Somebody Needs To Write For (actually Inclusive) X Black Reader Fics. Too Many "neutral" Fics Are Written

Somebody needs to write for (actually inclusive) x black reader fics. Too many "neutral" fics are written (often unintentionally) as white coded far too often. I can't even always relate to the x black!reader fics because I'm half black and half white so there still plenty of descriptions and such that are almost as unrelatable for me. If any body has some good author recs send them my way please 🙏🏽

imma sound like a bitch when I say this. But too many of y’all are walking around with main character syndrome when ur barely npc’s. When I or any other writer clicks that draft open and starts crafting a story, we are not thinking abt a random user on here out of hundreds or thousands. Y’all got the whataboutme effect so bad that you believe if a story isn’t tailored and crafted specifically for YOU, then it’s all wrong. If the reader is bland and baseless, y’all are up in arms about it. If the reader has one too many descriptors, then y’all are pissing ur selves and throwing up bc she doesn’t look like somebody I could care less abt. The lesson today is be grateful for the ppl who pump these fics out for you and stop crying abt it. Y’all pages be empty, desolate, without a fic in sight but full of ‘hot tales’ and discourse. We are tired. We really do not care if you like our readers, character portrayals or anything else. Have a good night and get over urselves.

The question that I think never leaves Astarion alone; Will I ever love?

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disclaimer: credits to original creator/poster of image gif. found on google/Pinterest

Will I ever love?

It is a question that sits heavy on his mind constantly. It weighs like a meal of stale bread and rotten soup on his heart. It makes him nauseous to think about but still the question is always lurking just beyond his thoughts of blood and revenge. Sometimes it can penetrate the sanguine veil that blocks his inner most thoughts from his bestial urges.

When that question starts to haunt him, he finds peace in you; whether that be your arms, your bed, or simply your presence, he finds peace. It’s usually short lived because the moment you’re gone it comes right back and he’s seeking you out once more.

A part of him thinks that he will find love when you willingly let him slip his fangs deep inside of you. The other part, the one that reminds him far too much of his abuser, tells him that he’s foolish for ever thinking such a thing. No one could look upon this pathetic excuse of a vampire spawn and find love in the cold sarcastic shell of a man that stares back. No one could look into his criminal crimson eyes and find safety in them. No one could allow him to touch them and delight in the biting freeze that comes with. No one could ever love Astarion so why would he ever find it himself?

You know his battles far too well having fought similar ones yourself. You know the torment that he faces when he thinks no one can see. You know the agony that he feels when he comes to you like a whipped dog and meekly asks for your affection. You know the warmth that spreads into his unmoving heart when you smile at him. You know it all because Astarion is a terrible liar and an awful actor. The rogue is good at being convincing, undoubtedly so but it only lasts so long. Maintaining the facade of arrogant noble born elf fails when you show him kindness and respect. When he does slink over to you and attempts to play it off as a promise of a passionate night with your lover, you can only smile at him. Agreeing to see him later, you allow him to maintain his dignity and let the others think that you’re ravenous for each other. You are, make no mistake about that but it is the gentle touches and soft intimacy that fill your nights together. The nights that he feeds from you rarely end in sex anymore but instead with him lying on your chest, arms wrapped tightly around you, and your fingers softly twirling his tousled curls. His eyes are closed, the long lashes tickling your bare skin and his breath comes out in small warm puffs. His nimble fingers flex against your skin, kneading at your back and sides like a content cat. His body is curled around yours, causing your legs to be tangled together and impossible to move. The complete entanglement of you two proves to be what the question desires to cease its grip on his mind.

Will I ever love?

Astarion thinks that he will. With your fingers gently brushing against the edges of his ears and smoothing down his curls, he thinks he might have already found his answer. With your assuring words and sweet whispers of adoration, he thinks he knows the answer if you were to ask him.

“I love you, astarion. Full heartedly and without hesitation, I love you,” you murmur into his silver strands when you think he’s finally fallen asleep. The only give away that he’s not is the way a small smile pulls on his lips when he nuzzles into you.

♡𝔅𝔯𝔢𝔱 ℌ𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔞𝔫𝔡 ℌ𝔦𝔰 ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔐𝔞𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔩𝔦𝔰𝔱♡

𝕱𝖎𝖈𝖘

Helping Hand (Bret hart x Black reader)

Warmth (Bret Hart x Reader x Steven Regal)

Upstairs In the Princess's Room (Luther Root from Lonesome Dove x Reader)

More of UITPR

No Worries (Bret Hart x Valley Girl reader)

Homecoming For The Cowboy (18+) (Luther Root x Reader)

After The Show (Bret Hart x Reader)

ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕟𝕠𝕟𝕤

NSFW Bret Hart headcanons

SFW Alphabet

Randall the Demon Collector x Bimbo Reader (18+)

The Memory of Shadows

So here we go, the sad Astarion x Reader/Tav fic that made me sad when I wrote it. I've not included a named or gendered tav, so hopefully everyone can enjoy... or not enjoy as the case may be!

Gender Neutral Tav/Reader x Astarion

CW: Grief/mourning, death, depression, suicidal thoughts

He wakes. He takes a moment to look at the gossamer red fabric that drapes over the bed, feels the plush, velvet cover under his fingers, he trails them up to the pillow next to him, its cold blankness always an aching reminder. He hates it and he’s not even sure if it still smells of you, there’s so little of you left. Time is doing that, you slip away from mortal memory, becoming lost to the status of mythical hero, rather than living, breathing, flesh and bone. Like a dull knife forcing its way back into his heart, he aches, everything hurts - though he’d never admit to it.

You’re in books, there’s songs about you, about all of them: brilliant Gale, fierce Lae’zel, clever Shadowheart, noble Wyll, excitable Karlach, even Astarion gets a look in as wily. And you, you were the hero, the glorious leader who led them to victory, who saved Baldur’s Gate. You have the starring role. It seems though, to him, the more that is written and said about you the less real you become. He’s scared of that, you’re shimmering before him, your face drifting like shadows, the memory of shadows. Oh he has paintings of you, they’re all over the house - he put them back up after it became somewhat bearable - but they’re a frozen piece of you, not the real thing. They don’t capture the way your mouth would twitch before you smiled or laughed, the way your eyes sparkled with delight when he had managed to pick a lock or the warmth of your hands when you took hold of his.

‘How long has it been?’ he thinks as he finally gets to his feet. ‘50 years, 80, 100?’ He wrote down the day in a diary, but that too has been lost to this house and he’s not sure if it really matters. Why would it? Knowing there’s a special date to acknowledge your passing doesn’t make any other day hurt less. He’s alone, more so than ever. Gale is gone, Wyll is gone, Lae’zel is gone, Shadowheart passed a few years ago… There’s just him and Halsin and Jaheira, and he’s never exactly been close with either of them. Halsin used to visit when you had passed, you had been close with him after all. But he got the sense Halsin did so out of obligation, rather than actually liking him and when they had exhausted all topics of the past - the nautiloid ship, the druid grove, the goblin camp, the shadow curse, moonrise towers, Ketheric, Baldur’s Gate, Orin, Gortash, the Elder brain, you - and he and Halsin were left with an uneasy silence. A silence that lingered on and on and was close to swallowing them up, until Halsin said he would leave Astarion in peace. As though he even knew what peace meant anymore. Now they only meet when someone else dies. What a grim prospect. Who's next? Probably Jaheira, though that won't be a for a while yet.

He moves over to his wardrobe, even this part of the day holds no joy for him. He doesn’t get to hear your teasing comments about how long he spends carefully selecting his clothes or feel your hands wrap around his waist, your chest pressed against his back, the kisses you would trail down his spine. He presses his lips tightly together, not wanting to let out any whimper of pain or cry of anguish. At times, his darkest, loneliest times, he wonders if he would have agreed to let Cazador torture him for all eternity, if it meant he could just have one more day with you. A single day would be worth it. A single kiss, a single loving touch, a single laugh, a single look. He’d make a deal with all the devils in hell if it meant he got to hold you again for one last time. 

He pulls his hand away from the handle on the wardrobe door. He’s too tired for this and he doesn’t want to do it anymore. He’s in hell already, he may as well see if he’ll get a glimpse of you in the afterlife. He walks over to the heavy draped curtains, his fingers curl on the black fabric lined with golden leaves. You probably won’t be pleased with this, but hopefully you’ll forgive him. He's sure you will. And gods, he would love to see you angry because it would mean seeing you again. He'll take anything he can get. He yanks open the curtains. The sun is brilliant, blinding, burning hot and cold, and the sharp, all encompassing light reminds him of your laugh, your wit, your very being. Maybe he’ll get to see you soon.

Literally me rn

I want to write.

I need to write.

I cannot write.

*screams and tears hair*