infatuation ☾ bg3 writings

cirice - astarion x fem!oc (part 1)

astarion x fem!oc (cirice)

eventual smut

!! cirice is not a good person. she is a bhaalspawn and assassin. blood, gore, vaginal sex, emotional manipulation

Since the day that Cirice was spawned all she's ever known was death.

Molded from the tainted hands of Bhaal himself and imbued with his most unholy blood, one of her earliest memories had been watching her own hands drain the essence of life from her mother's eyes. She was raised within the darkest pits of the Bhaal Temple, had experienced horrors beyond comprehension that rewired the inner workings of her brain, and had been subjected to excruciating pain at the hands of her own murderous siblings. All things she'd known had been disguised for the sole purpose of making her resilient.

Resiliency.

Gods, how she hated the word.

Cirice wasn't resilient – she never was. Since the day that she learned to crawl through cooled puddles of blood and gore, she had been damaged beyond repair. A deep, soul-shattered damage that could never be mended no matter how often she tried to run from it. No matter how hard she tried to escape. She longed for it, dreamt of it, even wept for it at the feet of her father. Murder and sin were all she ever knew, all she ever was, and it was all she would ever be.

The tadpole implanted into her brain at the brutal hands of her closest ally had been both the best and worst thing that could have ever happened to Bhaal's chosen child. She remembers the sound of her own screams as it burrowed into the fragile tissue and wiggled into the nonexistent space behind her eye. She remembers how her own sister had held her down – how it had hurt. She remembers the searing pain as it settled, and the sound of her footsteps as she left her there to fate.

For the first time in her life, Cirice had been scared to die. She'd been left on that table, bleeding and cold, and she'd suffered through an entire tenday alone as her wounds attempted to knit themselves back together. Quenched and nowhere near numb, part of her wish she would've died. Finally, on the twelfth day, she'd passed out, and when she came back it was only to the pounding of a sword's hilt on the outside of the strange pod she'd woken up in.

Escaping had been easy. She'd torn a pathway for herself in blood through that ship and had suffered through the agony of dragging the gith and the cleric behind her. The hurtle towards the dirt had been nothing less than exhilarating.

The ground had been hot when she'd taken her first steps on the beach. The air was warm. Everything was unfamiliar. New. There were no watching eyes, no puddles of blood, no piles of gore... She'd shivered as she stood and felt the tide lick at her ankles.

Unable to remember anything except her name, the first thing that Cirice did was run.

—

Cirice is not a good person.

One night under the stars was all it took for the tiefling to revert back to her old ways because, as it turns out, life outside the city is agonizingly boring.

There's nothing to do except swat away at bugs and itch at the bites they leave on your skin. Nothing to do but walk and collect scraps of things that look useful or unfamiliar – a boot here, a backpack filled with holes there – and follow the trail of the moody gith as she stalks through the forest with a similar unfamiliarity. It's only when the gith finds herself trapped and strung up in a cage surrounded by tieflings with longbows and shortswords that Cirice comes to the realization that perhaps this self-righteous, otherworldly creature is dumber than she initially thought.