Omens in Wonderland AU: So the Story Goes... Chapter 2
Rating: Mature (M)
Tags: Crossover, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Minor Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Alternate Universe - Alice in Wonderland Fusion, Inspired by Alice in Wonderland, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Good Omens References, Post-Season/Series 01, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Mutual Pining, Discorporation (Good Omens), Gabriel is Not Nice (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Holy Water (Good Omens), Hellfire (Good Omens), Heaven is a Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Hell is a Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Kissing, Aziraphale and Crowley Like Holding Hands (Good Omens), Food as a Metaphor for Sex, Slight Arousal, Crowley Watches Aziraphale Eat (Good Omens), Miracle Blocker (Good Omens), Crowley is a Little Shit (Good Omens)
Summary:
After a rude interruption to one of his reading sessions, Aziraphale finds himself in Wonderland. He gets more than he bargained for and ends up pinned with the responsibility of saving Wonderland from certain destruction. Will he stay and help, or run due to his anxieties? Only time will tell.
This is a WIP that is about 90% written. Updated weekly.
Chapter 2 Excerpt:
Determined to get out of there, the angel immediately, and with little thought, began to try and climb the legs of the table, like a child would a tree. He never was very good at climbing trees, evident by the fact that he slipped straight back down every time, landing once more on his bottom.Â
Now exhausted and frustrated in equal measure, Aziraphale sat down on the ground, propping an elbow on one cocked knee and felt the first signs of tears welling in his eyes. No. Donât you dare. This is neither the time, nor the place. Pull yourself together!
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Start from the Beginning
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Tags: Crossover, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Minor Character Death, Fluff and Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Alternate Universe - Alice in Wonderland Fusion, Inspired by Alice in Wonderland, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Good Omens References, Post-Season/Series 01, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Mutual Pining, Discorporation (Good Omens), Gabriel is Not Nice (Good Omens), Happy Ending, Holy Water (Good Omens), Hellfire (Good Omens), Heaven is a Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Hell is a Bureaucracy (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Kissing, Aziraphale and Crowley Like Holding Hands (Good Omens), Food as a Metaphor for Sex, Slight Arousal, Crowley Watches Aziraphale Eat (Good Omens)
Summary:
After a rude interruption to one of his reading sessions, Aziraphale finds himself in Wonderland. He gets more than he bargained for and ends up pinned with the responsibility of saving Wonderland from certain destruction. Will he stay and help, or run due to his anxieties? Only time will tell.
This is a WIP that is about 85% written. Updated weekly.
Chapter 1 Excerpt:
This was when Aziraphale paused, a sound of shuffling catching his attention. Oh, blast it all, canât an angel get any peace?
Sighing quite heavily with the weight of millenia of interruptions, the angel stood and removed his gloves and spectacles before he picked up the gramophone needle, halting the sweet sounds of Shostakovich. Sorry, old chap.
âWeâre closed,â Aziraphale chimed out, eyes flicking about in search of the source of the sound. âCanât you read the sign?â he huffed as he marched off, quite determined to get back to his precious reading session as soon as possible.
However, he paused and rolled his eyes when he saw a flash of red and black dart between the bookshelves.
âNow really, dear boy, this isnât funny!â He set off once more. âCrowley!â
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This is an Our Town oneshot from the point of view of the Stage Manager. It is in 3rd person, but focuses solely on him. This is based on Michael Sheen's portrayal of the Stage Manager. @quietpolyglot & @southdownseden tagging you both since you said you were interested in reading. Please enjoy!
The Stage Manager, a person that controlled so much of other peopleâs lives. He guided them through many of lifeâs events, no matter how big or small. Sometimes he gave them a nudge in the right direction, and other times it was more like an unceremonious shove down a steep slope towards certainty. He witnessed so much of what others lived and experienced. Heâd even played his part in much of it.Â
Births, marriages, deaths. Love and loss. It was part and parcel of what he did, who he was as a person? A being? An entity? What was he really when it came down to it? A driving force. A pillar of strength and solidarity. Someone the people of Earth relied on without knowing it.Â
Was he God? No. No, he wouldnât go that far. He couldnât put himself on such a pedestal. How could he when the humans had their own deities and gods and figures to believe in? He wasnât at their level. He was merely a player in a much greater arc.Â
He was a storyteller.Â
Thinking about it, the Stage Manager couldnât fully comprehend his own existence. Where did he really fit? Did he fit anywhere at all? His entire being was constructed around the lives of others. The small-time worlds of these unassuming and nondescript people. These humans who didnât understand what their purpose truly was. They just lived their lives and went about their daily duties without so much as a thought as to why they were doing it. They simply did.Â
He supposed that was what he was doing, if he really thought about it. Going through the motions. One day after another. But he had his purpose. His purpose was to tell their stories, the stories of these seemingly insignificant people to anyone that would listen.Â
Heâd had audiences great and miniscule. Heâd told stories to thousands of people, just as he had to one singular person. The quantity didnât matter to him as the quality. A listening ear was enough. A good storyteller only ever truly wanted thatâsomeone to listen whilst he spun a yarn.Â
And, oh, how heâd spun some tales in his time. Heâd seen light and joy in the audienceâs eyes as he regaled them with days past. Heâd watched some weep with sympathy for lives lost and times soon to be forgotten. Mothers and daughters, fathers and sons. Cousins, brothers, sisters, grandparents, and lone wanderers. Heâd watched grown men reduced to tears and young women given determination. Reinvigoration and strength. Every single thing had existed together and independently within his auditoriums.Â
He enjoyed telling the stories of those lives, of course. Grandeur and extravagance were rarely the subject of his stories.Â
No. He was interested in the lives of simple people. The humans who were nobodies to most, but to him they had a spark. Something that was worth mentioning among everything else in the world.Â
And one such town had intrigued him more than any other.Â
Groverâs Corners.Â
The little town in New Hampshire had affectionately been dubbed Our Town by him. It was one of his most fascinating stories to date.Â
There was nothing very remarkable about the town. It was full of ordinary folk. Farmers, shopkeepers, a milkman, a minister, a choirmaster. The nosy neighbours and the noisy schoolchildren. By all accounts it was a dull little place, and that was exactly how the Stage Manager liked it.Â
For you see, heâd witnessed so much in Groverâs Corners in the last few hundred years.Â
Across his vast life, the Stage Manager had married countless people and he knew he would probably go on to marry thousands more. Heâd experienced loss on an absolutely colossal scale. Heâd been the witness to many births and just as many deaths. Heâd seen more than any one person could ever hope, want or need to see in their lifetime. He was eternal. Immortal. Omniscient. Ever present. A being of great wisdom and knowledge.Â
So it was surprising for him, a stoic and detached being, to find himself entranced with Groverâs Corners and its inhabitants. These simple folk with simple lives. Theyâd planted themselves in his heart and wouldnât let go.Â
Now, he didnât feel love in the traditional sense of the word. How could he? He was almost a god. Not quite, but almost. He didnât experience what the people in his stories got to. It was a strange sort of existence really. He lived vicariously through them. As they pottered about, enjoying life and feeling emotions, the Stage Manager saw it all. He beheld the intricacies of their lives and he revelled in what he could glean from it. Anything he could pick up and harness for his stories was precious and valuable.Â
Within Groverâs Corners the Stage Manager found himself becoming an integral part of their lives, though he never tinkered too much, never interfered to the point that they would notice. This was their life and their path to choose. However, he couldnât resist inserting himself into their daily activities. It was an almost perverse desire to be part of it all. To be one of them.Â
Heâd played numerous unassuming characters in this close-knit communityânobody too spectacular. Mr. Morgan, the owner of the local soda shop; Mrs. Forrest, a simple neighbour; and the church minister, the one that brought people together, to name but a few.Â
But in these unremarkable roles, heâd witnessed extraordinary things. Things most wouldnât bat an eyelid at, but to him it was interesting, entertaining, and oh-so-wonderful.
He took quiet pleasure in the little things. Playing these unimportant characters had become something of a bittersweet pastime. He was there, involved for all of them to see without anyone ever really knowing he existed. Playing roles that were inconsequential, yet held so much power and importance to the way of life in Groverâs Corners.Â
And through it all heâd grown fond of two families - the Gibbs and the Webbs. They were simple farm folk. A doctor and his wife. An editor and his wife. They reared chickens, grew heliotrope and lilacs and sunflowers. They spent time being and doing.Â
Then there were their children, Emily Webb and George Gibbs.Â
Childhood sweethearts destined to be together.Â
Without really intending to, the Stage Manager found himself slowly becoming part of their meeting and subsequent marriage. He was there when they realised they were in love. He was there when they took their vows. He was there at the end too, when Emily passed during the birth of their second child.Â
They were almost like the children he didnât haveâcouldnât have.Â
Ah, yes.Â
That simply wasnât possible, was it? Not for him. That was the sad reality of being a storyteller like him. He told othersâ stories, but never his own.Â
His life, his story isnât significant, yet he sees so much that nobody else does. Things they canât see because theyâre too busy living. He never asks for credit. He simply does it because he can, because he wants to, because he should.Â
Because itâs his job, his duty.Â
If he didnât do it, who would?Â
That was the crux of it. Who would do his job if he no longer did? Was there anyone who could take over? Could anyone ever fill his shoes?Â
The Stage Manager didnât think so.Â
This was not an assumption out of ego, you understand. He had no delusions of grandeur, nor righteous self-importance fuelling this thought. He just simply didnât believe there was anyone else like him in existence. He was unique. Sure, there were plenty of storytellers in the world, people who had a tale to tell with reverence and care, but none were like him. None were this detached, yet so emotionally involved at the same time. None had been part of the story whilst also telling it.Â
In his own way he was remarkably unremarkable. He was unimportant, yet quite extraordinary. The very thing he set out to spin tales about.Â
He also had to admit that he didnât think any one being should ever have so much responsibility or power bestowed upon them. There was so much emotional baggage that he dragged around with him every day and that was only amplified by the events of Groverâs Corners.Â
Yet it was his burden to carry.Â
After all, he was brought back to the question of, if not him, who?Â
So he saddled himself up and took the brunt of it because that was his purpose.
He was meant to do this. Heâd been entrusted with the lives of these simple folk, and damn if he wasnât going to nurture and care for them, like the most delicate flowers about to take bud.Â
That was who he was. That was who he was meant to be.Â
And he wouldnât change it for all the stars in the sky.
I have an idea for at least one or two based on Michael Sheenâs interp of the Stage Manager in Our Town by Thornton Wilder. Iâm fascinated by the character so possibly want to share here. Possibly too niche, butâŚ
I have an idea for at least one or two based on Michael Sheenâs interp of the Stage Manager in Our Town by Thornton Wilder. Iâm fascinated by the character so possibly want to share here. Possibly too niche, butâŚ
Any Michael Sheen fans/GO fans who have also seen or are interested in Our Town, please respond! (no pressure, I just want to know if there's interest out there!)
So I went and saw Our Town at The Rose Theatre in Kingston today (14th March 2026). If anyone here has seen it then youâll know what I mean when I say the hype was worth it. I cried and laughed more than I ever have at a play. It made me think and it definitely makes you appreciate life more. Donât take it for granted was the message I got from it.
Michael Sheen was absolutely stellar as the Stage Manager. He gave so much heart and emotion to a character that can be very flat if not portrayed properly. I played Stage Manager in a production of Pullman Car Hiawatha by Thornton Wilder and it was one of the most profound and interesting roles Iâve done to date. So much power and influence behind the character and Michael one hundred percent nailed the omniscient/omnipotent/omnipresent nature of him, while adding so much emotion. He felt just as much a character as the others. The Stage Manager - Sheenâs portrayal at least - seemed like a person going through a lot of emotions but remaining detached and stoic to a point. Definitely the driving force of the play and a huge highlight. Heâs a whirlwind from start to finish.
The way Michael played him made me want to write little drabbles/fics about the character. It really hit me more than I thought that this character could feel just as much as the people he âcontrolsâ/âguidesâ. I want to explore the relationship between him and Emily because I found that particularly interesting towards the ends of the play (I wonât spoil it, but itâs interesting and emotional). And I want to explore the way he is in general. My writing brain is in gear.
The staging and blocking, lack of props, the physical theatre in the entire thing⌠the TIMING! God the timing was amazing! Sent chills down my spine. I found myself gasping and giggling with glee at so many parts of it because, as a theatre student, it was genuinely impressive to watch. I adored the lighting, sound and visuals of this play more than I could even describe. Again, if youâve seen it, you know what I mean.
All this to say, if you get the chance to see it, do! I hope itâs added to National Theatre at Home because so many people need and deserve to see this performance.
What kind of life can be led in the darkness? A place devoid of light. A thing that creates nothing but a void which devours everything and everyone whole. It doesnât care about what it destroys. It doesnât care about what it engulfs. The darkness only pushes forth, its shadowy tendrils sucking in more and more until nothing remains.Â
Some say that the darkness is killed by the light, but even when it is slain it still lingers. It lurks, lying in wait. It stalks you, hiding in every single shadow, preying on you. It lives under things⌠inside things, feeding, growing, anticipating.Â
You can try to outrun the darkness, sure, but eventually it will win. Just like water, it seeps through the cracks and forces its way in, drowning - decimating. Nothing can truly stop it.Â
A vicious cycle.Â
So I ask again - what kind of life can be led in the dark?Â
âA lonely one.âÂ
The elfâs face creased, the words causing something akin to distress. Her lungs felt like theyâd been punctured, the air inside rushing out. Sheâd been the one to push for the answer, yet here she was, ready to reject it because it made her feel terrible. She couldnât really have expected less, but to hear those words actually come from his lips? It hurt more than she cared to admit.Â
Perhaps using the parasites to communicate in this way wasnât a good idea after all. It always seemed to lead to pain on both sides - Astarion was left feeling bitter while Del felt guilty.Â
Resentment, malice and animosity often followed leading to a bad taste in both parties' mouths. Astarion fell into a pit of disgust and self-loathing which he seldom had the strength to pull himself out of and Del would be forced to watch from the sidelines lest her hand get bitten for trying to help him.Â
But it had to stop. She couldnât keep watching him spiral, consumed by his hatred for Cazador and a life lost to isolation and shadows. She refused to let the man she loved be taken by the darkness again.Â
âWhat if the dark isnât your destiny?â She asked. âWhat if loneliness is a thing of the past for you?âÂ
âHa!â Astarion laughed though it sounded hollow. âMy dear, if youâd spent as much time in the dark as I, then youâd understand that it is the only guaranteed thing in a vampireâs life. Being alone is just part of that,â he muttered.Â
âWhat if there was some kind of cure?âÂ
âA cure?â Astarionâs brow rose as he considered the option before shaking his head. âI doubt such a thing is even possible.âÂ
âBut what if it is? Biting Cazador would make you a true vampire, wouldnât it?âÂ
âYes, but thatâs hardly a cure, is it?â
âNo, itâs not, but if you were a true vampire, wouldnât you be more powerful? You could seek a cure for your vampirism easier, surely,â Del suggested.Â
âHm,â he hummed in response. âYou think itâs that easy, do you? If it were so easy to bite him, donât you think I would have done so by now?â He leaned forwards, tapping Delâs temple. âPlease do try to use that brain of yours, darling.âÂ
Del swatted his hand away, a pout resting on her lips. âI was only trying to help,â she mumbled.Â
âAnd who said I wanted help in the first place?âÂ
âYou did when you held a dagger to my throat and then graciously accepted my invitation to travel with me. You asked for my help when you told me about Cazador. You asked when you told me about your scarsâŚâ Del saw him go to protest and held up her finger to silence him. âYou didnât have to say the words, Astarion. I could see it in your eyes - in the way you acted. Your cry for help was so⌠desperate. It may not have been obvious at first because you hid behind charm and manipulation, but you were asking for help.âÂ
Del sighed softly, eyes averting towards the ground for a moment. âRegardless of whether you ask for my help, Iâm going to keep offering it because I truly think thatâs what you need.â She met his gaze again. âWhen I said loneliness and darkness doesnât have to be your destiny, I meant it.âÂ
Astarion remained silent, conflicted over what she was saying. On one hand he wanted so badly to believe her, but on the other, nobody had ever told him that and stuck around long enough to see it through. What made Del any different?Â
Noticing his conflicted look, the wood elf smiled sadly. âYou donât believe me,â she spoke. âThatâs fine. I donât blame you. From what youâve told me, no one has ever kept their promises for you, so why should you believe me?âÂ
She stepped closer to him, looking up into those beautiful ruby red eyes that sheâd fallen in love with. Her hand, gentle and soft, came up to cup his cheek, thumb caressing his jawline delicately. Astarion softened, leaning into the touch, eyes closing as his brows creased in slight anguish, his inner turmoil clear as he waited for the answer to her own question.Â
Del allowed him this moment, sensing that he needed to take it in before she spoke once more. âBecause, despite everything, Iâm still here, arenât I? Iâm still standing right in front of you, and Iâm not going anywhere.â
Donât run off from camp. Donât run off from camp. Thatâs all she wants. Just stay put.
Astarion couldnât help but roll his eyes and sigh loudly at the concept of having to stay in camp for the next few days. How was he supposed to keep himself occupied when he had to be around the others for an extended period of time? He was sure that Gale would eventually begin to talk his ear off, reeling facts off at him like a lecture.Â
Heâd not been in school for many a decade and he planned to keep it that way. Once was quite enough for him, thank you very much.Â
But of course, if he managed to stay clear of Gale for long enough to get some sort of peace, he was certain one of the others would be pestering him for something ridiculous. Perhaps Wyll would utter yet another idiotic thing to rile him up on purpose. It seemed that was a secret pastime of his.Â
The Blade of Frontiers was absolutely insufferable to be around, not least because he was sickly sweet. Astarion could swear that if he stayed near him for long enough heâd contract some kind of toothache by proxy.Â
If he werenât so pleasing to the eye, heâd have been drained dry by now.Â
Shadowheart and Laeâzel at least understood the concept of personal space. Plus, heâd grown to enjoy watching their little spats with each other over the time theyâd been travelling together. He couldnât help but egg them on quietly, occasionally stirring the pot just so he could have something to do. It definitely made for some fine entertainment on dull days.Â
He could just about endure being around Karlach for that long, but only because she was too sweet to be truly annoyed by. Although not in the same way as Wyll. Astarion couldnât see himself actually being upset by her.Â
There was also a non-zero chance that she could snap him like a twig if he so much as raised his voice to her, so perhaps some fear played into it too.Â
Still, he had a funny feeling she would pester him for something. A week or so ago she quietly, almost shyly, came up to him and asked if he could fix Clive. He figured that word of him being able to sew had gotten around the camp and he knew just who started the little game of Chinese whispers.Â
Del.Â
It had to be her. She was the only one heâd ever mentioned it to. It was only in passing really - casual conversation that meant nothing. A way of him gaining her trust by sharing some mundane fact about himself.
Naturally, back near the beginning, he didnât reveal the reasons why he needed to know how to sew. The concept of needing to sew his clothes to remain presentable under Cazadorâs influence because he was only given two outfits wasnât really something he was eager to share.Â
Eventually, that was going to come out but for the time being heâd left it as an interesting fact about himself.Â
The wood elfâs curiosity and persistence would almost certainly win out in the end.Â
Now that he thought about it further, there really werenât many pros to him doing as Del had asked and staying in camp. The more he considered the idea, the more the urge to leave tugged at him. Above all else, Astarion valued his alone time.Â
The time spent away from camp had become a daily ritual of his. It was a chance for him to think. Back at the palace he rarely got time to himself. Most of his time was used on luring victims and being tortured in Cazadorâs twisted games. His time alone was a cathartic release of emotions that otherwise wouldnât be able to be expressed.Â
Did he really care about Delâs surprise that much? It wouldnât even be worth it in the end, would it.Â
A heavy sigh left Astarionâs lips once more as he glanced around the camp, noting where the others were and what they were doing.Â
For once they all seemed busy, lost in their own little worlds. That suited him just fine. Perhaps he would get some peace and quiet after all.
Savouring the silence, Astarion settled himself against the cushions heâd gathered, taking a chaste sip of something heavy and red before he pulled his sewing kit out of his pack. The golden embroidery on his doublet had begun to unravel again, something that heâd gotten used to fixing by now.Â
It had always annoyed him that no matter how carefully and precisely he stitched it, it began to unravel in the same places over and over again. This doublet had seen him through so much that he wasnât in the frame of mind to let it deteriorate fully, but if one were to look closely enough, theyâd see that it was almost beyond repair.Â
In the back of his mind Astarion couldnât help but fear what might happen if his doublet ever fell apart completely. He knew that realistically nothing would happen, but his mind wouldnât let up on the thoughts of his master finding out. The punishments that he would have administered were too disturbing for him to let it get in such a state. Silly as it was, he couldnât risk it.Â
Besides, Astarion prided himself on his appearance. It was all he had to rely on for so long and he wasnât about to let that change now.Â
Turning his attention to the doublet that lay in his lap, he threaded the needle carefully with the golden embroidery thread. He took note of the amount left on the reel, realising he needed to find some more when they got into Baldurâs Gate. He was sure there were a few haberdasheries around that he could âborrowâ some thread from.Â
Taking care not to prick his finger with said needle, he set to work, stitching the golden embroidery in place for the umpteenth time. This had become somewhat of a ritual of his too, his movements elegant, precise and effortless. It was second nature to him at this point, almost as if he could do it with his eyes closed. It was easy - practised.Â
Soon enough he got lost in the rhythm of it all, shutting out any sounds of the others in camp, eyes fixated on the to and fro of the needle and thread dipping in and out of the fabric. Stitch after stitch, Astarion allowed himself to be swept up in the repetition, swathes of comforting silence enveloping him.Â
For the first time in a while, he allowed himself to remain blissfully unaware as Del sat just out of view, capturing the serenity of the moment on paper.Â
He was angelic looking, as if the gods had given Del the most perfect muse she could ever have asked for. Del wondered if Astarion knew she was watching him, harnessing his beauty in a heartfelt sketch. In contrast to Astarion, she was out of practice.Â
Her movements werenât elegant, nor were they effortless, but she didnât care. Her lines were thick, angular and sharp, yet they did what they needed to capture his likeness. Every part of the vampireâs features transpired into the sketch wonderfully.Â
The illustration looked as though it had been carved, chiselled and contoured out of marble. His delicate, alabaster skin represented beautifully on the rough parchment leaves, while his catlike features complemented the softness of them.Â
Del couldnât really describe it, but it was clear that he was meant to be drawn and painted. She wondered if there were many paintings of him back before he was turned by Cazador.Â
Surely his parents must have appreciated his beauty. She only hoped that he was reminded of that beauty. It was obvious to her now that Astarion didnât truly understand how beautiful he was. It was disheartening to hear him talk about himself like an object to be used. He wasnât. He deserved to be shown that he had more value than just being a pretty face.Â
She could tell that over the past two centuries heâd come to think of himself as a means to an end - that his body wasnât anything other than a thing to be used by the shallow and desperate. It hurt. Cazadorâs treatment of him was cruel and barbaric to be sure, but his treatment of himself was almost as bad.Â
Del wanted to show him that he was worth more than what his old master had told him.Â
But that didnât mean she couldnât show him how gorgeous he was, despite his affliction.
Del could only hope that she was doing him justice as the ink scrawled across the page. Eventually, she hoped to add colour to the little study of him she was building up across the multiple sheets in front of her. Perhaps when they got to Baldurâs GateâŚÂ
A hint of red to bring out his eyes would give the pieces some life of their own. The finishing touch, so to speak.Â
However, in the meantime she was happy to give him the satisfaction of seeing the sketches before their true completion. Astarion would never be able to wait that long. He wasnât well-versed in being patient.Â
And really, why should he be? Heâd been waiting two hundred years to see his own face again. Del could never imagine going so long without being able to look in a mirror. It was about more than petty vanity.Â
Astarion placed a lot of value on his appearance. It had been his key to safety and security for such a long time. Remaining attractive was all he could do to ensure Cazador still had a use for him.Â
Del wanted to dispel those thoughts. Maybe she couldnât do that forever, but she could for a night or two. Then maybe, with time, she could slowly shift his way of thinking about himself.
For now she would settle for showing him how stunning he was.
There were many quirks that came along with Astarionâs affliction, and not many of them were good. Being hurt by running water and burned by the sun were two of the main ones that caused him anxiety on a daily basis when he was under Cazadorâs influence. Not being able to enter homes uninvited was one that surprisingly never came up as an issue. Mostly because Astarion would pick up Cazadorâs victims in the taverns and brothels of Baldurâs Gate, among other places. He didnât have much need to enter other peopleâs homes uninvited.Â
He had always found it quite amusing to see people try to ward off supposed vampires with cloves of garlic. Did they seriously think that worked? It was silly to watch, and even sillier still to be on the receiving end of a garlic clove to the face. He was a little ashamed to admit that heâd had it happen once or twice in the early days of being a spawn. That smell was hard to forget.Â
However, the satisfaction he got when they realised it did little more than create a foul smell in the air was almost worth the disgusted looks he would get from the other spawn when he returned to the palace stinking like that.Â
The silliness aside though, the vampire had been pleasantly surprised when he found his sunlight hypersensitivity, and the other quirks, had been seemingly cured by the mindflayer parasite.Â
He didnât think he would ever be grateful to the squid, but here he was - grateful. Theyâd given him a sense of freedom and normalcy that heâd not known in nearly two centuries.Â
Yet there was still one of his quirks that hadnât been solved by the wriggling worm in his skull.Â
Astarion had been hopeful and even eager to find out if it had been taken away, but it was glaringly obvious as he stared into the nearby river that it, in fact, had not.Â
No matter how hard he stared, trying to manifest seeing his own face again, it didnât appear in the murky water.Â
His reflection was nowhere to be seen.Â
The pale elf had to wonder if this was what it was like to stare into an endless void. Oddly enough, doing so wasnât something he was familiar with despite having been sired by one of the most powerful vampires in Baldurâs Gate.Â
Cazador was quite familiar with spells, but Astarion could only recall him using them around him and the other spawn a handful of times. He enjoyed asserting his power through manipulation and tricks of the mind. Voids werenât really in the repertoire.Â
Upon thinking back, Astarion couldnât help but muse that it would have been quite the punishment to be forced to stare into an endless void for months on end. The closest he came to such a thing was the year of silence and torture inside that dusty tomb. Perhaps that was comparable.Â
No. Nothing can compare to that horror.Â
As Astarion lost himself in his memories of that vile time, a ripple was sent cascading across the surface of the water, forcing him to refocus his eyes and blink - not least because the water splashed him.Â
Slightly startled and just a bit outraged at the fact that he was wet, his eyes were cast upwards, searching for the culprit.Â
Del⌠of course.Â
Astarion huffed, quirking an eyebrow at the wood elf now approaching him. âI assume youâre coming over here to apologise for rudely interrupting me?â He asked, getting up from the ground and dusting himself off.Â
Delâs eyes were alight with mischief, a look Astarion had come to know well. âNo. Should I?âÂ
âWell obviously! Iâm eugh⌠soggy,â he complained, looking down at himself in disgust. âDo you know how long this is going to take to dry?âÂ
âYes. About an hour in this sunshine,â Del replied, rolling her eyes.Â
âDo you always have to be so⌠boring? Just humour me for once.âÂ
âI humour you all the time. Youâre just dramatic.â The wood elf shook her head and looked him over before her eyes dropped to the river.
âWhat did you want anyway? There must be some reason you came over here.âÂ
Delâs eyes flicked back up to Astarionâs and she raised her eyebrows in question. âI just came to see what you were doing. Youâve been gone for a while.âÂ
âIâm always away from camp.âÂ
âAre you? Youâre always lurking⌠sulking, pouting, whining⌠but not usually down here by the river,â Del teased. âIn fact, I donât think Iâve seen you this close to a body of water since we first started travelling together, so⌠whatâs going on?âÂ
Astarion couldnât help but tut at her and how observant she actually was. Sometimes it really grated on him. âYou donât miss anything, do you?âÂ
âNo. So come on⌠talk to me. Whatâs all this about?â Her eyes seemed to soften, no teasing behind them now.Â
A sigh fell from Astarionâs lips as he conceded, rolling his eyes. âI was just looking.â
âAt what?âÂ
âI⌠donât really know.â His red eyes dropped to the ground as he hesitated for a moment. âI hoped that maybe my reflection would have been returned to me by now, but it seems that the tadpole doesnât cure everything⌠only the most useful things. Makes sense, I suppose. After all, what use is there in being able to see myself?âÂ
âHow long has it been?â Del asked, tilting her head.Â
âTwo hundred years⌠give or take a few.â He looked up at her. âI donât remember what I looked like before and I doubt Iâll ever truly know what I look like now,â Astarion muttered.Â
He went quiet for a moment before he drew in a breath - a force of habit. âDel?âÂ
âMm?â She responded softly.Â
âDo you remember that night when you found me with the mirror, looking at- did you mean what you said? When I asked you what you saw?âÂ
Delâs lips twitched a little bit as she spoke, âWhy? Fishing for more compliments?âÂ
Astarion couldnât help but smirk a little in response, but remained quiet, silently pressing for an answer to his question.Â
âAstarionâŚâ She took a few steps closer, her hand gently reaching out and resting on his arm. âIâm a lot of things, but Iâm not a liar. I was being serious. Even when you told me to say you were beautiful.â She smiled a little. âYou are beautiful. Even if you canât see it. Iâll keep reminding you of that for as long as you need.âÂ
The vampire nodded. âI know you will.âÂ
Del went quiet again before she spoke up with an idea. âBut you know⌠I may have an idea that could help you see yourself.âÂ
He frowned. âHow?âÂ
âWell⌠perhaps Gale could create one of those illusions of his for you. Not really like a mirror, but you could see yourself.âÂ
Astarion scoffed. âYouâre joking, right? As if Iâm going to ask Gale, of all people, to do that. No. No, Iâm not asking the wizard for help with this.âÂ
Del rolled her eyes. âOf course youâre not. I thought you might have an issue with it. Luckily, I have a backup option, but youâre going to need to stay still for me. I know thatâs hard for you, but itâll be worth it in the end⌠I hope.âÂ
âIâm intrigued, darling. What is this backup option of yours?â He asked.Â
âItâs a secret for now. But⌠donât run off from camp for a few days. Youâll see eventually,â Del said, tapping the side of her nose and walking away quickly to prepare supplies for her secret solution to his missing reflection dilemma.Â
Astarion stood there for a moment, baffled, before he started off after her, whining about how she couldnât just leave him guessing like that because it wasnât fair.Â
Of course, Del felt it was very fair.Â
And she knew when he finally saw the surprise she had, it would be worth it. The look on his face would be priceless.Â
She just hoped she could draw as well as she used toâŚ
âHm?â Astarion hummed in response, his hand flicking the page of his book delicately.Â
âWhy did you run?âÂ
âWhat?â the pale elf asked, his head lifting. His ruby eyes landed on Del, confusion clouding them. Brow furrowed, he tilted his head slightly, pushing the question though he didnât speak another word.Â
Delâs own eyes were gentle and warm, as they normally were, but something else lingered there - a sense of curiosity that Astarion had grown to recognise in an instant. He knew when she wanted to ask something of him that mere words couldnât quite do justice to. This was one such moment.Â
âDarling, Iâm afraid that on this occasion our little wriggling friends arenât helping. Were you going to elaborate perchance or are you waiting to send the message via carrier pigeon?â He tried to joke, but he could tell this wasnât the time for jokes. Delâs lips barely quivered in response.Â
A soft sigh fell from Astarionâs lips as he closed the book and set it aside, pushing himself into a more upright position, his arm resting atop his knee. âSorry,â he offered quietly.Â
The wood elf turned to face Astarion fully, fingers twiddling with one another as if they were performing a strange dance that neither knew the steps to. He could see that she was wound tight like a spring, muscles tense with anxiety. It was palpable, the air thick around them both.Â
âYou told me that you were sealed in a dusty tomb because you dared to defy Cazadorâs orders. Why did you run from that boy you told me about?â Del asked, her expression intent as she gauged his reaction.Â
By now she had a good enough inkling of what was too far, but this was something sheâd never broached before. This boundary had never been crossed, so she stood on the precipice, tentatively putting her foot on the line and waiting. Perhaps things might go better than she expected, or perhaps they would implode.Â
For a moment Astarion didnât react, his eyes growing distant as his jaw tensed. He didnât blink, nor did he make a sound. He simply froze.Â
Del feared sheâd pushed him too much, ready to apologise profusely and pretend this moment never happened, but then he laughed. It was dry and mirthless - cold.Â
âI donât know,â he muttered, tongue running over his fangs as his eyes dropped to the ground just in front of him.Â
Any other time Del would have left it there, but something told her there was more to his words. He was holding something back. âWhy Astarion?â she asked again, more force in her tone, yet no irritation was present.Â
âI said I donât know,â came the reply through gritted teeth.Â
âYes, you do.âÂ
His eyes lifted to her, staring through his brow at her. âFine. Because I was scared.âÂ
The wood elf didnât accept his reason, however, picking up on the defensive tone in his voice. âAstarion, stop deflecting-âÂ
âStop pushing then!â he snapped at her, eyes wide with anger. âWhy do you insist on bringing up the past, Del?! Why must you keep picking apart every single moment! Taking and taking until thereâs nothing left!â he hissed.
âBecause I want to understand you! Because I care!â Del snapped back, her fist banging against her thigh before she released a breath. âI just⌠want to know what you were thinking back then⌠whether you had another motive other than fear and pain.âÂ
The vampireâs body relaxed a little, his shoulders lowering and his jaw loosening. He ran his hand through his white curls, looking at the way his hands still gripped at the air, nails leaving crescents in his palms. In another life those crescents would have bled crimson and his master would have supped every drop up.Â
The thought made him shiver in disgust until his body bristled all over. The mere thought of Cazador laying a hand on him was enough to make him want to retch.
âI ran because⌠I saw myself in him.âÂ
Del shifted a little closer to Astarion, taking his hands in hers to stop him creating anymore crescents in his alabaster skin. She tilted her head to see into his eyes. âWhat do you mean, love?â she asked softly.Â
Astarionâs eyes softened a little. âThat boy had so much life in him. Joy beyond anything Iâd seen in such a long time. Back then I could remember more of myself⌠what I once was. He was so happy. He was beautiful inside and out⌠I used to have his outlook on life beforeâŚâ He shook his head. âI was afraid that if I brought him back he might become like me now. There was no telling what Cazador would do to him if he saw that Iâd taken a shine to him. I couldnât let him become twisted and bitter⌠cynical. He needed to keep that magic alive.âÂ
âWas it worth it?â Del asked.Â
âYes.â Astarion answered without hesitation. âIâd do it again. Iâd take another year of suffering to see that man smile again.â Tears formed at the corners of the pale elfâs eyes. âHe was worth it. Gods, he was worth every second,â he whispered.Â
Del nodded sorrowfully, lifting the otherâs hands up and pressing the softest of kisses to his knuckles. The gesture was small but it was enough to give the vampire comfort - he did the right thing and thatâs what mattered.
The air was crisp with the chill of the soft evening breeze. Most of the group had gone to bed, but Tav and Astarion still remained awake. Seemingly neither could rest and all they could do was sit in front of the campfire, warming themselves in silence.Â
The flames crackled quietly while Tav and Astarion stared into them, sitting across from one another. Astarion had already been sitting in front of the fire before Tav came out of their tent. That was normal for him, of course. So many nights out in Baldurâs Gate, luring victims back for his master had ingrained the routine into him. Old habits die hard, as they say.
But they could sense that he was thinking about something. His expression was contemplative - pensive. Tav could be forgiven for thinking that he was in a sour mood if they didnât know him better by now. The spawn did well to hide his emotions in the day, but by night his mask seemed to slip just a little. His façade couldnât be maintained for such a long period of time.Â
Tav couldnât blame him though. Heâd spent two hundred years playing the perfect role in Cazadorâs twisted fantasy. It amazed them that the lifestyle of his master appealed so much. It got them thinking before they eventually broke the silence.
âWhy do you want what Cazador has so badly, Astarion?â they asked, eyes flicking over towards him.Â
Astarion knew Tav was there, but for a moment or two, heâd let himself drift away from reality, eyes growing unfocused on the blaze directly in front of him. He thought about what it might be like to stick his hand in the fire. Would the tadpole offer him some protection or would he burn up in an instant? It seemed that these days he couldnât really be harmed, so why not test the boundariesâŚ
However, Tavâs voice interrupted his thoughts, causing him to almost jump, though he kept composure for the most part. Then his brows knitted together in confusion as he looked up at Tav. âWhat? Darling, where on earth did that come from?âÂ
âNowhere⌠I was just thinking.â They shrugged, looking at him expectantly for an answer.Â
The vampire couldnât contain his sigh. âDo I really have to answer that question?â He raised his brow.Â
âNo,â Tav began, âbut Iâll just ask you again later on down the line,â they added.Â
This caused Astarion to smirk slightly. âPersistent, arenât you?âÂ
âOne of my best qualities, so Iâve been told. Now, come on, stop avoiding the question.â Tav pushed, smirking back and crossing their arms.Â
âFine.â He relented and glanced around to check if any of the others were listening. He knew how some liked to eavesdrop. âI think it should be glaringly obvious, but Cazador is⌠practically untouchable.âÂ
âIs he? Weâre literally plotting to take him down.âÂ
âTrue, but think about what we know and how we know it.â Astarion paused for effect. âDarling, we have someone who knows the ins and outs of Cazadorâs palace, his routines⌠his thirst for more power - yours truly.â He gestured to himself rather flamboyantly. âAnd we have, by some miracle, a devil willing to feed us further answers for a measly price. We couldnât really be in a much better position. If we didnât know all of what we do, and will, then we wouldnât stand a chance.âÂ
Tav looked at him sceptically.Â
âCazador has so much influence. The Szarr family are⌠legendary in the Gate now. He controls so much without people even realising. He has, well, had seven spawn who would do his bidding with little resistance. We would bow to him and offer ourselves as his obedient little puppets to be controlled entirely. The power he holds in the palm of his hand⌠what I wouldn't give to have that. To be so revered by so many⌠feared even. Above all else, Cazador is safe.âÂ
As Tav watched Astarion speak, they could see the lust for power in his eyes - the way he was almost salivating at the thought of it - but then there was the longing. A longing for safety. Thatâs all he really wanted, wasnât itâŚÂ
âIf I had even half of what Cazador has, Iâd be⌠so free. I could do what I want without fear of being lashed and beaten into submission. How delicious it would feel to inflict such things on others; make them see just what Iâve endured. Maybe I could even bend Cazador to my will.â He shook his head. âI just⌠I don't want to spend the rest of my life running and living in abject fear, constantly watching the shadows and never, ever feeling safe.âÂ
Astarion sighed softly. âDonât you want the same, my dear?âÂ
âOf course I do, but⌠power changes people, Astarion. What if it makes you into something you hate? What if you become a monster?âÂ
âThen so be it! Better a monster who's feared by everyone than a wretched spawn, loved by no one,â Astarion spat coldly.Â
Tav watched his face harden and looked down for a moment before they got up. âI see.â They began to walk back to their tent before they paused a few steps away from him. âMaybe if you werenât so blinded by your lust for power, youâd see that a spawn can be loved by someone.â They caught him glancing back at them before they carried on, hiding their pained expression from his sight. âGoodnight Astarion.â
Ever since Tav found that book, it had been on Astarion's mind. He couldn't get it out of his head, and whenever he decided to open it up, the voices would surge into his mind, whispering horrid thoughts and temptations to kill others in the party. He wouldn't let himself give into the temptations, but he wanted to know more of what this Necromancy of Thay had to offer. Maybe it could help him to free himself from Cazador. Maybe it could help him kill Cazador... Or perhaps, if he were lucky enough, he could use it to resurrect himself in some way and make being a vampire spawn null and void. In some strange world, maybe it could allow him to return to his old life. Wishful thinking, of course, but it didn't stop him wondering.
Astarion tossed and turned in his bed, the spirits voices hazy in his head. They whispered to him at night and he almost regretted having opened the tome in the first place. He was right when he'd told Tav the book read him more than he read it. It was getting deep into his memories, pulling out any chance Astarion had been given to draw blood in the past, taunting him with it - making his hunger grow and grow in the pit of his stomach. Like a seed, it was blossoming into something much bigger than he could have ever thought possible. The want to drink was strong, clawing at him like a beast, ready to break through at any moment.
His heart raced in his chest, causing his eyes to shoot open, catching sight of the tome glowing a bright amethyst purple, just visible from beneath the blanket he'd haphazardly thrown over it. He swallowed thickly, sweat forming on his brow as he felt the temptations gnawing at his insides. "No. No, I won't do it. Shut up! Shut up!" He hissed out, but the voices only grew louder, intensifying with every second.
Feed...
Feed Astarion...
FEED!!
Clutching at his head, Astarion dug his nails into his scalp, wanting to just scratch and claw until the spirits were out. "Stop! Stop it! I won't harm them! I can't do it!" He cried out desperately. He knew he had to do something, anything. Destroy that damned book now or be consumed by the overwhelming urge to drink his party dry.
Tears formed at the corners of his eyes as he clawed at himself before he got up and threw back the blanket covering the tome. Now the voices were shouting at him, screaming for him to do the unthinkable. Sinful deeds that he had not given into since leaving Cazador Szarr's palace. Barely able to think straight, Astarion grabbed his dagger, dropping to his knees in front of the book. "Shut up! Cease this infernal racket!" He yelled, bringing his dagger up, clutched in both hands before he brought it down with all his might upon the evil tome.
But what should have pierced straight through the book with a satisfying tear merely bounced straight off, flinging the rogue backwards as a forcefield protected the book. "Agh!" He sat up, staring at the tome with wide eyes. It seemed this book was tougher than he'd anticipated. "Not going down without a fight?" He mumbled to himself through gritted teeth. "Well, neither am I!"
"Fire. Fire will get rid of this blasted thing once and for all!" He reasoned and snatched the book up, rushing out towards the campfire, burning just barely. "You'll make excellent kindling." He hissed, throwing the book into the low flames with no hesitation.
The fire roared around the book, but nothing happened to it. Bright, piercing purple light began to shoot out from all directions and Astarion could only back away, watching in horror as the flames took on the same amethyst hue. As if fuelling the book's cries, the voices began to consume Astarion's mind, burning just as the fire did.
The vampire fell to his knees once more, crippled by the blazing pain in his head, hands clutching his temples as he screamed. His cries were lost to the wind, no help coming to his side as he felt his mind burning up. The pain was unimaginable and it went on and on, raging - a worse torture than even Cazador could have thought up.
After what felt like an eternity the world went black and Astarion's body fell limp, unconscious on the ground whilst the tome lay smouldering next to him, seemingly having bounced from the flames itself.
"Astarion... Astarion, wake up!"
Groaning, the vampire's eyes cracked open, locking on the familiar and welcome face of Tav. "What... What happened? The tome! Where's the tome?!" He shot up, a cold sweat on his brow once more.
"Tome? What are you talking about?"
"The... the book- the Necromancy of Thay?" He frowned at them as they seemed just as bewildered as he was.
"We left it behind, don't you remember? Astarion... you were having a nightmare. We never brought it with us. Gale said it would be too dangerous..." They took a breath in. "I think you should get some air. Come on." They held their hand out to him, offering him a gentle smile of reassurance before leading him out of the tent.
Another Astarion & Tav oneshot I wrote a while back. Enjoy! :)
âAstarion, do you remember when you said âthereâs nothing more desirable than a vampireâ? What did you mean by that?âÂ
Astarion paused in the reading of his book and raised a brow with a soft scoff, his face holding an expression of mild disdain towards the question. âWhat do you think I meant by it?â he asked, gaze strong yet slightly inquisitive.Â
It seemed like his question wasnât entirely rhetorical, but Tav didnât venture to try and answer. Instead they shrugged. âI donât know, thatâs why I asked.âÂ
âTsk.â Was the only sound that left his mouth before he sighed deeply, as if the entire query was taxing on his whole being.Â
âDonât be like that, Astarion.âÂ
âDonât be like what? Annoyed by your incessant, ridiculous and downright unrelenting questions that you donât need answers to? I mean really, what purpose would answering that actually serve, hm?âÂ
Tav rolled their eyes. âI donât know⌠maybe it would help me understand you a little better,â they suggested.Â
They watched the vampire consider this and close his book gently, placing it to the side. He ran his tongue over his fang as he contemplated whether answering this question would make Tav relent, or serve to give them more things to be curious about. He could barely handle the questions heâd gotten thus far, so how would he cope with the more complex ones that were inevitably going to pop up in the future? No doubt Tav wouldnât leave things here. Heâd come to realise that their curiosity and lust for more answers was practically limitless.Â
Still, perhaps it would help their⌠whatever this arrangement of theirs was, if he allowed himself to be just a little more vulnerable. Not too vulnerable, mind. Just enough that Tav would get off his back for a few nights.Â
âDarling, not everyone in the world has pure intentions like you would believe they do. Sometimes people are selfish. They desire things - people, money, power⌠sex.â He pauses for a moment, his chest tightening a little in disgust at the word. âVampires are but a whisper in the wind. So many myths, legends - stories of my kind float around. Weâre romanticised.âÂ
Tav frowned as Astarion patted the space next to him, ushering them to sit down, looking up at the stars above.Â
âLook up at the sky, darling. What do you see up there?â he asked, glancing at them as they sat next to him and took a moment to look for themselves.Â
âStars,â they responded plainly.Â
Astarion canât help but chuckle to himself at the bluntness of the answer. âWell, yes, but beyond that. What do you think is out there? Iâve heard that there are so many worlds out there. Places to be explored, things to see⌠What do you think? Do you think it's true?âÂ
âItâs a nice idea, but I donât know. I havenât seen proof.âÂ
âExactly. You donât know if itâs real or not.â Astarion nodded.Â
âNo, but whatâs your point?âÂ
He sighed. âMy point is, the way you responded just then is how people feel about vampires. They donât always know that we exist in the material plane.â He takes a moment to face Tav. âWhen I said thereâs nothing more desirable than a vampire, I meant that people want to know if weâre real. They want proof.âÂ
Astarionâs eyes dropped towards the ground. âWorld-endingly beautiful - thatâs what someone called me once. Then they found out that I was a vampire and it all changed. Their tone⌠their actions. They became rough, ripping and tearing at me like some rabid animal. All they knew was depraved carnal lust. It became about the very fact that I was a vampire - not who I was, rather what I was.âÂ
He glanced up at the sky. âYou see, darling, people like the idea of me, the concept of a vampire. Iâm merely a thought experiment to them⌠and when they discover that there is in fact a real, living vampire in front of them, they lose control. Lust and greed consume them. They like the abstract⌠the notion of me, but not me. Do you see what I mean?âÂ
Tav nodded, though their eyes were filled with sadness and sympathy for him. âDo you think everyone is like that with you?âÂ
âHow could they not be? It seems impossible to think that someone could love me for who I am. I barely even know who I am myself. All of who I was was taken away when I became his. Iâve said it before, but Iâm just a means to an end. Iâm lusted over, but not loved. Not in the traditional sense anyway,â he scoffed. âI suppose I shouldnât complain. After all, I still serve some purpose, which is more than others can say for themselves.âÂ
âYouâre still worthy of love, Astarion. True love. Your lived experiences arenât who you are entirely. You can be someone else, if you want.â Tav leaned forward and placed a gentle hand on the back of his. âI know you think that youâre only worthy when youâre on your back, being used by somebody, but youâre not. You have control over what you become. If you donât want to be an idea that people lust over, then donât be.âÂ
Tav sighed. âI know some people wonât change their view of you, but others might, and thatâs what you have to hope for. Itâs all you can do. Just know that you do have people around you who care about you and maybe even love you. They wonât let bad things happen to you, I promise.âÂ
âDarling, as wonderful as that all sounds, I canât rely on others to stop bad things happening to me. The cavalry didnât come for me while I was under Cazadorâs influence, so why would they now?â Astarion shook his head. âThe only person I can truly rely on is myself.â
Leaning back, Tav let the warmth of the midday sun wash over them, palms flat on the grass behind them, feeling the cool earth beneath their fingertips. The rays beat down gently, causing them to close their eyes in bliss and revel in the calm it provided. This was one of their few freedoms these days and they were going to savour it.Â
In the time since Cazador had been defeated, the palace had been stone dead - not least because the only people in it were considered living corpses. Astarion had rarely allowed people into the palace, and Tav didnât want to push him over the edge by asking to see anyone from their past. It wasnât wise to make him upset at the best of times, so why would they risk it when he was in a foul mood? Yes, they were immortal, but they didnât doubt that he would make that immortality a living hell if he even found out that they were thinking about the old group.Â
Despite that looming prospect, Tavâs mind still wandered often.Â
The loss of the tadpole meant that they could hold onto the memories of the others without Astarion being able to intrude. He couldnât see what they were thinking about and what he didnât know couldnât hurt him. Or them.Â
Of course, it didnât mean that Astarion was stupid. He caught those longing eyes, yearning and wistful. He knew that ache they felt to return to what once was and he despised it. He loathed everything they lusted after and wished to extract every single tainted memory, crushing it beneath his foot with such spite it would bring them to tears.Â
Tav took comfort in the fact that he didnât quite have that power as they let the beams of golden honey drench their alabaster skin and their mind began to drift once more.Â
Thoughts of him - Astarion - as he once had been. Beautiful, charming, sweet, sexy⌠cheeky. A man that could make them giggle, blushing in one breath and then go weak at the knees in the next. Heâd been vulnerable and sensitive with them. He had let himself crumble and be built back up again by Tav. He had trusted Tav, just as they had trusted him. His voice had once made them smile, but now it only served to instil fear and sadness and guilt. Heavy guilt.
Theyâd let him do this - let him become this.Â
Tav had been the one to stand there, knowing what the ritual would do to him and let him go through with it. They had allowed Astarion to taint himself. He changed and morphed in front of their eyes until only a shell of his former self remained.Â
Astarion had always said that he felt alive again when heâd ascended, but Tav saw the man they fell in love with die and now all they wanted was to get him back. Impossible, of course, but they couldnât help but burn with the desire to see him again.Â
If they could only see the old Astarion again, oh the things they would say to him. Theyâd hold him close and just tell him it would be okay. Let him know that whatever happened, they loved him. Theyâd be there for him through it all.Â
It was hard to believe that now, given everything Astarion had become, but they stood by it. Despite the monster heâd turned into, they still couldnât help but love him.Â
A shiver ran down the length of Tavâs spine and they knew without even having to open their eyes that he was there. Perhaps it was a sixth sense, or just the terror they had creeping up their back, but they always knew when the vampire ascendant was nearby.Â
They resisted the urge to squirm with some disgust feeling his eyes roam over their body, taking in every part of them.Â
âAh, there you are, my dear consort.â Faint nausea settled in their stomach when they heard his footsteps approach and felt his cool fingertip rest under their chin. âI was beginning to worryâŚâ He spoke, voice just as chilling as his skin.Â
Tavâs eyes opened, settling on that familiar face. They saw the way that his lips held that knowing smirk, yet his head tilted nonetheless.Â
âYou donât seem overjoyed to see me.â His thumb came to rest below Tavâs bottom lip, holding their chin between it and his index finger. âSomething on your mind?â He asked.Â
Tav feigned confidence, though their body betrayed them by stiffening at his gesture slightly. Their eyes flicked over him before settling back on his crimson gaze. âDidnât anyone tell you not to play with your food, Astarion?âÂ
He let out a humourless scoff, the corner of his lips curling up to reveal his fang, which his tongue pointedly played with for a moment or two before he pouted. âBut my food is such fun to play with, darling.âÂ
His jaw rolled and suddenly his face was an inch from theirs, his nose almost touching their own. There was a distinct tightness at Tavâs throat and it took them a moment to register that his hand was clutching it firmly, cutting a good portion of what would have been their airways if they needed to breathe nowadays. Didnât mean that it was any less uncomfortable, of course.Â
Astarionâs body weight held Tav pinned to the ground while he glared at them, nostrils flaring as he spoke. âI asked you a question, and I expect an answer.â He spat. âIs something on your mind?âÂ
Tav wanted to throw him off, but in this position any attempt to move their hands would result in his weight pushing them flat onto their back. That wasnât a position they wanted to end up in, so they huffed and reluctantly complied. âNo.âÂ
âLiar,â he hissed, shoving their head to the side roughly and leaned close to their neck, his breath tickling as he took a long sniff, absorbing their scent for a moment. âDonât take me for a fool, darling. Not when my fangs are so close to ripping your throat out. Now, Iâll give you one last chance,â his voice dropped dangerously low. âIâm sure you donât want to spend a night in the kennels, do you?âÂ
At the threat Tavâs body went ice cold all over, eyes widening with genuine terror. âN-No⌠no, I donât,â they replied meekly, head bowing.Â
âGood.â Astarionâs smile returned. âSo, whatâs on your mind, my treasure?â He gently released his grip on their throat and moved to stand up off them, extending a hand to help them up.Â
They took it and got to their feet, lest he lose his temper over their reluctance. âI was just thinking.âÂ
âAbout what?â He caught their eye and burst into laughter. âOh, donât tell me youâre thinking of them?â He rolled his eyes in dismissal. âPathetic. Put them out of your mind. They are but a blip in our past, my dear. You donât need to concern yourself with them any longer.â
âI know, but-âÂ
âAh, ah, ah.â He held up a finger to their lips. âShhh. Shh, shh, shh. You have all that you need right here in front of you.â His voice sounds like velvet and those honeyed words heâs come to be known for slip off his tongue so easily. âI wonât allow you to worry your pretty little head about anything anymore. Donât I take good care of you? Donât you have everything your little undead heart desires?âÂ
His questions are rhetorical, but Tav canât help but nod hesitantly. âI⌠I suppose I do.âÂ
âYou suppose?â He raises his brow, jaw tightening once more.Â
âI mean⌠I do. I⌠do,â Tav corrects.Â
âMm, and donât you forget it.â He leans in and presses a kiss to their lips before pushing their face away as they dare to kiss him back. âBecause I could take it all away at the snap of a finger, darling.â
He steps away and turns around. âJoin me in the main hall when youâre quite done fantasising about the old me,â he adds through gritted teeth and strides off back into the palace.
I've barely shared my BG3 fics/oneshots anywhere, so I thought I'd start now. This is an x reader I wrote a while back. Enjoy!
Astarion stared at you for a moment, a frown resting on his pale features which were illuminated by the moonlight. Soft shadows drew the eye to all of his minor imperfections - creases and crinkles which showed a life lived before he was afflicted with his condition. Each told its own story. Happiness and laughter; sadness and loss; anger and fits of unending madness. A man taken through the very throes of existence. The throes of being. Passionate nights and shame-filled morning afters. Every single one was a part of the vampire spawn's prior life and you could see it all mapped out on his face. His eyes looked tired as they twinkled in the radiant moonbeam, darkness making his undereye look heavy with the lack of rest. You imagined that he didn't get much of it these days. And who could blame him? The creeping feeling that Cazador might be around the next corner would be enough to put anyone off getting forty winks.
His perplexed look served as a reminder to you that he wasn't used to being offered such things voluntarily. The elf's head tilted subtly to the right as he fought to get his words out. When he finally did speak, his voice was quiet - hushed as if he were speaking sinful thoughts no one should ever hear.
"You wish for me to... to bite you?" Astarion asked, hesitant to go on in case he'd misunderstood your intentions. But your nod confirmed it for him, causing him to swallow thickly, searching your eyes for any sign of deception and trickery. "You can't be serious. You understand the implications behind that, don't you?"
What was that in his voice? Apprehension? Anxiety? Fear? Nevertheless, you told him you were serious. Never more so, in fact. You wished for him to drink from you and you didn't care about the damned implications. You would deal with the consequences later. For now, Astarion was all that mattered to you.
The elf's eyes fell to the ground as he shook his head. "I haven't drunk like this before," he admitted. "I can't be sure that I won't let myself go mad with sanguine hunger. You don't know what you're asking for, my dear." He paused and looked towards you once more. He could see that you were determined. A heavy sigh fell from his lips. "You won't take no for an answer, will you?"
No.
"Very well... if this is what you really want then I suppose we had better make ourselves more comfortable." He approached hesitantly as you lay down on the bedroll laid out beneath you. He knelt down and looked you in the eye one final time. "This won't be pleasant to begin, but trust me, it will feel better... just try to relax. Your pretty little heart will do the rest. Adrenaline is wonderful for the senses." A smirk crossed his lips.
Leaning over you, his cool breath tickled your neck before a cold, sharp pain took control of you. A gasp was all you could muster as he began to suckle the crimson liquid from within your veins. Each suck brought forth a rush of adrenaline, the likes of which you had never felt. Like floating on a cloud, your body began to feel weightless, ascending to the very heavens above. Gods, if this was what a mere bite could do, what would it feel like to truly turn into a spawn yourself?
Astarion drank hungrily, having not felt such an ecstasy before, even when he was living. He felt his skin tingle, hairs standing on end as gooseflesh covered his entire body. He too was experiencing a rush that he never wanted to come down from. Hazy, his mind began to slip, all but giving into temptation. Lust and greed, two sins he knew so well, working in perfect harmony to sate his raging appetite. The hunger that burned deep within was becoming but a distant memory for the vampire.
Supping up every drop he could, Astarion finally, mercifully released your neck, a rivulet of deep red iron trickling down your now pale skin. To anyone else, you looked just as a vampire yourself, but you two both knew the truth. Lying back and allowing the gravity to return to your body, limbs finally feeling more than mere feathers, you trained your eyes on him.
My, how magnificent he looked in the moonlight, strong and reinvigorated. You thought this must be how he looked in his youth, and it was easy to tell why he drew so many people in. You would have followed him like a lost puppy all the way back to Cazador without a second thought had you been picked by him. But now you felt special - more than just a potential spawn for his master - you felt connected to him. Connected in the one way nobody else could be.
So this thought came to me a little while ago while thinking about the Job minisode in season 2, episode 2 "The Clue" and some of the segments of season 1, episode 3 "Hard Times".
I'm personally very interested in the Seven Deadly Sins - and to an extent, the Heavenly Virtues - so I was thinking it would fit quite nicely into Good Omens. I know this idea is likely one that's played with a lot.
We know that Aziraphale is a hedonistic angel, so it would make sense for him to commit the sins unknowingly. And I find it hilarious if Crowley were to commit the virtues unknowingly.
I could see Aziraphale being more likely to commit the sins and either not know it or at least try to justify why, as with envy because he's a protective angel.
Envy I think he already feels to an extent towards higher-ups like Gabriel, Michael etc. just because they have the power to do good, even if they choose not to. It's not necessarily a malicious type of envy he feels, but I think he does already feel some. I would go so far as to say he feels some envy towards Crowley, as seen in the Job minisode when he says that Crowley being a demon means he can do 'what he wants'. Crowley picks up on it as him sounding jealous, but I could also see it as envy, not just straight jealousy.
Lust is a complete accident. Iâve seen some fics play with this idea which I enjoy. The very idea that he could, or indeed would commit the sin of lust is unfathomable for him. Even if we assume that both he and Crowley are asexual there are sex positive asexuals.
Sloth I feel like he would be easily tempted into by Crowley. He knows Crowley slept for hundreds of years. I think he'd perhaps be curious about that after some minor temptations from Crowley.
Gluttony weâve seen a bit of in the Job minisode and the Paris 1793 segment (others too but these stand out). Food is a big thing for him since he was introduced to it by Crowley. A good earthly pleasure.
Greed could be skewed as being about his books and gaining knowledge, not necessarily monetary. And thereâs that thing about him not wanting to sell his books. We even saw Crowley threaten to sell books if he didnât change the Bentley back when he was going to Edinburgh in season 2. Greed can also lead to the manipulation of others to get what they want - Aziraphale has been known to use 'persuasion' to get Crowley and others to do what he wants (not in a malicious way, of course).
Pride I think he already exhibits to an extent. He takes a lot of pride in his appearance - "I have standards!" as seen in Paris 1793, "Just look at the state of this coat. I've kept it in tiptop condition for over a hundred and eighty years now."
Wrath would be the hardest I think for him to commit, but combined with Envy it might just work. If it was to protect Crowley he could be pushed I believe. We already know he protected Crowley in the bodyswap episode. Just by doing so I think it proves that he's protective, and I think if it came to it, he would absolutely use his wrath as an angel to defend him - not even as lovers, just in a 'we've-been-friends-for-6000-years-and-that-means-a-lot' way.
I know the focus here is on Aziraphale, but I very much enjoy thinking of him in these situations and perhaps the consequences of such things without him even realising he's commited sins. I think it would be a fun concept to expand on in fanfics (oneshots/drabbles) which I'm likely to attempt.
When I've thought more about Crowley committing the Heavenly Virtues I'll probably make another post with my thoughts.
