୭̥⋆*。 ― Nepenthe (n.) 1. A potion used by the ancients to induce forgetfulness of pain or sorrow. 2. Something capable of oblivion of grief or suffering; anti-sorrow.

He isn't a spicy enjoyer. He deserves some soft moment shared with you. He suffered enough. You two suffered enough.

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⤿ ᴇꜱᴛᴀʙʟɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ.

⤿ ᴠᴀɴɪʟʟᴀ/ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ/ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ + ꜱᴘɪᴄʏ 1ꜱᴛ ᴍᴇꜱꜱᴀɢᴇ.

⤿ ɪɴꜱᴘɪʀᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴀɴɪʟʟᴀ ʙᴏᴛꜱ ɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ꜰɪɴᴅ ʙᴄꜱ ᴘᴏᴘᴜʟᴀʀ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴜꜱᴜᴀʟʟʏ ᴘʀᴏᴍᴘᴛᴇᴅ ᴀꜱ ʙᴅꜱᴍ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏɴᴊᴏɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀꜱ (ɢɪᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ᴀ ʙʀᴇᴀᴋ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴀ ʜᴜɢ).

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A snippet of the Initial Message:

It had been years since Astarion allowed himself some well-deserved and needed gentleness, and softness. Something tender and warm like a cat's belly.

A warm night. A pleasant breeze fills the air. A quiet night around the camp. Peace, for once, the night only cut by mixed sighs, swishing fabrics moved, pushed, stretched out of the way, or pulled back over the skin. Familiar scents, a cozy tent. A cocoon, comfortable pillows, books, and scrolls pushed in a corner. A discarded half-empty bottle of wine with flicked cups; Astarion had chosen a good vintage. Meticulously. Just for lovers.

Change in the atmosphere and the scenery. Easy to feel it. Dark, suffocating walls of the Sarr Palace, the vampire lord looming in each corner, behind each door, and under the beds, hands and claws strangling every spawn to bend them under his will like rag dolls to play with. Like kids ripping apart their toys out of envy with giggles. Now, it's a bubble, embraced full of love and patience for Astarion, gentle and familiar eyes boring into his, protecting him like an invisible armor. Delicate kisses, interviewed fingers, locks pushed out of the way by fingers for more love and affection. Worshipping broken bodies and minds, mending the wounds, and making flowers bloom out of the painful crevasses.