That Weird Pikachu

Gods, you had tasted divine, your blood hot on his tongue and sweet along his palette. Astarion slowed to a stop as he became lost in that taste once more, lashes fluttering as he recalled the sensation of your blood slipping thickly down his throat and the muted trembling of your body as he fed.

Would a boar ever truly suffice, after he’d tasted you?

Astarion huffed a laugh, lids parting around sharp crimson eyes. You had agreed to that first feeding readily enough, but he doubted you’d be thrilled at the prospect of more. Perhaps a mouthful here and there, to keep him going. Keep him strong. 

Keep him -

Astarion drew in a breath, fingertips alighting on his stomach. His abdomen jumped beneath the touch of his own hand, a slick warmth thrumming in his gut and groin, and his brows furrowed as a realization struck. 

He was hard.

Well, of course, he scoffed to himself, ignoring the sudden roiling in his gut. Why wouldn’t he be? He had tasted blood from a sentient creature for the first time in his long, long life, the sweetness of it - the power of it - still thrumming through his veins. It was little wonder his body had responded in kind.

He would just ignore it, focus instead on the hunt. He knew there were boar in these woods - he had only to find one to slake his hunger. If he were lucky, perhaps a bear might even wander across his path. Your blood had been delicious - achingly so - but a few precious mouthfuls had done little to sate him. If anything, the gulps he’d taken had only whetted his appetite, leaving his belly empty and his body unfulfilled.

In more ways than one, apparently, he thought with a scowl, glaring balefully at the inconvenient bulge in his trousers. He was no stranger to unwelcome erections, uncouth as it felt to admit. His body had ceased to be his own beneath Cazador’s control, honed into a tool the vampire lord could wield as he saw fit. And wield it he had, against so many hapless fools that Astarion had long lost count. It hardly mattered if Astarion himself was willing - he would be compelled to perform either way. And if he fought, if he refused his Master’s will - well, what became of a tool when it failed to perform its function?

It was stuffed in a drawer and locked away. 

Astarion’s silver brows furrowed, mind flitting away from the memories of that year - that wretched year - that he’d spent entombed. That was in the past, he assured himself, as was his servitude to that thrice-damned aristocrat he’d called a master. He need only lick his lips and taste the remnants of your blood lingering upon them to remind himself of that. Even his current predicament, annoying as it was, served as further proof of his newfound freedom. When last could he recall his cock swelling for anything other than continued survival?

Sighing out a breath through his teeth - and more than a little vexed when even thoughts of his former master failed to wither the damn thing - Astarion braced his back against the nearest tree, plucking derisively at the ties to his trousers until he could slip his hand inside and wrap his fingers inelegantly around turgid flesh. He hissed as the touch sent a bolt of electricity sizzling along his spine, unable to remember the last time he’d felt compelled to touch himself this way and more than a little annoyed that he’d been driven to this point in the first place. 

Bitter anger surged as he realized just how little joy he found in the act, yet Astarion refused to relinquish his grip or surrender to the sharp sting of melancholy that threatened to overwhelm him as he explored the length of his cock for the first time in years. 

Thankfully, your exquisite blood had worked his body into such a frenzy that it took only a few perfunctory tugs to reach his peak, and with little more than a frown at the mess coating his palm, Astarion was able to cast his focus entirely to the hunt and stuff the experience into the back of his mind where it belonged.

Let it keep the parasite company, he thought with a sneer, doing up his laces and perking at the muted clop of hoofbeats nearby. 

He had a boar to hunt.

*

If the tiefling party proven anything, it was that Astarion wasn’t cut out to be a hero. Oh, he’d had his fun, sipping at subpar wine and feigning a smile whenever any of the refugees fawned over him for his bravery against the goblins, but once Astarion caught the gleam of interest in your eye - a gleam that had become more pronounced of late, try as you might to conceal it from his gaze - his course for the evening had been set. 

His plan was simple. Seduce you, bed you, and thus secure your allegiance - an allegiance he would desperately need in future if he ever ran afoul of his blasted Master. And what better time to enact such a plan than on a night like this - when wine and merriment ran rampant, when praise and joy and drink had loosened your guard? Astarion would have been a fool to allow the opportunity to pass him by.

It was easy, in the end. Familiar. Like slipping on an old coat. He had played the role for so long that the steps were instinctual, ingrained into his very being. And what of it? So what if his stomach curdled as he plied you with well-practiced flirtations? So what if the glint of want in your eye dried his throat more swiftly than the swill in his bottle ever could? He knew of no other way to be. 

“Let’s wait until things quiet down,” he murmured silkily, flashing a rakish smile your way. “Once the others are asleep, we’ll find each other.”

You longed to give in, Astarion knew. He could see it, writ plain as day across your face - the urge to throw caution to the wind and relinquish control, if only for a night. To submit. To submit to him. It would take so little to convince you, he knew.

You made to speak, surrender on the tip of your tongue, but then Astarion caught it - the haze lifting from your eyes, the spell he’d wrought with his saccharine tongue and honeyed words relinquishing its grip just enough to allow cooler heads to prevail. Oh hells. 

“On second thought, Astarion,” you murmured, clearing your throat of its rasp even as you took a calculated step out of his orbit. “Maybe we shouldn’t.”

Astarion’s ardor cooled, though he did his best to hide his disappointment. “Never listen to your second thoughts, darling,” he cautioned glibly, taking a swig of his wine and making a face. Gods below, the stuff was awful. “They always spoil the fun. But fine. If you’re determined to spoil your evening, I won’t stop you.”

Your lips twitched at his candor. “Goodnight, Astarion,” you murmured, chin dipping in farewell before you retreated to the fire and the empty bedroll that awaited you. It seemed you had no intention of taking anyone to bed this night.

Waste of a perfectly fine evening, Astarion found himself thinking, hooded eyes beholding your form curled up alone in the light of the flames. He couldn’t deny that his pride had been wounded by the rejection - it was nigh impossible to recall the last time anyone had refused his offer of a romp - though there was a certain degree of relief to be found in knowing he wouldn’t be required to perform tonight. 

His body seemed to have missed that memo, unfortunately, or perhaps all of the terrible wine had finally gone to his head. Either way, the growing tent in his trousers was an annoyance, one that your staunch refusal to bed him had left him with little choice but to relieve by… other means. 

Astarion’s gaze drifted among your companions, briefly contemplating passing the night with one of them. The valiant Blade of Frontiers, perhaps? Or Lae’zel, if he wanted a challenge - and didn’t mind a bit of bruising. You had amassed quite the collection of powerful would-be allies since your escape from the nautiloid, and Astarion wasn’t against taking advantage. No need to squander the night just because you had denied him.

Astarion entertained the thought for a moment, and then scoffed as he realized he truly couldn’t be bothered. Too much work on too little wine, he decided. It was far easier to remove himself from the festivities and sequester himself away in the privacy of his tent with the remnants of his dignity and the dregs of his inferior wine. 

Easier still to slip a hand beneath his waistband and bring himself to orgasm, cheek tucked into his pillow and breath sweet with the richness of the wine he’d consumed. His own hand might not have been the company Astarion would have preferred this night, but at least the sensation of his fist dragging along his cock no longer filled him with such dread. If anything, masturbation had become a necessity, his prick surging to life each night you bared your throat to his fangs. Eventually he would learn to control that particular physiological response, but he supposed this wasn’t such an awful solution in the meantime.

There was something almost sacrilegious about it, Astarion had discovered - the act of getting himself off for the sheer sake of it rather than in pursuit of whichever poor fool Cazador had bid him bed. If only he had known that sliding his thumb over the head of his dick for no one’s satisfaction than his own would feel so rebellious, he might have done it sooner! 

Astarion huffed at the thought, staring up into the darkness of his tent and waiting for his breaths to slow. Perhaps it was a good thing that you had denied him. Drink had made him muzzy-headed and over eager, judging by the mess he’d made of himself. It would take much more than wine-adled fumbling in the dark to tether you to his side. No, when he took you to bed, Astarion wanted his wits about him. Wanted to make it last. Drive you to the heights of pleasure and send you tumbling over the edge with his name upon your lips.

If only you would just let go of that damnable control of yours, he pouted, pushing his fingers through his sweaty curls. If you couldn’t even indulge in a vice or two on the night of a celebration - thrown in your honor, no less! - then Astarion certainly had his work cut out for him. 

He smiled, fangs glinting in the dark. For all his complaining, there was something to be said for the thrill of the hunt. 

A little patience now would make it all the sweeter when you finally gave in. 

*

The crèche was in reach. 

Lae’zel had baulked at the notion of making camp, of course, intent on reaching her kin before morning, but a few measured words from you had calmed her ire. 

Well, mostly. Astarion’s lips twitched as he caught the tell-tale scrape of her blade across a whetting stone, and wondered how long she would be at it before she called it a night.

“You don’t get views like this back in the city.”

At the sound of your voice, Astarion’s eyes drifted away from the stars. Clad in your usual camp attire and smelling faintly of Gale’s latest culinary creation, you peered pensively into the night sky, hands resting on your hips and head tilted back.

Sensing an opportunity - and refusing to allow your initial rejection at the tiefling party to dissuade him from his goal - Astarion hummed, “Yes, it’s quite the sight,” and suppressed a fanged grin whenever you glanced his way and startled upon realizing he was gazing not at the brilliant blanket of stars above, but at you. 

He had doubted your affections after his offer of a romp had been so soundly rebuffed, but your behavior since - the fleeting glances, the flustered silences, the surging of your pulse whenever he fed upon you - had only confirmed the suspicions he’d harbored since he’d caught that first gleam of interest in your eye. You wanted him, and he could - would - use that to his advantage. “The stars, I mean,” he continued, unable to resist a bit of teasing. “I could take or leave your chin.”

You huffed, a subtle curl to your lips. “Am I disturbing you?”

Astarion shook his head. “No, I was just thinking. Reflecting on what tomorrow might bring, when we arrive at this gith crèche.” Tilting his head contemplatively, he wondered, “Will we find out how to bring the worm under control? Will this little adventure of ours be over?”

You gave him an unreadable look. “It doesn’t have to be,” you ventured, seemingly nonchalant, though of course Astarion knew better. “We can still travel together.”

You would like that, wouldn’t you? he thought deviously, unable to suppress a bark of laughter. “Ha! Why not?” He couldn’t deny the idea had its merits. You were a powerful ally, a seasoned fighter, and - if the events since your escape from the nautiloid were any indication - blessed with nigh unfathomable levels of sheer dumb luck. He would do well to keep you by his side, worm or not.

“Is that why you sought me out?” he queried, catching your eye. “To discuss our little stowaways?”

You grimaced at the innocuous moniker for your illithid parasites, before smoothing your face into a placid mask. Astarion perked up in interest. Why, if he didn’t know better, he’d say you were nervous.

“Not quite,” you murmured, clearing your throat - and quite unable to meet his eye, Astarion noticed. “It’s been a few days since you fed, and as much as I trust Lae’zel’s judgement, after our encounter with Kithrak Voss I have doubts about how warmly her kin may welcome us tomorrow.”

Astarion sighed, making a show of it, though inwardly he was crowing. This was the first time you had actively initiated a feeding rather than waiting for him to come to you. “I suppose you’re right,” he murmured, stretching his limbs and nearly purring with satisfaction as your eyes darted to the strip of flesh exposed as his tunic bunched at the waist. “Best to be prepared and all that. Only if you wouldn’t mind, of course?”

“Of course,” you agreed readily, joining him by his bedroll. You’d bathed after dinner, your skin smelling of spring water and sweetgrass, and as Astarion dipped his head to your throat, palm molding to your nape, he caught a tinge of something else - something deeper. Arousal.

Had this been your aim all along, he wondered, even as his fangs pierced your throat and he swallowed his first hot mouthful of blood. Had you sought him out with this flimsy excuse purely in the hopes that he would see through your facade and offer you a night in his bed once more?

Such a roundabout way to get what you wanted, he thought, amused - and such a stark contrast to your behavior in all other aspects of life. In your short acquaintance Astarion had seldom seen you shy away from anything - conversations, battles, strife. He had assumed you would tackle matters of the flesh just as you did everything else - confidently, brashly, bravely. This sudden reticence was rather charming. 

“You know, darling,” he murmured, lapping gently at your torn flesh to stem the flow of blood. “If it’s my fangs at your throat you’re craving, you needn’t concoct such a meager excuse.” His belly warm with your blood, Astarion huffed a soft laugh and added, “Not that I don’t appreciate the meal, of course.”

You shivered as his breath warmed your skin, pulse spiking against his tongue.

“Astarion,” you breathed, voice lilting as though in question, and Astarion tutted, palm warm along your throat.

“Come now, don’t be coy,” he spoke softly against your skin. “Your body’s already given you away.”

Another shudder, and Astarion grinned, fangs sinking gently into his bottom lip.

“There it is again,” he huffed lustily. “Your little shakes of excitement. You enjoy it, don’t you? My mouth, my fangs. My touch. But you want more.”

Your mouth moved but no sound escaped. Astarion pressed onwards, knowing your surrender was in reach.

"You've given me a wonderful gift, darling,” he murmured, silver curls brushing your cheek as he lifted his head. “It’s only fair that I return the favor. Just imagine it, hmm? We could take an evening to ourselves. Get away from camp - get some privacy. I know somewhere quiet. Somewhere intimate. Somewhere we can… indulge in each other.”

Your pulse fluttered beneath his fingers, wild as a hummingbird’s wing, but curiously, when you spoke, there was no trace of a stutter to your voice.

“You shouldn’t do this just because you feel like you owe me something, Astarion.”

Astarion’s smile slipped, stomach shrinking into a tight, ugly ball. It was only a moment before he regained his composure, however - practiced, pretty smirk slotting back into place. 

“Oh, that’s hardly the only reason,” he assured you, quickly steering the conversation back onto familiar ground. He could feel you slipping from his grasp again, a sharp, hollow desperation curdling in his gut. “It’s more of an excuse if anything. Assuming you want this too, of course. But we both know you do.”

You gave him a patient smile, calm, unruffled, as though you hadn’t just been trembling like a leaf while he fed upon you. Astarion stiffened. It was almost as though you were humoring him, like you knew something he didn’t.

What the devil are you playing at?

“I do want this,” you admitted quietly, though Astarion had only a moment to revel in your confession before you added, resolute, “But not unless you want it, too.”

Astarion withheld a frustrated sigh, forcing a smile onto his lips. “Darling, I think I’ve made myself perfectly clear - ”

“Pretty words, Astarion,” you interrupted gently, holding his gaze. “But not half of them real.”

His voice dried in his throat.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he returned evenly, even as he attempted to coax his heart free of his gut.

You huffed gently but offered no rebuke, and yet somehow your refusal to acknowledge his pitiable attempt at deflection stung worse than the truth. 

“It’s good to see you happy, Astarion,” you told him cryptically, gently, as though he was one of the wild beasts you’d soothed to your side, before easing away from his slackened embrace and pushing yourself to your feet. “Rest well. We’ll all need it, come tomorrow.”

And then you were gone, retreating to the fire and the circle of bedrolls warming just beyond reach of its flames. Astarion watched you go, throat slick with your blood but mouth tasting of ash, wondering when you had become so adept at discerning his lies from his truths and why that thought didn’t flood him with fear as it should. 

*

Astarion traced the whorl of scar tissue along his shoulder blade, the runes taking shape in his mind as his fingertips drifted along raised flesh - runes you had carved into the dirt so that he could see them for the first time. Runes that Raphael had decoded with grim glee after you’d killed the orthon in his name. 

Runes that would grant Cazador tremendous power, should Astarion ever fall into the vampire lord’s hands again.

Lips twisting at the thought, Astarion tore his fingers away from his back. Discovering the purpose behind his scars had only confirmed what he had always known to be true - freedom, true freedom, would never be his whilst Cazador lived. Sending the Gur hunter after him had only been the beginning, and with your party aimed for Baldur’s Gate, a confrontation with his former master was all but assured. 

His stomach shriveled. So be it, he thought, fingers clenching in his lap. They would discover where and when the ritual was to take place and kill Cazador before he had the chance to complete it. You had already agreed to aid him, and with you by his side, offering your might to his cause, Cazador would meet his end.

As for the Rite of Profane Ascension- well. It would be a shame for all of that power to go to waste, wouldn’t it? Power that Astarion could wield without fear of becoming a mind flayer, at that.

Astarion’s throat ran dry as he contemplated what he could do with that amount of strength, his breaths inordinately loud in the quiet of his tent. The others had retreated to their own bedrolls hours ago, though he wondered how many of them had been able to attain true rest within the disquieting atmosphere of Shar’s derelict temple. There was something here, something Ketheric Thorm had gone to great lengths to keep hidden. You had taken Shadowheart, Karlach and Wyll deeper into the ruins in search of it, and though Astarion wouldn’t dare to admit it, he would find no rest until he knew you’d returned, safe and sound.

You were too important to lose. He could admit that much, he supposed, after everything you had done for him. Everything he had managed to achieve, through you. It was through you that he had been able to discover the truth of the runes on his back, after all. It was through you that he would slay Cazador and take the power of the profane ritual for his own. It was through you that they all would rid themselves of the parasites in their heads and save Faerun from the Absolute’s thrall.

Not that Astarion cared overmuch for the fate of the world. For anyone, really, save himself. 

For you, in some capacity whose depths even now eluded him. For the companions you’d gathered along the way.

Which is precisely why I should take Cazador’s place and ascend, he thought, fingertips plucking idly at the ties to his trousers as he toyed with the idea of a couple hours’ rest. 

He could scarcely imagine it - a life without fear, a life without the weight of his master’s sharp, cruel eye upon his shoulders. A life without limits. No longer forced to shun the daylight. No longer compelled by anyone’s whims but his own. No longer a toy, a pawn, a piece. 

He would finally be safe.

Astarion shivered at the thought, a familiar warmth blooming beneath his skin. Huffing in amusement - of course the promise of profane power would turn him on, even in a setting as coldly grand as Shar’s temple - he pressed his fingertips to the flat plane of his stomach, eyes slipping closed just as his hand slipped beneath his loosened trousers and wound around his half-hard cock. 

“Hah,” he breathed, fang sinking into his bottom lip as he dragged his palm along the length of his shaft, fingertips catchily wetly against the head. These last few weeks had given him but a taste of the freedoms Cazador’s ritual would grant him, and only with the added horrors of an illithid parasite in his head. How could anyone expect him to refuse that power?

How could you?

Astarion hissed as his thumb grazed the weeping head of his cock. He knew you disapproved of his ambitions, had seen it in your eyes the moment he dared to entertain the thought of taking the ritual’s power for himself. I don’t think you should do this, Astarion, you’d cautioned, as though it was your decision to make.

Still, you’d agreed to help him despite your reservations, a gesture which shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did - what were you if completely incapable of withholding aid from a friend in need? 

You would see reason soon enough, Astarion assured himself, fang sinking into his lower lip as he rutted into the ring of his fist. You must. You understood him so well already - more than he’d expected, more than he’d bargained for. Surely you would understand this, too? Surely you would see. 

I could finally protect myself, he thought, huffing as his thumb dragged firmly along his leaking slit. Gods, he was so close. I could protect you.

His body positively surging at the thought, Astarion grunted softly as he spilled over his fist, visions of your face clinging to the backs of his eyelids even as he blinked rapidly to clear them.

It took him a long moment to understand what had just happened - and even longer to realize what it meant. There was no use in denying he had grown fond of you, careful manipulation morphing into true camaraderie somewhere between the nautilord crash site and Shar’s grand, gloomy temple. But this - the mess between his thighs, and what had facilitated it - well.

That was new. 

*

It was your fault. 

There was simply no other explanation, Astarion decided, glowering at the back of your head as you spoke gently with the gnolls you’d just freed - gnolls, of all things! Were there no limits to the depths of your bleeding heart?

A disingenuous thought, and Astarion knew it, and yet there was no soothing the hot pit in his stomach as you severed the halfing’s control and freed the gnolls from her influence, a pit that had yawned wide the moment you’d refused that foul-smelling drow’s request for a bite. He didn’t know what in the hells to make of it. It wasn’t anger, and it wasn’t envy, but some sharp-edged, desperate amalgamation of the two that Astarion was entirely too ill-equipped to handle in the midst of the Absolute’s stronghold. 

Despite his disquiet, there was no denying the syrupy sensation in his chest at the knowledge that the beasts would no longer be forced to obey a will not their own, yet he refused to allow that satisfaction to soften his ire as your party made its way deeper into Moonrise Towers, towards the prison - with the goal of staging yet another elaborate rescue attempt, of course, for the same bloody tieflings you had razed war with the goblins to protect. 

The lot seemed demonstrably incapable of keeping themselves out of trouble. If it were up to Astarion, they would have been left to their fate, and better off for it, lest they stumble horns-first into some new calamity down the road to Baldur’s Gate. 

And yet he was here anyway, was he not? Risking life and limb to rescue the captured tieflings, as well as the missing gnomes, some brainwashed gnolls, and every other bloody creature in want of a helping hand, and for what? For acclaim? For good will?

For you?

The thought brought a thunderous scowl to Astarion’s face. Somehow, despite his many protests and entirely without his say so, he had become a willful participant in all of your heroic endeavors. What did that make him?

A damned fool is what it makes me, he thought with a frown, readying his daggers for your inevitable confrontation with the prison guards.

It was entirely beyond the scope of his character to care about anything or anyone but himself. Maybe that had not always been the case, but after two centuries of shit - pure shit - Astarion could scarcely imagine a world in which he could afford to care about anyone’s well being but his own. 

Yet he had followed you into the goblin camp, into the githe crèche, into the shadow-cursed lands, into the depths of Moonrise bloody Towers. And why?

Because you were his best chance at finding a cure for the parasite wriggling in his brain. Because you had promised to aid him in his quest to slay Cazador. 

Because he would follow you just about anywhere.

The realization settled like a stone at the bottom of Astarion’s stomach, and with it, the memories of your face flickering behind his eyelids as he’d rutted into his fist deep within the bowels of Shar’s temple.

How often had he brought himself off to the thought of your visage since then? How often had your voice, your scent, your smile lingered in his mind as he tumbled over the precipice into orgasm, spurting into his fist to the fantasy of your thighs parting around his hips, your mouth catching wetly against his own, your fingers spearing through his curls?

Astarion shivered, that familiar ache blooming in his groin even as your party slunk into the shadows and descended into the prison. He couldn’t remember the last time he had desired someone - truly desired them. Seduction was one thing, simple, innate, but this - this longing in his core, this heat. This was a beast the likes of which he had never encountered before.

Under Cazador’s control, sex had been nothing but the means to an end. A tool. A tactic. Even with that hold severed by the parasite, Cazador’s influence still lingered, a phantom presence Astarion had yet to shake. Just look at how quickly he had cleaved to the idea of seducing you, even without his former Master hissing objectives into his ear. He knew of no other avenue for survival - only falsities, only masks. The seasoned paramour. The lustful rake. Nothing genuine. Nothing true. 

“Pretty words, Astarion. But not half of them real.”

Your words echoed in his head. There was nothing pretty about this clawing need in his belly, this rampant ache. It was just… real. 

Astarion bit back a humorless laugh. Hells below, he really was fucked, wasn’t he? 

The approach of a guard came as a relief in comparison to his spiraling thoughts, allowing him to push all from his head save who would be the next target for his blades. Eventually, however, the enemies were slain, the tieflings and gnomes guided back to convalesce at Last Light. Eventually, Astarion could ignore the ache in his gut no longer. 

“Can we talk?” His voice was even when he approached you, but something about the gravity of his request must have shown on his face, judging by the lifting of your brows. You pushed yourself up from the ground, the owlbear cub you had been cooing over returning to its pursuit of Scratch, and dipped your head in acknowledgment.

“Of course, Astarion. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong,” he assured you, resisting the urge to palm at the back of his neck. He felt thoroughly out of his depth here. “It’s just - I wanted to thank you.”

“Oh?” Your head tilted inquisitively. “For what?”

Astarion swallowed. For the first time in centuries, he felt nervous before a potential paramour. Nervous but giddy. Gods, what a novel concept. “For what you said while I was in front of that vile drow.”

Your brow darkened at the mention of Araj. “She overstepped,” you scowled. “Asking you to bite her. Demanding it, as if that were her right.” You had made no secret of your distaste for the drow, but there was something deeply satisfying about seeing the proof of your disdain written so plainly across your face. Astarion’s gut burned. “She should never have asked such a thing of you.”

“I might have done it,” he returned softly, his chest growing tight at the expression of devastation those words brought to your face. “If you had asked it of me.”

“Astarion,” you breathed, stricken, but Astarion shook his head, forging on.

“I spent two hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back for my Master,” he frowned, the words like grit on his tongue. “What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing, it never mattered. You could have asked me to do the same - to throw myself at her, what I wanted be damned.” And he would have done it, compelled beyond reason to earn his keep - to earn your favor - in the only way he knew how, with obedience. With submission. “But you didn’t. And I’m grateful.”

You held his gaze. “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do, Astarion.”

“A novel concept, I admit,” he returned, even as warmth began to bubble up in his chest and creep into his limbs. “And a little intimidating. It would have been so easy to bite her, you understand? To just go along with what I was being told to do. A moment of disgust to force myself through. And then I could have carried on, just like before.”

Realization settled over your face. “Like sleeping with me,” you murmured, and Astarion stiffened, waiting for hurt or disgust to flicker across your face - but there was only understanding. Only kindness. Of course. “Did you think you’d get something from it?” you asked, curious.

“Well, of course,” he laughed, though there was little humor to be found in it. “I needed protection. People don’t trust vampires - perhaps understandably - so I needed to get someone on my side. And seducing you… well, it should have been easy.”

“Should have been?” you questioned innocently, a twinkle in your eye, and Astarion huffed.

“Yes, yes, go on and gloat,” he sighed, crossing his arms in a show of faux outrage. “Even someone with as impeccable a record as mine was bound to fail eventually, especially with so stubborn a target.” His lips twitched at the soft laughter his words garnered, the soft, open expression on your face giving him the push he needed to finish. “So imagine how stupid I felt when I started to genuinely feel something for you, anyway.”

The humor fled your eyes, replaced by such a warm surge of fondness that Astarion nearly blushed, blood rushing to his pale cheeks. “That must have come as a surprise.”

“Trust me, I was not happy about it,” he grumbled, recalling with a touch of embarrassment how utterly distracted he had become while freeing the prisoners, to the point where even Karlach had noticed and questioned if he were well. “You were a complication I didn’t see coming,” Astarion continued. “And yet… ” He waved a hand between you as if to say here we are, and you smiled, taking a step closer.

“I care about you, Astarion,” you murmured, holding his gaze.

The vampire’s pulse leapt. “Really?”

Rather than speak, perhaps sensing that he needed more, you carefully wrapped your arms around his waist, tucking your cheek against his shoulder even as he gawked at the top of your head. For a moment Astarion didn’t know what to think, how to react, his mind carefully blank in a way it had never truly been, not with Cazador and then the illithid parasite taking up space there. Gradually his senses returned to him, however, bringing with them a heightened awareness of your warmth, the softness of the loose tunic you wore, the subtle rise and fall of your chest against his own. Suddenly overcome, Astarion closed his eyes against the flood of want that surged through him and  allowed his arms to curl gently around your shoulders. 

“You… you are full of surprises, aren’t you?” he murmured, pulse spiking as your soft laughter warmed his throat. The typical noises of your busy camp faded away as you stood there, wrapped within the circle of his arms and in no apparent hurry to escape. That was all well and good to Astarion, who found himself utterly incapable of letting you go. Even as your fingertips danced along the curve of his spine, your chest easing away from his, the vampire could not restrain himself from squeezing at your shoulders, desperate for you to remain right where you were, and not entirely afraid to show it. “Just a moment more, hmm? This… this is nice.”

Your breath hitched gently, arms squeezing a little tighter at his waist. “As long as you wish, Astarion,” you murmured, and Astarion blinked against a sudden tightness behind his eyes, knowing you were referring to far more than just this embrace. 

You have this, you told him - not with words, but with warmth, with the press of your body against his, with the soothing hum of your pulse beneath his fingertips.

You have me.

*

Cazador was dead.

Even with the memory of the vampire lord bloody and broken beneath his hands, Astarion almost didn’t believe it. 

Cazador Szarr was dead. Astarion was free.

Gods. He was free.

“How does it feel?” Your voice came upon him softly, shoulder grazing against his as you took your place by his side. You had been quiet since he’d asked you to accompany him into the city, only uttering a soft breath when he slipped into the cemetery and you realized where he was leading you - to a nondescript grave amidst a row of many, worn with age and overladen with ivy. A grave bearing his name.

Astarion laughed. “Exhilarating,” he began, mouth trembling before he forced it still. “Terrifying. Exhausting.” His shoulders heaved on a sigh, crimson eyes tracing the faded epitaph on his headstone. “For nearly two centuries I stalked the streets like a ghost while the person I was lay here, dead and buried. Now I need to figure out who I am. What I want.”

Your fingertips brushed his. “And what do you want, Astarion?”

Astarion met your gaze. You were resplendent in the moonlight, soft-eyed, a fading bruise on your cheek from the fight with Cazador’s minions. His heart ached at the sight of you. “You,” he murmured, stomach sparking with warmth as the admittance brought a winsome smile to your face. “I want you.”

“Astarion.” His name was little more than a rasp on your tongue, your fingers catching against his, slipping through and filling the gaps. 

“You were by my side through all of this,” he continued, thumb tracing the ridges of your knuckles. “Through bloodlust and pain and misery. You were patient. You cared. You trusted me when that was an objectively stupid thing to do.” You snorted gently at his words, coaxing a smile to Astarion’s lips, before he finished - softly, as though sharing a secret. “I feel safe with you. Seen. And whatever the future holds for me, I don’t want to lose that.”

“You won’t,” you assured him, as though it were that simple. Perhaps it was. “Whatever comes next,” you promised. “I’ve got you.”

“Thank you,” Astarion rasped, squeezing at your fingers. He longed to tug you closer in that moment, to press his lips to yours as he had been dreaming of for so long, but there was still something he needed to do. “Well,” he cleared his throat, tipping his head toward the headstone that bore his name. “I should probably fix this.”

You drew his hand to your mouth and brushed your lips along his knuckles, eyes gleaming as his breath caught audibly in his throat. “Go on,” you murmured, allowing his hand to slip from yours, and Astarion huffed gently, reaching for his dagger. Cheeky thing.

Brushing away the creeping vines, he began working the tip of his blade into the faded markings that bore his name and epitaph, carving fresh grooves into the stone. He could hear you moving behind him, but it wasn’t until he’d finished reinforcing the etchings that he noticed the flower clasped in your hand, its rounded, white petals gleaming in the moonlight.

You caught his eye as you knelt by the grave, placing the plucked blossom on the ground by his headstone with far more reverence than the moment deserved - or so Astarion told himself. The wild gallop of his heart suggested otherwise.

“Cute,” he huffed, even as a lump formed in his throat. How long had it been since anyone had paid their respects at this grave? How long since anyone had cared to? “I’ve been dead in the ground for long enough,” he decided, reaching for your hands. There was a fire in his gut - a fire that had been burning ever since you’d first offered your blood to him - that he longed to quench. “It’s time to try living again. With everything that life has to offer.”

Understanding brightened your eyes, the pulse point in your throat jumping. “Meaning?”

Astarion lifted your hand to his face, tucking his cheek into your palm. “If a night of passion is on offer,” he breathed, thrilling as the sensation of his lips against your flesh coaxed a reedy gasp from your throat. “I could be persuaded.”

Your throat bobbed on a swallow, fingertips curling against his cheek. Gods, you were beautiful. “Sounds good to me.”

Some small, illogical hurt that had lodged itself between his ribs since your first rejection - hurt pride, perhaps, or something sharper, truer - worked itself free, a knot untangling, a thorn cast aside from tender flesh.

“You know,” he mused. “I didn’t care for you when we first met. Didn’t care for much of anyone. But I do now.” He pushed a kiss into your palm, lips plush against your skin, and smiled as your fingertips trembled against his cheek. “Being with you is about more than lust or manipulating you into a tactical alliance. I love you. I love this. And I want it all.”

“Astarion,” you breathed, voice thick with sentiment, but Astarion had had quite enough of talking. In that moment, he wanted only to feel.

Smirking, he surged forward and caught your shoulder with his palm, laughter catching in your throat as you tumbled to the ground. You were still laughing when he pressed his lips to yours, your breath hitching at the soft pressure of his mouth against your own and your fingers squeezing gently at his cheek, urging him to take his fill.

You felt magnificent, your mouth parting softly beneath his and your head tilting instinctually to deepen the kiss whenever his tongue grazed the seam of your lips. His blood roared as he tasted you, that familiar, decadent ache settling in his groin as his hips slotted between your thighs, chests touching, breaths shared, need rising.

“Touch me,” he pleaded softly, catching your bottom lip between his fangs. You whimpered at the sting, fingertips clutching at his shoulder, his side, his hip. More, he begged inwardly, cock straining against the front of his trousers. Please, darling, just -

As though you’d heard him, your palm dragged along the flat plane of his stomach, curling around the ties straining to contain the stiff length of his cock. “Yes,” Astarion hissed, plunging his tongue into your open, panting mouth as you tugged him free, the sensation of your fingers wrapping around his shaft coaxing a groan from his throat. 

“Is this - ?” you croaked, fitting the hinge of your thumb to the tip of his prick.

Is this alright? Because of course you would ask. Of course you would know to ask. 

Astarion’s heart leapt. “Yes, yes,” he assured you, lips catching against yours and pale fingers plucking at your waistband. “Please.”

With a soft moan, you dragged your fingers along his cock, slicking your grip with the fluid forming at his slit. Astarion bit out a curse at the sensation of your flesh - callused, hot - wrapped around him, his palm fitting itself to your stomach and dipping below your waistband even as he fucked into your fist. 

“You’ve no idea,” he panted, nosing at your cheek as his fingers brushed along your sex, slick with arousal and warm to the touch. His fangs ached in his mouth with the sudden urge to taste you. “How often I imagined this.”

Your eyes shone in the dark, lids heavy with need. “Tell me.”

“In Shar’s dusty old temple,” he murmured, fang tugging at his lower lip. “Rutting into my fist while I waited for you to return from the depths. Coaxing myself to the brink while we hid ourselves away at Last Light. Biting my lip bloody on the road to Baldur’s Gate, you and the others sleeping soundly in your bedrolls while I dreamed of your body cleaving to my cock -.”

“Astarion,” you whined, surging beneath his fingers, and the vampire laughed, a throaty rasp against the swell of your cheek. He knew how much you wanted it, too. 

“Later, Darling,” he promised you, stroking along your sex until your hips were hitching beneath him, until your slick was spilling over his fingers, until he was spurting between your thighs and making a mess of you both. 

Until his name was a sigh in your mouth and your own was a prayer on his tongue - soft, shared. 

You turn the pages of your journal carefully, with a certain delicate attention, letting your eyes caress the ink carved into it. Notes from your journey, from your race against time and against the shadow of the Absolute.

Your gaze lingers on the key words you wrote only moments earlier, circled with unmistakable urgency.

The Nightsong.

A name, a clue — something that might pierce Thorm’s invulnerability and give you the chance to end this darkness. You don’t know what it is, nor where it might be, but you know you have to find out, and soon.

You sigh — no, hiss, when the shallow wound at your side pulls and stings, a blend of pain and impatience fitting to the moment. You shift under the blankets of your bedroll, but your thoughts do not settle.

The night is deep, perhaps you should close your eyes and rest, but your hand starts to move again, searching the blank space of the page.

The Nightsong.

The name echoes inside your skull, and graphite meets the rough surface of the paper.

It draws lines — shapes. First eyes, sharp and piercing.

Then a pointed beak.

Finally feathers, rendered with such detail that the owl staring back at you from the journal feels unnervingly alive.

You sigh again.

Maybe it’s a nocturnal bird — assuming any such creature survived the Shadow-Cursed Lands.

You let your head fall between the pages, and the smell of graphite and ink fills your lungs, strangely comforting.

Better this than the omnipresent scent of rot that lingers over these lands — a constant reminder of every living being’s eventual end.

A rustle.

A gust of cold air brushes your uncovered arms like the sting of winter.

You shiver.

Your head snaps up — gaze drawn immediately toward the sound.

The tent flaps hang open.

And there he stands.

Astarion, carved in shadow like polished alabaster, motionless in the entrance.

You hadn’t expected him.

Not at this hour.

Not after the way your last conversation ended.

For a moment, you both stay frozen like that — a silent painting.

Then he tilts to one side, a hand sliding to his hip, head canting with theatrical annoyance. You’d swear you even catch the upward flick of his eyes, exasperated in that dramatic way only he can manage.

“Of course you were awake! Foolish of me — I keep forgetting that putting yourself in danger is practically your specialty. Paper cuts too, you know. I’m quite sure you could slit your own throat with a sheet of parchment if you tried. Surprised you haven’t already.”

Your eyes spark in return, widening slightly, fixed on him and on the languid line of his posture.

After what he’d told you following the last battle, you let yourself believe — foolishly — that maybe he’d come to apologize.

But no. That tongue is sharp… and venomous.

And the fact that you love it only irritates you more.

“Still angry, I see,” you remark.

He huffs, tipping his head the other way. The line of his pale throat seems almost luminous under the faint light of the lanterns outside.

“Angry? Whatever for?”

He looks at you intently, and a sly, taunting gleam slides into his gaze.

“Darling, if I were angry, you’d know. I wouldn’t have walked away from such an easy and delicious target.”

You arch a brow, fingers still tight around your travel journal — the owl you sketched on the page staring up like a silent witness.

The truth is, he did walk away.

When that arrow tore past you during the shadow ambush, grazing your flank and spilling blood, Astarion shouted at you — furious — and left you where you fell.

For a moment, you almost hear his voice again — tearing through blood and steel like a blade:

“Do you want to die? You’re working damn hard at it, my love.

Fine — whatever.

You always do as you please anyway.”

You sink your teeth lightly into your lower lip, weighing your options.

Anyone else would’ve hurled their travel journal right at his head and maybe even thrown him out altogether, after such insolence — after what happened.

After he’d claimed he wanted something real with you only a few nights ago.

But you’re starting to learn him.

His little nuances — the sleight-of-hand tricks in his voice, the micro-expressions, the faintest shifts in tone.

Everything implied rather than spoken outright, even when he seems distant.

Or irreverent.

You sigh.

This time, it’s his eyebrow that arches.

His pupils grow almost sharp as they carefully follow your every movement. You sit down, cross your legs, and rest your travel journal on them with the graphite tucked inside. You extend your arm beside you; and you have to hold back a little smile, because he still doesn’t understand and you can only imagine the scenarios running through his mind.

At last you reach your fingers toward the space you made beside you and, after brushing it lightly, you give it a couple of firm taps with your open palm in a silent invitation. Astarion blinks.

“What?”

When he wants to be, he can be truly stubborn, you think. You shake your head slightly and let that small, almost resigned smile spread across your face.

“You’re telling me you came all the way here in the middle of the night just to check whether I was sleeping?”

“The scent of your blood is a constant temptation, darling. It keeps me from resting. I could tell you I simply followed its trail, and that I’m not the only predator around these parts. And now you’re inviting me to sit? You really do enjoy risk.”

“Maybe I simply enjoy your company,” you reply candidly.

With a simplicity that seems to strike him with surprising force, almost like a slap, leaving him stunned for a moment. Worse — leaving him speechless. And consequently defenseless. The fact that something so simple as an expression of appreciation could reduce him to this state suddenly feels… oddly tender to you.

But perhaps it’s the sincerity with which you said it that truly caught him off guard.

For a moment Astarion shifts awkwardly where he stands. He looks away, wets his lips, shifts his weight from one foot to the other. He no longer looks like the condescending vampire who appeared at the entrance of your tent with his usual savoir-faire, ready to criticize you — nor the furious rogue from that afternoon who shouted at you.

Now he is simply Astarion.

You add nothing more — certainly not that you trust him, or that you would invite him to sit beside you regardless, even if he were starving. You don’t want to scare him off, after all. Making him feel too vulnerable might have the exact opposite effect of what you hope for.

So you simply tap the ground beside you twice more.

There’s something else you need to tell him, something more important right now.

This time Astarion rolls his eyes and indulges you, joining you on the bedroll as instructed — as though he were doing you a favor, of course.

You allow yourself a soft, amused huff as you watch him settle down with that fluid grace that makes him both beautiful to look at and deadly in the shadows.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye for a few moments. He doesn’t look at you. His fingers are idly toying with the edge of his doublet; and if you linger on the sharp lines of his face, you can just make out the pale skin of his cheeks pulling slightly under the faint light brushing over them. He’s chewing on the inside of his cheek.

This time too, you decide there’s no point dancing around it. Direct and simple. He needs that. So do you.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

Astarion goes still. Caught off guard again. Speechless again. The bit of fabric he’d been tormenting slips from his fingers and falls still. You’re not sure he’s grasped the full weight of what’s happening—of what he’s feeling, and why. But he’s trying to figure it out, otherwise he wouldn’t be here. You appreciate that, even if he shouted at you that afternoon. You knew it wouldn’t be easy the moment you told him you cared about him.

And then those crimson eyes lift, cautiously, almost wearily, to meet yours. They watch you from beneath silver lashes. An uncertain smile curves his lips as he studies you.

“For what, exactly? It’s not your fault your blood smells delicious. Or perhaps it is. Yes, entirely your fault.”

The tone is light, but he’s testing the ground. Looking for clues—you can read it in those sharp irises. He’s searching your words for confirmation, because saying it first would be too difficult, too frightening. Too risky. But if you say it—if you make it explicit—he can still pretend it isn’t true, contradict you, retreat behind sarcasm. A shield he needs, you realize.

So you play along, and you correct yourself.

“For making you worry, Astarion,” you say plainly, so that he can see it too, give a name to what he’s feeling. “I’m truly sorry.”

His little laugh snaps against your ears, dismissive.

You expected that.

So you don’t react to the provocation—you simply give him the time he needs to process your apology. To let it settle into what happened, and into how he reacted.

Silence settles over you like a blanket, stretching into moments that feel far longer than they are. It’s soft, almost reassuring. You’re not surprised when the amusement on Astarion’s face fades as quickly as it came, and the vampire spawn shakes his head.

“I don’t—” He pauses. “This is ridiculous. You were only bleeding a little. A completely negligible amount. Even for a vampire… and I was the picture of grace and control. Perfectly composed.”

You keep waiting.

You’re there—that’s enough.

His words don’t hold, and he knows it too. He doesn’t add anything else. He waits as well. Perhaps gathering the courage. He shifts slightly, wets his lips.

Only then do you move.

Slowly, you let your hand slip into his. You brush your fingers against his, with a gentleness that asks for nothing in return. A light touch. A steady point in the middle of a storm. Something real, as he once called it.

Astarion startles faintly—but he doesn’t pull away.

He exhales.

And then, at last, he closes his hand around yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Just like the night he confessed.

“I…” he begins, but hesitates, as if the words struggle to take shape—more in his mind than on his tongue. “I thought I’d lost you. For a moment, I…”

He frowns slightly, annoyed with himself.

“It wasn’t anger,” he admits. “I saw you on the ground… and I—”

Fear, you think. Afraid of losing you just after he found you.

There’s no need to say it out loud. It’s clear now. To both of you.

Your thumb moves instinctively, brushing over the smooth skin of his hand, sliding slowly from top to bottom in a quiet, repetitive motion.

“I’m here,” you say.

No grand promise—just a concrete reality.

You shift slightly, your travel journal tilting between your legs before slipping down. You lean your shoulder against his. A small, warm pressure—living, real—against him.

“I’m here,” you repeat.

And you want him to feel it, not just hear it.

You tilt your head to the side and find shelter in the hollow of his neck. The scent of bergamot—and of him—fills your lungs. His pale curls brush against your forehead, soft and ticklish.

For a moment, you are exactly where you’re meant to be. Where you want to be.

Home, you think.

And you hope it feels the same for him. At least a little.

His fingers shift faintly against yours, restless, as if your words had found something inside him—a place he didn’t know was there.

“Mm,” he murmurs after a moment, tilting his head just enough to rest lightly against yours.

An intimate touch.

And yet… something pure.

For a while, neither of you moves.

You remain like that, curled against each other, holding between your bodies—where they touch—whatever it is that exists between you. Whatever it is, as he would say. Even if you already have a clearer idea.

The corners of your lips curl upward at the thought, and you feel a warmth that seems almost impossible. Not on your skin, where the Shadow-Cursed Lands can still reach you with cold, clawing drafts—but inside you.

And suddenly, only that moment seems to exist. Only the inside of the tent. Just the two of you, and the faint light brushing softly against you. Everything beyond fades into the distance, almost irrelevant.

Even the uncertainty of tomorrow.

The shadows cannot touch you now.

Then Astarion shifts—but he doesn’t break the moment.

At first, it’s just a small adjustment. His lips and the tip of his nose linger against your hair in something that isn’t quite a kiss yet. Then comes a slight withdrawal, his hand slipping free from yours—but it’s not a retreat.

Slowly, he leans to one side and then slides down, fluid and elegant like a cat, stretching out with effortless grace onto your bedroll.

You blink and look down at him, slightly taken aback.

This—you hadn’t expected.

And your expression must be so openly startled—mouth slightly parted, words nowhere to be found—that he arches a brow and looks up at you as though you were the most obtuse creature in all of Faerûn.

“Well,” he says, brushing an imaginary crease from his doublet with casual precision, “what did you expect? Obviously I’m staying. You need someone to look after you. You’re terribly clumsy, darling. So far you’ve managed not to slit your throat on a sheet of parchment—I’ll grant you that—and graphite poses no real threat. But have you ever considered just how sharp that pen you usually use for your notes is?”

He tilts his head toward the offending object, resting beside the ink bottle, clearly waiting for its moment to strike—at least in Astarion’s mind.

You huff softly and shake your head. Of course.

“How noble,” you say. “My hero.”

“Careful how you speak, sweetheart,” he replies. "Hero sounds exhausting. I’ll leave that to you. I’m merely preventing you from dying in an embarrassingly avoidable way. And besides, trust is good—but not trusting is better, so I’ll have to make sure you keep your word."

“I’m here,” echoes in your mind—the words you spoke just moments ago. And his “mistrust” is a small declaration of its own, spontaneous and difficult, yet one that hints at the depth of Astarion’s feelings, even when he doesn’t know how to name them.

“It seems fair,” you say simply.

Astarion shifts, settling more comfortably on the bedroll, but he casts you a sidelong glance and adds, “Do go on, then. But don’t think I didn’t notice. You and that thing—” a quick look, paired with a faint grimace, toward the travel journal. “The way you were looking at it—positively scandalous. I do hope I’m not the third wheel.”

You laugh, just like that.

When he wants to, he can be utterly ridiculous.

And yet, in his red eyes you catch the same amused spark that glows in yours, despite his attempt to look wounded—jealous, even.

“That might be difficult,” you reply, “but I promise I’ll restrain my more… passionate inclinations.”

Astarion doesn’t reply.

Or rather—he does, in his own way.

He lets out a soft murmur, more of a mutter to himself than anything else, though it doesn’t escape your notice—something about sleep not being an option, especially for those still alive and well and not part of the realm of the undead.

You smile, while he dismisses the entire matter with a flick of his hand before you can even respond to his grumbling.

He shifts, settling more comfortably, turning slightly onto his back. One arm comes to rest over his stomach, the other folding loosely across his chest.

His eyelids lower.

And you remain there for a while longer, simply watching him.

Thinking back on it, it all feels almost absurd—the way things unfolded after that intense afternoon, after his far-from-gentle reactions.

Just like a cat.

He scratched you, hissed at you—and now he’s there, curled up beside you, soft and at ease.

For a moment, you almost feel the urge to pet him—like a cat. To thread your fingers through the silken curls that frame his head.

But you stop yourself.

You preserve the calm you’ve earned and turn your attention back to your travel journal.

Your clandestine relationship, you think, not without a small shake of your head at the absurdity of it.

You must have lost track of it at some point, because it takes you a moment to find it again—on the ground, between your legs. The graphite has slipped free from the pages and lies a little further away.

You gather everything and reopen the journal.

From the page, the owl’s intense eyes meet yours.

The Nightsong, you think again, holding back a sigh.

Graphite meets paper once more, your hand moving in slow, precise strokes. You refine the curve of the wings, deepen the shadows beneath the eyes, sharpen the line of the beak.

The word resurfaces—quieter now, but no less insistent.

You’ll find it.

A promise you make to yourself, to your companions, to these lands—shattered to their very core by something dark and corrupt.

Your jaw tightens slightly as you darken one side of the owl’s face, the lines growing bolder, more defined.

Not tonight, though.

Tonight, you allow yourself this.

The silence.

The warmth.

The simple, improbable fact of not being alone in this tent—the only barrier between you and the darkness outside.

The graphite stills. Something catches your attention.

A subtle shift in the atmosphere of the tent—something you can’t quite grasp at first. Not a sound, not a movement. Rather, the sudden absence of both.

You turn your gaze slightly, searching for the source—among your gear, among the scattered objects within the tent.

Only then do you realize.

Astarion.

You can’t tell how long you’ve been lost in your own thoughts, chasing them across the dark lines your hand has traced on the page. But it’s been a while since he last moved. Since he made a sound.

And his hands—so delicately arranged. Fingers relaxed, index and thumb just barely touching, as if suspended between motion and stillness.

Reverie.

You blink. He’s asleep.

The realization settles slowly, slipping in beneath your surprise and catching in your chest, your lips parting softly as your gaze drifts across his still features.

You’ve seen him in many ways.

Sharp. Wary. Subtle. Even dangerous.

Beautiful in the way a blade is beautiful—something to be handled with care, lest you cut yourself on its edge.

But now… he is different.

There is a stillness in him you’ve never noticed before—not even when you all rested together around the campfire.

This is something else. Something quieter. Something intimate. A softness you almost hesitate to name for what it might be…

Trust?

The thought remains unspoken in your mind, as if giving it voice might shatter whatever fragile spell has settled over him.

Carefully, without disturbing him, you shift just enough to see him better. To take in the relaxed line of his face, the soft fall of his hair, his head tilted slightly to one side, his shoulders loosened against your bedroll.

Beautiful.

The thought comes again. Unfiltered. Unprotected.

There is no performance here. No mask.

Just Astarion.

Your fingers linger on the graphite, feeling its rough texture, before tightening around it once more.

Slowly, you lift it. The owl can wait. This— this cannot. This small, impossible moment… if you don’t hold onto it, it might slip away at any second. And it is that realization that guides your hand as the tip of the graphite touches a fresh page.

To capture its essence. Astarion’s true essence.

Not what he wants others to see. Not the version he shows the world. But this.

So you draw only what you see. The lines come on their own. Light at first. Hesitant. Then steadier.

The curve of his cheek, softened by rest. The quiet line of his lips. The elegance of his hands, held in that peculiar stillness.

Your eyes flick between the page and Astarion’s form, searching for details.

You capture the way his curls fall across his face, the shadow beneath his lashes, that fragile peace that seems to have settled over him like something borrowed.

Something rare.

Your hand moves slowly across the journal, almost reverent, as if even the lightest stroke might break the small miracle the night has granted you.

For long, intense moments, your gaze continues to move between Astarion’s figure and what is taking shape on the pages of your journal.

The steady rhythm of graphite against paper softens everything, slows it, until the world seems to narrow to just that quiet motion.

At some point, your hand begin to slow.

The lines blur slightly beneath your eyes, the graphite lingering a moment too long, the edge of a shadow softening where it should have remained sharp. You adjust your grip and continue. Just a few more strokes, you tell yourself, even as fatigue reaches you with growing insistence, your eyes beginning to sting, your neck now nothing more than a bundle of strained nerves. Astarion was right—you need to rest too.

You grit your teeth, return to the page, and draw one more stubborn line. The graphite slips slightly between your fingers; you tighten your hold again. Just one last detail. Just—

The line breaks.

Fine, you tell yourself as you shift beside him on your bedroll. Just a moment. Enough to gather your strength and finish what you started.

You turn onto your side, almost without thinking. It’s an instinctive movement, and suddenly you find yourself face to face with him.

You lean in slightly. Then a little more.

A quiet part of your mind wonders whether you should really close the distance completely—but it’s a distant thought now, buried somewhere deep, because you’re already here. You’ve already crossed that threshold.

And yet you still clutch your journal, the graphite tucked between its pages to hold your place.

Almost like a shield between you and Astarion.

Then—

a movement.

As if he had sensed you, Astarion shifts slightly in his sleep—or in that in-between state of his—and, without waking, moves closer. His body settles against yours with disarming ease, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

As if it had always been this way.

The contact is light, gentle, but so full it makes your heart flutter.

His limbs rest loosely against yours, utterly relaxed—no trace of tension, of vigilance, of fear. You swallow, and something inside you softens. His scent, the weight of him against you, the soft brush of his curls against your neck—everything aligns, surrounds you, anchors you.

Your eyelids grow heavy. Far heavier than you expected. Far heavier than you intended.

The thought of returning to the drawing drifts away, distant, unfocused. Just a moment, you tell yourself again. But you know it’s a lie. Just—

The graphite slips from your fingers. The journal tilts, left open between you. And you don’t even notice.

When you feel the first faint flutter in your eyelids, you have no sense of how much time has passed. You blink slowly, trying to gather your thoughts, but the dimmer, colder light tells you enough—the night is over.

And you are still in the Shadow-Cursed Lands.

You drag a hand over your face, brushing stray strands of hair aside as you begin to reconnect with your body, moving each limb slowly, one after the other. Instinctively, your other hand shifts beside you, searching for someone—

who isn’t there.

Only then do your eyes open, urgency rising sharp and sudden in your chest.

Maybe he got up and left in the middle of the night without a word. Maybe you pushed too far, misreading the situation—mistaking that instinctive closeness for permission, for something more deliberate, more intimate. Maybe—

Your heart finally slows when you see him.

Right there.

Seated a short distance away, at the edge of the bedroll.

You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and a bright, almost disbelieving smile tugs at your lips.

He stayed.

The realization fills you with something warm, almost fragile—something that feels dangerously close to hope.

His back is turned to you. You start to reach out, to brush your fingers against him, to offer a quiet good morning—but then you see what he’s holding.

Your travel journal.

You freeze.

He’s leaning forward slightly, just enough—and he’s looking at your drawing.

No.

At his portrait.

And not just any portrait.

The one you made in a moment of carelessness. Of complete vulnerability. Drawn in secret, like a thief stealing something forbidden—something that was never yours to take.

Because you wanted it.

And you took it.

To keep it. To preserve it, somewhere safe—inside your memory, inside your chest.

But you didn’t ask.

You don’t know if he would have allowed it.

And you have no idea what he’s feeling now, faced with the lines of a face that might no longer belong to him.

Guilt floods you all at once.

Sharp. Immediate.

The urge to say something—anything—to justify yourself rises before you can stop it, chasing away the soft greeting you had meant to offer.

“I—” the word slips out, your voice barely above a whisper, strained with the heat of your own embarrassment. “I didn’t mean to—”

Astarion doesn’t react, as if he hasn’t heard you. Maybe he hasn’t—maybe he’s too absorbed to do so. You can’t tell for certain.

But he lets go of the journal with one hand and moves his fingertips toward the page, without quite touching it. He keeps them just a breath away, hesitant. As if contact might break a taboo. Or be too much to bear.

His fingers move slowly along the lines of that face, as though he were studying every detail. But then you notice the tremor—the subtle shake in his shoulders, in those long, slender, pale fingers that do not dare touch his own likeness.

And your chest tightens.

Not from guilt. Not from shame.

From something deeper. More melancholic.

More painful.

You don’t say anything else. You give him space. Time. Your hands twist together as you wait, your gaze fixed on him—on every small reaction.

So when Astarion finally lifts his head and glances back at you over his shoulder, you’re not unprepared.

And under those red eyes, watching you with careful intensity—and something else you can’t quite name—you don’t look away.

“I wasn’t trying to take something from you,” you say, steady despite the tension in your chest. “I did it because I saw you. You weren’t trying to be anything else. It was real, like you said a few nights ago… and I wanted to remember. That’s all.”

Your words hang between you for what feels like an eternity. And a nerve-wracking one at that.

His eyes remain locked on yours—if anything, even more intense now, more alive. A shiver runs through you, from the base of your spine upward, when you see them shift, darkening. Sharpening. And you wonder—if only for a second—what it is you’re seeing there. Anger? Hunger? Or something else… passion?

You can’t say for certain.

But you feel like prey under a predator’s gaze.

Then it happens.

Without warning—cutting through every doubt, every fear, every thought. Even the guilt.

The journal slips from his hands, forgotten, and in the next instant he’s on you, moving with a speed that steals the breath from your lungs.

The weight of his body presses you back against the bedroll, air leaving your chest in a sharp gasp as his hands find you without hesitation—one at your side, the other sliding up along your neck, fingers tangling firmly at the base of your hair.

He pulls you closer, urgent.

You don’t resist.

Your eyes fall half-shut, and you let yourself yield to him. You’re already breathless—but Astarion doesn’t care when his mouth crashes against yours. There’s nothing calculated in it.

Nothing elegant.

Nothing controlled.

But it’s real—in the hunger, in the fierce urgency with which he claims your lips.

Your tongues brush, meet, slide against each other in a heated, breathless rhythm. A soft sound escapes you, muffled against his mouth, your body arching instinctively into his as his grip tightens around you.

Your heart feels like it’s going to burst.

And without thinking, you give in completely. Your hands move over him, finding his face, his hair—those soft curls falling over his ears that you love, even if he hates hearing it—and you hold him there. Not to stop him.

But to keep him close.

To keep him from slipping away.

Gradually, he slows—just a little—though his lips never leave yours. He takes another kiss, and another, as if chasing something just out of reach, each one deeper, slower, more deliberate.

More intense.

And you melt beneath him in answer.

Soft in his hands. Malleable. As though the roles have shifted, and you are the one being shaped—an artwork taking form beneath the artist’s touch.

When he finally pulls back, it’s with a reluctant, quiet sound. You’re left breathless, flushed, your chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. But Astarion doesn’t move away. He stays above you, his forehead brushing yours.

His eyes find yours—liquid, heavy, seeing only him. And this time, there is no irony. Only truth.

Dangerous.

Bare.

“I don’t care why you did it. Just—don’t look away from me,” he whispers, his voice low, rough—almost an order, but not quite.

A request. Then— a pause. A flicker of hesitation.

“…I rather like what you see.”

Your eyes sting with sudden tears at those final words, and the only thing you can do is answer with a sharp, breathless nod before pulling him back to you by those curls you’re still clutching.

And he comes willingly. Arms circling you, lips finding yours again.

Nothing more.

Just this.

Two bodies intertwined. Two souls reaching for one another. Two hearts recognizing each other—without the need for words.

And that’s how you remain, even after the urgency of the moment has faded and your breathing has steadied. Close. Not just physically. In a way neither of you seems inclined to change. Not for now, at least—not while the others are still waking and beginning their morning routines. And you think you could stay like this forever, quite happily leaving it to Lae’zel to drag you out of the tent with a barrage of shouted threats, barely veiled as they are.

The soft rustle of paper pulls you from your thoughts.

Astarion has reached for the travel journal, and now he’s studying his portrait again, lying there beside you. You tense slightly, but say nothing.

He tilts his head, frowns faintly, and then begins: “Gods, I really am breathtaking, aren’t I? You’ve done your best to keep up.”

Of course. After a moment like that, it was obvious he would say something like this.

You don’t even think about it—you’ve been patient long enough, and he can’t always get away with it just because you know he can’t help himself.

You grab the nearest pillow and smack him straight in the face.

“Well, with that hit I’ve fixed those two or three details that made you a little too breathtaking for the drawing—happy now?”

And he laughs—hair all tousled, slightly disheveled from the sudden blow.

He laughs.

And somehow, that’s all that matters.

Uhm, what can I say? It honestly took me forever to write this story, between moments of discouragement and real-life issues. Here it is—without too much polishing, I didn’t really have the time.

To briefly answer your question @zannyzebra, I think Astarion starts to feel safe sleeping next to someone after the confession, when Tav/Durge says they don’t care about sex. After all, that’s when the relationship truly begins.

In this story, I also added the portrait scene we talked about in messages.

He shaves down/files his claws so he won't hurt you by accident

When he gets flustered smoke comes out of his nostrils and he gets really warm <3

If he proposes to you, he gets you a ring with a huge crystal, either a clear diamond, or your favorite color/crystal

One time while making out with you he was so distracted he accidentally burnt your mouth (he felt so so bad about it) (if you're the size of mario or peach is kissing him even possible?)

He gifts you a spiked collar and cuffs to match his. But if you want them to be more temporary he'll give you the choker and bracelet version

Sometimes one of his fangs gets caught on his lip -like a cat- and you laugh at him (affectionately) he sort of looks like Bowser Jr. when that happens

He's not good at flirting, he prefers to show his love through grand gestures (think of all the ways he's tried to impress Peach)

If you get periods, he can smell the blood

If you move into Koopa Kingdom he lets you redecorate (although he insists you keep the lava and stone and red carpet theming for the main areas) but you get pretty much full range over lots of other things, like the bedroom, courtyard, you can even get your own rooms