#doing his best

[atsadi-shenanigans]

FSBE 26 - Try to Keep it Hidden

The rogue is in a pickle.

On AO3.

Astarion needs a bath. A rather an entire barrel of blood. Preferably in that order, though at this point, he’s not picky. His body still throbs with phantom pain, the memory of that woman tearing him apart from the inside.

He’s going to kill her. Slowly. Take her apart piece by screaming piece.

There is something wrong with his foolish, naive leader, however. Likely the crushing guilt of letting those goblins go and winning Astarion a gruesome death.

His head still feels odd, now that he thinks about it. Which isn’t too bad, as far as coming back from the deceased could be. At least this time he awoke on his back under a supernatural haze with the faces of his team of idiots staring down at him, rather than inside a box, buried under six feet of dirt. He got to sit up and complain and didn’t even have to grovel at the feet of…well. It was better, this time.

He trails his oddly silent leader up the stairs. Her face was horribly blank last he looked. Not even in her usual way, when she’s thinking or bored or plotting a murder. There was a tightness about her eyes, and there’s a slow stiffness to her limbs as she climbs. But her pulse remains normal, so she can’t be too out of sorts.

He wonders if he’ll be able to guilt her into something for him.

Then they reach the room—how very kind of the cleric to give him some privacy to get himself cleaned up (again). His dreadful, devoted dunce goes in first, leaving him to close the door behind himself.

She takes a few steps into the room. Stops. Stands there, with her back to him.

He regards her for a moment. Then crosses his arms, sighs, and says, “So, what have we learned?”

He only intends to bully her a bit. That beast of an orc killed him and he’s entitled to some retribution.

But she doesn’t answer. Her breathing stutters, as if she’s been kicked in the gut, a sort of ga-ga-gasp. She follows that with the tiniest sound. And promptly turns to face the closest wall, all but shoves her face against it, and chokes.

It’s not a loud sound. It’s actually very short. He might not have paid any attention to it were she not shoved against the wall like an imbecile.

“Dearest,” he drawls. It’s no fun if she doesn’t engage.

Her shoulders hunch in. As if she’s…making herself smaller. Which, given that she’s not a small woman, should be funny.

Except…except there’s something wrong about it. A wounded animal movement that draws his attention like, well. Like a vampire to an easy meal.

It nearly reminds him of how he’d try to curl in, chained on the floor of the kennels, because a dead part of him remembered the urge to shield his vulnerable middle.

“Darling?” he tries. He starts to reach for her when a new tremor shudders along the lines of her shoulders. She pants. Hiccups. Gasps again and goes quiet. She’s trying to hold her breath, but her lungs keep hitching. And she’s got her hands cupped around the sides of her face so he can’t see her expression at all.

But the tendons in her neck stand out as if she were lifting something heavy. Or if she were…screaming. Silently.

Because making noise attracts nasty things. She knows this. He knows this.

“Lover?” That one should get a reaction out of her. If only embarrassed hand flaps and a blush. But it doesn’t.

She tries to breathe a few times, stuttering both in and out. Manages a rough, “’Mfine.”

She. Isn’t fine. Is she. She’s not fine at all.

“Are, were you injured?” he says. He smells no blood. She didn’t have a limp and the cleric said nothing, but he was dead. Who knows what happened after that foul beast murdered him.

His leader makes another sound. It’s awful. Like it tears out of her, spilling through clenched teeth, high and tight and hurting.

Oh. Oh yes, he knows what this is. Has witnessed it in his siblings. Has done it.

It makes him…feel. It shouldn’t make him feel. But it does. His plan, his successful seduction, the way his chest tightens when he looks at her. If he doesn’t acknowledge that, then it can’t exist. Can’t be real.

There’s no reason (he will name) for her pain to affect him. He ought to wish her well and grab a set of clothing and head off to the bath to clean himself up. A month ago, he would have.

A month ago, he was barely away from that bastard, hadn’t tasted the blood of a thinking creature (hers, given freely, so practically). Hadn’t saved her or, fine, been (disgustingly) saved by her. Hadn’t seen her chew through the throat of a gur hunter who had all but captured him. Hadn’t watched her turn down a burgeoning god of seduction (melting the thing in the process). Hadn’t found her in the stumbling dark of a magical blindness and trekked halfway through the Underdark with her stories filling the horrid silence around them.

He hadn’t kissed her (and rather liked it). Hadn’t held her (soft and warm and too afraid to touch him back). Hadn’t sat next to her, fully clothed in the first bed they’d found since the ship crashed, and done nothing but read a book to her. About a plague.

He does not leave her to her own misery. He doesn’t even laugh at her. He just…stands there. His skin itches on the inside. His muscles twitch with some nameless need to do something. He’s not even sure what. He looks to the door. Tries to will himself to take a step. Just one.

But his treacherous feet stay bolted to the floor (like a command, like an order and that is why he can’t do this, can’t be this, can’t feel this).

She gasps again. The tiniest scrap of a sob on her voice as she thumps her head against the wall.

Shit. Shit bloody hells.

“Eleanor?” he says so softly he’s sure her mortal ears won’t catch it. But he mistimes it—of course he does—and it lands right in the middle of her holding her breath again.

She flinches as if he struck her. And he can’t let himself examine the feelings that thought dredges out of the muck of his soul.

“Darling,” (yes, much safer), “perhaps you’d be more comfortable moving away from there, hmm? Since we do have a bed?”

She doesn’t answer. Unless one counts “a barely controlled collapse to one’s knees while hiding one’s face” as an answer.

His palms tingle. He has that thought again, of doing something. That isn’t stealing her pack while she’s distracted. He doesn’t like her like this. She should be, well, she’s usually quiet. But in a judgmental kind of way. A silent watchfulness. The furrow between her brow and the slight arch when someone is being an idiot and she’s trying not to say so.

Not…this.

Damn all the hells. He has no idea what to do. His body—usually so lithe and maneuverable—encases him in dead muscle and rotting bones. It’s an awkward thing, suddenly. Unwieldy.

He thinks of kneeling beside her and patting her shoulder and saying, “There, there.” As they do in mummeries or copper novels.

He searches his tattered memories for something better. Finds nothing suitable. Ends up kneeling beside her and patting her shoulder and saying, “There, there?”

She does not lift her face, wet with the pretty kind of tears maidens in mummeries do. She does not throw herself upon him to weep delicately over his bloodied armor (it’s coagulating and starting to dry off into large, disgusting flakes).

What she does do is make a sort of bleating sound. A laugh, he realizes after a moment.

And then. She lifts her face, finally. Turns to him.

No, she’s decidedly not a pretty crier. Her face is swollen and mottled, her wet eyes bloodshot. She swipes at the spit on her lips and gives a broken, painful looking smile.

Says, “I know, right?”

Which, what in the hells is he supposed to do with that? So he does nothing (looks again to the closed door). But she catches it, this time. Her face crumples even as she nods.

“You go on,” she says, voice thick and lungs still stuttering. “Probably needs to be warmed up, but I gave all my money to the Walking Dead.”

It takes several moments for that to mean anything. Withers.

He doesn’t quite remember being dead? Not in any detail. Remembers only dark and silence. And an ancient voice thrumming through him, “By doom and dusk, I strike thy name from the archives. Rise.”

Then breathing. Clawing. His body jerking to (un)life for the second time and the churning, screaming panic as he searched for those polished, leather boots, for the awful, crushing vice on his mind of the master.

The cleric had mentioned his leader had given the desiccated corpse all her gold to revive him. As she should, seeing as it was her foolish decision that got him killed.

They’d gotten that gold from the tollhouse, after the wizard exploded that awful creature. She had a ring, near the beginning of their little fiasco. A child’s toy, with a child’s cantrip on it. She’d said it was the first jewelry she’d ever owned. In her entire life. And she gave it up to the wizard’s consuming orb.

She has nothing but the clothes on her back and some potions, doesn’t she? She gives away everything else. Sometimes to vagabond children, but the rest of the time…

“Go ahead,” she says. Turns her face away and scrubs at it with her sleeves. “I’m good. I’ll get my shit together while you get cleaned up.”

Dismissing him. He’s free to march over to that door and not come back until she re-secures her own mask.

She would know better than anyone her own state. Her capabilities. And there’s no reason for him to stay (there isn’t, and that traitorous voice inside him will kindly shut up if it knows what’s good for it).

But.

But…

Damn it all. She’s not good. He knows she hides her emotions. He even knows why. It’s a perfectly sensible reaction, amongst people who would take advantage of such a weakness.

Yet the thought of him being someone she needs to hide that from (no). It, it prickles (no). He doesn’t care for the notion (he mustn’t dare, it’s not real, it’s not).

That bastard is leagues and leagues away. Astarion has an illithid tadpole nibbling at his brain, but it also keeps that brain free of any crushing orders. He can make his own decisions. He can choose to stay here, if that’s what he wants to do. No one can stop him.

“Please go,” she says. Gods, she sounds hollow. Pained. “I got you killed. You don't gotta s-stay here.” The stutter worsens. “D-don’t gotta coddle my st-tupid ass. You fucking d-died.”

“Yes, I did. And I’d rather not go through that a third time, if you please.”

He means it to be a joke. He can make her laugh sometimes (what a marvel).

This time he misses entirely. She crumples again. Sinks down to her knees, shoulder against the wall, and tucks her chin in. She so badly tries to hide her face from him. “I’m so, so s-sorry.”

He…

Astarion has been hurt by others. All the time, really. Almost everyone, the rest of them being dupes or fools. He’s laid on his narrow bunk in the dormitory, or curled on his side, naked in the kennels, and dreamed of hurting people back. Grabbing them by the throat as their eyes bulged. Ripping their throat out with his teeth, their hot blood a phantom dream, as they gurgled and begged for mercy which he would deny them.

But she. Eleanor. She apologizes to him. Not even this time, but others. Even when he (fine) might have technically been the one at fault. She just hands them out like sweets at a festival. Like it costs her nothing.

Like he deserves them.

It upsets her when he’s hurt. Not because it denies her anything, but because…because…

She cares. For him.

She truly cares for him, doesn’t she? More than a target of lust, more than a convenient dagger or a set of lock-picking tools or even a good fuck.

She asks him to read to her, by the hells. She laughs at even his bad jokes. She listens to him. Values his opinion. Gives him her blood while refusing sex (until recently) (and even then, she didn’t even find him attractive until she said she knew him) (he can’t let his mind go there).

She’s upset like this at herself. Because she got him hurt.

She’s this distressed for him.

“I…I don’t know how to be here,” she says. Wipes furiously at her eyes and he knows that will only make it worse. “Everything’s so…so fucked. I don’t know what to do.”

She hurts for him. Hurts so badly she can’t even breathe right. She gave all her money for him (which, yes, is only fair, but still). She’s cracked apart like this and trying to hide it for his sake. To spare him.

How does she exist?

(why couldn’t this have happened centuries ago)

“To be quite honest,” he says, his mouth moving of its own accord because he certainly didn’t plan this, even now panics as he sucks in another breath to continue. “Neither do I.”

She sniffles. Poor thing desperately needs a handkerchief. But a quick glance around the room reveals nothing of the sort. And he suspects whoever is left to maintain this place will be cross should he take a knife to the bedding to fashion one.

“Are you okay?” his darling leader says. On her knees on the floor, blood vessels burst in her eyes from holding in her own agony, and she still seeks his well-being.

It warms him even as he fights himself not to recoil.

“Aside from being covered in my own blood and rather hungry,” he says. Means it, again, to be light-hearted. But her gaze sharpens.

“You need blood?” she says. Looks to her snotty sleeve. To the arm beneath, with the faint marks of his teeth still lingering on her wrist.

She's going to give up her blood. Even after all this. Her first thought, what she seizes upon is something to help him.

Gods, his plan has worked spectacularly.

Gods, he feels ill.

Yet blood is blood, and his gaze locks on the proffered arm. On the blood he knows pulses beneath that warm skin of hers. His mouth waters as his fangs ache.

“If you’re offering?” he says. Because he can’t help himself. Can do nothing about the hunger clawing apart his insides even as he wants to vomit.

She sniffs again. “Only seems fair. Since…”

She seems to want to finish that sentence. But it gets caught up. Starts the tears again and she seems so determined to avoid that. She instead clears her throat and attempts a smile. “Wanna let me clean off my face? And you can take a bath?”

To dine like civilized people.

(Take advantage.)

“If that’s what you prefer,” he says.

(Another target.)

She nods. Searches around, he suspects, for something like a handkerchief.

(Another victim.)

“I can forgo warming the bath water, if you can,” he says. “Spare the coin and all.” Only her shoulders slump in some fresh misery.

(Naive.)

“Maybe they’ll take an I owe you,” she says. Reaches for her bag. “Maybe I can pawn off something. There’s that merchant lady out front somewhere.”

(Foolish.)

She barely owns anything at all. Yet she’ll give up more? For him?

(Idiot.)

(Soft-hearted.)

(Gullible.)

(wonderful)

He’s not even sure at this point which of them is the bigger idiot.

[rubberduckyrye]

I've been seeing a fair bit of "Shuichi treats people more like cases than people" sentiment, and while it is an interesting idea for Angst Purposes, I just don't think that's very in character for him realistically.

Especially when people talk about the runaway cases he dealt with.

I think a lot of people think "runaway" and think "children who are in abusive homes who NEEDED to run away" and not "Children who got emotionally devastated by something and made an irrational choice in the heat of the moment" because there is a fundamental difference between the two. Even still, you should not leave a runaway child to fend for themselves! They are vulnerable! They need help!!!

Whether they need help getting home or help into a new home.

I think that also people don't acknowledge it when Shuichi says that he checks up on the runaway cases post-investigation to make sure everything's still okay and going well. I'm also sure that, as part of the process, he learns from the runaway child the reason why they ran away, and if the reason was as devastated as domestic or sexual violence or severe neglect, he would NOT just send them off home.

That is not in character for him.

He has a lot of very human interactions with his classmates (outside of Kokichi, who is explicitly hated by the narrative) and tries (maybe fails, but tries) to be considerate towards them and their inner feelings.

His interactions in his LSEs aren't just acting, he's still being "himself", and his interactions with characters like Kirumi (I.E. validating her and humanizing her, insisting that her love for him isn't bad because she is his equal) despite playing the role of her "master." And in Gonta's, he knew Gonta was upset over scaring him so he comforted him and reassured him that everything was okay.

Also in Kirumi's FTE's, Shuichi offered to be Kirumi's "master" when she was playing a joke on him with the whole stray maid thing, and in Kiibo's FTE, he offers to continue helping Kiibo find new avenues to explore via his robot emotions and the whole robot business thing.

Shuichi doesn't just, stick around only to figure someone out and then get bored of them when he's done. I'll be the first to admit it, how Shuichi treats Kokichi specifically is pretty terrible at times, but that is a narrative flaw that does not apply to everyone else.

He's very thoughtful, tries his best to be accommodating and supportive, and does try his best to make connections with the people around him. He almost overextends himself just to help others--which is something that he would do for runaway children as well.

I think people need to give Shuichi more credit than just seeing the Runaway Cases thing and immediately thinking his neglectful person who only cares about solving mysteries because canon didn't explicitly state how he handles those cases.

[bunnies-and-sunshine]

Blending in.

Amos is doing his very best to camouflage himself as a plushie to help distance himself from whatever shenanigans Naomi is getting up to behind the bookshelf.

[dd-is-my-guiltypleasure]

[aetherityart]

You are my sunshine ☀️ my only sunshine 🌻

You make me happy 🥳 when skies are grey 🌫️

You’ll never know dear, how much I love you ❤️

Please don’t take my sunshine away🌼

Happy One Piece Day! Here’s to more adventures!

[sirgawainofgalifrey]

Introducing my brother to Arcane RN and he goes "Three episodes in and all the main characters are either dead, evil, or Jayce."

[m1rafaye]

Squishy Stanley or Stanley Squishy!

Stanley the Mushie is Nazhu’s adopted son in our campaign, and he’s the sweetest boy you’d ever meet. He’s a homebrew race that replicates those he admires and is close too. So his cap is similar to Apidae’s hat, and his arms are representative of both Nazhu and Apidae! he’s a curious fellow who just wants to be like his mom :)

[alchemistdetective]

"... Shoot? Shoot what? Get your mind out of the gutter, you know that's not what I meant. Unless you meant giving me a gun, which I'd love to use it on Illya for sniffing my hair all the time."

"Speaking of haaair... How long do you think Illya would notice that you've been replaced by a fake if I'm left alone like this? And before you ask, if you agree, that gives me free access to your whole wardrobe I can wear freely, okay?~"

[jarofteeths]

A Late Night

"Eyeball" isn't feeling terrific mentally, so he takes a quiet moment for himself while everyone else is asleep.

(cw: smoking, slight melancholy feels)

Nick leaned back in his bunk, staring at the ceiling of the dimly lit barracks. The muffled snores of his fellow soldiers filled the room, a steady rhythm that only made the restless churning in his chest worse. He tossed the thin blanket off his body, the cool night air hitting his skin as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His fingers brushed the edge of the pack hidden in the inner pocket of his jacket, a habit he hadn’t indulged in for a while, but just this once he could afford to loosen his strings a little.

With a soft sigh, he grabbed his coat, careful not to wake anyone, and slipped out into the quiet hallway. The base was eerily silent at this hour, the usual hustle and noise of the day replaced by the hum of distant machinery and the occasional shuffle of a night guard on patrol. Nick’s steps were heavy but deliberate, each one echoing faintly off the cold concrete walls as he made his way to the exit.

He pushed open the door, the brisk night air hitting him full force. The sky above was clear, the stars scattered across it like a reminder of home—of nights spent out on the water with his grandpa, the scent of saltwater and the promise of a simpler life. He hadn’t thought about Wisconsin in a long time, hadn’t let himself think about the endless fields and the smell of fresh-cut wood. The ache in his chest grew sharper, and he forced it down, the way he always did.

Nick reached into his pocket, pulling out the crumpled pack of cigarettes. He tapped one out, placing it between his lips and lighting it with a flick of his thumb on the lighter’s wheel. The first drag burned, the nicotine hitting his system like a punch to the gut, but it settled something inside him, at least for the moment.

He leaned against the rough exterior of the base, staring out into the darkness. There was a vulnerability in the stillness of the night, one he didn’t allow himself to feel during the day. Out here, alone, with only the stars to witness, he let the mask slip just a bit. The weight of everything—of the missions, the losses, the secrets he kept even from his own brethren—pressed down on him until he felt like he might suffocate under it.

A shiver ran down his spine, not from the cold, but from something deeper, something he didn’t like to name. Homesick. Lonely. Tired. All words that didn’t fit the tough soldier image he kept up for everyone else. He took another drag, exhaling slowly, watching the smoke curl up into the night sky. Maybe out here, in the silence, he could let himself feel it—just for a little while, before he had to tuck it all away again, before he had to go back inside and be "Eyeball," the unbreakable marksman who always had a joke or a helping hand to offer.

Nick sighed, flicking the ash from the cigarette, and let his head fall back against the wall. The stars above blurred as he blinked against the sudden sting in his eyes. Just a few more minutes, he told himself, then he’d go back in, back to the mask, back to the role. But for now, just for now, he’d let himself be Nick—the guy from Wisconsin, who missed home, who missed simpler times, who was just a little bit lost.

[chai-dye]

🐸 💎 🦋 🧸 ✏️ 💄🌸 🌿

🐸 Describe your aesthetic.

Center art credit to: rxbinwxng

💎 What’s your most prized possession?

Hmhmm that one's tough. Maybe my Aurora Spudster cow stuffed animal, who's currently taking a deep dive between the bed and the wall

🦋 Describe yourself in three words.

I honestly don't know 😭

🧸 Favorite place to nap?

Oooh anywhere cozy and in the sun, I love napping on the bed right by the big windows when the sun light is shining through

✏️ Have you ever written fanfiction?

Not personally/firsthand!

💄 Do you wear makeup?

Nope! I kinda wish I did sometimes I've seen some very pretty looks but no one in the sys ever felt drawn to it so none of us know anything 😭

🌸 Best compliment you ever received?

👉👈 When you said my fight animations in source looked cool

🌿 Describe your favorite outfit.

That we own personally: Black slim jeans and a star belt chain with chunky black boots that have a spiderweb pattern, kandi with fronter names (me & chase), black sparkly nail polish, a black jacket. A party city star necklace tucked in with a silver star charm necklace worn normally, star stud wristbands, and a black shirt with a dancing skeleton on it. 😭 that's a mouthful but in summary: black

[seeminglydark]

He was, in fact, not done.

In case you ever wondered what the comic this blog is for is ACTUALLY about, before it got hijacked by my hyperfixation ship, this re-draw of a panel from chapter one pretty much sums it up. Mick’s just dealing with your everyday supernatural bullshit, namely, his adopted child Rose being something akin to a cryptid shadow demon magical girl when the moon is full. What’s a mailman to do?

Mick and Rose Parker-Martinez are both from my long running supernatural drama Seemingly Dark on Tapas and Webtoon!

[littlemagicalstardust]

Orange is just gettin' after it or whatever. <3

[hottest-gay-bar-in-philadelphia]

Dennis acted his little heart out in the Mac Day Project Badass video 🫶🫶

[ultrakatua]

Gale's so good for crowd control, he carried the defend portal fight with Fire Wall really hard. It's mostly because the AI is stupid as hell and just... Rushes through the flames to die.

Then he failed some INT check and got the "Shar's Imbecile" status lol

[juniperr-248]

real footage of me practicing

[wishfulsketching]

Girl dad Silco is a source of endless entertainment for me

Extra doodles:

Someone save Sevika, she is in hell