I am an invisible impossibility. A thing so unthinkable even my own people mock and revile what Iāve become. I am expected to degrade myself in kind, to make a joke of my own existence.
A man? How veryā¦ disappointing.
Transness is not a choice until youāre the beast that becomes a man. It is a celebration in our community until itās cause for condolences for such an unimaginable decision - youāre a man now? Iām sorry. Thatās unfortunate.
But I am not a man like them. I will never be like a man who was born to it.
Because I was born with an imagined godās brutal laws grafted to my body. To the rest of society, the uterus I inherited from my sex already belonged to some ephemeral man out in the world, a man whose name would devour mine as his child would devour my body.
I was born to appease the eyes of cisgender, heterosexual men - and when I failed to do so, I became their villain.
I have always been a villain of some sort. Perhaps that is why it seems so comforting to me.
It is a hollow comfort.
There is no privilege in this transition. There is little joy. It is a terribly lonely thing, becoming a monster in the eyes of even your own community.
But I wasnāt, and Iām not. The terrible tragedy of it all is I wanted to be a man like the ones in stories and legends, a man like the heroes from the books I devoured as a child; but then I grew up and realized that the reality of those stories is far grimmer and men in my reality were far fouler and it seems so inconceivable to me that I should ever want to become what has almost destroyed me.
And thatās the catch, isnāt it? I never could be. There is an assumption within the trans community that trans men gain the ever-sought male privilege upon transitioning - and perhaps if you live stealth and pass, you can experience some aspects of it.
But as soon as we reveal ourselves - or, god forbid, live out loud as trans men who donāt pass - that privilege goes away. Male privilege cannot truly belong to those who have suffered so viscerally beneath it; those who have been born with its expectations and claiming brand on the surface of an unwanted womb.
I have experienced very little triumph in this transition.
We are not the victorious trans people that get written into shows and movies. We are the oddities who do not yet fill out the suits we so desperately want to wear. We are the fascinations on magazine covers, ever reduced to the fact of the uterus living still inside us.
I am so tired of being invisible, of being ignored until Iām being forgiven for my āchoiceā to become what has tried to kill me. I am tired of the degradation, of the appeasement through silence. I am tired of being made into a joke.
My masculinity - my manhood - is not a tragedy.
I refuse to behave like it is.
I refuse to be made silent by my own people.
I am not something for you to grieve. I am not the gentle thing the cisgender world wanted me to be, nor am I the quiet disappointment of my own kin.
I am a rebellion against all that was put upon me before I was named by my mother.
was trying to find body positivity posts for trans guys that look like me and couldnāt. so hereās a post for all the trans guys with wide hips and dad bods. you are hot, you are desirable, and you are doing great
we cry "the innocent women and children" to appeal to the masses, to try and force their sympathy, but the men and boys are innocent too.
I have seen sons crying out for their mothers, their fathers, their siblings. I have seen them break down at the loss of their families. I have seen them cling to their dead and grieve.
I have seen fathers cradle their dead children, seen them kiss their faces and hold their little hands. I have seen them faint with grief when asked to identify the dead. I have seen them carry their sons and daughters. I have seen them fasting to provide what little they can for their families.
I have seen men and boys digging through the rubble with just their bare hands, I have seen them comforting strangers, playing with children, rocking them, hushing them, even if the face of such imminent danger. I have seen them cry, seen them grieve, seen them break down into each other's arms, seen them be selfless, beyond selfless, becoming something I don't have a word for.
I have seen the men who are doctors refuse to leave their patients, even when they have no medicine or supplies to give them, even when they're threatened with bombings. I have seen fathers who have lost all their children pick orphans up into their arms and proclaim them their child so they are not alone. I have seen men and boys digging pets out of the rubble.
the men are innocent too. the men and boys are being hurt and killed too. the men and boys are grieving too. the men and boys are scared too. the men and boys are fighting to save their people too. the men and boys deserve to be fought for too.
they want to further displace and destroy the culture and identity of a random child, but wouldn't actually house someone who would benefit from it. they'd rather steal an orphaned or at least war torn child and leave any and all of their potential family to rot. even if they'd be willing to take on the family, no doubt, they would hesitate if not outright refuse to take on any man, father, sibling, etc.
we cry "the innocent women and children" to appeal to the masses, to try and force their sympathy, but the men and boys are innocent too.
I have seen sons crying out for their mothers, their fathers, their siblings. I have seen them break down at the loss of their families. I have seen them cling to their dead and grieve.
I have seen fathers cradle their dead children, seen them kiss their faces and hold their little hands. I have seen them faint with grief when asked to identify the dead. I have seen them carry their sons and daughters. I have seen them fasting to provide what little they can for their families.
I have seen men and boys digging through the rubble with just their bare hands, I have seen them comforting strangers, playing with children, rocking them, hushing them, even if the face of such imminent danger. I have seen them cry, seen them grieve, seen them break down into each other's arms, seen them be selfless, beyond selfless, becoming something I don't have a word for.
I have seen the men who are doctors refuse to leave their patients, even when they have no medicine or supplies to give them, even when they're threatened with bombings. I have seen fathers who have lost all their children pick orphans up into their arms and proclaim them their child so they are not alone. I have seen men and boys digging pets out of the rubble.
the men are innocent too. the men and boys are being hurt and killed too. the men and boys are grieving too. the men and boys are scared too. the men and boys are fighting to save their people too. the men and boys deserve to be fought for too.
And the absolutely infuriating inability to escape it. No matter what he does, the taste of it lingers in the back of his throat like bile.
This was not part of the plan. This was never supposed to be part of any plan!
After living for so long going entirely unmoved by each and every bloody, blasted, damnable soul he came across, he was certain that something like this was never going to be a problem he would be forced to deal with.
Heās heard all about the symptoms of longing, of yearning - always secondhand, and always from the mouths of mortal fools who live and die in the blink of an eye. Oh, but the mortals write sonnets upon sonnets about them; the ache in your chest when youāre apart, the restlessness, the constant writhing in your belly whenever you know theyāre about to be nearā¦
Awful. It always sounded more like an illness than anything else.
He can now confirm it does indeed feel like it, too.
It is a sickness, a curse. There is no cure but abandonment - and heās come too far to turn back now.
But it isnāt the same.
It will never be the same again, because he has been changed by this - this lovesickness.
So changed that he finds himself haunting the places where Gale Dekarios lives every now and then. So changed, so diseased he is, he finds himself picking his way through the wizardās tent whilst he bathes in the river nearby. He wishes he could blame it on the idle curiosity of a patron for his vassal - but Dekarios is not his vassal, and he is no patron.
No deal has been struck. Only an agreement.
There is no excuse. There is no burning brand in the shape of his horns on Gale Dekariosā soul.
So there is no reason for him to be picking through the wizardās impressive, magicked tent. But here he is, eyeing the books spread out on the modest table in the center of the room and the rumpled bedsheets on the not-so-modest king sized bed.
It feels like Dekarios in here. His presence isā¦ a balm.
(He could write tomes describing it, but he fears he has a distinct lack of vocabulary to do the job properly. In any language.)
His things are strewn about. Raphael spies an old locket on the nightstand - one of his offerings to appease the orb. Halting at the end of the bed, the cambion finds himself faced with a discarded tunic. Itās the wizardās customary shade of royal purple and looks well-worn, the cuffs and hem a little threadbare.
Idle fingertips light on the intricate embroidery at the collar. The Devil traces the knots, following threads of gold from shoulder to shoulder.
And - see, it must be a disease that afflicts him because heās quite certain only sickness could force his heart out of place. It thunders at the base of his throat and he canāt swallow it down. A snake unfurls in his belly and he finds himself fisting a hand in the tunic.
He wasnāt prepared for this.
For a moment, he pretends to be someone that was. He lifts the tunic from the foot of the bed and presses it to his nose, eyes fluttering shut to narrow his senses. He breathes deep, knuckles bleaching out with how tight he holds the soft fabric.
Mulling spices and vanilla, warm skin and savory musk; something in his chest is going concave. An ache ripples through his lower belly and something seems to be gnawing on his spine.
Oh, but how beautifully it burns.
Laughter shatters the moment. The tent flap is thrown open just as the cambion disappears, hand still gripping the tunic. Dekarios comes sauntering in wearing just his breeches. His hair is damp and wild and his skin gleams, not yet entirely dry. He whistles as he tosses his sachet of soap on the table, trading it for a worn leather tome.
The wizard halts at the end of his bed and squints. He tilts his head and gives the vicinity a cursory look before turning on his heel and shouting āAstarion! Did you steal another tunic? Give it back, itās the only one I have left!ā
āI did no such thing!ā comes the faint, utterly affronted reply.
Only one he has left, is it?
Shame.
He wonāt be getting it back - at least, not anytime soon.
Usually, Halsin finds how excessively messy battle is to be a nuisance. Stoic though he seems in the aftermath, the tacky, cloying nature of blood drying on skin makes his teeth itch - never mind the stench of it, overwhelmingly metallic and musky in a way that makes his eyes water like heās about to sneeze.
So, understandably, Halsin usually finds the excessive messiness of a fight to be incredibly inconvenient.
Until, of course -
āYou know,ā Astarion muses as he prowls lazily towards Halsin in the direct aftermath of a nasty tussle with a group of truly ambitious bandits, āwhen itās not from goblins, you do make all that gore look so very good, darling.ā
The world narrows as Halsinās focus zeroes in on the sway of Astarionās lean hips. Heās always so beautiful, his little dawnstar, but Silvanus preserve him - there is nothing quite like an Astarion fresh from a fight. Heās damp with sweat and mist, snowy hair gleaming, that single perfect curl bobbing low over his brow, and thereās an edge to his smirk that sets fire to the primal instinct inside Halsinās belly.
A low, pleased rumble echoes through his chest as Astarion slides his hands over it and tips his chin up for the rain-slick kiss Halsin bows to give him. The vampire chuckles against his lips, fangs glancing off Halsinās tongue. Clever fingers sink into his damp hair and the gentle tug Astarion gives him sends lightning down his spine. Growling, he frames Astarionās slim waist in big hands and holds.
There is no finer armor to keep him safe.
āNothing,ā Shadowheart says, sounding utterly bewildered as she gestures vaguely at the pair entangled in front of the gods and everyone in the middle of a dozen corpses, ānothing dissuades them.ā
āI donāt know why this still shocks you,ā Wyll says as he stoops to wipe his blade on a dead banditās jerkin, āremember what they were like after we defeated Thorm?ā
āOh, yeah,ā hum both Shadowheart and Karlach, who look judgmental and misty eyed, respectively.
And as narrow as his world has become - as narrow as the set of Astarionās hips, to be exact - Halsin still hears enough to say, āno wicked god could stand between us,ā and Astarion coos.
āEugh,ā Shadowheart says. Karlach elbows her.
Usually, Halsin is about as disgusted as the former Sharran in the wake of a bloodbath - until, of course, Astarion, who looks at him now like heās set to devour him and continues to be the exception to every rule.
The fact that Astarion canāt/doesnāt lose his absolute shit with the Gur woman in Rivington when she says heās lived a life of sin and blames him outright for what they suffered because of Cazador is abysmal. I want this man to rage I want him snarling, I want him getting in her face baring fang as he describes exactly what it was like to experience the horror of what Cazador made him do whilst he wasnāt in control of his own body.
I want him to be able to fight back for himself in ways that matter.
(Ficlet for @when-emma-falls-apart , who guessed the second pov of The Land of Gods and Monsters [itās Raphael] and got to request a Halstarion ficlet theme; they picked hurt/comfort, injured Astarion with Halsin showing off his druid skills at healing. Truly a joy to write, thank you darling! I hope u enjoy it!
Title from Take Me Back to Eden by Sleeptoken. This ficlet takes place in my own personal verse, The Land of Gods and Monsters, wherein Halsin and Astarion knew each other Before Astarion Died and it Changes Everything.)
They have to carve their way out of CrĆØche Yāllek.
All told, the entire ordeal goes better than Astarion predicted it would - right up until the very end, of course. Because thatās the way it goes for him and his little motley group of Mind-Flayed misfits. Thereās always another shoe to drop, even when theyāve all been barefoot for days.
And though he may be divinely immune to the effects of the sun, he is not immune to the piercing damage of the wickedly barbed bolts that fly with astonishing accuracy from the mouths of Githyanki crossbows.
Not even Lathander himself couldāve reacted fast enough to stop it.
And heās not - look. He knows itās cliche and abysmal and so very tragic, but Astarion is no stranger to incredible pain. Itās not really the bolt that slams into his gut that hurts the most so much as -
āAstarion!ā
The roar rips out of Halsin like an echo of the tempest Astarion is becoming. See: even as his body begins to go rigid with shock, Astarionās newfound inheritance is waking in the cusp of his bones. The Githyanki who was unfortunate enough to take aim and fire at the sun-born elf is obliterated in an instant by a blast of white lightning. Itās almost poetic, the way the ashes slowly rain down as Astarion drops to the ground like an oversized hailstone, one hand flying to the bolt on instinct.
But the pain is a minor inconvenience compared to -
āNO!ā
Heās dizzy with the way Halsinās shattering cry makes the earth beneath his knees tremble. Astarion sags to the left, but instead of unforgiving ground, he finds himself caught against Galeās broad, leather-armored chest.
āEasy,ā Gale says steadily, āeasy, sunshine, Iāve got you.ā
Itās a good thing, too - Halsin is currently busy ripping through every remaining Githyanki with startling brutality, a furious, cursing Laeāzel at his side.
āAh,ā Astarion pants as blood gushes between his gloved fingers, āsuch a - bother, isnāt it? Being - shot in the abdomen? Weāve too - too many - important bits, in this - area, havenāt we?ā
āI truly canāt believe Iām saying this, but do shut up, wonāt you?ā Gale says. His voice is tight. Tense. Sticky and wrong. Oh, Astarion thinks dazedly; thatās not a good tone. Thatās a tone he doesnāt think heās ever heard before, actually. Heās in a bit more of a pickle than he thought, isnāt he?
Timeās up, Astarion, says the ghost of his father. Through a reddening haze, Astarion looks up to find Melakar AncunĆn looming over them, casting a shadow about three times as tall as it should be and twice as dark. His slim face is twisted in disappointment, hands clasped behind his rigidly straight spine.
There is no light in his eyes.
No, Astarion thinks as the world begins to turn black, I canāt be finished. Not now. Not when Iāve finally found him again. Not - not now that Iāve finally started to find me, again.
Mother - mother, please.
Please.
Everything becomes smoke. Heās vaguely aware of it when heās lifted off the ground in a different pair of arms than those of his best friend. The smoke pulses and he feels like heās falling for a moment.
āCalm,ā comes a deep, soothing voice, one wrought with agony but still so steady, āI have you, dawnstar.ā
And then - flickers of gold.
Halsin, Astarion thinks, heart writhing and shedding tears, donāt forget me. Donāt let me go, please. Donāt let me become nothing. Remember me, Halsin, please, darling.
I love -
I love you.
Itās unfair. Oh, itās so fucking unfair! The scars on Astarionās back burn like Cazadorās laughter had.
The flickers of gold take shape. Take wing. Take flight. Is he dying?
Sparrows. They dive through the shadows, weaving between tendrils of smoke and shade. The pain in Astarionās belly is nothing compared to -
āHold on, Astarion,ā Halsin murmurs in the distance, voice like thunder across the thousand leagues between them; āhold on, my heart - dawnstar, hear me. Come back to me, please.
Astarion -
Dawnstar.
Please.ā
And thatās the thing about prayers, isnāt it? They become stronger the more theyāre felt. Oh, how he feels this one; it ripples through his bones and shivers into his marrow, and Astarion isnāt entirely sure whatās become of his soul but he can sense it for the first time in two fucking centuries as Halsinās healing light ebbs and flows over him like the tide.
Breathlessness overwhelms him. Sunlight fills his lungs. He can smell ozone and cedar, burning rose petals and something musky and deep, like the earth bathed in twilight.
The memory of pressing his lips to the heartbeat that echoes through his ears tempts Astarionās consciousness from the depths of his near-death experience. His eyes slowly flutter open. Sunlit sparrows chase the darkness away and a familiar face swims into sharp relief.
His body ignites where Halsin touches him. The Druidās big, calloused hand is pressed to his bare stomach, the blood under his palm gone tacky and thick. The dusky air is cool against his chest. His breastplate and jerkin have been tossed in a pile nearby. Vaguely aware that the others watching them, Astarion attempts to push himself more upright against the crumbling pillar heās propped up against and Halsin shifts forward, his free hand moving swiftly around Astarionās nape.
āShh, shh,ā Halsin burrs, his brow heavily furrowed; a waterfall tumbles from the cliffs above behind him. Theyāre in the stairway leading down into CrĆØche Yāllek and everything is cast in the dewy light of the gentle sunset.
āHere,ā and a warm, familiar presence joins them as Gale offers his water skein, ādrink - slowly, mind. We should set up camp. No point pressing on until morning anyway.ā
Astarion takes the water skein but doesnāt drink. Instead he looks down at himself and huffs. āBlood just gets everywhere, doesnāt it?ā he complains, avoiding Halsinās piercing, tender gaze with stubborn resolve.
If he looks up, heās lost.
āThereās a hot spring that looks serviceable nearby,ā Halsin murmurs as the others move to climb higher into the cathedral proper. He sweeps his cloak off his broad shoulders and wraps it around Astarion. It smells like him - like cedar and burning roses, like the earth bathed by twilight.
Astarion doesnāt protest when Halsin moves to lift him. Thereās no point. Halsin burns with a protective fear that makes Astarionās throat feel thick. He almostā¦ it almost feels like guilt? Sticky and cloying and suffocating. His recently mended gut churns and Astarion focuses on the shadow hiding in the crook of Halsinās throat as the druid carries him through the hallowed halls of the monastery until theyāre arriving at the aforementioned hot spring.
āMighty convenient, this,ā Astarion says as Halsin sets him down on a bench near a broken wardrobe and desk. He ignores the skeleton on the ground in front of said desk as Halsin undoes his own gloves and then moves to deal with Astarionās boots.
āAlways so nice, magical baths. Everlasting and bountiful, itās almost like they knew we were coming,ā the vampire continues, and the pain of the bolt was horrid but it was nothing compared to this -
This silence.
Halsin gently guides one of Astarionās feet out of its boot, then the other. Itās a marker of how heavy it all is when Astarion canāt conjure up a single clever quip as the druid tugs the laces of his breeches open and helps Astarion out of the rigid leather before he stands and offers Astarion his hand.
The groan Astarion lets out when he steps down into the enchanted bath is entirely involuntary and only a little obscene. He lets go of Halsinās helping hand and wades tentatively deeper, until the water is pooling around his bloodied belly. Cupping clean water in his hand, Astarion starts to wipe the blood away until he can see the small, silver-tinged, starburst-shaped scar on his stomach.
āI have to hand it to you, darling,ā he says with a faint smile, admiring the handiwork before looking up, āyou have quite a knack for healing. Did you know that? Itās almost like youā¦ are you drinking?ā
After taking a long pull, Halsin sets the bottle of wine he mustāve procured from the CrĆØche on the shelf of the broken wardrobe. He swipes the back of a hand over his mouth and then shuts his eyes, leaning heavily on his free hand. Something inside Astarion breaks.
No - thatās not quite right, is it?
Something brokenā¦ something broken inside Astarion shifts. The scattered pieces of some softer instinct jostle and tremble, shy threads of sinew inching out to cling to fractured splinters of an emotion most people donāt need to practice to be able to feel.
āHalsin. Darling, look at me,ā Astarion pleads gently.
I think you should kiss me. Was that only yesterday? Gods, heās lost track of time. Always losing track of the time he doesnāt have.
For the second time in as many days, Halsin obeys his command. The older elf lifts his head and meets Astarionās gaze with one burdened by the years Astarion missed.
āBring it here,ā Astarion says, holding out a hand. āI wonāt let you drink alone, at the very least. Itās never a good thing, drinking alone.ā
Thereās a beat of silence. Halsin reeks of strife. Astarionās brow furrows and he arches a gentle brow.
āCome here, Halsin,ā he says softly. āPlease.ā
Please.
He neednāt beg. Neednāt pray. Halsin wonāt refuse him. Astarion isnāt sure he can. It is a power he doesnāt know if he deserves.
Halsin shifts back from the wardrobe, bottle in hand. He sidles to the edge of the bath and passes it to Astarion. The vampire holds Halsinās gaze. Something unspoken passes between them and Halsin starts to shed pieces of his own armor as Astarion looks on, eyes fixed on his grim face.
Three for three.
The wine is sharp and dry on his tongue. Astarion steps back; Halsin slides into the bath and takes the bottle when Astarion offers it back to him. Instead of drinking from it, however, Halsin sets it aside and shifts towards Astarion with a fractured inhale. The vampireās wayward amulet - the amulet that led them to the Blood of Lathander, the amulet that he thought heād lost two hundred years ago - gleams where it rests on Halsinās big, softly furred chest.
Where itās been kept safe for the past two hundred years.
Astarionās throat is thick with a softer emotion most people donāt need to practice to be able to feel. A far more familiar guilt begins to claw its way into his chest so Astarion tries to cling to that, instead. At least he understands the guilt.
āTwenty or thirty-nine or fucking two hundred,ā Astarion murmurs quietly, āIāve never known what to do when you look at me like that.ā
Halsinās nostrils flare. Grief sluices from him in waves as intense as the healing. Astarion canāt take his eyes off the man - devastatingly painful as it is, Halsin is also the most devastatingly beautiful thing Astarion has ever seen. The guilt slips through his fingers and all he knows is the emotion he hasnāt practiced enough to be able to feel with any semblance of elegance or grace.
āOh, come here,ā Astarion manages through a mouthful of sand, and itās all the permission Halsin needs; one big hand slides along Astarionās lean waist as the other splays protectively over the silver starburst scar on his belly. Halsinās brow presses against his crown and Astarion wraps an arm around the bigger elfās strong neck, eyes fluttering shut with the weight of the tears clinging to his lashes.
It is the first time in two hundred years and six months heās felt the heat of Halsinās skin against his own.
And for all that they lost, itās only the second time.
Astarion resolves it will not be the last.
āHalsin,ā Astarion starts quietly, more than a little rattled by the weight of the manās grief; āyou,ā Halsin says raggedly, āyou - were talking. Begging, as I carried you from the CrĆØche. Begging me to - to remember you, begging me not to forget you.ā
Astarionās heart plummets into his recently mended stomach. Wetting his lips with a tongue gone dry, the vampire reaches up with cautious hands to touch Halsinās cheeks. Itās a tentative thing, the way his fingertips light on Halsinās face. The druid lets out a wrenching sound and shuts his eyes as he tips forward, chasing Astarionās hands as a hound does prey. His lips part against the heel of Astarionās right palm and a tear cuts down the Druidās scarred cheek.
āWe all tend to be a bit dramatic when weāre bleeding out, I think,ā Astarion tries. āHm? I mean, you all but confessed your love for me when we found you in the Underdark!ā
He smiles, but itās hollow.
āAnd Iāve told you - I might not have intended to say it, but I donāt regret that I did,ā Halsin says - itās a bit harsher than Astarion knows he meant it to be. He recoils a little on instinct and Halsin drops his head, face warping with frustration. Taming his own instinct to fight or flee, Astarion thumbs over Halsinās cheekbone and presses closer.
āI could not -ā Halsinās voice wavers. Breaks. When he lifts his green eyes to Astarionās, all Astarion wants to do is tell him everything will be alright.
For a moment he believes it, because then Halsinās expression is softening and he cups Astarionās chin in a tending, healing hand.
āI could never forget you, dawnstar,ā the druid intones in elvish, ānot even the Lady of Loss could take you from me. I would have carried the memory of you for a thousand years or more and still known you the moment your voice uttered my name.ā
And itās so fucking unfair, isnāt it? That this is only the second bloody time heās ever felt the heat of Halsinās body against his own, that this is only the second time heās ever been able to put his lips to the echo of the great elfās heartbeat and breathe in the intoxicating scent of his sun-blessed skin. Two hundred years they lost. Countless moments of a silent devotion that not even death could erode.
What a remarkable tragedy. Even Shar herself couldnāt have written a greater loss.
But Astarion isnāt going to let go - not this time. Not without one hell of a fight. It might be the last fight he has left in him, but, Gods - what a thing to die for!
āI know you didnāt mean to confess the way you did,ā Astarion says after a long, aching silence, ābut I have to admit, darling - it was quite the confession. You canāt blame a man for trying to at least match your natural talent for theatrics.ā
Because what else could those prayers and pleas meant, for fuckās sake? This softer emotion, the thing that had lain broken and hopeless inside him for so fucking long, this thing that most people felt without needing to practice shaping it on their tongueā¦ what else could it be but love?
And he remembers what it felt like, to love Halsin.
Hope. It had felt like hope.
The druid scans Astarionās face as understanding passes over his own. When he frames Astarionās jaw with a big hand, Astarion tries for a trembling smile. The tears are coming faster now. Only twice heās felt the heat of Halsinās body - heās feared the destruction of it too many more times to count.
Itās horribly, incredibly unfair.
This time, it takes no command for Halsin to bow and kiss him. The tempest inside his chest surges up into his throat, lightning coating his tongue as Halsin licks into his mouth to chase the taste of his storm.
Itās remarkably, wretchedly unfair, this entire thing. Isnāt it?
And yet, every road Astarion has walked has led him back to this - back to the sunlight.
the first person who guesses the second POV of the land of gods and monsters based on todayās little drabble in said POV gets to request a theme for a tumblr halstarion ficlet š
That is his greatest folly. It may not always be this way, but thus far it has always been.
And ensconced within that arrogance - a byproduct of that folly - is a certain level of unpreparedness he did not think himself capable of. He is a strategist, and an excellent one at that. Yes, he has been outplayed time and again by the sire he sprung from, but there is no other more equipped to play the grand game than he.
The gambit of gods and devils, of arch-fiends and so-called divine things.
But you know what they say, donāt you? Make a plan, and Fate laughs.
Because for all his strategy and mastery of the divine game, nothing could have prepared him for -
āOpen your eyes. Let me see you.ā
Everything is impossible heat and inescapable, unstoppable pressure. Each thrust of Dekariosā hips drives the madness of the entire situation higher and higher up his spine until heās not entirely sure he can ever recover his former, seemingly saner reality.
Some part of him wants to lash out, wants to shove at that broad chest marked by allegedly misplaced ambition and snarl out a grating āyou do not get to see me - you do not deserve to!ā
But itās the other way around, isnāt it, little Devil?
It is he who is unworthy - unworthy of opening his eyes to find the man above him gazing at him as if he was some previously unknown form of magic. Unworthy of the way Gale Dekarios touches him like his body isnāt some infernal machine, bred and built and brutalized for war.
For the short drop of a miserable existence and the sudden stop of a merciless death.
Not for -
āThere you are,ā and Dekarios - āsay my name. Please, I want to hear itā - smiles. Itās a tender thing, crooked and a bit wondering; Gale Dekarios smiles more with his expressive, autumn-warm eyes than his mouth, and right now those eyes are fixed on him and all he knows is fire.
His greatest folly has always been arrogance - but his ruin would surely be this. It would be the way Gale Dekarios kisses him, one staff-calloused, spell-weaving hand supporting the nape of his neck, thumb pressed along the hinge of his jaw; it would be the way he moves inside him, thick and gouging and throttling.
And it would be the fact that his heart was undeniably out of reach. Especially for something like him. For what fiend could ever compare to a God?
āDonāt run,ā Gale exhales against his ear; every muscle in his body clenches in response, keeping him firmly suspended in place beneath the man inside him, surrounding him.
Possessing him.
At least, it feels like possession. What kind of man could possess the devil? Therein lies the problem: he did not anticipate Gale Dekarios of Waterdeep. Not in his wildest machinations or imaginings could he have predicted a man like this. He could not have invented a man like this.
Though surely he needed him. Needs him.
A cruel thing, then, when he wakes alone in a bed far too big, the imitation of Gale Dekariosā imagined touch fading like summer on his skin.
Because, you see - Astarion calls everyone ādarling.ā Even Shadowheart (though for a while that one is a bitā¦ cruel).
And everyone gets a different version of the word, of course - and variations of it for different circumstances and events. So far, Gale has the most variations of the term - Halsinās kept count. They range from affectionate and fond to absolutely poisonous and sometimes dangerous. There are, by Halsinās count, thirteen versions of ādarling,ā for Gale (who, again, is Astarionās best and most steadfast friend - though Astarion would wrinkle his nose at the term).
But when it comes to him?
When it comes to him, there are three. Three variations of ādarlingā that no one else - not even Gale - gets.
1.) Utterly and absolutelyā¦ soft. Oh, but itās so soft. Often itās used only in private - in moments when Astarion can cup his jaw or slide into his lap and murmur it against his lips. Halsin can think of two times Astarion has used that ādarlingā in front of everyone else: the first?
When they (ātheyā being Astarion, Gale, Shadowheart, Laeāzel and Wyll) had found Halsin broken and alone in the Underdark after heād carved through the goblins alone.
It was the first time the two elves had seen each other in two hundred years and five months. Through the haze of drow poison and blood loss, Halsin had heard the sun.
āHalsin. Darling.ā
Achingly soft and so beautiful. A calloused but gentle hand cupped his chin and Astarion - older and more magnificent than Halsin remembered - had swum into focus above him.
Oh, but how heād fallen in love with the man all over again in that momentā¦ The thrill of it had been just as intense as it had been the first time, when they were younger and more afraid.
That was the first time heād ever heard the soft variation of ādarlingā. Two hundred years and five months after the last time heād seen Astarion AncunĆn, who was more magnificent than he remembered but smelled exactly the same and could outburn the sun.
The second had been -
āI have to do this alone, Astarion.ā
The darkness was like ash clinging to his skin. Karlach had been throwing stones into the abyssal waters; Gale was pointedly trying not to listen while Shadowheart was watching them like a vulture about to clean a carcass.
And oh, how heād been terrified. To wander the Shadowfell, nothing to go on but a glimmer of vengeful hope and the scent of lavenderā¦ would he ever see the sun again?
Would he forget what gold sounded like?
But then -
Astarionās plush lips part and his brow creases, brilliant sunset eyes big and glistening. For a moment, Halsin expects - well. Nothing good, thatās for certain.
A foolish thing, to try and predict the heat of the sun.
A nimble hand slides over his chest and catches his chin. The next thing he knows, heās being kissed with tongue and fang. Solar flares explode in his lungs and Astarion thumbs over his cheek.
āCome back to me, darling,ā he says.
It is a command, gentle and easy. Soft in the way that inspires hope somewhere inside his bones.
Not a hint of worry. Trust him - he knows what the worried variant of ādarlingā sounds like.
Speaking of which:
2.) Astarion trusts Halsin in a way he isnāt sure how to hold; he feels a bit like a child cradling a bird with a wounded wing in his palms. One wrong move and that wing could shatter and leave the little bird he seeks to protect incapable of flight.
He doesnāt use the worried variant of ādarlingā when Halsin is about to or has already attempted something foolish or heroic (see: ādarlingā variant no. 1).
Astarionās concerned and slightly lilting ādarling,ā comes when theyāre in situations and he needs Halsin to look exactly where heās looking at that very moment. It is a precise and hard-learned code, one that Halsin is more tuned into than even the method by which nature forms the reality around them.
It starts immediately: theyāre in the Underdark and Halsin is still aching from the effects of the drow poison and the blood loss, and he can feel Astarionās presence like sunbeams on his skin.
But even as heās so acutely focused on Astarionās presence, heās still aching from the effects of drow poison and the blood loss, and so when Astarionās sharp and tense ādarling,ā comes, he looks around just a little too late.
The Spectator catches them by surprise. Somehow, they survive the fight.
Halsin is looking at Astarion with every snapping ādarlingā he utters, now.
But even as the worried variant of ādarlingā is the command he exists by and the soft variant is the one that sends heat through his bones and burns them gold, the variant of ādarlingā that Halsin adores the most is -
3.) Sheer, raw fury.
It has only been used with such enchantment once. So far, at least. Who knows what the rest of the eternity he intends to spend beside the moon-kissed elf will bring, but so farā¦
So far itās just been -
āBe well, then, darling.ā
And oh, the way it had seared across Halsin like a lash of flame! How it had made his soul twist and his heart stop, commanded still by the sheer weight of the viscerally vitriolic venom in the word.
There was to be no doubt, then. A mate he was, and a mate he would always be. Some part of Halsin was snatched away in that moment. It fused with Astarionās shadow, and there it would stay until he was led back to the young elfling.
The compass to lead him home.
Because this variant of ādarlingā - this horrible, wrenching barb of a thing - had been shot at Halsin after he had told a twenty-year-old Astarion that:
āI cannot give you what you seek,ā after a quiet and heartbreaking:
āI love you. Iām - Halsin, Iāmā¦ in love with you.ā
And heās over a hundred and Astarion is twenty and even if heās everything Halsin wants, itās not time. Not yet. The seasons need more time to show Astarion what the world can offer. He needs to taste the fruits of many before he settles on his favorite.
So:
āOh, my little star,ā Halsin had said in elvish; āI cannot give you what you seek.ā
It was like watching the winter freeze settle in. It was seeing the sea go black before a storm; it was the flicker of divinity in the pit of Halsinās belly and the hunt at the height of the season. It was every perfect and horrible thing all at once and Halsin loved this creature more than the earth beneath his feet.
āYou are so young - there is so much youāve yet to witness, experience.ā Heād taken one of Astarionās hands. It had been limp, cold. Heād kissed it anyway and stepped back. āAnd I must go my own way for now. Donāt worry. Youāll see me again, little star.ā
And it was silent then, the kind of silent that made Halsinās skin pebble with gooseflesh.
Until:
āBe well, then, darling.ā
A dismissal. Inelegant and so wrathful. A blessing lain on the path beneath his boots. The sun blazed so hot it carved itself into his soul and stole a piece of him away.
It has not rejoined him. Thatās alright; he feels it whenever Astarion is near, and these days itās rare when he isnāt. Halsin is his sword and shield, the crown on his head and the throne beneath him.
And when the word comes this time - ādarling,ā - itās just for him, spoken against the shell of Halsinās ear as a damp, fresh-from-the-bath Astarion settles over his thighs and slides his arms around Halsinās neck. Heat lunges up Halsinās spine and he frames Astarionās slender waist with keeping hands. So lost in the taste of the manās skin, Halsin barely notices heās been talking at him until Astarion gently tugs at his hair.
āHalsin, darling.ā
His ears perk up. Thatās a new one - slightly exasperated, clipped and somewhat offended in a small, quiet way. A vulnerable way.
āWere you even listening to a thing I said?ā
Stomach clenching, Halsin slides his keeping hands over Astarionās flanks and scans his face. Heās pouting. This is a new face, a new variant. Halsinās nerves align and he cups Astarionās chin.
āForgive me,ā he says soberly. āI was lost in thought. Tell me what I missed - speak to me, lover.ā
He jostles Astarion a bit and the elfās expression softens just before he arches a brow and tips back with a shrewd, playful glare. Halsin keeps him supported with a big hand at the base of his spine and chases a hopeless kiss he doesnāt get on a whim.
āAnd what, pray tell, was so important it stole you away from me?ā Astarion demands, fingertips guarding Halsinās lips.
Halsin smiles against his touch. āYou.ā
And when Astarionās expression changes, it makes Halsin feel like spring. Those sunset eyes go dewy and Astarionās body melts against the strong plain of his own.
āYou,ā he mutters against Halsinās lips, āare a menace, darling.ā
And heāll never tire of it - never tire of learning every cadence this man can shape. Maybe one day heāll earn more variants than Gale - for now, heāll settle on keeping the Different ones, the ones no one else gets to hold.
halsin was sex trafficked and held as a sex slave in the underdark and all that trauma he has gets treated like a joke in act 3 - āoh heās just so horny! poly halsin, just sleepinā with everyone!! haha!!!ā as if that isnāt a massive fucking trauma response and all his romance dialogue (half baked as it may be) points to him being so desperately in love and loyal whilst also trying to reduce his own importance in the relationship because heās only ever been abused and used as a toy iām -
iām really stoked for this fanfic iām working on bc astarion and halsin knew each other before astarion dies/before the shadow curse and itās about them finding each other again and finding each other after enduring such darkness but being able to find some semblance of light with one another and iām just so !!! i love them
iām ALSO excited bc i can amp up halsin to be as powerful as an archdruid of his age would be and what i have planned for astarion and his background/growing up ā¦.. i am Plotting oh i cannot wait to share this fic
