hyperfixation nation

Astarion watched their self-appointed leader with quiet amusement. There she was, attempting to intimidate a trio of towering ogres and other Absolutists with nothing but sheer bravado.

Needless to say, you were failing quite spectacularly.

A moment later, his amusement shifted to genuine awe. You thrust your dagger cleanly into an Absolutist cultist, the odious male dropping to the ground instantly with a thud. Now, that was his kind of leader. Fierce, passionate, lethal. And, most delightfully, utterly enamoured with him.

"Fangs! Watch out!"

Karlach’s shout snapped him back to reality. Astarion ducked just as an arrow whistled past his ear. Scowling, the elf lunged at the attacker. Within seconds, the half-elf archer was on the ground, clutching a severed throat. Astarion smirked, wiping a drop of blood from his cheek and licking his palm with a menacing look aimed at the rest of the cultists. If one wished to dance with a professional, one had to expect a world of hurt.

"Ogling your girl during a potential bloodbath? Can't blame you, mate!" Karlach bellowed over the din of battle, swinging her axe with a booming laugh.

“Just waiting for my cue to join in with all the fun.” Astarion simply winked in response and settled into the familiar rhythm of a battle.

“Careful, Astarion. Keep that up and someone might think that you actually care,” Shadowheart’s Shadowheart’s sharp, dry voice cut through the noise of the battle.

Astarion bristled, his fangs flashing in a dangerous smile as his knuckles tightened around his blades. “Jealousy does not become you, darling.”

“Jealous? You are hardly my type.”

“That was not what I meant,” Astarion dodged an attack and sliced down, his target crumping to the ground. “You are just bitter that I get to enjoy her every talent, when your experience is limited to battle.”

Shadowheart scoffed. “Hardly. “ Shadowheart slammed her shield into an advancing foe, her eyes flashing as she healed herself. “You care about keeping your protector alive. I care about keeping her alive. But of course. Do keep boasting about the talents that you-”

“Will you two quit it?” A sudden voice cut through their bickering as you parried a heavy blow nearby.  “Stop discussing my talents while we are surrounded by cultists, or I swear I am letting the next owlbear eat you both!”

Later that evening, you shook out your hair with a tired sigh, trying to rid it of the dust and sweat of battle.  You didn’t feel like washing in the freezing cold river, but the leather armour clinging to your skin and the splatters of blood on absolutely everything were disgusting enough to motivate you. Getting changed out of your armour and waiting long enough for everyone to be done, you slipped away from the noisy camp.

Finally, some time alone.

"Darling! I thought I saw someone heading down to the river," a smooth, familiar voice purred from the shadows. "Thinking of taking a dip under the moonlight?"

You jumped slightly. "Oh! Astarion! Actually, I was just leaving, actually. "

"But you just got here," he countered, stepping into the silvery light with an amused arch of his brow. "And you are in desperate need of a wash. Unless my eyes deceive me, you look like you've been rolling in the dirt with an owlbear."

"Ah—well, yes! It was a messy fight," you stammered, trying to ignore how easily his presence flustered you. "But if you need to wash up, I’m happy to give you some privacy."

"While that is incredibly considerate of you, I think we can find it in ourselves to share a whole river, hm?" He sauntered closer, his eyes gleaming. "Besides, it isn't as though we haven't shared... close quarters before. Unless you’ve suddenly developed a bout of modesty?"

While the thought of bathing together sparked a thrilling warmth in your chest, you were not prepared to stand exposed beneath the clear moonlight.

Astarion was right, of course. You had spent a night together after the celebration, and it had been wonderful. The most amazing, toe-curling, unforgettable experience of your life.

But that night had been fuelled by liquid courage and the intoxicating high of being praised as the saviour of the Grove. You were not yourself then. Someone better, stronger, braver. Tonight, reality had set in, and your self-consciousness was back with a vengeance.

It didn't help that your companions looked like walking masterpieces. Shadowheart’s flawless silhouette, perfectly accentuated by her leather camp clothes, made you feel entirely inadequate and… flat.

"You're doing that thing again," Astarion interrupted your spiralling thoughts.

"What thing?"

"The thing where your mind spins into a frenzy and you look like you're about to apologize for simply existing," he said, stepping closer. "Tell me, my sweet, what is troubling you?"

"It's nothing. Nothing important.”

“I will be the judge of that.”

“Just... look at everyone else. Like Shadowheart and her soft, perfect curves." You sighed, tracing a pattern in the dirt with your boot. "And then there's me. There is very little about me to... entice anyone. Let alone you." You licked your lips and continued in a quieter tone. “Because I look at you and wonder would anyone so beautiful ever settle for someone like me.”

Astarion let out a soft chuckle, though his expression remained guarded. "I find that your idea of what entices me is detached from reality, my sweet."

"Are you telling me that looks don't matter?" you asked, a hint of defensiveness creeping into your voice. "Because it sounds like a crappy attempt at making me feel better."

"Quite the contrary. I am not trying to make you feel better," he murmured, his gaze dropping to the laces of your camp shirt. "I am simply stating a fact. You spend so much time hiding behind armour and cloth. It's a pity, really."

Before you could protest, his cool fingers gently caught the hem of your shirt. He didn't pull, but the question in his eyes was clear. You let out a small breath, your heart hammering against your ribs as the fabric bunched under his hands. He undressed you slowly, until you were left just in your simple undergarments, the cool night air hitting your skin.

Astarion’s gaze softened, losing its usual edge. "There. Was that so terrifying?"

"A little," you admitted, crossing your arms loosely over your chest.

He took a step closer, his cool fingers settling over your wrists. He didn't force your arms down, but simply waited, giving you the choice. A chance to back away. You swallowed hard, letting your arms drop to your sides.

"Look at you," Astarion whispered, his eyes tracing your collarbones before settling on your chest. He brushed his knuckles down your arms, his touch remarkably light. "You have this soft warmth to you. It's entirely captivating. How could you ever think you couldn't entice?"

Trying to shield yourself from the uncharacteristic sincerity in his voice, you offered a weak smile and tried to think about anything else. "Astarion, if you are just hungry, you can say so. I don't mind."

"Tsk, you are entirely no fun," he chuckled, fingers lingering on your skin. "And yes, I am always hungry. Eternally so. I might even trouble you for a small bite... later. But you, my dearest, have been so incredibly accommodating of my needs. Tonight, let's focus on yours."

Astarion stepped back just enough to offer you his hand, his fingers curling gently around yours. With a subtle nod toward the shimmering water, he guided you down the gentle slope of the riverbank.

The initial shock of the cold water made you gasp, but as you waded deeper, the moonlit river began to feel like a soothing balm against the aches of a brutal day. Astarion moved beside you with fluid grace, completely unbothered by the chill, the water swirling around his waist.

"You see?" The elf murmured. "Nothing terrible happened just because you shed a few layers of cloth and self-doubt."

"Easy for you to say," you muttered, with a small, genuine smile. You cupped some water in your hands and rinsed the lingering grime from his hands with gentle movements. "In this light, you look like a painting come to life."

"Well, I am beautiful. That is simply an undeniable fact," he replied with a dramatic shrug. The sharp, theatrical edge of his smirk softened as he looked back at you, shoulders relaxing as you continued your unhurried ministrations. He drifted a step closer, the water rippling between you. "But tonight, the moonlight suits you far better."

You stopped, looking up at him as the cool water pooled around your chest. "Thank you, Astarion," you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. "For... for listening. For not mocking me."

"Darling, I mock many things. Mostly when Gale goes off on one of his boring lectures and Lae'zel's complete lack of a sense of humour becomes a little too obvious," he reached out, his cool damp fingers gently tucking a wet strand of hair behind your ear. "But I would never mock the things that make you so uniquely you. Now, let's wash the rest of this dreadful cultists’ blood away, shall we?"

His hands slid lower and then lower still, pressing with that sudden, hungry intensity. And yet a familiar knot tightened in your stomach. His gaze drifted downward, and your breath hitched. It had nothing to do with the cold water, but the sudden urge to cover yourself again.

Feeling you stiffen, Astarion paused. His lips hovered just above the gentle curve of your breast.

"Oh, darling," he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against your skin. He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes. "Don't tell me you're retreating back into that pretty, complicated mind of yours?"

"Astarion," you breathed, trying to keep your voice steady. "If you're just trying to be polite... you don't have to pretend. I know there isn't exactly a lot here for you to work with."

Astarion let out a dramatic, breathy sigh, tossing his head back slightly as if utterly exhausted by your stubbornness.

"I feel that we have entirely different definitions of what polite means. Over the years, I was accused of being selfish, dishonest, roguishly handsome, of course. But polite? Honestly, my sweet, I feel rather offended that you called me something so boring and bland."

Astarion’s dramatic rant was followed by a melodic chuckle. He leaned in closer, his thumb sweeping across your nipples in a slow, possessive circles that sent a shiver straight down your spine. He tightened his grip around your waist just enough to pull you flush against his chest, his head tilting so his lips were right beside your ear.

"Polite is a word reserved for people like Wyll and Gale," he purred, one hand moving down to trace teasing pattern along your ribs. "People who bow, and do what they are supposed to, and who use their chivalrous voices to say empty niceties. Those who pretend they aren't thinking utterly wicked things. I have never pretended to be a gentleman. Nor have I kept the wicked, deplorable things I think about to myself."

"And as for these?" Astarion whispered, his eyes dropping to your chest with a dark hunger. "They are absolutely exquisite. Soft, perfectly formed, and fitting so incredibly well right here in my hands. There is a delicate, delicious perfection to them.”

He leaned down, pressing a firm, lingering kiss right to the soft slope of your breast, making you gasp out loud.

"I don’t want you to say one more ugly, untrue word about yourself tonight or ever again," he murmured. "You are utterly captivating, exactly as you are. Now... where were we?"

A splash of cold water broke the heavy tension as you playfully nudged Astarion’s chest, a laugh escaping your lips. "Alright, alright! You don't have to smother me to prove a point, vampire."

"Smother you? Darling, I am offering you absolute devotion as I cleanse you of the cultists’ filthy blood, and a masterful appreciation of your finest assets, and you call it smothering?"

"Oh, you're right," you said, your voice entirely too innocent. "We absolutely must get rid of every last drop of cultist blood."

He hummed in approval, but before he could process the shift in your tone, you brought your hands down sharply against the water's surface. Water arched through the air, drenching him completely from the shoulders up and flattening his perfectly coiffed curls against his forehead.

Astarion froze. For terrifying seconds he stood entirely motionless, water sliding down into his eyes and dripping from the tip of his nose.

"You did not just do that," he blinked away the droplets, his voice laced with amusement.

"I believe I did," you said, taking a strategic step backward into deeper water. “Have to make sure not to be boring and bland with you, darling.”

"Right. That’s it! Come here!" Astarion declared with theatrical outrage.

The vampire lunged forward with the speed of a predator, using both hands to send a blinding sheet of water directly into your face. You sputtered, laughing through the spray, and immediately struck back. In the next few minutes, the heavy tension evaporated completely, replaced by splashing and breathless laughter.

Eventually, Astarion slipped behind you, his damp arms wrapping loosely around your waist to push your arms against your body and anchor you in place. He was laughing against your shoulder, his cool breath against your skin.

“Do you surrender?”

"Yes, I yield!" you gasped, leaning back against him, chest heaving and cheeks flushed.

"Good," he chuckled, his grip loosening just slightly, yet holding you close in a way that felt protective. "Because I would hate to have to ruin my hair any further to prove a point."

You two settled into comfortable quiet. The gentle lapping of the river the only sound breaking the night. Astarion held you against his chest for a few moments longer, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as your breathing grew steadier.

"Come along, my sweet," he murmured. "Before you catch a chill and I am forced to listen to you sneeze and cough your way through our adventure. Though perhaps the Absolute is susceptible to common colds and that would bring us an easy victory?"

You slapped his biceps playfully, stepping out of his loose embrace and wading back toward the riverbank. The self-consciousness that had weighed so heavily on you before hadn’t entirely vanished. But as you noticed that your soaked smallclothes became completely transparent and clung to your skin, for once your first urge was not to cover up your chest.  

Peeling the wet undergarments off your skin, you quickly dressed yourself in your dry camp clothes, feeling a new sense of lightness rather than unease as you saw Astarion look at you from time to time. The elf wrung out and shook his shirt with a dramatic sigh, making sure to get some water on you, and then changed into dry clothes.

The walk back to camp was quiet and easy. You walked side by side through the trees, fingers brushing but not lingering, the distant crackle of the camp's bonfire guiding the two of you back. At some point your companions found their ways to their tents and all was still. The raucous noise of Karlach and the others had died down, replaced by the low, steady breathing of your sleeping companions.

When you reached the edge of your tent, you turned back to look at Astarion. The moonlight caught the silver of his hair, the curls still delightfully messy from your water fight.

"Goodnight, Astarion," you whispered and brushed a damp curl behind his ear with warm fingers. "Thank you. And I’m sorry for ruining your hair."

He smirked, leaning against the wooden post of your tent structure, crossing his arms. "It’s quite alright. But do not make a habit of it, darling." He paused, his expression softening into something entirely genuine for just a fraction of a second. "Sleep well. I will be keeping watch."

And then the vampire melted into the shadows toward his own tent, leaving you to crawl into your bedroll with a warm, quiet smile.

Astarion settled gracefully in front of the crackling fire, tucking his legs beneath him with an elegance that seemed entirely effortless. He sat there, unblinking and unmoving. Seemingly still, but his thoughts were anything but.

For two centuries everyone fit into neat, predictable boxes. There were dangers to avoid, marks to manipulate and, most recently, blood bags to drain.

The orange light danced across his sharp features as he stared into the flames. You were not a target. You were not a night he’d rather forget. And, perhaps worst of all, you were no longer just his source of sustenance.

Then what in the world could you be?

(dividers by @saradika)

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