#starcunin

&&. THE BAG OF BONES ！☠︎︎ ┆ ┆ 𝐈𝐍𝐁𝐎𝐗 。

@starcunin sent:

❛ Puck, darling—you’re very pretty . . . but you stink worse than an old, rotten corpse. Bathe—then get back to me. ❜ ( idk what possessed astarion to need to send this, but it’s happening lol )

𝐮𝐧𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬。

          A KICKED PUPPY. That's what Puck looks like right now. A doe-eyed, deeply wounded, kicked little puppy. His mouth downturns into a pout, tail droops. The dog-like cowlicks atop his head seem to wilt & everything. 

It's not like he doesn't know he smells bad, but it's still not pleasant to have such a fact pointed out. Especially not by someone who is already dead.  

          ❝ Says the corpse . . .  ❞ he grumbles childishly, as if he doesn't know Astarion smells nice. There's a hint of citrus to his scent. Puck has always liked the smell of citrus. Of course, with his nose like a canine's, he can still sniff out the death hidden under Astarion's cologne. But unlike most people, he likes that smell, so it doesn't bother him.

          ❝ Apologize for being rude to me then maybe I'll consider it. ❞ With that, he sniffs indignantly, arms crossed over his chest. But then an idea forms. He flashes the vampire a sly grin.

Sometimes he just needed to lie in bed well past his waking up time. Today was one of those days. He could hear his other companions waking up one after another, chatting with each other over breakfast, getting ready to face the day, but Amay couldn't get himself to move. He stared at the sunlight that peeked in through the curtains, watching particles of dust float around the rays of light. He hadn't been awake for long, but he couldn't stop himself from wondering what was Astarion doing.

I should go join him.

With great effort, he peeled the blankets off of him and dragged himself out of bed, not before first spending a few seconds snuggling said blankets as he curled up into a ball. Everything was so soft; the bed, the blankets, the pillows. He had almost forgotten what luxury felt like after spending all that time sleeping on the floor, waking up to bugs in his tent.

He took it one step at a time. First, clothes. He pulled at his hair as he walked to the wardrobe, wondering how it looked. He made a mental note to take a look at it before stepping out. 

Amay combed through the clothes, looking for the shirt he's been wearing for what felt like ages, then he stopped. Astarion's old shirt. He had changed clothes now that they weren't in the middle of nowhere and could actually go shopping, but Amay had stayed wearing the same old plain clothes. He understood the need to upgrade armor, but his camp clothes were a different matter. He also found it a bit overwhelming whenever he looked at clothing shops. What was his style? Did he even have one? Everyone else in camp did, but his clothes had been picked for him his whole life and all he knew is that he wanted something comfortable.

He ran his fingers through the ruffles on the neck line, remembering how the shirt looked on Astarion. He remembered how he offered it to him that one night, even though they didn't have access to much of anything back then. He wondered how he cleaned it. His smile faltered for a moment and he smacked his hands against the sides of his face. Stop.

Instead of going for his old worn white shirt, he grabbed Astarion's. Once on him, he tucked it in. He pulled it back out. He tied a knot around the waist. He let it just be. He couldn't decide what looked better, or if it looked good on him at all. It looked so good on Astarion, but it was clearly a size or two too big for him. He rolled up the sleeves above his elbows like Astarion did and tucked it in again,running his hands on the fabric to smooth it out. Was the neck line too low? Not like he had much on his chest to show off anyways, all you could see through the strings that laced the collar together was the dip of his ribcage and the scars that decorated his skin. 

He poked at his bones, and when he heard the doors open behind him he jumped, the sudden noise startling him before he calmed down again at the sight of Astarion. 

` oh, she does her best to keep a straight face. to receive the flattery like a fancy lady wooed by a gentleman's sensuous words, like a kiss to the hand. and she manages it for a moment, before her face splits with the power of a great smile and a giggle, rocking forward in her seat with the mirth of it. pretty words from a pretty boy, and it warms her heart, such that the urge to squish his cheeks is almost overpowering.

it's almost like she's looking at a stranger in the mirror, a shell of who she used to be. but it was better then looking at her reflection and seeing bhaal's chosen. the person she had been, who willingly carried out murder after murder for their god, for their father. she needed to look different. morgana misses the purple tresses through her fingers, but ... the white strands that fell across her forehead felt more her then anything else. it felt right, when everything else about her didn't.

“  when you look at me,  i feel seen.  i feel like you see past everything i’ve always surrounded myself with to try and protect my heart.  no one has ever looked that deeply at me.  ”  

The fire within him spread across every inch of his body, lighting up every inch of him with pure magic, the sensation playing a dangerous game of tightroping on the line that separated euphoria with destruction. Joy mingled with a hint of sadness, and that helped hold back the intensity of his emotions. They clashed among each other inside him, every blow they took making it harder to breathe, and he was never sure which would come out on top. Sometimes he wondered if he would be able to feel that pure happiness he once felt, or if he was now doomed to always hide a note of melancholy behind it. Logically, he was over it, he understood what had happened, why it happened, it was in the past . . . but his heart was having a hard time letting go. 

Numbing out his feelings had been a tactic for survival before; if he didn’t give them anything, they couldn’t hurt him. So they would laugh, they would tease, they would lash out, but he’d remain expressionless. It’s why he cut off his tail. Now that he knew more about himself, the control he once exerted over his emotions was a bridge into controlling the fire within him, or at least attempt to control it enough as to burn everything but specific targets. Those who matter.

All that control didn’t exist around Astarion, though. He could feel the way he lit him up from the core of his being, the fire that was him growing wilder at the mere sight of the vampire. It rhythmically pressed against skin at the same pace of his heart, and the faster it beat the hotter he would burn all over. The glow around his eyes turned a brighter shade of yellow as he listened to the other, and he could hear himself in Astarion’s words. He, too, knew something about surrounding oneself with walls to keep everything out. Once he had been desperate for connection and let people slip in through the cracks – he pulled them in through the cracks, only to then reinforce his defenses to protect his heart when he found himself bleeding. With his walls high as ever, Astarion still managed to disarm him with just his eyes, and he would have to put great effort into avoiding to lean into the other’s touch. For all the bleeding he caused, he still made his heart beat in a rhythm he had become addicted to. It wasn’t the adrenaline of a bad decision, or the fear of looking at a devil in the eyes, it was something else that slowly had become strong enough to override the ache that had overtaken him not too long ago. 

He held Astarion’s hand in his own, fingers intertwined, his thumb caressing the side of the other’s palm. No one has ever looked that deeply at me. Amay squeezed his hand, his eyes drifting away from the other’s for a brief moment as he brought the pale hand to his lips, pressing a kiss against the delicate skin.

“Others always looked at me like I was the dirt beneath their shoes.” That was what was waiting for him once this was over, one way or another, he would be dragged back to hell if he didn’t figure out a way to claim his freedom. It’s a question that plagued him ever since they set foot on the city; what now? He had made his peace with the fact he had to go back to Cania, that that was where he belonged, but with every caress and affectionate words from Astarion he grew more and more hesitant. The future was uncertain, and it filled him with dread. “But whenever your eyes are on me, I feel like I’m the only person in the room.” He lowered his gaze to the pale hand in his grip once more, one claw gently pressing against the skin to draw circles on it. “I am glad that . . . you feel something similar when I look at you. You’re not just a pretty face to look at. You’re so much more than that to me. You always have been.” He began to trace the strokes for love in his language on the pale skin in his hands but stopped himself midway, a wave of shame hitting him. “Not saying you are not pretty to look at, though.” 

He fell silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on Astarion’s hand as he was lost in thought.