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siilvan · 1 year ago

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bloodsport – prologue

characters: vladimir makarov

summary: all it takes is a chance meeting.

genre: general, angst, slowburn, enemies to ?, fem!reader (callsign: petra, no desc.)

warnings: semi-proofread, cursing, canon-typical violence, minor descriptions of blood/injuries, military/spec-ops inaccuracies, lieutenant!reader, not much makarov in this chapter sorry </3

word count: 3k

note: never thought i'd reach this point. but, here i am, thirsting for my formerly least favorite character. all because they gave him tattoos and showed his tits. enjoy! <3

also totally didn't use my oc's callsign for this. ur crazy bestie. (this is still 'x reader', no backstory/personal info is given to reader)

your head is spinning, the world around you a haze as your eyes fight to regain focus. there's a constant ringing in your ears, deafening you, and you wince once the pounding in the back your skull becomes apparent.

everything slowly begins to come back to you. the operation in al mazrah, the warning from HQ, the explosion, the floor collapsing below your feet. you're laying on your back now, aching from head to toe. the building that you were in with soap and gaz is reduced to rubble, lying in pieces around you.

you manage to turn your head to the left and see soap laying motionless a few feet away. farther away is gaz, struggling to push what used to be a metal support beam off his trapped leg. you blink furiously at the pair, trying to clear the dust and sand out from your eyes, and breathe a ragged sigh of relief at the subtle rise and fall of soap's chest. you attempt to call out to gaz, but all that leaves your throat is a weak noise and a wheezing cough.

price and ghost are probably on their way already. you just need to wait for them. the mission was doomed from the start, you all know that, but it won't end in your deaths so long as you hold out.

the ringing in your ears slowly fades, and you can hear footsteps approaching from your right. it was a small group, judging by the heavy footfall - had price and ghost found help somehow?

you carefully turn again, expecting to be greeted by the familiar sight of your teammates. the harsh midafternoon sun sits in that direction, forcing you to squint in the bright light as you try to make out the group of silhouettes.

the first sign of trouble was gaz's panicked shout of your name. the person in the front of the pack blocks the sun's light upon reaching you, casting shadows in their path and finally allowing you to glimpse at their face. you blink again, angling your head to identify the person hovering over you. it takes several seconds for your foggy mind to recognize them but, when it does, your blood runs cold.

makarov.

⋆⋆⋆

you're woken up by someone shaking your shoulder, a gentle voice calling out to you. with a whine, akin to a child being disturbed by their mother in the morning before school, you bat their hand away and force your eyes open.

"y'not get enough sleep last night, lieutenant?" gaz asks, sitting on the couch next to you. the harsh fluorescent lights on the ceiling make you squint and rub at your tired eyes for relief. "bad dream?" he adds a second later, taking note of your dazed state.

"yeah, just a bad dream. nothin' to worry about." you assure him with a downturned smile. according to the watch on your wrist, it was ten o' clock. you'd be setting out for al mazrah in about half an hour.

gaz woke you up for the mission, you realize. soap was located nearby, occupying himself with last-minute gear checks, and ghost soon enters the room with his arms full of supply crates. anything from ammunition to water and food was packed in, ready to be loaded into the transport helicopter that you'd be taking into the city. price was hunched over a table filled with scattered maps, blueprints, and gathered intel from your allies in the city.

"alright, let's go over the mission one last time. this needs to be a clean operation - we've got no room for error." price stands straight and glances around the room, personally scrutinizing each of you. the four of you gather around the table alongside the captain, the fatigue quickly dissipating as you focus on his words.

"the city's a mess right now; there’s civilians in the north, enemies to the south, and allies scattered in the wind." price flattens a map of the city with various locations circled and marked against the tabletop. "ghost and myself will offload with the supplies in the north. petra, gaz, and soap will touch down in the east and make their way south to the target building. once we're done up north, we'll link up with our allies in the city center and secure the district surrounding you."

price nods towards you and the sergeants. "should buy you enough time to get the job done."

"we'll do it in half the time," gaz boasts with a self-assured grin, crossing his arms over his chest. soap mirrors his confidence, and both earn pointed looks from yourself and the other two men.

"there's a reason you three are working together on this," price says. he pulls a cigar from one of his vest pockets and rolls it between his thumb and forefinger - a nervous habit you picked up on a long time ago. "you sergeants are fast and damn good at clearing a place out, but if left unchecked, you get yourselves into trouble. petra's good at keeping you two in line, so you're going in together."

"we're a small team in contested territory, it's essential that we have each other's backs." ghost speaks up, sending the two a cursory glance. the sergeants nod, and you continue to listen as price details the rest of the plan.

⋆⋆⋆

the helicopter ride to the city was almost relaxing enough to lull you back to sleep. keyword: almost.

a little while after takeoff, laswell's voice comes through your radios, claiming to have some new intel. you assumed it would be something related to the ground forces, be it enemy or ally, until the word missile echoes throughout the cabin.

price attempted to pry more information out of her, only to be shot down - "i don't know" was all she had to offer in response to his questions. laswell's never been one to panic, even in the face of sure death, but the concern in her voice was palpable. if her intel was accurate, than there was a missile being prepped to launch, and its target was the very city you were fighting in.

you've never seen the team look so solemn during a landing. laswell assured you that she was working to locate and disarm the threat, but she could make no guarantees. you couldn't back out, either; the mission was too important to abandon now. as you disembark alongside soap and gaz, price gives each of you a single bullet from his handgun.

"for luck," he said.

as you stealth your way through eerily silent city streets with the sergeants in tow, you ponder on his choice of words. the bullet sits safe and sound with the rest of the ammo for your own sidearm, ready to be loaded in case of an emergency. if it comes down to your final bullet, though, you might as well consider yourself dead.

after some time and several blocks, you locate the target building. it's a high-rise, a sore thumb sticking out against the surrounding local businesses and low-rise buildings, making it easy for your group to identify it.

"captain, we've got the building in sight," you say into your radio. soap and gaz peak out from your current hiding spot, studying the security and forming their own plan to infiltrate. the two are the team's resident experts on CQB - if anyone can fight their way into enemy territory without breaking a sweat, it's them.

the thought allows you to take a calming breath and relax your tense shoulders.

"solid copy. we just finished up here, so we'll be headed your way soon." price replies. you can hear idle chatter in the background, likely the civilians. "we'll talk again once we're close or you reach the target. whichever happens first."

"copy all, sir." you silence your radio and follow the sergeants' gazes, eyes landing on the building again. considering your objective, the security detail was lacking in numbers. either a fake-out to make you lower your guard or a result of the incoming missile, you presume. no matter what the reason may be, you hold your gun close and try to keep your head clear.

"what exactly is the target that we're going after, l.t.?" soap mutters from next to you, tearing his eyes away from the scene. you shake your head before turning to him.

"did you not listen to the debrief, soap?"

"i did, but price never said what we were goin' after!"

"he totally did, dude. you just weren't listening." gaz perks up, prompting the former to stutter over his words to make a defense. after a minute of bickering between the two, you shush them.

"we're just screwing with you, soap," you concede, giving him a comforting pat on the shoulder. "price told me what it was earlier. some kind of scrambling device that's been screwing with people's tech and causing periodic blackouts. we need to deal with it before it causes something worse than a communications loss."

gaz lets out an amused huff. "yeah, like a helicopter fallin' out of the sky."

"actually, i'm pretty sure it's just you falling 'outta the sky." soap chuckles, earning a lighthearted glare from gaz. you shush the two again and start towards the building, sticking to the shadows so as to avoid being spotted.

it takes no time at all to dispatch the guards surrounding the entrance, and soon you're methodically clearing out the ground floor alongside the sergeants. gaz takes point, whilst you stay in the middle and soap follows close behind. the enemy forces appear to be disorganized, you notice after moving up to the second level. they're wearing mismatched gear and using guns of vastly different origins; some even appear to speak different languages. you catch pieces of arabic and russian amidst the group, but what really shakes you is the english that you hear.

"are some of these fuckers american?" soap asks from behind you, looking over a tango he dropped moments prior.

"appears so," you mutter, examining another body near your feet. he wasn't wearing any sort of identification, so you had no way of figuring out what PMC he could be affiliated with. "they're not shadow company, at least. graves may be a bastard, but he's got his own vendetta against these guys."

"could be random mercenaries - guns for hire, y'know." gaz says with a shrug, clearly unconvinced of his own suggestion.

you hum, rising from your crouched position next to the body. "been seeing more of those popping up recently. wouldn't surprise me if al-qatala hired some of them as security." you refocus and motion for the two to get back in formation, nodding towards the stairs nearby.

"device should be on the sixth floor. let's pick up the pace."

the third and fourth floors are relatively the same: rooms full of randomly assorted, underprepared mercenaries that struggle to communicate with each other. you expected to find the same on the fifth floor, only to be stopped again by a peculiar logo taped above a set of office doors.

a snake skull with a sword. konni. you were aware of their presence in the city, even fighting some in this very building, but the logo stood out to you for some odd reason. with an affirmative nod sent to your teammates, you move to investigate it. at best, you'd find new intel about their operations, and at worst, you'd have another room to empty out.

upon opening the set of double doors and carefully entering, though, you come face-to-face with something far worse.

"holy fuck... is this all gas?" gaz mumbles, standing to your left.

the meeting room is filled floor-to-ceiling with gas containers, bright red barrels marked with konni's logo and cyrillic script plastered across their fronts. you take a closer look at the letters and, with the extremely limited knowledge of russian that you've gained from price and nikolai, manage to work out what they say.

"it's the same stuff zakhaev used in verdansk a few years ago," you glance towards the sergeants. you try to disguise your gradually creeping apprehension behind a firm look, rubbing the back of your neck as a bead of sweat rolls down into your shirt collar.

soap steps forward, taking a closer look at the stock. "wasn't zakhaev the one supplying it, though? i thought price took him out."

you sigh, wiping the sweat off your glove against the front of your thigh. "i think he had a supplier, but even if he was making it himself, that isn't stopping someone else from producing more. konni's probably buying it from whomever that is."

"wonder who that could be." gaz says, turning his attention to the large window at the far side of the room.

you open your mouth to reply, but soap beats you to it. "everyone in this situation is friends with makarov, right? price and laswell said he was gettin' active again."

the name sends an uneasy chill down your spine. you've never met the man yourself, but based on what price had to say about him, you're thankful you haven't. if he's working behind the scenes, than you need to be careful. any small mistake could end in disaster.

again, you try to respond, and again, you're interrupted. "uh– y'guys might want to look at this." gaz calls out over his shoulder.

your gaze turns to the sight outside that he was vaguely motioning towards. a bright light sits somewhere in the distance, quickly growing in size and luminosity. you squint, trying to figure out what the light could be coming from, until you remember laswell's warning.

the missile had fired.

"steamin' bloody jesus..." soap utters under his breath, snapping you back to the present.

"we need to find cover - fast!" you usher the two back from the glass and out of the room, sprinting down the stairs three steps at a time. although laswell didn't have much in the way of information, she did provide the team with a key piece of intel: there were bunkers constructed throughout the city, installed before the ballistic missile containers were offloaded in the area. one such bunker was located a short distance from the building you're currently in.

if you hurry, you might be able to make it.

as you descend, you can hear voices steadily drawing closer. gaz and soap hear it as well, and you all prepare your guns upon reaching the second floor.

as expected, there's a group waiting for you when you arrive. you take cover and try to thin out the crowd, but each second ticking by only serves to increase your level of impatience. eventually, you pull a flash grenade off your belt and toss it into the crowd, giving yourself and the sergeants a chance to finish off the remaining soldiers.

the three of you make another break for the exit. as the light outside the windows of the building grows blinding and a deafening explosion is heard, though, you wonder if you could have done something different. the floors above collapse and crash into your team, destroying the floors below you and knocking you off your feet.

somewhere in the chaos, your world goes dark.

⋆⋆⋆

when you come to, your head is spinning. there's a pounding in the back of your skull, muted thumps amidst the violent ringing in your ears. you blink away tears and dust, fighting to make your eyes focus as everything slowly falls into place around you.

you didn't make it to the bunker before the missile hit. gaz and soap are somewhere in this rubble with you - alive or dead, you're not sure. your body aches, muscles screaming at you as you try to move, forcing a pathetic wheezing cry from your lips.

after some struggle, you manage to turn your head to the left. laying several feet away is soap, covered in pieces of rubble and fighting to stay awake, blood pouring from an open wound on his head. farther away is gaz, desperately trying to get his leg free from under a broken metal beam. you call out to them, but all you can muster is a pained noise that leaves you coughing.

midafternoon sunlight beats down on you. price and ghost are somewhere else in the city, and you pray that they're still alive. it's all you can hope for at this point, considering your inability to move.

you hear voices drawing closer. heavy boots stomping through the sand and rubble, footsteps uniform yet distinct from one another. price, ghost, and your allies in the city immediately cross your mind, making you let out a relieved sigh.

when you look to your right, however, the silhouettes are distinctly different from what you expected to see. instead of your teammates, you see a group in familiar, yet unfamiliar, clothing and gear. you try to piece together what you recognize despite the fog in your brain.

when gaz's shout of your real name pierces your ears, it suddenly comes to you. pictures that price and laswell acquired from her global counterparts flood your mind, and you realize that you're looking at a group of ultranationalist soldiers. konni's leader and supplier, al-qatala's strongest ally, and the group that he leads with an iron fist.

ignoring the immense pain as a fresh wave of adrenaline courses through your system, you scramble for your sidearm. the last fight and the building collapse made you lose your rifle and drained you of most of your ammo, but you still had the bullet that you loaded into your handgun before the missile hit.

price's bullet.

one shot is all it should take.

you reach for your holster, but find nothing in its place. you frantically feel around the nearby area, searching for it, but still come up empty-handed. you lost your handgun in the crash and had nothing to defend yourself with. as the group nears, the reality of your situation dawns on you.

your luck had run out.

the leader of the pack blocks the harsh sunlight, casting shadows across your body as he stands over you. slowly, your eyes adjust to the change in light. you blink up at him, feeling a pang in your chest and a pit in your stomach form once his face becomes clear.

makarov.

taglist: @sofasoap, @rohansregret, @lonesome-doves, @roosterr (ty for being the reason i wrote this lol)

⋆ feel free to ask to be added to/removed from the taglist!

#call of duty #cod #cod mw2 #mw2 #call of duty x reader #cod x reader #mw2 x reader #makarov x reader #vladimir makarov x reader #cod makarov #vladimir makarov #sylph.writes

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spacebarbarianweird · 6 months ago

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Burn, Butcher, Burn!

Synopsis: Before leaving Baldur's Gate for good, Tiriel and Astarion have one more thing to do.

Thanks @themadlu for beta-reading!

Tags: fluff, traumatized Astarion, things and places are burning

Read on AO3

Masterlist

Headcanons

Please! Let me out! Please!

Cold. Hunger. Pain.

How long has he been there?

Months? Years? Decades?

Astarion has bitten his wrists to get at least a few more drops of blood. But it only made him hungrier. He dreams of fleas and rats and worms because at least those vermin are alive.

He hasn’t moved for so long. He wishes only for death.

But he is already dead.

And it’s only getting worse.

The torture will never end. His skin will be flayed. His body will be raped. His bones will be broken.

Over and over again.

The reverie lets Astarion go. He stares into the darkness – full of shades of grey thanks to his elven darkvision.

He isn't in the coffin.

Astarion licks his lips. Memories slowly crawl back dispelling the nightmares.

Could it be…

Something moves beside him. A body.

Is it another conquest? Another victim? Is it?

Astarion elbows up fearing he will see an unfamiliar face.

Tiriel nuzzles into his chest. Her breathing is steady and so is her heartbeat. She is as warm as a fireplace. She has a bandage on her neck, and Astarion catches a subtle scent of blood.

It is real. All of it.

Freedom.

Love.

Satiation.

Warmth.

Astarion stares at Tiriel’s face.

A month ago, they both got rid of the parasites and Astarion had to return to the darkness.

He expected Tiriel to abandon him once she saw him for what he really was.

She didn’t.

And she is still there, by his side.

He watches her, studying her facial features. Tiriel hugs him, sharing her body warmth with him, and he knows his cold touch would feel uncomfortable to her if it wasn’t for an extremely thick blanket covering them.

Suddenly Tiriel moves and opens her eyes.

“Hm? Are you awake?” she asks.

“Yes”

She turns on her back, tugs her blanket and falls asleep.

Of course, Astarion realizes she woke up because he was staring.

Astarion sits up, putting his legs on the floor.

He needs something to occupy himself – it’s still daylight outside, almost noon. And Tiriel needs to sleep.

Sleep. Such a strange concept. Elves need to get absolutely wasted or drugged to experience what others have to go through daily. Would he be happier if he could sleep? He remembers his siblings – Petras’ stupid smile, Leon’s peaceful face.

It seems like he and Daylria suffered the most – elves who couldn't escape from their misery to the dream world.

Astarion stands up and sits on the floor.

What to do?

Boredom was such a weird concept – he never experienced peace in the two centuries of misery.

And now he has all the peace in the world.

And Astarion doesn't know what to do with it.

He opens a book. Closes it.

So many books to read. And he can't choose any. He lacks concentration. Before, he could have only dreamt of indulging in all these simple luxuries, but now, he simply can't make himself.

He fears being punished.

Beaten.

Astarion curls at Tiriel’s side. Plants a kiss on her back. Deep down, he wishes to wake her up, to hear her voice soothing his anxieties.

What if she were an elf like him and didn't need to sleep…

Nonsense. Astarion can wait a few hours before Tiriel returns to him.

He lets Tiriel go and leaves the bed. He approaches a small window and hears voices from the outside. He doesn't dare to open the thick curtain for even the small amount of sun will leave him in pain and burns.

It's been a week since the netherbrain, and the city was being slowly re-constructed – whole streets were destroyed. Astarion knows the city will never be the same again.

He doesn’t feel sorry.

Astarion hates Baldur's Gate.

He hates these streets and these houses, these taverns and inns. The streets are full of homeless people and beggars. The whole city used to be his hunting ground. The whole place used to be a brothel. How many people of different races did he bed? How many times did he lie on his back or on his stomach while yet another ‘lover’ used his body to their liking? How many times did he use his mouth to go down on them?

Didn’t any of them notice he was already dead?

And how many times did he wish to die?

It’s still hard to believe it is all over.

He tugs the curtain just a bit to see the outside but not be burnt. They stay in the upper town, which was relatively untouched by the debris, but the place is too familiar for Astarion.

He can see the Cazador’s mansion.

It’s still there. Dark and empty. Even though many people lost their homes, no one dared to stay there, maybe, believing the lord and his invisible servants were still somewhere.

It looks like a menace, like a warning that nothing is over. Nothing will ever be over…

Nothing…

“Hello, love,” Tiriel mutters, elbowing up.

Astarion flinches and realizes it’s almost sunset outside. How long did he stay like that?

“You should have woken me up. Though I think I want to sleep for days,” she smiles. Her face is puffy, her hair is messy; she is the most beautiful person Astarion has met. “Can I kiss you?”

Astarion suspects he smiles like an idiot.

“You know you don't have to ask?” he murmurs.

“But I like to.”

Tiriel puts her palms on his cheeks and kisses him. For a brief moment, there is nothing but her warmth, her heartbeat, and her scent.

She breaks the embrace and Astarion adores her face. Freckles, deep wrinkles on her forehead when she smiles, her lips, her eyes (one blue, the other is green), half-elven ears – he still hesitates to tug them when she is in his arms, and, gods, her fire read hair that looks like a flame in the sunshine.

Pity he will never see her like that again.

Tiriel pulls away and looks out the window. Then, she frowns.

“Something on your mind, my love?” He touches her cheeks. She nods.

“Astarion, I need to go and do something. Will you be able to find me at sunset? You know… by…”

“Now that my vampiric abilities are back I can catch your scent even in that wretched crowd of a city. Don’t worry. I can always find you.”

“Great, because honestly, I am afraid to get lost.”

Tiriel pulls away, but Astarion grasps her arm. The very idea of staying in that room alone scares him.

He doesn’t want it.

“But can’t we do that together when it’s dark?” He pouts.

“Please, it’s almost sunset. You won’t regret it.”

Astarion feels torn apart. He is afraid Tiriel is going to leave him. What if she is scared of him? And wants to run away? What if there is a ship that will take her far away from him and she just has enough time to board it?

But if he keeps pushing…What if it makes her realize he is a lost cause? What if he is breaking something between them right now?

What if…

“Astarion look at me,” Tiriel asks and he realizes he’s been staring at the floor. “I am not going to leave you. I don’t want to break up. I’ve been telling you that every day since you returned to the shadows. I made a choice and I am not regretting it, at least, for now. I just want to do something – just find me at sunset, all right?”

“Good,” Astarion sits on the floor and takes a book. “I will try to occupy myself.”

Tiriel quickly puts on her clothes and leaves. Astarion feels her scent fading as she goes further away.

He must get used to it. He won’t be able to keep her all by himself the whole day long and she will have to go away from time to time. But it doesn’t mean he feels less lonely.

When it’s dark, he jumps on his feet and rushes outside.

Strange.

Her scent is still very close, though he thought she would be waiting for him in the Lower Town.

He covers his head with a hood and follows the path. Then he realizes …

… that he follows a way too familiar path…

It's the road to Cazador’s mansion.

The same narrow streets he used to walk returning back with yet another victim. Or without anything, knowing he would be flayed and beaten.

He stops hoping he’s mistaken, but Tiriel's scent leads him directly to the mansion.

But why? Why?!

He is getting angrier with every step he has to make. How dare she force him to come back? How dare she?!

Then he feels tears pricking his eyes. He has only recently started grieving his past and everything that was taken from him.

He finds Tiriel at the wooden tower. Its enchanted guardians left the place when Cazador died and now it is as empty as everything else.

Tiriel sits at the table and there is a sack at her legs.

“Hi!” She waves at him. “I’ve been missing you!”

“Why did you bring me here?” He demands. His voice betrays his emotion, he knows he sounds like he is about to cry.

“Well, first, I found some good prospects for us – so we can leave the city tomorrow and never come back. And second – you can cast ignis, can’t you”

Astarion raises his hand feeling how magic fire prickles his fingers. Yes, this spell was always his. It was something natural for him, a fey magic, but Cazador forbade him from using it. Because otherwise, Astarion would be able to warm himself. And now he can use it freely.

Tiriel smiles again and raises her hand. She inherited the same skill from her elven ancestors.

Create small balls of fire and throw them into enemies. The problem with Tiriel is the fact that when she is in her berserker state, she can’t concentrate on magic. So it’s more like a game to her rather than a weapon.

“So, I suggest,” she opens the sack showing a few dozen glass bottles. “We burn this place down! And if someone wants to punish us for arson, we are going to be far far away.”

“And what is that?”

“A gift from gnomes. Looks like water but burns like a spirit. This place will be set on fire with all its fancy stuff, beds, chambers, ugly paintings, dust, and whatever is left here.”

Tiriel laughs as if she is going to have the biggest fun in her life.

“I never noticed you were a pyromaniac!”

“Astarion, there are many things we need to learn about each other. And a new fact about me – I love burning things. I love setting places on fire. And I so much enjoy hearing you casting ignis. Makes me want you even more than I usually do. But” She closes the sack. “If you don’t want to, just tell me, and I will sell the potions at the market.”

Astarion lets out a laugh. Gods. He has been dreaming of burning this place down for centuries. Cazador couldn’t prohibit his thinking and Astarion liked imagining this place on fire. He often would imagine himself burning too, because vampires can burn.

But he has never said it to Tiriel.

But she knew he would love it.

Astarion takes the heavy sack.

“Yes. Let’s burn this fucking place down!”

Tiriel grabs his hand and makes him follow her into the dark halls.

One bottle for the room of the favorite spawns.

Two bottles for the chamber where Astarion had to sleep with his victims.

Three for the torture dungeon.

One by one they throw bottles in rooms and closets. Astarion rips the rugs and curtains, and Tiriel breaks the paintings and furniture.

A bottle for the tower of Cazador’s niece.

A bottle in Cazador’s wardrobe.

Astarion curses. And laughs. He dominates his own past and Tiriel encourages him to keep going.

“Oh look! The bastard had so much whiskey and wine! What for?” She says opening the wine cellar.

“For parties,” Astarion finds the most expensive ones and throws them on the floor. “And sometimes he would try to drink himself to numbness.”

“Watch out!” Tiriel grabs yet another bottle but Astarion jumps to her and snatches it from her hands. “What?”

“It’s Berduskan Dark. The most expensive wine on the Swords Coast.”

“And?”

“It costs 1500 gold at least!”

“You wanna sell it?”

“I don’t,” Astarion opens the cork. “It is dark, like blood, and sweet.”

“Like blood?”

“Yes,” he chuckles. “It has a very high alcohol content. Can knock out an ork. I wonder where he took it from.”

Tiriel shrugs. “You know I don’t like wine.”

“You just never tasted a proper one,” Astarion smiles. “Open your mouth.”

Tiriel obeys and sticks her tongue a bit. Astarion gently takes her head and pours wine into her mouth. The Berduskan Dark streams down Tiriel’s throat and along her chin, staining the shirt.

“Oh fuck,” she mutters gulping the wine. “It burns my tongue!”

“Yes, like it's supposed to. Keep drinking..”

Tiriel takes the bottle and takes a few more gulps. Astarion thinks maybe he should have offered her a goblet, but it’s too late.

She finished almost the whole bottle off.

“Fuck!” She slurs and almost falls off the table. “I don’t remember ever getting wasted so fast.”

“Good.”

“Oh…That was your plan! You wanted to taste Berduskan Dark!” Tiriel puts the cork back. But I do it only for you because I don't really like it!”

Astarion tugs Tiriel and kisses her wine-stained lips.

Then, he imagines himself in the same room mere months ago.

What would he think if he knew it was possible? To destroy that cellar, to kiss a person he wants, to get drunk together?

“What was the bastard's favorite place?” Tiriel asks.

“Come on,” Astarion takes her hand and leads her through the dark halls to the throne room. The black armchair made of dark wood looks ridiculous and pompous. “The bastard thought of himself as royalty!”

“But he was a moron. Neither the bhaalists considered him a target nor Gortash invited him to his coronation,” Tiriel falters. Now she is completely drunk.

Astarion pulls her to the throne and makes her sit on the soft pillows. Cazador’s pillows were made of some expensive fabrics – the ones that were supposed to always be clean.

“Can I bite you?” He asks.

“Of course.”

Astarion grazes her throat. He doesn’t care about the mess he is making. He wants to create a mess.

Tiriel’s blood spills over the throne and pillows and Astarion tastes alcohol. Then he suddenly feels happy. Darkness fades away, replaced by intoxication and satiation.

As for Tiriel's clothes, he will wash them. Or will get her new ones. Doesn’t really matter.

“Now we are both drunk,” she pouts.

Astarion almost falls when he takes the last bottle from the sack. Tiriel hugs him and starts murmuring drunkenly.

“You are so cute, you know that? And your ears stick so funny from your hair! You look like a dandelion!” She laughs as if it was the funniest joke she’s ever heard.

Asatrion smashes the last bottle and the fire and liquid mixes with blood.

Tiriel raises her hand, trying to cast a fireball.

“No!” He shuts her mouth. “Are you stupid? The whole place is soaked in wine and this gnome shit!”

Tiriel bites his palm. And then starts laughing and snorting.

Astarion grabs her waist and lifts her on his shoulder. She keeps laughing and insulting Cazador, calling him a miserable dork with no imagination.

“Like, he was immortal and powerful… But he didn’t bother to go hunting himself! What was wrong with him? I mean, was he afraid of people? Astarion, you fed him dirty drunk homeless idiots who haven’t washed in decades! And he was all right with it? I mean, I know there are idiots! But this is some new level for me!”

Astarion approaches the main door. Turns back. Sees the mansion for the last time.

“Burn in hell,” he says. “Burn!”

Then he opens the door with his leg and gets outside. They walk a few yards then he places Tiriel on the ground (she barely can walk by herself) and she immediately opens the cork of the wine bottle.

“You said you didn’t like it.”

“But you did.”

Astarion raises his hand and feels the fey fire prickling his fingers.

“IGNIS!”

A fire ball is thrown through the open door into the hall.

And the vampire mansion is set on fire.

Astarion watches the fire consuming his past, destroying his misery.

And he cries.

He cries out loud like a lost child, clinging to Tiriel as his source of comfort and warmth. And Tiriel drunkenly starts singing him a lullaby.

“Tsk. It’s all right, my love,” she whispers. “It’s all right. We are starting anew tomorrow. We will see so many places together that you will forget that mansion. And I will touch you so many times it will make all the dirt you’ve been through fade away.”

Astarion keeps crying as they walk back to the inn. And Tiriel, drunk and dizzy, falls asleep in his arms in their bed.

The touches don’t burn his skin and he doesn't feel disgusting. It's something new. Astarion turns back to see naked Tiriel napping on the grass. She sleeps shamelessly, her legs half open and the fresh bite mark barely healed,

Astarion knows it’s a reverie. A weird memory he doesn’t know how to feel about. It's the first time Tiriel was his. He kissed her, he hugged her, he had sex with her. It was all a game for him but something else for her.

The memories slowly set him free and he realizes Tiriel is still in his arms. She doesn’t sleep, that’s for sure, but she also doesn’t move, allowing him to relax in her embrace.

He reaches out for her ear and tugs it, forcing her to squirm.

“Half-elves do have sensitive ears!” he laughs.

“That was weird,” she mutters. “Do it again.”

“You don’t need to ask twice,” he repeats the same motion. “Are we leaving today?”

“Yes,” she puts her arms on his back. “And we aren’t coming back, love.”

@tugoslovenka

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@dajeong

@wilteddreamsofbaldursgate

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lady-lucida · 4 months ago

Text

Here's my warlock, Alysia! She is a determined defender of the Dreaming City, and is desperate to end the curse so her lover, Kamara can be freed.

Because of her determination, she has so many titles:

Cursebreaker

Rivensbane

Realmwalker

Queensguard

Wishbearer

Out of all my Guardians, Alysia has the most "lore". Every 3 weeks she does Shattered Throne and every week she helps Petra with the Dreaming City, doing patrols and helping the Corsairs.

She does use Stasis mostly but before that she was a Voidwalker and a Stormcaller. Now she runs Prismatic and combines all three (made an actual build that does this and it's pretty nice!). She only just started to use Solar with Song of Flame as she is clumsy with dawnblade. She can't use Strand because she refuses to let go of things. She holds her hands too tightly. Osiris and Ikora both have tried to help her to no avail.

Uri, her ghost, is constantly worried about their guardian and tries to cheer Alysia up. Uri talks to Glint sometimes about advice.

Currently, she is following rumors that a certain vex mind is back from Season of the Splicer in the corrupted vex network...

#destiny 2 #destiny the game #destiny #destiny oc #destiny warlock #destiny lore #oc lore #my ocs #destiny spoilers #final shape

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my-little-versaille · 7 months ago

Text

THE INHERENT HORROR OF LONELINESS ; DREAD ; DEATH - An Exile!Tommy Webweave

transcribed by @daggryet / Neekwe (flikr) / Dead Girls - Penelope Scott / evanmcgaming (youtube) / evanmcgaming (youtube) / All the Trees of the Field Will Clap Their Hands - Sufjan Stevens / Portrait of Fryderyk in Shifting Light, Richard Siken / unknown / transcribed by @daggryet / @clingyduofan / @bugflies00 / unknown / Sacrifice, Bilal Al-Shams / TubboLive (Twitch/Youtube) / Prologue - Chase Petra / God is made of hunger and I am made of dreams - Katie Maria / Morning Bell - Radiohead / Tommyinnit (Twitch/Youtube) / @lotusmusings / Not Strong Enough - boygenius / The Selected Plays of Hélène Cixous: "The Perjured City" - Hélène Cixous / Needed a Change of Pace - Jhariah / evanmcgaming (youtube) / Ferryman - Shayfer James, Will Wood

GIFT FOR @cryingtulips

Okay SO this is technically 1 of 2 gifts i have for you, but this is going to be the one that'll be completed in time for the event for sure. Here you go! Chommy exile webweave :3

@mcythorrorgiftexchange

#curators journal #cobwebs in the corner #cafe chatter #into the archives #ctommy #dsmp #mcyt #exile arc #potentially ->#tw suicide #maaaaybe #just in case man #mcythorrorgiftexchange

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amywritesthings · 1 year ago

Text

silver underground. / chapter 17.

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: levi ackerman x f!reader (attack on titan / shingeki no kyojin)

Word Count: 5.3K

Summary: flashback seven - also known as the day you meet the special operations squad after the underground heist failure... and a familiar face

Warnings: death ideation, mourning and grief, mentions of death, depression, lots of hurt, lots of comfort, a treat at the end

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 17 - FLASHBACK: SEVEN

note: this is the final chapter that is heavily influenced by the ova 'no regrets'. this is my interpretations of the material. watch/read that first, otherwise you will get spoiled on elements revolving around levi's backstory.

“So these are the barracks.”

Petra Ral is nice.

A bright-eyed ginger with too much excitement on her hands and too high of an opinion of the world — every time she opens her mouth, you’re painstakingly reminded of Isabel.

With your sudden intrusion into the Scout Regiment, all you have been met with are cold shoulders and judgmental eyes. Erwin was right: they resent your lack of cadet training. Quite frankly, you’re certain they resent everything about you.

Yet Petra glows in a warmth so many of the other Scouts lack.

She shouldn’t be here, and she shouldn’t be trying so hard to make friends in a line of work dedicated to dying.

Because if the gangs of the Underground were a revolving door, then the Scout Regiment was a windmill caught in a storm of bodies.

Under direct order from Commander Erwin, Petra has been assigned to play as your guide in the interim between now and the next Special Operations expedition. She’s responsible for catching you up to speed on anything from proper ODM gear usage (as if you need any) to team formation strategy (as if you’ll memorize any).

Erwin is, above all else, thorough. Nothing is left to chance in his branch and rightfully so; one bad move and a multitude of deaths will be on his hands.

Over sixty percent of Scouts die.

That number is not lost on you.

(Eventually you’ll be part of that statistic. It’s just a matter of how fast.)

The interior of the castle headquarters within Wall Maria is expansive. Beautiful, with gold-trim corners and marble floors — you marvel at the way the sun makes the white floor so much brighter, nearly blinding your retinas every time you stare a little too long.

Truthfully, you haven’t stopped staring. Not since you left the darkness and walked up those fateful Underground passage stairwell with the commander.

Just as you dreamed, the surface is beautiful. Breath-taking. Mind-numbingly overwhelming. From the luscious greenery surrounding the castle grounds, to the lively birds chirping in the endless sky, to the palpable warmth against your skin — you find yourself getting lost at the sights and sounds each passing window brings.

Petra finds your curiosity endearing, at the very least.

Erwin must have already disclosed your oddity — a dweller of the Underground City — before assigning her the task of babysitting.

She doesn’t seem to care — about where you’re from, about bypassing standard cadet training, about your unwillingness to speak. Not like the others.

You’re not sure why.

Maybe she sees what you’ve tried hiding: the sadness that follows like a ball and chain through every room of this castle; the emptiness of your eyes when they meet hers; the way you fidget incessantly with your necklace, never quite letting go for longer than a few minutes.

(It’s all you have. That's all that’s left of them.)

“This is my bed, actually, but yours will be easy to find!”

Petra smiles brightly in your direction, eyes crinkling at the corners when they shut.

She should keep them open. She can’t trust you like that.

“It’s at the very end of the hallway. It’s got two sets of bunk beds but, uh…”

The original inhabitants recently died.

She doesn’t want to say that part.

“The rest of the team should be making it back soon.”

Petra steps out of the hallway, waving for you to join her. You numbly obey.

“How many people are on this team?” you ask.

“Currently?” she asks, and you nod. “We’re an expedition squad of five — well, seven, if you count Section Commander Hange and Moblit, but they don’t always come with us. Otherwise we have a couple dozen Scouts stationed in other areas to cover ground.”

“How come?” When she doesn’t answer right away, you clear your throat and clarify. “How come those two don’t always come with you?”

“Oh, Hange and Moblit? You’ll meet them eventually,” Petra explains, guiding you back to the grounds. “Hange is a little, uh, on the intense side, but they mean well. They head scientific research for the Scouts, so their work can keep them behind. Commander Erwin left to fetch them a few hours ago, actually, but they should be back by now. Probably going over titan reports.”

Quietly you follow her down a staircase, listening with little interest. Petra continues explaining the most recent discoveries of the Scouts — empty handed, no surprise there — and how she’s excited to learn from your skills — like you’d ever try.

Over and over, the pad of your thumb brushes the pendant between your fingers.

You haven’t slept in days.

You’ve barely eaten a crumb.

Everything has been at lightning speed and slow motion all at once.

The large oak doors at the front of the building have been wide open to air out the interior all day. When the two of you reach the foot of the staircase, you see movement in the distance outside.

Clouds of dust and dirt kick up behind them, but they’re too small to be titans.

“What’s that?” you softly ask, and Petra turns her attention to you.

“Hmm? Oh! The horses,” she supplies, waving you once again to follow her to the mouth of the entrance. You step in time with her. “That’s everyone coming back.”

“Everyone?”

“Yeah.” Petra leans against the hinge of a castle door, crossing her arms over her chest. “Eld Jinn is our second-in-command on Special Ops. Then you’ve got me, Oluo — pretty sure you already met him, but I don’t think you looked at him when he said hi — Gunther is with them, too, and—”

“Petra.”

A warm, deep voice calls out to your companion from behind.

Immediately Petra stands taller, chin raised. You belatedly turn your head with an air of disrespect but never quite face it.

Because, by now, you know that voice belongs to Commander Erwin Smith.

(You don’t care what this son of a bitch has to say.)

“Commander, sir!” she greets.

You keep your focus on the tiny cloud of smoke kicked up by the horses. The green cloaks billow out from their shoulders, stretching like wings behind them.

From this distance you can make out the hair colors of the first three in the formation — a blond, a brunette, and in the center, a smaller black-haired individual.

“Are the stables ready for the incoming horses?”

“Yes, sir,” Petra chirps. “I already took care of everything before showing James around.”

“Great work, Ral. James.”

Erwin calls your name, but you ignore it. Instead you keep staring at the nearing horses. You try to time the clicking of their hooves to nothing in particular.

Anything, to avoid talking to him.

“Lieutenant.”

At the title, you finally blink your attention towards the taller blonde. He takes a step forward, standing what would have been shoulder to shoulder if not for his height.

“Yes, Commander?” you murmur, tone dripping with disinterest.

“Ready to meet the rest of your team?” he asks without skipping a beat.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you reply, drawing a slow exhale. “Though I can’t imagine they’ll be excited to meet me, considering I’ve—”

“Opted out of the rigorous cadet training like endured to get here?” the man finishes for you. Your brows instinctually furrow. “Unlikely. Your skill will speak for you once you’re out in the field.”

His chin raises towards the nearing Scouts.

“And as it stands,” Erwin continues, “you are not the only soul on this squad to bypass tradition.”

His verbiage almost makes you respond freely.

(What the hell do you mean by that, Smith?)

The first horse to enter the castle perimeter whinnies, loud and piercing.

You turn.

Blinking back to the returning Scouts, you feel it start in the pit of your stomach:

Neutrality bubbles and churns into something nasty, like you might get sick at a second’s notice, the second your eyes lock with the center-positioned Scout.

Under a wind-blown, jet-black fringe stares two sunken, narrowed eyes. The frayed pieces of hair kiss the man’s high cheekbones, accentuating the narrow point leading to his chin. He’s pale, sickly, with a sharpened nose and tightly pressed lips.

From the look of the bags under his eyes, he hasn’t slept in weeks.

He nears with the reins tight in either fist. His neck is covered with a chiffon ivory cravat, neatly tied to perfection against his Scout Regiment uniform — gone are the billowing sleeves and auburn vests where a tan, cropped jacket takes their place.

The emblem on his breast is the Wings of Freedom.

There’s no way.

You blink twice, three times, as many as it’ll take to wipe away the mirage in front of you.

Because it can’t be real.

That can’t be—

“Levi.”

Commander Erwin speaks. The horse kicks up its front hooves from a knee-jerk pull of the rein and protests with a high-pitched whine. Levi Ackerman turns his head in the direction of his voice.

Abruptly his chin stops midway, never quite finding Erwin.

Not when his eyes, overtaken by a growing white, see you.

And your world — his world — suddenly stops.

Levi’s complexion pales. All he does is stare — at you, at nothing but you, frozen in this momentary lapse of time with you.

Levi is alive.

Wetness wells at your lower lash line, unable to stop.

You can’t speak. You can’t run. You can’t breathe. Your mouth is dry. You haven’t blinked.

One word floods your mind.

Alive.

Alive, alive, alive—

“Captain Levi,” Erwin repeats, this time adding a… title?

Titles don’t exist in the Scouts. As far as you knew, you were the only one carrying something beyond Section Commander and Commander.

You can taste his reluctance when Levi forces himself to blink over to his superior office. He hoists a leg over the saddle and hops down to full height, yet turns his back to the rest of the squad to tend to his midnight black horse. He doesn't pivot.

“Commander,” he gruffly greets. “What is this about?”

Your throat closes up at the mere sound of his baritone, unimpressed voice.

It really is him. Levi never went to the gallows.

(And Erwin knew? The commander knew this entire time and said nothing?)

“What’s the status of our perimeter?” Erwin asks simply, ignoring the smaller man’s question.

“Only one three-meter ugly bitch within range,” Levi replies against the saddle. “We handled it.”

“Good,” Erwin chimes. The other Scouts — one blonde and lanky, another older with brunette hair, the last with a buzzcut and a serious expression — step off of their horses and face the Commander. “You arrived just in time to meet the replacement of this squad.”

“We already have new titan fodder?” the one man quips, smirking as he runs a hand across his horse’s mane. “Guess we did lose a lot of people last time.”

“Oluo,” Petra warns, eyes narrowing. “That would be Lieutenant to you.”

“Lieu-what?” the man named Oluo repeats under his breath.

Levi’s hand twitches at the rein.

Only then do you realize your hands are trembling at your sides.

“Lieutenant?”

Levi spits it out as he finally turns his chin over his shoulder, glaring daggers. The word is nothing more than a bite. Acidic.

“First a Captain, now a Lieutenant?” a lanky man with a ponytail asks, slowly and carefully.

“As of now, yes. We have a Lieutenant in our ranks. The first of her kind,” Erwin confirms. “And you’re to treat her with the same respect as you’ve shown our Captain.”

“With all due respect, sir—” Although Levi’s words are respectful on paper, they are anything but against his lips. “—I was under the impression that my squad was to be handpicked and handpicked only going forward.”

Erwin hums. “You would be correct, Captain. Lieutenant James, however, will be a vital asset to your newly-acquired squad. Petra has been kind enough to help her get acquainted with headquarters.”

“Has she been through training?”

Wait.

Is Levi pretending not to know you?

You stay perfectly still, unable to watch anything but him. He continues to stare at Erwin with such forced neutrality that you can see a vein protruding just under the white cravat.

“No,” Erwin plays along, raising a heavy brow. “She’s already proficient in handling ODM gear and hand-to-hand combat."

"She is?" Gunther pipes up, his surprise bordering on admiration.

Erwin continues. "Strengthening our numbers at haste after a significant loss was our most efficient strategy, and I think it will serve us well. Did you miss the detailed briefing I left on your desk before your patrol, Captain Levi?”

The castle grounds fall silent.

Levi’s shoulders, pinched together, now fall.

“Must have missed it,” he replies, feigning an annoyed boredom that you’ve heard so many times before. “So long as she doesn’t slow me down. If you’ll excuse me, I have shit to do.”

Lamely you watch him near you, heart trapped in your throat. You want to run to him, hold him, scream and cry about everything — the heist, the gang, the fucking Scouts — but you do nothing when he passes right by.

Straight past Erwin and into the castle, where he disappears up a flight of stairs and out of view.

As if he never existed.

(His scent is still the same calming fresh linen with a dash of chamomile that your brain clings to, but no comfort comes.)

Did you hallucinate his—

“Lieutenant,” Erwin says, breaking you out of this fever dream. “I want you to introduce yourself to Captain Levi once he’s settled. I think it’ll be good for the two of you to meet.”

You can’t help it: when you lock eyes with the commander, you let him know exactly what you’re thinking — that you know he’s tricked you with the narrative of death, that you’re trapped between relief and grief, and you want nothing more than to cause him pain.

With the way Erwin’s expression smooths, it stands to reason this was intentional.

To see what you’d do — what Levi would do — in this moment.

Though whether or not he understands the type of reunion he’s played out, you aren’t sure.

Two days ago you wanted to die, to simply disappear at the idea of losing Levi, and now? He’s in the flesh wearing a Survey Corps uniform, manning his own squad, and…

You feel something wet slick against your palm and look down:

Red.

You’ve pressed your fingernails so hard into your hand that it's drawn blood.

“Permission to leave, Commander?” you ask, teeth grit against every syllable. “I have to get settled in myself.”

“Permission granted,” Erwin replies with authority.

You waste not a minute more to bolt into the castle.

Petra calls after you to wait for her, but the ringing in your ears, the panic attack budding in your veins, drowns her niceties out.

Levi is alive.

Levi is alive and a captain in the Survey Corps.

You have to find him.

You search for hours.

In the supply basement, in the sparring chamber, in the kitchens —

Levi is nowhere to be found.

Did you imagine him today?

The conversation with Erwin, the arrival of the Scouts… most of it feels real, but you doubt your own sanity when you cannot find your best friend.

Several doors are locked, but when you lean your ear against the wooden slab, no noise emits.

Empty.

Eventually Petra finds you stalking down a hallway and convinces you to come with her to the mess hall. Supper with the rest of the Scouts could mean he’s there, so you agree.

He isn’t.

The man they call Oluo is as pompous as he’d been outside. The others — Gunther, the buzzcut one, and Eld, the lanky blonde that asserts himself as a second-in-command — are less invasive and more so curious about how you’ve managed to get here.

All you do is ignore them and stare at the stew growing cold on your spoon.

You want to ask about Captain Levi, but you’re too afraid to speak his name — as if breathing his existence into their presence may snap the only red string tying you to what was once a dream.

When Gunther opens up a bottle of wine, you quietly excuse yourself to bed.

No one objects.

Rushing up the stairwell, you head towards the bedroom Petra assigned to you.

It takes every ounce of strength not to scream at the top of your lungs like a madwoman in the middle of the hallway from the growing stress attaching itself to your brain.

You feel crazy.

Are you crazy?

Are you just sleep deprived enough to —

Something latches onto your arm and pulls you roughly to the right. You fumble into something solid, diving headfirst until your back collides with a cooled stone wall.

A warm palm presses to your mouth to keep you from speaking.

Yet the protest would’ve died the second you saw that mop of black hair anywhere.

Levi Ackerman stands before you, pinning a hand against the wall parallel to your head while the other keeps a rough hold on your mouth. His head is bowed, the dark fringe covering half of his face, with lips parted.

The cloak is gone. The cravat is slightly out of place.

Then his chin lifts to meet your wide eyes in the dark.

Within an instant your pain, your anguish, your hatred, melts. For what feels like forever you both stare at each other in this comforting darkness, waiting for something to come next.

So he speaks, barely above a whisper and sharp like a knife’s edge:

“How?”

You tremble under his touch, eyes welling with the tears you didn’t shed earlier. The bags under Levi’s eyes twitch, and gently, slowly, he removes his hand from your mouth.

“I promised,” you whisper back, and his eyes widen to match yours.

Abruptly his hand drops from the wall to grab yours and harshly tugs you towards a door right across the hall. It’s a vacant office, pitch-black without candles or torches.

“In here,” he demands, pulling you with him.

He swings you away from him to press the door closed, cautious not to make noise. It slowly clicks into place, and he locks the two of you away from the outside world.

Just the two of you.

You can’t help yourself: you rush across the room towards to be near him, to hold him, to feel —

His hands, lightning fast, grapple your wrists and keep you from ever entering his orbit. Your feet spin from his pull, positioning you between him and the door.

You jerk to a halt, deterred by the way his eyes gradually narrow to mere slits.

(Did you do something wrong?)

“Don’t,” he orders under his breath.

“Le—”

“Answer my question first,” he tells you like you’re the enemy. Everything in your stomach drops through the floor. The necklace under your uniform button-down burns. “How?”

A beat passes as you contain your emotions. “...how what?”

“How did you get here?”

You run your tongue against the seam of your lips, deciding what you should start with. A million questions run through your mind.

Did Erwin capture you the same way he captured me? Where is Isabel? Is Furlan safe? Did you willingly join the Scouts?

Did you make a deal with the devil, too?

“Commander Erwin,” you tell him.

His expression flickers with an indiscernible emotion. "Erwin?”

“I had no choice,” you continue. “I was ambushed by the Scouts two days ago. It was either handing myself over to the Military Police or joining the Survey Corps under him.”

The grip on your wrists tighten in a pinch. “Ambushed in what way? Did they hurt you?”

“No.” You shake your head, but he shifts his weight. “I mean, a little, but it—”

“Who?” he interrupts in a murmur. “Who hurt you?”

You search his eyes for the right answer to give, uncertain if he’ll burst from the room to blow your cover at the truth.

“Some asshole named Miche, but I’m fine.” His nostrils flare, eyes darting to the door with deadly precision, but you jerk your wrists in his hands to bring his attention back to you. “Hey. I mean it, I’m fine. Besides, he’s none of my concern. Not when Erwin’s here.”

Reluctantly, Levi returns his attention to you. He hesitates with ebbing anger. “...what the hell does that mean?”

“I said yes to the Survey Corps to take Erwin out,” you tell Levi, which causes him to sharply lift his chin with apprehension. “I didn’t give a shit what happened to me. They made it sound like… like you weren’t alive anymore. They never told me you joined, too.” You swallow to coat your throat. “Did they do anything to you?”

The abrupt blink to stare at the door behind you once again is your answer: yes.

“What about everyone else?” he cryptically asks, ignoring your question.

You shake your head, deflating. “Gone. We managed to survive for almost two months. When the MP pressure got out of hand, someone turned and ratted me out. But most of them made it to safe spaces undetected, I promise.”

He doesn’t let go of your wrists, but he lessens the intensity of his grip. When you lean in closer to whisper, he leans back — determined to keep this distance intact, crushing your heart.

He watches you like an object to solve, an obstacle to overcome.

Whatever love and adoration you were met with two months ago has vanished.

“We can kill them,” you say, earning his attention once more. “All of them. I don’t care.”

Levi remains silent, immobile. Your arms go limp in the hold he keeps.

“Whatever they did to you? Whatever they did to Isa and Furlan—”

“Stop.”

“—I’ll burn every last Scout to the ground—”

“James.” He nearly barks your name to get your attention. Levi hangs his head, dropping his chin to his chest. “Just… stop. Please.”

A mere whisper of a plea.

The soft defeat in his voice is terrifying. It isn't like the Levi you remember at all. Nonetheless, you listen. You stop.

Silence envelops the room.

So this is what it meant for the two of you to come to the surface.

You managed to escape the life you desperately wanted to leave behind, but at what cost?

Even now, you both hide in the dark.

(Was living in the sun everything you had ever hoped for?)

“...what happened during the heist, Levi?”

You hate how your voice cracks between the syllables of his name. He continues to bow his head, though the sound of his rushed breath betrays his composure.

“Where’s Isabel and Furlan? Where—”

“They’re gone.”

Everything feels freezing and boiling all at the same time.

His defeated tone echoes through your mind. You wait for him to lift his head, to tell you that they’ve traveled or escaped.

He doesn’t.

You know.

You know exactly what Levi’s saying, but denial hits you like a ton of bricks.

Isabel’s cheeky, bright smile. Furlan’s all-too-cocky smirk. The sight of them in front of the blazing sun flashes through your mind until they evaporate into the light.

Death is an old friend. She’s sat at your table in Roxy’s more times than you can say. Except this feeling, this dread, this sorrow cuts deep with an iron-hot knife and slices down your torso with little remorse.

Levi refuses to look you in the eye. You can almost feel it against your forearm: the tremble of his own hand as he holds onto you for dear life.

“...when?” you ask, but you barely hear your own voice.

A pause passes.

Levi lets go of your wrists, trailing his fingers down your forearms.

“Two weeks ago.”

Tears cling to your eyes but never fall. “How?”

“Titans,” he says, words dripping with guilt. “We thought we could handle them.”

“And you saw…?”

He swallows, coating his throat. “Yeah, I saw.”

That’s all he needs to say.

Woozy in your own stance, you fall back against the door and wait — for the sob, the wail, that’s right at the base of your throat, yet you make no noise.

You relent.

Slowly you feel your legs give out, from your calves to your knees, until you’re sat on the floor. Instinctively you reach for your necklace, your last line of stability, and hold the pendant between your thumb and index finger.

Blinking hard, you squeeze your eyes together in the hopes that the world will become clearer when you open them.

It’s still dark.

You can barely make out anything besides the silhouette of Levi Ackerman.

“So this is the surface,” you whisper to yourself. “This is what we always wanted.”

Leather creaks above you until that very silhouette drops to its knees. You feel it before you see it — the reach for his fingers to find yours. They’re not as strong in conviction as they once were, as if mending from being broken.

Then he speaks, and you almost miss his words completely.

“Don’t do it.”

When you lift your chin, the tears clouding your vision finally fall and warm your cheeks. Levi stares back at you, struggling between two worlds: the one he’s always known, and the one he’s had to make with you.

Just as you endured the last two months.

“Do what?” you ask despite yourself.

“Go after him,” Levi clarifies under his breath. “Any of them.”

Your brows furrow. “But they let Isabel and Furlan die.”

“I let Isabel and Furlan die,” he argues, as if he wishes he were dead right then and there. A bone-chilling confession, a woeful repentance at your altar, as if you can grant him forgiveness he cannot find within himself. When you open your mouth to ask, he continues. “Two weeks ago they put us on a mission. I went off on my own thinking I could kill Erwin myself. I thought I could handle it. I thought if I could sneak up on him, then I could get the documents we needed to escape — then I could go back to the Underground and get you out of there, too. Assassinating the commander was my only chance to save us. Sounds like a load of fairytale bullshit out loud.”

He doesn’t sound like himself.

What was once sure and earnest comes out fractured and uncertain. Like one false move, one gentle touch, and you’ll disappear like stardust in the night.

“But once I realized titans were flanking us from every side, it was no use,” he continues, forcing his voice to stay steady. “Titans got the upper hand and massacred everyone in sight. By the time I came back, you couldn’t tell where one body started and the other ended.”

“Levi—”

“So I’m not watching you die, too.”

His black hair shakes in the moonlight. Sorrow seeps into every syllable.

“I couldn’t save Isabel. I couldn’t save Furlan.” You can see just how much his jaw clenches, threatening to break his teeth in half. “I hoped they wouldn’t find you, but Erwin’s not fucking stupid. He needed a fighter."

We need a fighter. A softer, youthful version of Levi's voice from yesterday whispers in the still air.

Both times it was said to save you.

This time, however, it feels less like salvation and more like a certified death sentence.

"And this selfishness has already bit me in the ass, I know, but I can't—" He chokes on his words, frantic to hold onto his wits. He fails. His next words hitch on a crack in his voice. "If you die, I won’t—”

Propelled by grief, you scramble from the floorboards and rise to your knees, encircling your arms around his body to pull him against you.

His entire body goes rigid, impossibly tight. Too afraid to fight back. Too afraid to let go. You embrace his fear, absorb it, consume it, desperate to show him he's no longer alone.

That you're here to the bitter end, whatever that may look like for the two of you; a blaze of glory or a soft exhale into sleep.

Cradling the back of his head with the palm of your hand, your cheek presses to his cheek.

Warmth.

A sign of life.

I'm here. I'm alive.

He smells just as you remember.

He feels just as you remember.

“I won’t,” you vow against his ear. “I won’t go after them. I'll leave Erwin alone. I won’t die on you.”

Your words deflate his entire being.

Finally, finally, his arms wrap around you and crush your torso against his. In this dark, locked room, he can bury his nose into your skin and breathe — and it’s the slowest, shakiest breath you’ve ever heard.

“Promise,” he chokes. "Promise me."

You nod, face contorting in pain from the hurt in your heart. “I promise you, Levi. I swear it.”

He doesn’t reply.

For what feels like hours you both sit in silence, mourning — remembering — all that you’ve lost to get here. On the floor, in the dark, he holds you close while no one else can see. You embrace him with all your might.

(Until the bitter end — you can promise you'll live, that you'll be by his side, right until the last possible moment.)

Eventually he speaks quietly against your cheek. His words are languid again, smooth like hot tea.

“I saw your pack in my old room.”

Your heart flutters as you pull your head from his, staring him in the eye. Your vision has adjusted by now, focusing solely on his pale face.

“My what?”

“Pack,” he repeats. “They stuck you in our old room — Furlan and Isabel used to be in there, too.”

The bunk beds. A mixture of sadness and relief swirls in your gut.

"And where are you?"

"Erwin moved me into my own room. Said a captain should get their own space," his eyes flicker to yours. "It's just across from you."

You sit up straighter. "So you're... near me?"

Levi nods. “As if I’d be letting you out of my damn sight anyway. I spent the entire day trying to come up with a fucking excuse."

"For what, the logistics of me sneaking into your room when no one's watching?" you tease, but the humor is exhausted on your tongue.

"No one's ever caught you before," he replies with a wit that's entirely Levi. It almost makes you smile.

He runs a hand along your waistline, then raises his palm to lightly press the pad of his thumb against your lower lip.

“Erwin’s aware of our business connection, but I don’t think he knows…”

He trails off, seemingly memorized by the way your lip moves under the guidance, the pull, of his thumb.

A feeling stirs in your belly, one that has been dormant for weeks.

“...but you don’t think he knows beyond that,” you finish softly, bringing him back to reality. His gray eyes meet yours, half-lidded and exhausted. He nods once. “So we keep our past a secret.”

“Just us,” he agrees.

“For as long as we can,” you finish.

His thumb drops from your lip to your chin. Your gaze drops from his eyes to his lips.

Waiting.

"They opened the wine in the mess hall," you add in a murmur.

"Means those shitheads plan to pull an all-nighter," he murmurs back. "They have a thing for commiserating."

"So we have time." A beat passes. "And I'm just across the hall."

"My room's desolate," Levi warns.

"I don't give a fuck," you reply, refusing to waste another second.

Your hand seeks the nape of his neck.

His palms cradle the sides of your face.

And after what feels like an eternity, your lips crash.

author's note: WE GOT A REUNION AYE-YOOOOOO. So happy that these two very sad idiots found each other again. Sorry for the pain. We only have about 3 more chapters of flashbacks to go, and then we will be returning to the present.

Thank you so much for you patience and wonderful comments and reblogs and eeeeverything. Seriously. I am so very grateful for your support. A reminder that I am going to switch to a bi-weekly Friday update - I will see you for Chapter 18!

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami @voidszoro @tanyeonn @chishiyasan @im-just-a-simp-le-whore @nomi98 @urfavcelestialangel @milkersonmac @blossomedfloweroflove @carries-blenders-and-stuff @hurtcomfortwhore @ahxiaoshi @littlerequiem

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crow-posting · 24 days ago

Text

There used to be a Jolyon Till Lore master post floating around, but I've lost track of it so I'm making my own. Tagging @purplegalaxy99 ✨

Edit: master post has been found! Thank you @thefirstknife

- - -

Jolyon Till was the friend and partner of Uldren Sov, and a current acquaintance of Crow. He is described as tall, with "narrow intelligent eyes" and blue skin, and was perceived as "happy-go-lucky" before Uldren's downfall. He is known for his skills as a Crow (Awoken intelligence) and a sniper, though he also works as a scout.

Note: though the nature of his relationship with Uldren isn't explicitly stated, it is generally interpreted as romantic, the same way Osiris and Saint-14's relationship was interpreted before being officially confirmed.

Jolyon is mostly known for breaching the Black Garden alongside Uldren [The Forsaken Prince], but he also created the Lord of Wolves shotgun. His signature weapon is the Supremacy, a rapid-fire sniper rifle; his secondary weapon, like all other scouts, is a Vestian Dynasty sidearm.

Not much is known about Jolyon's personal life, though Uldren knew "everything about him." He knew someone named Laviska [1] and attended the same combat academy as Uldren [2], and is known to be rational, but it is unknown whether he is a Distributary Awoken or has any family or loved ones besides the Sovs.

Like Petra and the Techeuns, he can travel to / from / around the Dreaming City but is not tied to its curse. Whether this is because he didn't die during the curse's activation (like Amrita did), or simply due to the inconsistencies within the curse lore, is currently unknown.

- - -

Edit:

Jolyon has been mentioned twice in-game: first in this memory from Haunted, then in this radio message from Wish.

(Thanks @theforsakenprince for the addition!)

Editing this for future readers, link to better version is also in the comments.

#destiny the game #destiny 2 #destiny lore #destiny grimoire #jolyon till #jolyon till the rachis #joldren #crowlyon #destiny awoken #crow-posting #lore-posting

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warderfromtheborder · 1 year ago

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Destiny: the year of Very Well Structured Things In Sets of 2

Defiance+Wish: The Sovs Mara and Crow, the Eliksni Misraaks and Eramis, and the Regular Ass Humans Devrim and Petra(PV counts as a regular-ass human she isn't a figure of prophecy or royalty in the reef she's a cop who's been promoted too much out of necessity)

Deep+Witch: The Truncated Heros Sloane and Eris, the Osmium OGs Xivu and Savathun, the Concerned Boss-Parents Zavala and Ikora, and the Wriggly Enablers Ahsa and Drifter (okay you got me) I mean the Nonhuman Guides Ahsa and Immaru

Lightfall: Osiris with no Sagira and Nimbus with no Rohan and Caiatl with no Recognizable Dad and the Witness with no Disciples and Chioma with no Maya and the Vex with no Chill the Living People of Neomuna with no Meatspace to live in. (The dreaming city curse will never end and the people on Neptune will never get to leave the matrix Im sorry but that's the way it is)

The story and themes for this year of Destiny are SO GOOD the writers have done SUCH A GOOD JOB. If making a tighter relationship between the expansion narrative and the seasonal narratives was one of the goals this year they fucking knocked it out of the park, I can't put any of these arcs into its own box because they have been knit together so sturdily. It's all one great narrative, one Very Big narrative, they haven't done it like this before!

(And Im so mad people couldnt stop shitting on Lightfall they are stoping themselves from seeing how good the WHOLE NARRATIVE IS they are probably gonna say come march/near TFS launch "uhh yeah the seasons were good i guees but maybe they shoulda worked harder on Lightfall I mean who even likes Nimbus" and for their Ignorance and Haterism I am sentencing them to reading part two of The Two Towers while they get attacked by Paper-Tube Ninjas and a broadcast system shouts at them 'YOU CANNOT HAVE THE VICTORIES IN RETURN OF THE KING IF FRODO AND SAM DIDNT KEEP WALKING ALL THE WAY TO MORDOR' for 100 hundred years.) (The link there is I didn't get the Point of that part of Two Towers when I first read it and assumed the whole would have been better without it. Obviously...I was wrong, and so are these clowns who think Lightfall has a bad story)

The name of the game this year is Resolution, Catharsis, Armistice, Acceptance. The structuring is so simple and so elegant and so well executed, the 2s, the 3s, the mirroring and the inverting and the unfathomable gloriousness of the victories personal and community and galaxy wide. There is no way to overstate the bitterness of Amanda's death, the relief of exhalation when Sloane retreats, the VINDICATION of Eris's vengeance.

You remember when Zavala 'discovered' Crow's former identity? How that was the crowning on-screen narrative jewel in destiny up to that point? What I am saying is EVERY ARC THIS YEAR IS AS GOOD OR BETTER THAN THAT BEAT AND DESERVES AS MUCH RECOGNITION FOR THE ARTISTIC ACHIEVEMENT OF SO MANY COMPLEMENTARY COMBOS PACKED INTO ONE EXPANSION STORY.

If Shadowkeep was the first sign of symptoms, if Beyond Light was trying to irradiate the disease, if Witch Queen was a tug of war with scar tissue, then Lightfall is the world after recovery and making peace with what will Never Be The Same, and the home and family that has been changed forever but is still Your Home and Your Family. We don't stop fighting but we also don't stop loving and growing and caring.

One last thing for my fellow Sjur copium addicts out there: Sloane's retreat was mirrored and inverted by Eris's victory, so for the complementary-ness of the story to continue, Amanda's death and Crow's subsequent emotional anguish over losing the person he fought with but who also saw him for who he really is will need to be mirrored and inverted by SOMEONE who Mara fought with but who also saw her for who she really is and I expect you will agree this is SCIENTIFICALLY ACCURATE reasoning that Sjur's comin back home.

#destiny 2 #season of the wish #obviously yeah Im calling the shot that Wish is gonna be very good narratively but im confidant on that given the track record now #and Im also confidant coupling it to Defiance like this. can't think of a good reason why it shouldn't be like this.#little russian nesting doll of a story about angy traumatized warriors resolutely taking care of each other #sjur's coming back! I wont belive she's not until TFS actually launches and she hasnt shown up yet.#sjur eido

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n7viper · 2 years ago

Note

my knowledge of destiny is condensed to the beta of the first game i played a million years ago and what i see you post, but i think mae seems pretty cool and want to learn more about her so 18, 30, and 38 for the destiny ask meme :)

Hi hi! Thank you :3 💖

(Destiny Questions)

18. Do they remember much of their past life?

She does not. I answered here that she was a farmer in her past life. To note, I did also say that I don't have enough info to elaborate more, and I'm not entirely sure it's important to me. Rambling slightly here, but I like to take being a guardian as a fresh start. It doesn't matter who we were before; we must live in the present and be the person we are now. Comparing Crow's present self to who he was as Uldren Sov, however, I do think it's a really interesting concept. He's (I think?) the only guardian we've met where we knew them in both their former and current lives. How many guardians are as similar to their former selves? It's a really interesting character study, I think, and there is a pin in it for later. But back to the question at hand, I'm considering that she often dreams of being a farmer but realises in these dreams that she's a different person. She's clearly living someone else's life. It sounds so silly, but it's really hard for me to understand the concept of vivid dreams. I very rarely dream (technically, I don't remember/realise that I've had them), and I struggle with mentally visualising things. So that's a fun combo when I'm writing!

30. If your Guardian lost their Ghost, what would their reaction be?

Absolutely devastated. Mae tends to lead a pretty solitary life, of her own design. She gets along well with pretty much everyone and has no shortage of people to call friend. Even without that, Lyra is always with her. I would imagine that most guardians struggle after losing their ghosts. Someone is around you 24/7 for your entire life--which could be hundreds of years--and now they're suddenly gone? I couldn't imagine. I think Mae would be utterly lost after losing Lyra. I worry that she would collapse in on herself and fall into hopelessness unless someone could help. All she's known is front-lines fighting for years now. In time, she could maybe move on, take up a post like Devrim and protecting the people in that way. I'm putting a little earmark on this too... I think this would be something interesting to think about as a "What If?"

38. If you had to guess, what faction would you say they've killed the most of?

Short answer, haha! I'm going to guess Fallen or Cabal, only because of the content I've played. I can confidently say it is *not* Taken, according to my triumphs lol

#I'm making up for that low taken kill count by going to the dreaming city to fawn over petra every day though #thank you for these!!#ask game answers #maezi

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tpwkwriter · 1 year ago

Note

could you please do a fic about model reader and harry always supporting her please?

Front row for you.

Thank you for the request! This is actually a really sweet idea! I had to do this with FBH 💓

Description: y/n can finally love her dream for real, and harry wouldn’t miss it for the world.

Absolute fluff and cuteness🌷

Ps: my requests are open!!❤️

— — — — —

The dressing rooms of manhattans centre were hustling and bustling, full of laugh and talk.

Y/n sat on her vanity chair twirling her curled hair around her finger, this was her 4th year being a professional model and taking it seriously, it had shocked her how far her career had sky rocketed.

She couldn’t quiet believe she was sitting backstage of one of the biggest fashion events of the year.

As a child she begged her parents to take her to nyc or London just to watch the fashion week before her eyes, and now she was part of it.

The thought of also being able to bring her parents and family to New York City was also not on y/n’s list but the fact she could made her proud of herself.

The only person missing now was Harry, a bit of her heart broke knowing he couldn’t make it back in the US in time.

When y/n received her invitation to the event, she called harry straight away with floods of happy tears and jumpy hands.

Y/n’s mind jolted back to reality, this was happening? A hard knock was at her door.

“Come on in” she called twirling around on her stool to face the door.

“Y/n babe, 5 minutes till showtime!! It’s completely packed out there! 2,200 people out there waiting including the one and only Micheal kors!” Her manager squealed.

“Wow” she sighed

“Y/n? Are you nervous?” She said walking towards her and gently closing her door behind her.

“Mainly excited nerves, y’know this has been my dream since a little girl” she smiled

“Of course! Well not long now and remember your family have somewhat been able to get front row so give them a smile?” She laughed.

‘Front row?, thought that was only for high status people’ she mentally thought.

“Oh wow, oh well thanks” she blushed not believing her luck.

“Oh and also, remember to straighten that dress when you leave!” Her manager reminded before slipping out the door.

A sigh left the girls mouth, she couldn’t wait to do this, she stood up and walked in front of her full length sized mirror and checked out her dress.

An elegant white, floral dress that hung perfectly to showcase her sliver heels, she gently smoothed the silky texture with her hands and got ready to join the rest of the girls next to the stage.

Before she does so her phone dings.

H🫶🏼: good-luck out there tonight baby, I’m sorry I can’t be there tonight, tour isn’t as fun without you, I know you’ll do amazing and I’ll be watching some shitty livestream, I love you so much x

Y/n🌷: thank you H, miss you more than ever! Still can’t get over I’m doing this😭 love and miss you loads❤️x

She typed out and sent, y/n knew it would be nearly impossible for him to fly out so quick knowing he has a show the next day. She put her phone down and went to join the girls.

The audience sat in anticipation watching the opening of the show, and the presenter begin.

Y/n was the second model to walk the runway on her own, she was going to have a total 3 outfit changes through the evening and spend most the time on stage.

“Ok girls, give it everything you have, Petra as soon as that music starts your on, y/n as soon as Petra hits half that halfway line you start your strut” her manager states ensuring everyone of when they appear and do there bit.

“Remember not to slow, not to fast, a smile and sassy side tonight ladies” she claps.

The presenter had left stage, ‘this was it’ she thought

A roar of claps and cheers occurred when the first model strutted onto to stage, y/n discreetly peered beside the curtain to take a look at the audience and try to locate her family and there they were right side of the stage front row almost close enough to touch the stage if they wished.

Y/n peered closer by curtain to travel someone familiar by her dad.

No..Harry?

Her heart was pounding and her head was racing? That was Harry? Harry made it?

“Y/n, you don’t want to reveal yourself just yet!” Her manger said reaching out for her shoulder.

“Harry!! Harry’s here!” She excitedly squealed pointing towards him.

She smiled in reply.

“You knew about this?” Y/n asked.

“Well, we needed someone to be able to get your family front row” she winked.

“Your on in right aboutttt” she dragged.

“Now” she said pushing her gently.

Y/n quickly adjusted her hair and flattened out her dress once more.

Before walking from backstage to reveal herself to the 2,200 people.

She practically wanted to run over to Harry and throw herself at him, but the show was to go on regardless.

With a start of a slow walk she began to quicken her pace, her arms remaining on her gown at all times making sure the pictures captured the Beauty and detail of the fendi gown.

She could see her family rising out of there seat as she strides closer, her heart almost running marathons in her chest at the excitement and adrenaline she is facing.

As mums do she held her phone camera out at her daughter capturing this special moment, her father almost dropping a tear from his eye at the sight.

“Harry!!!” she blushed blowing quick kisses to him.

“Hi baby” he mouthed using his hand to catch the kisses.

For the rest of the walk she held a big toothy grin, this couldn’t get any better.

— — — — —

At just about midnight the night of y/n’s life came to halt.

As soon as the presenter appeared back to stage to thank everyone and close the evening, Harry and her family had already made it to y/n’s dressing room.

“Harry” she sighed leaning into his scent and warmth, something she hasn’t been able to do in over 2 months.

“Only you could get away with wearing jeans and a top to New York fashion week” she muttered into his shoulder.

“Heeyyy, didn’t want to upstage you darling” he smirked which caused the girls parents to laugh.

“Shush it” she smiled reluctantly letting go to hug her parents.

“Oh darling we’re so proud of you” her mum began, cupping her cheeks and giving her a mum hug.

“How did we make such a beautiful girl” her mum continues.

“Not quiet sure, Harry your lucky man” her dad stated and put a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Most definitely” he smiled.

With some love and affection from both her parents, it was finally Harry and y/n in the dressing room.

“Can’t believe you” she smiled walking into his embrace once again.

“I wouldn’t miss this day, are you crazy?” He smiled.

“I didn’t think it was even possible”

“Mm it is when it comes to you darling” he hummed kissing her head

“You’ve got a show tomorrow though” she pouted looking up at him.

“Come with me” he stated.

“Babyyyy” she whined.

“Only one more week in Paris, and then it’s just us in sweet London hey?” He continues using his ringed fingers to play with her hair.

“Got more work to do here though, y’know I want tooooooo” she dragged in a whiny tone.

“Uh uh” he hummed

“Sarah managed to find you work in Paris, s’can still fly out with me, s’up to you darling”

“Oh my god, you really think of everything” she stated kissing his chest.

“Best get to the hotel room and sleep, m’tired and plus tomorrow must be an early start for us”

“Y’know it, now c’mon get your pretty little self into something comfy and we’ll get going” he added.

“Y’looked gorgeous up there tonight, my model girlfriend, how cool is that” he smirked.

“Well, my rockstar boyfriend and your model girlfriend make quiet the coolest pair” he said in a matter of facalty.

— — — — —

#harry styles #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles au #harry styles blurb #harry styles x y/n #harry styles fluff #boyfriendrry #model!y/n #harrystyles x model!reader #drabble #one direction #Harry styles one shot #harry #soft #fluff #boyfriend material

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screebyy · 11 months ago

Text

A something about Warlord's Ruin dialogue and Petra's exile and Uldren and Petra's relationship

“Petra, I’ve… never apologized to you. For what you’re still going through.”

The somber tone of Crow’s voice echoing through her radio sends an all-too-familiar jolt of unease down her spine. It’s uncanny how much the guardian sounds like him sometimes.

With a grimace, she shakes off the sensation, and clicks on her mic. “There’s no need,” she says, tiredly. “It wasn’t you.”

“I’m sorry,” The guardian radios back anyways. “He is too. Completely.”

She flinches again. He’s so much like the prince, it makes her nauseous sometimes - so self-obsessed he can’t help but shoulder the blame for any misdeed he can find some tangential reason to feel guilty over. What does Crow have to be sorry for?

And what exactly does Uldren have to be sorry for? For the thousandth time she replays all the decisions she made during Mara’s years-long absence, all the mistakes she made. Uldren’s arrest, and the cold, cramped cell she left him in, because she didn’t know what else to do with the shell of her former prince, her former friend. The prison break, the hunt, the squeeze of her trigger finger…

Her hands curl into tight fists, her fingernails digging painfully into her palm. There was more she could have done. She knew there was something wrong with him, she knew that he was sick. Even before Mara’s sacrifice - after the Garden, she could tell he was no longer himself, that a darkness she still does not understand had burrowed into his heart, and taken root. She could have found a way to help him, to save him maybe - but… after Saturn, the Reef, it was all too much, she wasn’t enough, not on her own. If only Mara had been here, the Queen would have been able to…

“If I could wish it away…” Crow’s voice over her radio snaps her back to the present. A wish - he’s such a fool, she could almost laugh. Almost. She clicks on her mic.

“No,” she says, sternly. She won’t let him take the blame for this - not for Uldren’s mistakes. Not for her own. “You’re helping break the cycle. That should be more than enough.”

She kills the connection before he can respond. She suspects her words will do nothing to ease his misplaced sense of guilt - they never helped Uldren much, either. And she’s in no mood to listen to him find new ways to twist the lingering stain of Uldren’s mistakes into his own responsibility.

They are so much alike, more-so every day. She leans heavily over her desk, and closes her eye, remembering another apology, a lifetime ago…

—

The sun is so much brighter on Earth. Especially this time of year, mid-summer - it hangs high in the cloudless sky, just beyond the Traveler’s looming figure, and it’s so bright that the white concrete and iron railings of the Vanguard's Tower shine like marble and silver. Somewhere deep down, Petra knows it must be beautiful - but allowing herself to admit that feels like a sleight on her true home, the gentle golden rays of a sun always sitting low on the horizon, the refraction of purple light off the amethyst-studded walls of the Dreaming City.

With a frown she sinks deeper into the shadow of the awning she's standing under, and squints against the blinding light. This place is a prison, she reminds herself - nothing here is beautiful.

A hand on her shoulder startles her out of her musing - she whirls around, her knife whizzing up to the intruder’s throat, and finds Uldren Sov smiling ear to ear, hands held up in mock surrender.

“Your highness-!” She stammers, jumping back in surprise. “You shouldn't be here!”

“I'm not,” Uldren grins, pulling the hood of his cloak further forward to obscure his face. “Come on, let's get something to eat.”

—

They sit at a rickety metal table, in a cramped alleyway un-befitting a prince, with two bowls of hot noodles in a delicious, savory broth between them. It’s humble, but the noodle shop is one of the few places Petra has come to enjoy during her exile to the Tower - and discreet enough that Uldren is unlikely to be recognized.

“Everybody misses you back in the Reef,” Uldren says, picking absently at his bowl with a pair of chopsticks. “Jol says hello.”

“He isn't with you?” Petra asks, squinting up at the rooftops around the alley shop - searching for the silhouette of Uldren's shadow.

“No,” Uldren answers as he carefully pulls a few noodles up with his chopsticks, regarding them suspiciously. “He doesn't care for the Last City.”

Finally, he takes a bite, slurping the noodles into his mouth. He considers it, then scowls - Petra thinks for a moment it must not be to his liking, but the glimmer of irritation in his eyes betrays his true feelings. It's not the taste of the noodles that bothers him, but where they were made - he must be furious that such a delicious dish could possibly have come from the Vanguard’s Tower.

Petra smiles, and shakes her head. She wonders if he even bothered to tell Jolyon about this little excursion, or if he had just assumed he was doing the man a favor by leaving him behind.

“Anyway,” Uldren sighs, pushing his bowl across the table towards her. “When are you coming home?”

Her smile breaks, her heart twists with grief.

“Uldren,” she stutters. “You know, this isn’t-.... Queen Mara, she said-...”

Emotion wells up in her throat, sharp as knives, and she bites her tongue to keep it from spilling into her voice. This position is an exile, a punishment for her mistakes. She's never going home again.

“I know what she said,” Uldren sighs, waving his hand dismissively. “But do you really think she meant it? Come on, you're smarter than that.”

Petra stares at him blankly, mind racing. What does he mean? Did the Queen say something to him? About her? Uldren rolls his eyes, and leans forward.

“Petra,” he says seriously. “How long have you been away - five years? Six? This is a waste of your talents, and everyone knows it. You belong back home, with us.”

“All this-” He gestures around at the bare concrete walls, which look nothing like marble in this dark, dingy alleyway. “It's just a stupid show Mara had to put on, a political farce to stay in the Vanguard’s good graces. It doesn't mean anything, and it’s high time the show ended.”

He looks away, brow furrowed as he considers his next words for a long moment. Finally, he looks back at her, eyes flickering with emotion.

“I'm… I'm sorry, by the way,” he says. “For all of this. It's my fault you're here. For-”

“No,” Petra cuts him off, raising her hand. She will not allow him to debase himself, not for this. “I was the one who called for the bombing run, it was my decision that killed them. And this is my punishment.”

“But I was the one who dropped the bombs,” Uldren hisses, eyes burning. “I should have seen those guardians, I should have noticed-...”

He breaks off, biting his lip angrily, then slumps back in his chair, sulking. Petra looks down at his bowl of noodles, delicious and untouched.

“If you had seen them,” she starts, cautiously. “Would that have stayed your hand?”

Uldren frowns, and looks away.

“If I had known what would happen? That you'd be the one to take the fall for their deaths?” His frown tightens, the corners of his lips curling down in disgust. “Yes.”

Emotion swells in Petra’s chest again, but this time the feeling is warm and bittersweet. Pride, and gratefulness, for a prince who acts earnestly as a friend, not a sovereign. A friend so fiercely loyal he would try to take her guilt from her, and wear it himself.

“This isn’t your fault,” Petra says, quietly. “It was my mistake. My decision.”

“It was the right decision,” Uldren says, eyes snapping back to her with renewed ferocity. “It may have been an accident, but it was no mistake. You know that, Mara knows that. And she knows you don’t deserve to be rotting away in this tower for making the right call.”

Her eye opens wide, she sucks air into her lungs as she considers the truth in his words. He’s right. Of course he’s right. The Queen, she knows everything, so she must understand the depth of Petra’s loyalty, the veracity of her fervor. She must understand that there was no other call Petra could have made, there was no way to predict the guardians’ interference, no reason to believe they’d be anywhere near that valley. She must understand…

Uldren leans forward again, prodding his finger declaratively into the table.

“Write to my sister, plead your case, and she will listen, I promise you that,” he says. “The City’s had their pound of flesh from you.”

“If you truly believe the Queen will hear me…” Petra starts, but treacherous hope flutters wildly in her chest, sending a smile bursting across her face before she can finish the thought. She laughs, suddenly giddy. Of course, Mara will understand. The exile, it’ll be lifted, her guilt absolved, and she’ll finally, finally-

“Come home, Petra.” Uldren smiles, lifting his finger to point directly at her. “That’s an order.”

#i like them all soooo much #i wish we had a better sense of the timeline for uldren going to the garden but in my mind it's fairly recent. after all this shit at least #though i didn't play much of d1 so the timing of petra's exile to the tower is also pretty loosey goosey to me. we bend the canon here #the premise of petra's exile though is pretty grim oops lol we love a war crime queen. girlboss behavior ig #petra venj #uldren sov #crow destiny

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