me as a youtuber making thousands of dollars off of video essays paraphrasing the Wikipedia articles for horrific travesties throughout European and Asian history: uhh okay I’m not even gonna TRY to pronounce that one 😂
hey girl. did you know that it’s okay to never fucking forgive them? that no part of you is required to pretend to be okay with all that stuff that never should have happened to you? that you’re allowed to be angry for all ways you were stolen from you? okay, just checking. i love you.
I think more people need to learn the phrase “I don’t know enough about that to have a strong opinion” its literally a cheat code for awkward conversations
People think Nico’s the clingy one because he has abandonment issue from the whole thing with Bianca, until they see Will sit for one hour in front of a IM just to reassure Hazel that “He’s doing fine! I promise! He is eating well and his sleep is improving! I’m keeping track of his Underworld fever, I swear to my father’s name he’s doing fineeee—”
It’s really fun spotting liberals who spend way too much time on this website and have convinced themselves that the transgender commie bloggers have somehow made imperialist jingoism an oppressed minority position and not like, the dominant strain of political thought in every western country on the planet
Astarion in Early Access: “Hahaha yes I’m very charming and deceptive and evil and sex is so much fun and I really don’t care about anyone.”
Astarion in the Full Game: “I haven’t had bodily autonomy in 200 years and I’ve forgotten how to be intimate with someone beyond using it to lure people to their deaths and I have so much trauma regarding sex and I seduced you because it’s what I’ve had to do to survive for literal centuries and I needed you to be on my side but I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you but you’re so kind and amazing that I fell anyway and I’m terrified of real emotions but I want *us* to be real because you deserve it and I really care about you but I need you to help me because this is all so new and I’m so scared but I want this to work and I-”
There is a profound holiness that can only be experienced in the circle of a lover’s arms. Astarion does not know this.
He finds safety, but not shelter. The wavering sense of security that comes with having sidestepped a hidden blade while knowing the next strike is close behind. He is safe from you here, tucked neatly into your bedroll with a mouthful of blood and wine.
You swoon when he calls you. Lover. Pet. Dearest. The warmth under your skin tells him he’s done his job, set his hooks so deep you wouldn’t dare turn on him, but there’s always a chance. To do so now would be a killing blow for you, he thinks, and another nail in someone else’s coffin for him.
Are you stronger than that? He watches your chest rise and fall in the firelight, restless, placing his hand over your heart. Could you resist him, shake his crafted charms and discard him? Is he safe here, or should he wake you and whisper rehearsed pillow-talks until he’s sure you’re all his?
These lies are too easy, and they roll off his silver tongue and into your mouth with deadly precision.
Until they’re no longer lies, and he finds himself choking on all the words that stick to the roof of his mouth and cling to the back of his throat. He can’t spit them out, can’t pass them to you without confronting the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. You mean it when you kiss him, and your bedroll isn’t safe.
The inherent danger of it all is not a thrill. There’s something in your eyes that he craves, something raw and vulnerable that you’ve never shared with anyone else. Should he run? Kill you now and never look back?
Oh, but he’d miss you. He’d miss your kisses, the smell of your skin on his, the warmth of your bed. The fear he feels is nauseating; he’s made a fatal misstep, and he imagines he’s seconds away from meeting his end. You have your hooks in him, threaded between his ribs and rooted in his lungs, his heart.
He feels as though his veins are full of tar. Heavy and pulsing with too much effort, something he hasn’t felt in hundreds of years. The weight draws him down and into your arms and he’s drowning, panicking as your touch does exactly what he never wanted it to do.
But you circle your arms around his waist and hold him, nothing more. No wandering hands, no ulterior motives. You want nothing, even though he feels compelled to offer you something.
Or is this shelter? He wraps his arms around you and accepts the fate he’s waving for himself. You are safe in the way a familiar bed feels invulnerable to the evils of the world, and you are shelter where he needs it most.
