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get-shiggy-with-it · 8 months

Text

*bg3 spoilers ahead*

word count: 1.5k

content: canon typical violence, Astarion x gender neutral!reader

What if you could hug Astarion after he finally kills his master? (set after the option where he does not ascend)

“Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage. Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief.”

—

“But I'm not above enjoying this.”

—

The body fell to the ground with a rather disappointing thud—muted and squelching into a heap at his feet. It was, of course, a glorious moment still; Cazador dead by his hand, the light fading from his monstrous eyes. It was just that, well, Astarion had envisioned it would all play out with much more spectacle than the altogether clumsy manner his centuries-long tormentor crumpled lifelessly to the bloodied stone.

There ought to have been more of a flourish, he thought maybe foolishly. Something befitting of the dramatic climax when his freedom was finally secured for good.

Cazador had loomed so large, seemed so above, reigning over him for centuries—controlling every aspect of his being that he might as well have been a god for all Astarion could refuse him. Ultimately, he had expected him to die like a god as well. Not like a man.

Astarion had envisioned the hall echoing with the finality of his hollow corpse hitting the floor. Like the satisfying boom of great castle gates slamming shut on that portion of his life forever. This creature who ruled him, boot on his neck for hundreds of years, vanquished at last.

Above all, he expected satisfaction. A flood of it flowing through his cold veins and bringing warmth to his long dead skin. That the elation of it might bring him back from the brink of his undeath, however impossible that may be.

And he did not get that.

Shocking.

Instead, Astarion’s knees banged painfully to rest on the ground amidst his bloody handiwork rang out in the chamber. The sound of his bones jarring in his ears.

The air felt thick and cloying, a dank weight in his lungs that constricted like a snake, leaving a growing tightness in his chest. Astarion sat for a moment—still waiting for the rush of fierce joy that never came.

Which was strange, he thought distantly. He felt very distant now, somewhere between floating and tethered horribly to the ground, the magnitude of it all crashing down was suffocating.

It would stand to reason, he had assumed, that at the end of it all—when his freedom had been secured for good—there would be a sort of immediate relief, like cool water to a burn, like the blissful ebbing of pain after a healing spell. Though apparently that did not stand to reason at all as now it seemed more as if he’d thrust the raw wound of himself straight back into the flames. There was no wave of elation as he stared from far away at his hands that still clutched the blade, as tightly as when he dealt the killing blow.

So Astarion sat — feeling something slip away from him, leech out and stain the floor like the blood of his former master. And in all the empty space left behind, something else began to grow in him. Something which he knew must have always been there lurking under the weight of his rage and waiting to be released.

The tightness in his lungs culminated in the familiar sensation of a stone stock behind his tongue. His mouth filled with coppery spit as he fought through the pain to swallow it back. His throat felt as though it had been torn to shreds, burning as his eyes began to sting and something roared in his ears.

Astarion wondered from a place outside of his body if someone was weeping—the sound of it barely audible over the pounding in his head.

It wasn’t until the strangled reverberation of a sob, wrenched from his gut and leaving him flayed open as Cazador, tore through the chamber walls again that he realized it was he who wept, who wailed shamelessly in anguish. His head fell back — fanged teeth bared in a snarl, face contorted with the ugliness of a grief long since buried in the coffin he’d broken out of years ago.

The dull constant pulse of vengeance pushing him ever onward after his escape had gone. In its place an awful throbbing ache that bloomed, growing in intensity like a knife to the skin of his back, a twist of the blade for every year he spent in Cazador’s possession.

He’d done it.

He’d slayed the beast.

He’d won his freedom.

And now he was left with all this pain that had driven him. That he’d clung to desperately so he would not give up. With no place left to put it all down.

Nothing more to do with it but feel.

Though he took some small pleasure that the creature who had planted this seed laid before him now, just as small and broken as Astarion had been.

Good, he thought — spat in his head. Another shout bubbled up in his chest, clawed its way past his fangs that scratched the plump flesh of his lower lip, scarred over years of self-inflicted bites.

His knees ached where the harsh stone bit into them, his head spun as everything blurred around him with the moisture beaded in his eyes.

Slowly, as if moving through honey, the world began to shift. The cavernous ceiling tilted down, down, down until his eyes were locked on the stone steps that led in from the hall. There was something warm and blessedly solid at his back - covering him where he was bare, enveloping him slowly into its sturdy, gentle embrace. Bringing him back to his body.

For a brief moment he thought maybe it was him that died. Maybe this was Death come to ferry him away. Wherever it was things like him went.

But he didn’t think death smelled so sweet or so familiar. The rich smoke of campfires permanently woven into soft linen and leather, the light notes of lye soap underneath the metal tang of well-worn armor.

Nor would Death have held him so kindly, cradled in a circle of strong arms.

You were knelt behind him in the bloody mess, pulling him to rest against your chest with a light hand guiding his head to your shoulder. It was a balm - your touch - a soft heat to the aching muscle of him. Behind you, Astarion could just make out the blurry outline of his companions and the soft shapes of the other spawn, drifting back down to the stone dias.

He couldn’t muster the energy to feel even a bit embarrassed by the way he turned in your grasp, the blade clattering forgotten to the floor as his nails scratched at your back, pulling you in closer, trying to crawl under your skin.

“I’ve got you,” your voice came out in a hush. It seemed to him you were saying it more to yourself, an assurance of sorts. But he took solace in the words regardless.

How long had it been since he’d craved this—the touch of another? Since that time he could no longer recall, since touch had been a comfort, since his body had been his own.

And now he longed to be fully engulfed, hidden away from the sting of the world, nestled safely between your ribs. As you muttered to him, he pressed his face to your neck which became increasingly wet with something that ran thinner and saltier than the sweet rushing of blood in your veins.

Astarion thought he might have said your name — a whisper as the flood inside him began to ebb to nothing more than a trickle. That you might have shushed him, petted his head like a dear thing. Brushed the tangled, silvery curls from his eyes and held him closer still.

“You’re safe now,” he heard through the ringing in his ears.

And Astarion—creature of the night, hungry beast, quick to bite and slow to trust—had never believed anything more in his life.

“It’s over,” he said.

And it was only partly true, but there was triumph in that still.

This, at least, was over and you were still there at the end of it all. He found the relief of that simple fact so staggering that he could do nothing to resist your gravity pulling him in.

A drifting, icy comet caught in the orbit of your celestially warm chest.

“Well done, I think you got him.”

And despite himself, Astarion laughed. More of a hoarse coughing, really, than anything else. You were chuckleing too, your shoulder bouncing under his cheek and there was the miraculous feeling of lips pressed briefly to the crown of his head.

“I should hope so,” he replied after a moment, reluctantly—though he would never admit it—allowing himself to be detangled from you and pulled to his feet.

He tried to think of some sharp-tongued quip to diffuse the tension in the air but nothing came. Your eyes were red rimmed when he met them, looking up at him with something that might have been pride.

And then the words came easily.

“Always so full of surprises, aren’t you?”

#astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion x mc #baldurs gate astarion

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dancingbirdie · 7 months

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hi! can I request Astarion x Tav where Tav is crying (same innocent type Tav from your last fic) and Astarion has to comfort them? (like after his confession scene in act 2 but before his final quest please?) tysm for your time!

Ask and you shall receive, my dear anon! Although a word of warning: this fic has a lot of fluff and a whole lot of angst. Also damn I really explored some of my own shit in this fic and am feeling very vulnerable but also very good. PLEASE PAY ATTENTION TO THE WARNINGS/TAGS BEFORE READING <3

If I could nominate a song that inspired this writing, it would be "When The Lights Go Out" by Gabrielle Aplin.

The Dark Sun

Word Count: 1.6K

Rating: Teen

Warnings/Tags: Mentions of death, grief/trauma response to death of loved ones, mentions of blood, emotional pain, hurt & comfort, FLUFF, ANGST, non-sexual comfort, Astarion x GN!Tav, Minor Act 2 spoilers.

None of the others had ever seen Tav like this. They weren’t about to let anyone see them in this state now. After all, Tav was the sunshine of their party. Sunshine had one job; it was in its very name.

It isn’t true. It isn’t! Get away from me. Go!

Sitting in their tent, as far away from the other party members as safely possible, Tav was powerless to stop the replaying of Arabella’s words over, and over, and over, in their mind. They saw in their mind’s eye the maelstrom of emotions that had played across the young tiefling’s face when Tav gently broke the news that her mother and father had been killed. Shock. Anguish. Disbelief. Rage. Despair. Resentment.

Tav knew those feelings well. They had felt them before. They still felt the echoes of them, even now, so many years after the death of their own parents. Tav had been so like Arabella in their youth. They had recognized a kinship with the tiefling as soon as they met her in the Emerald Grove. To be the one who ushered in those emotions for someone so young and so full of unbridled joy - it was a cruel irony. To be that bearer of such unspeakable news, to a mere child.

Though Tav knew that time would eventually take the immediate sting from this news, they also knew from their own experience that Arabella would forever be scarred. Even before she was aware, the world had been violently reforming beneath her feet. Life would never be as it once was. And the knowledge that they would forever be intertwined with Arabella’s memory of losing her parents, even if those deaths had not come at their hands, felt like opening the fissure in their heart all over again and injecting acid throughout its crevices.

The reality of it all had Tav doubled over, sobbing into their hands in a feeble attempt at hiding their pain from the rest of the camp. None of the others had ever seen Tav like this. They weren’t about to let anyone see them in this state now. After all, Tav was the sunshine of their party. Sunshine had one job; it was in its very name.

Most of the time, Tav didn’t mind being that cheery glue that held people together. It was a role that was helpful to others, and they had performed it very well throughout their life. It also had the added benefit of distracting Tav from hosts of problems that were better left in the far corners of their mind. Seeing them like this, in this state of despair? It would topple the whole façade. And given where they were, in a bleak forest of darkness, fumbling through perpetual night, Tav knew the party needed sunshine more than ever before if they had any prayer of making it through this area alive.

So, no, Tav resolved to work through this pain in solitude. They had done so before. They could do it again.

***

The Shadow-Cursed Lands were not exactly an Eden for animals that could quell Astarion’s thirst. Most of the beasts were either blighted or dead. Given this, Astarion had purchased an ox and some boar from the Harpers at the Last Light Inn for the express purpose of draining their blood and storing it in vials he could consume along the way. Gale had come up with a handy little spell to keep the containers cool and prevent the blood from spoiling. He estimated that those reserves, coupled with Tav’s generosity of allowing him to feed off them, would be enough to keep him stable for several more days.

He heard the sound as he was exiting his tent to retrieve a vial of ox blood from the camp supplies.

Muffled choking sounds. Someone was…crying? He piqued his ears, concentrating to locate the direction from which they came.

Tav’s tent. He was sure of it.

Pitched as far away from the others as possible, Astarion had thought it odd earlier in the evening that Tav had positioned themselves so far away from everyone, including himself. Normally, they rested at the dead center of the camp, where they could easily chatter and joke with the rest of the party. But, given his own proclivity for solitude, he hadn’t pondered it further, assuming Tav had just needed some quality time to themselves.

Hearing their quiet sobs now, in the middle of the night, Astarion could have kicked himself for not realizing sooner that something was wrong.

Though he had confessed his feelings several days ago and found them wholeheartedly reciprocated, his new… status… with Tav felt like learning a new language. A language with an alphabet wholly different than anything he had ever known. He certainly wasn’t fluent yet. He wasn’t even sure if his ability to… speak it, per se… was passable. But, if for nothing else, he was grateful to Tav for their patience and understanding as he navigated this entirely foreign situation. They never asked for anything more than he was willing to give, and that empathy continued to compel him to try. For himself. For Tav. For their future prospects.

Of course, knowing all of this made Astarion feel all the more worse for failing to intuit Tav’s emotional state. They were not exactly a closed book. Had he not have fallen back on old ways of thinking and processing people’s behavior, he likely could have recognized the signs of Tav’s distress. But 200 years of habits and mindset was hard to break. He could hear Tav’s voice in his head, gently reminding him to be patient with himself, to afford himself grace.

They were always giving him the space to be vulnerable. This time, he wanted to try providing them with the same assurance.

Astarion quietly padded over to Tav’s tent and cleared his throat in a somewhat awkward attempt at announcing his presence.

Immediately, the sobbing ceased. “Um, just a moment!” came Tav’s watery reply.

Astarion listened carefully to Tav’s quiet sniffles and movements about the tent. He assumed they were quickly trying to right themselves, slip that cheery mask they wore so well back on. The thought broke his heart.

“Tav, darling, can I come in?” he asked softly so that their fellow party members would not be able to hear.

“Oh sure, are you thirsty? I was just lying down… resting,” Tav added lamely before finally poking their head out from between the tent flaps. They gave him a tiny smile, a weak attempt at normalcy, before pulling back and making room for him to enter.

Astarion seated himself across from Tav, who began rearranging their pillows and preparing for what they assumed to be another feeding session. He took in their ruddy cheeks, their tearstained eyes, swollen from crying so much. Tentatively, the movement still so foreign but becoming more familiar, he reached out a hand to cup their cheek.

Tav stilled at his touch, sucking in a breath. He watched as tears began welling in their eyes.

“Darling, you don’t need to hide your pain from me,” he gently intoned.

Tav gave a breathless laugh, traitorous tears leaking down their face.

“I didn’t want any of you to see me like this. Especially you,” they warbled, sniffling.

“And why ever not?”

“I’m ‘Tav The Sunshine,’ remember?” they said with a self-deprecating grin. “The sun only ever shines on us. That’s its job.”

“But the sun isn’t always shining,” Astarion reminded them softly. “Times of darkness are allowed.”

Tav released a quiet sob. “I don’t… w-want you to see that darkness. It’s too much… I… I can’t-”

Seeing Tav fall apart before his eyes, so broken and disconsolate, the urge to take them in his arms felt like second nature. Not a foreign language at all, not a struggle to initiate a touch. Astarion couldn’t explain it; his subconscious had known how to respond and barreled through all those years of self-loathing, manipulation, and disgust to reach out for Tav. Quick as a flash but so very gently, he pulled them into an embrace, maneuvering them so they sat cradled in his lap, their arms wrapped around shoulders.

“My sweet, sweet Tav,” Astarion crooned as they cried into his shoulder, tears quickly dampening his nightshirt. He raised one hand to push back the locks obscuring their face and softly caressed their cheek.

“I want to tell you something,” he continued. “And I want you to truly listen... I’ve walked in darkness for over 200 years. Mostly alone. Committing depraved acts against others in the service of a master who sees me as nothing more than a means to an end… There is nothing - nothing - in your darkness that could scare me away. I swear it.”

Tav raised their head to look at him. Slowly - as one would approach a wild animal - they raised their hand and kept it hovering right beside Astarion’s face.

That Tav would still be thinking of his comfort, even in their abject sadness, unleashed a powerful wave of… some strong emotion in him.

Is that love? Is that what it feels like? He thought.

He couldn’t be sure. It was unlike anything he had ever felt before.

Acknowledging their silent request for consent, Astarion pushed his cheek into their hand. He turned his face for a moment to kiss their palm. He felt Tav shudder in his arms.

“You’ve already borne so much sorrow in your long life, Astarion,” they whispered. “You deserve lightness and levity from your partner.”

“And you have given me that every day since we met, darling,” he returned, carding his fingers through Tav’s hair. “But we also agreed to share something real between us. That isn’t possible if you hide a part of yourself away. You deserve space for light and darkness inside yourself, Tav.”

They sat in silence for some time, Astarion allowing Tav to empty their tears onto his chest, until they were finally calmed.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” Tav finally sniffled.

“Shh, shh. There’s no space for apologies here, love. But, there is space to share your pain. And I’ll carry it with you, as you do for me,” Astarion promised.

And in that quiet night, in the heart of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, Tav opened their darkness to Astarion.

And he was not afraid.

#dancingbirdiewrites #astarion bg3 #bg3 astarion #baldur’s gate astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion #astarion x mc #astarion x tav #bg3 astarion fic #astarion x reader #astarion x you #baldur's gate fanfiction

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002yb · 8 months

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"How did you find me?"

Because it's been a lifetime for both of them. Because Jon was there one day and gone the next - taken someplace where Damian could never follow. Jon was missing and Damian couldn't find him, help him, save him.

Because Jon was a bright-eyed boy stolen away before he was beaten to be something less and forged into something more. He's different in all the ways that matter and all the ways that don't.

For all the relief Jon feels to be home, he's resentful that he was brought back to a place he doesn't fit anymore.

It's painful. It's distressing. And Jon wants to be that warm, kindhearted, foolhardy boy he was before - adaptable and adventurous, untouchable and invincible because youth is that way, but Jon thinks that boy burned and all that's been left behind is brittle obsidian - sharper than steel and easily broken.

"From your heartbeat."

Because seven years is too many, but even a lifetime couldn't be enough for Jon to forget it.

His pulse. His breaths. The way his feet strike the earth. His smooth-spoken articulate, the click of his tongue. The way he mourns and the stillness that follows it.

"You know my heartbeat?"

Intimately. Ardently. Jon listened for it across time and space and circumstance - only Jon could never tell if it was something he genuinely heard or if he clung so hard to his memories of it that he was able to delude himself into thinking it was there.

"Yeah." Jon breathes, eyes closing so that he can listen for it again - so it can be all he hears.

"What is it like?"

"Steady. Strong." Jon tells Damian around a fond, melancholic smile. Vulnerability might blindside Damian always and forever, but it's been a lifetime for both of them and Jon is - everything has changed and he hasn't found the good in it yet; he's home, but he doesn't fit anymore. "I missed it."

There's a beat and it's not so much that Damian's heart stutters so much as it settles. Because Damian knows. He feels it, too.

I missed you.

"I don’t know yours." Damian admits after a few beats more. "I only know what it is to be without it."

"What’s it like?" Jon asks.

City lights pollute the sky, but far below where they stand on a high-rise, the yellow-gold glow from windows and the flash of traffic stops and taillights feels as beautiful as any star. The noise is easy to let fall away. All Jon hears is the wind and the slow breaths Damian takes that keeps his heart thumping strong in his chest.

"Lonely."

Terribly.

Dreadfully.

"And now?"

Damian turns and finally they make eye contact again. There's a pensiveness to Damian's expression as they take one another in. Making note of all the things that changed because Jon is different now. He feels different in all the ways that matter and all the ways that don't. Jon is home, but he doesn't fit.

The way Damian has to look up, up to meet Jon's gaze is wrong. For all Jon wanted to grow and torment Damian for being the smaller of them, Jon finds no joy in it now.

It feels like something was stolen from him and he mourns it. Anger burns hot through his veins, like ice in his lungs. It's as twisted as Jon feels - tormented until it's something unrecognizable; rage and wrath and anguish. Grief.

Jon wants to go back to that time he was young and brash and untouched by the unfairness in the world. A lifetime has passed and he doesn't know how he fits. He is not steel; he is volcanic glass and every breath he takes feels like it pierces his lungs and Jon is meant to be strong, but all at once the world is unbearably heavy and-

Damian drops his head to Jon's chest and - oh. Everything settles.

"A beat too quick, but strong. Resilient." Damian tells him and Jon blinks hard against the burn in his eyes. There's a lump in his throat that he can't swallow past and if Damian feels the hitch in Jon's chest - he says nothing of it. All Damian does is rest his head over Jon's heart, counting the beats until Jon lets go of his tentativeness and uncertainty and brings his arms around his friend and holds him close, closer until Jon can take Damian's steadily beating heart into his own chest - so that no more lifetimes will pass where he can't feel it. Damian's own arms reach around Jon, his too broad shoulders and the too large span of his back. Damian heaves a sigh and clicks his tongue and Jon doesn't need to see it to know that Damian's scowl has stayed the same. "Never let me be without it, now that I know."

A watery smile pulls at his lips as Jon breaks forward over himself - trying to be small where he is not. He nods, unwittingly lifting Damian off the ground despite Damian's grunts of protest if only to be closer to him after a lifetime apart and marvel the ways Damian has changed - the ways he hasn't.

Jon doesn’t feel himself after everything. Safety and security is something stolen from him - he doesn’t know how to go back to the life he lost. It’s overwhelming, so he closes his eyes and feels Damian's heart beat against his and lets it be his anchor.

@pechaghtlecha

#super sons #damijon #jondami #pechaghtlecha #was thinking about all the damijondami feels you inspire with your masterpieces of art and ahhhhhhhhh i wanted to write something for you #hopefully this is okay ;U;#thank you so much for sharing such loveliness with everyone~#･:*:･(*////∀////*)･:*:･#words

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spinningwebsandtales · 11 months

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Imagine Miguel Feeling Guilty For Accidentally Scratching You

Miguel “Spider-Man 2099″ O’Hara X FemReader

Rating: T+

Warnings: Blood, Miguel has nightmares, suggestive themes, slightly spoiler-y, steamy

Word Count: 1k

(A/N:) I wasn’t expecting to go see Spider-Man Across the Spider-Verse and leaving with a new crush. But here we are and I could not NOT write something for Miguel. Yep count me amongst the fangirls. So here is my offering to this specimen of a Spider-Man (I’m pretty sure it’s the fangs and claws. I’m a sucker for those not gonna even lie.). Hope the rest of the fangirls enjoy it! Until next time happy reading! ~Countess

Mild Spoilers Below for Spider-Man Across the Spider-Verse

Miguel’s story broke your heart the first time he had finally opened up and told you. It’s what broke the ice that remained between you both and let your relationship move a little further along. Deep down you knew you could never replace the family he once had and you never wanted to. But you did want to help him through the pain and find joy once again. Though life brought bitterness there was light in every situation. You wanted to be that light for Miguel.

You stroked your fingers through his hair as Miguel let himself be lulled into sleep. He’d been restless here lately and he couldn’t sleep well. He put so much pressure upon himself that you were afraid it would drive him mad. The exhaustion wasn’t helping him either as the bags under his eyes only deepened. Plagued by nightmares, you had to beg for Miguel to try and get some rest. He finally; but begrudgingly, gave in and now he found himself wrapped up in your warmth floating away as sleep began to drag him under. You continued to stroke his hair, until you too fell asleep.

Miguel felt himself in a familiar place, his family playing and laughing in the park he brought them to regularly. His daughter scampering around, her giggles echoing in the air. He turned around, taking it all in when the world shattered around him with the sound of screams. Blood splashed the playground equipment and once again his family was gone. He held the lifeless form of his little girl, screaming his pain and anguish to the darkening sky.

Miguel thrashed, waking you from your slumber. His claws and fangs glinting in the moonlight. Without thinking of your own safety you grabbed onto the struggling man. Pressing him tightly into your chest and calling out his name.

“Miguel,” you called while tears trailed down your cheeks. “Please wake up it’s a dream!”

He snarled before jolting awake, finding you in the darkness. With his cheek pressed against your breast, his chest heaved as his sweat soaked into your shirt. Though he couldn’t see your face he could smell the salty tears of your grief in the air.

“I’m alright now,” he grunted trying to pull away but you wouldn’t allow him.

“Stop for a minute,” you ordered. “Just relax and then I’ll let you go.”

He gave in, letting himself lay in your arms while listening to your steady heartbeat. With your soothing pulse, he began to calm down. When you were finally satisfied you loosened your hold. Miguel couldn’t see your face, but the tension was evident in the stiffness of your body.

“Bad dream,” he said before reaching for the lamp.

You grabbed his hand, stopping him from turning on the light. If he saw what he had done to your cheek, it would only make the situation worse.

“What’s wrong,” he asked while trying to free himself from your grasp.

“We don’t need the light on,” you replied. “Just try to go back to sleep. You’re exhausted Miguel.”

“I can’t right now, just let me turn the light on.”

You still held tightly, causing a slight twinge of annoyance to shoot through Miguel, until he scented a twinge of blood in the air. The metallic tang was unmistakable and his heart sank. Using his strength he ripped away from your grip and switched on the lamp. The light revealing what you didn’t want him to see. Your cheek had three slices in the skin, the wounds dribbling blood. Though not life threatening, Miguel felt guilt crushing him. He never wanted to hurt you with his powers and he feared he had just scarred you because he couldn’t control his mind. Reaching up he smeared away the crimson, only streaking it worse on your beautiful skin.

“Why didn’t you tell me,” Miguel growled the rage at himself barely contained.

“Cause I knew you would torture yourself with guilt,” you sighed.

“I’m a monster.”

You sighed again, “Here we go again. You are not a monster.”

You cupped his cheeks, making Miguel look you in the eye. His eyes darted from yours back to the wounds he caused, still dripping blood.

“You are my handsome Miguel O’Hara and these,” you pointed to your face, “will heal. Stop beating yourself up and get some rest you’re going to kill yourself if you don’t.”

He finally relented knowing that you were right. He was tired of feeling so burdened and weighed down by his failures. He removed the distance between you both and captured your lips with his. You melted against him, his large arms encircling your figure, letting him press you against him. Miguel grew desperate at your taste as he couldn’t get enough. His fangs elongated in his excitement, eyes drawn towards your wound once more. You were about to tell him forget it when his tongue darted out quickly, lapping at your blood. You shivered at the caress of his tongue against the skin of your cheek. But with his help the blood finally stopped.

Before you could thank him, Miguel captured your mouth once again. Letting himself fall into the trance that only you could bring. He moaned laying you back down without breaking apart from you. You held tightly, letting him do whatever he needed to ease himself back down. You buried your fingers in his thick hair, scratching at his scalp. Miguel deserved so much love as he had lost so much and you wanted to be that person for him. You kissed him back, not wanting him to do all the work until once again he was satisfied. Without a word he collapsed back on his side of the bed, his chest heaving. You nuzzled in closer, laying your head on his bare chest. Your body heat and gentle touches finally had Miguel falling back into sleep. The only difference this time was the nightmares left him alone this time, letting him get the much needed sleep he needed.

#Miguel O'Hara X Reader #Miguel O'Hara / Reader #Miguel O'Hara #Spider-Man 2099 #Spider-Man Across The Spider-Verse #Miguel O'Hara Imagine #Imagine #Not My Gif #My Writing

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ausetkmt · 8 months

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On this day in 1838, Frederick Douglass escaped to freedom and found his calling as a leading voice in the abolitionist movement. Douglass escaped slavery by boarding a train to Havre de Grace, Maryland.

He was dressed in a sailor's uniform, provided to him by Anna Murray, (he married her 12 days later, she was a free Black woman in Baltimore) she also gave him part of her savings to cover his travel costs, and carried identification papers which he had obtained from a free black seaman. He crossed the Susquehanna River by ferry at Havre de Grace, then continued by train to Wilmington, Delaware.

From there he went by steamboat to "Quaker City" (Philadelphia, Pennsylvania) and continued to the safe house of abolitionist David Ruggles in New York; the whole journey took less than 24 hours. Frederick Douglass later wrote of his arrival in New York: "I have often been asked, how I felt when first I found myself on free soil. And my readers may share the same curiosity. There is scarcely anything in my experience about which I could not give a more satisfactory answer.

A new world had opened upon me. If life is more than breath, and the 'quick round of blood,' I lived more in one day than in a year of my slave life. It was a time of joyous excitement which words can but tamely describe.

In a letter written to a friend soon after reaching New York, I said: 'I felt as one might feel upon escape from a den of hungry lions.' Anguish and grief, like darkness and rain, may be depicted; but gladness and joy, like the rainbow, defy the skill of pen or pencil."

Frederick Douglass first tried to escape from Freeland, who had hired him out from his owner Colonel Lloyd, but was unsuccessful. In 1836, he tried to escape from his new owner Covey, but failed again. In 1837, Douglass met and fell in love with Anna Murray, her freedom strengthened his belief in the possibility of his own.

Once he had arrived, he sent for Murray to follow him to New York; she arrived with the necessary basics for them to set up home. They were married on September 15, 1838, by a black Presbyterian minister eleven days after his arrival in New York.

#fredrick douglass #frederick douglass #Black Lives Matter

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velaryon-seahores · 6 months

Text

But it killed you just the same.

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x nameless fem!reader.

Synopsis: Friday nights used to be the highlight of Aemond's week, a time when he and his girlfriend shared precious moments. Yet, one Friday night, he returned home to a devastating discovery – a suicide note from the woman he loved. The night that used to brim with joy was forever tainted by the weight of grief and loss.

Warnings: Suicide, angst, blood.

Word count: 2.1k

Author note: I felt nervous about posting this because I think the plot might be too much. Please if such topics trigger you do not read.

Aemond,

I prayed with all my heart that it would never come to this, but Life, in its cruel twists, has torn me from the very arm that wounded me, wrenching my arm and compelling me to pen this letter.

"Help me!" Aemond's anguished cry pierced the air, tearing through the silence as he violently swung the door to their shared home wide open. Panic seized every fiber of his being, rendering him visibly shaken as he raced down the porch stairs, cradling her limp form in his trembling arms. Blood flowed relentlessly from her wrists, despite his desperate attempts to staunch the wounds using his own shirt, cinched as tightly as his trembling hands allowed.

He had returned from work, heart brimming with anticipation to enfold her in their Friday night routine. They would snuggle on the couch, indulging in cheesy movies, laughing and mocking them together. It was their cherished tradition. Yet, as he stepped into their bedroom, expecting to see her engrossed in her usual assignments, all he found was a note, and the love of his life lying motionless on the bathroom floor.

"Please, someone, help me!" His voice cracked and shattered, echoing his heart's agony. Tears cascaded from his eyes, a torrent of despair, as he sprinted towards the nearest house, every step laden with the weight of unbearable loss.

Life has never shown me an ounce of kindness from the day I took my first breath, and I fear it never will. I'm exhausted, Aemond, so utterly weary of the ceaseless struggle of existence. I attempted to paint a hopeful picture, to conjure a vision of a future where happiness resides, but the scars within me run too deep, and my feeble attempts at self-delusion have shattered like fragile glass.

"What's happening!" One of the neighbors exclaimed, a middle-aged man with graying hair, rushing outside with his wife, a woman with kind, worried eyes, their faces etched with concern upon hearing the heart-wrenching screams that pierced the dark, quiet street.

Aemond stood in the midst of the empty road, his fists clenched in desperation, his face contorted with agony and disbelief, tears streaming down his cheeks, glistening under the faint streetlights.

"My girlfriend..." Aemond's voice broke, the anguish in his tone almost tangible, his breath hitching as he struggled to utter the words. "She's—" His voice dissolved into choked sobs, his shoulders trembling uncontrollably as he tried to maintain his composure.

"Gods be good!" The wife gasped, her voice barely a whisper, her hands instinctively flying to cover her mouth in horror as she saw the crimson stains saturating Aemond's clothes and his girlfriend's.

"Please, help me, help her! Please," Aemond pleaded, his voice a desperate plea to the heavens, his shaky arms clutching his girlfriend tightly, as if trying to hold on to the last vestiges of warmth slipping away from her, leaving an indescribable void in his heart.

I know I made you a promise to heal, I know I vowed to battle through this, but it seems my spirit lacks the resilience I once believed it had. I fought with every fiber of my being, I swear on my father's life that I fought for you, for my dad, but it's like trying to ward off steel blades with feeble, wooden ones.

Aemond's gaze remained fixed on the couple as they frantically applied pressure to the wounds, their expressions a mix of urgency and helplessness.

He knelt on the dewy front lawn, his sobs punctuating the eerie silence of the night. Clutching himself tightly, he rocked back and forth, a mournful rhythm that mirrored the relentless turmoil in his heart.

His head shook from side to side, as if in a desperate attempt to dislodge the nightmare that threatened to consume him whole, refusing to accept the grim possibility that he might lose her tonight.

He knew all too well about his girlfriend's inner struggles, for they had crossed paths in therapy group sessions for survivors of childhood abuse. On that very first day, she had courageously voiced those tormenting thoughts, a cry for help and a desire to rid herself of them.

Aemond had been her steadfast guardian, offering support in every way he could, but now, in this dire moment, it seemed that his efforts had fallen short, leaving him with a crushing sense of powerlessness.

The burden of guilt weighed heavily upon him. How could he have failed to notice? How could he have missed the signs?

I fear, Aemond, that I am beyond redemption, a hopeless case. It's painfully clear that I can never break free from the chains of my tormented childhood. That little girl within me, trapped in the depths of my being, resists all attempts at healing, stubbornly clinging to the memories that bind her. It's as if she seeks vengeance upon my present self, punishing me for failing to rescue her from the suffocating prison of her own making.

The neighborhood was suddenly bathed in an eerie, disorienting symphony of sirens, and the lights from police and ambulance vehicles cast a stark, vivid illumination upon the previously tranquil street. Aemond found himself at the epicenter of this chaotic whirlwind, surrounded by a growing crowd of concerned neighbors. Some of them reached out to him, offering fragile words of comfort, while others stood in silent solidarity, their eyes fixed on the paramedics who toiled with unwavering dedication to save her life.

With a trembling voice, Aemond beseeched the policeman for the answer he so desperately yearned for. His eyes held a silent plea, practically begging for a glimmer of hope in a world suddenly plunged into darkness.

"There's a faint heartbeat," the policeman murmured with empathy, his hand gently patting Aemond's trembling back, as if trying to convey that there was still a fragile thread of hope, even in the face of unimaginable despair. "But she's lost a lot of blood."

A gasp, almost imperceptible, escaped from Aemond's quivering lips. A flicker of relief touched his soul. She was still here, her heart fighting to continue its rhythmic dance of life. In that moment, he clung to that heartbeat like a lifeline, an anchor in the storm of uncertainty. His head fell back, and he was overcome with sobs that embodied a tumultuous blend of fear and gratitude.

He wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, determined not to let his emotions overwhelm him completely. Gathering every ounce of strength he possessed, he rose to his feet and steadied himself, resolute in his decision to follow her into the ambulance. He couldn't fathom leaving her side in this critical hour, as the faint, fragile rhythm of her heartbeat continued to echo in his heart, a beacon of hope in the midst of the darkest night.

I'm exhausted, worn down by the sound of her screams and shouts. I'm doing my best to help her break free, but it feels impossible because the one who held the keys to her prison was her now-deceased mother. This means I'll be condemned to hear her screams for the rest of my life, as she continues to blame me, shame me, and attempt to break me. Her words pierce through my soul like a Valyrian blade. I can't bear it any longer. I can't.

Aemond's heart shattered into a thousand pieces as he watched the frantic paramedics laboring to bring her back. Their voices were strained, their movements frenzied, and their faces etched with a mixture of frustration and despair. The cold sweat on their brows mirrored the anxiety that had gripped Aemond's own soul.

Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision, as he watched the scene unfold. His throat constricted with the overwhelming fear and pain that surged within him. He couldn't hold back any longer. Aemond found himself on his knees beside her, his trembling fingers reaching for her lifeless hands. The touch was cold and lifeless, a stark contrast to the warmth and vitality he had known in her touch.

With a delicate tenderness, he pressed his quivering lips to her hand. As he did so, the tears flowed freely down his cheeks. His voice trembled with the raw, unfiltered emotion that he could no longer contain. "Don't leave me, please," he whispered, hoping that she would hear his words and return to him, their shared future waiting to be rewritten.

The regret that gnawed at his soul was a heavy burden, weighing down his very being. Aemond wished with every fiber of his being that he had taken the day off as planned, that he hadn't selflessly covered for his colleagues.

Perhaps he would be lying with his head on her lap, her gentle fingers tracing patterns through his hair as they shared stories and laughter. He could almost hear her voice, complaining about the rigors of college or seeking his patient help with those tricky math assignments.

I beg you not to carry the weight of my sadness, grief, and pain. Live each day with happiness for both of us, for you deserve far better than the agony I've put you through.You deserve someone who can fill your life with joy, while I've only dragged you into my sea of misery. This isn't fair to you, and your heart deserves so much more.

The line on the machine remained ominously still, the absence of any discernible heartbeat a painful silence that echoed in the small space.

The younger paramedic, overwhelmed by the cruel reality of the situation, hurled his hat against the wall, releasing a primal growl of frustration and helplessness.

Meanwhile, the older paramedic's expression reflected a deep well of sorrow and sympathy as he turned to Aemond. His eyes, heavy with the weight of empathy, spoke volumes as he gently stated, "I'm sorry for your loss, ser. We have done everything we could."

Aemond, however, refused to accept the harsh reality. His voice quivered with despair as he protested, "No! No! Do something!" His desperation and anguish were palpable, as he clung to the hope that there might still be a chance to save the one he loved.

The older paramedic's voice wavered as he delivered the painful truth, "There's nothing more we can do; she lost too much blood." It was a devastating admission, and Aemond's heart sank further.

"Please," Aemond begged, his voice reduced to a mere whisper, but he knew deep down that there was nothing more to be done.

You were not just a chapter but the entire book, the most exquisite story that had unfolded in my life. Every page was filled with the warmth of your love, the laughter we shared, and the memories we created. I can't find the words to express the depth of my feelings for you, a love that has always burned brightly and will continue to do so. As our paths part, I want you to remember that you mean the world to me, and your happiness will forever be a cherished wish of mine.

Aemond's world crumbled around him as he clung to her, his anguished screams muffled against her neck. Tears streamed down his face, mixing with her blood, as he sobbed, "Don't do this to me." His voice trembled with despair, the weight of the moment pressing down on his chest like a crushing boulder.

His hands, covered in her blood, trembled as they caressed her hair. He couldn't bear to let her go, and so he continued to beg, his voice cracking as he implored her, "Please, open your eyes. Breathe." His eyes were red and swollen, filled with a profound sorrow that seemed to know no end.

He made promises that he knew he couldn't keep, "If you open your eyes now, I'll give you everything, anything you desire. I'll do whatever you want." His face was contorted with anguish, his eyes locked onto hers, willing her to come back to him. But alas, her stillness remained.

He drew her closer, their bodies collapsing into the seat, a tangle of limbs and despair. With her in his arms, he rocked back and forth, the motion a feeble attempt to soothe his aching heart, even as tears continued to pour from his eyes.

As I bid you farewell, my love, know that my affection for you remains as strong as ever. I wish you all the happiness and peace in the world, but my heart breaks to think that I won't be there to witness it alongside you. Please, above all else, take good care of yourself, for you carry a piece of my heart with you, and it will always long for your well-being.

That fateful night had left Aemond irreparably changed. It was as if a storm had swept through his life, leaving destruction in its wake.

The woman he loved, the center of his world, had unknowingly shattered him. Her absence turned his once-stable world upside down, leaving him in a state of perpetual disarray.

The wounds she left behind ran deep, and the scars on his heart were a constant reminder of the love he had lost and the person he used to be.

I’m not tagging anyone in this to avoid triggering anyone. Do not hesitate to seek professional help!

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witchofhimring · 2 months

Text

To you who is lost

Chapter 1: Duty is the death of love

Chapter synopsis: Your husband leaves for despair and death. Left behinde, you are left at the mercy of others.

Warnings: Angst, abandonment, crying, pregnancy

Note: Usually I save notes for the end but this time I will also put some at the beginning. I am using their Quenya names (ex. Maedhros is called Maitimo).

Emmeril, Airin and llë are my OC's

You would lament thereafter for the lack of foresight. The wise in Arda would mourn their kindred, who had stepped out of bliss and into woe. Nerdanel, Amarië, Anairë, these great women of the Blessed Realm were linked in sorrow to those left behind. You joined this tragic assembly, united in regret. Days would waste away as you asked " What was there to be done?". Anguishing over every time you could have forestalled these harrowing events.

It had been a storm, slowly strengthening until its power was too great to prevail. Deceived, one and all had been taken in. Melkor's repentance had seemed so genuine. Save Tulkas and Curufinwe none had heeded any notion of trickery. Now the dark Vala's laughter rang in Angamando, echoing off the stone walls. In your own halls, you sighed. Brought so low you were a specter of the beautiful young elf maiden whose laughter had lit up Tirion. These days were dark with the Alduya felled.

"Will you come to bed?" Amarië, whose suffering was as great as yours, came forward. Together they cast their gazes to the darkness beyond. All of Arda had been plunged into an impenetrable shadow. Amarië's light was much dimmed, her golden hair hanging forlornly. She had always been pale and thin but her boundless joy had given her strength which many envied. They need envy no longer. Findaráto had sworn to return and Amarië held him to it. She was bound to him, although not formally, and believed he would return. For a time Amarië would remain before departing. She would dwell in her home and wait for Findaráto.

You had been gifted no such reassurance. Cast off, Maitimo had spurned every vow he made. Bitter words were exchanged, things that could not be unsaid. Unlike Amarië's stalwart serenity, you had wept. Your marriage had been waning for some time now. When Curufinwe stormed into exile you followed to Formenos. In Formenos you would lose your husband.

The laws of the Eldar commanded that husband and wife be one in all things. Never had you any cause to doubt these customs. Naturally, a husband and wife must cleave together. Growing up in a big, tightly-knit family, a certain worldview had been formed. There was never any doubt that if you married your husband would always protect you. And how could you not? Your father had always been so devoted to your mother, his desire to make her happy endless.

Your worldview had been, to a degree, changed when you married Maitimo. The house of Finwe had been in turmoil for quite some time. Since Finwe cemented his union Indis despite the protests of his son Feanaro, his progeny had torn at one another. Though to Nolofinwe's credit, the war was pitifully one-sided. Even those who had never encountered either prince heard of the brotherly animosity. A pungent cloud of this great house, many feared for the day a storm would break. Coming from a close family this was something of an anomaly. Your father had quarreled with his brothers, but nothing could sunder their bond. Your mother had her gripes with her sisters, but their love always brought them together again. Being the eldest of your family you had the unenviable job of keeping rambunctious youngers siblings in line. However no matter what troubles came your, love and affection remained. Perhaps this made the end inevitable.

You begged him not to leave that day. The death of High King Finwë plunged all of Arda into grief. Sickening amounts of blood were saturated into the ground. From there after that very spot was stained by Melkor's vile deed. The smell sent your head reeling and burning bile to bubble. You had never seen a dead body before and abhorred the slaughter of animals. They might think you weak for it, but you knew this sight would curdle the blood of even the most austere of elves. Wails of despair took the place of joy. The light had faded and everything became dark. If only it had stopped there, oh by Eru how you wished this was the worst.

It all started on a day filled with joy. Manwë had summoned the Houses Fingolfin and Curufinwë, ordering peace between the two families. Brother took brother in hand and promised peace and friendship. Though how sincere Curufinwë was remained unknown. Many times you had witnessed Curufinwë rage over his younger brother. He howled over the "spawn of Indis" and cursed him. Such festering resentment could not be swept aside by simple sweet words. "I know we should be glad. But I can not help feeling dread." Maitimo simply took your hand in his. "I assure you that nothing bad will happen." His smile reassured you. Oh how wrong he was. When the darkness fell confusion and fear reigned. Finwë was dead, the Silmarills stolen and half of the Edain of Valinor gone. The only respite was Arafinwë returning to take leadership.

All the lights went out. Melkor had drained the trees of all their light, and from there he fled. But there was no running from the darkness. Warmth and light were replaced by darkness and dread. Wails of the bereft took the place of laughter. You who had once been so full of joy had only despair for company. Things had been far from perfect even before the oath. When Curufinwë had been exiled your husband went with him. Of course, you understood his duty as the eldest son. But it didn't make the move from Tirion to Formenos. That day you had to leave behind all those you loved. Try as you might to sway Maitimo to stay, it worked to no avail. In those days you would have done anything for him, and so where he went you followed. You tried not to complain. Even when Curufinwë's temper became unbearable, or your friends stopped sending letters. You could not blame them, living in the court of temporary King Nolofinwë and keeping in touch with you was risky. At least your family was supportive. Your younger sisters and brothers But even in those cold days you still would never have thought Maitimo would leave you. The years had been trying, but he still cared for you in those days. Years later in the dead of night, as you lay awake, you wondered if every "I love you" had been a lie.

"Please, if you have ever loved me you would stay." He did not meet your eyes. He just looked back to the army assembling in the courtyard below. "Have I not followed you all these years? What could I have done for you to cast me aside!" You seized his arm. Gently he pried you off him. "Y/n, you must understand that I have to go. Of course you may follow me-" "I have done nothing but follow you! Maitimo this is suicide!" It was at this point your father in law chose to appear, ascending the steps in a storm of fury. "If you do not choose to follow your husband, as you are sworn to do, then you are no wife!" Temperamental, yes, but now there was the flame of madness dancing in his eyes. Curufinwë had taken leave of his senses. "My vows said that I would follow him as my conscious dictates! As your wife has stayed in Valinor so shall I." The comment was poorly timed. Anger beat so furiously in your chest that you thought not of the consequences. With a roar of unbridled fury, Curufinwë drew his sword. Horrified, both you and Maitimo stepped back. The tip was right at your neck, an inch further would slice the flesh. "Depart, faithless wretch! And do not let me find you lurking in these hall again lest I strike you dead!" Maitimo drew you away and behind him. "You will cease your insults of my wife." You stared up at him in awe. Here he was standing up to his father, possibly the greatest of the Noldor. You had thought at that moment Maitimo had seen sense. He led you off to a room, away from his father and the chaos below.

"Maitimo!" You flung your arms around his shoulders. An elated kiss was placed on his forehead. But his eyes were sad with what you later realized was guilt. Gently he pried you off of him. He was gentle but his actions indicated he wanted to put distance between you and himself. "Do-?" You were unable to finish. Maitimo closed his eyes and whispered something so quietly under his breath you almost missed it. Almost. "Please." "Maitimo?" Your temporary relief was dashed as quickly as it came. "Y/n, I must follow my father." One could hear a pin drop. Your world had been torn apart, fractured almost beyond repair. "My Lord-Maitimo! You must not!" Your body was shaking, horror gripping you like a vice. Your legs seemed unable to hold themselves, such was the agony you felt at that moment. Falling to your knees, you started to beg.

"Husband, if you have any love for me then-" Suddenly Maitimo's could not even meet your eye. "You will not sway me Y/n." His voice was hard, cold, a tone he had recently adopted and that reared its head more and more frequently. You could not believe what you were hearing. Your husband seemed to disregard the bond between man and wife, that they must always stay side by side. And here he was abandoning you at your hour of need. You were scared. Finwë was dead and the rest were in self imposed-exile. The journey ahead scared you. To leave the safe haven of Valinor was suicide. You could understand avenging the King, you had great love and respect for him. And as King he must be avenged. But this was beyond simple revenge. This very act would tear apart the house of Finwë, and all of Valinor. Your family. Curufinwë's heart had turned dark and following him to this end. And there was another, more overriding reason. A shaking hand went to your stomach.

It could be a lie to say that everything had been perfect before the darkening. Hard to admit, but your presence in the family was not welcomed by everyone. Curufinwë and his son who shared the same name looked upon you with disdain. You were to head-in-the-clouds for them to ever like. You tried, only to end in ridicule and failure. The escalation was partly your fault, afraid of causing trouble Maitimo was never told. Looking back, telling Maitimo might have been wiser. Alas, you did not. This was not to say the rest were unkind. Never had there been a great closeness between Tyelkormo, Carinstir and yourself, there was also never ill blood either. Though you were better acquainted with the latter's wife, Ilë. Macalaurë had always been kind but rather unapproachable, him being so proud. You supposed that was what Emmeril liked about him. The twins you were the closest to, out of the lot, Telvo and Pityo. His cousins hailing from the house of Nolofinwë you held a greater preference for. Save Turokáno who thought you rather silly.

There lay a great enmity between the houses Curufinwë and Nolofinwë. Or rather, Curufinwë held a deep mistrust and dislike of his younger brother. The ill sentiment had spread like a poison to all his kin, even the children. During the exile in Formenos you were forced to meet Findecáno and his younger sister, at times with Arakáno. Those years had been hard, especially for those such as Turkafinwë and Maitimo who forged deep bonds with their kin. Curufinwë the younger missed Írissë, despite his attempts to hide it. Those years in Formenos had been horribly lonely, bereft of company. With a family far away and friends forced to stay in Tirion company was limited. Only two friends had accompanied you. But denied company they soon started to despair. Despite what it cost you have them leave. Many tears had been shed that day. The resentment between the various members of Curufinwë started to devour the residents. Anger brewed, bitterness ensued.

"And Indis's brood wander those halls, our halls! What right... what claim does the House of Indis have to my father's throne! The throne of my forefathers!" Around Curufinwë's table everyone sat, save Ilë who pleaded exhaustion. The rest of you were not spared Curufinwë's rage. Sitting next to Maitimo your hands shook, his hand on your knee. The twins sat closest to their father, though Telufinwë not leaning in as close. Turkafinwë's seemed unusually thoughtful, for such a brash elf. Curufinwë the younger's face was obscured from shadow, his silent wife beside him. Morifinwë was leaning in towards Curufinwë with a red flush crawling up his face. Kanafinwë and Emmeril sat on the sidelines, observers of Curufinwë's rant. You would give anything to leave this table.

"What of our Uncle Arafinwë?" Maitimo was far too fond of his half-uncles for Curufinwë's liking. You could see his thin pale lips tighten. His dark blue eyes, bloodshot, narrowed in on Maitimo. "He is his mother's son." Curufinwë's stance was clear. Your thoughts went to Amarië who you had not seen in years. Last you heard Findaráto had pledged to marry her. Wondering if Curufinwë would allow you to attend their wedding, you looked outside. Formenos was cut off from the rest of Valinor. Held up in these mountains it was hard to see anything else. It only served to make you feel more nervous.

"Though, I do wonder if not everyone is paying attention." Curufinwë's tone made it seem he was scolding a child. Except it was you. "My apologies." Quickly covering your mistake, you sat there rigidly. "My wife meant no offense." Maitimo was swift to defend. Curufinwë looked ready to say more but chose to abstain. All you could do was stare at your lap, numb with anxiety.

Maitimo had changed. The bleakness and chill of Formenos had worn on everyone. Exhaustion had settled over the residents like a heavyweight. Loneliness became a constant companion, stalking you like a specter. In the beginning, it was not so bad. You spent time making this place a home. A small garden was built in the courtyard with help from Maitimo. Carefully you tended to the delicate petals, their white petals reflecting light. He would wind them in your hair, cascading down in a waterfall of flowers. They spent much of their time holed up inside their room. It became a safe haven, a world that separated themselves from all the torments outside. Light blue curtains adorned the windows, you had elected for a more simple style. Windows were left open a crack letting fresh air in. At times like these you could forget about everything.

The years passed and the bond between husband and wife started to crumble. A great toll was upheaving this family. Twelve years was but the link of an eyes to elves. For this family however, it dragged on. Every moment served to increase Curufinwë's rage and desire to avenge himself burned within. Like a disease it spread, its symptoms laying low the spirits of his heirs. Maitimo became sullen and the fire within seemed to flicker. The letters hailing from Tirion, where his beloved cousin Findecáno resided, remained unopened for days. When Maitimo finally did dare to gaze upon the contents they were for him only. Afterwards Maitimo would grow sullen once more and would disappear. Behind his back, although it brought guilt, you read its contents. It was the words of a cousin who missed his friend. He talked of times past and expressed joy in those to come. "I hope for further joy, so that all ill will become forgotten." He had written. Letters arrived from your sister as well. Airin was the closest in age to you, being only a few years your junior. Residing in the court of Anairë, Airin would provide information. King Nolofinwë ruled wisely and was much loved. Such tidings brought you no joy. Eru knew what Curufinwë might say. She was not the only one to bring information, Findecáno wrote to you as well, with affection that did little to curb a growing fear. He wished you well, that the days bring peace, but those words soothed not. There lingered an underlying anxiety to his words. Try as he might to cover it up.

"My dear daughter, we are well. But it would truly warm our hearts to know you too are well. Do not forget that all of us (yes, all of us) miss you dreadfully" Those letters remained in a safe wooden box. Sometimes you would read them when lonely. Even your brothers, who were a great many years younger, had written. Sadly, letters were no substitute for true company. Ilë, wife of Carnistir, was a good friend. But as time dragged on Ilë retreated and clung to her husband. Less and less she patrolled the halls, staying with her husband in solitude. Making friends with the other elf maidens, there was still a poignant loneliness. All they did was remind you of those left behind.

"It is merely your father's words, my love. Your uncle would never harm any of us." Your husband's anguish hurt you in turn. As a wife it was agonizing to know his pain and yet have no balm to heal the wound. Another one of Findecáno's letters lay forlornly on the bedside. Instead of bringing joy they served to torment. Maitimo was slumped against his chair by the windows. His bright blue eyes were focused on the mountains beyond. You stood beside him, fingers running through his red hair. For a while you said nothing. Gently you stroked his cheek which was unusually sallow. Leaning forward you kissed the cheek. Slightly, he leaned into your affection. "I know you will do what is right." Had those words strengthened him, or heaped on yet greater pressure onto Maitimo.

Everything changed when that great host left Valinor. You were left alone and exposed with no one to protect you. Everyone was either gone or wanted nothing to do with you. Maitimo had ordered those of his followers who stayed behind to protect you. But would they be able to? And could you, in good conscience, place those who were under your care into great danger? Thank Eru Arafinwë took pity on your condition. You had been barricaded in Formenos for fear when the youngest son of Finwë and his host came upon the fortress. To your surprise, he brought along Indis and Nerdanel. Despite your disgrace, they brought you with them to Tirion.

You sat on a bench with an outlook to the garden below. Despite its glamorous beauty, it brought you no joy. There was no light for the Two Trees had been utterly drained. It felt like divine providence, the trees set and your love as gone. Now it was dark as the hole in your heart. "Y/n, dear, you should no linger in the cold for so long. "Nerdanel stepped out onto the outlook. " Is it dinner already?" You drew your cloak tighter around yourself. Instinctively your hands cradled your ever expanding belly. "Yes. And Indis has prepared your favourite." At one times these temptations would have been rather tempting. But no food could fill you. Not now. "If not yourself then at least for him." "You are so certain?" Coming from Nerdanel the Wise the idea she might already know was not preposterous. Relenting, you got up. The baby was all you had left.

"And are we to forget that this woman chose to go into exile, against all common sense and decency." It was as you expected. Even with the new Lord of the Noldor beside you. It was Arafinwë's first council as leader (would that make him King now?) in the great halls. You remembered that last time you had been here. How Curufinwë unsheathed his sword and pointed it at his own brother. You recalled the horror and revulsion on the audience's face, and now all their eyes were on you. Every important lord and lady of Valinor were judging you. It hurt to know that some of them had once been your friends. Perhaps everything had been a lie. Your husband despised you and the rest of Valinor bore mistrusted.

"You forget, My Lord, that as a Princess and member of her lord husband's household, she was bound to follow him to whatever ends. It was only when it all became too much did Y/n depart from her husband. Her moral convictions won out, and despite their fëas being one she forsook him." Arafinwe's voice held a steely edge you had not yet heard before. The youngest son of Finwë was often misconceived as being shy, timid even. This was a misconception, he was simply quiet. Never should one misconstrue kindness for complacency. But one should never be complacent with the belief that silence means stupidity. Arafinwë stood up, white robes billowing behind him. You felt Nerdanel place a comforting hand on your shoulder. "Have we fallen so far that we would attack a lonely woman? If we are to proceed with revenge in this matter, are we truly worthy to live amongst the Vala and Maia?' Some had the grace to look ashamed. Despite this, there were still some who had misgivings.

"My Lord, if I may speak." Lady Nimlothel served the house of Nolofinwë, more specifically it was his Lady wife she owed her allegiance to. With an elegant stride, she took the floor. "You may." Arafinwë answered, although his eyes looked wary. "The Lady Y/n is not responsible for her husband's ill deeds. Although I would like to add that Lady Nerdanel never fled into exile, a most wise decision. I suggest that the Lady Y/n retire, at least for a time. It would be unwise to allow such a remnant of Curufinwë's treachery to remain here." You felt so cold, so alone. They might not lock you up, but exile was little better. You would hide away, a forgotten remnant in a far off castle. An embarrassing chapter of Arda's history. Arafinwë sat down, troubled. "This council is dismissed. We shall convey at morning tomorrow."

"We may reside by my parent's hearth. They extend this offer to you too." Emmeril had bolted the chest shut. Sitting on a bed you watched Makalaurë's wife hastening departure. She along with Airin, wife of Curufinwë the Younger (your husband's brother) remained in Valinor. Ilë alone had departed, swearing to follow her husband Morifinwë, to whatever end. You prayed to Eru she would be well. Airin had long since departed. Saddened over the loss of husband and son she departed, destination unknown.

"My Lady, is that all?" One of Emmeril's handmaidens entered. "Take these out to the yard, then we depart." Once the handmaiden departed Emmeril turned to you. "What do you hope to accomplish by staying?" The bond between Emmeril and yourself had never been great. It was not personal dislike so much as never truly understanding one another. Emmeril was stern and hard, chafing against your soft and easy nature. But she had never been cruel or given you reason for mistrust. Emmeril's reasoning was wise in this matter. Leaving Tirion could allow you to start anew. You might have done so if it were not for the babe that dwelt within you. What sort of life would your child have? A permanent exile for the rest of their days? Could you even call yourself a mother while condemning a child to such a fate? Emmeril may think you a fool, and perhaps she was right to think so. But you would not reveal this secret to her. Now was not the time and frankly you were not ready.

Emmeril did not stay long, but departed for her family's home. You watched her go until the last of her horses were over the hill. The room suddenly felt colder, more forlorn. A choked sigh bordering on sobs left your mouth. At times like these you would have walked in the garden with Ilë. Only it was pitch black out and Ilë was gone. A soft knock at your door alerted you. Amarië swept in, pink silk trailing behind. "Y/n, Nerdanel wishes to give council." Rising up you followed Amarië. The hallway was obscured with shadows, torches providing ailing light. Even with windows barred shut you could still feel a draft. Even Amarië seemed to feel it, drawing her robe tighter. Every step echoed in these silent halls. Most had either fled Tirion or barricaded themselves in their rooms. Only guards remained patrolling the halls.

Nerdanel had taken quarters next to Queen Indis. Was Indis even still queen? Suspiciously guards regarded your presence. "Lady Nerdanel had sent for Lady Y/n. Queen Indis is aware." They let you in with a look of reluctance on their faces. The swords on their sides glimmered in the torchlight. Only a short time ago none dared to disregard the Valar's ordinance. Now none dared leave their rooms without protection. Such were these sad times. Nerdanel bore her usual attire, baggy brown pants and a white shirt. Her hair, Nerdanel had her back turn to you, was tied in a loose braid. Rubble and tools lay scattered. When Amarië cleared her throat Nerdanel seemed to finally take notice. "Lady Amarië, thank you." Amarië curtsied and made to leave. "Hold-" "I must depart. Lady Nerdanel wishes to speak to you in private." Now it was just Nerdanel and you. Nerdanel lightly kicked a hammer out of the way and picked up a tray. You smelt citrus and a hint of cinnamon. Sitting down you watched Nerdanel pour a cup of tea. "Care for some?" You nodded. You had the feeling this conversation was not simple idle chat.

Nerdanel did not beat around the bush. After a sip, her grey eyes focused on you. The look was not critical, but the one she adopted when an important topic was at hand. "I heard Emmeril offered you a place at her family home. Why did you not go?" She was not being critical, just inquiring. "I have never been close to Emmeril. It would be an intrusion on my part." Nerdanel poured another cup. "Will you remain here indefinitely?" "Nerdanel I do not know what to do. I am lost. In leaving I condemn myself and the baby to exile. In staying ill may come too, for those that support the Houses of Nolofinwë and Arafinwë have no love of Curufinwë's kin." Nerdanel reached out calloused hands, worn by years of her craft. Your own was not so smooth, for years of gardening had hardened the skin. "Fate may be kinder to you. Our king wishes to provide what help he can." The attempt was well made, yet still you remained unsettled. "My fate is solely in the hands of others. If I stay then it is another exile. I banish my freedom. Perhaps I should leave and lessen others' hold on me." Nerdanel's gaze went to your belly. If one was unaware they would not know. But soon it would swell and then what would happen then? Your family would be harboring a potential heir. Arafinwë was good and wise, but the actions others you must look to. Would they see the baby as a contender? If you stayed at court then an alliance could be built and no one could accuse you of hiding.

"Do what you think is best for yourself and the baby Y/n. But do not forget, make sure you stand on your own feet."

Note: This story has been in my drafts since September and was originally meant to be a one shot. A story surrounding the lives of those who stayed in Valinor is something I have been interested in for a while now. I am unsure how long this story will be. I will also be using the Quenya pronunciation for everyone's names unless canonically one is not provided. All the sons of Feanor use their mother-name except for Curufin.

While I use Jodie Comers face in the gifs and aesthetics for this story it is not meant to be a face claim. I simply like to use a certain character/acter's face in each series.

My OC's (the unnamed wives of the sons of Feanor) are my stand ins for the wives in every fanfic going forward. This is unless I write an x-reader involving one of the three married sons. In that case I will simply write them out. But going forward in this story and others they will exist. I intend to make character profiles for them at some point.

If you want to be added to the taglist please let me know!

#the silmarillion x reader #silmarillion x reader #the silm #the silmarillion #silmarillion #to you who is lost #maedhros #maglor #celegorm #celegorm x aredhel #feanor x nerdanel #fingolfin x anaire #finrod x amarie #finarfin x earwen #finarfin #nerdanel #maitimo x reader #maedhros x reader

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morallyinept · 5 months

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Summary: Joel Miller comes back into your life unexpectedly after a gap of thirty years, and stirs up all kinds of memories and longing. Now, as you're stationed on an outpost for five days alone with the man you stupidly let go of all those years ago, you have a chance to confront him about your past life together and all the things you wished you’d said and done.

But Joel’s different now, and you know you need to tread carefully. Joel Miller is not the same man you once knew in another life.

A slow burn romance set in the post apocalyptic world, approx. twenty or so years after the initial Cordyceps outbreak.

Pairing: Post-Outbreak Joel Miller x MatureF!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. However reader is of a similar age range as Joel; in her late forties/early fifties. Joel is slightly older at 56.)

Chapter word count: 3.2k

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☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter notes: The day after the devastating news, you try to navigate through it. The day has come when the other group takes action against the horde. This is an angst heavy chapter.

☝🏻 I WILL NO LONGER BE ADDING NEW TAGS due to some of them not working as they should, despite me tagging, so please ensure you're following me and turn on notifs so you don't miss an update on this story.

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Previous Chapter

There’s so much death.

You think you’d be used to it by now. You’ve lost so much already. And will probably lose so much more. It's inevitable. It’s a thought that keeps you there, stuck inside a shell of fear and acceptance in equal measure.

Why bother anymore? It's pointless. Futile. A waste of energy that you no longer have.

It’s chemical, the way it burns and doesn’t relent. Sulfuric acid melts away everything inside until there is no pain, only numbness. And you ride it with.

Because feeling nothing is better than feeling this loss.

In the cold solitude of permeating now in this grief-stricken world, the numbness morphs into a bone-deep chill that seems to penetrate every fibre of your being. It isn't merely the absence of sensation but an all-encompassing void, an abyss that threatens to swallow the remnants of any piece of you, no matter how minute, that may be untouched by it.

The once familiar contours of your existence in the shack with Joel, are now distorted, and the world has become a desolate landscape once more where joy is an ancient memory.

You’ve walked this path before, only this time there is no knife in your hand.

The numbness settles like a suffocating shroud, rendering your heart an inert organ, useless and left to still and calcify inside your chest, incapable of feeling anything but the persistent ache of loss.

You've lost something, something is missing, you’re certain of it, somewhere in the fog.

Moments flood in where you're certain you know he is gone, and others try to convince you he’s still here. Still waiting for you at the commune safe and well.

They taunt you, flout his face at you in their brazen attempts to confuse you. A labyrinth of torment, a maze where the spectre of Kelper looms around every corner. Your mind, a battleground of conflicting emotions, replays scenes of shared laughter and whispered confidences with a sadistic precision.

Each memory is a double-edged sword, cutting through the numbness to expose the raw nerves of the chasm-like depths of your sorrow beneath.

The sobs, when they come, are silent convulsions of anguish, choked by the grip of a deep, intense darkness, one that you can’t see through. In the vast expanse of your isolation, the numbness is both ally and adversary, a paradoxical dance with pain that leaves you suspended in the timeless limbo of heartbreak.

You want it to stop, will it to.

You cling to the numbness as a drowning person clings to a lifeline, desperate to shield yourself from the full force of the emotional tempest battering you and trying to pull you under. The pain, when ultimately surfaces, is an avalanche threatening to bury you beneath the weight of its enormity. You can't find your way out.

You can’t take it anymore. You just can’t. You’re done.

You win, world. You win.

So you embrace the numbness, a fragile fortress that keeps the floodgates of sorrow at bay. You shut it all out and lock yourself up tight. An impenetrable fortress unable to be conquered by anyone. A shield; a prison. It locks you in a suffocating embrace, a straitjacket of emotional anaesthesia that stifles the raw, throated cries of anguish.

You're just a pair of eyes, vacantly staring, but not seeing anything.

Words seem so feeble and barren in moments like this. And Joel has none to offer you. All he remembers is his own drowning.

Before that? Not so much these days. His recall on memories aren’t so sharp any more. Age, brain rot from the pills and whiskey binges - call it what you want, he still won’t remember despite wanting to.

Perhaps it's his brain saving him from reliving the horror. Doesn't matter. There are no photographs anymore so his memories are all he has, or lack of them.

All he feels is the pain and grief that still walks with him daily, clasping tightly onto his hand and crushing the small bones in it.

Sarah’s face, he tries so hard to remember it all some days. But there are features missing somewhere, like he doesn't have all the pieces of her anymore.

Grief is the last act of love we have to give to those we loved once. Joel wants to say something reassuring and comforting to you like that, but can't bring himself to.

He knows you won’t want to hear it anyway, because he didn’t - and still doesn’t. There is nothing he can say to relieve you of this suffering.

Nothing anyone can say, it's only yours to keep.

All he can do is sit beside you and ride it out with you in silence with an arm tightly around your waist. He’s got you and he’s not letting you go.

He's there if you should need him.

But you don't feel him. You don't feel anything.

You’re gone, and you don’t know anything anymore.

Time, your name, where you are… None of it registers. The world outside your grief-ridden cocoon carries on, oblivious to the hurricane within.

Time, once a reliable companion, now mocks you with its indifferent march forward, sludging in the mud adding to your torment.

You don’t know that Joel tries to feed you, tries to get you to eat something.

You don’t know that you refuse, your face turning away as he gives up and leaves the plate beside you. He takes it away later when he sees you’ve not touched it.

You don’t know that Joel sits with you on the floor in the same spot where you’d collapsed, unmoving for hours until his ass goes completely numb and he has to stand, cursing at his knee when the joint clicks horribly.

You don’t know that he leaves you for a few moments in the shack by yourself whilst he goes outside, staring up at the stars and silently asking for help.

Asking for it to stop. He just wants it all to stop. For you, for him; for fucking everyone.

One man can only take so much.

You don’t know that he hears rustling in the bushes and an infected stray happens upon him before he puts it out of its misery.

He goes to town on it, beating its skull and caving it in with his bare hands, long after it's dead.

You don't hear his croaked yells into the bloody pulp as his rage swallows him up, and for a while, he too is lost.

Numb. Checked out mentally. The ache persists within him, an unyielding agony that refuses to be dulled by the passage of time.

Nor do you see him wiping his bloodied hands down his worn jeans as he returns to you and helps you to the cot in your catatonic state.

You don’t remember sleeping. Or maybe you do. It’s hard to tell. All you remember is Kelper’s face staring back at you.

He’s sitting cross legged opposite and his smile is warm. You don’t know how he can smile at you like this, knowing he’s left you.

You bastard.

He tells you that you need to get your shit together. That he’s okay now and you’re going to be okay too. Max, Sal and Guthrie need you. That you will endure and survive. That Joel will take care of you.

He’s a good man, Goose.

Kelper looks over his shoulder at Joel sitting by the window, staring out like a lost little boy.

Handsome, too.

You plead with him to come back. That you can't do this without him.

We both know that ain't true.

Kelper smiles and reaches for your hand but you don’t feel that either.

You got this. I know you do.

You look at him and hiccup an audible sob through your lips.

“It should have been me,” Joel hears you whisper a little while later, rousing him from the window as he keeps watch.

And it paralyses him because it's exactly what he’s told himself every single day since he lost his daughter.

It should have been me.

“We have to go and help them.” You say as Joel comes to.

You’re standing over him with dishevelled hair and sunken eye sockets. He sits upright in the chair wiping the crust away from his eyes and the dawn hasn’t quite risen yet.

“I can’t leave Max and Sal on their own. Not without…” The thought of mentioning his name slashes at your gut.

Joel stiffens. “We can’t. Have to stay here n’ do our bit.” He affirms softly.

He knows it's futile, that sense won’t pull your conscience. There will be nothing he can say that will sway your decision, no matter how reckless it is.

But he has to try.

“The commune needs us here.”

“Then I’ll go without you.” You say defiantly, and he expects you to say it, could almost predict it as your eyes burn fiercely, your mouth pulls tight and he remembers that look from times gone by.

Joel stands and reaches for your elbow, pulling you back gently. He’s surprised that you don’t shake him off.

He feels you sag, and that's worse somehow. His head is shaking and eyes boring into you, searching you out to try and bring you back.

“I need ya here with me.” He confirms with a little authority to his tone.

It also surprises him when your fist collides with the side of his jaw and it knocks him back a little.

He doesn’t react; the punch isn’t that hard in the grand scheme of things, and he knows you don't mean it.

He knows you need to let it out somehow, even if that means he bears the brunt of it.

Your eyes immediately water, tears spilling down your cheeks as he cradles you into him to the point of suffocation against his broad chest.

Something broke in; wormed it's way in through the cracks as you fall.

“I know, darlin’,” he mumbles, tasting a little blood around his back teeth. “I’d punch me too. S'alright. Ya let it on out now. I got you.”

Wails, like thunderclaps, punctuate the numbness finally, each one an anguished plea to a universe that has callously snatched away what little scraps of happiness you have left in this barren and scorched world.

The tears, imprisoned behind vacant eyes, overflow like a dam teetering on the brink of collapse. They aren't gentle streams; they’re torrents of searing agony, carving deep rivulets down your cheeks, leaving salty trails that etch the map of your suffering and absorb into the soft plaid of Joel’s shirt.

“I got you, darlin’. I got you.” He shushes, over and over again.

You sob uncontrollably, and it's like Joel can hear the elastic bands wrapped around your heart keeping it together snagging and tweaking as they break, one by one.

Joel switches the walkie-talkie on again. He stands by the window waiting, one giant hand resting up against the boards that cover the full pane.

You’re sitting in the wicker chair below him, staring out at nothing, slowly feeling your limbs register again. That you have fingers and toes, and they move and ache.

Your stomach rumbles, your tongue feels overly sucked on. Your hair is a tangle of knots.

Twelve in the afternoon comes and goes and Joel keeps the walkie on.

Today is the day. Crunch time. The fifth day when the rest of them will be launching the attack on the unsuspecting infected. The never ending war on death that has taken, and still continues to take, so fucking much.

The numbness that has settled into your bones, an ache that seems to leech vitality from your very essence, has been extracted a little. You can feel Joel shouldering some of that for you, even if it’s not expected.

You glance up at him now, fingers twitching to reach out and touch him; to pull him close and let him absorb you into his bones and keep you from further harm.

Joel had spent the morning readying everything on a silent autopilot whilst you lingered in the air around him like a ghost with foggy tendrils.

The shack was tidied and replenished ready for the next watch. The horses were saddled and waiting outside; their reins tethered to a branch in case of a swift exit.

The rifle and shotgun were loaded and extra ammo weighed in your pockets ready, even though you didn't put them in there.

His gun was holstered on his hip again and yours too, although you don’t remember him belting it on you either.

A selective amnesiac, erasing not only the pain but also the joy. An anomalous emptiness that denies you the solace of sweet recollections and the closure of confronting the bitter moments. The void left by the missing memories feels like a phantom limb, a sensation of something absent yet profoundly missed. Grasping at the fragile wisps of memory, only to find elusive shadows slipping through your fingers.

You can't let Joel slip through them.

You sigh out and Joel glances down at you. All you can both do is wait now. Left dangling precariously on the precipice, not knowing if you’ll fall right off into the abyss below.

“Are you okay?” You peep timidly after some time.

Joel stands wearily and runs his hand through his hair, messing it up further as he goes. A constant fluff resides in it despite it not being washed for days, a wildness that can't be tamed.

“M’runnin’ on two hours sleep... I dunno how m’not dead yet.” He replies stoically.

His hand engulfs his face rubbing at the bristly hairs around his jawline and then he looks down at you again with molten brown eyes.

"Know it's stupid to ask, but... how ya holdin' up?"

You shake your head. "It's not stupid."

His face is a cocktail of worry, confusion and something else that then pulls you up onto your feet and crashing into his arms.

You kiss him, gently nipping at his lips until it mutates into a desperate need that explodes between you both. He feels it, reciprocates by pushing you back against the boards, perhaps a little too hard as your breath wheezes out of your chest.

His hands around your waist are squeezing as you clasp him close to you and breathe him in like you’ve surfaced from the current trying to drown you.

He’s the light when you're lost in the darkness and you never want it to go out.

You can’t let it.

“Joel,” you whimper and it speaks to him; speaking to his heart crashing in his chest and his cock stiffening painfully in his jeans.

He tastes you, all around your unbrushed mouth and suckles on your tongue, your bottom lip; down your jaw and your neck that washes of days old salt.

You’re panting, begging for mere threads of affection from him as he smashes through your brick walls and brings you out of that dark place, carried in his strong arms.

For a moment, it stops all the pain dead in its tracks as he muffles words of want and desire inside your ear with a growled carnality.

Hungry for you, wanting in his medicinal cleansing.

His fingers are at your flies and you feel him start to tug down your jeans with grunts against your lips, when the rumbles in the sky break the contact at your mouths abruptly.

You both feel it; the vibrations of the explosions in the distance, and Joel is at the window letting you fall out of his touch, and off that ledge, as he scans the horizon.

“They’re closer than we thought.” You say, zipping yourself back up. The blood still pumping in your ears.

He shakes his head. “No. Travellin’ on the wind. They're twenty miles out.”

He turns to look back at you, eyes brown and cheeks flushed with the remnants of his desire.

“You think they got them all?” You question coming up by his side and once he feels you there, his hand instinctively reaches for yours.

You feel his fingers entwine with your own as you both hold onto one another; your eyes never leaving the window.

The smoke, a black smear on the horizon, pulls both your attention and weighs it heavy in your gut.

“We’ll find out soon enough.” Joel gruffs.

Still reeling from Kelper’s sacrifice, no matter how stupid Tommy feels it is, and tastes it around his teeth still, he pushes forward. He has to.

He feels the weight crush the bones in his shoulders to a dusty pulp, but still his feet propel him forward. Aching and blistered.

The sombre mood has carried them all, given them a renewed zeal to get the job done so Kelper’s death isn’t in vain.

Some swill of regret stings like grazes. He wonders briefly if Kelper would have gotten them here differently.

“...Heading up now, almost there…” a voice crackles over the radio in his hand and it startles Tommy, bringing him back to the situation at hand.

“Few more minutes. Hold steady.” He responds.

He glances at Max, kneeling still beside him. A pregnant silence envelopes the surroundings, aside from the low chorus of groans and shrieks below them.

The air seems to still, as if nature itself holds its breath in anticipation of the cataclysm about to unfold

The last of the horde moves in, shuffling around the lip of the canyon as they amble towards no pre-ordained destination. Just moving by the sheer drive of hunger and the need to spread, quietly steered and manipulated.

Fungus ain't so smart afterall.

“Come on ya bastards…” Tommy mutters from the vantage point. “Come on.”

“We can't wait, we gotta do it, now.” Max says. “They’re gonna pass it.”

Tommy glances up at the front of the horde, where the majority swell in numbers and draw close, dangerously close, to passing the tip of the canyon entirely.

“No. Few more seconds. Get the last of ‘em.” He scans down the length of the horde; the stragglers hanging back slower in their dotted droves.

“Gonna be close.” Max urges. “We can clean up. We gotta detonate, Tommy! Now!”

“Fuck!” He seethes. His hands tremble, sweaty around the grip of the radio.

The full horde are lining up, a few more seconds. One… two… come on, come on!

"Tommy!" Max urges again.

“Now. Now!” Tommy yells into the radio. “Blow it now!”

He's suspended as he watches, those few beats where nothing happens lasts a lifetime, and the dread pulverises him.

Flooded with every worse case scenario when the air remains still and unmoving.

No...

Then, a low rumble emanates from the canyon's depths, growing steadily into a crescendo that vibrates through the very core of the earth.

The canyon walls tremble, and a shockwave ripples through the air. The ground beneath Tommy and Max quivers, and a collective gasp escapes their lips as the walls of the canyon seem to bow outward.

For a singular, captive moment, Tommy holds his breath, caught in the transient space between destruction and salvation.

He watches, eyes wide in elation, fear… relief, as the horde starts to topple inward; the ground beneath them breaking apart. A hungry mouth swallowing them down into the pits of Hell.

The shockwave blasts outward, sending dust and debris into the air like a macabre celebration of their victory over the horde.

Tommy and Max shield their eyes from the intensity of the explosion, the heat washing over them in waves, even at their vantage point above.

The sound is deafening, and once Tommy opens his grit filled eyes, he searches frantically through the dust.

“Did we get them?” Max asks, coughing, and with a mild ringing in his ears making him shout louder.

“I dunno, I can’t see a fuckin’ thing!” Tommy raises the radio and speaks into it. “Did we get ‘em, did we get ‘em all?”

The radio is silent, save for jarred crackling, and Max glances at Tommy wearily through the wispy smog.

“Somebody talk to me! Did we get ‘em all?”

The walkie-talkie crackles into life startling you both, and Joel reaches for it.

“Tommy?!” He speaks fast into it.

A voice comes through. Wiry, static. There’s a lot of background noise, it sounds like wind and whooshing. It's hard to make it out clearly.

“Tommy, you copy?” Joel asks, his tone more frantic.

The walkie crackles and Tommy’s voice is on the other end.

“We did it! We fuckin’ did it!”

You sigh out, fingers that were once gnarled start to relax, and the relief that floods through you both is apparent, especially in the way Joel’s hunched shoulders deflate.

You can’t help but let a choked, bewildered sob escape your lips as you glance out the window and see the smoke in the far distance.

Joel lets a small smile flee from his lips as Tommy’s voice comes through again.

“We got those fuckers, Joel. Every single one of ‘em.”

To be continued...

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Thank you for taking the time to read my story; it really means so much to me. I'd love to know your thoughts, and I'd really appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you so much 🖤

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TAGLIST: If you'd like to be added/removed, please let me know.

Tagging everyone who asked to be tagged & who re-blogged my teaser.

@secretelephanttattoo @morgaussy @darkheartgatita @sp00kymulderr @survivingandenduring @sin-djarin @lilmizmoz @yazsos @ryangoslingstanktop @barbellpedro @givemeth @anavatazes @alwaysmicado @the-blind-assassin-12 @kirsteng42 @missredherring @gasolinerainbowpuddles @millennial-teenybopper @maggiemayhemnj @harriedandharassed @stevie75 @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @chaoticfestninja @reddedmiller @doughmonkey @sonderosa @magpiepillsjunior @chronically-ghosted @pedroswife69 @regalwhovianbrowncoat774 @marisemonteiroo @everythingiwanttoread @jjhayhay20 @nerdieforpedro @perennialdoll247 @casa-boiardi @joeldjarin @sscorpiiio @untamedheart81 @srmacaroni @violinchick @orcasoul @lucyeyelesbarrow @mandrillusphinx @loveisacowboyyy @suzmagine @disassociation-daydreams @anoverwhelmingdin @within-the-depths

#joel miller x reader #pedro pascal x reader #joel miller #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller tlou #the last of us #the last of us fic #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fic #five days #five days series #jett's writing

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sallysavestheday · 3 months

Note

could i maybe ask for finrod spending some time with his parents after his return?

Thank you for the prompt! Here's a double drabble of parental comfort for our favorite anguished Arafinwean.

Flung back into the world still raw around the edges, Finrod struggles with touch. All the old civilities wear him down. The handclasps and kisses and fond embraces of all who would welcome him are bruising. Duty’s tactility drains him – all the expected contact wears on skin yet tender, sparks an ache in his still-renewing bones. He smiles his golden smile and bears it, as the King’s heir must, but the weight of pretended joy is almost too much. It is only in his parents’ company that he can abandon himself to sensation. Finarfin cradles Finrod’s head in his own lap, draws a comb slowly through his son’s bright hair. Eärwen clasps Finrod’s ankle in her cool hand and sings, the wash of the waves in her voice a reassurance of the long, repeating arc that every soul follows, of forgiveness, of the harmony between saltwater and tears. Finrod drifts. He sinks into the soft tug on his hair, the gentle anchor of his mother’s hand, the creche of his father’s thighs. Where grief still grips him, it is soothed by their spare and tender touches. Finrod sets down new roots. He lifts his face to the light again, sighing.

#finrod #finarfin #earwen #asks and answers #my fics

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chiefdirector · 3 months

Text

Wounded | Angela Lopez | The Rookie

Despite it going against at least fifty rules, Angela couldn’t help herself. Sure it wasn’t illegal or anything but it just felt wrong. Grey had gone one hundred and one times about fraternising with people within the department, let alone with people within the precinct but she couldn't help herself. God, she really wished she had listened.

Of course, deep down she knew that it wasn’t her fault but that knowledge didn't stop the guilt from rising up every chance it got, haunting her like a ghost. Although she knew that wasn’t the only thing haunting her, the image of her wife, laid right in front of her so still that Angela almost thought that she was asleep, or she would have if she wasn’t drenched in her own blood.

The bullet wound embedded in Detective (Y/N) (L/N)’s side plagued Angela’s thoughts, both waking and asleep. Every time she closed her eyes she saw it. Every moment of silence all she could hear was her wife’s cries of agony, begging for someone to make it stop. Every peaceful moment Lopez had was burdened by the memory that she was powerless to help (Y/N) in the moment she needed her most.

She had fundamentally failed her.

The universe had chosen them to come together.

(Y/N) had moved to the Mid-Wilshire precinct from Hollywood when her patrol partner had passed away in the line of duty. She was up for promotion, the detectives in her department had given her the tap pretty early into her career. The move made sense, she would get a fresh start, rebuild the confidence she had lost whilst not being tied down as the officer who shouldn’t have survived.

If only she had known that title would come back and follow her with a vengeance.

Their relationship blossomed quickly after they had met. Initially they had sworn themselves to secrecy, knowing how much grief they could have been subjected to but it didn’t take long for their colleagues to learn about their relationship. Grey, after a lot of convincing (and some begging on (Y/N)’ end) had signed them both off to work in the same station, as long as Lopez never came directly under (Y/N)’ command. Romantic relationships had a lot more protections than most others, especially in police work.

Lopez and (L/N) tended to move in sync, knowing what the other needs without even asking. When one moves, so does the other, like magnets. The benefits of having a pair like them was exceptional, until one would fall. So Lopez and (L/N) were split up, rarely working together unless it was the last option available. The liability of having one of them injured whilst the other was near was far too high. It wasn't worth the risk.

Angela thought the rules were a load of shit.

It was only when Angela saw (Y/N) lying there, bleeding out, did she truly realise why the rules were the way they were, why they were so strict, and why she shouldn't have been on that operation that day.

It was her ignorance that had caused Jule to turn around and move towards her, trying to protect Angela from harm, subsequently fating herself to the suffering intended for Lopez.

—----

The hospital was cold.

The sterile white walls pressed into Angela as she sat in the waiting room, Bradford and Grey by her side as they waited for any news on (Y/N)’ condition. The hustle and bustle of doctors, nurses, and patients alike barely registered in Lopez’s mind as she sat in the far to firm chair, staring at the floor. She had counted the floor tiles in the room six times before she registered that Tim had stepped out to get the three of them coffee.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, watching the world go by. It simultaneously felt like seconds and decades. She watched as families joined in her waiting and then left again. She listened to their cries of joy and the wails of anguish. All of the chatter and noise eventually fell into a quiet hum in the back of her mind as she counted the tiles on the floor once more.

It was the gentle tap of Sargent Grey that brought her crashing back to reality again. She snapped her head up at him, before searching around the room to see another surgeon standing at the doorway, a char in hand and a solemn look adorning his face.

“Family of (Y/N) (L/N)?” The surgeon called out again. Angela shot up from her seat at an almost inhuman speed. She swallowed down her nervousness as she approached him, now was not the time to be afraid, not when she could lose anything. She could be afraid in private.

“Yes,” she croaked out, wincing at how hoarse her voice sounded. Quickly, she coughed to clear her throat, “that’s me.”

“There were some complications during surgery. Ms. (L/N) had some severe internal bleeding that was not caught until later in the process and by that time it-”

The surgeon's voice droned out of Angela’s mind, becoming another noise in the background as she tried to process the words. She was no doctor but she knew that internal bleeding was never good. And with all the blood she had lost even before she had gotten to the hospital.

Every single possibility rushed through her mind as she fruitlessly tried to stabilise her breathing. This couldn’t be happening, not now. Not to her. The guilt sprung forth in her mind tenfold, Angela knew it should be her in that position, not her (Y/N). Anyone but her (Y/N).

“Ms. Lopez. Do you understand what I am saying?”

For the second time in five minutes, Angela snapped back into reality, this time she was hyper focussed on the surgeon in front of her.

“What?” she said, her voice still meek.

“Ms. (L/N) is currently in recovery in the ICU.” The surgeon looked down at the officer, seemingly annoyed by her lack of presence when he spoke the first time, “she is ot conscious and due to the numerous complications, we do not have an estimate as to when she will wake up; if she will even wake up.”

“But she’s alive?”

“Yes, you can go up and see her shortly. The nurses are just cleaning her up from the surgery.”

Angela let out a breath she didn't know that she was holding at the doctor's words. She was alive. (Y/N) had made it through the surgery and she was alive. Angela could keep hoping and praying for her recovery because there was a chance that she could recover. There was a chance that she would wake up, that she would heal, that she would go home. There was a chance that she would live.

(Y/N) survived and now she had a chance, and Anegla knew that was enough.

Masterlist

@augustvandyne

#angela lopez #angela lopez x reader #the rookie x reader #the rookie #angela lopez imagine

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sillydestiny · 10 months

Text

Whispers of Remembrance

cale x reader

angst

Cale Henituse, a man burdened by the weight of his unfulfilled dreams, stood alone in front of a tomb, his heart heavy with grief. His one and only aspiration was to lead a peaceful life, a life filled with love and joy alongside his beloved Y/N and their children. However, that dream seemed forever out of his reach, shattered by the cruel hands of fate.

It had been years since the war with the White Star, a battle that claimed the life of his dear Y/N. Cale could still vividly recall the harrowing sight of Y/N sacrificing themselves to protect him, the anguish etched deep within his soul. The image haunted his every waking moment, a constant reminder of his failure to safeguard the one person who meant everything to him.

In the aftermath of that tragic day, Cale had held on to a glimmer of hope. He believed that once the war was over, he would be able to return home with Y/N, their dreams finally within grasp. But life had a cruel way of dashing one's hopes, and Cale soon realized that his beloved Y/N was forever lost to him.

As Cale gazed upon the name engraved on the tombstone, a bittersweet smile tugged at his lips. Memories flooded his mind, memories of Y/N's radiant smile, their laughter, and the warmth of their voice. Yet, deep down, he knew that these recollections were mere echoes of the past, fleeting and intangible. Y/N was gone, and nothing could bring them back.

"Forgive me," Cale whispered softly, his voice laden with remorse. "I couldn't protect you."

Suddenly, a warmth enveloped Cale from behind, as if someone had wrapped their arms around him in a tender embrace. Startled, he turned around, his eyes filled with both hope and disbelief. "Y/N?" he called out, his voice trembling with longing.

But there was no one there, only empty air and the silent stillness of the cemetery. Cale's heart sank, reality crashing down upon him once more. Tears welled up in his eyes, a mixture of grief, frustration, and love.

"Don't blame yourself, Cale," a whisper carried on the wind, barely audible yet unmistakably Y/N's voice. Cale's heart skipped a beat, and he strained to catch another trace of that ethereal sound, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.

Could it be his imagination? Or was it something more? Cale couldn't help but wonder. Regardless, those few words ignited a flicker of strength within him, a newfound resolve to carry on and honor Y/N's memory.

With a heavy heart and tear-stained cheeks, Cale knelt before the tombstone, tracing the engraved name with trembling fingers. "I will fulfill our dreams, Y/N," he vowed, his voice filled with determination. "Even if you're no longer by my side, I will live a life that would make you proud."

#cale x reader #cale henituse x reader #manhwa #totcf #trash of the count’s family #totcf x reader #tcf x reader #manhwa x reader

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anto-pops · 11 months

Text

Hollow - Sebastian Sallow

Summary: It's been two years since you died. Two years since you'd jumped in front of Solomon and changed the trajectory of Sebastian's life forever. His hatred for himself knew no bounds, and no matter how much time passed, he knew he would never be able to forgive himself.

Word Count: 840

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of blood/violence, references to depression

A super short stand-alone drabble of pure pain because why not. It's here on Ao3 too :'))

Sebastian was drowning.

His mind was a never-ending sea of grief, anger, and despair– choking him all hours of the day and threatening to suck him under every waking minute of his wretched life. He was always angry, fuming with the kind of rage that stirred hot and deep inside of him and burned anyone that got too close. He existed in a perpetual state of self-loathing that not even Ominis could pull him from, and it was no wonder why.

The only person that could ever talk Sebastian down from shitty feelings like these was gone. At his own hands, no less.

The same hands that had protected, soothed, and treasured you from the moment he met you, had taken you from this world in a split second. Another resulting tragedy of his visceral, untamable temper. It didn’t matter that he’d been aiming for Solomon, or that his intent behind the killing curse hadn’t even been directed at you at all. In the end, you had jumped in the way to stop him, and the green cords of the unforgivable curse had wrapped around you and forced your last breath from your lungs all the same.

His hands used to fit perfectly with yours.

He couldn’t fathom that so much time had passed already without you beside him. Two years ago to the fucking day. Seven-hundred and thirty days of unimaginable agony, to be exact.

On the one year anniversary of your death, Ominis had found him shut away in the Undercroft screaming bloody murder, setting every last barrel and crate ablaze with the force of the damn sun. There had been no getting through to the brunet then, and there certainly wouldn’t be this year either– seeing as Sebastian had taken his anger off of the school grounds entirely to fan the flames of fury that burned bright behind his dark, hollow eyes.

Sebastian clenched his bloodied fists and stared down at the mutilated corpses he’d been standing over for a while now. The Forbidden Forest was void of any light, save for a few strands of moonlight that broke through the canopy overhead, casting a dim glow on the mess before him. Hot tears swam in his eyes and blurred the horror scene that painted the ground, and his throat struggled to swallow the all encompassing thought that you weren’t here.

A sob heaved from Sebastian’s chest as he fell to his knees, pummeling the shit out of one of the already dead, messy lumps he’d been using as a punching bag. His wand was somewhere in the grass beside him, but he didn’t need it. Not for this.

No one was there to stop him, and he was almost glad for it.

Until he remembered that no one was there to stop him.

Sebastian screamed, shredding his already torn up throat further as he punched and kicked the bloody heap until the tears finally started to fall down his freckled face. His fists sank deeper and deeper into the pale, marred flesh of the dead Ashwinder, the body cold and unmoving, and the foul coppery stench of blood was like a distant memory burned into his nostrils.

The gaps between his fingers were too wide; your fingers used to fit there perfectly.

Sebastian felt a bone within the corpse crack under the force of his punches. He couldn’t breathe.

Cold blood met with cold hands, and Sebastian swore there used to be life in his extremities. It wasn’t enough, he decided, almost desperate to unleash the boiling rage inside of him; all of the frustration and hopelessness, every last lick of anguish and pain.

He stared at his hands. The spaces between his fingers were like gaping voids, sucking in the tiny remnants of joy the world had left him with. His legs trembled and gave out from under him, his knees collapsing against the lifeless body beneath him and soaking his trousers with even more blood. It was a non-issue compared to the massive rifts that tore open in his psyche. Sebastian shifted and let himself roll to the side, the ground meeting his back with a thud, and the world spun for just a while longer while he blinked up at the thin strips of light that snuck through the branches overhead.

The sight reminded him of how much you’d loved astronomy. You used to drag him all over school to stargaze for hours.

Sebastian couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, his dirty fingers spreading and grasping uselessly at empty air. He stared at the darkening sky, short gasps punctuating wordless sobs as more tears than he’d ever produced before rolled down the sides of his face and into his ears, moistening his hair.

The Slytherin stayed that way for hours, digging his fingers into the grass to try and fill the aching chasm in his chest. It was the last time Sebastian ever let himself cry.

His fingers never stopped spreading, and his hands never stopped searching. But they never found anything, either.

#sebastian sallow #sebastian sallow oneshot #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fanfic #sebastian sallow x mc #sebastian sallow x you #sebastian sallow x reader #this is incredibly short but that's okay because a little pain is good for the soul #wrote this in the throes of an anxiety attack last night at like 2am and I called out of work cause I feel gross today #my writing #okay now back to the Yule Ball smut

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avelera · 5 months

Text

On the Study of Miracles

Fandom: Baldur's Gate 3

Character: Gale, gender-neutral Tav, pre-Gale/Tav

Word count: 1,635

Author Note: Just a little something that's been plaguing my brain since my first play-through. Somewhat envisioned as part of a series from each Companion's POV, we'll see how far it goes. Posting the rough here until I decide what to do with it.

Summary: The day before the Nautiloid abducted him was the worst day of Gale's life. Not the day of. The day before. How does one even explain that to any sane person?

Yesterday was the worst day of Gale’s life.

Not the bit with the tadpoles and the sudden abduction-by-teleportation, no. Not the part where he woke up in a claustrophobic pod and pressed his hands to the glass, looking about wildly as his all-too educated brain already knew what his stomach did not yet want to admit: that he was on a mindflayer ship and his gruesome end, from that point, was all but a certainty.

No.

All of that happened after midnight, in Waterdhavian time. So he still considered that today. It’s important to be precise about such things.

No, the worst day of his life was yesterday, sitting alone in his tower in Waterdeep, with Tara out fetching him another magical item to consume in the hopeless hope of staving off the inevitable just a little longer. Just until a cure could be found. Just until a miracle occurred. He’d loved a goddess, once, and a part of him deep down would never cease to. It’s just the sort of person he was. More importantly, she’d loved him, as much as any god can love what is mortal. Perhaps that was more or perhaps less than how much mortals could love other mortals.

Anyway. The point was, he’d been waiting for a miracle, and as the painfully-former lover of a goddess, he knew what a miracle looked like. He’d had one once, held her in his arms. And he grimly suspected that, like her, he would never know another miracle. It wasn’t for mortals to get more than one.

He’d known that with a certainty he viewed at once with grim disillusionment and self-deceptive avoidance. So long as he didn’t think about it too much, he could pretend that there were still years before him rather than months. Weeks. Maybe even days, if Tara came up empty-handed, or empty-pawed, as it were.

He avoided the thought of hi approaching end with all the intellectual power he’d once poured into his studies at Blackstaff, under the fawning tutelage of his instructors, back when he was still a wise and precocious child, a “joy to have in class”, rather than a self-assured and (he could admit it) likely unbearable teenager, or worse, a young man. The lover of a goddess, just for his skill in magic alone. Gods he must have been a nightmare to deal with. Perhaps all of this was deserved, on some level.

Right. But back to yesterday. It wasn’t, strictly speaking, a singular worst day of his life. But they’d all blurred together by then, starting from the moment his new reality had truly sunk in, alone in his tower, when the frenzy of pain and soul-scorching hunger had receded enough for him to look around, sweat-soaked, sickened, and dazed, at his home in Waterdeep all but stripped of the magical artifacts that had glowed and chimed and made beautiful the rooms of his tower.

His tower that swiftly became his prison.

Part of the dreadful isolation that followed was his fault. Well, most of it. Turned out, he didn’t really have friends so much as he had colleagues. Colleagues who came ‘round once or twice when he first went missing, but upon being refused, made no further effort to contact Gale, and he could hardly blame them.

Technically there was nothing stopping him from making short social calls, even spending a night out, once he got the hang of how long he could last after each magical item consumed. Technically he didn’t need to be a shut-in with only his tressym for company, once the first firestorm of anguish and grief washed over him and settled into the doldrums of blank horror at how far he’d fallen.

But that was wicked thing about hope. He had hope that any day, some miracle would descend from on high, Mystra with her forgiveness granted as magically as was her divine domain, and all of this would be some terrible dream. Or he’d stumble upon a cache of magical items enough to put Karsus to shame, enough to live out the rest of his days safely (how he planned to do this while going for days on end without leaving his bedroom didn’t precisely follow logically, he would admit, but then, it was a miracle he was hoping for).

But to accept miracles was to accept that their opposite could occur. Catastrophes. Terrible streaks of improbable bad luck. One day being the lover of a goddess and the next facing his inevitable, shameful death, for example.

And, for example, he could all too easily picture going out to a party and discovering he’d left his arcane gate keys at home and was therefore stuck surrounded by thousands of civilians while the bomb in his chest counted down inevitably, as occurred in his more memorable and sadly recurring nightmares. If something good could save him, why couldn’t something awful occur just as suddenly to make him a danger to everyone he knew and loved— or at least, whom he marginally liked within a professional setting?

Well, as it turned out, a miracle did occur. It came from the sky, just like the best miracles did. It whisked him away quick as a blink. It took care of all, or rather most of his problems, in one fell swoop, replacing them with incredibly urgent but at least refreshingly different problems, like how to get out of this portal he was stuck in.

And true to his worst nightmares, it had also been a bloody awful catastrophe. Hundreds were dead, though that at least wasn't his fault. Thousands, perhaps millions more would die if they were not successful. It was utterly improbably—insane, in fact!— that he’d fallen in amongst the one group with any real hope of stopping the Absolute’s horrific plan from succeeding. They were, as one with far less education than he might say, in the shit, facing dangers that few but the greatest heroes had ever been forced to contemplate. By all accounts, he should be rocking back and forth in the corner of his tent, gibbering with terror.

Instead, Gale was smiling. He hadn’t even realized he was smiling until Tav had glanced back and said:

“What’s got you in such a good mood?”

Tav raised had an eyebrow. It wasn’t even a mean-spirited question. In the early morning hours, after a scrounged-up breakfast of whatever was left over from the camp of those tomb robbers they’d interrupted, it might have been the simple pleasantries he might have experienced from his once politely disinterested colleagues, except…. Tav was sincere. Perhaps faintly amused. The rest of the sentence remained unspoken, the laughter dancing in their eyes that took in all the misfortunes that surrounded their merry band, the Nautiloid, their bare-bones camp, their improbable and still highly doubtful survival. But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Theirs.

Gale looked around and for the first time in more months than he cared to really think about, he wasn’t surrounded by the warm, wood-paneled walls of his tower. The bookshelves. The feather bed and the balcony with his view of the harbor. All the comforts of home and all the bleak, unbearable solitude of those same walls over and over, day in and day out, as he woke up and stared at his ceiling and sometimes, if Tara wasn’t around, just rolled over and went back to sleep for as long as he could force his body down if it meant not facing another day like this.

No, he was surrounded by cliffs and forests, dirt paths and the lingering burnt ozone smell of the crashed Nautiloid and the unfortunately building stench of stale blood and unwashed bodies that would only deepen with every mile they walked. He was surrounded by faces, unfamiliar, some friendly, some distrustful, but all of them desperate, all of them pulling together towards the same goal.

He wasn’t alone. For the first time in so long he wasn’t alone, and awful as it would be to say aloud, the fact that he also wasn’t alone in facing the threat of his own destruction, that each of his companions were in the same spot, working on the same problem was… well. He hadn’t felt this sort of camaraderie since his school days. Perhaps… never.

Perhaps never.

Gale snorted, chuckling to himself, and met Tav’s eye. “I rather think you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

The corner of Tav’s lips twitched upward. “Try me.”

Gale regarded his friend, his savior, the hand that had reached out to his while he hung suspended in a void of nothingness, after so long in a far more comfortable, far more terrible void of solitude, and thought about miracles. And how accepting the good ones could happen also meant accepting the bad ones. Or perhaps they were just two sides of the same coin.

Perhaps he was not so abandoned by all the gods as he thought, to be here, on the other side of his tower walls, on the other side of sanity, on the other side facing down almost inevitable doom. Maybe the key to a miracle was knowing when you had one, as he had failed to see when he had one in his arms. Never again. But then, he’d always been a quick study, and liked to think he knew how not to make the same mistake twice.

“Would you believe,” Gale said, “that yesterday, before the Nautiloid, was the worst day of my life?”

Tav blinked. “Before the Nautiloid?” Gale nodded and rather than scoff, Tav appeared to consider his answer. “And today?”

The answer stuck in Gale’s throat, a rare occurrence for him, all the more rare because the truth was bubbling up there already and it was too soon, far too soon, he didn’t want to sound like a lunatic, it was already crazed enough to say that their ordeal was the end of one far worse for him. “The day’s still young,” Gale remarked with a good-natured shrug, glancing towards the horizon as if considering the time and not the truth of needing a moment to gather himself. “Why don’t we venture forth and see what it brings, shall we?”

The best, Gale swallowed back at the sight of Tav’s answering smile. The very best. Isn’t that the maddest part of it all?

#bg3 #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #my writing #bg3 meta

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