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[notquitecanon]

Would you ever do a part 2 for Insufferably Admirable? Maybe where they confess or something. Oh! Maybe Astarion gets a little mad at her for nearly killing herself for him because he doesn’t want to admit he was scared to lose her?

I just loved it so much 🥺🤎

only took a month and a half but I did it

getting a request to continue this really made me want to write more :))))

[notquitecanon]

Foolishly Admirable (pt 2) // Astarion x Reader

Summary: The morning after the Gur incident, you and Astarion both have a lot of questions about what things mean for the two of you. Not that either of you are willing to ask them out loud. So, in each of your own convoluted ways, you try your best to figure it out.

Read Part One Here!

TW: canon typical injury, biting, bloodloss, talks of lying and manipulation (if your romancing and reading Astarion fanfic you should be prepared for that anyway), unresolved issues and feelings, these idiots won't communicate (and yes it is driving everyone else in camp insane)

Astarion woke from his trance the following morning feeling better than he had in…. well, ever. Though still chilled, his hands weren’t quite as cold as usual and even the peaks of his cheeks felt warm. So well fed that he idly wondered if he would see a slight pink to his cheeks- if he were able to see his reflection, that was. The previous nights events had been reduced to nothing but a grisly stained hole in his favorite (only shirt) and the slightest mark on his chest that seemed to be fading with each passing. Healed, well fed, and… something that felt dangerously close to happy. 

He stayed very still, the only movement the craning of his neck over to look at you, still sleeping soundly where you’d given out- curled up under the blankets and cloaks Astarion had draped over you, burrowed into the pile of pillows that he kept in his tent. In sleep, you looked more peaceful than Astarion saw you during waking hours, a brief intermission from your foolishly admirable determination to singlehandedly save every poor, unfortunate soul on the Sword Coast. Of course, he realized, he shouldn’t complain. Astarion himself had been one of said poor souls you’d devoted yourself to, if the previous night’s actions were any indication. 

As if visual proof of this thought, despite being a lump in a pile of blankets, cloaks, and pillows, one of your hands had reached out to him in the night. As you had slept, you’d mostly kept to your side and Astarion to his, but over the course of hours, unbeknownst to either of you, you had wiggled a singled hand across the gap. Astarion’s red eyes stared at your fingers, not quite touching him, but instead firmly knotted into the loose fabric of his sleeve closest to you. As if you could keep him from being taken in the night. You held onto his fabric much like someone might hold someone’s hands, the soft worn fabric tangled between your fingers to keep you tethered to the elf. The thought flitted across his mind, he didn’t particularly mind the idea of being tethered to you. He pointedly ignored the thought, moving his gaze to your face, the only other part of you to be seen. 

Unlike him, you bore the physical weight of last night. You skin’s pallor was paler than usual, not much color to your cheeks but plenty of purple shadows under your eyes. The potions might have closed your wounds and steadied your heart, but no potion could put the blood back into your veins. Peeking out from under the blanket, the smallest glimpse of your neck, littered with faint scars from the deepest of his bites. Though only hours old the potions had made them look like you’d always had them. Under your darker than usual eyelids, your eyes moved along with whatever dream you were having. He’d seen the effects of his near nightly feedings, how you bared the much less severe blood loss. But this was another beast, Astarion doubted you’d be able to think clearly, much less wield a sword. After the previous night, you’d need as much rest as you could get, there would be no traveling or adventuring that day.  

The longer his gaze lingered on the evidence of your altruism, the more his undead heart clenched in his chest. First, you went off and tried to get yourself killed in his place. Secondly, you so diligently worried over him, all that saccharine care projected onto him. Then, you willingly let- practically begged- Astarion nearly kill you just to heal himself. Bleeding yourself dry for someone who would always want more. Really, weren’t you smarter than this? How far would you go for him? How far would he let you? Was it concern for you clenching his jaw or was it guilt? Instead of analyzing these complicated emotions, he allowed this slip into familiar (safe) annoyance. 

Truly, how was he going to gain lasting protection if you went off and got yourself killed? That was a safer thought in more familiar territory. Astarion could push this thought to the forefront, make himself believe that was still his only priority. 

Still, it was driving him mad, He thought to himself, watching your eyes move under closed lids, He was a master manipulator to be sure, but not even he was this talented, to draw such a force of nature into his atmosphere. Was this even something he could have achieved? What did it mean if you’d done it of your own accord? 

Gently, utilizing all his stealth and sleight of hand, he used a feathered touch to remove your grip from his shirt and then sneak out of the tent. He informed the early risers of camp (Wyll, Gale, Lae’zel) what you had done after they stared at him as if he was a ghost (wrong flavor of undead), and further explained the need for a day of rest. The rogue, with varying degrees of snark, cut off any protests before returning to the tent with an assortment of supplies. 

—

It had been ages since you woke up naturally, since you were allowed to let you're body decide when you were rested. Which would make you think that your body would be grateful after such a treat. Nevertheless, when you woke up, everything was sore- your muscles, your head, your neck- hells your neck-, and even your heart seemed to feel sore.  You felt cold and yet you were also sweating under the pile of blankets nestled around you. Your throat and mouth were dry, and your stomach was clenching around nothing. With a groan, you looked around the tent, trying to ignore how your vision was dizzy and spinning. 

The burgundy canvas was practically glowing with the sunlight outside,  and to your surprise, you found Astarion sitting up in the adjacent corner. He’d pulled the stool inside, long legs crossed gracefully in front of him as he pulled a needle and thread diligently through his white shirt, "Oh, so you’re not dead over there. That’s a relief, how awkward it would have been to tell Gale I killed you… again."

His voice was dripping in teasing, but there was a twinge of forced casualness. Your brows ruffled, first you squinted at the shirt he was wearing- a plain red shirt with the laces loose at the chest, you had nicked it in the Grove- before flitting your eyes down to your hand that you were sure was grasped around his sleeve only to find a handkerchief wadded in your grip. Damn sneaky vampire, how hadn’t that woken you?

Astarion didn’t need to pause his stitch to spare you a glance, rolling his eyes before lifting a single, perfect eyebrow at your expression, "Stop pouting, darling, I had to leave to get you something to eat, since you so generously provided such a feast last night."  

"‘m not pouting." You tried arguing but your voice was hoarse, barely audible. Astarion rolled his eyes again, using the sewing needle to point next to you at the carafe of water. It was surely room temperature if not a little warm, but it looked heavenly. Slowly, you sat up, using one arm to brace yourself and the other to pick up the pitcher, aiming for the same silver chalice from the previous night. 

You really hoped Astarion had become suddenly engrossed in his sewing instead of watching how you shook like a leaf as you tried to pour. You had never considered yourself frail, but after the previous night even the slight effort of pouring a glass of water brought an uncomfortable burn to the muscles up your arm and across your shoulders. The glass was half full with a puddle around it when a pale hand swooped in over yours, steadying you and taking most of the weight. Of course not, damn vampire. 

You were first glaring your own useless hands for your weakness, then his for noticing, before moving up to glare at his face, only to find him already staring down at you. His gaze wasn’t soft, it was actually particularly intense with a emotion that you couldn’t quite place, but it made your protest die on your tongue. 

"Let me, love." Despite his intense expression, his words were a soft demand, and he didn’t wait for your cooperation. Instead, leaning ever so slightly over you as he poured the water and then presented the chalice to you. You let one hand wrap around the chalice though the vampire took it upon himself to balance it with a touch to your wrist, with his close proximity you had bigger concerns than water, no matter how scratchy your own throat was. As you carefully lowered the chalice to the ground, you kept your stare level on his. Astarion’s eyes kept their intensity, but it was the curiosity in them that kept him still. 

With your other shaking hand, you carefully pushed past the laces of his shirt. Astarion tensed but didn’t stop you, and you froze for just a moment before trying to steady your hand. Dropping your gaze to the spot where hours ago a stake had protruded, you focussed much of your energy into keeping your touch light, barely a whisper as your hand dipped under the red linen.  A ghost of a touch, first at his heart which caused some of the tension to leave the vampire’s shoulders, slid then a couple of inches to the right. Only hours ago, you’d whispered apologies as you pulled wood splinters out of a hole in this very spot. Now, you felt nothing but the slightest indent in it’s place.  Was he still here because he needed more? Was he hurting? Somewhere between a whine and a whimper, you tried to pull yourself up, craning your head over to bare your neck to him, unknowingly baring the scars as well. 

A breath, almost a laugh if it didn’t sound so melancholy, fanned over the exposed skin, along with Astarion’s own cold fingers tracing the past bites. His other hand steadied you at your ribs. You’d never known Astarion to be this quiet and it was beginning to unnerve you as the vampire took another look pause to analyze you. As he scrutinized you, the fingers at your neck brushed up to your jawline, then your cheek, and finally your eyelashes. Another sigh, as if he hadn’t figured out the answers before pulling the caressing hand away though he took great care to keep holding you steady as he leaned away. Finally, his voice broke the silence.

 "No, no more of that for now, little love." 

Your eyebrows furrowed as he turned away from you. He didn’t want your blood? It felt childish to feel rejected, and yet the sting was still there. And that name: little love. You were hesitant to call it a term of endearment, that sounded too real. You might be too proud to mention it out loud, but you could recognize how you preened when he called you darling or pet or dear, the way it made your heart lift and stomach flutter. Like a schoolgirl with a crush, but this nickname. You knew, instinctively, this one was different. It had only been said in the most tender- vulnerable- of moments. And both of these things happening at the same time made your head spin more than it already was. As you lifted your head back up, slowly to try to ignore the way your brain seemed to rattle around in your skull, you tried to hide your confusion.

 In an impressive show of dexterity, a dagger turned an apple into bite size cubes in record time, finding their way onto a bronze plate that you weren’t sure where he found, accompanied by cheese, grapes, bread, and honey. You watched the vampire carefully, brows furrowing in confusion. Sure, Astarion was nicer to you than the others, but you were sure his shows of affection were limited to snarky teasing,  stealing things, vulgar comments, moments of passion, and watching your back in a fight. Which were all perfectly fine with you, hells, they were the a large part of the reasons you were so enamored with him. But this? The way he was caring for you? Seemed more like your motive than his, not very roguish.  Did he want something? Surely, he’d figured out you’d give him just about anything he asked of you. He was smarter than this. But when you offered, he’d declined… Yet, it was still nice it it’s own way, to have someone care for you the way you cared for others. 

"What?" This time his voice was shorter, more in line with his usual sass. Astarion, after pushing the plate towards you, truly noticed your staring. Not the gaze of relief from last night, but this time a confused, analyzing look yet still gracious. It unnerved him then just as much as it had the night prior, like you saw all of him and still chose to be kind. Of course, he told himself, that couldn’t be it. Had he done something wrong? 

Staring for another moment, you wondered if you should tell him, let him know what you were thinking. But his eyes had lost some of that intensity, carrying some kind of sad hopefulness and nervous uncertainty. If you told him would it shatter the moment? Was it selfish to enjoy the tenderness? Would the reality of your emotions scare him off? 

In the height of the prior night’s emotions, you’d compared yourself to a rabbit, latching on to the snake for fear of the serpent starving. Though, in the past you’d been told or made to feel like your love was stifling, constricting. Were you truly the rabbit in the metaphor? If you were, were you letting yourself be consumed for his sake or yours? Were you actually on the verge of choking him?

So, you shook your head, lifting some of the fruit to your lips, "Nothing, Astarion, thank you." 

"You’re ever so welcome, darling. After such a feast, stealing some fruit and honey was the least I could do." Astarion gave you one of those coy grins he was known for before returning to his stool, and picking his sewing back up. As he resumed his little project, you ate the little feast slowly, eyes unfocused as they half paid attention to the repetitive moment of Astarion’s stitching. You idly wondered how long he’d known to sew, if it was a hobby or a necessity. Outside the tent, you could see people moving about camp, hear chatter and commotion. Your eyebrows furrowed once again, starting to remember everything that needed to get done. 

"I’ll eat and then we must get a jump on the day, there’s too much to get done." You decided, shaking yourself out of your reverie. Wyll’s father, the gith’yanki that were surely hunting you, Karlach’s engine, the impending shadow-curse. It didn’t matter how tired you were, you’d just have to push past the dizziness and light headedness. The party couldn’t waste another day just for you too rest. The vampire tied off another stitch, examining his handiwork as one of his perfect brows raised. 

"Must we? Not much to jump on considering it’s nearly midday, give or take." Astarion didn’t seemed concerned in the least about the time-sensitive nature of… well, everything that was going on. Your stomach dropped, not comforted by his nonchalance in the slightest. Midday?!

"Astarion, why the hells didn’t you wake me?" The sudden sharpness in your voice made your head echo and your chest rattle as you stared wide eyed, eyebrows knitting so far up your forehead they might knock you over. 

"Really? You were sleeping like the dead- believe me I would know- and if Lae’zel sharpening that godsdamned sword again didn’t wake you who was I to try?" Just as with your numerous quests, Astarion didn’t seem to mind your outburst as he sat down his mending. Until you began to gather yourself up, swaying as you reached for one of your boots. It was then that his lackadaisical teasing turned to a stern glare even though he kept his words light, "Now, now, darling, surely you you don’t plan to rush off to battle without fully breaking your fast- oh, or maybe you were just wanting me to feed it to you? Shall I, dear?" 

Your eyes widened, quickly looking away from his mischievous smirk, and had you had enough blood in you at the time, it would have all rushed up your neck to your cheeks. But you didn’t, so you instead cleared your throat, "But-" 

"But you need to eat after all that blood loss. So, finish the food and then we’ll think about whatever trouble you’ll land us in today. Besides, I thought you’d be rather insistent. Some of the others are scouting the road ahead as well as tying up some loose ends," He interjected, eyes almost challenging you to argue more. You swore he enjoyed arguing, but you knew it was often more trouble that it was worth, often resulting in twisted words, flushed cheeks, and moments of passion quickly followed by the realization that you’d lost the argument. Like a scolded child, you continued to work at the plate, dipping the apples in the honey and eating them on the bread, (totally not) pouting as you watched your companions go about their tasks outside. Just as he had last night, he smirked at your obedience, teasing you further, "Good girl." 

You didn’t even have the energy to flush. When you were about half way through the plate, even the half meal in your stomach was enough to sate you, enough so that you felt the exhaustion return. You kept telling yourself to focus, finish the plate and go about the rest of the day- if you were diligent, you could still get something done, help someone. But, even lifting the little bites of cheese to your mouth was proving tiresome, and the sun was warming the tent in such a encompassing way… maybe you could just rest your eyes...  Your eyes drooped and you hadn’t noticed that you’d stopped moving, closing your eyes let your mind slow for a moment which was nicer than you cared to admit. Astarion, however, did notice. He watched carefully, then saw the way your head dropped an inch, quite literally nodding off. He saw the way one of your hands went limp, almost knocking over the chalice of water. Hurriedly, he snatched the dish from you before gently pushing you back against the pillows. Your only protest was a whine before you relaxed once more. 

"Looks like our discussion will have to wait. But we will be having a discussion."  

— 

The next time you woke, you felt better. Less hollow, the tinges of magic vibrating in your bones. Shadowheart or Halsin must have visited. This time, it was easier to sit up and the tent didn’t seem to spin as you looked around. Your eyes first landed on the shirt Astarion had mended, spread out to dry over the stool he’d been sitting on and now a rich, pitch black. As you rubbed at your face, you giggled softly.

"Look at you, looking more like your bright eyed, hopelessly naive self every hour." Astarion’s voice chided as he ducked into the tent, glass of wine in one hand and a book in the other. He kneeled beside you, gracefully reclining into a sitting position without spilling so much of a drop.  

“Thanks… I think.” You hummed, finding a replenished cup of water next to you to gulp down. Astarion watched you as carefully as he earlier, like you might blow away in the wind or spontaneously dissolve into dust. His eyes narrowed on your neck and again on your heart. 

You frowned, something was clearly bothering him? But what? Your tadpole wiggled temptingly behind your eye, a reminder that you possessed the power to know him. You suppressed the desire, knowing that a brief uninvited glimpse was likely to lock you out forever. Instead, you returned his stare trying to decipher whatever his deeper meaning was based off his body language. 

He had turned down your blood. Surely he wasn’t still hurting, the wound was barely a scar after all the magic and blood that had been poured into him. Was he upset that you’d killed the Gur hunter before he’d had the chance? Had you overstepped or overwhelmed in your efforts to save him? 

“You’re very welcome, darling, after all, only one of us can pull of the corpse-like look. And since I do it so effortlessly, my dear...” As if he could sense your thoughts narrowing into his own, he deflected with his usual level of snark and sarcasm, filling the chalice for you again, “I’m afraid you’ll have to refrain from going off and getting yourself killed, or worse laying down to die in my tent. What would the others think?” 

What were you supposed to do? Wait for the poison to keep him down long enough that he starved? Sit idly by while was suffered? Let the Gur stake him without so much as a protest?  Simply hope that the antidotes and magic might catch up before it was too late? 

“Astarion-“ You began with his name because you honestly didn’t know where else to start. The tone of your voice was the same way one would say sorry, an apology, which only made Astarion tense further. The elf wrinkled his straight nose, his eyebrows crinkling as you slowly got to your knees so you could look him in the eyes. His face slightly turned, chin dipping as he tried to predict what you do next. Aside from your affinity for foolishly admirable acts of altruism, you’d been proving hard to predict as of late. Making himself harder to predict. 

Despite his tension, you hazarded a movement towards him. Your hand once again grazed the laces of the red wayfarer shirt he was wearing, waiting briefly. If he so much as breathed to suddenly, you’d retract your touch. But he didn’t, staying perfectly still as you once more slid under the shirt, again pausing over his unbeating heart and back to the even less prominent scar on his chest. Still healing, closer and closer to as if the last night hadn’t even happened.

And just like he had earlier, his own deft fingers feathered over your neck, where the bite marks were fading much slower than his own scars.

“Don’t even think about offering another nibble right now, my dear.” He muttered, voice somehow soft and dangerous all at once, scarlet eyes pausing at your own before roving down your face, across your cheeks where color was beginning to return, then across your jaw, like he was still searching for that explanation before slowly lifting back to your eyes. The open palm over the stake wound closed into a fist, knuckled resting softly against the scar as your eyes lowered to his chest. Maybe it was the exhaustion, and if anyone asked thats what you’d blame it on, you blinked a couple time to assuage the sting in them, lip wobbling. 

“I’m sorry-“  

This time, at your outward display of emotion, Astarion did flinch away. Not far, but just enough that your hand fell back onto your thigh. Your teeth toyed with the inside of your cheek, as you searched for the right words, “I should have- maybe I could have- Astarion, I promised you I’d watch your back and you- I let-” 

“Stop that.” It was a clipped order, but his voice didn’t sound cold. Confused, definitely, a touch irritated. Maybe a hint of something else that you might be able to place if your mind was clearer. 

“What?” Your voice was confused as well, a touch airy as the dizziness started to seep back into your bones. You pulled your eyes back up to his, trying to figure out what he wanted from you. You didn’t mean to fall back onto your backside, but it happened anyway, contributing to how small you felt in front of him, “But-“ 

“Quit being so kind. It makes me want to be nice back. Infectious, and quite frankly: disturbing.” It was a compliment but he said it like the deepest insult. His face grimly serious. You shook your head a bit in disbelief, instantly regretting it when it made your brain swim around in your skull. The tadpole didn’t like the tumultuous turn of emotions either, squirming in time with the dizzy spell, “No use in dying for me-

As if he could sense your mounting protest or maybe corrected his own line of thought for his own sake, “- quite yet, we still have a cult to overthrow and what not."

You lifted your hand to point at him again, but found your hand was shaking again. The lingering boost from the magic was waning.  You ran a hand over your face both to steady yourself and to hid your face for a moment. No longer under your scrutiny, Astarion’s mind reeled. He needed to get things back under control, quickly, to stick to his original plan. He’d started straying and look where it had gotten him: a stake to the heart,  you were crying, and his favorite shirt was ruined. 

From behind your hands, your voice was muffled, clearly trying to force something of a casual joke. Things had gotten too intense too fast, which had always seemed to be the case between the two of you, “Can’t overthrow a cult without a Rogue. No one else can pick a lock worth a damn.” 

Astarion would have laughed at the truthful joke, but he was stuck amongst warring thoughts. Best to stick to what he knew, seduction and manipulation. Tell himself he that was why he was doing doing what came next. No other reason. Other reasons were dangerous, and quite possibly all too real. 

The vampire reached behind him, into the pouch of things he’d nicked from Wyll earlier, producing a potion of greater healing, easily holding it and flicking the lid off with one hand. He offered it to you once, pressing the glass to your knee only for you to nudge it away stubbornly. You could tell what it was from the overly sweet aroma, and you had no interest in being nursed anymore. Apparently being cared for.. It made things too complicated. 

"You’re pouting again, darling, would you look at me?” He forced the sincere softness out of his tone before he even got to the pet name, replacing it with the more familiar, safer feeling suave charm he was accustomed to. You slowly pulled your hands away from your face, eyeing him with a bleary, cautious gaze. Like you were the one who’d done something terrible.

Gods, you really made this too easy. Astarion ignored the tone of his thought, instead focussing on the words. Easy, this was easy, it was instinctive as he forced a smirk, maintaining eye contact as he took a long pull from the potion bottle, but he didn’t swallow. Instead, his free hand laced into one of yours, ignoring the wetness left behind by the tears you didn’t want him to see. Using the tether, he pulled himself over you. Just as he had been the night before, he leaned over you as he gently pushed you back against the pillows once more. His cold, straight nose prodded once against your neck, along his own fang marks. Instinctively, you rolled your neck to the side, but Astarion’s face chased your own. 

The rapid change in mood didn’t help your dizziness at all, but the way Astarion’s nose then grazed your jaw before his forehead pressed against yours was enough to take your fuzzy mind off things. Your eyes fluttered closed, both preening under his touch and to more easily ignore the way your vision was twisting with how fast your heart was beating. Blood loss and desire fought a dangerous battle in your heart and mind.  His chest vibrated in a chuckle as you leaned into the palm that had come up to cup your cheek, his other hand now at your hip to keep you flat so he could stay centered over you. He didn’t want to waste a drop. 

Astarion’s lips met yours just as they had a dozen times since that first night in the clearing. It was intoxicating...dizzying, more so than the blood loss. To keep yourself from swaying too far, you threw one lazy arm around his shoulders. Not that he’d let you get too far. First, as usual, he tasted like the deepest red wines he liked along with something metalic you didn’t try to think too hard about. It was when the sweet taste you’d refused hit your tongue that you suddenly understood his plan. You hummed a slight growl at the trickery, though you really shouldn’t have been surprised. He was a rogue after all. 

The elf’s fingers at your hip dug in as he clenched, the kiss becoming harder as your mouth filled with the elixir. The palm at your cheek didn’t quite hurt, but was enough to keep to still for him. Not that you were trying too hard to truly get away. His sent of rosemary, bergamot, and ever present blood was surrounding you. Frankly, you were right were you wanted to be. 

Finally, when your lungs were burning in need for oxygen and Astarion had no potion left for you, he pulled back just enough to mutter against your cheek, “Come now, be a good girl and swallow for me. You know how I abhor waste.”  

Your eyes shot open as you reflexively swallowed before you could sputter the brew out, and you had no doubt that the potion was immediately put to use in the form of a warm flush up your neck. 

Astarion was smirking smugly at you, though the look in his eyes wasn’t smug but not something you could decipher either. 

“Fine, now you can consider us even, little lo-“ He stopped to clear his throat, “Pet.” 

---

I've been working on this for a month and it is not good™️ but I can't seem to make it flow right so you're getting it unedited laugh out loud

[notquitecanon]

Call Me... // Matt Murdock x Reader

Summary: You're the Devil of Hell's Kitchen's favorite late night nurse, but he's been avoiding your fire escape since an unfortunate accident. You both miss each other just enough for some emotions to slip through the cracks. You don't even know his name, but you'll settle just to know he's alright.

TW: blood, canon typical injuries, kind of hurt comfort, Matt's a self sabotaging martyr as usual, kinda sunshine!reader??? maybe if you squint

Bolded line is from a prompts list from several months ago so I lost the link. If it's yours let me know and I'll link it!

"I haven’t seen you in weeks… I’m worried you’re in another dumpster somewhere. Just call me back…please?" You whispered harshly into the phone’s receiver, burner cell jammed between your ear and shoulder as you fumbled with your keys. 

It was true. The Devil of Hell’s Kitchen hadn’t graced your apartment in weeks after three months of near nightly visits. At first it was serious stuff, stab wounds and splinted bones. It took two weeks for him to crack a joke. But once that stone cold exterior cracked, it was shattered. He was kind, sweet even. Every few visits, he’d bring by supplies to replenish your kit and, usually, with a bottle of wine in the bag.  Emergencies turned to what he called ‘urgencies’- wounds just barely deep enough to justify stitches and dislocated joints. Which then turned into stopping by at the end of his nights for a ‘check up’, where he took advantage of your central heating, warm beverages, and warmer presence. Then, some Yakuza jackass appeared on your doorstep three weeks ago, fortunately your devil hadn’t been far behind. He took care of him, and you figured the thug, now minus fifteen teeth, would have a hard time telling anyone where to find you. Nevertheless, you found the ‘available apartments’ section of the newspaper taped to your seventh floor window. That had been the last night ’the devil’ had paid you a visit. 

"Anyways… I guess I'm asking for a sign of life? Something? Please? Bye." You pleaded, voice kinder this time as you managed to finally unlock the door and slip inside. Locking the knob, deadbolt, chain, and newly installed jam that had been mysteriously delivered not too long ago. With a huff, you discarded your keys, and bag in the entry way before delving deeper into your dark apartment, flicking lights on as you went. 

"You really need to start locking your windows." A deep voice sounded as you rounded the corned into your living room. Heart jumping to your throat and stomach dropping, you let out a yelp as instinct took over. The familiarity of the voice didn’t register as adrenaline flooded your system. 

"SHIT!" You shrieked, flinching backwards so fast that the hallway runner rug caught under your feet, sending you careening into the wall. Without thinking, you put the Yankee’s starting pitcher to shame as you pitched your phone at light speed towards the voice. Of course, the shadow effortlessly caught it.

"Shit!" The intruder mirrored at your fall, and it was then that you realized who it was. As you collected yourself a slew of curses slipped out, looking into the dim living room to find the Devil of Hell’s kitchen slowly rising off the couch, he was already sans black shirt and mask, "I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you." 

"Yeah, well, mission failed." You muttered, pressing a hand to your chest as if that would still your pounding heart. Slowly, you finished your shuffled into the living room, flicking on the overheads as you went. "Shit, you could have called. Sit back down."  

You could have used the heads up, the gash across his chest looked serious, and not in the cute excuse to see each other way ’serious’ had meant last month. He breathed a sarcastic laugh, tossing your phone back to you before producing a shattered burner cell with a… bullet hole?

"You have a funny way of saving my skin when I least expect it." He tried a cheeky smile. You rolled your eyes, picking up your pace as you retrieved your first aid kit from under your kitchen sink, "Consider this a sign of life?" 

"A sign of barely alive, more like." You answered, rounding back around the couch to sit across from him. Harshly pulling on a pair of rubber gloves and splaying out an array of supplies both his lap and yours. "You’re unbelievable. Almost a month of no contact and then you just appear and leak blood on my couch." 

"I’m sorry." He breathed, face angled to where your knees now touched. You rolled your eyes, ripping into a packet of gauze and setting to work dabbing the blood. And he sounded sorry, pitiful even, looked it to. His unseeing eyes stared straight past you and yet somehow straight through you at the same time, mouth settled in a puppy like frown. He told you once that he was catholic, and you now wandered if that’s why he was so good at looking guilty.  

"If it wasn’t for the newspapers, I would have thought you were dead." You drove your point home, with a small voice, too angry to be a whisper and yet too concerned to be a hiss. The evidence of his activities was written across his bare torso in older cuts, new and fading bruises, and a couple of bandages that he’d obviously applied himself, "And you’ve obviously been busy." 

"Figured out how the Yakuza found you. Handled it. Didn’t want to lead anyone else back here." His explanation was strained, pushed through gritted teeth as you applied antiseptic to the largest, freshest gash. You cooed small apologies, irritated as you were with the vigilante, you hated being the source of his pain. You picked up a suture kit, quickly threading the needle. 

"Well, as far as excuses go, that’s not the worst." You muttered, half joking and half touched he’d go through this for you. You’d known he was a walking martyr from the moment you’d met him, but still. He’d taken the beatings so you’d sleep safe. 

That was something else, "Lean back, gotta stitch you up." 

He complied as you stood, using your shoulder to nudge the floor lamp so the light was better for you. Even then, you position on the coffee table wasn't cutting it as leaning forward cast a shadow over his chest. Neither was kneeling in front of him, as the gash was too far up his chest for your position to be adequate. You muttered a quick apology as you flitted around him, trying to find the best place to plant yourself. Beside him on the couch might work, but you’d be straining to hold yourself up at that angle and keep your hands steady. 

Bloody-knuckled hands found your waist with amazing precision for a blind man, easily lifting you and placing you over one thigh after he spread his legs a bit wider. He held you steady, angling his eyes to the ceiling to give you the broadest view of his chest. One of your knees pressed into the couch cushion between his legs and the other pressed into the outside of his thigh, caging the his black-clad thigh between your own like a seat. If your weight bothered him, he gave no indication. He did however turn his ear ever so slightly towards you and smirk ever so devilishly, "How’s that?" 

"Very convenient, thanks." You forced your voice to be flat instead of the breathlessness you felt. Stupid charming vigilante. To his credit, it gave you the perfect access without blocking the light. And if you got to feel ever twitch of his insanely muscular thigh between yours? Added benefit. The devil, even bruised and bleeding, was insanely warm and smelled like something out of a terribly sinful romance novel. The manly small of musk and sweat should have been revolting, but the way it mixed with a fading aftershave would have been distracting if you weren’t so focused on the drip of crimson down his toned abdomen. Before your train of thought could derail again, you gave a quiet warning watching your patient steel himself before you began running the needle and thread through the torn skin.  Other than an initial hiss and the clenching of his fists against your waist, he went silent as you worked. 

The two of you sat in an almost tense silence. He could feel how close your face was to his chest, the waves of breaths washing over his skin, the smell of shampoo in your hair faint enough to know you’d put off washing it, the sound of your heartbeat slowing back down after he’d gotten you excited, the slight sound of your teeth worrying the inside of your lip. He knew he shouldn't be here, Claire could have patched him up, probably would have if he asked really nicely. He probably could have if he really tried, but he’d just missed you. Between Fisk and the Hand and the law firm… everything was messy. You were still simple and sweet and far more caring than he thought he deserved, a balm just to be near you. 

"Could you talk to me?" He asked, so quietly you almost missed it in your focus. You tied off another knot, seeing him wince. 

"Hmm?" You hummed, pausing to look up from the half stitched wound. His eyes lowered to your face, his clenched hands at your waist loosening to rub the fabric of your shirt between his fingers. You always wore such soft things, he wondered if you’d be so soft underneath. You took opportunity in the pause to wipe some of the blood from his skin. 

"I’ve missed your voice, even if you want to yell at me or be upset with me, just let me hear it." His voice was like a prayer, so sincere it made you shift on his leg. What was in the holy water at his church? 

"I’m not going to yell at you, honey. I’m not going to kick a man when he’s stabbed." You shook your head, rearranging yourself to get that optimal view again, grazing a gloved finger over a purple bruise on his ribs, "Besides, someone beat me to it." 

He chuckled at the lame joke, leaning his head back against the back of the couch again as you began stitching once more. Instead of scolding him, you caught him up on all the details and minor drama that he’d missed over the last few weeks. The funny things and annoyances from work, things your family had sent you, what your friends had been up to, your opinion on current happenings in the city. He listened to you like it was the most interesting thing he’d heard all year, chiming in with questions and quips of his own. You’d missed his voice too, not that you’d boost his ego by telling him that. 

"There." You finally finished, tying the last stitch and taping a bandage over it. The vigilante under you didn’t make a move to leave, instead his hands kept you still on his lap. You breathed a laugh, moving on to everything else. You removed the old bandages, giving half healed wounds a thorough cleaning. You applied comical Disney bandaids to the more minor cuts on his hands and were even brazen enough to kiss his split knuckles. The vigilante seemed to preen under you attention as you cleaned and applied Vaseline to his busted lip. As if it was too good to be true, his lip twitched downwards as his eye brows furrowed. His face angled away from yours, his unseeing eyes falling on the window he’d come through. 

"You know, the burner phone's been broken for two weeks now. Took the bullet not too long after the yakuza paid you a visit. Couldn't bring myself to throw it away, a little piece of you." He admitted, a pitiful smile twitched up before pulling downward again. He groaned, starting to shift you off his lap, “I shouldn’t be here, it’s not right.”

You allowed yourself to fall to the cushion beside him, but snatched the black shirt away from him before he could make a move for it. He’d been too busy letting his hands linger on your waist. 

“Why not?” You asked sternly, tucking the shirt behind your back as if the vigilante in front of you couldn't probably drop you six ways to Tuesday if he wanted to. Not that he could ever consider raising a hand to you, “You got hurt, I patch you up. Seems right to me.” 

The devil tensed, first leaning away and then leaning really close. His freshly bandaged fingers tapped your knee as if to emphasize his point, “I don’t deserve this kindness. And even if I did, if I could, if I was good, I would stop coming here so you could live in peace.” 

You were a silent for a moment, wanting to make sure your response was exactly how you wanted it to come across.  

“The third time you fell through my window, you told me that if I ever wanted to be left alone, all I’d need to do was change the candle I keep by the window.” You recounted his words. You hadn’t known about his senses at the time, he was still cryptic and mysterious. But you’d never changed the candle, buying new ones of the same scent when it would burn out, “You warned me what might happen. You gave me an out, one that I continuously chose to ignore. You did everything in your power to protect me when that choice had consequences. That was good, because you are good. And good people deserve kindness. You put too much on yourself, honey.”  

As you spoke, you laid your hand over his on your knee, giving it a slight squeeze to convey your own point. The crimefighter listened to your voice, your heartbeat, the quickness of your breath, finding no deceit and even if he didn’t believe you words, it was nice to hear them. Your kindness washed over him, letting him relax for just a second before he shook his head, laughing sarcastically to deflect the dangerously sappy emotions you stirred. You called him honey like it was his name, and part of him wondered that if you knew his name if you would still call him honey. 

“You barely know me, sweetheart.” 

His own nickname slipped out by accident, usually just something he called you in his head when he allowed fantasies about telling you everything, coming home to you as the vigilante and the lawyer, seeing just how far your good grace could take him. His lips quirked up in time with the uptick of your pulse and the way your breath caught for a moment. 

“I know enough to know you deserve some good.” You whispered earnestly, reaching up to graze the Star Wars bandaid you’d stuck across his the cut on his cheekbone. Almost instinctively, he leaned into the touch. You smiled softly, maybe you’d both missed each other a bit. The combined concern for the other and the time between his last visit making you both a little sappy, or at least more honest about it, So, you breathed a laugh, making another lame joke just to earn one of those chuckles you loved so much, “Besides, I know you well enough to have your blood on my hands.” 

But he didn’t laugh, instead, he pulled his face from your palm, his own bandaged hands taking your bloodied gloved hands in his own. Gently, he pressed your hands together, your loose fists creating almost heart like shape as he pressed reverent kisses to each bloody hand. The vigilante was kind always, flirty and joking, occasionally flirtations bordering on something else. But this? This was different, it was new. Intimate. You’d almost feel like a voyeur for watching the scene if it you weren’t playing a starring role. Your mind flashed to those romance novels you’d thought of earlier, this put all of them to shame. So much so that your hands started trembling against his lips. 

He held them tighter, but not in a constrictive, cage like way. More in a ‘let me hold you together’ kind of way before gently peeling the dirty gloves off and, again, kissing your clean hands underneath. His face angled to yours, nothing but sincerity lacing his features. 

"You know my blood better than my own heart does.” 

“God…” You whispered, letting your head fall against his shoulder, your nose nudging his collarbone and your eye lashes fluttering against his neck. His stubbled cheek fell to the crown of your head.  You cleared your throat again, "I know your blood, but not your name. For someone I care so much about, that’s kind of sad.” 

It was the first time you’d ever admitted it out loud in such certain words. The vigilante ran gentle hands up and down your arms, silent as a million thoughts went through his head. You heart was racing, not from lying, but in anticipation. Despite your racing pulse, you seemed almost totally at ease with you skin against his, one of your hands pressed to a bandage on his ribs and the other holding purchase at the waistline of his black pants. Nothing sexual, just the perfect place for your soft hand to land.   

Despite the million thoughts, he really had two options. Keep his secret, and keep you at an arms length, to keep things sweet and simple and not too deep. Or. Let you in a little deeper, he'd swim oceans to keep you afloat. Enjoy your sweetness, even if things were complicated. He kept still, holding you as gently as you had touched him, a promise to himself that he could be gentle and soft, just as he could be lethal and ruthless.  Two sides of a balanced scale.  

Your heart had slowed down again, the soothing motion of his hands on your arm lulling you. You had been worried about his response. You’re confession had gotten too real, you were worried he’d jump out the window and disappear again. And you’d be left with nothing but bloody gloves and the thought that maybe you’d just imagined the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. 

"Matt.” His voice was quiet, just barely above a whisper, “You can call me Matt. Just don’t stop calling me."

[notquitecanon]

Do you do scenarios or headcanons? If so, how many characters can we request for scenarios or headcanons? Would you do the same prompt with different characters? Can we request for male reader, female reader, gender neutral reader, etc? Other than Astarion, are there any characters from Baldur's Gate 3 you would write? Are there any topics you won't do like rape, suicide, etc? Do you do poly ships x reader? Would you mind if we request for Alternate Universes or Aus like AU where the character lives happily? Would you mind if the request is suggestive, implied sex, or mentioned sex but no explicit sex? Would you do NSFW requests? For Baldur's Gate 3 requests, would you mind if we don't specify the race/class to leave it ambiguous or if we ask specify the race/class like human/healer? What kinks would you accept for requests? Thank you in advance!

Honestly, I’ve just never had those kind of requests on here. I also am very bad about answering requests bc my brain is a goblin with a pencil who is very picky about what sparks my interest enough to push past the usual fog of writers block. But funny enough I used to run a Star Wars fanfic blog so I do have answers to these questions:

1.) I’m not opposed to doing scenarios/ head canons! Sometimes doing them is what sparks a full fic or it’s just fun to slow down and enjoy imagining things!

As for how many, to prevent burn out I’ll probs stick to 2 or 3 characters at a time. If someone requests more than 3, I’d probs pick the 3 that I had the better ideas for / knew the characters better

2.) Requesting different gendered readers. Full transparency, I’m a cisgender woman.

I feel most knowledgeable writing feminine presenting characters, as I can use my own experiences! That being said, I do write things to be gender neutral and can do that on request. As for writing for a male reader, I’m open to trying! It’s not in my realm of experience nor have I done it before, but if I got the right request, I’d be happy to try! (I just don’t want to not write to my usual standards and I especially don’t want to offend anyone because of my lack of knowledge!)

3.) I’ll write for any of the romanceable characters, except Minthara (haven’t been able to recruit her yet so I don’t know her)

I’m more likely to write for characters that I’m most attracted to such as Astarion, Halsin, Karlach, Gale, and Lae’zel.

4.) I won’t write graphic depictions of rape or suicidal. I will use mentions of trauma / mental health struggles in my writing, and I always mention them in my TW section. Not so much a problem in this phantom, but I also don’t write incest. Or inappropriate age gaps.

5.) I have never written a polyamorous relationship, but I’d be open to trying with the right prompt/request. I have a lot of love to go around, so I think I can do this.

6.)  when it comes to AU’s I mostly try to keep it in universe, and I will do what I call fix it fics. That way if the work I am trying to do takes place after the end of game, I can still have all my little guys because I refuse to believe that there’s not a happy ending for everybody. And if there isn’t one, I will create one. But I don’t really do coffee shop they use or flower shop use or anything that takes them out of the world that they are in.

7.) at the moment, I don’t write outright smut. It’s not because I don’t want to or can’t, I just don’t think I’m very good at it. I will use mentions of sex, heavy-handed, make out sessions, and honestly pretty much everything right up until the point of actual sex. So you request smut, but I might not be as quick to answer those others. Personally, I find the tension leading up to this smut the fun part to write and read.

8.) as for race/class of BG3 readers, I will try to keep it, usually fairly and ambiguous. Though, how I have written everything that I have written, even though I’ve only posted one thing, I, based all of my writing off how I played the game personally. So, if you have something specific in mind, you’ll have to specify in the request, or I will default to what I usually do. (Reference I love playing Rangers. They are my favorite, so I have knowledge of nature, survival and some medicinal skills) 

9.) as for kinks, I accept, I will accept anything in the ask box, even if I don’t write it. no kink shaming here as long as the kinks don’t fall under any of the things that I don’t write, which are listed in the above points

Thank you for asking, and being so respectful about my writing! I really appreciate it and hope that you request something :) 

Disclaimer, I hope everything that is written in this makes sense, I’m using voice to text as I do something else.

[notquitecanon]

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.

[notquitecanon]

Tell 'em bout the Twinkie // Dr. Egon Spengler x extroverted!Reader

Summary: Egon takes care of you after a long night on the town with the other Ghostbusters. While somethings are always the same, you surprise him yet again.

I found this hand written in a notebook from two years ago while I was cleaning so I figured id type it up and post it since there wasn't much new stuff in the tag. Dinner is served.

Warnings: alcohol use, drunk reader, sober Egon (obvi), descriptions of scraped knees and cut hands, blood mention, and first aid. Lots and lots and lots of fluff. Possible cringe. shameless use of Twinkie as an emotional allegory

Dr. Egon Spengler was enjoying a rare night of quiet in the firehouse. Janine had scheduled the whole week around the entire group being free tonight. Peter had insisted a little R&R was due in spades. And for Egon that meant spending a quiet night in, lackadaisically charting his mold and fungus, and catching up on relevant literature at his leisure. 

But for the rest of the Ghostbusters staff, it meant going out to a nearby bar for drinks and music. That included you, the Ghostbusters resident research analyst (as you were listed on their payroll). 

You had been hesitant to leave Egon alone, especially on one of the few nights you wren’t working to the wee hours of the morning or having dinner interrupted by what Winston had dubbed the "bust alarm". Still, the scientist encouraged you to join the others, knowing deep down you wanted to go. 

One of the many reasons he admired you was your easy and outgoing nature, your desire to be out in the world. Due to his introverted and nose in his book habits (even worse when he was in college), your extroverted demeanor was probably the only reason you had managed to befriend him. And because he admired it and profoundly enjoyed your company, he never Egon ever wanted to be the reason you didn’t do the things you wanted to. 

However, that didn’t mean he had the slightest inclination to join you in a Friday night crowded bar: packed with sweaty people he didn’t want to touch, drinks he didn’t want to drink, loud music he didn’t want to hear, smoky air he didn’t want to breath, and sticky countertops he didn’t want to sit at. And that’s just the reasons he got out before Peter gave up trying to convince him. 

So, he was content to gently push you towards the door with the assured promise he’d be happily waiting with for your return with leftover takeout- both of your favorite ways to end a late night since meeting each other as Grad Students. Nothing better than cold noodles after coming home little drunker than you meant to- and well, Egon didn’t drink but did enjoy an excuse for a late night snack (and an excuse to be close to you).

And with the firehouse still and quiet, Egon was enthused, seeing how ectoplasm interacted and affected the growth of his molds, making mental notes to show you. 

Aspergillums wouldn’t grow at all, actively decaying at ectoplasmic contact. Cladosporium both grew and decayed erratically with Ecto contact, creating a cascading starburst affect. Alternaria first grew at unprecedented rates but wouldn’t produce spores. Penicillin frew at normal rates but produced an odd smell. Fusarium grew rapidly and abundantly at first but died off just as rapidly. 

"Spengie!" A recklessly loud shout, Peter no doubt, echoed from the main entrance, "You gotta marry this girl!” 

And thus his quiet night was suddenly over- con. But it meant you were home- pro! Venkman's shout was accompanied by the sound of quick footwork stomping and scuffing above him, and Egon could imagine him doing a little spin around the fire pole. It was Winston’s voice that following in scolding. 

"Peter if you don’t shut the hell up, I will leave you at the bottom of the stairs for the night. We both know you won’t make it up by yourself.” His voice was a warning, but Venkman’s voice was cheeky. 

"After all we’ve been through, Zeddemore?” 

"Especially after all we’ve been through.” 

Egon smirked at his friend’s antics, shaking his head as he removed the Trichoderma slide from the microscope, encapsulated it, labeled it, and sorted it into his hobby file base. A well practiced move as a set of footsteps clunked down the stairs to him. His eyebrows twitched. 

Those weren’t your footsteps. 

And while he loved his friends dearly, they had gotten your company and attention all night. Despite his insistence on your outing, he was feeling uncharacteristically territorial about his night time traditions with you. 

"I’d knock but I don’t have a hand." Ray’s voice called out, sounding three quarters of the way down, chipper tone underplayed by a touch of strain. His steps were unaccompanied and you hadn’t called out to him yet- not even a good night. Had you decided to skip takeout all together in favore of crashing on the upstairs couch? If anything, the couch he had in the basement would be better for your REM cycle. Not to mention Egon was also in the basement.

Nonetheless, Egon answered, inviting him into the lab as he rose from his work stool. Finally, Ray turned the corner, silently answering all the scientist’s questions. Because there you were, wrapped around Ray’s back like a proton pack, your own jacket hanging behind the both of you like a cape, your purse on Ray’s shoulder, and shamefully useless shoes in his hand. Rays arms looped under your lax knees, and your arms were loosely around his neck like the worlds drunkest scarf. Meanwhile, your face had tucked into Ray’s neck, between your arm and his collar, now smudged with your lipstick. 

There was a momentary flash of jealousy until it was squashed by Egon’s sudden attention to your knees. He tensed, seeing a patch of blood on both knees, staining ripped tights and dripping to your ankles. There was a more subtle smudge of injury on both of your palms. 

"What happened?" Egon’s voice was clipped, zeroing in on your wounds as he crossed the lab, suddenly much more worried that you hadn’t even twitched. You were breathing deeply, but hand’t made a sound…

Ray had been expecting this reaction and kept a calm face, "Just took a little tumble, Spengler, see?” 

With that, he shook one of the arms holding your legs, jostling you enough to rouse you a little. Without looking up, one of your bloody hands weakly formed a thumbs up before going limp again. Egon looked between your hand and Ray’s face in a mix of disbelief, worry, and irritation. Stantz swallowed thickly, shifting from foot to foot under his friend’s discerning gaze. 

"That didn’t answer my question, Raymond.”

It only took one more cold look for Ray to start rambling the truth.

"Awww, don’t Raymond me, Spengs, it was all Peter’s fault, honest! It was like graduation weekend all over again. Venkman wanted a rematch, and, you know, (Y/N) had just enough to drink that she was feeling competitive. They agreed to the same stakes as last time and since you weren’t there (Y/N) placed a bet on your behalf." Ray explained quickly, not managing to hide his happy smile as he moved to gingerly deposit you on the couch. Egon was following like a shadow, taking great care to keep your head from falling back uncomfortably. Graduation Weekend had been the last time you had been carried home like this, only Egon had done the carrying that weekend, after going shot-for-shot with Venkman. After that and the subsequent hangover, you had vowed to 'grow up' and never get too drunk to walk for yourself. Until tonight apparently, Egon mused, brushing some hair out of the dried sweat on your forehead and noting your breathing, heavy but shallow. Not unusual after alcohol consumption. As Ray unlatched your knee from his hip, he perked up, "On the bright side, Peter’s cleaning the soot out of the Proton packs’ exhaust vents for a month! Lost on a technicality.”

"Hmmm." Egon hummed, adjusting you into a more comfortable sitting position as you slowly started to wake up, "Get the first aid kit for me?” 

"Sure thing." 

Egon watched your slow, scrunched blinks and how you slowly lifted your head to look at him, squinting before deadpanning until the blurry shape came into focus. It was hard to be irritated with you when your flushed face broke out into an unabated, silly grin, half lidded eyes brightening as you called in sleepy excitement, "Egon!" 

Spengler took the opportunity to analyze the dilation of your pupils-  glassy and dilated, but responsive. Good. He offered you a dry smile to appease you as Ray put the first aid kit beside you. In his other hand were three bottle- another college tradition. A non-FDA approved electrolyte and mineral enriched drink, formulated by Egon when he lived with Peter who was insufferable when hungover. Venkman called it "Liquid Rewind" and begged Egon to patent and copy right it, only after convincing him to add flavoring to mask the terribly bitter taste. 

Spengler nodded a thank you as he plucked the red one from Ray’s hand, giving it to you. Ray watched you pressed the chilled bottle against your warm cheek. This left the already opened grape to Ray who sported a purple ring around his mouth and orange for Peter. 

"Egon, red is Pete’s favorite." Ray pointed out as Egon started unpacking the first aid kit.

"I know." 

"He hates orange." Ray reminded him. 

"I know." 

Ray nodded slowly, he knew how petty Egon could be when he was irritated, and he didn’t plan to attract the scientist’s wrath. Instead, he cheerfully patted Egon’s shoulder and moved towards the staircase, "Alrighty then, she’s all yours now. G’nite, Spengs." 

"Goodnight, Ray. Thanks for getting her home.”

"Well, she sure didn’t make it easy. For a research analyst, she’s pretty slippery." Ray laughed, mostly to himself as he shuffled up the stairs most likely to the bunk room while Spengler pulled on a pair of medical rubber gloves. Egon also knew this from experience- Graduation Weekend he had also done the chasing when you pulled honestly impressive feats of escapism. Now, alone in the lab, Egon was kneeling in front of you in record time. 

He took the first aid scissor and made quick work of ripping off your already shredding tights with such an efficiency that if you were in your right mind you probably would have been too flustered to think straight. 

Egon ignored your little noise of protest, attractive scientist or not, those had been your good tights. The scientists offered you a cocked eyebrow as he rolled the tights down your legs. You simply sighed as he started gentle strokes to clean the blood off you now bare skin.

"Did you have to give Ray such a hard time?” 

The scolding was playful even though delivered with his usual level of directness, still, even drunk you knew him well enough that it made you smile. 

"Well, I was actually giving Peter a rough time, Ray just happened to be collateral damage." Sleep was starting to wear off, leaving your words only a little slurred, as if you were taking great efforts to make sure they were clear. 

"And what did Peter do to deserve your ire this time?" Egon dousing some gauze with antiseptic. He didn’t flinch at the acrid scent, and usually you wouldn’t either, but this time your nose scrunched as Egon moved in even closer. However, you didn’t flinch in the slightest when he started dabbing at the shredding parts of your knees. Instead, you took the chance to appreciate the view of the good doctor kneeling in front of you, overhead lights casting a halo on his dark curls. It would be the perfect distance to lazily run gentle fingers through those curls. You seriously contemplated, but decided not to. You didn’t want to get blood in his pretty, soft hair. Wait- you were supposed to be answering his question… 

"Made an uncouth comment." You sniffed as Egon moved to the next knee to clean the scrape. He hummed again noticing your non answer but not commenting- one problem at a time.  

"Most of his comments are uncouth." He pointed out, pausing to smirk up at you, sighing in relief when you giggled. The was a comfortable pause as Egon focussed in on the deepest gash, but not for long.

"How is the ectoplasm variant going?" You asked after going quiet long enough that Egon wondered if you had fallen back asleep. 

"I’ll have to show you tomorrow. I want your thoughts." Egon informed, a slight smile and point of pride that you had inquired after his work even in your current state as he dabbed antibiotic cream on your knees, "The Cladosporium is behaving particularly erratic." 

"Ugh, my bet was on the Asparagus." You sighed, prodding at the edge of one of the deeper cuts at the top of your knee. Egon gently, but sternly, nudged your hand away, giving you a warning eyebrow before taping large bandage on over one knee. 

"Aspergillus." He correct, almost sounding amused as he moved to the next knee, applying the bandage with just as much care, "Hands." 

"Yes, doctor." You teased, offering both your palms. Egon gently took your left in his larger hand, using his other to repeat the same process. These scrapes were much less deep, mainly superficial, a product of catching yourself before your head hit the pavement, your knees had taken the brunt of it, but Egon was nothing if not thorough. It was quick work to clean and bandage both palms. 

"There, that should prevent an infection." Spengler informed you, holding both of your treated hands in his after disposing of his gloves, he gave them a quick, tender squeeze before pressing the bottle of red ~liquid rewind~ into your grasp, quickly cracking the lid off for you, "Drink that." 

"You know I’m not even that drunk." You scoffed, giving him a playful glare but obeying anyway, taking a long pull of the bottle, only stopping to swallow and breathe before going back in. This time both of his brows were raised as he stood, taking the trash from his impromptu clinic to the nearest bin. 

"How much have you had to drink, exactly?" 

You thought to yourself for a second, raising your eyes to the ceiling and mouthing numbers before tallying them on your fingers while you mentally replayed the night. Egon waited expectantly as he removed his lab coat, getting increasingly more concerned the longer the tally went on. 

"Lets see…. approximately pi cubed divided in half times 1.5, minus six." 

Egon didn’t even have to think about the calculation, instead being bewildered by the sheer amount of liquor you had managed to imbibe. His voice raised just a bit, mostly in disbelief and concern, "17 drinks?! (Y/N)." 

His disbelief sounded more like frustration to you, and your lip wobbled a bit as you lurched forward, regretting the sudden move but powering through as your eyebrows knitted up, looking up to the scientist pleading, voice a whine, "Don’t be mad." 

Egon shook his head with a deep sigh, catching your hand as you reached for him.

"I’m not mad. Surprised you’re coherent? Yes. Impressed at your current equational prowess? Definitely."  He listed as you weakly pulled him back towards you. Egon nudged the forgotten red stained bottle, "C’mon, a little more." 

After a long swallow, you nodded, "Well, after I slipped the boys, I made it pretty far uptown before they found me-" 

You had started almost sheepishly, this time expecting Egon’s crinkled eyebrows and interruption. 

"They lost you?" He repeated lowly, but you just shrugged, squeezing his hand as you continued your tale. 

"Only for an hour, but it was a long walk back home. Well, it was for Ray at least. So I had plenty of time to workshop my math, Ray doublechecked it for me. And I still had time for a nap." You seemed pretty proud of yourself. Egon opened his mouth, eyebrows raising then falling as his mouth closed. 

"I see. Is there a particular reason you needed to escape?" 

"Noooo…."You dragged out, using his hand to pull yourself out of you slouched sitting, using him to keep yourself steady. Egon didn’t budge, allowing the contact. His head cocked ever so slightly to the side, looking at you over the rim of his glasses. You crumbled instantly, "Yes." 

With an innocent smile, you fished into your jacket pockets, patting yourself down with increasing franticness, "I kept going until I could find a 24 hour bodega." 

"You ran off inebriated by yourself in the middle of the night to a late night convenience store in New York City? This neighborhood is basically a demilitarized zone. We’re definitely going to have to discuss that." He muttered, checking you over for any injuries he or Ray might have missed. You were undeterred by his scolding because you had found whatever you had been searching for.  

"Well, where else was I gonna find these at this hour?" You asked earnestly, revealing two only slightly squished Twinkie's. It was your turn to quirk an eyebrow, "What? Did you think I would forget about our late night snack?”

You were interrupted by a overpowering yawn, eyes suddenly drooping, "Gonna be honest though, don’t think cold Thai food is a great move for me at the moment. 

Egon took the slightly squished confection out of your hand, giving it an appraising gaze, before breaking into that signature sideways smile as you leaned into his chest. With all the secrets of the night in the open, you didn’t have much else fighting to keep you awake. Egon his arms around your back, using one hand to rub soothing circles on your back. The good doctor allowed you to stay like that, his cheek pressed against the top of your head. As your breathing slowed, more and more of your weight slumped against him. 

Egon didn’t mind, finally getting that close contact he’d been waiting all night for. Instead, he stared down at the twinkie in his hand. The cream was squeezing out of the sponge cake and smearing onto the crinkled plastic wrapper, but you had ventured countless blocks out of your way, escaping three of New York’s ghostbusters, just to pick up something you knew he’d like.  Even with 17 drinks actively shrinking your neurons, you were always so thoughtful. 

Egon was well aware of how much his friends loved him, and he would always be grateful for finding each of them. But there was always just something different about your love. If Egon possessed a more artistic disposition, he might describe it as a warm ocean wave washing over a beach. Gentle, yet unstoppable. All encompassing. He wasn’t quite sure what he had done to deserve someone like you to love him like you did, but whatever it was he’d do it a thousand times over- even if it meant cleaning you up after a long night out on the town. 

"Did you have a good time tonight?" He asked quietly, feeling you nod into his chest . His sweater was soft against your cheek and he smelled as wonderful as always: earthy yet clean and the slightest hint of something smoky like a full trap or lab experiment gone wrong. After a deep inhale you nodded again through another yawn. 

"Mmmhm. ‘missed you though." Your voice had slowed back down to its sleepy, slow tone that Egon would never admit to loving as much as he did, the warmth of him and quiet lulling you. You were fighting to stay afloat, but Egon’s thumbs working slow circles into your back were winning as he answered. 

"I missed your company as well." 

-

And it was later, when you had fallen into a deep unbothered sleep on the lab’s couch after stealing one of Egon’s t-shirts- the ones he would wear under his jumpsuit-, and using his lab coat as a blanket, that Egon thought about all this, taking a slow bite of his slightly squished gift.

Peter was right. One day, he needed to marry you.

-----

so I tried two somethings new. 1.) tried writing this more from his perspective, which isn't something I really do with any character. 2.) Paired him with a more extroverted out going reader, because I feel like we usually see him paired with more introverted types

anyways I typed this up at 3 am after crying for five hours so please excuse any typos.

[notquitecanon]

Look at you // Moonknight system x reader

Summary: Three words, three men. Crazy how it meant something so different coming from each of them. You cherish them all.

TW: Marvel's version of DID, sexual mentions through out, jake's section is just smut sorry I'm a whore, fingering, oral (f receiving), no use of Y/N, I don't think I mentioned specific pronouns but I used feminine descriptions of genitalia, terrible and overused Spanish. terrible and overused British slang. mentions of penetrative sex and male receiving oral. Marc is touch starved and self sabotaging but what's new? criminal overuse of italics I think that's everything worth mentioning?

I typed this up In like 30 minutes after the idea came to me. There are typos + I've never written for the moon boys before (idk how I literally never stop thinking about them) Anyways on with it:

Steven says it like he’s won a prize. His eyes light up with that amazing grin, and he holds his hands out to you like you are about to hand him whatever the archeology equivalent of a Nobel Prize is- except in this metaphor you’re also the trophy. He says it often- when he sees you in a new outfit or hair style for the first time, when he greets you after not seeing you for a couple days, when you step out of the steamy bathroom in a towel, when he’s had one too many pints at the pub and the light is hitting your eyes just right, when you kneel between his legs and look up at him. 

“Look at you!” His voice is somewhere between breathless and a growl, yet still chipper and awestruck. His eyes are roving over you as if he can’t find a favorite part about you, and he can’t- it’d be like comparing wonders of the world, “Darlin’, you look absolutely stunnin’!”  He inched closer, hands reaching out to you. You couldn't tell if it was a demand for you to close the distance or hesitation that you might not allow him to touch you. And while Steven could be fun to tease, you weren’t cruel… usually. His eyes still couldn't settle, but they kept flicking nervously- hopefully- back up to yours, “You didn’t do all this for me, did you, luv?”  “All for you, Steven.” You promised, taking his hand and placing it on your hip. His breath catches as he starts feeling the delicious fabric and he didn't wait for permission for his other hand to roam up to your hair. His eyes were still roaming, no the better word was analyzing you like you were the depiction of an ancient deity come to life. He nodded as his breath became heavy, and the sweet thing almost melted when you reach up and brush a curl from his face. He might have had wandering eyes but you had wandering hands, cupping his cheek then dragging down his neck, down his chest to the hem of that sweater you so often stole, and then underneath just to drag back up his bare chest.  “All for me, don’t know how lucked into you. Bit hard to believe, innit?” He rambled but you let him for only a moment. You playfully smacked his ribs under his shirt. It wasn’t hard to believe at all, you’d told him a thousand times just how lucky you were to have him. He breathed a laugh, shook his head, and apologized quietly. You smiled softly, reaching towards him to press a kiss to his jawline, then his cheek, and finally his lips.  When you pulled back, Steven surprisingly wasn’t still leaning into the contact like usual. This time his chocolate eyes start at your feet and rake up, painstakingly slow, “Look. at. you.”

Jake says it like he’s proving you wrong- he usually is. His smirk is as smug and irritating as it is thrilling, his eyes darken like a predator about to pounce, and his fingers flex like he’s focusing all his energy on not pouncing too quick. When something he picked out looks just right on you, when he sneaks up on you just enough to see you startle, when he makes a flush creep up your neck, when he pins you while teaching you self defense, when he pries out 'one last' orgasm after you were sure you couldn’t do it again. 

“Look at you, mi amor.” Jake teased, as if he wasn’t the reason you were the mess you had become. His strong arms were the only reason you weren’t boneless on the mattress as he held you up enough to see your reflection in corner mirror- you idly wondered if Steven and Marc were enjoying the show. Jake was grinning and his eyes are practically danced as they took in every last inch of your shaking body. If you had anymore control over your body (which you obviously don’t), you’d smack that smirk right off his smug face- and Jake would've probably liked it, the deviant, “Follame, dulce nina, lo haces tan facil.”  Unfortunately, you didn't have much control at that moment. That much was obvious to both of you (and probably your neighbors). In fact, all you had been able to manage between moans were breathy ‘pleases’ and screams of Jake’s name. Instead, you clung to him the best you could, leaving claw marks down his shoulders. Your knees had knocked back together, clamping his hand between your thighs- still too cock dumb to realize that was part of the problem. Trapping those evil but delicious fingers next to your throbbing core as you writhed through the most recent wave of pleasure. You hear Jake’s cool chuckle, but when you look at him- both of him… shit when did your eyes cross?- he’s still just watching you.  He is kind enough to wait until your eyes uncross edand your breathing to evened out before he swatted your thigh, just hard enough to make you gasp before you realized what he wanted. You couldn't even be embarrassed when he lifted it up and your slick almost shimmered on his hand in the low light.  Jake's grin was wolfish, clearly proud of his work as he rounded the corner of the bed. Leaning over you, his lips ghosted over your sweat dropped forehead and then your own swollen lips. His large hands took purchase at the soft flesh of your hips, squeezing as a warning before quickly, efficiently tugging you down to the foot of the bed where he took to his knees.  “One more for me.” It wasn’t a question or a request- a statement. You shook your head, but didn’t tell him to stop- you didn’t want him to stop but you genuinely didn’t think he could make you come again. From between your twitching thighs, he simply arced a brow. “Don’t believe me, princesa?” "Told you." Minutes later, he emerged victorious from the vice of your thighs, nose and chin practically dripping as he grinned up at you. Your fingers were still knotted in his curls as your chest heaved, stars dancing in your vision as you gasped or maybe you were screaming… you couldn’t tell. All you knew was Jake and the little circles he was rubbing on your knees with his thumb as you came back to Earth.  Jake’s dark eyes watched you like you were a living piece of art, voice rasping and zealous, yet still holding that annoyingly familiar ‘i told you so’ candor, “Dios mios, Look at you.” 

Marc says it like it just might save him. His eyes soften and his shoulders lose some tension, like the weight of the world (moon?) lessens when you’re around, and if you’re really lucky, you might catch a small, sweet, relieved smile. When you say such pretty things while he’s inside of you, when he comes home and your making enough dinner for two, when you open the curtains in the morning and the light shines in, when he looks up at you with his head on your lap and your fingers toying with his curls,  when you first wake up and the first thing you do is sleepily smile at him, and sometimes, most times, when he’s not even fronting when he’s watching as a fly on the wall as you are just as gentle and loving with Jake and Steven. 

“Look at you.” Marc whispered it, it was intimate, reverent. Like he hadn’t even meant to say it out loud. His head was in his lap and he’d been somewhere between half awake and mostly asleep for the better part of the afternoon. Jake had run the body ragged while he fronted, and now with Marc at the wheel all he wanted was to rest and be near you- not necessarily in that order. So, he didn’t argue nearly as much as usual when you simply pulled him onto the couch and pushed his had to you lap where you played with his dark curls until he went limp, sprawled over the overstuffed yet still too small couch Steven had chosen for the flat. It was comical how his long legs hung over the arm and back of the sofa, one arm draping over you and the other hanging off so his knuckles grazed the floor. But Marc knew how to be grateful, knew how to realize when he got more than the thought he deserved.  This was good. You were good. And he had known plenty of bad, so for the moment he’d soak up your good like a plant soaks up sunshine.  In between long blinks, he had watched you with soft eyes as you rotated from your latest book, scrolling on your phone, and whatever show you’d throw on the TV. Sometimes you were humming as you read or muttering comments about your show. Your free hand was twisting his curls, combing across his scalp, and occasionally gently drifting down to rub his back. God, you were a fucking angel. How could he not look at you?  “What about me?” You asked, quiet but bemused, magic fingers tracing from his hair to rest at his chin so you could see his eyes. Softer than usual. Your smile was reassuring, a promise this was real. A promise he was actually here. That he deserved to be. Marc sighed. He could wax poetic at you for the next four hours and not even cover his opening remarks on how grateful he was for you, why he didn’t deserve you, and what he’d do to keep you. But he also knew how upset it made you when he talked like that, so instead, he shook his head slightly, burrowing even closer into you if that were possibly before tugging you down to meet his lips briefly, “Someone’s feeling sentimental today. Everything alright?”  “Perfect, baby, perfect.” He promised, still openly staring. You shook your head, hiding behind your book, but Marc gently pushed the pages to the side, “How could I not be, just… look at you."

______

translations:

mi amor: my love

follame, dulce nina, lo haces tan facil: fuck me, sweet girl, you make it too easy

Princesa: Princess

Dios Mios: My God / Oh my God

I'm gonna be so real with y'all I know the Spanish words need the accent marks but consider the fact that I am dumb and can't figure that out yet. Did I put three gifs to distract y'all? yes. also he's pretty. sue me.

Anyways sorry if this sucked laugh out loud

the boys during this

[notquitecanon]

I’m actually crying now thank you 💖💖 ur my #1 fave person atm 💖💖💖

Sacrifice & Devotion // Din Djarin x Reader

Hurt comfort lil fic

here's a fun lil game of spot the dialogue I stole from criminal minds!

tw: no mentions of gender, mention and description of canon typical injury, mention of canon typical violence, reader is a bounty hunter, specifically a sniper, unedited, written in one sitting while I pulled an all nighter

fics where two idiots who are obviously in love are so terrible at pretending to not be in love that it circles back around to one of them thinking its unrequited/being so oblivious they still don't notice are my bread and butter

Summary: Reader and Mando both have insecurities that are starting to boil over and cause some heavy miscommunication. It takes a blaster wound for them to talk it out.

You had stalked off to lick you wounds before the Crest’s engines even cooled, finding a cozy rooftop with a good view of the city, dark enough to feel concealed but enough ligh to tend to yourself. 

Mando hadn’t been able to catch you, he had to deliver proof of service to your contractors. The waiting credits were much needed to repair the ship’s latest malfunctions if either of you wished to leave this system in the next rotation. 

Not to mention the med pac that would need replenishing after you were done. In favor of not bleeding out, you had started with the most severe, the blaster wound to your shoulder. The med scanner had informed you it was primarily superficial, but was at risk of infection. 

You sniffed, for something so superficial, the wound sure was leaking blood like a broken tap. The scanner had suggest a bacta infusion, but after your last hunt, the last bacta infusion was only half full. Still, even half would slow the bleeding and lower the risk of infection. You hissed after spraying it with a coagulant and then cursed with the auto-injector of the syringe delivered the half dose of bacta. Next, you moved onto bandages, wrapping the gauze in looping circles. 

Metal clinked quietly behind you, alerting you to your company. Mando hovered in the shadows until you turned halfway towards him, like he didn’t want to startle you but also didn’t want to attract you frustration if you hadn’t cooled off yet. 

His modulator didn’t hide the concern in his voice, even if he tried to, “Those are too loose, you’ll get an infection.” 

“Well, are you gonna lurk in the shadows or come help me?” You sighed, nodding to the other discarded cargo crate beside the one you had pulled into the light, “How’d you find me?” 

Mando looked around as he approached and sat beside you, like it was obvious, “Easily accessible rooftop, city views and eyes on the ship. Removed but still involved. Sniper’s paradise.”  

You tried to ignore the flush of heat up your neck, sometimes between the very few words Mando spoke it was easy to forget  how astute his observations could be. It always shocked you when he voiced his perceptions of you, and flustered you when they were correct. So you cleared your throat, “Where’s the kid?”

The bounty hunter chuckled before stepping to the side, revealing the pram, closed, “Little one’s been asleep since we hit atmosphere.” 

Mando waited a moment before holding his hand, “Let me help you with those.” 

You licked your teeth before offering the roll of bandages to him. His gloved fingers closed around it before unraveling your previous handiwork. Fortunately the bleeding had mostly stopped, but you didn’t miss how his visor paused on the stained smears of blood down your arms and across your clothes. It made you bristle all over again, which he obviously noticed since he quickly started wrapping the injury before you rescinded your cooperation. It pained you to say he was right, your wrappings had been way too loose. Still, the tightness made you flinch more than you were proud to admit, making you feel like a child at a doctor’s office. Especially with how gentle he was being, how sincere his apologies were with every flinch. Your frustration welled back up at his gentility, your jaw setting which only made the split of your lip hurt worse. 

“You’re upset.” He observed, taking the bacta gel and spreading it on a cotton swab so he could dab at the open slice across your thigh which gave him the perfect excuse to drop his gaze from yours.  Sometimes you wished you also wore a helmet, make it a little harder for Mando to read your emotions. Make him play body language trivia during every interaction of every day, “I shouldn't have left you alone. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. You have every right to be upset."

Especially, if he was going to to read them incorrectly and break your heart in he process. Of course he thought that’s what you were upset about. The Mandalorian- all beskar steel, blaster smoke, and the worlds he balanced on his shoulders. 

You slumped your shoulders, ignoring the ache from your newly bandaged wound. You averted your gaze off to the Razor Crest, watching half a dozen workers frantically making two dozen repairs. Mando sighed, gingerly working the bacta into the gash with one hand, meanwhile you became acutely aware of his other gloved hand holding your thigh still. Gentle, yet firm, and his thumb was rubbing soothing circles against your exposed skin.  Mando took so much on himself and never expected any sort of reciprocity, didn’t know how to accept it. It filled you with anger all over again.

“Mando. I’m not mad at you for not being there to protect me.” You shook your head, glancing at his hand on your thigh before meeting his visor. You wondering if his eyes were as sad as his posture let on, quickly followed by a train of thought about his eyes that you decided to misattribute to the blood loss. 

“I should have been there. That sleemo never should have gotten close enough to touch you, much less do this.” He growled, taking the tube of liquid bandage and squeezing it across the gash. 

“Yeah, Mando, you should have been in two places at once and done my job for me. You’re right.” You groaned sarcastically, trying to snatch the tube out of his hand only to have him catch your wrist. Seeing your sharp look, he dropped your wrist but didn’t hand over the tube, instead finishing his application in silence. 

“Oh my stars- that was sarcasm Mando. I’m being facetious.” You were gobsmacked, did that helmet cut off airflow? Was his brain so oxygen deprived that he thought you truly expected that of him? How deep did this self martyrdom run? 

“You really don’t trust me, do you?” You finally asked, breaking  all contact to retract your legs from him. If he kept rubbing those circles on your thigh… you might do something dramatic, “I know I’m not a Mandalorian, and I’m probably not the best bounty hunter you’ve ever met, but if you can’t trust me to do my job then why let me keep tagging along.” 

Mando’s helmet was kind of doing a little spiral motion as if trying to follow your logic, “What? I trust you, of course I trust you.” 

“But not enough to do my job.” You snipped, “If you trust me so much why do your part of the job and mine before I even get the chance? Always swooping in to finish things, even when I have it under control. Why call me your partner if I’m basically a piece of cargo you have to feed? Why keep me around if I’m such a hinderance?” 

Mando actually flinched back at your sudden outburst, and you quickly looked away, maybe you had let more of your own insecurity show than you meant to. But it was all true. If he told you to take care of the perimeter, he’d flush out the inside and do a perimeter sweep before you even got to a good stakeout spot with your rifle. If you were both engaged in hand to hand combat, he’d recklessly rush his fight so shoot your opponent for you.  

The armored warrior was silent for a good long while, his visor watching you as you started to squirm under his gaze. You were about to interject, tell him to drop it and not worry about it, but as you opened your mouth he held a hand up to stop you, “I have no reservations about your skills. I trust you with my life.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed, reopening the cut through the one over your left eye, “Then-“ 

Once again, he interrupted you by saying your name quietly… reverently. You went silent. 

“When I went against the guild on Nevarro, you were the only guild member to stand with me. I never would have made it off planet with the child if you hadn’t intervened. You gave everything up to help me, you didn’t know me and yet you threw your life away to help me escape with the child. You could have earned enough credits to retire three times over by turning me in, you’ve had chance after chance to betray me, and yet,” He paused to look at you, really look at you, “You’ve risked your life time after time for the child, for me. You devoted yourself to this quest as if it were your own. How could I do any less than you?” 

His gloved hand reached for yours, his thumb grazing over your split knuckles from a up close encounter with a pirate, “Every time I allow someone to hurt you, it’s an affront to your sacrifice.” 

Your eyes softened, letting him dab that bacta cream across the marred skin, “Mando, we’re bounty hunters. Getting hurt is an occupational hazard. I knew the risks when I did what I did.” 

He was silent; his visor tipped away from you over to the pram where the Child slept, “You do too much for us.” 

“Hypocrite.” You teased, trying to lighten the mood. His confession had eased your frustrations, a balm to your own insecurities. Of course this had come from a place of protectiveness, how very… Mandalorian. Considering him for a moment, you angled your body back towards him. You knew all this duty weighed on him, and often there wasn’t much you could do to help, but at the moment, on your perfectly chosen rooftop, you knew what he needed. You handed him a new cotton swap and the small bacta patches that would prevent the cuts on your face from scarring, “Do my face so we can find some dinner?” 

He nodded quickly, taking the supplies and pulling you a bit closer to him, so close that you knee overlapped his own armored thigh, and you were close enough to count the scratches on his chest plate, even in the dim light. The slight lean taxed your sore core and back muscles, so you steadied yourself by placing a hand on his knee. He almost jerked, but cleared his throat, taking a moment to relax again. Your lip tugged up, he unconsciously moved closer. 

You let him work in silence for a long pause, enjoying the night breeze. He gingerly cleaned each cut and scrape, gloved fingers grazing your cheeks, the slope of your nose, your lips and a whole bunch of other places you knew weren’t injured. You tried not to let your breath catch, in case that would spur him to stop. 

Eventually, he stopped pretending to be using both hands, leaving his left one cupping your cheek ’to keep you still’. You leaned into the touch, allowing the softness of the moment before your next bounty or side quest came along. You liked when it was just the two of you, Mando talked a lot more, he was unintentionally one of the funniest people you knew.

You were shocked to find his company so enjoyable after all the rumors of him being only slightly more human than an assassin droid. Sure he was stoic, usually silent, focussed, but he was also kind, more compassionate than he would admit, and unwaveringly loyal.  Dank Farrik, he made it hard to stay mad at him. 

Closing your eyes (a big sign of trust for a sniper), you laid your hand over the one cupping your cheek, “Mando, I didn’t make this sacrifice expecting anything from you. I just wish you’d let me help you more, you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I hate seeing you hurt, more than I know how to explain.” His voice was gruffer than usual as he placed a patch over the split in your brow. Your hand on his knee squeezed gently. 

“I don’t need you to protect me, I need you to know that, especially at the risk of your own safety.” You reminded him with a softness to your voice that you seldom used to anyone other than the Child. A thumb brushed across the peak of your cheek before moving a stray piece of hair so he could patch a scrape under the corner of your eye. 

“I know that, ner kar’ta.” His tone matched yours: soft, gentle, intimate. Your head cocked to the side, but Mando wasn’t feeling up to explaining so he continued on, placing another patch across the bridge of your nose, “Still, I think I’ll stay on the job a while longer.” 

________

After dinner and chasing the pit droids out of the Razor Crest, it was time for some well needed rest. Mando had managed to scrounge up some light dosage pain medication when he stopped to replenish the medpacs. Not enough to leave you delirious, but strong enough to make you drowsy and a little loose with your thoughts. Nothing you’d regret, just a couple more direct than usual questions for you beskar wrapped bunkmate. You watched him putter around the cargo hold from your cot with half lidded eyes, as he went through and checked over everything the droids might have touched.  

“How much longer?” You couldn’t help but ask, wondering if your days with the Mandalorian were already numbered. Mando’s helmet turned towards you before sliding the circuit panel back into the wall. 

“Sorry, I’m almost done. Try to get some sleep.” He answered quietly, trying to minimize the noise he made as he moved about the small space. 

“Not that.” You waved him off, the motion much clumsier, heavier than usual, “Protecting me- a fool’s errand by the way. You said you’d stay on the job a while longer.” 

Mando sighed, moving towards his rack, the one with the closing door that he’d tried to give to you, but you refused. It was the only place other than the privy he could remove his helmet, you refused to let him give that away. He flicked lights off as he went, leaving only the dim glow of button lights to reflect on his armor. He was silent long enough that the darkness lulled you into a bit of a half sleep. Maybe that was his goal, still he answered you. Quietly, in that same reverent tone he’d said your name with earlier that evening. 

“Every single day for the rest of my life.” 

Exhaustion, blood loss, and narcotics dulled the effect of that declaration, but you heart still clenched at the sincerity of his voice. Your eyes wouldn’t open anymore and your thoughts were becoming increasingly sluggish with every beat of your heart. 

“Thanks, Mando.” You breathed, listening to the clicks of his armor being disassembled and neatly placed away, finally the hiss of his helmet being disengaged, knowing it must be dark enough he wasn’t worried about you seeing his face. 

“Din, that’s my actual name. You can call me Din when it’s just us.” He breathed into the night, barely registering in your mind, but you tucked away that information where you’d remember it tomorrow. You heart clenched again at his offer to you, showing how much he trusted you. 

“Thanks, Din."

-----

Ner K'arta - my heart

now that's what I call shitty writing

[notquitecanon]

Sacrifice & Devotion // Din Djarin x Reader

Hurt comfort lil fic

here's a fun lil game of spot the dialogue I stole from criminal minds!

tw: no mentions of gender, mention and description of canon typical injury, mention of canon typical violence, reader is a bounty hunter, specifically a sniper, unedited, written in one sitting while I pulled an all nighter

fics where two idiots who are obviously in love are so terrible at pretending to not be in love that it circles back around to one of them thinking its unrequited/being so oblivious they still don't notice are my bread and butter

Summary: Reader and Mando both have insecurities that are starting to boil over and cause some heavy miscommunication. It takes a blaster wound for them to talk it out.

You had stalked off to lick you wounds before the Crest’s engines even cooled, finding a cozy rooftop with a good view of the city, dark enough to feel concealed but enough ligh to tend to yourself. 

Mando hadn’t been able to catch you, he had to deliver proof of service to your contractors. The waiting credits were much needed to repair the ship’s latest malfunctions if either of you wished to leave this system in the next rotation. 

Not to mention the med pac that would need replenishing after you were done. In favor of not bleeding out, you had started with the most severe, the blaster wound to your shoulder. The med scanner had informed you it was primarily superficial, but was at risk of infection. 

You sniffed, for something so superficial, the wound sure was leaking blood like a broken tap. The scanner had suggest a bacta infusion, but after your last hunt, the last bacta infusion was only half full. Still, even half would slow the bleeding and lower the risk of infection. You hissed after spraying it with a coagulant and then cursed with the auto-injector of the syringe delivered the half dose of bacta. Next, you moved onto bandages, wrapping the gauze in looping circles. 

Metal clinked quietly behind you, alerting you to your company. Mando hovered in the shadows until you turned halfway towards him, like he didn’t want to startle you but also didn’t want to attract you frustration if you hadn’t cooled off yet. 

His modulator didn’t hide the concern in his voice, even if he tried to, “Those are too loose, you’ll get an infection.” 

“Well, are you gonna lurk in the shadows or come help me?” You sighed, nodding to the other discarded cargo crate beside the one you had pulled into the light, “How’d you find me?” 

Mando looked around as he approached and sat beside you, like it was obvious, “Easily accessible rooftop, city views and eyes on the ship. Removed but still involved. Sniper’s paradise.”  

You tried to ignore the flush of heat up your neck, sometimes between the very few words Mando spoke it was easy to forget  how astute his observations could be. It always shocked you when he voiced his perceptions of you, and flustered you when they were correct. So you cleared your throat, “Where’s the kid?”

The bounty hunter chuckled before stepping to the side, revealing the pram, closed, “Little one’s been asleep since we hit atmosphere.” 

Mando waited a moment before holding his hand, “Let me help you with those.” 

You licked your teeth before offering the roll of bandages to him. His gloved fingers closed around it before unraveling your previous handiwork. Fortunately the bleeding had mostly stopped, but you didn’t miss how his visor paused on the stained smears of blood down your arms and across your clothes. It made you bristle all over again, which he obviously noticed since he quickly started wrapping the injury before you rescinded your cooperation. It pained you to say he was right, your wrappings had been way too loose. Still, the tightness made you flinch more than you were proud to admit, making you feel like a child at a doctor’s office. Especially with how gentle he was being, how sincere his apologies were with every flinch. Your frustration welled back up at his gentility, your jaw setting which only made the split of your lip hurt worse. 

“You’re upset.” He observed, taking the bacta gel and spreading it on a cotton swab so he could dab at the open slice across your thigh which gave him the perfect excuse to drop his gaze from yours.  Sometimes you wished you also wore a helmet, make it a little harder for Mando to read your emotions. Make him play body language trivia during every interaction of every day, “I shouldn't have left you alone. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to protect you. You have every right to be upset."

Especially, if he was going to to read them incorrectly and break your heart in he process. Of course he thought that’s what you were upset about. The Mandalorian- all beskar steel, blaster smoke, and the worlds he balanced on his shoulders. 

You slumped your shoulders, ignoring the ache from your newly bandaged wound. You averted your gaze off to the Razor Crest, watching half a dozen workers frantically making two dozen repairs. Mando sighed, gingerly working the bacta into the gash with one hand, meanwhile you became acutely aware of his other gloved hand holding your thigh still. Gentle, yet firm, and his thumb was rubbing soothing circles against your exposed skin.  Mando took so much on himself and never expected any sort of reciprocity, didn’t know how to accept it. It filled you with anger all over again.

“Mando. I’m not mad at you for not being there to protect me.” You shook your head, glancing at his hand on your thigh before meeting his visor. You wondering if his eyes were as sad as his posture let on, quickly followed by a train of thought about his eyes that you decided to misattribute to the blood loss. 

“I should have been there. That sleemo never should have gotten close enough to touch you, much less do this.” He growled, taking the tube of liquid bandage and squeezing it across the gash. 

“Yeah, Mando, you should have been in two places at once and done my job for me. You’re right.” You groaned sarcastically, trying to snatch the tube out of his hand only to have him catch your wrist. Seeing your sharp look, he dropped your wrist but didn’t hand over the tube, instead finishing his application in silence. 

“Oh my stars- that was sarcasm Mando. I’m being facetious.” You were gobsmacked, did that helmet cut off airflow? Was his brain so oxygen deprived that he thought you truly expected that of him? How deep did this self martyrdom run? 

“You really don’t trust me, do you?” You finally asked, breaking  all contact to retract your legs from him. If he kept rubbing those circles on your thigh… you might do something dramatic, “I know I’m not a Mandalorian, and I’m probably not the best bounty hunter you’ve ever met, but if you can’t trust me to do my job then why let me keep tagging along.” 

Mando’s helmet was kind of doing a little spiral motion as if trying to follow your logic, “What? I trust you, of course I trust you.” 

“But not enough to do my job.” You snipped, “If you trust me so much why do your part of the job and mine before I even get the chance? Always swooping in to finish things, even when I have it under control. Why call me your partner if I’m basically a piece of cargo you have to feed? Why keep me around if I’m such a hinderance?” 

Mando actually flinched back at your sudden outburst, and you quickly looked away, maybe you had let more of your own insecurity show than you meant to. But it was all true. If he told you to take care of the perimeter, he’d flush out the inside and do a perimeter sweep before you even got to a good stakeout spot with your rifle. If you were both engaged in hand to hand combat, he’d recklessly rush his fight so shoot your opponent for you.  

The armored warrior was silent for a good long while, his visor watching you as you started to squirm under his gaze. You were about to interject, tell him to drop it and not worry about it, but as you opened your mouth he held a hand up to stop you, “I have no reservations about your skills. I trust you with my life.” 

Your eyebrows furrowed, reopening the cut through the one over your left eye, “Then-“ 

Once again, he interrupted you by saying your name quietly… reverently. You went silent. 

“When I went against the guild on Nevarro, you were the only guild member to stand with me. I never would have made it off planet with the child if you hadn’t intervened. You gave everything up to help me, you didn’t know me and yet you threw your life away to help me escape with the child. You could have earned enough credits to retire three times over by turning me in, you’ve had chance after chance to betray me, and yet,” He paused to look at you, really look at you, “You’ve risked your life time after time for the child, for me. You devoted yourself to this quest as if it were your own. How could I do any less than you?” 

His gloved hand reached for yours, his thumb grazing over your split knuckles from a up close encounter with a pirate, “Every time I allow someone to hurt you, it’s an affront to your sacrifice.” 

Your eyes softened, letting him dab that bacta cream across the marred skin, “Mando, we’re bounty hunters. Getting hurt is an occupational hazard. I knew the risks when I did what I did.” 

He was silent; his visor tipped away from you over to the pram where the Child slept, “You do too much for us.” 

“Hypocrite.” You teased, trying to lighten the mood. His confession had eased your frustrations, a balm to your own insecurities. Of course this had come from a place of protectiveness, how very… Mandalorian. Considering him for a moment, you angled your body back towards him. You knew all this duty weighed on him, and often there wasn’t much you could do to help, but at the moment, on your perfectly chosen rooftop, you knew what he needed. You handed him a new cotton swap and the small bacta patches that would prevent the cuts on your face from scarring, “Do my face so we can find some dinner?” 

He nodded quickly, taking the supplies and pulling you a bit closer to him, so close that you knee overlapped his own armored thigh, and you were close enough to count the scratches on his chest plate, even in the dim light. The slight lean taxed your sore core and back muscles, so you steadied yourself by placing a hand on his knee. He almost jerked, but cleared his throat, taking a moment to relax again. Your lip tugged up, he unconsciously moved closer. 

You let him work in silence for a long pause, enjoying the night breeze. He gingerly cleaned each cut and scrape, gloved fingers grazing your cheeks, the slope of your nose, your lips and a whole bunch of other places you knew weren’t injured. You tried not to let your breath catch, in case that would spur him to stop. 

Eventually, he stopped pretending to be using both hands, leaving his left one cupping your cheek ’to keep you still’. You leaned into the touch, allowing the softness of the moment before your next bounty or side quest came along. You liked when it was just the two of you, Mando talked a lot more, he was unintentionally one of the funniest people you knew.

You were shocked to find his company so enjoyable after all the rumors of him being only slightly more human than an assassin droid. Sure he was stoic, usually silent, focussed, but he was also kind, more compassionate than he would admit, and unwaveringly loyal.  Dank Farrik, he made it hard to stay mad at him. 

Closing your eyes (a big sign of trust for a sniper), you laid your hand over the one cupping your cheek, “Mando, I didn’t make this sacrifice expecting anything from you. I just wish you’d let me help you more, you don’t have to do it alone.”

“I hate seeing you hurt, more than I know how to explain.” His voice was gruffer than usual as he placed a patch over the split in your brow. Your hand on his knee squeezed gently. 

“I don’t need you to protect me, I need you to know that, especially at the risk of your own safety.” You reminded him with a softness to your voice that you seldom used to anyone other than the Child. A thumb brushed across the peak of your cheek before moving a stray piece of hair so he could patch a scrape under the corner of your eye. 

“I know that, ner kar’ta.” His tone matched yours: soft, gentle, intimate. Your head cocked to the side, but Mando wasn’t feeling up to explaining so he continued on, placing another patch across the bridge of your nose, “Still, I think I’ll stay on the job a while longer.” 

________

After dinner and chasing the pit droids out of the Razor Crest, it was time for some well needed rest. Mando had managed to scrounge up some light dosage pain medication when he stopped to replenish the medpacs. Not enough to leave you delirious, but strong enough to make you drowsy and a little loose with your thoughts. Nothing you’d regret, just a couple more direct than usual questions for you beskar wrapped bunkmate. You watched him putter around the cargo hold from your cot with half lidded eyes, as he went through and checked over everything the droids might have touched.  

“How much longer?” You couldn’t help but ask, wondering if your days with the Mandalorian were already numbered. Mando’s helmet turned towards you before sliding the circuit panel back into the wall. 

“Sorry, I’m almost done. Try to get some sleep.” He answered quietly, trying to minimize the noise he made as he moved about the small space. 

“Not that.” You waved him off, the motion much clumsier, heavier than usual, “Protecting me- a fool’s errand by the way. You said you’d stay on the job a while longer.” 

Mando sighed, moving towards his rack, the one with the closing door that he’d tried to give to you, but you refused. It was the only place other than the privy he could remove his helmet, you refused to let him give that away. He flicked lights off as he went, leaving only the dim glow of button lights to reflect on his armor. He was silent long enough that the darkness lulled you into a bit of a half sleep. Maybe that was his goal, still he answered you. Quietly, in that same reverent tone he’d said your name with earlier that evening. 

“Every single day for the rest of my life.” 

Exhaustion, blood loss, and narcotics dulled the effect of that declaration, but you heart still clenched at the sincerity of his voice. Your eyes wouldn’t open anymore and your thoughts were becoming increasingly sluggish with every beat of your heart. 

“Thanks, Mando.” You breathed, listening to the clicks of his armor being disassembled and neatly placed away, finally the hiss of his helmet being disengaged, knowing it must be dark enough he wasn’t worried about you seeing his face. 

“Din, that’s my actual name. You can call me Din when it’s just us.” He breathed into the night, barely registering in your mind, but you tucked away that information where you’d remember it tomorrow. You heart clenched again at his offer to you, showing how much he trusted you. 

“Thanks, Din."

-----

Ner K'arta - my heart

now that's what I call shitty writing

[notquitecanon]

Vampire Spider-Man voiced by Oscar Isaac??? And you expect me to be normal ab this??? with THAT shoulder to hip ratio???? G R O W U P

[notquitecanon]

Me when I’ve been waiting for John Wick 4 to come out so I could write more John Wick fanfiction while the trend was still hot … and then I forgot so I’m weblogging the least popular thing I ever wrote.

With & Without // John Wick x Reader

This is very dramatic. It was gonna be a lot longer and fleshed out, but I kept it vague in case I wanna do a part two. 

Basically: Two idiots who don’t want to be apart but can’t admit that to each other.  break up fic ???? Should I have them make up???? 

John Wick had rules. He had rules because he loved you, worried over you, and worked so hard to keep you safe. Never go anywhere alone without telling him. If you think you’re being followed call him, and then find a public business. Memorize his phone number, the continental’s, and Aurelio’s, as well as all their addresses. Always keep a couple gold coins on you. Only use his name as leverage as a last resort, he’s not exactly popular. Stay out of the basement. In case of emergency, do what he says, no exceptions. And so many more, because he loved you. You knew that. You fell into the routine of looking over your shoulder and watching his back, because when you would turn back around John would be waiting with a soft smile (because he’d already checked your surroundings multiple times). You adapted to being more comfortable with the curtains pulled shut to avoid snipers, because in lieu of the sun John would wake you up with gentle kisses. You taught yourself to stop answering unknown calls and only post on social media after you’d left a place, but you were more than happy to live in the moment with John. It was so easy to slip into that lifestyle. Not so easy to slip back, for you at least. John was a man of pure determination and discipline, the moment he decided it was over he seemed absolutely resolved. Which left you with… completely unresolved emotions. 

Keep reading

[notquitecanon]

I love this man so much🤧🤧🤧💜💜💜

Listen I don’t wanna be weird or anything but I need him in ways that would make the devil turn his face his shame

[notquitecanon]

Any,,, all,,, in loving memory of Adrian Chase. He ain’t dead I just love thinking remembering him.

Ooo do you take requests for Adrian Chase?

Always I love him

[notquitecanon]

Ooo do you take requests for Adrian Chase?

Always I love him

[notquitecanon]

Ghosting // John Constantine x Reader

to quote Tumblr, I love when my girlies are a little off. a little weird. off putting.

tw: murder implication

"What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?" 

The first time John Constantine saw you, he clocked you right off the bat. Dead. Passed on. Haunting. A spirit, apparition… 

A ghost. 

Sure, the warlock was a bit tossed, but you were definitely otherworldly. His words were supposed to be sarcastic, one of the wisecracks he was known for. 

Still, you just turned to him confused before a kind yet playful smirk pulled your face up. With a cocked head you answered, "I bet you say that to all the girls." 

You knew the blonde was different the moment you set eyes on him. Mostly because he looked at you and truly saw you. You had been gliding through life for a while now feeling like even the people who saw you and heard you, didn’t truly. Like you were a shadow in the corner of their eye or a whisper just quiet enough to write off. 

Still, this corner of the city was different. You felt more alive here, people seemed more interested in your presence…. And then this man came along, all blind arrogance and charming accent wrapped in a fluttering trench coat and a red tie like a bow on a gift. You had seen him around before, always with a card up his sleeve and a cigarette between his teeth. 

John mirrored your cocked head, giving you another scrutinizing once over. He cleared his throat and stepped closer, steeping you in the smell of cigarettes, herbs, tea, and aftershave, "What’s keeping you here, luv?" 

Your eyebrows knitted together, what an odd question. The sun had barely gone down and the city was just coming alive, why would you be leaving? There was still so much to see, hear, feel, taste, dance, and do. So much life around you. 

So you simply smiled again, motioning to the couples on the dance floor, "Everything. Nothing. Something in between." 

"Are you always this bloody vague?" He gruffed through a long drag of his cig, unamused by your non answer. 

"Are you always this nosy?" You challenged. A feeling you had forgotten about bubbled up in your stomach- that giddy bouncy feeling you get when your playfully arguing with someone, trying not to laugh while you wait in anticipation for their next witty retort. It had been so long since someone talked to you like this. 

The man laughed- somewhere between a chuckle and a snort- and hung his head, "Yeah, you’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now, and yet here I bloody am. What’s your name, luv?" 

"(Y/N)." You offered, holding out your hand. The blonde looked confused, staring at your outstretched hand- his discerning eyes flicked from your waiting fingers- decidedly dimmer than the rest of you- to your eyes- just sad enough to feel haunting. Slowly, hesitantly, he moved to take it. 

When his hand touched yours, he expected to go straight through. Theoretically, you should be noncorporeal, but the moment his calloused fingers touched yours there was something akin to a static shock, but softer, a rounder feeling as you wrapped your hand around his. 

Your touch, at first, felt normal, if not worryingly chilled, but the longer he shook your hand, the more frayed the edges of your form felt. As if he was holding on to pure ethereal energy, a manifestation of your very soul- which, if he was right, he was. 

John shook your hand slowly, staring at the interlocked embrace in confusion. You seemed unaffected, if not a little confused by his incredulous expression. So you cleared your throat, even though to John it sounded more like a distant rattling of glass, a memory he couldn’t quite place before your voice followed, seemingly just off kilter to how your lips moved, a new sensation. John released your hand, realizing he was spending too much of your energy and not only had you initiated it, you weren’t stopping him. People who had previously spared you a glance now were staring straight through you, your voice took a more echoed whispery property, your appearance became wispy almost, like a feathered edge to an old photograph- John reckoned he could only still see you because now he was trying. 

"And you are?" 

John watched you for a moment now with his hands at his side. You seemed to almost recharge, life returning to your eyes, seeming more in place among the living, lips catching up to your words. You didn’t even seem to notice, just looking at him expectantly, "How much have you had to drink?" 

"Not nearly enough." The Brit muttered, wiping a hand over his face, not missing how you seemed to flicker between his fingers, "I’m Constantine. John Constantine." 

____

John came back the next day, this time in broad daylight. 

You had disappeared after at least two hours of frustrating yet enticing fickle non answers when John flagged down the barkeep for another pint, before he could get any real answer out of you. There was something about you that drew John in- something happy and yet melancholic all at once, almost like a longing look in your eyes as you watched others around you. And nothing could catch John’s eye like a troubled soul- mortal or not. 

Still, he had never encountered a spirit like you. You seemed so ordinary that if it wasn’t for the micro indicators and John’s lifetime of expertise, he could have written you off as an odd human, maybe a mortal that had been unknowingly touched by the paranormal. Odd for a human…. yet an absurdly ‘normal’ ghost. 

You appeared a full manifestation, head to toe, no mist or wisps surrounding you, completely opaque save for the occasional flicker. You spoke and moved and laughed like a normal human until something caught your eye and you went eerily still, exuding a slight aura that disappeared as soon as you blinked. Things moved when you touched them, except when John noticed they would lag or move prematurely sometimes. People around you noticed your presence, some keenly aware and some just out of the corner of their eye, and yet sometimes people would stare straight through you. John wondered if it was his supernatural keenness that brought and kept you in such sharp focus…

You didn’t seem to have some great power to justify this form, this existence. You seemed like an ordinary person going about their life in the city. Most ‘ordinary’ ghosts struggled to make themselves known and were lucky to manage the same phrase repeated over and over, spent years of spiritual energy to rattle a window pane or appear as a shadow in a mirror. Higher powered and or the older spirits simply glided about, able to be seen and heard and yet either unaware of those around them or resentful of the living- those spotted lurking in windows and caught in the corner of film. And then there were the poltergeists and meaner spirits whose power only came from rage, only good for cruelty, spitting and shredding everything good around them. 

You fit in none of these categories. You weren’t malevolent or bitter or oblivious to those around you. If anything, you were too full of life, too eager to fit in with the living and not eager to do anything specific. It frustrated and interested the experienced paranormal expert who swore he had seen everything. 

When he didn’t find you in the bar, he asked the bartender on shift. You had implied you spent a good bit of time there. Constantine gave a thorough description, from how you looked to how you were dressed to how you spoke. The bartender had knitted his eyebrows, opening and closing his mouth a couple times like there was an answer on the tip of his tongue, a name he couldn’t quite place, a memory on the verge of being forgotten.

"Sorry, man, I swear that sounds familiar but-" the barkeep apologized again with slumped shoulders but John waved him off. 

"No worries, mate, forget I asked." 

As he exited the bar back onto the sunny street, he lit a cigarette, eyes scanning the area. It was perfectly possible he’s never see you again. Maybe you’d spent a decades worth of spiritual energy just to be seen that night. Maybe you just needed one last night before you moved on. Maybe you were gone. 

"Those things will kill you, haven’t you heard?" A familiar voice sent chills down his spine that no longer bothered him, somehow distant and whispered at the same time. 

You, from your favorite bench in the park across the street had seen John Constantine enter the bar. It had been a wonder you kept yourself from following him, there was just something about him that made you feel real, alive. He was funny and quirky, cynical as he was handsome, complete with an accent that left you wanting more. You hadn’t meant to leave last night, truly you don’t know why you did, but the moment he took his eyes off you, it was like your battery died. You honestly didn’t remember much about getting home or your morning- you blamed the drinks. But there he was again, just as handsome with the sun reflecting off his dirty blonde hair. You couldn’t resist the teasing that bubbled you your throat. 

Finally, he turned to you, eyes scanning you just as sharply as the night prior. Somewhere between checking you out and terminator vision- had anyone else done it, it would have been creepy but he… When John did it, you just felt seen. It was nice to feel seen. 

"If I live long enough for these to kill me, I’ll be thrilled." His dark humor made you laugh and you swore his lip ticked up for a moment before he continued, "You weren’t in the bar."

Your eyebrows crinkled but your smile remained, as if to say ‘duh’. 

"Wouldn’t you be more concerned if I was in the bar at this hour? Sure it’s five o clock somewhere, but not here." You shrugged falling in line beside him, John took a long drag of his cigarette,

Clearly troubled but changing the subject. 

"You left without saying goodbye. Didn’t even see you leave."

You squinted against the sun before dropping your eyes, "I don’t remember much after our conversation. I think I had too much to drink."

"You didn’t-" John, confused shook his head, not able to tell if you were joking or not, "You didn’t drink anything last night." 

Which was true. You hadn’t touched a drop all night, though had multiple times mentioned how good the bartender made drinks. Genuine confusion flashed across your body resulting in a sudden breeze that you didn’t seem to notice. Your smile crunched into a confused look before smoothing back out to your default, as if the breeze blew away the truth, "Listen, I know you guys across the pond drink like fish, but not all of us have such a tolerance." 

You giggled at your own joke not bothering to recollect the actual events of the night. This only troubled John further, was this some prolonged but you were committed to? Instead of doubling down, he switched tactics. 

"What did you say your last name was again?" 

This time when the question look returned, it stayed. Eyebrows knitting together, smile dropping. You didn’t notice you had stopped walking until John got a few steps ahead of you before turning to look back at you. 

"My what?" 

"Last name, luv. I told you mine, but I only got your first." He pressed, watching you carefully, eyes narrowing. Surely, you hadn’t forgot to tell him your name, you thought. John continued, "(Y/N) what?"

Forcing a giggle, you cleared your throat, "oh it’s…" 

You thought for a moment, (Y/N) what? Eyes filling with confusion as they met John’s, your forced smile dropping as well.

"(Y/N)…" you trailed off again, not understanding the blank spot, how did you not know your own last name. Anxiety bubbled up as you racked your brain, eyes leaving John’s to look around as if the answer was written on the city sidewalk. You had one, everyone did, why couldn’t you think of it? (y/n) ____, the space only filled by a aching void in your mind, as if it wanted to be filled. You ran a hand over through your hair as if tugging your scalp would jog the memory, "My name is (y/n)…"!

John watched you mutter to yourself, your entire demeanor changing as you tried to come up with an answer. A blustering wind almost blew his cigarette out, flapping his tie around his neck as his coat billowed around him. He noticed the wind only got stronger as you caved in on yourself, eyes quickly becoming unsure and frightened, even though your hair and clothes stayed still, unmarred by the sudden change in weather. 

"My name, my name how do I not know my name," your voice was becoming sharp, knowing in your heart that something was wrong. John, always softer than he wanted others to believe, tried to ignore how his heart clenched at the sight and before he could stop himself, he waded through the now choppy winds that seemed to be in pace with your stuttering breaths. 

"Your name is (Y/N), forgive me for asking, it’s none of my business." John assured you, paying no mind to your frantic eyes searching his for answers. His hand grabbed yours, producing that same feathered shock. This time you felt it, distracting you as the wind slowed from blustering to gusty. 

"But my-" 

"Forget I asked, luv." He cut you off, quickly squeezing your hand. His skin was so warm on yours that it was all you could focus on. John, however, was noting everything about you. 

Your hair was untouched by the wind, clothes the same as the night before, after your amnesiac fit, your appearance seemed hazy around the edges, you hand seemed too light in his grasp, and around your neck was a gold necklace that stated your name in scrawling font between your collarbones. 

John frowned. That was probably the only reason you knew your first name. The memory loss wasn’t uncommon in spirits- unfinished business paired with amnesia left souls wandering the mortal planes for centuries. A cruel joke from the higher powers. 

Still, after the weather display- something even mid level entities struggled with and you had done without even noticing- he was afraid pressing the issue would result in pushing you into poltergeist territory. 

And there was something about your sweet smile or maybe your longing eyes, John had to immediately dismiss the thought of you becoming vengeful and cruel. That would make you a problem and he was the one who took care of paranormal problems. 

His thumb rubbed circles on the back of your hand, not ignoring but embracing the tingling sensation the prolonged contact sent into his bones, "Take a breath, luv."

Your breathing slowed as the wind came to a sudden halt, dropping kicked up leaves and paper where they were. Your eyes never left his, lips still mouthing questions, but John allowed you to clutch him like a life preserver even when your hand started to slip through his like fog. 

After a minute, this gave him a front row ticket as he watched the frightened awareness in your eyes glaze over. Your entire body relaxed, gaze softening, smile returning as if someone pressed reset. 

Once you hand had completely phased through his, you blinked once, then twice, your eyebrow twitched just slightly before you took a step back, "I’m sorry, what were you saying?" 

As if you hadn’t just panicked up a hurricane. As if you had no memory of the last two minutes. John’s eyebrows furrowed again, shoving his still tingling hand in his pocket. 

"Oh nothing, just admiring your necklace." He lied easily, flicking his cigarette into the nearest potted plant. Your fingers flew to your neck, tracing the golden scrawl. 

"This old thing? I’ve had it for as long as I can remember." You smiled fondly. 

Constantine didn’t doubt it. 

Then, out of no where you yawned. Suddenly, between one blink and the next, looking very tired, dark shadows appearing under your eyes and cheeks suddenly becoming gaunt. 

"Sorry, I’m exhausted! Couldn’t tell you why though." You chuckled through another nod, shaking your head though the motion seemed almost blurred. Your words were off kilter with your mouth again, and your hands and feet seemed hazy giving you an almost hovering appearance. John realized between the prolonged contact and wind show, you must be spent. Your smile was tired but your eyes were as sweet as ever, "I’ll see you around, John." 

And before the exorcist could stop you, you gliding in a random direction, appearance fizzling away with every step until you had completely disappeared, leaving the air charged with that same strange static your hands held. 

It was then John realized what was really going on. The memory loss, the panic, the power, the longing and liveliness… 

His jaw hardened as his eyes set on where you had been, fighting down the sad feeling in his chest. 

You didn’t know you were dead. And with this sort of power, your death had to have been something gruesome. John thought of your kind eyes and sweet smile... his jaw clenched.

You would go on half living forever if someone didn’t stop you, no memory of who you truly were and no knowledge of how to move on. Slowly,

It would drive you mad. John was surprised it hadn’t already. 

And for better or for worse, John Constantine was incapable of leaving pretty, troubled girls alone.

[notquitecanon]

Stardust & Fungi // Egon Spengler x reader

Me, breaking my writers block with shittily written fluff about a ghostbuster? More likely than you think]

Warnings: none other than this is top ten worst things I've ever written lol

"Is there a reason you're staring at me?" Egon asked, not glancing up from his microscope as he jotted down his observations. If it was still the days of stolen glances and supposedly unrequited feelings, or even in the early days of your relationship, you would have blushed at being caught, averted your eyes and found something to occupy yourself with. Though those days were cherished in their own right, they were in the past.

So, at his accusation you just smiled lazily over at him, chin propped in your hand, offering a challenge, "Do I need a reason?"

The scientist thought for a second, carefully adjusting the focus on the microscope, "I don't suppose so, though typically I can deduce what I'm doing to garner such attention. Right now I can't find anything of note."

You snorted a laugh, shaking your head as you closed your book- as if his entire existence hadn't been 'of note' to you since you met him, "Well, I just happen to think my boyfriend looks very cute when he's analyzing fungus blooms."

You knew your teasing found it's mark when his usual precise movement jerked, throwing the fine adjustment knob completely out of focus. Egon spared you a flustered glance before he fervently fixed the focus again, ducking his head back to the ocular piece to hide the flush creeping up his neck.

Slowly, like a cat after a nap, stretching lazily you rose from your perch, your very own, lovingly assigned lab stool. The stool was a small seemingly meaningless gesture from Egon that if you knew the scientist, had several layers of subtext. To start with, it was the only surface in the lab that was safe from the good doctor's 'organized' chaos. This particular still had a back and cushion, appearing ~randomly~ the day after you had complained of a sore back. It always had an extra lab coat, discarded sweater, or sports coat hanging on the back since you often complained the lab was too cold. Typically, the stool was parked next to his super top secret snack stash that was classified information to everyone in the firehouse. And while others were allowed to sit on your stool, the moment you entered the lab Egon would wordlessly shoo them away or stare at them until they caught the hint- Peter liked to test these limits just to mess with him. The stool was how the other ghostbusters knew how Egon really felt about you.

When it came to Egon, it was all in the details, and you had become fluent in reading between the lines.

"Cute isn't the word choice that I would go with," The scientist muttered after changing the specimen again with you slowly moving to hover behind him.

"So sorry, you're right, my boyfriend looks very handsome when he's analyzing..." You trailed off for a second, squinting to read the cursive label soon the slide, "Ganoderma Gibbsom."

He spared a glance over his shoulder, the faintest blush still in his cheeks as he leaned back ever so slightly so the curve of his back was flush to your front, "Excellent pronunciation."

"I've had a pretty good teacher." You hummed at the praise, pressing a kiss to the shoulder of his lab coat and then one to his jawline, internally preening at how he leaned into the contact. Egon chuckled- your favorite sound amplified by how the sound vibrated through his chest and into your skin- before tilting his head so his lips could catch yours briefly. You smiled against his kiss, "How's your fungus, honey?"

"It's preparing to reproduce." He informed you, motioning the microscope towards you- both to share his interest and to have a moment to wipe your lipstick off his lips. He leaned sideways so you could scoot forwards and press an eye to the ocular piece. You squinted against the bright light and observed for a moment.

It was, in fact, fungus. Just fungus to you, and it looked exactly what fungus should look like- fungussy like. But, if it was interesting to Egon, so it was interesting to you. You watched the specimens wiggle a bit before relinquishing the microscope back to the scientist.

"Getting real hot and heavy in there," You joked, pressing one last kiss to the top of his head, "Should I leave you two alone?"

Egon rolled his eyes but his famous sideways smile crept up as his gaze followed you back to your stool, "You're no better than Venkman."

"I'm a little better than Venkman." You retorted with a faux sense of offense, hand to your chest though your grin was cheeky. Egon hummed as he jotted something down, so you flicked a discarded straw wrapper at him, giggling when he only offered you a withering look.

"You love me." You 'reminded' him, taking you assigned seat and parking it across his work bench so you could be closer to him. Peeking over his microscope at you, his gaze softened as he nodded curtly.

"I do." Egon's voice was soft and sincere- some might say even out of character but you knew that tone was reserved just for you. His admission earned him another smile as you took your book back out.

The lab fell back into comfortable silence, just the two of you enjoying the other's presence as you each worked on your own hobby. Or, at least, Egon worked on his. You couldn't get past the the page you had opened to- not for lack of interest, earlier Winston had gotten through an entire conversation before he realized you were nose deep in your book, and still took five minutes to get your attention, and certainly not for lack of trying, you'd read the first six lines easily fifteen times. By line four your mind would start wandering, by line five you'd be stealing glances at the scientist across from you, and by line six and seven your brain would discard everything you just read in favor of daydreaming.

About twenty minutes passed and you were only able to turn the page once. You did however manage to steal at least seventeen dreamy glances at Egon, mentally decorate your future shared apartment, plan your honeymoon, and a hundred other little things. Between thoughts of the future, there was also reminiscing. How you met, late nights in the lab, the long and awkward pining phase, patching him up after busts, your first kiss, all the times you'd made him laugh...

"What are you thinking about?" Egon asked, looking up from his notes. That was one of the things you loved about him, despite being the smartest guy in any room, he always wanted to know what was going on in your head. His voice snapped you out of your own mind, this time you did blush.

"Oh, not much, just reading." You shrugged after clearing your throat, holding your book up with a little shake as if to say- see?

"You're average reading rate is 300-350 words per minute, yet you've only turned the page once since you opened the book again, suggesting your mind is preoccupied with something else." He explained. How could you forget just how observant the scientist was, of course he would notice your distraction. You sighed.

"You're going to think I'm crazy." You laughed a bit, knowing even you thought you were a little crazy. Egon simply arched a single eyebrow over his glasses, as if to say, 'try me.'

"Should I remind you that we're still excavating marshmallow goo out of all our gear from the 100 foot staypuft marshmallow man?" He asked sarcastically, pushing the microscope aside to give you his undivided attention. You breathed a short laugh- how could you forget? Ray still complained about Ecto1's permanently stick back seat.

You met Egon's dark eyes, his oh-so-always-serious face, his large calloused hands folded in front of him as he waited for you to explain. Leaning forward, you traced a single but gentle nail over one of the small scars that decorated his left hand, product of lab work gone wrong, you had been the one to bandage it.

"I know you don't believe in the idea, but..." You trailed off, folding your hands into his. As always, his hands, large and warm, gentle despite the roughness of working, encompassed yours completely. Like they were made for you and you alone, "I didn't until I met you. I think, if soulmates are real, then you must be mine."

After you said it, you closed your eyes, expecting his to spare a laugh or have some scientific lecture to disprove your rather sappy theory. You had no doubt Egon loved you, he proved it in little ways everyday, but he was still a man of science through and through. He didn't believe in luck, superstitions, destiny, or fate. When he didn't immediately rebuff you, you peeked your eyes back open to find the scientist deep in thought.

His brow was furrowed like It did when he was trying to figure something out, usually you loved that look, loved watching how his brain worked, but now it made you a little nervous. Your relationship with Egon hadn't followed any of the typical time markers or milestones of normal relationships- but maybe it was too early to droop the 'we were made for each other' on him. Or maybe, he just didn't agree.

"Many scientists believe that the carbon that makes us up is billions of years old, even trillions. Remnants of supernovas and dying stars, and it was this stardust that drifted for lightyears before eventually being composed into planets, flora, fauna, and eventually humans. Using that notion, one could hypothesize that perhaps our idea off soulmates could be reduced to two individuals sharing carbon of the same origin, finding its way back to itself over and over again in the carbon cycle despite all odds," Egon thought aloud, staring at your interlocked hands before lifting his gaze to your eyes, "Perhaps, that could explain our immediate attraction, how we play to each other, gravitate towards the other... carbon matter, stardust, soulmates, perhaps could be all the same thing."

You were stunned to silence, picking through the scientific jargon absorbing perhaps the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to you, but Egon wasn't finished.

"And whole I can't definitively prove or disprove this theory, I... savor the idea of us being soulmates. Very few other things in the world make as much sense to me as that." His admission was quiet, though it echoed around your head for a while all you could do was stare back at him with tears threatening to prick the the corners of your eyes, "So, in summary, no, I don't think you're crazy, (Y/N)."

Blinking your tears away, you forced a chuckle through a suddenly tight throat, squeezing his hands before lifting them so you could press a sweet kiss to his knuckles.

"That was the sweetest, most romantic science lesson I've ever heard, Egon," You whispered, feelings running crazy but offering a grin nonetheless.

"I concur, though I think in most relationships such heartfelt confessions are punctuated by more than just a kiss to the hand." Egon theorized, arching another brow at you. You laughed, roughly wiping a happy tear away as you nodded.

You pretended to think about it fore a moment before reaching into the drawer nearest you where you knew your quarry laid. With a smirk, you slid the worn out 'maid service Do-not-disturb' door sign across the table to him.

"I think you might be right, Dr. Spengler."

[notquitecanon]

Me watching all these art blogs reblogging this from my main 👀👀👀👀

If I had any artistic abilities I would draw the ghostbusters as Mystery Inc.

Ray is Fred obviously, and he’s get the little ascot and draw him setting traps and getting excited about mysteries.

Egon is Velma, and he gets the orange red color scheme but in sweater vests/ ties and slacks, Jenkies he’s lost his glasses, figuring things out before everyone else

Venkman is like classic Daphne, always fallling into traps Damsel in distress, and a little new Daphne using his flirting and looks to bamboozle unforthcoming onlookers. Constantly underestimated yet always coming out on top.

Winston was harder, but him as shaggy. Specifically thinking of him getting scared by the train. Less there for the ghosts but still in for the good times. Loyal to his besties above all else.

I feel like obvi slimer has to be scoob for aesthetic reasons and Janine/ Louis moonlight as scrappy just for comedic purposes

These shots right here specifically

Like if my ability fell anything above stick figures, I’d be on this like icing on cake. But alas.

Whats the equivalent of plot bunny for drawing?? Whatever it is, free to good home