Chapter Text
~O~
Octavia's left leg bounced a little too fast as she sat cross-legged in one of the plush forest-green armchairs scattered throughout the waiting area. The cream-colored wedges she'd chosen that morning—the ones that added just enough height to make her legs look endless—pressed against the marble floor with each anxious tap. She adjusted the ankle strap for the third time, then smoothed her hands over the red floral sundress that Karlach had insisted "made her tits look amazing."
And well, it did, if she said so herself. The sweetheart neckline was perfectly cut to flatter her décolletage, striking that magic of "virginal slut chic"—innocent enough for Sunday brunch with someone's mother, but with just enough suggestion to make that same someone's son lose his train of thought mid-sentence.
Ding!
Her phone lit up with a notification, and she glanced down at the screen.
Shadowheart: Did you arrive? Because I swear to Selune if you've faked a sprained ankle or sudden food poisoning...
Octavia's fingers moved across the screen in irritation.
Octavia: I'm here 🙄
Shadowheart: Just making sure you're actually THERE and not sitting in your car making excuses to leave. I know you.
Octavia didn't bother responding. Instead, she slipped her phone back into her purse and let her gaze wander around the lobby, taking in the carefully curated perfection of the space.
The space was all understated luxury, with dove grey walls and subtle silver accents, fresh white orchids arranged in crystal vases on every surface, and black, shiny furniture that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in streams of natural light that caught the metallic threads woven through the carpet, and the air smelled of expensive cologne and success.
A massive abstract painting dominated one wall in sweeping blues and yellows that somehow managed to be both calming and sophisticated. Opposite it, a sleek, dark reception desk curved along the far wall, where a perfectly put-together blonde half-elven woman typed silently on a computer that seemed to hover rather than sit on the polished surface.
Mounted on the wall across from her was a TV that cycled through testimonials from blissfully happy couples, their faces glowing with contentment that felt both genuine and somehow staged. Currently, two tiefling women sat close together on a purple velvet loveseat, one with pink wavy hair and the other with a high ponytail and loving smirk on her lips.
“Love at First Bite understood that love isn't about checking boxes," Lakrissa swooned. "I thought I needed someone who shared my exact artistic vision, but Alfira showed me that the best partnerships are about supporting each other's dreams, not mirroring them."
"She makes me want to be braver," Alfira added, squeezing her wife's hand. "Both in my music and in life. Thank you, Love at First Bite, for seeing what we couldn't see in ourselves."
The image shifted to what appeared to be the most unlikely couple imaginable—an elderly woman with wild grey hair and mischievous eyes sitting beside a distinguished wizard whose beard was longer than most people were tall.
"People said we were too old for new love," cackled Ethel, her grin revealing teeth that had seen far too many centuries. "Bollocks to that, I say! This old goat keeps me on my toes, and I keep him young. Well, relatively speaking."
"Six hundred years I've lived," Elminster intoned with grave dignity, "and I never knew peace until this magnificent woman agreed to share my tower. Though I do wish she'd stop using my ancient tomes as drink coasters."
"They're absorbing knowledge through osmosis, love. Don't be such a fusspot."
Next came a young tiefling couple, holding hands with the shy sweetness of newlyweds.
"We were childhood friends who lost touch," Bex said softly, "Twenty years later, Love at First Bite brought us back together. Sometimes the person you're meant to be with has been there all along—you just need someone to help you see it."
"She's still the girl who used to dare me to climb the highest trees," Danis added, his tail curling around hers. "And I'm still the boy who'd follow her anywhere. Some things don't change, and thank the gods for that."
The final testimonial made Octavia do a double-take. A pale, aristocratic vampire with predatory red eyes sat rigidly beside a red-haired wizard whose expression suggested he'd rather be literally anywhere else, yet somehow couldn't look away from his companion.
"Before Love at First Bite, my idea of courtship involved... significantly more bloodshed," the vampire offered a nightmare-inducing smile "But Lorroakan taught me that psychological torture can be far more intimate than physical violence. We've been gaslighting each other for three blissful years now."
"He's absolutely insufferable," the wizard replied with fondness most people reserved for beloved pets. "Narcissistic, controlling, and he's ruined my sleep schedule completely. I haven't had a peaceful night since we met. It's been wonderfully miserable."
"I lock him in his own tower sometimes," Cazador continued conversationally. "And he responds by cursing all my favorite blood sources. Last week, he animated my coffin to follow me around the house playing circus music. I've never been more attracted to anyone in my eight centuries of existence."
"We bring out the absolute worst in each other," Lorroakan added with what might have been pride. "My apprentices have quit en masse, his spawn are plotting rebellion, and we've been banned from four different restaurants for 'creating a hostile dining environment.' We're planning to hex the wedding party at his ex-spawn's ceremony next month. Nothing says romance like shared schadenfreude."
"Love at First Bite: because sometimes soulmates are just two people who perfectly enable each other's worst impulses," they concluded in unison, their smiles suggesting they were already plotting their next act of mutual emotional terrorism.
Octavia arranged her long side braid with jittery fingers, tucking a few wayward umber curls behind her ear. Ugh, a matchmaking agency. How absolutely humiliating.
She hadn't even had time to research the place properly. Shadowheart had simply declared last night during Octavia's birthday drinks that her present was a fully paid package at what was supposedly the best agency in the business. She'd come home too drunk to do anything more than fall face-first into bed, and today had been wall-to-wall classes at the studio. She just hoped this wasn't one of those pyramid scheme marketing disasters masquerading as a legitimate enterprise.
Octavia knew that her friend was ultimately safeguarding her interests, especially after the absolute wreckage her love life had become. Between her habitual whore phases, she did occasionally attempt to commit to something real, but somehow it invariably concluded in disappointment.
Either she proved too overwhelming, or insufficiently engaging. One cheated, the other was a wet noodle in bed. Hells, her last attempted relationship was more than a year ago—sweet girl, Mayrina, who, after five months, decided to get back together with her ex-husband, Connor. After three years of complete absence, he'd suddenly reappeared, almost like he'd risen from the dead, to say he wanted to give it another go. And well, it had just been dating apps since then. Quick fucks with people whose names she didn't need to learn.
Not that Octavia needed partnership to feel whole. She was more than content with solitude, thank you very much. But she had to acknowledge, begrudgingly, that it would be nice to have someone who could accelerate her pulse the way Minthara did for Shadowheart. Or someone who looked at her like she was the sunrise, the way Wyll did to Karlach. Hells, it would be nice to have someone match her intensity, the way Voss and Lae'zel did—two forces of nature who somehow made each other even more formidable.
Maybe that way she'd also stop annoying her friends with all her incessant stories and complaints. Patient as they were, she could discern in their countenances that their considerable endurance was starting to thin out. Even she was getting tired of her own voice.
~O~
For Astarion, the day began as most did, hours after the sun greeted the city's skyline. He rose sometime near late afternoon, and stretched languidly, lithe and bare but for the pair of teal silk briefs hugging his hips. Handmade, of course, as were most of his garments. Only the finest for him, and no one had quite the deft hand he did when it came to his pursuits—especially stitching inseams and hand-rolling hems. It required a rather delicate amount of artistry and precision, and no one captured his flair the way he could on his own.
He drew the thick, blackout curtains aside with a dramatically heaved sigh, basking in the warm sunlight spilling across the polished floor of his penthouse apartment. He arched like a cat in its prime, radiant in his own perfection. The world should be so lucky. Sigh.
A light breakfast of wild blackberries and goat cheese on toast with a drizzle of lavender honey followed, along with a generous glass of blood wine. He sipped with an air of nonchalance as he scrolled through the newly drafted adverts on his WizPad.
His own looked perfect, he thought. Gale’s updated contribution made him snort, however.
"Such a noble fool," he muttered aloud, sipping again. "Gods, the man does love to hear himself wax tragic." He shook his head and set the tablet aside.
Still, he couldn’t deny their partnership had been fruitful. Fifteen years of it, somehow. Gale was, irritatingly, the closest thing he had to a real friend; the only one not repulsed by his neuroses or threatened by his brilliance. A rare combination, no less. And to his credit, the wizard was quite skilled at this ridiculous matchmaking business. Overly romantic, yes, and perpetually pining for that nameless ex he never talked about, but skilled nonetheless.
After all, it had been Gale’s idea, this entire venture. Sold to Astarion without an ounce of sentiment, but with praise. A masterstroke, really. Complimenting Astarion’s uncanny instinct for pairing people (and doing it quickly) had sealed the deal faster than any contract could. Even Astarion had to admit, Gale had some savvy under all that sappiness.
Of course, they each had their specialties. Gale matched the idealists, the hopefuls, the poets with too much heart and shit luck. Astarion handled the difficult ones. The disillusioned, the disgruntled, the downright intolerable. A few well-placed compliments, a little ego-stroking, and one of his signature smiles, and most were butter in his hands. He didn’t believe in soulmates, anyhow; he believed in chemistry. In the glory of sexual tension. In knowing exactly who would rock whose world and wipe the scowl off their face.
He was a genius. A charismatic, beautiful mastermind.
Only one rule guided him—never sleep with a client. It was simply too messy, and riddled with unnecessary complications. Aside from that, he had no interest in anything more than a good time, and only when he wanted it. Were it up to him alone, Love at First Bite might resemble a slightly more curated version of the Blushing Mermaid. Not the worst idea, really. He chuckled to himself as he fixed the open dip of his scarlet button-down, letting it fall artfully to tease the sculpted planes of his chest.
He turned to look over his shoulder, checking his ass in the mirror as he slid into his black leather pants. Tight and perfect, as always. With a dexterous hand, he tight-lined his eyes with a deep brown, then dabbed some bergamot and vetiver oil behind his ears and wrists. He slipped in his crimson hilt dagger earrings, adjusted his sunglasses, and with one last glance in the mirror, left the apartment.
By the time he arrived at the office, it was buzzing quietly with the low murmurs of prospective and ongoing clients alike. The scent of a burning lavender and chamomile candle drifted faintly through the marble-tiled foyer. Their receptionist, Tolna, offered him a polite nod as he passed.
"Good afternoon, sir."
Astarion flashed her his best slow, disarming smile, the one that usually unfastened corsets at the sight of it alone.
"Tolna, my dear," he purred. "How radiant you look in… beige."
The woman gave him an unimpressed look, blinking at him as if her were the biggest imbecile in all of Toril. Bless her; she was immune to him. That, in fact, was why he’d hired her on the spot five years ago. A low-talker with no patience for nonsense and a gaze like a tired librarian. Unfuckable in the most reliable, comforting way.
"I’ll be in my office."
Not ten minutes later, the chime of his desk phone stole his peace. He tapped the speaker button that answered it.
"Yes?"
"Client, sir," Tolna whispered. "Mr. Dekarios has just begun his virtual consultation. Shall I send her in to see you?"
"Of course, my dear."
He rose, checking for any wrinkle or stray lint, and proceeded to undo his cufflinks before rolling his sleeves to the elbow. Preening, he gave his hair a quick fluff up with his palm. Then, he opened the window for a touch of summer breeze; it was warm and a tad stuffy, but it carried the city in with it. It did the job to keep the room alive.
The office door creaked open behind him.
"Right this way," Tolna directed the client in with her hushed voice.
"Ah!" Astarion called, still facing the window. "Welcome, darling—"
The door shut, and he turned around before stopping cold.
His roguish grin died on his lips, then reformed into an artificial, saccharine stretch.
"Well," he drawled, extending a hand with false delight, "if it isn’t you."
Well, hers was a face he thought he'd never see again, especially after how she'd dragged his brother's heart through the mud decades ago.
"Hello, darling," he drawled, a broiling chagrin festering in his stomach.
Every part of his glorious, ascended body screamed at one, singular, pointed message: this was going to be his worst client yet.
~
When the man at the window turned around, Octavia halted abruptly.
Her breath lodged in her throat like a trapped sparrow, and her legs suddenly felt unsteady. Heat crept up her neck in a treacherous flush, while her hands turned cold, fingers instinctively clenching into fists at her sides.
Oh, fuck me.
If it wasn't mortifying enough to be here in the first place, it had to be him. She was way too tired and hungover for this cosmic joke.
Her almost-brother-in-law, if her ex from decades past had gotten his way. Sweet Leon. He'd been such a nice guy, but way too placid for her in every conceivable way. She'd given him a try for almost a full year, trying to reciprocate the affection he'd showered upon her, constantly reassuring herself that he was a good guy who treated her right. But it hadn't been enough. They were incompatible—and not just because he'd only liked to do it missionary under the covers with the lights off.
She had broken up with him in the gentlest way possible, though naturally that hadn't been sufficient to mend a wounded heart.
And in the process, she'd also met... ugh... him. She hadn’t even suspected he was capable of operating a legitimate business, let alone one that profited from making people happy and loved. And there he was now, with those godsdamn scarlet eyes observing her, and that stupid smirk she'd rolled her eyes at so many times over Leon's dinner table.
She could just pivot and bolt—this whole thing was ridiculous anyway. But she sure as hells wouldn't give him that satisfaction, and Shadowheart might actually murder her if she chickened out now.
Thank the gods she looked hot today, at least.
So she matched his overly saccharine smile with one of her own, extending her arm and sliding her palm into his, applying the gentlest pressure.
"Well. What a surprisingly small world this is."
Astarion held her hand in his with an infinitesimal squeeze, his eyes narrowing for a second before letting her go, and smoothing his hands down the front of his shirt. Then, turning away from her, he sauntered over to an oak liquor cabinet.
"I'm rather surprised to see you again," he remarked, inscrutably, as he poured himself two fingers of whiskey. When he faced her once more, he leaned against the edge of the cabinet, one hand resting on it, at his side.
"And seeking these services, no less," his voice seemed to tease.
His smile was coyly given before disappearing behind the drink as he tossed the amber liquid back in one shot. The glass clinked against the wood when he set it down. He cleared his throat as his scarlet gaze raked over her form, rather indelicately.
Just as arrogant as she remembered him, evidently. Though perhaps marginally more attractive—or maybe it was the alcohol still fighting through her veins that made those forearms look so... tempting, paired with that burgundy button-down when he'd downed that whiskey. Ugh, of course, he's drinking on the job. Poor Shadowheart had wasted her money on what she'd thought was a well-meaning gift.
Octavia caught him leering over her body, and she couldn't quite tell if it was in admiration—though she highly doubted it—or disdainful assessment. Either way, it didn't matter. The sooner she got out of here, the better.
A few measured steps she took around his office, surveying it with intentional disinterest.
"Mmm, hardly by choice," she mused, pausing before the fireplace where an enormous framed portrait of himself commanded the wall. By Corellon's corseted crotch, this man's vanity had no end. She rolled her eyes with such vigor that Toril probably shifted on its axis.
She turned to face him once more, one eyebrow arched in pointed expectation. "Aren't you going to offer your new client a drink?”
"Ah, yes!" He clapped his hands once before facing the cabinet again. "Pardon my manners, darling," he drawled facetiously.
With his torso half-turned to engage her honeyed gaze, he arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow at her. His slender fingers were wrapped neatly around the decanter's neck, poised over an empty glass.
"One or two fingers?"
"Surprise me," she answered with a broadening smile as her gaze traced the elegant arc of his fingers over the bottle. Godsdamnit, it, Octavia, stop staring at his hands.
She moved to settle into the chair across from his desk, crossing her legs with calculated grace. "So," she began, her voice adopting a conversational cadence that somehow managed to sound simultaneously courteous and mocking, "is it only you running this... quaint venture?"
Astarion hummed as his already flippant attention returned to his task. By the time he strolled over and handed her the drink, several seconds had passed, and still—he hadn't answered her question. Not until he sat behind his desk, opposite her, as he reclined in his high-back, leather chair.
"I have a business partner." He cocked his head, and a slow smile formed on his sensual lips. "Let's have a look at what you've entered into your questionnaire, shall we?"
Without tearing his eyes away from her, he reached for the WizPad beside the desk phone, swiping up to unlock it before saying, "Unless, of course, you'd like to just tell me what it is you're looking for. In a partner, I mean."
For a moment, Octavia pondered her options. The questionnaire—she half-remembered completing it with Shadowheart and Minthara looming over her shoulder last night, while she had already had five shots of tequila. Who knew what she'd put down there? But the thought of having to expose her love life verbally to him made her stomach lurch, so she decided to take a shot in the dark.
Taking a long sip of her whiskey, she let it coat her throat, then licked a stray drop from her bottom lip before responding.
"Let's stick to the questionnaire," she settled back in her chair. "I find it's better to have everything documented. For accountability."
"Good gods, woman," Astarion muttered under his breath, scrolling through. "Well!" he exclaimed, clearing his throat. "You've given me plenty to work with."
Octavia took another sip from her drink and set the glass on his desk "Is there a problem with any of that?" She flicked her braid away from her shoulder with a bit more flair than necessary.
Astarion chuckled, throwing his head back as he did so. When he simmered down to a soft fit of giggles, wiping at his eyes and smudged, brown liner, his haughty gaze met hers.
"Oh, my dear..." Planting both hands on his desk, he slowly rose from his seat. "I have yet to meet a challenge I haven't been able to overcome."
Then, matching the sass in her hair toss, Astarion sashayed over to her side of the table, and perched himself on the edge. He studied her for a moment, then chuckled again.
"Gods, the years have been kind to you," he declared quietly, with a hint of bitterness lacing his words. "I doubt I'll have any issues finding someone suitable. Are you available tomorrow evening?"
He smirked at her, flashing his pearly white fangs in the process. "I have the perfect person in mind."
Octavia suppressed a huff of indignation at his obliquely patronizing remark, but found her gaze involuntarily drawn to how those black leather trousers clung to his thighs. The supple material stretched taut over what were undeniably powerful muscles, delineating every contour and sinew almost obscenely. The way the leather shifted and crinkled subtly when he redistributed his weight made her wonder about the strength hidden beneath—whether those thighs would feel as firm and solid as they looked, whether they'd be cool to the touch...
Fucking hells, how can he even walk in those things?
Clearing her throat quickly, she forced her attention back to his face. "I look forward to it", she answered in a mock cheer tone, rising from her chair and smoothing the fabric of her dress over her hips. "I believe my number should be in the file; therefore, I shall await details." She paused, fixing him with a pointed regard. "Now, are we done here?"
Astarion pushed off the desk, rising to his full height. Ruby orbs perused her face, slowly trailing down the delicate slope of her neck before returning to her expectant gaze.
"For now."
He reached beside him without looking away, a small smile tugging up one side of his lips. And in the next second, he produced a plain business card, the simplest thing in his repertoire.
"My direct line, should you need my expertise or assistance in your search for love," he purred, with a soft snicker at the end.
And with a graceful flourish, Astarion spun on his heel and made his way back to his seat.
"Ta-ta, darling," he said, casually, swiveling the chair around and facing the open window.
~O~
"I do apologize, but your connection seems to be lagging a bit," Gale said, raising his voice slightly and leaning in towards the webcam, as though proximity might somehow strengthen the signal.
Unfortunately for his new client, his only availability that week was a virtual slot. This one, in fact. And while he knew the issue wasn't on his end, part of him almost wished it were. At least then he could troubleshoot the problem himself rather than endure the fragmented assault of two or three garbled words, glitched into a cacophony that sounded like a demonic chorus trying to break through his monitor.
"I—you—call—"
Her face froze, caught in a frame-perfect smile that could have otherwise been intentionally posed. Half of her thick auburn hair was pulled back, the rest tumbling in soft waves over her shoulders.
For a moment, indulging himself, Gale wondered how long it was.
Then he wondered what shade of hazel her eyes were. Her profile had listed hazel, but that could mean anything from forest-green to golden-amber.
She's beautiful, he thought, unhelpfully. He gave his head a little shake, trying to clear away the inkling of attraction before it grew into something inconvenient and unprofessional. Certainly not his style.
"Ms. Silverhand, if I may," he said, clearing his throat and leaning even closer to the webcam and speaking very slowly. "I'm going to send you a message to arrange another—"
The call cut out.
Gale sat back and pinched the bridge of his nose, frustration coloring his otherwise tepid mood. He hated leaving clients in a bind like this, especially newcomers. Not to mention his next availability, virtual or in-person, was two weeks out. A small eternity for a love-seeking soul!
He tabbed over to her file on his computer and scanned the notes, reviewing her intake questionnaire as he typed her number into his phone.
Instead of texting, as he said he would, Gale hesitated, staring at his phone like a dumbfounded fool. Then he tapped the call button. A risk, he knew; people these days recoiled from phone calls like they were fireballs.
And as that thought passed through his mind, his opened his mouth reflexively to curse, only for it fall short.
"Hello?" came a smooth soprano voice through his mobile's speaker. "Is this Gale?"
"Why, yes, I—"
His elbow knocked the glass of water on his desk, and he watched, face morphed with horror, as the liquid ran under his laptop.
"Shit!" Gale hissed, scrambling to lift it and grab anything to dab at the mess. His heart beat perniciously, lurching in sheer panic. "Sorry! Just—water! Very dangerous near electronics! So sorry!"
From the other end, came a lilting laugh, gentle and devoid of even a hint of mockery.
It gave him pause, and he slowly sank back into his chair. The crumpled wad of napkins dripped in his hand. But the sound of her laugh lingered in his ears, warm.
He smiled, somewhat stupefied, at his phone.
And then, without thinking, he took a shot in the dark.
"Are you free this evening, Ms. Silverhand? I could meet you tonight at the Singing Lute, if you'd like."
Gale slapped a hand over his face the instant the words left his mouth.
The Singing Lute? Mystra-Ryl, what was wrong with him?
But to his surprise, and immense relief, she laughed once again. He was almost certain it was warmer than before.
"Oh! Yeah, actually. Tonight's perfect. It'll have to be a bit late, though. Is 7:30 okay?"
"Yes!" he squeaked, then immediately cleared his throat. "Yes. 7:30 this evening works wonders for me, as well."
And with a flurry of awkward goodbyes and see-you-thens, Gale ended the call.
He stared at the phone for a breath, then sighed and reached for the intercom button.
"Yes?" the receptionist answered in a whisper.
"Tolna, I'll be meeting with that new client tonight instead. 7:30. Please mark it down on our shared schedule."
"That's oddly late…" she murmured, clearly skeptical of his intentions.
"Yes. Well." He pressed the button again to end the call and opened his calendar.
On to the next appointment, he told himself. Though part of him—the one that still ignored the unbearable loneliness in his chest, flaring like a bomb waiting to explode—was still thinking about her laugh.
~O~
Octavia sealed the door of her Lower City apartment and immediately hit the air conditioning. If the sweltering summer heat hadn't been sufficient to make her sweat, seeing Astarion had certainly finished the job. Throughout the entire drive home, her fingers had gripped the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles went white, because she couldn't purge that stupidly smug smirk out of her mind.
"The years have been kind to you."
She paused before the hallway mirror, subjecting herself to critical examination. Her athletic frame looked good in the red sundress, and when she turned to check her profile, she gave her ass a little appreciative pat.
Why yes, the years had been benevolent to her, thank you very much. Even if he'd said it in that infuriatingly contemptuous tone.
And if she were being entirely candid with herself, time hadn't proven particularly cruel to him either. It wasn't like he'd been hard to look at back when she was dating Leon—he'd always been attractive in that sharp-featured, perfectly put-together way. But now he seemed more... established in his own skin. Better sense of style, for one thing. Those leather pants alone should have been illegal.
Those lined carmine eyes materialized in her mind—the way they'd never faltered, boring directly into hers, then travelling over her body repeatedly with an intensity that should have been insulting but instead caused her stomach to perform peculiar acrobatics. She was used to people being intimidated by what her friends lovingly called her "resting bitch face," but Astarion clearly wasn't most people.
Whatever. Probably just hormones.
She discarded the cream wedges beside the entrance and was midway through unzipping her dress as she progressed into the living room. The space was a study in comfortable disorder—bookshelves overflowing with everything from Volothamp Geddarm to trashy romance novels, a vintage brown leather couch scattered with throw pillows in jewel tones, and fairy lights strung around the windows, bathing everything in aureate luminescence. Photographs covered one wall: her with friends, dynamic shots from pole competitions, and a few artistic black-and-white pieces of dancers mid-movement. Flora flourished in every corner—pothos trailing from floating shelves, a fiddle leaf fig claiming the spot by the window, succulents clustered on the coffee table, like diminutive green sculptures.
The moment the dress pooled upon the hardwood flooring, the soft percussion of paws announced an approaching presence.
"There she is," Octavia said, her mood immediately lifting as a fluffy white cat emerged from the kitchen.
Myshka wound herself around Octavia's bare legs, purring like a tiny motor. She performed her usual welcome routine: figure-eight between the legs, pause for chin scritches, then the dramatic flop onto her side to demand belly rubs.
"How's my little Myshka?" Octavia crouched to give her cat the required worship. "Did you miss me, beautiful girl?"
Myshka stretched languidly, showing off her fluffy white belly, then launched into a series of increasingly dramatic meows. Despite the full bowl of dry food visible in the kitchen, she was obviously the most starved creature in all the realms—or so she wanted Octavia to believe.
"Oh, you poor neglected baby," Octavia cooed, scratching behind the cat's ears. "Four full hours without your servant. However, did you survive?"
Octavia padded barefoot to the kitchen, still clad only in her red lacy lingerie set, and opened a can of the expensive wet food that Myshka preferred. After providing sustenance for her furry overlord, she poured herself a generous glass of white wine and settled onto her couch, idly scrolling through ScrySocial on her phone.
But not even mindless social media could command her attention. Those fucking thighs in leather pants kept flashing through her mind, along with the memory of how the material had stretched when he'd perched on his desk.
Focus, Octavia.
Why in the hells was he even a matchmaker? He couldn't conceivably concern himself with whether others discovered happiness—the man was pure ego wrapped in expensive fabric. And he sure as shit didn't believe in love. That business partner of his must have convinced him, or maybe it was just a lucrative way to feed his superiority complex.
Curious despite herself, she opened SpellSeek and typed in "Love at First Bite." Their website was polished and minimalist, with testimonials from those unnaturally happy couples she'd seen in the lobby. She found a photo of his partner first—Gale Dekarios, a handsome man with kind brown eyes and what looked like actual warmth in his smile.
"Cute," she murmured, taking another sip before scrolling to Astarion's profile.
Gods below.
Even in a professional headshot, he looked devastating—all sculpted cheekbones and that insufferable smirk, like he knew exactly what effect he had on people.
"Looking for love, or at least something worth (un)dressing for?"
She produced a gagging sound. That explained everything. He wasn't invested in love or connection; he was pursuing the challenge, the thrill of solving puzzles and getting people to fuck. Which only intensified her skepticism regarding his motivations.. Octavia was perfectly capable of securing casual company when she wanted it. It was making them stay—or wanting to stay herself—that was the real problem.
Sure, she'd had a succession of romantic misfortunes, but if she was ruthlessly honest, she wasn't exactly the easiest person to please. Admittedly high standards, prone to ending first dates prematurely if something felt amiss, zero tolerance for clumsy kisses or lackluster bedroom performance. Some might call her uptight or impossible to please—in fact, she'd heard those exact words more than once, usually hurled at her during particularly acrimonious breakups.
And while Myshka, a glass of wine, and the Real Housewives of Waterdeep constituted excellent company, having someone's shoulder upon which to rest her head during movie nights would be nice. Someone who waited for her to come home, who asked about her day, and actually listened to the answer while rubbing her back and playing with her hair. Someone who didn't think her intensity was something to be managed or fixed.
Octavia glanced at the website again. 90% success rate, it claimed. Inflated statistics, surely, but then again, she'd attempted every other method. What was one additional approach? Even if merely to placate Shadowheart and demonstrate that the issue wasn't her standards—it was the caliber of the romantic prospects in this city.
"Alright, Astarion," she murmured to the empty kitchen, draining the last of her wine. "Let's see what you've got."
~O~
Three weeks. Three weeks of this charade, and nothing to show for it but a growing collection of horror stories and an increasingly short temper.
Rolan, the university professor, had seemed promising until he'd spent the entire evening mansplaining "body alignment" and "graceful positioning" to someone who literally defied gravity for a living. Then there was Mizora, who'd arrived twenty minutes late and immediately launched into a monologue about her ex-wife's "unreasonable" alimony demands. And she'd been the one to reject Dammon—perfectly lovely, really, but the man had eaten his pasta by cutting it into tiny pieces with a knife instead of twirling it with a fork. Some things were simply unforgivable.
Each disappointment had chipped away at her already thin optimism a little more, until she'd started approaching these dates with the same enthusiasm she reserved for root canals.
Octavia's keys hit the kitchen counter with more force than strictly necessary, like an exclamation point to the evening's latest disaster. She kicked off her heels—the good ones she'd thought were worth the toe pinching—and let them land wherever gravity decided.
Three hours she will never get back, wasted spent across from a man who, for the first hour, explained his investment portfolio and the second hour, detailing his mother's expectations for grandchildren. By the third hour, when he'd started offering career advice for her little "dancing thing", she'd been mentally composing her exit strategy.
She pulled her phone, her thumb already swiping furiously to Astarion's name. At least venting to him about what a poor job he was doing had become reliably satisfying. Part of her wondered if he actually cared about finding her someone compatible, or if his success rate mattered more than her sanity.
Just came back from another "splendid" date you set me up.
Mr. Aradin asked me what my "real job" was. Apparently pole-dance instructor is just a hobby until I find a husband
~
The scarlet silk of Astarion's robe hung open, pooling loosely at his hips like fine spilled wine; except, this was no waste. He stood before his floor-length mirror, languidly stroking himself with one ringed hand, while trailing the dip between his pecs with the other. His cock twitched in his grasp, velvety skin taut and flushed from his touch, and he tilted his head with a pleased sigh.
Predictably beautiful. Tragically underappreciated.
His devilish smirk only grew when a pair of warm hands slid up from behind, umber digits dragging over the lissome planes of his thighs.
"Hmmm," Astarion hummed, letting his head fall back.
The phone on the dresser beside him buzzed once, then again, with an obnoxious insistence. He didn’t need to look; he already knew who it was.
With a long-suffering sigh, Astarion snatched it up and swiped at the screen. "Ugh. Little miss princess," he announced to his reflection with a sour scowl. "Of course."
Without sparing his guest—currently on his knees behind him—a glance, Astarion cleared his throat. "Take care of that, will you, pet?"
The man ambled on order with all of the obedience Astarion relished, his dark brown hair falling into his face as he crawled around to the vampire's front. Emerald-green eyes darted up, brimming with eager excitement before he leaned in and let his tongue lap at pearl of arousal on the head of Astarion's cock. A glorious second later, and his lips sealed around it with a pleased hum, taking Astarion in slowly, inch by agonizing inch.
Astarion hissed a sharp inhale through his teeth as his hips jerked forward. Steadying himself with a hand braced against the mirror, while the other tapped out a response with slightly trembling fingers.
Terrible of him to say, darling. Though I must admit, with how particular your tastes are, I’m running dangerously low on men worthy of your standards.
He hit send just as the tip of his length hit the silken, wet skin at the back of the man's throat. Astarion's eyes fluttered prettily in the mirror, and he let out a low moan, smirking at himself.
~
Octavia stared wide-eyed at her phone screen, still dressed in her black pencil dress—that had felt so promising a few hours ago—but barefoot now, legs curled under her on the couch. The absolute gumption of this cocksure vampire responding like that.
Running dangerously low on men worthy of her standards?
Another pathetic excuse. Another meticulously crafted deflection that somehow made this entire debacle her fault instead of his. She was so fucking tired of his half-assed explanations, his polished responses that conveyed absolutely nothing while masquerading as comprehensive discourse. As if the problem was her unreasonable expectations rather than his apparent inability to screen for basic human decency.
She took a sip of the wine she'd poured herself—the good bottle Moktessa she'd been saving for a celebration that never seemed to come, trying to will calm back into her bones. But the fragrant white did nothing to soften her irritation. The next second, her fingers flew across the keyboard.
Oh, how tragic for you, reduced to scraping the bottom of the barrel because one woman dares to expect more than mediocrity wrapped in a decent suit.
She hit send, then immediately started typing again.
Tell me, darling, is this your professional way of acknowledging failure? Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like you're running out of excuses for why your "90% success rate" is starting to look more like wishful thinking.
The rational part of Octavia knew she should stop there. The wine was making her bolder than usual, loosening her tongue in ways that her sober self might regret tomorrow. But the liquor was warm in her veins, and his condescending tone was still echoing in her head, and suddenly stopping felt impossible. She took another sip, letting the alcohol fuel her righteous fury, and watched her fingers move across the screen almost of their own accord.
Or perhaps the real issue is that you've been coasting on that pretty face and selling bullshit that you've completely forgotten how to actually do your job. Finding men who see women as human beings instead of decorative accessories shouldn't be that challenging for someone of your supposed expertise.
And another, for good measure.
Unless, of course, you're finally admitting that your precious reputation is nothing but smoke and mirrors. That the great Astarion Ancunin is just another mediocre man who's convinced himself he's exceptional while delivering subpar results. Maybe I should write some reviews about how Baldur's Gate "premier matchmaker" is really just an overpriced disappointment with good marketing.
~
The moist heat enveloping his cock was divine—wet, slow, indulgent passes, patiently ushering him over the edge. Astarion's head lolled back as he belted out a loud moan, fingers combing through the messy mane bobbing up and down at his groin.
Ding!
Astarion ignored the alert from his phone, rocking into the warm clench around him, summoning intense concentration. He was so close.
"Yes, good boy," he moaned.
Another message alert, quickly followed by another.
He growled low in his throat before his eyes snapped to the dresser. Still working dutifully on Astarion's cock, the young man glanced up.
Astarion unlocked his phone.
"What?!" he snapped, with a thoroughly undignified hiss.
The man stilled, visibly confused. Astarion applied an encouraging pressure to the back of the doe-eyed man's head.
"No, not you, sweet boy. Do keep going."
He gritted his teeth as his patient guest resumed his wet, suckling rhythm, albeit slower and more cautious. The messages kept lighting up the screen in aggressive bursts, and Astarion's pleasure was slowly consumed with an irascible ire.
The gall of this fucking woman.
"Mediocre, she says…" Astarion scoffed. And that hadn't even been the worst of her prickly barbs! The witch!
She thinks just because she’s beautiful, she can demand perfection like I'm some what? Some fucking miracle worker? Bloody hells, her fucking entitlement…
But she was beautiful. A striking little thing, with sensuous curves and a confidence to match. Perhaps a bit too confident, he groused internally.
Yet the image of her full, red lips curled in judgmental disdain danced through his thoughts, replacing the brunette at his feet for a moment. He imagined her hooded glare from across his desk, envisioning her on her knees instead—lips sloppy and wet with spit and his cum, those warm golden eyes defiant, all while her delicate hands clawed at his thighs like she hated how much she wanted him.
His hips snapped forward suddenly, cock sliding deeper into the warm throat below, muttering a slew of obscenities.
"Shit. Sorry, pet, ignore that," he muttered again to the man below, barely catching himself. "You're doing so well."
He glanced back at his messages and began typing, lips set in a grim line. He'd set her uptight little ass straight in no time!
Goodness, Octavia. If I’d known you were so passionate about my face, I’d have started charging you for the privilege of looking at it.
As for my "subpar results," I’ll remind you that I only work with what I’m given—and frankly, it takes a certain finesse to match someone with such singular expectations. Most men, after all, aren't prepared to be interrogated over their cocktail choice.
Do enjoy the rest of the wine I'm sure you're dousing yourself in, darling. Try not to shatter the glass this time. 🍷
He hit send and tossed the phone back onto the dresser, cock twitching with residual irritation.
"Fucking menace," he muttered.
But gods help him, he couldn’t stop imagining what her mouth would really feel like if she ever shut up and used it properly.
~
Ding!
Astarion's response came a few minutes later, when her bottle of wine was teetering at the edge of emptiness, and her head was getting that pleasant, floating feeling that warned her she'd crossed the line from tipsy into properly drunk territory. She should probably eat something. She should definitely stop drinking. Instead, she reached for her phone with the reckless confidence that only good wine and vindictive satisfaction could provide.
How perfectly predictable 🙄 The man who gets paid to find compatible partners for people is now claiming that basic date questions constitute an "interrogation." I suppose when your idea of deep conversation revolves around mirror time and self-congratulation, anything requiring actual thought would seem challenging 🤔
Passionate about his face. Ugh, he wished. Sure, he probably had the most piercing gaze she'd ever encountered, those ruby eyes that seemed to look right through her during their consultations. And yes, those cheekbones were practically modelled in their perfection. And maybe the way his silver hair caught the light made her fingers itch to run through it, and perhaps that smirk of his was criminally attractive even when she wanted to slap it off his face.
The bastard was annoyingly beautiful, and the fact that he knew it only made her want to wound his ego more.
And yes, darling, I am passionate about your face. Specifically about how perfectly it matches your personality. Empty, and utterly forgettable the moment something more interesting walks into the room 😘 At least the wine is good company. It gets better with age, unlike your tired act 🍷✨
~
Astarion came with a ragged groan and stuttering thrusts as orgasmic heat licked up his spine. The brunette swallowed around him like a cockhungry fiend, and Astarion sank into the sheer bliss of it—fisting into the man's tousled hair before letting go and collapsing back against the edge of the dresser.
“Fuck,” he panted, before heaving out a contented sigh. “Well done, darling.”
The man lingered a moment longer, however, slowly lapping at Astarion's softening length, gently cleaning him with an obscene attention to detail. Astarion let him, naturally, basking in the afterglow as he let his head fall back. His crimson gaze was half-lidded, meeting his flushed and glorious reflection in the mirror.
Ding!
"Gods," Astarion groused, shaking his head and pinching the bridge of his nose.
Ding!
With a slow, bored swipe of his hand, he grabbed his phone.
When he read the first message, Astarion snorted. But when he read the second, he devolved into a fit of laughter.
“Octavia, Octavia,” he tutted, grinning like a cat who'd secured the canary in its deceptively gentle claws. “Quite the sassy little kitten, aren't you?”
The man between his legs looked up, puzzled, still wiping his lips. Astarion blessed him with a distracted pat on the head.
“Go on, darling. Mouth closed now.”
As his guest retreated to the bathroom, Astarion reread her texts with a bemused expression. Utterly forgettable, am I? He combed through his waves, still tingling with the rush of oxytocin, and mentally sorted through his client Rolodex.
Half the city’s bachelors had already fled from her like frightened fauns. But there were still a few possibilities. One in particular came to mind. Tall, older, handsome, blonde hair and blue eyes, absolutely no sense of shame. Perfect. He'd be shredded within minutes, but Astarion was almost certain his old friend would relish the challenge.
And besides, when was the last time she got fucked, right and proper? He would offer to loosen her up himself, but she wouldn't be able to handle the likes of him; he was sure of it. A tempting thought, though…
But, no. Astarion's thoughts circled back to the suitor he had in mind mere seconds ago, and with quick, nimble thumbs, he replied.
You wound me, Octavia. Truly. Here I was, just moments ago, glowing in the culmination of depraved, carnal lust.
But never let it be said I don't prioritize my clients' needs. I have someone in mind I believe will be uniquely equipped to meet yours.
Tomorrow night. 8 PM. The Blooming Rose. Wear something red. It truly is your color, darling.
He hit send, smiling smugly to himself as he tossed the phone aside and stretched like a satisfied cat.
~O~
Later that evening, Astarion indulged in a lengthy shower. A river-bath, he liked to call them, because he preferred the water cool; hot water made his skin feel dry and itchy afterward. And now, clad only in a pale pink set of silk briefs, he sat in his home office’s chair.
Grabbing his WizPad, he opened it with the intention of checking his schedule for the next day, hoping Tolna hadn’t sneaked in a morning client—he hated when she did that.
But for some reason he refused to acknowledge, he was greeted by Octavia’s questionnaire. His grip on the device firmed with tension, and its sides creaked beneath the strain.
He pinched at the screen, then spread his fingers, enlarging the snapshot of her in the upper-left corner.
The years had been kind to her, indeed. Not that she’d needed more grace to begin with—at least, not in her looks. That mouth, however…
Gods, she was a handful. And even as he thought that, an impish grin threatened to form on his stubborn lips.
He’d certainly like to get an ample handful of other parts of her. Shut her up with his tongue in her mouth while wrapping her braid around his tight fist. Tugging just so, making her open wider for him as he taught her a thing or two about what being "adventurous in bed" could look like.
Leon was a good man. But while Astarion knew that, he was no fool; he also knew his brother was a bit tepid around the edges in the romantic department. He wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to get married shortly after Octavia left him. He’d even gone on to have a child! Bewildering, to say the least.
There was someone for everyone, as Gale liked to parrot at him every week during their meetings. But Astarion knew better than to believe such an outright farce.
There was no such thing as a true match for every being—certainly not for someone like him. Not for someone barely hanging on to the scraps of soul he had left. Sacrificing a couple thousand to secure his unique nature among vampires had cost him. Well, it cost something… not that it affected him directly, not most days.
Yet, looking down at this picture of Octavia, her lips half-stretched into a teasing smirk, with a coyly raised eyebrow—Astarion felt an irksome heat in his belly. He was annoyed by it, aggrieved even! And beyond that, wallowing in the unpredictability of genuine curiosity.
What did a woman like her have hidden in her boudoir of secrets?
Everyone had something. Why did he care about hers?
"Just a pretty little thing," he purred at the screen, before locking it with a tap of a button.
Setting it back on the desk, he grabbed his glass of Turmisian Red and walked over to the grand window facing the city skyline. There were no stars, regrettably; not with the Gate's light pollution stealing nature’s glory.
Astarion stared out into the glowing blur of the night, his jaw tense and clenching. Why did it bother him so much, the way she scoffed her way through every option he’d presented, as though none of them deserved the effort of her time?
She wasn’t his first difficult client, and she certainly wouldn’t be the last. But there was something about her that pushed against his instincts to brush her off and call it a day. It festered just beneath his skin, like a fresh hatching of botfly larvae burrowed under his flesh.
It was professional interest, this infuriating fascination with her. At least, that's what he told himself, nothing more. Just a puzzle to be solved. He’d crack her open, root through her contradictions, unearth whatever stubborn, foolish thing she kept hidden behind that damned smirk. He’d find someone to tolerate her—hells, maybe even like her—and then be done with it.
And when that day came, Astarion would feel nothing but relief.
He took a slow sip of wine and met his half-blurred reflection in the glass pane. The man staring back didn't appear to be so convinced with his assessment.
He drained the rest of the glass in one long pull, set it down with a little too much force on the bookshelf to his side, and returned to his desk. Because if he couldn’t banish her from his mind, then by the gods, he’d at least find her someone who could.
And that, Astarion decided, would be the end of it.