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oonajaeadira · 4 months

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I'll Leave a Light On For You

Fandom: Bloodsucking Bastards / Max Phillips

Pairing: Max Phillips x f!reader

Reader: Adult female. No other physical descriptors; no use of y/n. (There is a little description, but it’s still you. Believe me, it will make sense. We’re dealing with the supernatural here.)

Rating: T.

Warnings: Angst. Character death. Allusions to the atrocities of war and its lasting effects. Max is a vampire. Traumatic soul memory. Me assuming I know anything about French culture of the 1930s.

Summary: Max has reservations when it comes to love, and for very good reasons.

A/N: This is my entry for the @pedrostories Secret Santa event. While I played one selfish card in my hand and wrote something of a companion to Light Only Shows You Where the Shadows Are, this can still be read as a standalone.

To my giftee, the amazing and wonderful @artemiseamoon : First of all, I admire you so much and I was really nervous to write for you. But I looked among your generous prompt choices (omgs thank you for so many good choices) and was surprised to find Max as an option. I wasn’t going to choose him at first but then my eye caught “past lives” and something in me zinged. Soul mates, angsty romance, second chance at love… and I’ve been itching to write an angsty Max. I know you are a fan of soft and whump, so all those elements had a party in my heart and here we are. I really hope you’re having a nice holiday and a good time off. Happy Secret Santa, Arte. <3

What we’ve been told is that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes.

That’s almost correct.

The truth is…it’s not just your current life.

It’s all of them.

Max hardly remembers the fear, the pain, the cold of his draining. Even though he knew what was coming, bought into the cult, the human instinct of fight or flight is hard to dismiss no matter how well they’ve been prepped and it was to be expected. But it was a flash in the pan and once he came around to the undead side of things, those pesky human responses were all quickly forgotten.

For a time. Until he saw your light and–

Anyway. Human instincts. Pffft. Adorable. Trading the constant possibility of fear for that of glee, of rapture, of delight? Human instincts are trash. Not to mention their senses, poor suckers. The things they can’t see can’t hear can’t smell can’t taste? Tragic.

If only the feelings weren’t heightened too. It makes some things–some people–hard to ignore–

Feelings were something he could also have done without in his human life–the latest one anyway–and did whatever he could do to avoid.

It wasn’t until he died that he understood why.

As the life drained out of him and the delirium set in, there was a rushing sound, a pull through his soul like the drag of blood from his body, and he was laying, feeble, wailing, bloody and naked among the limbs of his mother.

But not the mother he so recently remembered, the one that showed her approval only when he provided her with some accomplishment worthy of crowing about to her society friends. No, this one was gentle, kind, held him and sang to him, lived her life for him until she died of fever when he was only five years old.

Max saw it all, from within himself and without, remembered the pull of his heart and watched the tears fall down his little face as they nailed his mother’s body in a pine box and put it in a hole at the top of a hill under a tree.

He always imagined he heard her singing to him in the grasses after that.

The world welcomed a new century, and not long afterward, he was a young man, looking to take over his father’s wine fields. But the chance was stolen when an archduke was shot. Max–Pierre, as he was called then–and all of the close friends and cousins he had were thrust into a great war.

He was the only one to walk out of the fray. And when he came home, he found his father’s fields had been burned and that nothing remained.

That was a dark time. Ten years of looking back rather than looking forward. Ten years–it went by so fast–while he watched the world around him try to repair itself and find its footing again, not realizing that the roots of evil still grew beneath the soil.

He kept his head down and his hands working wherever he could.

But then he met a woman.

And she was Pierre’s life. Max’s life. Before he was Max.

It happened in the winter, just before Noël. And her name was Yaëlle.

Max remembered that before she even told him as he watched the story of this strange old life.

Yaëlle. It means “beautiful one.”

“It also means ‘goat,’” she’d said. “That seems more fitting.” She never thought of herself pretty, and perhaps she wasn’t fashionable and maybe she was stronger than she was dainty, with a weak chin and curly dark hair she couldn’t control. But the light in her eyes when she laughed–and what a laugh, like a little bird–the sway of her hips and the confidence in her carriage, her air of easy care and comfort caught his heart like a surly bear in the prettiest trap.

She’d simply been passing through the marché de Noēl, looking but not stopping, taking the kerchief off her head so the snow could land in her curls, when a child approached her selling buns in the shape of a cross and she gave the child a franc before sitting down at the statue of some cardinal or other in the center of the square.

She could have sat on any of the other benches, but she chose to plonk down next to Max. Next to Pierre.

“You want this?” she asked, offering the bun. “Not really my thing.”

How could she have known he was hungry? That he was lonely? That he was facing the market rather than the river because he was trying not to succumb to his inclinations, a pull to walk out onto the thin ice and let himself be taken by the stream?

He was instantly entranced by her. He felt himself smiling. Something shifted within. A destiny.

“You sure?” he asked.

She peered at him, scrutinized his whole self like she could see a glow around him and was looking for its source.

She found it in his eyes.

“Absolutely. I already ate three hand pies today. The last thing I need is more bread.”

He laughed for the first time in a long while. They talked. He ate.

On Christmas Eve when everyone was at the evening’s mass, she was there again, sitting alone, and this time it was he who had hot food and came to join her on the bench while the night was silent and cold and the stars were twinkling.

It was then that he learned why she was not in church–her folk did not observe Noēl. And she learned why he was not in church–he had lost his faith, that everyone he had ever loved was taken and there were not enough candles in the sanctuary to light for all of them.

“What if I lit one?” she’d asked.

“Who would you light it for?”

“For you. So you don’t have to sit in the dark.” When he was only silent, she said, “You fought in the Great War, didn’t you.” And when he looked away–when he shut her out–she continued. “My husband fought in that war. And he never could find his heart again. He said he loved me, but I don’t think he ever really did, not all the way. But I loved him all the way and when he put an end to his own life I thought I would have to do it too. Instead, I sat in the dark for a long time. It’s something I can see in a person. I can see you’re sitting in the dark.”

They stayed quiet for a time on the bench under the statue of the cardinal and when the church bells started to toll–signaling the magic of the empty square would soon be disrupted by the mass emptying into its streets–she stood and pulled her coat around her.

“My home is down that street, a little one with a red roof. It’s warm and I’ve plenty of hand pies--I made too many. I’ll leave a candle in the window until I’m asleep. You’re always welcome there, Max.”

And then she smiled and turned down the avenue where she’d pointed.

He blinked. Just before she reached the edge of the square he called out, “My name isn’t Max. It’s Pierre.”

She turned and gave a sly wink. “Good to know. I think once you get a belly full of my pies, you’ll let me call you whatever I want.”

He only sat long enough to watch the churchgoers file out of the holy service, many of them with people they loved, humming, happy, cheeks glowing in that way when one steps into a fresh cold world after being an hour or two soaking in the warmth. And once the square was empty again, he stood, gave only a fleeting look to the river, and then walked resolutely down Yaëlle’s street.

A little house with a red roof and a candle in the window.

He stayed for supper and came back many nights after.

And then one night he never left.

Max recalled the rest of that life with a lurking despair. While he couldn’t quite remember how it went, something in him carried it through to the life he’d just left…and he couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was yet.

A few years of joy, of the greatest love he’d felt since his childhood. Like the mother he’d lost, another woman who was gentle, kind, held him and sang to him, lived her life for him until she couldn’t anymore.

They never celebrated Noël as the others did, but in their own way. For a handful of years they would go sit on the bench in the square and hand out pies to their neighbors and anyone who came to join them where they sat. They would listen to the singing in the church and watch the stars scintillate overhead. They would leave their shoes by the fireplace and wake up to find gifts they’d bought for each other with the little francs that they had. And they would never talk about what they would do in the future, because they knew it would be this and that’s all they aspired to and it would be a happy life.

And Max watched Pierre forget about the rot that still ran its roots through the soil.

And one day soldiers came to town when he was out in the fields and they took Yaëlle and some of the other dark-haired, joyful, bird-laughing folk about town and murdered them. By the time he returned for the evening, the soldiers had gone and left him nothing but a ravaged house and a body to bury.

There’s nothing he could have done, the mourning neighbors told him, the tide was rising. If he had fought them, they would have shot him too.

Pierre said that it would have been better that way.

Pierre stopped working in the fields when he started to hear his mother’s voice singing among the grasses again…now joined by Yaëlle’s sweet alto.

He had one more Noël in that life. He drank as much as he could take without falling over and stumbled out to sit on the bench in the square, weeping once the churchgoers had gone. He didn’t say a word, but Max remembered what Pierre was thinking then.

Love hurts too much. It is always taken. It’s not worth the trouble.

And then Pierre fell asleep on that bench and never woke up again.

There wasn’t much time between that first life and this one, maybe a few decades in the dark. Just long enough for a voice to reach him in the void–a voice he knew well and loved with his whole heart for only a short time–to say,

“That was a good first try, Max. Let’s give it another go, okay? Another place, another time, when it’s not so hard. I’ll leave a light on for you.”

____

Max’s life had been shorter this time. But he’d learned a thing or two and kept love at arm’s length. Sex was good and companionship was fine, but he wouldn’t invest in anything that could drain him in an instant and leave him destitute.

Now power, that could fill the void.

So when fortune smiled and he was given the choice, he swallowed hard and put his neck to the teeth, traded in his humanity for power that nobody could take away from him…and a heart that had no need for warmth.

He was wrong about that last point though.

And he didn’t even know it until he saw something that humans couldn’t see.

Heard something they couldn’t hear, a long ago and far away voice singing.

Smelled you on the wind.

Followed it to you–a woman, just another human woman–walking out of a bar along some street in the city.

And he saw a light glowing from within you.

You wore another face, another body, but all he saw was you.

Yaëlle.

Beautiful one.

He followed you that night, and several nights after. He was the reason that car swerved before it hit you, the reason you weren’t approached by that seedy guy at the club. He was the reason you kept looking behind you now and then and when you finally saw him–having dinner at the same restaurant, totally by coincidence, you on a friendly outing, him trying to charm a client into a contract–it broke his heart that you did not know him instantly.

He found he was surprised that he still had a heart to break. He’d been so fucking careful.

Max almost gave into the anger, the disappointment. Replayed the pathetic way Pierre let himself be brought down and tried to remind himself not to let himself be broken again.

But then he heard your voice in a way only those who walk in death can.

Let’s give it another go. I’ll leave a light on for you.

____

Heightened feeling is the one drawback of all this power. It’s one thing to latch onto a target, to fixate on some middle manager or accountant or IT specialist until there’s a good time to finally strike. That is an itch that can be satisfied with a well-timed, fear-seasoned, adrenaline-soaked kill.

But love sinks its fangs in and doesn’t let go. It sucks at something that can’t be drained, has no end, can never get enough. It can drive an immortal--a never-ending being of heightened existence--to madness.

There will come a day in the future when you’ll trust him for no good reason, when you’ll understand the monster he is and whisper under your breath against your better judgment, when you’ll invite him in. For dinner.

And he’ll come around again and again.

And then one day, he’ll stay.

And you’ll yawn ask him on the edge of sleep, “Why me? Of all these humans that you could easily enthrall and have without question, why choose this?”

Max will look at you in the darkness and see nothing but your light.

You won’t understand when he puts on a show of an irritated sigh and tells you, “You gave me another chance, sweetmeats,” but you’ll doze in his cold arms, absolutely confident as he is that nothing will ever hurt you again. Including himself.

And that night he’ll stay until you wake.

He won’t have you sit in the darkness alone.

_____

MASTERLIST

CHARACTER MASTERLIST

#pedrostoriesgift23 #pedrostories #bloodsucking bastards #max phillips #max phillips x reader #max phillips x f!reader

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nightcourtseer · 3 months

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Pain Like This

Summary: Mor and Azriel finally talk. One year post ACOSF.

Read on A03

He had thought he had known agony. He thought he knew pain - thought that he had turned it on its side and around until he knew every part of what pain was, what pain could possibly be.

He had never known pain like this.

Orchestral music went on stories beneath him at the House of Wind. Winds and strings and the stories of their people, their freedom, drifted up to him as Azriel leaned his forearms on one of the house’s many balconies. Cool night air swept across his skin, tousling his air - as if it were an extension of his shadows which clung closer to him than they had done so in years.

He had discarded his fine black jacket at some point during the night, when things had all become a little too much and the close fit of the fabric had started to feel more like a noose than a luxury. It was tossed over the balcony next to an empty glass of champagne.

Typically he would turn to liquor to solve his problems - to turn the clock faster so that with each drink, the hand would spin faster and faster until the sun rose and he could wearily begin the next day.

But at the sight of her, just a glimpse of golden brown hair and an amethyst gown - in his arms, an emerald green jacket - Azriel’s stomach had churned. The scent of their bond drifted to him on a traitorous breeze and he had nearly emptied the contents of his stomach right there in the middle of the crowd.

Before her, he thought he had known the pain of heartbreak. But no, heartbreak was merciful, in comparison. Heartbreak was an arrow to the heart, a slash of a knife across the throat. Heartbreak was quick, its devastation brutal, but effective.

This was torture. And torture, Azriel knew well.

It had been over a year since that Solstice Night. And every day since, Azriel wondered at the fact that he hadn’t been driven completely mad.

He never slept, barely ate. He threw his body so brutally into training that there were times when Cassian had to physically drag him from the ring.

It was the worst kind of pain - useless, destructive pain that could never be resolved, never lessened. And he could not confide it in anyone, could not extend a shaking hand to help him, to please, help him through this.

He was alone. Just as he had always suspected he should be, had always been meant to be.

Maybe that was why the shadows had come to him - some pitiful offering by Death that until his soul was claimed by the Mother herself, the shadows would be his only constant companion.

The stars hadn’t even begun to make their journey across the sky before he had snuck away, his brothers too occupied with their mates to notice him fading away, trudging heavily up the stairs and through an empty bedroom, sliding open the glass door to step onto the balcony where he could watch the migration of souls alone.

He should have known that few moments of solitude on such a night would be too much to ask.

Azriel knew her scent as well as his own, even though her heels made no sound on the plush, expensive rug as she crossed the room to the balcony. The glass doors remained open, although she paused on the threshold.

He didn’t turn around to greet her. For as well as he knew her scent, so did he know the tells of her distress - the unique markers of her scent that hinted at what weighed heavily on her tongue. The belly-curling scent of red wine flooding the night air around them as she leaned against the doorframe to steady herself.

“Not now, Mor.”

There was no kindness in his voice. No warmth, that he usually reflected back to her.

“Az, please.”

He refused to turn. He refused to turn around and see the salty tears that his shadows whispered were gathering in her eyes.

“You’re drunk. We’re not having this conversation while you’re drunk.”

“I can’t wait any longer,” she pleaded. So unlike her, to plead for everything besides that they join her for a night of dancing, or another glass of wine. Nothing of importance - nothing that truly mattered.

She’s crying, the golden one is crying, his shadows whispered sorrowfully.

His head pounded, and more than ever he yearned for the bottle of powder on his nightstand.. Out of all nights that she would come to him, out of all of the nights that he had waited for her to speak, to finish the conversation that he had tried to start eons ago.

“Godsdamnit, Mor!” he whirled around to face her, and she recoiled as his eyes flashed. “You’ve waited 500 years to bring this up and you can’t wait one more fucking day?”

“Az-” Something in those stormy hazel eyes softened as she choked on a breath, the wine glass shaking in her hand. As if she held onto it like a raft, a physical way to ground herself as she forced herself to speak the truth they had buried for half a millennium.

“It can’t wait. Please.”

He didn’t give her an answer, but he didn’t give her any indication that he wasn’t listening either. He merely turned to return his gaze to the stars above. Faint lines of starlight still ghosted the dark night, as if white shadows had trailed the crossing spirits. Even the stars seemed to glow brighter that night, as if to put on their best show for the crowds toasting, cheering and dancing until the early hours of the morning.

Azriel remembered when it had once been the five of them down there. When it had just been him, Cass, Amren, Mor and Rhys - before the mountain. Before their world had broken apart for 50 years and they had barely held themselves together, not knowing if their brother, their High Lord, would ever return. They had gotten so drunk for so many nights that the years went quickly, even as the days dragged on.

How much had changed, since then.

Rhys held Nyx in the crowd below, pressing a soft kiss to his son’s head as Feyre came up behind him, holding a glass of champagne in one hand and tilting it up to Rhys’ lips. The smiles on their faces so wide as to rival the stars that had just fallen.

Cassian led Nesta through the throng of dancers, his waltz having vastly improved over the past year of gatherings and parties on her arm.

He didn’t dare look to see who else might still be on the dance floor.

“Azriel,” her voice broke on the first syllable of his name - like a snapped violin string, mournfully twisting the sound of what had once been a beautiful melody on her lips. One he had once longed to hear, over and over again.

“I’m sorry.”

Azriel waited with bated breath for her to continue. His shoulders curled in on themselves involuntarily, as if waiting for the sword of her golden tongue to thrust a blade into the back he had left exposed to her. When in reality, there was already a knife there that had been twisting and turning for centuries. Blood leaking and dripping behind him for as long as he could remember.

She didn’t continue, so he finished for her - his voice as cold and deep as it had been for the past year, since that Solstice Night when he had turned away from any glimmer of hope that he had seen reflected back in a wide pair of brown eyes looking up at him, fluttering closed in anticipation -

This was a bad time for her to come to him with this. He had no patient bone left in his body - every part of him felt battered, bruised, tender.

He had no kindness in his soul that night, and so he lashed out.

“I’m sorry for - what, Mor? I’m sorry for stringing you along for 500 years? For letting you trail after me like a godsdamned fool? For making Cassian feel like he had to sit between us at every dinner, every night at Rita’s, every possible opportunity where you might have been able to tell me how you felt?”

She let out a shuddering sob at the frigid anger in his voice. Anger that he had never once directed at her before, only threw out in her defense. And even then, it had frightened her. The depth of that anger, that chilled his very bones.

“It doesn’t even fucking matter anymore. Nothing does.”

Gods, he was so godsdamned tired. If only he could sleep, if only could he close his eyes without seeing her, without hearing her voice, without seeing the devastation in her eyes as he uttered those four words that repeated themselves over and over in an endless loop in his mind.

“It matters to me.” A bit of anger colored her tone, as she went on the defensive.

“It matters to me that we talk about this. And yes, I’m sorry for that - for everything. But don’t pretend you didn’t know. You’re too smart for that.”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair and not bothering to wince as it pulled at the roots. Physical pain meant nothing to him anymore.

“Of course I knew, how could I not? You practically shoved her in my face, and still you said nothing.”

His voice wavered, as he struggled not to shout. Because there was still a party going on below them, and even in his anger, his frustration, he didn’t want to reveal her secrets like that.

“Andromache,” Mor whispered, and he could scent another tear sliding done her perfectly blushed cheek. “Her name was Andromache.”

Her pain was bitter - more bitter than the red wine that stained her teeth, her red lips. Even after all of these years, it still felt fresh to her - that grief of losing her lover. One that Azriel had very much been aware of, but had never spoken of to anyone - not Mor, and certainly not his brothers.

“You knew I was in love with you, and yet you had the decency to carry on that affair right in front of me.”

He gritted the words through his teeth. And still, he did not turn to face her.

“I didn’t think you would be able to handle it - if I outright told you about her,” Mor’s voice persisted, even through her tears. She took another step closer to her, and his shadows clung together to his form. She stopped when she noticed this.

He had known, and he had let it carry on. For Azriel had foolishly hoped that at the end of it, when her heart was inevitably broken by a cruelly short human lifespan, that she might turn to him for comfort - to fill the hole that the human queen had left in her heart.

What a fool he had been. What a fool he still was.

“Liar,” he snarled, barely leashing himself as he snapped his head to the side, still avoiding the sight of her. A part of him was satisfied, when he felt her recoil.

His voice was a discordant tune to the uplifting melody lilting below. Their family a happy, peaceful thing lost in the crowd even as he and Mor lashed and wounded each other above, out of sight.

That was always had been, in the Court of Dreams. Anger and hurt and nightmares relegated to dark corners, to dark bedrooms, to warded houses. Carefully tucked away, tucked inside, turned inward - until there was nowhere left for it to go but out.

Azriel didn’t have any room left in his heart for it.

“You love me.” she corrected, “You haven’t been in love with me for centuries.”

Azriel was silent, anger and anguish and defeat radiating and intermingling as he struggled to vocalize the very words that he had struggled to voice for hundreds of years. In all of the ways he had imagined in this conversation to go, it was never like this.

“I’m not sure if I even know the difference anymore.”

“You do,” Mor asserted quietly, taking a step closer and abandoning her glass on the balcony. She put a hand on his arm, so slowly it was as if she was trying to comfort a wild animal.

And maybe that’s all he was, to her. Some beast that had been locked in a dark cage for the better part of his formative life. An Illyrian designed to kill or be killed - a winged devil stalking through the night. A torturer wringing blood in the coldest part of their world.

He was the opposite of anything she had ever wanted. She had crawled her way out of Hewn City with her own bloodied hands and would do anything in her power to keep from going back to that place. Back to what he clearly reminded her of - of darkness, and death, and torment.

That was why he had started to love her, after all. She was sunlight incarnate - from her easy smile to her quick humor to her golden hair - she was so, so easy to love. Too easy to cling to when his own darkness threatened to swallow him whole. If she was the sun, he was the moon chasing after her - night after night after night.

“Maybe you were in love with me, in the beginning,” Mor continued, her voice softer, gentler than it had been before.

Maybe she was just as tired as he was.

“But I know that you haven’t been for a long time. And now, with -”

“Don’t,” Azriel loosened a warning growl. “Don’t say her name.”

Mor let out a shaky sigh, and his shadows didn’t even have to alert him to the change of her scent - one from fear and anger to pity and sorrow.

“It’s different with her, and you know it.”

Azriel wondered when she had noticed. Maybe that strange, unworldly power inside of her had told her this truth long before even he himself had known.

He had been to the cabin, after Feyre had painted it. He had stopped and stared, marveling at a small drawing that clearly had been done by an unpracticed hand - three winged males beside three females with long, flowing hair. He had stood there, staring at that little drawing for far too long.

“And yet, it’s not different, Mor.”

Exhaustion swept over him - a sudden wave that weighted him down to that very spot so heavily he wondered if he would ever fly again. If he would ever be able to lift the wings that he too frequently let drag on the ground behind him, when no one was watching.

“The ending is the same.”

“You don’t know that.” Red-tipped nails dug into the sleeve of his dark shirt, insistence coloring her voice, steadying it as she clung to him.

But her light could not touch him this time. Shadows pressed closer to his form, shielding him. He did not want to feel hope. He did not want her to tell him that he would find another - he did not want her to tell him about Emerie, or second chances. He didn’t want to hear anything at all.

“Azriel-”

He stopped her, before she could say any of that. Before she could try to wash over his agony, before she could cradle him in her warmth and goodness and light.

“I can’t do this for another 500 years,” he admitted.

Maybe it was the defeat in his voice - or maybe some dark implication that he had hidden even from himself. That he could barely take another day of this agony, let alone another hundred years.

Mor broke apart in his arms, legs wobbling beneath her as she cried out, halfheartedly trying to contain her cry.

Frantically, Azriel pulled her in close. Maybe to keep her quiet, to keep their location unobserved from prying eyes. Or maybe because this felt like a goodbye, in more ways than one.

He let a scarred hand cradle the back of her head, pressing her close to him and letting the kohl around her eyes bleed into the black material of his shirt. Sharp, heaving sobs wracked her chest as her cries were muffled into his chest, right above his heart. He turned his head so that he could rest his cheek on the top of her head, and lifted his heavy wings to pull them around the pair, cocooning them.

“I’m sorry, Azriel, I’m so sorry, I never wanted to hurt you…” he could just make out her muffled words.

He held his friend, the female he had once hoped would be his lover. The female whom he had once hoped would choose him above all else.

Azriel closed his eyes. Let the wind kiss his dry cheeks, fill his stuttering lungs with air once more. Mor’s cries quieted, with time, until her shaking form stilled beneath his hands, her bare skin revealed by her strapless red dress still somehow warmer than his own.

“You have to tell her, Azriel,” Mor insisted, red-lined eyes still somehow beautiful, as she looked up at him. “Before it’s truly too late.”

“Let’s talk about this another night, Mor,” Azriel said softly, but firmly, as he tucked her back into his chest. As he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that this night had turned out entirely different. That it was not Mor, breaking off the final piece of her that he had struggled to hold onto for so long. That instead, golden brown hair clung to his expensive shirt - the shirt that he had bought with some misguided hope that she might look at him - that there might be some way that she would look at him again and smile, and take his hand for a dance.

Then maybe she would have led him up here, to the balcony of her old room in the House of Wind. The room that her scent still clung to, although faintly - honey and jasmine. He dreaded the day when the scent faded completely, when he would no longer be able to slip through the door in the middle of the night to look at the stars, imagining she was in his arms as they looked out onto their city together, their home.

No, not even during those years of pining after Mor, had he known pain like this.

#mor and azriel finally talk #angst #post acosf #elriel #emorie #azriel #elain x azriel #acotar fanfiction #azriel shadowsinger

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deathmetalunicorn1 · 1 year

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Ok, I don't know if this already exists.

But here I go, how would the adoptive family of the teenager from Record of Ragnarok react to her showing up with a real Baymax complete with charging station?

(ignore it if it's too weird, bye and good night)

This was such a cute idea!

-You received a suitcase from one of your friends, asking you to test it out and give him feedback. Tadashi was always a talented person, with a bright and creative mind, and his newest invention, Baymax, was in the final testing stages. Now all that needed to be done was test it.

-He had several prepared for many of his classmates, wanting their opinions on his invention.

-You saw it in action at school, it was brilliant but at the same time, it looked so cute and cuddly!!

-When you arrived home with the large case under your arm, “I’m home~!” you heard a few voices call out as your struggled to get inside without dropping the case, which you managed to do after a few moments.

-You walked into the living room and eyes went to you as you set the case down, eyes went from the case to you, wondering what it was before you pulled your bag off, “This is Baymax, one of the projects my friend Tadashi made. He asked me to bring one home and try it out with all of you.”

-Loki popped up behind you, his arms wrapping around your neck, hugging you, “So what’s a Baymax?” Nikola approached the case eagerly, like a kid on Christmas, as you answered, “Tadashi described Baymax as a personal healthcare provider attendant, to put it simple, Baymax is a robotic nurse.”

-Sparkles and roses surrounded Tesla as he spun on you, eyes beaming brightly, “Can we see him?!” you can’t help but giggle before you pull out the manual and flip through it for a moment before you turn to Loki, “I need you to hurt someone, just enough to-” SLAP!!!

-Lu Bu leapt up, turning on Loki, “Ow! You bastard!” the case beeped and slowly opened and all attention turned to what could only be described as a walking marshmallow, inflate himself before stepping out of the case.

-Loki was wide eyed, floating around Lu Bu as Zeus was stroking his beard, “What in the world have you humans made now?” Baymax approached Lu Bu, who was standing, and he began to speak after lifting a hand in greeting, “Hello, I am Baymax, a personal healthcare companion. I was altered to the need of medical attention when you said ‘ow’.”

-Tesla was gushing while many of the others had stood to circle Baymax, inspecting him, Eve poked his arm, “Oh- he’s so soft!”

-On Baymax’s belly, a screen appeared, “On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain?” Lu Bu’s eyes were twitching lightly, looking over at you and you gave him a smile, motioning him to go along with it.

-After running through he scans and applying some antibacterial spray to Lu Bu’s chest, where a red handprint was still visible, several members in the room couldn’t help but snicker as Lu Bu took the lollipop, shadows covering his eyes before you spoke, “Thank you Baymax, we are satisfied with your care.”

-Baymax thanked us and went back to his case, deflating and boxing himself back up.

-Everyone was silent for a moment before you instantly found yourself in Tesla’s arms, his eyes sparkling up at you before you giggled, “You can study him, but don’t take him apart. And I can ask Tadashi if you can come to the lab again.” His cheeks was instantly rubbing against your own, thanking you.

-It was definitely a weird week with Baymax, you asked your family to try him out as much as possible, not to purposely injure themselves, as he was able to help with emotional and mental issues as well, as you wanted plenty of feedback.

-When you went back to Tadashi, you left Baymax at home, as he had become a member of the family and Tadashi couldn’t help but laugh, telling you that the other five people he asked all said the same thing, but that’s what he wanted.

-Tadashi was then surprised when Tesla popped up again beside you and began to praise his invention. It wasn’t the first time these two had met and they were quickly in a deep discussion as you waved at them, heading for the campus café for some coffee before class.

#record of ragnarok #ror x reader #ror loki #ror tesla #ror lu bu #baymax

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freyjas-musings · 1 month

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For Day 7 of @gwynrielweeksofficial I have something different , this is a drabble from Gwyns POV ... it was a concept that was in my head and it's inspired from a movie I saw years back ( I don't remember the name or language sorry!!! )

@aldbooks thank you for making this possible and presentable.... without her I wouldn't even have posted it... its my first attempt at creative writing (Please be kind 🤗)

You can read it on AO3 here

Lone leaf in the Autumn 🍂 Wind

The autumn wind howled outside while Gwyn sat by, staring out the window. She had been here two months they said, but she hardly realized- time didn’t matter to her anymore. If she was being honest nothing mattered to her anymore.

The days had bled together and the only emotions she felt were swinging between excruciating pain at the loss of her sister, or numbness out of fatigue; she existed and that’s all she had the strength for. Only one question was on her mind- why her? Why was she still here while so many others, more worthy, more deserving even, had not made it.

As Gwyn stared out the window all she could see was the lone leaf on a tree outside of her dormitory holding tight to the tree while all of its other companions had succumbed to the wind. How long would the leaf hold on, she thought. How long would it last against the onslaught of the roaring wind? Did the leaf want that? To hold on? Would it be easier for it to give up and join the rest, fly away with the wind. Stop struggling, stop fighting, stop feeling …

Everyday, Gwyn went about the same routine. She was yet to say a word apart from the initial conversation with Mor, Clotho and Rhysand- she couldn’t get herself to. Everytime she sat in front of the counselling priestess all she could do was cry and scream, rage at her failure. At her inability to save her sister. Clotho had offered her a position to work under one of her head researchers. Gwyn hadn’t accepted it, nor had she rejected the offer. The truth was she didn’t know- didn’t know what she wanted anymore. She was lost. Except going to the counsellors chamber she never went out. When she wouldn’t turn up in the communal dining hall, food was sent to her. All Gwyn did was sit at the window staring at the lone leaf wondering how much longer.

And, more importantly, why? Why hang on?

Nights weren’t much better, the bloody memory and her sister accusing her of failing her plagued her mind. She couldn’t sleep and if she did for a brief minute, she would wake up with a nightmare. One such night she woke up, body covered in cold sweat and heart pounding, and her entire being trembled. All she could do was sob, she went to the window and the lone leaf fluttered, struggled, yet stayed put; and Gwyn asked the mother why? Why not end the struggle?

Days later, Gwyn stared at the leaf still valiantly fighting, tears streaming down her cheeks. Where did the leaf find the strength, she thought. What motivated it to stay put, she wondered. Was it simply in its nature to never give up on life? Or was there a reason, a purpose greater than what it realized.

It was then that she felt it. She jolted as she felt a cool whisp of air caressing her cheek, as though in comfort. As she looked at the source, she realized what it was; a shadow. Strangely enough, she recognized it like her very being responded to it. She somehow knew who the shadow belonged to- its master. The Shadowsinger.

He was the one who had pulled her out of the wreckage of Sangravah, her temple now in rubble. He had looked like an angel of death sent by the mother herself to avenge the loss of her children. Gwyn had seen him cut through them within minutes. They died too quickly, she thought, but he made sure it wasn’t painless.

What, she did not expect, was the life altering snap she felt when their eyes met, the bond now permanently tying them together. He seemed oblivious to the bond- a small mercy, given being shackled to her was a punishment. She had nothing to offer. She hated herself and hated that she survived. So, she kept silent.

When Mor healed her and spoke to her, she had confessed to her. Perhaps it was Mor’s magic, the power of truth that had pulled that confession from her. Thankfully she had promised Gwyn to keep the secret; to let her decide. To never betray her trust.

The shadow caressed her cheek again and Gwyn, for the first time since arriving, whispered, “did he send you?” Her heart was pounding. She couldn’t think of why he would, but the shadow moved sideways seemingly bobbing its head as if to say no.

She then whispered, “does he know?” Again, the same answer, which she assumed was no. Relief washed through her. She looked at the shadow now and asked, “why are you here then?” The shadow zoomed to the window, as if pulling her attention to something.

As Gwyn looked to where the shadow was pointing, her heart almost gave out, because the shadow was pointing to the lone leaf. And, as she looked closer, she realized there was another little shadow circling the stem of the leaf, holding it to the tree. It had protected the leaf from falling off. Had held it for Gods knew how long. She wondered how the shadows knew?

Had the wind whispered to them? How they had known, she could never guess. Yet something restless settled in her, knowing the shadows, his shadows, had gone to those lengths for her. For the first time since arriving Gwyn thought, maybe … Maybe it wasn’t so bad to just try. Just try to fight, find a purpose. If not for her, then for her mate.

She looked at the shadow and smiled.

The next day, Gwyn went up to Clotho and accepted the offer to work. Thanks to the lone leaf in the autumn wind, she found a reason to at least try ……

#gwynriel #gwyneth berdara #pro gwynriel #gwyn acosf #acotar #azriel shadowsinger #gwyn x azriel #azriel #post acosf #acosf theory #gwynriel weeks 2024

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stargirlaveblog · 3 months

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7Seals

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Chapter 6*

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•Previous Chapter: Chapter Five

•Next Chapter: Chapter Seven

• New chapters every Thursday

•Content: Levi Ackerman × OC female. Slow Burn! Canon verse!

• Word Count: 2.7k

• Warning: This content may not be suitable for all readers. If you've watched all of AOT then you will understand that the show handles heavy subjects such as abuse, racism, violence, and other heavy subjects. This fanfiction will also have the same heavy themes. Chapters with heavy themes will be marked with * at each chapter. This chapter contains themes of abuse. If this bothers you please do not read.

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78Fahrenheit (demo) - Ethel Cain

2:22 ─────━❍─ 1:25

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The wind whispered through my hair as I guided my ODM gear through the intricate patterns of the training course. My body moved with a dance-like grace, effortlessly slicing through the air to sever the napes of the practice dummies.

The past three days had been a relentless cycle of one-on-one training with Captain Levi. His focus? My ODM gear and nape-slicing skills. Not a word escaped his lips during these sessions; he merely observed, occasionally mirroring my movements with his gear.

"You're using too much gas," Levi's blunt comment reached me as I returned from a practice run, my body dripping with exhaustion. Collapsing to catch my breath, Levi's foot jabbed into my leg, a harsh reminder that rest was a luxury.

"Get up. I didn't say you could sit, brat," he grumbled, his impatience evident.

"You're making unnecessary movements with your gas. Release, then move."

"Are you trying to kill me?" I retorted, still catching my breath. Levi's response was curt.

"It's not impossible."

"Fine. I'll do another run," I conceded, my determination overshadowing the fatigue.

"No. We're finished for right now," Levi declared. "Take five, then meet me on the training fields. We're recruiting today."

His words hung in the air, and I didn't argue. The training had pushed me to my limits, bruises from the gear darkening every day. The ODM gear, a relentless companion, left my thighs raw and my legs trembling. Levi's challenges extended beyond physical strain; they tested my mental fortitude, an arena where I was already grappling with the mess left by Alexander.

The pain echoed not just in my body but in the foggy recesses of my mind. Mentally checked out, I wondered how much more my body could endure and whether the cloudy aftermath of Alexander's actions would ever lift.

Doubts lingered in the air as I took my short break, sweat clinging to my skin from the relentless training. The question haunted me: Was I truly good enough for a spot on a special operations squad, especially one led by someone as formidable as Levi?

My mind circled back to Alexander, the one who knew me best, my companion for the past six years. His silent presence loomed in my thoughts, and a nagging doubt crept in – perhaps he had been trying to protect me, knowing my strengths and weaknesses better than anyone. Maybe he was right; maybe I was too weak for Levi's squad.

Levi made me feel like a mere shadow in his presence. Every spar was a reminder of my incompetence. He urged me to pin him, a simple task, yet one I struggled with. I hadn't even secured a spot in the top ten of my class. So why did Levi choose me? What did Erwin see in me that warranted such a position?

Survival haunted my past, with Alexander by my side for the last six years. Did Erwin consider my mere survival a qualification? My thoughts spiraled, questioning why I had lived through the fall of Wall Maria. Levi's intervention had saved me, but why?

Wouldn't it have been simpler to let me perish? It would have spared everyone the trouble, and given Alexander a chance at happiness. My internal debate echoed with the possibility that perhaps I wasn't meant for Levi's special squad. My presence, a potential burden, could jeopardize him and the entire squad.

Training days blended into a haze of exhaustion, my body pushed beyond its limits. Bruises marked my skin like a roadmap of pain, a testament to Levi's relentless regimen. Mentally checked out from the mess with Alexander, my mind felt clouded, a storm brewing beneath a calm exterior.

The haunting question persisted: Why me? Why did Erwin and Levi see potential in someone who couldn't even pin their captain during sparring? A whisper of doubt insinuated that maybe I was a mere survivor, not a true Scout.

I just keep going in circles.

I questioned Levi's motives, Alexander's warnings, and my abilities. Was I destined for more than just survival?

As I reached the training fields, Levi's gaze met mine. Where was the emotion that lay behind those eyes? Inner turmoil gripped me, a symphony of conflicting emotions. Every move felt like a step closer to revealing my inadequacy.

"You're late." Levi's voice broke through my thoughts. "I said five minutes, not twenty."

"I lost track of time." I stumbled over my words.

"Save it." Levi groaned. "My office after dinner."

"Yes sir," I said to him as we walked towards the group's training.

The sun dipped lower, casting a golden hue over the training grounds. Levi's voice cut through the air, a command that echoed with authority.

"I need high ground." His groan spoke of a tactical mind at work, and without hesitation, he navigated the field, reaching the closest building.

With practiced ease, he utilized his ODM gear to ascend, his silhouette against the darkening sky. From my vantage point below, he seemed like a shadow, a silent observer seeking an advantage. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, scanned the training fields.

"Oi," his voice rang down at me, a summon I couldn't ignore. "What the hell are you waiting for? Get up here."

The dread settled in, knowing that the pain of using my ODM gear awaited, yet duty demanded my ascent.

With gritted teeth, I propelled myself upwards, each motion a reminder of the physical toll training had taken on me. When I reached the rooftop, Levi had already claimed his spot, his eyes fixed on the recruits below. The town sprawled beyond, a canvas painted in the hues of dusk.

"Wherever I go, you go," Levi declared his words a simple directive that held more weight than spoken. His gaze remained focused on the ongoing training, looking for potential new members of his squad.

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The world below unfolded like a patchwork quilt as we soared through the dense woods. The ODM gear granted us an exhilarating freedom, taking us to untouched corners of the training grounds. The rush of wind against my face, the feeling of power coursing through every movement—it was a sensation unlike any other.

"Guys! Stop!" Hange's voice echoed through the trees, halting our swift progress. Alexander, always the assertive one, zoomed past me, hooking into the trees ahead. "Get up here, Hange!" he called out, his words carrying a playful challenge.

"Yeah, Hange, stop being scared and come join us!" I added my teasing encouragement. Hange's reluctance toward the ODM gear was known, a fear born from a face-first landing during their first attempt.

"Our gear is supposed to be used for emergencies only on this exercise, remember?" Hange's voice drifted from below, a reminder of the rules we were supposed to follow. But rules were always meant to be bent, weren't they?

Following Alexander's echoed voice, I found him perched high on a sturdy branch. "Come here," he beckoned, and I ascended to join him.

"What's up?" I asked, settling onto the branch beside him. The scenery spread out below us, a sea of treetops and greenery.

"Enjoy the view with me," he suggested, and I couldn't help but marvel at the beauty surrounding us.

"It's beautiful," I commented, my gaze lost in the vastness of the woods.

"Yeah, but you're prettier," he said with a casual grin, a compliment that never failed to make my cheeks flush. His words, always laced with a charming boldness, echoed back to the first day we met at training camp.

"Wherever I go, you go. Okay?" Alexander's tone shifted his words carrying a weight of seriousness.

"I can't afford to lose you, Iris."

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The memory lingered, a snapshot of unspoken promises amid the rustling leaves. As I returned to the present, perched on a rooftop with Captain Levi, the echoes of those words whispered through the air, a reminder of something that once was.

"Are you done daydreaming?" Levi's baritone voice asked cutting through my thoughts.

"I-" I stumbled over my words but it was pointless.

"Do you see anyone from the squad below worth our time?"

"Oluo and Eld." I quickly said. "They work well together."

"Oluo doesn't take his training seriously. All he's done is talk." Levi observed. "Who's his captain?"

"Alexander."

I saw Levi's gaze in the corner of my eyes. It wasn't too kind but it wasn't angry either.

"Should have known, guessing Eld was on your old squad as well?"

"Yes sir. Oluo has fifteen solo kills and Eld has ten. Together they've had ten assists. They work really well together." I explained to him. "We have a lot of trust in each other."

"Trust?"

"Yeah, without trust, you're as good as dead," I muttered, avoiding Levi's eyes as my gaze lingered on the vast landscape below. His eyes, usually intense, now held a curiosity that felt like it delved into my very thoughts.

"What are you guys doing up there?" Alexander's voice snapped the fragile thread connecting us, and I turned my attention to the man with ash-brown hair, scowling up at us.

Levi and I exchanged a swift glance, a momentary understanding that vanished in the face of Alexander's intrusion.

I haven't seen Alexander in the last couple of days. The mess hall had been a lonely place without him, and the tension that lingered between us found no resolution in his avoidance.

"Recruiting," I responded, breaking the silence with words that carried more weight than he could fathom. The distance between us felt like an unspoken chasm, fueled by his baseless accusations.

"Well, recruit somewhere else. My squad's off-limits."

Alexander's words, delivered with a glare aimed directly at me, cut through the air like a knife. Levi, embodying an unexpected calm, stood up and gracefully descended from the roof, landing in front of Alexander.

"Problem, soldier?"

As they faced each other, I stood on the roof, caught between past accusations and an uncertain future.

"Yeah, there is. You're interrupting a training session with my squad," he snapped, his stern gaze fixed on Levi.

The towering figure of Alexander made Levi appear even smaller. Anyone could sense the tension and understanding that Alexander wasn't about to extend a warm welcome.

"Your soldiers lack discipline if being observed is a distraction."

Levi had a calm and confident demeanor that I know made Alexander mad. His words lingered in the air like the tension between them, prompting me to leap off the roof and join Levi on the ground. I could feel the squad converging, drama was the scouts favorite activity after all.

"Then that's more of a reason to move along and recruit elsewhere. My squad's off-limits."

"Nothing is off-limits for me. I have free rein to choose any member of the regiment, whether they want to join or not. Including you." Levi's assertive voice could be heard all around us.

"And who gave you such power?" Alexander questioned, his disbelief apparent.

"Commander Erwin. I'd love to chit-chat about meaningless shit all day, but I have a job to do."

With those words, Levi turned and walked away, leaving a stunned squad and a seething Alexander in his wake.

"Get back to training," Alexander bellowed at his squad, eyes lingering.

As Levi walked away, leaving Alexander fuming with frustration, the tension in the air lingered longer than it should have. I felt the weight of Alexander's disapproval as he turned his piercing gaze toward me.

He grabbed my wrist, leading me away from the unfolding drama. As we entered the nearby building, my thoughts raced, trying to make sense of the power dynamics shifting within the regiment.

What have I gotten myself into? The clash between these two is like a storm, and I'm standing in the middle of it.

Alexander's grip on my wrist tightened as he led me away from the gathering crowd. The building's interior enveloped us, shielding our conversation from prying eyes.

"Explain yourself, Iris," Alexander demanded, his voice low and harsh.

I struggled to find the right words, torn between defending Levi's actions and pacifying Alexander's evident anger. This is a delicate dance, and one wrong step could lead to more trouble.

"He's just doing his job, Alexander. Recruiting for the Special Ops," I offered cautiously.

Alexander's scowl deepened.

"And you think that gives him the right to disrupt my training session? To challenge the authority of my squad?"

I bit my lip, contemplating my response. How do I make him understand without making things worse?

"He's persistent, but it doesn't mean he disrespects you or your squad. He sees potential, that's all," I tried to reason, trying to choose my words wisely.

Alexander's eyes bore into mine, searching for sincerity. "Potential or not, this isn't the way to go about it. We have rules, and he can't just waltz in and disregard them."

"Just trust Erwin. He knows what he's doing." I said trying to calm his nerves.

The room hung heavy with tension, a suffocating silence enveloping us. I turned to face Alexander, uncertainty clawing at my insides. His gaze, cold and unforgiving, pierced through me like a blade. The air was filled with unspoken words, and I felt my stomach plummet into an abyss of dread.

Before I could comprehend the storm about to erupt, my body stumbled backward, colliding with the sturdy desk behind me. Panic surged as I braced myself, my trembling hands reaching out to steady the chaos within me. The echo of the impending storm reverberated through the room, drowning out any semblance of peace.

A sharp contact against the right side of my face sent shockwaves through my senses. I winced, instinctively cradling the stinging pain. The heavy breathing in the room intertwined with the shiver that ran down my spine. The sting of tears welled up, soothing the physical ache but doing nothing to quell the storm raging within.

"Who do you think you are?"

Alexander's voice cut through the silence, each word a lash against my already battered composure. He advanced, a looming presence that seized control of the room. His hand found a fistful of my hair, yanking me mercilessly closer to him. I bit back a cry, my eyes locked with his, a silent plea for mercy.

"Do you think I'm fucking dumb?"

His words lashed out like a whip, each syllable seething with anger. His grip on the back of my head tightened, and I felt the world tilt under the force of his rage.

"Answer me."

His demand hung in the air, a command that brooked no disobedience. I swallowed hard, my voice a fragile whisper in the charged atmosphere.

"No."

The tears streamed down, tracing a path of despair on my cheeks. His eyes bore into the raw vulnerability laid bare before him. My body was locked in the vice of his anger, and I braced myself for the tumultuous storm. His words sliced through the room, anger boiling beneath the surface.

"Tell that captain of yours to stay the fuck away from our squad."

Another demand hung in the air, a venomous command that echoed in the silence. I nodded, a silent acknowledgment, but it was never enough. His fist collided with my face, a burst of pain and frustration.

"When I ask you something, you answer. Got it?" His voice was a relentless storm, demanding compliance.

"Yes," I whispered, the word hanging in the charged atmosphere.

"Do you understand what's going to happen if you don't listen to me?" His question sent shivers down my spine, and my voice trembled as I replied,

"Yes."

The weight of his expectations bore down on me, and I felt the vulnerability in my compliance.

"Good. Now come here," he said, lifting me off the floor and holding me close. His touch was a paradox of comfort and pain, his hand gentle in my hair as he cradled me. I felt his lips press against the very spot his fist had struck moments ago.

"Please listen, Iris. I do this because I love you." His words were a desperate plea, a conflicted confession that hung in the air. He squeezed me one last time before releasing his hold, his departure leaving an emptiness in the room. He didn't look back, and the silence that followed echoed with the weight of unspoken struggles. I was left standing, all alone in the dark training room while the day still passed on.

It wasn't the first time he hit me.

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Authors Note:

Abuse is never to be romanticized. This is to spread awareness and help others cope in different outlets. You are not alone.

For more help:

National Domestic Violence Hotline: 800-799-7233

Text START to 88788

You are not alone.

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#levi ackerman #levi x you #captain levi #aot x reader #attack on titan #levi aot #aot #levi attack on titan #snk levi #levi x reader #shingeki no kyojin #levi ackerman x reader #levi angst #levi #snk

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unreadpoppy · 4 months

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Wash My Dreams Away - Chapter 2

Raphael x Tav (Gwen)

Read on AO3

Chapter 1

edit: I changed the name of the fic from Brown Eyes to Wash My Dreams Away

The day had been longer than what Gwen expected.

The way there had been long and arduous, having to lie through their teeth and fend off terrible foes but at last, they had arrived in the Shadow Cursed lands.

Just as Halsin had described, the land was grim and lifeless. No wonder it brought so much pain to the druid. There was no way to tell if it was day or night, the plants were gray and the smell of death hung in the air.

After meeting with the drider, Kar’niss and fighting alongside the harpers, the group had arrived at Last Light Inn, immediately being questioned by their leader, Jaheira. Thanks to Mol’s vouching for the group, they were granted entrance.

Listening to Alfira’s story about what had happened to the tieflings was a great pain to Gwen, and although she would readily go rescue the others, she couldn’t help but feel tired, as it was yet another task they would have to do. As she made her way around the establishment, she couldn’t help but feel eyes following her, just as she had in that past dream. She thought it must be the paranoia considering all that had transpired and moved on.

The one highlight of the day had been Karlach’s engine being temporarily fixed by Dammon, allowing the fiery tiefling to finally hug others. Her smile and joy after Gwen hugged her gave the leader a small glimpse of hope for the times to come.

Finally, the group made camp and Gwen was ready to sleep her worries away. It didn’t take long, after closing her eyes, for the tiefling to fall into a dream.

…

She was on the floor, the fox masked gentleman holding his hand out towards her. Gwen looked down briefly, noticing that instead of her camp clothes, this time, she was wearing a large light blue dress, the skirts of it pooling around her.

With a deep breath, Gwen placed her hand in his, noticing how much larger his was, completely engulfing hers. In a show of strength, he pulled her up towards him with no effort. Gwen gasped as he placed a hand in her corseted waist, holding her other hand in a tight grip.

He moved, and Gwen followed his lead. In real life, she did not know the dance, but here, she knew which steps to take. As they danced, he stared into her eyes. She felt shy under his intense gaze, her pink cheeks darkening. Every time she would try to look away, it was if some invisible force was stopping her from doing so.

Even though she knew it was all a dream, it felt real. Every single touch of his gloved hand on her exposed skin - her arm, her wrist, her hand, even the grip he had on her waist lit her skin on fire. She wondered how his skin felt beneath all the layers of clothes, if it was as hot as hers or if he was cold. If his hands were colloused and rough or smooth and soft.

The dance seemed to go on and on forever. Gwen had so many questions, but she couldn’t find her voice to express them. At one particular moment, she was in front of him, her back touching his chest. He held her wrist while his other hand trailed up from her waist, until it gripped her neck, making her look forward.

Then, he brought her wrist to his lips, pressing a delicate kiss to it. Gwen gasped, not being able to turn and look at him. He let go of her limb, wrapping his now free hand around her waist, keeping both of her arms pressed to her body, as if it was a snake enveloping its prey. He chuckled and whispered in her ear “You’ll find me soon, little mouse.”

That voice…she knew it from somewhere. But before she could ask, Gwen woke up.

…

After waking up, Gwen felt as if her skin was on fire - not literally, but in a more…pleasurable way. She quickly made her way to the river near Last Light Inn, the water cooling her down before her companions awoke.

Arriving at camp, Astarion soon struck up a conversation with her.

He opened up about what his scars could possibly mean. Being a tiefling, Gwen had once told him that the text was in infernal but it seemed to be part of something greater.

“I’m afraid that through those runes, somehow, Cazador might still be able to control me.”

‘Oh gods, not another problem to solve.’ Gwen thought. Her bones ached, thinking of how whenever they seemed to get close to their go, the furtested they were. She did not say that.

Instead, she replied “I could try and give it another look?”

“Any excuse to take my shirt off, I see.” Astarion chuckled and shook his head. “No, actually, I was thinking maybe a different pair of eyes could give us some better insight. Someone familiar actually.”

Gwen raised her eyebrow and he continued. “Our devilish friend - Raphael. If anyone’s going to know about infernal contracts, he will.”

She sighed. Truly, he had a good point. She replied, already knowing that now they’d have to go find the devil. One more thing to do. “Sure, makes sense to me.”

“I knew you’d see the pragmatic side.” He smiled. “Unfortunately, he comes and goes on his own schedule, so we’ll just have to be on the lookout for any sulfurous smells or the sound of questionable poetry.”

Gwen chuckled and walked away. As she did so, she began to think.

Raphael. Raphael. Raphael. What did the devil look like?

Truth be told, although the devil had left an impression on Gwen, but, between discovering the truth about Kagha, killing most on the goblin camp, fighting a hag, losing an eye to Volo (she still believed that “procedure” had messed something up inside her brain, but alas), finding a way to and arriving at the Shadow Cursed lands, she had almost entirely forgotten about him.

She vaguely remembered his devil form, the red skin and the horns, the darked hair and the black and orange eyes. She remembered his long nails and his pointed teeth when he smirked.

But his human form was harder to conjure in her mind’s eye. The hair was the same but in a brown shade. His skin was a human color, and of course, he had no horns or a tail or wings. His voice, however, was very distinctive to her, she quickly remembered the sound of it, as if she had heard it yesterday. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more things started to make sense.

The man in the dream…his voice…

Raphael’s eyes, his human eyes, what were their color? She closed her eyes, trying to remember. It wasn’t blue, it wasn’t green…

Brown. He had brown eyes, like the man in the dream. And not only that, but during their first meeting, hadn’t he likened himself to a fox?

As the final puzzle piece was placed, all Gwen could think of was:

Why was she dreaming of Raphael?

#raphael x tav #raphael bg3 #raphael baldur's gate 3 #raphael x gwen #tav: gwen #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 fanfiction #raphael the cambion #my writing

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henry1986 · 5 months

Text

Guiding (Gale x Tav)

This is my first ever Tumblr post after years of lurking. I wanted to format it differently, but it's been so long so I've written anything that I can't get back into my ao3 account, so here we are. (BleuHenri on there, btw. Wrote a kickass Labyrinth fanfic some years ago now).

This may be the only thing I write or share, but something in me has been longing to share fic again after so long. Had a shitty relationship that crushed my spirit so I stopped doing anything that brought me joy...you know how it be. Now I'm super happy and adjusted to life and letting my old self come back.

The TLDR: Random oneshot about Gale and my named Tav (Fits) from Baldur's Gate because this game is insanely amazing and I fucking love Gale and I love my little oc Fits (urchin tiefling druid who named himself 'Fits' with an s because he just wants to belong).

Summary: Fits doesn't do well with the unknown. So being blinded by a spell in the middle of a battle is not his ideal situation. Cue panic attack, and cue the voice of a certain adorable wizard he's been flirting with for weeks now. Gale to the rescue!

Story Below:

It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye. Dry and rot, what he wouldn’t give to be a child once more, laughing off his mother’s cautions with the arrogance of youth. His current situation is neither fun nor remotely game-like, so it seems unfair that he still has to suffer the drawbacks. Today one of Fits’ few childhood memories has come back to bite him in the tail.

He’s probably going to murder Volo if they make it out of this mess.

But who is more the fool, he wonders briefly, the one with the ice pick or the one offering himself up like needlepoint? Either way he knows it’s not fair to blame the bard. Mistakes have been made, his party has been ambushed by bandits, and now he can’t see a godsdamned thing, false eye or no. Where just minutes ago his sharp tiefling vision would catch movement in any shadow, now he sees nothing but black. And what’s worse, his companions seem not to have noticed. Well, that’s his fault for breaking formation and getting separated. Stupid, stubborn rock that he is. And now that stubbornness has cost him his sight – possibly even his life.

The sounds of the battle thrash his ears, now sensitive in compensation. Somewhere to the left Karlach’s grunts mix with the dull thud of hammer on shield. The bandits shriek and curse and scream and…gargle? Perhaps that one has just met Astarion’s fangs. It would serve them right for thinking to rob a half-starved group of exhausted travellers. The thought of Gale’s stew simmering back at camp has been on everyone’s minds during the long trek back. To be delayed further has no doubt pissed them off to no end.

“Desperados and cutthroats I don’t mind, but why did we have to find the only bandits clever enough to find a mage to fight for them?” Karlach had lamented as their attackers had unleashed their secret weapon. Gale had snorted, deriding the man in torn robes as nothing more than a charlatan with a few spell scrolls on hand.

The origin of the magic is a moot point – it hasn’t made Fits any less blind. And now he’s wondering if he should call for help, or if that will alert nearby enemies, and just what is he supposed to do? His mouth is dry as a creek bed in summer. His tail flicks an anxious metronome. The not knowing has always been his undoing. Fits is no stranger to pain and loss, same as many others. If there’s a burden that needs shouldering, he’ll take the weight with few complaints. But the not knowing…the archer he’d seen earlier might still be perched atop that rocky outcrop, not yet aware of his advantage on the blinded druid. Or he might already know, and there are precious few seconds left to find shelter. He might be knocking a fresh arrow right now, as Fits stumbles backwards over a rock and hits the ground. He might be lining him up in his sights as Fits grasps desperately around for anything to use as a shield, for a tree to hide behind, for his dropped staff or –

He’s a child again, youthful arrogance snuffed to embers, no longer lucky enough to have parents to caution him. The streets are filthy and bustling, danger lurking in the shadows. He’s small, so small in this big city with no idea of where to go or around which corner the next beating will take place –

Sounds blur into a single crushing weight, ringing in his ears. His breathing is fast as a swallow bursting from its nest, like a thousand swallows in a thousand nests trying to fly free all at the same time. Usually so dextrous, his stiff hands curl in on themselves like gnarled trees aged by time. Hopelessly he drags one numb hand across his face, risking damage to his good eye by rubbing at it so viciously, desperate to make it see, please just see…

Someone’s gentle hand stills his movements.

“Come on now, no need for that. Just breathe,” someone says, prying fingers away from his face. And then three words to change everything: “I’ve got you.”

The voice is fixed with the luxury of knowing – of always knowing – and tempered by reassurance. It’s so familiar his heart leaps into his throat. Relief douses his panic so violently it’s difficult not to collapse with the intensity of it. The city streets and their thugs are cast out of mind, thrown back to the recesses of memory to haunt another day. “Gale. I...my – eyes.” The words won’t come. They’re still struggling against the tide of his laboured breathing. Through the numbness in his hands he feels the barest hint of warmth; Gale’s fingers do not stray from his, lending him strength.

“Ah, so your hearing is still keen as ever, good to know. Though how you can hear anything over the utter racket Karlach is making, I don’t know. Honestly, get between a barbarian and her next meal and may the gods protect you…”

Fits doesn’t hear the rest of the wizard’s rambling. I’ve got you. Has anyone ever said that to him in his life? Surely his parents must have at some point. There must have been a moment where he existed not as an urchin to be kicked but as a child that belonged to someone. If ever that time was, he doesn’t recall it. I’ve got you. It’s difficult with legs that feel like dead weight but he manages to climb to his feet and throw his arms around Gale. Grace is not his strong point in this moment. Gale catches him with a gently breathed ‘ooph’ as Fits bumps into different bits of him all at once.

Everything is intensified in his blindness: the pressure of Gale’s hands slipping around his waist to keep them upright, the pulsing scent of their mingled sweat and the tang of blood that speaks of fresh injury. “You’re hurt.” His fingers stumble along Gale’s arm and find a tear in the fabric. The skin beneath is slick with blood, coating his gently probing fingers.

“How in the hells did you know that? You’re blinder than the proverbial bat.” Gale sounds as if he’s trying very hard to sound amused. Fits hasn’t missed the sharp breaths that begin and end his question, a parenthesis of doubt.

“Your blood…smells strange. Different.” He inhales both to calm himself and to further investigate Gale’s scent. Fascinating.

“Ah. That would be the orb’s influence. Let me assure you, in normal circumstances my blood is indistinguishable from any others’. I’m sorry if the odour offends your sensitive nose.”

“I said it was different, not bad.” The sounds of the fight flicker and die for the briefest moment as they stand together. Gale’s hands flutter around his back before settling on a place below his shoulder blades. His fingertips meet at the spine and stay there with gentle pressure. So decisive. He wonders if the man has ever been unsure of anything in his life. What that must feel like… “I didn’t think anyone saw me go down,” Fits murmurs against the starched collar of Gale’s robes. The smell of him is grounding, chasing away his panic. “I cursed my own stupidity for straying so far off.”

“Yes – well. I admit I did question the intelligence of your decision to pursue that ‘mage’ –” he spits the word out with scorn – “On your own. And good thing I kept an eye out for you, too. I saw the spell hit you and I thought...” His voice lilts with care, stepping over the words as though they themselves are creatures to be soothed. “I know you don’t do well with the unknown. I didn’t think you’d much care for blindness.”

Fits’ anxiety has become no secret to the wizard in the last few weeks. He’s never been more grateful to have such a confidant. Especially when a hail of somethings whizz right by, spraying around them like deadly rain, and he feels the warmth of Gale’s magic envelop them both in a shield. It’s like stepping into honeyed sunlight from a cool spring shadow. His skin prickles. He can feel it even after they’ve stepped apart. Gale’s magic always feels so different to his own.

“Will you two stop flirting for one gods-damned minute and do something useful?!”

Fits winces at Astarion’s tone. Usually, the elf takes great delight in watching the two of them dance awkwardly around each other. Apparently his patience only stretches so far on long days. Fits shakes the moment off, refusing to imagine a lovely blush on Gale’s cheeks when he hears the man cough pointedly. It’s difficult to focus with nothing to visually keep his attention, but he figures they should probably start helping.

“I don’t suppose you could be my seeing-eye wizard until this spell wears off?” he asks lightly, amazed at the recovery of his confidence.

“It would be my absolute pleasure,” Gale replies.

Fits can hear the curved edges of his smile. When they clasp hands, it feels as if for the first time – every ridge and dip of Gale’s palm is treasured new information. He catalogues the placement of each ring on the man’s fingers, evaluates the silver clang of them against his own single allowance of metal: his mother’s ring. Their hands sway as Gale swoops down momentarily with a soft grunt – his knees often protest such actions – and then he returns the precious weight of Fits’ staff to his free hand. With that the last of his anxiety pools to dull thunder in the back of his head, and they get to work.

When the last bandit collapses to the ground a short time later, Karlach’s triumphant call for dinner is echoed back by all. They trudge back to camp, tired but enthusiastic. Astarion asks if there’s any of that half-decent wine still left. Usually this leads to a quick but snarky conversation between him and Gale. ‘If you took any interest in maintaining the camp supplies, you’d know the answer to that.’ ‘But you do such a fine job of it darling, I’d simply mess it up if I tried to help.’ ‘That sounds awfully familiar to your arguments against chopping firewood and washing dishes.’ ‘But true nonetheless.’ They say no such things tonight. Gale’s thumb brushes Fits’ and he tells Astarion in a distracted voice that yes there might be some left, certainly, he’d have a look.

They find a comfortable alignment on the path back, Fits trusting the wizard to guide him. Each time the party changes direction or pauses to scout, Gale murmurs a soft instruction. It’s an experience that would have been terrifying for him at most other times in his life. He’s never completely given himself over to the care of someone else, let alone someone he’s known so short a time. But Gale is different. They’ve been friends from the moment Fits pulled him out of that portal. And now…well, Gale warns him about rocks in the path and at one point helps him climb a fallen log. The sensation of straddling the tree with Gale’s voice so close in his ear – “That’s it, up you go, just like that –” does things to his insides that are better left for late night contemplation.

Eventually his vision returns, the comforting greens of nature a welcome sight, Lae’zel’s torchlight too bright for his sensitive eye - the one that hasn't been gouged out by an ice pick. Yet for all his relief he somehow feels a pang of loss, like the unravelling of a well-kept secret between two people. So as his eyes readjust Fits says nothing, enjoying the feel of Gale’s fingers jostling his in their loose grip, walking along in silence. If Gale notices at some point the druid’s steps become more confident, his pace not at all like that of a man still blinded…well. He doesn’t say anything, and they don’t stop holding hands the whole way back to camp.

#bg3 oc #baldurs gate 3 #gale baldurs gate 3 #my tav #tav bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #gale of waterdeep #gale x tav #gale dekarios

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tokoyamisstuff · 1 year

Text

Dolorous (n.) Pt. 3 - grieving, mournful; full of sorrow

After the fall of Overwatch, your fiancé Gabriel Reyes was presumed dead as well - yet no corpse was ever retrieved out of the debris. Unwilling to accept this fate, your dangerous investigations lead you right to the enigma hunting down former comrades of yours...

...is he the one responsible for the disappearance of your lover?

[Part 2]

Warnings: Slight Angst, Brief Mentions of Violence and Blood, Self-Loathing

A/N: I am so pissed rn because Tumblr ate my already finished (!) draft and I had to recreate the chapter from scratch memories only, ughhh.

Words: ~2300

As soon as your eyes would finally open again, you were greeted with yet another foreign ceiling.

Seems like you had passed out due to severe emotional trauma, at least that was understandably your best guess after the recent events.

However, asides from that, you appeared to have remained completely unharmed.

You stirred a little, eyes darting around the room. It was worn down and furnished with only some bare necessities, and no obvious danger in sight.

Could it be...?

Yeah, this certainly looks like a former Overwatch safe-house, a dusty emblem still present on the door. A wonder it hasn't been torn down already - but after all, not many people knew about their location either way...

...except for former members, of course.

One thing was out of the ordinary, however - and that fact send a cold shiver down your spine, hugging yourself in an unconscious motion to ease the feeling.

Someone was watching you, that much was sure.

There was no use in searching for the origin of this oppressing feeling, for the source was most likely directly in front of you. In the shadows, some dark corner of the room.

"Don't you dare leaving just like that" you paused, wary as you heared a soft creak on the wooden floor. "You at least owe me an explanation."

When your unwanted companion ceased to react, you frowned. "Come out" you demanded once again, body shaking as exhaustion washed over you.

Seems like you had overdone it back then.

The omnious creature hesistantly began coalescing to take human form, stepping out into the dim light as it pulled it's hood even further over his head. After all, you had broken his mask - and he was frantic to veil most of his mangled face.

You were stunned to silence once more as Reaper now stood in the middle of the room, submissive and making himself appear as small as humanly possible.

"Can I...?" the man croaked, afraid to overstep a line. "You can, and you will."

Doing as he was told, Reaper followed the gesture of your hand and sat down on the edge of the bed, the mattress creaking under his massive weight.

In an instant, you pulled down his hood before he could even protest, pupils blown wide as yet another time you laid eyes upon the person beneath.

A violent tremor ran through your body as you incredulously scanned his features, examined scars both old and new. The man itself remained frozen in place, yet unable to even meet your eyes and with his chest having at the touch he had craved for so agonizingly long.

What a blatant lie, or so you thought.

Your fingers barely ghosted across his scruffy beard, alongsides his cheekbones to run through raven locks...

...before out of a whim, you rammed a balled fist right under his jawline.

He buckled over slightly, face contorting in pain before spitting out a mixture of blood and black smoke. "I deserved that one" he chuckled darkly.

"Are you toying with me?" You narrowed your eyes at the person still squirming in front of you, heart sinking into a puddle of bile because how dare he look so forlorn while exposing you to this ordeal.

The confusion and fatigue made you light-headed, but he couldn't really think you to be this gullible after your own eyes saw what he was capable of. "Stop wearing his face...you have no right..."

Yes, surely a wraith like him was able to alter his physique and appearance as well - solely to deceive you.

Gabe swallowed dryly around a lump in his throat, apprehension creeping up on him together with the soulcrushing feeling of helplessness.

"That's enough. If you want to end my life just pull through with it" you ultimatively declared, bracing yourself for what you thought was the inevitable conclusion. "I just beg of you, stop playing with me."

"But this..." One hand of yours reached up to cup his cheek once again, chest clenching painfully at the striking resemblance of the monster that mimicked your deceased lover. "This is just too cruel."

Reaper's heartheart was mercilessly hammering against his sternum as he softly grabbed your shoulders - not in order to keep you away, but to hold himself back.

He had trouble speaking, his mind set solely on the wish to take all of your pain away - even if it ought to be impossible.

"Y/N, I'm so, so sorry..."

"Cut it out!" you gritted at his ludicrous act - even though your subconsciousness was currently screaming at you. Throwing yourself against this enigma that could easily snap you in half like a twig, you fiercely grabbed the collar of his coat, weakly shaking him.

It was a pathetic attempt, wishful thinking that anything he would do or say could make this situation any more bearable...

...and then indeed, through the motion a piece of paper fell from inside of his pockets, presenting itself for you to pick up.

It was a picture of you and Gabe, kissing for the first time - the snapshot was crumpled and withered by time, but you recognized it right away.

"Please don't tell me you plucked this from his corpse" you reacted in an attempt to make sense of him possessing such a thing, still in denial.

Even if your lover would've never openly admit to being a softie like this, but he would always take it to missions back then, to look at it when in a desperate situation.

His own personal lucky charm, or so some would say.

But you knew the answer already, didn't you?

"Cassidy had snatched the pic back then." Reaper's mouth curled into an almost-smile, leaving you in complete and utter shock at this knowledge only he - the real deal - could know. "Oh boy, he had to do the most humiliating duties as punishment afterwards. But now I'm grateful he did."

While the truth may be as bright as daylight, it was also equally as simple as it was destructive...

...Reaper and Gabriel Reyes were undeniably the same person.

"G-Gabriel?!" Your voice was just slightly above a whisper, feeling like all of the air had been kicked out of your lungs.

And all of the malice you saw in him until now would disappear just like that, being replaced with a meek vulnerability.

"I'm here, my love" he replied with a smile that did not quite match his eyes. "And I missed you dearly."

Yet in all truth and retrospect: If what he claimed to be was true, then the person you loved most had turned into a villain, mass murderer...

...and a monster.

What must've happened in order to twist a righteous hero like that, you wondered?

His walk, the weapons - hell, even the way-over-the-top costume! And his voice, this haunting timbre laced with something so damn close to the man he once was.

And how could you not have noticed, all this time that you had been fighting the very person you wanted to avenge - throwing the worst of accusations at this broken husk of a man that had gone through the unspeakable.

Maybe you had known it all along after all, shoved it way into the back of your head - knowing very well that the truth would destroy you.

For you had failed him once again.

"You're alive" you finally sniveled, reveling even in the distorted features of his face and body only to break out in heartwrenching cries of sadness and relief. "Oh god, Gabe, you were alive all this time!"

"Shh...it's alright now" the man soothed you, lowering his voice as he gave in to the urge to cradle you into his chest - the racing beat of his heart against your ear being final proof of the impossible.

"You're back" you hiccup once again, just to blink up at him through wetted lashes. "I was never really gone, Y/N. I always watched over you."

So you were never really alone, huh. A minor comfort after years of grief.

At that very moment, Reaper's form began to change, dispersing into a horrendous being no one should ever lay their eyes upon, pining you in place with only so much as his intense aura.

"Then why didn't you tell me?!" His expression went flat as well as his embrace loosened. "And then what, come to you as this...thing?"

Stop with the secrecy then, it is.

Not even in your wildest dreams you could've imagined something like this as too many crimson dots glared at you from between pitch black embers, ever shifting into indescribable forms and directions.

"What have they done to you?"

"Talon found me before anyone else." His voice seemed to come from all sides at once, surrounding you fully. As if he was collapsing into himself over and over again - what a terrible state of being that must be. "And they...saved my life, more or less. I manage."

"Did they brainwash you, like they did with Amelie?"

"No." A plain answer, sufficient yet also unsatisfying.

You were sure Moira had something to do with this - she had a finger in every pie, after all, and had manipulated Reyes for the worst on many occasions before.

"I-I've searched for you with my bare hands for days..." Your voice cracked as you began to sob, flailing at him in utter disbelief. "I know my love, I know..."

By whatever horrid miracle he did survive, and yet had the audiacity to not immediately return to the woman mourning him?!

"And you would've actually let me kill you, just like that? How could I ever live on after I'd find out?" you now shoutet at the man, softly beating against his chest.

What appeared to be his lips brushed yours ever so slightly as you laid on top of the human-shaped shadow, almost as if he tried to hold himself back...

"You were never supposed to learn the truth. As I am now, you're not safe with me." Were you really this delusional, not fearing what you saw right now? Or had you just completely lost your sanity after this revelation? "I was supposed to protect you from the bad guys, Y/N, not become one."

Yet still, the only thing really affecting you was the disappointment of his disappearance and betrayal.

While he was hesistant to touch you in that abominable form, you remained completely unfazed by this eldritch appearance, tackling him over for a long due kiss.

...yet however your lover wanted to object, you simply kissed away any words that laid on the tip of his tongue.

"I have no clue who or what to believe anymore" you mumbled against his skin that slowly returned to it's human outerior again, "But I know for sure that the man I gave my heart away to is a good person."

"It was no lie, my love" he emphasized, your head now tucked under his chin. "I did revolt against Overwatch. And the fight triggered an explosion that destroyed everything we built, alongsides countless allies."

"Don't you think I'm aware of this?" Closing your eyes, you nuzzled against his pectoral muscles which in return relaxed under your silky touch. He really smelled just like back then - a little less intense, and mingled with something you couldn't quite decipher, but it was him after all.

"And I already forgave you a long time ago" you added, unable to help but feel grateful that you'd finally hear the truth drop from his mouth - even at those terrible confession, as crazy as it seems. "I only wish you would've told me way sooner. Maybe we had found another solution..."

"Back then, I was full of false pride and bitterness." Reyes would wipe at your moist eyes, a claw of his that could easily disembowel a person now all careful to not break the skin in the slightest. "It made me forget that the most important thing was always right besides me."

Ever since he had been degraded to be the Commander of Blackwatch, the temptation of just running away with you and starting a new, normal life like you had always suggested sure was high...

...a life you always wanted but he never truly believed in.

In the end, he practically evoked his own downfall - and involuntarily, yours as well.

He aimed to be powerful, respected - able to give you the world. Always fearing to lose you shall he not reach up to those impossible standarts he set for himself.

Too much endeavor paired with his ill temper sure were a dangerous combination, worsening with every mission gone south.

"I said so many terrible things to you..." you sniveled which he'd protest, his strong hands still lingering on your body. "I'm so sorry, Gabe..."

"No, no. You were right with every word." You felt him press a gentle kiss into the crown of your hair, absentmindedly shuffling even closer against your body. "There was nothing you could do. I was beyond help, and I abandoned you. I should be the one apologizing."

"Then we'll apologize to each other" you decided, a tentative smile decorating your face as you scoldingly poked his chest. "Every day. For the rest of our lives."

"Y/N" he breathed out with a wavering voice, and you could've sworn to see some black particles swirl in the air as he spoke. "Are you sure this is a good-"

"Cut it out with the self-loathing" you peeved in certainty, effectively silencing him with another breathtaking kiss. "It doesn't suit you. And you seem to forget this isn't up to you alone to decide. I want you, and I always will. So you better make it work out!"

Just like back then - no use in arguing with you.

"Still the feisty little thing, I see" the man grinned confidently from ear to ear now, through razor-sharp teeth that only mildly concerned you. "Alright. In that case..."

You rose one eyebrow as Gabe started rummaging through his somewhat magical pockets - until he pulled out a small, black box. "Took me a whole month's salary...well, and weeks of combing through the rubble to find it again."

Gasping as the box revealed what he had prepared all those years ago, your eyes darted between the beautiful ruby decorated ring and the hopeful face of your lover.

Dear god, please don't let this be a dream, both of you thought in unison. After all you've been through, this is simply to good to be true!

"Let me do it properly this time..." he mumbled nervously, making you chuckle in excitement as he fell down to one knee - looking at you with sheer adoration as he spoke:

"Y/N Y/L/N, will you still marry me?"

#overwatch #overwatch 2 #reaper x reader #gabriel reyes x reader #reaper #gabriel reyes #blackwatch #talon #reaper / reader #gabriel reyes / reader #writing #self insert #fanfiction

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blackjackkent · 25 days

Text

Rakha finds the first of her targets in the front atrium of the former temple.

For a little while, she and her companions watch the goblin go about her business, which seems to entail branding each member of the goblin company with the "mark of the Absolute." She promises them eventual ascension to her station as a True Soul. Her acolytes surround her with eager enthusiasm, hanging on her every word.

The whole place is dirty and dim; it stinks of rot and of burned flesh - a smell that makes the beast in Rakha's head squirm hungrily.

"Now, here's somebody special!" the priestess crows as Rakha approaches. "The Absolute has touched you, hasn't she?"

She gestures dramatically with the branding iron in one hand. "Priestess Gut needs to touch you, too. Hold out your arm so I can mark your flesh."

"A priestess," Wyll mumbles under his breath. "One of the leaders, no doubt about it. Let's make her squeal."

"What's that?" Gut demands sharply. "Tell your friend to keep quiet, or he'll lose his good eye."

Rakha's jaw works - anger at the goblin's disrespect mixes in with the everpresent hunger for death. Tempting to follow Wyll's advice and simply slice the priestess's throat right here. But she wants information first... she wants to know everything about this cult, because they are the ones that put the worm in her head and put her on that ship. Answers first, then blood.

"Ignore him," she says curtly. "Tell me about the mark, priestess." She leans just a little on the title, sardonically.

Gut snickers. "Ready for the fire, are you?"

Rakha raises and lowers one shoulder noncommittally. "I assume this mark has a purpose."

"Shows our devotion to the Absolute!" Gut says stoutly. "These maggots see how strong we are with Her guidance. Whole camp'll be branded soon - an' you should be too." She gives Rakha a nasty smile. "You ready? Brace yourself - this'll sting."

Rakha considers for a moment. There is a practical aspect here that she can see; the presence of the worm already got her passage in here, and carrying a brand of the cult would reinforce the illusion. Not that she cares if it comes to violence in the end, but full vengeance for what has been done to her will no doubt require entering many such places.

And the brand... the stink in the air... that calls to her darker nature too.

"I *have* always wanted to smell my own burning flesh," she hears herself say coolly.

("Ew," she hears Shadowheart mutter behind her.)

In spite of the fact that the branding iron is almost as tall as she is, Gut is quick and deft with it. The heated metal presses into Rakha's palm with an exhilarating sizzle of heat and agony, and the smell of cooked meat grows in intensity.

Narrator: As the pain muddles your thoughts, your minds become entangled. A familiar sensation. She too carries a parasite.

Narrator: Darkness seems to swallow the temple, leaving you with a vision of the goblin priestess receiving instruction from a handsome young man - one of the Chosen.

Narrator: The vision dissolves away. You stand before the goblin priestess in the temple once again.

Rakha's brain twists in her head. The pain and the smell are waking the beast but she needs to know-- she needs to know about the Chosen. The man in the vision. Those people are the center of all of this.

Push deeper into her mind.

Narrator: Her faith floods into you - a tide of shuddering ecstasy. Her tadpole nestles within that mania, secure... hidden.

The priestess flinches, then smirks. "I feel you in there, digging around," she says sharply. "Works both ways... and I saw some weird shadows swimming around in your head just now." She squints appraisingly up at Rakha. "Maybe I can help with that. Us True Souls got to look out for one another."

Rakha blinks curiously. This could mean any number of things - but she wonders. Is it possible Gut knows something about the deepest shadow in her? The dark urge?

"Do you think you can fix whatever's causing these shadows?" she asks carefully.

Gut smiles widely. "With the Absolute's will, I can fix anything!" she crows. "Let's deal with this in my chapel. It's private. Don't want this lot interfering with True Soul business."

Ah. Rakha's lips twitch in a sardonic smile. There is nothing in her that will be fixed with the Absolute's will. Gut has nothing for her after all. But... it's private. Good.

Good...

----

"Rakha," Lae'zel hisses under her breath. "Do not tell me you intend to trust this creature. Rakha-- ah, tsk'va," she snaps, for Rakha is already stalking away after the priestess, up the side stairs. "Come on then," she growls to the others. "With her, lest we lose before we begin."

But she needn't have worried. Rakha and Gut disappear into a side room of the temple, and just as Lae'zel's hand reaches the door handle she hears a muffled BOOM from inside.

"What the--" Wyll mutters; knocking Lae'zel aside, he slams the door open.

Rakha stands inside over the mutilated, burned corpse of Priestess Gut. Her eyes are wild and lingering sparks drift off of her fingers.

"Smokepowder," she says hoarsely. "The matter is settled. She had no further information."

Lae'zel seems to relax slightly. "Ah. Good," she says curtly, shutting the door behind them before any passing underling notices the commotion. "Search her body and we may continue."

"You should have waited for us," Wyll says reprovingly. "We'd have helped you."

Shadowheart just laughs softly, shaking her head. "I was right on the very first day. You are crazy. But I guess it hasn't failed us yet."

#bjk plays bg3 durge #rakha the dark urge #bjk writes her own party banter #once again deliberately doing stupid game stuff for story reasons XD

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rawliverandcigarettes · 2 years

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HALFWAY HOME - Presentation Post (2022)

The night Shlee hatches in the trunk of a skycar, an asari watches and cries. She promises he will survive, at all and every cost. Shlee believes her. He stomachs the resentment of his alien sisters forced into hiding with him, and dreams about the stars. But the Milky Way is vast, swirling; painfully interwoven. And when Shlee begins to wonder who he is, who he should be, and what secrets keep this fragile galaxy from splitting apart, perhaps it's already too late.

----

Shlee T’selvi, a young salarian raised by asaris in secret, reckons with the complex circumstances of his birth and why he represents a threat to the brittle politics of the galaxy in the looming shadow of the Reaper invasion.

Halfway Home is a fan fiction of approximately 174k words based on the space-opera video game trilogy Mass Effect. This story has been crafted with the intent to be understandable by fans as well as people who never interacted with the original material. While most of the story happens during the run of the trilogy (Mass Effect 1, Mass Effect 2 and half of Mass Effect 3 to be exact), Shlee’s story only loosely connects to Commander Shepard’s, and hopes to focus on the universe with a different lens.

It is a Gen fic, with an Explicit rating.

Halfway Home explores themes of identity, community, violence, and connection, and take them from the Citadel Tower’s secrets all the way to Omega’s fragile hold on galactic power. It attempts to depict perspectives the original trilogy didn’t always consider: batarians and their brutal and systematic dismantlement, salarians in conflict with themselves, the sudden rise of humanity assessed from alien eyes, Aria T’loak and those she sacrificed; and at heart, the societal dysfunction that the Reaper War merely revealed.

This is a coming of age, a mystery, a character exploration. It is also a very rough tale that touches on difficult and painful topics, sometimes in explicit details (I highly encourage you to read the list of trigger warnings if this is something that worries you, because these are not a joke).

This is the first part of the Halfway Homes series, and will be weekly published, starting in November 2022, on Archive of our Own.

(YOU CAN READ IT HERE NOW)

----

▪ The Process ▪

I have been working on this story since 2015; early September, to be exact. It’s been my companion ever since; sometimes, it’s been my only companion. The story and characters helped me through very dark times, to the point where I’m not sure I would be here today without it; it also taught me how to write in English, which incidentally landed me a job in my career of choice and allowed me the immense privilege of becoming a professional storyteller in the videogame industry.

I always owe so much to my projects, but this one is special. It stayed with me the longest, and potentially saw me growing the most. And while I would hardly say this story is perfect, far from it, I think it has finally attained the form it always wanted to achieve. It’s saying what it had been wanting to say. And given I believe that art is first and foremost about communication, I think I can, cautiously, call this attempt a success?

The process is not completely done yet. I am still waiting for one last small round of beta reading, to make sure I did fix the things and didn’t cause 25 critical errors in the process; I also want to give this project the highest possible chance to shine, and so I’ll be drawing a ton and work on visuals to accompany it all. But it feels insane, after 7 years of work, to look at a project and not being quite sure what to fix. I’m sure there are things worth tweaking (especially surface-level, like line edits, typos, small clarity issues still lingering, or my bold refusals to ignore the English form sometimes), but I can’t think of any right now. This never happened before. This feels wild.

I was also delighted to discover I am not sick to death with Mass Effect, these characters and this personal take on the universe! I am thrilled to be keep on working on the follow-ups. The Empire of Preys, the second part of the Halfway Homes series, is well underway, and it’s going great so far. I am very optimistic that I can publish it somewhere in 2024 given my rate of writing and how seamless the process is going right now (contrary to Halfway Home, which is one Frankenstein monster of a project). TEoP is, overall, a much more pleasant and less desperate project than Halfway Home ever was, which makes it less difficult to handle (let me tell you that HH has some *interesting* scenes to grammar check…..)

Either way, I am so happy to finally be (mostly) putting Halfway Home to rest, present my weird, messy, problematic child to the world of Tumblr dot com, and prepare for finally letting it run free in Ao3 this coming November.

My ask box is always opened for any follow-up questions or remark, and I wish you all the very, very best.

Here's the complete list of all Trigger Warnings for the series. Please check it out if you suffer from traumatic stress disorders, and always take care of yourself. <3

#mass effect #fanfiction #halfway home #shlee #khocress #my writing #salarians #the empire of preys #salarian #I am Basically Done #it doesn't feel true #draft 4 locked #just one more and then it's forever locked #;_;

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intensitystoner · 1 year

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– Until I was yours, I was not free –

She thought at first that she was seeing a twin or a clone, perhaps hallucinating or having a wishful vision in someone vaguely similar. The man under suspicion was one of the free, walking slowly along the main path and immersed in a light-mooded chatter with his companion. His deep-set eyes a faded shade of teal, his face lean and shadowed around the cheeks. His hair dark and wavy, chin-length at most, loosely combed back to introduce a remarkable forehead. The attire he wore fit the environment: an elegantly collared jacket all free men wore, unique in some subtle traits like each other one. The shirt under it ran up the entire length of his neck, like he enjoyed suffocating in the scorching, stuffy air of the market.

Only after several steps with the walking rod in his left hand did she notice him limping. What battle had he just recently emerged from, if he wasn't being hunted?

By the end of her observation, she wondered if he was deaf or a coward. Or just his usual cunning self? He was namely ignorant to her angered calls over the crowd from a row away. And his well kempt appearance had induced a great deal of rage in her to tug on her groaning chains. Her ruckus awoke startled attention in her immediate surroundings.

And he, he bent to his companion, a somewhat shorter, elderly man, sharing a delightful story that his widely gesturing hands had just remembered.

Her vengeful snarls at his distant form earned her a punch on the jaw from a metal rod, and crude, foreign scolding from a captor. Her temper was heated, so she spat her rapidly accumulating blood into the intruder's face in the middle of his crudely scolding sentence.

Her voice – and breath – faltered as she was kicked by a spiked metal boot on the ribs in response, her balance quickly overthrown and sending her onto her knees. The cuffs attaching all four of her limbs onto the pedestal didn't allow her to reel away from the continuing assault. The thin linen tunic didn't yield protection. The cracked pride she had trusted in proved to be frail against the unexpected occurrence, and she kept on calling for the first familiar face she had seen in an eternity, even while her eyes shut and her jaw clenched from the pain: her voice alone clung onto the possibility, which she hadn’t even noticed growing in her awareness. She barely noted her tone turning to pleading from the challenge she had thrown towards him at the beginning.

Other captors held back her attacker before her demeanour could have been damaged significantly. When the brawl dragged out and increased the audience, the older man’s attention was drawn to her first among other passers-by, a hand on his partner’s arm modestly requesting a break in the flow of words. The green-grey eyes then turned to look as well; though her glare attempted to bore into his through the curtain of her hair, they swept over her urging gaze without a sign of recognition, more amused by the bicker that the captors were now having over the maiden’s head. He had his wit ready for a quietly shared comment on it, which made the older man chuckle along. As he responded to the older man's curious mumbling while staring at the ruckus, the familiarity in his arched eyebrows and pouting lips grew certainty inside her. Her voice was abandoning her as she called for him in vain. And then his polite touch on the shoulders guided his companion away from the appalling incident. She stared at his back through her tangled locks with a force that meant to toss him, kick him, burn him up, but the notion never reached, and she feared that he had just taken a piece away from her with himself: her sanity perhaps, or her faith. In what? People? Friendship? Alliance? Destiny? The future? She had plenty of time left here to figure it out, it seemed.

She'd been captive for some months now, maybe. Captive, yes, and not what her fellow sufferers were called. She was stranded on this planet, wasn't sure what realm; she'd been swept here among hundreds of that planet's people, after the borderland she defended had fallen against the forces invading from outer space. While being carried in chains to the victorious foreign homeland, something unknown tore the ship apart, and she fell in here helplessly after a lengthy tumble through space, for her exhausted body to be found and restrained before she would even come to herself. For her to be exhibited on sale for the pleasure of the local folk.

She'd never lost a battle before. Then again, Asgard had never been late with reinforcements either. Heimdall had never failed to open the Bifrost. She'd been wondering ever since whether her decision to assault boldly, counting on Asgard's help in this pathetic way had earned her shame great enough for exile. Whether the decision came from the fake Odin that had sent her away when it occurred she was no fool like the others. Whether anyone else knew. Whether she had been announced dead back home, or she'd been proclaimed unworthy to set foot into the land of gods. Whether the land was coping well under the self-righteous trickster's false reign.

And now, even more questions. And the blackest one: whether she really came from what she remembered, or she'd been here since the birth of the Universe, to stay until its last light flickered out.

#tbc #sifki #sif #loki #master/slave au hehe #au during EG #da orky writing

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incognito-lionbeast · 1 year

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AU MDZS drabble (donghua continuity) partly inspired by fanart drawn by @forgetallenvies --- except instead of transmigration, I decided to go with “Lan Wangji receives premonitions/memories of the future, including Wei Wuxian's eventual death”

The result is still a hug, tho. There’s a bit more to this scene in my head, but words hard & I don’t know if/when I’ll get around to writing the second part. So, I figured I’d just post what I had.

-------------------------------------------------

“As for what it does to my mind… that’s none of your business.”

Ghostly green fire danced in his periphery, casting dark shadows upon the face of a loved one that grew only further and further distant. Lan Wangji’s usual composure failed him, a name caught on his lips–the wrong one. Wei Wuxian! Whether through fate or miracle, there it stayed. There it died, staining his expression with something not wholly unlike the swath of anguished, battered corpses at Wei Wuxian’s disposal. Though, it lacked their resentment.

Flickering memories played amongst the shadows and flame, hypnotizing—captivating Lan Wangji’s woeful gaze for a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity. Flashes of words and scenarios almost real enough to touch, if he could only reach out to try. Dark places, people Lan Wangji recognized – some he didn’t, couldn’t possibly, yet their voices still echoed in his heart as if they’d been there all along. Cherished. Amongst the good, the bad… a blade pierced his soul. A sense of loss so devastating and tangible, Lan Wangji staggered, suddenly brought back to reality in a painful bout of clarity. A voice, yet a different memory, fresh in his mind:

‘I don’t know why I thought you hated me.’

Yet somehow Wei Wuxian failed to notice, gesturing to topple his army of corpses all whilst staring right through his former companion–unable to see much more than what he’d already assumed was the truth. And who was there to correct him? Jiang Cheng? Didn’t he assume much the same..? There could be no help, would be no help.

Though words often failed him–and he knew, inexplicably, that whatever he’d been meant to say here would have–Lan Wangji tried another way. Wei Wuxian had never given up on him, not til now, and wouldn’t it be too much a shame not to repay that? His brows pulled together, voice faint yet firm. Imploring.

“I don’t hate you,” Lan Wangji answered the memory. A non-sequitur.

From a few metres away, Jiang Cheng scoffed, regrouping with the crowd of two unceremoniously. He crossed his arms, as if debating what particular brand of scathing commentary would be necessary–if necessary. His brother didn’t seem inclined to invite him into the conversation, either way, studying Lan Wangji from a distance with fierce, silvery eyes. ‘I don’t hate you’? Wei Wuxian could have laughed at such an absurd sentiment. What, he wondered, did the great, incorruptible Lan Wangji think of him, then?

Wasn’t he the one always rebuking his friendly advances? Hadn’t he already voiced disdain for such evil practises? What then, Lan Wangji, would you have him believe?

“Wei Ying…” Lan Wangji steadied his fragmented expression, stepping forward.

Wei Wuxian's frown deepened, though he remained steadfast.

Hesitation nearly paralyzed Lan Wangji, but only nearly. Frivolous, he scolded himself. Yet, the miserable, imaginary blade what still ran him through hadn’t left, twisting a horrible, bloody mess of his insides. With naught a soul left to witness save for the two brothers, Lan Wangji seized it by its hilt, drawing it forth from his chest–allowing what sprang forth from the wound to simply spill at their feet unabated.

Thus, in an elegant arc nevertheless becoming of his reputation, a hand–wrapped in a slender ribbon of white silk–found Wei Wuxian’s wrist. No matter how hackles raised, how he struggled, or how Lan Wangji’s hand trembled slightly with pent-up emotion, his grip never faltered. A sudden tug jerked Wei Wuxian forward into the forceful embrace of a man too awkward to even pretend he could express the level of affection he truly felt. Come Hell, high water, or the abuse of a man desperate to escape, Lan Wangji held him firmly, nearly painfully, in place–neither fearing retaliation nor judgment.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian accused in a voice bordering on familiarity.

Yet, Wei Wuxian’s ire could no longer pierce him. So, Lan Wangji’s hand slipped a little further down the captive wrist til it wasn’t at his wrist at all, and–still held out awkwardly beside them–Lan Wangji’s insistence pressed the treasure it carried into Wei Wuxian’s half-open palm. A gesture from the heart, raw and sincere, though soft against war-worn hands.

Though, it was perhaps for the best that Wei Wuxian didn’t fully understand. It was even better that Jiang Cheng–who most certainly did–said not a word. His face only wrinkled detestably, unable to believe what he was seeing or why he was seeing it. So, he decided, he simply wouldn’t see it anymore, turning away from the showy display to admire Wei Wuxian’s prior handiwork instead.

The flames flickered green, then orange.

“Lan Zhan,” Wei Wuxian reiterated.

Lan Wangji adjusted his grip so that both arms encircled him.

Wei Wuxian felt the smooth length of silk in his hand, staring uncomprehendingly over Lan Wangji’s shoulder as its long ends billowed dramatically around them. It took him, perhaps, far too long to understand, only sure of the fact that Lan Wangji was nearly crushing him to death… til eventually it occurred to him all at once. Somehow, his right hand was now in possession of Lan Wangji’s precious forehead ribbon.

How vexing.

#Mo Dao Zu Shi #mdzs #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #bay scribbles #is this IC? the world may never know #but I want them to hug so they wILL HUG

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fig-newtons-official · 2 years

Text

Somewhere In America Part 2

Part 1

Summoning: @deans-ch-ch-cherrypie @youbloodymadgenius

———————————————————————

Still drenched and coated in mud, Hvitserk pulled on the car door handle. It didn’t budge. He held his hands up at Ivar in a gesture that meant, ‘What the hell?’

Ivar quirked an eyebrow at him haughtily and rolled the window down a crack. “You two are soaked and filthy. You’re not coming in until you’re dry.”

Outraged, Hvitserk protested, “Ivar, are you serious?!”

“The back seat has already been ruined, thanks to Shadow’s little stunt with the storm. I don’t need you fucking up the front seat as well.”

Shadow bitterly wanted to remind him that he was the one that had broken the back window, but he knew that it wouldn’t do any good. It was already going to be an uphill battle to convince Ivar not to beat him with his crutches, so Shadow didn’t need to make that feat even more impossible.

Hvitserk threw up his hands in frustration and yelled, “Fine!” Then he promptly seated himself on the hood of the car, arms crossed angrily.

Shadow tried to envision a sunny afternoon. He was punished with a sharp pain behind his left eye and a sick feeling in his stomach. He didn’t think he’d have the strength to do it. Nevertheless, he persisted, imagining the warmth on his skin, fireflies coming out of hiding-

Shadow gripped the hood of the car as he dry-heaved. He felt as if he had been hit over the head with Chernobog’s hammer. He forced himself to breathe through it, willing the contents of his stomach to stay where they belonged. Thankfully, after a while, the sudden bout of nausea faded into a horrible stomach ache, as if he’d drank too much the night before.

Hvitserk watched him, looking partly sympathetic, partly pursing his lips as if to say, ‘You did this to yourself.’

Shadow cleared his throat and rasped, “You wouldn’t happen to have any ibuprofen, would you?”

Hvitserk shook his head, then said, “We can stop somewhere and get you some. Once someone lets us back in.”

He pointedly glared at Ivar through the window. Ivar didn’t notice as he studied a map.

They could be waiting a while. The rain was beginning to slow, but it hadn’t stopped yet. Shadow wondered how long it would take. He hoped the storm would depart quicker than it had arrived. As one could imagine, sitting in the rain during the heat of the humid, Midwestern summer wasn’t terribly comfortable.

Shadow stood up straight as went over to join Hvitserk on the hood, sitting as far away from the dead man as possible. They had an uneasy truce, sure, but he still didn’t trust him enough to be within arm’s reach.

Wanting to pass time, Shadow said, “I tried to bring nice weather. We’ll see if it worked. The rain took it out of me.”

Hvitserk, still pouting over having to sit outside, merely offered an mm-hmm in response.

Shadow let out a small breath, raked a hand through his short, wet hair, and tried again. He had an idea of how to temporarily patch up the window, provided that they had what he needed. “Do you have any tape or plastic of any sort?”

The soggy Viking grumbled, “Trunk.”

Shadow ambled to the back of the car, noting that Ivar was watching him from the corner of his eye. When he got to it, he knocked on the trunk, indicating that he needed it unlocked.

Ivar gave him an annoyed look and shouted, “If you’re not dry, then I don’t want to hear it!”

Shadow patiently replied, “I want to try to get this window covered. I’m stuck out here anyway, I may as well do something productive.”

Ivar looked skeptical. He yelled to Hvitserk to watch over Shadow. Not one to hold back on the dramatics, Hvisterk made a point to ignore him. Ivar pulled himself onto the center console between the front seat and honked the horn, startling Hvitserk so much that he flailed clumsily off of his perch.

Hvitserk roared something at his companion in their native tongue. Ivar wordlessly pointed at Shadow. Begrudgingly, Hvitserk obeyed. Soon after, the trunk made a little popping sound. Once Hvitserk had joined Shadow, he waited until Ivar was looking at the map again to make a rude gesture.

Without looking up, Ivar nonchalantly called out, “I can see your reflection, dumbass.”

Shadow bit his bottom lip to keep from smiling and opened the trunk to find that the contents included duct tape, large garbage bags, and rope. He couldn’t say he was shocked; he’d known what their intent was when he was taken, but it certainly didn’t make him feel any less uneasy.

As Shadow took out the tape and the garbage bags, Hvitserk asked, “Do you have brothers, Shadow?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Must be nice.” Hvitserk muttered.

“He can probably hear you.” Shadow quietly pointed out.

“Good!”

It appeared that Ivar was not in the mood to pay attention to his sibling’s petulance. He continued to mark things on his map without acknowledging either of them until Shadow approached again.

Shadow spoke to him as one might to calm an angry bear, “I can get this window covered for you, but first you’ll have to unlock the door.”

It occurred to Shadow that a disgruntled bear would be easier to reason with than Ivar. The map crumpled loudly as the dead Viking turned to give him an exasperated glare.

Keeping the same calming tone, Shadow continued, “I’m not going to try to get in. I’m just going to slide this bag over the top of the door and tape it down.”

“If you give me any shit, then I will break you in two. Understood?” Ivar growled.

Shadow nodded. Ivar pulled himself back over the console and unlocked the door, but didn’t move away from the locks. Shadow opened the door with the missing window and started to pull the trash bag over it. Meanwhile, Hvitserk was attempting to surreptitiously open the other back door only for Ivar to lock them again just as he pulled on the handle.

Consequently, the handle came off in Hvitserk’s hand. He swiftly hid it behind his back without his facial expression changing in the slightest. Shadow immediately looked away from him and focused all of his attention on covering the window instead of laughing at the ridiculousness of his situation. He expected to hear Ivar berating his brother over the handle, but it didn’t happen. Maybe he hadn’t noticed it yet?

He got the bag over the window and began to tear off strips of tape to keep it in place. The first piece was a bit stubborn and tore at an odd angle. He used that piece to get some of the moisture off of the car door, which didn’t work very well. His sleeve was drenched, so that wouldn’t be very effective either.

“We’ll have to wait to tape this down until after the door dries off a bit.” He announced as he shut the door.

Hvisterk, who had just hidden the door handle into his back pocket, was the first to respond, “Sounds good.”

Ivar merely nodded once without making eye contact.

——————————————————————

Half an hour later, the rain finally came to a stop. It took roughly an hour for Hvisterk and Shadow to dry off enough for Ivar to accept them back into the vehicle.

In the meantime, the two quietly discussed the possibly of convincing Ivar to think of another way to revive Odin and restore Valhalla. It didn’t seem feasible; neither of them were people that Ivar would listen to. So that led to the idea of finding someone who could talk sense into him, but, as anyone who knew him understood all too well, that list was quite short.

When they were finally permitted to return to the car, Hvitserk suggested that Ivar sit up front in the passenger seat, stating the reason for this being that half of the back seat was drenched. Truthfully, he wanted to prevent the possibility of Ivar trying to kill Shadow again. To Shadow’s relief, Ivar agreed to this, stipulating that he’d keep an eye on Shadow the entire time. Once this was settled, they were on the road again.

Shadow had encountered many gods in his travels - many were wise, cunning individuals, but none that he could think of would be able to help him out of his current predicament. Mr. Nancy was as intelligent and as clever as could be, but he would probably end up using his razor sharp tongue to drive Ivar into another fit of rage. He still wasn’t on very good terms with any of the new gods, despite him saving their asses, so he doubted that any of them would be willing to lend a hand. He figured that this was probably also the reason why they were on backroads instead of highways. The highway might have some ‘opinions’ about Shadow and two undead Vikings looking to revive its enemy.

Perhaps there was someone else that he hadn’t met yet. Someone from the same Parthenon as Wednesday. Ivar was clearly still loyal to the gods he knew as a breathing, mortal man. However, the only other Norse gods that Shadow knew of were dead: Thor and Loki. Who did that leave? Perhaps Hvitserk knew. The other issue with that would be that Ivar would notice if they tried to divert off of their course to find said person who may or may not exist.

In summary, it was a fool’s errand. A desperate gambit concocted by a man trying to save his own life.

However, one god that Shadow and the others had failed to account for was one that was listening. One that was engorged on the blood of sacrifice, despite its young age, possibly even more well-fed than the Mayan gods. A god that almost lost its power and its life due to Wednesday’s antics, and owed a great debt to Shadow. This god in particular was missing its back handle.

There was a loud POP and then the ride got to be horribly bumpy. Hvitserk cursed and pulled over into an old gas station to investigate and found that they’d blown a tire.

Shadow quickly said, “I swear, this one was not me.”

Ivar flashed him a dirty look, then got out with the help of his crutches. He inspected the tire and frowned at the deflated rubber as if it had insulted him. He and Hvitserk spoke quickly in their language, the conversation ending with Ivar rolling his eyes.

He narrowed his eyes at Shadow, “If you move even an inch from where you are now, you will spend the rest of the car ride in the trunk.”

Shadow nodded silently.

As Ivar began to go towards the gas station, he did a double take at the car. He’d noticed the handle.

Without looking at Hvisterk, he spoke with an eerie calm as he inquired, “Hvisterk, what happened to the door?”

Hvisterk decided to play dumb. “I’m not sure. Hasn’t it always been like that?”

Ivar’s frowned deepened, “I know when you’re lying. You know that I can tell when you’re lying. Just say it.”

Hvitserk sighed and reluctantly pulled the handle out of his pocket.

Unexpectedly, Ivar laughed. He then announced, “I’ve been thinking that we need a red nose for the front of this thing. Perhaps a little flower that squirts water. Clearly, this is a clown car.”

With that, he made his way over to the gas station as Hvitserk and Shadow stared after him in stunned astonishment.

“He’s pissed, isn’t he?” Shadow asked carefully.

“Oh yeah,” Hvitserk replied as he knelt down to put the jack under the car. “He’s pissed, alright.”

Shadow continued to watch the gas station door as he shook his head in dismay. He wondered aloud, “His moods are so unpredictable and he seems to get angrier by the mile. Is there any way that we can get him to listen to us when he’s like this?”

Hvisterk hesitated, then answered, “When he gets like this, it’s best to let him cool down, but I don’t know if we’ll have time for that. We’re getting close. At this point, I think he’d even be too pig-headed to listen to Odin.”

A crackly old voice that reminded Shadow of broken glass called, “You boys really gon’ give up like that?”

Both of them whipped around towards the voice. The man before them was so covered in motor oil that his age and skin color were indiscernible, though little tufts of dark hair poked out of his beaten up cap. His voice implied that he was old, but he had the tall, wiry frame of a man in his 30s. He wore what appeared to be an old, blue mechanic’s uniform, possibly from the 1950s, complete with a dirty patch embroidered on his shirt naming him as, “Ford.” His smile revealed metal, blood-stained teeth. His eyes glowed like headlights.

Shadow had seen this man only once at the battle. He had held a tire iron then, seemingly prepared to bash someone’s skull in. Now, he had his hands in his pockets, looking laid back as if he’d just stopped to chat with some old friends.

Shadow said to him, “We aren’t giving up. We’re trying to figure it out. I take it you’re responsible for this?”

Ford’s headlight eyes flickered in what looked to be a blink, “I sure am! And as long as y’all’re travelin’ by car, you won’t be getting’ to yer destination. I’ll make certain o’ that!”

Shadow took a moment to marvel at the bizarre conjunction between ‘y’all’ and ‘are’ before replying, “Which I appreciate - really, I do - I simply am just wondering why.”

“You saved my and my brothers’ asses, boy! Only fair if we save yours!”

Suddenly an idea began to take form in Shadow’s mind. He asked, “Which of the Norse gods are left? Do either of you know?”

Ford shrugged, “I only know of two of ‘em and neither o’ them like me much. Your guy may not be pulling the strings no more, but things still ain’t exactly rosy ‘tween us and them, y’know? And he’s one of those two. Other one is a tall, pretty lady. Never asked her name; she seemed to be in a stabbing mood more than a talking mood.”

Hvitserk appeared to light up with recognition as he informed them, “I imagine that’s Freya.”

“Do you know where she is?” Shadow questioned.

Ford pondered for a bit as he absentmindedly played with the back of his cap, then replied, “I can find out.”

“See if you can get her to meet us at the World Tree.”

Ford balked, “You want to get to the World Tree?”

“I know it’s risky, and the timing is going to have to be perfect, but if you can get her to the World Tree, we might be able to stop this. Running is a last resort for me; if it’s not me that’s sacrificed in Wednesday’s name, it’ll be someone else. We need someone that knew him and knows the ways of the old gods better than us.”

“You reckon she’ll listen to me?”

“I don’t know. But if she was at that battle, then Wednesday tried to screw her over, too. That might be enough to convince her to help us.”

Ford thought for a while longer, then nodded slowly. “I’ll see what I can do. One o’ my brothers might know. That way I can make sure you don’t die on me.”

Ford then tipped the brim of his cap and said, “Now, I probably shouldn’t be seen by that angry guy in there, so I’m gonna fuck off for a lil’ while. Try not to piss him off much, alright? I can only help with the car.”

Hvitserk snorted rudely, but didn’t say anything. Ford gave him a disapproving frown in response, but then turned around and wandered off into the corn.

Shadow’s head turned when he heard the gas station door slam shut. Ivar seemed less irritated than before, thankfully. But how long would that last?

As Ivar swung himself past on his crutches, he stopped to absentmindedly toss a pill bottle into the back seat through the open window. Shadow picked it up to see that it was maximum strength generic Tylenol.

Leaning again the car for support, Ivar glanced at Shadow and quipped, “Don’t say I’ve never done anything for you.”

Shadow thanked him and took two of them. His mouth was a tad bit dry, so the first pill was a struggle to get down. It mouth tasted bitter. He heard a small tap from the outside of the car and saw that Ivar was holding a bottle of water. He accepted it reluctantly, studying it to see if it had been tampered with. The lid was sealed shut.

He could hear the smile in Ivar’s voice when the dead man spoke again, “I wouldn’t poison you. That’s a coward’s way. I may be many things, but a coward is not one of them.”

Shadow had a list in his head of all the unpleasant things that he could call Ivar, but he wouldn’t dare say any of them out loud.

He heard more rustling outside as Ivar pulled a blue bottle of Bootlegger out of the bag hanging around his wrist. He then crumpled the empty bag up and tossed it into the back seat as well. Shadow pursed his lips, not bothering to hide his annoyance since Ivar wasn’t facing him.

Ivar took a drink from the bottle, then once finished, surveyed the label. He muttered, “This is terrible.” However, his clear distaste didn’t stop him from taking another hearty sip.

He held the bottle towards Hvitserk, who accepted it. He informed Ivar that blue Bootlegger tastes better when it’s cold. Nonetheless, Ivar drained the bottle as if it was one of the finest spirits.

Once he was done, he announced, “If this circus is going to continue, I refuse to be sober for it.”

Hvitserk gave him a goofy smile as he replied, “But you’re the ringleader.”

Ivar looked as if he wanted to retort, but decided that it wasn’t worth it. He sighed resignedly and tapped on the top of the car to get Shadow’s attention.

“Get out, Shadow. He’s got to lift the car up and truthfully, it might be better to have someone near me instead of relying on these crutches. I drank that Bootlegger a little fast.”

Shadow let out a little aggravated breath, but did as he was instructed. He wrapped an arm around Ivar’s waist and held the tipsy, undead Viking up as Hvitserk jacked up the car. Shadow had known that Ivar was unnaturally strong, but he hadn’t expected the young man to feel like a tree trunk. He’d probably been strong long before being granted the power of the Dead.

With a smirk, Ivar taunted, “I’m going to be livid if you drop me. But I would understand if you did. You could easily outrun me. You might even get away this time.”

Shadow grumbled, “I get it. You want a reason to stab me with the ends of your crutches. I won’t give it to you.”

Ivar feigned offense as he replied, “What makes you say that, boy?”

Shadow almost corrected him, but then reminded himself that Ivar was technically centuries older than he was. Instead, he said, “You were so secretive that you wouldn’t tell me your name. Now, suddenly, you’re allowing yourself to get drunk in front of me? I don’t buy it.”

Ivar chuckled again, his smile turning coy and nefarious, “Maybe you’re right. Or maybe I just don’t take you seriously anymore. Which do you think is more likely, Shadow?”

“I’m not going to drop you. We are going to stand here pleasantly and we will pleasantly get into the car and have a pleasant drive to the World Tree.” Shadow countered.

Ivar tossed his head as he laughed, causing them both to wobble briefly, “Pleasant? Nothing about this journey has been pleasant! Why not let the trend continue, hm? Why don’t you make it hale right now? Pelt is with ice the size of basketballs. That might be exactly what you need to aid you in your daring escape!”

“Personally, I don’t plan on making any more storms. I’ve learned my lesson,” Shadow rubbed his throbbing temple for emphasis. “Personally, I’ve had enough. I’ll be a pleasant prisoner if you’ll be a pleasant captor. Does that sound fair to you?”

Ivar got quiet for a moment. For a brief second, it seemed as if he was going to truly consider Shadow’s words. When he smiled, it appeared genuine, which was incongruous with his venomous tone of voice as he uttered, “No, Shadow, that sounds like bullshit.”

Before Shadow could respond, Hvitserk let out a huff and started to tilt the car over with one hand. He motioned at the two of them to help. It appeared that the jack was too slow for his liking.

Ivar smirked and nodded towards the car, “Get to it.”

Shadow resisted the impulse to give Ivar what he wanted, refraining from dropping the Viking by releasing him gently. He didn’t have to look at Ivar to know that the smug, obnoxious smirk was still there as he assisted Hvitserk with the flat.

#shadow moon #ivar the boneless #hvitserk ragnarsson #Vikings x American gods #american gods #vikings

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