#i have 3 more to write

[sucrosette]

★— ⋆｡˚ [03. A Life in a Flower Shop]

For Day 20 of Carry on Countdown 23, Flowers. @carryon-countdown

Simon Snow gets a bouquet. His day is going great. (if you saw the wrong summary, no you didn’t)

Rated T for cussing and Idiots-to-Lovers-isms.

This is a series of snapshots of different Simon Snows and Baz Pitches in the greater multiverse. You can find the other "lives" here: [Day 3: Alternate Universe][Day 19: Sci-Fi]

⋆｡˚

“Oh~ that’s a lovely bouquet you’ve got there, Simon,” Penny hums as she saunters into the shop, tugging her lip ring between her teeth.

“Yeah,” Simon grumbles, “I know. It’s for the shop's first anniversary, I guess.”

Penny stops short, quirking her head at Simon’s tone. “Why are you being such a priss about a romantic bouquet? It’s lovely, you’re not taken, so you’ve got an admirer, who wouldn’t be happy to know they’ve got an admirer?”

That seems to perplex Simon, his brows furrowing and eyes darting obviously to the flower shop across the road.

“Oh, of bloody course it’s from the shopkeep across the way. Basil’s been trying to figure out how to confess for the past three months now. Suppose the anniversary’s as good a reason as any to make a move,” Penny shifts topic with eace, waving her hand dismissively. “Anyway, is that the face of a rejection I see happening? You’re going to break his little heart, Simon, go gently if you do reject the poor lad.”

“He’s a sodding arse,” Simon scowls harder as he says it, sending all kinds of angry energy across the road and directly at Baz where he was probably tending plants. Singing to them sweetly, watering their roots, maybe adjusting the plants that needed more sun so they’d flourish better. Simon knew too much about how Baz tended his plants.

“Well, yes,” Penny admits, “But it’s a very nice bouquet.”

“He told me it meant ‘fuck you’ in flower,” Simon groans out.

Penny doesn’t hold back her laugh at that. “And you believed him?”

Poor Simon gives a defeated nod and Penny has to temper her laugh for that.

“Oh, you poor sod,” Penny pats Simon gently on the back, “Baz Pitch really is a prick, isn’t he?”

Simon nods again, huffing his confusion. “He’s been trying to confess?”

“So far four times, and that’s just the one’s I’ve seen. I’m sure there’s been more that I haven’t,” Penny consoled, her hand running soothing circles between Simon’s shoulder blades.

“How did I miss them then?” Simon doesn’t quite wail, but there’s still an anguished little noise at the tail end of his words that could definitely qualify as something like a wail, “Why do I think he hates me?”

“Because he’s not just a prick, but an emotionally constipated prick to boot,” Penny sighs, “You want me to go through the flowers and tell you what they really mean?”

Simon leans his head on Penny’s shoulder, “You’d do that for me?”

“If neither of us have any appointments, I’ll do it right now. If we do, I’ll do it first break we get, alright?”

“Alright…” Simon takes the bouquet in hand and sits down on the chair at the front desk, “My first appointment is in an hour. I think you’re just potential walk ins today.”

“Well, it won’t take an hour to get through it,” Penny pats Simon’s shoulder gently, “I promise he likes you.”

“How did I miss it?”

“Probably because you both attempt to kill each other on sight,” Penny tuts, “Now let’s get into these flowers.”

Apparently, the three lilies that serve as the centerpiece to this bouquet apparently represent beauty, and their pink colour means admiration, or even infatuation, a far cry from a fuck you. The lilacs, soft purple stems bursting forth, apparently are a tender representation of a first love, which Simon finds a bit surprising. Baz is way too bloody handsome to have never had a proper first love before him. Would theirs even count? It was more fight than anything else.

Penny flicks his ear to bring his focus back to the flowers when his mind starts wandering down that path. “Focus on the flowers, Simon, not wherever your mind is going trying to figure things out. Figuring’s not your specialty.”

“Right, sure, of course,” Simon grumbles out, feeling particularly scolding.

Baby’s breath, apparently a common filler in bouquets, is also a choice pick for new beginnings, which is why it’s so often in wedding bouquets. He’s put in forget-me-nots too, and those can mean devotion and true love and Simon’s starting to think he’s in over his head. Penny just laughs at him for it. Even the sprigs of thyme represent something. Apparently strength and power and Simon’s not really sure why Basil thinks as much of him, and he says as much.

“Well, you started this shop from nothing. You made your own way and you’re not exactly shy about it,” Penny answers a little too matter-of-factly, “And bully for you, it’s a pretty strong confession, I’d say.”

“Does the greenery mean something too?” Simon sets the bouquet down in front of him, staring deeply at the filler leaves that make up the space between whites and purples and pinks.

Penny laughs again, a little louder, “Well, maybe, but not that I know about. Anyway, even if it does, it’s only going to keep being romantic, I’m sure.”

“Why did he say it meant ‘fuck you’ though?” Simon groans, slouching into his seat.

“I mean, if you think about it, in a way, he is saying ‘fuck you’ in flower. Just,” Penny wobbles her head and hand in unison, “Like fuck you, positively. Fuck you, literally. I’d like to fuck you, intimately, maybe. I don’t know his preferences, though, I shouldn’t make assumptions on them.”

“Okay, Pen, please, I bloody get it,” Simon groans.

“Alright, alright,” Penny shrugs, leaning back against the front desk, “So are you gonna do something about it?”

Simon scrunches up his nose, “Oh, bloody well yes I am. That absolute arse deserves what’s coming to him.”

“After your appointment,” Penny pops her lips as she says it, gesturing to the person who was just walking through the door, “Seems they’re a touch early.”

“After my appointment,” Simon agrees, if a little reluctantly. He was definitely not letting this one slide.

⋆｡˚

Baz, unprepared and going through the preparations to close shop up ten minutes before he would actually have to, was entirely unsuspecting to the thought that someone might have wisened Simon up to what his bouquet might actually mean. Might as well be ready, he’d always said, and it’s pretty well how he lives his life most of the time too.

Excepting, of course, in the case of Simon Snow.

Simon Snow makes him impulsive, makes him throw insults and fly off the handle, makes him stay up till midnight perfecting an impromptu arrangement he’d had to drive across town just to get two kinds of flower that he’d run out of stock for two days before this idea had struck him. Needless to say, Simon Snow made him a bit of an idiot.

The bell clangs to his door at five till the hour and Basil’s already starting his usual spiel, “We close in five, if you want to pick something premade and quick, the–” he looks up out of courtesy and instead of some customer he hadn’t been expecting, sees Simon panting his doorway, “Oh. It’s you.”

“Me,” Simon narrows his eyes at Baz, “You… ‘fuck you’ in flower right back.”

It takes Baz a moment. He’d basically completely forgotten that throwaway line over the course of the day, between filling orders and answering calls, he’d had other things to think about. Especially considering it had just been a sarcastic moment in his pre-caffeinated state. “Do you mean… like insultingly or literally?”

Simon marches right up to him, stomping the whole way, which is a rather wasteful expense of energy, Baz has mind to think, before he grabs Baz by the cheeks and tugs him down to kiss him hard.

It’s a hot mess of a kiss. Their teeth clang, Simon’s lips burn from leftover curry, –it must be what he’d had for lunch– and neither of them have any idea where to put their hands after Simon had grabbed Baz by the face. Eventually, it slows down, Baz’s hands finding at least a slightly less awkward perch at Simon’s hips, squeezing him gently. Simon’s hands slip down to hang over Baz’s shoulders and they stay like that for a long moment.

The door bell rings again.

“We’re closed. Come back tomorrow,” Basil announces without an ounce of shame and without looking up from Simon’s eyes. He hears the door close again, and maybe a muttered apology, but he can deal with it later if anything comes of it. “I’m taking that as a literal ‘fuck you,’ I hope you know.”

“You’re a sodding arse,” Simon scoles him, a fierce little pout on his lips.

“Yes, and you kissed me,” Baz laughs out loud as he says it, “You must have a thing for sodding arses.”

“Shove off,” Simon growls and forces him into another kiss, this one with slightly less teeth, taking the time to slot their lips together properly this time, “You owe me an explanation, Baz Pitch.” 

“Alright, I’ll get you one over dinner,” Baz answers with a kiss to the point of Simon’s nose, “Seem fair?”

“It’s a start,” Simon huffs, “You know it’s not my fault your easy access to half-decent espresso shut down right? The building was already empty by the time I put my bid in!”

Basil snorts another laugh at that, louder, nipping the pout of Simon’s lips, wrapping his arms properly around Simon’s waist and pulling the shorter in close by the waist. “I’m glad it’s gone now, but I certainly wasn’t then.”

“You better be,” Simon purses his lips adorably, already half-caught in a bluster.

Basil shakes his head and squeezes Simon hard enough to pull his attention back to the kissing and not the fighting part of them. “Shut up, Simon Snow, and let me kiss you again.”

And Simon lets him. He does, and he does, and he does.

[crimeronan]

god i wish i wouldn't have to explain the intricacies of the neopets economy to you guys to give the full context for this but. the new neopets team that took over from jumpstart pledged that they were going to curb the inflation of rare items, which is great because a lot of rare items are worth literally hundreds of millions of neopoints, they are unbuyable unless you've been playing actively for 20 years. they did this earlier with a site festival that included random loot boxes, some of which had Unbelievably Fucking Rare And Precious items worth 200 million neopoints apiece.

well.

today they have gone a step further. by releasing this year's trick-or-treat bags. and having the trick-or-treat bags be stuffed to the brim with unbelievably fucking rare stamps, weapons, paint brushes, defense magic, and other unbuyables. (all prohibitively expensive and in-high-demand types of items.)

jellyneo, the premier neopets website, has recorded prices of some items plummeting from 2,000,000 neopoints to 4,000 neopoints IN THE LAST THREE HOURS. this is when most people haven't even heard about the event or OPENED THEIR BAGS YET.

and of course. cherry on top. 20-year-old account holders are crytyping on the site events neoboard about how mean and cruel it is to make rare stamps part of the prize pool, because their entire identity hinges on being part of the neopian bourgeoisie, and they are having MELTDOWNS over their assets being devalued until they're part of the lowly proletariat.

this is a children's game for children btw.

none of the money is real.

i'm having such a good time.

[bluegiragi]

learning moment (part 1)

early access + nsfw on patreon monster!AU masterpost

more explanation under the cut

I think that so far, Soap has clearly demonstrated himself to be the more emotionally intelligent one of the pair, but it doesn't mean he doesn't still get frustrated at times. He's also just an emotional guy, and is working himself up a bit. This is a difficult topic for him to want to remain calm over, and there's a lot of factors contributing to his reaction.

One big factor is that he is a werewolf and he sees things through the eyes of his human side and wolf side. The shades of grey that Ghost sees in the Mexico operation just isn't there for Soap - to him, Ghost's 'pack' was under attack and he successfully defended it (this 'pack instinct' is something he shares with Price). The fact that his wolf now considers Ghost his in some way also contributes to his upset over having to read about what happened to him in such a clinical way. Werewolves can be kind of irrationally territorial, and although Soap is used to reading reports just like this, the fact that it's concerning Ghost (in probably the most vulnerable state of his life) is raising his hackles.

It's not a fight, because at the end of the day, Soap isn't mad at Ghost, just at his circumstances. But he's basically just asserting some emotional boundaries here with Ghost (who is, for what it's worth, I'd say a bit surprised and mostly bemused here.)

[theoldkyokodied]

This bloodweave art dump has it all: The price of devotion, the serenity of simple touches, cat to cat communication and iasip redraws with slightly altered dialogue

[all-my-ocs-are-evil]

[insert poetic title here]

fun fact: this did not start out as isat fanart

(rambling in tags)

[cozylittleartblog]

Columbo and the Knight (1984)

put me in the universe where Columbo ran through the 1980s and had a crossover episode with Knight Rider. I think they deserved it, and I am not just saying that because they're my two favorite Old Shows. @telebeast wrote a little fanfic blurb about it and I HAD to visualize it into a comic (which is also the longest comic I have finished thus far at five pages...), so writing credit goes to them.

Autism W!

[majinbangus]

im weak, here's another thought about guard dog!Simon

Not only is he a guard dog, he's also a lap dog, but not in the way you would think.

He'll keep you perched on his lap, hugging you to him, back to chest, and wrap a protective—almost possessive—arm around you, even in the comfort of your own home. He never lets go unless you tell him to, but it's always with a grumble for disturbing how comfortable he is.

When he first pulled you into his lap, you looked at Soap in surprise, but your man didn't even bat an eye, simply turning the television on and finding the sports channel.

"Wha's the matter, pet?" Funny how Ghost called you that when he was collared with your tag (If found, please call:). "Thought you would like a dog who cuddled with you."

"Well, yeah, but—"

"Could you keep it down, sweetheart? I'm tryna watch."

A chuckle from behind you, and arms tightening around your waist. "Hear that, pet? We need to be quiet. No more barking."

From that day on, you never made much of a fuss again.

-

i have so many thoughts about guard dog!simon

[rapidhighway]

my love for him is stronger than any other force in the universe

[funkle420]

Turbo Granny blunt rotation WIP

[astralleywright]

spent like an hour trying to find a post abt the disparity of origin companion's content in bg3 and couldn't so, hey, this fucking sucks

[randomminty]

Five billion octopath 2 scribbles i feel sick

[gammija]

tiefling jon's first day at the Archives

[idolomantises]

I… don’t really see myself continuing with the Amazing Digital Circus anymore.

[aphel1on]

AURGH auwarghh the autistic parental trauma... the epi was wacky hijinks then dropped this on us out of nowhere... (sobs) laios... laiiiiooooos

[fifthnailinstevesbat]

thinking of a new steddie fic/au hmmm.

It’s just the classic, Steve buys weed from Eddie in season 1 era, he and Tommy meet him at the bench in the woods behind school. Steve and Eddie have some playful banter and clearly get along, but it’s dismissed as just a drug deal and they go on about their lives.

Next time they meet is when a frantic Steve comes and finds Eddie after he’s just fought off the demogorgon for the first time. He’s rattled, and skittish, wearing a nasty black bruise on his eye, and just overall not acting like himself. He snaps at Eddie multiple times to just ‘hurry up’ and ‘get him his stuff’, and sure he’s being an asshole, but more than anything Eddie is just concerned. He has never seen The King Steve Harrington lose his cool like this. So Eddie cautiously gives him the weed, making sure not to give too much, and lets him go about his day, but not before asking if he’s alright. Steve clearly wasn’t expecting this and brushes it off defensively, but that doesn’t mean he’s not thinking about it for the rest of his week. How the hell did Eddie Munson notice something was wrong, when his own parents didn’t? Nor his “friends”?

They cross paths again a year later, the beginning of season two. Steve is still with Nancy and has freshly dumped his old douchebag crew of superficial friends. He is still sitting quite comfortably on the higher ranks of popularity, but there is no denying his status is not what it used to be. He comes to buy weed from Eddie in the first week back at school, and it’s a casual interaction. He’s still as charmingly stuck up as he ever was, but now without Tommy there to judge his every move, he seems a little more at ease when making casual conversation with Eddie. Eddie doesn’t mention the year before and Steve is so glad for it, secretly very embarrassed that he went to Eddie for some refuge after arguably his most traumatic experience to date. He gets his stuff, giving Eddie a smirk when he notices he’s dropped the price significantly for Steve when it’s just him alone. Eddie gives him a challenging smile back, almost daring him to call it out, but he doesn’t. They both just laugh and part ways.

The next run in is tina’s halloween party. They notice eachother when Steve first arrives, making eye contact and giving a polite nod. Maybe Eddie lifts his drink up to Steve in a silly salute. They don’t speak at all or make any effort to hang around eachother. That is, until Steve storms down the stairs in a rage after he’d gone up there with Nancy Wheeler. But then are those- tears? Eddie was standing on the front porch smoking a cigarette, trying to discreetly hide from one Billy Hargrove to avoid having to sell him anything, but staying visible enough that he won’t lose all chances of making any money tonight. Steve storms right past him and hits his shoulder. Eddie whips around and is about to call him a dick before he sees who it is.

Steve tries to quickly wipe his face, he won’t make eye contact with Eddie, and he’s clearly trying to get out as fast as he can. Eddie doesn’t let him, though, since he’s obviously not thinking very clearly and is most likely about to do something emotional and stupid. He asks if Steve’s alright, and his answers are all short and rushed, so he’s definitely not. They’re not really friends, but Eddie’s not an asshole.

— “Did you drive?” Eddie asks

“Yeah”

“Well, you’re drunk, Steve. You can’t get behind a wheel right now. And if I knowingly let you, then that makes me an accomplice. I’ll take you home.”

Steve tries to protest, attempting to push past him, but Eddie interjects. “Yeah, yeah, alright! Don’t thank me yet, Steve’o. This is not for you, see, I’m not trying to get a criminal record, here. I cant go to prison, Steve. Do you know what they’d do to a pretty guy like me in prison? Nope, let’s go hot stuff.” —

Eddie takes Steve home. They don’t talk much. By the time they reach Steve’s drive way and Eddie has put his van in park, Steve is making no attempt to exit the vehicle just yet. Eddie doesn’t know what to do, he didn’t really plan this far, so he’s just tapping away awkwardly at his steering wheel while Harrington stares down the dashboard so clearly lost in thought Eddie fears his head might explode. Steve tells Eddie what happened, says it’s ‘relationship troubles’, and he’s not quite sure what compelled him into being so honest with Eddie Munson, but he’s blaming the alcohol. Eddie wasn’t expecting that. They chat for a bit, Eddie makes Steve laugh and considers the whole night a success after that. Then they start cracking jokes about their shared hatred for Hargrove, and Steve looks and sounds a bit more ok to go inside. He thanks Eddie, quite sincerely actually, and it throws him a bit. He stutters a ‘yeah, for sure. It’s no problem.’ And Steve goes home.

After that, it’s a little different. Steve, doesn’t actually really have anyone, anymore. When they go back to school he’s now greeting Eddie here and there in the hallways, making conversation when they find themselves alone together, in the lunch line or at the bathroom sink. He doesn’t approach Eddie when there’s too many people around, though. As much as he’s grown, Steve Harrington still carry’s some prejudice in him about how certain things may make him look. But it doesn’t bother Eddie too much. It’s not like they are really friends, they’re just like, strange acquaintances. And Steve would never deny that they get along, that really Eddie’s ‘not so bad’. So that’s a win.

Steve finds Eddie again not long after the party to buy some more weed, a plan that sparked purely out of boredom. Eddie says yes, of course, but tells him if he wants it today he will need to wait till after school and meet Eddie at his place, since he was busy. So Steve takes a trip to the Munson trailer to make his deal. Eddie invites him inside and they sit together on the couch as he gets Steve’s bag ready. They end up making quite pleasant conversation, joking around and ultimately finding they are really enjoying each other’s company. They enjoy it so much so, that Steve ends up smoking there, with Eddie. So now they are kind of like, hanging out? And it’s fun, so they do it again. Still they’re not, friends friends, they just get along. Eddie just sells Steve weed sometimes and they keep it civil.

He doesn’t hear from Steve for a while, and the next time he sees him it’s from a distance, in passing. The man has the most roughed up face Eddie has ever seen, bruised and swollen in multiple areas, stitches and bandages all over. It’s really, concerning? completely metal, but alarming. This is the second time Eddie has seen the guy all beaten up like that. He knew that boys fight, but surely not that bad? As worried as he was, Eddie doesn’t approach him to ask questions, because they don’t know eachother like that. So he goes on about his day, and he doesn’t see Steve again after that for quite some time.

Then it’s summer, Eddie isn’t graduating again, and he’s not really sure what to do with himself over the break. The new mall has just opened up, and there’s a cool music store up on the second floor that he likes to visit sometimes with his band friends. And wouldn’t you know, working at the Scoops Ahoy located directly across from his favourite store, is Steve Harrington. The guy hasn’t come to Eddie for any weed since last year, and then there was that sighting where he looked like he’d just fallen face first into a flying fist or two, so it’s been a minute since Eddie’s seen him. And he’d be lying if he said it wasn’t a nice surprise. He only goes into scoops once. He’s curious, okay? Sue him. And, he knows the girl who works with him, Robin. So he plays it off like he had no idea he’d see Steve there. And to his surprise, Steve actually acknowledges him. He doesn’t act like Eddie is a total stranger just because they’re not in school anymore. The interaction is quick, they make very casual conversation, Eddie says hi to Robin, grabs his milkshake and goes home. That’s all. He doesn’t go back, and he doesn’t really plan to. Steve’s nice, and he knows Eddie’s around if he needs to buy from him again, and that’s really as far as their relationship goes. That’s all it ever was. It’s been fun getting to know Steve Harrington a little bit better, even if it was just for a short time. Eddie liked having the chance to see in past the quaffed hair and pressed polo shirts to learn that Steve was really just a person under it all. He never thought he’d say it, but Harrington wasn’t so bad. It was a nice little eye opening experience for Eddie.

Eddie was ready to write off his little blips of interaction with Steve Harrington as a thing of the past, no hard feelings, and move on with his life. That is, until he gets a knock at his front door in the middle of the night afew days after the big mall fire. And it’s Steve on the other side. And he looks awful, his face is the worst Eddie’s ever seen it. And he wasn’t really knocking, more like pounding. He says he needs Eddie’s help.

What the fuck?

[wilteddreamsofbaldursgate]

Overindulgent father Astarion who tells his children they’re allergic to any kind of jewellery that isn’t made of the highest grade Dwarven crafted gold. 

It’s not even because Astarion might have a certain aversion to silver, no, he just raises his children to have standards, thank you very much. 

And it doesn’t end with shiny things, oh no… 

The Ancunín brood is known to be dressed in perfectly woven cotton, silk and soft leather clothes, no matter the occasion.

They’re seen playing with expensive toys, reading artfully illustrated books that certainly belong behind thick glass, not in children’s sticky hands. 

There’s even talk that one of the children is not as naturally inclined to music as his parents claim him to be, surely his lyre must be enchanted—the instrument certainly looks extravagant enough! 

And then there’s always this air of effortless haughtiness surrounding the Ancunín children whenever their nannies and servants are parading them through town as if they were perfect little dolls; objects to show off the wealth their parents acquired in quite the mysterious ways. 

So, it’s no secret that Astarion and Tav are pampering their children—some might say they’re even spoiling them rotten. 

And maybe they are, especially Astarion.

But he doesn’t see why he should raise them any other way, nor does he want to.  

When it comes to his children, Astarion has his own standards, and as long as Tav agrees with him nothing really matters. 

Because, these people, they don’t know anything about the Ancuníns. 

They don’t know that it’s not unusual for Astarion to wash out dirt and mud and strawberry stains from comically small finery, leaving behind only the memories of a day spent playing in the garden, chasing after ducks, picking flowers, lazing in the sun…

That any holes and tears the children’s clothes might suffer are quickly mended, making them look as good as new in no time. 

Nor do they know that Astarion doesn’t mind fashioning a brand new dress to match that of a favourite doll, either. Or to embroider a pretty vest with the likeness of that stray cat the children seem to adore, although their father would rather they don’t touch the mangy animal. 

No, those people know nothing at all...

“Not tired!” Astarion’s youngest cries; the vehement denial of her father’s earlier accusation is cut short by a telltale yawn.

The room still smells of fragrant lavender oil and peaches even when the bath water has already grown tepid, just one or two degrees above what Astarion would consider too cold to be enjoyable. 

Amused, he raises an eyebrow at the protesting toddler before he lifts her out of the copper bathtub with little effort. 

By now, he knows every step of this game.

“Tut-tut, my dear child, what did mama and I say?” Astarion kneels, quickly wrapping a soft towel around the child to keep her warm. “We only tell lies outside of this house.”

Unfazed by her father’s gentle scolding, the girl crosses her arms that haven’t yet lost their puppy fat across her chest, reminding Astarion a little too much of a very displeased Tav. 

Suppressing a sigh, he leans back to consider the pouting child, wondering what could possibly be upsetting her this time—the list is growing longer by the day, after all. 

“What’s the matter, dear?” Astarion asks gently, hoping it’s something easily fixable as it’s growing rather late. 

“Want apple!”

Decades ago, Astarion might’ve rolled his eyes—he knows exactly which stupid apple the child wants, it’s been haunting him all day—but once he started to treat his children’s problems as if they were his own, his life has grown somewhat easier. 

“Why, let’s get an apple on our way to bed, then. Would that be alright, Your Highness?” 

The girl promptly nods her head, allowing Astarion to pat her hair dry before dressing her in a clean night dress. 

She rests her cheek against her father’s shoulder as he carries her first to the kitchen to grab a fragrant apple and a knife, then to her bedroom where they settle on the cosy window seat, just like they do every night.

Soft moonlight is pouring through the windows; the child giggles at the way the knife’s blade is catching the silver light as Astarion peels and cuts the apple into even pieces.

“Here you go,” he finally says, giving the slice of apple one last examining look before surrendering it to the impatient little hands reaching for it. “A sweet treat for my little sweet. Doesn’t it taste so much better when we don’t eat it off the floor, darling?” And when it’s not crawling with ants…

The appeased toddler nibbles at the juicy fruit as Astarion carefully combs through her still-damp curls. 

Her hair’s getting long, he notices, knowing that taking care of it will become more time-consuming each day. 

Once, Astarion would’ve thought this task tedious, brushing out hair that’s not his own, oiling and braiding it for no other reason than knowing his children enjoy him doing it. 

But that’s why he loves doing it in the first place, he supposes.

Astarion can tell by his toddler’s heartbeat that sleep is about to claim her. 

The half-eaten slice of apple is still clutched in her little fist as he cradles the child to his chest, slowly rising from the window seat to put her to bed. 

He’s just about to lay the child down that the fruit drops to the floor, his daughter’s tiny hand clutching at his shirt instead.

“Thank you, papa,” she mumbles, more asleep than awake.

Astarion pauses.

He breathes in the clean, yet unique scent of the little girl that is forever engraved in his brain, the same way he knows under which exact constellation she was born. When she took her first steps, what her first word was. Soon, he will have to memorise her favourite colour, and what she likes to eat when dirty apples won’t be that appealing anymore. 

By now, Astarion knows this game by heart, knows that with every year that passes, he has something new to learn about his children.

And sometimes he wonders what it’s like to grow up with clean bed sheets and full bellies. Sleep filled with naught but warmth and happy memories. Ever open doors and tears that are dried by tender kisses. Living in a house where mistakes and anger are welcomed, safe. 

He wonders what it’s like for his children to know that their father’s love comes without conditions. Not now and not ever. 

Sitting down on the bed, Astarion holds his youngest a little closer to his chest, unwilling to let go of her, yet. 

He’s often accused of spoiling his children when most people can only just grasp the very surface of his love for them, the bare minimum of what he feels for his one and only, precious family. 

These baseless accusations are as unimportant to Astarion as the people voicing them.

He’s raising his children to have standards, wants them to take their father’s love for granted, to accept nothing less but pure devotion.

It’s the only way Astarion knows how to love them, the only way that comes most naturally to him. 

Astarion looks down at his little girl, now fast asleep, a gentle smile tugging at her lips. 

After all these years—all these children—he’s still in awe watching them sleep in his arms as if no harm in the world could ever befall them.

And it won’t—not if Astarion can help it. 

“No, thank you, my heart,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against the crown of the toddler’s head. 

When it comes to his children, Astarion holds himself to the highest standard.