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comatosebunny09 · 4 months

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When you say he (Astarion) is nervous about initiating a kiss with you/Tav, I see him pacing back and forth by the fire clearly not acting like himself until you/Tav tell him to call his tits.

Lmfao at the “calm his tits.” 😂😂😂

The deer you’re whittling is no longer interesting.

Instead, you’re intrigued by your love, wearing a path into the soil around the fire with how much he’s paced back and forth.

Your lips twitch into a smile. Whatever’s bothering him, you’ll get to the heart of it. It’s unlike Astarion to be so anxious. The knit between his brows doesn’t suit his handsome face.

You set your carving knife down, leaning back on your hands, feet dangling from the log. “Astarion,” you caution over the crackling fire.

His shoulders tense. It’s like he’s been caught indulging in a naughty secret. He doesn’t meet your gaze, too busy running jittery fingers through his hair. He dons that mask of nonchalance. You see right through it.

“Yes, love?”

You pat the space beside you. Your tone leaves no room for argument. “Come sit.”

Silence stretches between you, save for the ballad of the katydids inhabiting the forest around. The air is so tense, you could cut through it with a blade.

You raise a brow when his lips tremble around a reply. It never comes. Your stomach plummets. Maybe something truly is troubling him.

With a drop of his shoulders and a sigh, Astarion wanders to you, plopping down on the log. A good bit of distance rests between you. He’s rigid, avoiding your gaze at all costs. It’s hard not to when you look at him like that. A mixture of hurt and curiosity that makes something twinge in his chest.

Did you do something? Say something to offend him? You browse through the catalog of your mind for answers. Other than your usual banter, you can’t think of a single instance where you’ve done something to set him off.

You’ve called him beautiful. Touched him with explicit permission. Acknowledged his boundaries. So…why?

Warily, you inch closer until your thighs brush. Astarion stiffens even more, a strained sound pinched from his throat. You contemplate backing off, but…well, something tells you to press on tonight. At least with subtle advances.

Maybe he needs this.

Absently, your pinky smooths over the back of his hand on his thigh. Some silent encouragement. Something is eating away at him, but you’d rather he reveal it in his own time.

No sense in trying to squeeze blood from a stone.

“I—” begins Astarion, wheedling through the mess of your thoughts.

You turn hopeful eyes to him, quizzically tilting your head. Grow a little bolder, gently placing your hand over his. Angle yourself closer, urging him to continue.

He wears something of a pout. Looks at the ground, a little contemplative, a little annoyed. It’s cute. Better than the somberness he wore before.

His eyes flit back to you, and the air is siphoned from your lungs. You’ll never get used to those eyes. The beauty they possess, the love they seem to exude only for you.

Astarion engulfs your hand with his. Takes a deep breath, as if he’s about to reveal all the world’s secrets.

Finally, he ventures, “I…want to kiss you.”

You blink. Relief surges through your chest. The rigidness you once held sloughs off, replaced by a pitying smile.

Is that all?

“Alright,” you say. Quickly shift to angle your cheek towards him.

You anticipate the brush of cold lips against your skin. Something chaste and abrupt to make your body hum with affection. To leave it aching for more.

But it never comes.

Instead, you’re met with a chuckle. An arctic finger slips beneath your chin, encouraging your gaze to return to your beloved.

“No, darling,” he softly chides. “Not like that.”

You stare at him, bemused.

There’s a humored crinkle in his eye. Sluggishly, he etches a triangle between your eyes and lips with his darkening gaze. Thumb cruises over your chin, and your lips instinctively part.

Realization settles on your shoulders. Your mouth forms around a quiet oh.

It would be your first time kissing like this in a very long time. You’ve never pushed him further than the graze of your lips on his cheek, knuckles, or the crown of his head. So, pardon you for being a little out of sorts.

A little giddy.

You find your wits scattered amongst the clouds. Feel like you’re dreaming as the forest and campfire dwindle into beautiful bokeh around you.

“A-Alright. I would…like that,” you wistfully murmur. Unconsciously, you crane your body closer, your lids drooping under the weight of his spell.

Astarion sifts through the haze and leans closer, your cheek cupped adoringly in his palm. Your hand clasps around his wrist, the other scrunched in your lap.

You’ve but milliseconds to admire the curl of his lashes before his mouth descends on yours. Pillow-soft and gentle, and you pour the deftest sound into his body.

He breaks away before you’ve any time to lose yourself in the suppleness of his lips. You whine softly, chewing on your lip whilst he chuckles. You yearn for more. Always do.

But you’ll settle for this, idly stroking his wrist with your thumb as he presses your foreheads together, appearing weightless with a youthful smile rounding his lips.

#astarion x you #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion fluff #astarion drabble #astarion fanfic #bg3 astarion #softstarion #sorry #i went overboard #i used your ask as my excuse to write this travesty #also the little pout he wears when he confesses to you #it lives in my mind rent free

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comatosebunny09 · 4 months

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with a pretty bow on top | astarion a.

summary: you’ve never been particularly good at wrapping things. but you want to ensure your friends have the best gifts of all, including a certain snarky elf who’s difficult to please. genre(s): romance, fluff, modern au, friends to (possible) lovers warning(s): alcohol, profanity, mentions of blood, mutual pining notes: merry chrysler! i hope everyone has a lovely christmas! thank you so much for reading! screenshot credit

For the umpteenth time, the paper rips.

And for the umpteenth time, you feel this is a lost cause. Deflate like a balloon, a sigh rushing past your lips.

You’ve never been particularly good at wrapping things. Usually had your mother or roommate to carry that burden.

You routinely opt for gift bags. Easier to drop a present inside, dress it up with pretty tissue paper and a witty card, and go about your business.

But you made a terrible mistake, forgoing the convenience store in your haste to get to your Airbnb.

It’s a tucked-away cabin in the woods. Secluded and ominous, shrouded by the night. The pristine blanket of snow building outside makes up for its creepiness. It’s nice to be away from the city, too, surrounded by people you adore. People who’ve filled the space between your ribs for years.

On cue, their merriment reaches your ears, streaming from the kitchen.

They’re hammered. You should be, too. But you want to ensure your friends have the best gifts of all. Wrapped neatly and tucked beneath the Christmas tree, waiting to be ripped open come morning.

You huff, balling up another sheet of paper and chucking it.

Errant pieces of tape litter your clothing. Strips of foil wrapping paper gleam in the light emitted from the fireplace. The ribbons you haphazardly cut shift in the ceiling fan’s breeze. Your battlefield.

The medium-sized box sitting between your spread legs leers at you condescendingly. You fold your arms, nudging it with your foot.

“I’m not your bitch,” you mutter, turning your nose up with a scowl.

“Well, that’s no way to greet an old friend.”

You start, your attention pilfered by the man wandering towards you.

He paints an ethereal picture in the firelight, curls flouncing about and glowing like a halo around his head. A bottle of wine and two Bordeaux glasses greet you from between his fingers. He wears that effervescent smirk beneath round frames. Brow pitches up with amusement, gait flamboyant whilst the kitchen blurs behind him.

You swallow, your lips trembling around a greeting when he plops down beside you. Cross-legged, scooting closer like a friend bearing gossip. Fills your lungs with the smell of brandy and cracked vanilla beans. He’s naturally corpse-cold, but the slightest bit of warmth radiates off his skin, permeating through the layers of your clothes.

Must’ve fed on something viscous wandering the woods before he found you.

He brings you back when he pushes a glass into your hand.

“I was wondering where you’d wandered off to,” Astarion purrs, his tone colored with alcohol. With your breath held in your esophagus, you watch as he pops the stopper off the bottle with a pointed tooth. Spits it out. “Mind if I impede on your party of one?”

Your lips twitch. Like you’d ever say no to him. “Course not.”

And no, you do not nearly jump some 50 feet out of your skin when limber fingers curl around yours, bringing the glass up for him to fill it. He catches your stare over the rim, scarlet spun eyes alight with mischief. You look away as heat branches up your neck.

The dark liquid sloshes about as he fills his own glass. Fizzles, the sweet fragrance curling around your nose. “Finally, some good shit,” you breathe, taking a sip. Release a content sound as it bubbles on the back of your tongue. The burn of it washes over your nerves, loosening them.

Astarion scoffs, leaning back on the hand he positioned behind you. Adam’s apple bobs in your peripheral as he takes a swig. He redirects his attention to you, something of a pout occupying his lips. “Darling, you wound me. As if I would bring anything worse than that cheap excuse for booze you lot rave about. Four Loko, was it?”

You snicker, nursing your glass. Turn the stem between your fingers, examining the hardwood floor beneath.

Sure, he’s always had this thing with you. This way of squeezing himself beneath your skin where no one else could, turning you into some flustered mess. But you can’t deny you’ve missed his company. His eccentricities. His smell.

The years have dragged you all apart. Pushed you in different directions, your careers casting you out to sea. But like driftwood, you all floated back to shore. United under the same roof to celebrate Christmas and usher in the new year.

It’s a pleasant sensation, idling with the wine warming your veins.

The hum of his voice eases through your musings. “Mm, what’s this about?” Astarion queries around another mouthful of wine, signaling to the massacre at your feet.

You shrink. An uneasy smile rounds your cheeks. “Yeah, about that. Kinda got carried away.”

“Carried away? By the hells, it looks like you got into a fight with a pair of scissors and…lost. Abysmally.”

You snort. “Alright, alright. Take it easy. We can’t all be gifted with our hands like some people, Mister Art Teacher.”

Your stomach plummets. Blood turns to ice. The double entendre hits you like a sack of coal. You bring your glass to your lips to mask your unease. To mask the shakiness of your limbs.

Astarion exudes smugness, admiring his nails with a flourish of his fingers. “Well, these hands aren’t just made for sculpting works of art, my dear.”

You sputter, speckles of wine flying everywhere.

Astarion chuckles, the sound of it smooth as velvet. Leans closer, his elbow brushing your thigh as he reaches for something in front of you. You stiffen, biting the rim of your glass. It’s almost like you two haven’t been friends for years. Haven’t seen each other bleed, cry, piss, for God’s sake.

“Come,” beckons Astarion, taking up a roll of wrapping paper and plucking the box from between your legs.

You huff a disbelieving laugh. “What are you doing?”

He scoffs. Side-eyes you as if it’s as apparent as night and day. “Well, clearly, no one’s taught you the art of wrapping a bloody gift. I mean, look at this. A child could do better.”

Your shoulders touch your ears. Astarion’s disapproval is akin to upsetting your parents. Even after all this time apart, he still knows how to lay the insults on thick.

It’s kind of comical how he grumbles like an embittered old woman, unraveling some of the paper. Still methodical in everything he does, positioning the box in the center. Concentration pulls his brows together. “Fetch me that tape.”

You give him an incredulous look. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you relent before doing as he demanded instructed. His fingers ghost over your hand in pursuit of the tape, and you bristle.

Astarion goes into full scholar mode hereon, paper rippling around him as he cuts away. Moves like a butler masterfully laying out a tablecloth. No trace of inebriation lies in the shift of his fingers. It’s as if he hadn’t polished off a bottle of brandy before finding you.

“Typically, wrapping paper comes with a template. A set of squares or lines you can use to gauge where you need to cut.”

He gestures for the scissors. You scramble for them like a student eager to please their instructor.

“Depending on how precise you want the wrapping to be, you must trim off as much excess as possible whilst ensuring you have enough left to cover your parcel.”

“Interesting.”

You angle yourself closer, sitting up on your haunches. The bulb of your glass grows warm, stained with your fingerprints. You nod, genuinely intrigued. Chin finds the pocket of his shoulder—an affectionate gesture amongst longtime friends.

Astarion tenses. You wince, flinching away.

“Sorry.”

“No, no. It’s quite alright, darling.” He clears some phlegm from his throat. Squeezes your kneecap, presenting you with a fraction of a smile. Dragonflies tickle the lining of your stomach. He resumes his lesson as if his muscles aren’t pulled taut.

Your lips twitch. Seems Astarion’s not the only one capable of disarming those around him.

You cant your head along the slope of his shoulder, watching him work with the curiosity of a child.

“It helps to tape here.” Carefully, he layers a strip of tape near the edge of the box where paper meets cardboard. “So as to keep your paper from shifting.”

As Astarion leads on, you find yourself terribly distracted. Your vision ebbs and flows. Body buzzes. From his proximity or the wine, you’re unsure. It’s a pleasant sensation, nonetheless.

The cacophony of the cabin and your friends fade into a dull hum. Only the rumble of Astarion’s voice fills the wrinkles of your brain. He’s surprisingly nurturing despite how he outwardly projects himself to the world. Soothing as he speaks to you, gaze occasionally flitting your way to ensure you’re still with him.

Try as you might to focus, you find your lids drooping, your vision blurred around the edges. An inebriated smile teases your lips. You could fall below the inky depths of sleep like this, led into it by his voice. Still would feel perfectly safe on your descent, knowing he’d be there to haul you back to the surface.

You sit up to take him in. To observe the furrow of his brows, the coil of his lashes. The gilded lenses perched on his nose like a librarian. His mouth pulls into a tight line while he focuses. Plump and petal pink. Skin’s still smooth and dewy, glowing in the firelight like he’s descended from heaven. His hands move seemingly of their own volition. Caught in a dance he knows all too well, still pretty and delicate-looking, untouched by time.

You imagine what they’d feel like, clasped in yours. Thumb cruising over the grooves of your knuckles, pushing reassuring beneath your skin. How he’d look with a careless smile, whispering the sweetest supplications into the crown of your head.

Reality comes pitching forward, the moment ending too soon.

You blink out of your reverie as Astarion slides the box toward you. It softly thumps against your leg. Expertly wrapped with a bow in its center and ribbons waterfalling down its sides. You stare in awe. You could never master something so intricate.

“And that, my dear, is how you wrap a present.” Astarion pats your thigh with finality before leaning back with a sigh. Looks smug as ever whilst taking a sip of his forgotten wine.

You smirk. Offer Astarion a half-hearted applause, and he eats it all up.

“I envy whatever bastard receives this, honestly,” he croons around the mouth of his cup. “I outdid myself.”

You chuckle. Your inhibition is thrown to the wolves. You eye the present, your body vibrating with anticipation. Maybe it’s the liquid encouragement urging you forward, loosening your tongue. Whatever the cause, you push on.

“I mean, I’d hope he likes it. He took his time wrapping it, after all.”

Astarion casts you a sidelong glance. Snorts into his glass. Realization gradually descends on his features. It’s funny watching his face morph into something akin to a confused puppy.

You shrug, caught like a child rifling through a cookie jar. It takes a moment, but his brows finally lift with an unasked question.

Seriously, they ask. For me?

You reach for the box, pointedly avoiding his stare. The heat of bashfulness inhabits your cheeks as you carefully slip the box into his lap. Your hand lingers. Fingers tenderly grip the meat of his quad, stars dancing across the stratosphere of your eyes when you muster the courage to look at him.

“Merry Christmas, Starry.”

He sputters. Sits up. Glances between you, the box, and the clock perched above the mantle. It’s midnight. Tradition dictates you open one present at the cusp of Christmas day.

Astarion laughs, something airy and pleasant. His hand closes over yours, and he squeezes. He’s beautiful like this. Youthful as he glances up at you, his mouth working around a reply.

“You cheeky little shit. Making me wrap my own gift. The gall.”

He acts offended, but you know that couldn’t be further from the truth.

“Would you rather I have wrapped it?”

You both warily eye your shit attempts at wrapping his gift.

“Fair enough,” he jests with a resigned drop of his shoulders.

You share a laugh, the air between you charged with affection. Through it all, you note Astarion’s hand has yet to leave yours. Thumb kneads reassuring circles into the clutch of your hand. Your heart thrums a war cadence in your ears, blotting out the sound of his wine glass clinking against the floor as he sets it down.

He releases a breath. Observes you a moment longer with a warm smile on his lips. Shifts his gift onto the floor beside him. “Come here,” Astarion murmurs, saturating your vision with nothing but him as he leans closer.

You heed his request, and your lids lower, a pleasant shiver sifting through your bones at his glacial fingers at the nape of your neck. You have but seconds to appreciate the flutter of his lashes before he closes in.

He fuses his lips to yours with such precision. Tender, supple. Just like you always dreamed they would be. He’s frigid, but he scorches you from within. Gently takes possession of your cheek, coaxing your lips to part with the slide of his tongue after your body relaxes.

You grant him the entry he requests with an abrasive sound easing from your throat. Warmth pools in the chasm of your belly whilst your tongues intermingle and the maple taste of brandy pushes into your mouth.

His voice vibrates in your mouth as he chuckles something satisfied. He breaks the kiss with a soft click, and you chase his mouth in pursuit of another.

“Don’t be greedy, darling,” he husks with a teasing tap to your nose.

Your eyes cautiously slide open. Lips still pursed, head still swimming. “What was that all about,” you breathe into the space between your mouths.

Astarion chuckles, all fangs and mirth. You follow his gaze skyward, a blur of forest green and red nestled between the space of your lashes. Slowly, the distortion works itself into discernable shapes. You laugh at the telltale plant dangling above your head. Held by him.

“Mistletoe,” he croons as if it’s the most obvious thing.

You giggle, your nose brushing along the peak of his whilst you draw him in to press your foreheads together.

The time eases by with you sitting together by the fireplace, your cheek resting on Astarion’s shoulder as you regale stories of a childhood once passed. Hardly notice when you’re beckoned to sleep by the pretty girls of slumber.

#astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x tav #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #softstarion #bg3 fluff #astarion fluff #mutual pining #friends to lovers #christmas fluff #christmas fic #holiday fic #astarion x gn reader #tw: alcohol #tw: profanity

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