#i've been desperately trying to get my dnd group to read it and i just had to go back and go through it again

[andromeda3116]

rereading order of the stick (again), and greyiew is only in a few comics so far but man do i love this nihilistic wolf

[reallyverysane]

How I Wonder

Pairing: Astarion x fem!Tav, Drow, OC with backstory

Summary: Astarion deals with hunger of a couple different types. Tav offers her wrist but wants to offer more.

The road into the Shadowlands is full of spiders and flashbacks. Some tadpole assisted backstory, tender moments.

Warnings: Mostly plot, yearning, confused feelings, trauma babies doing the trauma tango, PTSD flashbacks, some world-appropriate violence, kidnapping, culty rituals, bodily harm, dissociation, just a bit of physical contact, nothing spicy.

Word Count: 7k oops

A/N: This is a continuation of Blush but can be read on its own too. This Tav has me doing so much research to make her backstory accurate to dnd lore, she is taking over my life a bit. There will eventually be actual spice in this series, but even though I've got outlines and plot points to hit, they just keep wanting to talk and form bonds with each other. Hope you enjoy!

The night air was crisp against his skin. The wind brought scents of dry stone and pine to him, along with the fragile note of a night blooming flower. Far in the distance Astarion could hear the staccato sound of laughter and off key singing as his companions settled in for another night at camp. Their narrow escape at the Githyanki creche and Lae’zel’s crisis of faith had left them rattled, but as they retraced their steps up the mountain toward the pass their spirits had lifted with the altitude. They would soon reach the shadow cursed lands and Halsin, knowing the despair they would face there, was aggressively trying to manufacture one last night of raucous mirth for the party.  As they had begun making camp for the night he had taken up his lute and bellowed out bawdy tunes with distinctly druidic themes. “The Bear and the Maiden Fair '' had brought Karlach to the ground with laughter, her exhaust ports singeing small fires in the grass as she choked on her joy.

Astarion could not quite bring himself to join in the merriment. His legs were aching from the climb and he was hungry. He had fully drained the gith doctor for what she had tried to pull with the Zaith’isk, but they had fought hard to get out alive and his trance had been rudely interrupted by Voss and the faith-shattering revelations he had brought them. He did feel sorry for Lae’zel, he knew what it was to have one’s deepest beliefs shaken to the core. Perhaps that was why he sought the solitude of this high precipice.

He sat on the cliff, his legs dangling off the edge over vast leagues of emptiness. The sun sank slowly over the temple in the distance and he felt a chill thinking of all the bodies inside. Yet another hoard of enemies taken down in their pursuit of a cure. He never used to care about the violence he inflicted, still relished the choreography of a good kill, the music of his blades expertly dispatching a foe before they even knew he was there. But traveling with this group of disparate weirdos had seemingly started to make him go soft. 

His thoughts crashed into each other, contradictory and chaotic. He was beginning to care for these people, something he truly never believed he’d feel again, but his apprehension for any kind of vulnerability mocked him for his twee little feelings. His survival had depended for so long on walling himself off to anything real. To anyone at all. He had learned too many times over what it cost, that warmth of closeness. It always ended in blood. 

And yet, he felt himself drawn like a moth to flames. He so desperately wanted to be let in, to be part of the crew. They were all so bonded, sharing stories of their pasts, consulting each other on their worries, finding small comforts in the warmth of an embrace. He longed to reach out to someone, anyone, as easily as they had. His years of captivity and pain had carved a deep chasm in his heart, one he was desperately trying to claw his way out of. 

Of course, she had seen right through his facade. Their alluring, ruthless leader had taken one look at him the morning after their tryst  and had somehow pierced the defenses he had honed over more than a century. Her ice and onyx eyes had bored holes into his back as he tried to play the carefree rake. When she had asked about his scars he had spat the truth at her, almost as a challenge, uncomfortable and exposed in the sunlight. He had made an attempt to divert her attention to anything other than his screeching, agonized soul, and she had let him. Still, he knew she saw more of him than he intended and it terrified him. He had nearly bolted from the sunlit glade the second she acquiesced to his deflection. It had been nearly a month since then and he still couldn’t get a read on the enigmatic drow. 

Tav was a mystery to him. Her sweet, generous disposition belied a shrewdness and pragmatism he found fascinating. She had divulged some of her past, her childhood as a cutpurse in the bowels of the City of Spiders, her frenzied and daring escape to the surface as a tunnel collapsed below her, but she had been sparse on the details. He had seen her expertly skate around specifics when their companions would inquire about aspects of her time in the Underdark. She had an electric way of weaving details of the Drow culture into her stories, distracting her listeners from the fact that the focus was rarely on her. 

That was not to say she seemed unwilling to connect with the others. She had formed a fast friendship with Karlach, trading awful jokes in between impassioned discussions of their best kills. As a parentless nobody alone in the heart of Menzoberranzan, Tav had learned quickly the art of survival. While she hadn’t spoken much about the devastating Storm Sorcery she wielded, she had regaled them with tales of her younger self and the warring factions of street urchins she had run with. The brutality of Drow society had been shocking to all but Lae’zel, who had greatly approved, saying that it had molded Tav into a strong and cunning warrior with great prowess on the battlefield. Tav had thanked the Githyanki enthusiastically, as though she truly appreciated the validation from one who actually understood the violence she had known. 

Astarion puzzled on the matter, retreating from the cliff edge as the first stars winked into being in the purpling sky. She had a hardened and remorseless attitude toward killing, yet her actions with the grove and her gentle handling of the members of their band proved she had the capacity for kindness he had never possessed. His had always been the way of self serving manipulation and guile, even before his foray into undeath. She truly did intrigue him, though he had kept her at a safe distance since the morning he had awoken, nestled in her arms, clinging to her like a castaway to driftwood on an open sea, with the taste of bile in his mouth. 

He had disentangled himself as quickly and smoothly as he could before sprinting out of the clearing to wretch her blood onto the base of a great oak. Her touch had felt like crackling lighting across his skin, setting him ablaze in ways he had not felt for decades, but the moment the storm had lulled, his memories had flooded back in nauseating waves. He had acted on instinct, used the only tool he had left to him, and he hated himself for it. Though he knew it was a necessary step in his plot to curry her favor and protection, he found he was surprised by how disgusted he felt with himself. 

The smell of roasting meat and fire shook him out of his dark reverie and he returned to his senses with a jolt. The sun had sunk just below the horizon and the glow behind the mountains was echoed by the campfire on the opposite peak. His hunger twisted, a cruel fist grasping in his chest, as the aromas of wafted down from where the group busied themselves making dinner and setting the camp. His mouth watered and his mind wandered to a vision of Tav’s smooth, ebony neck, the two delicate scars his fangs had left the first night he fed from her. The memory of her blood, the first non-rodent thing he’d fed on in decades, threatened to overwhelm him. 

“Godsdamnit!” he cursed aloud, turning with balled fists to trudge up the path to camp.

He needed to feed, and she was his only option on this high mountain pass full of nothing but uppity eagles and dead Githyanki. 

~~~

She watched him stalk into camp, just outside the circle of firelight, his face a hollow shell concealing the thoughts within. As he scanned the camp his gaze locked with hers, a near imperceptible jolt running through him. He pulled his features into a semblance of nonchalance and strode animatedly across the clearing to drape himself onto the ground beside her, back against the fallen pillar she was using as a bench. They had made camp in the long ruined husk of a stone temple, a protective brace against the wind that constantly howled at this height. 

Astarion began languidly trailing a finger along the outside of her calf, not turning to look into her face. 

“You know, darling” he drawled in a voice that reeked of duplicity, “it’s been ever so long since we were able to enjoy each other’s talents.” 

His finger traced up along the top of her knee, reaching towards the inside of her thigh. She swatted it away, quick and light as a dragonfly striking. He pulled his hand back with a sharp inhale and whipped his face to hers, eyes indignant and a snarl threatening to pull through his lips. She watched, bemused, as he fought to reign in his irritation and plaster a veil of pleasantness over his features. She saw the ragged glint in his eye and knew he was hungry and desperate to feed, his gaze subtly drifting to the pulse in her neck. 

“So your hunt didn’t go well, I take it?” 

“What? Uh…Whatever makes you say that? Can’t a man seek the company of a ravishing sorcerer of an evening?” His eyes narrowed, wary, clearly unaware that he practically radiated with the grace of a predatory animal on the prowl. Though his air had been light and casual, Tav knew a hunter when she saw one. His movements were just the smallest bit too practiced, a dance he had done a thousand times before. 

“If you’re hungry, Astarion, you only have to ask.” 

She didn’t begrudge him his mask, his choreography, she simply wanted him to see that she needed none of it. She had seen herself reflected in him so many times. The way he watched, always vigilant to the most minute changes in the attitude of a room, his body a figure study in relaxation while his eyes scoured his environment for threats.

When she had seen him flinch from her touch the morning after they had come together, her hand trailing too close to the raised scars on his back, she had felt the echo of his recoil in her own skin. She hadn’t picked up physical scars as brutal as his, but she felt the wounds on her soul ache when she heard him speak of his time with Cazador. When she had offered her sympathy he had rebuffed her, not believing she could understand the half of what he had been through. And maybe she couldn’t, but she carried the weight of her own pain, her own fear, and she had grown strong from the burden. Strong enough, perhaps, to help him shoulder his.  

His eyes searched hers, incredulous, their feline slant softening as he began to take in her face. She wore an expression of warm amusement, not a hint of judgment in her captivating gaze. One corner of her mouth pulled up slightly into a coy grin as she extended her wrist in front of him. 

“Go ahead, the rest of us already ate.” 

He started, gaze shifting rapidly from her eyes to her wrist and back. With slow, hesitant movements he grasped her wrist in both his hands and pulled it to his mouth. The smell of her skin, the blood so close to the surface, was intoxicating. Pulling in a deep draw of her honey and juniper scent, his eyes rolled and he let out a sigh against the taught skin of her wrist. She felt his cool breath like a caress, sending a shiver down her spine. He glanced at her again, as if to confirm it really was alright for him to bite her, and she nodded, her grin spreading to pucker a tiny dimple into her cheek. 

~~~

Eyes shifting warily around the camp, grazing over the figures of the others readying to bed down for the night, he searched for signs that this was all some elaborate trap. Surely this open generosity, this act of profound trust and vulnerability, must be designed to lull him from his defenses. It had happened time and again, with his siblings, his master. Some small kindness offered, only to be retracted at the last second and replaced with the scourge of a blade or a balled fist. He pushed the panic down, trying to relax the coiling knot between his shoulder blades. 

His lips brushed the skin of her wrist in a featherlight kiss before he pressed his fangs in as gently as his hunger would allow. The rush of her blood into his mouth surrounded him in the heady smell of her. It overtook his senses as he drank, blurring out the rest of the campsite and flooding his vision with a haze of indigo shot with silver. He focused on her pulse, strong against his lips, hammering in his ears. As he shifted his hands to hold her arm closer to him, fingers sliding around the back of her elbow, he felt her pulse flutter ever so slightly. Her fingers splayed, grazing through his curls and he heard her hiss. He worried he was hurting her and began to slow his pace when a soft moan escaped her slightly parted lips. His eyes darted to hers in surprise and found she was staring, lips parted and  pupils blown, directly at him. 

Smiling to himself against her wrist, still sucking her flowing blood, he pulled her down from the pillar. He twisted with her slowly so as not to break the seal against her skin.  She flowed into his lap like a cat, curling herself around to rest half leaning on his chest. He brought an arm around her ribs to steady her, his hand snaking up the back of her neck to rest in her bright silver and gunmetal hair. She leaned her head into his hand and her eyes fluttered closed. With her this close, senses drowning in the redolent perfume of her skin, he began to draw longer, covetous pulls from her wrist. 

Her blood sang in his veins. The pulse under his lips fluttered as she drew in a ragged breath, her back arching against him. Rolling her head forward to nuzzle into the slope of his neck, he shuddered as her lips brushed the underside of his jaw. He felt her breath on his skin like the heat of a campfire. She moaned low in his ear, a breathless, intoxicating purr. He was about to break the latch he had on her wrist to claim her berry mouth in a bloody kiss, when he heard a throat clearing behind him. 

“While I do understand your fervor, Astarion, would you kindly un-wrist our dear leader before you drain her like a particularly fine wineskin?” 

Astarion growled into her wrist as Tav seemed to shake out of whatever haze she had fallen into and chuckled. 

“I believe you’re right, Gale” She conceded, “ I do feel somewhat... lightheaded.” 

His arm remained wrapped around her shoulder, fingers twining into her hair of their own accord. He pricked his tongue with a fang and ran the bead of blood over her wound, closing it. Before letting go of her wrist, he kissed it again, this time in earnest, turning his eyes upward to meet hers. She stared down at him with the look of someone who has just awoken from a captivating dream, lids heavy and eyes shining with a secret glee.

“Thank you” His voice ragged and thick through the fog of his bloodlust. “Truly.”

He willed his hand to release its grip on her hair, glaring at the wizard for his obvious ploy to interrupt. As she slipped out of his arms and stood she leaned forward and brushed a soft kiss against his cheek. His other hand trailed down her arm as she rose, his fingers reflexively hooking against hers in a traitorous attempt to hold her with him just a short time longer. She hooked her fingers back to his for just a moment, long enough to pull his arm taught behind her as she retreated. As her fingers rolled off his he was left with his hand hovering in front of his face, frozen where she had left it, the feeling of her skin reverberating through his fingertips. 

“Any time Star!” She called over her shoulder with a grin as Gale pulled her into a discussion with Halsin about the properties of some mushroom or other. He sat, stunned, pulling the hand she had released to the heated spot where her lips had brushed his face. She had never called him that before. 

Nobody had called him that since before his life ended.

*  *  *  *  *

Bathed in the yellow light of the Blood of Lathander, the group moved slowly through the cursed darkness of the shadowlands. As the company entered the region from the high mountain pass they had been greeted by a welcome party from Moonrise, sent to escort the ‘True Souls' to the Absolutist stronghold. The plan had been to play along, acting as though Halsin was a prisoner they were keen to return to face punishment. That plan went straight out the window as the eerie blue light of the moonlantern revealed the aberration that was Kar’niss, the drider. Swallowing his unease, Wyll managed to learn the direction of the tower from the monstrosity as the rest of the group filed down the narrow passageway into the darkness, Tav bringing up the rear with Scritch and Scratch. 

Before any of the others knew what was happening, a savage roar ripped through Tav, a sound like her soul tearing. She leapt forward, her lightning magic crackling over her skin like a shroud, to bring a violent storm down upon the group of cultists. Tongues of lightning battered the drider, his many limbs giving out beneath him as the electricity shot through his nerves. Not expecting an ambush, the other cultists stood frozen, surprised, while the smell of scorched ozone grew with each new strike of lightning. 

“Alrighty then, guess we’re doing this the fun way!” Karlach was the first to surge forward, swinging her greataxe into the side of one of the cultist’s heads. The figure crumpled like a marionette with cut strings, and as she wrested the axe from the ruin of its face, a wild grin broke across the tiefling’s lips. “So much for diplomacy, eh Sparks?” 

Tav merely growled in response, her eyes lit a blazing white from within, never leaving the writhing form of the drider. As the rest of the group made short work of the band of cultists, Tav stalked forward, the lighting of her power coalescing into her palms. Walking into the swirling heart of the storm she had created, she loomed over the crumpled body of the monstrosity, teeth gritted and body trembling with emotion. She went to one knee beside the wretched creature, still being slashed through with forking lightning, and bent low to be heard above the cacophony of the tempest. 

“I swore I would never suffer another one of your kind to live, drider.” Her voice a dark snarl, she spat in disgust. “Give my regards to the Spider Bitch.”

The abomination sent up a wordless cry of agony, its face turned to hers, pleading for her mercy. Her mouth twisted into a crooked grin, savage and deadly, as she held her sparking hands on either side of the drider’s face. Her magic scorched the air as lightning arced between her palms, straight through the brain of the creature, its numerous eyes briefly blazing in an ice-white echo of hers before darkening to a lifeless black. With a shudder of disgust she rose, kicking the face of the drider away from her and breaking the concentration she held on the small tempest above them. 

The final crackling of lightning sounded and their ears rang in the unnatural silence. Tav stood, trembling, shoulders hunched, in a circle of scorched corpses.  As though a spell of silence had been cast over the group, they stood rooted in place, none daring to speak first. A ragged sob tore out of Tav as she brought the heel of her boot down against the temple of the twisted creature, caving in the pale face with its many empty eyes. She was shaking violently now, her sob morphing into a stuttering, wordless wail. 

At the sound of her pain the spell seemed to break, and Astarion found himself moving to her, body reacting before caution could hold him back. He called her name gently as he approached, so as not to startle her. She turned to him, her face streaked with tears and black blood, and nearly fell into his waiting arms. She buried her face into his neck, his arms coming around her back, crushing her to him and holding her upright. Her sobs were an echo of his own desperate soul.

“I’ve got you.” HIs voice sounded hollow in his ears as he pressed the words into her hair. “It’s over, you’re safe. I'm here.”  

She continued to pour tears into the collar of his leathers, body quaking with silent sobs. The group surrounded them, anxious faces stricken with concern. Astarion waved them back, silently meeting their eyes with a challenge. Do not intervene. 

The druid was the first to speak, ushering the group to begin searching the bodies for valuables or missives from Moonrise. They retrieved the strange lantern the dryder had carried and began to move off down the path to give Tav some space. As the eerie blue glow of the lantern receded, Shadowheart rushed back to hand the glowing mace to Astarion. 

“Take your time.” She placed a gentle hand on Tav’s shoulder and gave a light, reassuring squeeze. She shot Astarion a look of skeptical amusement, as though she couldn’t believe that he, of all people, would be the one to offer comfort and care to the drow. She cocked an eyebrow and mouthed good luck to him before scampering back to the circle of lantern light and following the group down the path of the broken road. 

When they had disappeared from view and he could no longer hear their voices, Astarion gently peeled Tav away from his chest. Her face was a mess of tears and inky drider blood. Her normally piercing eyes red and puffed from the tears, she wouldn’t meet his gaze as she sniffed and wiped her face with the sleeve of her robe. He felt a stab of grief reverberate through him, his mind flashing through an endless slideshow of painful memories. Gently raising her face to him, he saw the reflection of his own sorrow in her eyes. Her gaze darted wildly, an animal trapped in a cage, desperate for a place to hide. 

Astarion cradled her cheek with his large, cool palm, his crimson eyes capturing hers, forcing her to focus on him. 

“Breath, darling.” 

One arm still around her waist, anchoring her, she heaved in a rough breath. She leaned into his palm, letting it go in a protracted sigh. The jagged edges of her mind began to smooth, her consciousness slowly sliding back into her body. Only when he felt her pulse begin to slow and her breathing return to normal did he release her from his hold, stepping back and allowing his hands to fall to his sides. 

“Thank you, Astarion.” Her voice was croaky and low, her throat aching from the guttural screams she had uttered. “That was… I …” She trailed off, not knowing how to continue. Seeing a drider again for the first time since her escape from the Underdark had plunged her into a rage and fear she had tried desperately to leave behind. The sight of the hulking abomination had transported her into memories of chitinous legs pinning her to cold stone, white hot lightning arcing through her as the chants of cultists drowned out her screams. Her body had acted in pure instinct, moving to slaughter the cause of her suffering, pulling on the twisted power she had gained as a means of survival. Now, she only felt a dull, empty ache at the center of her. She was so tired. 

Astarion searched her eyes as she stood in front of him, miles or years away. She had always been somewhat volatile, a simmering anger beneath the surface of her placid demeanor, but this was the first moment he came to realize the truth. Her temper was not borne of pride or bravado, but was merely the instinctual defense of a person like himself. Someone who had, too many times, been presented with the choice to either fight or die. The frenzied way she had taken the drider down, her instant switch from sentience to instinctual brutality, these were the hallmarks of one who knew the truth of suffering. He felt his heart ache for her. A kindred damned soul. 

“You don’t have to explain…” His voice held none of its typical music, his tone flat and serious. “There are some things we carry with us, no matter how far from them we truly are.” He extended his hand to her, and she took it with fingers that trembled ever so slightly. 

“I will… I just can’t, not here.” Her eyes darted over his shoulder to the mangled body of the drider, legs curled in on itself grotesquely, face a black pulp. “Can we go?” Her eyes flashed with desperation and he squeezed her hand, pulling her with him away from the carnage. They headed down the path after the rest of the group, the hungry shadows held at bay by the light of Lathander. 

When they spotted the glow of the campfire ahead, Astarion stopped. They had walked here silently, fingers laced together, the heat of her skin gradually warming his hand. She turned to him with a deep sigh, eyes trained on the small circles he was rubbing into her skin with his thumb. 

“I can’t go back just yet. Too many worried faces, everyone holding back questions and treating me like I’m breakable.” 

Astarion scoffed, “Nobody thinks you’re breakable. You should’ve seen yourself back there!” he gestured up the path they’d taken with a nod of his head. “ You were positively lethal.” 

“Yes, and then I went mad and sobbed in front of everyone.”Her voice was a rasping whisper as she clung to his hand. “I can’t stand to see their pity, it just makes everything worse.”

“You’ll get no pity from me, darling. I don’t pity those who could call a bolt down and roast me where I stand.” His attempt at levity fell flat between them, a sly smile dying on Astarion's lips as she finally looked into his eyes. His breath caught at the sight of those deep onyx pools slashed with streaks of white lightning. He saw the haunted, anguished stare all the spawn in Cazador’s house had worn. Though he hadn’t seen his reflection in centuries, he knew his own eyes must carry the same look now and again. He dropped his gaze from hers, feeling as though she could see straight to the core of him. 

“You and I are more alike than I thought.” His voice was low and serious, a tone she had rarely heard him use. He paused thoughtfully, bringing their hands, fingers still intertwined, to his lips. “If you want to stay out here a while, I’m in no rush to get back.” 

Tav’s thoughts blurred at the feel of his lips on the back of her fingers. She felt the familiar pull to throw herself on him, shutting down any questions he might have with her tongue in his mouth. Why was it so easy to let him into her body but not her mind? She knew she could make it all disappear, the pain of the memories, the insatiable rage she felt for her past self, the fear. She could melt it all away with the touch of his cool hands on her body. He could pull her out from the chaos in her mind and keep her rooted firmly in the feel of him. 

She knew this was her mind’s way of running from the truth. She had to face the part of her past she was running from. In a guarded, secret place inside she knew that her feelings for Astarion could be so much more than an escape. Terrified as she was to admit it, she saw clearly who he was and it left her in awe of him. His past was laid bare in the jagged scars on his back. While she knew he was still hiding much from her, he had let her in in small ways, each time revealing more of himself. She knew he deserved the same. That she couldn't wear the mask for him anymore. 

Tav leaned her forehead into Astarion’s, their noses brushing together and mingling her warm breath with his cool one. 

“Will you let me show you? I don’t think I can explain it all without bolting for the hills.”

He nodded against her, stepping closer and gripping the back of her neck. He pulled her into a gentle kiss, lips almost reverent in their explorations. She fought the urge to deepen the kiss and flee into his arms. A soft moan of protest escaped his lips as she pulled away, but she did not fully retreat, allowing him to hold her in the circle of his arms.

She reached out with her tadpole and connected to his with a spine chilling jolt. In this connection their thoughts flowed together with no need for language. Her memories flashed in a dizzying wave, showing him the truth of her youth and the years she spent numb and cut off in a pleasure house. She felt his surprise as parts of her story became enmeshed with his own, seeing a double image of them both languishing in separate beds, strangers between their legs. He felt her memories as if they were his own, understanding the depth of the emptiness gnawing at her soul in those long decades of service to the Trade. She poured into him all the years of petty betrayal among the courtesans, the insipid dramas that nonetheless endangered her very livelihood. He answered with the squabbling between the sibling spawn. The backstabbing and conniving to gain a pittance of favor from their master.   

Tav pressed herself against him, yearning to somehow feel even closer as they clung to each other in the whirlwind of her memories. She balked as her thoughts delved deeper, wincing away from the pain of her deep buried past. Astarion’s presence in her mind remained unshaken, a questioning desire to know what she was trying to hide. She felt his arms grip her ever tighter, his hands balling into her hair and her tunic, a physical tether. She opened to him, tumbling down within her mind to the dark and jagged center of her torment. 

Her friend, or so she had believed, set her up. She should have known the posting was too good to be true. A live-in concubine for the heir of house Baenre. She had gone through the proper channels to verify the assignment, but the woman knew the procedures well and managed to dupe even the management at the pleasure house. Tav thought she was heading to a lavish apartment in a noble house for a year, maybe three. Instead she had been taken, snatched from her carriage like a mouse caught in the talons of a silent owl. She had hated herself then for allowing her instincts to become dulled and her reflexes slow. Through the tadpole Astarion saw how the shrewd cutpurse she had been in her youth berated her captured self mercilessly. Eighty years in the fog of distraction and numbness of a life without purpose had stolen her acumen for survival. 

Astarion’s heart bled for her, hearing the echo of his own self-hatred in the venomous words she berated herself with. Stupid. Naive. Worthless. He reached his mind into the cyclone of her anger and tried to sooth her with all the things he wished someone would say to him. Capable. Beautiful. Worthy. She shuddered in his arms and he was vaguely aware of his body pulling her down to sit on the ruined earth. Still holding the connection with the tadpole, her body almost lost to her in the swell of her grief, she pulled herself into his lap and he wrapped his arms around her like a shield. 

The next memories she flew to were tinged with a deep indigo haze, as though a part of her brain would not allow them to fully realize. Her captors had brought her far from Menzoberranzan, trussed in a wagon like a lamb for slaughter. She had begged for release, explanation, anything, and had earned herself a stinking sock for a gag. When they finally arrived at their destination, her horrors had only worsened as she was led into the crumbling throne room of a long abandoned stronghold to see a monster atop the throne before her. 

The drider loomed massive in the torchlight of the hall. He towered over the cowering servants at his feet. His torso, grotesquely morphing into the abdomen of a spider, was covered in black patches of coarse hair and chitin. Skittering toward her on eight segmented legs, he pulled her off her feet by her neck to bring her face closer to his. He was supernaturally strong, nearly crushing her throat in his grip. When he tossed her aside she crumpled into a heap on the cold stone slabs. He spoke to his attendants in a language she couldn’t understand and she had been hauled away to rot for months in a cold cell. She could hear the cries and lamentations of the other women in the cages, though as the weeks went by the voices started to go silent one by one. She grew to hold the understanding that she would die, shivering and afraid, in this dank cavern, with nobody to blame but herself. 

When her turn came to be dragged before the drider once more she resigned herself to the fate, hoping she would find a way to end her own suffering early. She had listened as the agonized screams of the other women had echoed off the dripping walls of the cave. They had begged and wailed to every god in the pantheon. None had listened. The hooded attendants had led her, bound at the wrists barefoot, into a bright circle of light cast through a moonhole to the surface. She turned her eyes skyward, squinting through the long tunnel of stone to see the full, cold moon and bright, distant stars. It was the first time she had ever seen them, and she had chuckled ruefully to herself that it would also be the last time. 

The ritual was built off ancient magic in languages long lost. She couldn’t guess the specifics, but as the cultists wound silk ribbons around her shivering frame the drider appeared from the shadows of the vast cavern, scurrying to her and caging her in with his revolting legs. His carapace covered body hung over her and his drow face leered down at her, sharp teeth displayed in a manic grin. The cultists circled around them, each standing at a point in an eight pointed star. They began a chant that shot ice through her veins. The drider above her pushed her down onto her back, pinning her with one leg as he used another to slice through the tattered dress she had been wearing since her capture. 

At this, Tav felt her mind lurch away, the indigo haze over her memory growing ever darker, obscuring the truth of her agony even from her. Her memory shrank to the tiny circle of light she could see through the moonhole on the high ceiling of the cavern. As she watched, detached from herself wholly, a dark silver cloud passed in front of her circle of light. She raged then, that her only means of focus had abandoned her. 

The chanting rose to a deafening clamor and she began to feel her body ripping apart. The ice that had started spreading through her veins now formed into shattering crystals. Her body arced with the pain and rage and fear. She had begged then, wordless cries tearing from her throat until she coughed blood. She had called in the primal language of pain to any god who might hear. She tore her throat raw, and heard nothing echo back in return. She wished only to die and have the agony cease. 

The anguish had shifted then, from a cold, scraping, ache to the white hot electricity of lightning. The last thing she had seen before the storm claimed her was the silhouette of the moon, shrouded in deep indigo clouds, with a crackling halo of ice-white lightning. The element had ripped through her, sparking from every nerve and out her skin to drive her attackers back, frozen in a tableau of torment as the lightning arced from one to another, connecting the points of the star around her. Then her vision had gone white and the smell of burning ozone had flooded her senses. She had called the storm down around her, lashing into the cultists and impaling the drider on a spear of pure, crackling, energy. 

Mad with pain and power, she had leapt skyward, following the light of the silver moon above her, the only thing she could see through her flash-blind eyes. Somehow, she assumed she would never know, she had ascended to the base of the moonhole where it opened into the cavern. Grasping with desperate fingers, the tattered remains of her bindings smoldering on her wrists, she had clawed her way up the crumbling wall of the tunnel. Her only goal to reach that beckoning orb sparking with power. She ascended as the ground gave way beneath her, scrambling to pull herself ever faster toward the surface. 

Her arms nearly gave out from the strain of the climb, and when she finally broke the surface, gasping and shaking, shredded dress hanging off her in ribbons, she had rolled on her back and shrieked her laughter to the bright moon. The stars seemed to laugh with her, twinkling in and out of focus as she bled out on the cool grass. 

She had awoken days later in the care of an elderly tiefling couple on the outskirts of Baldur’s Gate. They had heard her maniacal laughter and rushed to help before she slipped away. The man had been a healer once, and had been able to staunch the bleeding from a deep, eight pointed wound where her womb had been. She had stayed with them a month or so before moving on, grateful for their kind help but wary of any who would offer aid to a stranger. Her fear and paranoia had driven her into the sewers of the city, the only place she could escape the bright, noisy bustle of the streets, so unlike her existence in the Underdark. 

Astarion’s presence came forward once again in her mind. He had receded while her memory had relived her most wretched moments, observing in horror and wishing there was something he could do to lessen the pain. He held her in his lap, sobbing again softly into his shoulder, and severed the connection with her tadpole. 

“Oh, darling,” He whispered as he stroked her hair and clutched her to him. “I’m so sorry.” 

“NO!” She gasped, frantic, “Don’t you dare pity me!” Her face turned up to his, defiant, but the shattered and broken part of her soul looked out at him from the depths of her onyx and ivory eyes. 

“Never.” He cupped her face in his hands to steady her gaze onto him. “Tav. I will never pity you.” 

She shuddered, tears streaming down her cheeks onto his fingers. 

“You survived.” His voice was stern but soft. “You fought, and you won, and now you’re here.” 

She gave a tired nod, and a brutal sigh wrenching through her. 

“You’re godsdamned right, I survived.” Her hands came up to cover his and she leaned toward him, knocking his forehead with hers. “And so did you, Star.” 

“Tav?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Would it be altogether inappropriate if I kissed you right now?” 

“Yes, but do it anyway.” 

He obeyed, hungry and desperate. They melded together, each searching for absolution in the other’s touch. He felt for once that he was kissing her just for himself. Not for a master, or a plan, or even just to satisfy an urge. He kissed her because he wanted her to feel his care and adoration for her. Because he felt as though his body would catch fire when she touched him. Because in those moments when she had allowed him to see her deepest hurt, he had felt she saw him too. He was moved by the vulnerability she had allowed him to share. He knew hope was for fools, but he couldn’t deny the warmth in his chest as his tongue gently parted her lips and she met him with equal fervor. Their bodies entwined, the light of Lathander bathing him in the warmth of a false sun, he felt real for the first time he could remember since his heart had beat its last. 

She was going to be the ruin of him, and he thought perhaps he would just let it happen. 

[chiliiscereal]

Here’s the link for the full version ^ ——

Sister dear (Steve x sister reader)

(This is preseason one to show you what the background is on the whole story)

(let me know if you think this should be published as a separate book!)

You and Steve had a rocky start to being siblings.

You were born four years apart.

He was born in a time when your parents actually loved each other. They had time for birthdays and family weekends together. They went out to the park on saturdays. They were a picture perfect family.

It just so happened that when you were born, your father stopped being quite so faithful to your mother. When you came into the world, your father was in Europe on a business trip. And he wasn't only up to business.

Little Steve had adored you at first. He always wanted to hold you or play with you.

But then their parents no longer had time for him.

It was always work... and taking care of you.

It slowly changed over the years to only work, as your mother could no longer trust your father. Steve was left to watch you for weeks on end. He was good at it at first. He used to watch you carefully. He used to make sure you were happy and well...

Until he could no longer see his friends.

He was ten. You were five.

He began to leave you at home. At first it was only for thirty minutes while he went to the park. Then it was an hour every day during his elementary school days while he went to the movies.

You were seven when you began cooking your own meals.

You TRIED talking to him. You really did.

You tried catching his sleeve whenever he breezed past. You tried showing him crafts you made. You tried playing music you thought he might like.

That ended with twelve year old Steve pushing you away.

It ended with your works of art thrown in the trash.

Your music cassettes were thrown onto the road.

Your mother made sure both of you knew to never walk into the middle of the road, so you could only cry as some unknowing stranger destroyed your wonderful music. The music you had saved up all your allowance for. The music that you had thought your older brother would like. The music that you thought might bring you two together.

When your mother and father returned, you tattled.

Steve was grounded for a whole week.

But he always needed to have the last say. So he sold your boom box and spent all the money on comics. He threw your sketchbook in the quarry water. He shoved you to the floor, saying that if you ever tattled again then you would join your drawing book in the cold water.

You stopped trying to give Steve your attention and love. You no longer wished he would spend more time at home. So you began exploring the town by yourself at the age of nine. You didn't really have friends to hang out with so you would browse through stores.

The arcade was your favorite place.

You loved showing up early on Saturday mornings, before Steve was even awake, and leaving behind a new high score on the dragons lair.

Why?

Because it always riled up a group of boys your age. They had no idea who kept beating them over and over. Every Sunday morning you watched them walk in... only to scream a few seconds later about how someone had beaten their score by ONE point. Again.

You loved having some sort of connection to them. Even if they didn't know it was you. Or even who you were at all. They were a weird little group, strictly sticking with only other A.V club kids. Besides, you hardly ever talked. What would be so special about you?

It also didn't help that your older brother had begun to build himself a reputation. When you were ten, he began to be known as king Steve. You knew he bullied one of the kids (wills) older brother while beginning to flirt with another's (mike's) older sister.

You knew this because your father began forcing Steve to drive you home from school. That was the rule he set when he gave Steve the car.

Every day you trekked to the high school, only to watch Steve hang around Nancy Wheeler and push Johnathan Byers. You would have intervened and told him that you really didn't want to wait twenty minutes (out of sight) for him to be done. But the last time he did that he made you ride the way home in the trunk of his car.

When you were eleven, you started hanging out at Melvald's convenience store in the town square. Your favorite time to go there was at 7:00, because Mrs. Byers would always work the morning shift.

Wills mother was really quite wonderful. Every time you walked in she greeted you with a smile and lowered her magazine.

——-

"Whatcha lookin for today, kiddo?" She smiled softly, leaning on the counter to watch you browse.

"Any new cassette tapes." You shrugged, fingering each music case that caught your eye. "Do you have any Clash? I... lost mine." You didn't lose it. Steve broke it when he heard you mutter about how much you hated Tommy H.

"Yeah, we got a new box of cassettes delivered this morning." She hopped up and waved for you to follow her to the back room. "I miiiight have snagged a Clash cassette for you when I saw it." She grinned as she held the door open for the young girl.

"You didn't need to buy anything for me!" You gasped. You knew that the Byers needed all the money they could get. "Can I pay you back?" You immediately began digging through your pockets for spare change.

She placed a guiding hand on your back as you both entered, pulling you away from your search. "Oh no it's fine! It's the least I can do for my most frequent visitor."

She plucked the music case off the shelf and handed it to you. "You go to Hawkins elementary, right? You should talk to my son. Will. He also loves the Clash."

You turned red and clutched the cassette. "I've...seen him around before. I don't know how to talk to him."

"Oh it's easy!" She grabbed the spare paper and crayons you always used when you visited. "You just need to find common ground. For example," she pulled up a stool beside her for you to sit at, "you both like to draw!"

You placed down the paper and got working on your art. "Will it make a difference if I draw cartoons and he draws realistic? What if the difference is too big for him to want to talk to me?"

"It'll give you more to talk about!"

——

So began your quest to pursue friendship.

You attempted to speak to Will and his friends in the hall.

They were talking too loud about their latest campaign to hear you.

You tried asking to sit by them at lunch.

They were too busy launching potato's at the ceiling to notice.

Right when you almost gave up... Will and you were paired together as partners for a history project.

——-

'Don't mess it up, don't mess it up', you told yourself over and over as you moved to sit by Will. 'Don't be weird. See if he'll talk first. Don't be clingy.'

Wills was equally quiet. He just read through the rubric of the project and stayed silent.

'What can we talk about... what should I say?'

A drawing poking out of wills bag caught your eye. It looked like a wizard casting some sort of spell.

"I like your drawing!" You blurted out, wishing you could just shut up.

Wills jumped, startled. "Yeah... umm.. it's from... uh... it's from our last campaign.." he began fiddling with his thumbs, unsure of what to say to a girl. "Our DnD campaign... I mean."

You nodded along. "I like to draw to! I've never... I've never played DnD before... so I like to draw people."

Will cracked a shy smile. "I'll show you my drawing if you show me one of yours."

You agreed hesitantly.

He took your cartoon and you took his master piece. You desperately wished you could draw like him. Your cartoons looked so simple, as Steve always said.

"You're a cartoonist!" Will smiled, holding the paper out in front of him. It was a caricature of Mrs. Byers. "You must be the girl my mom sees at her job!" His eyes were wide with recognition. "This is so good! I wish I could draw cartoons. But whenever I try... they look like potato's." He laughed.

You flushed a deep red. "I... I'm also the one that beats your scores every Saturday." You admit.

His jaw dropped. "No way. We've been trying to figure out who that was for months! We formed a whole list of people to interrogate!" He ran a hand through his hair.

You giggled. "I can prove it... if you want. Next Saturday I could show you and your friends? At the arcade?"

"Yeah! I'm totally down to hang out at the arcade!"

——

Will had brought you to the A.V club after to ask the rest of the party. You had protested at first. What if they didn't like you? What if they said no? You would look so stupid! You tried to use your brother driving you home as an excuse.

But if you brought Steve up... no. You couldn't start a potential friendship like that.

Will proposed the ideas to everyone excitedly.

It seemed that Lucas had a problem with it immediately.

——-

"Sorry Will, but we can't." Lucas shook his head. "We've got plans."

Your heart dropped.

"Wait," Dustin frowned and turned to his friend. "What plans? I wasn't aware of any plans."

Lucas crossed his arms. "Remember? Our campaign?"

"We don't have a-."

Lucas elbowed him harshly and looked at you. "Can you leave for a second? We need to talk. ALONE."

You nodded and stepped out of the room. "Yeah totally! Just let me know when-."

The door slammed in your face.

You know you shouldn't have but you pressed your ear to the door anyway.

"What's your damage?" Mike Wheeler hissed quietly.

"Don't you know who she is?" Lucas accused.

"No... should we?" Will whispered in confusion.

"That's Y/N Harrington!" Lucas spat out.

"Steve Harrington's little sister." Dustin stated, now understanding.

Mike groaned. "The douche bag my sisters hooked on?"

"Yes! What if she's exactly like him?"

"You mean a total mouth breather? A player? An absolute jackass?"

You sunk to the floor. Of course Steve ruined the only chance you might have of a friendship. How could she think that these kids would look past her family's reputation? No one ever did. Even her teachers expected her to be disruptive and rude.

"Guys." Will intervened. "I talked to her in history."

"What?!"

"Traitor!"

"What about the party?"

Will lowered his voice, causing you to lean a little closer to the door. "She doesn't act like him. She never called me any names. She never told me that I'm a freak. She tried to talk to me about art."

"Steve definitely doesn't appreciate art." Dustin mumbled.

Wills continued. "She's a cartoonist. And I think she might be like us. You know who kept beating our dragon lair record?"

"Who?"

"Please tell me it wasn't Troy."

"Y/N Harrington."

"WHAT?!"

"IT WAS HER?!"

"GIRLS PLAY VIDEO GAMES?!"

[chiliiscereal]

(This is preseason one to show you what the background is on the whole story)

(let me know if you think this should be published as a separate book!)

You and Steve had a rocky start to being siblings.

You were born four years apart.

He was born in a time when your parents actually loved each other. They had time for birthdays and family weekends together. They went out to the park on saturdays. They were a picture perfect family.

It just so happened that when you were born, your father stopped being quite so faithful to your mother. When you came into the world, your father was in Europe on a business trip. And he wasn't only up to business.

Little Steve had adored you at first. He always wanted to hold you or play with you.

But then their parents no longer had time for him.

It was always work... and taking care of you.

It slowly changed over the years to only work, as your mother could no longer trust your father. Steve was left to watch you for weeks on end. He was good at it at first. He used to watch you carefully. He used to make sure you were happy and well...

Until he could no longer see his friends.

He was ten. You were five.

He began to leave you at home. At first it was only for thirty minutes while he went to the park. Then it was an hour every day during his elementary school days while he went to the movies.

You were seven when you began cooking your own meals.

You TRIED talking to him. You really did.

You tried catching his sleeve whenever he breezed past. You tried showing him crafts you made. You tried playing music you thought he might like.

That ended with twelve year old Steve pushing you away.

It ended with your works of art thrown in the trash.

Your music cassettes were thrown onto the road.

Your mother made sure both of you knew to never walk into the middle of the road, so you could only cry as some unknowing stranger destroyed your wonderful music. The music you had saved up all your allowance for. The music that you had thought your older brother would like. The music that you thought might bring you two together.

When your mother and father returned, you tattled.

Steve was grounded for a whole week.

But he always needed to have the last say. So he sold your boom box and spent all the money on comics. He threw your sketchbook in the quarry water. He shoved you to the floor, saying that if you ever tattled again then you would join your drawing book in the cold water.

You stopped trying to give Steve your attention and love. You no longer wished he would spend more time at home. So you began exploring the town by yourself at the age of nine. You didn't really have friends to hang out with so you would browse through stores.

The arcade was your favorite place.

You loved showing up early on Saturday mornings, before Steve was even awake, and leaving behind a new high score on the dragons lair.

Why?

Because it always riled up a group of boys your age. They had no idea who kept beating them over and over. Every Sunday morning you watched them walk in... only to scream a few seconds later about how someone had beaten their score by ONE point. Again.

You loved having some sort of connection to them. Even if they didn't know it was you. Or even who you were at all. They were a weird little group, strictly sticking with only other A.V club kids. Besides, you hardly ever talked. What would be so special about you?

It also didn't help that your older brother had begun to build himself a reputation. When you were ten, he began to be known as king Steve. You knew he bullied one of the kids (wills) older brother while beginning to flirt with another's (mike's) older sister.

You knew this because your father began forcing Steve to drive you home from school. That was the rule he set when he gave Steve the car.

Every day you trekked to the high school, only to watch Steve hang around Nancy Wheeler and push Johnathan Byers. You would have intervened and told him that you really didn't want to wait twenty minutes (out of sight) for him to be done. But the last time he did that he made you ride the way home in the trunk of his car.

When you were eleven, you started hanging out at Melvald's convenience store in the town square. Your favorite time to go there was at 7:00, because Mrs. Byers would always work the morning shift.

Wills mother was really quite wonderful. Every time you walked in she greeted you with a smile and lowered her magazine.

——-

"Whatcha lookin for today, kiddo?" She smiled softly, leaning on the counter to watch you browse.

"Any new cassette tapes." You shrugged, fingering each music case that caught your eye. "Do you have any Clash? I... lost mine." You didn't lose it. Steve broke it when he heard you mutter about how much you hated Tommy H.

"Yeah, we got a new box of cassettes delivered this morning." She hopped up and waved for you to follow her to the back room. "I miiiight have snagged a Clash cassette for you when I saw it." She grinned as she held the door open for the young girl.

"You didn't need to buy anything for me!" You gasped. You knew that the Byers needed all the money they could get. "Can I pay you back?" You immediately began digging through your pockets for spare change.

She placed a guiding hand on your back as you both entered, pulling you away from your search. "Oh no it's fine! It's the least I can do for my most frequent visitor."

She plucked the music case off the shelf and handed it to you. "You go to Hawkins elementary, right? You should talk to my son. Will. He also loves the Clash."

You turned red and clutched the cassette. "I've...seen him around before. I don't know how to talk to him."

"Oh it's easy!" She grabbed the spare paper and crayons you always used when you visited. "You just need to find common ground. For example," she pulled up a stool beside her for you to sit at, "you both like to draw!"

You placed down the paper and got working on your art. "Will it make a difference if I draw cartoons and he draws realistic? What if the difference is too big for him to want to talk to me?"

"It'll give you more to talk about!"

——

So began your quest to pursue friendship.

You attempted to speak to Will and his friends in the hall.

They were talking too loud about their latest campaign to hear you.

You tried asking to sit by them at lunch.

They were too busy launching potato's at the ceiling to notice.

Right when you almost gave up... Will and you were paired together as partners for a history project.

——-

'Don't mess it up, don't mess it up', you told yourself over and over as you moved to sit by Will. 'Don't be weird. See if he'll talk first. Don't be clingy.'

Wills was equally quiet. He just read through the rubric of the project and stayed silent.

'What can we talk about... what should I say?'

A drawing poking out of wills bag caught your eye. It looked like a wizard casting some sort of spell.

"I like your drawing!" You blurted out, wishing you could just shut up.

Wills jumped, startled. "Yeah... umm.. it's from... uh... it's from our last campaign.." he began fiddling with his thumbs, unsure of what to say to a girl. "Our DnD campaign... I mean."

You nodded along. "I like to draw to! I've never... I've never played DnD before... so I like to draw people."

Will cracked a shy smile. "I'll show you my drawing if you show me one of yours."

You agreed hesitantly.

He took your cartoon and you took his master piece. You desperately wished you could draw like him. Your cartoons looked so simple, as Steve always said.

"You're a cartoonist!" Will smiled, holding the paper out in front of him. It was a caricature of Mrs. Byers. "You must be the girl my mom sees at her job!" His eyes were wide with recognition. "This is so good! I wish I could draw cartoons. But whenever I try... they look like potato's." He laughed.

You flushed a deep red. "I... I'm also the one that beats your scores every Saturday." You admit.

His jaw dropped. "No way. We've been trying to figure out who that was for months! We formed a whole list of people to interrogate!" He ran a hand through his hair.

You giggled. "I can prove it... if you want. Next Saturday I could show you and your friends? At the arcade?"

"Yeah! I'm totally down to hang out at the arcade!"

——

Will had brought you to the A.V club after to ask the rest of the party. You had protested at first. What if they didn't like you? What if they said no? You would look so stupid! You tried to use your brother driving you home as an excuse.

But if you brought Steve up... no. You couldn't start a potential friendship like that.

Will proposed the ideas to everyone excitedly.

It seemed that Lucas had a problem with it immediately.

——-

"Sorry Will, but we can't." Lucas shook his head. "We've got plans."

Your heart dropped.

"Wait," Dustin frowned and turned to his friend. "What plans? I wasn't aware of any plans."

Lucas crossed his arms. "Remember? Our campaign?"

"We don't have a-."

Lucas elbowed him harshly and looked at you. "Can you leave for a second? We need to talk. ALONE."

You nodded and stepped out of the room. "Yeah totally! Just let me know when-."

The door slammed in your face.

You know you shouldn't have but you pressed your ear to the door anyway.

"What's your damage?" Mike Wheeler hissed quietly.

"Don't you know who she is?" Lucas accused.

"No... should we?" Will whispered in confusion.

"That's Y/N Harrington!" Lucas spat out.

"Steve Harrington's little sister." Dustin stated, now understanding.

Mike groaned. "The douche bag my sisters hooked on?"

"Yes! What if she's exactly like him?"

"You mean a total mouth breather? A player? An absolute jackass?"

You sunk to the floor. Of course Steve ruined the only chance you might have of a friendship. How could she think that these kids would look past her family's reputation? No one ever did. Even her teachers expected her to be disruptive and rude.

"Guys." Will intervened. "I talked to her in history."

"What?!"

"Traitor!"

"What about the party?"

Will lowered his voice, causing you to lean a little closer to the door. "She doesn't act like him. She never called me any names. She never told me that I'm a freak. She tried to talk to me about art."

"Steve definitely doesn't appreciate art." Dustin mumbled.

Wills continued. "She's a cartoonist. And I think she might be like us. You know who kept beating our dragon lair record?"

"Who?"

"Please tell me it wasn't Troy."

"Y/N Harrington."

"WHAT?!"

"IT WAS HER?!"

"GIRLS PLAY VIDEO GAMES?!"