i can't say i still fully get it, but i do get it somewhat, is it a similar case to how people say 'OMG MIKE WOULD ABSOLUTELY WRECK ANYONE HE MET' meanwhile Mike is not at all that in the movie/book?
well one of my main issues is also how much oversexualized he is. to the point where it’s impossible for me to consume any fan media at this point. (i had to delete gross comments under my william art multiple times…)
it’s rlly upsetting because i personally feel like it’s happening with EVERY fandom. fnaf to me is about theories and community and this huge universe and on tumblr it’s about how freaky you can be getting
𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: baldur's gate 3 | astarion acunín x gn!reader
𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: When Astarion lets it slip that he hasn't seen his own face since he became a vampire spawn, you take it upon yourself to be his eyes. And, as you assure him, he has a very good face.
𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: artist!reader (sorta) | if u noticed anything i missed, pls let me know!
𝚆/𝙲: 2k — 9 min read time
.·:*¨༺➻𝙰/𝙽: i'm so sure someone's already done this but ever since this scene triggered for me in like act 1 i been THINKING bout it. i combined some of the dialogue results for this one. he also never is not pretty like ??? r u joking. AND reqs are open!
🤍 mills
✧❦༺ 𝖗𝖊𝖖𝖚𝖊𝖘𝖙 |.☽.| 𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 |.☽.| 𝖙𝖆𝖌𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 ༻❦✧
While you sit atop your bedroll trying to relax at camp, your eyes drift over toward Astarion’s tent. To your surprise, you catch beams of moonlight reflecting off of a shining surface. Intrigued, you get up from your seat and make your way over to him. As you approach, you slow your steps and carefully peer around his figure to see a beautiful, ornate silver mirror. Of course, there is no reflection within it aside from your own face.
“Looking for something?” the vampire spawn purrs.
Your eyebrows raise, and you tilt your head inquisitively as a smirk curves across your lips.
“How did you know I was here?” you ask.
“The only benefit to a mirror when you have my…condition. It doesn’t quite make up for the lack of reflection, mind you.”
You hum to yourself and nod. He turns to face you, dropping the mirror to his side. His eyebrows are knitted together, that signature anger decorating his handsome feline features.
“Do you miss it?” you ask, folding your arms over your chest. “Your own face?”
“Preening the looking glass? Petty vanity?” He scoffs. “Of course I miss it. I’ve never even seen this face - not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red.”
“What color were they before?” you ask, the question slipping out before you have the chance to stop it.
“I don’t know…” he drops his gaze and his eyebrows furrow in deep thought. “I can’t remember. My face is just some dark shape in my past. Another thing I’ve lost.”
He throws the mirror onto the dirt beside him. It lands with a dulled clink as Astarion’s face floods with fury. You breathe a sigh and gulp. Then, you cautiously step forward, craning your neck and narrowing your eyes to focus on him. He angles his head, quirking an eyebrow.
“What?” he asks quietly.
“Just looking.”
“And what is it that you see, exactly, when you look at me?”
You bite the inside of your cheek as you formulate an answer. Suddenly, you can see all of him at once. Your artist’s soul drinks in each and every detail. You study his almond-shaped eyes, the delicate and noble curve of his nose, the grooves in his lips, his pointed ears and angular jawline. Your heartbeat pounds into your ears, and your chest tightens. You admire the way each part of him comes together to form that face, that cruel beauty. You can practically see the penciled lines on a scrap of parchment, the colors you would mix to get his skin tone right, the way you would paint him without the bite scars on his neck. The finished piece flashes before you. Your fingers twitch with anticipation.
“I see you,” you reply. “The creases when you laugh. The way your hair curls around your ears. That dangerous smile.”
His gaze softens, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He straightens, heaving a deep breath, and places his hands on his hips.
“Very good. Now just tell me I’m beautiful and we can call it a day.”
You smile and chuckle.
“You have nothing to worry about, Astarion. It’s a very good face.”
A full smirk breaks across his features, tugging one corner of his mouth upward. He eyes you mischievously, his gaze flicking up and down your figure, before he turns to pick up a book. You take that as your cue to leave and make your way back to your own tent
Though you try to settle down by reading a book you nicked off a drow corpse by the Ebonlake Grotto - The Great Furnace of Grymforge sounds incredibly important - you can’t keep yourself from looking back at your vampire companion. His words continue to echo in your head, over and over again.
I’ve never even seen this face, not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red.
The painting of him that you had imagined earlier flickers through your mind once again. You raise your head and peer around to see that most of your other companions have gone to bed for the night. You figure you should probably get some sleep too...
Despite your exhaustion, you find yourself reaching for a scroll of unused parchment.
You secure the paper to your wooden easel and open the paint set you tote around in your pack. After making a quick trip to the river to fill a bowl with water, you fish out the brushes and pencils you’ve collected. Once prepped, you take a deep breath and begin to sketch the preliminary lines. As you fill in the finer details, you take care to be as accurate as possible. Every so often, you sneak a peek at Astarion to ensure you’re doing the elf justice and to check on small details, though you are able to do most from memory. You could never quite explain it, but his image appears so clearly in your mind, every detail almost perfectly preserved like a painting in and of itself. He’s settled into the ideal expression as he reads, his features ghosted with deep anger but balanced with a controlled calm.
By the time you’ve finished the sketch, the rest of your party has fallen asleep, Astarion included. He’d walked toward his bedroll encircling the bonfire an hour ago. And, though he tossed you an inquisitive glance, he said nothing. Within a short time, he’d fallen asleep alongside the others.
You take to the paints beside you. In an artist’s flurry, you work quickly but carefully, taking full advantage of every shred of inspiration that you have at the moment. You do your best to match his colors under the soft candle and moonlight. You fully intend to revisit the piece during the day with more favorable lighting.
A few hours later, you’ve all but finished. Until you realize that you’ve left something extremely important out. Though you have sketched in his dark, piercing eyes, you’ve neglected to color them. Your shoulders fall as your conversation from earlier replays in your mind.
Your eyes lock on the blood red swatch of paint immediately, but you wonder…
You look back at the canvas, recalling the image of his face once again. Closing your eyes, you allow your mind to fill in the gaps. You envision Astarion in Baldur’s Gate, with a carefree smile and fine clothes, as the sun shines graciously upon his face. A smile spreads across your lips, and you instinctively reach for a color from your paint set. Satisfied, you open your eyes and get to work.
You haven’t even realized that you’ve fallen asleep until you wake from a kick to your boot. You jerk, your head and neck immediately pounding.
“Well, good morning, sleeping beauty,” Astarion’s familiar voice croons into your ear.
As you shift to sit up, your eyes blink to adjust to the harsh sunlight of the dawn as it rises over the landscape. When you attempt to straighten your neck, a pulsing pain ricochets through you. You grunt and reach a hand up to massage the sore muscles. You’d fallen asleep sitting up in a chair, your head obviously flopped to one side for several hours. Your eyes rake over the camp, observing the fact that everyone else is still resting. By the time you’ve gained enough consciousness to process what’s happening, you realize that Astarion is staring directly at your piece. You gasp and lunge, twisting your body to cover it.
“Oh, that-that’s not...finished. I was planning to make some last minute changes to it this morning, em…” you stutter as your heart pulses at a million miles a minute. You’re suddenly extremely embarrassed by yourself and wondering if you might have taken things a step too far by spending your entire night painting your…friend. Astarion just raises his eyebrows.
“Oh, it looked awfully finished to me, darling.”
He gestures for you to move out of the way, but all you can muster is a shake of your head. He frowns before grabbing onto your bicep and pulling you to the side. Though your brain says to fight him, your heart wants, with everything in you, for him to see it. For him to like it. You drop your gaze in shame, picking at your fingernails. He stands on his back foot. His eyes roam over the piece, his face expressionless. You clear your throat.
“You mentioned last night that you hadn’t seen your face since…well, I thought maybe you’d like to. I know it’s probably not a very good likeness, so please don’t take offense to it. And I wasn’t quite sure what color to make your eyes, so I-”
“Yes,” he muses quietly, in a tone so silent it’s almost imperceptible. He reaches toward the painting, his fingers hovering over the eyes. His shoulders droop. “They were green.”
You inhale sharply. You’d painted them green.
“I’d forgotten until now. Until you…” He tears his gaze away from the painting to take you in. Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel frozen under his unwavering eyes. “Until you helped me to see myself.”
He maintains your stare for a few more moments. You couldn’t miss the way his eyes soften and turn glassy. Nor the almost pink tint that fades into his cheeks. Astarion gulps and considers the painting once more.
“Is this how you see me? Genuinely?”
You inspect the painting yourself now. Last night you had felt so critical of it, fretting over the colors not being exactly right or the lines not matching up as you want them to. You often feel that way about your art. But now, in the daylight, you find yourself falling a little bit in love with this piece.
You drop to your knees alongside your companion, gently reaching out to cup his cheek. He stiffens at your touch but as you scan his features, you feel him ease and…is he leaning into your palm? Your thumb absentmindedly brushes across his cheekbone. He avoids your eyes. With a shaky breath, you look to the painting and grin.
Your inspiration served you well. It’s a spitting image as far as you can tell. You’ve managed to include the wisps of curl that brush against his pointed ears, the faint lines alongside his nose and mouth. Most of all, you’ve captured the sparkle of joy, the light so dim it’s almost vanished, that gleams in his eyes. Even after all that he’s been through.
“Yes. Because this is how you are. To me.”
His head whips around to you. His hands find yours, sandwiching your fingers between his own. Despite his bloodless complexion, his touch is warm and gentle. You step closer to him without even really intending to. He allows a rare smile, a genuine one, to turn up his lips. Your heart skips a beat as he bends down and brings his lips to your cheek. He presses a soft, chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your eyes flutter closed as you drink in the sensation of his lips on you so sweetly. He pulls back, sliding his cheek onto yours.
“Thank you," he whispers into your ear.
As he draws back, a yawn from one of your companions shakes you back to reality. Astarion’s smile remains. His eyes sparkle just in the way you’ve painted them. He squeezes your fingers before releasing them. You clear your throat, willing your sweating palms to dry themselves. You carefully lift the painting and hand it to your vampire spawn companion.
“Here. Keep it. I was planning on giving it to you anyway,” you say.
“Well, since I was the most inspired muse for your delicious little painting, I will,” he teases, flashing a sinister smirk which shows off his sharpened fangs. You chuckle breathlessly and nod.
He begins to walk away but pauses and glances at you over his shoulder.
“Oh and, next time, if you need a model, just ask, darling. I’d be more than happy to pose for you any time. In any position.”
Astarion snickers viciously as you feel your eyes go wide and mouth pop open in surprise. As he struts away, you rub your palms on your heated cheeks. He’s such a tease and yet…perhaps you’d take him up on his offer.
SYNOPSIS: Nobody thinks the thing between you and Eddie can be as pure and real as you say it is.
word count: 1,323
NOTES: written for this request!
A lot of people talked about you and Eddie, now that you were publicly together, but none of them knew what they were saying. They spun the story like it was as old as time, unchangeable, inevitable, as sure a disaster as whatever or whoever they were comparing you to in the moment. Him, a rockstar, high on the enormous tide of fame and cocaine, a man who could have anything in the world at the snap of his fingers. You, a couple of years younger, elusive writer from the Los Angeles scene, enigmatic partier– naïve, obviously getting taken for a ride.
It never occurred to any of them that a man like Eddie Roundtree could be truly, inescapably gone for you. Why devote yourself to one girl when you could have as many as you wanted at any time? People had been asking that question about Billy Dunne for the Six’s entire career, and they couldn’t believe another band member was making the same ‘mistake’. Fame should mean freedom. As if getting to give your all to someone and receive their all in return wasn’t a kind of freedom in of itself.
Let them talk. What difference did it make to you?
When you stepped onto the tour bus, the afterparty was already in full swing. You hadn’t been able to catch the show because your flight had gotten in too late, but it didn’t matter; you’d be joining Eddie on tour for the next few months, so you had plenty of shows in your future. All you cared about was getting to your man. You located him sitting on the far corner of the couch, squished in with Graham and Warren and Warren’s girl of the night. You had spotted him before he spotted you, and you took a moment to take in the face you hadn’t been able to see since the tour started. His warm brown eyes crinkled in laughter, the sweep of his burnt sugar hair over his forehead. He was so beautiful it made your breath catch every time you allowed yourself to drink him in like that.
“(y/n)!” Warren shouted, being the one to notice you first in the fray of the party, pointing to you with one long finger as if the shout wasn’t enough. Eddie’s head whipped around, and his mouth stretched into the widest grin at the sight of you. You returned the smile with your own, squeezing through the small, packed crowd until you landed right in his lap.
Eddie’s arms instantly went around your waist, hands settling warm and solid on your lower back. Yours went loosely around his shoulders, your head dipping down to a well-received kiss. His eyes were bloodshot and he was half gone to whatever booze and drugs he’d done already, but even through the haze of inebriation they were settled on you.
“You’re here, I can breathe again,” he said, voice lazy. He was leaned all the way back, head resting on the window behind him, like it was the first time his body had been able to relax in weeks. You lifted your palm to his cheek, rubbing your thumb gently along his lower lip, curved up in that little smirk of his.
You bent your face close to him so that only he could hear you. “Missed you, too, baby boy.”
Eddie leaned over the side of the couch, and when he came back up he was holding his lighter– red, engraved with his name in gold, a gift from you shortly after you had started dating– and a joint. He lifted the joint and you took it in your lips, he grabbed your chin and held your face gently with his guitar-calloused fingers as he lit it for you. You took a long drag, exhaling only after the joint was between Eddie’s lips.
Eddie’s hands went back to your waist, skimming up beneath your shirt and skating across your spine. The whole time he’d been away and you’d been stuck in Los Angeles without him, you’d felt unmoored, but you hadn’t realized the extent of it until you were finally back in his arms, back with your anchor. This was where you were meant to be, and Eddie felt that just as much as you did.
The next night, you stood in the wings with Rod watching the band play. They were all mesmerizing in their own ways, especially, of course, Daisy and Billy singing together, but your eyes never left Eddie. He always exuded confidence, but never more so than when he was onstage, and it was intoxicating to see. He wore that cocky smirk on his face, the one that either made you want to smack him or kiss him and nothing in between, his body moving as one with the bass. He’d never wanted to play the instrument, you knew, but god did he play it like it had been made specifically for him.
Any chance he got, his eyes were on you, even onstage, even in the middle of a song. As the song came to an end, he caught your eye for the hundredth time that night, bringing his hand to his mouth and blowing a kiss into the wings for you. You laughed, pretending to catch it and press it to your heart, making him grin before he had to turn away and start playing the next song.
“That guy’s got it fuckin’ bad for you, huh,” Rod observed, and you snorted.
“Mm, he better,” you nodded.
Eddie made a beeline for you as soon as the show was over, shedding his bass on the way and scooping you up in his arms. You squeezed him tightly, laughing as he picked you up off the floor and spun you around. When he set you back down on the ground, you grabbed his face and kissed him, skin warm from the lights and exertion everywhere you touched, hair sweaty where your fingers tangled with it at the nape of his neck.
“You were enthralling,” you told him once you had pulled away.
“That was my best show so far,” he said, “Had to pull out all the stops because I knew my girl was watching.”
“Well, you really blew me away,” you laughed. “But you blow me away every time, you always will.”
You two skipped the afterparty that night, instead heading straight to Eddie’s hotel room. You needed just each other, alone, away from the hecticness of tour. You wanted Eddie all to yourself, you always did, and Eddie would give you as much of himself as he could at every chance, just as you did for him. That’s why you found him so easy to love; he knew what you needed from him, and was nearly tripping over himself to give it to you.
The next morning, you were in a diner with Eddie catching a quick breakfast before the buses had to leave. Your eyes scanned the newspaper rack in boredom as you waited for your food, and your mouth drew up into a smirk as you spotted something familiar.
You grabbed the tabloid and turned, showing it to Eddie. On the front was a photo of him on stage from the night before, eyes turned towards the wings, hand extended mid-gesture as he blew you a kiss. A smaller photo was superimposed in the corner, catching the two of you walking out of the venue later that night, your arm looped through the crook of his elbow as you walked back to the hotel. The headline was something invasive and completely false about your relationship, but you ignored it.
“They love to talk about us,” you said, rolling your eyes.
“These pictures are pretty good, actually,” Eddie said, grabbing the tabloid to get a better look. “I should get in touch with them and ask if I can have some copies of ‘em.”
Happy Friday have we talked about “you talked me under the table” as in she was drunk on his promises while he remained unaffected, like when you say that someone is drinking you under the table as in they hold their liquor so seemingly well that you can’t keep up with them you’re so inebriated while they seem completely unaffected????
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