Ascended Astarion is not a new creature.
He is Astarion running Cazador’s OS at full amplification.
The posture changes first—
the opera-singer chest,
the squared shoulders,
the lifted chin designed to mimic a predator’s silhouette.
That isn’t confidence.
That’s programming.
But in the Jaheira rebellion scene, the graft slips.
For one second, everything collapses:
his stance softens,
his cadence drops into his original register,
his facial muscles release the predator mask—
and the Ascended Lord speaks like the man he was before the ritual ever infected him:
"I'm with you my dear, wherever this leads."
That line is the hinge.
Not Cazador.
Not Ascension.
Not power.
It’s his native OS leaking through the parasite code.
The architecture he hasn’t used in two centuries—
still intact, still dormant, still his.
This is why Ascended Astarion is narratively rich.
He isn’t a villain.
He’s a system in conflict:
Cazador’s imposed narrative
vs.
the original structure trying to wake up.
If you write him well,
you don’t invent a new Astarion.
You peel away the infection
until his real cadence breathes again.
Tags: character study, healing, acceptance, angst and fluff
Word count: 2170
a/n: I already posted this on Tumblr a while ago but the post disappeared alongside my old account. I wrote it as a little prologue to my long fic, Portrait of the pale elf, in which Astarion becomes a tailor after the events of the game. I hope you'll like it :)
If you prefer to read on Ao3
Sewing was a tedious activity all things considered. One that Astarion had never imagined himself doing for a living.
Well…To be fair, during all those centuries, he’d never dared to dream or hope for anything. Torture was Godey’s speciality, not his. And indulging in grand fantasies of freedom would have certainly felt like a new kind of torment. Especially when the only thing to look forward to was the next mucky rat he’d be allowed to feast on.
But becoming a tailor? Gods no, it had never been part of his plan.
Spending hours and hours in complete silence, hunched over some intricate sewing pattern. Struggling to pass a thread through the needle of his sewing machine, or finding it impossibly tangled around its mechanism. Stichting thousands of pearls in the shape of a blooming flower, until his vision blurred and his finger swelled under the thimble.
Hardly an exciting prospect for someone like Astarion. His definition of a fun night usually involved good wine, a little shopping spree, the latest plays or operas, and —if he felt like it— good company.
Needless to say that his love for the profession had been an acquired taste, at best.
But then again, he’d never really taken the time to think about the things he liked. Sometimes, he wondered if anything of what made him, Astarion Ancunín, was truly his. Had he always enjoyed the scent of rosemary, or was it just the only trick he’d found to hide the faint smell of grave dirt clinging to his skin? Had he always enjoyed getting lost in extravagant parties and crowded dressing rooms? Or had he always sought to silence his own dark thoughts by visiting those places? He would never know.
He’d first started sewing clothes for himself a few weeks after all had been resolved. Nothing of what he’d found at the clothiers suited him.
Poor quality. Crooked seams. Too tight around the shoulders or too wide near his waist.
One night, on a whim, he’d come to the conclusion that if the city was full of incompetents, he’d do it himself. He’d stormed out, bought a few fabric rolls, before decidedly sitting at the desk of his room at the Blushing Mermaid. It really hadn’t taken him long to work out a few patterns, cut the blue brocades, and make a few doublets out of them. He’d mended his clothes time and time again, back when he was still a spawn, but he’d never made a garment from scratch before. Yet, something about this felt so innate, so instinctive, almost as if… As if he’d done it before.
He already knew what to do without having to think — what to measure, where to pin the silk, how to stitch the seams. And from time to time, when the needle moved too quickly between his fingers, he was reminded of something.
A vision, barely out of grasp.
Old weathered hands holding an embroidery hoop, the crackling of the fire in the earth, and his own pudgy fingers clinging to the worn wool of a soft jacket.
“Needlework is a labor of love and patience. One sews like he lives, one motion at a time, purposefully. Diligence is a virtue you still need to learn, young master.”
So many stolen memories.
So many years spent living as an instrument of death.
Maybe devoting his time in the pursuit of beauty was the only way to atone for it, to prove to himself that he was meant for more than this eternal darkness.
Art imitates life, after all. And Astarion felt powerful each time he finished sewing a piece. As if he'd secretly stolen a bit of the gods’ power by doing so, as if he’d shaped something out of the void with his undead hands.
It was addictive, intoxicating, healing.
─── ⋆⋅ ☾⋅⋆ ───
Astarion never forgot his first customer.
It was right after he’d bought his shop. Some old and luxurious apothecary — or so he’d been told. He vaguely remembered walking past it during his nightly strolls, idly admiring the pretty jars on the shelves. A never ending procession of giddy ladies stumbled out of the shop with bright silky pouches in their hands, filled to the brim with glassy bottles of rose water, perfumed soaps, and all sorts of scented lotions.
Now that Astarion was the owner, it was slightly less… glamorous.
The shop was still dusty and empty. He hadn’t painted the walls bright red yet, or bought any of the black lacquered furniture and Persian rugs that would soon decorate the space. Here and there, he’d placed a few sewing mannequins, dressed in dazzling silky ball gowns and eye-catching embroidered doublets. His workshop table was pushed in a corner, spools of threads, fabric scraps, and messy sketches scattered on top of it.
He was busy sweeping the floors when the door flew open. Out of habit, he reached down for his daggers, but the only thing his fingers were met with was the cold silver of the sewing châtelaine. His embroidery scissors could work as a substitute, though perhaps a little too dull to deliver a killing blow.
But when he turned around, there were no men in armor, no monsters and no foes to fight. Just a little girl, crying and trembling on the threshold.
“Is this a tailor shop?” she sniffed, wiping her snotty nose on her red scarf.
She was very small, two funny little pigtails on top of her head. The stubborn look in her icy blue eyes was intriguing though, such determination didn’t quite fit on the face of a child. She swayed on her feet now and then, struggling to carry the satchel flung over her shoulder, twice as big as her.
“We’re not open yet,” he sighed, going back to his cleaning chores. “Sorry, dear.”
“But —You’re the last place I haven’t gone to yet! I went to see all the seamstresses, all the clothiers, all the tailors! None of them want to help me!”
“Help you? I think you knocked on the wrong doors, darling,” he huffed, crouching down to dust the shop window. “People rarely do favors around here, you see. They offer their services in exchange for a generous sum of money.”
“I can pay!” she proudly declared, thumping her little boots on the floor, red as a beetroot.
“Far from me the idea of discouraging you, my dear, but I doubt you can afford me.”
He heard her rummaging in her bag, and soon a familiar tinkle sound.
Astarion’s favorite little symphony.
“I have daddy’s money,” she finally said, holding her heavy purse of coins in her quivering fist.
He slowly let go of his broom, eyeing her and the pouch in her hand with renewed interest.
“And does daddy know that you’ve dipped into his coffers and fled with the swag hidden under your coat?”
The last thing he needed was to have an army of flaming fists officers on his tail; he’d done his best to lay low during the last months, to be a picture perfect citizen. Being a vampire was enough of a problem already, and Astarion’s greatest wish was to be left in peace, to be forgotten.
“No, daddy’s too busy, don’t worry.” She furrowed her brows, her blue eyes darkening like the sun behind a rainy cloud. “He won’t notice.”
He looked at her for a little while, hesitating, and she kept her round serious eyes trained on him.
“Very well, it’s a deal then,” Astarion sighed, bending down to grab her hand and tug her inside of the shop. “This way, madam.”
The little girl giggled, whispering a few ecstatic thank you, and trotting about the messy atelier. She dragged her satchel on the floor with a sigh, before taking a long piece of blue fabric out of it. It was in a very pitiful state, torn and stained in various places, covered in soot, as if someone had attempted to burn it.
“What in the sweet hells is that?” Astarion asked, scrunching his nose when she clumsily laid it flat on his workshop table.
“That’s mommy’s caplet.”
“Yes, what’s left of it, at least —” he mocked, examining it with a disgruntled look on his face. “What happened to it?”
She clung to the edge of the table, her knuckles turning white, her eyes silently filling with tears again. “Can you fix it or not, mister?”
He looked at the coat some more, trying to think about ways to clean or dye it, maybe by stitching a patchwork of new fabric onto it, but he always arrived at the same conclusion.
That rag was beyond saving.
“It would be much easier to sew a new one. I’m not sure I can make anything out of this.”
Her face fell, Astarion’s stomach flipped, and she started to sob.
Oh gods, he’d forgotten just how dreadful witnessing a child cry was… He’d seen Arabella do it a few times — fists curled by her sides, face tense and awfully red, voice so high-pitched that he'd thought the sound would pierce his eardrums.
What did Karlach and Lia do back then? Give her a handkerchief? A little pat on the head? Something sweet to eat? He couldn’t remember.
“No!” she screamed in the middle of her crying fit. “I don’t want another one, I want this one!”
“But you can’t possibly want to keep this miserable—” he tried to say, stepping towards her with wide panicked eyes.
What if people heard her scream from the outside? What if they got the wrong idea? He needed to get her to stop. Quickly.
“It has to be this one,” she breathed, burying her face in her hands. “It’s the last thing I have, it still smells like her.”
Oh, so that’s what this is about, he thought, and somewhere in his chest, where his heart was supposed to be beating, he felt a pang of hurt.
Some old wound, reopened.
He knew a thing or two about that feeling too, about the agony of grief and loss.
He’d died, he’d killed, and he’d lost so many things along the way.
A trail of corpses and blood in his wake.
And suddenly the garment sprawled in front of him was more than just a dirty mantle. It was a shroud, freshly dug out of cold soil of a tomb.
His fingers shook around the seams, pensively tracing the stitched lines.
“How about this then?” he asked, softer this time. “See this half of the caplet? It’s as good as new, darling. What if I made something else out of it? Something you can wear all the time?”
She wiped her tears, droplets of salty water sparkling on her long lashes. “What would you make?”
“A scarf? I could embroider something on it, stitch a few pearls or gemstones, it would make it worth the money.”
“Mmm, I like it,” she nodded, with a sad little smile. “It’ll feel like mommy’s giving me a hug.”
Astarion’s hands were a little unsteady when he started cutting through the blue wool, afraid that he’d ruin it any further. It was his first time working on such an old fabric, something woven with so many memories and love. And his little customer was looking at each and every of his motions with rapt attention, her fogged eyes lingering on the parts of the caplet she’d have to leave behind.
Stitch after stitch, little tassel after little tassel, the fabric came back to life. Resuscitated.
It had been beautiful once, he could tell. Soft and bright, warm and nicely tailored.
When he was almost done sewing it all together, she tugged on his sleeves and asked him to embroider a name on it.
“Gabrielle.”
Her mother’s name, surely.
And so he did.
In threads of gold, floating in a sea of pearls and crystals.
Like a spell.
Most people came to his shop to buy something new: an armor of silk and satin for the next season, or a pretty dress to wear at tea one of those ridiculous five-o-clock tea parties.
But from time to time, someone entered his shop with a damaged and torn garment in their hands, and Astarion never denied them. He cleaned and he washed; he mended and stitched back in place.
He had a strange sort of sympathy for the old rags, as if he could see more in them than the stains and the unstitched seams. Some old and distant memory of himself perhaps, or an opportunity to prove that everything that is a little broken can be fixed.
Tailoring wasn’t just about sewing pretty ballgowns and enchanting attires, and on good nights, Astarion almost took pride in that fact.
He’d found so much more at the tip of his needle.
A craft teetering on the edge of life and death, an art dedicated to ghosts and social butterflies alike.
But above all else: a purpose, a reason to keep pulling the thread.
Summary: Astarion is less than compassionate when he meets another person in a familiar plight.
Ratings: Some blood and violence.
Chapter 14: Feast
Read on AO3.
What remains of Waukeen’s Rest smolders and crackles in the pale morning sun. The crèche is near and Lae’Zel is impatient, but Tav insists they scavenge the inn for any unburnt supplies before they continue on. The dead innkeeper certainly won’t mind.
Astarion sulkily picks through the debris, bored. He doesn’t need potatoes, leeks, or carrots. He needs blood. And gold. And new boots. Maybe another health potion.
Tav needs food. Tav could use another health potion.
Without proper nourishment, her blood will taste like bile.
Somewhere in the distance, the widower they rescued yesterday wails for his dead wife. Tedious. Astarion shuffles through the stables, idly kicking up errant hay. Not only had the man lost his wife, he had lost her dowry too. Tav had of course offered to find it for him. Not a complete waste of time, but if they do find it then they should just keep it for themselves. Astarion could buy new gloves.
The dead are dead. Mourning them doesn’t bring them back. Feeling bad doesn’t change anything. Better to scrounge what you can from their ashes.
Fear suddenly ripples through the tadpole. Tav’s fear. He bolts blindly forward, letting the connection pull him out of the barn, sprinting instinctively towards the stables. Through the tadpole he can feel that Karlach and Lae’Zel are close behind him, all three of them barreling toward the pulsing knot of Tav’s terror.
What did the man say? Tav demands through the bond.
What man? Karlach asks.
The man in the cave!
What cave? Astarion snaps.
With the gnolls! The Zhentarim!
The handsome one? Karlach teases.
Just kill whatever it is and be done with it, Lae’Zel urges.
What was the password he told us!?
Ah, Rugan. The mercenary they had saved from gnolls. He had given them that strange treasure chest, warning them not to open it. Astarion had wanted to crack it open, but Tav had insisted they listen. But he’ll convince her to change her mind. He knows exactly how.
Little serpent, long shadow, Astarion answers.
Warm relief floods the connection. Astarion reaches the stables first, pivoting swiftly to tear open the door to a nearby shed, which thrums with Tav’s psionic signature. Inside, an archer has Tav pinned, pointing a flaming crossbow bolt directly at her chest. An oil barrel glistens behind her in the corner of the shed.
“Little serpent, long shadow!” Astarion barks. At his words the archer cautiously lowers his weapon, even as Karlach and Lae’Zel charge in through the door, weapons drawn.
“Helm’s orbs! Thought you lot were Flaming Fists,” the archer swears. He douses the arrow matter-of-factly, as if he hadn’t almost blown them all to smithereens. He gives them a once over, his eyes lingering over their mismatched armor. “Entrance is hidden down the hatch and behind the wardrobe,” he finally says. “Here’s the key.” He tosses Tav something small and silver. “We’re not sticking around after what happened here yesterday, so if you’re looking to trade, best be quick.”
Tav thanks him, slipping the key securely onto her key ring. The rough silver is shaped like a serpent curling around itself, baring its fangs. Something twists inside of him as she sidles past the oil barrel, making her way towards the hatch.
“Busy as usual, I see, almost getting us killed,” Astarion half-jokes, sauntering over to her side.
“Not intentionally, I promise,” she swears. The collar of her ridiculous Blazer of Benevolence jingles softly as she leans in towards him.
“Are you quite sure? Because since we’ve met, you’ve been nothing but trouble,” he accuses. Lae’Zel slips around them and down the hatch, but not before pointedly jostling Astarion on her way past.
“Well then, it’s a good thing you are here to rescue me, since I’m so much trouble,” Tav returns playfully, her eyes glittering with mirth. Astarion flushes too, hot with her blood and praise. Him, a hero? What nonsense. He forces out a light, hollow laugh and smiles so wide his face begins to ache.
“Oh Darling. If you are hoping for a knight in shining armor, then you are going to be waiting a long, long time,” he smiles, snaking past her and disappearing down the hatch. He doesn’t need the tadpole to feel Tav’s confusion and chagrin. But he’s not a hero. And he won’t pretend to be.
“Don’t worry about Fangs, mate,” he hears Karlach call out above him. “Maybe the tadpole crawled out of his eye and up his posh bum instead.”
“Maybe, Karlach,” Tav says. She forces out a hollow giggle of her own.
~
The Zhentarim had been expecting them. Not a good sign. And their leader, Zarys, had wanted to speak with Tav directly. She had called their party “friends of the family”, but Astarion had caught the sarcastic lilt to her words. He knows a trap when he hears one. But surrounded by so many armed and dangerous killers, they don’t really have much of a choice but to obey.
Even so, getting on the good side of deadly mercenaries could be good. These were his kind of people. It could be useful to network with like minds. If it doesn’t get them killed.
He remains close to Tav as she leads the way, down a tunnel, through an iron gate, and into a surprisingly well-lit grotto. Zhentarim loiter and loaf, eyeing them with both open amusement and suspicion. Every single one of them must be armed to the teeth.
“Please, I must rest! I cannot work under these conditions,” someone sobs. Up ahead, a grimy man crouches over what appears to be an easel. His face is streaked with sweat and dirt, and he works his paintbrush feverishly over a large canvas. He is painting at such a slap-dash pace that Astarion doubts the painting will be anything but sloppy. Off to the side, a group of Zhentarim, undoubtedly his captors, dispassionately observe his plight. “There’s just no need for this!” The man huffs, tossing his brushes aside and slumping down on a stool. “Free me now, and I will see that my patron rewards you,” the man begs. His upper lip quivers pathetically.
One of the Zhentarim, a man with fiery red hair and a finely waxed mustache, strides over and strikes the man hard across his face. The man recoils, knocking his brushes into the dirt. His palette topples over, splattering paint across his once fine silk trousers.
“You’ll do as you’re told, Mr. Artiste. Or else my knife may just take a liking to your fingers,” the Zhentarim threatens. The artist scrambles to pick up his things, painting again with renewed haste.
That will teach him, Astarion thinks. That was barely even a punishment, honestly. Cazador would have actually cut off one of his fingers.
Tav bristles next to him. Her gait slows, her head turns towards the Zhentarim. “What do you-"
“Darling.” Astarion cuts in front of her, blocking her view. “There’s nothing to see here. Let’s go see Zarys.” Tav’s eyes widen in shock.
“But they’re hurting him, Astarion.”
Astarion scoffs. “Of course they are. They’re mercenaries and slavers. It’s what they do.”
“But if we leave him, they’re going to hurt him even more.”
“And if we don’t hurry up, Zarys may hurt us,” he counters. “We can talk about this later.” Tav reluctantly relents, shooting one last look at the artist before she resumes walking.
“That’s cold, Fangs,” Karclach says.
“Darling, compared to you, everything is cold,” he replies dismissively. Karlach laughs a short, unamused bark. They all continue onward.
Zarys is a petite pixie of a woman, all sinew and sharp teeth. She hovers over a prisoner, bound tightly to a chair beside her. Zarys raises a hand sharply and backhands the prisoner with a sharp thwack! Astarion smells it: blood.
“You’re the one who recruited me, Rugan. You’re the one who taught me Rule Number One, remember?” Zarys’s lip curls as she circles around the chair. “You’re dead from the moment you steal from the Zhentarim,” Zarys recites. Rugan grunts, spitting out a dribble of spit and blood onto the stone floor.
“Which you should have known. That is, if you’d done your research before impersonating one of us,” she hisses in his ear.
Zarys’s eyes flick over to them and Astarion’s blood runs cold. If Rugan isn’t Zhentarim, then-
“But I’ll tell you what,” Zarys says, straightening up. She looks Tav in the eye. “You lot ‘ave already taken Rugan’s cargo. So, finish the job and I’ll let you live. Deliver it to Baldur’s Gate.”
“We will,” Tav agrees quickly.
“Good.” Their party, except perhaps Lae’Zel, breathes a collective sigh of relief as Zarys smiles. “Oh, and one more thing before you go. Kill him.”
“What!?” Rugan pulls fruitlessly at his restraints, struggling to break free.
Tav recoils. Astarion grabs her hand, squeezing her fingers tightly. She squeezes him back.
“Think about this, darling,” he whispers through gritted teeth. “We are surrounded by unscrupulous mercenaries who are armed to the teeth-"
“But he helped us!” Tav hisses back.
“And he can help us again by swiftly dying,” Astarion retorts.
“He’s innocent, Astarion. He doesn’t deserve this,” Karlach insists.
A barrage of other innocent faces shuffle through his mind like a deck of cards. There are too many to remember. He can only see a few of them clearly anymore.
“That doesn’t matter,” he says. “And yes, we can.”
“I’m surprised you aren’t itching for a fight, darling,” Tav returns.
“Tempting, darling,” he admits. “But I prefer fights that I can win.”
“It’ll be tough, but we can take 'em,” Karlach argues.
“You istiks have not noticed, but we are standing in a puddle of oil,” Lae’Zel observes. “This place is trapped. We are at a strategic disadvantage. There is no glory in losing a fight you picked.”
“Unless we light the fuse ourselves,” Tav suggests. They all round on her.
“Are you insane!?” Astarion hisses.
“Maybe it could work. We’d just have to-"
“Are you really going to burn us to a crisp for some stranger you don’t even know?” Astarion asks, floored. Lae’zel grunts in agreement.
“We technically do know him-"
“You don’t know him!” Astarion hisses. “Do you care more about a stranger than us?”
“Of course not! But we-”
“We are not in one of your songs!” He spits at her. “How many times do I have to tell you? Your soft-hearted pandering is going to get us all killed!” Tav stares at him, her eyes wide and searching, flickering back and forth between his own. Her lips press into a hard line.
“I’m beginning to think you aren’t going to accept my very generous offer,” Zarys interrupts. “Do it now, or you’ll be quite sorry.”
The grotto is silent. All eyes are on them. Tav and Zarys stare each other down, each one refusing to give in.
“Fine. We’ll do this your way,” Tav relents, stepping forward.
Astarion grips his daggers tightly, preparing to spring into action. If they are going to survive this, they will have to get out of the oil spill first.
Tav unsheathes a dagger tucked neatly in her jerkin. She grips it tightly as she moves behind a blubbering Rugan. She then produces a scroll of sleep, which quickly settles over Rugan, who slumps back in his restraints and bares his stubbled neck. Tav slices the blade quickly over the tender flesh, severing his jugular in an ugly spurt. Astarion swallows thickly as Rugan silently bleeds out in a lush waterfall of crimson. A cold grin splits across Zarys’s face.
“And just like that, everyone profits.” Zarys announces, her tone a playful singsong once more. “Alright recruits, stock up here and be on your way. Someone will make contact with you in Baldur’s Gate.”
Tav prestidigitates the dagger, sheathing it swiftly and tucking it back into her pack. She quickly turns away, silently leading the way back down the outcrop, back straight and head high. Tav sneaks a glance in his direction and as Astarion meets her gaze, his mind lurches forward and crashes into hers.
Regret, anger, resignation, despair, confusion. Tav’s mind is a swirl of contradictions. And at the center, shame. She wants him to like her so so much, and she can’t be sure he even does.
But the deeper he dives into her, the deeper she dives into him. The dark pit of his fear swallows her whole. It freezes everything it touches: grief, rage, desire, concern, compassion, warmth, the ghost of something else he is too afraid to name. It’s too big to let anything else in. And it has to be: Cazador is coming.
Tav reaches for his hand and gently brushes her fingers against his. Astarion flinches instinctively, jerking out of her grasp. Tav immediately retreats, yanking her hand backwards. She quickly hurries onward down the path, her face guarded and sad.
It had to be done. Rugan was nothing to him. Cazador would have felt nothing, using him up and then tossing him aside. This was the only way.
“You’re not wrong, Fangs. But you’re not right, either,” Karlach says, brushing past him. Astarion laughs, a loud high-pitched giggle.
“I don’t care about ‘Right.’ I care about staying alive,” Astarion snaps.
“Even if that means crawling on your belly like a snake?” Karlach returns.
“I’ve done worse things,” Astarion admits flatly. “And so have you, my fiery friend. I don’t know why you’re getting soft now.”
“Because I have a choice now,” she says. “And so do you, you know. You’re free.”
“Yes, I am,” Astarion replies, icily. “And freedom means I can do whatever I want.” Astarion storms back towards the grotto, ignoring Karlach’s disappointed stare.
Lae’Zel, bless her, says nothing.
“Well, don’t you all cut fine figures!” The cheerful, red haired man quickly waves them over as they make their way back through the cave. Tav beelines right to him. “If you have the gold, my pet artist will make you a most heroical likeness.”
Really? He would do that? For the first time in centuries, maybe Astarion could finally-
“You call that man your pet?” Tav asks, incredulous. Astarion speeds up, coming quickly to her side.
“Let’s say we’re his patrons, yeah?” the man smiles. “Found him wandering in the wilds alone. He needs protection. And if his paintings cover our costs, well, so much the better, eh?”
“This protection you’re offering sounds a lot like kidnapping,” Tav says.
“You looking to buy him? I’m open to offers, mate,” he raises his hands in a placating gesture. “But threats, not so much,” he adds darkly. Astarion knows that despite his friendly exterior, this man would have no problem slitting their throats.
Tav raises her hands, mirroring him. “I’m just saying. If he’s as talented as you say, someone is going to come looking.”
“And I would be happy to facilitate a proper reunion between them. For the right price, of course.”
“And what is the right price?”
“600 gold. No more, no less.”
“600 gold!?” Astarion exclaims. “That’s an absurd price!”
“He’s a famous artist! He’s worth a lot!”
“200 gold. You won’t get a better deal so far from Baldur’s Gate,” Tav claims. His eyes narrow.
“450.”
“400.”
“Done.”
“400 gold!?! You have lost your mind,” Astarion cries as Tav hands over the hefty chunk of coin. “For him? Do we have any gold left at all now?”
“Yes, now stop your whining,” Tav snaps. Astarion quietly seethes as Tav turns sharply away from him.
“I can’t say I’ve ever been bought before! Tell me, how much did I fetch?” the artist asks, his eyes hopeful with arrogant curiosity. But his expression quickly falls. “Nevermind, don’t tell me. There’s nothing more depressing than knowing one’s true worth,” he moans. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Oskar Fevras.”
Oskar immediately begins regaling them with increasingly sordid details about his love life. Astarion had heard the scandalous rumors from one of his victims, how Lady Jannath had taken a common lover, agreed to marry him, and then the lover had run off somewhere. This was Oskar Fevras? Lady Jannath must be a very lonely woman.
“Say, you couldn’t spare a little coin, could you? Ease the discomfort of the road, some,” Oskar asks.
“Tav,” Astarion warns.
“I can spare a little,” Tav replies, reaching into her coin purse. She rummages for a moment. “How much did you need?”
“Truly a pittance. A measly 200 gold will do.”
“Tavariella, no. I forbid you,” Astarion warns again.
“We can give you 100,” Tav offers. Oskar sighs.
“A bit stingy. But I suppose this will have to do.” Oskar takes the gold and shoves it deep into his pockets. “Until Baldur’s Gate, then.” He winks at Tav before promptly disappearing.
“Not even a proper thank you,” Astarion pouts. “I can’t believe you wasted all of our money on that oaf!”
“He's an oaf all right," Tav agrees. "But an oaf or not, no one deserves to be enslaved." Her eyes flick over towards him, watching him carefully, and he cannot fight the sneer that creeps across his face.
“How much gold do we have left?” he huffs.
“We have enough. We’ll be fine.”
Astarion rolls his eyes.
“Cheer up, mate. Think of this as your good deed for the day,” Karlach says brightly.
Astarion scoffs, kicking out at Oskar’s abandoned stool, which topples over pathetically. This annoying, untalented stranger is miraculously freed from his slavery and gets to go home with gold in his pocket to a doting patron. And what did he suffer, a slap to the face? A short imprisonment? Astarion would have begged Cazador for so light a punishment. Oskar didn’t deserve to be enslaved? Had he deserved -
“This has been foolish and a waste of time. A crèche is near, and my people will see that we are safe and re-stocked there,” Lae’Zel claims loudly. Astarion doubts that anyone else genuinely believes her. Maybe Tav.
Tav asks to see the Zhentarim’s wares and he reveals a treasure trove of stolen goods. Astarion immediately picks up a pair of fine leather gloves.
“Gloves of Thievery, a good choice,” the Zhentarim, called Brem, says.
“I want these gloves,” Astarion demands. “My current ones are getting old.”
“It’s only been a week, Astarion,” Karlach chides him.
“Githyanki warriors are capable of killing istiks with far cruder armor than yours. But still, despite your sniveling, those gloves are well-made,” Lae’Zel adds.
Tav picks through her coin purse, but Astarion already knows what she is going to say. “I don’t think I have enough for them, Astarion,” Tav reveals sadly.
“Well, not anymore,” Astarion replies snippily.
“I’m sorry,” she apologizes lamely. He says nothing. “I’ll get you new gloves soon. I promise,” she swears. Astarion sighs petulantly as Tav tucks her coin purse away.
Stop this. You know she means it. She adores you.
Of course she does. So many others had as well.
With no gold left to spare, their group quickly finishes trading. They decide to explore the cave for just a bit longer: there may be other treasures that the Zhentarim have not claimed still hidden in its depths. But once his companions are out of sight, Astarion loops back around and quietly approaches Brem, watching and waiting for an opening. After a moment Brem secures his wares in a crate, locking it before he moves away to speak with his companions. Jackpot.
Freedom means I can do whatever I want. I deserve those gloves.
Crouching down, Astarion quickly swoops in, picking the lock with frightening ease. He slips the lid off. There’s a soft click and his stomach drops: he had seen the lock, but he had not seen the trap. The lid explodes in a burst of fire and wood, knocking him back on his ass. Shouting erupts throughout the cavern, the harsh echoes quickly becoming a roar of sound. Forcing himself to his feet, he swipes the gloves from the remnants of the crates and dashes away, racing to catch up to Tav and the rest.
“There you are, soldier!” Karlach calls out to him as he rapidly approaches.
“We need to go!” He urges, coming to a momentary halt before the group.
“What did you do?” Tav demands. The shouts of the confused Zhentarim grow louder. They will soon realize that their cargo is missing.
“It doesn’t matter, we need to go!”
Lae’Zel points to his new prize, clasped tightly in his hands. “Tchk. You stole the gloves.”
“Seriously, Astarion?” Tav reprimands him.
“I wanted them!” he exclaims. Tav swears loudly.
“You heard Zarys, we’re dead if the Zhentarim catch us." She shoots him an angry glare but ushers him forward, shielding Astarion from the pursuing Zhentarim. "We better pray there is another way out.” There's a sharp whizzing sound and an arrow strikes the cave wall near Karlach's broken horn, breaking into bits and showering them with wooden splinters. They all bolt, racing deeper into the cave as a hail of arrows rain down on them.
“Watch it!” Karlach yells as a Zhentarim lobs an alchemist fire towards them. The glass bottle smashes into the cave floor, exploding into sharp fiery bits. Lae’Zel instinctively jumps back, accidentally throwing herself through the cave wall.
Through the cave wall?
“Tskva!!” Lae’Zel swears. “An illusory wall?”
They quickly dart through the illusion and into a much larger, much darker cave. The ground soon slopes sharply away into sudden, impenetrable shadow. A series of ropes and pulleys support a sturdy wooden platform suspended above the pit.
“Looks like a lift of some kind,” Karlach observes. “Where do you think it leads?”
“No idea,” Tav says. “But this looks like our ticket out.”
They each step onto the platform. They can hear the angry shouts of the Zhentarim nearby, but no one has come beyond the wall yet. Do they even know this passage is here? Lae’Zel grabs the lever and pulls, lowering them down, down, down into the deepening darkness below the earth.
They are protecting him. They could have left him to the Zhentarim, but they are helping him escape. Astarion flexes his fingers, ignoring the strange and sudden urge to grab for Tav’s hand. Instead, he curls his hand into a fist, tightening his fingers around his stolen prize. His new gloves are exactly what he had wanted.
It's a mix of his romance plot, his two endings, songs I feel catch his vibe, and songs I feel like could be sung to him. Oddly it IS in an order but absolutely can be played in shuffle.
((Some highlights from the list)):
White Dove- Koda
I've got a bone to pick/ Somebody showed you all of the horror/ You weren't born with it// You're a silver tongued jackboot thug with/ White skin but you're no white dove/ And you're scared of us 'cause we show you love/ Until there's none of us left to love/ None of us left to love//I had this feeling that you'd betray me/If I gave too much and you took too much
There's so much to say, but this is just Astarion in general. He's true commitment avoidant, got this way because Cazador, and uses the people he's around. This song is a lot of his flaws.
Dr Sunshine is Dead- Will Wood and the Tapeworms
Well, who should I be then, if I'll never be the same?// I will be my sunshine, I will be my moon at night/ Who else could I be, when I can't fucking see?/ I will be my sunshine, I will be my moon at night/ I'm nowhere now, here's no one now to be// And if dreams can come true/ what does that say about nightmares?/ I'll stay awake tonight
This speaks to Astarion's strengths. He is strong willed and will do anything he can in order to succeed and survive, even if it's not something good for him. He'll depend on himself. The lyrics seem tame but that part of the song is so raw and emotional it gets me everytime. It fits him, as a lot of Will Wood songs do.
Good Looking Boy- Suki Waterhouse
You stop for breath and I sped up/Just to impress you// The skyline falls as I try to make sense of it all/ I thought I'd uncovered your secrets, but turns out there's more
This one is singing to him. For those that fell for him and found out he was just using you. Open to either him eventually reciprocating or not, but it reminded me of Act II romance conversations.
Hail To The King- Avenged Sevenfold
Hail to the king/ Hail to the one/ Kneel to the crown, stand in the sun/ Hail to the king// Blood is spilt while holding keys to the throne/ Born again, but it's too late to atone
This one is steeped in Ascended route imagery. Like those lyrics? For real. The obvious, he's in power and can stand literally in the sun and will make people kneel in his victory. But also the last two lines I included, he achieved it through irreversible sacrifice. It's such an easy song to attribute.
Habits (Stay High)- Tove Lo
You're gone, and I gotta stay high all the time/ To keep you off my mind/ High all the time to keep you off my mind// Spend my days locked in a haze/ Trying to forget you, babe, I fall back down/ Gotta stay high all my life to forget I'm missing you
More towards the breaking up with Ascended Astarion route. Not meaning he'd be on drugs, but just trying to distract himself and high with power and conquest to try and ignore the fact he won't move on as easy as he says he can. Also covers some of the constant fear he now lives in, from what the subtext says of he now is more fearful post-ascension than pre.
Oleander- Mother, Mother
And if you leave me/ Rest assured it would kill me// Like an oleander/ White, white leaves/ Of an oleander/ White like me
This one I feel like is after he's really truly fallen for whoever he's with. Him singing to his love interest. Also he's pale white and snow white hair so theme and literally like oleander.
-----+++++++-------
I could go on, because I could seriously write a long character analysis based off each song. But this post is long enough lol.
Will make one for Wyll, and my specific Tav at some point.
Summary: Free from his master’s vampiric thrall for the first time in 200 years, Astarion’s mind, body, and heart war with each other over how to seize and solidify his precious, and precarious, newfound freedom. Luckily, Tav’s there to help. Or perhaps ruin all his carefully laid plans. Multi-chapter longfic.
Rating: 18+, Explicit Content, Porn with a lot of plot and a lot of feelings ❤️🔥
Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Angstarion, Astarion Character Study and everything that entails, PTSD, Descriptive Explorations of Emotional and Sexual Trauma, Manipulators to Lovers, Vampire Sex, Blood Kink, Blood Drinking, Grinding, Unresolved Sexual Tension. Tav is CIS female and a bard. Full tag list on AO3.
A/N: As a veteran vampire fucker, Astarion really is something special. Will be updating every two weeks. This will be messy in the best way possible.
Somehow, Astarion was watching the sun set. This simple moment, which the rest of his companions almost certainly took for granted, was a miracle to him. He had resigned himself to endless night a century ago, yet now here he was basking in a sunset like it was nothing. He stared at the fading sun until he couldn’t anymore, until his retinas burned and the last languid finger of light finally dipped below the horizon, abandoning Faerûn to a soft, somber twilight. Each precious, fleeting day was a gift and Astarion intended to feast on each one down to the marrow.
Somehow, Cazador Szarr had once again failed to find him. For 200 years his master had ruled Astarion’s waking moments with an iron fist. And then a small, wriggling little worm had miraculously interrupted Cazador’s vampiric hold on him. Imagine, a vampire lord losing to a worm. Astarion could die, again, of laughter. Yet even here, two weeks out from The Gate, Astarion felt his Master’s phantom eyes on him. He didn’t understand it but Astarion wasn’t a fool: he knew his time was limited. It was only a matter of whether the Mindflayers or Cazador would catch up to him first. Neither option was particularly good but the choice was easy, if he had one: he’d do anything, absolutely anything, to keep from returning to the Szarr Palace.
As the camp settled in for the night Astarion pantomimed preparing for bed, a routine he knew he was fumbling clumsily through. The night had been for hunting, seducing, fucking, killing. It had never been for relaxing. For reading. For chatting idly with people he wasn’t planning on stabbing in the back. For now at least. He knew they’d have no qualms about stabbing him, should they discover his condition. Even so, he had meditated more these last few nights than he had in decades. It cleared his mind a little, but it did nothing to calm the dread he carried in his bones. Nor did it assuage his gnawing hunger.
So far, none of his companions appeared to have figured out Astarion’s little secret. He watched each one of them carefully, scouring their faces, voices, and bodies for the smallest micro-expressions of suspicion. Karlach, Hell’s Above, didn’t seem to have much going on upstairs, a genuine blessing. Lae’Zel was too focused on reaching her blasted crèche to spare him a second glance, thank the gods. She could easily skewer him if she felt like it. Shadowheart was too busy guarding her own secrets to pry into his, although she could be oddly perceptive at times. Gale only stopped talking when he had his nose in a book, but he was still the resident wizard and needed to be watched should his, alleged, considerable intellect decide to return to him. The fact that Wyll hadn’t noticed was in itself suspicious, but perhaps the famous Blade of Frontiers wasn’t half the monster hunter he thought he was. Maybe Astarion could survive this after all.
And then there was Tav. Responsible, pretty, annoying, Tav. She had become the de facto leader of this ragtag tragedy, which was perfectly fine with Astarion. He did his best work from the shadows anyway. Tav spent her days settling their squabbles and running after every single irrelevant quest they were given like a dog after a ball. She was clearly too distracted, and too tired he often saw, to notice that he was more than he let on. Perfect.
Astarion wasn’t used to going unnoticed. He had accidentally drawn Cazador’s ire numerous times by simply existing. He had tried to fade into the background countless times, but Cazador’s cruel eye was always drawn to him. “Go on boy, do the only thing you’re good for.”
Well, he wasn’t completely unnoticed. He felt the way Tav’s eyes roved over him when she thought he wasn’t looking, felt her pulse hammering in her throat when they spoke to each other. She didn’t say anything and neither did he, but it was nice to know that he was still alluring even when disgustingly unwashed.
Astarion had the patience of a centuries old predator. Despite the ache behind his fangs, he waited until he could pick out the gentle snores of each one of his companions, not moving until Lae’Zel had made her 15th loop around their camp’s perimeter, which was more than enough time for her to lose herself in the banality of the night’s watch. He’d have to be quick, but he knew what he was hunting for: he had picked up on the heartbeat of a boar hours ago. It wasn’t a sound per se, but more of a pulse he felt in his gut. He honed in on its tantalizing rhythm, allowing himself to be drawn down through the forest and up back onto the road where the beast snuffled for food along the path. Easy.
His muscles tensed. His mind went blank. He slid through the night and tackled the boar, ripping into its neck with a savage bite. The boar thrashed against him but Astarion bit down harder, tearing into the beast’s jugular with a bloody squelch. It collapsed under him and Astarion brutally pinned it to the ground. He gulped down mouthfuls of blood so big that they hurt his throat as he swallowed. As he drank, he could feel the boar’s jerks become weaker and weaker, until its death throes were merely twitches. When there was no more blood, Astarion released his jaw and rolled away, gasping in the dirt as a wave of nausea engulfed him. He thought he was going to be sick. It was the most blood he had drunk in one sitting in 200 years and it sat heavy and bloating in his stomach. He was full. Satisfied? No. But he was full.
But even the fresh spoils of victory grow bland. His palate wasn’t made for beasts. He wanted something finer, something richer. Still, a boar was leagues better than a rat. But he knew, had known for some time, that his body needed more than animal blood to be truly nourished. It needed the blood of thinking creatures.
What would happen if he grew too weak, too feeble to fight? Would this merry band of would-be heroes leave him behind, alone in the wilderness for Cazador to find, if he couldn’t keep up? He would never go back. He’d die first.
You could do it, you know, a dark inner voice whispered to him. Why don’t you have a taste of your new friends?
No. He forced that impulse down. He was a vampire spawn, but he was not a monster. Were they frustrating? Deeply. But these indifferent strangers had been kinder to him than anyone had been in centuries, kinder than anyone who had actually known him. He would not risk whatever precarious piece of safety he had for a quick meal. He’d blow his cover. They’d hate him. They’d kill him. It was the only course of action that made sense once he was discovered. Which was only a matter of time.
Despite everything, his master’s old orders still echoed dully in his mind: Thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures. He didn’t know if he could bite them, even if he wanted to. Cazador had forbidden it.
Astarion slipped back into his bedroll unnoticed, mission complete. He wasn’t tired, was too wired from the hunt and from the day’s fighting to truly rest, but he knew he needed to meditate if he was going to be of any use tomorrow. If he was going to continue fooling them into thinking he wasn’t a monster hiding in their midst. Rolling onto his side, he caught sight of Tav fast asleep in her tent, the flap carelessly unlatched. Tav, who had readily forgiven him after he had threatened to slit her throat. Tav, who looked but never touched. Tav, whose opinion and guidance seemed to matter the most to everyone in camp. Astarion sunk into deep reverie.
~~
“It’s dead, my friend. Are you really going to gawk at every piece of carrion you find?”
Astarion could flay himself. He hadn’t bothered to hide his kill from the other night because who seriously cared, there were dead beasts all over the forest, and of course Tav had quite literally stumbled over its exsanguinated remains. Crouching down to examine his kill, she pored over the corpse with thorough precision. He was dead. He was so dead unless he did something.
“Darling,” Astarion began, positioning himself right behind Tav, unsure what he was going to do but moving just to move. At the same moment Tav stood up and took a step backward, crashing into him. For a moment their bodies were completely flush, her back against his chest, her peachy bottom cushioned against his groin. Astarion reflexively reached out to place his hands on her hips, but Tav jolted forward and out of his grasp.
“Sorry!” She gasped, flushing a delicious rosy shade. She pointedly averted her eyes.
“It’s no trouble at all,” Astarion purred. Tav dared a glance up at him and he flashed her an easy smirk. “Are you completely satisfied?” He asked, layering the question thick with innuendo. “There are much better things we could be doing. Shall we go now?”
Somehow, Tav turned even redder. “It’s definitely odd, but a dead pig isn’t the weirdest thing we’ve seen so far,” she conceded.
“No, it’s not. It doesn’t even place in the Top 50 on this little adventure,” Astarion quipped. Tav laughed at that, a quick mirthful giggle. “I’m sorry, everyone. Let’s keep moving.” Tav hesitated for a moment, glancing back at Astarion for the briefest of moments, but she quickly continued onward, surging forward towards the head of the group. Astarion breathed a quiet sigh of relief. She had apparently noticed nothing.What a cute, malleable little idiot. ~~
The idea had occurred to him before, that second night underneath the stars. Back when he had thought that their little adventure might actually be over soon. Which had meant that Cazador’s punishments would be imminent. He had wondered aloud if their adventure may actually end the next day and Tav had said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, “It doesn’t have to, we could keep traveling together.” Such a sweet gesture had stirred something in him. The others hadn’t seemed keen on him, nor on each other for that matter. But Tav was kind. Giving. She was already giving him safety by letting him travel with her. What else would she give him, if he played his cards right?
Would she let him drink from her? He was ravenous. He imagined her soft and pliant underneath him, arching her neck, begging for his bite. Astarion was dizzy at the thought of such submission to him, such power over her. He tried to imagine what she would taste like but his brain couldn’t supply an answer. If Cazador had forbidden it then humanoid blood must be delicious.
But why would she help him? No one offered help for free, especially not to a vampire spawn. Even kind, giving Tav also benefited from their traveling arrangement. And his safety in this little arrangement was only tenuous at best. If he didn’t want to be staked on sight, he’d have to sweeten the deal somehow.
He knew how, but something inside of him had hesitated that night. Now, he could kick himself. How many times had he seduced and in turn allowed himself to be seduced? He was a professional, this should mean nothing to him by now. At least Tav was pretty. Flustering her had been both useful and fun. He had certainly done worse. And after today, he was beginning to suspect that Tav may actually like him, just a little.
But still. He was free for the first time in centuries. Did he really want to spend his precious moments of freedom on his back again? Was this really all he was good for?
He just needed some time to think, he would figure this out.~~
Unfortunately, the rest of his cohort were not as amenable as Tav. Today Tav had chosen himself, Lae’Zel, and Shadowheart to explore the nearby forest, which made for a particularly sullen group. Unnerved by his close call yesterday, Astarion realized that he had to acquire more allies….make friends, as it were. Gods. He hadn’t made a real, genuine friend in centuries. The last time he had tried hung heavily in his heart.
Astarion knew that he was profoundly unlikeable. He had been told so many times. There was only one good thing about him, one thing he was good at and only one thing anyone wanted from him, so naturally he would lead with that. He was already working Tav. Lae’Zel was powerful and would make an excellent ally, but Astarion decided to let her come to him. She seemed the type who liked to do the conquering. Gale was a strong option but he was still pining over his goddess and Wyll would probably want to get married first. As appealing as they both were, he needed allies now. And Karlach was literally untouchable, which derailed the entire plan. That left the mysterious Shadowheart.
Drifting to the back of the group, he began poring over the many lines he had used throughout the decades to charm and flatter his targets. Shadowheart acted cold, but Astarion could tell that she was hiding some softness underneath it all. Perhaps he could coax it out of her with the right words, if he indicated that he saw the real her beneath the facade. Adopting a pensive air, Astarion smoothly sidled up her.
“Shadowheart. Such a dark name for such a delicate flower,” he said softly. He tilted his head to a thoughtful angle, trying to catch her eye with his sad, smoldering gaze. Shadowheart shot him an icy glare.
“I heard you practicing that back there. Next time, keep your pick-up lines to yourself.”
Ahead of them, Tav choked on a laugh. “Better you than I,” Lae’Zel scoffed. “If he had tried that on me, I would have ripped his tongue from his mouth.” Astarion audibly gulped and drifted far away from his hostile companions. Tav shot him a sympathetic glance. “Yeesh, tough crowd,” she said. Astarion snorted. “Some people have no taste,” he said. Tav laughed, but Astarion still kept his hands to himself for the rest of the day.
~~
He knew it would happen, but he didn’t think it would happen so soon.
“First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures.”
Cazador was here. Cazador had found him and by the gods, Cazador knew all of Astarion’s new transgressions.
“I’m sorry, Master! I was kidnapped, I had no choice!” Astarion whipped around, crying out into the darkness. The darkness said:
“Second. Thou shalt obey me in all things.”
Which he hadn’t done. He had flagrantly disobeyed. Who would obey such cruel demands unless they were forced to?
“Third. Thou shalt not leave my side unless directed.”
He hadn’t meant to, he had been abducted! He didn’t choose any of this! But Astarion knew that Cazador didn’t care about that. “Please, not again,” he begged, knowing that it didn’t matter what he said.
“Fourth. Thou shalt know that thou art mine, you pathetic little worm.”
Astarion jolted awake, tossing off his bedroll with a shout. The campfire burned steadily, casting off the shadows of night. The deep supernatural darkness of his dreams was gone. His companions lay by the fire and in their tents, somehow still asleep despite his pitiful cry.
Cazador wasn’t here. Cazador was back in Baldur’s Gate and he was in the middle of the wilderness. He wasn’t going to be flayed. Yet. But it was only a matter of time. Cazador would be furious that Asatrion had somehow slipped off of his tight little leash. And worse, Cazador would be jealous when he discovered that Astarion could walk in the sun and he could not.
It dawned on Astarion: he can walk in the sun. He can cross streams. He can enter houses without permission. The tadpole had disrupted so much of his biology already. Perhaps it had fully broken Cazador’s hold. Maybe he could disobey completely. In every way.
He had gone to bed hungry that night. The boar had been too close a call for comfort. And he hadn’t been able to secure additional protection. Astarion had starved for centuries, he thought he could keep himself in check. But the promise of feeding on what he truly craved finally made his hunger unbearable.
He scanned the camp, taking in his companions sleeping forms. So relaxed. So unsuspecting. Who would have the honor of being his first thinking meal? Almost immediately his eyes found Tav, who was curled up by the fire. The flames flickered over her fine features, her beautiful skin. Shadows danced down the length of her neck, disappearing into the valley of her breasts, their round tops peaking shyly out from her loose camp shirt. He had never seen her so accidentally exposed, so vulnerable before. He had to taste her. She would be delicious, he just knew it. His body was moving of its own accord, drawn to her. Bending down beside her, Astarion ghosted his face across her neck, instinctively finding the intoxicating pulse of her heart beat. He bared his fangs, running his tongue behind them. He would be quick, gentle. He only needed a taste, just needed a moment of her warmth. She was so-
“What are you doing?”
Astarion recoiled sharply as Tav sat up, suddenly awake. He swore audibly and withdrew, retreating back to the shadows. “This isn’t what it looks like,” he gasped. “I wasn’t going to hurt you.” Tav stared back at him, surprise and horror dawning slowly across her face. Astarion thought he saw the beginnings of disgust. “I just, I just needed-“ He had no idea what to say. There was no way out, he was caught. “Blood.” His admission hung strangely in the air between them. Then Tav began to put the pieces together, at last.
“You…are you a vampire?” She asked, incredulous.
“Not entirely. I’m a vampire spawn. But I only feed on beasts! Deer, kobolds-“
“Boars,” Tav supplied.
“…boars too.”
“I knew you were acting strangely yesterday,”
“I’ve just been so weak, so slow. If I had a bit of blood, I could think clearer, fight better.”
There’s a pulsing behind his eye and then Astarion’s mind is yanked backwards to the first time that Cazador had compelled him to eat a rat. He hadn’t wanted to, had begged Cazador not to make him do this, but while his mind resisted his body had obeyed Cazador’s sadistic order. And yet, he had been so hungry that he couldn’t be fully sure what he had done in vampiric thrall and what he had done for sheer survival. He had eaten many rats since then, but that first one had been particularly humiliating. And now Tav knew.
“You didn’t eat them by choice. You ate them because he made you.”
“Yes,” Astarion admitted bitterly. “I ate whatever vermin I was so generously allowed to eat. You’ll eat anything if you are hungry enough.” Tav’s eyes softened and Astarion saw pity shining in her gaze. His lip curled.
“Why didn’t you just ask me?” She said.
“Would you have said yes?” He countered. “At best I thought you would say no. At worst, I thought you would drive a stake through my ribs.”
“I wouldn’t have done that, you’re my-“
“I’m your what, your friend?” Astarion sneered. “Vampire spawn have no friends. We’re created by monsters and the world sees us as monsters. Don’t patronize me, darling.” Astarion spat. Tav turned away, trying to hide her hurt in the flames of the campfire. Astarion regretted his outburst almost immediately. Pushing her away now could be fatal.
“And yet despite all that, I needed you to trust me.” He took a tentative step toward Tav, pitching his voice lower to a soft, seductive rumble. “And you can trust me. I swear it.”
“Strangely I do, I do trust you.” Tav’s voice was barely a breath, a whisper above the crackles of the flames. “I only meant that you’ve had numerous chances to kill me since the first attempt and you haven’t. You’ve even saved me a few times.” Astarion continued advancing.
“I’m glad, truly.” He said.
“And we still need each other.” Tav said this softly, sadly, as if she didn’t want to say it.
“We do indeed,” he agreed. “So, do you think you could trust me just a little bit further? In the spirit of needing each other?”
They were so close now. Tav turned towards him, the question in her gaze. He reached out and tucked a stray tendril of her hair behind her ear. “I only need a taste.” He allowed his finger tips to stray down the column of her neck. “I swear.” His mouth hovered over hers. Tav visibly shuddered underneath his ghostly touch. “Not a drop more than you need.” She said. So tough. So generous. “Of course, not one drop more.” He leaned in, his mouth above the shell of her ear. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?” She nodded. Placing his hand on her hips, Astarion gently guided Tav downward onto her bedroll where he settled next to her, curling against her side.
“Will it hurt?” She asked. Her eyes were wide, her pupils yawning caverns. Astarion doubted that he looked any better. “I’ll be as gentle as I can,” he promised. He would try. He would try for her.
“I’m ready.” Tav bared her neck and closed her eyes, turning her face away. This was really happening.
Sliding his body over hers, Astarion lowered himself on top of her. Their bodies slotted together, her breasts pressing up into his chest, his pelvis settling down against her own. Astarion’s hand cradled her neck tenderly, cupping her chin in his lithe fingers. And then he struck, sinking his fangs quickly and precisely into her flesh.
Fresh lifeblood flooded over his tongue in hot, sweet spurts. She wasn’t delicious, she was exquisite. He pressed his lips fervently against her neck, desperate for more of her. His tongue lapped along her throat, seeking every rivulet of blood that escaped his lips. Tav’s gentle fingers came up to trace circles against his scalp and card between his curls. A warm shiver traveled down his spine and he groaned into her neck as he swallowed her down. Astarion mindlessly ground himself against her center and he realized with a surprise that he was hard.
“Astarion,” Tav gasped, her body arching up to meet his. His hand moved to her waist and began to slip underneath her camp shirt, gliding along her exposed flesh. He took a deep pull of blood from her, the deepest one yet.
“Wait, Astarion,” Tav’s voice was growing faint. A weak hand began to press against his shoulder and he immediately grasped it and forced it back down, harshly caging her in. He couldn’t stop. He would never let her go.
“Stop, please Astarion!” He heard how weak Tav’s voice sounded now and it finally broke the spell. He released her throat with a bloody gasp, forcing his body off of her.
Tav rolled over, clutching the ruin of her neck. She looked disheveled, debauched. A feast in every way. Astarion stood abruptly, reeling.
“That was amazing,” he whispered reverently. He was filled with an unfamiliar feeling. He felt light, strong. Brimming with energy. Astarion caught a trickle of her blood as it slid down his lips with a disbelieving finger. He licked it off with a slow thick swipe of his tongue, greedy for more of her. His desire for her was beginning to scare him.
“As delicious as you were, I need to find something more filling.” He spun on his heel but stopped himself from fleeing. He needed to leave before he seriously hurt her, but he didn’t like the thought of her crumpled and alone, used and then discarded. Like he had often been. She had placed her life in his hands for his comfort. He couldn’t ever remember receiving such a kindness before. He turned back to face her, still sprawled and heaving on her bedroll.
“This is a gift, you know. I won’t forget it.” And then he was gone, striding confidently into the night.
~
He didn’t think he could hate Cazador more than he already did. But to finally savor such nourishing blood from a beautiful, willing source did not soothe him. It did not bring him relief to finally feel strong and healthy, to finally pierce the mental fog that had clouded his mind for as long as he could remember. Drinking from an oasis after subsisting on spoonfuls of fetid blood for centuries did not bring him peace, but only deepened the darkest pit of his rage.
A Taste of Plums | Astarion x Female!Tav Chapter 14: Feast
Summary: Astarion isn't the only one who hungers.
Rating/Chapter Warnings: R, a lot of gore, auto-cannibalism, eye stuff involving the tadpole, so much emotional manipulation. Full fic tag list on AO3.
Astarion wakes, curled in on himself. His head throbs and he immediately regrets drinking so much the night before. He groggily opens his eyes, blinking away the remnants of his troubled sleep. It takes him a moment to recognize his surroundings. He is in Tav’s tent.
His head spins with the memory of a dream. A shining stranger beckoning him. The power you desire is within your grasp. All you have to do is embrace your potential.
He tries to sit up, but his movement jostles the warm arm thrown over him, which nudges the even warmer body spooning him from behind. Tav tightens her arm around him, pulling him back to bed.
“Don’t go,” she pleads, her voice still thick with sleep.
“But it’s the morning, darling,” he insists, trying once again to extricate himself from her embrace. Their night is over, surely he should leave. There’s no point in staying.
“No it’s not,” Tav insists, not letting go.
“Then why is the sun up,” Astarion asks pointedly.
Tav doesn’t move. “Just five more minutes,” she whines softly. He sighs loudly and Tav snuggles up against him even further. He tries not to enjoy her warmth, her heartbeat. How nice this feels. He could get used to this.
He allows her almost exactly 5 minutes.
“Alright darling, enough laying about.” Tav groans and tries to burrow under the covers, but Astarion tears the blankets off of them.
“Let’s see what horrors await us today.”
~
Halsin is big by any standard but he is absolutely enormous for an elf. He’s ruggedly handsome, but deceptively serene. His soft brown eyes don’t always conceal the fury that simmers underneath.
Halsin is certain that a cure for their infection lies at Moonrise Towers. However, the towers sit on cursed land shrouded in unnatural, hungry darkness. Everything that lingers there eventually succumbs to the Shadow Curse.
“I’d like to join you, if you are headed to Moonrise,” Halsin offers.
“Do not be so hasty. The Githyanki crèche remains our priority,” Lae’Zel reminds them, as annoyingly focused as ever.
“I promised Lae’Zel that we would seek out her crèche,” Tav confirms. “But I’m keeping our options open. If we can’t be cured at the crèche then it sounds like our next best bet is Moonrise.” She smiles at the bear. “You are welcome to come with us. We’ll take all the help we can get.” Halsin smiles back at her, his mouth a warm sliver of sunshine. Astarion rolls his eyes, squashing the rising prickle of jealousy inside of him.
“Of course we will be cured at the crèche!” Lae’Zel protests. “And once you are cured, you istiks will understand the glory of Vlaakith!”
“If this X is where the Githyanki were last seen, then it is likely that the crèche you seek is in the Western Mountain Pass,” Halsin deduces, pointing to their map. “That pass will take you to the very tip of the Shadow Cursed Lands. Alternatively, you could also travel through the Underdark. A man called Ketheric Thorm was able to use a secret underground route to covertly move his army of Dark Justiciars from Moonrise Towers throughout Faerûn.”
Shadowheart perks up at this. “There were Dark Justiciars here?”
“Oh yes. Supposedly there is a secret entrance to the Underdark beneath the ruined Temple of Selûne. I was seeking it with Aradin and his party when we were captured,” Halsin explains.
“We must go through the Underdark,” Shadowheart argues. “It is my duty to follow where my Dark Lady leads me. If there were Dark Justiciars there, then I must find them.”
“Our quest for a cure remains paramount and cannot be waylaid. The crèche is the only way,” Lae’Zel hisses. Shadowheart glares at her.
“I don’t expect a Githyanki to understand the importance of-”
“Lae’Zel has been adamant about reaching her crèche for a week now. Let’s start there, and once we have concluded our business at the crèche perhaps we can circle back around,” Tav states evenly, regarding them both with a placid, unmoving eye.
“But-” Before Shadowheart can finish her sentence, an odd psionic drop punctures the air. Astarion feels the tadpole in his brain twitch with hunger in response to the resonance, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it began.
“Fine,” Shadowheart grumbles. Astarion glances at Karlach who shakes her head in judgment. Tav must have used the tadpole to speak with Shadowheart. Astarion desperately wonders what they said to each other. He doesn’t like this taste of his own medicine.
~
Astarion plunges his dagger into the bloated, writhing body of a hyena. The beast howls as it dies, its rotten child dying in its belly. Wyll unleashes an Eldritch Blast against another dying hyena, but he is too late. A beast springs out of her putrid body, tearing through the soft walls of her abdomen with its claws, bursting into bloody life. The beast rears back, teetering on its newborn legs. It has the head of a dog and the naked body of a man. It tips its head back and howls.
Gnolls. Savage creatures born from unholy hunger. A gnoll could devour the entire continent and still thirst for more.
“Quickly! We need to kill them before they all transform!” Gale yells, launching Magic Missile at another chittering hyena. Their dying bodies lay sprawled across the bottom of the canyon, plump and on the edge of bursting with their foul offspring.
The last bitch dies, but it is too late. Malicious laughter echoes down the canyon as canine heads peek out from the rocky crags above them, their maws dripping with spit and blood. The rest of the pack looms above them, lying in wait. A crude arrow glances off of Tav’s shoulder and she recoils in pain as their laughter swells in an evil crescendo.
Astarion can smell her blood. He can pick it out, even amongst the gory bouquet. There’s so much carnage that he quivers on the verge of frenzy.
“Holy hells,” Wyll whispers, pointing to the top of the ridge. A hulking behemoth of a gnoll sits perched at the top of the cliff, watching them with ravenous eyes. She throws her snout back and howls, an answer to the newborn’s cry.
The tadpole squirms behind his eye, connecting Astarion’s mind to his companions in a swooning rush. Gale’s mind is working overtime, suggesting strategy after strategy for how they can survive this while Wyll’s mind focuses on conjuring the Hunger of Hadar. Tav’s mind races, weighing these options. There’s a shock of psychic pain as another presence clamps on to their collective, overpowering in its desperation for meat. It slavers all over itself, longing to be full.
It’s a gnoll. One of them must be infected. He instinctively jerks against the awful presence, pushing back against it. The gnoll’s mind sniffs at him.
FEAST! it screams. Astarion sees himself from her eyes, a pulsing red cluster of organs. Astarion presses further into her memory and he sees swathes of rich blood as the gnoll daubs the symbol of the Absolute on a cave wall. No….The Voice has forbidden this meat . Her mind plunges into despair when she realizes that he is infected too.
He feels her tadpole squirm, struggling to control her. He reaches for it and glorious power rushes through their connection. He wraps his hand around the insatiable chaos of her mind, clenching it in a tight psionic fist. Astarion forces a horrid thought into the yawning chasm of her brain:
Feast on your pack. Their flesh will be delicious.
Her tadpole rejoices, echoing Astarion’s command. The She-Gnoll unleashes a torrent of hideous laughter as her will splinters and breaks. She turns and lunges at the nearest gnoll, ripping and tearing into her pack-mate. It screams as the rest of the gnolls follow her lead, turning on each other.
“ Ira et Dolor! ” Wyll bellows, and a black icy fog rolls in to cover the murderous beasts.
“Holy shit,” Tav pants, still clutching her injured shoulder.
“Was that your doing, Astarion?” Gale asks. His voice flickers with incredulity and admiration.
“It was!” Astarion giddily cries. Astarion peers through the fog, desperate for glimpses of the fiend. “I simply imposed my will on her.”
“These powers get more and more impressive by the day,” Gale observes with guarded awe.
The Hunger of Hadar conceals the slaughter, but it does not conceal its sounds. They all listen in silent horror as screams of pain and rage filter out of the mist. They cannot see the wet tearing of flesh and the red splatter of blood, but they can hear the sticky mastication, the satisfied grunts as the gnolls devour each other. The sounds slowly wane as the macabre feast continues until all that is left is the harsh crunching of bones.
It’s horrible, but it’s all his doing. He did this, and she was helpless to stop herself. It’s disgusting, wretched, vile. And yet. His voice was heard. He could not be denied.
Astarion wonders if this is what Cazador feels when he compels his spawn.
Soon, a shape begins to stir from the depths of the darkness. It looms larger and larger as whatever is left alive slowly lumbers towards them. The She-Gnoll limps out of the gloom, glowering malevolently. They all feel the oppressive throb from her tadpole: she is still hungry.
For a moment, Astarion pities her. Their plights are not so different, in a way. Then he comes to his senses.
Her tongue darts out of her maw, lapping up a chunk of viscera from her whiskers. It lolls out of her mouth, dripping spit. Another ripple of illithid energy violently connects them.
Eat yourself.
Tav’s order is adamantine. The beast’s mind chafes against it, fiercely fighting to survive.
Eat. Yourself.
The gnoll’s mind cracks under the insane command. Unhinged, she tears into her own flesh with a broken scream of pain. Unable to resist the force of Tav’s control, she eats and eats and eats.
“Mystra have mercy,” Gale implores in a horrified whisper. The beast swallows one final time, slumping forward in a dead, bloody heap. “Or, perhaps not.”
Tav stares at the dead gnoll, stunned. “I can’t believe she really did that,” she whispers.
“These tadpoles are far more powerful than even I had originally thought,” Astarion continues excitedly. He looks towards Tav, who stares dumbfounded at the half-eaten carcass. He grasps her hand, yanking her attention back to him. “Think of the potential. If we can bend other Infected to our will, the possibilities are limitless.” It’s a breathtaking, devastating temptation. He aches for such power.
“The potential here is appealing. While horrifying, it was an intoxicating rush,” Gale agrees. Tav nods silently.
“I won’t begrudge us an edge,” Wyll says. “But lest we forget, these powers come with a cost. Who knows how far downwards this illithid talon will drag us.”
“Must you always rain on our parade!” Astarion gripes, glaring at Wyll. “These gnolls would have devoured any traveler unlucky enough to pass through here. Perhaps even our Tiefling friends. Killing them keeps the Sword Coast safe AND benefits us, I don’t see why we can’t have both.”
“I would do almost anything to keep the Sword Coast safe,” Wyll says quietly.
“Naturally, as would we all,” Astarion agrees with a hand wave. “All I’m saying is that we should keep an open mind about the tadpole.”
“I still can’t believe she did that,” Tav murmurs, still in disbelief. “I wanted to channel her hunger and follow its thread and-”
“And just look at the result,” Astarion interjects. “It kept us safe, brought us power! You did nothing wrong.”
“It felt-"
There’s a parasite in that corpse. Take it.
They all flinch as a foreign suggestion ripples through them.
“That felt exactly like the person in my dream,” Tav says.
“And mine.”
“Did we all have the same dream?”
“Sounds like it.”
Tav steps over the carcass. A fleshy parasite pulses in the socket of the skull like a fatted leech. She bottles up the rotten prize quickly, slipping it into her bag before ushering them quickly up the road, away from their massacre.
~
Dark black clouds, the kind that can only mean trouble, billow down the Risen Road and over their heads as they march up the ravine. Astarion wants to ignore it and go back to camp, but Tav, Wyll, and Gale refuse to mind their own business.
Their course is obvious. Screams of terror and anguish drift towards them as they approach the pillar of smoke. Soon they see red, angry flames licking up the walls of a squat, simple building. A squadron of Flaming Fist pound at the barred doors of the inn, ramming their bodies into the slowly splintering door. What are the Fist doing out in the wilderness, so far from Baldur’s Gate?
“Put your back into it! Duke Ravengard is inside!”
“What!? He’s here!?” Wyll immediately bolts forward, nimbly leaping over burning wood and bodies alike. “We have to help him!” He cries, conjuring an Eldritch Blast.
“Stand aside!” Tav screams over the din. The Fist scramble out of the way and Wyll unleashes the blast, destroying the inn’s doors with a crash. Wyll rushes inside immediately, covering his nose and mouth with his arm as he disappears into the flames.
“We have to help!” Tav calls, dashing in after him. Gale follows, waving Astarion inside as he goes. Astarion balks at the roaring flames, the searing heat, the ash raining down on their heads. But as terrible as the fire is, he doesn’t want to be left behind. And there’s probably a reward for helping a Duke. He hurries inside after his foolish companions.
~
Duke Ravengard was not inside, but Councillor Florrick was. The inn had been ambushed in a drow and goblin raid, the Grand Duke carried off like a spoil of war.
Drow and goblins? That sounded familiar. All of them share a look. There’s only one place they could have taken him. Moonrise.
Councillor Florrick recognizes Wyll immediately despite his newfound horns. Turns out, honest, noble Wyll has been hiding a pretty big secret of his own. Wyll isn’t just the Blade of Frontiers. He is also Wyll Ravengard, son of Ulder Ravengard, the kidnapped Grand Duke of Baldur’s Gate.
“And not just a Grand Duke. Ravenguard has more power and influence than anyone,” Astarion observes, envy and admiration coloring his words in equal measure.
A Duke’s son could be the perfect ace up his sleeve. He’d be more than willing to put aside their differences if it meant he could count on the protection of a Duke and his son.
But a question gnaws at his mind. If Wyll decides to pursue Tav the way he had intimated, would Tav accept his advances? She’d be a fool not to.
Astarion can’t compete with the son of a Duke, even a disowned one. Astarion has no title, no lands, no chattel. His estate is dust and death. His inheritance is a covetous vampire lord, hunting him to the ends of Faerûn. Who in their right mind would choose him when there are many other better options? Or at least, less complicated options.
As they trudge back to camp, Tav peppers Wyll with questions about music lessons, dances, and balls, all the things that bards enjoy. Wyll answers with flushed embarrassment, describing a genteel but adventurous childhood that could have been ripped from the pages of a novel. A knot forms in Astarion’s stomach as he realizes that his days as Tav’s favorite may actually be numbered now.
~
Karlach made dinner that night. She made a simple but hearty meal, the kind a soldier would make: a thick stew with hunks of bread, sausages, and of course, bottles of ale and wine. Astarion doesn’t partake tonight, but he likes to see what the others are eating. And judge their cooking skills accordingly, of course.
Karlach was a better cook than he had thought. He had expected burnt grilled cheese, but the Fury of Avernus had some surprises up her metaphorical sleeves.
As he is settling in with a new book, The True and Impossible Adventures of Tenebrux Morrow , Tav meanders over to his tent. There’s a wary, almost guilty look on her face and his heavy stomach sinks even further.
“Mind if I come in?” she asks.
“Of course, my darling,” Astarion responds automatically, closing his novel. He sweeps aside the tent flap for her with a gaudy flourish. “Welcome to my humble abode.” Tav steps inside, hovering nervously by the entrance.
“How are you this evening?” she begins.
“Well enough,” Astarion responds. Tav nods.
“That’s good,” she replies. She fidgets from side to side, silent. One of her hands fiddles with something in her pocket.
“Surely you didn’t come all this way just to exchange pleasantries,” Astarion accuses, annoyed now. If she’s cast him aside for Wyll then he’d rather she just tell him and get this over with.
“You’re right, I did not,” she admits. “It’s just, I’m not really sure how to approach this.”
“Spit it out. I want to read my book,” he huffs.
Tav pulls her hand out of her pocket and proffers her fist between them. She clutches two vials tightly. Plump, translucent tadpoles squirm behind the cloudy glass.
“I was wondering if you wanted to take a tadpole with me?” She asks. “Embrace our potential. Or, something.”
“My darling, I would love to ‘take a tadpole with you’,” he gushes, all sweetness now.
“We actually have quite a few tadpoles now. But I was thinking we could start small? Try one and see how it goes?”
“Now there’s an idea,” he says, taking a vial. The tadpole inside flares to life, bearing its tiny needle teeth. His lips twist in disgust. “Gods, they are ugly little things.”
“Just awful,” she agrees.
“So, do we just-?”
“I think we have to insert them. Occularly, as Gale would say.”
Astarion stares down at the overgrown leech in his palm. As it roils and wriggles behind the glass, ostensibly trying to find a way into his brain, he becomes less and less sure that this is the right decision. But it’s the only chance he has against Cazador’s control. He clenches his fist around the vial.
“Alright then. Would you like to do the honors, my dear?” he asks, tone light and chivalrous. His mind is made up, but that does not mean he wants to go first.
“Ok, I’ll try,” Tav says. Her fingers tap along the glass bottle.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks again, for what feels like the thousandth time. “Maybe we should wait and see what lies at Moonrise before we insert more incurable worms into our brains.”
“I thought we were in this together, darling,” he says snidely. “But if I’m in this alone, I suppose I’ll just-”
“No, no you aren’t!” Tav insists. “I just…I just need a minute.” Tav smooths her armor down, expelling a long puff of air as she tries to calm herself. Volo had given her a completely new jerkin, a silly thing with flat pearl beads and gold embroidery stitched all along the vest. She wears it well, or as well as anyone can wear something like that.
“I need to stop thinking and just do it,” she assures herself.
“Exactly!”
“Exactly.”
She uncorks the vial and pinches the suspiciously docile parasite between her fingers. Tilting her head back, she brings it slowly to her eye. The parasite flares in excitement, its teeth seeking flesh, and Tav throws the little pustule to the ground, screaming in disgust. She stomps on the worm with a wet squelch.
“Look what you’ve done!” Astarion angrily exclaims. “It’s all over my tent now!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Tav cries. She prestidigitates and the worm guts evaporate, as if they were never there. She rubs her brow. “This is just too gross, I don’t think I can do it.”
“Fine. If you’re too scared, then I’ll just do it myself,” he sneers. This is nothing. Cazador made him do so much worse. He uncorks his vial and grabs the little horror firmly. Before he can stop to reconsider he brings the worm up to his eye. It surges forward out of his grasp and greedily latches onto his eyeball.
It’s the Nautiloid all over again. For a moment he’s back in the Mindflayer’s pod, at its mercy as the worm wriggles relentlessly into his brain. And then Astarion’s mind swells and he feels his brain absorb the tadpole. Everything it was, everything it would have been, is now his. He shudders with satisfaction.
Good. You have grown your power and improved your chance of survival.
Then he feels it: the worm ate something. Something he can’t remember, but something he will never get back.
“Astarion? Are you alright?” Tav asks, concerned.
“I am,” he breathes. He flexes his hands, checking himself for any changes. “And not a tentacle to be seen.”
Oh well. If he can’t remember it then it must not have been that important.
“Are you hurt?”
“Not at all. In fact, I feel quite good.”
“You didn’t look good,” Tav says. “Your face bulged. You turned blue. I thought you were transforming.”
“Well it felt wonderful. Once you get past the whole eye thing.”
“Really? What did it feel like?”
“It felt like-" Astarion pauses, really considering the question. “Like nothing in the world could stop me.” Tav looks up at him with wide, curious eyes. “Like everything I wanted could be mine.”
“Should I do it?” Tav reaches into her pocket and pulls out another vial. It glistens with cerebrospinal fluid.
“That depends. Do you want the power the tadpole offers?”
“I do, I just-“ She hesitates. “I’m just scared.” Astarion smiles a wide, fanged smile.
“Here, let me help you,” he simpers. He plucks the vial from her hands, uncorking it with finesse and grasping the tadpole firmly between his thumb and index finger. He cups her chin, tilting her face towards him. “All you have to do is look at me.” She gazes unblinkingly up at him as he lays the worm against her eye. The tadpole does the rest.
Tav gasps, recoiling out of his grasp, as the worm tunnels into her brain. She bends over, clutching her mottling face. The veins in her face bulge blue.
“Tav?” he cries, alarmed. She twitches and spasms, and for a terrible moment he thinks he has lost her to the parasite. Then Tav straightens up, panting hard, but still Tav.
“Sweet Hells,” she breathes, inspecting herself.
“And? How do you feel?” he asks.
“Good. Weird, but good,” she realizes.
“I told you so, my little treasure,” Astarion demures. “And this is just the beginning. If one tadpole could make a gnoll eat itself alive, then what could two do? Five? Ten?”
“Let’s see how this new one goes first,” she counters. “There is still a lot we don’t know.”
“You are no fun,” he pouts. “But still, a promising start.” He looks her up and down suggestively on instinct. A small flirtatious crumb for giving him what he wanted.
“So, it’s getting kind of late,” Tav observes, blushing.
“It is. You should go rest, we have yet another long day ahead of us.” He picks up his book again, thumbing back to where he left off. “I’ll see you in the morning, pet.”
“Can I rest here? With you?” She asks.
“Why?” He asks, skeptically.
“What I meant to say is, did you want to sleep together tonight?” Tav clarifies.
“You’re turned on, after all that worm business?” Astarion asks, his voice thick with judgment. He quickly catches himself. “Well, I suppose-“
“Oh gods no,” she insists. “What I really meant is, do you want to sleep next to each other tonight?”
“And I ask once again, why?”
“Because it was a long, stressful day and this feels nice. Safe.” Tav supplies. She pauses. “Because we like each other.”
Astarion considers saying something snappy and rude. Safe.
“Fine, I’ll allow it.”
~
Tav gathers up her essentials and brings them into his tent. She curls up next to him in his bedroll, close but not touching, as he reads his book. She gives him a long, lingering kiss on his lips and a soft peck on his cheek before turning over and drifting off. When Astarion wakes, he finds that he had curled around her in the middle of the night, his arms wrapped around her abdomen, his legs tangled in hers.
Chapter 15: Deserve
