Archive of Our Own ^beta

Your home is quaint. Astarion continues to insist it isn’t busy enough. 

Not enough chaos, he argues; sipping from a glass as a king may a chalice, ruminating, swilling; tipping his head from side to side in measured consideration, often with youngling in one arm as you talk late into the early hours. Incense clouds you in a rich haze of ashy whirls. 

How perfect would it be if we could both hold one? Or even two in tandem?

“Just think. If we continue now, they’ll all have left sooner. More time for us. ” He reasons with an airy gesture, a satisfied smile. 

You hum

“If we’re arguing along those lines then there’s certainly a case to be made for no more now, don’t you think?” You whisper, running a finger down the infant’s cheek as he holds her.

Astarion sighs. Looks down at the small gurgling thing in the crook of his arm with a quiet grin, too lovestruck to have any real belief in your rebuttal.

You sit in a huddle on the lounger, blankets swallowing the three of you. He keeps her close while you work inroads into a book you’ve been meaning to read since before she was born. The open shutters across the room give a perfect view of the speckled night sky. 

He’s genuinely proud. Smiles like an idiot. Often forgets the frightfully draining toll that your pregnancy and her subsequent birth took on you when he waxes lyrical to his patriars about his plans to expand the brood as soon as possible. The women tend to look straight your way with a relatable pity. 

On occasion he even has the tendency to talk like he had a real part in any aspect of her nine month gestation beyond conception, which you’ll remind him fast with a sharp elbow that he certainly did not.

He’s an idiot. A beautiful one, but an idiot nonetheless.

“But look at her! She’s perfect. Absolutely perfect. We can’t simply deny the world more of this. It’d be criminal. ’

He turns and presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

‘I’m past that now, obviously; so I do feel my bare minimum, most humble contribution to society can be in the spreading of our perfect genetics throughout the whole of Toril.”

His hand lifts as if in visualisation. You paw it back down, eyes returned to the pages.

“You are truly selfless, Astarion. Ilmater in the flesh.” 

He rocks her slightly. Kisses her small head.

“Don’t listen to your mother, darling. If you’re alone in your perfection you’ll be fighting off every eligible hand in Faerûn when you’re bigger. Wouldn’t want that burden solely on you now, would we?”

You scoff with a smile.

“That’s if any of them are able to get remotely close with you lurking about, love.”

He grimaces in good humour and tilts his head once more. Clicks his tongue.

“We’ll cross that barrier when we come to it, I’m sure.’

Gently he shuffles even closer to you, leaning to smatter your candle-warm face in a surprise flutter of giddy kisses. Eyes soft, unhindered. 

This may just be the most gooey you’ve ever seen him.

‘You are right, though. I am missing the gory beauty in a good pile of viscera. I don’t necessarily see that fading in the coming decades.”

“I am always right.”

Astarion brushes a wayward hair down by your ear and gives one last kiss.

“That you are, my dear. Always.”

-

His sentiment rattles in your head for a while. Sitting in the shop with babe in arm, balancing the books while he trances back home, you find yourself driven to wreck by the unholiest visions of him.

Burning heat. Underclothes missing. 

Fingers ghost the burgeoning swell under your immaculate dress skirt. 

Molten hot, sticky linen; keening desperately into the palm of his hand as you lean over the counter. 

Fraught.

A veritable army of his children born from you. 

There’s a charm in the way he pleads his case to you. You’re not one to deny him when he finds his joys - gods know he’s endured enough of that during his life - and you know all too well you bartered on the idea of three that first night. 

You think long back to the night you met out in the wilderness. 

How scared he must’ve been in retrospect; how haughty he came across. The rake. The rogue. How you’d slept with a knife strapped to your garter because you simply couldn’t get a grasp on his energy, what he wanted from the tadpole.

Astarion. Now every part the housecat.

You weigh the pros and cons in your mind. 

Admittedly, the cons list is large.

You dislike delving into your own complications regarding the birth of the dhampling now sleeping soundly in your arms because for the most part, they feel trivial. Moot. So many beings across the realms rear young every single day. 

However, you remember refusing to let yourself forget the sheer scalding pain many do. 

The days of fraught groaning in that dark sweaty chamber. The awful, awful hunger. Blood.

The paranoia over any possible gaps in the heavy shutters. Asking Astarion to step in front of the window time and time over to check for the smallest of notches or splits, the hysterical fear of the sun coming into contact with the infant. Both breaking into tears from sheer exhaustion and heightened tension more times than you can recall.

The blood from your womb. Rancid. He later assured that if anything it was a genuinely indulgent smell; but to you it smelled of rot. Decay. White sheets covered in brown spidery spatters.

Then the relief. Unbridled. Wailing and wailing and wailing.

A part of you enjoys it. He knows you do. The quiet dominance carrying his child implies; the lifelong commitment it ensures. 

And her.

The love of your life. Small and warm and breathing yet coloured with the pallid tones of her father. Reddened eyes, pointed ears. When she latches you now feel the sharp pins of burgeoning fangs. 

He gave her to you. He gave you a life of normalcy; where the prospect of a future is real, as opposed to a far-flung hope shared over a bottle of cheap ale. Devastatingly beautiful, life-ruiningly stupid; and all yours. You had to teach him how to use a kettle, for Lathander’s sake. You still want him to fuck you, even after that.

But you love him. Ridiculous as it is, that love is more than enough. More than you ever hoped your lot in life to be.

If he wants you to give him babies, he can have babies. You want babies, but only if they are, indeed, his.

You sigh with a content resolve. Though life is long, these moments feel shorter and shorter. 

Your home together will never see hazy stasis again.

-

The moment dusk begins to blossom you head home in new rain. 

You whip through the door after balancing the close of your parasol with the carrier, satchel forgotten in the entryway and shoes quickly slipped under the bench. The wind outside whips furiously against the shutters and the unending downpour of rain threatens to encroach on your worn terracotta tile. 

You carry the youngling carefully up the stairs as Astarion calls after you and place her in the cot, planting a firm kiss on her head and watching for a few moments until she settles. 

He’s still sat whining in the den when you descend and turn the corner. 

Glasses balanced on his nose, cross legged and covered in patchwork throws. Book balanced on one leg. 

“What have you done to her? Why can’t I see her-’

You flit to him and close the book while he continues to protest loudly, placing it onto the carpet and sitting snugly in his lap. Legs astride his thighs, calves wrapping around his waist. Glasses placed on the sill.

‘What have you done?! Answer me woman!” He shrieks as you laugh, bringing his hands to your own waist and holding you tight. Shaking you up and down on his thighs like a bottle of Soldier’s Champagne. Eyes wide as yours in fresh glee. 

“I love you. I love you.” You murmur through giggles, pressing your forehead to his. He laughs loudly.

“I love you too! But where is my daughter?!” He is taken aback in the most pleasant of ways - mouth wide in a clueless grin, brows furrowed. Puzzled.

You still in a wide smile.

“You saw me take her upstairs! She’s fine! Idiot!”

“Okay! Brilliant! Why-’

He gestures up and down at your bubbling form.

‘Why this!?”

You lean into him once more - not missing the way his eyes blow out when looking at your joyous lips - and bring him straight by the lapels before pulling him in for the deepest kiss you can give. Hungry, jubilant; life-worn and yet happy. So incredibly happy.

“What in the hells is going on?!” He laughs into your mouth between the little kisses you press to his lips in quick succession, cupping his face in your hands then wrapping your arms over his shoulders.

“Another one. Let’s do it.”

It takes him a few moments of blankly staring with the same wide smile plastering his face. 

“What?”

“Another little child thing. With you. With me. Ours. Yes?”

It almost looks as if Astarion is going to crumble under the weight of your words. 

The same stupid smile, unchanged. Eyes on the precipice of an incredibly serious emotion entirely dependent on your next words.

“Really?”

“No.”

“What?”

You shake your head and laugh. 

“Of course really. Really really.”

Every single part of him switches alight. He bounces you in his lap once more and you see it in him. The joy. The plan coming to fruition. His stupidly reverent love for you and the dhampling asleep upstairs, the many ways in which he wants to see just how full the heart can grow with each one.

“Really really really?” 

His voice drops to a low whisper. The honey tone. Dulcet and laced with ribbons of clandestine hope.

You roll your eyes fondly. 

“Really really, really, really.” 

-

Shirts delicately washed ruffle by intricate ruffle hanging beside the wood stove in the glass-room. Hands fresh of suds. Towel dried, oat balm. The faintest whiff of Noblestalk.

You smile knowingly.

“She’s asleep?” 

You whisper a whine; crawling forward on the counter with your elbows, panting, intuitively angling at where you anticipate him once he sees you. 

“Not for long, I-’

Astarion’s voice spasms on seeing the subtle shake of your hips. The reverberation of your ass. 

‘I think.”

A growl .  

“Quick. Now. ” 

He bunches your skirt at your waist by the hem and loosens the soft ties of his night trousers. Presses his newly freed cock flush against the pillow of your ass and reaches around your front to run icy fingers down the centre of your already keen wetness. A fire tool, a glacier, the hiss-relief of his incendiary touch as his hips curl up into your core.

“Bend over. Keep that skirt up.”

Your underclothes are tugged unceremoniously to the floor as he kneels, lifted leg-by-leg from you and shimmied aside. Lifts his perfect head under the front of your houseskirt and his nose unexpectedly pressures your clit, his forehead resting into the flesh of your pubic bone as he licks a wanton stripe along your sex. Affixes his lips around your sodden hole and indulges himself in tongue fucking you for a brief minute, savouring ever drop of your lust-hazed salt. Your back arches and you wish for not a single thing than to suffocate him between your burning thighs as he gives you the most immense pleasure with that infamous mouth.

Not now. He would probably cry. 

Wasted opportunity.

Wasted opportunity to fuck you full of his cum. 

Every chance you’re fertile is one he wants his cock filling you to the very hilt, rocking shallowly against the very barrier of your cervix just so he can be sure every last drop carries, to impregnate you once more .

His hand - pooling with your free-given spittle - strokes his aching prick with learned urgency as he takes his fill from your soak into his waiting mouth.

“Fuck me. Please , fuck me.” You stutter as you buck your hips, fucking yourself on his tongue.

He has the nerve to laugh, soundwaves resonating deep within the attraction of your heated core. 

Shifts to take your clit between his lips and suckles, rolling over the bunch of engorged nerves with a thoroughly debauched tongue.

“Go on. Beg for it.” He speaks barely above a whisper, gravelly in intonation. 

You can’t see his face but you just know his eyes are heavy-lidded in the anticipatory pleasure of hearing it.

Hearing that you want him to fuck you like a bitch in heat.

That you need him to pump his swollen head to white-hot relief between your spongy soaked walls; to smatter your cunt with his cum, to make you round by his doing once more. 

“All the prespill you’re wasting in your hand could have had it, you know.’

You whisper quietly, knowing you don’t want the youngling asleep in her room to wake. You’re seething with pure lust.

‘Could’ve had the fertile seed. The one to give us life again.”

He growls, leaving his latch on your clit with one last long lick before standing and moving flush to your ass once more. He smacks the plump flesh as quietly as he can muster.

“Say that again and I’ll have to fuck you with my fingers first next time. Make sure we don’t miss anything.” He hisses. 

You stifle a wanton laugh.

“Don’t threaten me with a- ah!”

He bobs at the entrance to your cunt, soaking his own weeping slit.

Astarion doesn’t waste time with ceremony as he takes your eager cunt in one fell swoop; cock bruising your insides in an agonisingly beautiful burn. His moans are shaky with sheer pleasure. Every one of your nerves are set alight as he stills for a moment at the hilt. 

You’re almost sure if you moved even an inch now while he adjusts he’d ejaculate there and then. 

“Say it.” He whispers, leaning over you as you arch over the counter. His hand moves to your belly and presses the skin over his cock hard. 

The searing feeling of every single inch of him. The ghost of a whimper. Your eyes roll into your skull.

At any other time you’d joke.

But you - at the very hottest moment of your heat cycle - picture nothing aside from the leaking red slit of his cock currently rubbing in the slightest of ruts at the tip of your cervix, leaking prespill into your hungry womb like glacial water at the height of midsun.

Your walls tighten around him as he presses even harder into the spot just below your tummy.

“Take me.”

He snaps.

Pulling back to secure either side of your waist in both hands, he starts rutting furiously into you over and over, shallow wet glubs, hellbent lust evident in the cream ring crowning your waiting hole. The crease by his brow as his face crumples in desperation time and time again .  

His fixation on your point of connection is unbreakable, watching the bounce of his cock as he fucks it into you; each twinge potentially giving the leakage that gives you it. The thing he desires most.

Another baby. 

You’re cresting on the edge as it is. Between your duties to your young daughter, your own intellectual pursuits, and Astarion’s tailor shop; it’s been far too long since you’ve copulated as frantically, as desperately as you are now. Every pump inside you is another closer to glory and your fingers work your clit with the joyous fervour of a newly anointed priest. 

He continues to fuck you against the counter.

The press of your heavy tits against the solid wood, the pebbling of milk-sodden nipples through your thin nursing blouse giving the dark oak a parallel run of glossy streaks with each of his thrusts. 

Fucking hells.

Another one. Another dhampir. Mother of two, his again and again. Three become four. You will it to be as you watch the milky swirls on the counter. 

You’ll be bursting with him once more. The sheer ruin.

The white hot glare of your orgasm comes thick and fast, and it takes everything in you not to shriek in sheer pleasure. 

He sags. 

Stutters. 

Groans silently, aching cock kicking violently against your walls as he releases through the clench of your own spasms. Ropes upon ropes of cum plugged deep at the entrance to your cervix with the engorged head of his prick. 

You roll your hips to aid him through his release, rocking a little back and forth to ensure the pointed tip spears every bit of his seed where necessary.

It takes a few moments for the white-blind to subside, for the beleaguered groans to give way to sloppy, soft kisses down your shoulder blades.

He stays until you hear the sound of stirring upstairs, lifting a hand to ensure you’re hearing correctly.

“I’ll go. Lie down, hips up?” 

You laugh.

“Got it. Glad to see the doting in full effect so soon.”

One last kiss on the stretch of your neck. Thoughtful. Quiet. He holds you like he never wants to let go.

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”