There are three instances in game where astarion calls himself a prostitute and reveals he think is himself as one
1) if you don't romance him and take him to the twin drows he will say "never thought I'd see myself on the paying end of a brothel"
2) if you romance and you go to the twin drows in the brothel post final quest, you can ask to hire one of them, he'll say "You have a type don't you? Elven prostitutes, again?" again refers to himself
3) if you play as Astarion, when you meet the drows at the brothel the first option in the dialogue is telling them "i was in a similar situation as yours". The drow man asks him how it was, and Astarion can answer in four ways, basically (from memory) "i did what i did to survive" /"it was not consensual for me, but you seem to want to be here" /"i prefer not to remember" /"horrible and horrifying".
on my dash , i just saw that someone was dropped as an rp partner for being slow.
i am speaking for myself here & no one else.
if you do not like that i am slow , then please do not follow me. as someone who has so much muse , but so little time to actually sit down & write & reply to things , it is so goddamn disheartening to get dropped by an rp partner for not being quick to reply.
if i'm not fast enough & you're eager for our thread ? great , shoot me a dm , let's scream about how excited we are , because i can do that. talk to me ooc , let's plot every scenario under the sun ! because i LOVE that & the fact that i am slow in no way reflects my excitement to roleplay.
furthermore , if you think that life doesn't take precedence over roleplay , then absolutely please don't follow me. i simply sometimes do not have the mental capacity , nor do I have time & frankly , i think it's shitty that people drop rp partners for being slow. i am so sorry to anyone who's experienced this , but i will ALWAYS be supportive of you , even if you're slow.
I second this post! I'm studying to be a veterinary nurse and, overall, have a very busy life. Please don't bother asking me to role-play with you if timely replies are something you deeply care about.
HI HELLO I SAW YOUR POST ABOUT GIVING U A PROMPT AND I LEAPT TO SUBMIT THIS
so uhh is it ok if you write some fluff about my bard Tav, Severin (he/him) having Astarion as the muse for his music? except Astarion doesn’t know this until after he shows the camp a song he wrote (and i didn’t add gale because i didn’t think to, i got the other main ones in cano though lmao). also this is Severin
tysm for reading this!!
Okay, I sort of went overboard with this because I haven't written anything longer than a few paragraphs in AGES, and I've literally never written fluff, but I hope this is alright! Your Tav looks so cool 👉👈 I was kinda afraid to write about him too much cuz idk his personality eksjejsjj
Content warnings: mild references to violence and problems with sexual boundaries
Astarion is used to people staring at him. The past two centuries of his life had been filled with wanton gazes; his life's purpose was to attract attention everywhere he went, and he did it very well. He knew he was beautiful, tempting and handsome. He even revelled in it.
...So why was Severin's stare sending chills up his spine?
It had been going on for a few days, now— this awkward little situation. Astarion would sit and read, or pretend to read and eavesdrop on others' conversations. This was the routine he'd adopted since he first arrived at camp. But, now, anything he did was accompanied by fleeting little glances from the camp bard. At first, Astarion figured the man had fallen head-over-heels for him, that he was hot under the collar and desperate for some attention. Now, he's not sure if Severin is crushing on him or plotting his murder. His gaze is too fiery, too trained on the features of his face to be lustful. He never directly approaches him, either; just watches from behind his tent flaps, crossed legged and only ever looking away when Astarion meets his gaze.
Confronting Severin about all of this had crossed his mind, but he'd decided against it. Avoidance, Astarion figured, was probably the best course of action, at least until Severin finally snapped and put a blade to his throat. After all, he couldn't exactly prove that the bard had murderous intentions. Maybe he was just shy. Maybe, he was working up the courage to ask for a fuck and had no idea how ridiculously creepy his staring was. He wouldn't be the first man to be so oblivious...
"Tonight, we feast!" Wyll's booming voice rips Astarion from his thoughts, head snapping around to see what the warlock was fussing over. Beside him, Lae'zel holds up an elk by the antlers, the creature's eyes lifeless and clouded. There was an arrow sticking into its neck, weeping blood fresh enough to smell on the air.
"Fuck yes! I'll start the fire," Karlach rubs her hands together, the heat generated between them enough to create flickering embers.
"I'll fetch our wine," Shadowheart adds.
All at once, everyone is bustling around the camp, grabbing pots and emptying baskets to find fresh vegetables. Everyone except Astarion, of course, who bristles in place. A camp get-together was the last thing he needed; declining the invitation would make him look sulky in front of his companions, and joining them would entail a night full of Severin's awkward stares. The Hells was he supposed to do?
"Astarion?" Wyll calls his name, pensive. He hadn't realised he was scowling, fangs just barely peeking out from under his lip. "I was going to leave a hunk of the meat raw, in case, you know..."
Aha! An opening!
"Oh, no, dead meat is of no use to me. I like my food... Very fresh. I'm afraid I'll have to hunt for my own meal tonight." He plays his best pout, eyes gleaming with insincerity. For once, his vampirism was a benefit; it was an excuse to hunt, to leave camp for a few hours while everyone else talked amongst themselves. Moreover, Severin wouldn't be able to chase after him with everyone else around him, watching. Most likely, he'd be the night's entertainment, strumming songs on his lute until his finger pads were raw and everyone was full of stew. Yes... Yes, this was the perfect excuse to get some peace and quiet!
"You're not joining us tonight?" Severin's voice is like honey, smooth and warm. There's a hint of... Disappointment? Sadness, perhaps, in it as well. Astarion regards him with a courteous nod, jaw clenching slightly. How could such an innocent face belong to a killer? Well— actually, that was a stupid question. Everyone in this camp was a killer; everyone had killed goblins and bandits and gods-know-what-else along their journey. Astarion mentally rephrased his sentence: how could such an innocent face, a face that had so openly welcomed his vampirism weeks earlier, be planning his demise? The idea seems preposterous now that he's up close to the other for the first time in days. Hells, there was no way it was true.
If he had the ability to, Astarion might've blushed in embarrassment. This paranoia was unbecoming of him; it was childish, something his siblings might've engaged in. Of course Severin wasn't planning on killing him!
"...not tonight," is all he manages before scampering away.
---
A small boar and a few hares. The forest was almost empty tonight. Lae'zel, all brutish and ugly as sin, must have chased all the game away in her hunt earlier...
Or, maybe, he's just sloppy tonight.
Astarion can't think of much besides Severin. Like many a man and woman before him, he was enchanted by his looks. Unlike most, though, he wasn't direct enough to proposition him for sex outright. He was more like a blushing maiden, or one of those gruff, bearded Gur he'd find in taverns— too scared to approach a man for pleasure but clearly interested in the idea. Confessing his vampirism must've put him on edge, blinding him to reason. Guilt pools in his stomach. Not only had he made assumptions about an ally, but he'd been depriving him of a service he wanted. What a horrible person he was.
---
The walk back to camp is more like a shuffle, his feet heavy and slow. Part of him hopes that everyone will be asleep when he returns, but he knows that chance is slim. And, sure enough, when the gleam of their campfire comes into view, he hears bouts of boisterous laughter and drunken conversation. Astarion steels himself, paints a confident facade over his face.
Before he can step into the clearing, Severin interrupts him.
"Alright, alright, I'll play it for you. It's not finished yet, though, so you mustn't judge it!"
Then, a gentle, melodic tune thrums to life through the strings of his lute. Astarion pauses, watching through thick tree branches. He sings gently, quietly— like he's embarrassed of his own work. The lyrics are hard to make out from behind the camp, but a few words make their way to his ears.
They make his jaw slacken.
Sanguine eyes, hair of silver, something something... Adventures, tales of legend, something...
Astarion kicks himself internally. He'd never been so wrong about someone. The tadpole in his head, clearly, was eating away at his intelligence and leaving him stupid. Of course Severin, a bard, was using his environment as inspiration for his music. The staring, the lack of conversation... It was all because he was observing him from afar. Every arrow he let loose, every book he nestled into after a long day— he was being immortalised in song, in poetry.
He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding. A deep dread, seated in the bottom of his unbeating heart, evaporates all at once and he feels a little lighter. Happy, even.
When Severin finishes, Astarion comes into the firelight and claps slowly, his usual confidence restored with a renewed vigor.
"Bravo, bravo! What an inspiring performance, darling!" The others seem to agree with him, nodding their heads and cheering with varying degrees of sobriety. "If I were a goblin, I'd lock you up like that Volo character and have you sing about me all day long." He makes sure to hold his gaze with those words, eyes radiating a sincerity he can't portray through words. Thank you, they say. Thanks for what, exactly, he isn't sure. But he's thankful nonetheless.
Drinking you in is like downing wine; your thick, red substance is intoxicating him, each pulse a shot of pure euphoria straight from your neck. He's at the precipice of being alive again, his unbeating heart fluttering in place, shaking. Your skin, hot and flushed, warms his own. He feels like a leech, the way he's absorbing your life force right now, stealing all that you are and gulping it down with such pitiful cries of satisfaction. Two centuries of starvation has made him near feral for this— for your blood. It's hardly enough that your squirming and gasping pulses it out from the punctures at your neck. No, no, he sucks and laps the wound with his tongue, coating each molar and incisor with the sanguine drug. Your skin, at his tortuous treatment, turns red and blue. Astarion knows that it'll be black and purple by tomorrow.
Why the Hells had you let this happen? It almost feels like a trap, this mutual embrace between the two of you. He ought to finish the job, keep going until you have no blood left to give. It's foolish to trust vampires, after all. So meek, so helpless— killing you would be no different to killing wildlife, except for the fact that you're the best thing he's ever fucking tasted. Strength gradually fills his body because of you, travelling from a place deep in his chest and to the tips of his fingers. Your blood fuels him, sustains him in a way that lesser animals could never hope to. Astarion wants nothing more than to kill you, to take all of you for himself right now.
At the same time, all he wants is to hold you here, between the earth and his own body, forever. Wants this moment to stretch for an infinite amount of time; longer than his years at Cazador's mercy, longer than the world's entire history. He could spend two centuries here with you, and it'd feel like a moment. He doesn't want it to end.
(idk wtf this is. I'm procrastinating an assignment lmao)
"Escape one problem, and you'll find yourself thrown into another. I may be free from Cazador's twisted grasp, free from his tyranny... But what the Hells do I do now? When I was stuck under his reign, at least I had a purpose— a job to do, disgusting though it was. Ugh.
This freedom... It's a little intimidating, I'll admit. I could drain people, you know. I could become the next big serial killer in Baldur's Gate, leaving behind nothing but a trail of corpses sucked dry like raisins! Or, perhaps I could open a shop, hm? I've always said that I missed my true calling as a perfumer.
Gods, I... I don't know what to do now, you know. For the first time in my miserable life, my choices are my own. It feels so foreign."
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