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lucrezianoin · 1 year

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Astarion-centric fics recs (49 fanfics)

I will divide them by ship. They are all complete unless specified. Also, if a fic is not here it does not mean that I did not like it, I could have forgotten it or just not seen it given that there is a lot of Astarion content!

Just make sure to read all the tags warnings when you open the AO3 page. I added the non-ship focused but Cazador focused ones at the end.

Also it feels weird to rec my own fics, but in case you want to read astarion h/c I am writing you can find me here at LadyRagnelle (for now all DarkUrge or Tav/Astarion).

Regarding if this reclist might be useful for you... there are a lot of Astarion fics, a lot of tags used and a lot of preferences! I have a very particular preference for a specific kind of fic (h/c, whump, softness, mainly) and in the case of Astarion I tend to not read nsfw, usually. So if you have been around my blog and you think we might share fics preferences... maybe these are the fics for you too! I will update this post with time.

I am trying to add a small description to all the fics, but I prioritized adding the links, so some of them do not have a description yet, but they were beloved in my bookmarks.

GEN (no ship)

Prying eyes (unsupermarket) - One of my absolute favorite. Karlach and Astarion share one of Astarion's nightmares (thanks to the tadpoles).

Reflecting endless down the hall (Asidian) - Each chapter is dedicated to one of the companions and the way they interact with Astarion, each chapter connected to a part of his past and trauma.

TAV (OR DARK URGE)/ASTARION

After all that I can do for them is done (votiveviscera)

To Aid and be aided (Beppoberry) - Post Cazador, taking care of each other.

Between the lines (Slothquisitor) - Amazing story about Tav gifting Astarion books.

Broken mechanism (laquearia) - Character study on Astarion's "Don't touch me".

Copper blood and silver hearts (netherprince)

The darkest corner of Baldur's Gate (Nebulad)

(Don't) lose your head (CL34R)

Don't you hear me praying? (ridgeline) - Short haunting story about Astarion's trauma.

And his pretty hand hold my leash (osiris_ryes) - one of the few nsfw fics in this rec list. This has some amazing Dark Urge writing and manages to use nsfw scene without ignoring the consent issues present in the game.

Hold me without hurting (fairbutnotsomaiden) - Astarion disassociates, Tav is kind.

I could feel my life begin (Flowercitti)

I have a good place to hide (Flowercitti)

I know how this will end (MyFandomCausesHanaji) - Amazing Dark Urge story about Durge trying to stop themselves from killing Astarion - and reliving the same day over and over.

A long dead pulse (enthugger) - Post-Cazador, Tav takes care of Astarion.

Made / Unmade (Adaphyl)

Mortal shortfall (titasylase) - Giving a gift to Astarion + act 1 angst, perfect combination.

Not something that I was but what I played (WitchyBee)

Out of wine and flowers (enthugger)

Porcelain (cweepa) - Astarion is sick, and he really cares about how he looks. Absolutely stunning story full of very delicate hurt/comfort and angst. I've reread this so many times.

Savages (cweepa) - Astarion finds a kitten.

Seducere (Tlon) - This is THE fanfic. I remember waiting every night for the new chapter. It narrates Astarion's past and his present in the game. Heartbreaking and haunting.

Specter (justfortune) - post game fanfic about Tav and Astarion's new life together, with some interesting concepts about personal space and sharing life.

Suck the rot right out of my bloodstream (Flowercitti) - I love Flowercitti's stories so so much. This one is specifically about consent. Please, read all their fics.

Vanity items (Flowyen) - Incomplete fic, but still amazing. Just Astarion receiving genuine compliments.

You only feel it when it’s lost (gettin’ through still has a cost) (Flowercitti) - Flowercitti's Tav takes care of Astarion after Cazador.

The way you are (imprinted on a page) (cryptidvaquero) - Tav draws Astarion as a gift.

Was it something you ate (Anoke)

Water down what I call being grateful (Flowercitti) - This fic was written for one of my prompts. I will be eternally grateful because I love stories that deal with looking right through Astarion's seductions.

HALSIN/ASTARION

Animal I have become (Ulfrsmal)

Free (Faetality)

Handmande (BerlinBelin) - One of my favourite, absolutely stunning series about touch starved Astarion trying to ask (with difficulty) fo non-sexual intimacy.

Known in its aching (BerlinBerlin) - sick fic with so much tenderness.

Never gonna fall for (modern love) (Dwinkle) - Halsin offers Astarion his blood.

Through sneers and words snide (BerlinBelin)

HALSIN/TAV/ASTARION

Working on it (casswathever) - Very well written series with multiple fics, I particularly loved the relationship discussions.

WYLL/ASTARION

To die with you (WaterSeraphim)

A dream of sweet things (Asidian) - delicious h/c, trust issues and some nightmares too.

Innocence died screaming (Flowercitti) - Wyllstarion fic that starts from Astarion's past with Cazador, from his turning into a spawn. Ongoing.

KARLACH/ASTARION

Repairs (Asidian) - Heartbreakingly angsty fic about Karlach finding her touch again and Astarion expecting their first night to go a certain way.

The Things you miss (Asidian) - A very sweet fic about Karlach and Astarion interacting.

ASTARION/SEBASTIAN

A lyric on your tongue (justfortune) - Sebastian and Astarion meet.

GALE/ASTARION

The heat is only skin deep (ThatKorka)

POLY

Sharing (Asidian) - a touch of angst, touch starved characters, act 1 spoilers so slightly present consent issues.

CAZADOR-FOCUSED (no secondary ship)

Fake it (deerna)

Lost and never found (arenathesia)

Thou art mine (sophos) - The story of Astarion learning how to keep Cazador happy.

your reflection can't offer a word (to the bliss of not knowing yourself) (undermounts)

#astarion #halsin #wyllstarion #karlach #karlachastarion #dark urge #my fav fics #fic recs #astarion fic recs #fanfics #bg3 spoilers #mind the tags please #cazador

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asidian · 4 months

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Demeter

by: Asidian

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Pairing: Astarion/Wyll

Event: Wyllstarion Remix Spring 2024

Warnings: past abuse, past torture, AU

Excerpt:

There's a click, as of a key turning in a lock, and the scroll dissolves in his hands, reduced to flickering motes of light. Wyll takes a moment to return the scroll case, now empty, to its hook on the beams.

Then he reaches down to open the chest.

He has, he thinks, some very reasonable expectations for what might wait inside. Possibly there are jewels. Perhaps expensive clothing. The dimensions of the trunk are odd, so it's not out of the question that there might be carpets or interior décor.

What he absolutely does not expect to find is a man.

#fanfic #bg3 #astarion #bg3 wyll #wyllstarion #bloodpact

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jaguarys · 4 months

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Wyllstarion moment

#this doc is currently titled wyll's horrible terrible no good very bad day #type: fanfic #fandom: bg3 #wyll ravengard #astarion ancunin #astarion bg3 #bg3 wyll #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate #baldur's gate 3 #wyllstarion

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dungeonsdragonsandlawyers · 25 days

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A Greater Woman Wouldn't Beg - Chapter 16 SNEAK PEEK

Quick little sneak peek from the next chapter! :D

** “Can’t see it, Fangs ol’ buddy.” Karlach grinned, the good-natured tone of her voice seemed to alleviate any caution still clinging to the corners of his eyes. “Besides, you’re not really my type - no offense.”

Astairon did take offense. “Not your type?!” He shouted, indignation colouring each word. Not even the roar of magic as the fairy circle transported them to the base of the cliff could drown him out as he squaked his rage. “I’m everybody’s type! What does that even mean, Karlach?!”

Karlach shrugged. She hefted her great axe over her shoulder and began picking her way across the mushroom grove. Her voice carried here, echoed against the tall cliffs and bounced back over and over. “I dunno! I just -” She exhaled heavily, “You got the air of the Upper City about you, ya know?”

“Yes, and?” Astarion had stormed up next to her, stomping his feet into the mud as he went. He fisted his hands on his hips, glaring up at the 7-foot barbarian with unbridled rage in his eyes.

“Well -” she chuckled and rubbed at the back of her neck, looking helplessly between Astarion and the rest of their group. “Listen, Fangs. You’re a handsome man, alright? And your right lethal with an arrow, I’ll tell you what, but I grew up in the Outer City, right? I dunno - the posh types never really did it for me…”

Astarion sputtered. “What?!”

“Well…” Karlach said slowly, peering around a tall stone wall to confirm there was no one lurking beyond waiting to ambush them. “I guess I just like my men more… rugged?”

“Rugged?!” He said, voice turning shrill as it rose another octave. “I can be rugged!”

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hamartia-grander · 3 days

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Flaming Fists stood at full attention within the Barracks and outside, dressed in formal armour and bearing the Ravengard crest - a raven with its wings fully extended, carrying a sword between its two talons and the Sun’s rays behind its head like a crown - on their shields.

Chapter 12 of my fic The Best Revenge is finally up! <3

#I spent so many hours on this.... but I think I finally like it #wyllstarion #bloodpact #bloodblade #Wyll Ravengard #wyll x astarion #astarion x wyll #bg3 fanfiction #fanfic

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roseghouled · 4 months

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For the vampire reveal scene in chapter 12 of We Never Talk Anymore :3

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legrandepapillon · 3 months

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Hi! I saw you are taking prompts for Wyllsrarion fluff!

Such a shame there is a lack of content compared to other Astarion pairings (i.e. with Gale or Durge).

Prompt fluff ideas, first kiss where Astarion realizes the depth of his feelings for Wyll. Or Astarion confessions to Wyll. His realization.

Wyll playing with Astarion's hair.

Wyll letting Astarion see himself through Wyll's eyes via tadpole and feeling how much Wyll loves him.

Astarion being fiercely protective of Wyll which may or may not surprise him (depends how early it is in relationship)

Since your say you are fine with NSFW then by all means go for it, I won't say know to Wyllsrarion spice. But it's also not entirely necessary because their fluff is just *chef kiss*

Asking anonymously because I am bashful...

Rating: T

hi anon, thanks for all the prompts you gave me!! i chose to use this one to respond to your ask, but i still put the others in my requests so keep your eyes peeled for those. one of them might be the spice you were looking for 👀

i think there’s something super intimate in hair care/trusting someone else with your hair care and i wanted to explore that here. i’m thinking maybe a part 2 to this where astarion tries to figure out wyll’s hair care & it goes disastrously bc i can't reconcile a universe where astarion is good at doing wyll's hair lol

Wyll had noticed that vulnerability did not come easy to the pale vampire in their party. He could hardly blame him for the matter either; after two-hundred years spent being ground into nothing by another man’s heel, he might begin to recoil at the idea of showing any weakness himself. Hells, it’d only taken seven with Mizora’s claws in his soul for him to begin to tremble at the thought of anyone seeing him at his most vulnerable in the same humiliating ways she had.

It was probably easier for their pale companion to lean into the more bloodthirsty, power hungry nature expected of a vampire spawn. To cast aside fickle things like sensitivity or emotion or fragility. He kept every single of his defenses up, the tripwires and traps in conversations with him deterring most of the others from prying down to the white meat of who he is. If it could be even remotely related to the feeling of helplessness, he would never want it associated with himself. Better to put on the armor of his more vicious traits, leave some of the softer stuff tucked in a well-armed chest at the back of his mind.

And yet.

Yet he obviously had never bargained to meet anyone just as dexterous and twice as charming. In all his efforts of keeping others out with his sharp tongue and sharp blades and well-placed traps, he’d never accounted for the possibility that there might be someone out there able to parry each strike and disarm every obstruction. Wyll could tell he had Astarion on the back foot more often than not. And at first the man had scratched and kicked and hissed at the idea of being seen and surreptitiously cared for. Of someone seeing all of his breaks and tears and taking the time to mend them rather than grinding salt into the wounds. It was truly a sight, watching as he braced himself for impact and then immediately melted against tender touch. He marvels at it.

A quarter way through their journey, surrounded by the glowing unfamiliar flora of the Underdark, and Wyll has already weaseled his way past so many of those traps and alarms. He hasn’t quite gotten Astarion to trust him, but it’s a very near thing now.

It shows in the way he slips into his tent every night, back from his hunts for more duergar and drow blood. He would half-stumble past the flaps of Wyll’s tent, illuminated in the shadows only by the odd glow of the vegetation surrounding their camp. Prop himself up awkwardly across the tent until the warlock arranged himself in a way that’s satisfactory to him. Wyll would always be ready for him—taking Astarion’s head on his lap, and placing one of the trashy adventuring novels they shared in his hands. The elf would read aloud from their novel, sniping at the dialogue and rolling his eyes at the prose wherever he desired whilst Wyll tended to the night routine for those rakish silvery curls of his.

All of it done with hardly a word these days, a tradition started after Astarion had gotten too drunk on a bear and kept for the sake of companionship. For the sake of having someone that understands intrinsically the fears of being vulnerable, the breath of a monster on your neck at each waking move, the exhaustion of being strong and the desire to be weak for a while.

It wasn’t trust, but it was as close to it as he could get.

Wyll begins rummaging through the small pouch of items Astarion keeps for his personal hygiene whilst the vampire flips through to the page they’d left off on. He daren’t bother with the intricate routine of the man’s morning care, the scrunching and twisting and styling a bit beyond his own proficiency. But he knows this act well enough, separating rows of hair gently with a comb and moisturizing both scalp and curls in a pattern. He does it himself, every two ten days—sometimes four, if he was too caught up with adventuring to tend to it sooner. His own hair is wild at the roots now, the fresh new growth peeking out from formerly tidy canerows. Since Mizora had given him his horns and claws, he’d been too afraid of attempting to navigate re-braiding with the foreign appendages. The thought of undoing the style, only to be stuck fighting with his hair in his face because he couldn’t redo it kept him off the task. Perhaps he’d be vulnerable enough to ask Karlach, when they got her touch fixed. Or maybe teach Astarion, so that their nightly routine could be reciprocated every now and then.

Wouldn’t it be nice to have someone treat him as tenderly as he does them?

Surfacing with Astarion’s cream and comb, Wyll readjusts the older man’s head in his lap before starting on his work. Parting the row of hair closest to his ear, before dabbing some of the moisturizer onto his scalp and then combing it through his curls. He’d once offered up his oils, the first time Astarion had run out of conditioner and the next merchant was another four-days trek back. But he remembers the way the vampire had recoiled—first at the genuine gesture of kindness, and then at the reality of it. He’d batted off the offer by insisting Wyll’s oils would only make his hair greasy and unattractive, but had managed to thank him anyways.

That had been before their little routine. Had he known then what he knows now, he might not have been so put out by the clear dismissal of help.

Another row, more of the conditioner. When he combs through the curls, he marvels at how they immediately shrink back into their perfect shape. It was the first thing he’d noticed about him, back at the grove. The sunlight that filtered through the halo of his silvery locks, the way they seemed to fall into place no matter which way the elf shook his head. Well-coifed and obviously tenderly cared for, he’d been utterly transfixed. Perhaps obviously so, with the way Shadowheart had snorted at his mention of it and Gale had given him one of those ‘I’m-going-to-find-out-what-you’re-up-to’ stares. There’d been no ulterior motive, of course.

Except for maybe this.

“Wyll, I can’t believe you read this drivel, darling,” Astarion complains, gently tugging him from his thoughts. Wyll doesn’t take his eyes off of his task, but he does make a noise to inform the other man he’s listening. “The young maiden hurried to cover her perfectly hairless body, squeezing her arms across her ample bosom. It did naught to help maintain her chastity though, as her full breasts spilled over her clutched arms. I mean, really. Talk about an author’s thinly veiled fetishes.”

“Ah, The Lusty Luskan Lordess,” he responds, comb delicately parting one section of Astarion’s hair so that his finger can swipe a bit more conditioner along his scalp. “I didn’t pick that one, remember? You stole it from that Zhents pack back at their hideout.”

“I did?” Astarion flips the cover to reveal the front art. It’s a rather lewd painting of a young woman, half-dressed in finery and throwing herself at a tall, broad and beastly mercenary come to steal from her tower. The vampire makes a snort of acknowledgement after a moment. “So I did. I thought the mercenary looked disturbingly like Halsin, you know.”

Wyll’s hand stills briefly in Astarion’s head, confusion written expressly over his youthful features. He scrunches his nose. “You wanted to read smut about Halsin?”

“No. I wanted us to read smut about Halsin. I thought it would be terribly funny,” Astarion lowers the book to get a good look at the other man—though upside down—and furrows his brow. “Don’t stop. That felt nice.”

“Your wish is my command, Lordess,” Wyll chuckles, before returning back to the small puddle of curls splayed in his lap. “Skip the smut if it bothers you so much, I want to know what her father will do now that he knows someone’s found her tower.”

“Skip the smut? And disgrace the artistic integrity of whatever pervert wrote this garbage? Absolutely not! We’ll read every bit of the smut, and I’ll add footnotes to correct it into something more realistic.”

“As if you’re the expert on sex,” snorts Wyll, walking face first into one of those many aforementioned conversational traps that Astarion had laid. The vampire stiffens in his hold a bit, and out of courtesy he withdraws his hands from his hair. It’s times like this, moments of levity followed by the crushing reminders about reality, that Wyll wishes they could’ve met in one of their fairytale books. With no Vampire Lord or Cambion Mistress to answer to, he wonders how their story might’ve gone. Would he have been able to sweep Astarion delicately off of his feet and off into the sunset? Would Astarion have allowed him to?

He laments how he’ll never know, and then puts those thoughts aside himself. Astarion is not the only one with a tightly guarded chest of fears and dreams and desires that he kept away from the rest of the world, hidden to where nobody—not even the devil that lives in his eye—could ever see it.

“After two hundred years, dear, I quite think I am,” Astarion hisses. Fair enough; Wyll had perhaps earned that one. The punishment for his misstep is not so bad, though. There’s a marked tension in the words of the man as he reads through the next line, and he lays stock still in Wyll’s lap. Curls half-moisturized by now, the damp bits chilling a spot on Wyll’s camp clothes. But he doesn’t get up and storm out, like he might’ve done in the early weeks of their odd arrangement. Nor does he curse the man to the planes of Avernus and back. Small mercies and little victories, the younger man takes what he can get and returns to his task.

Astarion does wind up skipping the smut scenes, grumbling that even he couldn’t wade through all that hogshit on a full stomach. Wyll isn’t perturbed either way, parting and moisturizing in methodical turns. They manage to finish two more chapters before his fingers half-abandon their task to merely run through the soft, silvery curls. Whether to placate Astarion or soothe himself is unknown, but it certainly does make him feel a bit calmer. He leans back against his tent, careful not to put too much weight on the precarious fabric. But with the gentle droning of Astarion’s voice and the steady, repeated motions of carding through his hair, Wyll feels like he could just doze off right there. His misstep in conversation goes all but forgotten as his eyelids get heavy, his ministrations against the vampire’s scalp slowed to a syrupy pace.

It isn’t until he feels Astarion move that he jerks back to alertness, adding a hurried, “I wasn’t asleep!” to make sure Astarion didn’t think his presence was at all boring or exhausting. The last thing he’d want is for these nightly rendezvous to come to an abrupt conclusion because he was rude enough to doze off in the middle of them.

“Ah-hm, that’s very convincing, sweetling,” Astarion mocks, before sitting up to run his fingers through his own hair. They come back slightly shiny with the conditioner, but even if Wyll fell asleep with a quarter left to do, the vampire seems satisfied enough with his work. “Come now. Before you wind up with a crick on your neck.”

He tries to protest, even as Astarion is already helping to arrange him into his bedroll. “I wasn’t done with your—”

“It’s fine, Wyll. More than fine. You did wonderfully; cut my morning routine in half, practically,” Astarion placates, though they both know he’s lying through his teeth. No matter whether he and Wyll finished their little night tradition, Astarion always took the same amount of time in his tent every morning. Gale had a running bet with the others on whether he was actually that self-conscious about his appearance or if he did it just because he knew Lae’zel preferred to get moving as quickly as possible.

Whether he’s being fed platitudes or not, Wyll gives him a warm half-smile. Astarion arranges the thin blanket of his bedroll around him in turn in order to give him a more comfortable rest. Their routine wraps up here the same every night. With Astarion’s hair seen to, and Wyll’s adventure romance novels read, company kept so that the others vulnerabilities would remain safe from the rest another day… the end of the evening would creep upon them.

Wyll never fully remembers the moments between consciousness—Astarion’s head in his lap and lily lilt of his tone reading the novel droning on—and unconscious—waking up drenched a cold sweat to an empty tent, the leftover laughter of Mizora chilling him down to the bone. How he gets from one point to the other. Sometimes he’ll doze off still in his padded armor and awake in his camp clothes. Once even fell asleep across the tent, and woke up tucked sweetly into his bedroll. Only faint memories of silver curls illuminated into a glowing halo by moonlight, and crimson eyes that track forlornly over his form.

And every night, Wyll would sleepily shoot out one hand to clutch at his companions’. Delicately wrap his warm digits around that frail death-cold wrist and give one half-hearted tug. His voice, laden with both exhaustion and deep yearning, he asks, “Astarion? Stay with me?”

And every night, Astarion would purse his lips into a line. As if he’s almost considering it for a moment. As if perhaps rummaging for a key to one of his chests that he’d long tossed aside, some sort of magic word that could make Wyll understand why he dances so hesitantly in and out of their… this… whatever it was.

“Perhaps when we finish the book,” he says, like he does always, patting Wyll’s hand gently. “Go to sleep—you need more of it than I do.”

“Goodnight, Astarion,” Wyll responds, already half there, letting his head loll to the side and eyes flutter closed.

The next evening, when he approaches his tent at camp, a fresh book awaits him… and a new tin of the conditioning cream. They hadn’t quite finished the Lusty Lordess, with a handful more chapters before she and her mercenary were able to achieve their happy ending. But there’s a new book for them to start all the same, the last one probably long-discarded between the days’ events.

It isn’t a ‘no’. Just a ‘not yet’. Wyll sighs and settles down on his bedroll to wait for Astarion to come to him. It’ll hardly be while there are still others awake, able to see him slip in and out of the other man’s temporary lodgings. But he knows that’ll it come, and neither of them will mention the fresh start to a book when one still went unfinished between them.

It seems there’s a few more traps he’d have to disarm before he could reach the man behind them. No matter to it; Wyll is a patient, tenacious sort of fellow.

#boy do i have queues for you #astarion ancunin #wyll ravengard #wyllstarion: the horns do look dashing on him; almost anything does…#baldur's gate 3 #drabble #bloodpact: so much shadow around us #bg3 fanfic prompt #bg3 fanfiction #the blade of frontiers!: wyll ravengard #time to kill: astarion ancunín #well done soldier!: prompt fill #bg3 #wyll x astarion #astarion x wyll #wyllstarion #bloodpact

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m3rricat · 2 months

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Immortal Coil

Wyllstarion oneshot. It is midday and Astarion rots in bed in his luxurious apartments. His mind is trapped, stuck on his strained relationship with his immortal body. Enter Wyll, to offer what comfort he can. Set post-game with Spawn Astarion and Duke Wyll.

(note that the lack of quotation marks around dialogue is on purpose; experimenting a bit here)

Rating: T

Pairing: Wyll x Astarion

Word Count: 1937

Read on AO3

_____

It’s not like Astarion wants his body to have kept the whole score.

He doesn’t actually want to forever be a flayed, disjointed doll with his stilled heart pried from his ribs, presented to him with a sallow smile.

But to have had every bit of it erased, every time? Every incision made with awful care, every rent in skin and muscle and bone made in rage? It all evaporated in the end, like the morning dew, like it never-

Oh, this is ridiculous. So often when it is too quiet for too long and his thoughts break their tethers, he circles around and around this foolish notion.

But he goes on gnawing at it. What he would be now if the whole of him had been born anew each time. If the horrors had not stuck in his brain like knives.

If he was only as perfect as his body.

This body. It is his everything: his currency, his pride, his value. He is a virtuoso in its uses. But it has always belittled him. It has glossed over every hurt that haunted him and made it feel a lie. Destroyed the hard evidence that would prove his suffering, prove that he shouldn’t be ashamed for the tears, the howls, the never-ending fear. Even now, this body silently chastises (stand up straight, boy) while memories threaten to burst out of him obscenely.

These thoughts churn as Astarion rots on his bed, arms hugging around his ribs, fingers brushing the back of his fine linen shirt, brushing against the exception that proves the rule: the marks Cazador permitted to remain. Infernal script circling his spine, marking him for consumption. And the marks on his neck, too: the two punctures through which his master had stolen his natural life.

He had said such brave words in that ritual chamber about being more than what Cazador made. But, in the end, this body is Cazador’s. Had always been Cazador’s. And even though Cazador has since become a burned-out carcass, still he clings to Astarion’s immortal flesh: his greatest gift to his errant son. Are you not grateful, boy?

Astarion lies on his side, still as true death, draped across the made bed as he watches from somewhere outside of the body that haunts him. He sees his surroundings: his lavish bedroom in this lavish palace, heavy velvet curtains drawn over the tall windows. Slivers of light shine between them. Their slant tells him it is mid-afternoon.

Weeks ago, now, when Wyll ascended as Duke in deserved pomp and circumstance, he had cautiously asked if Astarion would prefer rooms out of the sun; after all, there were nice apartments in the underground level. Astarion, who had been feeling so easy and gracious that day, reverted back to a grasping, snappish creature. No. He may not be able to walk in the sun quite yet, but he wouldn’t be shoved underground again. Not ever. Embarrassment at his outburst had risen in him like a sickening tide. He feels the echo of it now. But Wyll had only smiled warm as summer and said, of course, and placed Astarion’s apartments right across from his own.

As Astarion’s mind spins endlessly, the body weighs heavy on the gold-embroidered bedspread. Maybe it will sink down to the cellar despite his shrill protests. Sink back to where it belonged.

Astarion has never really managed to escape from under the Szarr palace, anyway.

Because, though his mind is not caught out of time like his body, it still refuses to move forward. A sludge-filled, unchanging mire. Today, particularly, there is no good reason for his sulking: there is to be a ball tonight. Lavish events are a favorite pastime of his, now that he is on Wyll’s arm. He relishes watching the great and ridiculous from his safe perch where no one can touch him. Not like before.

Fangs grind on fangs, catching the inside of his lip as his mind fills with depraved leers, laughter, searching hands passing him around to-

Astarion is tugged back to the present by soft footfalls outside the door. Right on time. So reliable, his Wyll, he thinks testily as he shudders against the touch of memory.

The knock comes. Three strokes.

He can simply call out a refusal. But if Astarion says nothing, Wyll will assume he is asleep and enter. This arrangement had been reached one evening in whispers abed. Wyll wanted to see Astarion in the daytime; the nights alone were not nearly enough. Astarion had slyly said that he did not blame Wyll in the least for his insatiable appetite. Then came the softly serious reply: I don’t wish to disturb; I only want the sight of you. More than their physical exertions, this had made Astarion turn as deep a pink as the blood in him allowed.

Astarion curls in on himself tighter. He has only to say something. And he should, for Wyll’s sake. To keep the one he loves well away from his wallowing.

But he lies still and silent. So the door handle softly clicks. Hinges swing, whisper-quiet.

Astarion is turned facing away, but he can picture it perfectly. Wyll padding in soft leather shoes, enveloped by the eternal twilight of the room. His formal jacket is cast off somewhere, shirtsleeves pushed up and neck fastenings undone, baring his collarbones.

Slowly then all at once, the scent of his lover crests over Astarion. Oh, the slight spice of Wyll’s sun-warmed skin; it makes his eyes squeeze shut in longing. Another saccharine notion that Astarion had tried not to scoff at when Wyll suggested it—him soaking up the sunshine to bring to Astarion in his chambers. In this moment, however, Astarion wants nothing more than to press into Wyll and bathe in the warmth greedily, from both his lover and the sunlight he brings.

But Astarion remains unmoving. It is bad enough he didn’t send Wyll away. He will not let himself drape over the man and take and take. Won’t let this body have what it wants.

I knew you weren’t asleep.

Astarion peels an eyelid open. Wyll swims into view like a vision, smiling as usual. But there is a crease of worry on his brow. You were too still, he says low. You’re troubled.

Astarion’s usual brush-off sits on his tongue. But he falters. Scrambles for something better. Then, without warning, hard words burst out instead.

I shouldn’t be here.

It isn’t often Wyll’s mismatched eyes widen in surprise. An old young man, his Wyll.

Here? You don’t want us to be in the palace? Wyll says it slow. He knows what Astarion means.

I said ‘I.’ Me. I’m not fit for you. Fit for—for a full life like this. I’m a millstone, hanging round your neck.

This isn’t the first time Astarion has flailed with doubt. But it’s the first time he’s let it out in full view of his lover. Wyll hesitates. Then, he crouches down, folding his corded forearms on the edge of the bed, propping up his chin. Eye-level and deadly earnest, as always.

I quite like it when you’re hanging round my neck, you know. Wyll’s voice has that purr to it that runs straight up Astarion’s spine. The half-lidded eyes don’t help. But the signal gets jumbled in Astarion’s thickening despair. Desire turns to distress. He buries his face in the pillow, so Wyll can’t see. It’s not Wyll’s fault he’s so broken.

Oh, no. I’m sorry. I misjudged—and the honest anguish in Wyll’s voice is too much. Astarion chokes a sob down. Still doesn’t look.

So Wyll waits. With his old-man patience he sits in the haze of discomfort, in the self-loathing that must be rolling off Astarion in waves.

Time stretches. Astarion’s distress abates, slightly. He peeks an eye out again.

What’s wrong, my love? Maddeningly soft.

You— Astarion stops. Wyll is the farthest thing from the problem. He begins again. I can’t get out of myself. Out of all the memories. I’m a pile of sucking muck. And I don’t want you spending your life trying to get out of it.

Wyll reaches out. Casually places a sword-calloused hand in Astarion’s reach. There’s no demand behind it, like he’s placating a flighty animal. Gentle as he always is with Astarion. And the gentleness grates because Astarion needs it. He loves it, the weak thing that he is. He wants to reach out and take what’s offered, twine between the warm fingers. But he holds firm. He means it, this time.

Oh, Astarion. It comes out so quiet, and Astarion hears Wyll’s heart break even quieter underneath. Two hundred years, he murmurs. All that poison. I wish I could suck it out of the wound.

You’re a fool, Astarion whispers. I am that poison.

No, you’re not. The low growling edge that came with the devil aesthetics bursts out. You’re not the muck. You’re not the poison. They’re in you. But they’re not you.

Wyll’s conviction is always a thing to behold. Astarion has even been swept up in it himself, on occasion. But here and now, he is too heavy.

I thought I had shut the memories out, you know, he says at last, staring out into the space next to Wyll. Thought I had gotten so good at tucking it all away neatly. But I’ve failed. If I had… if I had just made myself not feel, back then. Made myself forget, like this body does. I wouldn’t be like this.

Wyll tilts his head. How he can still look achingly sweet with great curving horns and those eyes and the ridges under his skin, Astarion will never know.

But if you had, Wyll says. If you had made yourself not feel. If you had been the consummate spawn, the one Cazador wanted, you would not be you.

Wyll’s eyes flicker with disquiet, with the last few words unsaid. Astarion voices them. And you would not have me, then.

Wyll glances away. Yes. But I’m not about to make your burdens about my wants.

Through his murky grief, a smile blooms on Astarion’s lips. Wyll and his want, the thing he tries to hold at arms’ length at all times.

Astarion can see that Wyll has sensed the shift. But still his lover presses on. Wyll will not be stopped when he has a point to make. I’ve always admired that about you, you know, he says. Your sense of self, despite everything. It made me less afraid of what I’d become, after what she did to me.

Praise still settles on Astarion uneasily, despite Wyll’s constant efforts to expose him to it. A thousand self-deprecating barbs spring up. With determination, he swallows them down.

He forces himself to confront Wyll’s words instead. To make himself believe this strange person who so believes in him. Who now looks at him with bare, hungering love.

Astarion levers himself up, reaching forward, past the offered hand. The pads of his cool fingers graze Wyll’s cheek instead. Wyll sighs into the touch, closing his eyes.

So, you want this mess?

I want you. Wyll’s voice quakes in his throat. He nuzzles into Astarion’s hand, pressing it firmly with his own.

The longing touch sets off a fire Astarion’s belly, burning through the creeping despair. The next moment Wyll is clambering forward, and Astarion pulls him in greedily. They end atop the bed in a tangle of limbs. Undignified. Perfect. Wyll holds him like a precious thing. Astarion noses into his warm neck, breathing in the scent of love and sunshine.

#wyllstarion #bloodpact #wyll ravengard #astarion #bg3 fanfic #bg3

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