I Want To Get More Used To Writing Low Stakes Lil Blurbs So Please Enjoy This, Also Posted On Ao3 Under

I want to get more used to writing low stakes lil blurbs so please enjoy this, also posted on ao3 under my pseud brewstersbru :) hopefully being able to post it here will bring the perfectionism anxiety down lol

***

Astarion is perhaps the one of the most interesting, irritating, but somehow undoubtedly kind people Halsin has ever observed. Though he’d flay anyone who had the audacity to tell him it.

The duties of an Arch-Druid are many, and often arduous in nature, but nonetheless rewarding. And it all boils down to watching, observing, noticing little idiosyncrasies in the people he leads. The people who trust him with their lives and wellbeing. Halsin has become well-accustomed to watching, as any good leader must and it is no surprise that the skill has followed him to where he is now, camping with a menagerie of illithid-infected souls, searching for a cure.

Though, with this aforementioned observational skill, Halsin has gotten the distinct impression that many of them seek quite a bit more than a simple cure. Absolution, freedom, a clearer path forward. It is so often in the words they don’t say, rather than those they choose to reveal. For example, Gale never talks of an ‘after’, a concept all of the others seem so enamored with, save Astarion, of course. He simply hums and offers a small melancholy smile when conversation turns to the topic of everyone’s plans after they find a cure. It wasn’t difficult to figure him out, not when Halsin had been paying attention. Gale is convinced that dying is the only way to atone for his sins. To be forgiven.

Halsin’s heart aches at the thought; poor child, it is not a sin to wish to be loved. But he digresses.

Astarion, curiosity that he is, had immediately captured Halsin’s attention when he’d joined camp. On the surface he seemed shallow, and ill-tempered, but Halsin has not gotten this far in life by making quick judgements on a person’s first actions after he’s met them. Sure enough, he’d caught a glimpse of the real Astarion not even two days later.

It had been a long day, brimming with long, arduous battles after which they had all come out exhausted and bloodied. Wyll, with his lion’s heart, had fought especially ferociously. Perhaps too much so. His robe was torn horribly across the front and he’d had to be propped up as they trudged back to camp, unfortunately neither Halsin nor Shadowheart had maintained enough energy to heal anyone.

Astarion had almost immediately wedged himself under Wyll’s arm, curling an arm around his waist while also berating him as they walked. “What in the hells were you thinking jumping out like that! You’re weak, leave the feats of strength to Karlach you dolt!” And on and on. The words were cutting, and not entirely fair, but still, his hands remained gentle against his friends skin and he walked slowly so as not to jostle his injuries.

Shadowheart- exhausted herself, likely with a beast of a headache after all of the concentration spells she’d been slinging- had told Astarion to shut it, only hearing the words and not the worry behind them. He had obliged- another kindness-as his eyes darted around the scrunched pain painted over her expression and his own expression set in resolve. Still, he performed a pout, and everyone took it for what it was- or rather, what he’d wanted them to take it for: Astarion being his usual surly self.

Halsin took it for what it truly was, a man doing his best to aid his friends and keep their spirits high after such a grueling encounter. He’d thought they needed someone to direct their exhausted irritation at, lest they start picking themselves apart instead (something Halsin had noticed, but was unaware Astarion knew of) and offered himself like it was as natural as breathing.

The kindnesses didn’t stop there, either. When they made it to camp he’d taken Wyll to his bedroll as the others collapsed onto their own. Rummaged through the camp supplies until he found a potion of greater healing, then did not feed it to Wyll until he was half asleep and delirious.

“Mmh… Dad?” Wyll had murmured, eyes squinted closed as he moved his head around. Astarion had simply hummed and continued feeding him the potion.

For the rest of the night he prepped ingredients with practiced efficiency and left them next to the communal cooking pot for when the rest of the party woke for breakfast. Halsin had needed to trance for a few hours, loathe as he was to turn away from the scene, and when he returned Wyll’s robe had been mended, folded and placed aside his head. Astarion was nowhere to be seen. Halsin hoped he’d found his way to his own tent for a short trance.

Elves do not need to sleep, this much is true, but even a short trance would have done wonders to refresh and replenish his energy. Astarion had to know that.

Halsin is still unsure what the other elf had done for the rest of that night, but he’d emerged from his tent with just as much practiced, haughty vigor as he’d always had halfway through breakfast the next morning.

“Astarion! Good morning! Thank you for aiding me in our trek back yesterday.” Wyll had smiled at him, something warm and molten in his eyes. Astarion simply huffed and waved it off, “Well, dear, someone needed to lecture you about the dangers of heroism. None of these dimwits were going to do it.” Wyll smiled and the others gave halfhearted protests from where they’d been digging into the breakfast Gale had prepared from the ingredients Astarion had left out for him. There was a sparkle in his eye as he caught sight of them eating it, something almost like pride, if Halsin had to name it.

The others had been dumbfounded, asking around the campfire about who had done it. When no one came forward they’d simply shrugged and taken it to mean that the culprit was too humble to take credit. Besides, who were they to question a miracle such as this. No one asked the vampire if he’d done the deed, why would he have? He doesn’t eat food anymore and he doesn’t even really like them.

It’s exactly what he wants them to think. Halsin has to give him points for his dedication to maintaining pretense. Wyll doesn’t mention his robe, but his eyes dart from hand to hand trying to scrutinize any bandages or pricks that might indicate a late-night sewing session. It’s a smart move on his part but Astarion, it seems, is a masterful tailor. His fingers are unbandaged and unbloodied.

Everything carefully thought out and executed. Every kindness meticulously planned and hidden. He truly is an enigma. He would rather his friends believe him selfish and cruel, than see him for the gentle, caring man he truly is.

The kindnesses continue, always carefully implemented so as to erase any and all suspicion that Astarion may have had any part in it. He continues to be outwardly difficult and mean so as to cover his tracks. Halsin can do little but watch, as he always has, that is, until Astarion’s little kindnesses eventually and inevitably extend to him, too.

He is not so easily fooled, has seen past the performance that the other man puts on for some reason that he is still trying to parse.

It’s a quiet evening, the battles of the day had been hard, but nothing they were ill-equipped to handle. The shadow curse has been getting to Halsin, though. Seeing his greatest failure in all of it’s unbearable misery has been weighing on him. And he knows his struggle is not invisible to his fellow party members. They seem unsure what to do about it, though, seeing as he is a centuries old former Arch-Druid with life experience they could hardly fathom. He enjoys his time at camp but cannot say with certainty that he is truly close to anyone there. Though he wishes to be, he is afraid they’ve placed him on somewhat of a pedestal after his actions in the grove, forgetting that he is fallible and full of emotion, same as them.

He very nearly misses it, when it happens, too caught up in his thoughts to hear the slight shuffling near the entrance to his tent. Thankfully, he doesn’t, and emerges with a small smile.

Astarion freezes at the sound of his emergence, crouched over something small and wooden at his feet. Then, almost as if possessed, his shoulders relax and he looks up with a devilish grin. “Halsin! My dear, I was just looking for you. Some wretched little thing of a child has gifted me with perhaps the ugliest wooden duck I’ve ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes on. And these things are in no way ‘beautiful’ on a good day. I cannot have something so… distasteful loitering around my tent. You mentioned you liked ducks so I thought it would be of better use here. Otherwise I’m throwing it in the river.” It’s a lot of words, more than the vampire generally tends to use in casual conversation, as much as he pretends he’s an insufferable chatterbox. That’s the second clue Halsin gets that perhaps there’s more to this than Astarion is telling him. The first being the way he froze, as if he hadn’t been expecting Halsin to be there. “Looking for you”, right…

Astarion stands and nods at the duck on the ground. It’s small, a little misshapen, but it’s got hearts carved where it’s eyes should be and for some reason Halsin finds that hopelessly endearing. He kneels and cradles the thing gently in his cupped palms.

When he looks up Astarion is grinning at him, still in that sneering performative way he likes to, but in his eyes that shine of pride makes itself known. Halsin likes the duck, it’s obvious. And Astarion is proud of himself, but he’ll never tell. He’ll never let anyone else be.

The third clue is dripping sluggishly down Astarion’s finger, stark and red against his deathly pale skin. Halsin remembers the first time he’d whittled. His hands had looked much of the same. He smiles.

“Thank you, Astarion. This is very good. Would you like some salve for your hand?”

Astarion’s eyes widen, only fractionally, but noticeable if you’d been looking in his eyes. And Halsin had been. Still, his expression shutters and he pastes another smirk on before turning his nose up at the duck.

“Thank the Gods, that ugly thing is your problem now. And I’ve no idea what you mean dear, my hand is perfectly serviceable.” He rushes away with a perfunctory wave, likely to rob Halsin of the opportunity to call him out on his bullshit. Halsin only smiles and cradles the duck. He’d bloodied his hands for this, for him. The surge of affection that washes through him is entirely involuntary but wholly welcome.

Astarion wakes from his trance the next morning to a gift settled gently at the entrance of his tent. It’s a wooden cat, masterfully carved from a dark oak and undeniably beautiful. Perfectly fitting the vampire’s tastes and sensibilities.

A note lies beside it in what he recognizes to be Halsin’s messy scrawl.

Thank you, Astarion, again for the duck. It thrills and delights me to know that you care. It did make me feel better, you know, and I still have that salve if you need. All you have to do is ask. I thought I’d return the favor, seeing as you do so much for the camp but refuse to let anyone see it, or thank you.

I see you. I thank you.

Yours,

Halsin

woe, shitpost be upon thee

this all started with the ibruprofen drawing and it suddenly divulged into drawing them as ponies. its good warm-up i wont lie

i cant find the post but shoutout to that one artist that made a whole pony au for all the bg3 companions. truly doing god's work out there.

Before the semester kicks off and murders me, @disniq​ asked for my essay on Jason Todd and hysteria. So, without further ado, here is an actual essay (fucking dissertation) because I refuse brevity. It is extremely long. I’ve split it into sections so you can find the section header and read what you want. This does not encompass all the narrative trauma themes and lived experiences that this boy holds, just specifically hysteria. 

Jason Todd, The Hysteric & Bruce Wayne, The Batman

Keep reading

happy bi visibility day! 💗💜💙

Hey folks so im going to try nanowrimo for the first time this year and thus probably wont be posting a whole bunch on here but if u want to request bg3 (or other fandoms! Im in a lot of them and if i dont know it i just will leave it until i do or not do it altogether) oneshots/pairings/scenes in my askbox, i can use them for warmups or for a bit of a break if i ever get stuck on my novel writing :) thanks for all the love on my bg3 oneshots tho yall ROCK

More scribbles, this time karlachstarion? Astarlach? Whatever the hell they’re called?

It’s done. Finally, after what must have been years of excruciating waiting, Karlach’s heart is fixed. Or, rather, stabilized might be a better word for it.

After talking with Dammon in the druid grove and giving him their only piece of infernal iron- witnessing the sheer joy on Karlach’s face as she realized she was one step closer to touching someone again- Astarion knew he’d do practically anything to find another.

He’d scoured every crypt they’d crawled through, every traveler’s chest abandoned on the side of the road, hells, even some oblivious people’s pockets. Karlach had been searching too, of course, but nothing could compare to the sheer single-minded focus with which Astarion dedicated himself to the task.

Karlach had been kind to him, was the first to stand up for him when his true nature was revealed. She’s never looked at him strangely or doubted his intentions, even when she maybe should have.

The two of them have fallen into a sort of flirtatious tryst- a kind of relationship that Astarion is well acquainted with- but without any of the touching usually involved (a concept less familiar to him). He’s not quite sure how it all came to be as it is now; all he remembers is feeling safe and comfortable enough with her to drop his polite facade.

It was a clear summer’s night and Wyll had been exceptionally, annoyingly heroic that day. Astarion hadn’t eaten for a couple of days and- now spoiled, and fat with all of his current freedoms- found himself quite cross with no sufficient reason why. Still, the bastard he is, he’d called Wyll an ‘intolerable boy scout with raisins for brains’ at the fire that night.

God knows how he came up with that one, but Karlach had laughed something warm and hearty. Grin wide, eyes squinted in mirth. She shined in the firelight. She’d gone to clap Astarion on the shoulder in camaraderie but paused just before making contact, expression falling for a moment. Inexplicably, he’d needed her to be smiling again, so he’d cracked another wise one at Wyll’s expense- who took it with a smile and all the infuriating grace you’d expect- and turned easily to shuffle closer. Not touching, but close enough, he’d hoped, that his presence was clear, despite his cold, dead body.

He’d hated himself for it. For the soft weakness unfurling inside of him, growing larger with each passing day that he spent with these do-gooders. The abundance of food, the absence of his master and the sheer, intoxicating autonomy he’d found here was making him docile.

Still, when- after that night- Karlach had latched onto him, sidling up and walking beside him as they trekked through the trees (she’d shortened her usual lumbering steps), sitting beside him at the campfire, trading quips and jokes almost as if they were sparring. He’d let her. And he’d liked it.

It was freeing, in a way, to be able to just be with someone. When they physically couldn’t ask him for more. Maybe it makes him a bad person for finding comfort in the thing that’s tormented her for years, taken away her own autonomy. But he’s never claimed to be good.

He enjoyed the long nights they spent together, laying half a foot away from each other and staring up at the stars. Talking until the sun rose, or until Karlach fell (adorably) asleep. She snores. Loudly. And Astarion vehemently dislikes the fact that he finds it so damned endearing.

Still, centuries of having the idea that nothing is freely given pounded into his head have left a mark. And Astarion knows that the only currency that he has that’s worth anything in this kind of situation is his body, especially when Karlach hasn’t been able to touch anyone in years. He feels like he owes her this, after all of the kindnesses she’s afforded him, and who knows? He might even enjoy it. He could see himself enjoying it, if he did it right.

He searches so feverishly for two reasons. One, he hates being indebted to people, it makes something cold and wriggling appear in his stomach. Two, Karlach deserves to be free, and he knows that the smile she’ll be sporting when her engine is fully fixed will have been worth all of the painstaking searching and more.

Naturally, he’d found the metal. They’d gone to Dammon, once they found him in the shadowlands, and now here they are. And her smile is so much more than worth it.

Karlach is beaming over at him and he smiles back warm, but a little distant. The implications of this are just now starting to sink in; Karlach will want to get started soon, he’ll need to prepare himself. This needs to be perfect.

A low thrum of anxiety buzzes at the pit of his stomach for the entirety of the walk back to camp. Karlach is walking astride him, making wide sweeping gestures as she babbles on about all of the things she’s excited to do now, no longer over-careful of where her hands go. Catch a squirrel and pet it, give Wyll the noogie of a lifetime, have Shadowheart teach her to braid, kiss Astarion.

He smiles something a little more practiced, almost seductive at this and purrs a few words he could not be held at knifepoint to remember. His body feels miles away but the thought of kissing Karlach is vaguely compelling.

Something old and wretched within him surges forward and overtakes his body. Jerking his lips upward into a smirk, lidding his eyes invitingly. When they make it to camp, the thing that he is now grasps at Karlach’s arm and asks if she’d like to ‘go clean up’ in a voice almost more rumble than words. She agrees, staring at his hand on her arm, and, after collecting some soap and a change of clothes, she follows him to the stream.

It’s cute that she brought soap, as if they’re actually going to ‘clean up’. The naivety of her actions almost bring Astarion back into his body, but he focuses on the pit in his stomach and retreats. This needs to be perfect. And it can’t be perfect if Astarion is all needy and bitchy about being touched like that.

His body moves through the motions of undressing himself, a kind of rehearsed efficiency/allure to his movements. Karlach whistles lowly at the display, but once he turns towards the water, she’s already waist deep and gesturing for him to join her, soap bar in hand.

“Get over here, soldier! You’re covered in dirt.”

… Really? It’s the only thought he can muster at the moment. So she really thought they were just going to clean themselves up? Or perhaps she wants him to work for it a little more, that’s alright. He can earn it.

“Oh I know, absolutely filthy, aren’t I? You’ll make it better, won’t you?” His voice lilts as he wades into the water, muscles tensed, jaw tilted to it’s best angle in an attempt to seem as touchable as possible. If only she’d actually do it.

Karlach snorts and splashes him with water. He stares at her through the barrage and sticks his tongue out to catch some of the droplets that slide down his cheek. Come on.

“Get over here, you.” She sighs, as if she’s talking to a particularly unruly dog and not a vision of sex (Astarion would know, he’d used these same tactics on thousands of others before and they’d all fallen for it).

As he approaches- all swaying hips and cocked eyebrows- she sets the soap in her hand on a protruding rock to her left and places a gentle hand on either side of his face. Cupping him almost like you would a handful of water. He closes his eyes and tries to make it seem as if he’s aching to be kissed. A part of him is. But the pressure never comes.

And just like that, his consciousness crashes back into his body. He can feel the warmth of her hands against his skin, the lap of cool water on his bare hip. Astarion’s eyes flutter open, clearer than they’ve been in hours, and brimming with fear.

“There you are.” Karlach says, voice dipping with a mix of adoration and pity that settles and twists in Astarion’s chest. “Hello.” He chokes. Tries a smile but it feels crooked and wrong on his face.

“We don’t have to do this if it’s too much, ‘star.” He wants to cry a little bit, and sure enough, a tear escapes down his chin.

“I’m sorry.”

She shushes him easily, a little forceful. “Don’t be. Please. I want to touch you, but never like this.” She thumbs across Astarion’s cheek, drying his tears. She’s warm, Astarion notices, but not as searingly hot as she’d been before (although, in the metaphorical sense her hotness has remained the same).

“I’m sorry.” He can’t help but repeat himself, he feels like a broken record. He feels like he’s ruined her night, her big, triumphant moment with his… bullshit, for lack of a better term. She goes to reassure him again but he continues.

“Would you be alright just…. Holding me? Tonight? I’m frustrated with myself, too, but I want to celebrate with you.” He chances a glance upwards at her face, afraid of what he might find. His fear is irrational, of course, because her grin is blinding.

“I think I’d really love that, ‘star. Gods, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted to just wrap you in my arms! And now I can!” Her giggle is abrupt, and infectious. The tension bleeds from Astarion’s shoulders and he finds himself overflowing with warmth and affection. Oh, who was he kidding, how could he ever hope to engineer perfect when the embodiment of the word is standing right in front of him.

They rinse off quickly- Karlach helps with his back and he with hers, there are no wandering hands, only reverent tenderness around old scars- and head back to Karlach’s tent. Astarion would have offered his own if only for the fact that he doesn’t think the two of them will fit, what with all of the stolen trinkets he’s crammed in there. What can he say, he’s gone a little wild now that he can actually own things.

It’s surprisingly easy to fall into bed with her, and only in the exceedingly literal sense. He gets in first, curls around himself, and her around him. She fits her knees behind Astarion’s own, and slings an arm around his middle. Her back faces the camp in a move that may or may not be intentional, but makes butterflies flit around Astarion’s gut all the same.

“This alright?” She asks, voice low. Astarion takes a moment to catalogue himself, similar to what he does after battle to find any injuries that may be hidden by adrenaline. He’s not sure why he does it, when he never has before in these kinds of situations, but he finds everything to be in working order. The thrum of anxiety in his gut is almost completely gone. He nods.

“More than, my dear. Thank you.”

“Always, ‘star. Always.”