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oomfvia · 5 months

Text

⛧critical failure

pairing: astarion/gender-neutral bard tav, astarion/gender-neutral bard reader (second person)

spoilers for act 3

sfw, friends to lovers :)

2,547 words

posted this on ao3, liked it and thought it'd be nice to put on here too after fixing some typoes

preview:

“You know,” Astarion says, a singsong tone to the disapproval in his voice. “Was this really the best use of your gold, my dear?” He tilts his head in that way you’ve previously found handsome, but now it’s terribly infuriating.

It takes all the willpower in your body to not scream at the fool standing in front of you. Well, yes, Astarion! It could almost be a life-changing use of my gold, if you’d just fucking notice that I’ve been gathering expensive memorabilia of you for the past few days, priorities like a gigantic cult-brain be damned.

larian doesn’t make astarion react even if you go through great lengths to show him his own face. it fills me with joy to think about how you could get an entire statue commissioned of the guy and he would just shrug and wonder to himself who that handsome elf is LOL

in this timeline you (tav) don’t sleep with astarion at the tiefling party because you were a lightweight drunk out of your mind. yes, you curse yourself for missing that opportunity every single passing day at camp.

An unexpected perk of renting out the entire second floor of the Elfsong Tavern was being able to decorate the place as much as you liked, giving it a personal touch for as long as you made camp there. You made it a habit to bring back as many stuffed animals you encountered along the way in your journey, cramming plush owlbears and kittens into your pack as carefully as you could to avoid staining them with blood.

Occasionally, you hung up the odd painting or two, but none that were especially valuable — just the ones their previous owners wouldn’t miss. Though, you had to admit that none of them struck a particular chord. Perhaps you just haven’t ransacked enough abandoned homes.

Out of all the heroic acts you can tell the tale of, you would consider exterminating ghosts to free a possessed artist to be one of the weirdest. When Oskar Fevras, finally back to his senses, offers to draw a painting of you, you’re tempted for a moment to take him up on his offer. A gallant, heroic portrait of the aspiring saviour of Baldur’s Gate! It’s the stuff of a bard’s dreams. A perfect centrepiece for camp, would it not be? Except, you suddenly hear an exaggerated sigh from your right.

“You know, I’m just starting to think that rescuing the poor artist from the Zhentarim was more trouble than it was worth,” Astarion muses aloud. “A painting, after all of that slo-“

“Hold on,” you interject hurriedly and wide-eyed despite your attempts to sound As Normal As Possible. You turn to the rest of your party, a growing smile on your features.

“I need to have a talk with Oskar. In private. Artist to artist. Just for a minute!”

You’re all too eager to guide your party back to the bottom of the staircase, before returning to the artist with an excited glimmer in your eye. Oh, Gods, this is going to be amazing. Surely, you can get away with calling this a simple, friendly gesture without being questioned too much. In a hushed tone, you discuss your very specific request with the artist, keeping your voice low to avoid it being picked up by pointy, elven ears.

When you return to camp with your new painting titled ‘The Sanguine Seducer’ (Oskar had a…peculiar taste for names), you find an appropriate spot on the wall for it. Not too near the muse’s side of camp for it to be too obvious, but near enough for him to eventually take notice.

To your dismay, said muse does not value your new find in the same way, even when you ask him about it while stifling your excitement.

“Another one to add to the collection, I suppose.” Astarion says, acting far too nonchalant for your liking.

You realise that to a vampire with no ability to see his own reflection, it’s another portrait in the same vein as the others on the wall. You have half a mind to tear that picture of the maid holding a duster to shreds, as well as the one of the Red Prince hung up next to it. Instead, with a soft sigh, you return to your side of the second floor after bidding Astarion a curt goodbye, balling up the fists resting on your lap. Should’ve just gotten Oskar to paint me, bloodied armour and all.

Your other companions either don’t acknowledge the painting’s inspiration, or were intentionally refusing to. You don’t blame them — if your own shame was this overwhelming, the second-hand embarrassment must be painful as well. And with a few days having passed, it’s far too late for you to just tell him. Well, it isn’t, but your immature sense of pride wouldn’t allow for it.

Was there any other contrived way you could show Astarion a reflection of himself? Your mind whirs with the same intensity as it does in battle, trying very subtly not to burn a hole into the vampire’s forehead with your stare. How did he make reading a tome look good? And how did a man this well-read not recognise himself, or at least, the admittedly well-painted replica of his visage?

One fine afternoon, you chance upon a corpse, or at least, what little was left of it. You'd recognise the garish pattern on that mangled pant leg anywhere. It’s heavier than expected, and you end up relying on Lae’zel to haul Dribbles’ leg back to camp. You follow her in grimacing at the bloody, squelching sound it makes as she places it in her pack. Just as you were about to leave that awful cavern, it finally clicks. That Mephit from the circus.

As the rest of your companions take a well-deserved day of respite, you leave camp early with a stash of long-forgotten equipment, every piece having been replaced with something far more suited to the battles ahead. After what seemed to be hours of bartering with the local merchants, your pockets feel a great deal heavier, interrupting the spring in your step that you would’ve had otherwise.

Stoney is more than happy to receive your gold, and just as promised, you find ‘Astarion the Sensuous' delivered to your door the next day. Of course, this comes with a fair bit of judgmental stares from your fellow adventurers. Unfortunately, it includes Astarion himself, his expression quizzical as he looked upwards at the sculpture.

The only thing that stops you is the thought of how Astarion’s face has been lost to time for him, after centuries of losing the man he used to be. It keeps you barely grounded, leaving a bitter taste on your tongue. Perhaps if you had just bedded him, which he seemed very willing to participate in during that party with the tieflings, instead of snoring into your bedroll, you would be able to muster up the courage to just yell at him.

That same night, you vent your frustrations with one too many rounds of Hoot’s Hooch, wallowing in your muddied thoughts. The painting. The statue. Astarion. His past. How much you’d like to see Cazador Szarr’s head on a stick.

After a few more drinks, you find yourself somehow both temporarily blinded and dancing uncontrollably. If not for Karlach mercifully pulling you back to the Elfsong Tavern, perhaps you would’ve been there trotting your feet clumsily through the night.

When you’ve all but given up on showing Astarion his own reflection, it happens when you least expect it.

Battling Cazador Szarr is quite possibly the worst experience of your life. There was already so much to take in from your way to the site of the Black Mass — those poor Gur children, that harrowing list of names, Sebastian. Not only are you fighting an incredibly powerful vampire lord, but you have to squash that blasted lump in your throat threatening to bring tears to your eyes in the process.

You emerge triumphant, but barely alive. Your chest rises and falls heavily as you attempt to regulate your breathing to the best of your ability, taking laboured inhales and exhales. Through blurry eyes, it takes all of your concentration to focus on the unfolding aftermath. Astarion, after centuries of being puppeteered, finally had the upper hand against Cazador. You wouldn’t want to miss it for the world.

“Get over here. We can do this,” Astarion beckons, an uncharacteristically desperate tone to his voice.

Your own comes out raspy, and the metallic taste of the dried-up blood staining your gums is equally as horrific. “What do you need?”

“I need your eyes. In a manner of speaking.”

Before Astarion can specify what exactly he needed your eyes for, your tadpole is all too eager to reach out. Your perspective floods Astarion’s mind in a series of vignettes of silver curls, sharp fangs, and deft fingers. The same features he’s seen at camp, both painted in deliberate strokes and painstakingly carved into marble. Alongside them, a heart-wrenching sense of longing that has festered for far too long.

Whether for better or for worse, fatigue overwhelms any potential embarrassment you could have had. The tadpole’s connection is severed as suddenly as it was formed, your body and mind completely exhausted to their limits. And as you find yourself falling to the floor, you utter out what you had wanted to say all day, ever since you entered this damned castle. What you had wordlessly thought to yourself as you watched him pace through the halls, looking the most vulnerable he had ever been, wanting to be anywhere but here.

“Astarion…Please, stay…”

You wake up in a cold sweat, your upper body screaming in residual pain as you lift yourself up from the bed. Rapidly blinking, you scan your surroundings, familiar wooden walls dyed orange hues of the sunset, gentle light streaming in from the windows. The Elfsong Tavern. To your left, ‘The Sanguine Seducer’. By the door, ‘Astarion the Sensuous’.

To your right, the man himself, seated on the floor beside you and once again absorbed in a tome.

“Astarion,” you choke out, your tongue now dry and tacky in your mouth. It breaks his concentration, and he immediately turns his head upwards to look at you. With a single movement of his wrist, the book shuts with a satisfying thump. You meet his gaze, the inner corners of your eyebrows raised in panicked concern. Did he complete the rite? Is he the Vampire Ascendant now? Or is this the same Astarion you saw in the morning, lost and confused and all he ever remembered was that poor excuse of a home?

“Please tell me you-“

“Dead. I’m free from him. Forever.”

Oh, thank the gods.

“The vampire spa-”

“All of them are making their way to the Underdark as we speak. And yes, including my siblings. Someone has to make sure they keep their fangs away from whatever horrors may be lurking around.“

“The oth-“

“Our other travelling companions have very graciously decided they’d rather leave us alone for….whatever this is.”

“Can you stop interrupting me?” You sputter in frustration.

“It was impossibly easy to guess what questions you’d ask, with how long I’ve had to wait for you to wake up. Now, have some water. You look dreadful.”

Astarion stands up, strolling over to the nearby table to pick up a glass of water. You drink from it eagerly, releasing a throaty sigh as your throat finally feels quenched. He watches your graceless behaviour with narrowed eyes, visibly unimpressed.

“More importantly, your little nap allowed me the time to think of what choice words I had for when you’d finally wake up.”

Your breath catches in your throat, Astarion’s pointed tone reminding you of things that you’d rather forget. Out of all the possible ways that tadpole could have gotten you into trouble, you didn’t think it’d betray you in such a juvenile way. Exposing your secret crush, out of all things? It almost feels like retribution for meandering around Baldur’s Gate, breaking up turf wars between the Guild and Zhentarim, and picking up abandoned children from the streets, instead of vanquishing The Absolute.

“I don’t know whether to thank you, or laugh at you,” Astarion continues, the hint of a smile on his features.

Your cheeks are practically burning up at his words, and all you can do is gawk at him, equally flustered and mortified at the same time. He takes it as a sign to keep speaking, for which you are more than grateful for.

As Astarion speaks, his smile grows, showing glimpses of his fangs. “Oddly enough, by collapsing on the ground like that, you saved me from myself and let me walk a new path where I can be free. Truly, honestly free.”

In Astarion’s voice, you find warmth, sincerity, and…gratitude. You bite your lower lip gently, swallowing heavily. It breaks your resolve to bury your affections for him, like a dam that shatters, water flooding past the cracks. Even if you hadn’t fallen for him long before, how could you not fall for him now?

“I…I’m glad to hear that, Astarion,” you say, making a valiant attempt to portray the essence of calm composure. “But it was all you,” you insist, slightly knitting your eyebrows together. After all, you’ve done nothing but make a lovesick fool of yourself.

“You did more than that,” Astarion responds, the smile lingering on his lips. “If I had ascended, those…tributes you’ve collected of me might have become inaccurate to my image. I suppose that’s one way to tell me that you prefer me the way I am,” he adds with a slight shrug. You respond with a roll of your eyes, though clearly out of bashfulness rather than any genuine ill will on your end.

“Anyway. If you have any other…commissions on your mind, I’d like to at least be asked to pose next time,” Astarion says, his smile turning into that familiarly haughty grin. After such a long day of seeing him looking awfully bleak, it was unusually reassuring.

You scoff at his teasing words. “There weren’t any, and there certainly won’t be now that you've caught on.”

“How bardlike of you, to dedicate art to your beloved. Very tasteful art, now that I’ve gotten a closer look at it,” the vampire says, ignoring your protests. He glances at his portrait on the wall, looking more than pleased. If only out of consideration for his circumstances, you bite back the multiple retorts you can think of, letting him dangle this over your head as much as he likes.

“And what do I get for all of my good taste, besides having to listen to you gloat?” you ask, tilting your head towards him with a resigned smile on your face.

“Darling. I’m sure that when you’ve healed those broken bones, I’ll have thought of a multitude of ways to repay your devotion in kind.”

You exhale deeply, letting your shoulders slack. How bad could a bruised ego be at this point?

“Took you long enough to realise it, you halfwit.”

You punctuate your sentence with laughter at the absurdity of it all. Astarion joins you, laughing in that effervescent tone that makes your chest squeeze.

Your conversation is drawn out for hours until the dead of night. When you wake up at dawn, you find your limbs tangled with Astarion’s under the blanket of your bed. It leaves the sweetest ache in your shoulders when you rise.

As you prepare for the myriad trials the new day would certainly bring, you entertain the thought of putting a quill to paper, celebrating tender kisses and exchanges of secrets from a newfound lover through lyric poetry.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 #bg3 fic #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #astarion x mc #astarion fic #astarion fanfic #astarion fluff #baldur's gate x reader #oomfvia.txt #oomfvia:\bedtimestories

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oomfvia · 5 months

Text

come destroy my fragility

pairing: astarion/gender-neutral paladin tav/reader + the emperor/gender-neutral paladin tav/reader (kinda)

spoilers for act 3 + vampire ascendant astarion

sfw | established relationship | angst | hurt no comfort

this fic is not very nice towards both ascendant astarion and the emperor for the sake of storytelling. don't take it personally please!

also posted on ao3

likes/comments/reblogs always appreciated!

Turning your head, instead of The Emperor, Astarion sits beside you. Immediately, your body stiffens. But then, slowly, it releases its tension when he smiles at you. You recognise it as a smile of fondness — affection, rather than self-absorbed satisfaction. It was the Astarion you had woken up to just this morning, before everything was reduced to a putrid red. Your Astarion.

You allow your lover to become the Vampire Ascendant, and are forced to watch him grow delirious with a rush of newfound power. That same night, you find yourself in the Astral Plane in your dreams. You already miss him dearly.

word count: 3,490

You love Astarion, unwaveringly so. Your romance may not have had the best start, but it only made the fall that much more meaningful. Sharing the same tent, you wake up with your arms wrapped protectively around him every morning. Every evening, the two of you were now accustomed to reading quietly side-by-side, shoulders pressed together. You cherish the mundane routine of it all. Loving Astarion comes as naturally to you as breathing.

It’s in Cazador’s palace that you learn of the fact that you love Astarion so much, you would do just about anything for him. Even the most repugnant things.

You grimace in sheer, utter pain as your tadpole connects with Astarion’s. Both of your minds become one, sharing memories of runes marring pale skin in multiple flashes. For the first time, Astarion sees the Infernal poem detailing the conditions of Mephistopheles’ profane pact etched across his bare back.

A hint of a smile appears on the spawn’s face, and it brings a shiver of terror down your spine. The illithid connection is severed, releasing the two minds. It leaves your stream of consciousness to yourself, filled with a resounding thought: What in the Nine Hells have I done?

You vividly remember how the rogue had described the process of attaining his scars. Cazador had carved them into his skin painstakingly slowly, not missing even a single detail. In comparison, Astarion slices into his defeated master’s skin with urgency. Rather than savouring every scream, he only smiles, as if refusing to acknowledge them at all.

Even in a moment like this, Cazador calls Astarion a child. A wretched one, sure, but a child nonetheless. It causes you to forget the sting of guilt you feel for allowing Astarion to deliver such excruciating pain in front of your eyes, if only for a moment. You simply watch in silence as Astarion grabs the quarterstaff controlling the ritual, raising it above his head. It sinks into the centre of the floor, covering it in Infernal script that glows red.

“Ecce dominus!”

Leon, Aurelia, Violet, Petras, Dalyria, Yousen — they were the closest thing to family for Astarion. You remember how he had called them his siblings, and how it gave you a sense of relief. Even if said family was attained through cruel, corrupted means, it was a small bit of consolation that Astarion had not been truly alone all of those years. Now, they were all being reduced to a mere collective sacrifice. An obscene offering in exchange for the promise of power.

And yet, you cannot find it in yourself to lift even a single finger.

“Nunc volo potestatem quam pollicitus es mihi…”

You adore Astarion’s voice, in all of its velvety and rich tones. However, now that it was echoing loudly in the chamber, it only inspires feelings of dread, overriding any instinctual passion. Every single sacrificial spawn, including Cazador Szarr, bursts into thick puddles of blood. Astarion lowers his arms, breathing heavily as the ritual’s light slowly dims.

“I…I can’t feel it. That ache in my stomach, that hunger — it’s gone.”

Astarion smiles, unmistakably drunk on his newfound power.

“I’m free. I’m finally free! Oh, it feels delicious .”

You watch Astarion’s eyes gleam uncomfortably, opting to look downwards to your hands. Since when did your fingers start trembling? Since when were your hairs standing on end? You look back up at the newly emerged Vampire Ascendant, bitter regret coursing through your veins.

What remains of Astarion’s family is only a sickening shade of red, pooling all over the floor. You can only stare wide-eyed at the gorey scene, a wave of nausea threatening to rise in your throat. Suddenly, it’s also coupled with a heavy spasm within your chest. What was this feeling of devastating loss? Clutching at your chest, you shudder as your eyes sweep the room, only to notice that you’re the sole person undergoing such physical pain.

The pain then manifests itself into an armoured figure, its hands resting on its greatsword’s pommel. You swallow thickly, as the pain slowly subsides. While the pain was starting to leave, the ominous presence in front of you induces something else: fear. Metal shifts against metal as the armoured figure starts to speak in a gravelly timbre.

“You have broken your oath, paladin.”

The days of travel since the illithid abduction had been trying. Despite everything, you have always tried to be true to yourself. To your oath. Despite your best efforts to be righteous above all else, it all led up to this. Vows of higher morality, honour, and duty that had sworn years before were being turned to mere specks of dust. For a moment, you wonder if you were face-to-face with an executioner, who would deliver your lifeless body back to your deity. Instead, the armoured knight delivers nothing but a promise:

“At the close of day, I will be waiting for you.”

Astarion approaches you with heightened zeal, bringing you back to the harshness of reality. The consequences of recent events sink in, and you might even mourn the loss of that sinister knight’s presence. The newly crowned Vampire Ascendant speaks, and you attempt to listen. It’s no good — your mind is far too overwhelmed, far too dazed to digest every word. Astarion’s words only register as fragmented phrases about greatness, servants, and obedience. Even as your blade cuts through the Gur people, you sense yourself being swallowed up by numbness.

Outside of the dungeon, the rest of the journey back to camp is a muddled, disjointed blur. Midway, you turn to your left to see Gale, whose expression can only be described as crushing disappointment. On your right, you see Karlach. When the both of you meet eyes, the tiefling frowns, averting her gaze. You walk in front of their party as always, but your joints seemingly move for you automatically rather than being willed to. It’s only when you catch a whiff of the salty air of the harbour that the mindless trance you were under breaks. You were already back at camp.

You don’t want to speak with any of your companions. You don’t have it in you to face any of them — not even your lover. Instead, your slow, aimless footsteps find their way to the mysterious knight, tucked in a corner of the campsite.

Speaking with the Oathbreaker Knight is as intimidating as the first time. You listen to his words with a heavy heart, being reminded of what you had sworn. What you’ve now betrayed. With a slow turn of his head, the knight faces you with an almost scorching gaze.

“Tell me — why did you abandon your oath?”

“Out of…love.”

It’s a plain and simple phrase, and yet it’s uttered at a volume barely louder than a whisper. Your reasoning now sounded so silly and so immature to your own ears. The result of your misguided love makes it all seem so meaningless.

“An understandable sacrifice,” the Oathbreaker responds, contrary to how you were internally admonishing yourself for said sacrifice. Was it understandable to be so witless? So frustratingly naïve?

The Oathbreaker Knight continues to detail the greater implications of your actions, or your lack thereof. Halfway through, he mentions something about a new power slumbering within you, and it’s the exact moment when his words start to fall on deaf ears. The way things are, all you know is that you don’t want to hear any more of “power” and “strength” for the rest of the night.

“What’s past is past. We are here to discuss your future.”

“I don’t want any part of this. Let me remain pure. Please,” you answer with an almost desperate sense of haste, now afraid of what a future of unknown power could hold. Parting with a couple hundred gold coins is nothing in comparison.

Pacing as far away from the Oathbreaker as possible, you feel deeply on edge. The anxiety of it all is unbearable, and your instincts naturally seek out a source of comfort. Before you know it, your feet lead you to Astarion. Except this time, when looking into his eyes, you find someone else. Someone so incredibly similar, yet so incredibly foreign.

“I can’t believe you let me kill all those people…A pleasant surprise.”

You answer through gritted teeth. “I wanted what was best for you.”

“You sweet, sweet thing. I want what’s best for you too, of course. And one wicked turn deserves another.”

No, you don’t. Stop. Where is Astarion? Where is he?

“So, tell me what you desire. What can I do for my dearest pet?”

There was no need for any further words, your body reacting faster than your mouth ever could. You turn your heel, refusing to end the conversation properly. As you practically run back to your side of camp, your chest heaves and your breath escapes in shallow huffs. No, no, no, no, no. Whoever this is, he’s abhorrent. I hate this. I hate it all. You feel absolutely sick to your stomach, because you didn’t leave the conversation out of hatred for Astarion. You had left out of fear that you would be swayed by whatever he could’ve said next.

You know, in the back of your mind, that you have nobody to blame except yourself.

Lying on your bedroll, you shake off your feelings of disgust and self-hatred. You have an elder brain to deal with, and it wasn’t going to wait for you to figure out your relationship, of all things. All you want for the rest of the night is a restful, peaceful slumber. A sleep so deep and tranquil that none of your doubts and regrets can infiltrate your thoughts.

Of course, even then, you’re asking for too much. Even in your dreams, your loathsome love cannot seem to leave you alone. You find yourself among the stars, under a lilac sky. Turning your head, instead of The Emperor, Astarion sits beside you. Immediately, your body stiffens. But then, slowly, it releases its tension when he smiles at you. You recognise it as a smile of fondness — affection, rather than self-absorbed satisfaction. It was the Astarion you had woken up to just this morning, before everything was reduced to a putrid red. Your Astarion.

The last time you found yourself in the Astral Plane, you were faced with The Emperor, along with a choice that was all too easy. No matter the reward, you weren’t going to consume an astral-touched tadpole. The risk of it consuming you in return was far too likely, and you’d sooner fall on your longsword than have it take you. You had resolved yourself to speak with the mind flayer, sternly reaffirming that you had no intention of embracing any illithid potential in the slightest.

At the exact moment your eyes meet Astarion’s, all of those preconceived notions dissolve in an instant. You scoff in disbelief, blinking rapidly. Despite your expectations of him disappearing after every blink, his figure remains.

“Astarion,” you call out through the lump emerging in your throat.

“What has made you so sullen, my dear?”

What an unbearably loaded question, you think to yourself. Was it the overall gloom of Cazador’s dungeon? Was it those pitiful fools who had waltzed right into their deaths, who had loved a vampire spawn in a way that you understood far too well? Was it the way that Astarion looked at you after his ascension, devoid of any of the respect and trust that you had shared throughout your journey? The answer is a combination of everything.

But it doesn’t matter, does it? What matters now is that Astarion was here with you.

“I love you so much it hurts, Astarion. But now that I've doomed you, I’m…I’m so fucking scared.”

Except you know that this is too good to be true.

“I love you too. There’s nothing to be scared of. I’m with you, aren’t I?” Astarion says, with a tilt of his head. It’s so charming, so inviting, so comforting.

Astarion said many sweet things, but he's never proclaimed his love for you outright in this way. He was always too afraid, and knowing that, you never demanded it from him. So why was he saying this now? Something feels wrong, terribly so.

“I…I missed you,” you respond with a hesitant voice.

Something about this feels wrong to the point of perversion. Apprehension courses through your body, and you look into those familiar scarlet eyes, searching for an answer as to why. He stares at you in a way that pierces through your soul, boring into your flesh.

“But darling,” Astarion says, a warm smile on his lips. “I’ve never left.”

And then, it clicks.

Lies. Lies, lies, lies, LIESLIESLIESLIES —

You clench your fists, squeezing your fingers together momentarily. Gradually, your dull, broken sadness paves the way for unbridled anger. Heat rises in your stomach, reaching up to your chest. With a scowl, you raise your hand, slapping your palm against the man’s cheek.

“Who do you think you are, trying to fool me again? You’re deplorable.”

You watch with an icy glare as Astarion’s figure seamlessly transforms. Pale skin is dyed back into a piercing purple. Bulging veins emerge across his skin. The lower half of his face is covered with appendages. All of it reveals a hideous aberration.

“I thought you would have appreciated that form over this one. It seems that I was mistaken.”

“...You aren’t.”

Truthfully, as much as you are angry at The Emperor, you’re also angry with yourself. During those few initial seconds, you had allowed yourself to hope. Even if it was only a dream, you wanted to believe so badly that it was the Astarion you had helped to erase at the Black Mass. Even if it was for only a couple of hours, you wanted to see the Astarion who you’ll never get back.

The mind flayer hums in acknowledgment, as if he already knows. “We share the same mind. It is only natural that I know who you yearn for, more than anyone else.”

You take in a deep inhale, exhaling heavily with an open mouth. It was in the subtleties during times like this that you found yourself unable to fully trust him, regardless of his protection. Ultimately, The Emperor made you feel as if you were nothing but a mere pawn. Briefly, you recall Astarion as the newly rebirthed Vampire Ascendant. Suddenly, it all felt so awfully ironic. During that short conversation at camp, he, too, made you feel the same way.

“You’re repulsive,” you spit out. “What if I hadn’t noticed?”

“Then it would prove my point even further — that your current form comes with limitations.”

The realisation that dawns upon you only serves to fuel your disdain further. You were two individuals burdening the same brain. The Emperor knows everything that’s happened on this miserable day, and now he is using it against you. In your most fragile, most desperate moment, he was going to give you another sermon about abandoning your feeble form.

“Fuck. You.”

With another quick flourish, you’re met with Astarion again. It disturbs you how easily your heart can shift to feelings of familiarity and adoration, simply with a small reminder of the partner Astarion used to be.

“Now, now, darling. That’s very rude of you, don’t you think?”

The corners of the vampire’s lips curl upwards sweetly, the smile on his face just barely narrowing his eyes. You hate to admit it to yourself, but this form softens your heart, no matter how aware you are that it’s just a disguise.

Astarion takes your hand in his, tilting his head lovingly in a way that registers as equally seductive and sickening. He leans in towards you, soft breath brushing against your ear.

“You failed in preventing the corruption of your lover, despite your every intention to do so. Not only that, but you failed in protecting your oath. That moment of weakness leaves me with no choice but to presume that your present self is far from sufficient to deal with the elder brain.”

Cold and calculating words escape Astarion’s lips, making them sound like the most beautifully crafted prose. It’s so fucking unfair.

You wish you had your longsword at your side. If you could, you would unsheathe it from its scabbard, drenching the blasted illithid’s body in its own blood. But more than that, you wish you could rewind time back to when you were at Cazador’s palace, with Astarion’s dagger against Cazador’s throat. You want nothing more than to go back to when you could have cried out, ran forward, caused a fuss — anything to stop the Rite of Profane Ascension from completion.

In less than even a second, the Emperor returns to his illithid form, his appendages swaying as he speaks. With a flick of his wrist, he unfurls his fingers and presents you with an astral-touched tadpole. The same one you had rejected before. And yet, this one was much harder to refuse. You stare at the tadpole's faint, ephemeral glow.

What The Emperor says isn’t exactly wrong, and it frustrates you to no end. He was simply telling you what you had been trying to avoid telling yourself the entire day. What has happened has shaken you to your core, and you feel the seeds of doubt settling in the pit of your stomach. Astarion’s ascension aside, did you have the strength to surpass this setback and vanquish the Absolute? Could you assure that no cruel fate like that would befall upon your other companions?

You think of the worst. You imagine Wyll being consumed by his pact with Mizora. You imagine Lae’zel watching helplessly as Orpheus perishes, fulfilling Vlaakith’s wishes. You imagine Gale losing himself out of blind devotion to his goddess. They’re all things that you would never wish on your dear friends. Not after all that’s happened.

With a heavy, audible sigh, you let your shoulders run slack in resignation. You recognise yourself as an incompetent fool that has condemned your lover to a fate of single-minded lusts for power, and now you are going to pay the price.

“...Fine, you win. Have it your way.”

It takes only a moment for the tadpole to welcome itself into your body through just the smallest opening of your mind. You writhe and twist in anguish as you feel its essence coursing flooding into you. Every single bone in your body screams as your flesh contorts inhumanly and your veins turn a horrid black. Soon after, it settles. It’s so unnatural how natural it feels, once the wretched tadpole settles into your body.

“Are you happy now?” You ask, glancing up at The Emperor accusatorily.

“You are…exquisite.”

You don’t want to hear those words from that monster. You want to hear those words from him . If you still loved him ardently after his transformation, would it be such a stretch to hope that he would love you after yours? There must be some remnants of the way he had loved you before somewhere deep inside that unbeating heart. Tucked away secretively, so that it’ll never be fully erased. It’s somewhere, or so you tell yourself.

The Emperor must have picked up on your wishful thinking because in the next moment, you're once again eye-to-eye with your vampiric lover’s image. You know it’s all sheer delusion. A product of nothing more than your deepest regrets. The coldness of his hand against your cheek is heart-wrenchingly familiar, making you flinch slightly before your skin starts to adjust. When it leans in closer, you find yourself habitually meeting it in the middle.

When your lips meet, the illusion of Astarion gently holds your trembling arm, slowly tracing downwards until its hand rests on top of yours. It’s only when you feel a wet drop roll down your cheek that you realise you’ve started to cry. Shortly after, your lips part, leaving you with a devastating loneliness. You recognise it as the loneliness you’ve left buried under adamant denial, resurfacing after a single kiss.

“I love you, Astarion,” you whisper in a choked sob, trying but failing to convince yourself. Your declaration of love is out of a pathetic and pitiful need to reassure yourself, rather than spontaneous passion.

Memories of the Astarion you miss flit back into your mind. You had held him when he was at his most unsure of himself, lost about his place in the world. He had been the one to love you unconditionally, when you had thought you were nothing without your oath. Gazing into the imitation’s eyes makes it painfully obvious that you’re the only one still carrying such fervent affections.

“...I’m sorry,” the illusion whispers back. You don’t know if you have it in you to forgive it. You don’t know if you have it in you to forgive yourself.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion fanfic #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #oomfvia.txt #oomfvia:\bedtimestories

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oomfvia · 5 months

Text

⛧i'll fight for your life chapter 1: heaven is a place in my head

pairing: astarion/gender-neutral half-elf paladin tav/reader (second person)

spoilers for patch 5 epilogue

sfw, friends to lovers :)

1,975 words (3 chapters, 6,097 total words)

you can also read this work on ao3

likes/comments/reblogs always appreciated!

❥ chapter 2 ❥ chapter 3

preview:

Your moral compass looms heavily over your head, and it declares that the beauty of Astarion’s vulnerability was not to be indulged in. Instead, it was meant to be nurtured and protected. In this moment, you remember your vows. Tenets of honour and duty, tracing back from your gallant predecessors. What is love, if not the desire to shield?

The words tumble out of your mouth a touch too quickly. It’s merely an observation, although an admittedly astute one.

“Maybe what you really need is a friend, not a lover.”

Astarion responds stiltedly, with an awkwardness that you find refreshing. Endearing, even. “I — I would like that.”

Tentatively, he brings his hand to yours. Then, another. You bring your gaze upwards and peer into his amber eyes. Upon further observation, they were trembling ever so slightly.

You realise that at this moment, you’ve doomed yourself to a future of dishonesty. Unbefitting of a truly good ally, you like Astarion so much you don’t know what to do with yourself. Your group was traversing the shadow-cursed lands, facing death at every turn. And yet, here you are, your heart racing over the touch of a hand like a virginal nun.

That same night, you sigh into your pillow. Despite your attempts to stifle the protests of your heart against your head, they haunt your thoughts, mixing together with other internal arguments about the so-called ‘greater good’. The greater details are lost on you, with the only resounding conclusion in your head being that you’re a dirty, dirty liar.

Raising your upper body, you resign yourself to a restless night. You turn to peer into a mirror perched upon the sparsely-furnished table in your tent, your own reflection staring back at you in a way that feels hilariously accusatory. Sighing, you remember the feeling of Astarion’s palm under yours, cool to the touch. You remember how in stark contrast, his eyes seemed uncharacteristically warm. He trusts you. Only you, perhaps. And what did you have to show for it? Lust? Love?

What is love, if not the desire to shield?

Surely, this is for the best. A half-elf’s life, while still terribly long, seems like hours compared to the eternity Astarion was decidedly sentenced to. Sighing again in resignation, you toss your back against the bedroll, staring into the ceiling of your small, unremarkable tent. Look at me, dwelling upon decisions that can’t be taken back.

At least there’s one thing you can be certain of: You hate Cazador Szarr. Sure, you were already eager to sink your blade into the monster just from Astarion’s anecdotes alone. But within minutes of meeting him in this decrepit dungeon, your blood is left positively boiling. It’s hardly befitting of a paladin to be motivated by personal vengeance, but Cazador seems to test your patience to no end. You unsheathe your blade, muttering a guiding prayer under your breath: “Bright wit, clear thought, keen sight.”

When Cazador is brought to his knees, you do your utmost to maintain razor-sharp focus. It was far from over, and in the back of your mind, you worry that this part may be harder to endure than the battle itself. This is a scenario you’ve played thousands of times in your head, but at this moment, you lose every single prepared line. You’re left with nothing but a twisting sensation at the centre of your chest.

“I can do this, but I need your help.”

Astarion was asking you for help. You. The same person he had mocked and ridiculed for their naïve righteousness. And yet, you knew from the moment that you flung open the doors to this dungeon that you were going to disappoint him.

“I…I shouldn’t do this. We shouldn’t do this.”

You frown at how your voice wavers. It doesn’t do much in the way of persuasiveness.

“I won’t have to rely on the parasite to walk in the sun. I’ll be free — truly, completely free. Isn’t that what you want?”

In comparison, Astarion’s argument lacks any logical flaw. It goes without saying that you want nothing more than Astarion’s freedom. He’s been deprived of the power to break this never-ending cycle of abuse he was thrust into for centuries. You would be cruel to fail him now.

Except, when you meet Astarion’s gaze, in place of hope you find desperation. A chill runs down your spine at the thought of what that desperation could spell for the future. Silently, you pray that he will forgive you when this is all said and done.

“But what I want is for you to stay…you. For you to live a life you can be proud of. Please.”

You feel wet tears pricking the corners of your eyes, and when you blink, they slowly roll over your cheekbones. You’ve survived nautiloid crashes and fights against the Chosen of gods. And yet, this is the first time anyone’s seen you openly weep. It’s embarrassing — mortifying, really, how your heart bleeds for Astarion.

But when the aggressive, uncontrollable flame in Astarion’s eyes starts to yield, you feel nothing but pure relief.

Astarion stabs Cazador repeatedly, in an almost manic show of violence. It’s all gore and blood, and you should find it abhorrent. Instead, there’s an almost poetic sense of beauty to it as you watch through teary, glistening eyes. While his old master’s blood pools onto the floor, Astarion sobs, chest heaving as his emotions peak. It reminds you that no matter how highly you thought of the man, in Cazador’s palace, Astarion was always reduced to a mere boy.

Thankfully, the spawn are all spared, none of them sacrificed to the Black Mass. Astarion leaves his siblings to help with the aftermath, as the spawn begin their journey to the Underdark. Rather short, as family reunions go. But considering how dreadful the place is, the last thing you want to do is complain.

When you push open the doors back to town, you’re surprised to see that it’s only late afternoon outside, the sun still in the middle of its descent. The dungeon was so ominously dark, as if shrouded in a permanent night. It reminds you of the Gauntlet of Shar, in that sense.

“It’s a bit early, but…”

You inhale deeply, taking in the fresh air of freedom. Glancing towards your right, you notice that Astarion does the same.

“Let’s rest for the day.”

Unsurprisingly, no one objects. The sombre atmosphere doesn’t leave your group immediately, the journey back to the Elfsong Tavern remaining quiet. However, when you push open the doors, rushes of laughter and merrymaking pour out. It helps, even if only by a margin, to calm the deafening silence.

“You know, you ought to speak with him in private,” Shadowheart says, twirling a night orchid between her fingers. Upon further inspection, you notice that it’s the one you had plucked for her back in the shadow-cursed lands, its petals starting to wilt at the ends.

You raise your eyebrows at her, to which she does the same. “You have a soft spot for him. It shows.”

“My people claim what they covet,” Lae’zel chimes in. “It would be wise for you to do the same.”

It’s so incredibly in-character for the warrior to say so, and it makes you laugh for the first time since dawn broke. How stoic, and yet, how reassuring.

Your companions leave for the tavern downstairs, relenting camp to you and Astarion for the time being. Rather than reading a book, Astarion sits at the edge of his bed, seemingly lost in thought. His fingers are loosely interconnected together as he stares off into the far corner of the room. It’s as if time has stilled around him.

“Copper for your thoughts?” You ask, imitating a familiarly husky tone.

Astarion laughs weakly, and you internally applaud yourself for your successful attempt at humour.

“Karlach could have your head for that terrible impression, my dear.”

You smile, your eyebrows firmly lowered. “Thank you. Now, do you need someone to talk to or not?”

“Need is a strong way to put it, but since you’re already here to listen…”

When your friends, pleasantly buzzed, climb up the stairs to return to camp, you and Astarion have somehow gotten comfortable on the floorboards. The two of you sit with your backs against the bed frame, with only your heads lying on the mattress. Your shoulder is pressed firmly against Astarion’s as the two of you stare off into the ceiling blankly.

“Astarion?” You call out softly, your eyes unmoving.

“Yes, dear?”

Dear. Darling. What was it with Astarion and these terms of endearment? For what seems like the hundredth time, you tell yourself not to read too much into it all. You roll your head to the side, gazing at his profile. You clear your throat, trying and failing to ignore how delicately crafted it is.

“I’m proud of you.”

Your statement, in all its honesty, is far from imaginative. And yet, Astarion’s mouth hangs ajar, as if at a loss for words. From your place beside him, you can see the faintest glimpse of a sharpened fang.

“I...Thank you.”

You let out a throaty laugh at this rare example of awkwardness from Astarion, who always seems to make an effort to appear suave. It’s charmingly amusing, and your shoulders raise as you continue giggling, waking up a mid-nap Scratch in the process. Scratch dashes towards your side, and you smile lovingly as you give the good boy a good series of pats on the head. In your reverie, you miss how Astarion’s gaze follows you, a faint trace of affection flickering in his amber eyes.

When everyone is preparing to go to bed, you ask Gale about how you could possibly procure a certain item. You ask him plainly about whether there was any magical item that could allow a vampire to walk under the sun’s rays. He tells you about the Ring of the Sunwalker, about stories that seem more like urban legend than fact. As for its whereabouts...

“If I had any ideas, trust me — you’ll be the first to find out.”

You inhale, ready to ask why, but then the wizard’s smile spreads into a knowing grin. Shadowheart’s words echo in your head.

“You have a soft spot for him. It shows.”

Instead, you simply rub at your temples, your ears slightly tinted pink. You're grateful, despite the slight embarrassment you had to ensure. You thank Gale for his helpfulness, and bid him a friendly goodnight.

Weeks after, you defeat the Netherbrain, but with no sunlight-shielding ring to show for it. Your face contorts in horror as you're forced to watch Astarion’s skin start to sear under the sunlight. He runs away from the unrelenting rays, presumably to crawl back to the shadows.

Becoming the saviour of Baldur’s Gate felt odd, more than anything. You were no hero. You were merely a servant. A daft one, even. Who else but a complete fool would leave their other companions without a word, instead opting to chase after a doomed vampire spawn?

Before your mind can even take a second to react, your body lunges forward. Ignoring how your chest heaves and your calves ache, you sprint desperately along paved roads and between alleys, expertly weaving past crowds of celebrating citizens and buildings waiting to be rebuilt. Astarion couldn’t have run far, surely.

Realistically, it's for the best to just let Astarion go, allowing him to dissolve into the dark. You can forget all about silver curls, hands that run cold, and how each piece to the puzzling elf made your chest tighten. But this can’t be the last time you see him. You don’t want it to be.

Of course, you realise just how futile your chase was when you hit a dead end, coming face-to-face with a brick wall. You’ve overestimated yourself for even hoping that you could catch up to someone with centuries of experience of living among the shadows.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate iii #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #astarion fanfic #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #astarion x reader #astarion x you #oomfvia.txt #oomfvia:\bedtimestories

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oomfvia · 5 months

Text

⛧i'll fight for your life chapter 3: to feel the sun from both sides

pairing: astarion/gender-neutral half-elf paladin tav/reader (second person)

spoilers until patch 5 epilogue

sfw, friends to lovers :)

2,296 words (3 chapters, 6,097 total words)

you can also read this work on ao3

likes/comments/reblogs always appreciated!

❥ chapter 1 ❥ chapter 2

The journey was an unexpectedly short one, and it’s a relief, because no matter what Astarion said, you weren’t about to let his legs give out. Your feet land squarely on the floor when he sets you down gently, feeling slightly less woozy than you previously were.

Your eyes drift over to the large house laid out in front of you, and you immediately recognise its surroundings. The estate, in spite of how nice it looked, was rather modest compared to the other more luxurious residences that surrounded it. How long has it been since the last time you found yourself in the Upper City?

“Is this your home?” You ask, not bothering to hide your curiosity.

Astarion shrugs, fishing out a key from his pocket and inserting it through the gate’s lock. “I barely come back to it, but I suppose so.”

Funnily enough, Astarion had done the same thing you did, just in a nicer place. The Upper City, while still affected by the Absolutist crisis, was markedly more efficient in its restoration efforts. The road on the way was already paved again, and the street lamps were standing tall.

“Won’t the previous owner have anything to say about this?”

Noticing how the man wipes his shoes off on the velvety doormat, you take a few seconds to do so as well. It feels like an awful waste, especially considering your previous house in the Outer City lacked a doormat at all. He smiles at your perfectly logical question amusedly, as if it was a silly one to ask.

“Don’t worry, darling. They’re too dead to worry about real estate. Besides, this was my home in the first place.”

Your expression turns into a mixture of realisation and bewilderment. “...So you actually were a magistrate?”

“Aren’t I the very picture of one?”

You hold back a snicker, as well as the retort that immediately comes to mind. A corrupt one, maybe.

“You can use this room,” Astarion says, pushing open a wooden door. The room behind it is expansive, and already fitted with a desk, standing lamp, and wardrobe. Your eyes then linger on the large, plush bed in the middle. It takes all of the restraint in you to not dive into it face-first the moment you lay eyes on it.

“Am I imposing?” You ask, not daring to take a step into the room just yet.

Astarion dismisses your worry with a wave of his hand. “It’s one out of many. Using it would be a favour, my dear.”

That night, you have the most restful sleep you can remember. So restful, in fact, that you dream for the first time in months. A true, proper dream, with no strange visitors. You snore lightly into the cloudlike pillow, revisiting the recent memory of walking through the streets of the Upper City. Your head rests against Astarion’s shoulder, as the both of you share a moment of comfortable quiet. If you weren’t living with the man himself, you would find it a pity to have to wake up.

There’s a part of you that misses living in Rivington, where you could watch the city rebuild from the ground up, but you fall into the routine of living in the Upper City much faster than you had expected to. Your morning starts like any other, with all of the heavy curtains closed tightly. The grand chandelier above the dining table isn’t to your tastes, but it’s the only source of light you dare to allow in. The dining table itself is exceedingly big for just the two of you, but the food that you’ve prepared helps to make the place feel more familiar.

“Are you sure you don’t have to go off on any adventures?” You ask absentmindedly, cutting into a steamed carrot.

“I’d be a terrible host to leave you all alone,” Astarion answers. You glance upwards to peek at the issue of the Baldur’s Mouth gazette in his hands, noticing a picture of Gale posing with a student. It brings a smile to your face.

“Looks like the good wizard is doing well.”

In response, Astarion smiles with a shrug. “Speaking of, you haven’t opened that letter from Waterdeep.”

You wonder if Gale would be upset at you for not confessing your feelings yet. Probably. Subsequently, you imagine him gently chiding you for not taking advantage of the opportune situation, in a way that only a professor would.

After breakfast, you pace back to your room, picking up the envelope addressed to you. The letter is only one of many, yet Gale’s handwriting is as neat as ever. What’s more impressive than his penmanship, however, is the contents of the letter.

I need to prepare to leave. Now.

The two of you had roast chicken for dinner, accompanied with unoaked wine.

“What did he have to say?” Astarion asks, slicing into the dish in front of him with a sense of natural etiquette.

“Just another recipe he thought we’d like,” you lie through your teeth. “Do you happen to like stew?”

Astarion nods, refusing to talk with his mouth full. His eyes don’t leave the plate.

“Then…When I return from my short trip, that’ll be the first thing I make.“

You keep your hands still as you watch the vampire almost choke on a stalk of asparagus. His face contorts as he finally looks up at you, completely befuddled.

“Sorry to alarm you. It’s nothing special, really. I just need to return to the Outer City for a short while to pick up some things I left behind.”

Your explanation seems to convince Astarion, and he doesn’t press the matter any further. A twinge of guilt pulls at your heart for lying to him, but it’s coupled with a sense of anticipation for what is to come. That same night, you stuff potions, tools, and a set of battle-weathered armour into your pack. If you leave for the Underdark tonight, you’ll be able to return before sundown the next day.

The last two sentences of Gale’s letter from Waterdeep resound in your head as you leave through the now-familiar iron gates of your Upper City home: ‘It’s a wonderful feeling, to care for someone this deeply. Treasure it.’ Those words fill you with a resolve you never thought you’d ever gain.

It’s a dark, rainy night in the Upper City when you finally return.

You knock the door exactly seven times in quick succession — a sign that it’s you, and no one else. Almost immediately after, Astarion swings the door open, a towel in his other hand. Then, his smile quickly fades as his eyes land on you, your clothes clinging to your shoulders and the ends of your hair dripping wet. His sympathetic expression is more fitting for someone opening the door for an abandoned kitten, rather than a paladin.

“T-Thank the gods. I lost the key for the door on the way.”

Your cold body shivers under the unrelenting rain, recoiling slightly as you let out a sneeze. That blood-stained chestplate you were so fond of would most certainly rust. And yet, you beam at Astarion in a way that’s unmistakably joyous.

“I’m home.”

The corners of Astarion’s eyebrows raise, and he shakes his head as he takes a step backwards to let you in. The moment you step into the house, you leave the doormat drenched.

“...Welcome home.”

Astarion’s hands are gentle as he soaks up the rainwater from your hair, the towel getting increasingly heavier with each squeeze. The sound of the rain pattering against the windows, along with the warmth of the fireplace, calms your heart. You’re grateful that Astarion has to stand behind your place on the couch to dry you off. With how quickly your anxious heart was beating, you don’t want to imagine what your face might look like.

“Care to explain your tardiness, darling?” Astarion asks in that familiar tone. The one that subtly shows that he was worried.

“I — Achoo! Found something interesting along the way.”

You hear the sound of a tongue clicking from behind you. He already expects it to be one of those trinkets you were so fond of bringing back home. Good, he hasn't caught on.

“Pray tell, what could be so interesting that you come home in this state?”

You pull open the flap of the pack sitting beside you, holding a tied piece of cloth in your hands. Astarion releases your hair from the towel with an unimpressed hum of acknowledgment. You lift it up above your head, encouraging him to unwrap it. An enthusiastic grin stretches across your face as you turn your head to face him.

“A ring? Darling, are you insinuating something?” Astarion asks with a flirtatious smile. You snort out a laugh, partly in reaction to his words but also because you feel smug about your little scheme.

Astarion picks up the item, holding it against the light of the ceiling lamp. It’s plain as accessories go, its silver band only adorned with a single blood-red ruby. He looks at you quizzically, waiting for you to explain yourself. You simply smile, resting your jaw atop of your folded arms.

“Wear it tomorrow morning, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Thankfully, all Astarion does is sigh with a roll of his eyes, walking off to his room. You retire to your own, your exhausted body collapsing onto the bed. Compared to the Underdark, the mattress feels like the celestial planes.

Dawn approaches, and you wake up to the distant sounds of birds chirping and the awakening city. Stretching your limbs, you resist the urge to return to sleep, prying yourself off of the bed.

You find Astarion leaning against the wall along the hallway, noting the Ring of the Sun-Walker's silver band firmly wrapped around the ring finger of his left hand. Without saying a word, you wrap your hand around his, leading him to the front door.

Astarion’s expression can only be described as appalled when you tell him to just waltz right out of the door, exposing himself to the sunlight. It’s the only thing that has stopped him from accompanying you on your journeys to the stores for ingredients, and you were now telling him to take an unbelievable plunge.

“You’re not inspiring much faith, holding that bottle in your hand.”

You laugh, holding firmly onto the Potion of Superior Healing. “It’s just a safety precaution.”

Astarion sighs in resignation, letting his hand rest against the brass handle. He pulls the door open hesitantly with a sceptical look, the sounds of the city streaming in. He shuts his eyes, bracing himself. Unconsciously, you are too, your breath hitching in your throat as you watch him step forward.

And…nothing. No burning skin, and no excruciating pain. You release a soft sigh of relief, a satisfied smile forming on your face. Slowly, Astarion lifts his eyelids, too rattled to fully understand what was occurring to him. He turns backwards to face you, as if you’re a miracle worker sent from the gods.

“I told you to trust me, didn’t I?” You say, a hint of pride in your voice.

“Darling, I…I don’t know how I could ever repay you.”

You understand how much bravery it would take for Astarion to walk under the sunlight based on nothing but your word. It was time for you to exercise some courage in return.

“You already have, for letting me stay with you.”

Astarion rolls his eyes, stepping back indoors. “You didn’t have to do all this, just because I’m your landlord, for gods’—”

You bring yourself forward, pulling Astarion into a hug. One that’s slow and gentle, with enough allowance for him to break away if he wishes to. Instead, with shaky hands, he rests his hands on your back. Taking in a deep inhale, you wrap your arms loosely around Astarion’s neck.

“I’m doing this because I love you. I always have.”

In the moment, all the lines you had planned the night before were lost on you. It’s nerve-wracking, and you’re kicking yourself internally for speaking so clumsily. But at the same time, you’re overwhelmed with a feeling of exhilaration. How freeing it is to let your love manifest itself into words, unabashedly and honestly.

When you gather the courage to raise your head, your eyes meet Astarion’s. His usual expression of ease was faltering, his eyes widening as if your feelings were some sort of grand revelation. For a moment, the pessimist in you takes over and you assume the worst. You imagine Astarion spitting at the ground, turning his heel — leaving you and your bleeding heart out to dry. Immediately afterwards, you imagine that you would still love him ardently if he does.

Slowly, however, the corners of Astarion’s lips lift up into a bewildered smile. Astarion’s hold around you strengthens. You smile giddily, burying your head in the space between his neck and shoulder. At this exact moment, you feel your affection for him multiply with each second that passes. It feels almost dreamlike, to share a home with the person you love. To have him accept your love wholeheartedly.

“I love you too,” Astarion responds softly, an apparent fondness to his tone.

You allow yourself to envision a future with him. One of freedom, adventure, and more than you had ever dared to imagine before. The both of you step outside of the manor hand-in-hand, your skin brushing against the gentle touch of daylight.

You watch fondly as Astarion basks under the morning light. Reflected in his eyes is the same sun you’ve known ever since you were born. At the same time, it feels as though you are seeing it for the first time all over again.

“To love and be loved is to feel the sun from both sides.” ― David Viscott

40 notes · View notes

oomfvia · 5 months

Text

⛧i'll fight for your life chapter 2: shelter

pairing: astarion/gender-neutral half-elf paladin tav/reader (second person)

spoilers for patch 5 epilogue

sfw, friends to lovers :)

1,823 words (3 chapters, 6,097 total words)

you can also read this work on ao3

likes/comments/reblogs always appreciated!

❥ chapter 1 ❥ chapter 3

Being the saviour of Baldur’s Gate felt less like glory, and more like the gruelling work you were used to from before the Absolutist crisis. Unlike your other friends, this city was all you had. Whether it was out of a sense of duty or simply the lack of other options, you took on the responsibility of helping to rebuild the city with a smile.

That morning, you checked the mailbox like any other. Returning to your study, you sighed as you set another hefty stack of letters onto your desk. While there were sometimes a select few mistakenly sent to the address’ late owner, most were for you. Before you knew it, the role of a gallant Baldurian hero was reduced to a glorified worker bee. Between hunting down remnants of the Absolutist cult and cleaning up after Archduke Gortash’s old propaganda launches, it left you with barely any time to search for Astarion.

As you sift through envelopes, the letter from Withers comes to you like a breath of fresh air. It only seems fitting for a paladin to be aided through divine intervention during such trying times. You shove all of the other letters from imperial houses and Flaming Fist leaders into a drawer, and focus on what to wear for the reunion at High Hall.

He would be there, after all.

At the reunion, you’re reminded of how odd it is that people can feel nostalgic over things from recent memory, you included. Your past companions all arrive at the venue one by one, bringing a smile to your face with every addition to the scene. With each new visitor, came new stories to be shared. You much prefer listening to your friends’ anecdotes, compared to how you feel the need to break out into a sheepish smile whenever they ask of your circumstances.

In a deep crevice of your heart, you can’t help but feel jealous, almost. While Lae’zel was forming alliances between races in distant lands, you were being run ragged by the patriars. While Gale was pursuing a new path in education, you were being met with complaints from supporters of the late Archduke Gortash.

“Just…Helping to get the city back to normal, I suppose.”

Their smiles are polite. Approving, even. It’s honest work, if anything. But compared to what they have to show for it, what you’ve done suddenly seems like an awfully dull six months. More importantly, you’re distracted.

Your eyes wander past tables, tents, and barrels. To your dismay, there’s no vampiric elf in sight. For some inexplicable reason, you feel the bitter taste of guilt on your tongue. You’re surrounded by friends you’ve missed dearly, all of whom you’ve endured hardships of gargantuan proportions with. And yet, just from the absence of one, you feel a crushing sense of loneliness.

Your eyes linger towards the table, featuring an appetising spread of dishes laid out lavishly. Then, to the multiple bottles of wine originating from different regions. In all of your days of juggling various tasks, when was the last time you had a drink?

Far too long ago, it seems. In the matter of a few glasses, you were now absolutely sloshed.

Who cares if Astarion doesn’t show up? He doesn’t owe us his presence. I can have plenty of fun without him. Or so you tell yourself. If even Withers couldn’t conjure Astarion up out of thin air, you were starting to lose hope in your search. But you refuse to let it ruin your evening among equally dear friends.

After a few more drinks, you tumble towards the riverside a moderate distance away from the event. It’s so unbearably warm, your whole body feels like it’s just another sip from burning up into flames. As you dip your toes into the waters, you notice how it reflects your face under the pale moonlight. Your eyes are half-lidded, and your hair was somehow tangled into a dishevelled nest. You squat, peering deeper into the water as you comb through strands of hair that refuse to stay in place, muttering under your breath.

“Darling, I haven’t seen your skin this flushed since that time at The Waning Moon.”

You hear a dulcet voice, distinctly louder than the distant sounds from the campsite. Your body stills, your fingers still lodged between your split ends. If you could hear the voice from this near, the owner should be reflected in the water. And yet, you’re only greeted by your own befuddled expression.

You turn your head slowly towards the direction of the voice, your eyes trembling. Then, you are met with the same face you have been instinctively searching for in every crowd for the past six months.

“...Astarion?”

More specifically, Astarion with blood stains all over his blouse. He raises his hands with an added flourish, with the same sense of showmanship unbefitting of his appearance.

“Apologies for the lateness. The life of an adventurer can get rather messy.”

“An…An adventurer?”

The vampire laughs, as if he was already expecting you to react with surprise. Of course you would. You were the one known for being righteous to the point of foolishness, and he was known for practically the opposite.

“It turns out that no one actually cares about murder, as long as you murder the right people. And apparently I’m rather good at it.”

For someone who has left you in such grief for the past six months, Astarion is far too casual about his whereabouts for your liking. You furrow your brows as you frown at Astarion, thoroughly unamused.

“I was looking for you,” you utter quietly. Disproportionately quiet, compared to the rising heat in your chest. You couldn’t quite place a finger on whether it was due to the alcohol settling in your system, or petty annoyance at how nonchalant he was being in contrast to your previous helplessness. Considering how you felt like a fool, you decide that it’s the latter.

“Really?” Astarion asks, his voice softening as well. Instead of with words, you simply respond by scrunching up your nose.

“I…I’m sorry. I felt ashamed.”

Your expression softens slightly at Astarion’s apology. He continues, a wry smile on his face, faint lines emerging against his skin.

“I felt like I’d lost everything, just as you claimed your victory. I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

And just like that, your anger extinguishes as easily as it was ignited. During your journey, you were so caught up in your own insecurities. Wallowing in your own self-pity, it had never crossed your mind that Astarion could have had his own. In hindsight, it was such a simple thread of logic to follow, and yet it felt like a grand revelation. All you can do is stare at Astarion blankly, your eyes as wide as an owlbear's.

“...Hold that thought. Would you like a drink?”

Compared to yours, Astarion’s goblet remains practically untouched as you sit by the water. You inhale deeply, your cheeks flushed in a warm pink. As he speaks, you blink rapidly, trying your utmost to absorb every single word he says. You make a valiant effort to maintain your focus, even if it feels as if your head is partly submerged in water.

“Time lent perspective. It wasn’t your victory, it was ours. And for all I’d lost, I had gained so much more.”

Astarion’s words sound strangely muffled, and his mannerisms vague through your hazy eyes. It all melts into a wonderful blur. You give him a lazy nod, along with a hum of acknowledgment.

“Are you alright, my dear? I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink for the night.”

You frown, taking a deep breath before responding. Even if only marginally, you feel your focus readjust for a second. “I’m fine, just…go on.”

Unfortunately, your concentration breaks immediately after, and you return to staring quietly at the indistinct shape of Astarion shrugging.

“I had freedom, strength — a whole new life. And it was time to live it.”

The corners of your lips curl into a smile at Astarion’s last words. You never expected any sort of return for that time in Cazador’s palace when you had dissuaded him from completing the Rite of Profane Ascension. And yet, you can’t help but feel a great satisfaction swelling up in your chest. In that moment, you had made an irreversible change to Astarion’s life. A change for the better.

“From the moment I first threatened you, I knew you were someone special. Someone to take on the world with.”

Astarion smiles in a way that’s unusually sentimental for him. That, along with the alcohol warming your body, makes you feel a strange stir at the pit of your stomach. Silently, you put down your goblet with a soft thud.

“I will miss our time together. But then again, maybe this isn’t goodbye so much as it’s…’See you later, darling’.”

Despite the objective beauty of Astarion’s words, you can’t help but disagree vehemently. If that wasn’t a goodbye, what is? You remember the frustration of the day you had watched Astarion burn, jagged edges along the fragments of his skin. The desperation as you ran after him, sprinting past debris and rubble.

You look into Astarion’s eyes, swallowing thickly as you prepare to make yet another irreversible decision. One that doesn’t seem quite as wise as the one you had made during the Black Mass.

“...That new life you were talking about.”

“Hm?” Astarion hums, his eyebrows raising in curiosity.

“Is there any place in that life for me?”

“I must be so heavy. Please, let me down. I’m fine,” you insist, trying very hard to not sway in Astarion’s hold. Your hands clutch onto his shoulders for dear life, your knees shaking against either side of his waist.

Astarion scoffs at your words, seemingly offended at how you’ve just underestimated his strength. “I’m not being careful because you’re heavy. I’m being careful to make sure you don’t vomit into my hair.”

The vampire’s answer shuts you up, and you simply let your body meld against his back. It feels just a touch broader than you had expected it to be, which does strange things to your pulse. Silently, you pray to every possible deity in the hopes that he won’t notice your disproportionately loud heartbeat.

With a soft groan, Astarion lifts your body up and starts to walk. His footsteps are even and slow, in a painfully tender act of care.

“Hold on tight now, we’re heading home.”

Home.

The word echoes in your head. Clearly, Astarion wasn’t talking about that decrepit house that you had haphazardly moved into after the battle with the Netherbrain. And he was most definitely not talking about Cazador’s palace. So where was "home"?

You don’t know exactly where you're headed, but you know that it is by Astarion’s side. That, in itself, already feels like home.

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