#astarion is bad at feelings

[bg-brainrot]

More than Vampiric Charms (Astarion x Tav)

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Summary: After some banter between Astarion and Jaheira goes too far, you (Tav) take some time to remind Astarion that he is so much more than a pair of fangs.

Tags: POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Fluff, Comfort, Vampire Spawn Astarion, set in Act 3, Astarion is Bad at Feelings, Blood, Blood Drunk, blood as a coping mechanism

A/N: Thank you to everyone who voted for this banter in my last poll! This was a fun one c:

Word count: ~3.2k

Walking through the streets of Baldur's Gate is always an adventure with your group– a particularly fraught adventure on this day, as Jaheira and Astarion seem hellsbent on trading barbs.

It had started out playfully enough, with a snide remark from Astarion, "Oh that building used to be a delightful little sweets shop about a hundred years ago. Though I suppose the crone would remember that, wouldn’t she?”

Jaheira, used to remarks about her age, often being the one to start them, was ready with a quick quip back, “Was that before or after your hair turned gray? With my old age, I can never remember.”

Astarion visibility bit back a remark about this being his natural hair color when you glared back at both of them. “Could we focus a bit please? You two can reminisce after we’ve seen to this latest bloody basement.”

One trail of blood, a disgusting array of corpses, and a piece of clown later and the two of them were at it again.

“Jaheira,” Astarion had started in a light tone– a clear indicator that he had no intent to focus. “Have you considered taking on the role of Dribbles the clown yourself? The makeup might help cover all those pesky wrinkles.”

The druid had snickered, appreciating the comment, and shot back, “I think you would be better suited to the role, given you are already a fool.”

That time, Karlach had interrupted, “Don’t either of you dare! No one could replace this Baldurian hero.”

“Which is exactly why we’re helping to piece him back together,” you’d confirmed with a nod. “Besides, you’re both cranky enough to make the children weep.”

“Darling!” Astarion had gasped, an offended hand on his chest. “How could you say that about me?”

You’d ignored his question, instead choosing to deposit a quick kiss on his pursed lips. A soft, effective bandaid that left the man with crossed arms and a reluctant smile. 

Moments later, you were ushering the group out of the building and into the city. Insults forgotten, everyone began trudging the familiar path back to the Elfsong to clean up.

Now, along this very path, you hear Jaheira strike up a new conversation with Astarion– one that has your ears perking up, even as you continue to lead the way ahead.

“It seems that you and our leader are closer than ever,” the woman observes, a smile in her voice.

There’s a moment of silence, and you can practically see Astarion’s suspicious expression in your mind’s eye as he assesses the situation. “Yes, you could say that,” he finally replies. “What can I say? I am, after all, quite charming.”

“I am glad it is your non-vampiric charms our friend has fallen for, Astarion.” A short, thoughtful pause follows before she asks, “It is, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” Astarion responds, his voice reaching a comically high pitch– one that almost makes you laugh. You want to hear this conversation more than most though, so not a sound escapes your lips. The vampire scoffs before he continues. "Is it so unbelievable that they would simply like me?"

There’s a clear hesitation as Astarion’s words hang in the air.

You wonder why Jaheira isn’t responding, what her expression must be– but before you can turn around to find out more, Astarion is speaking again.

“If you insist on prying,” he starts, clearing his throat a bit pointedly. “Perhaps you’d care to join us. And see how much we enjoy one another.”

The insinuation in his tone is almost enough to have you spinning around– teasing Karlach or Shadowheart is one thing, but Jaheira? Gods, you can feel the heat rising up your neck– “Why?” Jaheira snaps back. “Do you require some instruction on how the deed is done?”

“I’m sure even I could learn some new tricks from an old veteran such as yourself,” Astarion replies, mirth shining through in his tone.

Wait, is he actually inviting her?

You know you need to stop this conversation before it mortifies you any further. “Stop it, both of you!” you say, turning your head back, trying your best to keep a stern, not-at-all embarrassed expression on your face. “We don’t need the next installment of ‘Love at First Knife’ getting any more convoluted.”

There’s some grumbling from Astarion, an amused smile from Jaheira, and a chortle from Karlach, but otherwise your group makes it back to the Elfsong without tearing each other– or their clothes– apart.

__

That evening, Astarion slips away.

It’s not an unusual occurrence– some days his hunger is harder to ignore than others, on some you hadn’t found nearly enough evil to suck dry. Ultimately, he never wanted to take too much blood from you, so he chooses to forage as he has taken to calling it.

As a result, you think nothing of it at first, settling into bed after dinner with a book propped between your hands. After all, Cazador is dead, and Astarion is more than capable of taking down some of the most fearsome enemies in the city– he should take all the time he needs to himself.

But the hours pass, and Astarion has yet to return. The candles around you begin to dwindle, words begin to swim on a page you haven’t turned in quite some time, and sleep slowly but surely starts to drag your eyelids down.

It has almost claimed you when the door to your shared room at the Elfsong slams shut. You hear groans from around the room as those who were similarly drifting off to bed are shocked awake, everyone expecting yet another unwelcome visitor. You almost don’t have time to react before an armor-clad vampire lands atop of you.

You do react though, instinctively striking at the man with the spine of your book, a loud ‘thwack’ letting you know that your contact was true.

“Oof,” Astarion mutters, now fully splayed across your torso like a stretching cat. “Darling, must you be so violent?”

“Astarion?” you ask, putting down your book, shaking off the beginning throes of sleep as you realize what’s transpired. “Weapons down everyone, it’s Astarion.”

After a few affirmative grumbles from around the room, you turn your attention back to the vampire, “Are you alright? Did you get injured?”

“Mmm,” he murmurs, burying his face in your blanket, and rubbing at the spot where you’d hit him. “Nothing's the matter. Everything is perfectly dandy.”

His words slur though and something seems to be amiss. His movements are fluid, his body weight is completely and utterly relaxed onto you.

Almost as if…

“Are you… drunk?” you haven’t seen him like this since the bear he drank near the grove. When you’d asked him the question then, he’d shrugged it off– but it was certainly the closest to drunk you’d ever seen him.

“Not strictly speaking, no…” he drolls, tilting his head slightly to stare at you with one eye. His cheeks are flushed, a telltale sign of his recent feeding, and his eye is glazed over, its blissful sheen telling you all that you need to know.

“Have a good dinner, did you?” you ask, smiling down at him wearily. You can hardly fault him for indulging, especially after the couple of weeks you’ve had.

He chuckles, his one visible eye crinkling a bit. “Oh yes. A rather large bugbear. Hardly knew what bit him.”

You run a hand through Astarion’s hair, and respond, “Well done, my sweet, bloodthirsty vampire.”

Normally, such sweet words of unabashed ​​flattery would elicit a smile, a laugh, maybe even a kiss– but tonight Astarion freezes under your touch, his eye going wide before he tucks his face back into the bedding.

“Astarion?” you ask, your previous worry about injury now promptly replaced by a worry of a much deeper hurt.

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, voice sounding distant.

You scratch at his scalp, a bit, trying to encourage him back toward you. “Love, you know you’re a terrible liar. What’s wrong?”

He gives a soft, annoyed huff– an endearing, drunken noise were it not for the fact that he seems determined not to look at you. And continue to crush you with the full weight of his body.

“Astarion,” you say again, with a bit more emphasis, shaking his head a little with your next scratch. “If nothing is truly wrong, I will wake up Karlach. You know she would love to see you in this state.” As if to punctuate your point, a snore sounds from a few beds over, where you know the barbarian slumbers.

“Please don’t,” he murmurs, finally turning around to look at you fully.

You’re surprised to see his eyebrows furrowed, his lips turned down in a truly melancholy frown– always an expressive man, it seems that Astarion’s intoxicated demeanor is twice as exaggerated. Cute, you think. But also concerning. “Love,” you whisper, running a hand along his face. “Talk to me.”

Astarion hesitates, his watery eyes wincing as he debates his next words. Those same red eyes show an unexpected amount of vulnerability– all that bugbear blood is keeping his expression open, his entire face a rosy hue. His mouth opens, closes, his body shifts, and he fumbles with the latches on his armor as he thinks. You simply lay there, playing with his curls until he’s ready.

When he finally speaks, his words take you by surprise.

“You don’t just like me because I’m a vampire… do you?”

“What?” you ask, eyebrows raising in disbelief. Surely, you misheard him.

“You know,” he continues, waving a hand about the air. “My vampiric charms. The fangs. The blood sucking. The mysterious allure?”

“Why in the nine hells would you think that?” You reach a hand out to grab his, tugging on it gently to try to get him to sit up.

Astarion’s eyes drift away from you, but he does sit up, legs draping over your stomach. “Just… because of something Jaheira said.”

Oh. The conversation you’d been eavesdropping on.

“Do you mean what she said earlier? On our way back to the Elfsong?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Well, yes,” he mutters, still not looking at you. “Though I can’t help but notice you haven’t answered my question…”

“Astarion,” you start, releasing his hand, only to place it on the slightly flushed skin of his cheek. “No, I do not only like you because you’re a vampire.” Your words are firm, leaving no room for misinterpretation.

His eyes meet yours again, and still you can see so much doubt, so much unmitigated fear. “Are you certain? You truly do seem to enjoy it when I bite you.”

“Well, that’s true,” you admit with a small wince. It does feel rather… good when he bites you, it would be a lie to say otherwise and, besides, you’ve told him as much before. “But that’s not why I like you, you fool.”

Astarion’s bottom lip slips into a small pout and he moves away from your hand. “You’re not very convincing, you know? Especially when you call me a fool.”

You scooch out a bit from under him, leaving your legs under his. With all of the severity in the world, you reply, “If it makes you feel better, I’m a fool too.”

“You are?” he asks, curious despite himself– easily falling for your little trap.

“A fool for you.”

The noise that escapes him is half groan, half chuckle, and his mouth pulls into a lopsided little smile that you’re not certain you would have earned were he not a bit blooddrunk. “Gods, how the hells did I fall for you?”

“Now you’re asking the right questions,” you respond with a smirk on your face. When you place a hand on his knee, the smirk turns into a small smile. “But I’m being genuine– I don’t like you because you’re a vampire. And before you ask, I don’t love you because of your vampirism either.”

He gives a small huff. “Well, Jaheira made it sound as if there wasn’t much else to care for.” An uncharacteristic admittance from him– normally he would brush off such a statement with a proud declaration of how phenomenal he is. But it seems that Jaheira’s words cut deep– and that blood has loosened his lips.

“Jaheira, despite all of her many, many years of experience–” you enjoy the full laugh that elicits. “simply doesn’t have my refined taste. There are so many reasons to like you, love. In fact, vampirism doesn’t even make the list.”

“Oh, you’re keeping track, are you?” he asks, folding his arms and body over his legs and smiling up at you.

“Maybe,” you murmur, leaning forward toward him. “Would you like a sampling of reasons?”

The look he gives you then is hopeful, but more than a little dread slips through in his shining red eyes. When he answers, his voice is barely above a whisper. “Only if you mean them.”

This withdrawn, unsure Astarion isn’t a common sight to you, but, like every other facet of the man before you, he’s no less lovable. So you lean forward, placing a kiss on his pale forehead, and say, “I mean them with my whole heart.”

“Then… I suppose I ought to be lavished with them," he murmurs, and you spot the blush intensifying over his cheeks, now also coloring his ears.

Coupled with his fluid, inebriated state, his heart laid bare before you, you want to scream the reasons from the roof of the Elfsong, if only for him to believe you. But, as it is, the soft snores of your companions keep your voice hushed, your face close to his as you begin.

“Let’s see… should I start with the first thing that stood out to me?”

He hums in agreement, and closes his eyes, as if preparing to listen to the sweetest tune known to the entirety of Faerun.

“Well, it started with your first lie, I think,” you start.

Astarion gives a disapproving groan, but doesn’t open his eyes.

“My dear, you said you said you had a ‘brain thing’ cornered– I hope you know the smile on my face wasn’t from confidence,” you say with a new, fond smile at the memory. “I just knew from that moment on, you didn’t much care for what others thought of you, as long as your goals were met. A kindred spirit. Or so you said that day.”

At that, he reopens his eyes. “That’s not true.”

“We’re not kindred spirits?” you ask, an unexpected tinge of hurt blooming in your chest.

“That’s true,” he says, balming the hurt quickly. “It’s not true that I don’t care what others think of me. I do. Well, maybe not everyone.” His eyes dart toward Gale’s bed and you stifle a snicker. “But I certainly care what you think of me.”

You look into his crimson eyes, a bit clearer now than when you began talking– the blood seems to be working its way through his system. His words come from a place of honesty, not a lack of inhibition.

“Then, let me assure you here and now,” you murmur, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. “I think–” Another quick peck on his lips. “you’re the funniest–” A kiss to his nose. “the most deft–” A brush of lips against his temple. “creative, endearing, brave–” Each word comes with a kiss along his jaw. “man I’ve ever met.”

Astarion’s eyes look at you, his face still for a moment as he considers your words. When he finally speaks, it’s a quiet, choked up question, “Oh, is that it?”

“Would you like me to keep going?” you ask, lips perched just above his eyebrow, ready for another round.

He shakes his head ever so slightly. “No– no need or you’ll be here all night, surely,” he says, posturing as best as he can while still looking at you with fearful eyes. Almost as if your candid praise is simply too much for him to bear.

It may be too much, and you’re not one to push it.

“Very well,” you say, pulling back. “But I didn’t even get to how good you look covered in blood…”

The man gives a light laugh at that, some of his nerves melting before praise he understands– his appearance is a source of comfort, one that brings him back to himself. “Oooh yes, I do look dashing in red, don’t I?” he purrs, a content smile forming on his face.

“That you do,” you assure, with your own warm look. You wish he would accept all praise this easily, but you suppose this is all you can do for now.

So little of what matters to you is his vampirism, his looks… but for a man like Astarion, for whom a kind word felt like a double-edged blade for two centuries? Well, you’re reminded that regardless of how many times you may tell him, whether now when he’s a bit fuzzy around the edges or when you’re in your cups, he may never truly believe you.

No matter, you suppose. I’ll simply keep finding new ways to show him how much I care for him…

“So Jaheira was kidding, right?” Astarion asks, sitting up and finally beginning to remove his leathers.

You nod, moving to help him remove his greaves. “Naturally. I thought you’d been enjoying the conversation, actually.”

“I had been,” he replies, thoughtfully. “But the more I remembered how sinfully you shiver under my fangs…”

He’s dodging before you can so much as flick his ear. “Excuse you. Is that any way to treat your most reliable source of sustenance?”

Astarion smirks as he leans away from you in the bed. “Oh darling, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. After all, you can’t help it.”

“Astarion–”

“Ehem!” You hear from somewhere behind you. It’s followed shortly by Shadowheart’s annoyed voice, “Would the two of you please keep it down? Some of us are trying to rest.”

If by ‘rest’ she means ‘reach the end of her copper novel’, then you suppose she’s right. Either way, you whisper back, “Sorry, I was defending my dignity.”

“What dignity?” she murmurs back. “And in case you’re wondering, you’re both utter fools.”

Oh great, she’d heard everything.

“Shadowheart, were you eavesdropping?” Astarion asks, crawling over you to glare at her from the edge of your bed. He’s half-dressed and still somewhat out of sorts, so you just lean back against the pillows and accept your fate.

“Is it really eavesdropping if I can hear it all clearly?” the cleric says, and you hear her book snap shut. “Besides, Astarion, if you really needed someone to reassure you, you should have asked me.”

“You?” he asks, incredulously. “And why should I ask you?”

“Because,” she starts, and you can hear her wicked smile in her tone. “I can confirm without a shadow of a doubt that there’s no such thing as ‘vampiric charm.’ I’ve never felt less charmed in my entire life.”

You can sense Astarion is just about ready to light Shadowheart’s hair on fire, so you tug him back down from the divide. “Thank you for that clarification, Shadowheart,” you call, biting back a laugh. “And I’m starting to realize none of us really have private conversations, do we?”

“No, we do not,” you hear Gale reply from a few beds away.

With that, Astarion gives an exasperated sigh and the two of you finish removing his armor in silence.  When you’re both finally ready for bed and you whisper to him, “Goodnight.” Shadowheart, Gale, and Wyll all respond, “Goodnight!”

#astarion #astarion x tav #fanfic #astarion fic #astarion x reader #rogue + rogue #astarion fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion fluff #astarion x gn reader #astarion x gn!tav #baldurs gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion is bad at feelings #tadfools tomfoolery #astarion comfort #spawn astarion

[scarredwithcruelintentions]

no grave can hold my body down, i'll crawl home to her

A Baldur's Gate 3 Reader Insert Fic by scarredwithcruelintentions

(crossposted on AO3 here)

Rated: E

Pairing: Astarion/Tav, Astarion/Reader

Current W/C: 23,144

Summary:

The memory of clawing his way out of his own grave was among the worst he'd collected over his long life. He'd never imagined being turned would lead to nearly two hundred years of enslavement at the hands of a cruel master; but then again, he'd never even imagined being turned in the first place. All of his days as a spawn had blurred together, so much the same as they were in their infinite torment and shadow.

Until, one day, they weren't.

He knew one thing for certain, though.

If he had to do it all over again, crawl from his grave and live another two centuries of endless night, he would without question.

For after the darkness, he would come to find the light. He would come to find you.

A/N: Hey everyone! I went into Baldur's Gate 3 completely blind, knowing nothing about any of the characters, story, or gameplay. And, of course, I was immediately drawn to Astarion with his striking beauty, heavy flirting and aloof cockiness. Totally let the horny rule my brain (because GODS DAMN he's hot) and pursued a romance with him. And then I learned more about his story as I progressed in the game, and I was completely disgusted with myself. See, I did to Astarion exactly what so many people have done to me: I looked at him as an object, as a pretty piece of arm candy that was happy to cater to my *ahem* more lascivious whims. My heart broke a little (okay, a lot) because I feel much the same way as him about being treated like a piece of meat, something to be consumed and discarded in one fell swoop. I recently started Cognitive Processing Therapy for my trauma, and because I really connected with his character and storyline, I was compelled to write an apology to him in the form of this fic. Equally, in turn, it acts as the love letter to myself in accepting and moving forward from my own traumas. As I'm sure you can tell by now, there is a lot of heavy and uncomfortable subject matter to come in this, and I don't blame anyone for needing to click away. The story is meant to be an exploration of relearning the full spectrum of human(oid) emotions, so it will be a bit of a rollercoaster. Big shoutout to my Skwid Sis for cheerleading and my best friend and partner in crime, Big Daddy E, for reading it out loud with me in character and helping me (try to) edit my unnecessarily verbose run-on sentences. I cherish you two more than words will ever come close to expressing, and just want to say thank you for being patient and understanding with me during this very painful and difficult process. And lastly, I want to thank you, the reader, for taking the time to share in my healing journey by giving this silly lil brainchild of mine a chance. I hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I've been enjoying writing it. :) Likes, comments and reblogs much appreciated! Will be updated weekly (unless, yk, I am particularly inspired to share)!

chapter 1: this is a gift

chapter 2: the hunted

chapter 3: a desperate revelation

chapter 4: a reflection in another's eyes

chapter 5: a lament for all things lost

chapter 6: ruination and regret

chapter 7: sorrowful lash

chapter 8: scorched earth and rebirth

#bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion #tav #astarion pov #soft astarion #vampire spawn astarion #astarion is bad at feelings #astarion needs a hug #but so does tav #reader insert #unnamed tav #no use of y/n #afab tav #bard tav #au canon divergence #trauma #angst #emotional manipulation #hurt/comfort #emotional hurt/comfort #slow burn #fluff #eventual smut

[ineed-to-sleep]

Collection of bg3 sketches I've been nibbling at over the month. teehee

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanart #astarion #karlach #shadowheart #gale dekarios #tav #orin the red #bg3 tav #oc.nawen #I'm soooo normal about these characters like so so normal not obsessed w them at all #still upset u can't sleep w orin tho #you can sleep w mizora but not w her??? I've never been so heartbroken #ALSO I've had to reject gale after astarion confesses his feelings and oh my god #he looked at me with the hugest roundest puppy dog eyes I've ever seen #I still feel bad abt it tbh #the image of him looking at me like that. burned into my mind #sleepyscribble

[gaylittleguys]

unstoppable force vs immovable object

#based on that one text screenshot you know the one #astarion/durge #astarion x dark urge #astarion #bg3 #Mal #doodles #astarion finding the one guy in faerun who doesnt give a shit about his seduction skills #and needing him so bad #Mal best in class at the Will Graham school of misinterpreting gay feelings #(fast forward to act 3 and they’re irritatingly in love) #somehow

[myrkulitescourge]

i'm surprised i haven't seen any text posts yet about the Unsubtle Differences between astarion’s tiefling party/high approval forest scene and the one you get after the goblin party.

there’s something so terribly interesting about how the conversation afterward plays out depending on which variation you pursue.

like, most people have seen the tiefling party version by now. astarion basking in the sunlight the morning after, playing off most of what tav says with relative ease, even when they ask about his scars and he tells them about cazador. his cadence is smooth and composed, his smile almost friendly, even though you know, as the viewer, he’s playing a game of manipulation at this point. the only real crack in his demeanor is if tav notices that cazador’s “poem” was written in infernal, which, understandably, startles him.

but recently i watched the goblin party version of this same scene, and everything reads so differently. unlike at the tiefling party, it’s still the middle of the night when astarion tries to leave, thinking tav is asleep—almost immediately after the act, in fact. when tav does speak to him, he’s visibly nervous, halting and stammering in the middle of lines delivered unflinchingly in the other version of the scene. he gestures broadly and fidgets more while talking, his smile comes and goes. there’s even some of his distinctive high pitched, fake laughter sprinkled throughout the exchange, almost identical to later scenes where he's very, very obviously uncomfortable (like if raphael mocks him and magics off astarion's shirt to show the party his scars in act 2, or when confronting the gur children in their cell in act 3, etc etc).

siding with the goblins represents something deeply familiar to astarion, a level of cruelty he's more than familiar with and embraces likely because cruelty and duplicity, to him, go hand-in-hand with the power and freedom he craves so badly—but he won't stay the night with this tav, even if he approves of their actions. no, in this case, he'll keep to what's familiar and attempt to leave them in the forest under the cover of the very same darkness he resents having been cast into by cazador. when he gets caught, it sets him on edge, and everything he says becomes such a blatant lie to save face that tav would have to be completely oblivious not to see through him, or maybe just not care enough to.

but if tav saves the refugees? challenges his worldview and comes out victorious? oh, he'll complain of the poor rewards for his trouble at the party and whine about it being boring, but he decides to stay with tav through the night while they're asleep and on past dawn. he takes a moment to enjoy the morning sunlight, returned to his life after two centuries without. the same is true if you have high enough approval that he asks before the party, in which case, you've almost certainly hit his biggest approval gains: trusting him and supporting his safety. maybe he doesn't trip over his words when he speaks because, well, maybe this is someone he doesn't have to worry about. someone who's already more than proven themselves a foolish, heroic sort with a bleeding heart or otherwise demonstrated that they're already in his corner. in other words, not a threat—at least not to him.

does any of this make sense. i wanna study this guy under a microscope.

#the text may be the same but the line delivery is so enormously different it HAS to mean something idk! idk! #what he knows best but doesn't quite trust vs what's new but seems almost safe seems like the differentiating factor honestly #at least in whether he decides to leave tav immediately or stay with them till morning #which in turn affects how he feels by the time tav speaks to him #not to rag on the goblin route but man #he seems. well. frantic when he gets caught trying to leave asap. #to the point where listening to him feels... pretty bad imo #i'd love to know if it changes his romance later on because that seems like. well. a rough start #astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion ancunin #bg3 spoilers #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 meta #sort of idk #long post

[snakeoid]

quick doodle break astarions so i could look at something else for a bit

#baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #astarion #i feel aliiittle bad for not drawing genshin rn but i alas im not a genshin blog i just happened to draw a lot of genshin #which i will still do. the silly people from bg3 are just on my mind more currently

[moron-rights]

-1 bloodless

+1 happy

#'so imagine how stupid i felt when i started to care' #ya buddy boy the feeling is mutual #we are ALL down BAD by this river. #i have I Want to Live (classical version) on repeat #i am rotating them in my head at terminal velocity #i am screaming crying etc etc #dumb little husbands #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #astarion #astarion ancunin #mc: eivan lunorin #morights #my art #durge #bg3 durge #it's dark urge hours #durge x astarion

[lunian]

after million years of art block (still struggling tbh) I finished these bg3 blorbos ;w;

they are so important for me

#baldur's gate #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanart #lae'zel #bg3 lae'zel #bg3 shadowheart #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #bg3 gale #wyll ravengard #bg3 wyll #bg3 karlach #karlach #myart #..anyways #not sure i finished !! but im bad at finishing paintings since it never feels worth it by the end

[a2zillustration]

We're all supposed to die by squid brain anyway what's another imminent disaster among friends.

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[[ All Croissant Adventures (chronological, desktop) ]]

[[ All Croissant Adventures (app) ]]

#I love the d&d of it all I love how everyone has these horrible tragic backstories they keep secret until they absolutely have to tell you #and then they feel bad about it like #buddy it's fine lol #Croissant's gonna solve everyone's problems don't worry #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 spoilers #croissant adventures #comics #tav #gale #karlach #astarion #shadowheart #gale dekarios #breadweave

[thegodsmadeyoutoruinme]

3 blondes and jesus of nazareth approach you, wyd

#90% of my time in act 3 has been spent buying little outfits #i love them all #i feel bad objectifying astarion in slutty little outfits so i’m objectifying gale instead #bg3 #astarion #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #shadowheart #my tav #my screenshots

[bg-brainrot]

Failed Every Insight Check and Fell all the Harder (Astarion x GN!Tav)

Featuring: Astarion x Rogue!Tav

Series: Fits into Love at First Knife, AO3 link here

Companion piece to: Failed a Dex Save and Fell for You

Summary: After a few months of traveling together, Astarion has begun to experience some new feelings around you. After one fateful day in Moonrise Towers, he finally figures out what those feelings are.

Tags: Astarion POV, POV Second Person, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Awkward Fluff, tw: mentions of astarion's past and all that comes with it, tw: mentions of araj scene, Feelings Realization, Jealousy

A/N: here comes the awkward, fluffy Astarion figuring out his feelings Valentine’s special. He’s a hot mess, of course. (happy Early Valentine’s because I will be busy on Valentine’s) And thanks to everyone who voted for this one!

Word count: ~4.8k

Ever since your group entered the Shadowlands, something has been bothering Astarion. He hadn't noticed at first– or rather, had tried his best to ignore it. But, as time goes on, he’s finding it more and more difficult to brush aside.

It had started out small. An odd pain in the pit of his stomach.

What was that? he'd thought, holding a hand to his abdomen in concern. Perhaps he was just hungry, but it certainly didn’t feel like the ever-present hunger in his belly. No, that was a dull, continuous ache. This? This felt like something was weighing him down. Maybe I’m ill. I shouldn’t mention it to anyone, lest Lae’zel slit my throat in my sleep.

Besides, the pain didn’t happen often. He noticed it a distinct few times.

Once, when you first entered the Shadowlands. He’d just watched you bend down, hands plucking at something off the side of the cursed lands’ road. He thought momentarily that he ought to stop you, that none of you knew what could be lurking in its magical darkness. But that tinge of worry was promptly replaced by that same gods awful pit in his stomach. 

Because there you were, presenting your party’s cleric with your spoils. You were gifting Shadowheart a night orchid– had remembered that she mentioned loving them. You bore the woman’s wretched joke with a smile. Disgusting, Astarion thought. No wonder my stomach feels uncomfortable, what a pathetic little exchange.

Like everything that had bothered him in the last couple of months since finding himself free of Cazador, he decided to forget the feeling. Life is his to take full advantage now, why let something like that affect him?

Or so he thought until the next time the feeling made its return.

You had just arrived at the Last Light Inn as a group, found shelter through the Harpers’ well-established safe haven. Astarion was quite happy to be rid of the shadows, content to cozy up in an inn. He figured, if he played his cards right, you may even let him partake in your blood or ask for a bit of fun.

Then your party found Dammon. Equipped with Infernal Iron and one blazing hot barbarian, Dammon made magic happen in a matter of moments. 

Astarion was glad. As much as the group was a bit much at times, he understood Karlach’s struggle with her body all too well. She deserved this small victory in reclaiming her body. 

His feelings of genuine sympathy were short-lived though because a moment later you were wrapping your arms around the tiefling’s body. It was a test, of course, to see if Dammon’s fusing had worked. But there it was again, the feeling in his stomach. This time it felt twice as heavy, a lead ball in his guts. Maybe I should let someone know, he thought. This can’t be good.

But the sensation was soon forgotten as your group settled into the Last Light Inn. Old allies were in some miserable new states– requiring even more help, gods– and new acquaintances were made. It was all rather dull for Astarion.

The one time Astarion perked up was when you went head-to-head with the head Harper. He chuckled under his breath when you outsmarted the old crone, Jaheira. That’s right, Harper. Don’t mess with my protector.

Your first night at the inn was capped off with a bit of revelry: a game of Truth or Dare. 

Astarion could sense your reluctance to play. You’d been acting odd all day, stiff and awkward around him. He saw this as the perfect opportunity to tease you to the high celestial plane– in fact, he already knew what he wanted to ask you. “You are going to regret this so much," he'd said to you from across the table.

Then the game began, and the deep, uncomfortable feeling never left his core.

Each and every companion received your attention throughout the game, in one way or another. Even that damned smith, Dammon, was given a dare from you. And Astarion just sat there, not even earning a glance, his mood growing more and more sour.

When, at last, he was able to taunt you with his question, you were far too in your cups to give a proper response. He sat on your lap, placed there from one of Shadowheart’s dares, staring into your surprised, open eyes, wishing that he'd thought of an easier question for an inebriated version of you.

The group had shooed you both out of the game upon seeing your state, though Astarion didn't mind. He'd much rather leave the lot of them and tease you by himself.

Once you were alone, you answered his question. That he, Astarion, was your favorite and for all manner of incredulous, unbelievable reasons. He’d expected you to say him. He’d asked to hear your praise, confirm your attachment in the name of his plan to seduce you. All the same he was left uncomfortable, juggling the sudden and unabashed flattery. Being praised for his looks was one thing but for being… himself?

The feeling in his stomach grew. Suddenly his lungs felt it, his undead heart felt it. What in the sweet hells is the matter with me? he thought, as he helped lay your drunken, passed out form to bed later that night. He hadn’t felt a sensation like this before– he hated it. 

Then you reached out to him in your sleep, and he froze. Something about the touch quietened the pain under his ribs, and so he extended his fingers, gently touching your brow as you fell asleep. See? I’m fine, he assured himself. I truly am just ravenous.

__

He continued this way for several days in the Shadowcursed lands.

One moment, he was perfectly fine, hacking and slashing at a Shambling Mound with abandon. The next, he would look over at you, see you laughing at something Karlach said, and it felt like an iron ingot had made its way into his insides.

Damned tiefling woman. I’m far funnier than her, you know, he thinks, resheathing his knives with a little too much gusto. The sound of your laughter rang in his head for the rest of the evening, as if he were being driven to insanity by it.

The next day, you had fought a horde of Meazels. At first, Astarion thought the fight was delightful fun– the tiefling woman and the cleric kept getting teleported against their will and after his recent annoyance with both of them, he found it quite amusing. That is, until you found yourself garrotted, teleported as far away from him as possible.

He was on you in mere moments, ripping the creature off of you with his blades. It was almost as if he’d reacted instinctively and, as someone whose instincts typically led him away from danger, he found the sensation quite off-putting. Nevertheless, he'd freed you, asking, “Are you alright, darling?”

Astarion couldn’t remember what you’d even said because once he saw the marks the creatures left on you, the pit in his stomach dropped. Where there had been a heavy pressure before, there was now a sharp feeling. His eyes carefully trailed over your injuries, trying his best to focus on you and not the phantom pain building inside him.

You had been fine, nothing that a quick heal from Shadowheart couldn’t fix, but that feeling stayed in his stomach the rest of the day. It’s simply the Shadowlands, he'd thought. They not only play tricks on the mind, clearly they’re playing tricks on my body.

It was a few days later, as you helped the Harper’s deal with their lantern problem that the sensation shifted again.

Astarion watched, eyes glued to your form, as you dispatched the hideous drider, your twin blades piercing the creature in its most vulnerable spots. He’d seen you kill many monsters before, hundreds likely at this point. But something about the way your body moved in the Moonlantern’s glow, the way your face lit up as the creature’s body crumpled to the floor, caused the vampire to stop and watch.

This time, he’d felt the heavy sensation move up, somewhere just below his throat. He tried against all odds to gulp it away, but nothing seemed to work. We need to finish our business here and get out as soon as possible, he thought now, convinced it was the shadows warping his senses…

But as your travel continues, the feelings never go away. 

It’s a different pressure, it builds, it ebbs, it flows between his heart, his stomach, his torso– and each time he brushes it off. Stewing in these uncomfortable feelings, Astarion spends the week in a hazy mire, not unlike the shadows that surround you all.

Then your group finally infiltrates Moonrise.

__

Moonrise Towers, the seat of the Absolute and a once grand fortress. 

Now, Astarion can’t help but think it seems rather underutilized. Your group is walking along the empty parapets outside, which are woefully missing any sense of grandeur or ornamentation. “Darling,” he says, leaning into you slightly. “Don’t you think we ought to just kill everyone now and take the place for ourselves. Might be quite fun.”

You bark out a laugh, which he feels proud to have produced, and reply, “Maybe later. This is an infiltration mission only. Besides, once we defeat the Absolute, I’m sure there will be a vacancy.”

Astarion laughs back at you. Gods, he enjoys this. The way that he can say something that others would balk at and you will miraculously not only appreciate it, but also play along with it. Having fun with them is so easy, he thinks. And look, I’m still wearing all of my clothes! What a novel idea.

The thought is cut short when your group walks through an outside doorway into a room that can only be described as grotesque. Whoever works here clearly has some knowledge of arcana, if the ingredients and alchemical tools are anything to go by, but it smells utterly foul to Astarion.

It’s when you spot the drow woman hunched over a table in the corner that he realizes where the stench is coming from. Hells below, that woman reeks of something truly awful, he thinks, recoiling. He’d grown used to following behind you closely, but as you step forward to speak to the woman, he finds himself taking a step back instead.

The woman introduces herself as Araj Oblodra, a trader of blood– a rather poor trader, by the smell of it. She takes note of Astarion, who shuffles back instinctively, before you and her go about some kind of business with your blood. Astarion contemplates speaking up, shooing you away from her, but decides to stay back, as far away as he can remain without arousing suspicion. They can handle themselves.

Then, after the woman looks back toward him one too many times, he hears you snap, “And why are you so interested in my pale friend?” 

“Ah, yes. Perhaps there’s one more thing we could discuss,” she begins, her voice a dangerous drawl. “He’s a vampire, no? Or one of their spawn at least.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Astarion says, all-too-ready to fill his role. “We’re all friends under the Absolute. I won’t bite.”

“Oh, I’d prefer if you did,” she’s quick to respond. Her eagerness picks at Astarion’s nerves, and he raises an eyebrow at her. Araj doesn’t deign to give him another moment’s look though, as she turns back to you. “I assume he belongs to you?”

“Excuse me?” Your voice sounds offended– on his behalf, Astarion wonders? “He’s his own person.” Your words cause the feeling in Astarion’s stomach to flip, and, as much as he wants to come to his own defense, he finds himself quite content to hear you do it for him.

“I’m sure he really believes that. How utterly adorable,” she says with a snide chuckle. 

Adorable? he thinks, but he’s unable to interject before the woman continues to barrel forward.

The blood trader turns back to Astarion, face wrinkled with distaste as her tone changes to something a bit more confrontational, “Do you have a name, spawn?”

Her sudden shift in attitude, the proud tilt to her head, it all throws the vampire off balance as he goes to answer, “Astarion, b-but hold on!” Astarion holds up a hand to try to slow this woman’s tirade, all to no avail.

“Good. Now, Astarion, I’ve dreamt of being bitten by a vampire since I was a young girl,” Araj begins, laying out the scene for her request.

Too bad that the scene sounds quite ridiculous to Astarion. Surely he heard her incorrectly? “I’m sorry, you want to be bitten?”

The woman goes on a new insane diatribe– something about dancing with death– but Astarion can hardly be bothered. All he needs to know is that she’s offering some measly potion for being bitten and, gods, does he not want to bite this woman’s disgusting neck. Or wrist. Or really any part of her. “I will have to decline,” he says, with a gracious little bow. Your group is still infiltrating the towers, it wouldn’t do to tell Araj exactly how horrid she smells.

It’s entirely more grace than she deserved, that much is clear because she presses him again. Again, he refuses. “I gave you my answer.”

The drow scoffs, turning back to you once more, “Can’t you talk some sense into your obstinate charge?”

You, for your part, look confused. There’s a line of concern in your forehead as you look between the woman and Astarion, wondering what it is that you’re missing. “I’m surprised, Astarion. I thought you’d enjoy an opportunity like this.”

What?! he thinks, a sudden, sharp spike of anger shooting through him. He tempers his immediate rage and speaks to Araj with that same, false pleasantry she doesn’t deserve, “I’m sorry, but could you excuse us a moment?”

Astarion, not waiting for her response, pulls you aside, away from the drow’s nosy eyes and ears. Once you’re alone, he turns to you, his voice a hiss, “Are you actually asking me to do this? Trading me for some-some-some potion?”

“What’s the matter? Why would she be different from any other enemy?” you ask, leaning toward him.

Your voice is full of genuine worry, and some of his anger abates as he meets your eyes. Of course, they don’t know what they’re asking. How could they know? “Because there’s something wrong with her blood. I can smell it from here. Ugh, it’s rank.”

Now your brows furrow, and a sharp edge enters your eyes as you ask your next question, “What do you mean? What’s wrong with her blood?”

“I can’t say. It just smells… wrong. Unnatural.” His words sound pathetic to his own ears. 

Of course that’s not an excuse, Astarion laments. What am I even thinking? The potion is clearly useful. They are going to make me do this, and I may as well prepare myself. I’ve put up with worse after all.

So, he stands straight once more, ready to put on the performance of a lifetime. His tone takes on a resigned tone as he continues, “Drinking it wouldn’t kill me, but it would not be pleasant.”

You both hear a sigh from behind you. “I don’t have all day, True Soul,” Araj calls, impatiently.

Your eyes remain focused entirely on him, ignoring the woman’s irritated sigh, her entitled words. “Astarion,” you begin, and he takes a breath in preparation for your other foot to drop. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to do. And if she refuses to take no for an answer again, we’ll simply have to start our assault on the towers a bit early.”

The breath leaves him.

"Alright. Uh, thank you,” he says, feeling the tension drop from his shoulders. He’d been prepared to acquiesce, to do exactly what you’d asked of him. But this? This is something he hadn’t been prepared for. 

In a daze, Astarion makes his way back to Araj, putting on as polite of a facade as he’s still capable of making, “It's still a ‘no’, I’m afraid.”

“How very disappointing,” the blood trader says, shooting you both a disgusted look. She turns away in a huff, leaving your group alone to recover from the exchange. And leaving Astarion floundering in another new sensation.

Because once more, the feeling in the pit of his stomach has reared its ugly head– only this time it shoots through him like a bolt of lightning. He's not sure what it is, but it's stunned him into slipping off his carefully crafted mask. He turns to you once more, voice soft around its usual edges, "Thank you. I… appreciated that.”

"You have no need to thank me. It was always your choice, Astarion."

Huh.

The feeling sinks into him, settling deeper and deeper as you continue through Moonrise.

__

That night, you go to bed in your own bedroll, leaving Astarion to his meditations with a smile and a wave. It has been a long day for all of you, and it's clear from the way you take a glance back that you're worried about him.

Gods, he's worried about him.

After dealing with that vile drow woman, you'd all continued about the tower, ingratiating yourselves with even the most repugnant of creatures to appear faithful to the Absolute. But Astarion paid attention to almost none of it.

He'd stabbed when you told him it was time to stab, he'd joined your side when you called him to you, but his mind had been wholly preoccupied.

They didn't make me do it, he'd thought, as he unlocked some chest.

Well, isn't this exactly what I wanted? he'd thought, following you down some stairs.

Clearly they just fell for my charms, my masterful seduction, he'd thought, flanking a prison guard for you.

So why do I feel like this? he'd thought, staring at your back as you led the way before him.

Now, he lays here in his tent, staring at the fold of its ceiling in a rapt fascination he doesn't feel. The feeling in his stomach has stayed all day, tethering him to his thoughts with its continuous pressure.

When did I get to the point where I would follow them anywhere? Is their lack of self-preservation contagious? he asks himself, eyes narrowing in frustration. I shouldn't have gone into that horrendous tower in the first place. Then I wouldn't feel like this.

But he had.

And you'd not forced him to do so.

You'd not forced him to do anything.

They're a fool, an utter fool. I could have bitten that drow, as easy as breathing, he thinks, rolling his eyes at the thought. Close your eyes and push through, that's what I always say.

But did you want to? something in the back of his mind asks. 

Of course not, but when has what I wanted ever mattered– 

It may not have mattered under Cazador's grip, but it has always mattered to you. You're nothing like that evil man. You'd always been there for him, had managed to find trust in your heart for him, and had been genuinely kind to him.

The now-familiar feeling in his stomach seems to spread to the rest of his body, a warmth that doesn't quite feel warm. It bleeds all the way to his face and his lips curl up into an involuntary smile at the thought of you.

You– you, who had only ever been meant to play a bit role in the tragedy that is Astarion’s life. You, who had transcended your part, leaving Astarion contemplating every aspect of you in the stark solitude of his tent. 

Your beauty when you're covered in blood after a battle, the mischievous glint in your eye when you're teaching a child a sleight of hand trick– even when anger pulls your brows together and you're yelling at him for saying something particularly naughty. Each and every one makes his smile grow wider.

You, his chosen protector, are so much more than just that.

They are incredible. The thought comes to him unprompted, truly as easy as breathing.

His eyes widen in alarm, staring blankly at the tent above him.

The feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t an illness. Nor was it hunger. No. It was guilt. It was jealousy. It was…

Oh fuck, Astarion curses to himself. Am I in love?

Now that he has a word to the sensation, that the feeling is in his grasp, he knows he's right. He doesn't have a lot of experience with love, if any– he'd never had the luxury under Cazador's cruel gaze and he can't recall much from before that– but he knows he's right.

And hells does he wish he could crush the feeling in his hands right here and now.

Gods, you complete and utter imbecile, he thinks, hitting his head against the floor. You have things to do, goals to accomplish. They were only supposed to be a means to those goals, not a – a–

Astarion’s mind blanks as he thinks of you again, your charm, your wit, your damnable caring.

Not a companion. Not a friend. Not a lover. When did those late night trysts turn from an obligation, a part of his simple, perfect plan, into something more?

Even now, as he thinks of those nights, he brings a hand to his lips, recalling a night where you had simply stayed in his bedroll. You had kept all of your clothes on, as had he, and simply held each other as you fell asleep. Their kiss that night was delectable, he recalls, tracing the line of his lips, as if he could still feel the ghost of yours on them.

Fuck, he thinks again, dropping his hand in frustration. How could I have been so blind? How did I not nip this in the bud before it got to this disgusting pining?

But he hasn’t nipped it in the bud. The feeling has grown, unfettered, quick as a druidic plant growth, all unbeknownst to him. It has been nurtured by your attention. It has been watered by your kindness. It has become unruly in the safety of your arms.

Now what? he thinks to himself bitterly, wiping a hand across his face with a sigh. What use are these feelings when everything they were built upon is a lie? You are, after all, still playing the role he set out for you.

He considers overlooking the feelings, just as he has inadvertently done in his ignorance. It wouldn’t be of any use to tell you, of course. You could hardly feel the same way about him as he does you, and he’d rather not add another nuisance in the fight against the Absolute.

Besides, if he told you, he would have to fess up, explain his entire plan to you. What would even be left of the two of you after that?

But, he thinks to himself. Let’s say I did tell them. What could they possibly say…

“I was pretending all along too.” – gods, that would break him. That much is all too apparent from the way his undead heart aches at the thought, with a pain he couldn’t possibly feel.

“I like you, but not like that.” – maybe this was worse. Actually, it was definitely worse. He may never recover. His ego would certainly never recover.

“I have someone else that I love.” – honestly, reasonable. What did he have to offer you after all? A bloodthirsty master and the occasional snarky comment? He wouldn’t be surprised to find you in Karlach’s tent at this very moment…

“I hate you.” – he might be able to take this the best. You should hate him. He’d done nothing but lie and manipulate his way into your bedroll. Hate, well, that he understood.

“I love you, but…” – every single 'but' cut like a different, jagged blade. But we’re in danger every day? An excuse, surely. But you come with too much baggage? True, but not something he would be able to resolve. But I don’t want to be with a monster? Again, reasonable, but out of his control.

Astarion runs through scenario after scenario, each one playing with his own emotions in a new and horrendous way. In the end, he all but slaps himself out of it.

No, I cannot tell them. I absolutely must take this to my second grave, he determines, shaking the thoughts away with a few hard blinks.

But the feeling in his chest is more persistent than ever. As if giving it a name and meaning has given it a new, annoying life. He laments to himself aloud, "I may never feel like myself again.”

If this is what love does to a person, he wants no part of it.

__

The vampire didn't have a restful night's reverie, that much is apparent. His mood is foul, his body tense, and his eyes are trying their damnedest to avoid yours. 

No way, he thinks as you all set off for the day. I spun myself into a frenzy last night. Clearly. I feel absolutely nothing–

Then you turn back to him, concern lining your eyes as you address him. What had you just said? He had found himself somehow lost in your eyes, your lips, the turn of your nose… 

Shit, he thinks to himself. No, get back in control. You have only just reclaimed yourself, you can't lose yourself to something as cruel as love.

But, try as he might, his eyes can’t avoid you. 

All morning, he continues to sneak glances your way. Despite his roguish nature, he finds hiding his stares to be impossible. After all, you are the group’s leader. You are at the front, you are at his side, gods, you are everywhere. This feels like some kind of divine punishment…

You catch him looking, of course. And each time, he curses himself, gods, you idiot. You may as well broadcast your feelings to the world. And hells, how long have you felt this way?

Astarion tries futilely to act normal. This is just another day with the group in the Shadowlands. He’s not thinking about holding your hand in his. He’s not thinking about the way you look when you sleep. And, above all else, he is not thinking of your lips or the way that they move when you say his name.

Despite his inner turmoil, the world moves on. You lead the group through the Mason’s Guild, and you all manage to clear the place out easily enough.

The vampire thinks he’s finally reaching some sort of peace. Yes, this routine work he can do. No problem at all.

Then, you say something kind to Karlach, that infernally charming woman, who continues to support you at your side. Who, for all intents and purposes, should be the person who warms your bedroll at night, now that you can touch her. Not him, the man who can only make your bedroll colder. Who, even now, is avoiding your every glance.

Oh hells, he thinks, face dropping. The realization that he’s right is too much for him to bear.

Astarion stalks off, annoyed at himself and his thoughts, needing a moment to recollect himself. I can do this, he thinks. I can do this. I can–

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath once he knows he’s alone. “You’re supposed to get over this, you stupid fool. Shit. Gods dammit.”

He hears your familiar footfalls approaching and freezes, his shoulders tense with anticipation.

You find him in a pool of shadows away from the others, and he can’t help but feel like a beast that’s been cornered. He’s certain his face reflects that, reflects every bit of emotion he’s feeling as plain as could be, but your patience with him has apparently worn thin for the day. Your voice is less kind than usual when you say, “Do you need to talk?”

Seeing the anger in your face, the way that your hands are placed on your hips in annoyance, he knows he can’t keep his feelings to himself. He’ll only continue to push you away, into the strong, red arms of another.

No, he thinks, in a panic. I should– I need to–

He needs to do something about his feelings, unwanted or not. Really, he needs to tell you, regardless of what your response may be. If not, he may regret it for the rest of his undying life.

Now that he is in control of his own choices, he supposes that means all of them, for better or worse. That means even the most difficult ones. This is one of those difficult ones, isn’t it?

So Astarion swallows his pride, his anxieties, his insecurities, and settles his fate.

“Later,” he says, barely getting the words out. He blinks, and tries again, pleading with you with his eyes, “Please, just come by my tent later.”

Later, I will tell them. Everything.

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[scarredwithcruelintentions]

chapter 6: ruination and regret

Find the master list here!

CW: Too many feels, emotional manipulation and allusion to past trauma.

W/C: 3,890

A/N: Thank you for all of your likes, comments and reblogs! They make my day! Enjoy!

The day had been harrowing to say the least. The whole party had ventured out together to take on the goblin encampment, and had they not all set forth, he was sure none who had would’ve made it back. He could only remember bits and pieces of the mission, so wracked with nerves and adrenaline as he was. 

He remembered his awe at the skillful, deceptive manner in which you’d talked your way into the raid celebration; the searing pain in his skull and the voice of the ‘Absolute’ commanding abeyance at the bridge to entry before the little contraption Shadowheart carried around silenced it once again. 

He remembered saving the ridiculous and terrible bard’s hide. He’d disagreed with your motion to help the idiot, but had ultimately been outvoted. Some case you’d made about ‘kindred spirits’, or the likes, had garnered enough sympathy from the rest to warrant standing idly by as you picked a fight with an ogre. He’d never admit it, but the rush of the ensuing fight had made saving the silly little man worthwhile. 

He remembered a sense of pride at watching you command authority over the goblins guarding the temple doors, once again talking yourself into a place you didn’t belong, though the goblins were none the wiser. He remembered the way you’d expertly manipulated the priestess into giving you a private audience, and then ran your sword clean through her in her own chapel.

You’d had far less propriety with the drow, something fierce and dangerous sparking behind your eyes at the sight of her. You’d simply walked up, blade in hand, and brought your arm down in a swift and brutal arc over her front. Despite your surprise attack, she was not as easily felled as the priestess, and your stunt had earned the group another raging fight over your insolence. He’d found himself preoccupied by you throughout, fighting without finesse as he bore witness to the formidably masterful way you wove your magical artistry alongside your weapon attacks to create a devastating and beautiful offensive assault. 

He remembered the distractingly delicious smell of your blood on the air, too absorbed in the warm comfort it brought him to notice the way your strikes had gone sloppy, your dodges glacially slow by comparison, as the group engaged the final horde. 

He remembered the falling curve of the hobgoblin leader’s war hammer, as if in slow motion, and the sickening crunch of your skull echoing in the sudden and vast emptiness of his mind. 

He remembered watching helplessly, transfixed in horror, as you crumpled to the sticky cobblestone of the temple floor, the fragrant essence of your life force that he’d come to know so intimately spilling in a hapless and rapidly spreading pool around you.

He remembered the deafening roar of shocked silence at the sight of you, so small and vulnerable at the monster’s feet, your beautiful countenance dulled by the pallor of death.

He remembered registering the piercing sound of a feral scream, remembered being spurred into action by it. Remembered the fury and the fear that pushed him to take life indiscriminately, reveling in the gratuitous bloodshed at his hands as he brutalized a path to your limp form. Remembered slaying all who came near with reckless abandon, almost taking Shadowheart out when she made to cast a healing incantation on you. 

Remembered thrashing against the excruciating heat of Karlach’s arms as she hauled him backwards, intent upon fighting his way back to your side no matter the cost. The placating gestures of his other companions as he rushed to hold your slight frame, platitudes of ‘It’s over’ and ‘Let us help’ bouncing off the wall of his despair as he hissed at them to keep their distance. The poorly hidden grim expression drawing Shadowheart’s face into gaunt severity as she assessed the state of you from afar, any attempt she made to come nearer met with his rabid hostility.

The feel of Lae’zel’s swordpoint at his nape and Karlach’s burning hands fisted in his doublet as he was dragged away mercilessly, the shrill and penetrating sound of mourning ringing in his ears.

It was not until much later - long after you’d been revived and the last embers of the celebratory bonfire had guttered out - that Astarion realized the tortured wail he’d heard as he was wrenched from your motionless, cold body was that of his own. The lack of your warmth to guide and protect him, however fleeting, turned out to be an agony far more unfathomable than that of his plan’s ruination. ______________________________________________________________

Despite Shadowheart’s use of the Revivify incantation, your wounds continued to pain you and your skin had a sickly dullness to it that rivaled that of a plague infected pauper. He was more than sure that even his mortal counterparts could hear the stressed whistle of your breath past your lips as the party trudged in the direction of the Grove. Everyone continued to glance worriedly at you as you winced and gritted your teeth through the pain of movement. For your part, you continued to refuse any offers of helping hands, pride making you stubborn.

Astarion would have found it amusing had he not found it disconcerting. You’d done so much for all of them, himself included, but could not accept help for yourself. It pointed to a deeper, more traumatic motivation than he was comfortable putting his finger on. He chose to remain quiet instead, eyeing you carefully should your ability to continue onward falter.

When it inevitably did, he was at your side in an instant, beating even the hulking Elven druid in his wide and sweeping reflexive strides. He did not even have the wherewithal to chuckle to himself at the many disappointed expressions on the surrounding faces. You were his only concern, and he could smell the fatigue in what little blood had been restored to you. Ignoring your weak protests, he swept you into his arms with the strength of a man ten times his size and carried you the rest of the way to the Grove, warmth spreading from his chest when he recognized the evening out of your fitful, waking breaths into those of dreamless sleep.

Back at the Grove and with access to all of his magical medicinals, Halsin, Nettie and Shadowheart worked in tandem to restore your battle weary body to full health. It took quite some skill and patience, but it was managed, and he watched your expression with keen eyes, looking for any hidden signs of discomfort. Finding none, Astarion breathed an inaudible sigh of relief, feeling as though a heavy burden of sorrow had been lifted from him.

After some discussion with Halsin and the retrieval of the group’s reward, you sought out Zevlor to convey the news of the goblin leaders’ demise. It appeared, however, that the whole of the Grove already knew, as the tieflings were gathered en masse just inside the gate, hugging and shouting and laughing with their relief. The exiled Hellrider held out a meager coin purse, which you turned down vehemently. 

Were he sure it would not reflect badly upon his character to reach out and take it in your stead, he might have done so. As it stood, Astarion ruefully averted his gaze from the little bag, jaw muscles working to hold his snide remarks safely behind his teeth. Just as he thought that things could get no worse, the tiefling leader suggested he and the others put on a celebration that night at camp.

Backwards as it was, you accepted the invitation graciously, though he could see a wariness hidden behind the warmth of your gaze. He was proud to have managed not more than a tired sigh at the refugee’s overzealous gratitude, eyes nigh on rolling out of their sockets as a chaste kiss was placed on the backs of your bloody knuckles. And he thought his own actions insultingly obsequious. 

With a tiefling entourage, you led the group of exhausted adventurers out of the Grove gate and the short distance back to the campgrounds that he’d come to find some comfort of familiarity in, even with its lack of lavish accommodation. Had Astarion been a more sentimental man, he might even consider the little stretch of land to be home. He tried not to think too hard about the implications of that errant musing.

Once at camp, the tieflings began to set up for the impromptu celebration while the intrepid adventurers washed and rested. More than anything, he wanted to fall into the dreamless trance of his meditative state, but the ruckus of the tieflings made any real rest all but impossible. His mind wandered to you, those icy tendrils of dread constricting his chest for a moment at the memory of your death. He resigned to sit just in the mouth of his tent, eyes trained on your bloodied form as you darted from one guest to the next, providing help where it was needed.

Somewhere in the recesses of his mind’s eye, the fear of your demise continued to dog him, and the small voice in his head that demanded he solidify his importance to you reminded him of his ill-conceived notion of seducing you. It persuaded him to move forward with the next phase this evening, a feeling of wary excitement washing over him at the thought. As though reading his depraved mentation, your eyes found his in that moment, and you flashed him a tired but sweet smile. He felt a small smile grace his face in return, and he nodded his head in acknowledgment. Satisfied, you turned back to your task.

He supposed he ought to make his way over to the druid to have his wounds seen to. He heaved a sigh and stood with some effort, eyes continuing to track your petite form as you disappeared into your tent. He watched you emerge with a bundle of cloth in your arms, smelling the fragrant soap you loved so much. A flare of arousal shot through him, his mind wandering to the night he’d caught you bathing. 

His stomach lurched at the memory, though with desire or disgust, he couldn’t tell. He reached the elf just as you bid the camp a temporary farewell and strode away to wash. It had been a long day indeed, and he lamented at the continued slow stretch of time before he would be able to set to his task. ______________________________________________________________

Afternoon turned to dusk, and dusk to dark as the camp roared to life with celebration. The tieflings and his companions alike made merry together, dancing and singing and drinking with reckless abandon. He thought it silly, knowing the grueling journey still to come. So much death and loss, and still the little mortals found reason to be joyous. He presumed that this was what mortals figured they must do, celebrate whatever it was they were afforded, as their lives were fleeting in the grand web of the cosmos. He loathed their naivety, loathed his wisdom and knowing of life’s many pains. 

Loathed just how shattered his perception of humanity had become.

He sipped gingerly at the terrible wine provided as he held back from the crowd, gaze following you as you flitted about the camp, taking stock of all there and thanking them for the lively party. He heard all of the honeyed words spoken to you, a twist of disdain marring the lines of his face. It seemed he had more competition for your hand than he’d thought; even the tieflings made their passes, hoping to grace your bedroll that night in thanks. 

You politely declined every advance, much to his relief, and continued your rounds about the guests. He listened in on your low conversation with Zevlor, his voice heavy and pained with loss. He watched your small hands grasp the Hellrider’s, much the same as you’d held his not so long ago, and that tumultuous green monster in his gut forced an unbidden low growl from his throat. Thankfully, he was too far from the action for anyone to discern his ire. The tiefling leader merely expressed his gratitude for your assistance and strode away.

His gaze followed you to Alfira, listening contentedly to the peals of your laughter like so many tinkling feywild bells as she suggested writing a ballad of your heroics. You sat with her, cradling your lyre like a newborn, and played bawdy tunes of frivolity and bliss. A growing crowd gathered to listen, singing along where the words were known and listening intently where they were not. He found himself gravitating towards the fray, some invisible pull drawing him to be nearer to you.

He stopped just at the edge of it and stood quietly by Shadowheart, who eyed him with a knowing smirk. He scowled at her, snickering when she rolled her eyes and took a sip of her wine.

“Something catch your eye, leech?” she drawled.

“Only all of the foolish food laid before me, blood rife with drunkenness and unwarranted gaiety,” he quipped back.

“Naturally. While more cheerful than I’d prefer, loss is indeed a thing to be celebrated. The Dark Lady graces us this day,” she nodded. 

Astarion held his tongue, a biting retort just at the tip of it.

Shadowheart sighed into his silence, continuing, “Any plans to take a bed partner tonight?” 

She turned to look at him fully, brows raised in a quizzical expression. He moved to mirror her, face betraying nothing more than amusement.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, my darling Cleric,” he chuckled.

Shadowheart’s expression softened uncharacteristically, her voice lowering to match, “I see the way you look at her. It’s the same as we all do. There is much to be admired there.”

He nearly spluttered, so taken aback by her sudden change in countenance.

“I suppose there is,” was all he said in response. With that, the conversation ended.

He turned his attention back to you, noting the lull in the music, and piped up from his place at the back of the crowd.

“Would you be so kind as to grace us with The Lament for That Which Is Lost, my dear? I believe all of this whimsy is in need of tempering.”

Your eyes snapped to him, a question held in your now-somber gaze. He nodded imperceptibly and watched as your shoulders sagged with the weight of reality. You looked to Alfira, who shook her head with a perplexed tilt to her brows. You heaved a great sigh, and he could smell the inquisitive trepidation floating along the breeze as you began to pluck your sorry tune.

He closed his eyes, the smell of sadness heavy in the air, and hummed along with your lovely voice. He could hear the start of quiet sobs and sniffles from all those before him and felt a sudden pang of guilt at ruining their moment of jubilation. Worst of all, he could smell the agony and unease pouring from you, fragrance more poignant than the rest. Though your voice did not waver once, he could tell from your choked breaths that tears flowed freely from you.

As the song came to a close, he opened his eyes and looked around. All of the tiefling guests held each other close, exhaling their grief into the surrounding atmosphere. He saw Alfira lean forward to hug you, and you melted into her arms, shoulders slumped and shaking with your sorrow. Even Shadowheart dashed tears from her eyes.

“That was beautiful,” Alfira marveled, her own eyes glassy and dripping. “Would you teach me sometime?”

“Of course, my dear friend,” you responded with a watery laugh. You then turned to address the group.

“While it is pertinent to remember all that has been sacrificed for this victory, tonight is a night of celebration. We should never forget the cost of what it took to get here - I’m not sure any of us even can - but we must remember ourselves. Even in the face of loss, we have held onto the strength to carry forward in their memory, just as they would want us to. Now, I bid you go enjoy yourselves. Eat, drink and be merry, just as they would, were they here to join us.”

With a hearty cheer, the party returned to its former resplendence, though not without a small amount more solemnity. He attempted to slink away, unprepared for your disdain in the face of his actions. He was once again reminded of just how little of his autonomy he’d held as Cazador’s spawn - his slave - and just how much he did not belong among this rag-tag group of do-gooders. 

“If it was my attention you wanted, you could have just asked,” you quipped from behind him. He could feel your scrutinizing gaze as his shoulders slumped infinitesimally lower in dejected self pity.

He turned to face you, chewing his words carefully before responding.

“This sort of revelry is a bit garish, don’t you think?” he asked, trying to salvage whatever dignity he might still hold in your eyes.

“Not at all. A hard battle was won, and this lot can finally move onward with their lives. Build homes, families. Learn to be grateful, to love living again.”

Your gaze penetrated the very depths of his soul, and he feared what you might find there. Was it just as much a bottomless, dark void as he thought it to be? He felt the swelling tide of panic clawing at his insides, and fought to keep his grip on the reality of the moment. Logic told him you could see no more of him than he of you, and he could not feel the tadpole squirming behind his eye, nor the telltale fuzziness of thought detection magic. Those truths lent him the strength to maintain his composure.

“Besides,” you added, a curious tilt to your head, “I don’t believe you’d think that for a moment. When have you ever been one to turn down a little revelry over bloodshed?”

A wave of icy fear nearly consumed him at your accusatory words - until he caught the uptick of a smirk on your lips. He breathed an inaudible sigh of relief, widening smile gracing his own face.

“Truthfully, I never pictured myself as a hero. Never thought I’d be the one they’d toast for saving so many lives. And now that I’m here…”

You raised a quizzical brow as he swigged the sour wine.

“I hate it. This is awful!”

The bark of your surprised laughter was worth his flippant antics. Your smirk had turned into a wry grin, no doubt mirroring his own.

“You’re terrible, Astarion,” you giggled. “Is it truly so bad? Think of all the goblins you killed! Surely that must count for something!”

You hid your snickering behind your hand, and his expression softened some, finding joy in making you laugh.

“True enough, I suppose. That was fun! Still, I would have liked more for my trouble than a pat on the head and vinegar for wine,” he sniffed playfully, barely containing his own giggles.

“Give me that, you bloody scoundrel,” you chuckled, snatching the wine from his grasp. Your fingers grazed his as you clasped the neck of the bottle, and he watched a slight shiver run through you as you brought the mouth of it to your lips, taking a great gulp. He watched the line of your throat bob with each swallow, spilled rivulets running from the corners of your mouth and down the exposed column of flesh. 

He licked his lips unconsciously, the movement reflexive as he trained his gaze on the translucent trails of redness disappearing into the bosom of your dress, stains blooming along the neckline…how he wished he could follow them with his tongue and leave a different dribble of red in their wake.

He was broken from his reverie by your heaving gasp, having finally broken your mockery of a kiss.

“Have you no taste, dear Star? A full-bodied, dry red. I would’ve thought you’d like anything of the sort,” you smirked at him, still panting with breathlessness. Your eyes had glazed some with the haziness of the alcohol swirling in your blood. He wondered briefly if you would taste different while soused - and then caught the heavy-lidded heat in your eyes, your words registering as bold flirtation, as bold as you’d been with him.

Now is my chance.

“I have plenty of taste, darling. I’ve been eating you, after all,” he purred. His sly grin only widened as your cheeks heated further, desire chasing the warmth of the wine in your system.

“All I want is a little fun. Is that so much to ask?” he continued, intonation rich and low, enticing you to draw closer in order to hear his words.

“Knowing you?” you giggled, “Most likely.”

“Come now, don’t be so sour,” he tutted, “I like a good time as much as anyone.”

His voice had become more vibration than sound, the gravel of it surprising even him. That disorienting fire had ignited low in his belly, and he found himself almost eager to ask you to lie with him.

“You know,” he murmured, “we could always make our own entertainment, darling. Get a little…closer, so to speak.”

As if heeding his own words, he drifted ever nearer to you, reaching out to take the half-empty wine bottle from your grasp. His fingers purposely brushed over yours, and he reveled in the shudder that wracked through you, a small noise catching in your throat. He bit back at the groan that threatened to bubble up from his own.

“Maybe…” you breathed. After a brief pause of thought, you added, “If you say ‘please’.”

“What?” 

He could not hide his shock at your request, your eyes unwavering in their seriousness despite your stifled giggle. He steeled himself, the sound of your laughter lending him the courage to proceed.

“Please,” he whispered.

A flash of surprise etched its way across your features, followed by an almost imperceptible tightening of your jaw and hardening of your gaze. You held yourself rigidly, hardly daring to breathe against whatever onslaught of discomfort had overcome you.

“While a most tempting offer, I’m afraid I must decline.”

Though you continued to smile pleasantly at him, there was a hollowness to it that had not been present before. He faltered momentarily, perplexed by your response and unsure of what to do next. Should he press you? The thought left him dizzy with abhorrence.

Recovering himself, he gave you a stiff and shallow bow.

“As you wish, my sweet. The offer stands, should you change your mind.”

“I’ll remember that,” you said, voice devoid of the fondness you’d so openly displayed just moments before.

With that, you spun on your heel and traipsed away, bidding everyone a good night and disappearing into your tent.

Astarion was rooted to the spot as he watched your retreating form, dumbstruck by your sudden change in demeanor and swift exit from the conversation. The camp had begun to quiet as the darkness of night deepened, the growing number of visible stars telling of the late hour. He gazed morosely into the dying embers of the once roaring bonfire, wondering just where he’d gone wrong.

#bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion #tav #shadowheart #karlach #lae'zel #halsin #astarion pov #vampire spawn astarion #unnamed tav #no use of y/n #afab tav #bard tav #soft astarion #astarion is bad at feelings #astarion needs a hug #angst #emotional manipulation #past trauma #fluff #slow burn #au canon divergence

[eff-plays]

"Astarion is actually so masculine and wants to protect and provide for Tav! He's actually really strong physically and can throw Tav around! And also he's always on top so he's clearly masculine! And him being with women means he gets an extra special vampire treat ;)"

"Astarion is such a bratty effeminate twink who complains about his nails and cares too much about his appearance! His voice and movements are sooo campy! I simply can't imagine him with a woman, he's sooo gay-coded, he's simply made to be a bratty bottom."

#bg3 #bg3 fandom critical #astarion #the cisgenders are at it again everybody #stay safe out there!!!! #posts that will get me executed by firing squad #anyway. if this is how some of y'all approach irl people's gender expression then i feel bad for all ur trans and/or enby friends #cuz jesus christ

[malacandrax]

a little close up!

#I imagine Halsin is reluctant to pursue his feelings because it wouldn't be proper...but he's got it bad #and astarion knows it #I love all the fics with this dynamic #kills me every time

[doomingthenarrative]

all the baldur’s gate 3 companion storylines. is just loving someone enough to break them free from the cycle. understanding that what they think they want isn’t good for them. valuing their character more than their power.

#minthara literally says ‘shadowheart becoming a dark justiciar would be good for us but bad for her’ #if you choose not to ascend astarion he thanks you for saving him from the same hunger for power that trapped cazador #lae’zel realizes that she was raised to die and bring her queen to higher power #karlach has a fuckign. bomb in her chest. and she wants to die with it #wyll is constantly sacrificing himself for the good of the city and his father #and gale only wants the power to become a god so that he may never be hurt by one again #‘did you love me enough to save me from myself’core fr #i feel so bad for all of them #idk im just Thinking #baldur's gate 3 #saiph speaks #bg3

[lycazart]

Did I not serve you well?

#karniss #bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #art #fanart #bg3 art #baldurs gate fanart #i feel so bad for him #this is messier than usual since one i need to go to bed and two ive not used my cintiq to draw in literal years!!! #i redecorated impulsively today waiting for astarions boots to turn up in the mail and now i can actually fit my cintiq with my setup lol #also sadly a load of my fav csp brushes have been deleted so im making do w what i could get!!!! #my art