honeybummer

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why does this remind me of pride & prejudice

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Finally, him!!!

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same

This is how barbarian rage works and you can’t change my mind

ref below

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brochaco, please i beg you bring back bloodstained i can’t breaf 😭💔

halfway through editing. be patient, my love

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Guess who's back on their bloodweave bullshit?

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i wanna hug him

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🫂

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My BG3 headcanon: Astarion truly cares about his Tav | Durge, doesn't matter if they are friends or lovers, so when his dearest had a date night, he secretly followed, just in case.

Bonus below:

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been playing astarion origin as an ice mage recently

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“I’ve Been Dead In The Ground For Long Enough. It’s Time To Try Living Again.” I guess I have a thing for vampires, what can I say? 😏

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Astarion fanart that I did to practice gradient maps!

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commission for @nicollekidman of her gorgeous oc lyra and some astarion guy i'm told is from a video game. my absolute favorite piece from last years and i can't believe i forgot to post it

(prints)

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I'd let the world burn Let the world burn for you [some of my post-canon scenes]

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<3

Sad art is sad. You can tell because it is *sepia toned*.

I went real deep into my Art Therapist metaphor brain with this one. He is unraveling her braid the way he unravels her emotionally, while tangling himself up, physically as well as in her life. She is vulnerable in her nudity, while he maintains his barriers. The only part on him she touches is the exposed flesh over his heart because she is trying to connect with him. His vice grip on her thigh is possessive, he can’t let her in to see his vulnerability but he also refuses to let her go.

✨Metaphor ✨

If I’m honest I’m not super happy with how Astarion’s face came out, he looks more Astarion Adjacent… he’s so difficult to capture…just gotta keep practicing.

This art was a commission for the incredible @honeybummer ‘s fic No Saints Here

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62866237/chapters/160968862

The vice grip this fic has on my heart. It’s so so beautiful and gives me so many emotions. Honeybummer is so kind in allowing me to draw for her. There are some other arts in other chapters including a spicy one that was one of the most fun drawings I’ve gotten to draw ever.

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:(((((

Astarion Ancunin in Baldur's Gate 3 (2023).

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Chapter 23 of No Saints is up, and check out this incredible art by @pinkiezee

Snippet --

Astarion kept telling himself this was his plan all along. He needed to go through with it. He was so incredibly close.

He didn’t know if he wanted it like this. But no—surely he did. He needed his freedom. He would curse and kill anyone in his way to get it. He would seduce as many soft-hearted fools as it took, whisper sweet poison into their ears, take their bodies, and leave their hearts in ruins. Whatever it cost. 

Freedom was the only thing worth paying for—and gods, had he paid. He’d paid it in silence, in screams bitten back, in dignity stripped from him like flesh carved from his spine to make room for bargains. He had endured and endured, and with every drop of pain, he bought one more inch of distance from the thing that owned him. Let others speak of love or virtue. He would trade a thousand lives for his freedom.

And now? Now he would demand. In a voice too hoarse to sing and too bitter to pray.

Because when you have nothing left to give, nothing left to mourn—

you stop begging for mercy.

And start making others bleed.

But.

What a treacherous little word. A hinge upon which the soul snaps. A gate swung open when all the walls were built. A man remade into something he never meant to become.

It is a word of ruin and revision. Of hesitations that bloom into regret. It lives in the throat like a secret, waiting to be swallowed or screamed.

It arrives after vows, after strategy, after survival—and rewrites them all with aching simplicity.

He had a plan—beautiful, blood-slicked, airtight. Freedom, at any cost. Use the girl. Kill the master. Escape the grave he’d been thrown into.

He didn’t need love. He didn’t believe in it. He needed leverage. He needed power.

But.

But she touched him like he wasn’t something that might slip away. Looked at him like he was good, rather than wicked. Spoke to him like he deserved the hand of saving that had never been thrown out to him.

And gods help him—his plan was almost to fruition.

But.

There were nights when she slept so peacefully beside him, he wanted to rip himself open just to see what he was made of. To find whatever piece inside him might still be clean. He’d lie awake, watching the rise and fall of her breath, and hate himself for thinking:

What if I want more than survival?

And now the plan—his precious plan—lies in pieces, scattered at her feet. And all he can do is whisper apologies to the ghost of the man he was supposed to be.

Because that awful, lovely word cracked him open.

But.

She was kind. And he was weak. And everything changed.

There would be no gentle forgetting of her. No clean break, no polite silence.

There would have to be a renouncing.

Not a turning away—but a sacrifice. Like throwing a flower onto a pyre and watching it burn. He would curse her name, even as it broke his lips. He would cast her out of his chest like a heretic before a god.

Because for the first time in his life, he felt something for someone other than fury and disgust. 

To love her would mean to stop. And he wasn’t ready to stop. So he would spit her name like a prayer gone sour, and hope the gods were deaf enough not to hear what he truly meant.

Astarion pressed his palm to his face, tried to steady his breathing.

But all he could taste was her. And all he could feel was shame .

https://archiveofourown.org/works/62866237/chapters/170333038