#this was my self projection fixation

[moderntimeadventure]

Forest fire anyone?

[dolotonglo]

the threequel: miles fights back

[asexual-spongebob]

wholesome iz hc time.

I feel like dib and gaz would watch octonauts together. I feel like dib would’ve introduced it to gaz like gaz saying “dib what are you watching” and dib saying “my show.” And Gaz deciding to watch it with him and it spiraled from there. I also feel like dib would’ve liked goosebumps. (I have never read a goosebumps book in my life, my ass was to scared. yet I read books about cats killing each other. 😭)

[gideonisms]

it's really irritating and difficult to live my life sometimes and for what? not striving to accomplish any huge goals here but the tiny ones, are also excruciating,

[oldtestleper]

restraining myself from commenting slurs under a contentious former professor’s instagram posts

[psychotrenny]

Tumblr users are so comically obsessed with Standpoint Epistemology. Like people will compulsively preface their statements with like "Speaking as XYZ" even when it's completely irrelevant or actively discredits them. The whole "speaking as someone who has killed a pedestrian with my car" thing was just an especially ridiculous manifestation of this trend

And like this sort of fixation around reaching correctness through merely existing as the right sort of person explains many of the more useless and cynical distortions of social justice you see whenever a tumblr discourse turns in that direction. It's why we see a lot of "oppression olympics" type behaviour, as in the sort of pointless and idealist arguments about what category of person is more metaphysically oppressed (in contrast to actually useful comparisons of the differing material conditions that various groups face); if being oppressed by a system automatically grants you unimpeachable insight into it then clearly the more oppressed you are the more correct you are. It's also why people feel the need to fake their oppression, on either an individual (i.e. racefaking) or group (i.e. tranandrophobia*) level; even if you're not actually oppressed enough to be automatically correct, pretending you are is a great way to win arguments regardless. In turns that leads to baseless projection of privilege onto others (i.e. all the tumblr users who accuse POC of being white purely for disagreeing with them; sometimes involving active claims of racefaking but often just ignoring their marginalised status altogether); if someone's more oppressed then you that might mean they're more correct than you and we can't be having that.

This sort of thinking highly counter-productive and yet it's everywhere. Sadly many people are more interested in self-gratification than actually understanding and improving the world, and as long as they're socially enabled they'll keep abusing progressive language to this end. Very miserable indeed

*transandrophobia rhetoric is especially revealing in this regard because like TME trans people are indeed marginalised by transphobia. But to stop there would force them to acknowledge the basic fact that transfems are especially marginalised by the intersection of transphobia and misogyny, which makes it a little more inconvenient to socially murder us while maintaining a veneer of progressiveness. So they have to make up their own special brand of oppression to make it clear that they have it worse (and therefore are more righteous and pure) than those awful male-socialised trannies

[notquitecanon]

Insufferably Admirable // Astarion x Reader

Summary: After a restful day turns into a bloody night, your unspoken yet painfully obvious dedication to Astarion has put you in what should be a harder choice. Once Astarion realizes just how far you'd go for him, he has to begin to confront the feelings and realizations he's been ignoring for a while. OR that time You figured out the most effective way to heal a vampire and Astarion got emotional about it

Set at the end of Act 1, but not quite act two. Pre-confession but it's obvious they have some sort of feelings for each other

TW: canon typical violence, blood & blood drinking(obvi this is an Astarion fic), no use of Tav or (Y/N), one use of technical self harm (c*tting) but not in a self mutilation way??, mentions of manipulation obvi, reader might be a little too willing to help (totally not be projecting what???)

this is my first time writing anything for Astarion after hyper fixating on him for a month so please be gentle. I know it's a bit all over the place. (yes I could have completely left out the first half, but there isn't much actual dialogue in the second half and I like to put this guy in situations)

"Remind me again why you insisted on coming with me? I figured you’d be ripe for a day to lay around camp and let us do all the heavy lifting." You grumbled, scanning the crowded streets for a merchant. The goal was simple: get to the nearest village, sell off the extra weight, use the gold to stock the necessary supplies, and whatever the gold couldn’t buy… well, acquire it by any means necessary. No matter your path, through the shadows or the Underdark, you'd need to be prepared.

Gale had gone to pilfer for useful scrolls and maybe an enchanted item to snack on. Lae’zel and Shadowheart to a blacksmith for specialty arrows, useful armor, and any other weapons that caught their eyes. Karlach had carried the two trunks and barrel of items you had collected from your adventure thus far, finding you a wheelbarrow before heading back to camp to help Wyll with his preparations. Halsin… had taken his wild form and disappeared into the forest. Originally, you had intended to do your tasks alone, until- 

"My dear, I’m always ripe for a lay." Astarion twisted your words with a smirk, easily dodging the hand that reached to swat his chest. With a short laugh, he answered your question, his theatrics only increasing to more you argued, "To begin with, Someone- my fabulous self- had to make sure you didn’t get the whole group wrapped up in another laundry list of side quests- who knows what trouble you could have found if you were left all by your lonesome? A gnoll den? A kraken in the pond?  an old woman’s wagon with a broken wheel? a kitten up a tree? An orphanage with a leaky roof? Another cult for us to dismantle? Another temple to drop on me? Where would it end? You’re incapable of turning people away, it’s one of your insufferably admirable qualities."

"It’s called being kind, you dramatic elf." You grumbled, not prepared for the in depth analysis of your character. Trying not to focus so much on the fact he’d called something about you admirable.

"Second, knowing you, you’d sell all this off and still manage to come back to camp with them full. Honestly, pet, how have you managed to collect this much junk? You don’t even have a bag of holding." Astarion scoffed, using a single pale finger to peek under the lid of the barrel. It was just barely containing the countless daggers, goblin bows, pairs of leather armors, and dusty sandals. Your cheeks burned hot- maybe you had a habit of being overzealous in how eagerly you pilfered through all the crates you came across, checking bodies for anything valuable, and demanding the vampire to pick every locked chest the party uncovered. Hells only knew the thrill you got when you would find a buried chest.

"You never know when you might need something!" You reasoned, but swatted him away to hastily shut the barrel before the contents could spill out. It had taken you the better part of the night to pack it full of all the things your companions had convinced you to get rid of. The pale elf rolled his eyes, brushing past you so gracefully you didn’t feel his fingers in your pocket. 

"Really, my sweet? When, pray tell, might we need the collection of rusty necklaces you’ve amassed." Astarion held the bronze and silver necklaces up to the light, the red and blue stones sparkling despite the rust. His voice always like velvet, ruby eyes alight with teasing, "Far be it from me to criminalize accessorizing, but that darling neck of yours is tempting enough already." 

"Astarion!" You cringed, hearing your voice almost whine. Damn him for having that effect, so you cleared your throat as you snatched the jewelry back, "They are useful when we can sell them for gold." 

Astarion, having gotten the reaction he wanted, let you shove the necklaces back in a pocket before glaring at him, though it didn’t hold much actual malice, "Well, come on then, let’s sell the sandals for all the riches the village has to offer us." 

—

An afternoon later, you were smiling smugly as you watched Astarion grumble. Between all the goods and six different merchants, you were leaving with an additional 9,000 in gold, not to mention the additional 3,000 Astarion had managed to pickpocket while you bartered, and the items the two of you had managed to swipe. You felt particularly vindicated as he complained about the weight of the coins in his pack. 

"I’ll buy you something pretty in Baldur’s Gate." You cooed teasingly, to ‘appease’ him. Astarion spared you a deadpan glance before standing to leave, only making you giggle all the more, "Let’s get back to camp."

Astarion caught your eyes once more, scowl softening out at the sight of your bright smile. He was just about to say something sickeningly sweet and perhaps more than a touch vulgar when his eyes flitted up to something, pointed ears twitching at something you couldn’t quite hear. Until you could. 

The door of the jeweler you had swindled burst open, a strangled voice shrieking, "THIEVES! SOMEONE CATCH THEM!" 

Astarion must have been rubbing off on you, because for a moment you tried to feign confusion, looking around for the ‘culprits’ as if the dwarf wasn’t pointing directly at you.  Not that it did much good as several passerbys began to circle around the two of you. 

"Everyone’s so touchy about their personal belongings these days." The rogue scoffed.  Astarion grabbed your wrist and tugged you to him, so that your back was pressed to his and no one could sneak up on you. In his other hand, a dagger had already appeared. 

You sighed in defeat, taking your bow off your back, "No killing." 

"No promises." 

Compared to the goblin camp or fighting through the githyanki creche, disarming and incapacitating untrained townspeople and barely trained guards  was barely a warm up. Still, Astarion never left your side, an increasingly common occurrence when you found yourself in tight situations. Together, it didn’t take long to put distance between yourselves and your attackers, managing to get far enough to escape to the fight. Deflecting one last blow as the two of you passed by an open tavern, you incapacitated a rather pitiful guard with a blunt thunk from the pommel of your dagger. Taking one relieved breath, you tried not to focus too much of the trail of bleeding, unconscious bodies you and the rogue had left behind in your escape attempt. 

"Best we stick to the shadows before we attract more attention." Astarion mused with a cruel smirk, grabbing your sleeve and using it to wipe the blood off the corner of his mouth, his fangs glinting in the afternoon sun. The rogue only chuckled at your curses, giving some inane quip about the crime of dirtying his ensemble and how blood someone always looked better on you, "Now, believe what I said about you finding trouble? Back to camp before you find more." 

Before you could wrench your arm back or remind him that he was the only who got caught stealing, he pulled you off the main road into the alley adjacent- unaware of the attention that had already been attracted from inside the tavern. 

____

Ambushed in the night.  

A whole hunting party of Gur hunters. Willing to purge your party as they slept. 

And they were calling Astarion the monster. Fortunately, Scratch was an excellent guard dog. Waking the entire camp when the hunters tried to creep where you slept. Just as fortunately, there wasn’t a soul in camp that didn’t sleep without at least a dagger under their pillow. 

Your camp had become a bloodbath in the dim glow of the campfire. You had used the book you had fallen asleep reading as an improvised weapon, throwing it so hard it broke the first hunter’s nose. Lae’zel was single handedly mowing through three hunter with her long sword. Spells and incantations sent flashes of light from Gale and Shadowheart’s part of camp, and fire and brimstone lit up Karlach’s. There was yelling and cursing echoing in the cool night air, orders to take the vampire spawn alive and to kill the rest. 

And Astarion? Their target? 

He was where he always was during a fight these days. Right beside you, like a pale, snarky shadow. He had been the one to press your sword into your hand so you’d have more than just your dagger.  With him, you slashed and sliced anything that came near. Until the bastard appeared out of no where, squeezing in between you and the rogue. You would have applauded (more likely cursed) the near perfect use of an invisibility charm- had it not been for the poison-dipped stake raised against Astarion. 

This hunter was different, you could see it in his eyes. They were somehow devoid of life and yet also simmering with rage as they trained on your snow haired companion. This hunter didn’t plan to take Astarion back to Baldur’s Gate, not alive at least. He didn’t care about whatever orders they had, or what consequences would come for disobeying them. He only cared about driving the stake into Astarion’s heart. 

Astarion’s eyes went wide as well at the sight of the stake, realizing as you did that this was no longer just a kidnapping, it would be an assassination. Your thundering heart stuttered, blood going supernova in your veins before freezing to ice as your mind whirled through a hundred different possibilities and also went blank. Your own opponent, along with years of learned strategy, were instantly forgotten as blind instinct took over.  Every ounce of strength and speed you had was directed into a desperate lunge. In your desperation, you really weren’t sure if your goal was to tackle the hunter, grab his arm, tackle Astarion, or maybe even take the stake to your chest instead- you decided to choose along the way, as long as it ended with Astarion alive(ish) and well.

You managed to close the distance, one hand planted firmly to Astarion’s chest shoving him further and the other clamping onto the leather of the hunter’s gauntlet, the same arm poising the stake. With a feral sounding shriek, you pushed his arm so his aim was off. At the same time, your original opponent, frustrated at being forgotten, cast a wave of thunder that sent all three of you flying. 

Astarion, the Gur, and you flew backwards a good fifteen feet, the thunder shaking you to your very bones and splitting your ears. The breath was knocked out of you so hard you thought your poor lungs might collapse and you weren’t able to tell if it was the spell or the impact that did it. You didn’t have time to contemplate, the moment you were able, you scrambled onto your knees. With the same feral tenacity from earlier, you grabbed the hunter by the front of his leather armor, nails leaving scarily deep tracks as you hauled him off your vampiric companion.  With your new opponent, you rolled both your bodies until you were on top of him, knee to his chest. Seeing the look in your eyes, the rage left his own, pure survival instinct taking over. You didn’t even feel the sting of the slicing blow across your shoulder, too consumed with a singular mission. It was Astarion’s dagger you had snatched from the ground on the way that delivered the quick death blow. Halsin, in bear form, had appeared out of the tree line and took care of your other thunderous hunter, taking a defensive position around you and Astarion with a goading roar. You expected to hear something from Astarion- a snarky comment about your lack of technique, a snide remark about his assailant, or even just a stream of petty curses- but he was silent. You turned back to him, only to have dread flood every cell in your body. 

Nothing else mattered anymore, not the fight, not your injuries, and especially not your forgotten original hunter. Halsin, in bear form, had appeared out of the tree line and took care of your other thunderous hunter, taking a defensive position around you and Astarion with a goading roar. You barely noticed.

The moment you’d disposed of Astarion’s assailant, you were scrambling back towards the rogue, who was laying all too still. At first, you hesitated to even touch him as if that might make it worse. You called his name once, and then again when you were able to gingerly lay hands on him- one hand to his chest and the other pushing some curls out of his eyes. The stake, what should have been an almost useless weapon against anyone else, was still buried in his chest, piercing his favorite frilled collar shirt. 

"No… Astarion-" Your voice was breaking, thick and raw. Your eyes couldn’t rip away from the stake, protruding from his chest, the poison staining the white linen of his shirt a sickly green. The hand on his chest balled into a fist, bunching the unsoiled fabric in your grip, but something caught your attention. The tiniest candle light of hope in the rapidly encroaching darkness of grief. 

Your hand was directly over his undead heart. Anytime you touched him, your hand always fell directly over his heart. When you teasingly swatted at his chest, when you needed to steady yourself against him, when you needed to catch you balance… you always sought out his heart- subconsciously, instinctually, always his heart. Your hand was over his heart, and that gods-damned stake was four inches to the right. A tiny light, but a light none the less. It was then you realized you were calling the wrong name. 

"SHADOWHEART!" 

None of your companions had ever heard your voice that desperate, that scared.  All their heads snapped to where they had last seen you, finding Astarion pulled to your chest as you wrenched the stake out of the spawn. Astarion stirred only long enough the let our a gurgling shout that fizzled into a groan at the pain, and you could only hope he heard your soft apologies before you started barraging the vampire with healing cantrips. You didn’t stop until the words held no more magic, your supply of magic tapped for the night. 

The night air had changed, no longer fueled by adrenaline and challenge, now it was thick with urgency and fear. Each of your companions starting fighting towards the two of you, and when you locked watery eyes with Shadowheart you found her clearing her path with her spear. She had stopped using magic to fight, saving it all for Astarion.

"I’m coming! Hold on!" She promised as Karlach fell in beside her, battle axe taking over and sending two hunters to the grave together. Scratch and the owlbear cub had taking a lesson from Halsin and formed up beside you, growling into the night with hackles raised and feathers ruffled. 

"Just hold on, Astarion." You relayed to the vampire, who was completely limp against you his back to your chest, head tilted back against your shoulder which bared his neck to you, showing the fang marks on his pale skin. If you were capable of humor, you would have laughed about the reversal of roles, it was usually you baring your veins to him. But at the moment, his lack of movement wasn’t particularly amusing, so instead you laced his fingers through yours, hoping the warmth would bring him some comfort.  You pressed your cheek against his white curls, using your other hand to brandish his dagger just incase anyone got too close, and whispered all the reasons he was going to be okay. And that’s how you stayed until camp quietened and Shadowheart slid to a stop in front of you. 

___

Hours later, Shadowheart had used every healing and restoration spell she knew, not stopping even when she began to sway and sweat. Halsin had offered his magic and healing herbs, Karlach made sure there was always a bucket of hot water and a stack of clean rags available, and you hadn’t missed Gale trying to hide the scroll of reviving from you as he slipped it to Shadowheart.  Everyone in camp had been quick to gather all the healing potions, depositing them at the entrance of Astarion’s tent. Wyll and Lae’zell had slipped into the tree line to make sure the ambush was well and truly taken care of.  

And you? Their appointed ‘fearless’ leader? You had gone uncharacteristically silent. Your heart hadn’t left your throat, clenching painfully every time they jostled the rogue. Your hands were shaking too much, both from fear and white hot rage, to really help the two more experienced healers of the group. And the thought of being too far from Astarion made your stomach turn, so you kept rooted like a tree. But, you were grateful, truly, for all of them. Even if in the moment, all you could do was sit beside Astarion and pray to any God or Devil that would listen. You felt like a wild animal in a cage and a helpless child at the same time, your insides very well might vibrate out of the body if you didn’t melt into the soil first. 

The vampire needed all the help he could get. Aside from the occasional heartbreaking groan of pain or agony driven writhing, Astarion was eerily still. Barely breathing, less so than usual. His already pale, chilled skin had taken on a stony complexion, almost gray. And despite the inability to run a fever, there was a sheen of sweat over his face, clammy and uncomfortable. You hadn’t allowed them to undress him all the way, but part his shirt had been cut away to reveal the stab wound. It was deep, weeping Astarion’s already dark blood, and stretching out from the injury were black, twisting varicose veins that afforded you the cruel visual of the poison spreading. You wanted to take Gale’s revival scroll, use it on the hunter, and revoke the kindness of your mercifully quick death.  

"It’s like the effect of our magic is being dampened." Shadowheart huffed, hands glowing as she cast another restoration spell. The sweat on Astarion’s brow subsided briefly before returning. Halsin nodded beside her, taking a deep sniff of the stake. 

"His lack of blood isn’t moving the potions or antidote through his body fast enough, and this poison isn’t doing any favors." The druid thought aloud, taking some of his herbs to make a paste, "It doesn’t matter how many we pour down his throat if his body can’t absorb them." 

Shadowheart’s worried gaze flickered to you for a moment, before settling back on Halsin, "We’ll figure something out." 

You knew she was saying that more for your benefit, but you couldn’t bring yourself to acknowledge the pity. Instead, your grip tightened on Astarion’s hand as you swiped a clean rag to dab at his face. There was one more round of healing incantations and one more bottle of healing potion nursed into Astarion’s mouth. Your jaw twitched, watching most of it fall from the corner of his mouth. The same trail your own blood usually made after he fed. 

"I’m tapped." Shadowheart sighed almost ruefully, the glow around her flickering and then fading, falling back on her heels. Halsin stood, stooped slightly in the low ceiling of the tent, turning to you. 

"We’ve done everything we can do. We’ll try again with fresh minds in the morning. For now the best he, and we, can do is rest." His voice was calming, as if he thought you might start screaming again, but you just nodded, muttering something along the lines of thanks for trying, and not meeting either of their eyes as they ducked out of the tent.  

Since you had belligerently refused any of their magical attempts to heal your shoulder, Gale had done a rather pitiful job of wrapping it, taking some pointers from Karlach along the way. The wizard offered you a tight smile and a gentle hand on your uninjured shoulder before pressing a bottle of healing potion into your hand, "This one is for you. You’re no good to him if you bleed out all over the floor of his tent. We all know how Astarion feels about waste." 

"Yeah- fancy boy will be starving when he wakes up." Karlach’s chipper voice was still laced with a sting of concern. The tiefling didn’t touch you for fear of burning you, but did leave you with some roasted meat and a carafe of water from earlier in the night, "And it wouldn’t hurt for you to eat something either, soldier." 

Then you were left alone with your thoughts, hunched next to Astarion’s side, tired eyes examining the bottle after confirming the rise and fall of his chest. In your hand, the potion glowed slightly with the subtlest warmth, the scarlet liquid seeming to have a mind of its own as it swirled in glittering patterns behind the glass. Your injuries were meager, this little bottle of healing would have you as good as new. Bitterly, you flicked your eyes to the numerous empty potion bottles in the corner that had barely slowed Astarion’s bleeding. Your hand closed around it as you cast another look to the Vampire spawn beside you. His breaths were shaky and shallow even after Shadowheart and Halsin had exhausted every last bit of magic they'd had. Now in the quietest parts of the night, or maybe the darkest hours of the morning, your thoughts swirled, desperate for any sort of plan to latch onto. You had to do something. 

For you, Gale had said, No good to him if you bled out… He’d be starving, Karlach had been joking, His lack of blood wasn’t moving the potions enough to be effective, that had been Halsin’s hypothesis.

Blood. He needed blood.

The revelation was like being dropped into a freezing lake, determination razing the fearful lethargy out of your soul. With your teeth, you pried the cork out and downed the first circular bottle, the overly sweet taste a stark contrast to the somber mood of the night. For good measure, you did the same with a potion of superior healing and two bottles of general poison antidote, slamming them down so fast you had to ignore the churning in your stomach. You’d loot twenty more goblin caves to make up for the dent in supplies if you had to, in that moment you just didn’t care. You waited a moment, begging the powers that be for your ragtag plan to work, not so patiently watching the bruises on your wrist until they started to fade.

You felt it, the moment that you had been completely healed and there was no where else for that magic to go. And then, you wrapped your arms under Astarion’s, heaving him against your chest. You bared your neck, letting gravity gently swing Astarion's nose to meet your pulse point, his silvery lashes tickling your jaw. He stirred slightly, groaning at the movement, pressing himself into your warmth before stilling again. Was he too far gone to realize what was being offered? 

Realizing you’d need to play into his vampiric insticts, you huffed, shattering one of the empty vials against a stone, struggling to do so and keep his deadweight in place. Taking a shard, it wasn’t hesitation but a moment of stilling your shaking hand before you pressed a shallow cut to your neck, right above where his lips rested.

You hissed at the haphazard sting, not as gentle as the pinprick of his fangs were in the night, feeling the blood instantly pool at the seam, a single red ribbon dripping before the potion healed the scratch, "C’mon, Astarion-" 

The moment his name left your lips, or maybe it was the moment a drop of your blood hit his, regardless you could feel his instinct, that sanguine hunger, take over. The soft lips at your neck were replaced with dagger sharp fangs digging into where the small cut had been. The sound you let out was somewhere between a gasp of pain and sob of relief as you barred him against yourself, fists clutching into the back of his shirt like it would keep both of you rooted to each other. Somewhere, in the back on your mind, you thought about the irony of the position, being so afraid to let him slip away, like a rabbit latching onto a snake for fear of the serpent starving. Even if it meant being consumed. 

In that moment, you were so relieved he’d started feeding that you didn’t care that his fangs dug in deeper than they ever had before, much more animalistic than his usual polite nibble. You didn’t dare flinch or wince, in case that might break the spell. Instead, you focussed keeping the both of you upright, one of your arms wrapped under his own, your fingers splayed across his ribs, and your other hand cupping the nape of his neck. The angle had his silvery curls dusting your fingertips and your thumb caressing the sharpest part of his jaw. Never had you been so happy to feel that throbbing numbness in your neck. Astarion’s chin prodded further into your neck, deepening the hold he had, and with his own shaky breath, he swallowed the first mouthful of your blood. 

The hand at his ribs clenched, pulling him impossibly closer and twisting his shirt into your grip again as your pulse began to speed up. The increase of your heart rate only seemed to encourage the vampire, teeth sinking ever deeper to draw more blood flow. Clenching your jaw, you forced your muscles not to tense, it would only make it hurt more. This mouthful was quicker, Astarion seemed to be actively drawing it out of you instead of just waiting for it. He swallowed again, gaining the strength to snake his arms around you. It wasn’t a strong hold at first, but one arm snaked around your waist while the other cradled the back of your head, those long fingers finding their usual place in the locks of your hair. You couldn’t help the short laugh that escaped, relishing the cool touch. Your voice stoked another fire in him, provoking another instinct, your blood provided the strength for his grip to harden, becoming more cage like. As if he needed to worry about you trying to escape. 

He swallowed again, and the numbness spread, not just in your neck but into your cheeks and across your chest. Blood was racing, coursing through you and into him, and with it all the magic of the healing potions. You could feel him getting his legs underneath him, untangling himself from you. At the same time, it was getting harder to hold your arm up, the numbness had reached your fingertips leaving them fumbling at his curls before falling to his shoulder. Another long drink and you found your eyes starting to flutter, everything was starting to feel cold as a shiver shook your body. Astarion, against two centuries of vampiric instinct, started to pull back, and you didn’t stop him, but didn’t let him go far either. He was mostly supporting himself now, which was a relief because a fair bit of focus was freshly delegated to preventing yourself from swaying. 

"Take all you need, ’Stari-" You meant for your voice to be assuring and strong, but it came out breathy and slightly slurred. Astarion pulled away, the movement bringing you mostly out of your stupor. His ruby eyes were as sharp as ever once again, even if the shadows under his eyes were still too dark for your liking, and they stared into your own half lidded eyes. Other than the deep purple shadows, the ashen complex had started to even out, the sweat on his brow had faded away, and when you dropped your gaze, you noticed the twisting black veins were starting to recede and fade. Hells, you could get up and dance (very briefly before you passed out).

Even, with a foot in the grave, more dead than usual, and covered in both of your bloods he was unfairly beautiful. His eyes narrowed on your dopey smile, as if he your relief was a symptom of too much blood loss. If that was the effect of four swallows, just a little more would flush out the poison completely, "I can take it, love, just please let me help you." 

Astarion never considered himself to be someone that had to be coaxed into receiving a gift, and you were offering him one so sweetly, practically begging him. After 200 years of rats and spiders, you had put literal magic in your veins for him. Magic that was bringing him back from death to his usual state of undead. He could feel it bringing his strength back, allowing all the magic the cleric and druid had poured into him to finally take some affect. Your blood, his first thinking blood, was always delicious- sweet and metallic, a delicate blend of all the good tastes, something so intrinsically you. With the potions infused, though, if Astarion was to hazard guess what sunlight tasted like- this would be it. How could he refuse? 

Before he went back in, he placed a reverent kiss to the marks he had left in your neck, gingerly lapping at the wounds before sinking his fangs back into your tender flesh. This time, it wasn’t a gasp or sob, but a mewl, your frigid fingers once again digging into the flounced collar his shirt. If you both lived until morning, you were sure he’d gripe for hours about all the wrinkles you’d put in his favorite (only) shirt. Probably throw a proper fit about the stake hole.

Now, as the potions effects dwindled in your own body, you could properly feel the drain. The coldness crept up from your extremities but didn’t counteract the burn in your muscles, making it harder and harder to suppress the shivers. Your breathing was quick almost a pant, but you still felt like you weren't getting any oxygen. If you were thinking rationally, if you hadn’t gone through the brief grief of thinking you’d lost him, you would have realized you need to push him away, that you were approaching your limit. But you weren’t thinking rationally, no. You still were too busy grinning- as your hand had fallen from his collar, it grazed across the wound, now fully closed. Just a little more, you promised yourself. You felt him swallow more, he held himself up completely on his own allowing you to lean into him. 

Astarion was okay, more than just on the mend, he was alive and strong, the potions and magic were working, were the thoughts that were reverberating through your head as things started to feel farther away. Your desperation had melted away, leaving a grateful smile in its wake. It wasn’t completely on purpose, but you let Astarion take on more and more of your weight, barely aware of his fangs in your neck anymore, not quite hearing Scratch and the cub whining outside, the shivering even began to subside as it seemed to take too much energy. 

Earlier, you had drug him to you and held him against your chest almost crying. But, as more of your blood flowed through him, it had become juxtaposed. Astarion held you in place, leaning over you for the best angle at your neck. It was his arms that kept you from falling over, his firm hand that kept your head from lolling too far back. His bite became less fervent, his grip less cage like and more affectionate. His survival instincts started to give way to civility and charm. You barely noticed as he twisted himself so he could slowly, gently lay you down onto the bedroll that had moments ago been his sickbed. He laid you on your back, onto the generous stack of pillows he kept in his tent. He tangled his fingers into yours, just as you had done for him, his knees holding him in a predatory crawl over you, all without breaking from your neck. 

Barely registering the softness, it was the thud of your other hand against the floor that roused you, just a bit. It was also what drew Astarion’s attention, it took everything in him to withdraw his fangs. He gave each puncture would a diligent cleaning with his tongue before pulling away completely, lest he lose control and dive right back in. (Really, how could one person be that tempting?)

But, you had arguably saved his life, it’d be terribly impolite of him to kill you. When Astarion’s eyes met yours, your gaze was more than half lidded as you watched him- what little of your eyes he could see were glossy and fighting to stay focused, he could hear your heartbeat markedly fainter than he was comfortable with. 

You were watching him as intently as you could. In the dim lantern light of his tent, surrounded by potion bottles and bloody rags, Astarion was up and moving and breathing again. Revived and strong, his eyes practically glowing scarlet, and, if you really focussed, you could make out the tips of his ears becoming pink. Something that only happened when he was freshly well fed, nothing was left of his stab wound but the hole in his shirt, the frayed edges dyed from the poison and his blood. He could have looked like a angel, complete with the fire’s reflection creating a halo effect on his snowy curls, had it not been for the sheen of sticky blood drenching his chin and neck. Your blood- the blood that gave him enough strength to heal. How could you not smile? 

Astarion tried to come up with a snarky comment, but for once, nothing came to mind. Instead, he kept glancing between your intertwined fingers, glassy eyes, and that idiotic little smile. Your giddiness was beginning to unnerve him, had you been charmed or perhaps taken a hit to the head? With the parasite, he reached out briefly into your mind. His brow twitched when he was only met with waves of relief and gratitude, you were too tired for structured thought, but too relieved to give into the exhaustion. How could someone on the verge on exsanguination look so happy? And why in the nine hells did it seem to be directed towards his well being? 

The vampire was stricken, taking count of everything you’d truly done that night alone: fought beside him, tried to take the death blow in his place, comforted him, held his hand, cleaned him up, hadn’t let the others undress him anymore than necessary, stayed with him, circumvented his vampirism to find a way to heal him, and had genuinely tried to bleed yourself dry for him. Hell, you’d cut your own neck for him- not even metaphorically, but literally cut your throat for him. He could feel your warmth, your kindness and everything good about you settling into his very marrow. Something uncomfortably… gooey… stirred in his chest, something more and more worrying common as of late, when it came to you. Had his manipulation really worked so well? A feeling too close to sharp guilt gnawed at that warm gooey feeling. Was it really manipulation anymore? Gods, your morality was infecting him.  

“This is that Insufferabe admirability I was talking about ." He muttered into the tent, shaking his head as he watched your chest rise and fall, using his free hand tame some of the hair at your crown. It was then Astarion realized your eyes had slipped shut, your fingers, now just as cold as his, going limp against his. Weeks ago, he would have polished off the last of your blood and left you behind. But at present, he felt the sickening need to return even half the care you’d shown him. He’d have to dissect his emotions later. The rogue was glad the other companions had left supplies within arms reach, as it meant he could gather them without dropping your hand. 

"Ah, ah, ah," He called quietly, gently pulling you back to the real world, pleased to watch your scrunch your nose in the exertion of waking back up. Finally, that contented little smile on your face slipped into a frown, a protest against his interruption of your sleep. Astarion’s smile was almost apologetic as he helped you into a slightly more upright position, "Not quite yet, little love. It’s your turn. No sharing this time."

Another healing potion was pressed into your hand and opened for you, and you allowed Astarion to guide it to your lips, his pale hand guiding your own. This time, the warmth of the elixir was welcome, a comfort instead of a taunt, assurance instead of a plea. Astarion carefully watched you as you swallowed the potion down, noting how you shivered less and a bit of color returned to your face. When the potion bottle was empty, he traded it for a small cup of water, keeping a guiding hand on the silver chalice he’d nicked from a tradesmen weeks ago until you had enough strength to hold it. 

Though still exhausted and dizzy, you had the energy to throw him an obstinate look. Astarion feigned a dramatic sigh but kept a firm enough grip on you that you couldn’t lay back down, "All this for me, yet you won’t even let me give you water?"

Ignoring how it made the dizziness worse, you rolled your eyes, taking a few sips of the water at a time even if it was mostly just so he’d let you lay back down. Astarion was in one piece and you were exhausted, you couldn’t bring yourself to think about anything else. But, Astarion seemed very pleased with himself, squeezing your hand once again, "Good girl." 

If you weren’t on the verge of blood loss, you could have choked on the water. Still, there was a part of you that whispered in relief he must be better if he’s back to teasing you. Astarion watched you take a few more sips before you sagged back against the pillows. Your eyes closed again, but your breathing was deeper now and the hand he held didn’t feel as cold. Outside, Scratch and the cub seemed appeased at your improvement as they stopped their pacing and whining to settle at the tent flap.

This time, he didn’t pull you back up, instead muttering to himself as he gently tilted your head to the side, exposing his bite marks. No wonder you seemed so tired, they were much messier than usual. Vicious, was the better word. Not only had his two fangs pierced your delicate skin, but his bottom canine teeth had punctured through as well, and he could see the outline of his other teeth in the deep bruising grooves they had left behind. In unfortunate addition, it seemed in the height of his blood lust he’d made more than one bite, leaving your neck littered in marks. Astarion grimaced, it really was more of a mauling, “Apologies, darling, I’m not typically so brutish. Forgive me?" 

Astarion pointedly ignored how his heart lifted at the slightest nod you gave him, instead focussing on cleaning you up as gently as possible. The potion had stopped the bleeding, and he watched as the wounds themselves were slowly closing. Each swipe of the rag was feather light, almost not even there. The elf noticed you give back into sleep, this time not bothering to wake you again. Instead he kept working and fussing until the only sign of his feeding was the stained neckline of your shirt. Then, he gently ran a clean, wet rag over your face and hands, taking away the evidence of your tears and worry. Finally, he threw a cloak over you like a blanket, to hopefully ward off the last of the shivers from the warmth he’d stolen from you. 

Not stolen, he reminded himself, though the truth somehow felt more dangerous, it was freely given to him. The vampire settled in, laying across from you, the only part of you he could touch was the hand still holding his. Though, already in your sleep you had shifted towards him. Astarion frowned, eyebrows furrowed, the more he came to know you, the more he knew that you would give and give and give. Truly, he knew that he didn’t need to manipulate you anymore, maybe he never needed to, and for the first time in centuries, he didn’t want to just keep taking. He didn’t want to bleed you dry and loot you for all you were worth. Astarion was surprised to find he wanted give something back to you. He just needed to figure out what.

The nights events caught up to him once again as his eyes closed, listening to the evermore familiar sound of your heartbeat as it became steadier and the even sounds of your breathing as you slept, letting it guide him towards meditation. 

Gods damn you and your insufferable admirability.

___

Part Two Here!

Again this was my first time writing for Astarion. I also tried to balance things into being equal parts in each persons perspective. I just love when two lovestruck idiots have to confront their own feelings about being in love.

[sastrology]

SATURN: "WHAT DO I REACH FOR?"

SATURN IN THE NATAL CHART: HOUSES 1-5

disclaimer: what sign Saturn is in and how it is aspected will show a lot of information on how it is expressed in the natal chart, with some signs able to handle the energy of Saturn more productively. Saturn is not an inherently negative planet, as it signifies a lot of potential growth and karma for those willing to work hard for Saturn's demands.

MINI SEGMENT:

SATURN RETROGRADE: While it is not uncommon to have this planet in retrograde, it still makes an impact. It often signifies delays in the house it is in. Navigating public settings or those demanding specific etiquette may induce a sense of awkwardness for those with Saturn retrograde, revealing a complex relationship with social norms. Additionally, they may encounter more frequent karmic instances, suggesting a deeper connection to the consequences of their actions and choices.

SATURN IN THE FIRST HOUSE: To Find Myself

Saturnian energy exerts a pronounced influence in the first house, shaping the individual's appearance and demeanor. From my vantage point, the first house serves as a canvas, absorbing and reflecting the essence of any planet within it. They may appear older than they are, and carry a thin figure that harbors a serious expression. Others might describe them as having a somewhat solemn or cold demeanor, reminiscent of the impact Pluto can have in the 1st house. This effect can be likened to the aging process of a fine wine, where Saturn individuals may mature with time but grapple with underlying self-confidence issues. The late bloomer indication doesn't only apply to looks it also applies to the expression itself with most "finding themselves" later in life. In general, they will struggle with wondering if they deserve things. To top it all off, a deep yearning for the innocence of childhood may resonate within, as Saturn in the first house prompts a lifelong quest for balance between maturity and the childlike spirit buried within.

Positive aspects can help them navigate the challenges presented by the first house more adeptly. Nevertheless, a persistent struggle with feelings of deservingness may linger, casting a shadow on their sense of self-esteem.

RETROGRADE 1ST: Much like the expression of a direct Saturn the individual comes across as somber or expressionless, people with the retrograde here often heavily struggle with Saturn's demands, and the restrictions can be easily felt. The individual may struggle with extreme lethargy and motivation, and if negatively aspected they may easily break bones or experience dental issues. The demands of Saturn are especially burdensome to a rx Saturn as they can struggle with being shy or relying on other's often misconceptions of them to define them.

SATURN IN THE SECOND HOUSE: To Find My Worth

These individuals may have a deep fear of running out of things and emptiness. While the first house is all about self-expression, the second house is more about self-worth. It's no surprise that a positively aspected Saturn here could point to an individual who could be financially well-off. They may have a lot of projects to try to make money. While this position can be materialistic it is not in the way you'd expect. They're often trying to find self-worth through material items and possessions as each item has a "goal." Values for these individuals can be strict and unchangeable. They can have a strong fixation on money and will experience financial downturns very hard as this will reflect onto the self. When negatively aspected, debt could be a problem.

RETROGRADE 2ND: In the presence of a retrograde Saturn in the 2nd house, there is a heightened focus on financial matters and material possessions, with a potential inclination to prioritize them above other considerations. There could be a delay in financial stability and it may take them longer to pull themselves "up by the bootstraps" and struggle with being overly cautious when opportunities present themselves.

SATURN IN THE THIRD HOUSE: To Find My Words

Individuals with Saturn in the 3rd house often display a remarkable early aptitude for articulate and intelligent expression, or conversely, may choose a more reserved/silent approach to communication. Preferring to weigh their words carefully, they are not prone to impulsive statements, instead opting for a thoughtful and methodical approach to verbal expression. This is not a position known for public speaking, they have a quiet intelligence and excel in presentations and activities that afford them the space to think freely, unencumbered by the pressure of an audience. They are likely not known for being neighborly and may struggle with meeting strangers as they are not good at forced conversation or change. Auditory dyslexia/dyslexia is not uncommon here, either. They could also feel a strong sense of responsibility or burden regarding siblings if they have them.

RETROGRADE 3RD: Saturn being retrograde here in the third house points to an individual who struggles much more with communication than the direct Saturn. They may find themselves dealing with miscommunication on a daily basis. Likely to feel undervalued by peers, self-isolation is an indicator. The person may have to work harder than others to communicate or learn something effectively. They may struggle to relate to others especially when younger and feel self-conscious when speaking.

SATURN IN THE FOURTH HOUSE: To Find My Home

For individuals with Saturn in the 4th house, the words family and responsibility are synonymous. Being as the 4th house is a water house, Saturn's restrictions symbolize cold water. While it's not impossible to make the best of this position, It's possible the individual grew up in a frigid family, with a lot of rules and boundaries or with a parent(s) who were emotionally unavailable. Often they could have trouble being able to relax around family members/parental figures due to a pronounced level of strictness. The love received from family members may carry a sense of conditionality, where mistakes are met with little tolerance, marking an individual as a black sheep. There's a vulnerability to becoming entangled in familial responsibilities, especially if a family member falls ill, compelling the individual to assume the role of caregiver and potentially feeling trapped within the confines of the home.

RETROGRADE 4TH HOUSE: The person may find themselves at odds with the expectations imposed by the family, feeling constrained by a predetermined concept that doesn't align with their true self. This internal clash often gives rise to a natural rebellion or power struggle, as they grapple with the tension between their authentic self and societal expectations. They may have struggled to speak up or have a stable home. Reflection on the past becomes a significant aspect of their emotional landscape, influencing their present state of mind.

SATURN IN THE FIFTH HOUSE: To Find My Joy

Individuals with Saturn in the 5th house may struggle with the ability to find joy in things. More specifically, these individuals want happiness so much that the second they get it, they can give in to fear and over-analyzing. They will demand excellence in every creative endeavor they try to do, and if they fall short they could stop altogether. Within this house, Saturn's influence is particularly pronounced, shaping the individual's approach to joy, children, and love. Often they view love and children very realistically and are unlikely to suffer from rose-tinted lenses. Even if the individual has a bubbly, passionate chart, they will feel thwarted with spontaneity. Expressing themselves might pose a challenge, leading them to gravitate towards the background rather than the spotlight. During childhood, the vibrant colors of spontaneity were muted in favor of the practical tones of maturity.

Insecurity around dating and children is also common here as the individual may not find themselves very fun to be around, often trying to overcompensate for this. Due to this, they may find themselves drawn to older, mature partners. A negatively aspected Saturn here could point to issues with fertility, a worry/fear of children, or you may never have kids even if you wanted them. However, if children do come into the picture, the connection between parent and child is profound, often characterized by a sense of karmic intertwining, suggesting a deeper, soulful relationship.

RETROGRADE 5TH HOUSE: These individuals have learned to find joy they can only rely on themselves. Often introverted, cautious thinkers. Since the way these individuals experience joy appears to move backward, they may find they are the happiest when they are alone as the concept of joy is hard to grasp. While they can certainly enjoy carefree moments with others, these instances of happiness are fleeting, as living in the present proves to be a formidable task. Saturn's influence is marked by a perpetual forward gaze, always contemplating the future and analyzing potential vulnerabilities.

[blueiight]

I want to tell the real story.

In a week's time, in a setting of my choosing, we revisit the project boyish youth prevented us from finishing. Years and thousands of miles removed from the room we shared in San Francisco, I offer, for your journalistic pleasures, my full attention and my life story.

vs.

Props in a play. A play that's been fully designed and rehearsed. And every actor onstage has scripted lines except for us. … Set dressing nailed to the floor.

On one hand, the sham-trial of Louis, Claudia, and Madeleine, is absolutely a mockery of the worst examples of this show’s real-world audience. But in the wider narrative, the trial enriches Louis’s own motivations in 1973 and 2022. Louis wanting to tell the story of his life has an added layer to it simply by the fact that, chronologically, Louis and Claudia, especially Claudia’s, entire lives were made mockeries of on stage first in 1949-1950. The sham-trial is a near-original product of the show, in that what was a straightforward execution in the source material is turned into a public spectacle, where vampires are food to a human audience, and Louis and Claudia are violently silenced as their lives are framed into caricatures of who they were. The rhetoric of two interviews too, are entirely original to the series, but share a common starting point.

Why does Louis, both in 1973 and 2022, choose to begin his life in the year 1910, and not when Louis was a child? Armand opens up his life story with Arun, Lestat tells Paul how he was stolen from the monastery& beaten as a child, Claudia writes in her diaries how her mother died and her father abandoned her to an abusive relative.

It is as much, because Louis truly understands his (and Claudia’s) lives to have restarted with his (their) vampiric turning, as it is the fact that this show-trial takes advantage of Louis’s self-image (and how he relates Claudia in relation to himself) by beginning the story of Louis’s life in 1910, and Claudia’s life in 1917.

Looking at the trial script, and comparing it to the interview in season 1, we see how “the vulnerability within the object” [Louis] is perused. Something to remind is that the sequences I will fixate on are on-script, and therefore, blatantly untrue. The only times we truly go off-script are transparently obvious, even twice-aided with flashbacks, and the only time Louis cedes the narrative to an off-script Lestat only enhance the existing framework of how Louis relates to Claudia.

[SANTIAGO] The accused was a troubled man. A failed sugar farmer, a brothel-keeper.

[LESTAT] Forced into corners by his race, alienated from his own desires. American puritanism mangling his very soul.

[SANTIAGO] Disreputable, cold, violent.

[LESTAT] Louis first accosted me in a pleasure house, and then everywhere I went, as if by happy accident, there was Louis, offering to be my chaperone, his eyes sliding down me. I… a vampire, was being hunted. With every breath, every heartbeat, every sidelong glance, Louis was saying, "Come to me".

In contrast to the scripted debate over Louis’s life, how does Louis relate this aspect of himself to Daniel? Almost as if he’s defending himself, but from who? Daniel who is already familiar with this? The audience of a book in its infancy? Or…The man in the room who pinpointed at the “vulnerability within the object?”.

I was, admittedly, a rougher thing then. You had to be if you wanted to survive. You couldn't look weak on Liberty Street. [ … ] Did I want to pull a knife on my brother? No. But as I alluded to before, you couldn't look weak on Liberty. You never knew who was watching.

I couldn't move. My body was seized with weakness. His gaze tied a string around my lungs, and I found myself immobilized. […] Let the tale seduce you. Just as I was seduced. […] It was a cold winter that year, and Lestat was my coal fire. And I found myself, for the very first time, to anyone other than Paul, confiding my struggles to another man. I was being hunted. And I was completely unaware it was happening.

Here’s Louis on his own race here, Lestat is the one who accosted Louis at the Fair Play Salloon.

Segwaying: This trial is not “Lestat’s point of view”, this is Lestat playing a marionette on stage to revenge himself. His revenge evolves live-on-stage into an attempt to go off-script to save Louis, and only Louis. Lestat breaks script in almost S1 fashion to berate Louis for his reticience to admit his desire, where he admits to making Claudia for Louis, and admits where he broke Louis. [Lestat says the singular “pup”, not “pups”, and this is when Claudia realizes that Lestat did not come for her.] Even bragging about Claudia being the pinnacle of his vampiric self is on-script.

This is Armand, aware of the optics of the kind of men Louis had to wrestle his own legacy from in two lifetimes, creating this script to break & re-shape Louis. “I felt like we were the only two vampires left in the world.” Armand orchestrates this so Claudia & Louis can forever be severed when trying to break Claudia into mad suicide through “My Baby Loves Windows” failed, and Louis still thinks of her even after he turned Madeleine, and Louis can channel his vengeance over his own torture & Claudia’s wrongful death to the coven. What did Armand say in E12… “Don’t you/we have enough to fear from Paris?” Anyways…

If Louis is framed as both the desperate predator and the frigid reticient lover, how does this sham-trial mock Claudia?

Through her words. We are narratively introduced to Claudia’s diaries in Dubai during Episode 4 with Louis out of the room, Armand, docent still as ‘Rashid’, introducing “an alternative perspective on the years of [this interview]’s interest”. Armand in Episode 13 in an attempt to re-gain control over the interview admits to what he and Louis did and did not cut, but to what end? Louis in Dubai has to ask Armand for the missing pages, pages we have yet to see. And chronologically speaking, through the showman Santiago, Armand was the first and last one to use Claudia’s private words to pilfer her narrative and try to break her.

The framing of Claudia as a mad, permanently infantile defect, but also the artfully manipulative entity able to assess Louis & Lestat’s fragile union pinpoints the assumption Armand makes to Louis & Madeleine both: the near inevitability Armand disregards her and treats her end with, throwing her in an infant’s dress to be a character constantly suiciding itself, and Armand calling her a manipulator in the prior episode.

Claudia’s defect caught up to her.

She harmed herself in the sun for attention and followed that up with a killing spree, corpses clogging the bayou, a penchant for human souvenirs.

And what does Louis offer us, in Dubai?

Louis can easily revenge and reclaim his own legacy through the interview, but how can Louis hope to re-pay the smearing and murder of Claudia? Through re-contextualizing the same words she wanted no one but Madeleine to read? “You can put the diaries in their proper context,” he once said. He can never be the one to truly salvage Claudia’s self, which is why the diaries cut out when Claudia finally felt fulfilled, and her last words are kept from our ears. An explanation, to who Claudia once was as a vampire, from Claudia’s own pen, without her will, just as she was turned.

It is through her diaries and Louis’s recollection of her that we realize her trophy-seeking was an evolving project. The boys she killed in New Orleans were her attempt at creating her own vampire companion, only to realize that she cannot create companions of her own bc of the same body she was trapped in, through no will of her own. There is something fascinating about “who” & “when” can make vampires, but that’s another post.

The “artful predator assessing the cracks in [Louis& Lestat’s] union” is in fact, Claudia returning to familiar captivity after being kidnapped and raped repeatedly. What’s interesting is that TdV does not have or launder the pages of the immediate aftermath of her rape, which suggests that Claudia herself tore those pages out [& certainly matches the damage], as ripe predators would see fit to find fault in Claudia for being assaulted.

The showboaters of TdV will die next episode, but what of the architect/s of the trial vs. Louis the architect of this interview? What will be done with Claudia’s diaries after this? The end of this interview poses very interesting questions.

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Don't Stop (Sandman One-Shot)

​GIF: Originally posted by @imironstark

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: One-shot. Reader self-insert. Smut. You and Morpheus are in the exploratory stages of your relationship. Morpheus asks to worship you, and all is going well. At least, that is, until you start to wake up...

Warnings: Minors DNI. Smut. Porn with plot. Kissing. Oral sex (AFAB receiving). Slight dominant Morpheus.

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: So I watched Sweetbitter. With my partner. Maybe not the best idea because suppressing the squeaks of excitement whenever Tom came on screen was tough and not always 100% effective! The hyper fixation is still going strong... Hope you enjoy this one. All my love, Saskia xxx

Sandman Masterlist

-------------------------------------------------

It is only when the violent spinning not only stops but holds for several minutes after, does Morpheus make steps in allowing his guard to drop.

He straightens elegantly out of his crouching position, withdrawing his hands from the scree smattered earth. He looks to his left, to Lucienne, who is warily regarding the ground and sky, wondering if they might start to rapidly switch places again.

She meets Morpheus' gaze and adjusts her round-framed spectacles with a steady hand.

"I might be speaking too soon, sir, but I truly think it is over now."

Morpheus takes one last steely appraisal of the horizon, almost daring it to misbehave.

He nods once. "I believe you are correct, Lucienne."

"Will you be requiring anything else from me, my lord?"

"Not at present."

"Very well," Lucienne replies with a warm smile. "I will return to the palace now."

She does a little incline of the head in deference and goes to start the winding walk back towards the glowing lights of the Dreaming's seat of power.

Morpheus calls to his friend.

"I thank you for your persistence in supporting me to resolve these issues. I suggest you take some extra hours to rest."

"I suggest you do the same, sir."

Though her reply is innocuous, the knowing gleam in Lucienne's brown eyes hints at an alternative interpretation, one that Morpheus cannot help but notice.

It was becoming generally well known that he was in the early stages of courtship with a dreamer, you, and there was no doubt that Lucienne was aware of how far the relationship with you had recently gone.

He raises an eyebrow in response, earning a grin from Lucienne and then he watches her walk away.

Once alone, Morpheus allows his eyes to flutter closed as he sifts through the myriad of dormant minds and tunes into the space occupied by yours. He takes a reading of your emotions, thankful to find that you are contented and have not been rendered feeling neglected by his absence.

There's a faint undercurrent lingering below the surface level of your emotions that he is also able to lock on to given the familiarity that you share.

Desire.

They are present, filling you with neediness and longing.

A longing to be touched, to be touched by him.

Morpheus is with you in seconds, appearing in the doorway of the room you have chosen to conceal yourself in.

You are curled up in a large armchair by a panoramic window that frames the mountainous vista beyond. The torches that mark equidistant points along the bridge leading to the palace project a soft gleaming warmth over your skin. You are gazing softly at the landscape, the fingertips of one hand combing through your hair, the others trailing up and down your inner thigh.

Such an innocent yet provocative display. It makes Morpheus' voice drop to an even deeper and more sultry register than usual as he calls to you.

You are out of the chair instantly, meeting him at the threshold of the room. Your heart pumps out an allegro drum beat, the sound of the blood rushing in your ears like a waterfall.

You are pulled into a searing kiss, arms encircle your waist to ensure you are flush against his hips and chest. It is a relief that he is holding you in such a way for your knees are threatening to give out within seconds.

The power he has, in his body, his actions, through his words, in a metaphysical sense; you are helpless against them all.

When Morpheus pulls away from the kiss, you follow him on instinct, aching for more. He smiles faintly at your eagerness but maintains the gap in order to explain his length of absence.

"I must apologise, Y/N. The issue was a little more complex than Lucienne and I had anticipated."

He's looking down with a tint of shame in his aquamarine eyes.

You slide your hands up his forearms, gripping tightly and angling your head so you can capture his gaze.

"There is nothing to be sorry for. Your work and the safety of your dreamers take priority."

He simply nods. Your unwavering understanding is always on the side of overwhelming for him.

You register this in his stance.

"You feel a little tense. I can help with that if you want. Like I did last night?"

You move a hand up to stroke the hair on the back of his head. It is a form of touch that never fails to release tension.

Morpheus indulges in your attentions for a bit, leaning into you and sighing deeply, before staring at you directly with sudden seriousness.

"I cannot deny that what you did for me yesterday was beyond exquisite," He leans in to speak by your ear. "But it is my turn to worship you."

"Oh," you swallow down your surprise. "Okay."

Morpheus wastes no time in guiding you back towards the armchair and sits you on the very edge of the seat pad.

He carefully removes his long sweeping coat and then drops to his knees before you.

His rosy lips are parted, eyes dark pools, both standing out against his beautifully pale skin.

"Where can I touch you?" He asks urgently.

"Everywhere," you reply as the flutterings in your stomach warble your voice.

He begins by trailing his hands up your legs. The patterns he draws are intricate and intoxicating.

"May I have the honour of tasting you?"

"Yes," you consent, breathless already.

You remove your trousers and underwear in the same movement and allow Morpheus to adjust your position.

The image of him looking up at you with lust and intent as he parts your legs is immediately imprinted deep within your memories.

He trails innocent kisses up your left calf to your knee. A long-fingered hand is hooked under it and once Morpheus slips your leg over his shoulder, he continues his path along your inner thigh.

Wisps of his midnight hair tickle your skin and make you squirm in the most delicious way. You whimper when you feel his cool breath hit your pulsing core.

Morpheus speaks your name reverently, a taster of what was about to come.

He leans in the last few inches and kisses your vulva. You melt with an ecstasy-filled exhale. His tongue gently licks at your labia, encouraging them to part and expose your clit. He laps at you with precise strokes before sealing his mouth over the nub.

It's like a direct current has been shot into your body; you jolt into him, moaning his name with abandon.

He hums against you, lips curling into a naughty smirk. You are completely at his mercy and he knows it all too well.

He manipulates your clit between his plush lips and the pleasure reaches a higher ground.

"Whatever you do, please don't stop," you beg.

Morpheus obeys, slowly increasing and decreasing the pressure of his suckling until you are almost unable to think clearly anymore.

Then, suddenly, you are distracted by a strange feeling radiating through your body. You recognise it with immediacy. It's like you are being dragged upwards by a marionette string. You are waking up.

You stiffen, falling silent, hoping above all hope that if you stay still, you can stave off the pull back to consciousness.

Morpheus, noticing your change in demeanour, stops his attentions and pulls away.

He speaks your name in a caring tone, "Are you alright?"

You grab the arm rests in a further attempt to keep yourself in the Dreaming. The sensation isn't letting up.

You respond with haste, "I think I'm waking up. I don't think I can stop it."

Waking had been the cause of cutting short your time with Morpheus many times before. It was to be expected; you were a human being with things like sunlight and birdsong and routines to contend with. The worst had been mid-way through a conversation, one that you were able to pick up again the next time you passed the Dreaming threshold.

Right here while Morpheus was working on you so perfectly, however left you with one thought: Why did it have to be now?

Your surroundings flicker and all sound becomes warped. The support of Morpheus' body and the chair vanish.

"I'm sorry." They are the last words you speak before you disappear.

You come to in the semi-darkness of your bedroom. Your chest is heaving and wetness has spilled onto your pyjamas from the dream of Morpheus lavishing your aroused core.

Your phone is blasting out a morning alarm, its shrillness the clear root of you disappearing on him.

It turns out though, initially unknown to you, that Morpheus was having none of this separation business. That is until you notice him sitting between your splayed legs.

"Morpheus?! What are you -"

"You asked me not to stop, my dearest dreamer," he interrupts, pouring every ounce of seductive energy into the words as he can muster.

Morpheus' eyes bore into yours as he climbs up to fully straddle your body. He reaches over you to turn off the alarm with a precise tap on the screen of your phone. He takes a deep breath.

"Much better," he purrs. The pitch of his voice is pleasure enough on its own, even without the fact that his hips are subtly grinding against yours.

"Now, would you like to resume with what we were doing before we were so rudely interrupted by that repugnant tone?"

You nod.

"Verbal consent, please."

It's suddenly so hard to speak now he is in your bedroom, your domain. You hope that a clear display will be an acceptable alternative. You reach your hands down to rid yourself of your pyjamas only to have each wrist pinned either side of your head.

You gasp.

"I need to hear you say it out loud, Y/N."

Another wave of hot, stifling arousal is released between your legs. You shiver in reaction to it, to his dominance.

Your mouth is open but no coherent words leave it, just the starts of failed sentences. Morpheus comes to your aid:

"Will you allow me to taste you here, in the waking world, just as I did in my own realm?"

"Yes," you breathe. "Yes, Morpheus. Please. Put your mouth on me."

He hums his approval before lowering your shorts and beginning to feast on you once more.

---------------------------------------------------

Tag List: @herfantasyworldd @shadowqueen1318

[vexingwoman]

hi sorry (one of the previous wumph anons): this is completely random and there’s no need to answer this but… you said you got a lot of anons on the topic. What was the general consensus on the whole phenomenon among them?

Just to contextualize this ask: I recently mentioned how the whump community (known for romanticizing the extreme anguish, torture, and trauma of fictional characters) has an abnormally high amount of members who identify as trans men. And more interestingly, that almost all the characters whose anguish this community romanticizes are male as well. Many radical feminists have subsequently discussed why this might be.

I can’t say there is much of a consensus at all. Most theories I received as to why this community almost exclusively romanticizes the anguish of male characters were vastly different, and at times, outright contradictory. However, here are the most common ones:

-It’s a homoerotic fetish. This is an obvious and uncomplicated conclusion to draw; most members of the whump community are simply girls who fetishize male homoerotic dynamics. This effectively explains why the whumpee, the whumper, and even the caretaker are most frequently all male characters.

-Readers have too much compassion for female victims. Many radfems expressed that female anguish is too reflective of reality—especially considering most whump themes are forms of abuse that, outside of fiction, females are the primary victims of. The result is an uncomfortable degree of realism in which female readers may involuntarily project themselves onto the victimized female character. Therefore, replacing the victimized female character with a male helps to dilute the degree of realism and create a necessary distance between the reader and character.

-Readers lack compassion for female victims. Other radfems including myself feel that whump consumers fixate on male victimization because female victimization is expected, eroticized, and trivialized—meaning, female-coded anguish is only recognized as horrifying and emotionally compelling when experienced by a male character. Essentially, female victimization titillates the audience, but male victimization is treated rightfully as a horrific and traumatic incident. Thus, the appeal for male victims is an obvious conclusion; only then is trauma and violence treated as it should and only then is the victim truly treated as a victim.

-Male victims are an intriguing reversal of gendered expectations. Self-explanatory. A handful of radfems stated that seeing a male character in a vulnerable, victimizing, or compromising situation might be an intriguing reversal to the assertive and combative male character archetype. This is a convenient answer, except that it fails to explain why the abuser (or whumper) in these scenarios is still male and not female, considering that a female abuser would also constitute as an intriguing reversal of gendered expectations.

-Male characters are generally more compelling. Again, some radfems have stated that male characters are simply better written, but I find this another highly convenient yet fallacious theory. In my opinion, this is an oversimplified analysis in which female readers fail to consider how deeply, unconsciously, and invisibly their internalized misogyny actually runs, and instead choose to project that internalized misogyny onto the author. I elaborate more on this here.

-Male victims are vicarious revenge for misogyny. This was the rarest and most conflicting answer. Only three radfems expressed that seeing male characters in victimizing situations operates as a form of imagined revenge for either the male character’s machismo or the machismo of real-life men. This is unconvincing not only because of the obvious fact that female readers adore these victimized male characters, but also because the main appeal of this genre appears to be sympathizing and rooting for the male victim. An anonymous asker articulated the issue with this theory quite nicely:

In conclusion, it’s a highly controversial but fascinating discussion. I’ve enjoyed everyone’s commentary so far, even if I disagree with some of it. And I’ve tagged all posts related to this discussion under #whump on my account, in case you want to read through them and form your own opinion.

[soleius]

🫶🏻 astro observations II;

wheww back with another observation post

you guys really blew up my first one and im very grateful you were able to resonate and have discusions hehe

it genuinely made me happy ;w;

so again like before, these are all for entertainment! take what resonates and if something doesn’t lets talk about it beloww

alright enjoy friends 💞

for almost all aquarius and scorpio’s i’ve met theyre either open to astrology or are completely opposed to it, hyper fixated on calling it bs without willingness to at least listen to the complexities that they’re not “just a scorpio or aquarius” but they have traits and qualities of other signs due to degrees, decans, house etc..

cancer moons, i love you guys sm but at the same time once someone's hurt you, you never go on to forgiving them even if you say you have

i’ve noticed a lot of 1st house stelliums/inner planets in the 2nd house, have full lips? like they’re really nice and plush and plump? ofc other placements can indicate that but yeah

cancer mercury's have really nice voices, soft and calming

almost all gemini placements i know are well groomed; hairs done well, nails are nicely kept, and if not theyre typically dressed well too

if theres one sign that reminds me of hard work and consistancy it'd be sagittarius in the big 3 , and i feel like it goes unnoticed?

neptune 1st house placements, how often do you get projected on by others whether its by friends, close aquantences or even family? or even after awhile of getting to know you suddenly they go, "oh i thought you were like..?" and how does that affect you? its important to remember to not take what they say about you as truth, just because they thought of you one way doesn't mean you're actually that way.

venus square/opposition saturn, my babies you guys deserve love, so much love. and no, love isn’t conditional you don’t have to give or do something to get it. you can receive love for being as you are. when venus harshly aspects a planet such as saturn, known for restriction, individuals often feel like it hard to be loved or even in love. this can also manifest into low self-esteem, and even self-image. its important to know that you are capable of being loved for who you are and love will eventually come. "love myself" is a theme in your life time, and is a concept you'll have to work on in all aspects to you. ofc this also applies to other venus aspected to saturn, its just squared and opposition babies have it slightly harder.

previous / next

© soleius 2023

[saiscribbles]

New Lily Critical Sideblog

Since Lily Orchard is fixated on me at the moment and is too much of a coward to reblog from me or argue in replies directly I made a sideblog called @purpledemonlilyposting to house more long form responses to her. Cause I really don't want to clog up this main blog with too much of it.

I'll still be posting stuff like YouTube updates here of course. But I'll be doing my firing shots back at Lily over the wall of a block from the sideblog from now on, so the people who are annoyed by the beef can breathe a sigh of relief. Go check out the first fresh post:

Please redirect your Lily asks to this blog as well I'll be more likely to answer them.

[zuyoo]

s-aint. yūta x afab!reader, ﹙외설﹚ drabble

CONTENT WARNING — college setting, mdni! suggestive content, mastermind yūta (real), mentions of onIyf4ns, jerking off, subtle pervy themes.

SYNOPSIS — wherein the classroom’s good boy, okkotsu yūta, finds out the quiet girl’s secret… your secret.

ZUYOO’S NOTES — ohoho dirty, dirty boy (i love him) p.s. click the “s” in s-aint to see the masterlist!!

given how much people ask for his assistance on a daily basis, how come you’ve never asked for his help? it was concerning, unsettling, suspicious even.

it bothered him to the extent that he tried to find any way to help you, and grabbed those chances every time he does.

you emitted an aura that entices him. as in… if you were in a crowd of people, he would immediately notice where you were standing. an aura that captivates him… like, a sense of familiarity?

“good morning, [name].”

“oh, hey! good morning, [name].”

“you’re early today, [name]. good morning.”

he greeted you with delight, every. single. day. asking you questions regarding your morning to lengthen the conversation. he could sense your hesitance at first, but you grew comfortable with it eventually.

he loved feeling a sense of responsibility. the concept of him being the “reliable” one excites him. though, being the only one people usually depend on is tiring. to why he could never be more grateful of his apartment, his safe space to be himself.

he finally gets his peace and quiet, his alone time, where no one can see and disturb him from doing what he wants.

it would be such a sight to see the class’ renowned saint just jerking himself off, on his bed, to a girl on social media… right?

what would he ever do if someone were to catch him moaning out a name of some girl he doesn’t even know and haven’t even seen yet?

he discovered an account called ‘kissnyx’ on a random frustrating monday, who would’ve thought that it would turn into an addiction? certainly not yūta, himself.

after forming a habit of scrolling through “nyx”’s account, he looked forward to getting home as soon as possible and finally being able to let out some frustration. it didn’t take long before the said habit turned into a hyper fixation.

yūta is simply lucky that he still has the right amount of dignity and control to keep up with his image in school.

yūta, as a class representative, is usually the one who arranges papers of the class; test papers, assessments, projects, and such. where he noticed your name. your scores in some subjects were great—the others were… below average? per se.

which is when he suggested to your professor to allow him to tutor you and get your grades up on your weak subjects.

being the saint yūta is, the professor agreed there and then. the professor immediately contacted you regarding the tutoring session.

the professor was about to do everything himself, the schedule and such, but yūta volunteered to handle it and asked for your contact so that he could contact you instead.

“my, my. you’re such an angel, yūta! well, now that that’s settled. you can check my class record for her contact number.”

“thank you, professor.”

he saw this chance to finally be able to help you with something without you asking for his help. and a chance to get closer to another classmate. he has an image to keep up, he needs to feel self satisfaction in what he does before he can actually rest.

not so saintly of him, right?

it kind of looked painfully obvious that he was desperate to help you, as if he liked you. but given that he helps everyone around him, people disregarded his action towards you since it was “the normal” for yūta anyways.

as per the agreement, you two only met for your tutoring sessions on tuesdays and thursdays. it felt awkward during the first few sessions, but it didn’t take long for the both of you to feel comfortable in each other’s presence.

this is also the time when yūta slowly notices the small things, the small habits that you do that is somehow constantly reminding him of the account kissnyx.

as much as he tried to disregard it, it bothered him. your very presence bothered him because it felt… odd? for some reason.

his gut feeling felt that the [name] he was getting to know isn’t really who you are… but that would be impossible, right? you’re too innocent and quiet. he couldn’t imagine you being someone like “nyx”.

like, sure… you have the beauty- and the body… that a guy would love. given how you dress up in school, no one really notices how beautiful you looked. but then again, you and nyx were two completely different people. maybe it was just his delusion.

it was obvious that you were covering your tattoos because it was against the dress code, so perhaps the tattoo you could barely cover with concealer that he saw in between your… defined… collarbones were coincidentally the same like nyx’s.

perhaps you both also coincidentally share the way you cover your faces with your hands when you’re flustered or embarrassed.

maybe it’s just a coincidence that your nails were the same colors as hers that one wednesday.

or that you both have a similar mole near your smooth shoulders.

sure, there were one too many coincidences, but he’s trying his best to not think of your face when his fingers were wrapped around his cock, stroking it as nyx’s moans can be heard in the background.

was it a crush? no… not really… right? but the thought of you possibly being the person behind his one and only favorite alter account…? fuck.

he felt so- dirty. thinking of his innocent, quiet classmate while he fucks his fist in his pitch dark room, filling it with the sound of his groans and slick from the constant pumping.

“shit- need y’… i need [name]-”

his actions stilled, even he was surprised by what he just said. did he just moan out your name?

his cock twitching from the sudden loss of friction but he couldn’t give a fuck less. your name rolled off his tongue so smoothly… too smooth to his liking. he knew that very moment that he wanted you with him… he needed you with him.

masterlist.

—rbs & comments r highly appreciated!!

© zuyoo — do not copy, plagiarize, or translate my work without my permission. i only upload my work in tumblr.

[stovetoast]

pillow tpot headcanons (long ramble expanding on the ocd part under the cut)

ok so first warning: i am not a psychiatrist. this isnt a super educated essay on ocd, just me projecting my lived experience onto an object show character. this is just an observation. if i get something wrong feel free to correct me, ill add it here. (its also worth noting i am self diagnosed. not "quick google search" self dx though, ive gone over it with a therapist and everything)

and that leads into the second warning: this ramble will get a tad bit personal sorryyyy

and finally the third warning: i put she/it on the ref but im just using she/her for simplicity (+ i forgot LOL(

anyway so yeah i think that pillow has ocd and is basically the embodiment of "letting intrusive thoughts win" except like. actually. this headcanon didnt stem from the killing or the strange impulses though, i think she has it because of her fixation on good and bad luck in tpot 10.

for me it manifests in a few different ways. my main one is counting—i have good luck numbers and bad luck numbers. i need to take a specific number of snacks every time i have a bowl of them. i have to shake medicine bottles a certain amount of times before taking them. i am always counting the "syllables" of whatever im doing, and it always has to land on a multiple/factor of my lucky number. and if i break any of this, i (generally, if i cant convince myself its fine or if i dont notice) have to count to my lucky number otherwise something bad will happen. hell, i added more flags to this ref because the number of them was my unlucky number.

i have a few other things that affect it that are completely unrelated to counting, though. like a particularly bad one is that i straight up cant wear certain articles or clothing anymore because theyre bad luck. or my ungodly long night routine (which is probably more of an autism thing tbh. but certain parts of it are absolutely influenced by the ocd, like having to say goodnight to my dog).

that ^^ is what i saw in pillow. she was distraught that her team lost in 9, because not only did she think she was doing the challenge right, but killing people (bringing death) was good luck for her.

i think her killing people was a compulsion, and her whole thing in 10 was her scrambling to find a new one after that stopped working.

and before anyone tries to be all like "oh thats fucked up why would they portray ocd like that," one: i dont think this was on purpose this was just an observation, two: i mean..... fuck dude if i lived in a world where revival was incredibly accessible and one of my compulsions were to kill people, id do the same thing. death is fairly normal in bfdi, to the point everyone literally has a kill count on the fandom wiki (hers is 13 as of tpot 11 btw, a commonly unlucky number ironically enough. if she gets eliminated in 12 with an unlucky kill count thatd be so funny). once they get past the pain, its. really just an inconvenience to them.

when it comes to ocd, you. HAVE to do these things. its not a choice until you can get some outside help with it, and oftentimes its an inconvenience to those around you. i dont think its right for her to be going around killing her team, but when i get past the fact that is literally what made her my favorite, i get where shes coming from. shes trying to help in a way she "knows" will work.

or maybe shes just silly idk

[nebula-remnants]

oh man... you have no idea what i'm about to drop on you all.

HEY!!! so. I made a GIANT list of headcanons for Sun and Moon that are all autism related since I have an excuse to now. I gave twitter a warning but I forgot to here so sorry to anyone who clicks to keep reading and goes into this post unprepared.

I did want to make an attempt to make this easy to read so, Green is just going to be for regular but still have some in depth meaning for why it's on this list, Orange is for a headcanon that is more serious!! I try to word myself correctly and explain why these ones are important in the case of accurate. (sometimes PAINFULLY accurate) representation. I wanted to go in depth for symptoms that are less discussed. so i'm going to discuss them the best I can regardless because their just as important to representation. ideas that stray from canon and are more my interpretations of how I think they'd act in certain situations will be pink

Both get frustrated when you mess with their stuff (this could just be a cleanliness deal for the daycare exclusively, however the barrels aren’t exactly a major mess since there are so few of them, so it can also be taken as wanting items a certain way. I kind of headcanon it as a bit of both tbh

I think Sun would have a strong sense of justice. He is a “hero” character as far as old theater traits go. And his canon behavior suggests he’s both petty and controlling of his environment. I believe those traits are a result of his current situation, but with this headcanon a sense of justice would go in perfectly because it means he’s strongly bound to his moral beliefs. Now it’s good to mention a strong sense of justice is NOT always a good thing!! Having a strong sense of justice does not automatically mean someone has all the correct moral beliefs, but it can sometimes make people self righteous (especially when they aren’t self aware.) but anyways moral righteousness does not always mean correctness!! I really like this headcanon especially because it’s complex, it falls into morally gray areas. Has good intentions but can hurt people by accident. Some of this applies to Moon too but I have less canon material to work with.

I think Moon would go COMPLETELY non verbal when upset, but it would go easily unnoticed because people might just assume he’s always quiet. which y'know. isn't okay obviously, but for his circumstance I do feel it would be at least accurate.

I don’t think they would know about being autistic themselves. LET ME EXPLAIN. So if the Fallfest thing is right they’re potentially from the 70s, that makes them old. Plus they’re robots. It’s not like someone realistically would go and diagnose them with autism, unless like, the guy that made them was autistic and was projecting onto them HARD. but what i’ve noticed from older family members that went nearly their whole life without a diagnosis?? They kind of just. Suffer and think it’s normal. My father has ADHD and kind of went most of his life thinking he was just a problematic kid in school, actually i still think he does 😭 (spoiler: he had a hard time focusing on subjects he wasn’t hyper fixated on and was treated without any accommodations even considered) the reason i bring this up for Sun and Moon is i think they sort of just go about their business thinking it’s normal and everyone experiences those things. So basically I think they’d be undiagnosed in the fnaf universe (or could have some outdated information about autism stored somewhere, like I even did a few years ago. because in my opinion I haven't really seen any widespread information until more recently and that's how I found out LATER in my life, when some damage was already done). Someone tell them please

I think masking would be minimum, they probably try a little bit but give up and decide they don’t care anymore (like I said, it’s possible that they’re older, so give them a break)

On the topic of not being aware of symptoms I headcanon Moon (or at least pre security breach one, maybe, idk) as the kind of autistic to have a hard time realizing he’s upsetting or genuinely scaring people. He’s being whimsical, but like, wouldn’t realize unless specifically told so. I don’t believe a potential nicer form of moon would be there to intentionally hurt people (i don’t like the idea of him being evil just BECAUSE) but i think he could still cause all kinds of distress by accident. I certainly don’t think he’s shy (and i believe Kellon Goff corrected himself in a later tweet and said Moon wasn’t exactly shy himself but he used a shy part of his life to bring Moon to life, if i remember correctly (correct me if i’m wrong bruh i don’t wanna misquote the man himself 😭)) Canon Moon probably isn’t shy but instead he gets to be fluent in being awkward in a conversation

I mean don’t get me wrong I adore the idea of shy moon but it’s most likely not going to be anything we see in canon. But in an au? Or in your own headcanon? Go crazy, make that man shy, be a little self indulgent. You’re not required to stick to canon to a tee.

I definitely think Sun and Moon would have clashing sensory needs. being opposites but also having a common root in an issue whether they want it to be there or not is like their whole thing. A lot of clashing except maybe the clicking they do. They fidget and click a LOT and the clicks are so pleasant to my brain so i think that could be maybe a similarity. As far as clashing sensory needs I think, y’know, if they were to be given separate bodies, because I actually really like that idea of seeing how their dynamic plays out that way (lots of fighting, so much fighting)... I DONT CARE IF IT MOST LIKELY WON’T BE A THING IN CANON BECAUSE OF THE DYNAMIC STEEL WOOL IS LEANING INTO SHSHHSHSHSH I CAN DREAM. 

Anyways I think Moon would have sensory issues related to lights (duh) and sound (MAYBE sun for sound too, if he has less control of it. Just because he’s generally louder doesn’t mean he couldn’t have an issue with unwarranted sound. And if anything, in the daycare I think that would contribute to his burnout MORE.) thought i definitely think Moon would be more reactive to noise and lights considering he’s much less used to them (that doesn’t exactly dwindle sun’s ability to become overstimulated to a sound because he’s used to it, but he might have a much more subtle response to it after a while like the snappy behavior/burnout in hw2. While I imagine Moon for once having a much more obvious response. (kind of like how he reacts to the lights in ruin but probably only half as much)

I think they both reacted to overstimulation through getting snappy, so like in an au where they’re physically separated and they have clashing sensory needs that’s… an easy argument starter. Visibly doing some small behavior that screams irritation on Sun’s part. And moon probably stares at you, but angrily (you can’t tell because he doesn’t have fucking eyelids)

I think the movements they do in canon are some form of stimming. Like I mentioned before, I think they enjoy the clicking. Moon does the movements with his head and rotating his face a LOT. and i began associating it with stimming a while ago. As for negative stims when stressed and anxious. Their wires are exposed. There may not be evidence for it but maybe that’s something they mess with. Also, no evidence for this but I felt like there damage in ruin was both from the situation and themselves, can be taken as a more self destructive (kind of like how scratching/hair pulling can be considered stimming at times for humans) but most likely accidental form of this. Or more likely a stress habit and causing more damage from fighting for control (idk man I kind of lost myself on this one)

Also!! The staff bot parts in their room, and later in Ruin more parts from endos are present. I think they fidget with parts on occasion. This strays from autism related headcanons but Those parts being there in the first place i think is Moon’s doing, and based on his behavior in ruin along with similar cases recorded in security breach i take it as frustration/misguided anger. And eventually because those parts are yk, there after Moon did whatever it is he may have done, i wouldn’t be surprised if the stuff in their room is occasionally fidgeted with as a distraction. The only evidence I really have for this is that in Ruin those items are all sorted. Someone was doing something as a distraction.

There’s no way they would be flirted with in a roundabout way and immediately understand, you need to be DIRECT AND TELL THEM WHAT YOU WANT!!!

I think Sun might easily misinterpret all kinds of things he's told, and be completely confident with his interpretation, while while recognize when he's a little unclear, decide it's probably not important if someone wasn't being clear, and then forget.

For whatever possible circumstance this would EVER come up I don’t think Moon would enjoy phone calls, nor would Sun but I think he likes yapping so he’d probably talk your ear off and then get really sidetracked. Moon would just respond with simple one word answers, or not all (me, i do that, i’m projecting) I don’t think Moon is shy in canon but i do headcanon he just, sucks at holding up a conversation (projecting again)

basically canon but hypo verbal Moon and hyper Verbal sun. (this gets a little too personal and realistic and a second) I just want to say that because it’s a trait associated with autism and instead of them just being considered too quiet or too loud, they are literally just being themselves. This also goes along with the idea where they wouldn’t realize they have autism, and just think whatever they’re doing is considered normal for everyone else so hey might recognize people think of them poorly but might not realize what someone has a stick up their ass about until someone is like “ermm you talk too much/too little 🙄” actually i definitely think they would get criticized on a daily basis for that. I have my own ideas about how they would react in an immediate situation vs over time after being told over and over again. And basically, I think Moon would kind of… NOT react at first but it would get to him later on and that’s when he goes completely quiet or makes sure to avoid people. I think Sun would react negatively on the dot (in one way or another) and stew in frustration for a bit, and sometimes it might come back to him on occasion.

A part of me wants to believe moon is capable of yapping but he spaces it out, like I think he’d randomly tell you a fact and then go quiet for a while. OR!!! OR!! He’d tell you a joke then wait for you to laugh as he stares at you intensely and silently.

I think Moon would mutter to himself a lot, but so quiet and muddled from an outside perspective it's completely incoherent. Sun too but a little easier to hear. Speak out loud in a quiet voice but still loud enough that still makes people briefly pause wandering if he’s speaking to them.

What if they were both heat sensitive… imagine getting to go outside (if they were part of Fallfest than maybe first time and years) but it’s during the summer, and they're both fatigued and miserable. I see a lot of people say sun would absolutely love summer, but considering if he is from Fallfest, and assuming they shut off animatronics when not in use, he’d realistically he might not even be used to summer at all. Then in this case it would actually be sort of an ironic situation where he grows to dislike summer heat.

okay ya'll I think it's done for NOW. I have a few I left out because they were half baked, or too vague for what I wanted to say so I may edit or add onto this in the future. a whole load of this ideas are also things I wanted to implement into my AU so!!

UGRHHHH IK I HAVE AUTISM BUT ITS NOT LIKE I EXPERIENCE EVERYTHING MENTIONED HERE SO I HOPE I DIDN'T MESS UP ANYTHING BUT LET ME KNOW!!