#vulnerable astarion

[abigailmoment]

Astarion's hands started to move. Opening and closing. Flinching up to his chest in quick, aborted motions. Like he was trying to stop something. Starting to protect himself but but unable to complete the gesture. He made a noise. A whining complaint.

Nightmare, Tav thought. That wasn't really a surprise, given the little she knew about him. She scooted closer and reached out to shake him awake.

But then Astarion made another noise. It was so quiet Tav could barely hear it. She wouldn't have, if she hadn't moved close. It was so much softer than any sound he ever made while awake. Something halfway between a gasp and a sob. Stifled, like he was trying not to be heard.

Full text below. Full Text On AO3

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It was peaceful at camp. Peaceful as it only ever was in the dark hours of night when all of the powerful personalities were asleep.

Tav was ostensibly keeping watch. And she was at least keeping the woods in her peripheral vision. An observer would think she was toying with her violin. She adjusted the strings from sharp to flat and flat to sharp. She tested the tension with her fingertips, feeling the timbre of the silent notes trapped inside. But really, that was just something to do with her hands while her mind churned over her true occupation for the night: figuring out ways to diffuse the growing tension between Shadowheart and Lae'zel.

Solving interpersonal issues like that was pretty much her entire life since the Nautoloid crash. In her free time she stumbled through a crash course in wilderness survival, desperately searched for a cure for the tadpoles, and fought all the things that wanted to kill them.

(Gods, there were so many. She was never leaving Baldur's Gate again after this.)

But her main job was keeping her companions from murdering each other or having breakdowns.

Juggling her motley crew was like juggling knives. Actually scratch that. Tav had done both and the knives were undebatably easier. Because under all the surface problems this group had, all the different cultures and different values, was a simmering tension of fear. Everyone was afraid of what they were becoming. And that fear under the natural conflicts--it was like an oil spill shining under torches. A seemingly stable situation that might explode the moment someone dropped something incendiary. Like the wrong sort of comment.

So Tav managed them. She left everyone nice at camp when she was planning to buy things from the Zhentarim. She asked Astarion to steal something on the far side of the market while she, Wyll and Karlach covertly completed some hasty heroics. She minimized how much anyone but her ever talked to Lae'zel.

Gods, Lae'zel. Was she healthy for a githyanki? Tav just didn't have the context to tell. No one else was anything approaching emotionally intact. Years in hell, amnesia, pacts with demons, and broken hearts that might explode. Tav had only just started getting to know her new brain-worm-enforced social circle and she could already tell that everyone was sitting on years, or in one case apparently centuries, of extremely fraught baggage.

Baggage which they couldn't address right now because they were all busy with the very important collective job of not dying.

Tav sighed and decided to take a break from thinking. She played with her violin a bit more, but doing that was an unsatisfying tease since she couldn't play it right now. She decided to unsatisfyingly tease herself in a different way and shifted so she could stare at Astarion.

She did that sometimes while on watch because being on watch was boring and Astarion was extremely pretty and he had set the doing-creepy-things-while-we-sleep bar of their relationship extremely low when he tried to bite her. Her gaze was more appreciative than lecherous, anyway. She was an artist, and he was like some classical painting come to life. Face of perfect, pale skin drawn in sharp, eye-catching angles.

No, not a painting, she thought. More like a sculpture. He was so still while he slept. Was that an elf thing, or a vampire thing? Either way, the stillness and his pallor made it seem a bit like he might be carved from marble. Actual artwork. And the way delicate white curls framed his features looked faintly celestial.

Ha. That effect would dispelled the second he woke.

Gods, he was beautiful. Tav wasn't going to do anything about it of course. She was already juggling knives. Adding a romantic entanglement to this situation would be like setting the knives on fire. She'd just tuck these thoughts away and tell him he looked like an angel when he slept the next time he got maudlin about mirrors. That would make him laugh and cheer him right up.

As she thought and watched Astarion the statue impression fell away. Something disturbed the stillness of his not-quite-sleep. Tav watched the edges of his mouth tugging down from peaceful blankness into a frown.

Then his hands started to move. Opening and closing. Flinching up to his chest in quick, aborted motions, like he was trying to stop something. Starting to protect himself but but unable to complete the motion. He made a noise. A whining complaint.

Nightmare, Tav thought. That wasn't really a surprise, given the little she knew about him. Tav scooted closer and reached out to shake him awake.

But then Astarion made another noise. It was so quiet Tav could barely hear it. She wouldn't have, if she hadn't moved close. It was so much softer than any sound he ever made while awake. Something halfway between a gasp and a sob. Stifled, like he was trying not to be heard.

Tav froze, barely an inch away from him. Shit. She couldn't wake him up, she realized. She absolutely couldn't wake him up.

Astarion tossed his past around like caltrops, peppering conversations with horrific details, daring her to pity him. Tav knew a thing or five about emotional manipulation, it's why she ended up managing most groups she fell in with, but before Astarion she'd never met someone who tried to demand sympathy at knife-point. Even more novel, and somewhat impressive, he actually sort of made it work.

But when he talked about his past, it was on his terms. They were only just starting to be anything more than strangers, and she already understood--that was important. It was something to do with control. Everything she learned about him had to be on his terms.

So if he knew she'd seen this, if he knew she'd stumbled in on this moment of vulnerability, if he ever guessed she heard him make that sound. It would be like a betrayal.

He'd resent. Retract. It would shatter the easy rapport she was working so hard to build with him. It wouldn't matter that this was an accident. Stray cats don't care if it was accidental when you clip them with your boot in the dark. It's as good as a kick and they never, ever trust you again.

She'd just...leave it be. Tav scuttled back from him, quietly as she could. She resolutely turned to scan the dark treeline. She was keeping watch. She was a good party member, keeping everyone safe in this thoroughly unremarkable night where nothing at all was happening. Her companions' dreams were their own business.

She listened to crickets singing. She listened to the wind sighing. She listened to the branches of the trees brush against each other as the wind played its primal sort of music with them. She listened to Astarion make another barely-there noise. A whimper that threaded on and on.

He sounded like he was actively being hurt.

Tav clenched her hands and then sat on them. She lectured herself sternly in her head. She couldn't go wake him up. She was good at reading people and all her instincts told her that would be a mistake. Even beyond how much it could fuck up their relationship, it could fuck up his coping strategies, which involved a lot of feigned indifference and pretending awful things were funny. It was hard to feign indifference when you got caught crying in your sleep. They had a temple full of traps and goblins to go through tomorrow. If her rogue was off his game it might kill someone.

The worst thing about this, she thought as she listened, was that it sounded like Astarion was trying to be in pain quietly. Trying not to draw attention to himself. Which felt very wrong. What made him do that, instinctively, while he slept?

The whimpering finally trailed off, or at least quieted the the point of being drowned out by forest sounds. That was a relief for a moment, but then Tav found she hated the silence more. It meant she didn't know what was going on. She managed to watch the treeline and pretend that everything was fine for maybe a minute. Then she gave up, turned around and checked on him.

Astarion had rolled onto his side, half off of his bedroll. His face was taught and somehow even more pale than usual. His shoulders were hunched. Like maybe his back was hurting him? His hands still moved, but the movements had lost focus. He no longer tried to ward off whatever was happening in his mind. He just twitched.

Tav got up. Being here felt like an invasion of his privacy and was also unbearable. She'd go on a patrol around the camp. By the time she got back he'd be out of this. He'd have to be. A nightmare couldn't last that long, she told herself.

She stowed her violin and had just finished belting on her rapier when she heard Astarion speak. For a moment she thought he might have roused himself, but no. His voice was vague and slurred with sleep, so much she could only clearly make out the last word:

"...please."

It was his tone that made her stop in her tracks. Astarion sounded so completely hopeless. Like the word was a perfunctory gesture. Like he knew begging wouldn't help, but he was driven to it by whatever was happening to him. Because there was nothing else to do.

Tav covered her face with her hands. She was having a lot of feelings. Most of them revolved around finding out who Astarion was talking to, in his dream, and arranging their gruesome murder. But that was a long term project. It wasn't relevant right now. She took a deep breath.

When she uncovered her face she had shifted into a different mindset. It was her problem-solving mindset. For when she needed to think fast and act precisely. For when she needed to micromanage her team to the point of shouting orders every six seconds. A mindset for when something was very wrong and needed to be attended to urgently. Like a burning building. Or an owlbear attack. Or this.

This was a problem. She would solve it. She spent all day finding creative solutions to terrible problems. She just needed to find the sneaking-past-the-lookouts-and-convincing-the-guards-you-were-supposed-to-be-here-because-the-lookouts-let-you-through solution to this emotional goblin ambush.

Begin by brainstorming. Consider the limitations: Couldn't wake him up. For stated reasons. Couldn't leave him to the nightmare. That idea was unconscionable.

Could she change the dream? Maybe tadpole brain-jump into Astarion's head and interfere with what was happening? That was fraught. On multiple levels. Call that plan C.

Maybe she could incidentally wake him? Sound a fake alarm. Adrenaline was good for clearing the head and shaking off nightmares. But...no. That would wake everyone else, and she didn't want to have to juggle everyone else.

She liked the idea of trying to interfere with his dream. She circled back to that. Could she do that without the tadpole? His responses were so visceral, she'd bet this was as much memory as it was dream. Could she subtly oust it? Change the context? Background music could dramatically change a scene--why not a dream? What's something that would be incompatible with his past? Something that he couldn't possibly have felt back when this happened to him?

She didn't know enough about his past. Vampires then. What can't vampires experience?

Running water. Dousing Astarion with water would wake him up. Not helpful.

Food? She couldn't feed him while he was asleep, and she wasn't even sure about that one.

Sunlight. That held promise. He loved the light. Turned to it like a sunflower every morning. But it was night right now.

But wait. She could fix that.

Tav took action. The thinking had taken no time at all--it never did when she was in this mindset. She hustled over to Gale's tent. He was a deep, slightly snore-y sleeper and didn't even stir. She rifled through his things. She'd given him the scrolls of they'd found in the secret laboratory, two days ago. And if she remembered right...ah! There it was. Parchment marked with a blue, starburst circle at the top. A scroll of Daylight. The power to enchant an object so that it shone with true sunlight.

Tav winced when she saw the complicated casting instructions. This was a little over her skill level. But it's not like she needed the full, shadow-monster-obliterating power of dawn. She just needed a handful of morning. She bet she could coax something out of it.

Gale had a dark-crystal ball that felt like it would be a good target. It was round like the sun, which felt right. And it wasn't too big. Tav rolled out the scroll of Daylight on the ground in front of her. She started going through the motions of the spell. Arms crossed, then sliding along each other until the backs of her hands pressed together. Then flip so her palms were together. She whispered the incantations as she pulled her palms slowly apart and felt the shiver of magic and light prickle into being between her fingers.

Halfway through the incantation Tav hit some symbols she didn't quite know how to pronounce. She just kind of hummed her way through them. The light in her hands flickered and dimmed, but she whistled a coaxing tune and it didn't quite go out. She leaned forward to press the light into the dark glass of the crystal ball.

There was a silent flare as the glass went from murky black to white. It cast a warm, pure light over Tav and Gale's tent. Even shoddily performed, the daylight was a stark contrast to the night. Tav grabbed a nearby basket, upended it in a shower of spell components, and stuffed it over the crystal ball, muting the light from afternoon to twilight.

She glanced over at the tent. She heard Gale snuffle a few times, but he didn't stir more than that. Gods bless wizards and their chronic lack of situational awareness.

Tav picked up the basket of daylight, holding it against her chest as she hustled back to Astarion.

He was entirely curled in on himself. Legs drawn up, arms folded against his chest. His face was buried in his hands, so Tav couldn't see his expression, but she could hear his teeth grinding together, clacking as molars hit long canines. Sometimes his shoulders jerked. Not flinches. More like spasms. Fucking Hells. What in the planes was he remembering?

Tav lay the basket down in front of him and drew the lip of it up so that the light crept out, spreading over the sleeping vampire. A very small dawn, just for one person.

The twitching tension did not dissipate immediately, but Astarion's hands flexed slightly away from his face. His head tilted, quizzical. Like someone listening to a new refrain in a song they thought they knew by heart. Not quite sure what it meant. Not trusting it.

Confusion was leagues better than suffering, and Tav would happily call this a success if she managed to bewilder him out of his nightmare. She lifted the basket a little more. The poorly-cast daylight spell had stabilized at gloaming dim, but the light was still sunlight. Clear and clean in that ineffable way. Astarion sighed. He seemed to be relaxing just a bit. His fingers flexed.

Then his hands shot out, rogue quick, and snatched the bauble of sun out from under the basket. The motion was so fast, Tav almost missed it in a blink. One moment the crystal ball was in her basket, the next Astarion had it cradled in his arms, clutched tightly, like the realm's strangest teddy bear.

Tav almost laughed, but stopped herself. Astarion's shoulders were relaxing more and the spasms had stopped, thank the gods. And while it was out of the basket, the way he curled around the crystal kept it from shining on anyone else. Greedy man.

Tav was filled with the deep and absurd desire to pet his head. Run her fingers very gently through his hair in soothing motions. Not now. Maybe someday. Maybe...she would reconsider her policy about juggling fire.

For now she settled back down. She had the woods in her peripheral vision again and new things to think about. Like taxing her bardic knowledge for insight about how vampires. Their culture. Their weaknesses. And how she might go about utterly destroying whoever Astarion had been dreaming about.

*** Next chapter >

***

[margonite-seer]

I don't know how else to be with someone. No matter how much I'd like to.

I used the photomode mod to take a look at Astarion's love confession scene. Normally, the camera is focused on Tav when choosing what to say.

These are the expressions Astarion is making off-screen while you are hovering over dialogue options.

[amiracleilluminated]

In another life, you'd have led me to this crypt, and not that pretty clearing in the forest.

[bloodiedrogue]

PAINFUL VULNERABILITIES (5)

SUMMARY: When your past begins to blend into your present, you find yourself longing for Astarion's comfort.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 3,648

WARNINGS: ANGST, hurt/comfort, body horror elements, descriptions of torture involving a knife, panic attack, sort of made up Illithid lore??? (I promise there's comfort in the end, I'm sorry!)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Day 5 literally doesn't have a prompt because this idea got terribly out of hand so let's just ignore that and enjoy the angst, shall we?

(Also again, a lot of people's tags weren't working so next time if you haven't fixed it I will be taking you off the list because taglists are a bitch!)

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

-

The nightmares start a few days later.

At first, they’re subtle. Wisps of darkness cloud your thoughts, leaving no memory behind. Silently it lingers, creeping through your skull in waves that inevitably crash against the shore, ripping you awake —leaving you breathless each time you’re left gasping for air in your dishevelled bedroll. When it happens, it always makes you jolt up to look around, trying to find the cause of your plague. The reason why you’re suddenly so wary to lay your head each night.

When you reach the Underdark they only get worse. 

What were once forgotten memories become recurring torments. Endless onslaughts of clawed hands that scratch at your flesh, pulling back skin in massive chunks that pluck excitedly at your insides. 

Thanks to the powers of the Illithid you feel every movement. Every poke and prod slips through you like a knife, cutting you down piece by piece until you’re nothing but a shell. An empty carcass of bone that’ll inevitably be harvested for a purpose far greater than yourself.

Or so she says. As you lie there, writhing in pain, blinking to shield the teeth that bear witness to your torture, you hear her whisper cool and quiet, telling you of your death. Of your fated downfall, and then of your— 

You always wake up before she finishes.

Before you can hear her utter the words you’ve heard a thousand times. Feeling the burn of your lungs, you stretch your fingers across your chest in remembrance, breathing in and out as the skin beneath your digits runs hot and you’re forced to forget the experience all over again.

When you reach camp that night, sore from the seemingly never-ending mushroom forage, you find yourself dreading the prospect of such sleep. Even through the exhaustion, the last thing you want to do is rest your head lest she arrives tonight, so you fight the urge, settling in against the edge of the fire. 

“You look tired.” 

You turn to look at Gale with half-closed eyes, offering him the softest grin you can muster before turning toward the flames. They seem brighter than usual. A decorative flash of warm-toned hues that make you blink and rub your eyes, somehow feeling even more languid. 

“Mushroom hunting take it out of you?”

You hum, making no move to look his way as you pull your knees to your chest, curling in on yourself for comfort. 

As much as you’ve grown to like Gale’s company, all you want right now is silence. A moment of peace where you can just stare into the fire and let your eyes burn from something other than the lack of sleep. Especially after spending the day alongside Lae’zel and Shadowheart as some poorly trained mediator. Just the thought of opening your mouth to speak feels like a threat to your vocal cords. The prospect of speech too much to handle, even as Gale begins to fill you in on his and Wyll’s misadventures with a nearby myconid colony.

“They’re truly such interesting creatures. Did you know…”

His voice falls on deaf ears, earning you nothing but a confused sigh once he realizes you’re not listening. Mostly because it’s not normal for you to just blatantly ignore your peers. 

“Are you alright? Need anything? Perhaps a drink or a—“

You’re standing upright before he can even finish his sentence, brushing the ass of your leathers before walking away, paying no mind to the curious wizard as he looks around the camp, catching the eye of Wyll who merely shrugs. 

It’s not like you to leave. To ignore a friend mid-conversation but your voice is gone. Lost to the void of constant intercession and a brewing anxiety that sits in your chest. As you walk towards your tent you can feel it shifting. Starting at your gut, everything twists to form a sickly sting. A stabbing pain that throbs within your abdomen, threatening to grow as you part the fabric and crawl inside, plopping into bed face first.

Despite your better judgement, you let out a low groan you’re sure at least someone hears causing you to frown, knowing that you’re better than this. Better than neglecting your health because of some silly nightmares. Better than letting the fear of your past get the better of you. Better than brooding about it. 

Turning to lie on your back, you palm the sockets of your eyes in frustration, letting your mind wander. Allowing yourself to feel everything you’ve been suppressing over the last twelve or so hours.

Aside from exhaustion, it’s mostly Astarion that surfaces. His face in the darkness looking at you as you left camp that morning, barely awake enough to give him a nod. In an instant it was as if he was there and gone, looking at you with an expression you couldn’t quite place before shifting out of view alongside an overly excited Karlach. It was the kind of look that made you question its intentions. Its knitted brows and pursed lips rising and falling through your memories between the scuffles of your two companions. 

As you walked along the edges of the Underdark’s cliff sides, you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly it represented. What emotion it was trying to convey in such a small amount of time before it disappeared completely? 

As you lie there now, once again imagining its form you feel it’s something bordering on pity. A showcase of solidarity in your obviously failing quest for sleep. 

Astarion may not say much about your struggles —unlike him, you don’t complain about the endless problems that you face on the road— but you know he’s still aware of them. He’s too perceptive not to be. 

So why hasn’t he said anything? 

A heavy breath escapes. A shaky one damaged by speculation. Ruined by the assumption that it’s because he doesn’t care. That perhaps you aren’t worth the trouble of a little bit of worry despite previous actions.

You may have killed for him —had his back long before anyone else, but have such feelings ever been reciprocated? Has your worth been proven now that you’ve slain a man in his honour? And if so, how much worth do you truly hold? Is it substantial enough to ask you how you are? Big enough to look at you with any semblance of fondness? Or is it all just for show?

There’s a part of you that hopes it is. That the moments filled with kindness are nothing more than lies told to keep your attention. If he were lying, it wouldn’t necessarily make the way you feel right now any better but it’d mean that there’s an end. A barrier to stop you from getting in too deep. An excuse you could use to explain the naivety of thinking he may care.

Because it wavers —his care. Some days it’s obvious, sometimes it’s not. You can never guess when the care will appear, only that when it’s there and eventually dissipates you’ll be left alone again, wondering why he puts the extra effort in at all. Why he reels you in only to let you go, forcing you to question his intentions as you watch with careful eyes for those moments of reassurance. Moments that you can never prepare for. Ones that gnaw at your heart with pointed teeth wrapped beneath hungry lips, starving for the truth. 

You’re not too sure you’re ready to take that leap yet. To push him for the answers you know he’ll just avoid. He’s never been quick to trust and even when he does allow you in there’s still a blockage of sorts. An obvious resistance that sits between you, forcing you to settle regardless of the fear you hold inside your chest, wondering what would happen if you tried to push. 

You assume it’d ruin you. That, more than likely, pushing too hard would only create an even deeper wedge, making the truth that much more unattainable, leaving you with less than what you started with. 

Shooting upwards, you groan again and breathe, resting your face against your open palms in irritation. 

All you want to do is sleep, knowing the only reason you’re thinking so much is because you’re avoiding it. If you think you can’t drift which means the nightmares can’t come, leaving you with two bad endpoints you know you have to choose between.

It makes you want to scream just thinking about it but instead of giving in to such desires you merely settle back down, pulling the fabric of your bedroll up to your shoulders before closing your eyes. 

You’re going to get some sleep whether or not it kills you. Whether or not you have to endure the pain of a thousand deaths all at once before you’re inevitably woken up in a stupor of suffering.

It doesn’t take long for you to drift. One minute you’re lying there, counting your breaths like sheep and the next you’re out, filtering through a darkness that feels all too familiar. At first, it’s just there, coating your skin in nothingness. Lost to the void of slumber, you’re at peace for the first time in forever but as expected eventually the shadows unfold. Part to reveal a body of pale skin wrapped around viscous veins full of the blood of many. 

It beckons you almost immediately. The flutter of that icy voice saying your name over and over until you come to call, allowing yourself to move. Letting your feet guide you to her presence, you feel the waves and how they threaten to spill over as you kneel before her, feeling her grab your throat. 

Her fingers twitch and curl but never grip as she leans forward, offering you a grin. “You’ve been avoidant.”

You don’t speak. For a moment your lips part, feeling the presence of her thumb glide across the base of your throat but you don’t dare speak.

“You know it’s coming, my dear. You can’t avoid it.”

Your tongue moves to wet your lips while you blink, trying your best to let the visions of her angular face blur into the night that surrounds you, realizing she looks just as you remember her. All papery and washed out —a mere shell of herself now that you’ve gone missing. Her features drying out with each passing day you find yourself separate. 

“Come back to me. Let me protect you.”

You swallow hard and turn your head, feeling the nails of her fingers dig into your neck prompting you to cry out. 

She doesn’t let you do much else. Quickly moving on from the one-sided conversation to grab her knife, you watch as she mumbles under her breath, turning the blade between her fingers with a grin. “In untimely death comes timely renewal, remember?” she says, letting it ghost across your bare chest, pushing the edge against it until it breaks the skin. 

You barely feel the first insertion. As the blade dips through the layers of your flesh, the only thing you feel is her breath. The pattern of air that puffs against your face as she recites those aforementioned words, taunting you as she pulls it down. 

In untimely death comes timely renewal. In untimely death comes timely renewal. In untimely death comes timely renewal…

As the knife moves lower, you repeat the words in unison like a mantra, struggling to get them out through gritted teeth as she works to cut you open. To slice your torso from the sternum down revealing countlessly re-healed bones and slimy organs that lie in waiting for her to pluck.

Hovering above you, her hands move to survey such handiwork, her fingers stroking the edges of your open skin before they inevitably dive right in, ripping you awake. 

You feel the pressure of her inside your gut before it really hits that it’s done. Shooting upward, you cough and double over in an instant, pressing your hands shakily to the ground in front of you. 

It’s the worst dream you’ve had yet. Longer than all the others, you can feel the adrenaline of it all penetrating your thoughts. Overthrowing every single anxiety you’ve ever felt as you sniff back tears, pushing yourself towards the entrance of your tent. 

Pulling it open, you look around the camp in desperation, catching the eye of Wyll who raises his brow, watching as you shake your head, slipping further into the ground.

Before you can even think he’s on you, reaching for your shoulders, asking you what’s wrong and how he can help. In response, you make no effort to reach back. To remedy your pain as you continue to shake and cry, sobbing out the cursed mantra through heavy gasps that leave him panicking. 

“Guys! Something’s wrong!”

As he calls out to the rest of the group, you quickly find yourself surrounded by familiar faces. All of them looking down to see your hysteria unfold. 

“What happened?” Dropping to her knees, Shadowheart’s the first to your side, moving her hands to cup your face before you swat her away, mouthing the words over and over and over again. 

“I don’t know!” 

“You don’t know?”

The two of them continue to bicker. As Wyll explains the way you crawled out of your tent, mumbling something about death, you force yourself to shuffle back, maneuvering your body so that you’re half sitting inside your tent again, watching it all unfold. Focusing on the confusion as Lae’zel and Karlach stand in the wings, muttering to each other words you can’t quite hear while Gale stares down at your mouth, watching the words you speak only to yourself as your eyes start to dart around. 

Surveying the rest of the camp, you wipe away your tears and try to breathe, forcing your mouth to stop its repetitions once you remember the ache inside your chest. 

Because of the Illithid, you can still feel her handiwork. Beneath your sweaty tunic, you can sense its edges burning —stinging from the aftermath as you press a hand to your sternum, making sure you’re still intact. Making sure your organs aren’t on display as you catch sight of Astarion coming up the path. 

He’s nose deep in a book when you see him, scanning the pages with interest before his eyes inevitably raise to see your nervous frame, curling into your tent. Then his interest fades. Evaporating into thin air before it’s replaced with fear. Genuine, heartbreaking fear that has him moving so quickly he fades out of view before reappearing in front of you. 

“What happened?” 

Just like Shadowheart, his hands cup your cheeks, gripping the plush as he lowers himself down, moving his forehead to yours. 

Unlike before you make no effort to push him away. Instead, all you do is frown and try to suppress the tears, clawing at his shirt with desperate pleas, begging him to stay. Begging him to tell you that everything’s going to be okay. Begging for him to lie and say he’ll protect you just like you did for him. 

Using your tadpole you beg him over and over again, letting the tears silently fall from your face, not caring that the whole party is watching.

All you need is him. In falseness or in truth, you don’t care. You just need him to ground you. To call you darling and to make you laugh. To make you feel like you’re something more than a vessel of organs one day destined for harvest. 

As your chest begins to heave, letting all the nightmares unfold all over again, you feel the tadpole behind your eye squirm in response, asking you to let him in. Without hesitation, you close your eyes and swallow hard, feeling his thoughts start to overthrow the visions of her and her knives and the mantra that sticks haphazardly across your brain matter.

I’m here, you’re safe.

For once it feels like a promise. A silent vow meant only for you as he ushers you further into the tent, saying something to your peers before closing it up. After that he readjusts the bedroll with gentle hands, always keeping a single palm against the small of your back, even when he guides you to lie against his chest. 

It’s the first time in weeks that you’ve felt safe. Resting a cheek just below his collarbone, you can feel your breath begin to return to its normal state. No longer ravaged by the panic of your dreams, it moves in and out, fanning the fabric of his shirt. 

“Was it a nightmare?”

You nod. Unsure how to explain it because, while it is a nightmare, it somehow feels so much more. 

“Of the past or?”

“Sort of.” 

He hums curiously, glancing down to see your hand slide up his chest to grip his shirt. 

“It feels like I’m answering a call.”

“A call?”

“Like there’s a person trying to reach me and when I answer I can… I can feel them.”

“Feel them?” 

You can tell he doesn’t quite understand. Not that you blame him for it. The whole concept of these nightmares still vexs even yourself. Leave you stumbling in confusion each night you find yourself awake, struggling to remember what’s real and what’s not. 

The nightmares are not as easily explainable as the actual torture you’ve endured. Especially considering that up until now there had been periods where the memories had died. Days where her face was nothing more than a splotch of white against a backdrop of black, slowly fading away. 

It doesn’t make sense why they're suddenly returning. Why your mind is forcing you to relieve these memories night after night. 

“Does your tadpole make it hard for you to dream?”

There's no hesitation when he says yes. No moment thought before his answer, making you wonder if maybe he too is experiencing these dreams. 

“I feel like it amplifies everything.”

Looking up to gauge his response, you can see the worry clouding his eyes. How his expression sort of fades into the abyss as his eyes focus on yours. 

“I dream of the past a lot. Of my life before this and… and I can feel it. Everything that ever happened I can feel all over again and it’s—“

“Painful.” His voice is broken. A crack in the mirror, shattering the often joyous image of his face as he looks away, blinking. 

Without even processing your movements you prop yourself up on your elbow, reaching over to grab his cheek and pull him back in. “I wish you didn’t understand how it felt.”

There’s a flicker of hurt that hits his face, enveloping his features before the previous sadness kicks in again and he’s reaching for your wrist, tightening around it. “Yes, well, not all of us get the luck of the draw when it comes to good lives.” 

“You should’ve,” you tell him.

He scoffs and closes his eyes, a faint smile pulling at his lips. “You’re probably the only one that thinks that.” 

You let your thumb explore his cheek. Let it move in soft circles, taking in the way it shifts beneath your touch. 

It feels strange to be this close to him even after all of the other intimate moments you’ve shared. Something about it feels softer, more honest than the rest of them, making your heart beat rapidly against your chest, threatening to burst. 

“I know it’s not my business but if you ever want to talk about it—“

He places a kiss to your hand, letting his lips linger against the pad of your thumb as he closes his eyes, reaching around to grip your waist. 

In an instant, the words drift out of your mind once you feel it; lost to a touch you didn’t realize you longed for.

Swallowing hard you lay back down to look away, feeling a bit overwhelmed at the tender image that unfolds as his arm shifts again, accommodating your movement. Making you feel that rush of comfort return as he pulls his mouth away and clears his throat. 

“I’m, uh… I’m not good at this kind of thing.” 

“Vulnerability?” you joke, earning yourself a snort. 

“I suppose that’s a word you can use.” 

“To be fair, neither am I.” 

You feel him shift to meet your gaze, looking at you with surprise. “Really now? I think breaking down in front of the whole camp just so that you can find me is quite the effort of—“

Before he can finish you clamp your hand around his mouth. “I was in shock, you bastard. I wasn’t thinking about my dignity.” 

Flexing around your palm, you feel him smile before he pulls away. “That’s good because there was absolutely nothing dignified about the way you looked at me back there. It was…” He trails off, his words catching in his throat for a moment before he clears it again. “You scared me.” 

There’s a moment of silence after that, lasting far longer for it to be deemed comfortable as you lay there, wide awake, wishing you could get him to talk to you. Hoping that maybe if you reach out with the Illithid he’ll answer your questions. 

Closing your eyes, you feel his presence in your mind already, vying for your attention in a way that has you both moving in closer, tightening your hold. 

Show me the dream. 

It isn’t a question or a request but a simple command that has you obeying —letting him enter your thoughts. Letting him stand along the sidelines as she guides you to the ground and cuts you open all over again. Letting him listen to the recital of words that are spoken behind two frozen expressions as Astarion pulls you tighter against him, placing his mouth to your forehead to stop himself from crying. 

-

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[collegeoflore]

the thing is that. astarion is tender but he’s not tender as in soft and sweet he’s tender like a bruise

[heph]

Hopeless romantic 💔

[retconomics]

Evil people in love >>>

[tomurakii]

I like bloodweave. Okay. But I DON'T like the version of them in fanfic where Astarion is a dick and Gale is like. Whining and pleading for him to be emotionally vulnerable (or just. Nice to him) prior to the relationship being established. Because that is just not accurate. Gale needs the player to express interest in him during his weave-teaching scene before he even considers hitting on them properly. Gale is entirely resigned to his fate and needs someone else to pull him away from it. Gale only starts being sweet and romantic and devoted after you accept his love confession and give him hope for the future. Gale says fuck all and then slinks away to cry privately if you break up with him.

Like he isn't chasing after people lmao. He isn't dropping to his knees and crying about anything much less this dickhead he met a week ago. He is overwhelmingly passive about literally everything personal to him up to and including his own death (provided there are no casualties/there is a good reason) until after the player expresses that they care about him. Astarion is not doing that in any of these fics.

Like Gale is friendly and a dork and doesn't wanna get murdered but he fully has a suicide plan. He thought the artefacts would help him survive but he didn't believe he'd ever truly live again. If Gale confessed and Astarion said/did like one (1) mean thing afterward Gale's romance is closed off forever. He's wandering into the forest to cry. He's killing himself immediately. His fragile ego and self worth can't take it. You have to understand that when we joke about him being pathetic it's not bc he's like. Sopping wet and chasing people down and begging for a scrap of attention. It's because he craves affection but would literally rather die than ask or even hope for it until someone else forces that hope back into his serotonin-deficient tadpole brain.

[astarionancuntnin]

act 1 pre-grove vs act 3

[bakuliwrites]

Just to Be Held- Astarion x Reader

I’ve had this condition for two centuries, but truth be told? You were my first.

Rating: Mature

Fandom: Baldur's Gate III

Pairing: Astarion x Tav, Astarion x Reader

Tags: Discussions of sex, blood, fluff, hurt/comfort, emotional, body autonomy, Baldur's Gate III spoilers, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Affection, Gender-Neutral Tav, Astarion's POV, Tiny Kisses, In this house we cherish and love Astarion the way he deserves to be cherished and loved

Summary: Astarion and Tav share a quiet, peaceful moment together along their journey. Astarion learns that he is valued and loved. Read here or over on my AO3.

Sometimes, when Astarion drinks from you, it's overwhelming. The sensation of his teeth piercing your skin, pin-pricks in your tender flesh, warm blood welling up to greet his lips. He can feel himself drowning, every nerve ending in his body lit aflame. It's almost too much as iron bursts across his taste-buds, flooding his throat with the heat rushing through your veins. 

He drinks to sate and never in excess. He's certain that if he let himself partake in too much of you, his mind might never rest, though it is tempting at times. All the years he's spent in darkness, forced to consume the blood of pests and creatures far less appetizing than you, have left him longing for sweeter meals. But he hadn't accounted for how utterly overwhelming that might be.

When he's finished, he pulls back, breathless and overheated. It's as if he's febrile. Sometimes, he's filled with a clarity, a strength unlike anything he's ever felt before. Other times, his skin feels like it's on fire. Like with the slightest coercion, he might combust. In these moments, all he really wants is to rest. But he’s never known rest, and he’s not quite sure how to ask for such a thing. So he resorts to what he knows: teasing you with tantalizing promises of illicit rendezvous’ or making some sort of snide remark before stalking off into the night.

Sometimes, his encounters with you end in said trysts. Most often, however, they don’t. It’s almost frustrating how unbothered you seem when, after he’s done feeding from you, he doesn’t initiate anything further. You sit almost passively, waiting for Astarion to make a move, seemingly content either way the night ends. If you’re not doing this for sex, he wonders, then why the hell are you helping him at all? Surely, no thinking creature would want something so important as their blood to be taken from them without getting something in return. At least, that’s his logic for it. It almost makes him trust you less for not demanding recompense. 

So, no stranger to confrontation, Astarion decides it’s high time you gave him some sort of explanation. As you enter his tent that night, he greets you with a steely gaze, a frown deepening the lines of his face. 

“Are you alright, Astarion?” you quietly venture, boots crunching over gravel. A small branch snaps under the weight of your steps, causing you to flinch as if the rest of your party is going to hear it from where they slumber. When they don’t come bursting through the tent flaps, your shoulders relax once again and you turn back to the pale elf before you. Your furtiveness is almost endearing, Astarion realizes, and irritatingly so.

“What are you getting out of this little arrangement of ours?” he blurts, crossing his arms over his chest and passing you the most petulant gaze he can muster. He watches a look of shock pass over your face, before it settles into something pensive.

“I- I don’t know,” you mutter, “I guess- I haven’t really thought about it as something I would ‘get anything’ out of. It’s just- you need to feed. And I’m happy to provide.”

“You know, most people would expect something in return,” he reasons, dissatisfied with your answer, “It’s not as if what you’re doing is a minor inconvenience for you, like letting me borrow a hanky or something. I’m draining you of something rather necessary for you to live.”

“I mean,” you return with a shrug, looking rather flummoxed by his outburst, “It’s not like you’re taking a lot.” 

“Tsk,” he huffs, realizing he’s not going to get anywhere with this line of questioning. Perhaps asking you was a fruitless endeavor from the start. Astarion drops the subject, pouting as you settle in to let him take what he needs from you. You bare your neck to him, relaxing on his bedroll as he leans down to sink his teeth into you. It’s always the same each time: your involuntary gasp as his teeth pierce your flesh, the combination of both his and your relaxed exhales as he drinks. 

Maybe it’s the humid night air or maybe it’s his own frustration, but Astarion feels the fever in him build with each sip he takes from you. A pyretic euphoria, born of longing for blood more nourishing than what he had to resort to for two whole centuries. He feels satiated by you and it’s almost- embarrassing. He feels mortified to react so viscerally, so enthusiastically. He pulls back suddenly, watching you wince as he roughly removes himself from your neck. But the irritation on your face dissipates when you meet his gaze. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you offer, your voice so gentle, it hurts him, “You seem preoccupied.”

Astarion hardens his gaze, gritting his teeth and opting to remain silent. Of course he’s preoccupied, but it’s nothing he wants to delve into. Least of all with you. But instead you decide to pry, speaking up with a tender, “Want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly, no,” he returns, glancing sheepishly away and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, crimson smearing his pale skin. He bites the inside of his cheek, snagging it with his sharpened canine, hoping it’ll stop the stinging threat of tears in his eyes. 

“You can go now. I’m done with you,” he coldly spits, avoiding your gaze. He hears the rustle of fabric as you obediently lift yourself from his bedroll and make your way to the tent flap. But instead of opening it and leaving like you normally would, you pause, your hand grasping the fabric. 

“I like being with you,” you quietly explain, turning to face the vampire spawn, “You asked me what I get out of this arrangement of ours. Well, I just- I guess I just like you.”

Astarion frowns, arms still crossed and posture stiff as a board. But he can’t hold his silver-tongue, despite his upset. 

“Unfortunate, really,” he murmurs, unable to help the smile tugging at his lips when you laugh. 

“I don’t need to ‘get anything’ out of this time with you,” you go on, letting go of the tent flap and striding back towards him. You kneel down, eyes filled with a brightness Astarion can hardly believe is meant for him. A silence passes as you wait for him to respond. He fidgets with his hands, clenching and unclenching his fists before he finally allows his shoulders to slump and an exhausted sigh to escape his lips. His body still feels overworked, heated and unable to settle. 

“I assumed that sex was what you wanted from me,” he starts, still unable to look you in the eye, “Stupid assumption. It’s the only thing I’m-”

It’s the only thing I’m good for, he wants to say, but stops himself. 

“Well, let’s be honest,” he chuckles ruefully, trying to divert your attention from his unfinished statement, “I wanted that, too. I mean, how could I not.” He says this with a sly smile, something impish twinkling in his eyes as he sweeps over your form. But then his face falls and he casts his glance to the ground again.  

“It’s just- sex isn’t always what I want,” he finishes, “And I assumed that it’s what you wanted. So I guess I was- I don’t know- worried that you would be disappointed when we don’t tear each other apart like animals every time I feed from you.”

Another pause, this time filled with anticipation. With anxiety. For some reason, when Astarion has been around you lately, he’s found himself incapable of holding his tongue. He spills his thoughts left and right to you. It’s terrifying, the effect you seem to be having on him. It’s taken him a long time, but still, he isn’t sure he should trust you. Yet here he is, regurgitating deep-seated fears that are better left buried in the rot that’s bloomed in his mind. 

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he hears you whisper, pulling him from worry, coaxing him from the tendrils of self-hatred and disgust that have entangled him for two hundred years. He glances at you, disbelief in his crimson eyes before a rueful smile breaks his shock.

“You are far too kind to me,” he chuckles, a cocky smile on his face. 

“I mean it,” you return, brows crinkling your forehead, “We don’t even have to touch if you don’t want to. And if you don’t want to keep this arrangement anymore, that’s totally fine. I’d be happy to help you find another source of food. I won’t be hurt.” 

He eyes you suspiciously, scanning you for any hint that you might burst out laughing at some sort of cruel joke you’ve made, or some sign that you’re absolutely bullshitting him. The look you’re giving him is almost naive. He scowls, nauseated by your sincerity.

“Well, I don’t mind physical affection,” he mutters, desperately trying to hold on to his air of indifference, “Just-”

His shoulders slump as he releases a heavy sigh. He’s been worn down by your patience, worn down by years of keeping everything to himself. Here you are, offering up companionship without any expectation. Here you are, sitting in front of him, telling him that you actually, for some gods’ forsaken reason, like spending time with him and you’re not expecting any sort of compensation from him. So why is he trying so desperately to push you away?

“All I’ve ever been is used,” Astarion admits, wondering if he’ll regret this admission later. Waiting for the other shoe to drop, like it always does. “I don’t get a say in what happens to my body. I don’t get a say in what happens to me at all.” 

“Astarion,” you breathe, gently cupping his face and turning his head so he can meet your gaze. His eyes are filled with a deep sorrow, the desolation of two hundred years scarring every crimson facet of his irises. In you, he sees no ounce of malice, no smarmy flattery, or deceit. All he sees is you, offering him your kindness, offering your companionship, expecting nothing in return. 

“What do you want?” you go on, “Right here. Right now.” 

Astarion’s mouth goes dry. His blood, your blood, threads through his veins like white hot needles. His nerves feel open to the air, every brush of the wind on his skin like lightning shooting through his body. Overwhelmed. He’s so overwhelmed.

“I just want to be held,” he finally whispers, and the absolute devastation in his voice threatens to break what little composure is left in that tent. 

“I think I can do that,” you return, smiling softly. You let him take the lead, laying back on the soft bedroll beneath, waiting for him to decide what he wants to do. He sits beside you, cautious. He is raw and he is new, shivering from his overworked nerves, cold from the overpowering feeling of sweet blood in his body. 

Gently, Astarion lays his head down on your chest and tenses, unsure of what to do. When was the last time he was gifted a moment to just rest? To just lay in the arms of another? He can’t remember, and thus, he can’t even remember how to relax. He shifts uncomfortably where he lays, trying to find some position where his arm isn’t falling asleep. You give no protest, patient as he rearranges himself. Finally, he finds something suitable and goes back to resting his head on your chest. 

“I can stay as long as you’d like me to,” you offer, your voice reverberating through your body, before you both fall quiet.

In the silence, Astarion listens to the powerful thrum of your heart, the way it beats in rhythm to an unsung tune. He hears the air constrict in your lungs when he first rests his head upon you, before you let out a deep, comforting sigh. Crickets chirp in a jovial dissonance beyond the fabric of the tent and a wolf howls sorrowfully somewhere in the distance. 

Astarion can still taste the metal of your blood on his tongue. He can smell it rushing through your veins, nourishing and enticing. It mingles with the faint smell of whatever makes you you, whatever pleasant natural musk you have that has become so comfortingly familiar over the months. The curling smoke of the fire outside has woven itself into your clothing, though it is not unpleasant in scent. 

Astarion glances up at you from where he lays, studying your serene face. Your eyes are closed, eyelashes feathering shadows on your cheeks. Your mouth is parted ever so slightly as you doze, lips evoking pleasant memories of the way they’ve felt against his skin in nights past. He lets his eyes rove for a moment, searching the tent ceiling as if he’ll find something particularly interesting up there. He doesn’t, except for a small hole he’ll have to patch, come morning. Though, it is nice to see a couple twinkling stars peeking through the broken fabric. 

As his eyes flutter shut, Astarion feels the heat from your body, cozy and benevolent. He presses further into you, wanting desperately to feel your closeness. In response, your arm wraps around him, pulling him nearer. Your nails tickle his back as you rub small circles into it. Snowy ringlets caress his forehead when a breeze picks up the fine strands of his hair. The earth beneath him isn’t terribly comfortable, but between you and the bedroll, he doesn’t much care. 

For the first time in two centuries, Astarion thinks he might feel peace. It’s very possible, he decides, that in this quiet moment, he feels safe. In your arms, he could let down his defenses. Wrapped in your warmth, Astarion could allow himself to be vulnerable. 

He slips his hand into yours, intertwining your fingers, quietly whispering that he’d like it if you stayed the rest of the night.

"Also, if you could possibly not tell the others about this?" he adds, somewhat jokingly, "Can't let them think I've gone soft."

"Your secret's safe with me," you chuckle, before smiling softly at him and pressing a tender kiss to the top of his head. He lets the feeling wash over him, calm and comfort him. When his body settles, when his mind finally manages to quiet, Astarion lets his eyelids fall shut. He lets you envelope him in your embrace. He lets himself sleep, knowing he’s safe with you. Astarion lets himself dream, and they’re the first pleasant dreams he’s had in centuries.  

A/N: I normally do a banner for my fics, but I really wanted to use this gif I had made of one of my favorite Astarion cutscenes. It's where he admits to Tav that they're the first "thinking creature," as he puts it, that he's ever drank from. The line delivery is incredible, the way Astarion looks away is so heartbreaking and endearing. This small moment of vulnerability is one of the first ones we see from him and it just feels so special. I wanted to write a fic exploring how he might feel in regards to Tav letting him have the freedom of feeding from them. And I wanted to explore the idea that Astarion might find it odd if Tav doesn't expect anything in return. There's a later line in one of his cutscenes where he's very obviously self-conscious about the fact that he and Tav haven't been intimate in a while. His sense of self and value is so contingent on the fact that his body has been used for two hundred years. I wanted to write something for Astarion that would give him a peace, gentility, and rest, without sexual intimacy. Anyway, I could ramble on and on about this forever. Perhaps I need to make a longer post about it, so I'll get on that.

[sleepy-bear-tm]

Can you even feel the sting of a blade after so much?

[elbdot]

So, you and white haired boys, huh?

Oh don't even get me sTARTED...

Somehow they just keep getting worse and worse EACH TIME, I DON'T KNOW H O W

[bigolechompers]

i have now read a total of two(2) fics where gale reallizes post-canon that astarion is basically homeless and invites him to live with him and let me tell you

i. am. obsessed.

[drowfag]

the funny thing about cazador is how astarion goes on about how much of an evil tormentor and godlike he is when the game goes out of its way to portray him as him as the pathetic loser he actually is. having a narcissistic "parent" is just like that tbh, you grow up terrified of them and build them up as an all seeing god in your head until you leave for a while and actually start to experience the real world and realize they were a spineless bully who had nothing better to do that hurt you and hold power over you because their life is so fundamentally empty.

[littlestarbigfangs]

["We maybe a disaster, but I want to see what happens."]

"I realize now I've never really had anyone. Not really. Nothing that compares to you."

[morgandekarios]

not to be horny on main but astarion being into cockwarming is a concept that has taken over my brain rn.......