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lavenderfluorite14 · 10 months ago

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A Taste of Plums | Astarion x Female!Tav

Summary: Free from his master’s vampiric thrall for the first time in 200 years, Astarion’s mind, body, and heart war with each other over how to seize and solidify his precious, and precarious, newfound freedom. Luckily, Tav’s there to help. Or perhaps ruin all his carefully laid plans. Multi-chapter longfic.

Rating: 18+, Explicit Content, Porn with a lot of plot and a lot of feelings ❤️‍🔥

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Angstarion, Astarion Character Study and everything that entails, PTSD, Descriptive Explorations of Emotional and Sexual Trauma, Manipulators to Lovers, Vampire Sex, Blood Kink, Blood Drinking, Grinding, Unresolved Sexual Tension. Tav is CIS female and a bard. Full tag list on AO3.

A/N: As a veteran vampire fucker, Astarion really is something special. Will be updating every two weeks. This will be messy in the best way possible.

Read on AO3 Chapter 2❤️‍🔥. Chapter 3❤️‍🔥. Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Chapter 7❤️‍🔥. Chapter 8. Chapter 9. Chapter 10❤️‍🔥. Chapter 11. Chapter 12❤️‍🔥. Chapter 13. Chapter 14.

❤️‍🔥=Smut

Chapter 1: Bite

Somehow, Astarion was watching the sun set. This simple moment, which the rest of his companions almost certainly took for granted, was a miracle to him. He had resigned himself to endless night a century ago, yet now here he was basking in a sunset like it was nothing. He stared at the fading sun until he couldn’t anymore, until his retinas burned and the last languid finger of light finally dipped below the horizon, abandoning Faerûn to a soft, somber twilight. Each precious, fleeting day was a gift and Astarion intended to feast on each one down to the marrow.

Somehow, Cazador Szarr had once again failed to find him. For 200 years his master had ruled Astarion’s waking moments with an iron fist. And then a small, wriggling little worm had miraculously interrupted Cazador’s vampiric hold on him. Imagine, a vampire lord losing to a worm. Astarion could die, again, of laughter. Yet even here, two weeks out from The Gate, Astarion felt his Master’s phantom eyes on him. He didn’t understand it but Astarion wasn’t a fool: he knew his time was limited. It was only a matter of whether the Mindflayers or Cazador would catch up to him first. Neither option was particularly good but the choice was easy, if he had one: he’d do anything, absolutely anything, to keep from returning to the Szarr Palace.

As the camp settled in for the night Astarion pantomimed preparing for bed, a routine he knew he was fumbling clumsily through. The night had been for hunting, seducing, fucking, killing. It had never been for relaxing. For reading. For chatting idly with people he wasn’t planning on stabbing in the back. For now at least. He knew they’d have no qualms about stabbing him, should they discover his condition. Even so, he had meditated more these last few nights than he had in decades. It cleared his mind a little, but it did nothing to calm the dread he carried in his bones. Nor did it assuage his gnawing hunger.

So far, none of his companions appeared to have figured out Astarion’s little secret. He watched each one of them carefully, scouring their faces, voices, and bodies for the smallest micro-expressions of suspicion. Karlach, Hell’s Above, didn’t seem to have much going on upstairs, a genuine blessing. Lae’Zel was too focused on reaching her blasted crèche to spare him a second glance, thank the gods. She could easily skewer him if she felt like it. Shadowheart was too busy guarding her own secrets to pry into his, although she could be oddly perceptive at times. Gale only stopped talking when he had his nose in a book, but he was still the resident wizard and needed to be watched should his, alleged, considerable intellect decide to return to him. The fact that Wyll hadn’t noticed was in itself suspicious, but perhaps the famous Blade of Frontiers wasn’t half the monster hunter he thought he was. Maybe Astarion could survive this after all.

And then there was Tav. Responsible, pretty, annoying, Tav. She had become the de facto leader of this ragtag tragedy, which was perfectly fine with Astarion. He did his best work from the shadows anyway. Tav spent her days settling their squabbles and running after every single irrelevant quest they were given like a dog after a ball. She was clearly too distracted, and too tired he often saw, to notice that he was more than he let on. Perfect.

Astarion wasn’t used to going unnoticed. He had accidentally drawn Cazador’s ire numerous times by simply existing. He had tried to fade into the background countless times, but Cazador’s cruel eye was always drawn to him. “Go on boy, do the only thing you’re good for.”

Well, he wasn’t completely unnoticed. He felt the way Tav’s eyes roved over him when she thought he wasn’t looking, felt her pulse hammering in her throat when they spoke to each other. She didn’t say anything and neither did he, but it was nice to know that he was still alluring even when disgustingly unwashed.

Astarion had the patience of a centuries old predator. Despite the ache behind his fangs, he waited until he could pick out the gentle snores of each one of his companions, not moving until Lae’Zel had made her 15th loop around their camp’s perimeter, which was more than enough time for her to lose herself in the banality of the night’s watch. He’d have to be quick, but he knew what he was hunting for: he had picked up on the heartbeat of a boar hours ago. It wasn’t a sound per se, but more of a pulse he felt in his gut. He honed in on its tantalizing rhythm, allowing himself to be drawn down through the forest and up back onto the road where the beast snuffled for food along the path. Easy.

His muscles tensed. His mind went blank. He slid through the night and tackled the boar, ripping into its neck with a savage bite. The boar thrashed against him but Astarion bit down harder, tearing into the beast’s jugular with a bloody squelch. It collapsed under him and Astarion brutally pinned it to the ground. He gulped down mouthfuls of blood so big that they hurt his throat as he swallowed. As he drank, he could feel the boar’s jerks become weaker and weaker, until its death throes were merely twitches. When there was no more blood, Astarion released his jaw and rolled away, gasping in the dirt as a wave of nausea engulfed him. He thought he was going to be sick. It was the most blood he had drunk in one sitting in 200 years and it sat heavy and bloating in his stomach. He was full. Satisfied? No. But he was full.

But even the fresh spoils of victory grow bland. His palate wasn’t made for beasts. He wanted something finer, something richer. Still, a boar was leagues better than a rat. But he knew, had known for some time, that his body needed more than animal blood to be truly nourished. It needed the blood of thinking creatures.

What would happen if he grew too weak, too feeble to fight? Would this merry band of would-be heroes leave him behind, alone in the wilderness for Cazador to find, if he couldn’t keep up? He would never go back. He’d die first.

You could do it, you know, a dark inner voice whispered to him. Why don’t you have a taste of your new friends?

No. He forced that impulse down. He was a vampire spawn, but he was not a monster. Were they frustrating? Deeply. But these indifferent strangers had been kinder to him than anyone had been in centuries, kinder than anyone who had actually known him. He would not risk whatever precarious piece of safety he had for a quick meal. He’d blow his cover. They’d hate him. They’d kill him. It was the only course of action that made sense once he was discovered. Which was only a matter of time.

Despite everything, his master’s old orders still echoed dully in his mind: Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures. He didn’t know if he could bite them, even if he wanted to. Cazador had forbidden it.

Astarion slipped back into his bedroll unnoticed, mission complete. He wasn’t tired, was too wired from the hunt and from the day’s fighting to truly rest, but he knew he needed to meditate if he was going to be of any use tomorrow. If he was going to continue fooling them into thinking he wasn’t a monster hiding in their midst. Rolling onto his side, he caught sight of Tav fast asleep in her tent, the flap carelessly unlatched. Tav, who had readily forgiven him after he had threatened to slit her throat. Tav, who looked but never touched. Tav, whose opinion and guidance seemed to matter the most to everyone in camp. Astarion sunk into deep reverie.

“It’s dead, my friend. Are you really going to gawk at every piece of carrion you find?”

Astarion could flay himself. He hadn’t bothered to hide his kill from the other night because who seriously cared, there were dead beasts all over the forest, and of course Tav had quite literally stumbled over its exsanguinated remains. Crouching down to examine his kill, she pored over the corpse with thorough precision. He was dead. He was so dead unless he did something.

“Darling,” Astarion began, positioning himself right behind Tav, unsure what he was going to do but moving just to move. At the same moment Tav stood up and took a step backward, crashing into him. For a moment their bodies were completely flush, her back against his chest, her peachy bottom cushioned against his groin. Astarion reflexively reached out to place his hands on her hips, but Tav jolted forward and out of his grasp.

“Sorry!” She gasped, flushing a delicious rosy shade. She pointedly averted her eyes.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Astarion purred. Tav dared a glance up at him and he flashed her an easy smirk. “Are you completely satisfied?” He asked, layering the question thick with innuendo. “There are much better things we could be doing. Shall we go now?”

Somehow, Tav turned even redder. “It’s definitely odd, but a dead pig isn’t the weirdest thing we’ve seen so far,” she conceded.

“No, it’s not. It doesn’t even place in the Top 50 on this little adventure,” Astarion quipped. Tav laughed at that, a quick mirthful giggle. “I’m sorry, everyone. Let’s keep moving.” Tav hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Astarion for the briefest of moments, but she quickly continued onward, surging forward towards the head of the group. Astarion breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She had apparently noticed nothing.What a cute, malleable little idiot. ~~

The idea had occurred to him before, that second night underneath the stars. Back when he had thought that their little adventure might actually be over soon. Which had meant that Cazador’s punishments would be imminent. He had wondered aloud if their adventure may actually end the next day and Tav had said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, “It doesn’t have to, we could keep traveling together.” Such a sweet gesture had stirred something in him. The others hadn’t seemed keen on him, nor on each other for that matter. But Tav was kind. Giving. She was already giving him safety by letting him travel with her. What else would she give him, if he played his cards right?

Would she let him drink from her? He was ravenous. He imagined her soft and pliant underneath him, arching her neck, begging for his bite. Astarion was dizzy at the thought of such submission to him, such power over her. He tried to imagine what she would taste like but his brain couldn’t supply an answer. If Cazador had forbidden it then humanoid blood must be delicious.

But why would she help him? No one offered help for free, especially not to a vampire spawn. Even kind, giving Tav also benefited from their traveling arrangement. And his safety in this little arrangement was only tenuous at best. If he didn’t want to be staked on sight, he’d have to sweeten the deal somehow.

He knew how, but something inside of him had hesitated that night. Now, he could kick himself. How many times had he seduced and in turn allowed himself to be seduced? He was a professional, this should mean nothing to him by now. At least Tav was pretty. Flustering her had been both useful and fun. He had certainly done worse. And after today, he was beginning to suspect that Tav may actually like him, just a little.

But still. He was free for the first time in centuries. Did he really want to spend his precious moments of freedom on his back again? Was this really all he was good for?

He just needed some time to think, he would figure this out.~~

Unfortunately, the rest of his cohort were not as amenable as Tav. Today Tav had chosen himself, Lae’Zel, and Shadowheart to explore the nearby forest, which made for a particularly sullen group. Unnerved by his close call yesterday, Astarion realized that he had to acquire more allies….make friends, as it were. Gods. He hadn’t made a real, genuine friend in centuries. The last time he had tried hung heavily in his heart.

Astarion knew that he was profoundly unlikeable. He had been told so many times. There was only one good thing about him, one thing he was good at and only one thing anyone wanted from him, so naturally he would lead with that. He was already working Tav. Lae’Zel was powerful and would make an excellent ally, but Astarion decided to let her come to him. She seemed the type who liked to do the conquering. Gale was a strong option but he was still pining over his goddess and Wyll would probably want to get married first. As appealing as they both were, he needed allies now. And Karlach was literally untouchable, which derailed the entire plan. That left the mysterious Shadowheart.

Drifting to the back of the group, he began poring over the many lines he had used throughout the decades to charm and flatter his targets. Shadowheart acted cold, but Astarion could tell that she was hiding some softness underneath it all. Perhaps he could coax it out of her with the right words, if he indicated that he saw the real her beneath the facade. Adopting a pensive air, Astarion smoothly sidled up her.

“Shadowheart. Such a dark name for such a delicate flower,” he said softly. He tilted his head to a thoughtful angle, trying to catch her eye with his sad, smoldering gaze. Shadowheart shot him an icy glare.

“I heard you practicing that back there. Next time, keep your pick-up lines to yourself.”

Ahead of them, Tav choked on a laugh. “Better you than I,” Lae’Zel scoffed. “If he had tried that on me, I would have ripped his tongue from his mouth.” Astarion audibly gulped and drifted far away from his hostile companions. Tav shot him a sympathetic glance. “Yeesh, tough crowd,” she said. Astarion snorted. “Some people have no taste,” he said. Tav laughed, but Astarion still kept his hands to himself for the rest of the day.

He knew it would happen, but he didn’t think it would happen so soon.

“First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.”

Cazador was here. Cazador had found him and by the gods, Cazador knew all of Astarion’s new transgressions.

“I’m sorry, Master! I was kidnapped, I had no choice!” Astarion whipped around, crying out into the darkness. The darkness said:

“Second. Thou shalt obey me in all things.”

Which he hadn’t done. He had flagrantly disobeyed. Who would obey such cruel demands unless they were forced to?

“Third. Thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.”

He hadn’t meant to, he had been abducted! He didn’t choose any of this! But Astarion knew that Cazador didn’t care about that. “Please, not again,” he begged, knowing that it didn’t matter what he said.

“Fourth. Thou shalt know that thou art mine, you pathetic little worm.”

Astarion jolted awake, tossing off his bedroll with a shout. The campfire burned steadily, casting off the shadows of night. The deep supernatural darkness of his dreams was gone. His companions lay by the fire and in their tents, somehow still asleep despite his pitiful cry.

Cazador wasn’t here. Cazador was back in Baldur’s Gate and he was in the middle of the wilderness. He wasn’t going to be flayed. Yet. But it was only a matter of time. Cazador would be furious that Asatrion had somehow slipped off of his tight little leash. And worse, Cazador would be jealous when he discovered that Astarion could walk in the sun and he could not.

It dawned on Astarion: he can walk in the sun. He can cross streams. He can enter houses without permission. The tadpole had disrupted so much of his biology already. Perhaps it had fully broken Cazador’s hold. Maybe he could disobey completely. In every way.

He had gone to bed hungry that night. The boar had been too close a call for comfort. And he hadn’t been able to secure additional protection. Astarion had starved for centuries, he thought he could keep himself in check. But the promise of feeding on what he truly craved finally made his hunger unbearable.

He scanned the camp, taking in his companions sleeping forms. So relaxed. So unsuspecting. Who would have the honor of being his first thinking meal? Almost immediately his eyes found Tav, who was curled up by the fire. The flames flickered over her fine features, her beautiful skin. Shadows danced down the length of her neck, disappearing into the valley of her breasts, their round tops peaking shyly out from her loose camp shirt. He had never seen her so accidentally exposed, so vulnerable before. He had to taste her. She would be delicious, he just knew it. His body was moving of its own accord, drawn to her. Bending down beside her, Astarion ghosted his face across her neck, instinctively finding the intoxicating pulse of her heart beat. He bared his fangs, running his tongue behind them. He would be quick, gentle. He only needed a taste, just needed a moment of her warmth. She was so-

“What are you doing?”

Astarion recoiled sharply as Tav sat up, suddenly awake. He swore audibly and withdrew, retreating back to the shadows. “This isn’t what it looks like,” he gasped. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.” Tav stared back at him, surprise and horror dawning slowly across her face. Astarion thought he saw the beginnings of disgust. “I just, I just needed-“ He had no idea what to say. There was no way out, he was caught. “Blood.” His admission hung strangely in the air between them. Then Tav began to put the pieces together, at last.

“You…are you a vampire?” She asked, incredulous.

“Not entirely. I’m a vampire spawn. But I only feed on beasts! Deer, kobolds-“

“Boars,” Tav supplied.

“…boars too.”

“I knew you were acting strangely yesterday,”

“I’ve just been so weak, so slow. If I had a bit of blood, I could think clearer, fight better.”

There’s a pulsing behind his eye and then Astarion’s mind is yanked backwards to the first time that Cazador had compelled him to eat a rat. He hadn’t wanted to, had begged Cazador not to make him do this, but while his mind resisted his body had obeyed Cazador’s sadistic order. And yet, he had been so hungry that he couldn’t be fully sure what he had done in vampiric thrall and what he had done for sheer survival. He had eaten many rats since then, but that first one had been particularly humiliating. And now Tav knew.

“You didn’t eat them by choice. You ate them because he made you.”

“Yes,” Astarion admitted bitterly. “I ate whatever vermin I was so generously allowed to eat. You’ll eat anything if you are hungry enough.” Tav’s eyes softened and Astarion saw pity shining in her gaze. His lip curled.

“Why didn’t you just ask me?” She said.

“Would you have said yes?” He countered. “At best I thought you would say no. At worst, I thought you would drive a stake through my ribs.”

“I wouldn’t have done that, you’re my-“

“I’m your what, your friend?” Astarion sneered. “Vampire spawn have no friends. We’re created by monsters and the world sees us as monsters. Don’t patronize me, darling.” Astarion spat. Tav turned away, trying to hide her hurt in the flames of the campfire. Astarion regretted his outburst almost immediately. Pushing her away now could be fatal.

“And yet despite all that, I needed you to trust me.” He took a tentative step toward Tav, pitching his voice lower to a soft, seductive rumble. “And you can trust me. I swear it.”

“Strangely I do, I do trust you.” Tav’s voice was barely a breath, a whisper above the crackles of the flames. “I only meant that you’ve had numerous chances to kill me since the first attempt and you haven’t. You’ve even saved me a few times.” Astarion continued advancing.

“I’m glad, truly.” He said.

“And we still need each other.” Tav said this softly, sadly, as if she didn’t want to say it.

“We do indeed,” he agreed. “So, do you think you could trust me just a little bit further? In the spirit of needing each other?”

They were so close now. Tav turned towards him, the question in her gaze. He reached out and tucked a stray tendril of her hair behind her ear. “I only need a taste.” He allowed his finger tips to stray down the column of her neck. “I swear.” His mouth hovered over hers. Tav visibly shuddered underneath his ghostly touch. “Not a drop more than you need.” She said. So tough. So generous. “Of course, not one drop more.” He leaned in, his mouth above the shell of her ear. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?” She nodded. Placing his hand on her hips, Astarion gently guided Tav downward onto her bedroll where he settled next to her, curling against her side.

“Will it hurt?” She asked. Her eyes were wide, her pupils yawning caverns. Astarion doubted that he looked any better. “I’ll be as gentle as I can,” he promised. He would try. He would try for her.

“I’m ready.” Tav bared her neck and closed her eyes, turning her face away. This was really happening.

Sliding his body over hers, Astarion lowered himself on top of her. Their bodies slotted together, her breasts pressing up into his chest, his pelvis settling down against her own. Astarion’s hand cradled her neck tenderly, cupping her chin in his lithe fingers. And then he struck, sinking his fangs quickly and precisely into her flesh.

Fresh lifeblood flooded over his tongue in hot, sweet spurts. She wasn’t delicious, she was exquisite. He pressed his lips fervently against her neck, desperate for more of her. His tongue lapped along her throat, seeking every rivulet of blood that escaped his lips. Tav’s gentle fingers came up to trace circles against his scalp and card between his curls. A warm shiver traveled down his spine and he groaned into her neck as he swallowed her down. Astarion mindlessly ground himself against her center and he realized with a surprise that he was hard.

“Astarion,” Tav gasped, her body arching up to meet his. His hand moved to her waist and began to slip underneath her camp shirt, gliding along her exposed flesh. He took a deep pull of blood from her, the deepest one yet.

“Wait, Astarion,” Tav’s voice was growing faint. A weak hand began to press against his shoulder and he immediately grasped it and forced it back down, harshly caging her in. He couldn’t stop. He would never let her go.

“Stop, please Astarion!” He heard how weak Tav’s voice sounded now and it finally broke the spell. He released her throat with a bloody gasp, forcing his body off of her.

Tav rolled over, clutching the ruin of her neck. She looked disheveled, debauched. A feast in every way. Astarion stood abruptly, reeling.

“That was amazing,” he whispered reverently. He was filled with an unfamiliar feeling. He felt light, strong. Brimming with energy. Astarion caught a trickle of her blood as it slid down his lips with a disbelieving finger. He licked it off with a slow thick swipe of his tongue, greedy for more of her. His desire for her was beginning to scare him.

“As delicious as you were, I need to find something more filling.” He spun on his heel but stopped himself from fleeing. He needed to leave before he seriously hurt her, but he didn’t like the thought of her crumpled and alone, used and then discarded. Like he had often been. She had placed her life in his hands for his comfort. He couldn’t ever remember receiving such a kindness before. He turned back to face her, still sprawled and heaving on her bedroll.

“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.” And then he was gone, striding confidently into the night.

He didn’t think he could hate Cazador more than he already did. But to finally savor such nourishing blood from a beautiful, willing source did not soothe him. It did not bring him relief to finally feel strong and healthy, to finally pierce the mental fog that had clouded his mind for as long as he could remember. Drinking from an oasis after subsisting on spoonfuls of fetid blood for centuries did not bring him peace, but only deepened the darkest pit of his rage.

Chapter 2: Gift

#astarion x tav #astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 astarion #the night shift #bard!tav #Astarion fanfic #astarion longfic #a taste of plums #astarion character study #astarion is bad at feelings #jealous astarion #emotional slowburn

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xenwrites · 9 months ago

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“I don’t understand!” Astarion huffs, straightens, regains his composure. “You so obviously want me and here I am, offering myself to you,” he spreads his arms, gives a half sarcastic little bow, displaying the strong lines of his body beneath his fine clothes. “I am doing so entirely of my own free will. I am not trying to coerce you, or manipulate you, I am trying— Well, to seduce you, yes, but not for any untoward reasons! I want you. Can’t you trust that?”

“No.” You say.

Still Feels Tainted (5179 words) by Xenjn

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: Baldur's Gate (Video Games)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: N/A

Relationships: Astarion/Tav (Baldur's Gate), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Reader

Characters: Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Tav (Baldur's Gate)

Additional Tags: Aftermath, Biting, Feeding, Unrequited Love, Yearning, Post-Cazador Szarr Boss Fight, Astarion Does Not Ascend (Baldur's Gate), Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Self-Worth Issues, Self-Sacrifice, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, POV Second Person, Female Tav (Baldur's Gate), Implied/Referenced Sex, Traumatized Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Astarion is Bad at Feelings (Baldur's Gate), Traumatized Tav (Baldur's Gate), Unresolved Sexual Tension

#astarion #astarion x tav #astarion romance #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #baldur's gate iii #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 tav #baldurs gate tav #if you liked it pls reblog!

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reirakurenai · 4 months ago

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Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3 Chapters: 1/1 Rating: Explicit Warnings: Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: The Dark Urge/Enver Gortash, Astarion/The Dark Urge (Baldur's Gate), Astarion/Enver Gortash, Astarion/The Dark Urge/Enver Gortash, Enver Gortash/Original Female Character(s), Astarion (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Astarion/Enver Gortash/Original Female Character(s)

Characters: The Dark Urge (Baldur's Gate), Enver Gortash, Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Cazador Szarr

Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Pre-Game: Baldur's Gate 3, Pre-Canon, Pre-Crown of Karsus Heist (Baldur's Gate), Established Relationship, POV Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Named Dark Urge (Baldur's Gate), Female Dark Urge (Baldur's Gate), Drow Dark Urge (Baldur's Gate), Warning: The Dark Urge (Baldur's Gate), The Dark Urge Being The Dark Urge (Baldur's Gate), The Dark Urge Does Not Resist The Urge (Baldur's Gate), Explicit Sexual Content, Blood Kink, Blood Drinking, Vampires, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Dry Humping, Oral Sex, Smut, Unhealthy Relationships, Obsessive Behavior, Vampire Ascendant Astarion (Baldur's Gate), Murder Kink, Warning: Cazador Szarr, Cazador Szarr Being an Asshole, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Religious Cults, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Dark Fantasy, Past Sexual Abuse, Trauma, no beta we die like cazador

Summary:

For Gortash Week Day 3: Party.

“Trespassing?” Gortash asked. He feigned offense and mockingly grasped at his chest in horror. “Me? Why, Lord Szarr, I was invited.”

“I was not,” Lux interjected, and she sounded very proud of that fact. She glared at the vampire lord, then turned to Gortash. “Can I kill him?”

Or, Astarion finds his life is turned upside down by the Daughter of Bhaal and Chosen of Bane.

#gortashweek #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #fanfiction #fanfic #baldur's gate fanfiction #my fanfiction #enver gortash #the dark urge #astarion #durgetash #astarion x durge #gortash x durge #astarion x gortash #durgestarion #astarion x gortash x durge #mind the tags

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omgkalyppso · 5 months ago

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Étoile and Astarion Wedding

A little warning that Astarion is a vampire (not a spawn or the Ascendant) in the timeline that I'm going to discuss.

@thetavolution tagged me in this BG3 Wedding Season ask game some days ago. I was going to chop it up into manageable posts but fuck it, you get the wall of text. You can come back and read it over time, I'll reblog it a few times. I've answered every question except the last two.

If you open this post and Regret, you can press J on desktop to skip it.

✨Details✨

1.Wedding, or something else? - What do the characters think about weddings or marriages? If not a wedding, would they acknowledge their relationship in a different kind of ceremony?

Étoile and Astarion don't get married, for years! For centuries! It wouldn't change their relationship, and their sense of union and their perception of Étoile's acceptance at being a part of what the vampires (the old Szarr siblings and the spawn) are creating, and thus, part of the family, doesn't lend to the need or expectation that a marital union is needed, necessary, or that it might even be welcome.

Astarion initially fears asking after hearing of Étoile's past and how their first relationship ended terribly because that partner had wanted a wife; and while that isn't quite what Astarion is expecting of them with either gendered, social, romantic or "professional" responsibilities, it is enough to worry that this would be viewed as limiting in one way or another.

However.

In regards to managing, settling and supporting the Spawn — they (the vampires (who are Astarion and his siblings) and the spawn (7000)) do not want to be referred to as the Szarr siblings or the Szarr vampires or Cazador's spawn, so they need to be called Something for how they engage with Baldur's Gate, Underdark society, and the public at large — the siblings debate and some (Astarion included) make cases for why the group should be referred to by their name (for implications of power); it isn't intuitive for them to decide to reclaim the title of "House Ienith" with the risk of antagonizing Menzoberranzan, but they realize what they do owe Astarion (begrudgingly) and Étoile (especially) and the other adventurers who stepped in during the Rite of Ascension, so that's where they end up.

So if Étoile took Astarion's name then that would snip their very flimsy tie to the dead House Ienith, and if Astarion took Étoile's name then it would be "as bad as" their group being otherwise named for Astarion, when his siblings want something very different in those early days.

Étoile isn't bothered by this in the same way that they're not bothered by being unmarried, but it is part of a choice taken from or otherwise influenced for Astarion in a way that would rankle. And he would initially be tempted to try and think up a plan a scheme to weasel around these expectations just to maintain the option of a more traditionally formal union for his own peace of mind.

It isn't until after Étoile has been turned into a vampire centuries later that chips fall into place.

Astarion has proven that without influence, he is reliable to his siblings and their House.

Years of bargaining, and fighting, and representing them publically, etc. And years of friendship! Paired with staying behind to help them combat portals spilling Raphael's forces into the Underdark while Étoile ventures far and away to fight him directly —

And even Astarion's eventual influence, guidance, and actions involved in turning Étoile into a vampire; to put their permanent presence among them — family already in all but the traditions of wedlock, even with the bitterness and conflicts among them.

Astarion's siblings would be surprised when Étoile came back (with Astarion from Étoile's mother's) as a vampire; but unwed to Astarion.

And some of them, even more surprised as Astarion starts up another romance (with my oc Voriya), seemingly pulling away from his partner of years because of maladjustments to Étoile looking and smelling and acting different than they had in life.

Astarion and Étoile would argue over it; Astarion's annoyance with everyone's lack of understanding, and Étoile's pleas for understanding, attention and assistance with their adjustments. Astarion knows he loves them, and that he has no intention of ending things, he simply needs time: to adjust, and to come to terms with what he's lost and what he's taken, and to witness that unlike every other vampire he's ever known that they will no now in this new form try to hurt him. But he can recognize that Étoile might worry that his apprehension at such a critical time may come across as strain, that it might appear as if he cannot live with what he's done and would leave them for eternity, rather than celebrate it.

Recognizing that he does not have time to adjust, and that a promise once inappropriate between them might re-establish and restabilize their union, Astarion realizes now is the best time to propose, to reassure Étoile — and himself, to influence his siblings' and his spawn's opinion of the quality of his character, and to maintain the level of independence needed to pursue any other future relationships without the presumption that he is unable to manage his heart or his time.

They both are under the impression that marriage serves a purpose; and theirs does.

I worry I've made that sound terribly unromantic, but it's important to them, and it's important that it happens then.

2. Proposal - Who proposed to whom? Were there rings or other gifts involved?

Astarion proposes. I think once he decides to propose he's giddy for a whole tenday or two, because he's decided that if he is going to propose that Étoile is going to accept. It is difficult to make arrangements between moments spent together, but I think he would want professional opinions on whether an enchanted ring or something less practical (and more stylish) is more appropriate for a piece of jewellery that he expects Étoile to possess for an exceedingly long time.

Astarion would only propose in an extremely private setting. He might be tempted to propose after a rest after a day / night of sex, but he would rather be dressed and would dismiss the compulsion.

He would make declarations about wanting to see the moon, and perhaps it is the season's first frost, and the sands of the Sword Coast are rigid and unyielding and he's a tad more red faced than he'd like, but Étoile looks better than they have in months — with the journey back from Impiltur largely spent in a wooden carriage like smuggled corpses, and then his inconsiderate distance when they returned to the Gate, and then the tendays re-integrating into the routines of their city in the Underdark — and now there's fresh air, and familiarity, and far less dramatic options for feeding.

He hides the ring in another gift, a necklace. In feat of sleight of hand he puts the ring on the chain when helping them put on the necklace, waiting until they notice its addition.

3. Bachlor/Bachelorette parties? - Do the characters get a bachelor(ette) party before the big day? Does anything crazy happen?

If they'd done this while Karlach was alive then she would have been all over this for them. As it stands, I can't imagine which of their friends would insist on this manner of tradition or party. It's not as though they are celebrating an end of being single or exclusivity. Any celebration of comparable purpose for them would be an unofficial party honoring the engagement (which is going to last at least a period of months, if not an entire year by virtue of elves and vampires living at a slow pace and needing to contact a variety of guests and a decision about whether it will be within House Ienith in the Underdark, in Baldur's Gate or how far east they want to push their influence for the sake of Étoile's mother).

Aurelia would take charge of this engagement party; doing so for Astarion (who insists he doesn't need one only for the sake of being able to complain if it isn't enjoyable (it is)) to spare him anything Violet or Petras might concoct specifically for torture or appearances.

She would host it in Baldur's Gate and invite a number of the couple's friends, acquaintances and lovers. There would be at least one planned fight / blood sport; but not to the death because this would sit poorly with at least whatever Ravengard descendant(s) might be present, and Dame Aylin if she can manage to get ahold of her. There would be no planned nudity, but in the later hours it's definitely the type of party where someone (not Étoile) ends up without any pants.

4. Pre-Ceremony Events - Are there any special events, ceremonies, rituals, or preparations the couple must do before the wedding day? Ritual cleansing, asking a parent for the character's hand, mehndi/henna painting, little pre-ceremony games or challenges, etc?

Aranea, Étoile mother, does not wish to leave her mountain. She fears that if she does that she will never see it again, and yet as a priest, and as the priest of their god that Étoile trusts above all others, and as their mother, she would go, if necessary, as necessary, to officiate their wedding.

I think someone who knows some manner of teleportation spell would help ease this journey for the occasion.

Astarion has already faced the brunt of her sorrow after turning Étoile, but he would not need to seek her forgiveness (and certainly not her permission) for this. She is understanding when they meet again.

There aren't any pre-ceremony ceremonies as described in this question.

5. Formal or informal affair? - Is the wedding elaborate and grand, or simple and sweet? Is it a tenday-long series of parties or is it a quick vow exchange in front of Withers?

It is a single day of ceremony but with expectations / acceptance of a tenday or two of hosting, whether and how many parties that includes depends on one's definition of a party, but the journey is not inconsiderable for a fair number of their guests. The ceremony is a formal affair and attendance reflects on the unions between House Ienith and their allies.

6. Venue - Where is the ceremony and/or reception? Inside? Outside?

I forget about fanaticism in world-building and plotting fairly often; like Shepard's number one fan Conrad Verner in Mass Effect, or "the cult" in the final season of The Magnus Archives, to name a few examples of what I mean. This is relevant because I previously pictured Étoile's faith as an extremely private thing, shared only through the necessity of proximity — like with peers in the Adventurer's Guild.

But they absolutely fight with the Spawn and vampires on multiple occasions. I don't think the source of their Paladin abilities would be that much of a mystery. And while Astarion wouldn't see Étoile's presence as Auril answering his prayers (consistently, or all the time, maybe occasionally for a flash of a moment), that probably isn't the case for the varied perspectives of all 7000 Spawn. There is probably a little temple to the fury in their established city, whether or not they worship her in the same way as Étoile (or even in a way that is recognizable to them) is something I'll have to spend more time thinking about, but for now, it lets me answer this fucking question.

The ceremony might begin at the centre of their Underdark city, but the vows and other elements of the rituals would take place on the exterior steps of this temple; with the reception being another trek back to the wider streets and the interior of the building where they usually host meetings and guests of esteem.

7. Timing - What time of year are they getting married? What time of day?

It is early winter, and evening (late morning for vampires). The vampires and Spawn like being able to operate through the night while their guests slowly and sporadically need to disperse for sleep.

8. Traditions - What traditions are involved in the ceremony/reception? Is there a mix of traditions from either partner?

A public exchange of rings, a public exchange of vows, and a private ritualistic death or twelve as part of the union / ceremony. Behind the closed doors of Auril's temple while their guests are making the march back to where the reception will take place, they have two monster hunters doomed to their fate to be killed in one manner or another with Cold and ice, to appease Étoile's goddess; and ten others to be turned in blood and ritual.

After three historical attempts at gifting slaves from Menzoberranzan, the drow matron mothers learned this was a waste of everyone's time and agreed with House Ienith that it just made irritable neighbours, to have the slaves freed and instead offered gainful employment in this settlement. Some of these former slaves, having resided with the Spawn for hundreds of years now, have found attachments in the city, some love, and others ambition. While the 7000 spawn are each 1000 claimed by Astarion and his six siblings, these ten will be specifically bound to Étoile.

House Ienith has rules, in general and which magically compel the Spawn to be incapable of killing anyone through vampiric bites; but I think this exception is known to Astarion's siblings. The religious attendants (Spawn) drink, so long as either Étoile or Astarion have the final drops.

I was initially thinking of others that Aranea and Étoile would be willing to kill, but I think that would frighten Astarion, who is not quite spawn!Astarion, but is still the man who initially said, "No innocents." And while he'd meant that to appease the others and be reassuring at the time, I think he's kind of grown into it. Merciful. Moral, if he can spare the thought and time. Devoted to who he wants to be, more than to any cause or code.

Additionally, I was thinking of Aranea summoning something like a temporary snowstorm or a deep chill during the ceremony, but now I think it's more interesting if, while the Cold being felt in the bones of those being married is important, it is secondary in her ritual: where the bodily warmth of those dying in this temple in Auril's name is drained, and reversed, and infused in the stone. A globe of ice forms on the ceiling, ensuring the temple itself is a place of permanent chill and frost. A place Auril would be more likely to sit, than in the dark empty space on the edge of Lolth's domain.

Astarion might bristle, worrying he's allowed something terrible into their home, it is far colder in the temple than he ever was on Aranea's mountain (though he was not there in deepest winter, nor was he there specifically seeking Auril's attention, let alone her blessings). And Étoile, later, would reassure him that it is as permanent as though they had planted a tree in a great forest as other elves might; and they would be so clear about how much they appreciate all he's stomached when it comes to their mother and their faith.

The reception would have more simple traditions: drinking, dancing, gifts, party games with ribbons (such as to determine who next might marry or what the future holds) and written words (such as guessing games about the guests), and grand sprawling tales that range from fictional tales with a lesson to things that are not entirely untrue.

9. Decor - What kind of notable decor is there at the venue? Do they have something like an arch, a carpet aisle, fairy lights in the trees, or other elaborate decorations? Did they choose to decorate at all?

There might be ribbons / banners to help designate locations and walking paths, but I don't think it would be any more decorated than what one should usually expect in their settlement. There is no arch, or change to the style of lighting (though there might be more candles for the convenience of guests without darkvision, braziers are already well scattered, raised and angled to keep their shadows from being too much of a hindrance. Glowing mushrooms are only supplementary, and affect the integrity of their buildings and so aren't really used). There are no carpets placed outside, and no carpets changed (though washed) inside. The most notable thing is the flowers:

10. Flowers - What flowers or other natural elements do they have as part of their decoration, if any? Are these flowers significant?

I think each major venue of the wedding (a particular street, the building that houses dinner for the elite guests, a building that houses the revelry of some of the spawn, the temple, etc.) gets to have a different sort (and if possible, color) of flower, a solution to indecision, as well as the fact that Astarion felt that bouquets with too many colors were tacky.

11. Bouquet or no bouquet? - Does someone carry a bouquet, or do they choose to carry something else? Or do they walk down the aisle with nothing at all?

Neither of them have a bouquet to hold. And there isn't a typical walk down an aisle.

12. Music - Is there music at the ceremony or the reception? What kind of music? Do they hire an orchestra, band, or half-decent bard to serenade them?

They hire a band or six to cycle through the night, and any musical guests of note might have a song or a set to be featured as well. I have concert pianist Aurelia headcanons to indulge. The music is largely dated to the ears of any younger guests, mostly unobtrusive and extravagant, occasionally bouncy and celebratory; very elvish except for the last band or two of the night being weird and experimental: more vampiric.

13. Outfits - What is the married couple going to wear? Is there special significance in the outfit choices, colors, jewelry, etc?

When I started this ask game, I tried to sketch out ideas for this, but I had to give up. I don't have experience in fashion design and my art is "needs improvement," and I couldn't get something I was completely proud of. dfgjhdfghdfg

So here's some inspiration though not exact outfits:

This design by Christian Lacroix for Astarion, for the ceremony.

The jacket outfit, for Astarion, for the reception. This is a design by a wedding fashion designer? An'Soe.

This design from Dolce & Gabbana’s Alta Sartoria Ode to Verdi collection; designed as an outfit one might wear to the opera, as inspiration for what Étoile could wear to the ceremony.

This design by VoldaDivnaya on e/tsy as inspiration for what Étoile could wear to the reception. No crown, and maybe roses instead of the autumn leaves.

Sadly(?), I think this man influenced my fantasy wedding design taste:

14. Rings - What do their rings look like, if they choose to exchange any?

Basing myself on what I've heard about The Laws and Customs of the Eldar by JRR Tolkien, elves traditionally exchange silver rings for betrothal, often kept within the family. At marriage, the silver rings are returned to the family. If the betrothal falls through, the rings are melted down so that no one can use them again and new ones for the families will need to be made. At marriage, gold rings are exchanged.

While it takes some time, and things are never fully healed, I do like to think of Astarion reconnecting with his parents' post-canon. I've gone back and forth on whether his father was alive, or whether he dies as a result of the Netherbrain's transforming all of the infected; but I think there would have been another gravestone nearby / worth mentioning if one had appeared during his time under Cazador, and it feels a little boring to me to have his father die at that final hurdle.

I do believe Astarion's parents would have such a silver ring for him. I don't think he would use it.

Étoile has no such thing, and is not the one to propose.

Astarion proposes with something like this ruby bat ring design by cerriousdesign on e/tsy:

Before their engagement party, Étoile purchases something like this silver garnet rose ring by ArtJewelryByMoko on e/tsy for Astarion (it's plated in white gold, but let's pretend it's not):

Their wedding bands can be based on the Till Death wedding bands by digbyandiona:

15. Vows and Unity Ceremonies - Does the couple exchange vows? Do they complete any kind of "unity" ceremony, like handfasting, planting a tree together, etc?

Étoile and Astarion are addressed as individuals that their guests have come to honor or support in such a way that no presumption of closeness is made of these relationships; which makes the ceremony more digestible to the drow guests, and feels like a tongue-in-cheek joke to the Spawn, who are all so close now that to imagine Étoile and Astarion as independent instead of inextricable from the culture they've helped breed is almost comical.

It isn't presented as a melding of families; this aspect of their relationship was already done, probably centuries ago, but at least in the past two or so years when Astarion turned Étoile into a vampire.

But there are still words, for the public, for the dark, for the two being married, and (because Astarion can't escape it, marrying into Étoile's strange two-person family (and especially if I decide to declare Étoile as Auril's Chosen for their trial against Raphael)) for Auril.

And then they exchange vows. Not as transparent as they might've been in another life, among friends and loved ones, and without the eyes of thousands who rely on them or rival leaders that seek to undermine them; but still painfully romantic, long winded, and revealing. Astarion claims later that the length of his own vows were only to annoy Lae'zel, and the drow in attendance.

16. Wedding Party - Are there bridesmaids, groomsmen, attendants, special witnesses? Are they dressed a certain way or positioned in a special spot?

If Karlach was alive, she'd be Astarion's best man.

The only significant friends, lovers or family that take part in the ceremony is Aranea leading it, but other duties related to the festivities and reception have at least one designated person for if ever the newly weds are unavailable to oversee something.

Violet is a sort of master of affairs, keeping track of the guests and the general schedule to keep people on time and with oversight as to where official rooms for guests are situated and secured; in this way, she is also managing seating arrangements and security, though the latter is supplemented by the githyanki — Étoile is a little paranoid that they will have invited their mother down from her mountain, and into the Underdark no less, only to be poisoned by an overzealous drow, so they ask Lae'zel for six soldiers at least.

Aurelia oversees the music as much as she can, but she's delegating a lot because she's also acting as emotional support for her siblings who have varied feelings on the structure and visibility of this wedding.

By now they have the distribution of blood down to a science, food less so. Petras has the authority to make decisions about food and beverages, but there is a mortal hire beneath him who has ensured the quality and other relevant oversight that someone who can actually consume the food can provide.

Leon is tasked with archiving any wedding gifts as necessary, to ensure they are neither misplaced (which would include keeping anything alive too close to things they shouldn't be) nor hazardous (which would include things like items that cast Daylight).

I've been imagining dances and games; and assuming there are any which require a role like bridesmaids or groomsmen, then Astarion would have Halsin and He Who Was, and Étoile would have Lae'zel and Aylin.

17. Going Down the Aisle - Does anyone escort the character walking down the aisle? Do they go alone?

They walk together.

18. I Now Pronounce You... - Do your characters change their last names, keep their last names, arrange for a specific kind of name? For example, "Mr. and Mr. Dekarios" or "Lord and Lady Ravengard-Cliffgate"?

Since the vampires and the Spawn voted to refer to their settlement as House Ienith, Astarion (et al) would introduce himself as Astarion Ancunín of House Ienith (and similar). I don't imagine him changing this after marriage.

If they had been married years ago, there would have been contention among Astarion's siblings with regards to if Astarion or Étoile took each other's names after having voted against referring to themselves as either House Ancunín or the Ancunín siblings (he wasn't the only one of the seven of them to put his name forward; and it would have been better than Szarr BUT they were only begrudgingly grateful to him, not indebted nor ready to swear themselves to each other). If Astarion had changed his name to Ienith it would have been just as bad as being named after him otherwise, and if Étoile had changed their name to Ancunín then that would have severed the tie to the name they chose in an extremely frustrating way.

Anyway.

Étoile adds Astarion's surname to theirs, unhyphenated, Étoile Ancunín Ienith.

19. Guests - Who else is there? Are there any special details about how the guests are arranged, what they are wearing, or what they are doing?

A Ravengard is there, or a descendant of Wyll's, even if the name is lost to time. I've gone back and forth on Gale's situation, since Elminster and Volo are so old, I do think his Chosen status in addition to just being A Wizard would give him Long life, but whether this long? Maybe. Astarion's lover, my oc Voriya.

At least parties from 7 noble drow houses. Araj hasn't left Menzoberranzan since the re-institution of House Oblodra. It's so tempting to concoct exemptions, but I don't believe that the matron mothers wouldn't cannibalize the house of any noble house that would dare to so overtly thwart Lolth; probably literally.

Adult Xan is there. My oc Yar'sul.

Friends, nobility and strangers from the Sword Coast and Underdark. Maybe a knight from Impiltur who wanted to see Étoile with his own eyes and experience the strangeness of the wedding.

There's no dress code. Some of the drow try to dress in a way to upstage the newlyweds. Most people dress in fine things they own. But thinking of what this crowd looked like made me giggle. They look like the cast from The Princess and the Goblin, or like two crowds from Sleeping Beauty combined:

20. Food - What kind of food and drink is being served at the reception? Is there a lush feast or simple fare? Is there a wedding cake or some other kind of traditional wedding food?

Deepwine, certainly. I'm unclear if Green Wine is legally allowed to leave Menzoberranzan. Surfacer Red and White Wines as well. Peach and Orange Juice. Water, Coffee, Tea. The teas are magically preserved and some kinds are so old they've not been produced in six decades. The coffee is newly purchased for the sake of the event.

I think the number of non-vampiric guests means there's almost no guests who are vegetarian, but still there might be at least two main dish options for them: stuffed mushrooms, stuffed peppers or lentil curry.

The meat eating guests have more options as I imagine the amount of fucking blood the Spawn / vampiric guests are given access to for this event is ... concerning, lmfao. Lamb, Rothé, Pork, Chicken. Roasted, Fried, Blackened, Prepared as a Roast, Baked and served on Bread, Minced and made into Pie, Dried and Jerked, Shredded and braided around something like an Underdark cranberry sauce.

Sides could include salad, seaweed salad, egg salad, fried carrots and potatoes.

Flat bread, loaf bread, round buttery crackers. Some of the Spawn started a cheesery a century and a half ago, and everyone's benefiting from that.

Astarion briefly wanted a wedding cake despite being unable to enjoy it, but I think this was dismissed for convenience (and because he would be depressed about being unable to eat it). Desserts might include fruit and cream, jam and spongecake, vanilla and butterscotch ice cream.

21. Dancing - Is there any dancing? Elegant waltzes or all-out party-hard tavern music dance parties?

There is dancing. The music lends to more elegant dances while older guests and (reasonable) mortal guests are more likely to be awake, and as the hours wear on into [what's evening for a vampire (4-5 a.m.?)] the music is more likely to inspire dances of ability (where people are in a circle and each take a moment to show off), swaying, and (if you all can forgive me) headbanging (can you imagine headbanging with Dame Aylin? I have palpitations).

I don't think there's a requirement for Étoile and Astarion to "open" the dancefloor, but I do think there's pressure in regards to their first dance; and any practice, playful or sincere, that led to this public display was the first time Astarion really got to feel Étoile's new vampiric dexterity in action. For all he can fear and hate change, he does find it charming.

22. Ending the Night - How does the reception end? Is there a big send-off, or does everyone quietly fade out as the night turns into dawn?

It's a fade out. In another life it wouldn't be in the Underdark and we'd need mortal staff to do a sweep to make sure inebriated vampires are somewhere they can safely rest for sun-up. Similarly, Étoile's heart wrenches in worry when they find Halsin "resting his eyes" at a table at some point, but he's fine and Xan and a Spawn escort Halsin to his room.

23. Honeymoon - Does the couple take a honeymoon anywhere?

No...t exactly. There are vampire quarters in a few towns and cities along the Sword Coast, but maybe this marks a time where 7-15 Spawn extend work and trading opportunities further out to sea to the port of Skaug in the Nelanther, whether seeking out their own fortunes as inspired by Ulgar the Undying and Priamon "Frostrune" Rakesk the way any pirate does, or else returning to a life long-lost to them since their initial turning. I think it doesn't sit well with the vampires, sending them out to sea where a hole in a hull or a storm or a righteous mortal or the creatures of the deep present such unique challenges for their kind who are incidentally immortal and at such risk of the sun ... but there are stranger things to be found in the planarsphere than crewmen who work only at night, and maybe someday it could mean something. Give them a decade or two and Astarion (et al) can (relatively securely) visit a beach that's far enough south that it doesn't grow (as) cold (as Baldur's Gate) after the sun has set, even if it's daylight glory still eludes him.

✨Specific Moments✨

1.The Night Before - Write about the night before the wedding. Are your characters nervous? Excited? Do they see their partner or keep away?

The nature of travel in this manner of setting (paired with the ages of some of their closest guests) would mean that they'd not just arrive the day of and be done with it. Some guests might even arrive early as a matter of curiosity, to see how the vampires have survived (or what defenses they might have, etc.) and the general culture of the space. So not only the night before, but especially then, Astarion is nervous about having so many potentially hostile players in such a confined space.

He suggests he check on his parents, whom Étoile is certain are safely, soundly sleeping — same as the last time he disturbed them. Still the drow, Spawn and githyanki pacing the halls offer no reassurance; and he wishes, briefly, half-insincerely that they'd wed privately when there had been such a possibility. Étoile points out what a small part of Astarion wishes that, and after a beat tries to deflect by pointing out how tense he's managed to make the drow and still they'll put on airs to celebrate him. It helps a bit.

But then the spiral is worse, and Astarion imagines, as he sometimes does, that he will wake in starved delirium as someone pulls him from the mausoleum Cazador kept him in; that the rousing from the dream will come violently, with a cracked surface high above, and sunlight spilled onto any he dared treat as people or who imagined they treated him the same; that the rousing of the dream will come violently, with blades and pliers, forceps and sheers. Why else would he have presumed to accept love, for all its complications, why else would he have risked rejection, to kill or estrange his lover; why else except the logic of a dream.

It passes, as it always does. It's been worse again these past few years leading up to turning Étoile, after decades upon decades of ... mental peace.

Astarion's embarrassed, usually he can get through stress (complaining only as is reasonable) and only break when the peak of an event has passed, and yet now they only have a few short hours to trance and — somehow he sounds as though he's dreading what will always be a fond memory, an act of love and a point of pride.

Sincere, but overly fond to the point of humour, Étoile reciprocates to tell Astarion that it is privilege to be able to find beginnings after so long together, new experiences, even if this is the last beginning that this too would be new. Étoile speaks of what they'll do together when their guests leave, where they will go, how they will live; all while getting them both properly dressed again so they can walk out among their city, strange as it is with its flowers and ribbons, cramped as it might be with it's faraway ceiling, just to see the world beyond the pressure of their walls, to show Astarion that while there are threats there is no looming darkness targeting him or his perception of reality specifically they can't overcome.

2. Getting Ready - Who helps your characters get ready? Are there any sweet, funny, bittersweet, or adorable moments that happen?

Dalyria helps Astarion get ready. He is mostly extremely hands off, with her opinion having only been useful initially in regards to the evolution of fashion and any hidden meanings in symbols or patterns for the sake of the guests from Menzoberranzan. But she does help with final touches and making sure he hasn't forgotten anything and carries pins and buttons if necessary. In addition to Detect Poison And Disease, just in case.

Dalyria and Astarion each influenced Étoile's outfits — including the reasoning and etiquette in having a change of clothes, but when it comes to before-the-ceremony, Lae'zel, who has had little practice with Faerûnian fashion but much experience with dressing to stand before dignitaries (which, Étoile and the other vampires also do) at this point, does her best. She jokes about helping them don their armour again, and they are both emotional about the loss of time and friends (Shadowheart in particular, for this). But they get through it.

3. The First Look - Write about the moment when your married couple sees each other in their wedding outfits for the first time.

The outfits aren't secret, they attend each others fittings and things.

Astarion still makes a fuss about needing a minute before he's smiling like a fool (as a result of the joy that the outfit is an immediate reminder of) around Étoile's mother, always so sombre (and not critical but deathly sincere, now that he thinks of it). Dalyria and Lae'zel both make a fuss about Astarion not embracing Étoile at this point to keep their garments from wrinkling (to which he faux-pouts, "where's Leon" as a simple Prestidigitation would resolve the worst that he could manage (well, not the worst)).

Étoile is guilty of indulging Astarion's love of color; making Dalyria's job that much harder when trying to rein Astarion into an outfit that is more thematically coherent. And also influences the decision on a half corset. (I drew a different one than the one shown in the images earlier in this post but this post is long enough.)

4. Ceremony - Write the scene where they exchange vows, complete a unity ceremony, exchange rings, or etc.

I am not doing this with any kind of sincerity. I will rewrite it if I want to post it on a/o3. But I did want to write their vows. Also as I was writing this, I realized this part of their ceremony is almost certainly in elvish:

Aranea withheld her amusement at the congregation of guests, almost none of which kept Auril in their hearts and yet whom were seated now outside her temple, to express fear, respect, and — most surprisingly — love of the Frostmaiden, her Chosen, and the vampire, Astarion. She took a breath, this was not an arid chill that would steal her voice, but still Aranea did not want to have her voice crack or falter in front of so many discerning eyes.

Some of the Spawn clung to the sides of their subterranean buildings for a better view of the ceremony. They were giddy and hushed, unlike the mortal guests who gossiped and nudged one another like school children, or noblemen.

None of them mattered as much as the couple before her. Her child, undead against her wishes, but happy, and clearly, conscious of themself, their faith, and this decision. Astarion would always hold a strange place in her heart. She owed him much. She hated him deeply; the way one can only hate someone they also love. He did not betray her, but her grudge was impossible to deny, and would prove harder to overcome, even in the quiet acceptance she kept of him, and the smiles he shared now with Étoile, waiting for her to speak.

“We stand now at the edge of graceful darkness and all storms to come, with those who seek the permanency of marriage,” Aranea made no effort to hide her smile from the drow, the lack of marriage in their culture irrelevant to Auril's recognition, and amusing to the wedding couple. Her voice carried, deep and loud over the quiet commanded in their hollow in the Underdark. Delivered in elvish, Aranea wondered how spells and translators sought to interpret "graceful dark" or "permanency" in the context of the Underdark, the quiet of a midnight mountain, the unshakable frozen state that Auril was known to leave her most precious possessions. She could only continue, working from memory as Étoile had insisted wasn't necessary. “That their union might be part of their beauty, as inextricable in their nature as the privacy of their thoughts; the purity of their voices.”

In another declaration of one's nature, Aranea would have brought attention to the beating of a heart, the breath from one's lungs; but not so with vampires. She directed her hands at the couple.

“Speak now, a sworn and solemn vow to impress upon Auril, and all those who bear witness, the value you have found in one another and the virtues you cultivate, that none would question the foundation of your concord.”

Aranea closed her hands, raising one to her chest to gesture to her child with the other, allowing their audience a moment to judge, as was their nature. Love is not beautiful to the drow, culturally, but it could be in vogue, especially for their rivals, especially as a means to manipulate. If Astarion was good for anything, it was these little political overtures.

“Étoile,” Aranea beckoned, before continuing with their titles, “Mla'ghir, Torment of the Illithid and Councillor to House Ienith. You may lead. May Auril listen.”

Unlike Aranea, Étoile and Astarion each were going to read the majority of their contributions to the ceremony, and the paper cracked under Étoile's thumbs with the tension of their grip, a nervous energy accompanying even the tailored level of vulnerability they were subjecting themself to; to guests of either import or longevity to the point of a vampire's immortality.

“Astarion,” Étoile began, eased instantly by his smug expression. They readjusted their posture, and continued, in elvish. “When we met, I expected that if we survived we would have had an acquaintance, perhaps a friendship. I worried then, that it was very possible we would have only a few days together — the totality of the rest of our lives; but we survived, we grew closer, and I did spend the whole of the rest of my life in your company. I trusted you with my death, and … To call you my friend would be an egregious misnomer. I have loved you so long and so deeply that I wonder if to call this union marriage is not also misleading. I cannot picture my future devoid of any of your humour, your power, your support. Your promise, and your company, graces me the strength I need to challenge our rivals, our enemies, our friends and the whole of the world around us. We have not changed even this small corner of our world alone, and yet for all those I could not have succeeded without, I could not have succeeded without you. I would be a different person ten times over for not knowing you, and I am so grateful to you: for where we've been, for the security and comfort you bring, for letting me into your exacting confidence. I am so hopeful for where we're going, and for the love we'll share, with each other, through lovers we take and lives we touch. The importance you have to me cannot be overstated. If the sun never rises on me again, it will be too soon. There is so much for us in the dark, as we have proven, time and again.”

Étoile produced the box that would hold their silver rings, marking the end of their engagement, one way or another.

“Keep me close to your heart, beloved.” They vowed, “For me there is only by-your-side. I swear my heart, my hearth and my home, my silence for your secrets and my voice for your cause. Never need you ask for my shield, my rage or my patience. I am, at the heart of me, paced to overtake our every obstacle to our greatest advantage. I am, in my simplicity, desperate to make you happy, now and in whatever time stretches out before us, be it days, or the inescapable eternity of vampirism. Let our belonging take this shape, lover, and I will ever remain your confidant, your conspirator, and your friend.”

Though it was not part of the ceremony, there were not calls to reservation, modesty or celibacy in Auril's worship (though Astarion doubted he would have been respectful if there had been), and so Astarion circled one hand around Étoile's wrist to guide them down. He was sure they had some in the audience who would appreciate the romance of Étoile's declaration, and he would have it so that there were none more than him as transparent in their adoration. He led them into one long kiss, and then two shaken ones as he gathered himself. To be loved deeply was not foreign to him at this stage of his life, but it was his wedding day.

Astarion dared a glance at the drow who was soon to be his mother-in-law. To his wavering credit, she was smiling in her conflicted pride, and not weeping in disgust as she had when they'd declared their intention to turn Étoile into a vampire.

Once he separated himself, she continued to guide the ceremony, “Astarion, Leidhron, the Dread Fang, Lord of Duskwood and Councillor to House Ienith. You may follow. Auril hears you.”

“No pressure, I'm sure,” he quipped, to the amused murmurs of his guests.

“Étoile,” Astarion said before taking a moment to retrieve his vows. Still, the ceremony continued in elvish, “Our first two hundred years together — two hundred years, and a day — we were in Moonrise Village. We spent the day with Halsin, and the evening by the graves of dear friends. I was distracted, as it was officially the longest time I'd known another person since Cazador.” Some murmurs followed, his name taboo and often unspoken by the Spawn. “The inattentive would say he had no need to mold me, as, with a word, he could bid me to do anything. In truth, his every direction twisted me until I was nothing but the ugliest parts of myself; a cowardly and duplicitous slave. Since knowing you—”

Astarion stopped himself, creasing the paper in his hands, having a good memory for words and theatrics. Where he had planned to say, 'I have learned how to discern where I begin, and how to navigate myself in the constellations of our relationships.' Instead, he would echo an important sentiment from Étoile's vows.

“I am a different person, I doubt I can recount the ways. Endanya, I never mean to take you for granted,” he asserted, in reference to how Étoile and all his siblings presumed his discomfort with Étoile's vampiric transformation would never fade, “but there are stretches of time that I have been so familiar with your presence at my back — in battle, in bed, in politics and in the long monotonous moments that fill the in between; where the flowers grow, where the frost spreads, where the years pass. You motivate me to action, you support my rage and heartache, vengeance and ambitions, indulgence and hedonism, when others would turn away, sometimes rightfully. Often, rightfully.” The crowd laughed, but Étoile didn't, and Astarion smiled reassuringly.

“It is only because I knew I could rely on you through it all, that marriage felt superfluous. I have felt partner to you since before even the end of the netherbrain.” He adjusted his tone to reflect his incredulity as he gestured, “I would do anything that you asked because I know that you would not ask the impossible — although I might be required to attempt it anyway, if fate remains as stringent and demanding, in every avenue but love.” They did laugh at that, just a breath and a bounce of their shoulders, and a smile; but Astarion was still pleased with himself. “You have filled and fed my heart, literally and figuratively for so long. It is more than memories that stay with me. It is consequence. It is reward. Our choice, to be together, has never caused me regret. The world is rich for us, and we will never exhaust its treasures, not when each day can be spent in each other's company.”

Astarion produced the box that held their golden rings, the act in itself a final ritualistic recognition of his acknowledgement of their vow, before reciting his own.

“I swear I will see you through every darkened shadow, through any pain. Wherever we find ourselves, whatever befalls us; for you I am the heart of devotion. I will protect all you hold dear. I will celebrate your every victory. I will mourn your every loss. I will be bold as you require, and humble as I please.” That earned another snort from some of the audience and an accepting smile from Étoile, which struck a foolish, personal chord in Astarion and he started to falter as he went on, “I will be your lover and your husband, in this and any life. I have—” Astarion dropped his vows, and the extended volume and measured tone of his oration to swear to Étoile directly (as was the point of these things, Astarion's heart insisted) still in elvish, “I've wanted our eternity nearly all our acquaintance. I love you. I've loved you. I will — love you… The sentiment surprised me once, was foreign … once. Now it is at my core, as true as my vow, as inescapable as the shadows; as reliable as I always will be, when you need me, darling.”

When Étoile leaned down to kiss him, Astarion half-expected an embrace, but their hands fiddled between them, balancing the box intended for their silver rings in one palm, while easing their silver ring off their opposite hand. It was with a giddy scoff, lowering his face away in delight, that he mirrored the action.

5. First Dance - Does your couple have a first dance? What is that like for them?

As stated, they don't need to have the first dance of the night but they would have a first dance together.

It's simple for the most part. A slow song that has enough bounce (or bass) in it to encourage a head waggle even though most of the steps are wide or swaying. Something half-classical if not fully, where Étoile and Astarion at least drift apart and then together, if not where Étoile spins Astarion once or twice.

6. Private Moments - Every couple needs a private moment away from the big day. When does your couple escape the festivities, before, during, or after the ceremony/reception, to have a private, quiet (or perhaps not so quiet) moment?

There's a brief moment of ten minutes once they're dressed before they have to meet up with more than a handful of friends, family and staff. There's a longer moment of up to forty minutes after the ceremony where they change their outfits and ensure they're clean of blood, and revel in being married. There's not much else throughout the festivities until they settle in for the night.

#long post #baldur's gate 3 spoilers #astarion #oc tag: étoile

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papastarion · 6 months ago

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“A Vampire’s Guide to First Impressions (Vol. 1)”

Part 1 of “From the Personal Collection of Two Spawn”

Summary: Astarion was born wielding the most important tools of his future trade. A pretty face, handsome features, enviable hair, and a quick tongue and mind to match it all. But tools are useless without the tricks needed to wield them effectively. If his years in service of his vampiric master had taught him anything, it was that first impressions were often matters of fate-changing importance.

One such introduction, seemingly just like hundreds of others that had come before it, would prove Cazador Szarr’s words truer than any words had ever been spoken, for better and for worse.

Rating: Teen.

Word Count: 4,101.

Warnings/Tags: Canon typical nonsense, bit of a character study if you squint, canon and OSHA non-compliant.

Characters/Pairings: Astarion, Dalyria, Cazador Szarr, Female half-elf Dark Urge.

Tag List: @kalmiaphlox (shoot me a dm if you’d like to be added!)

[Read on AO3]

“Here I am, a bundle of past recollections and future dreams, knotted up in a reasonably attractive bundle of flesh. I remember what this flesh has gone through; I dream of what it may go through.” — Sylvia Plath.

Jannath Estate, Baldur’s Gate.

1472 DR.

Everything must be perfect.

It always had to be wherever the master was involved.

Anything less would only serve as inspiration for the vampire lord’s already twisted imagination. Gods above and below alike knew that odious man didn’t need to be given any more reason to torment his spawn. And Astarion did not want to know what other knots such an imagination could be tied into after nearly 200 years caught in its tangles and bindings.

Don’t go near any mirrors, lest they note your lack of reflection. Don’t smile with your teeth, for a close-lipped offering is far more tantalizing. Always do as you’re told, just as you are told to do it.

And then there was his favorite, one of the vampire lord’s most precious rules, one so bound to his will that none of his spawn could begin to dream of breaking it:

Thou shall not drink from thinking creatures.

“Straighten your posture.” Dalyria’s impossibly gentle touch smoothed down a crease in Astarion’s doublet—the fine ensemble he was only allowed to wear when their master brought them along to these fêtes was threaded with fine gold sewn on purple silk.

Astarion adjusted his posture just so, hands locked in front of himself, unmoving and as ramrod straight as any of the marble statues that dotted the cityscape outside the stately home. He was as cold as one to the touch, too.

Perfect.

“There you go.”

Certain their master would find no more fault in them than usual, his sister snaked her arm around his, lifting the hem of her dress just so with her other hand, and the pair made to join the party within the doors before them.

Once upon a time, Astarion would have reveled in wearing such clothes every single day.

It didn’t so much as make him smile anymore.

A flop house or a fine estate, it was all the same to him now. The near-to-rags, moth-ridden despite his careful mending by candlelight, that he wore at home or the borrowed outfits reserved only for more public endeavors. All the same. Shackles were shackles, no matter how pretty. A cage was a cage, no matter the purity of the gold bent and shaped to make the bars.

He was still a prisoner, no matter the metal of the bars that caged him or the fineness of wardrobe he donned.

The Jannath estate was a fine house, indeed. It took little time for Astarion to do the math in his head. He had been dead nearly 80 years before the family was ennobled, let alone before this estate was built. His own family had held their station for practically an age in comparison.

He pushed the thought from his mind.

It didn’t matter.

None of it did.

Their merciless master was already mingling, his true nature protected as he exchanged pleasantries with nobles and other patrairs who were better served by hiding his secrets so that he could, in turn, hide theirs. Such was the way of the great and the good of the Gate. Such was the way of nobility.

One sin ignored could cover up a multitude of others.

“What’s on the menu tonight?” Astarion inquired at last, and anyone who knew their true nature would know the question was not so innocent as it sounded when heard from his lips.

“There’s a visiting noblewoman from Neverwinter, here on business with her husband.” Dalyria informed him. “Blonde hair. Tan skin. She’ll be wearing a signet ring with the Neverember’s sigil. The master didn’t give me a name. I assume she’s from an outer branch of the family. Or maybe they just don’t like her.”

“But he gave no name?” Astarion noted, a questioning eyebrow poised at her. “Sounds like someone has something to hide, more like.”

“I believe that’s the polite way of saying it.” Dalyria shrugged as they moved through the crowd together. “Be grateful he gave you a dish, rather than leaving you to the buffet again.” She said as she curtsied to an older man who took a particular interest in her. “Better to be the hunter than the hunted.”

“Only until the roles are reversed, dear sister.” He reminded her, lingering in place as she obliged her would-be suitor, taking his hand and leaving Astarion behind so the well-dressed and witless fool could lead her to the dance floor in the heart of the gaudy and packed ballroom.

The poor man would be dead before dawn, invited back to the Szarr estate for a “more exclusive” party. Given the look he was giving the former physician, it was no less than he deserved. Astarion didn’t give the man’s fate another thought as he moved onward, assuming the role of the hunter.

First impressions often began with the eyes.

This party being a masquerade made that all the easier.

His senses were heightened beyond what anyone in this room could comprehend. In truth, taking the whole of the partygoers wouldn’t be any more difficult than fish in a barrel for three vampires, even if the two spawn that made up the sum were barely functional beasts of burden, rather than proper hunters like their lord and master.

Living heartbeats created a melody in Astarion’s ears, the blood in their veins rushing to keep the tempo.

It made his stomach churn.

He accepted a crystal piece of stemware from a passing caterer. The woman bowed politely before passing him by, expressionless. The wine would taste bitter on his tongue, no matter how fine the vintage. It had taken years of practice and even more bouts of punishment for Astarion to master the ability to drink it without spitting it right back out into the glass.

“Aren’t you a fine looking thing?”

Astarion shied away from the man’s touch. Any other night, he would have withered away inside while keeping his exterior composure inviting and alluring until the man took him to bed. But there was only one mark he needed to hit tonight.

No additional numbers, just her. Whoever she was.

“Don’t be like that, pet.”

There was a thick whiff of alcohol on his breath.

The man practically reeked of new money. Astarion couldn’t decide what was more unfortunate: the pungency of the proverbial stench, or that its false gilding was still more palatable than the gutterfare he was more familiar with. He did his best to hide a sneer, thankful for the peacock-themed mask his master had chosen for him to wear tonight.

No doubt it was intended as a slight, but Astarion wore it with as much pride as possible.

“Gods, I think I could cut myself on that nose.” His index finger grazed the bridge of Astarion’s nose just so, before Astarion stepped back.

“Charming.” He sighed, putting everything into his disinterested performance.

No eye contact. Rigid shoulders. Creating distance. Everything he was taught not to do when securing a meal for his master.

“Gavin, where are you?”

With the voice’s beckoning amongst the masked parade, the half-balding man swore, cursing his bad luck before removing himself with a last lascivious look toward the vampire spawn. Astarion took the lucky break and ran with it, retreating to the nearest wall to better survey the room. He perched himself next to a carved column, repeating Dalyria’s brief description to himself as he tried to put the near-miss from his mind.

No doubt that man would have said it was a retreat to lick wounds.

But Astarion knew better.

He shook his head, refocusing.

There were plenty of blonde halos about the room. Some he could identify as Baldurian patrairs he had encountered at other events. Others he could not give name or rank to. Gold masks of jackals. Black half-moon masks. Phantoms. Fools. The cast was expansive as it was elusive.

All the better for him and Dalyria to blend in amongst their numbers.

His gaze lingered on one particular woman. She was trapped in a passionless dance with a man well over two-heads taller than her, on the opposite end of the room from Astarion. She looked one more waltz away from taking the pearls hanging around her neck and strangling herself with them.

Tan skin that glowed, adorned by a royal blue gown of draping fabrics that was as simple as it was stunning.

Could she be the one he was looking for?

If it were her, she was one of the more beautiful marks his eyes had been set upon. The mask she wore to obscure the top half of her face did nothing to diminish her looks. Though her mask was mousy—perhaps meant to be a civet or a ferret of some sort—such a word would do nothing to describe her.

She was striking, especially with those dark-bright eyes. Her hair was the same color as spun gold, interlaced with the faintest threads in hues that danced somewhere between the faintest pink and orange all done up in intricate braids that spoke to her northern heritage.

An air of naivety and sadness hung above her like swords ready to put her out of her misery at any moment. Everything about her spoke to a sense of doom that she carried for far longer than his master had even known of her existence.

Perhaps her ending tonight would be one of mercy. A mercy killing at the fangs of a vampire. The irony was almost as bitter as the unwelcome wine tasted on his tongue.

When their eyes met from their opposing ends of the room, he poured everything into the geniality of his look. He made sure she felt like she was the only other person in the room, in the city, in his eyes. He held her gaze until she was spun about by her partner, until they could meet again.

Throughout the night, he made sure their eyes would meet again and again by being in the right place at the right time. She would flinch away first each time, blushing. And Astarion would be there again the next time she looked for him.

As the ballroom spun in its rhythm, Astarion made their every interaction match the rest of the room’s dance. When the tall man who was with her—her husband, Astarion didn’t doubt—finally left her side to mingle amongst the rest of the festivities, she began to withdraw more and more from the throngs of the gala altogether.

By the stroke of midnight, Astarion knew he had to act.

Instead of a wallflower, she was quickly proving herself to be a shrinking violet. He lost sight of her when the tempo of the night shifted, instead falling into his master’s sightlines.

No words were exchanged. The orders were always the same. And failure was not tolerated.

His master’s gaze shifted effortlessly back to the conversation he carried with an easy smile.

Astarion had grown familiar with his intended’s scent among the cacophony of smells in the room. Dried herbs of different providence mixed with a perfumed lavender smell. When his eyes could not find her, he turned to his nose.

Her trail led him to one of the hallways outside the main ballroom. Given the fact that the night’s event was being hosted within, no one occupied these halls, and so the only light was the moonlight pouring in through the windows that kept their vigil at different intervals running the length of the hall. Her perfumed trail…was confused, lingering in strange places and in trails only a vampire could scent out.

Astarion decided to hazard a detour out onto one of the house’s vacant, rose-adorned balconies. His quarry could wait. The older half of the night still lay ahead of them.

Another night in a sea of endless nights.

He surveyed the garden below for a moment before closing his eyes. Behind the safety of his eyelids, he could pretend that he was back in the home he could no longer remember. He wondered: had his own home sported a garden like this?

He thought he could almost remember one. Meticulously cared for, much more practical than simply aesthetic like this one.

The beginnings of the memory dissipated into the mire of his mind with the feeling of a blade of a dagger pressing into his throat, accompanied by the strong air of lavender perfume.

Her.

“Well, well. I didn’t expect such a gentlewoman to be wielding such a ferocious weapon.” Astarion mused, unfazed by the admittedly expensive looking weapon currently addressing his neck. “If you let me go, I’ll show you mine. After all, you did show me yours.”

If anything, Astarion was impressed. He hadn’t expected her to be able to give him the slip. She was practically showing off, getting the jump on him like this. He hadn’t even noticed her approach.

He couldn’t help an all too genuine a smirk, comfortable with the gestures in knowing that she would not see it.

His eyes caught the Neverember signet ring Dalyria had mentioned poised on one of the fingers wrapped around the hilt of her dagger.

He had made no mistake.

This was her.

Not that he doubted himself, but it was nice to have practical confirmation beyond his instincts. And yet she was even more of an enigma now than she had been before. What sort of woman of gentle birth knew how to handle a weapon so effectively, or how to sneak up on a bespoke monster, for that matter?

“You know, typical convention would be to give me your name.” The woman’s voice bore a northern accent, further confirming her identity.

It sent a thrill up his spine.

Astarion chuckled coolly. “But where’s the fun in that?” He teased before conceding. “I suppose it is only proper, you’re right. You can call me Astarion.”

The woman pressed her dagger further against his skin. “Astarion. Tell me why you’ve been watching me or it’ll find a new home in your…very prominent…jugular.”

Astarion all but purred. “Cheeky thing, aren’t you?” He held his hands up innocently. “I assure you, I didn’t mean to cause alarm. You’ll find it rather silly when I tell you, I fear.”

His would-be assailant said nothing.

“It’s just that…I’ve attended hundreds of these things in my life, worn more of these ridiculous masks than I care to count. But I’ve never seen someone so stunningly singular in my life.”

He played the part of the aware and weary patriar perfectly, in his own humble estimation. It seemed to work well enough on her, judging by the fact that his neck still remained in tact.

“Funny. For being so singular, it sounds like you’ve said those words before.” She shot back.

At that, Astarion’s smile widened, now genuinely delighted. “Very good.” He lauded. “I’d dare say this isn’t your first soiree, either. Or your first time wielding that gorgeous blade.”

Slowly, the woman in the murine mask backed away from him, wary but allowing him a chance to earn her trust with the lowering of her dagger.

“I’m a magistrate on the High Council, so I’m afraid I’m rather too well-versed at using honey-speech.” He supplied, turning to face her with a polite bow. “Of course, I should have known it wouldn’t work on you. That was my mistake. I apologize.”

“What do you want?”

“I just wanted to make sure you were alright.” He said, presenting it as a plain and simple conclusion. “You seemed rather relieved when that man left you earlier.”

“My husband?” Her heavy sigh confirmed more of his suppositions about her and her situation. “No doubt sampling the other delights on offer. After all, we’re only in the city for one night, and it would be a shame to waste it.”

“And you?”

Her eyes lit up, some life restored in them as she studied him—surely trying to gauge his sincerity, or lack thereof. “Me?” She hid her incredulity behind a practiced, sauve tone.

“Surely he doesn’t expect you not to do the same?” Astarion raised an eyebrow. “With your looks, I’m sure you could have your pick of the litter. And I’m sure it’s no less than you deserve. Or him, for that matter.”

Those priceless eyes of hers widened, red-stained lips parting in the faintest betrayal of her surprise. Her cheeks, left exposed by her half-mask, revealed her reddened cheeks. She looked away quickly, clearing her throat, unable to meet her gaze.

“It would be more trouble than it’s worth.” She said at last.

Astarion would have laughed had her meaning not struck a chord in his motionless heart. “For him or you?”

Her lips pulled together, terse.

Ah.

He thought for a moment. He felt trapped, suddenly, stuck somewhere between the duty he knew he couldn’t avoid without certainty of retribution and the twinge of kinship he felt within the look on her face. He couldn’t pity her, because that would mean he pitied himself, that he was pitiable.

Decisively, he restored the cadence of their conversation. “It’s his loss.” Astarion told her. “I hope you realize that.”

She couldn’t help but look back to him again.

With a trained hand, Astarion brought his thumb to her chin, closing the distance between them. “Perhaps it’s for the best. Anyone you deigned to lavish attention upon tonight would still come second to you.” He lowered his voice, and he could tell by the glint in her eye that its song was almost hypnotic to her.

They were both starving animals, weren’t they? Their appetites may vary one to the other, but they were both nothing but beasts consumed by ravenously empty bellies.

“He has no idea how lucky he is.” Astarion said softly as he lowered his gaze down to her lips.

Her breath quivered when he teased them with his own, teasing him with its warmth.

His physicality was all mechanical. He knew just how to touch someone to electrify them, just as he knew how to look across a room and make someone feel superfluously special. This was where his worth lied, as his master so loved to remind him.

Constantly.

Oft accompanied with a lash or rod.

Before he could seal their kiss, and her fate, Astarion caught the sound of approaching footsteps. Before he could see their intruder, he pulled away from her, careful to preserve this woman’s honor, even if her life would remain in danger so long as she remained in his sights.

Astarion’s expression soured as his earlier assailant walked right back into his life.

“There you are, my beauty.” He crooned. “So sorry about the interruption earlier.” The man clapped his white-glows hands together, laughing shakily. “Where were we?”

“Nowhere.” Astarion bristled.

Astarion was used to grabby hands, but that didn’t mean he had grown to like their touch. Especially on the rare nights when they weren’t attached to a body he had to take back to his master. Those rarer nights brought him as close as he could get to fighting back.

And tonight, the only body required was the one next to his.

“I think he’d prefer it if you left.” The Neverwintian woman stood beside Astarion, resolute, even daring to step in front of him.

The man’s words slurred as he took advantage of her newly made distance to put himself between her and Astarion, waving her off before grabbing onto Astarion’s lapels. “Mind your business, pet. You’ll have your turn if you behave yourself.”

The next thing Astarion knew after turning about and trying to get the man off of him, his prey was becoming a predator once more.

The woman pushed her weight into the man, using his own miscalculation against him and sending him toppling from the balcony without hesitation. He fell to the garden below, bones snapping as the full weight of his frame hit the ground.

He didn’t have the chance to cry out before his faculties sent the message to his brain that he was, in fact, dead on impact.

Astarion couldn’t hide his shock before it spread across his face like paint splattered on a canvas, only recovering once he managed to gauge her own reaction. Like another layer of skin, hidden underneath the gilded peacock mask he wore, his trained façade slipped back into place.

“Oh, gods.” She covered her mouth with a glove hand, her complexion draining nearly to match his pallor.

“You killed him…” Astarion whispered, head snapping back in her direction once he confirmed the man’s state.

For me.

The words died on Astarion’s lips before his voice could give them life.

“I…I…” She shook her head.

She couldn’t say she didn’t mean to. She absolutely had. Gone was the confidence with which she had handled him. Now she wasn’t just some starving animal, she was also a frightened one.

“It’s alright. This will be our little secret.” He assured her, squeezing the hand she had been holding to her lips, trying to refocus her. “In fact, I’d say I owe you. One good turn deserves another, after all.”

The decision was made before he realized it. One made in a snap, on an instinct. But one he followed through on all the same as one planned out for months.

She wouldn’t be the first mark he had let get away. However, unlike the rest of them, she wasn’t from the city. She could get away, so long as she and her husband didn’t dally. His master couldn’t follow where she went, not without raising too much suspicion.

“Now, let’s go, shall we? Unsolved murders in Baldur’s Gate are a copper a dozen, but we won't remain free of suspicion if we linger here.”

Not to mention the fact that Petras would be coming to collect the body in no time, surely. He needed her seeing that and discovering his condition as much as he needed to take a walk in the light of day. Which was to say that neither one entailed anything good for him, though the latter was tempting when the shadows grew too dark and choking.

“It’s not often someone so inclines me to say it, but, thank you.” Astarion bade, still holding her hand as they approached the ballroom doors. “And if you’re ever back in the Gate, perhaps we could meet up for a bite?” He winked slyly.

His jest’s double meaning was lost on her, but it certainly made him smile. No matter how many times he used it.

If she was ever back in the city, no doubt she would quickly be on Cazador’s list again.

“I just killed someone.” She all but whispered, clearly still in the throes of shock.

“You just saved me from that man and his clearly unwanted intentions.” He pressed a kiss to her hand. “Let’s not dwell on the negatives, hm? Besides, he was clearly drunk. I’m sure the Fists will assume he was a victim of his own inebriation before they ever even think of foul play.”

“I…”

He quieted her. “Chin up. I suggest you find that husband of yours and tell him you’re not feeling well. Get out of here as soon as possible, yes?”

She just kept staring back down the hall.

Astarion tempered his bubbling annoyance. “Nod.” He coached.

Finally, she complied, slight as her nod was.

“That’s a girl. I’ll slip in once I know you’ve made your exit.” He let go of her hand at last. “I do so hope we’ll meet again, my lady.”

It was a pretty lie, once he allowed himself a moment to indulge in. He believed he would remember her beyond this night. It would be hard to forget her after such a stellar first impression, his noble murderess.

The woman studied him for a moment longer before pulling her fur wrap tighter around her shoulders, as if bundling up to brave the ballroom beyond the doors.

Later, when he made his own return, he knew his master’s displeasure immediately. Red eyes filled with cold hate the instant they set themselves upon his spawn. Astarion knew what awaited him upon their return to the Szarr ancestral home.

Somewhere, amidst the bloody haze of the beating that followed her exit from that night and his life, he realized he never got her name.

But at least the memory of her, lacking as it was in name, would linger on far after his master left him in another broken, beaten, and bloody mess of himself.

#Astarion #Durgestarion #bg3 #Durge #Sable #From the Personal Collection of Two Spawn #from the writing desk

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hissithlady · 1 year ago

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A Sonnet on His Back

By HisSithLady

Astarion looks forward to a night with his Master, Cazador, who has promised him a special night.

18+ Erotica. Minors DNI

Relationships:

Astarion/Cazador Szarr

Characters:

Astarion

Cazador Szarr

Additional Tags/Warnings

Blood, Blood and Injury, Blood Drinking, Blood and Torture, Male Slash, Anal Sex, Anal, Master/Slave, Sexual Slavery, Dom/sub, Lust, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, I'm Bad At Tagging, Razors, Cutting

Astarion paced with anticipation in his chamber. Cazador, his master who had saved him years ago had promised a night together with something special.

This was a rare occurrence as of late, the vampire lord indulging more in the toys he ordered Astarion to bring to him than the one he claimed to be his favorite. He fussed, not sure why, moving his hair in places, feeling his own body, should be be clothed? Should he be naked and waiting?As his mind swam there was a soft knock.

"C-come in," he cursed how his voice shook as his master strode in, closing the door behind him. The proud vampire lord strutted to his spawn, taking him in with hungry eyes.

"M-my master," the spawn bowed low to his creator. Cazador, dressed casually, cupped Astarion's face, lifting it. The young vampire tried not to look eager to his raven haired Lord, but his touch sent shivers down his spine.

"My beloved, my Astarion,"

His chest fluttered as his eyes met the commanding red gaze of his master. His angled features almost soft as he stroked the spawns cheek with his thumb. Cazador pulled his beloved's face to him, pressing his lips against his. Astarion moaned into the kiss. His hands found Cazadors waist in an attempt to be as close as possible. Their tongues danced as if trying to devour each other.

Like starved lovers they tore at each other's clothing, gasping and groaning in passion. Cazador placed his hands on Astarion's shoulders, pushing the vampire spawn to his knees. The vampire lord's cock stood stiff, a considerable length that made Astarion's mouth water.

"You are magnificent, my lord,"

"Suck me,"

Astarion did not have to be asked twice. He nuzzled his face against Cazadors length before licking it up and down. He sucked his balls, teasing the tip of his penis, swirling his tongue around his head. The spawn was so absorbed in his task he barely registered his master speaking.

"Such a good boy, you do know how to please me," he gasped out.

Astarion's eyes widened feeling a rush of pride. He took all of Cazador's length in his mouth, gagging slightly before bobbing his head, taking his master to the back of his throat again and again.

"Good, good, take it, that's right," the vampire lord hissed. Cazador groaned as he pushed him to the hilt, his balls resting against his spawn’s chin. The white haired elf gagged, his throat closing around his master's length as he began to choke.

"You look so good with my cock in your mouth"

Astarion felt his body heat up at the praise of his master. Filled with new vigor, he placed his hands on the vampire's hips and bobbed his head, sliding back and forth over his Master's cock. Cazador moaned as he held the head of his spawn again to the base. He relished in the panic, the rapid breath, the squeezing of his throat. The vampire lord held him in place for a moment. Then pulled his cock from his mouth. Strings of saliva connected his spawn to his cock as Astarion coughed, catching his breath.

"Get up," the vampire ordered and Astarion obeyed. He looked over his master's body, toned and fit like his own, he reached out, letting a finger travel the deep gutters of Cazador's abs. Cazador grabbed the cock of his spawn, feeling the stiff white meat lurch in his grip. Astarion's legs almost gave way at the sudden attention, a whine escaping his lips.

"Y-you don't have to be rough, I come willingly," Astarion raised his hands giving an awkward playful grin that went ignored.

Pulling him in close, Cazador did not hesitate to sink his fangs into Astarion's shoulder. Astarion let out a moan as the blood flowed from his wound. The sharp pain of the bite turned into warm bliss. It was euphoric and he melted into Cazador's arms.

Cazador released him from the bite. Kissing him passionately, he shared the metallic tang of Astarion's blood.

"You already did that," Astarion whispered breathlessly, "I'm already yours."

"Yes you are, my beautiful boy." Cazador responded.

"On the bed, I have something special for you tonight," he commanded.

Astarion did as he was told, crawling onto the sheets on his hands and knees. His white ass presenting as his cock dribbled a pool onto the sheets below him. Astarion couldn't control the trembling of his body. His master, his lover, the one person he desired for pleasure and love would soon be inside him, he would soon be filled. Cazador watched as his beloved trembled with excitement. His pale form, toned and sculpted, a work of art.

"You are beautiful, Astarion. Saving such a treasure from the grip of death was well worth the trouble."

He ran a hand along the curve of Astarion's ass, eliciting a hiss from the spawn.

"I owe you my life, my master," Astarion moaned. "I am yours."

Cazador leaned forward, biting Astarion's earlobe. "You will be," he promised.

He pressed his thick cock tip against the spawns twitching hole. Astarion whimpered. His mind is a haze of need and desire. With only the saliva of his spawn’s throat Cazador pushed against the tight muscles of Astarion's hole.

Grunting, the vampire's spawn gritted his teeth, the sting of his tight hole behaving unyieldingly to his Master's attempt at penetration. Cazador grabbed Astarion’s hair wrenching his head back.

“Don’t resist me, spawn,” he seethed through gritted teeth.

Astarion whimpered, doing his best to relax as Cazador reared back, pushing harder into his slave's ass. With a pop and a gasp, his head slipped in. He held his spawns hip in his hands, the tight hot muscle squeezing his sensitive head. Astarion cried out, a mix of pleasure and pain, as he was filled.

"C-Cazador," gasped Astarion, the wave of pleasure building, more intense, as his mind threatened to shatter. Cazador grinned as he watched his spawn's back arch as he began to tunnel inside him, The pale elf cried out his bliss, his cock spilling seed onto the sheets beneath him in ecstasy. "M-more."

"Beg."

"Please, Master!" Astarion cried, a loud moan escaping him, Cazador's name following it as the vampire grabbed his face, turning him to face him and kissing him harshly, the other hand gripping the other's thigh to hold him open wider, Astarion's moans becoming muffled, before Cazador broke away, his mouth finding his throat, a low growl vibrating through his lips.

"Master!" Astarion gasped, as Cazador bit into his shoulder, hard. Crying out in both pain and pleasure, Astarion felt blood begin to drip down his skin, before Cazador began to lick it up, his hips still moving, his own breath coming in heavy gasps. Astarion's mind was spinning, Cazador's fingers gripping the skin of his thighs tightly, his hips slamming into him as he growled into his ear.

"You are mine, my spawn." Cazador's heated panting had Astarion's mind spinning. "Only mine, do you understand?"

"Yes, Master," breathed Astarion, his body shaking as Cazador's teeth grazed his neck only fueling his spawn's cries of passion.. "Only yours. I love you, I love you with all the days you have given me"

Suddenly Astarion felt a sharpness against his back, not the same sharpness as his Master's teeth, something more fine. Out of instinct he tried to turn and look only to have Cazador shove him back down, his cheek mashed into the sheets. '"M-mast-?"

"Hush," the vampire lord's rhythm didn't slow as he bent down to his ear,

"My beloved Astarion. I shall make you more beautiful than you are. I will make you art."

More sharpness caused Astarion to grit his teeth, his hands balling into fists. It was excruciating. He knew his master was rough but this was new. The sweat that formed ran into the open wounds causing him to howl.

Cazador was muttering something under his breath, something foreign that he'd never heard. Astarion gripped the sheets below him.

"Gods….what are you doing?" He cried out.

"I am carving a sonnet on your back my love, and marking the verses in scars. Your body is mine and I will make it so."

Astarion screamed, desperately wanting to stop the sting of cuts and scrapes against his back and the warmth of blood as it trickled down his skin. He wanted to look but was unable to as his master forced him into the sheets.

"Be still and take what I give you." His tone was dripping with lust.

"Y-yes," Astarion whimpered. All he could do was obey, all he could do was scream, in the mix of ecstasy and pain at his Master's hand. It must be beautiful, thought Astarion, it must be. His Master's poetry was second to none, it was an honor to be his canvas…an honor.

Cazador groaned, the razor digging into the soft flesh of his spawn's back, his tongue licking up the blood, the taste of copper, iron and salt mixing on his tongue, his mind drunk on it. Astarion was his, his perfect spawn, his to keep, to mark. His screams, sweet music.

He was making Astarion's body move on purpose with every sharp thrust of his cock, he wanted the blade to slip, it mattered not to him as he enjoyed carving over the mistakes again and again. Cazador growled as he continued to push his cock into Astarion, the man underneath himself gasping, moaning, his own cock still hard and drooling despite the pain. The vampire smiled as he saw Astarion's arms were shaking, and Cazador moved one of his hands from his thighs, to his shoulders digging his nails into the white skin.

"Grab your own cock and jerk yourself off," commanded the vampire, "Don't you dare stop and don't you dare cum until I say so"

At his words, Astarion reached for his sensitive cock. The pale elf's eyes rolled back as he started to pleasure himself, moaning into the thrusts. The vibrations went through Cazador’s whole body and he sunk over and over into his spawn.

"Be still, my beloved, you're going to make me, oops" Cazador teased digging the razor harder into Astarions back, the blinding pain causing him to shriek. "It needs to be perfect,"

Cazador laced his bloodied fingers in the vampire spawns white hair, dragging him to his knees, continuing the carve shapes and lines. "Hold this position, pet."

Astarion nodded, his breath uneven and heavy, his chest heaving. He could feel the cold air against the wounds on his back and the sting of them. It was almost too much, but he knew he had no choice but to stay as he was. He felt his Masters cock hitting deeper than before. His grunts turned to groans, groans becoming scream, Cazador digging the blade harder, relishing in his pain.

"Please...master, I...I need..."

Cazador smirked. "Be patient, my sweet. I'm not quite done yet. It’s magnificent, my beloved, the words on your skin are perfect"

Astarion whimpered, his eyes shut, tears threatening to spill. He knew what would happen if he didn't obey but that did not stop the screams that escaped him. He desperately kept the rhythm of his hand on his cock, his desire to please Cazador, to show him he could obey was driving him wild.

Astarion's hips moved in unison with his Master's, he wanted to please him, so badly as Cazador dug his nails into Astarion's locks. "Your screams are the sweetest, my beautiful spawn"

Astarion was a quivering mess. Cazador muttered softly, he strained to hear the words in hopes to get a taste of what masterpiece his master was forming. "M-master!"

"I think I'm almost done, my dear."

Cazador was grinning as he dug the razor in a little deeper, Astarion crying out, his back arching, blood flowing endlessly, the sheets below them running red. The vampire lord was loving the feeling of power over the spawn, watching as his blood seeped from his back, his cock being squeezed by his insides as they reacted to the blade. He had to stop himself from cumming prematurely, he had to finish what he was doing. Astarion squeezed his eyes closed, tears rolling down his cheeks, as he felt himself get close again. He so desperately wanted to release yet it seemed he was being kept on the edge, the pleasure and pain mixing together, the razor digging deeper into his back, his Master's nails digging into his skin.

"Please, Master," Astarion was dazed, head swimming. He whispered knowing what he wanted to hear, "please, make it hurt"

Cazador paused in surprise, his balls threatening to explode. Astarion could feel the jolt of his cock inside him. "As you wish, my love"

The sounds of flesh slapping against flesh intensified, Cazador carved the shape of his cock into his prized spawn over and over to the melody of the man's screams. The razor kept slipping, he kept digging it into the once perfect, unblemished back of his slave.

Astarion's mind spun, from bloodlessness or from the pleasure he wasn't sure. The smell of his blood, their sex, their sweat thickly filling the room. He knew from the moans of his Master that he was doing good, it felt like an eternity but he would endure this to have a piece of Cazador with him forever.

Finally, Astarion heard Cazador put the razor down, his flesh throbbing as the vampire lord wrapped his arms around his waist, kissing the bite marks on his shoulders.

"I-is it finished...your sonnet?" Astarion's voice dripped with desperation as he felt Cazador touch, tracing his masterpiece. Cazador wrapped his hand around Astarions neck, squeezing it as he held his body to him. Astarion felt his balls lurch, his eyes bulged before rolling back, mouth opening silent scream.

"Oh yes, my beloved," Cazador whispered in his ear, "and it is beautiful, it is perfect, just like you. Now cum, my beloved slave"

And that was all Astarion needed. He came hard, the white hot pleasure blinding him as his mind finally shattered, the feeling of his Master's teeth in his neck sending him spiraling over the edge. Cazador came moments after, his grip tightening as he rode his own orgasm out, filling his spawn.

Cazador released Astarion from his grip, the young man falling forward into the blood covered sheets, panting in bliss as his master slid out of him. Cazador looked down over his work, satisfied at the job he had done…one down, six to go.

He was brought back to reality as the man beneath him stirred, he leaned over the spawn, gently brushing the hair from his eyes that fluttered open.

"D-id I please you, Master?"

"Very much, my dear," the vampire Lord smiled, kissing his spawn on the head, before his attention was brought to the blood that had dripped down the young man's back, and down his thighs. Using the already stained sheets to wipe the blood from his chest Cazador held his hands over the open wounds and muttered. As he did so Astarian grunted as his skin stitched back together over the wounds in raised markings, scarring over.

"Will you read it to me? The sonnet?"

Cazador smirked "No,"

Astarion's brow furrowed.

"But you said it was for me, after all that, why not read it to me?" He reached out to his master, still craving the feel of him.

"Because," Cazador replied, jerking his shoulder away. "The beauty is not the words, but the art, the work."

Astarion looked puzzled as his Master rose, picking up his clothes up from the floor. Cazador redressed, making his way out of the room.

"Master?" Astarion called, "Lay with me please"

Cazador paused looking back at the mess he had left, the blood covered boy, the dirty sheets. "I have matters to attend too"

Astarion sat up.

"Do you not want to be with me, Master?"

Cazador chuckled. "You are insatiable."

"Please,"

"No, pet." It came out harsh. "I have more to write, your back isn't large enough for my vision."

“But..” Astarion said quietly, recoiling. "Yes Master,"

Cazador exited the room, not looking his way again, shutting the door behind him. The vampire spawn stood and reached back, feeling the new lumps formed on his flesh, turning to try and see if he could decipher what his master had written.

"How cruel of him" Astarion mused. He was used to his Master's tricks. He would find out eventually.

For now the young vampire laid on his bed, his blood stained, bruised body curling into the soft sheets, his mind swimming with what beautiful words he could have permanently etched on his back. Savoring the lingering feeling of his master’s touch before cleaning himself, bliss rang in his ears, his body tingling from his Master’s attention, Astarion didn't even notice the screams from the neighbouring chambers.

#astarion #astarion smut #astarion fanart #astarion fanfic #astarion x cazador #cazador szarr #bg3 cazador #male x male #baldur's gate 3 #astarion tag

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crowfeatherquill · 1 year ago

Text

Maxim of Loyalty, Pt. 1

More contributions to @colormywords' AU. MAJOR content warnings in the tags on this one -- I gave /myself/ the ick while I was working on it, which, on the one hand means it's definitely achieved the desired effect, but on the other hand means proceed with caution. In general: Warning for Cazador Szarr, the level of disgusting coercive behavior you might expect from him, and themes of cult indoctrination and psychological abuse.

The Szarr Path to Spiritual Ascension:

Maxim of Loyalty - Trust in the Clan. Look first to the Clan for guidance and support as you walk the Path. To abandon the Clan is to abandon yourself, and to forever forswear any chance of Ascension.

It’s past midnight when Astarion rolls out of bed, still fully dressed, and reaches for the bag he’s stashed under his bunk. It’s not until Violet’s bedside lamp turns on and he’s caught prostrate on the ground, still pawing blindly for a backpack he swears was here when he’d checked on it before bed, that he realizes his plan may already be going wrong.

“Looking for something?”

Her voice is all artificial sugar, and it makes Astarion clench his teeth together so hard they ache.

“Hand it over,” he says, straightening and turning a glare on her that he hopes does not look as desperate as he feels.

She smiles beatifically at him and his stomach sinks. He thinks if he’d had anything to eat in the last twelve hours, he might feel nauseous. Instead, he mostly just feels adrenaline plucking at his nerves, and stomach acid threatening to crawl back up his throat. He tries valiantly not to start shaking.

“So it is yours!” Violet takes on a tone of conspiratorial glee that sends dread up Astarion’s spine like lightning. “You know, I was wondering how anyone would ever have gotten their hands on such an ugly, bulky bag, but now I think I’m starting to understand…you went and got it yourself, didn’t you? You little brat!”

Astarion feels his heart pounding against his sternum and fails to keep his eyes from straying to the clock that hangs above the dormitory door. When he’d initially formed this plan, he’d left himself only seconds to spare for any given part of it. If he lingers here too much longer, he’ll miss the bus that’s supposed to take him out of town and have to wait for the next one, and the longer he stays in one place -- particularly someplace as crowded as a transit depot -- the more likely it is he’ll be caught and dragged back here and he may not know much, but he knows that he cannot keep living here.

“Give it back, Violet.” His voice is tense, wavering like a cable under immense strain and liable to snap at any moment.

“What makes you think I have it?” Violet needles, folding her arms over her chest. The expression of vicious, vindictive delight remains on her face as if it’s been carved in marble, and there’s a burning malice in her eyes that Astarion can almost feel singeing his skin.

“We are the only two people who sleep in this room, and it was still where I left it when I checked on it before lockup. So give. It. Back.”

The words are all teeth and desperation. He knows he can’t do anything to her -- not really -- and very likely so does she. But he doesn’t have any more time to waste, and he can’t leave without that bag. It’s everything.

Violet’s expression sours and she all but stamps her foot like a petulant child.

“Oh fine. You’re no fun when you get all bitchy.”

She turns and throws her blanket back, revealing the bag where she’d presumably had it tucked under her knees. Astarion snatches it out of her hand the moment she’s extended it to him and swallows the urge to rifle through it and check that everything is still there. He can’t afford the delay.

The dormitory doors lock from the outside, but he’s known how to handle privacy locks like this since he was still sticking his nose where it didn’t belong back in his own home. It’s trivial work, getting it open and slipping out into the quiet, sterile hall. Feeling petty, he locks it again behind him. Let Violet rot in there for all he cares.

The first leg of the journey through the dormitory hall is slower than he’d like, his eyes needing time to re-adjust to the darkness of the sleeping house, but he picks up pace when he reaches the stairs to the foyer. He checks his watch, taking the steps as quickly as he can manage without making too much noise. He doesn’t relish the thought of exercising on an empty stomach, but if he runs, he should still be able to catch the bus. He can still make this work. It’ll be hard, but so is everything worth doing, and if it gets him away from this wretched place, he’s certain he’ll find a way to console himself.

He doesn’t notice there is a light on in the salle d’attente until he’s standing in it where it pools on the entry hall floor. For the second time in less than half an hour, he feels his stomach drop. His legs lock up without his say-so, but he can’t bring himself to turn and look. Not until he hears Cazador’s voice, oozing concern he knows better than to think is genuine.

“Astarion.” His tone is chiding, like a mother catching an unruly child out past his bedtime. It makes Astarion’s skin crawl. “I’m surprised at you. You know -- when Petras told me you’d been acting strangely, I admit I was…skeptical. I think even if I had believed him, I wouldn’t have expected anything quite so extreme, but it seems I’ll have to beg his pardon in the morning. He was right.”

Of course it was Petras. Petras, who is only brave enough to posture and puff his chest out until the likes of Violet or Dalyria walk into the room. Petras, who will gladly kiss whatever ass he thinks will offer him special privileges to brag about.

Petras, who, like an idiot, Astarion failed to consider a credible threat. And now it is far too late.

His hands ball into fists and he feels the heat of shame creeping up the back of his neck. He hears the soft pad of footsteps on the tile and looks up to see Cazador, half-dressed as though pulled from bed solely for this, advancing on him with a look on his face that would almost seem like pity if Astarion thought him capable of such an emotion.

He extends a hand, expectantly, and Astarion’s body complies despite him. He un-shoulders his bag and hands it over, into Cazador’s waiting grip. Cazador gives a pleased hum that grates on Astarion’s every nerve as if it were metal scraping ceramic. That bag is everything. Every ounce of autonomy he’s taken the last month to scrap together, gone in an instant with a single unspoken command.

He thinks he might vomit after all -- even if it’s only bile.

“I understand, you know,” Cazador says, setting the bag down on a nearby chair and pressing into Astarion’s personal space to drape an arm over his rigid shoulders. “You’ve been here just about long enough and this isn’t the first time something like this has happened. Many new initiates grow restless after a time. This lifestyle…it’s an adjustment. Quite a large one for some.”

Cazador begins to walk and Astarion has no choice but to follow, steered by the arm Cazador has looped around his back, while the other hand comes across to rest on his chest. He wants to squirm free. He has nowhere to go.

“This is a phase,” Cazador continues, guiding him back toward the foyer stairs, “You have the resilience to get through it, of course, or you wouldn’t be here. But it’s perfectly natural to struggle with our baser instincts from time to time. And I am more than happy to help you through the worst of it. I only wish you’d come to me instead of forcing me to hear it from Petras.”

Seething rage wars with nauseous dread in Astarion’s gut. If nothing else, it kills his appetite. It’s a grim consolation in the face of what’s coming.

They don’t turn back to the dormitory hall when they reach the top of the stairs. Astarion’s feet keep pace with Cazador’s guidance but his mind shuts down. He tries to think of where else Cazador could be taking him this late at night -- tries to anticipate what punishment will match the crime of attempting to abandon the Clan. He thinks of the Reflection Chamber. Of the countless hours he’s already spent scrutinizing his own reflection and all the endless, recurrent permutations of it that sit and scrutinize him back in that dimly lit room full of mirrors and silence and the inescapable pressure of his own thoughts. He thinks of the way he has watched himself wither in those mirrors -- becoming little more than a ghost haunting his own hollowed-out body. He thinks about how the last time he was there, he’d barely recognized himself.

Frankly, that had been the thing that scared him enough to make him bother even trying to leave in the first place.

His thoughts stutter and stall as they pass the door to the Reflection Chamber. He can think of perhaps a handful of other places he might be sent for an indiscretion like this, but none of them are in this part of the house. It doesn’t hit him until they’re standing in front of the door to Cazador’s suite -- rooms Astarion has never seen let alone been in.

He reels. He’s been expecting punishment. A reprimand of some kind. As far as he knows, not even Cazador’s favorite brown-nosers get to see the other side of this door. Immediately his mind begins to conjure images of the maniacal torture devices that must be waiting for him within. Clearly, the reason no one is allowed in must be because the whole suite is a serial killer’s wet dream -- covered in plastic and filled with tools of pain and torment.

Cazador leans forward to unlock the door, never once releasing his grip around Astarion’s shoulders, and ushers him past the threshold.

The room beyond is…stark, in that minimalist way that screams of enough material wealth to pretend you don’t have any at all. Though there is no opulence, everything is of an oppressive level of quality that Astarion can only assume cost more than he could ever imagine single pieces of furniture being worth.

“There are spare night clothes in the dresser, there. Get comfortable.”

Astarion briefly thinks it would’ve been more reasonable of Cazador to instruct him to sprout wings and fly to the moon. He shuffles numbly to the dresser and finds an abundance of the loose, flowing pants Cazador is so partial to, but nothing by way of torso coverage. He picks a pair at random, past the point of really caring as it begins to sink in what is happening here.

He hesitates a moment, fidgeting with the folded pants in his hands, and Cazador gives no indication that he intends to leave the room, or even to look away while Astarion undresses. Shame heats the back of his neck once more, burning like he’s spent too long in the sun. He turns his back -- because it’s something -- and strips down to his underwear. Putting on the pants somehow doesn’t make him feel any less exposed.

When he turns back around, Cazador has reclined on the bed, and gestures for Astarion to join him.

“Beautiful,” he says, the adoration in his tone crawling over Astarion’s skin like a swarm of fire ants, “Have I ever told you that’s my favorite color? You wear it quite well.”

Astarion feels ill, and moves once more without conscious thought. It’s as if he’s vacated his own body and left it on auto-pilot -- his mind fully elsewhere, clawing at the inside of his skull and demanding to be let out so it can run a thousand miles and more, as far away from here as it can get and farther still. He sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress is soft and the sheets are smooth and smell very faintly of vanilla and something distinctly animal.

“When I’m feeling ill-at-ease, it always helps me to have some company,” Cazador continues, and he sounds so very like a consoling parent that it almost makes Astarion want to laugh. Or maybe it’s a scream he feels, slowly building pressure in his chest. “I thought perhaps you’d sleep better with someone you can trust close at hand. I know you and Violet still have some…hurdles to overcome in that regard.”

Astarion lies down on top of the sheets, because there’s nothing much else he can do, and if he’s honest, the whole thing is making him dizzy. He keeps his back turned to Cazador. Some part of him clings to the hope that perhaps all they will do is share a bed. That Cazador just wants to keep a close eye on him and make sure he doesn’t run off before morning.

It shrivels and dies when he feels Cazador’s arm drape around his waist and pull him flush -- the skin of his back against Cazador’s bare chest. He squeezes his eyes shut. Maybe if he pretends it’s a dream, this will all go away. He will wake up in his shared dormitory with Violet and it will be just before midnight, and his plan will still have a chance. Or it will be morning, and another day will have passed without event, and he will settle for that over the new and inescapable horror currently making a nest among his ribs.

He feels Cazador’s lips brush the nape of his neck in a chaste, gentle kiss. He has to fight not to cringe away as though burned. Even after they’re gone, he feels the place they touched like a stinging brand.

“Try to get some rest,” Cazador murmurs into his ear, “In the morning, you’ll be glad you decided to stay.”

Astarion lays still for hours after that, forcing his breathing to keep an even, steady rhythm. He feels Cazador sink into sleep against his back. He lies awake until the sun breaks over the horizon and lights Cazador’s gossamer curtains with the angelic glow of dawn. If he was anywhere else, Astarion thinks he’d find it beautiful, in an envious, magazine-cover sort of way. As it is, the light just burns.

The punishment he was expecting comes after dawn, straightforward and uncompromising. He spends the next week relegated to the Reflection Chamber -- the longest he’s ever had to stay there. The only time he’s brought out is for meals, and even then, he’s seated alone. The others don’t speak to him. They don’t even acknowledge his presence. He spends every spare second glowering at Petras’ back and imagining his gaze can burn holes in the other man’s shirt.

After that, it takes him another month and a half to find the opportunity to scrounge up a new journal to replace the one he’d lost along with all the other possessions he’d crammed into his getaway bag. A week after that, he gets his hands on a pen and starts the first page.

Astarion Ancunin’s Rules for Surviving the Palace:

Maxim of Loyalty - It doesn’t exist. Trust no one but yourself. These people would rather destroy a perfectly serviceable ladder than see someone else climb it in front of them.

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