infatuation ☾ bg3 writings

love is the warmest color - astarion x fem!oc

astarion x cirice

smut

!! morning sex, vaginal sex, discomfort in physical intimacy

It was a quiet morning – one that was not unusual. The Ascendants lay intertwined beneath the canopy of their bed. The heavy curtains over the windows were still pulled tightly closed, fastened together tightly in the center with a length of braided rope that allowed only a sliver of light to cut through the darkness and paint itself in a long line upon the opposite wall of the room. It was the only source of light, and due to the rich, golden hue of it, it was clear that the sun had only just begun to rise. Outside, the morning doves were singing their songs, announcing the beginning of a new day as the first of the wrens and the warblers emerged to join them. Inside the walls of the Crimson Palace, it was still. So perfectly still – as if their world had ceased to spin and the moment was suspended, frozen in time. Only the soft shuffling of feet as spawn attended to their morning tasks, and the distant clattering of pots and pans as palace staff prepared the first meal could be heard. By the time Astarion and Cirice decide to rise from their beds, a full plate piled high with exotic meats and eggs prepared three different ways would be waiting. As well as a fresh goblet of blood for the Mistress. But breakfast could go cold. It could spoil, for all that Astarion cared, because currently the Vampire Lord was floating.

He'd stirred nearly an hour ago and had since found himself lost somewhere between consciousness and real, true sleep. He didn't want to wake. He didn't even want to open his eyes. He felt peaceful and refreshed after such a night, but the feeling of a specific pair of hands on him was what truly anchored him to what felt like an alternate reality – a second life. They were soft. Slightly calloused. Gentle. They begged him to stay where he lay, begged him to not drift back away into the luring grasps of sleep. Begged him simply to feel. And they were on his bare skin like they were sculpted to hold him, outlining the muscles of his arms and his back with a single, clawed finger, tracing each ridge and curve of his scars like they were something beautiful instead of permanently haunting... They pressed themselves flat against the hard bones of his hips, along the valleys and ridges of twelve strong ribs, and eventually, around to his shoulder blades, dragging up, up, up until they were curved around the nape of his neck – never squeezing or pulling, just holding him where he was so that he breathed warm puffs of air over cool, pale collarbones. They combed lazily through his mess of silver curls, scratched lightly at his scalp and combed the stray pieces out of his face, behind his ear, and they traced the lines of his cheeks, his nose. The beautiful bow of his lips... They moved oh, so slowly – each languid movement fluid and entirely mindless – just touching and feeling for the sake of simply wanting to touch and feel... And Astarion felt as if he were the luckiest man in the world.

It was rare for Cirice to truly let her guard down. It was something she had never been afforded, something she'd never fully learned to do. But in moments like this – quiet, soft, untouched by the weight of the outside world – she could. She could simply close her eyes and exist.

Sunlight filtered softly through the gap between the curtains, a much brighter, pure color than it had been nearly an hour ago, and the Ascendants lay entangled in the same position. They'd barely shifted since Cirice's hands began their slow, wandering exploration, the only changes being the light press of her palms against his chest and the inviting weight of Astarion's thigh nestled between her legs. It'd been a long time since they last shared a moment like this – close and vulnerable. It was rawly intimate, and the whispers of a silent offer lingered between them. Neither of them had fully reached out to grasp it.

Cirice nuzzled her nose deeper into the curls at the top of his head, breathing in his scent as her hands curled over the strong tops of his shoulders. She folded her arms around the back of his neck and Astarion sucked in a deep, dragging breath that filled his lungs to the very brim, fingers dancing over the base of her tail where his hand lay draped over her waist. His thumb brushed lightly against her skin, ghosting over that erogenous zone as if to say 'i'm here'... She didn't seem to mind, and only tightened her hold on him – if only slightly – her right hand slipping back up into his hair to drag along his scalp. And it felt good. More than good. She knew this.