Okay But Imagine Tsukishima Sitting On The Couch, Legs Extended On The Coffee Table, Left Arm Resting

you’re a successful hybrid writer

psychologist who takes in seven

hybrids one stormy night after finding

one of their pack stealing from your garden

or

an unsystematic catalog of

hybrid bts x f.reader imagines

r e q u e s t s : closed

⏤i n t r o

⏤m e e t i n g

how you met hybrid bts

⏤p e t t i n g

when hybrid bts crave pets 

⏤s n o w i n g

hybrid bts playing in snow for the first time 

⏤f a i n t i n g

when you’re sick/when you faint

⏤b e g r u d g i n g

when hybrid bts get jealous

⏤p a s s i n g t i m e

how you help hybrid bts find their pass times

⏤w o r k i n g

when hybrid bts find out what you for a living after you had to leave for work one day

⏤c o m f o r t i n g ⌊NEW⌉

you have a panic attack and yoongi is there to comfort you

. . .

⏤c e l e b r a t i n g

hybrid bts do their best to plan and carry out a birthday surprise for you

⏤q u a l i f y i n g

hybrid bts do their best to show you how capable they are so that they are worthy enough to be your mate

⏤n e s t i n g

bts hybrids make a nest to claim and comfort you

⏤m i x e d s i g n a l l i n g

when you give them mixed signals during that time of month 

⏤e n d a n g e r i n g

bts hybrids go out for some good old brotherly bonding while you stay home unsuspecting of upcoming danger 

⏤n o t i c i n g

you start noticing things about them and you don’t know if you should be happy or sad

⏤b l a m i n g

bts hybrids see a rare, vunlnerable side of you when you make an ametuer mistake

⏤c u d d l i n g

you make a habit of cuddling them whenever they’re scared 

THEODORE NOTT AS A SON OF NEMESIS

Powers / Traits

Ivy’s Daughter • Two

Title: Ivy’s Daughter • Two

Fandom: DC

Type: series

Prompt/Summary: Poison Ivy asks Batman to care for her daughter.

Pairing(s): (eventual) Damian Wayne x Reader (aged up), Batfamily x Reader

Requested? Yes

It took two weeks for J’onn to permanently stabilize Y/N’s mind and for Bruce to utilize everything Ivy gave him to create a compound that stabilized her growth. She would age slower than the average person but it was better than the accelerated growth rate she had to begin with.

He also tried to acquaint her as much as he could with society and its norms. His kids would take care of whatever he missed. Or at least he hoped so.

In this time you were staying in a room at the League HQ. The very first time you opened your eyes the first thing you were met with was a ceiling full of stars against the darkness of space.

Keep reading

yuki gasly | PG10

PAIRING: pierre gasly x wife!reader

platonic yuki tsunoda x gasly!reader + yuki tsunoda x pierre gasly

REQUESTED: [] yes [X] no

WORD COUNT: 3.1k

SYNOPSIS: having recently gotten married to the love of your life, it wasn’t surprising that your parents were asking for grandchildren. and while pierre and yourself were open to the idea of having a baby, neither of you was expecting to have one so soon. much less in the form of a 5’2 japanese driver. OR the four times you and pierre baby the hell out of yuki and call him your son, and the one time yuki caves and calls you his parents.

WARNINGS: absolute fluff, soooo yuki centric and i am not sorry at all, yuki being the babiest baby that ever babied, pierre and reader being the best parents ever, i literally cried writing the end of this so uh be prepared for tears?

six months ago, if asked, you would have said that you and pierre were happy to roll with life’s punches and that if a baby was one of those punches, you would gladly accept it. now, you’d argue that you and pierre were already parents, and your baby was none other than pierre’s teammate, yuki tsunoda.

in the year working up to your wedding with the frenchman, you had heard pierre gush about his teammate and how cute he was every time they were in the same vicinity. 

it was always, “mon amour, today, yuki was eating a fruit cup for a snack and he looked like a little baby. his cheeks were all puffed up with the fruits. it was adorable, i will send you the picture i took,” or, “y/n, you will not believe what yuki said today! we were filming for youtube, and one of the questions was how do dogs bark in both french and japanese, right? oh, it was so funny, you have to watch it when it comes out. you will see what i mean.” 

and as much as your fiance had talked about the young japanese boy, it wasn’t until your wedding that you properly met him, having only said a quick hi, or waved, as you saw him around the paddock. you had been a busy woman, having been left to deal with most of the wedding preparations while pierre drove his little racecar around the track. 

pierre had been absolutely ecstatic to properly acquaint the two of you together. just as yuki had been the subject of your conversations with pierre, you had been the subject of theirs. pierre would ramble for hours about some date night the two of you shared years ago, or how he knew he wanted to marry you when you wiped his face with your napkin after your second date.

yeah, you had always been a nurturing person. being the oldest in your family, you were used to looking after people. it was as if second nature to you. in friend groups, you were always the mom friend, and if anyone ever needed something, it was more than likely you were carrying it in your bag.

so when you finally got to properly meet yuki at your wedding and interact with him, it wasn’t a surprise that, much like your husband, you had immediately taken to the boy, finding his every action plain adorable.

the days of pierre calling you to talk about yuki were now replaced with you calling pierre to ask him to give the phone to yuki because he wasn’t replying to the texts you sent him. instead of cuddling up to pierre and refusing to let go on the mornings he would need to go to work, you were now asking to join pierre on his trips to alpha tauri’s headquarters, hoping to make a pitstop at yuki’s place to spend some time with the boy.

anyone and everyone on the grid could tell that the gasly couple had basically adopted yuki. your love for the boy had reached as far as yuki’s own family, who had reached out to the two of you, sending well wishes and gratitude for caring for their boy. to pierre, that meant that yuki’s parents had passed on the torch to himself and his wife, dubbing the two of you as yuki’s grid parents.

— one

the first time you joined pierre for a grand prix as his wife had been the first race of the season, your wedding having occurred during the off-season. 

the moment you stepped foot onto the paddock, you tugged pierre towards the alpha tauri motorhome, on the hunt for a certain japanese boy. your husband had laughed at your excitement but didn’t say anything, happy to help you reunite with the younger driver.

“yuki!” the second you saw him, you were running as fast as you could. the driver’s eyes widened at the sight of your figure rushing at him at an alarming pace, pushing off from where he had been leaning against the motorhome.

you wrapped your arms around yuki’s neck, squeezing him as tight as you possibly could. you had not seen yuki since the pre-testing in spain, which hadn’t been too long ago, but you had missed the shy boy greatly. 

from a few feet away, pierre couldn’t help but smile as he watched yuki’s expression of shock turn into one of embarrassment. their eyes met and pierre let out a loud laugh at the slight fear in yuki’s eyes. having just barely gotten used to pierre’s blatant and obvious affection towards himself, yuki had struggled to not shy away from the new addition of yours.

“touch is her main love language,” pierre had explained to him at his wedding, watching the dark-haired boy blush a bright red after you gave him a hug and a soft smile, “and hugs are her favourite way to express it.”

in a way, yuki was, of course, honoured to have been on the receiving end of your love. but with your love language being touch, and his being, well, he had no idea what his love language was, he couldn’t help but dread when your arms reached out for him.

or at least, that’s what he told himself when his heart fluttered, and warmth spread in his chest.

“my son, oh how i’ve missed you these past few weeks.” you pulled away from yuki with a small pout. your eyes wandered to his hair, your hand automatically moving to fix the hair that had moved during your one-sided hug.

yuki gave you a small smile, taking a step back when your hands dropped, “hello, y/n, it’s nice to see you again!”

pierre joined the two of you, hand slapping down lightly on his teammate’s shoulder before pulling him into a side hug, “salut, mon fils.” hello, my son.

a cheeky smile was plastered on your husband’s face when he noticed the cameras that were turned your way. he snaked an arm around your waist and pulled you to the other side of his body, “it’s a family reunion!” he yelled out to the photographers, waving with the hand resting on top of yuki’s shoulder.

the colour of yuki’s face could rival that of charles’ ferrari. in fact, you and pierre would argue that maybe yuki’s cheeks were even redder than the monégasque’s car. 

he brought his hands up to cover his red face, “i am not your son.”

— two

yuki simultaneously loved and hated when you came to race weekends. he loved your presence, don’t get him wrong, and pierre always performed a little better with his wife watching him from the garage, which was great for the team, but, he hated–despised, even–when the two gaslys would pair up to shower him with both attention and affection.

if it wasn’t you nagging at him to eat before he began his media duties on thursday morning, then it was pierre, constantly ruffling his hair and squishing his face, wedding band always ice cold against his cheek.

if your love language was touch, then pierre’s was touch but in the most annoying way possible. the media always ate it up, though.

currently, yuki had been sitting at a table in the alpha tauri motorhome, one hand scrolling through his instagram’s explorer page, the other stabbing blindly at the salad he was having for lunch.

it all happened so fast. one second, he was holding his phone. the next, his phone had been replaced with a water bottle. and there you are, making yourself comfy in the seat across from him, his phone sat snug in your hand.

“you need to stay hydrated, kiki,” you frowned at the boy across from you, “especially in this weather, i don’t want you dehydrated while you’re driving.”

kiki. you had started calling him that not long after the first grand prix of the season. you’d been testing out nicknames for him, and for some reason, of all the nicknames possible, kiki had been the one to stick.

“i won’t be dehydrated, y/n,” yuki put the bottle onto the table, only for it to be placed in his hand again, this time by pierre.

“i’ve already had this argument with her,” pierre sat down next to yuki, “and lost.” 

in his own hands were two bottles of water, one of which he slid towards you across the table. you smiled, “you can’t win against me, mon coeur.”

 yuki sighed, ultimately deciding not to argue on this. he twisted the bottle cap, faltering slightly when it wouldn’t open. his eyes flitted up to you, looking to see if you noticed. you hadn’t.

when he confirmed that your eyes were focused on pierre, his returning the favour, he turned back to the bottle in his hand. he gripped it a bit harder this time, twisting a bit more aggressively this time. still, the cap did not budge.

before he could try again, a hand reached out–pierre’s–and grabbed the bottle out of his hands. in one swift motion, the bottle was uncapped. yuki stared at the bottle for a second, then pierre, who looked like he hadn’t even batted an eye, still looking at you and listening to whatever you had been talking about. 

realizing the bottle hadn’t been taken back, pierre looked at yuki, who was now staring back at the bottle in disbelief. pierre gestured the bottle forward, breaking yuki’s glare. 

the younger boy reached for the bottle, “i loosened it for you.”

“sure, you did.” pierre patted yuki on the back, the smile wide on his face.

“i swear i did!” yuki straightened up in his seat.

“i don’t see a lot of drinking, kiki.” your eyes narrowed at yuki who instantly slouched in his seat, finally taking a sip of his water.

later, yuki found himself standing next to pierre at the back of the garage, balaclava in his hand, “...thanks,” he looked at pierre, “...for the water bottle earlier.”

pierre placed his helmet on his head, sliding the visor up. with a slap on the back, pierre was off, “anything for my son.”

— three

okay, so maybe pierre wasn’t the only one who drove better whenever you visited the paddock. so far, every race you had been to had lead to both alpha tauri drivers finishing in the points. 

this weekend felt different, though. better than all of the other race weekends. you had been extra excited for this race, and extremely confident that both drivers would get good results, maybe even a win.

“you’ve got quite the pep in your step, mon coeur,” pierre wrapped his arm around your waist, lips pressing against your temple in a quick kiss, “what did our lovely yuki do now?”

yuki, who had been standing not too far from the two of you, looked up at the sound of his name, “did you call for me?”

you gave him a smile, “no, you’re good, ki.” 

he nodded, going back to scrolling his phone. 

pierre looked down at you, squeezing your waist lightly, “well, if it’s not yuki, what is it?”

you smiled at him, hands overlapping his, “call it a mother’s intuition.”

pierre felt like he was back in his ice bath. he turned to face you, “you’re serious?”

your eyes watered slightly, and you nodded, “i went to the doctor’s office before i flew out and they confirmed it there.”

pierre’s eyes shined with unshed tears, the expression on his face so vulnerable and sweet, “we’re going to have a baby?”

a tear slipped down your face, “yes, mon amour,” you moved his hand from your waist and to your belly, “they’re right here.”

pierre rested his forehead against yours, tears slipping from behind his closed eyes. when he opened them again, he smiled widely, “thank you, ange. i’ll win this race for you. both of you.”

after a sweet kiss, pierre was whisked away, helmet over his head, as he settled into his car. he was going to be a father.

the lights went out in paul richard, and the checkered flag was pulled out in what felt like a blink of an eye. the alpha tauri garage was cheering the loudest they had in the entire season.

he had done it. they had both done it.

pierre had won the france grand prix, just like he said he would. and yuki came in third, first podium of his formula one career.

you watched your two boys from the crowd below, throwing a small nod to pierre when he looked down at you with a questioning look.

and there, on that podium that the two shared, pierre looked at yuki and smiled, “you’re gonna be a big brother, yuki.”

— four

it’s safe to say that after pierre’s reveal, yuki was much more lenient and willing to take part in your little family act. although he would never reveal it to either of you. he didn’t need to, anyway. the two of you had noticed the second yuki smiled instead of refusing that he was their child.

it was now summer vacation, and your bump had only just started showing. something that pierre could not stop gushing about to both yuki and charles, who had joined the two of you on your trip to greece.

both men had shrugged it off, alas, no one knew your body as well as pierre, and if he said you were showing, then good for you. but yuki was a lot more attentive to you, like you had been to him ever since your wedding with his teammate.

thirsty? yuki was there with a water bottle, reminiscent of all those months ago when you had gotten one for him. 

hungry? yuki was more than happy to go get you something from that french bakery across the street, knowing full well that he could not pronounce a single word on their menu.

you’d been eternally grateful for yuki, constantly telling him such when he would help you out. his cheeks would redden but the smile on his face would never slip. he was more than happy to return the kindness you had shown him.

currently, the five of you–charles, his girlfriend, yuki, pierre and yourself–were sitting in a dimly lit restaurant, waiting for your food to arrive.

you sat in between the two alpha tauri drivers, smiling and laughing at the banter between your husband and yuki.

when the whole grid parents situation had started, charles had found it absolutely hilarious that pierre was treating a man younger than him by only four years like his adopted son. but as the months went by, and as charles watched the three of you interact from across the table, he couldn’t help but notice the way yuki’s eyes shined with awe and admiration, and most of all, respect, as he stared at the two of you.

“they look like a real family, don’t they?” charles’ attention was drawn by his girlfriend.

he hummed, “yuki might not admit it, but i can see how much he looks up to pierre. to y/n, too.” 

and it was true. over the last few years, yuki had seen pierre go from just another driver, to a man in love, to one who was married, and now, a man who was ready to be a father. 

although not much younger than you or  pierre, yuki had a lot to learn, and he couldn’t have been more grateful to have both pierre gasly and y/n gasly as his role models and safety net.

that night, as he watched pierre fuss over whether or not you were eating enough red meat for the baby, yuki was sure that you and pierre would be the best parents in the world. 

— + one

the atmosphere was tense, the garage silent as they watched the alpha tauri car lead the race.

“he’s gonna do it,” your fingers messed with the pendant around your neck, “he’s really gonna do it.”

two arms found their way around you, hands flat against your visible bump, “he is.”

you dropped your necklace, opting to grip your husband’s hands as you listened to the radio. 

“okay, yuki. this pace is really, really good. you’ve got three more laps. push, push.”

“okay.” his response was short. understandable, he couldn’t afford to lose focus. not now.

“two laps left.”

the pit board lit up in response, indicating that he heard them. 

another lap. this was it, the final lap. you squeezed pierre’s hands tightly. all of this stress couldn’t be good for the baby but in this moment, you couldn’t keep yourself from watching.

it felt like hours, watching his car turn the final corner. the team running to congratulate yuki’s position. the cheers filled the garage once more, just as loud as the ones in france.

“that is p1, yuki. p1. congratulations, kid, you won the race.”

you didn’t realize you were crying until pierre wiped the tears streaming down your face. you looked at your husband with blurry eyes, “he did it, pierre.”

“we always knew he could.”

as you listened to yuki’s excited cheers, you couldn’t help but cry some more.

he had done it. 

his first win in formula one. 

after what had felt like the longest race of his life, the celebrations couldn’t have come faster. as he stood on the top step, japanese anthem playing in the background, his eyes found you and pierre standing a bit away from the crowd, staring up at him proudly. 

he had done it.

he had made them proud.

the reporter moved on to the next question, “and do you think your relationship with your team and teammate has played a role in where you are today?”

“yeah, of course.” yuki smiled, “the alpha tauri has been supporting me for such a long time and it feels really good to win today. kind of like a sign to show that their effort has paid off. i only wish that i could have had pierre finish the race with me.”

“and how is your relationship with pierre?”

yuki chuckled, lightly shaking his head, “pierre has been the best teammate a driver could ask for. he and his wife call themselves my grid parents, and you know what? they really are. they’ve been supporting me the most this year, right up there with my actual parents.”

“i couldn’t have done this without them. my grid family.”

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ status ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

-> request; open

-> ask box; open

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ about me ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

-> hello !! my name is Jax !

-> they/them

-> 18

-> i write for Genshin, Haikyuu!, Levi, Erwin, Bakugou, Aizawa, Shinsou, and a few more!

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ Genshin Impact ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Diluc

Late Nights Diluc x gn reader

↳ fluff; how the evening ends after a long day

Injury Diluc x gn reader

↳ fluff, slight angst(?); finding you with an injury and helping you

Ayato

A Good Night’s Rest Ayato x gn! reader

↳ fluff, slice of life; finding your husband awake when he’s supposed to be sleeping

there is a sudden purge of tsudaken audio dramas published on youtube.. and i am here to thank all of them since the channel named white shadow (if i'm not mistaken) deleted their videos. so here, some nanamin content you all deserve;)

first link

second link

third link

fourth link

fifth link

nsfw under!

sixth link

seventh link

my job here is done, i hope this shows up in the tags ಥ‿ಥ👋

it will never not be funny to me that alastor's mortal enemies are, in order:

literal lucifer morningstar the devil himself

one of the most powerful overlords in hell

some old bitch named susan

blog nav

writing

of royalty, pointe shoes, and country boys (MC)°

WIP, kita shinsuke x fem!reader SMAU

CRUSH culture (OS)*

2-3k words, shirabu kenjirou x fem! reader

how to tell you’re in love (OS)°%

WIP, sakusa kiyoomi x fem! reader

tags

#blues internal monologue —> thoughts n musings

#blues music rec otd —> daily music recs

#multifandom blue —> multifandom posts

#blues haikyuu musings —> over analyzing HQ

key

(OS) = oneshot

(MC) = multichapter

(HC) = headcannons

(CSF) = christmas series favorites (start dec 1st)

* = completed

° = WIP

% = unpublished

the enemies to lovers project | lee minho

𝙙𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙢 𝙩𝙮𝙥𝙚: 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵; 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘴, 𝘤𝘰𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘶, 𝘴𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘴𝘵, 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧

𝙙𝙚𝙨𝙘𝙧𝙞𝙥𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣: 𝘵𝘢𝘬𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘫𝘪𝘴𝘶𝘯𝘨'𝘴 𝘱𝘴𝘺𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘭𝘰𝘨𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘫𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘶𝘱𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 – 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘺, 𝘭𝘦𝘦 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘩𝘰, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘪𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘣𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘪𝘵. 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘧𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳, 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘴 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥.

𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩: ~18𝘬+

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: 𝘴𝘶𝘨𝘨𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵, 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺!!! 𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘥𝘰𝘯𝘦! 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘸𝘰 𝘥𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘢𝘩𝘩 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘮𝘦 >.< 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘪 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵! 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴, 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘪𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥!

prologue.

“You know I despise you, right?”

“Oh, despise. Such a big word, baby,” Minho drawled with an obnoxious smirk, the one that simultaneously made you want to rip his hair out and kiss those perfectly delectable lips of his, “If it’s any consolation, I abhor your presence as well.”

“Wonderful,” you crossed your legs, a smile creeping onto your face as you leaned backward in your chair, “So why exactly are you here?”

Minho laughed, “The same reason I presume that you’re here for. A hundred dollars to put up with you is a tempting offer.”

Keep reading

still working on requests but i suddenly remembered that this post exists and immediately wanted needed to write touch-starved astarion. hope you guys enjoy this as much as i did!

a fervor, a sweet (astarion x gender neutral!reader, baldur’s gate 3)

As thrilled as he is to be free of Cazador’s control, Astarion could do without the constant need for blood.

Deer and boar just aren’t cutting it these days, not when he’s expected to fight goblins or harpies or whatever other damnable creature whose midsts you keep gallivanting into. 

Which is why he’s using all of his roguish tricks to approach your sleeping form without notice, intent on nicking a few mouthfuls from your throat before you wake. Nothing outlandish - just a little nibble, enough to keep him going. Keep him strong. 

Of course you wake just as he’s kneeling down with fangs bared. Of course. Astarion is quick to explain himself, wary of a stake through the ribs, but you’re surprisingly amenable to having a vampire in your midsts. 

You’re surprisingly amenable to many things, actually, including offering him the blood he so desperately needs. 

Are you that trusting, he wonders. Or that naive? 

Either way, Astarion has learned never to look a gift horse in the mouth. He urges you to get comfortable and then dives into his first real meal in centuries, nearly sighing as the sweetness of your blood spills over his tongue.

It’s splendid, the taste of your blood thick in the back of his throat. He’s never tasted anything like it, never felt anything like it, the sheer rapturous joy of giving his body what it needs, and to have your blood be offered so willingly only seems to add to the euphoria of the experience. Gods, but he could spend ages buried in your throat.

He’s lost in a pleasurable half-state, numb to everything but your blood coating his tongue, and so he almost doesn’t notice your arm rising, not until your hand has settled on the back of his head. Disappointment curdles in his gut; you’re about to push him away and that, as they say, will be that. Ah well. It had been generous enough of you to offer this much. 

But you don’t push him off. Your fingers are moving, yes, but not in an attempt to dislodge him. You’re simply… touching him. Pushing wayward curls into place, trying to tame his hair into some semblance of order, no small feat considering how mussed it’s become from his journey through the nautiloid ship and days in the wilderness with you and the motley crew you’ve gathered. 

You’re careful about it, gentle. Astarion - well, he doesn’t quite know what to do in response. Even the sweetness of your blood fails to distract from the soft sensation of your fingers carding through his curls. 

Even as they slow to a stop atop the crown of his head, Astarion can do little but stare blankly at the skin of your throat, nearly forgetting to swallow his mouthful. And then you pat his head, your palm gentle to avoid mussing up the job you’d just completed on his hair, and Astarion is so surprised he lets go immediately. 

“Ah, that will be all, I think,” he murmurs, unable to discern if the warmth in his chest is from the meal he’d just indulged in or the way your fingers had felt combing through his curls. Either way, it would be a good idea to leave, now, lest he do something foolish.

He feels your eyes on his back as he walks - walks, not runs - away. He feels them for even longer after that, a gentle weight across his shoulders that fails to dissipate even as he gorges himself on boar and deer in the dark of the night.  

*

The camp is awash in celebration - Halsin has been rescued, the Druid ritual halted, and the goblin scourge destroyed. Merriment flows in the form of drink and song, and everywhere Astarion looks there is joy to be found on faces both familiar and not. 

He searches for you, certain that this night will allow him the perfect opportunity to strengthen your bond. You’re already charmed by him - but then, who wouldn’t be, with all of his talents? - and a night together would serve to secure his place by your side, secure his safety. His freedom.

He’s stopped multiple times by inebriated tieflings, all eager to give him thanks for his part in the goblin massacre. One pushes a bottle of too-sharp smelling wine into his arms, and bereft of any other choice, Astarion accepts the bounty with a pasted-on smile.

Surely you’re the one they should be fawning over, he thinks, taking a pull of the wine and grimacing at its taste. It should be you in the midst of this celebration, being plied with trinkets and tasteless wine and heralded as the hero you are.

And yet - 

“You do realize you’re the guest of honor, don’t you?” he questions, unable to contain the curl of his lips when you shoot him a startled glance. Apparently you hadn’t expected anyone to find you in this little hidey hole, tucked behind an outcropping of rock with the newest acquisition to your group nestled against your knee. The owlbear has its head resting on your thigh, cooing gently as your fingers stroke along its crown. 

“Are they asking for me?” Your voice is hushed, the faintest hint of a slur to your words, and Astarion huffs a laugh. He wasn’t the only recipient of subpar wine, it seems. 

“Not yet.” He approaches you and your little shadow, grateful that the owlbear cub seems more preoccupied with your fingers than turning those sharp claws onto him. “But they’ll come calling eventually. Why are you hiding?”

“I’m not!” you insist, though your words lack much conviction. “I’m simply - recovering. From the wine.”

Astarion smirks, taking a seat beside you. “From the adoration, you mean.”

You huff a breath, your fingers scratching lightly between the owlbear’s ears. “That, too,” you admit quietly. 

“The life of a hero not quite what you expected?” You’d taken to it like you were born to do so, never failing to offer your aid to any poor soul in need. Yet the grimace that twists your lips speaks of a keen dissatisfaction with the moniker. Interesting. 

“I’m not a hero - “ you start, only to falter at the placid look Astarion gives you. You huff out a breath. “Just because I enjoy helping people doesn’t mean I’m entirely comfortable with all the fanfare that comes with it.”

“Understandable.” Astarion leans back on his palms, idly listening to the tiefling bard’s song as it filters through camp. “Surprising, but understandable.”

Your brows climb. “Why is that surprising?” 

“Oh, come now,” he teases. “Isn’t half the fun of playing hero the praise and accolades that come after?”

You shake your head, a soft laugh bubbling from within your throat. It’s a pleasant sound. “I’d rather be giving the praise than receiving it,” you confess. The owlbear chirps as though in agreement and you take to cupping its plump cheeks in your palms, an affectionate glint in your eye. “Yes, you understand, don’t you, my brave little one?” Your fingers scritch gently through the owlbear’s feathers and the creature purrs, a rumble that Astarion can nearly feel in the soles of his feet.

You shoot a triumphant glance his way. “See? Much better.”

“Well, as long as you’re doling out praise,” he murmurs expectantly, some small part of him wondering why in the hells he’d decided to say such a thing and swiftly laying the blame for his loosened tongue on the awful wine. 

A look of surprise passes over your face before it’s swiftly replaced by an expression that Astarion can only define as fond. He should be thrilled about that - he’d set out to charm you to his side during your first meeting, after all, and here before him was the proof that his machinations were working. He waits for the satisfaction to spill through his veins, the joy of a job well done, but instead all he truly feels is… warmth. 

Warmth and the callused pads of your fingertips settling gently against his cheeks. He blinks in surprise at the unexpected touch, mutely staring as your eyes track his face and your lips tilt into a soft smile.

“You were very brave, too, Astarion,” you croon, in much the same tone as the words you’d cooed to the owlbear, and despite himself, Astarion feels a hot flush work its way down his chest. 

“Really now, darling,” he begins, adopting a lofty tone to distract from the shock of his own body’s reaction to your words. 

“Fierce as well,” you continue undeterred. “Cunning and swift. Utterly brilliant.” Your palms gently squeeze at his cheeks in much the same way you had just been handling the owlbear. That bit should offend him, probably - he isn’t some beast to be swayed by pretty words - but the expression on your face serves to soothe his ego well enough.

You’ve a mind for deception when the situation calls for it, but the wine and general merriment of the evening seem to have stripped you of all but sheer sincerity. You mean what you say. 

“Well, I - “ Astarion struggles for words - a first for him, in all truth. Perhaps the wine has addled his mind, too, for the only thought he seems capable of is how nice it might feel to slump against your hold, allowing you to be all that holds him aloft in the world. 

The owlbear trills between you, the call enough to distract you. Your hands slip from Astarion’s face and for reasons he chooses not to study too closely, it takes a valiant effort for the vampire not to snatch them back up again. 

That, he reasons, is his cue to leave, and with a swift farewell and a promise not to rat out your hiding place to the rest of the revelers, he goes. 

It doesn’t strike Astarion until he’s back within the safety of his own tent that his plans for the evening - to seduce you into his bed and bolster your growing bond - had been completely waylaid. He should be furious with himself, and he waits for the bitter sting of disappointment to settle on his tongue - 

But it doesn’t.

Strange.

*

Camp is mostly silent when Astarion returns from his late night feeding, though you appear to still be awake, nestled on a log by the fire and staring silently into the depths of the flames. 

He debates bypassing you entirely but that feels too much like retreating. The night of the tiefling’s celebration remains fresh in his mind, his body’s increasingly confusing reactions to your touch stalling his feet, but Astarion is no coward. 

In truth, you look so lost in thought that he could have passed you completely uncontested, and he might have tried his luck, if only he weren’t so sure that he himself was the source of your turmoil. 

The Gur hunter had been a nasty little surprise. Astarion had given little thought to the possibility of Cazador sending someone after him, or perhaps he’d always known it was an inevitability and merely elected not to give credence to the thought. A folly on his part, to be sure. He would have to be much more vigilant in future.

“Don’t tell me you were waiting up for me,” he quips, taking no small amount of pleasure in your startled expression as he settles onto the log beside you. 

You open your mouth - perhaps to deny his accusation - but seem to sense the futility of such a claim. 

“We can’t be certain that Gandrel was working alone,” you say, turning your gaze once more to the flames. “I felt better, waiting.”

“Ah,” Astarion murmurs. You were concerned for him, then. He’d known as much - even after dispatching of the hunter and facing down the hag afterward, you had refused to rest until the party was well beyond the borders of the swamp. A blessing, really, considering the stench of the place, but even Lae’zel and Wyll had raised a brow at your haste. 

Silence falls between you for a moment, slightly awkward but also strangely comfortable, heavy with words unsaid. You look fit to bursting, however; Astarion can feel your gaze darting to him when you feel he isn’t aware, and he resists the urge to smile. He has centuries on you - he can be patient. 

“Your arm?” There it is, your voice deceptively light when you finally speak.

Astarion huffs. Was that what had worried you so?

“It was only a flesh wound, pet.” The Gur’s arrow had sliced a furrow into his forearm, leaving behind a stinging, bloody mess, but it was nothing a few mouthfuls of blood couldn’t fix. 

You nod jerkily, brows furrowing. “I know,” you mutter, though you don’t sound entirely convinced.

Astarion sighs, though even he can hear the fond exasperation in it. “See for yourself,” he says, holding his bare arm out for your perusal.

The skin is pale, unmarred, as though the wound had never been inflicted at all. He expects the silent look of awe that passes over your face; he even expects the relief, though the vulnerability of the expression - the proof that you’ve grown to care for him - is enough to make him second guess his earlier decision to approach you.

He’s not expecting your fingers, roughened at the tips with calluses from wielding your weapon, to wrap gingerly around his arm.

Astarion goes still, watching as you study the offending limb with far more intensity than it deserves. Your nails drag lightly over the stretch of skin where the arrow had struck, leaving a tingling sensation behind in their wake. 

He’s rocketed back to the night you’d first offered your blood to him, to the moment during the tiefling’s celebration when you’d gathered his face in your hands and touted him brave. He’s freshly fed and pleasantly full, but the warmth in his belly has little to do with blood.

It’s you.

It’s you and this damnable urge you seem to have to touch him - his hair, his face, his body, all seemingly without thought, without sexual intent, without cruelty.

When had such a touch ever been bestowed upon him? Before his death, certainly. Before Cazador. 

The thought roars through him like a wailing beast. 

Why are you doing this? Why do you care?

Why does Astarion never want you to stop?

“I’m glad there was no lasting damage,” you murmur, your hands curled loosely around his arm. You’ve no intention of letting him go anytime soon, it seems, but that’s alright. That lost, fretful look has vanished from your face, leaving behind sweet relief and a small, lopsided smile.

Astarion wants to taste it, to feel the texture and give of your mouth against his. Not to manipulate, not to coax you into bed, but simply because he wants to.

Gods above, he actually wants.

*

He carries the feeling, for a time. 

The want, the need. The ache.

It builds and it builds, a sweet desperation that he’s never quite felt before, until eventually even Astarion’s centuries-born patience runs reed thin. 

The Elfsong Tavern comes as a welcome respite after spending weeks in the wilderness. The entire upper floor is yours, and even Lae’zel seems more approachable after a few nights spent in the comfort of a real bed - much as she may hiss when Astarion tells her so.

A confrontation with Cazador lies just around the corner, a looming threat that hangs over all of your heads. You’re strong - stronger than Astarion had ever thought possible - but there’s a very real chance that none of you will see the light of day again after you breach his stronghold.  

If this is to be his last night on earth, Astarion reasons as he comes to a halt outside your door and raises a hand to rap at the wood, then he’ll be damned if he spends it without the comfort of your touch. 

You call for him to enter, and at his first glance of you, his resolve firms. You’ve discarded your armor, clad in loose clothing that makes you look soft, open. 

The urge to tease, to pester and charm disappears. Astarion climbs atop your bed, settles himself at your side, and for the first time in recent memory, asks for something he actually wants.

“Touch me?” 

Your brows jump, mouth parting on a slow, sharp breath. You set aside the tome you’d been reading, eyes searching his own. He half-expects you to question him, to gently urge him from your room. 

But you don’t.

Your palms are warm against his jaw, your touch tentative, exploratory, until Astarion sighs and sinks against you. 

You murmur his name, your voice soft, full of surprise, of wonder. 

“Please,” he whispers, and you laugh, a soft, shaky thing, disbelieving, awestruck. Fond. 

You thumb at his cheekbone, drag your nails along his jaw, trace the bow of his lips until he’s gasping for breath, a fire sparking in his blood. Your fingers shift gently through his hair, and then firm within his curls whenever he releases a low, trembling moan. 

Each touch you bestow upon him is a solar flare, blinding, brilliant, hot: your hands stroking over the crown of his head, dragging through the short curls at his nape, scratching lightly over his throat, his shoulders, his waist. 

His chin falls to your shoulder as your palms spread out along his back, dragging a trail of fire down the length of his spine. He presses his lips against your throat and bites out your name, warm and wanting, and you croon against his ear, nonsense words interspersed with his name. The scent of your own desire, your skin, your need is a heady concoction, making his head spin and his fangs ache. Thoughts of the parasite, the Absolute, Cazador - they all fade to the back of his mind, unimportant, insignificant to the heat of your hands upon his skin.

“Don’t stop.” It’s a desperate order, his voice gravel, his blood afire. His buries his hands beneath your tunic, feels your body shake as tremulously as his own, and knows in that moment that he could never let you go. 

“I won’t.” Your voice is a balm, a declaration, a vow. You press your lips to his brow and say it again, the cadence of the words sinking deep, taking hold, stronger than Cazador’s cruelty and the parasite’s hunger and everything else that you’ve yet to face. 

It should be terrifying - it is terrifying, but Astarion has long grown accustomed to fear.

He'll welcome this one with open arms.