A Disco Reimagining Of Chilton Psychic Driving Abel Gideon
I blame this entirely on @the-bees-patella.
“You can tell by the way you use that pole you’re a rippin’ man without a soul.”
“Well, killed your wife and mother and then you killed another, you’re takin’ a life, takin’ a life. I say you were rippin’ and everybody’s trippin’, you’re takin’ a life, takin’ a life.”
“Oh, I know now I’m the Ripper! Self knowledge makes me chipper, and I’m takin’ a life!”
Thank you again @ciorane for the beautiful art! He looks so good!!
It only took 2 months to get custom printed from CuddlyOctopus, which is actually faster than I expected 😅 (when will the West get in on the sexy body pillow industry already??)
The fabric is waaay softer than my other daki, and I actually do feel a bit pervy touching him. (Also I may have smooched his teefs. This is a callout post for myself. Dork.)
Surprising no one, I am obsessed with his burned side the most XD Seriously, @ciorane did an amazing job, I am so impressed with the work they put into making it look just right!! I love my Crispy Husbando 😭😭😭
Hello! Today's the deadline for the Baldur's Gate Secret Santa event! Just 4 gifts missing, some of which are on the way...BUT!
Today I had a bad car accident. I won't be home for awhile. The car is destroyed, I'm ok, not a single scratch.
But I won't be able to follow the event for some days. I don't have in my phone the file containing the lists of gifters and giftees and I don't remember how I matched them.
Amongst all the terrifying things stood one above all the rest--change.
Change, that fickle idea--promising riches and ruin, joy and despair, comfort and torture, all in one.
A godsdamned gamble that you're rigged to lose.
To Astarion, change was a familiar tormentor. He'd spent the first few decades of his life in relative stagnation--by all means, he grew, but he grew within the comfortable walls of the Upper City, in his cozy bedroom, surrounded by friends and family. He grew the way that a young elf is meant to grow, leisurely exploring the world and honing his skills. Starting off close to home with a role he played quite well (Astarion was notorious for arguing topics into the ground as a child--it felt only natural that he pursue something in law) was the logical choice, a chance to find his footing and make the city better before running off to spend his remaining centuries exploring Faerun.
But, even by age thirty, even after becoming a respected magistrate, even as a man who felt he had everything--Astarion had never truly experienced change.
His first brush with it more than made up for its earlier absence. There really was no stronger metaphor for change than death.
Overnight, everything Astarion knew was different. He was no longer a magistrate, rather a slave. He was no longer an elf, simply a reanimated corpse. He was no longer 'Astarion,' not really, because the ravenous hunger and consuming bloodlust and unimaginable terror were not things Astarion would have felt. The monster that wore his skin, gnawed with his sharpened teeth at the arteries of sewer rats, used his body to lure innocents to their deaths--that was something else entirely. And as time went on, what was left of Astarion shrunk further and further away into the recesses of his mind, allowing the cynical monster to endure the hellish torment.
For another two centuries, change made itself a stranger. The sparse moments that could be considered change were inconsequential in the end. A new 'sibling' once in a while. Hundreds of faceless servants coming and going. The implementation of some innovative torture.
Over two-hundred and thirty years of Astarion's life passed with only one true instance of change.
Now, within a month, everything he had grown accustomed to had been upended and thrown to the dogs. Here he was, sat playing the hero like he could ever deserve that, burdened with the lives of every godsdamned person in Faerun when all he ever wanted was to exist for himself. And he wasn't even getting something out of it! Even now, with their bloodthirsty drow companion, any little inkling of an idea to actually get power from this entire mess was shot down promptly and soothed with the image of a million adoring people whose lives they'll be saving.
With all that in mind, Astarion really didn't think his response to learning of a ritual that could make him the most powerful vampire to ever exist and get revenge on the bastard who look his life from him was something anybody could judge.
And yet, judge they did. As if any of these ignorant fools could even begin to comprehend the torment he had endured for fucking centuries--longer than most of them have even been alive--or understand how beautiful power is. The power to never fear another man again. Gods, he could have everything. And since his suggestions of controlling the cult weren't even humored, this was his only chance to finally get the life he wanted.
Following Raphael's grand entrance and subsequent exit, Astarion was pelted with queries and concerns and all these helpful little comments by everyone in the group, few of which were even leaning towards supportive.
It hurt, godsdamn it. The people who he was actually starting to believe cared for him crying out for 'the innocent souls'--as if, Astarion had lived with those so-called innocent souls for centuries and knew damn well they deserved what was coming for them--and how 'power corrupts,' and 'blah, blah, blah, Astarion, you villain'! Just more people trying to control every single thing he did, afraid of him having some power for once. Minthara had been supportive, at least. She understood more about what power really meant: safety. And by the Gods, she knew that power required sacrifice, ideally not of your own. But her approval did little to ease the sting of his other companions' words.
Gale's left the worst taste in his mouth. He displayed none of the outward objection the others did, but that little sad look in his eyes pierced him with an unexpected jab. Disappointment, as if the power-hungry wizard was in any position to be disappointed in him. Just because they had some nameless, confusing 'thing' going on didn't mean he had the right to police Astarion.
Just the same as his response to the ritual couldn't be judged, neither could his response to the pushback.
Call it a tantrum, outburst, whatever. Astarion knew damn well that he could've made a much bigger scene than the one he did, seethingly dismissing himself from the little gathering of saints and walking off into the safely lit but distant area beyond the camp proper. A small stream divided the haunting cluster of trees nearly in half, forming somewhat of a clearing in its wake. Astarion had come here to wash his linens early in their exploration of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, and it consequently became his refuge when he just needed to be alone. A large rock rested on the edge of the stream, the perfect height to sit upon and kick through the water.
Astarion removed his shoes with what was perhaps an excessive amount of precision, some subconscious attempt to give himself a bit more control over this daunting situation, and dipped his feet into the stream.
The flowing waters rushing over him still felt quite novel after so long spent barred from it, and while a night sky was far from new, the blanket of stars and the glow of the moon cradled Astarion in a comforting familiarity. How could the others ever understand how much this ritual meant to him when they never lived without the sun, moving water, control of their own bodies? How could they act as if they had any idea what they were asking him to give up?
A stinging feeling prodded at his eyes. He wasn't quite sure who he was holding back the tears for, sat alone here on the riverbank. Nobody was there to indulge in his weakness, exploit his distress, give him something to really cry about. Cazador couldn't find him here. His companions knew better than to try and talk to him after their earlier transgressions. It wasn't impossible for some brainwashed goblin to stumble upon him here, but the chances of that were infinitesimally small.
Astarion was well and truly alone, yet he still maintained a practiced neutrality on his face and bit nails into his palm to get out some of the pent-up emotions. All of this, every moment of his disastrous life, was spent performing for some audience, sometimes real and sometimes imagined. That's what his naive companions just didn't understand--power would mean that Astarion never had to put on a show for anybody ever again. He would be above that, exist so high up in the aether that nobody could hurt him. Gods, he didn't want power to be the second coming of Cazador, he didn't need a congregation of lunatic devotees and unwilling spawn, he just wanted to be free.
The sound of footsteps cut off all Astarion's internal musings, replaced with wonderment of whoever the hells had the audacity to talk to him now.
It wasn't necessarily surprising that Gale was the one to clear his throat.
"I wanted to talk."
"Oh, lovely," Astarion replied, words dripping with bitterness. "What about, the weather? The night is ever so clear, after all."
A tired sigh.
Gale approached, gesturing to the empty space beside Astarion with a tilted head. "May I?"
"You will regardless of what I say, so-" his hand waved flippantly "-be my guest."
The self-righteous wizard sat heavily on the rock, leaving a small but pointed gap between the two of them. Astarion was tempted to tell him to fuck right off and leave him to sulk, but frankly? He was too interested in finding out what this man thought he could say to make anything better.
"When everything is said and done, this is your decision, Astarion."
"Really?! Gods, thank you so much for the reminder," he interjected while Gale took a breath, frustration saturating his sarcastic tone, and fixed his eyes on a leaf beating against a stone below him. "For a moment there, everyone's helpful little insights made me forget."
A silence fell over them, perhaps granting Gale a moment to figure out if he could speak without being cut off again. When he did, his words were proceeded by another sigh.
"It takes a lot of strength to face a decision like this, what with the stakes being so high," Gale continued, adopting that tone of voice he always used when telling his little stories. The thought of having to sit through some fable sourced from Gale's youth made Astarion dig his nails even deeper into his palm. "It isn't easy. I've been in this position before, and I understand-"
Astarion saw red. He shot up from the rock, turning to Gale with an incredulous look in his eyes. "You understand?!" He yelled, hopefully not loud enough for anyone at camp to hear, but that was the least of his concerns. "Perfect, o great 'Gale of Waterdeep,' then that makes everything so much damn easier! Gods- you don't understand fucking anything. You've never felt the hunger, you've never been forced to flay yourself for some sick bastard's amusement, you've never had to seduce innocent godsdamned people so you could lead them to their deaths, you've never had to live without the sun! You can't even begin to comprehend the horrors I've endured, and, fuck!
"You're lecturing me? You had a goddess in the palm of your hand and still wanted more! I know you were preparing some eloquent little speech about how you sought for power and now you have some world-destroying bomb in your chest and need to die for fucking whatever, as if that's even close to what I'm facing here."
Astarion stopped talking for a moment to take a dearly needed breath, but the pause allowed all those pent up feelings to break through.
"I have spent centuries suffering beyond belief and all freedom would cost me is seven measly lives," he spoke softer then, fighting through emerging tears. His voice broke as he continued. "Do I not deserve that?"
Gale sat before him with an unreadable look in those brown eyes. He felt awkward then, standing in front of the composed man with a heaving chest and red streaks running down his even redder face, and shifted his weight.
"You do," he replied after a few moments of reverent consideration, a solemn look overtaking his features and seeping into his voice. "And you're right--I don't understand. Honestly, I… Well, I doubt I ever will."
He trailed off at the end of his statement, a silent invitation for Astarion to speak that was met only by attempts to steady his breathing.
"What I do know is that power oft comes with pain in tandem. That isn't to say you should drop the matter entirely and never spare it a second glance, but just be cautious. These pacts are rarely without their share of strings, and who knows how much Raphael divulged to you."
Gale looked at Astarion with furrowed brows, face awash with unsettlingly sincere concern. "I don't want to see you get your hopes up only to have them swept out from under you, nor to see you set aside all other alternatives in favor of this one."
"What 'other alternatives' even are there?" Astarion posited, caught off guard by his own raspy voice. "Go back to slinking around the dark, feeding on rats?"
"That will not be your life again," he stated plainly with all the conviction of a man who had already seen it all play out. Astarion was prepared to meet such naive hope with cynicism, but something about the way Gale was holding himself, the look in his determined eyes as they met waterlogged red eyes in turn… it wasn't hope nor speculation, not for the wizard. And, Gods, should Astarion have expected anything but?
He well and truly hadn't, and that was when it hit him.
The cogs turning in Gale's brilliant mind were nearly audible, and Astarion recognized what all those little mannerisms represented: a plan. And far be it from Gale to concoct a plan without delicate care, but this was different. Gale's eyes seemed to rush across the pages of every book he'd studied, his ears flooding with every lecture he'd attended, his brain processing every moment of his life prior to now with the sole intent of gathering any sliver of information that would help him on his new mission.
Tears prodded at Astarion's eyes once more, but for a markedly different reason. Gale shook off a bit of that distant, analytical gaze and continued speaking as Astarion sat beside the man. Phrases about illusion magic and protective spells and amulets and this and that, but none of it truly registered.
He cared. Gods, Gale actually fucking cared about what kind of life Astarion would have to lead when all of this was said and done. And, sure! This could be a marvelous deception to be revealed once Gale abandons Astarion the moment their little parasites are taken care of and he is no longer of use. Or, of course, Gale still may be reduced to only a memory at Mystra's behest and thus incapable of doing anything whether he wanted to or not. To the hells with it all, he could deal with those hiccups if they came.
Hesitantly, undead heart nearly beating out of his chest, Astarion rested his head on Gale's shoulder, an act that felt leagues more intimate than any of the times they'd had sex. The arm that wrapped around his waist with hesitation to match pacified the roaring fear of rejection housed within his mind, Gale's speech adopting a new kind of tenderness as he kept describing the possibilities. Astarion still struggled to tune in and tried anchoring himself on the sound of Gale's voice and the steady beat of his heart, and those words gradually took form.
"-ther scholars have astronomically vast collections that make up for the gaps in mine, so it will be a non-issue to obtain the necessary literature, and then we-"
"Thank you," Astarion cut him off once more with a hushed comment.
"-can easily start getting into- oh!" Gale stumbled over his words as he processed that Astarion had spoken, his mouth and mind alike clearly in a realm of their own and simply visiting the same plane as the rest of them. "I- no thanks needed. Really."
Endless possibilities flitted across Astarion's mind like embers from a gluttonous inferno. Amongst the possibilities were all the little things he wanted to whisper and yell at the same time, yet his lips stayed shut despite it all. Truly, what was there to say when every word carried so much meaning?
'You're an idiot for committing yourself to this.'
'Why weren't you there when I godsdamned needed you?'
'Please don't waste your time on me when you can have so much.'
'I'm not some pet-project, and I certainly don't need your help.'
'Fuck, I love you.*'
But they remained unvoiced, making homes in the recesses of Astarion's psyche to hibernate until they could escape into the world. Silence had fallen over the both of them, but he couldn't tell if Gale's was the fault of the wizard's own contemplation or Astarion's interruption. Frankly, enough new information had been shoveled onto Astarion to last him a lifetime in this day alone, and he doubted more explanation from Gale would be any good with his tired mind. But this? Sitting next to Gale, the gap between them now a distant memory; the warmth of life and new beginnings and foolish, beautiful hope--the feeling that gods, maybe things won't always be so miserable--wrapped like a soft blanket around him; the quiet trickle of water and fluttering of leaves--it felt like a salve on the open wound that was his heart.
Nothing was guaranteed. It was a miracle whenever they survived an encounter, and things were only growing more and more dangerous as they trekked on. Gale was a painfully ambitious man who very well may just forget about Astarion as soon as they part. Gods, the ritual wasn't even off the table!
But in spite of all that, nearly in defiance of it, Astarion relaxed against Gale and shut his tired eyes. His eyes were kept shut even through a bit of wiggling on Gale's part that concluded in a gentle kiss amongst his snowy hair, and for the first time in a long while, he didn't flinch.
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