Little Star, Little Sun
Love Bites, Chapter 5 // Love Bites {Masterlist}
Ship: Astarion Ancunin x fem!vampire spawn!elf!Tav/reader
Summary: A long-awaited reunion that doesn't go quite as planned can lead to many things, especially when two manipulators both lay their traps for one another. Though is it really a trap when all you want to do is spare your lover from yet another night of torment?
Word Count: 5,068 words
Warnings: back to main timeline, angst, insecure Astarion, alcohol, switching between your perspective and Astarion's, Astarion opens up/trauma dumps, you're protective of Astarion, sex workers, direct & indirect mention of rape and sexual abuse, reunion, self-sacrifice
☟ Continue below the fold ☟
As soon as the door to the tavern opened the following night, a few hours into the night, somehow you knew it was Astarion before you even saw his head of silver hair. You were relieved that you didn’t have to wait a few days to see him again, but your relief shriveled up the moment you realized he was wearing the same doublet as last night. It was still slightly dirty and more than a little rumpled.
You waved him over to the bar before he could spot an empty table. Something akin to relief crossed his face and he came over.
“Someone’s eager to see me,” he teased as he took a seat on one of the bar stools.
You shrugged. “Just glad you’re not being a stranger,” you said. “That’s no life for an elf such as yourself.”
His eyes flashed. “I suppose not,” he said, almost too quietly.
“Same as yesterday?” you asked, already reaching for the bottle you had put in ice in the hopes that he would come back today.
Astarion nodded. “What the hells, why not?”
You grinned and poured him a glass. You pushed it to him and watched him sip daintily. He turned slightly, passing his gaze over the filling tavern, and you caught a glimpse of his fangs through the glass. Even though you’d been expecting them, it still made your stomach turn.
A vampire. Your beloved was a vampire and had been these past two hundred years. It hadn’t been the Gur who had desecrated his grave; it had been himself, hadn’t it? Him and the bastard that turned him, whoever it was.
Was it painful? you wanted to ask. Did it hurt to claw your way out? Did you come up out of the ground and know I had been there only seconds before? Did you want me to be there still?
But you kept your mouth shut. Astarion hadn’t let on that he knew who you were, so you figured he probably didn’t remember you, as painful as that realization had been last night. Two hundred years and he was all you thought of every day and yet—
“Was she fun last night?” you asked, then cursed yourself. You weren’t sure you even wanted to know the answer to that question, so why were you asking?
Astarion flinched and turned back to you, shocked out of a reverie. “Hmm?”
“The elf you left with last night.” You wiped down your already clean bartop, reluctant to make eye contact with him. “Did you have fun?”
He pursed his lips in thought. The action was so familiar for a moment you were certain you had asked him to explain a new law he’d passed that he was finding difficult to put into common tongue instead of magistrate jargon. “Yes, I suppose she was,” he said after a long moment. A teasing grin slipped onto his face. “Jealous?”
“No,” you said, though you knew you were lying through your teeth; you would have given anything to be with him again.
The smirk on his face suggested he didn’t quite believe you. You kept yourself from looking too long at that smirk and admitting everything you felt by refilling his glass. He thanked you quietly.
“She’s not here tonight,” you mused, looking out across the tavern and spotting her nowhere.
He tensed. “Should she be?”
You shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d never seen her before last night. I never caught her name.” You glanced up at him and he looked away quickly. It was your turn to smirk. “I take it you didn’t, either?”
If he weren’t undead, you figured he would be blushing. “I had other things on my mind,” he muttered into his wine glass.
You giggled. “Of course you did.”
“But why don’t you know?” he asked. “I thought bartenders usually kept that information stored away in case customers come back?”
“I don’t press for information people don’t willingly give me,” you explained. “She didn’t give me her name, so I didn’t ask. Besides, she had the look of someone who was just passing through.”
Astarion raised one delicate brow. “You don’t press?” he scoffed.
You gave him the same look. “I haven’t asked you anything personal yet, have I?”
He sighed. “I supposed not.”
Biting back a smile, you leaned on your bar. “You almost sound disappointed that I haven’t asked anything.”
He shrugged idly. “Well…you haven’t even asked me my name,” he said and put a dramatic hand to his chest. “I’m hurt, darling.”
Darling. The nickname shot through you like an arrow or a hefty dosage of poison. You hadn’t heard that name from his lips in two hundred years, and the first time you heard it again, it was being used as a moniker for who he thought was a random bartender. How many other men and women had he called darling since he crawled out of his coffin?
You recovered as quickly as you could and he didn’t seem to notice. “Like I said, I don’t ask. Some people wish to remain anonymous until they become regulars—which, I might add, you seem to be doing.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’m a regular at every tavern I come across. I move between them all looking for the best wine there is and moving on when I grow tired of it.”
You hummed. “Ah, I see. You’re an alcoholic rather than a…a people-person, shall I say?” And yet you weren’t surprised. The Astarion of your memories had also had a taste for quality (and expensive) wines, including the vintage you had just poured into his glass.
“It’s easy to get along with wine,” he said quietly and you weren’t sure if he intended for you to hear it. You decided not to comment on it and went back to cleaning up your bartop, taking two glasses that had been left by patrons earlier in the night and washing them. You counted the coins they left for their tab and smiled at the hefty tip they’d left you.
You felt Astarion’s eyes on you as you dried the glasses and put them back on the shelf behind you.
“Astarion,” he said and you almost didn’t catch it.
“I’m sorry?” you asked, turning back around.
“My name’s Astarion,” he said.
Your chest felt suddenly very tight. You looked at him and for a moment he was alive in front of you, his skin flush with blood and life, his eyes honey colored. You blinked and the memory was gone. “Little star,” you translated.
Astarion looked away, suddenly very shy. “Yes,” he admitted softly.
“It suits you,” you said.
He looked up. “Does it?”
You nodded. “Silver hair like that, sharp cheekbones, nice jawline, pale skin… Yes. Yes, you are quite the star.” As you spoke, you leaned forward, propping your head up with one arm. The two of you locked eyes and there was something akin to desperation in his.
His eyelashes fluttered the way they once had when you flustered him. He cast his gaze down slightly, murmuring a soft, “Thank you.”
Tightness grew in your chest. Of course he’d changed, you had anticipated that; but for some reason, seeing the man you had complimented grow quiet and embarrassed under lesser praise instead of grinning and preening, seeking more like the Astarion you had been engaged to, hurt more than the fact that he didn’t remember you.
You let him sit with it for a few more moments before you teased, “You don’t get complimented much, do you?”
His charming smile and snark—a mask, you were sure of it—came back quickly. “Oh, every day, darling. But, ah… Rarely before I’ve taken my clothes off.”
Your heart sank. Some part of you wanted to be hurt that the love of your life had broken his vow of loyalty to you, but you saw the look in his eyes that he was trying to hide and knew it hadn’t been of his own accord—at least not entirely.
So you refilled his glass and said, “Seems a shame. You strike me as the kind of man who deserves better than that.” You emptied the bottle and set it down, turning back to the wine rack behind you. You pulled a second bottle out and found Astarion gazing at you when you turned back around.
His expression was one you had seen plenty of times before, gazing lovingly at you before he left for work or when he watched you dress in the morning from the comfort of your shared bed. Pure, loving admiration—and this time it seemed almost instinctual, for he seemed puzzled when he realized what his face was doing when you mimicked the look.
Astarion lifted his glass to his lips and drank deeply before he said, “You know, you’re oddly, painfully familiar.”
You raised a brow. “Really?”
“Like…like a face out of a dream,” he said. “Like I knew you once, but I just…can’t place you. Odd, isn’t it?”
“Not really, I get that a lot,” you said, brushing it off on instinct. “Though I must admit, you do strike me as the kind of person I’d want to know.”
He grinned, sitting up straighter in his stool. “Oh, really? Do you say this to all the devilishly handsome elves that sit at your bar, or just to me?”
“Just you,” you admitted, though it sounded more like a promise. “It’s been… Well, it’s been a few centuries since I really had interest in anyone. Not since…” You.
“Ahhh.” Astarion nodded sagely. “Your lover. Your…friend. Your best friend.”
You nodded. “Yes,” you said quietly.
“What was his name?” he asked.
Shit. Unfortunately for you, you couldn’t think of a name other than his fast enough. His name formed on your lips for a moment and you stopped yourself quickly. “It doesn’t matter.” Astarion raised his brows in a way you could only describe as judgemental. You sighed and backtracked. “It’s not that he doesn’t matter. He does. He’s all I think about, every day. Hells, I even see him out of the corner of my eye when I shouldn’t because he— He’s been gone for years. But…right now…my problems aren’t the ones that matter. Yours do.”
Astarion scoffed and made to get out of the stool. Panicking, you grabbed his arm. He froze and looked at your hand on his wrist. You softened your touch.
“Please, don’t leave,” you said, your voice trembling a little. You had just gotten him back; you’d be damned if you were going to let him slink off so soon. “I mean it. I want to hear your story. You look like a man with plenty of interesting tales.”
After a moment, he relaxed. You let go of his wrist and he caught your hand before you could pull it away. He blinked again at the instinctual movement and let go of your hand. You didn’t move away.
“Is this how you entertain yourself? Trading alcohol for stories?” he asked, attempting to tease, but his voice was shaking a little too much to be suave.
You shrugged. “Not exactly. Only the best stories warrant a free bottle of alcohol, and only at the end of the night.”
He laughed sardonically. “I doubt my stories would fit that bill.”
“They might,” you prompted. You covered his hand briefly, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles. “Talk, I’ll listen.”
~❊~
So he talked. Over the course of the night, between other patrons and your busy hours, Astarion told you stories. Some of them, most of them, were lies and exaggerations of what had actually happened to him, which were stories he’d never tell anyone. He watched you make cocktails, pour wine and mead, and serve your customers with a smile; each drink, whether it was for him or not, got him to open up more. There was something about you, the way that you worked while also paying attention almost solely to him, that comforted him.
Halfway through the night, just after a midnight rush, he sat alone at the bar again. You served him yet another glass of wine with a smile and a hint of adoration in your eye and something in him cracked.
“It’s been like this for two hundred years,” he said quietly. He could feel the liquor in his veins instead of blood; it felt like honesty. “Night after night in taverns, searching for people. Random people, mostly. Sometimes looking for…specific people. People he wanted me t…to bring back to him.”
You paused midway through wiping down the bar, noticing his change of tone. “He? Who’s he?”
“My master,” he whispered. Slowly, he met your eyes. “Cazador. He…he’s a… A vampire.” He watched you, expecting your face to fall in fear as he added, “I’m one of his spawn.”
You just nodded and poured him more wine. He gulped it down. You refilled it just as quickly.
“You’re not afraid?” he whispered. “You’re not going to kick me out?”
You shook your head. “I know you won’t hurt me.”
Astarion scoffed. “You don’t know that, you don’t know anything about—”
You put the bottle down a little harder than he had been expecting and he flinched. He looked up at you, silent.
“I know you won’t hurt me,” you repeated, meeting his gaze. “Trust me on that.”
He wanted to protest. He wanted to argue that he was a dangerous creature of the night, that you were just a bartender, that you wouldn’t be so quick to trust him if you knew what he’d done to two of your patrons and would do to a third tonight, but for some reason, he couldn’t make himself say it. He looked you in the eye and suddenly felt very strongly like you were right. He wouldn’t hurt you. Something about you made it impossible to even consider hurting you.
The gears in his head began to turn.
“So,” you said. “Cazador, this master of yours… What does he make you do?”
“I…” His throat seemed to close up, his mouth dry. “I bring back…food. People for him to drink from. Sometimes it’s random people I deem…worthy enough of my time that also meet his standards. Other times he sends me after specific people. And if I don’t bring them back, he—” Astarion looked down at the bartop as another patron walked in and took a seat at the far end, eyeing him conspicuously. “It’s not a pleasant thing he does to me.”
You pushed yourself off the bar. “I would think not.” You glanced at your new customer. “Let me handle him, and I’ll be right back.”
Astarion nodded and slowly sipped from his glass. He watched you closely as you took the other man’s order with a smile and got to work on what looked like a complicated cocktail.
You weren’t afraid of him. Why? Why didn’t you kick him out? Why didn’t you see his red eyes and his fangs and realize that he was a danger to you and everyone else in this establishment? Why didn’t you fear the things he could do to you?
Why did he look at you and know with absolute certainty that he would never hurt you, that he couldn’t hurt you even if he tried?
While you worked on his drink, the other man turned to Astarion, leaning on the bar in a way that made Astarion stifle a scoff. This man was a caricature of the sultry grace Astarion oozed—and he was faking it most of the time.
“So,” the man drawled to Astarion, “what brings you here?”
You looked up from the cocktail, frowning at the man, who somehow didn’t notice your glower. You glanced at Astarion.
“Sorrow,” Astarion said dryly.
“Oh, really? Perhaps I could…help you with that,” he said, his tone lacking subtlety.
You cleared your throat, getting the man’s attention. “Not at my bar,” you said waspishly. “If you’re going to continue to accost other customers, you can pay for the drink and get out.”
The man sneered at you, and for some reason it started a fire in Astarion’s gut. “Look here, little miss, I’m a paying customer looking for paying customers of my own and I will not be—”
So quick Astarion could barely keep track of it, you grabbed the man’s wrist, flipped his hand, and pushed back his sleeve. There was a tattoo there. You scoffed. “Just as I thought, you’re one of Niess’s harlots? I’ve told your master that none of his workers are allowed on the premises. Get out before I force you into another line of work by removing your anatomy.”
The man’s face drained of blood. Astarion could hear his pulse quicken and a tense hunger curled through him. “You wouldn’t dare—”
“Out,” you ordered. You held out your palm.
Grumbling, he slapped what he owed into your hand, threw back the drink, and sashayed out the door. Into Astarion’s ear, he whispered, “Catch you outside, handsome.” He trailed a finger over Astarion’s shoulders and he shuddered with disgust.
“I’m sorry about him,” you said, taking away the empty glass and cleaning it. “If I’d known what he does, I wouldn’t have let him sit in the first place.”
“Not a fan of prostitutes then, huh?” Astarion asked, voice grim and dry. His skin was still crawling from the man’s touch—and, he realized, from the prospect that you might order him out once you found out exactly what it was he did.
“Just those kinds,” you said. “You know—the ones who won’t take no for an answer? Niess has always been a problem. His flophouse is just down the street and he’s constantly sending his workers out to taverns and on the streets. It wouldn’t bother me so much if they weren’t known to— Well, there’s no delicate way to phrase this, actually. If they weren’t known to rape patrons who tried to say no. Niess himself does it more often than his workers, but…I won’t take that chance here.”
Astarion shuddered violently. He felt like he might be sick, which he wasn’t even sure was possible.
Your shoulders slumped and understanding dawned on your face. “That’s what Cazador has you doing, isn’t it?”
Hands trembling, Astarion nodded slowly. “Y…yes.”
“I’m guessing you haven’t got much choice in the matter?” you asked gently. You reached over and offered your hand. Astarion took it and immediately felt comforted when you squeezed gently.
“No,” he said. “I… I seduce the people he wants me to bring back. Seduce them, sleep with them, promise them wonderful luxuries and…deliver them to his fangs. That’s only when he wants me to bring people back. Sometimes my siblings bring back enough so he…he hosts a party where I am the entertainment.”
He could see your heartbreak on your face. “Oh, Astarion… Honey, I’m so sorry.”
A tear slipped down his cheek. Gods, he could still cry? He thought he’d shed the last of his tears over this ages ago. At least, the tears that weren’t coaxed out of him during the rougher parties where he was used until there wasn’t anything left and he was aching and numb at the same time, or when a whip split open his skin in the same spot just one too many times.
You reached up and wiped his tears away. He sniffled and looked up at you through his watery gaze. “Thank you,” he muttered.
For a few moments, it was just the two of you in your own little world. Astarion felt strangely…comforted. He wanted to collapse into your arms and stay there for a fortnight or longer and tell you absolutely everything. The thought of it, of finally feeling arms around him that didn’t want anything from him, made his whole body shudder with a sob. You cooed softly, cupping his cheek and catching his tears with your thumb.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “The wine’s making me emotional, I— I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” you said. “Please don’t apologize. Not for this. You’ve been through so much and…you don’t deserve any of it.”
“You don’t know that,” he said.
“I do,” you said with such certainty that he paused in his protest, the list of his wrongdoings on his tongue fading into nothing. He looked at you and found sympathy in your eyes. Sympathy and love, genuine love, not the manufactured version he so often found in his victims’ eyes. If he had possessed a working heart, it would have stopped beating at that moment.
“I know you,” he whispered. Hope washed over your features. “Who are you to me?”
You opened your mouth but were interrupted by a server calling your name. You let go of his hand after one final squeeze and went over to her, taking a list of drink orders from her. You made them in your corner and Astarion watched, taking in your familiarity.
He could see himself running his hands through your hair, taking the braids out and scratching your scalp with his nails. He could picture you laying in a soft bed with him, your bodies tangled together and with damp sheets. He could imagine you sitting across from him at a dinner table, two other shadowy figures in his mind between you both. He could feel your hand clasped in his as you sat next to each other, both dressed in matching finery, your face turned away from him but your thumb stroking his skin reassuringly.
You were a part of his life. Or you had been, once. He was sure of it now. You had to have been someone special. Perhaps…
His stomach seemed to lurch. Oh, gods. Here he had been, flirting with your patrons, talking about his nightly sexual conquests, while you had been gazing at him so lovingly because he…
No, it couldn’t be! He’d remember you, wouldn’t he? If he’d had a best friend, a lover, he would remember them.
You don’t remember your own parents, he reminded himself.
Astarion looked at you while you worked, keeping your eyes down and trying very hard not to meet his gaze but sneaking little glances at his figure whenever you could.
His body tingled at the remembrance of lips on his neck, gentle and loving and wanted, kissing all the way down his stomach. It was you. It was you.
~❊~
He knew. He’d figured it out, you were certain of it. You could see him out of the corner of your eye and you watched the realization take over his face and body.
How much does he remember? you wondered as you worked, slammed with yet another rush hour and too busy to even stop and think, much less talk to your undead lover.
A tiny, unbearable flame of hope had started in your chest. He was here, sitting right in front of you, and he remembered you now. You were so close to having him back for good—and yet it was impossible. He was a vampire, cursed to the shadows and owned by a master worse than Niess. Even if you spent the rest of your long life working the night shift, Astarion would always have to return to his master with a victim in tow. How could you keep him at your side like that?
A thousand ideas popped into your head over the course of the night: kill his master. Run away from Baldur’s Gate. Continue as you were and let him leave you every night and every day to serve Cazador. No. You couldn’t do any of those things, and you certainly would not let Astarion keep slaving for a man who quite clearly abused him, even if Astarion hadn’t said it himself.
You kept track of time as best you could. It was nearly closing time when the flow of drink orders stopped, accompanied by groups of people leaving the tavern, calling their drunken goodbyes to you as they swayed toward the door.
Eventually, you returned to Astarion, who was still looking at you with that expression of dumbfounded realization as he had been the whole night. His last question was still bouncing around in your head: Who are you to me?
You folded your arms and leaned on the bar. You met his gaze, looking into eyes that had once been a beautiful honeyed gold, and said, “I was your fiancée, once.”
A choked sob came from his throat. He reached out and you let him take your hand. “I know,” he whispered. “I… I remembered you.” He kissed your hand and you sucked in a sharp breath. “My darling. My love. My wife, oh gods, you were going to be my wife.”
You squeezed his hand. “Honey… I missed you. I missed you so much. I saw you everywhere, I thought you were just a figment of my imagination but maybe—maybe sometimes it was you.”
“Two hundred years,” he whispered. “Two hundred years without you. How did I… How did we manage it?”
“I didn’t,” you answered honestly. “I kept going only because I had to. I pretended I was fine so your parents could take the time to grieve and I mourned only when I was alone. Everyone was always telling me how strong I was but all the while I…I was shattering like glass every night because you weren’t there to hold me together.”
Astarion squeezed his eyes shut. A few tears leaked out. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t there, I’m sorry I forgot you. I’m so sorry I didn’t try to escape him before I…before I forgot everything.”
“I’m sure you did try, Asty, you just don’t remember it,” you said quietly. “Or at least, I’d like to think you tried.”
“Asty,” he whispered. “I’d forgotten you called me that.”
The last of the tavern’s patrons shuffled out, watching you out of the corner of their eyes. You were certain they thought you were trying to coax a very drunk and emotional patron out the door, if they even had a thought behind those eyes made glassy with liquor.
The last server of the night began cleaning up. You squeezed Astarion’s hand.
“We’ve just closed, darling,” you said quietly.
“Closed?” he asked, a flash of panic in his eyes. “But I—I don’t have anyone to bring back to him! He— He’ll be furious.” The fear in his entire body made your heart break into two pieces.
“Astarion, honey, I need you to calm down for a second—”
“You don’t understand,” Astarion moaned lowly. “You don’t understand the things he’ll do to me!”
“Darling—”
“You don’t understand,” he gasped again.
“So help me understand,” you said quietly. “Come on, hun, talk to me. What will he do if you don’t go back?”
Astarion took several big gulps of air. While he calmed down, you told the last server to go home and began cleaning up yourself. You were nearly done when he began talking again from the bar, suddenly strangely calm, his voice dry and devoid of all emotion.
“He’ll starve me. He already does, but…he’ll take away all of it. The rats, the bugs… And he’ll beat me. No, no, he’ll watch while he has Godey beat me. Or he—” His voice caught in his throat. “Or he’ll…use me.”
You stopped and immediately went over to him. You opened your arms before you even got to his stool and enveloped him in a warm hug, holding his head close to your chest. Like a dam, everything broke. He sobbed into you.
“Hells, I’m going to be in so much trouble,” he whispered.
“No, you’re not,” you said firmly. “We’ll leave. We’ll run as fast as we can and never come back.”
He was shaking his head before you even finished your sentence. “No, no, we can’t, he’ll send someone after me.”
“Surely he has other spawn to torment—”
“I’m his favorite,” Astarion bit out, voice trembling. “He…he likes my screams, my suffering, the best.”
You fought down bile. “Oh, gods…” You hugged him tighter. “I wish I could—”
You had a terrible idea that stopped you cold. An idea that would save him from his master and keep you together for the rest of your very long lives.
“Come home with me,” you whispered. He began to protest, but you continued, “Come home with me and we can spend one last night together as we are. And then when the time comes…take me to him.”
Astarion went stiff in your arms. He pushed away from you enough to stare into your eyes. “What?” He sounded as horrified as he looked. “You want me to give you to him? No, absolutely not. I can’t! I can’t subject you to the same torture I go through night after night, I can’t do that to you! I love you, gods damn it all, even if I didn’t remember it for so long. The man I was when you loved me would never have brought you to Cazador.”
You cupped his cheek. “I still love you, Asty, I’ve loved you every day since you died. You might be changed, but deep down you are still my Astarion.” You showed him your hand, on which there was still a ring—delicate and beautiful and oh so lonely on your finger. “You are still the man I dreamed of marrying.”
“You kept it,” he whispered, touching the ring. “All these years even though— What, you never wanted to start over with someone new?”
You shook your head. “Never. It was always you, Astarion. And it always will be. So just take me to him. Give him to me, keep yourself safe for the night. And I can stay with you this way. I will always be there to soothe your suffering if you bring me to him.”
He shook his head. “No. No, I can’t, darling, I—” His voice broke.
“Please, Asty,” you whispered. “I cannot bear the thought of you being hurt because of me.”
“It’s not because of you,” he protested.
But you shook your head. “I kept you talking all night, love. I kept you at my bartop when you had a job to do. Please, darling.” You brushed his hair behind his ear. “Let’s go home.”
For several long moments, Astarion just stared at you. Then, in the quietest whisper you had ever heard, he said, “Alright.”
☞ ❊ ☜
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Baldur's Gate 3 // Astarion Ancunin
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