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maruzzewrites · 6 months

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Every breath you take. - 12

One could think and think, about all the possibilities and all the probabilities, but there would always be one little voice in the back of your head whispering how you weren’t ready enough, how they could reach and take you so easily if they just willed it.

Any plan, any idea, too simple, too complex. Required too much money. And how would you explain to your parents what was happening? Could you trust yourself to be saved by the police, by a magistrate perhaps? But the cold hands of doubt choked you like a snake, waiting for its prey to fall for the honey trap. You were suspended in a limbo of uncertain happenings: your only solace from this malady was now buried deep into the ground, your family couldn’t help you better than he did, and those deranged men still on your tail. Waiting in the darkness ready to jump on your weakened body.

You spent an ungodly amount of time pacing your room, a prison that was closing up on you with every passing second, the walls claustrophobic and thin and breakable. Everything around you felt so unsafe and open to attack, so delicate that one single push into the tender flesh of your house could make it crumble, expose you to any danger.

You felt sick most of the time you spent alone in your room, thought after thought crowding your mind until there was no room for anything but that annihilating dread that made up your life in the last months. You weren’t even sure you were a person anymore, at times all you had were these thoughts of complete, terrible and invincible anxiety that drowned you.

The last visit to that house was weeks ago. It was easy enough to convince the men who gave you the job that you didn’t want to work for them anymore, but their protests were haunting. Demands, threats, and everything in between that made your contact almost beg you to work for them still, but eventually you were informed that you were dismissed. You had no idea why they were so moody over your staying, but the person who informed you revealed, in a concealed way, that it was a form of punishment towards your persecutors.

You didn’t dare to dig deeper.

You were simply grateful not to have an entire crime syndicate running after you, even if you were hunted down by some of the most terrifying men you had ever had the displeasure to hear about.

Your mother, at first, wondered why you left your job. She prodded, asked, inquired in all the ways and all the moments she could find you alone, but she soon enough noticed the way you stopped eating and enjoying your day, how every waking second of your life was dripping of cold sweat and the stench of fear seeped in the cracks of your walls.

Even you, when you looked at yourself in the mirror one day, couldn’t recognize your reflection; skin dead and your face gaunt, your eyes heavy with tears and sleepless nights passed in the darkness, with your shoulders against the wall as if it could save you from a mortal blow.

Your father, who worried in the moment he noticed something was wrong, encouraged you to take a walk with him, to go to work with him just to breathe fresh air into those worn lungs of yours. You attempted this, once, but the weight of the sun on your skin and the touch of the wind lit up every nerve, every jolt of electricity in your brain gave you the signal that you were not safe, not there, not outside.

You needed to be covered by those four walls, in your room that was becoming too tiny and too suffocating, but at least it was home. At least you could pretend there was a place in this city that could protect you as if it was the warm, cozy embrace of your parents when you were still a child.

But that day, that cursed day you accepted to spend with your father while everything was oppressing you, when the very act of breathing was becoming too much, you discovered something that would make you want to abandon everything else and run away. Run until your feet bleed and your legs gave out, under the weight of your weariness.

Your father, working as usual, throwing some glances towards you now and again, received a visit from some young teenager. He looked like the type to look for trouble, and managed to find it easily, but even he was intimidated when he gave your father a letter.

Your father, at that moment, looked aged and tired like you have never seen him. Not even after the longest days, not even after work, but he looked like a man you had never seen before. You saw the image of death when you looked over and tried to understand why that reaction created such a heavy sensation in your chest. Breathing was almost the most unnatural thing to do for you at that moment.

Your father tried to shield the letter from your eyes, but you caught a glance of a threat written black on white. The air, around you, became cold and still like you were suddenly encapsulated into ice and were looking at the world as if it was on the other side, moving in confusing motions of color rather than people actually living it.

And you were not living it either.

You were suspended again, into that sea of uncertainty and dread, and you were drowning. You were drinking in the dark water, and it was like tar scratching down your throat, down your lungs and your stomach, dragging you down into the dark, cold ocean more and more.

Your father was being threatened and you needed to know more, you needed to make sure. If they reached your fiancé, who would stop them from harming your parents? Your friends? Even the simple man talking to you, one day, to ask for the right house down the road. Was anyone safe around you, and were you safe around them? Once again you were sent down a spiral of self-doubt and fear that those men created, those persecutors who poisoned the well so deeply and completely you had no idea how to purify the water again. You felt like you were just destined to sip this poisonous mud for as long as you lived, for as long as you were allowed to live by these men who made you live in terror.

You had to know who was threatening your father. You had to understand what was happening, if you had to go to someone higher, if this thing was becoming too big and too dangerous for all of those in your life. They killed your fiancè, and you didn’t care to look for more concrete proof, you didn’t care if it was just a taunt or simply a way to make the frigid tendrils of fear sneak inside your body, they were the murderers. And if they were, that meant they had restraint until now and you were in more dire danger than ever.

It was almost like a slap that made everything clear when you wanted to keep your vision blurry. That realization after the mourning, the pain, the suffering that they caused you; with every step they were getting closer, and you were staying still like a good, perfect doll waiting for its owners to take control again. And again, in that shop where your father was being threatened, where he was suffering because of you, you started to feel the thoughts in your mind overlap and accumulate from the back of your head to the front, pressing hard against the skull until you felt like you were truly falling into insanity.

There was nothing else but fear, fear, fear, fear. Chanting in your mind the same words over and over again, you were paralyzed by the notion that anyone could die at any moment in front of you, and you could simply disappear from their lives because those men willed it into reality. Because they simply wanted to.

Because they want you.

And the guilt, swelling and pulsating inside your chest; because of you, it was all your fault from the beginning wasn’t it? You were the cause of your own problems, if only you didn’t overstep the boundary they simply wouldn’t have cared and you’d simply be the person coming once or twice a week to clean their house.

And the cycle began where you accused yourself of being the cause of every evil in your life, and then reasoning in your head that it couldn’t be true, they were in the wrong. Who in their right mind could even believe to torment someone to the point of madness and murder, simply for a warm meal on their table? Only someone with no morality left in them could even start to do something like that.

You spent the rest of the day, in that shop, fighting with your own mind to reclaim some sort of sanity. Shooing away thoughts that made you want to puke and scream, that made you pace in the back as your father looked over in complete confusion and with concern coloring his features. What a life you had now; just thinking that there was a time when you could open the door of your room and go out in public without this oppression crushing down on your ribs, on your heart and compressing the air out of your chest.

You wished you could go back to a moment when you felt like your normal self, and not this person devoid of anything different than dreadful terror. Or perhaps, you wished to go in a moment of time in the future when all of this was merely the worst of your memories and you were serene, even happy.

But you lived in the present, in the middle of this terrible affliction and every moment you were living it was squeezing more strength out of you that could hope to recuperate in any way.

You returned home in silence that evening, with your father never leaving your side out of genuine worry for your wellbeing. Your eyes were unfocused on anything, as you mind grasped at every terrifying idea that it could create, clinging for dear life to the horrors that you imagined would happen if those men decided to go for the hunt again soon.

They were not happy, that much was obvious. Maybe they were satisfied for now, with your fiancé out of the way and the spiral you were sent in. Harmless and ready to be picked whenever they wished, you imagined, in their demented heads.

You probably looked terrible, as you walked the few streets that separated you from your father’s workplace. It was relatively near your house, which was something you were grateful for right now, when you couldn’t bear to stay outside even for a second more than necessary. It was just a few steps away, your fake safety that would give you those handful of seconds in complete bliss before the reality of your situation settled down again.

Like every other day during those weeks, you didn’t eat much at all. You dragged yourself into your room where you curled up on your bed, shaking and trembling as your entire body was engulfed in that darkness of thoughts that were more like companions than true enemies at that point. You hated them, desired them to be gone and leave you alone, but they were there like clockwork, ready to embrace you when you were alone.

You fell asleep in complete silence, with your mother’s breath coming from the other side of the door as she worried herself sick. She didn’t enter your room, not now, not anymore, as you had lost your nerves at her more than once in these weeks and she didn’t know how to help. But you could feel her presence in the shadows, and you didn’t even know if you were comforted by it anymore.

It was just another reminder, and that was why you were grateful to be pushed into a dreamless sleep that night.

That was until you heard an explosion coming from the distance.

You woke up instantly.

#yandere jjba #jojo's bizzarre adventures #la squadra esecuzione #yandere x reader #reader insert

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maruzzewrites · 6 months

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nightsky.

astarion reflects upon the nightsky; astarion & karlach | if you want to buy me a ko-fi!

The night moves on with the chatter and the laugher, the stars as only witnesses of a moment of joy among people who had so much to lose, and won.

Astarion stands a bit aside, away from the last remains of a crowd. People chatting, people enjoying an evening without thoughts, and he is reminded every second of what he could never have. He hoped that being away would alleviate the pain, but it lingers around him like an injury never healed.

He dreamed of this moment, these moments, for years. Centuries. And he still cannot shed the weight of what he experienced to enjoy one night like a normal person, without the baggage that comes with being Astarion. He barely even remembers how to be himself, what he would do in these situations if he isn’t the one used to lure one more victim into the belly of a beast.

And around him, everyone is simple. And joyful. Drunk on alcohol that is cheap, and full of food that sat in crates for days and days. Scorned by the druids that swear to protect nature, but their definition of nature is their own, and yet every single one of these people is happy. The rivers of good will run deep, and run far, but never quite as far as necessary for him to be free before mere days ago.

It makes his blood boil to see the serenity with which people go on about their business, about even terrible things they have to endure.

Betrayed, rejected, manipulated, everything under the sun. And yet he is the one who can’t stomach the most mundane of interactions without having to rely on the same old act, the survival instructions he built for his own good during the years.

He can only stay away, nursing his own bottle of wine.

Alone.

That is, until someone loud and warm like the sun he just learnt to enjoy again comes by. She laughs like all the others, maybe with more glee and bliss than anyone else, and she greets him into this night with a toothy smile, “Hey! Why are you here all by yourself?”

Astarion observes Karlach. Tall, imposing, gentle Karlach. The hound of the hells, depicted as bloodthirsty warrior is no more than a docile young woman who can drink someone under the table and has the enthusiasm to burn down a house. Quite literally.

Astarion should hate her. He should resent the way she can just avoid thinking about her own pain, while he can’t even remember who he was before he died. Yet, there is something endearing about the woman that pushes him to not be malicious to her.

Not entirely malicious, more like. He is still Astarion after all, catty and everything, “Maybe no one is good company enough for me, my dear.”

At that, Karlach laughs again. A genuine, deep kind of laughter that could appeal the most arid of hearts, if they are able at all to feel some type of positive emotion anymore. Astarion learnt long ago, vampirism dries up your ability to feel mildly, and everything becomes so much. He cannot even phantom what a pure vampire feels, if just a spawn like him has this experience.

In any case, that laughter both irritates and feeds into the growing affection he could see himself feel now that he is out of his own hell. It is difficult to trust again, to let his soul be soft and open to something that could hurt it again, but Astarion has the feeling that both sentiments he feels towards Karlach come from the same source: her past.

He has been robbed of the wonder one feels for the world, and there she is with the clock ticking inside of her, and she can laugh, smile, love with unbound enthusiasm. She embraces what comes to her when Astarion trembles at the mere thought of exposing his true self again, if there is anything there anymore, if there is anything to be saved anymore.

“Sorry, mate. I need a breather, but I don’t want to be alone.” Karlach breaks his train of thoughts with those simple words. She motions to lay down on the grass, nearby his tent and in his general presence.

“Who said you had my permission?” He asks, a bit annoyed with the newfound company that invited herself into his brooding space.

She chuckles again, a bit more sad now, as if to show once again that his choice is the one that will isolate him. Astarion knows that his actions are not those of someone who will be trusted, liked or cherished, but maybe he wants that and maybe he deserves that. If he doesn’t trust those he travel with, it’s more than natural they will return the same energy back at him, but for now he is exhausted of the pretense and the faking.

Only for tonight, he wishes he could linger in his hurt.

“C’mon! I will be silent as a mouse, promise!” She says, in that whine she usually uses the moment she wants something. Astarion heard it before, when she asks not to be left alone at camp or when she wishes to have one more ration of food before going to sleep. It is always about something harmless, inoffensive whether she gets it or not. She is not selfish, or demanding, but always wanting.

And what can he answer? Can he say no? He considers the options; as if he isn’t already in a precarious situation as a spawn, as if she wouldn’t be favored if it came to the point of being chosen, as if there is much more for him to lose and be left alone to fight whatever it is they need to go against from now on. He cannot have her upset with him, he chooses.

“Alright. Alright. But give me my space and my silence, darling.”

The only answer he gets is an excited, low little laugh that stays in the air long after it left Karlach’s lips. She first kneels down, just to lay back on the fresh grass, as her skin burns and warms up like it usually does. Astarion cannot help but let his eyes wander towards the tiefling after a few seconds, finding her with her eyes filled with stars and a smile on her face.

It is odd, the way the light played and reflected on her content features. The way the stars were bright, small and delicate inside of her and the way her eyes are so lively, drifting from one point to another, following imaginary patterns in the sky.

Astarion doesn’t know what it is, though, that pushes him to ask, “Is it that interesting?”

Karlach turns hear head towards him, surprised. She makes a confused noise as if to ask why he is talking to her, then she grins big and toothy, and answers with a light teasing, “So you don’t want me to talk, but ask me things anyway?”

Astarion is about to tell her to nevermind the question, to simply continue as she is doing, and he looks ahead as he resolves to avoid even thinking about her. But before he can act all puffy about it, Karlach looks back at the sky and sighs, “The stars are just so beautiful. I missed them.”

Astarion stays silent.

He raises his eyes to look over the dark expanse of the night sky, with stars dotting the black and blue with their intense light. The moon, hanging high, shines down into the nearby mirror of water and dances on the surface. Astarion has seen this sight so many times, as the night is all he has ever known in the last centuries, but tonight it’s different.

Tonight, even if with fear in his heart, Astarion walks these lands a free man without the worry of having to return home with a victim or to face some sort of torture. Tonight, the stars are witnessing his autonomy from a power he couldn’t oppose before, but now is merely a memory that lives miles away and won’t reach him easily.

Tonight, he is with people who profess to care for him. It is difficult to understand, to believe and to learn, but Karlach herself roars and acknowledges her immense need for affection and, in doing so, admits her care for others. Astarion can’t even attempt to seduce her, easy as it would be, because that body burns hot like the hells.

A funny thought, one he voices, “They look even more beautiful in your eyes, darling.”

If he cannot seduce her with physical affection, he can attempt to test the waters and do so with sweet nothings whispered as close as possible without harming himself. He sees her giggle at the compliment, he is sure the movement of her arm was supposed to be a light shove, but she rethinks before he is burnt, and her limb simply lays in the space between the two of them.

The gentle warmth coming from her hand, if he didn’t know better he is almost tempted to take it in his cold, dead ones to hold and seep into his flesh. He wonders how it is, to burn from the inside, and to have no beating heart. He smirks both for the reaction he got from her, and because of that bitter thought; his heart beats no more, he is pretty sure. If it does, it’s because of no natural cause.

But Karlach adores and loves, with all her soul, still. Despite the lack of heart, she is kind and sunny like a hot summer day, one you will curse for the heat but will miss once snow starts to settle on the streets. He still has a soul, doesn’t he? No one can take that one away from him.

Could he love and rejoice in the company of someone else, could he learn to enjoy his freedom like Karlach does, despite the years of constant torture weighting on both of them?

He cannot be anchored to the past, he thinks. If he wants to feel this soul wiggle and be moved, he cannot stay where it hurts and freezes. He needs a hot summer day to enjoy after a long, cold winter without sun.

And just as those thoughts start to crowd his mind, Karlach jumps on her feet and stretches her limbs, announcing, “Alright, mate. I’m gonna get something to drink, want any?”

For now, Astarion decides, he wants to get close the only way he knows how. For now, he touches known territory and he will see, eventually, if something new can grow from this sun that decided to revolve around him by chance.

“Bring me some wine, will you? And come back to talk with me, I think I need the company.” He smiles, seductive. Karlach blinks at the suggestion, but she laughs and tells him she will be back soon.

Astarion looks up, at the night sky.

The stars shine bright, lonely, but perhaps there is beauty even in things one knows already, if watched with new eyes.

#baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction #bg3 #astarion #karlach #astarion x karlach

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maruzzewrites · 7 months

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monster & mortal.

second part; ship | the moments right after the crash of the spaceship seen by astarion. cw: mentions of abuse

One has to be unlucky in life if the event that could be defined as the best is being kidnapped by aberrations and infected with a parasite.

However, there was no other definition for what Astarion felt the moment he opened his eyes and he had to get used to the light of the sun all over again.

Strangely enough, it doesn’t hurt him the same way it burned when he attempted to be touched by its rays back in the mansion, it doesn’t hurt as if his skin was melted away by acid. It simply is too much, too sun, and his body forgot the gentle caress of the kind sun.

He shields his eyes with his hand. They’re sensible to the light, but they quickly dart in all directions as he looks all over to this beach with no survivors and plenty of debris. What remains of the spaceship that caught him back in the city lays in a wreckage, part on the sand and part in the water, long tentacles still twitching like a sea monster begging for life.

Little brains on limbs crawl in the distance, as if they are mere animals belonging to this land. Corpses both alien and humanoid are scattered all around. In this absurdity, Astarion finds his normalcy again.

It takes a few minutes for it to truly sink into his mind.

He is awake, out of the prison that is Baldur’s Gate and he is standing under the light of the sun unscratched. He finds his footing again, balancing on his legs after such a high fall is not as easy for the body as one would think, and then he paces around.

The sun feels heavy on his exposed skin, there is fresh air flowing from the sea and embracing him with its careless strength, and the sound of life screeches all around – from bees to seagulls to fast fishes jumping over imaginary arches.

The world turns and, for once, he is part of it.

For once he isn’t busy worrying about what will happen as soon as he returns to Cazador, for once he won’t have to count his blessings if he was fed instead of letting be starved for one more day. And for once, he doesn’t care to know how he has made it, how this is possible.

He ignores the implications of all of this, he has no explanation for it at all. He simply knows that the sun is annoying to withstand after all this time, and he could easily find shelter under the shade of a tree, but he needs that warmth to seep into his flesh and stay there. He wants to commit it to memory, the smell of the salt and the sensation of the sand shifting under his boots.

He isn’t the type to dance around, but he enjoys the moment. He is so tempted to drink the water straight out of the sea to feel it salty and disgusting, if it means it won’t turn into dust under his tongue. He will hunt and feast on rats, but this time by choice and because of need.

No, not need. Want.

That makes him feel himself, that makes him feel alive and wonderful right this instant. It’s the want to have more, to feel this sun and to experience this wind, to eat fruits again and to drink wine until he isn’t himself anymore. It doesn’t matter anymore what he needs, because he needs nothing and it was that need that made him survive.

Now he is alive, he can just want. It doesn’t matter if he will drink blood or not, only if he wants it; and it doesn’t matter if he will lay down to sleep or not, until he wants it, and now he can have it.

It’s incredible how the most unfortunate of event could be his fortune, in the end.

#bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #baldur's gate 3 #astarion

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maruzzewrites · 7 months

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If requests are still available may I request a yandere Ghiaccio please?

cw: car accident, abuse

You have no idea if you can say you've been saved.

You are in Ghiaccio's arms, after your car has been destroyed. The problem is, you know it's been him. You know and you cannot say anything to him.

Your car, in the middle of running, malfunctioned and he was there to save you just like any other time. You were fine five seconds before, and you have no idea how he did it again.

He loves to be the hero, you can see in the way he brags and celebrates himself every time he helped you in some way. His fury subsides, and he craves the attention only you can give him. At first it was simple things, from being there for simple tasks to lending you money from the job he never elaborates on.

You started to suspect something when, at some point, you were victims of way too many crimes that he could resolve in such a convenient, timely way. From robberies, to harassment, even physical attacks. He could help with everything and be there just at the right time.

You were not stupid, you understood at some point it was all a ploy. You didn't know how he did it, but you decided you had enough and confronted him. He got angry, because of course he would get angry like he usually does when he doesn't get his way.

So you jumped in your car and decided enough was enough. You were gone, he could forget about you.

But he made sure you would not forget about him. Not when the car was about to break down with you in it and he, again, came to save you under the eyes of curious people. You were safe into his arms and you never felt more in danger.

And he was grinning, looking at you with those crazed eyes, his small pupils darting towards you from being the red glasses. His curly hair a bit tousled. You would have considered him handsome some time ago, but now.

Now his voice was only a promise of terrors. And he continues to look for praise, "Did you see what I just did? You will have time to repay me."

#jjba #jojo's bizarre adventure #reader insert #ghiaccio x reader #ghiaccio #yandere jjba #yandere x reader

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maruzzewrites · 7 months

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magical touch.

Gale and Tav/Reader use the tadpole and the Weave to have a physical connection. n/sfw content!

It is a night like any other. Under the stars, spent at the campsite where everyone is either resting or taking the time to be friendly when the day is filled with perilous fights of all kinds.

Gale is by his tent, pacing back and forth with a book in hand as he recites another spell he is trying to memorize. So many variations to the same components, and each person may understand only a fraction of them. The way the Weave reacts to each individual is truly a sight to behold and he will never tire to sing its praises.

The only thing that can distract him from his studies is right about to come by. Gale notices them approaching, and he closes the book as soon as he is sure they are coming towards him. He smiles wide and welcoming as he finds a place for his tome and then goes to hold their face, kiss them tenderly in greeting.

The days are so packed with adventures, one may forget to cultivate interpersonal relationships.

He is about to offer to spend some time together that they raise a question that seems promising, “Do you think the tadpole along with the Weave can make us feel the same things, if we try?”

Many others would think the question odd or inopportune due to their circumstances, but Gale is on the same page about the inherent curiosity of learning more and more about magic and its applications. He ponders on the matter before giving an answer, “We can share thoughts and the Weave is powerful enough to blow away entire cities. It is my theory that we can assume magic could deepen the connection between two people infected by the same parasite.”

They nod, and they seem to contemplate the implications of that answer for a moment. They seem almost embarrassed, for some reason.

The cause of that, though, is soon evident when they pose another question, “Do you think we can use it for, you know… Physical matters?”

Gale, once again, ponders on the question. It doesn’t take much to understand what they are trying to imply with their wording, and he can understand the embarrassment linked to speaking of something so intimate where someone else could listen. Gale has to be honest and admit that, now that the idea is in his mind, he cannot really let it go without trying.

Sure, if the experiment would prove unfruitful it could be a bit disappointing, but the eventuality of experiencing something akin to magical intercourse with someone that is not the very essence of magic like it was with Mystra. To be able to overwrite even that small aspect of his past to compose another ode to his new, bright relationship is something that he cannot and isn’t intent on refusing.

“You’re thinking creatively, which is an important and laudable skill to have in life. I suppose we can say something like that could be possible if we enhance our connection,” he babbles and then stops. He thinks carefully before speaking again, “And I wouldn’t want to experience something similar with anyone else. If I can be so bold, would you like to accompany me on this stimulating attempt that could be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for the both of us?”

There is delight in their smile, a silent thanks for understanding immediately what they were talking about and the excitement that comes from a promise over a shared desire. Trying new things, together, is always an event that creates expectations and anticipation, despite one’s attempts to calm their own nerves, and Gale cannot help but share the trepidation that is bubbling up in his chest now.

He clears his throat before inviting them inside his tent, away from prying eyes. He knows their companions would never invade their privacy, but for good measure he does secure the closing of the tent. He hopes no one is too curious about their early disappearance, but he assumes everyone can logic the reason in their minds.

To light the space, now that they’re inside, he uses a simple light spell. Nothing he has to focus on as they attempt to create some sort of connection between their bodies through nothing but their own minds. He casts it on a stone that he finds on the ground, places it where they both can see, and then sits down in front of his partner.

They seems to follow every movement of his, and Gale can recognize something familiar in their gaze: want. It’s the same look he knows he has in his own eyes when he looks at them, but having it directed towards him is flattering and fills him with a warm sense of pride. There is always a sense of lacking within himself, there is always something to demonstrate and to reach, but to be looked at as someone to be reached and wanted is a sensation Gale will never tire of.

To be desired like a peer, how wonderful of a feeling it is. And to be proposed all sorts of new experiences not because it’s the only way things can be, but because there is a genuine desire to share and live through them with him. A feeling a man can hardly go without, once felt.

So they sit one in front of the other, silent for a while, looking at each other with longing.

Then, how he is used to, Gale speaks, “So. Do you want this to be a completely hands off experience or do you wish to hold hands throughout the whole ordeal?”

They seem surprised by the question, and think on it for a moment. Gale understands, because to act like they thought, they probably would have to not touch any part of each other’s body. However, sitting in silence in a small space without even letting their finger brush could be a bit weird at first. Gale supposes he can give his own opinion on the matter, “I would like the experiment to be as genuine as possible. We always have other occasions to hold hands.”

They blink. Then they nod, they say they can do that and sit up a bit straighter than before. It’s their turn to speak, “I’d say we close our eyes and concentrate, yes?”

“Yes. I will guide the Weave to flow between us, and you just follow my lead. Just do what comes naturally.” Gale clears his throat again, closes his eyes and raises his hands before opening just one eye to look mischievously towards his partner, “And no peeking while I do my somatic components.”

They giggle at the joke, a short and melodious sound that adds a touch of light to the whole situation. Gale observes as they also close their eyes, cross their legs in front of them, and then relaxes their body as the usual connection that comes from the tadpoles starts to be created between them.

Gale is a honest man, so he also closes his eyes and starts to motion in accordance with what the Weave asks him to do. His hands move through the air until he feels tendrils of its energy twist all around him, taking hold of his essence and slowly linking it with theirs.

He feels them shifting in front of him at the sensation, and the tadpoles seem to react to the new condition as well. They resonate and, enhanced by the power of magic, Gale doesn’t only share the same thoughts with them. Now, he feels it, he shares the same flesh and bones, the blood in their veins and the beat of their heart. He feels the sensation of the air on their skin, the hard earth under their legs, and the eagerness of a person who knows it worked.

Gale wonders only for a second what it’s like for them to share their body and feel his, before he has to bite his own lip to keep a moan in as something akin to a caress travels up his forearm, from wrist to elbow. It’s a languid movement that sends electricity up his back, not because he’s particularly sensitive in that area, but because everything feels amplified.

Every nerve under his skin reacts, and there isn’t even an actual hand on his body. He tries to do the same, to imagine his own hand reach down and push their body together by pulling his partner in, burying his head in their neck and inhaling their scent.

He feels it so clearly and vividly, so heightened by the connection that he fears he might lose his focus.

One step after the other, they touch and probe at their metaphysical bodies. And pure ecstasy pools up at the base of Gale’s stomach with each touch, with each movement he makes to brush against the shared body, and with the very knowledge that they are coming undone just like him if the little gasps and pants that arrive from time to time are any indication.

They are not even imagining anything complete, just tender and lovely touches that usually come before the event proper. Preparations, if one wants to call them that, and Gale cannot phantom what it would be like to abandon restraints completely and go into the depths of carnal (metaphysically speaking) desire.

But one step at a time. Perhaps next time they will venture further, but magic can be dangerous if one doesn’t learn with graduality and careful consideration of their own limits. Of course, Gale is a prodigy, but he wants to be sure his partner won’t be harmed by this kind of power.

So, for now, he lures them in with teasing touches as promises of more to come eventually. It’s a dance they make in unison, fingertips tracing each other bodies, an arm around the other’s chest, a kiss that barely touches the neck and leaves a wet trail behind. A lot of small gestures that accumulate into that heat that is building up in his belly, rising and rising like a fire ready to engulf him.

Suddenly, he feel the tension snap. A pleasing feeling, familiar, washes over him with a strength he never experienced before. It feels wonderful, to share such a feeling, and he hears from the other side of the tent a delightful noise of bliss in that voice he so dearly adores.

He cannot resist, he has to look. He opens his eyes just barely to look over. They are curling up on themselves, face flushed and sweat running down their forehead. They are still clothed, like he is, but there are the telltale signs of arousal that show just how much they enjoyed the little experiment.

Then suddenly, they also open their eyes and the connection wavers, then interrupts. They have a smile on their face, loose, lazy, and content. On their hand and knees, they approach Gale and throw their arms around his neck to push him down onto his back, playfully.

“Cheater. You said no peeking.”

They laugh together, and prepare for an actual night of passion with each other.

#bg3 gale #bg3 #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #gale x reader #bg3 fanfiction #baldur's gate 3

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maruzzewrites · 7 months

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yandere Tizano and yandere squalo x reader

cw: kidnapping

You honestly thought the problem would have been Squalo, but the true catch was Tiziano.

The first time you arrived in Venice, you were only interested in touristic attractions. Like many others, you wanted also the real experience of the city. So comes two handsome locals, one with bright red hair and the other with sun-kissed skin, and you couldn't reject their invitations to tour the city with those who knew it deeply.

They allowed you to eat local food, to see beautiful views you would never discover alone, and then they would invite you over to their house on the last day of your trip.

There, you fell asleep. You didn't even notice, but you woke up the next day with your train already departed and the two men simply convincing you to stay. They would help you, somehow, they could drive you everywhere you wanted if you just let them.

So you accepted.

And you found yourself in their actual home. Secret, somewhat isolated, and impossible for you to escape from as you observed the shark circling the structure.

But the real problem, when the police came knocking on their door and inform them they were looking for a missing person, was Tiziano. You wanted to let them know you were that person, that you needed help running away, but he did something to you.

"I'm fine. I'm here by my own will."

That's all you said and continued to say. You couldn't let the truth out. The police was confused, but they had to concede you were there and you were calm, talking to them and saying those things even away from the two men.

You were left at that house, with the two of them. And Tiziano commended just how much of a good sport you were.

#jjba #reader insert #yandere jjba #yandere x reader #squalo and tiziano #squalo x reader #tiziano x reader

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maruzzewrites · 7 months

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if anyone wants to send in requests, feel free

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maruzzewrites · 7 months

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may I request Prosciutto with Red no. 5 "I want you to kiss me right now" ? thank you!

cw: emotional manipulation

You begged and begged to be told what you could do for him, so that he won't be angry at you.

You wished you knew the way to his heart without having to consult him, because every time you didn't know, he would frown in that same way that betrayed deep trouble. He would sigh, stay silent, let it stew until you were tense like a violin's cord over the possibility that he will never, ever return to normalcy.

Was it the outfit, this time? Was it the hair? Did you talk to that person too much or not enough? You wanted to be his perfect partner, you want to be looked at with the need to praise, not scold. You didn't want to turn frail under his touch simply because you had to be taught a lesson.

You want to please him, and you want him to ask for your attentions. To name the thing, and you will do it, no question asked.

Like right now? Why can't it always be like right now? When he looked you over, leaned in and whispered a soft, "I want you to kiss me right now."

It is just perfect the way your arms immediately find his shoulders, holding on for dear life, as you give him exactly what he wants and you get exactly what you want.

Why can't it always be this perfect, you think. And then you answer simply, knowing you will have to do more.

#jjba #reader insert #prosciutto x reader #prosciutto #reader x yandere #yandere la squadra

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maruzzewrites · 7 months

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love like you've been hurt.

Astarion reflects upon his growing feelings for Tav/Reader. cw: blood drinking, wrist biting, intrusive thoughts.

“If you need it, you just have to ask.”

A splendid, convenient offer to Astarion. When he was first given the opportunity to drink from their neck, he remembers thinking quick and immediate that the poor fool would be easy to manipulate. If one offers something as precious as their blood to the man who pointed a knife to their throat, before, and tried to sneakily have a bite, after, there is little Astarion can do before taking advantage.

He still remembers the sensation of the skin breaking under the pressure of his sharp fangs, the blood flowing warm and viscous under his lips as he started so suck, lick, and enjoy the flood of life surging all over his body. The blood of an intelligent creature nourishes like nothing else, he learned that night.

In his enjoyment, though, he noticed how they stayed put despite the pain. There were shivers, there was motion, but they never said to stop. It would be so easy to bite off part of their throat and feast on that delicious blood, but Astarion knew that letting that river of good will dry before he could get more wasn’t the most smart of options.

So, that night, he stopped. He thanked. And he promised to feed on animals unless he was offered again.

And he has been, offered again he means.

Once, he even asked to their so-generous traveling companion why they were so invested in feeding him and how they chose the days. It was mostly a provocation, maybe a way to make them admit to some hidden erotic fantasy that could be his in for his usual manipulation, but they looked at him. They thought for a second, then they simply answered, “When you look a bit weaker.”

That was it, if one had to believe their words. The entire reason for their generosity was something as banal as the person traveling with them, the vampire spawn that was about to bite them in their sleep, was looking a bit weaker and they needed food.

Not even asked. There was always the option to let him continue his animal diet, but they went out of their way, every few nights or so, to offer their neck once more. At first, it was convenient and simply a gesture of a fool that Astarion didn’t mind putting to good use. It betrayed a weak will, in his mind, because there was simply no other reason to let a dangerous predator to take a bite from a lamb and hope it won’t get addicted to the taste.

Eventually, Astarion found his in. They slept together, as he assumed someone like them would.

They detected something off, though. Astarion, perhaps naively, never thought that would be possible. Not with the mask he perfected in two centuries of life. He was sure it was nothing though, and he waved away the thought and the worry by answering their questions with his usual charm. He couldn’t allow himself to show how nude he felt when that mask would slip, because that would imply the kind of vulnerability he wasn’t afforded since he was still alive.

So the night passed.

So this specific night comes.

They offer again. And Astarion cannot wait for the moon to rise and the stars to shine, for the fire to crack besides them as his companion will go to sleep and he can again sink his teeth into tender, alive flesh.

“Darling, you will spoil me rotten like this.” He chuckles at his own words, makes sure to drag his vowels with the usual catty inclination he is used to take with people he needs to seduce. They shake their head, but the faint smile on their face sends a signal to his brain he cannot quite explain. It’s not quite that his heart flutters, but he wishes to see that same face again soon.

It’s an odd sentiment for someone like him, who cannot afford it. It’s a pesky little thing, that will pass, and it’s only because they have been so naively kind to someone like him. Someone who could tear their throat apart with a single swipe of fangs, or perhaps his claws could take hold of their delicate neck and open a passage from which blood could flow freely. But he doesn’t need it, he doesn’t want to think about it that way.

He cannot let the monster inside of him win. He will take what’s enough for his survival and cultivate this relationship for his own gain.

He awaits the night as they travel. The Coast is filled with the unknown and the wonders he has never seen since he has been secluded into a caged life, but he cares not to help those who are not useful to his quest. They, instead, are generous not only with him, but with anyone in need. It’s irritating at times, but he must bite his tongue and put a brave face on so that same kindness won’t be denied to him.

Finally, night falls. The camp is quickly set and everyone tends to their own personal wounds, or they converse among each other, some even argue about useless things. At times he feels like this camp life lacks the spunk it had, like when Shadowheart and Lae’zel almost fought, but he isn’t one to be involved so much that he wants to cause trouble.

He is lucky enough the others didn’t demand his head on a silver plate when his true nature was revealed.

Even they are busy with talking, sitting down by the campfire and entertaining Gale as he babbles about something related to the Weave or magic, as he usually does. There is a lazy, tired kind of smile of their face as they listen on, and Astarion finds himself wishing again to be able to see it more often. It’s not even the desire to be the one to cause it, but just the wish to see them content and unbothered by the chaotic mess their life has become.

It's a thought that lingers even after, for hours until everyone decides to lay down for the night and they are there, leg raised as they watch the sky. Everyone else is fast asleep, but they stay up more than usual. Astarion isn’t sure if they remember the promise, but he waits silently by his tent.

At some point, they close their eyes. He waits a few seconds, until their breath seems to even out, and he sneaks out, slowly. From that night, he has swore to be as silent as a church mouse when he is to drink their blood, and he is sure to keep that promise so that he could stay on their good side. He is cautious to make just the smallest amount of noise as he approaches, but their eyes shoot open anyway and they turn their head to look at him.

He is sure he will be scolded or told he is noisy. But they simply shrug, still laying down, and whisper a simple, “Can’t sleep tonight.”

It such a straightforward answer to a question never posed, but they raise an arm towards him in offering. The other hand come to uncover their wrist, and they speak again, “You can drink from my wrist.”

So they didn’t forget at all. Astarion accepts with a sarcastic, “Don’t mind if I do.”

He comes closer, kneels down near their body and they, at the same time, sit up so they will be at the same height. Less awkward, Astarion agrees, but he can’t help the joke, “You looked so pretty on your back, darling.”

They frown, but here again that small smile that guarantees him there is nothing wrong with what he is saying. They won’t push him away or punish him for a word too much, and maybe that was it all along. Maybe Astarion’s defenses are coming down because there is nothing to fear from someone who is showing their neck to you.

Quite literally too.

Satisfied with that explanation, he takes the arm he is offered in his hands, rests a barely-there kiss on the wrist and lets his fangs grow in size as they sink down. Blood rushes to his mouth, wetting his lips and pooling on his tongue, as he drinks up the rusty flavor with his usual abandonment.

Strangely enough, it’s not the feeling of being sated that joins the hunger tonight. He feels a strange rush of compassion, of tension and just a sprinkle of adrenaline as he continues to suck the blood out of the minute veins in their wrist.

He wonders if this is normal. If blood is supposed to give emotions like this when it comes from someone you have more connection with. What could it be, if they were even closer?

There is a small amount of panic inside his chest, but he cannot stop the thoughts of how sweet and tasty it could be to lure someone and drink up their blood after making them hope for something deeper, after developing feelings and betraying them. Even stepping on his own heart would be worth it.

He stops himself just in time, as he feels his jaw clenching down.

He does his best not to let them see how worked up he is in this exact moment. He knows they would freak out, they would see what he truly is and realize that this whole ordeal isn’t convenient for them. He simply can’t have that, both because he doesn’t mind having someone offering blood and because he doesn’t want to lose their support. The only person whose smile, besides his own, he wants to protect, and he is so close to hurt his chances to even be close to them.

But they don’t freak out. Not in the way Astarion thought. They look down at their wrist, at the blood still falling from the two even, small injuries that dig into their flesh, and then they look at him. With their other hand, they reach out and let the tip of their fingers rest on his cheek, without cupping it completely.

It’s a delicate, intimate gesture. The closest Astarion ever felt to someone, and they are barely touching. They blink and ask, “Are you okay? Do you need a bit more?”

Days ago, Astarion would have grinned and took them up to that offer. Tonight, Astarion truly feels his heart flutter and wants to see them smile up at him, and he doesn’t care that they’re kind to everyone, until they are to him too. Until he is included in that generosity.

“No, thank you. I think I will go rest.”

They blink again. Then, they shrug again and the smile arrives. Small, tired, and the last thing Astarion wants to remember of that night.

#bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #bg3 #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion x tav

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maruzzewrites · 7 months

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if anyone wants to send requests for bg3 characters, feel free!

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maruzzewrites · 7 months

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monster & mortal.

first part; casket | the first night after astarion was let out of the casket. cw: abuse.

For a moment, he could swear, he was convinced Cazador had enough of him and decided to let the sun flood into his casket.

But it was simply the light of a candle.

Nothing more than the light of a candle, and Astarion could swear on every inch of his body that his eyes could barely get used to it. In the blur of that moment, when the casket was cracked open, and the frigid air from outside hit him, he didn’t even remember who was the one who grabbed his arm to make him stand up.

“You’ve slept enough.”

He only remembers that, with burning hatred. Hours ago, someone dared to consider his punishment anything like a restful night of sleep. Closed off, inside the walls of wood of the casket, shoulders fitting just barely for the quick way his bedding was chosen.

The stench, still deep within his nostrils, that filled that closed space as the clothes were stuck to the skin. Filth, grime piling up on his skin, he still feels it penetrating every little space it can find, meshing with the cold sweat he gets with every memory returning.

He was nothing more than an animal in a cage too small for it.

Hit after hit, he can feel every ounce of humanity slip away. He doesn’t want to, he wishes to still be allowed softness. He wishes that cruelty was an option, not an obligation that he has to fulfill in order to simply survive.

But then the darkness of that casket returns. The doubt if there will be dirty on the top, if the wood will cave in and bury him alive, if the way his fingers – no, his claws – scratch and dig despite the blood and splinters will free him. Did Cazador enjoy the sound? Or did he forget already? Astarion doesn’t even know which option makes his blood boil more, to be forgotten even by the man torturing him or to have his pain mocked, used as mere entertainment for a sick man.

Perhaps, the truth and the offense are in the middle. Cazador sees this as necessary, as simply a way to make a dog behave.

He saw him wanting to struggle to breathe, craving that lost humanity, as nothing more than routine. While Astarion not only fell into a deep-seated terror of the darkness all around him, of the constraint he was forced in, but also the anxiety that every gulp of air means nothing.

He doesn’t need air. He doesn’t need air.

Every second of that torture was agony, but it was also a reminder of what he is now.

Deep in his brain, after this, there is no doubt anymore. Astarion isn’t an elf anymore, but a vampire spawn that can afford not to breathe, and can afford not to eat, and can afford not to drink.

How can he take pleasure now, in anything, if he doesn’t need it. Will he be deprived of the feeling of a full stomach, of a sated throat, of a restful night and a last breath? Now that he is on his side, curled up into a ball to defend himself, and if he falls asleep with tears still falling down the bridge of his nose or if he stays awake with the terror of being shoved back into that casket makes no difference, what is it worth?

What does it matter, if he doesn’t need it?

If he’s this monster, who doesn’t need it at all, it matters not.

It’s just survival.

He needs to be a monster, after all.

#bg3 fanfiction #bg3 astarion #astarion #baldur's gate 3 #baldurs gate astarion #baldur's gate 3 fanfiction

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maruzzewrites · 7 months

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first hunger.

Gale experiences his first arcane hunger.

The first time wakes him up in the middle of the night.

It is not because it arrives suddenly, it is not the point of view of the unassuming prey being jumped by the hungry wolf. It has been creeping up for hours into the day, malicious like any other type of deprivation one can feel, but Gale wanted to think it was nothing more than a collateral effect.

When he wakes up in his bed, after his body surging up with the same power and hunger as a complex spell being cast, Gale’s logic doesn’t rush to understand but to sate this famished ticking inside his chest. It moves in his body with the same rhythm and cadence of a clock waiting to hit the right time, like the sea caressing the shore waiting for the storm, like the first time a fireball at full speed rained from his fingers and the exhilarating feeling of having done it.

He truly has done it, now.

He isn’t sure what to do, what this beating, living, powerful thing wants from him. It almost makes him fall to his knees when he tries to stand up from the bed, as the arms of this running clock move in his flesh. It leaves a void with every inch it takes from him, and it feels like it is coming close to the end of its cycle.

A foot after the other, Gale moves his fingers into a quick somatic pattern, whispers the few words needed, and the smallest of flames takes hold of the candles by his bed. The minimal surge of magic that comes from this action makes the hunger ache, ache deep within his entire upper body.

It burns. And he feels like it has to come out, it has to end and take, take, take. The worst sensation, physically at least, he has ever felt and he has no idea how to deal with it properly.

What does it seek? Does he have it?

He looks around, before the inevitable arrives. His eyes dart around, into that same room that has seen him closed off for days and days. Ashamed. And this punishment, this ache inside of him, makes that shame even more prominent.

Here, where all his magical items are stored.

Powerful magical items, too.

He feels attracted to them, in this moment. His logical thinking would want him to linger on that odd sensation, but there is an irrational pull towards anything that is most instinctive to get out of this growing ache. At times, the most logical solution is following one’s primal instinct.

That’s how he became one of the best wizards in Waterdeep. Chosen by Mystra herself. Before everything that happened.

So he approaches one of the magical items. A little ring, not much to think about, but a gift from a young wizard who run up to him one day and gifted it to him, lauding him as a hero and an inspiration. Citing him as the reason they were starting to study magic and that, that small ring, was the first object they could enchant.

It does nothing much other than store some fire to then launch, but Gale holds it dear to him for the emotional connection. It reminds him who he is, what he can be, and even now he is fond of it.

He takes it into his fingers, observes it. Then, a sudden surge of energy.

The arms of the clock morph into hands, crawling up his body and all around him. He bends over himself, this energy too big for him to contain and the burning expands, engulfs. This hand overtakes his, wraps around him like a second body, takes hold of that so dear ring of his.

And then it’s gone. Everything is gone, and he is fine. Tired, but sated, and fine.

And the ring, no trace of magic left in it.

Gale thinks. He backs up until his knees touch the bed and he sits down, and he thinks as he observes this ring between his fingers. He thinks how it’s too small for him, how it’s not precious at all, and how now it’s just a normal ring with no magical power.

He will have to think more, when his brains isn’t sluggish. But he still can’t sleep.

So, he may as well think more.

And pray, somewhat.

“May you have mercy upon me, Mystra.”

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maruzzewrites · 7 months

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first hunger.

Gale experiences his first arcane hunger.

The first time wakes him up in the middle of the night.

He truly has done it, now.

It burns. And he feels like it has to come out, it has to end and take, take, take. The worst sensation, physically at least, he has ever felt and he has no idea how to deal with it properly.

What does it seek? Does he have it?

Here, where all his magical items are stored.

Powerful magical items, too.

That’s how he became one of the best wizards in Waterdeep. Chosen by Mystra herself. Before everything that happened.

It does nothing much other than store some fire to then launch, but Gale holds it dear to him for the emotional connection. It reminds him who he is, what he can be, and even now he is fond of it.

He takes it into his fingers, observes it. Then, a sudden surge of energy.

And then it’s gone. Everything is gone, and he is fine. Tired, but sated, and fine.

And the ring, no trace of magic left in it.

He will have to think more, when his brains isn’t sluggish. But he still can’t sleep.

So, he may as well think more.

And pray, somewhat.

“May you have mercy upon me, Mystra.”

#baldur's gate 3 #gale of waterdeep #bg3 gale #bg3 fanfiction

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maruzzewrites · 8 months

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got infected with the baldur's gate 3 brainrot so if anyone wants to request those characters, feel free

#or commission me for them wink

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maruzzewrites · 8 months

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Commission for @catallarii of their amazing OCs (go check them out!).

There are some joys, and some details, one cannot appreciate and ponder upon unless they travel. The way the mind stores information, however, is feeble and escapes the folds of the brain like sand in the wind. It is difficult to really embrace the size, the magnificence of everything filling one’s eyes and the way it settles in the forest, or on the mountain, or perhaps alongside the river or the lake.

Melheim knows how to commit the memory to paper, trace forms and lines that compose complex shapes, layered shadows and lights, covered in natural colors. His hand can know the outline of any object just by observing the minutiae and the way it sits in the bigger picture. Every map he makes gives the viewer an idea of how to move around the environment; the paths, the configuration of the soil, the way the hill raises in that direction and then falls into an ample pasture, maybe how the valley narrows in the middle of the two mountains.

And then Callan, with his usual nonchalant behavior, walks up to the table where Melheim is working on a project. An expedition they have taken together, more often than not, to lands they either know or need to chart better. He points his finger to one point on the paper, speaking about how he remembers the way those rocks stacked in the angle or how the breeze sounded as it danced through the leaves of the trees.

Callan raises his eyes, then, with a loose smile on his lips and a playful tone moving his words. Melheim watches the fingers walk up the stylized paths as Callan returns to the same expeditions with his mind; he describes the same places they have visited together with such different words, sensation Melheim has barely enough ability to describe and his words fill the world with something new he has never felt before.

“Do you remember the way the light was shining on the grass?” Callan’s question is simple, and lingers in the air like a promise of another story. Melheim observes him, and he is unsure how to answer. He does remember it being bright and warm, but he didn’t pay much attention to how the surfaces reflected the light.

Callan sighs when he receives nothing back, “You were so busy measuring everything up…”

It’s the usual advice he gives Melheim, to enjoy more than only work and get the most out of every exploration. Perhaps he should just enjoy sceneries and feelings, rather than elaborate all the ways and all the possibilities to translate what he sees to paper. So that everyone else can see.

Callan may not understand it, but Melheim wants everyone to see what he does. Words and descriptions don’t do the trick as often as he would like, so the meticulous job of tracing the shapes of mountains, lakes, rivers, deserts, forests, seas, is the most objective way to give people something to imagine. One day, perhaps, they will manage to find the same place and marvel at the grandiose spectacle of the nature around them; meanwhile, this world is fleeting.

“Do you remember the pattern of the trees or how the cliff would climb up?” Melheim isn’t trying to sound callous or sarcastic, it is simply a method to make Callan rethink or reconsider. It would be okay to have their visions of the world being different, even radically so, but it’s important to consider the other’s point of view and respect them.

Callan thinks once more, raising his eyes to the sky as if to recall information. Then he grins at Melheim, lighthearted and easy, before he speaks, “I would love to see everything from your eyes. Better yet, I would love you to narrate it. There are few pleasures like the sound of your voice.”

A tinge of the usual teasing flirtation colors Callan’s last words, and they seem to leave a splash of red on Melheim’s ears and cheeks. Or so he feels, with the way his skin heats up and he has to resist the urge to clean his throat to relieve the tension. Not that the air was tense at all: Callan seems to be satisfied with the reaction, judging by the way his lips stretch into an even bigger, toothier smile.

Melheim knows it comes from no dark place, Callan simply enjoys his reactions and he wants to think his colleague is just testing boundaries, playing just to let the air hang a bit lighter in the room. However, there is a sort of awareness born from the care and affection of some of Callan’s actions and words – through the years they became more and more filled with a strange sense of purpose and intention.

With these thoughts circling inside his brain, Melheim cannot really concentrate. It should be frustrating and infuriating, but it’s a tender of a feeling. No malice, no bitterness, just the quiet knowledge someone is there to probe and tease with amiability. To know someone wants to care for the more stubborn sides of his personality, to the point of teasing him is a playful habit, it’s an odd type of flattery.

Or perhaps Melheim is thinking too much, as always. Is it that wrong to abandon himself to the care he is given, for once, though? He may try to let the door open just enough for Callan to look inside, and perhaps he will ask for more and never try to close that opening again.

What a silly thought. Or languid, depending on which part of his brain takes hold. Logic is steady, but it can lead towards theories that have no foundations or start from wrong starting points. Intuition is just as useful in method and, today, Melheim will lean into the curiosity of the explorer rather than the perfectionism of the cartographer.

“Yes. Narrate it, I could do that for you. Next time we find a place we need to map out, I could tell you what I see.” His observation comes out with less candor one would imagine, and he is immediately self-conscious over the invite he is offering. He sees the smile on Callan’s lips widen, his eyes crinkle at the corners with genuine fondness, and he seems to want to speak about this newfound boldness. But Melheim attempts to punctuate what he said with something typical of him, something professional, “It is a great strategy to pick out the details one would oversee.”

Those words float around the space left between them; Callan leaning over the work table and the maps, Melheim with his notes and pencils and pens scattered, yet in composed order. Another person may get offended or rethink their position if they heard those words, but Callan only lets a little chuckle fall from his mouth, onto Melheim’s ears. It is a form of intimacy hard to give up once felt for the first time, the benefit of the doubt over the way he accepts affection and care.

Melheim’s chest feels heavy, but in a tender way. It’s the same sensation of when your stomach is full, or you lay your head on the pillow after a day of work, the satisfaction and comfort coming from something you needed, you waited to accomplish. Callan had to work to dig his place into Melheim’s chest and weight in such a beautiful way, longingly yet awaited with trepidation.

“Be sure to tell me every little…” Callan steps aside for a second, sits down on a chair he purposely dragged nearby the table. His eyes trail the lines and the drafts on the map, the graphite of the pencil incomplete as Melheim was trying to calculate, record or note this or that quadrant. Then, suddenly, his eyes are on Melheim, his smile as well, “...Detail.”

That single word is a promise, for the future days. For the next expedition, probably alone, in order to gather more information before the zone sunk into the ever-shifting world. For the time being, strong with the promise, Melheim continues his meticulous work and Callan watches the skill translating into the paper.

Callan’s head lazily rests on the palm of his hand, his elbow supported by the thick wood of the table, while Melheim’s eyes try to absorb all the light the window and the lamp can give, until it’s deep into the evening and the night, until Callan stands up and distracts him again. He gives him a goodnight, a wink, and he leaves the words from before to remind Melheim to be ready one of these days.

It’s early. The sun barely peaks from the cold clouds, the sky has the pastel tint of the morning, and barely any life comes from the houses around. Yet, Callan and Melheim are awake, the former stretching his arms above his head, the latter checking he has everything he needs for another expedition.

Traveling comes natural to both of them, yet they face it in such different ways. Melheim has an objective in mind, he needs to reach the same place they had seen days prior and finish his current map, while Callan walks with a relaxed pace yet meaningfully. Perhaps the terrain under his feet will shift and change soon, and he has to commit to memory the way his feet move, or the hues that paint the background, or how the paths would lead into the horizon.

But he stays behind Melheim, never faltering and never stopping too long to admire something. The journey isn’t too long, they had worse before, but they reach the right location when the sun burns brighter and harsher, when the clouds melt into white, gold, and gray.

An open, immense field of green nestled in a frame of rocks and mountains, with trees breaking the surface of grass now and then. They separate the field from the world further away, the other path leading away from this small valley is filled with tall, sturdy trees that make one’s eyes lose the trail.

It is how Melheim remembers it, the image he had in his mind now follows the same outline his eyes are seeing. He could lose the entire day flying away with the mind and imagining how it would look from the top, so he could better draw it again on the map. However, he came here because Callan invited him to narrate what he sees and how he sees it.

For better remembering the details, he clarified, but he knows he wants Callan to be impressed. Or perhaps tell him his vision changed his own. Is it about sharing something or just being acknowledged by him? Melheim has a difficult time tracing the line between the natural need for approval and the specific want to appeal to Callan. Either way, he should start, so that they may work through most things.

“The mountains…” His voice reaches Callan, who was lost in contemplating the view, but he is quick to divert his attention towards the captain of this excursion. He is listening, at least, still with that loose smile. Melheim points towards the rocky side climbing up, and up, his voice lost in the immensity, “You divide it, by height. Scientifically, the air is different on the peak and the vegetation will be different from the base. It is a good method to show altitude, using a gradient of green, until you have to use white.”

Callan follows the motion of the finger, as Melheim points to one hundred meters, then two hundreds, three hundreds of height. His fingers and his mind follow the imaginary path that leads to the peak, cold and covered in icy snow, barely visible as it mixes with the clear sky. The entire way, Callan nods at every word.

“Would be interesting to see the world from up there,” Callan looks around the slope, observes and takes deductions as his eyes hug the entire length of the wall he and Melheim are watching. Then he, too, points, but at a specific location, “You could climb from there, for example.”

“Mh?” Melheim looks the same way, humming with curiosity. He didn’t think of climbing for real, of course, it would take time and resources they didn’t have at the moment. Perhaps another day, for another reason, “We don’t have time to do that.”

Callan now returns his eyes to Melheim’s face, a hint of questioning lingering on his features. He shakes his head ever-so-slightly, then speaks, “I didn’t mind we should do it. I was pointing out that you may add it, perhaps someone will want to find a way up while looking at your map.”

Melheim blinks at that statement. Or request, he juggles the interpretations as well as he can to decode the intention. Perhaps Callan wants to be useful, or offer a new point of view the same way Melheim wishes to do for him. Adding such information on the map, he has barely done it, yet it could be a new use for it. Not everyone who will look at it will be an expert cartographer, some will see it with the same eyes as Callan did and does – and hopefully always will.

A tool to explore, rather than a way of recording. Letting it roll on the table so that you may know where to walk, what to bring alongside with you, not just remember the place and its conformation. Melheim has his pencil between his fingers already, the notebook where endless numbers and notes crowd the pages open on a blank one, and he walks the distance between him and Callan.

“Excuse me, could you repeat where?” He looks deep into Callan’s eyes. He sees something new now, something he only catches a few times sporadically. Callan seems surprised, almost like he is holding his breath back, then slowly letting out all the air in his lungs with soft and long exhales. His skin, at the level of his ears, where his cheekbones are, flushes just slightly; and his smile seems to hang lower and bigger compared to his placid usual.

He, then, clears his throat and raises his hand again to point towards a specific part of the slope where the incline is softer, “Right there. You can probably start from there, at first glance.”

Now, Melheim must have been blind for so long, because that same behavior he has seen countless times before. In doubt, he never gave too much thought, but he sees now the way Callan gets flustered and light when he asks that question. Why is that? What could be the reason? He asks himself, and he asks him, “Why are you so red? Do you feel well?”

Callan smiles still, but it has a more shy note now. He is so sincere and open usually, at least with how words. But even he can be caught in a moment of weakness when he has to admit his emotions, nude and bare under the high sun and the curious gaze of others. Yet, he answers, “You have a passion in your eyes, cap’.”

It’s the best thing about you, goes unsaid. His eyes speak, but his mouth stops at the nickname and the compliment. Maybe Melheim is reading too much into it, maybe he just wants those words to be truly fighting to crawl out of Callan’s lips. There is something, however, telling him that he isn’t wrong, and he wants to explore it with the same ease it feels wandering the immense world of new and old landscapes.

Instead, he nods and acknowledges the statement, he whispers a polite thank you, and he is observing the mountain raising again. He notes down the position of the climbable portion of the slope, and he thinks the best way to show it in the map – perhaps color, perhaps adding a symbol to the legend.

After the fact, they pace around the grass. Melheim keeps his strides steady, taking the opportunity to understand if his scale was correct last time he measured it, and Callan imitates him when he is told the reason for his awkward steps. It manages to get a smile out of Melheim, and he writes down the difference between the two of them in his notebook. It could be useful – it will probably be just endearing, for each time he will reread it.

Then Callan asks Melheim how he shows the difference in terrain. Melheim lightly scolds him, for all the times he had to see a map and still didn’t notice the details; Callan tells him he’d just write notes at the bottom of the paper, so that people may read and understand, but Melheim corrects it by saying it would be a clumsy method. He uses different lines, hatchings or colors: most of this field is simple, plain and easy to walk around, but there are places where the terrain is wet or harder, so he doesn’t use a solid color, but stripes of green and brown, or gray and white. Callan seems to wonder about it, but he does confirm he remembers those techniques, and he wonders how someone who didn’t know the meaning behind those choices could understand. And once again, Melheim tells him off lightly forit, explains that there is a legend of all the symbols, short-cuts, techniques they use for each map, in the corners.

Callan does what he does best, take it in stride and chuckle about it. He apologizes for the superficiality first, and then he simply covers it up with admiration, “Good thing I have you besides me or I’d be lost.”

Melheim knows that it’s untrue, he is aware of the ability and skill Callan has. He is a great explorer, he is better than him in practical survivor skills, yet he doesn’t rush to show off. He is tranquil and even-tempered, and truly shines when someone requires his help. At the same time, that sentence makes Melheim feel that same comfortable weight he experiences so often lately, now warm and snuggle between his ribs. It is not that Callan would get lost, but he would feel lost, by his words – or maybe Melheim just wants to hear that meaning.

His fingers grip the notebook harder, the skin under his nails becoming lighter, and he feels the tip of his ears burning red. It is so easy for Callan, bouncing from flustered to adoring, that Melheim wishes he could give back in the same way. He has no experience, though; mapping people has been harder than the straightforward way someone can just record the shape of the world.

He has to try, though. It is not by standing around and waiting for Callan to do all the work, to push against the walls Melheim has up. Anyone would tire of attempting without feedback or answer, so perhaps Melheim should try – he wants to. One step in his direction can be enough for a day, “Your help is always appreciated. You… Opened my eyes to something.”

There is a sort of temptation to simply say more, to deflect and point towards the mountain with the back of the pencil while scribbling something without meaning to appear busy. However, Melheim forces himself to commit, to be honest with the sentiments whirling inside of him and letting the rush of thoughts run. Unprofessional, a little voice in his head declares, but Melheim sees out of the corner of his eye the way Callan grins and looks at his feet, seemingly content.

Before he can magnify the worries it can bring, Melheim reaches into the well of his passion for mapping and remembers he is on an expedition that is as much work as pleasure, it seems. He raises his eyes to the field welcoming his gaze and he counts again the trees, then groups them by density, by size, by patterns or species. He is not an expert in biology, he can describe them with the same ignorance of someone who sees nature everyday, and he actually asks Callan if he knows more.

“I know those trees usually grow near water,” he seems pensive. He springs behind Melheim to look over his shoulder and peek at the information on his notebook, thinking out loud, “See, you wrote there is a specific type of terrain around them. Seems like there is an aquifer somewhere.”

It is a good theory. Perhaps Melheim should ask his grandfather to bring along an expert, to analyze the soil and find the water. Maybe build a well, too, so that it may function as a landmark to recognize the same place once it will move far from them. He reserves the right to pencil it down, so he may ask later, and compliment Callan’s deduction. He seems proud, once he hears those words.

“This makes me think, Mel,” he continues after watching the way letters dance into reality with light strokes of the pencil. It still has the notes of something thought rather than said, yet Callan shares it with him freely, “If we ever find this same place again and it is on another side of the world, maybe the sun is hotter and it becomes a desert…”

A question many have asked before. How much the shifts and changes influence the external existence too, if the sun moves with the waves of the moving lakes or the wind runs all around the globe so as to return to the same forests it loves. Or perhaps they mutate with the weather the static stars bring, and that’s another entire study: there are theories that put old maps together with new ones, calculating and layering so as to prove the same zone changed through the years. A difficult thesis to support, and many experts are still debating on the validity of it.

However, Melheim isn’t there to debate the theories surrounding the mapping of the world. He is just content to hear Callan’s curiosity, he can only answer eagerly, “Maybe. If that’s true, all we can do is find it again and study it with the same zeal we are employing now.”

In a way, Melheim can hope that every part of the world mutates with the movements. On one hand, it is simply fascinating from the point of view of his job, but on the other hand, the prospect of sharing diverse experience with Callan adds an enchanted feeling to something so enmeshed in his being as work.

The infinite combinations that it could create, this field green and lush could be frozen over or weight heavy on the ground as sand. And Callan would tell him something else, he would point out that by the first thing they should do on blistering sand is set camp for shelter, rather than record the way the dunes trace lines into the horizon, or how dew collects between the leaves when it’s morning, instead of wondering if the trees they’re under are evergreen or will lose its crown.

There are so many answers he could give Callan, Melheim thinks, after this hurricane of considerations and images in his head. He isn’t good with words, or expressing emotions, vulnerabilities or desires. He has worked, for others, for himself, for humanity whole, and that slowed the need to process sentiments such as these or the necessity to reveal them. Still, change and innovation come from daring, curiosity can only be satisfied by attempting, and why do it if not for someone so deserving of openness?

“There are many theories, it’s not a known fact. It could be,” he starts. He needs to stumble before learning fully, he needs false starts to lose his balance and make the first definitive step. Now it is the time to dare, so his voice doesn’t stop, “But if it is correct, I know we would be together and I trust your intuition to recognize this place.”

For the sake of his emotions, Melheim doesn’t turn around to face Callan and see his face. However, he is aware it is changing just like body shifts and moves behind him, taken by the sudden energy of his words. Was he as filled with contrasting and strong sensations? The same ones that are asking him to take refuge in usual stoicism, while still hoping and waiting for the moment everything will come to light?

He has little time to think about it, though, as Callan simply talks, “For sure, Mel. You have a lot to teach me, you wouldn’t want me to slack off on the job.”

Each syllable plays a lighthearted note, whimsical and without care, as he is used to. Words seem to come easily to Callan, especially those that carry a bit more levity, but Melheim senses the tense work under them in that specific moment. It is almost like offering an out and asking for actual confirmation at the same time, so that Melheim may simply say he wants to work with Callan or state he seeks companionship over simple work relations.

At that, Melheim does turn to face Callan. Still with his loose smile, but with light and clear eyes of someone trying to read the situation. Melheim nods, “Your help is always appreciated, even if it comes at your pace. You’re invaluable.”

“I must be something special if you tell me that.” Callan loses no time in answering, with his hands reaching up and brushing through his hair in a way to diffuse the emotions he is feeling. It took a long time to understand, but there are movements that show Callan to be nervous too, in a way, and Melheim wants to map those out the same as he does with terrains and stars. So that he may read the signs and predict, or interpret, or react to the best of his abilities.

But there is beauty in the search too, Melheim discovered. Not just in finding the same, exact place recorded years ago or perhaps finally completing the project he is working on – those are joys and accomplishments he will never tire of, sure. But even today Callan showed him that there is value in listening and learning something new, that you may give back love not just with words, but also sharing your inner world with the recipient.

It's in the way someone points at the new and shares it because there is intimacy in looking at things the same, but it’s also setting your pride aside so you may listen to something different than what you know. It's right now, with Callan deciding to break the ice by pointing out how the grass parts to show traces left by animals. He looks at the size, the weight to leave on the soil, the shape so he could make suppositions.

But it’s also in the way Melheim does some calculations, based on the knowledge he has now of the area and the places connected to it thanks to the last expedition. Callan listens as he points his pencil towards one of the ways leading away from this secluded valley and says, with some margin of error, how the herd of animals probably followed that direction. It is difficult to estimate the true aim of the animals, in a world that changes so radically, but Callan listens to the explanation, to the hypotheses he draws based on the evidence, and then he says he will give more precise data once they’re back – and he can look again at the notes, at the maps.

Callan says he can’t wait, with a smile. Then he walks soft and slack towards one of the trees, Melheim right behind him. The twirls on his heels, sitting down with surprising flexibility between the roots that poke out of the terrain. A cozy nook, but Melheim looks over and isn’t sure how to react. Usually, he would scold Callan for slacking off and not taking his duties as seriously as he should, but then his companion pats the terrain besides him as an invite.

“Cap’, I know you would love to work more, but you need to reset your mind a bit.” Callan’s hand rests on the ground where he is inviting Melheim to sit, the grass bends under his fingers and springs up between the spaces. He seems content when Melheim does motion the intention to sit down as well, much more calmly and slowly.

He doesn’t put away his notebook, letting it stay open on his legs and the pencil loose between his fingers. Callan playfully complains he will fuse his brain by working so much, as he slips slowly in a more, and more, relaxed position. One leg over the other, bouncing slightly, he grins, “It’s a perfect day out. You will think better if you do it while resting.”

It’s almost like Callan knows Melheim can hardly repose, but he desires to see him treat himself anyway. Perhaps he cannot just close his eyes and wander with the mind, like he does, but Melheim can compromise by sitting under the cool shadow of the tree, with light filtering through the dancing leaves, and elaborate his data search in peace and quiet.

Maybe out of the office.

Melheim looks at Callan from the corner of his eye. He is relaxed, humming just low enough that one could think he was imagining it. Did he plan for Melheim to get work done away from the four walls of those rooms, breathe in some fresh air and see the shining sun above? He could believe it.

And he can appreciate it. He will treasure this time, as Callan relaxes, he will run some numbers. He doesn’t notice when the other man laying almost entirely on the grass turns on his side to look at him focus on his job, head nestled against one of his arms – and eyes softening like the clouds as they stretch with the passing hours upon seeing the passion he so dearly adores.

Callan must have closed his eyes and drifted off at some point. He wakes up when Melheim lightly shakes him awake, with a hint of bashfulness in the flush of his skin, and he tells Callan they should return soon.

Callan looks him over, noticing the signs of the tree pressed on his cheek, somewhat red and marked. He wants to imagine Melheim napped as well, for a few minutes at least, but it may simply be because he rested his head against the tree. The traces left behind would indicate he had his head turned towards Callan.

He feels his grin grow wider, but he decides not to comment on it for now. He gets on his feets with ease, stretches just enough to feel his muscles move again, and then he follows Melheim towards home. He will fill the silence soon enough, but for now he mentally says goodbye to the place who made him glimpse into his captain’s heart a bit more.

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