There's something really sweet about the fact that, in act 1, there are so many opportunities to get Wyll's approval from just... asking him about him. Showing you have an interest in getting to know him. Listening to his story.
I think that being understood and seen is very important to Wyll. After being given his devilish form, he is very clearly dismayed by the idea of the people of the Coast not seeing him for the hero he is, but rather as just a devil. His image is very important to him, (that's why Mizora transformed him as a punishment to begin with: because it would cut so deep) but not in a superficial way. He just genuinely wants to be a symbol of good in the world, and to protect those who cannot protect themselves.
So when you don't react negatively to his new appearance, saying you just see the Blade of Frontiers, nothing more, he approves. The Blade is a mask he clings to because he needs something to get him through the torment of Mizora, and the grief of being cast from his home. It feels good when people see him the way he wants to be seen, when they want to hear tales of his grand exploits, and admire his courage and strength.
But I think that a part of the reason he likes it when you ask about him and his life is because he wants to be seen on an even deeper level. I think a part of him just wants to be appreciated as Wyll. Not Duke Ravengard's son, not the Blade of Fronteirs... just Wyll.
"Just Wyll" isn't someone he gets to be very often, though. Most of the time he's putting on a brave face, neatly tucking away his own feelings for the sake of others. Being the strong, kind, reliable, steadfast one. That's who he feels he has to be.
Given all this, his desire to be heard isn't surprising at all. When his father banished him from his home, Wyll couldn't explain to him what actually happened. His voice was taken from him. Later, after rescuing his father, Wyll wasn't listened to again by Ulder, and had to use the tadpole connection to "prove" he was telling the truth.
Of course it means a lot to Wyll that you listen to him, and that you care to ask in the first place.
Wyll would carry on with his duties—his body present, but his spirit often elsewhere. His heart would drift to you, again and again. Those around him would notice the change: no more smiles that reached his eyes, no more easy laughter or graceful charm. He’d move through life like a man lost in a dream.
For a time, he’d endure quietly. But gradually, he’d begin to live again—not because the grief lessened quickly, but because he knew you would have wanted that for him. He still had good to do, people to protect. And while you remained in his heart, the pain would soften.
Eventually, he might find love again. Wyll has so much tenderness to give, and he would treat any new partner with gentle reverence. But it wouldn’t be easy at first. The halls around him would feel quieter—heavier. Even the household staff might whisper behind closed doors that he was never quite the same after you passed. For a long time, his charm would seem more like a mask than a truth. Still, slowly, he would begin to let someone in.
Yet, unknowingly, he would see them through the echo of you. And if he were ever blessed with a child, he’d speak of you with a distant, wistful smile—a thousand-yard stare—and tell them stories of your courage and brilliance.
Gale
Grief would hollow Gale from the inside out. At first, it would be chaos. He would retreat into his "tower", his haven turning into a prison. He'd lie in bed for days, unshaven and unkempt—looking as though he had aged a decade in mere days. His books untouched. The most damning sign of his despair? He couldn’t even read. He’d turn pages, but the words would blur, his mind drifting endlessly back to you.
If not for his friends—and for Tara with her relentlessness at the top of it—he might have faded entirely. They would force him into the sunlight, into purpose. Teaching, advising, creating… none of it would feel the same. But still, it would keep him from crumbling. So he came back to teaching, but sadly lost his spark when it came to it.
He would likely never remarry, never truly seek another. Instead, he'd write—a book of poems in your memory, quietly tucked onto his shelves, never published. At night, he might speak to the silence as if you were beside him. Sometimes he’d conjure your likeness—not as a ghost, but as a remembrance. A comfort.
Halsin
Surprisingly, Halsin’s once vibrant appetites would vanish. For a time, there would be no lovers, no flirtation—only quiet reflection and the relentless trainings till his muscles trembled and he was out of breath. He would throw himself into his work, perhaps to cope, perhaps to forget. He would blame himself for not coming to you sooner. For not cherishing you more when time still allowed.
In time, he would come to accept your death. He would understand it as a part of the natural order—something he has preached so often. But this knowledge has a bitter taste. When you live as long as he does, saying goodbye starts to feel like the price of love. And it feels so lonely.
Eventually, he would return to his open way of life—but it would never be the same. You would linger in his thoughts, in his stories, and he’d find himself telling lovers about you. Not to compare, but because forgetting you is simply not possible. You were one of a kind, and he knew he would never find someone alike. And the realisation left his hear feeling even more heavy.
Even years later, he would still see you in the rustle of leaves, in the bloom of a flower, in the golden light of dusk. And each time, his heart would ache—but he would smile too. Because in the beauty of the world, he finds you yet again.
Astarion
To say your death devastated Astarion would be an understatement so cruel, it would feel like mockery. He would retreat from the world entirely, isolating himself with a bitterness that only grief could sharpen. He always knew world is shit, but you gave him hope and then and then he lost you just like that.
He wouldn't become like Cazador—never that. But his charm would fade into something colder, and his presence would carry a quiet warning: stay away. There would be rage, too. Shattered objects. Screams into the void. One moment, he would curse you for leaving; the next, he would sob your name and whisper that he loved you more than anything in the world.
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
hello, you can find more of my works about bg3 ♡here♡
also, would you like me to write one of this characters in-depth?
Okay, you lovelies voted for fluff, so you're getting fluff! Welcome to:
BG3 companions react to: Tav drawing the companions in their sketch book! (Romance implied)
Beware spoilers and cuteness ahead, please enjoy!
Lae'zel -
Eventually she gets irritated of being stared at, while Tav is sat pencil in book and puts down her sword from being sharpened, and paces over. "Chk. You've been ogling at me like a child for at least ten minutes. Is it with purpose or are you simply bad at keeping to yourself?" She asks, head tilted with wide eyed threat. Once she gets a glance at the page, she softens, jaw unclenching, shoulders dropping. She admires the sketch before she realises she too, is staring. "Hmm. Acceptable. Continue" Before she returns to her tent, and totally doesn't stay stiller on purpose.
Shadowheart -
Shadowheart doesn't suspect a thing, until she passes by them and totally doesn't take a glance in the journal from over Tavs shoulder. She pauses and appreciates the work long enough for Tav to realise they're being watched. "Oh don't mind me. I'm just appreciating my good side from your point of view." She smiles. "Oh, we should draw each other! I haven't sketched in so long, but I'd like for you to see what I see too." She offers, going and grabbing her own sketch set, sitting beside Tav, comfortably drawing them.
Wyll -
He allows Tav their privacy, even if they stare sometimes. He needs to be physically shown because he is too polite to snoop or look over their shoulder. Upon being shown, he smiles, but winces a little. "Oh, I love it, don't get me wrong. You've captured the Blade of Frontiers in all his glory...just, all his glory with horns and the devil's details" He chuckles, trying not to seem dissappointed. But upon another look, his eyes become wider with wonder. "...you know what, if thats what I look like to you, it's not as bad as I thought." He smiles.
Karlach -
She's nosy, okay? So when Tav puts down their book to help Gale with dinner, she sneaks a little peek, grabbing the pages with a clean cloth. She however, gives herself away immediately. "WOAH??" The whole camp turns but Karlach does not take notice. "SOLDIER?? YOU DREW THIS?? THIS IS AMAZING!" She yells, eyes bright, brows up, grin wide with teeth. The camp settles while dinner happens, but later in the evening, she pulls Tav aside to show them something. Upon a large empty plot of just dirt, Tav finds their face messily drawn with a stick into the dirt. "Can't quite draw right now, or ever really, but I wanted you to have a portrait too. Not bad, eh?"
Gale -
"Oh, and who's that handsome fellow?" He smirks, catching sight of the page one day. He asks for a better look and takes a moment to admire the sketch, before frowning. "Did you...draw me with gray hairs? Am I graying??" He asks, a hand combing through his so well maintained mane. "You didn't know?" Astarion weighs in, finding an opportunity to bully the wizard. "For a human, you are at that age, are you not, Gale?" Lae'zel adds. The wizard makes an almost theatric gasp, crossing his arms. "Gray suits you Gale!" Karlach insists, taking the drawing from Gale and admiring it. Gale pauses, looks again, and grins. "Now that you mention it..."
Astarion -
"Okay, so, that's clearly not any of the imbeciles over there, what handsome young men have you been seeing without me?" He jokes. It takes a minute, but the way Tav looks between Astarion and the book, gives it away. "...oh. That's me?" He seems to entirely lose his ability to speak. He gestures to take the book and have a better look, running his hand over the sketches, and then over his face, seeming almost confused. When prompted, he clears his throat. "Well, it's- ah, certainly flattering. Nice to have such a flattering mirror" He smiles, slipping back into his more confident persona. "In fact, I'd love to keep such a flattering masterpiece, if that would be quite alright with you?" He smiles confidently, but the way his eyes stray to the sketch tells all.
Bonus! The older generation
Halsin -
"I cannot recall the last time I have received a portrait in such likeness." He smiles fondly when Tav shows him the piece. "Might I take this back to the Grove? I'm particularly fond of anything you do really- but especially this" He asks, warm smile spread over his face. Should Tav allow it, he gives the best hug in thanks, promising to return the flattery in kind. (Yes, it will be whittling)
Jaheira -
Of course she gets a look while Tav is distracted. "Not bad. Better that bard songs, that's for sure" She smiles, nodding at the adventurer. She takes a second look and thinks for a moment. "...When did my face get so wrinkly?" She asks in a vaguely dissapointed wonder.
Minsc -
"Oh, my friend, you have a talent of flattery!" He claps and grins when he sees the work, but seems to be looking for something. "Oh- Erm, might I ask a question...where is Boo? You cannot have the great Minsc without his tiny, fluffy brain on his shoulder!" He asks, proudly producing the hamster in hand. Tav turns the page to reveal quite a few sketches of Boo. "What?? Did Boo pose for these?? How is he so accurately cute?? BOO, YOU LOOK ADORABLE! WHY DID NOBODY TELL MINSC IT WAS PORTRAIT DAY??"
Thank you for reading! Let me know what you'd like to read next. I have another poll coming soon as well 👀
Can I request smut headcanons of how Astarion (she didn't want him to feel obligated to help her so she intended to do it alone), Gale, Wyll, and Halsin react to accidentally overhear his fem s/o masturbating while saying his name? She isn't aware that he was there since he was busy earlier!
masterlist
->Warning: light smut, teasing
->A/N: MDNI! so sorry this took so long writers block hit me hard but I hope this fills the request alright.
->Astarion:
Your relationship was built on mutual trust and care for one another. Although it may have started with ill intentions you both have nurtured and built a steady foundation for years to come. Part of that trust was respecting Astarion's bodily autonomy and helping him work through his trauma. You wanted to give him space and time to be comfortable in the bedroom, well... tent. The air was thick and you had woken up with a familiar flutter in your chest. A problem easily solved on your own but not sufficiently eased. The tossing and turning, you feared, would wake Astarion (he needs his beauty sleep). Your hand would move downwards, your other moving to your mouth to keep yourself quiet. But the scent of him surrounding you, him next to you and you wearing his shirt was too much. You could hardly stifle the sounds that came from your mouth, your mind replaying every lingering touch of his, his teeth on your neck, and the words he whispers when you're both alone. His name escapes your lips only once when you are trying to reach your peak but your hands are just not enough. Astarion’s meditative sleep is disrupted by your ceaseless movement, and he wakes with annoyance before he sees the state of you, utterly delicious. It's not a secret what you were doing, your face red from the tips of your ears down your neck and slipping down the valley of his shirt you wore. His teasing would be relentless, "I'm hurt, have I truly not satisfied you enough that you had to result to such a solitary method?" His voice is deeper from the sleep he was in, hair hanging in his face. He would feign hurt but that devious smirk on his face would say otherwise. "I just didn't want to bother you, make you feel obligated to engage." The air in the tent would be hot, he would get closer and closer to you until his lips brushed your neck, he could hear how your heart was racing from the proximity. "Darling, I admire your chivalry, truly, but I’d rather be the one touching you if it’s all the same.” His hands would dance their way from cupping your cheek to leaning you back into the bedroll fully. You had awoken the next day blissfully satisfied, a bit more bloodless, and sleep deprived but it was well worth it.
->Gale:
You would both be settled in his tower long after the events of the tadpole. The sun would be setting and he had arrived back from his favorite tomes shop, his arms full with scrolls and books galore. His mind was so focused on getting everything to his study until he passes by the bedroom door, the only sounds being the waves of the nearby sea and you.. saying his name in a rather breathily manner. He grows warm at the sound, some of the scrolls and books toppeling to the floor. This would usually be followed by him hurrying to pick them up but he sets the rest on a nearby foot-stool. He clears his throat before knocking on the bedroom door, even though it’s his own bedroom door as well. He hears a gasp from within the room and the movement of the blanket before you usher him in. “Gale. I-um. I didn't expect you back so soon. You’re usually gone the whole day when you head to the shops.” He nearly groans at the sight of you, you’re flushed and sweaty. Hair a mess and clearly you were enjoying yourself. He wishes he could cast invisibility and watch as you pleasured yourself. For another time. He shifts, a bead of sweat running down the back of his neck. “I-” “You” You both speak at the same time and then stop. He motions you to speak first. You giggle and speak, “You know, you don’t have to knock in your own home.” He runs a hand through his hair, eyes a shade darker as he looks to you. “I didn’t want to intrude on your personal time my love. It sounded like you were enjoying yourself. Although I have to admit I felt a bit left out.” His breathing is heavier and he slowly approaches you, the sunset that bounces off the sea and into the room casts an otherworldly glow and he wishes he were an artist so he could paint the vision in front of him. You offer him your hand, “Then by all means Mr. Dekarios, please join me.”
->Wyll:
The camp was empty besides you, you had been put on strict bed rest after a nasty fight with some undead the last time you and the team were out so you were alone and bored and upset because you were obviously better despite Wyll’s protest. You swear a feather could grace the side of your face and he would carry you back to camp. Although you love him all the same, his caring nature and adventurous spirit bringing you together but right now you just felt pent up after being still for so long. The sound of the nearby river calmed you some but restless you remained. You thought more of Wyll, and more… His chivalry, endless loving words of encouragement, that one time you snuck away to the river..discarding your clothes on the rocks as you both delved behind the waterfall and soaked in the whole night together until the stars turned to sunrise. Suddenly your hand had snuck down the front of your stomach and lower until you reached underneath your undergarments, gasping at the feeling of relief. It was far and few between when you could help yourself since you were always out. You began divulging yourself further into your fantasies. Picturing you with Wyll together in a large castle, bedroom big enough to be laughable and a bed laid with satin sheets and intricate tapestry. Being able to enjoy eachothers company without the threat of death or tadpole explosion at every corner. He would ravish you on every piece of finely crafted furniture in the castle until you were forced to stop by pure muscle exertion. You were so deep in your mind you didn't hear your own name being called from the camp, nearing you rather fast. You quickly remove your hand, now frustrated on another level from your missed climax just as the flaps of the tent move and Wyll’s stare is on you, a worried look on his face. “You called?! Are you alright? Gods you’re flushed and can hardly catch your breath should I call Shadowheart?” He’s frantic and has convinced himself that you’re in the active stages of death. “Wyll!” He stills at your voice, “I was simply, taking care of myself..” You trail away and his face shifts from concern to confusion. “Healing your own wounds is hardly advisable. We have many fine healers in camp. Let me fetch one of them for you.” “Gods you are dense sometimes for being the savior of Baulder’s Gate.” You grab him by the shirt before he can leave and his lips meet yours before he’s crawling on top of you. “Ohh, you sneaky devil.” His smirk is downright devious as he swears to untangle all your knots and worries.
->Halsin:
You need air, the camp was downright suffocating now with the amount of people it contained now. You were forever grateful and indebted for all of your allies but you needed some time alone, desperately. The clearing to this meadow was the place you always came to clear your mind, far enough away to be secluded but still close enough to be safe from any wanderers. Halsin had been occupied when you left so you couldn't ask him to come with you to your disappointment. But alas you can handle your little problem. It was a warm day and seeing Halsin’s strong arms glisten with sweat and water did little to cool your burning desire that seemed to get worse as the day went on. He was so kind and sweet to you, showing you the bounty that nature can provide. He had fought by your side for some time now and your relationship had only blossomed since then. You felt your tension slowly melting as you caressed yourself thinking of the two of you in the meadow together, against a tree, the forest floor in the rain. Any way he could take you, you would have him. You didn't even notice the volume of your voice had carried all the way to his ears at the camp, he was especially attuned to you, your sweet pheromone carried him to the clearing where he saw you laid back against a bed of clovers, surrounded by an array of multicolored flowers. A goddess in his eyes you were. He stalked to you, drinking you in with each step. The sound of his name on your lips drawing him in, his urges barely contained. He cleared his throat, finding himself standing at your feet. Your eyes shot open, trying to cover yourself and maintain your modesty. “Do not fear my heart, you have called and here I am.” You don’t say anything for a moment, utterly embarrassed at being caught in such a way. “Halsin, I didn't want to bother you, you were quite busy after all.” He laughs lightly, still scanning your body. “You are my priority, when you yearn for me, I yearn for you all the same. All you must do is cast me a glace and I will take care of you.” He starts to remove his shirt, “May I take care of you?” His voice is deep, his broad frame casting a cooling shadow upon you. You shiver, he stiffens. “You may. Only if I may show my gratitude back?” He smiles and drops to his knees before you, hands parting your legs as his kisses more from your bent knee and moves lower and lower. “By all means my heart, the day is young afterall.”
Hey everybody!
Here's a continuation of the uncanny Astarion headcanons! This time, as seen through the eyes of the team members.
In Part 1, we’ve got: Gale, Shadowheart, Karlach, Lae'zel, and Wyll.
Stay tuned for Part 2, featuring: Halsin, Jaheira, and Minsc — plus a special bonus with Minthara, Myzora (and maybe Dame Aylin).
Extra special bonus: everyone's favorite good boy, Scratch 🐾
Astarion, Seen Through Others: What Lurks in the Campfire Light
Gale
Gale is a man of logic, magic, and study. At first, he is enchanted. He sees Astarion like a puzzle piece—charming, yes, but also predictable, as most are. There’s a rhythm to Astarion’s manner, like a well-rehearsed performance polished until gleaming. But Gale is a man of patterns and precision, and something begins to itch at the edges.
The first crack appears in the firelight. They’re seated around the flames, the others laughing softly, passing a flask. Gale, mid-sentence, glances over — and the words die in his throat.
Astarion’s skin does not reflect the way it should. No golden glow, no warmth. It doesn’t drink the firelight like the others’ skin does — it reflects it, smooth and cold, as if the surface is just slightly wrong. Not flesh. Not quite.
Gale tries to dismiss it. Tricks of the eye. Smoke and shadow.
But it happens again.
One night, while reciting an incantation for Wyll, Gale feels it — a twinge. The unmistakable prickle of being watched, not with interest, but with… stillness.
He looks up. Astarion is perched nearby, a little ways off, half-hidden in shade.
Watching.
Unmoving. Not blinking. Not shifting. Not even breathing.
Just… watching.
“Are you... memorising the spell?” Gale asks a bit nervously.
“No,” Astarion says, too smoothly. “Just... enjoying the way your mouth moves.”
He smiles. That perfect smile — effortless, elegant, shaped like art. But there’s a pause before it. A beat too long. And in that silence, Gale sees it.
Hunger. Not lust. Not admiration. Something older. Colder. Like a void that mimics human desire because it knows it must.
He laughs it off. The conversation shifts. The moment passes. But later that night, alone in his tent, Gale sketches notes hastily onto the margins of his grimoire.
He doesn’t confront him. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. Curiosity wars with caution in him like fire and oil.
But from that night on, Gale etches a glyph of warding into his palm before sleep. Simple, subtle. A protective reflex. Just in case.
And sometimes, only sometimes, he swears Astarion knows. Because once, as Gale turned away from the fire and headed to his tent, Astarion’s voice floated after him, calm as velvet:
“Careful, darling. Too much thinking at night invites the wrong kinds of company.”
Shadowheart
Shadowheart is trained in observation. Secrets are her bread and butter. After all she is trained in secrets. Misdirection, deception, half-truths they’re as natural to her as breath. So she recognizes it in him instantly. Astarion is a master of the mask. He moves like water, says exactly enough to keep the attention on others, and never once stumbles into sincerity.
She watches him like a rival. At first.
She watches him, waiting for the mask to slip and eventually, it does. Not all at once — but in slivers.
Not all at once — but in slivers. Fractures. Oddities that catch at the edge of her practised gaze.
His hair never tangles. Not even after a rainstorm. His clothes lie too neatly against him, as if sewn to his skin. Blood rolls off his coat like water off waxed stone, never soaking in.
His skin doesn’t wear dirt. It repels it.
And once — just once — she sees a cut on his cheek in the heat of battle. A real one. Jagged. Red. It heals before her eyes, threading together like time rewinding. She says nothing.
Then, a week later, a stranger thing: she brushes past him in the tent, her shoulder catching his arm.
And feels nothing.
No warmth. No breath. No hum of a pulse. Not even the ambient softness of another body. It’s like brushing past stone left too long in the moonlight — smooth, cold, and utterly still.
He doesn’t scratch. He doesn’t yawn. He never blinks unless someone’s watching.
When she finally asks — casually, he grins. Easy. Pleased.
“I’m just terribly well-trained,” he says. “You know how it is.” She knows exactly how it is. And yet… she doesn’t.
But later that night, she holds her holy symbol and prays this time, without closing her eyes.
Karlach
Karlach wants to like Astarion. Honestly, she tries.
He’s funny. Fancy. Flirty in a way that makes people giggle and blush and feel wanted — like a theater kid with too many secrets. And when she talks, really talks, about the hells and the forge and the fire in her chest — he actually listens. Eyes sharp, chin resting on his fingers like he's devouring every word.
She wants to believe he’s one of those posh, dramatic types — all silk on the outside, big heart underneath.
But something about him itches beneath her skin. A wrongness. Not big, not loud. Just… quiet. Like meat that’s gone off just before the smell hits.
She sees it first in battle.
They’re ambushed. Chaos. Screams. Her vision red and vibrating with fury. Rage roars in her chest. She’s a storm, wild and alive and burning.
Astarion moves beside her. Not frantic. Not wild. Just… still.
Elegant. Precise. Too quiet.
She watches him stab a man through the ribs neatly, like sewing a stitch, and not even blink. No snarl. No breath. No joy. No anger. Just... execution. Purpose.
Like watching a knife slice bread. No soul behind it. Just a function.
And something in Karlach, something old and instinctive, recoils.
Later, back at camp, he leans over her to pass a drink. Close enough to feel his nonexistent breath. His eyes sparkle like he’s rehearsed the movement a thousand times. Her laugh’s already in her throat, until she notices their shadows behind them in the firelight.
His flickers wrong. It moves a heartbeat late, like it’s lagging behind him. Like it’s remembering how to be a shadow, and failing. Or it's an entirely different "being".
She stares. “Do you… Even cast one?”
Astarion grins, amused. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
She barks a laugh. Too loud. Too long. Tries to drown out the cold in her gut. But that night, she shifts her bedroll a few feet closer to Wyll’s. Just a little.
Lae’zel
Lae’zel respects predators. But predators are honest. Astarion is not. Predators show their fangs. They hunt. They kill. There is no deception in survival.
His beauty irritates her. Not because it’s vain because it’s constructed. Nothing bleeds. Nothing breaks. He smiles too much. Stands too still. His face holds too much perfection and none of the wear of time or war. Beautiful, yes, but the kind of beauty that exists in an embalmed corpse. She sees how others flock to him, dazzled. And it enrages her, because it’s a lie, and they fall for it like flies to a pitcher plant. Once, in camp, she watches him sit still for hours, not moving, not reacting. No Gith would ever waste time like that.
One evening, she decides to test him. No sound, no breath she stalks him like a predator would. Weight distributed evenly. Footsteps timed to the wind. She’s within five feet when he turns, smooth as silk, with a smile that’s too knowing.
She knows she made no sound. She’s certain.
“Curious to see what I look like when I think no one’s watching?” he purrs.
Lae’zel freezes. She knows she didn’t misstep. No betrayal of weight or scent. Nothing.
“How did you—”
“You carry your weight like a soldier. Hard to miss,” he lies smoothly. “Githyanki tread heavily, even when they try not to.”
She narrows her eyes. A lie. She saw no twitch of muscle. No tilt of ear. Not even a flick of the eyes. He didn’t see her. He sensed her.
And in that moment, she knows: He heard her heartbeat.
Predators respect predators. But Astarion?
He is something older. Something that doesn’t just hunt.
Something that waits.
Wyll
Wyll has seen monsters. Wyll is used to monsters. He's danced with devils literally. Well… he made a pact with one. Fought them. Hunted them. He knows the scent of evil. The weight of it in the air. But Astarion doesn’t feel like a monster. He feels… like a trick.
Too perfect. Too smooth. Too… untouched. Like time forgets to touch him.
Wyll once watches him walk barefoot through camp. Dry leaves. Loose gravel. Twigs. And yet no sound. Not even a whisper. As if the world refuses to acknowledge his weight. As if he never truly touches the earth.
And that smile. Gods, that smile. It clicks on like a lantern—bright, and blinding. But it’s always the same. No curve out of place. No variance. Like a mask painted onto his skin. And yet when he speaks… his words land like spells. Too perfect. The exact shape someone needs to hear. Never too much. Never too little. Calculated compassion. Measured charm.It gnaws at Wyll. Like watching a painting that sometimes breathes.
One night, Wyll stays up later than usual. He pretends to read. But his eyes are on Astarion.
The vampire sits by the fire, cross-legged. His spine doesn’t slump. His shoulders never sag. He doesn't fidget. Doesn’t breathe. His gaze is fixed on Tav — sleeping, peaceful, unaware.
Wyll watches.
Astarion never blinks.
He doesn't shift. Doesn’t move. Just watches. A stillness that isn’t rest. It’s closer to… calculation. Like a hawk studying a mouse. Like a marionette waiting for a string to twitch.
Eventually, Wyll speaks.
Quiet. Firm. “You’ve worn that mask so long, I don’t think you know what’s underneath anymore.”
Astarion’s head turns too smoothly. Too fast. His eyes glitter in the firelight, like glass reflecting something distant. Then he smiles.
At first, it’s the same as always, but then… it sharpens. Slightly. The corners lift too high. The teeth show a little too much.
“Maybe, my dear Wyll,” he says, voice low, almost kind. “Or maybe....”
A pause.“There was never anything underneath at all.”
Wyll doesn’t respond. He simply watches him back.
Thank you, everyone, for reading.
Here’s my master list <3
Astarion’s Hidden Strength — Headcanons
Part 2 coming soon!
I headcanon wyll as a switch depending on his partner, hes new but read so much smut that if his beloved is a bottom he'd put his reading to practice quoting text he found alluring. (First few times may be awkward)
If he has a more dominant or experienced partner (Ruin is both #peghisass). He'd imagine the interaction as its own smut one where the charming prince finds solace in another finally being able to relax and have someone fare for him, wouldn't mind some rough demands he'd bend over stroke on command but i dont think he'd do something like bark for you or anything somewhat public (at most the door won't be locked and even then hes constantly glancing).
In either scenario hes gonna be sore for a while
Bard tav would have his permission to turn their relationship into a romance novel may prefer if the raunchy stuff is more vague.
He's sex positive won't judge if partner has had sex before (would prefer if they were just meaningless hookups cause first love but he can be made to see the beauty of 2nd love) but he just thinks sex stuff is private between the two souls or sharress caress employee and patron
Can I request a Gale, Astarion and Wyll with a gn! Reader who has epileptic seizures? I’ve had them since I was a kid and for me they usually happen within an hour of me waking up. Luckily I’ve been seizure free for a year so far!! :)
I understand if you are uncomfortable writing this!
hi love!! first of all CONGRATS ON THE ONE YEAR SEIZURE FREE !!! second of all i'm sorry i took so long to write it but i wanted to document myself first to write that properly! i have no idea if i made justic to it, and i would love for you to give me some returns in case i didn't portray it well <33
special little note of thank you for my friend @duffyyy911 who helped me greatly to write this !!!
─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ characters : gale, astarion, wyll
─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ content warning : none, mostly comfort (as far as i know), gender neutral reader, no use of y/n
─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ words : 966 ( ~ 300 per characters)
( not proofread, english is not my first language ☆)
─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ gale :
Chances are that, completely unbeknownst to him in the first place, gale was the one to make have you start a seizure.
Poor guy was just casting dancing lights or colour spray, and the next thing you knew you were on the ground, and he was completely lost.
He had read one too many books, many about spells and a few conditions. He was no doctor, but he was a wizard that had sufficient magical knowledge and an unrelenting hunger for reading who was ready to do anything to help his companions.
He was quick to help, although a bit overthrown by panic and surprise, he tried using the most of his spell slots possible to keep you in place and keep a proper eye on you until it was all over.
After that incident, you can be assured that in every city or village or places you passed that he would be on the hunt for a library with as much information on the seizures as possible.
He was alert at all times, remaining at your side in case anything happened.
You can be assured that he’d always have a scroll of Hold Person on him to cast, a spell of Resistance or Sanctuary ready to crack under his fingers, preparing Sleep, Feign Death or Slow to ensure at any times that whatever might cause a seizure could be countered by his thorough preparation and attention.
He’d arrange the softest bed for you, whatever pillows and spells he could use to get you to have some proper restorative sleep were all cast and placed under you.
He’d read by your side, waiting for you to wake up and simply looking after you. He’d kiss your forehead when you’d start moving, softly emerging from your much comfortable slumber.
─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ astarion :
At first, Astarion thought it was a joke, or at least some accidental fall from you when walking on some of the ice that made you prone after a quite stressful fight.
But you were starting to be strangely prone, the kind that looked quite painful.
“Come on, I know ceremorphosis or whatever the name of it is couldn’t have caught up to you just now darling.”
But as Shadowheart came to help you, a look of worry in her eye, Astarion’s chest clenched.
“It’s not a joke, Astarion. It’s a damned seizure.”
He immediately came to your side to help Shadowheart, panicked and feeling like a complete idiot. “Are they okay ? Are they dying ?!”
After positioning you correctly on the ground, Shadowheart reassured him that you were not nearing any death at the moment.
It is only after the seizure had passed and some well deserved rest on your part that he asked you questions about the event.
On one hand, he’d try to find some sort of positivity in this situation. “We can just live a vampire life you know, hiding from the sun would be a great start.” But he would find that if you’re in the dark all the time, wouldn’t it just make it easier to induce a seizure then ?
So at first, he’d have no idea as to how he’s supposed to help you. But with the help of Shadowheart eventually, he’d pick up on the things to do next time.
He knew how to place you properly, what to do to just ensure that you’d be safe no matter what, and was always here to take you to bed after a seizure happened.
He’d look after you while asleep, threatening anybody in the camp that if they were to make any loud sounds or anything that could wake you up, he’d make sure to make them his next meal.
─ . 𝜗𝜚‧ wyll :
If there is one thing the blade of frontiers doesn’t know how to handle, it is you, the leader of the group, having a seizure.
He has fought many enemies in his years, but one that comes from within his partner is a whole new one.
When you went into a seizure for the first time in front of him, you were just practicing some of the basic magic and swordsmanship that Wyll had knowledge of at camp. Your target was the trunk of an old dead tree, and Wyll wanted to show you - mostly impress you - by casting an Eldritch Blast to straight up destroy it.
Multiple crimson zaps and flashes crisped the air as he perfectly hit the trunk, turning to you with a proud smile, “See, just like th-” but he stopped dead in his words as he saw you on the ground.
He knelt immediately, throwing his sword away as he placed his hand on your shoulder calling your name repeatedly.
In complete and utter panic, his eyes not leaving you, he heard strong steps stomping the ground. Next second, Halsin came next to the both of you, his sixth sense for the ones in need calling for him.
“What’s happening to them ?” Wyll would ask, his voice breaking as he watched how Halsin gently placed you on your side on the ground.
“Just a seizure,” Halsin explained, concentrating on examining you, “do you know if they are stressed ? did they drink properly since this morning ? any bright flashes of light happened before that ?”
Wyll’s heart got tight in his chest as he realised his desire to impress you had caused this to start. After getting reassured by Halsin who explained to him how to handle such situations in the future, he stayed with you next to your bed, waiting for you to wake up.
He kept holding your hand all the way till you woke up, his guilt still holding his stomach in a tight knot. You reassured him about it, explaining to him your symptoms, how it’d happen like Halsin had mentioned, and kissed his trouble away.
