It's the voice. It's what He says YOU and only YOU directly into your ears.
Or "fanfics, audios and self esteem building"
Let me explain.
There's an addendum to be had on the matter of where we go for escapism, when it's stories or fanfics that then become books if that experience of disappointment in current life, frustration and longing is shared enough (like in the case of twilight and fifth shades).
I seem the only one vocally noticing when one writes a self insert is because of their need ultimately to feel special, chosen by the character for whatever reason is desirable to them (usually tall, dark, handsome, immortal or thereabout and wealthy but not ostentatiously because money exists as preventative from problems).
But what hit me recently, and admitedly late, relates to audio. And the baldur's gate 3 people who fell hook line and sinker for Astarion might probably back me up on this because from what I understand, as someone who hasn't played and doesn't even know the game but got still hit by the way the pale elf got into the zeitgeist (at least of nerdy people whl play d&d old fashionably around a table monthly) is that most of the heavy lifting and heart throbbing is due to the work of Astarion's voice actor Neil Newbon.
Now, audio is a peculiar thing, go check out GoneWildAudio on Reddit and see for yourself the quite literal mind🦆it can be to have someone, speaking in your ear, addressing YOU and then go convince your brain that is *not* an actual human referring, adoring, and talking to YOU.
First: audio recordings have been around a little over 150 years. So in a way you'd think we haven't evolved to understand the difference between a recording and someone there who really whispers in your own ear.
But then again, film shocked the first time they saw the locomotive but nowadays no one would dream what's in their TV is actually part of their surroundings. And to that I argue: audio has no frame. Nothing physically breaks the illusion like the screen and its separation from your actual surroundings.
Audio doesn't have that. Put on headphones, close your eyes and with a good quality equipment (or binaural) it's freaky what audio can give the impression to your brain that's going on.
Now personal vulnerability moment: years ago I went into a rabbit hole that led me to the work of a certain GWA Voice Artist. I was writing a paper and supposedly "researching and studying" like a good observer of the human condition when I suddenly found myself nothing short of addicted to sound in the form of their very unique specific voice. to the point I took it upon myself to try and understand what kind of ton of bricks hit a performer when they share something seemingly personal and vulnerable... Via audio. Which as said above, doesn't have a defined frame that separates it from how our brains differentiate everything else that affects any of our other senses in reality. Let's just say that I realised the experience of someone whose voice presented male is vastly different from someone like me whose voice was coded femme. And that's because cishet men don't know how to respectfully interact with the subject of their porn. At least that's what I saw in my brief but intense experience as a virtual sex worker, basically.
But beside the point: voice and sound create such a good illusion because of how many more human facets come through with timbre, every breath intake, every exhale, all those imperfection that communicate "human".
Now here's where it gets tricky: there is an agreement on the swoon-worthiness of words spoken to YOU about YOU in Your ear. How "unique, amazing, exceptional, beyond whatever he dared to imagine You are, how You affect his entire world and way to see at every human after you who doesn't hold a candle to your being". Which reflects in the popularity of audio and I suspect justifies the success of Astarion beyond the video game world like, to my knowledge, no character had breached before.
But.
What struck me is one specific effect Audio has on people, and I mean beyond the physical effect of the rightfully horniness. I refer to:
self-confidence.
Please consider this an invitation to confirm or deny, but after spending days, listening to a voice telling you how amazing, and special, and sexy you are, how crazy you drive him/her/them and how they only have eyes for you, don't you start to walk a little bit taller? Head a little bit higher? Hips a little bit swayer?
And this is to say: I don't think most people have the ability to do that for themselves, to write themselves into self inserts and yet being able to praise themselves like they clearly yearn to. And audio then becomes I guess like you're masturbating with someone else's hand voice?
Btw: again kudos to fanfic writers in the Astarion realm because at least they are a step ahead the last fandom I checked and if not praising their self insert enough (ever for me, but maybe I'm just a praise slut) they definitely spend more time in the pale elf's head than I ever witnessed in the last twenty or so years I've read (and occasionally written but I will forever deny under torture) Fanfiction
In this air, if you are looking to disconnect from reality with amazing heartfelt smut go check our @again-please and @fangswbenefits ❤️❤️❤️
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Familiar Rapport (Natasha)
HERE IT IS FINALLY raaah! I wrote it on Monday but damn if recording the audio didn't take me FOREVER. But please enjoy Nat being sick and Tony being a sarcastic asshole. (Because I am weak for Stark Sass). Audio under the cut.
It’s past 9 and Steve is still here.
He’s asking for more information on Natasha’s new project and she is rushing through her explanation. Which only causes more confusion.
She’s listing off tasks for a third time when she notices her voice starts to tinge with congestion. She pauses mid-word, gaze flicking to Steve.
He looks at her, pale brows knit, “What? Something wrong?”
She gives her best vacuous chuckle hoping it will disguise a shiver of her lips. “I was just thinking it might be easier to show you.”
She pivots, socks shushing across the plush rug stretching across the central room of Stark Tower. She bends to the table centered between the chairs and picks up a tech pad.
Steve chuffs, “I think you have too much confidence in me being able to understand this baloney.”
Natasha squints at him, her lips curving in a wry smile, “Baloney?”
“P…people don’t say that anymore?”
The grin stretches in amusement. “If Captain America says it, it might make a comeback.”
She powers the pad on and swipes through the screens, showcasing visual details to Steve. He leans close and she instinctively holds her breath for a moment before realizing it’s pointless. Steve can’t catch it anyway. As his eyes skim the pad, she lifts a curved knuckle to her nose, tapping it just hard enough to chase away a lingering itch. Steve doesn’t notice. Fuck, she wants to sniffle so bad.
Steve is pointing at the pad, brows raised expectantly. What did he just say? Rghh, it’s so hard to focus on anything but the creeping sensation crawling through her sinuses. The itch just won’t stop, and it’s going to be completely obvious if her nose runs. She has to sniffle. Just one…maybe he won’t notice…
She risks it, sipping air with the barest…tiniest…
*snf*
Her nostrils flare wide but also up. In an extremely pronounced way. As if her face was a map of lines pointing straight to her nose’s announcement of her hitching breath. Fuck. Steve’s eyes flick to her and her lips tighten. He can’t know--he can’t know. If Steve realizes she’s sick, he’ll put a halt on this project. Natasha may have final say in most things, but Steve will absolutely round up the entire team to get her to lay the fuck down.
Nope. Not happening.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she snaps. Steve’s lips crimp but he doesn’t frown. He’s too graceful for that. He just nods and says “Alright.” He doesn’t mention the congestion in her voice and Natasha hopes maybe she sounds less stuffy than she feels.
She mimes a startle and pulls out her phone, “One minute.” She sticks it against her ear which allows her to turn away from him and wander a few steps. Thank fuck. She starts speaking Russian, pretending to have a conversation about a crisis while she saunters farther away, toward the frosty bay windows.
She can feel the chill from the winter wind against the glass, snowflakes kissing the window only to drop down and pool below solidifying into icy daggers.
The sudden chill has Natasha wrapping her bare arms around herself, shuddering. Her words begin to spill, she’s speaking with the un mistakable thickness of a person about t-to…
“H’kX!” She squeezes her shoulders, her neck, clenches her jaw, slams every wall down around herself before releasing a barely audible, “Hrt’KngT!” A small puff of breath escapes after and that does not go unnoticed.
Steve whips his head toward her. “Did you…”
She blinks at him, giving him her best, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about’ look. She knows it works. It al ways works. Steven looks abashed and refocuses on the pad, “Nothing.”
Damn right nothing.
She eases back toward Steve and pockets the phone, screwing her face up in concern-- hopefully convincing despite the cloying of her nose, the pink of her cheeks…
“Oh, Steve, I think Bruce needed your help with something.”
“He did?”
“Yeah,” she hands him the tech pad. “Why don’t you take this and show him the plans--he can help you and you can help him. Win win, hm?”
Steve tilts his head, apprehension painted all over his features.
Natasha points at the pad, “Go.” She thrusts the finger at the door.
Steve mutters something, but with another shoo from Nat, he does amble away.
Oh thank fuck because as soon as hhh she hears hhhh-im l-leave…”hih-AH!” He’s gone, fina--IEXSTTchh!!” She groans as she finally surrenders to the-- “HieTNKgshh…”
“Bless you.”
Natasha spins, eyes widening when she sees Tony standing askew next to the table. Her teeth chafe her lip in frustration. No one sneaks up on Natasha--damn this cold messing with her in unfathomable ways.
“How are you handing it?” Tony asks offhandedly.
“Handling what?”
“The cold.”
Her voice quakes. “What cold?” Damn, she can lie better than this. This is pathetic. Her cold symptoms are making her look disingenuous. She is fine, she just…needs to sneeze a lot and it won’t…fucking…stop. That doesn’t mean she isn’t fine.
He snorts, swaying toward the table in a sashay that rivals her own. “I heard it keeping you up last night.”
She latches a glare on him. “Why were you up last night?”
Tony plucks a square tissue box from the shelf next to him, “Oh, the usual. Binge drinking. Learning quantum physics. Being generally brilliant.” He holds out the box to her, taking a step forward.
Natasha holds up her hand, “Don’t.” Tony hesitates at the look on her face, lowering the box. “Don’t even come near me. I don’t want to give this to you.”
Tony lifts an eyebrow. “Is that the only reason? Because you talk as if I didn’t already catch this.”
Her eyes spread, “You were sick?”
He tosses it to her and she deftly catches it. At least her reflexes aren't in the trash.
“Still am.”
Natasha runs forked fingers through her hair, parting her copper waves, “Wow you are way better at hiding it than me.”
“No I’m not. I just know what hiding it looks like.”
Her lips crimp and she droops, letting her entire body melt into the chair. She tips her forehead onto her fist and sighs. “I’m so fucking tired. I just want to lay down and moan.”
Tony leans against the wall, folding his arms in his very Tony Stark way. “Then do it.”
Natasha chuffs, “I can’t. If anyone sees me taking time off. Slacking? They’ll know…”
“That you’re not perfect?”
Natasha’s head jerks up to glare at him. Tony rolls his eyes. “You’re not perfect, Nat. None of us are. You may be able to kid Cap. Bruce. The whole team--but you can’t hold them in forever.”
She rolls her eyes. “I can try.”
“But you shouldn’t.”
Another glare, and if looks could jump kick you in the face, Tony would be on the floor. She can’t hold the glare for long though. Her eyes are already glassing over, face flushing with a pink tinge. “H’kNG!” Hhhh-dammit--Hah!” Her shoulders curve, her fist sliding across her cheek to pin her nose, “H’ISXht!”
Tony sighs, his shoulders sagging with the breath, “I’m gonna put on soup. For both of us,” he iterates. “You go lay down. Watch one of those nature documentaries you like.”
“I don’t like nature documentaries.”
“I was being nice. I know you watched Marley and Me when you thought we were all asleep.”
She stiffens, “I only watched that because Owen Wilson looks familiar!”
“You know Owen Wilson?”
“No, but I’ve seen…” Lines crease her eyes and her vision warbles. She sips a breath, shoulders rearing as she snarls into a quickly cupped palm, “Hat’TSHieh! Hk’TZSH!!”
“I can text Mr. Wilson and ask him, but I think he’d agree with me that you need to rest.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“You’re exhausted.”
“Fuck you.”
“No thanks. You had your chance.”
Natasha throws herself to her feet and groans, not unlike a teenage outburst. She inwardly scolds herself for it. Being sick? It sucks. It makes it even harder to keep a cool head. Especially when Tony’s being a little shit.
“Fine,” she wipes the air with her hand and strides toward the hall, “I’m going to rest.”
“Thank. You.” Tony glides toward the kitchenette and Natasha doesn’t even fight the fact that he technically won this battle. But she’s so exhausted, she really doesn’t care.
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