Overindulgent father Astarion who tells his children they’re allergic to any kind of jewellery that isn’t made of the highest grade Dwarven crafted gold.
It’s not even because Astarion might have a certain aversion to silver, no, he just raises his children to have standards, thank you very much.
And it doesn’t end with shiny things, oh no…
The Ancunín brood is known to be dressed in perfectly woven cotton, silk and soft leather clothes, no matter the occasion.
They’re seen playing with expensive toys, reading artfully illustrated books that certainly belong behind thick glass, not in children’s sticky hands.
There’s even talk that one of the children is not as naturally inclined to music as his parents claim him to be, surely his lyre must be enchanted—the instrument certainly looks extravagant enough!
And then there’s always this air of effortless haughtiness surrounding the Ancunín children whenever their nannies and servants are parading them through town as if they were perfect little dolls; objects to show off the wealth their parents acquired in quite the mysterious ways.
So, it’s no secret that Astarion and Tav are pampering their children—some might say they’re even spoiling them rotten.
And maybe they are, especially Astarion.
But he doesn’t see why he should raise them any other way, nor does he want to.
When it comes to his children, Astarion has his own standards, and as long as Tav agrees with him nothing really matters.
Because, these people, they don’t know anything about the Ancuníns.
They don’t know that it’s not unusual for Astarion to wash out dirt and mud and strawberry stains from comically small finery, leaving behind only the memories of a day spent playing in the garden, chasing after ducks, picking flowers, lazing in the sun…
That any holes and tears the children’s clothes might suffer are quickly mended, making them look as good as new in no time.
Nor do they know that Astarion doesn’t mind fashioning a brand new dress to match that of a favourite doll, either. Or to embroider a pretty vest with the likeness of that stray cat the children seem to adore, although their father would rather they don’t touch the mangy animal.
No, those people know nothing at all...
“Not tired!” Astarion’s youngest cries; the vehement denial of her father’s earlier accusation is cut short by a telltale yawn.
The room still smells of fragrant lavender oil and peaches even when the bath water has already grown tepid, just one or two degrees above what Astarion would consider too cold to be enjoyable.
Amused, he raises an eyebrow at the protesting toddler before he lifts her out of the copper bathtub with little effort.
By now, he knows every step of this game.
“Tut-tut, my dear child, what did mama and I say?” Astarion kneels, quickly wrapping a soft towel around the child to keep her warm. “We only tell lies outside of this house.”
Unfazed by her father’s gentle scolding, the girl crosses her arms that haven’t yet lost their puppy fat across her chest, reminding Astarion a little too much of a very displeased Tav.
Suppressing a sigh, he leans back to consider the pouting child, wondering what could possibly be upsetting her this time—the list is growing longer by the day, after all.
“What’s the matter, dear?” Astarion asks gently, hoping it’s something easily fixable as it’s growing rather late.
“Want apple!”
Decades ago, Astarion might’ve rolled his eyes—he knows exactly which stupid apple the child wants, it’s been haunting him all day—but once he started to treat his children’s problems as if they were his own, his life has grown somewhat easier.
“Why, let’s get an apple on our way to bed, then. Would that be alright, Your Highness?”
The girl promptly nods her head, allowing Astarion to pat her hair dry before dressing her in a clean night dress.
She rests her cheek against her father’s shoulder as he carries her first to the kitchen to grab a fragrant apple and a knife, then to her bedroom where they settle on the cosy window seat, just like they do every night.
Soft moonlight is pouring through the windows; the child giggles at the way the knife’s blade is catching the silver light as Astarion peels and cuts the apple into even pieces.
“Here you go,” he finally says, giving the slice of apple one last examining look before surrendering it to the impatient little hands reaching for it. “A sweet treat for my little sweet. Doesn’t it taste so much better when we don’t eat it off the floor, darling?” And when it’s not crawling with ants…
The appeased toddler nibbles at the juicy fruit as Astarion carefully combs through her still-damp curls.
Her hair’s getting long, he notices, knowing that taking care of it will become more time-consuming each day.
Once, Astarion would’ve thought this task tedious, brushing out hair that’s not his own, oiling and braiding it for no other reason than knowing his children enjoy him doing it.
But that’s why he loves doing it in the first place, he supposes.
Astarion can tell by his toddler’s heartbeat that sleep is about to claim her.
The half-eaten slice of apple is still clutched in her little fist as he cradles the child to his chest, slowly rising from the window seat to put her to bed.
He’s just about to lay the child down that the fruit drops to the floor, his daughter’s tiny hand clutching at his shirt instead.
“Thank you, papa,” she mumbles, more asleep than awake.
Astarion pauses.
He breathes in the clean, yet unique scent of the little girl that is forever engraved in his brain, the same way he knows under which exact constellation she was born. When she took her first steps, what her first word was. Soon, he will have to memorise her favourite colour, and what she likes to eat when dirty apples won’t be that appealing anymore.
By now, Astarion knows this game by heart, knows that with every year that passes, he has something new to learn about his children.
And sometimes he wonders what it’s like to grow up with clean bed sheets and full bellies. Sleep filled with naught but warmth and happy memories. Ever open doors and tears that are dried by tender kisses. Living in a house where mistakes and anger are welcomed, safe.
He wonders what it’s like for his children to know that their father’s love comes without conditions. Not now and not ever.
Sitting down on the bed, Astarion holds his youngest a little closer to his chest, unwilling to let go of her, yet.
He’s often accused of spoiling his children when most people can only just grasp the very surface of his love for them, the bare minimum of what he feels for his one and only, precious family.
These baseless accusations are as unimportant to Astarion as the people voicing them.
He’s raising his children to have standards, wants them to take their father’s love for granted, to accept nothing less but pure devotion.
It’s the only way Astarion knows how to love them, the only way that comes most naturally to him.
Astarion looks down at his little girl, now fast asleep, a gentle smile tugging at her lips.
After all these years—all these children—he’s still in awe watching them sleep in his arms as if no harm in the world could ever befall them.
And it won’t—not if Astarion can help it.
“No, thank you, my heart,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against the crown of the toddler’s head.
When it comes to his children, Astarion holds himself to the highest standard.
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I just thought of the most hilarious next protagonist of Baldur's Gate saga.
(Note what most of the outcomes used as background info here come from the characters' "good" endings. Proceed with caution.)
A child of Durge and Gortash, killed inside their parent's womb when Durge denied Bhaal, resurrected alongside them by Jergal.
A child any of The Dead Three can lay a claim on because they are:
A child of previous chosen of Bane
A child of Bhaalspawn, a bhaalspawn themselves, albeit striped of that when Bhaal took his essence from Durge, killing them instantly.
DIED before even being born, so clearly Myrkul's subject.
Resurrected by Jergal, so there's ties to that as well.
Can be compelled to follow any of The Dead Three paths, or try to play them and set them against each other, or follow Jergal, or forge their own path.
Essentially a child with no fate.
Can look either as Durge (and be any race Durge presented as) or as Gortash.
The last possibility bringing unique encounters and dialogues and character never knowing they can use being Lord Gortash's child to their advantage or ppl they meet were their father's enemies and they need to dash.
Having ties to different fractions depending on who Durge romanced or if Durge not romanced anyone.
Being raised in Underdark if their parent ended up with Minthara.
Same with unascended Astarion, + lots of acquainted spawns in the Underdark.
Being raised in Hell if their parent went to Avernus with Karlach.
Being raised either in Waterdeep if Gale is their stepfather or with Duke freaking Ravengard as a step- grandfather.
Having ties with Selunites if Shadowheart is a woman they call mother.
Being raised in the nature and having Druids call them their own if Durge and Halsin were involved.
Being raised amongst githianki revolution if Lae'zel was their parent's choice of heart. Having their mother leading a rebellion against a god.
Having lots of unique content regarding that.
Possible companions include:
Arabella
Mol
Yenna
That girl who was kidnapped and eaten by auntie Ethel.
Mayrina's child.
A child of lady Janneth and Oscar.
One or several of Jaheira's grandchildren.
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omg rm9 was kinda fun To Me. i enjoyed mulder and scully going on a sushi date, scully being SOOOOO embarrassingly down bad for a man she’s known over 20 years, and of course the restaurant attacking them because mulder is a bad tipper. it’s also just nice to see them living life, you know??
i had a blast with rm9 tbh, a classic s11 well! have no idea what happened there! but i enjoyed myself! episode. just talked about it a bit but yes!! just seeing them living life!! literally the majority of s11 isn't even them going on cases they're just like. existing. and falling into Situations. in rm9 all they wanted to do was go to this sushi place. scully is of course always embarrassing as hell but what i loved loved loved loved about her in rm9 (and consequently throughout s11) is that last moment at the diner when they're both on their phones, and she puts hers away and just kinda leans over to his shoulder and takes his hand, and he puts his phone down.
i was so floored to see her do that, to ask for his attention like that. so much of the original series is scully...almost quietly suffocating, sometimes? being on the edge of his myopia and focus? wanting him to see her so bad, and then lashing out (READ: fucking serial killers) to either rebel, or get him to notice? but it's been a long time and he has been many more things to her since and now she just grabs his hand and makes him turn to her. in forehead sweat when she whines that he needs to feed her or she's leaving!! and then she does leave!!! in plus one when they aren't even "back together" yet, and she sneaks into his motel room and asks him to hold her.
scully in the revival has left him. she has struck out on her own, had her own career, lived on her own, been a doctor. and she's back and they're back because there's work to be done, and because, as james wong says: "She’s in love with him that way. She had a different career as a doctor, but she came back, because this is so important to him—she’s coming back to be there for him."
she's back, and they're back, because they're always choosing each other, and they've proven it, and they've done the work. she complains about his stakeouts. she cracks jokes about being sure he's on his meds!! she knows that their son is "guiding" them both, somehow. she doesn't question it.
she's embarrassingly down bad even after 25 years because she's never anything but adored him, but there's so much more availability now. she can openly check him out and invite him back into her room and giggle at him and sleep on his jacket in bars. she used to cry, every single time that he was present with her. she used to be so overwhelmed that she couldn't speak, when he was focused on her. this is the inverse reaction of the stability and peace that mulder has found, there's a steady foundation for scully to grow on.
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