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leighsartworks216 · 11 months

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No Alarms and No Surprises, Please

Astarion x gn!Tav/Reader

I had this idea and decided to write it "real quick" (it took like two hours). I meant to do just like a really short thing so I could eat lunch and then get back to work, but then my brain was like no we gotta set up context

Titled after the song "No Surprises" by Radiohead. It doesn't exactly fit, but it felt right in my mind

Warnings: mentions of murder, tense moments, injury, burning flesh, bruises, bones breaking, blood mention, nausea mention, angst, literal hurt/comfort, soft Astarion moments

Word Count: 1,863

Main Masterlist

First Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist - Second Baldur's Gate 3 Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You peeked slowly around the corner, holding your breath. Astarion hovered just behind you, almost touching you as you both surveyed your surroundings.

It was a palace, that much you knew. You also knew the guards were exceptionally strong. You already wasted enough healing spells and potions on the two guarding the door - you were just lucky they didn’t call for reinforcements. You also knew there was an artifact deep within the heart of this place that could provide some insight into removing the tadpoles.

“We’ll have to go around,” you breathe out slowly to the spawn. He gives a slight nod. As much as he loved bloodshed, sneak-killing all of them would be too high a risk. You almost came face to face with him when you look over your shoulder. He gives you a knowing smirk as he backs off. You nod down a side-hall. “That way.”

You gesture to Gale and Shadowheart, making sure they knew the plan. They nodded, waiting. You turn back to the patrolling sentinels. Their movements are constant and predictable, each pace following the same amount of steps. They sync, facing away from your destination, and you wave a hand for a companion to go.

Gale, ever the gentleman, lets Shadowheart go first. She hides behind the wall, out of sight. You wait again and gesture for Gale to go. He bites back complaints about his knees that creak under the duress of sneaking. He arrives just as a guard turns. Astarion could hear your heart thumping wildly in your chest; it pounds so loud in your ears you can’t even hear the guards’ footsteps anymore.

He wraps a hand around your waist, carefully pulling you away from the corner. You stare at him, worried he’s noticed something wrong. He nods toward the hall where your companions wait. “You first,” he whispers.

You want to argue - he can see the wheels turning in your head as you frown at him. As the de facto leader, you always worked to ensure everyone else was safe before you. You rested a little easier knowing you’d be the one in harm's way should something go wrong. But Astarion was a rogue, and used to sneaking around to boot. He would be much better at timing his dash to the hall than you could.

After a moment, you nodded. He pushed you back to his prior spot as he takes your place, poking an eye around the corner and studying them. He thought you’d die of a heart attack if this went on any longer. When the guards turn, he taps your waist. You crouch as quickly as you can to Gale and Shadowheart. They greet you with a tense nod.

You wait in silence for Astarion.

He almost spooks you when he comes silently around the corner. But now, further from the immediate threat, you have a chance to breathe.

The hallway stretches on for what seems like forever. Closed doors and open arch-ways line each side, perfectly mirrored. At the end, there’s a very small statue - but you’re sure it’s life size up close. The prospect of a maze with the ever-looming fear of getting caught doesn’t exactly thrill you, nor any of your companions, but nothing can be done for it.

You sigh and lead them onward.

It’s too risky to peek inside the rooms - if there were patrols inside you’d all be jumped and killed within minutes. At each arch, you glance around the corner, down the other equally as endless corridors. It’s oddly quiet. Not a guard in sight, even on grander doors that seem like they should be protected. It leaves you on edge. Waiting for the boot to drop and leave you in mortal peril. At the very least, you feel safe enough to stand up. It saves you from Gale’s grumbling.

You peer around another corridor and try to imagine the layout of the palace. You’d found a map once, but it was too tattered to make anything useful out. The most information you gleaned from it was where the staircases were. If you could find your way to one of those, you’d be able to go down, deeper into the belly of the beast. You believe, if your slipping memory of the map was correct, you could turn down this way and go all the way to the end, and there would be stairwells on either side of the very-tiny-life-sized-statue.

Resolved to your plan, you step through the ornate marble arch. You feel the pain before you register where it’s coming from. You collapse to the floor, cushioned only by a strong arm and solid body. A hand clamps over your mouth, pressing down tight to keep any sound from slipping through.

Oh. That breathless tightness in your chest is not from the pain. It’s you screaming. Trying to, at least. Your eyes dart frantically around as your body writhes against the person holding you. Gale and Shadowheart appear in front of you, kneeling down and working as fast as they can to help.

One of your legs feels weighed down. You stare at the chunk of metal for too long before it finally registers the trap clamping down on your leg. It looks and acts like a bear trap, but it’s been improved to burn red-hot when activated.

Fear grips you like a vice. You become conscious of the fact the teeth of the trap are almost meeting. It’s bitten through your bone. Or nearly through, anyway. You didn’t process it, too busy being victimized by the sadistic mechanics of the device, but Astarion, Shadowheart and Gale all felt nauseous as the crack continues to echo in their mind.

“Shh,” comes a whisper by your ear. You whimper and gasp and struggle, but the arm around your waist only re-wraps around you to pin your arms down. “It’s alright, I’ve got you.”

Astarion looks away from your injury, peering down the halls. The sound of the bone snapping was loud enough to attract attention, he just didn’t know how much, or when they’d be coming. Not to mention where they’d come from. For all he knew, their luck had run out, and any second a swarm of golden-armored bastards would be charging down the hall they were in.

“We need to get out of the open,” he hissed to the cleric and wizard.

Gale cast an ice spell, focusing all his energy in freezing the hinge of the device. If he could get it cold enough, it would become brittle, and they could dismantle it and pull it from your leg like cracking open an oyster. Shadowheart focused on healing the burns being inflicted to your skin as they were happening. It smelled uncomfortably like meat roast. Your blood vessels were cauterized. Astarion could hardly take solace in the fact when the usually-delicious scent of your ichor was replaced with the smell of cooking flesh.

“We can’t move them yet,” Shadowheart whispered, barely biting back her panic. She couldn’t keep healing you forever.

Gale grunted, brow furrowing further as he willed the ice to freeze faster, freeze colder around the metal.

Astarion felt useless, watching and unable to help. Holding you while you thrashed in agony was all he could do. He hoped to the gods he wouldn’t reveal a bruise over your mouth when this was finished. “I’m here,” he whispered sweetly in your ear. It was all he could think to do. “You need to keep still, love. It’ll be over soon.”

The words didn’t reach. You knew he was speaking when his breath fanned over your ear, but the speech-centers of your brain were thoroughly turned off. As were any of the logic-centers. Anything that could have told you they were helping, to calm down and stop moving, was replaced instead with klaxons and sirens urging you to struggle and fight back against the pain.

Footsteps. Loud and clanging. Getting closer. Astarion cursed. “We have to hide,” he hissed again, panicked.

There was no time to argue. They all seemed to have the same idea as Astarion pushed himself across the floor with his legs, pulling you with him. Shadowheart and Gale stopped casting in favor of moving your legs, as carefully as they could possibly manage. Hot tears slipped over Astarion’s hand as you thrashed violently with the motion. But now, at least, you were tucked into a corner. Hidden behind a pillar that framed the arch of the hallway. Everyone held their breaths. You didn’t catch the memo, but the spell-casters held your legs down so you wouldn’t make as much noise.

The clanging of armor rose in volume until the echoes through the corridors nearly deafened everyone. You momentarily stopped fighting. Though, Astarion couldn’t tell if it was because the sound had reached past your pain, or if your body was giving out under the duress.

The steps - 3 guards, if Astarion had to guess by ear - slowed from a run to pacing the juncture of the halls. They circled around, stopping occasionally. One set of steps stopped mere feet away. If Astarion leaned forward slightly, he could make out the point of a nose. Shadowheart and Gale slowly pressed themselves back into the shadow of the pillar.

Something touching his hand startled him. He had to fight not to physically jump and draw attention. A hand, your hand, rested weakly over his. He let go of your arm and turned his hand to hold yours. He could feel you whimper in his hold, the shake of your breaths as they hit hot against his hand. You were scared. He was, too.

He squeezed your hand and looked back at the pillar. The steps hadn’t moved. The sentry was still there.

Seconds ticked away at a snail’s pace. They all worried for a moment the guards had chosen to stay there and patrol the intersection. Then the sentinel stepped back from the arch. More footsteps followed. A pause. He could only imagine they were silently saying they did not find anything. And then the cacophony of armor drowned out any last doubt as they retreated back down the hall.

They all let out sighs of relief, even Astarion who had no need for air. He turned his focus back down to you. Your eyes were shut, your breaths were evened out. You’d fallen unconscious. It was a small mercy.

“Hurry up so we can get the Hells out of here,” he huffed. Shadowheart and Gale nodded, equally as eager to get back to safety, and returned to work.

Astarion slowly removed his hand from your mouth. Light bruises where his fingertips had been began rising through the surface of your skin. He sighed, upset at the pain he caused even through necessity, and brushed a tender kiss over the darkest of the bunch. He was too overwhelmed with relief to care if the others saw him. “You’ll be alright,” he whispered again, even though they did not reach you. He was reassuring himself more than anything. It would have been pathetic, if he could think about anything other than your wellbeing. “I’m here, darling.”

---

Tag List:

@hypopxia @flsalazar @beverlybeav @angelofthorr @emiemiemiii @marina-and-the-memes @aurasyn @furblrwurblr @cappsikle @mjmygd @thegirlsadventuresinwonderland @kindadolly @bloopthebat @pandimoostuff @chesb0red @black-star1472 @sessils @olitheghostboy-blog @puppyg1rl666 @maruichio @cyber-dump-171 @katharynmarie @twinkliker3000 @cherifrog @catching-fire-in-the-wind @thespectacularspaceace @lynnlovesthestars

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brucewaynehater101 · 5 months

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Running over here to give an idea spawned from binging Pretty Cure transformations

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The Drakes uncover artifacts on land once owned by their very own ancestors, to which they are the closest related descendents of

This gives them the absolute rights to distribution, and considering they spend less time with Tim than desirable, it's gifted to their boy in hopes of bonding with him through their ancestry

The last thing Tim expected upon opening the vintage birdcage was for the perch to swing and the sudden appearance of an bearded vulture flying out and soaring all over the room

Even stranger? The bird looked like it came out of a painting, from the brushstrokes to the exaggerated colors, like, its feathers were a wine red instead of red-orange one would expect

Oh, and the cheering—"Free! I'm free! Child, did you free me from my prison? Splendid! Spendid! I can cast revenge on those dastard Drakes at long last! Long last!"

Unfortunately for birdie here, they've been imprisoned for so long that any Drakes who imprisoned them are long dead

Remaining descendents are all innocent in this conflict

"A shame, a shame indeed, but now that I no longer fear them, and you too are ignorant of why they did not pass down their evil, I should give thanks to you."

"Tell me your Deepest Dream, and I'll isee if we can fulfill it."

Introducing Mes'Dremere, a painting granted life by magics long ago

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I haven't developed quite a backstory, I'll leave it to you guys to brainstorm, but this vulture (they/them) isn't going to be having any beef with living Drakes since their sworn enemies died long ago

More trivia, their name is a blend of Mesmerize and Dream

They are far from the only magical being to slip through the cracks and go unknown for so long

Tim Drake, descended from a line with the power to ensnare one of Mes'Dremere's power, is a canary in the coalmine so to speak, seeing strange beings that appear to do nothing, but attach themselves to practically everyone, even Batman

And with every rogue attack, every act of corruption, and especially Arkham Breakouts they only grow more numerous

He can even photograph them

"This isn't my Deepest Dream, I still need to figure it out, but can you tell me if there's a monster on this man's head, or if I'm just hallucinating?"

"To think, to think, I would ever see such a thing again. My boy, an awful, awful evil has beat me here, such that it will cast this place into a greater despair than ever seen before, before."

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Hollowing Wish, entities as older than Mes'Dremere; they seek personhood, purpose, dreams and the will to go forward by feeding from unprotected and unsuspecting victims, so that they may finally end their everlasting hopelessness

But saying they are eating victims into depression isn't true. When someone, for example, expresses willpower, they release an energy the Hollowing Wish will then consume. A junk food compared to getting it from the source, right inside. It's not enough for them

Pursuing a fruitless path to ending their plights, Hollowing Wishes take but never give to even themselves, only continuing the ever downwards spiral

victims can include but are not exclusive to: people, animals, and objects granted oh so much love and care

Regarding the last one, objects have a dense core inside them of all the deeply held feelings towards them, whilst surrounding it are the passing feeling people have for it

In the rare case of a Wish attaching to a target for so long, the two will become one, becoming something that could be mistaken for a meta, alien or something else---this form is a Nightmare Awakening

they unleash their pain and greedily keep their happiness locked away in their head in a desperate bid to hold into the remains being sapped away from the brain---until the target is reduced to a hollowed husk with nothing left within

As for the Hollowing Wish? they fucjing combust since taking in joy fresh from the fruit pulp instead of the juice is more than they're built to contain, leading to surrounding area and beings being entrenched in brief happiness, and then an onslaught of magical despair until the magical despair in the area and people dries up over time

What is it that causes them to spawn? Who migrated here, bringing their anguish with them?

The Hollowing Wish is an extension of a will, a will in even greater despair---Praying For a Forever Demise

"To think it was a Forever Dream they prayed for long ago, but then, but then?"

"Their unending praying manifested into a terrible, terrible demise . . . a name so long is easier to call Praying. It too serves well enough in reminding us how we got here, does it not, does it not?"

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More tethered to the physical plane as one born into it, Tim is offered the power to become a hero himself, specialized to fight against the Hollowing Wishes

But he's just a fanboy! Wouldn't Batman or even Robin be better?

"Speaking from personal experience, he seems like far the man who would let these practices into his life, even with him having no other choice, no choice."

"Besides, besides, Robin must have his plate full, plate full. What better way to express your love for the Bats, than to ease their burdens, no matter how thankless, how thankless?"

"His own body can only go so far, hold so much, so much magic indeed."

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The streets have begun to talk of a boy . . .

"Magical Boy!" "Do you think Gotham is some kind of Sailor Moon episode?"

A boy without a mask yet crusading as the Bats do. Unrecognized like them; magic it must be

"I'm Dreaming of Robin," he says he is, "but I've never met Robin or Batman yet."

Colloquially, Dreaming Robin or Dream(s) Robin

He's found where the Bats won't be, putting a stop to crime, giving thankless aid, and other acts of public service

But stranger is that which he grants and insists people keep around their house for protection

Blank photographs that upon touch become depictions of the little things that grant a bit more joy

And less pressure on their shoulders

By Dreaming Robin's side is a vulture, a guardian calling themself Mes'Dremere

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Magical Boy Dreaming of Robin, Tim Drake. What does his arsenal hold? Listen Right Up!

[Materialized Eternity] is the ability to utilize photographs Tim takes by pouring his magic into his photos of choice

Say for example that Tim photographed Nightwing quadruple backflipping, a feat impossible for Drake

If Tim puts magic into that picture and he has it on his person, he will be able to reenact that quad-backflip just like Nightwing did, but doing so will drain the magic in the photo like a battery

After running out, the picture would need to be recharged on magic to be put to use again

That's just one way Tim can use the magic

[Lasting Photoshoot] the ability to pause time on entities and an area right after Tim takes a photo of for a short period of time

[Merry Memory] is the power to take a blank photograph and enchant it to protect people from magic by taking the image of something they love. It's Tim's go-to for defending people and himself from Hollowing Wishes

[Realization in Reach], Realization for short, is a magical staff and his primary weapon, as it can channel Tim's latent magical powers along with his gifted ones.

While feasible as a physical weapn, it gives Tim's magic more strength and a much wider area of effect. Emphasis on the more strength which Tim has to be careful about

[Forever Remember] is the power to photograph a Hollowing Wish that Tim defeats and thus seal them permanently within those photos

Photoed Wishes can be weaponized against other Wishes and Nightmares to make them fight for the same resources they crave. When weaponized wishes run dry, unlike Eternities, those Wishes effectively die and cease to exist

the photo becomes blank, and can picture something else

Tim also has safes with as much scientific and magical security employed, storing albums with Hollowing Wishes and Materialized Eternities to swap out

Now for The Best Part yet!

"My Deepest Dream, I'll make you true!" A heirloom locket holding Tim's most precious photo of Robin he's ever taken, it is his chosen transformation item

(here's to hoping it never gets taken away due to that very picture within, because Tim won't be the only person fucked over by it)

As a rule of thumb, Dreaming Robin's outfit, his arsenal, and the photos he gives to protect against Hollowing Wishes all look like they came out of a painting, specifically what you get when googling "mystical painting"

Tim does learn some other magics that can be used to fight against Hollowing Wishes, Nightmare Awakenings and purify an area and people suffering the affereffects of a Hollowing Wish exploding and spreading their despair everywhere

Yeah Tim is gonna angst every time he fails to save a Nightmare Awakening before it's too late for them, poor him :(

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In unrelated news? Tim has himself a pet too well trained, yet several times proven unabused and pampered

American Robin Dreams Come True 'Dreams' who people swear came from a painting despite their vibrant feathers being so picturesque, and vibrantly red all naturally

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Gotham is yet again the source of insanity. That being strange monsters that abruptly show themselves to people before forcibly turning them into monsters

Thankfully, Dreaming of Robin always comes to save the day

Hollowing Wishes, he calls these monsters

Nightmare Awakenings, the victims are named

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Some extra deets

Haha depression go brrrr

Praying For a Forever Demise is like this due to how much anguish, and hollowness they hold, and the desire for joy they want &/or used to have

Maybe they got their depression all naturally, or maybe magical shenanigans lead to them possessing an ungodly amount of it inside of them idk, maybe a blend of both

But yeah, Praying is only going to put to a stop when help and empathy is placed in front of them, and the shot of a happy dream everlasting is finally in reach

Also uh, Praying isn't wholly aware of wtf is going on outside of their head as they stew in their despair, with the rare blips of hope provided by Hollowing Wishes

Their situation is similar to a powerful deity unaware of their godhood and untrained into their powers which need to actively be restrained, but that has evidently not happened

so yeah, they're unknowingly spreading their depression everywhere

Or maybe they have come to awareness that spreading Hollowing Wishes is what they're doing and have compartmentalized that, it doesn't stop their depression from being worse nor even more Wishes spawning but willful ignorance is intoxicating

idk how they traveled to Gotham either lol, but they're dead center in Arkham Asylum, and with it being the new source for Hollowing Wishes, its gonna became way, way worse than in canon

Also prior to being Praying For a Forever Demise, they were Praying For a Forever Dream, do with this knowledge what you will

Are other Drake artifacts magical as well? You decide!

For clarification, Tim's magical boy alias, "Dreaming of Robin" is maybe an accident where he just states that "yeah I dream of Robin, he's my hero" but people thought he was stating his name so it stuck

Or maybe he intentionally introduces himself like that for the symbolic name

Mes'Dremere employs a whitelist geass preventing people from finding out Tim is Dream Robin unless they're whitelisted

I'm thinking that Tim could accidentally snatch up future Waynes into his team, and under Mes' tutelage, Stephanie, Duke, Cassandra and maybe even Damian

I think Jason, after dying and reviving, and he alongside Damian due to the Lazarus Pits, would be especially vulnerable to Hollowing Wishes, so woof

Side note, I think Tim would offer Jason-as-Robin the chance to become a Magical Boy with him, only for him to decline and after resurrection thinking

"I should've taken the Magical Boy route when I had the chance," lmao

Idk if Tim would still become a Teen Titan here, but it'd be neat if all of the Young Justice core four and maybe more became/joined the magical boy & girl team

Since Arkham is a breeding ground of Hollowing Wishes, people there are the least likely to become Nightmare Awakenings since they all have countless Hollowing Wishes attached to them

that means several Wishes are fighting for resources against eachother to sap up expressed will/joy/accomplishments etc.

Because they're fighting over the same person, often dying in the process and others joining the fray in fighting over their victims, they often make little progress in making way to becoming Nightmare Awakenings

So yeah, where as Batman and the clan will be more focussed on their rogues, Tim is more worried about normies who are more likely to fall victim to Hollowing Wishes

That being said, he doesn't wanna see a rogue or bat become a Nightmare Awakening, so he gives them both tons of Merry Memories and get rid of as many Hollowing Wishes on them as he can

And he's rightfully afraid, all hell will break loose if they subcumb to Nightmarehood

Feel free but not pressured to expand on this as you all wish

A magical boy Tim AU? Hell yeah.

Some additional ideas to add:

Tim's outfit comes from the culture present at the time of when Mes'Dremere was imprisoned. Tim has absolutely no choice in this matter, which is an initial point of contention. However, it eventually becomes a point of pride and comfort

The culture is one specific to this AU (so there's no cultural appropriation). Similar to Atlantis, Krypton, and other lost societies, Tim starts to discover their practices, rituals, customs, etc when he's trying to connect to his roots (since it's also the culture of his ancestors).

Jason rejects becoming a magical boy because he's "a literature nerd, not that kind of nerd." Tim's a little offended by this, but they get over it quickly. Jason also grumbles when he gets the All Caste because he ended up becoming a magical boy anyways, just without the transformation scene.

There can be angst added where Jason says Robin is magic so he doesn't need to become a magical boy. Then Jason dies and ends up getting All Caste.

Tim ends up learning a lot about psychology as a nonmagical way to help people as well. If there are fewer depressive symptoms, there's less for the Hollowing Wishes to feed on. Also, mental health techniques/coping mechanisms can delay the progression into a Nightmare Awakening.

The YJ core don't end up becoming magical boys/girls except for Bart. They do team up, though, and Tim helps a lot in battles even when there aren't Hollowing Wishes.

Cass would definitely vibe with becoming a magical girl since there's no killing. She'd probably do both the magical girl routine and become a Bat cause she's awesome like that

Would Damian view the Wishes as creatures?

Tim is able to form a different type of friendship with Zatana, Raven, and Anita due to his magical status. He also likes to call up Constantine to bother the poor bastard (it's funny to him).

#dc comics #tim drake #dc universe #dc au #thank you for the ask!!!!

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ddejavvu · 2 years

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This came to me in a dream but reader doing an acupressure move on Aaron’s hand whenever he’s too frowny and tense that makes him see stars and basically drift up to nirvana and all the tightness in his body release and the first time they do it he’d be so confused like why do you want my hand??? but okay here take I- 🤨🤨😐😦😧🤤😵‍💫

Bonus points bc the team would be like YOU CAN TURN OFF HIS OSCAR-THE-GROUCH MODE??? NEVER LEAVE THIS TEAM.

Just wanted to share idk what part of my uncultured brain spawned acupressure theory this evening but I’ll take it 🤠<3

Aaron's grumpy again. Most of the time he is, at least within the confines of his work hours. It's hard to smile when you're looking for abducted teenagers, but if he frowns any harder, he'll get stuck that way.

"There has to be something we're missing," He presses, narrowed eyes surveying the crime scene photos, "This level of violence is extreme, there's no need for this much overkill."

"Maybe he's fascinated with the blood," Reid suggests, hands coming up to aid in his explanation, "Y'know, some serial killers only kill for blood. There's various reasons for it, maybe they collect it, maybe they drink it, maybe they have some event in their past that makes it significant to them, but whatever it is, the killing isn't what they need, the blood is."

"Well these are teenage girls," Derek sighs, "Maybe the unsub lost a girlfriend or a sister in a pretty bloody way? Like a shooting, or a car accident or something?"

The table falls silent, each profiler extrapolating possibilities. You're halfway to reaching a possible conclusion, a suggestion about hunting on your tongue, but you see Aaron's fingers brush together, and it distracts you. He does it when he's anxious, and you're noticing it more and more lately.

You reach for his hand instead of speaking. You'll help later, when Aaron isn't suffering like this. Your fingers brush against his skin as you take his palm into your grip, and he looks at you from the side of his eye disapprovingly.

"Y/N," He murmurs, but no attempt at keeping his voice silent masks it from the other silent members of the team, "Now isn't the time for personal-" You squeeze at a tender spot on his hand methodically, "Relations..."

His face relaxes, wrinkles and ridges ebbing away as his eyes flutter shut involuntarily. You grin as wide as possible while sitting in front of bloody crime scene photos, happy you're able to provide even momentary relief.

"What was that?" Aaron looks at you, half suspicious and half dazed.

"Acupressure," You announce proudly, "It helps, doesn't it?"

"Yes," Aaron nods, running his fingers over the patch of skin that you'd pressed on, "It does."

"Where'd you learn that?" Rossi leans across the table.

"I was getting migraines from stress," You admit, "It helps to calm me down."

"Well, you're more of a magician than Spencer, Y/L/N," Derek grins, "You just melted that frown right off his face."

"Actually, acupressure isn't magic." Spencer starts, and he pointedly ignores the sighs that echo around the room, "It's a pseudoscience that originates from Chinese alternative medicine, and it works by targeting pressure points in your body that are supposedly linked to your 'life energy'. There've been several studies surrounding it which produced varying positive results, the most remarkable of which have documented illnesses actually being cured." He blinks once, twice after finishing, lips curving up into a half-smile that pudges his cheeks where they end.

"Well, uh, card tricks aren't magic either," Prentiss is the first to speak, "So I guess none of us are wizard-ready."

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner scenario #aaron hotchner oneshot #aaron hotchner one-shot #aaron hotchner one shot #aaron hotchner headcanon #aaron hotchner headcanons #aaron hotchner hc #aaron hotchner hcs #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #aaron hotchner dialogue #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x reader fanfiction

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ramblingsfromthytruly · 12 days

Text

14th September 2024, Saturday

day 20/50 productivity challenge

💤: ???idk honestly. i did try going to sleep earlier ystd but then my period started and my cramps were so bad. like usually they're manageable but this time it was actually excruciating. also felt nauseous so i kept rotating between walking to my bathroom, tossing & turning on my bed, and sitting on my room's floor sipping water.

🕒 11:30 a.m. - i'll count this as the time when i "woke up" but my sleep was pretty on n off so... told my mom at 7 a.m. that i could not go to school. i was still in pain. so didn't go to school today either..

morning skincare

chat all i've done is sleep today.. like i woke up in the morning and then slept for a few hours. then i woke up, ate my lunch at 1 p.m. and slept AGAIN till 7.30 p.m. 😀 these are by far the worst cramps i've EVER experienced.. unfortunately i have lots of backlogs to complete within today & tmr so i've gotta sit my ass down and just get through it (it's a lottt)..

did TWO exercise videos and drank coffee (think i needed this to jump start my brain) (also i've noticed that i tend to have the most motivation to be physically active during my periods only??)

cleaned room

extended duolingo streak

took bath

night skincare

made notes psychology ch: methods of enquiry in psychology (finished finally)

studied + made notes biology ch: cell: the unit of life

made notes psychology ch: human development

folded laundry (istg these clothes keep spawning out of thin air)

🕒 5 a.m. - went to bed fucking finally ugh

🚰: 4 glasses - not nearly good enough

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crystalyssa35 · 1 year

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A General Guide to Writing Well, Now, & Consistently

In all my years writing, I have struggled with keeping writing as a fun and healthy habit. It took me five years (and many instances of writer's block and giving up) to actually have a basic set of guidelines to keep my writing going...

And I would like to share these "rules" with you all today!

Now, a bit of a disclaimer: developing the quality of your writing skills comes with time, research, and thinking. It may sound frustrating to hear, and you may hear it often, but the only way to get better at writing is to write and read often. Many times, just by jotting a silly thought down or reading fanfiction, you can spawn ideas without realizing it.

Now, to the list of tips that (I hope) will help you on your writing endeavors!

If you are not having fun writing your story, your readers will not have fun reading it. It sounds silly, but it's true! If you're enjoying your writing, you're more likely to write more and input more ideas into it!

Even if you have people to check your works, reread them on your own anyway. This may be a little frustrating tip for some, but let me tell you: I used to HATE checking my own stuff. The worst way I learned that personally checking it is a necessity was when my aunt checked it and pointed out tens of mistakes within my grammar, storyline, and characters. Check yo work, it will save you a LOT of embarrassment in the future.

Write anything. Read everything. As ambiguous and obscure as it will sound, it makes sense with context. As I mentioned before, the only way to get better at writing is to write and read often. Write anything your mind desires, that's simple enough. But read EVERYTHING; not only books, blogs, and articles, but also games, texts with friends, billboards, pictures with text, and (sorry, students) even homework as well. You'll be surprised how much your vocabulary expands when you actually pay attention to anything that is written (for me, it was video games. Seven-year old me knew vocabulary that I was taught in seventh grade because of it). And on that note...

Research what you don't know. Please, this one is genuinely important (I'm biased because it's one of my pet peeves). This includes words you don't know the definition of, spelling, and even generic, real-life information you want to add into your stories (e.g. I actually spent four hours researching how gemstones are categorized for my sci-fi story: Eco-Adstrum). Unfortunately, sometimes researching and fact-checking your ideas before writing them down can prove to be unmotivating, especially when you're wrong. But, it's always good to stay optimistic and be creative enough to twist the actual fact to mold it to your stories. Unless you're writing non-fiction, then maybe don't do that last bit.

If you have no ideas, keep wiggling your pencil. To those that recognize that phrase, yes, it is not my own. This is a piece of writing from former Tumblr user "officialtheonite" (I was only able to find the post because it has been reblogged multiple times) and their fifth grade writing teacher. Essentially, even if you have no ideas, keep writing. Write ANYTHING, even if it doesn't make sense. You will always be able to double-check it later and you will save yourself a lot of wasted time sitting around trying to stir the soup in your brain.

Balance the usage of your names and pronouns. To this day, I still struggle with this. I tend to use an abundance of pronouns when I'm referring to a character, so much so that sometimes, it becomes unclear on if we are still talking about aforementioned character or if we're talking about a different character entirely. Use names when the focus or action of a character is on stage; use pronouns if we are still talking about said character (even if we are talking about the same character, make sure you at least reiterate their name when there's a new paragraph).

I'll be editing and reworking this list as time goes on. I hope these tips can be of use so some of you all. Feel free to ask me any questions if needed. Enjoy writing and keep at it! I believe in you all!

#writing #writers on tumblr #writing tips #writing thoughts #creative writing #personal experience #ask me questions #writing advice #writer things #writeblr #writerscommunity

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thranduilsperkybutt · 11 months

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☾ the gold & the rust ☼

Pic Sources: 1 | 2 | 3

Pairings: Astarion Ancunín/Tav!Reader Warnings: NSFW; angst/comfort smut; yearning; Astarion is not ascended; mentions of past canon-typical trauma/abuse; the struggle of healing; Astarion has racing thoughts and you can't tell me otherwise; canon-typical biting; it's not about the sex it's about the feelings; spoilers for the endgame Word Count: 7,168 words Reader Gender: Female Author: Meg Summary: You’ve told him you will find him some cure for his darkness; you are set on performing a feat no one in history has ever achieved, all for him, but he wonders if it is as futile as the sun laboring to join the moon. Maybe he is destined to forever look upon you with the knowledge that when your bright, beckoning light inevitably burns out, he will be left with only his darkness, alone again... A/N: Look I blame Hozier for making too many Astarion-coded songs that make me sob my eyes out while thinking about the implications of his "good" ending. Astarion has literally changed my brain chemistry.

The sun cusps over the horizon, its soft tendrils spreading over a murky sky. Beckoning the night’s fleeing retreat with a gentle violence as the day demands more territory in each passing second. Sparse hues of blue manage to cling to some lingering clouds that have yet to meet the threateningly beautiful pink and orange sky.

Astarion reaches out from behind the heavy curtain and his darkness, towards the pillar of light that breaks into the privacy of your bedchamber. Pale fingertips dip hesitantly into the light, as if he could believe everything that has occurred over this past week has been only a dream. It takes but a moment for the evidence of his reality to meet him when his skin sparks and dusts under the light of day.

He flinches back, hissing lowly from the burning pain of it. Glaring down at his flexing hand as if the disdain in his eyes could change the fates that have turned the thread of his life into this ever-knotted thing. He’d never imagined he would miss having that damned illithid parasite in his head, yet here he was. Yearning to reach for morning again. Wishing to experience a dawn that may never welcome him again.

He hears the stirring moan, soft and drenched in exhaustion, and dares a glance away from his own skin and stinging regret. Stilling entirely, Astarion hopes he has not awoken you just yet. He does not wish for you to see him like this, in this state of self-pitiful detestation. Though he knows you may yet love him despite having seen it, showing the reality of his mind beyond his comfortable performances is easier said than done. Tension drips from his shoulders, if only a little bit, as he watches your body relax into the cushions with your blissfully ignorant slumber.

The sigh at his lips is shaky. Mournful. He looks back towards the sunlight and remembers how it had felt when it had forgotten how to punish him like this. He doesn’t know which is crueler: to have never felt it at all, or for it to be ripped away from him like this. In the brief time he was granted to finally walk in the sun again after the past two centuries, Astarion can’t help the fresh anger that bubbles up in him at the taking away of it. He didn’t deserve this--- any of it.

Truthfully, he has no clear memory of how the sun had felt to him when he was simply a mortal elf and not a spawn belonging to a master. It had been so long ago; memories fade over time when drenched in horror, he’s discovered well since. Still, something tells Astarion he loved the day even then as he did now. He’s certain he had always loved the heat of it--- the color.

The way it filters through your hair when you stand in the path of daylight, kissing the edges of your skin in a way he forever wished to share with it. It had been warmer and kinder to him than he had ever expected to receive, somewhat like you. You were undeniably beautiful in the light of day.

Even standing within the finality of the sunset of your journey together--- foes vanquished, coated in sweat and victory--- he had thought the same.

But nothing good ever lasts, he’s learned. At least, nothing but you. Astarion wonders if he would still grieve this much if he were to never have known the day at all. Would he know what he was missing? Would a piece of its cosmic heat have whispered of you to him, even then?

He can’t truly comprehend a world in which his fate had not become so intimately entangled with yours. Perhaps that is the worst part, how he knows he would always brave this feeling of loss to gain what he has with you. In the end of it all, he knows he has made the right choice to have this over the temptations of that infernal ritual’s power.

Despite that knowledge, Astarion truly hadn’t expected you to run after him when the lingering illithid protections dissipated from his being and the sun began its remorseless burning again. He had scampered away from the docks in an abject desperation, attempting to flee from the light’s betrayal. Astarion was the objectively faster party, but you had found him eventually--- you always seem to find him--- after he had taken to cowering behind wooden crates that cast a meager shadow of solace. He had been shaking, cradling himself, closed off entirely from the world as that sickeningly familiar taste of how things had been before--- back when he was still Cazador’s--- came flooding back onto his palate. His mind had become drenched in a fear he had thought could never claim him again.

You’d cut through all of it with your worried call of his name. Plunging him into the magical darkness you cast upon the both of you to shield him from the sun’s assault with such a thoroughness that not even you could see through it. His call of your own name sounded far too broken on his tongue for his own liking, but you’d followed the sound towards his outstretched arms all the same.

Dragging him up into yours, only a sliver of the calamity in his soul dissipated when you promised him blindly, “Come, quickly, I’ll get you someplace safe.”

Despite his better efforts, his voice shook as he allowed you to clumsily drape your cloak over his curls in darkness, unable to bring the deflecting humor to his voice that he so achingly wished would return, “Darling, you are a sight for sore eyes; or, you would be, I’m sure, if I could see you.”

“I told you this would come in handy,” you shot back, and he had been grateful for your effort at ignoring the bittersweet grief that so clearly drenched his soul in favor of reminding him of how he had teased you for spending a good amount of your gold on this very cloak when you’d all first arrived in the city.

His breath remained shallow, but his hand tightened over yours in what he hoped you knew was gratefulness when you finished ensuring the fabric had covered any of his exposed skin, “I shall never question any of your purchases again, on my honour.”

“Of course you will, Astarion,” he heard the slight worry in your voice as much as you tried to hide it. He felt the spell waning and with it the returning disorientation that even slight sunlight left him in. You had grasped his arm firmly and spoken with a confident determination that he suspected was as much for your comfort as it was for his, “Now, get ready to move quickly and keep your head down; the dark won’t last much longer.”

You were good for your promises, he’d learned over his time travelling with you, and that had brought some small comfort as the day reemerged before he’d had a chance to respond. Then, you were maneuvering him through the city, towards the darkness of Sharess’ Caress, with such a precision that he might think it more important than any quest you’ve had thus far if he hadn’t known better. Gripping him tightly the whole way, Astarion still has not dared tell you how grateful he was for it--- for you, surprising him against his better judgement every time with how you simply are.

It has been nearly a week now of you coming to his side in the night and yet some part of him still expected the other metaphorical shoe to drop. For you to come to your senses and tell him that you simply cannot carry on like this with him.

He wanted to believe you. Gods, how he wants it. Yet, he still felt like a fool to think he’s earned some love such as yours. He wants to believe he deserves the way you look at him like he can be what you see him to be. It’s too dangerous for his heart to invest in the thought that he maybe can. That maybe he is, already.

For you to look at him and tell him, “We’ll find it together. I promise we’ll find a way for you to walk in the sun again,” with such determination--- for you to be someone who genuinely believed the both of you could achieve it---

Well, you simply must be mad. He doesn’t know how else to explain these little ideas of yours.

Astarion figures you’ll continue to be as much a surprise to him as you’ve made a habit of in the past… and then there was that persistently annoying optimism of yours to contend with.

But this?

He doesn’t think that you understand the truth of the choice you’re making, to stay with him. To love him. How could you know it and still look upon him with such eager hopefulness as you do? He barely understands it at all himself, and he’s had centuries to come to terms with what he’s become. Forgive him if it’s a bit difficult to begin to understand just what “being something better than what Cazador made him” truly means.

He understands how much he wants you, though. He wants it all. The life that was stolen from him, the opportunities, but mostly for you to be there--- here. Where you’ve not wavered an inch from his side; you’ve given him no reason to think you plan on leaving anytime soon.

Why does he still fear it so much, though?

Some part of him had thought--- hoped foolishly, rather--- that killing Cazador would somehow fix two centuries of torment. Fix him. In the brief time after, he discovered that it hadn’t. In his elongated struggle, he worries it never will.

Nightmares still plague him, he still jumps at shadows, he still has thoughtless fear dart through his mind before he remembers again that his former master is well and truly dead. That simply existing in happiness was the rebellious proof of his victory over a man who he hopes will not haunt him forever. When he is with you, Astarion almost believes that Cazador won’t. It is some charm you have bewitched over him surely. Your ability to calm this chaos in him with soft eyes and patient hands that do not seek to own him, yet he eagerly chooses to belong there all the same.

Astarion still has trouble loving you like he knows you deserve to be loved. There are times when he can barely stand physical touch, though craves to want yours. And you understand the duality of the contradiction in him, taking only ever what he is willing to give.

Sometimes he thinks you too understanding, with little concern of how this affects you. He’s always baffled by how selfless you can be sometimes, particularly when you’re taking in strays. He has come to admit, if only to himself, that he does see the irony in his complaints. Moreso, he’s terrified of what will happen when that seemingly endless well of care you hold within you for others inevitably runs out.

What will happen when you can no longer bear his eccentricities? The compromises? The sacrifice that his double-edged love requires of you? Will there come a time when all he offers as part of being in this real love becomes too overwhelming?

Astarion had fallen in love with you in the easy warmth of sunlight. Looking upon you now as the dawn creeps against your sleeping form, his heart aches as he wonders if he can truly doom you to a life in his complicated darkness.

Selfishly, one thought consumes his mind--- he knows he wants to. He would want you, no matter the cost to you both. You have told him over and over again how you want the same but, Gods, he can’t figure out what he has done for this sliver of joy and it eats away at him in the dark. It’s unreasonable what he asks you to give him, but he’ll take it all the same. Bitterly he thinks, if he were a better man--- the man you see him to be--- he might even feel guilty for it.

For now, all he feels is the monstrous need to escape these racing thoughts in his head.

When will you walk away to join the sunlight for good? Hells forbid the answer his weary heart is preparing for ever be spoken from your lips.

Astarion hopes the day never comes when you choose to go where he cannot follow. He wants to spend all his days traipsing after you, wherever you may lead, no matter how much he may complain about it for show.

Astarion wants to spend all of it, whatever it may be, whatever he’s got left, with you. He’s terrified of the day that you change your mind on him. Fearful that you may one day decide these sleepless nights with a vampire spawn who can offer you nothing more than his undying love and sarcastic quips are nothing compared to the full life you could have with someone else. This theoretical, easy life in the sun that he dares to think he is stealing from you by loving you as he does.

Well, he supposes that reclaiming Cazador’s palace is always an option, rather than his other fantasy of burning it to the ground. Spending an eternity draping you in finery and keeping you to himself within a palace feels like something he should want, but he can’t help to think that it would be no better than making his love for you into a somewhat prettier cage.

More than he wants you, he needs you to freely want him. He’d be tempted to take up praying again if he had any faith that it could solidify your love for him forever, but deep down he doesn’t want heavenly intervention. He wants you to want to be with him--- to choose him willingly and without any regret for what the inevitable sacrifice will be. That understanding is, perhaps, what makes his heart swell with this bittersweet glory over all else.

You’ve told him as much and what your lips did not confess to him willingly, your body has whispered to his with an adoration that threatened to scorch him in much the same way of your beloved daylight. You’ve told him you will find him some cure for his darkness; you are set on performing a feat no one in history has ever achieved, all for him, but he wonders if it is as futile as the sun laboring to join the moon. Maybe he is destined to forever look upon you with the knowledge that when your bright, beckoning light inevitably burns out, he will be left with only his darkness, alone again--- this being the most horrible realization of all to have come to him tonight.

Hells, how desperately he wants to believe you, but Astarion has always had difficulty getting his hopes up. He hasn’t been known to bet on losing dogs, and he certainly doesn’t bet on his own odds these days.

But he figures you have more than enough hope for the both of you.

A minute smile quirks his troubled lips at that thought, watching your fingers twitch in your slumber. He shouldn’t doubt you as he does; you’ve given him everything. His freedom, his salvation--- even from himself, when he hadn’t known how much he needed it. Things he can never repay, and yet you’ve never asked him for a repayment. He owes you everything, but you’ve been adamant in tempering his sense of obligation. You’ve reminded him that everything he's done, he’s chosen for himself.

You’ve only ever asked him to love you, and that you have had for far longer than you know--- far before you ever actually plucked up the adorable courage to ask him for it.

He has come to love you more than he’s ever loved anything for as far back as he can remember. The depths of his adoration could scare even him with the raw vulnerability he is left with when it comes to you. How beautifully all his plans and plots for self-preservation have backfired upon him, though. He would not have you destroy his peace of mind in any other way.

Maybe one day, he’ll admit to you exactly when his nice, simple plan truly began to fall apart. The idea dances in his mind, of how you’ll react to that particular information. You’d hang on his every word, he thinks--- it would be rather pathetic of you, if he weren’t in much the same state.

Gripping the curtain, Astarion finally deems it time to push the budding light out of his darkness. If it is to be the only place he may have you for all of your days, he’ll make his darkness a sacred place. He decides he shall worship you in it--- all other gods have forsaken him already. Until the day his little hero saves him once again, he will indulge in this darkness with you.

The patriars nipping at your heels for guidance, the unwashed masses of the Gate clamoring for their glimpse of his hero, even your other traveling companions--- none of them shall invade upon this sanctuary.

He moves towards the bed, returning to you. Exhausted from a late day in the city and an even later night of enjoying his company, you’ve taken to claiming sleep when you can these days. The evidence of your labor rests in the dark circles under your eyes. He doesn’t think he could stop you from your philanthropic efforts assisting the city’s reconstruction even if he tried.

Still, right now, in these hours you are only his.

He dips his weight onto the bed and lays himself alongside you, pulling you tenderly against him as his lips graze your neck. Truly, he knows it is cruel to wake you, but he doesn’t know how he can manage to miss someone like this when you are right before him. It is as if his very soul yearns for you. He melts against the rhythmic flutter of your heart, and it sounds more like his home than the palace he has spent the last two hundred years in ever could.

Teeth graze against your carotid pulse, and you stir slightly. He hums into the soft warmth of your flesh, biting without intent to draw blood--- though the thought of it does cross his mind. He has never recovered from the taste of you. Cold fingers curl into your bare hip, dragging you slightly closer at the feeling of your waking movements.

Your pulse picks up against his lips. Astarion hears the patter of your heart in your ribs as his tongue drags up your throat towards your ear. Your breath hitches when his lips graze your jaw, but your eyes remain closed.

His lips twitch with mirth at your effort to have him do as he pleases.

“Quite the show, my little love, but I know you’re awake,” Astarion murmurs, slurred from the back of his throat like a man lost in thorough indulgence. Drunk with the scent of you on his skin, he leaves another faux bite on your jaw as you squirm beneath his assault.

“Shall you feed again, is that it?” yawning, your hand rubs at your eyes before you blink them open. When his hands run up your sides, your answering shiver reminds him of that first night he’d fed from you. Lit only by the campfire, you had allowed him to take too much before stopping him, even then.

He chuckles breathlessly, shifting the covers to invade your space more completely as you come back to your consciousness piece by piece, “As tempting as it is when you offer oh so nicely to be my treat, I hunger for something more satisfying this morn.”

“Ah,” you gasp from sleep-drenched shock, reacting on a delay as he brings his knee up to strategically push your legs open. Allowing you to feel the growing length of him through the thin linens between you, he levels you with his weight in a slow grind. Blinking up at him, your eyes focus in a darkness lit only by the dim glow of dawn beyond the curtains when he languidly rolls his hips against yours, “A-Astarion---!” He is watching you peculiarly, with a glint of some unreadable darkness in his eye that you can’t quite place. The breathless whimper at your lips sends that warmth of yours straight down his spine, “What’s gotten into you?”

He hasn’t had you since that night he had been so drenched with adoration that he’d taken you on his own grave and truly confessed how he loved you. Ever since then it had been battle and struggle, one after another, in your pursuit to stop the Absolute for good--- constantly ensnared in some new concern that stole any potential moment he could’ve used to steal you away from duty. After the final battle, Astarion had been so dejected by the return of his vampiric limitations, and you had been near constantly pulled away to assist the public---

There was the part of him that enjoyed indulging in the easy-going intimacy you offered him. The lack of pressure to perform was something he had not yet fully become accustomed to; a certain comfortability that has been cultivated between the two of you over the time you’ve been together. The sense of knowing that he is well and truly safe with you. Despite this understanding, he wished to freely want you in every way he was capable of.

And, oh, how he has come to want you over these last few days.

It was so mindlessly simple and immensely complex. He can barely put into words to describe the ways he wants this. Carnally, intimately, wholly, eternally--- nothing is a sufficient descriptor. Maybe in that vast library that your wizard, Gale, insists on boasting about showing him one of these days, Astarion will find an all-encompassing word for how he wants to have you forever.

As it stands currently, he settles on the comfortable seduction that has become second nature to him, “Actually, I was quite hoping to have gotten into you by now, lover.”

He’ll never get over how you melt for him; how you fall for every word. He watches the heat he stokes behind your eyes, the flex of your fingertips where they lay beside your head on the pillow.

Then, he descends upon you.

A practiced mouth parts yours as his cool hand takes the long route from your waist to your throat, indulging in the feeling of everything in-between. He sets your skin on edge in his wake, stirring a familiar feeling that he was entirely too good at urging from you to settle low in your stomach.

Gentle fingers find his hair and he feels the scrape of your nails against his scalp when he finally rests his hand on your throat to hook his thumb beneath your jaw, kissing you deeper. Passionately. As he always does, Astarion excels at unravelling you in every way, but you have no idea how much you manage to rebuild him with your every touch.

Your body welcomes him completely, urging him closer in ways he doubts you are consciously aware of. His hips rock into yours with each passing second that your heat spreads through him, feeling himself grow harder at your soft moans that meet his eager mouth. When you tug slightly at his hair, he lets a cautioning sound fall from his tongue onto yours, but you only nip defiant teeth at him in response.

And then he’s pushing your hands down, captured at the wrists by his. Pinning you to the pillows while he draws back just enough to catch the breath that is coming, labored, from the both of you.

“I’m sorr---” you begin, remorselessly.

“Telling a pretty lie won’t save you from me,” Astarion leans close once more, dragging his skin against your cheek as he kisses a trail towards your ear, feeling you test his grip at your wrists with a half-hearted tug. “I do believe all of this ‘Hero of Baldur’s Gate’ business has kept you from the more important happenings of our bedchamber. It would be a terrible pity if you continued to neglect your baser desires when I am in such a mood to indulge you.”

“Are you sure you’re talking about me?” you tease and he feigns a mild shock at the insinuation that his own behavior is the reason you’ve yet to bed him.

“I’ll have you know I am all indulgence, unlike you, darling hero,” but when he leans away, your eyes capture his. Reading him too easily, you know something is wrong as his carefully constructed mask falters, if only for an instant. It’s all you need, and Astarion regrets losing himself for the moment as he watches your softening gaze survey him.

“Is that so…?” You’re left guessing at what troubles him, “If you missed me, you could’ve just said so. The city can survive a few days.”

“Does the city know that?” it would be so easy to leave it there, to let you think you’ve figured him out once again. The anxiety in his veins won’t allow it, however, and his mouth speaks before his mind can instruct him to shut up, “Tell me, darling, that you won’t regret it someday… Of course, you won’t--- but I would like to hear it all the same.”

He looks down on you with growing vulnerability, confidence cracking. That detestable anxiety that has plagued him all evening coming to the forefront of his mind once more. Crimson irises swirl with a reckless uncertainty and it reminds you of how he had looked upon you when confessing his initial manipulations in those early days of your relationship.

“Regret what?” the confusion on your face nearly has him losing his nerve, but he chokes back the urge to dismiss you so quickly.

“I don’t want you to regret… choosing me,” his voice is clearly pained at the thought, cold hands at your wrists tightening like he is afraid you will run from him should he let you go. “Choosing us, I mean. I am well aware of all you shall endure if you spend each painstaking night of forever with me. It is a price I was willing to pay for my freedom, but you… I--- I know you have said that I am what you want, but I don’t want this to be one of your regrets. I don’t want you to resent me for keeping you here---”

Astarion was constantly preparing himself for the ending of all things; it is a part of his nature that you wish you could soothe with simple words alone. It will be much more difficult to satisfy than that and you know it, but you intend to spend all your years working towards earning his unwavering faith in you. This trust that he has so endearingly placed upon your soul, when every piece of his own screamed at you for doing the same. You doubt he knows how, if you were to someday break him in the way he so fears, you feel it would be as if you were destroying a part of yourself.

You cut off his rambling with a firm, “Astarion!” like it hurts you to hear him talk of himself in this way. His mouth snaps shut as you search him for the cause of this doubt, “Have I done something to make you think I will have these regrets you worry of?”

“Well, no, but---”

When you pull at his grip this time, he wordlessly releases you, only for you to reach up to him to drag him down into a tight embrace, “Then, why is your heart so troubled?”

“I---” he chokes on the word and how shallowly his lungs fill with you holding him so securely in your arms. Maybe it is better that you hold him so closely that you cannot see how he crumbles against you, dissolving into your grasp as if you are the only thing holding him together when he confesses, “I know what it is to live this life of darkness. You are so---! You deserve everything I can’t give you, starting with a life surrounded by the beauties of daylight.” His head turns, misty eyes catching your worried stare. He regrets the distress he’s caused you, but moreso he needs to hear your reassurances that his mind has gotten the better of him in this. He has never hoped so pitifully that he was wrong.

“Astarion,” heart swelling at the loss in his eyes; he looks to be mourning for you. As your thumb smoothes along the lines of his jaw, you come to realize the depth of his lingering sadness, “tell me, what good is the sun? The sun cannot care for me as you do or feel my love in return. A life of pure sunlight is worthless if it means living it without you.” You watch his breath catch in his chest, a stifled sob of his relief that he does not give into so easily.

His voice comes strained and nearly sounds like he’s on the verge of arguing with you, “You so obviously will miss it! You talk of finding a way for me to ‘walk in the sun again,’ but what if it’s impossible? What if we waste our lives searching for something that was never attainable? When you realize it, I wouldn’t have you look differently upon me.”

“Is that it? You think I talk about finding you a cure for my own benefit?” you scoff, before leaning towards him to place a soft kiss against frowning lips. He lingers in the middle ground as you depart just enough to demand he listen, “I only think of you, Astarion. Since the moment I first saw you, you’ve consumed my mind, body and soul. The sun was made for you--- and you’d know it if you ever had the privilege of seeing yourself in it. I only want for you to be happy.”

The arch of his brow tells you he still doesn’t fully believe you, despite his attempt at a half-hearted joke through the tightness in his throat, “I do quite enjoy when you call me beautiful.” It’s more than that, and you both know it, but if he were to ask you right now to name one thing about the light of day that you know you will sorely miss, it would be never seeing him in it again.

Rolling your eyes, you sigh at him with a lopsided smile, “Oh, my silly vampire, I love you much more than the sun. Without you, I would not want any of it. In fact, you can take the moon and stars, too, while you’re at it---”

He cuts you off with the eclipse of his mouth on yours, hands spread along your ribs to dig eager fingertips into your skin as he pulls you in as close as he can manage. The kiss is more languidly meaningful than the last; he intends on burning the feeling of you into his mind to replace the torrid thoughts there. If your words had not been enough to convince him, you hope the way you receive his body with your own can. Every part of you calls to him, blood and sinew, breath and bone, flesh and spirit.

Maybe it’s clear to him now, that you are as intertwined as the earth and sea. Should the tide of your soul ever depart from his shores, he can rest in the knowledge that your reunion is inevitable. As far as you are concerned, you are fated in such a way that not even the gods above or the devils below can alter the course of how your body fits beneath his--- how you shall always welcome him home.

You will have him, for as long as he will have you.

When he finally withdraws, he dares not go far, eyes blinking open slowly in a melancholy acceptance, “How can I be so fortunate?”

Brushing the mess of white curls behind his pointed ear, you hum at the shiver that runs through him when your fingertips graze the skin there, “I don’t know, but it’s about time things start going our way, don’t you think?”

“That it is,” his groaned agreement softens the worry in his eyes and he melts into the stroke of your hand against his temple.

“What you should be worrying about, Astarion, is whether you’ll regret choosing me when I’m all old, wrinkled, and grey,” it’s only half of a tease, and you hope he can’t see through the smile on your lips. The thought has been on your mind for some time after realizing that the two of you were going to somehow survive everything you’ve endured these past months.

“Darling,” he scoffs, nudging his nose with yours, soothing you as much as you do him, “knowing how well trouble finds you, we’ll both be long dead before either of us need worry much about that.” His lips graze yours, when he gives you his earnest answer, “For our sake, I hope to spend every moment we have left with you, watching every sunset and sunrise we are granted until the end takes us both.”

It's more complicated than that, but most real things usually are.

What isn’t complicated is how you feel beneath him, tongue tracing his teeth as he ravishes you. There is a completeness that comes in the way of his body fitting against yours. This reassurance in your touch will never falter. Even if your mind were to eventually escape you, he will know you were always his. If the world were to fall away in this moment and leave nothing but this room, Astarion would happily float out his days with you here forevermore.

He loves you. You love him.

He can scarcely comprehend anything else. Nothing else matters, he decides.

Nothing but your little shivers and whines when his fingers delve down the soft flesh of your stomach--- nothing but the arch of your body into the exploration of his touch. Nothing is worth more than his name whispered from your lips in that scandalous tone you reserve for these moments he sets your skin ablaze with teeth and tongue. You call to him like it were a prayer, but Astarion has hardly done anything so holy to warrant the way you say his name.

His sole inkling of faith is spent on the belief that he could live his whole life, his extended eternity, and never tire of loving you.

Soft and demanding partner within the thrill of his touch, you’ve learned, and his hands part you for him with that comforting understanding. Insistent and hesitant are your finger’s answer to him, digging into the nape of his neck as your head falls back against the pillows. Throat bared, it’s a wonder he doesn’t take another bite of you where he’s done so frequently before, but his attention is too acutely focused on the aching wetness between your thighs and his slender fingers.

Your lips part in an open moan of his name with how expertly he drags pleasure through your veins with each stroke within you, and he drags his teeth against your jaw in a growl, “You sweet, generous thing, always so ready for me.” Finally, he grants you some relief from his constant teasing, pressing the heel of his palm into your most sensitive nub. He allows you to seek your own pleasure with each desperate grind of yourself against the hand that continues to stroke pleasure from within, “Do you have any idea what the sight of you does to me? How dearly I long for us to never leave this bed?” The rasp of his voice has heat rushing up your spine, muddying your thoughts with each continuance of his lascivious tongue, “Leave the Gate to fend for itself, my dear, for I should have you like this always, stripped bare with me between your thighs.”

“Have me then, Astarion,” you really did purr for him in times like these and as much as he enjoys teasing you for it, he truly does relish the tone you get when he has drenched you in lust. His reaction at your words is groaned against your throat; he’s so near, but his hand retreats from you all the same. Never to neglect you for long, your lover is soon tearing at your smallclothes with an impatience that was not wholly unexpected from him.

He pushes his weight onto his forearm beside your head, using his other hand to tug at the laces of his loose breeches while glancing down between you. His eyes, rubies in the darkness, snap to yours and it is as if he has dipped you in firewine and struck a match. You burn for him, from the inside out and in such a way that you know he has thoroughly ruined you for anyone else. You are dripping with it, onto the sheets and the new press of his length against your core. His indulgent rub of himself through your folds is punctuated by him grinding into you, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling for but a moment.

Hair disheveled, you watch the beauty of him as he swallows deeply before capturing you in that piercing gaze once again, “I think I shall have you, now--- how did you just put it?” He crowds you with his arms, and your breath hitches at the feeling of him catching at your entrance when he murmurs lowly, deliberately, “Body and soul? Isn’t that right, my love?”

The way you drag him down into your kiss as he pushes into you is a messy, desperate thing, but it only seems to urge him on. You simply cannot seem to get close enough, though not for lack of trying, as he fills you gloriously. Astarion gasps into your mouth, staggering the push of his hips against yours, devouring you until he is left seated so deeply within you that you can hardly breathe. Then, hands around your thighs push your legs up, and he fits impossibly further.

You sob a moan against sharp fangs, deliriously full of him as he begins a slow fucking that is just enough to drive you into madness. Clambering for something to ground yourself, your nails dig into his back, scraping against the scars that remain there--- his hips snapping faster into you at the feeling of it.

He smears saliva across your jaw and down your throat, understanding your breathless, “Please, please,” for what it is. Permission.

Pain is so fleetingly brief that it may as well not exist at all, because when he bites down hard enough to draw blood from your skin, you are met so suddenly with a lightheaded ecstasy that is compounded by the pleasure he pulses through your body. Only the raw stretch of his every thrust keeps you from dissipating into delirium entirely. You are left keening beneath him as he dissolves into the taste of your blood, feeling his moans against your neck and the way his thrusts begin to match the drum of your heart in your ears. Astarion’s fingers drag in the space between, stopping only when he has found the base of his seat within you.

You feel your heart skip in your chest before he ceases the meal he’s made of you, licking your throat of the sloppy blood that threatens to yet spill. The iron of it meets the smell of sex in the air and he strokes his fingers against where he continuously plunges so deep within you; the wet sounds of your coupling may have been embarrassing if you weren’t so disoriented with the raw need of it. Your every nerve has fiercer concerns than your fickle dignity when he is working to make such a wonderful mess of you as this.

“Delicious,” Astarion groans into your shoulder, nipping and groaning against whatever he may get his mouth on as he feels your increasingly erratic clenching with his harshening pace. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, feeling him reach to draw tight circles at your clit as his own pace begins to falter. Neither of you will make it much further through this. He is left stained, begging upon your skin, “Come with me--- Hells, darling--- I need you to---"

Finding a grip in his hair allows you to drag his head sharply back to force his open-mouthed gaze to cast upon you once more, desperate to see him as he falls apart with you.

The sight of him is nearly enough for you to lose what little sense you’ve held to; while his complexion has turned slightly rosy with the assistance of your fresh blood, he still looks upon you with a consuming hunger all the same, “I love you.”

“Gods---!” dark eyes slam shut as he gasps out your name before all control leaves him in the mindless oblivion that he drags you down into alongside him. Scorching pleasure burns from the inside out as he loses himself in the trembling heat of your rapture, dissolving into a wild and erratic pace that bursts sparks of euphoria behind your eyes.

You are both left in the sticky aftermath of it, heaving mingling breaths as tension melts into you from where he collapses and lingers atop you. You hold him, content to have his softening length seated within you for all eternity as you let him continue his mindless caressing of your skin.

He has said it before, but it will never be enough, so he says it again in the hoarse aftermath of your lovemaking, “I love you, darling. You have made me so… happy.” Should you ever forget it, he is prepared to remind you for the rest of your days, “Thank you.”

Your own repeated declaration is sighed with a contentment that you hope will last a moment longer as your fingers take to stroking through his hair when he lays his head against your chest. Can he hear it from there, you wonder, how your heart whispers only the sweetest of sentiments for him? You like to think he can.

“Astarion?” you finally croak after some time, and he hums soft acknowledgement without much movement. “We should watch the next one together.”

“The next what, my treasure?”

“The next sunrise.”

There is a smile in his voice when he murmurs, “Always.”

#astarion fanfic #astarion ancunin fanfic #baldurs gate 3 fanfic #baldurs gate 3 female reader insert #female reader insert #newstuff female reader insert #fanfiction #gif not mine #nsft #smut #author meg #fanfic by me

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invinciblerodent · 4 months

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Yeah, I...

I have absolutely zero doubt in my mind that there's a very good reason this man was beaten within an inch of his life based on a ruling he made as magistrate.

Astarion, darling, sweetie pie, love of my life, my sweetest, most darling little pookie bear with sugar and a cherry on top, what the ever-loving, super-sized, finger-lickin', country-fried McFuck is wrong with you (affectionate)

haven't you personally expressed feelings of guilt (their validity being subject for philosophical debate i don't have time to go into now) over dooming people in numbers upwards of a thousand to what you had thought was death, but later on it turned out to be a fate potentially worse than death. have you not personally yelled at the Gur leader because she got upset over us sparing the 7k spawn. have you learned absolutely fucking nothing, my sweet sweet angel boy.

god I love you and the odd turns your poor little brain takes sometimes as it reacquaints itself with the idea of being a person, rather than a survival-machine.

(it's also really fun how sometimes thoughts that could be attributed to the "living" Astarion pop up- because I'm guessing this is one of those, and he's kind of... well. He hasn't been allowed to use his own brain much since he became a vampire, so it's understandable why, now that he's free, his brain would sort of revert to the last thing it knows- which is punitive justice.)

(I definitely know that having Magistrate Ancunín pass judgement on you would have definitely been one of the less desirable outcomes of any legal squabble in Baldur's Gate two centuries ago. I know Iona is sort of letting these drift by her ear for now, putting the thought aside to be dissected later, lol. She'd rather more like to speak to the soft Astarion cuddling into her chest at night about this, please and thank you.)

#oh don't you for a second think that just because my dragon age sleeper cells awakened i forgot about this #squirrel plays bg3 #kind of speedrunning almost to finish at least Iona's run #and to get to the end of maybe Petyr's game #astarion #might also continue streaming/playing Khel in the meantime

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deconstructthesoup · 10 months

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The Hexsquad + Vee in different D20 seasons:

This was an idea I came up with in my brain. If I could draw it, I would, but I can't, so... settle for this massive fucking block of text. Have fun.

Fantasy High

Luz: A human wizard (Evocation) whose life goal is to be the greatest adventurer the world has ever seen, and that all starts with Aguefort Adventuring Academy. She was always considered the "weird kid" in middle school, but she's confident that she'll find her people at Aguefort, and she's ready to take the school by storm... or, at least, find some friends who she can connect with. Luz is definitely the type of person to get her magic-studying done ahead of time, so she's a little bit ahead a lot of her classmates---mostly due to the fact that she keeps on trying the more complicated spells instead of starting with the basics.

Vee: Luz's adopted sister and a changeling sorcerer (Aberrant Mind). She's less keen on the whole "adventuring" thing, preferring a more mundane life, but she and Luz are thick as thieves, and she knows that her sister is definitely still going to get bullied at Aguefort---better to be there so she can have her back. Vee doesn't really remember a lot of her life from before she got adopted by the Nocedas, though she does know that something happened in those lost years that gave her the powers of the Far Realm... powers that she still can't quite control.

Willow: A dwarven druid (Circle of Spores) and barbarian (Battlerager). She's a case study in what happens when the shy, awkward girl from middle school discovers roller derby over the summer and transforms into a confident, punk-rock powerhouse... who still has some of those old insecurities lingering underneath the surface. Not to mention, pretty explosive anger issues. Willow is more than ready to form a kickass adventuring party on top of starting a roller derby team at Aguefort, but so far, she's only got one member...

Gus: A halfling rogue (Arcane Trickster) who skipped two grades due to being a quote-unquote "prodigy," which is a nice way of saying that he's struggling with severe gifted kid syndrome. He and Willow have been best friends for years, to the point where ending up at Aguefort is kind of the best thing that happened to him, even though he's still pretty insecure about his rogue abilities. Since he's younger than almost everyone else, Gus doesn't have a lot of friends to start outside of Willow... so, of course, the best course of action is to join literally every extracurricular. Despite already having a packed schedule. Yeah, he's overworking himself.

Amity: A high elf artificer (Battlesmith) who's built up a reputation as a top student at Hudol---a reputation that, according to her mother, she's completely throwing away by not only choosing to be an artificer instead of a wizard, but purposefully failing the Hudol entrance exam so she could go to Aguefort Adventuring Academy instead. Amity's really just learning how to be rebellious, so she's taking small steps---different academic path, exploring her own passions, dyeing her hair a different color---before she can hopefully build up enough disrespect for authority that she can move out, or at least help her dad work up the courage to ask for divorce papers. She's trying.

Hunter: A tiefling bard (College of Valor) who, like Fig, has only recently discovered that he's a tiefling. Rather than going straight to the rebellious route, though, he's kind of at a loss as to what to do, to the point where he even drops being a paladin in favor of being a bard---though, of course, still within the standard-hero vein. He's been raised by his uncle his whole life, and while their relationship has been pretty positive up until now, it's become fairly strained due to Belos never telling Hunter that his mom was a devil ("I don't give a fuck about safety, Uncle B, the fact that I am literally a spawn of hell is something that I should know"). But he's got an outlet. He's learning guitar and some bard spells.

A Starstruck Odyssey

Captain Luz Noceda: The Amercadian girl who always dreamed of becoming a spacer, she's now the captain of her very own ship, The Selkie, at the age of twenty-six... and she's struggling. Sure, she's joined every union she can, got all the insurance, and has really been trying to keep the ship on the up-and-up, but every time she takes a risk and goes for a more dangerous job, things fail drastically. Luz loves her crew and her ship, and she really doesn't want to give any of it up, but she can't ignore the little voice in her head that's telling her that she might not be as cut out for the spacing life as she originally believed. As luck would have it, though, her new hire has some excellent skills up her sleeve...

Amity Blight-Deamonne: The youngest daughter of renowned inventor Alador Blight and high-society fashion designer Darius Deamonne, Amity's got money, mechanical skills, and a sense of style that's the envy of every femme in the galaxy. She was apprenticing under both of her fathers at the same time, but after hearing that her older siblings had apparently made quite a life for themselves as spacers, she decided that there was no way she was going to miss out on the fun and joined Luz's crew as a mechanic and a "crew diplomat." Of course, Amity isn't the most prepared for the combat that they wind up in more often than not, but she is prepared to do some handy repairs and a lot of smooth talking when necessary. Which is almost all the time. (Also, she lost a leg and an arm in a childhood accident, but her family could afford to have her get fitted for cybernetic replacements without going into massive debt. This has caused her to be a major advocate for cyborg rights.)

Deep-Sea Volcano Eroded By Time, human name "Vee": An Aguatunisian who set off on her Galivant several years ago, she's been exposed to how dishonest, selfish, and uncaring the world outside her home planet can be, which has led her to becoming quite the nervous wreck. True cynicism is something that's pretty much impossible for Vee to really achieve, due to being a psychic being who can tell when people are lying and being fortunate enough to land among folks who are pretty open with each other, but she's still wary of new people until she gets a chance to communicate. Because of this, being the comms officer was the perfect choice, and Vee's pretty comfortable on The Selkie. Still doesn't stop her from going into a panic attack every time the crew gets into combat, though.

Gus Porter (soon-to-be Dr. Porter): Youngest of the crew, Gus is a medical grad student who's interning on the ship for his thesis project---which basically translates to him being the ship's doctor. On paper, he doesn't mind doing the medical stuff, since his entire thesis is on how spacers can maintain a healthy lifestyle while in a fairly dangerous occupation, but more than half the time, he's stuck doing emergency surgery and trying his damnedest not to remind everyone that he's studying to be a doctor, not a surgeon. Despite everything, Gus is absolutely enamored with the spacing life, and he's probably gonna stay on The Selkie well after he finishes his degree.

Wondrous Willow: The beta version of a battle droid that eventually got remade and rebranded as an assistant, Willow has long since given up attempting to fulfill that function and has fully embraced herself as part of the crew of The Selkie. She's a gunner, a heavy-hitter, an extremely loyal friend, and is surprisingly good at cooking---all of which makes her a crew favorite. Of course, despite technically fulfilling what she was designed for, she's still trying to find herself beyond just claiming agency, and it's slow-going for our girl. But she's not called "Wondrous Willow" for nothing, and if there's anything she knows, it's how to tough it out in this galaxy.

Hunter "Lucky Number" Seven: A supersoldier clone turned rugged mercenary, Hunter was designed to save people with smarts as well as brawn, as part of the renowned Hunters For Hire. He and his fellow clones were incredibly adept heroes who helped out anyone in AnarchEra that were in need... until a mysterious individual slaughtered almost all of them, with Hunter Seven being the only one to escape. Currently, he believes that the culprit is his now-slain creator's brother, the elusive and infamous mad scientist known as Dr. Philip B. Wittebane, but that may be a red herring, and the real killer could still be out there. For now, Hunter's found a new squad in the crew of the Selkie, a sister figure in Luz, and a girlfriend in his fellow gunner---and until he gets his revenge on, he's happy for now.

A Court of Fey and Flowers

Luz & Vee: The "twin" daughters of Trickster Court nobility, the two are a rare example of a human and a changeling who decide to remain in the Feywild rather than the Material Plane. While Vee fits in seamlessly in a court of shifters, pranksters, and folks who enjoy nothing more than mischief, Luz stands out in fey society due to her magic not coming naturally and the simple fact that she is a human---despite her parents having blessed her with an unusually long life. As such, she's in the rare position of being more nervous than her sister from the prospect of attending the Bloom, but while Vee has no other intentions than to just have a good time with members of other courts, Luz dreams of potentially finding a match at what some call the most romantic occasion the Feywild has to offer. Though it's uncommon for a fey to fall for a human, maybe Lady Luck is on her side...

Amity: She and her family are all that remains of the Court of Craft, and her father Darius disappeared some time ago. Having only recently come to the conclusion that his husband is dead, her other father, Alador, has agreed to form a marriage alliance with the lady Odalia of the Court of Wonder, something that Amity knows will destroy their court---and she believes wholeheartedly that Darius is still alive. She's at the Bloom for the sole purpose of finding out how to save her court and her father, and romance is the furthest thing from her mind... until she meets a kindhearted individual from the Trickster Court, who seems to not care about the pressures and expectations of fey society. And more than that, she wants to aid her in her cause.

Willow: The niece of Queen Titania and a duchess of the Seelie Court, Willow has attended many a Bloom, and she's used to the whole song-and-dance routine by now. However, her aunt has advised her that this year, the Bloom will be quite a different affair, and it would be in the Seelie Court's best interest for Willow to try and find a political match by the end of the celebration. Of course, Willow's a very free-spirited individual and is adamant about marrying only for love, so she's really just looking for a way to prove to her aunt that she's quite capable of being a high-society woman on her own... until she meets a certain individual.

Hunter: Heir to the Unseelie Court, Prince Hunter is attempting to put his past of just being the nerdy teen who talks about his interest to anyone who'll listen behind him, and in doing so, goes full Mr. Darcy---closed-off, socially awkward, and barely capable of making actual conversation. He fully intended to just spend the Bloom waiting for it to end so he doesn't have to keep on being "a shining example of the values of the Unseelie Court," but on his very first day, he meets the wisecracking and whip-smart Willow, and develops a big ol' crush on her almost instantly... though it takes him a while to figure out how to word it, because, y'know, zero social skills.

Gus: Pretty much the only person who's here for the social drama rather than the romance, Gus is an up-and-coming diplomat of the Goblin Court who's writing a book on the intricately woven fey society---he's intending it to be an anthropological study, but it's slowly starting to become a tell-all expose. Because of this, Gus always has his ear to the ground when it comes to secrets, and it's very rare for anyone to be able to tell him a successful lie... so, needless to say, when he catches wind of Amity's plan, he is one hundred percent on board. (Also, he and Vee become friends almost immediately. Chaos recognizes chaos.)

#dimension 20 #the owl house #fantasy high #a starstruck odyssey #a court of fey and flowers #luz noceda #amity blight #willow park #gus porter #hunter toh #lumity #huntlow

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poppyandzena · 4 months

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Poppy: "Spawn is an adult you guys, you need to stop treating saying I'm doing child abuse because they were an adult." Also Poppy: "Anyways yes we had a schedule for Spawn. People with ADHD work best with schedules, this is proven!! Spawn just couldn't complete it cause they were dicking around." As someone with ADHD, while schedules can help, it's not the end all, be all. I would say most of all it requires some flexibility and understanding. Poppy insists that schedules are proven to help people with ADHD, therefore it's good that they forced a schedule onto Spawn, and yet even when they talk about it they talk about how the schedule didn't work for Spawn and... well, blame Spawn for it not working. Almost as if they have disabilities that make their life a bit harder to keep to a schedule or something 乁( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)ㄏ When I was a child, my 'schedule' for the day was basically this: school, come home and do homework, do three chores (written down on the fridge for me to complete because I legit couldn't remember when I was verbally told what chores to do the night before), and after that I was able to do whatever I wanted. I don't think regimented schedules help someone with ADHD, I think having certain things scheduled (such as a few chores, homework since it was important for school, etc) while also allowing for downtime is the best way to go. Even as an adult, there are certain things I try to keep to a schedule (certain days dedicated for chores, all bill due dates are written on a calendar and checked off as the month goes on, specific errands like groceries) but I also understand that some days I'm gonna wake up, have a bad brain day where I can't really do everything I want to do (and sometimes I can only really do one big thing a day), and I give myself the grace and understanding while also keeping in mind what is most important to get done. It's a balancing act. It's delicate. It's hard work. Every time I see the way Poppy talks about Spawn I just hope more and more that they're doing so much better without her... and I hope Poppy never gets to be in contact with them ever again.

I have ADHD and anxiety. Flexibility is best. I forget to eat more than I eat in general. My mental health improves when I'm given more control of my surroundings and my choices. My work gives me enough framework without dominating my life like I'm a sim without autonomy.

Us ADHD people work in what I call loopholes or cheats. I hate brushing my teeth so I brush my teeth in the shower to get it all done in one place. Or if I can't shower before I go to work, I have little disposable toothbrushes and sugar free gum in my desk. I hate the act of eating or preparing food. So instead of screwing myself over by making something I won't finish, I drink V8 100s since they're cheaper than the Naked brand and contain vegetables and fruits I wouldn't bother preparing on their own. I don't even own a bin for my food waste since I know I will procrastinate taking out the trash and stink up my home, so food waste is sent to the trash chute. I keep non-perishable snacks in reach so my blood sugar doesn't completely bottom out when I forget to eat.

Spawn is doing fine living without Zena and Poppy--not because they were "never disabled." They are very disabled. You know what disables you further? Having to do endless lists of labor that last for hours, sometimes without a working AC and little food in your body as your parents shame you for not "doing it quick enough." Being made to skip meals because you "missed your time." Having YOUR sports drinks consumed when you need those to keep your sodium up. Being barred from going to the bathroom for hours at a time. Being shamed for staying in your room but being screamed at by Zena for existing within ten feet of them. Having the internet cut off on purpose and then having to grovel to turn it back on when you need it to look for a job, as your parents bitch at you for not having a job.

#poppy #poppy and zena #zena and poppy #poppy diabolique #ladydiabolique #poppy & zena #zenaandpoppyonyoutube #zena #spawn

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vixnovacoda · 1 year

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The Cure We Seek || Chapter 1

Astarion x f!Tav

Word Count: ~3.2k

Summary: Set after the events of the Mindflayer tadpoles and the Netherbrain, Astarion and fellow companion Nemeia spent years in search of a cure for the free vampire spawn where they have taken to settling down within their splendid city of Baldur's Gate and trying to establish a life of normalcy for themselves in a world that aims to constantly work against them as a dark past threatens the couple's peace.

[AO3]

Nemeia

Promises are binding contracts, oaths sworn on trust that bind lips and mind where ink may coat parchment. They are the kind not to be taken lightly and used sparingly when possible for woe befalls the fool who breaks it. Throughout her life, Nemeia met such fools, she saw the fate which awaited, she knew better than to strike a deal that pitted her against an inevitable doom.

But, this all started with a promise; she did it anyhow.

Something simple. A few words: “I promise you,” uttered by the Tiefling, Nemeia, to a peculiar vampire spawn years ago. Words that were expressed all without second thought, as if they were any other phrase; so simple, and still, they held a power in them that would change the world.

Their world.

A power that makes a dead heart beat, hopeful; possibility. The unexpected kind.

There was no going back now.

The stars bore witness to the act and sealed it away in their constellations. Silvanus’ earthly nature watched from trees and bushes, and rooted her words into the ground beneath their idle feet, spreading. All forces of the world would hold her to the promise she made for as long as she may exist.

Longer than Astarion ever expected on that otherwise tiresome night. He had her put down for a few seconds or hours at best as they switched a single wine bottle back and forth, half-expecting there to be no truth to it due in part to the alcohol. But, those seconds passed, Gale continued an… interesting poetry telling, he distracted himself and stayed sat, and beside him Nemeia remained while the moon told a tale on her periwinkle skin, revealing, showing what hid under the blissful smile and earnest eyes. For some reason, she meant it.

Briefly, she spotted him pull away the carefully constructed facade. The promise kept soft to the vampire spawn’s chest. Before it came back, full swoon and all. “My, you make me feel special,” said Astarion.

“Well, maybe you are,” she muttered quietly to the ground lest his ego inflate exponentially.

A smirk twisted the corners of his mouth. “Hm? What was that?”

“I said,” she began, and he leaned in, “you’re not. Special. You’re not special.”

“Am I now? If I recall correctly, there was a moment where you”—his cold breath tickled her neck, drawing a sharp inhale from her lips as his tone turned sultry, edging on desire—“gasped into my ear about how exceptional I was. I think I’d rather have to disagree with that lying tongue of yours.”

Nemeia shoved the wine bottle into his chest and avoided his gaze. A drunken flush of scarlet lettered her cheeks.

He chuckled, pleased. “Flustered already, are we, darling?”

“Shut up,” she gabbled, caught inadvertently in a lie and unexpected memories. “It’s just. It’s the wine, that’s all. Forget I said anything.”

“Of course, of course. Whatever helps you sleep better at night, my sweet.” Besotted with himself, the vampire spawn leant back and drank in the results of his fine work as Nemeia covered and buried her face into calloused palms and aching knees. However, nothing she attempted helped lessen the fluster. His cutting smile was like a dagger, carving the smoothness of his lips that rivalled any luxury she had ever known and the way lines formed when the corners twinged and pulled back into her brain. Every detail committed to a resounding memory. How she could count all the lines on his body all day and never be satisfied. How, of course, he was special. And what was she thinking? These thoughts were spiralling out of control. They had shared a bed once, grown closer, sure, and now, full of alcohol, knew not how to act or think of what they were or what she wanted… or what he wanted from her. Safe to say, Nemeia sat conflicted as a blushing schoolgirl.

The sight tickled Astarion. He never had expected their little group’s druid – she, who his usual charms had no effect on and was ever the composed type – would behave in a state of loose lips and an easily flustered nature from a few drops of alcohol. It was hard not to find it fun when compared to the rather lacklustre performance Gale’s poetry gave. And how red she had turned by the night’s end.

Oh, what a night to forever not forget. The words that were said, the sides never before seen, the closer they willingly sat and slept; the change which began to grow roots from a tender, kind care.

How changed they would become in the years that followed.

———

Domestic bliss. Such a wonderful thing does not exist for adventurers, even the seasoned type. Still, however, Nemeia soiled her hands with foaming water and cleaned dirty clothes. Bubbles threw up their arms against her forceful swirls, popping iridescent hues upon the shine of a half-lit room. The sunlight pillars coated her irritated skin in shades of yellow as each jostle and thrash and wrung under the sun’s watchful gaze revealed peaks at the scarlet colouration which tainted the water tub and her fingertips, gradually bleeding past her wrists and even elbow with every sudsy wave.

Beneath the fragrant clover and oaken smell emanating from the tub at the far end of the room, laid something unmistakable. Coppery. Metallic. The signature stench lingered in Nemeia’s nose. The blood caused her button nose to wrinkle – far exaggerating her age by adding unflattering creases – and her stomach to turn, to boil, burn; rage. She smashed the white, blood-covered linen, applying more force when it hit the tub’s wooden bottom like a victim succumbing to the wrath of a tempest’s storm. Dark grey clouds hung over the sun. Splashes hit her, splattering patterns against clean delicate robes and freckled skin. Donning black she felt like a widower, and who was she fooling? She almost had been. Earlier, mere hours ago, instead of this frothy, pinkish water, she had been drenched in a far thicker, fresher crimson liquid. Some of it hers. Half of it, someone else’s.

They had survived. This time, they had both barely survived.

Nemeia scrubbed away harder while pestering screams brought her eyes to swell with tears that scorched to let loose. She didn’t want to think about how close they came, how they almost never left the foreign plane, how his white curls were veiled in red pearls and his pale body profusely leaked pools of blood from the cavity in his stoma— no. Her fists slammed the frothy water. Holding back the tears, and frightfully vivid vision, she took a shaky breath. This last adventure was too close. All she wanted for the pair of them was bliss, a peaceful existence, but these cure-finding adventures were far from that.

“Oh dear,” said Astarion, “whatever did the poor thing do to you?” His jesting voice carried from the doorway, echoing off the slippery tiled laundry room floor, and hiding an amused smile while he himself remained immersed in shadow during what was otherwise an early morning as his words hit fleeting sunlight. By design, the room always maintained a shroud of darkness over the threshold even when all the curtains were drawn back, so the vampire spawn could enter – somewhat – and not be burned.

Today Nemeia had drawn back the curtain at the far end of the room, illuminating her work and drawing a glowing line across half of the room, separating them. “He,” Nemeia warned, deigning him a cursory glance under the edge of her vision, “was supposed to be resting.” She hadn’t meant for what she said to sound so harsh, yet she found it hard to bite back the pain with blood seeping into her mind’s eye, her bark just as vicious out of wildshape. It wasn’t his fault she knew that, but still.

“Well, ‘he’ has been through worse. I can manage quite alright, unlike that there tub you’re brutalising.” Wood creaked. The door frame shifted, followed by the light-footed trudging of footsteps Astarion had become known for like a cat traipsing the darkness, careful not to disturb any would-be aggressors. Her gaze dropped, noticing the fat veins which cracked along the tub’s grooves. “… You’re mad at me,” he nonetheless suspected.

Silence fell harder than her punches. That, being mad towards him, wasn’t her intent. She stopped, her shoulders dropping, body slumping out of shape.

He let out a self-pitying chuckle. “Darling, at least make it actually look like you hate the laundry if you’re going to pretend it’s my face when you’re annoyed by me. A cool, longing scowl perhaps.”

“I’m… I’m.” Pausing for a gulp and swallowing her simmering anger, she spoke in a washed-out tone, “It’s not you I’m mad at. I just worry, that’s all.” Which was true. Her frustration against the blood-stains weren’t aimed at him, but at herself, who survived fairly well, whose contrasting emotions filled to the brim so she didn’t know whether to be upset or angry at his close call. And wasn’t that all worry was though? An extension of anger muddled with sorrow?

Astarion’s steps ended a mere few feet away from her. The source of her sorrow was unable to reach her, but not out of sight. Nemeia could barely make out the rough bandages she had wrapped around his bare midsection. Cloth strips jutted at odd angles, tight and uneven. How her hands had shaken. How they shook now.

“Still thinking about the Abyss, are we?” He questioned.

“And you’re not?” She rebutted.

“Oddly enough, no. But it’s not the end of the world.”

“You.” Nemeia thrust herself onto her feet. “Almost died! I… I almost lost you.” It all came out from her in sobs that broke the mucus wall coating her throat, spat from her tongue and ran down her face, tears streaking and staining and stinging. The dam she’d been building, she’d been hitting, broke throughout her body, leaking out cracks. His bleeding-out body playing on repeat inside her every waking thought was her end of the world. I promised you, she wanted to tell him. I promised.

Those ruby eyes of his fell along, glistening with his brow and achingly whispered, “I’m sorry.” Astarion took a softer approach, as if the state of her weakened his bravado, and judging by the reflection she caught in the water she had done. While he was simply injured, she was a mess. Unholy bags stuffed themselves beneath her eyes, wisps of her nebulae-coloured hair were strewn every which way, and sunken eyes that promised not to get any sleep later that day. Left unchecked, this for sure would linger like a scar they’d share except on separate locations; her mind; his stomach. “I died once before and it was nothing less than fun. The last thing I wish for is death to catch up to me, let alone have you witness such a tragedy. You are the bestest thing that has happened to me and I shall not ruin this. I’m not going anywhere, I promise you,” declared the desperate to cling on man.

Promise. Fear pricked her skin. “Don’t. Don’t say that.”

“And let you get all the glory? We can both promise each other impossible things, my sweet.” All that smugness did not ease her, however. These things, of course, were no joking matter. As a creature of the night, Astarion will always outlive her. Eventually, he will leave her one way or another. He will break his word. She won’t. For one should never give false hope, the damage done will be irreversible. Such is the cause not to give out binding vows lightly, and she thought he knew that by now, after all their travelling and everything he had seen, what came to those who dared.

The metal band around her ring finger weighed heavily with trepidation. What Nemeia had promised, every vow, every spoken contract, was made with an assuredness she’d stop at nothing to see through, which he did not seem to comprehend. Then again, perhaps it wasn’t his strong point.

Sensing the flickering of unrest scratching at her nails between skin and avoiding gaze, Astarion beckoned her. “Come here.” Though what he lacked in body temperature, he made up with extended warmth as he returned what she had first given to him, hand extended.

Only then did she meet him at the edge of sun and shadow, loosely taking his hand in hers. Even then, what worry she had did not simply wash away. It was like a splatter of blood on fresh linen. It crept and seeped into every fibre of her being, and all Astarion’s attempts at quelling achieved was a dulled pink flush when he reached for the side of her face where light dared not go. Oh, how they both preferred being taken whole. His hands enveloped her face from both sides as a reminder about his presence being there and unleaving while they filled each other’s vision. But, here in the light of day, he could only ever touch her shadow. He was half a comfort than normal, nor could he so easily make her look at him, her thumb relaying busy thoughts to his other hand through small circles drawn against the palm. A habit he had come upon recognising over the recent years, anxious rings, he nicknamed it. One complete ring for every worry, and he bore them without reluctance.

“My love,” he mustered with an alluring hushness that cut through the silence and the circles, and Nemeia searched the darkness for his piercing gaze, finding it almost immediately after spotting jutting cheekbones – the likes which made certain gods envious – and elongated ears. Being shrouded without light made the task originally difficult, but over time she had learned how to read the sharp planes of his face under the shadow’s cloak, and he learned how she shined under the sun’s touch. During the day she was the sun’s. Its warm embrace reached her skin where it burned him to try. It burned him, still knowing he could not follow. But eventually, they would belong together. Body and soul. No more burning. No more hurt.

Attention grasped, he took the opening, bringing her hand to rest on his chest and asked, “Tell me, am I dead?”

“Technically, ye—”

He shot her a look of warning. Brow furred.

Nemeia sighed, playing along. “No,” she answered, as his muscles tensed and relaxed under her lithe touch; a sign of the living. More seconds passed where she swore there laid the faintest heartbeat from his undead heart. Another sign. A reminder that her fear did not come to pass, of what consisted of being true. The concern he gave was real. His envisioned death was not. “No, you’re here, alive,” breathed Nemeia, relief washing over her poor soul.

A calming smile tickled her forehead. “Then my promise remains, darling.”

She leant into the press of his lips with a sigh and loosened up. His cool lips smothered her summer tempest, and it was as if she’d been met by the moon. There was no better sensation. Neither wished to leave, afraid this rare moment of reprieve would vanish the way trodden shores did when oceans waved upon them. Gone in an instant and drifted. Something long forgotten, a familiar basking of the sun’s golden embrace.

The sheet pale head nestled the darkened side of her nightly face she had covered with a single constellated scar, and Nemeia nudged back, his unfairly satin cheek a delight to rest against. Cooler, even, than his hearty lips. Chilling at the touch. “Thank you,” said the Tiefling into his Elven ear full of rosy warmth upon her utterance.

“Thank me proper,” said Astarion, “by getting some rest.”

“It’s only morning. I’ll go to sleep later on, don’t worry,” she said.

“That’s not what I meant.” he pulled back slightly, his face to hers so that she might comprehend the meaning properly this time as a hand tucked away a knocked loose strand of blue hair behind the curvature of her blackened horn and ear. A small but gentle gesture. “In these five years, you have never stopped. In these last few weeks alone, we’ve not stopped venturing. Trust me when I say I am grateful for your help in finding a cure,” he told her.

Befuddled. She tilted her head.

“But if the price of finding it is losing you, then I will not have it.”

“Stubborn and kind, you keep surprising me every day.” Nemeia blinked away his words as if it were some joke.

But it was no joke. “Nemeia.”

The air stifled around them like mould stuffed inside a pair of lungs. Molecule dust particles grew denser, and her black fingertips itched and ached. “What you are asking, I can’t do. I cannot just stop,” she refused, pushing and withdrawing from him.

“There’s stopping and then there’s taking a break. All I ask from you is to take a little respite before it’s me trying to find a cure for your insanity. This search, the dead ends, it’s killing you. I shall not have that. I want you to live. I want us to live.”

“We are.”

He looked at her, then, in a way he hadn’t done since his master Cazador’s downfall, full of inexplicable pain and sorrow. “This isn’t living.”

Twisted. Torn. “I…”

An intrusive, repeated banging on a door echoed down the hall outside and drowned her out. The noise continued: persistent, loud, interruptive and urgent. Past the seconds Astarion waited for her response. If she even had one. She had multiple, except none would be the ones he’d have wanted to hear. “That’s the front door,” said Nemeia, clearing her throat at the obvious. “I should probably answer it.”

Slinking into a solemn silence, Astarion swallowed a pointed lump in his throat and let her pass by, pushing back the urge to reach out, for a proper answer, for her to realise what he apparently could about the cost she was paying as he watched how wood turned to rot at her touch of the room’s door frame.

Truth be told, yes, she did wish for peace, however, she also could not help following the call of danger. She yearned to help others who needed it. You’re too kind, Astarion had called her once, naively so. Only she’d argue that she was simply doing the right thing as she had been taught to do, fixing the skewed circle life wrought on the world like the good druid she devoted to being.

The cycle of life and death are the core ideas of a druid who followed a path of spores. It mattered more than nature, for it was nature. That made it beautiful – the same, too, applied for the undead in all its complicated grey area and eternal companion-hood to the cycle. Being a druid meant giving your whole body and soul to nature, correcting the scales where one saw them. They represented the wilds. Standing in for The Order as something akin to a layman.

So, if Nemeia was too kind, then it was to make up for some darker thing she fought within herself.

Such was balance; her balance.

She only wished someone had taught her a quiet domestic bliss. Then maybe Astarion could live the life he deserved, removed from the dangers thrust upon him, where no more harm should come to him and no false promises.

“Gandrel?” wondered Nemeia at the man before her as she opened the front door.

#astarion #bg3 #astarion bg3 #bg3 tav #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #astarion brainrot #astarion x mc #baldurs gate iii #astarion fanfic #astarion romance #bg3 fanfiction #baldurs gate fanfiction

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applesfrombanora · 11 months

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Alright I saw a post talking about the Sephiroth and Nero with Vincent being a parental unit thing and this has taken over my brain for the past day bc this is an opinion I’ve held for a long time ANYWAY

I’m gonna start this off by saying I have never been a fan of the Vincent being Sephiroth’s father theory—I’ve seen some good arguments made for it, but overall it just ain’t my cup of tea (to each their own of course)

In my mind, it takes from the significance of Sephiroth’s character and Vincent’s story

I doubt I need to go into much depth over Sephiroth considering the amount of people who have already done so, but his character in my mind has always been so tragic because of his blood ties to Hojo— the audience knowing that he was born to be an experiment and that his own father was the one forcing him through that again and again for the entirety of his life

I also like how it rips away Vincent’s connection to Lucrecia and makes Hojo essentially go “you don’t have her, and you don’t get to have a remnant of her, and I control the narrative now” because ultimately they both made him suffer and Sephiroth is a living reminder of that, making him worth enough of Vincent’s pain without the blood tie

Overall, I think making Vincent the father of Sephiroth just makes the story boring— kind of like the whole “Rey is a Palpatine” deal everyone was up in arms over

There’s more significance in seeing brilliant characters spawned from something other than some other great hero character— significance doesn’t always have to breed significance, but evil breeding something trying to escape that cycle? That’s fresh

HOWEVER

I do think that the theory of Vincent being Nero’s father is much more impactful in terms of narrative significance

Vincent was made what he is by the science his father was involved in, and Nero was born of an experiment based on one of Grimoire’s abstracts (as @getvalentined pointed out) for something he never got to see put in motion— in that sense it would create a trickling down effect in terms of responsibility for suffering as Grimoire and Lucrecia’s work created Vincent, and then Grimoire’s theory combined with Vincent’s DNA and Hojo’s willingness to do unethical science bore Nero

It does also give some more significance to the fact that Nero and Vincent are the only two to survive the dark mako treatments, making the Valentine bloodline the one that seems most able to fight off the ghosts (I say this as a joke but it does hold some truth)

(Here’s where my love of Shakespearean tragedy comes into play) I also love how it makes the final showdown in Dirge more impactful as well as Vincent fought Nero multiple times and as Chaos is born of tainted lifestream and Nero was given his power by that same corrupt lifestream, so symbolically, Nero is born of Vincent’s own internal monsters

How beautiful and poetic is it that the horrors Vincent fought so hard within himself ultimately consumed his next of kin? (should Nero be such, of course)

Even better that neither of them would ever know

Also they look related

Again this a “to each their own” type thing but idk I’m an avid tragedy enjoyer and I do think this is the course that best supports the most viably tragic option

#vincent valentine #nero the sable #sephiroth #ffvii #hope this makes sense

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wolfpackmuses · 5 days

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Ok, so I've had some thoughts that I talked about the other day where Balasar still has the urge sticking around in his brain a bit, despite the fact he no longer has a connection to Bhaal and all. I think that, even though the original connection might have been severed, the fact that Balasar had to live with the urge poking at his brain for most of his life that it'll still be there buried in his mind, thanks to what he went through as a spawn of Bhaal.

While in my own headcanon, Balasar was actually taken as a kid from his home in Baldur's Gate, I think that something Bhaal did to influence themself into Balasar did occur, such as the cult infusing Balasar with blood from Bhaal themself, or blood from another powerful Bhaal spawn for instance. I think Bhaal saw the opportunity to grow a successor out of Balasar, despite the fact he wasn't his "own kin" to say because there was an urge within Balasar already that Bhaal recognized.

This basically led to Balasar being infused with the blood and led to the Dragonborn's urge for bloodshed and murder to only grow over time, to grow as he stayed close to so many others who thought like him and wanted to see his power grow. However, when Balasar breaks off from Bhaal and denounces him later in his life, it is enough for Bhaal to take back the old blood that had been given to Balasar and for him to start anew.

But, because Balasar had an urge, a drive to murder and violence from the start, it would never be fully removed in any capacity leading to part of it still being there even after everything that happened.

So yeah, the point is: Balasar had an urge to violence from the start, but he never acted on it due to him being a child. Only once he was inducted into the Bhaal cult and given the blood of Bhaal did it awaken within him and lead him to become as violent as he did.

#teaching the wolves to hunt (headcanons || The Dark Urge);#[ Probably will flesh this out even more later ]#[ But it was a thought I had and I wanted to expand on the idea I had before ]#[ I personally thought Balasar was affected far before anything we see 'in-game' ]#[ So this just explains why that is and all ]

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poobletoods · 3 months

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behold my KIDS my CHILDREN my SPAWN who i BIRTHED and taught their ALPHABETS

now with MANY WORDS under the cut! skip to the line break for bios

These characters have existed for uhhhhhhh I’d say upwards of ten years now! They’re like childhood friends and they mean a whole lot to me. They’ve grown and changed a lot over the years, as have I, but they’ll always be my funny little guys :)

I grew up playing and replaying and re-replaying Psychonauts, so that probably influenced a lot of the universe that these characters exist in, even if I never intended them to be PN-related.

Also there are some footnotes at the end, indicated by numbers in parentheses.

Before we get into character descriptions, we’re gonna learn how powers work in this universe. How they’re classified, what they do, who has them—all that good stuff.

First of all, there are three classifications of people in the LiC(1) universe: lassic, psychic, and elementic. People who are psychic are called psy, people who are lassic are called lassy, and people who are elementic are called elementals. Psy and elementals have special abilities, and lassy are just average folks. Lassy make up about 50% of the earth’s population, while psy make up about 35%, and elementals about 15%.

Psy

Psy derive their power from a small gland in their head (located just behind the ear) that is connected to the brain, and is filled with a chemical called psi(2). Psi has a strange, reality-warping quality that, when harnessed by its host, lets them perform feats outside of normal human capability. Psy are born with this gland, and with the psi contained within it, seemingly at random. A child with two lassic parents may turn out to be psychic, or a child with two psychic parents may be born lassic. The origins of this chemical and the way it interacts with humans are still being studied.

While psi is powerful, it needs a specific place to direct its energy in order to function. This is where alignment of psi comes in. When a psychic baby is born, their psi cannot be utilized until it has found an alignment, which is chosen simply through exposure. If a baby is often around reptiles, their psy may cling to them and take the form of reptilian communication. If a baby is born with an illness and must spend the first few weeks of their life in medical care, they may develop healing-aligned psi. It’s impossible to predict what will or will not have an effect on an infant’s psi, and there seems to be a nearly endless list of things that psi can cling to.

Elementals

Unlike psy, elementals do not have a special gland that gives them their powers. Instead, elementals are born with a tiny elementia core located in their upper chest. This core is composed of a hyper-condensed version of an element that can communicate with and influence other pieces of itself outside its host. As with psy, this power cannot be used until it has been aligned, but there is a limited number of ways for elementia to align. The only currently known(3) types of elementia are fire, water, light, electricity, and air. The alignment of elementia is determined by which of these an infant most commonly or significantly encounters, but alignment typically does not take place until around age six, whereas psi can align within a few days. Elementia also differs from psi in that it must be inherited, though the alignment of the elementia does not carry over.

Take Melanie for example-- her father was lassic, and her biological mother was elementic(4). Her father worked as a fisherman, which meant a lot of time in and around the water, and that was the element that her power clung to.

Elementals also have physical attributes that help promote their powers, which appear during puberty. Electricity elementals have tiny fibers of silver in their hair and a mix of conductive ions in their sweat to help them channel electricity, fire elementals secrete chlorine trifluoride from their fingertips, palms, and feet, and have fire-resistant skin, and water elementals sweat hydrophobic oil and tend to have a higher percentage of body fat to help them float. Light elementals have more subtle changes since their element is intangible, but patches of more heavily pigmented skin have been noted, as well as more rapid darkening of hair in blonde children.

How these powers are used, be they elementic or psychic, depends on the person using them. Simply put, they are controlled by the thoughts and wills of their host, and many psy and elementals with certain types of alignments find that moving their bodies in congruence with their thoughts makes their powers easier to use. If a water elemental wants to raise a small amount of water, they may make an upwards motion with their hand to clearly convey to their brain what they’re trying to do. Very advanced psy and elementals can use their powers without any physical movement at all, but it takes years of discipline and focus.

Strength of powers

While this is subjective, many people would agree that the most powerful forms of psychic powers are those that result from psi aligning itself to intangible concepts. Jasmine, Henna, and Marceau are all examples of this.

Jasmine’s power is to eject their soul from their body in the form of a misty, purple, translucent version of their human form. In this state, they are unaffected by gravity, and they can pass through solid matter, but their body is left unattended and comatose(5). In order to keep together in their soul state, anyone with soul detachment psi must have a very strong grip on their sense of self, and a very powerful will. Jasmine is strong, but they still struggle with dissociation and derealization, as a result of both their powers and unrelated past trauma.

Henna's power seems simple, but "moving things with your mind" isn't exactly how it works. She's still moving things with her hands, but they’re projected versions of her hands. Telekinetic psy must have incredibly strong willpower to be able to use their powers effectively, and they themselves have to wholeheartedly believe that their powers are going to work(6).

Specific cases

We’ve covered some of our friends up there, but let’s go ahead and talk about how each of the other characters’ powers work!

Ambrose’s mother is a florist and lover of flowers, so she always keeps some around the house. Young Ambrose’s psi tied itself to one of those many flowers, giving him the ability to communicate with plants. He can influence the growth of any kind of plant, making them change shape and grow faster, and he can also feel how healthy a plant is. If a flower needs water, or a tree is being eaten up by beetles, he knows about it. The “thoughts” of these plants don’t enter his mind as words, but as feelings that most human beings wouldn’t understand. It’s a form of psychic empathy, in a way, to be able to know what’s going on with a living thing that can’t vocalize or use body language.

Similarly, Dakota can “hear” the thoughts and feelings of mammals (excluding humans) without them being put into words. His psi attached to the family dog, and thus he was able to communicate with creatures like her. He can also allow mammals to feel the things that he’s feeling and understand his intentions, which makes him a miracle worker at the local shelter.

Marceau, on the other hand, gets thoughts in the form of real words. It’s proper telepathy, him thinking something and having someone else hear it without any audible or visible communication. The way his psi aligned is a bit complicated, but it basically came from his desire to be able to speak to people who were far away. He doesn’t have especially good control of it just yet.

Phoebe is a fire elemental, so she can control and generate fire. Controlling it is simple, she just motions with her hands and the fire moves wherever she wants it to go. She can also make a flame grow larger or go out completely. To summon fire, she focuses her elementia into her hands and snaps her fingers, generating a tiny flash of heat that’s enough to light the oil in her fingertips and create a small flame. The same could be accomplished by rubbing her hands together, as fire elementals run hot.

Monte is an electricity elemental, the least common alignment of elementia. When they were a kid, they made the classic mistake of putting a knife in the toaster to retrieve a piece of bread that had gotten stuck, and they got a pretty nasty shock. It wasn’t enough to kill them, but they had to spend a bit of time in the hospital afterwards. On the bright side, they received a pretty rad set of powers for the trouble. Electricity elementals are unique in that they always have a bit of their element on them—running through their hair, across their skin, on their clothes—they’re like big magnets for electricity. Monte’s powers include giving everyone they touch a tiny static shock, charging electronic devices faster than cables, and acting as a living defibrillator in a pinch.

Sam’s control over light gives him the ability to manipulate colors as well. His psi aligned to the sun after a childhood of playing outside with his sisters. Lumokinesis is the least understood form of elementia simply because it is hard to study. The most commonly accepted hypothesis is that the body of a light elemental stores sunlight in a process similar to photosynthesis, and can later reproduce that light, even in complete darkness.

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So, now that you know a bit about how their powers work, let’s meet our cast! They’re all best buddies (and I could probably go on about dynamics for hours), but there are a few relationships of note: Dakota and Henna are siblings, and Ambrose and Dakota are dating.

Henna Harte / “Red” (Dakota)

Henna is a passionate, generally awkward fashion expert with an eye for detail. She uses her mastery over telekinesis to sketch, assemble, and sew her own outfits. She works at a local theater as a costume designer, and on the side has an online shop where she sells her designs and patterns. She's known for making clothes that are stylish as well as comfortable. Though she often struggles with converting her thoughts to words and fitting in with a crowd, she’s intelligent, considerate, and earnest. Her friends can count on her to give them a heartfelt compliment or a brutal roast in equal measure.

Phoebe Yun

Phoebe is competent, organized, and more of a sap than she’d like to admit. She’s deep in the belly of culinary school and is well on her way to becoming a professional chef. In the meantime, she enjoys music, baking, and scouring flea markets for old knives to add to her collection. She may seem a bit intimidating on the outside, but she loves and values each of her friends more than they know, and is always willing to give them advice, a helping hand, or a kick in the shins when they need it. She’s as much of a realist as she is a romantic, and her friends love her for that.

Monte Sailor / “Count” (Siblings)

Monte is a ball of energy, literally and figuratively. He can be a bit much at times, always talking a million miles an hour and using words that could send an English major to the dictionary, but it’s mostly because their brain just runs too fast for the rest of her to keep up. Being an expert in chemistry and biology, he has experience with all kinds of scientific pursuits, from analyzing cells under a microscope to mixing chemicals whose names you can’t pronounce. She’s always curious about the world around them and ready to learn new things, too. Everything they do, they do with passion and optimism.

Ambrose Talminoc / “Ladybug” (Dakota)

Ambrose is a strong but gentle guy who loves to work with his hands. Building wooden birdhouses, fixing up old bicycles, planting flowers out in the gardens—if it’s manual labor that ends with something that’s cool to look at, he’s into it. He’s generally laid-back and easygoing, but he won’t back down from a challenge or a battle of wits. There’s just a little bit of frat boy in his blood, in the sense that he’s willing to try anything if enough people are chanting his name. Sometimes he can be a bit of a goof, but he’s got a heart of gold and cares deeply for his friends and family.

Melanie Telrata

Melanie is a cheerful gal that you just can’t help but love. She’s kind to everyone, even folks who may not deserve it, and she can’t hold a grudge to save her life. She prides herself on being able to see situations from every angle and reserve judgment until she really understands where someone is coming from. Of course this has its limits, but she’s a compromiser at heart. In her free time, she loves swimming, fishing, taking walks in the rain, and anything else that involves water. She’s built like an athlete from years of doing sports, but lately she’s been more into artistic pursuits. You’re more likely to find her painting than running a marathon these days.

Jasmine Faciane / “Jazz” (general), “Foss” (Maria)

Jasmine is the group’s wise old man—though they aren’t old, or a man. They are pretty wise, though, and that’s earned from a life lived way too fast. After speedrunning several existential crises and watching their best friend wither away, they’re left somewhere between jaded and enlightened, and all they really want to do now is relax. They dabble in all sorts of handywork, but their one true passion lies in mechanics. If it’s got a motor and wheels, Jasmine knows how to take it apart, fix it, put it back together, and drive it down the street. All in the same day, even. Their friends often come to them when they need someone to talk to, even if they’re just rambling. Jasmine may not always be the most present, but they’re a damn good listener when it counts.

Marceau Bernard / “Marc” (general)

Marc is a skilled photographer who’s willing to do just about anything in order to get a perfect shot. He loves capturing moments with his loved ones and sticking them in a scrapbook so he always remembers the fun they had. The fact that this stems from a childhood of uncertainty and being at the center of a game of tug-of-war is probably unimportant. Despite the troubles it’s caused him in the past, Marc loves to travel, see new places, try new food, meet new people. Making people happy is what makes him happy, and the easiest way to do that is to befriend them. He’ll never hesitate to say hello or walk into a room like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Samson Iris / “Sam” (general), “Sunny” (sister)

Sam is a quiet guy and more than a little nervous in social spaces. He hates being the center of attention in any situation, and prefers to fade into the background where he can brainstorm and doodle quietly. He’s not weak by any means, but he gets overwhelmed easily and is very aware of that. When he has free time (and sometimes when he doesn’t), he’s drawing. His skills in art combined with his psychic powers have made him a pretty well-known tattoo artist in the area—having full control over the way materials reflect light means he doesn’t need to use needles. If you can manage to get more than a few words out of him, you’ll find that he’s actually pretty clever and has acute observation skills.

Dakota Harte / “Kitty” (Henna), “Kota” (general)

Dakota is a sweet and slightly soft spoken animal lover. I wouldn’t describe him as shy, but he’s easily flustered and absolutely melts whenever someone compliments him. He keeps to himself and can have trouble opening up, but once you get to know him, he’s a friend for life. He’ll drop everything to help out when his pals need it, even if it means he gets pushed a little too hard. It’s not that he doesn’t know his own limits, it’s just that he doesn’t want them to inconvenience anybody. Most days you can find him at the local animal shelter where he works, acting as a caretaker and translator for the critters there. He has a great love for all creatures great and small.

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(1) After years of calling it by a placeholder title, this universe has a name: Life in Color! I’m sure you can guess why.

(2) Psy and psi are both pronounced “sigh.” I wanted to make this as needlessly complicated and confusing as possible. Just remember: psi is the chemical, and psy is the person.

(3) There is evidence to suggest that things like temperature, plasma, or dark matter could influence elementia, but these theories have not been proven.

(4) I haven’t decided why yet (her parents are either divorced or they were never married at all), but Melanie’s bio mom is out of the picture, and has been for quite a while. Her dad raised her as a single father until she was around twelve, when he met the man he would later marry. She loves them both a whole lot! And just for flavor, her step dad is an electricity elemental.

(5) If Jasmine were to die while their soul was out of their body, they would be left in their soul state to wander the earth for an indefinite amount of time. It doesn’t happen often, but this is one of two ways that “ghosts” are made! Also, Jasmine enters this state whenever they sleep by default. For them, dreaming is just wandering around as a soul.

(6) Henna is basically telling the universe "This is where my hand is," and the universe is saying "Aw shit I guess so, you're the boss," and letting her move things she isn't actually touching. Telekinetic psi is really just metaphysical communication.

If anyone ever wants to ask me about these or any other ocs you knooooow id be all over it babey

#lic #i will say the siblings arent blood related! one is adopted #aj draws

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