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Minthara: I don’t have a resting bitch face. My bitch face is always on duty, ever vigilant. My bitch face will rest when its work is done.

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Finally, him!!!

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FSBE 60 - Storm Woman

You dream.

On AO3.

Thunder crashes. The sky is a whirling vortex of black clouds. Massive things tearing apart and reforming. Lit through with flashes of red lighting that crack so hard they split the world into pieces.

You stand in the doorway of Uncle Randy’s house, only there’s no door. Wind whips at you. Hot rain pelts your face, stings your eyes, tastes of rotten metal.

The wind beats down on the little patch of corn only halfway grown. Baby stalks and that wind threatens to thrash them to pieces.

You run across the lawn, bare feet slapping wet earth. Try to put yourself between the clawing, howling wind and the corn. Spread your arms wide. It’s important. You can’t let them come to harm. They’re only half-grown.

Grit sprays your face. Rocks and sticks and blades of grass sting along your exposed skin. There must be a tornado nearby, but you can’t see it as the belly of them evil clouds drop low. As the air turns silver and red in a lighting-lit torrent.

A woman stands in front of you. You try to shelter that corn and look at her, spitting up pieces of metal that crunch in your teeth. Squinting through the rain.

A woman stands there. Her skirt is feathers, her shoulders draped in feathers, her long, black hair loose and tangled over her in the storm.

You can’t make out her face. Just her mouth moving.

“What!” you shout over the screaming wind.

Her mouth moves. Her words lost, taken by the raging around you both. Black spills over the white feathers of her skirt. Drips like paint. Running over the skirt, over her shawl, trailing lines down her face.

“I can’t hear you!”

Her lips keep on moving. She stands still, solemn. Unmoving even as the air itself tries to claw you to the ground.

“I can’t hear you!”

Her feathers are solid black, now. Black as the storm clouds. Black as wet ash. Black as the cold seeping along your bones.

“Please!” you shout. You don’t know what for. The storm rumbles. Voices hiss and spit and shriek in the gale. Almost words twist in the air, shivering over your skin.

The woman stands there. And red seeps over them feathers. A stripe here. A strip there. More and more of it, oozing out like a squeezed sponge, running through the quivers to bleed out over the barbs. Soaking her. Like…

The farmhouse looms behind her. The barn looms before that. Doors wide open. Light inside, and voices singing and feet stomping and you can’t stop the wind. You stagger back and the woman’s lips move.

The sky lights again, jagged arches and zags above, and in it, something almost silver. Almost like the knowing you get sometimes, when you can see the exact way to hurt somebody, when you can see exactly, to a tee, the most precise way to get what you want.

You goggle at it. The knowledge seeps deep, deep down. Swallowed down like something metallic. Your stomach shudders but takes it because it has to. Because it’s all there, all in that ripping apart sky. How to get what you want. How to—

A crack of lightning strikes right in front of you. Blasts your senses off.

You reel back. Land hard. Too hard. Know in your bone marrow it was too hard. Your body knows something is very wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Dying.

You manage to lift your head. The corn stalks thrash each other. One of them…one of them’s broken. Split right down the middle. Ruined. Dying.

Storm Woman stands before you with red dripping from her eyes.

***

Everything hurts. The pain is massive. Too big, you can’t…

***

Try to move. Busted up, you’re busted up you can tell oh god, oh no please. But a calm settles over you. A cold, lead blanket. A knowing calm. You’re broken up.

***

Everything stinks. It hurts so bad and you’re so cold and you want Uncle Randy. You want Grandpa. Something whispers.

***

You wake. You don’t. You wake again.

Voices. Your cousins at the last barbecue. A big, above ground pool and all’a them splashing around. A sticky little tree frog latched onto the back of your lawn chair, staring up at you.

“I heard up north they got them titty coffee shacks?” Cousin Bobby says before his wife smacks his bare arm, right over his feather tattoo because of course he’s got one of those.

Jenny, your third cousin who’s a lesbian leans forward, and says real calm and demure-like, “WHERE?”

***

“Nor?”

Not Jenny. Not Cousin Bobby, neither. Everything hurts so bad and you’re so goddamn tired. Better to sleep. Better that way.

“Eleanor.”

Fuck off. You’re dying. You know it. Your family knows it. You got snatched up by a squiddy butthole ship and they didn’t even get a body to bury. They got to think you’re dead. Had a funeral. Now you really will be and maybe you’ll go home, this time. Go back. See Grandpa again.

Stink is everywhere. You breathe again, and it’s so hard. Getting so hard. Can’t do it no more.

You don’t wanna be here. Fuck this. Fuck…

“Te curo.”

…that ain’t English. Maybe. Sounds real shaky. Seems almost familiar. The way it smells faintly of flowers. And not the meemaw chemical old lady perfume, neither. But a bushel of fresh cuts. Purple, maybe.

It’s better than stink.

“Ling?” a different voice says. How the fuck many people come here to harass you? Fuckers.

“Darling, wake up.”

That ain’t English, neither, but you know it, too. Know it like how you can ask for directions in Spanish.

“Please. Eleanor, darling?” It’s a man.

Fuck. Guess you gotta wake up. Cause that man sounds all kinds of fucked up and that’ll just dig at you. Something about that one hurting, you cannot abide that at all.

Two eyes is too much. You lose time. Lose your body. Come back some…time later. Time’s a funny thing.

“Te curo!”

Tastes minty. Weird. Your left wrist tingles. Then starts to fucking burn.

“Darling.”

Focus all you got to one eye. Keep just the one open. Good god almighty, you’re so fucking smart sometimes. That’s called goddamn resource allocation, is what it is.

Pale light flickers above you. Weird lights. Dim flashlights, maybe, that somebody’s juggling. Stupid fucker.

A man leans over you. Got old lady hair. White curls hanging down in his eyes. He’s usually so fussy about them. Probably a good thing he can’t see his own reflection…

“’Starion,” you mumble. But mostly choke on your own spit. Except it’s real thick and tastes like metal.

Poor guy. It stinks, wherever you are, and he’s got a sharp sense of smell. This must be real nasty for him.

Sorry, you want to say, only you keep on coughing. There’s something thick in your throat. You cough and cough but it don’t move and a voice gets loud, someone tries to roll you to your side FUCK HURTS—

Hands under you. A lot of them. More than the two.

“Te curo!”

“Hurts,” you wheeze.

Hang on, somebody thinks at you. We’re almost through.

Oh yeah. Psychic brainworms.

Uncle Randy would shit a whole, goddamn brick over psychic brainworm aliens.

Purple light crackles. Not red lighting.

You flinch. Try to move. People shout and pain rips through you and someone curses. You’re picking up on the local curses, neat.

Then nothing.

Then somewhere. With lots of shouting. You drift around, lost in hurt. A cold hand squeezes one of yours. Smells like herbs and vaguely, faintly sweet. Under that it smells a lot like an old, damp basement.

Astarion.

He’s here. That’s nice.

***

You wake. Rafter beams run along a wooden ceiling. The walls are plastered white, all of it bathed in a warm, orange glow. It smells like a steamrolled herb garden in here, and beneath that, what you can only describe as illness. As bodily malfunction.

Oh lord, that’s you.

You move your head.

Gray out as a bigfoot slams the back of your head with a tree of pain. And when you can breathe again, try to lift a hand, you realize your body is goddamn mummy-wrapped. Held together with splints. Your muscles scream and you choke on a gasp.

Movement and…Astarion. He’s here. He leans into view. Poor guy looks halfway to dead. His eye smudges are darker than usual. His face is carefully neutral, but for the tension around the edges.

“Are you with us?” he says. You pick up enough of it to get the gist (the pronoun alteration you think means plural, not a “me” but a “we”).

“Hello, Astarion,” you say in Chondathan.

Something in him cracks ever so slightly. The brittle lines of his shoulders eases a teeny, tiny touch.

“Wait here,” he says. “I’m to fetch the bear.”

That translates a little faster, though the verb is more of an assumption based on his usual speech patterns. As translated through dirt potion.

It’s real fascinating how much you picked up without being aware of it. And that is why the Nation is so intent on building Cherokee Language immersion schools.

“Can’t move,” you say.

Astarion stops. Looks at you. Does it long enough you’re pretty sure you did not say that right and just announced yourself a block of cheese.

He just stands there, all solemn. And his mask slips. Or he takes it off. And beneath that, he’s almost…angry. “Don’t ever do that again.”

He sort of flinches, and you real-time watch him reel himself in. Breathes in through his nose. And then, calmer, colder, “You don’t get to throw your life away. Not for…you are not [gibberish].”

He must clock your confusion over the last word.

“You said you worth nothing. Not. True. I won’t hear of it.”

He’s…oh. Fuck. You did say…fuck.

And he’s so mad about it. Something happened, and you’re hurt in ways you’re pretty sure you shouldn’t be alive, but you can’t quite remember. All the details are gone. Only that you went to the, the tower? And someone was gonna get hurt. And you couldn’t, you could not let that happen.

You must of done something stupid. And he…oh, honey no. He thinks…

“Not tried to,” you say. “Not. Not I think bad of me.”

He eyes you. “You’re certain?”

Everything is a mess of ruin in your head. You remember leaving. A man, Rolan, screaming. Because you left his brother and sister, and his brother fucking killed himself and…

“Tieflings?” you say. “They here? All of them?”

When he’s not intentionally being theatrical, Astarion’s expressions are real subtle. His eyelids lower just the tiniest fraction, but the, what, annoyance? Something heavy and mean settles over him.

“All of them fine. You were the only [casualty?].”

You sag against your wrappings. Your left hand feels like you sat on it for a week. It’s wrapped all the way from the arm down, so thick you can’t even tell if it’s there or not.

“Yes, I certain,” you say and hope to hell that last word it what you think it was. “I not, not hurt me. I want tieflings, gnomes, safe. Fucking wizards.”

You definitely know that last phrase—he ain’t even the only one to say something along those lines.

His mask slips back into place. With just a hint of softness around the eyes. “Good. I’d hate…I don’t…you said you’d watch my back. I intend to hold you to that.”

God, he uses some fancy fucking flourishes in his speech, don’t he? But you’re pretty sure you can deduce it. Enough that a smile twitches on your lips.

You ain’t entirely sure what happened or how you got here. Just hurting. Some kinda bad dream about corn (what is it with the corn?). But he was with you. However long you been here, and it has to be a chunk of time, it feels like a chunk of time, he was here when you woke up.

Your friend.

“I watch your back,” you say. “I promise.”

He nods. Then goes off to find, presumably, Halsin.

Something happened. And not just what you think might be broken bones. Something is different. You was such a chicken shit before. So scared of making the wrong move. Getting people hurt. And look what that got you.

You can see what you got to do, now. That shining line to get what you want. What everyone here is banking on. Save all of them. The perfection of ideas slotting nice and precisely together and it’s so perfect it almost makes your eyes water.

You have a mother mcfucking plan.

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🦇🔥.

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character growth

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FYI

I'll be traveling this week and had hoped to get to messages and get a chapter out for Hope, Love, and Other Pretty Lies before I go, but I don't think I can make it. Hopefully on the weekend!

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One of the funniest things about Ketheric Thorm as a character is that they made a villain who has all the cliché signs of being the "redeemable" one (dead wife, nice daughter who cares about him, outwardly sane compared to his coworkers, has a dog), so you go through all these dialogue checks and persuasion rolls believing that you can turn this one good, but every time you hit him the "please, this isn't who your wife wants you to be; you can do better, " something happens to grandpa that makes him double down on being bad, transforming into a more progressively evil version of himself every time. It's like the DM is actively trolling the players. Oh, you believe some rando can reset this centuries-old man's moral compass with just a few reminders about his dead wife??? You naive, ignorant, trope-poisoned fool, I'm making him worse!

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shadowheart 🖤

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50 chapters and almost 200k words! And what a chapter it is. I need a vacation now. -_-

Fandom: Baldur’s Gate (Video Games) Rating: Explicit Relationships: Astarion/Tav Additional Tags: POV Astarion, canon adjacent, Manipulation, Trust Issues, PTSD, Trauma, Dissociation, Implied/Referenced Past Abuse, of all kinds, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Gore, Vampire Bites, Drug Use, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, figuring out feelings, Slow(ish) Burn, Eventual Romance, Occasional Sexual Content, most of it warped by past trauma, Astarion Being Astarion, Soft Astarion (eventually), everyone is bad at feelings, Everyone Needs A Hug, Minor Karlach/Shadowheart

A snippet for your previewing pleasure:

The man in posh clothing walked up to Neline. He grabbed her chin and yanked her face upward. She blinked sluggishly, struggling to focus on him. A streak of blood had dried under her nose, copious enough to have dribbled past her chin and down the front of her tunic. A strip of fabric was wrapped tightly over her mouth. "Her nose is broken," he said, as if appraising some trinket in a market stall. "Forgive me, Saer Vittorio," said one of the guards. "She tried to sing." Vittorio tutted. "I trust you still know better than to try that with me," he told Neline. She nodded awkwardly in his grasp. He tugged down her gag and turned her face from one side to the other. Astarion could see her throat bobbing repeatedly, glimpsed the wetness streaking down her cheeks. Rage swirled within him, growing darker by the second – but he had to wait. Oh, he could kill them. He could kill them all, but he was too far away for a quick strike, the space between them too exposed for surprise. She, trapped in their clutches, was too vulnerable. He needed a distraction. Their companions, perhaps. The others had to be on their way. Vittorio let her go, then grabbed the sleeve of her tunic and rubbed the fabric between a thumb and forefinger. "Gods, you poor thing. What have you done to yourself?" he cooed as if trying to soothe a wounded animal. "A few scant months on your own and you've regressed to some feral creature of the woods again." Vittorio patted her cheek, making her wince. "Don't worry, my pet. I'll have you fit for civilized company in no time at all."

Read the whole thing on AO3

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Reblog this and put in the tags what you think your role is in your fandom.

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Astarion

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definitely would enjoy more astarion headcanons from you

ofc ofc ! i love astarion and writing for astarion,, thank you so much for your submission! it really means a lot! ♡ ・・・・・ inbox open ⟶ ♡

・・・・・ ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ ➤ he has a habit of smiling in a way that’s just a little too predatory to be fully comforting, even when he’s genuinely happy ➤ will never admit he’s touch-starved, but he’ll linger in a touch longer than necessary when he trusts you ➤ uses sarcasm as both armor and entertainment — if you get him to laugh genuinely, he’ll hate that you noticed ➤ he’s surprisingly private with true affection, preferring subtle gestures over grand declarations — brushing a leaf from your hair, adjusting your collar, standing just close enough to guard you without making it obvious ➤ likes being indulged — a glass of fine wine, a soft pillow, a night where he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder — and will become dramatically sulky if he feels “neglected.” ➤ secretly enjoys when you’re a little possessive of him, but he’ll tease you mercilessly about it ➤ if you sleep beside him, you’ll sometimes catch him just watching you — part wonder, part disbelief you chose him ➤ has a flair for the dramatic in battle — spinning the blade, flourishing his strikes — partly to intimidate, partly to show off ➤ will grumble about “babysitting” the group, but you’ll notice he’s always aware of where you are and whether you’re in danger ➤ will tell a wildly embellished version of events to strangers — but with you, he sometimes lets the truth slip in between the jokes ➤ occasionally hums to himself when working on something intricate, like lockpicking — a habit he doesn’t even realize he has ➤ finds rainy nights oddly soothing ➤ if you ever call him “good,” he’ll scoff… but a part of him will cling to it like a lifeline

➤ has a “resting smirk face” — people often think he’s scheming when he’s actually just zoning out ➤ if you’re injured, he’ll scold you first “honestly, do you want to die?” before actually tending to you ➤ is weirdly good at organizing camp supplies; his section is meticulously neat, partly from habit, partly to make sure no one touches his things ➤ will not admit it, but enjoys watching others cook — he likes the domesticity of it, even if he “wouldn’t be caught dead doing such a messy task.” ➤ keeps a mental tally of every time you’ve defended him in conversation; he’ll never forget it ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

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I thiiink he's done? I'm gonna call him done. He might be my favourite that I've done so far.

Wyll as The Morning Star ✨

Shadowheart is here as The Moon Astarion is here as The Morning Star

I'm only missing one for the Evening Star to complete the serie hehe It'll probably be Lae'zel. Then if I wanna do all the companions I'll have to make up additional star themed ones... Karlach as the sun, Gale as the Midnight Star? That would work right?

Maybe next year...

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WIP Whenever

Thanks for the tag, @rubyeyebabybat! Let's shake things up with a snippet from my sleazebag nightclub owner ascendant Astarion AU (I so gotta come up with a snappier name for it):

Astarion lounges behind his desk like a sovereign on a throne. He's wearing some kind of sheer black vest with a loose neckline that scoops down low, past the chains and lustrous pearls draped around his neck, nearly all the way down to his navel. His arms are bare, every vein and curve of muscle beautifully defined in the stark overhead lights of his clandestine underground office. His eyes, smoky and dark, gaze into mine with raw, naked hunger. In spite of everything, I feel a curl of heat in my lower belly. Then I notice the hand of the woman behind him, blood-red nails like claws, curved possessively over his shoulder. Yovaris, her face made up in dramatic black and gold, wearing some slinky, glittering thing that reveals more than it conceals. She looks me over with a hooded, lingering glance. "Well. At least you clean up nice." I flash an amiable smile. "I do indeed. How kind of you to notice." I like to confuse them with sweetness. It makes it easier to put a bullet in their brains later.

Currently 23k deep, which is probably about halfway done. (It won't be another 300k monster, that's for sure. X)

No pressure tags, if you have something you want to share: @lottavilja @michanvalentine @litsenn

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From the cinnamon roll heist to the emotional fight to this cliffhanger, what a rollercoaster (that I don’t want off of)! I love that Astarion immediately stops wallowing and goes into rescue mode when Neline is in danger, though. It’s called progress! 😜

Thank you! It's been a wild ride on this end too, working on these chapters. I think we'll all need a vacation once this rollercoaster ride is done, Astarion & Neline included. X)

But yeah, props to Astarion! He's finally learning how to put someone else first. That's pretty damn huge.

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I still need you.

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Bath time again! In private this time. Perhaps after all that fun in Sun-Stung?

Cheekier (ha) pics below the cut