Work Text:
Astarion tenderly stroked Morrigan’s shoulder as she sipped her whisky. Tonight, her blood would have a subtle spiced flavor that he quite enjoyed. She snuggled against him on the rooftop terrace of their townhouse. He adored their terrace. They sat on a comfortable loveseat, and the pergola overhead was draped in wisteria of varying purple shades. Their opulent house was perfectly situated in the Bloomridge district of Baldur’s Gate—he could even see thin mist slowly rolling into Gray Harbor.
Astarion met Mor’s comforting gaze. His home. Their home.
Nightmares still plagued him, but he was free. Gloriously, undeniably free.