#tav: vanquish | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fullofbees · 4 months

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My God's Bane (Astarion x F!Tav)

Tav no longer recognizes herself while Astarion finally comes to terms with his feelings towards her.

AKA I wrote my own leadup to Astarion's confession scene :3

CW: LOTS of angst, religious conflict/crisis, mentions of past physical, emotional, and sexual abuse (Astarion), mild depictions of gore Word Count: 9,437

He liked to think that he had a talent for reading people at this point. Most wear their emotions clearer than they believe. Even when they hide behind a quiet, joyful, or indifferent mask, everyone slips, shows their hand so to speak, and that’s when he strikes.

However, when it came to the leader of their ragtag band of weirdos, she was easy. She slipped the moment they met, when he cornered her about killing one of those brain creatures outside the nautiloid crash. She all but ran to his supposed rescue, not thinking twice that the man before her could pose harm. It was as simple as breathing back then, to betray that small boundary of trust when he held his blade to her throat.

Her heart was on her sleeve, and she extended it to every wayward soul they encountered. With remarkable speed, she was able to secure new adventurers for their mission. She made vows to the tieflings and druids alike, intent on restoring order despite the limited time they had. Whether foe or ally, she sought the safety of all involved – such is the way of a valiant paladin. It was an inconvenience, honestly.

Ever since they arrived at the Shadowlands, though, Tav’s personality changed.

Their first day in the darkness brought them to battle between the Harpers and their arachnoid escort. The towering bastard had to go and cast Sanctuary constantly, leaving the rest to pick off the weaker cultists until they could find an opening past his defense.

Tav had swung the final blows, her blade illuminated in a holy light that was nearly blinding against the shadows. The drider fell, and joined his fellow Absolutists as bloody road markers.

She was an excitable kind of person, cheering and hollering with the smallest of victories, giddy with triumph whenever her enemies fell. Add Karlach into the mix, and Astarion was positive that sleep would evade the camp that night, the two warriors whooping into the night, drunk off wine and adrenaline.

But, as she had stood over the vanquished drider, Tav was silent. He could not make out the emotion that crossed her face; reverence – or perhaps mourning, as he watched Tav kneel to close each eye the spider possessed.

Astarion knew he was the only one to witness it. The others were engaged in conversation as the Harpers so graciously invited them to their little hideout, in the form of an abandoned inn. When Tav stood from the ground and turned, she froze upon seeing him standing there, eyes wide with panic as she fumbled for words to say.

All she managed was a desperate, “Please don’t tell the others.”

He didn’t understand why, at the time, he had allowed her to place such trust in him.

The same night, when everyone was gathered around the campfire, joking and sharing stories over whatever meal Gale managed to throw together, she stared into the flames until one of their companions pulled her mind back to the present.

“An actual drider,” marvels Wyll, “It would have been magnificent if it weren’t so grotesque. Wouldn’t you agree, Tav?”

“Hmm?” She hummed, eyes transfixed on the bowl in her hands.

“The drider,” Wyll tried again, almost in disbelief that she had not heard him the first time, “What did you make of it?”

Her spoon circled the bowl for the umpteenth time, the sound immensely grating to Astarion’s sensitive hearing.

“Him,” she muttered.

“I’m sorry?” Wyll asked.

“What did I make of him? He’s a person, not an ‘it’,” she corrected with a huff of offense. “That poor man...”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to pity the creature,” admonished Shadowheart, “It is only fitting that one be punished for failing their Goddess. Really, we were doing it a favor.”

There’s an unwon arrogance that Shadowheart tends to mince her words with. Usually, he would find her quips amusing, but he wished she would have read the obvious tension.

“He’s not a creature!” Tav slammed the bowl into the dirt in front of her. The metallic clang of the spoon against ceramic rang out into the stunned silence of those around the fire.

“He was hurting! Desperate to be seen after Lolth’s rejection... and all it got him was a tadpole from another cruel Goddess!” Tav’s hands clenched into fists, brow furrowed as her eyes focused once again on the flames, “He didn’t deserve to die. I could have-- I mean, we could have done more!”

“I do not understand,” said Lae’zel, “Why do you show such sympathies for the weak?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” chimes in Karlach, and though Astarion assumed she would start on another lecture about friendship and unity, Tav did not let her finish.

“I’m afraid I lost my appetite. Good night,” she said, her meal abandoned as she stomped off to her tent.

Karlach sighed, shaking her head at Lae’zel. The githyanki had not moved, still perplexed by the situation around her. An uneasy quietness quickly descended upon the group, broken only by Wyll bidding them goodnight. A chorus of muttered ‘goodnights’ followed as they began to disperse.

Considering it an outburst of exhaustion, Astarion left Tav to stew in her tent. He wished he hadn’t, for she was no better the next day.

It was normal for her to seek their thoughts while exploring. She’d ask Karlach or Lae’zel for tips after combat, banter with Gale and Wyll, show Shadowheart every damn “pretty” flower she found, and insisted on directing as many vampire jokes as she could at Astarion. It didn’t matter how dreadfully unfunny they were, she always laughed.

Adventuring was quiet now, as she ushered them from place to place, battle to battle, without a break. They found various victims of the curse, most a century old, but some new and with unfortunately familiar faces. It did not matter how long the bodies had been there, Tav grieved each one, tears streaming from her face as she read letters of their last words. While she bawled at their corpses, Astarion brooded, wondering when he had started to miss her laughter.

She was praying more often as well, sequestering herself alone in whatever corner she could find and frantically whispering. Once, when she ceased her incessant prayer, Tav appeared to be locked in some kind of trance. She did not react to sound or touch, the whole of her eyes overtaken by a ghostly, lavender hue. She stayed that way for two hours.

Everyone saw the tears that streamed from her eyes when her mind had returned from its journey, but she refused to answer their questions.

Karlach approached him one night, nearly a tenday after Tav’s original outburst, telling him he needed to figure out what was wrong. He had scoffed at the tiefling; after all, it’s not like he cared about whatever mental issues shared rent with her tadpole. Right?

“She likes you the most, fangs. If there’s anyone she’s willing to open up to, I'm bettin’ it’s you.”

He laughed then, loud and boisterous, to hide the rising tide of excitement and anxiety that Karlach’s words had caused.

“Trying to use me to pry into Tav’s life, are we?” He tsk-ed. Though he smiled, his anxiety had given way to anger. It poked and taunted his deepest fear; that he’s only useful when he can be used. It’s so painfully obvious that’s all he’d ever be, that even sweet Karlach knew it.

But something besides the tadpole lurked around in his mind; why does he feel bad about tricking Tav? That is his whole plan, is it not? Use the strong sword-wielding lady to safely travel back to Baldur’s Gate, she dices this stupid cult and Cazador into pieces, and then he dumps her, finally free from any master’s grip.

He banished the intruding thought instantly, bottled it as deep as it could go, for the looming answer to his question threatened to make him sick. He is undead, a creature of the night, an external parasite that feeds on Tav at night until he can find someone, something, better. His skin is cold as ice and his heart no longer beats. He has no heart to give; or so he tells himself.

“You know that’s not the case,” Karlach had chastised, seemingly offended he could suggest such a thing, “We’re all worried. You can pretend all you want, but I know you are too. You can help her, Astarion.”

Now that was a curious sentiment. ‘Help’ is numerous in its contexts; Cazador certainly considered himself helpful, merciful even, as he watched his new spawn vomit blood and dirt after clawing out of their tombs. The word implies a give and take, and the world is far more eager to collect than it is to provide.

To put it plainly, he had nothing to offer their melancholic leader; he is nothing and has been for a long time. Still, Karlach had come to him, apparently unaware of his obvious lack. Perhaps he should hear her out. Perhaps she saw something in him.

“And just how should I ‘help’?” Astarion asked, condescendingly drawling the question out, rolling his eyes for good measure.

He saw how the edge of Karlach’s lips twitched, how her eyes narrowed, the way her mechanical heart roared to life with a bright spark before settling back into quiet embers. In poetic irony, it seems that he burned her.

“Hells below, Astarion,” she nearly yelled, exasperated, tired, and practically begging him to cooperate. He doesn’t blame her for the outburst. Without the annoyingly bubbly attitude of Tav, the tension between party members had been amplified and pulled taut. They all may very well snap soon.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he dismissed her then, attention focused back on the tome he had in his hands. But his mind did not process the words on the page. He reread the same line damn near ten times before he gave up and went to bed instead.

His rest was anything but; it was fitful and full of sorrow.

It was times like then when he wished he could slumber like every other living creature. When his victims and fellow spawn would speak of nightmares, they told tales of distorted visions and intense fear. His waking hours were already plagued with such issues, he could easily handle the nightmares. But no, instead he was cursed to revel in his own pain during his meditative rest, reliving and experiencing his own terrifying truths on repeat.

That night, he tried searching for something he could do for Tav. Something that the others could not; something to prove his value to her. He did find it. It didn’t take him long at all.

All he had to offer his little troublesome Tav was his body.

And it broke him.

He spent that night with the realization that this is who he is and always will be. A body to be used and used and used and used and used and used and used and u s e d.......

Thankfully, Tav had asked him to stay at camp that morning. Even though he teased her with his usual, “Darling, I thought we had something special,” she could barely manage a smile, and muttered her thanks before flittering about camp in preparation.

It was probably for the best, knowing how useless he would have been with that morose epiphany swimming in his mind. Though awake, the uneasy feeling from the night did not dissipate. His emotions were all over the place, that much he was sure of, but they had always been identifiable. Agony, desperation, emptiness.

Now new and uncertain feelings – gods how he detested the word – seized his chest. Images of Tav pestered him the entire day; the bags under her eyes, the unkempt hair, the dying light of her spirit. Karlach was right, he was worried.

Still, he could not find the source of his worry. He’d spent the last 200 years surrounded by shambling corpses and their victims alike. They slept like dogs, were beaten like beasts, so really, who was he to judge for a bad hair day?

Astarion saw no use driving himself mad about it, after all, he had always warned her that her heroism couldn’t last forever. He spent that day doing what he does best when he finds himself without her company, distracting himself with enough shit wine and even shittier books. He didn’t think his tolerance would be shit too.

Words had soon blurred together, and despite the book’s distinct lack of arcane knowledge, the letters seemed to arrange themselves in puzzles. He slammed the tome shut, opting to sit in the privacy of his tent and will away his growing headache. While his thoughts were no less jumbled, the feelings from before were becoming clearer.

Worry; The presence of the undead made it impossible for him to feed on anyone other than Tav. Even though she always assured him that she did not mind, he felt like he was using her, and for the first time in a long time, he felt bad about being such a devious bastard.

Rejection; He’d never tell, but the absence of Tav returning his superficial flirtations left him feeling empty. He tries to tell himself that it isn’t him, it isn’t his fault, but that doesn’t mean it hurts any less to not have her affection.

Fear; He would give his body to her, if it would make her happy. Thousands before her had found pleasure in him, it would be easy for him to allow her the same. He wanted to believe that he’d be selfless, place her needs and comfort above his own; but he knew he could not. He is selfish. Could she want a selfish man?

It dawned on him then, what this cocktail of vulnerability and yearning was. The cause of his worry, the source of his comfort, the reason he felt like an idiot. He lov-

The party had arrived back at camp, and he had stumbled to his feet to meet them, for how would it look if their charming vampire companion was found sulking and brooding in his tent. Karlach immediately shed her armor, talking about how stuffy it felt to be metal-clad. Gale carried a sack with the night’s dinner ingredients in hand and grumbled about the pain in his knees as he knelt to light the fire. Lae’zel, despite her stoicism, appeared happy, covered head to toe in the blood of the fallen.

Tav looked no worse than she had for these last few days, and that ought to count for something. He watched as she removed the outer pieces of her armor, wincing when the harsh edges dug into new and old bruises alike. She picked up a rag and a small mirror, wiping away the blood from the cuts on her face.

The sight of the crimson spilling from her skin reminded him of his hunger. Their quid pro quo arrangement had been forgotten in her despair, and he was desperate at this point for anything she would give him. Blood, sex, shallow praise, whatever she had to offer.

Oh, right.

He had yet to offer himself again, so what reason would she have to keep up her end of the deal?

He downs the last of the wine in his goblet, swallowing the intoxicating substance just as the reality of his situation swallows his hope. With measured steps, he approached her tent, taking quiet yet deep breaths to ease the misery he felt knowing he’ll never be more than this. He opened his mouth to call her name, but Tav released the ties holding back the rainfly of her tent and shut them all out.

That should have been it, but his drunken mind reminded him of his promise to Karlach, and his predatorial hunger lurched at the idea of another night unsatiated.

Once the others were asleep, Astarion snuck into her tent, part and parcel to their routine since she first discovered his true nature. It was easier for him when she was asleep, not that the sharp pinch of his fangs left her totally undisturbed; but to approach while she was awake only guaranteed in his mind that he would end up on his back again.

Tav was facing away from him, lying on her side, a formerly white linen sheet covered her sleeping form. Nothing was amiss as he had stalked closer, brushing the strands of hair away from her neck, his mouth unbelievably dry. He knelt, the perfume of her blood wafting sweetly from beneath her skin, as he placed his hand on her shoulder to steady himself.

She awoke then, the force of her sitting so abruptly pushed him back and sent him stumbling. He had, thankfully, caught himself with his hand before falling into the dirt. Still, he was equal parts annoyed at dinner being interrupted and worried that he was caught.

“Hells, Astarion, you scared the shit out of me,” she whispered.

“And you almost broke my nose,” he chastised; not a total lie, but an exaggerated one, nonetheless.

Tav rolled her eyes at him before letting herself fall back against her bedroll again, “Oh, you poor thing, want me to kiss it better?”

At least she appeared to be feeling better, back to the self that loved teasing him.

“If you’re offering, who am I to say no to the hand that feeds?”

Upon realizing that he would not be allowed to dine and dash, Astarion straddled her thighs, ready to bargain for what he needed. He let his hand rest on her hip, soothing circles through the fabric of her nightwear.

“Yea, s’pose you can’t say you won’t bite,” she said through a drowsy laugh.

He allowed his hand to wander then, down the inside of her thigh, fingers trailing along the seam of her pants, “As if the lady would protest my bites.”

With a kiss pressed to her lips, Astarion silenced any innuendo or proposition she may have made. He did not want to hear it, could not stand the idea of her confirming all the horrid things he thought about himself.

This unspoken deal only served to remind him of how temporary freedom would be. At worst, he would return to Cazador, and the bastard would tell him how lucky he should feel, how there were other mortals dying to be in his position. He wished he could tell him that adding an ‘s’ before ‘pawn’ doesn’t make being a puppet any more lucrative.

She promised that she would not let that happen. She promised to free him from his master’s chains, but what comes after? He would still be bound to the night, doomed to prowl moonlit streets for an eternity. Killing would still be his status quo, whether mammal or mortal, in order to satiate his hunger.

Would she stay with such a monster?

Thoughts he did not want to entertain had barged to the forefront of his mind again, and he knew he needed to move this along. At least with sex, he could force those thoughts away, bottle them back up, and allow his body to numb. At least, this way, he survived another day. At least her body is warm.

At least—anything he can say to himself to justify another night on his back and to ignore the resentment building in his heart.

Her lips had parted in a moan, and his tongue quickly lay claim to her mouth, as his hand finally cupped her sex. She gasped, and as his mind had started to drift off into the numb void, he had been pulled back by the feeling of her hand pushing against his chest.

When he separated himself from her body, Astarion wanted to scream, wanted to shake her; why did she insist on taking the lead? It would be easy with him on top; he wouldn’t have to look at her, to feel her weight on top of him. Must she be so difficult?

“I don’t want to have sex tonight.”

What--

He looked down at her then, saw the flush in her face, felt how her hands fiddled with the ruffled collar of his shirt but harbored no intention to remove the clothing.

“I’m not really in the right headspace for that,” she explained, “Plus, I can taste the wine on your lips...”

“Right, well...” He didn’t know what to say.

Astarion was frozen above her, unsure of what he was supposed to do. Awkwardness had settled over them both, each one terrified of scaring the other off should they move or speak. Until, the dots connect in her head and she practically launched herself upright, almost smacking herself into him again.

“You haven’t fed since we got here, have you? Shit, I’m sorry!” She said as she pulled her hair to the side, exposing the column of her neck.

Any other time, he might have shoved her away, storming out of her tent as his hunger gave way to the embarrassment of it all, his crumbling ego unable to cope. But as she all but dragged his mouth to her skin, urging him to drink, Astarion was thankful that her care outweighed his own pride.

His fangs pierced her flesh, and she hissed at the pain, but did not complain further.

He recalled the conversation they had about what their friends would taste like, debating over who would be sweet and who would be savory. Once he had mused that she would be bland, only if to rile her up, but the depth of her lifeblood had truly surprised him.

She is a winter’s mulled wine, deceptively simple at first yet brimming with spice as she settles on his tongue. Hints of citrus tease his palate, the last taste of summer’s sweetness yielding to the zest of cinnamon and clove. It was gone as soon as it came, leaving its enjoyer to eagerly await the next mouthful.

As he drank from her, he had felt the echo of a memory in his chest, of his younger days scribbling away next to a hearth, of a man who made his heart flutter and his skin burn with want. The man’s face remains obscured, buried under years of torment, but the feeling is there; the rush of something new and exciting; the naivety of first love.

With wild hair and soft eyes that regarded him as if he held the entire world, the elf below him had unearthed a humanity he’d long since forgotten. What a wondrous feeling it was; to release all that had been brimming beneath the surface, to give names to the shadows, to feel again.

Again, her hand pushed against his chest, weaker than before as she mumbles, “O-Okay, I’m starting to get dizzy.”

His fangs retreated from her skin, and as his lips captured any wayward drops, he realized he did not wish to completely part in that moment. Gently, he laid her down against her bedroll, back on her side. He situated himself behind her, basking in the newfound heat that flowed through his veins, and allowed his breath to even out. Tav was already fast asleep when he turned, wrapping his arm around her and cuddled her to his chest.

...

Astarion had made sure to return to his own tent before dawn broke and if Tav had noticed the vampire snuggling her in the night, he was eternally grateful for her silence on it in the morning. He did not want to hear the insufferable taunts and jokes the others would make if the two of them were discovered together. Gale or Wyll, hells, probably even Karlach, would remind him that it’s only natural for two adults to seek out company between their giggles; as if he’s a little boy who's embarrassed about his crush.

But that is what he is, isn’t he? He’s tucking tail and scurrying away because he’s afraid of others seeing that he is capable of feeling. Brazen displays of emotion, especially ones of love, are signs of a weakness to be exploited. Everything he had ever loved had been taken from him, had been hurt because of him. He could love her, he wants to love her, but it would just be placing a target on her back. Another one of Cazador’s endless lessons.

She is safer this way.

For what it’s worth, Tav did appear livelier that morning, bantering with Shadowheart as the cleric healed their bloodless leader, and it earned him a thankful pat on the back from Karlach.

“Ah, I love the taste of Lesser Restoration in the morning,” Tav hummed happily, arms raised above her head as she stretched the sleep out of her body.

“I don’t know why you insist on coming to me,” said Shadowheart, “You’re the one who chose to be a walking blood bank, and I know Paladins can cast Lesser Restoration. Why don’t you heal yourself instead of making it my problem?”

“Because you’re always so charming,” Tav teased, “How do you expect me to resist?”

“Kicking and screaming, I hope,” deadpanned the cleric.

“See what I mean? Our own little ray of sunshine!”

After breakfast, Tav assembled that day’s crew. The idea of a day of physical labor after last night's mental exhaustion made Astarion less than eager to accept her invitation. Still, he had said yes, and donned his armor as he made a quiet vow to himself.

He will always keep her safe in one way or another.

The day’s mission had involved infiltrating the House of Healing to find something that could be used on this Art Cullagh fellow. Astarion had accepted, by this point, to not concern himself with the details and just assist Tav with whatever heroics she found herself agreeing to. They would happen with or without him.

The exterior yielded nothing of value, except one half of a pair of warding rings Tav found on the skeleton of another victim. She was somber as she pocketed the ring and read the lover’s note, but composed herself afterwards, and said a small prayer before pushing forward. He had felt some level of pride and admiration, watching as a new strength kindled inside her. There was inflation to his ego as well, a selfish joy in thinking that his mere cuddles could fix her woes.

He should have known better. Life had never been kind.

They had entered the House of Healing through an antechamber that reeked of decay and spoiled blood. Infirmary beds were strewn about, and of the few that weren’t outright destroyed or flipped over, they looked less than pleasing without a mattress to cover the rusted springs. Rotting towels, shattered wash basins, and an unknown film covered the floors. Voices echoed from the main chamber ahead, so each step further in was made cautiously.

They passed through a door to their right and discovered what used to be a woman as she floated before two of the beds, covered in nurses' attire that clearly didn’t know the definition of sterile. She - no, it - paid them no mind as they had approached, gazing down at the implements and bandages before it as if it couldn’t figure out what to do.

With her hand on the hilt of her sword, Tav spoke first, “Excuse me, ma’am?”

“Don’t call the doctor yet!” came the soft plea of the creature, “I’ve got potions, sutures - I know I can do this...” It turned to address their fellow nurse, yet startled when it saw the Paladin, “Oh! You’re a patient. This is the children’s ward – triage is back that way.”

“I have something else I’d like to ask you,” Tav started, but her words faded off as she looked beyond the nurse in front of her.

Two bodies laid still on the beds, clearly dead, though it was hard to tell if it was from the Shadow Curse or the nurse’s ‘treatment’.

In an instant, Tav drew her sword, resting the blade in a tail stance, voice low with anger as she asked, “What are you doing with the dead?”

The nurse regarded her with confusion as she replied, “Not dead, merely medicated. To ease the pain.”

Tav raised her sword, now bracing her weight in a plow stance, the tip of her blade dangerously close to the nurse’s abdomen, as she snarled, “I asked you a question, creature! What are you doing with the dead?”

Astarion had watched Tav face countless foes since their adventure together began. Even with the most wicked, she had never been so blatantly offensive. In hindsight, he realized that all those foes had been alive; fought them she must, but always done so reluctantly, and always ready to spare a life when able. There, in the House of Healing, did he first witness her true devotion as a Doomguide.

Of course, she had told the group of her deity; was overbearingly eager to share it, in fact. Kelemvor; Judge of the Damned; whose symbol featured a skeletal hand raising balanced scales. Tav wears it on her chest – darkened purple stitched into a solid black surcoat that she dons no matter the armor underneath. She told them the stories of her years as a lone wanderer, proselytizing Kelemvor’s wisdom, performing last rites for the dying, and destroying necromancers.

She was a protector of the living, and a slayer of the undead.

The creature did not answer her question, insisting that the patients were sleeping and to be quiet lest they wake. The last words the creature heard were Tav’s whispered, “In Kelemvor’s name,” before the blade was plunged clean through its body. It collapsed to the floor, trying to speak, but the blood pooling in its throat only allowed for senseless gurgling.

Tav placed her foot on the corpse and pushed it into the heap of flesh as she withdrew her blade. Thick, blackened blood congealed on the metal, and Tav held it in a white-knuckled grip as she stepped over the body and towards the beds.

She took one glance and immediately turned around, tripping on the creature's body as she rushed out of the vestibule, landing on her hands and knees, as her sword skidded across the floor. She did not rise, instead sinking to her elbows as her hands pulled at her hair to the point that Astarion thought she might rip it out.

Karlach rushed to her side, trying to ease the Paladin up as hushed sobs echoed off the walls.

“Hey now, soldier,” said the tiefling, taking hold of Tav’s biceps and urging her to sit up, “Don’t go getting soft on me.”

Shadowheart bypassed the two and peered into the beds before gasping, “It’s Arabella’s parents.”

Another choked cry broke out from Tav as she finally sat back on her haunches, rubbing away her tears with a grubby hand, “I fucking hate this place.”

“We all do,” assured Karlach, “But we gotta keep moving forward; don’t want to have worms forever, do we?”

“No,” came Tav’s hushed response before she stood to her feet. She picked up her sword from the floor, flicking some of the blood off, “Let’s just get this over with.”

Malleus Thorm was an abhorrent sight. Deciding to take the lead after Tav’s second outburst, Karlach interrogated the cursed doctor about his peculiar treatment plan. He spoke of Shar, of darkness, of absence. The victim strapped to the table was catatonic from the aimless carving of the nurses’ blades, though he was soon comatose after the doctor’s mechanical claws dug into his eyes.

Tav was antsy behind her, shifting on her feet, practically chomping at the bit to send the undead man back into oblivion. The battle was difficult, but well won. Tav’s anger and adrenaline combined with Divine Smite proved a lethal combo.

Shadowheart pulled a lute from the corpse of Malleus and held it out to Tav, “I think you might want this.”

Tav took the lute, strapped it to her back and made way for the exit. Despite the exhaustion they all felt and the rush of emotions Tav must have experienced, she stayed silent. No cries, no curses, not one tear to be found. Astarion felt that agonizing mix of worry and sorrow creep around him.

He increased his pace until he was able to fall in line with her, their other party members straggling not far behind.

“Are you alright, darling?” He asked quietly, still not quite ready for his care to be announced to the world.

She only nodded.

...

If he thought their adventures had been quiet before, they were dead silent now. Every fight with another Thorm family member pushed Tav further into despair. Any attempts by their companions to make her smile or laugh were futile. She walked and fought like a zombie, resulting in her near-death numerous times. Lectures about how she needed to mind herself went in one pointed ear and out the other, apparently.

Her silence was only broken by the fits of sobbing that occurred from her tent each night. If she managed to fall into her meditative state, it would end with her lurching forward, gasping for air as she scrambled off into the corner of camp to empty the contents of her stomach.

Karlach had to take over as temporary leader, and if she had her way, Tav would’ve stayed behind. Yet, when the Paladin appeared every morning with her armor and sword ready, the tiefling couldn’t find the strength to not let her tag along.

Astarion also insisted that he be allowed on each mission, even if his skills weren’t useful for their goal. For whatever reason, Tav listened to him more than the others, and would only accept his help when she found herself injured. He had to be there for her, even if watching her suffer wore away at his own sanity. He often found himself looking at the warding ring she had silently given him after their fight with Malleus, and wondered if he would ever hear her laugh again.

Bones, blood, and viscera decorated the entrance hall. The gore was mundane to him, no more unique than a cobblestone street or tavern lights in the dark. The dank and forebodingness of the crypt did not stop him from admiring its beauty. The ruins must have been a marvelous sight in their heyday, brimming with the Lady of Loss’s worshippers as they sought to drown out their sorrow and begged for her guidance amongst the crystalline decor.

Their group split to investigate the various rooms that surrounded the concourse, with him following behind Tav as she investigated the nook to the right. Through the towering archway, he saw that it was no more than a chamber, perhaps used as foyer for those who came to grieve the Thorm family. More bones were littered across its floor and piled in its corners. He saw nothing novel, yet Tav stopped stock still.

“Myrkul...”, she had hissed with disgust, hands clenched into fists that shook in splintering rage.

Peeking over her shoulder, he saw the triangle of femurs that had been constructed in front of the dilapidated desk, a skull perched neatly in the middle. He joined her at her side, casual when he had faced her and asked carelessly, “Who?”

Truthfully, the name and symbol were of no interest to him; a forgotten name from a bygone era, and most importantly, a deity that had ignored his prayers. She looked up to him then, and the dusty air must have been getting to him, because he swore her gaze softened when their eyes met.

“Myrkul Bey al-Kursi, a necromancer and prince who ascended to godhood when Jergal willingly parted with his title,” Gale interrupted just as Tav was about to speak.

Astarion rolled his eyes at the wizard and resisted the urge to pettily stomp his foot against the floor. His look was not enough to kill, but it did have Gale surrendering, hands up in a wordless apology as he had backed away from the two.

“Correct,” Tav said, breaking the tension she didn’t know had occurred, “He was usurped by Cyric, but the Prince of Lies was defeated by Kelemvor.”

Astarion was desperate to keep her talking. He’d listen to an entire history lecture if it meant she’d come back to sound mind. Back to him. “What use would a servant of Myrkul have with some Sharran shrine?”

“It doesn’t matter what ‘use’ they have for it,” admonished Shadowheart, “Lady Shar has decreed that Ketheric must die for his betrayal, and ridding her temple of other disgraces in the process is as much a bonus as it is an honor.”

Listening to the cleric’s devotion was uninteresting at best, and torturous at worst. He almost pitied the poor girl, blindly following a goddess out of fear of what her memories might hold.

Astarion had expected Tav to mirror Shadowheart’s enthusiasm, but instead saw her bristle, hands wringing together nervously. She was unrecognizable to him, the proud warrior now hunched in on herself as she gnawed at her bottom lip. Anxiety was radiating off her in waves; she looked like she might vomit.

His body had moved before he had realized what he was doing, hand reaching for her shoulder to comfort her. When his cool skin had made contact with her chainmail, she recoiled, eyes wide and breath unsteady. Hurt by her reaction, he let his hand fall limply to his side, and gruffly announced that the party should keep moving.

His patience wore thin as they descended into the abyss below the mausoleum. Gale and Shadowheart both wouldn’t shut up about the various magical auras they were picking up on. Sensing Shar’s presence in the Temple of Shar? Who could have guessed the dark goddess would have been there? Bloody amateurs.

Tav nearly fell in battle again against the Dark Justiciars that were forever cursed to protect the temple. She was unfocused and reckless, and the shadows had swarmed her after making quick work of the necromancer’s lackeys. To make matters worse, there was still no sign of the devil Raphael had tasked them with killing. There were hundreds of rats, though, and the sight of them left a bad taste in his mouth.

With some convincing from both he and Gale, Tav finally acquiesced and agreed to return to camp for the evening. Night had developed a new, uncomfortably familar cycle by then, with Tav disappearing to her tent before anyone could say anything to her. She would eat her dinner alone. He would pretend he didn’t hear her crying throughout the night.

They found Balthazar the next day, and it was the first time he ever saw pure hatred burning behind her eyes. They barely survived, the undead necromancer’s poison draining their strength while his ghouls beat them with decayed teeth and talons. When the bastard finally fell, Tav stood over his corpse, whispered a prayer, and then carved her blade through the fat of his neck. She stabbed her sword repeatedly into his chest, moving down his torso until he was no longer recognizable; just a pile of oozing sinew and flesh. His hulking, sewn-together abomination was the next target of her wrath, and it too was reduced to a pool of guts and blood.

It was not enough.

She destroyed the furniture, set the bookshelves ablaze, tore down everything the necromancer kept in his makeshift laboratory. The rest of the party removed themselves from the room, watching silently from the threshold as their near-death leader found the strength to take all of Balthazar’s worldly possessions with her.

It would have been sexy as hell if it weren’t so concerning.

She eventually collapsed, falling to her knees, sword clattering to the ground with a metallic clang echoing around the room. Silence followed; stares were exchanged between Astarion and his fellow compatriots, each one wordlessly asking the other what the hell had just happened.

Tired of walking on eggshells, of not doing something, Astarion walked over to Tav and kneeled in front of her. She didn’t notice him at first, eyes shut tight and chest heaving with labored breaths. He reached out again, placing his hand on her knee.

She was startled, but didn’t move away like before. Instead, her bloodied hand covered his own, fingers tracing over his knuckles, inadvertently smearing the crimson against his pale skin. When he suggested they retire to camp early, she finally, finally, met his gaze. Glimmering violet swirled in her irises, no doubt the remnants of whatever magic she called on Kelemvor for. It faded away, leaving him with the woman of his adoration, looking broken and lost.

Clinging to his armor, she staggered to her feet, yet nearly toppled again when she went to pick up her sword. It was instinct really, for him to grab her waist and to keep her upright. He certainly had held her hips in more lascivious situations, but somehow he felt more naked that time.

Vulnerable.

He doesn’t think he can keep this a secret any longer.

…

This last tenday has been punishing, and Astarion carries its weight with him as he searches the encampment for his wayward paramour.

He finds her on the staggered rock where they helped Halsin rescue Thaniel, staring out into the darkness. Her posture is relaxed as she leans back on her arms, legs dangling off the edge where the water beats on the stone below.

The silt crunches softly beneath his boots, and he knows she has heard him approach when her ear twitches. He settles himself beside her, brushing off any stray granules from his armor with a huff of disgust. She giggles.

It must look comical, how quickly his head snaps up at the sound, searching her face for signs of madness. After how despondent she’s been, he expects to find a vessel, a hollow being with the residue of what was a soul, begging to be let go.

Instead, he finds her kind smile, as she now swipes away the remaining dirt from his calf, “Not a fan of sand, I take it?”

For all his prose, there is no poetry, no song, no prayer that could mimic the joy he feels when she teases him. He’s been drowning, his mood anchored to hers, and now she has yanked him from the abyss once again. Is this the feeling all those bards crooned about? That every two-bit novelist dreamed of capturing?

He had long given up on such fantasies, convinced himself that the very notion of love made him sick.

Love.

There’s no use pretending anymore. It is love that he feels for Tav. It’s why he mopes at the end of the night if she dares to speak to him last; perhaps the tad murderous feeling he gets when he sees her acting too chummy with the wizard. It’s the comfort of knowing someone has his back, the safety of her sword shielding him from attack, the promises of freedom sleepily whispered between lips in the night. She is the first breath taken when he surfaces. The sun pales in comparison to the warmth in her touch, though she is just as apt to kiss his cheeks.

She is back and gods, how he missed her.

Gods, how he loves her.

“No, I don’t,” he responds in his bantering tone, “It’s rough... irritating... and it gets bloody everywhere.”

She hums in agreement, gaze falling to the ground before returning to the river. Silence befalls them again, and he finds himself clamoring for words. He wants to confess his love, sing her praises, ask her what the hell is wrong with her. Anything to fill the silence, he refuses to live in the saturnine hellscape that has been the last week any longer.

“Astarion,” she beats him to it, “I want to apologize for my behavior these last few days. I put everyone at risk and going forward I’ll be sure to keep everything in check. Can’t have everyone dying because of incompetency.”

A bit too diplomatic for his liking, and her laughter is much too forced. He’ll need to teach her some proper acting; it’s a miracle she’s survived as long as she has with that disaster of a performance. Aren’t paladins supposed to be charismatic, or is it the weapon that does most of the talking?

“Oh, you were in a bad mood? I hardly noticed,” he states with all the indifference he can muster.

She leans into him to playfully jab her elbow into his side, muttering expletives in an elven dialect he hasn’t heard in ages.

“Seriously, I’m sorry if I made you worry.”

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” he rushes out, hand idly scratching the back of his neck.

The tension returns, though not as overbearing as before, as questions remain unasked and feelings unshared. It’s a bitter push, as neither is used to talking about their depths, and he doesn’t want to pry; yet a sweet pull, as he remains at her side, wishing for the awkwardness to dissipate.

“It’s just...” She begins, and though she faces forward, he catches her sneaking looks at him in her peripheral, “There’s so much going on, I don’t know where to start.”

If he had any blood in his body, he’s sure it’d be racing, his heart thumping wildly in tandem. He thinks she’s ready to talk, and that is half the issue. He thinks, but he doesn’t know; it terrifies and thrills him all the same. He wants to know her – aches for it, if he’s being honest.

But he is terrified, so sure that he’s going to fuck up and ruin the one good thing he’s had in two hundred years. If she rejects him now, shuts him out for good, he’s not sure he can take it.

This was supposed to be easy; she was supposed to be easy.

“It doesn’t matter where you start, I’ll be here for the end.” Shit, shit, SHIT.

“Astarion,” she gasps, hand over her heart, his name melting into a laugh, “That was actually smooth.”

He tsks, “I take offense to that. I’ve always been smooth, you’re just too brutish to notice.”

She laughs again, shaking her head as an enamored smile graces her lips. Her hand brushes stray locks of hair behind her pointed ear and even in the dim glow of the inn’s spell, he can see a blush staining her cheeks.

But then, she sighs, slow and tired as her fingers soothe circles into her temples, “Can you keep a secret for me?”

It’s what he’s been pining for, offered on a silver platter, and how could he not say yes.

He raises his hand to his chest, drawing an ‘x’ over his armor, “Cross my heart and hope to—uh, well, you know.”

Another chuckle escapes her lips as she adjusts her position, angling herself towards him.

She swallows thickly before continuing, “Well, I uh—I talked to Kelemvor.”

“Is that not par for the course for you Doomguides?” He asks incredulously, eyebrow raised and head tilting as he chuckles.

This time, she does not grant him a smile or a laugh, focused on picking at her cuticles and the dirt under her nails.

“I haven’t spoken to him since the nautiloid, I figured the tadpole was interfering,” she says hushed, shame and guilt on the edges of her voice. “I was preparing myself for the worst, but what I got was an impossibility.”

What kind of cryptic bullsh-- She’s been hanging around Withers too much.

Hundreds of possibilities race through his mind. What he knows of Kelemvor is only from what she has shared; while he did not seem to be a vengeful god, they already have one person burdened with a suicide mission. He could live without the blabbersome wizard, but her?

He should have known the universe would only offer him misery, to dangle a sweet treat before him and rip it all away before he had the chance to savor it.

“Did he ask you to sacrifice yourself?” He wants to hear it from her, needs to hear her say those dreaded words so he can make peace before she is nothing more than bones and fading memories.

Her eyes find his, inflamed with tears she no longer has the strength to shed, “I wish he did.”

The pain, the anger, the grief of the last few days resurfaces in her voice, that flare of purple sparking in her irises. Astarion does not often find himself shocked, but the callous and tempestuous storm raging beneath her skin leaves him speechless. Instincts tell him he is witnessing only a fraction of her fury.

Then it ebbs, retreating like the tide, as she takes a deep breath to steady herself.

“I’ve been having doubts, about my purpose, about this path I chose. I expected Kelemvor to berate me for lacking faith.”

Her hands go back to tearing at her cuticles.

“He by no means praised me, but he wasn’t furious, either. He didn’t seem like himself... He didn’t even look like himself. It was as if his passion was gone. I asked him what I should do, and he told me that only I can determine my future.”

“So? What’s wrong with that?” He was genuinely confused by her demeanor. Self-determination, autonomy, freedom; all the things she promised to help him find and keep, yet she fears them for herself.

“Kelemvor has been a part of my life since I was a teenager, I’ve devoted myself to him for the better part of two centuries. I don’t-- I don’t know who I am without him.”

A kindred spirit.

She clenches her jaw, letting out a frustrated huff, “What am I supposed to do? I can’t stay a Doomguide to a god who abandoned his own principles!”

He knows she is bleeding from her nail beds, the lovely scent of spiced wine in the air.

“I took an oath of devotion, to be honorable, compassionate, and honest. I do not fear death of myself nor my loved ones, for death is not something to be afraid of. It is not something one must seek, but it is what one should embrace should it find you,” She explains, “For the last two hundred and fifty-six years, Kelemvor would remind me of these tenets, and commend me for every valiant foe I slaughtered in their image.”

As sweet as the fragrance is, he takes her hands in his; they have seen and caused enough damage for the time being.

“And Kelemvor just... doesn’t care anymore. Every time we saw some poor undead creature cursed by Shar, I was reminded of how he dismissed me, like I was a fool for ever following him in the first place. I was his valiant hero, one his most beloved Paladins, and now what? I’m nothing.”

“You are not nothing,” he replies in an instant, “You are everything. You don't need Kelemvor to be honorable or compassionate, because you already are those things. He was lucky to have someone as devoted as you, but if he wants to toss you aside, then good riddance; it’s his loss, and everyone else’s gain.”

Crimson floods her cheeks again, as she stares at him dumbfounded. He fidgets in the momentary silence, the feeling of actually sharing one's feeling still mildly uncomfortable. But then it dissipates, because she smiles at him and brings their clasped hands to rest over her heart. Its beat is comforting.

“Thanks, Astarion. I don’t know what I would have done without you these last few weeks.”

“Someone had to keep you alive. I know I said you would make a pretty corpse, but that doesn’t mean I’m eager to see it, darling.”

“I’m sure Shadowheart would let you have a nibble if I passed,” she says with a laugh.

“Perhaps, but I don’t think she could compare.”

The steady rhythm of her heart increases under his hands. She adjusts herself again, scooting closer to him so that she can lean her head against his shoulder. Her eyes close as she relaxes into him, and he feels so relieved at knowing her touch could be so intimate yet still so gentle.

“There’s just one thing I don’t understand, Tav,” He says, his thumb softly tracing along her knuckles, “Why were you having doubts in the first place?”

“Oh! Um...” She says, head lifting from his shoulder, “It’s so embarrassing, don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t you dare hold out on me now,” He pleads as he slings his arm across her back, hand resting on her hip and pulling her in close so he can whisper, “Especially when it comes to gossip!”

Sagging against his side, she groans out, “You are the wooooorst.”

He raises his hand to his face, making a dramatic show of clearing his throat before uttering a very sickly sweet, “Please?”

“Okay, fine,” she huffs before grumbling out something unintelligible.

“What was that dear? No one likes a mumbler.”

“Because of you! Because... I like you,” She says, carding her hand through her hair; her walls tumbling and every emotion she’s shouldered alone spilling forth in a maddened haze.

“I’ve seen hundreds of undead, most of whom I gladly sent back to their graves. They were merely the husks of the people they once were. Any soul left in them was but a dying echo as they pleaded for their suffering to end. I thought I was helping,” she says, voice shaking, “But what if I ended the life of someone who just wanted-- no needed-- a second chance? Was I an arbiter of divine justice, or just some glorified executioner? I started to question everything when we met.”

His mind is a whirlwind, thoughts simultaneously speeding yet slow. The half of him that yearns to be known, to be loved, is battling against his ever-present fear that he is not worthy of such. It’s a terrifying concoction, one that has him questioning just how accurate Tav’s description of the undead is. He has no idea who Astarion is; he knows who the elven magistrate once was, but who is Astarion the spawn, besides Cazador’s infernal expectations?

“By no means am I saying that you haven’t suffered, but you are not some hollow corpse, Astarion. Despite everything that’s happened, and everything that has yet to come, you have grown in unprecedented ways. You’ve broken a mold, defied all odds. You’re simply breathtaking...”

He is, isn’t he? No one has given him enough credit; no one has truly recognized the pure shit he has survived through. No one has offered him the chance or the choice to be better. He’s tired of the untrusting sideways glances, the disgusting feeling of some stranger’s eye roaming his figure. He’s always been expected to fall in line, and today he makes the promise to finally live for himself.

“When this is all over, I want to stay by your side, if you’ll have me.”

She looks at him with reverence, like he can pluck the stars from the night sky. He has seen this look before, when she would talk about Kelemvor, and he swears his undead heart nearly beats under her adoring gaze. He has no army to command, cannot turn into mist nor bat; he is practically powerless, and yet she wants him anyway. She believes in him, even though he can’t trust himself. Where he sees nothing, she has found something worth abandoning her god for.

“I don’t think I’ve heard you this quiet before... are you alright?”

He cannot find the words necessary to explain his delight. Even if he did, he doubts he’d still even be able to form them, arrange them into proper sentences. The truth has rendered him speechless.

It doesn’t erase the fact that she sounds hurt, scared even, at the prospect that his silence means rejection. He recognizes the feeling all too well, and if she can overcome its pain to tell him the truth, then dammit, he can do the same. Perhaps he will forever roam darkened streets, but that doesn’t mean all of him must remain in the shadows. He must be honest, expose his own secrets to the proverbial light, and allow her the same choice.

“Oh yes, I’m fine. I just... feel awful.”

He hopes she chooses him all the same.

“Look, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan-”

#fullofbeeswrites #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion/reader #astarion/tav #astarion #astarion bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 astarion

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bloodycyrano · 3 months

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Little things I think team tadpole would do for one another.

Part 1.

I think Durge/Tav and Wyll would be willing to read karlachs favorite childhood stories to her, since I don't think she could really pick up and read books- being flammable and all.

Astarion would use his sewing skills to stitch up Clive- And maybe make a few more little stuffed animal friends for Karlach.

I also think Astarion would pull Durge/Tav aside when he noticed them getting stressed out and forcibly talk them through some self care.- Astarion is the king of passive aggressive pep talks.

Gale would definitely try to help Wyll try to figure out how to turn back to the way he was before Mizora turned him into a devil.

Tav hosts group therapy sessions every Sunday, prove me wrong.

Wyll has done a lot of research on vanquishing vampire lords, and has probably made up a complete vampire slaying kit simply labeled "Cazador"

Lae'zel does nice things for people all the time, it's just that nobody realizes it. She's carrying most of your weapons, you don't think she's the one who sharpens them? She does. Without being told to, without asking for praise. Sometimes, she'll go back to the traders after dark because she realizes Durge/Tav hit random on camp supplies again, and Gale has nothing to work with.

Everyone knows Gale takes care of most of the cooking at camp, but I don't think anyone realizes he has a list of everyone's food allergies clipped in the back of his spell book, and even makes potion modifications depending on how his companions react to certain ingredients.

I also feel like Halsin started experimenting with herbology after finding out that Durge is afraid to go to sleep because they don't want to hurt anyone in camp, and ended up making them a sort of sleeping tincture to help their Bhaal-induced sleepwalking.

This one will maybe be a little less popular, but I headcannon Tav/Durge to be autistic, largely because I'm autistic, and I could definitely see Shadowheart making little cards for them with like "Yes", "No", "Angry", "Sad", "Overstimulated", etc. So that they could still communicate while having a meltdown.- Bonus points, they start learning sign language together if they have really high approval.

Wyll made some flashcards to help Lae'zel understand some of the norms, pronunciations, and overall weirdness of Faerun.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion #bg3 durge #dark urge #gale dekarios #lae'zel #baldurs gate tav #shadowheart #karlach #wyll ravengard #halsin #team tadpole #headcannons

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dark-and-kawaii · 3 months

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𝐹𝓇𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒹 𝐿𝒾𝓉𝓉𝓁𝑒 𝒟𝑜𝓋𝑒

Haarlep x Reader/Tav

Summary: Haarlep is torn between their nature as an incubus and unexpected feelings for you as they comfort you through a nightmare.

Notes: This was supposed to be apart of the soft Haarlep series but I preferred it on its own. Maybe I’m wrong for that, but still enjoy our favorite incubus xoxo

Ao3

Haarlep stirs from their slumber as they sense your body wracked with silent tremors. Their groggy gaze, heavy with the remnants of the void, lands upon you. There, in the dim lighted boudoir, they watch your features contort in silent agony.

Your brows knitted in distress; eyes flickering in a frenzied dance behind their veils, fists clenched to the point of blanching, and oh, those delectable beads of sweat adorning your brow, rendering you a vision of tortured grace. Trapped in the clutches of a nightmare, how Haarlep’s dark heart revels in the sweetness of your fear. You looked beautiful like this.

Yet, as he languishes in the sight of your torment, a bitter reminder gnaws at them; you are Raphael's precious "little mouse”. A reluctant savior, the incubus nudges your shoulder, coaxing you back to the waking world of Avernus. Your eyes flutter open, brimming with tears that carve trails of sorrow down your cheeks.

"Such agony etched upon your face, a sight so deliciously tragic," Haarlep muses, propping themselves up on one elbow, drinking in the view of your disheveled form. Your breaths come in tattered heaves, your gaze locking onto theirs with a terror that suggests you're still ensnared by the nightmare's tendrils.

"Haarlep?" you whisper, the name a feeble breath of sound.

"Last I checked," Their tone laced with an edge of mockery.

You scan them, searching, clinging to the reality of their presence. "I... You were-,” You hesitated, your eyes twitching from the vivid nightmare, “You were dead…- taken from me in that nightmare…," you confess, your voice a fractured whisper as you burrow into their warm chest, seeking solace. "The fear was-, the thought of losing you… I-”

Those words strike a dissonant chord in Haarlep's shadowed heart. Their expression falters, unseen by you. Shouldn't your heart be laden with dread at the thought of losing Raphael, not them, a mere incubus bound to the infernal depths? The revelation is a torment all on its own, a twisted irony that stirs within their damned soul.

Your head remained buried in their chest, Haarlep could feel the cascade of tears soaking into their skin, each drop a testament to your fears. Your grip on them tightens, as if afraid to let go, as if desperate to anchor yourself to Haarlep to assure you of their existence. Fingers dig into their fiendish skin, a grasp so desperate it borders on pain, a silent plea for him to remain at your side, "It felt so real, Haarlep," you murmur against them, the weight of your sorrow imbuing your every word. "To lose you… I- I couldn't bear it… I was so scared."

How Haarlep longed to devour those precious tears, to gorge themself on your terror. But, there, in that moment, with your trembling form nestled against their chest, your words meant for them rather than Raphael, they feel the ache to embrace you, to soothe away the shadows of your nightmare.

"You should watch your words, dove," Haarlep purrs, stroking the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. "What would Raphael do, should he hear these words?"

You stiffen at the mention of his name, your breath caught in your throat, but the tears continue to spill.

"What would you have me do?" Haarlep hums. "Would you have me vanquish the devil that taints your dreams?" They punctuate the question with a nip to your shoulder, savoring the flavor of your skin, your body responding with a shudder.

"Just… stay with me," you breathe. "Please. Don’t ever go."

Haarlep sighs. How cruel this night proves itself to be, taunting them with a morsel of desire and then robbing them of its sweet sustenance. But they oblige, allowing you to wrap yourself around their frame, their limbs coiling around yours.

"Sleep," Haarlep whispers against the nape of your neck.

Their command seeps into the air. It beckons to your consciousness, dragging you back into the realm of sleep. Haarlep watches as your muscles relax, a contented sigh escaping your lips. A smirk graces their lips, yet the expression fails to reach their eyes, an emptiness lurking behind their crimson gaze…

An emptiness that is foreign, unwelcome. A feeling unbefitting of a creature born of darkness and lust. Haarlep's nature dictates they relish in the despair of others, and feed off their pleasure, not offer comfort, not feel the pang of something akin to... concern? But as you lie there, clinging to them, Haarlep cannot deny the shift within, the stirrings of a sentiment they dare not name aloud.

In the quietude of the boudoir, with only the flickering shadows as their audience, Haarlep contemplates the enigma you've become. To them, you are Raphael's, yet, in this moment, you are undeniably theirs. The incubus is caught in a web of their own making, one thread of true care woven into the fabric of deceit and seduction.

"Little dove," Haarlep murmurs, their face pressing into your shoulder. You nestle closer, a silent affirmation of the security you feel in Haarlep's arms as you drift off.

Haarlep remains still, allowing the quiet rhythm of your breath to wash over them, a calming counter to the chaos of their thoughts. Soon a new day will bring reality, and with it, Raphael's return. Haarlep knows that when the time comes to relinquish you back to their master, the incubus will do so with a heavy heart, a heart that should know no such weight.

For now, they allow themselves this indulgence, to watch over you as you sleep, to be your silent protector against the night's terrors. And when you awake to greet Raphael, Haarlep will retreat behind their mask of indifference, their role as your companion tucked away like a shadow at daybreak.

Yet, as Haarlep's eyes finally close, surrendering to the weary pull of their own slumber, they cannot escape the truth that has been whispered in the dark: they do not wish to let you go. And that realization is perhaps the most terrifying dream of all.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate #raphael bg3 #tav #haarlep #Haarlep bg3 #haarlep x tav #haarlep x reader #bg3 Haarlep

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graveyard-cuddles · 4 months

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There's this post I saw on here about how if the player turns Shadowheart over to the Sharans, the rest of the party should all turn on you. I completely agree, and I think they should also mutiny against Tav/Durge if they tell Orin to just go ahead and kill the party member she takes hostage. Act 3 feels like the act where everyone in the group should care about each other the most and yet it's the act where they arguably feel most disconnected from one another. And this is all probably a symptom of the overall lack of reactions and responses to major events in Act 3 from the companions in general.

But another similar example that drives me insane is how, if you ascend Astarion and then immediately turn on him and side with the Gur, ALL of the companions will just be like "Nice work taking out the trash, team. Job well done. Another vampire lord vanquished, " without so much as a hint of emotion after you betray him, gang up on him and KILL HIM?? As if they hadn't spent weeks and possibly months traveling with Astarion, getting to know him, bonding with him, ect. As if they hadn't just all stood there and let him complete the ritual. But the moment Paladin Karen and the Gur show up, they just abandon all that over what? Some vague ideal of "evil is evil black and white no nuace" nonsense? (which is even more ridiculous if some of the other companions are evil like DJ Shadowheart or Minthara).

The only companion with a reasonable reaction is Halsin, who correctly points out you should have tried harder to stop the ascension rather than betray Astarion and kill him after it happened. I understand that not all of the companions have the best relationship with him. And I understand all of them very much disapprove of him ascending. So I don't expect the whole party to mutiny over this particular decision. But the fact that they ALL uniformly turn on him so quickly for these people they don't even know is disappointing. There should have realistically been some pushback/objections. Or at least some guilt and sadness and reflection over the fact that they all just had to kill their former traveling companion/friend that THEY allowed to become this threat they felt warranted putting down.

It feels like it should be an incredibly tragic and cathartic moment, and it just falls spectacularly flat. I tried to rationalize their reactions as just part of the shitty lack of responses the companions all generally have in Act 3. But at least with Shadowheart and the hostage situation with Orin the companions will still be ANGRY at you and express their disaproval. Whereas here it really comes off like they just don't give a shit about Astarion and never really did. It's depressing.

I feel like it unintentionally and very sadly lends validation to the idea that what Astarion says about no one else being like Tav/Durge. No one else will look out for him. No one else will have that same kindness for him. No one has a heart like them. I don't actually agree with this notion. I think based on the good epilogue for his spawn ending he's definitely capable of making friends and genuine human connections. But Tav/Durge HAS to come first. They have to be the example that shows him how.

Also why I can't stop repeatedly romancing him. Astarion needs Tav/Durge arguably more than any other companion. He has nothing and no one else.

#also don't come for me for calling the gur lady a karen lmao #i understand the gur have every right to be angry i just don't like her okay?#she's a monday morning quarterback #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #bg3 act 3 spoilers #bg3 astarion #astarion #baulders gate 3 #ascended astarion #astarion ancunin

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katreneebug · 6 months

Text

I'm Okay (Trust Me) (Part 1/3)

Summary: Defeating Rapheal, and subsequently obtaining the Orphic Hammer, had gone exceptionally well. At least in comparison to how things usually go. However, as the companions move forward with their plans of parasitic liberation, Astarion can’t help but notice that their leader, and his lover, isn’t quite herself. Despite Tav’s assurances, the vampire spawn can tell that the events befalling The House of Hope still haunt her in more ways than one.

Parings: Tav x Astarion, Minor Shadowheart x Lae'zel

Warnings: Explicit content, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Dubious Consent, Sexual Coercion, Slight Victim Balming, Sexual Trauma, Eventual Smut

A/N: I decided to write this after I got through the House of Hope on my first playthrough. At first I was really excited at the prospect of getting to bed an incubus in the game but after everything was done I kind of felt off about the whole thing. Especially given that the player, after deciding not to fight, is given the choice to either let Haarlep use their image to have sex with a bunch of strangers or straight up die. It hit a little too close to home in regard to my own sexual trauma and how that has affected my self-esteem, relationships, and mental health.

I want to stress that there are some aspects of the story that don't match with the gameplay. An example of this would be going beyond the party size. You can pretend that this story is based on that no-limit companion mod lol.

Link to AO3: Here

No last-minute begging had left Rapheal’s lips when Karlach raised her axe above him. The fact that it had been the final stroke came as a surprise to Astarion and, based upon the silence that drenched the room, the others. Not too far behind her could hear Tav panting, her magic practically drained to its limits. In the peripheral of his eyes, he could see Shadowheart’s armor move up and down as she too sought to catch her breath.

Hope, who appeared the most worn out of the bunch, stood frozen to her spot by the door. Karlach noticed her immediately and moved to check on her, weapon still sunk deep within Rapheal’s chest. Astarion took the opportunity to walk over to him, caution obvious in the way he gripped his dagger.

There was no final spook to be had, though. Rapheal was dead, eyes wide and mouth slightly a gape with no more theatrics left on his tongue. Good Riddance, he thought. A smirk danced onto his lips as he decided it was okay to turn back towards his companions. Hope was no longer a statue, the erratic motions from before returned vigorously as she took in their victory.

The memory of Cazador lying vanquished on the ground materialized in his mind. He brushed it away quickly as Tav’s eyes landed on himself. A half-smile was the most she could muster before Lae’zel garnered her attention, talks of the next step towards freeing Orpheus’ flew from the githyanki’s mouth in rapid, yet precise, order. The lines in Tav’s forehead creased as she let her friend speak. Deciding to take pity on his lover, Astarion moved to stand beside her.

“—The Emperor will know of what we have done, we must act fast upon our return.”

“I—”

“Surely you can’t expect us to go straight into the undercity of Baldur’s Gate after quite literally killing a devil.” Lae’zel sharp glare snapped up to meet his eyes. “I for one am not doing anything till I’ve had time to clean up, all of this.” His hand, the one not resting centimeters away Tav’s lower back, motioned to the state of his armor. Rapheal and his friends had left the floors of the foyer dripping in all sorts of blood and guts and, while Astarion’s body was happily intact, his outfit begged to differ.

“He’s right, we should get some rest before meeting with Voss.” Lae’zel’s head snapped to see Shadowheart approaching. “It would be foolish to confront a mind flayer and a devil on the same day.” Lae’zel didn’t reply immediately, though the answer for what they should do was clear, she was not any happier to admit it.

“All right,” she spat. “Prepare for an early departure by dawn, I will not wait for anyone.”

“Of course,” he hummed with a dismissive wave.

. . .

“I’m just saying we should take some more time to discuss our next course of action.” Gale instinctively backed up as Lae’zel stalked his receding form. “It would be unwise to go in all wands blazing without considering the effect this might have.”

“I am not leaving my Prince at the hands of a ghaik any longer.” Astarion had no interest in interfering on the wizard’s behalf. Watching the man sweat was more than amusing. “The only thing unwise would be for you to continue talking.”

“What if freeing Orpheus leads to us losing our only protection from the absolute.” It was Wyll who stepped in between the two. No surprises there, the vampire thought. Lae’zel had burst through the doors of their room at the inn with an attitude ready to fight the next person who dared to go against her plans.

“It will, I’ve already told you that freeing Orpheus will only result in him—”

“Will someone please get the squid to shut up.” Astarion winced, feeling the pain of The Emperors telepathy within his mind. How lucky Halsin and Jaheira were to not feel such an annoying headache.

“Gladly,” Lae’zel sneered.

“There are still other issues that we need to address.” Halsin’s voice passed by Astarion from behind, he could feel the bear of a man coming closer to the group before passing the vampire all together to aid Wyll and Gale from the Lae’zel’s wrath. “Orin and Gortash are still alive, it would be best to get rid of them before going to the astral plane.

“Agreed, we cannot allow the absolute to draw more power from the city. It’s time we faced them.” Halsin nodded an acknowledgement at Jaheira, her argument adding to the growing resistance.

Quickly the room devolved into a mass of bickering, Lae’zel mostly fighting alone on her side. It took Astarion a few moments to realize that there was something off about the whole scene. It stumped him briefly but the soft steps of someone else moving about in the background was the answer.

“Not going to step in, dearest?” Tav jumped a bit as Astarion walked towards her, his back now to the group. “It’s very unlike you.”

“It’s been a long day,” the bed bounced slightly as she dropped her pack onto it. “And I don’t feel like picking a fight with Lae’zel.” If only the rest were that smart, he thought. “She’ll see reason soon enough, anyways. We really do need to usurp Orin and Gortash while we can.”

“I’m sure she will,” his lips curled. “Right after she breaks a couple of Gale and Wyll’s ribs, of course.”

“Shadowheart will fix them up,” her body joined the bag as she sat down onto the covers. “Or Halsin, either way they’ll be fine.”

“I love this newfound ‘compassion’ of yours,” he briefly glanced away, catching sight of a smaller person far from the argument occurring. Either Yenna was blissfully unaware or was doing a great job at pretending everything was okay. “I just wish you had acquired it earlier.” Then maybe they wouldn’t be stuck worrying about every little orphan who manipulated Tav’s kindness.

“They’re adults, they can take care of themselves.” He raised an eyebrow at this. Was she really letting things go for once. “I’m tired and I want to sleep.” She wasn’t looking at him anymore, choosing to instead dig around into her bag that she never organized, even at his insistence.

“Fair enough,” a level of trepidation lined his voice. Before he could ask if she was alright, a loud clang hit the floor behind him, silencing the bickering voices. He turned away instinctively, catching sight of Lae’zel stomping away towards the door. A dagger, no doubt previously aimed towards the other men, laid forgotten at Halsin’s feet.

“Fine,” she spat, casting one last glance towards them before nearly kicking the door off its hinges. “Cowards, all of you.” With that, she was gone. Shadowheart moved a few steps, considering the possibility of going after her, before ultimately stopping. Even from her his spot, Astarion could see the way her jaw clenched, hands balled at her sides.

The rest of them dispersed to their own spots in the room, silence hung in the air uncomfortably. Karlach’s, he noticed, took a moment to collect Lae’zel’s dagger. She rarely used such a small weapon in combat, opting for her painfully heavy sword and bow. The little thing glinted in the light briefly before the Tiefling went to place it neatly on Lae’zel’s bunk.

Such a mess they were, he thought with a shake of his head.

. . .

He tried not to stare too much at Tav. His own bed had been placed directly next to hers and it was becoming harder to ignore the way she shifted and squirmed under the covers. Sleep came easily to the girl, at least most of the time. Her experience with combat and adventuring was limited before the parasite, her body unuse to such strenuous work. She rarely complained, though. The only indicator that this was tough for her especially being how quickly she tuckered out at the end of the day.

There was a chance that some of the chatter was keeping her up. The silence hadn’t lasted too long before Karlach, Shadowheart, and Jaheira set up some type of card game. They weren’t particularly loud, save for whenever Karlach gained the upper hand in the game. Gale had tried shushing her a couple of times before ultimately giving up. The book in his hands had eventually engrossed him enough to tune it all out.

When moonlight began to seep through their windows, Tav snores still not filling the air, Astarion decided to forsake his own spot. Standing over her crumbled form brought back the memory of the first time he had attempted to drink her blood. The few nights before that had been increasingly painful as he watched her lie so sweetly under the stars. Over time she felt less like a person and more like a beautiful feast, all set out for him alone. It was a shock, looking back, how long he held out on partaking.

Her reaction to noticing him looming over her this time around was much less frantic. A little bit of surprise played on her parted lips as she slowly sat up to speak. There was still a hint of innocence in her eyes whilst meeting his gaze. Scores of monsters and cultists had perished under her spells and blades and yet it didn’t jade her the way it would for other humans.

So precious, he thought.

“Is something wrong?” It came out as a whisper, her eyes glancing left to confirm that Wyll remained unmoving in his bunk.

“I was actually just about to ask you that, darling.” He wasn’t as quiet as her, unafraid that the Blade of Frontiers would wake up easily. “You’ve been acting peculiarly since we got back, care to enlighten me?”

“I told you I was tired,” she looked away. “It’s been a very long day.”

“And yet you’ve been tossing and turning for nearly an hour.” He crossed his arms over his chest, feeling a little too much like a scolding parent than a partner.

“I . . .” She trailed off, knees moving up to support her chest as she leaned forward. “There’s just a lot on my mind right now. Between the netherstones and Orpheus, it’s just overwhelming.”

“Anything I can do to help,” the bed dipped as he took a seat. There was little space between the two of them now and a part of him buzzed pleasantly at the thought of pulling her into an embrace. They hadn’t been all that touchy as of late. His confession at Moonrise had practically halted most forms of intimacy between them. An outsider looking in wouldn’t have guessed how close the two of them were in comparison to the others. Feather light touches and the occasional hug made up most of the relationship now. Sometimes he would steal a kiss, a usually quick action that ended before Tav had much time to register the affection.

They had on occasion shared a bedroll back when they were out in the wild. She’d curl up against his side, a hand resting on the part of his chest where his heart once beat. He’d count the constellations whilst listening to the change in her breathing, the obvious indicator that she had plunged into a deep sleep. There, hidden from Cazador and the absolute, a flutter would come and go underneath his ribs. Perhaps he wasn’t all that dead.

“No, I’ll be okay.” She shook her head, hair rustling against the sides of her face. “Don’t worry about me, please.”

“Easier said than done, my dear.” The little pout that appeared on her lips decided his next move for him. “Now, scout over.” Tav’s eyes widened, gaze snapping back up to his face. She was still for a few moments, studying his features with an intensity one might have for a major test.

Little voices scrapped against the back of his mind as he exalted all his control in keeping a calm demeanor. Any doubt or uncertainty would have Tav pushing him away. She was always so concerned about his comfort. It was welcomed graciously most of the time but, as much as the sentiment warmed his icy body, it could also sting. He was not nearly as fragile as she seemed to think he was.

She only puts up with you because she pities you.

“O-Okay,” Astarion almost breathed out a sigh of relief when she complied with the request. He wasted no time in joining her under the covers, lest she change her mind at his reluctance.

She was rigid against him, even after he comfortably adjusted against the mattress. Instead of holding him, like she used to, Tav rolled over so that her back was facing him instead. Both of her hands clenched the sheets rather than his clothes. It unnerved him even more than the silence that passed between him.

“You know,” he whispered. “I was afraid that your droopy mood had something to do with vanquishing our old ‘friend’, Rapheal.” Acidity coated his pronunciation of the devil’s name. Tav’s body twitched when she heard it, somehow tensing even more than before.

“I’m glad he’s dead,” disdain leaked from her mouth as she sought to relax her body. “I wish I had cut out his tongue earlier, though. I can still hear his stupid, dramatic voice in my head.”

“Perhaps I can take your mind off of it?” The sly words fell out of Astarion’s mouth without him even having a chance to think it over. Flirtatiousness was an instinct after two centuries and getting rid of it wasn’t something easily undone. A heaviness set within his chest, an all too familiar panic that he may have gone too far. She shook in his grasp and that heaviness gave way to bitter bile. Swallowing it down with a cough, Astarion placed a hand on her shoulder. “Forgive me, I didn’t—”

“It’s fine.” Her statement, spoken quicker than before, felt like a cut. “I’m not in the mood, anyways.”

Not in the mood for you, at least.

She thinks you’d break under her touch.

Besides, why would she want you when she just had him.

He inhaled sharply at the memory conjured up by the swirling voices. He would have kicked himself for carelessness had she not been lying next to him. Amid their quest within the House of Hope, Astarion had been able to push down their interaction with Rapheal’s favorite toy. Now, with her distant yet so close, he could no longer.

. . .

“I beg your pardon,” the snap of Astarion’s voice rang within the chamber. The marble floor beneath his feet nearly crumbled under the stomp of his boots. A hand kept him from getting closer to the bed before them. “Would you like to repeat that little request?”

“I said,” the incubus’ eyes looked only at Tav. “Take off your clothes.”

“Uh, why?” Her voice bordered on cracking. It was her fingers that kept him from throwing a dagger between Haarlep’s eyes.

“Do you or do you not want my help,” playfulness dripped from the incubus as he rolled softly against the covers of the mattress. “I at least deserve something from you, seeing as you’re asking for so much.”

“And you’re asking for an arrow through the throat.” Astarion grumbled, fingers flexing and ready for Tav to give the orders to fight.

“Hypothetically, what were to happen if I did take off my clothes.” His jaw clenched as the human woman spoke slowly.

“Well,” he drawled, lips curling in a cat like smirk. “Let’s just say it’s a surprise.”

“A surprise from an incubus? I wonder what that could possibly be,” Astarion’s mocking voice did little to faze the other man.

“No need to be so jealous, little spawn.” The grip on Astarion’s shoulder tightened, Tav accurately guessing how restraint was practically peeling away from him. “I have only the best of intentions in mind.”

“Oh really—”

“Gives a moment, if that’s okay.” Tav began to pull against him, trying to bring him back towards the group. Haarlep nodded his head which was answer enough for Tav to motion for the companions to form a huddle of sorts.

“We’re killing him, right?” An unsureness plagued Tav’s face as she shied away from his intense gaze.

“Honestly, taking up his offer might be the best option.” He made a point to glare at Shadowheart. She looked only at Tav though, not bothering with the pissy vampire. “As much as I want to avoid it, a fight with Rapheal is practically inevitable at this point. Especially if we go through with freeing Hope. I’d rather we save up our resources for that fight instead of wasting it on him.” She motioned towards the incubus with a jerk of her chin.

“If it were me, I’d rather gut him.” Lae’zel chimed in before Astarion could retort. “But I am not the one he is asking for.” Her gaze fell to Tav.

“I’m completely fine with ripping his annoying face off,” Karlach glanced back at the Rapheal look-a-like. “But yeah, it’s up to you soldier.”

“I mean,” the human’s face contorted as pros and cons weighed back and forth within her mind. “If we go against him, who knows what other cronies he’d bring into the fight. Plus, it can make it that much harder to get back to the hammer in time.”

She wants to say yes to him, the offer is rather tempting.

“Exactly, I say we get the hammer first with as little complications as possible.” Very few times had Shadowheart’s neck looked so perfectly ready to be ripped out in Astarion’s eyes.

�� “Why don’t you take her place, if the choice is so easy.” She rolled her eyes at him.

“I don’t see why not,” her lips curled up in a bitter smirk. “I’m sure he’s all sorts of fun.”

“Such a tempting offer,” Haarlep’s voice broke into the group. Apparently, the huddle was pointless if he could hear everything from his side of the room. “But I have my sights set on your little leader. She’s stirred up Rapheal quite a bit with how passionately she denied his deal.”

“Pity,” the former Sharran mumbled.

“Now if you lot are somehow able to survive this little trip, I’d be more than happy to pencil you in for a play date, half-elf.” A silent chuckle left Shadowheart’s lips as she shook her head. Astarion couldn’t tell if she’d be against such an offer in the future.

“Fight or Fornicate, make up your mind before we’re out of choices.” Lae’zel turned back to Tav as the human seemed even more indecisive than before.

“I . . .” Her eyes met his then, as the rest of the group waited in bated breath for an answer. They stared at each other as each passing second felt even slower than the last.

She wants your permission.

You’ve left her longing for too long.

The answer to her needs is practically begging to relieve her.

He could do so, so much more for her.

She’s tired of waiting for you to get a grip. So tired of holding your pathetic hand.

I’d be cruel to deny her such an experience.

“. . . It’s up to you, my love.” Throwing the façade of acceptance on his face wasn’t too hard to do. He had done it so many times before, he had practically become a master of it at this point. “I won’t hold it against you, whatever you decide.”

She was quiet, facing smoothing at as her decision was made within her mind. She turned back to Haarlep first, prompting the others to do the same. Astarion, though, kept most of his attention on her and not the creature he wanted to eviscerate.

Something inside him shattered as her lithe fingers went to the hem of her shirt. The realization that she was about to disrobe in front of Haarlep and their friends hit him like a pommel strike. The voices in his head were twisting wildly within his mind and somehow, throughout the horror of it all, he found himself bitterly thankful for Tav’s choice in today’s team.

It was no secret that all their companions had, at one point, made a pass at Tav. Her rejection of them always had a sliver of satisfaction rolling up his spine. In Karlach, Shadowheart, and Lae’zel’s case, they had taken her no rather well. It was easy enough for the later two who had begun ‘sparring’ away from the eyes of the camp sometime after their interaction with the creche. Their excuse was that they needed more space to fight and that they didn’t want to ‘accidentally’ hurt someone during the intense training.

Hate sex is the best sex, Tav had muttered one night as she and Astarion caught the two women glaring at each other whilst walking off into the woods. He had curled his lips at the scandalous statement, deciding silently to remember the tidbit for a possible future tryst.

Karlach, Astarion realized, was just happy to have the embrace of a friend. Romance had been easily forgotten by the Tiefling. The same couldn’t be said for Gale and Wyll. They had assured her that it was alright before and Tav had taken it at face value. Astarion knew better though, could see it in the way their eyes followed her. When she spoke, they would glance at her lips and look away as if caught with their hand in the proverbial cookie jar. The vampire spawn sometimes basked in the longing he could see within them every time he displayed even the smallest of Tav’s reciprocated affections.

“Could you all go guard the door,” snapping out his trance, Astarion watched as Tav put a pause on removing her clothes. “The last thing we need is Rapheal waltzing in.”

“Of course,” Shadowheart was the first to comply. Lae’zel quirked an eyebrow for a moment before leaving as well. He could feel Karlach looking back and forth between him and Tav. Reluctantly she placed a hand on his shoulder and encouraged him to walk away with her. Though her engine had been fixed, her palm was practically scalding against the thin fabric of his disguise.

“We’re just across the room,” he murmured. “In case you need us.”

With a nod of Tav’s head, Astarion finally complied with Karlach’s touch. The two turned around to trail after the other members of their party. He focused on the echo of the grand faucets flowing hot water into the pool between them. Anything to keep from catching the sound of whatever surprise the incubus had in mind.

“You okay?” Astarion growled lowly at the question. He knew that Karlach’s concern was genuine, deep down, yet he couldn’t help but feel only irritation.

“Of course I am.” He sneered; he wasn’t the one stuck staring at Rapheal’s stupid face. He considered telling them to not talk to him, as he was in no mood. Yet the little chatter that passed between the other three was something to hold onto. Very little went by the doorway of the boudoir, just a couple of miserable waifs limping about. A wonderful reminder of what might happen to them sooner rather than later.

“—Must we waste time freeing her.”

“Are you suggesting we leave Hope chained to this asshole.” He didn’t want to look behind him to watch their argument.

“The longer we stay here, the more likely we are to join her.” Shadowheart’s voice was farthest away. A little too far for his liking, more likely to see what was happening past the pool.

It must be quite a show, maybe she’ll tell you all the gory details later.

Or maybe Tav will, how long will it be before his name passes those luscious lips.

She won’t want you after this.

What’s the point of a pretty face when that’s all it is. She’ll get sick of looking at it when she realizes she could have more.

He didn’t know how much time had passed when Shadowheart’s voice cut through the mess in his head.

“It looks like they’ve stopped,” gods he was going to throw up. “Come on.”

Luckily the half-elf was correct. By the time the four of them had come to the other end of the room, Haarlep was already off the bed and looking starkly different from before. Instead of the near perfect imitation of Rapheal, he had shifted into a woman. An improvement, yes, but still too like the devil in looks. Tav was shimmying her shirt back on, something black and tight coverd the rest of her body. She hadn’t worn it before.

Haarlep, noticing their return, locked eyes with him particularly. The ends of his lips twisted higher than they had before. In the blink of an eye the new feminine form shifted into something all too familiar. Instead of the Rapheal look alike, a copy of Tav now smirked at him.

To his utter displeasure, the incubus was gone before the shock could lift. Tav didn’t waste time in collecting the contents of the safe. The portrait of Rapheal broke in half under her hands as she pried it off the wall. It was tossed unceremoniously across the floor. If only they had time to destroy more of the devil’s tacky décor.

“Let’s go,” Tav was striding past them. Determination set within the crease of her forehead. There were questions on the tongue of each one of them. Ultimately their curiosity was left unspoken.

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mando-cyare · 21 days

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Depravities of the Carnal Variety

Astarion x Named Tav, 18+

WARNINGS: Explictict Sexual Content, MINORS DNI, blood drinking, blood kink if you squint, complicated feelings about sex, flashbacks

Summary: With the Goblins vanquished, the party must ready themselves for the trek to Moonrise Towers in hopes of a cure. But not before they throw one hell of a party in celebration of their victory. After flirting for weeks, the tension between Astarion and Morgana appears to snap, drawing them together for a rendezvous in the woods that neither will soon forget.

Read HERE

((collage by me, banners by Saradika-Graphics))

#holly does fanfic #bg3 #astarion x tav #horns and fangs #astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion fanfic #astarion ancunin #tiefling tav #warlock tav

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des-no9 · 2 months

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second-hand love

a short comic on sharing love and falling in love, because of who we love.

featuring. my Tav, Vanquish, Kith'rak Voss and Prince Orpheus.

TW: sex, nudity and mild violence art and words by me

8 pages + 2 bonus below the cut

Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts <3 These three and their dynamic and love mean the world to me. I hope you enjoyed a little peek into their world and love.

Vanquish and Orpheus initially have a very rocky start to their relationship and love, but their love, I think, becomes beautiful and almost unbreakable. Gentle, peaceful, fierce, understanding - in comparison to her and Voss alone who are so wild, unyielding, passionate, life and death, desperate, need and need.

All three of them balance each other out. For better, and worse.

Thank you again my loves.

#bg3 #githyanki #kith'rak voss #orpheus bg3 #tav/orpheus #tav/prince orpheus #ot3: the prince the blade and the breaker of chains #prince orpheus #tav: vanquish #bg3 tav #vanquish tag #des draws #tav/kith'rak voss #orpheus/voss #what's ur fav page tho

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lirotation · 7 months

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I Hail From Silverymoon: The Desperation

POV my dream. I dreamed a little adventure with Astarion. I think I was Amaara in the dream because he referred to me as a wizard. In the dream there was this intense emotion of wanting to do anything for him. This was a couple weeks ago. Though I awoke happy, it showed my unhealthy obsession.

I smoothed the dream logic a little bit and wrote a fanfic based on it. Everything in purple is what actually happened in the dream. The dream will forever remain a treasured happy memory.

Astarion X Amaara (My wizard Tav)

_______________________

After pursuing rumors of a high cleric capable of reversing vampirism, Amaara and Astarion found themselves before a decrepit grand church in a dark, ominous realm. Through the imposing metal gates, hideous creatures wandered the courtyard. There must be hundreds of them

Amaara tensed, ready to charge in spells blazing. But Astarion halted her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Remember you're a wizard, not a barbarian," he chided gently with a chuckle. "Let's slip through unseen."

Chagrined, Amaara nodded. She waved an invisibility spell on both of them and followed Astarion's lead as he stealthily picked the lock on a side door. They crept along moss-eaten halls, alert for any sign of the mysterious cleric.

Mosaics on the walls depicted divine warriors vanquishing fiends. But the crumbling chapel they passed was defiled with dark sigils. Something evil lurked here beneath the holy trappings.

A rasping chant echoed down the shadowy halls. Peering into the sanctuary, Amaara and Astarion beheld a towering, ghostly figure kneeling in prayer amidst flickering candles.

Their eyes met, and without a word, Amaara and Astarion silently communicated their intention to proceed with caution. Amaara stepped forward, making her presence known by clearing her throat softly. The spirit turned toward them, his translucent form exuding an otherworldly glow that cast strange shadows on the chapel's walls.

With a serene expression, the spirit regarded them and, surprisingly, offered a warm and welcoming smile. His ethereal voice, like a gentle breeze, filled the air. "Greetings, travelers," he intoned, “I am Rhys, guardian of this holy place. What brings you here across the realms?"

Amaara stepped forward, offering a respectful nod. "I am Amaara Ashvale," she began, her voice steady. "We have come seeking your aid.”

Amaara hesitated only briefly before sharing their quest for a way to restore life to Astarion. She spoke of their relentless pursuit of rumors that had led them to this church, in search of a cleric rumored to possess the power to undo the curse.

As she finished recounting their journey, the spirit’s gaze seemed to penetrate their very souls, as if he were assessing the purity of their intentions. Finally, he spoke, his voice resonating with a sense of wisdom and compassion. "You seek redemption and salvation, both for your companion and your own souls. Such a noble endeavor should not go unanswered."

He beckoned them closer. "Come, and we shall commune on the matter."

Kneeling, the cleric took their hands. Closing his eyes, he began chanting softly. The markings on his arms glowed brighter as he summoned the divine power to scry Astarion's soul.

a staggering wave of divine energy pulsated through the chamber, a might that could rival that of demigods. Amaara and Astarion locked eyes, the sheer power coursing through them leaving no doubt that this ethereal being commanded the forces of life and death. Guarded hope shone in Astarion's crimson gaze - perhaps this awe-inspiring display meant the cleric truly could unravel his vampiric curse.

After some time, the cleric let go of their hands, he stood up, "I can indeed help you. follow me, my children."

The cleric led them to a ritual chamber well-stocked with arcane components. "We have nearly everything needed to undo this condition," He explained, gesturing at the shelves.

The cleric went on, "There are but two fresh ingredients lacking - the heart of a nightwalker, and the catalyst of life itself."

"One of them is easy," he continued. "The heart of the nightwalker. We have one in the courtyard, surrounded by his bodaks. It wouldn't be too challenging for capable warriors like you."

Amaara inclined her head, her resolve firm. "We can handle that."

"The other one, the most important catalyst, is life," Rhys explained solemnly. "You cannot find any sentient life here normally, but again, the boy is lucky. We have one single life in this realm right now."

A heavy silence fell as the grave implication sank in. As the only living soul present, Amaara herself was the final catalyst.

Astarion grabbed her hand, turning to go. "Ridiculous, we're leaving," he snapped angrily.

But Rhys held up a placating hand. "Please, hear me. For one powerful such as she, only half her lifespan is required."

Astarion's brows furrowed in confusion, and he glanced at Amaara, who appeared equally taken aback. "Half?" Astarion echoed.

Seeing their confusion, The cleric explained, "As a gifted wizard with almost 2 centuries ahead, sacrificing half would be no great loss. A fair price for restoring life."

Astarion’s grasp tightened on Amaara’s hand, he looked into her eyes and shook his head, “No, nonono, don’t you even think about it.” He knew too well the determination in her eyes, "This is madness," he muttered.

Amaara gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. "A sacrifice, yes, but one we're willing to make," she said gently.

Seeing Astarion's turmoil, she added with a faint, teasing smile, "I would look like Elminster without his beard at 100 anyway, I would like you to remember me as how I look now."

“This is so you,” Astarion snapped, “The answer is no. There will be other ways. We still have plenty of time, you don’t need to do this.”

“We traveled across the realms. All effort ended up in disappointment. This is the closest we’ve gotten. Once we leave this realm, we will not be able to enter again. I don’t want to give up on this chance.” Amaara said firmly. “It is my decision.”

“It is our decision. I won’t do it. You can’t make me.” Astarion’s tone matched Amaara’s firmness. His scarlet gaze shining with desperate intensity. "This sacrifice would haunt us both eternally. Each sunrise hereafter would be tainted by regret, each hour a reminder of what you lost."

“My love,” Amaara’s tone softened, “I know you care about me, but it is really not that big of a sacrifice. We will go seek Elminster out after we are done here. The relic of a wizard must have some spell to prolong lifespan.” She held his hand up and kissed it gently, "we've been traveling for a long time now. I would love to settle down for a while. Just the two of us, and a little house. A dog. Maybe…raise a family."

Amaara's willingness to offer half of her lifespan was a testament to her love and determination, and it both warmed his heart and broke it. Astarion closed his eyes, emotions churning violently within him. She spoke of it so casually, as if her very existence were coins to be casually bartered. “Gods damn it. Gods damn it all!”

"You fear binding me to regret. But I could never regret giving you back the life stolen from you." Amaara brought a hand up to cradle his cheek. "Granting you days bathed in sunlight and nights no longer haunted by bloodlust would fill my heart with joy."

Seeing him unconvinced, she smiled tenderly. "Let me do this, as you would do anything to protect me."

Astarion closed his eyes, leaning into her palm, her words washing over him. She spoke true - had their positions been reversed, he would offer his life in a heartbeat if it preserved hers.

Could he allow her the same choice? The gift of sacrifice willingly given out of deepest love? Perhaps accepting this sacrifice was the only way to honor the depth of her devotion.

"If this is your wish…" he rasped finally, scarlet gaze meeting hers, still swirling with doubt even as he acquiesced. She sealed her promise with a kiss, assuring him all would be well.

They turned back to the cleric, who was silently watching them. Amaara said, “We will proceed. I will be the catalyst.”

The spirit’s shining eyes lit up even brighter. And he paced from one end of the room to the other, muttering to himself what he needed.

The cleric's eagerness to proceed with the ritual put Amaara on edge. As he hastily gathered arcane components, her gaze followed him and she suddenly tensed.

She took Astarion's arm firmly and abruptly, then Amaara said in a calm voice, "First we must retrieve the nightwalker's heart you require. We will return swiftly."

The cleric's eyes narrowed, but he said benevolently. "Of course. I shall prepare the ritual space until your return."

As soon as they were out of sight, Amaara quickened their pace toward the exit. The maze-like halls blurred past until finally they burst through the decrepit doors into the foul air outside.

Amaara quickly waved a high level confusion spell that covered a huge area, then she broke into a run, half-dragging Astarion along. They ran past all the creatures that were attacking each other. She didn't cease until the warped spires of the grand church were far behind them.

Now a safe distance from the church, Amaara finally slowed her frantic pace, bending double and gasping for breath. She managed a weak, relieved laugh, the sound tinged with bitterness.

Astarion had been silent throughout their hurried escape. He peered at her intently and asked, "Did you change your mind?"

Amaara straightened, meeting his gaze with frustration simmering in her eyes. "No. But it seems I've lost my good judgment in my desperation."

“He was too eager, even I wouldn’t be so eager to help someone I just met.” She explained, “ I was watching him prepare and noticed items meant to reconstruct a physical form - grave dust, dragon scales, pieces of bones. Your body remains intact, you do not need these. The implications are clear - this spirit sought my life not to restore yours, but to rebuild his own corrupted mortal shell.” She gave a harsh, hollow laugh. “I thought this was it, the miracle we had sought for years. What foolishness, to trust so readily a spirit encountered in a wretched realm."

Amaara’s voice is tight with pain. "I've grown so desperate that I ignored all logic and instinct. I nearly fell prey to honeyed lies that appealed only to my heart's yearning."

Seeing her crestfallen expression, Astarion stepped closer. "Don't blame yourself. After all the disappointments, it's only natural to reach for a glimmer of hope"

He said gently. "You saw through the deception in time. We'll find another way. I must admit, I didn’t really want to go through with it anyways."

Leaning into him, Amaara allowed herself a moment of vulnerability. "I just want this torment to end for you," she whispered. "But hope makes me reckless."

Astarion held her close, letting her composure crack. "Hope also lights our way ahead," he murmured. "Don't lose it, for it makes you who you are."

Together they stood in solemn silence. The cleric's twisted machinations had dealt a painful blow, one of countless disappointments eroding Amaara's spirit through their long journey.

She could feel desperation taking root inside her, clouding judgment and discernment. How much more could her soul endure before hope became but a memory?

Amaara shuddered at the thought, and Astarion felt it. He tightened his embrace and rubbed her back comfortingly. He whispered, "Perhaps we should take a break, settle down somewhere pretty, get a little house like you wanted."

She slowly relaxed under his touch, allowing herself to imagine a nice little house next to a pretty waterfall. Little boy with her green eyes and his silver hair playing under the sun. It seemed…nice, but also boring. Then a realization surfaced within her. She had become obsessed with the destination - finding a cure. But surrounded by his scent of Bergamot and rosemary right now, she understood the journey had its own profound joy.

She looked up at him, shook her head, "I was so focused on the end goal, I overlooked the gift of our time together." She touched her forehead to his, never wanting to let him go. "Being by your side is home, I see that now"

Astarion's eyes softened as he gently rubbed his nose against hers. "You renew my spirit," he murmured, "just as I hope I renew yours."

They held each other close, two weary souls deriving hope from shared strength. Their end goal waited over the horizon. But for now, the journey itself was home.

_________________________

The actual ending of the dream is that I put a warning sign on the gate of the church so other Tavs who are on the same journey with Astarion can avoid this place. hahaha, dream logic.

#I do want more dream like this!#astarion #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fanart #baldur's gate 3 #astarion fanart #astarion fanfiction #balders gate 3 #bg3 #procreate #i hail from silverymoon #my tav #amaara ashvale #weird dreams

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ghostwise · 18 days

Note

touch prompt 13 for your ship of choice!

13. on a falling tear tags: shadowheart/tav, religion, cleric of kelemvor, cleric of shar, hurt/comfort

It’s late, and she’s cried long and hard enough to give herself a headache thrice over. The bed she’s laying in feels more like a coffin; opulence covered in so much dust and death, but after that battle, they needed beds, and Ketheric Thorme’s fortress had plenty.

And yet, they are alive.

It is nothing short of a miracle.

Zirahuén faced Myrkul head-on, and the Lord of Bones lost.

Does this mean something? The Reaper vanquished by Death’s noble defender? Shadowheart recalls the sight of her, shoulders squared, spear aloft before that hollow skull... one almost believes in things like Truth, and Life, and Justice.

Almost.

The pain in her hand flares, sending a white hot bolt up her wrist and all the way to her shoulder. She never expects it when it comes. Her body seizes up, the pain chiding her. It seems to say to her: No home will welcome you. No warm places will find you. That is the truth, betrayer.

Horrible, what a person can withstand.

Shadowheart buries her face into the pillow. The beadwork covering it scratches at her cheeks, but she scarcely notices. Nor does she move when the heavy oak door creaks open, and a delicate weight alights at the foot of the bed.

“Hey.”

Zirahuén’s voice comes in a soft murmur. Shadowheart looks at her.

Claid in a cream-colored tunic and black leggings, she has washed off every last bit of viscera and dirt, but the marks of exhaustion are still visible upon her. Zirahuen’s deep, brown eyes are lined in tension. She’s tired.

“May I keep you company for a while?” she asks, and faced with such a request, Shadowheart is helpless.

“Pillows are a bit shit,” she says as she makes room.

“Hospitable as the man himself,” Zirahuén agrees as she settles in. “How-?”

“Don’t. You know what happens when you ask me that.”

Shadowheart buries her face in Zirahuén’s shoulder. Zirahuén’s arms settle around her. Her tail curves over her hips. Their legs entangle. They’ve learned well how they fit together. This is familiar, when nothing else is.

“It's going to be alright,” Zirahuén whispers, and Shadowheart lets out a frustrated breath.

“You want me to cry.”

“A little catharsis can do wonders.”

“Believe me, there aren’t enough tears that could make this any easier.”

“Easy? No,” Zirahuén says. “This was never going to be easy, love. But I am sorry.”

Damn her. Zirahuén is the easiest person to believe. Shadowheart can be taken by her words and lifted—all too easily at that—but then again, she has always been a holy woman, and now without a goddess to attend to, what else is that faith supposed to do? Where does it all go? She wants to believe something. Her mind misses being so sure, so devoted.

A week ago she would have killed for Shar without question. A week ago, she planned to.

How and when was her belief so thoroughly eroded? And if that was impermanent, what of the rest of her heart and its convictions?

What of Zirahuen’s brown eyes?

Shadowheart is crying again before she realizes it. Zirahuén only embraces her more tightly, and buries her face into her dark hair. “I’m here,” she whispers.

“Why?” is all Shadowheart can muster.

“You know as well as I, there is not always a reason why things happen-”

“No,” Shadowheart interrupts. “Why are you still here with me?”

Tearful, she pulls away, and Zirahuén watches her with only concern in her brown eyes.

“I’ve proved—so changeable. Everything I ever claimed to be or believed to be true was false! At best I can claim ignorance. At worst, I am a liar and fickle as the moon—”

“Shadowheart, no one thinks that of you,” Zirahuén tells her earnestly. “You did something admirable. Our victory would have been impossible without you.”

“Silver linings,” Shadowheart says bitterly. “And believe me, I am glad for my deficits if they led to you being alive and well. But face facts, Zirahuén: I lived my whole life devoted to Shar, and threw it away in an instant. What’s left if I so easily threw away my whole identity? Who’s to say I won’t do this again? To our allies? To you?”

At this, Zirahuén looks very serious. She purses her lips and her brow furrows as she gives Shadowheart a look that is so engaging, so exacting, Shadowheart almost wants to turn away. Another tear spills down her cheek as she meets Zirahuén’s gaze.

“You,” Zirahuén says very slowly and carefully, “were deceived.”

Shame floods Shadowheart’s belly, settling into a dull ache. Then her hand fires off another stab of pain. She grimaces. Looks down at the tear-stained quilt beneath them.

“I can understand it’s difficult to admit. But Shadowheart, you were lied to. Manipulated. And gods know what else. You were a child. And yet… they failed, didn’t they?” She carefully sets a hand to Shadowheart’s cheek, and when she leans into her touch, brushes her thumb over her skin, wiping off a fresh tear.

“Do you know what is left, now you have thrown away the lies they tried to hammer into you? I will tell you, from my perspective: A woman of exceeding conviction, tenacity, and bravery. Tell me, do you want to return to Shar? Beg for forgiveness, and be brought back to her side?”

Shadowheart finds that she is trembling. Her heart hammers in her chest, but she already knows the answer. “No,” she says, voice scarcely above a whisper. “Never.”

Zirahuén gives her a small—proud—smile.

Shadowheart is not sure if she can bring herself to agree with Zirahuén, but she does believe her. Faith is like that. Perhaps she will never make sense of this, but something within her says it’s the effort that’s worth pursuing.

“Who will I pray to now?” she mumbles suddenly, a rhetorical question, yet Zirahuén answers with an unexpected kiss to her forehead.

“How about yourself? The Self is the beginning of any meaningful worship, after all.”

Shadowheart crowds onto Zirahuén’s pillow, and curls up against her once more. “I will consider it,” she says. “Thank you, Zirahuén… for being here while I’m at my worst.”

She smells of orchids under a new moon. Forgotten pantheons hide in her brown eyes. There is so much yet to be done, and no guarantee of success or even survival. Yet, Zirahuén cradles her head, and holds her like she’s worth holding onto.

This makes all the difference.

#rinnywrites #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #shadowheart #shadowheart x tav #cleric of kelemvor #oc: zirahuén #the girls are going through itttttt #this needs polishing but for now let's just be happy it's done #thanks for the prompt <333

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lemonsrosesandlavender · 1 month

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COMBAT TRAINING//Rolan x f!Tav//E Rated

For everyone who voted in the smut poll - here it is! And now there will be two chapters, since what start as argumentative sparring turned into something more tender. (Whoops, I couldn’t resist giving the porn a modicum of plot). So next chapter they’ll continue where they left off, sparring-wise…

As usual, please read the AO3 tags!

After the Absolute was vanquished, you didn't hang up your sword. You merely swapped your tadpoled companions for just the one ally: your beloved, Rolan. Unfortunately, as great a wizard as he is, his skills on the battlefield leave something to be desired... something you could probably teach him, if you could stop arguing long enough.

#sub!rolan #rolan #bg3 rolan #steel weave #f!tav #cabbage writes #rolan x tav

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ziggyztarduzt · 15 days

Note

Yo!

Not sure if you're taking requests at the moment, but if you are can you do a Zevlor x Tav parenting super sweet fluff maybe with a daughter? Thank you!

This is just a little thing, but I love the idea of Tav and Zevlor adopting a child (acquiring a child?), and them raising her in the city with the other tieflings around. :')

When all was said and done–the Netherbrain was defeated, and Tav’s companions had gone their own way–she stayed in Baldur’s Gate with Zevlor. It wasn’t a surprise, truly. Tav had confessed her affections after freeing him from the Mindflayer pod at Moonrise Towers. She was terrified to lose him again, and she cried as she blamed herself for landing him there in the first place. That night at camp, she and Zevlor laid in her tent as she clung to him desperately, unwilling to let him out of her sight.

After the final battle, Tav had limped to him and kissed him, tears running down her cheeks as she whispered over and over about him being okay–thank the gods, he was okay. Zevlor could only embrace her and choke back the tears that threatened to fall as she cried against his neck.

Amidst the wreckage and rubble that the battle left behind, a small tiefling child of only four years old was left sobbing and injured. Tav scooped her up without a second thought and carried her to Shadowheart for healing, and the little girl–Vonda–sniffled and hiccuped while the cleric tended to her. Zevlor recognized her. Her parents were refugees of Elturel who didn’t make it to the city, and apparently she’d been living with other tiefling survivors who had disappeared amidst the chaos.

Tav took her into the family home she’d inherited in the Upper City, inviting Zevlor to come with her. He accepted her offer without hesitation. Tav’s home was more than spacious enough for the three of them, and Zevlor was pleased when Tav dragged him to her bedroom to sleep after tucking Vonda in during that first evening together. There were ideas, discussions, and plans laid out for caring for their newly adopted child. Zevlor knew he wanted to teach Vonda how to wield a weapon and defend herself, and Tav wanted to encourage her academics. (Gale had sent a pile of books as a gift, along with a note that read, “It’s never too early to start Vonda on the path of wizardry!”) The pair agreed that both skill sets were important for their young lass to learn, and Vonda was gifted her first small sword and light shield by Dammon.

Vonda was sweet and quiet at first, always casting her gaze away shyly when Tav spoke to her. She seemed far more comfortable with Zevlor, which was understandable. Who better to seek comfort from than someone who looks the most familiar to you? Tav didn’t take it to heart. With Zevlor, she was far more talkative and excitable, especially when he was teaching her new moves or pretending that she’d vanquished him while he fell into the dirt dramatically. Vonda would squeal and crawl on him until he clamped his arms around her and pretended to capture her.

It didn’t take long for the little girl to warm up to Tav. Zevlor was encouraging, and soon Vonda was requesting–nay, demanding–that Tav read her bedtime stories while Zevlor stroked her hair. When the little tiefling’s eyes finally closed, they’d each press a gentle kiss to her forehead and tiptoe out of the room.

Vonda enjoyed accompanying them to the shops, holding each of their hands as they traveled to the Lower City to visit their friends. Dammon’s forge had become a sort-of gathering spot for them, and Vonda would sit starry-eyed as Alfira sang to her, or listen intently when Rolan was explaining things about magic that the little tiefling would certainly not understand. Occasionally, Dammon would let her hit a little hammer against a piece of metal and explain the process of blacksmithing while she stared at him blankly. (Tav was pretty sure Vonda just liked the loud, clanking sound of metal on metal, especially when she was the one making it.)

Eventually, after more than a year of them caring for Vonda, the little tiefling shuffled out of her bedroom sleepily one morning and reached for Zevlor with her arms outstretched, mumbling, “Daddy…” until he picked up her and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Tav made no mention of the tears that slipped down his face as he carried his daughter to sit for breakfast.

A few days later, Vonda had popped up in the kitchen while Tav was preparing stew for their supper. She stared up at Tav with large, red eyes as she asked, “Mommy, can I help?” It took everything in Tav’s power not to break down and sob as she handed a potato to their little girl and asked Zevlor to help her chop it up.

#zevlor x tav #tavlor parents #vonda the tiefling child #anonymous #bg3 zevlor #sorry this one was so short i wish i could crank out 2k+ fics all the time but capitalism is slowly killing me

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jadewing-realms · 8 months

Text

on a moonlit stage - astarion oneshot

surpriiissseee i wrote another thing!

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Title: On A Moonlit Stage

Characters: Astarion; Naven Tlin'orzza/Tav

Pairing: Astarion x Tav

Word Count: 2636

It’s a tale as old as time: salacious vampire meets gullible fool. Astarion knows the script backwards and forwards, but he swears on everything he knows this is going to be the last time. The last time he grovels at someone else’s feet. The last time he bows. It’s for his own protection, he tells himself. It’s insurance. The fact that the drow bard is frustratingly handsome as he is naive is an afterthought.

TW: allusions to sexual themes and SA

_______________

There was something uncomfortable, heavy, dense, settling in the pit of Astarion’s stomach. It was miserably distracting. It didn’t seem to matter how many gulps the vampire took of the tart, chalky excuse for red wine that the devilkin had proffered as party favors, it didn’t – couldn’t – drown out that cursed feeling. Instead, all it served to do was add to it and sour his mood even more.

Oh, he kept it from his face of course, as was expected. He froze his practiced mask in place, grinned when appropriate, nodded, winked, and gave theatrical bows to the stream of people who were determined to thank the entire party for the great, selfless work they had done. The goblins were vanquished! The Grove saved! So many cheery faces. So many boisterous voices and empty words, so much bad wine and tasteless food.

‘Our heroes,’ they kept calling them all. ‘Courageous.’ ‘Warriors.’ ‘Right decent folk.’ It made him want to spit their peasant liquor at their feet.

Ignoble fools, all of them. Heroes didn’t exist, and if they did, this group of freaks certainly weren’t them. Only Wyll – local hero as he was – had truly wanted to help these people; the rest wanted only the kidnapped healer’s skills; saving the tieflings was a convenient bonus. Astarion hadn’t even cared about that, set as most of the party was on getting rid of their little cranial stowaways rather than using them, common sense be damned.

Nobody else seemed to have any problem accepting the shallow jubilance and praise, either. Least of all their new permanent companion, Karlach, who was beaming bright as the bonfire. The red tiefling made up for her inability to mingle without roasting the skin off anyone unfortunate enough to bump her arm by shouting her greetings, waving high, laughing low and loud; and when their illustrious leader – that arrogant, guileless sucker that was drow bard extraordinaire, Naven fucking Tlin’orzza – whipped out his lute and strummed up a jaunty little tune for the mood, Karlach trumpeted the lyrics louder than everyone else. Astarion was sure he heard the frantic flutter of feathered wings as it set alight a few poor evening doves roosting in the trees.

The whole affair was as sickly and saccharine as the bottle he nursed. Perhaps Wyll had the right idea, wandering off to the riverbank as he had; perhaps Astarion could simply steal away. Go on a hunt. Get something out of the night.

The thought reminded him that he’d already made previous arrangements for the hours to come. Plans with the aforementioned drow. He almost grimaced past the next draught of wine.

Gods, he’d be glad when the whole song and dance was over. The drow was insufferable, naive as he was aloof, painfully polite, and a terrible conversationalist unless there was an audience to entertain. He also got along far too well with their resident wizard of hubris for comfort, and the two engaged in regular pontifications that went on for far too long and contained far too many obscure terms no one else could understand. He was also constantly sticking his nose into everyone else’s business, asking about their lives and histories and secrets…

On top of it all, he was either a liar and a charlatan equal to any of Cazador’s best thugs, or he genuinely believed in the do-gooder bullshit he spouted. Astarion couldn’t decide which was worse at this point. The only positive thing Naven had going for him in Astarion’s book was that he was the only one who seemed interested in taking advantage of the tadpoles in their brains for the power they provided.

Well, and he was easy on the eyes. But that, of course, was a requirement.

It didn’t really matter whether he liked him or not, though. Somehow the drow had wormed his way into everyone else’s trust, despite everything, and that made him the most important person to have on Astarion’s side if he didn’t want to wake up staked to the ground one of these nights.

It hadn’t taken much; it never did. A few well-spoken words, shallow compliments; a brush of a hand here, a hooded glance there. If he’d done it once, he’d done it a thousand times. Carnal lust was always so easy to invoke, mortal feelings like clay beneath the hands of a skilled artisan. Naven was practically in his pocket at this point and tonight was sure to cement his position nicely.

Second to the man in charge. An auspicious match indeed.

Over the rim of the bottle, his gaze slid across camp, to the little ring of bystanders gathered around the music makers. Naven, the court jester tiefling, and even that fool Volo, the music flowed from them, honey on the air.

They… weren’t half bad. As far as music went. It was no symphony or opera, that was for certain, but they had a folkish charm to them at least. And they stole the attention from everyone else, which gave the odd pit in Astarion’s belly a chance to fade.

Until the drow’s gaze rose to meet his. Golden eyes caught firelight and moonlight both at once, a broad grin split his face through the words he sang, and Astarion almost choked on his drink.

Was that… a smile? A real smile, the first he’d seen on that man’s face? He had to pause, think back, skim his memories from the day they met to the present, and he couldn’t actually recall a single moment he’d seen… that smile. Oh, there’d been little glimpses, quirks of his lips, placating smirks or bewildered half-grins. Never teeth, never so strong it wrinkled the dusky skin at the corners of those eyes. Never something so… radiant.

Gods damn this drow. Of course he would have a gorgeous smile hiding under the pomp and intellect. How infuriatingly unfair! Astarion hadn’t been aware dark elves could smile.

It lingered, too, as did that burning gaze. For the sake of appearances, Astarion didn’t let himself look away. He shifted his weight, let the lines of his body do the talking, knocked back the bottle and slowly, deliberately downed the last of the liquor, swiped his lip with his thumb once it was gone. All the things he knew would have the drow looking at all the right places.

The smile dimmed to something softer, something… fond.

He couldn’t be serious.

A patronizing play, perhaps; Naven had mentioned having been an actor before all this. Astarion had watched him charm his way through a horde of goblins without trouble, behaving by all accounts like these True Souls they couldn’t shut up about, never giving anything away. Every word, every glance, it could be nothing more than an elaborate facade.

They were both playing the same game. But when it all came down to the wire, a vampire would always play it better. If only for the centuries of practice.

Though… he didn’t actually know how old Naven was. The way he behaved, the way he trusted, surely he had to be fresh off his Naming. But then again, there were those creeping lines under those eyes of his, the barest hint of creases striking through the tasteful tattoo on his forehead. It could be age, or it could be… well, grief.

The pit was coming back, and the wine had done absolutely nothing. He shouldn’t have expected anything else. It had been two-hundred years since blessed inebriation came to him from a bottle. He recalled the night he’d drained the bear, the absolute euphoria he felt afterward. What he’d give to engorge himself again now, before his moment came. Before he knelt at the feet of another for the last fucking time, and laid the last nail to the emotional coffin lid. It’d certainly make it easier to get through if he could be drunk as the Hells.

But alas. Would that the gods could be so kind. They weren’t. He could only sling the empty bottle to the side for its personal offense to him, where he didn’t even get the satisfaction of watching it break. It simply rolled across the dirt and clinked to a stop against a stump. He pouted at it for good measure. It did nothing more.

It had to be better if he took his leave now. The party would wind down before long, he wagered. He needed to be in place, ready and waiting, properly alluring, for when his quarry came looking for him.

He gathered what he knew he would need in a pack. Then, steps composed but quiet, he idled backward, away from his tent, into the treeline. He slipped from the edges of camp without the notice of a single soul and plunged into the darkness beyond the fire’s light. His eyes and light feet, used to the shadows, made entering into them easy as breathing.

The long walk that followed, that was another story entirely. Stumps and dirt and grass and stones made what might’ve been a leisurely stroll into a struggle that no amount of shadow could ease. Roots snagged his boots. Branches clawed at his face. Bloody nature! He grew more and more weary with it each passing day, each night he laid his head on a pack draped in a blanket instead of a pillow.

He missed proper beds. He missed private baths and locked doors and armchairs. He missed… the city.

The city meant the clan, though. The clan meant Cazador. Cazador meant… He stopped, shaking the creeping memories from his skull. Flashes of blood and bile, hunger pangs, the pitch black of a closed coffin. A ripple of discomfort seared across his back.

“No! That’s enough of that.” The words left him without permission, murmured to no one but his own mind and the deepening night. He shoved the memories down, down to that blasted pit in his gut. He was far, far from Baldur’s Gate. Far from his reach. He strode deeper into the night, imagining each step as another one further from those long-reaching arms.

This is mine! All of this. My night. My mind. My choice! No one was ever going to take this away from him, not with freedom in his hands, at long last.

His feet had stopped again, and that wouldn’t do.

He needed to find a place for tonight. The perfect place. Yes, somewhere properly… romantic. Ideally, in the cradle of two luscious trees, with the moonlight beaming down just so. Mortals did adore when their lovers waxed poetic to them beneath the moon.

Ah… he needed something to say. Just the right thing.

He found a deer path and began to follow it, keeping his steps close together to avoid any sudden obstacles in the gray landscape. The trade-off for the gift of night sight, of course, was that he wouldn’t be able to take color into consideration when picking his spot. But then, neither would a drow. Double negative makes a positive and all that.

His gaze wandered aimlessly as he went, and he let his mind go with it. “What to say… I’m thinking literary. He seems an educated man.”

Some classics, perhaps. ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire’ sort of thing. Yes, that could do nicely. Everyone loved that one. It had been a while since he recited it, too; he practiced a few stanzas to test the rhythm and rhyme on his tongue and when it didn’t sound quite perfect enough, he tried again. And again, and so forth, until he began to hear the rippling of water nearby.

He’d circled back to the edge of the river, it seemed. Which wasn’t a terrible thing; the serenity of the sound would only add to the desired ambiance. He kept it just out of sight.

Suddenly, he stopped in his tracks. Something in his gut told him right here… it felt close. Eyes narrowing, he raised a hand, thumb out at an angle like the corner of a frame, and he swiveled across the trees that surrounded him. He needed just the right spot…

There. Two grand oaks standing side by side, framing a small clearing, moonlight streaming down in divine shafts. It was no mansion bedchambers, but it would do.

He winced, immediately regretting the comparison. Now he was thinking of Baldur’s Gate again. Of his service room. Of Cazador.

“This isn’t for you!” he spat to nobody. Skin immediately crawling, he spun a quick circle, just… to make sure. He was alone. “This is for me! Me.”

He raked his fingers into his hair, distracting his mind by making sure not a single strand was out of place. He had to be perfect. Everything had to. Like a dream. When all was said and done, that drow needed to leave this place so enthralled, he couldn’t bear for Astarion to leave his side ever again. Then Astarion would never have to worry about Lae’zel getting a bit stab-happy if he smirked at her wrong, or Wyll living up to his status as a monster hunter if the mood so took him. Not unless they wanted to face the wrath of their beloved man with the plan.

So it was decided. This was the place. He stepped between the two trees, gave one trunk a light pat before he rid himself of his shirt and shoes. The grass was satisfyingly cool beneath his toes. A breeze whispered through the summer leaves and he paused folding his clothes, just to watch them dance.

It… really was a nice spot.

Getting here had been an absolute drag, no doubt; the Great Outdoors were not his natural habitat and never would be, but he couldn’t deny that when he didn’t have to trudge through knee-high brush or duck under rudely low-hanging boughs or wave bugs out of his face or watch for animal scat… well. It was peaceful enough.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. This moon felt much kinder than the one he knew before. She was soft. Soothing. The night’s watchful guardian, shining silver just for the bards that might look up and write of her beauty. Or for anyone.

Back in the city, the moon was simply a hollow sun for the likes of him and his ‘siblings.’ They couldn’t have the real thing, so they settled for experiencing a world that was only half what it should be. Add to that the fact that the moon could not penetrate the deep, dark alleyways of the city where vampires best hunted, and it was never a friend of theirs.

Strange, to find it so different now.

Then again, everything was. Everything except for the scars on his back; his permanent reminder. And he still didn’t know what they said.

Absently, he reached a hand back to trace his fingertips over the raised edges like he’d done countless times. They felt so terribly pronounced, so… ugly. A hideous presence amongst such serene midnight perfection.

Would… Naven notice them?

“Hello?” a distant voice called. Louder than it usually was, but still familiar after traveling together so long. The man himself, come to join him at last. “Astarion, are you… close by?”

Astarion’s hand fled from his back. His stomach seized again and he wished he had wine to pretend to drown it with. He took one last deep breath and the way it stuttered would have made him scowl, were he not already schooling his features into the very picture of debonair charm.

“Over here, darling,” he called back, taking his place behind the tree, readying words in his mind for the moment his companion came into view. “Just a little closer.”

It was time to play his part again.

But the pit never went away.

#my writing #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfic #astarion #astarion fic #fanfic #astarion x tav #astarion x m!tav #astarion ancunin #my tav #naven tlin'orzza #drow bardlock #good playthrough

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wixed · 3 months

Text

Blood & Gore, Death (enemy), Gale x M!Tav (though it doesn't feature heavily in this prompt)

5 - First time seeing companions/love interest in a fight

Blood. So much blood. Tavlin wasn’t sure what was his and what his enemies’ anymore, and the fight wasn’t even finished. He panted through the end of his spell, sweat trickled from his brow down to catch at his jaw, pooling to drip off his chin. The heat from the Grymforge was oppressive, the lava pools providing a deadly orange glow to the even deadlier battle taking place at its edges.

Tavlin bemoaned his position as leader. It had almost gotten the lot of them killed on more than one occasion. The tiefling had never been in a battle quite like the ones he found himself in now. The first time the group of them all had to fight together he had almost gotten himself and Gale killed. As if time stood still he found himself recalling that first encounter with the goblins outside the Grove. It seemed so long ago even though the battle occurred only a handful of tendays prior to this one.

~~**~~**

Tavlin had fumbled a few spells, and attempted to charge in to use his staff. While he made contact against the battle crazed goblin, it didn’t do nearly enough damage to vanquish the enemy, and now he was within striking distance of the goblin's frenzied attacks. Tavlin was downed almost instantly. Gale came rushing over, he'd only just met Tavlin but still put his own life in danger to try and save the sorcerer.

Gale managed to finish off a few goblins that were now surrounding them, but it was still an overwhelming force for the weakened wizard. A worg turned its attention to Gale and with one bite, downed him as well, his body falling limp next to Tavlin’s.

Lae’zel had been squared up with a hobgoblin and couldn’t leave her own fight without potentially opening herself up to a deadly attack. Shadowheart was completely tapped for spells thanks to an unexpected run in with a couple of tiefling trappers that could have been avoided had Tavlin been better at diplomacy. She was on the verge of unconsciousness herself.

If it wasn’t for Wyll showing up and saving the day like the literal hero he was, they would have all perished. Perished because of Tavlin’s recklessness and inability to strategize.

~~**~~**

“Tavlin!” A shout from Gale rang through the chamber pulling Tavlin from his memories. The spark of Counterspell prevented a series of Scorching Ray beams from targeting Tavlin. Gale’s outstretched hand started moving in the intricate flicks of somatic spell casting in concert with his other hand, he was preparing another spell. Tavlin straightened himself and quickly took assessment of the situation as best he could, he was no strategist still, but he was getting better.

He saw Karlach had been separated from their target, Nere. She was farther away than was advantageous, even Tavlin could tell. To add to the complications there was a large sphere of Silence between him and Karlach that Gale, Shadowheart, and Tavlin were trying to avoid, making their usual tactics difficult.

Shadowheart had her trusted circle of Spiritual Guardians up, making any who stepped within melee of her regret the choice. Gale had been just on the outskirts of the Silence sphere, barely making it out in time to prevent the deadly volley that had been meant for Tavlin. Their party had some help from a group of disgruntled duergar, but even their numbers were starting to dwindle. They needed Karlach up close and personal with Nere, desperately. Tavlin tried to quickly think of what he could do, then he grinned as an idea came to him.

He pulled at the weave coursing through his veins and used the innate connection he possessed to Quicken a Ray of Frost at Nere. With the release of the spell Tavlin could feel himself become lighter, like the sky was calling to him, even all the way down here. The ray found purchase but did little damage against the drow. No matter, that wasn’t why Tavlin cast it. Thanks to his connection to the sky and storms, Tavlin was able to fly unimpeded, and more importantly unharmed to Karlach’s side. The tiefling quickly started to cast another spell, pulling on the last of his innate powers to cast Haste on himself and Karlach simultaneously.

“Go get him, Big K.” Karlach let out an almost feral laugh. Tavlin, now rejuvenated, felt a pulse of adrenaline surge through his body, enough power to give one last spell before he was truly tapped. He conjured a powerful Magic Missile spell to hit Nere right before Karlach would hopefully provide the finishing blows.

“Tormentum!” the sorcerer shouted as five red darts left his finger tips, crackling with the signature electric magic that Tavlin carried with him.

Each dart struck home, and while it wasn’t enough to down their enemy, it seemed to do enough damage that Nere faltered on the sphere of Silence he had been concentrating on. Nere coughed up blood and glared at Tavlin, muttering something under his breath that was drowned out by the noise of the battle.

Invigorated with added speed and energy, Karlach bound up to Nere, his eyes widened in horror at the raging barbarian hastening directly at him. She swung her axe in a brutal arc that met Nere’s shoulder. He fell to his knees, his blood already pooling around him. He reached up a hand but was met with another swing of Karlach’s axe, coming from the other direction and slamming right in his middle. His body refused to fall as he spat out blood upon the impact. Karlach growled and readied another strike.

“Die, you evil mother fucker!” She brought the axe straight down overhead, colliding with deadly force into his skull. His body twitched under her axe as his eyes went dull. She kicked his body backwards and pulled her weapon from the corpse.

The rest of the party made quick work of the remaining enemies. Their spirits crushed along with their bodies at the sight of their felled leader. When the last Absolute loyal duergar was eradicated, the group gathered around Nere’s body. Tavlin was still breathing heavily from the physical exertion and the heat. Karlach roared with a victory cry.

“That was bloody brilliant, soldier!” She wanted to pick up Tavlin and hug him, but decided against the scorching show of affection.

“Inspired use of the Haste spell, Tavlin. Truly you are mastering your innate connection to the Weave, it is quite something to behold.” Gale commented with a smile.

Shadowheart handed him a dagger. “Now let’s see how well you can handle taking the prize.” She smirked then motioned to the body of the drow at their feet.

Tavlin, bolstered with new confidence in his abilities, took the dagger and made quite a mess of the decaying corpse before him. His companions all made squeamish faces at his butchery of the task, but he didn’t care. This battle was the start of him truly believing in himself, believing in his magic, in his ability to lead not just this group of heroes, but his friends.

“I sincerely hope you never find employment as an executioner…” Shadowheart’s comment hung in silence for a moment as Tavlin pulled the head from the body. Then they all began to laugh at the ridiculousness of the botched job and the quip, their bodies finally relaxing from the stress of a hard fought battle.

This one was fun! I hadn't really written a lot of action scenes so this was both fun and a challenge. I hope you all are enjoying the story as it progresses with these little ficlets/drabbles.

I really should make a masterlist so if someone wants to read them in order they're all in one place.

More fluff and potentially smut in the next few installments, don't worry Galemancers, I gotchu.

Other works of Tavlin's adventures can be found below.

Part 1 - What was Tav doing when they were abducted? Part 2 - Voyeurism Part 3 - Body Worship NSFW 18+ Part 4 - Camp Chores Part 5 - First time seeing companions/love interest in a fight (You are here) Part 6 - Teaching each other how to do something Part 7 - Heated argument with a companion Part 8 - It will be ok as long as we're together Part 9 - Exhibitionism NSFW 18+

#bg3ficfeb #bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #Gale #Karlach #Shadowheart #Tavlin #gale x tav

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hydropyro · 2 months

Text

A Dinner Owed Excerpt

I've fallen away from working on the Choose Your Own Adventure style of 'A Dinner Owed' -- a Fic based on a post-game dinner as promised by Raphael.

Unedited/off the top of my head

Prologue - Invitation - HoH - Offer - Save Hope

"I cannot express how grateful I am for your work. Of course, our deal is concluded -- I gave you the Hammer, which you used brilliantly -- and you dutifully delivered to me the Crown." Raphael was relaxed in his chair, holding a crystal glass of red wine delicately in the hand he always used to gesture with. He tilted the glass, as if to toast Tav. "All fulfilled contracts are satisfying--" he said, "but I find myself feeling indebted."

Tav raised an eyebrow. They had followed suit in toasting their glass, but then they felt suspicious. it was not like devils, and least of all this one, to feel 'indebted'. They turned his words over in their mind, looking for anything that could hold a hidden or double meaning.

He smirked at them as if he could read their mind. And maybe, in his House, he could. "Zariel's army has retreated to her stronghold and is anticipated to fall before the sun rises again over Toril. Either she will surrender, or she will fight -- either way, she will be destroyed.

"And yet I am not feeling the satisfaction of having fully exerted myself. Like my efforts have not earned my success -- absurd, obviously.

"But I'd like to see what I can do. So, with no strings or bargains, no deals or fine print, I offer you something I have never offered anyone in all my many years. I will do you a single favor of your choosing." His smile widened, and even his soft brown eyes seemed to burn. "Test me, hero. If I can fulfill it, I will."

Tav was still silent, turning these words, then, over in their head. Surely he did not mean that there would be no lack of strings or fine print -- that was his modus operandi. Could the theatrical devil function without such?

"Anything?"

"As long as it is not too -- unsavory -- if it is within my power, it will be yours."

Tav thought back to the apparition they had seen upon entering the place. The first time that Raphael had brought them and their party to the House of Hope they had not seen anyone, but today during the tour they had passed several material debtors and apparitions of debtors. Hope, though, had seemed unique.

When asked about her he had blown off the question, simply stating that she was Korilla's sister and part of his indebted. The way he spoke and the way his spine straightened when talking about her made it seem like he was as displeased by her as she was by being there.

"Would you release Hope?"

He froze, the ambition that had burned in his eyes twisting into something crueler, and the curve of his lip in a smirk rolled to that of disgust for a moment. "The Hero of Baldur's Gate -- and of all Faerun and Toril, there's little doubt.

"Vanquisher of Shadows -- Freer of Slaves -- Raiser of the Undertrod. Lifebringer -- Death Dealer -- Defier of Gods. You have accomplished feats failed at by legions."

"I wasn't alone," Tav argued.

Raphael laughed, the otherwise pleasant sound flavored with a hint of judgement and malice. "Of course. We know of your companions -- all their issues -- all their trials and tribulations. What of the main actor in this most spectacular of plays? What of their story? The lead, reduced to a shepherd for the twisted and broken--

"Yes, brilliant as they each may be in their niche, none would have survived this without you. None are like you.

"None of the others were willing to wage their soul for the freedom of a race unknown to them -- a race who would see them as a conquest and a slave should they have ever met in other circumstances--

"Had you died in the Final Act against the Nether brain you would still be here -- with me -- in a very different fashion." He disappeared, only to reappear in the seat beside them, still holding his glass of wine.

"But of course you were successful. You are success. From your humble little hovel in the Gate, befitting of not even a beggar, after tendays of breaking your back even more to rebuild that which you saved, you are brought to sit before a god who gives you a most benevolent offer--

"And you think naught of yourself -- still." A warm, gentle hand rested on their shoulder and the devil's eyes only showed pity now. "Nations and the generations that will be borne of them owe you a great debt. You deserve riches beyond measure and praises beyond words. Things I could have given you with little effort--"

"You asked to be tested," Tav said.

Raphael laughed, removing his hand as he nodded. "I did. What you ask -- I cannot give. Hope binds Korilla and I.

"Make another request."

Tav felt they were walking a thin line, but asked anyway, "Release them both."

He laughed again, resting his glass on the table between them as not to spill. "I am perplexed by, and yet in awe of, your determination, little mouse.

"No, I cannot do that, either. Would you pluck a cat, plump and sated, from the lap of its Master and throw it out into the cold for the sake of 'freedom'?

"Hope is not a payment to me -- rather my payment to Korilla. Neither should be unhappy with the arrangement -- and Korilla decidedly is not." He must have seen the confusion on Tav's face because he patted their hand where it rested on the table in a friendly fashion. "Should you wish to expend your favor -- offered by a budding god whose power will soon rival Ao himself -- on a story -- I am not opposed. I do so enjoy stories.

"If we have finished our meal, should we take this somewhere more comfortable? The Archive, perhaps?" He held out a hand, which Tav took. Again, they felt the pull in their stomach, which indicated they were displacing. Once the world was still again, they found themselves seated on a comfortable sofa beside the handsome devil, looking out across the floor of the Archive where their contract remained.

Tav looked out around the Archive. The Hero was alone with the devil now, though they didn't know where the Archivist had gone. The corners of the Archive were dim, and the stacks of scrolls there, likely other contracts, were difficult to see in the shadow. Their eyes fell on the twisting mural in the tile at the center of the Archive floor, intrigued but unsure of what it depicted.

"I keep Korilla's contract elsewhere if that's what you're interested in. Yours is here in a place of great reverence -- but Korilla's dedication to me over the past decades is unparalleled. Despite the focus of our pact's malcontent, our bond is mutually satisfactory."

He sighed and leaned back into the seat, crossing one leg over the other. "This is your last chance to change your mind -- ask for something more befitting a hero like yourself and a being as powerful as me."

Tav shook their head. "I'm happy with a story." They weren't, not really. It had seemed that Hope was suffering greatly, though it was unclear how. They would have been more pleased if she had been released.

"Korilla and Hope were orphaned when they were quite young, and given to a patron near Reithwyn. A vile and cruel man, who took great amusements in mistreating and abusing the girls. Korilla, the eldest of the two, took much of this upon her self to protect her younger sister. In time, it was too much.

"I was in the area -- for other matters -- and we crossed paths. I could feel her agony, her need, her desire. I approached her, but she laid out the pact." He smiled at the memory, looking across the Archive but his eyes were unfocused. "I don't know how long she had been considering making a deal with a devil -- all I can say is she's quite lucky it was me that she found.

"She would act as my warlock -- my envoy -- my assistant. In return, I would give her sister a comfortable life free of wants.

"I brought them both here. Offered them each all the comforts they could ever want. Korilla leapt at them -- and Hope denied." The disgusted quirk in his lip had returned. "I offered more comforts. Riches that would make a king green with envy. Again, she denied me. I offered her a place at my side. Power almost equal with mine. A title unmatched -- as my consort. She shunned me.

"Ungrateful for her sister's efforts and my gifts -- she remains in my House as my pact with Korilla ordains. And my offers will always stand, should she choose to accept them."

Tav frowned. "Why doesn't she?"

Raphael laughed. "She says that she would never give herself to someone so 'evil'." He scoffed. "Evil."

"Aren't you?"

The devil looked offended at the question, turning his body to angle more toward the hero seated beside him. "What is evil, little mouse?"

"Well -- torture -- for example. Don't you torture the debtors?"

"I have most of them torture themselves."

"And you enjoy it," Tav said.

The devil smiled at them. "I do. Very much. But is that evil? Did you not enjoy the roast you had for supper?"

The mortal frowned and considered his question. During the meal they had remarked on the quality of the meat, saying that it was the best food they'd ever eaten. "I did, but that's not the same."

"Is it not? A cow died for that meal that you savored."

"I didn't torture the cow."

He shook his head. "No. Still, your need to eat brought harm to it. Even if it had been put down in the gentlest way possible -- the needs of your stomach necessitated its death.

"The torment of souls is the same for me. I must eat, too, mustn't I?"

Before Tav could respond, he continued, "Now, I could be accused of greed, undoubtedly. I have amassed a nice little collection on which I feed. But is the cat evil for feasting on the mice?" He shook his head. "To the mouse, yes. But would not the cat think the mouse evil if they were starved? I know something of torment -- starvation is among the worst. Would starving a creature be an act of evil? Denying them the basic needs for their survival?"

"I hadn't considered it that way," Tav said.

"Naturally. The prey does not often consider the needs of the predator. That does not change that the need exists -- the dynamic is natural. What is evil about existing as I am?" He gestured around them. "This is a small collection of my contracts, most are still active. The ones that have been fulfilled are stored elsewhere.

"Not all devils worry as much about honesty and fairness as I do. They have their 'Blood War' to man and arm -- a never ending and expensive endeavor--" he made a face. He had never sounded pleased with the idea of the Blood War any time they had heard him talk about it. "But we are a law-abiding folk.

"I have never done anything evil -- just to the letter. My contracts are carried out as they're written, as agreed by both parties -- neither under duress nor beyond their own control. Many contracts conclude amicably, as ours has. My success -- my survival does not necessitate the failure of others. Those contracts which do not follow the terms -- not on my end, mind you -- still conclude as written.

"Those souls become indebted to me and feed me in body, or feed my way of life in currency, such as is the way of the Hells.

"Hope could have anything -- everything -- she could ever want. All I ask is her fealty. Her life is contractually my responsibility, I don't think it an unfair ask on my part -- far from an evil one.

"I uphold my end of the bargain in offering unparalleled happiness to Hope, and Korilla mutually benefits in upholding her service to me -- enthusiastically and gratefully, might I add."

Tav considered the explanation for a long while. It seemed logical and sound, yet it still set their teeth on edge for a reason they would struggle to articulate.

"Still unsatisfied?" Raphael asked, his gaze quite predatory when they met his eyes. "You, little mouse, may never agree with how a cat lives -- it would be unnatural to expect you to -- but surely you agree that 'evil' is a subjective and abstract label.

"If I were to consider an instance of evil, I may call attention to the man charged with Korilla and Hope's upbringing.

"I torture to feed. I must. And yes, I enjoy it as much as you enjoy a well-prepared meal. I am a connoisseur -- little doubt. But that man tortured the girls because it amused him. A mouse preying on a mouse for little more than amusement. That's evil." His smile then was one of satisfaction. "I am glad I was in the right place at the right time to save them from his grasp."

"Hope is still being tortured, though," Tav said.

"It is not the responsibility of the cat if the mouse chooses the trap in lieu of comfort in the cat's House."

He stood and held out a hand to Tav. "The hour grows late, and I imagine the Hero of the Gate has much to do come morning. Let me take you home." They displaced when their hands met, and came to stand together in front of Tav's shack of a house. Tav was grateful that he had not brought them inside, as their house was not in a state to welcome company.

"Thank you," they said, unsure of what sort of goodbye would be appropriate.

"No, thank you," the devil said, bending at the waist to kiss the back of Tav's hand that he still grasped in his. "Your company is always appreciated and welcome. We are both quite busy, but I look forward to visiting you again."

"As a cat, or a savior?" Tav asked, smiling at him.

"Both -- always both."

#baldur’s gate 3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 #raphael #simpathyforthedevil #raphael bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #A Dinner Owed #excerpt #Raphael and Tav

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