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Babyshark A/B/O but it’s weeks and weeks of Alpha!Park obsessively hunting for a sweet milky warm cookie smelling omega that he gets whiff of once at the ED and his brain short circuits and every time he goes to the pitt he smells traces of her under the blood , the anti-septic, alcohol, latex gloves, like she’s been fluttering around being evasive of purpose just to fuck with him. He’s coming down for menial fractures, and dislocations, rotating and consulting in record time to the point where Robby and Garcia are side eying him —clenching his jaw when he scents his omega again only for it to diffuse in seconds, going up to the ortho department on 7th floor more impatient, more irritable than usual his approaching rut a slow simmer in his veins. Only for Emma to get stuck in the elevator with him when there is a power outage and being “hi I am emma 😊😊😊, i think have seen you at the ED !” — like he’s not doing everything in his power to bite her then and there, salivating at the very thought.
Remember when Matt Murdock was like "God, if he even exists, has forsaken me and life has no meaning. You should put me down like a dog." And then he cleared his sinuses with a Netipot and was like, "Nevermind, God is real and righteous and I'm his chosen weapon to vanquish evil. Mother, bring me someone I can beat up."
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when bg3 said sometimes hurt doesn’t heal cleanly or prettily. when bg3 said you are more than your mistakes. when bg3 said your family is the people you choose. when bg3 said being good isn’t about being perfect, it’s about trying again and again. when bg3 said sometimes all people need is someone to listen. when bg3 said the world can be messy and ugly but it’s still worth fighting for. when bg3 said it’s okay if you fall, just keep getting back up. when bg3 said-
pairing: aaron hotchner x wife!reader
summary: aaron swears he's not the clingy type...until you show up, and suddenly it's a full blown PDA parade in the bullpen, based on this request.
warnings | an: fluff, they're so in love it makes me sick, lots of touching, hotch soothing r's stress with his credit card, i am once again spreading the suggar!daddy!hotch agenda, the team being annoying, hotch enabling r's spending habits.
word count: 2.1k
✧ masterlist
Walking through the doors of the FBI never quite feels normal. You’d think being married to the man who runs one of its top units would earn you a little immunity from the nerves, but nope. There are still plenty of tight-lipped smiles from men who clearly think you don’t belong (to be fair, you technically don’t), and those awkward elevator rides where you end up clarifying, again, that you’re just here to drop off lunch for the most handsome agent in the building. Not that you say that part out loud.
It doesn’t happen often, hardly ever, really. Aaron’s not the kind of man who forgets things, especially not lunch. Maybe twice every four months, if that. And even then, he never asks for you to bring it. He usually brushes off your offers with a quick ‘I’ll grab something from the cafeteria’ which, of course, actually means ‘I won’t eat until dinner.’
And that just won’t suffice. Especially not when he’s been filling out his shirt so nicely, lately.
So there you were, pretty shoes dragging against the dull bureau floor, lunch in one hand, cookies and your purse dangling from the other, wrist definitely starting to ache. You weren’t exactly sneaking into the bullpen, but you weren’t strutting either. Just stuck in that awkward middle space reserved for people who technically shouldn’t be there, but have the authority to show up anyway, because boss man said so.
“There she is! Hotchner’s better half,” Emily called out, spinning her chair around with a grin.
You offered a sheepish wave, trying not to drop anything. “I come bearing gifts…and mild wrist pain.”
“Oh! Are those the butterscotch ones?” Penelope squealed, jumping up from where she’d been perched on Spencer’s desk.
“Yes, new recipe,” you said, carefully setting your things down on JJ’s desk as she kindly unhooked your overloaded purse. “I swapped out the dark brown sugar for light, added a little sea salt on top, and I may have used browned butter this time. I was feeling ambitious.”
“You browned the butter?” Penelope gasped. “You absolute kitchen goddess!”
Spencer leaned in for a closer look as you popped the lid off the container. “That actually changes the flavor quite a bit. The Maillard reaction from browning—”
“Yes, yes, science, great,” Emily cut in. “Can we eat them now, or is there a presentation we have to sit through first?”
You laughed, nudging the tin closer to everyone. “No presentations. Just cookies. Though if anyone gives them a rating out of ten that’s higher than a nine, I won’t complain.”
Morgan was the first to grab one, swiftly using it as a pointer to gesture towards Aaron, who was pushing back his chair. “Oh look, here he comes.”
You glanced up just in time to catch it—that little motion he always did, fingers brushing his tie flat against his chest as he stood. A completely innocent gesture. Totally routine. And somehow still enough to make your mouth water.
“You know,” Morgan added, mid-chew, “that’s the fastest I’ve ever seen him leave his office. Last time he moved like that, we had an active shooter in the building.”
“Alright, don’t scare her,” Rossi scolded, swatting Morgan’s bicep with a file. “She already doesn't like coming here as it is.”
“Now, that’s not true, Dave,” you corrected, grabbing Aaron’s lunch. “I love seeing you all. I just prefer doing it without all the security nuisance, badges, metal detectors and guns.”
Morgan nudged your elbow, eyes still on Aaron as he made his way over. “For a guy who claims he’s not clingy, he’s practically tripping over himself right now.”
“Oh, he’s definitely clingy,” you grinned, just as Aaron reached you, wasting zero time before leaning in and placing a swift kiss to your lips, murmuring a dreamy ‘Hi you’ before pulling away.
“Come on.” Morgan shook his head, reaching for his second cookie. “This is the same guy who made us sit through a mandatory refresher on workplace boundaries, and now look at him, breaking every single one.”
“Let them be in love,” JJ said sweetly, sipping her coffee like this was all perfectly normal.
You looked up at Aaron, eyebrows raised, trying to coax some kind of reaction to all the teasing. But he didn’t even glance at the others, just kept his eyes on you as he took the lunch bag from your hands, his fingers brushing along your wrist with just enough pressure to say thank you, I missed you, without saying anything at all.
“You didn’t have to come all this way, honey.”
“I know, but I overbaked and figured I was due for my monthly dose of shocking the system.” You glanced around the bullpen, cringing a little at the endless clacking of keyboards and constant ringing of phones. It was all starting to give you at least four different headaches. “Feels like there’s less oxygen in here somehow.”
“That’s because no one is allowed to breathe until all the paperwork is done,” Emily interjected dryly.
“Is that true, Aaron?” you asked, reaching up to fuss with his tie. “Are you working your team too hard?”
“They live to complain.”
A chorus of groans and mock-offended noises rose up around you, just as Aaron’s hand slipped to the small of your back, steering you gently towards his office.
“Blinds stay open, you two,” Morgan called after you, pointing two fingers from his eyes to yours. “We’re watching!”
“Just keep walking,” Aaron murmured into your hair, voice quiet and beguiled, giving your hip a subtle squeeze as he guided you up the stairs.
You bit back a grin, feeling far too smug—and frankly, far too giddy—for someone standing in a federal building. Inside his office, he quietly closed the door behind you and you made yourself at home by sliding into one of the chairs across from his desk.
“Think Morgan might have a point, you are getting a little reckless with the PDA. You’re going soft.”
He moved to his chair, smoothing his tie against his chest as he sat. “I’ve always been soft with you.”
That answer knocked the wind out of you in the quietest way. You blinked once, then shook your head. “Wow. Okay. That’s not even fair.”
He just looked amused, unpacking the lunch bag while sneaking glances at you like he couldn’t help himself. “You know they’ll be talking about this all afternoon.”
You waved him off and kicked his foot gently under the desk, because footsies, like true love, didn’t have an expiration date. “Let them. Let them talk about how you have a gorgeous, brilliant, amazing wife who is kind enough to hand-deliver your lunch.”
“They already know.”
“Good answer.” You nodded, satisfied, and handed him a few tissues just as he took the first bite of his sandwich. “Now, how's your day been? And don’t say ‘fine’, or I’ll start pulling out my therapist's voice and asking about your coping mechanisms.”
He chewed, giving you a dour look over the top of the sandwich like he was already reconsidering speaking at all.
“Busy. Two consults, one profile draft, and I’ve had to remind Morgan three times to finish his report.”
“So… business as usual.”
“Basically.”
He took another bite, and you used the pause to admire him. How pretty he looked. He was getting subtly more rugged with time, never quite managing the clean-shaven look, not for lack of trying, but that had always been fine by you. You loved him exactly as he was.
Your eyes wandered over his desk, taking in the meticulously organised scene in front of you. Everything was in its place, except for a single pen and one loose file slightly out of line, a tiny disruption in an otherwise perfect system. It made you smile.
He wiped his mouth, and in that moment, his wedding band caught the thin stream of light this moody building begrudgingly allowed in. As if the universe was saying, yes, look—he’s yours.
And you thanked her silently for it. Because he was.
“Want to ditch the rest of the day, fake a headache, and run away with me to somewhere that doesn’t require badge access?” you proposed, straightening the photo of you on his desk.
He tilted his head. “Tempting.”
“You’d never actually do it, though.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I’ll think about it the whole time I’m here.”
Your smile pulled a little wider. “That’s enough for me. That—and as long as I’ll have you home in time for dinner,” you said, though it came out as more of a question. Maybe even a tiny, minuscule threat.
“Don’t worry, I will,” he assured you kindly. “I know your parents are coming over tonight. I wouldn’t dream of making you face that alone. I’m guessing that’s what’s been bothering you, hence the industrial-sized cookie batch?”
You sighed, slumping back into the chair. “Am I that obvious?”
“Only to me.”
“You know they’re hard work. And I can only fake-smile and nod my way through so many stories about people I don’t remember and opinions I didn’t ask for.”
Aaron set his sandwich aside, abandoning it on the tissue you had passed him earlier. He used another to wipe his hands, then stood, taking two steps to get to you.
Before you could say anything, his hands were on either side of your chair, gently turning it to face him. He crouched down, and you instinctively parted your legs so he could slot in between them.
“Hey,” he urged softly. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get through it together, and if it gets to be too much, I’m excellent at coming up with polite excuses to get them out of the house.”
“Promise?”
“I promise, sweetheart.”
And just in case his words were not confirmation enough, his hands came to cradle your face, thumbs circling your skin before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“Go to that bookstore you like,” he said next, already reaching into his pocket. “Grab your favorite coffee, roam around for a while, and try not to stress until they text you that they’re on their way, okay?”
He pulled out his wallet and fished out his card. “You’re too pretty to be stressing in this skirt.”
You raised a brow, lifting one leg and watching the flowy fabric settle back down over your knee. “It’s cute right?”
“Very.” He nodded, dead serious. “Go buy yourself another one.” He extended the card towards you like it was non-negotiable.
You laughed, giving his hand a light swat. “I’m not taking your card like some 1950s housewife.”
“You’re not. You’re my very independent, endlessly capable wife who I happen to love spoiling any chance I get. Now, please, take it. Call it payment for lunch…and for making you come all the way here, knowing full well how much you’d rather avoid this place.”
You pouted, eyes dancing between the card and his face. “Fine,” you relented, plucking the card from his hand. “But I’m only getting one book. Two max. The bookshelf is about to collapse.”
“Buy as many as you want.” He reached down, helping you to your feet with a gentle tug. “I’ll build you a new bookshelf.”
“You?”
“Yes, me.”
“You’ll build me a new bookshelf?”
He leaned in close, lips brushing your ear as he murmured, “With actual tools.”
“Okay, now I have to see that.”
He pulled back, straightening your cardigan, fussing without ever making it feel like fussing. “Then you better pick up a lot of books.”
You rolled your eyes, tucking the card away into your pocket. “This is enabling.”
“This is love,” he corrected, stealing a quick kiss before walking you to the door. “Text me when you get there. And if you see a ridiculous romance novel with a cheesy title, get it. I want to hear the plot.”
You grinned, poking his chest. “You just want to make fun of me.”
“No, I just like knowing what’s taking up space in that beautiful head of yours.”
“It’s mostly just you.”
He looked like he was trying not to smile too hard at that, so you saved him the trouble by leaning up and giving him one last kiss, ignoring all the hollering behind you from Morgan.
“I love you,” he promised, smoothing a hand down your arm. “Now, go before I change my mind and fake a headache just to come with you.”
Arepo built a temple in his field, a humble thing, some stones stacked up to make a cairn, and two days later a god moved in.
“Hope you’re a harvest god,” Arepo said, and set up an altar and burnt two stalks of wheat. “It’d be nice, you know.” He looked down at the ash smeared on the stone, the rocks all laid askew, and coughed and scratched his head. “I know it’s not much,” he said, his straw hat in his hands. “But - I’ll do what I can. It’d be nice to think there’s a god looking after me.”
The next day he left a pair of figs, the day after that he spent ten minutes of his morning seated by the temple in prayer. On the third day, the god spoke up.
“You should go to a temple in the city,” the god said. Its voice was like the rustling of the wheat, like the squeaks of fieldmice running through the grass. “A real temple. A good one. Get some real gods to bless you. I’m no one much myself, but I might be able to put in a good word?” It plucked a leaf from a tree and sighed. “I mean, not to be rude. I like this temple. It’s cozy enough. The worship’s been nice. But you can’t honestly believe that any of this is going to bring you anything.”
“This is more than I was expecting when I built it,” Arepo said, laying down his scythe and lowering himself to the ground. “Tell me, what sort of god are you anyway?”
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth. I’m a god of a dozen different nothings, scraps that lead to rot, momentary glimpses. A change in the air, and then it’s gone.”
The god heaved another sigh. “There’s no point in worship in that, not like War, or the Harvest, or the Storm. Save your prayers for the things beyond your control, good farmer. You’re so tiny in the world. So vulnerable. Best to pray to a greater thing than me.”
Arepo plucked a stalk of wheat and flattened it between his teeth. “I like this sort of worship fine,” he said. “So if you don’t mind, I think I’ll continue.”
“Do what you will,” said the god, and withdrew deeper into the stones. “But don’t say I never warned you otherwise.”
Arepo would say a prayer before the morning’s work, and he and the god contemplated the trees in silence. Days passed like that, and weeks, and then the Storm rolled in, black and bold and blustering. It flooded Arepo’s fields, shook the tiles from his roof, smote his olive tree and set it to cinder. The next day, Arepo and his sons walked among the wheat, salvaging what they could. The little temple had been strewn across the field, and so when the work was done for the day, Arepo gathered the stones and pieced them back together.
“Useless work,” the god whispered, but came creeping back inside the temple regardless. “There wasn’t a thing I could do to spare you this.”
“We’ll be fine,” Arepo said. “The storm’s blown over. We’ll rebuild. Don’t have much of an offering for today,” he said, and laid down some ruined wheat, “but I think I’ll shore up this thing’s foundations tomorrow, how about that?”
The god rattled around in the temple and sighed.
A year passed, and then another. The temple had layered walls of stones, a roof of woven twigs. Arepo’s neighbors chuckled as they passed it. Some of their children left fruit and flowers. And then the Harvest failed, the gods withdrew their bounty. In Arepo’s field the wheat sprouted thin and brittle. People wailed and tore their robes, slaughtered lambs and spilled their blood, looked upon the ground with haunted eyes and went to bed hungry. Arepo came and sat by the temple, the flowers wilted now, the fruit shriveled nubs, Arepo’s ribs showing through his chest, his hands still shaking, and murmured out a prayer.
“There is nothing here for you,” said the god, hudding in the dark. “There is nothing I can do. There is nothing to be done.” It shivered, and spat out its words. “What is this temple but another burden to you?”
“We -” Arepo said, and his voice wavered. “So it’s a lean year,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before, we’ll get through this again. So we’re hungry,” he said. “We’ve still got each other, don’t we? And a lot of people prayed to other gods, but it didn’t protect them from this. No,” he said, and shook his head, and laid down some shriveled weeds on the altar. “No, I think I like our arrangement fine.”
“There will come worse,” said the god, from the hollows of the stone. “And there will be nothing I can do to save you.”
The years passed. Arepo rested a wrinkled hand upon the temple of stone and some days spent an hour there, lost in contemplation with the god.
And one fateful day, from across the wine-dark seas, came War.
Arepo came stumbling to his temple now, his hand pressed against his gut, anointing the holy site with his blood. Behind him, his wheat fields burned, and the bones burned black in them. He came crawling on his knees to a temple of hewed stone, and the god rushed out to meet him.
“I could not save them,” said the god, its voice a low wail. “I am sorry. I am sorry. I am so so sorry.” The leaves fell burning from the trees, a soft slow rain of ash. “I have done nothing! All these years, and I have done nothing for you!”
“Shush,” Arepo said, tasting his own blood, his vision blurring. He propped himself up against the temple, forehead pressed against the stone in prayer. “Tell me,” he mumbled. “Tell me again. What sort of god are you?”
“I -” said the god, and reached out, cradling Arepo’s head, and closed its eyes and spoke.
“I’m of the fallen leaves,” it said, and conjured up the image of them. “The worms that churn beneath the earth. The boundary of forest and of field. The first hint of frost before the first snow falls. The skin of an apple as it yields beneath your teeth.” Arepo’s lips parted in a smile.
“I am the god of a dozen different nothings,” it said. “The petals in bloom that lead to rot, the momentary glimpses. A change in the air -” Its voice broke, and it wept. “Before it’s gone.”
“Beautiful,” Arepo said, his blood staining the stones, seeping into the earth. “All of them. They were all so beautiful.”
And as the fields burned and the smoke blotted out the sun, as men were trodden in the press and bloody War raged on, as the heavens let loose their wrath upon the earth, Arepo the sower lay down in his humble temple, his head sheltered by the stones, and returned home to his god.
Sora found the temple with the bones within it, the roof falling in upon them.
“Oh, poor god,” she said, “With no-one to bury your last priest.” Then she paused, because she was from far away. “Or is this how the dead are honored here?” The god roused from its contemplation.
“His name was Arepo,” it said, “He was a sower.”
Sora startled, a little, because she had never before heard the voice of a god. “How can I honor him?” She asked.
“Bury him,” the god said, “Beneath my altar.”
“All right,” Sora said, and went to fetch her shovel.
“Wait,” the god said when she got back and began collecting the bones from among the broken twigs and fallen leaves. She laid them out on a roll of undyed wool, the only cloth she had. “Wait,” the god said, “I cannot do anything for you. I am not a god of anything useful.”
Sora sat back on her heels and looked at the altar to listen to the god.
“When the Storm came and destroyed his wheat, I could not save it,” the god said, “When the Harvest failed and he was hungry, I could not feed him. When War came,” the god’s voice faltered. “When War came, I could not protect him. He came bleeding from the battle to die in my arms.” Sora looked down again at the bones.
“I think you are the god of something very useful,” she said.
“What?” the god asked.
Sora carefully lifted the skull onto the cloth. “You are the god of Arepo.”
Generations passed. The village recovered from its tragedies—homes rebuilt, gardens re-planted, wounds healed. The old man who once lived on the hill and spoke to stone and rubble had long since been forgotten, but the temple stood in his name. Most believed it to empty, as the god who resided there long ago had fallen silent. Yet, any who passed the decaying shrine felt an ache in their hearts, as though mourning for a lost friend. The cold that seeped from the temple entrance laid their spirits low, and warded off any potential visitors, save for the rare and especially oblivious children who would leave tiny clusters of pink and white flowers that they picked from the surrounding meadow.
The god sat in his peaceful home, staring out at the distant road, to pedestrians, workhorses, and carriages, raining leaves that swirled around bustling feet. How long had it been? The world had progressed without him, for he knew there was no help to be given. The world must be a cruel place, that even the useful gods have abandoned, if farms can flood, harvests can run barren, and homes can burn, he thought.
He had come to understand that humans are senseless creatures, who would pray to a god that cannot grant wishes or bless upon them good fortune. Who would maintain a temple and bring offerings with nothing in return. Who would share their company and meditate with such a fruitless deity. Who would bury a stranger without the hope for profit. What bizarre, futile kindness they had wasted on him. What wonderful, foolish, virtuous, hopeless creatures, humans were.
So he painted the sunset with yellow leaves, enticed the worms to dance in their soil, flourished the boundary between forest and field with blossoms and berries, christened the air with a biting cold before winter came, ripened the apples with crisp, red freckles to break under sinking teeth, and a dozen other nothings, in memory of the man who once praised the god’s work on his dying breath.
“Hello, God of Every Humble Beauty in the World,” called a familiar voice.
The squinting corners of the god’s eyes wept down onto curled lips. “Arepo,” he whispered, for his voice was hoarse from its hundred-year mutism.
“I am the god of devotion, of small kindnesses, of unbreakable bonds. I am the god of selfless, unconditional love, of everlasting friendships, and trust,” Arepo avowed, soothing the other with every word.
“That’s wonderful, Arepo,” he responded between tears, “I’m so happy for you—such a powerful figure will certainly need a grand temple. Will you leave to the city to gather more worshippers? You’ll be adored by all.”
“No,” Arepo smiled.
“Farther than that, to the capitol, then? Thank you for visiting here before your departure.”
“No, I will not go there, either,” Arepo shook his head and chuckled.
“Farther still? What ambitious goals, you must have. There is no doubt in my mind that you will succeed, though,” the elder god continued.
“Actually,” interrupted Arepo, “I’d like to stay here, if you’ll have me.”
The other god was struck speechless. “…. Why would you want to live here?”
“I am the god of unbreakable bonds and everlasting friendships. And you are the god of Arepo.”
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Really just wanted to draw a Camp Counsellor, Steddie. But being a bit of a horror fan I turned toward the awesome 80s videos of the day for inspiration. Where both of them think a warm summer and babysitting kids is going to be a breeze. Little do they know that they become the Final boys as something stalks the camp 😢 Is it really killing the kids? Or are the boys just stuck in their own nightmare the Camp created for them? DunDunDun!!!! 😨😈
Astarion has a plan, a practical, life-saving scheme. He doesn't need the realization that the druid traveling with him is unlike anyone he has met before.
In which Astarion has feelings for the first time
Inspired by Hozier's Abstract (Psychopomp)
Astarion x Drow Druid!Tav
935 words
I headcanon her as a circle of stars even though that is not available in BG3
TW: Animal Death, slight, tiny tiny Act I spoilers
“What are you doing?” Gale shouts as they watch their party Druid gasp and run towards the sound of an animal yipping. She doesn’t answer as she moves with a speed Astarion has only seen in the heat of battle. They all pick up the pace to follow behind but are stopped in their tracks by the troubling image in front of them.
Astarion watches her lean down over the creature, the scent of blood and gore thick in the heated air. It’s overwhelming to his senses as he holds back a gag at the putrid scene, but it doesn’t seem to even register to the Drow. The hyena was panting, eyes wide and frantic looking at her in confusion. She shushes the animal, and with a calming voice, begins to speak.
What is she doing? Is she crazy? He knew teaming up with a Druid would come back to bite him, no matter how easy it was to work his charms on nature lovers with their heads in the cloud.
“It’s okay darling, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay,” she coos, slowly petting its head. The tell-tale tingle of magic surrounds him as he sees a soft glow emitting from her palm, and the tension in the animal's body releases as it leans its snout into her hand. It finally hits Astarion, the realization of what is occurring here, the smell, the blood, and the carnage. Gnolls had savaged their way through what looked to be a caravan of merchants.
“We need to leave! Gnolls could be around any corner,” he hisses, his fellow companions sucking in a sharp breath of air, but the little Druid makes no move to leave. Instead, she holds her hand up, as if to signal them all to stop. He doesn’t know when she became such a force within the group, but her presence was commanding, and everyone froze.
Never in a thousand lifetimes could Astarion predict the actions of the odd elf next. She sat on the blood-soaked ground, unfazed, as she rests the creatures head in her lap. It’s gentle, so gentle that Astarion can’t remember a time he’s seen something cared for so delicately. Then, the Druid starts to hum. It’s an unfamiliar tune, probably something from the Underdark. It’s whimsical and a little haunting in its cadence.
Astarion realizes he has been holding his breath, a lump forming in his throat. He would have killed the creature. A gnoll ripping out from its body would have been a gruesome nuisance. It would have been a mercy. He’s never seen mercy like this, comforting, safe, and so incredibly sad. Why is he suddenly so overwhelmed with his own sadness? Why is she treating such a disturbing creature with such… compassion?
She continues to pet the wounded animal, its fate sealed long before the party stumbled upon the scene. Its eyes are closed, breathing soft and even as she continues to hum. He notices her eyes are closed now too, with a furrowed brow and slightly scrunched nose as she sways back and forth, rocking the animal to its final sleep.
All the companions are still, watching something so intimate feels like an intrusion. It’s as if the Druid is saying goodbye to her familiar, not a random hyena found on the side of the road moments before.
Astarion notices things about her he’s only noticed in passing before, but it’s as if he is really seeing her for the first time. Her hair, he thought it was black, but he can see where the sun hits her that it’s a deep blue. It’s falls down her back in loose waves, swaying back and forth with her movement. She has freckles forming on her shoulders and across her nose and cheekbones, unusual for a Drow, but emphasizing the time she has spent in the sun, potentially hurting herself in her goal of helping others. Her skin, pale and scarred, looks soft and smooth under his gaze. He thought it was strange a Drow could be as white as him, but she’s not. Her skin is a pale purple.
She is graceful. She’s beautiful.
Astarion hasn’t found anything beautiful in quite a long time. He doesn’t know what to do with these emotions, how to keep playing this flirtatious game of manipulation. Was it even working? Were the soft smiles he read as bashful really just her placating his advances? Druids are wise, despite their carefree lifestyle, he had forgotten that it seems.
A tear falls down her face as the hyena takes its final breath, slow and soft, before going limp in her arms.
“May Eilistraee guide you to peace,” she whispers, a tear falling off her cheek to the animal. Taking a moment, she lays its head down, and flowers appear around the body. Standing, she sniffs, before rolling her shoulders back and standing straight. Her gaze hardens as she reaches for the weapon her side.
“Let’s go deal with these creatures before they take any more lives.”
Her demeanor has shifted completely, her once kind eyes now set on vengeance. Revenge. Standing up to fix the unbalance created here, to bring justice to these animals who cannot do it themselves.
Astarion thinks he would follow her anywhere.
The thought is quickly shaken away with a feeling of dread in his gut, no. He has too much going on, avoid Cazador, avoid growing tentacles, and gain unprecedented power. There’s no room for a kindhearted druid with stars in her shining purple eyes to distract him.
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One of my absolute favorite tropes is
“We have taken the one you love most!”
“Oh, have you? Good fukken luck lmao”
*distant screams of kidnappers as loved one escapes*
or the flipside:
“We’ve kidnapped you!”
“You are in so much trouble. You are in so much fucking trouble. You are in the most trouble ever, oh my god.”
*DOOR EXPLODES INWARDS AS LOVED ONE ARRIVES*
and the alternate:
*vehicle pulls up, door opens, person is shoved out, door slams, vehicle screeches away*
“Did you get kidnapped??”
“For a minute yeah”
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