#astarion x sebastian

[justsierrasart]

The Kiss

The kiss that sealed Sebastian’s fate in…

[papugaka]

Commission from my friend ヾ(=`ω´=)ノ”

[galacticgraffiti]

☾✧ Blacklit Night ✧☽

Rating: Mature (for heavy themes) Summary: Astarion meets Sebastian. You know how this ends. Wordcount: 5k TW: angst, vampiric compulsion/Cazador's compulsion on Astarion, references to past abuse and torture, memories of past NonCon, verbal abuse.

Author's Note: This contains spoilers for Act 3 of BG3, specifically Astarion's companion quest. As always - don't like don't read. Even though there are no explicit sexual themes, I would prefer minors did not interact with this post or my blog.

Masterlist ⋆ If you prefer AO3

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Blacklit Night

The night is dark, and the sparse light of the stars speaks of violence, not peace.

One would think that a city like Baldur’s Gate never sleeps, but it does. There is a moment, when all the fishermen have come back from sea, when the workers have returned to their homes and their children, where the lords and ladies of the upper crust stare silently at each other from across long dinner tables. That moment is the holding of breath before the first death of the night:

The sun still shines just barely, dark creatures lurking in the safety of the darkness, not yet able to step out of the shadows. Warm lights begin to glow from windows as the sun sets, as families have their hearty meals, as the nobles retreat to quietly behold each other, to joke about the peasants or hate their rich counterparts in peace. The world breathes one last breath of golden sun, the sea turns red, and the last of the light fades.

The nightlife begins: Taverns grow loud with song and fun, drinks are poured, first one, then two, then one too many. The hardship of the day is washed away, travellers finally arrive at their destinations - slipped in at last light, we got so lucky - and dutiful students of the Society sneak out of their bedroom windows to get high on mushrooms from the Underdark and kiss beneath the pale moonlight.

The life of daylight is one Astarion barely remembers. It has not been long, a few months, maybe a year or two. Who can tell these days? It’s always dark and there is always pain. When he is not allowed to leave the palace, time passes differently. Godey tells him weeks have passed, but Godey lies. Astarion does not dare ask his siblings. He makes notches on the wall behind a rotting coffin, but the only marker to go by is hunger, and the hunger is eternal. 

Yes, it has not been so long since the life of daylight - his life, a life that belonged to him - was taken from Astarion. Even if he can’t tell exactly how long, that much he can say. On the nights he is allowed to go out - to hunt for prey - he can see that the fashions haven’t changed much. He can tell that the bartenders have not aged (not visibly at least), nor been replaced with someone younger and better looking. There is still the same elven girl behind the bar, with the blue hair and the brown eyes who always smiles at him when he orders a drink he carries around all night to look like he belongs. He never smiles back, afraid to reveal his fangs on accident, afraid he would scare her much more than he ever could by being stand-offish and rude.

Astarion misses the daylight more than he misses anything else about his old life. He misses the sun burning his skin that was pale even before death took him. He misses the warmth of it- a kind of warmth that can not be imitated by anything else, a warmth that seeps into your bones and makes you feel like soothing embers glow inside your bones. Nowadays, he is always so cold. Cold in the way a forgotten graveyard is, devoid of life and devoid of comfort.

Astarion pulls his cloak tighter. It is finely embroidered with black and silver peacocks, complimenting his own silver hair and his pale complexion - or so Leon tells him. Mirrors do not show Astarion’s image anymore. The cloak is finely woven, just good enough to make it seem like he might have a little more money than he lets on, but not so garish as to catch the attention of heaps of thieves and robbers. Attracting prey is a delicate game, and Cazador has perfected it. Not that he ever needs to do the dirty work himself, of course. 

No, it’s Astarion’s hands that will be bloody, Astarion’s lips that will feel numb, Astarion’s skin that will burn at the memory of a loving touch unwanted, and Astarion’s mind that will be burdened with the knowledge of what their face looked like in the moment of betrayal. How their eyes begged for mercy that he does not have the power to grant.

Cazador loves it when they arrive scared to death. Cazador drains the pain and the fear and the suffering from the air to swallow it whole, to gorge himself on it until he bursts. He strokes Astarion’s silver hair, he tells him that he gets better at it every time, but this one still is not good enough.

“At least you are trying to make yourself useful the only way you can,” Cazador says, as if Astarion had any choice, any say in the matter. “At least I won’t have to tell Godey to have to punish you again. It really is a shame, bruises heal so slowly on your delicate skin. Although the screams make it nearly worth it, don’t you agree? Come now, boy. Won’t you dine with us?”

The memory of Cazador’s rotten voice seeps into Astarion’s bones when he turns around a corner and nearly trips. His tongue tastes the blood of putrid rats a hundred times over, and it’s all Astarion can do not to retch. He closes his eyes for a second to breathe, stumbling for just a second.

A warm hand wraps around his upper arm before he can catch himself.

“My gods, have you been walking long? You are freezing!”

“I’m fine, I just have-” Astarion’s words die on his tongue when he looks up at the man who caught him. 

Maybe man is not the right word - still nearly a boy, with long hair and a deep voice that won’t rightly fit his delicate features. His lips are full and his eyes are dark, and the fingers wrapped around Astarion’s wiry arm have a strength to them that one would not expect. He makes Astarion wish his heart could still race just to get high off that feeling once more.

Astarion stiffens and pulls back from the stranger’s grasp, cursing his mind for being so soft and so stupid even after everything that has happened.

You are just a silly boy. This behaviour must be corrected. You will learn to obey. Obey.

“I am fine. I can handle myself.” Astarion says again, straightening his collar, his voice cold. He rips his arm from the boy’s warm grasp impatiently. If he is too nice to him, the boy will follow, the boy will ask-

“Would you like to join me for a drink? I was just about to go in.”

No.

Panic rises like bile in Astarion’s throat.

You will learn. Never let it be you inviting them. Make them think it’s their idea - lull them in safety, spin a web around them while they bask in your beauty and attention. Make them think they have caught you, not the other way around. Find me the most beautiful of them, and bring them to me. Godey will have a wonderful time breaking your bones if you don’t. Find the ones that make your heart ache and betray them. Bring them to me. Obey.

Astarion opens his mouth to decline, tries to deny the seed the Cazador’s commands have planted inside his chest. He can’t do it- he never can.

“Of course. Tell me about yourself.” A pleasant smile settles in the corners of Astarion’s mouth, plastered on by Cazador’s words. Bring me the most beautiful of them. Never decline the offer of a drink.

The stranger holds the door of the tavern open for Astarion, his frame taller and broader than Astarion’s own. His face has not the shadow of a beard and his hair shimmers in the golden light. His eyes are kind. He does not look like he comes from a noble family. There is too much excitement, too much of a need to prove himself worthy. The only thing that could have saved him- gone.

No noblemen. Never noblemen, never their children. They will bring unwanted attention.

Astarion closes his eyes for a moment. There must be something that can save him- there must be something he can do-

The stranger leads him to an empty table in a low lit corner. With the darkness gone, he looks a little older now- his features less soft, his nose stronger. And still…

“I’m passing through town,” he explains with a gentle voice. His hands lay on the table, open and inviting. “I am a jeweller, and I heard there is good trade to be made in the city proper. I had some… complications on the road. I- my name is Sebastian.”

Sebastian.

Astarion hates it when they tell him their names. He can never forget them, they carve themselves into his dead heart and burn him with the acid of his betrayal each day like snake venom dripping down his throat.

Sebastian. Each letter a drop of poison.

Press your lips together, maybe the words won’t slip out. Maybe it’s not too late to save him, maybe-

“My name’s Astarion,” says his treacherous tongue. “I’m a magistrate in the city.”

Sebastian’s eyes light up.

“Astarion… my first acquaintance in the big city, and he is named after a star. I must immortalise our meeting in a piece of my work- a necklace maybe, or a ring…” His voice drifts off when he realises that Astarion’s hand is gripping the table so tightly his knuckles are white with pain. “Oh, I- I am sorry. I have been told I can come on a little strong. All I meant was- what a lucky coincidence to have stumbled upon someone who knows the city so well! How lucky for you to have accepted my invitation!”

Astarion’s unbeating heart aches at the excitement in Sebastian’s voice.

“How lucky indeed,” he says, Cazador’s eternal smile making his lips ache. Never stop smiling. Make them feel like they are wanted- like they are the only thing you have wanted all night. “I was already on my way back home- I had given up on the night somewhat, you see. To have stumbled into such a dashing stranger- it was me who got lucky.”

His words weep the false sweetness of a lie, but Sebastian seems not to notice that Astarion’s throat burns like acid.

“You flatter me,” he mumbles. “I know I- you don’t have to be nice to me if you would rather wish to go home. I would not blame you.”

Everything in Astarion’s body screams, every muscle fighting against the inevitable command, every nerve alight with panic and hatred: Hatred against Cazador, and against his own weakness. Astarion watches with wide eyes as his own pale hand moves across the table to cover Sebastian’s. He cannot stop it, just like he cannot unhear Cazador’s whisper in the dark. Find out what they like and give it to them. No matter what it is. Most of all - make sure it is you.

“Nonsense,” say Astarion’s numb lips. “There is nowhere I would rather be than here. Why, your company is much better than the silence of my bedchamber.”

Sebastian smiles a tentative smile, his eyes lighting up at the touch of Astarion’s hand on his.

“So you have nobody… waiting for you?” His voice shakes a little even as his fingers glide across Astarion’s smooth, pale skin. He has never done this before. Astarion can tell. “Nobody to get home to?”

The question makes Astarion’s head spin. The bond won’t allow him to talk about Cazador. When they ask you where you live, where you are going - lie. Lie convincingly.

“Some of my siblings live around here,” Astarion mumbles. “I stay with them when I am in the district.”

“Ah.” Sebastian’s voice is an odd mixture of relief and disappointment. “You know, I-”

They are interrupted by a barmaid asking for their order. Astarion breathes, digging his nails into his palm until he draws blood. He can’t do it, not with this one. He is too sweet, too innocent. All he wants is a taste of the excitement of the city.

Give him that taste.

No.

Yes. He wants it. You provide.

Conversation with Sebastian is so easy. As the wine flows, his hands wander, drumming on the table, tugging at his shirtsleeves, playing with a family ring. He is never still, and Astarion is enraptured by it. Sebastian’s whole life story could probably fit on two pages, but Astarion always finds new questions to ask him.

Show interest. Make them feel wanted.

No. Astarion asks for his own sake. He begs Cazador’s command to let him care about Sebastian, this sweet stranger. To drink the wine, to joke and show interest just because he wants to. Just this once.

Sebastian does not notice. Sebastian talks and smiles and laughs, his hands in the air, on Astarion’s shoulder; then on his thigh when Astarion places them there. And Astarion finds himself not minding to be touched. Not by him. Sebastian’s touches are not one of hunger or desire, they speak of interest and intimacy in ways Astarion had forgotten.

With some time, even the compulsion of Cazador’s voice fades into the background. Astarion’s attentions are fully focused on the delicate man with the strong hands across from him. Sebastian’s voice is gentle and deep as he tells of his journey from his village through the wilderness. He passed by Moonrise - so far away from the city, where Astarion has never been! He tells tales of his family and growing up in a small village, of his childhood helping out on a farm and of the smith that took him on as an apprentice years ago. He speaks of his work with a deep reverence, and Astarion’s pretend-interest soon turns into real fascination.

The way Sebastian describes his work is almost magical. How the metals come alive beneath his hands - it’s like Astarion can see it now, the heavy swing of a hammer, the delicate touch of fine tools and strong fingers to fit precious stones and bend any material to their will.

Enchanted by the other’s presence, soon their fingers intertwine, their heads so close together they can taste each other’s breath, smelling of honeyed wine as the other patrons fade away into the background. It’s only the two of them, in their own little corner of the world, lit by candlelight and sweet attention.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” Sebastian whispers, his breath warm on Astarion’s face. Warm in the way the sun is. How much he has missed it.

“I could say the same.” They are the first genuine words Astarion has uttered in a long time. “I have met many travellers, but none of them have been like you.”

Sebastian’s eyes darken for a moment, his fingers playing with Astarion’s paler ones.

“None of them?”

Astarion grits his teeth, pressing out a truth that terrifies him.

“None of them have made me want to protect them the way you do. I’ve barely known you one night, and I cannot bear the thought of your suffering.”

Sebastian laughs the easy giggle of someone who has never known real pain.

“Why would I suffer? I am here. And… I’ve found you. A little star among mere mortals.”

No! You didn't find me. I found you, Astarion wants to scream. Run. Run while you still can.

Cazador’s frigid voice seeps back into his skull like the cold embrace of death, and Astarion’s happiness leaks out of his heart and drains away through the creaky floorboards of the tavern when his Master’s compulsion grips him tight once more.

Give them what they want. Then bring them to me.

He doesn’t want to. He tries to shut his mouth, tries to pull his hands away, but he can’t do any of it. Sebastian smiles at him, his eyes only speaking of newly found adoration and interest. Astarion wants to shove him away, but the closest he can get is pressing out a few words, as close to the truth as he can manage, though his body barely allows those.

“Oh darling, I think it’s me that found you.” Astarion’s smile burns on his lips. “You should lea-”

The words burn in his throat like bile, and as much as Astarion tries to get them out, there is nothing in all the hells and all of this world that could overcome Cazador’s command. Astarion chokes, then clears his throat and wipes away Sebastian’s concerned hand on his face, holding the sun-warmth of his hand gently. He is so full of life.

“I’m fine, my love. Just a bit of… wine stuck in my throat. Do forgive me.”

Sebastian smiles softly, his hand settling on Astarion’s pale arm, restlessly drawing intricate patterns.

“What is there to forgive? Do you need anything? Do you want me to get you something, a cup of water perhaps? Let me help you.”

“A drink would be lovely.” Astarion is desperate. Never has his heart seized like this in the face of his prey, never has he wanted to get away from a target as much as this one. Never has he hoped to forget a name as desperately.

Please, just this once.

He would beg on his knees, he would give up the last of his dignity if he had any left at all. Not this one. Not Sebastian, with his gentle eyes and his sweet smile and his delicate hands. Not Sebastian who has never done anything wrong in his life other than come to Baldur’s Gate and try to help a stranger. Not him. Anyone else, but not him.

Astarion stares after Sebastian when he gets up from his seat. A soft touch of the shoulder and Sebastian vanishes into the crowd filling the tavern, on his mission to help Astarion. If only he could be helped. If only a glass of water could fix what is broken inside him.

Astarion tries to get up, he really does. If he can leave, maybe Sebastian won’t find him, and Cazador will never have to know. Better to be bruised and beat up and hungry for an eternity, better to be degraded and burned and starved for months than to see the look on Sebastian’s face as he realises that Astarion has betrayed him. Better to let Godey break all of his bones a hundred times over than to know that Sebastian is dead because of him.

It does not help. Astarion’s fingers prickle with hatred when he digs them into the table, trying to will himself to get back up, to leave and never return. To hope that Sebastian is gone by the time Cazador lets Astarion leave the palace again. Even to be dead and buried would be better than betrayed and drained. It’s all Astarion’s fault. He should never have let it get this far, should have run the second he saw the kindness in Sebastian’s eyes.

It’s all for naught. Astarion’s skull is pounding with Cazador’s compulsion when Sebastian returns to the table, a cup of water in his hand.

Someone who makes your heart ache. Bring me them so I can make you watch, make you scream and cry and beg for their life. You know nothing you say could ever move me to let them go, but oh, how sweet it will be to hear you sing and pray to me for their release. And pray you will, boy.

Astarion smiles at Sebastian and hates himself for it.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” he asks, even if the venom nearly clogs his throat - knowing that tomorrow will never come, not for Sebastian. He will die tonight with Cazador’s fangs in his neck, going limp like a doll as the sunlight of his life is drained from him. And Astarion will have one more name to carve into his heart.

“I’m going to the market!” Sebastian is vibrating with excitement. His hair shimmers in the low light when he bends closer. “I brought some pieces with me, and I want to see if I can get a licence to sell them, maybe down at the market by the docks. I heard there is a forge near here, I might try to find that as well. I just… I want to see as much of the city as I can before life catches up and I have to return to work.”

Astarion digs his nails into the roughed up wood of the table, but not even that pain can keep the next words from slipping over his traitorous lips.

“To the market, hm? That’s exciting, my darling. Quite the journey from here though if you want to get there early enough to ask for a trading licence. Do you know where you will stay tonight?”

His heart shatters into a million pieces at the look on Sebastian’s face: surprise that quickly changes into tentative excitement, like he can’t fully believe what Astarion is implying. He can see the flush that creeps into Sebastian’s cheeks, smell the treat that has been forbidden to him ever since he has craved it. Not even the hunger hurts as much as the inevitable pain of losing this beautiful stranger to Cazador’s greed and bloodlust.

“I was hoping I could rent a room here. But you are right, maybe it is a little far from the market,” Sebastian says, his eyes now lingering on Astarion’s lips, on his exposed neck. His heartbeat betrays him: fast and uneven, stumbling with desire Astarion was hoping would never bloom.

Take the room, he wants to say. Take it and don’t leave it until the sun is up and creatures like me have crawled back to where we came from and can’t hurt you anymore.

What he says instead makes the tips of Sebastian’s ears go flushed and rosy.

“This place is not exactly known for its trustworthy clientele either. I know… someone in the city. I’m staying at his place - if you come with me, I promise we won’t be disturbed.”

The smile on Sebastian’s face is tinted with tentative lust, his eyes wandering where he has not let himself look. Astarion curses himself as an alluring smile appears on his own lips. All he wants is to slip out of his skin and leave behind a beautiful shell, empty and void of any trace of him. Anything not to have to feel like this anymore. Dirty and used, an instrument to another’s thirst for power.

Sebastian leans in closer, his breath mingling with Astarion’s own. He smells sweet, like honeyed wine and thyme.

“What exactly are you planning to do with me if you have to make sure we won’t be disturbed?” He sounds genuinely curious in a way that makes Astarion’s breath stutter.

Another man would ask the same question, already knowing the answer, relishing the implications, the innuendo. Another man would already have his hands on Astarion’s thigh without being invited to, would already be kissing his neck without even paying attention to the telltale scars on his throat. Another man would never have taken the time to try and get to know him, would not have invited him for a drink in the tavern but shoved him up against a wall and had his way in the dark of the alley. Another man would have let his hands wander where they don’t belong, Cazador’s words stopping Astarion from doing anything about it as unwanted fingers cling to his thighs, and unwanted lips caress his chest. Another man would have deserved death. Sebastian is not another man. He deserves better, and Astarion cannot give it to him. The moment Sebastian laid eyes on him was the moment he died.

Astarion tries to find terrible solace in that as he leads Sebastian outside, their fingers interlaced as they wander through the quiet alleys of the lower city.

“Where does this friend of yours live?” Sebastian asks, his eyes full of wonder as he takes in the view of the city in the moonlight. “I- I need to paint all this tomorrow night, it’s beautiful.”

Astarion does not answer, but his fingers squeeze Sebastian’s for a second. It’s enough to make the other man turn to him. Sebastian’s face goes soft, a smile tugging at his lips.

“It’s not only the night that is beautiful. So are you,” he whispers, stepping closer, cupping Astarion’s jaw in one large hand. “If anyone could inspire me, it would be you. How did I get so lucky- my first night in the city, and I find the most beautiful man I have ever laid eyes on. I have never… no one has ever caught my attention the way you did. Not even at home- there was never anyone-”

He is rambling now, and yet all Astarion can hear is his heartbeat, so fast and excited, so nervous as he moves closer. Astarion wishes he had the strength to stop him, but even if there was any way to resist Cazador’s compulsion, his body is weak. It always has been. It has always betrayed him.

“What I mean to say is…” Sebastian hesitates. He cocks his head, unsure of how to proceed. His heartbeat is so fast Astarion thinks he can feel it in his own chest, and his hand on Astarion’s chest is warmer than the sun. “I… I have no experience in these things. Nobody has ever- well… taken me home with them. I don’t- what I mean is- will you kiss me?”

Astarion freezes, and his whole self shatters at the sweet question that nothing could have prepared him for. Sebastian’s words are extinguished by Cazador’s cold voice in the back of Astarion’s mind.

Make sure it is you they want.

Astarion is good at what he does. Better than he wants to be. They all want him. None of them ever ask if they are what he wants as well.

Sebastian’s lips are soft when Astarion’s own meet them. He is warm, so warm he seems to glow from the inside. His hands are careful, not greedy, and if Astarion could let himself, he would shatter beneath their touch. The kiss is not much more than a gentle touch of lips, not driven by hunger or desire. Sebastian’s only desire is to be known, to be tasted. It is the only wish Astarion can fulfil before he leads him to his death.

Sebastian’s breath is staggered when Astarion pulls away from him, his hands tangled in Astarion’s silvery hair. He closes his eyes and shudders, reaching out to pull Astarion against him as his back hits the wall.

“Again. Please.”

Astarion trembles. How could he say no?

He kisses Sebastian with all the desperation of someone with everything to lose.

Notice, he begs silently. Notice that something is off- wrap your hands around my neck and feel the scars- tell me how cold my skin is, see how my eyes glow in the dark- run, and I will try to let you get away.

Sebastian makes a noise in the back of his throat and parts his lips to let Astarion in, and he is lost. Astarion closes his eyes and lets it happen. There is nothing he can do, and he is so tired of fighting the inevitable.

They are both breathing hard when they break apart, Sebastian’s hands on Astarion��s waist, Astarion’s fingers digging into his shoulders as he pulls him in when all he wants to do is push him away.

“You’re incredible,” Sebastian whispers. “Astarion-”

“Sebastian,” he breathes, and that one word holds more reverence than all his prayers ever did. “Sebastian, you have to g-”

The night air changes, and all the warmth Sebastian’s presence has brought to Astarion’s bones vanishes in an instant. The cold creeps back in like iced water, and it is the coldness only death brings.

“Astarion, who have you brought me tonight?”

Astarion closes his eyes. Not here. Not now- they were supposed to have a moment more- never outside, Cazador never comes outside. He waits in his chambers like a cat waits for the mouse. Long fingers pull at his shoulders, and he can’t do anything but limply let go of Sebastian. Sebastian, whose voice is still gentle, but also scared and confused. Sebastian, who slips away as Cazador commands Astarion to leave.

When before, all Astarion wanted to do was tell him to run, he knows now that it is too late. And he wished for the impossible: To die by Sebastian’s side.

“I- what? Astarion, what is-” Sebastian’s voice is rough with terror, and Astarion can’t look at him. Cazador’s fingers dig into his skin.

“Did you think you had found the love of your life? Did you think he would save you?” The world sinks into darkness as Astarion is dragged away. Cazador hisses the words, and there is no telling whether he is speaking to him or Sebastian. “Oh, come now, boy. You should know better than that. He is not your saviour- he is your ruin.”

The sharp hand lets go of Astarion, and suddenly, cold lips are near his ear, whispering words addressed only to him.

“Keep your eyes open. I want you to watch.”

There is a fraction of a second where Astarion can scream, but it’s too late already. Sharp fangs sink into Sebastian’s neck, and Astarion watches, wide-eyed. His throat burns with words he wishes he could have spoken before, and his cheeks are suddenly wet with tears.

“Sebastian!” Astarion does not recognise his own voice, broken and bizarre in the face of this impossibility he knew was coming. “Sebastian, I’m so-”

The last thing Astarion sees is the hatred in Sebastian’s eyes that burns like a thousand dying suns. Then, Cazador’s staff comes down and the world goes dark.

The return of Angstarion. I hope this concept consumes you all as much as it has consumed me.

@purgetrooperfox @ashotofspotchka @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @ulchabhangorm @samspenandsword @rescuethewretched @pinkiemme @baba-fett @witchklng @ladykatakuri @certified-anakinfucker @fanfiction-i-llike @voidinfernal @foxferret02 @rosieofcorona @savagemickey03 @perseny @margoisthemoon2 @shiiunn @saucyhedgehog @tonysoffice @pupshr00m @supercalifragilisticprincess @palpipeen @silly-gooseastarion @mila-bee @shit-i-say-throughout-the-day @idkwhatsgoingonwithme @aeryntheofficial @jekasha @gub @nogitsune-the @solarrexplosion @hexqueensupreme @unofficialavenger90 @frankiesghost @curtaincaramba @kimiheartblade @niqhtfell @campfull-of-weirdos

Extra special mention to @babygirljoelmiller for being so brave and finishing Cazador's palace.

[yuniex07]

The Magnificent Century

Ok i've been rewatching this tv drama, and as a sucker for historical stories along with middle east aesthetics and culture...I had an urge to make a sort of adaptation/mix with my current obsession: BG3.

So this is an AU, where the ottoman empire will be represented by the vampire coven belonged to Cazador, ruling and conquering all the regions around Baldur's Gate.

Warning: I'm nowhere near to be a decent writer plus, english is not my mother language soo, I'm sorry in advance. Other from that, this is the draft or prelude chapter so nothing to warn unless you count the inplications of a boylove interaction triggers you somehow ?

In future chapters, if i dont get dissapointed in my ugly writting abilities theres going to be harem/noncon/pansexual/domsub/a little bit of Stockholm syndrome? who knows...

Words: 2151 ( honestly how people can write more than this? i was suffering!)

Pairing: for now Pansexual Astarion/Sebastian later Astarion x F!Tav(Lyanna/Love)

Read under the cut

Chapter 1: A new dynasty

In the year 1492 DR, amidst the intricate streets of Baldur's Gate's upper city, the Szarr Palace loomed ominously. Its gothic spires cast long shadows in the fading light of the sunset, forming an imposing silhouette against the darkening horizon. The palace pulsed with unsettling energy; guards and servants weaved through its corridors, torches and candles flickered along the grand halls, casting dancing shadows on opulent walls adorned with tapestries and gilded frames. The air held a palpable tension, thick with anticipation.

Outside the formidable structure, a figure clad in black leather carried a scroll sealed with crimson wax, imprinted with the family crest—a set of two groups of five rats and five mice intertwined by their tails in an inner and outer circle. The contents of this scroll would set into motion a series of events with far-reaching consequences. Approaching a similarly outfitted man mounted upon a steed that seemed to emerge from the depths of the netherworld, the messenger wasted no time. With unearthly speed, the horse thundered through the palace gates, its hooves echoing against cobblestones as it raced into the night. As the horse and rider vanished into the shadows, the wheels of fate began to turn.

Meanwhile, on a distant battlefield illuminated by the moon's pale glow, a bloody clash unfolded. An elven warrior, his red eyes ablaze with the thrill of battle, charged toward his next target with unparalleled speed. His pale skin was adorned with the blood of foes, much like the white locks that peeked out from beneath his war helm. With a swift swing of his short blade, he unbalanced an opponent, creating an opening to plunge a dagger into the enemy's eye, extinguishing its life in an instant. The elven warrior reveled in his prowess; his pale skin glowed in contrast to his black and red armor. The Szarr sigil on his chest delivered a silver gleam under the dim light. Behind him, figures clad in similar armor finished off the remnants of the enemy's army, their triumphant cheers echoing through the battlefield—a declaration of the Szarrs' indomitable might.

The Dragon Coast now lay under their control, a strategic stronghold for dominating trading routes and, inevitably, the region of Cormyr.

The elven warrior walked toward his tent, three figures following close behind. “Master Astarion,” a young human man said. He had fair skin, ash-blonde hair ending at his shoulders, brown eyes, and a middle-muscle frame. “We are so close to reclaiming the whole region under the crimson’s dynasty. Lord Cazador will be delighted,” the pale elf stood still at the mention of his master and progenitor.

Hearing his name ignited discomfort and fury in him. “To be honest, I could care less about what the old wretch thinks, Sebastian. Remember, we are just mere pawns to dispose of for his great conquests,” the elf said, concealing his annoyance.

“Be careful with your words, Astarion,” another man responded. His right eye was of white stone, scars adorned his face, and he had a rich, deep skin tone. But his more prominent feature was a couple of horns adorning his head. “Or what, Wyll? Are you going to tell the old bastard? Warlocks like you are a pain in the ass, always loyal to their masters,” Astarion said with venom in his voice.

“Just trying to save your sorry ass from another year locked in a tomb,” Wyll replied mockingly. Astarion’s eyes opened, and rage invaded his features. “You come and say that again!” he said dangerously approaching Wyll.

The third figure finally intervened, placing herself in the middle of them. “Enough, you two!” she commanded. The woman had a strong build, clearly a warrior with expertise, crimson skin, one horn on her head, and a fiery gold gaze.

“We've had enough blood and fights for a day. Can’t we just rest and clean up all the gore? You two do look like shit.”

“Say that to him, Karlach!” Astarion replied. “If you weren’t one of the master’s spawns I would’ve kicked your ass long time ago” – Wyll answered.

“That is also inappropriate commander Ravengard; our Lord’s spawns are like an extension of himself. You need to show him some respect” -Sebastian said

“Tsk”- Wyll, let out. “Unfortunately, Leon was the most suited for this crusade, and now I have to be stuck with the sharp-tongued one.”

“Too bad my little brother disobeyed Cazador and had to run away with that kid. Now he is been chased to face something worst to dead if he gets caught” - Astarion says in fake mockery, hiding emotions he dared to not show. Deep down he felt sorry for his “bother”.

“There’s time before the sunrise, everyone go get cleaned while the brigade returns with our war loot, then we will able to discuss our next moves.”- Astarion commanded, as the other three figures nod and turn around to leave him in his tend. Astarion takes off his helmet, unleashing rebellious white curls falling down his forehead, placing the helmet on the war table he begins to unlock the strands holding his black armor.

“I thought I said to go clean up, Sebastian”-Astarion says as he feels the presence behind him. The top side of his armor falls heavily on the floor.

“I know…I just wondered if the master needed help with his bath” -Sebastian replied. Astarion turned around to face him, revealing his chiseled torso uncovered and shimmering by the sweat mixed with a bit of blood, “Is that so?”- He said while raising an eyebrow and a smirk on his face, “Then by all means, help me out with my boots”. Sebastian nodded and kneeled in front of him to begin untying Astarion’s boots.

Once he finished, while still kneeling Astarion took Sebastian’s hair and pulled in a way to make him face him. “Good boy, now…work on my pants, then, you can help me with my bath”. Sebastian just grinned and nodded, “As my master commands”.

Far away from the war camp, the vampiric forces continued to loot the nearby villages, burning houses and reuniting the survivors that could serve as military or slaves. A small group of six people were running from the riot, within them two silhouettes leading them trying to get away by blending with the shadows of the buildings.

The smaller figure among them was sobbing and shaking, “Shh…Hayleen, you need to be quiet or they will find us”, -The bigger figure whispered, trying to soothe the little child. – “I’m scared, sister” – the child sobbed. – “They…they killed adar and naneth”.

The oldest on the pair frowned with a pained expression, she couldn’t help their parents, they gave their life to allow them to run, protecting her little sister was all she can do to honor their sacrifice. “I know! but you have to be strong for them.” - The child nodded and dried her tears with the inside of her sleeve.

The bigger sister peeked around a corner, no one in sight, “Alright, lets go and don’t look back”, they were so close to reach the woods, there was a hidden cabin by the lake deep in the woods, with a bit of luck, a boat might still be there. They could row until they reach Cormyr. “Just a little more, Hayleen” -Lathander have mercy on them, she thought. Suddenly three arrows landed in front of them, stopping their advance, no, was all she could think, “Everyone run!”- she said, while several dark horses and their riders approached them. There was no time, they were going to capture them both if she doesn’t do anything, “Take Hayleen, everyone get closer!”.

“NOO! Lyanna! Don’t leave me!” – Hayleen screamed to her sister as she was hold by another woman. Lyanna enveloped her sister and the other escapees with a sacret light, she never tried this conjure before, but it was her only choice. Her eyes glowed with divine light “Morning lord! lend me your strength! Word of recall!” a light orb surrounded all the survivors but herself, the conjure could only carry five people to safety.

The crying face of her sister was the last thing she remembered, what happened next was too fast, the riders reached to her a whip hold onto her ankle before she could have time to react and give in a fight, the movement of the horse rider made her fall and she was violently pulled a few meters before they stopped, her head hit the ground hard enough to leave her stunned. Her eyesight blurred as she as falling unconscious, the rest she remembers from that night was only darkness.

Astarion was comfortable lying in the tub, eyes closed as the warm water soothed him. “You seem more relaxed now” – Sebastian said as he delicately scrubbed Astarion’s torso with a sponge as he settles in, leaning his head on the pale elf shoulder. Astarion chuckles – “I might be…thanks to the good company”

“And some pampering, as much as the bloody semblance suits you, that helmet did outrageous things to your hair. Now you look back to normal” – Sebastian remarked as he tucked a lock of silver hair behind the elf's pointed ears. “Darling, you wound me! You know I would look fabulous even covered in mud and dirt” – the elf replied moving his hand with disdain.

Both men were enjoying a little peace until they hear a commotion outside the tent, looking at each other they hurried to put on some clothes to investigate the noises.

The night hung heavy over the war camp, shrouded in darkness and punctuated by the distant sounds of looting and chaos. Astarion and Sebastian hastily dressed up with comfortable clothes, knives and swords in hand, the commotion outside growing louder. They exited the tent, senses heightened, ready to face whatever disturbance awaited them.

As they stepped out into the night air, a rider emerged from the shadows, mounted on a horse that seemed to meld with the darkness itself. The steed's eyes glowed an eerie crimson, mirroring the seal on the scroll the rider held in his hand. Astarion recognized the rider as one of Cazador's palace messengers.

The rider dismounted gracefully, approaching Astarion with a deep bow. "My master Astarion, I bring grave tidings from the palace," the messenger said, his voice low and respectful. Astarion's eyes narrowed, a flicker of anticipation in his gaze.

"What news?" Astarion demanded, his tone betraying a mix of curiosity and suspicion. Sebastian stood by his side, observing the unfolding scene with a vigilant gaze.

The messenger handed the sealed scroll to Astarion. The crimson wax bore the imprint of Cazador's family crest—the two groups of five rats and five mice intertwined in an intricate pattern. Astarion broke the seal, unfurling the parchment.

The words inscribed on the scroll revealed the fate that had befallen Cazador Szarr. Astarion's eyes scanned the lines, absorbing the news of his master's demise. The air around him seemed to grow heavier, a moment of silence hanging in the balance.

Astarion's expression remained stoic, but a storm brewed beneath the surface. The messenger spoke cautiously, "Lord Cazador met his end in the pursuit of greater power. The Ritual of Profane Ascension has claimed him. He sought to transcend the limitations of vampirism but succumbed to it. All his spawns are to come back to the palace with ease as a new successor must be selected”

Astarion's grip on the scroll tightened, his jaw clenched. Sebastian placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, silently acknowledging the weight of the news. The rest of the camp, unaware of the unfolding drama, continued with its nocturnal activities.

"My master, by the decree of the coven, you or any of the other male spawns, are eligible to ascend and become the new ruler of the coven" the messenger continued, sensing the shift in power dynamics.

Astarion's eyes flickered with a mix of emotions—grief? No, far from it, it was a thirst for the newfound opportunity, and the power that could be in the palm of its hands.

"Thank you for delivering this news. Return to the palace; tell them I will make my way there immediately," Astarion commanded, dismissing the messenger. The rider bowed once more, mounted his shadowy steed, and disappeared into the night, leaving the camp in the wake of Cazador's demise and Astarion's road for ascension.

Sebastian turned to Astarion, his expression a mix of concern and loyalty. "What will you do now, my Lord?"

Astarion gazed into the distance, the campfires flickering like distant stars. "Prepare for a new era, Sebastian. The throne is mine for the taking, and the coven will bow to its new master."

As the words hung in the air, the vampire spawn contemplated the path ahead—the challenges, the opportunities, and the uncharted territories of leadership that awaited him under the moonlit sky.

[aaluminiumas]

Lyric On His Tongue

Chapter 2. You can find Chapter 1 here.

Astarion did not go by the book. Defying the rules of aristocratic conduct, he took the proffered hand and brought it to his lips. He lingered for an instant and placed a subtle kiss on the knuckles. Sebastian, rigid and motionless, shuddered at such a gutsy move. His appearance wasn’t a brilliant disguise meant to conceal the first signs of debauchery, nor was this a misleading sideshow of another libertine. Frankly, no one would’ve ever reacted to such a minor gesture, but this stranger—Sebastian—registered the kiss, Astarion knew that for a fact. No matter how meek this young man was, the little trick stirred an emotion within him. And this was essential for the plan, for Astarion’s well-being depended on this slightly uncouth and yet irresistibly charming performance. Amplifying the impression, the vampire employed his most seductive tone, redolent of vetiver, silky sheets, and sleepless nights.

“The pleasure is all mine, Sebastian.”

Astarion slowly lapsed into silence, trying to savor the name, rolling it on his tongue, tasting every syllable while purring it to the end. Albeit his mind was concentrated on the sounds, his eyes remained transfixed on the man. 

“Did you know that your name tastes better than wine? Better than sex, if you ask me. Exquisite. With a... tinge of spice,” the vampire paused for a second, groping for the right words. “Green, too. In any case, delighted to make your acquaintance, Sebastian.” 

The sound of his own name petrified Sebastian, paralyzed his every limb. It was a lyric on the man’s tongue; it spoke of hidden passions and unknown pleasures, it promised the bliss previously unheard of— 

Even though the magic of the moment dispersed as Astarion released his palm, the man still cognized the enigmatic atmosphere emanating from the pale stranger and billowing around him as a transcendental cloak of mist. Sebastian had never encountered such people before, and everything about the man piqued his curiosity. Who was he? Was he local? Did he arrive from a faraway realm? Could he be a traveler? A poet, perhaps? Was there a chance that fate would be kind enough to have their paths crossed again?.. 

Sebastian could barely snap out of it, gradually realizing that he was so entranced he was latching onto every single word flying out of the man’s mouth. Smooth, languorous gestures of the stranger captivated Sebastian so much that he couldn’t but keep following them with his eyes.

Worst of all, he craved for his name to sound again, in a lower, more intimate tone. 

“Are you… here often?” Sebastian staggered, trying to fill the awkward pause. “You’re pretty in your element here.” 

“From time to time I visit this charming little place to relish the vivid colors of life. Plus, I can discover true gems here. One evening never resembles the following, they’re all different. You never know what you can find here. Who you can find here.” 

At this, the crimson eyes darted to the man and perused the pallid face. Sebastian felt an unfamiliar pang of dark anticipation mingled with impatience. There was a mysterious undercurrent in everything this mystifying man said, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint this undercurrent. Was Astarion genuinely interested? Did he send an innuendo Sebastian failed to grapple? Could there be a game with previously asserted rules he was unaware of? Unable to guess the right answer, Sebastian gave the man a quick smile and tried to conceal his courteous misunderstanding: “Ah. But if you don’t like the drinks, then—” 

“I’m here for the people. Not for the drinks, Sebastian.” 

Another pause. Sebastian looked stupefied. Astarion did not explain anything, but from his demeanor, the man could conclude that there was something on his mind. For some obscure reason, Sebastian’s stomach gave an ugly lurch, and his heart missed a beat. The gaze of the bizarre red eyes penetrated his soul, knocking him down, subduing him, pinning him to the spot. Out of the blue, the vampire uttered a quiet, but a very distinct retort that jolted Sebastian to the core.

“And tonight… I am here for you.” 

Sebastian startled at the galvanic remark; he didn’t notice when Astarion had crawled that close: the distance between them hadn’t changed a tad, but his breath, strangely cold, grazed across the man’s ear and cheek. 

“For… me?” he exhaled, the sound faltering on the tip of his tongue. 

“For you.” 

Astarion fell silent as if admiring the sight unfolding before his eyes. This sensitive skin, tightly snugging bones and tendons, covering spreading traces of veins, snaking underneath and wreathing around the beating heart. Forever locked in death, the prisoner of the dark, Astarion was fascinated by life itself, the greatest mystery of all. He still guarded fragments of his past, scattered asunder in his memory, but the sketchy recollections couldn’t provide him any hands-on experience. The warmth Sebastian’s body generated engulfed him; the pulse overlapping the exaggeratedly cheerful warbles of the tavern hit him in the ears; the breath gliding through the lips, previously unkissed, enraptured him. He unraveled this existential conundrum almost every evening, but it had never been so alluring before. 

“I’ve been watching you for some time,” Astarion hissed into the man’s neck, not moving an inch closer: he was perfectly aware of the effect this tiny gesture would exert on Sebastian. “You know, you seemed quite a catch. I couldn’t take my eyes off of you. The manners, the posture… the look… Oh. I could go on forever.” 

Torpid, Sebastian was melting. Although he’d never been in a similar situation, he felt inflated, as if his heart was too big for the chest and was about to burst. Along with this, the man registered a peculiar sensation in the stomach, as if a knot in his lower abdomen was tightening. Unable to resist, he leaned into the enigmatic presence.

“Mmm… You smell… delicious,” Astarion muttered in a quiet growl, his insistent lips hovering on the man’s neck. “But I probably should not be so indecent.” 

Astarion brusquely pulled back, feeling hunger clawing at his intestines. It was worse than any torture Cazador had invented. Evidently, this was the delayed effect of his lingering torment: the throes of hunger must persist, the anguish must remain sharp, and the body must be susceptible. Had the bastard built a sect, it would’ve worked better. 

Sebastian looked bewildered. He had merely started responding to the touches and was devastated to discover that no continuation was about to unfurl. Did this mysterious stranger sense his lack of experience? Did it scare him off? 

The speculation left him disappointed and upset. He came here to drink away his concerns, fall into oblivion for a couple of hours, and return home, but Astarion derailed the plan. Sebastian never expected to encounter a man so refined, tempting, and beguiling, with the gestures so tantalizing he forgot how to breathe. The marble sculpture of a person smiling so seductively represented the world Sebastian had not yet been exposed to. It wasn't necessarily the world of depravity—it was the world of physical freedom where your behavior was not restricted or controlled. Astarion, if it was indeed his name, bestowed lopsided smirks and shamelessly undressed him with his stare, tossing quips and witty ribaldries to spice things up. Whatever he did, though, didn't make him look salacious and uncultured: more like a charming rogue every princess had at her beck and call. 

“Is it—” Sebastian looked away for a moment, clearly embarrassed to bring up the topic, “Is it because I… have a very abstract understanding of what you may imply?..” 

So he’s as innocent as he seemed. Astarion cackled and flashed another sly grin.

“No, love. It’s because I don’t want to hurry things for us.” 

Sebastian felt his ashen cheeks blotching red. 

“And what if I want things to be a little hurried?” he heard himself saying with an unexpected flare of boldness. 

“Then I feel like I have a lot to show you. You won’t be disappointed.”

Ignoring the glasses in front of them, Astarion tossed a few coins on the counter and beckoned Sebastian with a stare to the second floor allocated to the lodgings. The man felt a subtle prick of suspicion but shunted it off as unimportant: Astarion had admitted that he came here for the people, and it would be naive to think that he admired said people from a distance like a picture in a museum. Fueled by agitation, Sebastian dared touch him first—and Astarion could sense concupiscence with his bare skin. 

When Astarion kicked the door open, he didn’t wait any longer. For some reason, his own desire was boiling in the pit of his stomach, and he wondered if it was another delayed effect of the prolonged torture. Something in this artless inexperience kept him enticed; the purity emboldened him, and along with the twisted, perverse craving to taint the virgin body, he sensed another feeling, yet unknown. He dismissed it, fully focusing on the young man standing in front of him, silhouetted by the dim light of the moon penetrating through the blinds. 

Astarion rapaciously seized him by the defined chin and froze, staring into his eyes, lips one breath away. He savored the moment of his superiority and power. Sebastian didn’t know what he was getting into, and Astarion believed that the man was gullible—or maybe fatuous enough—to fall victim to his innate charms. 

“Undress me,” the vampire commanded, his lips curling in a grin, his voice revealing a note of finality. 

If you liked the extract, please feel free to read the full chapter:

[kingthunder]

i cry

[littlestvrs]

@darlingdesiredelicious cont.

HIS BLOODRED STARE fixed on the other -- oh, Astarion remembered him very well. It was all bittersweet. The pale elf was his first kiss and Sebastian -- his first victim. Even though his mind would like to discard the memories of what's been done.. of what he did. The vampire spawn had stabbed Cazador to death but could never hurt this one more, not again.

" Isn't it ironic? You're the living proof that one could go through hell and back, and still choose to be kind, " The words seeped through tight throat and a forced fanged smile, " I wish I could say the same. "

[crazymaryrocks]

Did someone order Hozier-based Astarion/Sebastian with a side of fries?

[demigoddessqueens]

touch

Thinking of touch-starved men…, their eyes follow your hands and fingers so carefully, anxiously, getting easily jealous at how casual your touches are with others who are not them; always lingering where you are, seeking out your presence and just wanting a sliver of your attention away from everyone else; touch-starved ones who have a quiet gasp whenever you place your hands over theirs or just a casual friendly touch; chills along their spine and entire body as you play with their hair; hugs make them freeze in their tracks before arms tentatively wrap around you like your made of glass or a stardust that will vanish the second it’s over

EDIT: they can’t help but swallow down their moan(s) when your fingers brush through their hair, lightly touching the exposed back of their neck

Just….touch starved characters…

[sunsetagain]

Baldur's Gate 3: Tabula Rasa (blank slate/empty sheet)

22 page comic.

Ship: Karlach/Sebastian/Haarlep + Ascendant Astarion.

Inspired by the bug of Raphael's resurrection after patch 5 and based on this ending.

→ 中文版 ←

[radical-ghostface]

When they call you their ✨️ Kindred Spirit ✨️ 💕

[rosebushjhj]

When you run out of fanfics so you gotta whip out character.AI

*edit- damn, thank you everyone

[demiesop]

I lost my draft and I forgot what I wanted them to talk about but I remember it's something about unresolved guilt

and an excuse to draw Sebastian

[aaluminiumas]

Lyric On His Tongue

This is Chapter 1 of 2. You can find the entire fanfic here.

Astarion was jaded to the core. 

He was so infernally bored that his daily—or, was nighttime a better word?—routine seemed a senseless undertaking he wanted to avoid at all costs. It was all the same, the risible performance of lust, predictability, and humdrum. Gaudily dressed people trying to attain their preposterous goals. Artificial conviviality slithering between the tables. Hideous music thundering in the ears—

Had he been alive, he would’ve called in sick, feigning the worst case of pneumonia known to humanity and staging the ensuing miracle of recovery. Had he been alive, he would’ve concocted a lovely, not-quite-believable story where he saved a cat, a child, or a wizard in distress from an unnamed threat, and the entire city would've fallen for it. Had he been alive, he would’ve said he had his reasons, and no one would incriminate his actions. After all, he was a magistrate. A very respectable magistrate, revered by all citizens of Baldur’s Gate. Well, maybe the Gur were an unlucky exception, but really, who would’ve listened to a bunch of crazy folks who did nothing but deceive the kind denizens of the city by foisting their fortune-telling bogus! He was still better than them. 

Or, rather, had been. 

Astarion huffed and reclined on the counter, gazing into a glass of wine. He had ordered the drink a few hours ago and pretended to sip the Ithbank every now and then, but the crimson liquid didn’t ebb. Gods, how did he want to slough off this rotten task, hightail from this hellish shithole of a tavern, and recede into the gloom, feigning defeat!..

Unfortunately, the news about his smashing defeat did not sound even remotely plausible. None of his carefully cherry-picked pick-up lines was ever nugatory. None of his tantalizing gestures was ever accidental. None of the unctuous notes in the dulcet voice with a penchant for taking a seductive edge was ever misplaced. In short, Astarion was aware of his bedazzling looks, and he didn’t miss a chance to put his charms to good use. 

So, even the dumbest spawn of the lot, Pale Petras, wouldn’t buy it.

Swerving his ruby eyes to the diverse crowd, Astarion idly scanned the throng of people teeming in the tavern, eyeing each visitor with ill-concealed contempt. They all came here to get a harlot. Their intentions were crystal clear. Those who missed Sharess’ Caress on the way to Baldur’s Gate always sought a sufficiently respectable establishment to tend to their physical needs and caprices. Taverns like this didn’t scream brothel, but they very well could be one—such inns only pretended to specialize in food and drinks. If you wanted additional entertainment to go with a bottle of Ithbank, you needn’t even get up to ask for assistance. Maybe all places in Baldur’s Gate were the same. Call it a hallmark, if you wish. Whatever. 

Ah, how he loathed it. Endless strings of people, loudmouthed whores, artificial smiles, whistles emitted by an invigorated lumper, and hackneyed advances of a lame artist. Oddly enough, one of them had managed to captivate Lady Jannath. What did she find in this pathetic idiot? His pitiful attempts at courtship didn’t even look ludicrous—they were outright deplorable. Surely, some women had no taste, and appreciation of art played little role in personal proclivities and preferences. 

Astarion examined the visitors again, this time with a modicum of curiosity. Harlots, wantons, rummies, and lost travelers looking for a place to stay over the night didn’t deserve a mere scrap of his attention; they all seemed so unbearably dull they wouldn’t even serve their only purpose: to be a decent banquet for a true connoisseur. 

Astarion’s lanky fingers circled the edge of the glass brimmed with gold. To hells with it. Cazador had no illusions regarding the spawns’ attitude: if he ever had a good trait of character, it was his relative sobriety. For all his intimidating bluster, he never deluded himself into believing that any of the spawn truly admired him or his teaching methods. He could do nothing about that. He could imagine the most ferocious tortures, contrive the most vicious trials, devise the most ruthless and savage ordeals, but no torment could change Astarion’s or, for that matter, Petras’ mind: Cazador was detested by his own very spawn. He could not be vanquished, true, but he would never be venerated either.

The sad thing was that this fact didn’t afflict him or undermine the current status quo: you couldn’t just inveigle a goblin and offer this lovely specimen on a plate. 

Especially, if you had his looks. Petras might just be the perfect fit for goblins and the like, but Astarion, on the contrary, was too well-groomed, too cultured to attract such foul prey. His victim might not be immaculate, but it had to be good. After all, this victim must please the perverse and exquisite taste of the abhorrent tyrant who always reveled in torturing others. In torturing his own very spawn. 

On a side note, if his today’s target turned out better than acceptable, he might be spared. Maybe even rewarded. Ah, to see Petras’ disgusting muzzle contorted by jealousy and hunger when Master tossed a scant commendation Astarion’s way. What a sight, really. Truly remarkable. One of the few genuinely fascinating things in this moldy, decaying, dismal, and grim castle that needed a monumental revamp ten centuries ago.  

Maybe Cazador would even go as far as offering him a handful of human blood he could savor for days to come, highlighting the peculiar, ever-changing aftertaste sticking to the palate—

Hells. This was unnecessary.

Irked by his wild imagination, Astarion felt the tang dissipating on the tongue, dispersing and morphing into the feeling of egregious thirst he was too familiar with. The mere inkling of the scene he had started to envision was too much for him to bear. 

Luckily, his train of thought was interrupted by a faint squeak of the double doors. A mere mortal wouldn’t have noticed that, and the screech of the old hinges would’ve drowned in the raucous tumult of the tavern, but as someone with a preternaturally acute sense of hearing, this indiscernible sound became a cue—a new visitor. 

A new potential victim. 

Reacting to the creak, Astarion jerked his head to see who was coming. 

He expected another run-of-the-mill drunkard, another adventurer, perhaps, but his eyes stumbled over a particularly unusual sight, practically extinct in notorious Baldur’s Gate, the city of the depraved. The man, faltering at the threshold of the tavern, made a strong contrast to the local vermin. 

The unwritten rule of Cazador’s—never hunt the rich—shaped up in Astarion’s head. Not that the miserable vampire lord cared about the benefits they could bring to the city. The reason was so quotidian it shouldn’t be explained: he didn’t want to leap directly into a predicament. The well-to-do would get alarmed immediately if one of their ilk vanished without a trace. One thing might lead to another, and inadvertently, his vampire lair might be exposed to the public, which would eventually entail a spectacular execution of all seven spawns and their lord at the helm. Therefore, most of the time the spawns were bound to choose the safest option of the unsafe: stray travelers, opulent merchants from overseas, prominent guests visiting local galleries, foreigners, loners with means... In a nutshell, everyone who looked presentable enough and whose absence would not be noticed. Evidently, the young man didn’t fall into the category, but something in his demeanor betrayed a novice. Inert, palsied by the picture unfurling before his eyes, he looked utterly vulnerable, as if he never belonged to the city in the first place. Maybe he was a foreigner, after all. Well, he had bumped into this lovely little nest, so he was either desperate or looking for a crepuscular adventure. 

Either would do.

Consummate seducer, Astarion swept his eyes over the tall, slender figure, dressed in an embroidered doublet. Clearly, an aristocrat; but for someone with his ancestry, the man struck with his baffling innocence. Where the hells was he hiding while the entire city indulged in vices, flaunting them all the way, spurning church and succumbing to repudiation of decency? Was he enchained deep under the dragon’s den waiting for his eighteenth birthday? This outstanding display of chastity looked almost unnerving: magistrate in the past, Astarion dealt with venality and corruption on a regular basis, not always on the side of justice. And for his entire career, he had never faced virtue as a concept. 

Not that he broke a sweat trying to find one, though. Now, Madame Virtue seemed to have found its way into this man’s body and blindsided Her erstwhile servant. The red eyes transfixed on the visitor in a most unsettling way. 

If you liked the extract, please feel free to check out the whole Chapter here:

[kingthunder]

I've had an Astarion/Sebastian fic rotting in my brain ever since the first time I met Sebastian. It's not going away. I might need to write it.

[the-case-book-of-fanfiction]

On My Knees

Love Bites, Chapter 8 // Love Bites {Masterlist}

Ship: Astarion Ancunin x fem!vampire spawn!elf!Tav/reader

Summary: A betrayal so severe even centuries of love threaten to break beneath its weight. Yet you offer forgiveness, even if Astarion has not felt its kindness in two hundred years.

Word Count: 2,360 words

Warnings: return to chp. 1 timeline, in-game timeline, reader becomes a vampire spawn, brief flashback, captured by Mindflayers, Astarion is vulnerable but also honest, confessions, Sebastian's back

Note: My apologies, I'm a day late! I had some technical difficulties yesterday but now we're back and almost done with Love Bites.

☟ Continue below the fold ☟

“You screamed well into the morning. None of us slept. My siblings, they…offered me their blankets. It was the first time they had been kind to me in…a very long time.” Astarion fidgeted with his fingers, his voice thick with tears as he wrapped up his story. The spawn in the cage stayed quiet, listening intently, some wearing wicked, wicked smiles. “And we planned. They helped me sneak out when night fell so I could— So I could go to my grave.” He looked up at you for the first time in a very long time. “He buried you there. In my coffin.”

Bits and pieces of your memory came back to you. “Yes… Yes, he did, I remember— I remember so much. It was… Dark. Cold. Dirty. But I smelled…you.”

~❊~

The air was musty. It reeked of death, more strongly than the sickhouses during a plague. Your eyes burned when you opened them. You tried not to breathe, then realized after several moments of holding your breath, you didn’t need to. There was no pain in your lungs. You weren’t lightheaded from trying to hold your breath.

“What?” you whispered to yourself. Your lips tugged around two identical objects in your mouth, teeth that you knew had not been there all your life. 

Your eyes adjusted to the space slowly, but you knew from just a few experimental wiggles the place was cramped and tiny. It didn’t take long for you to recognize the smell of your lover or the appearance of your surroundings, lined in soft red velvet; you’d help pick the coffin yourself, all those years ago. It was Astarion’s.

You whimpered, the panic starting to set in. “Asty? Where are you?” You could smell him, all around you, even under the terrible scent of earth and bodily fluids and death and embalming fluids. 

You had no heartbeat, but you were sure you could hear it pounding in your ears, screaming, Out, out, out! You began scratching at the coffin lid and realized there were already claw marks there, ripping the velvet and gouging the wood beneath. You were not the first to have crawled out of here.

If Asty could do it, so can I, you told yourself and began kicking the lid. It didn’t take long for it to crack open, the latch already broken. You wedged it open slowly, clawing handfuls of dirt out of the way until you could make way for yourself. 

It was slow going, digging your way out of grave dirt. It was fresh and not packed down yet, which was your only advantage to get yourself out. It clung to you like summer heat, worming its way into your clothes, your ears, your mouth. You worked through the panic that built up inside you, getting worse the longer it took.

After what felt like hours—what probably was hours—your hand broke the surface. You nearly cried with relief and forced the hole to widen until you could pull yourself out, grappling with more loose dirt and very little for leverage. 

Your head came up through the hole and you took your first deep breath in ages, only to start coughing. You hacked up blood and dirt, your entire body heaving with the effort. You trembled more terribly than you had on the day you’d learned Astarion had died as you finally freed yourself from the grave. You turned to face the stone as you dry-heaved. Sure enough, Astarion’s name was carved into it. 

“You got out faster than he did,” a nasty voice said and you surged your feet, whirling and reaching for your knife. It wasn’t there. You stumbled forward, your body catching up to your exhaustion before your mind did. A black-haired elf stood before you and smiled sardonically. Cazador. “The only weapons you have now are in your mouth, dear child.”

Instinctively, you ran your tongue across your teeth and hissed as your new fangs sliced your tongue open. The tang of your own blood did nothing but make you aware of the pulsing, needy hunger curling in your gut. 

Memories came flooding back. Astarion, in your tavern, a vampire. Sleeping with him. Going back to Cazador with him. The pain of the bite that turned you. Attempting to run—being snatched up by Cazador and brought into the pit of the palace. Thousands upon thousands of spawn kept inside cages, jeering at you, watching you, giving you enough strength to try to fight back. Smiling defiantly at the vampire who promised you pain, even as you cried at the sound of Astarion’s sobs from so far above you. Darkness finally overtaking you as your body gave into the bite, the blood drained from your veins, your bones rearranging themselves, knitting together your new vampiric body.

“Get away from me,” you spat, stumbling away from him.

Cazador laughed. “Where will you go, little one? No one can save you now. Not now that you are this. You are mine.”

You heard a shout. Cazador stopped, turning to search for its origin. Another shout, this time your name, this time clearly Astarion’s voice.

“Do not meddle, boy,” Cazador warned, raising his voice in the direction of the shout.

A hand touched your shoulder. You looked, knowing you would see Astarion the moment you felt his touch. Cazador remained blissfully unaware that his spawn had already reached you. 

Astarion offered you his hand. You glanced back at your maker once, then slipped your hand into his. The two of you took off running. 

Cazador let out a shout, but neither of you heeded. You left the cemetery behind and began running through the streets of Baldur’s Gate.

“Where do we go?” you demanded, impressed by how much faster you were now, even without blood. 

“Anywhere,” Astarion said, glancing at you. “You wanted to run? Now we are. Just don’t stop until the city’s behind us.”

“How did you find me?” you asked.

He flashed you a fangy grin. “Dalyria. She helped me sneak past Godey.”

“She helped? Why?”

He shrugged. “She didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

The sky above you opened up. You both stopped short, staring up at the massive ship that had come through the rip in the world. 

“Come back here!” Cazador’s shout rang through the street. He was still some distance away, but he was gaining on you.

You tugged on Astarion’s arm. “Honey, we have to go.”

Astarion was staring at something just ahead of you. “What in the gods’ names is that?”

You turned and something with tentacles for a face grabbed your head. You screamed as, once again, the world went dark.

~❊~

The rest was a blank, until you woke up on the beach with Astarion leaning over you, but the rest of your companions had filled you in. After you’d blacked out, you’d been put in a pod and a tadpole was forced into your head. Some part of you had always been glad you’d had no memory of that—but if you had remembered it, would you have also remembered everything else?

You looked up at Astarion, who was nervously chewing his lower lip, his fang peeking out. You felt your own fang with your tongue. He did this to me.

You took a step backward, putting distance between him and yourself. You saw his heart break in the way his eyes began to water. 

“It was you? You brought me to Cazador? You’re why I’m like this?” You felt short of breath, your chest tight, your head spinning: the beginnings of a panic attack your body remembered from its time alive—which was much more recent than Astarion had been telling you.

“Darling, I had to,” he whispered. “You told me to. You begged me to bring you to him so I wouldn’t get hurt!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you hissed. “You didn’t have to tell the others, you could have fed them the same story you told me about keeping me safe from Cazador for two hundred years. But why me? Why did you lie to me about how I was turned?”

Hurt flashed in his eyes. But there was more to it than that. He was afraid, afraid because he was vulnerable in front of too many people, afraid because you were slowly backing away from him. 

“I couldn’t tell you, darling, you wouldn’t have believed me—”

“No more lies, Astarion,” you snapped. “Tell me the truth! Why did you lie?”

His lower lip trembled. “Because I was scared, alright? I saw the fear on your face on the beach and it—it looked like the fear in your eyes when I brought you to Cazador. You were already afraid. Of me! I… I didn’t want to make it worse. I didn’t want you to hate me when you were all I had. I was—” His eyes dropped briefly to the floor. Then he looked back up at you, tears rolling down his cheeks. You knew they were real. “I was scared you’d stake me for what I did to you the first chance you got. Worse, I was scared you’d leave me.”

You studied his face. As you looked at him, your anger began to fade. Death scares him less than losing me. “Astarion…”

He dropped to his knees, clearly expecting more rage. He trembled as he kept explaining, “I had already been without you for long enough. I didn’t want to do it again, I was scared that you’d forget me the way I—the way I forgot you. I was selfish, darling, I was so selfish because I didn’t want to do what you had to do for two hundred years and remember and love and ache when it wasn’t returned. So I lied. And I lied well. I made up story after story and you believed them so much they were becoming your memories. Anything else was just a bad dream to you and I let you believe that! It was easier to dismiss your real memories as nightmares than confess what really happened. That’s why I did it. Because it was easy.” He sniffled and roughly wiped away his tears with his wrist. “You can hate me all you want, but I am going to be selfish even more and I am going to beg you to stay. Hate me for the next two hundred years but please, please don’t leave me.”

And Astarion remained kneeling on the ground, shaking, waiting for you to speak. No one—not the other spawn or your companions—dared speak or move.

Then you knelt in front of him and gently cupped his cheek in your hand, coaxing his head up. “Astarion… I don’t hate you, honey. I don’t. I…I understand. I’m not upset that you did what I asked you to do, I just…I wish you had told me the truth about it. I don’t like it, but I understand it. And I forgive you.”

The tension in the room shifted. Astarion stared at you with those wide, wet eyes of his, clearly caught off guard as much as, if not more than, your companions.

“Why?” he asked at last. “I let him turn you into a spawn! I let him make you the same abomination as me, as my siblings, as all these poor souls that had the misfortune of meeting me!”

You kissed the top of his head. “Meeting you was never misfortune,” you said to him. “Not in our lives. Not in your undeath. Not in mine.”

Astarion gripped your hand desperately. “Why?” he pleaded.

“Two hundred years are not easily shaken in six months,” you said softly, reminding him of a conversation you had already had about his instinctive need to seduce and manipulate you when he already had you. “I cannot blame you for any of your lies when I know why you have said them. You told me yourself, it’s instinctive. That you wanted protection. You couldn’t have known how I would have reacted if you told me the truth when I woke up, I’m not even sure of that. There was no promise that I would protect you then.” I squeezed his hand gently. “But I’m going to protect you now. I swear it.”

He shook his head, but he held your hand tightly as if he was still afraid of you leaving him, the bones in your fingers grinding from the pressure. “I’m… I’m not sure I’m worth protecting—”

“You are,” you said, cutting him off without a second thought. 

“Why protect me after what I did to you?”

Your heart broke. “Can’t you see? Oh, honey, it’s because I love you! I knew what I was getting myself into then, even if I didn’t remember it for so long. It’s not your fault I insisted, you even gave me several ways out.” You stood and pulled him up with you. “Come on, up you get. We’ve still got work to do, remember?”

Astarion dusted himself off as he got off the ground. He looked at you tenderly, his eyes soft. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

From the cage, Sebastian cleared his throat petulantly. The bubble that had kept your focus on Astarion popped. 

“Tender,” he drawled, “but foolish, trusting him again.”

“Speak for yourself,” you said, shrugging. “You’ll see, when we free you all.”

Astarion pulled a face. “Are you sure we can?”

You glanced back at Sebastian. “You said I fought back, right? And that was without a tadpole, when I was still a thrall.” You turned back to Astarion. “He can’t control either of us anymore. If anyone can kill him, it’s us.”

Slowly, Astarion nodded. “I… Yes. We can. Together.”

Sebastian drew closer to the cage’s bars. He held them as he murmured, “Maybe you will do it. Gods help us if you don’t, though.”

Astarion rolled his eyes. “Haven’t you learned the gods don’t listen to the likes of us?”

“Boys,” you chided, before Sebastian could snap back. You glanced at your other companions. “Is everybody ready?” They nodded and, at last, Astarion nodded, too.

You offered him your hand. “Now, let’s go kill our maker, shall we?”

☞ ❊ ☜

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Baldur's Gate 3 // Astarion Ancunin

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