How do you think Astarion would react to Tav doing certain kind things for him?
Such as taking him to see fireworks because he mentioned he forgot how much color is in the world
Or taking him to get new clothes so he doesnât have to wear the ones Cazador presumably gave him or what he was buried with
Crafting a daylight ring so he can walk in the sun again
Or he spent years suffering malnutrition and Tav takes him to eat at various different restaurants to taste different foods sometimes she includes a drop of her blood to make it taste better for him
Just some sweets moments Iâd like your thoughts on
Ooooh, now weâre stepping right into pure headcanon territory! And on top of that, the cute, cute kind. So much sweetness! Letâs see how Astarion might react depending on the different scenarios. Iâll start from the assumption that, being who he is, heâll always have wonderfully complicated reactions â where what he says and what he actually feels never quite match â and, of course, that heâll always have a bit of trouble opening up.
Fireworks: Heâd probably start with his usual charming, slightly teasing façade â something along the lines of: "Well, arenât we dramatic? I approve. Though I can think of far more⊠intimate ways to light up the night, if you catch my drift."
He might joke about expecting a sudden marriage proposal next, complete with a ring or a bouquet of red roses, maybe even a serenade. Or he could make some risqué comparison between the sudden, fleeting bursts of light and the late-night⊠stirrings of some foul-smelling human teenager.
The evening would end much the way it began, with Astarion making lighthearted or slightly provocative remarks about this or that, as if the moment under the illuminated sky had passed without leaving a mark.
The square was emptying, littered with greasy wrappers and dotted with children still buzzing with excitement, darting between the legs of passersby as they laughed and shouted.
Astarion walked beside Tav with an air of distraction, as if the evening had been nothing more than a pleasant interlude. Since the last sparks had faded into the dark sky, the vampire spawn hadnât said another wordâcertainly not on the subject.
A cat darted across their path, chased by yet another squealing child.
âCare to wager?â he asked, a sardonic smile curling his lips. âEasy bet: the cat wins, the child cries, Iâm entertained.â
"That's a strange way to say you love cats."
They passed a shop window and Astrion glanced at the reflection of Tav and the bustling streets of Baldurâs Gate.
âAh⊠no reflection. I suppose I look as magnificent as always. Though I have a feeling I might just outdo myself tonight.â
Tav smiled, shaking their head. âIâm glad you enjoyed the fireworks.â
âIâd like all the colors of the day to burn themselves into your memory, so they can stay with you forever.â
For the first time, Astarion remained silent. His smile softenedâjust barelyâand his gaze lingered on Tav a heartbeat too long. In the depths of his crimson eyes, there was an intense, deep light. Warm. Then he looked away with a sigh.
âI have to admit, responding to that much sugar without sounding sincere is a challenge even for me. Careful, darling, or I might start thinking youâre trying to sweeten me up. And Iâm not sure whether to laugh⊠or be afraid.â
He resumed walking, gesturing toward a couple arguing loudly in the middle of the street.
âSee? Thatâs how most romantic evenings end. Proof that happy endings donât survive realityâor saccharine sentimentality.â
Later, in private and when Tav least expects it, Astarion would thank them in that hesitant, almost reluctant way that is so characteristic of him â as if revealing too much were dangerous:
âFor what itâs worth⊠it was memorable. I⊠will remember it.â
And Tav would know, because by now they knows him inside out, not only that they had touched him deeply, but that they had left him a precious treasure Astarion would guard jealously within himself.
New clothes: At first, Astarion would treat it like a game.
A sly smile, a theatrical twirl in front of a mirror that canât truly capture his reflection, and a wry comment:
"So, youâve finally decided to improve me? I must say, darling, Iâm flattered. But I should remind you â improving perfection is no small feat."
Heâd throw barbs about how certain outfits fit poorly or how a particular color âscreams country bumpkinâ and that he could never be seen in public wearing such a thing. It would be his way of keeping control over the situation, of making sure everything stays light â because if itâs just for fun, then itâs safe.
But thereâs another layer, of course: his old clothes are both a tie to his traumatic past and the only thing that has truly been his in two hundred years of slavery â mended countless times, preserved like a treasure. And Tav is telling him: let go of the reminder of what happened; you donât need it anymore, you can move on and have something else.
And itâs intimate. Terrifying. Liberating. All at once.
Tav might catch him pausing for a moment, his hand lingering on a fine, soft fabric longer than necessary. Astarion might grow unusually quiet whenever the tailor presents something he actually likes, without quite finding the courage to take the final step: to throw away the old and wear the new. Better to pick apart the stitching on the first shabby cloak at hand and irritate the shop owner than to admit just how hard it is for him.
Figaroâs boutique in Baldurâs Gate smelled of new fabrics and freshly polished wood. Tav was browsing jackets and shirts neatly arranged on the shelves, fingertips brushing over smooth textures and rich colours, until they paused by a mannequin wearing a sandy linen suit. They turned to Astarion.
"What do you think about trying this one?"
Astarion sighed and shook his head, placing one hand on his hip and wagging the index finger of the other toward the mannequin in utter disdain.
"Darling⊠coarse linen? Really. And perhaps tomorrow morning youâd like me to wake up at dawn and till the fields with a hoe. For the love of all gods above and below! You truly have no idea what taste is, do you?"
Tav just shrugged innocently. They might not know much about fashion, but one thing was certain: Astarion would look exquisite even dressed as a farmhand.
As if driven by the sheer need to educate his companion, Astarion turned sharply and made his way to the other side of the boutique; and after dismissing half the displayed items and the other half offered by Figaro himself, he stopped at one particular suit. The fabric was a deep grey, with silver undertones that seemed to shimmer and weave intricate patterns in the light. The jacket, perfectly tailored, tapered at the waist but at a glance promised it would drape over the contours of the body without ever constricting them. The shirt was of fine silk, soft under the vampire spawnâs discreet touch, an almost pearly white that never turned cold.
"This, my dear, is the difference between dressing and⊠merely covering yourself," he explained, as if Tav were some country bumpkin. "Weâre talking about art here, not burlap sacks with sleeves."
Tav laughed.
"Alright," Tav conceded, "then thereâs only one thing left for you to do."
Astarion arched an aristocratic eyebrow in an unspoken question.
"Try it on, obviously."
Astarion hesitatedâjust for a fraction of a secondâthe smug smile from moments before freezing on his lips into something far more rigid.
"Since you had the brilliant idea of dragging me here, I suppose youâve earned this privilege⊠and as luck would have it, Iâm in just the right mood to grant it," Astarion said. "And by the wayâyouâre welcome."
As if heâd been waiting for precisely that moment, Figaroâever diligent, ever attentiveâstepped forward, the chosen garment laid with solemn care across his folded arms, ready to present it like a prized treasure. Astarion took it with a half-smile, casting Tav a sidelong glance before disappearing behind the curtain of the fitting room.
The fabric whispered shut behind him. There followed the sound of shifting cloth and a few barbed remarks about stitching that he could have certainly done better himself.
When Astarion emerged, the jacket fit as though it had been made for him. It framed his shoulders, tapered along his waist and hips, soft as a caress woven from fabric. He spun once on his heel, striding a few measured steps with elegant posture and a slow, deliberate gaitâeach movement a demonstration of practiced stagecraft. But halfway through that small theatrical entrance, his eyes met Tavâs.
The other had gone suddenly still: mouth slightly parted, as though theyâd forgotten how to breathe; eyes wide and bright with wonder, fixed entirely on him. No wordsâjust a sincere, almost reverent awe. They looked as if theyâd been frozen in place from the moment Astarion had stepped out wearing the new ensemble. And the light in their eyes held something warm, envelopingâŠ
Caught in that silent snare of unguarded attention and genuine admiration, Astarion found himself abruptly in need of an escape. And something in his chest tightened until it almost hurtâthough in a strangely pleasant way. Without realizing it, the cocky smile on his lips grew uncertain, less razor-sharp, lingering in suspension for a heartbeat too long.
Then, at last, he seemed to regain control and found the words to shield himself.
"Well," he said, breaking the moment, "I suppose Iâll take it. I canât very well disappoint my audience when theyâre wearing such a languid expression."
That evening at camp, while Astarion sat by the fire staring into the flames, lost in thought, Tav would come over and settle beside him, a small bundle resting on their lap.
When the knot was undone, Astarion would realize it was his old clothesâretrieved by Tav without a word. Almost without thinking, his hand would reach out, brushing over every frayed seam, every careful stitch heâd made, every faded patch of fabric he knew by heart.
Then heâd lift his gaze to Tav and, when the other said something along the lines of, âIf they matter to you, they matter to me,â he wouldnât be able to hold back any longer. Without another thought, he would take Tavâs face in both hands and crash into their lips in a passionate kiss.
Tasting food: I think Astarionâs reaction would be a mix of surface-level wit and unspoken, deep gratitude â because it would touch on two very sensitive points for him:
Control and the ability to choose what to eat (something Cazador took from him for centuries)
Pleasure without conditions (nourishment not as a reward for obedience, but as enjoyment in and of itself)
Naturally, at first he would mask it with quips â raising an eyebrow at an exotic dish and remarking, âIt smells dangerously edible, darling, but if youâre trying to poison me, nothing beats the classic â a seductive virgin on a silver platter.â
But as the evenings went on, and as Tav took him to try more and more places and flavors, heâd start savoring the novelty with growing enthusiasm and a kind of shy attentiveness, as if afraid to show just how much he was enjoying it⊠and looking forward to the next dinner with impatience.
When Tav added that drop of blood to a dish, heâd probably make a teasing comment like, âTo spice things up, hm? Donât stop now â I adore being spoiled, but I canât promise a single drop will satisfy me, darling.â But the way he lingered on the taste â lips pressing together, a quick flick of the tongue between them, eyes half-closing for just a moment longer â would give away the truth: itâs the best kind of indulgence, because itâs both decadent and intimate. An act that feeds not just the vampire spawn, but the bond.
Years of malnutrition had taught him to see feeding as a necessary evil â often humiliating or painful â and the fact that Tav turned it into a shared pleasure, a sort of ritual of care, would move him far more deeply than heâd ever admit.
And after several outings, when his defenses had finally lowered, he might easily slip into a moment of carelessness: âThis tastes dangerously like happiness.â
The place was small, lit by warm lights that glowed against the bottles lined up behind the counter. The scent of aromatic herbs and sweet spices lingered in the air. Tav had chosen a table in the corner, far from overly curious eyes, and was now watching Astarion as he slowly tasted the dish before him.
The drop of blood had been added discreetly â blended into the velvety sauce that coated the already rare meat â and after the first bite, Astarion tilted his head ever so slightly, as if following some secret melody. Then he half-closed his eyes and let out a low, rough hum of approval as he chewed. Tav doubted he even realized heâd done it. They smiled, unable to look away from the scene. Astarionâs fingers moved with elegant precision over knife and fork, yet there was something less calculated in his motions tonight â a fraction longer in the pause between bites, a touch more ease in the way he handled the small gestures.
âThis,â he said suddenly, without thinking, âtastes dangerously like happiness.â
The words hung in the air like an involuntary confession. A moment later, Astarion seemed to realize what heâd said, blinking several times before lifting his head and fixing Tav with an embarrassed urgency.
âItâs a-all your fault, of course,â he blurted out, as if Tav had provoked him simply by existing. âYouâre the one who decided I should start pretending Iâm⊠well, anything but what I am. Playing at being mortal. Sitting here, savouring flavours, laughing in candlelight instead of⊠lurking in shadows. And nowâ"
But Tav didnât reply. They simply held Astarionâs gaze, their eyes warm and quiet, not trying to take advantage of the moment but giving it space â giving him space â so that whatever stirred in Astarionâs chest could settle on its own. In its own time.
It seemed to work. Astarion cleared his throat, glanced around, and shifted in his chair. For a long, almost endless instant, the chatter of the other patrons was the only sound between them. Then the vampire spawn shook his head and let out a bitter laugh.
âFor centuries, I ate because I had to. To survive. Now⊠I eat because I want to. Thatâs new.â
Tav tilted their head and offered a soft, understanding smile. âThen itâs working. Youâre taking back what was always yours. Iâm just⊠reminding you youâre allowed to have it.â Tav spoke the words like a promise, and reached a hand across the table.
Astarion hesitated. His gaze slid to that open hand, as though weighing whether it was a trap. Then, slowly, he extended his own. Their fingers brushed before twining together, and when they did, the pressure he gave wasnât measured â it wasnât the light, impeccable touch of a polite gesture, but a firm, needy hold. A keeping close.
Astarion and Tav said nothing more â they didnât need to â but the silence itself was full, speaking for them both: trust, gratitude, and something deeper that Astarion didnât yet dare name. Not by its true name.
Sun ring: At first, he simply wouldnât believe it. Heâd even get angry with Tav, because joking about other peopleâs misfortunes is fun â but about his own? Absolutely not.
âIâm warning you, darling: there are wounds you donât use as fodder for a charming evening.â
Tav would have to insist quite a bit to be taken seriously, because for Astarion, hope has always been something dangerous â something his master exploited only to watch him suffer the moment it was ripped away. Not to mention that giving up the sun for a second time had already been hard enough, but a third? Unbearable.
And even after giving Tav the benefit of the doubt, Astarion would still treat the situation lightly, as if to keep himself from hoping too much. Heâd probably mask the surge of genuine emotion and spontaneous desire to believe with his usual irony â a sly smile, a sarcastic quip, perhaps even pretending to examine the ring as if judging a piece of cheap trinket jewelry. Something like:
âOh, of course. Because nothing says eternal love quite like turning your partner into a human torch. Truly romantic. Are wedding bands out of fashion these days, or what?â
When he finally tried it, and sunlight touched his skin without burning, I imagine Astarion would go still. Completely frozen. For long moments unable even to make a sound, a tight knot in his throat and a crushing wave of emotion pressing against his chest. His hands might twitch, as though unsure whether to shield his face or reach for more light. His voice, when it came, would be softer, less certain than Tav had ever heard it before. Fractured.
The first ray of sunlight touched his skin.
There was no pain.
No scorching, no burning.
Only warmth. Soft, enveloping, almost tender.
Astarion froze, stifling a gasp when another shaft of light brushed his cheek. He also fought the automatic, ancient instinct to shield himself from it. Yes, he was afraid â of getting hurt, of burning: a memory etched into his skin, his muscles, into every cell of his vampiric body. And of waking up to find this was nothing but a dream.
He trembled at the thought and closed his eyes under the beam of light, savoring that pleasant warmth for long, undeniable moments.
He wasnât burning. And it was real. All of it.
His eyes stung.
He didnât want to cry. Not here, not with Tav watching from a distance. He clenched his jaw; his fingers trembled imperceptibly. He took another step â heavy, exhausting â until he was bathed in the full light of day. It was almost too much: every shade, every color, every sensation seemed to overwhelm his senses.
âItâs⊠warm,â he murmured, his voice breaking with a thread of disbelief and joy.
Astarion couldnât stop trembling. He heard Tavâs footsteps draw near, but didnât turn to look; and when he felt the otherâs arms wrap around him, he wasnât surprised. Nor did he pull away.
âThis is where you belong. And this is where I belong.â
The contact broke him. All the resistance, the forced composure, the ready quips⊠shattered. And through the jagged cracks, those words seeped in and filled them. In response, Astarionâs hands clutched Tavâs back tightly, his face buried in the hollow of their neck. The first tear was a silent surrender; the next came louder, short but unstoppable, as if a dam had burst.
He didnât cry for the sun alone. He cried for the years stolen, for the days never lived, for the impossible miracle of feeling alive again. And, above all, for the fact that â at least in that moment â he wasnât alone. He belonged. And someone belonged to him.
And Iâll stop here â Iâve sketched out a bit of everything and tried not to make too many grammatical mistakes; I hope I managed that. xD
I wasnât sure where to place the scenes in terms of timeline, so some are before the final battle, a few maybe before facing Cazador, and definitely the one with the ring is after the end of the game and even beyond the six months after the camp reunion with the other friends. Lol.
I think Iâve mostly just made a mess of it. I just hope itâs not too awful.
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