#emicha writes

They don’t know that it’s not unusual for Astarion to wash out dirt and mud and strawberry stains from comically small finery, leaving behind only the memories of a day spent playing in the garden, chasing after ducks, picking flowers, lazing in the sun…

That any holes and tears the children’s clothes might suffer are quickly mended, making them look as good as new in no time. 

Nor do they know that Astarion doesn’t mind fashioning a brand new dress to match that of a favourite doll, either. Or to embroider a pretty vest with the likeness of that stray cat the children seem to adore, although their father would rather they don’t touch the mangy animal. 

No, those people know nothing at all...

“Not tired!” Astarion’s youngest cries; the vehement denial of her father’s earlier accusation is cut short by a telltale yawn.

The room still smells of fragrant lavender oil and peaches even when the bath water has already grown tepid, just one or two degrees above what Astarion would consider too cold to be enjoyable. 

Amused, he raises an eyebrow at the protesting toddler before he lifts her out of the copper bathtub with little effort. 

By now, he knows every step of this game.

“Tut-tut, my dear child, what did mama and I say?” Astarion kneels, quickly wrapping a soft towel around the child to keep her warm. “We only tell lies outside of this house.”

Unfazed by her father’s gentle scolding, the girl crosses her arms that haven’t yet lost their puppy fat across her chest, reminding Astarion a little too much of a very displeased Tav. 

Suppressing a sigh, he leans back to consider the pouting child, wondering what could possibly be upsetting her this time—the list is growing longer by the day, after all. 

“What’s the matter, dear?” Astarion asks gently, hoping it’s something easily fixable as it’s growing rather late. 

“Want apple!”

Decades ago, Astarion might’ve rolled his eyes—he knows exactly which stupid apple the child wants, it’s been haunting him all day—but once he started to treat his children’s problems as if they were his own, his life has grown somewhat easier. 

“Why, let’s get an apple on our way to bed, then. Would that be alright, Your Highness?” 

The girl promptly nods her head, allowing Astarion to pat her hair dry before dressing her in a clean night dress. 

She rests her cheek against her father’s shoulder as he carries her first to the kitchen to grab a fragrant apple and a knife, then to her bedroom where they settle on the cosy window seat, just like they do every night.

Soft moonlight is pouring through the windows; the child giggles at the way the knife’s blade is catching the silver light as Astarion peels and cuts the apple into even pieces.

“Here you go,” he finally says, giving the slice of apple one last examining look before surrendering it to the impatient little hands reaching for it. “A sweet treat for my little sweet. Doesn’t it taste so much better when we don’t eat it off the floor, darling?” And when it’s not crawling with ants…

The appeased toddler nibbles at the juicy fruit as Astarion carefully combs through her still-damp curls. 

Her hair’s getting long, he notices, knowing that taking care of it will become more time-consuming each day. 

Once, Astarion would’ve thought this task tedious, brushing out hair that’s not his own, oiling and braiding it for no other reason than knowing his children enjoy him doing it. 

But that’s why he loves doing it in the first place, he supposes.

Astarion can tell by his toddler’s heartbeat that sleep is about to claim her. 

The half-eaten slice of apple is still clutched in her little fist as he cradles the child to his chest, slowly rising from the window seat to put her to bed. 

He’s just about to lay the child down that the fruit drops to the floor, his daughter’s tiny hand clutching at his shirt instead.

“Thank you, papa,” she mumbles, more asleep than awake.

Astarion pauses.

He breathes in the clean, yet unique scent of the little girl that is forever engraved in his brain, the same way he knows under which exact constellation she was born. When she took her first steps, what her first word was. Soon, he will have to memorise her favourite colour, and what she likes to eat when dirty apples won’t be that appealing anymore. 

By now, Astarion knows this game by heart, knows that with every year that passes, he has something new to learn about his children.

And sometimes he wonders what it’s like to grow up with clean bed sheets and full bellies. Sleep filled with naught but warmth and happy memories. Ever open doors and tears that are dried by tender kisses. Living in a house where mistakes and anger are welcomed, safe. 

He wonders what it’s like for his children to know that their father’s love comes without conditions. Not now and not ever. 

Sitting down on the bed, Astarion holds his youngest a little closer to his chest, unwilling to let go of her, yet. 

He’s often accused of spoiling his children when most people can only just grasp the very surface of his love for them, the bare minimum of what he feels for his one and only, precious family. 

These baseless accusations are as unimportant to Astarion as the people voicing them.

He’s raising his children to have standards, wants them to take their father’s love for granted, to accept nothing less but pure devotion.

It’s the only way Astarion knows how to love them, the only way that comes most naturally to him. 

Astarion looks down at his little girl, now fast asleep, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. 

After all these years—all these children—he’s still in awe watching them sleep in his arms as if no harm in the world could ever befall them.

And it won’t—not if Astarion can help it. 

“No, thank you, my heart,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against the crown of the toddler’s head. 

Astarion swallows. 

Tav’s beautiful eyes are watching him, waiting for a reaction—an enthusiastic one, no less. 

Maybe Tav will believe that he’s overcome with emotions at seeing his firstborn child? 

“Oh my, darling, I’m…speechless,” is all he can choke out, though, being rather proud that it’s at least not a lie. 

To his luck, Tav only nods dreamily, her full attention back on the odd little bundle in her arms.

“Isn’t she perfect?”

Yes, perfectly hideous. 

Astarion only hums in a way of reply.

That—his daughter, he supposes—is with no doubt one of the ugliest things he’s ever seen, but he has a feeling that his honesty wouldn’t be appreciated after Tav laboured for hours to give birth to this…potato-baby.

“Come, hold her, Astarion,” Tav says, then, bidding him to sit next to her on the bed.

The mattress shifts under Astarion’s weight and he obediently holds his arms out so that Tav can gently place the sleeping child against his chest.

Now that Astarion can take a better look, he can confirm that his daughter’s hair is of an indefinable colour and that her features are neither his nor Tav’s, plain as can be. Surely it won’t stay like that?

He and Tav are so ridiculously beautiful, their child can only be drop-dead gorgeous, right?

Astarion’s stomach drops indeed when, suddenly, something occurs to him. 

Oh dear, what if it’s his fault? He has no recollection of his family whatsoever; it’s very much possible that he and his immaculate looks are the exception in his lineage, and that he’s passed on only those mysterious less-than-perfect genes…Tav, as per usual, can’t be the issue!

Astarion is still catastrophizing when the bundle in his arms begins to stir.

All of a sudden, gold-speckled pale green eyes are looking up at him as if to ask what the fuck this weirdo’s problem might be. 

“Oh,” the weirdo in question exclaims at once. “Darling, look, she has your eyes!”

Tav, hugging him from behind, rests her chin on his shoulder, so she can watch as Astarion’s finger tenderly strokes their baby’s chubby cheek.

Their daughter also has, as it turns out, ten fingers and toes, a cute little nose and a hungry mouth—everything that’s supposed to be there is there, and it seems to be working fine, too—which is a huge relief. 

And aren’t those the tiniest pointy ears Astarion has ever seen? Let alone the unexpectedly strong fingers grasping at his!

Astarion, worries forgotten in a heartbeat, can’t help but smile at the baby in his arms. 

She is perfect, after all. 

Tav, face hidden in the crook of his neck, begins to tremble against his back. 

For a second, Astarion thinks she’s crying but then her laughter fills the chamber. It takes her a good moment to articulate whatever it is she finds so very funny.

“She'll grow out of it, you know?” Tav giggles in between her fits of laughter. 

Astarion stiffens. “Of what?”

“The turnip look. That’s what you’ve been worrying about the whole time, haven't you?”

“I was leaning more towards potatoes—but yes, I might’ve been a little worried about that,” Astarion admits sheepishly, although a grin is already tugging at his lips.  

Regaining her composure, Tav reaches over Astarion’s shoulder, her hand joining his as they get to know their child.

“Give it a couple of days and she will look like your proper little elf—beautiful just like her father.”

A content sigh leaves Astarion’s lips, right before he presses them against Tav’s temple.

It’s not a sweet dream, but reality. It’s as real as the wild shrieks and laughter sweeping across the meadow. Children jumping over and around him, eager to slay this or that imaginary fiend. The hem of a skirt he mended only last night brushing against his legs. A young boy humming a song his mother sang over breakfast close to his ear. 

Astarion smiles, or tries not to, since he’s promised to be fast asleep—even when there’s a sudden tug at his hair. 

The humming stops; the laughter fades into displeased groans all around him. Astarion doesn’t need to open his eyes to know that the face eclipsing the sun above him is a much younger version of his own. 

“Careful, Miri, that hurts papa!” The boy scolds as he gently untangles his little sister’s hand from their father’s locks.

“Uh-oh!” the toddler mumbles before she helps the boy pick stray sticks from Astarion’s hair. “Bad!”  

“Yes, Miri—bad.” 

Astarion suppresses the urge to take his daughter’s clumsy hand in his and press a soothing kiss to her small fingers, telling her it’s quite alright. That no harm was done. There never is. Not here. Not with them. 

But all he has to do today is feign sleep, so he will reassure the child later when it’s his turn to braid her hair in time for bed.

“Sorry, papa,” another girl calls from near the treeline. “Miri didn’t mean to hurt you! But don’t worry, we’ll protect you from the true beast!” 

This time, Astarion cannot help the faint smile tugging at his lips. 

It’s a lovely promise, lisped through missing front teeth. And it’s true—most of the time, at least. 

These children, this family he helped create with nothing but love and devotion, distract him from the beast prowling the everlasting darkness far in the back of his mind.

Yet, sometimes, distraction alone isn’t enough… 

Astarion doesn’t like to dwell on the rare occasions when the beast eventually does find its way to him. It’s tamer now, the years have made it lazy enough, but every now and then, it will probe him. It can still sniff out the weakness he’ll never be able to shed, knows whenever he’s at his lowest. 

The beast only lunges at easy prey—it always has.

So, sometimes, when Astarion’s nights are tense with endless whining, misplaced toys and sharp words, the beast breathes down his neck, whispers in his ear.

On your back, boy, right here. Do not move. It will not hurt unless you let it. Your screams have always sounded the sweetest. Are you hurting, yet? Good, it’s because I want you to. It’s what you deserve, you insolent fool. Have you no respect for yourself? That’s why they hate you so, that’s why you’re but a pathetic little boy who’s never amounted to anything that’s why you’re nothing that’s why—

Once the older children perform their duty to scold the youngest among them, the laughter returns. Their faceless fiend is fair game again and all Astarion has to do is sleep, trust in his family’s sweet promise that holds his cure. 

Because, as exhausting as it is, he has learned to ignore the beast, become numb to its poison. It’s a thing of the past and he won’t let it taint his future. 

Astarion lets out a deep breath. He can feel himself grow tired under the little hands stroking his hair.

“No worry, papa.”

No worry, no. Not here. Not with them. Never with them…

There’s a gust of wind coming from up north. It carries the scents of sickly sweet strawberries and petrichor and, ever so slowly, Astarion can feel his mind slipping. 

He doesn’t sleep; he hasn’t in a very long time. Sleep, true sleep, is vulgar and reminds him of death. Instead, Astarion drowns in memories, but even there he’s buried six feet under today. 

There are no strawberries in this freshly dug grave, only the stink of decay. The damp wood of his coffin presses uncomfortably into his back while worms and maggots tickle his neck. Eating at him. Consuming him. 

His broken fingernails hurt as he claws at the darkness surrounding him—this deep in the ground, all shades of grey are tainted black. Sometimes he wonders if his eyes are even open, but they must be because they burn with tears and blood and dust.

There’s laughter coming from somewhere above. It’s rumbling like far-away thunder; it hasn’t reached him, yet, but the threat of it is already stunning him with fear.

He cannot speak he cannot see he cannot be he cannot—

The laughter isn’t coming from above, nor is it coming from anywhere, really. It’s residing inside his head, this vile laughter that won’t let him in on the joke. And why would it? He is nothing, is he not? All he is is blood and screams and death. Bodies piled atop his aching shoulders, weighing him down.

So why is he moving? Why is he digging through wet soil until he can see moonlight illuminating his path to…

The beast eclipses the moon and the stars shining down on him. It has stopped laughing, though its maw is stretched into an unnatural grin, revealing a pair of sharp fangs—the key to the wounds on his neck. A promise of endless misery.

He cannot stop moving towards the beast. It holds its claws out to him, stroking his hair, scratching his scalp raw. There you are, boy, always crawling back to me. My good, prodigal son—look at you! Do you know why you’re here? With me? It’s because, after all these years, you’re still mine. And you will always be.

“Astarion?”

There’s a light drizzle soaking his skin. 

Astarion opens his eyes to a sun that’s crawled past its zenith, taking the music of children’s play with it. The silence feels oppressive, just like the calm before a great storm, and all he can feel are the small, warm bodies Astarion helped create press against him. They’re curled up against his side, lying draped over his legs, clutching his arm. Weighing him down.

No.

Grounding him, always ever grounding him. 

He needs to shield his sleeping children from the rain, he thinks, but his arms are still caged somewhere between nightmare and reality. 

Fuck, how long had he been out?

Astarion inhales deeply. He just needs a moment to come to his senses.

He can smell rain-soaked cotton, crisp air and that faint scent of magic he would recognise even if he were buried deep in the ground.

Oh, of course…

“Astarion.”

He allows himself a relieved half-smile as the rain above him is coming to a sudden halt a moment later. 

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, my heart,” Tav says as she steps into the meadow, one eyebrow raised at the sight in front of her. “But what in the nine hells are you doing out here?”

Astarion can only watch as little droplets of rain run down the magic dome enclosing him and the children, tear drops that can never reach them now. 

“I’m a sleeping princess, or so I’ve been told. But I’m rather afraid my knights in shining armour fell asleep before they got to wake me…” 

Tav joins her family under her shield of magic, strokes the head of the child closest to her as she smiles at her husband.

“I see. May I kiss you awake instead, then?” 

“You already have, darling,” Astarion whispers. “But do it again, yes? Just to be on the safe side…?” 

His hand brushes the swell of Tav’s stomach as she’s trying to settle comfortably against him. It’s getting rather crowded—the house, life, moments like this—but there’s always room for one more, Astarion thinks.

Tav grins as she sweetly kisses her way from his cheek to his mouth, where she finally lingers. 

To Astarion, Tav’s lips taste of freedom, of nightmares swiftly broken. Of home—the best distraction he never dared to hope for. One he never wants to end.

In the distance, there’s a gentle thunder rolling towards the meadow, but that’s quite alright. Astarion knows that it can’t do any harm. Not here. Not with them.

Never with his family around him.

@seaofdaydreams , my dear, I hope you do not mind me borrowing Miri's name for this one ♡

more Dadstarion content

And yet, Astarion did have an undeniably keen eye for beauty and dramatics alike. If he only put a little more of himself into his work, you were convinced people would adore his poetry. He only had to find his intended audience because one thing was clear: as much as you loved Astarion, his poetry simply wasn’t for you. At all. That, too, you’d told him. 

To your surprise, Astarion had taken your admittedly harsh review of his work with uncharacteristic grace—suspiciously so, in hindsight, at least. After all, the vampire could be quite…sensitive. That night, though, he’d just nodded along to your blunt words, an almost arrogant smirk tugging at his lips, promising you to compose a piece to your liking one day.

Just for you, Astarion had said with a wink as he’d retrieved his poetry from your hands, the dying campfire reflecting in the ink of his elegant handwriting. Crimson eyes sparkling with mischief as they’d wandered over your body. His tongue had slowly wet his sensuous lips as if in anticipation of...what? 

Just wait and see, darling…

If your brain hadn’t been all clouded by lust earlier tonight, you would’ve noticed that Astarion had been up to something. He’d been throwing you suggestive looks all evening, purring sweet nothings in your ear whenever he’d gotten you alone. Surprised you in your tent when your companions had been sound asleep, the campfire burned low. His hand had practically been glued to the small of your back as he’d guided you to a most charming little clearing, not unlike the one in which you’d first slept with him all those weeks ago. 

That Astarion had kept calling this idyllic, moonlit spot his perfect motif had somehow eluded you as you’d been too preoccupied with the telltale heat gathering between your legs. In fact, you’d followed the vampire like an eager little pup, already wound tight around his little finger. The promise of Astarion’s inviting touches and lingering kisses had lured you right into his honey trap—and how bittersweet it was.

Now, shivering from painfully drawn-out desire and cold morning dew settling on your skin, you could feel that cursed smirk brush against your dripping wet core again—a silent warning. 

Oh, fuck. 

Astarion’s lips closed around your almost painfully swollen clit, sucking at it leisurely as his lower arm pinned your hips against the cold earth as if you were but a sheet of paper threatening to take flight with the next gust of wind. Another gasp echoed from the trees as your left hand clawed at the damp grass underneath you, looking for support but finding little. Your other hand grasped at silver curls with as much success. 

Astarion was rather enjoying himself as your body squirmed under his sinful mouth, his fingertips digging into the flesh of your thigh as he adjusted your trembling leg over his shoulder, opening you up even more for his thorough ministrations. You tossed your head back at the gentle but intoxicating shift of position. His name was stuck in the back of your throat, suffocated by shaky moans as the tip of his tongue brought you ever closer to the edge of release. 

Feeling the coil in your lower belly tighten, your toes curled against the raised scar tissue on Astarion’s back, eliciting but an amused sigh from him before his lips released your wanting nub with one last lingering caress of his tongue. 

You wanted to cry; this was the second time he’d left you hanging somewhere between bliss and frustration.

Shaking from pent-up pleasure, your elbow threatened to slip on the wet grass as you sat up as much as the weight of Astarion’s arm allowed. Through the evaporating clouds of your laboured breath you only just caught a glimpse of Astarion’s crimson eyes gazing up at you from between your thighs; he was all messy curls and unfairly thick eyelashes. Smug smirks turned wicked. 

You swallowed.

“Astarion…” you breathed, not knowing if it was a warning or plea, but before the syllables had faded into the fleeting night, his attention had returned to your cunt once more. The tip of Astarion’s nose grazed your clit. You could feel his cold breath against your burning folds, feeling no different than the gentle breeze of dawn tickling your exposed skin. There was no gentle sensation snaking up your spine when Astarion licked down your slit ever so slowly, and for the first time that night, you truly registered how far you really were from camp. You let out a blissful cry, knowing there was not a soul to hear you but the elf feasting on your cunt. 

The weight from Astarion’s arm shifted from your hips down your side. His hand wandered along your curves, groping the swell of your ass before it wound itself back up your inner thigh. He pushed your legs further apart, opening you up impossibly wide. You let out an excited squeal you would be embarrassed for by morning, but not now, no. For the better part of the night, you’d been a whining, trembling mess under your lover—always painfully close to release and yet no part of Astarion had filled you as of yet. But maybe he’d had enough now. Maybe he would finally deign to push you over the edge, with his fingers or his cock, you didn’t really care anymore as long as he finally let you come undone.

And, indeed, Astarion’s fingers inched closer to your core, though all they did was trace the course of your pulsing femoral artery he could no doubt sense underneath your heated skin. You relaxed a little under his sweet little caresses and wondered dully if he would soon exchange the fruits of your cunt for proper nourishment.

He didn’t. At least not yet.

Without warning, the tip of Astarion’s tongue teased your entrance, driving you wild. Your hips instantly bucked against Astarion’s face as your hand clenched around a fistful of his soft hair. Finally! This was divine, this was— 

Astarion withdrew from you in an instant, ignoring the undignified whine of protest escaping your lips—fuck, you’d been so close! By the self-satisfied look on his face, though, he was well aware of that. For a moment, he studied the heavy rise and fall of your flushed chest, his chin resting right below your navel as you lay beneath him, dumbstruck. His pointer finger still ghosted up and down the inside of your leg, the lazy movement a stark contrast to the blood racing through your veins. 

“Oh, darling, look what you’ve done…” Astarion pouted, his sensuous lips moist with your arousal. “You’ve ruined my rhythm.”

His fingers slowly wandered down, down, down your leg and curled around your ankle before he gently let it glide off his shoulder. With an outrageous nonchalance, he sat back on his knees and considered you. Crimson eyes darted over your feverish skin that glistened with sweat and morning dew. They trailed from your parted lips down your collarbone, through the valley of your breast, until they beheld the mess between your legs with blatant amusement. How you wanted to wipe the stupid smirk off his face; how you wanted him to finally take you.

Behind Astarion’s broad shoulders, you could see the sunrise in the distance; a gentle purple bled into the indigo of night right above the treeline. Day would break soon, but you didn’t have it in you to appreciate twilight when, suddenly, Astarion’s arms came down on each side of your head, eclipsing the waking world around you.

His hips settled against your core as he crawled atop you, habitually making you arch your back against his own growing desire pressing into your belly.

“But don’t you worry,” Astarion purred, clearly delighted as he lowered himself onto you until the silken tip of his nose brushed against yours. “Your body is a well of inspiration to me, my little muse…”

Astarion closed the small distance between you with a heady kiss; your mind went blank as you tasted yourself on his lips, the warmed tongue demanding access to you once more. You opened your mouth to him readily, moaned into the kiss as Astarion’s hands wandered up and down the curves of your body. Your head spun. Nobody—nothing—else could ever make you feel like this, and you cursed yourself when you had to break away from him to fill your inconvenient lungs with air. 

Spit and slick weaved like cobwebs between your parted lips as you beheld Astarion with dazed eyes, breathing hard.

He was perfect. 

From the fading light of the moon reflecting in his serene locks to his kiss-swollen lips that were a sharp instrument of the sweetest temptation. That smirk that promised unforgettable ecstasy, granting it only whenever he wanted. There was no song nor poem you could compose that could ever do Astarion justice, no instrument to capture the intricacies of his soul. He was a masterpiece.

Drunk on his lips, you leaned forward as his fingers continued to run down your middle, along the curve of your ass before taking hold of your thigh again. Your tired legs twitched to wind around Astarion’s hips, wanting to pull him closer to where you needed him most. 

But before you could even move an inch, you found yourself lying flat on your stomach.

Astarion’s arm wound around your waist from behind, roughly pulling your ass up against his lean middle before you could so much as gasp in surprise. Wet grass tickled your cheek as you tried to find your balance, take a puzzled look back at him, but you could only feel him bend over you again, his erection poking your lower back. 

Astarion’s kiss-warmed lips ghosted over your ear, “Now that you’re in proper form, let’s write some poetry, shall we?”

What?

He tossed your messy braid over your shoulder, pressed a wet kiss to the exposed nape of your neck as your knees struggled for support on slippery morning dew. 

“You’ll sing some more for me, won’t you, little songstress?” Astarion breathed against your spine. “I’m sure you’ll make a real show of my newest piece.” 

It took you a moment to process his words. Maybe it was the pebble cutting into the palm of your hand or the day’s first birdsong reaching your ear that lifted the fog in your head, but it finally hit you.

Astarion hadn’t brought you here for a tryst in the dirt, no. You were here because he was writing poetry. Except, this time, you weren’t his critic, but his choice medium. Which could only mean one thing: He rather had taken your criticism of his artistic endeavours to heart, and now you would have to pay the price for your honesty.

“Astarion…” you breathed, quick words of appeasement lost in a moan as he started to grind against you. Suddenly, daybreak felt like an eternity away. 

“Yes, darling?” He asked, the perverse amusement evident in his voice. “How do you like my work so far? Is it to your refined taste this time?” 

Curse the damn elf. You knew what he wanted, what he’d craved all along. What he’d expected from you the moment he’d shared his work with you. And as if you weren’t in a most precarious position already, he really wanted you to say it—praise him and his stupid poetry when he knew how badly your body was aching for him.

Clenching your teeth, you slowly rolled your hips up against his now rock-hard cock. Maybe, if you just got him to fuck you already, you would get away with your pride intact. All of this was embarrassing enough as it was.

Your efforts were repaid with little more than a chuckle, though—and two fingers that started teasing your entrance, carefully dipping into you without even slightly dampening your need.

“Fuck!” You whined into the grass as your hips chased Astarion’s digits, wishing they were his cock instead, filling you as you’d so lusted after all night long.

“What was that?”

Astarion’s movement stopped at once, leaving you empty once again.

“It’s good,” you hissed against the wet ground as tears of frustration threatened to spill from the corners of your eyes. “Your poetry—Astarion, it’s so good, I swear.” 

So much for pride.

“Oh, you think so, little nightingale?” 

You nodded frantically as he bent over you again, nibbling at the shell of your sensitive pointy ear. Astarion chuckled.

“Don’t get me wrong, this means so much coming from an expert artist such as yourself, darling, but I can’t help but wonder whether this is a professional opinion or empty flattery for the sake of indulgence…”  

You could feel his fingers ghost over your clit, knowing he would never touch you without a satisfying answer.

“It’s true—nobody does it quite like you,” you cried, not bothering to specify whether you meant his poetry or his more distinctive talents, and it didn’t really matter. 

Throughout your career, you’d gone looking for inspiration in quite a few beds but never had you written better poetry than in your rather short time together with the pale elf. Astarion was unlike any lover you’d ever taken, nor had you ever cared this deeply for another person whatsoever. 

“Nothing compares to you, Astarion,” you whispered, truthfully. 

“Ah,” Astarion’s fingers slid back into you the moment the words had left your mouth, curling deliciously against your walls—a reward for your generous recognition of his talents, no question. “But I’m sure there’s room for improvement still?”  

Hips moving up against his digits, chasing the sweet friction of his cold skin, you groaned. Fine. If he wanted a damn lesson in poetry, he could have one.

“There always is. What’s the point of art when there’s no growth—ah!”

There was a lewd sound as Astarion pulled his fingers from your core once again, though this time you could feel his body shift behind you. The two fingers that had worked you open so well now gently parted your folds. You let out a low moan as you could finally feel the wet tip of Astarion’s cock teasing your throbbing clit, though it was his lips brushing the back of your neck that really made you shiver.   

“So what would you have me do, little nightingale? Would you have me put more of myself into my work, again?”  

“Yes, gods, please,” you mewled, dragging the syllables out just like you knew he enjoyed. “Put as much of yourself in as you can.”

Astarion tried and failed to cover his quickening breath up with a sharp laugh, finally giving away the strain on his own composure. “Well, you are the expert, aren’t you?”  

The iron grip on your hip was the only thing keeping you from toppling over as Astarion buried himself inside you with one forceful thrust. The entirety of his impressive length stretched you painfully wide, and he only granted you one moment to adjust to the feeling of complete, blissful fullness before he pulled out of you again. Grunting, he repeated the movement, faster each time. His deep groans soon turned into a perfect rhyme to your breathless moans as he fucked you franticly. 

“Like my poetry now, darling?” He hissed, slamming into you over and over again as your hand found Astarion’s in the dewy grass.  

Your fingers wound around his wrist, up his lower arm, grasping for support. Couldn’t he see, feel, hear how much you adored his poetry?

“You’re an artist,” you panted through open-mouthed gasps, your entire body singing him the song of your desire, though you really doubted that he paid it much mind.

Astarion had buried his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in your scent greedily. His tongue traced the curve of your collarbone; you could feel his fangs scrape against your tender skin every now and then. He was a fast learner, you noted, dully—Astarion was already losing himself in his passionate work. 

“Have I found my intended audience yet?” He muttered, more to himself than to you, as his knee hooked under your leg, pushing it up until you lay almost flat on the ground.

“What do you want me to do, darling? Write down how divine your cunt is? Have everybody know what sinful music you make when I fuck you?” Astarion let out a choked laugh. “Fuck that! I don’t need an audience, because they only need to take one look at you and recognize you as a work of mine.” 

He wasn’t wrong. You would be deliciously sore when you returned to camp with the scent of your lover lingering on your skin like ink on thick paper. He was already written all over you; you were his creation. Who else could coax such magnificent sounds out of you but him? And who were you, really, to teach him about poetry when all you had to do was offer your body to him? You hadn’t lied when you said Astarion was an artist.  

Your fingernails left little half-moons on his pale arm as he fucked you half senseless. You could feel yourself dissolve deeper into pleasure with every relentless snap of his hips, knowing that this was when Astarion was most himself—buried deep inside you, chasing his own ideas and desires. Enjoying himself. Writing poetry.

You came fast and hard. Astarion gasped as your cunt clenched violently around him, his movement growing increasingly erratic. He breathed incoherent strings of pretty words into your ear, pulled your hips down on his cock with so much urgency it left you reeling far beyond your orgasm. He was close, too. His rhythm faltered as he slipped into a frenzy, cock twitching inside you as he lost himself in his poetry—in you. 

You brought your arm behind you to find Astaron’s sweat-drenched face, cupping his cheek. He groaned as he leaned into your touch. 

“You’re so talented, Astarion,” you said. “Fill me with all you have.” 

That was all it took. With one last grunt, Astarion spilled himself inside you. He continued rolling his hips into you for another moment, his pace slowing before he collapsed on top of you. 

You let the familiar weight of your lover ground you, enjoyed the way his hands wound under you to caress your stomach, your breasts. Astarion pressed a kiss to the crown of your head before gently withdrawing from you. His seed gushed out of you, leaving his signature on the insides of your legs. 

“You really think I have a thing for poetry?” Astarion asked, sheepishly, as he rolled to his side, pulling you with him to rest against his lean chest. “Or does my talent only reach as far as your pleasure?”

The sun had finally risen over the treeline, melting the morning dew from your skin. Drawing lazy circles across his chest, you considered Astarion’s question. 

“Talent means nothing without practice.” 

He hummed, clearly pleased with your answer. “Care to practise with me, then?” 

“Your poetry or my pleasure?” You asked, looking up to search his face.

Eyes closed to the sun above you, Astarion smiled. “It’s all the same with you, isn’t it, little songstress?”  

The pale elf pressed another kiss to your temple, pulled you even closer to him as you chuckled at his words.

“I would be quite honoured, Astarion.” 

The page had been ripped from your journal. It rested neatly folded in half next to your bedroll, elegant handwriting bleeding through the paper. Bards weren’t morning people—it just came with the job. Though, even as sore and sleepy as you felt, you would’ve never missed the note waiting for you to be found upon waking with the sun. You’d been expecting it, after all. With uncoordinated hands, you unfolded the piece of paper.

“Getting drunk on your

Sweet morning dew, nightingale.

Fucking you—such bliss.” 

—A. 

You scoffed at the poem in your hands, carefully folding it again before you reached for a small box filled with similar pieces of paper. You added the poem to the growing collection. There was no talent without practice, and Astarion and you had only just begun.

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Another matter of fact was that Astarion’s bathing routine did not take half an hour. You hadn’t at all expected to see him again until just before dawn.

Suppressing a scoff, you licked the overripe curse from your lips before replacing it with a lazy smile. You had to play this smart, otherwise Astarion would never let you live this down.

“Enjoying yourself, Astarion?” You purred, slowly opening your eyes in what you hoped was a casual if not playful manner.

His pale face was now close enough for you to touch. He crouched next to the bed, head supported on one hand while he grinned at you. 

“Darling, with you? Always!” 

Astarion’s hair was still wet, you noticed. Wayward drops of water glistered in the pale moonlight, making him look as if he’d been kissed by morning dew. A single water drop caught your attention by running from his temple down his cheekbone before it gathered in the valley of his sensuous cupid’s bow. All you had to do was lean forward and kiss it away, but—

You followed Astarion’s sharp gaze to where your hand vanished under the hem of your nightdress. 

Your fingers still rested heavily against the damp heat of your inner thigh, aching to finish what they’d started in the pleasure of your own company.  

Your smile turned into a grin of your own. Two could play this game.

“Like what you see?” 

“Plenty,” Astarion confirmed without a moment’s hesitation, inching closer to rest his chin atop his hands on the mattress. “You don’t mind me watching, do you?”

Crimson eyes peered up at you through ridiculously long lashes—just like they were wont to do when Astarion put his mouth to very good use on you. By the way his grin widened knowingly, you understood that this particular look was by far no accident.

You cocked your head as if to ponder his question, even though you were already back to stroking your fingers over your slick folds. 

Whatever the damn elf was doing, it surely was working—but he didn't need to know that, yet. 

“Why, only if you don’t mind me thinking of you…?”

Astarion’s movement was too swift for you to follow. 

He’d given a short laugh in one second and the next he was towering over you. The mattress shifted under his weight; a single water drop detached itself from the tip of one of his locks, falling right onto your half-exposed collarbone. In one swift motion, Astarion dove after it. 

Agonisingly slow, his cold tongue gathered up the liquid, leaving a wet kiss in its place before he drew back again. 

His bold attack was over the moment it had begun. 

“I would feel rather insulted if you didn't, pet,” Astarion drawled, slowly settling down next to you.  

His grin had turned impish as he laid on his side, lazily propped up on one elbow as he watched you try and fail to regain your composure. 

You let out a shaky breath, which only earned you another laugh. 

“Oh, go on, now, dear—I see you’re growing…impatient.”

And go on you did.

Astarion’s way of assisting you in your delightful endeavours could range from fucking you senseless to watching you cum on your own fingers and if he wanted a show today, he could have one. You had no idea where tonight might lead, but you were hells-bent on getting your release one way or the other.

You held Astarion’s gaze as you dipped a finger back into the feverish wetness spreading between your legs, another following suit right after. 

A content sigh slipped past your lips as your fingers circled your swollen clit—which Astarion graced readily by draping your leg across his hip. 

Your breath hitched again as the sudden change of position opened up more room for your endeavour, but it was his cold touch upon you that really stroked the fire underneath your skin.

Astarion’s lithe fingers traced along your ankle, your calf, your knee, hiking up your nightdress until it pooled around your waist—laying your desire bare to him. 

You bit your lip in an effort to keep your eyes from fluttering shut. 

“Enjoying yourself, sweet thing?”

Astarion pulled you closer, knowing very well the impact he had on you—he had a front-row seat, after all. 

“With you? Always,” you panted, your movement growing increasingly erratic as your need soared under his teasing touch. 

You couldn’t quite tell if you were more aroused by your own hand dragging you towards release or by Astarion’s thumbs drawing lazy circles across your skin—so at odds with the urgent pace in which you pleasured yourself.  

You had your answer when his hand fanned out on the back of your thigh, only to inch up further to firmly squeeze your ass.

He let out yet another short laugh at the impetuous moan he elicited from you, though this time it was huskier, more reflex than amusement and he leaned over, his breath tickling your ear. 

“You know,” Astarion whispered as if he were about to reveal a grand secret to you. “I've been thinking about that divine ass of yours all day long.” 

Taking in a sharp breath, you wondered if he realised that his fingertips dug almost painfully deep into your flesh, pinning you in place while your hips tried to chase your hand.

“Only good things, I wager?” 

“The very best,” Astarion breathed against the soft spot between your ear and jaw before his lips travelled across your cheek, only stopping when the tip of his nose grazed yours. 

If he were to kiss you now, you wouldn’t last much longer.

But his lips didn’t meet yours. His eyes were far too busy darting to and fro between your flushed face and dripping wet cunt. 

A slight frown settled between Astarion’s eyes—giving away that he was still considering how much of an assistance he wanted to be tonight. 

There was no denying that you wanted Astarion buried deep inside you, to have him ease that insatiable, torturous desire only he could ignite in you. 

But more than that you wanted—needed—him to want it, too.

Giving him time to sort out what he wanted tonight, your hand slowed into a gentler pace, but this only seemed to fully entrance Astarion. 

The grin long gone, he wet his lips, his eyes darkening. You knew that look all too well; he’d beheld you the same way mere hours ago, right before he’d sunken his fangs into your neck. Want. Hunger. Need. 

Lust. 

It only took another moment for Astarion’s lips to finally brush against yours.

“Mind if I join?” He rasped. His hand wandered down your thigh, grabbing the back of your knee to pull you flush against him. 

Through his loose pants, you could feel his hardening cock rub against your inner thigh as he re-adjusted your leg over his hip, riding up his shirt in the process. 

You urged your leg even higher, hooking it around his waist, moaning at the sweet sensation of his cold skin pressed against your burning flesh.

“Please do,” you almost begged. Couldn’t he see how badly you needed him?

But your consent had barely left your lips that Astarion’s hand slid between your legs, his fingers interlacing with your own. He took up your earlier pace caressing your clit, sending shivers down your spine as he guided two of your joined fingers inside you—stroking that delicious spot that always made you see stars.

Tilting your head back, you let out a blissful little cry which Astarion rewarded with a groan of his own as he traced lingering kisses down your throat. 

You arched your back shamelessly against Astarion’s half-exposed chest, getting rapidly close to your climax. As your hand grew useless from pleasure, animated only by the invisible strings Astarion pulled, all you could do was chase your relief. It would only take a few more strokes of Astarion’s finger, another sweet kiss tickling your skin to send you over the edge and—

You could barely suppress the indignant sound of protest rising in your throat when both hands between your legs came to an abrupt halt. 

“Fuck,” Astarion grunted into the crook of your neck before he suddenly withdrew from you, pulling your own hand along—leaving you empty and trembling with scorching need. 

You wanted to cry.

For a frustratingly long moment, you thought Astarion had changed his mind about your endeavours; that he would retreat to his mischievous voyeurism and leave you to your own devices once more. 

But instead of untangling himself from you, he pushed you onto your back, nesting his hips right between your shaking legs.

His arm came down next to your head and from the corner of your eye, you could see his pale hand glister with your arousal. 

Half-dried, dishevelled locks were plastered to his forehead as Astarion looked down at you, pupils blown with lust—no doubt a mirror of your own. 

“Properly,” he said, his free hand tugging at your nightdress. “Let me fuck you properly. You don’t mind, do you?”

If you weren’t half delirious with pent-up need you might’ve laughed at him. 

“Do whatever you want with me, Astarion,” you pressed through clenched teeth, eagerly helping him work the offending garment over your head. “Enjoy yourself.”

Astarion welcomed your breast with his mouth. By the way his tongue circled your oversensitive nipple, it rather seemed like your ass hadn’t been the only thing on his mind. 

You arched into his kiss, hissing when his fangs grazed your tender flesh. 

His shoulders trembled with a silent laugh before he abandoned your breast in favour of your collarbone and neck, your jaw and finally, again, your lips.

You raked your fingers through Astarion’s locks that were made soft and fragrant by the soap and oils he’d used earlier; pulling him closer, you deepened your kiss. Couldn’t he taste how starved you were for him? 

You were desperate when you hooked your other leg around Astarion’s waist, tugging and sucking at his bottom lip. All you could feel was his still outrageously clothed erection rubbing against your stomach, driving you insane—that, and the cursed bastard smirk melting against your mouth. 

Astarion was enjoying himself all right. 

You bit down on his lip.

It only took a second before you could taste iron on your tongue. Astarion pulled away slowly, still smirking as he licked a blossoming bead of blood off his lips. The sight of him was so heady, so obscene, that your mouth hung agape. 

“You vicious, impatient little thing, you,” he chuckled, cupping your hand clawing at his hair, slowly guiding it to his shoulders, his chest, down to the lacing of his trousers. This time, you bit back a moan. 

“But you’ve been so good, always letting me have all this fun when I haven’t even fucked you yet.”

He let out a low hum when he dragged your palm over his taut crotch, undoing the front lacing with the help of your greedy little fingers. 

“But you’ve waited enough, now, haven’t you?” 

Yes! You nodded fervently, his lust-strained voice music to your ears. Yes, you had! 

Astarion let go of your hand to free himself of his trousers, urged on by the way you helped shove them down his thighs. Tears burned in your eyes when you finally caught a glimpse of his beautiful, erect cock. 

For all his teasing, Astarion didn’t waste any time now. 

Grabbing your hip, he aligned you with him, only to tease your throbbing clit with the wet tip of his cock. 

“Astarion…” you whined, arching harder against him—and he was nothing if not a merciful lover. This once, at least.  

By the time he slowly buried himself inside you inch by inch, you no longer cared for whatever noises escaped your mouth. 

For a deliciously long moment, you simply savoured the sensation of your walls stretching around him; Astarion’s hand kneading your hip, his lips back on yours, moaning sweetly into your mouth. 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, tugging at the collar of his shirt to feel your breasts squeeze up against his hard chest. Every inch between your bodies was too much to bear.

Astarion’s long eyelashes fluttered against your cheek as he began to roll his hips against yours.  

He set a slow, if not lazy pace—which was unexpected considering all his teasing, but not at all unwelcome. 

You met his rhythmic thrusts, smiling when he pressed his forehead to yours. It was something he’d only taken up after he’d become more comfortable having sex with you, and the gesture elated you every time. 

“Enjoying yourself, my heart?” You breathed in the rare moment your lips parted from his. 

There was no witty or snide remark rolling off Astarion’s tongue, now. Instead, he could only grunt in reply, his eyebrows knitted in concentration—evidence that it took him everything to focus on his self-imposed arduous pace.

Knowing that it was you who did this to him—that it was your body that had him speechless every time he fucked you—had you clench violently around his cock. 

Groaning, Astarion brought his hand back down to your leg. He blindly untangled it from around his waist before pinning it against the mattress with his knee—opening you up even more for him. 

Clearly unable to restrain himself any longer, his pace sped up. 

With new vigour, Astarion pounded into you, hitting that perfect sweet, sweet spot over and over again; eliciting a whimper from you with every frantic thrust of his hips.

You knew he was close to his release when you felt his cock twitch in anticipation, spurring on your own ecstasy. 

You eventually found yourself dissolving into your own pleasure as Astarion spent himself deep inside you.

Unwilling to miss a second of his undoing, though, you watched him squeeze his eyes shut, deepening his frown as his pace became gentler, but not less effective. The sight of his parted lips, the paper-thin skin of his eyelids made pink by your blood circulating underneath his skin—it was nearly enough to push you over the edge. 

Nearly.

You bucked your hips against him, desperate for more friction, more of him. Once again, you wrapped your leg around his waist, pulling him deeper into you; you could never be close enough to him—never have enough of him. 

As if reading your mind, Astarion’s lips found yours once more. He wound his hand between your bodies, cupping your breast, caressing your lower stomach before he slid his hand down between your legs to mingle with his cock.

Knowing you would never tire of this—of him—you let yourself fall, and Astarion’s perfect nimble fingers assisted you graciously through your climax before he collapsed on top of you.

Together, you waited out the aftershock of your orgasm, his cock slowly softening inside you.

“Darling, I take you enjoyed this… admittedly mediocre performance?” 

Astarion’s voice was still raspy with pleasure and faint traces of unwarranted insecurity. 

You gave him a short laugh. “Mediocre?” 

Astarion only shrugged before he wrapped his arms around your waist, hugging you to him. 

“I’m enjoying whatever you’re willing to give me, Astarion,” you reminded him, pressing your lips to his forehead. “Always.”  

Astarion’s telltale smirk tugged at his lips as he rested his head in the valley of your breasts. “Very good, my sweet, because I want to thoroughly enjoy myself with you again. And again. And again…” 

You chuckled. “Very good, because I would not mind that at all.”

For nearly half a century Tav’s heart had been singing for Astarion by now, and he took great pride and care in memorising each of her songs. Every piece in his collection was a personal favourite: the steady hum accompanying peaceful nights spent in each other's arms. The giddy pulsing of excitement whenever they were run out of town for a misdeed they might or might not have committed. The urgent pounding of her heart racing him through the throes of passion…But this strange off-tune beat disturbing his rest now, that one was odd—that one was new.

Astarion couldn’t say when he’d first noticed the unfamiliar sound. It might have been there all night, perhaps even longer; it mingled so subtly with his beloved’s heartbeat that it was easy enough to miss—especially when he’d been distracted by all those divine seductions Tav’s body offered him well into the early morning hours. She had tasted so intoxicatingly sweet with his fangs and cock buried deep inside her; the heels of her feet digging into the small of his back, greedily drawing him closer—deeper—as her blood rushed through him, and her legs and cunt had made the framework that was his entire world. It was ridiculously easy for him to lose himself in Tav. She was the one constant in his existence, the dance to which he could anticipate every next move. But now that his hunger for her was sated for the night, and Tav’s heartbeat had calmed into the gentle whisper of slumber, this novel symphony was deafening in Astarion’s sensitive ears. He wet his lips that still tasted of sweet, darling Tav.

Once, Astarion had been very good at ignoring things. It had been a skill long honed, perfected over centuries—how easily had he been able to just close his eyes, turn his back on the ignorant fools sleeping next to him? It had been such a well-rehearsed dance; him knowing what horrors were about to unfold, how irrevocably a life would change. But, night after night, it hadn’t been his life-changing, and so it had been of no consequence to him. Now, though, it was Tav he watched over as she tranced; whom he’d embraced for so many nights and yet not nearly enough. It was her soft, warm breath caressing his skin, making it impossible for him to unhear, let alone ignore, that ominous sound entrancing him. The moment Astarion had acknowledged the lingering change, it had settled in the thus far unoccupied space between him and his beloved. Already, Astarion could feel it deep in his bones—a shift in his world—and for the first time in many many years, he did not quite know what beat he was to dance to. And so the vampire spawn did what he was wont to do: He watched the even rise and fall of Tav’s bosom, filling his empty lungs with air. Slowly, he breathed in and out, tried and failed imitating that melody that was undeniably Tav and yet, somehow, more.

Very slowly it dawned on Astarion, then. How hadn’t it occurred to him before? It would be impossible for him to fall into that familiar, steady rhythm of Tav’s heartbeat this morning because where there had been one heart beating against his chest for all these years, there were now undeniably two.

Astarion’s useless breath caught in his throat. They’d known it was possible; it had been the probability of it all they’d doubted. And yet, here they were. The vampire spawn stared at the elf in his arms. There had been signs, Astarion realised as he reached for the small hand resting on his ribcage, grounding himself. Now that his world was shaking, he could see all the pieces fall into place. Didn’t Tav tire untypically fast lately, while her trances kept her from him well into the evening hours? And didn’t she smell different, too; taste even sweeter? She’d been changing right under his nose, had she not? He couldn’t even recall when he’d last indulged in her moonblood as he watched a well of memories flutter behind Tav’s eyelids. Her pink lips were slightly parted, brushing the gentlest of kisses against his skin as loose strands of her lustrous hair tickled his chin. She was glowing with life, and Astarion couldn’t help but wonder: did she know? Because, to him, it was suddenly clear as day that something had come alive between them—or rather half-alive, Astarion supposed.

Or half-dead, a mean little voice countered inside his head. 

Careful not to rouse his beloved from her trance, Astarion slowly untangled himself from Tav’s embrace, feeling at once cold at the absence of her touch. Kneeling next to her, Astarion gently placed Tav’s head on the pillow, brushed a stray lock from the face he could recognise blind. Crimson eyes wandered over Tav’s slight form—lean limbs and restless hands; a traveller’s body that rarely saw the sun. A body that could be better fed and more well rested. A body that could be stronger—a vessel that needed to be stronger for the unnatural presence it held. Deep within him, in a place that had lain dormant for many blissful years, Astarion could feel fear and shame settle. Nothing good tended to come of a union made flesh between mortals and monsters. There was a reason dhampirs were this rare; there was a reason mothers to dhampir children were even rarer. The strain of bearing life from death was too great—and it was entirely Astarion’s fault. But what was he to do? Could anything be done about this…predicament, now? All Astarion knew was that he couldn’t bear seeing Tav suffer; wasn’t she paying such a high price for his affliction already?

But Tav didn’t look like she was suffering, not now and not ever. Astarion scoffed at the discontented frown carved between her eyebrows as her hand searched blindly for his, only relaxing when he laced his cold fingers with hers. It was true, Tav was a little pale and her body bore all the signs of a future that had thus far been unwritten. And yet, now that Astarion bent over her, he could see the slight swell of her belly, the firmness of her breasts and recognise them for what they were. Tav was nothing if not resilient, always believing—knowing—that good things came their way. Had she ever given him reason to doubt her?

Carefully, Astarion rested his cheek below Tav’s navel, and there it was—the epicentre of their future, fluttering against his ear as if Tav had swallowed a little bird. He listened closely to the two heartbeats and tried to learn the intricacies of this new song. The sharp ends of Astarion’s fangs pierced his lower lip as he smiled widely against Tav’s belly. For nearly fifty years he and Tav had made love, and now love had eventually made something in return. But it had only just begun, hadn’t it? There was much to consider. They would have to settle down somewhere; being out in the wilderness, going town to town—it wouldn’t do any longer. They needed a safe place where Tav could gather as much strength as possible, a place where their child could thrive. They needed a home. Everything else would fall into place, surely…

There was another change in Tav’s heartbeat, signalling that she’d woken. It only took a second for her free hand to ghost over Astarion’s arm, his shoulders and the nape of his neck before it found its way into his dishevelled curls.

“What are you smiling about?” Tav asked, a sleepy curiosity laced in her voice that made Astarion look up at her face. He wondered again whether she knew of that second heart beating inside her or not, but Tav was a shit liar, and worse at keeping secrets—unlike Astarion.

He considered her a moment longer before he lifted his head off her middle and laid back beside her. Tav hummed contently as he pulled her against him, resuming their earlier position as if nothing had changed. “Just about how pathetically in love I am with you, and how my love for you only grows each day.” 

“Oh, just the usual then,” Tav yawned against his chest, mirroring his smile. “Nothing grand.”

She didn’t know, Astarion was sure of it. And he wouldn’t say anything, not at all. Tav would notice the change in herself soon enough, but for now, it was their secret—Astarion and the little life’s he’d discovered within her. “Nothing grand at all, my dear. Nothing grand at all.”

A good thing was happening to him; he could hear and taste it, feel it grow right there where Tav’s bare chest pressed against his—but who was he to keep that to himself?

“Darling,” Astarion blurted out. “How do you like Baldur’s Gate around…let’s say early Spring, I suppose?”

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