Gale Dekarios, former Chosen of Mystra is Head of the Department of Arcane Theory and Application at Blackstaff University. Roslyn Elstar is the first Sorcerer in history to be appointed to a post there. Obviously sparks fly.
But somewhere beneath the city something dark and ancient is rising, threatening to turn the world to ash.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/64970248
Study Session: Vol. 1
Gale X OC Roslyn
NSFW MDNI
Gale helps Roslyn overcome some difficulty with a summoning spell. Set post-Epilogue.
Gale x OC Smut, MDNI!
Pure smut. Total nonsense, enjoy.
CW: Softdom Gale, AFAB
As Gale steps into the room, a copy of Azebin Jeqor’s Ars
A Wilder Wind —Ongoing
Gale X OC Roslyn
NSFW Minors DNI
He was a burnt out, down on his luck, former Chosen of Mystra, burning with ambition.
She was a poised and perfect ice queen, on the run from her past.
And then they fell in love.
Follows the main storyline of BG3, a romance between my Tav Roslyn a half elf sorcerer and The Wizard Man ™️.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Firsts
Gale x OC
NSFW Minors DNI!
A short Drabble of a series of ‘firsts’ in Gale and Roslyn’s relationship.
TW: Canon typical violence, sexual content, minor minor spoilers for Act I of BG3
Gale x OC
NSFW Minors DNI!
A short Drabble of a series of ‘firsts’ in Gale and Roslyn’s relationship
TW: Canon typical violence, sexual c
Something to Remember Me By
Gale x OC
NSFW, MDNI!!!
TW: Mentions of suicide (Netherese Orb) Minor spoilers for Act II of BG3
This will be hers, she realises, always. Long after he has left her; gone back to his tower in Waterdeep, or returned to Mystra’s embrace, there will have been this night, when he chose her, when she was what he wanted. She knows already, through the haze of pleasure, that someday she will carry this moment like an old wound.
Gale/OC NSFW Oneshot, MDNI!!!
This is a silly little piece of eye watering smut that I wrote about the wizard man. This is part of a longer
Who Are You?
Gale x OC Smut
NSFW, MDNI!!
TW: TW: Softdom Gale, mentions of PTSD, slight BDSM elements.
Tonight, her eyes snap open, she is trembling. Her mind is slick with visions of a burning roof above her, —some awful amalgamation of Waukeen’s Rest and her own childhood home — and he is already awake. He presses a kiss to her temple. “A dream Ros. Just a dream. Come back to me” he whispers. And then he sets about pulling her back into the world.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Morning glimmers and Astarion helps you wake up.
( + read on AO3 )
✣ PAIRING: Astarion x fem!reader (2nd person POV)
✣ THEMES AND WARNINGS: Explicit sexual content = minors do not interact! Spawn!Astarion, established relationship, no use of Y/N, morning sex, soft smut, fingering, oral (f receiving), piv sex.
✣ NOTES: I imagine this takes place sometime in Act III post-Cazador, pre-tadpole removal, but let's not pretend the plot matters here. Originally was supposed to be included in my longer Astarion fic, but it didn't work out, so I'm posting it as a one shot. Lowkey based on this poem by Sylvia Plath.
The sun is a grapefruit. Through the open window, bustle and clangs from the harbor eddy into the room. The curtains billow like ship sails; daylight splashes in, sea-wild, smears the floors and carpet and the wrinkled bedding.
A knuckle teases your cheek. Your eyelids tighten. No, a little longer, you mumble—or think you mumble, for it might come out as a garbled, throat-deep grunt.
“You already got an extra hour, love. Now you're just being greedy,” he reprimands you, though not really—he knows a thing or two about greed.
You can picture Astarion from the clear tone of his voice: fresh and preened and dapper-dressed, ivory locks arranged in effortless curls, shrouded in that scent of ripe citrus, heady liquor and evergreen that makes your mouth water. The mattress dips where he sits and your body reclines in his direction, pulled in by gravity. Belly down, you rest with one knee folded up for balance, and you're growling again, your face twisting away into the plumpness of the pillow that your arms hug close.
“I'll get up, I swear,” you mutter.
“You've never sounded more persuasive,” he mocks.
You don't rebut or respond and he thinks you've boarded the ship to dreams again. As much as he'd like to join you in aestivation, loll in the sun together like cats on a roof without a care in the world, there's still that heap of awful, responsible, urgent things to do, and companions to do it with waiting downstairs. He huffs and air slaps your shoulder. Oh, to think you're forcing him to act as the responsible one—that's the real offense.
Astarion's fingers play with the light—gold arrowheads, soft as feathers—skewed, unbalanced and all smudged up in the curves of your legs, snuggling a piece of your waist. Often, he wonders about what it'll be like to lose the sun again, to have this recently reacquired companion backstab him, and meditations on the matter are as swiftly discarded as they come. He wants to think about the future, just not that future—at least not yet. Instead, he looks at you in your bath of bright linen, and he thinks of fruits displayed on merchant stalls in Rivington, fuzzy peaches, pearls of dew scuttling down the skin of violet grapes, tangerines waiting for fingers to peel them naked.
Since defeating Cazador, he finds himself wanting things differently, as in, the outlines of his own desires curve rounder now, more vivid, graspable without that barbed edge that threatened to bloody him like before. He aligns his desires with care, sprawls them and dissects them longly before he decides whether they're something he wants or something he thinks he wants. Sometimes it's easy, sometimes it isn't.
This is an easy one.
His palm muddles the sun-glossed rectangle on your ribs. The gown you wear to sleep is pale, gossamer thin—you might as well be wearing nothing at all—and it creases under his touch, unveils your skin all slashed from the imprints of bedsheets. You cast him a perplexed glance from over your shoulder. His eyes meet yours, ruby bleeding into amber from the incandescent morning. It's one of Astarion's favorite hours, when the sun is still congenial, not yet aggressive and molten. It's one of your favorites too, for different reasons—any hour in which he exists is your favorite, whether it's to follow echoes of the moon or the infallible sun.
His hand trails up the hillock of your hip, curves to the back of your thigh, his fingers crafting five notches in your flesh. With pinched eyebrows, you murmur his name—a question, a warning, an invitation.
On his fourth finger, he carries a signet ring. It isn't brand new, the silver band scuffed, oxidized to a midnight blue. He found it while rummaging around an antiques shop. It rested in a velvet-padded box amongst a bevy of exhaustedly battered specimens, that one the first and only which caught his eye. The seal was carved on a nail-sized setting of lapis lazuli, bearing a water lily, heart-shaped leaves, tired yet beautiful. Not at all the sort of thing he'd wear. “You ever seen a water lily at night?” you had asked him, pushing a cheek against his shoulder to look. “They close right up.” You imitated a bud with your cupped hands, telling him they opened up again in the morning. Flowers that started anew each passing day. Rebirth. He thought there was a metaphor in there somewhere, and he was going to pocket the seal, but you gave him a sour look and he retaliated with another to mean you're not fun. You smiled, shrugged. Said it was a nice ring. He purchased it for five pieces of gold—which was five pieces too expensive, if you were to ask him.
Now the metal glints when Astarion dips his hand inwards. His thumbnail hooks under your underwear, nudges it aside, and with sunlight braided in his touch, he presses his fingerpad into you. Soft flesh, he'd kiss it if he had the time, eat you right up. He grins at your mixture of purr and sigh—devious, devious smile; it suits him tenderly.
“Shall I stop?” he ponders. There's malice to his voice, but even with that, you know he'd back away in an instant if you said so.
You shake your head no.
His finger parts you then, curious, seeking your arousal and the physical mark of it, gathering it until it seeps and clings all sweet and syrupy to his hand. He turns his palm up, precise as a cut, spreading middle and ring fingers to scissor your clit, and the signet he wears rocks into you like a drop of cool rain. You're grabbing your pillow in a fist now, biting down obscene words. His touch is a merciless flare; your hips snap, spine arched, writhing to meet his touch.
You kiss his hands often—before bed, checking them for cuts—you know them from the jutting bone of his wrist to the trimmed curve of his nails, you know where his calluses are set on his palm and which fingers he likes to use whenever he plays with you. He has two of them crooked inside you and he carves your pleasure like he's coring an apple, forcing you into an almost painful awareness of the placement of your guts and your sinews and the skin that wraps it all together, just so he can unravel the whole thing in one smooth swerve.
“Come back to bed,” you heave, desperate, hating yourself for how whiny you sound.
Astarion snickers. “Look at you, all bossy.”
He clutches your kneecap and capsizes you onto your back. The sheets curl and knot around your legs; you struggle to kick them off. He has to help you, disentangle you with claws, with hooks, as if to rip the whole thing apart. The sun drips on your belly and trickles down the veins of his forearms before he robs you of it for good. He covers you like a dark cloud and light crashes onto his shoulders, his knees planted between yours, his hair a crown of fire.
“You're not asleep anymore, are you?”
“No,” you buzz half-heartedly.
“What if I told you to get up and get dressed now?” he muses.
“Please don't do that,” you groan.
Astarion laughs. It's a delightful chime to wake up to, bouncy like the insides of a pomegranate, sweet and fun and sticking to the teeth. He laughs more now, you've noticed, a bit less in that scornful manner he used to ring as a soughing menace—he can be sweet, he can be acidic, so many flavors bundled up in one man. You go chase his laugh with your lips, some sleep-stunned, sloppy kiss, teeth clunking his, a little too much tongue. He doesn't mind it.
Something rises in him from deep, an abyssal current of desire, carried by bloodrush and the warm lick of lights and the wetness that's coating his fingers like he just crushed a pear. He palms your breast, your pulse, nips your nipple, all the while wondering what to do with that godsdamned flimsy gown that's still clinging to you tight enough to bother him (should he waste the time to strip you of it or simply rip it apart?).
You're dry humping him at this point, fingers clenching at his collar to steady yourself, the back of your thighs scrabbling his lap. He moans something you can't quite catch. You ask an unfocused what? to which he responds with his hand raking into your panties again. His knuckles warp and stretch the fabric while he rubs quick circles that drench his hand for good and make your teeth come down his lower lip. You're not asleep anymore, sure, but he's not thinking about walking you through the threshold of the room either.
Someone raps on the door. A voice beats through the ornate panels. Though you fail to decipher the words, impatience sluices them.
Astarion clamors, irritated, “I'm getting her dressed!”, even if the exact opposite is in fact happening.
Your fingers finish popping the buttons of his shirt and the material finally gapes over his skin, a revelation of clavicles, sturdy chest, the dip down to his navel. His body is gilt in light and the sight makes your mind trip. You're dying to put your tongue on inappropriate slabs and asperities, wet him all over just to see how the sun makes him glow.
You keep moaning his name and it's getting to his head, your body pulsating and compressed by the generous bark of sun, the mattress, him, as if fighting against getting pinned down, the struggle of an insect in a fountain. Between your thighs, you withhold what he craves.
“Hells with it,” he hisses.
His ring leaves a streak on your skin while he plies your panties off you, tossing them heedlessly to the foot of the bed. The sun is in your eyes, harsh, blazing. You shut them to make dark but your brain's still stunted by the blinding shard. He picks that moment to color your pussy the cherry red of his tongue and something shorts and sizzles in your brain. Deft fingers are coupled to the sacred swirl of his tongue, the low rumble of his voice piercing you from below; he kisses softly, then not so softly—so mean, actually—sucks all of you in his mouth and drops it, then waits for you to squirm before he does it again, with shattering intensity, tonguing your clit like it's a seed to nurture and nudge around in wet soil. You tremor like your body isn't yours anymore, made into something mellow with a pit and flesh and a stem all for him to split open and savor. Your shirt rides up, your tits bare; you play with the nipple he pinched before.
“Astarion,” you breathe, “Astarion, come on.”
There's a smack, wet and curt, a mouth noisily parting from a kiss.
“What is it, love?” he sighs, his voice raspy, like he just drank from a bottle of Amnian liquor and couldn't stop at the first glass.
“Come here,” you whisper, and when he does, you sample the tang of yourself on his lips.
You crash the heel of your hand on his clothed erection, up, down, bringing your fingers in a tight nest. All his brittle sense of duty cracks for good—he never had much of it in the first place.
“Gods, you little minx.”
He breaks away, stumbles up to rush what remains of clothing and decency off his lithesome shape.
“We'll never get out of this room on time,” he comments, falsely chagrined, like it'll piss someone off and he's giddy just imagining it.
“Hey,” you shift on your side to offer a reminder, “you started touching me.”
“Oh, I'd say the blame is very much collective.”
You're wriggling out of your sleeping attire, throwing it on top of the pants he's bunched on the carpet, singeing him with your stare, breathless. He catches your hands when you reach for him, slips into your arms with the ease of habit. Your leg is hooked around his waist. A shiver of joy simmers up your backbone from feeling him, naked and slotted against you.
“Wish I could put you in my mouth,” you confess in a low tone. The length of him is pressed hard against your pubic bone, denting your logic, his arousal smearing your skin. You glide a finger across his tip, up the sides of him, taut and lilac-veined.
“Hold that thought for tonight,” he murmurs.
His knuckles graze your chin, lugging your gaze back to him. He needs those eyes, most trusted of mirrors; needs them on him in fight, in leisure, in exploration, in life.
With a hitch of his hips and your hand as a rudder, he bends into you. It hurts like a needleprick, a quick pulse, pain yielding to complicated, thick pleasure, a slow rub that breaks your senses like twigs. You heave, flushed in strange places, uncertain if it's from the heat of the sun or the raw scrubbing of his cock. He curves up into a devious spiral that sweeps every sensitive spot in you, pelvis kissing your clit, so purposeful, the composition of this trick a complete mystery to you—you like it, that's all that matters; he knows it well enough to try every time. You're soaked between the thighs, his pelvis webbed slick too, and it's worsening with each drag, the crude light making everything so obvious, a messy evidence of attraction.
The gap between his mouth and yours is filled with slurred speech, phrases like you like that?, yes, a lot, and bleary nothings so candid and desperately turned on that it'd be hauntingly embarrassing to listen to in your normal state, the whole of this only making sense with your bodies tangled together, blabbering about harder, do that again, kiss me. After a while, it's daunting to speak at all, to be articulate. Excess light makes you dizzy, sluggish, stupid. The weight at your center, his unrelenting grip down the small of your back, the drip that's warm when he moves, the right kind of stretch, hilt deep, slowing you in your rocking pattern. You stop moving altogether. You let him do his thing, his hands all over you, the recurrent tempo of his hips.
He doesn't tell you stow your claws away, kitten, though he does think it when he's stung by the small marks you engrave on his ribs, his shoulders, whichever part of him you barnacle on.
Through the slit of your eyelids, you contemplate gold, ivory, pink, and touch is juxtaposed to sight in a messy spread of him, the perfect burn, the curve of his cupid's bow, his attention like a ray of flame, and next thing you can piece together is, you're falling apart around him, shaking on his cock like crystal on the verge of breaking, and he treats you like you're precious but not fragile, keeps that throb between your aching legs that makes your insides pleat and your mind hallucinate stars in broad daylight. He's not slowing down or halting and you think, good, you want him undone in your arms—no better way to start the day—Astarion spent and loved and safe and satiated.
There's another knock on the door. You sob against his carotid, still riding out the tail end of your orgasm, “Can't—fuck, just make them leave.” He's not in a much better state than you are. “Go away!” he exclaims balefully. He doesn't bother with a lie or an excuse, and you shouldn't laugh, but you do, bursting into some nervous hiccup that spreads to him.
“Great, now they know.”
“Oh, love, I think they knew well before that.”
He waits for the ripple of your muscles to recede into sore quiet, before he gingerly pushes on your shoulders, rolls you back so he's on top. Your legs are butterflied for better access and he's inside you again, dragging in and out, making him moan, shake his head, like he can't believe it's real, the feeling. It doesn't hurt at all, there's just pleasure now, the full, tight expanse of it, and the sounds wet, cloying. You think of orchards, blood orange pulp, ripe, bursting out of membranes.
The headboard thuds into the wall, once, twice, more. A lock of hair darts across his eye; you sit it back behind his ear for him. Vampires don't sweat but his skin is damp, you touch it on his nape, skittering to his chest. You asked him discreetly about it once. He called it condensation, like breath on glass. Now there's the heat of day darted on him and the steady quiver of pleasure, and it's a startling, eerie chemistry, because like this, his honey eyes, skin glistening, it'd almost feel like he's living.
He holds his thumb to your swollen clit, still hot from your release and whispers, “Sweet thing… My darling. How about seconds?”
“I don't know if I can,” you temper, shivering from overstimulation.
“Let it build. It's fine if you can't.”
You're struck by the tenderness in his voice.
“Astarion.”
“Mmh?”
“You're really something.”
There it is again, his pretty laugh, bubbling to your belly. You hold the sides of his neck to look at him, him in the sun, him making love to you, him with disarranged hair he'll whine about later because you tousled it, him with scratched shoulders and his clever mouth and the dangerous glitter in his pupils.
The room isn't silent. The city purrs, bashful, tippy toeing under the window. Smiths hammering scorched-red iron. Far off, the brackish backwash of the ebbing sea. A square of perfect blue encased in the sill.
Astarion, warm between your legs, melting you away. The headboard keeps a stuttering, unclear cadence, sometimes rough, sometimes muffled, like your lover isn't sure what he wants.
You trace his lips with your thumb and he kisses your fingertip. He'd like you to come a second time, and you know it, he wouldn't fuck you like that otherwise, with such focus, such care. And you worry a little because he does this sometimes, forgetting his own pleasure like it's inaccessible or something he isn't allowed to have. He already got you up the crest once. You don't mind the attention—far from it—but this is overkill.
You pick up his hand, set it on your hip. Eyes in his, framing his face, you rub under his ears, you whisper comfort and praise, “I love you, I love you, do I tell you that enough?” He asks, eyelids heavy, “Really, you do?”, and maybe he's jesting, maybe he's not, the intent's a little lost, but you go on anyway, all the things you like about him, things that make him him, not just that he's pretty, but witty and unruly and reckless, and you're not eloquent but that's why he listens, why he knows you're being truthful. The ball of your foot caresses his leg; you make him slow down. Feel you. Feel it. Take the time. His elbow digs the pillow for balance, you nudge at his fingers, tangle them with yours. The back of your hand presses into the soft casing and floats up the surface with each of his thrusts.
He's so close to toppling you can feel it beat in your core. Your voice breaks every few steps into your sentences, your thoughts begin to jumble—all his fault, truly; he rouses out slippery moans out of you. Your heart knocks with fury, prodding his breast bone.
“Come when you want,” you murmur. “Take all you like, I'm yours. Whatever you want, however you want it. All yours.”
His fingers tighten their grip. He makes a noise, feral, his mouth diving to yours. The weight of his tongue. The skip of his midriff against yours. Sweat, slick, water.
You don't even mean to but he really does make you come a second time. It catches you off guard, and you're gulping down, teary-eyed, your breath off-beat and turbulent.
And with the sun in his back, your body reaching heights against his, mute, undone, exquisitely clenching him, Astarion falls into ecstatic bliss too.
“They're not knocking anymore.”
You make that observation several minutes into the panting half-silence. He's softening against your inner thigh while your hand cuddles his back, smoothing the scars, counting the knuckles of his spine from top to bottom, then the other way up.
“They might send Lae'zel next.” Astarion grunts, nuzzling the curve of your neck one last time. “We better hurry if we want to keep the door on its hinges.”
A few seconds flutter by before he gathers the courage to tear away from your embrace. Your arms clutch your chest, emptied, disappointed. It's like stepping out of the sea in summer after playing in waves too long, and the air outside hitting sharp and brisk despite being warmer than the water. Astarion switches to look at you.
“Are we getting up now?”
“We're getting up.”
Your back cracks straight. You push your legs forth, roll your ankles, try to fit back into your body. You watch him fish his clothes off the floor and make a ruffled expression.
“You could just try bringing breakfast next time,” you tease.
Something hits you across the face.
“I don't like bread crumbs in bed.”
You realize he just hurled your underwear at you. You grimace, slip it back on, stare at your knees, trying to organize your thoughts. Wash up—that'll take a moment. Water, drink, your throat begs for it. And something to eat. What to wear.
Astarion takes pity on you, on that silly, lost fawn air you exude. He thinks it's stupid, how scattered some people are in the morning. How helpless you look. What would you do, if he weren't around? He strides over, leans in, offers his full mouth, a real tonic of a kiss, wet and sparkling. It makes you perk up like a sugar-rush.
“Clean up,” he says. “I'll pick your outfit.”
Outside the bedroom, somebody is banging on the door again.
( can be read as stand-alone ) part 1 / part 2 / part 3
pairing: astarion x fem!reader (bg3)
themes and warnings: nsfw, minors do not interact! friends to lovers, relationship study, smut with a disgusting amount of feelings, a little bit of hurt/comfort, grinding, fingering, semi-public/sneaky sex, swearing.
author's note: i genuinely believe getting frisky with astarion implies a certain amount of unchoreographed mess and desperation, so here goes.
synopsis: traveling through the underdark, obscurity favors bodies getting closer.
His voice calls your name, snapping you from your lingering thoughts. Eyes blinking, wiping the sweat from your forehead, you warily peep over your shoulder to the source of light. A pale hand holds up a torch to you, waiting for you to take it. Your eyebrows shoot up, voice soft, a little drained.
“Can't you carry it yourself?”
Astarion's condescending laughter dances like a song over the rippled rocks surrounding you, bouncing over the glistening obsidian and hanging stalactites.
“Oh—I'm not the one who desperately needs it. Do try to keep up, darling.”
Your pride flickers for a moment, stung by the faint mockery in his tone. Thought yourself a paragon of stealth and agility, hiding the unsteadiness in your heels, but since your descent, your frequent slips and brawls with the complex bowels of the Underdark—followed by creative and audible blasphemy—have earned you more than a few sympathetic cackles from your traveling companions. Evidently, your tumbles haven't escaped the pale elf's observant watch.
The torch's vivid spark glides over his ruby-hued eyes, reminding you how his nature has reshaped them to savour the diffuse murkiness of the Underdark. Yours, on the other hand, are made for the surface, its glorious shimmers, the waking dawn and glowing afternoons. You accept his offering with feigned nonchalance, surrendering in recognition of your own limitations. He shoots you a softened grin, almost tender, a drop of nothing that sends a palpitation to your stomach. You sense his presence behind you the rest of the trail, invisible pupils burning a precise spot right between your shoulder blades.
The fire purs, its joyful flickers licking the opaque air, keeping the darkness at bay. Down here, it is difficult to know when eventide has fallen. The intense exhaustion sweeping everyone at once serves as a trusted indicator that the time has come to set up camp.
On a quest for a needle and a thread to repair a tear in your blouse, you've given up all attempts at furtiveness as your feet carry you towards Astarion.
You find him lounging on a slightly ragged carpet a little further away, at the verge of the light, where the tips of trembling flames begin to blend with the darkness. Unsteady light cajoles his features, biting at his sharp cheekbones, dropping reflections in his eyes as he contemplates your approach. There's barely the time to open your mouth or utter a word as you halt before him.
His hand flutters toward you. The back of his index trails lazily over the purpled bruise blooming on your knee, at his eye level, sending a pressure as soft as an ant's steps. The gesture shocks you. Disoriented, you forget to move away. His hands are cold, but you don't mind. You surprisingly do not mind.
He looks up at you.
“You bruise like a peach, you know. Don't go falling off a precipice, I'd rather not go through the trouble of climbing down those pikes and crags just to scrape up what's left of you.”
Tone's judgmental, laced with mockery and a hint of smug disapproval. In pure contrast with what he's doing to your hurt flesh. His digits move over to the scarlet scratch, texturing the skin on your calf. Caressing that spot too, the way one would the petals of a curious orchid. Studying you. You stare down at his nimble fingers, how delicate they are. Perhaps there exists a science of the touch, an arcane art you haven't yet been introduced to. You are inclined to believe in it, watching him brush over your wounds like that, without eliciting so much as a wince or nip of pain from you.
You've forgotten what you came to him for. Or perhaps you've decided you didn't really need it after all. Slipping away from his grasp, you can hear yourself wishing him a croaky goodnight before carrying your tired carcass back to the blanket near the fire.
Sleep hovers over you. You're cranky, nervous. Senses playing with you like a wild animal, enjoying the struggles of its prey before taking the first bite. You think you hear cracks, hisses over the rocks, looming shadows slipping from a crevice. Something startles you, and you jolt up. Rubbing your eyelids, your entire body's tortured with a combination of fatigue and the jitters. Feeling worse than a rabid cat.
Need to wait a while, for your pulse to calm down, the cold sweat to evaporate. Your muscles are sore as you make the effort to stand. Attentively avoiding any loose gravel that may screech your companions awake, you've picked a corner of your bedroll, quietly pulling it towards Astarion's. Is it routine now? You can't remember when you started doing it. Your sleeping habits match in that they're both terrible. Insomnia serves as a prologue to your midnight chatters, stories exchanged in a whisper, until dreams whisk you both away.
You try to read his body language as you approach. Don't want to risk tearing him away from well-deserved rest. But you notice his eyelids trembling, nostrils flaring. Despite appearances, sleep has evaded him, too. Kneeling down, you blow on his lashes, ever so gently. A hum rises from his throat, low but not unwelcoming, though warning you not to repeat your gesture. His eyes blink open, set on you.
“Nightmare or insomnia?” he inquires, tone low, raspy.
You sit one step away, gaze lingering into the neighbouring precipice, wondering if you've made a mistake leaving the proximity of the fire.
“Shouldn't come as a surprise in this gods forsaken place, but, both.” Your own voice is a little hoarse, deformed still by the last fragments of your bad dreams.
“If you're afraid of the dark, you can just say so. I won't judge—well, perhaps a little, since you are a grown, rather capable adult, and not some featherless juvenile.”
Your reaction is as instantaneous as a dog bite.
“I am positively not afraid of the dark,” you retort, caustically.
Glancing down at him precisely as you say those words, you catch the sly playfulness splashed upon his elegant features. You've given him exactly what he hoped for. A reaction, a bark. Your expression shifts, torn between annoyance and amusement. He knows how you work. Knows it a little too well. How to tease and nudge at your blasted pride. It works, though. You're not thinking about the shadows anymore.
“If not the dark, what's troubling you?” he asks. Voice is genuine this time.
You sigh as you lie back down, hands joined over your stomach, picking at your nails.
“Let's not get into it now.”
Perhaps your lack of loquacity perplexes him. He props himself up on an elbow to look at you. You can't help but notice the creases between his eyebrows, small lines of concern. It takes an excruciating amount of self-control not to extend your hand towards his face, to brush your fingers over those lines.
“I've been enjoying our conversations, you know? And the simple fact that you're here tells me you have as well. But, if you didn't come here to talk, what did you come for?”
He speaks with cool detachment, but you catch a hint of misplaced incitement in his words. Throwing a dare at you. Daring you to what?
“Well, you're not sleeping either. What's keeping you up?” you diplomatically murmur, shamelessly shifting the subject.
He scoffs at your lack of subtlety, but is kind enough to let it slide—perhaps to avoid answering your question. His back presses against his bedroll once more, relinquishing you from his piercing gaze.
Silence settles between you like a foreign entity.
Dialogue isn't difficult with Astarion. Perhaps it used to be, just a little, when you first met. When he was all devious charm, calculated manners and crafted, lascivious smiles. And when your own guard was built so high, you couldn't even show you were breathless in public without fearing it a blatant sign of weakness. Closeness fell between you the way it often does, unexpectedly, slowly, peeling each other away one layer at a time. Snarky jokes around the fire. Comparing technique and bladework. Aligning what you had in common like marbles on the floor, discovering with a pinch of surprise that there were more than you ever suspected. A helping hand, a drop of blood. Confessions, at the heart of your sleepless nights.
This is new, though. The simple act of being. Existing beside the other, beyond the need to fill the space with words. Just the soothing crepitations of the fire and the presence of the other, intimate, comforting in the vertiginous dusk.
You turn your head, pupils gliding along the form of his profile, one you've come to memorize by now, even in the timid light. Can't help but notice the dark circles, wine-hued, sitting like bruises under his lower lashes.
“How have you been feeding down here?” you ask.
He doesn't even try to lie.
“I haven't.”
Could've guessed it yourself. Should've, actually. Myconids, earth elementals, flesh built with rot or minerals; the local wild game doesn't exhibit much in terms of veins and arteries to quench a vampire's thirst. And you haven't invited him to drink from you in a while. Haven't even thought of it, you've simply been too exhausted and out of your usual mind to do so. You know he isn't resentful, hasn't even touched on the subject with you. But the possibility that he could be choking on his own hunger and not uttering a word of it worries you.
“Would you like some of my blood now?” you ask carefully, after a brief pause.
“Darling, half your blood's currently painting the trails of the Underdark. I don't think there's much left to spare.”
His tone snaps like a dry twig, a little more abrasive than you expected. You sense his sourness isn't directed at you, more so born from the frustration of having to turn you down. The need to show some—gods forbid—restrain and reason. All rather unlike him. It dawns on you, a thought, once fermenting at the back of your mind, suddenly propelled forward, hitting you with such simple violence you can almost feel it undulate in your chest. Astarion cares about you.
“Fine. It's fine,” you mutter after a moment, suddenly troubled by the silence. Not sure who you're really talking to. A deep sigh. “Just, consider my neck at your disposal, should you ever need it.”
Often, when lying down, opening your jugular to him, you'd think of the way some wild beasts play among themselves, rolling over, showing their bellies to their mates as a sign of trust. You trust him, you wonder if he knows. But above all, you hope the reverse is true.
You're caught off guard when his body shifts next to you, his scent warming your face like a soft breeze. He's closer than before now, hovering barely at arm's length, his wrist bumping into your shoulder as he steadies himself above you. You recognize this, the typical prelude to his lips latching onto your neck, before the fangs pierce your skin, before your mind is sent into a haze as he satiates his thirst. His gaze locks with yours once again, a smile teasing his lips.
“You're sweet.” The tip of his canines glistens before vanishing. Can tell he means those words, as simple as they are. But there's a quality to them, something gentle.
So you play along. Holding on to your words, exposing your throat, letting the back of your head roll on the fabric your body is nestled on. Wondering if he'll do it, forgoing his initial reluctance just to catch a taste.
His hand touches you first. You weren't expecting this. Wide palm and gracile fingers wrap around your neck. He doesn't grip, or grasp, or squeeze. They simply rest there, thumb lightly stroking the tense flesh under your chin. You can hear your heart tremble. Perhaps that's what he's chasing: a measure, your pulse, quickening below his digits. When he lets go, you inhale, not realizing you had been holding your breath.
You're waiting for what comes next. Those wintry shards entering you, iciness spreading to your bones, contrasting with the warm droplets cascading across your shoulder from the punctured wound. You remember one early night, Astarion lost in the pursuit of those rebellious drops, straying away from the patch of skin he usually contained himself to, tongue dragging all the way down to your collarbone. The look you shot him then, astonished, dizzy. He never did it again after that.
Now his nose grazes your ear, mouth nuzzling your jugular. Pecking at the base of your jaw, gliding down, following the precious lines of your sensitive anatomy. The bite doesn't come. He lingers, taking his time. Lips nibbling at your skin, abandoning a thin veil of dampness in a trail of kisses. This is new, too. Confusion tickles you. Not sure if you should speak, you're afraid any misplaced word would dispel him. Shit, you really don't want this to end.
A delicate drowsiness washes over you. You find his hair, tentatively pulling at the ivory locks. His caress halts right where your neck curves into your shoulder. An ungovernable sigh escapes you, eyelids almost fluttering shut. His canines tease you, tongue running over the fragile skin.
“Mmh. So much warmer than usual.”
Words spoken directly into your neck, sending vibrations all the way to your spine, your guts, further below. There's a bell ringing somewhere in the pits of your consciousness, some smug slice of you singing you're really fucked now, aren't you? It's hard to move, even more so to think. The intoxicating delight of surrendering to a pull you've craved, fought against with all your might. Turns out your might is pretty feeble, brought down by a pair of fickle lips and just the right words spoken in your ear. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Without warning, Astarion withdraws from your neck, and it's like something was just violently pried from your avid hands. Exchanging looks, assessing the other. He can't be out of breath, but you are, and you haven't even moved. He notices this; eyes shine deviously, thinking I did that. You're the first to speak again. Can barely recognize your own voice, the way it drips with want.
“I think I might kiss you now.”
He purrs. “Oh, such a corny line, my sweet.”
“I learned from the best.” You jest, hand still in his curls, entranced by the way they cuddle your fingers. Heart's ticking like a clock, impatient, desperate.
“Can I?” you ask again in a murmur, the tip of your nose lightly brushing his.
He kisses you first. Skipping the preamble and the timid pecks, stealing what you both desire. Mouth meeting yours with such turbulence, there's a knock of teeth or fangs on your lower lip, a spark of pain, a drop of iron-flavored blood. His haste ravishes you, lips drinking you insane. Like falling into a lake during the heart of winter.
Your grip on his locks grows firmer. You taste herbs and brandy. He's told you about it before, his tricks to push away scents of the undead. Never imagined the fragrance would linger in his kiss as well. You can't contain the faint laughter that spills from you at the realization. Puzzled, he pulls an inch away, observing you. His lips glisten, wet from your kiss.
“Is this… funny to you?”. Astarion's benign outrage stirs a warm gush in your chest. Your fondness for him's like honey, dripping down your throat, wiping away any residual anxiety. You caress his cheek with the back of your finger, mimicking his move from before, when he nearly drove you insane just from brushing over your wounds.
“No. 'Course not. Just feeling a little drunk now, that's all,” you tease, leaving him the liberty of dissecting your cryptic phrasing on his own.
Your hand has slipped to the nape of his neck, guiding him back to you. Sucking his lower lip into your mouth, biting on the plump flesh. Savouring the edges of his smile. He hums, plays with the hem of your shirt, slips a hand under the garment. Following the shape of your waist, your stomach, the soft base of your breasts. Mapping you without an ounce of shame.
“Feeling adventurous?” you buzz.
“Hard not to, with you.” His thumb flickers over the curve of your nipple. You bite your tongue, trying to keep your gasp of surprise to yourself. Desire pulsates through your core.
His knees have settled between your thighs, bumping your legs slightly apart. The sudden grimace that bends your mouth doesn't escape him.
“What's wrong, dear?”
“Bruise the size of Avernus, right there.”
“Apologies. Let's not… rough you up too much then.”
Gods, the air of him, as he says those words. Need to knock some of the self-satisfaction out of the elf. Your back arches to meet his weight, hips pushed to slot against his. He groans from the sudden contact and it's worth everything, turns you on out of your damned mind. You realize how aroused he is when his erection pushes into your inner thigh. Your mind goes blank, caught in your own trap. Hips roll again, cautiously. There's the faint rustle from your night attires. And friction. Your covered pussy teasing his hard length in a rocky rhythm, feeling the shape of him, pressed against your clit.
Pausing your sway, your feverish gaze searches his.
“Is this okay?”
Oh. Need a second to take the sight in. Eyelids heavy, he's biting the inside of his cheek, on the verge of dissolving in your arms. And you've barely done anything. Astarion pulls you closer, hand flush on the small of your back. A grin falls to your lips. You're gentler this time. Rhythm slow, viciously patient, watching him closely, right as your core connects with his. Want to see how he reacts, every flourishing quiver of pleasure, the way he bites back a moan when your cunt drags along his bulge. Fabric's drenched there, can feel it when you move, how it digs into you as you massage him. Brain's mush now. Feels too fucking good. Your wetness warms his cock through the layers of clothing.
It's pleasure and it's agony. You want more, to rip apart the fabric separating you. Want the curves and lines of his body buried into yours. Wanna feel all of him, not just a silhouette. Around you. Inside you. This isn't enough.
A poorly muffled whimper, yours, echoes through the circling obscurity.
His hand covers your hipbone, lowering you back down, severing the rousing friction between your centers. Leaving you mouth agape, starved. Almond eyes stare you down, blazing with something you can't quite name.
“Why?” is all you manage to mutter.
He doesn't reply, but peeks forward to the fire, to your sleeping companions, not as far removed as you thought. You follow his gaze, swallowing strenuously.
“Be quiet, my darling.”
Your face heats up. The last thing you want is to wake your peers up with your shameless rutting.
“This isn't how I imagined having you,” he adds in a low voice. “Not in the middle of some damp, insalubrious grotto, with our friends just one step away…”
“So you have imagined it?”
He smirks. Hand gently stroking your waist.
“There are other things we can do—for now, at least. Less… exuberant things, perhaps.”
You raise an eyebrow, taken aback.
“Such as?”
He hums, a mischievous shine livening his gaze, as if holding onto a secret he doesn't want to share. You rise a little, just enough to bring your faces closer.
“Such as?” you repeat, separating each syllable. Your lips ghost over his cheekbone.
There's a short, suspended moment. Your breath fills the silence. Two bodies entwined like sleeping snakes.
“You're lovely,” he says. And you sense he isn't playing anymore.
He searches your eyes. You let them engulf you, those crimson irides, trying to remember the last time someone looked at you like this. The answer is short: this is the first time.
“Let me make you feel good,” he murmurs, lips so close to yours, you can almost taste them again. You sense his desire, swirling around you like vines. He isn't coy about it, and something's aching between your thighs.
“What about you?” you protest with a disappointed frown.
“Please. Tonight, this is all I want.”
Your breath hitches from a faint, anxious pull in your chest, a sudden worry that wasn't there before. Perhaps he feels you tense up; there's that crease between his eyebrows again. Your next words are spoken carefully, as if walking through a dark pond, trying to see how deep the water runs.
“You know, when I let you drink from me, it isn't because I expect something in return.”
His expression softens.
“I know. And this is very different.”
“Are you sure?”
“Darling, must I beg some more for the chance to make you cum? Because I will, and gladly so.”
It doesn't come down to this, tragically. Your ability to speak vanishes soon enough.
Astarion's mouth finds yours. He's less hurried than before. Delicate, unwrapping you. His knuckles caress your stomach, slipping below the waistband of your underwear. You gasp at the sudden coolness of his touch. His knee pushes against yours, parting your legs a little further. Can feel the heel of his hand now, firm over your pelvis. Two fingers slide further below. Parting you. Spreading your slick in an upwards back and forth, so damn slowly, your pussy flutters in despair. One of your hands grabs his shoulder to steady yourself. Your skin's electric, drinking in each of his movements. His middle finger draws over your clit in a circular motion, making your nerves jolt. A disgusting wail escapes you. Need to break away from his kiss to search for air. You're soaked already from the senseless humping, now covering his joints and palm with your wetness.
His digits press into you, torturously languid. You bury your face into his neck. All thoughts have decidedly left your mind. When he halts his movement, you sigh a protestative groan into his ear. Fuck, you need him to move again. Your hips stagger, melting into his touch, cunt slipping on his wet fingers. Begging for him to keep going. Makes him laugh, with how eager you are.
“You're cruel,” you whisper. Sharp teeth gently bite your shoulder in response. He doesn't satisfy you right away. Taking the time to savour the tight hug of your spasming pussy, how it twitches from him filling you.
“Look at me, darling.”
Such a simple task feels impossible. Not with his fingers pressed into you like that. Stifled moans bundle up in your throat; you're embracing silence with an open mouth. As you arduously peel yourself away, he watches you, your furrowed brows, watery eyes, lips raw from his kisses and bites. You're a fucking vision.
“My beauty… How perfect you are,” he says, almost in a breath. Murmured praises make your entire body flicker. He picks up a rhythm at last, joints thrusting into you, forcing a whimper out of your pretty mouth. “Promised I'd make you feel good.” Your pussy feels so deliriously soft, encircling him. Could devour you then and there, your companions be damned.Scattered beads of sweat roll across your skin to Astarion's. His pace quickens, knuckles brushing your flesh as his digits drag along your velvety walls. “Are you mine?”.
Mind wiped clean of care, you've stopped worrying about your breathy sobs or the sinful squelching composed by his curved fingers, sliding in and out of you.
“Yes.”
“Say it properly,” he purrs into your neck.
You bite your lip. Gods, he's a tease and you're so close to ecstasy your vision's a blur.
“I'm—Can't...”
Air escapes you. Not sure you know how to speak anymore, the way you're choking on the pleasure he inflicts upon you. Your nails dig into his shoulders, searching for balance. He presses his forehead to yours.
It swallows you completely, the wave of his touch, merciless, this implacable pressure on your sensitive nub. How his fingers spread your folds, searching for what makes you cry, pinching and caressing and pushing his way through. The pulse of your heart quickens, matching the throbbing of your cunt. Heat swallows your guts when his fingers dig into you again, stirring you from the inside, coaxing your body into an uncontrollable quiver.
Grasping the back of his neck, you come with your eyes half closed, drowning into him, mouth open in a silent cry. Pleasure bites at your limbs as he squeezes every last drop of shaking delight from you. He kisses you furiously, tongue slipping into your mouth, relishing the shudders of your overstimulated pussy as it clenches around him. When he pulls out, you can see how his skin glistens, coated in you.
Your mind's a delicious blur when you feel the tips of his index and middle fingers rest on your bottom lip. He doesn't say anything. You part your lips, welcoming his digits on your tongue. Tasting yourself, mixing your spit with the slick you've abandoned on the pads of his slender fingers, as he chased your high for you. Your gaze tangles with his. He's looking at you, a glimmer in his eyes, enthralled at the sight of your perfect mouth suckling him. When you let go, he whispers.
“Good girl.”
You won't recover anytime soon if he keeps saying things like that.
A little dazed, you see him press a handkerchief on the flesh between your legs. Adjusting your loosened clothing next, pulling your top down, brushing your hair away from your face. Finally, he collapses next to you, offering you the room to breathe at ease.
Your body's your own again. The air seems cool around you, like you've been brought back to a strange reality you don't quite recognize.
Astarion watches you come down. Listening to your breathing and your pulse until it has slowed down, becoming barely perceptible. Seconds stretch before he speaks again, so damn softly you almost miss his words.
“Have we cured that fear of the dark?”
The corner of his mouth curves into a grin.
You respond with an exhale and move to look at him. Your body's still palpitating from his ministrations, basking in the lingering delight shivering through your veins. You turn over after a moment, lying almost on your stomach to press yourself against him. He hums and responds to your touch, welcoming you closer. Your arm wraps around his waist, pale locks tickling your temple.
Ok, maybe you’d expect something extremely romantic—but that’s not quite it. Or at least, not just that. There are moments when this vampire spawn truly drives me crazy—and not in a sexy way. Let’s just say that part is the cherry on top! But let’s not waste any more time…
"You deserve something real. I want us to become something real."
Can we talk about this?
This is the very first time Astarion truly opens up. Willingly. Officially. Even at the risk of being kicked out of the group, even at the risk of being told to fuck off—because yes, everything he did before was purely out of self-preservation. He used Tav/Durge and paid for the favor with his own body.
And yet, he takes a risk. He puts everything on the line—even the very mechanisms that have protected him for centuries, allowing him to keep going without stopping, without thinking, without letting himself get emotionally involved. Because if he hadn’t dissociated, it would have hurt too much.
But this time? He’s done pretending.
This time, he really wants to try.
He wants to take a chance—for the one person who managed to crack through his armor, who lowered his defenses.
He wants to be real and experience something real, for the first time in over 200 years—with everything that comes with it.
For someone who has always worn a mask, this is a massive, deeply important concept. Especially because, as I said, this confession goes against everything he’s ever believed—about love, about sex, about relationships.
It goes beyond control.
Beyond using emotions and feelings as weapons.
Beyond self-preservation, which is what pushed him to act like a piece of shit so many times throughout Act 1.
Here, Astarion takes a step away from selfishness and toward altruism—toward the other, beyond himself—and spits out the truth. He shows himself, stripped bare and flawed, and braces for the consequences.
He takes responsibility for what he’s done.
He makes himself vulnerable.
And that’s an even more powerful, meaningful act when you remember just how hard that is for someone like him—someone who’s made fear his primary driving force for so long.
“This is a gift, you know. Thank you. I won’t forget it.”
What can I say? It begins in Act One and ends at the conclusion of the Pale Elf’s quest in the “good” ending. The callback is incredibly powerful—revisiting the concept of the gift shows just how much he’s grown, how he’s come to genuinely appreciate what is offered to him. Even when it’s not what he expected, or what he claimed to desire.
And in this case, we’re talking about trust. He is grateful for the trust he’s been given. Just like in the bite scene, where those words are first spoken. Trust in him as a person, not a monster. Trust in his qualities—the ones lying beneath the bitter, hardened, sarcastic façade. Trust in his potential. In the depth of his soul, where something much more profound is hidden. Something more delicate and vulnerable, too.
And trust—or rather, certainty—that all of this has immense value and is worth nurturing. And for this, for the opportunity he’s given to finally explore that side of himself in his future, he is grateful. He considers it a gift. And that’s something that quite literally melts me.
“I did it. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
I’ve never experienced it in my playthroughs—I always freed the vampire spawn. Except for one time when I damned them, lol. But here, you can clearly see Astarion's growth and sensitivity. Not only that, but it also emerges in a context that doesn’t involve Tav/Durge, the safe harbor who has accompanied him on his journey so far. Instead, it involves the Gur tribe, with whom Astarion has a history that’s nothing short of turbulent: the law enacted against them, his own death, the kidnapping of the children. All violent and terrible events that left a mark on him—marked by hatred, anger, and shame.
In this scene, there’s everything: forgiveness, reconciliation, redemption, leaving the past behind, and facing the future with a stronger, more determined spirit. Here, Astarion opens his mind and heart to someone he once despised, hated, and hurt. He acknowledges and embraces their pain, grief, even their resentment, and does so with compassion and newfound maturity.
What else can I say but that I’m so proud of this mischievous little bastard?
“Even I deserve something better.”
This is a moment I absolutely adore. I never cheated on Astarion with Mizora—just to be clear—I’ve only watched the cutscenes on YouTube. The she-devil just doesn’t do it for me, unfortunately for her. Lol.
If I have to throw myself at someone with horns, I’d much rather pick Wyll or Karlach! <3
But back to why this scene makes my heart race…
This is where you can see all of Astarion’s growth. All of it.
This isn’t about jealousy—he makes that clear right away. We know very well that the spawn isn’t against open relationships; he’s even open to including Halsin in the mix.
This is about betraying the trust of your partner—something he’s only just begun to claim for himself.
To trust someone, and in turn, to be worthy of their trust.
It’s a deep and incredibly important concept.
If Tav/Durge attacks him with the idea that he would’ve been the first to jump into such situations and betray others, Astarion quickly replies that maybe, once, yes, he would have. But things change. People change.
Another powerful concept.
And the most beautiful part of all this is when spawn Astarion chooses to leave Tav/Durge, because he finally has enough self-respect and strength not only to keep going on his own, but to fight for himself.
To say “No, thank you.”
He’s no longer willing to settle, to bend, to swallow the bitter pill—even if that means parting from the person he loves more than anyone else in the world.
Because yes, damn it, he deserves something better than that!
And because, in that moment—just as he himself says—Tav represents everything he’s trying to escape from in order to become better: someone who only thinks about themselves, without caring about the consequences or who gets hurt along the way.
Simply beautiful.
Especially when compared to the tragic words of Ascended Astarion, who—when Tav/Durge suggests they had a bad night and regret it—responds by telling them not to dwell on it and to just focus on the next conquest.
He doesn’t face anything. He runs.
And deludes himself that next time, it’ll be better.
“You. I want you.”
Okay, this is where my heart just can’t take it. Awwww.
I mean—finally, after everything we’ve been through in the game, after all those times we’ve asked him “What do you want?” and all the times he wasn’t able to answer…
At last, Astarion gives voice to his own desires and replies: “You.”
Not power. Not control. The relationship.
That deep connection with another person, without any more doubts, masks, roles (master, slave, vampire, human), or ulterior motives.
Pure and simple, from one soul to another.
It’s a conscious and free choice.
From someone who, not that long ago, couldn’t even put a name to what he had with Tav/Durge—“What are we, to you?” “I don’t know. But isn’t it nice not knowing?”—I think he’s now fully realized how warm, comforting, and fulfilling it is to know.
To be able to give a name to what binds him to another.
And the “I love you” that follows not only warms our hearts—it shows us just how far this small, desperate vampire spawn has come.
He’s achieved the unthinkable: reclaiming his shattered identity, freeing himself from the curse of vampirism—not physically, but spiritually—and rediscovering his right to be, to choose, to express himself, and to feel something real.
But most of all, he’s found the ability to recognize it and name it, without fearing the consequences anymore.
I think there are more, but I’ll stop here for now.
Every single line from Astarion deserves to be analyzed, if you ask me! I have a feeling my next list will be about the Astarion quotes that piss me off. Lol
So, when we meet Tara in Act 3 and Gale is in our party, it’s mentioned in-game that she has a collar that identifies her (Tav: “That symbol on the collar…Gale, is this one yours?” Gale: “It is! It’s Tara!”)
You can clearly see it in her animations:
What I did not know (until I saw it in the Bg3 wiki) is that it’s not just decorative—it’s actually a stealable/usable magic item. (Side note: Who would dare steal from Tara?!?! Who would dare??) The details are below:
I wanted to talk about the collar because as I was looking at it, I realized that there are three subtle details that show just how much Gale loves Tara:
If you look closely at the screenshot of Tara, you’ll see that the leather/fabric portion of her collar is a deep purple—a shade that matches Gale’s camp clothing. Of course he would give his closest friend his favorite color 💜
Even though Gale knows Tara is a “fine wizard in her own right,” and that she can cast a fireball, he still imbued the collar with a very powerful Level 5 Telekinesis spell.
There is in-game dialogue where Gale talks about how, in order to survive during his yearlong exile, he had to absorb all of his personal magic items that were stored in his tower. So the fact that Tara’s collar still holds this enchantment means he did not want to ‘absorb’ it—not even to extend his own life—because it is to be used for Tara’s protection 🥹
She looks past him to the assembled group, she has guessed enough to know that what is happening in this room matters and what’s going on outside of this room is bad. Bad enough to make even Astarion afraid. Dekarios catches her eye and for once he doesn’t glare or grimace, there’s a clarity in his expression that seems to say this is a river you only cross once Elstar.
virtual library | playlist | ao3 | vp by @alstrodurge
summary: It's Weave night.
author's note: To be honest, I have been really hesitant to write this one and hope I did it justice.
Additionally, AO3 has been scraped for Gen AI purposes and I do not wish my work to be included in such datasets, thus my AO3 is currently restricted to registered users only. If you don't have an account (and don't want to create one), let me know.
Thank you, @coquetteshrew, for the song recommandation!
Song and lyrics used: Regina Spector - Samson
content warning: Gentle, magical, ethereael, worldbending, mindshattering sex in various forms. MDNI.
taglist: @astarioffsimpmain @sweetgemberry @jeneralmischief @enbyofwaterdeep @whiskeyskin
(Let me know, if you want to be on/off this list)
word count: 4,2k
Start at the beginning
AO3 Link
While you try to stay within the protective barrier of Last Light Inn as much as possible, the matters at hand are too pressing. Your tasks drag you outside more often than you’d like - into the thick of the Curse, where the air is silent, heavy and your soul a little more threadbare with each breath.
The Shadow Curse is maddening. At its best, it’s a dull, persistent irritation; at its worst, it feels like it’s unmaking you, seeping into your soul, stripping you of everything you are. You see it in the others, too. The unease crawling under their skin, the restlessness and unwillingness to pause. But you press on, doing what you can to keep spirits high, tending to everyone in your own quiet way – and singing to everyone at night, once the Last Light Inn has calmed down.
Shadowheart likes to take baths after battle, disappearing into the one room that offers privacy and warmth, perhaps the only place where she can truly let her guard down. You do not ask questions. You just make sure the water is hot, and the door stays closed.
Astarion is churning chaos barely contained. He wants answers. Wants to make a deal with Raphael about his scars. And you could tell him everything, what the markings mean, what they signify, but doing so would unravel too much. Reveal how much you know, how closely you have studied him, his history and story and perhaps even how far you have looked into futures that have not yet happened but you are trying to control. You decide to say nothing, although it hurts.
Halsin remains restless. You call it scouting, when you wander through these lands, trying to find the right building where Oliver is hiding. You have not told him what role the cursed child will play. And though you know these lands in theory (and the Harpers can provide something like a map) the Curse distorts everything. The terrain is twisted, the Shadows are everywhere, distorting your focus and what you think you know about this place. It feels like navigating through a memory you cannot trust.
You train with Wyll when time allows, the Harpers seem to love it and join. Astarion occasionally joins, too. No one questions your skills. No one knows how recently you picked up a blade, or that your understanding of combat was, until recently, mostly theoretical. You keep that to yourself and a silent understanding with the others is gained, not to mention it. You rely on the tadpole more and more, silently calling out to each other in your heads, connecting in battle and training. It feels good, to have them this close. It strengthens the bond you have with each other.
The training feels good. A different kind of control. A reason to stay within the safety of the Inn and adhere Jaheira’s drills, which Lae’zel attacks with far too much enthusiasm.
You linger in limbo, not moving forward but not quite falling apart. One foot in safety, one foot in shadow. Holding everything together with quiet care and pretending it’s enough.
Gale remains a presence felt more than touched. You speak, when you have to. Exchange words about books, the small collection salvaged and shelved with care at the Inn. But it is all surface-level, cautious. A dance around something fragile. You do not know who is keeping the delicate distance anymore. You or him.
It takes you by surprise, finding the simulacrum waiting quietly by your bed one evening. It stands beside the frame like a statue, patient and unmoving, and when it speaks, the voice is unmistakably his: Gale’s, only distant, strange around the edges.
It invites you to accompany it outside, and though your heart beats faster with every step, you follow it. Out of Last Light Inn but still within the safety of the barrier, past the lake, beyond where others might wander. High on a hill, the ward holds, quiet and untouched.
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She looks past him to the assembled group, she has guessed enough to know that what is happening in this room matters and what’s going on outside of this room is bad. Bad enough to make even Astarion afraid. Dekarios catches her eye and for once he doesn’t glare or grimace, there’s a clarity in his expression that seems to say this is a river you only cross once Elstar.
The grove is quiet, but Ada is not. As tension brews around her—in council rooms, crowded markets, and around firelit campfires—she fights to keep herself steady. Between choices that feel like traps and alliances forged in exhaustion, Ada finds herself inching closer to something strange: trust. Maybe even comfort. But with every answer found, more questions come up. Content Warnings:
Depressive thoughts / Mentions of death, blood, battlefield aftermath / Fanaticism and cult-like rhetoric / Touch aversion and bodily discomfort Spoilers for Baldur’s Gate 3 — obviously. Thank you for following Ada thus far!
Updates will (hopefully!) be bi-weekly — one day / long rest at a time.
Chapters: 4/?
Fandom: Baldur’s Gate (Video Games)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Gale (Baldur’s Gate)/Original Female Character(s)
I know I’m posting about these two a lot. I can only apologise, I love them sm.
18+ MDNI!
Gale moves faster, less tentatively, more hungrily. He revels in the way she writhes under his tongue. The way her voice cracks around the words please and don’t stop and most achingly of all Gale.
Then her grip on his hair tightens. She swears, whimpers, then cries out and shakes and he can taste her and he thinks, no he is certain, in this moment at least, that when it comes to Roslyn Elstar there is no slight he won’t forgive.
Yes another chapter. Yes there’s another ready to go. Yes I’m halfway through the following chapter. And yes, you should talk to your kids about brainrot.
MDNI NSFW because there is just a sprinkling of smut. ✨
A few minutes pass and the tree vanishes, leaving behind it the melancholy scent of autumn evenings. He sighs, defeated. “What spell did you use?” She is still looking out the window, her gaze trancelike. There is no animosity in her voice, no flicker of disdain in her face when she answers him. “No spell. Just me.”
More Smut! Mild gore! Intrigue! Lae’zel being literal!
Doctor Jenevelle Shadowheart had made plans. Get home, take her bra off, pour some wine and catch up on some quality trash TV. As she stepped out of the operating room in Selune General she could practically taste the Esmeltar red on her tongue, could almost hear the microwave pinging to let her know that dinner was ready. But fate had other plans. It always seemed to have other plans for her.
