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cripplecharacters · 9 months ago

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Does Your Scarred Character Have to Hate Themself?

[large text: Does Your Scarred Character Have to Hate Themself?]

(TLDR: No.)

A frequent topic that shows up around facial differences is the self-hatred, self-disgust, self-insert-negative-emotion that we must surely experience. I want to ask* writers without FDs - why? Why do you feel about us in such a way that that's the most common way of depicting us?

*- rhetorical question. I promise I know the answer, but I'm not sure if writers do.

It's frankly worrying to me. Is it really that common to assume that disabled people have this internal, never-ending hatred for themselves? The overwhelming majority of us don't. We hate inaccessibility, when people stare, or some symptoms when they get in the way, or how expensive being disabled is, but I find the concept of us being so completely disturbed by our own disabilities extremely strange. It’s “tragedy porn” intersecting “most basic ableism”.

“But trauma!”

[large text: “But trauma!”]

Trauma of what! People with facial differences don't have some sort of default trauma that we come with like it’s a factory setting. We are a group of people with tens of thousands of stories and experiences.

“Trauma of experiencing ableism/disfiguremisia” - that's better, at least this means something. If you're writing a story about this, please get a sensitivity reader with a facial difference. You can assume how we feel all you want, but in my experience these assumptions are often bizarre and unrealistic. Or just end up writing the same “disability so sad” sob story that everyone has seen a billion times. If you want to write about disfiguremisia, you need to understand the nuance and have more than just the basic level knowledge (which 99% of people don’t have either). If you can’t do that, don’t write about it. Simple as that.

“Trauma of the accident” - thankfully, the accident is an event and a facial difference is a disability. If you want to connect these two like they're one and the same, you're almost surely going to demonize disability. People with traumatic spinal cord injuries, acquired amputees, people with TBI, people with acquired facial differences - we participate in our communities, we have hobbies, we date, we play with our dogs. Disability isn't a death sentence. Media who make it feel like it is certainly don't help people who do suddenly become disabled, don't you think?

Here's a post by @blindbeta about blind characters becoming blind through trauma that’s better made than anything I could hope to write here. I heavily recommend giving it a read.

And, I can't stress this enough - most of us didn't have “the accident”, most of us are born like this. "Traumatic scars" isn't the only facial difference that exists, far from it, it's only one of thousands. It's 99% of our representation and "representation". If you want to make a character with FD - please consider that we aren't a monolith. Just like not all physical disabilities are "wheelchair user with paralysis and somehow no other symptoms", not all facial differences are "traumatic scar with somehow no nerve damage".

The overrepresentation of it is incredibly telling, and sometimes - or very frequently - feels like the writer doesn’t actually even want to deal with us. They want to use our disability as a way to cheap drama, moral metaphors, tragic backstories. Not to represent us as living people who are much more similar to you than you apparently think.

Now, I do have enough awareness to know that that's a big part of the appeal. “Horrific Thing #2456 happens” and boom, instant drama. Of course, it's a reasonable response that they would hide their disability for years, avoid talking about it in any way, and magically change their personality to be mean and reclusive, or at least be constantly soooo sad about how much it sucks to be disabled, right?

Do I really need to say that having your character becoming disabled be the worst thing ever is ableism 101? We have been talking about this for so long at this point. Writing about the process of adapting to a specific disability is better left to people who have actual experience in it.

To give an example that will hopefully resonate more with Tumblr users, I will use the fact that I'm also gay. It's not perfect by any means but probably much more familiar territory.

Imagine, let's say, a character. He's gay. The story he's in is supposedly progressive, certainly not trying to be homophobic. The character has experienced an incident, maybe an act of aggression or a hate crime, that happened because he’s gay, which was traumatic. Happens IRL, sure. So of course the character starts hating being gay. He talks about how gross and disgusting it is, he never lets anyone know that he could be “one of them”, certainly not take a stance against homophobia. You can't mention him without mentioning the accident, they're seemingly fused together. No gay love, joy, even basic happiness, he would actually choose to be straight in a heartbeat if given the option to and complains that he can't. This is shown as a neutral, obvious thing that a gay man would do, no one comments on it. He stays like this the whole time, unless there’s a plot twist in the last 10 pages where the world is now magically perfect ("we fixed discrimination, yay!"). This is the only LGBT character in the story.

Keep in mind that there are people similar to this in real life, living with extreme internalized homophobia.

Reading comprehension quiz time: Is this, in your opinion, realistic and thoughtful representation? How does it feel when written by a cishet writer, versus a gay writer who is recalling his experiences? Do you think that it's reasonable for the majority of media representation to be like this, or very close to it? How would it affect younger gay people who might already be uncomfortable with being queer? Are gay men the target audience, or are they not even considered as a group of people who read books? Is this helping or damaging the general public's idea of how it is to be gay? Why or why not?

The Masterpiece

[large text: The Masterpiece]

From 13 to 19 of May, we are celebrating Face Equality week (what a coincidence!). It’s important to me in general - and I wish it was more important to abled people, but I digress - especially its theme for this year.

“My Face is a Masterpiece”

Great statement, it represents the community well, I do enjoy how bold it is. Very cool stuff, I love the work our advocates are doing.

But why do I bring this up?

Well, to very non-subtly show that we aren’t a self-hating group of people. We are a community, a community saying “our faces are beautiful, look!”, we are saying “treat us equally, and do it now!”. Our activism isn’t about self-disgust. It’s about fighting your-disgust.

Why can’t writers keep up? Why are you still stuck decades behind?

Is this the only reason I bring it up?

The Call to Celebration

[large text: The Call to Celebration]

FEI, the org behind organizing it, asks a very simple question (emphasis mine):

“Why do we so often see stories about facial difference as a ‘tragedy’, when they should be about triumph?” “Calling all artists, allies, creatives, galleries. You can rewrite the story to bring about #FaceEquality and celebrate the unique artistry found in every face. Your participation this #FaceEqualityWeek will help to tell the real story, that there is a masterpiece in every face.”

Here. We are calling for you to stop. Directly from the biggest international advocacy alliance group that's out there. If you create, this is for you.

The last argument to not have your character with a facial difference hate themselves? Because we don’t want this. We are tired and frustrated. For me personally, I’m also offended by this kind of assumption. We aren’t tragedies or cheap entertainment for abled people to pity or be horrified by. We are people, and if you can’t internalize that, you have no reason to write about us.

For once, celebrate us. Happy Face Equality Week!

mod Sasza

#mod sasza #face difference #ableism #disfiguremisia #face equality week #my face is a masterpiece #writing guide #writing help #writeblr #writing resources #writing advice #writing tips #writing characters #how to write #writing disabled characters #writing disability

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eldritchcreatureofwords · 2 months ago

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OK, because ya'll need to hear it.

THERE WAS NOTHING OZZIE COULD HAVE DONE IN THAT TRIAL. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. "Oh, but Foxxe, he could have spoken up!" Bee did! And she was instantly brushed off and shut up. She barely got so much as an acknowledgement. Vassago did! And he was also shut down. Hard. He got more of a say then Bee did, likely because he was taken more seriously than the silly, childish Sin of Gluttony, but still no one even pretended to listen to him. Moxxie did. Blitz himself did. Did none of you hear what Blitz said at the end? Because he was right and it was true. Satan was never going to listen to anyone. Maybe, maybe if they'd managed to vote in a proper trial, he would have been forced to, but the rational people in the room lost the vote. The only reason Stolas got heard was because he made such a big scene, made himself impossible to ignore- and was the point of the trial in the first place. "Oh, but Foxxe, the crystal!" Cool, cool. So that means nothing. No, really. The crystal means fuck all. Even if this trial weren't rigged, even if anyone was willing to listen, even if people actually thought Blitz had done something wrong and didn't just not give a shit- Blitz still acquired his means to earth illegally in the first place. Just because you buy a car years later doesn't unsteal the one you stole in your teens, and it doesn't make that suddenly not illegal. Now, Stolas gave Blitz access to the book, but that's still illegal (apparently) and even if it wasn't, it's pretty clear that's not what he's actually on trial for. He's 'on trial' for supposedly raping, assaulting, manipulating, and stealing from a Goetia. They're making Blitz out to be the monster Stella really is. It's not just about the book, and even if it was, the crystal would not undo the illegal actions taken originally. "Oh, but Foxxe, he could have said something about Striker!!" Oh, right, cool, yeah. But, uh, one question. Why???? It's not like the council thinks Striker is some good-faith high-class excellent beacon of shining morale. They know he's an assassin. He is literally here to get amnesty. What is Ozzie going to say? "Oh, this guy who kills people for a living? He tried to kill my boyfriend!" Um, duh, of course he did, no shit, he's a POS. If anything, that would easily be twisted to make Blitz look like a psychopath who set Striker on Fizz, too. And it would have brought Ozzie's relationship with Fizzie out onto the table, which is a can of worms no one wants to deal with.

Yes, they're open now, but fuck only knows if Satan or any of the other sins know that- and even if they do, it puts Ozzie's words/testimony in nebulous light because Blitz is Fizzie's friend, and Fizzie is Ozzie's lover. Plus, as a 'dirty imp fucker' Ozzie may well dig everyone's hole even deeper and further complicate the situation. Ozzie is flat-out-stated to be the 'weakest and least threatening' of the Sins. Satan is the strongest, save perhaps Luci himself, who isn't fucking there because he's currently in a room buried up to the Goddamn neck in rubber duckies and having a fucking crisis while his people and his domain sort of fall down around his stupid adorable ears. Ozzie's not going to pick a fight he can't win. Because he wouldn't win it. Satan would flatten him and we all fucking know it. Even if he did go scorched earth and just start a Goddamn fight in the courtroom, what does that solve? Precisely nothing. You would, best case scenario, have I.M.P on the run, Ozzie a traitor, and Stolas and Blitz still in their Divorce Era, miserable and alone, now with added Half of Hell on their Heels for extra emotional and mental damage! So, in summation- Ozzie couldn't do jack fucking all in that trial. And to hope that Fizzie hates him, is angry with him, or they break up over this is really small and silly and absolutely does not do justice to the characters- and I'm not even getting into some of the flanderizing bullshit I see saying Ozzie is racist and implying that his relationship with Fizzie isn't as healthy as it seems and it's all about to come to light. I'm not saying Fizz can't be mad. I'm not saying they don't need to talk. I'm not saying it's not traumatic and stressful or doesn't need to be addressed. I'm saying that ultimately Ozzie's hands were fucking tied and that a ten year plus relationship is not a lie that is about to fall apart or crack. And if it does, I'm going to be pretty disappointed in Vivz. (I'll keep loving the show, of course, just be disappointed.) I'm saying that ya'll need to stop acting like Ozzie is an evil, hypocritical, or selfish douchebag for not flinging himself on the pyre pointlessly. I'm saying that while I think it will be addressed, I really think ultimately Fizz is a compassionate, intelligent, empathetic person who will understand why Ozzie couldn't do anything and will be glad the man he loves- the man he loves, ya'll- did not cut off his nose to spite his face.

#helluvaboss #stolitz #fizzarozzie #mastermind spoilers #helluvaboss spoilers #helluvaboss season 2 spoilers

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mynamesaplant · 1 year ago

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Forgiveness is Electric

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Just a little short story about @critterbitter's hc of Emmet, Ingo, and Elesa. This is between the Volume Control and Volume Control (Reprise). Just a tiny change, Emmet caught Tynamo bc I sort of forgot when he did... My bad. Please go take a look at Critter's work, it is beautiful in every sense of the word.

I lied about posting to AO3 last time with Yearning for Wood Floors, but I will update that soon along with this one.

Enjoy!~

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“I do not think she will like those.”

“Who doesn’t love sweets?”

Ingo argued, plucking a box of Snom-Caps and turning it over and over in his hands. He contemplated the choices of candy in the aisle, the teenage clerk puffing their long, purple-streaked hair from their eyes behind the counter as the two children agonized over their decision. The clerk, Dakota, saw Ingo and Emmet in here all the time, the former had something of a sweet tooth and the latter… Well, whatever the opposite of a sweet tooth was, that was Emmet. The kid just loved sour things.

It wasn’t unusual to see them, but it didn’t usually take this long for them to make their selection. They had been there for nearly fifteen minutes, painstakingly reading each and every label and discussing them in hushed undertones. That was unusual by itself. Ingo was not known for his volume control.

Although unusual, they weren’t worried about them doing anything shady like stealing or being careless and knock things off the shelf. Might as well let them go about their business. To pass the time, they watched the fretful newly acquired Tynamo circle around them faster and faster until Emmet snatched the Pokémon deftly from the air and soothingly stroked its back.

“I am Emmet. We do not know what she likes.”

“We must do something! I just feel so dreadful.”

Emmet could see Ingo working himself up over this, just as he had a few hours ago, and Emmet placed a reassuring hand on his brother’s arm. His smile and eyes softened as his twin turned to him, Ingo’s eyes glittering with emotion and whatever proclamation dying on the back of his tongue.

He hadn’t meant it. He really hadn’t. He always got too loud when he was excited.

It had just backfired on him horribly.

Ingo cringed even now as he remembered the tears in her eyes, her hands slapped over her ears, and eyes huge with confusion and pain. She had run off before he could even apologize, and that knowledge was eating him alive all day.

Candy wouldn’t fix this. In his heart of hearts, he knew that, and maybe he had come here to grab himself some of his favorite snacks to ease the pain of losing a potential friend.

It was hard for them to understand others. Emmet and Ingo were so in-sync with each other that everyone seemed to be moving so much slower by comparison. It was like playing charades with someone who was underwater, the twins made perfect sense to one another, but it was unclear to everyone else.

This was not new to them, but it didn’t make it any less frustrating.

With their moms being busy with work and their uncle who didn’t have much interest with them most times, Emmet and Ingo came to rely on each other almost exclusively. Drayden would give them a little bit of pocket change, but never much. They had to be ultraconservative with what he gave them and had taken it upon themselves to run around Anville Town to take little odd jobs.

Leaves to rake? Oran berries to pick? Snow to shovel?

Emmet and Ingo did it all and saved what they could. They barely scraped together the money to purchase the Pokéballs needed to catch Tynamo and for additional balls to try and catch Ingo a starter.

Even though they knew everyone, they weren’t really close to anyone in town.

That could have been different if Ingo hadn’t ruined everything!

“Perhaps sweets are not the solution…”

Ingo finally admitted, setting the box down and rising to his feet. Readjusting his cap on his head and dusting off his knees to unconsciously tidy his appearance, Ingo’s frown deepened in thought. Even if he and Emmet apologized to her, Miss Elesa would not understand them. Drat! If only he had remembered her hearing aids, he had completely forgotten them tucked behind her black hair.

Emmet watched his face scrunch up, clearly having a long inner dialogue with himself where he alternatively berated himself and told himself that there was no crying over spilled milk. Gray eyes scanning the shelf, he took a bag of sour gummy-Bewear for himself, and chocolate covered pretzels for his brother, before hauling them to the counter where Dakota waited.

Tynamo drifted just below his elbow, still quite nervous around new people and often retreating to its ball when too anxious. Emmet’s soft encouragement was the only thing keeping the EleFish out while Dakota rang up both bags.

“Tynamo? Good for you, kiddo. I hear they’re not easy to catch.”

They rested their elbows on the counter, chin resting atop with a kind smile to the quieter twin. Dakota could see him beaming with pride, but he merely nodded, shuffling on the spot while he fished in the pocket of his overalls for some money. His Tynamo, like its trainer, seemed a little bashful at their words, and retreated into its ball.

“200… I think you brother is comatose over there.”

Dakota said not unkindly. Emmet jerked his head to where his brother stood motionless in front of the candy.

“Ingo!”

It was Ingo’s turn to jerk out of his, as Dakota had put it, “comatose state”. He trotted over to his side, staring at the bags of candies with confusion before it all seemed to click into place.

“You did not have to spend your pocket money on me.”

Emmet’s smile softened at the bashful note in his sibling’s voice. He wanted to. Ingo was feeling down, his twin often overthinking problems and burning himself out in the process. Emmet liked to take a step back to listen and reflect on people and conversations. A little break would do Ingo some good, so he insisted on the treats.

“I am Emmet. I wanted to. Yup!”

While Dakota bagged their treats in a small brown paper bag, they couldn’t help but lean over the counter to examine them. Although many people didn’t understand the secret code that the twins exchanged between glances, mouth twitches, and hand movements, Dakota could tell something was awry. Withholding the bag, they leaned over the counter with a faintly curious expression and a light tone.

“You guys alright?”

Unsurprisingly, the two exchanged looks, and a wordless conversation was held between them while Dakota waited. It was Ingo who swiveled his head back to face them, his face knit into a calculating grimace that seemed a little less friendly than usual, but only marginally.

“Yes,” he said slowly, eyes not breaking with the clerk, but they could see him shifting uncomfortably. “Emmet and I are attempting to right a wrong. However, we are encountering several roadblocks.”

There is a pause. Dakota still held the bag just out of reach as they gnawed on their lower lip. This wasn’t really their business, and they weren’t the type to stick their nose in where it didn’t belong… They thought of Drayden, who spent a lot of time in Opelucid and not watching his nephews – he barely spent any time with them.

They’re just kids.

“Do you need some help? It’s my job to help customers in the store y’know.”

Another pause. Another exchange of glances.

“I-” Ingo tries to being, already hard pressed to say anything and even less so when his sibling elbowed him in the ribs and shot him a look. He wouldn’t be allowed to take all the blame. “We upset one of our classmates with our carelessness. We think she was attempting to befriend us, but- uh… there were a few errors on our part.”

“And you’re trying to get candy for her to forgive you?”

“We thought about it, but it grew too complicated. We do not know what candy she likes, but more importantly, we do not think it’s a suitable apology.”

The clerk nodded, tapping the counter in thought as they tried to piece together some genuine advice for the boys.

“I think it’s a nice peace offering, but I think an apology would be better.”

“We broke her hearing aids… Yep…”

Emmet croaked suddenly, shrinking back in shame at the same time that Ingo grabbed the brim of his hat to tug it lower over his eyes.

“Ah,” Dakota hummed, tapping the counter even faster. They meant the new family that moved in from Sinnoh. They remembered their dads talking about the new signs that had to go all over town for the girl’s safety. Dakota couldn’t remember her name. “How did you break them?” They asked, already knowing the answer.

“Volume control.”

Ingo cringed, remembering his uncle’s warning about his naturally loud voice. Inside voice, Drayden had been emphasizing, and Ingo was trying to take those words to heart, but it was difficult. Since Ingo’s face didn’t emote well, he relied on his voice and his movement to articulate his emotions to others. They nod sympathetically.

“You didn’t see them?”

“No…”

The boy was squirming now, his shame and embarrassment with the situation reaching an all-time high. He felt Emmet moving to his side, reassuringly pressing against his arm, and resting his head on his twin’s shoulder. A flood of comfort helped Ingo release a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

Behind the counter, the clerk was rummaging through something – although tall for their age, Emmet and Ingo couldn’t see what they were doing. They heaved a box onto the counter, tipping it so the contents spilled out for them to see, and the boys were confused.

“Headphones?”

Emmet leaned forward on his tiptoes to look at the colorful array of boxes that ranged from normal headphones to ones that had Pikachu and Eevee ears topping them.

“Yeah, uh, maybe if she wears these, you’ll remember right away that she has headphones in.”

It was a half-baked idea. In truth, Dakota felt a bit sheepish about it now that the idea was out of their head, but when they looked up, the boys were beaming – well, Emmet beamed. Ingo reminded of them of their friend’s Purrloin in a way they couldn’t quite put their finger on.

“Bravo! What a marvelous suggestion!”

Ingo practically cheered, stepping beside Emmet to look through the headphones. It was probably going to cost them a bit from the tags on the boxes, but it would be worth it. The headphones would immediately remind Ingo that she had hearing aids in so he would be more inclined to get Miss Elesa’s attention in a different fashion, but it also might do the same for others who were unaware of her deafness.

“Sure – er, thank you…” Dakota was looking at the prices now and mentally smacked their forehead. They probably couldn’t afford the headphones. “I’ll-” They hesitate. It almost pained them to say what they were going to next. “I’ll pay for them so you can take them to her now.” The twins’ eyes went wide, both about to protest when Dakota interrupted, “In exchange, you can do a few chores for me at my place. I need to do some yardwork, but it always gives me hay fever. Sound like a deal?”

The answer was easy for them. Dakota told them to pick ones that they thought Miss Elesa would like.

“I think these ones are quite dashing.”

Ingo said, picking up the box with the Pikachu ears. Emmet pursed his lips and shook his head.

“Nope. Too big. Not a gamer girl.”

They continued to rummage through the boxes. They agreed that she must like Electric types. She had a Blitzle as her partner after all.

“I cannot recall, she is from Hoenn, correct?”

Emmet shrugged, unsure himself because they had both been looking through a magazine with an expose on the newest train lines running out of Nimbasa when she had been introduced. That just meant to them that, when the time came, going on their Pokémon journey by rail would be all the easier.

“Not sure.” He looked at the box Ingo had in his hand and his smile broadened, nodding in agreement to his brother’s unasked query. The perfect balance of subtle but stylish. “I am Emmet. Those are perfect.”

Plusle and Minun headphones.

#pokemon #submas #fan fiction #fanfic #fanfiction #fan fic #sorry critter #i started writing about Tynamo before i remembered he probably didn't have it by that point #im just gonna say newly acquired and cross my fingers #tynamo is shy #nobody knows about it #🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞

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fangsandfeels · 1 year ago

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The vagueness of Astarion sleeping mechanics drives me mad sometimes

So, the game says that elves don't sleep - to the point where it's ironically stated that the only way for them to experience sleeping is to either drink a potion of Angelic Slumber or "get hit really hard with a chair".

Instead, they enter a semi-aware meditative state (Revery) where they experience memories from their past lives (usually most positive and emotional parts). Or they just sorting through their current memories.

Now, we've seen Astarion meditating if his way of lying on a bedroll is anything to go by. He is also immune to sleeping spells. We could also see him sleeping (in a Durge run). I know that devs technically recycle the same sleeping pose for all romanced companions, but still. Also, Astarion has nightmares, which is not typical for elves.

Of course, when I was going through the lore, I scratched the surface, but from what I understood, Revery is supposed to be a controlled state, and nightmares aren't exactly controlled.

But, I've found a very interesting bit that (so far) is still considered part of the official canon:

Elves can sleep and dream just like any human, but almost all surface elves avoid doing so. Dreams, as humans know them, are strange and confusing to elves. Unlike the actual memories of one’s primal soul, present life, or past lives, dreams are uncontrolled products of the subconscious, and perhaps the subconscious minds of those past lives or primal souls as well. An elf who dreams must always wonder whose mind these thoughts first arose from, and why. Priests of Sehanine Moonbow are an exception: they sleep and dream to receive signs from their god, and elves consult such priests to interpret their own dreams."

From: Mordenkainrn's Tome Of Foes, Chapter 2: Elves

And not only does this little bit explain a lot, but it also provides some food for your fic writing purposes.

Now, I'm entering the headcanon territory, so be warned.

Astarion's access to Revery got horribly fucked up after he had been Turned. Not only does he no longer have access to his previous lives since he is technically dead and plucked from the cycle, but he also can't even have his happy or good memories before he became a spawn. Even if they are still there, somewhere in the memory palace, getting to them requires going through the catalog of traumatic and painful memories he acquired after being enslaved by Cazador. It's like running through a burning house trying to rescue your family photo - and the hall gets longer each time. So, entering a trance means confronting the worst memories of his life over and over because there is nothing else there.

Due to this Astarion may resort to sleeping, which elves don't usually do. Elves don't like dreams because dreams are subconscious, and they can't be controlled, which scares them. For Astarion, however, it means there is a chance of him subconsciously dreaming of something nice or just being blissfully empty. However, it doesn't safeguard him from nightmares which (because they are the product of his unconsciousness) get even more twisted than simple memories.

Additionally, there can be a possibility that after becoming a spawn he got cut off from meditation and trances completely, relying on sleeping only: at least, the cut spawn epilogue by Withers mentions how while Astarion needs to sleep again, he doesn't sleep alone. While we don't know what that means exactly (and whether it will ever be implemented in the game), I assume that the tadpole gave him the ability to meditate back, but it was a small improvement because his memory headspace no longer holds happy memories capable of offering solace or refuge.

So, my personal headcanon is that he switches between meditating and sleeping depending on how aware he needs to be, and whatever option feels less torturous at the moment.

For instance, in his Origin run, when he remembers the moment of Cazador carving scars into him, he is in a trance. Which is why the memory is so horribly vivid, as if he is reliving it anew.

However, when he has a nightmare where Cazador finds him, he is sleeping and experiencing a memory affected by his subconsciousness. Which is why he jolts himself awake and desperate to know the limits of his freedom.

So, yes, the man literally can't catch a break.

On a happier note (and for your hurt/comfort fanfiction purposes), once Astarion starts traveling with Tav and the group, his memory bank gets updated with memories that are actually fun and nice, so he has something to linger upon when he is meditating. Sleeping gradually becomes a bit more pleasant experience because his subconsciousness got more material to work with, so the quality of his non-controlled dreams has to gradually improve.

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 astarion #astarion #astarion brainrot #dnd elves are strange #feel free to correct me if i goofed up #because it's quite likely i goofed up

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ghost-proofbaby · 15 days ago

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FLASHES OF THE BATTLE COME BACK TO ME IN A BLUR. ALL THAT BLOODSHED, CRIMSON CLOVER - SWEET DREAM WAS OVER. MY HAND WAS THE ONE YOU REACHED FOR.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, i cannot emphasize the angst warning enough - it's a sad one for our boy, sugar is spoken of inappropriately by roadies with sexual undertones, mentions of drug use beyond just weed (specifically sleeping pills as well as allusion to heavier drugs being acquired), minors dni

☆ WC: 6.7K+

☆ AN: i'm not even sorry at this point. let's get into it, shall we? or should i say - let's fight.

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

“Alright. Let’s fight.”

There was a certain point in Eddie Munson’s life, approximately one year ago, in which he had come to the acceptance that sometimes harsh words exchanged were better than silence.

It had taken a lot out of him, that night – another drink tossed down his throat, another hit from his sour joint, another sigh passing his lips that was the closest he could come to communicating all that nostalgia and guilt building up within his chest. He had been terribly far gone, and he swears, at some point he had heard your voice call out his name.

And for a second there, he had believed you really were there.

It wasn’t because you had called out his name so sweetly, it wasn’t because there had been some sort of longing in your tone that echoed in his ears. No, he had heard your voice, and you had been angry. Furious, venomous in the way you had spit out his name. Each echo of it in that empty hotel room had felt like a residual punch to the gut, and for a second, he truly believed you were there with him. You were there, and you were angry, and all he could feel in his inebriated state was sheer happiness at the thought of seeing you again. He didn’t care if you screamed in his face. He didn’t care if you shot nothing but insults his way. It would be enough if you were there. He just wanted you to be there.

It had been a sore disappointment when he’d sat straight up in the bed that wasn’t his, in a room he wouldn’t see again after the night passed, and found himself to still be entirely and utterly alone.

He had wished you were there. He had wished that he could fight with you rather than drown out his sorrows.

And the Universe is funny in granting wishes, because now, he’s getting exactly what he had yearned for that night.

Your eyes are wide, pupils blown out, chest heaving with rapid breaths are you both simply stare. He doesn’t know where to start – but he remembers where it had ended the last time.

“You stopped saying you loved me.”

It’s already an unfair fight, uneven playing ground. Because how does he explain that? How does he explain how even if the words stopped leaving his lips, the feeling never paused its growth in his bones? You were rooted too deeply within him, even once your presence had been replaced with your absence, and he can’t imagine a day coming where he doesn’t love you.

He clears his throat awkwardly, “Would you like-”

“It was more than the physical leaving,” you interrupt him, “It was the… emotional leaving. That’s where we left off before Matt came into the studio.”

Straight to the point then, so it seems.

You stopped saying you loved me.

He did, didn’t he? He couldn’t fight against facts.

I never needed elaborate metaphors or pretty words, Eddie.

And he had been well aware of that. Perhaps that’s exactly why he’d gone and overdone it with the songs, with the lyrics, with the poetry. He gave you everything he had left, everything he knew you wouldn’t need.

I just needed to know you still fucking loved me.

And what is crueler than finally telling you how he knew that? That at the time, he had been so well aware that’s exactly what you had needed to hear, and perhaps that was exactly why he stopped saying it.

Keep you at an arm’s distance. Keep you safe and sound, miles away from the disaster of impending doom.

Miles away from him.

I can explain, he nearly says, but he doesn’t want to lie to you. His explanation is hardly palpable, and surely not something you would be able to stomach. He can hardly stomach it.

Instead, he tries to stand his ground, as if he could ever stand a chance against you, “What else was I supposed to do?”

Wrong choice of words.

“What else?” you parrot back in disbelief, finally looking less sad, less broken. This could work, he thinks. To see you fiery and alive, even in all your anger against him, rather than some broken thing, “Would you like to me to list out all of the fucking options you had?”

It’s a rhetorical question, but when he doesn’t respond, you decide to answer the obvious.

“You could have taken ten extra seconds on the phone to say love you, babe. You could have texted me the damn words. You could have- just- you could have just told me if you were getting sick of me!”

He doesn’t know which is a bloodier catastrophe – the shaking in your voice as you yell out the last part, or the twist of his stomach at hearing it.

Sick of you. You had thought he was sick of you.

“I wasn’t sick of you,” it comes out snappier than intended, but all that his tongue seems to care about is that the words are out there – no care in the fragility of tone. “I was- it was just a lot. It was our biggest tour yet, and-”

“Oh!” you laugh out, and his blood is beginning to go cold. All the warmth is leaking out, and all he can think about is twenty four hours ago. How warm it had been beneath his covers, your body curled against his, not a worry in the world. “Oh, I’m sorry. It was a lot? I’m so glad, in that case, that I took the stress of our relationship off your plate,” your voice is still cracking with every syllable. All he can think about is how it had sounded breathing out against his ear, “I just- Jesus, you ask me why I left? That’s why. Forget the bullshit about loving me. Maybe I just felt like a burden. Have you considered that?”

Sweet memories of the night before snaps away like elastic, back out of reach, your words yanking him back down to reality abruptly.

You, of all people, felt like a burden. To him.

The person he saw a future with – the person he wanted a future with. The only one he had wanted to see at the end of each wearing day on tour, tears clogging his throat up to the point where he pretended to be asleep so he could avoid having to try and chat with his bandmates. The only one who could have soothed whatever ferocious ache that had materialized deep within him while on the road, that he had foolishly tried to replace with a million different things that only ended up leaving him more empty. The only cure to a homesickness that had ruined him in the end.

You had never been a burden. But he was fucking it all up, and he was watching the weight of that belief fall down upon your shoulders again.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel like that!” he’s desperate now, struggling to find ways to fix this. There was a fine line when it came to the fight, a dance between seeing you alive and willing to put up your fists for whatever was left of the two of you versus seeing you broken and unwilling to help him fix it, and he’s sure he’s crossed it. Irreversible damage is being done, and he doesn’t know how to fix it, “It wasn’t- You weren’t- The problem was never…. Never….”

Fix it, fix it, fix it.

“Don’t say that the problem wasn’t me,” you huff out, almost laughing, looking right at him. Dead in the eyes, but still putting up the fight, “If I weren’t the problem, you wouldn’t have pushed me away. You would have- I don’t know, just let me in. We were supposed to be a team.”

He can’t deny a single word falling from your mouth. You’re right – he knows you’re right, sure as he knows the sun sets in the West, and he knows there’s nothing to be said that can fix this.

He chose to break this. This wasn’t some terrible accident; Eddie had gripped the wheel with both hands, shaking white knuckles in control, and had driven the two of you straight off the road.

—

He can’t breathe.

It’s all he could think about the moment he saw your contact light up the screen of his phone, as he swiped to answer, as he said his pitiful hello. Your voice doesn’t unlatch the tightness from around his lungs, your sweet words do nothing to lighten the load upon his chest. If anything, he almost swears you’re making it worse.

He can’t breathe, because he can’t handle you making it worse.

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. He wasn’t supposed to dread the phone calls. He wasn’t supposed to come up with lies about how his day has gone. He’s not supposed to be jumping through hoops to guarantee you can’t find out the truth.

Whenever he’d imagined these calls amidst his daydreams for this very life, give or take, he’d always assumed they’d be boiling over with the truth. That spilling out the mundane details of his day would come naturally, that he’d probably make you laugh by making sure you knew exactly which pair of mismatched socks he’d thrown on for the day. He thought he’d be honest; he’d be happy, and he’d be honest.

At the end of the day, he supposes he’d always thought the truth would have been something different.

He’s staring at the bottle of pills recently prescribed to him through whatever low-profile doctor his manager had found for him, meant to help him sleep these days after he’d had an entire private breakdown over his restlessness and a proper scolding for his ever-growing use of plain pot, and your voice prattling on about something is entirely lost on him.

When did that happen? When did he zone out when you, of all people, spoke to him?

You’re mid sentence when he cuts you off, “Hey, baby.”

A pause that feels like eternity to him, but probably goes unnoticed by you. He’s gotten good at that – he’s gotten good at churning out little infinities for himself amongst the seconds for others. Time to ruminate, time to rot, time to decay. A coping mechanism since privacy has become a foreign thing.

“I’m sorry, but they need me for soundcheck,” he says the lie so easily, it scares him. His palms shake at the realization that it was so simple, so second nature to him now.

Lying to you. He was lying to you. A realization that twists his gut painfully as it settles deep within him.

Soundcheck had finished over an hour ago. Showtime wasn’t for another two. He had the time for you – he had specifically made sure to have the time for you after dancing around your texts and calls the last week.

Why was he making up an excuse to end the call? He’d made the time. Why?

“Oh.”

He can’t fucking breathe. He can hear the disappointment, and he can’t fucking breathe.

One little word. Two insignificant letters. They ruin him in too many ways to formulate.

“Oh, that’s fine!” your desperate attempt at a recovery doesn’t fool him for a second, but maybe you had sensed his mind being so far away. Maybe you had assumed he’d fall for the nauseatingly fake mask of joy, “Go, they need you.”

Do they, though? Do they truly, genuinely need him?

It had been a question keeping him up lately. The very question that was meant to be quieted by the Zolpidem that he continues to burn holes through the bottle of with his heavy eyes.

Lately, it had felt a lot less like they needed him, and more like everyone around him needed the idea of him. They needed the rockstar, the frontman. They needed the man who would get on stage every night and sing his heart out, who would smirk at a crowd of adoring fans and wink at them in order to send their hearts racing. The charming trickster who could produce honey words both over a record and over interviews, luring in new fans at every corner.

They needed his hands, only so that they may write words across pages and play instruments across tracking.

They needed his vocal chords, to sing the lyrics to market, and to smooth talk the early morning show host.

They needed his heart, so they could tear it apart and devour it right in front of him, uncaring that they would leave him with nothing but a bloody mess by the end of it.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, and he knows you won’t be able to taste the dryness of it. His entire tone has been flat – the laugh is no different. “Rockstar duties and all. We’ll talk more later?”

He hates rockstar duties. He hates it all.

He hates the lights that are always too warm while he’s up on stage, gasping with every breath to try and find the joy once more in his tired bones. He hates the tight schedule, and the way he can’t even have enough free time to leave his hotel room to see half the cities he’s visited. He hates the flashing phones across the crowd, all vying for a photo more than they are a connection.

He’s being drained dry. He has nothing left to give – by the time he’s meant to come home to you, he will have less than nothing.

“Of course. Go give ‘em Hell.”

His fingers can’t work fast enough. Your soft oh had broken him, but this shatters him.

Because that’s what they want, isn’t it? They want him to give them Hell, packaged in the euphoria of a false Heaven. And yet, at the end of the day, the only one receiving the fires of the Hell is him. The loneliness, the demanding weight of the world, the bottom of a parched well. Everyone else lives in a dream from what he can give them, but Eddie?

Eddie is left with nothing.

He hangs up just in time for the first sob to leave him. Dry as he felt, dry as his laughter. He couldn’t even choke out a pathetic love you. And his ears are ringing, and somewhere in the buzz, he tries to decipher out the last time he had said those words to you. He knows the sound of your sweet tongue awarding him the affection – you say it at every chance you get – but he can’t recall when he’d last offered you that piece of his soul.

Did he still love you?

Yes, the violent thing in him sobs as he lets out another croak, doubling over and tossing his phone away blindly, I do. And that’s the issue.

He was a ticking time bomb now. He knew there was an inevitable end coming for him, and he was terrified he wouldn’t survive this tour.

And you – his darling light, the one he was supposed to race home to and was supposed to hold close to his heart as motivation to make it through so that this tour would not be the end – wouldn’t survive it either. The blast radius, the implosion. You were something too soft, too gentle to handle that. He couldn’t do that to you.

He couldn’t ruin you. And so he was pushing you away.

Somewhere through the gasping breaths and shake of his shoulders, he reaches to find his phone again. His eyes burn, but no tears come as he stares down at a now cracked screen. He’s hyperventilating – he can’t catch his breath, no matter how wide his chest and lungs try to expand. It’s been stolen from him.

All of it has been stolen from him. His happiness, his dreams, you.

A month back, he had to change his lockscreen from his favorite photo of you. It had been at a party, and one of the sleazes dressed in leather and cigarette smoke had thrown his arm around Eddie just in time to get a peek at his lockscreen.

‘Take a load of that,’ the stranger had commented with a low whistle, whiskey on his breath suffocating.

Eddie had tried to not judge him the entire night. Sometimes, when he was looking at him, he saw the reflection of himself these days.

‘What?’ Eddie had tried to laugh off, looking more properly through his drunkenness at that vibrant photo of you. His girl, the one he wanted to go home to. All big smiles and aching cheeks, laughing probably at something stupid he had done.

He could see your bare thighs brushing the sheets of your shared bed back home – it started a hollow ache of longing to feel them wrap him up again. The sheets, your thighs, your arms.

The small bunks on the bus and the hotel rooms didn’t compare to sleeping next to you. He thought if you had been there, if you had been with him, maybe this all would have been easier.

‘That fine piece of meat on your screen, man,’ the guy motioned vaguely with a deep chuckle. ‘Fuck, is that what’s waiting for you back home?’

The sinking feeling had started then. The urge to flip his phone over and hide you away began to accumulate, his hand twitching with it.

‘Yeah, that’s my girlfriend,’ he had said. Choked the words out. Tried to brush off his worry.

That’s just how the guys on the road had spoken. It was fine. It would be fine.

‘Shoulda brought her on the road,’ the man had sighed. ‘Then we all could have gone a few rounds with her.’

Eddie had never leapt up from a couch quicker. He had also never vomited up more of his guts in a stranger’s plants than he did immediately upon running out the back door.

Your photo had been exchanged for a stock image the next day.

The memory still makes him sick.

He swipes right over that very stock image, one he never cared enough to change because the only photo worth replacing it with was one he could no longer share with this world, to unlock his screen to find his texts with you already open.

His thumbs are shaking, alien, almost unwilling as he commands them to type a message.

Maybe, just maybe, he shouldn’t be pushing you away. He shouldn’t be sinking deeper into this crowd of uncaring faces, of people who only want him for what he can give them.

Maybe he should come crawling back to the one who wants him for his hands, and the way you could hold them out in your lap as you traced the softest of patterns over sensitive skin, a secret message of adoration poured from your own fingertips.

Maybe he should confide more in the one who wants him for his vocal chords, and for the conversations that could be had in the middle of the night, upholding his opinions on anything and everything with the most importance. And in the shield of the night, sometimes even the day, he couldn’t possibly say the wrong thing – not with you.

Maybe he should remember to love the one who wanted his heart, simply to handle it with care instead of devourment.

The simple message of I love you is typed out. His thumb hovers over the small send button.

Maybe he should let you back in. Maybe he could survive this.

His thumb diverts suddenly, backing out of the conversation, back into the rows of texts awaiting to be opened and read. Left to smolder just like all his missed calls, missed birthdays, missed holidays. Friends from back when everything felt real, and more sleazes in leather and cigarette smoke. People who devour. People who want what he gives, never what he is.

Wayne, somewhere amongst the missed connections, just asking if Eddie is alive. If his boy is okay.

He goes ignored, just as you had as of late, and for all the same reasons. Same lump stuck in Eddie’s throat, same weight on his chest.

The thumb finds its way to a text chain with someone who can’t fill the hole in Eddie’s chest, but he certainly had offered something at one of those after parties that might be a good place to start.

Maybe Eddie should just get more of that, more sweet releases without a prescription, something to send his mind swirling until he forgets that you, that Wayne, that even he exists. Yes, that might be the best idea he’s had all week – he types out a message and hits send without hesitation this time to a stranger with his worst interests in mind, asking if he might have any more of that snow in the dead of July he’d been offered at the party.

His text to you, unfortunately, is never sent.

—

“You want me to let you in?” Eddie suddenly says as he snaps back into his body, into his current mind and current situation.

He can’t change the past. He’d give anything – God, he’d give everything – to go back to that night and make different choices, better choices, but he can’t.

All he really has is the here and now. This version of him, and this version of you. The current you, who hates him and absolutely should. The current him, who’s six weeks sober yet has finally seen the light.

The past doesn’t matter, and yet the past is the entire reason for this.

“Yes,” you laugh as dryly as he had that night during that final call, throwing your head back in your own desperation, “Jesus Christ, yes. That’s all I ever wanted, all I fucking asked f-”

He cuts you off by suddenly storming off, but it’s not away from the situation. Not this time.

Down the hallway, through the door only himself and you have ever passed through. Across the carpeted floors and straight for the stack of notebooks scattered beside the couch.

Somewhere in the mess, he finds the notebook he’s looking for, right on top of his laptop he needs.

You trail in behind him, seemingly stunned by his rash actions – except they’re not that rash. He may be moving fast, erratically even, but this is the most sane he’s ever felt with how he’s handling the situation that has become the two of you.

“You want me to let you in?” he repeats, and you stare with confused eyes, mouth barely agape, entirely lost for a moment, “Fine. I’ll let you in.”

He throws the notebook your way, and your reflexes are your savior as you catch the flutter conglomeration of paper between your palms. The laptop, however, he’s smarter about.

“Clearly, you’ve already seen my notebook of lyrics,” he says as he huffs, setting the laptop up on the coffee table, rummaging for a pair of headphones he knows he’s left somewhere in this mess, “Why not take it a step further, yeah? I have the demos right here, on my laptop. I’ve been recording them for ages, and having copies of any we try out in the studio sent over to me. I want you to listen to them, because obviously, just reading everything I wanted to say to you doesn’t wo-”

You nearly fling the notebook right back at him, slamming it down against the side of your thigh, “I don’t want songs!”

He pauses, looks up at you, nearly deranged. “No? You just asked me to let you in, and this is me letting you in.”

“That’s not- this isn’t-” you stutter over your words and he can see your eyes begin to sparkle with tears as you approach him, just as frustrated as he was now. “I want you to speak to me, Eddie! I’m tired of listening to second-hand accounts and I’m tired of all the versions of you, of this fight, in my head! Use your words,” you make your way between him and the table, the laptop, falling to your knees slowly, the notebook being tossed away for a moment as both your palms come to grip his knees. He can’t tell if you’re trying to ground him, or yourself, “I am here. Right fucking here, right in front of you. And after all this time, you still can’t talk to me.”

He feels the way you shake with those gentle palms on his bruised knees. He’s terrified – the rough fabric of his jeans isn’t thick enough to keep you away. There’s not enough layers of any fabric on this planet that could ever be thick enough to keep you from feeling that rot. And you must feel it – you must feel all those holes that have whittled away at the man you once knew.

The man you once loved.

He doesn’t think he can ever be that man again. They did more than break his spirit over the years, or crush his childhood dreams.

Something snapped in the foundation of him.

“I…”A lump he’s felt as though he’s lived a lifetime without finally returns. The same one from that terrible night in which he made every wrong choice possible. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Your face falls, ever so slightly. “It’s not about what I want-”

“Yes,” he stops you, hands coming down to press over yours. Your skin is warmer than his, and he fights the urge to flip your palms up. Press the softest of your skin against the roughest of his, intertwining unworthy fingers between slots unmeant for him, “It is. It absolutely is.”

Just how silently can a heart break?

You don’t pull back from his touch, and it almost feels like progress. Silent shattering can almost be mended with the way you only let your left palm weakly squeeze at his knee once, twice.

He waits for the third squeeze, but it never comes.

“Then there’s where we start,” you whisper, looking down at where his hands hover over yours.

“Start with what?”

“Fixing things.”

You finally pull your hand away, a slow drag that sends shivers up his spine. He has half the mind to try and capture your hand in his to prevent it; one last desperate attempt to cling to you and all the ways you could heal him. All the ways you could love him. A world of possibility, another time in the Universe where you adore him and he’s never hurt you. Where his shelves are filled with photos of the two of you, together. Where he doesn’t fold you out of the frame, and where his walls are just a little less cold.

A time, a world, where home feels like home again.

“We need to stop saying what we think the other person wants to hear,” you croak out as you stand up, almost ashamed. As if realization has finally washed over you of just what you had done – gotten down on your knees and begged him, pleaded with him. “If this is going to work, that…. It has to stop.”

We need to stop being what we think the other needs. We don’t know what the other needs.

The unspoken truth you don’t need to say to him. He gets it, he really does.

This entire relationship, this entire situation the two of you have stumbled into headfirst, needs to be a fresh start. As far as either of you should be concerned, you need to be strangers. No history, no marks, no dust.

It’s a challenge Eddie would have balked at a mere six weeks ago, but that he faces head-on now. The thought of forgetting you, untangling your soul from his, in order to make new knots doesn’t scare him as much as he should. It’s his chance to start over; his chance to start fresh and new, a clean slate he’d begged for every night amidst every new mistake he had made in your absence.

He could do this. And by the look on your face, you could also do this.

“Agreed,” he finally stands up from the couch, nodding more to himself than to you, “Start new. Start fresh. Some inspirational quote from those fucking Facebook moms I hate.”

A smile nearly cracks on your face, “You hate Facebook moms?”

“Oh, I loathe them,” he leans in a bit closer, as though he might be letting you in on a secret. Really, he’s just trying to distract you from his wound – that terrible gash in his chest this fight had opened back up, a slice from the past he’ll need the night to stitch back together, “It’s okay, though. The feeling’s mutual.”

Your laugh is weak, and it’s proof enough that it isn’t forced. “Figured as much. I guess the Satanic panic wasn’t just a Hawkins’ thing, huh?”

Hawkins. God, he hadn’t spoken about Hawkins with anyone, any single soul, in so long that the name of the town almost felt foreign.

“Guess not,” he quirks his mouth, tilting his head at you, trying to chase away the reeling you’re sending him on. If he thinks too hard about Hawkins, he’ll think too hard about more names he hasn’t uttered in a year. More people left behind, more memories left to burn, “So… Now what?”

He needs to change the topic, to run away one last time. There’s other nights ahead for the two of you to open those wounds of his. Tonight is not the night.

You shrug, looking around the room, “I mean… we have a contract to fulfill.”

“I’m sure my people will get in touch with your people.”

“I also have work tomorrow.”

“I’m sure I could call a cab for you in the morning.”

“Eddie.”

A selfish part of him had hoped if he’d given in and fought, you might stay another night. That maybe the fight would give him everything he had wanted, and then some.

Another night. Another clean slate. Another chance to prove himself.

But by the break in your voice as you say his name, he knows he was clearly delusional.

“Or I could call you one tonight,” he secedes softly, failing at hiding most of his disappointment. It doesn’t matter – it doesn’t change a thing. “You’ll probably need your beauty sleep. No need for some aggravating rockstar to interrupt all your rest with his lousy guitar playing.”

“Stop that,” you insist, face falling a bit too serious for his liking. He had been trying to joke around, “I- Your guitar playing is not lousy. We both know that.”

“Lousy or legendary, it still keeps you up.”

He watches the contort of your face, and his chest constricts. He wants to be able to read your mind, look past that sudden stoic wall that falls over your eyes and flat lips. Chip past the marble facade to understand why those words seemingly sucked all the air out of the room just now.

“Yeah,” you say, but you sound miles away, looking over his shoulder, breaths a bit unsteady. “Yeah… You’re, uh, you’re right. I don’t mind calling my cab-”

“I insist,” he rushes out, still scanning your face, still grasping for straws to get a glimpse inside your brain.

What did he do wrong? What had he said?

“You really don’t-”

“Consider it done.”

His phone is already in hand, and the number already half dialed into it isn’t just the city’s taxi service. It’s his driver’s.

His personal driver. Is that what had made you uncomfortable? Had you realized that before he’d even called for one of those SUVs to be your ride home?

Was he coming on too strong for all this talk of a fresh start?

You pick your battles, and just as he had lost the war to have you stay, you let him dial the number. Wander to the corner of the room as he talks to the man only he’s familiar with over his cell phone, fingers tracing over the few instruments littering the space. He wonders if you take note of which ones you pull away from with a smudge of dust on the pad of your finger, and if you can see the desperate wear worn into others from late nights like the night before. If you can see the scratch marks covering guitars from violent strumming, or rough circles over the keys of a keyboard he’s propped against the wall after it had stopped emitting noise due to being kicked off its stand after a particularly rough session.

He wonders if tears can stain, and if you could see any of his panic and regret at that burst of violence. It was the night he swore off vodka.

With confirmation of the SUV being on its way, he turns all his attention back on you, “See anything you like?”

You’d been staring at one specific acoustic guitar, one that had gathered more dust than any other instrument in the room. A stunning guitar polished to perfection, to the point of still being able to see your reflection in the onyx abyss of it below the layer of neglect.

He knows exactly where your eyes have caught. A perfect carving of his initials, deeply cut into the rosewood right below the strings at the top of the neck. Dust had covered up the deep red painted into the hand-carved letters.

“What?” you look over suddenly, almost as though you wanted to pretend you hadn’t seen it. But he knows you did, and he knows you had a good guess, an accurate guess, as to where that guitar came from. “I- No- I mean, yes! Sorry, I just… A lot of instruments, I guess?”

You’re biting your lip, clearly nervous, as he forces a smile, “Yeah. Always swore I’d have a room like this when we- I had a place of my own someday.”

He knows the blood has drained from his face at his slip up. Feels the cold creep into his cheeks, as he clears his throat awkwardly.

“You did,” you grant him the grace of ignoring it. Save him the embarrassment, and move right along, “What kind of guitar is that one?” you pause, turning back to the guitar you’d locked your sights on and jut your chin in it’s direction, “A… Yamaha, right?”

“Yamaha F335,” he confirms, walking up behind you, looking at the dark beauty, “Nothing extravagant, but…”

“You always said Yamaha never felt cheap,” you murmur under your breath, smiling as if lost in a memory, “Under two hundred bucks, and you still sounded like Kirk Hammett when you hammered out those solos over Master of Puppets.”

He wishes you wouldn’t do this. Not now, not when you aren’t spending the night. Not when a car is coming to take you away, and not when he knows your knees are still raw from falling to them and begging him of all people to just talk to you.

“It was a crime,” he chokes out in a tight tone, having to cough a little to loosen up his words before continuing, “Playing such a metal album on an acoustic. Always sounded better on Sweetheart.”

You continue to tear him open, rib by rib, as you softly say, “Yeah, but Wayne always seemed to like that music a little better when you played it that way instead.”

It feels as though it’s finally his turn to fall to his knees.

You don’t even notice the unraveling, reaching up to caress over the strings covering the simple cursive EM on the neck. Almost out of reach from where the guitar sways on the wall mount.

“Does she have a name?”

He has to gather himself before he can reply, “What?”

“The guitar,” you glance over your shoulder, eyes shining just a bit. He thinks he knows why you wouldn’t face him now. Why you’d kept your back to him, “You always named your guitar. Don’t tell me you grew out of that, Munson.”

This smile isn’t quite as forced, but it quivers all the same on his lips and cheeks, “Never. His name’s Nelson.”

Your face scrunches a bit, “Nelson? His name’s Nelson?”

“Yep.”

He can’t help the way the word comes out so short, so quipped. You’re both treading in very dangerous territory now.

“That’s…” you nod, deep in thought as you trail off, and he wonders if you caught on, “Odd. But I like it. What was the inspiration?”

He has to lie. He can’t admit it to you. There is only so much blood left in his body to bleed out tonight, and he simply cannot give you the full truth now.

“A bit of a nod to the person who gifted it to me,” he offers as much of the truth he can, but if you ask him for any more specifics, he simply can’t.

You look between him and the guitar, a small smile growing, and it breaks his heart, “Oh? And who- I mean… may I ask who gifted it?”

His entire body aches as he forces out, “An old friend.”

Eddie Munson hates himself. More than he ever believed possible, to the point of a stomach churning with sheer sickness as you nod at the oddly quiet answer, finally taking the hint.

He hates himself. He hates what he has become. He hates what he has destroyed.

“Sounds-” you’re cut off by the ringing of his phone, incessant chiming from his driver to announce his arrival.

The conversation ends there. Eddie informs you your ride is here, and he trails after you slowly as you gather your things. He feels the apartment drop colder and colder as each article of you is snatched up, no malicious intent but painful all the same, until he’s finally walking you to the elevator with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“So,” you nearly stumble over your own two feet as you try to face him in the final few steps, clumsy and nervous as ever. Even if the fight has cleared some of the air, offered some clean slate, some things never change, “I guess your people will call my people?”

He only nods, discreetly tucking his hand back away that had shot out, ready to catch you.

“Okay,” you nod, eyeing him as though you have more to say. A million words, a million questions, a million topics to avoid. He really wishes you would spend the night. “Well, then…. See you around, I guess?”

Bruised knees, avoidant eyes, tight throats. The two of you are such a mess, it’s no longer funny.

“See you around, Sugar.”

The elevator dings with its arrival, and Eddie doesn’t let you get another word in before he’s motioning you in. Away from him, away from the damage, away from the impending explosion.

He almost wonders if you had the same look on your face the final day you’d left your shared apartment with him as he watches the two doors slide shut.

He doesn’t linger, though. The moment you’re locked away from him, he’s rushing back to his apartment. The only one on the entire floor, entirely secluded in his tower, cursed to solitude as a private punishment. Whenever anyone had asked in the past, it had always been the excuse of privacy – but he knows better.

Eddie Munson had torn himself limb by limb, cutting every lifeline ever tied to him, long before he’d moved into this chilling penthouse.

He avoids the urge to run to one of his panoramic windows, trying to remind himself he won’t be able to see thirteen floors down to the street where you’re surely rushing into that familiar black SUV. He takes a sharp turn down his hallway, feeling almost robotic, returning back to that cursed room the two of you had just broken each other inside moments before.

Straight to the back wall, and straight to the black Yamaha guitar. Straight to Nelson.

His hands shake as he pulls the instrument away from the wall just enough to see a note that barely clings to hand-polished wood, tape aged and paper crumbled. Yet the ink is still visible. The scar, it seems, is not quite healed as he reads over the messy scrawl.

For my boy. Give them Hell, kid. And maybe give your old man a call.

Love, Wayne.

#ghost's stories #maroon #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things #my fingers slipped?#we're getting into it now friends

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vi-arcanes-left-biceps · 21 days ago

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So I wanted to talk about Vi and Jinx...

I think one of the most beautiful things in Arcane re: the sisters is how reconnecting is, for both of them, only possible when they break out of their pre-conceived notions of each other that they've been dragging since childhood.

To reconnect with Jinx, S2 Vi has to acknowledge her as an independent adult and let go of the perception of a small vulnerable child that she needed to protect at all times. S2 Jinx, to reconnect with Vi, has to see her sister as someone vulnerable, both physically and emotionally, and not as this sort of always-strong, idealised protector.

Only when they break their childhood dynamic they are able to see each other as equal and find a common ground.

And I love their dynamic in season 2 because despite all the bagage they have you can see how they are getting to see each other as their own persons, while also being silly af like only two siblings can be. It's very little time, but you can tell they are maturing together.

I think many 'arcane critical' Vi takes fail to understand this. They are trapped in S1 Vi's and Jinx's minds. They are still expecting them to conform to the unhealthy dynamic of protector and protected; and fail to see what Vi and Jinx see of each other in S2. Vi is no ideal protector nor a hero of the vulnerable: she's a flawed, young woman with tons of emotional bagage. Jinx is not an uwu baby who needs protection and is unable to do things for herself: she can very much protect herself, she's independent, a survivor, as well as deeply traumatised too.

And this is not subtext at all. Vi points out in the mines that Jinx hasn't needed her in a long time -she's realised her sister is more than capable of fending for herself. Jinx makes teasing observations of Vi's soft spots throughout S2: telling her she knows she's soft on Caitlyn during Act I finale, calling her a "sentimental excon" in act II... And she's seen her become an alcoholic due to all her unprocessed trauma and the situation after act I (and also makes a comment about that).

Their whole journey in S2 is about how they cannot, and do not, conform to the dynamic they acquired when they were children. They are two different persons now, and they are also mature enough to understand each other as multi-dimensional, as oppossed to their one-dimensional perceptions of each other as protector and protected that they had in S1 Act I and that dragged on S1 as a whole.

Criticising Vi's character for not going after Jinx after their last encounter is failing to understand many things, but mainly, it is a symtom of being trapped in the dynamic they had in episode 1, when most of the story of their relationship in the series is guided to tell us how this is not who they are, and these perceptions frozen in time are hurting both of them.

"Everyone in my life has changed" says Vi in S2 Act I finale. It is true: she's been locked in a jail cell, where all of the Lanes, her family, her friends... remained frozen in memory, and now she doesn't know who this people are. She's struggling with years and years of emptyness in which everyone she knows has grown and changed and she's been stuck -she's changed, too, but that's harder for her to see. She doesn't know who Jinx is, and until S1 finale she is unable to see this fact. Her behaviour in S2 Act I is, among other things, a backlash reaction to this realization, also a mistaken, unidimensional perception of her sister -not a perfect victim now, but a perfect perpetrator. Jinx also takes her time to get to see Vi for who she is now, but she's finally able to in S2. That doesn't mean they understand each other -quite far from it actually- but they are able to see and accept each other as complex people, with deep rooted bagage, part the same they were as children, part completely different.

Then it comes S2 ep8. Vi's fight with Caitlyn about Jinx demonstrates how Vi is now able to understand Jinx as a multidimensional character, see her complexity, her humanity, and argue she's different than they (both Caitlyn and Vi) thought she was. Jinx's conversation with Vi underscores how much Jinx recognises their dynamic has been hurting them both ("You're never going to give up on me") and how Vi has wishes and feelings of her own, even if she's repressing them to play her part as the big protector sis. These observations fuel Jinx's suicidal ideation, and Vi's incapability to give up her protector role, despite knowing Jinx doesn't need it anymore, gets her to have a breakdown. Neither know what this moment did to the other, because they still don't know each other that much. But they cannot save themselves without having had this conversation.

It's a perfect tragedy where a childish dynamic is entertwined with guilt, pain, and tons of trauma. It is a barbed wire that traps them both - it hurts when they are still, and it hurts more when they try to break free. Only with help they can disentangle themselves and one another; and that's where Cait and Ekko come in, too (and for Jinx, Isha and Sevika also did a part).

Anyway, I love me some doomed sisters dynamic.

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ivesambrose · 2 months ago

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𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕'𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒙𝒕 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆

•❅──────✧❅✦❅✧──────❅•

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The next chapter of your life indicates a period of discipline, structure and determination. Long term plans or goals instead of short term gratification. I feel previous months of stagnation, struggle and mental turmoil has led to you having the mindset of being rather unfazed towards anything because you have likely realised that regardless of what you 'see' you're in control. You've learnt to trust your intuition and inner guidance over anyone else. You might encounter power struggles in between but this will lead to emotional growth nonetheless.

There is a lot of joy, celebration and new connections to look forward to as well. It might seem like despite the good happening to you and what you've wanted for so long finally being yours, you feel rather defensive. Remember to push through despite past struggles. To fully be in the present and enjoy what you have and what you deserve. For some of you I do see you making really good friends but due to past experiences you're rather guarded towards them. The message I'm getting is that yes, do use discernment when dealing with people. Do establish necessary boundaries. But don't let promising friendships falter due to fears.

You can also expect your dreams to be more within reach, renewal and unexpected help coming through, the path getting clear when you least expect it, healing from mental strain that have remained unspoken.

Lastly, you will experience a balance in giving and receiving. This will be necessary when it comes to your material and spiritual growth.

The next chapter of your life calls for adjustment and change. Drastic ones. If it's causing you some tension know that this area of your life requires that change. You can't expect to step into the next chapter of your life otherwise. I see that this involves your daily routine, health, work, with opportunities of personal growth and recognition in those areas. You may also be stepping into a new role of responsibility that requires self discipline on your part. You will be pushed to focus on your physical health a lot more. So if you feel like you're getting sick often it's a sign to stress less about it and take mindful steps towards it instead. Be it getting a proper check up or holding yourself accountable. You don't have to rush anything however, improvement will happen gradually. Some of you likely just need more movement but not the kind that puts your body on overdrive. There will be rapid progress and sudden opportunities coming your way out of the blue, a lot of communication and even travel. Career wise, it's looking really good! You will also be transitioning away from a very difficult time of your life. You may also have new intellectual pursuits, you'd want to learn new things or will be acquiring a lot of necessary knowledge. you will also find yourself juggling many tasks or projects at once but this will lead to a sort of mastery over your life You'll be feeling rather accomplished.

The next chapter calls for self expression, communication as well as creativity however some challenges or conflicts might arise as you assert your individuality or learn to find your voice in new environments.

You can however, look forward to emotional growth, new beginnings in your emotional life as well creative expressions.

Steady and solid growth when it comes to your finances as well. Something that makes you feel like you don't need to rely on others and you have financial freedom so one less thing to feel anxious about that has possibly been weighing down on you far too much .

Once again, try not to over exhert yourself or you'll end up attaching the experience to something that should come to you rather smoothly. In other words, you really need to drop the mindsets of the people that have been projected onto you and have become your belief systems. It's time to make some of your own without losing sight of what you truly value.

You can also expect more mental clarity and better insights in regards to what to do, where to invest, your life's purpose and what truly brings you joy. But instead of running from it like you did before, you'll embrace it.

You might feel more drawn towards arts, aesthetics, cooking, gardening etc as well.

Having time and proper consideration towards things you earlier didn't have the state of mind for.

#free readings #tarot community #divination community #pick a card #pac #pick a pile #pick a pile reading #tarot readers #psychic readings #psychic reading #spiritual community

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toffeebrews · 3 months ago

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Abyss and Color headcanons :3

Note: Technically Color isn't in the new Abyss team (as of 2019) but I've gotten so attached to these two I can't help myself. Another note, NONE of this is canon it's purely building off what exists in canon already. Color is owned by @/superyoumna and Abyss is owned by @/metakazkz.

Here's a few headcanons for these two guys~

- Abyss and Color probably have the least friction out of anyone in the group. Morally and generally, how they see the world is pretty similar. Boy, it would be awful if Color's friendship with a certain someone could put a wedge between them! 😀😃

- They briefly met when Abyss accidentally teleported into the void and got stuck. That was up until Abyss figured out a way to leave. Color stayed behind because, at that moment, he felt he might still have a purpose sticking around. This was the first Sans AU Color ever met. Abyss still thinks about how he trips and fell on his face in front of Color for his first meeting to this day.

- It wouldn't be too long before they would meet again however...

Abyss gets kidnapped by Nightmare due to Abyss unique codeless makeup maybe being useful to him amongst other reasons maybe. Abyss' friends acquire the help of Color to help bring him back because who else got the manpower for all that 😭.

- Shortly after Abyss invites Color to join the Abyss team ✨. Abyss sees Color not only as a valuable asset but a true friend. Color joins to make sure Abyss is okay and finds comfort within being in another group. This Color is in both the Abyss team and the Epic sanses so he doesn't choose one over the other :)

-Abyss sees Color as an mentor of sorts. He tends to come to Color about emotional things he feel like can't come to the other members about. ESPECIALLY at first, before he gets comfortable with the other members! Abyss I guess also sees Color as the other "put together one."

- Abyss gives all the members some sort of jewelry. It's technically part of the "initiation," but in reality Abyss wants to gift his friends. It would look something like this ↓ Opal rock :)

There was literally nothing on these two I looked I was suffering from drought so I made this post.

Thanks to @howlsofbloodhounds for the help and for listening to my crazy ranting

#toffeesdoodles #color sans #color!sans #abyss sans #abyss!sans #toffeesbrews #abyss changed in appearance since I last drew him >:3 #nightmare sans #nightmare #i never really do headcanon posts like this #but...#i had to stretch a few things okay #abyss team #abyss team lore #← till i get a better tag 💀#i may do more posts like this in the future?#theres plenty of dynamics to consider...#i spent.... like 4 hrs on all this shit #ARHHRHAGR

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pixeltwix · 2 months ago

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Alone Together Au (except it’s the other half left behind)

In which both Stanford and Fiddleford fall through the portal and both Stan and Emma May work together to bring them back (even with two people it still takes thirty years, oops)

Together though they keep a marriage of convenience so that the town doesn’t suspect anything odd of them. Everyone still thinks Stan is Stanford and Emma May simply says she got a divorce from her old husband and remarried

“Come one, come call, to see the awe inspiring ability of Madame Mystery! Only 30 bucks a pop, and there ain’t no refunds, the spirits hate refunds~“

Emma May works as a sort of telepath and psychic medium in the mystery shack before the Gleeful’s rolled into town. Her true inspiration however is from the twins mother, Caryn. She recalls all of her tricks and swindles she watched the woman do when she was younger and was happy to apply them for herself <3

All together though her get up resembles much more of a fairy godmother type appeal than anything else (which Mabel loves)

Even though Stan and Em were friends in the past it was still undoubtedly difficult to yknow, pass as a married couple at first.

Eventually they pulled it off effortlessly in public, but there’s still a lot of emotional turmoil behind closed doors. Em missing her actual husband desperately and Stan having to juggle that, Tate’s bitterness towards him, and the fake identity

They don’t hate each other or anything though, quite the opposite, they feel they’re the only support the other has after Tate moved out to live by the lake. Ultimately at the end of the day while it seems they’re just a ‘bitter old married couple’ they’ll be the first to back each other up

Emma May acquired a pretty nasty scar after the portal incident, so she began to style her bangs over her eyes to prevent anyone from seeing them. The only one who occasionally does is Stan, but when you’re working into the ams on a portal you can’t comprehend it’s hard to care too much about said scar

But this doesn’t stop Dipper from speculating what she could be hiding under the bangs

“I don’t know, but I reckon it feels like the end of the world.”

In order to convince Stan to come to Gravity Falls, Em sends the postcard copying Fords handwriting to bait him to Oregon. Once he shows up though he’s shocked to find his brother actually didn’t want to see him at all and it was instead her who wants to talk

She promptly explains she needs backup confronting Ford and Fiddleford because while she can get through to Fiddleford she worries no one can get through to Ford. Her last resort was asking for Stans help

Things do not..go very well though. Ford and Stan still fight, Fiddleford tries to break them up and accidentally gets shoved alongside Ford. Meanwhile Em is the only one close enough for Stan to actually grab hold of before the portal shuts off and the two are left alone together

And then the last silly detail atm regarding Tate

Little dude ✨hates✨ Stan

He blames him for his father falling through the portal and he absolutely detests the ‘uncle/friendly paternal’ type role he tries to fill as he grows up

He can’t help but feel bitter towards his mother as well considering she was so quick to marry Stan as well, even with the context of the situation, even if it was just on paper, even if he knows they’re working to get the two back. It still felt like a betrayal

Once he was old enough he moved out to live by the lake where he eventually opens his tackle shop, but fishing isn’t exactly the only job he has

Knowing Tate is potentially even more intelligent than his father he found the memory gun when he was around the twins age, made himself leader of the society of the blind eye as he’s ‘the heir’, and promptly continues to run the cult in the bg as he feels it’s what his dad would want him to do

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sirenmoontarot · 3 months ago

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Your next step 🌟

𝓟𝓲𝓬𝓴 𝓪 𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓭 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰

Group 1

For the people who chose this group, your most important task to embark on right now, is to follow your inner guidance, your inner emotions, the steps your inner persona is telling you to take. There is a sense of movement, a path you have to allow in your life. It is shown in the energies that some of you have lost your way, you have been confused, or even in someone else’s way, your view of truth has been clouded. You might be hiding from your own self and your own inner ‘’flow’’ —your flow of life— and you shy away from facing some situations of your life or reality overall. Because you are not living your life for yourself! I am sorry guys for the message, but it is okay. The cards indicate that you need to distance yourself from something or someone that is contributing to this situation in which you are so distant and detached from yourself, a career, a place, a friend, an ex... The journey involves having to say farewell to this situation, aspect or person. However, you are favoured by fortunate energies, and luck as well, ruled by Jupiter influences shown in this reading. The universe, God is aiding you, you are supported in your journey to find the necessary clarity and success you claim and deserve. It is a journey that requires your commitment but this task is part of your fated path here on earth to do this right now. To find the tools within yourself for your independence, to find your inner light, strength, compass and your own path. Some of you are in a self improvement, self growth journey and you are being given these tasks in order to move forward. You have to know that you are doing well, Spirit is saying and that is just part of the learning process for your ‘’independence’’ which also and very importantly doesn't mean loneliness, ❗️ we need nurturing, reciprocated connections with people. it means to be able to choose your own path and not stray from it, your path has the unique gifts and blessings you are given on this lifetime.

𓆸

Thank you so much for reading this post, wishing you many blessings and good fortune 🌟🪽

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Group 2

For the second group, the next step you are being led to take is to acknowledge the destructive aspects of yourself, your darkness, the things you are least proud of, the aspects of yourself that seem to hunt you down, these aspects need to be faced, acknowledged and integrated and they will become important parts of your psique, in a developed and integrated way making you wiser, giving you more tools and mental sharpness to go on in life. Right now in your life you are basing yourself in outdated, old ideas and patterns that need, and are doomed to die, these are antiquated, belonging to your past self, a past conception of life, something you acquired that is no longer of good use for your current and future energy. This group is very much focused on love, the energies indicate, that the way ahead involves finding the courage to be sensual again, learning to connect again with others, attaining real intimacy with others, physically, emotionally… and learning to understand your own inhibitions (or excesses) and discovering that Love has its own way to uniting the pieces and kind of making the brew taste wonderfully. This will allow in your life the growth of flourishing, nurturing and fulfilling relationships; if you have fertility problems, this indicates your situation will heal and improve and you will be able to get pregnant; and also, if you couldn't build something stable within a relationship before, in the sense of something material or some sort of goal, vision, or general growth, like owning a home; reaching common goals and plans, bettering your life situations, this reading indicates that you will be led to such accomplishments and completion of mutual goals within a relationship, or even birthing a new life, once you work on the matters described.

𓆸

Thank you so much for reading this post, wishing you many blessings and good fortune 🌟🪽

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Group 3

Hello guys, for this group, Spirit is highlighting the self-imposed bars you find yourself behind. You have an unbalanced connection and use of your own ego, thinking you are below others, or you give your power a lot to others, almost if you were always submitted to other’s emotions, opinions, wisdom. Your sense of self-esteem and self-worth lacks foundation, you are not in touch with your inner queen or king. The way to go through this is to be okay with being the traits you are so afraid of embodying, or being the ‘’bad’’ person—And I don't mean go out there and be a bad person, it is just giving yourself permission to be free. And also for some of you, to not feel guilty for who you are or what you do. Some of you need to vent, even confess, giving a voice of that persona inside of you who feels guilty. Something might have happened in the past that caused you guilt, well it is time to let it go. Letting it out, speaking your inner emotions will help you to release pressure, which is also an issue being shown in this pile. Accept that sometimes you might not be able to be perfect. Some of you might be performing for others for most time or you could be putting everyone above you, or trusting too much on others for your life choices. This has to stop and all that you have to do is to give voice and express and release all the pent-up emotions and stuff you have inside that keeps you behaving this way. Because you are in jail . As a result, relief and finally a sense of peace will come to you, opening up new and better doors for you, more calmness and inner peace in your life.

𓆸

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notquitecanon · 1 year ago

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Insufferably Admirable // Astarion x Reader

Summary: After a restful day turns into a bloody night, your unspoken yet painfully obvious dedication to Astarion has put you in what should be a harder choice. Once Astarion realizes just how far you'd go for him, he has to begin to confront the feelings and realizations he's been ignoring for a while. OR that time You figured out the most effective way to heal a vampire and Astarion got emotional about it

Set at the end of Act 1, but not quite act two. Pre-confession but it's obvious they have some sort of feelings for each other

TW: canon typical violence, blood & blood drinking(obvi this is an Astarion fic), no use of Tav or (Y/N), one use of technical self harm (c*tting) but not in a self mutilation way??, mentions of manipulation obvi, reader might be a little too willing to help (totally not be projecting what???)

this is my first time writing anything for Astarion after hyper fixating on him for a month so please be gentle. I know it's a bit all over the place. (yes I could have completely left out the first half, but there isn't much actual dialogue in the second half and I like to put this guy in situations)

"Remind me again why you insisted on coming with me? I figured you’d be ripe for a day to lay around camp and let us do all the heavy lifting." You grumbled, scanning the crowded streets for a merchant. The goal was simple: get to the nearest village, sell off the extra weight, use the gold to stock the necessary supplies, and whatever the gold couldn’t buy… well, acquire it by any means necessary. No matter your path, through the shadows or the Underdark, you'd need to be prepared.

Gale had gone to pilfer for useful scrolls and maybe an enchanted item to snack on. Lae’zel and Shadowheart to a blacksmith for specialty arrows, useful armor, and any other weapons that caught their eyes. Karlach had carried the two trunks and barrel of items you had collected from your adventure thus far, finding you a wheelbarrow before heading back to camp to help Wyll with his preparations. Halsin… had taken his wild form and disappeared into the forest. Originally, you had intended to do your tasks alone, until-

"My dear, I’m always ripe for a lay." Astarion twisted your words with a smirk, easily dodging the hand that reached to swat his chest. With a short laugh, he answered your question, his theatrics only increasing to more you argued, "To begin with, Someone- my fabulous self- had to make sure you didn’t get the whole group wrapped up in another laundry list of side quests- who knows what trouble you could have found if you were left all by your lonesome? A gnoll den? A kraken in the pond? an old woman’s wagon with a broken wheel? a kitten up a tree? An orphanage with a leaky roof? Another cult for us to dismantle? Another temple to drop on me? Where would it end? You’re incapable of turning people away, it’s one of your insufferably admirable qualities."

"It’s called being kind, you dramatic elf." You grumbled, not prepared for the in depth analysis of your character. Trying not to focus so much on the fact he’d called something about you admirable.

"Second, knowing you, you’d sell all this off and still manage to come back to camp with them full. Honestly, pet, how have you managed to collect this much junk? You don’t even have a bag of holding." Astarion scoffed, using a single pale finger to peek under the lid of the barrel. It was just barely containing the countless daggers, goblin bows, pairs of leather armors, and dusty sandals. Your cheeks burned hot- maybe you had a habit of being overzealous in how eagerly you pilfered through all the crates you came across, checking bodies for anything valuable, and demanding the vampire to pick every locked chest the party uncovered. Hells only knew the thrill you got when you would find a buried chest.

"You never know when you might need something!" You reasoned, but swatted him away to hastily shut the barrel before the contents could spill out. It had taken you the better part of the night to pack it full of all the things your companions had convinced you to get rid of. The pale elf rolled his eyes, brushing past you so gracefully you didn’t feel his fingers in your pocket.

"Really, my sweet? When, pray tell, might we need the collection of rusty necklaces you’ve amassed." Astarion held the bronze and silver necklaces up to the light, the red and blue stones sparkling despite the rust. His voice always like velvet, ruby eyes alight with teasing, "Far be it from me to criminalize accessorizing, but that darling neck of yours is tempting enough already."

"Astarion!" You cringed, hearing your voice almost whine. Damn him for having that effect, so you cleared your throat as you snatched the jewelry back, "They are useful when we can sell them for gold."

Astarion, having gotten the reaction he wanted, let you shove the necklaces back in a pocket before glaring at him, though it didn’t hold much actual malice, "Well, come on then, let’s sell the sandals for all the riches the village has to offer us."

—

An afternoon later, you were smiling smugly as you watched Astarion grumble. Between all the goods and six different merchants, you were leaving with an additional 9,000 in gold, not to mention the additional 3,000 Astarion had managed to pickpocket while you bartered, and the items the two of you had managed to swipe. You felt particularly vindicated as he complained about the weight of the coins in his pack.

"I’ll buy you something pretty in Baldur’s Gate." You cooed teasingly, to ‘appease’ him. Astarion spared you a deadpan glance before standing to leave, only making you giggle all the more, "Let’s get back to camp."

Astarion caught your eyes once more, scowl softening out at the sight of your bright smile. He was just about to say something sickeningly sweet and perhaps more than a touch vulgar when his eyes flitted up to something, pointed ears twitching at something you couldn’t quite hear. Until you could.

The door of the jeweler you had swindled burst open, a strangled voice shrieking, "THIEVES! SOMEONE CATCH THEM!"

Astarion must have been rubbing off on you, because for a moment you tried to feign confusion, looking around for the ‘culprits’ as if the dwarf wasn’t pointing directly at you. Not that it did much good as several passerbys began to circle around the two of you.

"Everyone’s so touchy about their personal belongings these days." The rogue scoffed. Astarion grabbed your wrist and tugged you to him, so that your back was pressed to his and no one could sneak up on you. In his other hand, a dagger had already appeared.

You sighed in defeat, taking your bow off your back, "No killing."

"No promises."

Compared to the goblin camp or fighting through the githyanki creche, disarming and incapacitating untrained townspeople and barely trained guards was barely a warm up. Still, Astarion never left your side, an increasingly common occurrence when you found yourself in tight situations. Together, it didn’t take long to put distance between yourselves and your attackers, managing to get far enough to escape to the fight. Deflecting one last blow as the two of you passed by an open tavern, you incapacitated a rather pitiful guard with a blunt thunk from the pommel of your dagger. Taking one relieved breath, you tried not to focus too much of the trail of bleeding, unconscious bodies you and the rogue had left behind in your escape attempt.

"Best we stick to the shadows before we attract more attention." Astarion mused with a cruel smirk, grabbing your sleeve and using it to wipe the blood off the corner of his mouth, his fangs glinting in the afternoon sun. The rogue only chuckled at your curses, giving some inane quip about the crime of dirtying his ensemble and how blood someone always looked better on you, "Now, believe what I said about you finding trouble? Back to camp before you find more."

Before you could wrench your arm back or remind him that he was the only who got caught stealing, he pulled you off the main road into the alley adjacent- unaware of the attention that had already been attracted from inside the tavern.

____

Ambushed in the night.

A whole hunting party of Gur hunters. Willing to purge your party as they slept.

And they were calling Astarion the monster. Fortunately, Scratch was an excellent guard dog. Waking the entire camp when the hunters tried to creep where you slept. Just as fortunately, there wasn’t a soul in camp that didn’t sleep without at least a dagger under their pillow.

Your camp had become a bloodbath in the dim glow of the campfire. You had used the book you had fallen asleep reading as an improvised weapon, throwing it so hard it broke the first hunter’s nose. Lae’zel was single handedly mowing through three hunter with her long sword. Spells and incantations sent flashes of light from Gale and Shadowheart’s part of camp, and fire and brimstone lit up Karlach’s. There was yelling and cursing echoing in the cool night air, orders to take the vampire spawn alive and to kill the rest.

And Astarion? Their target?

He was where he always was during a fight these days. Right beside you, like a pale, snarky shadow. He had been the one to press your sword into your hand so you’d have more than just your dagger. With him, you slashed and sliced anything that came near. Until the bastard appeared out of no where, squeezing in between you and the rogue. You would have applauded (more likely cursed) the near perfect use of an invisibility charm- had it not been for the poison-dipped stake raised against Astarion.

This hunter was different, you could see it in his eyes. They were somehow devoid of life and yet also simmering with rage as they trained on your snow haired companion. This hunter didn’t plan to take Astarion back to Baldur’s Gate, not alive at least. He didn’t care about whatever orders they had, or what consequences would come for disobeying them. He only cared about driving the stake into Astarion’s heart.

Astarion’s eyes went wide as well at the sight of the stake, realizing as you did that this was no longer just a kidnapping, it would be an assassination. Your thundering heart stuttered, blood going supernova in your veins before freezing to ice as your mind whirled through a hundred different possibilities and also went blank. Your own opponent, along with years of learned strategy, were instantly forgotten as blind instinct took over. Every ounce of strength and speed you had was directed into a desperate lunge. In your desperation, you really weren’t sure if your goal was to tackle the hunter, grab his arm, tackle Astarion, or maybe even take the stake to your chest instead- you decided to choose along the way, as long as it ended with Astarion alive(ish) and well.

You managed to close the distance, one hand planted firmly to Astarion’s chest shoving him further and the other clamping onto the leather of the hunter’s gauntlet, the same arm poising the stake. With a feral sounding shriek, you pushed his arm so his aim was off. At the same time, your original opponent, frustrated at being forgotten, cast a wave of thunder that sent all three of you flying.

Astarion, the Gur, and you flew backwards a good fifteen feet, the thunder shaking you to your very bones and splitting your ears. The breath was knocked out of you so hard you thought your poor lungs might collapse and you weren’t able to tell if it was the spell or the impact that did it. You didn’t have time to contemplate, the moment you were able, you scrambled onto your knees. With the same feral tenacity from earlier, you grabbed the hunter by the front of his leather armor, nails leaving scarily deep tracks as you hauled him off your vampiric companion. With your new opponent, you rolled both your bodies until you were on top of him, knee to his chest. Seeing the look in your eyes, the rage left his own, pure survival instinct taking over. You didn’t even feel the sting of the slicing blow across your shoulder, too consumed with a singular mission. It was Astarion’s dagger you had snatched from the ground on the way that delivered the quick death blow. Halsin, in bear form, had appeared out of the tree line and took care of your other thunderous hunter, taking a defensive position around you and Astarion with a goading roar. You expected to hear something from Astarion- a snarky comment about your lack of technique, a snide remark about his assailant, or even just a stream of petty curses- but he was silent. You turned back to him, only to have dread flood every cell in your body.

Nothing else mattered anymore, not the fight, not your injuries, and especially not your forgotten original hunter. Halsin, in bear form, had appeared out of the tree line and took care of your other thunderous hunter, taking a defensive position around you and Astarion with a goading roar. You barely noticed.

The moment you’d disposed of Astarion’s assailant, you were scrambling back towards the rogue, who was laying all too still. At first, you hesitated to even touch him as if that might make it worse. You called his name once, and then again when you were able to gingerly lay hands on him- one hand to his chest and the other pushing some curls out of his eyes. The stake, what should have been an almost useless weapon against anyone else, was still buried in his chest, piercing his favorite frilled collar shirt.

"No… Astarion-" Your voice was breaking, thick and raw. Your eyes couldn’t rip away from the stake, protruding from his chest, the poison staining the white linen of his shirt a sickly green. The hand on his chest balled into a fist, bunching the unsoiled fabric in your grip, but something caught your attention. The tiniest candle light of hope in the rapidly encroaching darkness of grief.

Your hand was directly over his undead heart. Anytime you touched him, your hand always fell directly over his heart. When you teasingly swatted at his chest, when you needed to steady yourself against him, when you needed to catch you balance… you always sought out his heart- subconsciously, instinctually, always his heart. Your hand was over his heart, and that gods-damned stake was four inches to the right. A tiny light, but a light none the less. It was then you realized you were calling the wrong name.

"SHADOWHEART!"

None of your companions had ever heard your voice that desperate, that scared. All their heads snapped to where they had last seen you, finding Astarion pulled to your chest as you wrenched the stake out of the spawn. Astarion stirred only long enough the let our a gurgling shout that fizzled into a groan at the pain, and you could only hope he heard your soft apologies before you started barraging the vampire with healing cantrips. You didn’t stop until the words held no more magic, your supply of magic tapped for the night.

The night air had changed, no longer fueled by adrenaline and challenge, now it was thick with urgency and fear. Each of your companions starting fighting towards the two of you, and when you locked watery eyes with Shadowheart you found her clearing her path with her spear. She had stopped using magic to fight, saving it all for Astarion.

"I’m coming! Hold on!" She promised as Karlach fell in beside her, battle axe taking over and sending two hunters to the grave together. Scratch and the owlbear cub had taking a lesson from Halsin and formed up beside you, growling into the night with hackles raised and feathers ruffled.

"Just hold on, Astarion." You relayed to the vampire, who was completely limp against you his back to your chest, head tilted back against your shoulder which bared his neck to you, showing the fang marks on his pale skin. If you were capable of humor, you would have laughed about the reversal of roles, it was usually you baring your veins to him. But at the moment, his lack of movement wasn’t particularly amusing, so instead you laced his fingers through yours, hoping the warmth would bring him some comfort. You pressed your cheek against his white curls, using your other hand to brandish his dagger just incase anyone got too close, and whispered all the reasons he was going to be okay. And that’s how you stayed until camp quietened and Shadowheart slid to a stop in front of you.

___

Hours later, Shadowheart had used every healing and restoration spell she knew, not stopping even when she began to sway and sweat. Halsin had offered his magic and healing herbs, Karlach made sure there was always a bucket of hot water and a stack of clean rags available, and you hadn’t missed Gale trying to hide the scroll of reviving from you as he slipped it to Shadowheart. Everyone in camp had been quick to gather all the healing potions, depositing them at the entrance of Astarion’s tent. Wyll and Lae’zell had slipped into the tree line to make sure the ambush was well and truly taken care of.

And you? Their appointed ‘fearless’ leader? You had gone uncharacteristically silent. Your heart hadn’t left your throat, clenching painfully every time they jostled the rogue. Your hands were shaking too much, both from fear and white hot rage, to really help the two more experienced healers of the group. And the thought of being too far from Astarion made your stomach turn, so you kept rooted like a tree. But, you were grateful, truly, for all of them. Even if in the moment, all you could do was sit beside Astarion and pray to any God or Devil that would listen. You felt like a wild animal in a cage and a helpless child at the same time, your insides very well might vibrate out of the body if you didn’t melt into the soil first.

The vampire needed all the help he could get. Aside from the occasional heartbreaking groan of pain or agony driven writhing, Astarion was eerily still. Barely breathing, less so than usual. His already pale, chilled skin had taken on a stony complexion, almost gray. And despite the inability to run a fever, there was a sheen of sweat over his face, clammy and uncomfortable. You hadn��t allowed them to undress him all the way, but part his shirt had been cut away to reveal the stab wound. It was deep, weeping Astarion’s already dark blood, and stretching out from the injury were black, twisting varicose veins that afforded you the cruel visual of the poison spreading. You wanted to take Gale’s revival scroll, use it on the hunter, and revoke the kindness of your mercifully quick death.

"It’s like the effect of our magic is being dampened." Shadowheart huffed, hands glowing as she cast another restoration spell. The sweat on Astarion’s brow subsided briefly before returning. Halsin nodded beside her, taking a deep sniff of the stake.

"His lack of blood isn’t moving the potions or antidote through his body fast enough, and this poison isn’t doing any favors." The druid thought aloud, taking some of his herbs to make a paste, "It doesn’t matter how many we pour down his throat if his body can’t absorb them."

Shadowheart’s worried gaze flickered to you for a moment, before settling back on Halsin, "We’ll figure something out."

You knew she was saying that more for your benefit, but you couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge the pity. Instead, your grip tightened on Astarion’s hand as you swiped a clean rag to dab at his face. There was one more round of healing incantations and one more bottle of healing potion nursed into Astarion’s mouth. Your jaw twitched, watching most of it fall from the corner of his mouth. The same trail your own blood usually made after he fed.

"I’m tapped." Shadowheart sighed almost ruefully, the glow around her flickering and then fading, falling back on her heels. Halsin stood, stooped slightly in the low ceiling of the tent, turning to you.

"We’ve done everything we can do. We’ll try again with fresh minds in the morning. For now the best he, and we, can do is rest." His voice was calming, as if he thought you might start screaming again, but you just nodded, muttering something along the lines of thanks for trying, and not meeting either of their eyes as they ducked out of the tent.

Since you had belligerently refused any of their magical attempts to heal your shoulder, Gale had done a rather pitiful job of wrapping it, taking some pointers from Karlach along the way. The wizard offered you a tight smile and a gentle hand on your uninjured shoulder before pressing a bottle of healing potion into your hand, "This one is for you. You’re no good to him if you bleed out all over the floor of his tent. We all know how Astarion feels about waste."

"Yeah- fancy boy will be starving when he wakes up." Karlach’s chipper voice was still laced with a sting of concern. The tiefling didn’t touch you for fear of burning you, but did leave you with some roasted meat and a carafe of water from earlier in the night, "And it wouldn’t hurt for you to eat something either, soldier."

Then you were left alone with your thoughts, hunched next to Astarion’s side, tired eyes examining the bottle after confirming the rise and fall of his chest. In your hand, the potion glowed slightly with the subtlest warmth, the scarlet liquid seeming to have a mind of its own as it swirled in glittering patterns behind the glass. Your injuries were meager, this little bottle of healing would have you as good as new. Bitterly, you flicked your eyes to the numerous empty potion bottles in the corner that had barely slowed Astarion’s bleeding. Your hand closed around it as you cast another look to the Vampire spawn beside you. His breaths were shaky and shallow even after Shadowheart and Halsin had exhausted every last bit of magic they'd had. Now in the quietest parts of the night, or maybe the darkest hours of the morning, your thoughts swirled, desperate for any sort of plan to latch onto. You had to do something.

For you, Gale had said, No good to him if you bled out… He’d be starving, Karlach had been joking, His lack of blood wasn’t moving the potions enough to be effective, that had been Halsin’s hypothesis.

Blood. He needed blood.

The revelation was like being dropped into a freezing lake, determination razing the fearful lethargy out of your soul. With your teeth, you pried the cork out and downed the first circular bottle, the overly sweet taste a stark contrast to the somber mood of the night. For good measure, you did the same with a potion of superior healing and two bottles of general poison antidote, slamming them down so fast you had to ignore the churning in your stomach. You’d loot twenty more goblin caves to make up for the dent in supplies if you had to, in that moment you just didn’t care. You waited a moment, begging the powers that be for your ragtag plan to work, not so patiently watching the bruises on your wrist until they started to fade.

You felt it, the moment that you had been completely healed and there was no where else for that magic to go. And then, you wrapped your arms under Astarion’s, heaving him against your chest. You bared your neck, letting gravity gently swing Astarion's nose to meet your pulse point, his silvery lashes tickling your jaw. He stirred slightly, groaning at the movement, pressing himself into your warmth before stilling again. Was he too far gone to realize what was being offered?

Realizing you’d need to play into his vampiric insticts, you huffed, shattering one of the empty vials against a stone, struggling to do so and keep his deadweight in place. Taking a shard, it wasn’t hesitation but a moment of stilling your shaking hand before you pressed a shallow cut to your neck, right above where his lips rested.

You hissed at the haphazard sting, not as gentle as the pinprick of his fangs were in the night, feeling the blood instantly pool at the seam, a single red ribbon dripping before the potion healed the scratch, "C’mon, Astarion-"

The moment his name left your lips, or maybe it was the moment a drop of your blood hit his, regardless you could feel his instinct, that sanguine hunger, take over. The soft lips at your neck were replaced with dagger sharp fangs digging into where the small cut had been. The sound you let out was somewhere between a gasp of pain and sob of relief as you barred him against yourself, fists clutching into the back of his shirt like it would keep both of you rooted to each other. Somewhere, in the back on your mind, you thought about the irony of the position, being so afraid to let him slip away, like a rabbit latching onto a snake for fear of the serpent starving. Even if it meant being consumed.

In that moment, you were so relieved he’d started feeding that you didn’t care that his fangs dug in deeper than they ever had before, much more animalistic than his usual polite nibble. You didn’t dare flinch or wince, in case that might break the spell. Instead, you focussed keeping the both of you upright, one of your arms wrapped under his own, your fingers splayed across his ribs, and your other hand cupping the nape of his neck. The angle had his silvery curls dusting your fingertips and your thumb caressing the sharpest part of his jaw. Never had you been so happy to feel that throbbing numbness in your neck. Astarion’s chin prodded further into your neck, deepening the hold he had, and with his own shaky breath, he swallowed the first mouthful of your blood.

The hand at his ribs clenched, pulling him impossibly closer and twisting his shirt into your grip again as your pulse began to speed up. The increase of your heart rate only seemed to encourage the vampire, teeth sinking ever deeper to draw more blood flow. Clenching your jaw, you forced your muscles not to tense, it would only make it hurt more. This mouthful was quicker, Astarion seemed to be actively drawing it out of you instead of just waiting for it. He swallowed again, gaining the strength to snake his arms around you. It wasn’t a strong hold at first, but one arm snaked around your waist while the other cradled the back of your head, those long fingers finding their usual place in the locks of your hair. You couldn’t help the short laugh that escaped, relishing the cool touch. Your voice stoked another fire in him, provoking another instinct, your blood provided the strength for his grip to harden, becoming more cage like. As if he needed to worry about you trying to escape.

He swallowed again, and the numbness spread, not just in your neck but into your cheeks and across your chest. Blood was racing, coursing through you and into him, and with it all the magic of the healing potions. You could feel him getting his legs underneath him, untangling himself from you. At the same time, it was getting harder to hold your arm up, the numbness had reached your fingertips leaving them fumbling at his curls before falling to his shoulder. Another long drink and you found your eyes starting to flutter, everything was starting to feel cold as a shiver shook your body. Astarion, against two centuries of vampiric instinct, started to pull back, and you didn’t stop him, but didn’t let him go far either. He was mostly supporting himself now, which was a relief because a fair bit of focus was freshly delegated to preventing yourself from swaying.

"Take all you need, ’Stari-" You meant for your voice to be assuring and strong, but it came out breathy and slightly slurred. Astarion pulled away, the movement bringing you mostly out of your stupor. His ruby eyes were as sharp as ever once again, even if the shadows under his eyes were still too dark for your liking, and they stared into your own half lidded eyes. Other than the deep purple shadows, the ashen complex had started to even out, the sweat on his brow had faded away, and when you dropped your gaze, you noticed the twisting black veins were starting to recede and fade. Hells, you could get up and dance (very briefly before you passed out).

Even, with a foot in the grave, more dead than usual, and covered in both of your bloods he was unfairly beautiful. His eyes narrowed on your dopey smile, as if he your relief was a symptom of too much blood loss. If that was the effect of four swallows, just a little more would flush out the poison completely, "I can take it, love, just please let me help you."

Astarion never considered himself to be someone that had to be coaxed into receiving a gift, and you were offering him one so sweetly, practically begging him. After 200 years of rats and spiders, you had put literal magic in your veins for him. Magic that was bringing him back from death to his usual state of undead. He could feel it bringing his strength back, allowing all the magic the cleric and druid had poured into him to finally take some affect. Your blood, his first thinking blood, was always delicious- sweet and metallic, a delicate blend of all the good tastes, something so intrinsically you. With the potions infused, though, if Astarion was to hazard guess what sunlight tasted like- this would be it. How could he refuse?

Before he went back in, he placed a reverent kiss to the marks he had left in your neck, gingerly lapping at the wounds before sinking his fangs back into your tender flesh. This time, it wasn’t a gasp or sob, but a mewl, your frigid fingers once again digging into the flounced collar his shirt. If you both lived until morning, you were sure he’d gripe for hours about all the wrinkles you’d put in his favorite (only) shirt. Probably throw a proper fit about the stake hole.

Now, as the potions effects dwindled in your own body, you could properly feel the drain. The coldness crept up from your extremities but didn’t counteract the burn in your muscles, making it harder and harder to suppress the shivers. Your breathing was quick almost a pant, but you still felt like you weren't getting any oxygen. If you were thinking rationally, if you hadn’t gone through the brief grief of thinking you’d lost him, you would have realized you need to push him away, that you were approaching your limit. But you weren’t thinking rationally, no. You still were too busy grinning- as your hand had fallen from his collar, it grazed across the wound, now fully closed. Just a little more, you promised yourself. You felt him swallow more, he held himself up completely on his own allowing you to lean into him.

Astarion was okay, more than just on the mend, he was alive and strong, the potions and magic were working, were the thoughts that were reverberating through your head as things started to feel farther away. Your desperation had melted away, leaving a grateful smile in its wake. It wasn’t completely on purpose, but you let Astarion take on more and more of your weight, barely aware of his fangs in your neck anymore, not quite hearing Scratch and the cub whining outside, the shivering even began to subside as it seemed to take too much energy.

Earlier, you had drug him to you and held him against your chest almost crying. But, as more of your blood flowed through him, it had become juxtaposed. Astarion held you in place, leaning over you for the best angle at your neck. It was his arms that kept you from falling over, his firm hand that kept your head from lolling too far back. His bite became less fervent, his grip less cage like and more affectionate. His survival instincts started to give way to civility and charm. You barely noticed as he twisted himself so he could slowly, gently lay you down onto the bedroll that had moments ago been his sickbed. He laid you on your back, onto the generous stack of pillows he kept in his tent. He tangled his fingers into yours, just as you had done for him, his knees holding him in a predatory crawl over you, all without breaking from your neck.

Barely registering the softness, it was the thud of your other hand against the floor that roused you, just a bit. It was also what drew Astarion’s attention, it took everything in him to withdraw his fangs. He gave each puncture would a diligent cleaning with his tongue before pulling away completely, lest he lose control and dive right back in. (Really, how could one person be that tempting?)

But, you had arguably saved his life, it’d be terribly impolite of him to kill you. When Astarion’s eyes met yours, your gaze was more than half lidded as you watched him- what little of your eyes he could see were glossy and fighting to stay focused, he could hear your heartbeat markedly fainter than he was comfortable with.

You were watching him as intently as you could. In the dim lantern light of his tent, surrounded by potion bottles and bloody rags, Astarion was up and moving and breathing again. Revived and strong, his eyes practically glowing scarlet, and, if you really focussed, you could make out the tips of his ears becoming pink. Something that only happened when he was freshly well fed, nothing was left of his stab wound but the hole in his shirt, the frayed edges dyed from the poison and his blood. He could have looked like a angel, complete with the fire’s reflection creating a halo effect on his snowy curls, had it not been for the sheen of sticky blood drenching his chin and neck. Your blood- the blood that gave him enough strength to heal. How could you not smile?

Astarion tried to come up with a snarky comment, but for once, nothing came to mind. Instead, he kept glancing between your intertwined fingers, glassy eyes, and that idiotic little smile. Your giddiness was beginning to unnerve him, had you been charmed or perhaps taken a hit to the head? With the parasite, he reached out briefly into your mind. His brow twitched when he was only met with waves of relief and gratitude, you were too tired for structured thought, but too relieved to give into the exhaustion. How could someone on the verge on exsanguination look so happy? And why in the nine hells did it seem to be directed towards his well being?

The vampire was stricken, taking count of everything you’d truly done that night alone: fought beside him, tried to take the death blow in his place, comforted him, held his hand, cleaned him up, hadn’t let the others undress him anymore than necessary, stayed with him, circumvented his vampirism to find a way to heal him, and had genuinely tried to bleed yourself dry for him. Hell, you’d cut your own neck for him- not even metaphorically, but literally cut your throat for him. He could feel your warmth, your kindness and everything good about you settling into his very marrow. Something uncomfortably… gooey… stirred in his chest, something more and more worrying common as of late, when it came to you. Had his manipulation really worked so well? A feeling too close to sharp guilt gnawed at that warm gooey feeling. Was it really manipulation anymore? Gods, your morality was infecting him.

“This is that Insufferabe admirability I was talking about ." He muttered into the tent, shaking his head as he watched your chest rise and fall, using his free hand tame some of the hair at your crown. It was then Astarion realized your eyes had slipped shut, your fingers, now just as cold as his, going limp against his. Weeks ago, he would have polished off the last of your blood and left you behind. But at present, he felt the sickening need to return even half the care you’d shown him. He’d have to dissect his emotions later. The rogue was glad the other companions had left supplies within arms reach, as it meant he could gather them without dropping your hand.

"Ah, ah, ah," He called quietly, gently pulling you back to the real world, pleased to watch your scrunch your nose in the exertion of waking back up. Finally, that contented little smile on your face slipped into a frown, a protest against his interruption of your sleep. Astarion’s smile was almost apologetic as he helped you into a slightly more upright position, "Not quite yet, little love. It’s your turn. No sharing this time."

Another healing potion was pressed into your hand and opened for you, and you allowed Astarion to guide it to your lips, his pale hand guiding your own. This time, the warmth of the elixir was welcome, a comfort instead of a taunt, assurance instead of a plea. Astarion carefully watched you as you swallowed the potion down, noting how you shivered less and a bit of color returned to your face. When the potion bottle was empty, he traded it for a small cup of water, keeping a guiding hand on the silver chalice he’d nicked from a tradesmen weeks ago until you had enough strength to hold it.

Though still exhausted and dizzy, you had the energy to throw him an obstinate look. Astarion feigned a dramatic sigh but kept a firm enough grip on you that you couldn’t lay back down, "All this for me, yet you won’t even let me give you water?"

Ignoring how it made the dizziness worse, you rolled your eyes, taking a few sips of the water at a time even if it was mostly just so he’d let you lay back down. Astarion was in one piece and you were exhausted, you couldn’t bring yourself to think about anything else. But, Astarion seemed very pleased with himself, squeezing your hand once again, "Good girl."

If you weren’t on the verge of blood loss, you could have choked on the water. Still, there was a part of you that whispered in relief he must be better if he’s back to teasing you. Astarion watched you take a few more sips before you sagged back against the pillows. Your eyes closed again, but your breathing was deeper now and the hand he held didn’t feel as cold. Outside, Scratch and the cub seemed appeased at your improvement as they stopped their pacing and whining to settle at the tent flap.

This time, he didn’t pull you back up, instead muttering to himself as he gently tilted your head to the side, exposing his bite marks. No wonder you seemed so tired, they were much messier than usual. Vicious, was the better word. Not only had his two fangs pierced your delicate skin, but his bottom canine teeth had punctured through as well, and he could see the outline of his other teeth in the deep bruising grooves they had left behind. In unfortunate addition, it seemed in the height of his blood lust he’d made more than one bite, leaving your neck littered in marks. Astarion grimaced, it really was more of a mauling, “Apologies, darling, I’m not typically so brutish. Forgive me?"

Astarion pointedly ignored how his heart lifted at the slightest nod you gave him, instead focussing on cleaning you up as gently as possible. The potion had stopped the bleeding, and he watched as the wounds themselves were slowly closing. Each swipe of the rag was feather light, almost not even there. The elf noticed you give back into sleep, this time not bothering to wake you again. Instead he kept working and fussing until the only sign of his feeding was the stained neckline of your shirt. Then, he gently ran a clean, wet rag over your face and hands, taking away the evidence of your tears and worry. Finally, he threw a cloak over you like a blanket, to hopefully ward off the last of the shivers from the warmth he’d stolen from you.

Not stolen, he reminded himself, though the truth somehow felt more dangerous, it was freely given to him. The vampire settled in, laying across from you, the only part of you he could touch was the hand still holding his. Though, already in your sleep you had shifted towards him. Astarion frowned, eyebrows furrowed, the more he came to know you, the more he knew that you would give and give and give. Truly, he knew that he didn’t need to manipulate you anymore, maybe he never needed to, and for the first time in centuries, he didn’t want to just keep taking. He didn’t want to bleed you dry and loot you for all you were worth. Astarion was surprised to find he wanted give something back to you. He just needed to figure out what.

The nights events caught up to him once again as his eyes closed, listening to the evermore familiar sound of your heartbeat as it became steadier and the even sounds of your breathing as you slept, letting it guide him towards meditation.

Gods damn you and your insufferable admirability.

___

Part Two Here!

Again this was my first time writing for Astarion. I also tried to balance things into being equal parts in each persons perspective. I just love when two lovestruck idiots have to confront their own feelings about being in love.

#me when I can use both literal and metaphorical vampirism as an allegory of being consumed by love.#astarion x reader #astarion x you #Astarion x reader #astarion x mc #astarion fanfic #bg3 x reader #bg3 x tav #bg3 fanfic #Astarion self insert

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