#astarion has issues

[atsadi-shenanigans]

WIP WEDNESDAY

Thank you for the tag, @nyx-knox!

Here’s a bit from the sequel fic I’m working on:

No one else is coming. Nothing else is going to happen. There’s no reason for the tension clawing along his shoulders and creaking down his spine.

He casts another cantrip, though between hours of the same, and her own, mortal body heat, the inside of his tent is warmer than it’s ever been. And he rather doesn’t want that to end.

Yet it does, because their leader is mortal and needs to do things like walk around and eat and drink and relieve herself.

She mumbles something in her own tongue. It’s nowhere near as elegant as his own Elvish, nor as stilted as to-the-point Common. It has its own smooth roll, though, and it’s nearly pleasant to listen to.

This man has no idea. No idea. But he’s gonna get there. Eventually.

Tagging @sasseffects @britonell @lyzelky @dajeong @simpyra

[8eb]

just thinking about how gale, the most normal looking man alive, comes out of that portal and sees the three most obviously traumatized & evil-coded people to ever exist and is still like "can i join you" like bffr

[sadmages]

In my mind palace my tav and Astarion are playing the exact same game of 5D chess and they don't realize it yet

[my-fool]

I dont get people who write a Wyll that gets nervous and an Astarion who doesn't. Wyll gets tortured in front of the group and still doesn't miss a beat, aside from if you let his father die, I think there's only one or two lines where his dialogue strays from "affable/charming". Good luck trying to get through that shell, lol. Meanwhile Astarion has dozens of shrill, nervous, panicked dialogue lines. Astarion is a character who is influenced strongly by player choice and never goes it alone whereas Wyll leaves the camp if you fuck him around too much.

I feel like if you make Astarion cool and suave you are falling for the façade that is supposed to be deconstructed by the viewer and if you make Wyll fumbling, naïve and nervous you are forgetting that this man has been locked in a 24/7 one-on-one psycho-sexual mental battle with a billion-year-old demon from the 9th circle of Hell for the entirety of his adult life at this point, so. Jot that down.

[roughlytwentytwofrogs]

There is an issue in this community with misstagged fics on AO3, specifically in the FxF tags. I don't know if it's going to reach the actual people or not but I'm still going to put this here:

A lot of MxM and FxM are tagging FxF ships in the main relationship category despite the ship itself only being written in the background.

Which is a problem because when you go into your ship tag to find fics of your ship, a ridiculous amount of them are off topic. And while yes you can lower that amount significantly by filtering and tag exclusion, AO3 has a built in feature that is made to avoid this.

I am going to use the Shadowzel tag for that because it's the most popular FxF ship on there and it's also one of the most misstagged rn. As of right now, there is 607 fics in the Shadowzel tag without filter. If you restrict the search to only include FxF, you are down to 397 fics. That is more than a third gone!

And it gets rid of some shadowzel content as well, so it's either you filter that out or you have to scroll through a tag where 1 out of 3 fics are about Astarion, Gale, Halsin, etc instead of the ship you looked up.

If your fic, let's take for example a Tav x Astarion, has either consistent mention of Shadowheart x Lae'zel, the most popular wlw ship, or has them in the background as support characters, or even just mentions them as a funny little wink and you want to make sure your readers know they are in here, you do not use the relationship tag! You go down to the additional tags and add "Minor Lae'zel/Shadowheart (Baldur's Gate)".

Unless the pairing you are tagging is the main focus or have a significant role and spotlight on them, you should not use the relationship tag! It clogs the feed for no reason, AO3 is not a website where you have to advertise your posts to the most tags possible.

Adding a visual for clarity:

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

Overindulgent father Astarion who tells his children they’re allergic to any kind of jewellery that isn’t made of the highest grade Dwarven crafted gold. 

It’s not even because Astarion might have a certain aversion to silver, no, he just raises his children to have standards, thank you very much. 

And it doesn’t end with shiny things, oh no… 

The Ancunín brood is known to be dressed in perfectly woven cotton, silk and soft leather clothes, no matter the occasion.

They’re seen playing with expensive toys, reading artfully illustrated books that certainly belong behind thick glass, not in children’s sticky hands. 

There’s even talk that one of the children is not as naturally inclined to music as his parents claim him to be, surely his lyre must be enchanted—the instrument certainly looks extravagant enough! 

And then there’s always this air of effortless haughtiness surrounding the Ancunín children whenever their nannies and servants are parading them through town as if they were perfect little dolls; objects to show off the wealth their parents acquired in quite the mysterious ways. 

So, it’s no secret that Astarion and Tav are pampering their children—some might say they’re even spoiling them rotten. 

And maybe they are, especially Astarion.

But he doesn’t see why he should raise them any other way, nor does he want to.  

When it comes to his children, Astarion has his own standards, and as long as Tav agrees with him nothing really matters. 

Because, these people, they don’t know anything about the Ancuníns. 

They don’t know that it’s not unusual for Astarion to wash out dirt and mud and strawberry stains from comically small finery, leaving behind only the memories of a day spent playing in the garden, chasing after ducks, picking flowers, lazing in the sun…

That any holes and tears the children’s clothes might suffer are quickly mended, making them look as good as new in no time. 

Nor do they know that Astarion doesn’t mind fashioning a brand new dress to match that of a favourite doll, either. Or to embroider a pretty vest with the likeness of that stray cat the children seem to adore, although their father would rather they don’t touch the mangy animal. 

No, those people know nothing at all...

“Not tired!” Astarion’s youngest cries; the vehement denial of her father’s earlier accusation is cut short by a telltale yawn.

The room still smells of fragrant lavender oil and peaches even when the bath water has already grown tepid, just one or two degrees above what Astarion would consider too cold to be enjoyable. 

Amused, he raises an eyebrow at the protesting toddler before he lifts her out of the copper bathtub with little effort. 

By now, he knows every step of this game.

“Tut-tut, my dear child, what did mama and I say?” Astarion kneels, quickly wrapping a soft towel around the child to keep her warm. “We only tell lies outside of this house.”

Unfazed by her father’s gentle scolding, the girl crosses her arms that haven’t yet lost their puppy fat across her chest, reminding Astarion a little too much of a very displeased Tav. 

Suppressing a sigh, he leans back to consider the pouting child, wondering what could possibly be upsetting her this time—the list is growing longer by the day, after all. 

“What’s the matter, dear?” Astarion asks gently, hoping it’s something easily fixable as it’s growing rather late. 

“Want apple!”

Decades ago, Astarion might’ve rolled his eyes—he knows exactly which stupid apple the child wants, it’s been haunting him all day—but once he started to treat his children’s problems as if they were his own, his life has grown somewhat easier. 

“Why, let’s get an apple on our way to bed, then. Would that be alright, Your Highness?” 

The girl promptly nods her head, allowing Astarion to pat her hair dry before dressing her in a clean night dress. 

She rests her cheek against her father’s shoulder as he carries her first to the kitchen to grab a fragrant apple and a knife, then to her bedroom where they settle on the cosy window seat, just like they do every night.

Soft moonlight is pouring through the windows; the child giggles at the way the knife’s blade is catching the silver light as Astarion peels and cuts the apple into even pieces.

“Here you go,” he finally says, giving the slice of apple one last examining look before surrendering it to the impatient little hands reaching for it. “A sweet treat for my little sweet. Doesn’t it taste so much better when we don’t eat it off the floor, darling?” And when it’s not crawling with ants…

The appeased toddler nibbles at the juicy fruit as Astarion carefully combs through her still-damp curls. 

Her hair’s getting long, he notices, knowing that taking care of it will become more time-consuming each day. 

Once, Astarion would’ve thought this task tedious, brushing out hair that’s not his own, oiling and braiding it for no other reason than knowing his children enjoy him doing it. 

But that’s why he loves doing it in the first place, he supposes.

Astarion can tell by his toddler’s heartbeat that sleep is about to claim her. 

The half-eaten slice of apple is still clutched in her little fist as he cradles the child to his chest, slowly rising from the window seat to put her to bed. 

He’s just about to lay the child down that the fruit drops to the floor, his daughter’s tiny hand clutching at his shirt instead.

“Thank you, papa,” she mumbles, more asleep than awake.

Astarion pauses.

He breathes in the clean, yet unique scent of the little girl that is forever engraved in his brain, the same way he knows under which exact constellation she was born. When she took her first steps, what her first word was. Soon, he will have to memorise her favourite colour, and what she likes to eat when dirty apples won’t be that appealing anymore. 

By now, Astarion knows this game by heart, knows that with every year that passes, he has something new to learn about his children.

And sometimes he wonders what it’s like to grow up with clean bed sheets and full bellies. Sleep filled with naught but warmth and happy memories. Ever open doors and tears that are dried by tender kisses. Living in a house where mistakes and anger are welcomed, safe. 

He wonders what it’s like for his children to know that their father’s love comes without conditions. Not now and not ever. 

Sitting down on the bed, Astarion holds his youngest a little closer to his chest, unwilling to let go of her, yet. 

He’s often accused of spoiling his children when most people can only just grasp the very surface of his love for them, the bare minimum of what he feels for his one and only, precious family. 

These baseless accusations are as unimportant to Astarion as the people voicing them.

He’s raising his children to have standards, wants them to take their father’s love for granted, to accept nothing less but pure devotion.

It’s the only way Astarion knows how to love them, the only way that comes most naturally to him. 

Astarion looks down at his little girl, now fast asleep, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. 

After all these years—all these children—he’s still in awe watching them sleep in his arms as if no harm in the world could ever befall them.

And it won’t—not if Astarion can help it. 

“No, thank you, my heart,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against the crown of the toddler’s head. 

When it comes to his children, Astarion holds himself to the highest standard.

[tadpole-apocalypse]

C H O M P

[aliasmard]

something happened in my brain, and now u have to watch it

[passionesolja]

[heph]

Was perusing your commissions form and noticed that you have a surcharge for Tav and Astarion. May I inquire as to why that combo gets a surcharge as opposed to, for example, Tav and Karlach? No judgement, but curiosity demands I ask why.

My reasoning is stupid as hell I'll warn you beforehand! It's because I ship bloodweave and get sad when they're split up ;w;

[atsadi-shenanigans]

What Shall We Become 27 - Close

The rogue rolls a stealth check.

On AO3.

Astarion ends up giving the drow’s knife to his most intrepid leader. He took it, obviously. Spends the half hour she takes to drink water and eat her dried fish to polish off any lingering contaminants (and check his arm three times, feeling for ridges or fleshy knobs beneath his skin). Once they’re both done, he presents it to her.

“Um,” she says.

He was hoping for something a little better.

She doesn’t know how to use it, save for gutting fish and skinning woodland creatures under the Blade and the wizard’s tutelage. But while her staff will do an adequate job with enemies at longer range, her close-range skills are utterly abysmal. The worst he’s ever seen, and he’s including Leon in that (the man relies far too heavily on his magic; ugh, wizards).

She takes it reluctantly. And he realizes he’s going to have to teach her how to use it. Takes another half hour to show her two basic holds (she’ll be best at overhead strikes and slashing, he thinks; at least until the gith can build up some arm strength in her). Remembers she’s human and living, and belatedly shows her how to hold it without potentially cutting her own fingers off.

Then she announces she’s fit to travel again by way of grunting and grumbling and her left knee cracking as she rises—her pulse goes fluttery and she stands very still a moment. Hmm. She really shouldn’t have let him feed. For her own sake, anyway.

Baffling creature.

And then they set about walking. Again.

They walk. And walk. And walk some more. She takes up a musical chant that ends with her muttering and a soft snort. Must be one of her people’s jokes. She tries to explain it, but he has no idea what a “taumcardee” is.

They stop frequently. It’s her fault. She wouldn’t be so dizzy if she had more blood sloshing about inside her own veins. But she gave half of it to him, to slosh about in his own veins, and now she’s unable to walk more than fifteen minutes without needing a break.

Rather like those beastly little dogs patriars of the upper city used to keep a century and a half ago. Dreadful things. Always knew when he or one of his siblings were about. Until the city finally got tired of the nightly cacophony (partially funded by that bastard, no doubt) and declared them all contraband.

She’s rather bitey like those tiny terrors, too. And, well, loyal.

He feels his face twitch and has to smooth his expression down.

She’s nice to him. Not because she’s trying to gain anything (no more than usual, anyway), but because she just…is. He’s useful to her, yes. Undoubtedly. But not in the way he’s accustomed to. Not in the way his instincts can fall into line with. Not in a way that makes sense.

She does. Genuinely. Want to just…help him. Just because.

He should be congratulating himself. This is what he wanted, the prize he’s been playing for. He’d even tasted something in her blood, this last time. Something new. Small. Like a freshly struck ember nestled in a fluffy ball of tinder. Neglect it, and it suffocates. Feed it too much, and it dies.

It’s almost like…

No. Best not dwell on that. Especially not at the spider silk connection between this foreign oddity and him.

Astarion is a vampire spawn, a rogue, a recently freed slave, and arguably one of the most experienced whores in all of Faerun. His goal is to stay that way (and keep the fourth in the past tense). Whatever his leader’s blood tastes like doesn’t matter, so long as she remains his leader and his key to the others. That’s how he stays safe. How he stays free. All he needs do is maintain his altered plan. Easy. He barely needs to do anything at this point.

Which is why there’s no reason for him to reach for her when he picks up distant sounds. A word of warning would do just fine. (It’s just practicality, since she’s his meal and his protection, and that’s why his innards lurch all sickly in trepidation.) (Simple practicality.) (Nothing more than that.)

“What?” she says in Chondathan.

He holds. Listens.

It’s quiet, even to his ears, and distant. He stops breathing and stills himself utterly. Has to strain to hear over the whoosh of her heart and the rush of her lungs inflating. But the longer he stands there, the more certain he is.

Footsteps. Distant pulses. Something—three, perhaps four—living things at a distance. And getting closer.

“Far over there,” he says. “People.”

The word he uses is an inclusive one, as Chondathan is rather lenient with it comes to whomst one is speaking about and their relation to the speaker. Elvish is far more discerning in what it considers a person. But he’s not teaching her Elvish, and she seems the inclusive sort (inviting him to feed on her even after discovering what he is).

He sends that thought (definitely not the second part of it, though) to her. It’s more an impression: careful steps padded to silence, heartbeats strong but slow, the lack of muttering or humming. Not just people.

People on the hunt.

“Fuck.”

He needs no translation.

She wonders if they can fight.

No.

He’s killed three so far?

By surprise, and he’s wondering if the first two weren’t slaves. In a fair fight (they both snort) he’d lose.

“Fuck.”

And they shouldn’t engage anyway. Part of fetching victims for that bastard was knowing who to lure and when and where. A pattern of missing patriars tends to draw attention. A few disappearances here and there amongst the lower city, and the flaming fist can barely be bothered to file the paperwork about it.

Then he realizes how much he thought so very openly just then, and he starts to cringe away. But the only thing he gets from her is a sort of grim acknowledgment.

Apparently human villains hunt the same way in her world.

He’s a little disquieted at the comparison (even though he shouldn’t be, he’s a vampire) (still).

“They’re coming this way,” he says, careful to use the simplest verb forms. Rather like talking to a dull child.

They can’t move fast enough to escape. Not with her in that condition. They’re near a shallow stream, the ground low and flat. But it rises up ahead. Becomes a narrow sort of low canyon. And she spots something in there. What she thinks might be a cave.

(What she actually thinks is an image of a wolf pup emerging from a hole on a steep embankment.)

It’s not so much a cave as a shallow alcove. They splash (quietly) through the stream to get to it, whereupon she realizes they’ll have to lie partially submerged and crammed right against each other to fit under the shallow overhang.

“You, in,” he says.

She makes an unhappy noise. So he crowds closer and makes a nudging motion with his hands. It’s not as if he’s trying to do anything disgustingly noble. It’s just that, should they be discovered, he has knives he knows how to use, and she doesn’t. Plus, they’re less likely to see him.

Water splashes. She sucks in a gasp through her teeth as she shuffles in and lies down.

He’s far less squeamish. Kneels down and stretches out, her front to his back. Pushes right up against her. Her body goes rigid against him.

He initially thought all that came from a virginly shyness. He nearly opens his mouth to tease her. But then he remembers what she admitted, what else that awkwardness might be, and a nastiness churns up his throat.

“Apologies,” he says.

To have children. She’d compared her future to a breeding sow. To be impregnated over and over. Not even just the sex of it, but to have her body taken away from her like that. Not as a person, but as livestock. As cattle. As a thing to be used up.

He lies there still and quiet.

Until her thoughts nudge him. She can’t see past him to tell if they’ve been discovered. And there’s no room for her to shuffle enough to peer past him. Perhaps she ought to be on the outside?

No. He’s got excellent hearing. He’ll know if they come close. And besides, drow have excellent nightvision, but in the depths, they tend to rely on seeing heat. They’ve become suited to the deep darkness. Able to see creatures with no light at all.

“Infrared?” she whispers, meaningless syllables.

So she shows him something. Another of her “movies.” A ridiculously muscled man with no shirt, slathered in mud, shouting into some overgrown forest.

“What?” he says, barely breathing.

And then the image changes to fuzzy shapes and colors. A gray and black landscape, and the shape of the same man, but now all red and white for some reason. Back to normal vision and some creature walking past the man, now covered in mud and no longer red, but the same gray and black as his surroundings.

Predator rules.

He blinks uselessly in the actual—and his own personal—darkness. Whispers, “What?”

Hiding body heat. He has no heat, so they can’t see him?

Yes, he knows. It’s how he got close enough to that half dead drow that hurt her—

Oh. He’s still angry about that, isn’t he? And she’s startled because that leaps between them at the same time she realizes he placed himself in front to camouflage her very living, very warm flesh with his own corpse.

That’s…she’s impressed. It tickles feather light across his senses, but it makes his lungs shudder in a gasp and he has to shove her out of his mind before he can reveal anything else. Show any more weakness.

They wait in that cold a long while. The hunters patrol overhead. Still making no sound. Likely using a gesture language. They come near the stream, and both Astarion and his leader hold their breath. He feels her tilt her head against his shoulder blade as her mortal lungs finally have to exhale.

But the patrol does pass. The two of them emerge dripping and streaked in mud.

The cave air feels cold in her absence.

[cedarw00div]

Astarion(ascended) and Gortash are fighting over who's the worst character in my canon

meanwhile Raphael is standing in the background with a metal pipe

[invinciblerodent]

y'know one might think that in a fandom where every single character is bi or pan, people would be at least kinda normal about bi people. but god, even here, even now, there's just.... so much casual biphobia everywhere.

it's... disheartening.

[rayadraws]

“And anyway, why am I the supposed leader? Most of you are like, trained soldiers. I’m just a guy.”

“I thought it would be funny,” Astarion offered and Cirrus rolled his eyes.

“My reasons are my own,” Shadowheart added.

“Do you even remember the reason?” Astarion countered and Shadowheart sent him another dark look.

“Well, it’s your funeral,” Cirrus said. “All I’m good at is running away. Been doing that all my life.”

Shadowheart turned away from Astarion to offer Cirrus a more sympathetic look. “You’ve been learning. You’ve fought a fair few goblins, those gnolls too.

Cirrus frowned at the memory. Shadowheart was right, though. He had learned to use his magic to hurt. To kill. Was getting better and better at it, too. He drank another mouthful of disgusting wine, preferring to not be reminded of goblins screaming as they died.

“Besides,” Shadowheart continued. “I don’t think it’s necessarily a bad idea to follow the socially anxious sorcerer. Always thinking about everything that might go wrong. Several escape routes planned at all times. Good strategy for the party’s survival.”

“Damn straight,” Cirrus grumbled

-

Short excerpt from the next prompt for the fic/prompt challenge I'm doing for BG3. 15 of 29 - more than halfway done now!

A nod to the fact that compared to most companions Tav is Just A Guy, as well as pointing out anxiety CAN be useful at times lol

[not-poignant]

@draconis-ruthren replied to your post “Sending some questions rom the fic meme, 20, 21...”:

This is why I feel like a fly on the wall watching everything going on, cuz I know Raphael is a devil who will do devil things, the real question is always, ok what is he going to do now? Which causes some angst but also makes for some great entertainment cuz then it like, ok buddy you made this decision, how do you plan on living with it? Lol

​I get stressed sometimes thinking about how to balance 'yes he IS 50% human' with 'yes he IS 50% devil.' Not wholly devil, not wholly human. And also like, thousands of years completely out of touch with his human self in general, because he did reach pit fiend / Ascended pit fiend.

He talks about this in the next chapter actually, and he describes his cambion self and especially his human self as a 'shadow' he lost touch with, and how with his resurrection, and losing the pit fiend form, he now has that sort of 50% back front and centre.

But his human self can be a sadist as well. People aren't compassionate by default.

Idk, I think there are some human motivations in there, but nothing ever quite tops his need to increase his power. And he has successfully just won a massive increase thanks to this fairly minor contract with Astarion. If nothing else, Astarion has already proven himself more than useful, and Raphael's proven he doesn't need to bind someone's soul to him, if it means netting even more souls in the future.

I do think like a spider, he's remaking a very large web - some of which broke when he died. But like a person, he has needs/wants/desires, and maybe sometimes he is just a guy who wants to sexually torment another guy for fun, who sometimes finds himself pleasantly surprised by how pretty Astarion is, or how clever, or how silly, etc. Like 'this is a pleasing and useful diversion but as soon as the toy gets boring and/or betrays me, we're done' but also with some fondness. Because I do think Raphael is capable of fondness towards certain people / individuals, even if it's not necessarily loyal.

Tbh I also feel very fly-on-the-wall sometimes.

[gaylittleguys]

mischaracterizing wyll as ‘daddy’s bestest baby boy’? I’ll kill you