“You’ll need blood.” You take a second glance at his arm and grimace. The scent of iron clings to the air. “A lot of it.”

Astarion tilts his head, allows a few silver curls to fall artfully across his brow. You track the movement, though your gaze is quick to dart back to his own. He fights a smirk and loses. “Astute, aren’t you? Yes, I’m afraid I’ll need to do more than my usual share of feeding tonight to fix this mess.”

You say nothing in response, not at first. He wonders if you’ll actually say it, or if you’ll hem and haw yourself to death trying to free the words from your tongue.

“If you truly have need of it,” you begin, reaching up to touch your fingertips to your throat. The mark from his first feeding had long since faded, but you remembered where his fangs had struck. 

“How generous!” Astarion exclaims, a little touched despite himself. It took a certain amount of fortitude to offer yourself to a hungry vampire, after all. “If you’re certain - “

You don’t answer with words, merely tilting your head and baring your throat to him. Astarion longs to draw out the suspense, tease you with the anticipation of his bite, but that furrow hasn’t left your brow and he finds himself unwilling to add to your worries. Besides, his body cries out for the meal you’ve so graciously offered, practically rejoicing as he lowers his mouth to your throat.

There’s a certain… intimacy to be had during the act of feeding, he’s learned. Not so much in the bite itself, but in the aftermath: the pull of precious blood, the quickening of a pulse, the flush of warm, living flesh. 

Astarion has never felt the like, not until he first drew blood from you. To know that this is what he had been missing for all the centuries he’d spent feeding on vermin makes his hatred for Cazador climb higher, though he pushes thoughts of his former master far from his mind before they can truly take root. He will not think of his tormentor here, not with you. 

You draw in a breath; it sticks in your throat, your pulse beating like a drum in the back of Astarion’s brain. He can smell your skin, the sweat and blood from your latest battle mingling with the scent of sweetgrass and rainwater, the scent of you, light and sweet against the back of his tongue. 

He can smell more than that. Unease and pain cling to you like a film while he feeds, but beneath that, clinging to your flesh like a limpet, he finds what he’s been searching for - the familiar musk of arousal.

Well, then, he thinks victoriously, feeling a shiver work down his spine as your blood coats the back of his tongue. There’s all the proof I need. 

He had wondered if your lack of amorous advances had been due to disinterest, but no. The body doesn’t lie, and yours was basically singing, crying out its need with increasing frequency the longer his fangs remained buried in your throat.

So then why? Why did you flit away from his advances like a rabbit evading a predator? He knew what you wanted and had no qualms about giving it to you. It would cement your trust in him, bolster your growing bond. Your union would be advantageous to you both. 

He’s so consumed by his thoughts that he doesn’t notice your hand moving until it’s braced against the back of his neck, your palm warm against his skin. He waits for your signal to move away, hungrily swallowing another mouthful of your sweet blood in case it happens to be his last, but all you do is reach for the riot of curls at his nape and pass your fingers gently through them. Once, twice more, until you’ve built up a steady rhythm.

It feels… well, it feels rather nice, actually. It’s far from the first time someone has ever run their fingers through his hair, and yet your touch feels… lighter in comparison, unweighted by sensual delight or a precursor for greedy lust. You’re not touching him in anticipation for more - you’re just… touching him.

It confuses him so greatly that Astarion finds himself pulling away before he’d truly wished to, feeling more than a little bereft when your fingers slip from his hair and land, half-curled still, in your lap.

“That will do, darling,” he mumbles, pushing himself to his feet. It’s a good thing the blood loss has dazed you somewhat, or else your eagle eyes would have quickly taken notice of the bewildered expression upon his face. “A boar or two will more than suffice for the rest. You should sleep, while you’re able.” His nose wrinkles, and he can’t help himself from adding, “But perhaps bathe first.” 

Your eyes narrow at the thinly-veiled insult, but you push yourself clumsily to your feet and head for the river flowing near camp. “Keep your eyes about you while you hunt,” you call to him over your shoulder. “There may still be goblins about.”

He doesn’t know how to tell you that goblins - and hunting, for that matter - are among the last things on his mind. He merely watches you walk away, his fingers creeping to the thatch of curls you had so gently carded through, and wonders what the hell he’s supposed to do with you now. 

Your growing affection for him remains more than apparent as the days pass. You’re devoted to finding a cure for the parasites that writhe within your minds and playing savior for everyone you meet along the way, but in the moments between - slivers of time carved out for rest and respite - you gravitate toward Astarion, leaving the vampire torn between petty satisfaction and growing confusion, because you simply refuse to acknowledge his increasingly thinly-veiled offers to fuck you. 

It’s ridiculous. Madness, really. The number of conquests under his belt had grown too numerous for Astarion to recall, his expertise in the art of seduction unmatched, and yet you remained unmoved by his every attempt. Oh, you would flush, your eyes would flit about as though you couldn’t bear to meet his gaze, your body itself would sway towards his like a tree bough rocked by the wind, but still you would play at ambivalency. 

Astarion might be inclined to believe himself incorrect - a rarity, to be sure, but stranger things have happened; that your reaction to his bite was merely a result of the intimacy of the act rather than any true desire you might hold for him, and yet your behavior afterwards serves to lay that theory quite soundly to rest.

You’ve become quite… tactile, with him, as of late. A bracing hand on his shoulder whenever an enemy’s attack knocks him off his guard, elbows brushing whenever you’re gathered near the campfire, even a rather memorable moment where you’d brushed his curls free of his brow late in the night, your hand hovering in the air between you and a bewildered expression writ across your face, as though shocked that you’d actually done it.

It’s driving Astarion mad, wondering what could possibly be going on inside that skull of yours. The thought of tapping in to the tadpole’s power just to catch a glimpse passes swiftly through his mind, but to his eternal chagrin, knowing somehow feels more daunting.

Besides, he’s… curious. Curious as to what you’ll do next and how he may react to it, and so he doesn’t ask you to stop. You would, if only he were to indicate a dislike of your touch, and yet to do so would prove the vampire a liar, for he finds that he actually quite enjoys the fleeting brush of your fingertips across his brow, or the firm, comforting weight of your shoulder against his. 

Gods, what has he gotten himself into?

He ponders his plight late into the night, until his eyes slip closed and he’s confronted by another new pressing issue - nightmares of his former life and dear old master, memories of previous torments and casual cruelties assaulting his mind from every front. 

Astarion twists upon his bedroll, fingers spasming atop his chest as Cazador flits through his mind like a phantom. Sweat beads on his temples, leaving his curls damp. Fear bubbles through his blood like some molten creature.

“Astarion.”

He awakens with a shout, his dreams clinging to his mind for another awful moment before their claws finally release him. You’re the first thing he notices as soon as he’s set himself to rights, kneeling by his bedside with a discomfited expression upon your face. It had been your voice, then - yours, not Cazador’s - that had called out to him, broken him free of his agony. 

His lips try to twist into their customary smirk, but fall short of the goal and tremble instead. He presses them into a firm line. “Apologies, my love,” he murmurs, grimacing at the drying sweat along his brow. “Did I wake you?”

You shake your head. “I had first watch,” you explain. Your hand twitches at your side. You want to touch him, he realizes. Reassure him. By the gods, with the way he’s feeling right now, Astarion might actually let you do it. “Are you alright?”

“Wonderful,” he bites out, reaching up to push sweaty curls free of his brow only to find that you've beaten him to it, your fingertips callused and blessedly cool against his skin. The urge to swoon like a damned maiden is nearly overwhelming, and yet Astarion resists, only allowing himself the luxury of closing his eyes and indulging in your touch for a few brief moments. 

“Nightmare?” Your voice is low, dreadfully soothing. Keep talking, he thinks, pushing his brow into your palm. Don’t make me do it.

He hums in the affirmative. Your fingers drift to the crown of his head, smooth through the flattened curls at the base of his skull, and rest there, holding him. 

“Cazador?” The name sounds like a curse on your lips, and might as well be for all the vitriol you spew it with. 

Astarion’s lips twitch. It shouldn’t thrill him, the ire you hold for a man you’ve never met, but he knows it’s there simply because its bearer has caused him harm. You’re protective of those you hold dear. 

“The one and the same,” he mutters into the curve of your shoulder, having allowed his chin to rest there while your fingers curled around the back of his neck. You smelled of embers from the fire and the sweetness of the cool night air, and Astarion breathed deep, soothed by the scent. 

“What do you need?” It’s a gentle query against one pointed ear, and for a moment Astarion stares beyond your shoulder, beyond the camp, all the way to Baldur’s Gate and Cazador’s cold, cruel gaze, waiting for his return. You’re silent, patient for his response, and in that moment Astarion is certain that you would give him anything, if only he would ask. 

He could ask for you - for the distraction that your body would provide this night, and you would give it to him. You would trust him with it. 

He can see it so clearly, the rapture of it driving the echoes of Cazador’s voice from his head. But he can see the aftermath, too, and your disappointment when you realize that it’s all he can truly give you, and only because he knows of no other way to be. 

“I don’t know,” he murmurs into your shoulder, and it’s the truth, for all the good that does him. 

He feels you nodding, feels your cheek resting against his hair, feels more than hears you say, “Let me know, whenever you figure it out,” and listens to the faint beat of your pulse until his dreams seem like nothing more than misshapen fragments, unimportant, without teeth. 

Something shifts between you then, or perhaps it’s more appropriate to say that something settles. His machinations cease, insomuch as he stops trying to manipulate you into bed, though teasing you with ill-concealed innuendo remains a habit he can’t quite shake. 

You’ve promised to help break Cazador’s hold upon him, and judging by the sharpness in your eyes whenever the subject is pressed, you’re determined to uphold it. 

You care about him; of that, Astarion is more than certain. He sees it in the way you look at him, feels it in the touches you bestow. He hears it, your pulse as clear to him as the warmth of the blood in your veins. He’s earned your trust, your affection, your protection. And you’ve earned his. 

How could he keep it from you, when you’ve not only unearthed his past but vowed to help him escape it? How could he guard himself against you when he’s seen that fire in your eyes, watched you wield it against that vile drow who’d called him a thing and urged you to allow him to bite her?

Astarion shudders at the reminder. If it had been Cazador in your place, he would have taken the offer without thought, without care for Astarion’s comfort. But not you. 

It had angered you - not just the drow’s request, but her flippant disregard of Astarion’s autonomy.

“Astarion is his own person,” you had said, practically spitting the words through gritted teeth. “And he said no.”

You were still angry, by the looks of it, if your gritted teeth and flashing eyes were anything to go by. 

“Are we going into battle?” he calls out, catching you as you’re about to stomp by.

You jerk to a halt and give him a look, completely confused. He bites back a laugh.

“It certainly seems so, judging by your face.”

“My face?” You reach up as though to check, and this time Astarion does laugh, a soft huff that seems to startle you, but also leave you looking incredibly, undeniably… fond. It’s… well. It’s a nice look on you.

“You’re angry,” he explains, reaching over to rub the furrow from your brows. You go cross-eyed trying to watch him, and another laugh bubbles from his throat before he can stop it.

And ah, there’s that fondness again upon your face. He feels warm beneath that look, full, as if he’s freshly fed. 

“I am angry,” you murmur, drawing closer. “Her ignorance, her arrogance - it infuriated me.”

“Obviously,” Astarion quips, lips twitching as your mouth twists in annoyance. He allows the humor to drain from his tone before he continues, a touch more solemnly, “Thank you. I appreciated that.”

Your head tilts. “What did I do?”

Astarion huffs a breath, astounded by your obliviousness. “I spent two-hundred years using my body to lure pretty things back to my Master. What I wanted, how I felt about what I was doing, it never mattered.” The memories, though old, are fresh, and he does his best to shake them free of his mind. This isn’t about that. This is about you. “You could have asked me to do the same, but you didn’t. And I’m grateful.”

“I never would,” you return, and your words are firm. Resolute. You need him to believe them. “It wouldn’t have been right, forcing you to do something you didn’t want to do.”

“You’re the first to think so,” Astarion murmurs. “The first not to make me feel like something to be used and discarded.” He had still been living as though he was exactly that, he realizes. Still a puppet, a pawn to be ordered about at his master’s whim. But that wasn’t who he was, anymore, and he would never be that way again. You would aid him in making sure of it, and not simply because he’d seduced and manipulated you into doing so. You would do it because you wanted to. Because you cared. 

Because you were his friend. 

“Thank you,” he repeated, a lightness to his shoulders that he hasn’t felt in centuries. 

You stare at him, throat working for a moment as if you don’t know what to say in return, and he smiles. Silly thing. 

But then you’re stepping forward, a determined glint to your eye, and Astarion is left with no other recourse than to gawk over your shoulder as you wrap both arms around him. Your cheek comes to rest against his shoulder, your chest settling warmly against his, and Astarion - 

Astarion crumbles. His arms come up to wrap around you, gingerly at first, until he hears your sigh - a soft thing, sweet, happy - and then he’s squeezing you against him, brow falling to your shoulder.

Gods, when was the last time someone had embraced him like this? He wracks his mind and still fails to recall a single moment where he was gathered so close without an ulterior motive to facilitate it. 

He doesn’t want to let you go. It’s an intimidating thought. A terrifying thought. And yet the terror doesn’t make it any less true. For the first time in centuries, he wants - he actually wants something, just for him, just because.

He wants you.

It would be easy for the fear to consume him, then, fear that this will crumble to dust beneath his hands like so much else, and yet you won’t allow that terror to seep through. It can’t, not with your arms curled so sweetly around his waist, your smile tucked against his shoulder, your pulse a soothing beat in his ears, assuring him without words that he had been right all along.

Peaceful days like this are meant to be luxuriated in for all of the contrast they provide to the darkness of the not so distant past. Sorcerers were destined to struggle and suffer, but Satoru decided he didn’t like that destiny very much. So he got rid of it—for everyone, forever. 

(Not that it was an easy feat, but those memories aren’t welcome when the sun is warm and the breeze is cool. When the living are close and the cherished dead are resting soundly at last.)

Birds chirped merrily overhead as you steal another piece of the kouign-amann perched on Satoru’s knee. Buttery sweetness spreads over your palate—perfectly indulgent. Across the way a group of small children screeched and giggled as they chased each other across the supple green grass. 

A shrill peel of laughter draws your attention to a group of college students huddled under a nearby tree. They giggle as they whisper to each other, shooting glances in your direction periodically. 

Well, not your direction. 

You’ve been with Satoru long enough to be accustomed to the incessant scrutiny of strangers. A white haired Adonis with a smile that could melt the panties off a nun tends to draw attention, you get it and you certainly don’t blame them for their fascination. 

You’re not quite able to quell the insecurity that swells sickly in your gut. They’re beautiful, you think, with their summer attire showing off flawlessly smooth, sun kissed skin. Hip bones peek over their mini-skirts and shorts, crop tops displaying their flat stomachs. 

The closest you’d ever been close to looking like them was years ago, when you were about their age. Though you can’t exactly say it was the healthiest time in your life, it was the last time you’d felt close to conventionally attractive. You could actually shop at trendy boutiques rather than feel like their inventory was openly mocking you.

You’ve never been beautiful like them, though, even back then. You fit best into the mold that society happily provided because you were too sad to eat, not because of some genetic lottery.

You wonder what it's like— to look like you were delicately sculpted by the hands of a masterwork craftsman. Radiant skin pulled taut over lithe bones. Just soft enough to be enticing and nothing more. 

The angle you sit at on the bench causes you to bend in such a way that deepens and exaggerates the fleshy rolls of your waist. You pinch one, pulling the fabric of your sundress free of the fold so you can better obscure the topography of your body. 

Maybe now you could try. Maybe now that things were quiet, you could be beautiful like them. Someone that people wouldn’t look at with incredulity when they were spotted hand in hand with Satoru.

A frown pulls at your lips, You’d just have to cut back on some indulgences. So you discard the piece of pastry in your fingers back onto its parchment wrapper.

Satoru notices—because of course he does.  Six eyes or the sixth sense of a dutiful partner, who knows.

“You gonna make me eat the whole thing?” He says with a playful whine; baby blue eyes meeting yours out of the side of his dark glasses.

“I’ve seen you house a dozen of these, Toru. You can handle this one.” You assure him. 

“But this is probably going to be the last time we can get the strawberry ones before they go out of season. Strawberry’s your favorite.” Sunlight glints off his full lower lip as he pouts down at you.

“I had some. Moderation is important for mere mortals like me. I need to start eating better. Less pastries, more veggies…” You trail off, smoothing your dress down your thighs, trying to buy into your own line.

He makes a disgusted face, “That doesn’t sound like a life worth living.”

“Maybe for those with the palate of a five year old, but it’s part of being an adult.” You tell him, putting on your best long suffering wife routine, “Besides, I could stand to lose a few pounds.”

Your attempt to sound casual clearly fails—his brow furrows at your remark, eyes flitting from yours to where your hands pick at your dress. 

“You wanna lose weight?” His tone is carefully neutral, the one he takes when he’s doing his absolute best not to accidentally offend you. Testing your emotional waters to make sure he doesn’t cause any needless waves.

“I mean, I know I’ll never look like that,” You nod your head towards you onlookers, “But it would be nice to not be quite so far off the mark.”

“Off the mark…” He mutters quietly to himself.

He frowns as he regards the group in question, the fingers at your should have moved to pluck at the strap of your dress as he formulates a response. The silence between you drags on, the crease in his brow deepens like he’s trying to solve a complex equation in his mind.

“I can hear the poor hamster that powers your brain fighting for his life, just spit it out.” You poke his temple to draw his attention. 

Shoulders sinking in defeat, he lets out a long exhale.

“I mean it’s none of my business what you do with your body.” He says, more to himself than you, you think, “If you wanna be skinny or whatever then go for it, I guess. As long as you’re healthy about it.” 

“Yeah?” You can’t help but laugh at his poorly masked petulance. This is not the way you expected the conversation to go. He’s clearly trying to sound supportive and failing rather spectacularly.

“Yeah…” Dejection lacing his tone until he hears it and corrects himself, “I mean yes. Of course. I don’t need a say in what you look like. Do what makes you happy, sunshine.”

He gives you a tight smile and squeezes your shoulder reassuringly.

You blink up at him in disbelief. “You’re seriously bummed I want to lose weight? Do you want to be with someone who has what they have?”

“A crop top?” He guesses, cheery at the idea.

“Satoru…” you scoff.

“A belly button piercing?” He tries again.

“Stop it.” You laugh, punching his chest playfully.

“A streaky self tan?” He snakes his arm around your waist, grabbing a generous handful of your stomach as he does, making you squeal.

“Quit it!” You slap his hand but he just squeezes tighter.

“Baby, can I be a bad husband for a second?” He sighs, relishing the feeling of you against him.

You huff as you relent, going lax in his grasp. “You were a good husband before?” He may have gotten you to sit still, but he’ll never stop your teasing. Not that he would have it any other way.

He bows his head, lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “I like you soft.”

His low timbre sends frissons of heat down your spine. Your exhale is shaky as you press yourself closer to him instinctually, chasing the source of the sensation.

“I’d like you to stay this soft.” He murmurs as his hand relinquishes your tummy in favor of digging into the softness of your thigh, not high enough to be indecent, but enough to make your breathing stutter and your legs squeeze together. “Can ya do that for your terrible, chauvinist husband?”

Your poor brain is fuzzy with his flirtations, you lick your lips and attempt to ground yourself.

“Yeah, yeah, anything for you.” You try but there’s little to do to hide how breathy you sound. He can play you like a fiddle.

“Good.” He raises his head and loosens his grip on you, but doesn’t move his hand from your thigh. “Your tummy is the best pillow in the world. Where would I nap if it went away?”

You hum thoughtfully and pop your previously discarded pastry into your mouth. The strawberries are delicious.

“Suffer, I guess.” You pause briefly before deciding to ask the question that’s heavy on your mind, “Do you really like the way I look?”

“Need me to prove it? We can go back to the car right now and I can-” Your hand shoots up to cover his mouth before he can finish his lurid thought.

“Satoru, I know you want me.” You laugh at his candor, “But do you really…like all of this?” You gesture generally at your body.

“You’d be beautiful at any size. Wouldn’t really change anything…but yeah, if I’m being honest I like you nice and plush.” He has the audacity to look bashful, “It’s hot.”

Affection bubbles in your chest, warm and sticky sweet. You cup his cheek and pull him down for a kiss. His lips are pliant and impossibly soft, as always. He makes a pleased sound as he leans into the kiss—nipping at your lower lip. 

You break away before affection is replaced by something less suited for public display. 

“Is your chap-stick strawberry flavored?” You ask, licking your lips.

His eyes flick down, drawn to the glimpse of your tongue, “It’s your favorite.” An impish grin slowly spreads across his face.

“Sure is.” You snuggle back into his side—feeling lighter and a bit giddy. 

A comfortable silence falls back into place as you watch the increasingly competitive game of tag unfold across the field. There’s definitely going to be blood at some point. You’re getting strangely invested in the scene when Satoru clears his throat.

“Sooo…” Satoru drawls, head lolling to rest atop yours.

“Yes?” You answer, suspicions rising.

“You mentioned something about crop tops earlier.” He feigns a casual disposition.

You roll your eyes, “You mentioned crop tops, my love.”

“Oh? Hm.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully, “I could have sworn you said something about wanting a closet full of them.”

“Satoru.” You give a half-hearted warning.

“Anyway, I think it’s a great idea.” He pats your thigh and gives you an approving nod.

“You’re an idiot.” You grumble, “If anyone’s getting a closet full of crop tops it's you.”

“Oh say less, sunshine. Anything for you.”