#and astarion is proof of like

[eueclid]

Good evening yall. Thinking about Astarion and Gale and how they're both examples of how abuse looks different depending on the person and ALSO how people will react differently to abuse. Thinking about how Gale's reaction to being abused was to obsess over his abuser and thinking about how Astarion's reaction to being abused was to try and take his abuser's place ( bc there's no way in HELL I'll ever write or even entertain ascended Astarion ). Thinking about how both of them literally had their brain chem changed from being abused and how the people they are as we know them is a direct result of that. Thinking about so many things.

[krowbby]

craft hobbies i’m teaching the bg3 companions post game + after they finish their personal quests:

wyll: knitting or quilting. i think he would really appreciate the community aspect of it, and the grandmas at his local quilting circle would be absolutely obsessed with him. his first quilt is a lil wonky but he hangs it up on his wall because he’s proud of himself. also helps out around his local quilt/yarn store and tries to get some kids into the hobby as well

lae’zel: needle felting. you stab something a bunch. need i say more? jk i feel like she’d like something practical like leatherwork or even just basic mending, and she’d be very pleased when anyone complimented her on something she made.

astarion: embroidery baby! he loves finery and we already know he knows basic sewing from the flavor text on his camp clothes (at least that’s how i interpreted that). i think he’d enjoy making things truly his own and also enjoy seeing someone he loved wearing something he made for them. plus embroidery takes awhile and his immortal ass has the time

halsin: he already has a hobby in whittling, but i’m teaching him basic mending too. i think he’d like having it as a skill and also being able to teach the kids how to fix their stuff! (plus u never wanna be unprepared in a teddy bear injury emergency…)

shadowheart: i’m teaching her crochet bc honestly she deserves the instant gratification of how fast crochet can work up. she’d make cute little headbands with fancy granny squares and get excited about nice yarn

gale: i’m also teaching gale knitting. he’s pretty dexterous with respect to casting somatic components of spells so i think he’s got the hand dexterity for it, and i think once he made a weirdly long tube (?) awkward first knitting project he’d take to it really quickly and somehow end up knitting spells into garments

karlach: ok karlach is actually learning needle felting. i think she’d make wonky little adorable creatures and she’d love every one with all her heart. she’d go around to everyone and be like look it’s you as an animal!!!! and you can barely tell it has a face. but it’s also the most precious think you’ve ever seen. you get it

minthara: ok minthara is hard this woman is dead focused on ambition. to help her get it out of her system i’m getting her into warhammer, helping her paint minis, and then setting her loose to become undisputed queen of the local game store. sorry guys u don’t stand a chance

bonus: i’m teaching withers to spin yarn. he shows up with a ball of yarn for you and you’re like what fiber is this and he’s like hm? and you drop it but it’s the most amazing yarn you’ve ever worked with.

[tenderpreyy]

​I’m thinking again about Astarions sexuality and how I've seen some people (to be fair, just a few) talk about it. Mainly, people pointing out his flamboyant behavior, and that us as players are learning more about his past male lovers than female ones and basically all these things for some people pointing to him being gay or at least not interested in women in the same way he is in men. And him only being a romance option regardless of gender, because, well, all companions are and he is therefore just "playersexual", only showing interest in female player characters because he has to, because of the game mechanics.

I think what really rubs me the wrong way about this topic is that it echoes the kind of things bi/pan people (speaking as a bisexual woman myself) find themselves dealing with irl. Whether through some form of internalized biphobia or from the outside through other people's comments. Of course this is about a fictional character so it’s not like he has any feelings that could be hurt. But when i see people tallying up how often he mentions men vs. how often he mentions women it really reminds me of a way of thinking I sometimes fall into in regards to my own sexuality. This is definitely just an internalized response and not something I actually believe when I truly think about it for a second, but I know these patterns of thought very well. Of observing my own behavior. How often do I find which gender attractive? Am I attracted "enough" to women? Do I talk about men's attractiveness too often? Is it the other way around? Am I only saying this woman is attractive to prove something to myself? I literally have a girlfriend and my attitude towards mine or other's sexual orientation is generally a huge big "whatever, I don't care". And I still have a passing thought like that from time to time.

So seeing people talk about a fictional character in this way really sends home how many people (whether consciously or unconsciously) see attraction as some sort of equation, you can solve, where in the end you get a result of either gay or straight.

[hobbithoes]

felt inspired af when I woke up and rlly thought I was gonna do a whole page of expressions today 😹😹😹

[what-is-it-to-be-pk-esque]

That's interesting.... Romanced Astarion (& ascended him) as an embrace Durge, killed the brain, and then at the reunion camp when you're a Bhaalspawn that's going insane and thinking about your lover, you can consider how you'd have the perfect child with your love interest ("Our issue would be perfect...") and the game explicitly states that Astarion (or perhaps whoever you romance) would never agree to breed a spawn with you:

Narrator: *Your new children will become the tyrant's hoard. Why do you spare even one thought for your forsaken mate?* 3. "Our issue would be perfect…""

Narrator: *Your darling would never agree to breed a spawn with you... The defiance begets death.

Narrator: *Now you are what he fears most. A starved ratling, an itching prowler. A reminder of his worst self, best left to history.*

And then of course it's implied you murder everyone, but I digress

[not-poignant]

Daily excerpt from today's writing, chapter 22 of Palmarosa:

‘Poor thing,’ Raphael said, smile widening further. ‘Just one cuff? You can’t even hide how it affects you, can you? Goodness gracious, little one, whatever will you do if I get you into four?’ ‘Yes, well, do I actually need to be here for the part where you gloat and make threats, or shall I just pretend you’ve said them and do away with the need?’ ‘I’m giving you what you want, darling,’ Raphael said, pulling Astarion closer as he stepped towards one of the portals. ‘We’re going on a discovery to find out what true submission means. I hope you’re in the mood for an adventure.’ ‘And what if I’m-’ Astarion’s voice was cut off by the uncomfortable experience of moving through the light blue portal, and then having his breath punched out of him by the sudden, searing cold. Raphael laughed low next to him, and leaned against his back, wrapping both arms around him, exhaling unusually warm breath against the back of his neck. Even now he kept one hand around that cuff, as Astarion stared at the rebuilt city of Luskan, and realised from the smell of the seawater and the distant sweet malodourous reek of rotting fish that they were on the Southern Bank. A few people nearby who packed crates into caravels and cogs turned to look at them, but seeing as they were pirates, they got back to their business, and left Raphael and Astarion to theirs. Astarion wondered if they were not worth robbing, looking as fancy as they did, but perhaps Raphael gave off an energy. ‘Do you like cold cities?’ ‘I like pirate cities,’ Raphael said, squeezing Astarion in his arms. From a distance, they probably looked like two lovers, one embracing the other from behind to keep him nicely warm by a freezing cold sea. ‘Ah, of course. I rather like pirate cities too,’ Astarion murmured. ‘Vagabonds are fun.’ ‘Aren’t they just?’ Raphael said, laughing. ‘Scoundrels too.’

[bridgertonphd]

ASTARION in BALDUR’S GATE 3 (2023) - [11/∞] (mod, mod)

[macaroniandcheese]

saw the worst take on astarion on youtube shorts im going to lose my mind how do you miss the point of a character that bad

[deepseapotato]

I'm convinced he does it on purpose.

I’ve had a bottle of wine and unfortunately this was the result

[gamingdotcom]

mmm i think its hard to think about others thinking of me when im not there or experiencing love that is not expressed because. it gets my hopes up.

[michanvalentine]

I was thinking about what Spawn Astarion says when Tav/Durge hints at leaving him: “Oh, shit, did I do something wrong?”

I’ve often seen people interpret this line as proof of how low Astarion’s self-esteem is—how he immediately assumes that it must be because of something he did wrong or something fundamentally flawed about him. And that’s absolutely true. But I also think this statement reveals just how much he has actually grown and changed compared to before.

Throughout the adventure, Astarion has consistently avoided accusations or responsibility for many things.

• “Killed is such a strong word. Not many corpses have your vigor,” he says when he loses control during the bite scene.

• “Don’t look at me like that—Cazador’s orders,” he tells the Gur children when they confront him about his actions.

• “It’s just six of them, and they’re vampire spawn,” he says about his siblings.

• “I’d have bedded you three times over by now if you were normal,” he tells Karlach during their first night together, shifting the blame onto her.

• “They’re as good as dead, they’re starving, they’ll cause a massacre,” he argues when justifying sacrificing the souls to Mephistopheles.

He deflects, downplays, and avoids responsibility.

But when Tav/Durge hints at leaving him? Astarion doesn’t hide. He doesn’t deflect. He directly asks if he did something wrong—even at the risk of hearing yes, that he actually did.

That’s not a small thing. To me, it shows openness, a willingness to be vulnerable, to take responsibility, and to accept the possibility of being hurt. It’s not just his low self-esteem talking—it’s also the courage and strength he has gained.

And that’s it, I just wanted to share this little thought of mine about this line.

[floweryanarchy]

Astarion Rewritten Outlaws Au Lore Dump

(gonna give a little content warning before you start reading because this does go over some heavy topics. Basically Cazador coded abuse, heavy manipulation, canon-typical trauma, process of inflicting scarring, character death... If that’s not something you wanna read I’d stop here and scroll.)

HERE WE GO.

Backstory⬇️

Astarion has no papers—no birth certificate, no record of citizenship, nothing. That wasn’t always the case. But after Cazador pulled him out of prison with a forged pardon, he ensured every trace of Astarion’s true identity was erased. With his wealth and connections, it was easy for Cazador to bribe officials and have the original records destroyed. Astarion became a ghost in the system—a body without a name, as if he had never existed at all. Astarion having no proof of citizenship means he can’t appeal to the law. He’s not a person in the eyes of the state—he’s property of Cazadors.

Cazador saw potential in him right from the start, because Astarion was beautiful. Striking. The perfect doll for his high-end parlor house. All Astarion had to do was endure what came next. A test. Proof that he was worthy of serving Cazador, that he could properly atone for his supposed crimes. After all, Cazador had bailed him out, hadn’t he? Spent a small fortune, pulled strings, gone through great effort just to see him freed. He had saved Astarion from the miserable life he’d known before—given him a new purpose, a place, a reason to be wanted.

And so, Cazador marked him. A ritual of scarification, done with meticulous care and deliberate precision. His initials “CS” etched into the skin of Astarions back.

When it was over, Cazador tended to him with soft hands and quiet praise, barely heard over Astarions sobs.

In his eyes, Astarion had passed.

The Parlor House was a gilded cage, draped in silks and perfumed with expensive scents to mask the stench of sweat and desperation. A place where men and women of status indulged in pleasures with no consequence, where Cazador’s spawn were paraded before them like prized animals. The moment Astarion was brought upstairs, cleaned and dressed in whatever finery Cazador saw fit, his life was no longer his own.

But Cazador’s empire was built on more than just flesh. His influence spread far beyond the parlors walls, weaving into the underbelly of the city. Hidden among the pleasures the spawn were forced to provide was another service: ensuring Cazador’s clients got hooked on more than just their bodies. The spawn were tasked with discreetly dealing with his supply, slipping small doses of a potent, addictive substance onto eager tongues, ensuring that patrons return.

Every time Astarion tries to imagine a life outside the parlor, he remembers: no name, no coin, and nowhere to go. And worse—if he runs, there’s a bounty waiting to be reinstated, and a dozen corrupt lawmen ready to drag him back… or bury him in the desert. But then again, prison treated him better than here. Alas even if he wanted to, there were always guards posted at the doors, watching.

Sebastian—young, kind, and foolish—had offered to help. He was a regular at the parlor house, one of the few who saw past the makeup and charm to the hollow ache beneath. He promised Astarion money, a train ticket, a way out. Safety. And asked for nothing in return.

Cazador found out.

Sebastian disappeared not long after, and no one asked questions. But Astarion knew. He knew because Cazador put the gun in his hand, pressed a finger over his own, and pulled the trigger.

“You belong to me, boy.”

Astarion wished that was the end of it. But it wasn’t. That same night, Astarion was dragged from his room and taken to the outskirts of the city. Cazador didn’t scream. He didn’t strike. He just watched as his men forced Astarion into a narrow wooden box and shut the lid. They buried him 6 feet, leaving only a narrow pipe for air.

He stayed underground for two full days.

By the time they dug him up, Astarion was barely conscious—starving, dehydrated, broken. From that day forward, he never dared speak of escape again.

Cazador made sure of it.

He had Astarion’s entire back redone, claiming the scars had healed too cleanly, too neatly. Adding additional lines to his artwork, a punishment for Astarions misbehavior. This time, he packed the fresh wounds with ash, ensuring the marks would stay—sharp, raised lines etched into his skin, permanent. And, as always, he was tender afterward, sitting beside him with a damp cloth and that infuriatingly soft voice.

“If only you’d stop acting out,” he murmured, gently dabbing at the angry red flesh. “We could be so happy. A real family. Don’t you want that, my boy? To be treated well? You’re the one making this so difficult. You bring these punishments on yourself. I only ever do what’s necessary.”

The scars stayed, just like he wanted—crisp, deliberate lines that pulled taut when Astarion moved or stretched.

Years later.

Business had been slow at the parlor, which meant the favored spawn were allowed outside for a bit-to lure in the rich types passing by. Of course, they were never alone. There was always an assigned escort hanging back, watching from the shadows, making sure no one tried anything stupid like running.

Astarion had been playing by the rules for a while, his back nearly healed from Cazadors last punishment. So he’d been rewarded with a little taste of freedom more or less. He was out there, mid-conversation with some pompous noble- laying on the charm, smiling enough to draw them in- when suddenly all hell broke loose. Screaming, people running, complete chaos.

And Astarion? He didn’t think twice. He bolted. Took his shot in the midst of everything, if he got out of the escorts line of sight and vanish in the crowd, he could finally be free-

One moment, he’s sprinting for his life- the next, everything went black.

(I will be nice to Astarion from now on.)

^^^

(Me when I lie)

[miraculan-draws]

I just think if you dunked Astarion in water he'd be unrecognizable for like 10 seconds. There is no way in hell he has naturally black eyelashes. There is no way that coif can be achieves without pomade and a comb, and there is no way that it would be water proof.

MOSTLY THOUGH I just wanted to like a nautiloid crash vs. on-the-road Star. Suspicious stranger vs. my favorite little creep whose head is like a lovely dandelion.

[sky-scribbles]

Thinking about Gale's spellbook.

Not the old one, the one he carried when he was Gale, the Wizard of Waterdeep - a gorgeous, leather-and-silver bound thing that bulged with a lifetime's worth of accumulated knowledge. There were spells in there penned over wine and cheese with Elminster; in a flow state that bordered on the spiritual after a night with Mystra, remembering her instruction, the feel of her soul against his. That spellbook was the testament to his success, the proof that he had excelled beyond the excellent -

And then Mystra cut him off from the Weave, and it all become meaningless.

His own runes, rendered incomprehensible; beautiful spell-glyphs that turned from condensed power and knowledge to worthless pieces of art. He has to start anew, from the ground up - reforging his connection to the Weave without Mystra's guidance (without her, without), relearning schoolboy spells. Humiliatingly easy magic, the kind he used to do like it was breathing, except this time he has to study and work and try and try, Tara urging him on with firm but gentle words.

He learns different spells, now. Mage Armour, Shield, Magic Missile. Not the kind of spells that he'll ever need on a day-to-day basis; spells that'll keep him alive long enough when he makes an exodus to the depths of the Underdark, or the centre of some desert wastes, and goes supernova.

The new spellbook is a plainer thing, small enough to fit in a robe pocket (because extradimensional storage spaces are no longer things he can make with a thought). And then he's snatched by a Nautiloid, and... honestly, he'd swear that the spine just wants to hold onto blood-spatters, no matter how many times he cleans them out. The pages get spotted from all the times he's had to flick them open in driving rain; the corners get creased from being shoved in and out of his robes.

And absolutely nothing can protect it from the unstoppable force of his friends.

Karlach nearly sends the whole thing up in flames one night by gesticulating a bit too wildly. Wyll laughs too hard one night and sprays wine all over Gale's new notes on Abjuration. Scratch picks up the entire thing and runs off with it when Gale's back is foolishly turned, and it's only a stern talking-to from Halsin that saves the whole thing from becoming a chew toy.

Smiley cat faces, doodled on the pages in Yenna's untidy hand. A helpful comment from Karlach on the Fireball page: 'AKA FUCK YEAH LET'S GO!!!!' A few lines of Wyll's perfect handwriting, a memento from a long discussion about how infernal energies could enhance fire magic; a few observations from Shadowheart on warding enchantments. Some terse comments on psionic magic from Lae'zel that Gale finds himself weaving into his Shields, and they do seem to hold up a little better now. (Other hands on his spellbook! Touching the pages he carries close to his heart! The man he was would never have believed it.)

He thinks of them all, as he writes new spells. Counterspell, because nothing will touch them. Spells that will carry his people from danger and shield them from harm. He watches Astarion pace before the fire one night and inscribes Sunbeam with a cold smile of promise to Cazador; he glowers at Mizora over the edge of the pages as he ponders what spells would be best suited to killing a devil.

A wizard's spellbook, Elminster told him once, is a reflection of their soul. Gale of Waterdeep's spellbook was a marvel; perfect and polished and resplendant. Untouched by any hands but his own.

Gale Dekarios's spellbook is battered and beloved, covered on every page with the fingerprints of his friends.

[sad-endings-suck]

“I see Karlach and Astarion as having such a sibling dynamic.” 😝😃

���Karlach and Astarion are f/f and m/m solidarity!” 🥰🤪🤗

They both talk to each other, other companions, and the player character about being attracted to each other. Y’all are weird wtf.

Nothing annoys me more than people “jokingly” calling Astarion gay or Karlach a lesbian. Like… ya’ll consider yourselves to be the “progressive” demographic, and yet you still cannot understand basic queer stereotypes and how they are evidently rooted in hetero-normativity and not “queer culture”.

“The tall muscular woman must be a lesbian for no reason other than her physical appearance and the over-dramatic pretty man must be gay because how could he be frivolous and also like women? Only big strong stoic men can be attracted to women.”

Y’all hear how that sounds, right?

[neckromantics]

Can we please talk about how often vampires are seen having infatuations with the living, simply because they’re… well, living? How Astarion's vampiric nature would have him frequently mesmerized by just how alive you are??

Pt1.

(nsfw warning. oops. It's mostly fluff tho. there is kinda breathplay in this. i didn't mean to, but-)

Astarion who, smitten as he is, rests his head against your chest during one of your regular lazy morning cuddles. He’s not so covertly listening in on the pounding of your heart. Bare skin sensitive to every brush of his fingertips as he traces them up and down the softness of your side, tapping along to each solid thud as it beats away for him. You try not to squirm too much in fear of jostling him out of whatever dreamlike state he’s fallen into, but you’ve no need to worry. Your soft breathing—the subsequent rise and fall of your belly— is only lulling him further and further into that rare state of tranquility.

After a while, he’ll relocate a little further down. One pointed ear presses tight to the tender skin of your ribs as he seeks to be even closer to the sound, and this time, you can’t stop yourself from squirming. It’s his hair that does you in. The pale curls at the back of his neck are so silky soft against your flesh that it just about tickles, and the goosebumps that start to crawl their way up your arms only get worse each time he readjusts. He sounds so drowsy when he shushes your giggles, and when you insist you can’t help it, that it's his fault, he shushes you a second time. As if the sound of your laughter isn’t precious to him all on its own.

Astarion, who often finds himself with his lips to your pulse point without really knowing how he got there. You’ll be sat by the fire having idle chit-chat, and the next thing you know, he’s pulling your joined hands up toward his mouth as it’s your turn to speak. The first time it’d happened, you thought maybe he wanted a bit of a snack or something (not that he’s really ever done so without asking, first. Even though you’ve said about one thousand times that the offer is always on the table), but when you turned to glance at him, there wasn’t an ounce of hunger in those ruby eyes of his. He was listening to you as intently as always. Even nodded to encourage you when your sentence trailed off a bit in your confusion.

You’re not entirely sure he knows he’s doing it, or why he’s doing it for that matter, but you couldn’t be more wrong.

There’s a general warmth radiating from you that, despite Astarion’s best efforts in the past, he’s always been magnetized to. But here? Where his mouth stays poised? It’s a heat like nothing else. The steady pulse of blood—of life—calls out to him like a siren song, and while the hunger is there (will always be there), there is also something else. Something more, perhaps? A feeling he can’t quite put a name to. It’s a comfort, maybe. An assurance, he reasons to himself. That steady thump of life beneath his lips is proof enough that you’re still here with him.

Anyway.

Conversations continue without a hitch now-a-days, despite his voice being a little more than muffled with his lips jammed against whatever pulse point he can find. But, you don’t mind because while you can’t see him smiling, you sure can feel it.

Astarion, who gets struck with such a strange, desperate need to feel your breath that he has to lift his hand to your lips as he sinks deep into your warmth. Mouth half-open from your previous slack-jawed whining, not even a moment passes before you’re pressing sloppy, wet kisses to the cool skin he’s offered up to you, lids heavy with lust as you try and fail to keep your eyes focused on your lover. It still baffles him how you never miss a beat—not with him, anyway—not even when he’s got the entire bottom half of your face cupped beneath a firm hand.

His own mouth can't stop exploring every inch of flesh it can reach. He says your name but it sounds more like a thank you, fangs pricking against the inside of the arm you've got wrapped around his neck as your heels dig into the meat of his ass to nudge him forward still. Your fingers curl into his hair, getting a good handful that you'd never dare to pull. It's a gentle guiding that drives him mad—the way you herd him ever closer with such a tender touch—as if he isn't pinning you into the mattress with the majority of his weight already.

While his breaths are unneeded, they quickly match pace with the ones you’re puffing against his hand. Hitching into a gasp that he can’t think to contain when your moaning sends vibrations all the way up to his elbow. Your quick gulps of air stutter beneath him as the two of you get your bearings, and your next exhale is so sharp as his hips jerk against yours that it practically whistles out between the spaces of his fingers.

Astarion doesn't think he's ever heard anything more perfect in all his undeath.

(Me quietly to myself: what kind of kink is this.)