#i know this will find the intended audience

[pastshadows]

Shadows of the Past

Chapter 21: Scars Shine White in the Light

Summary: After a year of blissful cohabitation, Astarion disappears without a trace, leaving behind a heartfelt letter explaining his departure. Determined to find him, you traverse Faerûn in search of your lost love, only to realize that some absences are meant to be permanent.

Returning to Waterdeep, you find solace in the company of Gale as you come to terms with Astarion's absence. But just as you begin to heal, Astarion reappears, begging for a second chance at love.

The question looms: can you forgive his abandonment and trust him once more? As you grapple with your emotions and trauma, a sinister force lurks in the shadows, targeting you for unknown reasons.

With danger closing in, you must navigate the treacherous waters of trust, love, and betrayal to uncover the truth behind the mysterious entity's motives. Will you be able to reunite with Astarion while facing the demons of your past? Can you unravel the secrets that threaten your very existence?

Setting: Post End-Game. Mostly canon compliant.

Word Count: 7K

Content: Explicit 18+ - intended for mature audiences.

Warnings: [Additional tags will be added, but expect mature content / read at your own risk.]

Spoilers. Mentions of in-game missable content. Violence. Sexual Assault [Implied/attempted sexual assault: Chapter 7]. Past Trauma. Murder. Death. Longing. Sexual themes. Smut. Blood drinking. Angst. Innuendos. High use of sarcasm. Completely fabricated camp interactions. Panic attacks. Anxiety.

Unlike before, time seems to fast forward, seemingly leaping ahead with every blink as Aldous approaches. The dagger quakes in your grip, and chastise your body for being so wimpish.

A golden beam of light splits the tenebrosity, akin to the sun crowning over the horizon at the break of dawn, and you reflexively throw yourself over Astarion to shield him from it. The sheer brightness makes your eyes clamp closed.

When you open them again, darkness shrouds you like a thick cloak, but this darkness is not natural. It’s teeming with the vitality of the Weave. Somewhere, you can hear the metallic clashing of blades. Your fingers curl into Astarion’s armour, terrified that if you let go, you will lose him in this rayless depth.

Your ears twitch as you catch the quick patter of footsteps, and you bring the dagger back up. It’s difficult to discern which direction the sounds are coming from, and your eyes dart around in an attempt to catch any movement.

The slightest flicker of light is all the forewarning you get before a figure breaks through the fog. The dagger is poised and ready to strike when the icy blue aura of healing magic scintillates within the penumbra, and Shadowheart drops down on one knee beside you.

Her hand nearly touches you before you drop the dagger, catch her wrist, and plant her hand on Astarion. The magic bathes him, flowing over his skin like a wave stroking the beach and fading out as it sinks into him.

Shadowheart’s hand searches through the gloom, finding your forearm. She fumbles around, shuffling on her feet until she can see you more clearly, and wraps her arms around you in a gentle, quick hug.

“Is he?” She gestures toward Astarion, trying once more to heal him. 

“I don’t know.”

The spell is dismissed and diminishes within a split second to reveal Gale and Hecat. Gale breathes heavily, his eyes still glowing with the Weave, and Hecat’s sword is still poised in a defensive position. A thick river of blood drips from a wound in her bicep, off her elbow, and to the ground. You scan the area, but Aldous is nowhere to be seen.

“He’s gone, my friend.” Gale confirms with more spite in his voice than you can recall he ever had, even when he was talking about Mystra. “His master must have tugged his leash.”

Gale and Hecat’s eyes sink to Astarion’s body, which still lies at rest in your arms, and you follow their line of sight with your head hung low over him.

“I tried,” you mutter. “He can’t be. He can’t… He…” You trail off, unable to even think of the word, or you’re positive that you will fall apart and never get up.

Hecat’s sword slumps down, the tip burying itself in the ground, and it strikes you that the woman is crying.

“We should go,” Gale says, kneeling and placing his hand on your shoulder gently. “There is no telling when he might return with greater forces.”

“I won’t leave him here,” you choke out between sobs. “I won’t.”

“Nor will I.” Hecat adds with a sombre intonation, her voice shaking.

Her stalwart loyalty to someone she doesn’t truly know strikes you as strange, but in this moment, you’re thankful for it.

“Of course we won’t leave him.” Shadowheart assures, wrapping her arms around you once more.

“He was our friend, too,” Gale weeps, rubbing the tears that are starting to form in the corners of his eyes.

Was our friend.

Was.

“Was your friend?” Astarion coughs hard, his eyes cracking open slightly. “So lovely to know what you’ve written me off already, my friends,” he groans satirically.

Your arms wrap around him, and for whatever reason, you cry harder with the overwhelming relief. Shadowheart’s arms encircle him as well, her tears leaving tracks down her rosy cheeks. Then Gale and Hecat join.

Astarion bemoans it. You worry it’s making him uncomfortable, but when your eyes meet his, there’s a small smile on his face. You think he’s finally realizing that he has people who truly care about him — much more than he thought.

“Let’s get you two back to camp,” Gale says, hooking his arm around Astarion and helping him to his feet. “Dinner should be ready when we return.”

You groan out loud even though you didn’t mean to, and Shadowheart stifles her giggling. “Kamena is quite injured,” she offers as an excuse to Gale.

“Yes, I’m sure that was it.” Gale scoffs.

“Good Gods,” Astarion barks. “Is no one going to tell him?”

“Tell me what?” Gale asks, brows arched curiously.

Astarion, ever truthful, ignores all of your frantically shaking heads and states the truth that everyone else is too nice to say. “They all hate your cooking, Gale.”

Gale shakes his head with a genial laugh and a Cheshire smile. “Oh, I’ve known that for quite some time. Yet they continue to eat it without complaint, too afraid to hurt my feelings. I wanted to see how long it would go on.”

“So, you’ve been feeding us food we don’t like on purpose?” Shadowheart’s eyes are wide, and her expression is stunned.

“Oh-yes,” Gale chuckles.

You lay with Astarion in the tent, but once he’s deep in his trance, you sneak away to sit by the fire. You’re exhausted, but your mind refuses to oblige your command to trance. It seems the others are in the same predicament, and one by one, Shadowheart comes to join you, then Hecat, and then Gale.

The three of you sit around the fire in silence for a while, each of you contesting with your own inward thoughts on the days events.

“How did you know to come?” You finally ask, staring at your fingers.

“It was Hecat, actually,” Shadowheart answers, and there is a lilt of surprise in her voice. “She said that you had been gone too long, and she was going to look for you.”

“Naturally, we couldn’t leave her to do it on her own,” Gale adds. “So, we joined.”

“And it was a godsdamned good thing we did!” Shadowheart’s voice borders on scolding. “You nearly got yourself killed, Kamena! What the Hells happened?!”

“Aldous happened.” You don’t have the energy to recite the entire story right now.

Hecat? She is the one who prompted them to come to look for you and possibly saved both of you and Astarion’s lives. Guilt sinks into your bones. You have not treated the woman very well. When you glance at her, she shrugs and offers you a warm smile.

Getting up, you awkwardly make your way over to where she sits and wrap your arms around her. “Thank you, Hecat. By the Gods. Thank you.”

“Don’t sweat it, Kamena!” She says warmly. “Did you find what you’re looking for or just trouble?”

“Just trouble.” You sigh and drop back onto the ground, rubbing your tired eyes.

“You seem to be a magnet for it,” Hecat assesses.

“She is.” Shadowheart and Gale confirm unanimously.

They snicker, and you narrow your eyes at the pair. “It was your great misfortunate that I ended up in your prison cell.”

“I would say the opposite.” Hecat retorts, her flame-filled eyes cast to the ground. “I’ve been an outcast most of my life, and friends were a foreign concept to me until I met all of you. I know you don’t like me much, but you still have my gratitude, even if being here has put my life in mortal danger.”

“I…” You trail off while the guilt makes your heart squeeze in your chest. “It’s not that I don’t like you…”

Hecat waves her hand flippantly with a small, sad smile. “You don’t have to lie. I know I say stupid things. I’m aware that I have a hard time filtering my thoughts before speaking and only realize I shouldn’t have said something or worded it differently when it’s much too late.”

You’re usually a master with responses. You can twist letters and syllables into a tidy little package to persuade, intimidate, deceive, or placate at your whim, but your silver tongue stalls, and you cannot think of a response to save your life.

Shadowheart clasps your shoulder, interjecting to rescue you. “You should get some rest.”

You swallow hard, eyes pouring over the little camp. “Aldous might return—”

“Shadowheart and I will stay up to keep watch.” Hecat reassures, grabbing her sword and laying it across her lap to polish. “You look worse than I did when I escaped the Hells. Get some sleep, or whatever you elves do.”

You look to Gale in hopes that he might come to your aid and tell the others that you don’t need babysitting, but his bourbon brown eyes gaze at you with a hint of melancholy you were not expecting to see.

“They are correct, my friend. You require rest. We can regroup after and determine what our next move will be,” he says cajolingly, as if he were trying to persuade a rebellious child.

Being spoken to in such a way makes you cringe, and the voices in your head chant, broken, broken, broken. Much like a wilful youth, your first reaction is to be obstinate, to berate them for treating you in such a way that makes you feel small, but their intentions are good and they are not wrong.

You offer them a curt nod, not trusting your tongue to keep its remarks to itself, and shuffle toward the tent. Once you’re safely inside, you nearly collapse onto the furs and bring your knees to your chest while resting your head on them. How could you possibly sleep when every time you close your eyes you hear the clattering of boots, see the flash of chrome, and hear Astarion tell you he would have liked to marry you?

“So, you fly now?” Astarion’s groggy timbre surprises you, and your head jerks up to see flashes of crimson eyes peeking from behind thick lashes. “You have wings? Literal wings? I am not easily impressed by people, but you are quite a good person to know should I be thrown from a building... again.”

Before you can think better of it, you’re an ungainly mess of arms tangling around his neck with your hands twisting into his hair and grabbing handfuls of the silver-spun silk.

Astarion wraps his arms around you, pressing you into himself with an almost bruising strength. “I’m okay,” he soothes, his fingers stroking your hair. “I’m here.”

“You should be resting,” you murmur, still angling your body so that every part of you is pressed against some part of him.

“I can rest when I’m dead.”

You jerk upwards and glare at him with narrow eyes. “Not. Funny,” you scold in a sotto voice.

He smiles, brushing your hair back and taking your face in his hands. “Come now. It’s a little funny.”

You try to wrangle enough residual anger to chastise him for his ill-timed jokes, but as you just learned, time is a precious commodity. You never know when the last tick of a second marks the end, and you will not spend such a priceless asset on anger.

“You’re insufferable.” It’s a struggle to keep your expression serious.

“Aren’t I just?” He snickers, using his thumbs to pull your lips up in the smile they wish to curl into anyway. It breaks your composure, and you smile, silly and girlish. “There’s my girl.”

He pulls you back down to lay on his chest, curling his fingers into your hair. It’s quiet for a spell as you revel in the embrace you nearly lost.

“When did you learn that?” He asks in a low rumbling voice.

“Learn what?”

He pulls away only a little to arch a brow at you as if you’ve asked an immensely stupid question. “To fly?”

“When I jumped off the tower, I felt a weird feeling, like instinct, and—”

“I’m sorry, but hold that thought for just a moment. What?!” He cuts you off with a snap of cold in his voice. “You didn’t know you could do that before you jumped off the damn tower?”

“Well, no, but—“

“Have you lost your godsdamned mind, Kamena?” You can’t quite make out if it’s anger you hear in his voice, chastisement, or astonishment. Perhaps it’s an amalgamation of all three. “What in the Hells were you thinking? Jumping off like that! What a bloody stupid thing to do!”

His anger is similar to that of when you accidentally dropped a building on him, and although you probably shouldn’t, you’ve always found it humorous.

“Stop giggling!” Astarion scolds with a huff. “Can you not see that I’m angry with you?”

You cover your mouth to try and stifle your ill-timed laughter. “I’m sorry,” you manage to choke out. Clearing your throat, you steel yourself back into some semblance of poise, though you cannot wipe the smile from your face. “Sorry. Of course, I can see you’re angry.”

Astarion’s brows furrow while he searches your face. He rolls his eyes exasperatedly. “You still want to giggle like a merry school girl, don't you?”

You curl your lips inward, pressing them together, and nod.

“Hells below,” Astarion groans, racking a hand over his face. “You’re terrible. You know that?”

You nod again, not trusting your mouth to open lest you continue your undignified and improper laughter.

“Well, what are you waiting for, darling? Astarion tosses the furs back. “Get in here before I drag you in here.”

The red gash and dark bruising around it stand out garishly against the rest of Astarion’s pristine alabaster skin, and you suck in a sharp breath, poising your hands over the wound as if you might be able to heal it through sheer willpower alone.

“I’m fine, love.” He coos, slipping his fingers under your chin and guiding your eyes to his. “I’m fine, thanks to you.”

“You should feed,” you murmur, already pulling your hair away from your neck.

“As much as I do appreciate the offer,” he pokes your bruised forehead to bring attention to the fact that you are wounded as well, making you mouth “ouch” to him silently. “I will have to decline for tonight.”

“Fine,” you concede with a pout. “Tomorrow then. You know you always heal faster when you’re full.”

“Remember that, do you?” Astarion muses with a canted head, wrapping an arm around you as you sidle up next to him. “I’m not sure how much I liked this being known thing. It takes away from my intriguing mysteriousness.”

“Pardon me,” you quip, gesturing to yourself as if scandalized. “Allow me a moment to forget all things vampire so you can continue to bewitch me with your enigmatic charms.”

Astarion shakes his head, smiling boyishly, but it transforms into something more sombre and serious. “You could have died today, Kamena. If you hadn’t been able to fly...” he trails off, shaking his head. “Gods. I dare not think about it. Do not throw your life away so readily for me.”

“Don’t jump off any more buildings, and I won’t have to.”

“Kamena,” he starts with a sigh.

“No!” You shout a little louder than you had meant to, cutting him off and glaring at him with enough intensity to make him swallow thickly. “No.” You repeat more hushed. “I don’t need you to tell me what to do with my life, Astarion. It’s my choice. Do not take that from me. Please.”

Astarion nods, though you can tell he’s a little vexed, and you’ve likely not heard the last of his objections.

“I would also like to point out that I did not jump; I fell.” Astarion huffs dramatically in an attempt to ease the overbearing tension.

You lean in close to him and press a lingering kiss to his cheek. When your lips ghost his ear, Astarion shudders with a breathy whimper, and you whisper, “If I were you, I would go with the jumping story. Falling off a building is incredibly embarrassing, don’t you think?”

“Bloody Hells, darling,” Astarion groans, twisting his head to catch your lips. “Get some rest.”

Astarion wakes to a familiar smell, though not one he wishes to be reminded of, and a discordance of gruff voices that are trying to stay hushed. He glances at Kamena, who is still pressed up against him with her eyes closed, seemingly deep in her trance. An amalgamation of purple, blue, and yellow bruises extends down her forehead around a laceration that glares at him like he’s the guilty party.

He shifts Kamena slowly and carefully until she lays on the pillow and pulls the fur blankets up around her. She murmurs in her sleep, hands incoherently grasping for him, but soon settles. He tugs on his clothes, grabs his weapons, and marches out of the tent, prepared to see Aldous invading their camp.

When his eyes fall onto Aurelia and Leon, he nearly drops his dagger in numbed shock. Leon, he spent countless years with. The man was always striving to be Cazador’s favourite, and oh, how Astarion loathed it. Looking at Leon now, he pities the poor foul. He appears emaciated, hungry, and covered in filth from head to toe.

Aurelia is in much the same condition. Her clothes are darkly stained from sleeping in the dirt, her red skin appears sallow and wan from hunger, and one of her horns is broken off near her skull.

It’s clear that the Underdark has not been kind to his siblings, but anything is better than living in Cazador’s primitive hell.

Gale, Shadowheart, and Hecat are already speaking to them in low tones, but as soon as Astarion is visible, all eyes snap to him.

“Astarion?” Leon says. “Is it truly you, brother?”

Astarion nearly cringes at being called “brother,” but schools his expression into one of near indifference.

“Leon, Aurelia,” Astarion says levelly. “A pleasure.”

“You have siblings, Astarion?” Hecat asks, and he only nods his affirmation.

“You’re… alive.” Aurelia says almost as if confused. “They haven’t caught you yet.”

“Are you truly surprised, sister?” Leon remarks. “He always was the wiliest out of all of us, to his own determinant. It’s the reason Cazador favoured his pain over ours.”

“Cazador preferred my screams because they were far more becoming than all of your croaking,” Astarion quips to hide his discomfort at the mention of his old master’s preoccupation with him.

His siblings do not know the truth, of course. He may have given up trying to escape, but he instigated Cazador to save the rest of them from his torments. Well, that and because it was dreadful fun to piss him off even if it did get him flayed.

“Why have you come, brother?” Aurelia asks.

“We came looking for you.” He states indifferently. “It seems you may have landed yourself in a spot of trouble.”

“That’s an understatement.” Leon says, glancing at Aurelia. “Someone has been hunting us and the spawn you released. We know not who they are—”

Astarion puts a hand up and shakes his head. “Yes, we are aware of the situation. It appears another vampire lord has caught wind of the Black Mass. They need our scars to complete the contract.”

“Can another vampire lord do that?” Aurelia asks, fear permeating her eyes. “Complete the rite?”

“It makes sense,” Leon sighs, coasting his fingers through his dirty hair. “They’ve been rounding up the feral spawn and our brother’s and sisters.”

“And Cazador was not exactly subtle,” Astarion adds quickly. “When Kamena and I were there, we found correspondence between him and other lords boasting about the power he was about to acquire.”

Leon and Aurelia sigh at the same time, obviously bone-weary and at their wits end. Astarion holds little love for his “siblings.” Cazador called them a family but did not refrain from pitting them against each other to create animosity between their ranks. It’s far safer to pit the spawn against each other over who gets to stay in the lavish, preferred spawn quarters, then run the risk of them conspiring against their master.

Astarion had caught onto that little plan straight away, but his siblings were too embroiled in their competition against one another to give a damn what he said.

Imbeciles.

“Where are the other spawn?” Shadowheart asks. “The feral ones.”

“Gone,” Leon answers immediately. “Those of them that were not killed by the dangers lurking in the Underdark were swiftly rounded up.”

“I told you to take care of them,” Astarion nearly snarls, but he manages to keep most of the animosity from his tone.

“We tried, Astarion!” Aurelia fumes with her fists balling up at her sides. “They were too far gone. Many of them had been starved and rotting down there for centuries!”

A flush of guilt labours through him. He had feared as much when he saw them, but he thought they deserved a chance like he had.

Then again, they did not have someone like Kamena at their side to love them through their bloodlust, pain, and misery.

“I should have killed them,” Astarion states with his eyes cast down at his shoes. “Selfishly, I did not want anymore blood on my hands than I was already drowning in.”

“You couldn’t have known, my friend.” Gale reassured quickly, his expressions sullen.

A placation, at best. Astarion had known. He had been lucky to come back from the year he spent in solitude, starved and alone with only silence and darkness as his company. When he had been released, he had long abandoned the abilities for speech and reason. If it had not been for Cazador’s compulsion, he would have tore through Baldur's Gate like a rabid animal.

“None of us did.” Leon acknowledges and offers Astarion a small smile. “What you did was admirable. It is a shame it turned out this way.”

“So, do you have a plan? Aurelia’s voice is high with anxiety, and her eyes run amok over the land.

Astarion observes her demeanour. She had never been the most courageous of the bunch of them, but this level of restlessness was rare even when Cazador was hunting her through the hallways.

“Find the vampire. Stop the vampire. Kill the vampire.” Astarion drawls in a devil-may-care fashion. “We are workshopping the details as we go.”

“They won’t stop, Astarion.” Aurelia sputters. “We’ve just spent Gods know how long hiding with fish.”

Astarion nearly chuckles. “Ah, the Kuo-Toa, yes? Fascinating creatures, are they not?”

“You could say that,” Leon groans. “So another vampire lord is looking to complete the Black Mass. Where does that leave us?”

“Targets obviously,” Astarion concludes briskly.

“Yes, we get that, Astarion. Thank you.” Leon remarks vexed. It makes Astarion smirk that he’s still able to get under their skin. “But where do we go from here?”

“We’ll take you to our home.” Kamena’s voice is flat, weighed down by the lingering traces of her trance.

All eyes jerk to her as she rubs her eyes and yawns. Kamena winces, and her fingers prod the bruises and cut on her forehead, testing the tenderness. She moves stiffly toward them, and though she manages to hide it well, he can tell she’s still in pain.

How could she not be? She leapt off a fucking building.

For him.

Him.

Try as Astarion might, he cannot fathom why anyone would put themselves in harm's way for him.

“It’s nice to see you again, Kamena.” Leon says with an awkward smile. “I’m happy to see you recovered.”

Kamena smiles politely, but it does not reach her eyes, and she refuses to look at him. He’s still not quite sure what happened down here. All his attempts to get her to open up are met with reluctance. He is trying, in the only way he knows how, and he knows he shouldn’t resent her for the problems he caused partially, but a small part of him does all the same.

She just has it so easy. Kamena can pick and choose when and what to open up about at her whim, but it’s clear that she doesn’t fully trust him. He will admit, he’s made mistakes—more than a few at that, but he has been trying, hasn’t he? He forces himself to open up to her even when it feels like he’s tearing apart his ribs to show her his heart and stitching himself back up.

But his openness is met with reserve, and it hurts him—a constant, blunt ache in his chest where his heart should beat.

In spite of the pain, Astarion sweeps the festering wounds to the wayside once more. What is pain to him anyway? After centuries under Cazador, pain is an old friend, although this pain is new to him.

Physical pain he can handle. It is known. It is predictable. This pain, though, he’s not quite sure how to traverse.

He can see that she is trying. He just wishes it was faster, so that they can luxuriate in the warmth of it for as long as possible before Kamena leaves him alone to forget how to love once again.

“What do you mean, take us to your house?” Aurelia asks uncertainly.

“It’s somewhere you will be safe.” Kamena morphs her tenor into something resembling a summer breeze — soft, warm, and welcome. She must have recognized his sister's unease. “You don’t have to go. The choice remains yours. If you want to stay with the Kuo-Toa, you’re welcome to.”

Astarion is still not very delighted with the idea of having his siblings in his home, using their bed, hunting in his woods, but leaving them here is a worse option.

“Does it have things to eat?” Leon asks hopefully, the pang of starvation in his tone.

He watches his brother and sister carefully. They should be nearly as practiced at controlling their bloodlust as he is, but he would be a fool to trust them completely. That kind of hunger can drive even the sanest souls mad.

“Animals,” Astarion confirms, and gives them both a pointed look. “Only animals. Is that clear?”

Both the spawn nod their acknowledgment.

“Lovely,” Astarion exclaims with terribly mimicked mirth. “Now, do any of you know Prestidigitation by any chance? They smell rank.”

Astarion and Kamena jog toward the Elfsong, with dawn threatening the horizon. Escorting his siblings to his house had taken longer than they had estimated, and staying the night there was out of the godsdamned question.

“Hurry up, Astarion!” Kamena urges him, placing her hands on his back and pushing him to run quicker. Panic infects her voice like a pathogen. “You can run much quicker than me. Go. I’ll catch up.”

He glances at the sky. They are pushing it close, but there is a little room to be had. Astarion has to choke back a scant chuckle. Kamena is more terrified of the sun touching him than he is, and it baffles him. She has seen the sun touch him on several occasions. It hurts like a bitch, but it’s not a death sentence.

“We’re fine, love.” He tries to reassure, but it’s of little use to calm her. “We’re nearly there.”

Kamena gives him a firm swat on the ass, but her face is adorned with the most ambrosial, angelic smile. “I wasn’t asking, Astarion. Get this very charming ass moving!”

“Well, when you put it that way,” he purrs carnally, and then switches his demeanour on a dime. “It’s still a no, I’m afraid.”

"Corellon, grant me patience,” Kamena groans.

Kamena darts into the Elfsong, pushing the sweaty strands of her hair behind her ears, and placing a bag of coin on the counter. “We need a room for two nights.”

The barkeep meanders over slowly, and Kamena shifts on her feet, her eyes darting to the windows that are beginning to brighten. He remains unconcerned about the sun. His concern is for her. Fear has a musky, sour aroma that numbs his tongue. Then there is terror, and it smells like absinthal, burning metals that numb his entire body.

Kamena smells like terror.

“Sure thing,” The man dumps the bag of coins out onto the counter to count them.

“You can have the whole bag if you tell me the room number right now,” Kamena blurts out.

Astarion’s eyes bulge. That pouch held far more coin than what was necessary for a room. He takes a deep breath to calm himself. No matter. He will just steal it back for her later.

“Room three,” the man says, cupping his hand at the counter's lip and sweeping the excess coin into it.

She grabs him by the wrist and tugs him upstairs. Unfortunately for him, the upper-floor windows are not shielded from the sun by the other buildings, and he has to dodge through it quickly to get across the hallway. A hiss of pain whispers through his lips when the rays dawdle over his arm.

Kamena bursts into the room, pulling all the drapery closed in a rush while he stands off to the side in a shaded corner until the room is cloaked in darkness. She snaps her fingers, and he watches little orbs, like infant suns, float through the air and land on the candle wicks.

She rushes over to him, grabbing his arm gently to get a look at the burn. “Are you okay?”

Astarion glances at the small patch of cracked, matte skin. “It’s a piddling injury, darling.”

Her brows pinch, and her eyes squeeze closed as she takes a deep breath. Astarion cocks his head, trying to read her. Sometimes he finds that he actually misses the worms in their heads that allowed them to link minds.

“Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I am,” he reassures, his hands finding her upper arms and squeezing while his thumbs gently rub. “A little sun is not going to be my end.”

“I know. It’s just…” She trails off, looking askance.

Astarion’s heart feels like it leaps, even though he knows it remains gripped by death. Is she finally going to open up to him? Is she finally going to let him in?

“Nevermind,” she sighs, and his heart stings with yet another dismissal.

They are both tired, dirty, and wounded. Astarion knows this conversation needs to be had, but he cannot bring himself to inflict any further pain right now.

“You forgot the fire, sweetheart.”

Kamena’s fingers snap once more, and the fire crackles and pops, flames gnawing at the kindling. They settle in, each having a bath and shedding the Underdark’s grime.

Kamena towels off and runs a comb through her hair. “Are you tired?”

“No,” he admits. “The last couple of days have been a lot.”

“Good. I’m going to go downstairs and fetch us some wine.” Kamena rummages through their bag, finding a pair of clean trousers and a shirt to toss on. “Any particular vintage I should ask for, snob?”

“Snob!” Astarion huffs false indignation, puffing his chest out. “It is not my fault you lack a refined palate.”

“Says the vampire,” she smirks. “I’ll ask them for their most expensive bottles.”

“It’ll likely still be plonk.”

“Probably, but not to worry. You can make merry with my vintage wine later,” she winks.

Just before she’s about to shut the door, he calls out to her. “Do make sure to get yourself some food as well.”

Kamena pokes her head back in to shoot him a pointed look and sticks her tongue out at him petulantly, shutting the door behind her.

Astarion settles in front of the fire and gets lost in the dance of the leaping flames. What will it take for her to start unwrapping the fragile, broken parts of her and trust that he will hold even the smallest slivers with care? Vulnerability does not come to him easily; not after emotions had been systematically squeezed out of him, but he swallowed his pride, fear, and bitterness for her.

It hadn’t been easy. Giving her access to his heart and having to trust that she would hold it gently had been the most difficult thing he’s ever done. Day after day, he’s placing his heart in her hands, but she’s unable or unwilling to put that same trust in him.

She loves him; he has no doubts about that, but he still feels like he’s swimming in a lake, and she’s standing on the sidelines, picking and choosing when to dip her toes in. Is that what their relationship has been reduced to?

He was her sanctuary once, where she ran to find peace when the pandemonium of their tribulation got a little too loud. Now she retreats. Less often these days, but still often enough for it to pain him.

What else can he do?

The creak of the door breaks him from his rumination, and he blinks, his eyes dry from staring off into the void of his mind. Kamena uncorks a bottle and sits with him. To his great delight, she carries a plate of food, which she nibbles on slowly. They speak idly about nothing in particular, passing the wine back and forth between them. A permanent blush stains her cheeks pink from the wine, and Astarion drinks in sight of her with a tipsy grin.

“Do you remember...” Astarion stops, trying to recall the name, and takes another sip of wine. “Gods. What was his name? Ah, yes! Kar’niss.”

Kamena visibly shudders. “The Drider? Gods. Why would you bring that up, Astarion?” She giggles unreserved. “I still have nightmares about him.”

“You threw the Lyre at him as soon as he popped up from the shadows, and do you remember what you did, darling?”

Kamena snorts out a small laugh. “I ran behind you. You make a very good shield.”

“Ran? Darling,” Astarion chuckles, shaking his head, “you yelped, scrambled behind me all flailing limbs, and forced me to talk to the damn abomination!”

She shrugs. “It was time you started pulling your damn weight!”

“All the locks I picked and traps I stopped you from barrelling into were not enough? You would have blown yourself up in that godsdamned ruined temple had I not been there to stop you from pressing buttons and walking over pressure plates.”

“My morally questionable, very pale hero!” She simpers and giggles delightfully.

“Don’t forget beautiful,” he quips.

Kamena places her wine down and approaches him. He grabs her waist and pulls her into his lap to straddle him.

“My morally questionable, very pale, devastatingly beautiful hero,” she amends, kissing his face between every word. He gathers her hair, sweeping it away from her neck to press unhurried kisses down the column. His fingers ruck up the hem of her shirt, and she takes it off, throwing it off to the side unceremoniously. Astarion takes a moment to take her in, his hand cradling her face and his thumb stroking her cheek. He dips his head to catch her lips. Astarion groans with the heat of her breath in his mouth, and he allows himself to get lost in his love for her.

Kamena undoes the buttons of his chemise with clumsy fingers. Once it’s undone, she smooths her hands with her palms slightly heated from her magic up his abdomen and chest, leaving a trail of heat in their wake, almost as if the sun’s rays were warming him.

His cock is already throbbing. “I want to lead,” he says huskily. “Like we used to.”

If he can get her to trust him in this, maybe, just maybe, she can start to trust him outside of intimacy. She requested he stop being so gentle with her, and maybe that is part of the problem. He’s too gentle, too affable, too meek, scared that one wrong move will send her spiralling — running.

It’s a long shot, but he’s running out of ideas. It does idly cross his mind if this is a manipulation tactic, but he doesn’t mean it to be so. He just needs to gain her trust, and this is as good a place as any to start.

There’s a small flicker of uncertainty before she nods. “Okay. You lead.”

“Do you remember what word you use if you need to stop?”

“…Astarion,” she says warily.

“I shan’t push too far, my love.” He comforts, lowering his voice into warmed honey so that its timbre sticks to her skin. “And you have only but to say the word if you want to stop.”

The look of wariness slowly ebbs and is replaced with determination. “Orchid.”

“Correct. Good girl.” Astarion pats her leg, picking at her trousers. “Stand and take these off.”

While she does that, he slips out of his pants, his cock finally relieved of that too tight hug of his leather trousers. He settles back on the chair, legs spread wide, and grabs her hips.

“Come.” He turns her around. “Sit. Yes. Like that.”

Kamena settles herself on his lap, her back pressed against his chest. His cock is stiff and yearning against her heated sex, and it takes him considerable effort to thwart the temptation to sink into her.

Astarion draws her in close, wrapping his arm around her waist and kissing down the back of her neck to the base of her spine. He settles his chin on her shoulder, making sure to position himself in a way that he can see down her body, and his breath fans her ear.

He trails the backs of his fingers down, lightly brushing them against the hardened peaks of her nipples, and she sucks in a sharp breath at the stimulation. He proceeds and feels her tremble in anticipation, but he stops short and traces his fingertips featherlight around her belly.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” he whispers into her ear. “Tell me exactly what you want, when you want it, how you want it. Where. Harder. Faster. Slower. Tell me everything.”

Kamena leans back into him. “I thought you wanted to lead?”

“I am. Just not in the way you were expecting.” He grins mischievously. “I await my instructions, my dear.”

“Touch me,” she mutters under her breath.

“Where?” Astarion plays stupid, bringing his finger to rest on the tip of her nose. “Here?”

She laughs, grabbing his hand and placing it exactly where she wants it. Her clit pulses against his fingertips.

“Okay, now what?” He asks.

“Play with my clit, gently at first.” Kamena’s legs jitter when he starts swirling circles around the border, and to his delight, she gets a little more brazen. “Faster with more pressure.”

Her cheek presses into him, her back arching, and she whimpers. Astarion slides his fingers down, parting her folds, spreading her open for him to admire.

“So wet for me, aren’t you, my sweet?” He nips her ear, a graze of his fang along it, and then he sucks gently. Kamena whimpers, and her fingers grasp any part of him available as her hips buck. “So needy.”

“Fuck.” She groans. “Fuck me with your fingers.”

A low, delighted growl rumbles in Astarion’s chest. There is his Kamena, unashamed to tell him exactly what she wants from him. His fingers skate around her entrance, veiling them in her silky desire, before he pushes his cock to the side slightly and slips them in. He starts slow, dipping in and out in the smallest increments to tease out her pleasure.

“Open your eyes, love.” Astarion instructs smooth as velvet. “Watch me fuck your pretty little pussy. You look positively divine with my fingers inside you.”

He smirks when he sees her face flush red, with an amalgamation of desire and embarrassment. Though she likes it, Kamena does not have much experience with vulgar dirty talk, despite the fact that he’s heard some downright obscene things drop off her tongue.

With his fingers sliding against his shaft on every pump, groans escape him unbidden. Kamena clenches around his fingers at the sound, answering him with whimpers. The fact that Kamena is aroused further by the sound of his need exhilarates him.

“My clit,” she pants with her eyes anchored on his fingers. “You can do both at the same damn time. Don’t be so lazy.”

He growls into her ear approvingly. “As you wish.”

His thumb presses against her clit, sweeping across in a regular rhythm, and her hips jerk and roll thoughtlessly. He increases his pace, driving his fingers deep and fast, curling them up with every pass. Kamena’s fingernails dig into the meat of his thighs as she gasps and jerks, sweat starting to coat both of their bodies.

Precum dribbles from his cock, and his hips start to buck involuntarily as it begs him for the attention he so desperately craves.

“A- Gods! Astarion,” she sputters. “Fuck me. Please. Fuck me.”

He would have liked to make her cum like this, but he cannot deny that he much prefers to feel her walls spasming around his cock, begging him to fill her with his spend.

“Lean in me,” he barks, and she relaxes into him straight away. He hooks his forearms under her knees, spreading her wider for him. “A hand, if you would be so kind, love.”

Kamena grasps his cock, swirling her thumb over his precum soaked tip and giving it a slow stroke before she aligns him at her entrance.

“Hard or soft tonight?”

“Bite me and fuck me hard,” she growls at him, sweeping her hair to the side and exposing her neck.

A shot of pure, unmitigated desire shoots straight through him at the words, and he buries himself to the hilt with one smooth snap of his hips. His eyes fall shut, revelling in the sensation of being sheathed in her — so tight, so wet, so warm, so perfect.

Astarion opens his eyes, watching himself pull out almost all the way and slamming back into her again and again.

He kisses her neck, moaning against her. “Gods above. You look magnificent on my cock. Do you like to watch me fuck you, Kamena?”

A desperate whine comes from her. “Gods, yes.”

“Good girl,” he purrs. “Play with your clit.”

Kamena’s hand reaches down shakily, skimming across her tender flesh. Astarion moans once more at the divine sight before he bites, quick and accurate, knowing exactly where and how to illicit the correct response. His fangs sink into her tender flesh, and her blood surges into his mouth.

His eyes roll back as the sanguine nectar skips across his tongue. If heaven has a taste, he’s positive that this is it. Astarion centres his attention on the push and pull of her walls, the ridges dragging against his hard length.

He can feel every squeeze of that slick, warm grip sending him reeling into mind-numbing pleasure. Kamena’s hips undulate in time to meet his hard thrusts, her fingers working her clit at a frantic pace.

Astarion drives into her, harder and deeper, making her take all of him with every thrust. Kamena whimpers and moans his name in an almost prayer-like chant, and every time it sends another wave of affection coursing through him.

She cries out, her cunt spasming and clamping down on him. The tightness, the way her walls squeeze him, makes it too hard for him to stave off his orgasm. He has to withdraw his fangs from her neck when he comes, the pleasure so intense that his toes curl and a sonorous whine erupts from his throat.

Astarion’s fingers dig into the meat of her thighs, holding on for dear life. His hips stutter, dipping his cock into her again and again and again, coaxing out every bit of his release and flooding her. His being narrows down into nothing but an impossibly compressed point of white-hot bliss as his hips buck, riding out his own shockwaves until they finally abate.

Kamena sags into him once he unhooks his arms from her legs and lets them relax. He presses a kiss to her temple, burying his nose in her hair with his own satisfied sigh.

“We might have ruined this chair.” Kamena shifts to look down at the evidence of their enjoyment. “We definitely ruined this chair.”

Astarion barks out an abrupt laugh in response. “Possibly,” he concurs with a rakish grin. “To Hells with them. You gave them enough bloody coin to furnish this room twice over.”

She turns to face him, draping herself over him with her arms around his neck. “You’re just going to steal it back for me anyhow.”

He grins at that, his chest feeling lighter. It feels good to be seen, known. “You know me too well.”

Kamena rests her head in the crook of his neck, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin as her eyes fall shut. “That was... fun. We haven’t done that in a while. You are okay?”

A typical question after they make love, but he finds it hard to answer this time. It’s not the physical intimacy that troubles him, but her lack of emotional intimacy is another matter entirely.

“Yes, my love,” he purrs. There will be a time and place for that discussion, but this isn’t it. “I’m fine. I would tell you if I wasn’t. Shall we clean up and go to bed? We have a long night ahead of us.”

She leans back, quirking her brow at him. “A long night?”

“Oh yes,” he smiles cunningly. “I believe I owe you a hot date, and I intend to deliver before we leave the city.”

Thank you to all those who read/like/comment/follow/reblog/etc. I'm forever thankful for the support. I love reading your comments ❤️

Chapters Master List - Shadows of the Past

AO3: Crossposted

If you're interested, I also write fanfic for Ascended Astarion x Spawn Tav - Fangs and Fractured Hearts

Small Notes:

😮‍💨 Some complicated feelings going on for poor Astarion.

Date night is nigh!

🥵 (this is all I've got)

[danmori630]

oingo boingo is to devo as buck-tick is to x-japan.

[neallo]

i feel like i see a post in the fandom tag at least once a week now along the lines of "i really don't like mello x near it makes me uncomfortable..." which is like. fine, actually! these posts are not so bothersome as long as you're not putting it in the ship tag, and i haven't really seen it cropping up in the ship tag of late! so thanks @ the dislikers for exercising proper manners and so on (<- sincere). all this being said, i have to ask:

are you aware that you can block tags and post content?

there are a lot of new users on the site, i think, and people newish to the DN fandom in particular, so i ask this in a genuine manner with absolutely no malice or ill will. i'm not trying to be a dick and dunk on anyone who doesn't know how to use tumblr yet. it's not an intuitive website. HOWEVER, one of the nicer features of tumblr is that there are baked-in features that allow you to take measures to avoid content you find offputting!

in order to access these features, you'll want to go to settings and then to account. you will see the two following sections:

as you can see. i use both of these tools :) [no hate to the moonriver and x reader girlies it's just not my thing and i didn't want to have to edit this screenshot bc i'm making the post on the fly all quick-like ;_;]

there are differences between these two features:

if you filter a tag, the post will be obscured on your dashboard and in the tags, even if the person who reblogged it didn't tag it, so long as the original poster did tag it (this is very handy for most ship content you don't want to see, because if you have enough iterations of the ship name blocked, very few posts slip through, even if you follow people who don't make a habit of tagging things). it will not, however, remove the post from your dashboard if the word / ship name is just mentioned in the post. that's where the second one comes in.

if you filter post content, any posts with the contained words will be obscured on your dashboard and in the tags. this is especially handy if you have a particular user whose posts bother you; you can put their URL into "filtered post content" and VOILA all their posts are behind a veil of mystery! now isn't that nifty. ofc, you can also just block people, but that doesn't remove their posts from your dashboard if someone you follow reblogs them, so this is a bit more of a ~complete~ method, and it's a nice one to use if you prefer not to have an extensive blocklist.

it may take some tweaking to figure out all the different tags and "content" you want to block -- i still occasionally find new ship name iterations i need to add -- but overall, this does generally do the trick! best of luck out there <3

[coquelicoq]

i finally wrote an xword that i think might be nyt-submittable...i originally wrote it for the local paper though so i now have to go back through and rework the clues to take out the specific local ones and make some of the others harder. i know exactly which day of the week this would run in the nyt (if it gets accepted) because this type of theme always runs on the same day, so at least i know which clue difficulty to aim for, but i'm still finding it difficult to hit that precise level! i'm used to just making the clues as easy as possible because my local paper's audience is mostly people who aren't xword aficionados. i already reworked this puzzle a couple times based on feedback from friends and family but that was all still when i thought i'd be running it in my local paper. i kinda just want to be done with it but i've never had a theme and fill i thought were completely nyt-worthy before!

[hauntingofhouses]

hi, it's me. the fic writer that uses culturally-specific idioms in a very different cultural time setting and keeps confusing words like reign and rein. this is my story.

[reunioninn]

hiii happy holidays and stuff im so fucking sorry (no im not)

full under the cut

ignore the fact that i cant write cursive for shit. im so fucking normal

...huh? what do you mean it looks like something was added? theres another version of this? with that part removed? strange. i dont know what youre talking about. you want to see it? well, i guess i can start using this old blog i made years ago with the intention of posting that kind of stuff. but what would i know?

[burinazar]

(post contains mia s2 spoilers and also may be semi incoherent i've been brought low by 4am belaf and vueko feels and must exorcise them like demons to sleep and have spammed the ganja server enough today already)

belaf and vueko are thematic opposites but in a complementary manner, not an oppositional manner. her big symbolism thing is darkness, and his is sight, which requires light/visibility, the opposite of darkness -- but there is no clash between these ideas as they manifest between the two. instead he encourages her to look INTO the dark. he understands the dark is a safe and warm thing for her. his quest for a revelation through gazing with determination and fondness isn't meant to cast a searing light into it or tear it away.

and Vueko so values what she finds when she looks into the darkness that she dies with those words on her lips, thinking about two things: how much she loves Irumyuui, and how grateful she is for Belaf’s words about gazing fiercely into that dark, the act of which led Vueko to her.

[dollxmania]

quick draft preview! should come out in 1/2 days.

child!azul ashengrotto x gn!child!reader

[harrykim]

honestly people will say that like 'if something can be ruined by spoilers then it wasn't good' argument and its so like. i do agree with that to an extent! like for the more intended extent of like. mcu movies that basically only exist on Big Twist! Cameo!!! but like. sometimes what's 'ruining' something is less about 'the media is now bad because there is no other reason to watch but the plot twist/thing that was spoiled' and more of a like. the experience of watching or reading something is just as much a part of the art as the thing as it stands on its own u know?

[goddammitshinji]

i like my boyfriends like i like my accountants, hairy

(my accountant is bigfoot)

[nightfal1n]

[Okay, accidentally stepped on internet reaction abt kn8 ep8 so gotta rant here]

"He should be glad it didn't want to kill him" ...like man this guy insist on fighting kaijuu despite his family, his former comrade tell me he's gonna die. What's the point in living if he can't put his life on the line to protect his subordinates. Why bother live longer if someone needs to fight and die in his stead... I mean, bro, stop thinking about who is the best for a second but hey what do I expect O)-<

[fluffypotatey]

I don’t know whose who, but Shadowpeach but it’s like the ending of Nimona and calming down a “huge monster.” Also, the fact JTTW Macky is a cannibal. Insane. Supposedly also, six ears can’t reach enlightenment hmm. Unlike manga adaptations to anime, I tend to think of Lmk as less reliant on “the source material” so I don’t get why some people get so huffy about “the book” it’s more like a regular Lego show with a Jttw paint coat over it. Like any other series that has thousands of different adaptations on it.

think of it like Arthurian legends (i hope you understand Arthurian legends bc this is the best example i can think of): the story is old and has many variations depending on the time period and regions, but the core of the story, the bare bones, typically stay the same.

Arthur is King of Camelot, he is married to Guinevere, Guinevere has some kind of affair with Lancelot, Merlin is a powerful wizard and advisor of some sort to Arthur, Arthur is killed by Mordred at the battle of Camlaan and is said to return when “Albion” needs him most

sometimes the Arthurian adaptations try to uphold the legends or the idea/fantasy of the legends (depending on which concept it focused on more can show where an adaptation falls flat) and sometimes adaptations are created to breakdown the expected narrative the audience already knows about the legends. it can even be a callback to older themes or characteristics that modern adaptations have forgotten or ignored—the list goes on.

with the jttw story and story adaptations the main aspect of it or the core is “an allegorical journey of human life” and “growth and change and redemption is possible even for the most bloodthirsty or violent”

lmk sort of fits into this happy medium of “we know this story has been told so many times and adapted in so many ways. we don’t mean to adapt it as it is, but rather as a reference for a future where the jttw was real and is a part of history as much as legend.” but they also play on the idea that not everything told/written in the legend is completely accurate since it was documented by observers or witnesses

to be honest, i think the reason why some fans look back at the source material is because lmk still leaves us with wholes of the complete story. JTTW is the complete story and our primary point of reference. it is an important piece of the puzzle, but it’s not everything. like you said, lmk isn’t an honest adaptation nor does it try to be, which is fine and works for its story honestly

however, i still don’t think that means we should throw the whole jttw to the side and just focus on the show. so many themes and plot lines are heavily influenced by the jttw story and themes. there’s also the cultural impact and influence that you can get from reading or just see how much jttw is tied to a lot of Chinese and Asian culture and storytelling. because it’s not just about the legend itself but what the legend means for a lot of Asian cultures. how it’s themes and plot lines touch that audience and how it influences lmk’s own narrative

[thatdogmagic]

...that your audience won't hate.

This is a method I started using when NFTs were on the rise - thieves would have to put actual work into getting rid of the mark - and one that I am now grateful for with the arrival of AI. Why? Because anyone who tries to train an AI on my work will end up with random, disruptive color blobs.

I can't say for sure it'll stop theft entirely, but it WILL make your images annoying for databases to incorporate, and add an extra layer of inconvenience for thieves. So as far as I'm concerned, that's a win/win.

I'll be showing the steps in CSP, but it should all be pretty easy to replicate in Photoshop.

Now: let's use the above image as our new signature file. I set mine to be 2500 x 1000 pixels when I'm just starting out.

Note that your text should not have a lot of anti-aliasing, so using a paint brush to start isn't going to work well with this method. Just use the standard G-Pen if you're doing this by hand, or, just use the text tool and whichever font you prefer.

Once that's done, take your magic wand tool, and select all the black. Here are the magic wand settings I'm using to make the selections:

All selected?

Good.

Now, find a brush with a scattering/tone scraping effect. I use one like this.

You can theoretically use any colors you want for this next part, but I'd recommend pastels as they tend to blend better.

Either way, let's add some color to the text.

Once that's finished,

You're going to want to go to Layer Property, and Border Effect

You'll be given an option of choosing color and thickness. Choose black, and go for at least a 5 in thickness. Adjust per your own preferences.

Now create a layer beneath your sig layer, and merge the sig down onto the blank layer.

This effectively 'locks in' the border effect, which is exactly what we want.

Hooray, you've finished your watermark!

Now let's place that bad boy into your finished piece.

You'll get the best mileage out of a mark if you can place it over a spot that isn't black of white, since you'll get better blending options that way. My preference is for Overlay.

From here, I'll adjust the opacity to around 20-25, depending on the image.

If you don't have a spot to use overlay, however, there's a couple other options. For white, there's Linear Burn, which imho doesn't look as good, but it still works in a pinch.

And for lots of black, you have Linear Light

Either way, you're in business!

EDIT since this has escaped my usual circles, and folks aren't as familiar with my personal usage:

An example of one of my own finished pieces, with watermark, so you can see what I mean about 'relatively unobtrusive'-- I try to at least use them as framing devices, or let them work with the image somehow (or, at the very least, not actively against it).

I know it's a bummer for some people to "ruin" their work with watermarks, which is part of the reason I developed this mark in particular. Its disruption is about as minimal as I can make it while still letting it serve its intended purpose.

There's other methods, too, of course! But this is the one I use, and the one I can speak on. Hope it helps some of you!

[silver-lily-louise]

.

[percheduphere]

LET'S TALK ABOUT LOKI'S SHOES (ACTUALLY, HIS WHOLE WARDROBE)

Production costs aside, clothes tell the audience about how characters think of themselves.

Loki's shoes in the S2 finale raised a lot eyebrows, but I find them quite fitting: they are comfortable, practical, and most importantly, they are humble. The camera brings this to our attention to communicate his evolution in character.

Loki has always dressed well, often times ostentatiously. Whether he is at war, passing as a Midgardian, or held captive as an Asgardian prisoner, Loki communicates his social class and sense of superiority through clothing. For him, clothing armors his fragile sense of self and against others' opinions of him. He intends to be perceived as deadly charming but ultimately unapproachable.

His attire in the first Thor movie is roughly equal parts green and gold, signifying his royal status. His style is dressed down for his brother's misadventures in Jotenheim, yet overall both silhouettes are lofty, princely, but not hardened or threatening.

In Avengers, Loki's look has more black and leather, with exaggerated emphasis on his shoulders meant to intimidate as he assumes the role of villain. The silhouette is very hard, heavy, and edgy. Gold detailing is prevalent as well. Combined with the goat's helm, this is Loki's most pretentious outfit, which speaks to an undercurrent of low self-esteem and a compulsive need to impress. There's no mistaking he is the main antagonist of the story.

In Thor 2, Loki's attire is similar to Avengers but the overcoat is exchanged for a less bulky version (perhaps conveying he is less guarded now that the effects of the Mind Stone are no longer influencing him). Loki's role likewise pivots from the harsh lines of a villain to the more flexible edges of a reluctant villain-turned-ally. This aligns with his character arc when he protects both Jane and Thor, seemingly sacrificing himself.

In Thor 3, Loki's silhouette is streamlined even further. The overcoat is done away with in favor of what appears to be a leather doublet, pauldrons, and vambraces. Gold accents are minimal. While stylish, Loki's attire is more practical than showy, and his helm serves the dual purpose of protection as well as weaponry. At this point in his arc, Loki has become a full antihero, joining his brother's side in rescuing as many Asgardians as possible, and eventually dying in a vain bid to protect Thor from Thanos.

The TVA does something very fun and interesting in taking away Loki's ability to dress himself. Since Loki cannot use his magic in the TVA, he is forced to wear the same clothing as his captor/advocate, who eventually becomes his best friend and peer.

Perhaps, on a subconscious level, this helped Loki to feel included. We know by his pwn admission that Loki fears being alone and desperately craves a sense of belonging. At the same time, he intentionally dresses to put people at a distance, thereby protecting himself from potential rejection at the cost of isolating himself further.

When Mobius gives him that TVA jacket for the first time, Loki seems uncharacteristically pleased. It is not an attractive jacket by any means, yet he neither scoffs at it nor refuses to wear it. Instead, Loki puts it on and is content when Mobius says it looks "smart" on him. He continues to dress like Mobius and, indeed, mimic some of his mannerisms such as placing his hands on his hips. Without clothing meant to push people away, Loki opens up, has more fun, and makes friends.

Loki's choice of attire as he assumes the mantle of God of Stories (and time) is fascinating. Setting aside the clear design inspiration from the comics, Loki's silhouette is soft, remarkably so. His colors are earthy hues of green, and the only bit of flare are the light gold trimming and crown. The look brings to mind the garb of sages and wise wizards rather than royalty or warriors. He's powerful yet approachable because there is humility in his bearing. And that humility springs from a well of healthy self-worth, self-love, and a deep love for others.

The shoes are not meant to be attractive. They are meant to help him ascend the throne, nothing more.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for jerkin' it to Goya's Black Paintings?

Emojis for convenience and humor: 🎨🖼🍆💦

I know someone's gonna yell bait about this but idc, like, what? Do you want proof? Video evidence? Grow up.

So I (30x) really like Goya's Black Paintings. Like, Saturn Devouring His Son, Duel with Cudgels, A Pilgrimage to San Isidro. I think they're hypnotic, beautiful, evocative. They make me feel emotions I can't quite explain properly.

As the title says, sometimes I beat my meat to them. Whatever. It's not really about horniness. But the intent doesn't matter.

Recently (in a discussion about sexuality in art, I promise it was relevant, similar sentiments were being shared) I mentioned to my partner (33nb) that I do this. They were pretty taken aback.

Apparently, they find this 'gross' and 'kind of dodgy' because Goya's black paintings were never intended to be shared with a wider audience. They were art that he did not mean to share, painted on the walls of his house near the end of his life. They say it seems like the work is too personal to jerk off to, that it seems invasive or like a violation.

I don't think it's a big deal. The guy is dead, it's not like his ghost knows what I'm doing. It's a good thing to consider, but I don't think it ultimately matters, ethically.

So, I guess AITA for this?