in the stars (and six-feet's never felt so far) - Astarion x Reader

in the stars (and six-feet's never felt so far)

     Astarion wasn't used to the feeling of the sun on his skin.

     Radiant rays spanning over the expanse of his scarred back, warm and inviting- and so foreign to one that had been stowed away under the blanket of night. No, the night was desolate and secluded, and no amount of warm bodies in his bed could remedy the fact. Especially when said bodies were self-serving, seeking to writhe their own pleasure from his marble-sculpted body as if he were an oasis of pleasure. And to them, he supposed that he was. They were always lured under false pretenses, but his dead heart never swelled when the common victim to Cazador's lures moaned his name as if Astarion himself was their only lifeline. Once Astarion had been freed from Cazador's grasp- first, by the mere incidence of the nautiloid ship and the Illithid parasite burrowing itself within his mind, and second by you; your unwavering form standing firmly alongside him as he drove the dagger into Cazador's chest- the general amnesty surrounding the night and its inky darkness seemed to fade. Rather, it was replaced by your soft form, warm and oh so alive as you lay curled against his porcelain skin, heartbeat rapid as his hands curled around your waist.

      How he missed that touch, your dull warmth sizzling underneath his calloused fingertips as he held your hips, whispering sweet nothings into your ear that were so unlike the over-practiced lines he'd recited to others. They were so uniquely for you, of you, waxing poetic as he made sure that everyone else knew you were uniquely his to touch. Not that it was ever a question, of course. Twin puncture wounds littered your neck, creating a masterpiece of granulated stars that you proudly displayed to others.

      Astarion held onto those moments, desperately grasping at every inch of your memory as he grew older, body barely ageing as the wildflowers covered your grave. He envied the flowers, their roots reaching into the dampened soil, brushing against your long-departed body in a manner that he could only wish to envision himself accomplishing. How empty his hands felt without your fingers interlaced with his, warm lips against his own as your tired eyes swept over his form. There was never a doubt in his mind that you adored him, with you making it obvious in every salacious glance you two shared as you lopped off yet another goblin's head- his eyes glinting with an unfamiliar desire as the hot blood scattered across your form. It was in those days that he was so sure- so childish in the ways that he desired you. He was used to sexual desire, the natural ways in which his body would respond to matters of the flesh. But the ways in which he desired you- completely, fully, and undoubtedly- sent a new motion of terror throughout his form. There was no uncertainty in the way your soft fingertips grasped his jaw- uncalloused and young as your lips crashed into his. You desired him for so much more than the physical aspects that he could provide, rather, you desired his presence. It was no matter to you whether you two were making love or watching over the camp, as you simply just desired him- with no stipulations hanging over his head. 

     And now that'd you'd gone, there were no such pleasures to his days or nights, the world suddenly so blaringly frigid once more. Your shared home in Baldur's Gate grew dusty as the days passed, your attention to detail long gone alongside the vibrancy you'd breathed into the home. Although Astarion was no stranger to the cold, there was no comparable bareness to the frigid isolation the vampire felt as he sat alone in the house- his form nestled within the covers that he'd once shared with you. He remembered the very first night you'd spent in the house, the utter awe on your face at you marveled at the prospect of living your shortened life alongside his. It never seemed to bother you that you would be leaving his side so early, or perhaps you'd just never showed it. You'd run your fingers through his silvered hair, mumbling meaningless reassurances as his palms rested against the small of your back, a mess of limbs under the covers as his lips nestled against your neck. The curtains would stay drawn- the house lit by a myriad of candles and lanterns that sparingly mimicked the radiance of sunlight. With you, however, he never found himself missing the sun's warmth. He found you to be more generous than the sun- always offering him a chance to feed despite your own reservations. Perhaps you had been too generous, however, the both of you growing negligent of the consequences of the repetitive indulgences. In the heat of the moment, and perhaps in the intensity of his thirst, you'd forgotten about the natural consequences of such an action, as it was so rare with an undead being such as he was.

     But regardless, luck was not always quite in your favor. On the evening  you realized the reality of your situation, the reality of the miniscule but encumbering weight of the life growing within you, you had been particularly and decidedly alone- Astarion having left the house in search of herbs to remedy the sickness that had left you bedridden. It was only with a sudden wave nausea, wracking your form with an unfamiliar weakness as you climbed out of bed, that you realized just what was happening. Covering your mouth, you darted through the house, sickness permeating your mind as you kneeled over the porcelain tub. You were strong, possessing a strength unmatched by men and Gods alike. So for something so simple, so human, to leave you a mess against the wooden floors- it frightened you.