inappropriate singsong of it tore you out of the quicksand pit that held you fast and without conscious thought you tore off in the opposite direction, feet pounding against the hardened red dirt and nearly choking on your own spit as your breathing came in erratic, harsh bursts.

It didn’t really matter where you were going, it didn't matter if you were belong followed, all you could think was to get to the one building that was blessedly still intact: the church. The half collapsed spire was your only guidepost as your pulse thundered in your ears and the feeling of bile sliding up your throat became nearly too much to bear.

As you flung the solid oak door open, before you could give a ragged exhale of relief, the floor gave a hideous groan and suddenly the world was off kilter, sideways as you met the solid rock bottom of a basement with a sick thud.

Although you instinctively tried to fall in a somewhat upright position, the momentum instead dragged you into an awkward roll, your body curling in a last ditch effort to protect your head. For a tiny eternity there was no air, there was no thought in your head, there was no light save for the blinding internal radiance as the impact blazed white hot agony through your body and behind your eyelids. Gasping, writhing on the cold, hard floor, you blinked teary eyes, staring at the hole that had just eaten you with the detached thought that this was just a hideously cruel nightmare. It was unreal, and it was painful.

For a moment you wanted nothing more than to give into self pity, to despair, the thought of no way out quickly grew from a frantic whisper to a screeching cacophony in your head as you took in the sight before you. There were no doors down here, in what could only be assumed to have been a basement, and as a chill crept up your legs you looked down to realize the floor was covered in about five inches of stagnant, stinking water.

Standing, you held in a ferocious gag, holding your hand over your dust coated mouth.

Stealth was out the window now, the sloshing of the water would give away your every movement. You focused on your breathing as you try gathering your bearings, choke down the urge to give up and the urge to start sobbing as you debate how best to get out of the current predicament.

All you could do was hope you made the right choice, that walking forward blindly would lead to a set of stairs.

The fear never left you, growing tangible with every sloshing footfall, afraid to even blink on the off chance you would open your eyes to a face leering at you from the dark.

It was difficult to even consider theories about what has happening as you trudged through the water in the darkness.

The voice had been human enough, maybe the dark had simply messed with your head more than you thought initially and all you'd really done was made yourself look insane to another hunter or adventurer. Worse, maybe it was someone who thought playing jokes in this place was funny and in a moment someone would help you find your way out of here, laughing at your expense all the while.

—

After sloughing through the mildew thick air of the basement eventually you did manage to find stairs leading upwards, but the small victory was quickly soured by indecision. A fresh hallway of doors stretched before you, its length exaggerated by the psychological pressure and possibly from the effects of hitting solid stone like a sack of vegetables.

Your indecision acted as a paralytic, leaving you like a small prey animal hoping if it stays frozen the great beast close by wouldn’t catch it by the scruff.

After a moment you were able to push through the feeling, squeezing your eyes shut for just a moment before taking determined steps through the hall, ignoring the taunting doors as your momentum built.

If that person was present in the main chapel they would be lucky to find one of your shortswords buried in between their shoulder blades for all the trouble they’ve caused you.

Anger was better than fear, it was emboldening but it also made you sloppy, made you stop considering the environment or the present threat as a threat.

A mistake that would cost you.

Through the shattered stained glass windows weak light filtered through, what managed to not be stamped out by the unnatural darkness outside. The chapel was beautiful, somehow surviving against the weathering of time that ravaged every other building in Dreads Hand. As you scanned the isles your jaw clenched tight, hoping to spot the irresponsible lout.

“Most people just hide, you know. I have to commend you for making it back up here, that basement is truly nasty.”

Shaking hard you spun around in a circle, desperate to clap eyes on the speaker after all this time.

Framed by the faint illumination was a man that hadn’t been there only seconds before, and he didn’t shy away from your gaze. Slow, deliberate footsteps against the creaky planks filled the space, and he struck you as uncommonly graceful given he was dressed in the leathers of a ranch hand.

The closer he came the more the gaping pit inside your stomach grew.

His grin was easy, full of genuine joy seeing you covered in dust and half soaked in old, disgusting water. Those eyes you’d seen in the mercantile nearly took your breath away now seeing them in detail, a deep red the color or coagulated blood and you noticed the glint of slight points peeking from his smile.

“It’s a shame for you that you gave me a massive advantage. Being in that water meant I could hear you all the way up here, stomping around like an ox.” He said.

You couldn’t believe the truly, monumentally terrible luck you had.

The people in Edgewater were afraid of phantoms, but not the smoke and mirrors kind. The kind that beckoned from the dark, all waxy pale flesh and flashing teeth.

Hallowleafs words teased at your mind, the fragment about the horse hand. Was that the man standing in front of you now? If so he was significantly older than he appeared, though that was always common among vampires.

A vampire.

Is that what befell all the people who lived here? Had this man gone into a feeding frenzy? No, there would have been bodies.

A shiver quakes down your spine at a sobering realization: it's likely the people of Dreads Hand had never disappeared at all. This may have been a town solely occupied by vampires.

“Stay away from me.” You finally find your voice, and your nerve as you pull both shortswords from their holsters on your back.

He waves his hand flippantly. “Yes, yes, the hunter with her fearsome weapons. What a tease you are, filling the place up with the scent of you then denying the hungry wolf at the door.”

Your grip on the hilts tightened, your right foot sliding forward ever so slightly as you ready yourself to go on the offensive.

“Not going to run, hm? I think you’re the liveliest thing to pass through in ages.” His grin widened, and you were given a taste of just how outclassed you truly were.

V. Die he or justice must, unless for him some other able, and as willing, to pay the rigid satisfaction, death for death

You didn’t think of the mirthful smile he wore, the much too excited tenor of his voice. All you could think of was keeping his mouth away from your flesh as he knocked you off balance, movements much faster than your eyes could track and blood trickled into your mouth as your back hit the floor with a choked groan.

But there was no time for your pain. If you could not get out of this situation you would die, that was simple fact.

It was too bad the victor had already been decided the moment you set foot here, and as your weapons were knocked from your proximity to skitter across the floor you heard your fathers voice once more.

“It’s in the blood.”

Rotten, horrendous luck.

What shocked you the most was not the weight of him as he pinned you to the floor, not the icy chill of his skin on yours. It was the kiss he placed against the side of your sweaty neck, making your muscles go so rigid your back lifted from the floor ever so slightly.

A wholly pathetic sob bubbled in your chest but given your current position there was no room for pride. In an instant you were reduced to nothing but a crying child, a child crushed by overwhelming loneliness and naked fear.

“There’s no need for tears, come on now.” You could hear the sweetness in his voice and it was such a sharp contrast with the overall situation that it made dizziness swell and pound in your head.

You didn’t respond, not even as you felt his tongue slide over the skin covering your jugular. All you could do was remain locked in on the stained glass window. The visage of the morning lord totally indifferent to your suffering.

The touch of his lips on your neck was shockingly cold, you wouldn’t have believed it was a mouth until you felt the needle-like puncture of fangs and the secure grip of his molars. That made you jump, squealing, but he held you in place which was probably a good thing because jostling knife sharp fangs leads to wider rips in the skin. The pain sharply worked down through the rest of your body, the unnatural intrusion of something beneath the skin sending you right back into high alert. And when his lips closed around the created wound to suck it was as if he also sucked all the air from your lungs.

A little whimper left your mouth, almost confused because even with the unambiguous pain of being bitten, there was something more. The wet release that followed the bite bloomed out from the point where his fangs pierced your neck in a numbing wave.

You stilled, rational thought kicking in and forcing you to not slam your hands into his chest, dislodging him could potentially rip a much more fatal wound in your neck.

As lightheadedness crept in on you, you wondered if every victim of a bite felt the same euphoria that was seeping through the layers of your muscles and bones now. Maybe that was part of it, something like venom that could relax someone and keep a feeding mess free.

Or maybe it was a small act of mercy afforded to the victim, a few final moments not full of pain and insanity.

Fading took no effort at all, and you gave no resistance as the world slid away.

You woke to sickness clawing its way up your throat, churning violently in your stomach as your various aches returned to you full force. The pain in your limbs and the throbbing sharp pain in your neck was particularly horrific. Nothing made sense, coming back to you in bits and pieces.

You were sure he’d killed you, had felt it. Terror at the unfamiliar was worse than the terror of knowing your life would end. The confusion made for an even cloudier disposition as you tore the threadbare sheet from your body and made a clumsy attempt at getting up out of the rotting pew you had been placed in.

Very quickly it was obvious that your injuries were worse than you thought, adrenaline had blocked the worst of the awareness of them and you nearly went tumbling headfirst into the floor once again.

“Easy,” he said, moving to catch you before the wood could kiss your jaw.

His grip reignited a fresh round of fear as you thrashed against him, desperate to push him away.

“You- you’re,” the words were like thick paste in your mouth, as if someone stuffed cotton between your teeth. You decided perhaps you were concussed.

“I normally go by Astarion.” That smile was back, and it made something else ache inside you.

When has anyone looked at you in such a…happy way?

Quickly you bristled. “What are you doing to me?”

He raised his hands up before speaking. “Whatever happened to you during that fall had nothing to do with me, you know. Although I’d guess whatever blow to the head you took isn’t doing you any favors.”

“If someone hadn’t decided to play tricks on me maybe I wouldn’t have run head first into a collapsing church.” You spit back at him, Astarion, as your eyes roam his face.

He was handsome you realized, it had been obscured before by all the heightened emotion and pain. Even if he was a vampire, his eyes were like old rubies and his hair fell in beautiful short curls that framed his ears just enough to be called artful. It was particularly cruel, how he seemed perfectly crafted to put those thoughts in your head and then tear at your flesh in the same second.

“I have to be dead. This is some death hallucination.” You weren’t speaking to him specifically but he answered all the same.

“Would it make you feel better if I agreed?”

You shot him a petulant glare as you curled in on yourself a bit, on the part of the pew farthest from him.

“What are you playing at? You’re a vampire, you kill things. I should be dead.”

“I’ve never been in the presence of such a knowledgeable slayer, do you have any more snippets of wisdom?”

Your expression soured further, incredulous that he was poking fun at you in all this. Ignoring him your eyes drifted to the room around you two, and part of you sagged in relief to see your supply packs had been slung on the floor.

He followed your line of sight, spotting what had caught your attention.

“You’re welcome for lugging all that down here. I hope you don’t mind that I took a peek at your journal for the trouble. Plus I needed to occupy myself while you snored.”

Your first instinct was to vehemently deny snoring, which struck you as so absurd you could almost laugh if not for the cut of knowing a stranger, a monster, had been nosing through your innermost thoughts.

He stood then, grabbing the tattered book from its pocket before tossing it to you with mirth dancing in his eyes,

“Also, it’s slightly disappointing that no one has figured out the obvious out there yet. It’s a good thing you decided to come here, but a little stupid as well. What sort of monster hunter just walks right into the den?” he barked out a quick laugh, making you cringe as tears pricked in the corners of your eyes.

Bastard. It’s not enough to bite you, leave you a mass of tender bruises and torn flesh, but he has to insult you on top of it.

Not for the first time you cursed your woeful luck, wished you hadn’t had to do any of this alone. Nothing would’ve gone so wrong if your father were still around.

“Come on now, there’s no need to cry.” he sat back down along the edge of the pew as you eyed him warily. “I know you’re afraid but really, I’m not going to hurt you. Well, not anymore but that honestly was your own fault.”

“I want to leave.” You blurt out, feeling your hands start to shake from the effort of holding in your tears, holding on to the shred of pride you had left. The words made you feel like once more like a little child, demanding to go home.

“Well, that’s not going to happen, sorry.” He said, not as a threat but as casually as if you were chatting about the weather. He was just telling you what was, an irrefutable fact.

You decide to bluff. “Someone will come for me.”

“According to that journal you’re all alone out here, and I think it would be highly unusual for someone to lie to themselves in one of those.” He pointed at the book where it landed on the bed. “Besides, you’re far too interesting and delicious to just let go.”

Your breathing was starting to go from just unsteady to too fast and ragged as he kept speaking. Being called delicious, reducing you to a meal, it all was too much. You began spiraling about the possibility that you were doomed to be a vampires personal replenishing snack until the day he let you die.

“You’re insane.” You whisper, hand coming up to cover the now scabbed puncture wounds, wincing as even the slight pressure made them start throbbing with renewed vigor.

“Maybe a little, but look at it my way. Stuck here for over a century with nothing but my mysterious and tragic past, wandering and picking off unfortunate travelers. We’re... alike, you know.”

His words were far away as your mind clung to that last sentence. We’re alike.

“How could that be? What about the other people that were here?” Your brows furrowed, assuming already he was lying to you.

He sighed, looking away. “Well, you can only keep about two hundred vampires rooted in one place for so long before we all get a little strange. It didn’t help the Lord died, what were we to do? Most killed each other or tried to take off but charred after leaving.”

Thats why there’d never been a body, and it wasn’t a priest that died. Or maybe he’d been one once, but the picture was forming crystal clear in your mind.

Dreads Hand had been a haven of vampires possibly from its inception, and perhaps the semi permanent night had been a final gift of protection from their Lord.

“I am sorry about your father by the way.”

You stiffened. “Stop.”

The anger you could muster was a weak thing, fleeting as the last rays of sunlight before dark, eroded by the seed he’d planted of your similarity. Compassion and sameness through loss.

Silence hung so heavily in the air you figured you could slice in with one of your swords if you had them. Picking at the skin around your nails you tried coming to terms with all this new information crowding you.

Maybe he was right. What was waiting for you back out there, anywhere? A continuation of this life of solitude so crushing it felt like Tyrs own hand pressing down against your chest?

“I told you, I don’t want to hurt you. Really I just… may have been overeager in my effort to speak with you.” That made you snort, half in agreement.

The way you tossed your head to the side dismissively was a mistake, a hissing inhale sucked through your teeth feeling the delicate scabs from his teeth rip open. Clapping your hand over the wound once again you can't help the surprised noise that escapes you upon seeing your own blood smeared across your palm when you pull it back, and it's not lost on you the way his eyes zero in on the scarlet mess immediately.

Time seems to stand still as you watch him, every miniscule detail of how his pupils dilated so heavily there was only a thin ruby ring framing them, how his tongue ran across his teeth and his breathing pattern became ever so slightly erratic.

A part of you felt truly sad for him then, shackled to this base instinct to feed and from everything you know about their kind the hunger is ever present, it's own constant torture. How miserable it must have been being stuck in a place with precious little sustenance, and even fewer ways to anchor oneself to sanity.

Hesitantly you stretched out your hand, as one might with a handful of food for an apprehensive animal. All at once the attitude of the space shifted along with something inside your chest.

Your breath caught in your throat at the first touch of his tongue against your palm, an experimental stripe he licked across the center before sucking on your index in a way that made you avert your eyes. The action was lewd enough, but the sounds coming from deep within his throat were absolutely obscene, gravelly groans vibrating against your hand as he moved from one finger to the next.

It was mesmerizing, and embarrassingly it made you feel dampness growing between your legs.

His movements were animalistic as his lips moved from your hand up your wrist, lavishing your skin in a trail of sloppy kisses but the chill his spit left behind wasn't wholly unpleasant.

It shocked you even more when he pulled away to speak.

“It may not be wise to, but if you're able-”

“Yes.” The word came from your lips before you could stop it, feeling overwhelmed by the bizarre passion his movements displayed and the way his voice had become so small as he asked.

What was more shocking was that he asked, nobody had ever asked after your comfort a day in your life.

He pulled you closer against himself, supporting the back of your head with one hand as the other supported his weight behind your back, and you shook in his grasp feeling his spit mingling with the blood coagulated against the side of your neck and down your shirt collar.

He was inhumanly cold but the leather and fabric covering him compensated for it, all well worn softness as your hands used his frame to steady yourself in anticipation of a fresh wave of pain.

You yelped as he moved you to straddle his lap, nearly choking as you felt his erection through the leather and your hips moved on their own, lightly grinding down before he stopped you, hands gripping your hips firmly.

“I wouldn't blame you if that's not something you wanted, we did only just meet after all.” His voice was gentle, like a balm to the cracks that had been forming inside you for longer than you cared to admit.

“Is it something you want?” You ask breathlessly, lips moving against his cheek as he kept his face close to the weeping wound at your neck.

Your hand finds the hair at the base of his neck, fingers toying with the soft white curls and pulling a small shiver from up his spine.

“Adrenaline sours blood, but pleasure gives it a much better profile…” he spoke absentmindedly in between licking at your skin.

You could feel his hand spider crawling against the waistband of your pants, making you groan softly against the side of his head, fingers tightening ever so slightly into his hair. That only seemed to urge him on, one hand undoing the garment just enough to slip his hand in to press against your clit through the fabric of your underwear.

You whimper, thighs pressing close together around his hand and forcing it to grind against you with more force which made your hips jerk like you were struck with electricity.

It felt like you were on fire, boiling from the inside out as you rutted against his hand, whimpering in open mouthed exhales against his hair. Each of your movements were sloppy and frantic as you raised yourself up slightly, desperate to be rid of the restrictive garments and your hands pawed at the leathers around his hips.

In a fumbling blur you were back on his lap, naked from the waist down and soon pulling his straining erection from its confines. You run your tongue across your teeth as your hand pumps him up and down, smearing precum with your thumb and relishing in the cracked moans that fall from his lips. His tip was so flushed, a pretty throbbing pink that made you body ache to feel him inside of yourself.

And he was quick to catch the edge of your need, digging his fingers into your hips in encouragement for you to rise slightly, just enough to slide his head through the mess of arousal before lining up. The stretch around him was bliss, a feeling of fullness that made your mouth drop open as you let out a low keen.

As you sunk down fully, ass meeting the tops of his thighs his fingers were quick to make deft little circles against your clit and pulling more of those little sounds from you as a seamstress pulls spools of thread. Through your half open eyes you can see the grin crossing his features and it makes adoration fizz in your chest.

But as your hips began moving his grip became firm, halting you and holding you in place, full of throbbing desire as his lips caught yours in a searing kiss only parting from you with the slightest of bites to your bottom lip.

Before you could pout his lips were moving from your jaw down your throat, making you tip your head back slightly to give him better access.

"Is this a condition of release?" You rasp, fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck again.

You could feel the vibration from his voice as he spoke against your flesh, "Every second you're squirming only makes you sweeter."

You bite your own lip at that, trying to hold in a groan feeling his fingers moving at a snails pace in circles around your clit anew, keeping your body on edge but providing no relief.

Cruel.

There is no opening for complaint though, not as his tongue swipes thick, wet stripes against your skin before you feel the pinprick that leads to a sharp bloom of pain. It takes your breath away, helpless in his grasp and filled to the brim with him. It's all you can do to control the wild urges to buck your hips as he sucks against the fresh wound, coaxing you towards lightheadedness with every mouthful of your lifeblood.

After an agonizing wait he guides your twitching hips into movement, it's jerky at first since your body is simply craving orgasm but soon enough you fall into a rhythm and the soft sounds of leather creasing mingle with the wet squelches of your cunt clamping around him with every rise and fall of your hips.

Every sensation goes to your head in a rush, like a tirade of bubbles furiously rising to disturb a placid surface of water but before you can come undone he stops you, slows the frantic motion of your hips until you're a teary eyed mess, a puddle held precariously in his hands.

Reflected in his eyes you can just barely make yourself out: your own eyes blown wide and glossy, twin puncture wounds you're sure are set against deep reds and purples.

Has anyone ever even desired to touch you before?

The answer is no, and there's no room for rational thought when the man whose lap you're sat on and whose cock sits heavy inside you has made you feel more seen than you've felt in a lifetime. It feels like rapture, ecstasy and the longer you linger in his gaze the deeper you fall.

Your eyes roll back as he latches onto the fresh wound once more, widening it ever so slightly with the points of his incisors to reignite the flow of blood. You flutter and pulse around him as he drinks from you yet again, the world taking on a dreamlike quality.

As you glance up you see the shattered, half shaped visage of the morning lord once more.

It doesn't matter if his eyes nor anyone elses can reach you here.

This man, Astarion, gives you something more that you feel a sudden zealous need to protect, curl yourself around it and give yourself over when it calls.

As you lose track of yourself, time, and the space around you with every pass of his fingers against your sticky clit you aren't sure why you had been so resistant to the idea of staying.

thulsun 18+, 3.7k

There’s little harm in immortalising him on paper to recall in your most wistful of midsummer evenings - you haven’t seen him before, and there’s a good chance you won’t again. - astarion appears at your parlour one evening in a cloud of smoked bergamot and the briefest hint of spunk, and it becomes oh-so difficult to watch him leave. a/n: this is the first bit of a new non-tav reader piece i'm writing, so bear with me! ao3 link here. cw: Non-Tav AFAB Reader, Voyeurism, Mutual Masturbation, Angst, Mentions of Prostitution, No use of y/n, Vampire Sex, Pre-Canon, Trauma, Sexual Tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Masturbation, Strangers to Lovers, Eventual Smut

After an evening under your contemplative - yet wholly unforgiving - glare, you come to the conclusion that he is, indeed, as ridiculously beautiful as you thought from the moment he walked in.

It’s not often you pay much attention to the patrons. A sea of flaxen blonde and brunette marred by a flash of white. Pillowy coiffed curls, a playful snarl; the young thing on his arm clinging to him as if a lifeline. Gregarious yet sly. She hasn’t taken her eyes off him the entire night. 

You guess that they’ve only met for the first time this evening. There was a small stumble when they moved to sit at the booth by the window, overlooking the street. A nervous laugh on her part. The clockwork rhythm of a relationship not yet properly established in any sense. 

This wasn’t something she’d anticipated as she’d planned her day this morning, you’re pretty sure of that. Maybe waking somewhere in the Lower City - she looks fresh. Excited. Whipped something wild off her feet by this stranger but a few hours ago and now they have a room in your inn. She’s indulging in something salacious. A rendezvous.

Coffee with cream. Maybe one sugar, but her complexion suggests no more indulgences. 

In your head the picture starts to form of the market girl, not long trading. A few freckles are beginning to bloom across her nose and forehead where the sun has sat directly overhead but they’re wholly new. Nothing lingering from prior sun seasons. You imagine her little wooden perch to the side of her stall - not flowers, maybe neck scarves? Hankies? - embroidering with a little hoop as she waits for customers to approach her. Custom initials for an extra few gold. Gifts for lovers, for family. A smile so milky in its lax, it’d be at home among calves.

As he lies back on his elbows, head back, she whispers in his ear with heavy lids. 

He nods with a decadent low laugh, and she moves to sit on her haunches at his feet on the bed; legs spread under her.

Oh. 

She wants to watch him.

Maybe not embroidery, then. 

You’ve taken to the crack in your floorboards a few times before. Be it from sheer curiosity or late night lascivision, it’s rare but not unheard of. You’ve seen far, far worse in the chamber below you and tonight feels like a rare treat, a veritable feast of pretty faces and parts. 

A noble daughter, surely. She can’t have seen manual labour with hands so wholly unblemished. You remember them at the bar; how soapy smooth they seemed in contrast to the slightly battered chalice and pocket-worn gold chips. 

He is also something radiant as he rests atop the sheets. White as chalk even in candlelight and sculpted lean, a little on the lithe side but nothing to be too haughty over. As the laces of his shirt come undone, the look he gives is verging on coquettish in its little sexually frustrated furrow. A tilt of his head, eyes of red honey; the mewl of a moan as his nimble fingers toy with the loosened flaxen strings. 

The shirt comes over his head and his pale fingers splay down his chest with an achingly slow tug.

You hug the floor a little tighter. Pressure builds behind the crux of your pubic bone, the nerves warm underneath catching like a lit match, a light pulse, a tense blooming.

Fingertips dancing over collarbones blooming with bites in maroon, plum tones. Vicious little conjunctures where the teeth of unseen others have met flesh and suckled. She hasn’t seen this skin before. She’s just as entranced as you are.

A courtesan? She doesn’t seem the type you don’t think, but he certainly does. 

You don’t typically allow them on the premises, but for him you’ll turn a blind eye. There’s no way you’d know if you weren’t watching him on the verge of ecstasy yourself. 

His companion watches on with her mouth slightly agape, lifting a hand to her still-clothed tit and tweaking at her nipple in a fixated haze. You note the slight shuffle of her heel so it sits - presumably - under her cunt. The way she pushes down ever-so-slightly to gain some friction and he exhales a low groan. 

Moans airily. Shifts his hips in a wanton rut.

It’s like he’s performing. An actor with a captive audience. His hand snakes down to his breeches and works the lacing effortlessly, eyes rolling into his skull as he does so. You imagine the friction of his palm on his crotch. The relief. How he’d feel, hard to the point of spilling under your fingers and whining.

She takes off her blouse to roll her nipples. Perky, red and stiff in contrast to the pale velvet flesh, the desire palpable on her face as she watches him work himself free; your own hand working under your hips as you lie flat on your belly in order to get the best view. Lifting the waistband of your underclothes as if you’re a participant. In some ways you are - one they’re unaware of, but burning nonetheless. Glazed over. Watching as he performs for you, for her. 

As your fingers slip between the folds of your molten slit you take a moment to look over him properly. His cock now freed, pale and glazed in prespill as he jerks the shaft between his thumb and forefinger for a moment.  

Completely hairless. Elven. You’d noticed the ears earlier, of course; but the eyes were a little unusual in colour for even sun elves. 

You remember him in the low light of the booth, scintillating with a light and airy laughter befitting the season even in the wee hour. He had her completely and wholly enraptured with the way he held her in his gaze - even chiding her at one point for elbows resting on the table, as if she was trying to get even closer - pressing brief kisses to her forehead, speaking with animated gestures; recommending the finest wines and the best of the breads as if he were a regular.

He paid for nothing. With the assumption that she paid for his time you can overlook a lack of chivalry. 

As he begins to fuck his hand with a well-practised roll of his wrist, you shift to fuck yours with newly-wettened fingers sliding deep with ease.

His teeth grit in teetering lust. She’s borderline humping the heel of her foot with each jerk of her engorged nipples, and he whispers some form of salacious encouragement. You can’t discern it too clearly but it’s thoroughly naughty. She’s groaning, eyes rolling into her skull.

You don’t know if you’re pleased when she indicates she wants to ride him. 

With any other patron you’d be ready to sit back with a glass of wine and enjoy the ridiculous noises, write about it in your journal and call it a night. 

This time round it’s as if you ache to feel him too. 

He gives a low-flutter of his lashes as she spits on her hand and reaches for his shaft, wincing as if ice on a burn and keening into her touch. You watch her jerk him, peeling the skin back softly and running a painted thumb over his slit to which he makes the most angelic whimpering noise you’ve ever heard.

By the time she’s on her knees over him, sinking onto him inch-by-inch with his hand over her mouth to mask her giddy ecstasy; you’re nearing your peak. She rolls her hips once he’s buried to the hilt and his groan is sin incarnate in timbre. A quick wriggle back up the bed and she’s on his lap, him pistoning up into her with care to curl his hips as he moves. 

A part of you is taken a little aback from your peak by the realisation you’re going to have to make sure the sheets are thoroughly scrubbed tomorrow. He’s aiming to make her gush in the way he angles. 

It’s a chore you can pass off onto Miri. 

Right now you’re chasing the white heat, the fire poker; the wet lust below you absolutely lurid in sound, and in some hilarious twist of fate, you cum almost exactly as she does. You hear him calling her his pretty thing, his good girl ; begging to spill inside her as he pumps and pumps and pumps up into her sopping cunt, a sequence of leaking glub-glub-glubs, a laboured groan as he sinks deep into her. 

The noises keep you reeling for a good few seconds longer than usual. 

A sad part of yourself pictures him calling you that.

The rest of you immediately regains composure. You don’t allow yourself to regain your silent breaths, nor do you listen too closely to the string of filthy expletives tumbling from his lips as he spills into her waiting hole. 

Your footsteps above cause him to whisper at her to hush. She giggles in sheer bliss and you roll your eyes into the thick of your skull, reaching for your pail and opening the side door exclusive to your rooms to run for water.

-

You feel a sense of familiar post-orgasm clarity on returning, unwrapping the bar of soap from waxpaper stowed on a shelf above your desk; rinsing your hands, face, and cunt of all traces of lust in the lukewarm water. A fresh towel to wipe yourself dry. Soap returned to its proper place. 

You change into your bedclothes and tend the candles you’d neglected to light on finishing work for the evening, fishing for your journal amongst the tomes stacked by your bed and reaching for the half-empty bottle of Firewine on your dresser when it catches your eye.

Chalice plucked from your ramshackle bureau. You’re freshly flopped on your bed when you hear it.

A knock. 

Nobody knocks on your door. Ever.

It’s a pain in the arse to get to and there’s usually very little to be gained by doing so, except potentially a glass to the face if you’re in a particularly dour mood.

You tilt your head and listen, heartbeat thudding in your chest. Another knock. 

“I know you’re there! Hello?”

You pause for a moment. A surprised blink. You lift to your feet as if carried and unlock the door and it’s him.

He looks at you with little regard.

“We’re checking out, now.’

You tilt your head once more, puzzled.

‘Are you deaf? Hello?”

You don’t take kindly to incredulous patrons at the best of times, no matter how pretty they are. He snaps his lithe fingers in front of your face and your eyes narrow. 

Despite your own activities there’s a little part of your brain that wants to shun him like an old matron for bringing those hands anywhere near you, knowing where they’ve just been.

“Okay?” You speak slowly. He clicks his tongue.

“I’m here to return my key?” 

“Right. Did you miss the two key-boxes on your way up here, then? Too inconvenient?’

He’s stumped now. White hair glimmers in the moonlight, eyes reflecting yours.

‘Or had you simply gathered too much momentum, perchance? Didn’t want to stop in your stride?”

“I-’ You can hear the cogs in his brain turning as he pauses. 

Gods, he’s beautiful; but you can tell already from your brief exchange he’s one card short of a full deck.

“I simply wanted to thank you for your hospitality in person! Thank you.” He exaggerates the last two words of thanks in a mocking bow. 

You’re of a mind to shout for the Fist.

“In the middle of the night?”

“Well - I’ll be gone by morning.’

His eyes meet yours for the first time, properly. Glowering carnelian. Dark, thick lashes. He smells of smoked bergamot and the briefest hint of spunk and yet it works on him in a way it would no other.  

‘I’ll be gone now, actually. So yes. Now. The middle of the night.”

Your glare doesn’t shift as he places the key delicately in your open palm and lingers a moment longer than necessary. 

You hope you convey effectively just how displeased you are at the extra scrubbing you - well, Miri - will have to do in the morning. Just how irritated you are that they’ve kept you awake. 

And with that, he turns on his heel. Skips down the iron-wrought stairs in a blur and disappears back inside. 

Strange creature.

As you settle back in with your chalice, the words in your journal are an attempt to capture him whilst he’s still fresh. There’s little harm in immortalising him on paper to recall in your most wistful midsummer evenings - you haven’t seen him before, and there’s a good chance you won’t again. 

The rest of your evening passes uneventfully. No more knocks, no more banging. 

A cattish manner. That’s how you’d describe it. The speed with which his attitude toward you on the doorstep changed once you had the upper hand didn’t go unnoticed. You picture him lazing under a sunny window on some plush chaise lounge, being fed plump grapes by some wealthy patron; a thick-bristle brush on a silver platter for maintaining his whitish waves. Practically purring. 

Just under six foot. Smarmy yet charming with it. You imagine the way someone could feel special if he turned his affection to them solely, like a stray picking a favourite leg to rub on. 

The Firewine is particularly heady having had time to aerate, thick and rich as you swill it around your teeth in the stillness of the warm night. 

Beyond the rotting pane of your window lies the Chionthar. The vast horizon of little lights on the opposite bank, the occasional ship traversing calm water; a lull to sleep as you reach to close the shutters.

-

You wake with no real urgency.

Rolling your wrists in a lazy stretch, early afternoon - multiple trips down to the water pump and back up in the blazing heat to collect enough to fill your washtub. The street below is full of shouting kids skipping the hot cobble and playing with water no doubt syphoned from the inn’s own supply.

Bertrand isn’t about, which gives you precious time to bask in the glow atop your stairs without him running to replace a barrel and spotting you lazing. Your damp undergarments from last night dunked and scrubbed unceremoniously in used bathwater before being hung to dry till crisp on the railing. Toes splayed, eyes closed; the beating light and the scalding iron rods that support your back as you lie against them. A deep breath. Sun.

One of Bert’s boys is milling outside the front with a cigar no doubt stolen from his father’s bureau, a decent indication he won’t be in at all. A sigh of relief as you exhale, tipping your head in acknowledgement at his small wave before he stubs it and ambles inside.

Not that you’re not fond of the older man. 

He tends to leave you to get along with whatever you need to, charges minimal rent for your rooms and gives generous bonuses on days of cultural significance. You do reckon he’s plying you into marrying one of his many sons though, as they haven’t had much luck elsewhere.

You struggle to remember their names. B’s. Bertrand and Brenna, you think his wife is called. A gaggle of bumbling men filling their house still at their big old ages, mother dearest still making their lunches.

Whatever. 

A ‘treat’, as Miri called it the night of her trial shift. If cigars are being slighted from Bert you can maybe use it as leverage to pinch one for her.

The corrugated iron burns your ass, your bare feet. You wince into the light. It’s bliss. 

You think back to the man from last night. Bergamot and spunk. The most delicious face. The fact he was at your door. If you hadn’t just humped your own hand to completion you think you could’ve been tempted to steal him away from his patron. You probably could have paid more, despite the fact it’d have probably wiped you clean out of gold and you’re not one for hiring prostitutes regardless.

You might have, though.

You wonder if they spent the night together elsewhere. If this morning they’re rising to breakfast and fresh-squeezed apple juice; her with her coffee. If he dropped her back home after their rendezvous with a kiss to the back of her perfect hand and thanked her for her patronage. 

The quirk of your lip. A scrunch of your nose. You could do apple juice, if that’s what he wanted. 

You picture him lazing around the bar as you clean, nesting in one of the booth pews; maybe with a book. Sunlight catching all the angles of his pretty face. Throwing quips your way with a natural irreverence, catching them and tearing them to ribbons with a mouth you’ve been told is devastatingly quick under the right conditions. 

He could be the right conditions at another time. Another life perhaps. You allow yourself an overly pitiful sigh as you mourn the entirely fabricated love that will absolutely be gone by tomorrow, when he’s all but forgotten and more faces enter the fold.

Miri snaps her fingers, waving to you from the bottom of the steps with a holler ridiculously eager for this heat; and you head inside to dress for the afternoon ahead. 

Hopefully she’s not down there piddling about with the silverware again but you potentially may just be past the point of caring if she is. 

She’s nice. Homely, in a way. Sun-ruddied cheeks smattered with freckles, eyes a warm honey colour; doesn’t do your absolute head in talking about her home life. She’s from farm stock so she potentially could have been the most grating person you’ve ever met - land girls with their steady loves and fresh butter and heaving bosoms in linen dresses - but she isn’t. Her humour is nice. She’s dry. Sharp.

You’re definitely a little jealous of the farm girls too, but you won’t admit it. 

Your room feels remarkably cool now as you step through the door and from the heat. 

Shutters open, broken slat wobbling as you see the full expanse of the horizon in the new light and a knowledge in the fact it never fails to bring you joy. All those people living lives you could never comprehend. You wouldn’t want to. Little mystery people doing little mysterious things. 

By the time you head down to the bar Miri has set the floor up. You sidle up with your sweetest smile and ask her to thoroughly scrub the sheets in the room below yours - a sorry grimace conveying all she needs to know - and she slaps your arm playfully. 

She already has. Of course she has. 

Sheets hanging limp on the terrace. Not a stain to be seen and for some reason, you feel cleaner for it. 

The evening passes quickly. She and you move in sync at the bar like a well oiled machine, and by the time you’re able to take a break for some food the worst of it is over. No more rambunctious voices, no spills or impromptu ‘singing’ from anyone having imbibed too heavily. Just a quiet lull of regulars and newcomers alike enjoying the river view and relatively well priced accommodation. 

You sneak down and poke through the stores downstairs, settling on a plate of potato scones when a tap on the shoulder startles them almost straight from the dish.

One of Bert’s lot. 

You both laugh as he chides you weakly for picking at the wares. You shrug with a mouth full. Gesture as if you’re willing to spit it back onto the plate as he shakes his head with laughter.

You confer for a moment on the business between floors and sensing the moment feels jovial enough, you bring up the cigar you mean to take for Miri with an exaggerated bat of your lashes. He nods and tilts his head to the bureau.

Just as you take your leave he stops you, his own mouth full of pilfered food. You wait as he chews for a moment.

“Oh. Tell Miri we’ll take her home with the horses tonight, if she likes.’

Your brow lifts, arms folding over your chest in a mock scrutiny. He rushes to swallow. 

‘Nothing like that! Saw something in the Mouth is all. Better safe and that.”

You nod, though your scrutiny doesn’t relent. He gives you a thumbs up.

There’s surely a tactful way to learn this one’s name. It’s definitely too late to ask.

-

The evening ends and you wave Miri off with Bael - she knows him from her interview for the position here, as it turns out - as you take to wiping the tables and tapping off the kegs. From what you managed to catch of the visitor logs there’s nobody interesting in the room below yours, nor in any of the others. Business as usual.

Your elven paramour didn’t show. Of course he didn’t. 

It doesn’t stop the fact there’s a little snag in your chest where you’d hoped for a little excitement. It didn’t even have to be him, you think. Just someone new. Someone to watch with the interest of a hawk in a mouse. Someone to exchange words with that felt like a bit of a challenge.

You pluck a bottle of sweet barleywine from the stocks and write it off as smashed by some unseen patron having clambered over the bar, corking the red nectar and pouring a large glass before taking both onto the terrace. 

The same horizon view as that from your window. 

New boats, glimmering lights in different windows. Residual heat lingers in the iron of the chair and the air smells sweet. Warmth seeping from old stone.

You think of nothing. Absolutely nothing. Chest still so you can listen to the ripe sound of insects and bumbling voices from streets over. The moon is high; the stars are so very bright, and the sky is clearer than you’ve seen in a long, long while.

warming 18+ fem!reader, 1.2k

Some half-lidded doze before dawn breaks and you must only be sentient because you await him subconsciously, as prey awaits a looming predator on the hill. - early morning feeding and cockwarming because i said so. inspired by this anon!!! wc: 1.2k cw: 18+, cockwarming, fondling, breeding if you squint so hard, fingering, afab reader, if there are errors no there aren't

You sincerely know you don’t hear him before he approaches, and yet the dip in the bed doesn’t startle you. Some half-lidded doze before dawn breaks and you must only be sentient because you await him subconsciously, as prey awaits a looming predator on the hill.

He has to know. 

Your heart has to have given you away, no matter how unaware you are of the thrum nor how you try to temper it. It’s a gentle awakening as the birds begin their early song from rag-woven nests on their roofs outside the window, despite the world still being a few dark hours away from the burgeoning break of a new sun. 

You quietly wriggle back, closer to the backboard of your tavern bed; and lift the covers by the far corner for your cool-chested lover to slide in under at your side with his usual thieves’ ease. 

Astarion settles swiftly. Captures you in a few silent smiley.

A few moments of a still embrace before he takes the quilt and lifts it over the both of your heads, only to hold your face in one deep sleepy kiss whilst he melds himself to your sleep-warmed figure. His head rests on your inner arm, your other wrapped around his ribcage, while his own both capture your torso in a reverent grasp.

He’s tried to warm himself, you can tell. 

He’s been under his own quilt. Your heart warms at it, so he can try and ensure his stony embrace isn’t quite so shocking to your system - but there’s little he can do to give himself heat that doesn’t involve you, and it’s something he knows as well as you.

You bow to kiss his curls and he shuffles in closer with a yawning sigh.

“Hungry?” 

“Famished, my love.”

Rumble tones. You offer your inner arm from under his head and he smiles dopily against the soft skin, planting languid kisses along the flesh as he sounds out the basilic vein and rouses it to stirring.

You wish you could see him in the early din. Watch as he worships your simple flesh. He’s divine, face of the gods; beautiful and sincere at your heel. 

When he has a secure lock on the vein and dips with little warning into a razor bite, it’s not as jarring as it otherwise can be. As when you offer him your neck after a long day of adventuring. It’s almost balmy to succumb to him like this, to know you have a few hours to rest after providing for him to feed with your beloved newly-warmed like a lamb in your arms.

The pain is still searing, of course; a wincing burn enough to cause strong discomfort. He reaches up under your half-gone sleepshirt and palms gently at your breast whilst he feeds in a familiar calming motion. The skin there is soft and heavy, pleasurable to the both of you when he grabs gently and holds you; thumb seeking a nipple to rub at, to pebble at his touch. 

You can hear his suckling above anything the world has to offer, the deep numb in the blood rushing to your head. The precision of his latch. The slightest wiggle of incisors in your butter-soft flesh; the swallowing of spit and the thick metal of your blood, the quiet whimper growling of his groans against skin. 

There are a few pained moments offset by his touches to your breast, where the intensity of his bite gives way to the delirious haze of bloodloss and you’re ecstatic in the hot thrum of your heartbeat. 

To give him his morning blessing. To allow his stomach the freedom of hunger for few precious hours. 

When he mounts your thigh you know he’s nearing the end of his feed, cock hard under his sleeping linens which loosen with each sleepy rut of his hips on you. By the time he’s finished his length is wholly worked free and beginning to leak his own nectar against your own sleepclothes. 

His arousal instinctively gives way to your own. You feel yourself growing pliable under his kisses whilst his fangs leave your flesh.

“You feel good, sweet one?” You murmur into his hair, and he nods slowly in response whilst slowly humping your thigh; erratic movements as he instinctively searches for the warmth of your cunt. 

“Thank you, perfect thing. Turn for me?”

He palms at the soft flesh of your ass under your sleepclothes as you give way to him. 

The moment you turn to face the wall he has you locked in his arms, one hand groping still at your breasts whilst the other works its way to your trousers and aids you in wriggling free of them by holding them open.

When his now-warm hand reaches round your front to finger lazily at the apex of your slit, the low groan of laughter in him gives way to small trembles. You can feel the nectar he coaxes free with ease, wet in wait of him.

“Warm me while we rest?” 

His voice is little more than a lusty whisper in your ear as he fiddles with the pebbling bud at your breast, hand at your honeyed cunt held still as you gently hump it in search of friction.

“Gods yes. Please.”

Your left leg gives way to him easily as he takes his newly-wet hand and lifts your inner thigh, lifting his burning cock from where it drips down onto the bedlinens and nestling it in the gap just where your sex ends.

He humps at your slit for a few moments in a fevered search of relief, the bulbous head of his cock delicious in the slick friction it offers. You want nothing more than for him to sink deep inside you and to keep him there forever with your violent spasms. 

When he does give you your deepest desire, you feel yourself melting. Fingers losing their tension as you curl into yourself, his tip breaching your hole in the most sinful of delights; dipping in a few shallow thrusts as he hitches your leg at his hip before sinking in one deep push to the hilt.

He’s big. Angry in sheer lust. His cock settles deep and he lets a delirious groan before you tap his arm in silent laughter. A room full of sleeping bodies and you’re indulging like this, as you have been for the past tenday. It feels beyond sinful. He bites at your shoulder with a huge smile and a deep breath.

You could die happy, you reckon. Him inside you, shuffling to ensure the comfort of your limbs without being held by him. He’ll remain hard for a good while yet with no friction and the reassuring weight of him inside you is fast becoming your favourite feeling in the realms. 

“I love you.”

It’s a quiet announcement to your shoulder, and the satisfied groan that follows is anything but. 

“I love you, too. More than you know.”

His lips leave your neck as you angle your head in search of a kiss, and he’ll be damned if he leaves you hanging. 

When he pulses inside you as your lips meet, tip filling your womb with prespill at the deepest part of your core; you can’t recall ever being happier.

“Sleep now, sweet thing. I’ve got you.”

And wrapped in his arms, buried inside you; you believe him.

Gods, you believe him.

dhampling's 100% official masterlist (18+)

here she is! my masterlist! this is where all my writing goes. © DHAMPLING. do not copy, repost, modify, or translate my works.

butter gn!reader, 2.5k you and the vampire spend a short gloaming sun discussing marriage

both free gn!reader, 2.1k you reject bhaal’s greatest gift - to this, your horrified love bears witness

one mine, both yours bard gn!reader, 1.6k astarion’s habit of visiting your tent leads him to your hidden pile of sonnets

the shepherd, the black sheep gn!reader, 2k a plummet into a chasm leaves you and your light-fingered friend stuck. together, you wonder if you’ll ever emerge again.

sylvan gn!reader, 2.8k a chance series of encounters in youth come together on one night, where everything just clicks for Astarion and his unicorn.

the sunwalker's gift gn!reader, 3.3k you find a ring - after a lot of searching - that allows astarion to walk in the sun, and propose with it.

gush fem!reader, 2.2k (NSFW) it rains. you swindle some wine and astarion cums in his breeches.

oh, mother fem!reader, 3.3k (NSFW) it’s the mummy fic.

lifeblood fem!reader, 2.5k (NSFW) astarion discovers an aphrodisiac during a trip to the night market, and only one thing is on his mind.

ivory tower fem!reader x ascended!astarion, 4.6k (NSFW) you're still mortal, and there's good reason for it.

warming fem!reader 1.2k (NSFW) early morning feeding and cockwarming because i said so.

leeches girl!dadstarion, <1k astarion and his daughter have a spat.

little love girl!dadstarion, <1k dadstarion watches dhampling sleep.

bramble jam girl!dadstarion, <1k “In what realm would we need this much jam?”

the gate girl!dadstarion, 1.5k astarion is a school-gate dilf on his first pick-up adventure with you.

sunburn girl!dadstarion, <1k dhampling gets sunburnt!

introducing the siblings girl!dadstarion (inbox prompt) "I had this image in my mind of him introducing the older girls to their new baby sister each time and just being sweet and cute"

breakfast girl!dadstarion (inbox prompt) astarion trying to make breakfast for the growing brood while tav/reader is like, "my love, you wanted this"

bump dadstarion x reader (inbox prompt) astarion being a lil shit and causing more kicks talking to and touching tav's baby bump as tav tries to rest?

stretch marks dadstarion x reader (inbox prompt) Imagine a tav who’s really insecure about these marks [...] and when they bring it up to astarion he decides the best course of action is to show them how much he loves them.

snuggles dadstarion x reader (inbox prompt) when tav is pregnant astarion would love snuggling up to their baby bump - curling around them and listening for signs of their little one

shallow bites girl!dadstarion (inbox prompt) "I think it would be really funny if astarion and tav’s daughter was practicing her bites and pickpocketing on the two of them, respectively. [...] No ancunín is going to grow up being a half-rate pickpocket!"

hugs from behind dadstarion x reader (inbox prompt) "hugging the other from behind" from this list of prompts with astarion hugging his very tall, very pregnant wife from behind because I think the image of it is so cute.

tiefling tav being teased about having sensitive horns/tail tief!reader (inbox prompt)

tiefling tav showing affection via their tail tief!reader (inbox prompt)

valentine's day with astarion gn!reader (inbox prompt)

earthbound astarion x earth!born reader (inbox prompt) "how do you think astarion would handle a tav who is actually from earth and is going to return home after defeating the netherbrain?"

reunited astarion x earth!born reader (inbox prompt) "a follow-up to earth tav somehow reuniting with astarion, via reincarnation or another divine intervention"

patience gn!reader (inbox prompt) "hmm, you're not very patient, are you?" from the one-liners list"

baking gn!reader (inbox prompt) "ASTARION GETTING INTO BAKING AND ASKING YOU TO SAMPLE ALL OF HIS BAKES"

thulsun fem!reader, not tav! 3.7k (NSFW) astarion appears at your parlour one evening in a cloud of smoked bergamot and the briefest hint of spunk, and it becomes oh-so difficult to watch him leave.

three, minimum fem!reader, 4.3k astarion has been planning, for the first time in his life. He wants babies.

nought point five fem!reader, 4.7k seven months along, he’s besotted with every pregnant piece of you.

one fem!reader, 2k astarion is a newly-minted girldad. that’s it. that’s the plot.

one more fem!reader, 2.9k your home is quaint. astarion continues to insist it isn’t busy enough.

the kitchen 18+ gn!reader x potwasher!astarion au, 2k

He‘s not the sort to linger among the rabble of the kitchen at the end of the evenings. The fact you were barely aware of his existence prior to now speaks volumes. - based on a discussion with @bhaalism. he's a potwasher. you want to fuck the potwasher. this started as a joke and now i'm obsessed. enjoy. cw: 18+, astarion is a potwasher, this is an au, you work in a shitty chain restaurant, sex, reader smokes, astarion vapes, creampies, oh no, gn reader i think

Before he’d caught you short of smokes, you’d never paid him much mind. 

Hair back in some messy swoop - grey, although you could swear under the fluorescent light of the kitchens it shone a bright white. Some age to his almost-crimson eyes but nothing too notable. 

Your pockets empty, patting down a food-encrusted apron in a tired resignatory furor - and he’d offered his vape silently under the back-door shelter. Minty. The familiar clouds in the walk-in, the occasional lingering menthol smell from his station. Your smoke breaks rarely align but this evening the stars shone between the fuzzy gaps in soaking clouds overhead and they gave you something new. Nicotine, chewed mouthpiece. 

There’d been a small exchange at the doorway following his outreach. 

He watched you with an inquisitive head tilt, eyes sharp with a dark smudge of lash - as if he were seeing you for the first time in this haze of heavy rain. Looked out to the bins with a deep breath and snorted at the overflow.

Astarion. Pot-wash extraordinaire, announced with a churlish eye-roll and some quiet clack of his tongue in your direction. He’d never so much as looked at you prior that you’d noticed, but now his gaze was locked on your inhale as if to watch the clear liquid leave the tank in real time. Lids flickering up to etch your side profile somewhere in the silver span of his mind. Another name to know. Another person to potentially cover his Sunday lates if he can get through to you, though.  

The name sounded far too beautiful, too distinct; but the pallor suggested local blood in those thick bluish veins. No freckles nor warmth in his ridiculously high cheeks, just the breeze of an oft-downturned nose and a passing fondness for the half-full bottles of red left by your tables, chugged (naturally) in a messy snorting huff over the running sink. Dribbles of dry red down that statuesque marble chin and a cack handed holler from the weekend porter - who would just as quickly be walloped over the head with the neat strike of a folded tea-towel.

His sniff at your thanks, the brief noncommittal nod before he tucked the vape back into his trouser pocket and dived back inside.

Camaraderie. That’s it.

-

It’s a week later when you both find yourselves outside again, falling through the back door out into another dark downpour to find him huddled to your left; drowning in an oversized outdoorsy coat with vape in hand. 

He catches your eye once more with a small smile

“Astarion, right?”

“Well remembered.”

You fish in your jacket pocket and pull out a disposable vape box, handing it over with a hurried smile.

“For the other night.”

“Could’ve just got the juice, you know.”

He hesitates on taking it, holding your stare. 

“I know. This was easier though. I’m not going to a vape store.” You grin and he snorts, taking the box from your hand.

“Well. Thank you. Most unexpected.”

You stand in amenable silence for a few moments, lighting your poison whilst he puffs away into the night. 

“How long have you been here, then?” You ask, flicking the ash into the wet and folding your arms.

“Too long. Far too long. You?”

“I’d say the same, but we haven’t really crossed paths before; have we?”

“Shame.”

He bristles as he says it. Some easy poke at wooing, you think. 

You could be swayed.

He is pretty. Really pretty. With those looks you’re almost surprised he’s not the rake of the joint, but your co-workers seem ridiculously oblivious to him - and he isn’t too endeared with them either, from what you can tell. He‘s not the sort to linger among the rabble of the kitchen at the end of the evenings, nor is he one of the roaring personalities that carry all the way through to the bar counter in their jovial roaring. The fact you were barely aware of his existence prior to now speaks volumes.

“What do you do when you’re not here, then?”

He looks back at you in a guarded ponder, eyes narrow.

“I spend the odd day off on my yacht, obviously; but only when my sprawling country mansion is undergoing renovations.”

You offer a laugh and he smirks. The humour is poor but salient.

“Ah! We might be neighbours, you know.”

“The mansion?”

“No, the dock. My weeknight yacht was newly refurbished there!”

“Oh, what luck!”

“We’ll have to host a dinner party or something. It’s only proper.”

Astarion gives you a laugh you’ve never heard before - loud and airy, almost comical if it weren’t for the sincere rumble toward the end.

“Dinner party! Oh yes. Absolutely. With little vol-au-vents and hors d’ouvres.”

“A must have.”

“I agree, darling. It’s a date.”

As he puts his vape back in his pocket and bids you farewell with a small wave of those pale hands, you lean back on the closed door with an uncharacteristic light-headedness.

-

Darling.

You’re given too much time to stew on it, the slight exuberant lilt of his voice. The roundness of his eyes as he spoke with you in jest. The fact he didn’t smell like kitchen grease but instead some warm note of vetiver and menthol. The fact you even noticed how he smelled.

As a new evening rounds off you find yourself with little else to do but search for him behind the service window, and you’re quietly delighted by what you find.

The smattering of white-shock curls - back arched as he leans over the empty prep station, ass high in a light nonchalant sway as your fellow servers dash to visit the kitchen in search of dead plates to devour. The quirk of a brow as the head chef gives freely to those who ask, whittling down a single stale fry with small bites as he observes.

You hadn’t expected things to change after your encounter, and to that point, they definitely haven’t.

You’re just more aware of him now. 

When he catches you watching almost immediately from afar, you offer him a small grin whilst he shifts to wholly capture your gaze. A challenge. The corner of his mouth lifts as he moves to hold your stare, calm and cool; with that fox-like tilt of his head to the side. 

You could picture it. 

The linger after lock-up, satchel on his shoulder as he catches you waiting for him. 

The slight moment of bewilderment before it becomes easy banter - even though restrained - once more. A quip on his part, maybe; some query as to what you’re waiting for as he hangs onto your every word in focused anticipation.

Maybe a drink at the bar down the road - but more likely in your mind a stop at the nearest off-licence to pick up a bottle or two of that wine he likes, as you dance around each other in a waiting quiet, bristling. Fluorescent corner-store lights giving his hair that unnatural sheen while he prowls the aisles and heads to the till, head turned back to see you waiting; eyes on him at the door. He’s heavy lidded the whole walk to his, hands kept to themselves for the walk up the stairs. The rattle of keys in the lock.

You reckon his flat - it has to be a flat, he couldn’t keep a whole house on your wage - is littered with burnt incense sticks and plush rugs and cushions in every jewel tone you can possibly imagine yet it feels so very him. He ushers you through to the living room and the awkward dance begins with the sofa, but he keeps you at ease. Collects wine glasses from the kitchen and pours with a flourish before settling back onto the seat and encouraging you with some typically witty output to do the same. 

Candles. You didn’t see him lighting them, but they’re lit. The air is heavy with orange flower, patchouli; musk - vetiver and menthol as he exhales, insisting you’re okay to smoke if you like, but passing you his vape wordlessly as you reach for it. Fingers brushing as you do. You talk for a small while, but you both know why you’re here.

His eyes move to the open buttons of your chest as he deftly wets his bottom lip, and you take it as your chance to place your glass on the side table and ask if you’re okay to shed the shirt completely. It’s far too warm in there. 

The candles, obviously. That’s why.

His coy nod, the languid blink as he watches your fingers dance your shirt open and pry the black shirt from your chest. Your deep exhale as you settle back into the sofa, lying slightly back with your legs angled toward him; glass back in hand.

His breath hitches. You notice it. He’s practically purring.

When he sets his glass aside in a pretence of pouring more wine, you reach for his arm to halt him from filling yours - now empty - and like a tense spring, he snaps. 

Time slows as he reaches for your wrist and tilts his head once more, your enthusiastic nod giving him the permission he seeks; and brings your hand quickly down the solid span of his torso to the achingly hard bulge of his cock, letting your palm rest over the top of his trousers. 

Wet. Fuck.  

His slow-primal groan as you gently stroke at the sodden patch of precum, cupping to warm him through his clothes whilst he bucks lightly toward you. Towards the pressure, the warmth you can provide.

From then, you can feel yourself growing sticky. Shuffling as you race to disrobe. You picture the stony length of his cock freed from those awful work trousers and glistening something bulbous and glassy in the low light, your own fevered want reaching its peak as you bare yourself and he pulls you into a kneeling hover over him.

To feel the soft velvet of his tip brushing your arousal. There’s no need for foreplay. No need for any preparation of the sort, you’re both craving the relief. He offers his hand to catch a pool of your spit and lubricates his length in long, steady jerks. 

Even they can’t mask the shudder of his breath. The fluttering of those smoky lashes as he rubs himself onto your waiting hole, watching; allowing a slip inside every few moments and waiting for your eager gasp each and every time.

Then, you sink onto him - and it’s bliss. Complete and utter bliss. You’ve never felt so full nor so weak in your whole entire life and for a moment you’re worried he’s ruined you. His heady moans of pleasure as you adjust around him. The space where you meet, where he impales you; runs soaking with arousal and sweat. 

You move to ride him like your life depends on it. You’re his sweet little thing, his angel; and you are being so very good for him as you take his cock. His palms remain glued to the fat of your ass whilst his cool fingers dig deep into the ripe flesh and he bounces you up and down on his forearms with some remarkable strength.

His. 

His, his; his. His beautiful thing. He’s perfect under you, with his pathetic desperate whimpers and the face of a wanton adonis; sturdy shoulders your anchor, for fear you’ll simply float away with sheer unbridled pleasure.

When he cums, he makes a point to do it inside you. Holds your thighs down so you can’t hop off nor be tempted to ride him through his peak; so you can feel him twitch and pulse inside you, ropes and ropes of his thick, hot spend painting your insides. His.

He’s called back to finish the last few pots on the side, and you silently rejoice in your sticky save as he winks goodbye through the bar window; eyes lingering on his ass as he walks slowly back to the service sink.

Fuck.

swell 18+ fem!reader x astarion, 1.9k

You gently nudge him to the bed and ask if he’s willing to indulge you, and he confirms with those smouldering eyes that he’s ‘been thinking about it all day’. - feral pregnant sex with the elf. that's it. based on this NSFW piece by the ridiculously talented @mutualcombat (to whom i am also legally married, fun fact) cw: 18+, breeding, pregnant sex, squirting, creampie, sub astarion, riding, so little plot it's not even funny, p in v

Hot to bursting; his ‘unhinged woman’ now pacing the cool terracotta of your kitchen, barefoot.

His plush princess. Wholly doted on. The swell of heaving breasts on red-hot belly and the residual stony heat of a summer’s day in the Gate settled thick in your home. Not a cold bath, as he’d never allow such a shock to the system this late on; but when you feel the balls of your feet lose their searing tightness while treading the cold stone it gives you an idea.

When you take Astarion’s wrist and lead him up the staircase in a determined lust-march, he mentions something about it being his ‘lucky day’ and you want to lift your skirts there and then despite the blossom of blush on your cheeks. Take him on the wrought iron and watch the flowery imprints bloom on his bare ass.

Steps later. You gently nudge him to the bed and ask if he’s willing to indulge you, and he confirms with those smouldering eyes that he’s ‘been thinking about it all day’. A deliberate nod and a gulp - heavy and laced with ruinous grit. 

You sink to your knees and run the flat of your tongue over his clothed cock, delighted to find the half-hard swell beneath his breeches; the spot where the evidence of his day-long desire has seeped through into a dry salty puddle prior, now pulled taut between your teeth and wetted once more with a mouthful of warm spit.

Ravenous. Deft fingers unlace his fixings and you descend like a waiting bird to find him hard. Harder by the moment. Thick pearly ooze at the velvet head and seething through closed teeth, your tongue determined to give him reason.

One long lick along his perfect slit and you’re hooked.

Cool, like some highsummer treat. Your head rolls in heavy circles as a flattened tongue catches each eager twinge of his prespill; each twitch of his cock fruitful in giving more of his salt over to your keening hunger. Fleshy. He groans. 

When you catch his eye you see tears brimming carnelian at the stimulation, your teeth covered by lust-bitten lips as you take his tip into the scorching wet of your mouth, kneeling at his knee, haunches bearing the weight of your swollen torso. Fattened belly. His spill some enchanted seed in giving you the dream; the ability to bear life unto him, and you’ve never craved the taste of it more. Maybe it’s the elven genetics; maybe the vampirism; but the genuine wanton throb each mouthful gives you at your core feels akin to the effect of succubus spittle.

Wet. Everything is stupidly wet. 

Cheeks covered in a clear glaze of spit and his precum, the swelling flesh between your legs absolutely sodden in easy desire. You lack underwear. He must know this, smell your amplified arousal. A few gentle bobs of your head and he’s completely enraptured. Lost in the salacious glint of your eyes as you look up to him; resting back on his palms in sheer delight.

He tastes perfect. Familiar. Your favourite thing to drink. The cool length of his cock as he angles baby thrusts into the waiting wet you offer so freely, so covetous of him.

“Little kit, are you thirsty?”

You lift your head and look at him through heavy lashes, unhollowing your cheeks and feeling the now-salty spit gather in thick ropes from roof to tongue.

“I’m struggling with poetics, so please; let me show you what I need.”

You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand and rise to your feet, gesturing for him to disrobe as you unlace your loose-fitting clothes. 

He sits there bare for a few moments, glimmering with desire as he watches you shed your clothes and kick them aside. A glistening thin string shows the full spool of your arousal and you hear him choke as you move him to lie flat on the floor, atop some thin rug over the board.

“I intend to have you completely and utterly drunk on me.”

He watches you above him, the wobble of milky full tits; the round bulge of your loaded belly, skin tight, and the way both seem to bounce in the low light as you descend back to your haunches - this time, hovering over the crux of his erection in a gentle bob.

“Listen to me - lie still, and let me at you. Please.”

You take a moment to watch for his reaction, for any hint at discomfort with your heavy-handed seduction.

Nothing but want. Eyes aflame and rapid between your own and the space where you’ll meet. Your cunt aches for him, spasming in heat and desperate to hump the cool evidence of his desire. 

“Take me.” Given in a sob, a sybaritic groan. You allow him a few precious moments to run his icy tip up and down your sodden folds before rocking it into position to just slightly breach your hole. One slight dip of your hips downward, two dips, the consequential wiggle of your full tender chest; and then you sink onto him in sheer elation. 

Heaven. Pure heaven. A full cunt of his doing has become your favourite treat whilst so heavily knocked up, be it with cock or his cum; full to bursting, messy and delirious at his command, and he’s oh-so-happy to indulge when the need seizes you.

You give a gentle rock, allowing him to settle with the sizzle of his ice in your heat before you shift a little to reposition him. Your hands find his legs and curl them up to your hips for leverage, your feet and knees holding you in a bent squat over him; and resting ever-so-slightly on the pillow of his tilted ass you grab hold and you ride. 

The pressure. Molten lava brewing in the core of a towering infernal volcano. The ease with which his cool cock is coated so thoroughly in your slick as you slam onto him in fevered bliss, slipping into you as if something trivial. You remember a time where he was broaching on too thick; and now you take no greater pleasure than adjusting so easily to him.

Once you find a rhythm you’re unstoppable. 

There’s a moment where he gives you the kind of face he only gives you when he’s on the verge of frustrated tears, staccato whining, needy huffs as you plough yourself on his prick and feel each throb of ice inside your cunt like he needs you to. Begs you to. Asks if he feels good enough for you, his paramour; with wanton abandon and another pulse of prespill directly into your ravenous hole.

Babbling, too. Laboured breaths. 

He’s your good boy; the very best for you, always at your side in these late months of your swell for you to use - and he’s doing so well like this, at your mercy, legs wide as you tell him he’s your best little whore and his cock furiously kicks in search of relief in between your legs. 

In the heady cocktail of sweat and sex he even whimpers thanks. Begs forgiveness. Grateful. He bred you like you were naught but a bitch in heat and now you ride him whilst weighty and hot with the result of his loins. Pleads to you for clemency in the face of the irrefutable evidence of your leaky tits and swollen belly. He put a baby in you and now lies brittle as you claim even more of his spend and you’ve never in your life seen him look so thoroughly ruined. 

Flesh meets flesh. His brows knit together and you’re furious. Desperate to milk every drop from him. No cramp could give him reason to take your hands from their support on his legs; no ache nor pain could convince him that this wouldn’t be the perfect way to die.

By the time his own hip-cants grow sloppy you’re still hungry. You take his wrist as he lies back from his elbows to rest his head on the rug, and place his hand where his cock enters you so he can feel it. The gush each time you bounce upward, fresh wetness coating his length in a sticky gloss. The stretch of your hole each time you take him from tip to hilt. He practically foams at the mouth as his head looks up once more to watch the space below your swollen belly. 

And you ride. You soak him in your pleasure. Glubs and moans and some feral growling - a threat to bite as he shifts to move his hand back and use his elbow for support once more. Every burning inch of you needs every part of him, and even then; would you be satisfied?

When his hand reaches a little upward to jerk at the engorged nub of your clit you feel your own rapture incoming in some lecherous barrel toward your core. More praise. He’s doing so well for you, your sweet boy. 

Then - in the softest voice, you hear it. A plea.

“Can I?”

If you could kiss him in encouragement, you would - however you’re both aware of the sizable barrier in your way and it does nothing but make him harder. More desperate. He did that to you, he says in bewilderment each and every time. You want to ride him through the tsunami of his high but there’s a tiny voice in your head that tells you once he empties his balls he’ll be too wet to continue riding. Too soft, if only for a short while. You’ll go insane if you can’t cum around him. 

“Not ‘till I do.”

It lights a fire in him. His thrusts become sharper and deeper once more as you press down on his knees to support your angry weighted frame. He wants to give it to you. To feel you wetten his cock with your climax. 

“Use me, then. Please.” 

And with that, you do.

You impale yourself something heavy on him at that toe-curling angle where he’s hitting the dense spot inside you with the plush of his cock head and within moments you’re seeing stars. He’s ecstatic as he feels the first flutters of your orgasm and yet he doesn’t relent, tears at the corners of his eyes and the edges of his mouth practically foaming. Begs in hoarse-frenzied whispers to feel your relief. The crescendo of your pleasure.

Pressure builds and you know you’re there. Your channel fills and you’re stuttering to a halt, pinning him down with your weighty hips. 

You lift, and feel the gush. Your squirting cum all over his cock, his abdomen; the flat-woven rug. Astarion pulls you back onto him with urgency as you reel in delirious laughter so he can feel the tight contractions of your cunt. Your head tilts back and you’re bordering on tears yourself.

Nothing has ever felt this good. No sex, no sun overhead nor dip in cool water. You’re shaking above him while he writhes to hump you in search of his own release; and he very quickly finds it in the sopping wet of your walls.

He loves you. He loves you more than anything. He shoots his desire into you as he has so many times before, in desperate thrusts and waiting holes; but this is you. His love. His fertile angel. Sown fresh by him once now as you will be so many times over. 

You have forever, and nothing less will do.

— I think we could live forever in each other's faces (and if we don't live forever maybe one day we'll trade places)

› astarion x f!reader

› wc: 1k+

› a/n: hello im here to inflict emotional damage on you at 11 am

warnings: angst, reader death, grief, wet dream, jerking him off, mention of hickies, ball fondling, grief manifests in strange ways, lmk if I missed anything!

It didn’t rain the day of your funeral. 

He thinks perhapse it’s fitting, in some twisted way, that the sun beats down hot and wild, streaks of shining gold raging across the sky as the first shovelful of dirt covers you. He bites down on his tongue hard enough for spots to briefly cloud his vision, for the sour tang of his own blood to fill his mouth like tar. The sweat coating his flesh makes the fabric of his clothing stick far too uncomfortably to his skin.

He’d thought briefly about what this would be like but always shoved the thoughts to the very far corners of his mind to languish, gathering dust as he much preferred to think of you vibrant and alive. Delectably sweet. 

Days turn to weeks, to months, to years. 

That detestably hot day feels like yesterday despite now being decades ago, and he knows in some tiny piece of himself he has to let go, has to get up. If only because you would absolutely detest the state of him. How your eyes would glint with love as you pull him up, fingers threaded through his own. Chiding him in the softest of ways for leaving himself so abandoned for so long. 

“You know I adore your bedhead, but brushes have been invented for longer than a tenday. Use one.” 

He swears he can hear your voice and it tugs the tiniest of smiles across his lips automatically. 

What a supreme kind of love, to cut so deeply yet still leave him with the ability of smile over you with tears drowning his eyes. 

He remembers the flowers you said specifically grow in your hometown. They’re dutifully left for you before sunrise each day. He’s also found himself to be much more fussy regarding the state of your resting place, never minding kneeling through dirt or mud to make sure every inch is unmarred. As pristine as the day it was erected. 

There was a even a scultpor he commissioned to recreate your likeness, with your hands held in such a way that in the day the sun shone brightest and longest of all a perfect heart was cast against the ground, directly over you. It had cost a fortune but it’s quite funny how little financials matter when you’re appeasing a ghost. 

Truthfully he’ll only drag himself up and around if it’s for you. Otherwise he remains shut inside, paralyzed by loss each day anew as he remains surrounded by your every article of clothing or ridiculous little knicknacks, the books still full of annotations and markers as if you’ll be right back to them. As if you’ll be right back to him. 

Delusional hope. A thing he would’ve happily mocked incessantly many moons before, jeering at the hapless fool who allowed themselves to be so shackled to another that the absence drives them mad. Oh how rich in irony he is. 

~

It’s black as pitch when he wakes, tip toeing the edge of consciousness when he feels a familiar warmth beside him. A lazy grin curls his lips as his arm tightens around you, fingers kneading the soft flesh of your side, your back. Feeling the muscle moving beneath your skin as you stretch against him, burning your face against his chest as he presses whisper light kisses to your hairline. 

The slide of well worn, much used sheets against your bodies as his hips grind against you in slow drags, enjoying the soft hum you let out feeling his erection press against your thigh. How easily you wind him up, just your presence is often enough to have him ready to get on his knees, unashamed to plead for just a taste of you. And you’re ever the gracious, benevolent lover. 

The smell of your skin overwhelms him, wraps around you both far more effectively that the blankets you’re buried in as the motion of his hips become firmer, more focused. He gasps reflexively felling your gentle hand grasp him, your thumb rubbing against his tip and dragging precum across. His breathing becomes harsh, even taking on a whining edge as your hand begins it’s lackadaisical strokes, guiding him towards his end with feather light fingers an dthe smile he can feel emanating from you. 

But unfairly your hand abandons his weeping cock, his teeth catching hard against his bottom lip as you caress his balls, holding him with heartbreaking softness in the palm of your hand while your fingers massage an ever so slight rhythm. If he had a beating heart it would sound like the pounding of horses hooves, thunderous and so strong it could crack his ribs from sheer force. 

His hips buck again, begging shamelessly for your focus to reshift back to this almost painfully throbbing cock. 

Graciously, blessedly, you answer that plea in earnest as your hand wraps around him with renewed firmness. Your strokes are no longer lazy, now you move purposefully as your lips find his collarbone, nipping and sucking at the skin before moving to decorate a new patch in a shade of pink only you could produce against him. 

Admissions pour from his lips, strained and cracked as he feels himself tightening before release, a wild spill of barely legible declarations of love, whispers of your name, promises of affection everlasting. Every single word is seared on his heart as if you yourself took up a branding iron against him. 

His hips stutter, thigh muscles flexing and trembling as the force of his orgasm nearly moves him to tears. Warm, thick seed coats your hand and your fingers, over and over as he moans shamelessly against your hair. 

The heat around him is slow to dissipate but hes acutely aware of his own face buried against the pillow and strangling his slowly evening breaths. 

Consciousness cracks over him like the booming echo of thunder before an almighty storm. 

It may not have rained on the day of your funeral but that day, so many years later, the sky inside himself opens like the heavens and it’s not the bitter taste of blood in his mouth but the twinge of salt and the bitterness of loss.

No thoughts. Only rushed, clumsy, giggly sex with Astarion the second the two of you are finally alone. Literally ripping buttons off of clothes trying to get them off as quickly as possible to get at skin you can no longer go without touching. Foreheads knocking together even when you break apart from a kiss just bc you'd rather die than go too far. Sharing breaths as you laugh at how ridiculous the two of you are. Lovesick. Lustsick. Dazed. He tries to plant a kiss to the side of your face as your head lulls to the side, pleasure making you all jelly limbed and weak, but his teeth press against the skin of your cheek instead bc he can't stop grinning.

pre vampirism stereotypical rich man astarion drabble with a fem reader in mind. power imbalance, fingering, secret hookups, literally master of the house and you're a servant, he's an asshole but I love him your honor.

"Sex in the drawing room is hardly proper." You seeth as he gives you a faux pout, rocking his hips to make his clothes erection press with aching firmness against the apex of your thighs. It's difficult to focus on the argument when your muscles are flexing like a tautly pulled string at the feeling of him.

"Don't be difficult, darling." The pout twists deeper but it doesn't escape you how his eyes are full of amusement as he lets out a groan, gripping your hips even tighter. Dizziness and wanting nearly knocks your mind off balance.

You wish you could say you despise him. You wish you could say this flippant behavior makes you hate him, but there's no winning against the Magistrate. It's even more insulting that he regularly lets you think you've got him right where you want him, only to find yourself both metaphorically and literally flat on your back in front of him.

It's part of what makes him so alluring, though. That and just how out of your reach he really is, showcased by these hidden trysts that make up the bulk of your relationship. If it could even be called that. It's also where the little seed of resentment inside you comes from, because it's a simple fact you two belong to completely different worlds and someone like you could never dream of belonging in the same room as him without a silver serving tray in your hands.

No matter how many times he lays with you that spot beside him will never belong to you.

Not for nothing you think faintly that someone should tell him no once in a while, it would be good for him. But that person certainly isn't you, not with his fingers prodding at your slick entrance and his other hand at the back of your neck sending wave after wave of goosebumps down your arms.

Not while his lips trace down from your jaw to the popped open and askew collar of your uniform, his teeth brushing against the tender flesh of your chest. Not while his fingers scissor and curl inside you and the heel of his palm grinds against your throbbing clit.

"Astarion-"

"Sir," He's quick to correct you with authority shot through his tone. It makes a sour taste curl over your tongue, sharp and vile. The division would always exist whether you're on his lap or fetching at his beck and call and what a blunder it is to forget yourself even in the midst of all this.

"Sir," you bite back, the word drenched in mockery but he's quick to cut you off with a firmer press of his palm against your clit making you moan obscenely, practically bouncing off the decorations in the drawing room.

All is forgotten as you chase your own high shamelessly in his lap, grinding your hips and nearly panting from how his lithe fingers coax you to the edge of orgasm so quickly. After all this time there's no one who could hope to play the instrument of your body even half as well as he does.

As you clench around his fingers you can feel the smug satisfaction rolling off of him in waves that coat your skin like a sheen of sweat actively forming. The air feels hot and dry, catching in your throat as you whimper shamelessly, too caught up in the way you feel pressure in your abdomen immediately releasing and rushing straight to your head.

As your body takes on a boneless feel the awareness of station and propriety slips out of your mind and you slump against his chest, nuzzling against the side of his neck while you try to get control of your harsh breathing.

If not for the afterglow you find yourself preening in perhaps you'd feel a twinge of sadness at the way his hands fall away from your back too fast, the way he quickly maneuvers you off himself to stand and straighten his clothes. The way he doesn't look at you as he speaks.

"Get yourself cleaned up, quickly. We're expecting guests during today's luncheon."

That earlier sourness returns with a vengeance, flooding your mouth as you feel embarrassment run hot beneath your skin, all too conscious of the way your chest is spilling out of your uniform, the way your hair is mussed in wild chunks, the sweat making your clothes stick to your back.

You don't say a word, biting your tongue as you watch him slip out of the door and presumably back down the hall to his office.

As you rise, fixing the buttons at your chest, you do your best to swallow down the venom you wish you could spit.

A running list of places you might find batstarion has dozed off in:

The cooking pot at camp. Gale almost cooked him once by accident bc the lid was on it, and he didn't know Astarion was in there. (Or did he?)

Has been known to crawl into a chest for nap time when the rest of you are taking too long exploring a place.

In the pouch you keep all of your coins in. (It makes him feel wealthy.)

Your backpack, of course. Nestled very sweetly between all of your sharp and pointies and poisonous herbs.

Your pillowcase. You'll go to lay down and feel a lump of fur start to wiggle about, and think it's a rat or something at first.

Draped over someone's head like a little fluffy hat.

Your shirt. This one is obvious, but I had to mention it. Just be careful not to forget about him and squash the poor guy.

The pile of laundry you have in your tent just bc it smells like you.

Fully immersed in Scratch's fur or the owlbear's feathers. It won't be on purpose, usually, he'll just be chilling, and one of them will come over and flop down on top of him for a nap.

A jar of blood that he was sipping on. Lost in the sauce.