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judasviscariot · 5 months

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I am not a woman, but I have always been one.

I am an invisible impossibility. A thing so unthinkable even my own people mock and revile what I’ve become. I am expected to degrade myself in kind, to make a joke of my own existence.

A man? How very… disappointing.

Transness is not a choice until you’re the beast that becomes a man. It is a celebration in our community until it’s cause for condolences for such an unimaginable decision - you’re a man now? I’m sorry. That’s unfortunate.

But I am not a man like them. I will never be like a man who was born to it.

Because I was born with an imagined god’s brutal laws grafted to my body. To the rest of society, the uterus I inherited from my sex already belonged to some ephemeral man out in the world, a man whose name would devour mine as his child would devour my body.

I was born to appease the eyes of cisgender, heterosexual men - and when I failed to do so, I became their villain.

I have always been a villain of some sort. Perhaps that is why it seems so comforting to me.

It is a hollow comfort.

There is no privilege in this transition. There is little joy. It is a terribly lonely thing, becoming a monster in the eyes of even your own community.

But I wasn’t, and I’m not. The terrible tragedy of it all is I wanted to be a man like the ones in stories and legends, a man like the heroes from the books I devoured as a child; but then I grew up and realized that the reality of those stories is far grimmer and men in my reality were far fouler and it seems so inconceivable to me that I should ever want to become what has almost destroyed me.

And that’s the catch, isn’t it? I never could be. There is an assumption within the trans community that trans men gain the ever-sought male privilege upon transitioning - and perhaps if you live stealth and pass, you can experience some aspects of it.

But as soon as we reveal ourselves - or, god forbid, live out loud as trans men who don’t pass - that privilege goes away. Male privilege cannot truly belong to those who have suffered so viscerally beneath it; those who have been born with its expectations and claiming brand on the surface of an unwanted womb.

I have experienced very little triumph in this transition.

We are not the victorious trans people that get written into shows and movies. We are the oddities who do not yet fill out the suits we so desperately want to wear. We are the fascinations on magazine covers, ever reduced to the fact of the uterus living still inside us.

I am so tired of being invisible, of being ignored until I’m being forgiven for my “choice” to become what has tried to kill me. I am tired of the degradation, of the appeasement through silence. I am tired of being made into a joke.

My masculinity - my manhood - is not a tragedy.

I refuse to behave like it is.

I refuse to be made silent by my own people.

I am not something for you to grieve. I am not the gentle thing the cisgender world wanted me to be, nor am I the quiet disappointment of my own kin.

I am a rebellion against all that was put upon me before I was named by my mother.

I am not a woman, but I have always been one.

I am Judas.

#diaries of a trans man #trans man #trans #trans trauma #transgender #trans men #trans masculinity #idk

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judasviscariot · 5 months

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trigun doods

#hehe #Trigun #idk #doodles

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judasviscariot · 6 months

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weren't we like a pair of thieves with tumbled locks and broken codes

#BARK BARK BARK BARK #BARK #trigun #vashwood

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judasviscariot · 6 months

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was trying to find body positivity posts for trans guys that look like me and couldn’t. so here’s a post for all the trans guys with wide hips and dad bods. you are hot, you are desirable, and you are doing great

#barking like a dog #looking respectfully #trans man dad bods ugh yes

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judasviscariot · 6 months

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the men and boys are innocent too.

we cry "the innocent women and children" to appeal to the masses, to try and force their sympathy, but the men and boys are innocent too.

I have seen sons crying out for their mothers, their fathers, their siblings. I have seen them break down at the loss of their families. I have seen them cling to their dead and grieve.

I have seen fathers cradle their dead children, seen them kiss their faces and hold their little hands. I have seen them faint with grief when asked to identify the dead. I have seen them carry their sons and daughters. I have seen them fasting to provide what little they can for their families.

I have seen men and boys digging through the rubble with just their bare hands, I have seen them comforting strangers, playing with children, rocking them, hushing them, even if the face of such imminent danger. I have seen them cry, seen them grieve, seen them break down into each other's arms, seen them be selfless, beyond selfless, becoming something I don't have a word for.

I have seen the men who are doctors refuse to leave their patients, even when they have no medicine or supplies to give them, even when they're threatened with bombings. I have seen fathers who have lost all their children pick orphans up into their arms and proclaim them their child so they are not alone. I have seen men and boys digging pets out of the rubble.

the men are innocent too. the men and boys are being hurt and killed too. the men and boys are grieving too. the men and boys are scared too. the men and boys are fighting to save their people too. the men and boys deserve to be fought for too.

#free palestine

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judasviscariot · 6 months

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the men and boys are innocent too.

we cry "the innocent women and children" to appeal to the masses, to try and force their sympathy, but the men and boys are innocent too.

I have seen sons crying out for their mothers, their fathers, their siblings. I have seen them break down at the loss of their families. I have seen them cling to their dead and grieve.

#free Palestine

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judasviscariot · 6 months

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sorry for being intense about everything, it’ll happen again

#LMFAOOOOOO #billy hargrove

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judasviscariot · 7 months

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The Unfamiliarity of Longing

And the absolutely infuriating inability to escape it. No matter what he does, the taste of it lingers in the back of his throat like bile.

This was not part of the plan. This was never supposed to be part of any plan!

After living for so long going entirely unmoved by each and every bloody, blasted, damnable soul he came across, he was certain that something like this was never going to be a problem he would be forced to deal with.

He’s heard all about the symptoms of longing, of yearning - always secondhand, and always from the mouths of mortal fools who live and die in the blink of an eye. Oh, but the mortals write sonnets upon sonnets about them; the ache in your chest when you’re apart, the restlessness, the constant writhing in your belly whenever you know they’re about to be near…

Awful. It always sounded more like an illness than anything else.

He can now confirm it does indeed feel like it, too.

It is a sickness, a curse. There is no cure but abandonment - and he’s come too far to turn back now.

But it isn’t the same.

It will never be the same again, because he has been changed by this - this lovesickness.

So changed that he finds himself haunting the places where Gale Dekarios lives every now and then. So changed, so diseased he is, he finds himself picking his way through the wizard’s tent whilst he bathes in the river nearby. He wishes he could blame it on the idle curiosity of a patron for his vassal - but Dekarios is not his vassal, and he is no patron.

No deal has been struck. Only an agreement.

There is no excuse. There is no burning brand in the shape of his horns on Gale Dekarios’ soul.

So there is no reason for him to be picking through the wizard’s impressive, magicked tent. But here he is, eyeing the books spread out on the modest table in the center of the room and the rumpled bedsheets on the not-so-modest king sized bed.

It feels like Dekarios in here. His presence is… a balm.

(He could write tomes describing it, but he fears he has a distinct lack of vocabulary to do the job properly. In any language.)

His things are strewn about. Raphael spies an old locket on the nightstand - one of his offerings to appease the orb. Halting at the end of the bed, the cambion finds himself faced with a discarded tunic. It’s the wizard’s customary shade of royal purple and looks well-worn, the cuffs and hem a little threadbare.

Idle fingertips light on the intricate embroidery at the collar. The Devil traces the knots, following threads of gold from shoulder to shoulder.

And - see, it must be a disease that afflicts him because he’s quite certain only sickness could force his heart out of place. It thunders at the base of his throat and he can’t swallow it down. A snake unfurls in his belly and he finds himself fisting a hand in the tunic.

He wasn’t prepared for this.

For a moment, he pretends to be someone that was. He lifts the tunic from the foot of the bed and presses it to his nose, eyes fluttering shut to narrow his senses. He breathes deep, knuckles bleaching out with how tight he holds the soft fabric.

Mulling spices and vanilla, warm skin and savory musk; something in his chest is going concave. An ache ripples through his lower belly and something seems to be gnawing on his spine.

Oh, but how beautifully it burns.

Laughter shatters the moment. The tent flap is thrown open just as the cambion disappears, hand still gripping the tunic. Dekarios comes sauntering in wearing just his breeches. His hair is damp and wild and his skin gleams, not yet entirely dry. He whistles as he tosses his sachet of soap on the table, trading it for a worn leather tome.

The wizard halts at the end of his bed and squints. He tilts his head and gives the vicinity a cursory look before turning on his heel and shouting “Astarion! Did you steal another tunic? Give it back, it’s the only one I have left!”

“I did no such thing!” comes the faint, utterly affronted reply.

Only one he has left, is it?

Shame.

He won’t be getting it back - at least, not anytime soon.

#baldur’s gate 3 #the land of gods and monsters verse #and i continue my gaphael agenda #raphael #gale dekarios #i will not relent #bg3 raphael

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judasviscariot · 7 months

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Chapters: 3/? Fandom: Baldur’s Gate (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Astarion/Halsin (Baldur’s Gate) Characters: Astarion (Baldur’s Gate), Halsin (Baldur’s Gate), Gale (Baldur’s Gate), Shadowheart (Baldur’s Gate), Lae'zel (Baldur’s Gate), Wyll (Baldur’s Gate), Karlach (Baldur’s Gate), Zevlor (Baldur’s Gate), Kagha (Baldur’s Gate), Rath (Baldur’s Gate), Raphael (Baldur’s Gate), Nettie (Baldur’s Gate), Korrilla Hearthflame Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Astarion’s Backstory, Halstarion, Romance, Monogamous Halstarion, Monogamous Halsin, Long, spans the entire game, POV Astarion (Baldur’s Gate), POV Raphael, Raphael is my babygirl and I love him, Eventual Smut, Memories, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vampires, Hurt/Comfort, Slow Burn, Gale and Astarion are best friends Summary:

In which Astarion and Halsin knew each other Before, and it changes everything.

#HERE WE GO #the land of gods and monsters verse #halstarion #long fic #ongoing #baldur's gate 3 #HERE THE FUCK WE GO #astarion #halsin #my fic

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judasviscariot · 7 months

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Usually, Halsin finds how excessively messy battle is to be a nuisance. Stoic though he seems in the aftermath, the tacky, cloying nature of blood drying on skin makes his teeth itch - never mind the stench of it, overwhelmingly metallic and musky in a way that makes his eyes water like he’s about to sneeze.

So, understandably, Halsin usually finds the excessive messiness of a fight to be incredibly inconvenient.

Until, of course -

“You know,” Astarion muses as he prowls lazily towards Halsin in the direct aftermath of a nasty tussle with a group of truly ambitious bandits, “when it’s not from goblins, you do make all that gore look so very good, darling.”

The world narrows as Halsin’s focus zeroes in on the sway of Astarion’s lean hips. He’s always so beautiful, his little dawnstar, but Silvanus preserve him - there is nothing quite like an Astarion fresh from a fight. He’s damp with sweat and mist, snowy hair gleaming, that single perfect curl bobbing low over his brow, and there’s an edge to his smirk that sets fire to the primal instinct inside Halsin’s belly.

A low, pleased rumble echoes through his chest as Astarion slides his hands over it and tips his chin up for the rain-slick kiss Halsin bows to give him. The vampire chuckles against his lips, fangs glancing off Halsin’s tongue. Clever fingers sink into his damp hair and the gentle tug Astarion gives him sends lightning down his spine. Growling, he frames Astarion’s slim waist in big hands and holds.

There is no finer armor to keep him safe.

“Nothing,” Shadowheart says, sounding utterly bewildered as she gestures vaguely at the pair entangled in front of the gods and everyone in the middle of a dozen corpses, “nothing dissuades them.”

“I don’t know why this still shocks you,” Wyll says as he stoops to wipe his blade on a dead bandit’s jerkin, “remember what they were like after we defeated Thorm?”

“Oh, yeah,” hum both Shadowheart and Karlach, who look judgmental and misty eyed, respectively.

And as narrow as his world has become - as narrow as the set of Astarion’s hips, to be exact - Halsin still hears enough to say, “no wicked god could stand between us,” and Astarion coos.

“Eugh,” Shadowheart says. Karlach elbows her.

Usually, Halsin is about as disgusted as the former Sharran in the wake of a bloodbath - until, of course, Astarion, who looks at him now like he’s set to devour him and continues to be the exception to every rule.

#baldur’s gate 3 #halstarion #astarion #halsin #the land of gods and monsters verse #rambles #baldur's gate 3 #shadowheart is both so fond but also so fed up

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judasviscariot · 7 months

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The fact that Astarion can’t/doesn’t lose his absolute shit with the Gur woman in Rivington when she says he’s lived a life of sin and blames him outright for what they suffered because of Cazador is abysmal. I want this man to rage I want him snarling, I want him getting in her face baring fang as he describes exactly what it was like to experience the horror of what Cazador made him do whilst he wasn’t in control of his own body.

I want him to be able to fight back for himself in ways that matter.

#baldur’s gate 3 #astarion #i want him feral i want him laughing through bitterness i want him to snarl at her #astarion ancunin

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judasviscariot · 7 months

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winged insect/funeral pyre

(Ficlet for @when-emma-falls-apart , who guessed the second pov of The Land of Gods and Monsters [it’s Raphael] and got to request a Halstarion ficlet theme; they picked hurt/comfort, injured Astarion with Halsin showing off his druid skills at healing. Truly a joy to write, thank you darling! I hope u enjoy it!

Title from Take Me Back to Eden by Sleeptoken. This ficlet takes place in my own personal verse, The Land of Gods and Monsters, wherein Halsin and Astarion knew each other Before Astarion Died and it Changes Everything.)

They have to carve their way out of Crèche Y’llek.

All told, the entire ordeal goes better than Astarion predicted it would - right up until the very end, of course. Because that’s the way it goes for him and his little motley group of Mind-Flayed misfits. There’s always another shoe to drop, even when they’ve all been barefoot for days.

And though he may be divinely immune to the effects of the sun, he is not immune to the piercing damage of the wickedly barbed bolts that fly with astonishing accuracy from the mouths of Githyanki crossbows.

Not even Lathander himself could’ve reacted fast enough to stop it.

And he’s not - look. He knows it’s cliche and abysmal and so very tragic, but Astarion is no stranger to incredible pain. It’s not really the bolt that slams into his gut that hurts the most so much as -

“Astarion!”

The roar rips out of Halsin like an echo of the tempest Astarion is becoming. See: even as his body begins to go rigid with shock, Astarion’s newfound inheritance is waking in the cusp of his bones. The Githyanki who was unfortunate enough to take aim and fire at the sun-born elf is obliterated in an instant by a blast of white lightning. It’s almost poetic, the way the ashes slowly rain down as Astarion drops to the ground like an oversized hailstone, one hand flying to the bolt on instinct.

But the pain is a minor inconvenience compared to -

“NO!”

He’s dizzy with the way Halsin’s shattering cry makes the earth beneath his knees tremble. Astarion sags to the left, but instead of unforgiving ground, he finds himself caught against Gale’s broad, leather-armored chest.

“Easy,” Gale says steadily, “easy, sunshine, I’ve got you.”

It’s a good thing, too - Halsin is currently busy ripping through every remaining Githyanki with startling brutality, a furious, cursing Lae’zel at his side.

“Ah,” Astarion pants as blood gushes between his gloved fingers, “such a - bother, isn’t it? Being - shot in the abdomen? We’ve too - too many - important bits, in this - area, haven’t we?”

“I truly can’t believe I’m saying this, but do shut up, won’t you?” Gale says. His voice is tight. Tense. Sticky and wrong. Oh, Astarion thinks dazedly; that’s not a good tone. That’s a tone he doesn’t think he’s ever heard before, actually. He’s in a bit more of a pickle than he thought, isn’t he?

Time’s up, Astarion, says the ghost of his father. Through a reddening haze, Astarion looks up to find Melakar Ancunín looming over them, casting a shadow about three times as tall as it should be and twice as dark. His slim face is twisted in disappointment, hands clasped behind his rigidly straight spine.

There is no light in his eyes.

No, Astarion thinks as the world begins to turn black, I can’t be finished. Not now. Not when I’ve finally found him again. Not - not now that I’ve finally started to find me, again.

Mother - mother, please.

Please.

Everything becomes smoke. He’s vaguely aware of it when he’s lifted off the ground in a different pair of arms than those of his best friend. The smoke pulses and he feels like he’s falling for a moment.

‘Calm,’ comes a deep, soothing voice, one wrought with agony but still so steady, ‘I have you, dawnstar.’

And then - flickers of gold.

Halsin, Astarion thinks, heart writhing and shedding tears, don’t forget me. Don’t let me go, please. Don’t let me become nothing. Remember me, Halsin, please, darling.

I love -

I love you.

It’s unfair. Oh, it’s so fucking unfair! The scars on Astarion’s back burn like Cazador’s laughter had.

The flickers of gold take shape. Take wing. Take flight. Is he dying?

Sparrows. They dive through the shadows, weaving between tendrils of smoke and shade. The pain in Astarion’s belly is nothing compared to -

‘Hold on, Astarion,’ Halsin murmurs in the distance, voice like thunder across the thousand leagues between them; ‘hold on, my heart - dawnstar, hear me. Come back to me, please.

Astarion -

Dawnstar.

Please.’

And that’s the thing about prayers, isn’t it? They become stronger the more they’re felt. Oh, how he feels this one; it ripples through his bones and shivers into his marrow, and Astarion isn’t entirely sure what’s become of his soul but he can sense it for the first time in two fucking centuries as Halsin’s healing light ebbs and flows over him like the tide.

Breathlessness overwhelms him. Sunlight fills his lungs. He can smell ozone and cedar, burning rose petals and something musky and deep, like the earth bathed in twilight.

The memory of pressing his lips to the heartbeat that echoes through his ears tempts Astarion’s consciousness from the depths of his near-death experience. His eyes slowly flutter open. Sunlit sparrows chase the darkness away and a familiar face swims into sharp relief.

His body ignites where Halsin touches him. The Druid’s big, calloused hand is pressed to his bare stomach, the blood under his palm gone tacky and thick. The dusky air is cool against his chest. His breastplate and jerkin have been tossed in a pile nearby. Vaguely aware that the others watching them, Astarion attempts to push himself more upright against the crumbling pillar he’s propped up against and Halsin shifts forward, his free hand moving swiftly around Astarion’s nape.

“Shh, shh,” Halsin burrs, his brow heavily furrowed; a waterfall tumbles from the cliffs above behind him. They’re in the stairway leading down into Crèche Y’llek and everything is cast in the dewy light of the gentle sunset.

“Here,” and a warm, familiar presence joins them as Gale offers his water skein, “drink - slowly, mind. We should set up camp. No point pressing on until morning anyway.”

Astarion takes the water skein but doesn’t drink. Instead he looks down at himself and huffs. “Blood just gets everywhere, doesn’t it?” he complains, avoiding Halsin’s piercing, tender gaze with stubborn resolve.

If he looks up, he’s lost.

“There’s a hot spring that looks serviceable nearby,” Halsin murmurs as the others move to climb higher into the cathedral proper. He sweeps his cloak off his broad shoulders and wraps it around Astarion. It smells like him - like cedar and burning roses, like the earth bathed by twilight.

Astarion doesn’t protest when Halsin moves to lift him. There’s no point. Halsin burns with a protective fear that makes Astarion’s throat feel thick. He almost… it almost feels like guilt? Sticky and cloying and suffocating. His recently mended gut churns and Astarion focuses on the shadow hiding in the crook of Halsin’s throat as the druid carries him through the hallowed halls of the monastery until they’re arriving at the aforementioned hot spring.

“Mighty convenient, this,” Astarion says as Halsin sets him down on a bench near a broken wardrobe and desk. He ignores the skeleton on the ground in front of said desk as Halsin undoes his own gloves and then moves to deal with Astarion’s boots.

“Always so nice, magical baths. Everlasting and bountiful, it’s almost like they knew we were coming,” the vampire continues, and the pain of the bolt was horrid but it was nothing compared to this -

This silence.

Halsin gently guides one of Astarion’s feet out of its boot, then the other. It’s a marker of how heavy it all is when Astarion can’t conjure up a single clever quip as the druid tugs the laces of his breeches open and helps Astarion out of the rigid leather before he stands and offers Astarion his hand.

The groan Astarion lets out when he steps down into the enchanted bath is entirely involuntary and only a little obscene. He lets go of Halsin’s helping hand and wades tentatively deeper, until the water is pooling around his bloodied belly. Cupping clean water in his hand, Astarion starts to wipe the blood away until he can see the small, silver-tinged, starburst-shaped scar on his stomach.

“I have to hand it to you, darling,” he says with a faint smile, admiring the handiwork before looking up, “you have quite a knack for healing. Did you know that? It’s almost like you… are you drinking?”

After taking a long pull, Halsin sets the bottle of wine he must’ve procured from the Crèche on the shelf of the broken wardrobe. He swipes the back of a hand over his mouth and then shuts his eyes, leaning heavily on his free hand. Something inside Astarion breaks.

No - that’s not quite right, is it?

Something broken… something broken inside Astarion shifts. The scattered pieces of some softer instinct jostle and tremble, shy threads of sinew inching out to cling to fractured splinters of an emotion most people don’t need to practice to be able to feel.

“Halsin. Darling, look at me,” Astarion pleads gently.

I think you should kiss me. Was that only yesterday? Gods, he’s lost track of time. Always losing track of the time he doesn’t have.

For the second time in as many days, Halsin obeys his command. The older elf lifts his head and meets Astarion’s gaze with one burdened by the years Astarion missed.

“Bring it here,” Astarion says, holding out a hand. “I won’t let you drink alone, at the very least. It’s never a good thing, drinking alone.”

There’s a beat of silence. Halsin reeks of strife. Astarion’s brow furrows and he arches a gentle brow.

“Come here, Halsin,” he says softly. “Please.”

Please.

He needn’t beg. Needn’t pray. Halsin won’t refuse him. Astarion isn’t sure he can. It is a power he doesn’t know if he deserves.

Halsin shifts back from the wardrobe, bottle in hand. He sidles to the edge of the bath and passes it to Astarion. The vampire holds Halsin’s gaze. Something unspoken passes between them and Halsin starts to shed pieces of his own armor as Astarion looks on, eyes fixed on his grim face.

Three for three.

The wine is sharp and dry on his tongue. Astarion steps back; Halsin slides into the bath and takes the bottle when Astarion offers it back to him. Instead of drinking from it, however, Halsin sets it aside and shifts towards Astarion with a fractured inhale. The vampire’s wayward amulet - the amulet that led them to the Blood of Lathander, the amulet that he thought he’d lost two hundred years ago - gleams where it rests on Halsin’s big, softly furred chest.

Where it’s been kept safe for the past two hundred years.

Astarion’s throat is thick with a softer emotion most people don’t need to practice to be able to feel. A far more familiar guilt begins to claw its way into his chest so Astarion tries to cling to that, instead. At least he understands the guilt.

“Twenty or thirty-nine or fucking two hundred,” Astarion murmurs quietly, “I’ve never known what to do when you look at me like that.”

Halsin’s nostrils flare. Grief sluices from him in waves as intense as the healing. Astarion can’t take his eyes off the man - devastatingly painful as it is, Halsin is also the most devastatingly beautiful thing Astarion has ever seen. The guilt slips through his fingers and all he knows is the emotion he hasn’t practiced enough to be able to feel with any semblance of elegance or grace.

“Oh, come here,” Astarion manages through a mouthful of sand, and it’s all the permission Halsin needs; one big hand slides along Astarion’s lean waist as the other splays protectively over the silver starburst scar on his belly. Halsin’s brow presses against his crown and Astarion wraps an arm around the bigger elf’s strong neck, eyes fluttering shut with the weight of the tears clinging to his lashes.

It is the first time in two hundred years and six months he’s felt the heat of Halsin’s skin against his own.

And for all that they lost, it’s only the second time.

Astarion resolves it will not be the last.

“Halsin,” Astarion starts quietly, more than a little rattled by the weight of the man’s grief; “you,” Halsin says raggedly, “you - were talking. Begging, as I carried you from the Crèche. Begging me to - to remember you, begging me not to forget you.”

Astarion’s heart plummets into his recently mended stomach. Wetting his lips with a tongue gone dry, the vampire reaches up with cautious hands to touch Halsin’s cheeks. It’s a tentative thing, the way his fingertips light on Halsin’s face. The druid lets out a wrenching sound and shuts his eyes as he tips forward, chasing Astarion’s hands as a hound does prey. His lips part against the heel of Astarion’s right palm and a tear cuts down the Druid’s scarred cheek.

“We all tend to be a bit dramatic when we’re bleeding out, I think,” Astarion tries. “Hm? I mean, you all but confessed your love for me when we found you in the Underdark!”

He smiles, but it’s hollow.

“And I’ve told you - I might not have intended to say it, but I don’t regret that I did,” Halsin says - it’s a bit harsher than Astarion knows he meant it to be. He recoils a little on instinct and Halsin drops his head, face warping with frustration. Taming his own instinct to fight or flee, Astarion thumbs over Halsin’s cheekbone and presses closer.

“I could not -“ Halsin’s voice wavers. Breaks. When he lifts his green eyes to Astarion’s, all Astarion wants to do is tell him everything will be alright.

For a moment he believes it, because then Halsin’s expression is softening and he cups Astarion’s chin in a tending, healing hand.

“I could never forget you, dawnstar,” the druid intones in elvish, “not even the Lady of Loss could take you from me. I would have carried the memory of you for a thousand years or more and still known you the moment your voice uttered my name.”

And it’s so fucking unfair, isn’t it? That this is only the second bloody time he’s ever felt the heat of Halsin’s body against his own, that this is only the second time he’s ever been able to put his lips to the echo of the great elf’s heartbeat and breathe in the intoxicating scent of his sun-blessed skin. Two hundred years they lost. Countless moments of a silent devotion that not even death could erode.

What a remarkable tragedy. Even Shar herself couldn’t have written a greater loss.

But Astarion isn’t going to let go - not this time. Not without one hell of a fight. It might be the last fight he has left in him, but, Gods - what a thing to die for!

“I know you didn’t mean to confess the way you did,” Astarion says after a long, aching silence, “but I have to admit, darling - it was quite the confession. You can’t blame a man for trying to at least match your natural talent for theatrics.”

Because what else could those prayers and pleas meant, for fuck’s sake? This softer emotion, the thing that had lain broken and hopeless inside him for so fucking long, this thing that most people felt without needing to practice shaping it on their tongue… what else could it be but love?

And he remembers what it felt like, to love Halsin.

Hope. It had felt like hope.

The druid scans Astarion’s face as understanding passes over his own. When he frames Astarion’s jaw with a big hand, Astarion tries for a trembling smile. The tears are coming faster now. Only twice he’s felt the heat of Halsin’s body - he’s feared the destruction of it too many more times to count.

It’s horribly, incredibly unfair.

This time, it takes no command for Halsin to bow and kiss him. The tempest inside his chest surges up into his throat, lightning coating his tongue as Halsin licks into his mouth to chase the taste of his storm.

It’s remarkably, wretchedly unfair, this entire thing. Isn’t it?

And yet, every road Astarion has walked has led him back to this - back to the sunlight.

Back to hope.

And maybe that’s all that matters.

#baldur’s gate 3 #halstarion #halsin #astarion #the land of gods and monsters verse #rambles #baldur's gate 3 #my writing #ficlet #giftlet

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judasviscariot · 7 months

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the first person who guesses the second POV of the land of gods and monsters based on today’s little drabble in said POV gets to request a theme for a tumblr halstarion ficlet 💕

#halstarion #astarion #halsin #baldur’s gate 3 #it is not astarion (duh) and it is not a tav or dark urge

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judasviscariot · 7 months

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Arrogance.

That is his greatest folly. It may not always be this way, but thus far it has always been.

And ensconced within that arrogance - a byproduct of that folly - is a certain level of unpreparedness he did not think himself capable of. He is a strategist, and an excellent one at that. Yes, he has been outplayed time and again by the sire he sprung from, but there is no other more equipped to play the grand game than he.

The gambit of gods and devils, of arch-fiends and so-called divine things.

But you know what they say, don’t you? Make a plan, and Fate laughs.

Because for all his strategy and mastery of the divine game, nothing could have prepared him for -

“Open your eyes. Let me see you.”

Everything is impossible heat and inescapable, unstoppable pressure. Each thrust of Dekarios’ hips drives the madness of the entire situation higher and higher up his spine until he’s not entirely sure he can ever recover his former, seemingly saner reality.

Some part of him wants to lash out, wants to shove at that broad chest marked by allegedly misplaced ambition and snarl out a grating ‘you do not get to see me - you do not deserve to!’

But it’s the other way around, isn’t it, little Devil?

It is he who is unworthy - unworthy of opening his eyes to find the man above him gazing at him as if he was some previously unknown form of magic. Unworthy of the way Gale Dekarios touches him like his body isn’t some infernal machine, bred and built and brutalized for war.

For the short drop of a miserable existence and the sudden stop of a merciless death.

Not for -

“There you are,” and Dekarios - ‘say my name. Please, I want to hear it’ - smiles. It’s a tender thing, crooked and a bit wondering; Gale Dekarios smiles more with his expressive, autumn-warm eyes than his mouth, and right now those eyes are fixed on him and all he knows is fire.

His greatest folly has always been arrogance - but his ruin would surely be this. It would be the way Gale Dekarios kisses him, one staff-calloused, spell-weaving hand supporting the nape of his neck, thumb pressed along the hinge of his jaw; it would be the way he moves inside him, thick and gouging and throttling.

And it would be the fact that his heart was undeniably out of reach. Especially for something like him. For what fiend could ever compare to a God?

“Don’t run,” Gale exhales against his ear; every muscle in his body clenches in response, keeping him firmly suspended in place beneath the man inside him, surrounding him.

Possessing him.

At least, it feels like possession. What kind of man could possess the devil? Therein lies the problem: he did not anticipate Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep. Not in his wildest machinations or imaginings could he have predicted a man like this. He could not have invented a man like this.

Though surely he needed him. Needs him.

A cruel thing, then, when he wakes alone in a bed far too big, the imitation of Gale Dekarios’ imagined touch fading like summer on his skin.

Anger replaces desire and he shuts his eyes.

Arrogance. It has always been his greatest folly.

But this… this obsession will be his ruin.

#and now we delve into the second main pov of the land of gods and monsters #it’s so obvious but whoever wants to guess lmao #i had to give gale a romance and this one makes me feral #baldur’s gate 3 #it’s not a tav or dark urge #gale dekarios #the land of gods and monsters verse

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judasviscariot · 7 months

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“Darling.”

And it’s Different, when it’s for him.

Because, you see - Astarion calls everyone ‘darling.’ Even Shadowheart (though for a while that one is a bit… cruel).

And everyone gets a different version of the word, of course - and variations of it for different circumstances and events. So far, Gale has the most variations of the term - Halsin’s kept count. They range from affectionate and fond to absolutely poisonous and sometimes dangerous. There are, by Halsin’s count, thirteen versions of ‘darling,’ for Gale (who, again, is Astarion’s best and most steadfast friend - though Astarion would wrinkle his nose at the term).

But when it comes to him?

When it comes to him, there are three. Three variations of ‘darling’ that no one else - not even Gale - gets.

1.) Utterly and absolutely… soft. Oh, but it’s so soft. Often it’s used only in private - in moments when Astarion can cup his jaw or slide into his lap and murmur it against his lips. Halsin can think of two times Astarion has used that ‘darling’ in front of everyone else: the first?

When they (‘they’ being Astarion, Gale, Shadowheart, Lae’zel and Wyll) had found Halsin broken and alone in the Underdark after he’d carved through the goblins alone.

It was the first time the two elves had seen each other in two hundred years and five months. Through the haze of drow poison and blood loss, Halsin had heard the sun.

“Halsin. Darling.”

Achingly soft and so beautiful. A calloused but gentle hand cupped his chin and Astarion - older and more magnificent than Halsin remembered - had swum into focus above him.

Oh, but how he’d fallen in love with the man all over again in that moment… The thrill of it had been just as intense as it had been the first time, when they were younger and more afraid.

That was the first time he’d ever heard the soft variation of ‘darling’. Two hundred years and five months after the last time he’d seen Astarion Ancunín, who was more magnificent than he remembered but smelled exactly the same and could outburn the sun.

The second had been -

“I have to do this alone, Astarion.”

The darkness was like ash clinging to his skin. Karlach had been throwing stones into the abyssal waters; Gale was pointedly trying not to listen while Shadowheart was watching them like a vulture about to clean a carcass.

And oh, how he’d been terrified. To wander the Shadowfell, nothing to go on but a glimmer of vengeful hope and the scent of lavender… would he ever see the sun again?

Would he forget what gold sounded like?

But then -

Astarion’s plush lips part and his brow creases, brilliant sunset eyes big and glistening. For a moment, Halsin expects - well. Nothing good, that’s for certain.

A foolish thing, to try and predict the heat of the sun.

A nimble hand slides over his chest and catches his chin. The next thing he knows, he’s being kissed with tongue and fang. Solar flares explode in his lungs and Astarion thumbs over his cheek.

“Come back to me, darling,” he says.

It is a command, gentle and easy. Soft in the way that inspires hope somewhere inside his bones.

Not a hint of worry. Trust him - he knows what the worried variant of ‘darling’ sounds like.

Speaking of which:

2.) Astarion trusts Halsin in a way he isn’t sure how to hold; he feels a bit like a child cradling a bird with a wounded wing in his palms. One wrong move and that wing could shatter and leave the little bird he seeks to protect incapable of flight.

He doesn’t use the worried variant of ‘darling’ when Halsin is about to or has already attempted something foolish or heroic (see: ‘darling’ variant no. 1).

Astarion’s concerned and slightly lilting “darling,” comes when they’re in situations and he needs Halsin to look exactly where he’s looking at that very moment. It is a precise and hard-learned code, one that Halsin is more tuned into than even the method by which nature forms the reality around them.

It starts immediately: they’re in the Underdark and Halsin is still aching from the effects of the drow poison and the blood loss, and he can feel Astarion’s presence like sunbeams on his skin.

But even as he’s so acutely focused on Astarion’s presence, he’s still aching from the effects of drow poison and the blood loss, and so when Astarion’s sharp and tense “darling,” comes, he looks around just a little too late.

The Spectator catches them by surprise. Somehow, they survive the fight.

Halsin is looking at Astarion with every snapping “darling” he utters, now.

But even as the worried variant of ‘darling’ is the command he exists by and the soft variant is the one that sends heat through his bones and burns them gold, the variant of ‘darling’ that Halsin adores the most is -

3.) Sheer, raw fury.

It has only been used with such enchantment once. So far, at least. Who knows what the rest of the eternity he intends to spend beside the moon-kissed elf will bring, but so far…

So far it’s just been -

“Be well, then, darling.”

And oh, the way it had seared across Halsin like a lash of flame! How it had made his soul twist and his heart stop, commanded still by the sheer weight of the viscerally vitriolic venom in the word.

There was to be no doubt, then. A mate he was, and a mate he would always be. Some part of Halsin was snatched away in that moment. It fused with Astarion’s shadow, and there it would stay until he was led back to the young elfling.

The compass to lead him home.

Because this variant of ‘darling’ - this horrible, wrenching barb of a thing - had been shot at Halsin after he had told a twenty-year-old Astarion that:

“I cannot give you what you seek,” after a quiet and heartbreaking:

“I love you. I’m - Halsin, I’m… in love with you.”

And he’s over a hundred and Astarion is twenty and even if he’s everything Halsin wants, it’s not time. Not yet. The seasons need more time to show Astarion what the world can offer. He needs to taste the fruits of many before he settles on his favorite.

So:

“Oh, my little star,” Halsin had said in elvish; “I cannot give you what you seek.”

It was like watching the winter freeze settle in. It was seeing the sea go black before a storm; it was the flicker of divinity in the pit of Halsin’s belly and the hunt at the height of the season. It was every perfect and horrible thing all at once and Halsin loved this creature more than the earth beneath his feet.

“You are so young - there is so much you’ve yet to witness, experience.” He’d taken one of Astarion’s hands. It had been limp, cold. He’d kissed it anyway and stepped back. “And I must go my own way for now. Don’t worry. You’ll see me again, little star.”

And it was silent then, the kind of silent that made Halsin’s skin pebble with gooseflesh.

Until:

“Be well, then, darling.”

A dismissal. Inelegant and so wrathful. A blessing lain on the path beneath his boots. The sun blazed so hot it carved itself into his soul and stole a piece of him away.

It has not rejoined him. That’s alright; he feels it whenever Astarion is near, and these days it’s rare when he isn’t. Halsin is his sword and shield, the crown on his head and the throne beneath him.

And when the word comes this time - “darling,” - it’s just for him, spoken against the shell of Halsin’s ear as a damp, fresh-from-the-bath Astarion settles over his thighs and slides his arms around Halsin’s neck. Heat lunges up Halsin’s spine and he frames Astarion’s slender waist with keeping hands. So lost in the taste of the man’s skin, Halsin barely notices he’s been talking at him until Astarion gently tugs at his hair.

“Halsin, darling.”

His ears perk up. That’s a new one - slightly exasperated, clipped and somewhat offended in a small, quiet way. A vulnerable way.

“Were you even listening to a thing I said?”

Stomach clenching, Halsin slides his keeping hands over Astarion’s flanks and scans his face. He’s pouting. This is a new face, a new variant. Halsin’s nerves align and he cups Astarion’s chin.

“Forgive me,” he says soberly. “I was lost in thought. Tell me what I missed - speak to me, lover.”

He jostles Astarion a bit and the elf’s expression softens just before he arches a brow and tips back with a shrewd, playful glare. Halsin keeps him supported with a big hand at the base of his spine and chases a hopeless kiss he doesn’t get on a whim.

“And what, pray tell, was so important it stole you away from me?” Astarion demands, fingertips guarding Halsin’s lips.

Halsin smiles against his touch. “You.”

And when Astarion’s expression changes, it makes Halsin feel like spring. Those sunset eyes go dewy and Astarion’s body melts against the strong plain of his own.

“You,” he mutters against Halsin’s lips, “are a menace, darling.”

And he’ll never tire of it - never tire of learning every cadence this man can shape. Maybe one day he’ll earn more variants than Gale - for now, he’ll settle on keeping the Different ones, the ones no one else gets to hold.

There is no greater honor.

#halstarion #astarion #halsin #baldur’s gate 3 #the land of gods and monsters verse #rambles #my fic #ficlet #the verse where halsin and astarion knew each other before #i typed this on my phone and i’m so high

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