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talesofesther · 2 hours

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LOL I'm sorry 😭 but thank you so much, I'm so happy you've enjoyed the chapters so far; chapter 8 will be out as soon as I manage to finish writing it 💘

what once was mine | ch 1

Loki x Reader

Summary: When watching what once was supposed to be the rest of his life, in an empty room in the TVA, Loki sees someone he can't recognize; a girl who's all tenderness and loose smiles, and most importantly, she was smiling at him.

A/N: A long overdue mini-series for one of my favorite characters of all time. I had this idea when season one of Loki first came out, but never got to writing it, and now with season two coming, I decided to finally do it. There are two important things that need to be said before we head into it though; firstly and most importantly, I will not be following the show's plot at all, this story will only be focusing on the relationship between Loki and the reader, after all that's what it is about and I don't want it to be unnecessarily huge; secondly, this story will be mostly told in moments, which means that not every single scene happening between the characters will be written down in length. Lastly, I do hope you can all enjoy it. <3

Masterlist

Things felt worthless. Everything suddenly seemed unimportant. His whole life, everything he knew, felt small and frail. Because here, infinity stones were mere paperweights.

Loki scoffed as he pushed himself up from the floor, one hand coming up to tug at the collar still wrapped around his neck. This place made him feel as if his brain was melting, it was all too much, too sudden—sacred timeline, variants. A sense of utter helplessness started to weigh heavily in the pit of his stomach.

Yet he couldn't hold himself back from sitting at the single table in the middle of the dim-lit room. The checkered image of the Avengers right in front of him seemed to be taunting him.

This was still the same day, right?

Or maybe not, Loki wasn't certain anymore; it sure didn't feel like the same day.

For a split second, as he looked down at the red, round device resting on top of the table, he thought about how everything here looked so old-fashioned. It was almost ironic, for a place out of time.

Loki couldn't help himself. His curiosity got the best of him eventually. But if anyone had their whole life just a click away, they'd probably do the same.

So he watched, through glimpses passing on a screen, a life that was supposed to be his. He watched his mother die, and then his father; he watched as Thor called him a brother with a smile on his face again, and as they made earth a new home for Asgard. Loki's eyes were already a pool of tears as soon as his mother's lifeless body had appeared in front of him, they cascaded down his cheeks freely, leaving behind a damp path of a lifetime worth of mourning, now seen in less than a minute. The loss somehow felt greater, because now he wouldn't even have those moments to begin with.

But suddenly, amidst the moments of suffering and mistakes, an unfamiliar face appeared. She had a smile on her face most of the time, and even through the static of the image in front of him, Loki could clearly see the glint in her pupils, the crinkle beside her eyes. She was quite captivating, maybe that's why it took him a second to realize she was smiling at him.

A frown etched itself in Loki's eyebrows, he leaned forward on his chair as he pressed play again. Curiosity and... apprehension twirled wildly inside his stomach.

The moments with her were endless. Walks on the beach, shared ice creams, quiet nights watching a movie, dancing together in a dark kitchen, the golden rays of a sunset shining against her hair in a memory tucked away like a treasure; and even a moment of her talking with Tony Stark and the others, while her hand held tightly onto Loki's, the other Loki, that is. All of them looked futile, a simple existence Loki would never have considered fit for him; so why did these moments feel important?

Inside TVA's lonely room, Loki held his breath until his lungs ached. His heart was threatening to jump out of his chest and his eyes were stinging for a whole new reason. He could feel the shaking of his own hands. That look in her eyes, it was one of love, anyone who saw would know it. But the cause of the sudden lump in Loki's throat was the fact that this look was always directed at him. That love in her eyes, that smile on her lips; was for him.

Several minutes went by with him silently looking at the paused image of her on the checkered screen. A few stray tears rolled down his cheeks, and he wasn't sure why yet. If it was for the shock of learning that someone could love him this much; or because of the envy, the longing for something that wasn't even his, not really, he never got there after all.

There was a hole in his chest, a missing piece of something he never had. Loki didn't even know her name, yet a part of him was screaming it anyway.

He eventually moved on, and almost threw up when he watched Thanos take his life from him. Loki watched his brother cry over his lifeless body, yet he wasn't seeing her.

And despite the boatload of information thrown at him, the questions clouding his mind were only; who is she? Where is she?

Lost. Loki felt more lost than he probably ever did in his entire life. He had just watched what was supposed to be the rest of his life, yet... it wouldn't be. So what now?

He sat down on the small stairs of the room, burying his head in his hands.

And then there was this girl; smiling and laughing and holding his hand as if he had been the best thing to ever happen to her. This feeling, warm and heavy, squeezing Loki's heart, was a foreign one—he couldn't quite place why that look of pure adoration in her eyes was directed at him.

He needed to know who she was. He needed to find her and ask her why. He needed to know what she was, or- would be to him.

The sudden sound of the door opening startled Loki, he watched as Mobius walked into the room, his steps overly cautious. "Loki? Nowhere left to run."

Gulping back a sob clawing its way through his throat, Loki took a deep breath. He slowly glanced up, voice calm and defeated as he asked a question he already knew the answer to; "I can't go back, can I?"

Mobius simply looked at him, his eyes holding some kind of sympathy as he spared Loki from hearing the truth out loud.

Loki pursed his lips, his gaze slowly trailed back to the screen on his left that again adorned a paused image of the mysterious girl. Her lips were turned up just slightly, dark sunglasses covered her eyes, and she held a slowly melting ice cream in one of her hands. "Who is she?" he asked quietly.

Placing his weapon on the table, Mobius let out a long sigh, "I was hoping you wouldn't ask about her."

The words made Loki snap his head towards him, a frown coming to his eyebrows immediately.

"She..." Mobius hesitated, "she is someone almost as annoying as you."

"That doesn't answer my question." Loki nearly sounded offended. He got up then, taking slow steps towards Mobius. "She seemed... important, yet I don't know who she is."

"I'm afraid you haven't met her yet."

"Then tell me who she is."

Mobius grimaced; "I don't think it's my place to say it."

"That's absurd," Loki scoffed, "it's my life we're talking about here."

"How about we help each other then, hm?" Mobius offered, and when Loki only frowned at him, he continued; "a fugitive Variant has been killing our Minutemen."

Loki narrowed his eyes. "And you need the God of Mischief to help you stop him?"

A small smirk came to Mobius' lips; "That's right. You help us stop him. I get you an opportunity to meet her and you can ask her whatever questions you want to know."

A meeting with someone didn't feel like much for his end of the bargain, but that same voice inside Loki was still screaming a name he didn't know how to spell. He had to know.

"Deal."

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Read ch 2 here

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

Loki’s taglist:@milkiane @v1ci0us

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talesofesther · 4 days

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until one of us caves

Rolan x Reader

Summary: After fighting Lorroakan, you decide to stay with Rolan.

A/N: I know that like maybe three people are gonna read this but I couldn't care less. The more I learned about Rolan's story, the bigger of a soft spot I got, and this little thought wouldn't leave my head so I had to write this down. Nothing serious, just something I wish I could do in the game. Also, this story kinda drifted a little from the original plan about halfway through and started writing itself, so don't blame me if the quality is dubious lmao. Requests for him are open I guess, if anyone's interested.

Word count: 3k

Masterlist

The scent of smoke and ash hung in the air. Stones and mud, remains of the elementals, littered the floor of Ramazith's Tower; as well as a few burned books here and there, smashed furniture, and splatters of blood in the marble. It would take a while to get the place back to the glory it could hold, but you figured it was doable.

The body of its previous master lay lifeless on the floor, spine broken, skin torn. You held no pity for him, only resentment.

From the corner of your eyes, you could spot a twitching tail and clenched fists, staring blankly at the body of his tormentor. He said nothing, merely huffed and walked away before you could think of saying anything, your gaze followed his steps.

The time between when you'd first set foot in Sorcerous Sundries and now had gone by in a haze. You had stopped dead in your tracks then, breath hitching as you caught sight of the countless bruises on Rolan's skin, and an overwhelming sense of protectiveness took over you. You'd walked up to him, the words "Who did this to you?" were stumbling past your lips before he even had the chance to utter the practiced greeting. Rolan had evaded the matter, as you'd expected, building ever higher walls around himself. And you'd surprised yourself with how restless the sight of him had made you feel.

"Soldier?" Karlach's hand on your shoulder pulled you back to the present, making you quickly turn your head back to her.

You blinked several times until your eyes regained their focus; "yeah?"

She gave you a halfhearted smile and you wondered just how much your turmoil showed on your face. "I was just asking if you're alright, and… where do we go from here." Her voice held kindness to it, as it usually did. More often than not Karlach was, surprisingly, a calming balm in your hectic days.

"Uh-" you hesitated. Perhaps you should already be used to being the one people turned to in search of guidance, leadership. But it was a title you'd never really asked for, was it?

"You guys should go ahead, dispose of him somewhere," you gestured to Lorroakan's lifeless form, "before anyone walks in on… all of this."

Karlach nodded along and then raised a brow at you. "And what of you?" She asked, yet there was a smirk on her lips that alluded to the fact that she already knew the answer.

"I'll hang back." Your cheeks warmed up, "I'll meet you guys at Elfsong later."

"Take your time, soldier," Karlach winked at you, then turned to hurl the dead Wizard's body over her shoulder. "Right let's go people, nothing left to see here."

"And how exactly do you intend to walk around the city with that?" Shadowheart asked exasperatedly, yet followed Karlach to the swirling portal nonetheless.

The tiefling shrugged, holding Lorroakan's body with one arm, "I don't know. If anyone asks we'll just say he's drunk or something."

"Are you out of your mind?"

"Oh, I want to see that."

Shadowheart and Astarion added simultaneously, one rolling her eyes and the other smiling brightly.

"Alright then, you think of some excuse for-"

You chuckled at the banter of your companions, their voices growing distant as they disappeared through the portal that would take them back to the bustle of Sorcerous Sundries.

With a deep breath in and a long exhale out, you turned around, gaze slowly roaming over the empty expanse of the luxurious tower; now so quiet, bordering on serene, save for the damage the battle left behind. Until you finally spotted the one you were looking for.

Rolan was tucked away in a shadowy corner, head bowed as he stacked a few fallen books on his hands and then beside each other on the shelves. His movements all stiff and slow, as if the books were much too heavy and it hurt to carry them.

The worry twirling in your stomach threatened to escape as you took careful steps towards him. Yet you still weren't sure how to approach him. The tower suddenly held a nearly intimate air. It was delicate, fragile. The lines between you and him had started to blur, you couldn't pinpoint when, but they did; and now, in the privacy of the high tower, you started to feel the weight of it.

You cleared your throat, but the tiefling didn't turn to look at you, though his shoulders relaxed ever so slightly. You wondered if he knew you'd stayed, or perhaps hoped you would.

"Rolan… would you like some help with organizing things a little? At least for the night?" You tried, unsure what else you could possibly say and biting back the urge to tell him that he looked like he needed a good night's rest. He wouldn't admit it, you knew; but the fight had taken a huge toll on his already bruised body. He looked utterly exhausted; shoulders slumped, tail laying limply on the floor, barely holding himself together.

He turned his head to glance at you, an unreadable expression on his face, and lips hovering with uncertainty for a moment. "No, I can manage…" Rolan's voice was quiet, his features softly highlighted by the last fading rays of sunshine coming through the tall windows. You could see the bruises on his cheek, jaw, and nose—some new, some old; darker shades blooming on his reddish skin.

"You can go," he turned away again.

"Are you… sure?" You took half a step forward, fidgeting with your own hands. You didn't feel like leaving him just yet.

"Yes. I'm sure." He finally faced you fully in a quick motion, eyebrows slightly furrowed, "I'm not a helpless child, I can at least take care of organizing this mess by myself, if nothing else."

You closed your eyes momentarily at his words, "That's- that's not what I meant, I know you can-"

"What is it you want then? That I thank you for saving my sorry ass? Again?" His tone held bite to it, anger even, yet you had a feeling that it wasn't directed at you, but at himself. With a huff, he threw aside the one book he still held in his hands, "Okay then, thank you, your heroic attitude of the day has been achieved." He gestured toward you, speaking as if he had been just another thing to check off your list.

The movement of his mouth had pried open a fresh cut he had on his lip. Rolan didn't seem to notice, but the small sliver of blood glinted in the low light. Your heart ached, but not for his words, they were mostly empty. It ached because you saw how much he was hurting. That defeated look lingered in his golden eyes, the same you'd seen at Last Light Inn when he had been incapable of rescuing his siblings. You wished you could tell him he was enough. You wished he would believe you.

You took in a steadying breath, holding onto your composure for both of your sakes. "It's not about being a hero, Rolan, it's about helping the people I care about."

Another scoff fell past his lips, he avoided your eyes, looking distantly out the window beside him; "What are you doing here then?"

You merely raised an eyebrow at him, features soft, allowing him to believe in whatever he wanted to believe.

His throat worked through a heavy gulp when he glanced at you again, tail swishing behind him as he took half a step back. "Sod off," the words came out heavy and unstable, "You came here because Lorroakan was after your Aasimar friend… Your job is done now, you can leave." He stormed past you then, quick steps taking him to the other side of the tower.

With a roll of your eyes, you followed after him, "I came here because I care about you, too." You tried to convey as much sincerity in your words as you could, staring intently at his back as he raised a fallen chair. You caught a glimpse of his tail, coiled tightly around his own leg. You wondered if he even realizes he's doing it, if it's some kind of self-soothing habit he's learned over the years.

His hair had been undone, too, falling freely over his shoulders and looking a tad longer than what you were used to. The look suited him—a touch of softness in his usually sharp appearance—in the back of your mind you promised yourself to tell him that someday.

Several beats of silence went by. With Rolan holding tightly onto the back of the wooden chair. You tended to be annoyingly insistent, the tiefling thought to himself. Ever since the first time he met you, you had a habit of refusing to give up on people. On him. Rolan tried to tell himself it didn't get to him, that the butterflies in his stomach, and the overwhelming relief your mere presence brought him meant absolutely nothing. Because of course, you wouldn't look twice at someone like him, would you?

It was ironically sad that his heart would choose you—the hero, his hero—of all people, to have a soft spot for. He could never measure up, not really, and he knew that; told himself that very fact over and over whenever his mind dared to hope with what-ifs.

"You don't mean that," his voice was small and he berated himself for allowing it to be. He closed his eyes tightly, knuckles growing white with his grip on the chair. "And I was fine," Rolan emphasized the words yet he didn't know anymore if he was trying to convince you or himself.

Silence engulfed the tower again. Deafening silence. One sharp claw tapped the back of the wooden chair, a fast rhythm, following the heartbeat thundering through his veins. With a defeated sigh, Rolan turned to face you. Still, he refused to meet your eyes, focusing instead on the fabric of your glove wrapped around your hand; he could see faint scars on your fingers, wondered how you got them.

"Were you, really?" You asked then, softly, near desperately; waiting with bated breath for him to just look at you.

Rolan was a little difficult to get to, had been since you first met him. Part of you rather enjoyed your harmless bickering every now and then. Behind the witty words, there had always been hidden smiles and bashful eyes, the hopeful glint of being in each other's presence, if briefly.

Alas, you weren't exactly entitled to pry or demand, much as you cared for him it wasn't your place, so you relented; "Tell me you're alright, truly alright, and I'll leave if that's what you want so bad."

Rolan hesitated for a heartbeat, and then two, and three. Any words he might want to say were stuck in his throat, tangled in between feelings that confused the hells out of him. How could he ever tell you that he's not alright? That he hasn't been for a long time?

How could he tell you that he doesn't want you to leave, ever?

There was a distant stinging behind his eyes and he hated himself for it, for being so needy and vulnerable. He hated how his palms were sweaty and his heart threatened to break free of his ribcage with the speed it was beating. He hated how his knees seemed on the brink of collapsing with his weight. He hated how he suddenly felt all the bruises in his body hurting so badly, as if only now he allowed himself to feel the pain they inflicted. He hated-

A soft touch on his lower lip halted Rolan's spiraling thoughts abruptly, and his breath. With the sleeve of your robe, movement as light as a feather, you cleaned a sliver of blood that had escaped the fresh cut there. Rolan shuddered under your touch, for like a breath of fresh air after nearly drowning to death, that was all he could feel.

Pointy teeth dug into the inside of his cheek, holding back what would only be a flood of embarrassment for him if he allowed his pestering emotions to spill. His throat closed up tight, vision growing hazy until you were nothing but a blur in front of him.

There was something about the way you touched him oh so tenderly that got his walls tumbling down as if they were paper under the rain. Your hand lingered, refusing to part from him. Your fingers trailed a hesitant path to his cheek, mapping the bruises underneath- no, mapping his skin, him.

And he could crumble. Rolan felt himself falling, falling, falling.

When was the last time he felt a kind touch? one that didn't hurt or sting or threatened? He couldn't recall.

"I do mean it, I care about you, Rolan." You promised him, and only him. Whispered words dripping with affection.

The front of your boots hit his shoes as you took a final step closer. Rolan brought one hand up, his fingers closing around your wrist with urgency. Yet his hold was gentle, pressing into the veins there and feeling your pulse running beneath his fingertips. He held you there, all but begging you to stay. Words were difficult, complicated, and messy; hopefully his soul could tell you what he couldn't.

With your heart in your mouth, you mumbled; "it's okay. It's over." You're not sure if he heard or felt the words, but Rolan dipped his head forward until his forehead bumped yours.

Suddenly close wasn't close enough. You wanted to kiss away his tears, his bruises, his pain; promise him that everything would be alright now even if your own life was a sea of uncertainty.

"Why?" It fell past his lips. Such a genuine question uttered with such a small voice that it hurt you like a dagger to the heart.

"Why do these things happen to me?" Rolan's voice cracked and stumbled, his eyebrows briefly furrowed in a mix of anger and sorrow. "I-" he breathed in deep and unsteady, bright eyes welling with unshed tears that shone brightly under the soft candlelights on the walls.

You gulped back your own heartache, struggling to keep to yourself how soft he made you feel. You slowly raised your other hand to push fallen strands of hair behind his ear.

"I hoped it had a purpose," he admitted then, quiet as breath. His lower lip quivered before he spoke again, closing his eyes and leaning timidly towards your touch. "That it was a test, and he would- he would eventually stop. That I just needed to endure a while longer."

A choked sob stumbled past his lips and you felt the first of his tears landing on your thumb. Rolan shook his head, a self-deprecating scoff falling past his lips; "that I deserved it."

"Stop," you said before you could think, finally taking your hand away from his cheek, only to bury it into his hair instead. With the encouragement you knew he needed, you pulled him to you.

Rolan fell forward with no restraints, no hesitations, only a weary soul looking for solace. He buried his head between your neck and shoulder, both arms coming around your waist and squeezing tightly, to the point of his claws nearly ripping your robe.

You held him back with the same desperation, one hand tangling in between his hair and cradling his head to you. Your lips brushed the nape of his neck in a silent confession of adoration.

The fabric of your robe grew damp as silent tears fell past Rolan's defenses, his body shaking in your hold, releasing months if not years of bottled-up emotions.

With a kiss to his warm skin, embers of the fire he ignited in your heart broke free; "You could never deserve what he did to you. You're so very special, Rolan. To Cal, To Lia…" You told him, slow and tender, twirling strands of his hair between your fingers, and a small smile stretched your lips when you felt him relaxing against you. "… To me." It was nothing but a whisper, blown into the wind only for him to hear.

Rolan's breath stumbled, you felt it in the way he gripped you tighter—if that was even possible—and heard it in the soft gasp beside your ear.

"Please don't-" His voice broke in the middle, all husky and wobbly from his tears. "Don't say… that. If you don't mean-" he hesitated, fresh tears cascading freely down his cheeks, beyond any foolish attempt to be held back; they dripped down the bridge of his nose and soaked the fabric of your robe, making him curl into you all the more to hide his embarrassment from the outside world.

"Please," it was so quiet as he pleaded. For what, he wasn't entirely sure anymore. Maybe he just knew he couldn't take losing anything else.

You pulled back and Rolan felt his heart stumbling and cracking in his chest. But you were quick to mend it back together, with both hands coming up to hold his cheeks again, your thumbs brushing away the wetness there, near reverently.

"I promise," you whispered, gaze drifting ever so slightly downward before focusing back on his bright eyes. You were bold enough to lean in until the tip of your nose touched his, and as you did so you felt something coiling around your leg. You smiled; "I promise."

Rolan gulped, his mouth parting as he barely held himself back from closing the gap between you. Goosebumps littered his whole body when his upper lip accidentally brushed yours.

He pulled away but refused to loosen his grip on your waist. "I don't want you to leave," he said it so quietly, offering you his bleeding heart with a shaking hand.

Gentle fingers brushed away the messy strands of hair clinging to his forehead. When Rolan looked up, there was a loving smile on your lips, it was the first time he saw it and he already knew he'd kill to see it again.

You leaned closer, and with a kiss between his brows, you said; "then I'll stay."

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

Rolan’s taglist: @milkiane@v1ci0us

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talesofesther · 4 days

Text

first in my heart

Astarion Ancunin x Reader

Summary: Astarion hasn't seen his own face in 200 years and this bothers you deeply. You find a solution to finally show him how you see him, yet it leads to much more than simply that.

A/N: Gotta thank my sweet @iamnicodemus for encouraging me to write this. Undoubtedly one of the sweetest things I've ever written.

Word count: 4,7k

Masterlist

"I've never even seen this face. Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red."

It was something that lurked in the corners of your mind, those words of his. No matter how many days passed, you couldn't shake them off. It saddened you deeply. Each new passing mention about the last two centuries of Astarion's life drove a knife into your heart and twisted bitterly.

To the naked eye, it was imperceptible, never there. Even now, as you sat around the warm bonfire, watching as the pale elf bickered halfheartedly with Gale, he seemed as ordinary as your group of misfits could be. His smile loose, adorning those sharp fangs you'd become quite familiar with; silver hair curling delicately around pointy ears; deep red eyes reflecting the fire embers with a unique shine whenever he'd steal glances at you. He was the embodiment of lightheartedness and witty remarks, eccentric, unbothered, and with a quick tongue for anything.

And yet, he wasn't, not always. You felt secretly privileged, in a way, to be able to see the real him—to be allowed to. To hold him close when he wakes up gasping for air he didn't quite need and with watery eyes in the dead of the night; to softly kiss each and every scar on his back, whispering promises of love where before he had only known pain; to remind him again and again of his worth.

Astarion had a side to him you were slowly uncovering; you think, that he himself is only now uncovering as well. Vulnerable and fragile, broken but not beyond repair, yearning to be cradled by gentle hands.

He deserves to be mended, you know it in your heart. To get back what was taken from him. And you wanted to help, if only a little.

Earlier today as you ventured through Baldur's Gate, you stumbled upon a discarded sketchbook. It was a little dirty and a little worn, but it was still very much usable. Amidst your—many—questionably valuable loot, you knew you had a few good pencils to spare too.

It's been long since you picked up some paper and let your mind run free—before your whole adventure, to be precise. Maybe you'd be a little rusty around the edges and it would take a few tries to get him close to perfect, but you had time; or, you'd make time. He deserved as much.

⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆

The lines that made him him came almost like second nature to you, maybe because you'd traced those same features with your fingertips countless times before within these last weeks. Ever since he admitted he'd fallen for you beyond his plans of seducing you, things had been easier, lighter. He allowed himself to be cherished and you were more than happy to do so.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you created curly strands of his hair with your pencil. Delicate and precise, even for the mess that was his curls.

The sky bathed in shades of orange, pink, and baby blue as the sun lowered in the distance. The camp was as lively as it usually was during the evenings. Karlach was playing fetch with Scratch and the Owlbear cub, the latter who was mostly just running around aimlessly. Gale and Wyll were hunched over the fire doing something you could only hope wouldn't end in mild disaster. Lae'zel sharpened her blades, a scratching sound piercing your ears from afar. Shadowheart looked to be in deep conversation with Astarion, to which the vampire gestured wildly as he apparently tried to make a point.

You never expected that your unfortunate encounter with a mind flayer would give you a makeshift family, but you were thankful that it did. For better or worse, you were all in this together, and that was comfort and motivation enough.

With the strangely soothing sounds of laughter and bickering, you turned your attention back to your sketchbook. Going back one page, you had already finished a rough sketch of Astarion's profile, focused on the contrast of his sharp nose and soft curls. Now, on the next page, you were working on a more elaborate portrayal of his features, depicting a look he often wore when you sauntered over to him; the faint smile on his lips that had grown all the softer ever since you first met; the gentle tilt of his head as his eyebrows scrunched expectantly; the sharp and alluring eyes who could pierce into your soul.

"What are you up to, my sweet?"

The sudden honey-coated voice startled you, you jumped slightly on your seat and hastily covered the pages on your lap with your forearms.

The elf himself stood only a few feet in front of you, his lips pursed and an eyebrow raised in curiosity as he tried to peek past your arms.

You chuckled timidly, "Nothing, I was just- just resting a bit." Shrugging nonchalantly as you smiled.

Astarion narrowed his eyes at you but didn't push it, he never did. "Gale is trying to make us something to eat with what he got from the vendors today," he gestured behind himself and to the fire where Gale stood in front of, "I wouldn't be the first to try it out if I were you but I'm dying to know everyone's opinion on it." A sly smirk got his fangs poking out, "bonus points if someone vomits it out."

You shot him an amused look, biting back a laugh. You never quite got why he had this little rivalry with Gale—besides the fact he wasn't overly fond of Gale's flirting attempts with you in the beginning, but that had long since subsided. To be honest, you think it's more routine than anything else at this point, for show and amusement; a friendly rivalry.

Slightly cold fingertips caught hold of your chin when you didn't answer, his thumb pressing against the corner of your mouth as Astarion held you. "Do join me, will you?"

The smile you still wore shifted into something sweeter, reserved only for him. And you leaned into his touch, closing your eyes momentarily. "I will… in a moment."

Astarion blinked at your briefly evasive answer, but nodded anyway, "I'll… be waiting."

He walked away, slow steps taking him towards the commotion around the campfire. You felt a little bad for denying him company right away, but it was for a good cause, you had to follow your streak of inspiration if you wanted to finish the drawing to the best of your abilities.

⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆

Dinner proved to be pleasant, tasty even, for Gale's culinary standards. This time of day had to be one of your favorites, with everyone sitting together around the fire at night and forgetting about life's misfortunes for a moment.

You sat by a rock, leaning your back against it as your shoulders shook with laughter at one of Halsin's stories. Astarion had plopped down by your side not long ago, the weight of his shoulder resting against yours as comforting as it always was. He took just a while longer to take your hand in his tonight, cold fingers hooking around yours and squeezing as he brought your joined hands to rest on his thigh.

Everything felt so new, you thought of yourself as a giddy teenager sometimes; heart fluttering with each lingering touch and stolen glance. For most of the time, you let Astarion set the pace of things, giving him the freedom to choose to be by your side. And there wasn't a time when he chose not to be.

He played with your fingers, palm to palm as if to compare sizes, alluring red eyes focused solely on where you touched. Innocent, boyish even. It was new for him too, you thought, perhaps much more than it would ever be to you.

And then your mind drifted back to the gift you had been steadily creating for him, excitement twirling in your stomach. You leaned closer, lips brushing the fabric of his shirt on his shoulder, "I'm gonna head to my tent for a bit, got a few things to organize. I'll find you later, yeah?"

A low hum fell past Astarion's lips, his eyes flicked to you, all big and vulnerable. "Oh, alright," his voice quiet and sweet.

You smiled, squeezed his hand, and planted a kiss on the corner of his lips. His eyes never left you as you walked away.

⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆

It had never been on his plans, falling for you. It wasn't even something he considered would happen when he first started to slip a few honeyed words your way. But then you threw his heart off course with your tender touches and whispers of comfort, leaving telltales of your warmth all over his cold body. And he was a goner.

The last time Astarion dared to care about someone, he endured a year of punishment locked away, alone, starving, and crying for help that wouldn't come. There had been a fear, clawing at the back of his mind as he watched himself crumble for you; a fear that this would end much the same.

When he finally bared his heart for you—shaking like a leaf with the proverbial organ stretched out in his hands—he expected you to deny him, scream at him, maybe even send him away.

You didn't.

You said you cared for him. You hugged him.

There was no one else in the world like you, he decided.

Three dangerous words lingered on Astarion's tongue each time he woke up to your sleeping form beside him. For the time being, he settled for kissing the shape of them into your skin, over and over, until maybe one day you figured it out.

He scoffed at himself, finally tearing his gaze away from where you sat on the other side of the camp. If his much younger self saw him now, he'd probably be laughing. Or he'd be very envious. No in-between.

Stars danced in the night sky, alongside a half-moon dusted with faint clouds. It was late, most of the group had already turned in for the night, with Karlach keeping watch, as much to her dismay, it was her turn.

Astarion ran his tongue over his fangs, grip tightening on the book he had in his hands. He'd been trying to read the same page for minutes now.

There was no one else in the world like you. He wondered when you'd realize that. When you'd realize that you were infinitely too good for the likes of him.

With a shiver running down his spine, Astarion worried that you might have started to.

It's been a few days now that you've been… distant; tucked away in your tent whenever you settled camp, not sparing him much time of day, at least not nearly as much as you used to.

With an annoyed click of his tongue, as he closed his book, Astarion realized he missed you, even with you sleeping side by side each night. How needy of him.

But he missed your mindless talks by the fire as everyone settled in for the night; he missed your walks through town just before sunset or sunrise; he missed the causality, the simplicity of calling you his. He'd gotten used to the sweet routine quite quickly.

The thought that you might already be growing tired of him made his dead heart clench agonizingly inside his chest. He glanced back at you, hunched over your makeshift desk as you scribbled something down in a book, Scratch lying by your feet. That is a kind of pain he wasn't sure he could endure.

Perhaps against his better judgment, his feet carried him to you anyway; yet he hesitated, words heavy on his tongue. Astarion stood awkwardly behind you, fidgeting with the edges of his shirt and praying that anyone who might still be awake wouldn't look this way. Scratch raised his head when the elf approached, a whine coming from him as his head tilted from side to side as if he wanted to ask what was wrong. Seems even the dog pities his predicament.

Old habits die hard and Astarion couldn't help but assume the worst, every time. He doesn't know how to be with someone, doesn't know the first thing about being in a relationship—was that what you two had? It's not like you ever labeled it. Maybe he did something wrong, and that's why you've been limiting your time with him.

"Astarion?"

With several blinks, his eyes focused again, only to see you regarding him with a frown, hand resting atop the closed book you had been writing in. Now your head was the one tilting inquisitively.

"Is everything okay?"

Still, your voice would always be sweetest to his ears.

Astarion shook his head softly to clear the fog his insecurities had brought and plastered a smile on his lips. "Of course, my darling," he approached, extending a hand to your sitting form and twirling a strand of your hair between his fingers, "I just think you should be getting your beauty sleep by now. Come warm up my bed, won't you?"

The faint blush that dusted your cheeks whenever he sweet-talked you would never cease to endear him. "We can read that book you're so fond of if you don't want to sleep, the cheesy romance one," Astarion purred, his pointer finger tracing the edges of your jaw.

You turned your head, planting a small kiss on his palm. "I'll be going soon, just want to finish something first. You can read without me, I don't mind."

But how could he ever tell you, that the words looked blurry and tangled without you by his side?

Longer than an hour had gone by when you finally decided to come to his tent. The night was mostly quiet, eery, with only the sounds of crickets, frogs, and the crackling of the dying fire. Astarion lay on his side, back turned towards the tent's opening. He didn't need sleep, not really, some meditation here and there would usually be enough to keep his energy up. But it was a habit he'd picked up when you started sleeping together through the night.

He wasn't asleep tonight, however. He heard your footsteps approaching him, quiet and cautious so as to not disturb him. He felt you lying down beside him, ever so slowly.

Astarion closed his eyes tightly, trying to hold himself back and failing miserably. One taste of your affection had been enough to get him hopelessly addicted.

He turned, shuffling closer and curling his body around you. His arm went over your stomach and tugged lightly, like a kitten asking for attention. You didn't say anything as you closed your arms around him, your lips finding the bridge of his nose and then his forehead. Words were futile when actions spoke the loudest.

Your gentle touches, the way you hold him without malice, he could hardly get enough of it. Your arms wrapped around him and your lips grazed his skin with lingering kisses, and it didn't hurt, it didn't burn or make him feel sick. You were the first one to ever do it, to hold him without hurting him.

Astarion nuzzled your neck, burying himself in the feeling, gladly drowning in it as he drank every last drop. Tears prickled his eyes, they usually did on nights like these and he's never quite sure why. Maybe it's because of the way your fingers gently tangled in his hair yet didn't tug or scrape; maybe it's the way you tighten your hold on him as if trying to mend his fragile heart; maybe it's because of how much he longed for someone like you to come and save him, on nights where all he knew were pain and unwelcomed caresses that scarred his skin more than any blade ever could.

And now, he wanted to lose himself in the comfort he found, that you so generously provided. His fingers closed forcefully on the fabric of your shirt, nearly ripping it, afraid you'd leave if he held you any looser. The fear of waking up alone and finding out that he'd lost you was all too consuming, tugging at his heartstrings.

He closed his eyes and rogue tears dampened the collar of your shirt. It was okay, it would be dry come morning, you wouldn't know. You were warm, you chased away everything that haunted him.

⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆

You stared at it intently. You have been staring at it for a while now, teeth chewing at the inside of your cheek in nervousness and anticipation. You checked it once, twice, turning the pages with careful fingers. The sketchbook wasn't filled, it would take too long to do so, but at least half of the pages inside it held some kind of scribble. Art pieces of various styles and levels of progression, some much more detailed than others, some mere hasty lines put together to paint a dear image you wanted to keep for a while longer. All of them of him. A book filled with the pointy ears and pale hair you adored so much.

You could only hope he would adore it just as much.

It was early in the morning and the day had yet to properly start. Most of your companions were still tucked away in their tents, some huddled around the burned logs of the fire from last night, coffee mugs in their hands and a sleepy look on their faces. You were never much of an early bird yourself, but today you made a point of rising before Astarion—you were lucky he'd picked back up the habit of sleeping and wasn't much of an early bird himself.

Hugging the sketchbook to your chest, you padded back to the warmth of his tent. As you opened the flaps, you were greeted with the sight of soft slivers of sunlight coming through the thinner part of the tent's fabric, they glimmered over Astarion's laying form, kissing his pale skin and making it shine.

You could easily get used to it; waking up to him, watching as the early morning rays painted his features golden, small wisps of dust flying in the air only giving him that bit more magical touch.

Astarion had his back to you, so you quietly kneeled beside him, extending a hand to run through his mess of curls; oh how soft they were, molding in between your fingers like seafoam on the shore. You counted yourself remarkably privileged.

You placed the sketchbook behind you so you could lie down, only keeping yourself up on one elbow. Your lips found his temple and the elf lightly stirred in his sleep. You kissed the tip of his ear next, waking him up gently. Always gently. He deserves gentleness.

With a hoarse groan, Astarion turned around to face you. He blinked several times as his ruby eyes adjusted to the soft sunlight, his face adorably scrunched from sleep. An easy, small smile appeared on his lips as soon as his gaze landed on you.

You weren't an early bird, yet you came to love the mornings, if only for this sight alone.

"Good morning, my star," you said quietly so as to not disturb the peace of the moment, still twirling a strand of his hair between your fingers.

He chuckled, "Good morning, beautiful." His voice all husky and deep, one hand finding your waist and trailing all the way up to your neck to pull you closer.

You kissed the corner of his lips and then the apple of his cheek, and Astarion's hold on you only grew tighter, pulling you on top of him. A welp escaped you as you laughed, nuzzling his neck before baring your teeth and giving him a playful nibble.

"Ow, you menace!" The vampire gasped halfheartedly, holding back a grin.

You pulled back from him with the ghost of a smile, bracing yourself on his chest. "I've got something to tell you."

His expression shifted to something you couldn't quite decipher, but he quickly masked it with a teasing tilt of his brows; "Oh? Are you gonna confess your undying love for me?" Both his hands brushed along the sides of your waist, gingerly raising your shirt as his pinkie grazed your skin.

"I thought we'd gone over that part already?" You teased back with a glint in your eyes, pushing yourself back up to sit beside him.

A whimper of complaint escaped Astarion when you separated, but he sat up with you anyway; his hair askew and all over the place, cheeks with the faintest flush to them, eyes just a little droopy, and… a strange stiffness to his shoulders. "What is it, my love?" He wondered, scrunching his nose endearingly when a piece of lint grazed it.

You squirmed in your seat; heart burning hotter than Karlach's in your chest, valves working overtime as the connection you shared enveloped you whole. You haven't actually told him how much you loved him, the four-lettered word hadn't been brought up yet, mostly for fear of the weight it held. But you wanted to, you've been feeling it for a while now.

"Well? Don't leave me in suspense," Astarion chuckled, but the sound didn't feel quite right to your ears, his smile wasn't reaching his eyes. And as you looked at him—one of his hands gripping tightly onto the fabric of his bedroll while the other tapped his knee incessantly; the ruby of his eyes almost nonexistent, covered by shiny black pupils as he looked intently at you, gaze filled with sentiment and vulnerability—you could notice it there now, that lingering fear of solitude gripping at his chest.

For a moment, you berated yourself, for you knew you'd spent quite some time on your little project, and maybe it had affected your routine more than you cared to admit. You felt a nagging guilt and sorrow for making Astarion even consider the possibility of loneliness again.

You tried shrugging it off. It would be worth it—and you'd be showering him with love and affection in just a moment anyway.

"I made something for you." The words rolled off your tongue more easily than you thought they would. You reached behind you with unsteady hands, heart in your mouth as you held onto your breath.

Astarion stared intently at the black sketchbook that was now clasped between your hands. He looked up at you, and back down, lips pursed in confusion.

"Ever since you told me… you haven't seen yourself in so long," you started, voice gentle as your thumbs traced the leather cover of the book. "And asked me how I saw you. I- I kept thinking about it and… when I found this," you wiggled the sketchbook in the air, "I guess I found a way of showing you…"

You extended the book for him to take, lowering your voice to a near whisper; "how I see you."

A short, trembled gush of air went past Astarion's lips. It was a difficult task to get him speechless, yet you had done it. He said nothing as he ever so carefully took the book from your hands, holding it as if the smallest wrong move could break it.

You watched as his throat worked through a heavy gulp, his eyes shining bright under the faint sunlight, swimming in a pool of sentiment and he hadn't even opened the book yet. Or properly looked at it, for that matter; his eyes still trailed on your face, as if waiting for confirmation that you meant it. Only when you gave him a tiny nod, did he finally look down. It hit you hard that this was probably the first gesture of this kind that he had received in his long life.

Shaky, pale hands reached to turn the first page. He hesitated for only a moment, almost looking afraid. About to see himself after 200 years of living as a ghost.

The first drawing you had made in the book wasn't your best, now that you looked down at it again; a simple portrait of Astarion looking down at a book in his hands, a little rough around the edges, hardly detailed. It had been your first try after not drawing for quite some time.

A beat passed, and a drop of water landed on the bottom corner of the page. You whipped your head up, only to see rogue tears steadily dripping down Astarion's cheeks until they reached his chin and fell on his lap. He cried silently, barely moving; the only signs being the obvious tears and the quivering of his lower lip.

He turned each page as if they were made from the purest gold. Stopping at every single drawing of him, to take it all in. He traced his fingertips over the lines that formed the curves of his curls, the tips of his ears, and the slope of his nose and lips.

People had referred to him as many things already; sexy, alluring, charming, attractive. Never had any of them referred to him as something… precious, delicate, bewitching, more than just a pretty face. Yet that's exactly how he saw himself now, through your eyes.

Astarion took his time, never speaking once. You let him, making yourself comfortable beside him and laying your head on his shoulder, simply existing in each other's presence.

Several minutes had gone by when the elf finally spoke up again. He was finally on the last used page of the book, and when the next appeared in white he slowly closed the book, still grasping onto it reverently. "For a moment I- I thought you'd grown tired of me already," it was the first thing he told you, and he refused to meet your eyes. A humorless chuckle fell past his lips, trying to laugh off his feelings.

You raised your head from his shoulder, lifting a hand to tenderly brush long strands of silver hair behind his ear; as you did so, you allowed your fingers to travel further, burying in the mop of hair behind his head. "Never. Never in a million years," you whispered.

Astarion met your gaze at last, ruby eyes glimmering with unshed tears while dried tracks of the ones before still lingered on his cheeks. This was the real Astarion; fragile, vulnerable, pleading for a gentle love, yet so beautifully strong.

"I'm sorry, my star. For allowing that thought to plague you. I just wanted this to be a surprise." You leaned forward and touched your forehead with his for a brief moment, hoping to bend the rules and physically give him your love.

"You made this," Astarion's voice broke in the middle, yet his smile was the most sincere you'd ever witnessed, "For me."

Catching a single tear that rolled down his cheek, you nodded, with a smile of your own.

There was a beat, a moment of silence where you simply looked at each other, wondering if the other felt just as much. And you didn't need a tadpole connection to confirm it.

Astarion set the sketchbook aside before all but throwing himself at you. Both his arms encircled your waist with desperation as he buried his head in your neck. His lips drew sloppy patterns and raised goosebumps in your skin as he kissed you relentlessly, from shoulder, to neck, to jaw; until he finally reached your own lips.

You brought your arms around him, pulling him in until your very souls were intertwined. Giggles escaped your lips as he kissed you, the shape of both your smiles making it difficult and all the more delightful.

When you parted, Astarion had you pinned down on his bedroll, with him resting snuggly on top of you. He refused to let go, clingy as he'd never dreamt he'd be. Your hand buried in his hair, his nose brushed the skin of your collar bone. "I had asked the gods for salvation, for any kind of blessing, countless times before. I could never guess it would come in the shape of you." He breathed in. He didn't hesitate. "Thank you. I love you."

You felt his smile. Felt the shape of his words on your skin, your soul. You kissed his hairline. "And I love you."

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

Astarion’s taglist: @milkiane @v1ci0us

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talesofesther · 4 days

Text

wildflowers

Astarion Ancunin x Reader

Summary: Astarion has shared a lot of firsts with you already, and you just so decided to add one more to the list.

A/N: A little something special for valentine's day. <3

Masterlist

You'd grown up around flowers.

With your mother being a druid, it was only natural that wherever you went, nature followed. Even in your family's estate back in the city, the walls were adorned with all kinds of colorful plants and vines, the air feeling all the more pure inside your lungs and the green leaves being a sight for any sore eyes.

You'd spend hours in the garden, tending to the seedlings and speaking more with the flora than you did with people.

That's why, after the nautiloid's crash and as you walked through unknown lands, you found some semblance of comfort in all the wildflowers adorning your mysterious path.

You hummed a song under your breath as your boots crushed the gravel underneath, feet a little sore with all the walking you'd done today, but you needed to reach the shadow-cursed lands as soon as possible; how much time you had left remained uncertain.

Shadowheart had already started complaining about the rough terrain too, and with the sun starting to set on the mountainous horizon, you figured you could set up camp soon.

"I'm not offering any rides, if that's what you're thinking."

You caught the end of the cleric's conversation with Astarion, and at his quip, you changed a glance in his direction.

He caught your gaze, lips quirking in a small smirk as he gave you a wink that got you avoiding his stare again when you felt warmth coming to your cheeks.

You'd grown fond of the pale elf, it's true. But part of you thinks he's grown fond of you, too. At first, his smiles at you were sharp as a dagger or overly seductive, yet lately, there's been a softer edge to them.

Blinking at the golden sunlight in your eyes, you started scouting the area for a good place to rest, and that's when you caught sight of a patch of white on the ground. Leaving your companions to discuss amongst themselves whether it was late enough to camp or not, you walked up to it.

There, on the edge of a set of bushes and trees, stood a small bundle of star-shaped white flowers, their six petals delicate and thin; the bright white stood out amidst the deep browns and greens.

You reached down to run a gentle finger over one petal. And as you plucked a single flower from the bunch, you couldn't help but think of him.

⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆

Bags were being dropped onto the ground with a few tired groans escaping your companions. You'd found a decent enough place, tucked in between old ruins and overlooking a breathtaking view of the nearly set sun.

You gave a sympathetic smile to Karlach as you passed by her tent, watching with a fond glint in your eyes as your fiery friend ruffled the fur of her teddy bear. Such a softy at heart.

Astarion had his nose buried in a book, and that's where you were headed. Whenever he concentrated on his reading, he'd furrow his brows ever so slightly; sometimes he'd play with his fangs, running his tongue over them and biting his lower lip. It was endearing, you wondered if he knew he did it.

You approached him, heart in your mouth and white flower held in between your fingers. The last of the golden rays were kissing his skin, he looked ethereal.

"Hey," you spoke lowly, the moment seemed to call for it.

The elf perked up at your voice, a smile instantly painting his face as he closed his book to settle his attention on you. "Hello darling, what can I do for you?"

You shook your head briefly, "Nothing, I just came to give you this." You raised the single flower with a timid tilt of your lips, hesitating on your next words, "It… reminded me of you."

Astarion looked at you as if you'd just asked his hand in marriage. He kept quiet, eyes way too wide and jaw way too tense for such a simple moment. You wondered if you'd somehow poked at something you weren't supposed to poke. If flowers brought him bad memories or if maybe he was allergic to them.

You watched as he gulped, avoided your eyes, and then looked at you again. He raised his hand but it was a clumsy gesture, as if he had no clue what to do.

Your heart shattered when you wondered if he had ever received any flowers in his life.

Taking half a step closer, you took the liberty of placing the flower in Astarion's hand, wrapping your fingers around his own so you could close his grip around the delicate thing. "It's for you." You reassured again.

With a gentle smile, you ran your thumb over his knuckles and turned around to check on your other companions, figuring he could use the time alone.

⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆

Astarion never cared much for flowers.

In his 200 years of torment, trapped in an eternal night, there wasn't much room for color and delicacy.

There were rare times he saw it, when he'd stumble upon a young couple, one person bowing lightly with a smile as they gave the other a flower; both drunk in passion. He never understood the gesture. Everyone did it, but why?

Was it a silent request for something in turn? Was it a sign of commitment? Or did it happen simply to show affection?

In any case, he did not need to understand it, it's not like anyone would be handing him flowers.

Wrong. Maybe he did have to.

Because you had just given him a flower.

You had captured his attention ever since he put a dagger to your throat when you first met. His excuse for the captivation was because you'd be an easy one to seduce, nothing more. He'd charm you, gain your affection, and secure his safety in your group of misfits that you were unintentionally leading.

A simple plan, all he had to do was not have any feelings of his own. Yet it seemed like your plan, was to make his more difficult.

"It's for you." You'd told him, voice as sweet as honey and as soft as velvet as you placed the white flower in his hand.

Astarion held onto the delicate plant as if it could crumble between his fingers.

Would he care if it did? The thought certainly didn't bring him joy.

His mouth stayed agape, fangs barely poking from behind his lips. Looking between you and the pale white of the flower, he didn't know what to make of it. Did you want something from him? Was there some hidden message behind the gesture he was yet to understand?

You simply gave him a soft smile, bashful eyes avoiding his, and kept on walking. Just like that. As if you hadn't just turned his world upside down.

Was this what… affection looked like?

A small scoff escaped Astarion then. Clearly, his plan was working, you were growing fond of him. So naive, so easy.

But then… why did he feel like his dead heart was the one coming back alive only so it could beat for you?

All of a sudden he felt tainted for treating you as if you were nothing more than one of his victims. But did that mean he wanted you to be something more?

The question didn't even seem like it was his to decide anymore.

Astarion looked down at the delicate flower in his hand, twirling it around and making the petals dance.

"It reminded me of you."

His ruby eyes seemed to sting. When was the last time someone had compared him with something as delicate and precious as this?

He looked up at you again, watching as you crouched down to cup Scratch's cheeks and most likely spoke with him in that silly voice you always made.

There was a weight in Astarion's chest, heavy yet warm, scary yet pleasant. He wondered, would you catch him if he fell for you?

⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆

Next morning you woke up to the sight of a carefully crafted bouquet resting just beside your bedroll. Wildflowers of all colors and shapes held together by a single strip of red satin.

Astarion watched from afar, as you picked it up and buried your nose into the flowers, smiling brightly as your fingertips traced the shape of them.

When you raised your gaze to him, a dark blush dusted his cheeks and the tip of his ears. He didn't know what love looked like; but he's learning, he thinks. And if the feeling inside his chest is any indication, it looks a lot like you.

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

Astarion’s taglist: @milkiane @v1ci0us @asterordinary

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talesofesther · 5 days

Note

That Rolan fic was so cute I almost puked

Thank you, I'm glad you liked it lol

#ask

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talesofesther · 8 days