Adventuretimefantic's drafts and oneshots

Portrait (Astarion x reader | BG3)

Fandom: Baldurs Gate 3
Ship: Astarion X reader
General synopsis: Re-write of the scene where he discusses his scars and reflection

His side of camp was a little bit sad, when you looked closer at it. Despite the rug and chair out the front of his tent and half finished books set aside, when you caught a glimpse inside the tent... Astarion didn't have much. One pillow, one very worn blanket, one bedroll. That was it. And before managing to gather more clothes and armour on the parties travels, he barely had anything hanging up to dry either. Astarion fled with practically nothing but the clothes on his back, a weapon, and the decades old blanket he couldn't bare to leave behind. And yet, he had a mirror.

A small, silver hand mirror. It looked old, scratched and worn. Likely something he'd owned since before his... circumstances, had occurred. Every so often, you'd catch him looking into it. Only to be met with whatever scenery was behind him, reflected off the cracked glass. For a vampire has no reflection, not in a mirror, window, surface of the water, nothing. Astarion hadn't seen his own face in 200 years. He may be able to look down at his arms, his legs, the front of his body. But his back, his face, he couldn't see. He didn't have a clue what he looked like since he turned. Since his eyes turned red, fangs grew in place of his canine teeth, and hair turned white.

But you could draw.

And even if things between you had gotten off to a rocky start, him trying to rob you and all, you felt bad. You didn't know how you'd handle never being able to see your own face, never knowing if you had bruises, cuts, scars on your face. It'd become clear after a while that Astarion was the way he was, because he was living in survival mode. In his mind, if he put himself on a pedestal, no one could hurt him. Because why would he listen to people who are below him? He was better than them! Why take what they say seriously when you're the top dog? But it was all just a survival mechanism, behind those walls he put up, he felt used, hurt and abused. Because he was. He may act like the reflection situation didn't hurt him, but it did. Deeply. And you could see that whenever you caught him gazing into that mirror, not able to see himself.

Across from his tent, you'd pitched yours. And over the past few nights as he read, you'd look up at him in his candid state, and draw. Draw his face, his hair, his ears, his eyes. All the things he couldn't see. Several portraits from several angles, several expressions. Tiny details, the way his fangs poked out when he laughed, the eyebags from staying up half the night looking for something to drain the blood of, the loose curls that didn't want to cooperate with the rest of his hair. And when you were done, you taped them to his mirror.

You'd been asleep when he found them, but he knew it was. You were the only artist in the party, and your signature gave it away. After a moment of simply staring at them, taking in the skill it took to draw so realistically but also the fact he was seeing his own face for the first time in 200 years, he couldn't stop the tears. Thank gods no one else was awake, or they'd never let him forget the fact he'd cried over a portrait of himself. He wasn't sure how long he sat there, staring at the drawings trying to keep his crying as silent as possible, but it felt like he'd been there all night simply taking it in.

The following night, he approached you. There was something else he needed your art skills for.

"You could copy them accurately right?" He asked you, hopeful look in his eyes.

"Yeah, shouldn't be too hard. I'd need a close look though" you replied.

So he took off his shirt, sat by his tent, and let you look closely at each scar on his back. Occasionally he felt your hand gently touch a scar to measure out the space between lines, or keep track of what letter of the language you couldn't read was where. He had no idea what those scars said, but he remembered how painful it was to receive them. And how hard he had to fight to compose himself, for if he screamed too loud, he'd only be stabbed deeper.

His master had said that his screams were the sweetest... those words haunted him sometimes.

Glancing over at the mirror, propped up against the back of the chair, he looked back at the portraits taped to it, his own face. How he looked in a candid state, focused while reading. How he knew your rendition was accurate, because he could feel the small cuts from battle in the same place you'd drawn them on. He reached out, lifted up the paper, looked into the glass.

And he saw you. Since he couldn't see himself, he saw you. Sat behind him, head down and copying his scars into your sketchbook. Your candid state, doing something you loved, focused. And when you looked up to read the next scar, unable to see your own reflection because he was sitting between you and the mirror, your eyes met his gaze in your reflection.

You didn't have to do this, he'd never asked for you to draw him. But you did. You could have said no to drawing his scars so he could try to read them, but you did.

He knew in that moment, he'd failed. His perfect plan he'd done so many times before while serving his master. Seduce you, manipulate you into siding with him, have you help him do his dirty work, use you as a a shield. But he'd failed, all he had to do was not fall in love. But he had. That simple, unprompted act of kindness from you, drawing his face. You saw he was hurt, and you tried to make him feel better. For no reason other than out of the kindness of your heart.

No one had done that for him before. And that was all it took for him to see you as 'the pretty one I'm using for my gain' to a real, sweetheart of a person... who he couldn't bare to hurt.

"Here, I can't read it... but this is exactly what I'm seeing" you spoke up.

Your sweet voice pulling him from his daze, he turned to face you, taking the sheet of paper from you. Those scars he'd lived with for 200 years that bound him to his master, he'd never seen in his life.

Hoyc inferiu non iurare per igneu
Naec virba loquor
Eoai mundo muoat

Now, he could... and he had no fucking clue what they said. He sighed, defeated.

"Fuck... I can't read it..."

"Surely there's a dictionary or something out there" you replied.

"Maybe..." he muttered

"I'll make a copy for myself, so if I find anything, I'll translate for you"

Another act of kindness you didn't have to do, but you were. There was a soul in that body. You were more than just a meat shield or a blood bag to be used for gain. You were you, (y/n). You were a person, with a past, dreams, likes, memories... and you were someone he couldn't bare to loose in his fight.

"Thank you..." he muttered, defeated.

"Hey-"

Your hand against his cheek was warm, unlike his cold dead self. Tilting his head up to meet yiu gaze.

"We'll figure it out" you assured, though he felt doubtful still.

But that smile, that damned smile. He couldn't stay gloomy and cold when you looked at him like that. A slight smile in response, cracked on his lips.

"Yeah... maybe we will" he said.

It would still be a while before he learnt what those words carved into his skin read;
This soul swears no oath by fire
Nor words does he speak
In the realm of death
And a while longer before he fully understood them.

But he didn't need to speak any words or swear any oaths to a devil to know he was beyond saving when it came to the steak you'd driven into his heart. Not to kill him, but to claim it as yours. And for the first time in his life, he didn't mind someone else owning a piece of him. Not when it was his heart, not when it was you.