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themadlu · 1 month

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A Simple Thing – Pt. 1

Astarion x Zélie

It's done. Cazador is well and truly gone, Astarion is finally a free elf and his first desire is to give all that's left of his body and soul to the one who saved him from his master and from himself.

Not out of need, but of want. He wants his Zélie so bloody (pun intended) much that he takes her to his grave, and on top of it too.

So when she leaves him behind, when she realises Cazador is only one of the endless troubles plaguing him and her human life is too short to fix even a fraction of those, he breaks. Like the pathetic child he's always been.

TW: Nothing much, mentions of Astarion's past, self-worth issues, very unreliable narrator (he's still working on himself, it'll take time). Some light smut, emotional hurt/comfort.

WC: ~2,5K

Not really proofread, and written with little time, so sorry if it sucks.

Part 2 should come out sometime next week (but it's Easter, so don't quote me on that).

Taglist: @spacebarbarianweird (thank you for the idea as always!), @amywritesthings

The room is stifling, heavy, with red brocades and somewhat pretentious ornaments covering wooden walls and glass windows with a funereal flair. Dim light from the moon and the outside streets filters through thick curtains in skeletal rays, outreached towards ghostly pale fingers hanging off the side of a bed. Astarion’s dark eyes stare, unblinking, chest still in the stale air and skin so pallid he looks more dead than usual. A pretty corpse sprawled on an unmade bed, ready for burying or taking.

He hates this; despises how the first civil accommodation they could find in weeks was so reminiscent of his own coffin, of the last two-hundred years of torment. Phantom pain grips him as unwelcome memories of bloody fingernails and mossy grave dirt invade his mind. He opens and clenches his fist to dispel the rising panic, the only sign of life coming from his prone form, and holds what’s been the one meagre comfort during the last centuries to his chest. The elf curls into a ball around what is left of his burial shroud, a once refined cotton cloth now reduced to tattered rags.

Dirty and disgusting, but his.

Where the hells is she?!

Cazador was waiting for his new spawn in the cemetery that night, but Astarion relishes in knowing that the vampire lord will not claim him again anytime soon. Never again, actually, as unbelievable as that was. His little hero made sure of that, a couple days before; thorough and proper as always, even in front of a hell-sent ritual, merciless as he’d never seen her before. Only for him. She cut with his dagger through the flesh and bones of her (his, theirs) enemies using techniques he taught her, marching through the horde to free him from his prison. She momentarily let her “oh-so-holy” ideals loosen enough to keep him safe and the thought stirs something wild and warm in the pit of his stomach and his chest.

Hunger for blood is familiar enough, but hunger for another, that restless longing is still foreign to the elf. Being with others meant manipulation, sweat, sex, pain, a performed debauchery, but not with Zélie.

(Even though he’s been a whore longer than he’s been anything else.)

Living with her is…simple. Scarily so. Natural, even when his (perfectly sensible) selfishness clashes with her (absolutely infuriating) courageous generosity. They disagreed and fought so intensely at first, in the wilds (well, he fought her while she stayed next to him in silence, cutting him a look that could make an Aasimar fall.)

Astarion picks up a discarded book from the bed, trying to resume his reading. It’s a childish collection of Faerunian fables, yet he finds himself drawn to it whenever his fears resurface.

If he were capable of honesty, he would admit that he reaches for that dusty volume whenever Zélie is not with him, because she gifted it to him at the grove as she turned down the offer of an unforgettable fuck back at that pitiful excuse for a party. The elf can still remember the onslaught of contrasting emotions all at once: relief, annoyance (because, really, when otherwise would someone looking like her ever manage to bed someone like him?), thankfulness and fear.

If sex was not on the table, what else could he give her?

What would it take for her not to discard him when his limited usefulness runs out?

And what now, that his tormentor is nothing but a pitiful heap of ashes and the pale elf is doomed to remain a useless spawn forever more?

That same fear slithers through Astarion again, wounding around his chest so tightly he almost snaps the book in two. Justice was served. The evil vampire lord was killed and the pathetic spawns were freed. He is free, and yet he is confined in a stuffy room that makes his skin crawl with past nightmares. Astarion groans and tries to concentrate on the words on the page again, even though he’s already finished the book twice, with little success. Barely two nights have passed since he took Zélie to the cemetery and claimed his rebirth by laying with her on top of his grave. Warmth fills him at the image of his stern, solemn hero paying respects to the patch of dirt he crawled out and to the long-forgotten elf who did not survive the centuries of horror. That night, Zélie knelt and bowed so deeply her forehead touched the cold ground, murmuring something he couldn’t understand. His ruined soul trembled so strongly at that act of reverence he cupped her cheeks to lift her face away from his burial, noses bumping together. Grave dirt stuck to her forehead and he gently wiped it off with his thumb while tutting in mocking disapproval. “Honestly, darling, no need for the theatrics,” his usual smirk faltered a little as a sudden wave of affection surged through him at her misplaced respect. She, holier than any of them, was whispering prayers to some useless deity on his behalf. He felt anger and shame lodge in his throat.

You’re the only creature deserving of worship, my love.

“Not to seem ungrateful, but prayers never did me any good. Do not waste precious time,” her chapped lips were raging fire against as took them between his own. “Not when death could find us tomorrow.” His passionate kiss morphed into a loving peck when Zélie raised a finger between their faces, solemn as ever. “I am praying for the Astarion Ancunin,” she brushed her fingers on the tombstone and the undead shivered as if he could feel her touch in his very bones, “who was left behind. May he find peace in seeing his resilience finally rewarded.”

She then trained her gaze on him in that way that made him squirm. He used to hate her for it, back when he lived in terror of what she’d do to him after all his masochistic pushing and prodding; now, he craves it evermore. Her palm splayed on his chest and he cursed whatever entity kept her away from him for so long. “And I pray to my god for the strength to guide this Astarion,” she tapped her index finger against his dead heart, “to see his worth in this world. To me and to others.” Astarion barely noticed his mouth parting in stupor at his lover’s words.

Infuriating, precious woman.

Astarion fully abandons his book, letting it fall on the bed, as the weight of her sentiment nestles inside him with disturbing ease. As if he were made for it. Her stalwart presence has the downright annoying capability of robbing him of his masks and his snark and his spite—the foundation of his entire being. He is left entirely exposed to her assessing eyes, yet he has never felt safer, more alive. He never wants to be out of her sight again, he decides. Never wants her to lose herself as he once did. Zelie’s spirit is near unbreakable and stupidly just (She would never agree with him on this, but he witnessed it first hand, after weeks of failed temptations and rancorous conversations), and Astarion will happily murder and steal and torture their path through the world if it means she can hold onto her ideals a little longer. He already did, when she was but a weird stranger to charm, as he finished off the enemies she so generously spared.

Astarion lets out a strained chuckle, because he cannot believe he fell so irreparably for such an idiotic creature, let alone an honourable one. And now—now that she has saved him in any way a person can be saved, she leaves him in a stale tavern room. The elf covers his eyes with his pale hands in frustration. The voices in his head—Cazador’s taunting timber—tease him that his Zélie has finally come to her senses and seen him for the wretch he is. He will never be more than a lowly spawn, and leaving him in camp is her polite and proper way to ensure he doesn’t hinder their world-saving mission with his selfish ideas and his weaknesses.

The world can rot.

Astarion has already decided. the moment things go awry he’s dragging Zélie away from Toril itself if he must. She can glare and hate him all she wants, but he will not let the only one who ever mattered to him to protect a bunch of ungrateful, unknown bastards (The same bastards who took any part of him for themselves.) Gods, he sounds—is—so disgustingly desperate.

He claws at his biceps with his hands, and tryings to distract himself from his worries again. It’s almost evening and Zélie hasn’t returned from the city. So haven’t Gale, Lae’zel and Jaheira, but Astarion is not a selfless being, and he only wants his precious hero to come back to him. He focuses on the night at the cemetery, on how he all but pounced on the woman who just destroyed his last defences with few thoughtful, honest words. He crawled on top of her like the monstrous thing he was, and she held his face so gently, caressed his ears and hair so devotedly he couldn’t contain a laughing sob.

He gets hard at the memory of her letting him take the lead—trusting him, a vampire enamoured with her blood, so completely that he flipped them over and almost begged her to take him in any way she wanted. In her mouth with his back against his tombstone, clutching the stone as he moaned in the moonlight, in her core on top of his grave, where his coffin was laid, trying not to shout his name too loudly. Astarion, the one in the Elfsong, shuts his eyes as he feels himself and discovers a growing wet patch seeping through his trousers.

He groans, tender and ready.

But Zélie is not with him this time, so the familiar disgust at his defiled body and soul grips him again and makes him gag with the certainty that night was a one off, a way to celebrate a successful rescue and nothing more. It’s not like they can reach those peaks of pleasure at will anyway—Astarion is still too broken for that, too pathetic to offer his only saviour the one reward he can give her. He can hear Cazador’s laugher echo in his mind.

No! She would never—she loves me! She doesn’t lie, it was real, what we have is real!

The laughter doesn’t stop, forcing Astarion to curl on his side and press his hands against his ears. Zélie loves him—he knows this, because she told him twice, even though she’d rather throw herself off a cliff than deliver declarations of affection so openly.

“Shut up, shut up, just shut up!”

“Astarion? Are you talking to that awful book again?” His little human’s voice cuts through the nightmarish laughter and the pale elf clings to it.

He schools his relieved expression into a more neutral mask and sprints off the bed towards Zélie, his Zélie, safe and whole and… stepping backwards to put some distance between them. Astarion cannot stop his dark eyes from going impossibly wide at her behaviour. He panics for a moment, fearing Orin used her skills to take his leader from camp, but the vampire would not be fooled by a cheap imitation—he would recognise his love anywhere, her minute idiosyncrasies and the smell of her and her blood engraved into his memory evermore. This is definitely Zélie, keeping her distance and studying him as if he were a ghoul (He is.)

Then, her gaze shifts downwards and her brows arch.

Shit.

The cooling wet patch on his crotch stares back at him in mocking. “Ah, darling, I…”

Fuck.

Astarion has been thoroughly trained on keeping up a flawless, polite, desirable front over the centuries, but he cannot think of how to best express his utter mortification at this moment. Pathetic, a consummate lover—a prostitute—like him wetting himself at the mere thought of–

“Astarion, are you—well, are you—well, uh, are you...well?” It would have been extremely satisfying to witness the rare sight of a discombobulated Zélie—something he seemed to be the cause of most times, a point of pride for him—if only he did not find himself in the same predicament.

Say something, you wretched imbecile!

“I…I was…thinking of my brave, perfect hero,” he inched closer to her, seductive act shackling his creeping terror in the dark corner of his mind he hasn’t escaped to since the woman in front of him accepted him into her life. “And I just could not stop myself from remembering your delicious cries from the other night…and how you took me so well—”

He should know by now that his Zélie can see him better than he’ll ever see himself. “That’s very, uhm, flattering, Astarion, but it does not answer my question. Are you well?” She is focusing on his face, keeping her gaze averted from his crotch with that impossible, utterly incomprehensible respect (They have already slept together and he all but threw himself at her in earnest.) and how could she just not understand?!

“Am I well? Oh, why darling, I’m simply marvellous! I’ve had the pleasure of lounging in this fine establishment the whole day, laying on a heavenly soft bed and staring at this tasteful walls,” Astarion’s frustration and insecurities bubble up his throat and he cannot stop himself. He is lashing at the one person he reveres, again. Proving he does not deserve her (He never will, but he is a selfish monster of the night after all.). “And all this while you were out on your merry way, gods know where, with a senile druid, a joke of a wizard and a murder-happy Githianky!”

“You are ‘murder-happy’ too, Astarion. And more senile than Jaheira, if we’re talking about years and not physical ageing—”

But they’re not me!

“That’s not the point! You swore you’d be guiding me or what meaningless, shallow promises you made, then I let you fuck me on my grave, then—”

Then you left me behind. As I knew it would happen.

“Are you quite done, my love?” Astarion stills, then sniffles in indignation. His—Zélie has only called him “love” twice so far and both times she did so to call him back from whatever spiralling thoughts sent him cowering in the furthest corners of his mind. But she clearly has no interest in having him at her side now, so hearing that so-rarely-used term of endearment makes a pained rattle come from his still chest. She is going to end whatever fever dream was between them. The certainty is so encompassing his hands shake from it, and he promptly hides them behind his back.

#astarion x oc #astarion #astarion bg3 #bg3 #oc: zélie #astarion x zélie #astarion fanfiction #astarion angst #astarion ancunin #this one was written with very scarce inspiration

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themadlu · 3 months

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Do Not Open That Door

Astarion is sure his leader's unflinching morals will lead him to another unwanted grave. He is also sure she is putting on an act because people like her do not exist, clearly. He decides to test his assumptions.

TW: None I think

WC: ~3000 words

Tagging: @spacebarbarianweird for the encouragement!

Astarion is livid. Well, maybe livid was an overstatement—he is annoyed. Annoyed and confused. Such feelings are still a vast improvement over the fear and shame he's been accustomed to, but they make him restless nonetheless.

Especially because their cause is walking steadily next to him without a care in the world for his inner turmoil.

Zélie, their oh so great leader, has managed to spoil what could have been a perfectly enjoyable afternoon on multiple fronts. First, she decides to talk to the goblins ambushing them instead of treating them like the savages they are.

(“We don’t know how many of them are in this village Astarion. What if there’s a little army and we’re outnumbered?”)

After confirmation that there were, in fact, quite a few goblins (and a couple orcs to boot), she managed to get free passage through the village by leveraging their wriggly alien parasite. He isn’t happy about it. Not at all.

He has to begrudgingly admit hers was a wise call after witnessing just how large and hungry those orcs were. And of course they even agree to help a fellow true soul in need. Just what he needs to undermine what little influence he has on her.

(Her blood is in his body after all.)

In the last tendays she had made it her mission to remind him how despicable murder is, under most circumstances, aside from self-defence. This beautifully idiotic mindset of hers almost got her killed twice in front of his very eyes.

(She doesn’t know he has taken to finish off the enemies she leaves unconscious while she isn’t watching.)

When he had pointed out the suicidal flaw in her morals, she had given him her signature scolding look, crossed her arms, and started breathing in that funny way of hers.

In, hold, out.

(She says she is not trained as a monk, but he’ll be even more damned than he already is if that is true. The way she fights and holds herself—and those sickening ideals she has—tell a different story.)

“Honestly, darling,” he hisses at her as they walk through the village, squinty eyes trained on their every move. “I thought we agreed that benevolence and honour,” he spits the words out like a curse, “get you nowhere but to an early grave.”

“Astarion,” she always says his name when she speaks to him—even in annoyance— and he hates his constant surprise at hearing it. His elven name had been replaced with other titles over time, more befitting of his status—boy, spawn, whore, slut, beautiful, toy, love…

Truly, it’s a small miracle he managed to hold on to his name. It’s one of the few things left that are truly his, yet hearing it spoken from that solemn woman's lips makes something in his chest preen.

“I thought we agreed to disagree on that front. No, don’t give me that look. Killing someone is never justifiable. No matter what we tell ourselves, we are taking away something that wasn’t ours to begin with. Something irreplaceable. Even—” she held up her hand as he started to complain, “in self-defence, even then, I will make sure to exhaust all alternatives, and even then, it will be a failure on my part.”

You moron.

“Too bad the rest of the world doesn’t think like you, darling,” he snapped. Hers was an act. There was no way in the hells anyone could survive to their…whatever age she was, he was never good with human lifespans, with that mindset. It was ridiculous, because if she actually was like that—if two–hundred years of shit didn’t teach him better—she should either be dead in a ditch or have ascended to godhood on her saintly behaviour alone. The only explanation he has for her standing close to him is that the mask she wears is as fake as his own. That, or she is a child of Ilmater. He bets on the former, given her complete ignorance of any deity on Toril.

“But you lied,” he counters, snapping his fingers. “You said we are here on Absolute business. Doesn’t that go against your precious code of honour?” he singsongs in her ear.

“I didn’t lie. My tadpole reacted to theirs, and they drew their own conclusions. Technically, we are going to their camp on Absolute business too, if you count removing these,” she tapped her index to her temple.

He smirks, victorious. “Circumstantial. One day, the tadpole won’t do the work for us and you’ll break your own code or doom us to death. For one, I’d rather not repeat the experience,” he says in a quiet voice, pointing at his chest.

Their companions are still unaware of his condition—another occasion his holy leader conveniently withheld information.

(“It’s your secret, it’s your decision.” Hypocrite.)

“Astarion, I know you take me for a fool, and I would normally pay more respect to a man—elf—my senior by centuries, but really. I can be practical and have a moral compass, and that means that when the choice is between lying and killing, I will pick lying any day, even if I don’t like it.”

Enough.

Her words incense him, annoyance suddenly turns into rage and something else—what’s that, envy?—he pivots on his left heel and closes the distance between them so fast she has no time to react. Zélie is left pinned to the wall, their bodies a breath away from touching, and he internally celebrates the surprised look on her face.

He stares at her down his nose, ducking his head and planting a slender hand on the wall beside her head.

Astarion has to make her stop before he tears her self-righteousness out of her throat. Before she realises how useless it all is—how useless and tainted he is—and either stakes him or banishes him. Because even her sickly, do-gooding self, fake or real it be, must have limits. If he pushes hard enough, they’ll crumble, and then he’ll be proven right. She is not what she says she is because creatures like that aren’t real.

“Let’s make one thing clear, darling,” he growls, nostrils flaring, “you may be our great leader, but you should get off your high horse before someone shoots you off it. I don’t know what perfect little corner of the universe you grew up in, but you know nothing of this world and its dangers.”

He flashes his fangs at her to drive his point across. The others are out of sight, looking for supplies in some ruin or cellar. Gods, he misses the city.

Zélie is staring back at him, bristling, but lets him continue. She never interrupts any of them, not even him.

“I thought humans were all about developing and living fast, but you, my dear, are as ignorant as a babe. I am trying to make sure we keep our collective hides safe and do not get sidetracked by other pitiful creatures on our path.”

He realises just how close he is to her when she straightens up again and their noses almost touch.

Pale eyes go darker with a flash of anger.

There. Come at me. Prove me right.

“Spoken like a true man of the law, lord magistrate.”

Why the hells is her tone so collected when she has a literal vampire at her throat?!

“You seem forgetful, so I’ll remind you that it was my ignorance that stopped Shadowheart from connecting her mace with your head. And it was my stupidity that convinced her you could join us, and that we should give you a chance at trust.”

She makes no move to get closer, but he recoils as if scorched by fire.

“And it is the same trust I placed in you yesterday when I let you bite me, even though it’s not how I envisioned a night of rest to go. I trusted you to stop, I trusted you to keep your word and not leave me a corpse.”

There it is. Reminding him of what he owes her. Of his debts. They say the quiet ones are the most depraved, and she is the strong and silent type. But he is nothing if not an expert in the art of subservience at this point, and if it gets her to keep giving him blood and protection—

“I trust you.”

Then you’re doomed.

She says it as if it were a challenge. Her gaze is unwavering and he is left speechless yet again. Cazador would admire this quality of hers.

“I hope you can trust me in return.”

Impossible woman.

“Well, I suppose you’re not wholly incompetent,” he manages to croak out. His nonchalant mask is harder to slip on this time.

She huffs a breath of a laugh, a tiny thing, but it’s enough to transform her whole face. The weight she carries on her deceivingly flimsy shoulders seems to lift, leaving behind a young woman smiling softly at a…well, a monster. Talk about inexperience.

Happiness suits you, little leader.

The fact it’s his prattling that caused this marvel of a transformation stokes something in chest and in the pit of his stomach that he promptly pushes down.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Zélie says. She moves away and he is left staring at the crusty wall. Her body never touched his own during their exchange.

Wait. That’s wrong. He was meant to make her see the reason in his ways, not the other way around. So why is he at her heels like a lost puppy the minute she walks away?

(“You are nothing by yourself boy. You owe everything to me.”)

He is weak. So weak he has leashed himself to a human who can barely read common, fuck's sake.

His temper rises again once he catches up with Zélie. He doesn’t need her condescension, nor her chiding (she doesn’t even know his full story yet, nor she ever will unless absolutely necessary, so pity isn’t there yet). He’ll show the wretched woman how wrong she is.

Karlach and Lae’zel jog behind them as they reach a barn with a door locked shut. Zélie thinks nothing of it at first, but Astarion can smell what’s inside.

(His senses born anew from her blood.)

He smells the ogre and bugbear and their horrid affair before the rest of his companions hear the grunts and noises.

“Oh God, someone’s fighting!” exclaims Zélie.

Fighting, you say?

An idea strikes him.

See what your misplaced goodness gets you when you try to help an ogre.

“I don’t know soldier, they don’t sound like fight noises to me,” says Karlach leaning towards the barn, but even she seems unsure. Astarion’s talents may be limited to a specific area, but in this case it works in his favour. He is very familiar with what those sounds mean. The half-ogres that fucked him into the bed so hard he bled were not so different.

(He still remembers how much it hurt, how he was left in a puddle of mixed releases, sweat, and what little blood he had).

“Well, even if they are fighting, it is clearly not our problem. I say we leave them to it and focus on what’s really important,” he says, using his annoyance as a hook. Zélie may be the most restrained person he’s come across, but he knows how to read people, and he knows she will do the opposite of whatever he says when it concerns morals.

She falls for it. His smile is harder to suppress.

“Astarion! We’ve just talked about this!”

Her voice raises a bit, but it’s almost eclipsed by another loud grunt from inside the barn.

“So long as my blade can be sharpened on my enemies’ bones, I am ready.” Lae’zel is almost as ignorant as Zélie when it comes to their world, which is usually a hindrance, but now it’s the push their little leader needs to run to the rescue.

Zélie tries to open the barn door (after cutting another withering look at the vampire lazily strolling at her back), finding it jammed.

The crescendo of grunts and bangs coming from inside is extremely loud now.

Gods, they must be disgusting.

“Hello?! Help is on the way, hang on!” the little human shouts as she frantically tries to get the door unstuck.

“Oh hells, let me do it, darling, before we turn into tentacled freaks,” Astarion says in mock-annoyance. She eyes him suspiciously and he shoots her a winning smile. His nimble hands make quick work of the lock, and he pushes the door open.

He needs just a peek to know his assumption about what was happening in the barn is correct, and turns to face his now horror-stricken companion.

“Gods, they are disgusting,” he comments with his lips crooked in a satisfied smile.

Zélie scrambles to compose herself and turns her back from the scene (the prudish) as she fails to find words to explain herself. “I—I am, I apologise, we thought—”

Oh, she’s in a state. Her cheeks flush redder than rubies (he can practically hear her delicious blood pooling there), whilst the rest of her is paler than after Astarion’s feeding. She opens and shuts her eyes as if trying to physically erase what she just witnessed.

The bugbear slides his now soft cock out of the ogre, and looks at them in rage.

“W–what the hells are you doing?!”

Oh, Astarion is thrilled. He doesn’t remember when last had such fun. He hears Lae’zel’s tsk’ and Karlach’s gags behind him, and he closely watches Zélie fumbling as he didn’t think was possible.

“Apologies! I, you—you were making a lot of noise and I, we, thought you needed help,” she holds her hands in front of her in a peace offering. “I apologise for the intrusion! We’ll leave now—”

“Ruined! SMASH. I’ll smash you!”

Oh. Astarion didn’t expect that. He just wanted to show Zélie how ungrateful the world is to idiots like her, not have her turn into orc food.

Before he can think, he is tackling the woman to the ground, the orc’s club crashing a few spaces to his left. Karlach and Lae’zel’s throw themselves at the aggressor, and the fight starts in earnest. Astarion is more a stalker than a fighter, but he had his first fill of human blood only hours before, and his senses have never been that sharp, so he doesn’t miss the bugbear rushing towards their prone form.

Daggers at hand, he braces to parry the onslaught (this may hurt) when his worldview shifts, his back in on the ground, and chilly afternoon air replaces the heat of his leader on his chest.

What just happened?

He turns his head to see the bugbear crashing to the ground, Zélie crouched on one leg and tripping him with her other. “Go help the others! I’ve got this!” she shouts, as she wraps her limbs around the assailant in a tight bind. “Wait! It was an honest mistake—”

He doesn’t want to hear her voice now. Doesn’t want to think how the little moron literally threw him away from danger. Even worse, he will refute the idea he protected her from an angry orc till his last breath. He only got his body back recently. That’s it. He still is unsure of how to use it.

And she's dinner.

He doesn’t want to dwell on what happened, so he nods and throws himself at the female orc while she is distracted by his companions.

The fight doesn’t last too long after that, and something takes a hold of his insides when he looks at Zélie. She is silent, staring at the large corpse on the ground, bugbear knocked out at her feet.

“Darling?” He moves towards her and the sadness in her eyes almost makes him apologise. Gods, what has he done? He didn’t think this was going to happen. And why does he care?! This was his intent, this and seeing the real her behind the strong, polite facade.

“I just wanted to help.”

“I know, darling. I—”

See now, how impossible it is to keep your ideals in this world?

“You knew,” she says, and while he words his excuses (the only real one being he didn’t think they were going to be attacked) her shoulders drop and a defeated huff leaves her mouth. A far cry from her happy smile earlier.

Astarion can’t wrap his head around how he caused both reactions in such a short span of time. But this look on her, this, he knows. He has seen far worse in the eyes and screams of those fools he lured back to his master, once they had his way with him and realised a bit too late they were as trapped as he was.

He expects her to shout, to berate him, kick him, punch him, stab him, banish him—but none of that comes. Zélie studies him intently, and something in her demeanour lights up, an internal judgement made.

“I still trust you.”

No. No no no, he’s not going to let her fool him into believing this—no!

Her face is suddenly level with Astarion’s knees, the now-awake bugbear readying a strike.

Astarion doesn’t need to think—he falls forward and sinks his dagger into the wretch’s neck. Blood spurts out, but after tasting Zélie’s Astarion has no interest in it; mud compared to a clear sky.

“Soldier!” shouts Karlach, ever the helpful friend. Zélie pants as the dead attacker slides off of her, eye to eye with Astarion again. He can feel her light breath on his face. Karlach pulls her up; he is cleaning his dagger on the bugbear’s clothes when an outstretched hand enters his vision. Hers.

“Come on,” she says, tired but steady again. “Let’s get back to camp.”

Astarion flinches from the hand as if it were a trap (it is always a trap), but Zélie is new territory for him, that much he begrudgingly accepts. She is apparently above the rules of their miserable world because she chooses to trust him, a vampire, a lying one, again.

He takes her hand, bracing for what may come his way, but she just helps him up.

“Thank you, by the way. For saving my life before.”

It’s a trick. It’s a trick. Don’t fall for—

She wraps her hand around his so delicately he thinks he may break, and shakes it. His thoughts and words are silenced yet again.

“Thank you.”

Fuck.

#bg3 #astarion x oc #astarion x tav #oc: zélie #tav oc #astarion #astarion fanfiction #bg3 astarion #bg3 fanfiction #human tav #I still feel bad for the orc and bugbear

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themadlu · 13 days

Note

I absolutely love Zelie!

Could you write something set right after the game ends? She is tired as hell and overstressed and Astarion tries to make her feel better?

Thanks for the ask @spacebarbarianweird! I'm so happy you like her, as I love Tiriel! Wonder if they'd get along, uh.

Premise, I have never done asks (unless it's for a writing exercise) nor I am good (capable?) of writing fluff. So beware, there's as much fluff I can muster here, with a smidge of angst.

TW: none.

Tags: end-of-game spoilers (I haven't finished it yet, so if something is incorrect sorry!), fluff (kinda?), these two love in quality time and acts of service.

Hope you like it!

The charred edges of a frayed shirt stare at Astarion from the floor. He glares at them, at what they represent, in contempt: his return to the shadows. All that unprecedented (and mostly unwilling) heroism he displayed in fighting the Netherbrain served him nothing. Nothing. Not even saving Baldur’s Gate makes him worthy of a life in the sun, it seems, because, as soon as that jiggly monstrosity fell to its death, Astarion began to burn and the hunger tore at his insides.

On the run, again, nothing more than a ravenous monster lurking in the shadows.

(Somewhere, his conscience reminds him that real monsters don’t have impossible little heroes shielding them from the harming light with their own broken bodies.)

The elf laughs bitterly at that, hissing when his grimace irritates the still-healing skin around his mouth.

And yet…

Steps resonate further down the hallway with a familiarity that makes his ears twitch in recognition and his body tense in eagerness.

…she’s here.

Zélie opens the door of their shared bedroom (Only theirs, finally.), closing it promptly behind her to block the stray sun rays from the corridor’s windows. A funereal darkness, one that Astarion is all too well-acquainted with, shrouds the room in a still embrace.

Astarion is almost glad that his Zélie is human when surrounded by shadows. Back then, before the blooming trust, the tense friendship, the impossible devotion, he despised the maddening woman (He was terrified of her, so inconceivably real.) The darkness was the only time he had the advantage when her pale eyes would squint in temporary blindness and not witness the violence her stern kindness did to him. How it undid the tenets of the world, one by one.

You ruined me, darling. Look at me, a fool in a doomed love. What a ridiculous joke of a vampire you made me!

He should be prowling for blood and cursing the sun, yet here he is, smiling, trying his damn hardest not to rush into his woman’s embrace. You will return to me begging when she’s gone, what’s left of his spite whispers. He ignores it, because that part of him has never known what it means to be cherished simply for existing (It knows all about being wanted, although comparing that with whatever stolen miracle he and Zélie have makes Astarion gag.)

“Finally, darling! Here I thought I’d seen the last of you, lost among all that dreadful politicking—” his snarky quips (They are part of him and Zélie loves them, so he’s decided he’ll greet her with one every single day.) die in his throat when he properly looks at her.

Hells, he had gotten into the habit of scanning her for possible injuries during their travels, but now the fight is over, without visible wounds or bruises, Astarion can fully see the toll their adventure has taken on her. Her eyes are tired and bruised from lack of sleep (Of course, she’s been foregoing sleep to spend time with him at night.), her face tauter than ever, skin so sallow she looks sick. Astarion presses himself against her and bristles when he feels her ribs poking his body through their clothes.

Worry, guilt, anger grip him. His brave, little saviour looks so unlike herself. So fragile and exhausted that he fears she’ll crumble to dust should he touch her. He forgets she’s human and not a divine being sometimes, with all that practicality and stony attitude of hers. Never complaining, never relenting (He knows it well.)

You moronic creature! How dare you reduce yourself in this state.

“Darling, what—”

“Oh, hello, Astarion,” Zélie seems to take notice of him only when he’s practically caging her against the door. She’s making an effort not to slide to the floor, he can tell.

Fucking idiot.

“Are you well? I hope the room is comfortable enough?” she nearly slurs.

“Am I well?” Oh, now he’s angry, “Love, what the fuck—”

“Language! No need to be rude,” Astarion feels some relief when Zélie’s irises spark with that annoyed light he coaxes out of her oh-so-well. She inhales deeply, continuing “I came to tell you that I will be late tonight, so you could come and meet me near the main city gate? There’s barely any Fists left, and lots of properties have been robbed or vandalised since there are no guards so Wyll asked me—what’s with that look now?”

The pale elf stares at her perplexed face down his nose, nostrils flaring. “Do you hear yourself, you wretch?!” Her eyes are reduced to judging slits and she’s about to chastise him, but Astarion is undeterred. “No, rather, have you looked at yourself recently? Literal corpses have a healthier…flair than you do now, darling. Myself included.”

Zélie scoffs (Scoffs!), “Oh Astarion, I admire how far you’ve come with showing concern, really, but,” she tries to push past him, but even her martial art is worthless against his full vampiric strength, “there are things, oh you vexing elf! Things that need tending to even if I’d much rather spend the foreseeable future here with you–hey!”

Astarion feels somewhat proud of the shout she lets out when he picks her up with ease (Not so puny, after all.) She is so light something lodges in his throat (Frustration at his inability to keep her safe.) and he hopes that his renewed strength is what makes his gesture so effortless.

No one should be this light.

She used to weigh almost the same as him, all muscle and sinew from her training and a life of comfortable abundance; now, her shirt hangs loosely around her frame.

Fuck. Why in the nine hells haven’t I noticed before?!

He realises he voiced his thoughts when the woman in his arms replies, “Because critical stab wounds take precedence over hunger, Astarion."

"No need to blame anyone,” Zélie says as he unceremoniously throws her on the bed. She fights not to melt into the mattress. “Astarion,” his infuriating lover speaks slower, as if he were a child, “I need to go. We didn’t save this city only to let it implode in chaos. It needs me; Wyll needs me.”

Jealousy (Unfounded but very much present.) soars in Astarion’s chest. “Well, darling, our selfless Wyll can kindly go fuck himself and find his own lover and stop pestering mine. I’m sure he’ll have plenty of offers now he’s back in line at the next Archduke. Those horns also add a certain ragged flair that many sheltered young nobles will find irresistible.”

Zélie rolls her eyes so much only her sclera is visible. She makes to stand up, but Astarion holds her by the shoulders with one hand, pointing an accusing finger at her with the other, “Hush, you. Is that how it’ll be for the rest of time? I am tired of seeing you hurt.” That makes her expression twitch with guilt.

Good.

He glares at her, “Now, you stay here as the good girl I know you can be and I’ll go to the kitchens to see if anything edible is left. Hopefully, it’ll be better than whatever the wizard cooked.” Astarion forces himself to tear away from Zélie’s inviting body (He did miss her all day.), but she catches his wrist before he can step away.

“What now?!” he snarls. “You’ve driven mad for days with your ‘Respect others’ and ‘We are a group, Astarion!’ and ‘You can’t be that selfish’, and you won’t let me—”

“The sun,” she simply says, defeated.

Oh.

How quickly Astarion has forgotten his pathetic limitations. On a quest for tavern food, defeated by the light of day. He can’t even venture outside their room. Zélie is the only person he wants to protect and can’t even feed her when she’s fed him countless times before. He snarls loudly, balling his fists, “Fuck!”

“It’s all right,” Zélie pulls him to her, unfazed by his temperamental mood, and he lets himself fall on top of her on the bed, his mortification soothed by her closeness.

“Tell you what,” she says, breath tickling his face. Astarion holds her cheeks, sharpened by tiredness and hunger, in his hands. He rubs his thumbs over them in small circles, as if he could make them meatier, healthier, by force of will alone. “I will go downstairs, where a Fist captain is waiting for me. I will tell her to ask Wyll if the issue can wait until tomorrow or if Jaheira or Minsc,” she grimaces in worry at the idea, “can take over for the evening. Then, I’ll see if the cook has something prepared. If not, I’ll make do with some cheese and bread.”

Astarion feels a soft dizziness spreading through him. She is talking with that calm and collected voice of hers as if nothing could ever shake or hurt them when she knows what it does to him. He tangles his fingers in her curls, messing them up (An arduous task when they already look like a harpy’s.), before cradling her face into the base of his neck.

“Then,” his little hero wraps her arms around him, under his shirt and on his scarred back. Astarion is still unused to how careful her hands are on him, like a gentle breeze. She looks at him in search of discomfort, but she finds none. The elf hopes Zélie knows that nothing she does will be the cause of any uneasiness he may show in the future (Even she can’t shield him from all his memories.)

“I will come back here, to this bed. We’ll eat and rest and when the sun sets, we’ll go to the rooftop to see the stars and enjoy the summer air. How does that sound?” She boops his nose with hers.

Astarion swallows loudly, “It sounds perfect, love,” he concedes. That’s as close as anyone has ever come to convincing Zélie to drop her duties and rest. Small victories. He is sure he’ll persuade her to live a life of rest and luxury, one day. If everything goes as he desperately hopes.

He is rewarded with a content smile he does not deserve, so he kisses her soundly instead.

____________________________________________

The night is warm, comforting even. How strange; Astarion can’t remember darkness in Baldur’s Gate ever being so welcoming. A loud munching resonates on his left, and the pale elf has to keep himself from grinning too overtly at his precious woman digging into a simple beef stew as if it were the nectar of the gods. Her cheeks puff out as she takes another mouthful, her usual composure nowhere to be seen in what Astarion hopes is another first.

(He wishes he could have been her first at everything, just as she was his.)

Midnight strikes. He would have been in some dirty tavern or dingy brothel by now if the mind flayers hadn’t mercifully kidnapped him. He would have been truly dead if the impossible creature next to him hadn’t insisted he was worth saving.

Zélie looks at him as if he performed a miracle, “This, munch, is, chomp, utterly amazing. The best thing I’ve eaten in a long, long while.”

“Tut, love, I resent that. And here I thought I was special,” he purrs it in offended seduction just to witness his lover’s cheeks and forehead flush in embarrassment. She looks healthier already.

Good.

“Oh, you, sassy, snarky…ugh,” Zélie narrows her eyes at him, then immediately composes herself. “Let me specify, the best thing I’ve eaten of any nutritional value in a long, long time.”

Astarion laughs so loud that a few pigeons fly away in fear. “Touché, love. Well played.”

“Where did you even find this? When I checked the kitchen—”

When she checked the kitchen, the useless cook was not meant to start his shift for another couple of hours, which left her with two slices of bread and a portion of cheese so small even a rat would have ignored it. So Astarion, spurred on by his newly-uncovered protectiveness, waited for his Zélie to be busy with the Fists captain before putting his daggers to good use. It was convenient that the cook had no will to test out the elf’s gutting technique.

“Oh, darling, I am extremely resourceful. You should know this by now,” he says with a telling smirk.

“Right. That means I don’t want to know. Though I wouldn’t be against getting more of this,” she points at the bowl of stew in admiration, “from time to time. It reminds me of my grandfather’s cooking.”

Astarion tenses a bit at the mention of the family she left behind for him; he waits for (No, expects.) Zélie to eventually consider the whole thing as the massive mistake it is and…leave him. Hate him. Become another person he cheated not of her life (At the very least.) but of her future.

“What’s going on in that head of yours, dear?” She asks, head tilted. She can see him even without the tadpoles, and it unsettles him in a good way.

It feels right, to be known by her. To know her in return.

He doesn’t want to lie to her now (She’s rubbing her annoying righteousness all over him.), so he opens his arms and she scoots against him, full belly and satisfied gaze.

Lovely.

Astarion gently guides them to the mattress he brought up from the bedroom and curls up around Zélie. He could laugh. He despised heroes for so long and here he was, lulling one to sleep. But she was his hero, which makes all the difference; he still doesn’t believe in the natural goodness of others, but he believes in hers, and that’s all he needs.

And she fits against him, around his jagged edges so perfectly, Astarion would believe she was made for him if he were a religious man.

“Sleep darling,” he coos into her ear.

She’s already halfway to the dream realm after, but she’s ever the stubborn woman. “But the sun—”

“I don’t need sleep, love; I’ll move us downstairs when dawn comes. I’ve wasted the day in bed already,” he plants little kisses on her hair, her face, her hands. Worships her as much as he can without waking her up.

“But that’s the issue…want to…spend time with you,” why must she make it so impossible for him not to fall for her?

Every time the elf is sure he hit the bottom of the devotion he is capable of, she pushes him further down. And she doesn’t try that hard, his pesky love.

“Hush,” he murmurs, wrapping them in a thick blanket to keep his undead chill at bay. “Rest, idiot. I’m here. I’ll be here when you wake up.” Astarion tightens his grip on her sleeping form. “We’ll take all the time we need, love. I promise.”

#astarion #astarion bg3 #astarion x oc #astarion x tav #astarion x f!tav #astarion x f!oc #astarion fluff #astarion ancunin #bg3 requests #oc: zélie #bg3 #female tav #bg3 fanfiction #spawn astarion #human tav #tav oc

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themadlu · 17 days

Text

A Star's Purpose

Part of the Spelljammer challenge by @spacebarbarianweird!

Astarion is happy, truly happy, in the safety of his lover's affection. The troubles of the Underdark have no sway on his mood as he relishes simply existing with his Zélie.

Until a call for help takes them to the depths of the Astral Sea on a Spelljammer vessel, and he'll be damned if he lets his maddening hero face the dangers of interplanar space on her own.

TW: None, I think. Maybe a smidge of self-worth issues? And end-of-game spoilers.

Not beta read and minimal editing, sorry for any mistakes!

This is mostly non-canon to Zélie and Astarion's story (I think).

@amywritesthings, in case you wanna check it out!

A year and a half has passed since the Netherbrain’s defeat. Zélie stayed in Faerun with Astarion, who’s now confined in the shadows due to his vampiric nature. They have settled in the Underdark, after concluding it was their duty to guide the 7,000 spawns towards a semi-functional society and a second chance at life. The lovers live in the magic tower near the sussur tree and have made it their own haven. A home, Zélie would say, but she is home to Astarion, and where they are matters not.

He just wants to keep falling into reverie with her warm body tangled in his, keeping his demons at bay, and welcome the day with her wild, owlbear-esque hair all over his face. To live in the comfort of each other’s embrace, as nauseatingly cliche as it sounds. Not that she would allow it on most days, his precious, maddening woman. They have responsibilities, she says. Obligations. To the hells with them, he thinks, as he walks with her towards whatever bothersome issue they need to attend to next.

So what happens when a message comes from a dear friend asking for their assistance in the cold void of the Outer Planes? Astarion knows. His steadfast hero will do what heroes are expected to do: run to the rescue, even if she’d rather not risk their lives again so soon after…well, everything. “You don’t have to come, Astarion, really. Actually, I think it more appropriate for you to stay here, now that we are making progress with your siblings.” As if. Aurelia and Leon can make themselves useful for once and hold the fort on their own. The pale elf is no hero and never will be, but his heart beats in her chest and her soul is his own, so he’d be damned if he doesn’t follow her into this new, gigantic mess. She (“We, Astarion”) already slayed a Netherbrain; what’s a lich queen in comparison.

______________________________________________________________

Well, that’s impressive.

Astarion examines the raiding ship that Lae’zel somehow managed to secure. The very thing that is going to sail them into the cold, deep astral sea. The technology is clearly Illithid—since he woke up inside that fleshy pod, he’s become familiar enough with their tentacled technology to recognise it when he sees it. But the Githianki’s influence is evident: the large, fan-shaped sails stand proud against the moonlit sky like a dragon’s wings, ready to take their riders towards their next conquest. The front of the ship has what he can only describe as teeth; fanged protrusions, not unlike his own, ready to swallow whole whatever unfortunate creatures they’ll meet. A silent but unavoidable promise of war echoes off the vessel. It makes Astarion antsy.

He has no issue with violence–he still revels in it at times, the need to own, to consume and not be consumed, so typical of his kind, exasperated by the horrors he suffered. But his bouts of spite and aggression have been fading since her.

He turns to look at Zélie only to find her staring at the ship with eyes so wide they mirror the moon perfectly. Her mouth is the slightest bit agape in wonder, the closer her stern face can get to a surprised expression. Perfect thing. Gods, over a year together (A year, five tendays and eight days.), barely leaving each other’s side even in dreams, and his little hero still leaves him speechless with the smallest quirk.

(The way she smiles at him when she thinks he isn’t looking makes him want to scream, weep, beg her for forgiveness—for all he has to his name is a used body—and ravage her for days. At the same time.)

You’re a gift, my love. Let me keep you.

Astarion isn’t worthy of her devotion and mercy, no angry huffs and puffs from her will convince him fully, but gods below he wants to be. He’ll do anything, become anything to keep her safe, happy, looking at him as if he were some miracle of the heavens.

(Do it. I dare you, he thinks to the silent gods, Try to take her from me. See what happens next.)

“Seen something you like, darling?” He jests in an airy tone, both because he likes to prattle and because her attention scalds him kindly, completely, like the sun never could. Insufferable woman, making him feel so alive.

Zélie flips her head towards him, frizzy curls bouncing wildly. “Oh Astarion, this ship! I know we’ve been on a mindflayer vessel before, but this is incredible!” She takes his hand in hers and he burns in the best way possible.

Precious thing, so enamoured by technology, human or otherwise. He pulls her into his arms so he can feel whole one last time before he has to share her with their friends. Astarion kisses her softly, a grin on his lips at her inexorable embarrassment. She is not one for public displays of affection—most of the time.

(Part of the reason he prefers it when it’s just the two of them, so he can worship her properly in the temple of their home.)

Fuck.

He is getting hard just thinking about it. He needs to distract himself or else he’ll end up with a wet patch on his trousers that Lae’zel will ridicule until the end of days.

Jealous prick. Green suits her.

The pale elf grips Zélie tighter, his familiar hardness pressing into her stomach, and her already wide eyes become impossibly larger, paler. (He so wishes he had a reflection in times like these.)

“I stand by my point, my sweet. Size does matter, it seems.” Astarion winks at her and the woman’s flustered expression turns unamused. Oh, he so adores riling her up, his fierce hero.

It seems he has underestimated the effect he’s had on her since they met—he can’t believe it’s almost as deep as the one she had on him—because suddenly she presses into him, burying a hand into one of her coat’s pockets so she can grab his length without being seen. Astarion hisses under his breath with poorly concealed pleasure. It’s his eyes that widen and darken now.

“You, cheeky, little pup,” he murmurs, rattles, heat spreading through him so that he would surely combust if he weren’t a cold corpse.

“Mhm. I guess you do have a point, my dear,” Zélie says, face still unamused as she looks at him and gives him a gentle squeeze to emphasise her statement.

(It takes all of his self-control not to buck his hips into her hand.)

“Although size doesn’t mean quality. Both are necessary. What good would such a huge ship do to us if it couldn’t sail properly, don’t you think?” She whispers the last few words in his sensitive ear and Astarion almost whines, the desire pooling in his underwear threatening to stain the fabric.

If it were anyone else touching him like she does, Astarion would rip their throat and limbs out or die in the attempt. But it’s his Zélie and, gods and hells, he wants her, this, all of it, desperately. Her hands are so gentle to him, always, as if he would break should she press a little harder. He thought it was her relative inexperience at first, or worse, pity. The idea that she could be so tender with someone like him purely because she wanted to was unfathomable; now, he has no interest in living without it.

Only she can come to him unannounced. She can do anything she wants with him.

(He trusts her more than he trusts himself.)

“T’chaki, you two never cease to be revolting,” a cutting voice calls out from behind them. Ah, right. Lae’zel is here. And a few dozen other Gith warriors loyal to Orpheus, all looking equally disgusted.

Astarion scowls at them while his love-addled brain quickly sobers up at their most untimely appearance (Thank you very much, Lae’zel.)

Only then, he notices the strangeness of his predicament: it’s his usually stony Zélie who’s all but moulding their bodies into one, it’s her smaller frame in his arms and her fingers caressing his still-hard length.

Oh? You’re more worried about this journey than you let on, aren’t you, darling?

He recognises the signs from their last life-threatening adventure, her need to have him close to her so she could keep him safe. Impossible thing, always shielding him so fiercely, he is starting to consider his centuries of captivity as a due price for having her to himself.

(A mortal human protecting a vampire should be laughable, but she saved him in every possible way already.)

Astarion snarls in warning at the burdensome company that ruined what could be the last moment of private intimacy with his person in a long while. “With all due respect, Lae’zel dear, go fuck off for a bit, would you?”

Lae’zel’s warriors look just about ready to use him as a practice target (They can try.) when the woman in his embrace clears her throat, “It’s all right, Lae’zel. We’re revising last-minute arrangements for the journey. We’ll board in a moment, thank you.”

The Gith does not look happy, but she and Zélie share a close friendship (And a stick up both their backsides, Astarion used to think.), so she listens to her and heads to the ship with her crew, cursing some pretty mild threats. Small mercies.

“Oh,” Finally alone, Zélie realises she is still gripping Astarion’s length, colour draining from her face in mortification. “I’m so sorry Astarion, I got carried away,” she tries to move her hand away but he grabs her wrist, keeping her in place.

“You don’t have to apologise, love. I know I’m simply irresistible!” His attempt to lighten her mood is met with a sceptic glance. Silly, precious thing, always caring for his well-being. Let me help you. “Truthfully, my sweet,” his next words are the truest ones he’s ever uttered, “you know I’m yours.”

Zélie raises an eyebrow, “you are your own person, Astarion. We went through this, multiple times in fact.”

He laughs, “To you, with you, darling, it doesn’t matter. As you can clearly see,” he squeezes her hand around his dripping cock.

His stubborn woman studies him carefully, searching for any of his masks and finding none. “Very well,” she concedes. She turns to her left as noises filter from the ship. “Last chance, Astarion. If you want to remain in the Underdark, you must tell me now. Lord knows how long this expedition will last, and I reckon your siblings would benefit greatly from you being there to—”

That’s what it is, then. She worries for him still; and it still unravels him.

Let me care for you, idiot.

“Hush, you,” Astarion places a finger on her lips to shush her, “I am where I belong.”

(Something inside him tears at the thought of being separated from Zélie. Of her alone in the face of danger.)

His hero’s stance softens, finally relaxed. Her relief makes her look so much younger. “Oh, well, in that case,” she leans into him and kisses him. Truly, fearlessly, savouring all of him. Astarion barely suppresses a noise of surprise before responding in kind, fangs grazing her lips, never hurting her (Never.), devouring her.

Zélie quietly moans into him. Astounding, how she is still pleasured by such a simple act when they have been entangled into way more complex scenarios during the last year. (As if he were not close to coming already.) If the Gith are watching, he’ll gauge their eyes out.

A tremble of the earth signals that the ship is ready for departure. Zélie detaches from him and this time he does whine at her loss. She gives one last gentle squeeze to his length, making him narrow his eyes at her. The cool night air flows between them.

“The moment we are alone, I will bury myself into your perfect little body so deeply they will have to pry me from you, love.”

(There’s no holier sight than her tender ecstasy as she shatters around him.)

He expects her embarrassment but not her smirk, “Careful. Promises must be kept, Astarion.”

She pecks him on the lips again, fully extricating herself from him to climb the steps to the main deck.

Cheeky, maddening pup.

Yes, Astarion decides, he will make her shout his name so loud Vlaakith herself will hear.

______________________________________________________________

The Astral Sea is not what Astarion expected. Not that he expected much of anything since he didn’t really want to come here in the first place.

Zélie is leaning against the taffrail in front of him, a multitude of celestial bodies surrounding them. She is so eager to examine every part of the vessel that she stepped onto the outer deck the moment the ship slowed down to pick up some more crew members (As if they weren’t cramped enough already.)

“Don’t you find it uncanny, Astarion? This works very much like a regular ship, and yet it doesn’t. The Astral Sea functions like any material sea, until it doesn’t. And those strange helms—”

“A pinnacle of technology, taken from the Ghaik and immensely improved by the Githianki so that our empire may conquer and prosper,” comments Lae’zel. Her queen’s betrayal hasn’t quelled the admiration for her own people; if anything, she seems more determined than ever to see a worthy leader at the helm of Gith society. “With a spelljamming brig such as this, you can travel anywhere, anytime. Time passes differently in the Astral Plane. Open a gate into one of many material planes to plunder and pillage to your heart’s content!”

Gods, intense as always I see. Good.

A formidable trait in war; fearsome in a foe, welcome in an ally.

(So Lae’zel can protect Zélie on the battlefield while he keeps her safe from the shadows.)

Zélie’s attention shifts to the mechanism supporting the sails as she speaks, “The travelling part sounds delightful, Lae’zel. The plundering and pillaging less so, for my tastes.”

The Gith begins a rant about the istik’s inherent weak nature. She even dares to say his Zélie should have chosen her as a partner, back when she proposed, so her martial skills would not have been dulled by the puny vampire.

Excuse me?!

“I’ll let you know, Lae’zel, that I can keep our dear leader on her toes just fine,” the elf interjects. Astarion is about to add a snarky remark (He was chosen after all.), but Zélie speaks first, “Oh Lae’zel, I would have just been an impediment and you know it. I would have slowed down all the conquering and deadly fighting you enjoy so much. Besides,” she turns to Astarion, a playful glint in her eyes. If he weren’t so attuned to her, he’d miss it.

(He wonders how many silent gestures he has missed at the start of their travels.)

“I am where I am meant to be,” she concluded. The tips of his ears definitely do not blush at those words.

(She’ll be the end of him and he wouldn’t have it any other way.)

Astarion shoots his darling a winning smile, which morphs into a cocky grin as he looks at Lae’zel.

There. Don’t be sour, you heard what she said.

Lae’zel is unimpressed. “T’chk. Suit yourself, Zel. Your loss.”

She marches off towards the helm of the brig when Zélie interrupts her, “Wait. You mentioned that time here passes differently, but how so?”

The Gith sighs, “Ignorants. It’s not the time itself, but its effects. They come to an almost complete halt; no hunger, no ageing—you’ll see when you won’t recall the last time you ate.”

“Oh”. Oh.

No ageing is almost as good as—

Immortality.

Astarion has heard about the Astral plane before, but it seemed so out of his reach he never bothered to learn more. He pickpocketed a book or two about it from some of his liaisons, but they were confiscated immediately and he was handed to Godey for his insolence. It’s not as if Cazador ever had any interest in entertaining his spawn’s curiosity.

Time is of no consequence to him, but to know that Zélie’s limited lifespan (Because of course the impossible woman had to be human, of all things.) could also be endlessly extended—

Astarion faces her, her eyes already on him, lit up with the same realisation. He doesn’t dare to hope it’s going to be that simple, but gods, if anyone deserves eternal life is her. And he deserves some happiness without such a dreadfully finite time limit, he fucking does.

He sees how Lae’zel looks at him, then Zélie, and sighs loudly. She stomps off, shouting, “Boarding is about to be complete. I suggest you two get inside soon enough, if you don’t want to end your dull lives swept away by the astral winds.”

Astarion nods as she passes by him—her people-reading’s skills have improved enormously since they met. The moment she is out of earshot, he speaks, “Darling, did you—”

“I don’t know—” Zélie says, at the same time.

The elf lets out a shrill, small laugh, “You first, my sweet.”

She smiles, a “I don’t know what to think, Astarion. Being immune to the effects of time, it all seems so impossible, so…” He knows what she is thinking, that it’s unnatural, that it’s not how things, people, are supposed to be. When he thought ascending was the right choice for them, when he failed to convince her to embrace becoming his eternal bride, she recoiled, attached to her mortality.

She doesn’t understand.

He would outlive her even if he were not a vampire because he is an elf and she, holy as she is, is human. There is no facet of reality where she won’t leave him behind and go where he can’t follow—

“I think we should try,” Zélie stands taller, back straight, like a general making an important call, “After we help your siblings and all the others settle down. Who knows, maybe we can even get our own astral skiff. Do you think dogs will be fine here? I wouldn’t want to leave Scratch behind.”

She talks faster, excited, and Astarion’s breath catches, head spinning even though he doesn’t need air. He darts forward to cage her between himself and the taffrail, causing her to let out the most adorable little breath.

(Perfect.)

Zélie composes herself again, “And if we can travel between material planes, there may be a chance to find mine…to find my family. Even if just to tell them I’m well and to introduce you to them.”

Astarion feels like he’s falling, so he catches himself with centuries-old sarcasm. “To—what? Love, you can’t be serious. Introducing a vampire spawn to your oh-so-proper family is a moronic thing to do, even for an impossible woman such as yourself.”

They would scorn you my sweet.

She speaks of her family, her planet, sometimes. The image of stern faces, so similar to hers, twisted in fear—or worse, disgust—at the monster their precious Zélie is in love with leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He isn’t fond of children, but even he wouldn’t want his daughter to have anything to do with something like him.

Zélie exhales in offence, “Of course I want you to meet them, ridiculous elf. I have nothing to hide. I am proud of you, all of you, infinitely, and I know they would be too. You complete me, and for that they would welcome you with open arms.” She stares him down in challenge.

Astarion studies her expression as he presses his forehead to hers. He seeks for unwillingness, for embellishments of the truth—because lying is a sin to her— and finds none.

You mean this. Gods.

“Yes, love. We can bring the pest. We can even ask Halsin for the owlbear if you’d like. We will travel through every single material plane if we need to. Anything,” he kisses her parted lips, “Anything,” pecks her cheeks, “Anything,” her forehead, “Anything,” her nose, “Anything you want.” His grip on her tightens.

She smiles at his onslaught, “All right, all right. We’ll find out how to make it work. For a while!” Zélie points her index finger at him in mock sternness, “I don’t think an unchanging eternity wandering the Astral Sea is something we should limit ourselves to, even if I want to. What purpose would it serve?”

“Purpose?” Astarion snarls the word as if it personally offended him, “We are purpose enough, stubborn woman.” He lifts her up and she clings to him on instinct. He strides inside the ship, ignoring the disapproving looks of the Giths.

“Astarion! What are you doing?!”

He whispers, fangs grazing her ear, “I’m finding a private space on this overcrowded thing, darling, so I can fully demonstrate how purposeful I can be.”

Zélie pales and flushes at the same time, and Astarion can feel himself basically purring at the thought of what he’s going to do to her—

“I’m glad you learnt to keep your promises, Astarion,” she murmurs, the outline of a smile into his neck.

Oh love, you have no idea.

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