#there is one single way to keep astarion and NOT become his spawn | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lassieposting · 11 months ago

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Chinhands

Okay so like, long post incoming, but here me out:

This isn’t my first post on Astarion & CPTSD – there’s this one here, about some of the more obvious symptoms he might end up dealing with during his healing journey; there’s also this one, about some ways his lover might use magic to help support him in a world without therapy; and then there’s this one, which is headcanons rather than meta, but has my thoughts on vampires as camouflage predators, and how Astarion might change physically as he goes from starving to well-fed. Those kinda tie into this so, linked for easy context.

But those posts all focus on the visible aspects of CPTSD – the symptoms everyone around you can pick up on. And. The thing is. A lot of the longterm effects of extensive trauma are actually not outwardly obvious. They're quiet. Insidious. Fundamental facets of your worldview become warped and twisted by your traumatic experiences. You look at the world - or at least, the parts of the world affectd by your trauma - through a goddamn funhouse mirror, and that's your normal. And part of the healing process - I'll pause here for us all to share a collective bitter laugh - is realising just how broken your idea of How The World Works is, and having to relearn from the ground up how things actually function outside of your trauma bubble.

So, y’all know what I think Astarion would struggle with without even realising it?

Disordered eating. A messy, complicated, love-hate relationship with food and how feeding makes him feel about himself.

Like. Most living things are hardwired to avoid certain negative experiences. A creature that has starved will often hoard food to ensure they won’t starve again. A creature that has fallen from a great height and experienced physical pain will be more careful to avoid other falls in future. A social creature that has experienced humiliation or disgrace will be distressed by those feelings, and adjust their behaviour to try and avoid feeling them again. The more bad experiences we have with a specific stimulus – drinking blood, in Astarion's case - the more we associate that stimulus with the negative physical or emotional consequences we will suffer, and the more avoidant we are likely to become.

As a real life example: an autistic child who talks enthusiastically about her special interest and is met with mockery and social rejection by her classmates will learn to hide her authentic self from the world to try and fit in: the pain of the bullying motivates her to distance herself from her own autistic tendencies, which are an essential component of how her brain works. She ends up trapped between her deep desire to engage with her special interest, and the training she has received from her peers that to do so is bad, unacceptable, social suicide. She learns to hate her autistic behaviours for causing her to be bullied, but she still feels the need to engage in them.

Astarion is in the same boat. He craves blood anyway as a vampire, and the hunger is made all the more intense because he is starving. But for the first 200-ish years of his undeath, we know that feeding has been a deeply unpleasant experience for him, and that will have left a deep imprint on how he sees the act of feeding, how it makes him feel. To eat is one of the most basic instincts of every single living (and, in this case, undead) creature, a fundamental source of positive emotions (satisfaction, fullness, satiety, enjoyment, happy taste buds etc) with a massive impact on a creature's quality of life - and Cazador has gleefully warped and twisted the very concept into an attack on his spawns' personhood. He uses it to dehumanize and humiliate them, and that's all they've ever known. So they will have learned to associate feeding with deeply negative emotions - humiliation, shame, disgust, fear and pain. For example:

STARVATION

Astarion tells us that Cazador fed him just barely enough to keep him functioning. Starvation is a trauma that, on its own, is likely to cause disordered coping behaviours in the victim. We actually see some of these in-game:

Astarion keeps a sizeable stash of bottled blood in his tent. This is an example of resource hoarding – he’s afraid of starving again, and he’s stockpiling food as a safeguard.

Individuals who have suffered starvation (or who have been forced to follow a restrictive diet by a parent as adolescents) often find that they struggle to impose healthy limits on their own food intake once food is plentiful lor they age out of the parent’s dietary control). We see this in Astarion during the bite scene: he can kill the player character if they fail a roll to convince or force him to stop feeding before he drains them dry.

We know that Astarion's feeding time is late at night – he tells the player that he’ll come to them for a meal once they’re in their bedroll and everyone is asleep. This seems like a strange choice, considering Astarion's tenuous self-control, but my personal headcanon is that he feeds so late because, like many starved creatures, he’s food-aggressive. Cazador absolutely seems the type to throw an insufficient number of rats to his starving spawn for them to fight over: Astarion is likely used to having to viciously defend his paltry meal, or one of his siblings will take it from him. So the player starts out offering him breakfast along with everyone else – but they’re interrupted, Gale nearly loses a hand when Astarion snaps at him, and the decision is made to feed him separately, so he doesn’t feel threatened.

SENSORY DISTRESS

Astarion talks about being compelled to choke down the blood of bugs and putrid rat corpses - at one point idly remarking that, "I've eaten things that would disgust most vultures." - so we know that a lot of what Cazador was feeding him was a) already dead and b) actively going off, and that offers up so many potential sensory triggers.

After death, blood begins to coagulate, clotting and curdling into a semisolid - that could be a texture issue.

Rotting corpses smell vile - that could be a scent issue.

We know putrid corpse blood doesn't taste good to vampires - iirc he calls it sewer water or dirty ditch-water, in comparison to "plonk" (woodland animal blood) and "fine wine" (the player character's blood).

Corpses often also come with the lovely bonus of maggots, which are a hardcoded signal to humans (and presumably elves) that food is no longer fit for consumption. The disgust response is instinctive, to make us avoid eating the rotten item. But Astarion would’ve had to choke it down anyway – probably wanting to hurl all the while.

NEGATIVE ASSOCIATIONS

Astarion tells us at one point that if he refused the disgusting carcasses Cazador gave him, his alternative was being flayed alive. That makes the disgusting food a choice, and one he doesn't really have any choice but to make. He would also need to be fed after his torture sessions in the kennels, to give him enough blood to heal himself before being sent out after more victims. This would eventually build a link in his mind between being fed and being hurt.

There's also a dialogue where Astarion explicitly tells us that Cazador would suggest they dine together after Astarion brought someone home for his master to feed on. The alternative, as above, is getting flayed. So that makes a horrible three-way feedback loop of negative emotions: being forced to prostitute himself -> being forced to feed -> being tortured -> being forced to feed again -> and round and round again.

BODY IMAGE

This one is more headcanon than theory and ties into my other post about vampire biology, but it's still a point worth mentioning imo. Astarion's life has essentially revolved around sex, however unwilling, for 200 years, and that's become intrinsically linked with his identity - the way he sees himself, the way he interacts with the world. He makes several comments that all but explicitly state that he views himself as a prostitute, and his entire survival strategy in the outside world hinges on his ability to essentially leverage his attractiveness and his bedroom skills to snag himself a smitten protector. Iirc, there's a point in one of the breakup dialogue trees where he'll bitterly refer to sex as his only talent and say that he knows what people think he's good for. He is putting on an act almost constantly, always thinking about how best to portray himself to get the outcome he wants, how to make use of his target's desire for him.

And? This man has, for 200 years, been taught that people like him starving. He knows that the dehydrated-muscle, prominent-collarbone, deathly-pale hungry-eyed vampire look works for him. He's been found consistently desirable even though he doesn't look anything like a healthy, well-fed vampire should, and for someone who's so reliant on being hot, that's going to be hard to let go of. At this point, it may well make him anxious to be so well-fed that his body functions start coming back online, that he can fill out a little to how he looked when Cazador first turned him, that his unshakeable seducer act can be disrupted by things like blushing for flattery. After 200 years of seeing your body starving and thinking that that is how you are at your most attractive, being able to far better imitate a living elf could well be quite distressing for him.

So. At this point, as the game begins, Astarion most likely mostly hates feeding. It makes him feel terrible – degraded, humiliated, disgusted – and has almost no redeeming features. The blood he’s getting doesn’t even taste good, let alone sate his hunger. Feeding him is, essentially, just another torture technique of Cazador's. And yet, he still craves it desperately – debases himself begging for it, feels pathetically grateful for the tiniest scrap he’s given, finds his mouth watering at the sight of vermin. That’s already a horrible, mixed-up place to be emotionally.

And now it's going to get more confusing for him. Enter the player character.

Astarion gets to feed on a thinking creature for the first time, and with it, an array of positive emotions and sensations he's never gotten to experience before, in all the time he’s been a vampire. For example:

SOCIAL SUPPORT

When the PC calls Astarion out for trying to sneakily bite them in their sleep, he explains that he usually feeds on animals, but he's currently too weak and slow to bring any down. This is interesting, because in his Origin, it's a nightmare about Cazador that prompts him to bite a companion. But...I don't think it's a lie. We see multiple times throughout the game that Astarion doesn't cope well with being put on the spot - he gets flustered and kind of starts rambling - but this line comes off without hesitation. It is, if not the truth, still a truth. And the PC doesn't take advantage of that admission - he's vulnerable, but the PC doesn't hurt him or try to make him pay them with sex. Instead they just...feed him.

PHYSICAL STRENGTH & MENTAL CLARITY

He explicitly tells you that he feels strong after drinking from you – and he goes straight out hunting, backing that up – and he has a surprised exclamation that his mind is “finally clear”. He’s been living with hunger-induced brain fog for centuries. He must feel like you’ve given him his brain back.

JOY

He’s sated. He just had a meal that tasted good. He's getting all those positive food feelings for the first time - a massive rush of endorphins to a brain starved of happy chemicals for two hundred years. How many things have made this man happy since he died? It would be overwhelming.

CONNECTION

Held up against how Astarion is used to being treated, this gesture from the PC is an overwhelming show of kindness and generosity. They choose to trust him - even though, as he'll admit in the graveyard, that's an objectively stupid thing to do - and they offer freely something that makes him feel good. Him, a man who's usually forced to degrade himself for "rewards" that make him feel terrible. And as if that's not enough, they accept him for what he is, continue to give him the protection of a group, and they defend him to the others in the morning. He's feeling grateful and giddy and warm for the first time in centuries, and he knows it's all thanks to you.

But

That's going to give him a lot of complicated feelings, because he still has all those negative emotions related to feeding too. And they're not going to go away just because he's found out thinking creature blood is actually nice. They're going to clash against that new enjoyment and make him feel all confused and weird and mixed up. He might still feel shame, even though he enjoyed the meal. He might still find himself wrestling with pointless dread, because he associates feeding with torture and abuse, even though he knows Cazador is miles and miles away. It's a small step towards seeing feeding in a less negative light, but that’s all. And like, up to this point he hasn’t even realised that he might be able to enjoy drinking blood, because to him, Cazador's horrors are normal. That’s all he’s ever known – the only experience of food he’s ever had as a vampire. Feeding Is Horrible And Degrading is a fundamental fact of life that he’s just starting to realise...may not actually be true. That’s like...having a rug yanked out from under his feet. Scary. Distressing. Out of control. Which could make him lean more towards avoiding feeding for a while, to get that control back.

So how do the scales start to tip more towards really enjoying feeding?

I think it would be the introduction of the social aspect. As just this once becomes regular feeding arrangement, he's going to realise that he gets the high of all those positive emotions every time he feeds from the PC, and he's going to start associating that giddy, happy feeling with them specifically. Because we know that while animal blood is Fine He Guesses, and he does get merry on bear blood at one point, it's nothing remotely close to person blood. Woodland creatures still make up a decent chunk of his diet, but he doesn't get the same emotional kick out of them.

And like. He likes feeling good like that. It's addictive. So he'll keep wanting to go back for more – making excuses to spend more time with them, with feeding being a very convenient excuse. He's creating a positive feedback loop for himself of happy chemicals and like, crush feelings, and every time he indulges, he’s unwittingly handing over tiny little fragments of trust and affection in exchange. It's difficult not to start liking someone who makes you feel good, especially if you're so unfamiliar with the feeling. He finds himself that little bit less tense around his willing midnight snack. He laughs more easily around them, finds he's more inclined to indulge do-gooder tendencies, realises he's starting to enjoy spending time with them. He doesn't necessarily realise it, but feeding is no longer just about quenching his blood thirst. It's become a bonding activity. He’s like a semiferal rescue animal, building an emotional connection with you as protector and provider. He’s learning that you’re trustworthy.

And then, as your relationship with him develops and deepens, sex gets involved, and he plays himself.

In one of the dialogues where Astarion offers the PC sex, he explicitly calls it a reward for feeding him, and flirtatiously brings up PC's biting kink - that he can tell they enjoy it when he drinks their blood. This always lowkey makes me laugh because like. Up to this point, Astarion has had no reason to ever connect feeding with sex. Cazador doesn't let him drink from thinking creatures, and since Astarion talks about his prey being "dragged away" to be fed on, it seems like Cazador generally took his meals privately, so mixing the two isn't something Astarion got from watching him. This is something he's picked up from you.

Anyway. I'm not sure which way around they happen, but during his first sex scene, Tav gets the option to encourage him to bite them again, and he will. Obviously, he's not going to turn down "vintage wine", but this also makes strategic sense from the perspective of his plan to get Tav to protect him - he's probably thinking that he's locked them down because they can't scratch this particular itch elsewhere. They now need him. Except - whoops, he actually likes sleeping with them, and he's starting to catch feelings. And because he's come to associate biting Tav with all those good feelings anyway, making it A Sex Thing just shifts his perspective a little, makes him realise that he’s getting something out of these interactions that he gets hooked on.

Feeding has become a source of emotional intimacy. He's beginning to feel loved, cared for, valued. Close to the PC. And that, to someone so utterly love-deprived, is potentially enough to make it feel more positive than negative over time.

(As a side note, I quite like the idea that it'll become a sort of self-soothing strategy for him for a while. If he's stressed or afraid or hurting, he'll nibble on the PC to remind and reassure himself that he can - that he's safe and loved and no longer starving. He'll nip at them to deliberately induce those positive feelings of emotional closeness in himself, if he thinks they'll outweigh the bad ones that come with.)

But even so, those bad associations will probably never fully go away or stop affecting him. He’ll probably still always hear Cazador's belittling laughter if someone walks in on him feeding – look at you, boy, not so proud now, are you? Crawling on the floor for vermin, how utterly pathetic. He’ll probably always wrestle with feelings of stress and anxiety after feeding for no obvious reason, because his primitive lizard brain still treats it like a traumatic experience sometimes even when he's feeding on his living, trusted lover. It’s going to take him such a long time to wrap his head around just how fucked up all the reactions Cazador trained into him are, how different from his new experiences as a free vampire.

Anyway. Idk how well I explained all these thoughts but. Yeah. Astarion + disordered eating issues.

#bg3 #bg3 meta #bg3 headcanons #astarion ancunin #tw eating issues #tw disordered eating #tw ed

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himbodruid · 5 months ago

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A Devil and A Bard

Part 2

Raphael x F!Tav

Raphael x Haarlep x Tav

Named!Tav | Bard!Tav

You can read part 1 >here<

A/N: this chapter contains 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ and has p in v, along with double vp. Just some Raphael brain rot that may stray from canon. Im a devil knot truther

18+ ONLY, Minors absolutely DNI

Chapter 2: In which the bard gets…distracted

When Lore returned to their shared space in the Elfsong, Astarion was on her almost immediately. Thankfully, it appeared the rest of the companions hadnt returned yet.

“You smell like the hells, what did you get yourself caught up in?”

“None of your business,” Lore sighed. The comment was half hearted, as she could never find herself to stay irritated at the spawn. After a single shared night of awkward intimacy, the two had become fast friends. It helped that they had somewhat similar traumas, though Lore knew that what he suffered had been far far worse.

“Oh, come now, darling. Of all our companions, you know I will keep every sordid detail a secret.”

And he had kept the secret. While calling her a pretty little idiot.

Which is what she felt like now, sneaking into the House of Hope. Of all her fool-brained ideas, this one was probably her worst. It had taken only a small fortune to convince Helsik to allow her access to the portal, but she didn’t miss the skeptical eye Helsik gave when it came to light that Lore was to travel to the hells alone.

Upon entry, she had met with a rather…scattered patron who gave her clothing so that she might fit in with other debtors. Lore thought she heard her name to be Hope, but with the half-mad rambling she couldnt remember.

It didn’t take long for her to get thoroughly lost. Keeping track of where she was going was never her strong suit, and it was even worse within the gilded halls of Raphael’s house. Thankfully, it appeared the master of the house was still out on business. Lore had no doubt he could probably sense her presence here, in fact she was sure he kept meticulous track of every single debtor in these halls. He was kind of a control freak that way. But it didn’t seem like her presence would be an issue. Yet.

Lore stood in the center of the only room she recognized and huffed. Hands on her hips, she twisted this way and that, trying to come up with a plan. Where did devils even keep their contracts? The bedroom?

She recalled seeing a couple of rooms that had been shrouded in a mist-like magic that prevented entrance from everyone. Why he couldn’t just use a regular locked door, she didn’t know. But that was as good a place as any to start.

If she could remember where the blasted thing was.

A hot breeze traveled down a corridor, bringing the scent of the hells with it. She followed the direction it came from and found herself at a balcony overlooking Avernus. The sight would be breathtaking if she wasn’t on high alert, waiting for Raphael to appear at any moment and destroy her for breaking in.

Leaning out over the edge of the balcony, Lore thought she could see an adjacent balcony peeking over an outcropping of rock. Steeling herself, she hopped the railing and crept along the rock to the other side. There, a grin formed on her face. She found it! The bedroom lay in front of her. It almost felt too easy. She vaulted over the railing and walked into the room, puffed up and rather proud of herself. Only, she had forgotten to be cautious in her pride.

“A lost little mouse is running through the house.” Shit. “A thief in the night, greedy, and here to take. Why are you here, little thief?”

Lore froze at the first rumblings of his voice, but once his speech was done, she turned to Raphael. Her eyes widened when she beheld him, and she felt heat rush to her face. “Ra-“ her voice caught, and she cleared her throat. “Raphael?”

The half-nude cambion chuckled darkly from where he was sprawled lasciviously on silken sheets. “I am Haarlep, Raphael’s personal incubus. Glamoured to be an exact copy. You, however, have not answered me.”

Lore squinted skeptically, observing the fiend in front of her. His voice didn’t hold the same kind of gravel to it that Raphael’s did, and he did indeed appear to be a slightly younger version of Raphael. Still, the cambion was known for his tricks.

“Why do you care why I’m here if you say you are who you claim to be?”

Haarlep let out a delighted laugh. “I can see why he likes you! Tell me, little mouse, would you like to play a game? If you win, everything you desire shall be yours. But if you lose…let’s just say you will enjoy yourself much more.”

The fiend stood from the bed, sauntering over to where Lore stood with cat-like grace. A predator stalking his prey. He loomed over her, and she was dismayed to find that he had the same kind of magnetism that Raphael had. She neglected to answer his inquiry though, instead choosing to observe the incubus.

“If you are glamoured to be a copy of Raphael,” she started slowly. “Then why are you both younger and slightly taller?”

Haarlep’s brows shot upwards and then he broke into raucous laughter.

“Oh my dearest pet, you are absolutely a delight. I could tell you the reasons, but what fun would that be? Perhaps you should play my game and add the answer to your prize, should you win. After all, the way your gaze flickers across my face, I can tell you would love nothing more than to experience being kissed by the master.”

His teasing sent blood rushing to Lore’s face and she indignantly replied “For your information, I have already experienced kissing Raphael.”

“Well, well, well, colour me shocked!” came his chuckled reply. Lore furrowed her brow and crossed her arms.

“Are you trying to say I'm not enticing enough to have engaged in such activity with Raphael?”

Haarlep’s hand went to his chin and he looked her up and down with a deep hum of thought. “You are a beauty to behold, but the master tends to have very particular tastes. Take myself, for example, as his personal incubus.”

“I'm going to choose not to take offense to that,” Lore huffed.

Haarlep chuckled at her affected affront. “How about this, little mouse! A change to my game, as it were. If you can manage to seduce the master, then you will win whatever it is you seek. Even if you lose,” he growled those last words, moving closer to her and hovering his mouth just above hers. She tilted her head back in an automatic reaction, earning a predatory grin from him as he repeated the last words. “Even if you lose, you will win. After all, how could you possibly settle with kissing the master just. One. Time.”

With a frustrated sigh, Lore gave in to his flirtation and pressed her mouth against Haarlep’s. He immediately coaxed her mouth open and thrust his tongue against hers. Lore vaguely remembered something she read about incubus and succubus saliva having an aphrodisiac effect, but that brief flash was drowned out by the heightened sensations of his body pressing against hers.

He lifted her so that her legs wrapped around his hips, her arms going to wrap around his neck so that her hands could filter into his hair. While she clung to him, Haarlep carried her to the bed, dropping down atop her as soon as her back hit the silken sheets. A snap of fingers, a flash of heat, and she suddenly lay naked under him. Her body was so riddled with lust that she didn’t even have the common decency to be embarrassed at her state of lewd undress. He sat up on his knees, his eyes taking in every curve of her body sprawled before him.

“Such a delicious little treat. The master better get here before I devour you.”

“How will he even know I’m here if he’s away on business?” Lore hated how breathy her voice had become, but gods the visual of this false Raphael resting at the apex of her thighs just did things to her mind, though the bastard remained clothed in his harness. He trailed a clawed finger from her knee to inner thigh with a self assured grin.

“Everything I do to you while in this form, Raphael will be able to feel and hear. If you are lucky, he will be curious enough to see what little mouse has been caught in the trap. If not, you will have to surrender your body to me.”

“I will surrender my body, but not my mind,” she stated firmly.

“Excellent.”

With that, his harness flashed away in a simple snap of his fingers and he lowered himself onto her. The ridged length of his turgid cock rested heavily against her pelvis. Gods but he felt massive, Lore wondered if he would even be able to fit. The thought melted away as his tongue plunged into her mouth once more, and she moaned against him. Haarlep’s hands roamed her body, his claws scraping lightly against her flesh and sending shivers through her. One hand ventured lower, lower, until it reached between them and dipped into her folds.

“So wet for me already,” he chuckled against her mouth. “And we’ve only just begun.”

Fanged teeth nipped down her neck, across her collarbone, and finally found its way to one of her pert breasts. Haarlep took the pebbled peak of her nipple between his teeth and tugged. Lore hissed out a breath, arching her back so that more of the mounded flesh pressed into his mouth. In an embarrassing lapse of control, Lore found herself moaning Haarlep’s name while her hand clenched into his hair.

“Such a touch-starved little dove,” he growled, rolling his tongue around the one nipple and switching to the other. He was right, Lore was touch-starved. Besides the kiss with Raphael, the last time she’d had any kind of intimate contact was with Astarion at the tiefling party. The other companions found solace in each other’s bodies, but Lore couldn’t bring herself to let go like they had. Now she briefly wondered if it was because Raphael had gotten under her skin when the group had run into him at Last Light. She hadn’t missed the way Raphael’s eyes had traveled up and down her form then, and had wondered what had been going through his mind. The thoughts had haunted her, giving in to fantasy and lewd dreaming.

“Let him hear you through me, pet.” Lore had clenched her jaw to keep from making the mewling sounds that built up at the back of her throat from Haarlep’s administrations. “After all, the game is to lure him here, is it not?”

Haarlep’s hot tongue trailed down her stomach while his blazing eyes remained locked with Lore’s. Lower, still, he went. Until his teeth sunk into her inner thigh, just above her mound. She hissed out a moan, throwing her head back into the silken sheets and arching her back. Gods how her body thrummed for him. And then his tongue lathed at her core and her head snapped back up. She hated the sensation when it had come to other partners, but Haarlep’s practiced tongue spread heat through her. The fact that he looked like Raphael also probably helped. He lapped her up, working her until she wasn’t sure how much more she could take. And then he stopped, much to her dismay.

But then his teeth found her other thigh, and she cried out. Whether pain or pleasure, she didn’t know. The line seemed to blur when it came to a devil such as him playing with her.

“That’s it, mouse. I can feel that the master is curious, now. Cry out for him, and I am sure he will come.” The double entendre of Haarlep’s words sent another shudder through her and she let out a whimpering moan. Her hands clenched into the sheets beneath her, and Haarlep continued giving bites along the length of her body until he lay over her once more. The head of his cock rested against her folds, and as much as she tried to pull him into her, he remained just out of reach.

“Raphael, please,” she whimpered, her mind so gone to the sensations of him that she didn’t even realize she had called out the wrong name. His hips pushed forward, but his cock didn’t enter her. Instead the ridges dragged tauntingly upwards against her clit and mound.

“Yes, pet. Call for the master. Make him wish to see you hot and writhing, begging for more,” Haarlep growled into her ear, but then he pulled away.

Her protest died on her tongue as he flipped her over and positioned her so that she was on her elbows and knees with a view of the mist shrouded doorway. Haarlep mounted her from behind, his teeth grazing her shoulder blades and the back of her neck, her raven hair spilled to the other side. Lore’s legs were spread wider and then-

“F-fuck,” she cried out as he entered her fully in one single thrust. He was big, but somehow he was able to bury himself to the hilt. The burning stretch of him nearly sent her over the edge, but he remained infuriatingly still until the threat of her climax abated.

“Oh yes, little mouse. The master is definitely tuned in now,” he said, pulling back and thrusting hard into her with a grunt. She was no longer conscious of the sounds she made, so lost was she in the sensation of the ridges on the underside of his thick length. His hips worked her into a frenzy, always pausing when he felt her on the edge of spilling over. She was rapidly traveling towards overstimulation and the cries of pleasure poured from her unbidden.

She didn’t even realize they had an audience until Haarlep hauled her up, her back against his chest and his arms wrapped firmly around her to hold her in place while he shallowly pumped in and out of her.

Raphael stood near the door, watching them with an expression Lore couldn’t read. His arms were crossed and he leaned casually against the frame, but said nothing. Her heart thundered in her chest as she observed him observing them.

“Isn’t she just glorious, master? Beautiful, impaled on your cock,” Haarlep growled aginst her ear. Lore whimpered, feeling a climax building rapidly once more while Raphael just continued to watch on. Her hands frantically reached for Haarlep, trying with all her might to ride his cock into an orgasm, but he stilled. Again. The bastard.

“Nuh-uh-uh, little mouse. It’s only fair that we save that honour for the master is it not?”

Lore whimpered her complaint, her body strung tighter than a bow at the continuously denied pleasure. When she tried again, Haarlep punished her further by removing himself entirely.

“Poor little pet. If you want it so bad, perhaps you should beg the master for your release.”

Her eyes, half-lidded by desire and pleasure, found Raphael’s. His face remained impassive, but he pushed away from the doorframe and approached the bed at a languid pace. His eyes remained locked to hers, though she couldn't read his expression with how sex-addled her brain was.

“Raphael, please,” she whimpered, squirming against Haarlep’s hold.

“Tell the master what you want, little mouse.”

“Haarlep wont let me cum, Raphael,” she whined. “Please.”

Lore could see hunger ignite in Raphael’s eyes. In an effort to entice him further, Lore turned her head so that her mouth found Haarlep’s. The action had its desired effect, and suddenly Raphael burst into his cambion form in a flash of hellfire. He climbed onto the bed to wrench Lore’s face from Haarlep’s and devoured her mouth with his own in a fit of possession. He pressed forward until Lore was thoroughly sandwiched between the two fiends- Haarlep’s chest to her back as she laid on him, and Raphael’s chest to her own as he pressed atop her.

“You play a dangerous game, but oh, you sing so sweetly little bard,” rumbled Raphael as he tilted his head to nip at her neck. Haarlep’s teeth found her neck on the opposite side and she was lost to the pair. Her moan rang out into the room and she snaked her arms around Raphael’s shoulders. When she attempted to wrap her legs around his hips, she found that they were restrained by each fiend’s tail.

And then she felt…oh..oh gods. Lore threw her head back and cried out as both cocks nudged against her slit. First she had fully expected each to fill both holes, but instead they stretched her to the point that pain and pleasure became one and the same. She didn’t know how much further her cunt could stretch, but Raphael and Haarlep thrust into her in tandem- when Haarlep pulled out, Raphael pumped his hips forward.

“Fuck, Raphael,” she cried out, her breath being stolen from her as the pain quickly converted into pleasure. In just a few more thrusts from each fiend, she was thrown over the edge of the most violent climax she’d ever experienced. Her entire body shuddered and twitched of its own volition and black spots danced in her vision. Grunts and growls erupted from Raphael and Haarlep as her cunt milked both of them, though neither fiend released in response to hers.

In fact, Haarlep removed himself from her body, his mouth finding Raphael’s while she came down from the high. Raphael continued thrusting into her, though each stroke was short and shallow and drove her to overstimulation.

Haarlep’s hand found her chin and turned her head so that he could thrust his tongue into her mouth, and soon after turned her head so that Raphael could have his turn. Raphael’s hips pressed forward and the ridges of him dragged so deliciously against her inner walls. As he tilted his hips forward, plunging again to the hilt, something felt…off? Not in a bad way, but there appeared to be some kind of bulge at the base of his cock that hadn’t been there before. Or was she remembering Haarlep?

“You’re in for a real treat, pet,” Haarlep murmured into her ear by way of an answer to her unvoiced question. “The master doesn’t knot just anyone.”

Knot? Lore wasn’t familiar with cambion anatomy, but she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to know what a knot was. But gods, Raphael felt so good, pumping into her with slow and methodical thrusts. Her legs were released from the tail restraint, only for Haarlep to hook her knees over his arms and spread her wide for Raphael.

And then he thrust forward so violently deep that she arched her back and cried out. What she thought must be the mentioned knot locked him into her and Raphael’s thrusts became constrained, short and quick as allowed by the knot.

“You take my cock so well, little mouse,” Raphael growled to her. His hips pressed so hard, so close into hers that she didn't know where he ended and she began. His cock twitched, and then she felt hot ropes of cum released into her with a guttural growl from Raphael. He relaxed his hips for a brief moment, only for him to snap forward again with a grunt, releasing a second time in such a short span of time. The throbbing movement of his cock deep in her sent Lore over the edge again, and she clung to him while her body trembled and milked him for everything he had to give. Her climax sent another zipping through him and yet another round of heat was pumped into her.

“So fucking good, my little songbird,” Raphael all but whimpered as he nuzzled into her neck.

“You take the master’s cock so beautifully. Sing for him little mouse,” Haarlep praised. Lore whimpered in response, not sure how much pleasure one mortal could even take.

Raphael’s mouth found hers again and he thrust his tongue into her mouth in the same tempo that his hips pumped his cock into her. And then yet again, she could feel him throbbing inside her as more heat scorched into her.

“Gods, Raphael,” she whined. “I’m going to leak your cum for months.”

“Good,” he growled. “Mine. Haarlep, leave.”

Raphael’s growled command was met with no complaint, and soon it was just Lore crushed beneath Raphael with his cock buried so impossibly deep in her.

Raphael’s hips snapped forward again and his teeth sunk into her neck. He marked her, inside and out, so thoroughly claiming her. Another orgasm rocked through her and her limbs trembled with the effort of keeping them up and wrapped around Raphael. Her nails dug into his back with the effort, leaving scratches in the wake of her fingers being knocked from their grip with his thrusts. Her voice rang out into the empty air of the room, no longer restrained by timidness. Many times it was Raphael’s name being chanted in time to each pulsing thrust.

Twice more his cum painted her inner walls, and twice more her cunt milked him for every last drop.

After what seemed like ages, Raphael’s body was finally convinced that Lore was thoroughly bred and the knot subsided. Exhausted, he collapsed atop her, and Lore couldn’t muster a complaint while so completely sated. His weight on her and his warmth was nice, and this lulled her into sleep faster than she could think of the repercussions of their frenzied coupling.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #baldurs gate tav #astarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 raphael #bg3 tav #raphael x tav #raphael the cambion #raphael fanfiction #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 fic #bg3 spice #haarlep #bg3 haarlep

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satinique · 5 months ago

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Broken Promise

Guilts Fate

Warnings - male reader, ascended astarion, blackmail, referenced abuse, angst, sad, abuse, toxic relationship

The moment Astarion held Cazador's staff you wished you had stopped him from completing the rite, he wouldn't be himself and the man you loved would be gone.

Your other companions Shadowheart and Karlach had seen this coming.

You had tears in your eyes as you saw the red glow of your lovers eyes his personality replaced with something malicious and evil.

Reluctantly, you took his hand, trying to mask your heartache, "My dear, I will rule.. and you by my side I can do anything."

You don't answer as you are shocked and a bit scared of how intimidating he has become in the span of 5 minutes, the aura and presence causing you to bite your lip in shame and guilt of what you let him become.

The time skip of the next few days are a blur, Astarion and you move into the palace, the pale elf making swift renovations to turn the place into his own twisting nightmare.

You don't have the courage to speak up to him, not with his temper doubling with the effects of the rite.

You don't see your companions anymore, and most of your possessions have been missing too, you try and ask Astarion about it but he just blames it on your paranoia, "Darling? You'd think that low if me? Please."

Eventually you gave up, returning to your bedchamber for the night you don't bother speaking to Astarion as he's too busy, he looks at you briefly before returning back to his business.

Walking through the corridor, spawn servants shuffle around, tidying and decorating the grand furniture, several of them look your way, their hunger evident on their faces, instinctively you cover your neck.

Opening the door to your room, you undress slowly dressing into a short gown that reaches just below your knee.

Astarion had forbade you from wearing any revealing clothing, you weren't allowed to show off your shoulders, chest or even your neck, in the evening.

Picking up a book, you perch on the bed your soft fingers touching the frail pages of the book.

You hear him when he enters, he's not subtle about the extra aggression where he shuts the door firmly shut, "What's with you today? Your acting more aggressive than usual, pet." Astarion glares at you angrily, his gaze falters when he sees the monotonous expression on your face, your cheeks lack their usual colour and your eyes appear dull and lifeless, forcing yourself to speak you tear your gaze away from his face, "Astarion, I can't do this anymore."

You don't look at him as you fear if you do, you'll burst into tears, Astarion's face flashes with sadness, then anger and even rage, "What?! No! You are to stay here where I can keep an eye on you! Stop talking this rubbish! You promised you'd stay by my side!"

You flinch at the pitch of his voice, but you command yourself to be strong, "I don't want this anymore, you're not the man I fell in love with, your a monster, a hollow shell of him."

Your voice answered calmly, your eyes daring to meet his fierce red ones, "I'm much better than he ever was, I can protect you, and you can join me in this gift of immortality. Surely you won't pass up a chance as great as this one!"

You keep your voice as steady as you can, "No, I'd rather die than become your obedient husband, you can rot before I ever agree to that."

Astarion seethes as he glares at you, his once true love turned into his nemesis, "Rot in hell! You don't deserve the Vampire Ascendant's gift anyway, you can catch fleas for all I care!"

He stormed out of your room, crashing the door against the wall with a allmighy BANG that seemed to echo all through out the palace.

Not wasting a single minute, you pack what little possessions you have and run with all your might down the stairs and out of the door, never once looking back.

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

#astarion ancunin #bg3 #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x male tav

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ghost-proofbaby · 8 months ago

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“I must admit,” his voice is dropping, a rasp taking over as he grows close enough that she catches a whiff of bergamot and rosemary, “Your blood certainly calls to me more than the others. It’s tempting, to say the least.”

summary: aruna probably should have known there would be consequences to letting astarion drinking her blood.

wc: 5.2k+

warnings: this chapter contains semi-graphic description of blood drink-

oh, sorry. i forget my audience. y'all knew it was coming - this one is for my fellow juice boxes <3

ao3 | masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Gale had been an endlessly patient teacher, and Aruna had taken that fully for granted. She simply hadn’t realized how good she had it, sitting with the wizard who would kindly answer all of her endless questions, until she was sat with Astarion and watched herself genuinely get on his very last nerve.

“So,” Aruna says slowly, leaning even closer to the vampire on the bed of moss they had all but claimed as their own, “Let me get this straight – they drink your blood, you drink their blood, and that’s how you become a true vampire?”

“You make it sound simple .”

“It does sound simple,” she narrows her eyes at Astarion’s exasperated expression.

“Well, it’s not ,” he huffs, brows furrowed as he levels her with a returning glare.

She doesn’t understand why he’d be glaring at her, but she sits patiently and waits for him to further explain himself. He doesn’t.

“The man who turned you-”

“ Cazador,” he hisses the name in interruption with infinite discontent.

“Yes, Cazador,” she doesn’t say the name with quite as much hatred, but something certainly tugs within her chest when the name falls from her lips. Something uncomfortably and nearly angry, but for reasons she can’t pinpoint, “He won’t let you drink his blood? Wouldn’t it be better for you all if there was… I don’t know, an army of powerful vampires?”

Astarion stares off ahead at something in the distance, and she could tell just how confining this conversation was slowly becoming for him. He sighs restlessly, “If only. Vampires are power-hungry creatures by nature. The biggest threat to a vampire isn’t a cleric with a stake, as you all seem to think. The biggest threat to a vampire, is another vampire.”

The pieces are slowly coming together for Aruna, and she’s slowly beginning to understand that tug of disdain within her as she said Cazador’s name. Nothing good is becoming more and more apparent to be a cold-blooded truth.

“He’s better off keeping you as his obedient puppet,” she murmurs, looking softly to her friend . “It’s not about strength in numbers by building an all-powerful army for the masses – it’s about Cazador building his own personal army of spawns. Making you a true vampire just makes you… competition.”

Astarion won’t meet her gaze. There’s not a single sign of him confirming nor acknowledging her observation. His reactions on their journey thus far make far more sense; the instinctually loyalty he offered her, the small acts of defiance in which he was always testing the waters of her patience. He’s practically traded one master for another – he’s freed of Cazador, only to try and weasel his way under Aruna’s thumb instead, because it’s all he’s ever known. The safety of being someone else’s responsibility, the desperate reach for normalcy that she doesn’t think he’s even noticed himself grasping onto. If she were to so much as utter what she’s just realized, he’d probably drive a dagger into her chest for the suggestion.

But she didn’t want to be Astarion’s newest master. She had no desire to exalt that type of terrible ownership over the spawn. All she really wanted was to keep him safe and alive, which was a mystery upon itself with all things considered.

She decides to change the subject, not wanting to push him any further, “How are you able to walk in the sun? Is it a symptom of the tadpole or-”

“I have no idea,” he suddenly perks up, slowly returning back to her. She likes to see that – loves to see the spark of livelihood return to his eyes and the curiosity race across his features. It’s better than all the vacancy that would creep it’s way across him as he spoke of this Cazador, “Somehow, this tadpole has done some good. I can walk in the sun, I can cross running water, I can enter residencies without invitation. Something, someone , has officially changed the rules thanks to our little friends.”

He taps a finger to his temple, and she feels the vibrations of their connection. She’d decidedly left the mental bridge open for the time being rather than closing him out again. All his tiny bursts of excitement with each word of his newfound freedom are felt fully, minuscule zaps amongst her own brain that she adores.

He deserves it. She hardly knows him, but she knows he deserves this freedom he’s found despite their… complicated situation.

“How convenient,” she hums, leaning back and mimicking his current position as her arms stretch out behind her to hold her weight, “Well, I’m glad one of us has some positive side effects. Sounds like you’ve won the brain worm lottery there.”

This time, when he looks away from her, there’s no stress or fear in his features. He’s not wandering far from her mentally in recollection of his past; he’s simply looking around smugly, a faint smile playing at his lips, perfectly content.

“Seems like it,” he agrees.

With all that he’s revealed to her, she’s painfully aware of one topic they haven’t even brushed the surface of: his feeding habits. She obviously knows that he fed on the boar, has no doubt he’s been hunting down whatever small creatures he can get his hands on without causing any sort of ruckus that would draw attention. But the question lingers – is he used to only feeding on small vermin and the occasional boar?

Is it enough to satiate his hunger?

“I have a question-” she starts, and he’s already rolling his eyes, but she elects to ignore it, “-and you don’t have to necessarily answer it, I suppose, but… well, consider me too curious for my own good.”

“When aren’t you too curious?” he pokes fun at her, but she can see that shift of worry beneath it all, “I think I’d be more worried if you didn’t have any prying questions for me after all that’s been said.”

It’s just them. There’s no real harm in her asking as the rest of the camp rests, blissfully unaware of all she’s uncovered tonight. And yet she still hesitates, weighs out her options as she considers just how defensive he might get if she brings up his feeding habits.

What answer was she even seeking out? Did she wish to hear that, yes , he could sustain himself as he had been? And did she even have a plan, a solution , if he says that he can’t ?

The only blood she has easy access to would be her own.

“You’ve been feeding on animals…” she begins uneasily, tongue already fumbling to find the right words. He’s looking directly at her now, attention all hers as he hums and nods to signal that he’s following along. How do I even phrase this? “Is that- are you- is that normal for you?”

“Are you really asking a vampire if it’s normal for him to drink blood ?”

The scoff he lets out truly isn’t helpful. Because she’s asking so much more than that.

“Well, no- I just-” she can’t stop her stuttering, hands curling into tight fists as her nails bite into her palm in an attempt to steady her tone. She should just spit it out – ask him plainly and suffer the consequences, if there might even be any. “Is that all you need? Can you survive on just those animals, or should I be worried?”

His face morphs. At first, it falls slowly, a genuine and vulnerable show of consideration until he seemingly remembers where he is and who he’s with. In an instant, the mask is up.

“Well, they’ve worked just fine thus far, have they not?”

His scowl is almost cute. That gentle scrunch of his nose and the way his lips pull to reveal the sharp tips of his fangs. The entire show should probably worry her, is probably his attempt to warn her from pushing too far, but she can’t find a lick of fear anywhere in her. In neither her own addled mind, or that half of her soul buried beneath a mountain of unknown memories.

“I don’t know, have they?” It’s a hill she’s decided she’s willing to die on. Even if he lashes out, she’ll be pushing the question. Not just for her own safety, not just for the rest of her companion’s safety, but for Astarion’s safety. She’s meant to keep him alive, and part of that includes making sure he’s well fed, “I’m asking if this is the diet you’re used to, Astarion. If you’re capable of carrying on this way without me waking up to you fangs-deep in one of our companions.”

She could have phrased it a bit more kindly. Especially as he stiffens up and glares even more harshly at her.

“I’m not a monster, you know.”

“I never said you were.”

“Yes, but you seem to be insinuating such. I’ve kept my fangs to myself so far, why would you assume that to change after finding one of the carrion I’ve chosen to dine on instead of - oh, I don’t know – Gale , for example.”

It’s certainly not the right time to crack a smile, but she can’t help it, raising a brow, “ Gale? Out of all our companions, he’s the one you’d first sink your teeth into?”

If Astarion had any blood to spare, she’s sure it would be rushing to his cheeks right about now.

“What can I say? He has a certain air of forbidden fruit to him, does he not?”

He seems shocked when Aruna suddenly shifts her seated position. Instead of lounging beside him, she takes up the space directly in front of him, leaning in as if they were partaking in a secret conversation that not even the Moon would be privy to.

“I suppose he does. Not my first choice but… at least he wouldn’t put up a fight like Lae’zel might,” she fully lets him sink into the hypothetical discussion with her rather than reminiscing on what he had assumed she was insinuating. It was a careful dance, a subtle beckoning, to drag them away from something that couldn’t be further from the truth.

She didn’t see him as a monster, not in the slightest. And perhaps she should, or one day he would give her a reason to, but not tonight. Not here, in their little patch of moss, just hidden away from the rest of the camp. A spot forever tainted for her from now on, no longer her own personal bubble of safety to escape to, but their sanctuary.

Any nights spent here without Astarion were tinged with loneliness, she’s come to realize.

“Lae’zel would be quite the adventurous choice,” he nods, eyes slowly becoming hooded, as though the conversation was igniting a certain hunger in him she knew wasn’t satiated by mere boars, “Is that who you would sink your teeth into, my dear?”

“Gods, no,” she laughs, shaking her head quickly, “I can feel the press of her blade against my throat even for entertaining the idea. No, no – I’d probably go with a safer option. Perhaps… Wyll.”

Astarion’s face twists, as if the mere suggestion disgusts him, “ Ugh . I perish the thought – the man would probably be far too sweet.”

She’s never really considered how each person’s blood may taste differently. And even if she’d never be in a position to really experience such a thing, it’s entertaining to watch Astarion’s reactions to the hypotheticals.

“What about Shadowheart?”

“Hm, better. She’s nearly as enticing as Gale.”

“And me?”

The question slips out beyond her control. She’s simply too lost in whatever game they’re playing. She expects another rapid fire answer, just as he’d provided for Shadowheart, but instead, he looks taken back . True and genuine consideration flashes across his features. He’s taking his time, as though actually picturing her blood flooding his senses.

It should scare her. It should make her turn her cheek to him and call it a night. The mere thought of him drinking her blood should be enough to shake her from this entrapment that is his charm, but it isn’t.

She’d let him drink from her once. In her dream, in her discovered memory, she had let him feed on her.

“Sweet, but not quite as overwhelming as Wyll’s,” he finally whispers carefully, gazing at her in bonafide interest, “I imagine you’d go down smoothly, like a well aged whiskey. Perhaps even burn along the way, but in an… enjoyable way, I suppose. A burn I’d like to experience, over and over.”

“Sweet and spicy?” she huffs, growing a bit breathless, “You make me sound as though I’m made of pixie dust and cinnamon.”

“You could be, for all I know.”

“I could be.”

Her voice is so faint she isn’t even sure if he’s heard her. But he has, of course he has , as he shifts a fraction of a meter closer to her.

All that temptation, and he still had never attempted to drink from her in the dead of night. He’s had ample opportunity to take a taste, and he hasn’t.

She trusts him. Gods, she trusts him more than she should, memories of a past life or not. Tasked with being his savior or not.

“You’ve never tasted a human’s blood, have you?” she quietly asks, finding herself also leaning in as he was, erasing that space between them. Her hand twitches, tempted to lift and shift her hair to only one side, to expose her neck to him. It would be playing with fire; it would be a reckless choice to bare such a vulnerable body part to a vampire who’s just admitted to craving your blood.

She doesn’t do it, not yet.

“You’re not human,” he teases with a tilted grin, cocking his head to one side, “You musn’t forget your drow heritage, dear Aruna. Although, I’ll admit, that only fuels the temptation. I’ve heard whispers of just how addictive a drow’s blood can be.”

“Addictive?”

She’s fully enraptured now. He’s caught her in whatever web he seems to be spinning for the two of them. They’ve saunted dangerously over a line that should have never been crossed; she should have left well enough alone, but she hadn’t, and now she pays the price as his words settle in her chest.

“Think of it in terms of wines,” he has no need to stay so quiet, but his tone continues to lull gently across the spanse between them. Low words that she swears travels only to caress against her skin. The connection between their tadpole practically purrs with his sudden enticement, “Elven blood of any sort will always be considered of the more elite variety. Sweeter, richer, easier to get lost in. I’ve never tasted it for myself, but… well, word spreads amongst spawns and vampire lords alike.”

He’s never tasted elven blood. She’s so close to getting an answer, one that she had forgotten she was chasing after as her knees bump his. She can feel the chill radiating off of him, and it should cause her to jump far from his touch, but she can only lean into it.

A piece of her wants to break the distance and reach out for him. To hold him in her palms, to feel his body against hers. As if there has been a space specifically carved somewhere deeply within her, and only his shadow could fill the emptiness left behind. Only his carmine eyes, only his starlit curls, only his honeyed words. Only him.

An Astarion-shaped hole, left between the two halves of her soul, that only he can bridge the gap between.

She opens her mouth to reply, unsure of what words were about to even fall from her lips, when he interrupts, “I’ve never tasted the blood of a thinking creature – Cazador forbade it. I’ve only ever feasted on beasts .”

A simple truth, offered so freely, that rattles her.

She thinks she hates Cazador more with each bit of information Astarion offers up.

“What would it do to you?” she whispers, swearing she could capture the reflection of her violet eyes somewhere within his pupils, “If you did drink from a thinking creature, would it be any… different?”

He all but sighs out, “Infinitely.”

Something inside her twists, thrashes, suggests.

Offer yourself up to him. Offer him a gift. Offer your neck and don’t linger on the details.

“It’d certainly make me more powerful,” he continues on, oblivious to the decision she’s arrived on the precipice of, “If you think I’m helpful in battle now, you should see what a well-fed vampire spawn is truly capable of.”

It makes sense . If she offers him her blood, he’ll fight better. He’d be more useful to her. Helping him achieve that power helps her in the long run as well, making her entire task of keeping him safe a whole lot easier. It would only be a taste; she has faith in him. He could restrain himself, he would stop when she commanded so.

It simply makes sense, she convinces herself.

“Would you like to?” she blurts out before she can overthink it.

His eyebrows crease, “Like to what?”

“Taste a living creature’s blood.”

Time stands still as it always does with just the two of them. Aruna doesn’t dare to take another breath as she watches Astarion’s reaction, only partially worried that she’s overstepped some boundary she’d grown blind to.

It made sense. It had to.

He offers her protection, always following her closely and lending his daggers as needed, and she would offer her neck. It’s an even exchange, a fair trade. It’s the bare minimum of a gift she could offer him.

“Well, that depends,” he laughs nervously, “Surely, no one is simply offering up their necks to me. Most of all not you.”

“And if I was?” she cuts in, “If I was offering up my neck, would you accept?”

His sharp intake of breath is audible, mouth falling open and gaze set on her. It’s soft with genuine shock for a few seconds before those rubies turn cold as stone, “Do not play games with me.”

“No games are being played here, Astarion,” she doesn’t know what she has to do to convince him as she shuffles closer, growing more determined now, “You said it yourself. You can fight better, be stronger. All of this would benefit all of us in combat.”

“And you trust me that much?” he huffs out, back straightening out as he sneers, “You’d trust me to not drain you dry, to not leave you in the middle of the road just like that boar?”

She’s never been asked a simpler question. For once, her mind is quiet, her answer resounding.

“Yes.”

She trusts him. Whether it’s the right thing to do or not, she simply does.

She knows she shouldn’t want this. It shouldn’t feel so natural to offer up herself on such a pretty silver platter. He should be the one yearning, begging, for the opportunity. He should be the one overwhelmed by thoughts of how his fangs would feel as they pierced into her delicate skin.

A chasm runs between them. Not Astarion-shaped, not Aruna-shaped, but vaster than either of them could fathom. And she stares into it, listening to the wind’s hushed warnings of all she is about to give up. All that is about to offer.

It’s a choice she can’t take back. One that she doesn’t even really want to take back, when she comes to think about it.

His eyes are lively suddenly as he leans forward, an unexpectedly gentle hand brushing away the hair flowing over her left shoulder. With their mental bond, she can feel his hunger. That ringing abyss within him that echoes with all his wants, all his needs. The crippling and terrible thing that haunts his own gut, just as Aruna’s cleaved soul weighs upon her own chest. He helps heal the cleave – she doesn’t understand how or why, but he does. He makes the ache of being split in two a little more bearable. This small offering of help is the least she can do. To soothe the ache that resides in him. A tit for tat, of sorts.

“You want this?” his pupils are blown, eyes wide and staring right where her skin quivers with her racing heart rate. Listening to each pounding of each beat that makes her hands shake as she continues to let his fingers graze the vulnerable skin, “Truly?”

“I do,” she confesses quietly, more to the moon than to him, “I want you at your strongest. If this is the price to pay, then so be it.”

Save Astarion, no matter the cost.

Her blood is a small token in the grand scheme of all that is to come.

He swallows hard, clearing his throat slightly, “Well… let’s make ourselves comfortable, shall we?”

It’s automatic as they readjust. She shuffles herself to lay down on the bed of moss they’ve made their own, holding her breath as Astarion grows closer and slowly lowers his palms to press into the ground on either side of her head. She can’t tell which is colder – the ground beneath her, or the body above her. He radiates a chill that challenges the night’s own beckoning winds, one that could freeze her from the inside out if she’d just let it. It doesn’t seem like a bad option, either, as warmth blossoms in the center of her chest from his proximity.

She thinks back to the day they’d discussed methods of killing each other, should either of them ever appear to be succumbing to ceremorphosis. How the mere brush of his hands over her throat had sent her into a tizzy. The way he hovers over her now has a similar effect, switching on a terrible need to simply be close to him. The need for his touch, for his closeness. To feel each breath that he takes, not out of necessity but out of instinct .

He could kill her if he wants to. Drain her of life, and with the way they’ve hidden themselves away, none of the others would know.

His cool breath hits the side of her neck that he’s exposed, right over her thrumming artery, as he whispers, “ Relax . Just breathe, darling.”

She finally lets out a breath, head swimming as she fists the ground below, preventing her hands from coming up to touch him as they so desperately crave. Each deep breath that follows is flooded with his scent. The night is lost behind the essence of rosemary, bergamot, and… was that brandy? She thinks it might be. She’s sure it must be – but all thoughts have begun to evade her as his head dips down fully into the space between her shoulder and her ear, chest grazing her own as he adjusts to straddle one of her thighs.

That’s my good girl, the whisper of his voice cuts through the tadpole bond, sending shivers down her spine as she gasps for breath.

If she thought all logical thinking had been sent to the wind before, she knew it truly was now. All she knows is him . If he wants her, he can have her. She’s his. If only for this moment.

He leans in closer, and waves of deja vu wash over her. She’s been here before , she swears she has. Beneath the weight of his body, his fangs mere inches from her skin.

She’s been here before, his nose bumping along her neck, beckoning for her to stretch it even further for him as she looks up to the night sky.

She’s been here before, feeling the pounding of her heart so ferocious that he surely can feel the residual shakes of it in the little air between them.

She’s been here before, the grasp of his fingers against her hip, knuckles tense as he leaves his fingerprints seared into her skin, dancing dangerously close to the hem of her nightshirt.

She’s been here before, feeling the graze of his fangs in trepidation as he takes in a final unnecessary breath-

The deja vu is interrupted. Flashes of memories intertwining with the present come to a halt by one simple, innocent action. He surely didn’t mean anything by it. Maybe it was instinctual. Maybe it was a warning.

The softest press of his lips to her neck, the briefest of pecks, before she feels the return of his fangs.

One kiss, not even a second long – and it effectively unravels her mind.

In an instant, all self-restraint has been lost. She’s dizzy with the lingering feeling of that kiss, reeling from such an innocent action, when her hands let go of the moss below her and fly up to him. He tenses at first. The first brush of her desperate palms against his shoulder, and he stills entirely. It reels her in for just a second, and she readjusts, her greedy paws finding purchase elsewhere. One hand fists his sleeve within reach, the other rests delicate at the nape of his neck, urging him forward. Pressing him closer, closer, closer.

She can hear his chuckle over the bond.

Demanding little thing.

Even over quiet, mental exchange, she knows she sounds pain-stakingly desperate and breathless as she replies, always.

Demanding more of his touch. Demanding more of who he truly is. Demanding, demanding, demanding. The shattered bits of her will always call out to him with such an exigent manner.

When his fangs pierce her delicate skin, it only fuels the flames.

Icicles spread out beneath her skin, a searing pain she shouldn’t be so familiar with blossoming from where he’s sank them into her. In an instant, she can feel her blood rushing eagerly to pour out all that she can give him. And he drinks greedily, taking all that she will offer fervently.

Every nip, every suck, every lick – she experiences it intensely. The hand on the back of his neck turns into a grip. She tries to keep gentle, she truly does, but she can’t help but tug tightly on those curls. Threading them between each finger, pulling on them in time with each pulsation of her ichor flooding his mouth.

She feels him growl against her skin, and her entire body goes limp, pliant in his palms.

She should stop him soon. She feels the tips of her fingers and toes going numb, but she finds herself clinging to the weightlessness that takes over her body. An addictive feeling, only comparable to what he must feel as he drags her even closer and buries his face even deeper against her.

They’re getting lost in one another. Her head buzzes, an endless string of whimpers falling from his hunger lips, and she knows they need to stop . But it’s a distraction – a beautiful, kind, nice distraction.

For just a moment, there’s no weight of who she is or once was. There’s no need for her to decipher her past or the memories that have been revealed to her thus far. All she has to focus on is him; the feeling of his hair between her fingers, the weight of his knee sliding up her inner thigh as he further bends himself in half to stay desperately close to her, his cold skin beneath her fingertips as they slip and lose their grip on his sleeve. Over the connection, the hunger fades, and in its place lingers a purr of satisfaction. Of happiness.

Her entire body has begun to go numb. Her eyes flutter shut, unable to handle the way the sky above is seemingly spinning.

“Astarion.”

Her voice is hardly even a whisper. Something to lose within the breeze, the smallest of pleas. Insignificant and insincere. He could kill her, here and now, and she would allow him.

Astarion.

Just as she feels herself slipping further, lids too heavy to even attempt to open, the tadpole connection between them goes taut. One moment, they’ve completely lost themselves in one another, circling about in that chasm together . The next, painful flashes blind them both. Muddled pictures, blurry with time and space, appear not only in her mind, but his .

Astarion, leaning over her, caught red-handed during a time in which he had tried to taste her blood without permission. Frightful as he waits for her to make a choice: to stake him, or to trust him.

Aruna, a book in one hand as the other tangles fully in Astarion’s snow-white curls. His face is buried in her stomach as he hums, hidden, but no doubt painted with a contentment the vampire has only dreamed of for two hundred years.

Astarion’s hands resting on Aruna’s hips, his lips brushing her ears with dire instructions as he corrects her hold on a pair of daggers. Do not let your guard down after your first attack, his distant voice coos to her as a determination sets onto her features.

Aruna, leaning her weight against Astarion’s side, pressed safely into him as he wraps a blanket around her shivering form a bit more securely. The backdrop of a city, of Baldur’s Gate, behind them. Nothing good waiting for them just beyond.

A plethora of quiet nights spent in one another’s arms, across multitudes of landscapes. In the very camp they reside in now, in a darker scene in which the mushrooms just outside their tents seem to glow with magic. In a land of shadows, in some sort of inn that buzzes with the distant chatter of patrons down below. They all flash, one after another, each memory growing more blurred as they continue on. Aruna can’t decipher them, can’t reach out to cling to a single one, as she feels Astarion react to the intrusion as well. And then, it finally happens – a resounding snap within her mind that would have made her cry out in agony had she had any energy left.

His fangs retract from her in an instant. He throws himself back, landing harshly on the ground beside her. She doesn’t even have the strength to stop him, let alone question out loud what has happened.

She can’t say a single word. The echoes of the memories linger, the tadpole connection seemingly shattered.

Heaviness consumes her, preventing her from sitting up immediately in the same revelry of shock that she assumes that Astarion exudes. It takes several deep breaths before she can so much as open her eyes, let alone sit up.

When she finally does, she finds Astarion to be exactly as she had predicted, exactly as she felt: downright petrified.

“What-” Astarion is the first to speak up between them, pupils so large that they swallow his eyes in pitch black. A drop of her blood has long trailed past his chin, marking down the side of his neck now as he takes a shaky breath, “-was that?”

taglist: @emmaisgonnacry @writinginthetwilight @moonmunson @generalstephkenobi @notthisagainpls @chaoticbardlady99

if you'd like to join the taglist, simply let me know <3

#ghost's stories #astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion x tav #astarion x oc #astarion fanfic #astarion fanfiction #bg3 #bg3 fanfic #the Plot Thickens

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jenerousjenocide · 1 year ago

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Familiar Face

Fifty years had passed since the Netherbrain was defeated; it took Astarion five years after to become the lord of Baldur’s Gate. Within that timespan his old companions departed from the city, following new adventures in quiet hope their paths would never cross again. Only one agreement was made among them, set by the leader themselves that carried the entire team on her back single handily.

“Keep it within Baldur’s Gate.”

A warning, no less, a boundary they set to ensure the entire realm wouldn’t be overrun by vampires, although Astarion would be lying to say the thought didn’t cross his mind every other day or so.

The temptation was always there, and it would be so easy.

As much as Astarion would never admit it, he did respect his dear old friend more than he let on. A/N Nobody asked for this, but here it is I'm back on my BS. Also this is basically a WIP, its eventually going to be sexy. It'll be fine. Feedback is encouraged, I have written anything in eight years and it probably shows. AO3 Mirror - Next

Baldur’s Gate, once a city of innovation and progress, stood as the capital of Faerun. For centuries it was built up from the ground with those in power struggling with balance between right and wrong, the noble and the peasants and ensuring the Upper City and Lower City remained as separate as can be in terms of gold and assistance from guards or authorities.

It was no longer the case after so many decades of building it up, only for it to come crashing down one evening.

Citizens had believed their troubles were over the moment the Netherbrain was defeated, in fact they did have a few months of peace, and all seemed so bright and hopeful for the future. Festivals and parades crowded the streets for days, cheering on the heroes that rescued the city from destruction and the lives of all the innocents threatened by the damage caused.

Strangers worked together to rebuild, fix each others homes and offer food, aid or supplies to anyone in need. Nobles made large donations to better assist the poor struggling to get by and for a while it all seemed too good to be true.

Something in the shadows was lurking, bigger than anyone could have imagined and somehow the true secrets were kept hidden from the citizens for years.

Authority figures began stepping down from their roles seemingly without an explanation, providing vague answers for those with questions that one could only deem reasonable. This continued until only one remained, a new figure that seemed to have risen to power overnight yet was able to make his name and reputation known as one of the heroes that saved Baldur’s Gate all those years before.

Lord Astarion Ancunín.

It was a slow transition at first, but it felt as though his coronation as Lord was the shifting point in which everything seemed to come together. For his benefit, at least.

It began with smooth talking his way into meetings, debunking rumours spread among residents that he was a vampire spawn because why or how would a feeble vampire be able to walk among the living so freely? He saved Baldur’s Gate from disaster; it was easy to gain the trust of majority of the population.

The plan really kicked into gear after inviting each noble he could come across to a private dinner. A bite to eat with life altering consequences, and they soon became his loyal subjects one by one.

Like a puppet master stringing together a performance of a lifetime, they obeyed his every command and retreated to his palace to no longer serve as the nobles they once were, but as servants and spawns as Astarion deemed fit.

Just as the city was changing under his thumb, the palace once owned by Cazador Szarr also changed. The gaudy paintings taken down and replaced with marble statues or fine antiques. Some of which found by servants during their evening hunts for more followers to fall under their master’s spell.

Astarion swore he was nothing like Cazador, the wretched bastard was cruel and unforgiving, embarrassing and torturing those he turned for his own cruel entertainment and ensuring he was able to strike fear into every one of them. No, Astarion didn’t punish his servants for no reason, and he didn’t force them to feed on vermin the way he did for two centuries.

That isn’t to say he didn’t have his rules, and when punishment was due it was carried out carefully and with a message along with it. If the punishments were met with resistance, Astarion wasn’t above himself to deal the final blow, ending the insubordination in it’s tracks before it can pick up traction and spread through his coven like a filthy disease.

He knew they would never be able to overpower him if they somehow managed to lapse free from his command, but keeping the peace was within everyone’s best interest to keep invasive thoughts and memories from clouding his mind.

“Keep it within Baldur’s Gate.”

The temptation was always there, and it would be so easy.

As much as Astarion would never admit it, he did respect his dear old friend more than he let on.

She picked him up from the side of the road after he pulled a knife on her, didn’t immediately drive a stake through his heart when he attempted to bite her while she slept. She listened to him prattle and complain about his troubles and concerns, his trauma and story behind the ugly scars that adorned his back.

She promised to stand by his side and help him take down his cruel master in the place he called home. She fought battles that weren’t even hers to fight and with obvious hesitance helped Astarion ascend into the powerful lord he was. Even within his power drunk mind that day, he knew the dynamic of their relationship changed completely and would never be the same again.

He could see it in her eyes when they would speak following the ritual. A look that once projected adoration and love now turned fearful, pleading and cold.

With an offer of immortal life by his side, their relationship ended completely.

Of course, he was insulted by her rejection, but he had no real need for her any longer if he were to become as powerful as he needed to be to bring the city to its knees. He thought she was in it for the long run, but he ended up getting exactly what he wanted in the end.

Perhaps his initial plan of seducing her to ensure she never turned on him worked too well, but with the consequences of their actions it was obvious that becoming a vampire spawn was not a life she wanted to live. Even if it meant being by his side for all of eternity until the world came crashing down around them.

It didn’t hurt entirely, but the sting was still there as he pondered what could have been had she said yes.

Nonetheless it was too far gone in the past to even bring it up anymore, the golden days were long gone and so were his companions. Astarion couldn’t spend his time pondering what everyone else was up to, they wouldn’t dare return to Baldur’s Gate, and he decided to keep things slow and steady while building his coven from the ground up.

It had been so long, surely she was old or dead by now, judging by human lifespans.

The idea of it was enough to make his usually composed expression cringe with a slight pang of his dead heart. She could have lived forever young, but the possibility she was long gone did bring up a familiar sting.

Not that she was his anymore, he internally scolded himself for allowing himself to linger on the memories and possibilities for too long.

There were more pressing matters to focus on, especially with his ascension anniversary coming up and the grand extravaganza he did annually for the mortal citizens of the city to commemorate the day he gained true freedom and power.

The preparations were going smoothly, his spawn working endlessly to ensure everything was perfect down to the last detail. Roaming the halls, Astarion could only give his directions and opinions regarding where things should be, he wouldn’t dare lift a finger to help decorate.

The sound of his footsteps echoes through the ballroom hall, vampire strung about doing their job to get the preparations completed and keep their dear master content with their efforts. He pretended not to notice how a few of them wince when he walked closer, chalking it up to pure respect and that a little reminder of who’s in charge doesn’t hurt.

Everything was falling into place; the stage was set and soon the ballroom will be filled with people immortal and mortal alike. A subtle feast for those less fortunate to be cast under his vampire spawn’s charms, but a night to remember for the remaining attendees to keep face as lord of the city everyone loved once before.

-------

The Golden City stands before you, imposing and tall like all those photos and stories you’ve heard before. It didn’t quite live up to expectations, a menacing storm overhead unmoving, as if warning those trying to enter to turn away and never return.

There had been no news of Baldur’s Gate for years. Everyone you spoke to mentioned it was still populated and ruled over by one man, a man who helped saved the city from destruction long ago, but regarding progression or innovation there had been little word. You always dreamed of seeing the city with your own two eyes, but as you stand before it you can’t help but feel a sense of dread tug at your heart.

You draw in a deep breath, as if preparing to hold it in your lungs to avoid any toxic fumes the air might have lingered around. Despite the darkness, you do see citizens wandering about and going on with their daily business.

Perhaps you spend too much time reading and listening silly fairy tales.

You travelled a good way to get here, fleeing from your home in Waterdeep and avoiding any questions regarding your adventure. You’re positive nobody witnessed your escape due to the lack of yelling and restraint being placed on you.

For the moment you’re free to explore, get your fix of the city and get back home before anyone is the wiser.

The first step into the city was easy, navigating was a whole other ball game.

One big difference between your hometown and the city is how big it makes you feel. Waterdeep was familiar, you had your family and friends and somehow everyone knew everyone’s business at some point or another- In the City it’s the complete opposite, the feeling of being so small and insignificant imposing itself on you until it feels like it’s the only thing you do know.

Maybe it wouldn’t be such an awful idea to turn back.

“Don’t forget the Palace doors open at sundown! Our Lord would be honored to have any and all citizens come join the festivities taking place. A night of dancing, drinking and mingling with Baldur’s Gate’s finest.”

The voice was coming from the center of town, a well-dressed man standing in the middle handing out invitations to residents walking by. The practiced smile on his face greeted everyone who made eye contact with him, he was charming to say the least.

Before you even realized your feet were already moving you towards the center, reaching out as the young man offered a warm smile and the invitation. Noting the smile didn’t reach his eyes, you take the invitation and read the contents.

Midnight Masquerade Come one, come all! Lord Astarion invites you to a night of dancing, drinking and dining.

It couldn’t hurt to have at least one night in the city, in fact you were taught that it was rude to decline invitations. You could pop in for a little food and wine and leave before the night was even over.

You tuck the invitation into your pack and adjust it steadily on your back. You needed to find an outfit to fit in, and quickly before the party was ready to start.

#baldurs gate 3 #Astarion #astarion x reader #bg3

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paradox-time · 4 months ago

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@basil-does-arttt

Heeeeyyyy, thanks for giving me an excuse to ranttt <3<3

Ok so, I saw a post of yours that was something like "what about gortash do fans find appealing?”

I'm going to try my best to answer why some of us are fans of this Absolute Shitbag (pun intended)

Some of my credentials, I've played the game for over 700 hours over about 4 months, seen, made, and interacted with tons of fan content and talked about it at length with other fans and unwilling friends. I make it my job to know every single scrap of Lore the game has to offer, going to stupid lengths to read all the books and letters hidden throughout the game, I also savescum the hell out of dialog options so I don't miss any exposition. I've played a tav twice and a dark urge 8 times, plus started but never finished other origin playthroughs.

Safe to say. I am deranged. (Yay hyperfixation)

Anyway, Enver Gortash is one of my favorite villains in fiction. This does not, in any way, mean that I admire or excuse any of his actions. I don't find him handsome or charming. He isn't redeemable or even likable in any capacity as a person.

The entire main theme of the game is whether or not the characters perpetuate the cycle of abuse or break it. You see that with Astarion, he either kills Cazador and forges his own future as a freed spawn, or ascends, and becomes someone who is just as bad and abusive as Cazador. You see it with Shadowheart in whether she chooses to live a life under Shar's cruel influence, or leave her past behind her and embrace Selúne. You see it in Gale and whether he ascends to Godhhood and is nothing like the kind and inquisitive person he once was, or leaves Mystra and his life as an archmage behind to live a life of quiet comfort where he can follow his passions and teach people like he should have been taught instead of isolating students like how mystra and elminster isolated him.

Many more examples blah blah blah

Ok, a lot of people (wrongly) try to justify and apologize for everything gortash has done by pointing at his backstory like a gotcha thing.

Gortash's parents sold him into slavery when he was very young to pay off their debts. The person who then raised and owned Gortash was none other than the ultimate slimeball, Raphael the Cambion. In this environment, Gortash grew incredibly bitter and started to worship Bane, the god of Tyranny, Dictatorship, Strife, and Subjugation. This was because he believed he was owed power over others for everything he was put through. He then becomes a slave trader, selling Karlach to Zariel is one notable example, a war profiteer and arms dealer, he keeps the families of his prisoners held hostage in an underwater prison that was rigged to explode and then subsequently flood if any of his factory staff tried to escape. His workers were also made to wear fucking bomb collars. He sews bigotry in the general public by not letting refugees in the city and controlling the media (newspapers and posters). His entire goal and religious doctrine is founded on the belief that it is his divine right to control and oppress people.

It has been so freaking long since I've found a piece of media that had an actual villain, but still kept said villain's story and motives interesting! Lots of modern media really tries to go the formulaic propaganda villain route. “Character A wants to do the right thing. Character B wants to do the right thing but does it in a BAD and DiSrUpTiVe way!! Gasp!! Villain!” I think it's supposed to endorse and enforce moral superiority of centrists, yuck. but that's a Different Tangent™.

I feel like there are a lot of fans that think that in order to like a character, they have to be morally palatable and pg or whatever. I see lots of fans that can't fathom liking a character that is genuinely evil and a bad person. So they just. Ignore the entire central point of the character.

Gortash sucks ass. If I met him in real life I would beat his ass into the dirt. But he isn't real. And fiction, especially interactive fiction, is an amazing way to explore darker themes in a safe and controlled environment. This is amazing for dozens of reasons, including exploration of catharsis.

I like Gortash because he amazing as a Villain. His story is super connected to the themes of the game. His acting is done with so much care and talent from the production team at Larian.

Fans who fawn over and woobify him. Umm. Do better. Get media literate please. No hate, love all the gortash content, especially in relation to the Dark Urge's story line. But please stop pretending he isn't as bad as he is. That's one of the main things I find compelling about him as a story device in the first place. You can like evil characters because they're fake.

Ummm conclusion…. Yeah. I like Gortash because he makes a fun story.

#character study #enver gortash #enver flymm #baldur’s gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 gortash #rant #long post

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invinciblerodent · 11 months ago

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tbh, it never ceases to astound me that there are actual people who are fans, legitimate fans, of Ascended Astarion.

like i'm not even saying this as a funny thing, i'm not even gonna put it any tags or whatever, and it's not like i want to make fun of someone for a preference in a fictional character, that's not what this is about, it's just that.... posts here, and the comment sections on videos of his voicelines, always have at least one person trying to justify his behavior as actually good, or talking about how hot some line or another is, and how much they like this outcome (not because it's fucked up but because it's "passionate" or "sexy" or whatever- this btw is much more prevalent on youtube), and I just... can't grasp how that's a possible thing for people to think unironically. how someone can play through 100+ hours of game, interact with Astarion multiple times, take him through his whole damn personal journey, and still not feel like post-ascension he's just a... a horrible stranger wearing a friend's face.

If you see the fucked up part and go "yeah i'm into that because it's fucked up"? I'm fully in support of you. Absolutely 100% in your corner. Write/imagine/fantasize about nasty fucked up manipulation and shit all you want; I've been known to indulge in worst case scenarios myself. Engaging with unhealthy dynamics with the knowledge that it's unhealthy and exploring that can be good for the soul. But way too many seem to be arguing that "he still loves (the PC)", and that it's possible for that guy and the PC to have a decent, loving relationship on equal footing, while they need to actively dodge all the options even in-game that exist to call him out for being a piece of shit.

because he's. god, ascended he's such a creep. he sets off all the alarm bells in my head, worse than any guy I've ever decided not to let buy me a drink. an obvious manipulator, nakedly abusive, dismissive, clearly a megalomaniac that's going as far as saying the quiet part out loud in the multiple times he can say that he wants to turn the PC into a spawn so they can't leave or defy him, and it's right there on the surface in every single interaction that being with him is not a good idea. The other companions fucking hate his guts and feel sorry for the PC, and even a PC that's head over heels, fully on board with all the bullshit, and is into the whole "gilded cage enslavement" aspect, can complain (and it's implied that they have complained, multiple times) in the epilogue about not having their freedom.

Six months after becoming his spawn, they're still not a full vampire, and we know from that conversation with Aurelia and Leon that one of Cazador's little tactics had been promising his spawn freedom he never intended to give, in order to keep them obedient.

sure, he has some lines that, in a vacuum, are hot. but I'm pretty sure that's all simply Neil Newbon (despite being a very skilled actor who's fully deserving of all the acclaim he's been receiving), being physically unable to inject enough gross sewer-slime into his voice, and not any merit to this weird creep of a character.

this whole thing, I'm gonna be honest, is just... so fucking worrying to me. it like actually worries me how many people can't see something written with the explicit intent to be unsettling, and a guy written openly to be awful and shitty and gross, as such. And it's not like we can fully chalk it up to how emotion in the moment can cloud your judgement, or how manipulators can and do adjust their personalities in accordance to how best to make you stay, he's literally ones and zeroes, and a limited number of lines you can listen to over and over again and dissect if you want.

I'm not even remotely joking, is this how people end up in relationships with genuinely awful people????? because god, it sounds so terrifying that there are actual people who can look at a fictional guy draped in a red flag the size of a tectonic plate, and still only notice that the color brings out his eyes.

(and to reiterate, if the awful is the selling point, I'm fully in support of that. but god, the "I can fix him"/"I know he still loves me" sentiment is just... it makes the back of my neck itch.)

#squirrel plays bg3 #like i said not tagging #this is more of a vent post if anything #and i'm fully open to conversations but i don't really want this reblogged either

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cyberrat · 1 year ago

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76th Batch Of Fics: 11th Fill

Cazador/fem!Tav – Part 3/3 – pre-established Tav/Astarion; rape/non-con; blood drinking; forced impregnation; changing POVs – Cazador's winning in every conceivable way.

---

The despair on Astarion’s face is delicious. It is almost enough to satisfy Cazador in and off itself – if he weren’t currently enjoying the warm, generous hole of Astarion’s sweetheart. She takes him like a pro despite her growling.

He curls his arms around her hips, chin hooked over her shoulder as he pumps his hips against her ass, cock spearing her pussy over and over again.

It’s when she starts to become more quiet and her cunt trembles around his cock that things start to get really interesting.

Cazador’s gaze snaps back to Astarion, a smile slowly spreading across his face.

“Oh would you look at that… she’s about to come, isn’t she?”

Tav shakes her head violently no, her eyes clenched shut.

Cazador can’t keep from grinning, a positively unholy joy filling his chest.

“No?” he asks her, head turning so she can croon into her blood hot ear. “Are you saying your thighs aren’t trembling? Or that your delightful pussy hasn’t clamped down on my cock like it wants to strangle it?” He has completely stopped his thrusts just to feel the throb of her walls around his flexing shaft; and now he starts to move again. Slow. Deliberate as she immediately fights to stop everything that he mentioned – without success.

Tav is shaking her head again wildly. Cazador has to be careful so she wouldn’t knock him out but that’s fine. Everything is fine because this whole affair keeps getting better and better and better.

He barks out a single note of laughter, eyes boring into Astarion’s pale, agonized looking face. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” he announces, his hips still pumping nice and slow, taking care not to change the angle with wich he is spearing into her silky, throbbing body. The heat around his crown is intense; like he keeps dipping right into the very center of her being.

He can feel the tension mounting throughout her body. How desperately she is fighting against her response to be fucked by him.

Cazador thrusts harder, the snap of his hips causing Tav to throw her head back, her throat flushed and straining as she can’t cry out the lust she reluctantly feels. Slick keeps sliding down her thighs and glistening wet in the flickering lamp light of the room.

“You know what I think, my pet?” Cazador announces over her animal grunts as he fucks her faster; deeper; meaner. “I think that you did a wonderfully fine job in choosing her! She is a natural, is she not? So very easy; so eager for cock she even let a mongrel like you mount her.”

He stands up straighter, his arms around her body, forcing her more upright as well; her knees are visibly shaking as she tries to find some kind of purchase with her bound feet.

“It will have been the last time, though. Because from now on… she is mine. And she will pump out an army of loyal little pets for me! I’ll use her as my personal breeding bitch; I’ll fuck a new spawn into her the moment she gives birth to the last. I’ll have her swollen with my young over. And over again.

And the best thing is that she will love it. You know it as well as I do, do you not?” He’s starting to get out of breath as he fucks her, one hand cupping her stomach beneath her navel; the heel of his hand pressing into her to stimulate her from the outside as well. There are screeching little peaks in her moans now. She hates it but she can’t help it either. Her body is utterly betraying her and the sweetness is too heady to bear.

He answers his own question before Astarion can take a breath. “Of course you do! You can see how wild she’s getting for me. So lets hear her proper, shall we?”

Cazador snaps his fingers. The magic he used to keep her mouth shut had not been a big feat of power but it still feels good to only have to uphold one spell while he fucks this bitch’s brain out.

Just as predicted – and hoped – Tav wails her little damn heart out as he rabbit fucks her on his cock, pumping it into her with single-minded intent.

Her insides are having a death grip on him and the slick keeps sliding down to his balls where it itches and drives him wild in wholly different ways.

“FuuUuuuUuuuUuuUck!” Her voice keeps warbling as she is bounced on his dick, high-pitched in the cadence of a true whore that gets her cervix pummeled by the insistent push of his glans.

He wishes he could see her face; how she’s going cross eyed. But at least he can see Astarion as he witnesses his precious Tav’s corruption.

Cazador grabs her jaw, feeling her throat vibrating in his palm as she whines. She starts to fight again, her whole body trying to twist out of his grasp; one desperate last ditch effort to prevent the unpreventable.

He keeps his dick inside her. It’s like trying to ride a bucking horse, but she is trussed up and he is determined-

And finally she comes. Gurgling and sobbing, her whole body tensing as she convulses on his dick; a squirt of piss shooting from her lap and hitting the ground half a foot from her quiet, seething lover.

She slumps forward, all the tension gone out from her limbs.

Cazador would think her passed out from the intensity of her orgasm if he weren’t able to feel the warm pulsations around his cock and hear her low groaning.

“Easy now… we are not done yet, my precious little breeding sow,” he murmurs. With the hand still around her throat, he pulls her back up into position. His heart is racing. Her blood smells absolutely divine through the thin membrane of her skin. He is so close, he can taste the release on his tongue… but it is not as sweet as she will be once he’s pushed his fangs into her skin and drank her.

He has slowed down somewhat, giving himself time… but more so giving her time to regain her senses. He wants her to know what is happening.

He wants her to be alert and as filled with hate as Astarion is, kneeling in the corner, impotent and quietly raging.

Cazador searches his gaze and once he is sure that he has his undivided attention, he finally does it: he bites Tav.

It takes everything in him not to rip her throat out. Her blood gushing over his tongue and down his throat is orgasmic. Him pumping her full to his seed to the point of it gushing back out of her slick, overworked cunt is only prolonging the feeling into a sweet, sharp edge that lets him see the nighttime stars before his closed eyes.

Victory is so very, very sweet.

#cyberratting writes stuff #cazador/tav #astarion/tav #impregnation kink #bg3 #blood drinking #tw rape #tw noncon

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slothquisitor · 1 year ago

Text

Rattle

The other vampire spawn show up to take Astarion to the ritual. OR Liv calls Astarion out on his bullshit. Liv x Astarion, 2.8k, angst, but it's fluffy at the beginning?

Also on AO3.

The night is quiet and it’s getting late, but Liv doesn’t want to go to bed just yet. Her eyelids are heavy and her mind drifts as she reads her book. She’s pretty sure she’s reread her current paragraph twice now and still doesn’t know what it says. But she’s warmly nestled beside Astarion in what is quickly becoming routine for them. This couch, by this fireplace, in this room in the Elfsong, has become theirs. Tonight, he’d been the one to join her and without prompting or her asking, he’d wrapped an arm around her and pulled her into him.

She is grateful for the ease, for the familiarity. It seems that once he realized that touch could come without strings or expectations, he has wanted it more. Each time he reaches for her, her heart tumbles over itself at his trust. They’ve learned each other now, and the asking has become less careful, less explicit, a brush of fingers, an opened arm. She trusts that he will say no to the things he doesn’t want, and he seems to trust that she will not ask a question to things they are not ready for.

“You’re falling asleep,” he says, voice muffled against her hair.

It’s true, but she’s not sure she wants to leave. He sleeps far less than the rest of them, and while he must rest, she envies the hours of quiet he gets each night. Their days are so full, and she is so tired, but she finds that these late hours while the fire burns down is the only time they get to just be. Each day is full of so many dangers and nothing is promised, so each moment feels precious. She curls more fully into him. “I know, but this is nice.”

“It is.”

She twists so she can look at his face. “Someday, when this is all over I want an entire day to read and sleep and eat and rest just the two of us.”

His answering smile is brilliantly bright in the firelight. “I’d like that.” He tilts his head to the side. “It would be nice to have no world-ending problems to solve.”

“No netherstones to find…”

“No shared inn rooms with every single one of our friends…”

She concedes that point. “A little bit more privacy might be nice.”

His smile is positively feline now as he lowers his voice. “Oh? And whatever could you want privacy for?”

This is the nearest they’ve come to even mentioning sex within their relationship since Moonrise, but she still wants to be careful with them both. There’s no label for whatever this is, but she finds she’s rather unbothered by what it might look like from the outside, or by their lack of definition. He cares for her, and she for him. That feels simple enough.

Still, she’s never sure how much of his playing is a habit or because he actually wants to. She’s overheard conversations between him and their other companions where he’s clearly maintaining a front, still wearing the mask. Does he even realize he’s doing it, or is he just wanting to keep things private? There’s a lot she could say, but she decides to follow his lead here. “Whatever you want.”

His grin widens as he tightens his hold on her. “I can think of a few things. Unfortunately, we’ll never see that someday because the leader of our merry band of weirdos keeps not getting enough rest.”

She sighs and begins extracting herself from his arms. “I’m going.” Once she’s on her feet, she is struck by just how exhausted she is and begins making her way toward the stairs.

Astarion catches her hand as she walks away, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Goodnight.” His face is upturned toward her, his crimson eyes dark in the firelight, but his expression is open and filled with a soft adoration that makes her pause.

She almost tells him she loves him then and there. Almost tells him that no one has ever looked at her like this. Instead, she gently cups his cheek and kisses him. “Goodnight,” she whispers against his lips and hopes he hears the words she leaves unsaid. It is a feat that she manages to get her exhausted self into bed, and sleep finds her quickly.

“Get the hells away from me!” Astarion’s voice breaks through the quiet of the room.

Liv jerks awake, already up and moving, reaching for her magic. Fire dances on her fingertips, ready to seek whatever perceived danger has found them. Astarion isn’t far from her bed, shoulders tense, poised to strike at the two vampire spawn who have come through the double doors to their rooms.

The spawn’s eyes glow a dull, deep red, but they don’t look like they’re here for a fight, in fact, they look almost resigned. She’s a moment away from lobbing a firebolt at them both, but she holds off, releasing her hold on her magic until she knows how Astarion wants to play this.

“Peace, brother. We’re here to take you home,” one says, a red-skinned tiefling, her brow furrowed. Aurelia perhaps? Which means the human beside her must be Leon. After their encounter with Petras and Dalyria, Astarion had reluctantly told her about the rest of his ‘siblings’ so that their group could better keep an eye out for them.

“The master needs all seven of us for the ceremony. Come with us and be reborn. We’ll live again,” Leon says. There’s an edge of mania in his voice.

Astarion’s face twists in disgust. “Oh, I’m well aware of what the master needs, but don’t we deserve better?”

Leon pauses, frowning. “Better, what do you mean better?”

“After all these centuries of torment, I know what you all want. More than power, more than to walk in the sun. You want to see him dead.” The anger in Astarion’s voice rises with each word. “The rite of profane ascension will be mine, and he won’t see a scrap of its glory. I’m going to complete the ritual as the ascendant, and then I am going to kill him. This is your chance, stand with me, name me your new master. We will get our revenge, and you will all live again.”

It’s a neat little lie, dangling hope out like a noose and hoping that his siblings hang themselves with it. It falls so naturally off his tongue, casual and cruel. Astarion has long since stopped trying to cut her, so she has forgotten how sharp he can be.

“Astarion,” she says and shoots him a look of alarm. Every conversation about the ritual has been an uphill battle. Cazador must die, that much she knows, but sacrificing his siblings for the power Cazador wants? Fulfilling a contract to Mephistopheles? Liv can’t help but feel they’re missing something. Besides, Astarion’s siblings are just as much victims as he is. “Have you no heart? You know they will die if you complete the ritual!”

Astarion looks like he’s resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. With the sweet little ‘disappointed I’m not getting cuddly Astarion’ pout. I can’t take it. I can’t be what you want to see in me.”

But she has not seen anything in him that isn’t there. He is a tangle of contradictions, overlapping hurts and pain that’s skewed the way he sees the world. He is not kind or heroic or selfless, but he is loyal and he cares about the people who care for him. And for her, that is enough. It has always been enough. She grew up in a house characterized by so much cold indifference that even his anger is a comfort, a promise that something matters.

But there is something too desperate about how much he wants this ritual to be his, about the things he is willing to do that she is not sure she can support. He has said it himself, that the problem with what happened to him isn’t what Cazador did, but that he did it to him. But if he does this, who does that make him? What happens if he becomes the thing he hates?

Aurelia’s eyes go wide for a moment and then narrow in suspicion. “Die? Whatsoever are you speaking of? We are going to cheat undeath.”

Across the room, Liv catches sight of movement, of the glint of blades being drawn. Their late-night visitors have not gone unnoticed by their companions, and Liv is grateful to know that if she can’t diffuse this situation, they’ve got back-up.

She turns to Leon and Aurelia, perhaps with two more spawn on their side, then maybe just maybe they can turn the tide of this battle. “Please, let us help you.”

Aurelia brushes her off. “The master doesn’t need to lie to us. He controls us. Fully. Why go through the trouble of giving us hope?”

Leon shakes his head. “Because it’s more cruel. Shit. We’re doomed. Alright, what do you need from us? We’ll help you.”

For a moment, the room is full of a sort of hope, of a turning of the tide. Perhaps they can all rise up and solve the problem of Cazador together, perhaps…Aurelia and Leon’s bodies go taut as if some invisible strings pull at them. And hope dissipates.

Aurelia grits her teeth. “The bonds hold. He owns us. We have no choice, we must obey. Get out of here, Astarion, before…”

The desperation and regret in Aurelia’s voice cuts through the room, but Liv can’t dwell on the fact that these two want nothing less than to be here. Because she’s already stepping in front of Astarion, throwing up a shield of magic between them and his siblings, buying them just enough time to prepare to fight.

***

As his last sibling disappears in red mist, Astarion hopes the bastard is satisfied. He will not be so easily retrieved; he doesn’t answer when Cazador calls. Not anymore. Besides, it was ridiculously stupid to pick a fight in the middle of an inn room full of warriors. They were able to dispatch his siblings so quickly, Karlach isn’t even breathing hard.

Liv is at his side, concern evident in her eyes. He’s fine, and he needs her to know that, so he stows his daggers and wipes his hands of the whole affair. “What a mess. Well, at least you’ve met my family now.”

She’s clearly not expecting his flippancy, and surprise reigns on her face before being replaced by exhaustion. “You’re alright?”

Her concern is adorable. “Nary a scratch on me.”

“Could people not call on us at normal hours?” Gale complains around a yawn.

Lae’zel scoffs. “We should always be on the lookout for an attack. It will keep us sharp.”

“That’s great, but I need sleep. Super fun family reunion, Astarion,” Wyll replies, already heading back to bed.

Karlach is shaking her head, infernal engine a deep glow. “No one comes into my house and tries to hurt my people. We’ll show Cazador.”

It’s rather touching, actually, the way they all sprung up out of bed to fight for him. He’s…grateful. He doesn’t say it though, just offers nods of acknowledgment as their companions make their way back to their beds, leaving him and Liv alone once again. She needs to go back to bed, he can see the way the exhaustion curves her shoulders.

“You -” he begins.

She cuts him off, her voice quiet but firm. “I can’t believe how you lied to them. You know they’ll have to die for the rite to happen.”

This again? She’d dropped the conversation at the flophouse, and they haven’t brought it up since. He figured she’d simply come around to his side in the interim, well until she told his siblings that the rite means they have to die. Because of course, she did. When has she ever been able to resist playing the hero?

“What does it matter? There’s only six of them. And they are vampire spawn.” He has spent two hundred years afraid, checking over his shoulder, unable to live his life, and he will not allow anyone to have that sort of power over him again.

Liv’s brow is furrowed. “You don’t have sympathy for others sharing your plight?”

Of course he doesn’t. Why would he? His siblings are pathetic, weak, and most importantly, still bound to Cazador. He’s not. He’s stronger, better. “No one ever looked out for me. No one ever said a kind thing to me. You’re the only one. Other people don’t have a heart like you. You’re you. No one is like that.”

Liv is perhaps the only person in their group who cannot see how exceptional she is. She has been told for so long that she is nothing, that she isn’t enough, that she cannot see that she is the only person with a heart like hers. He used to view it as a weakness, and some days he still does. But it is remarkable, and she needs to know that. She also needs to know that goodness and kindness can’t win against someone like Cazador. To defeat a monster, perhaps, one must be monstrous.

She tosses his comment away, sidesteps talking about herself like she always does. “And what if it was you destined to die so that one of your siblings could ascend, what would you have me do then?”

“Hypotheticals are not helpful here. I am the one with the tadpole, with the ability to resist our master. I don’t know why you care so much. They’re bad people who have done bad things, trust me on that.”

This does nothing calm her, if anything, he’s made it worse. “You cannot have it both ways, Astarion. They cannot deserve to die for following Cazador’s orders, while you shrug off all blame for your actions because you were compelled.”

“And why bloody not?! Who the fuck cares? You are so intent on being good and doing the right thing. Why does it matter? Who is it for? You were kind and good and selfless, and it didn’t save you! Your family still treated you like shit. It didn’t matter.”

“It matters to me! Because I refuse to be anything like them!” There are tears pooling in her eyes, and he tells himself he doesn’t care; her tears do not change his mind. “I just want to look at my life and know that I didn’t make this world worse. That I didn’t profit on the suffering of others. Isn’t that enough?”

Gods, can’t she see that it doesn’t matter anyway? “And what of my suffering? You don’t know what it was like. There was no way out. Once - in the first decade of my slavery, I found a darling boy who I couldn’t bear to bring back to him. So I ran instead of hurting that sweet man. After Cazador caught me, the bastard sealed me, starving , inside a dusty tomb all on my own for an entire year.” This is the path he has never wanted to retread, his worst and darkest memory. Sometimes, he jerks awake at night and if the darkness is too deep, if it is too quiet, he is back in that tomb, alone with that gnawing, festering desperation.

He hates the way his voice shakes, at the way these words escape his throat, cutting all the way. “A year of silence. Months of scratching my hands raw, trying to carve my way out. More months of not moving at all. Months of wishing only for death. All of us begged for the end, once. I’ll be doing them a favor, making their death mean something.”

Silent tears run down Liv’s cheeks, but her voice is steady as ever. “Astarion -”

“Don’t!” He cuts off the apology he knows is coming, voice harsher and louder than he intends. He doesn’t want her sorrow or her pity. “I am not broken. I am still here, and I will fight him until I fight to my last. And while repaying what he did to me is impossible, I am damn well going to steal that bastard’s life work. I will become the ascendent!” He flashes his fangs, as if to remind her of the monster he is. He is not kind or good or selfless, and she would do well to remember that.

But Liv doesn’t flinch away, doesn’t look afraid. “Just be careful you don’t become him in the process,” she says with a sort of resignation that terrifies him. She turns away, heading up the stairs. She pauses partway looking at him over her shoulder. “We can go to Szarr Palace whenever you’re ready.”

He wants to tell her that he’s never going to be ready. That he doesn’t want this rattling, convoluted mess inside of him. That he doesn’t want to be on opposing sides of this. That he wants her to look at him like she had earlier tonight, like he was the best and brightest thing in the world.

But as she walks away, he doesn’t feel victorious. He just feels lost.

#astarion #baldur's gate 3 #astarion x tav #bg3 fanfic #astarion x liv #slothquisitorwrites #another example of sloth likes a lot of the dialogue options so she smashes them together and regrets nothing

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spacemonkeysalsa · 4 months ago

Text

Appetites

Five years ago the Vampire Ascendant Astarion helped save Baldur's Gate. He has everything he ever wanted, and he's miserable.

Isolde is nobody, and has nothing. When given the option to become a vampire spawn, her response gives Astarion a moment of pause; “No. Thank you. I think I’ll just die.”

(Angst and fluff and smut) Changed up the format because it was starting to look so silly with 20+ chapters.

Check it out on Ao3 from the beginning or jump into chapter twenty two below the cut.

If the last few days had Isolde feeling out of her depth, then there was no reason that the present situation should be an improvement. But, she checked her heartbeat, her breathing, and examined her feelings and found that she was no longer panicking, no longer on the edge of drowning. She felt a little guilty about the whole thing, actually. Astarion’s life was falling apart, and somehow, her presence within it was contributing to that, but she felt a kind of relief. This might be the extent of the punishment that Mephistopheles had in mind. It was only then that she realized that she had been expecting something much worse for him. In comparison to the possibilities, being fiend-marked was manageable.

She did feel guilty for that thought, though. Astarion wasn't able to take this optimistic view, and why would he?

He knelt on the floor of the ballroom, clothing in tatters around his changed body, concentrating and failing to transform, either into one of his typical animal shapes, or back into his true form. Every moment that passed and he was still in this new, fiend-marked form was clearly agonizing for him.

Alice kept the gith child at an educational distance. Close enough that he could still see the master, but far enough away that he wouldn’t feel threatened by his very presence. She was whispering to him quietly, and he was nodding, so Isolde imagined that some reductive explanation was in order.

Leon and Aurelia were closer, but speaking in hushed tones that Isolde couldn’t catch a single note of. She didn’t see guilt in their countenances. Good. They shouldn’t feel guilty about any of this, she decided. It was his doing, in the end.

But, she still wanted to help him manage the consequences, if she could. Just because he was responsible for what had happened, didn’t mean he deserved it. She didn’t know what she could do to help, but to start, at least, she decided that she wasn’t going to keep her distance. Even if this new form made her uncomfortable, she was going to endure it.

Except, she didn’t feel uncomfortable with it at all.

It was tempting to attribute it to her childhood with Vovka, but honestly, Astarion and Vovka still didn’t resemble one another, even now that they shared some specific hell-touched attributes. Being in Astarion’s presence didn’t feel quite the same as being in the presence of a cambion. He was still himself.

And, even on a purely aesthetic level, the differences were stark. Vovka’s horns had been lacquer black and smooth when he was younger, drawing in and pointing high above his head like a wicked crown, and as he’d gotten older, they started to split with yellow and orange lines of infernal light, like molten lava, cracking through that smooth exterior, especially when he was upset. By the time he ran away from home, they were almost always burning bright through the tips.

In contrast, Astarion’s looked more like a sort of horns she’d seen on some of the humble tiefling citizens of Bladur’s Gate; they resembled white, unpolished bone, carving in more of a halo arc, and running parallel to his pointed ears in a way that complemented the angles of his elven features. His skin remained the bloodless, vampiric shade of pale that she was used to, though the sclera of his eyes had changed to black as pitch, and though the irises remained red, the new contrast seemed to add a sheen that hadn’t been there before. He also didn’t seem to have quite so many of the extra prongs, ridges and vestigial claw-like nubs that dotted Vovka’s skin. His tail was ridged though, that was a little different, and with a subtle lean and a swerve of her eyes, she could see that the ridges continued up his spine to the nap of his neck.

The strangest thing was his wings, and his back.

The scars that his master had carved into his flesh were no longer in their original place, instead, the marks were distorted and stretched across the reach of his leathery wings. The infernal glyphs were huge, and now, easily exposed and readable.

He flexed his claw-like hands and then fisted them against the ground with a crash of frustration. “Godsdammit,” he lamented in an almost imperceptible whisper. Another failed attempt to take control of his own body, and transform back.

It had only been minutes, and so Isolde was not ready to write off that possibility, but it seemed unlikely to her that Mephistopheles intended for the change to be anything less than permanent. At least, on some level.

Tentative, but determined not to leave him feeling worse, or abandoned, she scooted nearer, placing herself directly under the shade of one arced wing. He looked up sharply, sensing her, but he couldn’t quite lift his eyes.

She thought about telling him how very handsome he still was, but knew that wouldn’t make him feel better, even if it was true. The point of being marked as a fiend was not to lash one’s vanity, but to send a message, not just to the soul being punished, but to everyone who saw them. And the message about Astarion was clear, red, and written in angry infernal on his new wings. He was bound. Mephistopheles had him in his collection: a new monster.

“Why would he believe that you might try to go back on the deal?” the question slipped out from between her lips, thoughtless at first, but in the silence that followed, Isolde did think, and decided that the question was a very good one, though she might already know the answer.

Astarion finally met her eyes, and she read pain and shame and fear in them like she’d never seen before. “Because, even if it’s not what I intended, there must be a way to reverse the rite of profane ascension. I haven’t yet done anything to take any of those souls back from him, but… if it’s even possible.” His voice went toneless, and he managed to remark on the seemingly impossible task with no passion, even as he declared, “It must be possible.”

Isolde nodded, that’s what she had been thinking as well. Mephistopheles was warning him not to mess with the parameters of the deal, because, as with any deal, there was some way out of it. But, it appeared that it was not as simple as using a few scrolls of true resurrection on the victims.

Still. It might be something down that same path.

“If you knew how. Would you?”

“I don’t. I don’t know,” Astarion said in barely more than a murmur, and it wasn’t clear whether he was simply reiterating that he had no idea how to reverse profane ascension, or if he was saying that he didn’t know if he would even want to, if it was possible. He seemed to pick up on this ambiguity as he watched her face, and with a sigh he clarified his explanation, “I don’t know how, so there’s no point speculating—”

“—for the sake of pointless speculation.” Isolde pressed him.

His wings dropped, his shoulders slumping as his head tilted, almost crashing into his own chest with the new weight of his horns. “I suppose it would depend on how difficult it would be, and what it would mean for me,” he admitted. “Becoming a vampire spawn again would not be desirable. I’d never see the sun again, be limited in how and where I can live. The hunger would rule me again,” he winced at that last thought.

“But it still depends?” If it would only bring him inconvenience, and if he’d already purchased what he wanted from hell, why even entertain the idea?

“Well. If it wasn’t such a huge amount of trouble,” he groaned, “I suppose—not that there’s much hope for it,” he scoffed and rolled his eyes, “honestly—I’ve known for a long time that the best afterlife I could hope for would still be faithless and lost. But. That might be better than whatever is fated for me now.” But his gaze flickered to Leon and Aurelia, softening ever so slightly before he steeled himself and looked back at his hands, frowning, perhaps at how growing claws had positively ruined his manicure. He tsked.

“And if it’s very complicated and difficult? Likely impossible?”

“Well, it must not be impossible, if he’s this worked up about it,” Astarion gestured to himself in such a way that the last of his torn shirt flopped over his wrist and he flicked it away in annoyance. “But. I’ve had a few years to get to know myself, and one thing I have learned is that the longer a plan may take me to execute, the more likely it is that I will get distracted or lose interest.”

“Or, despair,” Isolde wasn’t sure why she said it, and she kept her voice quiet, but not so quiet that Astarion couldn’t hear her.

His gaze was hard on her face. His jaw clenched over his fanged teeth. “Yes,” he said the word in a clipped, dangerous tone. “Or that.” If he was angry with her, he fought it off, and when he spoke again his tone conveyed only concern, even if his words were harsh. “Now you’ll see how fickle I am. Just last night I begged you to stay, but you must see now that your plan to leave the city was a wise one. You should pack your—my things and go.”

“No,” Isolde said flatly, because for all his bluster, she didn’t believe that was really what he wanted.

“I think that I can land you in more trouble than either of your former horrid masters.”

“Undoubtedly,” Isolde agreed. “The hells already know I’m here with you.”

“But if you run—”

“—consummate predators,” she stated grimly. “The devils see us as things to be exploited or consumed. As I am, I’m in reserve. If I run, I incite their instincts to chase.”

Growing up, Isolde was firm in her stated beliefs that there was nothing inherently evil about her brother. Unfortunately, Vovka himself often advocated the counterpoint. He’d confided in her about the drives he had, many of them dark and destructive, and aimed at himself as well as those closest to him. He’d once said that he never saw someone run without feeling the urge to chase them down like a dog.

Astarion was gazing at her like he wanted to argue, but for once he didn’t seem to have words.

She leaned in and caught his mouth softly with her own, taking him by surprise, it seemed. He didn’t so much lean into the kiss as she felt him resting his forehead against hers. His hands found her fingertips, and as though overcompensating for the new claws, his touch was more tender than usual.

Aurelia approached them, tugging Leon’s wrist and dragging him along, and glancing back as if to present him. She waited, looking at Leon expectantly.

With a sigh, Leon admitted, “I can probably put together some kind of glamor. It will take a little time though. And money.”

If Astarion heard him, he didn’t seem to comprehend what he was saying. He nodded, but his ascent felt mindless to Isolde.

“I can see to Alice and Barnes and your little ward,” Aurelia offered, “if you need to take some time.”

Again, Astarion’s main form of acquiescence came only through silence.

He let his siblings leave him, Aurelia leading Alice and the gith child away as well. Their shoes were still clicking on the ballroom floor when Astarion finally gathered up enough will to say something in farewell. “I don’t regret it,” he declared, voice filled with the gravel of defiance.

Aurelia acknowledged him only by glancing back over her shoulder without slowing her stride.

Alone again, Isolde thought that she would be glad to spend the rest of the night sitting here with him while he failed to work it all out in his troubled mind. She wasn’t sure what she could possibly do to help—probably nothing much. But, his efforts to send her away aside, he didn’t want to be alone, of that much, she felt certain.

Heavily, Astarion began to lay back, tentative and awkward with his movements. He winced as his wings spread flat, his back arching and the tips of his horns clicking on the floor behind his head. “Oh gods. You really just can’t lie on your back like this, can you?” he sighed, “even if I could find a comfortable, folded position for the wings, or tail, the horns won’t allow it. So much for sleeping as a hobby.”

“Vovka always had to lie on his stomach,” Isolde recalled, “he didn’t sleep much either though.”

“...Perhaps some kind of neck splint.”

“They sell those for tieflings,” Isolde tried to remember where she’d seen them, or at least which vendors she could ask about the item. From a practical standpoint, these were problems that had solutions. He could use Leon’s glamor, or various temporary spells to change his appearance back, even if his true form was indeed, forever altered. Again.

And that was the real problem, she realized, with a pang to her heart. The issue wasn’t a practical one. It was a matter of emotional turmoil. A reminder that his body still wasn’t his own.

After a few moments, Astarion gave up on his attempts to find a comfortable position on his back, and struggled a little to sit up again, accidentally pinning one of his own wings as he tried to find purchase with his palms. He glared at nothing in particular.

Somewhat invited, and somewhat intruding, Isolde’s thoughts turned back to moments just mere days ago, when they’d made love less than a few yards away from where they sat now. Everything had seemed so complicated at the time, but looking back, those were surely the very simplest of days. The palace had felt so empty, and their time together was entirely dictated according to their own devices. And gods, had they ever spent it well.

That could easily never be the case again.

A low chuckle from the shadows made her start from her dreamy recollections. If Astarion too was startled by the sudden appearance of an on-looker, he only expressed it through another aggravated sigh.

From the far corner of the room, shrouded, a long body unfurled itself from dark leathery wings. Isolde’s denial only lasted a few heartbeats, but for an instant, she was certain that it was any monster in the world other than her own lost Vovka.

She might not have recognized him, if she hadn’t already spent so much of the day remembering him and recalling the details of him. He was so changed.

That Astarion deemed his height inconsiderate made perfect sense now that she was seeing him in the flesh. Vovka wasn’t larger than a human man could be, but she couldn’t immediately recall having ever seen a man taller. The horns and wings enhanced this impression. When she’d seen him last, they'd been roughly the same size, and he’d been wiry and lithe rather than muscular like he was now. His hair was long now, piled back off his face with the sides shaved lower, but still, undoubtedly long when it wasn’t tied up. Their parents had always kept it cropped rather short for convenience and because their mother wasn’t convinced it couldn’t catch fire from his horns when they sparked and smoked. His face was grown, and more than ever before, his bones made him look like their father, and her guts twisted at the implications. She’d speculated, as had others, that the mortal parent was not the one who carried the child in her womb, but that her mother had only been used as a forced surrogate for their father’s indiscretion. His maturing features seemed to confirm that theory.

His eyes were different from how she remembered them. Like Aurelia, and now, Astarion, the sclera was black, but his iris was not the wreath of flame she remembered, there was a cool, bright light to them, nearly a flat white straight on, though even as she thought this, the sheen and the angle of his face sparked red, then yellow, then purple.

Though he’d announced himself with a laugh, there was no hint of amusement on his face. He approached at a worrisome pace, gradual, like he wasn’t quite ready.

“I honestly didn’t know what he was going to do,” Vovka offered, cocking his head at Astarion, and then she saw the amusement, but it was fleeting.

Whether or not they should believe him, Isolde decided it didn’t matter. She couldn’t imagine a world in which anything anyone thought about it could sway an archdevil. She didn’t even realize she was on her feet until they had carried her directly to her long lost half-brother. She charged at him, still in a debate with herself over whether she should strike him, embrace him, or perhaps some combination of both.

It the end, she only managed to come to a halt directly in front of him, just inches before she might’ve wrapped her arms around his waist, or her hands around his throat. She looked up at him, and for the first time she ever remembered, couldn't read his face. “I looked for you. Everywhere.”

“A waste of effort.” Vovka informed her curtly.

“It was not.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, seemingly trying to create a barrier between them, and now, for some reason, she could bring herself to hug him. First, she grabbed his arms and untangled them to his visible discomfort, and forced him into an embrace. She’d forgotten how warm he was. Of course, it was the fires of hell, so the longer she stayed close to him, the more painful it would become, and she released him mere seconds after he started to relax just a touch.

“Should I leave the two of you to catch up?” Astarion managed to infuse his voice with a little of his old bravado as he rose to his feet.

“No,” Isolde and Vovka said in unison.

“Too painful,” Isolde clarified.

“Too much trouble. Not in keeping with our family tradition of avoidance.” Vovka cocked his heavy brows.

“Precisely,” Isolde agreed with Vovka’s cynical correction.

“So that’s it?” Astarion seemed to welcome a momentary distraction from his own drama, at least. “Two decades of estrangement and—”

“—more than that,” Vovka grumbled, “time can pass in hell according to its own metrics. I might be older than you are now, big sister,” he seemed amused by the idea, but it made Isolde feel despondent in the extreme. He gave her the slightest reprieve from his so familiar and yet so different gaze, and turned his attention to Astarion instead. “You know, the Erinyes used to be regularly mistaken for aasimar by mortals. Big feathered wings and serene countenance. But, they traded all that for cloven hooves and more bestial features.”

“By their own leave?”

Vovka laughed at that, “when is it ever?” he shrugged. “I can teach you the spell to take on your old appearance.” he added, “no charge,” just at the moment that both Isolde and Astarin started to open their mouths to ask about the other end of the bargain.

Astarion regarded him suspiciously, but after a moment said, “thank you. I’d appreciate that,” slowly.

“It’s going to hurt. A lot.”

“There it is.”

Vovka sauntered over to the spot of ballroom floor that was severely scuffed from where the githyanki’s woman sword had connected with it, and drew his boot over the marks absently. “It’s not perfectly reliable, and it's not going to be something you can use all the time. It might take you years to get a decent number of hours out of it.”

Isolde remembered vividly how frustrated he had been when Vovka was a child and couldn’t maintain his human form long enough to spend any substantial amount of time outside of the house. It was a kind offer, but freely given? “Will he be unhappy with you? For helping us?” Isolde asked, foregoing the temptation to just thank him. Leon’s glamor might be safer, less likely to cause trouble, if only because it came from Leon.

Vovka gave a shrug that said for all the world he didn't give a shit if Mephistopheles was unhappy with him, but Isolde knew better. They all did.

“Why help me?” Astarion asked bluntly. “Feeling impervious?”

“Apathetic,” Vovka corrected. “They want me to keep close? Keep watch? They know how this works. Why bother sticking to the shadows when a soul is already bound? If anyone asks, I can turn the question around and wonder at what methods they would use to keep you close and beholden to hell? Offering help is usually more effective than threats when dealing with mortals. Even devils out for their first harvest know that.”

His blunt delivery and deadpan tone was a bit chilling to Isolde, but Astarion’s mouth lifted into a sharp smile for just an instant. She could have sighed audibly, of course, he'd find that reassuring. Astarion desperately craved compassion and understanding, but could never quite accept those things when they were offered freely. He was more comfortable with artifice. “Independent contractor, you said?” He asked, contemplative.

Vovka groaned. “Slipped out. Bad joke.”

“But you're not one of them. Beholden to them yourself, I gather.”

“I’m just a cambion. I can serve an infernal purpose, when it's demanded of me, or I can be a light snack for Tiamat.” He shrugged again, this time with a little shudder through his wings that suggested that was less a casual example of hell’s cruelty, and more an anecdote. “I’ll serve.”

Astarion stole a glance Isolde’s way. She wanted to read it as conspiring, at first, but decided after a moment that perhaps she simply needed to get used to reading him with the newly blackened sclera. Astarion looked away after a moment, lips pursed before he reasoned out loud, “They’re just using you too.”

Vovka furrowed his brow a little at that, but not like he didn’t understand. More like there was nothing more obvious in the world.

#bg3 #baldur's gate 3 #astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 astarion #astarion #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #ascended astarion #baldurs gate 3 astarion #baldurs gate astarion #appetites #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction

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numberonetrashwitch · 1 year ago

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My Tav's, Screenshots & Tidbids

(random collection of things that bring me joy or make me think)

Contains Spoilers from the game, none too specific as im trying to keep this entertainable to all, but as their are screenshots of the game, you might wanna consider.

CW: Cannonical Violence, implied domestic abuse, Greek mythology, light nudity, heavy emotions, Murder, Body horror

Neym (finished)

chaotic good, Druid, Woodelf, Outlander the Lost Soul of Tethyr, Savior of Spawn, the undying Light Romance - Spawn Astarion

The youngest of three, Neym was an optimistic, curious little thing that sought out the world to hone her skills. But she got more than she bargained for, when she was abducted. The events of the story left her drained, she laughed a lot less, she talked a lot less. But she was happy; the happiest she could've been after all her eyes had seen.

"Love is ... a mystery, right? One moment you're out, exploring the world searching for your fill, next you'll find yourself an autumn picker, content with plums. We fought, for our lives, for our freedom, ... to walk hand in hand in the sun again. I thought i'd never find something i love more than nature itself, but truly, I was mad; mad in love for him, and equally, mad at the world which sentenced him to a life in the shadows. But for him, my pale moon, I'd challenge the rest of the gods... we will find a way... we have to..." - Her last Diary Entry. Astarion wrote below; I am greateful for your sacrifice, my undying light. Thanks to you, I shall savour any day anew.

Acheron (finished)

chaotic evil, Sorcerer, Tiefling, Haunted one (Dark Urge) the Horn of Bhaal, the bloodless Consort, the left Hand of Evil Romance - ascendend Astarion

A smiling paragon of evil, once the most feared man in all Baldurs Gate, but now a stumbling mess, left without memory but all the more yearning for murder once more. Slowly his memories trickled back until Acheron knew that he was meant to be Bhaals chosen and the one who rule over the Absolute. It was his destiny, but Acheron didn't want to be a pawn of fate anymore.

A feeling Astarion knew all to well. The pale elf admired Acherons desire for blood, as it rivaled his own. But in the end, Acheron handed over everything, including his own body and mind, to his elven lover. Knowing he could never leave, but not desiring to.

Astarion: "my dear, i have failed to ask you before, but... why did you help me? You could have taken all that power for yourself" Acheron: "because you impressed me; most of my victims didn't even take a fraction of the abuse you faced, but you were still dead-set on risking even the bit of freedom you were offered to have it all. Even though you were .. so afraid" Astarion: "...impressed?" Acheron: "I wanted to make sure you'll never fear anything ever again. Not other vampires, nor gods, not even me." Astarion: "but darling, i have never been afraid of you..." Acheron: "...no, you were afraid that i'd leave. So i allowed you to turn me into your spawn, be ... your's - forever"

Dhaunae (ongoing)

neutral good, Monk, Lolth-sworn Drow, Noble the unlikely Hero, the Redemption of Mezobarrenzan Romance - Wyll

"Timid" is usually not a word you'd use to describe a drow, but Dhaunae wasn't your typical drow. She was highborn, expected to marry one of the few men that had a say in the otherwise matriarchal drow society, but knew that that would be the death of her. With not a single coin to her name, she fled to the surface - and of course be met with weary eyes and uneasy steps. But then there was Theo, a human, a monk of Ilmater - a tall and imposing-looking fellow, who offered her some food. It wasn't long before Dhaunae joined his order, aiming to become a protector of the weak, though knowing that Faerûn wasn't ready to be saved by a Drow.

She admired Wyll -Blade of Frontiers- the man who'd had been saving the Sword Coast over and over, and fell for him the moment she laid her eyes on his. When Wyll was turned into a fiend for sparing Karlach, Dhaunae was there to him, to remind him he could still be a hero, while thinking to herself that she couldn't. It was as if Wyll read her mind, thanking her softly but made sure he encouraged Dhaunae whenever her heart faultered. Both inched closer to the other, until Wyll asked her to dance, in the Moonlight.

After the events of the game, Wyll and Dhaunae married, but didn't stay too long in Baldurs Gate. Too many stares when they sauntered down the streets, besides, true hero's never rest - right?

Orion (ongoing)

true neutral, Ranger, Wood Elf, Criminal the Scorpion of Dawn, the Hunter of the Absolute Romance - Minthara

"Necessity is the mother of invention" Orion chuckled, his head cocked to the side. His smile betraying that his comment was more than just a nice proverb to rely on when you're in dire straights. It had been his life's anthem, though not by chance. You see, Orion's parents knew he was cunning and talented, so they took their chances to offer him a better life. Leaving the countryside of the heartlands for Baldurs Gate, but barely making it to Rivington.

Orions' smile fleeing from his face, just as he had to flee. He always had to. The smell of cold ash and burning houses rippling through his mind as he tries to supress the memory. It isn't very effective, but enough to place a new, a constructed smile onto his lips "speaking off necessity - you guys know i am a wanted man?"

"You are? and i thought i was the only wanted man in this camp" Astarion said, half-jokingly, a signature smile on his lips as well. He was met with silence, and a piercing stare "Oh, ... you.. you mean you have a bounty on your head?"

Orion nods, he hated to admit the fact, but if their path truly lead them to Baldurs Gate, it's better to face the truth now. The faces of his companions betrayed how this silly little revelation changed their perception of him; Gale being utterly excited, though, in equal measure, appalled. Wyll frowning, gripping his rapier as a silent warning. Astarion being amused, intrigued almost, as if he was only now able to understand why Orion could tread as silently as him. Lae'zel's mimic was the hardest to grasp, but even she looked violently dissaproving.

The tone for the evening has been set, and so the red haired one started talking. His companions eagerly clinging to every word. About the night they reached Rivington, how they and other newcomers were welcomed into a house, helped with food and water and left peacefully sleeping for the night. Until some thugs locked the doors and set the house ablaze. From then on, Orion had no where to go and needed to fend for himself, joining the Thief-guild and doing odd-jobs to keep himself fed. He grew rather successful, quickly changing into a skilled head-hunter until one of his jobs went awry. He was to assassinate an obnoxiously unwitted noble who couldn't pay his dues, while exploiting poor workers. So Orion did as he was told, but in the midst of it all, his hood slipped and exposed not just the flaming red tresses of his hair, but his face all together. He still drew his bow, and skillfully plunged a poisened arrow in the heart of the noble before running off.

Soon the whole city guard of Baldurs Gate were hot on his trail. They had seen him and wouldn't leave a stone unturned. So he fled the city. If you're already charged with assassination (amongst various other, more petty criminal acts) poaching isn't such a big of a deal - right?

Corentine (ongoing)

lawful neutral, Tempest Domain Cleric, Human, Acolyte the silent Storm, the Tempest of Mercy, the Thorn of Talos Love Interest - Gale

"We would be gods if we wouldn't have to die"

Corentine has seen her fair share of battles; not just those in which people die, but those that you'd fight within yourself. She remembers, almost fondly, how she had to go out in the pouring rain to save her little brother. He had run off, in secret, scared by the howling winds and the thundering voices above. By the time anyoone noticed, he had already been too far gone, but Corentine didn't relent. She was running, screaming, bellowing, almost louder than the storm did. Only stopping, once the girl came entirely out of breath. She scanned her surroundings, teary-eyed, but only saw a ball of blue forming, not ten feet from her, and it roared.

"Quick, turn or you might get burned"

Her legs gave in first, before her consciousness faded.

Suddenly Corentine found herself riding on a pale horse, feeling simulaneously too hot, too cold and entirely weightless. Below her, the vast expanse of Faerûn and thick, bellowing clouds. The Girl gasped, fearfully grabbing hold of what she could - but only finding a tuft of the pale horses hair, and ... a scary looking whip. Panic arose. Her breath quickened. She cracked the whip, hoping to stop the horse, but the sound of the whip, a gutteral scream and the noise of cracking bone, was enough to destroy that glimmer of hope. She felt herself aging rapidly, her hair growing, her teeth falling out, her skin wrinkling, falling off, only to appear young again, yet strangely glowing. Her hair turned into billowing smoke, then to clouds, and then to lightning. Her eyes went dark.

When Corentine came to, there was no brother, no horse, not even her parents. Laying in a bed that was far too comfortable to be her own. The girls eyes watering, hurting, and not working properly, she uttered a weak "help... please!" though only then recognized that her ears were almost deafned. But then a kind touch, a hand on hers - a spark of hope. It took days until the involuntary shakes in her body died down, her sight and hearing recovered. But the small, tree-looking burn in the middle of her chest still hurt. The people of this place, all entirely clad in black and white robes with one eye covered, called this a sign from their god, and Corentine agreed when she saw what became of her homestead. Thus she joined a secret order of Talos, god of storms, fury and destruction.

Years later, Corentine had grown into a capable fighter, and even more capable leader. Quickly she became battle hardened, yet remained soft-spoken and wild-hearted. With confidence as her first line of self defense, she knew how to tear apart someone with her eyes only, yet only using her weapons if it absolutely required it.

When she woke at the edge of a sandbank, somewhere along the sword-coast she took it in stride, while her companions complained. Though still flocking to her, for guidance, leadership, and in Gale's Case, seeing if this Lady is even remotely capable of smiling.

Notes:

I am not a writer, just someone who loves acting, aspiring to be a voice actor and i have a hyperactive mind.

English is my second language, please keep that in mind.

Please let me know if you liked any of my stories, if you have any ideas, or felt influenced to start your seventeeth playthrough.

these are my personal headcannons / stories for my tavs

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thingsseenandheard · 6 months ago

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#oh this is perfect#oh this is incredible#i am shaking your hand right now#caz being so desperate to not be who he was#to not be who he's deeply fundamentally terrified of still being on the inside#cazador doing the emotional equivalent of davy jones carving out his own heart and burying it#oof what if he did a more literal version#literally taking all of the things that defined the young and weak cazador szarr and actually burying them somewhere in the tourmaline dept#imagine if they're still down there somewhere#the diary he kept as a spawn detailing all the things vellioth did to him#how afraid he was every single day#his own hopelessness and despair#just taking every physical reminder of who he used to be and actually literally burying them somewhere secret#this man has turned his own brain into swiss cheese and escher prints#i think if you blow on his psyche he just falls apart like a house of cards (via @clownsecret)

Ah I love that!! Cazador WOULD literally bury evidence of his own weakness & he would be so normal about it too, like he would treat it like a literal actual grave. He has to keep it all hidden and buried both physically and figuratively because if any tiny little hole is poked in his persona & his self perception then everything crumbles like a shoddily built gingerbread house.

I love the idea of Astarion finding these mementos when he's looking around the manor one day and finding the journal and he doesn't know whose it is at first, until Cazador namedrops himself quoting Vellioth. Maybe something along the lines of....

"...and the way he says my name. It's nothing special - he doesn't even like my name. 'Cazador,' it sounds so inelegant, he always says."

I find it very interesting when Astarion is put in a position where he has to come to grips with the fact that Cazador was once him, and he has the potential to become Cazador.

As promised I am here to write the third installment in my Cazador meta essay collection about identity self perception and the fact that I don't believe Cazador has a concept of who he is as a person and continually despises himself but he copes with it by behaving as though the "versions" of himself that he despises are literally different people

At a basic level, Cazador hates weakness. I think it probably follows that Cazador hates his younger self - pre vamp and spawn - for being weak because it was through finally besting Vellioth that he became strong. That was the only real moment of successful strength amidst all of that, at least in his eyes, and I think that was the turning point where Cazador became Lord Szarr. (I have a LOT to say about Vellioth's death but I'll save that for Cazalore essay #4)

However Cazador is obviously unbelievably self centered and egotistical, & I'm going to be making the case that he's a narcissist in the actual clinical sense rather than just the "oh that person is very selfish" sense because it ties in with this very well because Cazador's confidence & ego rely completely on the fact that he is extremely deluded & detatched from reality. And more on that in my next post too regarding Vellioth's death. If Cazador's delusion is cracked even a little bit I think he crumbles, because he has successfully avoided being forced to face the reality of his past and his actions and who he is as a person for centuries, and I don't think that mentally he could handle being forced to come to terms with the fact that he is not special. And he is not innately "better" than Vellioth just because he's the one who came out on top. And the fact that he is able to successfully compartmentalize all his bad weak feelings does not make him superior. His entire persona, Lord Szarr, is so flimsy it's a miracle he's managed to keep it together this long. Because his persona is built on thinking he is special and inherently superior and better than everyone else because he isn't fucking weak. At least, not anymore.

But he used to be. And he must hate that. How does a person as unstable and detatched as Cazador is cope with the fact that he was once everything he now hates? He just doesn't think about it. It's one more thing he pushes away and refuses to acknowledge and I think perhaps the easiest way for him to do that is separating "Cazador" from Lord Szarr. Because Cazador is weak, Cazador was so stupid he got taken in by Vellioth in the first place, Cazador wasn't strong enough to kill Vellioth the first time, Cazador wasn't clever enough to escape. All of these things are traits that he clearly reviles in others, Astarion being a prime example. It's unthinkable to him that he used to be that, so actually, no he wasn't. That was some other guy. Lord Szarr actually has always been very strong and smart and steadfast and he has never been pathetic or weak and he has never begged for mercy once in his life, no sir, not ever.

I always find it so interesting when there's a character like this who you can clearly see the distinction between who they are now and who they used to be and who they have the potential to become, especially when they're as deluded as Caz because there's no way he is at peace with all of that! There is no way he's looking back at himself as a spawn or pre-vampire and is okay with the person he used to be. (And if he could see the future pre-vampire or as a spawn, there is no way he would have been at peace with the person he was going to become.)

So he pretends that wasn't him. It's the path of least resistance, because who's going to correct him? Vellioth's dead, and there's nobody else alive and in his vicinity and with the courage it would take to say no, actually, that was still you. The easiest way he can find to cope with this and preserve his extremely fragile and shallow persona that's really just a rebrand of Vellioth with less impalement is by acting like his past self is a literal actual completely different person, because then it's not hating himself, it's not hating the mighty Lord Szarr, it's hating Cazador, and that's okay because they're different, and Lord Szarr is strong where Cazador was weak.

And the separating of himself into these different people doesn't help with the fact that the mighty Lord Cazador Szarr is not a person, he's a shell. He's a mask, meticulously crafted to cover up all the weakness and instability and fear that never really left him. And at some level, just like I think he knows he would return to Vellioth, I think he knows this, too. But this, coming to terms with the fact that he doesn't know who he is and the versions of himself that he hates are the same as who he is now, it's too much. I don't think he can handle it.

And there's even more to it than that, because as I've said before, Cazador has become Vellioth. Not better than Vellioth, he is Vellioth. After everything Vellioth put him through, can we honeslty say he would be happy to realise that? Absolutely not. So despite the fact that he absolutely hates who he used to be, he is still clinging to parts of that version of him because so long as he can preserve some of that, he is not Vellioth. And he doesn't have to come to terms with the fact that actually, yeah he is. And that this is exactly what Vellioth wanted him to be. Cruel, selfish, egotistical, everything a Vampire Lord is supposed to be. Everything Vellioth was. Everything Cazador is now. So I think that even though he goes to such incredible lengths and does so many mental gymnastics to avoid hating Lord Szarr because Lord Szarr is supposed to be the perfect Vampire Lord and he is supposed to be better than Vellioth, he still has to hate his current self too because his current self is Vellioth whether he is capable of recognizing that or not, and god knows he hated Vellioth. But also he didn't, because he loved Vellioth, but Cazador doesn't know what love is. The only love he knows is the love Vellioth taught him. So he has this horrible toxic relationship with himself that only he can break out of but he just can't do it, because he is still that hurt, terrified, weak young man and he is still that docile, compliant spawn because he knows what'll happen if he's not, and he is still the cruel, self-centered Vampire Lord that Vellioth knew he could become. And all of these things coexist within him and he simply cannot take it. And he doesn't know how to deal with any of it, so he doesn't.

And I am putting so much emphasis on Lord Szarr being distinct from Cazador both because I think that's how he sees himself and because only one of those two people is actually real. Lord Szarr doesn't really exist. He is a fabrication mean to cover up all of Cazador's shortcomings. And Cazador is so dead terrified of being anything that Vellioth would have punished him for that it's literally easier to act like his past self is dead and gone than it is to accept that every version of Cazador is him and he is every version of Cazador, and he's so trapped within himself because he simply cannot come to terms with any of that. But of course, the flip side of that is I think he is also dead terrified of being Vellioth, which is why he has to hold on desperately to this separate, past, dead and gone version of himself at least a little bit, because that is the absolute last thing, in his eyes, standing between him and truly becoming his own Master. He can't be Cazador, and he can't be Vellioth, so who the hell is he?

It's a question that only he can answer, but he is completely incapable of doing so.

#cazador szarr #cazalore

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