Again, keep in mind, that Alastor is still very new to hell, and is still in his "good boy" attitude.
I don't think Alastor get to torture people while alive. He had to kill quick and don't leave anything that would compromise him, so, as any relatively sane person he doesn't think he would enjoy causing pain for the sake of causing pain. Yet.
Anyway, slowly getting through the part, you have no idea how much i wanna keep doing forced broadcast instead 😅 But this comic has been (pun intended?) without update for quite a long time...
Comic Masterpost
If you're reading through reblog and it's the last part, check the original post, it may have a link to the new part (posts in reblogs don't get updated for some reason)
taglist under cut, if you want to be added or removed lmk in the comments/reblogs!! For the tag to work you need to allow yourself to be tagged in the settings!
so here i was wanting to draw smth for johnny's bday but lo and behold, my apple pen stopped working (and since I can't be bothered to dig out my crusty ass wacom) here's some johnny scribbles which i haven't posted before
i feel as tho ppl (whether its willfully or not, idk.) mistake silverv/johnny uh lmao "defenders" I guess as completely excusing his behavior by bringing up his (and i must reiterate, he was like 15 when he saw action and lost his arm) vet status/ptsd/cyberpsychosis issues.
but here's the thing:
in order to get the secret ending, in order to get (don't fear) the reaper, you cannot excuse his actions towards V, you cannot baby him, you have to tell him what he needs to hear, not what he wants to hear.
that is just plain fact. you cannot get don't fear the reaper otherwise. you HAVE to tell him when he says he hasn't fucked things up with V, that no - he HAS fucked it up, but he's getting this one last chance to do right by at least one person. Every single SilverV/Johnny fan has had to do this.
And it's a good thing that you have to do this. You can't enable him - enabling him will not allow him to heal from the aforementioned trauma he's suffered. It will just simply enable him to continue being the self destructive ass he's been as a result of his issues. And if you do - that's when he actually changes.
When V starts to struggle due to the stresses put on their body because of the Samurai show, he flat out admits that yeah it means a lot to Kerry - to him - but not at the expense of V, not anymore.
this is gonna go under a cut cos it's getting long lmfaaooo.
like, i'm sorry but I need ppl to go and read about what Vietnam war vets said and how they felt coming back home after watching so many die for greed . The war Johnny fought in was also called "New Vietnam" and its very clearly meant to be a parallel.
Johnny's PTSD is pretty fucking realistic. My grandfather was a POW, he was shot down taking aerial shots (he was a photographer) and suffered heavy PTSD. I was shielded from it growing up, but my dad has told me as an adult that my grandfather would roam around the house, dressed in nothing but his underwear, with his pistol out, and scaring the fuck outta the family. It's an ugly ugly thing. I was genuinely shocked when my dad told me because to me, my grandfather was sweet! kind! I was "do no wrong!" grandbaby lol.
He also refused until his dying day to buy Michelin (*edited to add: I initially said Goodyear, but talked to my dad and it was Michelin.) tires because of the shit he saw and the kids he saw die because of corporate meddling and greed.
so like yeah, it is actually kind of frustrating and irritating when ppl dismiss Johnny's background and write him off as just an Asshole. It's not because I'm Horny For The Guy (yeah dude, I'm sure the PTSD attacks my grandfather had were what really got my grandma's engine running.) It's because ppl wanna be, sorry to be that friend who's a Lil Too Woke :tm: fucking weirdly ableist. And it's gross, sorry!!
That's not me excusing his behavior. Johnny IS an asshole. But ppl who are dismissing a realistic depiction of disabled (becos yes just becos he has a Cool Sci-Fi prosthetic doesn't mean he's not disabled!) PTSD afflicted war vet who saw action when he was **fifteen** years old, are missing a whole ass point about the way the American Capitalistic Military Machine churned kids into cannon fodder for a racist, greed fueled expansion that backfired on them, and were willing to throw those who was left alive under the bus and paint them all as lunatics. America, Fuck Yeah! (/s) They were not given any sort of resources (on purpose) to cope with the horrors they saw and the realization that they were lied too. Like, begging ppl to do even like. a little bit of history research. Very sorry that he is not a perfect victim that had all that happen to him, and didn't come out the other end Super Duper Niceys! Again, weird ableist hill to die on but okay.
fawk i got off track.
anyway, none of that excuses his behavior! It doesn't. He winds up turning into a self destructive hurricane that hurts the people he cares about up until V finally point blank tells him its now or nothing. There are no more chances. As I said: you cannot coddle him within the game in order to affect him in a positive way that allows his growth to happen. So I really truly don't get why ppl equate those who bring up all of his past as some gotcha for those who enjoy SilverV/Johnny, etc. Yeah dude, I bring it up because people act as though Johnny's an asshole for the sake of being an asshole. Like he just woke up one day and said "You know, I'm tired of being nice. I DO wanna go apeshit." And he IS capable of change - provided you, as V, make him do the hard work of examining himself and the way he's treated others thus far. V doesn't know the entire full story of what happened to him, really, but that doesn't mean we, the players, cannot have sympathy for him? Tf? Lmao.
i just-------- orururgighghhhh. he is a complicated character and the idea that silverv or johnny fans in general are blinded by Horny is sooooo fucking annoying and I do truly believe it's got its roots in misogyny, which is ALWAYS fucking ironic to me because it completely dismisses queer fans as well. "Oh yes see fans of THAT character are all just horny women, Ew<3."
okay well. not a woman, for one<3 two, eat my whole ass <3 three, are u saying women are incapable of engaging in serious discussions about characters because they are simply Consumed By Their Lust For The Men? becos lmao wtffffffffffff.
like its just exhausting as fuck being a queer person who presents feminine most of the time, who also Loves To Fucking Yap and talk in depth about characters and shit. Ok im done I'm done im getting off my hyper fixation soap box im done
If he were a romance option, it wouldn't even be close; he'd be the most popular option. Ao3 backs this up. But the game doesn't let us choose him.
The four options the game gives us are fine as far as romance goes--they lack the depth of old-school Bioware and Larian. Panam, Judy, and Kerry are beautifully written, wonderfully messy characters. Oh yeah, then there's River (no seriously, CDPR did him dirty). But once you play through their stories, you're kinda done with them. Sure, you get some random texts, a handful of repeatable dialog, a repeatable date--but that's such a tiny sliver of your game time.
Johnny's with you for most of the game. Over the course of many hours, you get to see him warm up to V (a stand-in for you, the player), playfully trade barbs with them, and then solemly swear to off himself in order to save their/your pathetic ass.
If you think about it for more than two seconds, V has this near-psychotic level of intimacy with Johnny. The "guy in my head" trope makes a lot of narrative sense, especially in video games. It's a more interesting story when the main character has someone to talk to, rather than internal monolog or muttering to themselves. But if you overthink the trope to a concerning degree, as I have--you understand that Johnny is forced to quietly look away while V is taking a shit, showering, flicking the bean, getting random boners, violently puking blood, etc. This is way more intimacy than I have with my husband of 15 years. We close the door when we use the bathroom.
They're sharing dreams, seeing each other's memories. They pick up each other's habits. V can play the guitar. Johnny's less of an asshole and learns how to let go. They're changing each other for the better.
All the other romances in CP77 feel so damn shallow next to Johnny and V. That's not the fault of the romancable characters. It's that they've been through some very fucked-up shit together, and I don't know how you don't trauma-bond over all that. V and Johnny are the only two souls on earth who know what it's like to be an engram on a chip inside a corpse's head.
Their story is so beautiful, tragic, and fucked-up that I don't want it to end.
I hope y’all have a great month of June, pride, love and self-love, as well as lots of fun! Don’t forget to show your loved ones you love them for who they are. You’re all amazing in your own way. I am so so so proud of you 💚
My queer news:
So as you may know, I’m a non-binary person. I’m come out to all the people that matter to me, these being my parents, friends, therapist, cousins and one of my professor.
But!
Recently, for the past few months, a lil twist has come out (haha get it). I decided to change my name cause I wanted something less feminine, cooler and just associate this new name to my non-binary me so people take the change more easily. My mom helped me make a list of names and I selected to ones I really liked or I vibed the most with. And then I told my different social groups what name I wanted them to call me, so now I go by about four different names total lmao (old name included).
And I’m really really happy about this change, cause about everywhere I go I get called by a name that warms my heart :) 💚
(Since Mine is part of my old name I’ll probably change it online too, but I don’t know yet if I want to do it or not)
Since I find this cool to share your « queer news » for pride month, imma tag a lil list of people. If you don’t have queer news or you don’t want to talk about it, feel free to just share a sweet moment you had recently 💫
And if you’re not in the tag list below and you happen to pass across this post, don’t hesitate to reblog it on your end and share your queer news or cute moment!
Ayyo 🏳️🌈🤍 happy pride month, everyone! This post is such a nice idea, @queengmine2crayon !
Exactly what you said: yes pride is about being proud of your queer sexuality and gender but it's also about being proud of who you are, regardless, or especially when it comes to being queer.
I'm proud of you and all of us for being here and existing even though there may some people who would want us to be different.
My news are not really news, I suppose- more a little epiphany or perspective check I came to - thanks to the words of an online friend.
So, I'm pan but the only relationship I've been in was/is with a man. Granted, I married that man, so I also hope that it will be the only relationship I'll ever be in, but I consider myself pansexual. But due to the hetero norm relationship I'm in, I silently always just classified myself as a fake queer person and ally. Sure, I'm still also an ally, but I'm also now feeling... I don't know... valid (?) enough to say, think, and know that I'm not just an active ally but also part of a community I was cheering on and for, and supporting from the sidelines all this time.
As of news... well, I didn't have the actual colors of the flag but I did paint my nails as best as I could for pride month. I also just realized that the nails being "rainbow colors" (gang, I tried... I need to buy more colorful nail polish) paired with the wedding band of a hetero normative marriage perfectly sums up my previous words. 🙂↕️🤍
You already tagged post if the people I also would have tagged 🙂↕️
As for people who are welcome to participate in this nice idea: I'd say everyone is welcome! But still, a tag without any pressure at all for:
@needtoloveoutloud your nails are so cute!! you painted them so well — and ofc paired with your amazing wedding band!! i love it 💜💜
i’m a little late to this but HAPPY PRIDE MONTH EVERYONE!! this is such an important month for the lgbtq+ community !!
i’ve considered myself bisexual since middle school — so, for several years now. technically, i’m pan, but i just say bi or queer most of the time — its just simpler and spared me the “pots and pans” jokes LOL those are pretty funny tho
honestly, for a long time and even now i’ve been unsure of if i can even call myself queer, because my preferences lean very heavily towards men — so as a cis female, i usually just say i’m straight when people ask. i don’t really want to explain why i prefer men over women so much (which, i still don’t rlly know myself). i am very much an ally — nearly all of my friends are queer and i love them all to death. it’s never mattered to me what they identify as or whom they are attracted to, they’re all amazing people and deserve the world
anywaysss moving on from that little dump, here’s a friendly reminder to LOVE YOURSELVES !! as the saying goes, be who you are for your pride — don’t let anyone stop you from being happy with yourself. you are in charge of your own life — not anyone else.
you know he's not yours, but you'd still pick him in every lifetime. the worst part? he'd let you.
(2785 words)
you never meant to fall into it.
and maybe that's the problem.
because things that fall tend to break, and you?
you've never been particularly good at knowing when to catch yourself.
it starts with nothing. not even a spark, not a clear moment. no dramatic beginning. no pivotal shift in atmosphere. he just... shows up one night. stands in the doorway of your apartment with wind in his hair and fatigue under his eyes and a grin that looks like it's trying to apologize for both.
you don't remember who invited him. maybe he just appeared. you wouldn't put it past him.
you only remember letting him in.
he takes up space easily. like he's always belonged there. like the couch remembers his weight. like your walls never had a choice in loving the sound of his voice.
he doesn't say much. he never really has to.
he leans against the kitchen counter while you make tea, not even asking what kind, just accepting the mug with his usual crooked smile and a quiet, "you're a saint."
he doesn't drink it.
he just holds it between his hands, steam rising between his fingers like an offering he doesn't quite believe he deserves.
you sit in silence for a while. the kind of silence that feels earned. he doesn't fill it with nonsense. he lets it exist between you, thick and soft and settled like dust on a bookshelf no one has the heart to clean.
"you don't sleep much, huh?" he says eventually, with the kind of voice that makes the night lean in to listen.
you shrug. "not when the world's this loud."
he nods like he understands. like he feels it too.
maybe he does.
he spends the night—not in your bed, never in your bed—but on the couch. boots off, one arm lazily thrown over his eyes like the darkness is too much. there's tension in his shoulders even when he sleeps.
you watch him from the doorway longer than you should.
tell yourself it's because he's in your home. that you're being cautious.
it's not that.
it's never that.
₊˚⊹ ᰔ
he returns three nights later.
you don't ask why.
he starts showing up regularly. not every night, but often enough that you start leaving the door unlocked out of habit. he never uses a key. he always knocks, even when it's past midnight, even when you're both pretending he hasn't been there three times this week.
he doesn't talk about work. never talks about heroes or headlines or what happens after he walks out of your door and lets the world chew him up again.
you don't ask.
you offer him a space. warmth. the silence he pretends not to need.
he offers... something else. something half-shaped.
a hand on your back when you pass each other in the kitchen. a smirk when you call him out on it. snacks left on the counter. a blanket draped over your shoulders when you fall asleep on the couch, though he'll swear it wasn't him.
and one night, when you're both sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor with half a bottle of something nameless between you, he leans in and kisses you.
it's not hungry. not sharp. not even all that deep.
it's lazy. gentle. like he forgot himself and remembered you in the same breath.
when he pulls back, he just grins. "nice lips," he murmurs. "don't let anyone tell you different."
and then he's gone.
you press your fingers to your mouth and pretend it didn't mean anything. pretend it was just a drunk impulse. a thing he does. a fluke.
you tell yourself it won't happen again.
it does.
not the kiss—but the weight of it. the imprint.
the moments start to blur together. late night dinners. half-slept mornings. you learn the exact sound his jacket makes when it hits your couch. the rhythm of his breath when he falls asleep sitting up. the way his voice drops when he's tired, softening like he's forgotten he's not supposed to be real around you.
you learn how to love him without touching him.
he makes it easy.
₊˚⊹ ᰔ
you don't talk about what this is.
not once.
not when he brings you takeout and eats with you in silence. not when he falls asleep with his head on your shoulder. not when he disappears for four days and comes back without a word and looks at you like he never left.
you tell yourself it doesn't matter.
because he's not cruel.
he never leads you on—not really. never calls you his. never asks you to stay. never says he loves you.
he just makes it feel like he does.
and maybe that's worse.
maybe if he'd been colder, you would've walked away by now. maybe if he'd kissed you like he didn't mean it, you wouldn't still taste him in your coffee. maybe if he didn't smile like you were the only person in the room—maybe then you'd be able to sleep at night without checking your phone for his name.
but he does. and you can't.
you try to pretend it's fine.
you're adults. capable of detachment. you know how this goes. some people just need somewhere to land. someone who doesn't ask questions. someone who lets them rest.
you can be that.
and for a while, you convince yourself you're okay with it.
because sometimes he looks at you and you think—maybe.
maybe this could be something.
maybe he just needs time.
maybe you're the only one who sees him like this—tired and soft and human.
maybe that matters.
₊˚⊹ ᰔ
one night, he cooks for you.
it's a disaster. the pasta overboils, the sauce burns, and he sets off your smoke alarm because he forgets how sensitive it is.
you sit on the floor with him, coughing and laughing, fanning smoke with a magazine while he yells at your ceiling.
when it finally clears, he sits beside you. knees touching. arms brushing. smelling like burnt garlic and relief.
he doesn't kiss you that night.
but he falls asleep in your lap, and you thread your fingers through his hair and pretend he's yours.
he's not.
but he lets you pretend.
₊˚⊹ ᰔ
"you're good at this," he says once, curled up in your blanket, the ends of his hair brushing your collarbone.
"what?"
"letting me stay."
you don't answer.
he doesn't expect you to.
˚⊹ ᰔ
you kiss again, weeks later.
it's different.
it's not light or easy or careless.
it's slow. warm. aching.
he holds your face like it's glass. kisses you like he's afraid to stop. touches you like he's saying something he doesn't have the words for.
and afterward, he rests his forehead against yours and murmurs, "you always feel like home."
and you wonder if maybe this is something.
maybe this is real.
but then he gets up. leaves without looking back.
and you stay awake all night, staring at the ceiling, wondering what you did wrong.
˚⊹ ᰔ
your friends start to notice.
"you've been distracted," one of them says.
"i'm fine," you lie.
they don't press. but they look at you like they know.
you delete the messages you want to send him. never hit call. never ask where he is when he disappears for days, weeks, reappears with new bruises and an easy smile and nothing in his eyes.
you pretend not to care.
but your hands shake when you wash his mug.
˚⊹ ᰔ
he shows up again.
you open the door. he looks tired.
you don't ask why.
he leans against the frame like he belongs there. like he knows you'll let him in.
and you do.
he doesn't kiss you this time. doesn't speak.
he just lays beside you on the couch. not touching. not sleeping. just breathing.
you turn your head.
he doesn't look at you.
you wonder if he's already left.
˚⊹ ᰔ
you don't remember the last time he said your name.
you don't remember the last time you said no.
˚⊹ ᰔ
there's no end. not yet.
there's just the quiet stretch of something wearing thin.
the slow suffocation of wanting too much from someone who never offered you anything in the first place.
you tell yourself it's fine.
you knew what this was.
he never said it would be more.
but you wish—god, you wish—he hadn't made it feel so much like love.
because now, you don't know how to unfeel it.
you don't know how to stop opening the door when he knocks.
how to stop hearing your name in the silence between his sentences.
how to stop hoping.
and worst of all?
you don't want to.
not yet.
maybe not ever.
˚⊹ ᰔ
you don't talk about it.
the situation. the dynamic. the... thing between you.
there's no language for it. not really.
it's not a relationship. not a friendship. not even a fling.
but it's something. it has weight. it has presence. it takes up room in your life and your chest and your plans and your future in the way real things are supposed to. only it doesn't behave like something real. it behaves like a ghost with too much nerve. a shadow that leaves fingerprints on your heart but disappears when the light comes on.
you try to explain it to a friend once. someone who notices the way you pause when your phone buzzes. the way your smile flickers when it doesn't.
"is it serious?" they ask.
you open your mouth, but nothing comes out.
because how do you explain it? how do you articulate the emotional toll of being almost loved?
so you shrug. "it's nothing."
you lie.
but you shouldn't have to.
˚⊹ ᰔ
hawks—no, keigo, because he insists you call him that when you're alone, like that somehow makes him more honest—isn't cruel.
that's what you keep coming back to.
he never promises you anything. never strings you along with declarations or dates or matching mugs in the cupboard. he doesn't label this. doesn't even try.
but he lets you sit close. lets you hold his wrist when he's pacing and won't tell you what's wrong. lets you run your fingers through his hair when he comes back with blood under his nails.
he lets you treat him like someone you love.
and in return?
he lets you pretend he loves you back.
˚⊹ ᰔ
you try to find clarity in the small things.
like in the way he leans toward you in crowds. the way his eyes soften when he hands you a drink. the way he listens when you talk about things that don't matter.
but the truth is, affection doesn't equal intention.
and you're tired of translating his silence into possibility.
˚⊹ ᰔ
he disappears for two weeks.
no warning. no explanation. just gone.
the first few days you check your phone constantly. reread old messages. try to remember if you said something wrong. if you asked for too much. if he finally got bored of the emotional middle ground you let him live in.
the silence grows louder.
by the time the seventh day passes, it becomes a roar in your head.
you don't call. you don't text.
you tell yourself it's a boundary.
it's not. it's fear.
because if you reach out first, you won't like the answer.
˚⊹ ᰔ
he shows up on a tuesday.
doesn't knock. just opens your door like nothing's happened. like it hasn't been days since he last looked at you. like he didn't vanish into the wind and leave you to rot in your own expectations.
he drops his bag by the couch. throws himself down and stretches like a cat, muscles flexing under his shirt, wings shifting slightly.
"miss me?" he says with a grin.
your heart cracks. so quietly, so precisely, you barely feel it.
you sit beside him. don't say anything.
he throws an arm around your shoulder like this is normal. like you're normal.
"sorry," he says casually. "work stuff."
you nod.
he doesn't elaborate.
you don't ask.
and the silence between you stops being safe.
it becomes suffocating.
˚⊹ ᰔ
you start pulling away in increments.
you don't make him tea anymore when he shows up. you don't wait for him to call. you stop folding his jacket when he leaves it draped over your chair. you stop making room in your drawer for the little things he forgets behind.
and he notices. of course he does.
he notices the tension in your jaw when he touches you. the fact that you turn your face away when he leans in like he might kiss you. the way you no longer meet his eyes when you say goodnight.
he doesn't say anything.
but one night, when you're both watching some movie neither of you are paying attention to, he speaks into the dark.
"you okay?"
you hesitate.
then: "i'm tired."
he hums. "long day?"
you don't answer, and he doesn't ask again.
˚⊹ ᰔ
your friends start asking questions. real ones.
"is this working for you?"
"what do you want out of this?"
"are you happy?"
you laugh them off.
but the ache in your chest lingers.
because no. you're not happy. not really.
you're in love with someone who only shows up when it's convenient. who never shares the parts of himself that matter. who touches you with familiar hands but guards his heart like it's state property.
and you? you've built a home out of his shadows.
you've memorized a version of him that doesn't even belong to you.
you don't want to do this anymore.
˚⊹ ᰔ
but you still do.
because it's better than nothing.
because the alternative is letting him go.
and that feels like losing something you never got to keep in the first place.
˚⊹ ᰔ
then one night, it changes.
not loudly. not dramatically.
just... changes.
you're sitting on the floor again, legs stretched in front of you, a blanket around your shoulders and the tv on low. keigo's beside you, but not touching. for once, there's real distance.
you glance at him.
he's staring at the screen, eyes unfocused.
you don't recognize his expression.
you whisper, "why do you keep coming here?"
he blinks. looks at you. "what do you mean?"
you shrug. "i mean... you never talk. you disappear. you show up without warning. and i let you. every time. i don't ask for anything, and you know that."
he stays quiet.
"so why do you keep coming back?"
the silence stretches. you think maybe he won't answer.
then he says, soft: "because you're the only place i don't have to lie."
your stomach twists.
because that should mean something. it almost does.
but then you realize—
he's not saying he wants you.
he's saying he likes what you give him.
peace. comfort. quiet.
you're not a person to him. you're a haven.
and he never had any intention of staying.
you breathe in, slowly, and nod.
"okay."
he looks at you, confused. "okay?"
you stand. your knees ache. your chest does too.
"you can go now."
he rises slowly, uncertainty flickering across his face for the first time. "what?"
you repeat it. "you can go."
he studies you. then smiles, like it's a joke. "don't be dramatic."
you stare at him. "i'm not."
something in his expression falters. "look," he says. "i didn't mean to—"
"i know," you say. "that's the problem."
he goes quiet again.
you continue, softer now. "you didn't mean to kiss me. or stay. or sleep here. or come back. or look at me like that. or make me feel like you wanted something real. and you think that's enough. that because you never said you cared, you didn't have to."
his mouth opens, then closes.
you're tired. so, so tired.
"you never had to lie to hurt me, keigo," you whisper. "you just had to let me believe you wanted me here."
he doesn't argue. he doesn't reach for you. he just stands there.
quiet.
just like always.
you don't ask him again to leave.
he just does. eventually.
without slamming the door. without saying goodbye.
and maybe that's what breaks you.
because there's nothing dramatic to hold on to.
no final fight. no angry words. no declarations.
just absence.
and that hurts more than anything else.
˚⊹ ᰔ
you sit in the quiet after he's gone. your blanket falls off your shoulders and you don't pick it up. you sit there until the sun starts to rise.
and when your phone buzzes hours later, you don't check it.
i keep seeing people in tiktok comments (and just comments across social media in general) bashing other commenters for thirsting over an edit of a minor, even tho the commenter is a minor themself and it’s honestly confusing to me.
why is it okay for a teenager to thirst over someone who’s double, or even triple their age but suddenly when they thirst over someone their age it’s heinous and a terrible thing to do???
if anything the former is weirder, because take parasocial teens for example. if they think they can be in a relationship with a fictional character who’s old enough to be their parent, that’s weird. and i’d argue that it can be the start of a really really unhealthy mindset that dating an adult while you’re a teenager is okay. being parasocial about another teen is weird too, don’t get me wrong, but i wouldn’t say it’s worse than being parasocial about an adult
“still, you shouldn’t sexualize minors!” and sexualizing people who, as i said before, are twice or thrice your age is? forgive me but i don’t see the logic
mind you i’m talking about fictional characters, not real people such as celebrities. it’s a completely different story if it’s real people and i think that debate earns itself a whole different post
that being said, i am a minor myself so maybe im biased. but i think what im saying is valid
answer to that ask about how problematic bkdk and togachako are in canon
wow I didnt know there were time machines in 2017! In 2025 we are trying to see bkdk more than the bully-victim as the story progressed so so much and neither of them fit those standards nor the abusive dynamic! Oh, and Himiko and Ochako fit more into what stories like Carmilla present, where yes theres horror and murderers but we appreciate the actual symbolism and history of these themes and queerness in literature!
We believe there's a difference between complex relationships with heavy issues and romanticizing abuse! Anyways, we constantly talk about abuse in queer media to the point that the het ship is considered superior and good exclusively bc "they arent toxic", this has been going on for more than 10 years, and at this point I believe this is more of a talking point than an actual concern for queer representation than anything else, searching for which ships are the most "pure" over what the story is about or what their dynamics actually are; you say there are so many characters to ship these characters with writing wise, but is it writing wise actually? Or are you just looking for "not problematic" ships, and claiming it makes sense for the story bc it doesnt include anything anyone could consider abuse, mean, or dirty? Do you really think these characters work better with others, or are you scared of it looking like a stereotype when shipping?
I am tired of this idea that queer stories need to be a reflection of what "good relationships" should be; I think bkdk for example are really good actually, and its wild to see them as just bully-victim relationship, but thats not the point: why do we have to focus only on "clean" representation in the first place? No interesting dynamics, no bad relationships that grow past that, no play onto queer problematic themes, just "feel good, PG representation". Just digestible, just simple, just a literal representation we are supposed to imitate. Wtf? Stories arent meant to be exclusively rule books, and while yes theres a problem with romanticizing toxic relationships in yaoi and yuri, so is in het romance. Its not a queer thing, its a problem we clearly see with hetero romances in manga too, both in shoujo and shonen, so why is it good that we "dont" get these queer ships but good "woman stays as her 16 year old self waiting for a guy who actually never payed attention to her nor noticed her absence after years of not talking, with her needing hallucinations from that serial killer in order to agree to talk to him more", is good? Why are WE the ones that need to be clean and proper and healthy and nice and good and morally pure, why are WE the ones considered as inherently wrong the moment you add complexity, the moment you do something that isnt "they are good friends, and now they are dating"? Why cant we play with the ideas historical stereotypes give us, in order to create our own interpretations outside of what's literal for the real world? Why am I supposed to ignore how vampires, cannibalism, love and imitation are queer shit? Why am I supposed to read all of these themes as not valid, as inherently wrong, when we are talking about a piece of media that knows about these literary tropes?
This isnt about making abuse cute or good, or representing these things in a disrespectful way, bc these characters do so much to be more than that -its not that katsuki and deku would date without addressing shit about the past, bc katsuki constantly thinks about it and keeps it in mind in order to be better, for himself and for izuku, so why is it problematic when their dynamic isnt toxic, and Izuku's bigger issues have always gone beyond Katsuki's bullying? Being canon is also not about literal dating in my opinion, but clearly sharing those feelings for each other, and you may not like it, but Himiko loved Ochako and Ochako loved Himiko. Yes, while she is a serial killer, yes, while killing is wrong, yes yes and yes. Their relationship is complex bc those facts enter in conflict, which only makes the dynamic tragic and interesting.
Am I supposed to dislike it bc its "problematic"? Bc you consider it "darker"? Maybe start watching actual queer things, made by queer ppl, and you'll realize we dont need to look "good", or enjoy stories that are a plain romance. Maybe Rocky Horror Picture Show will give you a heart attack, bu we cant go back into puritanism -bc thats what this is, tf you mean bkdk is problematic and you are glad it isnt canon bc of it? Bkdk? Bkdk?????? Of all ships you draw the line at bkdk???? BKDK???? The ship where two ppl are basically soulmates in canon, explicitly need each other for the story to even work, explicitly are their closest persons, get no actual label except for osanajimi, lose their mind if the other is hurting, and work extremely hard to be better for the other? That's the problematic ship, bc katsuki was a dumb little shit, who is portrayed as a literal chihuahua, and serves as a contrast of how actual abusers like AFO and Endeavor, bc hes better than that and actually cares about the person he hurt? That's the ship that would haunt you if it was canon??? How am I supposed to not read this as puritanism and being scared of making "bad" representation?
not submission. I really hate the "My OC, my rules" thing. Cause like, no? Just because they are your oc doesn't mean you can do whatever you want with them. If you want to make your oc suffer and not like them get help, you deserve to lose rights over them. Especially if you only do that stuff to purposely trigger people. Once you do that, your oc no longer belongs to you. they belong to the public who will take better care of them instead
Making a comment to get this to post.
You do not get to take someone else’s OCs for yourself just because you don’t like how their creator is treating them.
(Can't find source of pic if it's yours let me know)
Astarion x GN!Reader
Prompt: A century after Tav passes Astarion comes across an artist who is oddly familiar and paints moments that seemed to be pulled straight from Astarion's life.
Thank you to @justporo for letting me use their idea. Go show them some love.
Warnings: Tav's death, brief mention of s*icide, angst with a happy ending
Word Count: 4.6k (Oops kinda went overboard)
Masterlist
“There’s no world I wish to live in without you,”
“My dear Astarion, we will find our way back to each other. This is not the end.”
Over a century has passed—a long, lonely century without Tav by his side. Astarion doesn’t understand how he’s endured, not with the void in his chest that appeared the moment he laid them to rest. The absence of his person, his love, his Tav, has left Astarion once again alone.
For nearly a decade, he found himself trapped in a state of near-catatonia, a prisoner of time within their empty home. He wasted away, the days blending into one another, each marked by a silent ache in his chest—the void left by Tav’s departure. Tears soaked into the earth of the carefully tended grave, adorned with vibrant flowers from Tav’s garden. He often contemplated surrendering to the sun’s embrace, letting its rays turn his existence to ash for a semblance of peace.
He yearned to end the pain, yet he refrained. He made a promise whispered with heavy hearts and painful sobs—a promise that forced them to confront the harsh reality that Tav would always leave first. Instead of embracing the end, Astarion wasted away, a ghost of his former self, yearning for the return of his love. Change arrived when Tav visited him in a dream; the details were blurry, but Tav’s beautiful smile was etched in memory. The sweet words in that dream eluded him, yet upon waking, a faint lightness settled within him. Astarion graced the night with a flicker of energy for the first time since Tav’s passing.
Tav would have wished for him to move on. They would have wanted him to live. The stagnant life he clung to wasn’t what Tav would want for him. So that day, Astarion gathered his essentials into a bag and set forth as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. Only momentarily stopping to bid his love a final, tearful farewell. Since that moment, he hasn’t stopped moving.
Astarion believed Tav would take pride in the life he’s built—the good he’s accomplished over the many years. He traversed all over Faerun, from Waterdeep to Skull Crag, never lingering in one place for too long. He wasn’t the hero Tav was, but he aided towns against monsters, dispatched goblins, and took odd jobs to help however he could. Throughout his travels, he dedicated most of his time to sharing stories of Tav, ensuring their memory lived on. When he first heard the bards’ songs recounting the Hero of Baldur’s Gate, he knew he had succeeded. Now, you can’t sit in a tavern without hearing tales and melodies about Tav.
Every day, he longed for Tav to be by his side. He yearned to feel their soft skin, experience their tender kisses, and sense their warm arms encircling his waist—the echo of their laughter dancing in his ears. He missed every aspect of Tav and would do anything to see them again. Yet, the world ran out of miracles for him. Instead, he learned with time to cope, to come to terms with their absence, and keep them close to his heart.
***
Astarion traverses the dusty cobblestone of Wyrm’s Crossing and finds himself back in the heart of Baldur’s Gate—a city he’s consciously avoided for most of the century. It’s a place drenched in memories from his past life with Cazador, but mostly, the streets seem to be haunted by the presence of Tav.
His return to Baldur’s Gate remains shrouded in mystery. All he can discern is that he awoke one day in Daggerford, gripped by an inexplicable yearning to revisit the city. A compelling force tugging him down the Sword Coast, Astarion initially dismissed it as mere homesickness, scoffing at the notion. Yet, the persistent thought lingered, infesting his mind until he could no longer ignore the instinct to return.
The city remains strikingly unaltered despite the passage of time and the trials it endured. The same piss-stained cobblestone, alleyways cluttered with remnants of urban life, and a diverse array of inhabitants navigating the night. It’s an unsettling constant, especially juxtaposed against the transformation of Astarion’s existence.
Wandering through the back alleys and side streets, Astarion meanders aimlessly. Occasionally, a sight triggers memories, evoking a lump in his throat. The Elfsong Tavern, once familiar, now bears a different name and identity, a formal establishment concealing the echoes of nights spent in Tav’s comforting embrace. Bloomride Park, the graveyard, and the docks—all weave together, painting a vivid tapestry of Tav’s omnipresence.
Amidst the tumult of emotions, Astarion grapples with why he subjected himself to this emotional turmoil. The urge to retreat, to flee Baldur’s Gate before the dawn breaks, lingers within him. Yet, the itch persists, buried deep within his bones, propelling him forward. He silently promises himself the night to wander the city, and by this time tomorrow, he will be on his way to another town for another adventure.
Venturing into a dim, isolated street, Astarion observes a solitary lamplight spilling its soft glow from a store window. Peering through, he discovers a small art studio. Within, a graceful elf seems to dance with a paintbrush, each stroke deliberate yet flowing. Like a harpie song, Astarion is mesmerized and utterly captivated. He watches on silently, observing the elves happily consumed with their work. It gives him a wave of nostalgia, moments of watching Tav as they painted, unaware he was watching from the door. Astarion could almost hear the sweet hums that filled the room between brush strokes.
Then he freezes, gaze snapping to the paintings that adorn the studio, scattered reflections of his life. Images of Karlach, Shadowheart, and all the others grace the space. However, it’s the depictions of himself that seize his breath. Compelled by an unseen force, Astarion walks right into the studio. In a far corner, he sees an intimate portrayal—an embrace that resonates with familiarity.
The bell rings, and you break from your artistic trance. Startled, you look up, and there stands the pale elf in the doorway—the hero of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion—the man who has clouded your dreams for as long as memory serves. Startled, you look up, and there stands a pale elf in the doorway—the hero of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion—the man who has clouded your dreams for as long as memory serves.
The dreams began as mere fragments—white curls, sharp teeth, delicate hands. Gradually, they evolved into more vivid scenes—muffled conversations by a campfire, laughter and gentle shoves, and stolen kisses between bed sheets—private moments of a stranger, a byproduct of an active imagination intertwined with an elven crush. Or at least that was what your mother would say. Now, the subject of those dreams stands before you.
Astarion, surrounded by the art that mirrors his life, fixates on a miniature portrait. The details are hazy, yet he recalls the campfire, the desperation in his gaze, and a significant confession followed by an embrace.
You pick up a fallen brush with a trembling hand, placing it in a water cup. Asterion was just as breathtakingly beautiful as your dream portrayed, but to see him in person has your heart hammering in your chest and your breath quickening with nerves. Wiping paint-covered hands on your smock, you took a deep breath and gathered the courage to approach Astarion.
Staring at the portrait, you utter quietly, “This one’s my favorite. Though I wish I could have captured the others’ images better.”
“Tav.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The person you painted. My partner Tav, they used to paint too,” Astarion’s voice carries the weight of unspoken emotions.
“Oh, yes. They were the leader of your group, if I remember correctly. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Astarion remains silent, the canvas now a source of unbearable memories. He moves through the studio, examining the art up close. It’s weird to have your muse perusing around your gallery. It’s embarrassing to have Astarion see just how many pieces have been dedicated to him. What do you do at this point? Should you follow him, tell him about each piece and the dreams behind them? No, that seems pretentious, so you retreat to the canvas you’ve been working on for the better part of the week.
This piece was different—a symbol rather than a person or scene. Rings of unknown runes fan out in jagged edges, evoking a sense of beauty tinged with profound sadness. It disturbed you to your core, but you needed to paint it. It’s how it always goes. Once a dream pops into your head, whether it’s a scene, a person, or a symbol, it refuses to leave until you’ve laid it on a canvas. Picking up the brush, you dip it back into the red paint and continue to bolden the lines.
“Who are you?” Astarion’s voice is right behind you; you jump, knocking a pot of paint over. Cursing softly, you quickly right the pot, attempting to salvage the spilled paint. Paint isn’t cheap, and in your non-upper-class circumstances, every drop is precious.
“Oh, I’m sorry; I have been very rude,” you offer your name. “I, of course, already know you, Astarion. It’s hard not to come across the tales of the heroes of Baldur’s Gate, but I guess—” Your rambling trails off pathetically as something changes in Astarion. There’s tension in his shoulders, a coldness in his eyes. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you nervously play with a loose thread on the smock.
Astarion scrutinizes you with a piercing gaze, his eyes lingering on your face as if searching for hidden truths. The air becomes taut, charged with an almost palpable intensity. Then, as if propelled by an unseen force, he reacts like a tightly wound rubber band snapping. Reaching out, he harshly pulls you to him, bearing his teeth at you. Your stomach drops, shocked by the aggression.
“Have you been following me? Stalking me?” His voice carries a storm of anger, his grip on your shoulders unyielding, the coldness of his touch akin to ice piercing through the fabric of your being. “Don’t lie to me because I’ve shown one person that fucking scar, and I buried them.”
Your heart races, fear coursing through your veins as you whimper a response, tears welling up in your eyes. “I-I don’t know, I’m sorry,”
“Don’t lie!”
“Please, I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know; I have dreams; I don’t know why, b-but I dream of you,” your voice falters, and your vulnerability is laid bare. “I dream of you, your friends, and places I’ve never been. I’m sorry, I’ll stop, I promise.”
As abruptly as his hands seized you, they vanished, leaving you stumbling to your knees, unable to contain the torrent of tears streaming down your face. Curling in on yourself, you can’t stop the cries of apologies and promises of never picking up a brush again, of burning every last piece in the room.
Astarion looks down at you, his expression shifting from anger to a complex amalgamation of horror and something else—perhaps realization. Stepping away, he leaves you rooted to the spot. Your gaze fixed blankly out the window. Odd and conflicting emotions swirl within you—fear, confusion, longing?—all clashing fiercely. Amidst the tumult, one thought emerges with undeniable clarity—this won’t be the last time you see Astarion.
*
Astarion’s breaths come in ragged gasps as he runs through the barren streets, escaping the grasp of the haunting memories that threaten to consume him. His thoughts are a raging storm, and he pays no heed to the bewildered faces of those he rudely pushes past. The town of Rivington is a blur as he sprints through it, a desperate escape, picking a direction and refusing to stop until his body aches, halting only when the sun begins its ascent above the horizon.
In his frantic need to run, there was no consideration for shelter from the sun’s relentless rays. Mercifully, he stumbles upon an abandoned cave. Dry, dusty, and shrouded in darkness, it becomes his refuge. In a corner, he sinks slowly against the cool, rough wall to the ground, seeking solace in the obscurity.
Astarion pulls his knee to his chest, pressing his forehead against his crossed arms. Shaking and shivering, a stark contrast to the bitter summer heat enveloping the cave, he clings to his vulnerability. Eyes shut tight, jaw clenched, fingernails dig deep into his arms as if attempting to anchor himself in the reality that threatens to crumble around him.
Desperation claws at him, and he yearns for Tav. The desire to feel Tav’s warm embrace, hands crossing over his chest, pulling him close, torments him. He longs for the soft whispers of love and the gentle press of lips. Astarion can’t navigate this without Tav. He’s a mess, barely holding on, living each agonizing day, acutely aware that the best part of him is gone, and he can do nothing to reclaim it.
The cruelty of encountering such intimate moments from his past life with Tav wounds him deeply. These were moments meant for him and Tav alone. Realizing that a stranger could capture those cherished memories intended for one person alone turns his stomach.
Anger becomes a conduit for his overwhelming emotions, and the terrified look on the artist’s face is etched in his mind, an indelible scar on his conscience. Shame burns within him, a searing reminder of the boundaries he violated. Physically assaulting someone in their own space—what would Tav think of him now?
The artist adds another layer to Astarion’s confusion. The familiarity is uncanny—the excited calf raises, the almost-stumbles afterward, the nervous lip biting, puffed cheeks during deep concentration, and the mindless dancing when no one is watching. Every little thing the artist did mirrored Tav, and with all his memories physically displayed, Asterion finds himself lost in a sea of confusion. Why does this stranger resemble his love so deeply?
The bards’ tales of soulmates and reincarnation, once dismissed as mere children’s stories and fiction, now claw at the edges of Astarion’s consciousness. What if? What if Tav found their way back to him? Weirder things have happened in his long life, and the possibility plants a seed of hope within him.
Yet, he forcefully suppresses that hope. It won’t serve him, not now. Instead, he resolves to learn more. By nightfall, he returns to the city, catching the first boat to Waterdeep. After a day and some change, he stands outside the Wizards’ tower, resentment simmering as he contemplates turning to Gale, his best chance at answers.
A groan escapes Astarion as he hangs his head, and a series of knocks echo on the thick wooden door. “This better be worth it…”
The door swings open on its own into a dimly lit foyer. Astarion follows a familiar path, the cool air and faint scent of ancient tomes embracing him. He ascends the staircase with nostalgia and reluctance, each step echoing the countless times Tav and himself sought knowledge and assistance within these walls.
As he pushes open the study door, a scene unfolds before him. Gale is hunched over a worn scroll, graying hair ruffled, and a small pair of reading glasses set on the tip of his nose. The room is bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, creating an intimate ambiance. Notes adorn the margins, evidence of Gale’s ceaseless quest for understanding.
Gale looks up, a broad, warm smile gracing his features, and Astarion is momentarily transported back to the times when this sage was only a joke he poked fun at across camp. Removing his reading glasses, Gale pushes up from his desk, an air of welcoming familiarity enveloping the room.
“Well, look who the tressym dragged in. How are you, Astarion?”
Astarion stiffens as he is pulled into a spontaneous hug by Gale. The embrace is both unexpected and oddly comforting, a physical manifestation of the genuine camaraderie they’ve shared through the years. Astarion, unaccustomed to such displays of affection, awkwardly pats Gale’s back before gently pulling away.
“I’m afraid I’ve been better.”
Gale’s eyes convey concern and understanding as he gestures for Astarion to sit. The worn chair creaks under the weight of memories and the weightier burden of Astarion’s troubled soul.
“Then sit down, my friend, and tell me how I can help.”
***
Days of tireless research and a network of favors exchanged between magical acquaintances have led them to a glimmer of hope. Though not expansive, the discovery hints at the possibility that souls entwined so tightly may have a magnetic pull toward each other. A pull is so strong that souls can find each other in different lifetimes. Tales have described soulmates experiencing memories from previous lifetimes together, but they were vague at best. The specific remains elusive, shrouded in mystery, yet it’s enough to kindle a spark of hope within Astarion’s lonely heart.
Gale, ever the bore, offers a gentle reminder, “Now, just remember, if you try to force feelings before—”
“I would never!” Astarion’s retort carries a venomous edge, an unspoken warning to watch his following words carefully. Gale raises his hands in defense.
“My point is the brain is a prickly thing. It’s best not to rush anything it’s not ready for.”
“Yes, yes, you have said this five times already. Would you please activate the portal? I have an apology to make.”
Anticipation hums in the air, a palpable energy that courses through Astarion. A fleeting smile graces his lips, and for a moment, the weight of his grief is replaced by a glimmer of life.
Looking at Astarion with a fondness born of shared trials, Gale responds, “Of course, Astarion.”
With a confident shake of his wrist, he activates the magical circle, and the room is bathed in a radiant glow of bright runes, their purple luminescence dancing in the semi-darkness.
Astarion steps toward the portal, his heart pulsating with trepidation and newfound hope. However, before crossing the threshold, he turns around to face Gale, clapping him on the shoulder.
“Thank you, Gale. I will not forget this.”
“It was my pleasure. Now, I expect to meet this lovely artist sooner rather than later.” Gale’s parting words hang in the air, infused with the hope of rekindling a connection beyond the realms of understanding.
*
Back in the heart of Baldur’s Gate, Astarion swiftly navigated the bustling streets, an air of anticipation accompanying him. His purpose was clear—to reach your studio and beg for your forgiveness. A brief pause along the way allowed him to acquire a small bundle of daisies, a spontaneous choice fueled by the memory of Tav’s fondness for these delicate blooms.
As Astarion approached the studio, a surge of uncertainty clawed at him. Hesitation gripped his every step, the shadow of fear etched across his features. The fear in your eyes during the last encounter was seared into his memory. Had his previous outburst irreparably damaged any chance of reconciliation? The conflicting forces of his desire to see you again and the instinct to flee wrestled within him. Yet, he pressed forward, forcing himself down the street, and there you stood.
The scene that greeted him was a chaotic masterpiece of colors. Paint adorned your cheeks and arms, a testament to the artistic fervor that consumed you. Your hair, a cascade of untamed strands, framed a face that mirrored both exhaustion and creative passion. Astarion had a sudden urge to brush the strands away and press a soft kiss to your cheek, something he often did with Tav.
Your weariness was palpable—shoulders slumped, eyes half-lidded. Perhaps, he pondered, he should postpone this encounter, allowing you the reprieve of rest. The realization that he might be the last person you wanted to see compelled Astarion to take a step back, an unspoken retreat.
But just as he moved to leave, your eyes jumped up to meet his, you froze mid-stroke, and Astarion couldn’t read your expression. He should go. Why did he think this was a good idea? He’s just about to run when you nod for him to come in. Obliging, Astarion found himself standing awkwardly within the studio; you went back to painting. Your brush danced across the canvas, applying a vibrant shade of blue in deliberate strokes. Astarion’s attempts to break the silence faltered, his words dissolving into the room’s stillness.
“What are you doing here, Astarion?” The steadiness in your voice pierced the calm. You tried to hold on to your anger for the man all week. But upon seeing him standing so lost on the street had your resolve crumbling. You can’t deny the mild excitement that fluttered through your veins upon seeing him again.
His voice, momentarily lost, found its way back. “I-I came here to apologize for last week. My behavior was deplorable, and I wish to make things right.”
A wry amusement flickered in your eyes as you evaluated the bouquet, now slightly worse for wear under his tight grip. “And you believe a bundle of broken daisies would win you my forgiveness?”
Astarion, caught off guard, looked down at the bruised bouquet. “Um…well, I was hoping for roses, but they were fresh out.”
A snort escaped you as you put down your paintbrush and approached him. A tentative touch on his forearm transferred the flowers from his grasp to yours, eliciting a shiver down his spine. The longing to reach out is strong, but Astarion holds still as you retreat.
Intently studying the daisies, you began to divide the bundle into two piles. Astarion watched silently, recognizing echoes of Tav’s essence reflected in your actions. While understanding that you were not Tav, the profound sorrow gripping his heart seemed to ease in your presence.
“Half,” you declared suddenly.
“Pardon?”
“Half of the daisies survived.”
“And where does that leave us?”
With a theatrical flair, you pondered the question, pacing the room. “That, good sir, is the question. What is my forgiveness worth? I did luck out; daisies are my favorite, so you’re a step farther than roses would have gotten you.”
Astarion, grasping the playful undertone, decided to play along. With a hand on his hips and a wicked smirk, he responded, “Well, I am a pretty lucky man. Now, please, I beg, what more can I do to gain your forgiveness?”
You hummed softly, tapping your chin. You keep Astarion in suspense for a moment before you suddenly turn to the man. “How about…I get dressed, you take me out to dinner, and we’ll go from there?”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” The agreement hung in the air, a hope for something more lingering.
***
The dinner evolved into an evening stroll, a seamless transition from pleasant chatter to playful banter. It was an unexpected evening, but the time spent with Astarion was so easy, so familiar you didn’t want it to end. Reading about the saviors of Baldur’s Gate was intriguing, and dreaming of a vampiric elf held its allure, but nothing compared to the tangible presence of the real Astarion.
Astarion embodied the epitome of perfection – handsome, intelligent, and endowed with a wit that had you giggling all night. He was the quintessential gentleman, the embodiment of every mother’s hopeful wish for their child.
What started as a single date quickly snowballed into a series of enchanting encounters – one date led to two, then five, until you found yourself drawn into his orbit every week. The pace was exhilarating, and being around Astarion felt like being charged with an electric current. It was not just addictive; it was a whirlwind of happiness, and you couldn’t help but revel in it.
If one indulged in whimsical tales, the idea that Astarion might be your soulmate would have crossed your mind. His ability to read you so intimately sometimes felt like he delved into the depths of your mind.
The dreams persisted, evolving into a kaleidoscope of memories that intertwined your moments with Astarion and a phantom era where someone else shared his company. Astarion, at times, would cast glances at you as you transferred another dream to canvas, an anticipation lingering in his eyes. Despite his attempts, he couldn’t veil the disappointment when the visions resulted in nothing more than another painting adorning the wall.
Then, it occurred on a serene spring day, three years since Astarion first entered your studio. The sun had yet to set, and you found solace curled up with Astarion. Limbs tangled, chests pressed together, hands intertwined – a tableau of intimate connection. His cold nose nestled against the crook of your neck, his white curls playfully tickling your nose.
Behind your closed eyelids, soft images of a forest clearing unfolded – Astarion shirtless, beckoning you towards him. Something clicked, and suddenly, the foreign memories that greeted you each night became a mosaic of your own experiences. The floodgates opened, overwhelming you with a lifetime of moments – kisses beneath the stars, laughter resonating around a campfire, and heart-stopping close calls with death.
Astarion often spoke of Tav, a robust and kind soul who played a pivotal role in shaping him. He wouldn’t be who he is today without them. You now knew a bit better; yes, you had nudged him along the way, but his growth was his own, and you couldn’t be more proud. To think of the years he spent without you, the grief he must have had to push through. If the roles were reversed, you don’t believe you would have been strong enough to keep going.
Startled from his slumber, Astarion found your body descending upon his, your hand meeting his chest with firm slaps. “Stop you, little gremlin.” Groggily, he attempted to restrain you in a tender embrace. He was met with your swift departure from his lap. He heard the patter of your feet retreating from the bed.
“You are a bastard, Astarion!”
Fully alert and by your side instantly, “What did I do, my sweet?”
Worry etched into every crease of his face as he cupped your jaw, looking frantically into your eyes. You intertwined your fingers with his, your other hand reaching out to caress the skin of his hip. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.
Astarion scrutinized your face, his eyes delving deep into yours. The faintest furrow of his brows betrayed his thoughts. As if following an unspoken script, he pulled you in by the waist, foreheads gently meeting.
Glistening with unshed tears, Astarion whispered, “You remember?” His voice trembled.
“Yes… maybe it’s all still tangled. But yes, I remember Tav – well, I remember us.”
Astarion’s smile widened, his fangs peeking out, and his lips met yours in a heated kiss spinning the two of you around the room. It was a slow dance of lips as if Astarion had all the time in the cosmos to savor this moment. While you could quickly lose yourself in the embrace, you were privy to all his subtle tricks. You turned your face when he attempted to draw you back into the kiss.
“Gods, Astarion, for three years, you knew and never said anything. I’ve painted you for almost as long as I could wield a brush, and for three years, you knew why!” Another slap graced his chest, and tears trickled down your cheeks, eagerly wiped away by his thumbs.
“I wanted to, my love. The moment I realized I wanted to. But this couldn’t be rushed; you can’t rush the mind.”
“Star, I’m so sorry I took so long,”
“No, stop; you took as long as you needed to return to me.” His forehead rests against yours once more, and the room stands still for a moment. “What matters is you’re here, in my arms, and I’m not letting go anytime soon.”
A choked sob mingled with a chuckle, and you nuzzled closer into Astarion, hiding your face into his neck. “Gods, I love you, Astarion.”
Okay loves, let me know what you think. I've been working on this for over a week and still find some sections I'm not all that happy with, but I want to move on to other pieces. Any and every interaction makes my day.
