#for all the content astarion has he still is the one least connected to the main story \

[elusianknight]

it was bc astarion and durge had the same writer for a period of time, potentially also affected by the fact that a lot of the production was done at the mocap studio Neil runs, so his availability is probably far more flexible than others (who have day jobs outside of acting/production/etc). neil also directed a lot of mocap, and did mocap for characters other than Astarion as well, including many monsters, all character creation animations (origins, etc).

it is a bit annoying how much content astarion gets with dark urge compared to literally every other companion. like yeah, i get budget/time constraints, but it's so obvious that astarion was larian's darling and while it's not exactly unwarranted (astarion is a great character, he's easily one of my favourite companions!) it's kind of sickening that astarion gets a whole conversation to talk you out of breaking up with him, reassuring the dark urge that they're not a monster and they're worthy of his love, whereas lae'zel and shadowheart are kinda just like "oh [default sad expression] okay"

to not even make the slightest mention of how wyll in particular was treated with regards to larian's writing (which again, i get — his rewrite was a slapdash addition to the game because he wasn't very popular in early access)

[rahuratna]

Synopsis: [Astarion x Reader/Tav] Wilful, witty, vulnerable and endearing, Astarion blossoms slowly under the ever-present sunshine of your love.

CW: Explicit sexual content, mentions of past trauma.

Banner art: by Steven Nederveen

Dividers: @aquazero

" ... time and again

No fire where I lit my spark

I am not afraid of the dark

Where your words devour my heart ... "

~ lyrics from Distant Sun (by Crowded House)

His scent infiltrates your dreams, the dry floral notes and the rusty tang of old blood, the unique underlying essence that never fails to bring his face to the forefront of your mind.

When he falls asleep, back pressed to yours, it is merely a prelude to how you wake the following morning, with his head tucked into the crook of your neck, or pillowed between your breasts, the soft white curls grazing your cheek as you keep your breathing light and even, so as not to interrupt his slumber. You know the gentle scent of his scalp better than anyone has a right to.

There is something that goes far beyond the pleasures of the flesh when you are together like this; two easily doused candle-flames that reach for each other, flickering, across the distance of bleak memory, pain and loss.

Such a tenuous connection, so easily fractured. Yet, even through all the trials you've faced thus far, losing him had somehow transformed into an idea you simply would not countenance.

The land might burn, your enemies might dance on the ashes of the people you had failed, but Astarion's fingers winding uncertainly through yours would be the only sensation you wanted to experience at the end of the world.

You thought about it now, as rain pattered on the roof of your tent, the inside dry and warm from the heat of the enchanted lamp. He had joined you a short while earlier, wordlessly, as was his habit. To give voice to the immensity of what he had to overcome, every single time he entered your tent of his own free will, would be more than he was capable of fully processing at this time.

He lay beside you now, with his chin propped against the top of your head.

He was awake.

"Astarion?"

"Darling."

"What kind of weather do you like best?"

He was silent for a while. You lay still, relaxed. When you were together like this, pauses in conversation could sometimes stretch out for ages, because time ceased to place its shackles on either of you. Even the most mundane topic was up for discussion. Words filled space with comfort. Stolen time was sacred time.

"Hmm. Weather like this, I suppose. It makes being inside feel ... somewhat better."

"You certainly weren't born for the outdoors."

He raised his fingernails for you to inspect.

"Absolutely not! Look at these beauties. Imagine if they became stained with grass, or earth, or worse still ... chipped."

"That would be grievous indeed," you concurred with hushed solemnity.

A low rumble of amusement made its way up through his throat.

"What about you, my dove? If I could guess - "

"Cooler weather. Maybe breezy."

His touch skims, feather-light, up your arm. In times past, such an action would have been a clear provocation, an invitation to something more intimate. You acknowledge it in your mind, absorb it, like a plant takes in sunlight. Astarion is your sun, small and fitful, burning you down to the bone when you least expect it, fighting for his place in your universe.

You reach out, fingertips brushing his. He pauses, allowing your hands to connect, palm to palm. His fingers are longer than yours, strong, clever. You've seen him take apart complex locking mechanisms with such ease, the same ease with which he'd unraveled your body the first time you'd been together.

"Where did you learn to pick locks?"

He lowered his hand and lay back, staring at the roof of the tent. You splayed out at his side, two children watching the imagined turn of the heavens.

"I ... think I learned it from a criminal. One I represented in a case, long ago. He was talkative. Couldn't shut him up, really. Told me how he had cracked a simple safe. I followed his instructions on a similar safe, as a demonstration."

"And you succeeded?"

You could almost sense the curve of his mouth.

"On the first try. He was so proud. Ha. Called me a natural."

You turned your head, smiling slightly. He looked self-satisfied, in that manner of a cat that gets into the choice cream.

Gods, he was lovely to look at, here in your tent, with you. Your gaze traces the impossibly artful tangle of pale curls, the elegant bridge of his nose, the sharp corners of his scarlet eyes and the movement of his perfectly curved lips.

He cocked an eyebrow, expression growing predatory, knowing.

"Darling, you're staring."

You laughed.

"Do you blame me?"

"Honestly? No."

He propped himself on an elbow, playfully prodding at your face until you're forced to swat at him. He sobered suddenly, hands falling away. You suspect you know what he's about to ask. It's never far away from his thoughts, after all.

"Is this enough for you? Just talking? Just falling asleep together?"

You also know by now that words aren't adequate to allay his fears. Turning over on your side, you face him, fingers tracing softly over the profile you'd admired a few moments ago. You smooth out the worry lines on his forehead, the skin cool and smooth as marble beneath your touch.

"This is more then enough. Do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because these are the things I've always wanted."

Your index finger trails down to the tip of his nose, where you decide a kiss needs to be placed. He leans forward, unknowingly.

"You wanted ... this? How we are now?"

"Yes. A lover is nice and all, Astarion, but I've always wanted a partner. Someone to laugh with. Someone to grouse to. Someone to sit with their back to mine in the cold and share my bread with me. Someone to whisper to when the darkness grows closer."

He is silent for a bit, hesitating. You pass your thumbs across the high cheekbones, watching as he falls slowly into the comforting familiarity of the contact. When he speaks, something bitter catches in his throat.

"But I'm not ... capable of some of those things, you know. I can't keep you warm with my body. I can't laugh like others do. I can't eat with you, nor can I claim that darkness hasn't found a permanent home inside me."

You stroke across the corners of his mouth, avoiding his lips and then track upwards once again, along the delicate point of his ears, into the feathery silk of his hair.

"That's all right."

"It is?"

"It is, because I say so. Astarion, very few people actually end up inhabiting the castles they build in the air. Sometimes, they find a real home. A home that's so much better. A place they belong."

His voice has now sunk to a whisper.

"Am I ... that to you?"

"Yes."

He is silent, and you don't press him. Sometimes, it is better to inform him of the way you feel and to give him time to mull it over. He shifts, restless, before planting a sudden, rather solid kiss on your lips.

There is no artifice behind it, no coy seduction. It is surprisingly factual, a statement of feeling, of earnest intent.

"I'll have you know," he states seriously, "that I won't have you comparing me to some homely log cabin. Oh no. I'm nothing short of a stately, luxurious home, built on the side of a sharp precipice, overlooking the most glorious snd treacherous sea."

"That's a rather precarious position to be in, don't you think?"

He sits up on his haunches, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, eyes now animated and captivating.

"But that's half the fun! Will a terrible tempest come along and sweep us away? Will a sea monster rise up from the depths and capture us in its jaws?"

His feral grin is now infectious. You straighten and face him.

"You're only thinking in terms of disasters! That's poor planning. What about the subtle magics of the air that work directly against rock over time? Erosion is as dangerous as any sea monster, you know. Just a tad less showy."

"And what, darling, do you suggest we do about this mortal peril we find ourselves in?"

"We do exactly as we've done so far. We hammer the walls furiously into place, then drink wine and dance and stamp our feet to see how the repairs hold up."

He throws back his head and lets out a laugh, warm, heady, the kind that roughens around the edges and brims with the wicked delight that you know has kept him alive, for all of this time. Unable to help yourself, you place a gentle kiss to the curve of his throat, moving away again, until he grasps your chin firmly and tugs you back.

His mouth is a stark contrast to the way his fingers sink almost desperately into your cheeks, a gentle mapping out of teeth, tongue, sealed with the exquisite drag of his fangs across your lip.

Forehead pressed to yours, he breathes out the words, as if they've been chained in the heavy confines of his chest.

"I want to ... I want ... you. I want ... this."

He has said the words before, under different circumstances. You know what he is referring to. Gently, you push him back. The dim light turns the red of his gaze to the flesh of a pomegranate, tempting, yielding, so easily crushed between your fingers.

"Astarion ... you don't have to - "

"I know. I know you'll wait for me for God knows how long, and I don't know why, because I - "

He bites his lip, but changes tack.

"The reasons ... are important. I know that better than anyone. But I don't want to think. I want to feel. I want to be able to just do this without - "

Worldssly, you draw him towards you, cradling his head against your chest, a return to the familiar. It's the only message that's ever mattered, at least, to you. That he always has a place, whether in your open arms, or across the breadth of the world, or in another realm altogether.

He'll occupy a space that can be filled by no other, with his easy charm, his bruised smile, the bitter twist of his spirit and every sharp edge that slices you open and infiltrates the furthest corners of your heart, nesting there as if the scars that form around them are the most cherished haven.

"What do you want, Astarion?"

"To feel you."

He speaks into the hush of your tent, his breathing laboured. If you had been anyone else, you might have mistaken it for sheer arousal, nothing more. You know better.

He is nervous. He is letting you see it.

You place your hands on his shoulders and he lowers himself, propped on his palms on either side of you. You consider him, warmth and sorrow blooming simultaneously in your chest.

"You'll tell me? If anything I do makes you feel ... "

"Yes, my love. I'll ... yes. Right away."

"Stay still. Keep your eyes on me," is the soft command you give him.

You undo the laces on his shirt, sliding it from him. His skin gleams with otherworldly pallor, and the knowledge of what had been carved into his back filters into your mind. You cannot make him forget, but you can remind him that touch can be tender too.

Such is the way you handle him, as the shirt is pulled away from his torso fully, the ridged planes of his lean abdomen fluttering slightly under your fingers. He is hyper-sensitive to the sensations you bring, a temporary spike in his breathing.

This is nothing like your previous encounter, when he had confidently displayed himself, instructing you on how to please him. You watch the lift of dense, dark lashes, the hesitancy in his glance, the way he raises his head and arches his neck to gift you the same vulnerability always granted to him when you let him feed.

You keep your palms flat against him, grounding him, as you run them over throat, delicately trace collarbones, stroke down over the curve of his pectorals, down, down, until you stop right above the buckle of his belt before repeating the process.

His breathing evens. He leans down to capture your lips, a little more steady and with more of his old flair. He nips lightly down on your chin, playful.

You don't want him to inhabit the persona he'd worn for so long as some kind of defense, and this definitely feels different. As fraught with nerves as he was, he is regaining some of the self he only showed when you were safely ensconced away from the world.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, and he lets out an involuntary groan, low and wanton, a sound that spikes jagged heat all the way down the front of your body.

Before you have time to register his actions, Astarion lowers himself, pressing you into the bedroll. There is no art to the way he rolls his hips against yours, no finesse to the way he clumsily mouths your neck, eager, warm.

"Astar - ahhh - slow down, you - "

"Can't, my sweet - oh yes - I feel - want you so much. I - "

He tugs down your trousers, dragging your underwear away with it. As much as this seems far more organic that anything he's done before, the heated throb of arousal doesn't distract you from the fact that he is rushing things, perhaps in a frantic bid to prove that he can do this.

You clamp your thighs together, temporarily denying him access and he sits back on his haunches, panting. The raw hunger with which he regards you makes you as slick as melting ice. You have both gone so long without sex, something you were more than happy to accept. You know all too well, however, the cost of succumbing to pure lust when there was something far more significant at play.

"I know what you want - "

"Then let me have it. I'm no fragile bloom, my sweet - "

"Astarion."

You stifle a smile as he huffs and folds his arms.  

"Fine. I'm listening. But don't delay. I need you."

The ache in his voice almost has your legs falling apart again, but you hold firm.

"Can you take everything off?"

In reply, he stands and unbuckles his belt, but then pauses and shoots you a mischievous look.

You know that look. Your mouth twitches.

"What are you up to?"

"Giving you a show, that's all."

"Oh Gods, is now really the time for - "

"Well, since you're being so stiff, let Hortensius help you along."

"Please, not Hortensius."

"But darling, he's already here. Now, be nice."

He sucks in his cheeks, in the manner of one of the high end fashion models of the Upper City and wags his hips from side to side, lips projecting in an exaggerated pout as the pants slide from his hips. Your smile turns to a helpless quiver of suppressed merriment as he kicks the offending article away and then grasps his rigid member, advancing on you without ever losing the expression.

"My name is Hortensius Dickanthropus and you, my dear, are about to be subject to a most thorough porking."

You lower your voice, soft and breathy.

"Oh my, Hortensius, I don't know how my poor little flower will take all of that."

Astarion drops to a predatory crouch, crawling over to you. His grin is wide, canines toothily on display.

"Ah, my blushing maid, don't be shy! I may have a horse's cock, but I'm going to be as delicate as a pixie."

You cover your breasts in false modesty as he slides down alongside you.

"A pixie? I saw a pixie in my bushes last week. They're so ... naughty. And fast. Are you going to piston me into the middle of next week, Hortensius?"

"With pleasure. I'm going to piston you like the Steel Watch itself is between your legs - "

Your composure gives way and you slap at his shoulder.

"Not the fucking Steel Watch, for God's sake - "

"Why?" His fingers dance over your hips. "Maybe create another little Foundry down here - "

You're now shaking with laughter and Astarion watches you, the cheeky smirk slipping by inches, eyes kindling with an infinite warmth and adoration that only you are party to. You realise, as your mirth fades, that you had been carrying a great deal of tension too, and that he'd effectively dragged it away from you, deconstructing the last barrier; your fear of hurting him.

In spite of your earlier fervour, you clasp his cheeks between your palms and press his forehead to yours, staying like that for a while. He does not object, nose nudging sweetly against yours.

"Astarion, I want to try something."

"Go ahead."

In truth, you'd learned this minor illusion from Gale, whose knowing smile had almost had you running for the hills when you'd first asked him to teach it to you.

Fingers extending upward, you closed your eyes and focused on the Weave, drawing it closer to you, shaping with precision. Astarion exclaimed softly and you dropped your hand, ready to behold your work.

A fall of many-hued petals, delicate as snow, drifted down from the roof of the tent, each disappearing as they settled on the bedroll and your reclining forms. A pleasant scent, earthy and reminiscent of a forest clearing in the springtime, permeated the air. Soft golden motes danced between you, each emitting a delicate luminosity.

Astarion was watching the display with amused delight, allowing you to catch him off guard. Tipping him over onto his back, you took in the sight of him, fully nude, satiny skin and curls dusted in the remnants of illusory wildflowers, indigo, variegated red and yellow, rich royal purple and the dusky blush of dawn.

"You're so lovely. And free."

You banish petals with your caress, all the way down to the perfectly carved valley of his pelvis.

"I want the world to stand still when I look at you because there's no room for anything else in my mind."

He stops you with a finger to the lips, rising so that you're both lying on your sides, facing each other. He wears his composure well, through long habit, but there is something wild and desperately cast in his eyes.

"And I'm free because of you. Don't you forget it."

This time, nothing interrupts the slide of his skin on yours, the crushing, breathless intimacy that knows no bounds. There is no artifice here, no subtle trick or sly gleam of eyes watching you beneath hooded lids.

Astarion keeps your faces close together, watching every contortion of your features, drinking you in and opening himself to you entirely. He raises your leg onto his hip, still facing you as his fingers slip down, down, between your bodies.

You gasp as he strokes over your folds, his mouth coming down on your throat. His fangs sink in, only breaking the surface, right at the moment his fingers breach you. Crying out, you cling to him, drawing answering moans as he rocks against you.

His lips brush yours, un-coordinated, wet against the sides of your mouth. You taste the slight metallic tinge of your own blood, lost in heady ecstasy as the heat of his exhalation mingles with yours, rough and uneven. He nudges you when your head tilts back, keeping your eyes on him.

His fingers are now coated with the dewiness of your arousal, and he drags them up between you again, surprising you with just how wet he has made you in such a short time. You watch, breath hitching, as he slides them over his own hardened flesh, tracing pearly fluid down from the tip, coating himself.

You turn to lie on your back, but firm fingers grasp your hip, holding you in place. He tugs your leg further up on his waist, earning a soft gasp. You're more accessible to him like this, more vulnerable.

"Darling, I can't wait any - "

"Astarion, please."

Your soft plea triggers an almost animalistic movement from him, as he grinds upwards, pushing against your entrance. You're almost sobbing now, clutching at him, begging him. At his mercy, you bite your lip hard when he works himself in, sliding into the tight grasp of your heat.

He is trembling, you realise, ecstasy and agony in equal measure, chasing each other across his face as he pushes deeper, burying himself within you, staying with you. Even with the intensity of what you're both feeling, he keeps you in place, the hand that had stroked you now holding your thigh over him.

He begins a measured pace that quickly devolved to one of instinct, slowing down so that you clench around him, speeding up until your back arches, swallowing your disjointed whispers as he watches you come undone, and in doing so, comes apart himself.

In this golden time, you understand that you have never been more completely aware of another, of the muscle that ripples under alabaster skin, of the rapidly cooling sweat on his chest, of the way his scent winds around you, the way his body moves against and inside yours. He has taken your blood into himself, so many times, consumed you in so many different ways, and yet, this was wholly new.

Astarion isn't teasing you endlessly. He isn't bringing you to the brink, and releasing you, which is his specialty, as you're fully aware. He's throwing himself headlong into the passion of a true union, every thrust bringing you both closer to the dazzling precipice.

He is reckless in his lovemaking, somehow striking that balance between base urgency and shattering tenderness. You can see the building euphoria when your eyes meet his, the knowledge that this moment belongs to both of you, untainted, spun out in indestructible threads that bind you to each other.

You are close. You let him know, through the pale crescents your nails leave on his shoulder and side, through the way your voice rises, the way your hardened nipples push into him as your whole body stiffens and prepares for mind-numbing, white-hot pleasure, the way you take his fingers into your mouth with hedonistic abandon.

He drinks it all in, tracking every movement, every glimmering bead of sweat, every minute crease between your brows. Fighting back years of conditioning, he holds you impossibly closer, your body a shield against the memory of every meaningless, sordid encounter.

Your eyes drag open, tears glistening where they have gathered at the corners, slipping down across the bridge of your nose, bringing the sight of his face to sudden clarity.

You let him see it, all of it; the moment your climax crashes like a wave over every sense, that most secret of faces. You let him see that he is the only one who can bring you to this place, this endless horizon that curves across your vision like a shard of jacinth.

Astarion is now gasping endearments. They fall from his lips in a litany, one declaration melding into another. You hold onto him as your own mind slowly clears, senses thrumming with the aftermath of the pleasure he has brought you.

He is close.

You surrender complete control to him, wrapping your arms around his neck as his hips lift from the bedroll in fitful abandon, his teeth sinking into your shoulder.

"My ... my sweet, I'm - ah - you're so - don't know what you - "

At any other time, seeing Astarion, with his mastery of seductive words that bordered on legendary, in this barely coherent state, would have been cause for wonder indeed. As with all else, however, you took things as they were, treasured them.

Here, with you, he didn't have to be that. Here, he needed no flowery phrases and practiced gestures. Here, he was yours, in wiry strength and hidden fragility, in biting humour and those rare moments of stark realism, when he did his best to protect you from a world who's cruelty he had experienced all too many times.

When he finally reaches his peak, lips drawn  back from teeth, brow furrowed in supreme pleasure, tendons standing out on his neck as a series of guttural sounds escape him, you smooth your hands up and down his back, bringing him slowly back to you.

You press soft kisses across his nose, along his jawline, his body giving one last shudder as your lips ghost over his ear and you nuzzle into his hair. Slowly regaining focus, his gaze fixes on your face, a slow, radiant smile gathering, a stray ray of sunshine burning through overcast skies.

Something bubbles up in his chest, overflows into the almost non-existent space between your bodies. A peal of laughter, so bright, so free of pain, lancing through you like the keen point of an arrow, the barbs lodging somewhere deep in your chest.

You could listen to him laugh like this forever.

He finally releases you, rolling over onto his back, that same giddy smile refusing to diminish. One of his arms extends, drawing you close so that your head now rests on his chest, your shoulders encased in the solid curve of his arm.

"My love, my light, that was - "

His chest heaves again, and his head moves from side to side in cheerful disbelief. You can't help the grin that breaks across your own countenance.

"Careful, Astarion. You sound happier than the first time you drank from me."

"But this is better! This is - "

His enthusiasm cuts off, faster than words escape him. Something chokes him, holds the rest of sentence prisoner until he takes a heavy breath, releases it. The catch in his voice adds strength to your grip on him.

"This is perfect. This is ... everything I want it to be."

You remain silent, not trusting your own voice now. When he speaks again, it is so soft that you almost miss the words.

"Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me. Never for this."

Later, as the outside intrudes once again into the sanctity of your tent, when the rustle of the wind in the trees, the crack of new firewood given up to the hungry flames of the campfire and the distant song of nocturnal birds echoes back to you, you place your hand over where his heart should beat.

It had been somewhat disconcerting, the first time you'd felt the lack of that steady rhythm beneath your fingertips. Now, however, you felt something entirely different.

This was no empty void, no echoing palace of yesterday's torment. Astarion had come so much further than that. He was here, beside you, of his own free will. There was no such thing as true emptiness, not in a life as rich as this one, that of a man who had given up so much to walk, just once more, in the sun.

No. This space where vitality should make itself known was threaded through with so many scars, but from that barren landscape, verdant new growth came, tended carefully. You could see how it stole over him, and you, in every shared touch, every wound bandaged, every battle fought side by side, every new delight you found in each other.

It came like a thief, robed in night, and laughed as it took the title of queen, enthroning itself in your hearts. It had taken up the sceptre, usurped your earthly kingdom and banished all notion of loneliness.

Such was the nature of love, and so it would remain, until that final red sunrise came to claim you both.

@tattoo-of-a-bird Finally got the courage to write this one.

[melkyt]

Modern BG3 Idea

Astarion: Lawyer Intern in a super prestigious law firm, functions on coffee and spite. He has never known sleep and doubts he will ever. Because of this, when research for a big case is thrown his way, he doubles down, gets even more exhausted, and messes up.

Gale: Self-proclaimed scholar that "dropped out" aka kicked out of a quite prestigious college just before completing his degree after a bad time with a Proffesor who was his mentor since he was a kid. Now he is not sure what to do, is depressed and scrambling to get his life together.

Wyll: He is part of a corps that travels the world and helps people anywhere they can. His father wanted him to join the military, and Wyll was well on his way but got involved with some unsavory people and landed in legal trouble. His volunteer work, while something he would anyway, is also the price he pays for a certain youthful indiscretion

Mizora: a lawyer working for Zariel, who runs at least half the city. With high ambitions, she is always looking for a way to get an edge in any way possible as long as it is within the law. Though sometimes the law can be changed in her favor, and she makes full use of it. Always sends Wyll obscure asks and sends him on errands to strengthen her position.

Raphael: the rich kid who does not get along with his family but uses the wealth and pleasure such connections provide to the fullest. He is disatisfied that his father is content to sit back and not get involved in controlling the city. Mephisto is the oldest and most influential party in the city with a net of information brokers that he does nothing with as far as Raphael can see. So Raph breaks away to start his own dealings in the business of information and is quite successful but is still insecure that his success is only because of his father.

Karlach: is an orphan who grew up in the lower city. She got involved with one of the three criminal organizations in the area as that's just what one did. She got close to the leader of one of them until he double crossed her and dumped a lot of his debt onto her. Debt that she is still paying off by playing mercenary and killer to Zariel. It's been a decade, and she is almost out. at least she hopes so.

Halsin runs a clinic in the lower city where he takes in any and all orphans, homeless and people just down on their luck and gives them odd jobs. His place is considered a neutral ground in the chaos of those streets. This started when he saw someone very important to him die, and there was nothing he could do then. So he promised never to let anything like that happen again. It is wildly known that if you need help, Halsin will help regardless of who or what you are within the intricate power struggles of the city. Though the man does have his limits, and nobody is looking forward to finding them. He discovers a plot that would directly affect the sabctuary he has built and take it on himself to discover what's happening.

Kagha takes over. She is an ambitious woman but with not as much vision for good as Halsin. She has for a long time wanted to make the clinic more official and within the lines of the law but that means anybody who is not 100% legal due to being a refugee or any other reason, will have to leave and many of them will die because of her actions.

Zevlor is a veteran who volunteers around the city. He was once part of the same corp as Wyll under Zariel but saw how corrupt it could get and broke away, which destroyed his life. Anyone spurned by Zariel will not have much of a life and be forced on the streets. He regrets that some of his team followed him in the choice. They are hiding out in the city, hoping to bring down Zariel, and all of them can't legally be in the country as they joined from all different places.

Shadowheart just finished studying to be a doctor to set up an operation within the biggest hospital in the city by order of her cult leader. This cult is small in the city but wants to expand, so they have been working on putting their members in positions of power. She has a mission and will let nothing stop her, and her actions while not getting her caught are on someone's radar. Not to mention now that she is in the outside world experiencing how everyone else lives, she is starting to get some doubts.

Lae'zel - She is a soldier who came to the city from the same place as Shadowheart. Her organization fights to prevent cults from starting up and succeeding. This is painted as a noble pursuit. Yet the reason is that their leader wants to wipe out any and all competition. Lae'zel believes in her cause and seeks to root out the conspiracy. So she gets a job as a security guard in the hospital where Shadowheart is working.

Now to the criminal element 😎

Gortash: Weapons dealer for every organization in the city. His public company has defense contracts and a myriad of production dealings that focus on innovation and war. On the other side he provides arms and men for the other two factions.

Orin has only recently taken over as leader of a vast network of assassins and killers for hire after the very unfortunate murder of her sibling. Everyone knows she killed them as she is quite proud of the kill. Under her leadership, the organization is slowly collapsing, and she is scrambling to keep it together before someone turns on her in the same way that she did on the previous lead. Her father, who had supported the organization, turns away as soon as things start collapsing, as he has no interest in failure.

Ketheric is old money that secrety ran the city, was raising his daughter to take over as he tired but she had run away after cracking from the pressure. News eventually reached him that she had died. So he gave up for the most part in everything. This opened the way for Orin and Gortash to rise up and fill the gaps. Before Orin's sibling died, they were angling to take over as Ketheric's successor and were very close. Gortash tried to pick the pieces, but Ketheric hates the young man and does not see him as someone who can lead. Tensions are getting high between the three factions.

---

That is the scene for this AU.

Now Astarion as the linchpin to get this whole thing started. The case he fumbles with due to exhaustion is something Raphael's father had set in motion decades ago under the noses of everyone. He was biding his time while everyone fought within the city to use his net to take over. That seemingly falls through and leaves a vaccum in the powerstruggle over the city. This empty space can be filled and give the winning faction power enough to control everything.

Astarion runs away as the information he holds is valuable enough to kill and while he took alot of abuse from the higher ups, he would rather not die. He has nowhere to go but decides the lower city is the easiest place to dissapear so he comes to Halsin's clinic.

Now say the Durge survived the murder attempt by Orin thnks to Halsin and is an amnesiac doing odd jobs around the area. Living their best relaxed life away from the drama of their old life.

They are cleaning up at night in the clinic and Astarion runs into the room in a panic. Assassins/Hunters after him. He is out of breath, clutching the information from the case to his chest.

The Durge acts on instinct, not to protect but to kill. At the end they are standing in the middle of the clinic covered in blood and terrified of the memories that suddenly break through the blood fog.

Astarion just a tad terrified of them but also grateful he found a place to rest for the time being.

The Durge cleans everything up on autopilot, and then they talk. So starts their journey navigating all the factions in the city while trying not to die xd.

(I may write this as my next fic, hehe)

[blackjackkent]

Broken Little Puppets

Pairing: Astarion & Karlach Characters: Astarion, Karlach Rating: Gen Content Tags: Dialogue-heavy, bonding, moving on, light angst Word Count: 1.8k Setting: Several days after Cazador boss fight, Lower City camp. Read on AO3 other bg3 one-shots | send me fic requests! Summary:  Karlach supports Astarion after a nightmare about Cazador’s ritual - and gets a little support herself in return.

“Hey. Psst. Astarion– hey, hey!”

Astarion hears Karlach’s voice as if at a great distance. He is at the bottom of a deep black pool of reverie, trapped, drowning while still breathing. The world is far away, and the memories infinitely close, crawling across his skin. 

Images flash through him with agonizing clarity. Some nights they are more indistinct, the accumulated recollections of years upon years of varying torments - but tonight it is almost as immediate as it was in life. The humming power holds him helpless on the edge of Cazador’s ritual circle, stripped of armor and weapons and friends and hope, feeling his master’s ascension starting to boil his blood with agonizing heat…

“No. No– please–” he whimpers, his head thrashing side to side. “Let me go–”

“Hey!”

The grip on his wrist enters the reverie and pulls. Another force trapping him, another surge of blazing heat. He jerks, lashes out blindly with his free hand, and his knuckles connect with a hard, solid jawline, sending a stab of pain through his wrist and up his arm.

“Ow! Fuck!” Karlach yelps. 

Her voice finally breaks through the reverie, shattering it apart around him. His eyes snap open and he finds himself half-sitting up in his bedroll, looking at Karlach crouched in the tent flap. She’s holding her cheek with one hand and looks distinctly startled. 

“What…?” Astarion mumbles, shaking his head to try and clear the lingering fog in his thoughts. “What happened?”

“Well, you punched me, for one thing,” Karlach says. Her usual grin, never far away, is already sliding back onto her face now that she sees him awake. “Didn’t know you had that kind of right hook, Fangs.”

“You never asked,” Astarion says, with a painfully transparent attempt at his usual cocky disdain. He sits up fully, rubbing absently at his stinging wrist. “What’s the idea, grabbing me like that?”

She shrugs, letting her hand fall. There’s a visible bruise already darkening along her jaw; he really did catch her perfectly square-on. “You were, uh, having a nightmare, I think,” she says cautiously. “Or whatever you call it when you’re an elf, doing your elf thing.”

“Elves don’t have nightmares,” he says curtly. It’s not entirely a lie - reverie is not sleep. It serves the same function, at least theoretically, but an elf in reverie is not unconscious and does not dream. He remembers, locked in meditative trance, everything that has ever happened to him, often in brilliant, visceral clarity. If only that truly meant there were no nightmares…

She shakes her head. “Well, whatever it was, you were - I dunno. You were… sort of whimpering, crying out. Sure didn’t seem like you were enjoying it.”

No. No, he most certainly wasn’t. It’s only been a few days since Cazador’s blood splattered over his knife and his hands and his face; those memories are still crisp and fresh, not yet melded in with the rest. “I’m fine.” He smiles thinly. “But thanks ever so much for your concern.”

“Uh huh.” She hunches forward, crouched on the balls of her feet, and rests her elbows across her knees. “You know that’s not at all convincing, right?”

He clicks his tongue and makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Oh, all right, fine, you’ve dragged it out of me,” he says. “It was a sex dream. Very intense, lots of… you know. Positions. Orgiastic debauchery. People hanging naked upside down from chandeliers. Good cause for whimpering, is what I’m trying to say. So unless you’d like to hear all the nasty details, maybe you could just see yourself out of–”

“Astarion.” She’s still smiling, but there’s no humor in it suddenly, just a sort of rueful sadness. “I’m pretty dumb sometimes, but I’m not stupid.”

His shoulders slump and he looks away from her, rubbing the heels of his hands to his temples. “Right. Of course.”

She settles forward into a more comfortable kneeling position. She’s so tall that her head still brushes the ceiling of the tent, her intact horn giving a gentle clink against the upper pole. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

She doesn’t make any move to leave the tent, and he doesn’t make any move to force her. They both just sit there, listening to the muted bustle of the city outside their alleyway camp.

After a while he speaks, low, almost inaudible. “I couldn’t possibly explain it,” he says, “in a way that would make you understand.”

“Try me.” She rolls her head to one side, then the other, stretching out the muscles in her neck. “Maybe I’d surprise you.”

“You’re young,” he says bitterly. “How could you possibly comprehend torments that operated on a scale of decades?”

She juts out her jaw thoughtfully. “I had one decade in the Hells. Feels like maybe that counts for something.” When he doesn’t respond, she goes on quietly, “I get nightmares too, y’know. Ten years in the Hells is no two hundred years in Caza-fuck’s dirty basement, but you still rack up a lot of bad memories. And Zariel was just as much of a cruel fucking prick…”

It’s pathetically obvious what she’s doing, of course. Talking first to get him to talk after. He’s not fooled. Sort of endearing, though, he supposes; how many people would actually bother to try?

“Woke up just last night absolutely convinced I was beating the shit out of a hezrou,” she goes on. “You ever see one of them? Nasty little brutes. Only I kept killing it and it kept coming back, and coming back, and coming back…” She stops abruptly, pulls her knees up to her chest and rests her chin on them. “Fucked up my pillow something good.”

He grunts noncommittally. Another long silence stretches between them. 

“How’d it feel, killing him?” she asks abruptly. And this time her voice is quieter; it’s lost some of the note of friendly assurance. 

He stiffens. “Surely you don’t need me to tell you what it’s like to kill someone,” he says sardonically. “I think we could both give a lecture on the subject that would put Gale to shame.”

“That’s not what I mean.” She frowns. “How’d it feel killing him?” The emphasis is clearer this time.

“Mm.” He gives her a keen look sidelong. “Rather the way it felt for you to kill Gortash, I imagine,” he says. “Though I think I managed it with more artistic flair. Really spattered the canvas, if you will.”

“Yeah.” She huffs out a breath, rattling her lips dramatically. “Watching you tear him up - it felt good. Wish I’d gone all-out like that, with Gortash. All I did was sink one good one right in his chest, but you left Cazzy just a piece of fucking meat. Shredded him. That’s the way it should be - for him, for Gortash, for Zariel, for all the fuckers who use people like that. Just a piece of fucking meat for some dog to chew on.” 

Her voice has dropped lower, and he can feel the way the temperature in the tent has ticked up a notch or two as her engine starts to rev with agitation. “And even so…” she mutters sourly, “it still doesn’t fucking fix anything, in the end. Their final little laugh at our expense.”

He wants to object, to snarl out, like the wounded animal that he is, that of course it fixed things. He won. He’s alive (in a manner of speaking) and Cazador’s gone. He will never have to follow that bastard’s direction ever again, never again let his body be used, or be compelled to press a hot poker into his own flesh, or sit in solitary confinement while hunger gnaws in his belly like a furious beast. That is all over now, it’s done. It’s gone.

Except it isn’t, not really. 

He is still a vampire. He will still never see his own face in a mirror again, or taste food as anything more than ash on his tongue. The scars on his back are still deep and harsh, spelling out an infernal message of ascension that has lost its only purpose. All the memories of two hundred years of abuse still linger in his mind, ready to be recalled in such clarity as if they happened yesterday.

And the hunger will never, ever, ever stop.

Nothing he did to Cazador changed that in the slightest, just the way nothing Karlach did to Gortash changed the inferno burning in her chest.

He shudders, his shoulders hunching up involuntarily as if recoiling from a blow. “No,” he mutters. “It doesn’t fix a damned thing.”

“Yeah.” She lets out a heavy sigh. “Shoulda seen the way I screamed in Hector’s face when I figured that one out. Still, at least they’re dead. And we’re free.”

“Free. Yes.” He laughs sharply. “Two broken little puppets with their strings cut.”

She grins - with no humor but with a sort of savage intensity. “And still managing to put on a pretty good show.”

“Are we?” For a moment the sardonic mask slips and he lifts his head to look at her. “I’m not putting on a good show - I'm lost. All of Cazador’s power was at my fingertips, and instead I’m sitting in a dirty alleyway listening to Minsc snoring from the other end of the camp. This is no good show. It’s a farce.”

She says nothing, just waits, and eventually he adds grudgingly, “But it's my farce.”

“Damn right it is.” Humor flashes back into Karlach’s face suddenly. “Besides, who doesn’t love a good farce? Mistaken identities, slapstick, dick jokes… the height of entertainment, if you ask me.”

Astarion can’t help a slight, crooked grin in return. Karlach’s indomitable energy is always infectious, even in the deepest depths of his brooding. “Darling, let me be the first to condemn you as incurably lowbrow,” he says airily, giving a dismissive wave with one hand.

“Listen, vampy, I don’t have the kind of time you do to worry about appearances.” She uncurls her legs slowly from her chest to a cross-legged position instead. “Funny thing, y'know. You’re gonna go on and on forever, and I’ve got a year left in me, tops. But we’re both fighting the same fight when it comes down to it. Staring down all that freedom, trying to force it into a shape that makes sense. Make something worthwhile out of it before it’s too late.”

Astarion draws his head back and looks at her suddenly as if seeing her clearly for the first time. His fingers fidget absently with the edge of his bedroll. “Well,” he finally says quietly, “I won’t give up the fight if you don’t, hm?”

Her eyes brighten and she laughs. “Got yourself a deal, Fangs.”

[coffeeanddonutscafe]

Cold Comfort

Astarion has a nightmare and fluff unfolds.

Summary:

The camp lay in nocturnal stillness. Astarion stood before his tent, the weight of his own existence pressing heavily upon him. And then, he saw her—a half-asleep Tav, her chestnut hair in disarray as she groggily stirred. Unable to resist, he approached her, a half-whispered endearment on his lips, crouching beside her. "What is it, my sweet treat?"

Notes:

I plan to make this a fluff fic, with a mix of introspections, pondering and some deep self-reflection from Astarion's point of view. I do want to envelop him into the gentle world of fluff, like a warm hug he deserves so much.

Chapter 3: Midnight Snacks

Tav's gaze remained filled with curiosity, but she held back from probing further, sensitive to the delicate boundaries Astarion had been constructing. She recognized that perhaps giving him the space to decide whether to share what troubled him was the best course of action.

Despite the brutal hardships he'd endured, he'd managed to persevere in his own way. In Tav's eyes, he'd shown incredible strength, often more than he gave himself credit for. With a fierce determination, he had managed to safeguard the tiniest fragments of his true self, slowly stitching together the pieces of his shattered mind and soul to the best of his abilities.

She thought to herself, "The same way he so meticulously mended all of his garments - embellishing them with embroidery, with exquisite mastery." Tav marvelled at the fact that some of his clothes, worn for years, retained an impeccable condition. However, that thought made her utterly sad and she made a mental note to make sure he bought himself new garments next time they stumbled upon a trader. Well, at least they are done with the task at hand.

Tav offered Astarion a warm smile, sensing that he was still lost in his thoughts. She decided not to disturb him further, content in knowing that he felt comfortable and safe in her presence. Well, comfortable enough to get lost in the labyrinth of his own mind.

His company was always welcome, and now, as he seemed lost in thought, she moved to her stack of bags. Among them, she recalled a bag of dried fruit and berries lovingly prepared by Halsin for the group. "Damn, what a sweetheart," she mused to herself, the affection for their companion evident in her expression.

Tav began to munch on the dried fruits, savouring the familiar taste of one of her favourite snacks. She decided to share a childhood memory with Astarion, seeking to connect with him in a more casual manner.

"You know what, Astarion?" she began, and suddenly Astarion perked his elf ears like a curious little cat. Tav’s voice content as she savoured another dried fruit. "When I was little and had a nightmare, my mom would give me a sweet fruit or a spoonful of honey."

Astarion opened his mouth, likely intending to deflect and try to change the topic, but Tav continued, "The taste of something I loved so much—which is sweet things—would distract me enough to calm my nerves down."

Astarion’s eyes sparkled with a suggestion he noted was in Tav’s voice. He met her gaze and smiled mischievously.

Finishing her bag of snacks, Tav made a mental note to ask Halsin to prepare another bag of dried fruits and berries for her in the future. "How about you have a snack?" Tav suggested playfully, winking at him. "Then you can go back to your meditative sleep." Her hand gently caressed Astarion's cheek, her thumb tracing soothing patterns. Scooting a bit closer to Astarion, she spoke in a soft, almost conspiratorial tone. "You deserve as much rest as I do."

"Does that sound like a good plan?" Tav said, her fingers deftly working at the buttons of her shirt's collar.

Astarion felt a rush of emotion. He understood that Tav's gesture was born of genuine kindness, but it was still an unfamiliar sensation for him. He wasn't accustomed to people being kind solely out of the goodness of their hearts, without any ulterior motives.

In a moment of panic, he reached out and gently clasped her hands. His voice quivered slightly as he spoke, "Darling, you don't have to..." He cleared his throat, trying to infuse his words with a touch of reassurance. "I'm fully capable of sustaining myself."

"Of course you are," Tav reassured him gently, her hands still resting in his. She wanted to convey that this was her way of showing care, not a gesture of charity.

"But you can also take a little sip of your favorite travel companion," Tav added with a playful wiggle of her eyebrows. Astarion couldn't help but laugh in response.

"I mean, you are free to do whatever you want," Tav continued, her tone light. "You were eyeing that gilt that was strolling around our camp. Looks like she won over me." Tav shooed Astarion away in a theatrical manner. "Go and cater to your new lady."

Astarion played along with Tav's playful banter, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Why, dearest," he chimed in, "How could I help myself? That gilt looked exceptionally scrumptious." He added a cheeky wiggle of his own eyebrows, and they both burst out laughing.

After a few minutes of shared laughter, Tav let out a contented yawn. She then looked at Astarion with genuine sincerity. "But for real, Astarion. I'm offering, and you know you don't have to do anything 'in return'." Her words carried a warmth and openness that put Astarion at ease.

He sighed softly, deciding on his following actions. He reached out to Tav and his fingers started deftly unbuttoning the first two buttons of Tav's nightshirt. "Alright then," Astarion murmured in a playful tone, "scoot onto your bedroll, darling. I want you relaxed and ready." Tav rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the smile that tugged at her lips. She complied with the request, settling onto her bedroll.

Astarion positioned himself above her, crouching so that his face was nestled into the crook of her neck. The closeness sent a shiver down Tav's spine, a mixture of anticipation and the comforting presence of someone she trusted deeply.

Tav's fingers gently threaded through Astarion's hair, their touch sending a comforting sensation through him. As he inhaled her familiar scent, he felt a sense of calm wash over him. In that moment, the world outside seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in their shared intimacy.

Her fragrance was intoxicating, a heady mixture of earthy warmth and a hint of something uniquely Tav. Astarion couldn't help but surrender to the allure of it, reveling in the closeness they shared. He nuzzled against her neck, his breath mingling with her skin. The sensation was both grounding and electrifying, a connection that transcended words.

My Masterlist

click here

CHAPTERS

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

[plethomacademia]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤️

I was tagged to do this by Smore and @anderstrevelyan

Hello! My name is pletho and I have written over 100k word of fanfic in less than a year which is normal and fine!

Most of it is about my OC, a dark urge named Maeve who is a charismatic cult leader and all around awful woman. Her story is all about bodily autonomy, choosing paths vs being forced on them, and how comfort and cages can feel like similar things. If you want to read about her relationship with Enver Gortash, I have an entire series that is 76k words. I would say the easiest entry point is Duet, a two chapter fic that is also my version of Durgetash Regency. Rating is E for a balcony oral sex scene in chapter 2. If you like this, definitely check out the long fic that is in here! It is still in progress but there's a lot of content here.

I also write her a little in the game timeline. The best fic for that is Intimate Connection, which is kind of threesome between Halsin/Maeve/Astarion that uses the tadpole to help Astarion with his intimacy issues. Rated E for it is a threesome.

I also write Enver Gortash with the default dragon Dark Urge, because I think Enver Gortash is a freak for a big dragon. For that I recommend Ripe, which is my most popular one shot. In this, Enver Gortash finally convinces the Dark Urge to stay for a glass of wine and it goes exactly how he had hoped, except the Dark Urge keeps saying he is going to put a bhaalspawn in him? Oh well, don't worry about it! Rated E.

Just in case you thought I only wrote Enver Gortash, I have a short series of fics with my OT3, Shadowheart/Gale/Laezel. My first and favorite is Respite. This is my pitch for the ship. Rated M! She has range!

For a fifth, I am going to zag and recommend my one original work, An Exercise in Stillness. Why? I liked it, it was fun to write shibari, it was fun to write an ice queen getting cracked open, and I think it's hot. OC/OC fic doesn't get a lot of attention and I think this one is worth it. Rated E for it's a shibari sex scene.

[timeforelfnonsense]

Read Sunshine & Starlight on Ao3 Pairing: Dafni (F!Tav) x Astarion Rating: M (Later Chapters will contain explicit content) TWs: Light descriptions of canon level violence Tags: Meet cute bad, 3rd person alternating pov, chubby elf OC, Cleric Tav

Summary: Astarion had a plan. A nice, simple plan. All he had to do was not fall for her. After centuries of practice charming victims for his master, it should have been easy, but Dafni of Gwynneth was complications he didn’t see coming. Compassionate, selfless, innocence. She was every good thing Astarion had given up on after two hundred years of torment. There is something familiar about her. An inexplicable pull that draws him to her over and over again. For the first time in his undead existence, Astarion has something to call his own. Something to protect.

“Gods, my head.”

Dafni cringed, her nose screwing up in pain as she brushed the sand from her curls. She wasn’t entirely sure how she ended up on the unfamiliar beach. The last thing she could remember was connecting the transponder. 

Judging by the ship's state, she was lucky to walk away with only a few gashes and bruises. Even the little glass jars and vials within her healer’s kit survived without so much as a crack. She got to her feet, cleaning off what grime and viscera she could. 

She was back on the Material Plane, at least. Of that, she was sure. 

There was a distinct heaviness to the Material Plane, which Dafni had yet to grow accustomed to in the two months since her wanderlust had driven her to leave the misty moors and majestic forests of the Moonshae Isles behind. She hadn’t realized just how thin the veil between worlds had been back home before coming to Bauldr’s Gate. Even in the Material Plane, the Isle of Gwynneth still echoed with the whimsical, wild magic of the Feywild. 

Dafni riffled through her bag, procuring a filigreed compass from the disorganized heap of her belongings. She could feel the airy magic of home tickle her fingertips as she popped it open. The golden needle glowed as it flicked west. 

There was a fey crossing somewhere nearby then. 

Dafni tugged at the hem of her sleeve, her lower lip pressed between her teeth. If she were lucky, it would lead her to the court of the Summer Queen or some other court on amicable enough terms with her own. She could seek sanctuary there and send word to her mother. 

Thesmia’s Spire of Laurel housed one of the most vast collections of elven knowledge outside of Evermeet. There was a possibility a solution to her problem could be found within the walls of her mother’s tower. Dafni’s lips pressed together in a tight line. She loved her mother, but Thesmia’s well-meaning coddling often bordered on stifling. The idea of running home at the first sign of trouble felt too much like an admission of defeat.  

Besides, Nothing stayed a secret from the High Lady for long. It would not be a matter of if she learned of the tadpole, but when. No matter how much favor her mother had once held with Ordalf, she would not risk the safety of Sarifal’s Court for one eladrin. Especially not her.

She took a deep breath, the sweet, synthetic smoke of the nautiloid's smoldering wreckage scorching the back of her throat. Running home was not an option. She’d simply have to find a cure herself. 

No easy task.

But giving up had never been in her nature, and this seemed a dreadful time to start. 

Finding other survivors would be her best course of action. There was safety in numbers, and besides that, there was a chance other survivors may not have fared as well as she had. Magic tickled the tips of Dafni’s calloused fingertips; she still had a bit of power left she could save for more serious injuries. She’d make do with old-fashioned field medicine for anything else until she could rest. There was one thing left to do.

 Her nose wrinkled as she cast a glamour over herself. She’d grown so used to wearing one she had almost forgotten how restrictive her mundane disguise felt compared to the vibrancy of her authentic appearance. 

The magic felt itchy and stiff as if she were cramming herself into clothing two sizes too small. It felt wrong pretending to be something she wasn’t, but she had little choice. The majority of the common folk she’d come across in the Outer City knew very little of the land of Faerie, but the few who saw her for what she was, were quick to label her a trickster and deceiver. She’d need allies if she wanted to get through this ordeal, and she’d rather not start out with an air of suspicion hanging over her. 

There was something exceedingly suspicious about that woman.

She didn’t look like the creatures from the ship, but something about her prickled at his senses. A nearly imperceptible otherness that made his hair stand on end. It was like she was blurry at the edges. Astarion’s brow wrinkled, try as he might to bring her into focus; some invisible force would coax his attention away whenever he came close to genuinely seeing her.

Astarion watched her, crouched low behind the turk of a felled tree. One of those brain creatures had captured her wrist in its tendrils. She gave it a punt, sending it a few feet back with a wet thud. She drew an elegant longbow from her back, releasing two swift arrows. The creature seized, collapsing into a heap of ichor.

Her lower lip stuck out in a pout as she wrapped a hand around the angry red mark on her arm. Light radiated from an amulet around her neck before flashing beneath her palm. A sense of instinctive dread skipped down Astarion’s spine as the air crackled with divine magic.

He felt like an idiot for missing it—the pale blue of her clothing. The eight-pointed star was engraved at the center of her breastplate. He had thought her a mind flayer thrall, but she was something much, much worse. 

A cleric.

He almost laughed at the irony. Of course, he’d be spared by the sun only to be run through by a cleric.  And a servant of the Protector of the Elves, no less. No one could claim the gods lacked a sense of humor.  At least she was pretty. That would take some of the sting out of his demise, even if it was only a mind flayer’s trick.

Her freckled skin was the color of sage and stood stark against the pale gossamer fabric of her puff-sleeved blouse. She was fuller figured than most elven maidens, with wide hips and an ample bust that her light armor did very little to hide. Bouncy, pink curls fell around her shoulders from a high ponytail as she meandered her way up the cliffside path, mumbling to herself in elvish.

Always so quick to roll over, aren’t you? The memory of Cazador’s voice taunted. 

Pathetic. 

Astarion’s nails bit into the flesh of his palms. His lip pulled back into a silent snarl. For 200 years, that’s what he has been. Pathetic. Cazador’s wretched creature. 

But he was free now and never needed to be pathetic again. 

His chances of overpowering her would be slim if he relied on strength alone. But, if he could lower her guard, he might be able to get the upper hand long enough to get the answers he needed. He crouched low beside a fallen tree, doing his best to look shaken and meek.

“You there!” He shouted, “Can you help me?”

“Over here!” He called, waving her over. 

Her breath caught as she drew close enough to see the details of his appearance. A pale elf stood before her. Lean and graceful. 

“Are you hurt, friend? I-I think I have enough magic to heal you, so long as it isn’t anything too serious.” She stammered in clumsy common.

She watched, enraptured, as he ran his hand through a perfect coif of ivory curls. Dafni flushed, imagining her own fingers running through those soft, tossed curls.

He had truly been blessed with the aloof, dreamy beauty of Sehanine Moonbow. An incandescent majesty that demanded admiration and awe. He knew it too. His pretty mouth curled up into a sly, close-mouthed grin. His crimson eyes gleamed with amusement and knowing as he returned her gawking stare with an appreciative glance of his own.

There was something about him. Something more than his spectacular beauty. It tugged at the very core of her. Familiar. Like finding something once beloved centuries after it was misplaced.

Still, she was sure this must be their first meeting. She rarely forgot a face. Especially one as lovely as his. Judging by his finery,  he wasn’t the sort to visit her clinic in the Outer City, and she would certainly have remembered him from court.

“I could do a turn if you’d like?” He quipped, “So you can check for injuries, of course.”

Dafni’s face burned right to the tips of her pointed ears. She was supposed to be helping him. Not staring like a starry-eyed ninny. 

“I apologize, I’m not normally so– Distractible.” 

Dafni strained to keep her smile in place. The taste of soot and bile filled her mouth at her little fib. In truth, she was exceedingly and frequently distractible, even in the best of situations. It was a trait that drove her mother up the wall for years before she released Dafni from her apprenticeship.

The man cleared his throat, stifling a chuckle, “I’m fine, to answer your previous question. I’ve got one of those brain things cornered. You can kill it, can’t you?”

“I– Oh! Yes! Of course!” She stammered, plucking an arrow from the quiver at her back, grateful for the distraction from her self-induced humiliation. 

The tips of her ears twitched ever so slightly to a distant rustling. Her eyes narrowed as they locked onto a shifting patch of grass beyond the cliff’s shadow. Her fingers flexed with tension as she drew back. She had been about to lose her shot when a frightened boar burst from the overgrowth. 

“Good news,” she chirped, lowering her bow, “it was just a–“

Dafni froze, his slender arms wrapping around her waist. He pulled her flush to his frame. A scream had been at the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed it at the cold steel brush against her throat. 

“Shh. Not another sound.” He whispered against her ear as he guided her to the dirt below, “Not if you want to keep that darling neck of yours.”

“Bastard,” she spat in elvish. A crown of cascading foxgloves bloomed in her hair, her hold on her glamour faltering as the magic strained against her anger. “Spider Queen, take you.”

“ That was quite vulgar for a priestess .” He scolded, tipping her chin up to face him with the edge of his knife. “ Now, I believe I asked you not to speak.”

Dafni took hold of his arm and twisted as hard as she could manage. Did he think her a helpless child? A maiden, too frightened and frail to fight back? With a sharp jerk, she slammed her head into his jaw. Her captor recoiled, losing his grip just long enough for her to break free.

A dull throb began in her head, but anything was better than a slit throat. He snarled at her, spitting out a mouth full of blood. Dafni drew the long sword at her hip, holding it between them.

“Come near me again, and by the Seldrine, I swear, I will cut that smug head right off your shoulders!” 

“You rotten brat!” He growled, “You’re in league with them, aren’t you? Those tentacled –”

Astarion winced, his gut twisting as a wave of vertigo washed over him. He clutched at his scalp, the sharp, nauseating pain behind his eye slowly melting into something else entirely. 

Visions of an ancient forest so lush and vibrant it could have been ripped right out of the pages of a fairy story. Sunset-drenched marble columns and spires wrapped in crawling vines. The sound of feminine laughter.  The bright, spicy-sweet smell of laurel on a temperate breeze. Wanderlust. So deep he felt it in the marrow of his bones.

Memories, he realized. Not his, but hers. Fragments of her life unfolding before him to him in a rapid reverie. 

Chipping, cornflower blue paint, and creaking floors. A shabby townhouse. An elf with mousy brown hair and a sweat-laden brow. The sound of her teacup clattering softly against its saucer in her shaking hand.  The sharp, minty scent of willow bark and creamy elderflower mixed as he twisted the pestle in his hand. The crunch of gravel beneath his boots on the way to the city gate. Nostalgia and homesickness as the old oak trees of the Cloakwood came into view. 

A prayer on his lips as he twisted and writhed against his restraints. Confined to a pod, helpless as the Mindflayer approached, a wiggling tadpole between its gnarled fingers. The taste of sick that threatened to escape his throat. Like ice and shadow, a whisper of darkness crept beneath his skin, calling for vengeance.

“They took you too. I saw it during... Whatever just happened.” He offered her a crooked grin, his voice playful as he continued, “And to think I was ready to decorate the ground with your innards. Apologies.”

He saw her relax a tad as he sheathed his dagger. He scooped her bow up from the dirt, offering it to her with as apologetic a look as he could manage. 

“Apology accepted. I suppose I might have done the same if I thought you were a thrall.” Her expression softened, and she extended a courteous hand, “I’m Dafni, by the way. Practitioner of Corellon’s holy arts, ranger of what I’d like to think is above-average skill, and I suppose, as of today, fellow tadpole haver. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Astarion,” He offered her a shallow bow, taking her hand into his own, “and I can assure you, the pleasure is all mine, darling.”

Her pulse quickened as his lips brushed against the back of her palm. He had caught a whiff of her on the ship, but he hadn’t been able to truly appreciate the nuances of her scent at such a distance. She was floral, woodsy, and tart, with a subtle earthy sweetness that made his mouth water.

“ Astarion, ” She said, speaking each syllable of his name as if she were savoring it, “What a pretty name.”

A shiver slipped down his spine. He had never given his name much thought, but something about the sound of it in her melodic elven accent felt almost intimate. 

 “Well, aren’t you a dear? As much as I'd prefer to stand here and listen to you say my name, I think we may have more pressing matters to attend to.” He said, gesturing to his temple,  “Do you know anything about these worms?”

The cheer fell from her girlish face. Her lower lip snagged between her teeth as she drew in a sharp breath. “I met a woman aboard the ship. She told me they would turn us into mind flayers if we didn’t get them extracted in time.” 

“Turn us into….” Astarion let out a burst of bitter laughter. “Of course, it will turn me into a monster. What else did I expect?” 

A frown touched the corners of her mouth. Her heart ached for him; his tone may have been glib, but beneath it, there was a genuine pain. A world-weary resignation she hadn’t accepted from someone so bold. 

“Hey,” She spoke in a quiet, comforting voice.“I know things look pretty bad, but that means they can only get better, right?”

She offered him a small, hopeful smile, placing a gentle hand on his arm. She cringed as she felt him go stiff beneath her touch. Dafni’s face grew hot. She pulled back immediately, tucking the offending hand behind her back. With the exception of their introductory rituals, most denizens of the Material reserved touching for acquaintances and kin. A lesson she’d learned the hard way after a few humiliating encounters. 

She watched as a touch of chagrin flashed across his pretty face, fading the moment his gaze flicked up from the withdrawn hand. An easy smile formed across his lips. Blite and rakishish, but his eyes still held a touch of uncertainty.  

His reaction felt practiced as if his discomfort mattered far less than the risk of it being perceived. A furrow formed between her brows, her lip catching against her bottom teeth as she bit back her apology. It would be best to drop it. She suspected an apology would draw more attention to his reaction and embarrass him further. 

Dafni tried to keep her tone even, as if nothing had happened, “Maybe it would be a good idea to look for a cure together. There is safety in numbers, after all. Maybe we will get lucky and find the gith woman from the ship or another survivor who knows where we might find a cure.”

Astarion’s posture relaxed slightly, his head tilting to the side as he considered her offer. Dafni could feel her pulse quicken with each passing second. Truth be told, she was desperate for him to accept her proposal. The idea of facing such a task alone was more than a little bit daunting, and despite having made his acquaintance at knifepoint, there was something about him that set her at ease. Perhaps it was the comfort of being among her people; maybe it was his playful charm, she couldn’t say. But, she was confident she would feel much better if they stuck together. 

Dafni let out a breath she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding when Astarion responded, “You know I am usually more of the go-it-alone sort, but you do seem like a useful person and to know. If we could find an expert– Someone who knows how to control these things… We might still have time. Very well, I accept.”

[arsene-ee]

This is literally just my opinion b4 anyone comes for me

I SWEAR ON MY BEST FRIEND, IF I SEE ANOTHER PERSON SAY THAT LARIAN DOES NOT NEED TO ADD CONTENT FOR WYLL (AND KARLACH) BECAUSE "tHe GaMe Is FiNiShEd" I WILL THROW HANDS.

Cuz like how come the character, who is the closest connected to the plot has 4 hours less content than fucking Astarion, who is the least relevant to the plot.

And I'm not even joking cuz like Shadowheart has the Artifact which makes her relevant. Lae'zel is a Githyanki and knows about the mindflayers which makes her relevant to the plot. Gale has his Orb which is basically a last resort to kill the netherbrain making him plot relevant. Karlach was Gortash's (🤢🤢🤢🤢) slave, giving you a reason to dislike him and a reason to fight him, making her plot relevant. Minthara had a thing with Orin and works under Ketheric Thorm, connecting her to the main Plot. Halsin studies the brain worms and He once attacked Ketheric Thorm which caused the shadow curse or something blah blah making him connected to the plot. Minsc and Jaheira both encountered a Baahlspawn before (probably makes more sense when you're playing Dark Urge) and know how to deal with them (they have a fun interaction with Saverok or whatever his name is when you bring them there) making them plot relevant.

AND WYLL, he is the Son of Ulder Ravengard, you know just the duke of Baldur's Gate, making Wyll also the potential Duke incase Ulder dies. Baldur's Gate itself most likely wouldn't be standing if it wasn't for him and the pact he made with Mizora. His dad gets kidnapped and Tadpoled and then he crowns Gortash (🤢🤢🤢🤢) Archduke and then gets imprisoned in the Ironthrone (where you need to go anyways if you want to destroy Gortash's (🤢🤢🤢🤢) tall robots. Wyll is then urged by his dad to find Ansur, which basically gives you one of the biggest plot twists in the history of plot twists and bad love affairs.

Meanwhile Astarion is just a dude, sure he was a corrupt judge like 200 years ago but at this point that is so irrelevant. In regards of plot relevancy you could replace Astarion with a random NPC and it wouldn't change anything. Honestly I think Larian just wanted a conventionally attractive vampire sad white boy for no real reason.

I'm not saying Astarion's personal story is Irrelevant, it's well written and I understand his motivation (altough the fantasy raceism wasn't necessary but what do I know, right?). And hell Neil did a great job voicing him and making him sound arrogant as well as breakable when needed. the fact that Astarion's arrogance is partly what makes me hate him and infuriates me pretty much show's me that Neil is a great voice actor (also on account of him portaying Kamski in DBH whom I also hate)

Certain people Baby Astarion way too much the 200 something year old dude, who already was an adult when he became a vampire, in the end what happened between him and the people he discriminated against was what he had coming.

Meanwhile people say that Wyll was old enough to know what he was doing when making his pact with Mizora and that he shouldn't have been so naive. Wyll was 17 when he made his pact. 17. Idk about you but I, as a 19 year old look at 17 year olds and think of them as Children. 17 year old is not mature enough to make such life changeing desicions, I as a 19 year old am not mature enough to make a desicion like that. Wyll lost everything he ever knew while he was still a child. He hasn't had privacy since he was 17, he spend 7 years being watched by Mizora, without an ounce of privacy.

Also before anyone comes at me for being uninformed that the response to Wyll in EA was to small to warrant more content. I KNOE THAT, I KNOW THAT THE RESPONSE TO HIM WAS LOW. Just the other day I saw a post about it. I also saw a post how, if Wyll was just a fraction as mean as astarion, he would be one of the most hated characters in the game, so yeah, think about that.

all I want is for all the characters to have an equal ammount of content, which either means giving the neglected characters more content or cutting down on content characters who already have more content have.

[faorism]

absolutely wyll romancing astarion. spoilers below!

as i learned when i noticed someone had options i didn't get during the camp celebration night, there is precise pathing in wylls romance to avoid a bug(?) WHICH HAS YOU NOT HAVE HIM IN YOUR PARTY WTF that had me restart at the door of the underdark

i also definitely missed some subtle dialogue cues for wyll, while it's always very obvious what will seduce astarion let astarion seduce you.

it also doesn't say in the link above, but another person said asking wyll about his eye also breaks the romance. might have been an earlier patch, but i decided not to test it

you miss out on astarions lovely snippy comments and i miss his voice so much

maybe i am just so desperate for wyll interactions, but i feels other companions' reactions are prioritized above wylls? i hear SO much more from karlach, but astarions comments were definitely frequent or at least very memorable

im going to write a post about this, but unlike other companions who have persistent dialogue options, astarion does not until later on the game, and as of post-grove without romance path, wyll doesn't either. what astarion does have is the permission to feed on you. it was a delightful chore to always tell him he can. there was something somewhat transactional about it. and like people in other reblogs shared, it implies that wyll is kinda just relieving some tension even tho he knows (with a passed insight check) there's something fake about astarions approach. i really like this dynamic for how messy it is

astarion calling you darling and dear all the time 😭

wearing the bloodless condition with pride was so hot to me.......

astarion starts off strong in act i, cools off in act ii, and then boy when you complete his quest in act iii it's just so lovely.

people have spoken about wyll being underwritten. not sure for the wyll romance, but comparing astarion romance to wyll as a mainstay companion (during a tav/shadowheart run), it's definitely doesn't have the same punch as astarions emotionally imo. like,, the emotional resolution between cazador and dad/aldur ain't the same. (i personally wished ravenguard was less a set piece for all we had to go thru to find him since act i. because bruh the daddy issues there are SO real. i desperately wish that wyll reacted to the contents of his father's vault 😭)

astarion would absolutely hate being pushed into leadership (def npc in his own life energy, so he can observe others and react rather than being the one to be decisive) while wyll is the origin who steps up to the challenge

imo there is no way to play origin astarion as companion accurate while trying to impress wyll. you are forced into the noble/heroic actions or else wyll absolutely will disapprove.

meanwhile, there was only one thing i absolutely had to do where wyll that felt ooc, which was allow astarion to kill the gur hunter. (in my playthrough, i long rested immediately after the fight and astarion started the romance then. which. was so fucking depressing and wonderfully tragic in retrospect.)

in my abandoned playthrough, i was also flirting with gale and karlach with astarion. it was honestly bizarre to see how sincere, tender, and kind astarion is as origin. wyll, on the other hand, is absolutely that sincere, tender, and kind

THAT SAID i like the rp of occasionally dropping the weight of The Blade Of Frontiers and allowing himself to (as @lesbianralzarek brilliantly described) be a cunt sometimes. this ultimately is one of the biggest draws for me. i adore literal prince wyll and i cannot wait to carry on thru the romance to see him at his peak dreamy. however, im still struck with the line from companion wyll for why he hid his connection to mizora. something like, his is a tale of two men. he wanted you to know the blade, and not the shadow from the past. and like. UHDNDNDKS i really loved rp'ing from his guy who might not usually do something like this and not usually with a guy like astarion, and he doesn't see himself as a full person deserving of letting loose and living outside the grand persona. growing just a tad bit morally gray (or just a touch impolite tbh) on the small things felt like a natural way to allow the shadow to be lit

the other major reason is more ymmv: i am deeply interested in the exploration of trauma, and knowing what i know about astarions backstory, i am missing that as part of the relationship from what ive seen so far with astarion origin. like, the man says "dont touch me" hundreds of times thru a playthrough when you switch to him; having that be reflected in the rp (in terms of him not wanting to have sex after act ii for awhile) moved me. again, idk enough about wylls romance (other than the dance scene on my tav which RIP at me having to break the poor man's heart over rejecting him) so maybe my opinion will shift!

and the most important reason: romancing astarion means playing with wyll, and he is so good and sweet and i just wanna look at that man for hours on end and you should too haha

Wyllstarion people, is it best to romance Wyll with Astarion or romance Astarion with Wyll? Who has the most extra content?

[starcunin]

Astarion notes the way the tiefling leans in ever so slightly, as if mirroring his movements but unsure of how to follow through. It's not rejection——not the cold, dismissive kind he's known, anyway——but something softer, more elusive. There’s a strange innocence to his reactions, as though he hasn’t quite grasped the game Astarion is playing, or perhaps doesn’t understand it in the way most people do. Normally, this would frustrate Astarion, but in Amay, it stirs something closer to curiosity. The tiefling’s earnest responses are unlike anything he’s encountered before, and that in itself is enough to keep him intrigued.

The way Amay stumbles through a joke about calligraphy makes Astarion chuckle softly, his lips curling into a more genuine smile. The poor thing clearly doesn’t know what to do with himself, but Astarion finds it rather charming in its own way. He leans in just a touch more, letting the warmth of the fire and the closeness between them draw a deeper connection, one he’s content to let simmer for now. There’s no need to rush this.

The question about his skills with daggers and bows, however, sends Astarion’s thoughts spiraling for a moment——unbidden memories of blood and violence flicker at the edges of his mind, the weight of two centuries pressing down on him. A bitter chuckle escapes his lips before he can stop it. Of course Amay doesn’t know. How could he? No one in this little party knows the truth about where he came from, the things he’s done, or what he had to become to survive Cazador’s twisted games. Astarion schools his expression quickly, covering the brief slip with a casual shrug, his voice light but tinged with irony. ❛ Oh, I was a magistrate back in the city, ❜ he says with a smirk. ❛ Though I suppose I didn’t live life as… legally as one might expect. The skills I picked up were out of necessity rather than choice. ❜

He leaves it at that, unwilling to delve into the darker truths of his past. This conversation is meant to be light, playful——flirting, after all, is supposed to be fun. He has no interest in dragging Amay into the shadows of his history, at least not tonight. Instead, he lets his gaze soften, tilting his head as he watches Amay try to steady himself, the nervous energy still lingering in the air between them.

❛ There’s no need to be nervous, darling. I don’t bite… well, not without permission, at least. ❜ His lips curl into a sly smile, the familiar flirtation back in his voice, but tempered now with a lighter touch. He’s not trying to overwhelm Amay, just to coax him into relaxing, to see where this game can go if played a little more slowly.

Astarion’s eyes flick to the book that Amay quickly places beside him, pressing it against his leg in a feeble attempt to hide it. His curiosity piques again, and he arches an eyebrow, his tone turning mock-serious, though still laced with humor. ❛ Hiding scandalous reading material, are we? ❜ He smirks, leaning just enough to make it clear he’s teasing, though the glint in his eyes shows his interest is genuine. ❛ I won’t judge. ❜ He leans back again, his expression softening, letting the moment breathe.

The moment slips away from him like sand through his fingers, the playful back and forth that once filled the air between them now stifled by the weight of his own careless reaction. He watches Amay grow tense, his eyes flashing with uncertainty, and Astarion curses himself for letting that brief flicker of emotion cross his face. He’s always been so good at hiding it——so why now, of all times, does it fail him?

He doesn’t need this. The tiefling was practically falling into his lap with every honeyed word, every flirtatious remark. But now the air is thick with awkwardness, and he can practically see the poor man’s mind spiraling.

Astarion sighs inwardly, the familiar weight of his mask sliding back into place. He can’t let this slip any further. Not when he still has so much to gain from Amay’s trust. His smile returns, charming as ever, but there’s a sharper edge to it now, as if to cut through the tension that’s settled between them. ❛ I can tell that you don’t know what you’re doing, ❜ he says with a soft, teasing tone, his eyes narrowing in amusement. ❛ But I find it rather endearing. Your sincerity is… refreshing, ❜ Another lie, but it comes so naturally that even he almost believes it. He needs to keep this conversation moving, to redirect Amay’s nerves before they unravel completely.

When Amay suggests learning how to handle daggers, Astarion raises an eyebrow, catching the tremor of hesitation in his voice. He knows, of course, that it’s not meant to be suggestive——Amay seems far too earnest for that——but Astarion sees an opportunity nonetheless, one he’s all too happy to exploit. His grin widens, and he leans in just a fraction, letting his voice drop into a more playful, silky tone. ❛ Well, my dear, I’m not much of a teacher, but I’d be more than happy to try… I hear that such close lessons can be quite… intimate. ❜ He watches closely for Amay’s reaction, enjoying the way the tiefling seems to squirm under his gaze, unsure whether to lean into it or retreat from it.

But then, Astarion’s sharp eyes catch the way Amay covers his book, his hand moving just a little too quickly, and his curiosity piques. Amay is quick, but not quick enough to hide the damaged cover. Now, though, he can’t resist poking fun. ❛ Nervous, are we, darling? ❜ He lets the question hang, arching an eyebrow in mock suspicion, though he already knows the answer.